Free Singles Sites and Stalkers.

I always like to use a photo. This was my second choice - the other one could probably get me sued. At the very least, it would wreak havoc on my karma.

One week last year I made a four picture photo montage of the people who contacted me on the free singles sites. (Those being plentyoffish.com and I think it's mingle.com). One was headless and sideways in a dress shirt, the second was headless but upright in camoflage with a beer belly holding - what else - a beer, the third was a broomstick legged old guy on a kid's rocking horse after what was probably his seventh jack and coke - and the fourth was a guy in a wheelchair and his wife; they were looking for another woman to share the love.

Getting a sense for the creepiness of it all??

I learned my lesson when I met someone who had a photograph of himself next to his yacht (that he lives on). To take a photo of a boat that size you need to back off quite a distance. You couldn't see him clearly, but his height appeared to be decent. His profile said he was in his late 50s.

I love boats. People who live on them are typically gypsies at heart. I like them too.

He walks in and  late 70s was closer to the truth. It was like lunch with Grandpa. He said he likes Plenty of Fish because it's free.

I bought him lunch and went home feeling defiled, like a cat after a bath.

Still, when I see someone has written I have to check out the photo. It had been a long time since I bothered.

About six weeks ago someone wrote. He had a nice face. The photo looked recent. (Grainy photos = vintage photos.)   He's an RN in Fort Myers. Professional and local - score two points.

The long-term exBF of 8 years was an RN before he found out he could make more money with a landscaping business.  The long-term exBF was a hoot. Smart, funny ... eventually horrifically mean. Still, he had taken care of me while I was sick with Lyme Disease.

Caring types go into that profession. Nurturing people. And this guy had stuck with it. He had to be ok. Inner dialog - Let's break a pattern here Mick, give a good guy a break.

We exchanged a few emails. He was off the job, recovering from back surgery. OK, shades of Mr. Hyde. Still recovering from the repurcussions of back surgery. I ignored it - this guy sounded like he was going to have full recovery and would be going back to his job in a few weeks.

At that point my summer was just about scrambling for work, starting work on a new book and walking the beach at sunset to keep my calm. I made the mistake of telling him where I park, what my starting point is, how far I go and how long it takes.

He said he wanted to join me for a walk but I know better. Most men my age can't walk further than the fridge and this one had just had back surgery.

He wanted to talk on the phone, "it's easier." I don't like giving out my phone number, but WTF.  I was feeling uncharacteristically open that day.

He talked about his surgeries for an hour and a half. I shit you not. He's like serial surgery guy, has a buddy who's a surgeon and apparently they have a lot in common. One likes to cut, the other likes to be cut???

I dunno. I was bored out of my gourd.  His goal after retirement was to sell his stuff and cruise the country in a motor home.

He was losing points fast; that's not how I want to spend the rest of my life.

I've seen skits where people grab tin foil and crumble it, claiming there's a bad connection. My connection is already truly bad, but I was doing the Michigan thing - being polite. Fortunately, my battery died around the same time as his. 

He sent an email apologizing for cutting the conversation short, saying he had really enjoyed talking to me. "Talking to" being the operative term. Put a fork in me, I was done.

Then he called again - I can't remember if it was after his phone recharged or the next day. I didn't have his name stored and I made the mistake of answering. I said I'd have to call him back; and I didn't. I wrote that I was working on my book.

His next voicemail said "YOU'RE SCREENING ME!!! DON'T SCREEN ME!!"

This trailer immediately ran through my mind - but I shrugged it off.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZHe3GYQp_8&feature=related

This is about a month ago.

The emails continued. "What have I done"? I responded just once: "You came on too strong." And I left it at that.

He begged me to meet him for coffee at Starbucks on College, but I ignored him. If you ignore them, they'll go away - right?

A few weeks later I did my beach walk and each of those nights is absolutely exquisite. It's dark by the time I reach Time Square and there is usually live entertainment, silly stuff that draws kids.
http://www.fortmyersbeachfl.gov/index.aspx?nid=112

All the benches were full, so I sat on the edge of a concrete planter about 8' behind some guy who was watching the performer. He turned around and I recognized him from his photo.

I nearly launched off the planter and took a different direction back to my car. I thought "I must be imagining this."

Two nights later - darkness fell as I walked off the beach and there he was at Time Square again. There was no eye contact, but I knew he was scanning the area and would see me. I pretended to go to Dairy Queen and hit the side exit back to my car.

I checked the other cars in the area to see if there were any "medical type" IDs. Totally creeped out, I took a photo of the plate parked next to mine.

Then - again - I thought it was my imagination. Nobody does this.  I've been stalked in public but never in private.

The next email says "We can meet for a smoothie if you like."

I continued my walks, but I never went through Time Square again. Satisfied that I had solved the problem, I started to relax a little. I was still pushing to get work - posting notes on Craigslist for websites and such.

Yesterday he wrote he has a friend who needs a website.

He seems more persistent than tech savvy, but I suspect he's going to find this blog.

There is a lesson here for all of us trusting types. His name is Sam, I won't give his last name in case he's just an innocent overly needy kinda guy. If not, there should be enough information here for the cops to find him.

I'm going to be more careful with my personal information from now on. I hope you'll be more careful too.

Liberals, Bigots and Hate in General.

Fort Myers Beach looks like this most every night in the summertime. This photo is from last night. 

The Gulf is five miles from where I live. I head out around 7:30 p.m. and park for free under the bridge. I walk up to Times Square, remove the flip flops and sink into the warm sand with the joy of a 12-year-old.

If I turn right, it's a 30 minute walk to Bowditch Park, the north end of Estero Island. I can see Bunche Beach from that vantage - it's near my condo. One day I'll kayak across from Bunche, but not alone.

I'm doing this walk almost every night lately, it's combination exercise program and walking meditation. Who couldn't use a little more peace, a little more calm?

Thursday night there were dolphins. Last night the colors were incredible. The sun will set and THEN the colors EXPLODE from every direction. Pinks and purples - last night the bridge to Sanibel looked like it was on fire.

The surf was warm as bathwater.

It was a Friday. It's party night. The beach is alive - they say we're getting the tourism New Orleans lost to the oil spill. Good for us, bad for them.

I decided to walk past SOB's - the Steaming Oyster Brewery. It's a local favorite. The breeze roars through three open sides like nobody's business and the live entertainment is usually excellent. One guy, one guitar, one appreciative audience.

I spotted one of the few people in this area who's always a pleasure to hang out with and before I knew it there was a cold Coors Light on the bar and an empty stool with my name on it. Forget that I was hot, sweaty and sandy - everyone else was too. Well, hot and sweaty anyway.

My good friend was sitting to my left with his new girlfriend. On my right was an old drunk cracker with bright blue bloodshot eyes and long blonde oily hair.

A cracker is a Florida native. I believe the term came from whip cracking because many of the original Floridians had ranches with cattle. (See "The Land Remembered" - an excellent history of this area. I live near Punta Rassa, where cattle were herded for shipment to Cuba.)
Understand also, that being a cracker does not automatically mean you're a bigot. I know some awesome crackers.

When you live down here you don't necessarily want to know where people stand politically. 
You just want to like everybody. They're usually easy to like.

So the cracker leans forward over my right hooter to talk to my friend. He buys my friend and his girlfriend a beer. My friend asks him how he's doing and the old guy starts talking about how much life sucks.

