I got an email today from a girlfriend who recently moved to California to work at a winery (damn her!). It was pretty simple…

“Miss you…Who’s A Girl Gotta Fuck To Get Some Closure On Her Relationship With Her Father?”

Followed by this link to the Onion.

Heh. It’s funny because it’s sometimes true…

When I call him in tears because, “no one likes me and I don’t know who my friends are any more,” he tells me I need comfort food and we embark on a mission to find spaghetti.

(Which really means instead of buying into my crazy he politely ignores it and provides distraction until my brain returns and I am once again capable of logical thought).

I first met Denver Haslam when I was producing a radio show and he called in for a topic called “I Shouldn’t Be Alive!” where he mesmerized us with his true tale of a skiing accident five years previous. He hit a tree. Broke most of the bones in his body. Punctured both lungs. Lacerated many of his other organs. The only thing he didn’t break was his heart (or his head, thanks to the helmet he was wearing). This miraculous survival would guide him to look out for others, to open his big heart to any charitable cause that came his way, to become an advocate for skiing safety and the poster child for wearing a helmet.

He would come to the station to claim his prize. With his disarming genuineness and his wide smile he would charm the receptionist into calling me to come down. We would meet, talk, hug. I would agree to go out with him. He would be the only person I would ever meet after hearing him tell his story to 200,000 listeners. When you live in the radio no one is real; they’re all just characters. The disembodied voices don’t have faces or feelings or mothers. They’re just people with 90 seconds of material. But this guy, I had to meet this one. I needed to know him.

We had a summer flirtation. It never turned into anything more than that. I was at a stage where my dating life was at warp speed, rotating through dates and men faster than farmers ever turn crops. He was too many things. Too nice. Too sweet. Too wounded. He’d been hurt before and I was convinced that I’d walk all over him. So we were really more like friends who happened to go on dates.

He was a bit of a enigma in all actuality. The kind of guy who seemed wildly successful except that he didn’t currently have a job. He was a business consultant. He was into racing and fixing up cars. He owned a home here and a condo in Texas. He was the co-owner of a multi-million dollar investment property, “A mansion,” he explained, “I own it with a group of guys. We’re working on getting it sold.” He loved his mother. He talked of going to grad school. He never drank alcohol. I felt like I knew him intimately, yet knew nothing about him at all.

We stayed in touch. On Halloween I called him, drunk, my feet bleeding from wearing idiot shoes to march around downtown in. He came and fetched me and my two equally drunk friends and drove us home. He made sure we got inside and were tucked in, ever the gentleman as always.

We’d make plans to see each other. Sometimes they wouldn’t happen. After his accident he slept odd hours of the day and night. Sometimes he would have bouts of insomnia that would last for days, at other times he would sleep for 36 hours straight. I’d think of him here and again and I’d call him or he’d call me. We’d text “Hope you’re well!” and the kinds of niceties you save for people whom you genuinely like but have no idea how to have real honest-to-god interpersonal relationships with.

“I’m scared,” one day he told me on the phone. “I might have to disappear for a while. Maybe go see my family. I think there are people after me.”

This was not the man I knew. The man who was always cheerful and optimistic, the man who survived a pine tree running straight through his middle and walked away from it. No. This man who I spoke to now was weary; he genuinely thought someone was trying to kill him. He couldn’t fully explain his paranoia, didn’t know how.

The last time I saw him it was winter, seven or more months ago. We had breakfast and talked about a creative project I was trying to get off the ground. He was his usual helpful and excited self; my success became his success. We didn’t talk about how he was sleeping or whether there was still a gun under his pillow. I didn’t ask. He seemed well and I wanted to keep picturing him that way.

So when I read the paper that fateful Sunday, two weeks ago now, I didn’t know how to react. Still don’t. I’ve written and re-written this blog post a half dozen times. I knew about the house he owned, knew that it had burned down. But this–to be charged with a felony–what am I supposed to do?

I started to write a text message, “I hope you’re well,” it reads. “I saw the paper.” I haven’t sent it yet. I don’t know what else to say. I selfishly don’t want to get too involved. I want everything to work out for my friend. Yet I don’t know how to support him without his crisis becoming my own.

He is a good man. I don’t believe he is capable of committing felony fraud or conspiracy. I think he got caught up with the wrong people being his helpful self. I feel helpless. Watching something happen to someone from afar like a coward.

I know a guy who dumped his girlfriend almost immediately following her decision to chop off her long locks into a haircut he referred to as the Pat Benatar. All the time they’d spent together, all the laughs they’d shared, it didn’t mean anything because he couldn’t stand to look at her.

