A Year In Review

It's that time of year, folks.  Holiday time.  Christmas card time.  Christmas LETTER time.

Have you received a Christmas letter?  One touting all of the incredible achievements of a family?  It's kinda like receiving every uber-positive Facebook status from your uber-positive friend all at one time.  Georgie read us the Book of Revelation at age 3!  Sarah won the national science fair and is off to NASA this summer on an internship.  It's hard to remember that just last year at age 10, she was merely attending Harvard's Young Apprentice workshop on scholarship.  Steve and I are expecting our 3rd perfect child, so I'm so thankful he received his promotion at work that will allow for more than two 3-week vacations a year to Europe as it is just so important to spend time with family.  Kisses!

[You can see my face, right?  You don't have to ACTUALLY see it to envision it.]

Here's a REAL Christmas letter, folks.  From me to you.



-----------------------------------------------------

2013 sucked ass.

Granted, the first 7 1/2 months were pretty cool.  I got my shit together, lost 55 lbs ... which would have been PERFECT had it not been for that annoying "again" that goes at the end of that statement.  Of course, without that "again", you should have had an intervention for me and/or put me in the hospital because I would've been under 100 lbs by now but ... I digress.  I got my shit together, got in shape slowly and surely, and by July, I was doing full push ups ... that's actual on-my-feet full freakin' push ups at the count of 49 in 2 minutes time.  Oh yeah.  I could totally kick your ass.

And I loved it.

And I wasn't even done yet.  I still had 15 lbs to go.  Not in some "need to be size zero" type of way.  I'm 5'3" (on a good tip-toe day).  I'm talking single digit clothes as a goal - not a rest stop.

August hit.  Still wonderful.  [Ooops ... sounding a bit like one of THOSE letters, right?  Let me fix that for you.]

Mid-August, I enjoyed an absolutely WONDERFULLY wicked weekend with good friends, enjoying a lake, campfire, food, and alcohol of all shapes and sizes.  I had a hat.  It was awesome.

The following week, I woke in the middle of the night with a pain.  A weird pain.  One of those ... what the hell is this because I've never felt it before ... pains.  I stupidly drove myself to the medi-center because I stupidly thought it was open 24/7.  I nearly wrecked on the way only to find it closed.  I sobbed in my car.  Such pain.  No position would get rid of it.  Nothing made it better.

Until it stopped.  Just stopped.  Okay.  Great, right?  I called my doctor anyway.  They wanted me to come in ... and my second attack began on my drive there.  I entered my doctor's office crying.  I'm such a wimp.  They took my blood, my vitals, did an EKG, and ordered a CT scan.  Enter liquid chalk diet.  Blech.

Late that afternoon, I got the call.  Hey, so ... yeah ... um ... no kidney stones but I'm a gonna have to have you pack a bag and go to the ER to have your appendix out.  It would be good if you could get there in the next hour, please.

[Again, imagine my look.]

It's fun to text your best gals, "So who is going to drive me to the ER because apparently I'm getting my appendix out today?" 

Side note:  Thanks to Monica for picking me up, driving me to the ER and screaming, "Oh MY GOD, look at her blood pressure" when I was hooked up to the machine.  It TOTALLY calmed me.  [Kidding - I'm thankful every day for friends like you.]

That was a Thursday.  The ER doctors didn't agree with whatever doctor read my CT scan so, by the time my oldest sister arrived, they took me for an ultra-sound and, gee, it was during the fourth attack of the day.  They seemed to last increasingly longer - the last was six hours long.  Hey, let's put you on a slab and push an object directly into the area that most hurts right now.  While your sister watches. 

Around 11:30 p.m., they put me in an actual room.  It would be another 1 1/2 days before they knocked me out and took out my gall bladder - not my appendix.  My second oldest sister arrived Friday and spent the night and, blessedly, I wasn't alone when they wheeled me into surgery. [Thanks, Linda! ] 

[Actually, thanks Monica, Glenda, Dad, Pam, Mom, Kim, Robin, Jacob, Tim, Sharon, Kurt, and Linda for stopping by for short and long visits.] 

