This Dog's Life (The Sheriff)

It was my birthday a few days ago. Another reminder that age manifests physically, psychologically with what feels like compound interest. This past year two surgeries left me with a Frankenstein face, now matching inch-long scars punctuate the sides of my nose. The skin under my eyes is red, flaky and wrinkled from constant dabbing with Kleenex: collapsed tear ducts, of course. I have a persistent shoulder injury that requires physical therapy. And like a tree adding rings, what I used to think of as winter weight settled in spring and sprawled in summer. Forget bikini body, I'll be lucky to consider a sleeveless sundress or revealing my dimpled knees as the weather warms. Another year and, under my belt,  another bad relationship, another painful breakup. My financial situation is perpetually tenuous. I'm still juggling three jobs which means I'm stressed and short-tempered most of the time.

We celebrate the milestones, the birthdays, the weddings, the babies but it is the little changes in ourselves, the broken hairs lining our brow, the click in our left knee, the four o'clock fatigue, that actually mark the time. We notice, and remark upon the firsts, the first step, first kiss, the first car or apartment, but find the lasts much more difficult to pinpoint or to conceive of their meaning. When did you last cartwheel? Eat pepperoni pizza and not get heartburn? What minute, what day did you feel the final tug of heartstring and let your ex go? Hard to say. Lasts are trickier to see, maybe because they come so slowly, so gradually, or maybe because we avoid looking for them. 

When I was 19 years old, like many, I was a full-time college student with a full-time job. That summer, at the suggestion of my dad, I bought a house. Three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a two-car garage. I decided, as a newly-minted "adult" homeowner, all that was missing in my life was a dog. A dog named The Sheriff. Though I didn't have a specific dog in mind, I envisioned a small one with a big mustache and skinny legs. So when the Pet Haven called me a few weeks later to report the owner surrender of a young miniature schnauzer I jumped in my car and drove to the shelter. He recognized me immediately, and I, him. The adoption fee was $50 - a fair price for a runty used schnauzer.

How to Break My Heart: An Easy Step-by-Step Guide for Future Boyfriends

1) When we meet act like I'm the most interesting person in the room. Stand close, make eye contact, talk intently. Make me laugh.

2) Aggressively pursue me. Schedule a date, reschedule for sooner.

3) Hang on my words. Laugh at my jokes. Tell me I have beautiful eyes, or beautiful lips. Tell me that my hair is soft, that my hands are delicate.

4) Kiss me like you mean it.

5) Early on, for no reason, send me flowers, or buy me a thoughtful gift: a pair of vintage crocodile pumps, a book by Chris Ware, a bottle of Gruet for a Tuesday.

6) Act like you can't get enough of me.

7) Write me a song or a silly poem. Hide a note for me in the grocery list.

8) Give me a nickname: JJ, Babes, Midgely

9) Hold my hand.

10) When somebody takes our picture together, put your arm around me and smile.

11) Help out around the house.

12) Call me just to check in.

13) Say you love me.

14) Talk about a next month, next year, together.

Prime Rib (Kipling)

My younger (and married) sister texted me the other day: "You and K want to go bowling tonight?" I responded back, "We weren't planning on hanging out, but I'll ask." K's answer? "I have a project to work on." 

His response wasn't unexpected. Nor was it disappointing to me. We have a relationship schedule. We hang out on Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. There is rarely any deviation, unless there's a holiday or special event, and we plan for it in advance, along with adjustments made further along in the calendar to compensate. We don't do spontaneous. 

You see Kipling and I are in our late 30's. And dating in your late 30's is boring. 

I want to clarify something up front: I adore Kipling and he is not boring. He's interesting, handsome, kind, funny, smart, caring and I really enjoy spending time with him. Plus, bonus British accent! I think he'd probably say the same things about me, minus the accent thing. We share similar interests, we like the same movies and books, we're both silly and funny. We have stimulating conversations and are curious self-educators. We are not boring people. We just have a boring relationship.

The Audacity of Hope (Rowan)

You rockstar! Now you're adding Nicole to your name?! Last night I was
thinking that 'Jocelyn' is so incredibly flexible when it comes to
nicknames (semi-phonetic as follows): "Joe-see", "JC", "Joe", "Lynn",
"Joe-lynn", "Joss"...etc.

