My ex-wife just got married. I was made aware of this because my veterinarian emailed my ex-wife who forwarded it to me. This is a little complicated. Explanation necessary, D.J.!

Christina and I divorced over two and half years ago. I still contact her every once in a while. We’re perfectly friendly and sometimes I need advice on pet stuff. She, too, is a vet. Well, my dog is due for a dental. This is a relatively routine procedure but when I called the animal hospital yesterday, the vet tech had expressed interest in giving her a catheter for anesthesia. My dog is very sensitive to shots and has become sick in the past for this kind of thing. My ex has instructed me to call her before any procedure to give the go-ahead. I’m glad she’s available as she’s a great doctor.

So, every now and then I call and talk about the dog or the cat. Our conversations are brief and amiable. We joke around for a minute and then get to business. I phoned her a few weeks ago because the government cut us a big check for seemingly no reason. We couldn’t figure it out, but were thrilled to get the cash. So, we have nice chats. Every so often one of us comes up with a joke about the pets and calls or texts it over. That’s the stuff we do.

In the year following the divorce, I worked through my anger and sadness. It was suggested to me at the time that I take the year off of dating. I should point out that it was my ex’s decision to leave the marriage. This was shocking and difficult for me to process, as it would be for anyone. So, I took my time. Learned how to be alone.

After a year I was over the divorce and became involved in a relationship. It ended last fall due to distance. Oh, and the fact that she sort of didn’t like me. Not a great quality for a long-term partner. Now, I’m back in the mix and dating up a storm. Just last week I hit seven dates in seven days. Was hilarious. And exhausting.

Anway, back to my ex-wife.

So I called her yesterday and after the business about the dog’s teeth she asked, “So, what’s going on?” She has never, in all our talks, expressed interest in my personal life. It’s always been business, a quick joke, and then off the phone. I just said, “Nothing much,” and hung up the phone as quick as possible. I’m not interested in telling her about my dating marathon.

Then this morning I get an email where she had messaged the vet who’s going to take care of Meepers during the dental. She told him the procedure she wanted him to do. He replied and agreed, but at the end also said, “Congrats on the nuptials!”

Did she accidentally forget to delete that line before sending to me or did she do it on purpose in a fucked-up, passive aggressive way? Or maybe she just didn’t give a shit. Who knows? Well, after Googling “nuptials” I learned it meant she got married.

Here’s the part that pissed me off. She still uses my last name. To this day. Now, I don’t quite understand this plan. She was a Johnson for thirty-two years. Decent last name. Marries me for two years, and then leaves. Keeps the name. Weird, but whatever. Then marries a new dude. Still keeps the name. Double weird.

And yes, I can understand that “Paris” is kind of a neat last name. But to keep it after a failed marriage and then a new one is really bizarre. I can only hope that her new husband’s name is “Feltersnatch.” Then it would make sense.

So, today I’ve been sad and angry. Sad that my ex-wife has moved on. It’s natural to be a little depressed. Mad because she didn’t have the courage to tell me the night before on the phone. I suspect it’s because she knew I would say, “Finally – you’re getting rid of my name!”

“Um… about that…”

photo credit: Anirudh Koul via photopin cc

Hey, I’m flying to the Chicago. I’m in the air – doing a commercial for WalMart. Let’s hang out!

I was thrilled. I hadn’t seen her in over a year yet we talk every week. During my divorce and other hard times, she’s been there. And I was introduced to her through my blog. She was a reader and now we’re very close. Had I not started this blog I wouldn’t have met her.

She was flying into Midway airport and I work near the train that goes out there. I loaded up my dog in the backpack and railroaded it to the airport. As I got there I reached into my jacket for my phone. It flew out of my hands and into the air. The phone landed with a thud on the ground. No big deal – it’s happened before. The battery went flying and the case came off.

I examined the glass and the phone. Everything looked okay. Then I went to turn it on. The screen wouldn’t come on. It was black. I looked closer. The screen (on the inside) was smashed to bits. The phone turned on just fine but I couldn’t see poop. I farked the phone.

