13,879 days old, give or take a couple of days to account for Leap Years.

That's 333,096 hours.

19,985,760 seconds.

In case you were wondering.

Because I was.

At 4 o'clock this morning.

Right about the time Dash woke up with an urgent need to complain about the general state of the world.  Or maybe just his bed.  But it was a profound enough wail to seem like one of those larger issues, you know?


I'm 38 today.  And it seems like a rather appropriate and serendipitous time to take stock.

So I have.

And here's the lowdown:

1. Two beautiful children.
2. One ex-husband.
3. One baby daddy.
4. Six siblings.
5. Many, many amazing friends.
6. One B.A. in Communications.
7. One Master's in the offing.
8. Two freelance jobs.
9. A mother in heaven (or wherever passionate Socialists go).
10. A father, two stepmothers, and a stepfather in California.
11. One attempt at life in Westchester.

There's more, I'm sure.  I just can't summon all the items at the moment, what with the two glasses of wine and the piece of chocolate cheesecake I've downed.

I'm headed out soon to celebrate with Jen and whomever else decides to join us tonight.

I'm not looking bad for my years, if I do say so myself.  I'm going to hold onto that little sliver of confident thought and go enjoy the evening.

Happy Birthday to Me.


No, really...seriously?

I think my April Fool's Day jokes are just starting to come in...


47 - Fishkill Plains, NY, US 
Seeking: Women 30 - 51

Active within 24 hours


Match (Breaking) Point

With my Match subscription, as with most things in my life (including, let's face it, my children), I tend to go in cycles dictated by my level of boredom with watching recorded television shows while solitarily downing a bottle of wine.

That, and my tolerance for things like, oh, grown men who don't know how to spell and who still send borderline-perverted messages that end in LOL.  And I'm not just talking about those cute little 30-year-olds who spam-wink me after looking at pictures and failing to see the TWO KIDS part of my profile - I'm also including those 53-year-olds who are looking for women 25-40, who think they are appealing enough to ignore those their own age, and who end every sentence with some retarded emoticon or text shorthand, most of which I can't be bothered to decipher. Speak English, people.  Even Pig Latin would be a more innovative and original language.

But I digress slightly.

One of my points is that it's pretty grim out there, with a couple of bright spots every once in a long while. It's why I go in three-month intervals, updating my profile with germane information when it's appropriate - like after a particularly bad date.  Because clearly, I was not adamant enough about NOT LYING ABOUT YOUR HEIGHT.


I'm on one of my hiatuses at the moment, enjoying the soft and lulling silence of no winks, no Match emails suggesting someone is my soulmate because we both like dogs and Chinese food. Seriously, isn't there some poor hack writer at Match HQ who has a better sense of humor and a few more brain cells to devote to more creative Matching Points?  Because what I'd really like to know is if one of the many winners picked from the vat of (questionably) male samples enjoys, as I do, the sweet scent of Sharpie Markers.  Or making fun of fashion victims while drinking coffee on the stoop.  

Now, I didn't delete my profile completely - it would take too long to rebuild what has become a three-and-a-half-year masterpiece built with love, patience, and wine.  Not to mention a really good digital camera.  And you never know - in a fit of loneliness and having spent too many nights, ummm, you know...paying ATTENTION to myself...in THAT way...I might be tempted to throw my proverbial hat in the ring, to be judged again via computer monitor, alongside all those other women lustily endowed with more cleavage who have ejected fewer offspring.  Bee-atches.  

The only thing is, I first entered the hallowed digital halls of Match.com when I was newly separated, had just turned 34, and had only spawned one child.  I don't know if it was beginner's luck or what, but the very first Match date I ever had was with someone who flew me to Buenos Aires for New Year's and subsequently knocked me up (unbeknownst to both of us until my monthly visitor failed to show - I swear I was using protection).  So I got an international, first-class trip AND a second son, all with the point and click of my mouse!

In the interim, I've added quite a few one-drink, four-week, and five-month dates to my curriculum vitae, almost all of them coming through Match.  Only now, my very vital vitals have changed - five pounds, four additional (but memorable) years added to my age, three freelance jobs, two kids from two fathers, one divorce, and a haggard-looking partridge in a pear tree.  Frankly, I'm tired.  And as I sometimes tell my kids - I need a break.

