Divorced Dating and Damn Drama (5 page)

I know I am going to sound emotional. I know you are going to call me weak, but I must tell you. I pine, I pine for the guys who have rejected me. And yes, all of them reject me. I won't give them what they want so they discard me like trash. Like I'm nothing, and maybe I am. Maybe I am a nobody. Hell, I hear it enough. And I'm not just talking about Ruby, who shouted that at my door at 3am last night. I politely asked her to shut it and she shouted "I'm Ruby, and I haven't said anything". Really? You haven't said anything? Maybe she doesn't smoke, maybe she is just insane.

I feel the need to get out of the house, to get away from all the craziness that consumes it. I drive a long way to a popular museum filled with old paintings. I enjoy looking at paintings, because not only do they hold our nation's culture, but they always tell the most fascinating
stories. I get lucky today and find a great spot right by the door. Too lucky if
you ask me.

I step out of the car in my relaxed jeans and over sized comfy t-shirt. My shoes are, you guessed it, slippers. What? I want to relax. Plus no one will see me here. I march up the steps after checking a hundred times to make sure the doors of my car are locked. I don't have a fancy beeper that automatically locks the door. No I have the manual locks you have to physically press down with your thumb.

I arrived at the door to find, that although the website said that it opened at 8am sharp, the new sign on the walls stated it does not open until 10am. As irritated as I was, and believe me I was, I decided not to let my anger get the best of me. Instead I decided to take a rather brisk walk around the neighborhood, after realizing it occupants were in fact possible muggers, thieves and worse. I finally settled in my car where I got a small book out of my glove compartment and began to read. Now I am not an avid reader about rats who are smarter than humans and today was no exception. I understand the rise of the machine but the rise of the rats, not so much. I fell asleep after the first few pages and drifted into a wonderland. I was suddenly awakened to a loud knock on my window.

"Are you ok miss?" Shouted a rather loud woman.

"Yes" I said without rolling down the window.

"Good, because somebody just ran up and slashed your tires. I'm Marsha by the way." Marsha said with attitude. I really don't know why her name was relevant. However to each his own.

"What the what?!" I exclaim tearing
my door open. I get out
to find that this in fact was true. All four tires were slashed. My car, my beautiful car. This is a tragedy.

Marsha turned to me, "That crazy women was going to smash your window before she saw me running after her." Marsha pointed to knife and a rather large rock sitting beside my car. "You could have been killed," Marsha said. Then she informed me that I should report this to the police. But I waved her off, the cops never help people like me. If anything they will just find some reason to cite my poor car and give me an expensive ticket. Why does everyone hate me and my car? Or is it my car and I. Anyways, if you want to hate me, fine, but not my car, anything but my car. I debate about calling triple A; they will just charge an arm and a leg. I walk and find some store's shopping cart so that I can take my tires and rims from the car and bring back four shiny new tires mounted on my rusty old rims so that I can change them myself. Why? It is true Henry never bothered to change tires; he said he was educated, so that left the car problems up to me to deal with. And since we did not have much money, I learned from the best kind of experience there is, first hand.

I was being harassed to try something different. It's not that I don't want to try something different it's just that I don't have time. But lack of time means nothing to the online dating community. One guy said he would broaden my horizon by taking me to an open mike night. I dressed in all back because I think that's what you are supposed to wear at that type of place. When I arrive I grab a table in the back and order a drink. Apparently there is a one drink minimum for the admission part. I look at the wine menu. Eight bucks! Really? I struggle to find enough crumpled up bills, located in the bottom of my purse, to order. I mean, I wish I would have know it was going to cost to come. The wine is quickly brought over. I pick it up and examine it. Eight bucks for a glass of red wine that isn't even half full. Next time I'm bringing boxed wine and my own glass. That will show them. Anyways, the lights do that flashing thing that they do when the show is about to start. I text Jarred, telling him that the show is about to start. He texted back that he knows. Ok, you know, then where the hell are you? Honestly, am I being stood up? The light dims and I take a sip of wine.