"My father would roll over in his grave if he knew there was a nigger in the white house."

Gasp.

What is this 1950s Macon Georgia??? Where are the white fountains?

I didn't say anything. I don't know what to say any more. If I see bigotry online on FB or something, I'll say something; but not when I'm out alone, in a place where I could get my tires knifed.

I ignored it.

Then he sez. "Yeah man, FUCK those assholes who voted for the nigger."
I quietly raised my right hand as I lowered my head to sip my my beer.

And as drunk as he was, he totally changed his tune. He apologized and was sweet as pie.


It's hard to know when to shut up and when to step up.
A few weeks ago I defused a situation on FB. I stopped a conservative friend in her tracks by saying "Love you, hate Palin. That's just how it is." She was so flattered by the "love you" that she just laughed it off.


I try not to talk about who I hate any more because there's too much of it. I've decided to stop hating Palin. I'll diminish my opinion to "that phony bitch who creeps me out." I'll reserve real hate for people who harm animals and kids and old people and the environment.

But then there are a few people on FB who will not leave me alone. As if putting "liberal" on your profile is some invitation to bang sticks on your cage. Or maybe it's just the challenge they like. Maybe I look soft and indecisive.

A week ago I "shared" the president's birthday on FB and a "friend" posted "your president doesn't even have an American birth certificate." I wrote back "Believe what you want." 

Another guy convinced me to friend him. I don't know him. Facebook thought we had mutual friends or something. Turns out he's a smart guy, a good photographer, a solid writer. A cracker, a Vietnam vet.

He said he was a redneck and I told him I didn't think we'd get along. He persuaded me to try. He said "we probably have more in common than you think."

It's that curse everyone from Michigan seems to have: POLITE.

That's what being so close to Canada'll get ya.

In five days he has worked his way up the political-emotional chain of what I can handle one aggravating link at a time. Each email gets more and more upsetting.

People like him almost make me wish there would be another civil war so they could just blow each other to bits. Running out of stuff to say - and being steadfastly polite in replying at ALL - I wrote back suggesting that violence may have more to do with gender than race. It's MEN of ALL races who enjoy violence.

Today I woke up to five paragraphs on why blacks are naturally inferior.

I wrote back "stop".

He wrote back "You liberals CAUSE our problems with niggers by ..."

I wrote back "FUCK OFF."

And I unfriended him. It feels icky to unfriend someone at first, but then it feels pretty damned good.

There are a few more people like him lying in the weeds. I'm tired of waiting for the next attack.

And I'm tired of liberal friends who keep trying to drag me back into the fray. 

Afternoon at Hooters

It's not very often I can honestly tell someone "you are one of the most interesting people I've ever met in my life." Because I have met some fascinating people.

My friends know writing for bikers is one of my specialties. That's how I met Wiley.

Wiley was stopped at a light when he was hit by a guy in a Chrysler 300; the driver was too busy changing stations to watch the road.

Wiley was creamed. He held on for 85', until the force of the impact sent him crashing into an SUV. One witness said he and the bike "flew through the air for about 35'".

Wiley never let go of his bike, hanging onto the handlebars for dear life. He weighs about 315 and is strong as a bull; the bars were bent down to his knees when they pried him off.

Cops declared it vehicular homicide because they didn't expect Wiley to live.

The driver of the Chrysler got a ticket for about $82. Wiley ... well, his life is changed forever.

I was asked to interview Wiley for video some weeks back. I actually wound up interviewing Wiley with his wife Susan. My friend Brad - a brilliant editor - is editing the video this week and felt it needed photos of Wiley after the accident.

Wiley called this morning to say he finally found the photos and would be happy to meet me at Hooters on Fort Myers Beach. This is the third time we've met, I feel the attachment you feel for any genuinely good person who is enduring a hard time. So it figures, I was NOT ready to see photos of him taken immediately after the accident.

We spent time choosing the right photos and lapsed into conversations about general stuff not related to the accident. He has to get sick of talking about it by now. We both drank iced tea and talked until the music got so loud I couldn't hear him any more.

I told him where I was planning on kayaking on Sunday and his face lit up - he said he grew up near Mound Key. I asked if he'd ever seen anything supernatural out there and he said he saw a "ball of fire" land on Mound Key during a thunderstorm.

I asked him if the mangroves are dangerous. He paused and said "well, there ARE rattlesnakes and water moccasins."

I told him I'd been warned about snakes dropping into kayaks. He paused again … I noticed he always paused before saying something he knew might scare me.

He said "yeah, it happens."

I asked HOW, imagining some diabolical Far Side-style snake scenario and he replied very simply; "no, people just catch them off guard sometimes."

Well, they don't have thumbs or fingers, so imagine if they're shocked they're going to drop. Don't panic - yeah, right. One more reason to buy a sit on top kayak where nervous snakes can't get trapped in the cockpit with your bare legs.

He said you REALLY don't want to get bit by a cottonmouth - he said the pain is unbelievable. "Even your hair will hurt."

Wiley used to keep his fishing poles in his truck and "someone at work" kept stealing them. So he caught a 4' Rattler and let him nestle in the nooks and crannies in the truck bed. Sort of a "guard snake".

The next time he went out there, he could tell things had been disturbed but nothing was taken:-)

He says after the snake "got out" he had to keep checking under his seat to be sure he was really gone.

Wiley said the large pythons they've been talking about in the Everglades are here now. Then he showed me his gator bites ... not the snacks, which he says are delicious; but actual scars on his hand. He caught a 4' gator and took him to school to show the kids. He got distracted and BOOM. As he was prying it off he said "kids, this isn't how you catch a gator."

I recently met someone who produces for PBS ; he's working on something about area pollution right now. Wiley talked about a time when you'd get up in the morning and the bay would be pink with flamingoes. I may try to get the two together ... Wiley has such a powerful “Grisly Adams” style presence and great delivery.

He talked about the history of the area, how they filled in the bay so they could build the bridge to Fort Myers Beach. How before they filled it in it was deep; in the early days pirates anchored ships there during hurricanes.

I could have talked to him for hours; and probably will next time.

My friend Rachael - who grew up on Sanibel - says anyone who has fallen in love with this area MUST read “The Land Remembered”.

I am absolutely going to buy the book.

http://patricksmithonline.com/alr.html?OVRAW=A%20Land%20Remembered&OVKEY=summary%20of%20a%20land%20remembered&OVMTC=advanced&OVADID=55728659011&OVKWID=39668613511

Name That Tourist

I thought everyone went home already, but I was completely wrong. There was a traffic jam before and on the bridge to Fort Myers Beach yesterday afternoon.

I wanted to watch the Red Wings game from the comfort and craziness of the Lighthouse Tiki Bar.

Watching the Red Wings makes me feel more connected with family and friends in Michigan and being at the Lighthouse keeps me connected to friends here.

I posted the last-minute event to my meetup singles group ... sort of hoping nobody would show. Sometimes spectating alone from a distance is more fun than joining in.

If you sit at the back of the bar, you can see it all ... something like seven TVs and the entire crowd; well, everything but the band. Yesterday it was the Dianne Russell Band and they were in rare form.

Within a few hours everyone was.