I stupidly thought because I wasn't being slit open, I'd be back at work in a day or two.  Yeah, not so much little incisions as little stab wounds.  It took over a week.  Restrictions on weight lifting and any ab work (no push ups) but, hey, it could be worse.

How many times have you said those words in your life?  It could be worse.

It could be so so much more worse.



------------------------------



In early September, one of my closest friends told me that she had a cyst, a tumor, on her ovary and would have to have surgery.  Less than a week later, she called me crying to tell me that she had ovarian cancer. 

It could be so much worse.

That was September 13th.  I still have the texts following that phone call.

Over the next month, she would go from long blond to short Sharon Stone hair (and still look fabulous), submit herself to multiple tests, and, on October 14th, go under the knife.

It was supposed to be a hysterectomy with the possibility of colon re-sectioning during a debulking surgery (you learn so many new terms when learning about cancer).  Instead, she had the hysterectomy but they discovered, upon seeing her ovaries, that the cancer had metastasized TO the ovaries, not from them.  And they found more disease than had been visible on the scans.

She's over half-way done with chemotherapy now, her last cycle to take place on New Year's Eve.  Then she'll have another scan and hopefully another surgery (including the HIPEC "shake and bake" chemo at the end) and more chemotherapy after.

It could be so much worse.

I started out the year all proud about losing some weight and thinking of how much better I looked.  Laying out by the pool, partying with friends.  And then, in the course of a few months, life shakes you into perspective.

It shouts, HEY!!  DUMBASS!!  I can end you - like that.  *snap*

Like a drowsy drive, a distracted driver, a weak artery, a freak accident, a secret wicked disease.  Don't take me for granted.  Are you ready?  No?  Too bad because you might not have a choice.

I've gone through (okay, I'm still within) my pissed-off phase with God.  I've had the following discussion: 

"So ... omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient ... aka always there, all-powerful, all-knowing ... tell my why?  So we contemplate life?  You can't do that in an easier, less violent fashion?  Is that beyond You??  So we focus on You?  Who is vain, now, eh?    Because we aren't devoted enough?  What kind of egotistical, narcissistic Prick needs that?  There IS no valid answer why.  Oh, wait, is this one of those ... I don't have the capacity to understand the reason ... things?"

Wow.

       "F&#* You."

-------------------------------------


So, yeah, that was 2013 so far. 

This is my friend and me last week:

 

Now, I expect I'll have many more years to torment her.  In fact, I challenge her to a Culver's eating contest in 2018 ... including the frozen custard ... oh yes ... including the frozen custard!


But, do me a favor anyway.  Take a few minutes and think about your last year. 

Now think about how you would feel if it WERE your LAST year.

What would you have done differently?  Would you have worked harder ... or would you have taken more time off?  Would you have played it safe?  Or would you have rolled the dice?  [Not literally ... Jesus ... don't get a gambling habit off of this.]  When was the last time that you told the people most important to you, just how much they mean to you?  When was the last time you thanked someone?  Sincerely .... thanked someone.

How many more times are you going to say, "Next year, ...."? 

                    How long are you going to keep that special bottle of wine?

I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.  What am I leaving behind? 



[Side note:  As a reminder to my sisters, Mom is NOT to pack away my bedside table.  *meaningful stare*  We've talked about this before.]




Mortality sucks.  Thinking about mortality sucks.

It's much better to think about life and stop putting things off.  Make 2014 the year that you stop putting things off until later.  Say what you need to say, do what you need to do, and keep the proper perspective in life ... because she can be a BITCH when she wants to remind us of it.

        Love,

        Kimberly



P.S.  Merry Christmas and a Happy 2014!  Cheers!

The Difference in a Day

It does not escape my attention that in the course of 24-48 hours, I've gone from encouraging someone to be that smile for another, that kind word to make someone's day, to openly cackling at a stranger who called me evil.

