Bad Heir Day

Shawn and I engage in a classic pre-photo gut-suck.

On Father’s Day I reminded myself of that old country song where the guy doesn’t know whether to kill himself or go bowling.

Since I don’t bowl, I decided to go to the Big Cypress Flea Market. I’ve never been, have been wanting to go.

Thankfully, I have a car again! One great thing about a crap economy, you can actually find an honest mechanic on Craigslist - someone who will come out, tell you it’s not nearly as bad as you thought, go buy the necessary parts and come back and fix it for you; all within two hours.

DESTINATION: BIG CYPRESS FLEA MARKET

So yesterday I headed out and the car drove like new. NPR was on the radio, the sun was shining and I was starting to relax as I turned off I75 at exit 101 to Marco Island. Two panther crossing signs on Collier and I was hanging a left on 41 towards the everglades.

It was so hot the blacktop on south Tamiami shimmered like pools of liquid silver. The local weather folks are describing the temps as “soup”. (I have the AC set to 83 degrees; when I return to my condo after a walk, it’s like stepping into a meatlocker.)

Locals are crackers and imports who are proud of their ability to endure jungle heat without bitching too much. Snowbirds are a bunch of pussies.

When I was a snowbird I went to the flea market in downtown Fort Myers once. It’s a hot, dirty maze of crap and not-so-crap. The layout is manic.

Big Cypress in Naples is just the opposite - air conditioned, new and orderly. Shoppers were pretty darned sparse for a Father’s day and I couldn’t help noticing an unsettling desperation among most of the vendors.

I make jewelry; a hand-made Swarovski crystal bracelet that had to cost $30 to make was on sale for … thirty dollars. And the couple that owned the lovely little shop was desperate to sell something. Anything.

In the food court, one happy, talented entertainer was playing to approximately nine people; this area had the capacity to seat hundreds. I’m sure in six months, as new dealers sign on, Big Cypress will offer people enough merchandise and activities to become a great way to spend an afternoon.

It deserves community and snowbird support! http://www.bigcypressmarketplace.com/

Unfortunately, I was MORE depressed after leaving the flea market.

Snowbirds are up north, people who can’t take the heat are staying inside … and almost everyone is worried about spending money.

SUCKS TO BE HEIRS

I thought about Father’s Day … the best father I know is my son. (Photo above.)

I was thinking about that on the drive back … my son … my heir. Before I got Lyme Disease, I would have had plenty to leave him and his family. Now I'll have nothing to leave but photos and memories.

If things don’t turn around soon, the baby boom generation will have produced more descendants than heirs. Think about the difference. I was. I talked myself into a deeper depression.

Part of me said GO HOME AND HIDE; my higher self said WHEN YOU’RE SAD AND LONELY, GO WHERE THE HAPPY PEOPLE ARE.

They’re at the Lighthouse Tiki Bar on Fort Myers Beach.

THE USUAL SUSPECTS AT THE USUAL PLACE

I took exit 116 to Lover’s Key; what an incredible stretch of roads, bridges and islands. I started wishing I had my kayak …. there are so many wonderful beaches and coves, you can pull over and put in almost anywhere.

But I had no kayak, so I kept driving. In 15 minutes I had parked my car under the bridge and was maneuvering the pebbly path to the Lighthouse Tiki Bar.

It feels like home. It’s my neighborhood bar, my Cheers where I recognize other locals and vice versa.

On Sundays the Diane Russel band KICKS ASS. http://www.myspace.com/dianerussellband
It is NOT POSSIBLE to remain glum. Apply beer and tap to the beat ...

Soon tourists were behaving badly. Bimps were strutting around mostly naked, manmeat was walking around shirtless; one was peppering his nipples.

By 7 p.m. half the bar was in the pool - some against their will. A large gentleman proudly rose to the surface with his beer upright. One pretty blonde pattered back to her barstool soaking wet in white (suddenly see-thru) shorts & no undies.

The bathrooms became a Noah’s ark where ladies entered two by two...

I sat in back to watch the happy madness with a married friend who knows everyone and everything. He apologized for transitioning from southern gentleman to redneck in the course of three strong cocktails.

It was a hoot. I met new people and had a really nice time.

Note to self & everyone else … when times get tough, go where the happy people are.

Krappy Karma

I GIVE UP!

I quit Match. Everyone who could be appropriate is either back up north or here hiding like me, watching Scrubs reruns and getting acquainted with The Dog Whisperer. On the bright side, my bitches are finally walking on the leash now! Behind me no less!

I finally get it - THESE are the relationships that matter. They’re loving, cuddly and low maintenance!

Match has been an effing nightmare. Some people assign mystical qualities to computerized matchmaking. Every once in a while I’ll get a hopeful email from some nimrod saying “I was matched to you!”

