Tag Archives: dating

A Girl Has To Have Standards

It was the moment when he reached down into the console of his truck, picked out a used golf tee and started using it as a toothpick that I learned a) to always keep floss in my purse and b) that even though it means that waking up with hummus in my hair is the closest to breakfast in bed that I get, I was meant to be single.

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I would like to think I’ve given the alternative a pretty fair shake — I did the dating scene for a while with the traditional hits and misses — but this particular incident was simply the dirt-covered toothpick that broke this camel’s back.

Plus, I have high standards.

Growing up my crushes always fell into one of two categories—completely unattainable or attainable but not interesting after I attained them.

This wasn’t an issue early on because it’s not like I had that many options. It took me a long time to grow into my nose and grow out my spiral perms, and while I had friends, I wasn’t the “cute” girl in the group.

I was instead the one that was left over and relegated to holding the sweaty hands of the left over boy at the school roller skating parties while Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road” played in the background.

However, I wasn’t all that concerned with that scene, as I had much bigger plans.

I was a tomboy and decided early on that I was going to marry a professional athlete. The crush varied depending on the season, but it usually included me covering my walls with their posters and creating elaborate situations in my head in which I held down the fort at home while they traveled on the road for their games.

At no time did anything sexual enter these situations, as aside from putting my Barbies and G.I. Joe in compromising “mature” situations, those thoughts never crossed my mind. It was simply an infatuation that ran from one player to the next before progressing into Sylvester Stallone through the “Rocky” years—all five films—and then any other action star or famous male with either an accent or a jersey.

I had more realistic crushes in school, of course.

This usually amounted to me reading into a Valentine (that they were required to give everyone in class) as a declaration of love, scribbling their name in my notebook and keeping a stash of assorted flavored Lip Smackers at the ready just in case.

In case of what? I didn’t know, but at least my lips would be strawberry fresh.
Naturally things changed once I got older and declared myself free of the sweaty-palmed rejects and delusions of nabbing a major league lover. As mentioned above, I did the dating thing and decided it wasn’t for me.

Now I’m sure Toothpick Boy was/is a fine companion for some germ-loving gal who doesn’t mind using dirty sports props to pick lettuce out of a molar, but I like my space. I like my freedom. I like knowing that dental procedures won’t be performed with dirt-covered plastic.

Of course, there might be exceptions. I mean, Hot Gym Guy did say, “No thanks” when I offered to spot him as he was walking into the locker room, so there’s a chance that once the restraining order is lifted he might just give it a go!

But otherwise I’m happy just dating myself.

This post came about because of these awesome—as in so much awe that I use the word “awesome”—comments on my Facebook page about a post I wrote for 22 Words awhile ago dealing with ridiculous reasons for breaking up with someone.

Go read the comments. They’re better than this post, but first let me know:

What’s the most ridiculous reason you’ve ever broken up with someone?

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I Just Want To Be Alone

I have an Olympic recap post I was going to put up today, but that will have to wait a day or two. Why? Because remember when I said I have a few cool things coming up to share in the next couple of months?

Well, this book is one of them.

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I didn’t know I could tell you about this already so I’ve been keeping it all to myself—much like my stash of hummus and emotional availability—but it’s now available for pre-order on Amazon. That means I can tell you and you can pre-order it and we can all read the book and laugh and laugh and then live happily ever after.

So what is this book about, you ask?

Since you asked, I can tell you that it’s the second volume in the best-selling “I Just Want to Pee Alone”series that sold almost 25,000 copies since being released in 2013.

But while that one was about motherhood—something I am as knowledgeable about as nuclear fission —this one is about relationships with the opposite sex, something I’m also not qualified to write about but did anyway.

From Amazon:

“Don’t get us wrong, we love the men in our lives – we do (most of the time). It’s just that sometimes we would like them to go away. Not forever or anything like that. Just for an hour … or a day … or a weekend. We want some time to ourselves to read a good book or take a walk or do anything other than try to make a dent in the never ending mound of dirty clothes that keeps piling up on his side of the bed. We just want to be alone. All alone. Is that too much to ask?

‘I Just Want to Be Alone’ is a collection of humorous essays from 37 of the most Super Cool Lady Writers you’ll find on the Web.”

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See? Proof. Great company.

The release date is March 22, but as the handy graphic above indicates, you can pre-order now and then have the anticipation of waiting for the actual day to arrive. It’s like Christmas in March, which isn’t that hard to imagine seeing as we’re in the middle of another freaking Polar Vortex over here.