Now maybe that’s a bit shallow or an extreme case of how the haircut can ring the doomsday bell. I’m sure they likely had other problems and the haircut just sent him over the edge. But the important part of the story isn’t why he dumped her, it’s why he was compelled to do so. Why he was so upset that he couldn’t think of anything more logical to do than cut ties with his newly-shorn pretty lady.

Why exactly? Because she didn’t talk to him about it first.

Not that she needed his permission; no one is saying that. But what hurt his feelings and shocked him so much was that he wasn’t expecting it.

“I thought she loved her hair,” he told me quietly one night. “People always told her how beautiful it was. I always told her how beautiful it was,” he confessed.

Ahh. So there it is. He liked her luscious locks. He told her so. And when they were gone he didn’t know how to feel. So he panicked and pulled the trigger.

Hair is a touchy subject, but more often (I should think) when it comes to body hair. Still, I have another friend who takes her boyfriend to get his haircuts. I can’t imagine how it sometimes feels to be him when the clippers come out and his girlfriend is behind the stylist, directing traffic.

“He got it cut right after we first started dating,” she explains, “and it was so awful looking that I cried. So after that I just started going with him so I could tell the girls how short to cut it on the sides and where to shape it up.”

It’s a little too mother-and-child for me, but I get where she’s coming from. And if he’s fine with her calling the haircut shots in their relationship, who are we to judge?

Which brings me to my own haircut story.

The BF needed a hair cut. It was getting to that place where his stick-straight hair was trying to be curly. Doing the wave up and over his ears. It was time.

And while I’m not in camp “I’m-going-to-come-with-you-and-boss-the-pool-Great-Clips-girl-around” I’m also not in camp “I-love-the-way-they-shave-your-head.” Because they do. Every time!

Every time BF gets a hair cut he says, “Oh they used this-number on the sides and that-number on the top, so it’s longer this time because I know you don’t like it so short.” But they lie to him. They set the clippers at whatever number is above “totally bald” but directly below “you’ll be able to tell you still have hair” and they buzz it. And while, yes, it’s soft to rub with my fingers, he looks like he just got out of the military when they’re done with him.

So imagine my surprise when I see him after a lunchtime snip and clip and he still has hair!

“Did you get a hair cut?” I ask him, incredulously, not believing that anything has changed because I’m not shocked by its lack of existence.

“Mmhmm,” he says absent mindedly.

I start touching it; pawing at it unabashedly, disbelieving it’s real. But it really is his hair and not a piece of something glued on to his scalp as a practical joke.

“I had them cut it,” he informs. “Like with scissors.”

And I am the happiest girl in the world.

Somehow I have managed to be the reigning Queen Supreme of staying friends with men that I’ve dated, screwed repeatedly, or almost married. Others have asked me “What’s your secret?” or “Isn’t that hard to do?” or, my favorite, “Why???”  Well…

1. What’s The Secret? I don’t have a clue. Maybe I’m just lucky?
Understanding why a friendship works out is more convoluted that trying to figure out why a relationship didn’t work out.  There are many many factors involved and the potential mathematical calculations involved might make my head explode. Suffice it to say that it helps if you no longer wish to suck face with the person. It also helps if you truly want to be friends with them (which is usually further helped by whether or not they are made of awesome).

I can tell you that the men whom I’ve dated who are now my buddies have some striking similarities. They’re all really good guys. To top it off, at some point in the dating cycle I realized I wanted these people to stay in my life regardless of how our respective budding romances turned out.  Likewise, I’m not heartbroken about any of the folks whom I haven’t stayed friends with.

2. Isn’t that hard to do? Well, duh!
But if it was easy then everyone could do it and I wouldn’t feel shiny or special, so there.  Staying friends with your ex isn’t for everyone and it isn’t for every ex. But it is for me.

3. Why??? Well, why not?
Have you stayed friends with an ex and lived to regret it? Tell me your dirty secrets!!!

While this advice might have been more helpful in the time of BB,  it piqued my curiosity.  What would BF say? Would his answers have changed our dating present?  Would the SOB have been unlucky enough to avoid being arm candy to this bitchin’ diva? (Or lucky. Depends on the day.)

So I asked BF to be a Dating & Other Bad Habits guinea pig and provide blog fodder.  He agreed and may now regret that decision…

What’s the worst thing that ever happened to you? How did you recover?
Worst thing? Nothing seems to qualify as a “worst thing”. Maybe discovering I was losing my hair? Seems vain and petty for a worst thing. From which I recovered by just getting over it.

