Only in my dreams

I had a dream the other night that I was interested in a man.

I have no idea who this man is, but the best part of the dream was that HE WAS INTERESTED IN ME TOO.

As in RECIPROCAL INTEREST, not just unrequited love.

Which is what I seem to experience the most of these days.

I recall slowly waking up and trying to FORCE myself back into my dream, it was so nice and lovely.

Of course as things go, I wound up waking up all the way and the dream was gone.

But that feeling of “OMG, someone LIKES me” lingered.

And I felt suddenly blissfully happy and content lying in bed.

It seems odd, given that yesterday was National Singles Day, for me to be so completely enthralled with a dream of love.

There’s no doubt that I am pretty content with the single life I’m living now.

But for a bit of a reprieve, I’ll take the dream and daydream that there’s someone out there for me, anxious to meet me too.

I may be happily single, because I’m very pragmatic about dating.

But it sure would be nice to meet someone special.

Even if it’s only in my dreams.


Recently, I started watching “Crikey, It’s the Irwins” on Animal Planet and I have mixed feelings about it.

They intersperse new footage of Terri, Robert and Bindi doing their thing at Australia Zoo with relevant old footage of Steve Irwin doing his thing years ago.

It’s bittersweet, that’s for sure.

Every time I hear Steve’s voice and see him on tv – his larger than life personality, his charming Australian accent, his overflowing enthusiasm for all things wildlife – I’m reminded of how much the world needs him in it, and how very much I miss him.

It may sound strange, coming from a middle-aged administrator living in California, some 7,000+ miles from Australia Zoo.

I live in a completely different world than Steve Irwin.

But 20 years ago when my kids were newborns, there were few choices of what to watch on tv at 2 am, 3 am, or 4 am in the morning as far as quality entertainment goes.

Back then, Animal Planet ran episodes of The Crocodile Hunter late into the night and I found myself up at night with my newborns, watching the adventures of Steve Irwin.

And let me tell you, he was as good as it gets.

This was back before the days of on demand TV when you could only watch what was on the tv or what you’d recorded to video.

Yes, video.

I closely associate Steve Irwin with the infancies of my kids and to hear his voice or see him on tv transports me back to those days when I was a young exhausted mother, struggling to get my kids to sleep so that I could go back to sleep myself.

Steve was so good at entertaining me, I often waited for the episode to complete, even after my kids were asleep, so that I could see the conclusion of the episode.

That’s how good he was.

I’m thrilled of course to see Terri still doing her thing for wildlife conservation and it warms my heart to see Steve and Terri’s two kids, Bindi and Robert joining forces with their mother.

They have the same light that their father had.

So of course it’s nice to see Steve living on in the faces and the enthusiasm and passion his children have for wildlife.

But I still miss Steve.

Rainbow baby

The road to parenthood has not been an easy ride for me.

From the beginning I struggled with fertility issues.

Granted, I was 25 years old when I started trying and I had years ahead of me to be successful in my quest to have children, but the steps there were filled with fertility treatments and unfortunately, pregnancy loss.

I admire women who get pregnant and just assume everything will be okay.

After my first loss – a stillbirth at 22 weeks – I never took my pregnancy for granted again.

I stressed and worried and bothered my OBGYN in ways you can’t even begin to imagine, insisting on extra ultrasounds and additional testing to be sure that everything was okay.

No amount of reassurance could convince me otherwise.

I have been pregnant six times but only have two living children.

My first pregnancy ended in stillbirth when it was discovered that my son Douglas had a large tumor growing off the base of his spine – a sacrococcogeal teratoma.

Google it if you want to see what it looks like, but be forewarned, it’s not pretty.

It’s called a “monster-making” tumor for a reason.

Douglas was born still on September 22, 1998.

He was perfect in every way except for a giant tumor on which his little legs rested.

To add insult to injury, Douglas’ body was thrown out with the hospital laundry by accident so it took a few extra days to recover him, cremate him, and hold a memorial for him.

Not all my family was supportive.

My mother-in-law didn’t even bother to attend the memorial.

After Douglas, I lost three babies between 8 and 12 weeks.

I also lost a little girl named Ruby at 16 weeks.

She was physically perfect and genetically nothing was wrong with her chromosomes.

It’s just one of those things that happens, I was told.

Recently, another loved one’s loss has brought all these feeling bubbling to the surface again and it was with tears in my eyes that I embraced her, knowing that she’s reluctantly joined the same club I joined all those years ago when I lost Douglas.

The club for women who will never be able to sail through a pregnancy like women who haven’t experienced a loss.

Worst club in the world, if you ask me.

But we’re there for each other.

There are meet ups for pregnant women who are pregnant again after a loss.

And they call subsequent babies “rainbow” babies to signify how even after a loss, something beautiful can be created.

My love to you.

You know who you are.


