If you read just two or three posts here, you’ll learn quickly how “emotionally unavailable” is my type. How the nefarious “player charm” that gives some women the ick gave me butterflies.

How I’ve allowed myself to be used or even abused because I didn’t have the awareness to understand that pain doesn’t equal love and that unavailability doesn’t mean “go forth and chase.”

Suffice it to say, I have a history of choosing the wrong type of man.

So, on my last date with said type of man, the dam was about to burst, and many years of rage, anger and fury was about to be violently unleashed.

Poor guy. He had no idea what was coming. Frankly, neither did I. But after months of doing the hard work to understand the whys behind my poor choices, my man-picker was about to revolt and say, “Oh, hell no—not another one. Not on my watch.”

We started the evening at a sports bar in Campbell. We had actually met IRL at a Super Bowl party (where my bestie at the time said, “Do not give him your number, Sienna, he has fuck boy written all over him”). I decided, why the heck not, he’s cute, he’s charming and he smells nice. A trifecta of sorts. How dangerous could he be? The real question was, how dangerous could my man-picker be?

I sat down next to him on a barstool and the first words out of my mouth were, “You have player written all over you, and I am not sleeping with you tonight. So, don’t get your expectations twisted.”

I stopped myself in my tracks and thought, “Damn, girl. You sound crazy.” But my man-picker was ready to rumble.

He laughed. “Wow, you think you got me pegged, huh?” flashing a smarmy grin and sliding his hand onto my knee.

“I said what I said,” grabbing his hand and pulling it firmly off my knee. “I’m here for a drink, to get to know you. If that’s not your plan, should we call it right now?”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m just playin’ witcha.” He took a big gulp of his beer, reset his “who the fuck is this woman” facial expression, turned back to me with a forced smile, and said, “So, what do you wanna know?”

We spent the next hour talking about his job at IKEA, my job as a writer, his ex who was still hung up on him (eye roll), Bay Area sports, and a bunch of stuff I don’t really remember because I was really, truly, mostly focused on one thing: putting him and every other wrong type of man I’d dated firmly in his place if he so much as hinted at crossing the line. (I gave the knee thing a pass . . . but my man-picker was on full alert and unwilling to grant a second chance).

He passed the gentleman test over the next hour. Then we got to the restaurant.

“Soooo, what do you think about after dinner? Your place or mine?”

Girrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl. Welcome to My Tipping Point.

Every fuck boy I’d dated, every player who’d lied, every man who’d used me—that’s who my handsome IKEA manager became in that moment, all of them rolled up into one aging, salt-and-pepper, lame-ass, disrespectful 50-something. And while the Mama part of me said, “Now, Sienna, use your inside voice,” my man-picker said, “Come at me, bro!”

And The Unleashing commenced.

“I knew it! Your place or mine?? First, it’s ‘Netflix and chill’ now, dude—you sound old. Second, that’s the cheesiest line in the book—do all ya’ll take your lines from the same playbook? Does that work for you? You can’t even buy me dinner before you know where you’re gonna try to get laid?!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Oh, you meant where are we gonna play Scrabble? Where are we gonna have ice cream and chocolate chip cookies? What did you mean, IKEA Boy? Your place or mine for what? Playing fucking Parcheesi??”

Those were the words coming out of my mouth, and they didn’t stop until he stood up, said, “I gotta use the restroom,” and quickly hurried to the back of the restaurant with his head slightly tilted.

In some circles, I’d be called crazy. In others, I’d be a bitch. In still others, I think both “crazy” and “bitch” would come up as viable options. Fair. My reaction didn’t quite match his level of douche baggery in the moment.

And yet when I tell you that I did not care one iota, I mean it. The Unleashing was liberating! And more importantly, it was confirmation that my new and fully-functional man-picker was large and in charge of my dating life now.

One of my biggest fears about stepping back into the dating pool has been what if I still keep choosing the wrong type of man? What if the broken parts in me and scars from my past will always and only be attracted to men who hurt me—or can’t really love me?

The Unleashing was validation that what I once found irresistible and attractive was now nauseating and offputting. To be clear, I will probably always feel a certain kind of chemistry with emotionally unavailable men who don’t want a real relationship—but now I can recognize that chemistry as a potential reg flag, not a green light.

We left the restaurant that night in silence. There would be no second date. Not another text. I even said, about 10 feet outside the restaurant, “You don’t have to walk me to my car, ” and he took that as his Get Out of Jail Free card—he couldn’t move fast enough to the other side of the street. It was like he had little tiny cartoon wheels for feet that rolled him right on out of there.

Good riddance, IKEA Boy. I’m so glad we met, I’m so glad you tried, and I’m so glad you failed. Because, for the first time as a single adult woman dating post-divorce—for the absolute very first time—I knew I could trust myself to take care of myself. I may have gone a little above and beyond, but my spidey sense was right and true and protective.

Dating may still be a bitch . . . but so is my new and improved man-picker. I’m in good hands now.

Love you,

Sienna

Welcome back! It’s been four years. Four. I believe (re)introductions are in order:

Hi, I’m Sienna — the author of this blog and the hopeless yet snarky romantic who’s not ready to give up on finding love, despite the fact that I am increasingly on AARP’s hit, er, marketing list, and I recently attended an online support group for women with menopause questions. (Turns out you can get pregnant after 45 if you still have a period. Use a condom.)

It’s been four years since my last entry here. Four years since I met the charming winemaker who was actually a goat in human clothing (see “Barn Banging”). Four years since I abruptly decided, “Dating is such a bitch that I don’t want to do it anymore.” And so I stopped.

That would explain my absence. Apologies if my disappearance and lack of storytelling about my f-ed up dating foibles stripped you of some comic relief—something we all needed, especially through the worst of covid.

One, I did have covid, and I had the long-haul version, so meeting a man without an “MD” behind their name wasn’t even a thought—I was only focused on seeing the ones in the white jackets who could help me get better. And two, how the fuck do you even date during a global pandemic? I’m so, SO over texting back and forth a million times; FaceTime and Zoom are only good options once you’re in a relationship; and, perhaps most importantly, my wardrobe slowly morphed into a compilation of black leggings, matching jogger sets, oversized sweatshirts and too-small sports bras. Staring at my closet and complaining that “I have nothing to wear” became a much more typical Saturday evening activity than trying to force a sexy outfit together and act like I cared about meeting someone without a stethoscope or prescription pad.

P.S. What are shoes, even? Where the hell did I put my makeup in 2020 and has it expired by now? Did I shower today? Or yesterday? And will someone please teach me how to dress cute again? These are the questions I grapple with now.

Here’s the deal, guys: I’m back! Back to share my hard-earned lessons, back to dip my toes in the dating pool, back to tell you all about the lovely and not-so-lovely gentlemen I’m meeting, the mistakes I’m making, and the wisdom I’m gaining as I try to date, and fail, and try again.

But sprinkled throughout my dating stories, I may also lay down a little truth I’ve come to embrace over the past four years of not dating that’s been freeing and fabulous.

Can I lay this one on you right now? If you’re single, and you don’t want to date, THAT’S OKAY. There’s nothing wrong with you, and I know that because I spent many months wrestling with this very issue. I finally came to the conclusion, with the help of some very wise friends and a skilled therapist, that being a middle-aged, unattached, and very single woman without a destination wedding in sight is a pretty bad-ass thing to be. Some of you may be like, “Well, duh, of course it is.” I think I would have said that, too. But the problem was, I’m not sure I really believed it—not for the long-term, anyway. Now, I would say that I have no fears about being alone and give zero fucks about eventually finding love again. If it happens, great! If it doesn’t, my life will rock on, nevertheless.

It took this four-year hiatus from dating for this reality to sink in: I am exuberantly happy with who I am and the life that I live today because I am the one who’s orchestrated it all. I’ve taken myself on adventures, I’ve invested time and money into growing both personally and professionally, I’ve surrounded myself with positive, uplifting, authentic people — and let go of the ones who aren’t. And I have dated myself. Turns out, I may not always be a cheap date, but I sure am a fun one!