This was a problem as now I couldn’t make phone calls and I had no idea where Michelle was hanging out. I knew she had to get her car at Enterprise so I headed there. I was really in a panic because I didn’t know her number. I began to think and realized if I could get to a computer I could look up her number in my Google contacts, then borrow a phone, call her, and have her come meet me. This was getting complicated.

Thankfully, just as I approached a man to borrow his tablet, she rounded the corner. We embraced and I told her how bummed I was to have just broken my phone.

At the Enterprise window the clerk hustled us upstairs where they do special check-ins for people with entertainment accounts. I borrowed Michelle’s phone and began looking up the closest AT&T store as I now needed a new phone. When we got to the counter and the car was ready to go, they asked for Michelle’s ID. She couldn’t find it.

This wasn’t an issue as I saw her pull it out at the first Enterprise window. All we had done was walk fifty yards and take an elevator up. Nope. Couldn’t find it. I backtracked several times searching the ground just in case it had fallen out of a pocket. Surely it must be in a pocket or her computer bag. We just had it moments ago. It was gone.

She has to fly out in a few days so that isn’t going to be fun. Apparently you can do it without a license or ID but the TSA really busts your balls. She has no choice.

So, me with a broken phone, her with no ID, you’d think it was a shitty night. And that part of it was. But to spend time with one of my favorite people on the planet, that’s special.

I have a crappy phone now, as my contract isn’t up for another month and they couldn’t advance me the discount. I’m not happy about it, but at least I have my ID. And at least Michelle has her phone.

I went into shock. My biggest fear had become realized. Even though she had not mentioned the word divorce any our past therapy sessions in hindsight there were signs she was planning an escape. I just didn’t think the prison break would come that particular Wednesday. It was cowardly to do without mentioning to me in advance, and I was angry. I was also terrified. I felt like a failure. I needed to do something fast.

For the first time ever I called my therapist and told her what happened. I thought that was probably the  right move. Next I called my business partner. Lastly I called my parents and a few friends. I needed support.

Every Wednesday for the past few years I had been going to a meeting called The Experiment. It’s a support group of sorts where we actually have processes for dealing with our shit. It’s hard emotional work, but it does produce results. Over those years those of us in the group have developed strong bonds and I have come to know these people as some of my closest confidants. I’ve seen them at their most vulnerable. That day they witnessed mine.

Four the past four years Wednesdays from 6:30-8:30 have been of the most important part of my week.

Then about six months back I just stopped going. I’m not exactly sure why. In group we would have processed my unwillingness to come and probably figured out it was some fear of change. In my conscious mind I had legitimate excuses. I was traveling one week. I had to do a radio interview. I was tired from a hard day of work. All true. All which kept me from the group. And then it got easier.

Occasionally I would attend. At the end of the meeting I always felt fulfilled and promised myself that I would not forget how healthy the group was for my well-being. I’d swear I’d be back the next week. But I wouldn’t.

Well apparently I wasn’t the only one. I received an email last week saying the group was going to disband because attendance had become spotty.

I was angry and sad. How dare they close this group that I had been skipping for months? Of course I realized I had become the problem, but I knew I needed to save it.

Last night I arrived at the meeting angry. Out of the six of us there were three members that were saying their final goodbyes. No matter what happened to the group, they were leaving. These three people I cared about deeply. It was like three girlfriends you’re head over heels with telling you it’s over at the same time.

There remaining three of us that wanted the group to continue.

I relayed the story of the day of my divorce call and how the group was there for me. I became emotional talking about how they supported me through my toughest years.

I told the story about how one of the members cried years ago because she didn’t think a man would want her. Then she met her boyfriend and she cried because she realized she was worthy of love. Then she cried because he asked her to marry her. The group attended her wedding this past summer. It was beyond special. This is what happens when you’re around people every week for years.

