Don’t Waste the Pretty: The Dating Misadventures of a Single Mother

It’s true that I’m in a good place right now in terms of romance.  I’m getting married in a few months and am experiencing this strange sensation of a stable relationship that involves both giving and receiving, kindness, fairness, maturity, good times, shared burdens, and all sorts of unexpected bliss.  But don’t presume romance has always been good to me.

In the post-divorce era, there have been a number of clowns and idiots with whom I’ve woven webs.  I’m able now to look back on these experiences and laugh.  So why not share it with you for sheer entertainment? 

One of the earliest idiot stick figures with no soul, known to my friends only as “The Cowboy”, enjoyed messing with me, not calling for days, weeks at a time, and once I’d decide to call him and express my disappointment, he’d say something like “oh you’re not all worked up because I haven’t called for a minute, are you?”  Not wanting to be “that girl”, I’d insist I’d been equally busy and distracted.  He was the one for whom I adapted the mantra “Don’t waste the pretty.”  He was good practice for dating after being off the market for 8 years.  Until the day I asked him who his celebrity Top 5 was and he said he “didn’t really find any celebrity that attractive.  Except Ann Coulter.  But I just want to %$&# her mind.” 

“Frat Boy” was in his early 20s (while I was in my early 30s).  Initially, I was pleased and surprised to get a text from him each morning that said “good morning beautiful.”  Until I realized it was a mass text.  In fact, texting was the only way he would communicate.  No phone calls.  It took me about 10 days to get bored and delete him.

There was also Cocaine Stalker Boy (not to be confused with my actual stalker, who my lawyer has advised me not to discuss in a public forum).  Cocaine Stalker Boy engaged me in a game of darts one night.  After giving him my number, he gave me bag of white powder and a straw and told me to go to the parking lot and “party.”  I told him I was doing all the partying I’d be doing and no thanks.  This exchange repeated itself several times with neither of us making headway.  I let him know my interest in him had disappeared and we parted ways.  However, Cocaine Stalker Boy liked calling me at 5 and 6 a.m.  Incessantly.  Like 25 times in a row.  I ran into him a couple weeks later and he verbally berated me in public, asking me if I thought I was better than him – not accepting his calls like that!  I said yes, I did think I was better than him.  Sometimes you have to exaggerate how deplorable you are in order to get someone to go away.  Which reminds me...

Someone I dated asked me to think really hard before I bought my Chihuahua.  He wanted me to consider the responsibility that comes with owning a dog and to weigh that against the amount of time that would take me away from him.   

Someone I dated was very generous and doting, spending exorbitant amounts of money on me, quipping “Don’t worry – I got this” and so forth.  Then I’d get an invoice.  Yes, an invoice.  A spreadsheet with total costs, divided down to the penny of what I owed him. 

Someone created a spreadsheet outlining how much time we spent at his house vs. mine so I could see how selfish I was (never mind the fact that I have one or both of my kids almost every night and need to put them to bed at my house). 

Someone called my doctor when I insisted I had a handle on a health issue, stating he was my husband and arranging an appointment for me.

Someone finally made me so crazy and aggravated, I bailed halfway through a 6 hour car trip - in the middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvannia - and got a one-way rental car to Columbus just so I wouldn’t have to sit beside him a moment longer.  He told me I was bluffing and would never do it.  He underestimated me, and underestimated his ability to be so repellant. J

Farmer Bill and I had several pleasant dates.  I kept hoping he’d learn how to chew with his mouth shut.  His fatal error was asking if I wanted to meet up at Hooter’s for a date.  Damn that Master’s degree in Women’s Studies! 

The Id seemed pleasant enough, even polite.  We had a lot in common and conversation came easy.  On the second or third (and final) date, he felt comfortable enough to brag to me about his long history of dark sexual conquests.  In detail. 

Computer Boy was sweet and we could talk for hours on the phone.  But when we’d get together, I found myself praying he wouldn’t try to hold my hand.  I’d order garlic-laden food in the hopes he wouldn’t try to kiss me, for fear it would feel like kissing my brother.  I just wasn’t feelin’ it.

There’s more.  And no, they weren't all freaks.  A few were perfectly decent, but with whom it just didn’t work out.  So the next time you want to gag as I gush about my current state of happiness, don’t fool yourself into believing things come easily to me.  I’ve had a long list of learning experiences, and for that I’m grateful.  Each and every one taught me a little more about what I do and don’t want in a relationship.  And don’t let my light-hearted reminiscences fool you either.  Many of my dating experiences led to excruciating pain, tears, sadness, self-doubt, and broken-heartedness.  I feel it was all worth it to wind up right here, right now.  And just think of the stories I can share with my kids when they begin dating!

weapons of words

Maybe if I didn't care so much about how I treat the world and how the world perceives me....I wouldn't care so much about what others say about me.  It is amazing to me how even years later, words can echo in my mind, haunt me, and cause self-doubt, apprehension, and humiliation.  I just stumbled across someone's words about me from 4 years ago - calling me "close-minded", "self-centered", "a bad listener", "intolerant", and "full of self pity".  My colleagues joke (because they think it's ridiculous) about how I'm a "worthless piece of shit" - something somebody else called me a year ago in the heat of anger and rage. 