I’m going to continue to date myself . . . but I’m also going to be opening up the door to friendships with men again. And I’d love to have you come along with me for the ride. Again. I have a good feeling that the past four years of not-dating have put me in a good position to make some wiser choices for when I AM dating. (And for reference, you can see how bad some of my choices were before my dating hiatus by reading, well . . . most of the entries before this one.)

Let’s go, girls.

—Sienna

I’ve been at this single gal party for about four years now. I’ve written about unsolicited cock shots and texting douche-baggery and men who play, manipulate, abuse, ghost, lie, send me to strip clubs and jack off on the first date (true story, bro). Sometimes I’ve ended up in precarious situations because of my bad decisions; I take full responsibility for not always being the savviest chick in the room. But other times I’ve just been blindsided. Flabbergasted. Dumbfounded. Bamboozled. All of that, through no fault of my own. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down? Sometimes men utterly baffle me. Even when I haven’t caused said confusion.

Case in point: Mario, a hottie-hot-hot wine pourer at one of my favorite wineries in California’s Amador county.

It was our first stop on a weekend of wine tasting with friends. I was having a good hair/good clothes/good makeup day – a trifecta of sorts – which rarely if ever happens in my world. And it was good timing. Even before I’d chosen my flight of reds, I spotted him behind the counter. A tall, dark, handsome Italian with a freakishly charming smile.

“Are you Italian?” He was. I swear I can spot ’em a Roman mile away. Charming Italianos are my kryptonite.

He paid attention to all of us because, as luck would have it that day, he was our dedicated wine pourer. We chatted, I flirted, he poured, I sipped, he smiled, I drooled. I mean, sweet baby Jesus, this man was hot.

So it didn’t take more than about 30 seconds after we’d left the winery for me to say, “Wait! I have to go back. I can’t leave without inviting him to dinner tonight.”

“Go!” my friends said. “Invite him to barbecue with us tonight!”

Okay, Miss Sassy Pants, get your ass back in there, be like Nike and JUST DO IT. Invite the hot Italiano to dinner. What’ve you got to lose? Dignity? Self-esteem? Your lunch? Fuck it all–just grow a pair and ask the man out.

I’d like to say I did . . . but unfortunately I did not grow the necessary balls. My courage faltered. I did go back into the winery. But the only thing I asked my Italiano was, “Will you ring these chocolate bars up for me, please?” Oh, and “What’s your name?” I did get that–and thank God. Because that allowed me to message the winery on Facebook within five minutes after leaving the second time to say, “Hi! I love your wines! I also really dig your wine pourers, specifically Mario. Here’s my number: 123-456-7890. Please pass that along to him, I’m interested in continuing our conversation.”

The next day, after a solid weekend of wine, fun, food and laughter, my phone chimed on our way back home. It was a text notification: “Hi Sienna, it’s Mario . . . I got your message from the winery, and I would love to continue our conversation.”

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! I could hear a choir of angels sing, right there in that moment because, hot damn, my sweet Italiano came through, and we were officially connected. The text game was on, and it was strong. Later that night, we struck up a conversation and texted late into the wee hours of the morning.

This continued for a week or so–lots of texts and lovely conversations about wine and Italy and food and traveling and pets and families and our jobs and careers. Things got a little flirty (“you’re so adorable, no you’re so adorable, I can’t wait to see you, I know, right?” etc.) and finally we made a date: He would come to my city in a few weeks and we’d spend the day together, then cap it off with dinner at a nice Italian restaurant. For my train-wreck-of-a-dating-life, things were going along just swimmingly. How odd.

Then, as per usual, shit got real.

“Hey, can we move our date up? Like to next Monday?” Mario texted me one day. “I can still come to you . . . but I’ll have my dogs. And I’ll need a place to stay.”

Dogs? Stay?

“Oh, and I should ask: Do you have sex on the first date? Because I’m definitely interested. You were pretty cute . . . and I can tell I would like what’s underneath. BTW, send me a sexy pic.” wink

Sex? First date? Underneath?

Then eventually, I got this precious invite:

“Hey! Do you wanna bang in a barn?!”

He did. He asked me that. He really went there. “Do you want to bang in a barn?”

What the fuck are you? A goat?

And that random text completely out of left field (apparently with a big old barn in it) left me with just one option:

Exit, stage left! My sweet Italiano was a player in sheep’s clothing. Or goat’s clothing. Or whatever. At the very least, he was just interested in one thing, and I was not interested in pickin’ up what he was puttin’ down. “No. I will not fuck you here or there, I will not fuck you anywhere.” I did not want to bang him in a barn. I mean, eventually I might have–if it was nice enough with plenty of hay for cushion, a soft blanket and no stench of horse shit. But really? He had to go there before we’d even shared a meal? I texted him back “no fucking way” in three different languages, and deleted his number. Damn.

That’s pretty anticlimactic, right? My apologies. I wish I could say we’re getting ready to elope to Venice, but my hot wine guy ended up being a douche nugget, and the only thing I got out of it is this story. Oh, and my bitmoji. I created her the evening I shut things down with goat-boy. She’s pretty great at helping me channel my emotions and thoughts when I’m too exhausted to do it myself. I think I’ll keep her.

When dating gets to be too big of a bitch, I’ll just crawl into my bed, pull the covers over my head and let her deal with the fallout and ensuing emotional upheaval. I like it.

–Sienna

He kept looking at my profile. Not just once or twice, but weekly, at least. So I messaged him: “You know, the real-life version of me is way more fun than the digital one.” Winky face.

This was an Oakland firefighter who had texted with me months before, only to eventually retreat and say, “I don’t think I’m ready to date.”

“Okay, no problem – it’s been fun chatting, good luck.” Kissy face.

That was last fall. And now he was back. Smiley face. 

I was excited to see him snooping around because I’d thoroughly enjoyed our previous conversations, he was attractive and he lived in Napa–I mean, it wouldn’t suck to date a man who lives amongst gorgeous vineyards, emerald green hills and delicious reds.

So the fire captain and I ignited our conversations again, and this time major sparks flew. The first night we talked on the phone for 2.5 hours. I got a text immediately after: “Sorry, but I really want to talk some more. Call me.” So I rang back for more. And this continued for several evenings. Red-heart-eyes face.

He had a youthful voice, a sweet spirit and a really sordid story. He’d been married for 26 years until his wife left him for their daughter’s water polo coach – who was a woman 17 years younger. That’s gotta be a mind fuck for a man on several levels.

Two years later, he was still reeling from what he called the “destruction” of his family, feeling completely out of control, and still playing the victim card. I was sympathetic, so I played armchair psychologist and listened for hours upon hours about how crappy his life was. But in the midst of his angst, were little nuggets like:

“I can’t wait to meet you. I mean . . . you could be the one.”

“You’re amazing! You’re so sweet to listen to all this, I can’t believe how kind you are.”

“I still want to feel that jazz. You know when you kiss someone for the first time? That cool jazzy feeling. I want that.”

“We have to have a face-to-face this time – there’s a reason I always come back to you.”

I know, right? That’s some heart-melting shit.

But within a few weeks, it went from “Good night, love,” to “Maybe it’s not the right time for me to have a life.” He was retreating again, damn it. So I decided this was not going to end again without that “face-to-face.” Not this time. Not on my watch.

You guys, this is where it gets a bit stalkery. But in a funny way . . . so keep going.

I live an hour from Oakland where my firefighter worked, and it just so happened that I was heading there for a client meeting right around the time he began to crawl back into his protective shell. My favorite bakery is on the way. Lightbulb moment:

Isn’t taking delicious baked goods to firefighters a thing? I think it is. I’m sure it is. And if it’s not, it’s going to be.

I called Oakland dispatch: “Hi! I’d like to drop off a thank-you gift for one of your firefighters, but I’m not sure which firehouse he’s at. Can you help me with that?”