According to the article, this question helps clue you in to a guy’s psychological stability.  If he ain’t over the worst thing that happened to him, here’s your sign that he might not be able to get over things.  And if he can’t get over the worst thing that ever happened to him and it relates to an ex-girlfriend–and isn’t a story involving his best friend, a llama, or some combination there of—you could end up being the next “worst thing” that ever happened to him.

So far, BF passes the test. While yes, his hair is thinner that some, he actually had to think for a few days about what to qualify as the worst thing that ever happened.  This was the best he could come up with.

What do you like to do when you’re not working?
When I’m not working, I usually like to do something to keep up with news and such, from NPR or maybe sifting through Google Reader.

BF is not a work-a-holic (good) and his answer indicates things that I find attractive in men (he’s well-read and informed, also good).  He also mentions things we have in common (we both like NPR). This question works hand in hand with the next set of questions to highlight our similarities and differences and thus, our compatibility.

What do you do when you’re alone? With your friends?
When I’m alone? If I’m not burned out, I like to make things. Songs and software and such. Otherwise, video games.With my friends? Dinner out. Getting drinks. The occasional rock show. For the next week, watching Lost.

BF is a creative type who likes to make things. He writes and produces music and yeah, also makes his own software projects.  His answer highlights that he is extremely comfortable at home and likes the company he keeps when he’s by himself.  The fact that he didn’t say “What friends?” speaks to the fact that he isn’t a total loner.  But notice he likes activities done in small groups (dinner, drinks) even when those activities involve a larger mesh of people (rock shows).

Lastly, it highlights the fact that we aren’t like Bobsey twins and have different interests as well. The words “making software” and “playing video” games leave a blank stare on my face, just as me saying “shoe sale” would elicit the same reaction from him.

How do you feel about your mother?
Also, I love my mother very much.

Simple and to the point. He’s not a Mama’s boy, but he also loves and respects his mom. And other women too.

***

So riddle me this, have you asked these questions? Ever gotten an answer you didn’t like? Any red flags?

And should we let BF ask these same questions of me?

But then there’s that, ahem, other kind of musical memory.  Like the time many years ago when, mid-throws, Bryan Adams Everything I Do, I Do it For You came on.  I managed to keep it together long enough for him to finish.  While I laid there, contemplating whether or not I could date a man with a love of Bryan Adams a new song came on: LeAnn Rimes Don’t Fight The Moonlight. Not kidding.  This was his chosen music to, um, get down to.

I remember telling this to a girlfriend right after it happened and she regaled me with her own bad sexual musical encounter.  It seems the one and only one night stand she’d ever had transpired with gusto.  Allow me to set the scene for you…  Strangers meet in a bar. Decide to go back to a house for a little hot tub hanky panky.  A little later on they hit the upstairs where the clothes come off and the mixed cd goes on.  And this gentleman (term used loosely) put one particular song on repeat.  Apparently it was a song that helped him get his mojo going. The song you ask? Not Barry White, no.  Nothing so smooth.  The song went something like, “I…had…the time of my life.  And I owe it all to youuuuuuuuuuuuuu.”  I’m pretty sure you know how the rest of it goes.

The best part of that story isn’t the awful soundtrack to a mediocre hook up.  Naw. It’s the fact that in a room in another part of the house Mr. Smooth’s roommate was also getting busy with a girl. And the two of them could be heard laughing, cackles echoing throughout the house…  Ouch.

It’s been a while since I purposely brought music into the bedroom, but there are times when the moment overtakes you and you’re on the couch, in a car, outside, whatever.  You can’t exactly control the ambiance there. And this we all understand. So, we all know what songs we might put on a list of “good” songs to get jiggy to.  But be careful, because your good might be another person’s awful…

So c’mon, we’re all friends here. What’s the worst song you’ve ever had sex to?

By this point in our courtship we had exhausted ye olde dinner and a movie and were looking for something more interesting to do. It being the end of December in Denver our options were quite limited.

What are two internet geeks to do? Google. Clearly.

And our friend Google came up with this delightful website chock full of creative (and cheap) ideas for things to do on dates. And some of it is your run-of-the-mill cheese-ball stuff.

But I’m quite fond of #31, Make a spoof video and post it on YouTube video.

Or, #27, Have a sword fight with utensils or empty wrapping paper rolls.

