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August 13, 2005
The Further Adventures of Marathon Mom
If all you’d read about dating after divorce was my original post about Marathon Mom, you might think that getting back into the dating scene is as easy as cleaning your house, putting on a slinky dress and dancing off into the moonlight.
If Marathon Mom’s dating experiences over the last year are any indication, you’d be wrong.
Marathon Mom’s adventures will make any married woman think twice about kicking up a fuss next time you see your beloved clipping his toenails in the living room with no trashcan in sight. As the parings fly through the air, remind yourself that you vowed to take him for better or for worse, and try to concentrate on his good points. I can promise that after you hear about Marathon Mom’s dates, you’ll realize that there are many things worse than watching nail clippings fly through the air with wild abandon.
For a while Marathon Mom was infatuated with Mr. Exotic. He was attractive to her mainly because of his delightful British accent, which was so mesmerizing that it blinded Marathon Mom to his faults; namely his self-centeredness.
Mr. Exotic’s work took him to far-off places, and on their first date she heard all about his travels. At the end of the night, he promised to call her, but weeks went by before she heard from him again. She knew he hadn’t been out of the country all that time; their children attended the same school and she’d seen him in the carpool line several times.
She called me up to ask why he wasn’t calling her.
“I don’t have any idea,” I said. “I’ve never met the guy. But unless he has a family member who’s very ill, I don’t think it’s looking so good for you.”
Marathon Mom did not like hearing that, and fortunately she didn’t have to mope around much longer because he called several days later.
After he asked her out, she couldn’t help asking, “So, what have you been up to for the past month? I thought you said you were going to call.”
“Bloody hell,” he replied brusquely. “It slipped my mind. I had business in Canada and then I flew to London. But that’s all in the past. Is seven on Friday good for you?”
“Sure,” she said hesitantly.
And so a pattern was established. They’d have a date, after which he would promise to call her from Brussels, or Baghdad, or Mount Everest, but he never did. She’d see him in the carpool line, and sometimes they’d chat a moment, and sometimes they wouldn’t, but the phone wouldn’t ring until he had a date planned.
Being the smart woman that she is, Marathon Mom didn’t stay at home pining away for him, and continued to date multitudes of other eligible men. But in the back of her mind, the romantic accent tugged at her. When she was out with the girls, we spent lots of time listening to her moan about his apparent unwillingness or inability to talk on the phone for the purpose of holding a pleasureable conversation, not merely to make an appointment for a future date.
“Blimey, don’t get your knickers in a wad, dearie,” I told her. “He’s not worth it.”
“Don’t make fun of his accent,” she said defiantly, ignoring the main point of my message.
“You’re getting all barmy over someone who’s not barmy over you,” I continued. “Lose him.”
“You sound like a fake English goofball,”she replied.
When her birthday came and went, he didn’t call.
When she had bronchitis, he didn’t call.
When she left town to run a marathon, he didn’t call.
So she was quite surprised to answer the phone one day and hear Mr. Exotic proclaim, “I am abso-fuckin-lutely in love!”
“He’s come to his senses!” Marathon Mom thought, but did not say. Instead she said, “Really?”
“Really! I am in Vermont, on my way home. You may have a bit of difficulty hearing me, because of all the wind,” he said loudly.
“It does sound very noisy,” Marathon Mom commented. “What were you doing in Vermont?”
“I was picking up my love! She’s gorgeous! She’s beautiful! She’s tan as a toasty crumpet! I’ve got her top off!” he gushed.
Marathon Mom was confused and disgusted. “How did you find a love in Vermont?” was all she could think to ask.
“It was quite simple,” Mr. Exotic said exuberantly. “I got on eBay. This Aston Martin is in perfect condition! I flew up here to pick her up! I can’t wait to take you for a ride!”
It was at this point that Marathon Mom realized she’d already been taken for a ride, and she gently hung up the phone.
After Mr. Exotic, Marathon Mom thought she’d try dating someone who was less comfortable being single. Following the fine example set by Cher, Demi and Madonna, Marathon Mom next went out with a man ten years her junior. He had never been married and was desperate to settle down.
By now, Marathon Mom knew that she’d have to invite him inside when he came to pick her up, but she was unsure as to how she should deal with the certain contrast between her house and his. She imagined his home as a sleek bachelor pad, decorated in muted tones and filled with clean, modern furniture. Although her children would be with her ex that night, she didn’t want Mr. Generation Y to freak out when he came from his soothing environs and saw her house filled with legoes, Disney videos and other brightly colored plastic toys.
