Sassafrass

Good LORD, I felt gorgeous. And so should you.

I know, I know. It's been a gazillion years since I posted here. You may not even recognize me anymore. Have probably long forgotten my name. But trust me, you will want to fake it for the next 15 seconds while you click on over to my new review blog (I KNOW! Look at me, with my empire expanding and whatnot).

Earlier this week, I had an amazing evening at LOFT, playing dress up with a stylist (I KNOW! So fancy.) and photographer (see?). And you know what? I felt gorgeous...and wore a size smaller than I expected. Is that enough to lure you over?

What if I promise there will be sequins?

How about a contest with a chance to win your own $200 LOFT gift card? PLUS, everyone gets a coupon for 20% your own sequins?

Seriously, why haven't you clicked yet? Are you waiting for me to tell you delicious details of how I had bronchitis and barely saw the light of day while I was in Santa Monica and then returned home, where it dropped a thousand degrees into an insane winter in Chicago? Click!

For the goddesses sake, honey, choose the sequins! Go, go.

Linkety dinkety doo: I used to send crapmail forwards, now I just put it all here

I ran 11 minutes in a row today, lovelies. ELEVEN MINUTES! This is nothing to all of you who are seasoned runners and those of you who don't spend a majority of your life elevated in five-inch heels. But for me, it is big. Eleven minutes is a little bit longer than the block of commercials in between each really important, intellectual, action-charged segment of "The Hills". It's way longer than I can be on a dating site without doing a screen grab of some poor sucker's profile and emailing it with snarky comments to all of my grrrlfriends. Hell, it's even longer than I can stand to sit still on the couch before I grab my laptop. Far more impressive to think of it that way.

While I'm busy sweating and sprawling myself out on my dining room floor  rehydrating and stretching, here are a few bits for you to ponder. As soon as I can speak again, let's discuss thoroughly. We will also discuss how in the name of all things gloriously rack-related, Lynda Carter kept it all in the bustier, even if she only ran a few feet for each take. Until then, this stuff:

• When he turned five, Lil E graduated from the big Duplo block to itty bitty Lego. It's pretty incredible to see what he can already put together. It's also pretty maddening to search the entire interior of the car in the dark to find the tiniest plastic light saber of all time (Lego Anakin needs some serious grip strength rehab). Maybe one day, if the passion and the playing continue (and if a good portion of the pieces steer clear of the seat cushion cracks), my boy will graduate to this level of Lego awesomeness. How cool is that?

• When I saw that Single Mom Survives created videos for Follow Friday on Twitter, I had to check her out. I can barely get a list together of the people who write tweets that make me go from skim to laugh in 140 characters, so I was all kinds of impressed by her. I immediately followed every single person she recommended. How could I not. And then, something magical happened. She featured me in her next round of Follow Friday videos. I was so excited, I messaged her to say she was bringing me to tears. She promptly told me to shut up or she would come steal my shoes and make me cry for real. I am a little in love with her now. Check it out here. I am #FFfamous, y'all! And in fabulous company, too.

• While you're at it, do visit me on Twitter. My tweets are protected (like my heart, my shoes, and the 4,000 random facts about Clone Troopers passed on to me in confidence during the morning commute) but if you ring the bell, I will very likely let you in to the party.

• Speaking of what happens in my car...why, yes, lots and lots of jamming out. As much of a vehicular rock star as I am, there is a reason I will never ever turn a camera on while I am shaking and singing on the stage of my C-RV. And if I ever waiver, I will let this be a reminder of why it's good to just live in the moment rather than archive it online for all time.

I still believe that when it's real, you can see it

 Last night, I did something I don't do much anymore. I stayed up late watching Ellen DeGeneres on "Oprah." She was funny and engaging in that not-raunchy way Ellen is so good at being.

And then her wife Portia deRossi came out. They talked about meeting each other, confessing their feelings for each other, falling in love, getting married. Grateful. As the clips of their wedding day played and the camera panned across the two of them watching themselves on screen during those intimate, sacred moments, I had tears of my own.

I'm convinced they are the real deal. Oh, how I hope they are the real deal. It made me realize how rarely we see that on television and in the goss rags, when we turn all this stuff on. Yet, I think we want to see it. We want to believe it is there. So we are disappointed when people we think we know, we think seem like great couples falter or even fall apart.