I suppose the lesson to learn is that while I strive to be one, life often finds me failing.  Miserably.

I strive to be social.  But God, I loved having today completely to myself.  I cleaned (not something I generally enjoy but often cathartic).  I walked 500 miles ... okay, nearly six, and there was wine and beer in the middle but still ....  I finished a book (the end of the Sookie Stackhouse era).  I shopped.  I cooked for myself.  Watched what I wanted when I wanted.  I strive to be social but am, in my heart, a selfish hermitess.

I strive to be kind but, damn, people piss me off.  The title of this blog came from a long-standing greeting that I have with my siblings:  "Have I told you lately how much I hate people?"  I probably made the wise choice to end it after "lately", eh.  Again, selfish hermitess.

I strive to be good but find that our definitions of good (yes, plural, there are many definitions of good in our culture) vary to such a degree that I'll always disappoint one faction or another.  I'd love to live simply by my Dad's motto of "You can't worry about that shit" (where's that t-shirt), but I'm pretty sure if we coded Mom's DNA, we'd find the original strand, original group of genes that, combined, form the perfect storm of continual apology and "oye vey" chant.

I strive to be funny and ... yeah, I mostly succeed at that, at least in my own mind.

So I strive and I fail ... comically.

I can live with that.

The Devil Inside

I was stopped earlier tonight at a red light, waiting to get onto the highway and head home.  Near my car was a man holding a sign.  Thinking of other things, I really didn't pay much attention until I realized that the man was pointing at me, at my car, and talking ... to himself, I guess. 

    Now ... this is the part of the story in which you probably think

I'll hear something that makes me pull out my wallet, right? 

 

Wrong.

My window was part way down.  As I directed my attention to the man to hear what he was saying, pointing at me, at my car, I hear - quite distinctly - that I am going to hell, that I have evil in my heart, that I am filled ... filled with the devil.  Over and over, the man was informing me that I am evil.  I have an evil heart.  So many variations but all essentially stating the same thing.  Evil-doer in our midst!

My reaction?  Well, friends and stalkers, my instant and spontaneous reaction probably earned me that direct connect downward. 

I laughed.  Loudly and heartily.  Hearing someone who knows nothing about me but that I drive a small blue toaster and listen to J.R.R. Tolkien during my commute - [oh, FINE, that probably earns me purgatory or something] - proclaim that I have the devil inside me made me guffaw. 

Cackle, even. 

And then I drove on. 

 

I don't know, perhaps the man says such things whenever someone comes to the light and doesn't look at him. It can't possibly make for a good business practice.  Does that ever convince someone to hand over $1, $5, $10?  Now, I know there are homeless people out there who need help but I also know there are people out there scamming others using that ruse and/or people simply looking for their next fix.  I can't tell the difference, therefore, I choose to help in other ways, in other places, instead of wondering if it was my $5 that covered the last pint or last rock that put someone in the ground or in a violent rage. 

 

So if you're reading this and judging me ...

 

 ....well, whatever, start mumbling that I'm evil and headed to hell.

 

And I'll keep chuckling.  Deal?

Nope, I haven't.

I haven't told you much lately.

I've been out of touch, off the "grid", lazy and mute.

My last post was August 2012.  What's happened since then?

I crashed and burned; that's what.

Crashed. Burned. Gained 20+ lbs above the already 40+ I was over "normal" weight.

So ... this is a purging.  A purging of my failure.  What can I say?  I'm tired of being silent about a slow increase, slow failure, slow delusion I used to cover the up 5 lbs but no one will notice.  Up 10 lbs but I love to eat.  Up 20 lbs but I love to drink.  Up and up and up ... I always had an excuse.  A rationalization.  A reason why it wasn't time yet.

Time for what?

Time for me to get my act the hell together.  Time to stop procrastinating.

I worked out harder than ever before last summer.  Boot camp, city classes, climbs up the 140+ stairs on Division.  I worked out ... and expanded.  I worked out ... and gained. 

