Masturbation is underrated?

I mean, where's the greeting card industry on this?

Stop searching for that one true love...(inside flap a foiled mirror).

OR

Your birthday/Our anniversary...go get yourself something REALLY special.

OR

This is the only kind of love...that means never having to say you're sorry.

Meanwhile, KP is working on that list. We are dealing with a dearth situation, but nonetheless, we've got our standards. To wit:

If he employs the pinky finger of his left hand in service of bathroom hygiene--NO.

He must make you laugh.

He must find you funny.

He must be able to flirt; if you catch his eye and put a finger to your hip he must without hesitation shoot a look that tells you he wants to slide right up your skirt.

By the time we got to successful, driven, ambitious and playful, my eyes glazed over. She is young, perhaps there is still time. This is not for me.

I just have no desire to be in a relationship. It's not like I type that with a kind of I'm-hating-the-world fury. It's just, the thought of taking on another person, their quirks, their needs...ugh. I am totally enjoying being on my own. Because, perhaps even worse than them themselves, is the thought of their expectations. In a reverse kind of karma, somehow I feel I've grafted the ex-husband's attitutde toward our marriage onto my outlook, namely, I just can't be bothered. Pick you up from work? MAKE DINNER? Are you on crack?

Is it that I took on all the responsibility of our marriage? And while, sure, some of that was his fault, like his inability to pay a fucking bill on time left me the bill-paying, etc etc, much of it was mine. I totally ceded control and power, and then picked up the mantle of blame with a fervor. If that's not emulating my mother the martyr, I don't know what is.

Yesterday I went to the garage to change the oil on the car. OK, this involved a trip to the dealer's to get the proper filter, then several stops to find an actual oil change place that would do my car. Then there was the one that, despite it's prominently featured "rapid oil change" sign, (big red letters across the top of the garage), who told me they did not do oil changes. OK, all that aside, I get the oil changed. they have to do it twice, the oil was so dirty, and now I have to go back after just a thousand miles, because the oil was so dirty. This is one of those things I was "letting" Geoff handle. Wow did it scratch an itch to realize again what a buffoon he is, but it also gave me this great feeling of accomplishment. Being in control. Knowing what needs to be done and knowing that I can do it.

And that's happening, and working, for me on all kinds of levels.

I don't really know how to share, though I know it takes two people to do it. I just want to get back my own life first. But I've never really felt quite this, OK?, with being on my own. It's not just that it's OK, it's that, it's exactly what I'm capable of. I guess the nagging bit is that I don't see and end to it, and being the good OC that I am, I envision a sexless, solo forever after. And while on the one hand I feel I should not be OK with that, the idea of it doesn't really bother me all that much.

I realized, in talking with KP and in reviewing my own dismal luck, I just don't really read the signs. Not when I don't want to see them anyway.

Saftey first!

DeathCon III began, like all good Gulf adventures, at the mall. We needed provisions for the coming foray into the blazing desert.

Pocari Sweat.
Pringles.
Dark chocolate.
Condoms.

What?

Oh yes, condoms. Those weren't for the desert trip, rather, my coming foray into the jungle. But I had to strike when the opportunity presented itself. You see, while you can buy condoms here, I still have the little problem of being a married woman whose husband lives far far away. And dating's illegal.

Ever the optimist, I asked Eric to make my purchase.

"You're a guy!"

"But I'm married, too."

"But you don't live here!"

Still it was all I could do to get him up to the counter and then slink away.

Thinking back on it now, it's still a sign of the wrong-mindedness of my approach. I'm never going to meet a Boy Scout if I'm the one who's always prepared. Unable to reject the idea entirely, I've prepared a list.

1. Run screaming if he would be able to move into your house from his car, even if it is his own car.

2. When he takes you out on a date, particularly a big one like your birthday, go straight home if the cash machine fails him.

3. He can talk, think and act dirty. Jungle sounds should not be part of this repertoire.

4. Dump him if he won't take you to a friend's wedding.

5. When baggage comes out it's because he's surprising you with a fabulous holiday.

6. Pay attention to those alarm bells. I could have saved years if only I'd heeded the four-alarm siren that went off when Jonathan accused me of being bourgeois because I wanted him to remove the fast food wrappers he'd left in my car.

7. Be very suspicious of uncharacteristic behavior.

8. Listen. Men will tell you exactly what they want. They will not be convinced otherwise.

9. Let him convince you.

10. Sure, he'd cross the burning desert. But would he take out the garbage?

Post Script: There was no coming on either foray. God saw fit to send me off to the jungles of Borneo with a group that comprised, including our tour guide, six women. Those suckers are still in the travel kit. Ready for Thailand.