Sunday, January 15, 2023

Bored Barb Takes up Yoga

Nope, not me. For those of you who don't know my mother, also Barb, consider this blog post your official introduction to the amazing matriarch of our family.  Certainly doesn't seem blog-worthy to write about my mom taking up yoga, but then again it wouldn't be if it wasn't her doing it.

I'm sure you remember my first foray into yoga. I chronicled my own yoga adventures at the beginning of the pandemic in my very first blog post back in 2020. From that blog: 

For years, I've watched as the flood of skinny bitches pour out the yoga studio at the gym. Clearly they are onto something.  I am quite the expert at wearing yoga pants (and leisurewear, in general) so I really felt like this was going to be the perfect at-home workout. 


I downloaded a free Peloton app, grabbed a mat and donned the garb. Unfortunately for someone who has never even come close to touching my own toes, this pursuit was a stretch...quite literally. I still have PTSD from the stupid Presidential Fitness Tests we were subjected to in grade school; my flexibility was notably bad. Certainly made me question whether I was built for this, but what the hell?


I'm not going to lie, there was a lot more sweating and shaking than I would have thought. And, contorting my uncooperative rigid limbs  in some of those positions — while also trying to crane my neck to see how the skinny bitch instructor was doing it — was akin to a playing a demented game of Twister that no one wins. My dogs watched with what appeared concern. My left shoulder is now spasming and my right buttock  hurts, but overall it felt pretty good. 


It was definitely touch and go initially, for both my rigid limbs and my dogs who both thought it was "Mommy and me" time on the mat and not yoga. I have improved slightly though still can't touch my toes. 


Being raised by a jock


My mom was born a natural athlete, meaning she can pick up nearly any sport and be good at it very quickly. My dad was also a good athlete but one who studied hard at it. Read everything, videotaped himself so he could study his motion, golf or tennis swing, and then methodically plot how he could get better. Not mom; she can just watch someone do something and mimic it naturally.


She's ambidextrous! When she wants to mess with someone, she simply changes the hand she's playing with. Talk about a mind fuck on a tennis court! 


She was the first female Little League player in the state of Arkansas back in the 50s. She got a hole in one on the golf course…7 times!! Not a typo.


She is just amazing at every sport she does, which is all the more surprising because she got sick when she was a baby and was hospitalized and didn't grow for an entire year. That is actually why she's short in stature; her twin brother and father were both 6 feet tall. 

Despite being barely over 5-feet herself, it never stopped her from competing and winning in sports her whole life.  Below is a picture from one of the many tennis tournaments she won as a kid. She's the one rocking the crop top before that was fashionable. FYI: she is the same age as the other kids in the picture. Not sure what to say about that haircut.





While I adore her, It wasn't always easy having a mom who can do every sport better than you. It's the reason neither my sister or I took up tennis until our 40s, despite having spent much of our childhoods hanging out by tennis courts while she played. Why take up a sport that you'll never beat your own mom at? I mean she's pushing 80 but I've officially given up the hope of ever beating her at tennis. 


I remember being 7 or so and being fearful of jumping off the diving board at the local pool. I mounted the board a few times before bailing in fear. Then my mom casually walks up to the diving board and with absolutely no preamble does a flip off it. Then a back flip. What? I mean I was aware she could swim but really? 


When she decided it was time for me to learn how to swim, she didn't bother teaching me or signing me up for lessons. She just signed me up for the local swim team. Didn't matter that I could only swim the width of the pool. "You'll get better," she assured me. I believe the term "baptism by fire" works here but hey, a few weeks later and many tearful pleas to quit, and boom: I learned how to swim. That was Parenting 101 Barb-style. 


Then I remember trying to learn how to water ski. My poor, very patient dad would drag me behind his boat for an hour but my little "Olive Oyl" arms could not muster the strength to pull my 75-pound frame out of the water. I cried, begging to get back in the boat. 


Shortly after that, my mom takes her turn, popping up within seconds and then within a few minutes, kicking off one ski and going slalom. What the...? All 3 of us kids looked at each other in bewilderment. Didn't they just buy these things? 


You can lead the horse to water...


I have tried since 2020 to get my mom to try yoga. She was getting increasingly bored being stuck at home and I thought it was the perfect way for her to stay busy and thought maybe the meditation part would be a good thing for her as well. 