The three that wanted to leave had legitimate reasons and they were sad, too. My anger toward them  dissipated and I realized they really didn’t want to abandon the group. But they were ready to move on. I’m not.

So, we’re now down to three and basically starting over. I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to attract some new members, or at least keep the existing ones we have.

I need to remember one of the ways to subdue loneliness is to be in the presence of people who love me. Why I so easily forget this, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll work on that next week in group.

When I hit junior high, I knew I had a to-do list problem. I simply didn’t keep one. That’s the age where I needed to start writing things down and planning appropriately. As a verified ADDer my memory sucks. I don’t mean in the same way everyone thinks their memory sucks. I’ve had a least a dozen people tell me my memory is the worst they’ve experienced. I wish I could over-exaggerate this fact, but it would not be easy.

In addition to being a spaz that’s constantly not present mentally I’m also a creative-type. This means I’m pretty good at sitting down and thinking stuff up. As the scales are tipped heavily in that favor my abilities to reason, rationality, and use logic are somewhat deficient. I have talked about believing that pasta came from the sea until I was a junior in high school.

Note – If you search for “doesn’t pasta come from the sea” you’ll see that my genius comes up number one in Google.

In college I really tried to plan. I was heavily into self-improvement and studying accelerated learning techniques. I became a speed reader and had a high comprehension at about 1300 words per minute. I learned tricks of master memorizers and could photocopy documents in my head for later retrieval. While all of this is very cool I still had a terrible time putting into action such tasks like doing my laundry in advance of being out of underwear.

Well, I’m thirty-six and I still don’t keep a regular to-do list.

My desire to stay organized is unmatched by common man. I have purchased books, planners, seminars and software to keep me organized. It’s just something that doesn’t come naturally.

When I met my wife she was a fantastic planner and logician. Usually people with medical degrees have to be. There’s such a large amount of studying involved that you become good at planning, remembering, and executing. She didn’t have much creativity, but I had plenty for the both of us. Not only did she remember (she kept lists) what she was to do each day, she had a knack for remembering what I was to do that day as well. It was awesome.

While never a nag she would remind me, “Hey, today why don’t you do x, y, and z?” If you’re like me I highly recommending marrying one of those. Eventually they’ll get fed up and divorce you, but for a few years it’s a great ride.

I am committing to you bozos that I’m going to work this organization thing out. Over the past two years I’ve really stepped up my game. But even I have slip ups. I’m one of those people that will forget to pay his credit card bill on the thirteenth every month. The past two months I was a day late. I called all freaked out to the company and they waved however those charges thing works. Every other bill I have goes out automatically from my bank each month because of my memory.

From time to time I’m going to check in with you to hold myself accountable. For example, I have three contests for you that I haven’t executed because I keep forgetting to write them down and plan them out. To the dude who keeps emailing me photos of his wang, no, that’s not one of the contests. Also, please direct those photos elsewhere. I already have a wang.

Just for poops here’s my latest pocket notebook made by a local company in Chicago. I also ordered a fountain pen so I can seem ultra awesome to on-lookers.

When I first met the dog she was a patient with parvo, the deadliest disease a puppy can catch. It kills most dogs it infects. She weighed one pound, seven ounces. Christina brought her to the condo on a Friday night. She had never brought an animal home before.

This dog is going to die this weekend. I just didn’t want her to die in the hospital.

The puppy lay in a small shoebox and didn’t appear to be moving. She was approximately six weeks old and had been brought in from the owner of a high-end dog shop. This store specializes in small dogs, all under five pounds. He had purchased the dog for $500 and was attempting to see her for $2,000. He would have sold her at that price, too, except she contracted parvo.

Parvo is a highly contagious disease and an infected dog needs to be removed from the general population immediately. It will infect other dogs and half of them will die. He brought her to Christina to protect his investment.