I'm not sure if it was the thought of you or the vodka espresso in my
stomach, but I was sleepless until at least 3am. Today is something of
a bleary-eyed drag, but I'm leaving early so as not to bring any of
our servers down with a mistyped command.

When I bowl, I have trouble breaking 125. I've an embarrassing
penchant for rolling gutter balls. On the other hand, I haven't played
miniature golf in at least fifteen years. So really, it's going to be
comic regardless of what we decide upon.

Saturday night has potential...who's my competition? Tell 'em to bring
it on--I'll make it a Singles Smackdown!

R 

Slow Dance (Maeve, Rocco)

When the man became a man,
his dog became despondent, having been a man himself 
for quite some time. "A fine
thing to do at our stage of life,"
he said. Best friends with the man
for many years, he understood
the strange things likely to happen 
when a man became a man.
The TV would go for one thing
and who knew what else after.
He wasn't about to wait around
and watch the transformation.
He packed up his bones 
in their matching bone cases,
dusted off his real-estate license,
and headed down the road.
~ Garret Keizer

My closest friend my last year of high school was Maeve. Having been raised in a very conservative household (curfew at 10 until I graduated, 5-minute phone limit, straight A’s were not only encouraged but expected), Maeve was a revelation – a solid-C student, she smoked, she drank, she dyed her blonde hair dark red with henna. She drove a ’77 Volkswagen mini bus and had sex in the back of it with her neo-hippie boyfriend. Her parents were divorced! She was glamorous and exciting and edgy. All the things I was not but wanted to be.

By the end of my senior year, having studied closely under her tutorial, I had remade myself. I moved out of my parents’ house before graduation. I was 17 and had a 30-year-old jerk boyfriend. I cut the long ropey braid that hung down my back into a short pixie and bleached it white. I smoked, I drank. I gave up the full-ride writing scholarship to a “good school,” quit my job at Pizza Hut and Maeve and I hit the road for San Diego where her older sister let us crash on a blow-up mattress on her living room floor. I got a regrettable tattoo in La Jolla. I got a tan. I dipped my toe into adulthood, and without plans, without goals, I felt listless and deeply out-of-sorts.

The Owl and the Pussycat

I recently took a vacation, a family vacation, down the Salmon River (also known as The River of No Return). Seven days, five boats, nineteen people and one dog. Sleeping on the beach, sunburns and bee stings, white water, cooking over a fire, pooping in a bucket: it may not sound like the most deluxe vacation – but the way my family does it – it really, really is. We don’t use an outfitter – gear is cobbled together from friends and family – the tents, the coolers, countless cases of beer, the inflatable kayaks, the sleeping bags – we collaborate on food and drink responsibilities – plan games, assign teams and duties – and take off down the river – away from all responsibility, no phones, no computers, no wallets – to tread as lightly as possible in the land of osprey, bald eagle, bighorn sheep, rattlesnake and bear.

Photo by Copper Chadwick

May Day, May Day (Joce)

Hooray, hooray, the first of May, outdoor fucking starts today!

Now, I'm super sorry if you are dismayed by the profanity of that statement, but I heard it from the reputable, rather moderate singer/songwriter James Taylor at a concert when I was about 15. I was with my most best friend Melanie (who consequently, and not related to said concert, designed this blog and has been tried and true ever since we recognized a co-penchant for snark and sass in middle school) and yearly, since, she and I have had a contest to see who can remind the other of our May 1, first.  I win, 2014?

Anyway, hooray, because seriously, this weather, this spring, has been truly glorious, and I can hardly recognize myself as the chipper chippy brought to you, me, by the wickedly fickle friend AND foe known as Vitamin D.  That's right, people, a couple of good nights sleep and sunshine and a new office and hilarious friends and blah, blah, blah and I'm HAPPY. Not even, happy-ish. Full ON. Bring it. And, truly, the only thing that would make it even just an eensy-weensy bit better, is if there was some outdoor fucking on the horizon. New horizon. Yes. Please.

