What Happened?


Guys, the past year has been weird. The past six months, especially. Slighted by the man I thought was the man of my dreams (the cute Russian translator I pined over for YEARS), I fell into the rabbit hole of Tinder for six days at the end of June. I went on four dates in five days because why not? The fourth date brought about a whirlwind engagement that ended in an alcohol fueled nightmare seven weeks ago. I’ll start out slow with my dates:

July 1st: date #1 was a really sweet guy that I refer to as “Z number 2.” I had a nice time playing mini-golf and razzing him about his knowledge deficit in music and movies, but I just didn’t feel any attraction. We parted ways and I let him down gently five days later when he FINALLY texted. However, I had connected BIG TIME with #4 by then. I very nicely explained that if he liked me, he should have texted me the same night. Or the next day. Or even two days later. He thanked me for being honest and said he’d remember my advice in future encounters. I hope he found someone adorable.

July 2nd: date #2 was disappointing. You know the guy who only has pictures from five years and 50 pounds ago? That’s who showed up. I’m super chatty and I ask tons of questions. He was very clever and seemed pretty quick when we were messaging each other, but all I received in person were one word answers. It’s terribly rude, but I texted my friend who was down the street, and she joined us. An hour later, I told him that I thought he seemed like a nice fellow but I wasn’t feeling anything between us. Without a word, he slammed his beer glass on a nearby table and stormed away. Oops?

July 3rd: Date #3 wasn’t actually a Tinder match. Well, he wasn’t MINE anyway. My friend matched with him, but after communicating for a day or two, she decided he was better suited for me. So, with my permission, she gave him my phone number and we started chatting. He seemed great! Sarcastic and quick, which got me all excited. I love a smart-ass who can dish it out but also take it. We met for dinner the next evening. When I arrived, I spied a gentleman in his late 30s, wearing a button-down shirt that was left open to about mid-chest. “Please, by everything that is holy, do NOT let that be my date.” Chest hair doesn’t stand up, but sees me searching and waves me over. STILL not standing, he asks me if I want a drink. He’s two beers in. During dinner he displays his forest of chest hair that rivaled that of the late Robin Williams. Now, don’t get me wrong, I find chest hair super sexy. I like a man with a chest full of curly man-fuzz, but this was an excessive display. I’m pretty sure one fell in my sandwich. Chest hair talks about himself, I get bored, thank him for dinner, and head home. We both proceed to not text each other, but have since awkwardly run into each other on multiple occasions because we hang around the same places. *Sigh*

July 4th I host an annual get-together. Dates are placed on hold.

July 5th: Date #4 was M, a man unlike anyone I’d dated, or ever met before. He was covered in tattoos: arms, legs, torso, neck, and a few on his face. He was pierced in several places. He was RIDICULOUSLY nervous, and I would find out later that night he was diagnosed with anxiety so bad that he was prescribed higher doses of medication than I knew was possible. We met at his friend’s tattoo shop and walked a few store fronts down to have dinner at one of my favorite local spots. We chattered all through dinner. He barely ate. I ate almost everything. We started walking and parked our rears on the steps of a church. The talking didn’t stop for six hours. I had to work the next day, so I rushed us back to our vehicles when I finally checked the time. We hugged, I said I’d like to hang out again, and hopped in my car. I texted him when I arrived home, about 10 minutes later, telling him what a good time I had. What I received was most unexpected. He said I didn’t seem like I was feeling him, but he’d had a good time and wished me well. DAFUQ? We texted most of the night until around 3:30 am, each of us explaining that we were really into the other and how the Hell could we have misinterpreted the signals? Looking back, that was the first clue leading to my ultimate, “Sarah, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?” We made plans to hang out again that Sunday, four days later. He comes to my house because it’s the day after my birthday and I am seriously hungover and don’t feel like going outisde. We watch television and he doesn’t even try to kiss me. Wait. Did he kiss me? I think he did. We make plans to hang out Wednesday. I get Norovirus. If you’ve never had it, you’re one lucky sonofabitch. It’s like having food poisoning plus the flu; everything is coming out of both ends, you have a fever, and you want to die. I was sweaty, smelled horrible, and was highly contagious. M showed up anyway to take care of me. He picked up my favorite Vietnamese food and brough it to me because noodles were the only thing I thought wouldn’t make a violent return. Days go by, I get better, he gets sick, but I am out of town visiting a friend. He waited until I was six hours away before telling me he was puking and shitting uncontrollably.

