I'm full, thank you.

I had a moment tonight while looking at my reflection in the mirror of the women's bathroom at On the Border. First, I realized that I am pretty. I am dateable pretty. People smile at me when I walk by because my face is pleasant and pretty.

Second, I realized that I have had my fill of dating for a while. You see, I was in the bathroom taking a break from my date with Will.

Will is a nice man with a great personality. He is cute in that teddy-bear kind of way and he fits my criteria for a date (educated Christian with a full-time job)!

As of 7:56pm tonight, I've had all that I can handle for now. It is time to let the shittiness of looking for love digest and just chill being alone.

What did Will do? Nothing. I was his FIRST date after the end of a 14 year marriage. Very first date. He is a very nice man in crisis. I'm pretty sure that Will recently dyed his hair blonde. He had it cut short and spikey. Trying to look younger? I don't know. I've already sent him a "not gonna be your rebound" email and offered to hang out as just friends.

He really was nice. In that recently-divorced-proving-that-he-can-move-on kind of way. No thank you, Will.

In the last month my dating included:

museum man who was uncomfortable in museums
the man who left me crushed and confused
the man whose IQ was that of a 10 year-old
caroler figurine man (I count him, even if I cancelled the date)
the man who just ended a marriage of 14 years

This was a rough re-entry month after my sabbatical. I can't take any more. I'm not going back to the sabbatical. I am just not going to look for love anymore. If Mr. Right wants to come into my life, he has to drive out to the Boone Docks and knock on my door. Probably twice because I am usually naked when people knock the first time.

I do not go...

I sent ole' Roger a date-cancelling email. I said it was me, not him. I just can't bring myself to spend another Friday night painfully pursuing a miserable dead end.

That, and any grown man who owns 35 old-lady figurines may have a few old ladies buried under his house.

Creeeeeepy.

Do I go?

On Friday at 6:00pm, I have a date with a very nice man named Roger. I've been talking to him for a week now.

He is nice and intelligent. He messaged me first because he went to seminary and has worked in ministry. I've enjoyed our conversations but there was a nagging feeling that he might be, well, gay.

Today is Tuesday. He just let me know via IMing that he

1) lives with his parents
2) does not have a job and hasn't had a job in 1 1/2 years
3) collects dozens of pretty little figurines.

You know those little carolers with the wide open mouths and old-timey clothes that old ladies put out at Christmas? Yeah. He has 35. Displayed in a glass case year round.



So now I am left with the question. Do I still go on the date? I'm thinking that it may produce too many good stories to pass on. Actually, I've never backed out of a date before it happened. The coward in me will win this week.

the single sits alone

Where is the pastor? Off to California with his wife to see his daughter, son-in-law, and all of the glamours of Hollywood. Meeting famous people (literally. the son-in-law works for a TV show) and exploring the west coast.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where is the music minister? Off to the beach with his beautiful family! They will stay in a beach-front cabin for free and enjoy the sounds of the ocean on a crisp, clear September night.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where is the children's minister? Off to the mountains! She will go to a huge college football game with her husband and 5 beautiful daughters. They will bundle up in the beautiful fall weather, take pictures in school colors, visit favorite spots, and catch up with old friends.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

Where are the college students? Off to vacations and to go home for a long weekend! They will leave all work behind them, relax while mom does their laundary, and take crazy road trips together.

Where is the single minister? Alone. In her house.

At least tomorrow is Saturday and I will sleep late. I will do housework, sell my used car, and think lovingly of my friend who is getting married on the other side of the country. I love you, Lizzie! My heart will be with you while I am working alone. In my house.

the upside

Here is the highlight of my rebound date:


I am sometimes a positive-thinking person. I went into the date thinking that there was a 70% chance he was a loser. There was a 30% chance that he could be a non-loser!

After an hour of listening to the loser talk about how young people are annoying and traffic is annoying and snowy roads are annoying, I thought that it might improve.

After another hour of listening to him, I realized that I'd get home in time for "Gray's Anatomy." Yay!

I also had time to call in a take-out order from my favorite Indian food restaurant...I was already in the city.

Soooooo, after watching a man order only water, after listening to him talk for 2 hours about shit that I don't care about, after paying the waiter and tipping him well for a nothing check...I finally got to leave.

The Indian food was excellent.

rebound date

Yes, I really am this weak. Or maybe I am determined.

I'm going on a rebound date tomorrow night with a guy named Tim. Does it really count as a rebound date if the previous non-relationship only lasted two weeks? No, not completely.

Tim gets the label of rebound because I recognize my own strong desires to fill a void and distract myself from the confused feeling of rejection still lingering after the short bald preacher.

There is a 70% chance that Tim is a loser. I'm meeting him for drinks because he seems like a genuinely nice, dependable guy. He is a Christian. He babysits for his friends on a regular basis. Takes care of his dad. My expectations are low for Tim because he is 4 classes short of a degree from the University of Pheonix. Snobby and judgemental much? His job also sounds like one of those bull-shit jobs people make up.