So, excuseze'moi. And, tah dah.

I've decided to declare May 1 a Joce Holiday. It's spring, things are blooming, growing, renewing and there is hope, thick, sweet, pink and purple in the air. Could it be more ME? Doubtful.

And in celebration, May 1, BBOBD Day.

In honor of this great day I ask you to join me by sharing the glory of The Big Book with your friends. Do you know and love someone deep down and low in the mid-life romance struggle? Or, someone that likes funny things? Or cute girls? Or taking online quizzes? Or wasting time on the internets? Would they find comfort and camaraderie in this online dating diary? I implore you to share and to encourage them, and you, if you haven't yet, to "like" this here blog on Facebook.  It would mean the world, or, at least a map of the world.

This summer, my BBOBD Day resolution is to work diligently on making this a real life actual book. To be published. By a publisher. Preferably with illustrations. And foot notes. And an extra flattering and youthful author picture (Melanie? Photographer?) And any additional love I can get thrown my way can only help make this a reality.

I do love you, and I so appreciate you being here, with me. Thank you for sharing, and caring.

Happy BBOBD Day. I hope you do some outdoor fucking. Or at least some making out on a patio.

XO, Joce

Ghosts of Different Days (Joce)

About the only thing that’s perfect about me is my vision. I haven’t taken an eye test in years but it’s never tested lower than absolutely flawless. As a kid, I thought I was really missing out on an accessory opportunity by not getting to wear glasses or bright blue contacts (keep in mind I was also jealous of the girl who broke her leg because she got to wear a pink cast.  Everybody signed it!). I’ve since come to realize that the additional expense of a medically required accessory leaves a little to be desired (sunglasses are more than enough) and I’ve reallocated my jealousies to wishing I had perfect hair, or perfect skin or a perfect ass. Even more unfortunately, there isn’t a glasses equivalent for the ass - that accessory that remedies the less than perfect characteristic. Unless you count Spanx. Which I don’t. Spanx are way less cuter than a pair of specs.

Supposedly hindsight is 20/20. Mine isn’t. The further I get from the past, the harder it is for me to recall what happened, what was going on, how I felt, what I said, how I reacted. I’ve never been one of those people that could recount, word for word, a conversation. Or remember a date, an anniversary. I’ve had lifelong friends that I can’t remember for the life of me what their birthday is. What year did I graduate from college? Good question. What was I wearing? Probably, likely, something cute, but, unless there’s a picture from the moment in question, your guess is as good as mine.

I’ve been going to a counselor lately to work on some life strategies. Clearly, I need some new tools for my toolbox. And he’s been asking me a lot of questions about the past, past relationships, past lives in past places. And, I don’t have a lot of details to give. He asked me the other day about Bryce, “what attracted you to him at the beginning?” (I’d asked him to help me figure out what attracts me to bullies, manipulators, tough and mean guys, so I don’t do it again, HALP!) Honestly, I couldn’t remember anything, anything except the basic timeline. I had to go back and read some emails, my blog, my diary, to fill in the details, to clarify.

 After that, I realized that Bryce was well-spoken, interesting, driven, not to mention, actively pursuing me. Mostly, he talked a good game. And I’m such a good listener that I didn’t bother to notice that he didn’t follow the talking up with action. He told me exactly what I wanted to hear, using the best possible words and he presented an elaborate façade that distracted me from who he actually was. He hid the hoarding part, the ‘roid rage, the pet abuse, the shifty financial situation. Until it was too late and I was so over my head that I was afraid to back out. I’m the kind of person who tends to put my money where my mouth is. If I say I’m going to do something, I make a concerted effort to do it. In other words, I’m a man of my word.

And, I tend to take a man at his word. Which is why, perhaps, I ended up with Bryce. And Ken. And Malik. And Conover. And, of course, Rocco. Each of these men presented a self, at least in the beginning, that was far different from whom they actually ended up being. They all said the right thing, talked a good game, but had a much harder time walking the walk. Each of them sold their refrigerator to an Inuit (me), but then couldn’t figure out (or never had the intention of) delivering a unessential major appliance to a remote destination.

