The wounded fawn opens her eyes to an unfamiliar room.

I pull the brown comforter up under my chin, it’s freezing in here.

I turn to see Fundude sleeping. Oh Lord. My head aches from another night of self-pity, self-loathing, regret and devastation and depression and whatever other negative words I can muster. Red wine, popcorn, some old black and white movie with one of those stunning 40’s starlets in a silver satin bias-cut dress who looks like every other stunning 40’s starlet in a silver satin bias-cut dress. The kind that says “Dahling” and sips champagne from a crystal flute in one hand, cigarette holder a mile long in the other whilst reclining on a silk brocade chaise, heavy eyelids at half mast. Was every woman stoned that decade? And in spite of my seemingly steamy intro, there was no sex last night, just cuddles to comfort my destroyed heart.

I thought I had come miles into myself, but no, not at all. Jackdude marched out carrying my soul in his rucksack. I am undead, drained of all emotion and feeling and life and blood and everything that goes into a whole person. I should go out in the sun to see if I sparkle.

Was it my fault? Was it his? A combination? I will never really know. That’s the worst part. The last night we were together, a dream turned nightmare, was so alcohol drowned that neither one of us was thinking straight. Oh, he claims he was, but I was there and saw how much of his best friend Mr. Daniels went into him that night, and fine Tennessee whiskey has never been much of a memory booster. Memory eraser, maybe; bar fight fuel, domestic dispute inducer, appearance enhancer, clothing remover, but not by any stretch is it any sort of brain fuel.

Oh. The text.

You want to know what the text said.

I might be putting this off just a wee bit, or actually more like as long as possible, and then even a little bit longer than that, because if it happened exactly as he claims it did, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever done, a horribly destructive detonation. It was insensitive at best, possibly a sassy off-color comment, a ‘my mouth works faster than my brain ha ha’ moment that wasn’t very funny. At worst it was a cruel joke, an unforgivable murder executed by words.

That night, the phone finally chimes to life, and I’m a kid on Christmas day tearing wrapping paper open with gleeful abandon. He still loves me, all is forgiven, everything will be all right. Equilibrium will be restored to the Universe, the Force is balanced, Luke and Laura are together forever, and hot dog buns finally come in packs of ten. Extra credit if you know who the hell Luke and Laura are. But when I read the words, quick cement oozes into my veins and solidifies as I stare at the screen, not believing.

You said you would fuck that guy.

OH MY GOD WHY WOULD I DO THAT??

I love Jackdude! I don’t cheat! I was already home with him after we left, and nothing happened at the bar… I do remember him questioning me, though all I did was look up the guy’s Facebook page so I could follow his band and maybe get a connection so hey, maybe ya think I could sing again someday? And when would I have said this? It had to be in passing, and was it really those exact words? Did he misunderstand something? It’s one short sentence I probably intended as an off-the-cuff joke, albeit a really stupid one…Why wouldn’t he ask me to clarify? Why assume the very worst based on one sentence?

And is he really so jealous that he refuses to even have a conversation about it? There almost has to be more to the story, but he won’t talk to me so I’ll never know.

Every single person I relate this story to says it can’t be, you would never do that, even drunk you would never say that, and I get that sober Monica would never do that, but I’ve been hanging out with this hard drinking man long enough to throw a wet blanket over my usual sense of reason, so how do I know exactly what happened? And if I didn’t say something horrible, then why did he walk?

I desperately attempt to reconstruct the evening, but there are gaping holes in this 500-piece jigsaw puzzle, and it’s the pieces with all the important details on them. We left together, but boy it sure does seem we departed rather abruptly, cutting off my conversation with Vagrantdude. We are walking home, we are climbing the stairs. He is interrogating me about the conversation in the bar. And suddenly I realize it’s extremely likely I made a sarcastic comment that got taken the wrong way, a Monica classic. If I had a nickel every time I made a sarcastic comment that got taken the wrong way, Id have…well, a helluva lot of nickels. I foggily recall having a discussion about the dude in the bar, but I had no attraction to him whatsoever. Vagrantdude was a solid nope even if I wasn’t in a relationship. You may be able to tell this by the fact his name in this story is Vagrantdude. It absolutely couldn’t have been a serious comment. But still… Why would I say this at all??! It slowly turns in my mind on a rotisserie, and I’m the one roasting on the spit. BAD GIRL! FOR SHAME! AWFUL, AWFUL PERSON!!

So, not only did Jackdude walk out on me, but it’s possibly entirely my fault.

Who have I become?

I have become awful. For several days, I throw the pity party to end all pity parties. I tell the sordid tale to anyone who will listen, whether they want to hear it or not. God, I suck. How did my life get so out of control? But I know the answer before it can ever emerge from my mouth.

I’ve been floundering. I moved down here to Big Suburb, though it turned out to be much smaller than I had ever imagined, and I allowed myself to become complacent. I completely lost myself in all the Dudes. I became a product of whomever I was with, changing my lifestyle, my personality, and even my clothing to match who and what they were. With Prepdude, I wore the tennis bracelet (I don’t play tennis), Ralph Lauren Polo clothing (I barely know what polo is) and carried a 400$ Kate Spade bag (honey, 400$ can get you a decent guitar.). With Sportsdude, I pretended to be REALLY excited about football (Someone’s going to hate me for this, but I’ve never been excited about 22 grown men clocking their heads enough to cause brain damage for the supreme ambition of fighting over a ball. I don’t even know if 22 is the right number.) GIDude had me taking a brief jaunt into Jiu-Jitsu, which he insisted was the absolute BEST. MARTIAL. ART. ON. THE. PLANET. (For those of you who don’t know, Jiu-Jitsu is Japanese for serious violation of personal space.) And Jackdude, of course, had me drinking like I was about to get a leg amputated. I have become a chameleon, changing color to accommodate the latest Dude while my own dreams are long gone and forgotten, barely a wisp of smoke on the wind…

Who am I?

I untangle my hungover self from the brown comforter and set my feet firmly on the floor. I let myself out of Fundude’s apartment for the last time and carefully gurney my shattered heart back to my car. As I peel out of the driveway, my mind is swirling, yet in the midst of the murky cacophony of voices in my head, one shouts over all the rest.

I know exactly what I need to do.

I rip the half unzipped boots off my feet and run.

I bolt out the door after Jackdude, my everything, the love of my life. NOOOO!! Don’t go! Why are you leaving? What just happened?? I haul my drunken ass after him, but he’s faster and I’m out of shape and he easily outstrips me, yelling something I can’t understand as he becomes ever smaller in the distance until he winks out around the corner.

What the hell just happened? I have no idea why he walked out, though I do have a vague uneasiness it has something to do with the music guy I was talking to in the bar. But I don’t really know, and I am running down an empty road after midnight desperately chasing after the man I had started to build my world around. My heart, my life, my everything is actively running away from me and I’m dying inside.

I race to his house and knock…POUND POUND POUND on the door but there is no answer. Why won’t he talk to me? Please, please PLEASE just talk to me!

The door remains shut, the white rectangle an evil barrier keeping me from my One True Love. I hate that fucking door. It glares smugly back at me, you ain’t going anywhere, honey. Yeah, Mr. Door, I’ll shove an axe right in your…

Wait, is this why guys think women are crazy? But I don’t chop down the door, I know enough not to impose myself on someone who doesn’t want me there. Mr. Door McSmuggington wins, and I concede, slinking away in defeat. I miserably walk back to my house and lumber up the stairs. I fall into bed.

I text.
I text.
I text.
I call.
I text.
I call.
I call.
I text.

Nothing.

I pass into a black slumber, phone silent in my hand.

I open my eyes to a blank ceiling, and for a moment I think everything is okay until I suddenly remember what happened last night, and the reason I am alone in bed.

He’s gone.

Absent.

Out of my life. Cue Michael Jackson song.

I feel cavitated, like all innards have been sucked out. I’m an empty drum. A blown eggshell. An abandoned house in a ghost town. A vacated adolescent beer party after the cop raid. You get the point.

I’m not crying yet. I’m in shock.

If I can just talk to him, just explain…but I know he’s not coming back. I know there will be no forgiveness, no mercy. Red flags stalk in formation in my head, marching, marching, glaring, with their snide comments ringing in my brain like a smug mechanic having already warned you dammit you need to get this work done before you drive but you blew up the engine because you drove it anyway and you should have known better because I TOLD YOU SO and you are now the proud owner of a car-shaped paperweight.

Monica, YOU KNEW!! You knew this was coming.

He said he has no friends. Ever consider why?
He is completely estranged from his ex.
He hasn’t spoken to his dad in five years.
He constantly talks about how weird other people are. He’s the only normal, level-headed guy on the planet.
This man is a a complete hermit, an island.
A lone ranger with a drinking problem.
Did I really believe he was going to change? That I would be the one person to break through to this guy?

And I lie there alone, a sledgehammer pound against the inside of my skull the only reminder I’m still alive. Jackdude is gone. My body feels like it has been vampired, all content sucked out. The love of my life is irrevocably missing, and I’m left holding an empty bag with a big question mark, because I STILL DON’T KNOW WHY!

My phone blinks to life, but I know from the tone it’s not Jackdude. Do I even care who it is?

hey! Howyadoin?