So she called me with a dilemma: should she hide as many toys as she could, comb through the rug for stray legoes, and pretend the kids’ accoutrements did not regularly stay in the den, so that he could get to know her without being sidetracked by the playthings? Or should she lay it all out on the table (which, in reality, meant leave it all out on the table) and demand that he appreciate her, Pokemon cards and all?
“My vote is that you remove all toys larger than two feet in diameter from the living areas, but otherwise present yourself in a truthful manner,” I decreed. “The plastic Barbie picnic table has to go, but the videos and legoes can stay.”
“That sounds good,” she agreed. “That pink table is awful anyway. I need to donate it the Salvation Army.”
As it happened, the question was moot because her ex was late picking up the kids and she was late showering. She barely had time to get herself ready, much less worry about the house.
She and Mr. Generation Y had dinner and dessert, and he suggested that they stop by his place and have a drink before he took her home. She agreed, excited to see how the bachelor of the new millennium lives.
“It turns out,” she told me in our debriefing the next day, “bachelors today live just like they did when they were in college. Mr. Generation Y didn’t have a stick of furniture to his name. His bed was a mattress on the floor like he lives in a fraternity house, for God’s sake. I can’t believe I was worried about a few legoes. Now I’m thinking that instead of donating the pink plastic Barbie picnic table to charity, I should give it to him to put in his kitchen. He doesn’t need a wife; he needs his mother.”
Marathon Mom sighed. “This dating crap sucks. Yesterday my neighbor offered to set me up with this guy who’s about my age and he’s an American– no fancy accent. She told me all about how hot he was. I asked a few questions and found out he’s been divorced three times, he lives with his parents, he pretends to run a lawn business but really he hangs out at the country club playing golf and drinking beer all the time, and he’s had two DUI’s. I’m lonely, but I’m not that lonely. Is she crazy?”
“She doesn’t sound like a friend,” I remarked. “You’ll find the right guy,” I added, trying to hide the doubt in my voice.
“I’m not sure it’s worth the search,” she said with an air of resignation. She left to go pick up her kids.
That night, I made Pork Chops with Soy Marinade served over Rice with Asian Salad. Knowing my spouse and the results the pork would have on him, I put two Mylanta Gas tablets discreetly by Bill’s plate so he could prevent unpleasant odors later in the evening. Bill and the boys ate all their dinner, but when the dishes were cleared, the tablets remained.
Before we went to bed, I put the two pills on Bill’s bedside table, along with a glass of water. We took turns tucking in and kissing the boys. By the time I got in bed, Bill was snoring. I took off his glasses and laid them on his dresser and turned out his lamp. I saw that the tablets remained untouched, although I did not need visual confirmation of this fact, as the room was starting to fill with a fetid odor.
I started to gag, and my first instinct was to smack Bill upside the head and tell him to quit fumigating the room and take his medicine. As I raised my hand for the attack, I thought of Marathon Mom and her adventures, and something held me back.
I looked at Bill for a moment, holding my breath, and thought of all the things I love about him, like the way he makes me coffee in the morning, and always tells me I look hot when we are getting dressed to go on a date.
Then I went into the bathroom, got the Crisp Linen Scent Lysol, sprayed him thoroughly, and went to sleep.
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August 13th, 2005 at 6:55 pm, liz Says:
Thank you for the reality check. I love my husband alot, but he hasn’t been…um…responsive to me in a long, long while and I’ve been ready to kick him - hard - where he would remember that I’m needy.
But you’ve made me have second thoughts about that.
August 13th, 2005 at 7:23 pm, Bama Mom Says:
So the Crisp Linen Scent Lysol works the best? And I thought the married man I am living with was the king of polluting the entire house just off a well prepared, with lots of love, meal. Your story really sets the record straight about the dating scene. I haven’t had to worry about that since 1989, thank goodness.
August 15th, 2005 at 6:24 am, just curious Says:
What happened to the “nice straight guy” she went on her first date with in your original MM blog? He must have gotten lost in that sea of “multitudes of other eligible men”. He sounded nice.
August 15th, 2005 at 6:40 am, Mr. Currently in the Picture Says:
Foreign, domestic, exotic…….hmmm Hope she got all of that out of her 26.2 mile system!
August 15th, 2005 at 10:44 am, halloweenlover Says:
Ha ha ha! Where do these guys come from?
I love the story about poor Bill. I will remember this when I am ready to throw the laundry basket at my husband.
August 16th, 2005 at 6:24 am, Running2Ks Says:
I prefer the apple scented lysol myself. You had me ROFL with these dating tales of woe. My husband and I will be celebrating 11 years of matrimony this week. I think I shall have to remember these