I might sound like Andy Rooney, Maxine, or just an aging cantankerousaurus, but why do things stick when they aren’t supposed to and don’t when they should? It’s kind of like relationships.

Maybe it’s because I’m getting older, but when things are in my hands, they tend to fall out. And sometimes I stand there, witnessing the mess to come, as I look down at these rebellious little paws of mine, unable to make my fingers respond in time.

Sometimes it’s the milk carton, or my keys, something breakable, or just about anything. Maybe there’s a Poltergeist that follows me around (that’s what I get for performing séances in my teenage years).

I’m sure that I am not alone, but I struggle with the plastic bags in the produce section at Safeway. I think we all do and I don’t know if anyone else does this, but I always look around to see if anyone is watching as I turn the bag upside down to make sure that I have the right end, praying to the polyethylene Gods, rubbing fruit-lessly to get the edge to unstick so that I can put my produce inside the bag. Every time this happens I’m sure that I can hear the hysterical laughter of the ghost of Alan Funt hovering above me. SMILE!

Call me OCD, but I will pull and peel until my fingers cramp. I refuse to play a new CD until every bit of that sticky covering is completely gone. (I’m older, ok? And I still buy CDs, iPod people.)

I love cosmetics and admittedly have way too many of them. I guess I’m looking for the elusive perfect color, you know, like the elusive perfect guy or butterfly of love?

So maybe it’s my penance, but when I buy a new tube of lipstick or an eyeliner that has those perforated lines in the plastic packaging, I cringe because they never tear the way that they’re supposed to. They are certainly not good for my mood and really bad for the environment. Biodegradable does not mean “after a seagull swallows it, chokes on it, and throws it up.”

And is it me or are they now making toothbrushes that don’t stand up on the counter and roll over into your sink, sticking to everything? Make it easy on us and make the damn bottom flat. We don’t all have designer toothbrush holders.

The clasps on my jewelry stick. Either that or my paws don’t work anymore. I’ll look in the mirror (which makes it worse because everything is backwards) and squeeze the clasp hard until it finally opens, frantically grabbing the O-ring on the opposite side before the clasp snaps shut (I never get this the first or second time, but I’ve increased my word power by inventing my own quasi-Italian profanity).

Now I understand why they’re now making jewelry with elastic. Older people like elastic (especially in pants so we can breathe when our stomachs stick out).

Oh, and the best one of all? Packing peanuts that stick to the sides of garbage cans, rugs, hair, and (almost) everything else. What is it with this annoyingly co-dependent Styrofoam that just won’t let go? When I try to grab the last one, it jumps away like some sort of psychic electrostatic bean on a mission that sticks to everything but my little clutching hand.

I was shopping the other day at my favorite department store (for another tube of lipstick). It’s a ritual for me. The higher-end stores put their tubes in boxes, so you don’t have to mess with the plastic. And they have the cleanest bathroom in the mall. It’s also the most psychic.

I took a deep breath as I entered the stall (because you all know how much I hate that experience). I just walked in and I wasn’t anywhere near the seat or the handle or the little senso button on the toilet, but it knew I was there and flushed all by itself, making me jump backwards, drop my purse, and bang into the door.

Ok, Alan, I know you’re in here!

Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo

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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