As you might be able to tell she has the boundless energy so not being able to do all her various activities was making her a little crazy. I'm sure many of you enjoyed the pandemic videos she made and posted to Facebook. This one was one of my favs.





So I must say when she said she was ready to try yoga, I was excited to see how it would go. With no ball involved or thing to swing, I thought we might finally have arrived to a level playing field. 


Over the Christmas holiday, I spent a week visiting my parents, and daily Mom and I did yoga. It was fun and I must admit pleasantly surprising to see that there's at least one thing Barb Jones doesn't do well. Turns out she has the flexibility of a 2 X 4 (her words) and not stellar balance; both important things to have as we get older. After I left, she took a few classes. Review below.




Comedy aside, I'm quite certain that Barb Jones will become a yogi of stellar status. She never backs away from a challenge so I won't be the least bit suprised when she morphs into Rubberband Nana after a few months. 

Later this week on January 20th, my mom turns 79. Please join me in wishing this crazy lady and amazing mother a very Happy Birthday. Love you, Mom! 

Hope everyone's year is off to a good start and this finds you all happy, healthy and hopeful that 2023 will be an epic (in a good way) year.

Happy New Year,

Barb

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Sunday, November 13, 2022

My Marley: the Best Worst Dog Ever

Some of you know that I recently had to put down my older dog, Marley, who has been my most faithful constant companion for almost 16 years. He would have celebrated that milestone next month actually. I will admit losing him has been heartbreaking. Yes, he had a wonderful life, and I was quite fortunate to have had him as long as I did. That is true, but still such a loss.

Marley was my third dog, although my family also had several dogs growing up. Right out of the gate, he was a handful. Dudley was just a year older so it was obvious from the start that Marley was a livewire, not the laidback dog his furry predecessor was. 

He was always into something, a committed life-long trash tipper/looter. No trash can was safe; ask any member of my family who have had their own trash cans looted by that dog. Nothing like coming home to a disaster like that or getting in bed only to find a tuna can has been left under the sheets. 

All I can say is thank God the dog didn't have opposable thumbs! Can you only imagine the crimes he would have been able to commit with just a tad more agility? Terrifying. 



Possiby the worst was one year at Thangsiving. While we were all happily eating our amazing feast, he was in another room quietly sampling each of the pies my Aunt Marilyn, Arkansas' version of Martha Stewart, had brought. Not the entire pie, just the center of each one. When he made to the pecan pie, he decided that was his favorite and ate a sizable amount. 

There were a whole lot of people not happy with Marley that day.

Despite his antics, he was mine and from the day we picked him up, I was the center of his universe. Always and forever. I mean quite literally all that dog ever wanted was to be by my side. He would quite literally follow me everywhere I went every day. In the almost 16 years he was with us, I could never close a door between he and I...ever. Very sweet in sentiment (who doesn't enjoy adoration) but in practice can be problematic. 

For one, it's quite embarassing when I have company and attempt to close a bathroom door and he would simply sit at the door and bark until I safely reemerged. I just got used to zero privacy and constantly stepping around or over his 30-lb body. 

Once when he was younger, I locked him in a bathroom during the Christmas holiday at my sister's house so we could all go play tennis and he wouldn't get into anything. I could see no other option. No way I could leave him out to pilfer and loot their entire house for hours without proper supervision. 

We came home a few hours later and he was about 80% through the door. Yes, he had spent the whole time dismantling the bathroom door. Who knew a dog could even do that? My brother in law hated him for the remainder of his life because of that particular episode.

A few years ago, I went to visit Laura at college her senior year. Marley's clinginess has actually gotten much worse after his brother Dudley died suddenly at 10. So I was concerned with leaving him but again, decided to lock him in her room while we went to dinner to prevent him from looting the rest of the house. I did give him a Xanax before we left, as prescribed by his vet for his separation anxiety. A few of Laura's roommate's parents found it alarming I was medicating him for such a short time.

They didn't know the history. A few hours later, we got a call from one of those parents reporting that he was halfway through the drywall and making good progress, and perhaps we should return sooner than later. She commented that it was probably because he was thirsty. LOL. 😉

One year for work I had to travel to our global headquarters, which is in Paris. I was gone for a week but had neighbors come in at night and get Marley, walk and feed him and then let him stay overnight with them. He did fine, or so I assumed. My lovely neighbor upstairs asked if I had had any recent visitors. I said no, but she said while I was gone, she could hear what she said sounded like "an old lady moaning" for hours upon hours. 

