love.com

And the Winner Is…

It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Well, maybe it’s not that dramatic, but I have had several people ask me which choice won the blog poll for the new title of my memoir. It actually was a tie!

The envelope please…

With both obtaining a respectable 27.3%, the winners are:

love.com: 237 First Dates that Changed My Life

Love, Alt, Delete: 237 First Dates that Changed My Life

As some of you remember, I held a contest on my Facebook Page for friends to submit entries for the new title. So the winning title goes to Eric. He’ll receive some goodies from our friends at  Fish Hugger. Fish Hugger has delicious, sustainable salmon, beef and other products that are healthy and good for the environment.

Eric’s title was Love, Alt, Delete (which I love BTW). Since I’m not sure, still, exactly what title and subtitle I’m going with, I’ve decided to give out a runner-up prize to Sherry who submitted Confessions of a Dating Mom. I love that one too, and I may use that in some form or fashion. So Sherry will also receive something yummy!

Thank you everybody who participated. I appreciate your support and ongoing encouragement. I could not do this without each of you! Look for a new poll soon on the blog.

P.S. That’s my TBR pile above! I have a lot of reading to do this summer.

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones

Undateable Women - A Girl's Perspective

First, you have to understand that what inspired this post was a television show called Undateable which highlights things guys do that guarantee that they will not only not get a date, but not be having sex.

I posted some funny highlights and my own additions on my Facebook Group page and also my Twitter page ([email protected]). For example, too much polar fleece was strangely absent from the show’s list as were money clips, panel vans, and bad table manners. These all make my personal undateable list.

What happened, though, is that my male friends (gay and straight), rebelled.

One tweet said, “How come these things are always about what men do wrong? What about women? I’ve been w/ some doosies!”

John said on FB, “On behalf of all men I worry that by eliminating these 311 things that we can't do, that we'll be left with about 4 things that we can. Women of the world, HELP!”

J—a gay man—said on FB, “I don’t seem to have a problem with the men I date doing things way outside the norm, but my brother dates women who are ALWAYS wearing, saying, or doing undateable things. Have you SEEN what some of the women out there wear?! You should blog about that!”

So here I am. My CSA friend and I (if you don’t remember her, you can get caught up here) went out into downtown Seattle armed with our cell phone cameras to capture what we think men think is undateable. We were having so much fun that we also made a list. I want to know your feedback; especially if you’re a man or a gay woman. Do you agree? Are they undateable? Should we start our own reality show? Oddly, we’ve already gotten a bit of feedback, and not all of it has concurred.

• Leggings or leg warmers (especially in odd or fluorescent colors)
• Pajamas and/or slippers

• Crocs and other strange footwear not meant for this century or planet

• Women walking a pack of dogs OR dogs in a bag (this really opens up an entire category of odd pet ownership—see below and please note “I will not date that. I will not date that with a cat. Nor with a rat on top of her cat.” Actually there are so many things I could say about this one that I don’t even know where to begin. Did you SEE she has a cat and a rat on a leash? And blue hair?)

• Birkenstocks (especially with socks)

• Women who don’t shave or wax their: legs, underarms, face (A guy friend said recently there was a woman at Macy’s who had a bigger mustache than him--eww!)
• Rainboots

• Shirts that show a woman’s midriff (There was some contention on this point, with CSA saying that men like this sort of thing because they like to know if they’re, “getting a fattie.”)
• T-bar of thong or really any sort of underwear showing (Another argument ensued here with L. from FB saying this is sexy…especially bra straps. Why do women even wear shirts, I ask you?)
• Androgynous-looking women

• Lots of key chains and keys around wrist or neck; ditto lots of purses

• Bandanas
• Unnatural hair colors growing out (see also bun in above photo)

L. added after seeing this one that, “Men will forgive a thousand sins if she’s got a nice ass.” Conclusion: the girl’s perspective on what makes a girl dateable is necessarily flawed.

MILF Part II

So as you might recall in Part I of the Saga of The Lawyer and the MILF, I was dating Richard. Richard is an attorney I met online who had a prenuptial agreement with his first wife that specified he could leave her if she gained more than ten pounds. Plus, he disagreed with my parenting techniques and had trust issues.

Then I slept with my next-door neighbor, Graydon, who was twenty-two to my thirty-five years. I know, I know. While not doing much for increasing Richard’s potential feelings of confidence in the relationship, it did a great deal to increase my own feelings of self-worth.

My best friend, who is also a lawyer, was surprisingly glad to hear about my new Cougar Mom status. But then, Arianna has never been much of one to let pesky ethics get in the way of what she wants.

Lawgirl03: I can’t believe you! I’m so proud of you!