And I broke.  That's the only way I can really describe it.  I broke.  I went off the deep end of dieting/eating/trying to be healthy.  Or, perhaps more correctly, I fell off the wagon.  'Cause let's not kid ourselves friends and stalkers ... I'm addicted to food.  I'm a foodaholic.  Sugaraholic.  Carbaholic.  What-the-hell-ever-aholic covers the 'holic I am.

When I continued to expand despite my 5:30 a.m. boot camp ... I broke.

I stopped exercising ... completely.

I stopped curbing what I ate ... completely.

Papa John's and I entered into an intimate relationship.  Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory became my friend.  I. Didn't. Care. Anymore.

And I packed on another 20 lbs by Christmas. 

I felt miserable.  Ashamed.  Hopeless even.

See ... I did this already.  I lost the weight already.  I got in shape already.  DAMMIT.  What the HELL am I doing back "here" again?  Buying bigger and bigger sizes.  Turning away from pictures.  Putting non-me pictures as my profile on Facebook (you know ... the important things).

I broke.

And, I'm ashamed to say, I waited until I am well on my way to "fixed" before I admitted it.

I went back to the program that helped me before (in 2006); I went back to Spectrum Health and opted for the strict 12 week to 18 week program.  From January 3rd for 12 weeks, I consumed 800-900 calories a day of mostly protein.  [Oh, yes, you "read" me correctly - 800-900 calories.]  Then I added in regular food again and am back to about 1200 calories day.

From January 3rd to now, I've lost 51 lbs.  About five months.

I've gone from a size of (one pair of dress pants) 18 to size 8-10.  A reset, if you will.

And now the real work begins.  What's that?  Haven't I already done the "real work"? 

Oh, hell no.

The REAL work is maintaining once I reach my goal weight.  The real work is finding the healthy balance of eating healthy and living well. 

After all ... I'm not getting any younger. 

[I had to stop and laugh a few minutes at that.]

So ... what did I do wrong the first time?  Am I destined to revisit this hell every 5-7 years?  That's both difficult and easy to answer at the same time. 

I stopped going.

I stopped going to group.

Does that sound like an addict's statement?  'Cause it should.

 I'm addicted.

I stopped going to my group meetings - Wednesday nights. 

Group meetings for fatties?  Whaaaat? 

Absolutely.  Group meetings in which we keep accountability.  We revisit information on nutrition, on exercise, on behavior modification.  Most importantly for me ... accountability.  I thought I had this covered.  I thought ... no problem, I know what I need to do.  Well ... that's true.  I know what I need to do BUT that doesn't mean I'll do it. 

So where am I now?  I'm down 51 lbs and am not yet where I want to be.  Where I KNOW I can be because I've been there before.  I'm still going to group even though I'm done with the main program.  I'm still journaling the calories I consume (alcohol is a bitch BTW). 

And I just signed up for boot camp again.

I have to face my fear that hard exercise will equal weight GAIN and inch EXPANSION.  I know now that I let myself eat way more than I should last summer because I was working out so hard.  My hormones were crazy (over 40 is a BIIIIITCH).  I didn't account for water retention and inflammation from sore muscles.  Oh, yeah ... I've thought A LOT about this.  And I know I need to face my fear. 

So, last night I started back with boot camp with the army assessment test.  [And I suck but it's okay 'cause I DID it.]

I'm back on track ... full steam ahead ... goal in mind.

Oh ... and another difference. 

I'm doing this for me.

I've no thought of getting in shape for a guy.  Even a fictional maybe guy.  Guys were SOOOOO pre-40.  I'm done with that.  Seriously.  Mr. Right would now have to be Mr. Incredibly-No-Fucking-Way-Right for it to 'cause me any pause.  No offense guys.

I'm just finally at that space in life where I have my home the way I like it.  My activities the way I like them.  My life the way I like it.  There's just no room for you.  [Evil laugh.]

This is ALL for me.

And that's perfect.


------

There it is - hello after 10 months.  I totally swear I didn't have a baby (although I've lost the equivalent of a 6 year old in weight).