Bossa Nova (Bryce)

Joce,

Too much professional writing makes Bryce an unhappy boy...

I anxiously want to craft a letter to you that will express all of my effusiveness that seems to escape at the most inopportune times. It is only Tuesday and I wish I could move time to get to you. 

I am happy to accept the buck.  In fact, I am always the one to carry the heavy stuff.  I enjoy it.  It is what I am good at. Your writing is good and it fuels me to grasp for the written word.  You shouldn't have to hunt and kill your own creativity, unless, of course, the process of killing it makes for good fodder.  I believe work is best approached in the appropriate frame of mind.  I find myself working when I want to write and writing when I want to work.  I tend to be overcome by words myself and took the opportunity this morning to write my impressions to you in order to return the favor you bestowed upon me. 

I misspoke when we parted ways on Sunday.  I said we should do it again soon.  However, I don't want to leave another opportunity to chance.  You accompanying me on another excursion via Chicago would be delightful.  Perhaps, this trip will continue to aid in marking our days together as important and with a positive connotation in your mind.

It seems that the day will prove to be promising for you.  I hold hope that this email meets you with a good frame of mind and ample time to craft the words necessary for its reply.  I haven't had much time to read lately, but I did get a chance to examine an old James Whitcomb Riley collection for a brief period this early morning.  It provided something that made me smile and perhaps it will make you do the same.  

"When you awaken some morning and hear that somebody or other has been discovered, you can put it down as a fact that he discovered himself years ago - since that time he has been toiling, working, and striving to make himself worthy of general discovery."

My knight is moving to e4...Joce Nicole

Bryce

BTW, I love pretty and crazy.

Moonrise at the King Dome (Joce)

I’ve talked a lot about break up strategies over the years. How to make the pain go away. How to hold on to it, wallow in it, set your clock by it. The best things to do. What not to do. Break-ups are always different: the tone, the length of suffering, the particular variety of misery (acute, aching, suffocating, slight). But, also, break-ups are always the same. They suck.

Then, weeks later, a month, a couple, and inevitably it starts to fade – the worry, the hurt, the anger. Your first thought in the morning as you wake isn’t about him anymore. You forget his birthday, the date of your first date.  The way he said your name. The smell of him no longer lingers in your memory. A friend texts you “I liked him ok, but you’ll do better.” And you realize he is right. And that’s kind of exciting.

Another friend sets you up. Get back on that horse! Go have fun, a drink, a meal, a conversation. You wear a new dress, perfume. Your hair looks cute. You smile a lot. He thinks you’re funny and smart. You are. It’s not a love connection. But, it’s a date, a first date back in the saddle. There will be other first dates. And a few second or third. And then, at some point, you will have a boyfriend again.

Steel Cut Oats (Caleb)

Hey! Joce,  
The only thing I worry about is I feel you are unhappy being "single." I sense you really want a nice, outgoing man in your life to have fun with and entertain with friends and family. I already applied for that position but kinda knew I would blow it a year ago. But, being single and older is not so bad. My own mom had a rebirth when she was 41 when she finally divorced my dirtbag stepdad and remarried a great guy.

Anyway, I hope this is not the freak you out email but your sharing with me your private life. My life did not even start until I was 27. When I was 17, I was accused and convicted of firing a gun into someones home in Arizona. They tried me as an adult, sent me to trial, and I was convicted. I spent 10 years in Arizona State Prison until I was released at 27.  My release was contigent I leave the state, so I came here. With no education, no money and a measly GED I received in prison, I enrolled into full time courses at the community college. I quicky finished my Associates and transferred to state college and finished my bachelor's. 

But now I have little experience in any kind of career and I am afraid to submit to a background check. I just finished the last of my parole last December in fact. I am a bad apple but I have been sort of ok lately. I basically do not have a job but somehow make good money wheeling and dealing. 

It could always get worse is how I feel. I know you are kind of depressed, I am sure you have heard it all before. You are spot on about yourself. But for some reason, silly as this sounds, I am proud of you for having a graduate degree and you are my sincere friend and I bet your family is too! You have so much time to meet the right guy, and experience with relationships so it will come together for you someday.  