At this point, I’m thinking things are going pretty well overall. Then, about six weeks later, I tried to introduce him to a couple of my friends. We go to one of those “First Friday” art shows close to my neighborhood. He doesn’t like my first friend solely because she is 27. You read that correctly. He has a preconceived judgement that she is immature because he is 43 and thinks that anyone younger than 40 cannot be mature. Cool. My other friend, who is 25, shows up. Let the shit show begin. We look at some art, I get hungry, he gets super anxious in the crowds, and orders a beer. I don’t think anything because this seems normal, right? Nope. He’s an alcoholic. I do not know this. He mentioned at one point that he didn’t drink, but never expressed that when he starts, he cannot stop. He has three beers before we finish dinner. He orders no food. Three days later, I’m coaxing him out of his house to go to his parents’ where he can detox. I meet his parents for the first time at 11:30 pm on a Monday night. I spend every non-working hour in their house with M for the next four days. He proceeds to drink himself silly in their basement until Saturday, when he decides he should get help. His father and I drive him to an inpatient treatment facility, where he stays for three days. Little did I know that I would be doing my nursing school clinicals in that same facility, in the same unit, in four short weeks.

More to come…


All the Feels


Maybe it was a mistake to accept my ex-husband’s offer to ride along to Gulf Shores, AL from Kansas City to hang out for 3 days on beautiful, sandy beaches and hear amazing music. Maybe it was fate that we had only spoken once in 12 months, yet he asked me to accompany him for a 16 hour drive times two. I was his third choice as a companion, after his girlfriend and our nieces. We never once turned on the radio or popped in a CD on the way south; conversation flowed like we’d been best friends forever and it hadn’t been 5 years since we had genuine dialogue. The whole situation was natural; like we were still together, yet not.  It was like we had never missed a day. We were so in sync to each other’s moods and feelings. On the drive home we were confronted with our past that I was not yet ready to discuss.

Z asked me to accompany him to a wedding tonight. It was intolerable. The epitome of love was this couple. They dated for five years and their wedding was the kind you see in the movies. It was a dream: perfect vows, perfect speeches, perfect wedding guests… Though we broke up two months previous, Z still wanted me to attend. I drank lots of wine and nearly cried in public. I still love J. I will always love J. We had a four hour conversation about the end of our marriage on the way home from Alabama. It was the most painful discussion I’ve experienced. I was never ready to let go of my husband. Z asked me about this on the way home tonight from the wedding. I tried to explain my feelings to him, a person who has never been married and never loved anyone before me, but it backfired. If you have never loved another person, it is unfathomable to think that the person you love has ever loved someone else.

Z has never truly loved another person and does not understand my feelings. Instead, all he knows is selfish love; how could I love more than one person at a time? It’s actually very easy. I love three people currently: Z, J, and the mechanic though it’s all different love. Z, I love like a best friend, a confidant. J, I love like… I don’t know. I love him and that’s all I know. The mechanic and I understand each other. That one is more a love of mutual understanding. Z will never understand and needs to move on. I do not know what I am doing with my life. Any advice or insight is whole-heartedly welcome.



My ex-husband has been on my mind a lot lately. Something will happen and I’ll think, “I should text J to tell him about that!” Then I remember that he is dating another woman and has been for the past three and a half years.

I decided to stick it out with Z. There was a major shift in our relationship in early October, and I decided it was in my heart’s best interest to be a little softer. So here we are: I am with Z in the physical but spend a lot of time with J in my mind.