I honestly couldn't imagine what she was talking about so when I got home, I put my GoPro in my bedroom to capture what happened when I left him. Note: this was a 20-minute run to the grocery store in the middle of the day. Also note that he is wearing his thunder jacket, which is supposed to provide comfort but as you can see is failing miserably. Moose mating? Or some sound a humpback whale would make? You can see why she thought it was a person, not a dog. 


The Runaway

Oddly enough, despite being a true stage-5 clinger, as evidenced by the prior instances, he was also a runner. I've never had a dog that ran before. People who are not dog people: some dogs are for whatever reason predisposed to take off and run and not come back, aka "runners." 

Growing up our dogs would just roam the neighborhood freely and eventually make their way back home when they were ready. So I was not prepared to deal with a dog that ran from me, especially one who seemed so fond of me.

Our house had a big yard with an invisible fence so for the most part, it wasn't an issue, but he was also very prey-motivated and our backyard backed up to woods so it was a veritable cornucopia of potential vermin victims. 

He knew if he left the yard, he would get zapped by the fence. But those creatures, which included squirrels, birds, bunnies, and the worst, groundhogs, were so enticing. At least to Marley. 

When one of these creatures was spotted and deemed worthy of the zap, Marley would run out in the yard and then quickly run multiple laps around my garden. That was the signal that he was about to escape. Picture a dog boomarang, shot-putting himself out of the yard. Often I would observe the wind-up and run outside in full screaming mode, "NOOOOOOOO, Marley!" Most of the time, however, he had already mentally committed to the escape so nothing would stop him. He would just run faster and faster and then aim straight toward that hill and yelp as he got zapped by the fence and then poof..he would be gone.

Once he was gone, he was gone for a while. I can't tell you the number of hours I gave chase up and over the berm that separated our subdivision from an industrial park with several businesses. Sometime I would even pursue in my car because he had serious wheels and I'm one of the slower humans on the planet.

One day he took off after one of the groundhogs and disappeared, once again, over the berm. I got in my car and parked in the park area and walk to each business to tell them, again, that I was missing my dog and if you see him, please grab him and call me. They had all heard this before. 

I got to one of the businesses, which I swear was a meth cooking lab inpersonating as a mechanic. One of them came out, no teeth and wearing overalls with no shirt underneath (Imagine Deliverance but without the southern accent and you get the proper mental picture).

He comes out and gives me a big toothless grin, belly laughs and says, "That Marley...he's a real bad dog, ain't he?" I couldn't help but laugh. Marley was indeed a very bad dog. I am still laughing at his comment as I see my car with the driver side door still open and a very muddy BAD dog sitting in the passenger seat looking quite pleased with his bad self. 

Yes, Marley was a bad dog. He was also the most loving, loyal dogs I have ever owned in my life so in many ways he was also the very best dog. Almost 16 years of being stalked by that big love leaves me very sad but also very grateful that I had him for as long as I did. 

I hope he's somewhere chasing vermin and running free.


I'll probably get another dog at some point as I'm so used to having a pair. Bowie, for the most part, seems to be dealing well with being an only dog. Yes, there have been some forced hugging and crying sessions he would probably rather not be a part of but he's being compliant and dealing with the increased amount of affection from his sad mom. 

He's a good boy but he'll never be the best worst dog. 

Until next time,

Barb 


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Saturday, October 29, 2022

72 Hours in Del Boca Vista with Curious George: a Story of Survival

Ok, so remember my last blog in which I proclaimed I was off the market and going to hunker down with the snow-birding dentist? So...yeah...that's a no. A rather unfortunate conclusion I came to about 45 minutes into my 72-hour visit to Florida. Probably should have seen the extreme, non-stop turbulence the entire way as a bad omen.

I know many of you are asking yourself how this could have happened. What was she thinking? I have made this mistake before. I wrote about it in this blog. It caused the sudden demise of what seemed like a good relationship. Sometimes you just don't really know a person until you see them in their natural habitat or in the throws of a travel emergency. 