*purged*

Where Am I?

An hour ago, I wrote this title.  Then my phone rang.

I'm sure I had some excellent, life-changing hook when I wrote that title.

It's gone now.

I remember thinking that sometimes it's hard to find yourself under the muck of life.  Work.  Home (cleaning, laundry, the accumulation of daily "kibble").  Social. ...

[Give me a minute to laugh at that last one.]

At times I find that my life feels too much like a gerbil running in its wheel.  A constant go ... without going anywhere.  Where has this summer gone? 

Let's see ... *enter rambling mode*

****

Ooh! I started a three month long "boot camp" class in June. *proud smile*

Seriously! I showed up the first day at 5:30 a.m. (whimper), excited but nervous about this new class, ready to "be all I can be" ... but in the completely civilian can-leave-anytime way, only to hear, after the greetings, "Okay ... let's go run a mile." 

Ah ... Whodawhat?

Run? A mile?  I don't run. 

Ever. 

These tennis shoes are five years old, man. 

No ... you don't understand.  I was that girl in her college fitness "class " that the professor saw rounding the corner during a run as a signal to tell the rest of the class to turn around and head back.  I was a new kind of super hero - - Shin-Splint Girl. 

Or ... if you'd rather ... "Side-Ache Woman."

I was the inspiration for the professor digging out flippers during the swimming portion of class after a sadly comical episode of me clinging up and down the wall of the pool.  Yeeeeeah.

If college taught me nothing else, it taught me that I am not a closet athlete no matter what my inner high-school geek tried to sell me in a band-camp induced hysteria.  But it began much earlier.

I "played" 7th grade volleyball and basketball. 

And then I thought I'd rather keep the few friends I have rather than thoroughly piss them off by screwing up each and every game.  I became "Score Book Girl" instead.  Hey ... no pressure, I got to ride with the team AND ... they PAID me to do so.  Win - Oh so win.

So my college "Health Dynamics" class aka "Health Die" was the last time I toyed with the idea of possibly being more athletic than ... well ... any other living thing.

Scratch that ... plants grow.

Any other inert thing.

Yep.  I am more athletic than a rock.  Unless someone picks it up and skips it across a lake.

I saw my feeble non-athletic life flash before my eyes as I huffed and puffed my way (and walked and ran) through a mile in under *gasp* 15 minutes.  Then I managed 38 full sit ups in 2 minutes and 8 standard push ups (with 30 girlie ones). 

And then I threw up.  Honestly.  Don't eat dairy before an early morning workout. 

And ... you're welcome.

That was month one.

Month two found me dreading each 5:30 a.m. workout yet feeling strong immediately after.  My body, of course, completely rebelled during this time.  I was bloated and convinced I'd entered into some sort of peri-menopausal hell.  I felt stronger but hadn't lost inches or weight.  I occasionally vomited during class and had heart palpitations.

Oh joy.  I'm old.

In mid-July, I gave in and went to my doctor's office.  A normal EKG was followed by the ordering of a stress echocardiogram and new birth control prescription. *eye roll*

I missed one class in July.

Enter month three, August 2012, and envision dread turning to 'OH HELL NO' mid month.  Rather than the stronger, leaner woman I'd envisioned at the beginning of the summer, I found a hormonal mass of nerves that had actually GAINED weight rather than lost any.  I felt like I'd worked harder than ever only to fail ... and fail miserably. 

Oh sure ... my mile was 2 minutes faster, my sit ups were in the mid-50's and my standard push ups were in the twenties ... but, dammit ... bloated and heavier does not incentive create.

I am a boot camp class dropout. 

Stellar summer, you?

***

About that stress echocardiogram.  Wow.  I was nervous when I arrived for it, having fasted for 8 hours, and dressed as instructed in workout clothes.  That request seemed appropriate since I'd be presumably walking then running on a treadmill to increase my heart rate.

First words in the room?  "Please remove all clothing from your waist up."

"Sports bra?"

"That too."