The performance starts and the first act is a man who wrote an open interpretation about his hair. I'll give you a guess, it's short. After his synopsis of his hair he reads a ten minute poem about his short hair. The second act jumps onstage and it is that guy I was supposed to meet. Hurray? He is dressed head to toe in a yellow with red polka dots clown suit. "I just want to say I have an erection for a special lady out there." He begins. Oh god, please do not recognize me. Crap he did, suddenly there is a spotlight on me. The light is blinding. "I just want you to know how your night will end." He then starts dry humping the mike stand. For five minutes. Just dry humping it. I wanted to leave during his performance but I was so shocked that I was glued to my chair, plus I had expensive wine to chug. As soon as he stepped off stage, I made a mad dash for my car.

That weekend I had two other dates. One seriously had an anger problem and he told me why.

"I just hate you." Says Scott, 42, with lavish locks. His hair was prettier than mine, maybe I'm just jealous. Just maybe, oh who am I kidding I was really jealous
. But even the pretty hair guy had his flaws. Scott
claimed to be the prince of America. The prince of America. Oh people, stop lying without thinking. You need to think, then lie.

"Are you sure... are you sure you hate me?" I asked. I mean I haven't done anything. What? I haven't. I can do nothing.

"Yes." Scott responds proceeding to crack his knuckles. Is this supposed to be intimidating? All I can think is he will have a higher chance for arthritis.

"Really?" I ask.

"No." Scott admits with a sigh.

"Who do you hate?" I ask, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Myself" Scott admits meekly.

"There we go, now we can begin the healing process." I say then offer comforting words. What? sometimes I do help people. Not always but sometimes.

On the other hand my other date did not go as well. Yes, it gets worst. My second date met me at street corner and tried not only to sell me drugs but he also tried to get me to pawn my car so I could buy his drugs. Ok, so how did this one all get started? We talked for maybe a week online, then spent a few days texting. We finally agreed to meet on a street corner because it was by the bus stop and I try to accommodate when I can.

Do not get upset when people yell at you because they are not mad at you, they are just mad at themselves. I have been at the receiving end of many hateful words and so on. I think it's easy to blame ourselves but blaming ourselves won't solve anything. The person is most likely mad about something in their life they can't control. So they blame others. Some things are out of our control. I have often blamed myself for my husband cheating. But it wasn't my fault, despite what the whole world says. He's just a lowlife who thinks with his little head and isn't worthy of me. That's what I keep telling myself. I just don't believe a word I say.

Why on earth do people think that they can be complete jerks to you one night and expect to be forgiven the next because they were intoxicated? Excuse me, even though the fact that you are in an intoxicated state might be an explanation for your behavior, it sure as hell is not an excuse. I am not obliged to forgive you. If you cannot handle your alcohol, which clearly you cannot, then I will not forgive you. Yes, we all say things we do not mean, however you made the choice to consume above your tolerance level to a point where you were no longer, according to you, in charge of your emotional or mental state.

Granted, I too have felt the sweet taste of my favorite alcoholic beverage-I do not over consume. May I be so bold to ask you; if we went out on a date and I was drunk, then I proceeded to sleep with your father, would you forgive me? I mean, I was intoxicated right? I was not in control of my actions. Because last night you didn't just cuss me out and threaten to end my life when I requested the bartender to cut you off, you then sloppily went around harassing both male and female bar patrons. You propositioned men for sex. If any of them had said yes, would I be obliged to forgive you? Do you get a free pass because you claimed to be drunk? No, in fact HELL NO! Now I find the aftermath of a drunk more amusing then the drunken man himself. See the drunken man is having the time of his life, while you are getting stares and rude comments of one type or another... As if it was your job to control how much your date drinks. However, when the next day arrives, I relish them stumbling to clean up the mess they created.

"I'm sorry about last night, I was drunk, ok?" Pleads Tony.

"I don't care," I say while eating a brownie.

