Dena Harris's Blog

I almost forgot about this one. Which would have been tragic, because it’s too good not to share.

How to start? 

Remember what you considered romantic as a teenager or maybe even dating in your early twenties? And I assume you are in touch now with how it kind of makes you cringe to even think about what you used to think of as sexy?

This is a story about a guy who apparently had such success in his youth with his Rico Suave moves that he never felt the urge to change or upgrade them.

Guy shows up at my house on what was probably our third date, leaning against the doorjamb on my front door and sniffing/twirling a single red rose as he raises his eyes to meet mine when I answer the door.

All I’m thinking is, “Dear God. No.”

He comes in, hands me the rose and says, “Tonight is all about you.” He’s carrying a paper bag out of which he produces wine and massage oil. Without asking, he walks over and lowers the lights.

Standing there in the semi-dark I’m like, “Soooo. Where are we going for dinner?”

He walks to stand in front of me and holds the (I seriously can’t even type this without laughing) bottle of massage oil and says, “Do you really still want to go out for dinner?”

Have we met?! Of COURSE I want to go out for dinner! I am perpetually hungry! I plan my entire days around my meals. I was promised food! Let go of the image you hold of swooning teenage girls thinking that it’s romantic that you want to give them a backrub and go buy me an appetizer—pronto.

However, being the kind, caring person I am, I recognized that I needed to find the right words to reject his wet oil overture while not rejecting him as a person. I looked deep inside myself, calling upon my wells of compassion and said…

“Well played. All that’s missing is a transistor radio tuned to Delilah love songs for us to be having a moment here.”

He took a step back.

I’m sorry, but come ON. A single red rose? Wine? Massage oil? It just reeks of 80’s romance.

Fortunately, he had a sense of humor. His comeback was, “Just for that, I’m not giving you the mixed tape I made for you.”

We headed out to dinner and I did get wine out of the deal so, you know, score.

Cheers,

Dena  

[image error]“Oh, sh**!”

I work in an open office environment so pretty much every head turned my way. I sat at my desk, staring down at my phone in horror. I looked up to see everyone’s quizzical stares and started laughing. Sometimes it’s the only thing you can do.

5 Minutes Earlier

A box of beautifully decorated chocolate-covered strawberries was delivered to my desk. There was no note, but I’d been dating someone for a couple months so I had no doubt whom the gift was from.

I shot him a text: “You’re the best! I love chocolate-covered strawberries.”

And the inevitable reply: “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

In case you’ve never been there, receiving a text such as this is not a happy feeling.

I texted back: “Are you being serious?”

Him: “Yes. I assume someone sent you strawberries, huh?”

I’m a writer and I can tell you, there simply is no good answer to that question.

Luckily, the guy I was dating took it in stride. As for the strawberries, I racked my brain and asked a few people but could never figure out who sent them. It wasn’t until months later the person—a guy I’d dated some time before, briefly, before it ended badly—had sent them.

Awkward dating moments. You’ve got to love them.

Cheers,

Dena

In an admirable “don’t-dish-it-out-if-you-can’t-take-it” display of solidarity, today’s Dating Diaries doesn’t call out the bad behavior of men. Instead, I’m pointing the finger at myself.

Naturally, when you start dating after 20 years of marriage, safety is a top concern.  It ranks right up there for me with “convenience.”

So when I started online dating and I got past the “I’m pretty sure you’re not an ax murderer” stage and it was time to meet, I picked a sushi restaurant near my home. I love sushi, it was convenient and I didn’t reveal my address. Win-win-win.

I have coffee every morning at my gym with a group of retirees.  Last week, one of them mentioned he was taking his wife out to dinner to celebrate 55 years of marriage.

“Aw, you’re just a kid,” said another. “My wife and I are celebrating 62 years this August.”

“I’m getting close to celebrating 50 years myself,” said another.

There was silence as the group, who’ve known each other for years, exchanged puzzled looks. 

“Well, I mean, 50 years if you count them all up consecutively,” said the guy.

 I cracked up. Turns out he’s been married four times. “Just so you know,” I said, “That 50 years doesn’t count.”

