Part Three: My Date with “The Spaniard”

“Babe, I have some bad news,” he said, his eyes still amazing, but now somber.

The bad news was that his company was reassigning him to another project. He would be leaving for Europe in a week. Instead of three months, we had seven days.

The only silver lining to this news was that he was expecting to be reassigned to project two states away; however, it wasn’t definitive. But with any luck, fate would bring him back to my time zone. 

We talked about how we could still each see other once he came back to the states. 

“Guapa (Beautiful), I’ll fly out to see you first,” he said. “This isn’t goodbye.”

He then continued to list all the ways we could stay connected – phone, text, email, Skype. Gotta love technology!

But I’m a realist and a bit cynical so when the loud, cranky voice in my head said, “Mmm hmm… We’ll see… Ya… Whatever,” I wasn’t surprised.

What was this anyway? We’ve only known each other for a couple of months, he wasn’t my boyfriend and this wasn’t a relationship. Or was it? The woman with no game (that would be me) didn’t know what to make of this.  

Then for the first time in my new post-divorce life, a soft, sweet, little voice in my head said, “You know, it’s possible. You could see him again. It could happen.”

Meanwhile, the loud, cranky voice replied: “Aw, she thinks she’s going to see him again. She’s so naïve.”

As we kissed goodbye that night, he held my face in hands and said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

I was tempted to ask why he was thanking me and for what, but I’m learning how to shut my mouth, especially in moments like these.  Instead I chose to enjoy the moment and his hazel eyes .

When my mind wanders, it takes me back to this moment. The look in his eyes (remember, they’re amazing!) and his graciousness.

So we had seven days and the countdown was on!

FATE, THY NAME IS BITCH

A funny thing about fate… She can be a real bitch.

Three days later, I was bed-ridden with the flu. Every single muscle ached, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk. My throat was so swollen I couldn’t even take a sip of water. When I finally crawled into my doctor’s office, my fever had hit 102.

The diagnosis: Influenza, Strain B.

Recover time: 10-14 days.

Number of days until “The Spaniard” left: 4.

@#$% fate!

Our plans to see each other at least one more time before he left for Europe were crushed.

My window to see “The Spaniard” before he left the country was shortening. But I was determined to get better in time to see him before he left, even if we only got five minutes.

But it didn’t happen…

SAYING GOODBYE… VIA TEXT

The night before he left and since I still had no voice, we texted furiously, trying to say whatever we had left to say to each other before midnight. Yes, midnight, just like frickin Cinderella. Since he was leaving the country, his U.S. cell phone was set to be shut off at midnight.

By 11:58 p.m. my fever was spiking and I could barely keep my eyes open until I got this text…

“Babe, thank you for everything, so glad you came into my life. I’m going to miss you very much, guapa, and your sexy curves. We will see each other again, I am confident. Te mando un beso muy suave (Sending you a soft kiss).”  

Then at 11:59 p.m., I got his final text…

“We will meet again, guapa, I’m sure of it. Un beso …”

I mustered just enough strength to write, “Me too, babe, me too. Besos (kisses)…” but I may have been too late. To this day, I don’t know if he received my last message. 

By the time I woke up the next morning, he was gone.

Part Two: My date with “The Spaniard”

So there we were making out like a couple of teenagers in front of his place. And it felt goooooood!

I had long forgotten what this felt like, to be completely aware of every sensation in your body is absolutely breathtaking, especially when you’re making out with a hot Spaniard. Your heart is racing, your entire body is tingling and your knees feel like noodles.

“What are we doing?” I ask, as we momentarily untie our tongues. 

“Well,” he says, “Let’s talk about it.”

At this point, talking is the last thing on my mind. But hey, can you stop kissing my neck so I can concentrate? On second thought, as you were.  

As he continued kissing my neck, I quickly process the situation.

Standing before me was a man who actually wanted to communicate and have a two-way conversation about what we were about to get into. And it was blowing my mind!