Tchr8888: UR proud of me for having sex with some guy I barely know and for CHEATING on my bf??!?

Lawgirl03: Oh yea! For once, you’re taking control of the situation.

Tchr8888: No taking control would have been just saying that I didn’t want to see him anymore.

Lawgirl03: Baby steps, my friend, baby steps.

Tchr8888: How do I tell Richard?

Lawgirl03: Just be honest.

Tchr8888: That hasn’t worked so well this far.

Lawgirl03: Well try it, you might like it. Are you going to see cutie pie again?

Tchr8888: IDK—he is SOOO hottt and SOOO young. Do you know he’s closer to my students’ ages than mine?

Lawgirl03: LMFAO—he just wants a MILF!

Unfortunately, old habits die hard. I kept trying to find the courage to tell Richard about Graydon. It seemed like there was always something in the way. There was something he needed to tell me or we had someplace we needed to be and I put off the conversation. I really hate confrontation.

As it turned out, I was spared having to tell Richard myself since he discovered an email to Graydon on my AOL account (which he was apparently reading—doesn’t anyone respect my privacy? **insert false sense of indignity here**).

Subj: Integrity
Date: May 14, 2004

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I have been lied to enough. I hope you and G have a good fling together. Lying to me is definitely not a good idea. I hope that someday you figure out what integrity means. Right now, I don’t think you have a clue. You will have a very lonely life without it. The only kinds of people that you will ever attract for any long term will be other people without it and those who continue to tell you how to live your life.

I am someone that doesn’t trust easy. It takes a long time for me to trust someone. Without that trust, I am captive to my fear and anxiety. You hurt me.

Richard

I made a vow to work on my integrity AND to be more assertive. In the meantime, privately glad I didn't have to worry about that last seven pounds I needed to lose, I crawled into bed with my daughter to watch "Gilmore Girls.” **Insert undeserved tears of self-pity and bags of Doritos here**

The Lawyer and the MILF

PROFILE   RJD80 “Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent.” Friedrich Nietzsche Active within 1 week 42-year-old-man Albuquerque, NM  United States Seeking women 30-45 Within 50 miles of Albuquerque, NM, United States Relationships: Divorced Have Kids: Yes and sometimes they live at home Want Kids: No but it’s OK if my partner has kids Ethnicity: No answer Body type: About average  Height: 5’10” Hair Color: Dark brown  Eye Color: Brown Smoke: No way Drink: Moderately Education Level:  PhD/Post doctoral My Job: Legal Interests: Music/videos, fine dining, reading, travel (US and foreign), performing arts, museums, cultural events, music & concerts, home repairs

I was fat. No doubt about it. I’d gained fifteen pounds during the nine month relationship with Richard. Most people eat when they are stressed out, but I do the opposite. When I am happy and things are good, I like to have a good meal. Or two. Being in a relationship apparently agreed with me—but not with my wardrobe.

Richard had told me in the beginning of our relationship that his marital prenup consisted, in part, of a clause that said that if his wife gained more than ten pounds from the marriage weight, he had the right to divorce her. I knew my weight gain was a big deal and yet I couldn’t seem to find the gumption to do anything productive about it.

I finally started running again when I saw a picture of myself that I didn’t even recognize. It didn’t help that I had to buy pants with elastic waistbands and drawstrings.

Richard encouraged me with the running. I knew it was important to him that I get (back) in shape. I’m not petite under the best of circumstances, but I figured he had a right for me to look like I did when he first met me.

“You’re starting to slim down,” he said during a trip we took to San Diego.

I stared at him. The words stung because he so rarely doled out praise but was so free with criticism. “Yeah. I’ve been working at it.”

He was also critical of my parenting. He thought that Leah was indulged and spoiled.

One night at my house, Richard and I had planned to watch a movie. I’d put Leah to bed—in her own bed for a change, which I thought was progress. The house had such a strange layout that her bedroom door was up a short flight of stairs from the living room where the television was. Richard asked me to close her bedroom door.

I stared at him. “B . . . but she can’t sleep with the door closed.”

“Tiia,” he began forcefully. “This is a simple problem. You are the mother. You are thirty five years old. She is seven. Take control of the situation. Tell her you are closing the door. That’s it. You let everyone walk all over you and dictate how you live your life—your father, Leah, your friends, everyone. I won’t put up with it. I just won’t.”

I shook my head. I wanted this to work for so many reasons, not the least of which was my current low self-esteem and ongoing lack of confidence as a single parent. “But it’s not a simple problem. Don’t you see? She has abandonment issues. She has seen a therapist for years.”

“No she’s just manipulating you and controlling you. It’s utterly ridiculous.”