I’ve been waiting for the exact right moment to write a post titled Juice, after one of my favorite songs by Lizzo.

And now I can.

Because my JUICE is back.

I’ve been struggling to write blog posts lately, when usually they just come out of me as freely as shit comes out of a baby (and about as pleasant).

But ever since I got ghosted for a second time, I’ve been struggling to relight my inner fire.

I’ve been recycling posts and using my quilt hobby as a major contribution to my posts in the last few weeks.

But not anymore because the JUICE is back and it’s flowing baby!

Just in time for Halloween and my birthday.

It may have something to do with the fact that it’s officially been almost two months since I got ghosted and I’ve finally released the latent outrage I was feeling.

Or, it could have something to do with the fact that it’s just impossible to keep me quiet for any length of time.

OR. . .

. . . maybe it has to do with the hot tub date I had last week where I managed to really knock one out of the park with a really phenomenal. . . BAT!

But baseball analogies aside, I’m feeling good and I’m having a good time writing new blog posts for unblunder.

So thanks for sticking with me.

And in the immortal words of Lizzo:

If I’m shinin’, everybody gonna shine
I was born like this, don’t even gotta try
I’m like chardonnay, get better over time
Heard you say I’m not the baddest, bitch, you lied

I am one JUICY woman!

I hate dating

Lately, I’m hating dating more than loving it. In part because of my horrific experience speed dating, but also because of crappy one-on-one dates, like my date with the guy who doubled up on his dates for the night. Ugh. It’s enough to make a girl run for the safety of spinsterhood and prolonged abstinence.

But then there have been some good dates that I’ve been on. Some dates which I thoroughly enjoyed and thought my date did too. I would have sworn I was going to see them again. But sadly that was not the case. Instead, I heard nothing further from these men after our dates. No “How are you,” no “I had a great time,” no “Let’s get together next week.”

Just silence.

And don’t think I didn’t pick up my phone once or twice, trying to will it to ring.

Clearly, these men figured out sooner than I that we were not compatible.

Now I know it’s not that I have an awful personality. Or that I’m not a nice person. So what’s the reason?

I’ve taken to assuming the only thing that’s left….

…. I have an awful body.

It’s too soft. It’s too curvy, It’s no toned enough. It’s just a bad body.

If you only knew how much I beat myself up over this.

So when my friends praise me for being so confident, I scoff inside and think “If they only knew my inner dialogue rips me to shreds.”

My BFF pointed out the other day during our hike, the only thing wrong with me is that I keep asking what’s wrong with me. And she has a point. Ultimately, there is nothing wrong with me.

But the truth is it used to be a lot easier to meet quality men. It used to be a lot easier to meet someone with whom I had chemistry.

So when I meet a decent guy with whom I feel chemistry, it sucks to get rejected.

It also sucks to blog about my “great dates” and then have them go nowhere.

But c’est la vie. Such is life.



We’ve all got them.

A long time ago, I realized that the quality of my life was dependent on the quality of my friendships.

The better the friendships, the better my life.

Sex and the City gives us an idea of how integral a woman’s friendships are to her health and happiness.

I’m fortunate to have several really good friends and several new friends who help complete my life.

If you can measure the quality of my life by the quality of my friendships then I, my friends, am WINNING!




Now, I’ve been with trimmed men, and I’ve been with untrimmed men so I feel uniquely qualified to render a verdict in the manscaping debate.

To manscape or not to manscape, that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the dense thicket of outrageous pubes or take arms against them and trim them down.

In short, the answer is….


Indeed, I am a fan of manscaping. In particular, I am a fan of the last manscape job I was lucky enough to view.

But enough about that, here’s why manscaping is great.

  • You don’t have bush in your face when you go down south.
  • It gives men that “extra optical inch.”
  • It looks clean and tidy.
  • Shorter hairs are less likely to be “flossed” with.
  • If I’m going to maintain my nethers, I think he should have to maintain his as well.
  • Less prickly.

I think women spend a lot of time on the care and maintenance of their lady business. I think the least men can do to make things pleasant for us is give it the occasional trim. Being a woman with sexting friends, I often receive images of unmanscaped men. My advice to them is always the same – you should give that a little trim. Streamline it. Gain that extra optical inch.

With the exception of The Irishman, everyone has taken my advice.

What was The Irishman’s reponse?

“I’m Irish Michelle. And Irish men do not manscape.”

Ha ha. Okay!**


*  Manscaping actually included trimming/shaving hair on the back, the chest, the brows, the beard, and the nose/ears as well as the genitals but since I find the genitals more interesting, I focused my interest on that area 🙂

**  All this being said, if you really like a man, trimmed or untrimmed, you’re going downtown and you’re gonna love it.  It’s really the person attached to the manscape that matters, not the manscape.  Le duh.

Feeling good as hell

A month has passed since I got ghosted.