Haven't seen ... I'll call him "Jim" ... in a while. He saw I'd actually posted an event and rushed out with bells on. Like me, he works at home. Like me, he has to work hard at not becoming a total hermit.

Into spirituality, yoga, health and wealth, he's an interesting guy to talk to. This to the total annoyance of my friend Donna who ALSO talks nonstop and appreciates a captive audience.

If I'd had one of these on each side, my ears would have fallen off or my brain would have exploded.

Donna finally wandered off to find someone who would give her their full attention.

Normally brilliant and funny, Jim was on fire yesterday. He pointed discreetly to a couple standing 3' away and gave me a knowing look. "Canada."

I looked to see a large couple in heavyweight carpenter's shorts to their knees and really ugly shirts - but nothing else that might give them away. I said "he's prettier than she is ... but how can you tell?"

"Mullet."

How did I miss that? Not only was it a mullet, it was a PROUD mullet, finely layered with care. He paid money for that.

The table across from us was next - a lovely young blonde, obviously scandinavian, with a perfect ski nose; with a drunken asshole. The blonde's mother sat getting increasingly annoyed with her daughter's boyfriend.

"Michigan" Jim says.

I could see how he'd think that. But later he found they're from Buffalo.

I find people from Buffalo very close to Michiganders when it comes to personality and humor, but usually not in looks. Buffalo has more Italians and swarthy types.

Several scantily clad ladies, late twenties to early thirties in cheap fringey tourist-wear coverups from the local grocery store were present, annoying everyone within earshot with their screeching and carrying on.

Jim said "they're homely at home, but here on the beach they think they're cute because they know they can get laid."

A biker Donna and I know walked in with a super hot new girlfriend. He was hoping to find his recent ex-girlfriend who had taken up with a super hot ex-con boyfriend who has "White" tatooed on the back of his bulgey left arm and "Pride" tatooed on the back of his bulgey right arm.

Despite the utter creepiness of the tatoos, he ... I shall call him Parole Dude ... Parole Dude seems sheepish, like a nice guy; ready with a genuine smile and a handshake.

I choose to assume he was pressured into the wildly inappropriate tattoos.

Jim is tall and thin and looks like Peter Coyote. He couldn't understand why the hot bleachy blonde was with the biker guy.

Donna went off on how sexy he is ...

Jim went off on "he has a belly!" ...

Donna went off with "yeah, but he ... (the leather, the Harley, the facial hair, the muscles, blah, blah, blah)

Jim wanted to know what super hot women see in guys like the biker and Parole Dude.

I said "it's the bad boy thing."

He said "where do I get that?"

I said "you grow bonsais ... it's never gonna happen soy boy."

Donna argued that the new girlfriend was NOT hot, not even attractive. Donna is delusional, the woman turns heads; she had bleached white hair and some plastic surgery, but her body was perfect and she was beautiful.

The biker's ex girlfriend is also beautiful, but a different type. More natural, no surgery, with beautiful glowy skin and incredible cheekbones. She showed up later with Parole Dude, long after her ex had left.

Had couple number one run into couple number two, yes - another altercation would have ensued. Rumor has it, there was one the week before. I think the biker was thrown out.

This time my money would have been on Parole Dude pulverizing the ex. Had it been a chick fight, my money would have been on the biker's ex.

The only altercation that occurred yesterday was sissy cocktail throwing that almost turned into full assault. A lot of it landed on Donna. None of that matters, in Florida at this time of the year you're wet from sweat, rain or the misters a lot of the outdoor venues have.

She was drying off when I walked up to her and another biker friend who has a little crush on me. The band had stopped playing music. They were going off on we need a president who will allow torture. Not in those words, of course, but that was the crux of it.

I turned to biker friend and said "they're being haters."

Biker friend said "I was in Nam, I'm all for torture."

I said "I guess we need to take this outside." (Kidding - plus we were already outside.)

He said "In Nam - if I had gooks up in the helicopter with me, I knew how to get them to talk. I'd throw the first one out and the rest of 'em would spill whatever they knew."

Then we changed the subject.

A manly waitress Donna knows from a nearby waterfront bar stopped and hung with us for a bit. She was utterly free range, without shame in words and actions.

The first thing residents ask is if you live here. If you don't, some grant you little worth or credibility. If you do live here, you usually gain instant acceptance.

Manly waitress asked if I live here and I said yeah. Then she asked WHERE I live and I told her near Tanger Outlet and Sanibel. She sneered in my face (not exaggerating) and told me she can see the back of Matanzas from her place.

I notice that once again I am getting nothing but flack from other females. I thought I had reached an age where I am no longer considered competition, but I am suddenly getting SHIT from women of all ages. I got slammed by someone I considered a friend on Friday and there I was getting slammed by a complete stranger.

It is time to go back to the safety and comfort of guy friends.

The music was awesome, the temps were high outside, the breezes refreshing inside and it was an a.d.d. world where there was something to see at every angle, from sports to flesh to humor to drama.

Jim asked "is it always like this on Sundays?"

And I said yeah.

He gets it. Now he knows why I go. He's hooked.

The place is social salvation for hermits.

Proceed with caution.

I am SO glad I'm not a guy, a bi or a lesbian. How can people live with women?

Two of my best friends ...

the one was upset last week because the guy she was going to blow off (because he's bad in the sack) blew her off after she got into her cocktails and started drunk texting.

Seems like Wednesday is "drunk texting day". We should either confiscate her Blackberry or bust her thumbs.

The other one is on again, off again, hot, cold, full of rules and contradictions. "He didn't call, he should have called." He should do this, he should do that. I actually called her on it - I said no guy in his right mind will stand for getting mommed to death.

Come to think of it, I haven't heard from her since. Aw crap, may have to find a new beach buddy.

She was driving an interested party insane the other night. First she wanted to dance, then she didn't want to dance. First she wanted to talk to him, then she wanted to talk to someone else - actually had her back turned to him so the poor guy was half outside, getting half-wet in the first summer rains.

He wanted to know why she was treating him so bad. He asked "did I drunk call you the other night? I looked at my phone, I don't see where I called you!" And she said no, she's been having problems with her phone.

When she took off to dance with another guy I told him "don't take it personal - she's just flighty." At which point he confessed he'd had ME in his sights before her but then I disappeared.

Chronologically, that had to be somewhere between him swearing on a stack of bibles that he had a great girlfriend and the time he found her screwing a biker in the john at his marina. (It's not easy wrapping my head around stalking a john to see what your girlfriend is doing. Then there was something about breaking the door down and kicking some ass, blah, blah, blah.)

Or maybe it was around the time he was "dating" the Rosie O'Donnell lookalike we thought was a dyke.

So in front of my friend, the object of his desire du jour, he turns to me and says "I don't even HAVE your phone number." After talking about drunk calling. No, I don't THINK so. Despite the fact that all people from Ohio are pretty damned nice at the core, NO!

It's insane. It's stupid. It's junior high.

It's entertaining:-)

(About the photo in this blog - I have no doubt whatsoever that this is EXACTLY what my mother thinks Florida is like; all snakes, alligators and realtors.)

Full Moon Drum Circle … and The Stalker

I attended one drum circle in downtown Fort Myers many months ago and loved the mix of ages and types. Old hippies, plump young belly dancers … people dancing, swaying, drumming to rhythmic animal beats that return us to our primal selves.

