I was tired yesterday. Thursday night was a huge networking event that ended with me sneaking a few of my friend’s cheese fries at Wiener Circle. Friday began with a 9:30am meeting, then a 2pm restaurant review, then meeting a friend at 6pm for fish and chips and a belated birthday gift of ‘93 Barolo (score!), then a swing by my neighborhood pub to have a drink with the owner. He’d called me the night before and wanted me to stop by, so I did.

Before going out for fish & chips I stopped home and changed into some casual clothes. Black jeans, black flip-flops, white short sleeved shirt, pony tail, light makeup. I wasn’t out to look cute, or sexy, or hot. I wanted to meet my friends and go home.

All was great at the first pub. The fish & chips were as good as I’d heard. Then I moved onto my neighborhood spot. The owner was gone but since I was there I grabbed the only empty barstool. Next to a really tall guy in a Michigan hat. A really attractive really tall guy in a Michigan hat. A really attractive really tall guy in a Michigan hat who happened to think I’m incredibly beautiful and have baby soft skin and amazing lips…

I’ve been “single” for seven years now. That doesn’t mean I’ve been alone. I date, often, but no one has lasted longer than two months. I also have the sex drive of a Lothario on Viagra. So it’s a good thing I’m very very good at keeping friendships or else I’d run into pissed-off exes on a regular basis.

I do this by being upfront about my independence and my reluctance to relinquish it. I don’t have a fear of commitment so much as an aversion to being controlled. Since I establish from the beginning that I’m not “looking for a man” and I honor the friendship first, I very rarely burn bridges.

There are a few, though, that I’ve sent up in flames with a personal press of the bellows. Two of them were married men who failed to tell me ahead of time about their prior commitments. Another turned out to be an arrogant narcissist whose humor was based on others’ suffering. And the last is Rock Star.

I’ve made a concerted effort to keep drama and chaos out of my life. My 20s were filled with both and I still get enough from my ex-husband to fill shelves of self-help books. When I finally broke free of my cycle of choosing bad men I chose to be alone because I didn’t trust my judgment. After figuring out who I was on my own I realized I didn’t need to be with a man to be fulfilled, so instead I would be with a man because I wanted to. Some might say I have a string of “failed” relationships, but I know that I’ve dated a lot of great men and we now have ideal relationships, for us: friendship.

My friendship with Rock Star, I’m afraid, is now just a bunch of ashes. He brought the elements of drama and chaos into my life and I have no patience for that. In fact, I have the opposite of patience, so much so that when he did that I pretty much grabbed a Roman candle, a blow torch, and a flame thrower and marched like the town villagers to set that bridge alight.

He’s in the unfortunate position of knowing about this blog after my drunken exposure of it to him a couple months ago. After I found out he deleted me as a “friend” on MySpace my temper came out at the whole unfairness of the situation in a way it hasn’t since I was called a few choice names by my last long-term boyfriend. So I wrote, in blow-by-blow detail, of the miscommunications and accusations and defenses that culminated in, well, in this.

I got a little heated, even for me, and he had the pleasure of reading it. So, I’ve decided to add a password to those posts. It’s not so much to protect the innocent, because no one in this whole debacle truly is, including me. It’s more because it’s too much invited voyeurism. Although I want to record my experiences and express my emotions, I more so want to keep that kind of crap, this drama and chaos, out of my life, not invite everyone into it.

This bridge IS burned, and I’m pretty sure that’s the way it should be. Our physical relationship started without transparency and friendship, and it finished the same way.

There are certain phrases that set me on edge faster than a redneck can find the closest Stuckey’s.

One is “you should…” Don’t tell me what I “should” do. Offer suggestions and insight and the benefit of your wisdom, but don’t tell me I should do something. That’s implying that if I don’t, then I’ve done something I shouldn’t.

