Life would have been easier had I let my daughter choose my dates

This past weekend my band played a singles “mixer.” From the stage I watched men and women as they went through the complicated dance that is the early stages of courtship; the light banter, the knee-touching, the feigned interest in personal histories.

Familiar territory. Because of my personality — which my kinder ex-wives refer to as “difficult” — I’ve spent a good deal of my life single.

Not all my relationship problems have been the fault of my lousy personality, though. Many were brought on by my equally lousy choices in women. For years, I was looking for all the wrong things.

I should have been searching for kindness, honesty, understanding, patience. Instead, I spent years burning through hotties upon whose backsides one might be able to crack a walnut. Though I’m still a fan of backsides, I have come to understand this should not be the sole factor in choosing a mate.

At any rate, playing for that singles group got me thinking about my early dating years, back when I was a single parent of two young children and trying to balance work, school and parenthood while maintaining some sort of rudimentary social life. It wasn’t easy.

My kids, four and six at the time, rarely met the girls I was dating, but sometimes it just happened.

I’m thinking of one particular afternoon about 30 years ago; I was having an early dinner with my daughter, Aubreii, at a downtown restaurant. At another table, a group of 20 or so girls were whooping it up pretty good. Balloons and a pyramid of brightly-wrapped boxes on the table spoke of the birthday party going on there. Based on the party’s volume, I assumed the girls were taking full advantage of happy hour drink prices.

Aubreii and I ignored the noise until one of the girls, a willowy redhead, detached herself from the group and approached our table.

“Mike,” she cawed. “I thought that was you! Oh, is this your daughter? She’s soooooo cuuuuute!”

“Yup,” I said. “This is Aubreii. Aubreii, this is Lucille, a friend.” 

Lucille was a little more than a friend. We’d gone out half-a-dozen times, at least. She was a dancer at a west side nightclub, and though very sweet, she was not the sort of girl you bring home to mother.

Lucille (who, it turns out, was the birthday girl) and Aubreii chatted for a few moments. Lucille invited us to join her birthday party, I demurred. Eventually, she returned to her own table and recommenced with the apple-tinis. 

Aubreii was quiet for a while.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked.

“She seems like a nice girl.” Aubreii said.

“She is,” I said.

“But…”

“Yes?”

“Well, she’s not very smart, is she?” Aubreii said.

When your six-year-old daughter can tell, it’s time to change your standards. It took 30 years, but I think maybe I finally have.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

How much are you willing to pay to whine?

I’ve gotta start charging for it, now that I’m in a relationship. 

Until now, I’ve been giving it away for free; my attention and understanding, I mean. I do this nearly every night, shortly after Lori arrives home from the office.

“How was work?” I ask. I don’t really care, of course, any more than she cares about the quality of my workday. But that doesn’t stop her from telling me A) who acted like a jerk, B) who called in sick even though everyone knows he or she was really just hung over, C) how much unfinished work was piled on her desk at the end of the day and will be waiting for her there in the morning.

She gripes for a few minutes and then it’s all over and it’s time to uncork the wine and start supper. This is a scenario played out nightly in virtually every household in America, yet — until now — nobody’s figured out a way to make a buck from it.

It took the Chinese — the same people who can somehow manufacture an iPhone case and sell it on Amazon for .38 cents — to monetize bellyaching. 

In China, for about five bucks a day, you can dial a number and whine to a person of the opposite sex (or the same sex, if that’s what blows you hair back) about your boss’ bad breath or the overdue Murphy contract that that young kid from the fourth floor is trying to steal away from you.

The person on the other end of the line will provide plenty of commiserating feedback like 可怜的宝宝 (poor baby), 这就是这么不公平 (that’s so unfair!) and 你是如此的权利生活太臭 (you are so right; life stinks!).

Basically, the same things I listen to Lori say every night for free, or used to before I found out I could entice her to open her wallet.

The quality and type of sympathy depends upon choices made while signing up for the service. Guys can choose a virtual girlfriend (that’s what they call ‘em) with personalities  like “mature women”, “doll-like girls” and “girl next door.” Women can choose from “men in uniform”, “handsome men”, and “comforting men.”

Nowhere do they offer a “bitter ex-wife” model, which — if I know anything about ex-wives and I should since I have more than my share — would spit out remarks like “get over it!” and “grow up already!” But apparently nobody wants to pay five bills for that.

According to Zhang Xiaoli, head of the China Association of Mental Health and a man with far too many odd letters in his name, most clients are trying the service out of plain old curiosity.

I’m not so sure; I think there may be a real market for this sort of thing. I’ll know for sure tonight when Lori gets home. 

If I wake up five bucks richer tomorrow morning, I may have to invest in a toll-free phone line and Paypal account.

It's about time for me to pop the question, I think...

Maybe I’m moving too fast. I don’t know. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a relationship. 