So when my friend Sherma invited me to go to a drum circle on Fort Myers Beach last night, I was game. Some of our other friends would be there too.

A year ago “while trolling” we accidentally fell in with a group of people from my area of Michigan.

These are great, great people - Good Randy (with me in this photo - jeez, nice gum) and his buddies, Terry the classic car collector, fun people and the fun people they meet along the way.

DeeDee from Rhode Island, and others.

The group is constantly growing. Sherma became a fixed member of that circle while I have been on the outskirts. Despite the fact that seeing them always feels like old home week.

Sherma was about an hour late for the drum circle, but that was OK. I had a wonderful latte and it was a gorgeous night.

When she DID show up, she said “this is for you!” It was a packet of professional photos.

She said “I wasn’t supposed to give this to you unless I called him first to tell him where you are.” ???!!!

I said “GOD no, he’s my stalker. Please tell him nothing.”

He seemed nice enough when we met. I have such a soft spot for people who have been through the mill mentally, emotionally or physically.

I was at the Tiki Bar with Donna a few weeks back, standing inside talking to friends when I noticed an attractive guy pick up a barstool (with some difficulty) and walk all around our area to deliver it at my side. He said "I wanted you to be able to sit."

So I sat.

Within a few moments he had blurted out his saga of brain tumors and subsequent surgeries, how he was mostly OK now except for some “holes”.

Had I gone the shrink route years back, I was thinking of getting involved in closed head injury patients – those people whose lives can change in the blink of an eye due to a car accident, fall or other circumstance. My heart absolutely goes out to them.

I was very nice to him; Donna was upset, had a bad vibe and tried to warn me off. I was doing nothing more than being kind.

He was/is a professional photographer and … well, I know they are mostly nuts. All creative people are nuts. Writers are hermity nuts, designers are ego nuts, photographers run the gamut from sexual predators to the biggest egos of all. Think about all the gorgeous models who have fallen for the toads behind cameras. They do have an aura … well, no wonder. A great photographer can make you immortal.

Anyway, this one acted like an abandoned puppy. He watched me from the sidelines and begged me not to leave til I said good-bye.

That was Night of the Shriners and there was no shortage of guys who wanted to dance. And I was in the mood to dance. One looked like Newman from Seinfeld with all the trappings of success. He stood 3’ away and stared at me. He breathed creepy when we danced.

Another group consisted of one hunky, funny brother and five hilarious sisters from Buffalo – they were awesome. Donna and I hung with them and laughed our asses off.

When the photographer did manage to catch me for a dance, I noticed I had to help him balance as he moved.

He’s originally from Michigan, so I introduced him to my friends. Gave him my number to be polite … and at the end … after he had waited about 3 hours for me to say my good-bye – he had a rose waiting for me. All very sweet.

Until the next day when the calls started coming in. He said he had written a letter but didn’t have my address. I didn’t offer one. He texted. After about 8 contacts in two hours I told him he had to stop calling.

I said I was very much in love with someone.

The calls stopped for about two hours, then came the text “but I thought we had something special.” Now I know how guys feel. I finally saved his phone number as “Stalker” and never answered again.

Meanwhile he has been working my circle of friends at the beach. I pulled the photos out of the envelope and … although they’re really good, I am clearly apprehensive of the person who’s taking them.

(The photo of me with Good Randy shown here was that same night.)

After 3 hours in the drum circle - with people playing everything from expensive drums and guitars to shoe boxes and wooden spoons - I headed back to the Tiki Bar to say goodbye to my Michigan friends. We laughed about the photographer. They have a soft spot in their hearts for him already.

But I think they know enough to keep me out of that loop.

Lessons learned … Drum circles; really cool.

Desperately lonely people; a little scary.

What Happens When I Drink Too Much

Yesterday was strange. I should have known when my receipt at Tuesday Mornings was for "666". I said "better that receipt than my scalp."

The horoscopes say mercury is out of retrograde as of today ... maybe that explains it.

Saved a neat $300 by taking my beat up glasses with mega-expensive lenses (complete with the magical turn-into-sunglasses thing, HBO and extraterrestrial communication application) and chipping, battered designer frames to a big eyeglass place.

The guy said most people have a 10% chance of walking in with their lenses and finding a frame; he had mine. And it was two for one. Happy, happy, happy. I hate wearing contacts all the time.

Dropped a hundred at the pet supply store, got green-appropriate poop bags (I can now scoop guilt-free), meat-flavored toothpaste with finger brush, the healthiest kibbles and new retractable leashes (in pink) since the cheapies I have are toast.

The people at the Pet Supermarket on 41 near College are incredibly knowledgeable and helpful. The retractable leashes were locked up like Tiffany diamonds; the guy said kids come from the Edison mall after the movies and rip them off big time. That is such bullshit, the cops really need to put an end to it.

Went to the sex toy store. Bob* is dead. Bob has been dead for about 7 months. I guess I have mourned long enough. He is in my bathroom drawer, all pink and small and his little cord is tattered and gray and his ... control rattles like death rasp.

Choices were slim and ranged from $19.99 to $199.99 with basically nothing in between. The $19.99 unit looks like a purple rocketship from "Mom and Dad Save the Planet"; but beggars can't be choosers.

The clientele in those shops is always interesting. The woman behind the counter was a bit of a hoot. You know she has seen it all. She says on Fridays and Saturdays they're open til 2 a.m. with guards on staff because people file in drunk from Ricochet. (A rough country bar; I think they're down to one stabbing per 6 months now.)

Richochet folks don't buy so much as they point and laugh. I'm sure she had a lot more stories but I had too much to do.

Had a potential match date that evening. The guy is from my folks' area.

There is a regional factor to personalities, I swear to God. People from the north, especially that area of the UP and Northern Wisconsin are just very real and naturally funny. His name is Harry. Harry warned me via voicemail that if I couldn't meet him until 7 I wouldn't be meeting him at his best.

That would be the Beer Factor.

So I go to Lighthouse Tiki Bar to meet him. I was early, so I talked to Scott, the outside bartender. He is such a hard luck story. His wife got very ill and died and he lost everything they had to her medical bills. He's down here starting over. If you to go Lighthouse, please make it a point to be served by Scott outside - weather permitting.

Scott is doing OK. The cold weather has hurt his business, but it is inevitable that the weather will warm. So I'm sitting there chewing the fat and a humorous, Steve Martin looking guy in a baseball cap walks up with a really pretty young blonde. I looked at them - they looked at me - yeah, it was Harry and his niece.

We went inside, wherein he ordered way too much food at the bar and got acquainted with everyone within about 10 feet. It was hilarious. He totally disregarded my "one to two drinks" rule and every time I turned there was another drink. I paced carefully, still I found myself - like him - doing what I do when I drink too much: chatting up everyone within 10 feet.

A cute petite blonde with spiked hair and extensive tattoo work between the top of her low-cut jeans and the bottom of her sweatshirt was similarly friendly. We got to talking ... what do you do - she's a bartender who wants to move here. What do I do - writer. She says what they all say - "you should write about my life."

I have heard this a million times and my response is always the same - nobody can write your life like you can.

We're chatting on and off, between my chatting with Harry and his niece and others, back to the spikey blonde bartender. I told her to start by blogging, send me an email and I will send you to (here).