The Legend of a Modern-Day Cowboy

People tell you all you need to know about them within the first twenty-four hours. On our first date, an ex-boyfriend told me that he was a pathological liar. It was the only time he ever told me the truth.
With the weekend fast approaching, I accept a “safe” date from an older man whose online photos look acceptable, but not outstanding. During our first phone call, he admits that he is merely looking for an occasional date, nothing serious or sexual. I don’t expect anything more than a quick dinner and superficial conversation on a Saturday night. His name brings up images of an old-time gunslinger and I can’t imagine ever screaming it out loud in the heat of passion, so I feel safe.
His moves are slow and deliberate as he makes his entrance into the restaurant, like a reticent cowboy pushing his way through the wooden doors of a Wild West saloon in a spaghetti western. I’m expecting George Burns, but as oxymoronic as it might sound, at sixty-two this guy is a hottie. He’s attractive, engaging, and has a delightfully dry sense of humor. He tells me that he’s not very deep and that he doesn’t care much about the truth. I giggle like a hormonally charged teenager. I assume he’s teasing. He’s not.
Call it journalistic curiosity or romantic masochism, but I want to know more. As a child I used to stick bobby pins in electrical outlets and swallow jacks if this helps my case. He admits to four marriages, cheating, being in recovery, and walking out on a diabetic date as she was giving herself an insulin shot in the restroom. I’m still there and the thought of backpedaling out the back door hasn’t entered my mind. This guy might not be boyfriend material, but he’s quite an interesting character. And how can I drown in such shallow waters?
He seems fascinated by the fact that I’m a writer and can hold a conversation. He slowly leans across the table, hanging on my every word. All the time I’m wondering if he might be surgically enhanced, maybe nipped and tucked or tucked and rolled at his age. Regardless, this salt-and-peppered, baby-blue-eyed stranger has my attention. He excuses himself for a restroom break and I notice the physique, 44-inch chest (so he says) with the rest fully packed. I’m starting to feel a little weak in the knees.
The evening ends with a long, passionate kiss. He seems smitten and asks to see me again. I tell him to give me a call. This is my sorry attempt at being coy. We meet for coffee the next day. Later that week, he arrives at my door with three yellow roses and an umbrella that he has designed, a Star Wars version with a shaft that lights. He looks like he stepped out of the AARP edition of GQ magazine. I’m enjoying the attention and slowly forgetting the twenty-four-hour rule, along with my name. My toe is in the water now, but I have no idea how strong the riptides are.
By the end of the week, he is hinting about intimacy, although his profile is still online and he admits to his addiction to looking at women. He asks me to meet his son, an adorable seven-year-old who writes music and counsels his dad on the inappropriate use of profanity. I’m starting to think that I might have more in common with the seven-year-old and start backpedaling. He feels me slipping away, reluctantly closes his online profiles, professes his feelings, and asks for an exclusive relationship. The knees go out from under me.
The following week is glorious. Although he is a busy and quite elusive fellow with a very full plate, I’m uncharacteristically content to be the appetizer. He tells me how he prefers sleeping and vacationing alone and for some reason I ignore the inherent warnings and distancing techniques. In order to earn my trust (his words), he admits to covert behavior, undercover work, under the covers work, and dishonest business dealings. By this time, I’m starting to have Mafia nightmares and worry that my friends might be seeing my picture on the back of a milk carton. Like any normal, red-blooded (and wants to keep it) woman would do, I start to ask a few questions after some unexplained disappearances and obvious omissions.
“I don’t answer to anyone,” he says coldly and dismissively. (Exit stage left.)
Someone recently asked me why I would start a relationship that I knew would end. All of them end sometime, I thought. Ok, so I’m guilty. But something tells me that I am not alone. I’ve read all the self-help books and find myself confused. Is it about Getting the Love You Want, Keeping the Love You Find, or Mind, Find (or Hard-to-Find) and Bind? I’m out of my mind.
Sometimes I am like the bull with the matador. I run toward the red flags instead of away from them. I’ve side-stepped psychological landmines, been attracted to bad boys, seen my flaws mirrored in my partner, and noticed the similarities between my dates and my Dad. I could always find the bent needle in the haystack. But with the years passing and the pool of available men quickly evaporating, where does one draw the line?
At this age, it is obvious that I need to make better choices and ones that aren’t motivated by the fear of being alone on a Saturday night. This sixty-two-year-old cowboy should have kept his gun in his holster. I should have stuck to my guns and remembered the twenty-four-hour rule. Or, like that little girl years ago with a fascination for electrical outlets, who walked away with a pouty lip and blackened fingers, I might end up with bruised feelings and a broken heart.
Copyright 2008 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

