Category: Single

01Jan

Life’s a classroom; my continuing education

classroom

Several weeks ago I put my friends to the task of finding me a good guy to go out with. In the past five years since Michael’s passing, my dating life has been essentially nonexistent. After a few false starts, I finally felt like I was ready to put myself out there, to what extent I was capable of I wasn’t sure – but I was ready to put my feet back in the water.

I have a wonderful friend with an equally wonderful husband. They took my plea seriously and began to look in earnest for a great guy to match me with. The next thing I know, my phone number has been passed on to a potential suitor that seems interested in meeting a “great gal.” Within just a few days, I’m meeting this man for the first time for a meet and greet and a really good pizza.

21 DAYS WITH BOB

(I spelled his name backwards to protect his identity)

He walked into the restaurant while I stood in a standing room only bar area. “How will I know you?” he asked earlier on the phone. “I will be the shortest woman there, how will I know you?” “I’ll have a black t-shirt on.” And there he was. I thought, “If this is him, I’m the luckiest woman here.” And it was him. Tall. Handsome. Well dressed. Great smile.

We took our seats, clinked our bottles of beer together, and had a wonderful evening. I had forgotten how “newness” felt. How scary and exciting the unknown can be. I listened with intrigue to his life story. Intermittently, he interjected, “Now this might be a deal breaker but…”, and yet nothing in his past overshadowed anything in my own past. At some point in the conversation I felt it necessary to tell him about the nature of my husband’s passing. I didn’t want it to be the focus of our evening, but the “S” word came up (suicide) and I felt it best to reveal that part of my life. Before the night ended, Bob asked me out on a “real” date. I tried to squlech my enthusiasm, but quickly accepted his offer. We ended the evening with a respectable kiss and I drove away with a happy and grateful heart.

The next few weeks we tallied up hours of telephone conversations and enjoyed two more dates. This man is kind, funny, polite, and extremely interesting. We held hands in Market Square. We shared some tender kisses. He opened the car door for me. We spent hours listening to music together.  I listened more than I talked (and you all know how much I love to talk.) Although I generally don’t hold my feelings too close to the vest, I found myself more guarded than I had expected. In passing I mentioned my blog to him but never revealed the website – I say this because this blog is an open window of my life. So I worried, was my life, my past, going to be more than someone could handle? Did I come with too much baggage? My idle thoughts brought questions of my level of ability to give myself to someone. Could I possibly fall in love again? Did I have the capability to become intimate with someone again? Could I ever trust another man with not only my heart but the bare bones of not killing himself? I only asked these questions because I really liked this man. I found him of quality and “brought up right.”  I have to tell you, when a spouse ends their life without any warning or explanation, it makes a person question themselves to the tenth degree.

Even with all of these questions and self-doubt, I couldn’t help but face my days with an extra spring in my step, perhaps a larger smile on my face, and a higher degree of optimism. When his name popped up on my phone whether a text or a call, I would smile. I found myself letting my guard down a bit, allowing myself to have feelings for the first man since my husband’s death.

Macy_Gray_-_Why_Didn't_You_Call_Me_(CD_1)


It turns out that all of my concerns, all of my doubts, were in vain.  I found myself on Christmas Day with the realization that I had not heard from Bob in a couple of days. So I did what anybody else would’ve done – I text “Merry Christmas.” No response. Wow – I was a bit hurt. It’s Christmas for God’s sake – and nothing? The next day – “Hey Bob, was it something I said, something I did?” How funny, how odd, and yet predictable that we always assume that it was something that we are responsible for, that we somehow are to blame when something goes wrong. I won’t bore you with the rest ,  because you too see where this is going. Suffice it to say that apparently ol’ Bob didn’t feel as strongly for me as I did for him. It’s left me puzzled, it’s left me a bit sad – sad in the fact that I didn’t allow him to see me for who I was – who I am – where I’ve come from and where I want to go in life.

So I’m left with the fear that I will rebuild my wall of protection that keeps me from being hurt, that I won’t allow anyone else in my life that could possibly cause me grief.  This small hurt was quite enough for now and quite frankly, I don’t like doubting myself.

To Bob I say, “I’m glad I got to meet you…  but I’m sad for what we might’ve had… I’m sad for what we could’ve done… especially that ride on your tractor.”

Stay in school,

Cat

10Nov

Match Me.. Match Me Not..Match Me…Match me not..