After more than 150 dates and almost four years, I was getting weary and discouraged; I knew something didn’t feel right for me, but I was on a relationship path that I didn’t want to or couldn’t leave.

Then in walked Graydon—literally. Leah and I lived in a converted mobile home that butted up against another small house. A young man had recently moved into the house next door, and I had seen him a few times and waved.

He was tall and built like a body builder with bulging muscles that he liked to display by wearing muscle shirts and shorts. One afternoon after dropping Leah off for a sleepover at Jenny’s, there was a knock at the door and there was Graydon.

“You left the trunk of your car open,” he said with a winning smile, “I thought ya might want to know.”

Oh boy, did I. “Thank you. Hey, come in. You’re Graydon, right?” His eyes were a pale blue, and he seriously could not have been more than twenty-five (he was twenty-two as I found out).

“OK just for a minute, but I have a cold so I don’t want to stay long.” His voice sounded gravelly and his eyes were a little bloodshot. Poor baby!

“You poor thing! What are you taking for it?”

He looked despondent. “I don’t have anything. What do you think I should take?”

I suggested a variety of cold remedies, which when I brought them over to him later that evening, included a backrub. He assured me that this was a necessary component of his getting well. I didn’t want to argue with his medical needs.

Backrubs, as we all know, often lead to frontrubs. Graydon was no exception. For being such a young pup, he displayed no lack of sexual experience.

I so would like to say that I thought of Richard as this hot, young stud fulfilled his MILF fantasy. I would even more like to say that I remembered that Richard, like most lawyers, had serious trust issues and had made me promise over and over to be faithful.

The fact is, it made me feel good. For a change, my self-image and even my body image was the one reflected back in Graydon’s eyes and I liked it. He wasn’t what I was looking for in a long-term partner, but Graydon made me realize that the one I had wasn’t what I was looking for either.

***To Be Continued***

Image of Joe Mantegna courtesy of Forensis Channel.forumfree

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones

Happy Father's Day to Me!

As I was reading a recent post on Singlemommyhood.com about Jackie’s Father's Day Drama, I couldn’t help but think of that day ten years ago when I became, not a single parent, but a solo parent. Yes, there is a difference.

Every year about this time, I reflect on what it means to be both father and mother to my child. Reading Jackie’s heartfelt and eloquent thoughts about dealing with a “deadbeat” father, caused my mind to drift back ten years to the day I got that fateful letter from the court. I had received so many court notices from The Ex that it wasn’t unusual. I opened it while Leah was riding her little pink tricycle in the courtyard of our townhouse complex. Distractedly watching her and the other neighborhood children on bikes, trikes, and big wheels, the words grabbed me out of my distraction.

“Relinquishment of Rights and Responsibility. Respondent (that was him) agrees Petitioner (that was me even though I didn’t remember ever petitioning for anything) shall make all major decisions regarding the child. Respondent relinquishes and surrenders further rights to the child. Respondent agrees to abatement of Parenting Time.”

I called my best friend and lawyer Arianna and read her the contents of the legal notice.

“Well,” she said matter-of-factly, “he has decided not to be her father.”

“Can he do this?” I wailed.

“Yes, he can do this. He may think he’ll get out of paying child support, but that isn’t the case. We could tell the judge we want to deny the motion, but it probably won’t do any good.”

I looked up to where one of the neighborhood girls was pushing Leah on her trike. She hadn’t gotten the hang of the business of peddling.

“The hearing is Tuesday,” I said flatly.

“I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

The Ex didn’t come for the hearing, and his attorney seemed apologetic when he said that it should be a rather simple procedure and that The Ex wasn’t required to even be there. You can go to court, decide not to be someone’s father, all without even showing up. How do you like them apples? It was all very anticlimactic. We didn’t even see the judge.

As we were leaving, The Ex’s attorney said he was sorry for the whole thing. “Yeah, me too,” I replied. “Do you know why he did this?”

“No,” he answered. “I merely file the motions my clients ask me to file. I can’t make him want to be a parent.”

Arianna shook her head.

When I got home, my already rotten day got even worse. The UPS man came to the door with a large box. Leah exclaimed, “presents!”

Fortunately, I had a notion that maybe the contents weren’t from Toys R Us or Baby Gap. I had seen that the return address was from The Ex. I told Leah to play in the other room while I opened the box. The box, as it turned out, was only a gift in the most macabre sense of the word, packed I assume by The Ex’s new wife.