The show supports a guy having multiple women. Brigham Young, bring ‘em on.
Think about it. Twenty-five women and one guy. All televised. Big ratings. Hell, I was riveted every Monday night.
Knowing how I am, I put myself in the position of one of the twenty-five, seemingly lobotomized (but beautiful, if not surgically enhanced) women. Not only is he is dating me, but he is checking out twenty-four other women and I have to agree to live with these gals and watch my potential husband take them out, kiss them, and spend the night with them.
In the real world, if this were happening, no woman in her right mind would put up with this, let alone let the rest of the world watch her be so stupid. Let’s face it. Women are competitive and territorial. We are.
So there has to be another catch (or not). Maybe the contenders are hoping they don’t get chosen so that they might be the next Bachelorette and karmically put twenty-five guys through the ringer. Or perhaps it’s just for the notoriety and exposure.
Speaking of rings (and exposure), how about rocks? In “Rock of Love,” Bret Michaels, an over forty-something rock star bachelor, drags a gaggle of overexposed, inflated, and double-cleavaged females through the mud (and his bedroom), and finally selects one lucky girl. He is on his third, so what happened to the other two? The first makes cameo appearances on his subsequent shows and helps him decide on the new girls. (Yes, I watch this stuff like a bad accident.)
And there are shows about a bisexual models looking for love (not fair at all, it doubles her chances, doubles her pleasure, and doubles her fun). And bisexual twins who might choose someone the other one wants (is blood really thicker than…?).
Only one couple has made it through the “Bachelor”/”Bachelorette” ordeal (Trista and Ryan) and are a couple of kids along in their marriage. She was shunned in “The Bachelor,” became “The Bachelorette,” and after being burned, caught herself a hot fireman (who actually turned out to be a nice guy).
So this latest bachelor, single father Jason Mesnick, seemed like a really good guy too. He was devastated on the last “Bachelorette” and the world wished he had been picked, wanted him back, and desperately wanted to watch him get lucky in love and live happily ever after. Long story short (really short), he chose the girl we all wanted him to pick, proposed, spun her around enough to make me throw up, joyously jumped in the pool with her and his mini-me-three-year-old son to celebrate, and six weeks later broke up with her on national TV because there wasn’t any chemistry anymore. Then he begged for a chance with the girl he didn’t pick. WTF?
Are we buying this? You couldn’t pay me enough to allow a guy to break up with me in front of the whole world. Not at twenty-five and not even at fifty-five. And the originally shunned bachelorette number two with the crazy eyes actually said, “Sure, let’s give it a shot,” which gives credence to my lobotomy theory. Yes, there would be a shot (with a Colt .45), but not another freaking date.
The rejected fiancée is now spinning herself around on “Dancing with the Stars,” so I guess “reality” recovery happens in warp time.
Like Mulder, I want to believe. We all do. It’s romantic when two people, destined to be together, find each other in this world. If we have to live voyeuristically and vicariously, safely wrapped up in our robes at home, then so be it. But something tells me that if I turn off my television set, get dressed, and go out, I might have a better chance of finding love myself.
Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m turning into one of those crotchety old people. I don’t know. I seem to have lost my patience these days, with dating (or trying to) and other things, even the incidentals of life.
While doing my laundry the other day, I found myself wrestling with my hangers. They were all tangled together, defiantly refusing to comply with my wishes to untangle. I pulled and pulled and finally catapulted them across the room in frustration. And, of course, there was more than one of my socks that had gone missing again. But with my mood, I guess I would have taken cover too. I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself, but couldn’t quite get there. (Where is my Ativan?) Read the rest of this article »

