French Onion Soup?

Yet another message bleeped its presence, just moments after I had intentionally not answered the ring. I saw that it was him on the line and, exactly like the previous 3 times, I did not pick up. Hadn’t I made myself clear during the exchange of stuff that routinely concludes the let’s-call-it-done segment of most relationships? I had been looking for more than just friendship and it was obvious that after our short, very short, time together it was not happenin’. When I said, I’m just going to enjoy the rest of my summer with the good friends I already have, it must not have registered and you continue to e-mail, and phone, leaving messages that shout We are friends, always have been, and always will be! even though our present became our past in just 3 weeks. So no, I don’t want to call you with the recipe for, or come over and make, French Onion Soup!

Old Hospital

“This is where I began,” I said to the handsome stranger in the street. His reply was inaudible, but I sensed he was perplexed. I continued by telling him I had been born in the building he was standing in front of. “It’s strange,” I continued as if I was speaking to myself, “Now I live on the 2nd floor.” I think I knew that I was boring him but I couldn’t stop. “The 2nd floor is actually the 3rd because the main floor is the 1st, but you have to go up a flight of steps to get there. And there is a basement which isn’t really all the way underground.”

He told me he was not from here, and was visiting an elderly aunt down the street. She had taken a nap and he decided to check out the neighborhood, when I caught him staring at the vintage building I now called home.


“It’s not a hospital anymore, obviously, or I wouldn’t live there, right? Now it’s offices, art studios and condos,” I rambled on as I fell into the intense green eyes staring at me. “And, the boiler room out back’s a coffee shop now,” I added without pause.


As I took a breath he asked, “Do you have time for a cup?”

Moving On

After yet another try at a relationship, I have chosen to move on. 

It had potential, or at least I thought it did, but the signs of demise were there early, but like I often do, I chose to ignore them.  He pointed out faults in my friends before he even knew them, but because he did so rather innocently, I chose to dismiss.  Recently, I read an article that says in today's dating arena there are too many of us creating lists, and most are unwilling to do the work necessary to forge a partnership.  Because I  agreed with this information, I tucked it away, and  told myself I needed to overlook some irritants, talk honestly to have my views at least heard, if not understood, and listen to what I might need to do in order for bonding to happen. 

Men, it seems, at least early on, feel they need to prove-up.  They talk about their financial successes, money-in-the-bank and grand plans, and he did all of these things, a lot. I finally decided to end it and I knew that I was dodging a bullet because the end  was not coming easy.  I had to be bold, and tell him exactly the things a nice person does not want to say, but he did not just smile, nod, and go away, rather he challenged the facts. 

Perhaps, he said, if he had been truer to himself, it may have worked.  He lamented that he had tried to be the person he thought I wanted. That came on the heels of my comment: I hadn't liked that he spoke poorly about my friends and family.  So very strange, then, does that mean that he thought I wanted him to say nasty things about those closet to me?  The relationship didn't even seem to warrent the effort it would have taken me to get mad. Single, once again, I think I'll take a break...  

Six Sentences

I posted a link here to the Six Sentence thing I found.  Telling a tale in just just six lines of prose is something this brain injured writer is interested in trying.   I tend to ramble on, and on, and on, causing listeners to ask is there a point to this story? So I am giving it a go. Here is my attempt to do just that; tell you what is going on in my single life, right now. 

I connected with a strange man through an on-line dating site just prior to very long road trip to visit my grown children in the next state.  In the beginning we communicated only through the computer, first the dating sight, and then as we became more familiar, personal e-mail.  This man's writing skills impressed me from the get-go, and since I was on vacation, and my children were working, I had plenty of spare time to construct witty responses to his notes.  Upon my return home we met, began dating, spent time enjoying unique activities,  and he was intoduced to and interacted with my friends. The Microwave Relationship created my ideas of him: he loved to hear himself speak about his accomplishments, and although he often contadicted himself,  would be my savior because he accepted me despite all of my flaws.  About three weeks from the beginning it was over, and I have decided to focus, not on dating but, on my exhausting job search, my good friends, who might really be all I need to flourish, and the beautiful summer.