Maybe I am blindingly seeking that in the faces of this couple. But I don't think so. I think that it is there, the thing you are overwhelmed by at some weddings and startled is absent at others.

One day, I'm going to feel my heart explode with all that goobiness again. Yesterday, it was a blessing to catch a piece of that confetti floating down from these two.

Joining in the Single Mom Revolution

I could have spent all day talking to Honoree Corpron Corder on Single Mom Revolution Radio.

I am so amazed that, in just under an hour, we covered so much ground on dating, breaking up and taking good care of yourself when you are a single mama. We never did quite make it to the topic of shoes, but I will assure you that I was doing a little clicky-heel happy dance throughout our conversation.

Not only was it a nice little opportunity to put my land line to use, it was a chance to compare stories about how soon we started dating, what we had to get accountable as relationships ended, and what is really at stake when a single mom has a social life. My favorite few minutes was talking about the necessity of what I call (and I am sure that Honoree  has a much more genteel term for it) the whore period following a divorce or end of a major partnership.

At the end of the show, I said that I would welcome stories, advice, and questions from single parents here. I hope you will take me up on it.

Was breaking up harder for you to do as a single parent than it was before you had kids? What got you through? What words of wisdom to have to offer to other single parents who are dating? Do you agree that some degree of whoriness is a rite of passage when people get divorced or split up from a significant partnership?

If you missed it or if you feel that our voices soothe you into such a tranquil state that you want to listen over and over and over again, simply press play below.

And if you would like to listen to Honoree and Morgan's past shows or be alerted about their upcoming topics and guests, click here.

Just when you thought I couldn't be more chatty

As some weeks go, it has been an on-air one for me. I'm busy talking fall fitness on the radio for my job here -- including one ahh-oooga! ahh-ooga! show with DJs (I kid you not) Wienie and The Butt this morning (oh, the sweet life) -- and am preparing for a few Halloween segments over the next few weeks.

This afternoon, I get to take a break from abs and high-fructose corn syrup rants to talk with the lovely and inspiring Honoree Corpron Corder, author of The Successful Single Mom, and Morgan Day Cecil from ModernMarriedMama. I am thrilled to be a guest on their Blog Talk Radio show, Single Mom Revolution Radio, during the lunch hour today.

We will be talking about the very real heartaches and opportunities of dating and break-ups (and of course, shoes) when you are a single mama. All you have to do is tune in here, dial in  if you have a question or comment, and laugh, nod, or sniffle along with us if you really hear what we're saying. 

If your kids are whining or you can't blast the streaming audio in your cubicle or some phenomenal shoe sale is calling to you, worry not. I promise to post the link to the segment here soon.

In the meantime, fire away the questions you have you'd like to hear us address!

Just a sidebar: My first Blog Talk Radio experience on Single Minded Moms Radio was so positive and empowering and led me to become friends with the very talented Matt Logelin and made me raise my hand in sisterhood with Alaina from Ms. Single Mama and Jessica from OSoloMama. I just chose not to discuss dating at that time. Now, kittens, I can spill all the details freely.

Foot forward

I woke up this morning, opened my eyes and felt an overwhelming craving rise up in me. For exercise. EXERCISE! Even crazier than the craving is that I gave in to it and went for workout. Before I had coffee. BEFORE COFFEE!

What the hell is wrong with me?

Sure, I'm a healthy living editor. But as I have said many (many, many) times, that doesn't stop me from writing about flat abs while digging into a bag of Doritos.

OK, that's an exaggeration. I really don't write about flat abs.

A time to tend

I came home one day about a month ago, and the chrysanthemums had wilted. It was my fault. I'd placed them out in the bright sun of my porch even though I'd read the card with care instructions that said they should be kept out of direct light. They'd started out this lovely lavender streaked with white and the petals seemed to beg for sunshine. Now, faded and sinking closer to the soil, they needed cool water and shelter.

They were guilt flowers, the mums, given to me by the man I was dating after a small argument that, at least to me, represented some much bigger issues. He didn't choose roses or lilies, and I liked that. He chose a basket of flowers that could be replanted into a pot, that might be rejuvenated season after season. I put it out on the porch, where that man I was dating stood smoking cigarettes when he was at my house.

Even after explanations and apologies and a plan to make things work better between us, I never did move those chrysanthemums inside. I watered it, shifted it around, surrounded the basket with the marigolds and wild rose plants. But I left it there, soaking up the sun.