So I've deactivated for a bit.

See you in September.


Open letter...feel free to copy and paste

Dear [insert name of latest freak date here]:

You wooed me, you wrote pretty notes, you took me to some scenic places.  I will cherish our [days/weeks/months/years] together.  We laughed, I cried, you rolled your eyes, we laughed a bit more.  Truly, our multi-faceted relationship was the envy of our circles of friends.

But here's the thing.

When you talk about your (sort of) ex [girlfriend; spouse; partner; complacent participant], and don't filter out the parts about you still having feelings for her, it's a real mood-killer.  And if your (sort of) ex is still calling you and you're thinking, well, maybe if she changed just a bit and came back to me with a different perspective, I'd probably get back together with her - DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, SAY THAT OUT LOUD.  Again, a rather efficient mood-killer.  Not to mention the fact that it makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

i just threw up  a little in my mouth

And when you cancel a [lunch; dinner; movie] date as soon as I get to your place so you can go [bike-riding; coffee-klatsching; cow-tipping] with another girl, it doesn't make me want to come back and sleep with you the next day.  Or the day after that.  Really, ever again.

And when you suggest, in the nicest possible way, really, no offense meant, that you thought you would end up with a [more powerful; more ambitious; thinner; smaller; richer; less-burdened] woman, it would be super helpful if you wouldn't then try to kiss me and get into my pants.  Because that doesn't make me want to sleep with you either.  Especially after I've been watching your [kid; dog; aging parent] for a half-day while you get your sweaty groove on at the gym.  And when I tie your penis into a nautical knot to demonstrate just HOW powerful I am,

please know it hurts me more than it hurts you.

And when you say things like, "I love you.  I love you very much," and then retreat into a corner ten days later like some deranged snapping turtle,

The Alligator Snapping turtle looks  quite prehistoric

hissing about needing space from this, and acting all irritated and elusive because, you snap, you need to ask questions about this - well, that's just a tad confusing is all.  And it makes me want to graffiti your windows with, "Wormlike douchebag in residence."  

Furthermore, when you call at [midnight; one a.m.; four a.m.] from a business trip, with nothing more to report than a slurred version of the hilarious story of how the friends with whom you are dining are pulling down their pants so you can see their thong underwear, it makes me want to smash the phone into little pieces and shove them up your ass.  And when you suggest that I'm feeling this way because I'm a jealous person, and insecure, it makes me want to retrieve the telephonic debris with a metal rake, light it on fire, and weld it to your balls.

Woman Welding

So maybe you should keep those stories to yourself in your next relationship.  

Because I have it on pretty good authority, being of the female persuasion, that women don't particularly find it hot to hear about other [athletic; toned; free-spirited; drunk] women who are removing their undergarments in your presence.  Thong or not.

I'm just saying.

Anyhoo, I wish you so much luck and success in finding the woman you think exists who will be totally okay with all of this.  Maybe consulting the Book of Imaginary Girlfriends can point you in the right direction.

Cheers!  and XOXO and all that cheesy shit...


How to Instill Proper Values, Morals & Confidence

  1. Playdate host informs you your son has responded to calls to clean up playroom with, "What the fuck?" Make sure your son is properly rewarded for cursing in context.

  2. Take argued-over toys and hurl them out the window. When child says that's littering, threaten to recycle his toes.

  3. At random and unannounced intervals, swat child with a fly-swatter and then apologize for mistaking him for a bug.

  4. Loudly, and in public, explain the details of how he was conceived.

  5. At school drop-off, inform child he must eat all of his lunch or risk being left at school overnight.

  6. Send child into pharmacy with Monopoly money with instructions to ask for Super Large Extra Absorbent Tampons because Mommy's bleeding to death.

  7. At the supermarket, answer every request for junk food with, "In your fucking dreams."

  8. Answer every Why? with Why the Hell Not?

  9. Tell child his whining is why you drink.

  10. Begin every morning with, "You're still here?"