I only fear you have high expectations for whatever man you choose to be with?  

I never would have told you about my past but oh well. Nothing to lose. Many women run away when I tell them. At least certain ones, not all of them.  

I don't have spell check so if there is a mispelled word let me off the hook, ok? 

Later,
Caleb

Like it's 1999 (Rocco)

Truth be told, something else happens that night. You’re standing there with your wishy washy lackluster love interest JACK, and in walks THIS GUY. You’ve never met him, never seen him, and yet, you’re standing there, next to Jack, on New Years Eve, and THIS GUY comes right up to you and introduces himself, chats, engages, unapologetically flirts, gets you a beer and another. He has an intense, direct gaze, the kind of look that makes you feel like the side of your face is burning off when he looks at you because his inquiring mind WANTS TO KNOW. Accordingly, you’re disarmed. He’s the exact opposite of airy fairy unreliable, noncommittal Jack. You can see it, first thing. He’s solid, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He stands on the fucking ground. He’s confident, smart, and no bullshit. He’s nice. He’s interested. He’s a MAN. THIS GUY, Rocco, tells you you’re pretty like, 15 minutes in.  He laughs at your jokes, asks if you need anything, and when you do, like a glass of champagne, he gets it for you. Within minutes he’s standing a few inches too close and brushing your shoulder with his – it’s a party, it’s crowded, but still. You feel the electric cord running up your spine, and think to yourself, “This is the guy I SHOULD be dating. This is my next boyfriend,” then you immediately feel guilty because you’re there with the sweet adolescent Jack.

It’s New Years Eve, food, drinks, drinks, the buzz of a party and all of a sudden, the clock is counting down and 2012 is nearly over. You kiss Jack at the stroke of midnight and then brazenly plant a big wet kiss on Rocco’s cheek. The first kiss of 2013.

It takes awhile to get it all sorted. You friend him on Facebook on January 2, and within minutes he’s accepted your request. A week passes. There is a party at Jacks house on the 6^th, some football thing, and you go in hopes that Rocco will be there. He is. He sits next to you. It is January winter cold outside but next to him, it’s warm. It’s all you can do to not reach out and put your hand on his leg. You want to tug on his beard or rub your hands through his hair. Or lay your head in his lap while you sit on the couch and watch football together. All of those things would be completely crazy, inappropriate. So? So, you do none of them. He leaves the party early.  

The push and pull with Jack continues but you know the expiration date has passed and the sweetness between you has soured. You have a final blowout at the bar. Of course, the bar. There is snow on the ground and it’s 15 degrees outside and sitting next to Jack makes you feel even colder. His thin blue hands grip his glass, his voice is thick with whisky, his ice blue eyes are searching, but not for you. You realize that everybody loves him. Everybody except for you. Pity is not love. It feels closer to loathing. You walk the four miles home in your red suede high-heeled boots. Is it still January? It’s easy for a relationship to die in January. But it’s January 2013. Something must begin, too.

The 100th “Episode," Part I (Joce)

This is a major, major occasion: It’s the 100^th entry in my “beloved” Big Book of Bad Dates!!!  (Exclamation points courtesy of my 6th grade self). And a grand occasion warrants a MAJOR ENTRY. Right? I know what you really want: a heart-bursting, true love at first site, dream date scenario in which the not unattractive, but heretofore thought of as rather ordinary, heroine (myself), meets her prince, dashing in shiny new blue jeans with throbbing biceps. He whisks her (me) away in his brand new all-wheel drive Subaru to a cabin with a fireplace somewhere in the mountains and they spend a weekend reading Contemporary American Poetry and feeding each other imported Chilean strawberries on a very plush white bear skin rug (faux, obviously). Together they OVERCOME THE ADVERSITY of being middle-aged of average intelligence and slightly soft around the edges and they find each other oh, so, attractive especially when impressions are tempered by 20-year-old bourbon, soft firelight and a playlist of moderately hip indy rock. Happy endings, etc. etc. BUT, instead of telling you that story, which is still in the scheduling phase and pending, I’d like to take this opportunity of a major ENTRY to give you a little advice. A friendly suggestion from one nice, well-meaning person to another.