Back in June of this year I wrote a blog called “Dear Mr. Free-man”.  It was actually my first blog entry. It was an open letter to the over 50, single male population. If you haven’t already read it, I encourage you to do so now so that this next blog makes sense. Go ahead, this blog will be here when you get back.

After I wrote that piece, I questioned myself. Was I being too judgmental? Did I have a chip on my shoulder because I’m not the perfect physical specimen that men are looking for? Was I being too sensitive?

After much soul searching and feeling at times, a little lonely, I decided to go back on Match.com and once more, put myself out there. I mean, if you don’t try to help yourself, then who do you have to blame for being in your circumstance?

So, being the writer that I am, I crafted what I thought to be a pretty damn good profile. Here, I’ll share it with you.

Who I am: A woman who is very excited to be in this time of my life. I am single, although not happy with the way it happened. My children are grown and out of the nest, and I am a proud Nana to Lexi, Luna, and Lucas.

I have learned a lot about myself since my husband’s death five years ago. I have discovered that I am more of a loner than previously believed. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with family and friends, but I have learned that I don’t always have to have someone around to entertain me. I have learned that I am far more independent than previously imagined. Through necessity, I have been forced to become my own problem solver. And lastly, I have learned not to sweat the small stuff – and it’s mostly all small stuff.

A few years ago I started writing a book, well, a memoir of sorts, journaling my life, wanting to document my time here on earth. What it developed into was a collection of stories. I learned that I’m a pretty good storyteller. After several people read my stories, they encouraged me to start my own blog featuring those stories. And that’s exactly what I did! It has challenged me yet in another area of my life.

I love the outdoors, whether it’s laying by the swimming pool, kicking back at the beach, or sitting by a bonfire. I am an avid charcoal griller. Although the Tennessee Volunteers still don’t have a winning season, I continue to be a Vol Fan For Life as we rebuild “brick by brick”.

My ideal partner would be a man that has a zest for the future, a passion for life, a healthy outlook and a thirst for knowledge. A keen sense of humor and honesty is critical for me.

One of my favorite poems was written in 1927 by Max Ehrmann called Desiderata, meaning “desired things”. The final verse is this:

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

If my profile has sparked some interest, or if you read something that you said, “Oh, me too”, then give me a shout. If not, I hope you have much success in your search for the lady you are looking for.

Not bad, huh? I put myself in the category of “A few extra pounds, widowed”. I was honest about my age – 58. I threw in recent photographs that were pretty damn good – nothing racy. My username is respectable, nothing crazy like “foragoodtime” or “hottotrot”, or “cougarlady”. After all, I don’t want to send out the wrong message.

So, I’m six weeks in to my 3 month subscription and I would like to share a few of my experiences.

My first *wink* was received just a few moments after I paid my $67.00  and got logged in. Hey, this is promising. Is my dating life getting ready to hit a home run – or am I ever going to leave the dug out?  So I *click* on his profile. As we all do, we check out our potential “soulmate’s” pictures. You may think this is contradictory behavior from someone that has expressed concern over the “outside” being overly important, but really it isn’t. I think photos can tell a lot about someone. Not necessarily are they cute, or slim, or attractive – but more, do they look genuine? Do they have a nice smile? Are they neat in appearance? Is there a sign behind them that says, “Bros before hoes?” Are they sitting in a 50 year old recliner with wood paneling behind them and a Schlitz Malt Liquor in their hand? Things like that.

Back to my *wink*.  His pictures – not bad – sure he looked a little..well redneck – but you can’t blame a boy for that. But the bio – oh the bio. Here’s what caught my eye – and I can’t make this up. ” Love spontinaity, I love a woman who can smack my ass in the middle of a crowd and you would never know she done it by the look on her face.”  So, what’s worse?  The fact that he likes his ass smacked or his poor grammar? I reeled from both infractions. Move on Cat.

My next potential suitor sent a *wink* my way, along with his one and only picture. Too bad it was a selfie taken in the bathroom with the toilet seat all the way up – like he just took a piss. Nothin’ says lovin’ like a bathroom selfie. Not surprising, I passed on this prize too. Better luck next time Cat.

Screen Shot 2014-10-28 at 5.50.47 PM

Match.com offers this fun little tool called “chat”. So while you’re online checking out who “viewed” you (and moved on), you can chat with other Match members online. So here I am, one Saturday “dude surfing” when Chat pops up.

RU4me from Buffalo, New York says,

Hi. Love your smile.

“Oh” I think. “Communication from the outside world.”

Me: Thank you. How is Buffalo treating you today?

