(February 8, 2008- May 22, 2009)
Sexy, Single, and…Celibate?, 435 entries old, posted its final entry on May 22, 2009 following complications from blog drama.
Sexy, Single, and Celibate? chronicled SingleGirl’s relationships and breakups, as well as a variety of adventures in dating. In her time writing, SingleGirl lost two internal organs, gained three tattoos, and drank her weight many times over in French martinis, frozen margaritas, and champagne. Most importantly, she shared her survival and success following her divorce and revealed that, in her heart and in her head, she believes in true love.
Her blogging life was enriched by the therapy and community that was offered her. She couldn’t imagine what life was like before this blog and knows that life after will not be the same. In the end, she discovered that she had written so much, described so many feelings, that she simply had no words left. In her last breath, she uttered, Thank you.
She is survived by her parents (who would keel over if they ever read this blog), BigSis, Mr. L.A., CoolNeighbors, Shep, MacSly, Candyman, her pug, and a large community of friends and bloggers.
When it was time to say goodbye, I just wanted to say so much. Explain myself for all the friendship and beauty that I have experienced with you. I tried to find so many words, and I even cried. But the only word that would come out was... love. ~A.F
It is close to 10 pm.
I am exiting the Naked Coug following a brief visit with Candyman.
The visit is brief because the crowd is off. It leans toward an international crowd. This doesn't bother me. What bothers me is the lack of regulars. Few familiar faces.
So after a barely existent bar tab and a peck on the lips, I desert my bar stool and head to the front door.
I hesitate for a moment before the revolving door.
I spot a busboy I know. Know in the sense that I know his face and he knows me as a regular. I hesitate, and I think of asking if he will walk me to my car.
Instead, I breeze through the door and it empties me outside.
I descend the stairs and follow the sidewalk that leads me closest to my car. I am about half way across the parking lot when I sense a presence.
Someone is walking just behind me on the adjacent raised sidewalk.
He is following me.
I quicken my pace.
When my sidewalk comes even with his sidewalk, he quickens his pace.
Car keys already in hand, I also reach for my cell phone where Candyman's number is stored.
The figure begins shouting at me. A man's voice, deep, brusque, in an accent I can't place. Hey, you. Hey, stop. I just want to talk to you. I want to take you out sometime. Hey, stop.
He has caught up to me.
I calculate the risk, practically lunge for the door, and shut and lock it as fast as I possibly can.
He remains on the outside.
He begins to hit the driver's side door, knocking first with his knuckle and then pounding with the thick palm of his hand.
I hit reverse without looking and tear out of the parking lot.
As I reach the first stop light on my way home, what has just happened starts to settle in.
Did that really just happen? runs over and over again in my head.
Then logical thoughts form.
I am driving home. Straight home. Just a few rural blocks away.
If he has gotten in his car to follow me, I will be leading him straight home.
I am scared.
I pull into the well lit, well known shopping center nearby and wait. I wait until I have stopped trembling. I wait until my heart has stopped racing.
I text Candyman. I explain what has happened, still barely believing that I am in my own neighborhood, at my local bar.
Candyman offers instant comfort. Asks if I want to return and point the main out. Assures me that I will never walk solo through the parking lot again.
I wait a long while then take a very long route to travel those few rural blocks home.
The next day Candyman confirms what the man looked like, what he was wearing. He knows exactly who he is and promises that he has been asked to never again return to the Naked Coug. He says, We've had problems with him before. I'm sorry you had to be the reason we finally banned him.
And I haven't seen him at the Naked Coug since.
This happened months ago when I was on my Lenten blogging break. Writing this now, I feel my heart rise to my throat a bit. Feel the pressure in my veins pump a bit faster.
It still scares me.
Nights at the Naked Coug are spent surrounded by friends. A community of regulars. One lurker steals the comfort from me. And not just for one night, for the feeling of fear returns in the darkened parking lot. My self assurance, my belief in my ability to take care of myself is stolen.
I feel threatened.
I feel threatened now.
I would say it is in an entirely different way, but it is not altogether different. I feel threatened. Worried. Pit in my stomach. Tear ducts on alert.
Last month I had blog drama. When the safety of my blog community was disrupted not by a stranger who is a friend, but by someone I know. A coworker. Someone I know, but whose identity is not known to me.
I pulled on my bitchy britches and stated my case. I eventually caved to the feeling of community. I may not understand the reasons to remain anonymous to me, but I understand reasons for wanting to read.
To know someone else is just as much, if not more, sillier, sluttier, sadder, it feels safe.
I don't get it. They read this blog, they know my heart. Why hide?
I determined to share my sandbox, to play nice, to give thanks.
And then Tuesday night, I received this comment in response to the post of a month ago:
Just to set the record straight, you wrote "There are 3 women I work with who know of and/or read this blog." Actually, there are many more people in your organization, male and female, who know about your blog and occasionally discuss. Thank you for the great entertainment.
Why?
Why set the record straight in this way? I need to know that the ranks of the lurkers have grown? That my heart and soul are fodder to consume but not to communicate with?
This is creepy. Stalker-like. Threatening.
My heart is racing. I feel threatened.
I sit in front of my boss and ask earnestly, Do I have any professional reason to fear for my blog? Are there any consequences that even in my carefulness, I have not considered?
She says no.
But she agrees. This persistent anonymous commenting and behavior is creepy, stalker-like and threatening.
She fears for me.
I ask bloggers I trust not just for advice, but for solutions. The only solution seems to be one that I can't come to terms with. To password protect the blog. To lose my community. People I care about deeply, who I don't even know in real life.
I am walking along through a dimly lit parking lot.