“We’re both adults,” he said, still embracing me. “You know how I feel, and here we are, in this moment.”

Then he continued…

“But it’s up to you, wherever you want to take this, it’s your decision, and I’m OK either way.”

Needless to say, we never made it to dinner.

Never, and I mean NEVER, has a man appreciated my body with all its curves – curves that I felt I had been cursed with – and all its imperfections like he did. Sensing that I was self-conscious about my tiger stripes (and I don’t have a lot of them, but, hey, they’re there), he ran his fingers over them and said: “Hermosa” (Beautiful). 

After not having dinner, we talked. Not once, not even prior to this night, did he ever ask me about what caused my divorce. For whatever reason, this struck me as curious. When I asked him if he wanted to know what happened (I know, I know, I’m a mood killer), he said…

“Lo hecho esta hecho. Lo que paso, paso. Todo lo que me importa es donde estamos ahora, en este momento.”

Translation…

“What’s done is done. What happened, happened. All that matters to me is where we are now, at this moment.”

I found this so incredibly sexy that I wanted to kiss him. So I did. Which lead to…

WHAT AM I GETTING INTO?

You may be wondering what he was doing in the U.S. in the first place. I won’t go into too many details, but he works for a company with several offices in Europe. A major U.S. company contracted his company to work on a project, which is how homeboy ended up in my hood.

So I went into this knowing that he wasn’t here forever. This, whatever “this” was, wasn’t forever. He would eventually be going back to Europe in the summer. And I was OK with that. This was my first dance, my first post-divorce rodeo. (How’s that for a visual!) I’d been divorced less than a year and I wasn’t looking for forever.

So if this wasn’t forever, what was this? I think as women we tend to want to put labels on things. I know I do or at least “the old me” did. Looking back, I don’t feel that this required a label. “It is what it is,” I told myself.

But where do we go from here? What’s the protocol? Where’s the “Divorcee’s Guide to Post-Divorce Sex with a Hot Spaniard Who’s Only in Town for a Few Months?”

Not having the least bit of experience in this arena and since homeboy was so into communication, I asked him: So how do we handle this?

“Let’s keep it simple and see where it takes us. Let’s enjoy it while we can… enjoy each other, enjoy every moment.”

Damn, I think my panties just fell off again…

I know for some women, knowing a guy will only be around for a few months could be a deal breaker. For me, it was perfect!

Let me explain…

After being married for 17 years, I was truly enjoying my new life and independence. I was not in the least bit interested in a committed relationship. Dating? Yes. Companionship? Why not!   

I had a game plan. Keep it simple, drama free and just have fun!

REALITY BITES

As he caressed the small of my back, we calculated how much time we had left (three months) and talked about some of the things we wanted to do: Drive up north for the weekend, visit some local wine bars and check out an upcoming art festival.

This all sounded great. But reality hit when we talked about my schedule. I was only available every other weekend when my little one was with her dad. When she’s with me, I don’t go out. My time is her time. He said he understood, and that we still had plenty of time.

We continued to see each other, my schedule permitting. My daughter’s visitation schedule with her dad was basically my “Viva España” schedule. So when she went to her father’s every other weekend, guess where I was? 

When we met for our date one Friday night, there was some sadness in his eyes. As he stood there embracing me, my face was nestled his chest and I could feel his heart racing. I knew something was wrong. He finally looked down into my eyes and said…

“Babe, I have some bad news.”

To be continued…

Part One: My date with “The Spaniard”

I have no problem in admitting I was nervous. I had butterflies. My hands shook as I texted my mom and a couple of friends of my soon-to-be location. I was on my way to a coffee date, my very first date of any kind since I was 15.

There I was, driving, hands sweating on the steering wheel, as I thought about the age difference: a forty-mumble-mumble-year-old woman about to meet a guy 10 years her junior. Ridiculous, I thought. How could he be interested in me?

We had been talking for over a month with him routinely asking if he could take me to dinner. And me, the novice, making excuses to him and to myself as to why I wasn’t available. Still questioning how he could be interested in a woman my age.