Fundude.

I pick up the phone and text back: Jackdude just walked out on me.

Instantly: Come over.

Ahh, what the hell. I could use a friend.

And I drag myself up out of bed, pour a cup of caffeine and paste myself together, a corpse barely connected, dead woman walking. I can’t function. I drive the mile to his house. I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.

Oh.

Bad idea. My eyes are puffy from alcohol, yet sunken from lack of sleep. I’ve gained weight from all the trips to the bar, and a bloated reflection stares back at me. Pathetic. Fuck it. What does it matter anymore? I climb out of my car anyway and go knock on the door.

It opens to a surprisingly genuinely concerned Fundude, who immediately says he’s so sorry. Anyone around me long enough for me to get the words out knew I was madly in love with Jackdude. He embraces me in a big hug and I finally start to cry. The levee breaks and I am overwhelmed with the pain of it, why oh WHY can’t I ever get this right? I hate myself for whatever it was I did that made him leave. Fundude just holds me while I heave half the Atlantic basin out of my eyes and onto his doomed T-shirt, and I am grateful for his friendship and care. We finally separate, and I explain what happened. “Monica, that doesn’t sound right.” Well, what about it? “What could you possibly have said? You remember everything up until you walked in the door. You were taking your boots off. What are you missing, a few seconds? That couldn’t have been more than a sentence.”

Hmm, true. What could I possibly have said in one sentence that would make Jackdude pitch the entire relationship? I remember joking about the musician in the bar, but that’s it. What in the hell happened? And since when do I drink enough that I can’t remember my words? But I know exactly since when, it’s since Jackdude. And the red flags continue their chant I told you so!

Fundude wants to kiss me, wants to get intimate. He’s all…friends with benefits? But that’s never been what I wanted. I just wanted to be in love, and my in-love guy is now dearly departed. Fundude says I’m like a wounded fawn. I know he’s teasing me, but the sad part is, I kind of am. How in the hell did I get from rising phoenix to wounded fawn? Something is seriously wrong with the way I’m navigating my life. My captain is asleep at the wheel, and I’m at the whim of whatever wind happens to arise, wherever it happens to blow me (Yeah, I said blow me. Get over it.). Then I connect my ship to someone elses, and now I’m going in their direction, never mind where I wanted to go. I did it in my marriage, I did it in the church, and I’m doing it now. It’s no wonder I wound up a wounded fawn. PATHETIC! I hate that I keep repeating this pattern. I want to go to Miami, but keep winding up in Antarctica. I don’t want to buy any more parkas and snow boots!

I gave up everything for my marriage, and it bombed. I gave up everything for the church, and they kicked me out. I’ve been giving up everything for a significant other, and the bachelor with the rose just sashayed out my door. I keep giving all of my time and energy away to these guys, and they use me up like a ten-dollar meth addled Louisiana hooker on the last day of Mardi Gras, leaving me with nothing but a headache and a pair of stained underwear. He brings me coffee and consoles me, but I am quite inconsolable. I finally leave and get ready for work, the show must go on. Even zombies have to work.

Theorizing this must have something to do with the musician I was chatting with in the bar, I draft a six page persuasive speech worthy of the Magna Carta to Jackdude detailing my moral code, that I never would cheat on him, it’s not in my character… my God, if I was gonna cheat, wouldn’t I have done that in the marriage I was trapped in so long? But I didn’t, and I’m not a cheater, and I am faithful… I even add a picture of the guy to prove that he was a young twentysomething I wouldn’t be interested in at all, and I lobby for our relationship in this sickly desperate novel I’m sending to him.

No response.

Then I get the idea to stuff a note in his door, and I scrawl HEY I LOVE YOU AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I SAID THAT MADE YOU LEAVE on a piece of notebook paper and leave the hopeful request at his place.

Hours later my phone chimes the tune I’ve been waiting for.

It’s him!!

I excitedly grab my phone and read…

It’s all my fault.

Or is it?

I’ll never know for sure.

Jackdude and I are madly in love. He meets my friends. They adore him. I do get a bit of a heads up from one friend that gee whiz, he sure can put away the Jack Daniels, and another, Monica, your relationship seems a bit weird.

But I am in love, glorious love!! HA! I win!

I waited for this moment so long, this Holy Grail of a goblet awkwardly stuffed into the hole in my being left when the church so abruptly disposed of me. Now my life is complete, now I can be happy! The whirlwind overnight romance drowns what’s left of me and I happily concede to its waves, willfully dissolving my own interests and pursuits so I can immerse my life totally in Jackdude.

We spend weekends together. We go on trips. We dance. I endure his shitty country music. He is indifferent to my jazz. We make love as ice blue eyes gaze into my own. It’s a bit ridiculous, I feel I’m living a Harlequin Romance life. I love it. I watch him sleep and kiss his unmoving warm lips. I know, I know. This is stupid writing, but it fits. I’m stupid in love and I already dream of being married to this prince of a man. I even doodle my name. Monica G. Jackdude. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

Aaaaaand… we drink.

I readily conform to his lifestyle, a barhopping tour of Big Suburb from stem to stern, a drunken swim through an ocean of alcohol served by a constant rotation of bartenders gleeful to receive the seemingly endless Andrews from Jackdude’s money clip. He won’t let me pay for anything. Ever. I don’t open a single door. He leaps to the rescue of this damsel in distress and saves my poor aching fingers from the effort. After all of the men who did nothing for me, he is making me feel like a spoiled debutante. He provides whatever I want. I’m living a fantasy with Jackdude.

…but did I mention we drink?

One night we sit at a bar and after he’s all Mr. Chatty with another couple, I comment how exciting it is for me to be with an extrovert for once. He immediately contradicts: “I’m not an extrovert.” Whaaa?? Yes, you are, Jackdude. You talk to everyone. But he gazes at me steadily, points to his glass and flatly states, “That’s because of this. I can’t socialize without it.” Huh. Ten points to JackDude for honesty, zero points to me for not picking up a red flag as obvious as the artificial panic in the voice on your phone exclaiming “Your Car’s Warranty Is Expiring!”

Monica, you fool.

I’m at my niece’s house up north and answer my phone, and he rants a drunken tirade on repeat about how much he loves me, which is awesome, but also really funny. He’s so damn loud that she can overhear most of the conversation, and she’s laughing hysterically because he’s slurring loud enough for the next county to also know he’s drunk and in love.

And we drink.

He usually picks me up around eight and we start the round of taverns (is it only a tavern if it’s in Wisconsin? Right up there with calling a water fountain a bubbler. Bubbler is wrong, by the way. My book, my rules.), him with his beer and shots of whiskey, I with my ever present Chardonnay.

And he drives. He seems just fine, but I know he’s not. I question him one night. I ask why doesn’t he just Uber or Lyft, and he looks at me with this dead gaze and drawls, “I don’t do that. ” End of conversation. Waking up one morning in a hotel, he asks me if I know where he parked the car. Honey, after last night, I wouldn’t remember if you had parked it on the roof. My brain is deteriorating and I can’t see it. I don’t want to see it. I’m in loooooove!

He calls one night from a town about an hour away. He’s drunk. He wants to see me. I say get a hotel and stay put. An hour later, he knocks on my door.

Looking back now, I can see the problems, the crumbling foundation, see things coming to a head. This house of cards is fixin’ to get Wizard of Ozzed right outta Kansas.

One Sunday he calls around noon, can we meet at 8 pm? Yes, of course! and I drop my original plans. 8:15…8:30…9…9:30 all pass by and he’s nowhere to be found. I keep calling, but it’s going straight to voicemail. Where the hell is he? I call. I text. I call a friend of mine because I’m so worried. She comes over, we drive past his house but see nothing. She tries to keep me calm, I’m freaking out. Where could he be? Did he get a DUI? Do they let you keep your phone if you do? And if that’s where my brain immediately went, shouldn’t that be a warning sign? 11 pm he calls at last with a million apologies. He went to a car show (translation: day drinking) and fell asleep (translation: passed out) and can I meet him right away at the bar by my house (translation: more alcohol) and as usual, once I meet up with him, all is forgiven.

JackDude is massively into Harley-Davidson, and of course the only place worse than in a car with someone who shouldn’t be driving is on the back of a Harley with someone who shouldn’t be driving. Thankfully it’s only April, and the bike is not out yet.

But eventually it is, and I hesitantly climb aboard, my mother’s years of being an ER nurse echoing in my head: “The surgeons come in after a motorcycle accident, look at all the human hamburger, throw up their hands and say ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with THAT? that…that…that…‘” …but her voice is drowned out as we roar off, breaking the silence of an unusually warm spring night. I remember I had a pedicure earlier that evening, sipping a glass of Chardonnay because, why not?? I would wonder later…had I not started so early, would things have turned out differently? But of course, I didn’t know we were doing anything at all that night, because he never made plans. He’d just text me in the evening and I would drop everything to go be with him in some bar. Yeah. I did that.

We make our first stop, a little divey biker bar with simple, yet unbelievably incredible food, and I have the most amazing chicken tenders and fries I’ve ever had in my life. I don’t know what kind of crack this cook is putting in the food, but I’m hooked. Jackdude buys his usual round of drinks for the whole bar, and he has a… wait, what is THAT?? His shotglass is bigger than normal… what IS that?? I’ve never noticed it before. How long has he been downing these double shots? But the question goes unanswered as we talk, laugh, and touch each other in a PDA celebration I’m fairly sure no one else was too interested in seeing.