I actually have witnessed this phenomenon before. My sister Sherrie back in the college invited a boy to join our family's annual ski trip to Colorado. We picked him up en route (he was in school in Colorado Springs), and rather tragically about an hour after picking him up, my sister decided she no longer liked him. Made for an awkward week for everyone. We now have to spend the entire week with this stranger who is now disliked by the very person who invited him. She did the exact same thing a few years later on a family ski trip, this time with a plumber from Connecticut. 

Suffice to say, I now understand. 

Anyway, back to the story. How did we get here? We had been dating for a few months, and during that time, he's been quite persistent about me coming to Florida where he owns a lovely home in a bougie gated community approximately the size and population of Rhode Island.



Now don't get me wrong, the area he lives is beautiful, his house is amazing and George is a very nice person. He's intelligent, kind, successful, active, and VERY inquisitive. What I had not realized prior to this trip though was that George is also an expert on myriad topics, not just teeth as it turns out. And, he has a burning desire to share this expertise.

As a result of this overwhelming internal knowledge base, he can't help but share tips on everything, from the cereal I eat "do you know how many grams of sugar is in this?" to "you should wash those blueberries first" to the vitamins I take "you don't take fish oil?" to the amount of coffee I use (apparently too much). He spent 15 minutes painstakingly measuring the exact right amount of coffee, then marking the coffee scoop with a Sharpie to indicate how much I should use. So helpful, right? 😠 So that was day one.

Turns out George is self-admittedly anal retentive with a dash of controlling. Who knew? Not me. He admits as much, only with the disclaimer that “I'm anal, but not fussy.” I won't spend any time breaking that down, but sadly this is not a personality type I deal with well. This type of person brings out the absolute most immature version of myself, summons my inner brat. I don't know why but maybe because he's not the boss of me. See what I mean? 

Every morning after that, I just casually poured the coffee straight out of the bag. I started loading dishes into the dishwasher, even though he prefers to hand wash. I callously threw pesticide-covered berries straight out of the container onto my sugar-laden cereal. I even would accidentally 😏 touch the glass door of his patio, the one he cleaned every day (image below). I was in full rebel mode and just trying to power my way through the weekend and be nice.

George doing his daily window cleaning.


His area was hit by the recent Hurricane Ian, though it was shocking that just over a week later, everyone whose property was impacted had everything already stripped and in piles at the top of their driveways. Bottom line: if you have to live through a natural disaster having a lot of money makes it easier.

We spent the first day doing a 3-hour tour (cue the Gilligan's Island song) painstakingly surveying Hurricane damage. Every branch, leaf, or palm tree that sustained damage was noted. So basically me getting car sick while George sped from site to site, pointing out, "See that tree, it used to have way more leaves...that palm tree used to have branches. There used to be flowers!!!" 

George was not happy about the damaged greenery. I couldn't help but think about the people whose homes were completely destroyed, but yeah a lack of flowers is devastating.

The real problem was he just never stopped talking, and those of you who know me in real life, you know I don't lack for conversation. It was difficult getting a word, never mind a story in. I started off feigning interest but 24 hours in, I could barely respond, occasionally grunting just to acknowledge I heard him so he didn't repeat whatever he was talking about. 

I started doing the math, subtracting sleeping hours (which I maximized) and calculated how many hours I had to go. Yes, just like when Elaine on Seinfeld did when she was trying to escape Jerry's parents' back-breaking sofa bed in Boca Del Vista (sorry if you are not a Seinfeld fan, might not get the reference). 

At one point, I suggested we watch football. He was delighted. What I didn't realize is he could just continue talking but now offering very specific criticism on every play during the game. Basically telling the professional football players that they are doing it wrong. Ok, calm down Dr. George with the bum knees though I'm sure you could do it better. 

It was touch and go at times. Like when it took him an hour and 10 minutes to log onto Apple TV one night. He spent 20 minutes trying to guess Patricia's (an ex) password, until he got her locked out of her account. Then he proceeded to call his 86-YEAR-OLD MOTHER at 10 pm to ask her for her password. That was when I just silently got up and went to bed. I was too tired and traumatized to watch now. 36 hours to go...

I did seriously consider using a "my dog is dying" excuse to leave a day early. He's almost 16 so not out of realm of reality. Unfortunately it was going to cost me $300 so I decided to forge on like the good, albeit thrifty, solider I am.