It had every toy that had been over at The Ex’s house, every scrap of clothing including every little sock and hair bow. It even had pants and panties that had been soiled during her toilet training accidents that had never been washed and were returned these months later completely filthy and covered with, well, filth. It had pictures drawn by Leah, crayon drawings made while waiting at restaurants, stuffed animals, and Happy Meal toys. It was, in short, every tangible memory of Leah that had remained in his life. Effectively, he had relinquished his rights and responsibilities, and sent them to me in a cardboard box.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and took a deep breath. That’s one thing I know for sure about being a single mother, and in particular a “solo” mother. There is never anyone to take over, never anyone to give you a break. When you are tired or stressed or upset or sad or sick, you just deal with it. So I threw out the clothes that were too gross to salvage and boxed up the memories.

Every year on Father’s Day, I have an urge to send myself a card or a gift. Just to say, “Hey, you’re doing a great job. Maybe not a perfect job and probably not the best job, but a great job nonetheless. You’ve raised a good kid who made it to the age of thirteen without any major mishaps. Everyone says she’s beautiful and fun to be around and you love each other. Happy Father’s Day to me!”

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones

The Sticky Spot

The invention of sticky notes is right up there in significance with the discovery of fire, the implementation of a GPS system in my car, the common usage of DVR technology, and the invention of the wheel (not necessarily in that order) in my book. Following is a few random sticky notes I’ve had on my mental board:

 

 

 

Voting Won't Make You Look Fat in the Mirror!

The synopsis of my upcoming book follows. This blog post is simple. You are the wonderful supporters who have been there from the beginning. You know me and you know my story. When I went to New York City, the people in “the know” in the publishing world suggested that my memoir might need a new title.

I recently held a title contest on my Facebook Group page and here are the finalists in survey format (poll/survey to the right). I’ve also included the original title because maybe, “It ain’t broke.” Fish Hugger is joining with me to offer delicious prizes to the winner(s) so your vote really counts.

Please vote in the survey for the title you think most effectively describes the book based on the synopsis and also has the most catchy “hook.” Thanks again for your input!

Synopsis

When my daughter asked Santa Claus for a new Daddy, I set out to find her one using Internet dating; two hundred thirty seven first dates later, what she got was a new Mom instead.  My memoir chronicles the lessons this teacher learned from each date and my struggles as a single mom.

Over the course of my odyssey, I was fired from a job for premarital sex, brought up on pornography charges, and gained my independence after an abusive marriage when I received first my Master’s Degree and then my PhD in Education. I was stalked by dangerous men, and had more dating disasters than I care to remember. If the man with the dungeon in his basement, the crack addict, and the man who was really a woman weren’t enough, I have a family who is almost as neurotic as me. And my daughter, Leah, developed a bonafide phobia of the Easter Bunny.

In the end, though, the experiences shaped who I ultimately became. Leah and I both found what really mattered. Internet dating destroyed me and it saved my life.

Single Mom Summer

With summer looming ahead of us, my daughter and I prepare for a lot more “togetherness” time—which is both good and bad. I look forward to spending more time together when we don’t have to fuss over homework or place as much strain on our time.

I enjoy lazy pajama days when we can sleep in and watch back to back episodes of Gilmore Girls.

It’s nice not to be an underpaid chauffeur who rushes from track practice to horseback riding to sleepovers to movies to fill in the blank here. The life of a teenage girl is nothing if not a demand for stimulation. As a single parent, you get to do all the stimulating.

Plus I’m glad when I don’t have to police her time so much. As in, "You can only use Facebook from 7:30 – 9:00,” and “We need to spend more time on math and less time on texting.” I tactfully leave out the part that a certain boy’s number seems to come up an awful lot on the Verizon bill. Summer means we can both relax.

I have to say, though, I miss the days when she wanted to spend time with me. There was a time when I thought, if only I can get five minutes to myself, I’ll be able to breathe. Most moms who are doing it solo can relate. People said that eventually I’d miss the days when she had separation anxiety and couldn’t let me out of her sight. My sisters said someday I’d want her to be clinging on to me again. I didn’t think it could ever be possible.

And yet, here I am.

“Would you like to watch a movie with me?”

“No, I’m talking to some friends online, but thanks.”

“Do you want to go shopping? I’ll take you to Old Navy. It’ll be a Girls’ Day Out!”

“Can one of my friends come? We can meet up with you later.”

“Want to cuddle?”

“Not right now. I’m IM’ing with Kenzie.”

*Sigh*

I realize it’s normal and natural.

When I am very lucky though, and usually when I least expect it, she’ll snuggle up into my arms briefly while I’m cooking or writing and bury her head into my shoulder. I smell the vanilla of her new body spray. But underneath it, I can still smell just the faintest hint of baby shampoo and crayons. I inhale deeply. I make sure to cherish those times because they might be gone soon too.