Gleaned from my varied and rich experience I would like to offer this tip: don’t, whatever you do, start writing a dating blog. That is, unless of course, you want to write a dating blog for the rest of your life. Because I can assure you, if you start a blog about dating, you will never have another relationship, ever again, and the aforementioned dream sequence, will remain just that, a dream.

Let me tell you how I came to possess this information…

Catch and Release (Conover)

My roommate loves to fly fish. Several days a week he’ll get up before sunrise to tramp through the dead leaves on the river bank and sink knee deep, in rubber boots, into the icy grey river. The night before he’ll get out his rod and carefully choose his flies, sometimes referring to a thick slick book, The Ultimate Guide to Fly Fishing, to aid in his decisions. Saturday morning the smell of coffee will tickle my nose, but the warmer will have long shut off by the time I awake, this time to the crackle of corn meal crusty on a sizzling Brown Trout. Served with tiny green lentils and a seaweedy bed of kale, it is a campfire breakfast in the kitchen.

As much as he loves the humble brown fish, his true prize is a Steelhead. Thick-bodied and fierce, Steelhead are burnished on the side with speckled swaths of copper red, the uniform of a warrior fish compelled to swim hundreds of miles upstream from the ocean to fresh water. Their team motto: “spawn ‘til you die.”

Only a few of these monsters are released each year into the river by our house, and each fall the fishermen in the neighborhood compete to catch the elusive fish – for many the glimpse of a 30-inch beast – a silver torpedo, with teeth, swimming up river – is enough fodder for a bar stool story. There is simply no shame in letting such a formidable foe go uncaught.

______________________

The first thing I notice about him are his coppery eyes. I know it’s not unusual to notice eyes, first thing, but often I notice them and then easily forget their color, their nuances, their angle and tilt. I have a shy gaze and many people have forgettable eyes. But, I notice his coppery eyes and I find I can remember them, even after I turn away.

Father Knows Best (Joce)

It’s Father’s Day. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that it’s because of my Dad this blog exists, because of him, my expectations of men are sky high, and, because of him, my dreams of the future are so wildly unrealistic. Predictably, my relationships with other men have been predetermined, filtered through, by my relationship with my father. Call it whatever syndrome or complex you like, but no man is ever going to live up to my Dad; no man is going to be more generous, thoughtful, hilarious, ridiculous, inspiring, driven, loyal, witty, or talented than my Dad. It’s just a fact. Get over it.

One thing my Dad does is give advice. He’s very serious about giving advice; he loves to sit me down and tell me exactly what to do. If I need help with something, am scared, or worried, or overwhelmed, I just call my Dad. He’s got a level head, and he’s confident, and he’ll always know exactly what to do. He can talk me off any ledge. It used to drive me crazy – all the advice and bossing around – but after college, I realized that if I asked him advice on things that he was really knowledgeable about, that he would lay off the other stuff. Stuff I was “taking care of.”  And the stuff I need help with, well, I can always count on Dad to have the answer, to know what to do.

Dad is also famous in our family for certain “Dad-isms” – things he says on a fairly regular basis that accurately sum up a thought or philosophy he holds, that you may or may not share. One of our favorites is when he says, “It’s premature to prioritize.” Now my Dad may be all of the things above, and more, but one thing he is not is organized. He’s famous for being hours late, for forgetting the most important thing and for being unable to find whatever he is looking for, especially if it’s right in front of him. Having three organized, on-time, eagle-eyed daughters drives him a little crazy. If we’re trying to plan a vacation, or pack for a trip, or get everybody rounded up for dinner, make a list, it makes him antsy…, “now, girls,” he says, “I think it’s a little premature to start prioritizing.” Of course, we girls think it’s never too early to start thinking about what to do and what order to do it in!