Oh no you didn’t, Sienna. OH YES, I DID.

Dispatch took my phone number, told me they’d call me back with his location, and I stopped at the bakery to buy a dozen of their most studly cupcakes (I almost went with the pink champagne flavor and then I remember that firefighters are not ballerinas). Baked goods in tow, I got back into my car toward Oakland when my phone rang:

him: “Sienna? What the hell? What are you doing, silly girl?”

me: “Oh! Calvin! (aka: my firefighter). Hey! Oh gosh, umm, I’m just buying some cupcakes. You know, a normal Friday thing. What are you doing?”

him: “Well, huh. I got a call from dispatch saying some woman is looking for me . . . and then they gave me your phone number. Is everything okay? And cupcakes?”

If I have ever in my life felt like a certified stalker, it was at this exact moment. I don’t want to use the term “bunny boiler,” but I felt maybe just one notch down. How in the hell was I going to explain this? And why hadn’t I thought about how this would look prior to plunking down $50 on fancy cupcakes?

Yes! Right! Cupcakes! Because, you know, I could tell you were pulling away again and I really wanted to meet you in person before you did because I think we would have amazing chemistry and we need to see each other to know, so I came up with this lame excuse of delivering cupcakes to you and your guys, but I didn’t know your firehouse, of course, because we’ve never actually met and talked about where you work, so I called dispatch to find out. And now I’m on my way to deliver them to you! That’s not creepy. Right?

He was kind. Gracious. And so polite. Especially when he could have been, “That’s frickin’ weird, please don’t, I’m gluten-free, and by the way. Lose my number.”

I found his firehouse. He loved the cupcakes. I met his guys, who also loved the cupcakes. He showed me the fire engines. And we stood in his firehouse for thirty minutes, talking about life and messy relationships, about kids and their resiliency, and about his ex and how foreign she is to him . . . and about how that still tears him apart. My gorgeous, brave, big-hearted, firefighting stud was indeed a wreck, two years after his marriage began to implode. And it was written all over our face-to-face.

On the upside, he was not only the talk of his firehouse that day, but all of Oakland dispatch: “Ooooohhh, Cal had some hot lady bringing him cupcakes . . . nice job, man!” And I got my own pink champagne cupcake, which came in handy on my way home when I wanted to eat my feelings. He was nowhere near ready to date- I could see that clearly in his sad eyes. That was too bad, because he was a good guy, and I liked him. A lot.

We texted a bit after that, and he was sweet, but my cupcakes and impromptu firehouse visit was not nearly enough to bring him back out of his shell, so I let this budding romance crash and burn. Sad face.

I used to believe that falling in love was simply about two compatible people coming together, generating inexplicable chemistry, sharing their stories and their hearts, unveiling their baggage, and saying “I want you and everything you bring, the good and the bad.” That timing wasn’t an issue because if two people are meant to be together, they will be. No matter what. No matter when.

I still kinda believe that–at least the hopeless romantic in me. But after seeing the anguish in his eyes, the sadness in his smile and the broken heart on his sleeve, I knew that Calvin wasn’t ready for anyone or anything other than grieving the end of what was.

There’s no formula or time table for healing a shattered heart. That’s the unfortunate reality of dating at midlife when people have long histories, complicated relationships and broken dreams that they need to resolve before they can move on. Teary face.

But I know of a bakery that makes magical cupcakes. Hit me up if you need to drown your sorrows in a soft, sweet swirl of creamy delicious therapeutic icing. Huggy face.

-Sienna 

“Christy! I just realized that this man who keeps messaging me on Match knows you. I haven’t responded, but he’s persistent. Here’s his picture, what’s he like?

“Oh, Jack! Right. Nice guy, but his wife just left him for another man. His Facebook posts make him look like he’s lost his mind. I don’t think he’s ready to date.”

Great. Sounds like my type already: emotionally unavailable.

“But he’s been sending me messages for six months. I kinda want to meet him.”

“Then do it! But just know, his wife was perfect. They were perfect. Their life was a fairy tale. Good luck.”

Good to know. And thank-you. That was just the text I needed to push me over the edge.

“Hey, Jack! Sure, I’d love to meet you for a drink. Let’s do it.”

Are you insinuating that I can’t live up to someone’s fairy tale wife? Game on, bitch. Nobody is that perfect, especially if they cheated and left after 20 years. I mean, people change and relationships end. But starting one relationship while you’re still in another is a shitty way to operate.

So Jack and I met. We got together one night at a Chilis in our neighborhood (we live two miles apart, small world), and we chatted it up over margaritas. Well, he chatted.

I listened.

“She just moved in with him. The guy she was cheating on me with–they just moved in together. She hardly ever sees the boys, and when she does, it’s uncomfortable. At least, they’re not comfortable, I don’t know how she feels and I don’t care.”

“When I found out she was cheating, I was like, ‘Okay—if you’re going to do that, move out. You need to get out. So I called her mom and told her that she was moving in with her. I couldn’t have her in my house any longer.”

“Eventually she’s going to wake up and realize what she had and what she’s lost and it’s going to be too late. It’s just going to be too fucking late.”

I got an earful for an hour. About his perfect wife and their perfect life and their fairy tale world. My heart broke for him. He was clearly still in the throes of grieving . . . but I felt more like his therapist than a potential love interest, and that takes the sex right out of sexy from the get-go.

By the end of our date, the best I could hope for was, “Would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor?” A Mr. Rogers type of platonic. It felt too much like I was on a date with a married man who had not yet realized he was no longer married.

I texted him later to say that I was glad we met and I was sorry for what he’s gone through and that I’d be open to hanging out again as friends, especially if he needed to vent or blow off some steam. “I’m a great listener,” I told him.

I’m just not so great at being a rebound girl. Or a fuck buddy without emotional attachment. Or a stand-in replacement while he’s secretly hoping the woman he’s still in love with comes back. In my experience, dating a man who’s not fully unattached typically leads to one of these undesirable scenarios. And not to sound arrogant, but I’m better than that. Than any of those options.

I recently had a man tell me that I’ve been “cosmically unlucky” in dating these past few years. Yeah, maybe.

But I’d prefer to think of it as “challenged.” Challenged to grow in ways I may not have otherwise. Challenged to love myself more and tolerate bullshit less. Challenged to be more understanding and less judgmental.

But, mostly, challenged to never settle.

I mean, I don’t need a fairy tale. But I do need a prince who’s not still walking around with a single glass slipper. That and a good bottle of Pinot to help me deal with the ones who are.

-Sienna

Harry said no. Sally said yes. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, stop now and go rent the movie. If you’re familiar, then hang with me because I think I’ve finally answered The Big Question, “Can men and women ever be friends?” I don’t think it’s yes. I don’t think it’s no.

I think it’s maybe.

And the game-changer isn’t always about sex, like Harry and Sally might have you believe. Sometimes, it is, sure. But other times I think it’s about something else entirely.

My 2017 so far has been littered with a crap ton of situations where I’ve been faced with the question, “Can we really be buddies?” Through a series of many trials and mostly errors, I’m starting to learn when it’s a yes and when it’s a no.

There was Jamie. He was a charming, handsome and fiery Portuguese man who shared my love for basketball, wine and Orangetheory Fitness—everything you need for a solid relationship. We had one great date, a sexy kiss at the end, then he texted me after, saying that, by the way, he’s also “talking to” someone else and doesn’t plan to stop and he’s not sure where that leaves us because we had a great connection, dot, dot, dot. But he’d love to be friends and call me to reconnect if things don’t work out with her. Until then, we can always chat about the Warriors.

Where that leaves us? I’ll tell you where that leaves us. That leaves us at “fuck off.” Sorry, Charlie. Not gonna be your Plan B or fallback girl should your Plan A lady kick your ass to the curb. Friend potential? Nah. Not when you’ve put me in the category of “girl I might wanna fuck if the woman I’m seeing stops.”