“Time served is time served,” he said.

I love morning coffees.

Cheers,

Dena

Blair and I were texting this weekend, talking about vacations. I’ve been contemplating various itineraries and although I haven’t said anything to anyone,  a visit to Machu Picchu is near the top of my list. So it didn’t surprise me at all that Blair and I ended up having this text conversation:

Blair Harris: I'm contemplating Machu Picchu in October.

Dena Harris: OMG  - Machu Picchu is one of the places I was looking at with Road Scholar. I would crack up if we bumped into each other there.

Blair Harris: Wow.

Dena Harris: “Sooo… Hi, Blair.” (As heard on the mountain.)

Blair Harris: You're funny.

Dena Harris: “Hi Dena. F--k.” (As also heard on the mountain.)

If it would happen to anyone, it would happen to us.

Cheers,

Dena

I love that when I blog about anything other than the guys I’ve dated, all anyone asks me is, “When are you going to post another Dating Diaries entry? We love those!” Never mind I’m being attacked by serpent reptiles and have embarked on a new spiritual/emotional/mental connection to running. You want bad date stories. The people have spoken. Let’s do this.

Today’s installment really isn’t on “bad” dates. In fact, I’m still friends with most of the men the following snippets are about. These are more or less those small things that make you go, “Hmmm…”

OVERLY EXCITED GUY

This was a one-time date with someone who was way too young for me. I think he was 36 and not the brightest bulb in the box. Which fact I didn’t clue into until after we had agreed to meet. I knew I was courting trouble when...

No, the cat did not drag a snake into the house--yet. But I fear it's coming. Here's why. 

Two days ago, my neighbor and I stepped outside our condo doors at the same time. She screamed. I jumped. The long black snake that caused her scream slithered away into the grass. 

I posted to Facebook. Snake in the area! Cat will probably find it! Oh no! Ha ha, very funny. People laughed. 

The next day I go home from lunch. Sunny. Beautiful. Back door wide open. Cat sunning himself on patio. I take large bite of tuna salad, look outside and almost choke. Freaking huge black snake slithering under my fence, up my patio walkway, toward my cat and my (cough-choke-gasp-gag) open door.

Back in January, I began my “quest” to slow down in order to speed up. In a nutshell, for two months I've kept my heart rate at or below 140 for all training.

To say it’s been a challenge is an understatement. The incessant beeping of my heart rate monitor watch as it climbs to 141 and above has been my constant companion. As has my liberal use of the F-bomb. (Note to self: Base training and vowing to curse less are incompatible goals.)

I’ve got a week or two of training left. Here are the highs and lows.

In today’s episode of The Dating Diaries, we explore the exciting world of mentally imbalanced and emotionally unstable individuals. Yippee!

There are a few truths that need to be put forth.

1. “Stalker” is probably too strong a word for what I’m about to describe, but it got you reading, so mission accomplished.
2. That being said, I was nervous enough about the situation to consider getting a gun, an updated alarm entry system or at least a more aggressive cat.
3. My stalker wasn’t a guy. It was a woman.

Oh, BOOM on that last one. Didn’t see it coming did you?

It’s true. While I have yet to rate my first male stalker (I’m biding my time—it’s coming), about three months into the dating scene I did have my very own female stalker.

When people ask me about my worst date (And they always want to hear about the bad ones. No one wants to hear, “We went to dinner and had a really nice time.”), “Gum Guy,” or GG as I call him, always comes to mind.

We met online and he sent a couple of snarky texts that made me laugh. But alarm bells must have gone off somewhere because when he suggested we meet for dinner, I downgraded it to meeting for a drink.

We met at one of my favorite upscale bar/restaurants. I arrived first. GG texted he was running late—uh, leave your house on time, buddy—so I went ahead and ordered my drink. Belvedere vodka martini, extra dry, three olives.

When he arrived, I kinda sorta recognized him from his photo. Recognized in the way you can see glimpses in the paunchy man standing in front of you at your 20th class reunion of the boy who sat next to you in science lab in junior high school. Not a recent photo then. Okay.