Chapter Twelve

A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall

When I was a Cub Scout in the 1960s we sometimes took very long bus trips—at least they seemed long for boys who experienced most of their travels on Schwinn bikes. On these monotonous bus trips we sang the youthful ancient mariner songs to make the miles pass faster. One of our favorites was 100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. We started enthusiastically, the entire Cub pack, strong voiced and full of confidence. As the bottles fell off the wall one by one, the strength of our song diminished, and one bored scout after another dropped out. There were always one or two youngsters who kept going until a fellow scout, aggressively interrupted the still-singing stragglers with a new tune, and the repetitive youthful bravado began again to a song such as “Walking down Canal Street knocking on every door. I will be a son of a bitch if I can find a whore. Finally found…”

For me, finding a new soul mate was like counting those beers falling off the wall. So many times I wanted to quit singing and not go on. Maybe I was always the last one still singing before a new song arrived.

After my wife died, my coworker and friend, Richie, and I would hang out and dream about our futures. I was a widower and he a recent divorcee. After each date I went on, and shared with him, he would say, “Dude, you expect too much.” I would explain to Richie that if I was going to do this again, I would want it all or nothing—always emphasizing the selfish word “want.” “Dude,” I said, “I’m not settling. I want an adventurous woman who will scuba dive, hike glaciers to deserts, and travel to remote places, an accomplished skier who loves to enjoy the outdoors. I want a woman who’s passionate and loves sex as much as I do and who doesn’t make me feel “dirty” when I want a raw quickie, innovative, or timeless sex. So many of my dates placed outcomes or requirements with each sex act. I want a woman who’s a good mother and whose children are nice. I want a woman who’s accomplished in a career. I want an opinionated woman who’ll give me “shit” back. I want a woman who will open new doors to topics I don’t know anything about. I want a partner who’ll grow with me, love me for who I am, and look at life through the same lens as I do.

“Okay, Dennis, have fun searching,” Richie would say, his tone implying that my expectations weren’t realistic.

Search isn’t the proper word to use in my pursuit of a new partner. I think “career” is more apt. My cousin Craig and I were going through simultaneous life changes. Recently divorced, Craig observed that I took on the task of finding a new partner the same way I performed my job. I’m a construction engineer, expediter, manager, and creator. I used every ounce of thirty-five years’ professional management experience to make my search for a new life mate successful, and yes, I took this on as a job that I’d pursue devotedly till the love drug filled my veins again.

I’d had a truly fantastic marriage with Hope. Like a habit-forming drug, I missed it and longed for it. I was going through the heebie-jeebies of withdrawal. I needed the companionship drug to fulfill my mind and soul.

My dating escapades were the target of jokes from friends and family. I became their entertainment. My sons, in judgment and non-acceptance, either ignored or frowned upon my endeavors and my “new friends.”

Let’s examine the things I did—perceived as ridiculous—to score the love drug. I used bullet points to keep track, just as I would at work to manage a project. After all it was my new career!

Dating Websites

Engage in two to four dating websites at any one time: Match.Com, JDate, Adventure Singles, Widow.com and others.

When truly desperate for a woman with shared fantasies of intimacy, I explored Ashley Madison^[1] and Seeking Arrangements. I tried Tinder, but I guess my matches never ignited anyone.

Profiles, Interests, Likes, Dislikes

I wrote one profile after another trying to score the perfect match or sex partner depending on which site I was using. Friends and relatives offered expert suggestions except on “alternative” websites that I kept secret. I often wonder how they would have written those bios.

No responses.

What am I doing wrong?

I’m a great guy.

Too forward.

Not forward enough.

Do I seem like a jerk?

Am I too short? Should I lie about my height? No, I hate women who lie to me and run fast from them for the slightest infraction or perception of lying.

Taking pictures became a passion as the seasons changed, I lost weight, I sorted specific responses, posted to websites, etc. Beach scenes, dress shirts, no shirt, shorts, casual, formal, skiing, hiking, with my children, etc. I tried them all. A number of women said I looked much better in person. One said, “You’re very cute, not like your picture.”

How do I portray my cuteness? I deemed I wasn’t photogenic, and if I didn’t find Ms. Right soon I’d need a professional photographer to make me look like the real me.

As for photography, many women used false photos of themselves. Several stand out most.

I traveled one hour to meet this dream girl. Everything on her profile beamed Ms. Right, but when I met her it turned out she was much older than her picture, which was taken over ten years prior. What was she thinking? Or was she desperate, like so many of us, unhappy to be alone?

Another was a woman on one of the “alternative sites.” A beautiful photo adorned her page. When I met her she was many—I mean many—pounds heavier. I had never dated a woman much heavier than I. She turned out to be delightful and we had a fun evening as I erased a misguided prejudice.