Expectations are low, but I'm going back out there. In public. Without handing out my phone number.

waste not, want not

The saddest thing about saying goodbye to the little bald man is that he sat through a sexual misconduct seminar all day today. I spent a week looking forward to today so that I could text him inappropriate things every hour or so. I've been very amused with myself. Here is what he missed out on:

"Yes, choir director. I will help you hit your high note."
"May I lay my hands on you?"
"Oh, we always anoint oil there. It is a holy part of your body."
"I like to pray in tongues. No, you just sit there with your mouth open."
"Boobs"
"I always treat the body of christ this well...very well."
"I wanna get down on my knees and start pleasing Jesus."
"You are so troubled. Let me heal you where it really hurts."
"That open slit on the side of my robe isn't for my hands alone, you know."
"You think my stole is long? I'll show you what is long."
"When we are done passing the peace, I have a special piece I'd like to pass to you after church."
"You are worried about going to hell? Why don't I show you a little piece of heaven right here in my robes."
"I like to help you enter a holy place. Nope, keep looking. Keep looking. There."
"I've got something for you to behold right here."

Ah. I crack myself up. The bald man had nothing to do with my awesome dirty jokes...he just missed out on being eternally damned by hearing them.

58 minutes left...

I am typing this post very, very slowly. There are 58 minutes left to this Monday.

Now 57.

I came into the office an hour late.
I took a long lunch.
Emailed a few people about actual work stuff.
Talked to the church secretary for about an hour.

The rest of today was spent being sleepy, hormonal, and stubbornly staying at work while not working.

Obessively checking my email? Of course. I sent the "goodbye" email last night and haven't gotten a reply from the short bald man of my past. No shock there. I put up a Craigslist ad to sell my old car. I spent hours today looking through OKCupid and emailing a few awesome looking guys.

And no emails. Damned fucking yahoo with its lack of blue numbers next to my "inbox." I think now I am just waiting for nothing because I've gotten used to waiting.

Damned hormones. I think I will get pizza for dinner. Again. I'll need to stuff myself early so that it is digested before swim. Yes, I see the contradiction between my self-loathing and self-care. A year ago, there was no self-care so I am at least improving in my 30's.


51 minutes left. I hate Mondays. I was ready for 5pm when I walked into the office at the crack of 10 this morning. Yesterday was draining and I don't really want to be a minister today.

Let me edit this post. Oh, now 48 minutes left.

Maybe I will find some wonderful tall man on OKCupid who ends up sweeping me off my feet. We could take lots of cute pictures together standing tall among the fall leaves and staring into each other's eyes. I could spend Thanksgiving with his family. In two years, we could have very tall babies in pumpkin costumes smiling at the camera. Oh, imaginary man, how I am excited about meeting you.

Okay, hormonal and needy daydreaming is done. Now I have 39 minutes left.

Damned Mondays. When I get home, I am not turning on my computer until AFTER swim class. Then I am sure that dozens of men will have emailed, a trustworthy person wants to pay cash for my car, and the bald man will have apologized for not recognizing the goddess that I am. Yup. All after swim.

35 minutes left. I should go and compared online coupons for dinner. I only have half an hour to find the best deal on a medium pizza...so tricky. What kind of pizza will I want to eat cold for breakfast and lunch tomorrow? Oh, decisions, decisions.

32 mintues left. Fucking hormonal Mondays.

my answer

A rosey-cheeked, healthy little bald man preached in church today, managed to post his sermon online, and made it to blessing of neighborhood animals. He is not hospitalized. Not weakened to the point of unable to use his dialing fingers.

He is simply not calling. No more guessing for me! I've composed the "goodbye" email that I will send later this week.

Meanwhile, it seems that I am unmatchable on eharmony. I did get a communication from a man who wants a woman who is very traditional in sexuality and gender roles, must wait until marriage to have sex, and who uses no profanity.

I can't scream, "Fuck yeah. Spank me harder!"???? I guess that is a pass.

I love my town

It may be the magic of the month of October and the appearance of pumpkins sold on every corner, but I fell a little more in love with my town this weekend.

I love that I live in a community that supports two auto parts stores, two dollar generals, four grocery stores but only one drive-through fast food place. I find comfort in the oil marks on parking lots and that every 4th car at night is missing a headlight.

My little town is a strange and magical mix of old, hard-working farming families and the newcomers. There is a huge latino population, the locals who've lived on this land for generations, and the occasional yuppie who bought a house cheap here and works in the city. Many of us fall somewhere in between.

On my way home, I pass the old plantation house that sits large and ornate between the funeral home and a new well-lit neighborhood.

Poverty is obvious in my town. Businesses focus on people who fix their own cars, buy cheap clothes, and need spanish-speaking store clerks. One block away from the main street, you can find drug dealers and hookers waiting for clients. Two blocks away, you find a sweet old lady selling pumpkins from her well-manicured yard.

I love the Spanish music that plays at night from my neighbors' houses. I love the old men who sit in McDonalds all morning talking and flirting with any woman who walks in the door. I am much more patient when I am stuck behind a tractor driving 5 mph than I was driving in traffic in the city.

This town sometimes breaks my heart with racism, backwards thinking, and occasional hopelessness. I often curse the fact that EVERYTHING closes early and that any single men are missing teeth or high school diplomas.

Today, though, I love my town. For now, I feel like I am home.