This winter is never going to end. Ever. Never ever.

And I’ll be sure to remind you of this again in the next couple of weeks, but not in that annoying way that makes you roll your eyes, unsubscribe and watch videos of armadillos dancing to Michael Jackson instead of reading my blog.

Then again, future posts include my plans to retire on game show winnings and an ode to asparagus, so I guess I really wouldn’t blame you.

ABBY HEUGEL in I Just Want to Be Alone

(Thank you to Kim for the graphic about my story.)

My point is that I’m honored and humbled to be in such great company and can’t wait to read all the other essays as well—alone, of course—and I encourage you all to go do the same.

(And then watch videos of armadillos dancing to Michael Jackson because honestly, that crap is great.)

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Ask Abby Anything, Part 2

Welcome to Part 2 in the “Ask Abby Anything” series that makes me feel selfish but that I’m writing because I am a WARRIOR who will do anything to make you people happy. Plus, it’s a holiday week when nobody’s on the Internet so I’m less insecure about such a self-involved post.

So without further ado—nobody likes too much ado—here is Part 2.


“How is it you’re single?  I don’t swing that way, but I do like your warped and twisted sense of humor.”

Yes, I take “warped and twisted sense of humor” as a compliment, which might be why I’m single. Or I’m single because I don’t date. I think that’s kind of how things work. There’s a long history of things that have lead up to this decision, but it boils down to the fact that I’m totally okay on my own.

I wouldn’t completely dismiss the possibility of dating a bit. However, I don’t put much effort into it, so unless this suitor comes to my door selling avocados, I’m pretty much destined for spinsterhood.


“How did you decide on your comfy couch?”

As you probably know, my couch gets me. We spend our weekends and weeknights together. There’s nothing I look forward to more than hanging out with some snacks and reading, writing or watching TV (see “Why are you single?” above.)

When I bought my house I found this one at the second store I went to. It matched my new paint, the ends reclined with foot things that came out and the price was right.  My thinking was that if it was what I liked, there was no point in searching for something better—even though now it’s covered in a blanket to protect it from hairballs.


“Do you have a favorite hummus recipe that you use?”

Yes, it’s really super easy. I get in my car and go to the store, locate the Wild Garden hummus and bring it home to live in my fridge until I stuff it in my face. It’s organic and has only a few ingredients but a bite that I really enjoy (warning though—the jalapeno flavor is WAY spicy.) I thin it a little with water and use it as a dressing for salads a lot.


“Can you ride a unicycle?”

I’ve never actually tried a unicycle, but I rode into both my mom’s rosebushes and a fire hydrant when learning to ride a 2-wheeler and my coordination hasn’t greatly improved from that point, so I’m going to assume that I can’t. (Although maybe I should try—blog fodder!)

But I can still do the splits all three ways and carry 8 bottles of beer at one time (skills mastered while working as a cocktail waitress—don’t ask.) I have talent.


“People keep telling me that when I stop looking for a partner, that is when I will find him. Is this true? If it is true, how does one stop looking?”

I’m no expert (see above) but I never understood people obsessed with finding a husband. Live your own life, create your own happiness and your energy will draw in people who are meant to be in your life.

I might liken it to trying to remember the name of something you forgot. The harder you try and think of it, the slimmer the chance of it popping into your brain. Then one minute you’re in the shower and “BAM!” it comes to you. (Not that a husband is going to appear for you in the shower, but you get my point. I hope. If a husband DOES all the sudden appear for you in the shower, don’t drop the soap. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.)


“Worst job you’ve had?”

I’ve had some crappy jobs, but I would say it was working at a video store in high school. The video cases themselves were always dirty and gross, as were some of the people that came in there for porn. My supervisor was a 40-year-old guy who still lived at home and giggled when saying “Adult Video.”

We were required to wear a white dress shirt, black pants and a necktie. Yes, a tie. Not only was the tie not fashionable for a female, it also wasn’t practical when I had to clean the popcorn maker—scraping out the burned-on artificial butter and caramel syrup while practically hanging myself with the tie.

Eventually smelling like burned popcorn every day and being told I had to work every holiday and holiday eve, I started to want to purposely hang myself with the tie and quit. 


“Where can I buy your books?”

OK. No one asked that, but you can get read about them here and we can wrap up this ridiculously long post. Now I’m going to ask the five people on the Internet this week to entertain me: 

 Worst job you’ve had?

Talking Dirty

If you’re new here, I should tell you that I love my garden and flowers.