Most of us know that Clint Eastwood has a place in Carmel called Mission Ranch. When he won the Oscar for “Million Dollar Baby,” he even gave the folks there (which included me from time to time) an honorable mention.
I like going there because, instead of feeling like I could babysit most of the kids in the bar, I am one of the youngest people there. Mission Ranch is definitely for the more mature crowd, but it is not for the faint of heart.
My friends and I have to plan this event in advance. We put on our pumps and get ready to line up our chairs for the show. They drink tea, but I typically order my Manhattan (which I’ll definitely need as my possible future flashes before me in this has-to-be-dimly-lit lounge).
One of my friends won’t sit at the piano bar. In fact, she won’t sit at any bar. It has to be a table. Maybe she doesn’t want people to know why she is really there (anxiously eyeing the door while waiting for Clooney). I don’t care. A seat is a seat to me. The closer the better for seeing, but the further away for some of the shrieks that come from the open mike and sometimes the piano player. The place is packed with once-successful singers, has-beens, and wannabes.
One older man has a pretty good voice, but he sings the same song every time I have ever been there (“They Call the Wind Mariah”). It’s the time I excuse myself and ride like the wind for the bathroom or, if I smoked and would consider starting if this guy kept singing, a very long ciggie break). Typically, this starts the show.
Ok, so I am not always the youngest one in the place. Enter the gold-diggers in their baby-doll tops and their mules (shoes to start with). They carefully scope out the sights, strategically eyeing the salty-haired (and most likely traveling and married) golfers leaning against the bar. The giggles and leans begin and we watch the cleavage, the connections, and the switches. Hopefully they will leave with a mule of their own, at least for the night.
With a ringside seat, we watch a cougar slither in. She sidles up to a seventy-something gentleman at the piano bar and soon she is leading him to the dance floor as they laugh and begin fondling one another. Obviously they know each other? Probably not. And the dancing (or whatever you want to call it) begins.
The cougar’s bling-laden paws are sliding up and down the backside of her hopeful and suspecting prey. He looks like he likes it because he is now grabbing her rear end enthusiastically. We are ready to gag, but we can’t stop watching. It’s like driving past a bad accident and you just can’t help but look. It’s an unexpected, X-rated show.
The music stops, but they don’t. But don’t blink. The cougar now moves on to another toupeed-Tommy and starts the process again. It’s “That 70’s Show” for real. It’s a mate-and-switch. It’s swinging seniors. And it scares me.
If I stay single for the next twenty years, is this my inevitable future? Will I be hanging out at Mission Ranch (will Clint still be alive?), will I be wearing all the rings I own, and will I be grinding on a not-so-sexy centenarian? And are those kids in the other bars looking at me the same way that I am looking at these ranch hands? Just shoot me now.
A high-pitched squeal from the mike shocks me out of my future tripping. This is one time that I would rather hear anyone calling the wind Mariah than thinking that I might end up this way.
I snap out of it and pull my gaze away. The gold-digger at the bar has definitely hooked one.
Then in walks a botox-lipped, very busty blonde in a low-cut, overflowing halter top. Every male head (yes, both heads on each guy in the place) turns her way. The testosterone level goes up and even the Viagra-enabled are standing at attention.
She can’t move her mouth very much, but she manages to whisper a few words into the ear of a guy who has quickly established his position in her path. She leans in as he flushes an adolescent shade of pink. She smiles (or tries to) and he moves closer.
And within a matter of minutes, she breaks his heart, shatters his fantasy, and leaves him in her wake as she moves on to the next. In the meantime, I’m wondering if I should dye my hair and try myself out as a blonde (I think I have a halter top like that).
Something tells me that Clint is somewhere in the background directing these vignettes. But I don’t want to stay to see the ending of “They Call the Blonde Mariah.”
Copyright 2009 Robyn Justo
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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is living, breathing, and learning the new rules of dating over 40. Experienced, but by no means an expert, she shares the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life on the Monterey Peninsula. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of dating later in life. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Robyn also occasionally hosts local social events for those brave-hearted single folks who actually have the courage to come out of the house.

My comments and opinions have been rather brutal regarding dating sites, but I have always secretly hoped to hear one of those success stories (something I could personally relate to and not a contrived Eharmony infomercial showing those goofy people who look like brother and sister and probably are).

So let me start at the beginning. Read the rest of this article »

Sometimes we are better off not knowing some things. Take high cholesterol, for instance. I was doing fine until a few years ago when I was told that mine was off the charts and that I would need to take drugs to get it down (translation: immediately age twenty years and inherit the energy level of an avocado), change my diet (translation: become a rabbit), and exercise more (translation: on second thought, become the Energizer rabbit). It was counterproductive.

Here are their rules:
1. Never eat or drink what you want again or you will DIE (there go my Manhattans, my half and half with my coffee, chocolate, desserts, prime rib, Caesar salads, gelato, scones, butter… and the list goes on). Read the rest of this article »

Years ago, I had a reading from a Vedic astrologer who told me that I might have a difficult time settling down (there’s that settling word again) because I needed to have a connection on all levels with a partner.