*cocked eyebrow*

So, let me get this straight.  You're going to put me on a treadmill and run me like a rodent until my heart rate reaches optimum capacity ... and I'm bra-less???????!!!!!!  I realize the girls are named Betty and Bertha and not Dolly but ... dude ... flopping will not be pleasant ... for either of us.

FINE.

Oh, no worries ... I have a wonderful doctor's dressing gown that will ... wait ... this isn't a gown.  This is a poncho that opens in the front. 

This is a FLORAL poncho that opens in the front.

I came into that facility a normal human being and within five minutes, I became "Floral Girl" ready to smack kindly men in their faces ... no hands, ma!  I donned black workout pants, a floral cape, and multiple nodes stuck to my chest with dangling wires but, hey, let's take my blood pressure again so, here, I'll put my hand on your shoulder for balance.  Awkward?

Of course not (said no one ever under these circumstances).

I was instructed over and over again to remember that when I reached the maximum heart rate, when I could go no further, I needed to stop the treadmill, immediately sit down on the cot next to it, roll onto my other side, and try not to huff and puff the poor echocardiogram technician away as I attempted not to pass out.

Humble does not sufficiently describe the woman who left that day.

***

 

Where am I?

 

At times, overwhelmed.  At times, bored.  Most times, unorganized. 

 

Where am I?

 

Staring down a Labor Day Weekend with family.  

Where am I?

Sitting quietly on a love seat, covered with a blanket, and typing with no real thought as to what I'm throwing out to the 'verse. 

So ...

Where are you?

Burn, Baby, Burn ...

"Don't burn your bridges."

Sound familiar? This is the often cited advice to maintain the ties that bind. Nurture relationships. Smooth over the paths have have led you to where you are today.  Sometimes this is good advice.  There really is no need to be hurtful or, let's say, overly generous with your bad opinions of someone needlessly.

But ... (there's always a but, isn't there? And/or an ass ... but that's a different story)

Sometimes ... those ties only bind.  Uncomfortably ... in a tight, itchy way.  Sometimes ... you can "smooth" so much that the landscape isn't remotely yours anymore.  Sometimes those ties should be cut and bridges burned. 

Blown up even.

I grew up trying to make everyone like me and would get truly upset if I seemed to fail.  I remember in school that I would fret and agonize over what I did or said to anger someone.  Did I not give the "right" opinion?  Did I not wear the "right" clothes?  Like the "right" people? Say the "right" thing?  I would actually apologize for ... well ... being me.  I've had relationships in which it felt there was always some battle, some argument, with no positive outcome.  Ooh, and lots of what seemed like one-way bridges.  You know, my way or the highway type relationships wherein if you didn't fall in line then you were either unwanted and/or belittled. 

** Hold on while I recall and seethe for just a moment **

** Or two **

I've found as an adult *cough* that navigating the online world of social media can bring me back to those feelings of inadequacy.  I've "accepted" friends, especially from high school, who have later deleted me.  Sometimes I understood the reason but often they simply disappeared and I was left wondering once again ... what did I do? 

Yeah ... I'm still learning to stop that. 

I'm learning that sometimes those are the bridges that should be hacked and burned, detonated with TNT - Wiley style.  I'm still learning that I'm not here to be what you thought I was or want me to be.  An online friend just today shared a saying - "May the bridges I burn light the way."  [Thanks Betsy!]  I'd alter that just slightly to "May the bridges I burn light my way." 

Cutting ties can be difficult but if anything holds you back from simply being you, cut it.  Carve it out like a dark spot on an apple and then relish flipping that switch on the garbage disposal because you don't need it.

[Wow.  Can I cram in the analogies or what ... ]

In short, I'm me.  [And short. Bahaha.] 

I can be witty, kind, and loving.  I can also be crass, bitchy, and a smartass.  I don't set out to offend others but I do at times.  If you happen to fall within that category, all I can say is ... 1) I doubt I intended it; 2) I understand that neither of us is always right; and 3) I'll likely do it again so .. yeeeeah. 