Words hurt.  Not only do they hurt, they scar.  Words end relationships, at least for me.  Words can't be taken back.  There is always an element of truth in them, even if an apology is delivered.  And anyone who is self-aware and who cares about improving themselves is going to always run those words through their mind and feel the heat rush to their face, feel their chin droop, their mouth turn down at the realization that someone thinks something so horrible about them. 

Sure, we rationalize and we consider the source - whether that person is jealous or hurting or feeling rejected or confused, etc.  But it's out there....free to wander the halls of our minds and our hearts even if we will it to go away.  Lately, I've been trying to center myself on the realization that God's opinion of me is the only one that truly matters.  He loves me.....loves me so much, he sacrificed his son's life so that my life could be eternal.  So I'm pretty sure he doesn't think I'm worthless or any of those other horrible things.  He thinks I'm everything.  And if I keep my mind and heart focused on that, perhaps I can let the words of mere mortals bounce off a little easier.

I miss you....I am you

Today is the date Doris Newcomb died.  Yesterday was the date her husband, George Washington Newcomb, died - 10 years earlier than her.  They were my grandparents – Granny and PaPa.  They were Newcombs.  They changed my life forever.

I grew up with my grandparents living 500 miles away from me.  I didn’t know my grandfather that well, as I was probably in 2^nd grade when he died.  But I remember loving him, and him loving me.  I remember him loving my mom, his daughter-in-law, fondly referring to her as “Puddin”.  And I remember ten years after his death, when my grandmother died, how we found all those medals and purple hearts in a beat up cigar box.  He had never once mentioned them.  We’ve often wondered if she even knew about them.  He stormed the beaches of Normandy on D-day.  That’s where he got those purple hearts.  The man never mentioned a word of the war afterwards.  To this day, I can’t watch Saving Private Ryan without experiencing a chilling realization that this cinematic production actually happened and my grandfather was a part of it. 

It is hard to explain how a woman I only got to see twice a year became such an important influence in my life.  But to this day, the greatest compliment I have ever received is “as long as Angie Newcomb is alive, Doris Newcomb will never be dead.” 

She was a slight, small, frail looking woman, almost always weighing less than 100 pounds.  And she had her weaknesses and struggles, but she was a tough old bird.  Strong as she could be.  She endured a lot of pain and suffering, disappointment, grief, and turmoil in her life.  But she loved.  Oh how she loved. 

She always protected us kids whenever Mom and Dad would come down too hard on us.  If she heard my dad getting on us about our grades, she’d slam that recliner into its lowered position, march into the back bedroom, and return with old grade cards of my dad’s, showing us some Ds much to our surprise (my dad is a very successful, well-educated man) and tell him to back off.  She’d make homemade biscuits and give me, my brother, and my cousins extra dough, which she allowed us to throw onto the ceiling, watch it slide off, and throw it back up there until finally it stuck on the ceiling and hardened over the years.  She would indulge us the way grandparents often do, taking us down to their little country store and letting us get cold bottles of Dr. Pepper and pour peanuts into them, sucking down the peanuts for that delightfully salty-sweet taste.  I took in a turtle I found in her yard once, loved him for a whole week, and then when it was time to go back to Ohio, I had to let him go and was inconsolable – convinced he would wander onto that country road and get flattened by a car.  Finally she yelled “Dammit Angie, don’t you know that turtles don’t get out in the road?  They hate asphalt!”  I was immediately silent and worry-free, and it wasn’t until I was almost an adult that I realized that was a bold-faced lie.

She’d lie there in her recliner, with her ashtray and cigarettes right next to her, and appear to be asleep, mouth agape.  Then she would shoot up like a cannon, slamming down the recliner, chirping “Y’all want a snack?”  She loved a cone of cream from the Tastee Freeze.  I have a scar above my lip from a fishing trip with her where I yanked on the pole so hard, the hook flew back and landed in my lip.  Before we’d start a meal she’d say “Thank God for supper.”  She appears to be the source of my naturally curly hair, as she had waves in hers.  She’d tell me that the boys used to tell her they wanted to walk barefoot in her hair and told me not to let others tease me about something they would later envy and pay money for (curls).  My cousins tricked me once into eating a hot pepper in the back of Granny & PaPa’s truck and I was screaming, tears flowing.  From the front of the truck she yelled back, “Open up your mouth and let the wind blow around in it to cool ya off!”  She had nerves, raw nerves that made her anxious as hell at times, and I’ve inherited those.  She was stubborn as a mule and determined.  She told you like it was, so if you didn’t want to hear the truth, you really shouldn’t have asked her.  And she was so completely lovable. 