Ah, the perfect world. Who wouldn’t want someone who could match us intellectually, spiritually, and physically and could make us laugh and also be our confidante with whom we could shop and share our most vulnerable secrets while wearing our flannel pajamas? Read the rest of this article »

So I have a few questions. Who does a shrink go to when they have a problem or an issue? Do they work it out themselves or do they go to another doc? And does everyone have an annoying little psychic, Tinkerbell-wannabe angel that sits on their shoulder or is it just me?I discovered the answer to these questions the hard way. As much as I hate to admit that this is one more of those stories from online dating hell, it is. But I always seem to have resilience and a short memory of all who have come before and I tend to see (or try) to see the good in folks. Read the rest of this article »

I was a gregarious child. I used to dance with my belly before I could walk and when I could finally maneuver on two legs, I would grab any unsuspecting human close to my size, shake them, and make them dance with me.My first best friend was my neighbor, Michael Casey. We were together constantly. This was perhaps why a lot of my friends are men now. I entered kindergarten at 4.5 years old and had my first boyfriend named Brian for two years. He was very polite, wore a bow tie, and played the violin. Mom reminded me that I brought him to my birthday party in a headlock. Read the rest of this article »

Matters of the heart can sometimes be literal. So when I tell my doc that I am tired all of the time and that my heart is “hurting,” she suggests an anti-depressant.

“I’m not depressed,” I say, with a note of defiance in my voice. “My chest feels tight, I’m out of breath when I walk, and my heart hurts.” (Ok, I haven’t had a good date in a while, which might depress the average girl, but this is different.) Read the rest of this article »

I’m a sales manager in my alter-ego life and, like Pavlov’s dog, have been trained to respond to business cards. I was having breakfast with one of my employees a few weeks ago when I looked up and noticed a very handsome (and vaguely familiar) man sitting by himself nearby. He was smiling and nudging a business card to the end of his table, so I took the bait, wagged my tail, and approached. Read the rest of this article »

Overstock.com must have had a run on Italian men. Or maybe it’s because I secretly wished for the passion that seemed to be missing in my life and it’s always a sure way to share my love of red wine.

So I agree to meet a guy from Italianpeoplemeet.com. Yes, that is really the name of the dating site even though not all of the participants are of Mediterranean descent. I smile as I say it with my best Italian accent, “Italian-a-people-a-meet-a.” He lives a few hours away, so I wonder why he picked me, but he tells me that he has a sales territory here. Hmmm. My mind immediately goes to the old “port in the storm” theory. But I’m a curious cookie nonetheless. Read the rest of this article »

I don’t watch Oprah, but someone sent me a video clip from one of her shows. Every once in a while we get hit by a lightning bolt and I guess I got lucky that day.

Her guest (and I forgot his name) was talking about relationships and suggested that one of the reasons why we single folks don’t have a partner is perhaps because our reasons for staying single outweigh our need for being coupled. Read the rest of this article »

People tell you all you need to know about them within the first twenty-four hours. On our first date, an ex-boyfriend told me that he was a pathological liar. It was the only time he ever told me the truth.

With the weekend fast approaching, I accept a “safe” date from an older man whose online photos look acceptable, but not outstanding. During our first phone call, he admits that he is merely looking for an occasional date, nothing serious or sexual. I don’t expect anything more than a quick dinner and superficial conversation on a Saturday night. His name brings up images of an old-time gunslinger and I can’t imagine ever screaming it out loud in the heat of passion, so I feel safe. Read the rest of this article »

At the risk of sounding like Chicken Little, I have chosen to write this because of the fast approaching date of 12-21-2012. I realize that it is five years away, but nonetheless, it is a serious subject to some.

It doesn’t matter if you are NASA or New Age, we all have to agree that our earth is changing rapidly and whether or not the Mayans, Egyptians, Nostradamus, and the Hopi Indians all had it right and we are in for a wild ride, it has made me start thinking. Read the rest of this article »

I thought I would write about kids. I don’t have any. I often get that “awwww” look from my Mom’s friends. I prefer not to think of myself as childless, but as child-free. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids and for some strange reason they love me back. (Well, most of them. Read on.) Read the rest of this article »