The biggest obstacle is my collection of memories. The negative are softened and the positive are exaggerated with the passage of time. January 7th was the fourth anniversary of our legal split. J is a very different person but I only know this through social media. I’m not sure if his intention was to remain friends or simply to keep tabs on me, but he started following me on Instagram and Twitter (which I don’t use much), and became my Facebook friend (again). He began a vegan lifestyle shortly after we went our separate ways. He grew his hair long – something I had begged him to do for several years. He started taking online classes to get a useful degree (I guess that film degree isn’t as lucrative in the mid-west as he expected). He is a loving and attentive fiance (actually, they might be married by now) and his lady posts pictures of the flowers he gives her. I think of the time toward the end of our marriage when he bought me flowers for actually running a 4 mile charity run, a goal I had for myself after my weight loss. It was a rare occasion for me to receive flowers – I can only remember a handful over our seven and a half years together. He sort of remembered my birthday our 6th year of marriage after forgetting every previous year. I still wonder if I truly loved him or if I wanted to love him like he seemed to love me.

I wrecked my car last month on black ice. It was my first accident after driving for almost 20 years. I bought that car the week before J and I started dating. We would have celebrated 10 years of marriage in 2016. That car was the last connection I had to J, and most likely caused my recent eruption of emotions and longing for the past. I can’t go back in time.

Sometimes the memories are better than the reality. This is my latest affirmation.

Alone Again… Naturally


Two years and two days have passed since I met WFB (Whole Foods Boy). A little over one week ago I asked him to move out. Alcoholism and depression are motherfuckers and I can handle one, but not both. He basically moved in with me last summer, though he was still under a lease with his roommate for six more months. It was June of last year when he “moved in.” I asked him to stop living in my house if he wasn’t at least helping with dishes and mowing the lawn. Three months later, he was in a car accident and had to reveal to me that he had been driving on a restricted license due to not complying with state laws and getting an Interlock Breathalyzer system installed in his car TWO YEARS PRIOR when he got his second DUI. I forgave him the major omission, but still asked him to move back in with his roommate. He never left. In January of this year, he began paying rent and moved all of his things in to my house.

On the subject of alcohol, I’m the kind of person who will buy a six pack of beer that will last me six months. He drinks two or three beers a day for no reason and binge drinks on the weekends, often to the point of belligerence. He doesn’t drink Coors or Budweiser with low alcohol content – he purposefully buys beers in the big bottles that are anywhere from 10-15% alcohol content. I was embarrassed to take him anywhere that alcohol would be involved. In August of last year, we were invited to a party at a local bar. My friend’s friend was paying for all the drinks that night, and I informed WFB of this fact. He still ordered $20, $25, $30 bottles of beer, justifying the expense because “we were all sharing them.” He drank so much that he didn’t remember leaving or the cab ride home. He woke up the next day and asked if we had walked home.

In May, he went to a birthday party without me. I was house-sitting and didn’t feel well enough to attend. He drank so much that at 5:00 am, when he was supposed to be headed to work, he could not blow clean to start his car. His phone was dead and once he left his friend’s house, the door was locked behind him, everyone asleep inside. He walked almost 30 blocks to the house where I was staying, reeking of alcohol and his eyes bloodshot. “Can you take me to work?” he asked when I opened the front door in shock. I dropped him off and barely spoke to him. He was fired the next day. He swears it had nothing to do with his physical state that day.

He sat at home for almost three months, living off of the three months of PTO he had accrued that were paid out to him. He never filed for unemployment. He applied for only 2-3 jobs a week, stating that he had to completely re-write his cover letter every time and “that took a lot of time.” One week into his unemployment, my friend offered him a part time gig in a warehouse that would allow him to make money while looking for a career in something he had more interest. He assured me he was going to continue to apply for jobs while working at this temporary job. It was early August when he finally applied and started working in the warehouse. He is still there. They offered him full time and he is no longer looking for a career that interests him. He says he’s not going to be there forever, but that’s what he said about Whole Foods. He was there for over four years, and his mother was the one who talked him into applying there. He would still be there if he hadn’t been fired. I pushed him into the warehouse job because it was guaranteed income and he could continue the job search while earning some money.

About a month ago, I wanted to try to work things out. I went to his parents (who had just returned from seeing WFB’s brother in rehab) about his problem with drinking and his lack of motivation. There is a long line of alcoholism in their family. His parents promised to help him however they could and supported my decision if I chose to end the relationship. I recently started nursing school and I am not equipped to handle the stress of his depression and alcoholism along with the stress of school. I came home and relayed what I had told his parents. He spoke with them the next day, coming home to tell me that he was going to start AA classes and make an appointment with a therapist. He has been saying for the past six months that he is going to contact his previous therapist and get help. There has been no such contact. He has attended no AA classes. He is not very good at following through.

