Screw Fear.

Hey, we Boomers expected we'd get old with all our gold.

I spent this past summer worrying about how I was going to survive financially and it started reminding me of being a Jehovah's Witness, back when the elders were telling us the world was gonna end in 1975.

I had been hammered with that damned Armageddon thing since I was a little kid. We would be persecuted, we would be killed. Just like the death camps in WWII. Imagine teaching your kids about the death camps. Who does that??

I can remember being 6 years old and my mother sitting across from me at the kitchen table, telling me "one day you may be taken away from me, but you will have to be strong."

WTF. Strong? At 6? How?

As a young adult I would bow my head and mumble "but the Bible says no man knows the day nor the hour"; unfortunately, nobody hears you when you when you bow your head and mumble. And when you're female in that religion nobody would have heard you if you screamed, ripped off your bra and set your tits on fire.

The elders said the righteous (us) would be tortured and persecuted. And then God would sweep down from on high and smite all evildoers (anyone who wasn't us) and resurrect the righteous who had already died (only 144,000) and suck them right into heaven. Sort of a mini-rapture.

The rest of us would live forever on a paradise earth.

Even then, fresh and innocent, I can remember thinking "that sounds sort of boring. With THESE people? Foreverrrr?"

Fear gets really old after a while. You get numb. And then you get pissed off.

I bailed in 1974. And it felt GOOD. Screw fear, screw worrying about what's going to happen.

Guess what - the world didn't end in 1975. Just as I suspected.

So I spent all last summer terrified I couldn't make it financially one more month and you finally get to the point of fuggit, what's the worst that can happen? What poor friend or relative would YOU call if you lost your job and your house? Or which of your friends or relatives may wind up calling YOU when THEY lose THEIRS?

Which option is WORSE - and which has the potential for (gasp) good things? Like that sense of family and friendship, of pulling together that our spoiled brat generation lost a long damned time ago.

My daughter-in-law grew up in communist Poland. This is nothing compared to what she's been through.

So if you have to move, to room with someone, what will you take? What will you give away? What will you abandon?

When I hit the blackest of the black, lowest of the low an amazing thing happened. I looked around and asked myself what I could sell. What I should sell. I brought more furniture than I needed anyway.

Turns out I could get rid of a 7' tall antique oak sideboard, almost 4' wide. It was beautiful, but it ate my living area. I'd tried posting it to eBay before, got a hit, sold it and the buyer renigged. This is why I hate eBay. And this is why I hate being from Michigan, I'm too polite to post negative feedback. I might as well be Canadian.

(No offense Connie.)

I posted it to Craigslist instead and got a few lowball offers. Then the snowbirds started coming back. I used to hate to see the out of state plates, but now it's like the cavalry's comin. Feels good. Feels like cash.

I posted the sideboard to Craigslist and sold it within three hours. Got paid in hundred dollar bills. Not as much as I would have liked, but I basically broke even. I had a great gaping hole in the middle of my room, but wow. What a great feeling to let something go. And the space - there was something soothing about it.

Now nothing is safe. Well, the dogs and my late 70s German porn...

When I worry I organize my stuff and it just feels good. Those bags of clothes that are going to charity - they feel GREAT. The brown bags full of papers for recycling? EXCELLENT. I am thinning this shit out.

There's no crap in the fridge either - garbage in, garbage out. Literally. Every dollar counts, especially when you don't have health insurance.

And when I worry about where I could go, I think of it as an adventure my grandkids will tell their kids. Heck, I can aspire to become an unwelcome scourge in their lives - like the grandmother in Sixteen Candles.

I can give them the nervous tic they sometimes give me. Something to tell their therapists in years to come.

Maybe I will never have to go anywhere and then again, there is always a gray area. To be broke and alone and getting older in this economy doesn't necessarily mean you have to impose your sorry ass on someone else or that you may be asked to share YOUR home or condo - it may mean you will fall into something meaningful.

Because I've noticed a very weird change lately.