We visit bar #2 of the evening, a dive of a place but cute, and continue our endless public makeout session, and no one minds the any of it when he buys a round for the bar. And at last, we head to:

Bar #3: I’m getting a bit murky. We are at our final destination bar where we met, one within walking distance of my apartment. The events unfold in my mind like a film reel pulled from a fire…much still perfectly clear, some distorted, but a few scenes entirely burned out of the celluloid. And as it plays back, we’re there, he’s chatting with folks at one end of the bar, and I can’t remember why, but I take a seat further down the bar next to a vagrant looking twentysomething seated before a pack of cigarettes and a greasy wallet that had clearly seen better days. He says hi, and we start to chat. Turns out he’s a musician…Wait!! I did music once, maybe I can make a connection. I talk to him for maybe ten minutes, and he gives me his Facebook information for his band. I enter it into my phone, saying hey, if you ever need a singer… I’m really grasping at threads, though, I haven’t done anything music related since the church tossed me, and I’m not really sure I’m even up to snuff any longer. Jackdude comes up to me as I’m concluding this conversation, and he wants to leave.

I think.

Only I can’t exactly remember. To this day I will never know.

I remember walking with him back to my apartment. I remember sitting down and taking off my boots.

I don’t remember exactly what words I said.

I definitely remember him storming out the door.

My brain is on a fishing expedition.

words…come on, Monica, choose carefully and speak…only…the right words…

It’s going pretty slow, this lake may be heavily tainted with fine Tennessee whiskey.

My neurons sluggishly reach the surface: “Oh, hi! Churchlady, it’s great to see you!” “Small talk question?” “Small talk answer.” “Small talk question with undercurrent: who the hell is this guy who is clearly not your husband we all know and love?” “Bullshit thinner than an Olsen twin anyone-could-see-through-it-excuse.”

Thank God, the Universe, and everything, she’s one of the nicer people I know from the strict church, and really quite a wonderful person, but this doesn’t stop me from being enormously self conscious. And still doesn’t explain why she’s here in this hotel when she lives less than a mile from here. What. Is. Going. On?!

Saved by the bellhop, Jackdude turns to me, having accepted the gift of two keycards from the spectacularly polite hotel lady smiling from behind the marble desk. I am eternally grateful to this angel sent from heaven to rescue this little harlot. I do the speediest introduction in the history of mankind, page 47: Awkward Intros for Dummies, and sweep Jackdude away down the hall with a quick goodbye to my Churchlady friend. Good grief. I find myself hoping he’s carrying something stronger than Jack Daniels.

When the door slams behind us, I explain to Jackdude that he may become the latest Tiny Town scandal. He laughs and I relax, himself being a bit of a rule bucker anyway. He’s almost excited at the idea. I had done a background search on him when me met, my stomach catapulting into my throat at the sight of about twelve recorded offenses in the legal system. My stomach settled, and then jolted with laughter as I realized his horrible offenses were one speeding ticket, and eleven… failures to wear a seat belt. Yep. Now that is steadfast determination to break the rules.

We tuck away luggage, ignoring the drawers and closets and opting for the quick-option of open suitcase on the shelf, and ride that fancy Mustang into the evening, meeting some favorite not-church friends for dinner and drinks. They love him. I love him. Everybody loves Jackdude. Not only is he very nice, but he is buying a constant river of alcohol for all. Everyone loves him, of course. Come on, who doesn’t love the guy buying all the drinks? We are having a blast together. I am convinced I’ve met my Soulmate, he is The One and I am set to Ride Into The Sunset and the credits can roll on this movie. We eat, we drink, we dance. I am in love, and it’s all too wonderful. His ice blue eyes gaze into mine as we cling together, and I just know. It’s going to work this time. The alcohol glazes over the evening and before you know it…

It’s the next morning, and I happily climb into my cute little outfit, studded jeans with a sexy black off the shoulder top, slide into my heels, and kitten down with Jackdude to the expansive breakfast area.

Let me preface this next bit with the fact that this hotel happens to have a rather large breakfast space that’s really more like a restaurant, with ample seating…and as I click clack forward, Jackdude by my side, I freeze… I see something that causes the blood to drain from my face faster than a half naked virgin after midnight in Transylvania.

Church people.

Lots of them. Like thirty or so, clustered haphazardly around shoved together tables. Suddenly my clacking heels sound like thunder as they turn to see us, sixty eyes taking in the inconceivable. Monica without her pastor husband. Monica in a clearly sexy outfit on a Sunday morning. Monica with a strange, unfamiliar man. Oh, Monica, how far you have fallen. How I wasn’t struck by lightning right there, I will never know.

There are double takes.

There are whispers. There are nudges. There are averted eyes.

Suddenly I feel terrifically slutty, busted in my Sunday morning walk of breakfast shame.

Church people congregate, roaches in a half-star motel with two working neon letters. Where the hell are they coming from?

A couple is at ground zero of this ad-hoc assembly, and I recognize them, and suddenly my cheeks are on fire. Oh, there are church adults I know here, but there are more young. Church kids from the youth group I led. Kids I taught not to do exactly what I’ve just been caught red-handed doing.

The penny drops.

It’s a wedding!

I had seen a blurb about this on Facebook, two kids from the bigger church, the one where I was fired for being the wrong gender. They are getting married this weekend (way too young, my opinion, but I think it’s an accurate one. Also a huge tendency in the church, and a great way to get stuck in a shit marriage.) and in a colossal coincidence, not only is this a church wedding, but it’s a church wedding for two kids who are extremely involved in ministry, which explains why I’m seeing so many people from all three churches at which I served in Tiny Town. And apparently, the bride, groom, wedding party, and a massive pile of guests are all staying at this hotel. What are the chances? I haven’t stayed in a hotel in Tiny Town since we were displaced during the house fire. I’m not good at left brain function, but maybe one of you engineers out there can math out the chances of me staying one night in Tiny Town and having it be not only the same hotel, but the exact same night as a major church wedding in the community.

And here I stand, in my sexy little outfit, all eyes fixed on my slut shoulders, promiscuous pants and hussy heels.

Busted.

I punt.

I straighten myself. I may be pasted with a scarlet letter, but dammit, I’m gonna shout that letter A.

Shoulders squared and head high, I walk directly to the groom, a guy who had been under my leadership in the youth group… “CONGRATULATIONS! This is my friend Jackdude.” He stumbles through a greeting, but is remarkably friendly, and I get the idea some of these people may not be judging me as harshly as I assume. Or they are, but does it really matter? Ice broken and crisis diminished, we go load our plates up with egg product, bacon you can see through, and yogurt in containers the size of a shotglass. All is well in my world again, I have achieved equilibrium.

I pick up another piece of Monica, proudly pocket it, and smile. I have won the day, and I have not given up who I am just because someone else disagrees. Ha. Take that.

I take my place next to Jackdude, he smiles at me and we eat together, hands touching intermittently under the table.

He loves me.

I love him.

We are together.

What could possibly go wrong?

Thirty-two perfect, gleaming, bleach-whiter than mine (and I bleach, honey) beautiful pearl soldiers stand at attention in a shining two-row, rank and file dream of a winning smile.

And I am a total sucker for a winning smile.

I’ve also been down this road too many times already. Not just been down it, but veered off the side, jumped the curb, a smashed car burst into flames while rubberneckers gaze on and shake their heads in pity. I bought this T-shirt a long time ago, and I’m suspicious as hell.

He tells the bartender he’s paying for my drink, and orders his own, a beer and a shot of that old wife-beater standard, Jack Daniels. We chat. I’m enthralled by his smile, but it’s just a feature, and eye candy has no nutritional value whatsoever, totally bad for you and even worse for those gorgeous, stupidly white teeth.

“Wait, you do what??”

“Director of engineering at Impressitech.”

Engineer. Oh no.

Having figured out a while back that my G-spot is in my brain, I know I’m in trouble.

I scrape the surface, and see a glint of gold. Hmmmm….

This guy was brainy, a quality I was having difficulty finding. He works with nuclear tech. He explains the installation of lead to protect areas against ionizing radiation. He elaborates about the science behind radioactive isotopes as a cancer treatment. I am completely fascinated, my original goal was pursuing a degree in science before the church took over my life. I’m hanging on his every word like a TMZ reporter talking to an informant who just caught Justin Bieber in an inappropriate liaison with Lady Gaga and a goat.

He orders another beer and shot of Jack.

We chat about the area, he is an outsider as well, and has had the same difficulty I have had, finding this area remarkably close-knit… awesome if you’ve been in Big Suburb your whole life, not so great if you’re the new kid in town. Honey, it’s going to be a while before anyone lets you in.

He orders a third beer and shot of Jack.

I ask if he just got done with work… is he catching up? What’s going on here?

Nope, he just headed over from another dive bar… and my newfound guydar tells me immediately that this is not normal drinking, but Jackdude seems perfectly okay, so I gloss it over.