Well yeah, I have a pulse and I’m in your zip code.

I have met guys who were TWENTY YEARS OLDER than their photos. (I felt so sorry for one old geezer I bought him lunch).

A guy from Pine Island said "I look just like my photo, don't I!" Yeah, except that his hair had gone completely white since it was taken.

One bragged about his tennis and could barely make it off a curb without my hand supporting his elbow.

Another guy posted two photos - in one he looked like the father and the other a son. Yeah, they were both him.

I met an English guy who looked like his photo and was as much fun as I expected; but then - rather than give me a POLITE kiss good-bye - he stuck his dry, round tongue in my mouth.

I am STILL grossed out.

OTHER SLIPS OF THE TONGUE

A few days ago it was coverage of the helicopter pilot who crashed into a pool house in Naples and had to be “excavated” (extricated) from the wreckage.

STAY OFF THE RAIL FOR CHRISSAKES

Our local anchor says it seems like we’re getting more and more of these stories. Another woman “fell” off a cruise ship 70 miles from shore.

They called her a 50-year-old grandmother; based on the photo they flashed, she was a pretty blonde lady who looked like she knew how to party. One shove after multiple cocktails … so much cheaper than a divorce. Or maybe she just got stupid drunk; cruises can do that.

Did we ever find out what happened to Natalie Wood?

RESCUING NATURE’S LEAST POPULAR CRITTERS

Local channels and NPR are covering this one … yesterday five 10-to-12 year old kids were tossing, playing with - and kissing (I don’t make this shit up) - a Brazilian bat on Fort Myers Beach.

I find it encouraging that a good Samaritan stepped forward to rescue the bat. He or she then drove it to CROW - the Center for Rehabilitation of wildlife - on Sanibel.

Apparently CROW sent the bat off for testing and reports came back positive for rabies. Now this town has to track down and rescue the kids who were playing with it. They found two - they need to find the other three. Hopefully it will be local kids and not tourists who may already be thousands of miles away.

Crow is an amazing place, totally dedicated to wildlife. Check it out - http://www.crowclinic.org/.
Last year at the ad agency we rescued a vulture that had been hit by a car while dining on a roadside carcass. He eluded us for two weeks, then finally weakened to the point where our sorry asses had a chance to grab him.

Cast of characters included me, the writer - Rachael the media buyer - Tiana the Account Exec and Anthony, the other Account Exec (and biggest pussy of all). We were running around the concrete and glass office complex trying to corner this giant bird, screaming like six-year-old girls. The people from the other offices are probably still talking about the lunatics at the agency.
So we cornered the vulture in an entryway, got him into a pre-prepared box with holes and stuff (Rachael thinks of everything) and edged the box gently into the back seat of my car.

I knew driving him to CROW was going to make me late for an important meeting, but this feathered soul was more important. And there he was behind me, thrashing and stinking all the way.

I imagined him breaking out of the box and pecking my eyes out; I imagined running off the road and drowning in a slough*.

But I (we) made it. The woman at Crow thanked me and said “not many people are brave enough to capture a vulture.”

Back at the office, the boss wasn't mad at me for what I'd done, he just looked at the four of us like we needed prescriptions for whatever made us this way.

We named the vulture Carl and worried about his welfare.

A few days later I got a call. Carl had eaten a few meals and received good care, but his injury was too severe. Infection set in and he didn’t make it.

Say what you will, vultures are beautiful birds. Their feathers are the color of mink and the wingspan is incredible. They eat our roadkill.

I like bats too. They eat bugs.

NOTE TO PETA ... speaking as a person who lost three years of her life and everything she owned to a tick bite ... someone who NOW walks around with an anaphylactic shock medic alert bracelet on her wrist and liquid Benadryl in her purse in case of bug bite - President Obama was TOTALLY righteous in smashing that fly to kingdom come**.

Peta, you need to lighten the $%& up.

LEXUS’ AGENCY HIRING DISCOUNT TALENT?

Are you as grossed out as I am every time they play the Lexus IS commercial? That’s the one where the guy throws his head back with driving ecstacy, opening his mouth so wide you can see the fillings in his upper teeth.

You’d think this client has enough money for talent with enough money for cosmetic dentistry. Not that I’m in any position to even THINK about a Lexus ever again for the rest of my life.

Or cosmetic dentistry, for that matter.

CARMA

I try to be a good Buddhist. Right now my life is utter SHITTT with THREE Ts so I’m thinking I need to do some selfless things to bring it all back around to GOOD karma. (No, my name is not Earl.)

Two years ago a southern gentleman suitor gave me a vintage white bike. (Never gonna happen … this guy is the cheapest man on the planet.) I used the bike for a while, but you fry after 9 a.m. in this heat and … well, I’ve been staying up half the night and waking up around Ellen.

