Are You A “We” Guy Or An “I” Guy?

Posted on July 16, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I’ve just had this big revelation.  I mean huge.  We’re talking the kind of monumental epiphany that could go down in the history books as life-altering, glacier-moving, cosmos-shifting  BIG.

Ready?

Dating is hard.  Especially when you’re old.

I know my friends will yell at me now for labelling myself as “old” and I don’t feel old and I think I look okay (for an old broad) and I sure as heck don’t act old but the bottom line is I’m over 50 and I’m pretty sure we over 50 chicks weren’t exactly designed to be dating.  I’m not quite ready for grandchildren yet (hell, my one and only son is only 19) but oh, how I would love to be contentedly partnered at this stage of my life.

But dating is hard.  And finding that one special guy with whom to contentedly partner is a big, fat challenge.  Because with old age comes a certain modicum of wisdom, usually born of heart-wrenching experience and then some.  And my heart has been wrenched too many times.

I think when we’re young (like say, back in our 40s), we don’t really know what we want.  So we allow chemistry to rule and libidos to lead.  I’ll admit that even now my libido often lobbies for front rank but I’ve now established a few other non-negotiables that I try to check in with regularly.

–          Emotional intimacy.  I need to know that we can talk.  About everything/anything. I need to see your heart and show mine freely with an absence of fear.

–          Connectedness.  No matter where we are or what we’re doing I need to know that I still figure prominently in your life.  A quick phone call, a few texts, the odd email – I need to stay connected.

–          Emotional maturity.  Yes I am a free spirit and yes I’m a bit of a gypsy and yes I could pack up and move every year and yes I’d be happy vagabonding the world but … I am a grownup.  I pay my bills on time, keep my home reasonably clean, try not to speed too often and live within my means.  I am responsible.  Enough.

–          Spark.  It has to be there or all the “on paper” qualities don’t add up to a hill of baked beans.

–          Intellectual compatibility.  You need to be able to teach me some stuff.  Stuff I actually want to learn.  And I you. The role of full-time teacher doesn’t appeal to me at all, nor does that of full-time student.  And I don’t want to be your mama.  I already have a kid, thank you very much.

I know – none of these is big news.  It’s probably pretty much stuff we all want, when we stop to think about it.

The BIG one is this – my perfect guy has to be a “We” guy.  Not an “I” guy.

And I’ll tell you, the older you get, the more you realize that the “We” guys are all taken, because as it turns out they want to be contentedly partnered (and thus part of a “We”) and so are.  Done deal.

It’s the “I” guys who are still on the market.  My guess is because most “I” guys either A) don’t want to compromise, evolve or commit to a “We” relationship or B) they just don’t know how.  They haven’t learned the tools, they haven’t  had  enough practice and now all they feel comfortable with is tending to the “I”.  Factoring in another “I” and therefore creating a “We” is foreign territory, uncomfortable and terrifying.  Not to mention work.  You never have to work on being an “I” because guess what – you already are.  Being a “We” takes work.  Conscious effort.  Desire.  And then more work.

So what exactly differentiates a “We” guy from an “I” guy?

A “We” guy has your back.  Your emotional back.  He pays attention to the signals, is available when you need to talk, not only offers to listen but really listens and then offers sensitive, supportive advice.  It’s even okay if having your back is a tad inconvenient for him.  Your back is important to him and he shows it.

An “I” guy has your back (or so he thinks).  But his idea of having your back is being there to chop down a tree or two, put gas in your lawn mower or fix your computer.  As long as he can be manly, show off a bit and hopefully operate a power tool or two, he’s definitely got your back, baby.

A “We” guy understands that you are an emotional girl and sometimes just need to cry.  He acknowledges that it doesn’t always make sense.  Maybe it’s just a buildup of saltwater?  Maybe you’re a certifiable nut?  He doesn’t care.  He holds you, offers tissues, tells you you’re beautiful even with mascara streaming down your cheeks and just lets you cry.

An “I” guy freaks out.  He assumes it’s all about him (because everything is), goes on the defensive, reminds you that he did nothing wrong and turns away when you blow your nose because he can’t stand the thought of snot escaping from your chapped nostrils.

A “We” guy acknowledges that the sum of the relationship’s parts is more important than individual desires.  The goal is to be together.  To be contentedly partnered.  To have each other’s backs for all time.  From this he extrapolates that compromise is always required.  So nothing – ever – is cast in stone.  Everything is up for discussion and negotiable (except the non-negotiables, of course) because his eye is always on the prize.  And the prize is partnership.

An “I” guy wants what he wants when he wants it, how he wants it, where he wants it, and if you can support all his wants and then somehow fit your ass into his scenario, he’s okay with having you around.  But if you question his wants, if you question how his wants and yours might ultimately mesh, if you question the fact that his wants always take precedence over yours, the “I” guy will run for the hills.  And then blame you for chasing him away and/or the demise of the relationship.  Because hell, girl, you were too needy!

The “We” guy stays connected.  Because you are the most important person in his life and he wants you to know it.  He genuinely cares about your day, your work, your passions, your life.  And so he checks in regularly from wherever he is in the world.  He feeds your partnership with words and questions and caring and presence.  He is present in your relationship even when he is a million miles away.

An “I” guy is busy.  Busy doing his thing, his work, his hobbies, his life.  So sometimes (too many times) he forgets to check in.  Mostly because when he isn’t with you, guess what?  He isn’t with you.  And you are not with him.  Don’t worry, he’ll get back to you when he needs another fix of you, but he is a lone wolf, this “I” guy.  He runs in a pack of one.  And when he catches any kind of scent that gets his tail a-wagging, you no longer exist.  Until he’s back in his lair, cold and lonely. Then he will connect with you.  Because when his solo-adventure is over, then he needs you.  He needs you to fulfill his needs.