Not once, but twice.

The first one got busy and just fell away.

The second one got busy and blocked me.

In the days since this happened, I’ve had time to reflect.

Time to wonder what the hell is going on and if I should really take it personally.

Do I (emphasis on the I) need a time out?

Is there something going on with ME?

Ultimately, I think ghosting says more about the ghoster than the ghostee.

It says, “I can’t face our incompatibility head on so I’m just going to be indifferent.”

That’s the NICE version of what I think it means.

Because I also think it means, “I’m self-absorbed and can’t communicate my feelings like an adult.”

The good news is that I didn’t take the ghosting personally.

Oh sure, my feelings were hurt for a hot minute, but also?

I took some time to reflect on what a bad ass bitch I really am and I’m feeling GOOD AS HELL.

Without a man.

Between my friends Michelle, Barbara and Nadine, and my sister, I’ve built quite a support structure around myself and what could have been a real setback emotionally for me has turned out to be a blip in an otherwise pleasant 2019.

Part of me blames the online dating culture for the rudeness that runs rampant on dating sites now.

It’s so easy to just drop someone and move on when you have a deck of cards on your device with people eager to meet you.

However, as I reflect on this, I’m just as easily reminded that this is also why I am feeling fine.

Because I too have a deck of cards on my device and a new love interest is only a swipe away.

Which is why I’ve deleted my profile and the Tinder app.

Maybe I’ll go back to it.

Who can say?

But for now, I’m feeling good, strong, and powerful and I don’t need a crutch to carry me through the tough times.

I can do that all by myself (with a little help from my friends) <3.

Really bad dating advice

664677f7e1ffc2716141760a51990e59Play hard to get.  Normally I’d agree with anything that starts with the word “play” because I believe in spontaneity.  But play hard to get just sounds harsh.  What will you accomplish through playing hard to get?  Some sort of delayed gratification/suffering while you go against your desires?  No thank you.  I’m spontaneous.

Wait 3 days to call her.  Oh god, I HATE this rule.  In fact, I deliberately write off a man who waits 3 days to call.  If he’s so lacking in passion/interest for me that he’ll wait 3 days, then I’ll be long gone.

Be a bit of a jerk.  Girls like bad boys.  No one likes a jerk.  And if she does, you can be sure she’s got some self-esteem problems or daddy issues and will be a handful in the future.  Do yourself a favor and behave appropriately.  You’ll thank me for it.

Attraction takes time.  No it doesn’t.  Sometimes it can build but the initial attraction is very important.  I’ve always known within 30 seconds of meeting a guy whether I’d go to bed with him or not.  I trust my instincts.  You should trust yours.

You’re trying too hard.  Making an effort is good.  If he/she can’t handle it, too bad.  Next!

You aren’t ready.  Of course you’re ready.  You’re ready whenever you start trying to meet someone.  Don’t listen to people who tell you to wait.  If you feel ready, go for it.  Get back up on that horse and win the race.

You can always change him.  No. You. Can’t.  Love him the way he is or move on.

Stay a mystery.  Mysteries make great novels and lousy people.  If you want to connect with someone, you need to be known to them.  Share. Talk.  Eff the mystery.

Let him make the first move.  This drives me crazy.  Why must the man always make the first move.  I’ve been known to stand up during dinner and kiss a man across the table because the urge struck me.  Believe me, no one EVER complained.

Always make him wait.  If you’re making him wait for you to show up for your date or for something else, you’re imposing an artificial set of rules on the relationship that might not have good results.  Best to just go with the flow and do what comes naturally.  No one likes to wait.


Glue for Idiots


I have this friend from Serbia.

Not Russia. Serbia.

There’s a difference, I learned.

She and I used to go out to clubs in San Francisco to drink and dance the night away.

One such night we went to a club in the City and when we walked in it was a sea of black – everyone wearing black wool coats in the San Francisco cold and fog.

I was wearing a red wool jacket.

I stood out like a sore thumb.

The red jacket had an interesting effect on the people there.

They started to approach me and compliment my jacket.

A few of the men even attempted to start conversations with me.

My friend, who was very selective in her choice of men, disagreed with the men I spoke to.


It’s just something I’ve learned:

Never be rude.

As the night progressed, my friend became increasingly concerned over the quality of men I drew in – to put it politely, they were not dressed well enough for her tastes.

And that’s when it happened.

She nicknamed me “Glue for Idiots.”

Now I’m not saying that this isn’t true on some levels.

I think I have a very approachable demeanor that encourages men to take their shot.

All I’m saying is that I’m not going to ignore a man because he’s wearing jeans or his watch isn’t expensive enough.

Truthfully there’s nothing much sexier than a man in comfortable jeans and a t-shirt that’s a bit on the tight side who smells like freshly cut grass and deodorant stretched to it’s limit.

If that makes me glue for idiots, so be it.