As we read on we began to notice a few things. Firstly, that the website was created for teenagers. So the fact that I was more than moderately entertained by many of the suggestions does in fact prove that I am secretly a 14-year-old boy.  But then BF noticed something:

“This is a website for Mormon teenagers!” he said delightedly, noticing the header at the top of the page:

So scratch the 14-year-old boy bit. Because Mormons can’t date until they’re 16.  So, I’m a 17-year-old boy? Sure. Why not.

Regardless, BF better watch his back, because I aim to win at #9, Play cops and robbers. And I intend to sufficiently annoy him with #28, Go caroling, even if it isn’t around Christmas.

***

I have my doubts about online dating, but every so often the e-harmony commercials featuring those good-looking, happy, compatible couples inspire me to foray out from my pseudo-celibacy and post a profile.

As a Jew, I choose JDate as my medium for this hazardous exploration of the dating world. In my mind, it seemed to be a nice way to winnow down the options and find someone with some sort of moral compass, or so I told myself. I’ve had bad experiences before, but as a glutton for punishment, I ventured out and posted my profile once again.

It took about a month but I met someone. He seemed handsome, athletic, mature (read = older), and lived in another state which seemed intriguing, if entirely unpractical. But he contacted me, and I flirted back. Before I knew it, I was handing out my phone number and he was calling.

He was a talker, and would call and want to chat for hours. I was flattered. He seemed smart, outgoing, ambitious, and interested in a serious relationship. He had been married previously, and so have I. To me, the experience of getting married and then having your faith crushed mercilessly by a divorce is hard to understand unless you have been through it yourself, so to me, another divorcee on the upswing was a definite plus.

After our first conversation, he was ready to jump on a plane and fly to meet up. However, his gusto spooked me and I was less than warm to the idea. We talked more. The inevitable conversation about the whys and hows of our divorces came up, and boy, did he have a story. In his mind, he had married a demonic woman, full of venom and lies who had even attempted to poison him shortly after they were married. He insisted that she was a sociopath and was out to destroy his life simply for the fun of the kill. He certainly was not wealthy or connected enough for her to have any other motivation for her vicious mistreatment of him.

Having been in a thoroughly abusive marriage followed by a nasty divorce, I was open and sympathetic to his plight. Once my compassion kicks in, I become blinded by the desire to soothe and nurture and he definitely had my fullest sympathies. We talked for hours that night, and the next day, I received a series of urgent texts.

He was driving to see me immediately. We needed to meet. I was flattered and curious.

I was nervous. He was nervous. We were both trying to impress each other. He put on the charm, telling me I was beautiful, begging me to spend the night with him. He got a room at the most expensive hotel in town and I couldn’t resist. I stayed with him.

The next day, I needed to go home – to get some clothes – and he insisted on not only going to my home, but also meeting my parents. He sat and talked to them for a couple hours. I was charmed. We talked on the ride back about him moving here and renting a house with me. It all sounded so good.

In the haze of emotions, I was willing to overlook three major issues:

Number 1: He had no job.

He said he had his own business, which I have learned can also mean “unemployed”.  He had a webpage and a faux-company that seemed to indicate he had done some work at some point. But, at the moment, his days were filled with skiing and smoking pot, and not much else.

Number 2: He was incessant and pushy about anything he learned about my life.

Despite the fact that I was divorced, had moved on, had overcome tremendous anxiety, and was rebuilding my life successfully, he poked and prodded at the details. It was as if he was making a list in his head and one-up-ing me on each issue.

He paid his divorce attorney less than I had, he finalized his divorce faster than I had, he left his wife sooner than I had left my husband. Our conversations turned into crying confessionals, where he insisted on dragging out the details and then mercilessly re-examining them with an eye on improvement. It felt cathartic, but confusing. I was willing to tolerate it with the intention of spilling my guts, and then closing the divorce-files for good.

Number 3: He had been living as a religious fanatic.

At some point in his 30s he became completely radicalized. He quit his job, moved to Israel, studied Torah, and spent time as a protestor against the Palestinians in the occupied territories. He returned to the US and began to live as an Orthodox Jew.

The lifestyle of the Orthodox Jew is a beautiful, highly ritualistic, and extremely structured way of living. You keep kosher, which means your eating habits are vastly limited. You cannot work, use electricity, drive in cars, or use phones from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. You celebrate a plethora of Jewish holidays that the general Reform population overlooks. You start and end your day with prayer and trips to the temple. You wear special undergarments. You don’t spend time alone with single women. You cannot touch a woman or sit where she has sat because she might be on her period – and since you can never tell if she is or isn’t, you avoid women in general.