Hi Life (Fisher)

You’ve been going on a lot of first dates.  At this point you’d consider yourself a professional first dater; you can tell within the first five minutes if it will go beyond the initial sip and smile. On first dates you’ll only commit to late afternoon, early evening drinks, coffee or beer, with a prearranged out: “I’ve got dinner plans with my sister at 7.” Thank God you have a sister. One drink is plenty of time to determine basic levels of dating compatibility.  He discusses his affection for ferrets. His go to drink is a Jack and Coke. He’s unemployed.  He drives a monster truck.  His favorite restaurant is Macaroni Grill. He seems completely unaware of your incompatibility. He asks you on a second date. You squirm. What’s the nicest way to say no?

Another first date. You meet for a drink. Within the first five minutes you’re pretty sure there will be a second date, maybe dinner, a movie? You discuss you’re shared enthusiasm for Belgian beers, Wes Anderson movies, dogs, John Denver songs, stand-up comedy. He has a college degree, owns his own home, has manners. You compliment him on his nice watch, he notices the color of your eyes…”they are like green grey but around the edges, orange. You’re eyes look like fall.” His eyes are kind, with laugh wrinkles at the corners. He asks you about your job and you realize you don’t know what he does for a living. You ask. He deftly changes the subject, you don’t really notice. Later in the conversation you attempt to segue back to employment…he’s working on his photography portfolio…. used to work as a concrete engineer… the economic downturn…he’s got a lot of free time…step, ball, change. He doesn’t seem unemployed: he’s got a new iPad, a fancy phone, that watch. He travels. How do you afford a house without a job? He pays for your drinks, he seems to have a lot of cash. You decide not to worry about it, just yet.  He’d like to see you again. You’d like to see him again. No squirming. Well, maybe just a little.

The View from the Aquarium (Joce)

My parents met when they were in the 5^th grade. We have a newspaper clipping from that year that shows them, two desks apart in a classroom, clad in plaid shirts, diligently working on their schoolwork. They dated all through high school, attended the same college and got married the summer after they graduated.  Four kids, many homes and cars and businesses later, forty some years later, in fact, they are still married.  It hasn’t always been a fairytale romance, but I think anyone would admit there is a little bit of crazy magic (coupled with a lot of diligent hard work) that goes into a long term union such as theirs.

No matter how non-traditional I feel in other aspects of my life, growing up with their solid alliance as my primary example of a relationship has contributed to my believing, deeply, in the power of marriage, family loyalty and commitment.  And yet, despite my openness to it, this kind of union has eluded me at every pass.

In my twenties, I was a serial-monogamist. I never dated anyone for less than a year, and I had two nearly 5 year, cohabitation relationships. In the first one, we met when I was 19 and moved in together after just a few months of dating. We were a classically bad match, but young and inexperienced enough to keep at it for way too long. Years before we actually broke up, the relationship had run it’s course and we sniped at each other, complained to our friends and became jaded with life and each other. He was a lazy alcoholic with a porn collection and I was a bitter, overworked, short-tempered bitch. We brought out the absolute worst in each other. After a few years, our parents started pressuring us about marriage and when I realized the long-term implications of that merger, I was confident that was not what I wanted. Not with him.

Bad Dates, A Beginning (Joce)

From Joce’s Ramona Quimby  “Fill in the Blank Diary”, 4^th Grade

I have brown colored hair

And green colored eyes

I am 4 feet and 4 inches tall

FEBRUARY

The nicest person in my class is Joey

I like him/her because He loves me were going out

Glue or tape the best valentine that you received here, or draw a picture of it!

Dear Joce,

I love you would you go out with me. Love, Joey P.S. Don't tell anyone

APRIL

The sport I’m best at is skating

The hardest thing about growing up Trying to tell your mom about your boyfriend but she gets mad 

BOYFRIENDS

Angie + John

John + Erika

John + Joce

Joce + Joey

Kelly + Peter

Erika + David

MAY

I was treated unfairly this month when Joey was pulling my hair and yelling

This made me angry because He usually likes me were not going out anymore 

In May, I most want to forget: Joey

The biggest surprise I had this month was John actually likes me amazing he used to call me fat 

One hope I have for next month is John still likes me

SEPTEMBER

This year I’m in the 5^th Grade

I think I will like my new teacher this year because He's really nice and he's a boy 

I look different this year because I have longer hair I got braces 

La-Z-Boy (Bryce)

He’s not exactly your type, but who is? He’s intriguing, for sure: former world champion power lifter (he’s got cinder blocks for thighs), speaks Japanese, has an impressive, professional job for someone his age. He takes time off work to volunteer in Haiti, donates money to every random cause, reads the New York Times. You rarely get to see him, since he’s a workaholic and a gym rat, but he designs elaborate destination dates, so you forgive his unavailability, his late night calls and his sporadic emails. He stays over on New Years but gets up at 4 a.m. to go to work. You make a resolution to be more understanding.