Four weeks ago, we broke up. Three weeks ago, we tried to work it out. A little over one week ago, we broke up and I asked him to move out. He has yet to look for another place to live. He doesn’t know how to take care of himself, and I cannot mother another man. I saw a six pack in his closet when I moved my printer out of his room two days ago. Some things never change.

He came home crying today, asking me if I’m happy. I simply left the house. I’ve grieved the loss of our romantic relationship for so long that I cannot cry any more about it. I’m sad some days but I am happy others. Some days I want to crawl into his arms and say, “let’s work it out,” but I know I’ll just turn around and change my mind the next day. Love is a bitch.

When Are You Two Getting Married?


My ex-husband and I dated for 5 months when we became engaged and were one week shy of dating one year when we married, so our relationship didn’t give anyone time to press us about marriage. The anniversary of my first date with WFB is this coming Sunday and the question is starting to hit us like a tsunami. Every friend and every co-worker has been grilling us like we need to get hitched and do it now! The funniest part is that neither family is pushing us. I haven’t heard a single, “when are you going to get married and start having my grandchildren?” from either side, which is greatly appreciated. I’ve been there once and, though I’m not as scared to do it again as I thought I’d be, I’m just not ready at this moment to have WFB slide a ring on my finger and claim me for the rest of forever.

That said, if he were to drop down on one knee I might be inclined to say ‘yes’ but I’m pretty sure we’re on the same page of “let’s not rock the boat yet.” For that, I love him even more. We’re both a bit selfish and I don’t believe that either one of us is ready to make a life-long commitment. I’m preparing to go back to school to work on my BSN and he has goals and aspirations for the next couple of years as well.

Why do we pressure people into marriage? Working with an older generation helps give me perspective on how things have changed in the world over the past decades. We have older patients who were high school sweethearts and the fellow wanted to take care of his lady and he’s still doing it sixty years later. We have younger patients who come in as married couples, only to have one partner come back the next year having changed her name back to her maiden name, checking the “divorced” box on the form.

I grew up with two working parents. Mom stayed home until we were school aged, then went back into the workforce full time. Both incomes were needed to get by and raise the two of us kids, who were a definite financial burden. We, as women, don’t necessarily feel that burden these days. Some of us are having children later, marrying later and focusing on our careers and establishing ourselves before we dive into serious relationships. Others, like me, marry in our early 20s before we know who we are and what we want in life. Then, when we figure out that we don’t need another person’s monetary support, or their negative attitude, we leave the relationship in search of something more fulfilling.

My parents’ 39th anniversary is next week. They don’t always get along, and they almost divorced twice when I was a teenager. They’ll tell you that they don’t like each other every day, and there are days that they don’t even speak to each other. They’ll also tell you that they love each other so much that they can’t imagine being apart. I actually saw my dad cry (one of two times I’ve witnessed) when my mom threatened to leave. He told me he was devastated and didn’t want to live without her. This is what it is to marry and be monogamous. It’s not always glamorous, but it works for them and it works for a lot of couples.

Then you see couples who are married and have a girlfriend or boyfriend together or they have an “open relationship” and freely discuss together their escapades with other people. These couples seem happy and claim to feel even closer to their partners because they’re able to enjoy a variety of people but still return to their main partner for their basic emotional needs. I don’t understand how jealousy doesn’t wreck these couples, but I’ve never been a part of one and can’t imagine being a part of one. What works for some does not work for all.

For now, I’m content in my monogamous relationship with my sweet fellow. We’ll keep on keeping on until we’re both ready to move in another direction. Whether that’s marriage or something else, only time will tell.

The Road Trip


One week ago, I arrived home after a 10 day road trip with my boyfriend. Eight months into our relationship, we drove 5000 miles together (or rather, I drove because he can’t drive my manual transmission vehicle) and managed not to kill each other. Did I mention that I had horrible PMS starting the day we left? It was truly an adventure.