Postcards from Portland: Not so fast. First, there is (some) unpacking

I promised not to wait until I was unpacked before I finally spilled the stories and photos from the first big trip alone-together Lil E and I have taken. I am just barely keeping that promise.

Finally, after being home for five days, I woke up this morning and loaded and re-loaded the washer and dryer, trying to make my way to the bottom of a very full suitcase. I'm almost there but the suitcase is still sitting wide open in my hallway with belts, shoes, a self-help book I take on nearly every trip I've ever taken and have never read, a few receipts and a hat waiting patiently to be put away.

This is not the first time I've procrastinated unpacking. This week, though, has been particularly tough, and so I've given myself a break from worrying about details like laundry and groceries and doing any kind of cleaning. Some painful stuff landed in the middle of my week, only days after our vacation ended and I passed Lil E off for a week with his dad and then came home to a very empty home.  I chose to take care of myself instead, and so the suitcase sat.

This morning, tending to the piles of laundry and carry-on bag full of souvenirs and magazines and empty water bottles seemed therapeutic. I'd like to believe it is symbolic of moving out of this painful place and back into the normality and rhythm of my everyday life. But that is asking a lot of rolling t-shirts and tucking my toiletries into the cabinet under the sink.

Instead, it just felt good to get it all out of the way. To press pause on important but ambiguous ways I'm working on myself and do something productive and tangible. Every time I filled a basket with clothes warm and light from the dryer, I wasn't feeling more whole or happy. But I did feel like I was doing something. And that was enough.

Just a few minutes after my own laundry was folded, rolled, and tucked away, I got the text that Lil E and his dad had landed and my boy was on his way home. I knew he'd be coming down the street, wheeling his own little Cars suitcase that was packed full of clothes that needed to be cleaned. And after I smothered him with kisses, forced him to tell me stories about his week by plying him with salt water taffy, and made us dinner from restaurant leftovers in the fridge, I tended to his laundry as well.

Now that everyone here is where they should be -- home, safe, sleepy, together -- it's time to get to the second part of my promise. The stories and photos will be up soon.

Then we will be back to our normal, everyday things and back to the tougher, more ambiguous work as well.

One weekend in Lolla-land

[The formatting on this baby is all effed up, so much so that I've delayed and delayed and delayed posting it. I give up and release it to the great interwebs universe. Judge me or just go with it as you will, kittens.]

This dispatch is from Portland, Oregon [we're home now...see what I mean about the delaying?], where Lil E and I are on our first big vacation alone together. It's exciting and exhausting, as much of parenting -- and in particular, single parenting -- is. While we are trying desperately to de-wonkify from the time difference (you'd think we went to China, but really, are just a hop across the country), I'll catch you up on my fabulous few days at Lollapalooza (which possibly/maybe/perhaps/absolutely contributed to the sleep deprivation that's killing me on the west coast).

Day One was full of downpours and humidity, mud and the frenzy of the festival beginning. Day Two was made up of killer shows and extreme heat. So, of course, that meant lots of:

Dirty All Stars, dirty All Stars, dirty All Stars, dirty All Stars, dirty All Stars, dirty All Stars.

Dirty Vans, dirty Vans, dirty Asics, dirty some kind of 80s leather things.

 

Dirty Nike Airs, dirty Keds, dirty some other kind of 80s leather things, totally nasty sandals and matching toe nails.

 

Dirty flats, funky boots that will make her feet sweat and then get very dirty shortly thereafter.

Headbands, headbands, headbands, headbands, headbands, headbands, headbands

and rank-ass sweaty headbands.

And instead of all the boobs, I will just show you this picture of a guy with a fake mustache.

I absolutely loved dancing to Diplo and seeing Thievery Corporation live for the first time (who knew dancing on stage and leaning into the audience whilst braless would get those hipster boys so darn worked up?!) and even taking in some Bloody Beetroots from the sidelines. Bassnectar was absolutely incredible and I think I was the hottest I have ever been at that show (and if you were there, you know I do not mean pretty). 

Kings of Leon made me swoon (even more), I sampled a bit of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (don't you love this song?) and I even hip-hopped a bit with a legion of 19-year old kids who are valedictorians in their school lives to Atmosphere.

But I think it was Santigold (left) that spoke most to my soul -- that sister and her dancers can turn it out (I hope you heard that in my best valedictorian voice).