And finally, the “We” guy will watch a chick-flick with you and he won’t roll his eyes, complain or martyr himself.  He will simply do it quietly and  happily because it makes you happy.  Period.

The “I” guy will … oh fuck, I’m pretty sure you already know exactly what the “I” guy does.  I don’t need to remind you.

So there it is my friends … and here am I.  Dating, hoping, sometimes praying and always believing that there is one more amazing “We” guy out there somewhere, also dating, hoping, sometimes praying and believing.

The good news is I now know.  And I’ve added one more thing to my list.  I need a “We” guy.

And ya know what?

It’s  a non-negotiable.

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The Importance of Feeling Important

Posted on July 12, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Imagine an invisible sign around every person’s neck that says ‘Make me feel important’. 

On those very simple yet eloquent words (or something close) a multi-million dollar company was forged.  And I reckon several hundred pink Cadillacs awarded.  Because as most of us know, those words sprang from the (no doubt) fuchsia lips of Mary Kay Ash, the founder of Mary Kay Cosmetics.

It’s a pretty fundamental yet brilliant business practice, no?  If all your customers feel important, they will like you.  They will like buying from you.  They will feel good about giving you their money and they will always come back for more.  Because we all want to feel important.  We want to feel appreciated.  We want to be seen.

I’m pretty sure I figured this one out at an early age.  I remember seeing a sign in a clothing store, tucked beside the cash register, obviously meant for the employees – The customer is the reason for your work, not an interruption to it.

Ya think?

I did well working retail and I did well as a cocktail waitress because I tried to make everyone feel special.  This is fairly easily accomplished with a ready smile, attentive eyes and questions.  Yes.  Questions.  If you ask someone a question beyond “How are you today?” you will make them feel important, guaranteed.  If you remember their name, what they drink, what they bought last time and their kids’ names, even more so.

When I was on the road with my band and spending a lot of time in hotels, I paid particular attention to busboys, cleaning staff, the night clerk and bellhops.  The hotel manager already knew he was important and didn’t require validation from me.  But much of his staff?  Usually overlooked or ignored completely by paying guests and musicians alike.  But not by me.  Because their smiles at being acknowledged and seen was typically a bigger reward than the few bucks I made singing songs.  It wasn’t about business.  It was about making someone feel good.  And if you can do it daily with just the tiniest amount of effort, why wouldn’t you?

Well, this is a question I might like to ask a few of my ex-beaus.  Because when you think about it, the exact same philosophy applies to relationships.  Only maybe times a THOUSAND!  Because if you’re not making your lover feel special, if you don’t feel that your partner is worth the effort, if sticking that damn sign onto their forehead (the one that says make me feel important) and then acting on it every day isn’t high on your list of priorities, why the fuck are you in a relationship?

Take D, the guy who didn’t drink.  Well heck, I don’t drink either.  Juice that is.  I rarely drink juice.  But during the two years we were together, my fridge was constantly stocked with juice.  A variety of juices.  Because apart from water, that’s all he drank.  I got juiced up on a weekly basis.

His place however, was always decidedly lacking in wine.  If I wanted to drink wine, I brought it.  So one day I said to him “Wassup with that, honey?  I always have juice for you.  How come you never have wine for me?”  “Um … I dunno,” he replied poetically.  “Good point.”  But he still never bought any wine.

Then there was J, my long-distance fling.  Early in our relationship we discovered that I had free long distance and he did not.  So I always called him.  Always.  I didn’t mind, honest, but as a woman, you know that blissful feeling you get when your guy just picks up the phone and calls and surprises you because he misses you or wants to hear your voice or wants to share his day or whatever?  No, neither did I because J never called.

B was a bit more distracted.  Literally.  The last time we had lunch out we walked the three blocks home, during which time I tried to tell him a story which obviously held some import to me.  I say tried because during those three blocks B stopped to admire a trailer for sale, a classic car and somebody’s new roof.  Each time he apologized for interrupting my story, but I’m going to tell you right here he did not make me feel important.  He made me feel boring and redundant and then he wonders why we broke up?  This honestly ain’t rocket science.

If you’re paying attention – to your own relationship and others – you will most likely readily witness this slippery slope.  The relationship begins.  The man talks ad nauseum about work or his hobbies or Nascar or past glories.  His new lovah smiles and nods appreciatively, fully engrossed in the (boring) minutiae he is spewing.  Because she is (newly) in love.  Fast forward a few months and the exact same (boring) minutiae will elicit rolling eyes or a stifled yawn.  Because she’s got him, damnit, and she no longer feels the need to make him feel important.   I just witnessed this exact phenomenon between two young lovers.  The problem is he witnessed it too, and I fear that relationship is not long for this world.

And, yes, I do understand.  It goes both way. This is definitely not an exclusively male dilemma.

What’s wrong with us, people?  Why is it so damn difficult for us to make the most important person in our life feel special?  If Mary Kay could do it for a million potential customers, why can’t we do it for just one?  And why can’t we do it every day?  What do we need … a checklist?

Okay.

  1. When your lover talks, listen.  Then acknowledge.  Ask questions, make eye contact, take a stab at undivided attention.
  2. If your lover drinks beer and you don’t, buy some damn beer.
  3. Check in – whether it’s a text, an email or a surprise phone call.  Nothing says “You’re important” louder than knowing someone took the time out of their busy day to see how you are.
  4. Pay compliments.  You don’t need to get sappy or drippy or ridiculous.  But a genuine well-timed compliment can change a ho-hum day to a happy one.
  5. Remember the sign.  The one around the neck.  I guarantee if you read that sign every day – and act on that sign every day – you will not fuck up.