When I pointed out our age difference, he said, “It doesn’t matter to me so why should it bother you?” Touché. He added that he had no idea how old I was until I told him and thought we were around the same age. (Note to self: Unless asked, shut your damn mouth.)

On paper, he had the goods, plus he was from Spain (bonus points). Smart, educated, employed and smoking hot. But I wasn’t feeling it. No connection. No spark. No fireworks. When I think back to this date, I realize now that I was extremely nervous. So nervous that I don’t think I could have made a connection with anyone, not even William Levy.

Gratuitous William Levy photo

Mmm, William Levy… Ahem… Where were we?

As our coffee date came to an end, I remember noticing his eyes. I mean, I really noticed his eyes. I don’t have the words to describe his eyes. I wish I did, but I guess some things aren’t meant to be shared. That’s my only explanation.

As he walked me to my car, I caught him looking at me. In other words, he was checking me out. And he was smiling. That’s when the butterflies kicked it into high gear, which kick-started the stupidest conversation inside my head.

“What is he looking at? Did I sit on something? What am I doing? OK, we’re walking and we’re walking… Wait, where are we going? Oh yeah, my car, he’s walking me to my car…” 

MAPQUEST… GOOGLE… ANYONE… ANYONE… BUELLER?

At this point, I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I’ve never been in this position in my adult life. Help!

Out of nowhere, this street-smart chic’s voice pops in my head: “You’re a grown-ass woman. Just chill, girlfriend… Tranquilo (Calm).”

As we start to say good-bye, I remember that at the beginning of our date, he welcomed me with a hug and a small peck on each cheek (very European, right?) so I was expecting the same gesture.

“OK,” I say to myself. “This is it. Hug, peck, peck, and you’re on your way.”

But instead of hug, peck, peck, he went for it. He went in for the kiss, but he was greeted by my cheek. I was caught completely off guard so when I turned my cheek, it looked like a deflected kiss, as in, “Thanks, but no thanks.” 

Trivia question: Who has two thumbs and doesn’t know when a guy wants to kiss her? 

How was I supposed to know homeboy was suddenly changing the game on me? What was I thinking? Glad you asked. Here it is…

“Damn, I think he’s embarrassed."


“Damn, I haven’t been kissed in a long time.”


"Damn, I’m old.“

As I drove home, I gave myself a virtual pat on the back for getting “the first one” out of the way and was pretty sure I’d never hear from him again… until I got his text message a few minutes later.

“Just to let you know, I had a very nice time, you have a beautiful smile, would be nice to see you again. Un beso (a kiss).”

Still, I was trying to make sense of it all. Did he “turn my crank” as my aunt so eloquently put it? I told myself and my inner circle that he did not. Thinking back, I was too nervous to allow myself to enjoy this. And I saw myself as too damaged to deserve it. 

But I got over it… 

We continued talking and texting over the next few weeks with him asking to see me again. Meanwhile, I was conflicted about whether or not I was ready for another date or if I wanted to see him again.

It turns out I did so I accepted his dinner invitation. We agreed that I’d pick him up and we’d drive to dinner. He’d made the reservations.

(Note to readers: Remember, he’s from Spain, doesn’t know his away around which is why I picked him up. Not that I have to explain myself!)

He greeted me. Oh yes, he greeted me. He walked up and without hesitation, pulled me to him and kissed me with such passion that my panties almost fell off by themselves. In my head, I could only hear one thing, “Oh shit.”  

To be continued…

Booty Calls and Other Advice from Mom

My mom is a dirty, old lady. It’s true, she really is. I thought I’d tell you up front so the following will make more sense. 

You see, ever since I dipped my toe into the dating pool, my mom has been full of advice. For starters, she’d prefer I dive into the pool instead of my rather cautious approach. In her eyes, I’m acting like I’ve never seen water.  