Then there’s “if you think about it.” I hear that phrase and immediately my head ticks to the side and my eyes go a little cross and my lips purse and my shoulders get all locked up. The natural conclusion to that statement is “then you’ll know that what I’m saying is right because it’s so obvious.”

I have a few thoughts on this. One is if it’s that obvious, then saying “if you think about it” is redundant and could be followed up by/replaced by “it goes without saying.” Then don’t.

Another is that if I don’t agree with you, then that just means I haven’t thought about it. What if I have and I still don’t agree? Does that mean you don’t think I’m your intellectual equal?

A third option is that you have so little respect for me that you feel I have to be prompted to think about anything. If that’s the case, are you really going to listen when I bring up an issue that you haven’t thought about?

An ex, from many many many years ago, over a decade ago, used to say “what are you, stupid?” By the time I extricated myself from that monumentally unhealthy relationship my self-esteem was the size of a bathroom in a trailer home. And I mean a trailer home in a trailer park, with its cracked concrete streets and corrugated metal storage sheds and packs of roving cats and feral boys. (Just to clarify - I’ve eaten in Stuckey’s many times and lived in that trailer park - I know that of which I speak.) Because of that experience I am acutely aware of the power of language. I was later in a physically abusive relationship, and while those bruises healed long ago, the earlier verbal abuse has left such significant scar tissue that the wrong turn of phrase turns me from an open and passionate woman into an angry and tight-lipped prude.

I liken a good communicator to a good lover: someone who pays attention. If you’re poking your tongue into my mouth and I pull away, don’t do that again because I won’t want to kiss you. If you say “if you think about it” and I don’t respond, or I look away, or I  get an irritated flash in my eyes, then don’t repeat it. Ever.

Tomorrow I have to end a nascent relationship. Actually, relationship gives it too much credence, I just wanted to use “nascent”. Anyway…Mr. Maybe has turned into Mr. Hell No. Why would I want to date someone who just doesn’t pay attention. It doesn’t make sense.

If you think about it…

Earlier this week, in the span of one hour, I had two different people yell at me for not writing anything in about six weeks. OK, they weren’t technically yelling, but it was more like “Come on, girl. What the Hell?”

They were right. I’ve been sorely neglectful. It’s not for lack of material. I think maybe it’s been too much material. Either way, I’ll try to be a little more consistent. Although I’m not consistent in my love life, so why should I be consistent in a blog about my love life?

Anyway…

I recently had a birthday, and I ended up going out with the guy that I’m not really attracted to. He’d wormed his way into a dating relationship because we do have a lot in common and more importantly, we drink a lot when we’re out. I still haven’t had sex with him, despite the copious amounts of booze, but we’ve slept together. Literally.

The night of my birthday I got home after dinner with my son and waited for Mr. Maybe. And waited. We were going to see a band and he was late, so I left my apartment with the intention of having him meet me out. Instead, as I turned the corner I saw him walking towards me and he was carrying flowers. Even half a block away I could see they were roses.

At this point I’m supposed to swoon. I’m supposed to fall for the guy and think, “oh, he’s the one,” and be forever grateful that he brought me a dozen pink and peach roses interlaced with baby’s breath.

Uh uh no way. I told my brother about my disappointment in this gesture and he thought I was insane. “I don’t see what the problem is,” he said.

There are a few. One is that I don’t like pink. People who know me know I don’t like pink, and I have my reasons. One is the pure aesthetics, and another is the expectation that as a woman I should like that sissy blend of red and white.

Another is that they were roses. I enjoy going to Cantigny and seeing and smelling all the different varieties, and I appreciate the beauty, but there was just no originality. If you’re going to get a gift, get something that’s specifically for that person. My favorite flower is the calla lily. If he’d gotten me one calla lily it would have impressed me much more than the bouquet of cliche.

What really got me about those flowers is that they weren’t for me, not really. They were for him. “See what a great guy I am? I got you a dozen roses for your birthday. I’m a catch.” It just came across as self-aggrandizing. And it also showed me how this person who thinks he knows me quite well is actually entirely out of touch with who I am or what I want.