I drove about 14 hours the first day, including gas, potty breaks, and a stop at the Badlands in South Dakota. The hour we spent there was totally worth the $15 State Park fee. Anyway, it took us about two and a half days to get to Seattle where we met up and stayed with my bestie and her hubby. The BF and I went hiking one day and spent a portion of the next day getting my tire changed because I got a flat on the way back from hiking. I’m soooo glad I have a spare. Anyway, we spent the rest of the day shopping and walking around the Market. We met some of my other friends for happy hour at a cool dive near the Market. BF was not very happy that we had planned on going to a neighborhood bar afterward, but we were all tired: my friends from working, and me from getting elbowed in the face all night by him. He was very pouty, but seemed to understand when we all crashed early that night. I was pretty bummed that we only spent a couple of days with Carrie and Doug because it just wasn’t enough time, but we had to get on the road.

Wednesday morning, we ate some breakfast at a diner nearby then hit the road to San Jose around 9:30 am. We arrived around 11 pm. Jason was home to greet us and Julie would be home that Friday afternoon. We took a day trip to Los Gatos and Santa Cruz on Thursday. We ate awesome food and had several arguments. The most time we had spent together, without work interruptions or other plans prior to our trip was about 48 hours. By this time, we’d been unseparated for 7 days. I love him but I needed some alone time. The next day, Julie came home and we drove down to Capitola. They offered to drive, but I absolutely LOVED driving those windy mountain roads, so I took the wheel and off we went. That night, they took us for Afghani food that was phenomenal. When we got back to the house, the stress of the trip and my erratic mood swings had taken their toll on my BF. After a small melt-down, he holed up in the bedroom while I played silly games with our hosts and their neighbors. I had a great time, but felt badly that my BF wasn’t in on the fun.

We headed out late the next morning for the wedding, just north of Bodega Bay. It was magically beautiful. The ocean was at our backs and the mountains were just ahead. This was the first day we hadn’t fought since we left home. Or maybe we did and I just don’t remember. The wedding was at 3:00 and we started home shortly after 7:00. We didn’t fight as much on the way home, partly from exhaustion and partly from my silence while driving through mountains in heavy fog. By the time we got home, I was beyond worn out. I snuggled my cat, then compulsively unpacked while my BF passed out on the bed while reading comics on his tablet.

Things are still good between us. I think the trip brought us closer together. I have been so used to traveling alone that it was a huge adjustment having to think about another person’s needs along the way. We’re talking about living together. I’ve been enjoying moving more slowly than past relationships. We have had more time to learn about each other and our quirks before getting too serious. I would bet money that if my ex husband and I had gone on a ten day road trip together, we would never have gotten married.

So I guess my advice to any couple getting more serious about their relationship or thinking about marriage would be to take a road trip together. You see a person’s everything: every mood, every bad habit, how they entertain themselves… If you still love them afterward, you’ve built a strong foundation.

We Are Beautiful


Instead of my usual love-lorn rantings, I want to take on another subject today: body image. Specifically mine.

I spent four days with my mother last weekend on a road trip to Bloomington, MN to shop at the Mall of America. I learned a few things on that trip:

1) The Mall of America is just a mall with some rides and the same stores I have in my own, fabulous city (no offense to Bloomington. The people in Minnesota are incredibly friendly.)

2) I can handle that much time with my mother much better than I thought I could.

3) My size 4 mother has some very serious body dysmorphia.

I’ve struggled with my weight my entire life. I wore a 34C bra by the 4th grade and had very muscular legs thus earning me the title, “Chubby Cheerleader” due to my wearing of over-sized jeans and sweatshirts trying to camouflage a body that was winning the developmental race in my class. In the height of my depression a few years ago, I weighed 180 pounds and wore a size 14. I’m 5’2″ and currently weigh 140 pounds. My body type is hourglass – my friend calls me “BTSW” (Big Tits Small Waist). I have heavy, muscular legs (thanks, Dad!) and have to go up several sizes in skinny jeans just to get them over my thighs. My bra size is now 34DD and I’m usually between a size 6 and a size 8. My closet includes everything between size 4 and size 10, extra smalls to extra larges. I have one sweater that’s a plus size 1, whatever that means. I don’t care because it’s comfy as hell. I’ve learned to try things on in several sizes to find the one that flatters my shape the best. If it doesn’t flatter me I leave it behind. There is no sense in owning an article of clothing that makes me feel insecure.