At times, I could have sworn I was screaming, but fortunately it was just in my head. The darkest moment was in the car heading to the airport when he started questioning the fact that I was getting my variant booster and flu shot the next day. "You might want to wait on that; not enough research on it." 

Now I can honestly say the desire to jump from the moving car was high but I swallowed my anger and reminded him that my son had spent the last 10 years studying biochemistry and molecular biology in college and the last five studying viruses specifically in his PhD program so I would defer to his advice, which was to get my goddamned shot!!

Just breathe...only 10 more miles to the airport where George and I parted ways for the last time. 



Descending into Chicago, I was treated to the most beautiful sunset, a sign to me that's it's going to be ok. This is life. George will be fine and will eventually find a more patient, maybe deaf girlfriend.  For me, it's back to the drawing board but hey, there are plenty of fish in the sea and I'm enjoying the journey. And, bonus more blogs about my dating antics. Everyone but my Mom is probably happy about that. 

Officially old AF

I'm not sure what the official cut-off age for this distrinction is, but I certainly remember thinking people my age were old. While in Florida, I turned 57. 



These pictures, which I actually like, were taken after drinking several glasses of prosecco (on empty stomach) on my birthday. I apparently made the decision to roll with a "get drunk" strategy for the evening and it went downhill quickly. Fortunately I was able to miraculously refrain from throwing up in George's rental on the way home from the very fancy restaurant he took me to for my birthday. Upside I was able to go to bed early, so -2 hours!! He did, however, make me eat the crab legs I was unable to eat that night the day of my flight home. Touche, George. 

All goes to show you that with age does not always come wisdom. Party on, Garth. 

Hope this finds you all well. Happy Halloween, everyone!

Until next time.

Barb 

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Friday, September 30, 2022

Growing Up Barbie

Laughing as I write this, knowing that a simple comma after "up" and slightly different conjucation of that verb would completely change the intended title to some message of urgency for me to just "grow up" already, even though I have mentioned in this previous blog, I have zero intention of ever growing up. At my heart I will always be bratty, rebellious outlaw, albeit an aging, largely law-abiding one now. I mean if you don't count car crimes (speeding, parking, running lights, road raging, etc.). 

The title is in reference to the name I was given at birth: Barbie. Obviously my full name is Barbara, but only the government and various doctors have ever actually called me that. But of course, there's a story behind that.


First off, clearly my parents were hoping to have a boy first. I get it; they were both really into sports and my mom was a total tomboy so I'm sure they were praying their first would be of the male variety.  They had even picked out the name: Chip after a kid they met on the tennis courts in Fayetteville. They thought it would be a great boy name.

Can you imagine being a tiny spit of a boy and having a name like Chip Jones?? Jesus, I probably would have gotten my ass kicked every day on the playground so I guess I can be relieved that all I got was a childhood of constant teasing. I mean I know everyone gets teased for something, but Barbie was tough.

My mother has a perfectly logical reason for this. When I was born instead of the boy baby they were hoping for, they didn't really have any girl names lined up. Perhaps knowing that, my grandmother (my dad's mom) came to the hospital and tearfully begged my mom to name me after her. Sweet, right? Only problem is her name was Modena. After she left, my mom, now also tearful, begged my dad to intervene. 

"What are we going to do?" she pleaded. 

His cowardly response: "Whatever you think is best, honey." Not exactly the help and/or support she was seeking. 

So what does one do in this situation? Well apparently the only way out of the corner she was now trapped in was to name me after herself and her own mother. Yes, I'm Barbara III.

When my parents started dating, both of their names were Bobby, although hers was spelled Bobbee. My brother was also named after my father. So in my family we had two Barbaras, two Roberts and a Sherrie. So the nicknames were: Bobby, Bobbee, Barbie and Robby...and Sherrie. 

I named by firstborn after the anesthesiologist who gave me my epidural, a lovely man named Benjamin Steinman. Wasn't until I sobered up that I panicked thinking about all the potential nicknames he would subjected to. Benny (mentally challenged dude on LA Law and Benny Hill) or Benji! Ben Gay! Yikes. Fortunately the kids landed on Schmitty, which while rhymes with "shitty," could be worse.

Growing up we moved every couple of years, which did not make it easier. Nothing like being introduced to a bunch of new kids in class as "Barbie" and then get to first see the evil smiles and then hear the murmor of laughter. New kids already have targets on their back; add a funny name and let the games begin! 