Hey … it worked for Mary Kay.  Who knows?  Maybe your lover will buy you a pink Cadillac …

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Love Languages … and why I (sometimes) hate my Blackberry.

Posted on July 8, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Are you familiar with Gary Chapman’s book “The 5 Love Languages”? Quite a brilliant concept, actually, and one that is easily understandable and more importantly, fairly simple to act on. I have come to believe that understanding and then acting upon Mr. Chapman’s hypothesis truly could be the salvation to many a relationship.

If you’re in the dark, please allow me to enlighten you in my famous “nutshell” method.

According to the author, there are five basic languages of love. Most of us utilize all of them at one time or another, but we all have a primary one. You know, the one that really speaks (pardon the pun) to us. Personally.

They are –

Words of Affirmation – Words, communication, emails, texts, phone calls, unsolicited compliments, in-depth conversations – this is what rocks your world.

Quality Time – Full, undivided attention is your thing. This means TV and cell phone off, computer unplugged, work postponed and all chores and tasks on standby. Gaze into my eyes, baby, so I can feel the love …

Receiving Gifts – This is not selfish materialism. The receiver of gifts thrives on the love, thoughtfulness and effort behind the gift; the gesture shows that you are known, you are cared for, and you are cherished. That giddy Christmas-morning feeling is merely a by-product. Honest.

Acts of Service – Anything you do to ease the burden of responsibilities weighing on an “Acts of Service” person will speak volumes. Help out! Do your chores! Do my chores! Create new chores! Then do them. The “AoS” believer will feel your love.

Physical Touch – No, this does not mean non-stop sex-o-rama. It means being physically touchy (as opposed to that other kind, you know, weird overly-sensitive touchy) with lots of hugs, pats on the back, hand-holding and gentle caresses on the arm, shoulder, and face. This will demonstrate your excitement, concern, care, and love. If somehow full-blown sex-o-rama results, I can assure you the touchy-feely lover will not object. But that’s not what it’s about. Honest. Again.

I learned all about love languages the hard way. Early in our relationship, my ex-beau and I were “enjoying” a Mexican vacation. I’m thinking “enjoying” is not really the correct word here because every morning started out dismally. I, little Miss Can’t-Wait-To-Get-My-Day-Going-Girl, bounded out of bed eager to greet the morning, the beach, the breakfast-bar and that first brilliant cup of coffee. He, on the other hand, moped in bed, sulked visibly while brushing his teeth, was sullen in the restaurant (whilst eating yogurt and fruit while I scarfed down eggs, bacon, sausage, cheese and white bread) and was decidedly quiet at a time when I was exuberantly brimming with the day’s possibility.

Why? I mean seriously – why? Who the fuck is morose on a Mexican vacation?

A man whose love language is “touch”, that’s who. And I was too busy enjoying Mexican sunshine and breakfast buffets to speak his language first thing in the morning.

When we returned home from that ill-fated trip, my friend Lesley explained all of this love-language stuff to me (and gave me Chapman’s book) and it all became very clear, very fast. I wasn’t being touchy enough and this rendered him way too touchy (not the good kind). Seriously, all I would have had to do in Mexico is log a little more morning-bed time, complete with snuggles, cuddles and whatever followed (to which, for the record, I am never opposed). Our holiday quite possibly would have gone from frustrating to fulfilling in one fell swoop.

So guess what? Back home in Canada I got touchy. I put off that brilliant first cup of coffee (I know, I know – the sacrifice!) and stayed in bed snuggling. Sometimes even more than snuggling. And you know what? When I did, his day got a whole lot better. He smiled more. He was happier. He was content. Baby, I was speaking his language!

The other languages are fairly easy to speak as well.

Quality time? Find out what your lover likes and/or needs and then do it with them. Simple, eh?

Gifts? Bring ‘em home. Whether it’s a single rose, a pizza, a treat from the supermarket or a new car, shower the people you love with lovely gifts.

Acts of Service? Just act. Cook dinner, take out the garbage, mow the grass or renovate the rec room. Just do it. Not so tough, right?

Not yet, anyway, until we get to the most troublesome little language. Words. Which naturally just happens to be mine. Because apparently I like to be as troublesome as possible.

You see, words are foreign to far too many people. At least the right words. Communication can be tricky too, if you’re not on the same page in terms of how often, how serious, how playful and in which mode. And then you’re faced with how many words? Sometimes three words are enough. Sometimes five words are far too many. And of course no words is the worst. Silence is absolutely devastating when your love language is words.

Case in point: that same ex-beau once spent an entire day ignoring me. This day was somewhat special since I was experiencing agonizing pain from a back injury and had texted him first thing in the morning to announce that I might possibly die. By noon, when a lovely male friend had hauled my ass to the chiropractor and it had become apparent that a coffin was unnecessary, there was still no word from my honey-pie. By late afternoon, I was convinced that he must be dead on the side of a deserted highway somewhere. It was the only explanation. How could this man who ostensibly loved me not care enough to communicate with poor dying me all day long? How could he not wish to share my pain via text or phone? How could he not give even the tiniest little damn about my well-being?

Turns out he was busy. Not at work (although there was that too) but road-tripping on his lunch hour to purchase some much-coveted motorcycle parts. He was apparently too busy to slip into the bathroom to text his poor ailing girlfriend. Too busy to use the fucking Bluetooth I gave him for Christmas and call me from the car. Too busy to check in with a “Damn, I wish I could be there to care for you but don’t worry darling, I’ll see you tonight and make it all up to you.” Yep, he was too busy to speak anything even close to my love language until he showed up at my door that evening full of remorse and apologies – after he saw the hurt in my eyes (Demerol had taken care of my back).

Then he understood. Vowed to do better. And he tried.