The white bike has been chained to the rail of my front steps like it’s trying to escape.

Last week someone on Freecycle asked for bikes for kids and I told her she could take the bike. OK, one small chunk of good karma should come back from giving away a bike I might have needed if my piece of shit car ever broke down.

That same week I also went through my closet and started removing things I haven’t worn in a few years. Even stuff I liked a lot. I was going to find a women’s shelter, but I know of a charity that does nice work in Cape Coral.

Today I had to meet a client briefly - and it was out that way - so I put the bags in the car.

It was one of those days where you're proud of doing things you've been putting off. I was giving stuff away, I was organizing my life, I was in the zone - so I decided to do one more thing I didn’t want to do; I called my ex-BF to see how he was.

When I first made the call, I was driving. The man never shuts up. I sat outside CVS for 20 minutes while he told me all about how he was and how his life was and how his business was holding on just fine and never once asked how I was.

I felt like there was something else I wanted to say, but I needed to pee; I told him I'd call him back.

I was in CVS (nice restroom!) when I remembered what I wanted to ask. “Do you think my piece of shit car would be safe enough to drive the 1400 miles up north to see family?” Cool, I'd call him back after I went through the toll booth and dropped the clothes off.

My Saturn SL is 12 years old with about 86,000 miles. It gets GREAT mileage.

It nearly died in the tollbooth. It started screaming, so I turned off the AC. (The heat was about 96 degrees at that point.) Then I noticed the battery light was on.

I made it to Goodwill without incident, but realized I was getting really stressed. There are three expenses I fear most - needing to buy a different used car, needing a new computer, and having the AC in my condo die. All are "about due."

Financially, I am in no position for any of this to happen. Obsessing and oblivious to all around me, I immediately misplaced my purse. It took 10 heart-pounding minutes to find it.

When I got back to my car, it started just fine but it seemed like the steering was suddenly difficult. WTF? My imagination?? Sweat was literally running down my face.

I got my phone wet calling the ex back. He knows cars. He said it was probably the serpentine belt. (?) I told him I was going back to Walmart because the battery light was on and the battery was still under warranty.

Walmart ran a quick check and told me it was the transmission. (I can’t say enough about the guys who work at the auto area at the Fort Myers Walmart at 41 & Gladiolus.)

I asked “how much is a transmission?”

The nice man got a look on his face like “do I really want to wreck her day?” And said “the parts are about $100.” He suggested AAMCO near the Olive Garden.

Ignorance is bliss. I drove away thinking “OK, $100 is doable.” Double-A-beepbeepMCO was closed, so I headed home and stopped at the grocery store “just in case” my car died or something.

Smart move.

Mission accomplished, I pulled up to my condo and turned the car off. Only it didn't turn off. I freaked. The ex-BF was not answering his phone so I called the only smart guy I know down here ... well, the only one I don't work with, the only one who won't call me a dumb blonde, the only one who will be sober at 6:00 on a Friday.

Harry said it was probably the fan and talked me through it. While we waited for "the noise" to stop, I asked how he was. He sounded like different day, different mistakes. His luck is just like mine.

The way my luck has been going, I expected the engine would explode and take out my downstairs living area and upstairs bedroom; but Harry was right - the fan went off after about 10 minutes.

I told Harry I had hoped to go to the beach tonight but obviously THAT wasn’t going to happen. He said he could stop by on his motorcycle and take me. I said “cool - we can both die in a fiery wreck.” (See my biker blog about four blogs back.)

Harry joked that without transportation, I’ll have more time to write. Which explains why this is my longest blog ever.

I am carless.

I am VERY upset because I will probably miss yoga tomorrow. It’s so hot I’ll pass out if I try to walk.

I could ride my bike … but I don’t have one.

Fortunately, I chose a condo in a piece of paradise that is WALKING DISTANCE to everything I need.

If I can stay away from the buttery deliciousness of the Marie Callendar all white meat turkey pot pies in my freezer, I’ll be ok.

I don’t have the stamina (or inventory) to become a drunk.

*Slough rhymes with "new". Known as a deep ditch up north, down here a slough has the potential to become a watery grave with snakes and alligators; or not. I am so paranoid sometimes.

**I met a Tibetan Buddhist monk a month or so ago and we talked about this thorny BUG issue. He said he's allergic too. He said some monks are able to achieve a level of oneness where bugs do not bother them. I don't think I'll be achieving that level anytime soon.

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.)

What fresh hell is this?

This is my friend DeeDee on Good Randy's amazing deckboat. Last summer sometime I think it was.

Tomorrow, I think I'm going to be exactly where she is in this photo. Probably no booze. It's a depressant and I don't need any of that right now.