On any given day, her comments can range from “Just have coffee with the guy” to “Will you just do him already!”

Yup, that’s my mom!

Recently after my first ever coffee date (Happy now, mom!), I reported back to my inner circle which includes my mom, my aunt and just a few others. Knowing they were anxiously waiting to hear the details, I sent the message to the place where I knew they’d all be hanging out… Facebook.

“Ok ladies, had my first coffee date tonight (the Spaniard). It was ehh... But I'm proud to have finally gotten ‘the first’ out of the way even if it was just coffee. Next! (LOL)”

The following is the conversation that ensued. Enjoy if you can keep up…

Mom: “Oh, just go out with him again, give it one more chance.”

Friend #1: “So no go huh? Too bad, at least now you know, and you got the first one out of the way.”

Friend #2: “Europeans, ewww! Send me his pic.” (After receiving the pic) “Girl, he’s f----ing fine!!! Just do it already!”

Me: “My mom thinks I should give it one more coffee date, but there was no spark, at least not for me. Yes, he’s from Spain and our conversation was almost 100% in Spanish and he’s educated and he’s lived all over the world… Sexy right? But I just wasn’t feeling it.”

Aunt: “Yay (for getting it out of the way), some of those super perfect guys make you wonder, ‘So why are you still single?’ You need to look for what turns your crank.”

Me: “Yay, I got it out of the way, right? I guess I’m realizing what I like and don’t like. So the journey continues…”

Aunt: “Today, looks don’t matter. I like a man that is willing to drink a beer and watch boxing (or MMA) with me, BBQ when the family is over and accepts each and every one of this unique group that is my family. Don’t settle, mija, you have lots of time. But don’t be blinded by looking for perfection either. I bet Prince Charming had stinky feet.  LOL!”

THOU SHALL MAKE THE BOOTY CALL FIRST

Somewhere along the way, the subject turned to sex. More specifically, booty calls. And that’s where mom (ahem) dominated the conversation.   

“Make sure YOU make the booty call. If he makes the booty call, he’ll want to stay over and expect you to make breakfast. We can’t have that.”

My reaction to mom's booty call advice.

Me: “Mom, you’re scaring me.”

Mom: “Just laying down the groundwork… laying down the rules.”

Aunt: “You are so wise.”

Still disturbed by the conversation, I took mom’s advice to Twitter.

Me: “Advice from Mom: Make sure YOU make the booty call. If he does he'll want to stay & expect u to make breakfast. We can't have that. #Help!”

@JustWithMe replied: “Make breakfast? That’s crazy talk.” 

ONLINE DATING

While my mom doesn’t discourage online dating, she says it definitely wasn’t for her.

Mom: “I gave up online dating after I realized we never got past the first meet because I didn’t sleep with them.”

[Side note: My mom is the biggest freak I know so I’m finding this somewhat hard to believe. However, she’s been in a committed relationship for almost 10 years with a wonderful man.]

Aunt: I never tried online dating. Couldn’t cough up the cash for a chance at meeting Mr. Right when I needed things like electricity (kidding)… I’m re-evaluating the whole booty call thing.”

It was at this point that I tell them that getting schooled on booty call etiquette but my mom is kind of disturbing and I may need to talk about this with my therapist to which my aunt replied…

“If it made it to the couch, it was definitely worth it.”

Enough about what my mom has said, let’s take a look at some of things she’s done. 

Like the time she took my oldest daughter (her granddaughter) shopping and ended up at a store where she purchased edible chocolate body paint. My daughter, who wasn’t more than 12 at the time, asked, “What’s that for?” To this day, she regrets asking.

Is this really all true? Sadly, it is. My therapist doesn’t believe some of these stories. I’ll have to take mom in for show and tell one of these days.

RUNNING WITH THE BULLS?

As for “The Spaniard,” I took my mother’s advice and saw him again...

And again…

And that’s all I’ve got to say about that. 