But that’s the problem with words. If they don’t come naturally to you, it is the most difficult love language to learn. You can’t just buy a bauble, throw in a load of laundry, turn off the television or hold hands. You have to communicate. You have to want to communicate. And even then, you have to learn the right words and then learn how to use them. It is really a tough, unforgiving language and it gets even worse when you realize that it’s not a one-off. You don’t just get to write one perfect email or send three delightful texts or engage in one soul-baring dialogue. We word-people are a greedy lot and we want what we want every day. Several times. Maybe even more than several. We are a lot of work, especially if you’re a touchy, gifty, serviceable, quality-time kinda guy.

Which brings me to my Blackberry. More specifically to my love/hate relationship with that exceptional little piece of technological heaven/hell. Because as you may (or may not) know, when you instant message a Blackberry contact, you know exactly when they have read said message. It tells you, clever little interloping busybody that it is. You can also see (if you happen to be staring at the goofy little gizmo at that exact right moment and I swear I never, ever do that, hardly ever) exactly when the other person is writing a message back to you. So of course if you’re a word-girl like moi, you sit there panting audibly, possibly with tiny beads of sweat dripping off your brow, waiting for that next message to arrive. Because damnit you can see that he is writing something. It’s like foreplay, I swear. The fine folks at RIM in Waterloo have figured out cellular foreplay!

What’s my point? Yeah, yeah … I do have one.

There is a new guy in my life and he is actually, for the most part, very good at speaking my language. Mostly because he is smart, aware and (thank you, God!) gifted with words. None of these lovely attributes has anything to do with me (I just lucked into them). But he does listen to me and that is huge. Because if you don’t listen to your lover’s language, how can you ever hope to speak it? Yes, I am decidedly grateful for this smart, aware, wordy boy.

But there was this recent evening when we had just spent some time together and now were apart (as geography and our lives would have it) and I was socializing with other friends but he and I were connecting via Blackberry magic and he texted me so I snuck into the bathroom and texted something back, something you know, kinda mushy. Like I miss you or something. Nothing earth-shattering, honest. I know better than to mush-out that boy. Just kinda a little mushy.

That’s when I had my first altercation with that damn Blackberry tattletale. The little snoop told me that my message had been read and was being responded to at that very moment. And so I waited. Put some lipstick on, lest my hosts wonder what the hell I was doing for so long in their powder room. I waited some more. I wanted to read those words.

The tattletale went blank. Which typically means at the other end there has been a flurry of delete, delete, delete. Hmm, wondered I. He must be re-thinking his response.

Bam! The tattletale blinked back on. He was writing again! So I waited a bit longer and brushed my hair (damn, I was going to look good when I re-joined the party). Perhaps. But my procrastination was in vain because the tattletale went blank again. And stayed blank. There was no forthcoming message. Nada. Zippo. Nothing. That was it. I returned to the festivities and my Blackberry remained decidedly quiet until the following morning when texts and emails reconvened and creepy little tattletales were forgotten.

And this, dear reader, is where modern technology totally messes with my love language. Because I want words, yes, but I shouldn’t be able to actually see when he is thinking (or composing) a hundred miles away. I shouldn’t be able to see when he changes his mind or thinks twice. I should just be happy to know that he is speaking my language. He is trying. And to be honest (as opposed to all those other times I’ve lied to you) he is succeeding. I am a word-glutton and would no doubt feast until I was ill. No need, I have learned. I am sated and content with my current word-quotient and, as long as the buffet remains open, I will be one happy girl.

So what about me, I know you’re asking. Am I succeeding with his love language? I’m not quite sure, because I’m still not quite sure exactly what it is. Neither is he (yes, I have asked). So I try the multi-lingual approach and hope something sticks. When he visits I make sure there is beer (gifts) which I don’t typically drink. I cook dinner and breakfast and hell, I’d probably throw in a load of laundry if he asked (he never would, but there are your acts of service). I try to ensure that I don’t talk too much (usually epic fail) and that we enjoy our (quality) time together and I touch him as much as he’ll let me because there is most definitely no sacrifice there. And of course, word-aholic that I am, I share texts and emails freely, call when I feel like talking and relish every moment that he returns the favour.

Could this also be his love language? I have no idea. So until the day his primary love parlance makes itself known (so that I can log onto it with all the fervour we love-linguists possess) I shall continue to speak them all as best I can. Because methinks when it comes to relationships tis better to over-speak than under-articulate. And as Nelson Mandela so eloquently stated: If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart.

Mr. Chapman couldn’t have said it better.

And neither can I.

