I Didn’t Mean to Hurt You Just Because I’m Hurting

I’m sorry. We never got a chance to meet and we probably never will because I led you on and your (crazy) excitement to meet in person scared me away and made me realize…

…I’m just not ready for this…

It’s really not an issue of sex. I’ll have sex.

It’s the little things. (Which aren’t so little.)

My apartment is a mess. Will you think I’m a slob? I can’t have you visit my apartment!

I’m a Mom. My schedule is crazy. I have somebody very important to take care of. You will always come in second place. (If you place at all.)

I’m sick. When I tell you I have “meetings” in The City, it’s my Oncologist or my shrink or my GI or my GYN. Can you handle my illness?

The Scandal. I stayed up all night thinking of fake last names to give you so that when you google me (and you seem like the type who would do that) you wouldn’t see what I don’t want you to see.

And the big things. (The Red Flags)

You were so damn aggressive. Why couldn’t you take a step back? Instead of suggesting we spend our first date at a swanky pool and then go back to your place, why not just a drink or a cup of coffee.

Were you really passing through my neighborhood today? You didn’t tell me that you would be passing through yesterday, so why the sudden errands in my neighborhood? That’s creepy.

I could tell how controlling you are after our first phone call. No, I don’t want to FaceTime with you whilst wearing my threadbare Yankees T-Shirt, my old glasses, no makeup and greasy hair. In fact, I’ve never even used FaceTime.

 I don’t want you to call a cab for me to take up to your neighborhood leaving me with no way to “escape.” I’ve been on my own for a long time. If I want to meet you, I’ll drive.

And the superficial thing.

I’m 5’4″. You’re 5’6″. I will never be able to wear my nice shoes if we went out or met up.

And the selfish things.

I needed to feel someone found me attractive. I needed some attention. I wanted someone to call me hot. I wanted to know that there are men out there who want to take me out. Men who can be seen with me.

I know I confused you and made you feel like shit. I am so sorry for that. I’m just not ready. I am just not ready.

And I’m sorry if I hurt you just because I’m hurting.


Being Single is Fun. Being a Single Mom is…

My Dad died when I was ten, so technically, I grew up with a single Mom. I know the struggles she went through trying to make ends meet, taking care of her five kids all the while dealing with her escalating Multiple Sclerosis. The major differences between my single Motherhood and my Mother’s is that she had a slew of kids ranging from six to sixteen years old and a sister who lived downstairs with us. That alone was a lot of help for her. My older brother and sister were given a tremendous responsibility and times were different then. We could walk to school by ourselves and play outside with our friends with no adult supervision–she had some alone time–not to mention a washer, dryer and dishwasher. (Oh, my kingdom for a washer and dryer!) She owned our home–my Dad made sure the note was paid off before he passed away, so we would always have a roof over our head. My Mom struggled, but I’m quite different from my Mom. She never dated another man after my father died. I, on the other hand, had to deal with a phone call home from my seventh grade math teacher advising my Irish-Catholic mother that I was doing poorly in math because my mind was wandering. She told her I was “boy crazy.”

I still am!

That is one of the greatest aspects of being single again. I can date, I can flirt, I can have as much sex as I want with whomever I want. As much fun as that is, it’s not always so easy because, well, I’m a single Mom.

I spend most of my days at various doctor appointments and almost every afternoon and night taking care of my daughter. I love my daughter. I don’t know what I would do without her. Before any man, ever, she is the love of my life, but damn, that little girl makes dating so difficult. Shit, she makes taking a long shower pretty damn difficult!

Whenever I meet a prospective date, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Prospective Date: So, I would like to see you, maybe a couple of drinks or dinner?

Me: Yeah, great, that sounds good.

PD: How about Friday?

Me: Sorry, Fridays are out, I have my daughter. And Saturday and Sunday are out too, because it’s my custody weekend.

PD: I understand, what’s your schedule like?

Me: Well, I’m free on Wednesday and Thursday nights and every other weekend. I can usually meet up for a cup of coffee on Friday mornings.

PD: Well, Friday mornings are out for me, I work, but we’ll talk, we’ll figure something out. Text me when you know you’ll be free.