And there was Mark. We dated. Then we didn’t. Then we did, sorta platonically. Then we didn’t. Then we did. Following so far? I know it’s confusing, but stick with me–it has an end, and soon. We recently got together to “hang out”: Wine bar, then a comedy club, then a thoughtful, bordering-on-deep conversation afterwards. No sexy anything, but I wished for it. He texted me the morning after and said “thanks, that was fun, I want to go see that comedian again.” I said, “I was thinking the same thing!” So we did the next night, and this time there was a sexy something–a sweet kiss in his car. Unfortunately, that was followed by a not-so-sexy admission from him: “Um, I’m seeing someone else.”

Wow. Huh. Really? So, you just made me the other woman and I didn’t get a say in that? Think you could have said something before you sucked my face off? Or maybe before you decided to spend half your weekend with me? Or, I don’t know, maybe when you were telling me about all the new things in your life . . . your new condo, your new Jag SUV, your new electric guitar, your new antique typewriter, and oh yeah, maybe your new lady? Douche nugget. Oh–but you wanna still be friends? Let me think about that as I bolt out of your car, slide into mine, block your number on my phone and unfriend your skinny ass on Facebook.

And there was George. Always George. George has been in and out of my life for almost two years. Until last night. I finally got the balls to block his number along with Mark’s; might as well kill two birds when you’ve got the stones to do it, right? Once upon a time, I fell head over heels for George and have spent the past way-too-many months trying to get my heels back on the ground where he’s concerned. Ours was a hot and heavy romance that ended as quickly as it started. When he could sense I was getting attached, he bolted, because that’s what George does. But not for good. Just long enough for me to get unattached–and then he’d show up again. My own little private whac-a-mole. Always popping up when I’d least expect it, charming me into a sexy date, then disappearing until the next time.

I’m sorry, sweetheart, but we both know this has been a long time coming. I’ve tried to be your girlfriend. Your booty call. Your texting-bordering-on-sexting buddy. Your last-minute date when you didn’t have any better weekend plans. Let’s be honest: I’ve allowed you to disrespect me in a hundred ways–and that’s not on you, that’s on me. But while I’m feeling offended that Mark kissed me without telling me about the new lady in his life, I really need to play fair here and lump you into the category of men I can’t be friends with. You’re handsome, sexy and charming AF. But you only care about yourself. And that’s not gonna work for me any longer. Buh-bye.

Listen. Can you hear it? The faint sounds of Aretha Franklin belting out her famous girl-power song in the background . . . R E S P E C T, find out what it means to me.

I believe the game-changer in male/female friendships is often about respect. I have male friends who I’ve made out with or even fucked, and I don’t want to fuck them again–and I’m sure they’d say the same about me. I’m content with our platonic friendship. We were able to transition from a romantic relationship into a sweet friendship because, along the way, neither one of us treated the other like shit. Crazy idea, right? We respected one another. And while there needed to be a cooling off period, eventually we were able to reconnect as buddies.

Sure, I think the sex thing can get in the way sometimes . . . I mean, it is difficult for a man and a woman to maintain a platonic friendship if one is always thinking about getting naked and the other is wondering whether to have beef or chicken tacos for dinner.

But I would venture to say that it’s impossible for a man and woman to maintain a friendship if one or both of them have disrespected the other. Maybe some time can go by and wounds can heal and people can forgive . . . but by that time, you’ve probably both moved on and forgotten unless there was a solid foundation to start with. Respect is important in every friendship, but when it comes to the man/woman dynamic, it’s a non-negotiable–I’m convinced.

By the way, it’s chicken tonight. Spicy salsa. Maybe a little guac on the side. I blocked two other numbers last night as I redefined my boundaries and re-evaluated my male friendships, which can be healthy and empowering and all that . . . but shutting people out of my life is never fun for me, even if it’s necessary. So, excuse me for now: I’ll be eating my feelings for dinner.

–Sienna

On a not-so-long-ago Tuesday afternoon, I was at the doctor, discussing a nagging hip injury and what kind of surgery to have, or if I should try another injection, and what the prognosis would be if I opted to do nothing.

At that same time, my best friend was standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. Contemplating whether or not to end her life. She chose yes. In fact, she had been planning it for weeks. But I wouldn’t find out until 28 hours later.

I had no idea why my texts were going unanswered. Or why she’d been distant the weekend before. When I heard the news, I hated myself for going to the doctor. I should have gone to the bridge. I just didn’t know it.

There are people who come into your life at just the right moment–people you were destined to meet for some undefined purpose you can’t explain right then, but you know it’s profound. Friends who leave an immediate and indelible impression just because the two of you said “hi” and allowed that to turn into a life-changing connection. For me, that was Britt.

We met at a party in Oakland. I was chatting with a guy I was crushing on, and off to my left there was this beautiful, vivacious blonde who seemed to capture at least part of the attention of every man in the room. I mean, she was stunning. Damn her. Women like that make chatting with your crush a fucking headache. It’s so much work to keep them focused. On you.

She joined our conversation for a bit, then flitted to the next one, and then the next, and my crush said at one point, “Man, I really like her–she has great energy.” Right. That’s exactly what you were staring at. Her energy.

I wanted to hate her. But five hours, several Cosmos and many easy/poignant/memorable conversations later, she was my favorite person in the room. Our friendship grew quickly. She became like a sister, only better. My best friend. My voice of reason. My weekend companion. My person.

She took me out of town when I wanted to escape my birthday because it wasn’t an age I wanted to celebrate, and we played the slots and drank watered-down cocktails in a smoky casino for 48 hours. It was just the two of us, ignoring the calendar, pretending like we were eternally 29. She drank wine with me even though she didn’t like it, just because I did. She became the first one I would call when this guy sent a confusing text or that guy lied or some other guy ghosted and I didn’t know why. She bought me thoughtful gifts and gave me funny cards and drove to see me way more than I drove to see her because that’s just what she did–she put the people she loved first.

We were two single women, each hoping to find a life partner or undying love or some semblance of happily ever after. But until then, we had each other. Thelma and Louise without the crime. Laverne and Shirley without the brewery. Samantha and Carrie without quite that much sex. Or that many shoes.

“Britt, why am I only attracted to guys who don’t like me? That’s so limiting.”

“Girl, what the hell does this text mean? Can you translate this, because I’m clearly not fluent in man speak.”

“You know I love you, but I have to say it: Don’t go there–he’s an asshole and you deserve better.”

“OMG, dating is so hard! I’m exhausted. Even my hair hurts. What are you doing Saturday? Let’s drink vodka.”

So many late-night phone calls and texts and conversations over cocktails and endless musings about how it’s so damn hard to find a good man and who are you chatting with now and when are you seeing that one guy and where did you go on that last date. She made it all fun. She. Made. Dating. Fun. Or at least, bearable.

And then she left.

I didn’t know. I honestly didn’t know–I promise you. About the depth of her struggles and the darkness in her mind and the excruciating emotional pain she must have been feeling in order to believe that death was her only hope for relief. She kept it so well hidden. From everyone. The first clue I had that anything was wrong was in the letter she left me, telling me she was out of time and this was the only way. It makes me unspeakably sad to know I wasn’t a good enough friend to see the signs. And yet, I don’t believe there were any. Do you see how confusing this is?

Her sister called me late Wednesday afternoon. Twenty-eight hours too late. Shock. Disbelief. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Guilt. So many emotions, all colliding at once, and my mind–my incredibly bewildered and confused mind–trying to make sense of a senseless death, reaching for answers, grappling with the reality, and the finality, of her decison. I have never felt so helpless. Or so stunned. Or so, I don’t know, foggy, I guess. I felt foggy. Like I couldn’t see or feel or understand anything clearly because of the dense, suffocating fog in my brain, and I wanted to fight with every fiber of my being to make it go away and get a clear picture of how and when and why. Mostly why. Why?