Last year at this time the guys on match were arrogant and condescending. Now they're kinder/gentler - a little bit humbled. Some are desperate and needy, looking for anyone solid and honest and not a golddigger.

Wood is less of a priority than gold and there's not enough of that to spend on bimps any more.

So it's getting pretty funny. I'm blowing off anyone with a Harley and taking more time with the boat photos; just for fun.

I am suddenly hearing from the men I loved most in the past, those bridges I never burned. "Are you seeing anyone?" It feels like musical chairs, where everyone realizes they're getting old and they don't want to be alone for the rest of this rocky ride.

So it could be good. None of us know where we'll be this time next year. One thing we know for sure - it's going to be interesting.

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.

MY WORST INTERNET DATE OF ALL TIME.

This is from my diary, summer of 2000, when I was still in Michigan. I went on an internet singles date SO heinous I had to document it for a sadistic friend who found pleasure in my discomfort.

On these singles sites, you post your picture and profile and get somewhat anonymous emails; it's up to you whether you want to respond or not.

This guy wrote and wanted to get acquainted.

I checked out his profile. He was a John Goodman kinda guy, based on his picture. Well, if Tom Selleck and John Goodman had a baby, so he looked pretty good, handsome in a rugged way.

Height was like 6'3". Big guy, a computer software engineer.

53 years old, new to Novi via Arizona. Working for a company that handles computerized financial systems, in management I think.

Must act kinda youngish to be in computers, right? I was in a similar biz, so we'd have a lot to talk about.

People like us make good money, right? So at least he would have decent clothes and a decent car.

I could count on that.

We began writing. He sent jokes. They were pretty funny. Then he asked if it was OK to call, and all he did was tell jokes. After two weeks of listening to his non-stop litany of dumb jokes I said "do you realize I haven't known you for two weeks?"

So he started telling me a little about himself. He was an avid rider in Arizona, had a big ranch with horses and even did mounted rescues with the sherrif's posse out there.

It was summer, so I mentioned something about kayaking alone and he said it was dangerous to do anything like that because you can get really hurt doing things where there's no one around to help you. He said that had happened when he was riding one time, and his leg was severely injured. (I believe it was nearly crushed against a tree or something.)

He started talking about his current fitness levels. Said he hadn't been working out since he got to Michigan, wasn't inspired because he had no one to work out with.

He made it sound like he was spending his weekends at his lakefront apartment entertaining chicks in bikinis. I was intimidated.

There was lots of sexual innuendo, but he actually sounded shy and hurt when I said I didn't want to meet him because his suggestive manner made me nervous.

He kept asking me to meet him. He offered to come out by me, but the voices in my head told me to meet him midway.

Finally I agreed to meet. I suggested the Barnes & Noble on M59.

My first warning should have been when he asked what he should wear. It was warm out. He said "I like to wear shorts except for the scars."

I told him I'd be wearing a peach sweater and could be found wandering through the New Age section.

So I'm in Barnes & Noble when my cell phone starts ringing. He's getting lost and calling me every 10 minutes. At one point, I was in the ladies room and started losing my cool as my fifth attempt at getting him east on 59 echoed loudly off the tile walls. This "cop" couldn't find his own ass with both hands.

He was running SO late I decide to check out the store next door. The phone rings while I'm in there. He says he has just pulled up to Barnes and Noble. I say I'll go back and meet him inside.

I'm on the sidewalk about to enter the big glass doors as I witness an aging hulk lumbering slowly towards a blonde woman in an orange sweatshirt. Think "Walk this way" with the leg dragging from Young Frankenstein.

Think Quasimodo looking for his bell ...

I thought to myself "there but for the grace of God ..."

But no. A few minutes after I pass them, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to meet heavily wrinkled bloodshot eyes at my own level.

"Is this sweater peach?? Are you Micki?"

I ALMOST TURNED AND RAN.

I couldn't bring myself to lie and pretend to be someone else. Truth be told, I wasn't able to think that fast or I might have.

This was a very nice older guy who could barely walk. Obviously, his online photo was approximately 20 years old. He hadn't been 6'3" in a few decades either. He was sort of bent.

