We’re doing it wrong.

After my folks died at the beginning of 2023, I decided it was time to start dating. I’d been divorced for almost four years at that point, and I realized that if I want a partner, I’m gonna have to go shopping for one. So, first things first, let’s get really clear on what we’re looking for –

Not trying to get married again, not trying to cohabitate. He’s gotta dig kids – mine are around all the time – I’m not a 50% parent. He’s gotta have shit-talking skills that are on my level. Sensitive souls need not apply. Sex.

Then, once you define what it is you want, you’ve gotta give some thought to how you want to go about looking for it and where – we’re not trying to shop at Gopher Ace for a pair of stilettos. So, I swallowed the fucking frog and made a dating profile. I think Match.com was the first one, now I’m on the Bumble. I’m open to suggestions for the next one to try.

On my first dating profile I said something like “Let’s meet up at a park – have coffee and chat while our kids play.” A lot of my friends told me I was gonna go nowhere fast with that line – and they were right. There weren’t any takers to start in real life before moving to making life extra special. And as much as I love sitting at a bar and having a beer and some good conversation, I still would rather the park and kids and coffee any day. I want to see how they introduce themselves to my daughters. I want to see how they interact with their own kids (if they’ve got ‘em). I want to know how they take their coffee and if they brought their own or ran through Caribou on the way. Or let’s meet at the grocery store. I wanna see what you put in your cart. I wanna see how you pick your produce and if you fondle the fuck out of it first, like I do.

Hard grapes are the best grapes. I love the pop and squirt in my mouth.

I wanna talk about mayonnaise, and why are they making it with olive oil now? Does it taste good? Let’s discuss all the new fun flavors of Cholula and how exciting that is. The green one is my favorite, but I’ve got the Sweet Habanero on deck, waiting to grace my eggs & rice with its wonder and delight.

I don’t want to spend weeks meeting a man out at various venues having all the superficial fun, just to finally get invited to his house and discover he’s a hoarder. Or worse, doesn’t own a single book. Or worse yet, doesn’t have any fresh vegetables in the fridge or on the counter. The fetish swing in the closet is cool, though – either way. Let’s have sex sooner rather than later. I am not a gift I am giving to you; I am a gift I give to myself. And myself wants to know if we’re physically compatible. Because sex is fucking important to me, and it’s fun and it feels good – if the alignment is there. Let’s talk about what we like and then execute. Did you listen? Did you touch me the way I told you I like to be touched?

Jackhammers need not apply.

All this to say, I believe we’re doing it backwards. I don’t understand why we have to polish ourselves up nice & shiny before we’ll allow someone to see the real us. The honest us. We go out on dates – dedicated time outside of real life where you get to put your best foot forward, not your everyday foot – your best foot. Your gala foot. So right off the bat we’re setting up a situation that isn’t really real. How do you build something real that wasn’t treated like reality in the first place? Do we all start every Sunday morning with brunch and mimosas on the river? Cleanly shaven in all the right spots? An outfit picked with intent? A delicious fragrance on the neck and back of the knees? I don’t. Not usually. Usually, I start Sundays in yesterday’s t-shirt & undies with coffee and toast. Standing at the kitchen bar with my daughters seated across from me. Always my Uggs because my feet get cold. Stubble everywhere, if not days’ worth of hair growth. My pits stink because I use deodorant, not antiperspirant, so it really does virtually nothing beyond the first seven minutes after application. Prolly makes me stink worse. My teeth are still unbrushed at this point because I don’t brush until after I finish my coffee, and that’s only if I don’t move directly onto a breakfast beer. And my hair is … my hair. And that is me. The real me.

It’s wild to me how uncomfortable people get when you invite them to be real with you. It’s so much easier to put on your mask and your armor and sit down at brunch and talk about how you both love dogs and watching movies and going on adventures. Gag me with a motherfucking spoon. Or better yet, with your you-know. Xxo.