"I was intoxicated; it wasn't like I knew what I was doing." Tony stammers pacing in his apartment. See we are talking on the phone, he is in his apartment and I am in mine.

"If you don't know what you are doing while drunk maybe you shouldn't drink." I suggest shoving another brownie into my already stuffed mouth.

"You don't understand, it's not like you drank last night!" Tony shouts.

"How could I, you sucked the bar dry before I had a chance to flag down the waiter." I accused licking my fingers.

"So this is my fault?" Tony asks. Whose fault does he think it is? Mine?

"I don't know what this is, but I'm guessing it is YOUR fault" I say, searching the floor for crumbs.

"We had sex last night and you don't know what this is, you're such a whore" He assumes.

"We never had sex last night, I went home alone." I said, disappointed not only that there are no brownies left, but no pieces on the floor. Oh, and he had sex with someone else last night. That sounds upsetting.

"Oh, then why am I texting you?" Tony asks.

"I don't know." I say getting a candy bar from the fridge.

"I'm blocking you now." Tony says in monotone.

Thank God!

I don't know what men hate more, me asking questions or me answering them.
Oh crap, I think it's just me, they just don't like me. Pause for dramatic effect. Anyways, I am often
quick to temper when a guy messes with my mind and my emotional state. I admit, I'm a horrible person; I try to get to know them. I want them to be happy, despite popular belief, even if they are not with me. Maybe that's why they get pissed off when I ask them what would make them happy. Hell, they had spent the last two hours psycho texting about how they hate their lives; I thought I was doing the right thing. No, I don't "poor baby" any one. I know I sound cruel, but grow up. Your mommy didn't get your daddy to make you CEO of a fortune five hundred, whatever the hell that is. And now you're unemployed because all other jobs are beneath you. A good example is Tommy. He is 32, balding with a killer smile.

I met this one
in the park, because we both agreed that free is the way to go. Granted that the park is lo
cated by his house, so technically I had to spend gas money to get here and he had to spend zero money to walk, but I'm overlooking this. It is a nice day... nice day to step in dog poop walking to the shaded bench. The sun is sitting high in the sky and beating down on me as I walk. A slight breeze comes from the west and tussles my thick black bangs. Stay positive Mar, you could be meeting your future soul mate. Half an hour after our scheduled meet time he stumbles out of an ally and into the park. He is dressed as a thug. A 32 year old bee
r bellied thug. Still has that great smile though. Too bad
his smile is about four shades yellower then in his photos. But everyone photo shops their photos. I know I smoothed my bubble-butt down to a reasonable size. What? My butt just happens to be large due to stress eating. I'm stressed out because my life in filled with morons.

"You just don't understand. You never had a family that puts pressure on you." Tommy cries. No introduction or anything. He is just jumping right into this.

"Just because I don't complain about my family pressures doesn't mean I don't have any" This is a true statement. My mom constantly hounds me to get back with my ex. I know he is a lawyer mom; I paid his way through college. Remember HE cheated on ME!

"You aren't even listening. My dad owns a gas station and he fired me." Tommy actually started crying, with tears and runny nose and everything. He is drawing unwanted attention so I put my arm around him. It's supposed to be comforting but let's face it, it's just awkward.

"What was the reason he gave for firing you?" I ask softly.

"He, He said I can't show up late and I can't drink or give out beer to my friends!" Tommy blubbers. He finally gains control over his emotions and starts to settle down.

"Are you for real?" I inquire. It's starting to get hot, I wish I had worn a nicer shirt, but I didn't so I keep my jacket on.

"It's all real. That's what he said. I hate him so much. If my mom was not paying for my online subscriptions I swear I would run away." Tommy
says with pride. What is he s
o prideful about, that he did not run away or that his mom is paying for his subscriptions?

"You do realize you are 32, right?" I ask smoothing my skirt and regaining my composure. I take back my arm and place my hand neatly in my lap.

Tommy then informs me that "There is not an age limit on running away." Then proceeds to call me a "retard" and storms off. Probably to be consoled with the only woman who will ever love him, his mother.