Jackdude walks me home that night, and I give him a demure kiss and leave him, I really like this guy and have learned that acting on your feelings too quickly is a really bad idea, so, bye bye guy. gotta go, here’s my number.

He contacts me the next day. And the next. And the next.

He asks me about myself. My life. My history. My childhood. He wants to know everything about me… always at a bar, always over a shot of Jack and a beer. He never allows me to pay for anything, he always opens the door for me. He is spectacularly old fashioned, chivalry is alive and well with Jackdude. He even has a slight Southern drawl, making him seem even more gentlemanly in a Gone with the Wind kind of old world respect, tinged with a balmy breeze and the scent of Gardenia. I envision wisteria swaying in the warm air. Oh, mercy me, I do declare, I have the vapors!

The third date, he is over at my house and pulls a flask from his jacket.

Really? A flask?

I thought a flask was something you emblazoned with initials and a date, a donation to your groomsmen’s collection of pointless trinkets to commemorate your lifetime sentence to some woman buried under layers of white chiffon. A mere relic soon to join the dusty garter belt and sixth-grade trophy on a forgotten cobwebbed top shelf. Yet here it is, his humble offering of Jack Daniels to make the night complete.

We talk. And we talk. Then we talk some more. I get to know about his humble beginnings on a farm. He is kind and compassionate, and speaks fondly of the farm. He knows nothing about music, and loves country. I despise country with a passion, but this man is so wonderful, I’m willing to tolerate it. Driving with him is an aural contest. Which singer whining from the radio lost the most girlfriends/mommas/dogs/farms/trucks/tractors? I play a funk song for him. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t get it. No one lost anything in Brick House. That’s okay, he’s so wonderful in so many other ways. He’s the kind of guy who dutifully walks around the car, opening the door of his Mustang for me, and I’m not complaining. And at least it’s not an El Camino.

He takes me dancing. He loves to dance. Is this guy for real? For the first time ever, I have a guy dragging me out to the dance floor. He teaches me to Texas two-step, while Chris Stapleton croons out something about Tennessee Whiskey. Whatta cliche, and yet I am entirely swept off my feet.

I’m falling in love with Jackdude, and for the first time I sense I’m just as important to him as well, a delightful mutual connection.

Then suddenly, I can’t find him.

I look amongst the sea of faces, this joint is packed to the soffits, blaring music loud enough to render any normal speaking voice totally worthless. Where the hell did he go? It’s an urban sprawl of a bar with several different areas. Everyone is taller than me, and my view is shoulders and chests, and guys backing into me, not seeing me or realizing anyone was right behind them. Tall people, can you please be more aware you may be backing right over the petite brigade? Honestly.

Oh! But there he is, somehow in this actually pretty nice bar, he managed to find a trio of folks who had maybe twelve teeth between the three of them, and looked like they all lived in a house that surely had a hitch on the end, sheets on the windows, and something containing Drano and battery acid cooking up in the corner. Oh, shots. They’re doing shots. “Honey, I met these nice people. Would you like a shot?” I decline, shots have generally been too strong for me, but his new…friends are more than happy that Jackdude is willing to cover the bill for several rounds. I wonder how many they’ve had? Did he just meet these people?

And I miss the cues that are right in front of me. The sheer volume of hard liquor going into this guy is Guinness-worthy, and why wouldn’t he take me up to the bar with him unless he didn’t want me to know how much he was drinking? I rationalize he never seems drunk, so I excuse away, sailing on my little ship Denial, veering closer and closer to the dangerous falls that crash to their completion on massive granite outcroppings from the ground below.

I ignore it all and allow myself to sink deeper into the enticing sea of romance.

He’s falling in love with me, too. We are so close when we’re together, people comment on our relationship, although I realize at some point that he knows a ton about me, and I know very little about him. What is he hiding? I know remarkably little about this seemingly perfect Romeo.

We go to a bar.

We go to a bar.

We go to a bar.

Weeks pass, and though I’m having an incredible time with my new boyfriend, I’m slowly becoming pickled in all these bars. It’s his thing, and I acquiesce, and when in Rome and all that. You really do become like those you spend the most time with, and I’m drinking more than I ever have, and not paying much attention to the orange light glowing angrily away on the dashboard, because I’m in love, and that’s all I really wanted.

Wasn’t it?

One night, we go to his house instead of mine. He has projects everywhere, being an engineer. He jokes it’s a fixer-upper. I joke when’s he gonna fix’er up? But he’s an engineer. He can totally do this. He builds things, makes things, invents things. Totally fascinating, and like the prey of a Viperfish enthralled with the beautiful light before him while the massive jaws are preparing to snap shut, I’m utterly fascinated with Jackdude’s mind, his creativity, his all of it, but where am I? Who am I? The real Monica is a lost and forgotten doll in a dusty attic corner, the excitement of a new relationship having eclipsed all reason.

Because all reason would have noticed the utter lack of any sensible food in the fridge, and the presence of little other than a half-bottle of Jack Daniels on his kitchen counter, its only companion a totally empty bottle of Jack Daniels right next to it, currently only being occupied by air. The other counter pals sharing space with the booze are Mr. Maalox, Dr. Imodium, and Sir Aspirin. Yes, folks, I was this dumb. This version of love is truly blind, and I’m stumbling through the darkness not aware of the hazards around me. And he is so sweet… the wisteria petals swirl on the breeze around me and blow the warning signs right out of my head, and the flame of caution extinguishes…a burnt wick in my mind smoldering with a last wisp of alarm smoke, then black, entirely out.

He always contacts me at the last minute… 6 pm, hey, wanna meet me at you know where? And I dutifully drop whatever I’m doing and head out the door. Within minutes, I’m back in his arms in front of an overpoured glass of Chardonnay, all caution to the wind. My weight is creeping up…but he loves me, so no matter.

I invite him out of town to a massive St. Patrick’s Day festival, but the only place we can get a hotel is twenty minutes away in Tiny Town.

Before you know it, we are speeding in his fancy Mustang up to the very area I had left behind, and when we arrive his flask is there to blunt the anything I feel as we enter the lobby of the hotel.

As we are checking in, I hear a perky voice behind me… “Hi, Monica!”

A rather rude slap of sobriety smacks me in the face.

A church lady from way back at Pastor South’s church is beaming at me, and I stumble over words spitting out a decent greeting as I check in with a man who is clearly not my husband. She lives in Tiny Town, has lived here forever, and I have known her for at least… what? Twenty-fivish years? She was in the original church with the strict rules, women can’t cut their hair, secular music is of the Devil, the one in which I could only wear skirts.

So what the hell is she doing in this hotel?

I’m sick of the all of it.

A variety of men rotate on a carousel in a massive refrigerated glass case. Slices of layer cake, tall calorie-bomb sundaes smothered in whipped cream, tangy lemon bars sprinkled with powdered sugar, demure little petit fours good for one night, big soft cookies laden with chocolate chunks, and green mystery squares… pistachio, maybe? twirl round and round before my eyes…hey, there, honey… come here often? Each one calls my name, each one entices me with a slightly different flavor. They slowly pass before my eyes, but after a while, I notice the dead fly stuck on one, collected dust on another, waxy frosting that tastes like crayons on a third. Even the chocolate chunks turn out to be that miserable excuse of a substitute known as carob. Gross. I’ve been in front of the dessert case so long they are no longer appealing to me, and they spin faster and faster until they are just a blur of desserts threatening to fly off the shelf, splattering in a multicolor disaster.

If I take another bite, I’m gonna be sick.

I date an ex-pro wrestler who has some very interesting stories about being in WWE, and absolutely nothing in common with me. I date a police officer with the personality of a turnip, and I feel really bad because he’s super nice, and I’m just not into him. This guy deserves someone amazing. Who’s really into turnips.

I have a brief fling with a 28 year old who comes to my business to fix some pipes. Like a dog-eared bodice-ripper Harlequin romance, this Keanu Reeves lookalike is fixing copper pipes above his head, muscles rippling in a perfect V down his back…he is absolutely beautiful, and my big mouth says can I just watch you work? and he responds… favorably. He thinks I’m younger, I’m positive he’s older. We wind up making out in his pickup truck behind the building, perfect body pressed against my almost twice his age saggy stomach. You sure you wanna do this, dude? Ridiculously, he somehow thinks this will work and actually starts pursuing a relationship with me. And at first glance, it seems, well, why not? Why can’t it work to have a larger age difference? But reason wins the day, and I explain to him that, unlike his 28 year old counterparts, I cannot provide him with a family, and it’s just going to be weird when none of his friends get my Gilligan’s Island jokes or why I say for crying out loud all the time. It’s pretty generation gappy, and I really don’t want to listen to all the Mumford & Sons it’s going to require to sustain this relationship.

I meet a gentleman and his female “best friend” of twelve years who seems all too excited to set me up with him, we have a lovely couple of weeks of dating in which he insists he has never met anyone like me, I’m his soul mate, bla bla bla, until one day while I’m driving back to Tiny Town, I receive a phone call from him saying his platonic “best friend” just left her husband and he wants to have a go at a relationship with her, would I be willing to date him again if it doesn’t work out? I just stare at my phone, marvelling at the audacity. What, am I supposed to hold out till he decides he does want me after all? Am I just supposed to stand there, Monopoly Community Chest card clutched in my hand, 10$ for second place in the beauty contest?