RU4me: You real pretty. You been on long match? (Yes, he really said “long match.”

Me: Uh – no.

RU4me: I not either. Not much luck. One lady want free dinner – other lady only want night stand.

Hmmmm…. a night stand, huh? Not a dresser, or a chest of drawers, but a night stand (Yeah, I get it, he meant one night stand).

Me: Pardon me for bringing this up, but your English is quite broken. It makes me wonder if you are perhaps a scammer. If I’m wrong, forgive me. If I’m correct, shame on you.

RU4me: What you mean. Scammer?

Me: Thank you for confirming my suspicions.

RU4me: FUCK YOU

RU4me signs off and I sign off too in disgust.

I confess, there have been a few men on this site that have caught my eye. I have steered away from the obvious “lookers” and have focused on men with kind eyes, genuine and realistic profiles. I have even put myself out there and sent a few emails (yes of course witty emails) only to get no replies. Well, I did receive a no thanks, as he had just met a lady on Match.com and wanted to see where it was going first. Forget the fact that I still see him daily on the site and “available for chat”.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, this small amount of time on Match.com has shaken my confidence. I have relearned humility. Clearly, I am not the prototype of what men over 50 are looking for. I don’t hike 50 miles a day, I don’t have Christie Brinkley’s body, I NEVER want to jump out of an airplane. I couldn’t care less if I ever ski in Aspen, or run the bulls in Pamplona.

So, what does it take to attract a man that meets my minimal expectations?  Do I try to change who I am to conform to someone else’s standards? Do I diet so that I am physically attractive to these men? As I ask myself these questions I already know my answer. Hell no. Even if I tried to change my personality, I couldn’t -nor would I want to.  We are who we are. Do I diet? Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. But you can be damn sure it won’t be to attract a man.

So, what have I learned? I have learned to go back to loving myself – and never forget that I am the prize – maybe not to someone else – but to me. I have learned, once again, not to turn to others for approval, but look inside and see what is acceptable for (what my sister calls) “my own self”.  Sure, it’s nice to get compliments (I’m always open to positive affirmations), but I can’t rely on them to dictate how I feel about myself. That has to come from me.

PostScript

I welcome any comments or anecdote from your own .com dating experience.  Surely there are more out there that have questioned their own worthiness, have had their own self doubt after being exposed to this medium.  Or…just something so funny you can’t keep it to yourself – please leave a comment!

PostScriptScript

…and, if you happen to know of a single man that might be looking for a middle aged plump woman that loves life and has a warped sense of humor, send him my way….that’d be great.

12Oct

Starting Over; my journey to contentment

Years ago… many years ago, I found myself starting over in my life. It wasn’t the first time, and unfortunately, would not be my last time. I was fresh out of a broken marriage. The decision to end my sad, oppressed marriage was not an easy one. It took me two years to gather enough belief in myself that I could make it on my own. But when I finally did find the courage, it was like a rebirth.

I found myself raising my three children in the tiniest of a rental house that consisted of two small bedrooms and one bathroom. The house was constructed in the mid 1940’s. It had charm. The covered front porch was perfect. All it lacked was a porch swing and you would be taken back to days gone by of lazy Sunday afternoons, sipping lemonade, and watching the neighbors drive by. The screen door still had the time stamped “B” (for Beeler) in the center of it. There was a large picture window in the living room that hosted as a frame to the beautiful mature trees outside. But along with that charm also came some drawbacks. The lack of electrical outlets, the little boxes they called closets, and the spookiest dirt basement you could imagine. But it was home, right from the beginning.

1

Our Freedom Home (1994)

I left my marriage with very few belongings. Not because they were refused to me, but I wanted a fresh start. Money was tight, very tight. But thanks to easy payment plans, I purchased a new (and very inexpensive) bedroom suit and a dining room table. Back in the day, painted hunter green furniture was quite the rage, and that is exactly what I purchased for both rooms. My oldest daughter, Heather, was with me when I picked out the dining room table, and no two people could have been more excited over a table and four chairs than we were. She was in her late teens, and wise beyond her years. Heather named our table, “The Freedom Table.” Eventually, our tiniest of a house became our “Freedom House.” We could breathe again. We could leave every light on in the house and no one would have harsh words (and we did, on purpose I might add). My children once again could feel the luxury of not being judged, or worse, ignored. That table, that house, represented our independence, our resurfacing into the world.