I’m not entirely a heartless bitch. I do appreciate that he wanted to do something nice and he wanted to look good because he likes me and, as he’s said without hesitation, wants this to go somewhere. I took pictures of the roses, because they were beautiful and they reflected a gesture that, while reeking of look-at-me-I’m-the-good-guy, they also symbolized the genuine effort of a man who’s a bit out of his element. I’m the first to admit that I’m not an easy person to date because of my independence, my insanely busy event schedule, and my inclination to make snap judgments when things get a little rocky.

Maybe I should stop and smell the roses.

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Damn.

Crap son of a bitch now what the fuck do I do?

I  normally don’t cuss, but my issues are putting me into quite the quandary now.

I’ve basically made up with sex man. (I was going to write “boy”, but that doesn’t really fit.) We hashed it out. There was a lot that happened in a short amount of time: a friend of his wanted to set us up; we saw each other too often in too short of time; I left my earrings at his place (classic needy behavior, in which I don’t participate but that’s the stereotype and we both, apparently, cringed at that idea); we left together one night in front of his friends; another friend expected us to show up together at a show and when we didn’t, asked me where he was. Anyway, we both kind of wigged out. I thought by emailing him my little rant it would end our physical relationship and we’d be hesitant acquaintances.

Nope. We’ve made up, so to speak. At first he was pissed that I’ve been writing about him. I explained that I’m just trying to navigate my way through my morass of issues with men. He writes about his experiences in lyrics; I write about mine in prose. He got that.

Now, it seems, things could possibly be better than they were before. It feels like some artificial barrier has been breached. We are in the same place emotionally, damnit, and now we both get it. He’s coming over tomorrow night. He’s bringing my earrings, and a book I loaned him, and his glorious body. I will go to bed spent and wake up greedy.

And slightly guilty.

The guy I mentioned before? The one I think I want to date? I saw him tonight. He had friends over to watch the NCAA Finals and invited me. I brought a friend, and we stayed there way past his roommate’s welcome. TGITIWTD (the guy I think I want to date) was a perfect host, a perfect gentleman, and funny, and smart, and bragged about me to his friends, and was kind to my friend. When I had to leave, he hugged me and asked when he could see me again. Mind you, I hooked up with him last week. He didn’t expect me to stay and he didn’t act cold and he didn’t act lascivious. He was perfect and I can’t wait to see him again.

Shit.

Maybe I should change my name to Court Jester, as I try to keep these balls (pun intended) in the air.

I fully believe that men and women can be friends, have a casual sexual relationship, and then end the physical aspect while the friendship continues without drama or rancor. I know. I’ve done it.

I also fully believe that men and women can be entirely platonic friends without any hint of sexual tension. I know. I’ve done that also. One of my best friends is crazy smart, wickedly funny, enjoys most of the same things I do, and is hot, but I’ll no more kiss him than kiss my own brother. Yuck.

Unfortunately, right now I feel like I’m crossing into a fuzzy area with a few friends. With one, for awhile now I haven’t felt like I can just pick up the phone to shoot the shit with him, and that to me indicates the friendship is suffering. He tends to think I want more than I do, so I avoid reaching out and saying hello, how are you, because I’m afraid he’ll read too much into it. In one of my more mature (and quite drunken) moves I decided to let him know how I was feeling by emailing him my ramblings about the tension. I’m wading through the ramifications of that boneheaded move now.