I’ve felt an emptiness inside me since she left this world that will never be filled.  My single greatest regret in life is not attending her funeral.  It was finals week at Ohio State, and I didn’t know how to throw an entire quarter of school down the drain when I was such an over-achieving freshman.  I’ve always hated myself for missing those moments of closure and honor for such an amazing woman.  I hope she forgave me and understands.

I recently became engaged, and we made the very meaningful decision to use part of her antique engagement ring in the new setting we created for our new life together.  This means I wear a beautiful reminder of her each day. 

People ask me why I didn’t change my name when I married my ex-husband years ago.  The answer is pretty simple.  I’m proud of where I come from and who made me who I am today.  I am a Newcomb.  A Jamaican palm reader takes one look at my hand and tells me I’m stubborn and passionate, and I grin, thinking of where I got that from.  Someone stops me to ask if my hair is naturally curly and I say yes, and then I think about boys walking barefoot in it. J  

Blessid Union of Souls released a song called "Nora" back in the 90s.  It always makes me think of Granny, and it always makes me cry.  Please take a moment to listen to it.

And though I know there wasn't long to go
Time was something that we shared
And when you died I didn't cry for long
Cause I believe I'll see you again
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r6jMjnVJlzY
 

old words

found this from about 4 years ago.  apparently if I'd had a blog, this would have been an entry:

I must admit, I've come a long way.  When you become a single mother of two, something as small as getting yourself and 2 children under the age of 3 out the door each day can seem like the Wall of China stands between you and the small successes like getting to work on time.  How big is the Wall of China?  I don't know.  I wish my daughter wouldn't ask me that every time she sees a small stone landscape border or a guard rail.  But I digress.

Having a 9-month hold whom you must feed and dress...and entertain while you feed and clothe yourself, along with a 2 1/2 year old and a dying Chihuahua...it's amazing I got out of bed all those days and conquered the day.  Which is precisely what it felt like - conquering, defeating, prevailing.  Getting up at 5:45 a.m., getting all of us cleaned, brushed, dressed, and fed....getting to the day care with no one accidentally left at home, and remembering favorite blankies, bottles, diaper bags, and my own purse...whew.  Thank God for bouncer seats and baby gates.  That's all I have to say.

So yes, I've come a long way.  Now my daughter is 6 1/2, and dresses herself each morning without much prodding.  My 4 year old son is capable of dressing himself, but must be cajoled, bargained with, and otherwise manipulated or tricked into doing it for himself.  A new Chihuahua pup is now underfoot - and constantly dragging the kids' toys and clothes across the floor, creating shrieks of delight as they chase her and rescue each cherished item.  And I am constantly coaching, checking progress, cheering, prodding, nagging them along.

It was Friday morning, our 5th morning in a row together, heading into a long weekend (not always the relaxing, rejuvenating time it's cracked up to be when you are a single mom) and another week together.  We're running late.  Why wouldn't we be?  I'm hurriedly passing out everyone's breakfast food and drink of choice, telling my daughter to PLEASE feed the dog unless she wants her to starve and die.  My son calls out from the bathroom, "MOMMMMMMMMMMYYYYYYYYYYYY."

"What Noah?"

"You ran out of toilet paper."  I halt in my tracks.  I know I just put a new spool in their bathroom 2 days ago.  I go racing up the stairs to find him sliding off the pot, grinning in a matter of fact "what brings you here?" sort of way.  And the toilet paper is, in fact, empty.  Because damn near all of it is piled into the toilet.

"NOAH!!!!  WHY did you do this?  You KNOW you only need to use 4 squares!!  Did you even poop?"

"Nope."  And with that, he turns and flushes the toilet.  It makes a sputtering sort of noise like my lawnmower when it has about 1/4 cup of gasoline in it.  It immediately clogs and he flushes it again before I can find a way to function verbally or physically.  The toilet paper is going nowhere.

"Forget it!" I snap at him.  "I'll deal with this later.  We HAVE to eat buddy!"

I race back down the stairs and there is her Highness.  Nala, the feisty, crazy Chihuahua, standing in my chair with her front paws on the table, lapping up my cereal like she earned it.  Like I don't need it.  Like I'm not frazzled as hell already, suffering from reactive hypoglycemia andneeding SOMETHING ANYTHING in my body ASAP so I can find the energy to start the day.

"NALA!!!!!!!!!!" I scream and she hops down, cowers under the table.  The kids scream with excitement that someone besides them is getting me in all my glory.  Danielle pipes up, "You haven't even yelled at me yet today."

Thud.