At the time we had two cats. Out of all the doctors and techs, we were the only ones without a dog. Parvo doesn’t affect cats. Even though there are employees at the hospital at the weekend, doctors are only there sporadically. Christina brought her home and we attended to her. I hadn’t really ever been around sick animals and this one was damned sick. Her eyes didn’t open. She would cough a little but that was it. Every three hours we had to use a humidifier to open her lungs and then an  eyedropper to distribute water and food. Her veins were too small to insert an IV.

D.J. – don’t get attached. I’ve estimated her chances at only 30% survival.

That Sunday we had planned to go up to the Renaissance Faire in Wisconsin. I know you’re laughing right now. But you’re wrong to laugh. It’s fun. More fun that you know. And no, I don’t dress up.

We had to give the dog to Will –  one of the other vets in her practice. He also didn’t have a dog. He’s got a ferret now that I think about it. There was some reason he couldn’t take her home on Friday, but whatever. Maybe he was trying to get laid and a dying dog isn’t exactly a panty-melter. He took her while we watched jousts and drank mead.

On the way home I realized I had started to fall for this dog. I told my wife as much and she was starting to have feeling for her too. There were two problems, however. First, the dog didn’t belong to us. Second, it was going to shove off.

I’ll write the whole story later, but obviously the dog survived. The vet bills to nurse her were well over $1500 and he couldn’t keep paying as she recovered so he released her to us. She also developed a nasty case of  pneumonia  during parvo and almost died again. Then she broke her leg a few months later.

Since then, perfect health. This morning it felt good to go back to the animal hospital where, for the first year of her life, she would accompany my ex-wife. Most of the staff were still there and they fawned over her when she came in. I got to visit with the doctors. Sure it was a bit uncomfortable showing up at a place with people I hadn’t seen since the divorce. I got over that quickly.

My wife moved a few years ago to California. I’m not sure if she’s been back to Chicago, but my guess is that even if she’s been here, she didn’t make a trip to the hospital. So, in a weird way, I’m the active link to these people.

I didn’t go to her hospital for the past two years. I felt too uncomfortable going there without my wife. I worked with another vet the past two years, and she was great. The real reason I went back today, however, is that they have excellent care and are reasonably priced. I called Christina last week to find out what the dog needed. My currently hospital suggested four vaccines. Christina told me the dog needed none and just some regular bloodwork.

Thank God I still have a nice relationship with Christina. She saved me $300 today. I’ll continue to use her for animal advice.

One of the things Will said when I came in this morning struck an emotional chord. He proudly announced to the newer staff, “I practically raised this dog her first year!”

This is wildly inaccurate, as he was just in the same building as her each day. My wife and I did 99.9% of the heavy lifting. But in his mind he was a big part of the experience. And you could tell how special that was to him. It was too beautiful of a moment to correct.

By the way, she needs to lose exactly one pound. Also, she’s due for  a dental, which runs around $300. Oh well – it’s basically the first time I’ve had to pay for animal care as an adult. I highly recommend marrying a vet if you have animals. Totally pays off.

Hmm – I should have factor in the cost of divorce and the emotional damage being repaired by my therapist. Probably a draw.

Just about every moment of the day is spent in stimulus/response. This is not a bad thing. At work it’s important to stay on task. When I’m home I need to feed myself and clean the catbox. Also, I write and talk to the girlfriend. Plus that paying the bills thing and laundry.

By the way, how is it that as a single guy I’m running the washing machine every two days? Same with the dishwasher. What happens when I get a wife and kids? Remind me not to get a wife and kids.

The checking in I reference earlier is about getting quiet and paying attention. Turning off all the outside noise and pumping in the sweet sounds and sculpturing rhythms of D.J. You know – chick stuff. Feelings.

In my weekly therapy sessions the most uncomfortable moments are when there’s lulls in the conversation. If I spent way too much time pontificating my shrink brings me back to center. I make the transition from my head to my body, and I look at her. I do my best to stay connected. This means I need to shut up. Which means I end up staring at her. It’s super uncomfortable. I can only make it maybe ten seconds before I have to avert my eyes. I look away and start to think about what I’m going to say next.