I meet a guy at an event who turned out to be the schmooziest dude ever. Midkiss I’m literally thinking why am I doing this? Are men really worth it? I don’t even want this any more.

I go on a date with a guy who I feel a great connection with, make out in his car, only to be told he’s not feeling it. Well, okay, but why the extensive makeout sesh?

I volunteer for an arts organization, and one of the folks on the board is rather attractive. So attractive, in fact, that I once again pitch caution to the wind and get involved with this guy. We have a wonderful evening, dancing together, holding hands, laughing… I finally know better than to go too far too fast. I blow the whistle and throw a flag on the field because he is extremely, ridiculously, obnoxiously persuading me to pleaseohpleaseohplease have sex with me OMG you are everything I’ve ever wanted you are just the best all I’ve ever been looking for all I need and DAMMIT WHY WON’T YOU TAKE YOUR CLOTHES OFF??!!! pressure pressure pressure and…

…. this girl is finally getting it.

No, you may not slip your hand underneath there. No, you can’t feel that. NO, I’m not taking my clothes off. No, you don’t get to find out I have on a beautiful matching bra and panty set in divine soft pink satin. Kinkdude would be jealous. no, no, NO! I bought that shit for myself, and you don’t get to see it.

So, for once in my fucking life, I absolutely refuse to cave to a guy I really like, even though he has the cool checkered Van’s and danced in the kitchen with me (guys, take note: Many women find this incredibly romantic) and likes the same music and has the same interests and seems like he could be The One…

I flat out refuse to screw around with this guy.

Guess what?

I BROKE THE CODE.

I don’t hear from him the next day, or the next, or the next, of the next…

…or even the next week.

I finally find out that he had a steady girlfriend, and they had gotten into a fight, and I met him in the week they were fighting. He was using me to get her off his mind. Players, women should not be your Prozac, go get the therapy you need instead of using women.

That sonofabitch KNEW he was going to use me. He KNEW his heart belonged to this cute blonde I saw him out with weeks later… I wonder what she would think if she knew how hard he was trying to bang someone else during their premarital spat?

but I won. I WON!! And I am turning a corner, and my body is my own, and I’m not believing their bullshit anymore, and I’m starting to feel cynical when I get a side glance from some nice looking guy.

He’s probably cheating.
He’s just looking for a quick lay.
He has no job and wants a place to crash.
He still lives with mom and dad.
He’s used this line on every girl who’s darkened the door since 1983.
He hasn’t bought new underwear since he graduated.
He’s abusive.
He has a drinking problem.
He’s abusive and has a drinking problem.
He has a woman at home who’s sick to death of his bullshit.

I no longer believe the facade of their false advertising,

Gone are the stars in my eyes, gone is the belief that my Magic Man is right there at my fingertips. You know what goes through my head now when I see an attractive man? A whole litany of all of the men I have dated that have been totally full of shit. I don’t believe them any longer, and I am discovering that if I am platonic, and not tempted to screw around, they can’t hurt me.

Code cracked.

I just got a massive chunk of Monica back. Solving this was finishing the frame of a jigsaw puzzle. I feel great.

But what happens when you do actually meet the love of your life?

A tall man with a huge smile eases into the barstool next to mine.

It’s not my fault.

Well, okay, it technically is, I mean, it takes two to tango as they say, or do the horizontal mambo, or go down the old dirt road, or Foxtrot Unicorn Charlie Kilo, or do a load of laundry, or partake in Private Johnson’s Dishonorable Discharge, or pelvic pinochle, whatever you may call it, properly done requires two consenting adults, even if one of them suspected it may be a really REALLY bad idea, or has been duped by a carefully crafted line delivered over Kendall Jackson by a Romeo with a tongue slicker than a Wisconsin back porch in January.

If it even gets that far. Most of the time, things fall apart long before apparel commences departure, and I. nearing fifty, am coming (sorry) into this with the dating knowledge of a 17-year old Amish girl. And we’re talking the obedient one, not the one who’s been sneaking out to the barn with Jebediah to play hide the plowshare.

I was dumb.

I was dumb for about two years. Men could tell me any tall tale (straighten my Longfellow?) and I would believe them, Oh, I would believe anything! I put the gull in gullible, and they could see me coming (sorry again!) a mile away.

I love you. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. You’re different than the others. Ive never met anyone like you . You’re just what I’ve been looking for. And I’d swallow the lies hook, line and sinker, until I was strung up, hanging on a boathook flopping for dear life with a bunch of other girls who couldn’t see the lies for what they were, sucker-fish one and all.

But this dumb fish is starting to catch on.

You know how you get good at something? You do a really shitty job for a long time, then one day realize you’ve been doing the same task for so long that now you’re getting pretty good at it. If you persist, you keep getting better, then you become great, and eventually you are an expert.

I am starting to see through these charlatans, hawking their snake oil and three-card Monte TONIGHT! at a bar near you. They start the show and draw you in, the strategies to separate a lady from her clothing are virtually endless on a Saturday night.

All of the men begin to filter into mental categories in my brain. They march, rank and file, through my head and divvy themselves up, an XY chromosome assembly line, queuing up in tidy little rows, different types all neatly sorted. They have become predictable, and I now easily identify what I could not see before…

THE SEVEN DWARVES OF DATING:

Let me introduce you to Drunky, Lazy, Sloppy, Ghosty, Picky, Needy and Playboy. Wait, they require no introduction, you have met these seven a million times on any Saturday night.

#1 Drunky: This one’ll sneak up on you…Here’s the guy who forgets to call because he’s at the bar half in the bag, cognitively impaired to brain stem level, though still capable of 30-IQ requirement games like bar dice or pull tabs. His line “Can you meet me right now?”, the battle cry of one incapable of making long term plans. And if you did manage to schedule evening plans, you can fully expect him to pass out after day-drinking and leave you waiting… and waiting… aaaand waiting… a cobweb-infested skeleton by the phone hoping for a call that never arrives.

But ohhh, the flattery he can accomplish when he’s a few drinks in! You’re a Goddess. You’re the most beautiful Nymph walking the planet. I LOVE YOU wayyy too early, but he doesn’t love you. The guy you’re actually dating is Johnny Walker, Jim Beam or Jack Daniels, who have one and all been bullshitting women since the first bottle left the still in 18whatever. Beware, there is a tipping point with heavy drinkers in which the charming Dr. Jekyll suddenly goes sideways and transforms into his asshole doppelganger Mr. Hyde. Mr. Hyde is no fun at all. And if he’s this far gone, you may even meet his sidekicks Mylanta, Tums and Imodium.

You will be unlikely to secure any actual dates, because this guy is patently incapable of mentally considering a schedule. and just has you meet up with him at The Bar. There will always be a The Bar, because he’s there almost every night, and has a stool there with his unique buttprint. If you have good boundaries, you won’t wind up with Drunky. because all you have to do to foil him him is tell him you’re not available till next week. His brain is too addled to make plans that far ahead, so he’ll never follow up on taking you anywhere. Congratulations! You have successfully filtered out Drunky. And when you do, you’ll really have to dig in your heels and block his number because one thing you can be sure of, no matter how ugly the breakup or how long ago you last saw him, you absolutely WILL hear from Drunky again. He needs a ride. Here’s an idea. When Drunky asks for your number, give him Uber’s.

#2 Lazy: This guy just wants to watch things. A spectator of life and the consummate armchair quarterback, this is Mr. Couch Potatohead with the legs missing from the set because you are not getting him off that damn recliner. His sense of humor is limited to Seinfeld and The Big Lebowski quotes, because he spends most of his free time on the couch watching them for the 78th time. Actually, if you love TV, this could be a great match for you, and you can both ecstatically sail off into the sunset on your dual Barcalounger to the theme of Friends, Season 5 in which Ross finally marries Rachel.Your vacations will include cruises, that space limiting event with miles of endless buffet and flopping on a zero-gravity lounge in the sun…wait a minute, Lazy Dwarf is starting to sound kinda great, unless he’s also…

#3 Sloppy: These are the guys who have skid marks in their shorts. Ever wonder why women rarely do? They smell….interesting, and can’t be bothered to shave or wash their hands. You will catch something from Sloppy, he’s a walking Petri dish, and although I know humans are designed to live in a bacterial soup, Sloppy has pushed it far beyond and is actively creating new species. These are the guys you see whose shirt doesn’t cover the last four inches of belly, and who won’t get rid of the holey hell T-shirt from 1983 bearing a faded Bart Simpson still declaring to no one who cares EAT MY SHORTS. These are also the guys who took their dating profile pic in front of a bare lightbulb wearing a dirty WHO FARTED baseball cap. In a great swath of irony, these are also the guys who will hit on the most high maintenance women who work out daily, dress carefully and nicely, and are made up to the nines, and be really upset when these women, who have worked on themselves and are amazing, turn them down. They will accuse you of being shallow, the great irony being that they will NEVER hit on a woman who has a level of self-care as low as their own.