Another man is someone I met a few months ago through networking and we’ve become friends. We have a few things in common: we’re both entrepreneurs, divorced twice, love the same type of music and can drink (and handle) copious amounts of whiskey. On St. Patrick’s Day we decided to conduct our own Irish whiskey tasting at a Chicago bar that’s known for it’s collection - a 7 hours tasting. Last night we navigated through an official tasting at WhiskyFest, then closed down the same bar. I noticed throughout the night that his leg kept brushing against mine but didn’t think much of it because it was crowded. Then, when we left, he indicated that he would like our friendship to turn into something more. Shit. I like him and I enjoy spending time with him, but I’m just not attracted to him. That’s something that can’t be forced. I’ve tried it with other men that are wonderful and seem like natural fits, but if the only time I want to kiss them is when I’m drunk out of my ever-lovin’ skull it’s not going to work.

Which brings me to the last guy. The friend of a guy I used to work with many moons ago, we ran into each other recently at a networking event (I honestly don’t go to those to pick up guys - it just happens!). We’ve talked for years about hanging out, but this time we actually followed through. On Opening Day for the Cubs after I’d met up with friends at 11:30 in the morning. By the time he met me out I was, shall we say, a very happy woman. Now this is a guy that I’m attracted to, and is funny and smart, and is someone I think I’d actually like to date. So what do I go and do? Hook up with him.

If I may want to date him, why is that a bad thing? Because, for me, sex is how I keep my distance. By turning it into a physical relationship right off the bat, there’s little chance that I’ll get emotionally involved.

I may be in danger with this one, though. He broke the cardinal rule and called me the next day. We’re going out on Monday. I know, I know, this should be a good thing and here I am bitching about it.  It’s because I honestly don’t know if I’m ready to open up and I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to lose that friendship, and this is one of the touchy ones where I could. On the other hand, he could just be the one to get me to ignore the rest, but that would require a vulnerability that I’m loathe to expose.

My issues with the first guy stem from this new possibility. We could have gone blithely along, especially since he had no idea I was concerned about our friendship, but my subconscious was released by too much rum and wine and I took an action that would effectively end our arrangement. To even think about opening up to someone else I had to put away the safety net. I wish I’d done it in a better way, but I honestly don’t think I would have done it at all.

It’s a tightrope I walk - allowing my sexuality to be a part of my friendships. I just hope I don’t fall.

When it comes to men, I have friends that are attracted to a certain look, a specific physique. One of my friends likes blond hair and blue eyes. Another likes big beefy types. Me? I like men.

I honestly have no type. In the past year I’ve gone out with:

• a skinny Italian valet
• a short stout balding chef 11 years my junior
• a Mayor
• a lawyer
• a 6′3″ hulk of a bodybuilder and personal trainer
• a caterer/singer with an earthy voice and an unfortunate need to gel his hair.
• a rock star with dreadlocks to his derrière and a sleeve tattoo
• an older man who shares my penchant for single malts
• a sinewy triathlete
• a blond haired blue eyed Adonis

I don’t look for these guys. Because of my job I’m out often and I’m frequently solo, so I meet a lot of men and I’m easy to approach because I don’t have the friend barrier. I don’t choose the men I go out with based on looks, or profession, or money. Some of them have made me laugh; some of them have made me think; none of them have made me cry. How could they? I don’t let any of them get too close.

Sometimes I wonder why my tastes are so eclectic. Is it because I’m afraid that by defining what I want in a man it would mean that I’m looking for him? I’m not ready for that. Oh, sure, I’ve got my generic list - makes me laugh, makes me think, and makes me wake the neighbors - but nothing more specific. I prefer to think that by not specifying a “type” I’m keeping myself open to all. As open as this commitment-phobe can be, anyway. I guess my type will be the one who gets me to ignore all the others.

I know better than to sit at my computer when I’ve had too much to drink. Did that stop me last night/this morning? Hell, no! I decided after being at a function with an open bar from 7pm until 12:30am that I should send the previous post to my special friend.  No explanation was included, I just copied the post and hit “send”.

Maybe it’s a good thing. Things have been feeling strained and I needed to clear the air. I have been seeing other men, but our arrangement has been allowing me to keep anything substantial from developing. Don’t get me wrong - the sex is good and I’d hate to give that up, but maybe, just maybe, it’s time.