Let's see, there was the rather obvious "Barbie doll," but then in 1973, a new TV show debuted, "Barnaby Jones" and it was all over. Yes, my maiden name was Jones. The show lasted 8 seaons but the teasing outlived the show. Now, of course, no one under 50 remembers that show, a blessing. 

Barnaby Jones

When I got married, we moved from Houston to Cleveland so I took the opportunity to change my name, or least what people called me, to Barb. For many years, people stuck to that. Then slowly over the years, closer friends and coworkers would somehow get wind of the fact that most of my life I went by Barbie. Eventually my inner circle of friends started referring to me again as Barbie but it doesn't bother me at all. Now that I'm old, I kind of think it fits with my old but rebellious status. 

I'm not done with this topic! Look for Growing up Barbie Part 2 at some point! I have more to say.

Off the market

Way to bury the lead, right? I've met a nice snowbirding dentist who has asked me to go steady. Yes, he did actually say that and no, he's not 74. He's a few years older than me but is fun and super active, plays tennis (prefers pickleball 😕), skis, loves music, and, of course, he golfs.  It is apparently my lot in life to eventually take up that stupid sport, if you can really call it that.  I've promised to try pickleball, so clearly I like him...but bonus is it buys me time before I have to take up golf.

He has a place in the city and one down in Florida, I think it's in Del Boca Vista (Bonus points if you got the Seinfeld reference 😜) or one of those places where wealthy Republicans go to golf and then die.  He's assured me though that's there's just as many rich Liberals down there as there are Republicans. Regardless, having an opportunity to escape Chicago in the winter is quite compelling so I can make that work. All the butterflies and birds heading south are probably on to something. 


I know that some of you will miss the crazy dating antics, but the summer of love was exhausting...and keeping the stories straight...and getting the names right was all getting a bit stressful. 

My mind is not as sharp as it used to be and my memory is piss-poor so remembering the who, what, and where was becoming problematic.  I was starting to have nightmares about dating logistics so I saw it as a sign it was time to take a break from online dating. 

Hope this finds everyone well and enjoying this last gasp of warm weather. You all know that Christmas will be here in about 7 minutes or so...or it's going to feel like it so start the shopping panic now, folks!

Until next time.

Barb(ie) 

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Saturday, August 6, 2022

Summer 2022: Sticky Floors, Dirty Clothes and an Empty Fridge

Greetings, everyone, and my apologies for my rather prolonged absense from blogging. I've been on a legit tear all summer, squeezing every ounce of fun out of every weekend. My normally regimented, get-things-done approach to the weekend has been replaced by a devil-may-care attitude that's left me with an absolutely filthy house with sticky floors, no food, and piles of dirty laundry. 

Laura moved out three weeks ago and I've yet to be to the grocery store since. Fortunately my local Citgo gas station has kept me supplied with milk and bananas. You would be surprised how long a dozen eggs, a few bananas and a jar of peanut butter can get keep you alive. Basically I've been living on leftovers all summer. Laura stopped in this week and took a peak in my refrigerator and gave me a rather disapproving look. Hey, who has the time for grocery shopping?

Laundry is another chore that's fallen off my list. You know it's bad when you start digging through your drawers and start seeing underwear you haven't seen in decades. Last week things got so bad that my only options were the oddly colored panties or my uncomfortable-but-sexy lingerie.


So I sit here in my magenta granny panties to write this much-overdue blog post with beer still in my hair from Lollapolooza, my ears still ringing and adrenaline still coursing through me from Green Day's epic closing set, I can say it's been one hell of a summer! 

The beer, by the way, was mine, as much as I would love to blame some drunk Gen-Z'er. It was from my open beer can that I logically thought I could put in the side pocket of my backpack while I used the dreaded porta-potty. Actually worked great right up until I bent down to see if there was toilet paper and it poured down my back and into my hair. Damn my kitten-sized bladder...and gravity!

Spent a lot of time on the beach, some nice bike rides, played a lot of tennis, had several girlfriends visit, but it's definitely been a summer of music for me. I've been buying concert tickets like a drunken sailor so yes, I have seen a lot of shows. With no one to say no, I'm finding myself unable--or perhaps unwilling--to not go to every concert I possibly can.