I could only stand there speechless so long, so I suggested dinner at one of the restaurants within spitting distance of where we stood. Forgetting, of course, that he couldn't really walk. He offered to drive me across the lot and very proudly led me to a vehicle every bit as old as the picture he submitted to the online dating service.

His sun-burnt, souped up Sunbird (?) convertible had a handicapped sticker and time-worn "Arizona Sherrif's Department" bumper sticker.

He graciously helped me with the door, partially because it was coming off the hinges and I wouldn't have been able to close it by myself.

No sooner had I settled into the passenger seat wondering if we'd be able to find a parking spot than he spun the beater around the front corner of the Don Pablo's and popped a very loud wheelie into handicapped.

I am guilty of some pride; I was absolutely mortified.

We chatted over bad Mexican and I tried not to stare at the growth between his eye and his nose. I gave dinner a polite length of time before saying I had to leave. I bravely gave him a kiss on the cheek and said ... "yeah, let's do this again."

Of course it was a lie.

I guess if there's any lesson in all this ... it's ... take everything they say and show with a grain of salt and ALWAYS MEET IN PUBLIC.

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.

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 ...

From plastic soup to recycling plastics... and people.

If this photo doesn't break your heart, you don't have one.

I watched PBS last night for two hours - I would have been better off watching Texas Chainsaw Massacre. It was two hours of why lions and elephants are disappearing and why birds in remote areas are dying. Why there is "plastic soup" in areas of our oceans that should be pristine.

I couldn’t track down the PBS program, but I did find part of the information they used:

http://patagonia-under-siege.blogspot.com/2008/01/plastic-killing-fields-pacific-ocean.html

I found the photo on that blog.

Search “plastic soup.” Spread the word!!!

I vow to be even more attentive to purchasing only recyclables and recycling everything I can. I will drink from glasses, not plastic bottles. I will get my groceries in paper bags and recycle those. I am already riding my bike for short errands.

None of it seems like it’s nearly enough.

Carl – the vulture we rescued last week – didn’t make it. The doctor at Crow Wildlife Rescue on Sanibel explained that the infection from the broken wing was too great. That he’d had a few good meals, pain management and loving care. She thanked us and said there weren’t many who’d go to all that trouble for a vulture.

He was a soul. He was suffering. We did what was right. We’re sad.

Speaking of sad. Got weak before Christmas and - after many months apart - I walked back into the big strong arms of my favorite emotionally abusive alcoholic. Of course it didn’t last. Of course I'm back at square one.

I left him during a blackout last month and still feel a little guilty. Well, hell - it'll give him something to obsess. A reason to drink.

I suspect bipolar as well, since I can almost see a cloud passing over him, transforming him from fun and charming to moody with rage.

This time I refuse to hole up and mourn. That’s so stupid. So much of the pain is more loneliness than loss.

Went out with a shrink earlier this month. Brilliant guy – warm – a little too intense. Gave me a bit of a tic, but it’s so hard to find people who are capable of intelligent conversation. I just held my finger on it. (The tic.)

We met at Starbucks twice. He came on fast, intense … I listened to my vibes this time, kept a distance and even backed off at one point - cancelling a date. I said I had vibes that there was someone else in the picture.

He believes in vibes and intuition. That's a rare quality, one of the things I liked about him.

He called me a week later, in the morning, as if he had something urgent to tell me. My vibes were right … he met someone else … wanted me to know, made a big point of it. He sounded surprised (disappointed?) when I told him I was very happy for him and wished him the best.

This was sincere, I really didn’t care. I wasn't staring at my cell phone, I was having fun with friends last weekend.

He seemed like a lot of work.

OK. How big is the ego of someone who expects an acquaintance to be crushed after a coupla coffees? He didn’t even need to call, it was sort of annoying.

Maybe I’m destined to be alone for the rest of this lifetime.

Maybe that’ll be just fine.

My biggest fear is I'll die alone in the condo and no one will know to take care of my dogs.