Britt was always thinking about other people. She would text me during a date. “Girl, how’s it going?? I can’t wait to hear!”

She’d call after running at the gym. “How are you feeling about so-and-so today? Are you going to see him again?”

She’d make fun of my idiosyncrasies. “George, again?! Girl, you can’t walk away from these charming sales guy-types, can you? Haha, the very thing that attracts you to men makes me want to run!”

She’d encourage me when I tried to change old patterns. “Give this new guy a try, even if he doesn’t seem like your type. Your type isn’t good for you, lol. Try something new.”

She was quite honestly the most supportive friend I have ever had. And now, she’s gone. We’re not doing this single girl thing together anymore, and can I be honest? I’m pissed off. I’m pretty fucking angry.

I told her that. In my car the other night, on my way to the grocery store.

“Really, Britt? You think I can do this alone? You’re supposed to be here, with me, doing this thing together. You’re supposed to be giving me advice and listening to me rant and telling me there are lots of good men out there, we just haven’t met them yet. You’re supposed to be telling me about this thing–this dark, overwhelming sadness or pain or struggle or whatever it was–that you were suffering from but hiding from everyone. What you did, Britt . . . it was so final. And we could have fixed it! I’m so sure we could have fixed this.

Sadly, she wasn’t.

As women, we’re often focused on romance and love and relationships and that heady feeling that great chemistry floods your brain with and men, men, men–so much ado about men. When is the right one going to come along or how can I keep him from leaving or why does my marriage feel stale and where is that spark we used to have. And that’s normal, right? Who doesn’t want to be happy in love?

But today, I wish I could go back in time, even for a day, and simply focus on my friend. On why my dear sweet Britt was hurting and why she didn’t tell me and how I could have helped and what she was hiding and why she didn’t cry out when she began to believe that death was her only savior. I wish I could just go back and focus on Britt. She poured so much of herself into everyone she loved. She was selfless. Encouraging. Strong. Loving. The only person she couldn’t save was herself.

I’ll date again. I don’t feel like it right now, but eventually I will. I’ll get confusing texts from some man that I can’t decipher and meet assholes I shouldn’t like but do, and I’ll go on dates and wonder if he likes me or if I like him and if we should see each other again. And I’ll want to ask Britt, What do you think?

But now to hear her answer, I’ll have to sit in silence. Quietly. Remembering her face and her voice and the way she’d throw her head back and laugh and call me silly. I’ll have to reach back into our thousands of texts and Facebook messages and conversations. I’ll have to listen for her still, soft voice to speak quietly to my heart. I believe it will be there. But it won’t be the same.

And I will miss her. I will always, always miss her. Nothing will take that pain away, and nothing will fill that void. Not even my very own happily ever after.

-Sienna

There’s a bar in my neighborhood called Mo’s. In fact, it’s the only bar in my hood.

It’s a cute bar, circular in shape, conducive for conversations with strangers. I’m hooked on their taco salads (sauce on the side), consistent with my vodka sodas (Tito’s with three orange slices, please) and crushing on the hot bartender with the bad boy vibe. If you’ve read my blog for a hot second, you’re like, “Duh.” You know bad boys are my kryptonite. My affinity for them often gets me . . . well, here. Writing about them. Crying over them. Shaking my head that, yet again, I fell for one and now have to unravel the bullshit lines and mind-fuckery that make up the tangled webs they weave.

But this isn’t about the hot bartender at Mo’s or his bad boy vibe . . . or his hella sexy smile (damn it, I can’t help myself).

This is about five nights at Mo’s. Five nights of a social experiment where I set out to prove one hypothesis: Dating is as much of a bitch offline as it is online.

Why? Because I get tired of people saying, “Get off Match (or OKC or Bumble or e-Harmony or Tinder or Coffee Meets Bagel) and meet someone ‘naturally.’ That will help.”

These days, meeting someone online is natural. But it doesn’t matter, because the truth is, whether you’re trying to meet someone digitally or in person, finding a great connection, compatibility and chemistry is a challenge. I mean, it happens. But certainly not every night. Not even one in five.

Night One at Mo’s: My girlfriend, Brit, and I dropped by on a Saturday after shopping and pedis. So did a couple of hotties who sat across the bar from us with beers and appetizers and these sexy accents we couldn’t quite discern but decided were Australian–mostly because a hot Australian accent is a bonafide panty-dropper. Not that we were looking to have our panties dropped. Much. But every once in a while it’s nice to have them slide down a wee bit thanks to an arousing, “G-day, mate.” The problem was, there were about 5,492,301 people between us and them. Or maybe just 7. It didn’t matter–the chasm was deep and wide. We made eye contact several times, but it was going to take some balls for either of us to make a move. Mo’s isn’t a loud meat-market type of bar–it’s set in a somewhat subdued restaurant, and any hint of flirtation is on display for the rated-PG patronage to see. “We should have ordered them drinks,” we told the hot bad boy bartender after the probably-Aussies left. “No, they should have ordered you drinks,” he said.

Right you are, matey. They should have ordered us our fucking drinks. Instead, we ended up hanging out with two other single women at the bar who bitched about how hard it is to meet men. Of course.

Night Two at Mo’s: Sunday night–not exactly the evening for a hotbed of bar activity. But my girlfriend, Marjan, and I set out anyway to see what kind of male attention we could attract. Kind of like going fishing in a lake that hasn’t been stocked: You’re not feeling good about your chances, but the effort is there, and that’s half the battle.

I wore a strappy royal blue shirt with the top button undone and my royal blue bra peeking out. Yes, I shamelessly pimped out the girls to try to pique some interest. Don’t be judgy; it’s my experiment so I get to set the rules. I wanted to see if “sexy” (bordering on slutty) made a difference. Besides, it was a Sunday, remember? I was gonna need all the fire power I could muster.

Turns out, the girls didn’t have to work too hard–not one man sauntered in. The only person who talked to us was my other girlfriend, Amy, who joined us an hour before the bar closed. She was in a serious funk because it was her 50th birthday, she had zero plans, and her ex-bf had just left a birthday message on her Facebook that made her weepy. Here’s where online dating has an advantage over offline: Men always show up, no matter what day it is. You can open your Tinder, Match, OKC or Bumble app 24/7, and there are dudes to swipe, chat and charm. In real life? You can pump up the cleavage, and still, crickets. On this night, the crickets were playing their sad, sorry little violins; not one gentleman walked in. All that mascara for nothing.

Night Three at Mo’s: It was just a night. No cleavage. No hot Australians. Just an evening like any other. I went to Mo’s in my typical work clothes, had a vodka soda with oranges, plus a Diet Coke, mixed things up with a turkey burger instead of taco salad, and checked emails on my phone over dinner. I chatted with the bartender. Met a new employee. Talked to a few couples at the bar about neighborhood gossip.

Are you bored yet? I was. This was the equivalent of getting on Match.com, perusing the options, looking for an interesting prospect, then closing your computer with a yawn and opting instead for a good glass of Pinot.

Sometimes you’re just not in the mood. Sometimes dating is a bore. Sometimes you’d rather have wine than a man. Sometimes life is just fine the way it is and why try to change it. Sometimes these times are my favorites.

Night Four at Mo’s: Do you know what’s not sexy? A cold. A stuffy-nose-itchy-throat-junk-in-the-back-of-your-throat cold. That’s what I walked into Mo’s with on this particular evening.

Well, hello there, sexy . . . let me just clear my throat to loosen this phlegm and blow the snot out of my nose. Then we can chat a bit, how ’bout that?

What man would say no?

I didn’t feel like going home and I had some work to do, so setting up an office at the bar with my MacBook, a vodka soda and an attractive gentlemen to admire from afar sounded like the perfect plan.

Three men sat down at my right and I smiled politely, but knew in a New York minute I was not attracted, so I went back to my laptop. Over the top of my MacBook, however, I peeped a hot gentleman eating spaghetti and drinking a beer on the other side of the bar. I didn’t have time to admire from afar, however, because the three men to my right had other plans for me.