Outside the Orthodox community your habits can often be perceived as strange and very rude. Although the Torah does not encourage it and there are some incredibly powerful Orthodox women, Orthodox Jewish men are also known for being exceedingly sexist, as women play a secondary role in the important matters of faith. Although he insisted he was no longer Orthodox, he definitely had endless opinions on matters of Judaism. I thought I could learn from him, but was wary of what I saw as his tendency towards judgmental extremism.

Our whirlwind weekend ended, he left. Our phone conversations continued. I felt less and less excited by the prospects of a relationship, but I was somehow committed to at least a visit to him. I had already purchased my ticket and so I departed with some apprehension.

All of my anxiety was compounded the minute I stepped out of the jet-way. He did not meet me inside the airport, despite the fact that I was hauling skis, ski clothes, and luggage. I drug myself and my stuff out onto the street, and when he pulled up, he did not give me a hug. He barely made eye contact as we drove to his house. However, as is his style, he did talk incessantly and nervously, spiraling through radio stations. He asked me how my week was, and I mentioned a tense situation at work. My admission about a pretty normal work annoyance gave him an excuse to accuse me of coming to visit weighed down with more than just my luggage. He suggested that if I was having an issue, I should have stayed at home, blowing the issue way out of proportion.

We reached his house, and he had made me an elaborate dinner, so I tried to push my frustration aside. However, as we sat down to eat, he did not touch me, did not hug me, and did not even make eye contact with me. I was completely astounded by his behavior.
We went to bed. He was taking me skiing early the next morning and insisted that I go straight to sleep. He had two twin beds in his bedroom, and got into his bed and assigned me to mine, and without so much as a peep, fell asleep.

Let me explain about the twin beds. Orthodox Jews are not allowed to make any physical contact with their wives the week during her period and the week after menstration. The couples usually have two twin beds, so they can separate themselves to ensure they do not accidentally touch. The woman must undergo a ritual bath a week after her period ends before she is pure enough to engage in sex again. He had told me about the two beds thing – a leftover from his Orthodox days, but seeing it in action seemed more than a little absurd.

I woke up the next day furious and unhappy. I asked him what was wrong, and without looking me in the eyes, he said coldly, “You are on your period.”

I was miserable.

The day drug on awkwardly. I drank too much to alleviate my agony. We went to sleep, and he pushed the beds together. I suppose his libido overcame his self-righteousness. It was quick and passionless.

I feel asleep, longing for my return home and planning to never ever set foot near him again. The next morning, he was in fine form, and decided to tell me at length why I had ruined the trip.

I had come on my period. I had had a bad week at work. I listened. He continued -  telling me how I had not chosen a good divorce attorney, had not gotten divorced efficiently enough. I listened. He then began talking about how special and profound he was. He insisted that he was closer to God than others. That God had chosen him. He called himself a prophet who would lead Jews into a newer understanding of their faith. He talked and talked. It became a nearly 4-hour-long monologue. I listened.

Angry tears rolled down my face. I was angry that I had trusted him. Angry at the way he treated me. Angry at myself for crying in front of this maniac. Finally, the time for my departure arrived. He took me to the airport, but before we could get in the car, insisted on taking a picture of my puffy red face, as if to document his cruelty.

When I stepped out of the car, and away from him, I burst into tears of relief. I cried so hard that the TSA people gave me a hug. When I got home, I immediately removed my JDate profile, deleted his number, and felt the comforting sanctuary of singlehood surround me.

And it felt so good.

***

Interested in writing a guest post about your own Dating & Other Bad Habits adventures?

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“I’m going to go get us another beer,” she purred, running her bony finger across the top of his shoulder. I sat on the other side. He was the PB&J of our sandwich, flanked on either side by the bread of tiny brunettes.

And I was pissed.

He was not my boyfriend, to be sure. But we had been seeing each other regularly. We went on dates. We drank whiskey. We had relations. That was certainly the extent of it, but we can call it dating.

I did not know what a jealous creature I could be until this exact moment in time (all that time ago). Here was a woman dangling her pussy in front of my (then sort-of) man like it was a damn piñata.  If you whacked it would candy fall out?

She returned, beers in hand, and nestled into the couch.  This was far too much work– fighting for a man I only wanted to have fun with? No thanks. So I walked away.

She never did get her man.

And months later I got my accidental revenge when I started dating her ex-boyfriend. Not for that purpose (to be incredibly clear). But somehow satisfying nonetheless…