Staring at someone in their eyes without talking is terrifying. I think it’s this idea that if I’m not entertaining someone I’m somehow disappointing them. Nonsense, of course. She encourages me to sit with the discomfort and stay present.

What I’ve learned is that most of my issues come from not trusting that my body will provide me the solutions if I just shut up and pay attention.

Example – addiction. I’ve been sober now many years, but the main reason drinking doesn’t appeal to me is because I can notice when I’m getting sad, angry, or anxious and sit with the tough feeling. In the past I just tried to escape everything. By trusting that my body can handle some sadness, I learn that escaping the pain is unnecessary.

Same with food. If I just pay attention to what my body wants I don’t overeat. If I find myself gorging on something it’s a reaction to a feeling I don’t like. Normally I don’t even know what it is until I get quiet and mindful.

So, during therapy today, I was able to make it twenty seconds in silence looking at her. And during that time my friend Darrell popped into my head. I had sort of forgotten that he is in the midst of a divorce. I mean, I know he is, but I hadn’t really thought about it in a few weeks. Then I realized it would mean a lot to him if I picked up the phone and called. I also knew that it was something I wanted. There was a longing to connect with him. This all happened within a few moments.

That was all within twenty seconds of silence. I called Darrell tonight and, just as my body had suggested, it was a good idea. We had an intimate chat and I believe he appreciated it. I know I did.

So, while I can’t sit in the lotus position and burning patchuli oil is nasty, I’m not sure I’m up for formal meditation. But maybe a few minutes here and there to check in and see what’s going on inside.

Okay, I just checked in and I felt the overwhelming desire to call you up and scream the c-word. Well, I guess I have to do it! What’s your number?

photo credit: Jiuck via photopin cc

Her ex-husband is causing emotional distress. They have a child and she’s unable to completely break from him. He’s not a bad guy but has a number of issues that he hasn’t  responsibly addressed.

Anyway, I’ve been through divorce and while mine was amicable, it was still devastating.

I was chatting with her a bit last night. She was very angry as a the ex had said something unkind that rattled her cage. Well, beyond rattled. She was ready to kill. Instead of talking her down, I encouraged her to stay with the anger.

Anger, in my opinion, needs to be processed. Which means it’s useful to express it in a safe environment. Since the ex-husband was probably trying to bait her into a fight, calling him up and screaming, “You scoundrel!” is not a great move.

[note: expression cleaned up for Miss Rojita’s sixth grade class who is studying “Modern Digital American Humor” this week and chose my blog.]

Wow. I can’t lie to you folks. There is no Miss Rojita. Well, there might be, but I don’t know if she teaches, and most likely even if she did, I doubt my blog made her recommended reading list. Her students are probably learning about periods reading Judy Blue.

I like the word “scoundrel.”

I encouraged my friend to imagine that I was her ex-husband and to say to me what was inside of her. She, via instant message, immediately started typing aggressive and intense, angry thoughts. They were rough and cutting. I could tell that he deserved it. She ranted about everything she hated in this guy. It was brutal.

After a few minutes she started to change her tone. Some kindness emerged as she acknowledge his good qualities. She became very sad and her tone was appreciative of the years he was a good partner. I didn’t touch my keyboard throughout the entire process. Not one word. She processed it on her own.

Afterwards she was exhausted and blue. I wanted to cheer her up.

She had started an anonymous blog to discuss some of the pain of divorce. Even though the blog was only days old, she complained that she only had four Twitter followers (I being one). So, I went online and did something fun. I bought her 22k Twitter followers.

About halfway through today she IMd me excitedly. She saw her follower count and knew it was my doing. She’s no moron. But to those of us with four followers, having 22k followers, even fake, is damned exciting. It only cost me five bucks.