Do you like sports? Do you live near here? Where are you from? Are you a Warriors fan? What are you working on? Where do you work? What’s your job? Do you like the food here? What do you recommend? Do you like football? Who’s your team? 

While I battled the mucus running through my sinuses (sexy as hell, I told you), these three men bombarded me with a thousand questions. I fought my cold. I fielded their interrogation. And the attractive man with spaghetti and beer watched it all unfold, snickering and eye-rolling like it was a bad comedy, but he was too lazy to get up and grab the remote.

“You’re cute,” one of the men told me.

“My name’s Paul,” another one said and reached out to shake my hand. I had a used Kleenex in it, though, so opted to decline.

And Spaghetti Man kept watching. And laughing. And slurping his noodles.

It was like swiping a nice looking man right on Tinder, then having him go, “Hey, great, thanks for the match. I have a girlfriend, but Larry, Mo and Curly are single. Would you go out with them so my lady and I can sit and watch the train wreck? We’re looking for cheap entertainment.”

I folded up my laptop, grabbed my tissues and went home early that night. The only thing I took to bed was my cold. For all I know, the three men to my right may have taken it to bed, too. Really wish I could have shared my germs with the meatball man, though.

Night Five at Mo’s: Sporty Spice time! I put on my Golden State Warriors tank top and cap, black workout leggings, and went out to watch the NBA playoffs. I’m a huge fan, and it’s natural for me to go to a bar to watch a game, even alone. And bonus: It’s a guaranteed night for meeting dudes. I settled in with my vodka soda and taco salad, and sure enough, by the time the game had started, plenty of fans had gathered ’round, including one very hot gentleman and his buddy, just four bar stools to my right. No rings; check. Sexy smile; check. Gorgeous salt-and-pepper hair; check.

And I caught his eye. Check.

Game plan: The next ridiculous 3-point shot that Steph Curry makes, I’m gonna turn to Hottie McHotterson with a fist bump and a “hell, yeah, that guy is insane.” Curry was on fire, so it wouldn’t take long before our knuckles would be bumping. Hard.

Time out: I should mention one thing. I live in the heart of Silicon Valley, where there are plenty of men, yes, but also plenty of men lacking in social skills. Many very intelligent, book-smart, successful men who aren’t always so smart when it comes to women. Let’s continue.

The next sequence of events happened in slow motion. Curry hit a ridiculous three . . . I yelled, “Yes!” with my hand in the air . . .  curled my right hand into a fist in order to reach out to McHotterson just a few seats away . . . turned toward him with my arm about to extend . . . and BAM. My game plan was interrupted by Nerdy McNerdison who plopped himself down on the stool right next to me and said, “Man, Curry is having some game tonight!” He looked at me with a cheesy, crooked smile, I smiled faintly back, slowly released my fist bump and put my arm back down to my side.

Yes. Yes, he is. But now I’m not because you just interrupted my plan. See that man with the gorgeous smile to your right? I was going to flirt with him. Unabashedly and unashamedly. And now you’re here and in my way. I’m going to be kind and sit here and talk with you because I’m usually bad at being a bitch, but damn it all to hell. You’re in my way.

I watched the rest of the game with the dude with no game while the salt-and-pepper hottie watched it with his buddy–just four bar stools away. He peeped me a few times, but ended up leaving without a word. The man next to me talked incessantly.

Maybe I’m the one with no game? This seemed like a slam-dunk opportunity for a potential connection, but I fouled out in the first quarter. The Warriors won, and I went home. And Sporty Spice went to bed. Game over.

So, there you have it, my friends: Five nights at Mo’s. 

I met nice people. Had fun with my girlfriends. Watched the Warriors win. Did a little work. And caught a few glimpses of the hot bartender’s cute ass.

But a love connection? Well, that remains elusive and I remain convinced that dating is a challenge wherever you’re looking for a connection, whether it’s on your phone screen or on the bar stool to your right.

And that’s okay . . . because life is so much bigger than what’s happening on my phone or on the bar stool to my right. One thing I have learned in the past three years of being single: This time without a partner in my life is more than just a hyphen. It’s not just a holding pattern between my last relationship and the next. It’s an opportunity to live my life on my terms, according to my schedule, and to invest in a relationship I’ve often neglected in the past–the one with myself. And if someone can eventually fall in love with the me I’m investing in, well, that will be a bonus.

Oh! Plus, I get to check out hot bartenders. Unabashedly and unashamedly.

-Sienna

I'm a pretty upbeat girl.

I'm not a big complainer. I believe that life is glorious. I tend to see the glass as half-full (and I'm capable of pouring more vino if it's not). And I have become adept at picking myself up, dusting my Lulus off, and moving on after a messy fall.

And then there was 2016.

I've been dating for three years now, after a 20-year marriage and a subsequent 5-year relationship, and I've met some wonderful men. Charming, smart, funny, witty, delightful, handsome men.

And then there was 2016.

When I started this blog a few years ago, I dubbed it "Dating is a Bitch" with my tongue firmly in cheek, thinking, "I'm sure being single after 20-plus years of coupledom will be a challenge, but please--how hard can it be to meet a nice, attractive gentleman who wants a grown-up relationship?"

And THEN there was fucking 2016.

I believe I swam in the shallow end of the dating pool this year. Where the leaves and algae collect in the corners and the two-year-olds unleash a steady stream of pee.

I even went to a therapist halfway through to make sure it wasn't just me--that all the mishaps and miscues and miscommunication and mistakes and misogynists I was encountering weren't all my fault.

"No, Sienna . . . it's not all your fault. Sometimes dating is just a bitch," she told me. Huh. Seems I've heard that before . . .

I started the year with a hot Latino who charmed the pants off me. But he couldn't promise that he wouldn't charm the pants off this one, that one or the other. I swear he has a harem around the Bay. Or the country. Probably the world.

Then I dated the hot pool guy who shared my love for the Warriors, sports and edamame. But he had a bad habit of talking about his "crazy" exes. The zillionaire who flew him around the world in her private jet; the 20-something who engaged in oral sex with their dog (WTF, TMI and HOLY SHIT); the woman he married but divorced soon after he discovered she was hiding meds for bipolar disorder; and the one who got offended when he told her to clean out his fridge. On their fifth date. He thought that was "ridiculous." I called Uber and never looked back.

Then came another hot Latino, just as charming as the first. And yet different. He expected exclusivity after our second date--on my end. He told me I'm "fucked up" and raged when I mentioned having a glass of wine with a male friend. And he loved to play control games over over the phone. "I couldn't text you for 24 hours because *fill in a random name* had to go to the ER." Everyone in his whole damn extended family went to the ER. Five times. In two months. He also told me, "I was in Afghanistan during the Gulf War, but I have worse PTSD from you, you've hurt me so badly." Cry me a river, asshole.

And then there was The Still Married One. Great guy; bad dating material. Separated for a year and on the road to divorce, he seemed ready to date, and I spent three months growing attached to what seemed to be a really wonderful guy. Then he moved back in with his not-yet-ex-wife (for financial reasons?) and it became clear that all he was really ready for was either fucking with no strings or the friend zone. I wasn't interested in either, so this one ended with a thud.

Interspersed among these were handfuls of dates, conversations and texts with men who loved to hate women, men who hated to love women, some who were afraid of women, and others who just wanted to send dick pics.

I'm not a lesbian. But sitting here the end of 2016 with a slightly fractured heart, a bruised ego, a barren iMessage app and an overhauled Match.com profile, I might be persuaded. Not really. But maybe. Well, no. But never say never.

There are a hundred theories as to why dating at mid-life is so difficult, and my guess is there's a little truth to all of them. Everything from "people have more baggage" to "there are simply fewer singles" to "you know better what you want, which weeds people out quicker." These all make sense. Mostly.