The OCD in me takes immense pleasure in dead-heading petunias, picking green beans and pulling out weeds (in both my yard and any other surface that makes me feel twitchy—it’s actually really a curse.)

While Michigan weather is unpredictable, it’s usually a safe bet that you can start planting things any time after Memorial Day, which means we’re getting down and dirty around Chez Abby these days.

But a few trips to the greenhouse and Home Depot combined with my useless need to make puns have enlightened (questionable word choice) me to the fact that the simple act of gardening could also be a great bed to plant the seeds for a budding romance—or at least leaf a good first impression.

So if you’re someone like me whose relationship status is often: “Drunk on allergy medication and just cleaned out the cat’s crap box,” this guide might be just what you need to get down and dirty.

Get Down and Dirty

The most important thing to remember is that no trip to Home Depot (or similar home improvement store that will make you feel like you need all new handles for your cabinets) is official until you loudly proclaim either, “I just want a good stud finder!” or “Where my hose at?”

This establishes your mission—not to simply find tools or get kelp for your yard, but to find someone who will be mowtivated to maybe plant one on you (wink, wink.)

When approached by a possible suitor, be sure to lure them over to the gardening section, as making initial contact around the nails, caulk and nipples is a bit too forward these days—and the puns are entirely too obvious. You’re screwed.

See? Way too obvious.

Once you’ve secured your position in the Garden Center, casually mention that you’re an entre-manure who wants to create Miracle-Gro for small boobs. If they don’t get your humor, move on, as brilliance cannot be wasted on those who can’t till it like it is.

But what’s that, you say? They dug what you said?

Then with the fertile groundwork planted, continue to cultivate the conversation by sharing that although you’re “a bit rough around the hedges, you’re really a kick in the plants” or that you “just finished trimming your bush and are looking for veggies that will ex-seed all your expectations.”

They will probably counter with something that sounds like, “Umm…I’m rooting for you—ha, ha—but I thought you were looking for the aisle that contained cow shit for your garden.” That should be interpreted as, “I think that weed make a great pair.”

But if you’re forced to leave without your stud finder or hose, don’t feel too bad. Remember, it’s the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and at the end of the day, you’re still single and ready to shingle.

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And of course, there’s no place like gnome.

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Thanks again to everyone who has shared and will continue to share—hint, hint—the news about my new book. If you read it and don’t hate it, I would love for you to write an Amazon review. If you hated it, then you probably hate my blog. And raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but that’s okay. Some people are weird. Don’t feel bad.

Anyway, the winner of the Amazon gift card as chosen by random.org is Marie! I’ll send you an email today.

A Match for Martha

I heard that in an interview with Matt Lauer on the “TODAY” show, Martha Stewart, 71, said that she’s had trouble meeting a male friend with benefits and admitted she attempted to (unsuccessfully) join Match.com.

Apparently she loves dating, but the questionnaire seemed impossible and so she’s just going to keep looking on her own.

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Well, I’ve never attempted online dating, but I think I could really help her out with this thing. After all, if weirdo Guy Fieri can find his Gal Fieri, there has to be hope left for Martha.


Username: Martha Stewart

Headline: Lifestyle guru, businesswoman, author, magazine founder and publisher, TV personality and domestic diva seeking companionship and snuggles with someone who appreciates the finer things in life.

Age: A spritely 71

Sign: Leo, which is perfect because I love my Himalayan cats!

Ethnicity: Whitest woman on the planet

Nickname: In prison it was “M. Diddy,” but I would prefer to just go by Martha. Bygones!

Income: Well this is curious! My income range is not represented. No matter. I get by.

Religion: Cleanliness is next to godliness. Also, Dog is my co-pilot. Ha!

Relationships: One ex-husband and several ex-beaus, most notably a software billionaire and Anthony Hopkins, who I had to break it off with after viewing that wretched film, “Silence of the Lambs.” I was unable to avoid associating Hopkins with Hannibal Lecter, a man with absolutely no table manners or sense of proper etiquette.

Children: I’ve had many lovely dogs, cats and horses over the years, but I won’t bore you with those details yet! However, if you’re interested, my two blogging pups, Francesca and Sharkey, have created a photo gallery of all my pets.

Oh, and I have one daughter, Alexis.

Body Type: It depends on what I’m eating, but I prefer an Asti for a light-bodied wine and a Barbaresco for a full-bodied wine.

Celebrity Look-Alike: I’ve been told I could be a mix of that lovely woman who played Murphy Brown (Candice Bergen) and Diane Sawyer.