Another woman posted a picture that was so cute and suburban, just like a woman I could hug in a movie theater for a lifetime. When we met, my eyes bulged out of their sockets in disbelief, like a cartoon character. Then I uttered, “You don’t look anything like your picture.”

She was deeply hurt. I found a way to recover and apologize. We actually sat down and had dinner for an hour. It turned out she’d had her photo digitally “enhanced.” She also ran dating-website seminars. I guess I was one of her test subjects.

Write cooing first emails to entice the bird of the other sex to respond.

How many other birds did I have to fight off for that “beauty” in the photo?

Did I get there first?

Why don’t they like me?

Please, I want to meet you.

Spending countless hours trying to sort through the hundreds of profiles and emails.

Two to three dates, meetings, interviews… a week from the websites, bars, causal meetings, blind dates, etc.

Where do we meet?

Too far to travel? Limit distances by profile.

Bar and scene hopping one to two nights a week when not dating.

Weekends out to 5:00 am with no curfew, acting just like a drunken college kid. Yes, we still get the “icks”^[2] at fifty-four years of age after an inebriated experience we wish not to remember.

I could add much more to this list, but I’ll spare you the boredom. My kids thought I’d lost it. Their dad was a teenager and they were my parents. Each month I tormented them with a new “She’s the one and I’m in love.” They laughed at me and with me, and lambasted me as close friends do. Like parents, they refrained from giving advice except at the junctures when it was most needed. We forged a new understanding of our relationship during this period. They were no longer my children but my equals and dear friends as we exchanged sound advice.

I had met some wonderful women in this process. One stands out. She was kind, considerate, intelligent, and fun, but after a few months I knew it wasn’t right. She gave me this insight to keep on searching: “You must date over a hundred women to find the one,” she said. She too was on a quest and was not giving up. The rabbi I met in the hospital, and to whom I dedicated this book, was correct in saying that every meeting had a purpose. That wise woman ended up marrying one of my friends. As for me, I kept on singing One Hundred Bottles of Beer ….

Almost every date, short-term relationship, bar scene, one-night stand, or “alternate” experience ended with heartbreak. Wishing I was dead, feelings of utter emptiness, hatred of the world—why me, what did I do to deserve this? I’m ugly, I am mean and a terrible person, I’m too nice, I should give up and just live alone for the remainder of my life—pervaded my soul.

If not for Betty Hill Crowson—our counselor since the beginning of Hope’s illness—and the Divine, I think I might have committed suicide. So many times I just wanted to end the misery and dreamt of putting a shotgun to my mouth as Kurt Cobain had done. I would play Nirvana’s unplugged album, especially the song Man Who Sold the World as my dreams alternated between death and future hope. Oh, the inner torment that drives such selfish fantasies that would impart an even deeper hurt to my children, already aching from their mom’s recent passing.

I wanted—no, needed—that drug of companionship, trusted friendship, and deep love. My dealer was nowhere to be found, I was in withdrawal, and was doing cruel, stupid things. I was destroying myself and everyone around me, as addicts inflict pain on those near to them. Twice I had to swear off alcohol for the disgusting things it caused me to say and do. I apologized to everyone I hurt and wronged when I was drunk and stupid or just plain sober and even more stupid.

I thank the Divine for being there or this book would not have been written. Instead my ashes would have been scattered around the lake as Hope’s were. Often I wanted my ashes to mingle in the copper-tinted waters of Otis Reservoir, the lake my home overlooks in Massachusetts, so my addiction could be satisfied in a different way. I couldn’t find peace in this way of life, and death was a form of peace I contemplated. Just as my Hole Heart was resigned to always being Hole, my friend decided I had earned a reprieve.

What reprieve? It haunts me still. When Hope’s death was certain, I was with some friends a few weeks before she passed. I boasted that after Hope’s death I would be free to live again and to experiment with women. I felt I had been denied years of pleasure during her illness and had earned my right to experiment after three decades of marriage. The Divine, after Hope’s death, gave me what I wished for that night in women—tall, short, skinny, fat, young, older, Asian, Black, Hispanic, Indian, blond, brunette, etc. Like all the genie-in-the-bottle jokes, be careful of your last wish, for it may be misconstrued.

My friend watched me with utter glee as one watches a cut worm writhe, trying to make it onto the grass before the sun dries the body, to grow whole again. Isn’t it truly amazing how a worm can grow whole from half a body? I found out we mortals can too.

 

 

^[1]    Ashley Madison was recently hacked. I received an email that if I didn’t pay a specified website the information would be released to my friends, wife, and the entire world. I laughed with glee knowing my book would do the same for free!

 

^[2]    “Icks” is slang for disgust. Growing up, we used it for disgust for oneself or another, a date, or even food.