But here's the one theory I believe to be 100% accurate: The most important relationship I will ever invest in is the one I have with myself. So right now, dating is not a bitch in my world at all. Because, right now, dating has ceased to exist.

Next week, I'm taking myself to Barcelona for New Year's Eve, then to Italy for a week of wine, pizza, pasta, art and shopping. I might even splurge for a gondola ride in Venice if some hot gondolier will pose as my Italian boy toy and take a sweet selfie with me on the Grand Canal. Next week, I will be dating myself and only myself. I will indeed be exclusive. For ten glorious, wonderful, adventurous days.

And then I will come back and start over in 2017 . . . with a clean slate, fewer contacts in my phone, several empty-but-hopeful texting threads and the anticipation that the next year will be better.

If it's not, well, then it's a good thing I've embraced my role as a badass single woman, perfected the art of pouring wine when the glass is, indeed, half empty, and have several other badass single girlfriends on speed dial. After all, nobody should have to stomach unsolicited dick pics all on her own.

-Sienna

One of the most fundamental truths we must all learn as we cross the threshold from adolescence to adulthood is this:

Everyone has to own their own shit.

There’s this simple-yet-elusive concept called “taking responsibility” that some of us grasp sooner than later, and others, never at all. But a word to the wise: If you try to venture into a relationship with the latter, you’ll be entertaining something toxic. I promise you. People who can’t (read: won’t) take responsibility for their behavior need a scapegoat–and it will mostly likely be you, especially when said behavior goes bad.

Randy and I met online a few years ago, but not in person until a few months ago. We’d chatted on and off, but I had always shut the conversation down. Despite his attractive pictures (think tall, dark and sexy Latino) and the “sales guy” charm that oozed all over my phone (can’t help it, I dig it), my gut told me something was off.

He recently popped up on my phone–again–and asked me out–again–and this time, I had no excuse. My weekend was wide open. His face was still handsome. His charm, alluring. And I was in a serious dating dry spell. You can tell by the fact that my last blog post was three months ago.

Our first date took us to my favorite winery, then a quick dinner at a Mexican restaurant and back to his place for a steamy makeup sesh. Hella sparks, y’all–for real. Our chemistry was off the hook. This man I’d been shunning and shutting down for months swept me off my reluctant feet, and I felt like a 16-year-old with a schoolgirl crush by the time I left his place.

Our second date was just as magical: Italian food at a cozy restaurant in San Francisco followed by a blues concert.  And yes, more steamy, more sparks, more kissing, more chemistry.

I was sold. After two dates. Randy and I just fit. Clearly my gut had been previously wrong, and we would live happily ever after, the end.

Until that whole “own your own shit” thing got real. Here are the steps that changed our trajectory:

1. He went to San Diego the weekend after our date.

2. I got scared (anxious) like I often do when I like someone, and pulled back. He got pissed, and I apologized. Profusely. I wanted this one to work so I groveled. “Not to proud to beg,” and the like.

3. In the course of the apology, I mentioned having a glass of wine with another man and how bored I was and that, really, I only wanted to see him. Because, you know–the sparks and we fit and all that.

4. He got pissed. Again. “You had a date?!” I think this is where the first “that’s really fucked up” entered the conversation.

5. I apologized. Again. Profusely. I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong considering we’d only had two dates and were nowhere near the exclusive talk, but still, I should have kept that particular glass of wine episode to myself.

And this, my friends–THIS–is what set the tone for the rest of my short-lived relationship with Randy.

Over the next four weeks, we saw each other just one more time. I drove to his house to pamper him one night when he was sick with a sore throat and headache. Sexxxxy.

But what played out on our phones was nothing short of a toxic nightmare. Randy couldn’t let go of the fact that I’d had a platonic date. At. All. He would text me about how wrong that was and how could I do that after he’d kissed me “like that” and how he doesn’t fuck around (insinuating that I do?). He couldn’t forgive me for pulling away while he was in San Diego and didn’t I know how much that hurt him and why can’t I deal with my past and get over my fears.

Then the texts turned into phone conversations about the same shit–everything he couldn’t get over and how angry it made him and why the date and why did you pull back and why do you hurt me and why don’t you deal with your past and why, why why!?

“I don’t want to be angry, Sienna, but this shit that you do makes me so mad!”

“The Randy you met in the beginning was who I really am, but you turned me into this guy who’s now just pissed!”

“I have a wall up and it’s all because of you–because of your fears and because you disrespected me with that guy and because you, you, you!”

Lightbulb Moment. I’m not sure when it happened, but eventually it all clicked: Randy wasn’t angry because of me. Randy was angry because, well, Randy is angry. His hostility and rage was just that: His. I sure provided a nice place to hang the blame, but like I said.

Everyone has to own their own shit. 

I’m not perfect. I do struggle with relationship fears–abandonment, commitment, vulnerability. Hell, yes, I’m scared. I have both childhood and adult scars that want to control my love life. But I’m working on it. I’m inching ever closer to freedom from those scars, I can feel it in my soul.

And I know this: I will own my own shit, but I don’t have to own anyone else’s.

Randy spent four weeks blaming me for his anger and pain and the wall he hid behind in order to lob fiery accusations my way. But you know what? I wasn’t responsible for his bad behavior. Period.

During our last conversation, he spent an hour raging at me about the same tired issues we’d been beating to death for a month. I was sobbing in the end. I can’t explain why I let him other than to say that I’m sometimes comfortable owning other people’s shit, too. I grew up with an alcoholic, abusive father. It’s what people like me do.

But as my scars heal and my fears weaken, my boundaries get stronger. I shut Andy down after that–for real and for good. The Sienna from five years ago would still be enmeshed in the conflict and would be losing herself in a relationship that could have no happy ending. Ever.

Today? I’m stronger, smarter and keenly aware of red flags that scream “danger.” It took me four weeks too long to pull the plug–but honestly, that’s progress in my world. So hell, I’ll drink to those four short weeks and the ability to get out relatively unscathed.

Cheers to happily ever after–with the right person, at the right time, in the right relationship–and with the right shit, placed squarely at the feet of each individual it belongs to. The end.

-Sienna

Sex with an ex is never a good idea. At least that’s what I’d heard.

But I’m stubborn and 9 times out of 10 I have to learn the hard way, so when an “ex sex” opportunity came up, I had to take it. Because that’s what you do when you think you can prove those Cosmo and Glamour articles wrong.

It’s like saying, “Seriously? You think my head will pound tomorrow if I drink two bottles of wine tonight? Bullshit.” And 12 hours later you’re driving through McDonald’s, ordering a double cheeseburger with a large fries and popping ten extra-strength Tylenol.

A sex hangover. That’s what I ended up with after ex sex. One huge, raging sex hangover.

It started when he texted me about being in my “neighborhood” for work and we went back and forth for a bit which eventually led to him saying, “We should get together sometime and fuck.”

Disclaimer one: If any other man in the world had texted me that, I would have replied, “Go fuck yourself,” and blocked his number. Somehow, from him, it wasn’t offensive–likely because of our history.

Disclaimer two: This man had never been disrespectful while we dated, was not a player or douche and had never given me any indication that he was anything other than a gentleman. I’m the one who’d sabotaged our relationship. He’d been lovely, on all accounts. Handsome, respectful, charming and wonderful.

So. When I got that text, I was a taken aback, yes–but also immediately reminded of how great our sex had been once upon a time, so I replied, “Yes. We should.”

No. We shouldn’t. But we did.

He came over that night after work, we had wine, a bite to eat, small chit chat to catch up, and amazing, world-rocking, sizzling hot sex. He fell asleep (like men do) within one second of basking in the afterglow, and I stayed awake for the next five hours till our alarms went off, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I had just done.

And then the hangover began. No sleep + several glasses of wine = that foggy feeling of “where am I, what do I have to do today and how can I get out of it.”

But with a sex hangover, it’s also complicated with:

a. the bonding bullshit that oxytocin brings to the table (amirite, ladies?)

b. the memories of how it was before and how very much you liked him

c. the “what did that mean, will we see each other again and should I text him today” confusion.