Smoke: Do you mean salmon? If so, yes. It can make a delightful appetizer when done correctly.

Drink: I love a whiskey sour with fresh juice or a mojito, but it has to be a purple basil mojito and the basil has to be cultivated from my own garden and tended to with painted garden tools.

Hobbies: Anything involving a hot glue gun—decoupage, scrapbooking, creating snow globes out of glass from upcycled chandeliers; knitting blankets from the hair of my prize-winning Chow Chows, baking “green” brownies with my pal Snoop Dogg/Lion out of cupcake tins I’ve created from paperclips and aluminum foil; building a billion-dollar empire and tweeting. I love the Twitter!

Who I’m Looking For: Someone who I can laugh with that knows they can use half a potato to unscrew a broken light bulb. He should love animals, personal transformation and organized bed linens. There’s something incredibly satisfying about opening up the linen closet to see not unholy chaos, but color-coded bundles neatly tied in a bow.

Note: Stockbrokers and actors who have portrayed cannibals need not apply.


I think it’s pretty solid and can only imagine that the men would be lining up.  And if all else fails, I’m pretty sure she could try Craig’s List or get cast on “The Bachelorette.”

Martha might just meet her match.

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Senior Moments: Dating

It’s time for another installment of Senior Moments and the genius that is my 90-year-old grandma. We’re back in the dining room again, but this time the meal is not the center of attention, but rather the lack of a beefcake in my life—a subject that has been brought up on more than two (or 202) occasions.

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Seeing as my grandma was married when she was 18, the fact that I’m 30 and single still baffles her mind. However, at 90 years old, people who refrigerate their perishable items still baffle her mind.

At any rate, I’ll set the scene.

It was me, Gram, a resident we’ll call J and her (single, middle-aged) daughter, B at the table—the usual crew. The nurse doing meds in the dining room was not a crowd favorite, and Gram loudly proclaimed her to be a pain in the ass multiple times throughout the meal. I didn’t tell her to be nice. The nurse is a pain in the ass.

The pain in the ass walked by our table and in a fake smile on her face and told J she was looking nice. Gram looked at her with disgust, picked up her fork and pointed it at J before saying, “That woman can eat shit.”

I grabbed Gram’s arm and did the, “Gram, shush” thing before she dared me to “shush” her again with her death stare usually reserved for ballgames and people trying to take away her mashed potatoes.

“She can eat shit,” Gram continued, keeping her eyes on me before looking back at J, “because J knows she looks nice every day. She doesn’t need that pain in the ass to tell her that.” 

I was glad I didn’t shush her. 

With that she winked at J, set down her fork and proceeded to go on dispensing advice like a Polish Dr. Laura. Apparently two of the young aids were talking to Gram about dating that week, something she felt the need to tell me and B about over her pistachio pudding pie and coffee.

We were told the following things:

  • When I was younger, it was about finding a good Polish man. If you were bored, it was because you were too picky or not trying hard enough. If he’s boring, go bowling with him. There’s nothing boring about bowling. Just remember to let him win once or twice.
  • Don’t be so stubborn. He doesn’t have to look like a movie star or make a lot of money. You don’t want ugly kids, but if you wait too long, you won’t have any kids at all.

B and I met eyes at this, and it’s possible I rolled mine, prompting Gram to say, “Did I mention you by name? Did I say that you’re too old and too picky?” before moving on with a shrug.

  • You have to spice things up. I remember your grandpa would come downstairs while I was doing the washing and bend me over the washing machine. Sometimes I was annoyed, but it never lasted long enough for me to care.
  • If you’re in a car with a man and he starts to get fresh with his hands, tell him to knock it off. If he doesn’t listen, open the door and kick his ass out of the car. Tell him to go find a floosy on the avenue and then take yourself out for ice cream.

With that she returned her focus back to finishing her coffee before leaning over and conspiratorially whispering, “Abby, come here.  You see that woman at the table across from us?”

I looked and saw the same 85-year-old woman that always sat across from us gumming at a cookie.

“Look at how her bra strap is showing and her shirt is falling down,” Gram said with disgust, wiping her hand on her John Deere “clothing protector” before continuing. “Men don’t find that attractive. It’s sloppy. Take note of that.”

“I don’t think she even knows it’s showing Gram, as her oxygen tube probably moves her shirt around,” I said, not adding that an 85-year-old woman was probably not trying to snag a man when she couldn’t even snag a pea with a fork.

“That’s no excuse,” Gram said with a scoff. “She looks cheap.”