Although damnit you know I’m gonna try …

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One Magical Word

Posted on June 3, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

If you could be described in just one single word, what would you choose? I don’t mean how would you describe yourself. I mean how would you hope to be described by someone else?
A few years ago there was an email flying around, where your friends had to choose that one perfect word that defined you and then of course, you them. I got “vivacious” (several times, even from my own mother!), “bubbly”, ”charismatic”, “colourful” – all darn fine words and I’m not complaining. I’m also happy to report there was nothing like “cantankerous”, “ridiculous” or say “ blonde.” There was “generous”, “thoughtful” and “sensitive” and I’m very happy to know my pals do think of me in those terms.
But then there were a couple of head-scratchers, funnily enough from two of my closest friends.
Julie wrote “Seeker”.
What do you mean, asked I (giving my blonde head a shake)? She replied “You never stop seeking, you never stop learning, you never stop growing. It defines you above all else. You are a seeker.”
Damn. I think I just about cried.
And then came Chandra who wrote quite simple “Big”.
Well okay, retorted I somewhat indignantly, “Maybe I’ve put on a few lbs. But really?”
She just laughed and said “You are ‘Big’ to me. You are one of the ‘Biggest’ things in my life. You are my ‘Big’ soulmate and my ‘Big’ confidante and just ‘Big’ in my life.”
I’m pretty sure I did cry.
At that time there was no man in my life, so I never got to find out how a “lover” might characterize me. I was however fully aware of the one word that had been sorely lacking in my life.
“Beautiful”.
For some reason (and ladies, feel free to weigh in on this one), men don’t use the word “beautiful” nearly enough. I’ve been with guys who said I “looked good” or I’m “attractive” or “look nice” or my all-time favorite – “that dress is really something!”
Huh? The dress? What about the chick wearing it? You know, the one who just spent an hour shaving every extremity ( and a few in-tremities too), curling her hair and applying makeup and all that stuff? What about that broad?
Nope. It was a rare occasion that “Beautiful” showed up. And I really could never figure out why. Is it because I’m skanky? Is it because you reserve that adjective only for motorized vehicles and golf shots? Is it because you feel like a bit of a wuss waxing so poetic?
I have no idea. And if you’re wondering why “beautiful” is so gosh-darned important to me, let me try to explain. If a man says “You are so beautiful” it makes you feel like he really sees you, inside and out. Remember in the movie “Avatar” when the two lovers say that exact phrase – “I see you”? So much more powerful than “I love you. “ Because I love lots of people and say those words quite freely. But how many people see inside your soul? Those are the people who call you “beautiful.”
So I will tell you, “beautiful” is a damn fine word. Special even.
But guess what? In spite of my obvious (obsessive?) linguistic fixation, I’ve recently experienced a different descriptor that might well give “beautiful” a run for its money.
“Fascinating.”
Yeah.
A really interesting guy called me fascinating.
And you know what? I’m not going to think about it or analyze it or interpret it or wonder about its meaning and/or implications. I am simply going to revel in it.
Because I don’t actually care anymore if I’m beautiful.
I am …
Fascinating.

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A Fish May Love A Bird (Do Opposites Really Attract?) …

Posted on May 31, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

I’m struggling.  I am struggling with dating and the arguable concept that opposites attract.

I mean, mostly I’m just struggling with dating period because I honestly didn’t think I’d be back at it again at this stage of my life. Seriously, the last time I fell in love I reckoned Excellent – this is The Last Love Of My Life.

I even wrote a song (available here – http://www.vickievandyke.com/samples/music-samples/) with that title.  This was of course after I had written an earlier ditty – The Love Of My Life (also available on my website).  Yep, in that gossamer glow of “Where have you been all my life?” love, I thought yeah, we only get one – and thank goodness he finally showed up.

For awhile.  And then he was gone.

But I am a hopeless yet pragmatic romantic so, when that first little affair didn’t go the distance,  I bumped my “Love-of-Life” quotient  to two.  You know, because “If you build it, they will come”.  And baby, when #2 showed up I really was feeling the love.

Until he was gone too. Yeah, the last love of my life turned out to be, well, someone I love.  Just not forever in that way.  And if that’s it – if that’s truly all I get – shoot me now.

However, my inner pragmatism has prevailed and if you consult one of my earlier blogs, you’ll see that I now think we get a million.  Maybe a billion.  Loves of our lives, that is.

Is that just wishful thinking on my part?

Regardless … veteran soul-searcher that I am, I look back on all my loves and I think hmmm – what actually works best?  Lots of commonalities or lots of differences?  Do opposites really attract or are we best to stick with our own kind?

I dunno.  Because I’ve tried it both ways and both worked some and neither worked some.  I’ve been soul-mated with another fragile, tortured poet and I’ve married a practical, get-it-done provider.  I’ve shared tofu with a non-drinking vegetarian and I’ve gnawed on bones with a wine-swilling drunk. I’ve contemplated a gypsy existence with Peter Pan himself and I’ve lived the Pepsi commercial life with the “greatest guy on earth”.  And I still have no idea what I want or need.

Perhaps this is because I have no idea who I am?  This is exactly what some of my girlfriends say. They counsel me to spend time alone and learn to love myself.  Fine.  Except (all humility aside) I already think I’m all that and a bag of chips.  I mean really, at my age, exactly how much alone-time do I need?  So, counter I, maybe I know exactly who I am and who I am is a combination of all of the above and if Prince Charming would just flipping-well show up and be all those things, I could finally throw away all my other shoes and just wear that fucking glass slipper.

Okay.  We all know that’s not gonna happen.  First of all, I’m too old for a prince and secondly I’m clumsy.  Wine glasses don’t even stand a chance in my house.  What are the odds a glass slipper would survive?

So here I go, dating again. And I meet a man who is very similar to me on most counts. Free-spirited, outside the box, creative, youthful.

Ho-hum. I’m bored.

I meet another man. Communicative, adventuresome, free-spirited, outside the box, creative, youthful.

Ho-hum. I’m bored.

I meet a third man. Ridiculously intelligent, accomplished, communicative, youthful, a whole lot more inside-the-box (except for when he isn’t) and  a little emotionally unavailable. Okay, maybe a lot emotionally unavailable.  I’m not sure yet.

But I can tell you right now we are not effortlessly simpatico. We have a connection which is undeniably unique.  We are fully capable of engaging intellectually and physically.  I can listen to him talk about his work ad infinitum and find it fascinating.  And this is where I should admit that his work is highly left brain , and I pretty much lost contact with my left brain around Grade 10 when I decided that dissecting a frog could in no way factor into my quest to become the next Carole King.

And yet when he talks, I listen.  And sometimes I even ask questions which he is thankfully delighted to answer, mercifully without a hint of patronization.  Because damnit it if he patronized me even for a second I swear I’d hit him over the head with my baby grand.

He has also been known to veer off his own straight-and-narrow to ask me a question or two about my music and writing.  And then he actually seems interested in my response, in that “Holy Crap, you really are from another planet kind of way.”

