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I’m still good friends with my ex from 12 years ago, even though (or maybe because) we only see each other about twice a year. When I was 20 I thought that if he and I still knew each other at this age, we’d be married, having worked through our personality differences and volatile communication patterns. Instead, having worked through them, we’re more like brother and sister. We swap dating stories and provide career support and maintain a loving but detached relationship that requires only 1-2 hours phone time per month. When I was 21, I thought this guy was my other half. Now he’s more like an extremity. Always there, never requiring much thought, and usually (barring some massive universal shakeup) completely predictable.

Which is why I’m writing this blog. Of all the men I’ve known and dished about, G (which is actually his nickname) is the only one to threaten bodily harm to me if I ever wrote about him. “You’ll wake up with your toes missing the week after you publish it,” I believe were his actual words.

“Do you really think you’re important enough for me to bother writing about?” I asked him. “Anything juicy between us happened too long ago for me to even remember.”

G is such a drama queen. He’s prone to vast exaggeration, sudden emotional thunderstorms, and passionate pronouncements swiftly forgotten.  The above gory threat falls into the latter category. Seriously, who else in the world would think my  dating rants worthy of such retaliation? Or consideration, even?

In order for a dating column to warrant any kind of retaliation on the part of the subject, it would have to be explicit, incriminating and personally damaging. It would probably have to name the subject outright. And then, of course, the subject would have to find it.

There have been a few instances where my subjects have stumbled across columns written about them, but none have ever done anything more than send a brief email like: “Hey, saw that thing you wrote about me, how u doing?”  This is because, while I might poke fun or point out stupid behavior, I steer clear of the incriminating/damaging/outright-naming racket.  Even for those who might deserve it.

The fact that G, who hasn’t done anything to piss me off in several years and hasn’t slept with me in–hm, I think 7 or 8 years? memory fails–would think I’d publish a character-besmirching tell-all about him, speaks volumes about his own particular brand of paranoia. It also brings out the bratty side in me, which is what’s driving me to write this blog.

In the old days, maybe he’d have found it and we’d have gotten in a rip-roaring fight (I told you not to write about me!/ I don’t care, I do what I want! / You disrespectful little…little… etc etc.) Now? No way. G is the last person who’d ever Google my writing. He has zero interest. As for eavesdropping on my personal life…well, he’d probably get more of a thrill watching 2007 Women’s National Bowling League reruns.

And I know this not only because I know him (know him as well as the very toes he threatened to remove), but because I have already written about him several times–even on this very blog, within the past two months–and he’s never mentioned it. Never ever. NEVER.

G, for the record and for posterity–though not for your eyes, because you’ll never friggin’ read this–you are the world’s biggest exaggerator. You are not in the Mafia, and shouldn’t talk as though you are. I suspect you will never grow out of it, and this makes me sigh a big sigh.

You are also one of the funniest people I’ve ever met–totally a blast on road-trips, as we rediscovered last week, and great for shocking people at Hollywood parties. While you may be Skinnybones Jones, you look damn good in ripped-up blue jeans and nothing else. Oh, and even though we haven’t had sex in ages, I remember and am happy to go on record confirming that you are OUTSTANDING in the kip.

See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

People say that women “of a marriageable age” see a cute guy and immediately imagine ourselves shacked up with him, and having his babies.  I’ve even read chick lit novels that confirm it. Apparently this is “too much, too fast,” even when it’s purely in our own minds.

In that case, I have the following question: What’s the deal with men who start quizzing you about future plans (and your whereabouts last Friday night) before you’ve ever properly met them, and a half-hour into your first date, they’re already deciding where the two of you are going to live?

Jesus Crikey on a popsicle! Talk about moving too fast!

In those situations, I can’t ever figure out if it’s pure 100% meaningless blather, if they think they’re saying what the woman wants to hear, if they’re sort of kidding (but not completely, b/c men never joke about that stuff unless they kinda mean it); or if they’re just on an obsessive nutty hunt for a wife and any woman will do. It baffles me. I just sit there looking confused and trying to figure out a polite way of saying, “SHUT UP!! YOU FREAK, I DON’T KNOW YOU, WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE WE’RE ENGAGED?”

Maybe they’re trying to make me comfortable by being decisive? In that case, time for a different strategy.

But on the positive side, these hyper-activated one-sided relationship trajectories tend to burst into full flame and then wither and die within about 72 hours. Seriously. A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a guy who already was concerned whether I’d quit working to raise the kids before he and I had ever MET. We got in a tiff while trying to plan the third date: it came to light that I enjoy restaurants, and consider dining to be more of a pleasure than a chore.  He, on the other hand, might as well be eating from a feed bag for all he cares. What’s more, he told me, ALL MEN feel that way. I disagreed. In a dolorous voice, he said, “I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

Gee. You think?

Then, last Thursday, I met the mystery man from three years ago. Before I left the house, I told him I couldn’t spend too long out, because I am moving out of my apartment over the weekend. He said, “Not to sound weird, but I have a spare room, and you can stay there for a couple weeks.”

Um, yeah, that sounds weird.

We met, we recognized each other, we went to have a drink, and within a few minutes I remembered why I didn’t talk to this guy for years: HE’S ONE OF THOSE ONES.

Our conversation revolved around his work–which is poker–and my work. I hate poker, and I usually don’t like the people who play it. I told him this before I ever agreed to meet him. Nonetheless, I was treated to a lengthy monologue detailing the career highlights and comparative skill levels of a half-dozen random players I don’t give a hellshite about.