Spikey blonde is well into her drinks by this time and I mention something about Harley. She says she has been riding Harleys for years and gives "dick washes at Sturgis".

Like you're thinking "what???!" reading this, I was thinking "what???!" when the words came out of her mouth.

She says "yeah, $15 a dick, 3 minutes per dick, so many dicks per hour (demonstrating crouching like she's getting ready to shoe a horse and mimicking the hand motions) ... I can make enough in one biker event to not work half the year."

But she said she doesn't make nearly as much as the woman who "ties the guys by their wrists and drips hot wax on their" (couldn't understand her). Her date - an older man - was BEYOND mortified and dragged her away when my back was turned.

If she blogs - and I hope she does because you can't usually make this shit up - her blog should be pretty interesting.

The evening was a total hoot, a fine time and fun people to hang out with.

*Battery Operated Boyfriend

Night of the Pilots

I am changing names to protect the guilty.

Sally hasn't been out in years and damned if she didn't decide hanging out with me at Fort Myers Beach bars could be fun that particular Saturday night.

She was sipping wine in a low cut sundress telling me about her ex when a drunk guy crawled into the Cottage Bar on hands and knees.

Noting designer sandals and painted toenails at 10 o clock, he lifted his head to find his nose nearly in her cleavage.

Apparently it was lust at first sight. The night was young and so was he.

Drunk ... bright blue eyes, sort of short with big muscles, bigger ego and close cropped blondish hair. Said he was from Minnesota. I asked if he was Finnish and he was like "how'd you know that?" Like I was psychic or something.

In Minnesota or northern Michigan, you just KNOW that with anyone who crawls into a bar.

He was babbling on ad nauseam about being a pilot and wanting us to go to Jimmie B's with him and I was getting really bored. Sally was starting to look irritated, despite the fact that it had been years since she had experienced bad attention. Which is always better than no attention at all.

I was wondering if our pilot had any supervision when the movie star walked in. Holy crap, tall with dark hair, sweet cheeks and kind blue eyes. Yes, they were pilots, yes, they flew a private jet, I won't say which executives they fly for.

Cash and American Express cards were at the ready ... and no, thank God, they weren't scheduled to fly out anytime soon.

He liked me, but that's just ridiculous. The words of rough, grizzled Uncle Buck from VSI ring in my ears ... "I like screwing older women. They're grateful." UB carried photos of nieces and nephews so he could hit on vulerable women at Parents without Partners meetings.

Uncle Buck was a truck expert at the automotive marketing company we worked for. A total piece of work; and a hoot to work with.

So I excused myself from the movie star, tore Sally away from Short Pilot and we headed off to Lani Kai. Deb and the Dynamics were there. So was ... I'll call her Marie.

Marie hasn't had sex in ten years. Every weekend she dances her libido into the sandy floors of the beach bars, where she knows every band and every band member by name. Every bartender, waitress, bouncer ... you name it.

She has a thing for a local guy who's about 10 years younger. He is GORGEOUS. Cougar jokes have been flying, but he has been oblivious to her advances; if you remain silent, you can hear her confidence grinding down the tubes.

Sally sat in a corner and drank at Lani Kai ... Marie danced and I hung between the dance floor and the bar trying to avoid eye contact with two HOTTTTT younger guys. I am not even attracted.

Despite the fact that they were straight out of True Blood ... dark and a little dangerous looking. Like Hungarian gypsies with long hair and brooding eyes.

We shall call them Ponytail and The Lurker.

The Lurker walked up and asked me "who do you worship?" It was a creepy venue for a spiritual question so I ignored him, thinking he must be high.

Ponytail - like Tall Pilot - was ALSO movie star handsome. He had beautiful eyes and a kind face, but he kept violating my space. I got vibes ... sure enough, pony tail is Buddhist. I said "you're light and he's dark" (talking about his brother) and he nodded. The Lurker just stared from the shadows.

I didn't want to get into anything spiritual or talk about psychic phenomenon since that's clearly what they were about; I kept fantasizing about going home to watch Psychic Kids with my dogs. I asked Marie and Sally if they were ready for Jimmy B's and they said YEAH.

So we were off again.

Jimmy B's was humbling after the adventure we had just left. There were maybe two available men - one was our age - tall with giant schnoz and a baseball cap. The other was older and kept touching our arms for attention, like Bodhi when she wants a scrap.

Like Grandma's buddies in the Dementia Ward.

Old Guy was getting on our nerves when I spotted the pilots. I waved them in - and hilarity ensued. Holy crap - drinking and dancing and laughter.

So many times guys our age will blow off women our age in favor of young babes. It was VERY WEIRD to be on the other end of that scenario.

Short Pilot was a wildman, so danced by himself when no one would dance with him. Tall Pilot was still hitting on me but I made it clear I was going home; alone.

Marie was happy to take over. Sally was having a great time ... my friends were safe and happy so I left.

I heard from Marie late the next morning. She told me how many bars Tall Pilot had on his uniform. She said she was afraid to get room service for fear it would be delivered by someone she knew and was terrified driving past her church for fear someone would recognize her car.

It's two weeks later and she still has that smile on her face.

Sally claims nothing happened ... except for having the most fun she's had in many years.

I'm not sure this means my friends have shape-shifted into real-live cougars, but I think it's quite possible. They're out for more this coming Saturday ... and hammering me into compliance.

I prefer vicarious thrills, so expect an update Sunday or Monday.

Thanksgiving at Tim's Place at the Channel Mark

Met Canadian Connie at Tim's Place for Thanksgiving. (This photo is from one evening last summer when we decided to walk the beach with the dogs.)

She brought her 28 year old son and the three of us had a fine time.

Temp was about 72 degrees - that's on the verge of cold for some of us, so we sat in the sun on the rail overlooking Hurricane Bay. I got a call from a friend in Michigan and didn't get much sympathy for having to wear a sweater.

Tim's Place was EMPTY compared to last year - but the food was outstanding. Connie let me taste her pumpkin soup - I need to track down that recipe. And their cranberries had bits of nuts and cherries ... they were heaven!

I told Connie the girls at work were telling me I need to start going to the Edison on Wednesdays because they have a "Cougar pit." Well, I won't have her to go prowling with; if I ever do.

Connie is moving to the Washington DC area in mid-December. I'm excited for her, but I'll miss her. I need pleasantly strange friends and there aren't a lot like her in these parts.

Connie is perhaps the only other person on the planet who has been watching what's going on with pythons down here. I read an article yesterday that said there are from 5,000 to 30,000 in the Everglades area and points north.

I know, that's a weird gap in reporting the numbers.

The author said people buy the babies as pets, thinking they're manageable and only need those little aquarium things; forgetting that down the line they will need their own room.

The article was sort of hilarious. It was like the guy was saying "I know what you're thinking - let's round them up and use them for food for the needy." (I believe it's open season on boars right now. Not the kind you find in bars, the kind you find out in the woods.)

Unfortunately, the author had actually eaten python and didn't like it. Yeah, we're hoping for "tastes like chicken" when we read an article this unsettling, but did not have that satisfaction. He said pythons are "all muscle". So I'm imagining "chewy". Like trying to eat a wetsuit.

He said maybe with the right ingredients they might be ok. BAM!

I was telling Connie they want herp owners to "chip" their pythons. She didn't get it ... her son explained "microchip - like in dogs."