#4-Ghosty– …where are you? Hello? Helloooo?? There are so many of these guys, I almost need subsets. You have the guy who only texts and never actually schedules a date. I knew a guy who would text about once a month, “Hi, stranger,” have a few hours of text conversation, never call and never get together. He’s probably a disembodied head in a jar of Formaldehyde dictating texts to his computer, I’ll never know for sure, because of course, I never met him. GIDude was a Ghosty too, he would Casper into my life about once a month, suddenly want me to come over, and always tonight, never an actual scheduled date. A truly interested man knows how to schedule an actual goddamn date. Also in this category are the guys who go too far with ohmygodyou’reamazingwherehaveyoubeenallmylife only to vanish into the ether with nary a call or text message to explain. Are they on milk cartons now? I keep waiting for this plethora to suddenly reappear, having been abducted by aliens who legitimately wouldn’t allow them near their phones, millions of women suddenly getting the replies they’ve been waiting on for years…

#5-Picky: Are you going to leave that glass there? This is the guy you’re walking on eggshells around, because dammit you’re not doing it right! Prepdude was a Picky, who pouted for a half hour once because I cut the onions wrong and panicked constantly about the levels of everything in his (Well, actually his mom and dad’s…) pool. With Picky, you’ll never feel you’re doing anything correctly, and he is the first one to point out something wrong with your clothing, your hair, or your driving. Ohhh how they love to pick apart your driving (I may or may not have contributed to this by not being the best driver. Heyy, he still didn’t have to say anything, even though I was about to hit a farmer’s market stall.).

Picky can be an insufferable know-it-all, and will die on the sword for any minor argument, his perfectionism forbids him to be wrong about anything. Picky will remember what you did wrong for literal years, and is the guy who will be complaining about the time you left the door open while being fed strained plums in the nursing home. An endless obsession over minutia ruins every event, and when I was with a Picky, I would be just praying to the powers that be that nothing would go wrong, because to a Picky, Every. Little. Thing. is a crisis. Vacations were just a giant pile of shit to fret about. He worried about where we parked the car, he worried about catching something in the airport (Pre-Covid, mind you.) He worried the shuttle wouldn’t come for us, even though it ran on a 15-minute schedule. (“What if they were bought and didn’t have time to paint the name of the company on the side yet?” Yep, those words passed through his brain and out his mouth. I don’t get this level of paranoia either.) No amount of joy is too small to be ruined by Picky Dwarf.

#6 Needy: How come you didn’t respond to my message right away? Hoo boy. This is the guy who makes you feel like you’re running a daycare center. Ever work an extra long difficult day only to pick up your phone and find 137 increasingly anxious messages wondering why you aren’t texting back? If you’re in a relationship, well yes, you do expect some level of timeliness in communication, but if it’s ten AM on a Monday, how does one not figure out you are somehow tied up at work? This goes hand in hand with Jelly, the guy who wants to ensure you have not a single solitary male friend whom they invariably view as competition, even though it’s your brother. Some guys are just too much work, and if you are in the mere dating process and have to feed constant updates as to what you’re doing every second of every day, is it really worth it?

And the last Dwarf of Dating, and the most common, is…

#7 Playboy: This is the guy who has so many fish already on his boat that they’re starting to rot, yet keeps tossing out the net for more, more, more. Never happy with anyone for long, these are the guys who start each day messaging hey beautiful to a double digit number of females. This is the guy who dances up to you when you’re out with your girlfriends and is more than happy to press up his package against you, thinking somehow this will magically transport you from the dance floor to his bed. I met this guy most often, there are lots of them around because they are serially single and generally incapable of maintaining an actual relationship. This is all they have, so take a hard pass and let them move on to the next woman, because they always will anyway.

Aaand there you have the Seven Dwarves of Dating, and hopefully this helps filter out these timewasters.

If you are a guy and made it this far without angrily snapping your laptop shut, rest assured I fully understand there are wonderful men out there, it’s just that the Dwarves tend to HEIGH-HO! their way in long before you get to say a genuine hello, I’m interested in you. And women warrant an equivalent awful date category list, but I never dated any and therefore can’t address it properly. And I”m not gonna rat out my friends.

I am exiting Storyland now… come on back, it’s almost time for me to meet the love of my life…

are you into kink…

what exactly do you mean?

I’m back online fishing and I’ve got me a live one, a big possibility flopping on the line while I decide if he’s legal so I can scale, gut and fry him.

So, I’m chatting with Joe Bass and he wants to meet me. Tonight.

Now.

God, you’re impatient.

At least he’s not commencing the classic perpetual-text-no-date parade so common to the modern single lady. I don’t know of any of us who haven’t encountered it. And by the way, gentlemen, we hate when you do this. Knock it the hell off. Ask us out, or don’t, but if you’re never going to, quit stuffing our inbox with unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

I fluff my hair a titch and toss on some heels. I’ve come a long ways since the very first Dude I met on that ill-fated trip to the Italian restaurant, when I spent hours figuring out what to wear, consulting with friends over exactly which dress and what earrings would be the irresistible glittery bait to hook me the elusive catch, the Big One, my Soulmate Other Half Prince Charming Perfect Match Knight In Shining Armor Waiting To Sweep Me Off My Feet. I’m starting not to care so much anymore, and have mere Louis Et Cie pumps, carefully angled to snag my latest potential musky.

I scut-scut through the doorway of yet another one of those hipster We Brew Our Own Beer And We’re Really Fucking Proud Of It! pubs that has silver pipes running everywhere and a glass-enclosed room with massive shining vats large enough to dispose of mob informants. I click past the inevitably handlebar-mustached bartender in skinny pants and am rewarded with the sight of a smiling, mild-mannered gentleman who stands politely the minute he makes a positive identification. Cute. Turns out, he’s also intriguingly intellectual and hysterically funny, and I am all in. Eventually, they are wiping the tables with stinky rags and vacuuming the rugs, any bar’s cue that underneath their fake smiles is a solid get the hell out so we can go home reality. We leave Bar #1 and go to Barely a Bar #2, a dive bar, entering through a ratchet dilapidated screen door that appears to have been fixed by the raspberry nosed guy at the end of the bar who hasn’t left his spot for a generation and a half, tipping slightly farther each year, a human Leaning Tower of Pisa threatening to collapse onto the nearest bystander. We really should place bets as to when, it would make a great fundraiser.

We have an amazing time. He kisses me goodnight for…a while, and wants to see me again. Soon. And I’m off, and gone, carried away on doomed Icarus wings of infatuation once more, soaring ever closer to the sun buoyed by dreams of this guy being The One. I can literally smell the wax melting and just close my eyes, soaring higher, higherrrrr… obsession with finding a significant other a cast iron anchor in a brain that once held ideas, strategies, and other such treasure. My brain is bogged down with leaden weight, you’d better find that guy, Monica. Your chronological clock is ticking. Death looms over me with his ridiculous scythe, ever cackling you’re going to die alone. Alooone!! You don’t even have a person to write down as your emergency contact. BWAAA-HAA-HAAA!!

Fate finds us in yet another bar on another night, and I sit beside my shiny new suitor, waiting for that single long-stemmed rose that will indicate my search is over and I have indeed scored that gold ring. Hope my diamond is big.

We chat over Zombies at the only place in a tri-county area that actually serves them. My head spins, the absolutely intended function of such a drink having hit its mark, and I’m toast, ready and willing to consummate way too early a relationship that has barely begun. I’m making mistakes like an orangutan in an operating room, and things are getting messy.

We cross the threshold of his house, and various items of apparel commence an exit stage left like the conclusion of a community theater performance of Cabaret.

Jacket. Shoes. Shirt. Blouse. Skirt. Pants. Panties. Panties…huh??

SKREEEETCH Barry Manilow ceases crooning the soundtrack in my head accompanying this steamy scene.

CUT.

Pink panties. They’re beautiful, a European pink fine satin with ornate ribbon trim. Victoria’s Secret. Far nicer than mine.

And this is just a chip off the iceberg of the things it turns out this guy is into. He has a massive wardrobe of exquisite women’s clothing. He is Lady Diana Fucking Spencer. I mean, if you’re into that, more power to you, but I was a bit surprised. I even think, okay, well, it’s not the worst thing, maybe it’s just fine that his lingerie is prettier than mine, I mean shit, maybe he’ll let me borrow it, but this leads to a conversation about… how do I put this delicately? Objects being placed in areas? Square peg, round hole? Insert Tab A into slot Z? Parking in rear, only it’s a charter bus due in Brownsville at ten? I’m going to be a statistic if I stay with this guy, just the next bout in the ER removing something that absolutely does not belong where it has been discovered. Well, you see, Doctor, it was really hot, so I was working on a ladder naked, and when I fell off the flashlight just happened to be standing there on the floor, and …

That’s not even close to the only thing, either. He commences endless stories of multiple partners at the same time, painful…umm…toys designed to take you to the brink of torture and pleasure, yep, I’m absolutely going to wind up with a broken something. I try to understand where he’s coming from with this for a while, but I just can’t keep up.

Hauling out outfits, the leather crops, the toys, the straps, gags, scheduling others to also be involved, tying, buckling, storage, purchasing all of this shit in the first place, explaining my Amazon shopping cart to my kids…

Suddenly I feel very tired. I don’t want to work this hard at anything. This all just sounds like a royal pain in the ass.

Literally.