And the kicker is we can engage physically because, well … I’m not really sure why.  Just because we do.  And it works.

But what scares me is that elusive emotional availability. Because it’s already pretty clear to me that emotionally we are at opposite ends of the spectrum.  I am an open book, heart-on-my-sleeve girl.  I can’t play it any other way, nor do I want to.  

I iz what I iz.

But then again, so is he.  And I’m wondering how much room there truly is for evolution (see my previous blog)?

And so, dear readers, I return (I know – it’s been a highly circuitous route) to my original question: do opposites really attract?  Because as Tevye so eloquently stated in “Fiddler On The Roof” – A fish may love a bird, but where would they live?

 Or is it all just wishful-thinking, take-on-a-project, maybe I-can-change-you bullshit?

I hope not.

Because I don’t want to change (but I will evolve!) and I don’t want anyone to change for me (it never lasts anyway so what’s the point?).  I want to embrace what makes us different, revel in what makes us fit, enjoy what makes us unique and look forward to what might eventually make us … us.

I want to abandon preconceived notions of what works and what doesn’t and make every effort to enjoy the ride.  And if “opposites attracting” is just some lame fodder for chick-flicks, so be it.  Lesson learned and off we’ll ride into opposite sunsets.

I know, I know.  Even this right-brained dope knows there can be no such thing as opposite sunsets.

But …  if the desire to be attracted, and open, and to delight in discovery and new and different … if that desire  propels us to a new level of honest relationship (you know, boldly go where no man has gone before!) well …  the struggle may well  be worth it.

And opposites just might not be so opposite after all.

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Don’t go changing … or maybe do?

Posted on May 21, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Change: to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone.

There you have it.  The dictionary.com definition of the word change.

I kinda like it, especially when you apply it to relationships. Because as we all know, adding someone new to our world changes our world immediately. Sometimes dramatically, sometimes in the smallest of increments. But change does take place.  Always.

So if a guy says “I am what I am. Take it or leave it!” – what the hell is he talking about?  Is that just some macho Neanderthal chest-pounding thing or does the dude honestly believe that he won’t have to alter one damn thing to facilitate something new?

Our cells change.  All the time.  I actually didn’t know this (scientific moron that I am) until my friend Marilyn told me.  So the question begs – if our physical bodies know enough to change constantly and regularly, why is it so damn difficult for our emotional and intellectual bodies (for lack of a better word) to do the same?  Why aren’t we more willing to step outside of the comfort zones we have so conveniently stepped into (because they are comfortable, damnit) and change?  Especially when we say, no, we insist that we want to be in a relationship?

Don’t go changing to try and please me … (Billy Joel)

That’s why.  Ridiculously romantic songwriters suggest it ain’t necessary.

But I’m going to remind you right here, right now, that old Bill wrote those words for his first wife before he ran off with his super-model second wife.  So maybe if honeypie #1 had actually dyed her hair a time or two, things would have worked out differently?  Because the truth is sometimes you have to change just to keep up.  Sometimes you have to change to stay in the game.  There is another word for this.  Compromise.  And I’m pretty sure that compromise always involves some kind of change.

Case in point: My last beau was a vegetarian.  Who didn’t drink.  Booze or caffeine.  I will admit readily that I am a certifiable lush who gleefully rips flesh from bone and doesn’t utter a single intelligible word until after my first cup of coffee.  So did I change?

Hell, no.  But I did alter my behaviour.  I cooked vegetarian for both of us when we were together (I saved my flesh-ripping for solo feasts).   I drank even more when we went out because I always had a DD (hell, yeah!) and I never offered him a hot drink again.  All of these feats were – to me – similar to all those physical cells changing.  I just did it because it made the union function.

The problem is the emotional and intellectual “changes” required to create a successful pairing are far more subtle. You can’t just start cooking tofu and accept the fact that your beloved and you will never ever experience that delightfully horny glow that comes after two glasses of wine.  Intellectual changes require … oh damn, what’s that word?  Oh yeah … intellect.  And unless you are truly willing to learn and learn and learn some more, on a thousand levels, it’s doubtful change will take place in that arena.

But compared to the emotional level, the smarty-pants thing is actually a cakewalk.  Go back to school, take an on-line course, read a book … whatever.

It’s that damn emotional level that is so baffling. It’s far easier to say “she’s a nut” or “she’s too much work” than it is to look inwards and say “hmmm … I wonder if maybe all my other relationships have tanked because I’m not doing the emotional work?”  You know, the work that leads to true emotional availability?  And emotional intimacy.  Which is of course every woman knows leads to sexual intimacy.

Yep.  That’s how easy we are.

Truth be told, sometimes  we just need to let it all hang out baby, and know that you’ll be there to catch us when we fall.  That we can work through this together.  That we don’t have to regulate every word that flies out of our mouth like a buttoned-up defense attorney.

Perhaps we are longing to hear you say the magic words “Maybe I need to work as much on my relationship (and all of its silly complications) as I do on my … motorcycle” (random example, honest).

But change is a scary scary word.  Because for whatever inane reason, we’re all still listening to Bill and that dumb song.

So let’s try a different word.

Evolve.

To come forth gradually into being; develop; undergo evolution.  Develop by a process of evolution to a different adaptive state or condition. 

Brilliant.

And I’m thinking the operative word here is gradual.  It’s not an overnight dye-job, liposuction or lobotomy.  It’s the profound realization that in order for this relationship to flourish – and I want it to flourish (big point there!) – I’m going to have to gradually open up.  Try new things.  Change my MO.

Oh wait – there’s that damn “change” word again.  The very word that inspires terror in the hearts of men everywhere.

Tell you what.  From now on let’s change that change word to evolve.

In order for this relationship to flourish – and I want it to flourish – I’m going to have to open up gradually.  Try new things.  Evolve. 