A male aid walked up and wheeled the senior slut away, providing an opportunity for Gram to tell me that when she was my age, “Well, I would have been married for 12 years at that point, but if I wasn’t, I would sink my clamps into that beefcake.”

Drained of the will to argue much more or explain that the definition of “beefcake” for  a 30-year-old woman in 2011 wasn’t a homosexual male nurse with bigger boobs than my own,  I simply looked at her and felt a wave of affection wash over me.

“Gram, come here,” I whispered conspiratorially. “I love you.”

She turned to me and with said with a sigh, “Abbuchucka, I love you so much that it hurts.”

She was quiet for a moment before adding, “Then again, that might just be gas from the crap that I ate.”

With that I gave her a kiss, smoothed back her hair and told her I had to head home. She gave me the standard warning to be careful and not pick up any strange men.

“Then again,” she said with a wink, “maybe you should just take what you can get.”

Well played, old woman, well played.

Let’s Plan My Mid-life Crisis

My 30th birthday is next month and before you ask, no, I do not have any wild and crazy plans to commemorate this momentous occasion. I love celebrating birthdays—or random Wednesdays—but I’m not into celebrating my own.

So now that I’ve put the kabosh on the surprise party you had planned for me, let’s move on to the bigger issue—the midlife crisis I am planning.

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For the record, I do not plan on growing an Afro.

I’m not sure who decided that 50 was the age when it a midlife crisis was expected to happen.  That’s being awfully presumptuous, as not that many people  live to be 100 and have Williard Scott  put their picture on the side of a Smucker’s jelly jar, butcher their name and wish them a Happy Birthday.

Considering my propensity for falling up stairs and landing on the one needle in a haystack, I’ll be lucky to make it to 50. So even though I don’t want to tempt fate, I’ve optimistically decided to be proactive and use 30 as my mid-life marker.

If I make it to 60, then I can look back at how I was able to accurately cash in on the whole thing. If I make it past 60, then I’m really considered and overachiever and everything else is just icing on the (birthday) cake.

It makes perfect sense to me, but then again, so does only buying clothes that will never need ironing.

Anyway, I’ve been doing a little observational research, and I’ve found that in order to have this mid-life crisis I’m supposed to do one or all of the things listed below. I haven’t quite worked out the details yet, but your suggestions would be most appreciated as soon as possible.

After all, I’m not getting any younger.

Midlife Crisis To-Do List

While purple is my favorite color, I need to adopt a love of yellow and buy expensive yellow things. My research has shown that yellow sports cars and yellow motorcycles are the most common thing to purchase with money the mid-lifer doesn’t have.

I’m not into cars, but that’s okay because I’ve also noticed that yellow hair is an acceptable substitute. Male or female, yellow or platinum blond hair that previously wasn’t is a sure sign of youth and sends nothing but “I’m not having a midlife crisis and dying my hair out of desperation” vibes.

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I’ve been platinum before, so this is an option to consider once again.

Change of Scenery

Through my research I’ve found that if I really want to do this crisis right, I have to quit my job and book a flight to Tanzania to climb Kilimanjaro. Despite semi-stable employment (and the possibility of additional car payments and salon visits,) I should throw caution to the wind and become one with an extreme challenge in a foreign country.

If I’m lucky and make it to the top, platinum blond hair blowing in the wind, this will evidently prove that I am still a free spirit and physically capable of pushing myself past the boundaries of normal people my age. This would probably be more impressive if I was actually of AARP status and not only 30, so it’s possible I should hold off on this until that point.

Hook It Up

I need to have an affair with someone either much older or much younger than me, and I’m torn about which way to go with this one.

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If I go the cougar route and rob the cradle, I most certainly benefit from the physical aspects of this relationship. Plus, parading him out in public would be a nice boost to my ego.

However, if I rob the wealthy retirement home, I benefit from the Sugar Daddy aspectand physical demands would be limited to feeding him mechanically processed oat bran with a silver spoon and wiping his chin.

Both are probably looking for someone to take care of them, meaning I’ll most likely opt for my continued unrequited love affair with several professional athletes and Daniel Tosh.

Or get a plant.

Crisis Conclusion

I suppose another option is just to embrace my entrance into mid-life and complain about the weather, pretend not to hear people, go to bed early, choose veggies over beer, glare at loud children, refuse to join Twitter/gripe about how I miss “real” books and conversation, clip coupons every Sunday and then blog about all these mundane daily events in an attempt to keep my questionable sanity.

Oh crap.

It seems I’m ahead of my time…