I spent Day Three rockifying small-child style with Lil E at Kidzapalooza (more on that later). But I have to say that each tiny moment of the weekend reminded me how much I need music, how amazing it is to feel the beat vibrating in your bones and how many more songs there are out there for me to hear.

I left dirty and exhausted and so ready for next year.

Who is up for a little Lolla next August, right here in my backyard?

Goodbye, divorce hair

  About a year ago, I walked into my salon a little spiffier than I normally do to get swathed in aluminum strips and neurological disorder-inducing chemicals just to look pretty for a few weeks. I was wearing a red patent leather heels, red lipstick and had a bold red ring where a diamond was once perched. I was smiling -- and not just because I was on time for once. I was feeling good before I got there. It was a turning point in a divorce that felt like it had been going on since the 1960s. It wasn't easy but I was making progress, I was getting through.

Getting my hair done didn't feel like a salvation that day like it had for the months before. I wasn't walking in hoping that some miracle of highlights and razor cutting could make me look fabulous when I felt a mess.

Sylvia, the lovely and gorgeous stylist with violet-tinted black hair and a Polish accent that makes her words drip and stretch, grabbed my hands and smiled back at me.

"And now," she said, eyeing my shoes, lips and ring, "you are a redhead!"

That's how my natural hair, politely highlighted auburn for a few years, became blazing red. I loved being a redhead. I loved changing my Match.com profile to read "Hair color: Red/Auburn." I loved thinking of myself as falling into some the bottle-red subset of the category where Rita Hayworth in "Gilda"   and Brenda Starr, Star Reporter will reign eternally.

It was the beginning of me looking more like me, or at least the self I wanted to be. The woman outside of a marriage. The woman with a big new career. The woman who was pulling up and out of the chaos to (try to?) be more confident, centered, still, and on fire all at the same time.

The red, I thought, said it. That woman is here.

 Today, I said goodbye to the red and to Sylvia, went to a new salon and followed the guidance of a new stylist who said that maybe it was time to move on. 

[A pic of the new 'do after the jump.]

A date. With a man. Part 2

 A few days after Lil E asked me about dating, became a robot, and then powered down when I told him that I had been out with someone, the whole dating situation took a turn.

We were out for a Mommy and Lil E Movie night and somehow survived the money-sucking soul-vacuum that is Ice Age 3 (the only saving grace being that Denis Leary is somehow sexier when his voice comes out of a cartoon Smilodon). Our 3-D glasses were propped up on our heads and the reusable bottles of water we snuck in were stashed in my purse (actively raising a rebel over here). We walked to the car, holding hands and happy, sharing our favorite (ahem) parts of the movie.

I buckled him into his car seat, leaned in to kiss him before I shut the door, like I always do. But this time, I paused and leaned back to look at him. It was dark out and the light inside the car shone down on him and made his eyes glimmer.

"I'm not sure if you realized," I said seriously, my face only a few inches from his, "but I was on a date with a man tonight."

He stared back, raised an eyebrow, tightened his lips. I smiled slowly.

"A date with a LITTLE man!" I continued, pressing my nose into his for an Eskimo kiss.

He laughed. Loudly.

"Yeah, Mommy!" He got it. He giggled. He pointed to himself. "A date with THIS LITTLE MAN!"

When the words came out my mouth, I wasn't sure how they would be received. But I hoped that they would diffuse some of the tension and emotion around a subject that is really too big for a little boy to take on.

The next day, the words were spoken again. Or rather, yelled out from the car as Lil E leaped out of his seat to see my parents.

"Mommy went to the movies on a date with a man!" He was smiling and screaming at the same time.

I am pretty sure my mother gasped in the pause that must have only really lasted a second or two.

"A date with a LITTLE MAN!" He giggled again. He pointed to himself again.

My parents relaxed, laughed with him, pulled him from the car and hugged him tight.

We're all nervous about this part of the transition, particularly the wonderful and protective people who haven't been dating men who are taller than 3 feet and aren't covered in a fine layer of goldfish cracker dust (OK, mostly).

The serious talks will eventually resume once the robot is ready. For now, though, I'm perfectly happy laughing about a bad movie with a small boy who understands he occupies most of my heart.  I love that this kid feels safer knowing that most nights time with a little man trumps anyone else.