I personally have 28k Twitter followers, and I also had purchased my first 3500. I wanted people to think I was a big shot. I outed myself  because it was an insecure and embarrassing move and I needed to own it. I’ve earned the rest fair and square, of course.

Even though this was a fake gift to her, it provided a minor distraction from an otherwise unpleasant life event. Sure, she still only has four real followers, but when she sees the large number, she laughs.

Make sure you have one person in your life that can make you laugh when you’re down. Then, treat them real nice.

While at BlogHer she stayed here in Chicago and watched the animals.  She also took a day and completely re-designed my closet  during which she found a bunch of my ex-wife’s stuff.

My ex is a veterinarian and living and practicing in Ventura.  I didn’t realize but she had left all of her veterinary textbooks as well as a few doctor lab coats.

Next time I talk to Christina I’ll have to thank her for forgetting one hundred pounds of vet school literature.  I do live on the fourth floor of a four-floor walkup.

You know what might be funny – put the books down in the alley next to my building and place a Craigslist ad for “Free Horse Anatomy Textbooks – Get Them Before You Get Got!”  Then video the degenerates that come to collect.  Lastly turn that footage into the police.

As for the labcoat, I asked Jessica  to wear it during a recent lovemaking session.  She refused.

Obviously there is no truth to that previous bit.  It was the most absurd thing I could think of and you went with it.  I know you laughed.  Don’t lie to me.  I’m funny.

What  should  I do with the coat?  I could toss them, but they’ve got her name on it and everything.  I feel like a dick throwing out something personalized.  What’s weird is that it actually isn’t her name anymore.  She kept my last name after the divorce.  Strange decision until you realize that my name is way cooler than “Johnson.”

Oooh… another Craigslist idea!

Always wanted to be a physician but not smart enough?  Want the respect and admiration of vapid women?  I have, in my possession, two genuine lab coats worn by a doctor named Johnson.  While on your bodice this coat transforms you into the spitting image of a legit medical professional.  Confidently strut your city boardwalk while older men tip their caps and young women are overcome with the vapors.  Since your last name is not Johnson, you ought to legally change your name OR THE COAT WILL BE LARGELY INEFFECTIVE.  Cost = free + your dignity.

Or I could just box them up and send it to California with a note:  “These will come in handy if you ever re-marry a guy named Johnson.  Then, if he leaves you, you can take his last name (which ironically is your maiden name) and wear the coats proudly and accurately.”

Note – I do actually like my ex-wife quite a bit.  But stashing seventeen textbooks in the closet was not super awesome.  Okay, heading off to bed.  Going to read from the 2005 Guide To Everything Turtles 2nd Edition.  What is that damned shell made out of anyway?  Can’t wait to find out!

photo credit: Vainsang via photo pin cc

At BlogHer with 5k women present, 4902 of them were moms.  There’s a lot of oxytocin floating around in the ether.  Wait, does oxytocin float in the air like  pheromones?  Just Google’d it.  Nope.

Anyhow, tons of mommers were at the conference and many of them are first-timers and new to the job.  I call it a job because most of my readers are women and that sort of shit makes them feel good about me.  Truthfully, the only types of jobs are the ones that generate income for the family.  OH NO HE DI’INT!

That joke said in a roomful of BlogHer attendees would have resulted in a spent tampon being hurled at my face.

Mothers have the most important job in the world, in my opinion.  But I also thought spaghetti came from the sea, so what do I know?

Since going through my divorce and three years of weekly therapy plus a ton of support groups, I have become quite compassionate.  When someone shares intimately I can finally feel some of their sadness, joy, shame, or anger.  I tend to be most receptive to sadness as I’ve dealt with a lot of that in the past year.

One of the topics of conversation heard time and time again was about mothers being away from their children for the weekend.  I was amazed that many moms told me this was the first trip away.  Apparently moms don’t get out much.  This seems un-fun.  I expected only a sad, depressing response so I was ready to feel their pain.

But when I asked several moms how they felt about being away from home I received polar opposite responses.