Then he started telling us about a classmate who is a stripper in Fort Myers. She raises (?) and sells pythons on the side, keeps them out back in Lehigh Acres and has a supply of rats for feed. (What kind of person can feed living animals to snakes?)

When they get too big, she just lets them loose. Nice.

He said she wears see through blouses, shorts exactly 4" wide and got off having to turn in a paper on time by telling the Humanities professor she has chlamydia.

However, she has accepted Christ as her personal savior.

I don't make this shit up.

This was a great Thanksgiving. I miss family and friends up north, but it sure is nice being out enjoying the sunshine on the big holidays.

Listening Past the "Hot"

This is the Cottage Bar on Fort Myers Beach.

I was dragged out of my condo Saturday by a single girlfriend and we went on one of her marathon tours of beach bars in search of cool guys - no easy task at our age. She made me stop at Parrot Key first, saying she had run into some guys and they were supposed to be there. She said they were "older guys."

I asked "how old". She said "not so old that they wouldn't be fun to dance with."

I said NO!!!!!!

But she whined and got me there anyway. Parrot Key is a wonderful place and they had a dj that night. We found them at a table and the one immediately got up, put her purse on the table and whisked her off to the dance floor. I was left with the drooly loose-lipped guy who had had the stroke.

I remember meeting him at the Estero Singles Dance we refer to as God's Waiting Room. This time I danced one dance ... remembering the horror at Cin Cin just last week with the Beetlegeuse Guy. One dance is polite. More than one is leading them on and personally horrific. He tried to dance couples to fast music and I said I don't do that.

Nobody touches me.

My friend asked if I wanted to stay. NO!! This is a word I am not accustomed to using with such force. I am 57, my friend is 60 - we are both very young for our age, in good health. People in our age group now range from fit and fun to nursing home appropriate.

She asked again. NO!!! I wanted out!!!

My New Years resolution was that I would not suffer idiots. I will also not put myself out and ruin MY evening by being TOO DAMNED NICE.

She dragged me to the Yucatan. It just opened, it's beautiful and has adjacent free parking. If you're not a local, it's not easy knowing where to park. Some pretty young drunk thing with giant fake hooters was singing karaoke -"Baby Got Back". Shaking it.

The fake ones don't shake all that well - they're more hard boiled than over easy. I used to not like mine, but at least they're original equipment. I finally accept them after all these years. Although in this searing heat it's like having four armpits.

We know the woman who runs the karaoke and she looked very unhappy. Apparently Fake Tits was not willing to vacate the stage so someone else could sing. The table of locals behind us was grumbling. It's not easy being local color putting up with drunk tourists.

Finally the local was grudgingly granted space on the stage and the first words out of his mouth were "Baby Got Front Too!" Everyone laughed.

Not me. It wasn't a nice crowd, I couldn't wait to get out.

Lighthouse Tiki Bar was sort of dead. Handcuff Larry was DJ for the night. My friend asked if I wanted to stay and I said NO.

New Kings were blasting rock from the Barking Shark; we walked in and there were two stools at the bar - very rare, precious as diamonds. I wanted to stay. Really hard, loud rock. I love it.

She said NO.

So we went off to the Cottage. This was all getting very old very fast. However - there was a great entertainer at the Cottage! And people at the bar! And two cute single guys our age! One was deeply tanned with blue eyes and a white baseball cap. The other had a shaved head, nice eyes, tasteful tropical shirt and khaki shorts.

I liked the latter. They're from Chicago, were staying at an area hotel and could walk back to their rooms. We joked about one room or two - straight or gay.

The one I liked said he hates faggots. Dealbreaker.

However, he WAS sober. He attempted to soften his remark but it rang in my ears and I focused attentions elsewhere.

My friend went for the other one. I was at the other end of this four-person interaction, being leaned on by a guy (also our age) to my left who was out on a date with a classy younger woman. This guy was HILARIOUS. She looked like she was being patient. I noticed she was drinking water.

I know what it's like to be the patient one drinking the water. Charming and funny when a relationship is new it gets VERY old after some years.

It was a great time. A major hunk directly across from me was flirting and wanted me to come to his side. He was my son's age.

Another guy who I almost had a date with showed up and I felt him behind us waiting for his turn at the bartender. I poked my friend and whispered "the guy behind us is the one I ditched because he got on my nerves."

Weeks ago I explained that I met him at 7 at Lighthouse Tiki Bar and he was hammered and pawing. He violated my personal space. I reminded him I was a local and I have my reputation to think of. He didn't stop.

And he was looming behind me. A giant of a guy. He must have moved into the area, this is like the third sighting.

He whispered "sorry, I'm just trying to get a drink" and I turned around and looked him in the eye. He said OMIGOD ... I am SO SORRY!!! Just on an on. And he said he was leaving but kept coming back. My friend pointed out he was dancing with every skank at the bar and I said "I guess he's showing ME!" She laughed.

At one point he RESTED HIS CHIN ON MY SHOULDER.

This was very annoying. He asked if he was bothering me and I said YES. Just like last time you IDIOT! (I only thought that part.)

At any rate, the hunky bald guy finally leaned over across empty barstools (as our mutual friends danced) and asked what my story was.

He had really nice eyes. He said he had an incredible ability to read people. Arrogance ... red flag.

I told him about moving from Michigan, about the almost seven year relationship that turned abusive, etc., etc. He asked what about me made me choose abusive men. Which pissed me off. And yeah, I explained that I am attracted to incredibly intelligent, complicated men and sometimes that can backfire.

What am I doing explaining myself to strangers??!

When I asked him about himself he was oddly silent. I said "I can feel your walls" and he said "I don't have walls" and I said "yes you do." Then he explained everyone from Chicago needs walls.

Are you married, are you going with somebody? None of the above.

I said "you're Italian." He said yeah and looked a little surprised. We talked some more. The chemistry was there from the start but we finally started clicking mentally.

I haven't had sex in six months. I haven't had good sex in four years. My libido is in a battle with my head, which is what got me into this emotional mess in the first place.

He said I needed to open up and be myself. Another red flag. My book on emotional abuse says to listen to your body when you meet people. I could feel my entire right side tense up. But other parts ...

I said "I'm Finnish - I'm a better listener than a talker." I am who I am and I'm not changing for anybody. I will adapt to a degree that is comfortable, but I will not change.

They asked us back to their hotel. I said I had to go home and let my dogs out. Bald guy said "oh, the dogs are more important." YEAH, THEY ARE MORE IMPORTANT.

How many red flags does a person need.

I can handle going to a hotel with guys - I can have a drink and conversation and go home. But I don't believe in being even a little buzzed and getting behind a wheel. Besides which, I was getting tired and when I get tired, that IS driving impaired.

I suggested we walk down to the Barking Shark. They had heard New Kings and really liked them. It was a nice compromise.

We walked beachside instead of sidewalk. What a gorgeous night ... it had cooled off, the sky was black with a near-full moon behind a haze. There were slight shimmers of silver marking the edge of the water.

He offered his arm for me to put my arm through as we walked. It was very nice. And we held hands. Even though he annoyed me it was super nice.

But New Kings were closing down. The four of us were walking towards Lighthouse Tiki (and their hotel beyond ... I assumed my friend was going with them) when I counted the flags and told myself I'm not even going to BEGIN thinking about anything like that again.