A date. With a man

We were riding in the car, singing Michael Jackson loudly, and Lil E was doing this head-shake move that reveals a compelling flexibility that I think is reserved only for preschoolers. There was a pause in between songs just as I pulled up to a red light. It was suddenly, momentarily quiet in the car. I seized it.

"Yesterday," I said, peering into the rear view mirror at him, "you asked me if I went to the awards show on a date with a man."

"Yes," he said, nodding. I could see his eyes widen, even behind his Darth Vader sunglasses.

"I didn't really answer that then." This was hard to get out. "I'm sorry for that."

He nodded again.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

Another nod.

Liveblogging the Gabby Awards: Moving on to the after-party

I'll be honest, no swag bag in the world is going to convince me to see My Life In Ruins. But Nia Vardalos, in her swingy mint dress ans with her quippy presenter comments, was engaging and funny and reminded me of many of my own grrrls. But there' s no time to ponder cinema. We're already on to the after-party with dinner (at last) and drinks (ahhh) and lots of people-watching. Bloghers, you will be ecstatic to know the after-events are at the same hotel we will be oggling each other geekside in just over a month. This event, though, has been styled like an HGTV wedding that makes you want to go through your own ceremony all over again. The chandeliers have been draped in transluscent gold hoops and there are flute vases of palms framing each table. Insignia-ed lamps outline a VIP area where white couches and fuschia centerpieces create a sexy lounge on the dance floor. Considering most everyone is a Greek American, it is an incredibly diverse crowd. Don't you love that? So Chicago... I'm having a blast and have (almost) forgotten not to breathe on everyone around me. P.S. One more lovely note...my gentleman friend's video caused both tears and cheers and so, in the loveliest thank you, they played it again at the end of the awards show.

Liveblogging the Gabby Awards: Inside the Merle Reskin Theater (so far)

We've been encouraged to Twitter, so I won't feel a bit of guilt for doing a little liveblogging along the way. I won't partly in awe and protest of "tweet" being word number five at an awards show. So far, Melina Kanakaredes, a co-chair of the event was just as sparkly and articulate as you'd imagine. Lifetime honoree Olympia Dukakis --does it matter how old she is? My God, she's just glowingly gorgeous -- seemed truly honored, which was a sweet surprise. The theater is packed full of more recognizable names and much more pride. (And yes, lots of fabulous footwear I am hoping to capture once the house lights go back up).

Mustering all my immunity and bling for the Gabby Awards

It has been a week of misery, Lysol, honey lemon tea and antibiotics that could take out a plague (at least that is the hope now that it is coursing through my veins). And tonight I am pulling myself up off the couch and into some merciful Spanx to head to the Gabby Awards. Huh?! I know! Who goes from bronchitis hell to a formal affair in a matter of hours? Apparently, a grrrl who has purchased some killer Cha Cha de Gregorio satin heels...and who also is very happy to support a certain someone she's smitten with who produced videos for the big event. So deep breath, lozenges, and red lipstick, darlings. Farewell to germs and hello to an evening to honor Greek Americans (and that talented gentleman I will be sitting next to).

What do you suppose this means?

These four books arrived in the mail for me today. In one box. From one publisher. Unsolicited.

What do you think the universe is trying to tell me? What? WHAT?

And then there was the big, bedazzled divorceabration

There was a lot to celebrate, well beyond the binder full of paper signed off by a stern judge in January and followed by the paragraph of auctioneer-paced legal jargon and ended with, "The marital union is dissolved. Ms. Ashley, good luck."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. It has taken years for the divorce to take place. It has taken a lifetime to get here. What my mom had in mind when she planned this event all came from a silly conversation we had somewhere in all of the muck and the mire. We needed to laugh and so we started talking about all of the sassy, evil, fun, raw, overdone ways we could get together a bunch women to be happy that I was free of everything that made me (and us) cry, rant, unable to sleep or eat for months, lash out, and eventually leave for good.

Maybe a dance-around bonfire to burn the bouquet? Possibly a dinner party to finally crack open the wedding china? A swanky something? A silly soiree? Whatever it was, it was going to be packed full of grrrl power.

It was a good plan, it was the same reason we were laughing so hard when the pain was the greatest. It would be something to look forward to, it would be a break from the binder, it would be a reminder that life would (eventually) go on. That there would be happy dancing somewhere in the great beyond.

 

The only thing I knew for sure was that I'd be wearing my wedding tiara. Mostly as a sparkly "Goodbye, lovahhh, you so pretty and shiny on my head."