My first dating blog... And I'm not even dating

Trying to write a blog about dating is kind of hard when you haven’t actually been on a date. So I took the next logical step to learn more about dating in the 21^st Century. I turned to Al Gore’s brilliant invention, the Internet, now known as Google.

Google “dating advice” and you’ll net 13.8 million results. Apparently everyone and their mother, including mine, is an expert.  

When I was married, I was oblivious to the outside world. Aside from a few reminders from a few (very few) single friends, I had no idea people still dated. I knew people “facebooked” and “tweeted” but dating? The word wasn’t even in my vocabulary.

Fast forward 17 years and I’m now divorced. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself now? According to everyone and their mother, I’m supposed to be “dating.”

On a daily basis, the word “dating” can be heard in almost every conversation that involves yours truly.

Are you dating yet?

Why aren’t you dating?

Don’t you think it’s time to start dating?

For the love of God, will you please start dating?! (My mom can be pushy sometimes.)

I eventually ended up at one of my favorite websites, huffingtonpost.com where I read a dating article by Sophie Keller. Keller’s article suggested a few questions for women to ask while on a date as a way of getting to know him better. Keller, in addition to being a life coach, is the author of the “How Happy Is” book series.

While I appreciate Keller’s contribution and attempt to help the rest of us single suckers, I don’t think she’s asking the right questions. In my world, these are softball questions that any man (or woman, at least this woman) could easily dodge with bullshit answers and easily just tell a woman what she wants to hear.

Why, yes, I LOVE scrapbooking!

I watch Sex and the City all the time!

I love cuddling after sex!

In the spirit of full disclosure, I’ve yet to go on a single date. Not even coffee? Not even coffee. However, I’ve been hit on, dirty-danced, flirted with and introduced to several men over the last several months. And based on my conversations with these men, I’ve come to the conclusion that Keller’s questions need to be revised just a skosh.

Keller’s Question: What would you say is your biggest passion in life?

Revised Question: How many hours a week do you spend playing video games?

Keller’s Question: What would you say you are best at?

Revised Question: WHAT did you say you were best at!?!? <Grabs purse, runs out of Starbucks>

Keller’s Question: Which household chore do you enjoy doing the most?

Revised Question: Do you help your mom around the house? (Because he lives with his parents)

In her article, Keller adds: “The more that you know about each other, the closer you are both going to feel. And, without doubt, he is going to be thrilled that you made the effort to jump in to his world a little bit.”

I would love to meet a guy who doesn’t mind a woman digging into his psyche a little bit. It’s like an excavation where the goal is to find that diamond in the rough – aka Mr. Right – but ask these questions and you might just keep coming up with rocks.

I know what you’re thinking. “You haven’t even been on a date so how can you criticize the questions?”

Recently, a potential suitor suggested we get to know each other better and wanted to take me out on a date. Here’s a sample of our conversation…

Me: So what do you do for a living?

Him: You sure ask a lot of questions.

Me: So you’re unemployed...

Next!

Part Three: Refusing to settle

And so she left. My first born, my baby girl was gone. New address: Fiancé’s house.

As predicted, I headed straight for her room. I sat on her bed, surrounded by the emptiness of the space, and cried.

Minutes earlier she had confessed to me that she didn’t love him, but felt she had gone too far to turn back. She said she’d rather go through with it than have “that” discussion. She added, “I don’t want to have to deal with him.” 

It turns out he was good at manipulating her. For the first time, she told me she’d tried to break it off a number of times but that he’d “guilt trip” her and talk her out of it. He’d tease about not being able to “cut the strings.” He said much worse, but let’s just leave it at that, shall we.

That night, I wrote these words in my journal:

Why is my daughter settling? Because she learned this from me…

Then the guilt set in. And it was painful.  Then the memories came rolling in. And that was even more painful. Like an old home movie playing in my head, the memories clearly showed the many times I had settled during my marriage. How I succumbed to the manipulation, how I took the verbal abuse and how I allowed myself to be bullied. And she was a witness to it all.