I know, I know…it’s so simple…Get a babysitter!!! Not so simple. Babysitters are expensive and the trustworthy babysitters are hard to find in this part of Brooklyn–some of them have waiting lists! Then you’ve got to to the interview, introduce the potential babysitter to your kid, have them spend a couple of hours together to make sure they mesh and the biggest problem with a date night babysitter is…no sex. I’ve got to go home. For a first or second date a babysitter is fine, but there will come a time that sex will become an item on the dating menu and unless it’s my weekend “off”, I can’t stay over–or even stay out too late at a man’s house and I certainly can’t have him stay at mine. Besides, I don’t want to come home to my daughter looking like I just got fucked. I actually have limitations.

I have some family and friends that can help me out for a couple of hours when I have to go to a doctor’s appointment, but they have social lives too, and it’s really difficult to get a trusted friend or family member to change their own social calander to accommodate mine. As far as school vacations are concerned, oh man, forget it. Cancel that week. I’m on lockdown.

One more important difference between being simply single and a single Mom is my apartment. Any man I choose to date has and will know immediately that I have a daughter, but I truly believe that unless said “man” has children of his own, seeing that Mr. Bubble on the ledge of the bathtub is a reality check. The children’s book I forgot to put back on my daughter’s bookshelf after reading her a story in my bed. The random Lego that is so painful when stepped on with bare feet on the way to use the restroom. Being simply single means you have an “adult” apartment, and for the most part mine is, but it is undeniably shared with my little girl…books, Lego, My Little Pony and all.

During the past thirteen or fourteen months since I’ve been separated, I have had some excellent adventures with men. Admittedly, they are fewer and farther between than I would like. I have also bonded with my daughter in a way that I could never imagine happening had my STILL husband and I had not separated. I just wish it wasn’t so difficult to have both. I suppose you can’t have it all, and I would choose my child over any man, any day…but..well, I’m boy crazy!

And I always will be.

Stay. Away. From. My. Boyfriend. (!!)

So, you’re an average looking gal with an average looking man and you’re at a party or a bar or somewhere social and you ask your man to get you another drink from the bar because it’s three deep and you don’t feel like waiting. You’re at a table with your girls and their boyfriends too. You’re laughing and chatting and looking at your empty glass when you look over to the bar and see your man talking to a thin, dark haired beauty covered in colorful tattoos. She’s wearing skin tight jeans, a tank and boots up to her knees. She throws her head back and laughs at something your average man just said exposing teeth as straight and white as an all American picket fence. You abruptly get up from your chair, jostling your best friend and knocking over an empty beer bottle in the process. You make your way over to the bar and saunter up to your man. You give him a kiss on the cheek, place your arm around him and ask him what’s taking so long. Then you turn to me and say “Hi- I’m so and so, this man’s girlfriend.” He tells her it’s a long wait and he didn’t catch my name. I already got my beer five minutes ago, so I leave them to talk it over at the bar. As I leave, I make sure to look back and give her a smirk. And that when she says it with her eyes. “Stay. Away. From. My. Boyfriend.”

I can’t tell you how many times this has happened to me and I don’t understand why so many women are insanely insecure and possessive when it comes to their boyfriends at parties or in bars. I mean, it’s not like i would go for your average boyfriend and you’re dumb if you think anything of substance could happen while you sit at a table with your friends while you send your man up to the bar to get you a drink. I mean, it’s not like he’s going to leave you for me. Why can’t we all just get along, ladies?

I don’t want to give the impression that I am conceited, because I’m not. But I do know what I look like, how men react to me and how attractive I can be to SOME (not all) men. I have very high self-esteem when it comes to my appearance and social skills. Isn’t that good? Shouldn’t other gals look at someone like me and say, “Wow, she’s confident, good for her!” Instead of the jealousy and anger that often comes with meeting a new girl in one of these, usually alcohol infused, environments.

It’s not only happened to me when I was and am again single. It happened when I was married too. I would be out with the girls proudly wearing my engagement and wedding rings and it would still happen.  And I can only imagine it happens in the reverse too. What I mean is, after I walk away from the average couple, she may say to him (and I am just insinuating here) “Stay. Away. From. That. Slut.” Because of course, I’m a slut. Because you feel intimidated by me, that makes me a slut.



I’m the type of woman who wants to promote love, not hate among all women. I hate when gals attack each other because of their looks or their clothing or tattoos or red lipstick or pretty long hair, because it’s not an attack on THAT girl. It’s a reflection of how you feel about yourself.

Like Shit.

So trust me, I’m not going anywhere near your boyfriend or husband…

I. Don’t. Want. Him.

The End.