As I shopped that first day, I picked up items and held them up to judge if I thought they would fit. I wasn’t really paying any attention to the size on the tag. However, my mom would pick up a shirt, look at the size tag and say, “oh, it’s a medium. It’ll be way too big for me.” A few times I noticed the thing she put back was an exact match of what I was holding. I have learned over the years to ignore these comments. Mom has always been in constant competition with me for everything. She can’t stand that I wear size 7 shoe when she needs 7.5 because you can’t really go down in shoe size without some marked discomfort. She used to race me on the stationary bikes at the gym: “I’m going faster than you.” “I’ve gone farther than you.” All the while, I rolled my eyes and concentrated on not passing out from the stank of sour sweat and horrible body odor that haunted our gym.

The shopping comments weren’t the thing that bothered me the most. It was the constant chatter about what I was wearing. When we met at her house, I was wearing yoga leggings, a fitted t-shirt and a zip-up hoodie. Mom looked me up and down then said, “Oh, you’re wearing leggings? I could never wear those because my butt is too lumpy. I guess I could, but I’d need a tunic. No one wants to see my lumpy butt.” Did I mention my mom is 5’6″ and a size 4? She has long, thin legs and a thigh gap that I will never have without some kind of dramatic plastic surgery (which will NEVER happen). She’s kind of pear-shaped, but her boobs have gotten bigger as she has aged. After her lumpy butt comment, she went on that she “can’t find leggings that fit her legs as tight as my leggings fit mine.” My ego was already bruised and we hadn’t even gotten in the car to leave. It reminded me of the time I gave her a pair of capri jeans that had become too tight for me. Instead of “thank you,” she said, “I wish these pants were as tight on my legs as they are on yours. It’s so hard for me to find skinny pants that fit like skinny pants.”

I grew up with a mother and brother who constantly told me I was fat. My brother’s name for me was Miss Piggy and, to this day, he still brings up the blue sailor dress I wore in the 5th grade that was so tight you could see my belly button. My dad never spoke directly to me about my weight, but would instead say things like, “should you be eating that?” The worst part was that they kept soda, chocolate, and candy in the house at all times but I wasn’t allowed to have them. My brother was naturally skinny, like my mom, so he could have whatever he wanted. To this day, I have trouble with self-control around sweets because I was constantly told ‘no’ as a child. One can’t learn self-control when denied something over and over. These days, I can’t have sweets easily accessible or I will take down an entire package of [insert any junk food here].

I couldn’t help that I had cleavage in every slightly V-necked top I owned, and my mother told me they made me look slutty. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-twenties that I started showing some shadow between the girls. I finally realized I have a great rack and it was going to waste! I was taught by my mother that I should hide my body and feel ashamed of my curves. My mother is trapped by her self-image and focuses so much of her self-worth on her appearance, so she judges mine as well. Her motto is, “What Would Barbie Do?” I’m pretty sure Barbie would tell her to love herself, no matter what she looks like. Mom makes comments about what other people are wearing all of the time. She isn’t a mean person, but she has some real issues. Her mother judged her very harshly and so she judges the rest of the world and, unfortunately, me.

But you know what? I’m beautiful. I have an amazing body. I love to dress up in pin-up style dresses and when I go out, I turn heads. I have cellulite. I have stretch marks. My arms jiggle and my belly bulges when I sit. But I am strong. I can punch a bag like I’m going to knock it off the chains. I can leg press 200 pounds. I can bench press 70 pounds. I know that’s not an insane amount of weight, but it’s nothing to scoff about. I have learned how to wear clothes that make me look good and feel good. I don’t worry that someone might see the size on the tag. If they did, so what? It’s a number or a word. It doesn’t represent my accomplishments or my failures.

I’m beautiful and so are you. If more of us would stop worrying how we are perceived by others, we would be so much happier. Focus on the things that make you happy. If you are uncomfortable with yourself, make a change, but learn to love yourself, imperfections and all. In the words of one of my heroes, the great RuPaul: “If you can’t love yourself, how in the Hell are you going to love somebody else?”