This carefree attitude has extended to my dating life. I'm dating all the guys. I mean not literally but fully embracing the "why not" mentality has opened the door to some interesting candidates. Not sure actual keepers but has certainly made for a fun, busy and interesting summer.

The Summer of "Why Not?"

One we'll call Biker Boy, who has tattoos and does not own a car, just a Triumph motorcycle. He does, however, live on the beach--a bonus! I balked at the idea of riding on the motorcycle initially until I realized they can park those things anywhere, making it highly advantageous in getting around a very congested city. While it's been fun, I think biker boys and convertibles are the same; fun in the summer but lose their luster once the weather turns, also known as the other seven months of the year here in Chicago. 


With my newly emblazened, devil-may-care dating attitude, I went out with his several times before I noticed he noted he was "non-vanilla" on his dating profile. I had somehow missed this. I will define since I'm going to assume that the lion's share of you have no idea what that means. Non-vanilla means they have some type of sexual fetish. Yikes, I know. 

Not being a coward though, and also thinking this might be great material for my book, I thought why not? See the trend here? What was the fetish? One night he came out with a bottle of lotion and a towel. Go time, I assume. He gave me a great foot massage so I thought, "ok, it's a foot fetish" not at all sure what that would entail but also now buckled in for the ride. Felt good, but alas that was not it.

So after dancing around the question for several dates, he finally confessed that he was a dominant. Hmmm. Without missing a beat, I told him my rapper name was "Bossy by Nature" so I wasn't sure I could roll with this. He insisted there would be no pain, no spanking, etc. as he is not a dominatrix but then there was talk of restraints and he did ask me to pick a safe word, which is when things stalled out. It had to start with a P. Pickles? Pineapple? Picnic? Being a writer, how could I possibly narrow it down? 

I also dated another golfer, God help me. As you remember from "Golf, the Cruel Mistress of Summer," they are never my first pick, especially in the summer, but he's super sweet and my age so I decided again, why not? Since I've been trying (not always successfully 😉) to date guys my age, I've come to the rather grim realization that all men my age either have a gut issue, a bum ticker or a bad back. 

Poor golfer dude has two of the three; back issues that prevent him from walking long distances and had open heart surgery to unclog four of his arteries last year. No way, this guy can keep up with me, although I'm not sure if it's my hyperactivity or diet that will kill him first. Perhaps fortunately (for him), golfer guy is moving back to the suburbs next weekend so the ending of that chapter has been written. Long-distance relationships never work. Next!

Then there was a Rich Dude. It always seems intriguing to date a wealthy guy; they typically live in McMansions and drive fancy cars. This one had a big house in Chicago and an apartment in New York City. Initially it seemed worthy of a summer fling as the idea of a few fun weekends in the big Apple sounded interesting.

This summer he took me to an art show. Apparently he's a collector because the artists all knew him and were laser-focused on kissing his ass. We went to one booth, a new artist to the event, who created these very interesting stainless steel sculptures that spun. They were really cool and I quietly told the artist "you've got a live one on your hands! Reel in the whale!" My date said, "which one do you like?" I pointed to one, and he bought it. Only $9K. 


There are also always offers of trips, which again sounds good but after a half dozen dates, he wanted me to fly off somewhere with him. Jesus, I barely knew the guy and he barely knew me. He always seemed more concerned about my lack of availability (a common complaint) then about actually getting to know me.   

What often also comes with these guys is a sense of entitlement; privledge that I find super annoying. You know the type; get seated in a restaurant but first has to look around to assess if there is a better table. As a former hostess, I find people like this intolerable. 

Bottom line is I have plenty of money to be happy. I've had more money and been less happy than I am today. I don't need anyone to buy me happiness so dealing with this type of entitled person isn't something I have patience for. 

There were certainly many others. I'm still seeing the young firefighter, doing my part to support the community's first responders. Not all heros wear capes. Double booked a few weekends ago, and made one date drive me to my next date. Hey, you only get one trip around the sun, as they say! 

Well I have many blog topics I want to write about so I'll close this one before it gets too long. And, I'm once again double booked this afternoon so wish me luck! 

I hope this finds you all enjoying this last part of the summer. It's going fast, my friends, and soon fall will be opon us. Enjoy it while it's here. I certainly am...


Be well, my friends. Until next time...

Barb


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