Red Velvet Valentine's Cake

I’ve mentioned before I’m writing a dating memoir — a collection of the more hilarious and bizarre moments I’ve had during the last ten years. Some are so painfully funny, they are hard to tell without crying in fits of laughter. Others are just painful. It’s a tricky tight rope of too personal vs. bland, boring, “who wants to read another self-involved essay from the over-share generation?” kinda stuff.

How do you write a book like this that you know may end up in the hands of your father? A father you love very much but who may not want to read about that one guy — the one who showed up with a sex survey and a couple bottles of wine for date #3? (True story) Or the one who got into my purse for my home address when I wasn’t looking on a first date? (Also true) Or the mildly famous one who tried choking me. (Seriously)

My run of dating luck is just so very strangely amusing — it is hard not to giggle.  I mean the time I was running late for a date, literally, down a shady major street only to feel a giant plop of bird poop land on my decolletage? Funny! Or, how about the time I flirted for months via email with that small town mayor who ended up in prison as a felon? Horrifying! Or the story of my very first boyfriend, who in an attempt to grab my hiney as I walked by instead ended up with a handful of granny panties and maxi-pad? Awful, funny, silly, and yet — I hope — wildly entertaining. Because for every bozo like the ass-grabber, there is the gorgeous Italian politician who made up names of constellations one starry night on the Puget Sound. A night that might have involved both a jacuzzi and far too much prosecco. (Jacuzzi is apparently Italian for “holy mother of God, I hope this guy is on the Facebook because my girlfriends are NEVER going to believe how gorgeous he is.”

Carob cake

He was. They did. Salut!

In sharing a few of these essays with those girlfriends — who are both my greatest promoters and protectors — I’ve heard: Share more! Share less! Don’t say that! Tell it like it is! Hide his name. Warn women everywhere. Have some pride! Let it all out!


Tomorrow, dear blog, I fly to Denver to take a final test for a public health job I would very much like to have. I am so dang happy to be in the final clump of people selected for interviewing. And I am so nervous. And I am so excited. And I’m so ready.

This weekend a man I love wildly asked me what I’m “running from by moving.” D and I have run circles around each other for years. I broke up with him. He broke up with me. We broke up after he said I was too goddamned domestic. We’ve said goodbye after too many martinis. We’ve said goodbye sober. I tried to go to Africa and not speak to him for my three weeks away and the silence lasted all of three days.

Of course I’ve dated other men. Really, really good men. Men who my mother would pinch me for not scooping up and putting in my pocket. And I’m sure D’s dated other women — although I’d rather sit down to a scrumptious bowl of glass and nails than let my mind linger on that reality.

So when he asked, “What are you running from,” he was saying in his own backward emotionally retarded gorgeous green eyed way: “Why are you leaving me?

Because passion alone does not a relationship make. It takes honesty, friendship, commitment and really, really great chocolate cake to celebrate both the ups and downs of every day life. It takes courageous love.

Men of Colorado: take note. You may end up as a chapter in a self-depricating memoir on courting. Then again, you may end up with a sweet and sarcastic slice of this domestic girl’s life.

Courageous love: it’s what I’m running toward.