And I’m not just talking about you.  I’m talking about me. 

I am afraid of heights.  Learning to downhill ski at the ripe old age of 30 was terrifying.  Not the falling and injuring and running mascara (what, that’s not a run-of-the-mill fear?) but the chairlift.  The damn chairlift that propels you to never-before imagined heights whilst your legs dangle dangerously in space, reminding you that you could quite easily slip out of that chair at any moment.

But ya know what – I am suddenly thinking about trekking (I shudder to think actual climbing may be involved)  to the top of a mountain.  A very high mountain in the alps.

Why?

Because you are never too old to evolve.  And if I’m hoping for emotional evolution all-around I just may need to do some evolving of my own.  Get out of my comfort zone.  Demonstrate a little tit-for-tat.

All this evolution stuff is not a one-way street, this I know. Or a one-way mountain.  But I am already imagining the summit.  On both counts.  And I am willing to evolve to get there.

Can you imagine the view?

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I’ll Let You Go Now … and other dumb things people say.

Posted on May 17, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Do you know what I hate?  I mean, besides brussel sprouts, people who are rude to waiters and going to the gym?  I hate when you’re talking on the phone and then suddenly the other person says “Well, I’ll let you go now.”

What the hell is that all about?  Let you go where, exactly?  Are they going to plan the destination for you too?

The truth is they are not letting you go.  They are going.  They want to go.  They are done talking with you and they are saying bu-bye.  They are just trying to do it nicely (or so they think) so they pin the onus on you.  As in “Golly, gee, you must be terribly busy so as much as I’d like to chat with you until the cattle returns, I will let you go.”

Bullshit.  If you’re done talking or if you have somewhere else to be, just say so.  “I gotta go now” works fine.

The other one I hate is “To be honest with you.”  What the heck?  You mean every other word you have uttered is an outright lie and you’re only now just coming clean?  How can I trust anything you ever say ever again if it is not prefaced with those words?  Man, the assumptions we make …

And here’s another one – “At the end of the day”.  What day?  This day?  The day that’s coming up tomorrow?  A bygone day?  Every day? What in tarnation does it mean when someone says “at the end of the day”?   I  think it’s kinda  like “when all is said and done”.   But then, when you really think about it, is all ever said and done?  I don’t think so.  There’s definitely going to be more saying and doing tomorrow, baby.

Which brings me to the penultimate.  “I’m not the guy for you.”

Oh, of course, how silly of me, I forgot you’re not the guy for me at around the same time I forgot that you can read my fucking mind!

How do you know you’re not the guy for me?  Was there a checklist when we first started dating and now you’ve suddenly realized that you missed some boxes?  Did you take a poll of my girlfriends and finally learn the ugly truth?  Did my mother call you up and say “Hey buddy, leave my kid alone?”

I don’t think so.  I think that what you’re really trying to say is  I’m not the girl for you.  Because face it, you have no flipping clue what I want, what I’ll put up with or what I’m willing to work on.  Which means you have no clue if you’re the guy for me.

But I can tell you with all certainty that I am not the girl for you.  How do I know this?  I know this because you said it.

You just said it backwards.

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Another Saturday Night and I Ain’t Got Nobody …

Posted on May 5, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Another Saturday night and I ain’t go nobody, I got some money cause I just got paid …

Well, one out of two.  It is definitely Saturday night and if you don’t count one rather dirty Golden Doodle, I am definitely flying solo. I didn’t, however, just get paid because the local radio chain is being somewhat pokey in offering me the perfect made-to-measure gig.

So yeah, I’m alone and broke.

And no, this is not going to be another poor-me pity-party blog.  Because I am feeling neither poor nor pitiful.  I am feeling like … a cheeseburger.

Yep.  I’m feeling like eating a big ole cheeseburger (extra pickles please) and a salad (because I’m not a complete Neanderthal) and settling into my naugahyde sofa (don’t ask) and watching me some equally cheesy chick-flick.  You know – the kind that invariably causes male eyeballs to roll over-dramatically when the owner of said eyeballs is confronted with even the slightest possibility that action/adventure is not an option.

I can do this tonight, yes – I can have cheeseburger  with my cheese, because there are no vegetarians or males or even male vegetarians here to vote me down.  The dog loves meat (bless his heart) and apart from the occasional viewing of 101 Dalmatians, has never got to vote on a Saturday night movie anyway.

So tonight I plan to embrace my singlehood.  And my cheeseburger.  Because today I learned, in the most gentle way, that I am not ready to mate up.  I am not ready to welcome male eyeballs into my sacred now-solo environ.  I have been far too briefly single to successfully banish, or even file enough thoughts of the past to allow the future to blossom in any fruitful way.

Whatever I might do now with a new boy would merely be band-aiding.  Plugging up holes in an ever-spouting sieve.  Putting the cart in front of a very tired, old horse.  I realized today that, as sad as it sounds,  the poor old horse has to die first.  Then and only then will I be able to figure out a new way to  haul my ass around.

It’s another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.  But I do have a fluffy pooch, a cheeseburger and a chick-flick with my name on it.  And that is just fine.

For now.

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All-consuming Sadness … and Tulips.

Posted on May 1, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Do you ever just get sad?  I don’t mean a little down or vaguely depressed or melancholy.  I mean overwhelming, all-consuming, non-stop edge-of-tears sad?  That very special sadness that comes from a universal pileup of never-ending  negatives that land on your heart and refuse to budge until they have sucked out every last morsel of positive-Pollyanna shit you thought you possessed?

I mean, c’mon – you’ve done the work.  You’ve read the books.  You have been enlightened by the law of attraction and gratitude and vibes and ‘do unto others’ and you’ve actually really tried to subscribe and then all of a sudden maybe you’re tired or just lonely and you’re not even sure what for and BAM – you’re wallowing in non-stop-edge-of-tears sad.