• Yes, I’m very sad and I miss my children terribly.  It’s very hard to be here.  Excuse me while I drown myself in the toilet.
• Thank God I’m away from those filthy monsters!  It’s my husband’s problem now.  Screw ’em!

It seemed that the mothers who were sad were the ones that had never been away.  And once they had spent a weekend alone leaving the kids with the lesser half, they were able to go on vacation without fear or shame.  Dad isn’t going to let the children explode.  And, even if he does, you can always make more!  Our bodies are cool that way.

So, if you’re a mom that can’t stand the thought of being away from the little ones, you simply haven’t been away enough.  Go ahead and leave them for a girls’ weekend down to Panama City Beach like you did sophomore year.  Pick up a bottle of Schnapps and some glitter makeup and shake that ass at Senior Frog’s in your gross old mom jeans.

Let me put it to you this way.  At BlogHer, Trojan was giving away free vibrators.  There was also a booth with children’s vitamin gift bags.  Which line do you think was longer for the freebies?

By the way, my girlfriend made me stand in that dildo line with ten other women.  It’s a little creepy to have a guy listening to a short lecture on the different tongue-tips that Trojan now offers that stimulate four separate g-spots in a woman.  But, I stood there and waited.  I’m a great partner, no?

And I can’t wait to have children to then spend the weekend away from them.  I’ll head to BlogHer with the girls.

My biggest disappointment is when I realized that women don’t really care if a man is blonde.

Do gentlemen prefer blondes?  I would guess that in the dark crevices of most men’s minds (three-banger on alliteration!) during quality time they spend with themselves, the fantasy women are blonde.  If you’ve been to a strip club (I have never as I am clearly a man of Allah), you’ll notice that most of  the women are blonde.  It’s what guys like.

Now, I don’t think it matters in real life.  I married a brown/red, and am in a relationship with a dark brown.  In fact, only my college girlfriend was blonde and she dumped me pretty quick.  Hair color just isn’t important to me.  Well, except my own.

I’ve spoken about this before but growing up thinking I was unattractive was not a lot of fun.  When I got in my twenties and realized that some women did, in fact, want to date me, I honestly thought it was because I was funny, charming,  and  blonde.  I believed that the blonde part pushed me over the edge from “That guy’s really cool” to “I must have him NOW – scruples be damned!”

I just assumed since I liked the idea of a blonde woman, that women would like the idea of a blonde man.

But, you know what?  They don’t!

I have asked dozens of women over the years if they prefer blonde guys.  I swear to God (no, wait – Allah – whatever I said earlier.  I don’t re-read) I have never heard a woman say, “I only go after blonde dudes.”  Actually, they say the opposite.  I can’t tell you how many women have told me they never go for blondes, even if they were dating me.  It seemed like I was always somebody’s first blonde guy.

Which makes sense, I suppose, as “tall, dark, and handsome” is traditionally a woman’s fantasy credo.  I can’t tan past the color of my veneers.

Just to be clear, I do not have veneers.  I’m not  that  guy.

Women have told me for years how lucky I am to be in my thirties and still blonde.  But, if it doesn’t win me the admiration of the majority of ladies, then who cares?  That’s what hair is for.  I mean, I never look at my own hair.  I don’t brush it or shake it to and fro existing the shower.  Okay, sometimes I do.

Now, if you’re a woman reading this and thinking that you find blonde men attractive, I simply don’t believe you.  Here’s my proof – your husband is not blonde.  And if he was blonde and now is bald, I don’t consider that blonde.  He’s bald, so you must be into skull, not hair.

So, even though I’m as blonde as I was at age eight, I’ve had to use my personality and humor to attract women.  Which is a lot of work, quite frankly.  And unfair.

Should my girlfriend dump me after reading this post, I am going to die my hair coal black and take a lot of tanning pills like C. Thomas Howell did in  Soul Man.  Then, I’m hitting the discos.  And I’m letting you buy ME a drink.