I feel a presence lurking. I don't know who they are, but they are following me.
If I retreat back to the bar to my community of regulars, will the routine protect me?
Or do I hurry to shut and lock the door and escape?
She is walking at a hurried clip through the parking lot.
With a worried look on her face.
Dog leash in hand.
No dog connected to the end of the leash.
I have so been there. It happens. In the morning haze you hook the leash to the wrong part of the collar and in one strong pull, the pug is free at last, thank god almighty, free at last.
One day an open door was his invitation to hit the ground running. Down the stairs, down the stairs, down the stairs. Into the parking lot. If he could talk, he would have been shouting, Let my people go!
So, I know in the instant what the hurried clip, worried look and leash not being put to use mean. Her dog is running free. Running free by a fairly busy road during the morning rush hour.
Knowing how dogs like to run in pack, the pug and I follow her direction. The direction of barking.
We see Haley, the gorgeous black lab, first. Trotting, head high, enjoying these moments. Running without intention, just running. Savoring the attention. This is far from a regular morning walk.
Haley comes to greet the pug. I stoop down to say hi, but when I reach for her leash, she takes off again.
In this moment, I recognize the source of the barking.
A woman is cradling her daschund like a child. Her child is barking his head off.
Let's get one thing straight:
We all know that weiner dog are yappy bitch dogs.
It's a universal truth. Weiner dogs are yappy bitch dogs.
Weiner Mom shakes her head in my direction and, thinking she has found a sympathetic ear, whines I just don't understand how people let this happen. Why they let their big dogs off leash like this.
I retort, It happens.
Well, it's never happened to me, she snaps.
It's happened to me. I've been there. It happens, and I turn my attention back to Haley.
Haley's owner has now captured the free animal. Leash is back on, and they are headed home.
The worried look shows little relief. Haley's mom is close to tears.
I try to be helpful, This is a really rough way to start your morning.
She responds, Yeah, especially when you are 7 1/2 months pregnant. She gestures to the growing belly that kept her at a clipped pace rather than a full run.
I hope the rest of the day gets better, I say.
She manages a smile and is on her way.
It is only as she is walking away that I realize what the more helpful thing to say might have been.
We all know that weiner dog are yappy bitch dogs.
What am I doing here if you're not with me? What have I got to live for, if it's just my own dream? Take it back to the beginning, back to the start. When gravity's pulling, you're still holding my heart. You come crashing down. Crashing down. ~Mat Kearney
Mat Kearney's Nothing Left To Lose. James Blunt's Back to Bedlam. Guster's Ganging Up On The Sun.
They were all by the bedside in the basement room that I lived in for months after I left my husband.
It was a really comfortable room in a really lovely home owned by a truly beautiful friend. I don't think I would have known the difference if I had been sleeping on the floor in a shack.
Because in those days, in those months, I moved through life in slow motion. There was no urgency, no rush for anything. Because it all had come crashing down, and I was struggling to move under the weight on it.
I was numb.
I got through the day with the help of pills. I feel asleep with the help of pills. With pills, and with Guster and Mat and James, who would all play music to me softly from the bedside CD player as I drifted off. I don't know why it was those 3 CDs. Why only those 3. But they were all by the bedside in that basement room.
Tonight, CoolNeighborGirl and I left work and headed to Old Ebbitt for drinks, dinner, and drinks. Then walked ourselves over to Constitution Hall to see Keane (courtesy of SmartGirl's generous ticket donation program).
Mat Kearney played before Keane. He played new songs. And he played some of those same songs that I drifted off to years ago.
The bass vibrated my internal organs. I felt the music from the inside out. A flush spread over me.
I thought back on those nights, those months, that basement room.
It all reminded me of one thing.
I am alive.
Mr. L.A. came to town this weekend.
Not only did I not sleep with him, I did not see him.
He is out on a summer tour with the band of rock stars he makes a living babysitting. Saturday, they hit a local festival.
I'd had it on my calendar for months.
If he'd been in town over night, rather than rolling in and out on a tour bus in a day, I might have seen him. If it had been a night show, with the afternoon free for visiting, I might have seen him. If it had been a beautiful day, one that was nice enough to stand outside and watch some rock bands, I might have seen him.
But Saturday wasn't a beautiful day. It threatened rain all day long.
So Saturday found me on Rahree's porch with CoolNeighborGirl and two bottles of champagne. Then CoolNeighborGirl and I headed over for a frozen margarita or two at our favorite beach shack. Then we headed up to Spider Monkey's for some more beer for her, bubbly for me.
I thought of Mr. L.A. while I sipped champagne.
I thought of him and texted, Um, weird. Your rock band's single is playing at the bar.
He writes back almost instantly, Um, weird. Rock band's production manager slips on wet ramp and injures left foot and right ankle.
Ouch.
He has a fractured left foot, a fractured right ankle.
I wish I was there. I wish I could make it better. Be there while he hurts. I wish I could distract him from the pain, you know, in a purely platonic way.
I feel badly. I shouldn't, I know. It's not like it's my fault.
Oh, but wait.
Following Mr. L.A. logic, it is entirely my fault. I ask him to explain, for the record, how his injuries are indeed my fault. He offers the following:
Had you come to see me we would have been doing one of two things at the time my accident occurred:
We would have either been having filthy sex somewhere in or around RFK stadium...
Or I would have been somewhere in or around RFK stadium trying to convince you to have filthy sex.
Either way I would not have been walking off stage in the rain on a wet ramp.
Am I wrong?
Even when I try to behave, it's all my fault.
Some people claim that there's a woman to blame, but I know, it's my own damn fault. ~Jimmy Buffett