 With the inspired energy that comes from renewed strength, I set out to turn that little house into a home for me and my children. My artist friend Denae taught me how to stencil with paints.  I personalized the kitchen with stenciled chili peppers. Stenciled ivy crept along the walls in the living room. When you walked into Heather and Robin’s bedroom, you were greeted with an array of stenciled sunflowers as a border in their tiny room. As you can see by the photo above, I painted the outside shutters carnation pink. 

1

Our chili pepper kitchen

1

The door you see goes into that scary basement!

That's Shane "hiding" in the corner

That’s Shane “hiding” in the corner

That was early spring of 1994. My heart sang. My joy overwhelmed me. I discovered simple pleasures again; getting my hands dirty in the soil of newly planted flowers, dancing in the kitchen with my daughters, watching my son climb his first tree.

One particular joy that I encountered was going to our local Farmer’s Market every Saturday. My son Shane would generally be with his father, my daughter Robin (Miss Independence) would be doing, well, God knows what, so that would leave Heather. She was always as thrilled as I was to get that early start and see what the market had to offer that day. We loved the fresh air, we loved the time together, and we oh so loved the slow pace. Our Farmer’s Market not only had the finest of fresh fruits and vegetables, but also local artisans would be showing their wares. There was an eatery that served pinto beans and cornbread.

Heather and I found ourselves in the familiar pattern of checking out the arts and crafts first, always inspired, but sadly, money was rationed too tightly for such extravagance. Next, on to the fruits and vegetables where we carefully picked what would be cooked and served to the family. We would work our way around throughout the market where the potted plants were sold. The allure of the flats of petunias, begonias, and marigolds would reel us in. Almost always, something that needed to be planted later would end up in our cart. Because money was so very tight, I would keep our future purchases mentally calculated….$3.00 for the beans, $2.00 for bananas, $4.00 for flowers..etc. Then came the fresh cut gladiolus. There they were, long stemmed, colorful, seemingly beaming with pride. Buckets of them, calling out to us.

c5774d29a9300de1f4a5870a709298e8

The first time Heather and I saw them, we both fell in love. I wish that I could recall how much a dozen cost back then, I want to say maybe $6.00. Could we really afford them? Could we really afford NOT to take home such beauty and vitality? No, on both counts. Ignoring the budget, carefully, we picked out a dozen of our very first, freshly cut gladiolus. With only pennies to spare, we checked out at the register. Neither one of us could wait to get home to plant our new flowers, snap our green beans, and pull out the vase from under the kitchen sink and place our beautiful freshly cut flowers in the center of our Freedom Table.

That season Heather and I made it a point to visit the Farmer’s Market every Saturday until it closed for the winter. We filled the front porch with colorful hanging baskets in the summer, and in the fall, mums and pumpkins populated our surroundings.

1

But always, no matter what the budget, a dozen of freshly cut gladiolus stood proudly on that silly little green kitchen table. That image became my symbol of hope, of new beginnings, fresh starts, and faith that everything was going to be just fine.

So, in the end, I have learned to fill your soul with what makes you happy. Be good to yourself, and always, always, keep a vase handy.

0f706dc5a84b8472a57be7c01ce51450

Peace,

Cat Corrier

09Sep

Dancing in the Kitchen

DANCE1-INK

I found myself alone on Christmas Day in 1994.  As planned, my children spent Christmas morning with me, and went on to spend the rest of the holiday with their respective fathers. After they left that morning I busied myself with the task of cleaning up the crumpled wrapping paper, used bows, and empty boxes. I tried to make myself believe that it was going to be just like any other day that I would be without my children.  I thought that I had mentally prepared myself for this time alone, empty moments like this are going to happen when there is shared custody. But clearly, after the house was restored to its normal order I found myself not only alone, but lonely on Christmas Day.

After several hours of wallowing in self pity, I picked up the phone and called my brother. He, his wife, and son lived a short distance from me. I wrangled an invitation to their home.

Within minutes I drove up and parked at the curb in front of their home. It was almost dusk, that time of day when the sky begins to give way to dark, but holds on to the light as long as it can. I had the vantage point of seeing inside of my brother’s kitchen. The lights were on, the blinds not yet drawn on the sliding glass door. What I witnessed deeply touched my heart.

It was my brother John, slow dancing with his wife Sheri. Nothing fancy, no dips, no twirls, just a slow melodic dance of a couple in love. It was tender, and admittedly a side of my brother I had never seen before. As I soaked in the scene of that Christmas night dance, I thought to myself, “I want that. I want to experience that with someone.” I sat in my car for a few minutes after witnessing that simple, unpretentious dance with a yearning that I don’t recall ever feeling before. I waited for the dance to end and made my way up to the front door. Not wanting to embarrass my brother, I never admitted to the tender moment I had witnessed from my car.