I don’t want to have to put together the entire set of a kinky Gone with the fucking Wind in order to have sex. I think I might be just fine with one really good shade of grey, and then roll over and spoon to sleep. I don’t need the fork, the knife, or the egg beater.

And, I’m sorry, but I’m nearing fifty. I don’t want to do this for hours, either. This is sounding like a full time job. Setup, commencement, teardown. Wash the ball gags. Isn’t it enough I already have dishes and laundry to do, now there’s a stack of kinky shit to clean?

Nah.

Too much damn work.

I’m just too lazy for Kinkdude. Whatever happened to lying on the beach? But wait, there’s more.

Enter the charming and proper looking gentleman who delicately takes my hand and kisses the back before requesting my number. He probably dialed me from a rotary phone. The night I met him, we had a surprisingly intellectual discussion about philosophy and religion, and I think him refreshing and rather old fashioned, but in a nice way, not a musty attic way, more like the faded scent of a Southern gardenia. Within a week he is opening a heavy oak door for me, and I enter an opulent restaurant. Two drinks into dinner, he’s leaning in excitedly , bright blue eyes gleaming with excitement, as he tells me of his first threesome with two blondes when he was seventeen. He regales me with a warm repartee of polyamorous events. This dude could write his own book, and it would probably sell better than mine.

I should give his phone number to Fundude. I have a feeling this guy wouldn’t turn down an MDMA fueled orgy.

Do these people all know each other? If they don’t, I should start charging a finders fee for connecting all of these freaks. Okay, I’m sorry for calling them freaks.

Meh, no, I’m not.

I am starting to think that everyone in my beautiful new town is sleeping with everyone else. Or on drugs. Or sleeping with everyone and on drugs.

I meet a doctor, a matchmaker’s creation by a friend of mine who knows both of us and considers us just peachy perfect for each other. Word on the street is the guy is ridiculously smart, very sweet, extremely fun, and has very high energy. This guy’s pedigree is a mile long, and I produce the usual mountain of rejected clothing on my bed getting ready to meet him. I meet my friends at a sprawling bar hopping with nightlife. They aren’t sure where he is, lessee he’s somewhere around…we wind down the stairs to the ghost town of a basement area usually reserved for private parties, and down the hall I see an open doorway. “You in there?” My friend and I lean in… A spectacularly attractive gentleman turns from the toilet tank and introduces himself. “Oh hi, I’m Docdude.”

He still has powder residue on his face. You’re supposed to tell a friend if they have spinach in their teeth, but what do you say when they have coke on their nose?

We get along swimmingly, and he is very fun and high-energy as promised, though now I know he’s getting at least some of these great personality traits from his white powder pal. I lie to myself that this might just be recreational, that he may just do this once a year, but a few more dates in, I know he’s more than just a weekend warrior and have seen the darker side of his drug-addled brain sneak out, an angry outburst far angrier than necessary evidencing the need for me to once again exit before things get ugly.

I’m starting to see patterns emerge. In my mind, the melee of men are launched, ricochet about, then fall into slots like a Pachinko game, rattle rattle rattle CLICK and they line up in categories. Different brands of Ken doll, if you will. Men seem to come in types. Or in a sock. Sorry, that was gross, but the only reason you know what I’m talking about is because they actually do shit like that.

You may want to skip this next chapter if you don’t want to see me utterly roast the other sex.

I have a list.

Why did I do it?

This was dumb.

Did I think something would be miraculously different this time?

Yes, she’s living on the edge. I’m going to do the dirty deed. Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m going to lead worship again.

Easter Sunday.

The most major holiday of the year in any church, this little infidel is going to lead worship. I’m doing a blindfolded dive into the deep end of the pool. The water may be a not-so-balmy forty degrees. Or frozen altogether, concussion anyone? I almost can’t say no, I’m asked to do this by a good friend, and there aren’t exactly a bunch of people sitting around with the skill set to pull this out of their back pocket who aren’t already quite busy with their own church. Easter Sunday, though…I wonder how the hell their worship director is taking off Easter Sunday, isn’t that the one day no worship director on the planet is off? Isn’t Easter literally in the job description? Holy days? And immediately I’m thinking there’s probably some BS going on under the hood at this church.

God must be calling me. Yes, God. This must be a God thing. With all the crazy shit going on in my life, maybe I need to return to my spiritual roots, maybe this time it will be better… and I sit down in front of the cabinet in my apartment and haul out a massive pile… stacks of music I haven’t had the heart to touch since DX yanked them from my vacated office when I was tossed from the church nearly five years ago. Memories flood back…a Christmas service with Trans-Siberian Orchestra blaring into the snowy night, a parade float bearing funk and a person-sized disco ball, a soaring Debussy flute solo, songs with odd meters, all of the crazy and incredible things I was privileged to have led, and the people I loved, and my eyes blur with melancholy tears as I think of how abruptly it all ended.

My mind fills with melodies from the past, but just as surprising as the swell of emotion is a realization… songs I know I loved, but can no longer recall. Have I really been away this long? Many of my beloved songs are now evaporated from my mind, leaving just a whisper of a title in my grey matter, enough to know something was once there. The church and its music has become a shadow in my mind. I just don’t remember anymore. I have a lump in my throat at the thought of how much I have lost. Will I be able to do this service justice? I may be unsure about where I’m at spiritually, but I know I want to help these unsuspecting folks connect with God. I will do my very best, give my very best. I’m ready to try again, pouring water out of a broken vessel. Hope it’s not too cracked.

They want me to sit in on their worship team for about six weeks, and then lead the worship service on Easter Sunday, when their regular guy will be out of town. I know, I know. Monica, have you lost your mind? (yes) Are you in any condition to do this? (no) Don’t you think you’ll get struck by lightning?? (if the powers that be didn’t already do me in for the awful pun in this chapter’s title, I’ll probably be okay)

I find myself dusting off my demure dress shoes and modest churchwear. Okay, I’m lying. I actually have to go purchase modest pumps and frumpwear, I know exactly what I need to wear, and I most definitely don’t own any of it any longer. Button oxfords, navy low-heel pumps, loose-fitting pants, yeah I know the routine. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I once again am waking up stupid early on Sundays. It’s Assembly of God, and those can run from rather conservative to holy barking mad. This one seems pretty normal and they are keeping the Gifts of the Spirit tamed down enough to have a reasonable service. I am grateful to discover that their team is surprisingly good. I’m going to be able to do some great music here.

did I mention the lead guitar guy is kinda cute?

Come on, that’s not the only reason I did it.

I genuinely wanted to know if I had done the right thing in exiting ministry altogether. The only way I’ll know if this is a calling is if I give it a try…and I get on the bicycle and start to pedal, though I bear the scars of having fallen off one too many times…

I pull out my favorite songs, and begin the familiar work of putting together the set. I start attending and sitting in on their team. I’m getting back in the swing of it all, so far, so good. It’s very interesting to me that this is the same denomination in which I was fired for getting divorced, but since it didn’t happen in this particular church, apparently it doesn’t matter. Whatever. Did I actually expect this to make any sense?

I hit it off well with the cute guitar player. Churchdude. Am I supposed to flirt in church? I find out the important part, he is indeed single. Also, he’s a really faithful believer, unlikely to be a player or an asshole. Certainly new territory.

I’m thinking maybe this is kinda great when I have my first meeting with the pastor about the Easter Sunday service. Oooookay, now the skeletons are rattling on out. He wants me to handle each song in a particular way, and we need to do it like such and such church. I can tell he has seen some nebulous larger ministry in a mysterious somewhere and is attempting to force that church’s format onto this body of believers. He is totally micromanaging this service. I had already noticed he weirdly likes to get up while we’re singing and kind of take over, standing in front of the worship leader and singing into his lapel mic, a comical worship leader karaoke. Sir, you’re not drunk enough.

He is one of those good-looking fauxhawked trendy pastors who looks hip and with it, but is actually extremely old fashioned in his belief systems. Annoying. He has a woman assistant who has her office bizarrely floor-to-ceiling decorated as a tropical paradise. Every inch is covered. In our meetings, I feel like I’m drowning in plastic fish in a plastic ocean with a plastic lifeguard who can’t possibly save me because, well, he’s plastic. I can tell from the minute I meet her she is one of those do-too-much-and-be-a-martyr-about-it people, a common church trope, pastoral assistant overly ecstatic to point out how overworked she is. It’s always a woman, and dammit, she will dramatically throw herself under the bus or anything else for you… but has more strings attached than a 17-sail full-rigged model ship. Then there’s the always present oversensitive girl on the worship team, total emotional grenade, pin pulled and ready to go off in a self-pity tirade at any moment.. And suddenly I’m relieved to just be filling in and don’t have to actually deal with any of this shit. Now a different tidal wave of memories easily crashes over the sentimental yellowed photographs of Christmases past I had been fawning over.

Yeah. Now I remember why I didn’t go back.

Oh. The worship leader I thought was so amazing in the first place, who is bizarrely not present on the most prominent Sunday of the entire year? He is awesome, but is himself just filling in, an interim, and I can see exactly why once I’m working closer with the pastor. This pastor has a vision for a specific trendy church format that is popular right now. Pastor McChurch. And this awesome worship leader doesn’t fit the McChurch mold. Pastor McChurch cant see gold when it’s right in front of his face, gleaming riches that will go ignored in favor of The McChurch Mold in which he is forcing this body to conform. He wants the Guy With A Guitar format. I find out months later that he put the $40,000 Baldwin grand piano into storage because it didn’t fit his McChurch model. Did somebody say McChurch?