Take me ... or by all means ... leave me.

Burn, baby, burn.




[Note: I have also been a person who deleted others.  Usually, it was because I had little to no prior connection to the person and I tried to put a disclaimer up before doing it.  I hope it was read and understood but, again, if you fall within that category, I can truly say it was not done to hurt or anger you ... ah, see, there I go again trying to make sure everyone likes me.  Damn it.  Ah, well.]

 

From Beautiful to Bitter and Alone in Three (Yes, THREE) Emails

I know, I know ... Where the Hell have I been?!  I've been sucked into a pre-holiday work deadline, then sucked happily into a holiday vacation, and sucked backed into a new year - the LAST, yo, 2012 ... before 2013 - and then, well, just really, really, Olympic medal level lazy.  Lots of sucking going on.

Seriously, if only there were a sport that emphasized my strengths of laziness and procrastination OTHER than golf.  Not that I don't appreciate smacking balls around with a big stick but I think my version would tend to both remove some of the possible gene pool from the world (not necessarily a bad thing) and land me in prison (not ready to be Bertha's bitch).

Anyhoo ... on to today's highly entertaining and equally embarrassing/pathetic topic.  [I know, I've totally sucked you in with that description AND managed to add more sucking to this post at the same time.]  As you recall, I fell backasswards into Match.com once again back in October.  And, as you recall, I lamented about the many men who were only seeking women younger than themselves.  My curiosity coupled with my, um, charm led me to the following encounter/smack down:

------ Sometime several weeks into my Match.com adventure 2011 ------

------ Cue misty fadeback music ------

In early November, I was stunned to get an email from a good-looking and seemingly normal guy.  He said that he liked what I had to say and called me "quite beautiful" before asking me where I've been hiding.  I know, right!? I responded back with what I thought was wit, talking about how I do tend to hide while riding around in my elusive vehicle (the highly visible Wonka Tonka) and frequenting the same unknown coffee place (a local, busy Biggby - it is my happy place) each day.  Yes, yes, I was being a smart-ass, which IS WHAT I AM, PEOPLE, and ended the email by thanking him - yes, THANKING him - for the compliment.

Now, my profile talks of my sarcasm and cynicism - I'm not into acting like someone I'm not just to meet someone who will be likely disappointed once my "forked tongue" (infra) comes into view. 

Honesty; it's a necessary if not beautiful thing.

The guy responded in what I thought was a playful way - HIM:  "You scion coffee drinkers are all the same...hiding like hamsters all wired on skinny lattes...just waiting to spring out and make a normal guy like me, smitten by your match profile.  A conspiracy at work...(squeek squeek)."

Oooh ... someone who can joke with me, right?  But, whoa ... something about his profile was both familiar and curious.  He is 45 years old and seeking females ages 29-44.  Yep - won't even look up to his own age.  Hmm. 

I RESPOND: "Ah, normal remains to be seen.  I think WD40 might help with that squeak.  So what do your normal days look like [name removed]?  What do you do for fun?  And, I don't know if you saw one of my earlier versions of my profile [for the reader - my cougar version] but I have to ask ... why, if you're done with having kids, are you only looking at women younger than yourself?  Inquiring minds and all that :)  "  [Yes, I included the smiley in an attempt to show I meant no real harm with my question.]

So ... I honestly was not expecting this as HIS RESPONSE:

Normal?  Well, I am a man's man (not gay..although there isn't anything wrong with that).  I don't drive a Scion (or Kia), or drink lattes.  I drink coffee and drive an SUV (maybe I should have said boring?).  Anywho..for fun I spend every waking second winking at 28 year olds on dating sites..(it is an exercise I find both futile and frustrating).  I then spend my spare time deleting winks from 50 year olds that look like my grandma (ever notice how friggin' EVERY profile starts out with, "I am laid back")??  So besides hurling yourself from planes and carving up innocent people..(oops, I mean pumpkins..must have slipped because I remembered you're a lawyer) what do you do for fun?  Well back to the dating sites.  I've got laid back grandmas I need to put the "smack down" on.