At first I tried to take it slow. After all, I enjoy being single; I’m self-sufficient and rarely feel lonely, lost or worthless just because I’m not joined at the hip to a member of the fairer sex. Also, movies are cheaper when you’re only buying popcorn for one.

But being the irresistible stud muffin I am, it was only a matter of time before some lucky girl snatched me up.  (Look, if you don’t recognize irony when it’s being troweled on this thick, I can’t help you.)

I’m pretty crazy about Lori, but even so, I dragged my feet the first couple months we were dating. I didn’t want to give up my lakeside apartment. I didn’t want to move to her house in the country. I didn’t want to, well, be a grownup again.

A single guy can remain indefinitely in a state of quasi-adolescence, an existence defined by nights out with the guys, sleeping in until noon on Sundays and a lawn that grows waaaaay too long before feeling the mower’s blade.

A guy in a relationship has, um, what are those things called again? Oh, yeah, responsibilities.

I hate responsibilities, yet I’ve managed to get myself into a relationship. A serious one. So serious, in fact, that this past weekend, after a lovely “mini-vacation” up north with my sweetie, I decided to take that next, Big Step.

It could have been the warm, post-vacation glow that dulled my resistance to commitment. Or the second glass of wine with dinner. Whatever the case, I made up my mind to pop the question.

I wanted everything to be perfect. I waited for the right moment, until we were home in front of the fireplace, lounging in the flames’ benevolent radiance.

“Babe,” I said. “I have something important to ask you.”

Lori’s eyes gleamed expectantly in the firelight. “What is it?” she said.

“Well, I know we’ve only been together a while,” I said. “I mean, you know, really really together, and…”

“Yes?” she said.

“Um, that is to say, I think it’s time…”

“Yes? Yes?” she said.

I cleared my throat and plunged forward. “I think it’s time we bought a grill.”

“A grill?”

“Yeah,” I said. “One of those big, family-sized ones. You know, for when we have the kids over or whatever.”

Lori’s reaction was not as enthusiastic as I’d expected, but we made the trip to the mega-store later that day and picked up a five-burner, stainless steel beauty that is now the envy of the neighborhood.

And believe me, that decision to purchase a grill says more about my commitment to this relationship than any piece of jewelry ever could. A grill, particularly a big, expensive grill, speaks of a future together, of longevity, permanence.

That grill says that for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, we’ll be making burgers together for the foreseeable future. If that’s not love, what is?

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273

If I wanted ‘challenges’ I’d still be with my first wife

My answer is no. Emphatically, positively, unequivocally … no. 

I’m not a Scrooge. I don’t pace the streets of London mumbling “bah” or “humbug.” I don’t long to see orphans and widows incarcerated on work farms. Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m generous, honest and fair. A jerk, yes, but a generous, honest and fair jerk.

But no, I will not dump a bucket of ice water on my head. I will not wade into frigid waters in March. I will not jump off a bridge — in the words of my sainted Irish mother — “just because everyone else is doing it.”

No.

No no no no no.

So everybody can just cease “challenging” me right now. As of this very second.

In the past week, I’ve been challenged to join the rest of the lemmings running off the cliff side in this ALS Ice Bucket thing currently making the Internet rounds a total of five times. At least two of those challenges were made very publicly, on Facebook.

So now if I don’t fork over a hundred bucks and let someone dump a bucket of ice water on my head, I am (apparently) an unfeeling weasel (I’m not) who doesn’t care about finding new treatment options for ALS (I do). 

I’d like to see an end to ALS, which is a terrible, debilitating disease that robs the sufferer of his or her dignity, freedom and eventually, life. It’s at least as bad as Alzheimer’s, which claimed the lives of my mother and uncle, two of the people I loved best in life.

I hate it.

I also understand this bucket deal has been a remarkably successful fundraiser for ALS research. Just like the Polar Plunge was last winter for Special Olympics. (At least one guy actually died taking the polar plunge, by the way — look it up.) So I can see why the ALS people are hoping this fad (which is what it is, let’s be real; it’s the pet rock of charity fundraising) lasts a while longer.

But I won’t be taking part. Why? Because I believe charity should be just that, voluntary giving from the goodness of one’s heart. I also believe, quite strenuously, that whenever possible, giving should be anonymous. There are Biblical precedents for these opinions, but since I’m a bit of a heathen, I will not cite them here; if you’re interested, buy a concordance and do your own research.

I may make a donation to ALS research, or I may not. The point is, it’s nobody’s business but my own. And if I do decide to make a donation, it will be because I want to.

I know, I know, the guy who just received the ALS diagnoses doesn’t care if I want to donate or if I’m coerced into doing so by a Facebook friend, as long as the money winds up going to research to find a cure. He has a valid point. 

So do I.

I’ll donate or I won’t. Nobody but me (and the IRS) will ever know for sure. But the ice water thing? Bah. Humbug.

mtaylor@staffordgroup.com

(616) 548-8273