I said I have to go home, I'm tired.

Bald guy was unhappy; I gave him a hug and a kiss.

Never Wear Spangles to a Biker Bar.

It was Saturday. I run a big singles meetup and we had plans ... I actually went to some trouble because we have a new guy who's pretty cute. I wore a long brown skirt and a brown top with spangles.

This was entirely appropriate for a Saturday night at Leapin' Lizard in Cape Coral. I felt girly, which is rare for me.

It was Deb and the Dynamics (photo above) playing in the inside room. At Lani Kai last weekend they were awesome - the music ROCKED the whole hotel right down to the beach and everyone danced, from little kids to old folks.

At Lizards, the inside room sucked. It is claustrophobic, it has too many doors and too narrow doorways, you can't mingle and if you dance it gets hot as hell. It was suffocating.

A small group of us finally gave it up and went outside with our cocktails. We are more than Sexless in the City - we are the GPBP ... "Good People, Bad Places" type. We swear and enjoy rough bars. You'd never know it to look at us. We look "proper".

Looks can be deceiving.

One of the guys misplaced his keys. I won't get into how. But he misplaced them and we had to try to track them down or someone was going to have to help him find a place to stay. I'm never falling for that trick again.

We thought the keys had been left in another member's car, so we walked through Cape Coral around midnight headed for where we thought the guy with the car was - the Deck Bar, a biker bar.

Three females (one Canadian) and two guys.

I can always measure the crowd at a glance. Our Canadian disappeared into the crowd for her first lap round the bar and emerged rosy cheeked and exhilarated ... she had been hit on immediately.

In a situation like that, it's not so much that you got hit on - but who by. I had seen the crowd, there was nobody I wanted to be hit on BY.

She slurringly insisted I had to come in for "at least one." She was one cocktail short of "I love you man."

I flashed back on that morning after yoga. The muscled masseur had asked if I wanted a massage and I said "I'm Finnish - nobody touches me unless they buy me drinks." Which was a joke, but it felt creepy in hindsight.

If a masseur writes children's books, does that make him Dr. Masseuse? :-)

So there at the Deck I made it a Diet Coke and promptly got hit on by a drunk my son's age. He was fascinated by my top. It was a little like that recurring nightmare where you're in class in your underwear.

"What do you call those ..." he waved his meaty forefinger in little circles too close to my cleavage ... "spangles!?"

Yeah, spangles. Close enough. So sorry I wore that top.

The Canadian was making nice with the owner, who reminded me of the state senator I used to date. I'm going to have a little chat with her later ... or supervise her the next time she drinks.

Anyhoo, it totally sucked from that point on. The Spangles guy kept repeating himself ... that circle talking just wears me out. Being from Michigan, I must be polite at all times.

I especially hate being the only totally sober one. I gave everyone a hug goodbye and split ... those effin spangles bouncing and glittering through the darkness all the way back to my car - which was still at Lizards.

I decided to close off the weekend with a gentler day on Sunday.

I went to Tim's Place on Hurricane Bay. It had been a while. It started off ok ... nice day. Dolphins were out in the bay hunting ... I thought I saw a shark fin. Sharks gotta eat too.

Two women sat down next to me. One was adorable, red hair, perky nose, cute figure, a little younger than me. Her hair was up and there were flakes the size of Special K at the nape of her neck.

I moved my wine as far away as I could and tried not to gack.

Two girlfriends showed up and we sat at the other end of the bar. A big pasty red haired Irishman came over and invited "us" to his side of the bar. He had an eye on me. I said maybe in a bit. I love foreigners; even if they're drinking.

Apparently he was on the cusp of hammered when he braved the trip across the room, because in a short time he was TOTALLY blottoed and he had found a similarly blottoed pleasantly plump young brunette to dance with him.

He was dancing dramatic as a rock legend with a full stadium, dropping to one knee with arms outstretched as the rock (this was the Gecko Band) reached a fever pitch. The brunette mimicked him and they missed each other by four beats on every move.

He reminded me of my ex BF. Remembering many similarly steamy, humiliating afternoons with him being stupid drunk, I turned and told my friends "at least I'm not going with that one."

At one point he picked the brunette up and ... sure enough, they toppled over into the edge of the bar and empty barstools fell like dominoes. Another patron helped her back to her feet because the Irishman could barely right himself.

I was laughing so hard I nearly peed.

The bruised knees, asses and egos weren't enough to make them stop - they picked themselves up and continued. A few more missed swirls and the Irishman nearly took out the band's surly sound guy.

Then he dropped to his knees and planted his lips on her round belly - again, with arms grandly to his sides. Like he was blowing on her belly button under her white t-shirt. I was half expecting her to inflate.

What the ... ?? They held the position for a good (that's a stretch) sixty seconds.

My own belly cramping from laughter, I turned to my friend Kayla and said - "I have come to a conclusion ...

Florida is a freak show!!!"

The ex-BF has a new bitch already.

Saturday I picked up the last of my stuff from the ex-boyfriend's house. I've been working such long hours lately that was my first real chance. Having that hanging over my head was just a horrible, icky feeling. It would be like walking back into an evening frozen in time.

My last day at his house had included YET ANOTHER afternoon of hell out on the water off Sanibel with him blackout drunk and abusive. I told myself "not even ONE more night of this." I packed it up, I didn't even care what I left - I grabbed my dogs and went home.

His year-round home is 1400 miles away. If I want a part-time relationship with an abusive alcoholic, I'm sure I could find someone who's local.

I packed it up. I didn't even care much what I left, I grabbed my dogs and got outta there.

Well, retrieving what's left has been hanging over my head for more than a month.

You can feel the "shots" in what they pack and how they pack it. He dropped it all at the front door. Some of the stuff wasn't even mine (a pretty t-shirt of his daughter's which I couldn't have pulled over one boob let alone two) ... stuff from the fridge (like fresh ... well it WAS fresh ... horseradish) and Newman's popcorn with extra fiber. A box of All-Bran, egg noodles. Does this imply he thinks I'm full of ...?

Some of this leftover stuff was second-hand from my nurse friend who came down with her doctor husband to visit a few months back. They stayed in a lovely condo and she handed me bags of leftovers the night before I took her to the airport. We are both packrat hoarders who despise waste.

She had everything labeled and dated in tidy little zip-locks ... noodles, maplenut candies, probably seven bucks worth of stale leftovers if you were forced to replace them and buy new. Nobody would ever make you do that.

Bad Randy had bagged it and left it all in heaps by the front door.

Oh, and ANYTHING related to the dogs ... except for the spots on the carpet.

He also left the Christmas gift he gave me - a short, poofy thermal robe made of mega-thick fleece that made me look like a gay grizzly. Inappropriate for my fat ass and wholly inappropriate for the subtropics.

While I think he paid full price, I bought identical robes for my mother and daughter-in-law for Christmas for $10/apiece at Bell's outlet. Maybe they hate me now for the Michelin Man effect ... except that it's still cold where they live.

I texted Bad Randy that I had just got around to getting my stuff - the house was fine, nothing important in the mailbox ... I couldn't remember which locks to lock (he has so many) and he texted back. He sounds very sad and very angry. We are not capable of speech, only texting.

He sent a photo of his new Shih Tzu ... he didn't waste any time finding another dog. A 6 year old rescue he got after getting back to Michigan.