Later that night, I sent her a text message.

Remember that I’ll always be here for you. Love, Mom…

She replied with a simple, “Thanks.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the one word reply set me over the edge.

I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I did my best to be productive. I made coffee, got the little one ready for school and planted myself in my home office.

By late morning, she called to say she was stopping by the house before running a few errands. I took this as a sympathy drive-by, a pity stop. I could hear her voice in my head, “OK, I’ll stop by and see mom, make her feel good.”

She stuck her head in my office. I waved her in and she took a seat. Before I could make some small talk she said…

“Mom, can I move back in?”

My immediate response was, “Yes, of course!” followed by a quick, “What happened?”

“I can’t do it,” she explained. “It only took one night. I was nauseous all night.”

She said she realized that she couldn’t settle. She refused to settle!

She said for the first time, she realized she had picked someone who was so much like her dad, it was frightening. That when it came time to go to bed, which meant lying next to him, she was shaking and she knew she had to get out.

She said she finally saw things clearly: The manipulation, the guilt trips, the condescending remarks. Now the daddy issues she’d refused to deal with were suddenly choking her, she couldn’t breathe.

Later that day, she headed back to her fiancé’s house and packed her things for the second time in less than 24 hours.

My daughter was coming home. More importantly, my daughter was refusing to settle. I have never been more proud of her.

But it also got me thinking…

How many of us have settled?

Yes, my daughter found the courage to get out, but how many of us stay? 

When all signs say get out, how many of us stay? I know I did. 

Why do we settle? 

One day my daughter will move out to be with someone who I hope treats her with respect and truly loves her. Or, she’ll move out to be on her own, independent of mom.

For now, she’s home and it’s time to heal.

Part Two: "I don't love him"

“I think I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.”

She said this as most of her belongings were already en route to her new residence: her fiance’s house. 

She had spent the last three months trying to convince me that she was ready to move in with him. As it turns out, she may have been trying to convince herself.

I’ll admit she had me fooled at times. She picked out the paint and scheduled the painters. She got estimates on new carpet and had it installed. She talked in “we” sentences.

“When we settle into the house, we’ll have you over for dinner.”

“When we get new furniture…”

“When we get a Christmas tree…”

Although she changed her relationship status to “engaged” on Facebook (doing this makes everything official, right? *snicker*), I didn’t announce it to family members. I didn’t even tell her sister.

I had always imagined that the announcement of my daughter’s engagement would be festive, like in the movies, where the announcement itself kicks off a series of celebrations, dinners and impromptu wine drinking.

At the very least, I thought it would result in a series of phone calls, text messages and, yes, Facebook updates. 

The first phone call would go to my mom: “He proposed! He went to Jared!”

None of this happened.

Three months later, the words, “I think I’m making the biggest mistake of my life,” are hanging in the air and my heart immediately sinks to my stomach. Panic is setting in, but I can’t freak out on her now and it's not the time for "I told you so." 

She found the courage to tell me. Now she needs help. She needs her mom. 

I take a deep breath and calmly say,  “Then don’t go. Don’t do it.”

“Mom, it’s too late,” she says, tears are swelling in her eyes.

“No, mija, it’s never too late. Never.”

 “I’ve gone too far to back out now,” she says. “Everything is done. My stuff is probably already there. He’s waiting for me. He’s expecting me.”

Then she said what I had already suspected: “I don’t love him.”

I knew we’d reached a pivotal moment in the conversation. It was now up to me to find the right words.

“Listen to your heart, to your gut, to your intuition. All of these things are telling you not to go. Trust what you’re feeling and listen to what you’re telling me. You just looked me in the eyes and admitted that you don’t love him and that you’re making the biggest mistake of your life. You don’t have to do this. It’s not too late. It’s never too late.”

As I pleaded my case, tears were streaming down her face as she sat there, silently listening.

“Mom, it’s too late,” she said again.

She then gathered the last of her laundry, put the dog in the backseat and left.

To be continued…