Then I treated him to a lengthy monologue about book publishing vs. magazines…and I think he may have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Then he woke up and asked me what we were doing the next night. THE FOURTH OF JULY, mind you. I said I had plans. He said, “Fine the next night. ” I said, I’m moving. He said, “No no, I’m going to help you move, we’re going to go pick up some day laborers from Home Depot, so on Saturday you’re free to share a bottle of wine with me.”

Gentlemen: This would be such sweet music, coming from someone I’d dated for a couple months. But on the FIRST DATE? It is completely and utterly insane. And presumptuous.

“I really am not sure I’ll be able to,” I said.

But he wasn’t having it. Till Saturday afternoon, when he texted me and I responded that I couldn’t make it…whereupon he texted me back huffily, telling me he was getting on a plane to Vegas to hang out with a bunch of girls I don’t know.

I guess I’ve been dumped. Good thing I didn’t take him up on the spare room offer.

Okay I have to make this quick because I’m heading right out. To the Pier, to have a drink with a guy I met once…approximately four years ago. At least I think I did. I don’t know how else his name and number would have gotten in my telephone; and he seems to have some memory of meeting me.

I know some people think Internet first dates are somewhat nervewracking because you’ve only seen the person in pictures, but let me tell you, this is much worse. I have *no idea* what the guy looks like. I do know where I met him (at an event), and I can only hope that if I gave him my phone number, it was out of interest. Sometimes I do it out of misguided politeness, or worse yet drunkenness. We shall see!!

In case you’re wondering how come I’m only going out with him now, after four years…well I blame my computer. It mysteriously died a year ago and swallowed up all my data. Distraught, I started calling every techie I could think of–including a grade school friend I hadn’t talked to in, um, 15 years. Only I got the numbers mixed up and ended up calling my once-and-future date instead. (It was an easy mistake to make: they have the same first name, I didn’t bother to list last names, and I’d never called either before.)

At first I was confused, then I was embarrassed, and then suddenly I was being asked out, sort of. “I’m moving to Hermosa soon–maybe we could meet up for a drink and figure out how we know each other,” he said.

“Sure, okay, whatever,” said I.

One year later, here we are. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this…but on the other hand, how could I not? Many times I’ve looked at my phonebook and wondered who all those random first-name-only contacts were. And now, I’m going to figure one of them out.

Must go get ready. The moment of truth draws nigh…

I was in Nicaragua all week, where apparently the women (? girls?) get married around age 15-20. Our tour guide’s sister was married at 16. For the first time. She’s been married and divorced a total of 3 times, and can’t be more than mid-40s, so for sure there’s the possibility of even more happy nuptials yet to come.

Anyway. I was just thinking about that social structure, and wondering what in the world would have happened to me if I’d been living in it. Basically I would have married the neighborhood drifter/hoodlum who I had a crush on in 10th grade, and had an interesting teenage life as the wife of a sometime drug addict and petty criminal turned automechanic.

Or maybe I would have married the hippie guy I dated at age 17, and within a couple of years my role as the responsible half of the duo would have been cemented: even then, I brought home a meagre but steady wage as he, 9 years my senior, casually bumbled around the junior college system.

Or, possibly, I would have married my first love, who I’m still in contact with to this day, and still adore and find attractive, even at the same time as his hair-trigger emotions and unwillingness to concede a point continue to drive me insane. Yeh. That’s the most likely option. We’d have great sex and vitriolic fights; I’d be the breadwinner and he’d feel bad about it; and he’d always wonder what life would be life if he’d just held out for a 5′10 brunette. (Now he doesn’t need to wonder, because he’s had about 20 of them that I know of.)

Indeed things would have been very different, and I can’t imagine they’d have been better. As I’ve progressed thru my 20s into my 30s, the range of possibilities has continued to expand, and the experiences have become more colorful, and I’ve become increasingly less willing to sacrifice a bit of it. This week being a perfect example.

It’s hard enough to have rules and restrictions at home–but having them when you’re in a foreign country, on a different schedule, with almost no telecommunications access? How could I deal with the 11PM phone call: “Yes honey, I’m back in the hotel room, no, I’m not going out again….no, I’m not having fun without you.” How could I report my every move back to the person waiting for me at home? (And don’t tell me it’s not like that. It is. Every time. I have enough married/engaged friends to know.)

When my colleagues said they were “going out, but just for a few minutes,” on the last nite, I would have taken the early car home & been snug in bed at my business-class hotel by 11PM, just like the 50 year old artist/eco-journalist from upstate New York and the other lady who came down with terrible food poisoning.

Instead, I wound up bumping into a group of youngster Americanos from Southern Cal, no less, and one of them wound up being pretty damn adorable–so much so that I forgave him for being not only career military but also very stern and that wee bit bossy…and we ended up talking, laughing, dancing till 4AM, while Nicaraguan teenagers shamelessly took advantage of my distraction and stole one after the other of my 25 cent beers. Then the car came, and all my friends and fellow adventurers were waiting for me, and the plane flight was only 10 hours away…so I left. I think I may have heard his email address through the noise and smoke, but I really don’t know for sure.

It was such fun–but still, basically an opportunity only barely explored, and as such, pretty bittersweet.

The husband-hunting teen queen contingent in Managua–you see them at bars and restaurants, dressed up, drinking, smoking cigarettes, feeling very grownup & looking like pipsqueaks–would never let an opportunity like that go to waste. They’d stay with the blonde Americano and do whatever seemed most likely to spur a marriage proposal. (Even if they didn’t speak a word of the same language, and therefore could never get the jokes.) To me this seems insane…and my lifestyle no doubt seems insane to them. I think maybe we’re both a little bit right. The question is, where’s the happy midpoint, and when you’ve gotten to it, how do you know?