It’s hard to argue with his philanthropy and generosity, though sometimes you wish he was a little more run of the mill. You buy him a new briefcase for Christmas and in return, he donates money in your name to buy farm animals for a “third world family in need.” You were kinda hoping for some new earrings, or slippers.

He’s so busy, you notice he overlooks some basic stuff. Like his glasses. They’re old and falling apart and the lenses are scratched. Three days in a row he wears the same sweatshirt, and you think he slept in it, too. It’s starting to smell. You overhear him having an argument with his landlord; he forgot to pay his rent…several months in a row. It’s not because he doesn’t have the money. You know he has a dog since a couple of times he mentions that he should go home and let the dog out, before he falls asleep on your couch, still wearing his glasses and sweatshirt.

You try and help. You pack him a lunch and take it by his office. You remind him of his mother’s birthday and offer to wrap her gift. You make several trips to the post office and send his bills and you stock your fridge with Diet Pepsi so he can grab a couple on his way to work in the morning. One day, you mention that you’d be happy to go by and walk his dog for him. You have to to walk your dog anyway. Reluctantly, he gives you the key. You’ve never been to his house before. “Everything is a mess right now, “ he says, “I’ve been so busy, I haven’t had time to clean up.” “Don’t worry about it,” you say, “a little clutter never hurt anyone.”

It’s a dark bungalow at the end of the street. Deep set windows are closed to the daylight, hung with old yellowed dusty metal blinds. You push open the door and are met with a foul, acidic odor. Cat. The dog, an ill-proportioned mix of German shepherd and bassett hound launches at you while your eyes are still adjusting to the darkness of the front room. You lurch into the room, kneeing the dog in the chest, and stumble over a chenille area rug that’s wadded up in the middle of the floor. You can barely make out the couch, covered in bed sheets, one wooden armrest revealed, splintered and chewed. Silent, blinking cats (maybe 3?) eye you from an old La-Z-Boy that’s thick with cat hair and dirt. There are great balls of pet hair and dust bunnies dancing across the floor like ghosts; the frenzy of the dog jumping around is moving the stagnant air and blowing the stench of dust and disarray deep into your nostrils. There are piles of stuff everywhere, knee deep, waist deep, shoulder deep. Piles and piles of clothes, bedding, towels. Piles of books, records, CD’s, DVD’s. As you move through the room, you see into the “kitchen.” Piles of dishes, pots and pans, pizza boxes, Chinese take out containers. There are piles of boxes and plastic bags. A 30 lb. bag of cat food is lying in the middle of the room with the bottom torn out and the contents strewn across the floor. You go through the kitchen to where he’s told you the leash is kept and as you pass through the threshold of the laundry room you are met with an even more horrible smell.

In front of the washing machine, there is a giant overflowing litter box, cat shit everywhere, and 6 inches deep in front of the back door is a pile of dog poop. The dog continues to throw itself in desperation at your leg. You realize he hasn’t cleaned up after or taken care of these poor animals in weeks, maybe ever. Your heart sinks.

He’s a hoarder, a neglectful (if not abusive) pet owner and he’s living in complete and total squalor. Definitely not your type.

Update (Ken)

My new score: 82. I saw your update about "Ken." Very interesting. After this, no more emails, texts, or anything in writing. Just verbal. See you tomorrow around 6.30 or so.
Ken

No more emails, texts, or anything in writing OR you could just never give me a reason to post anything about you again. Like, don't be a douchebag! See you tomorrow; looking forward to beating your pansy ass at mini golf.
Hugs,
Joce