Now that the shitty events of 2012 are nearly behind me and I’ve written the obligatory farewell-cruel-year post, I’d like to get back to the topic that propelled me to start this blog: men. I started and stopped several blogs before I settled on this one; for example, The Accidental Sugar Mama. It was an appropriate title, but given that the relationship had no chance of longevity, I knew it was somewhat self-limiting; however accurate. Then again, perhaps not so accurate given that he was ten years older, rather than younger, and suffered from erectile dysfunction. The leech has written me several nice notes regarding the events of the past year, some of which I acknowledged. That doesn’t make him any less of a dick. And it doesn’t make me any less of a dolt for behaving like a sugar mama without receiving the appropriate tit for tat (or tat for tit), so to speak.

Since the end of that relationship, I’ve led a fairly solitary life. There has been interest, but only that which is unrequited. Take my neighbor: 15 years younger, Jewish, and looking for the mother of his children. Yet he has expressed to mutual friends that he’d like to go motor-boating in my cleavage. (Can you tell I’ve only now learned about links? What fun!)

As younger men are wont to be, he is more technologically inclined than I. So on more than one occasion, he has assisted me in hooking up and utilizing various of my electronic toys. (No, not those electronic toys.) I repay him with Prosecco. On one night, he expressed interest in a little something more.

“Mack (my ex) is not the only man who’s good in bed,” he trolled.

“You’re looking for a woman who will give you babies,” I said.

“Not tonight,” he replied, smarmily.

I shooed him out the door with a kiss on the cheek.

Lately I’ve been spending a little time with a boy (now, a man) with whom I went to high school. I’ll call him Dan. Dan is recently divorced after 28 years of marriage. We reconnected on Facebook. We met for the first time over a year ago. Actually, in his case it was re-met, since he remembered me from high school. Apparently we lived in the same neighborhood, only streets apart. He was a Future Farmer of America. This means he raised cows and sold them for slaughter at the Houston Livestock Show. I smoked pot and hugged trees. And football players. You can see why I don’t remember him.

Turns out, Dan didn’t grow up to be a cow-slaughtering farmer, after all. He’s a lawyer. (I know there’s a lawyer joke in here somewhere, but when we got sworn in we had to take an oath to not tell them.) Although Dan still slaughters animals (he hunts), we do seem to have a bit more in common than we did in high school. So for networking purposes, I agreed to meet him for happy hour. I was on the tail end of my relationship with Mack, who insisted that, rather than networking, it was a trial date. I will allow it was refreshing to have drinks with a man who knows how to select a bottle of wine and has a job that enables him to pick up the check now and again. I had a nice time with him. And have had a nice time with him on several occasions since. But it’s all very ambiguous, for both of us seemingly. Which is fine by me. It’s all irrelevant, however, since he’s allergic to cats. Which is like saying that if I’ve slept with more people than he has, he can’t date me. (Of course I’ve slept with more people than he has–he was married for 28 years. And he was an animal-slaughtering farmer.) Doomed from the start, we were. But he’s great at parties. He even helps me clean up. So as a friend, he’s golden.

So where does that leave me currently? Ah, yes. I’m in the process of taming a stray black cat. Following which, I will live with three black cats. So unless the men I meet are cat lovers or warlocks, I’d imagine I will continue to be on my own for years to come.

Lucky for you, that could mean some entertaining stories in the future. Stories that involve cleavage motor-boating and ambiguous cow-slaughterers.

2013 is going to be a good year for this bachelorette. Here’s to returning to my blogging roots. Cheers!

P.S. I’ve made a dirty double-entendre with the title.