The new dog actually hurt worse than anything. Of course we will be systematically replaced.

He loves our (MY) Shih Tzu, gave her sweetened antibiotics by mouth back when she was tiny and fragile and we weren't sure she'd survive.

I couldn't even bring the girls with me to pick up my stuff, I knew I'd cry because they'd be so happy to see the house ... thinking he was there. And he's not.

My Shih Tzu used to sleep snug as a bug on the bulging curve of his beer belly/inflamed liver as he leaned back in the LaZ-Boy flicking through four channels at once.

So aside from getting my SMALLER AND INFINITELY MORE PORTABLE KAYAK back, I'm grumpy. He didn't intend for me to take that. It was in the shed and there are black snakes around back and nobody has been out there for more than a month. I thought "Lord knows what's gonna be in it when I pull it out" ... nothing.

Managed to get it into the Uranus (what my friend Jim calls my Saturn) with the back seats folded forward, stole an old bungie to secure it and I was off.

Driving back my trunk lid kept banging on the kayak and then came a horrid buzzing in the passenger seat. Where I had dumped all the bags.

Then I realized he'd gone through our "stash" and packed my vibrator too. I had mixed feelings about that. Well, it was fairly expensive and it has been a very long time. If you want to talk GOOD sex, you're talking years.

Now I'm only happy when I'm watching girly movies with my bitches or eating chocolate or out at Bunche Beach kayaking like I did for a few hours yesterday.

Or just riding my bike out there for a sunset like I did last night. Apparently I am 12 again.

There are much worse things than being alone. The worst is being in an abusive relationship. There is no greater loneliness.

Bigots, bare feet and dealbreakers.

I met Shelly about 8 months ago. Her husband died a year ago. He was very sick for a very long time and I think the sex died YEARS before he did. She was chompin' at the bit.

She is tall, blonde, sweet and near perfect; she proceeded to lose another 15 lbs. making her maybe 2% of her age group who are that thin and that beautiful.

Still reeling from the shock of turning 60 a few weeks back, she has been dating anyone who will ask.

We were out on a friend's boat - I call him "Good Randy", as opposed to "Bad Randy" - my ex. It was me, Shelly, another girlfriend and a retired cop. At one point he was telling your classic cop stories and bragged about "running all the niggers out of my town - even the big sports stars."

I gasped.

Good Randy turned from the helm and laughed it off. "He's not bigoted at all."

How would Cop react to my plans to vote for Obama? My inner Buddhist said to keep my yap shut.

Shelly's been out with him a few times. Her biggest concern that afternoon was whether his hair was real. Good Randy told her it was a weave. We weren't sure.

Over the past coupla weeks, Shelly continued to date him. And about four others.

Last night, after week two of brain-crushing radio & tv script deadlines, I found it impossible to stay home. I could have had a date but I can't take the pressure. I don't think I'm over my alcoholic yet. The wounds haven't healed. But I won't stay home alone if I'm lonely!

I decided to break my own rule and head out to the Fort Myers Beach bars with Shelly and our peeps.

We met up with our core group ... Good Randy, Bigot Cop, the girlfriend who's married to a gay guy, etc. Met the gay husband for the first time; gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek and he recoiled.

There was another stiff looking couple present ... the man looked detached and had beautiful eyes. I assumed he was the real partner of my friend's husband. The one I had heard about. He could not stand the place or the people. HIS wife was well-dressed and completely miserable.

The men were obvious in their cautious attempts to maintain a discreet distance from each other.

Gay or not, having two sets of mismatched spousal units made everyone uncomfortable and incredibly dull. Yeah, I know - you'd expect exactly the opposite.

Shelly and I wandered off to the other beach bars. She knows them all.

By the third waterfront bar, Shelly gave me an opportunity to express my opinions about indiscriminate dating. She thought it was odd that I won't date unless there is a huge mental connection - or a lot of whining and guilt. (Them, not me.) I would just rather stay home with my dogs.

We agreed that neither of us respect anyone who would fall in love with us quickly. It was so Rodney Dangerfield ... wouldn't want to join any club that would have us as a member. That was our breakthrough moment that transformed us from acquaintances to friends. We shared a deep, dark secret and a big laugh.

Then we started talking about her guys. I asked if she knew the retired cop was a bigot. She hadn't overheard that particular conversation on the boat. I told her about it and she was appalled.

I suggested she analyze those she's dating - her eyes lit up and she asked "make a list?" And I said "yeah, an Excel spreadsheet if you like! These are the core qualities ...

They should be in good health.
They should CARE about their health. (Good Randy has recovered from lung cancer and continues to smoke.)
They should not be whores.
They should make at least as much as us.
They should OWN at least as much as us.
And most important, they should be someone we could see spending the rest of our lives with. Why waste our time???"

She liked it. Besides which, it caused the instant removal of several from her list, lessening her confusion.

The bar was The Cottage. I loved it. You could see the waves coming in, little shimmering threads of white against the darkness. Guitar music and a happy laid back crowd.

I went to the john and brushed my hair. On the way back I was hit on by a very tall good-looking lunatic wearing a shark's tooth wrapped in leather. It was as big as my head.

He reminded me of Dog the Bounty Hunter and had a nickname ... can't remember for sure. Dave something. All long-time locals have nicknames.

His wasn't quite on a par with "Fuckin' George" - who actually has that printed on his business card.

Dave tried to buy me a drink. I said Diet Coke, he said the bartender would throw him out if he asked for that. I said "come sit with me and my girlfriend" and pointed in the general direction of our table. He said he'd be there in a minute.

I enjoy characters. Shelly does too. As fate would have it, he was too drunk to find us. He was tall enough that I could see him looking, but I wasn't intrigued enough to stand up and wave him in.

Shelly and I walked back to our core group at our core bar. Everyone moved around so we could position ourselves (??)

Good Randy has a habit of trying to pimp us out.

Shelly and I sat next to each other and the cop sat across from us.

Good Randy made a joke about my boobs; that far into the beverages, boob jokes happen. I had grabbed his ass earlier when he said something about giving me his seat, so all is fair.

There were maybe eight other acquaintances at the table when the Cop made a sideways remark that I felt was disrespectful of Shelly. I turned to her and whispered "it's bad enough he's a bigot - did you get a load of the socks?"

She sat up lightly to look and plunked back down. "MY GOD!"

His weave was only noticeable if you looked from behind, the "Bigot" thing was bad, but mid-calf white socks - in Shelly's discerning criteria - were the death blow.

She said "HE IS OFF THE LIST!!"

It made me think of a great date I had last weekend. We went to Sanibel, had brilliant conversation, glorious weather and no shortage of shells. (I customized a mirror frame with them - it turned out great.)

I didn't care that he was a few inches shorter than his profile stated. Didn't care that I was a little taller. My waist is far smaller than his. Good 'nuff. I can still feel sort of girly.

The afternoon held no need for me to remove my shorts and reveal my fluffy white ass. I felt our imperfections were fairly equal.

Until I looked down at our bare feet as we sat on our towels chatting.

Mine are bigger than his. Stompers. Gunboats.

Idiocy knows no age restrictions. I will see him again because I enjoy his conversation, but we can never be anything meaningful because of my own insecurities.

Uma Thurman wears a size 10. I wonder how she deals with guys with smaller feet ...