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones

Magical Thinking

My daughter thinks I have a lot of superstitions. I like to think  of them more as magical thinking because I buy into it (or not) if and when it suits me.

For example, I never miss an opportunity to pick up a lucky penny. If I am feeling really in need of luck (like right now when I’m waiting to hear from agents and publishers), I look for those pennies as if my life depended on it.

I try not to step on cracks when I’m walking, and if I’m feeling particularly concerned about something that day then I avoid them like the plague. When my mom was sick in the hospital, I was a serious no crack stepper oner.

If I spill salt, I usually throw some over my shoulder. Well, unless I just mopped; then I figure the magic energy fairies understand. See what I mean; I pick and chose my magic?

I also have a lucky black first-date skirt. I’ve been known to post-pone or even cancel dates if it was at the drycleaners.

Numbers are important to me too. I like even numbers. I especially like multiples of eight because it’s my favorite number. So date #64, 144, 188, and so on were (I thought) significant; until they turned out to be not so significant. Date # 208, if I recall, was an ex-convict, but you just can’t judge an entire system of numerical possibilities based on one (or two or three) bad experiences.

Sometimes I think maybe things I do will create the luck. If I help the schizophrenic couple who live in my building with their groceries, I’m creating good life karma. Let someone go in front of me at the store; good things are coming my way. I don’t like to think of it the other way though. If I accidentally cut someone off in traffic, it’s not like I’ll never get another date again.

All of this is magical thinking. My editor keeps wanting to change the wording in my manuscript to “superstitious thinking” but it’s not at all the same thing. If I were superstitious, when we had a skunk infestation in our neighborhood, I might have thought it meant something bad (as skunks are stinky and generally considered unpleasant). Instead, because of where I was at emotionally, I searched online until I found a reference that said it meant that I have a growing awareness of self respect and that I needed to  "walk the talk."

Of course, that was probably what I already wanted to believe anyway, and it worked with my goals so…what the heck. It’s lucky to me, this luck thing, because it works when I want it to. If it gets unlucky, I’m definitely chucking it.

Unless Vin Diesel shows up with a skunk and some salt. Then I’m putting on my black skirt and we’re going out; even if it’s at the drycleaners.

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones

Single Mom in the City

As you might have guessed, my CSA friend (of the Tiffany's bracelet) and I went to see the new Sex and the City 2 movie. The movie was fun and a great afternoon for girlfriends, but we both felt like the two and a half hours were a little much for the plot—mostly because the filmmakers needed that much time in order to get in all of the costume changes. There were many, and they were something else. The shoes were high, the bags were sparkly, and the fashions were extreme. They were nothing most ordinary people would ever set foot out of their houses wearing.

Charlotte and Miranda have this great scene where they are sitting at the hotel bar commiserating over their cocktails and sharing their mom war stories. It goes something like this.

Charlotte and Miranda’s Mom Woes:

“Being a mom is so hard.”
"The baby cries all day long and I don’t know what to do. Sometimes, I just go in the other room and shut the door.”
"I’m ashamed to admit it. I love my child more than anything, but sometimes it’s just not enough.”
"No one said it would be this difficult. All I ever wanted was a family and now I have one and I can’t understand why I’m unhappy.”
"We have full-time nannies and husbands and I’m tired all of the time. I just can’t help but think, how do people do it when they don’t have any help?”
"Here’s to them.” They toast.

I thought I’d let them in on a little slice of reality--single mom style.

Single Mom Woes:

Being a mom IS so hard—deal with it. Guess what, in our worlds, there’s never anyone there to help.
The baby sometimes does cry all day or is sick all day or even (later when they’re not babies) not very nice all day, and you never get a break. It is exhausting. There’s not a manual or instructions. I do recommend going in the other room and shutting the door, but not for long because great destruction will often occur on the other side of the door.
Every once in a while, I have a little self-pity party and think about how hard it is to raise a child all by myself. Then I remember this is the most important job I will ever do and since I’m doing it solo, I better not screw it up. There are no do-overs or sick days.
Oddly, my child is so very much more than enough. Maybe it’s because I don’t wear those uncomfortable clothes that I couldn’t afford anyway (see picture below). They might be

making Miranda and Charlotte grumpy. Try staying in your sweats and not putting on your makeup. It seems to improve my mood lately. So would a Prada bag but I don’t see that happening.
What also makes me happy is having enough money for a vacation every couple of years. With my child… We usually go to Disney World or, last year, the Redwood Forest in California, not Abu Dhabi.
Full-time nanny? And a husband? Now that’s just crazy talk! How do we do it? We don’t have a choice.

copyright © 2009  Tiia Jones