Raise your hand if you think I MIGHT have struck a nerve.  I'll wait.

Apparently, some damage control is necessary here.  MY THIRD EMAIL:

Oh my. Ha! Okay, since we lose tone in email, I'm not quite sure if my question pissed you off or if you're just playing.  I, too, understand the woe of the older (much older) winks and emails.  For me, the older the person, the older I feel but too young is just ... yeah, not good either in a different way.  But you, sir, don't even go up to your own age; now, you're not alone - I've noticed many guys do that.  I'm just curious.

What do I do for fun? It's hard to think of things not already on my profile.  Movies are a big love.  I'm trying to decide if I'm going to see The Debt this weekend or perhaps 50/50 or Clue (which I'm not sure I've EVER seen all the way through - I know, outrage).  I'm close to [removed 'cause 'ya'll' don't need to know where I live and what theaters I frequent].  I love reading, although that occurs in spurts depending on work.  After reading transcripts all day long, I sometimes need a break.  I write sporadically [followed by other personal stuff.]  I enjoy my summer volunteer time [followed by more personal stuff].  I collect cookie jars and character glasses.

[I can almost see you backing away slowly from the computer.] [<--Yes, this part WAS in the email.]

"Carving up innocent people?"  No, no, [followed by an explanation about what I do.]

I've been divorced for about 7 years; [followed by even more personal stuff].  I've dated off and on during that time and have remained friends with several of those guys.  You?  How long have you been out in the land of singlehood again?

Now, having read that, am I wrong to think it was obvious that I was ready to continue the conversation? That I was curious about his life, answering his question about what I do for fun, ending with another question for him? Apparently, I was very VERY wrong. 

Witness, dear readers, my descent from "quite beautiful" to bitter bitch alone.  HIS FINAL EMAIL:

I must confess.  I looked at your pictures and was smitten.  The picture of you holding the baby was my favorite...you are quite beautiful.  Then I read your profile.  I figured that much of what you wrote was for show [Wait - you mean the part you said you really liked of what I had to say??  Sorry, folks, I doubt I can get through this without running commentary.]...so I sent a simple email.  You came back with a forked tongue [I'm sorry, you mean when I THANKED you for the compliment?], so I felt inclined to perry.  You see, I too write for my business and in fact have been published in several trade magazines [Hold on a second, my eyes just rolled under my desk].  Your next response was at best mean spirited.  [That would be the one in which I had the audacity to ask him about the age difference, folks.]  I then hurled my best "smart ass" back at you in an attempt to show you that not all of us here are a bunch of mindless jackasses.  I emailed you in earnest and pulled back a bloody stump.  [Oh, yes ... yes, he did.]  In my opinion, if you continue with your current path of courtship you will accomplish your goal of being single forever.  Next time a good guy (like me) [*coughsputterbullshitcough*] says hello?  Say hello back, and focus less on punctuation and more on getting to know him.  [You mean like ask him what he does for fun and how long he's been looking? THAT sort of thing? *face palm* I should have totally thought of .. OH WAIT ... I DID.]  He just might be who you are looking for.  Good luck to you.  Signed, Bitch slapped ["normal" guy's name].

Wow.  I just ... Wow. 

Really.  How do you respond to something like that? DO you respond? 

I did.

I've tried to be honest in my profile, [name], which is why there are several references to "sarcastic" and "smart ass."  My ribbing was in jest and I asked the age question because I was curious.

I'm sorry that you were offended; it was not my intention.

But, hey, kudos for smacking me down and foretelling of my bitter life alone, you are a true gentleman.

I was about to describe the above reply as "short and to the point," but to have been truly short and to the point, my response would have been:

Jackass.

And THAT is how I went from beautiful to bitter, lonely bitch in three emails.  Impressive, eh? 

Although, one friend commented that the Justacogitating he knew could have done it in two. 

Hmm.

I think I've just been challenged.