Nobody does, and he doesn’t last too much longer there as a pastor. I really hope that Baldwin grand made it out of storage.

We have a dress rehearsal, and carry on with Easter Sunday service. I lead. It goes well. I should be excited. I’m buttonholed by members afterward. Am I staying? Will I be leading worship more? Am I becoming a member?

And I just can’t do it. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve lived too much life, I’ve seen behind the curtain. The Great and Powerful Oz….isn’t. I can already sense the walls closing in, my world becoming smaller. I can tell the pastor is going to have me under his thumb, and I’ll be scrambling to make sure I’m doing everything I can to keep him happy. I can tell that the oversensitive girl is going to hate me just as much as my stalker lady from the other church did, and that I am going to live in a fishbowl again, under the constant and judgmental watch of the church people and the clergy. And who knows what Aquarium Lady would do with me?

I even went on a date with Churchdude. I sit next to him at a gospel concert…amazing music, boring company. He’s a great guy, I should be enthralled, but I’m watching paint dry. By the end of the concert, I’m jumping up to run out the door. Ugh.

And suddenly I realize I already have a massive treasure…a gift of freedom, the liberty to do whatever the hell I want with my life.

As the last melody fades from my mind that Easter morning, I have a rebirth of my own.

I like my life.

Wayy more than I did in the church.

BZZT text.

Guy I met online dating. I haven’t heard from him in months…

BZZT another…

Would I like to go out for a drink?

Yes, why, yes sir, I would.

I peel out of the parking lot and drive my life out of church leadership for the last time.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Sportsdude sits next to Fundude, looking smug.

I want to backhand that little half smile off his face. SMACK! I can almost hear the satisfying sound. The last time I saw him, I was in a rage, yelling at him for being such a jerk before I stomped out the door a mere month or so ago. I was crazy and overattached, he was a player I had no reference to accurately identify. And tonight, he has won. I can see him mentally stalking around the ring, arms held high as he bears the championship belt, stepping over my unconscious form sprawled on the mat.

Fundude, still unaware that we know each other, puzzles at my response. “You know Sportsdude?” “…We’ve met…” I stammer. How is this even possible?

I live in a sort of specific region in Big Suburb, and amidst the urban sprawl, I am discovering that people in this particular area tend to know each other. So much for anonymity.

I have dated exactly three men from this area, Mellodude, Sportsdude… who turned out to be Mellodude’s brother, and now Fundude, who is Sportsdude’s best friend.

This is not good.

Sportsdude, looking 100% like the cat that ate the canary, gets to his feet, claps Fundude on the shoulder…”Call me later. I have something to tell you.” and commences to waltz out the door, still with that stupid smug half grin. He knows I’m fucked.

Once Fundude finds out I dated not only his best friend but his best friend’s brother, he’s going to think I’ve dated everyone in Little Suburb. I haven’t, but what would YOU think if you were him? I have to tell him myself. There’s no way I can let Sportsdude be the one to rat me out.

And I do tell him, and I can tell he’s disappointed. Oh, this pisses me off, especially since Fundude has dated a Where’s Waldo number of women. Men can date all they want, but desire women who have dated no one. They want a woman who looks like Pamela Anderson, yet had the previous sex life of Mother Teresa. Aaaand magically knows all the crazy pornstar moves while having had absolutely no experience. Not touched by any other paws, pristine, pure, but you’ll sleep with me, right?? This very obvious, very embedded double standard is absolutely infuriating, and at the moment it is screwing me over.

Fundude is tossing around the term Eskimo brothers. Of course, innocent church girl has no idea what this means. So there’s a term for when you date brothers. Huh, who knew? And then he drops his own bomb… he’s still in love with his ex, and emotionally unavailable for a relationship. I’m coming across this emotionally unavailable thing kind of a lot. And another guy falls off the cliff of I’m-not-ready-for-a-relationship

Only he kind of doesn’t.

He keeps having me over. We still watch old B&W movies with popcorn and wine. He continues introducing me to people in Big Suburb, and I hang around when he calls. He morphs into a fun friend, which is what I really needed anyway.

After a particularly difficult day working up in Tiny Town, I’m headed back and totally exhausted. Fundude asks if I’d like to come over and watch movies. This sounds like a great ending to a ridiculous day, and I agree to come over as soon as I’m back. I get back, quickly change clothes, and head straight over to Fundude’s house, wine in hand.

The door creaks open, breaking the silence. Silent… because no one is home. I wander through his house, room to room, no Fundude. What the hell.

I check my text messages.

Fundude: where are you?

Where am I??! Where the hell are YOU?!!!

come out to Paul’s pub. the text reads. NOW.

GRRRRR….I am in no mood to go out. I’m crabbier than a whore at Mardi Gras. I call Fundude and inform him I’m exhausted and have absolutely no interest in going anywhere. He claims it’s just for a little bit, he’s just finishing up, we’ll be back at the house soon, yadda yadda. Guess who works in sales? And he’s really selling this idea well, and I give in, and and am back in the car I’ve already been in for half the day…God, why am I even doing this? The angel on my shoulder tsk tsk’s at me, but the devil on the other is dancing.

My heels click into the bar on the wooden plank flooring, not too packed, Sunday night and it appears that Funday is quite over. Fundude sits chatting with a couple. He introduces me, let’s say Bill and Cindy. Bill is a doctor, and Cindy is his significant other. She weirdly has a ring on, though they aren’t married because of some nebulous story, bla bla and they both give me a big hug. An overly big, rather affectionate hug. They are a bit drunk, and so is Fundude. Something weird is going on here, I just can’t quite put my finger on it…we continue to chat, but I’m distracted by rapidly evaporating platonic fantasies of flopping on the couch and watching old movies LIKE HE PROMISED HE WOULD. The three of them continue their liquid slide into complete inebriation, and this couple is being very flattering to me, calling me beautiful, touching my arm, saying lovely flowery things, and they want us to come over to their house and…wait just one minute…

Two and two finally connect in my mind and total the inevitable four.

Swingers.

I grab Fundude by the ear and am shouting a whisper at him: AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDDINGMEIAMEXHAUSTEDANDYOUSIGNEDMEUPFORWHAT??!!

Totally nonchalant. What?? It’ll be fun!

NO I am not going to have a foursome!

Cards on the table, the drunk couple are disappointed but understanding. I hope. At this point, I am level eleven irritated and not even attempting to be nice anymore. I have keys in hand and ready to do an abrupt and rapid retreat, yet Fundude resists…No, no, don’t leave, we’ll go back and watch TV at the house like we had planned. Okay, then I want to leave. NOW. Okay, okay…but can you give this couple a ride home? It’s right on the way back to the house. Why not? What could possibly go wrong? And they drunkenly tumble into my back seat and I am hauling this inebriated mess down the road. In the damn car again.

They direct me to a beautiful lakeside house, damn, these swingers make bank. I pull in, and they stumble out into their magnificent terraced home. Come in, just for a minute. UGH I don’t want to, but Fundude is spectacularly persuasive, and I shortly find myself sitting at their home bar, pissed, pouting and unfriendly. I just don’t care any more. I still want to be flopped on the couch watching something I don’t have to think about, and I’m pushing Fundude to get the F out of here, as the couple is pulling out various spirits and glasses from cabinets…Vodka, soda, lemons, paper plate, vial of powder…wait, what??

What the hell is THAT??

It ain’t salt, I know that.

The guy starts talking…it clears your mind, helps you focus, enhances your thinking, makes you feel amazing….

MDMA. Ecstasy. Molly. E. M. X. Mad Dog.

Ex church girl here hasn’t ever seen anything stronger than a joint.

He sprinkles it on the plate, and they are dabbing their fingers in it and putting it in their mouths. I flatly decline, I’ve never been one to experiment with drugs. He insists it doesn’t really make you wasted, per se…

And then they all are. Totally wasted. They were already drunk, now they are unbearable. The guy is stumbling after me and still wants me to have some sort of orgy, the lady is following suit, and this is turning into a little three ring shitshow I never wanted to witness. Fundude is equally fucked up, and already has his hands all over Swingerlady.

I’m out.

I grab my keys and stomp out the door. I jump in my Jeep and screetch back, gravel flying. I am winding down the driveway when in my rearview mirror appears a drunken Fundude, arms pinwheeling haphazard circles as he half runs, half staggers after my car. Maybe I should speed up and see how long he can do this before he falls over. Ha. But I have mercy, and stop the car so he can stumble aboard.

Okay, so NOW do we get to watch an old movie? I want my damn popcorn. I drive to his house. He is full of intoxicated apologies. By the time we get to his house he is so hammered I just tuck him in bed and exit this crazy evening, another bizarre night in Monica’s world.

I stomp up my stairs, uncork my damn wine by myself, and collapse onto the couch, opening my long-neglected messages.

And worlds collide.

There’s a church down here that wants me to fill in for their worship leader.

On Easter Sunday.