Captivity, Childbirth and God

My phone whistles and it’s The Farmer.

F- Are you still able to go to lunch or is it too late?

I’d just eaten lunch and am painfully exhausted after shoveling a metric ton of snow, three times, only getting 3 1/2 hours of sleep and an Insanity workout in. I’m tired, sexually frustrated to the point I can’t write and stressed to the point of snapping like dry kindling. I don’t look fantastic and am not in a great mood. However… I need some positive attention and I have the best time with the Farmer. He really likes me, in a respectful, hands-off sort of way. I’m not sure what to think about it. Date #3 is still ending in a chaste hug.


J- See you there!

I left work and spent the afternoon laughing with a delightfully handsome, successful man who is armed to the teeth and loves being present in every way, shape or form. He’s a reallllllllly good human. He volunteers in class, and teaches Sunday school. He personally thanks the waiter every time. He’s a good tipper. He cares about his effect on everyone around him, not just the people that matter to him or who can do something for him.

That is so damn refreshing, I can hardly put it into words.

and then he speaks.

F- Wow. You’re amazing. I don’t mean that in a generic sense, but in the way that I want you to teach me some of the really cool things you know.

J- Umm…

F- I mean no disrespect.

None taken. He’s a successful man with a plan and I’m awkward. He’s been freshly manicured and the beard has been shaped into a much less threatening profile. I’m thinking that maybe I should invite him to a movie so he can hold my hand. This man is redefining what it means to be a gentleman.

Then the real bomb drops. He mentions how old he was when his first child was born, and he’s told me their ages before…. so…it hits me like a truck.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

He’s 29 years old. Born in the 90’s, good grief. A friend and I had tried to narrow it down, but we were thinking mid to late thirties. 36ish.


Not even 30? I don’t know if I want to even consider that. 29 and done having babies isn’t so bad though. THAT, I can get behind.

Thirteen years younger than me. Good grief that’s scary. I’m stunned silent in my head and he’s talking about tattoos when he unbuttons his jacket and pulls an arm out.

Y’all. It’s a VERY nice arm, with incredible tattoos. I noticed the arm, but the tattoos were what made me sit up in my chair.

J- WOW. Those are unreal.

F- Yeah. I’m overdue for a new one, do you know anyone local that you love?

If it’s one thing I know, it’s where NOT to go. My beloved Miss Botany has the best tattoos I’ve seen before his, and I know her guy is the only one to go to. I shoot her a quick message and she responds. I tell him and he’s already met the guy. He’s serious, he’s doing his research and not willing to go to anyone sub-par… which means waiting indefinitely, as I’ve been doing.

This guy is awfully well rounded and so incredibly nice.

J- So what now? You’ve been on the fast track apparently. Marriage, done. Kids, done. Job, done. Relocation, done. Farm, done. Are you planning on hiking Everest?

F- I’d love to get married, have more kids, grow in faith and be happy.

Uh… I like being happy?

Welcome to dating.

Just when you think that maaaaaaaaaaaaybe this could be really cool, he drops captivity, childbirth and God on the table. My face must reflect my abject horror, because he starts laughing.

F- I will clarify if you’ll promise to breathe. I believe in marriage and know what not to do. I’m just not a player, I’m a husband. Teaching Sunday school has made me want to take a dozen kids home every week, and sometimes I do. So I’d like to adopt a bunch of kids who don’t have anyone else. I don’t need more babies, but I love them and would take one too. I have four neighbor kids that come to my house after school until their parents get home from work. The more the merrier in my book.

I’ve never heard a man speak like this. I’ve never met a man who loved fatherhood, more. That’s incredibly beautiful, but at the same time… I’ve been a mother for 24 years and am raising the baby, alone. I’m not really motivated to start adopting more.



Also church on Sunday for 5 hours will never happen. Ever. Not if the Earth caught on fire and Jesus himself came walking out of the flames. Nope. I’m staying home to be lazy on the last day of existence. Even if it costs me a halo. I work all week and the Dumpling and I have to be pried out of the house with a crowbar on the weekend. God understands.