So you think about calling up a girlfriend.  Yes, one of those special ones who knows how to cheerlead the hell out of you until you’re not only smiling again but thinking that maybe hell yeah I do have a shot with George Clooney! I love those girlfriends.

But you already know how that phone call will play out.  And this sadness will not be so easily distracted.  Which for some reason diminishes even George’s considerable charm.

So you think about calling your ex.  Because damn, there is still some love there and he sure as shootin’ doesn’t want you all weepy and snotty and morose (does he?).  Problem is he never quite understood how or why you get this way in the first place, he never knew what to do about you when you got this way and the fact that you have even the slightest potential of getting this way right flipping now, five weeks post breakup, is no doubt reason enough for the happy-single-dance he is currently enjoying.

So … you pour a second glass of wine.  Because damnit if you’re gonna have a cry it might as well be a fucking good one.  And we all know that wine will always facilitate that.

1st glass – I feel funny.

2nd glass – I feel sexy .

3rd glass – I am invincible.

4th glass – I am a snotty crying mess on the kitchen floor.

This is usually how it goes except when you’re already sad … even sober.  Then you’re allowed to fast forward to stage 4 after glass 1.

So there you are, holding off on damn-the-torpedoes blubbery but still at a point where you’re  about to check the pantry for another box of Kleenex justincase and … the doorbell rings.

No, it’s not Prince Charming.  It’s not my best friend and it’s not my ex, it’s not someone trying to sell me cheaper heat and it’s not someone trying to save my soul.

It’s a lovely girl who owns a flower shop in my little town and,  knowing that I have just returned from a long, exhausting trip, she has decided that I should have tulips – my favorite – to welcome me home.  Two beautiful bouquets of tulips. White and yellow.

Please understand – we are not really friends. We haven’t popped a cork (yet) and we haven’t shared a burger or snotty tears.  We have talked, sort of heart-to-heart, in her flower shop, mostly because it’s the only way I know how and she is thankfully amenable.

But somehow, in the grand scheme of this crazy mixed-up universe, she has brought me tulips at the exact moment that I was about to succumb to the world’s largest pity-party. Ever.

So now I am crying.  I’ve dived over the edge and am fully immersed in a flood of my own salt water.

But these are those crazy “happy tears” we were told about as children and never quite understood.  Crazy, happy “am I ever stupid” tears.

And it occurs to me.  It occurs to me that maybe, if we subscribe to the law of attraction and gratitude and vibes and ‘do unto others’ and maybe if we don’t just subscribe but we actually really mean it … well maybe the universe will actually step up and miraculously save our dumb ass on that one sadder-than-sad night that we think we’re about to actually drown.

Thanks, Universe.

And thank you, Nancy.

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Is There Really Only One Love Of Your Life?

Posted on April 18, 2012 by winesoakedramblings - The Blog of Vickie van Dyke

Do you believe in one love of your life?  Seriously.  Is there really just one special, magical, perfect soulmate?  Or do we perhaps get a few kicks at the old soulmate can?

I wonder.

My friends P and L would, I’m sure argue, one and only one.  They met in college, fell stupidly in love, dropped a couple of kids, stayed stupidly in love, started a successful business, lost hair, gained weight, moved house and for the past 30 years no matter what has happened they have stayed stupidly in love. Yep – one and only one.

Same with C.  She married B at a young age and for 25 years they remained tighter than skinny jeans after a turkey dinner.  Until he inconveniently died of brain cancer.   Now C says she is a goose.  She will mate only once in this life and even though she is still young, she will look no further.  Yep – one and only one.

Then there’s me.

Several years ago I met a man – at a dinner party – when I was inconveniently married to someone else – who I came to believe was the love of my life.  I even wrote him a song called – you guessed it – “Love Of My Life”.

Apparently not.  After overhauling both of our lives (yes, it was somewhat inconvenient for him too) and after a couple of years of guilt, torment and turmoil, he decided I was not “The One”.  I think he liked the song just fine, honest.  Just didn’t like me.  At least not enough to get through the guilt, torment and turmoil.

Years flowed by, with me the hopeless romantic (read; dumbass) thinking That’s it! I’m done. There goes the love of my life.

Until I met D.

D was totally cool, loving on me bigtime and I was feeling pretty great all around.  So another song was born – “The Last Love Of My Life”.  Yep, I was feeling darn clever and invigorated and smug.  That previous LOML couldn’t keep me down, no sir.  I now had a LLOML.  Yeah baby, I was smiling all the way to the love bank.

Until a couple more years flew by and D and I broke up.

Now what, think I?  Am I out of loves?  Have I used up my quota?  Do we all get a quota?  Was I cheating fate when I snared that second LOML?  Should I thank my unlucky stars and call it a day?

Nope.

Because here is my latest revelation: I’ve actually had more than two LOMLs.  My first real boyfriend, the one I gave it all up to, was (I believed) the LOML.  My first husband, the one I married at the ripe old age of 20 because I thought he was a god – he was a LOML.  My BOTR (boyfriend on the road – when I was singing full time) was a LOML (and is still a great friend).  And my most recent husband (and the father of my child) will always be a LOML … because I will love that man until the day I die.

So I’m thinking there’s gotta be room for more.  At least one more, but that’s all I want.  I want one more love of my life.

And I truly believe he is out there and our paths will cross.  One of us will find the other and we will both have one more LOTROML.  Love Of The Rest Of My Life.

I know.  That sounds like the title of a soap opera.  But maybe – if I’m lucky – it will be the title of yet another song, hopefully a duet.

Baby, you are the love of the rest of my life.

In harmony, if you please.

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