I went home that night to an empty house  and thought about that dance between my brother and his wife. At that point in my life, there wasn’t a lasting relationship on the foreseeable horizon for me. So I got to thinking, which is something I do a lot. I’m a thinker. I ponder things.  I thought, “Why wait on that special man to dance with? Dance with those who are in your life – right now. Your children, and yes, you have permission to dance with just yourself.”  So that’s what I starting doing.  Heather, Robin, and Shane became my dance partners. We would crank up our “boom box” and dance until we were out of breath. Right there in our own little kitchen we mustered up some really great memories. Dancing, twirling, arms waving, singing along to the music.

*** click on music link below** you made need to adjust the volume, it’s pretty loud**

And then I began a ritual only for myself.

From my kitchen window I was able to see the moon on clear nights. I’ve always been drawn to full moons, but who isn’t? On those nights, after my children were tucked into bed, I would turn off the lights, insert a CD (much like this Enya song),  and sway to the rhythm of the music. With only moonbeams shining in from the window illuminating my presence, I would dance.  It was my own kind of interpretive dance that would not have made any sense to anyone but me. It brought me peace and a thankfulness for my solitude. I began reconnecting with myself, I embraced a new found independence. During these seemingly indulgent sessions I felt empowered to tackle the unknown.

e

I made jokes to my friends that on some of those nights when the children were away, I would dance naked while  paying homage to  the heavenly bodies. In truth, I did dance naked on some of those nights. I can’t recall a time in my life when I ever felt so free, so alive.

“Every single month, there is one special evening that I keep free--no dates, no dinners out and no distractions.” For more: Full Moon Manifestation Ritual on elephantjournal.com, by Rosalie e’Silva. #mayitbeofbenefit #fullmoon #fullmooninleo

**I want to interject here and say that not every day was a great day. Not every day was a dance in the kitchen day. There were hard days. There were long days. Single parenthood. Money issues. Full time job. Exhaustion. Days when I felt like I had nothing to give to anyone. There were stressful days. There were days when all I wanted to do was to be by myself and hide under the covers **

You can continue listening to this song, and maybe get a glimpse into those special evenings of mine, imagining an almost 40 year old woman dancing (sometimes naked) to the music that lifted my spirits, soared me to a new platform in my life…. or you can hit pause and keep on reading. 🙂

Some years later I would marry the man of my dreams. I recounted to him the story of that Christmas Night dance at my brother’s house and how it had touched me.

**click on music link below **  the volume needs adjusted here too – I’m still new at this***

He and I shared many slow dances in our own kitchen, swaying to the music of Sade, Savage Garden, Celine Dion, Trisha Yearwood, or sometimes to no music at all. Out of nowhere (and for no special reason) Michael  would put one arm around my waist, pull me close, and would whisper in my ear, “Can you hear it? It’s our song.” without any music playing in the background. He would hum “Truly, Madly, Deeply” into my ear.

images

Michael couldn’t sing or hum worth a damn, but the sentiment would melt my heart every time. I hear this song and it takes me back to those days. “I want to stand with you on a mountain, I want to bathe with you in the sea, I want to lay like this forever, until the sky falls down over me”.  Maybe this song sounds corny to you, but no matter where I am, and no matter what I’m doing, when I hear this song, I stop. I stop and remember those wonderful slow dances in the kitchen.

As most of you know, my husband died all too early in life.  Every hope and every dream, every slow dance, and every goal seemed to die with him.

But not for long. I am a survivor. I come from a long lineage of survivors.  Some may think it’s bad that I cherish myself. Some may see it as selfish that I want to not only survive, but to flourish.

As the years have passed I now have new dance partners in my life. My sister Terri and I dance often to  songs that empower us, make us laugh, and even feel sexy (thank you Robin Thicke).  I’ve twirled with my granddaughters, and have been “dipped” on Christmas Eve in Charleston by my friend Louise.

As of this writing I don’t have a special man in my life to share those intimate kitchen dances with, but that doesn’t stop me from cranking up my music and dancing to Enya in the kitchen by myself… just fully clothed now.

And if you’re looking for a dance partner, just look around you.  I’ll bet you there’s someone wanting to dance just a badly as you do. And if not, just look in the mirror and know that reflection that you are seeing is your own perfect partner (clothing optional).

Peace,

Cat