Let’s not forget that captivity bomb. Marriage. I have absolutely NO intention of ever getting married again. I know the time and hassle of a divorce. I am still fighting to get my maiden name back and I’ve been divorced for twice as long as we were married. I want someone to want to be with me because we’re happy, not because we signed a legal contract.

That’s the kind of love I want.

I’m more playmate than playpen….more stilettos than Sunday school. I’m an incredible partner to have, but I want a man that looks at me like I’m a snack, not a nanny. I’ve done my time growing a family and between the farmer and I, we have 8 children. That’s a huge table.

That is a devastating amount of laundry…. and no man is that cute.



The Texty Difference


They seem to think we don’t know.

When a man is confident, he responds to your text messages within minutes…at the latest. If left to his own devices, he’s responding before receiving yours.

When they want us, they’re worse than us when we want them. Don’t let him fool you. He sits on his hands to keep from texting you, too.

I’m the worst kind of guy. I have a half dozen frustrated men twisting in the wind of the uncertainty that floods my inbox. I know they’re waiting. Hell, I know I’ll get anĀ  instantaneous response at any of the hour of day or night if I throw ’em a bone.

But they aren’t the one I want… so they’re probably going to keep twisting. I’d say sorry, but I feel like it’s karmic for some poor knot they tied one of my sisterfolk into along the way.

Because when he doesn’t really care… he can blow you off for days. Spoiler alert… if he can wait a few hours and he’s not a dad or at work, he isn’t that into you.

Dr. Miles is a perfect example. This man is a board certified anesthesiologist, and doesn’t miss a beat in texting me. Noon, no problem. 3:30 in the morning, he wants to know what I have on. I send him one word responses. Never more. Not a picture, not a single sentence. Nada. And the poor man is dying on the vine, waiting for a simple “k”.

The Contender is equally as ferocious and I spend more time annoyed that all the wrong boys have all the right things to say, than I do responding to him. I hardly acknowledge him, if I’m going to be honest. For the record, ignoring them only makes them more passionate about getting a response.




Anticipation is the spice of life and men are equally as passionate over something that lights their souls on fire. Unfortunately, lighting them on fire is a hell of a lot easier if you’re not interested.

Which explains the forest fire currently raging out of control on my phone.

I’ve had to learn new features on my iphone to silence the most diligent of the bunch. He has a tiny grey moon by his name and it allows him to run wild and me to sleep peacefully while he’s on a texty bender…all without disabling the sounds that delight me when the right one sends me a “k”.

I was mid run when my phone started shouting “YUMMY” at me. The text tone that paints a delighted grin across my face. I almost don’t care what his text says. It’s that delightful. Go buy it for yourself and give it to the man you find most delicious. You’ll thank me.

I have them sectioned off by ringtones, so that I know which messages can wait, indefinitely and which are the ones I’ve been waiting for. Welcome to dating.

The boys I like: a wolf whistle.

The boys I don’t: the jaws theme.

The one I crave? Yummy.

The one I want to go away? Silence.

In the same way I hate to be on the receiving end of radio silence, I am quite adept at dishing it out. In some odd way, it’s been comforting wanting most of them to leave me alone, because I’ve realized how easy it is for them to do and feel the same. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work… and no amount of hope or desire is going to change that. It’s either there or it’s not, and it can be there for one person and not both. It’s love, not justice.

To quote my favorite beautiful man: “This isn’t rocket surgery.”

Or science.

It’s supply and demand. Cause and effect. Necessary tools for the hostage negotiation that is meeting someone you could end up wanting to spend your life with.

I miss love letters and voicemails. I miss the genuine gestures that are far more of an investment of your time and attention than typing on a mini keyboard and hitting send. This technological yawn fest doesn’t hold a candle to seeing his handwriting on a page of wrinkled notebook paper, expressing his undying love for you. Hell, even if it was a booty call memo, at least he had to find paper and a pen to get his point across.

Who knew those junior high boyfriends would forever outshine the adult men in my life. Oy vey.