We didn't know how fucking long it would take to arrive in that great beyond, but last Friday, it finally arrived. (It hasn't actually taken me this long to recover...I'm just lazy.) If this all sounds a bit too lovely, do know that the name of the whole shebang was nothing but. 

It started with buttons labeled Vamp, Feisty, Lucky and other great tags. My mom said everyone could pick their own. Except me. Since there wasn't Shoe Whore, I was Too Hot. (Thanks, Mama)

 

Yes, my mother insisted we serve this appetizer she enjoyed calling "Cut Your Own Sausage."

Thanks my friend Viola who I met in drama club in high school (go The Crucible senior play!), we called our night of spa-liciousness and drinks...

...wait for it...

[it's after the jump, swearsy]

Before the divorceabration, there was all of this

This weekend, there was a big party that marked a fresh start for me. But before we get into all of that, I thought I would once (and this is it, and this time I mean it) provide some context. Here's the rundown:

In April 1972, I was born. Stop calculating. I'm on the downslope of my 30s.

At some point in 1975, I had my first big crush. His name was Antoine. We called him Twany. His killer afro has a role in many of my preschool memories.

In the fall of 1977, I sat on the circle painted on the floor in my kindergarten class next the boy I assured I would be the stewardess on the plane he was determined to pilot. It's all good -- I was wearing a hot pink Ms. magazine t-shirt.

During the school year of 1983, I went to a sock hop at school. With a boy as my sort of date. We were so nervous, we never did dance together.

In April 1986, I had my first real kiss. He had braces. It was thrilling and sloppy.

In October 1986, I went on my first real date. The boy was 6 good inches shorter than me. Really.

In April 1987, I went on my first date with an older boy. A senior. He spent all of his money on a cab getting to my house since my parents insisted on meeting him before we went out. My dad drove us to Water Tower Place to see a movie and I paid (he should have taken the train) and when I dropped popcorn on my itty bitties, he grabbed it and ate it and laughed. Later he kissed me (much better without braces) and asked me to prom. The prom thing never materialized. I went home both thrilled and mortified.

In November 1988, I went to an all-ages show and met the boy who would become my first real boyfriend. Swoon. I was in love. Big time. I laughed, I sighed, I made mix tapes. It was so good for a moment in time. Until...oh, you know how teen love turns out. [So much more after the jump.]

Ohhh, this boy

I didn't share too many details of my birthday, in part because some semblance of intimacy is good (it's OK to laugh, especially since I've cyber-flashed you all so many times). And in part because I was so swept up in my time with my son that I just wanted to be in the moment. Now, as I look back on the photos from that day, I am more overwhelmed than I was even then.

This kid, with his winks and his determination about what kind of gift he would get me, is just so fully himself.

Those hours that we spent at the Real Pirates exhibit at the Field Museum were so fun. I knelt down in front of the displays and read the story of the sunken slave and pirate ship to him and he leaned into me, listening raptly to every single word. He played tour guide through the mummy and dinosaur exhibits, talking and talking and talking about characteristics of plant eaters versus meat eaters and asking questions about which sarcophagus held which corpse. It was, in all of its inquisitiveness, so fun.

But nothing beat lunch, sitting in our favorite spot so we could see Sue. We went back over each of the rooms and compared favorite parts. Then I pulled out my camera and caught these faces, looks that I see many times a day but speak so much more to me because they were taken on that day.

It's not all perfection and buttercream icing. But on this day, it was as good as it gets. It was as he is and as I am and as we are together. This is the quintessential Lil E at four. 

(See the pics after the jump.)

Dating is hard, y'all

It's not something I discuss here often because I'm still turning over in my head and heart how to merge dating and motherhood. It's difficult to figure out how to write about both of those parts of my life here, and it's even harder negotiating the two in real life.

Plus, I've come to be very good at compartmentalizing. When my son is with his father, that time is mine alone. When my son is in my care, that time goes first to him. I defined these parts of my life with pretty strict boundaries. For a long time, I didn't let any man into my home at all. And in the last few months, I've realized, I didn't really let them fully into my heart either.

But I did what I could. I gave what I could. I was who I could be to the men I've chosen to go out with in the time I've been dating. I offered up as much as I had in the moment to the many men I've been out with -- sometimes that has been too much information and sometimes that has been too little emotional investment.

Yes, I said many men.