You see, Friday I was called into the President's office (not Obama, I'm talking the King of my little salaried world) and I was told their having a "writer" was a luxury they could no longer afford.

To be honest, I don't know how they can afford to bop me back to contract. I don't think they have any idea how much work gets blasted at me every day. I have a sign next to my to-do-board. "Do you want fries with that?!"

In any given day I will do a few eBlasts, a few radio scripts, a few TV scripts, a coupla print ads and assorted other weirdness. You throw in a proposal and a phone interview with subsequent article and my brain goes through so many gears it comes out the consistency of grits. This will fry his.

Well, we'll see how it goes. Maybe I will be just as well off as a contract employee, with the bonus of working from home. Or maybe they will bust butt to do it all themselves and I'll have to see if Publix needs baggers.

The girls were besides themselves. They know I hate boob hugs and I was seated and damned if two of them didn't corner me behind my desk and I had a head/boob hug from Carrie & Kamla. Assholes.

I cried. Ice Queen Summer cried.

Carrie seems to think I have nothing to worry about and Kamla just wants me to hurry and finish her business cards. She texted me five times today ... how are you? You need to (insert something disgustingly cutesy like pray or count kittens).

How long will it take to get my business cards?

She needs them for Fashion Week in Miami.

Thank God my family does not read this blog, they would (will) shit. So I have to have my life straightened out before I let them know what happened. Need to have more work lined up so I can say "don't worry, nothing changes. I'm fine. In fact, I have more freedom!"

They will worry themselves sick, especially my son. Who has enough to worry about with a wife and two little girls up in Michigan. One friend has already offered me a job marketing a new product - and a place to stay up in Michigan. I would rather poke my eyes out with cocktail forks before I'd consider moving back. Yes, anything freelance. Anything that requires going back to hell? I think not.

My apologies to you who still live there and love those three precious months of decent weather every year. God bless ya, you are DELUDED. If you had experienced the incredible night we had under the stars tonight, you would rethink.

So anyway, can't stay home at night right now, too lonely, too bummed out. Good Randy reminded me tonight that it hasn't even been two days, I need to let it sink in and settle. He says I need a boat day tomorrow.

The radiation is affecting his throat, he's getting weak and he can't talk. He said "If I died today, I will have lived a good life." Hate to even think about that.

Went out with Donna last night, hit the usual spots ... always wind up back at the Lighthouse Tiki Bar, which is getting more and more difficult as my stalker appears to be there every time we are. WTF. It was a good time until then. We thought he left at one point, when I saw his Eye-gor creepy hunched buddy make the rounds. Sure enough, Stalker came around 5 minutes later.

One of management's friends said "that shit don't fly in here. We have ways of taking care of that." People have started circling me as he approaches. Word's out.

Went to yoga today. Sondra asked how I was and I told her I lost my job. I was somber in yoga for the first time ever. At the end she read the traditional closing meditation and dedicated it to me and I cried and nobody could look at me. I got a lot of hugs.

Then I went back out tonight ... nice night, rose above, was on the verge of having a decent time. Landed back at the usual place with the usual suspects. I was introduced around Good Randy's table and we had to explain the "Good Randy" thing.

His friend Peggy said "if he's GOOD Randy I'd hate to meet EVIL Randy." I had to correct her. "No - BAD Randy. E-VIL Randy has too many syllables."

Peg is cool, she and her husband live on their boat half the year. It's a big comfort being with people from The Homeland who ALSO would rather die than go back. Everywhere I turned, someone from Michigan saying I WILL NEVER GO BACK.

Was talking to a hunky friend when ... ok, I'll call her Shirley for this ... walked up behind us both and planted her left boob in the back of my right shoulder. It's not much of a boob, but it was firmly pressed. When she walked away, I asked him if she had pressed her right boob into him. And he said yeah.

I said "I think that means she likes you."

Like when DoDo the cockatoo at Skunk Ape gacked up food to feed me. Only DoDo is a little more discreet.

Later I was sitting at a table with Good Randy and other new friends when we all spotted my stalker again. And his Eye-gor person who acts as sonar scouring the area for me. This is getting too creepy for words. At least he stopped calling. And with his balance issues, I know I could outrun him. I never park in the same place twice any more.

Well, maybe tomorrow I'll be where DeeDee is in this photo. And maybe I won't feel like a piece of shit for not being in a position to give Good Randy money for all the gas he spends taking friends around the bays and the gulf.

He and the gang are happy my job will no longer interfere with their social lives; they can invite me to hang day and night.

Look at this ... 1:17 a.m. I am already shifting into freelance mode, living a bat life of up all night, asleep til 10.

If I can sleep.

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

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.