Add to that the fact that our late-night romp had completely fucked up a lower back/hip injury I’d been dealing with, and I had what I’d classify as one big pounding physical, emotional and mental headache.

It’s amazing how our minds can convince us that we’re capable of handling something that we really, really want in that moment, but know, in the most honest place in our soul, we shouldn’t have.

Men are pretty good at fucking, then moving on. Even with an ex. Maybe especially with an ex. Exes are familiar . . . we know what they like, what turns them on, how to drive them crazy. There’s no learning curve. When you reconnect with an ex sexually, it can be off-the-charts hot. But there are many things it stirs up that are better left lying still. And as women, I don’t think we can control that, no matter how much we try to convince ourselves we can.

The next morning, he kissed me awkwardly, said good-bye and walked out of my life. Again. We texted a little, but our messages were short, quippy and filled with “what the hell do I say now?” vibes.

Later that day, I found a 4-second video on my phone that I had not taken, but appeared to be an obvious attempt to record a snippet of the previous night’s activities. Yup. My sweet, lovely gentleman of an ex had tried to film some of our sexy time while I wasn’t looking. Suddenly my sex hangover intensified. I could now add a dose of disrespect to what I was feeling, and I realized I was no longer an “ex.” I was now an ex-turned-booty-call and was likely sitting squarely in his category of “women who’ll fuck me without expectations.”

All this was exacerbated by the fact that last night I had to go to the guys who’ve been treating my back/hip injury and tell them I’m now in significant pain, not because I went beast mode in the gym or hiked twelve miles, but because I got busy for an evening with a blast from my past. I swear the pain came from my body screaming, “Bad choice, Sienna!”

They gave me printouts to take home of appropriate sex positions for women with my “issues.” Do you know what it’s like to leave your doctor’s office with Xeroxed drawings of people doing it in order to prevent hip pain? It takes the “crazy hot” out of sex. That should extend my lingering sex hangover for another good day or two.

Time for more Aspirin. Some ice. An acupuncture session.

And maybe a cheeseburger.

-Sienna

Some days, I don't hate online dating. Like today. It's actually not bad or frustrating or loathsome.

But it is fucking weird.

First let me say, I have profiles on several dating sites. And I have no shame about that.

I live in a highly populated area, and it opens up several options and opportunities.

It's the best way to meet people considering my job has has me married to my laptop.

It's a good exercise in marketing. Let's face it: If I can market myself, I should be able to market anything

It's just the way people date now. I can't fight it. So I've embraced it.

With a few different profiles out there, I get several messages a week, most from nice, well-meaning men who are trying to do the same thing we all are: Make a connection.

And then there are the other messages.

8:00 a.m. The Tinder notification on my phone goes off: I have a new match and a new message.

"Hello. Nice to meet you. How are you doing?"

Not a great intro, but not bad . . . until I looked at his picture. There's only one, and it's of a middle-age man taking a selfie in his bathroom mirror with a t-shirt that says, "I pooped today." No little marketing blurb about himself. No sexy smile, no "I'm this many inches tall," no pics of his dog or motorcycle or surfboard. Not even an obligatory "baseball hat and sunglasses" pic that gives even the biggest nerd on the planet a slight hint of swag.

All I know is he pooped. At least, today. And that, my friends, is not nearly enough information for a response.

10:18 a.m. I get a notification from Match. "You have a new message from ski_and_sand55."

"Hi, how are you? You're beautiful and just the type of woman I'm looking for. I'm interested in eventually taking a hotwife . . . is that a lifestyle you'd be interested in?"

A hotwife? Or a hot-space-wife? A trophy wife? Arm candy? What the actual hell is he talking about? So I asked.

Me: "I'm sorry, a hotwife? Can you elaborate? I mean, I don't think I'm what you're looking for . . . like, I have a job. And a house. And a brain. But maybe you can explain more?"

Him: "You're a writer--look it up. Urban Dictionary."

Smart ass. But I did. And here's what it said:

Hotwife: A married woman who has sexual relations with other men with the husband's approval. Usually while the husband watches or joins.

Ooooohhh, a HOTWIFE. Or, to put it another way, a man's private little porn star. All I could think was, what about my profile said "hotwife material?" My pictures? My bio? A flashing sign on my forehead that says "I like to fuck other men," only visible to the douchebags in the upper echelon of douchebags?

I didn't owe him a response, but I sent a "not interested" and a "that's not me" and a "I find that disturbing" anyway. Sorry, Charlie--go set up a profile on Pervert.com, you may have better luck.

2:00 p.m. Another Tinder notification: I have a new message from the "I pooped today" guy.

"No? Not interested?"

"Well, maybe you can sway me . . . tell me about your other recent bodily functions."

But then again, I have an unopened message on OKC from a "starving artist"(aka, unemployed) hottie in San Rafael, a new match on Tinder whose age says 101 but he barely looks a day past puberty, and another on Match from a 50-year-old long hair who looks like he just stepped off a Guns N' Roses album cover.

So dude, you better be doing more than just pooping to compete with the slew of messages waiting for me.

Nope. Today I don't hate online dating. Today it's my friend because it makes me laugh, it keeps me company and it makes me feel sexy enough to be someone's hotwife.

If that's not love, I don't know what is.

-Sienna

Once upon a time, there was dating without texting.

There was also that "talking on the phone attached to the kitchen wall" shit - a thorn in every horny teenager's side. Everyone from that era was relieved to see phone cords disappear.

But texting? That's a colossal beast I've not quite tamed, and as far as I'm concerned, it could disappear tomorrow and go die in whatever wasteland those phone cords are decomposing in.

Some days I enjoy it; but I've increasingly learned to hate it. I've managed to live out full-blown love affairs just on my phone. I can start, flirt, banter, mediate, resolve, relive, expound, expand, shut down and end relationships through typing (and receiving) words on my screen without ever meeting someone.

Perhaps the biggest issue with texting is that men and women communicate differently. Women often text in order to bond, and men simply text to communicate. Or to get sex. But that's an underlying motive in 99% of what men do, so that doesn't count.

But this much is true, at least for me: I would be better off 90% of the time if I would just put my phone down and walk away from the keyboard.

In fact, I've had a few recent texting scenarios that left me wanting to pitch my phone into the Pacific. Here: Have a glimpse of what goes on in the head of an otherwise smart woman when she's faced with the back-and-forth volley of texting:

The Athletic Trainer. Jim was a former trainer for the SF Giants, a huge fitness buff, really smart and a big ol' sweetheart. He'd lost his wife 18 months ago and had just started to dip his toes into the dating pool. Our texting conversation started nice enough, until it turned into phone calls, Facebook messages, more phone calls and voicemails, then more texts, calls, messages and STOP. It was too much too soon, so I shut it down before we even met.  I like attention, but not over-the-top. I think it's true with both sexes: there's an allure to being slightly unavailable. However, in hindsight, I should have been more understanding. This was Jim's first stab at dating after losing his wife, and maybe he was just nervous? Or unsure how much interest to experess. Or just a really great communicator. What's the harm in that? Either way, I ended it prematurely - via text - and I soon after regretted being a jerk. I likely lost an opportunity to meet a great guy.

The Amazing Catch. I wrote about him in my last post. This guy was a total package--smart, successful, funny, confident, fun, sexy. And best of all, available. As in, emotionally and physically available. As in, ready for a relationship. That made the commitment phobe in me freak out, but the ready-for-a-partner side of me feel all warm and fuzzy. And excited!

We had four amazing dates, and then I fully admit it: I got weird. But just in texts. Because what do you do when two sides of you are at opposition? You flip flop.

Me: I don't think I'm ready for this.

Me: Wait - I'm sorry! I'm just a little afraid of getting attached. But I like you!

Me: I don't know if the timing is right for this. Maybe we're too busy and neither of us have time for this.

Me: I've enjoyed you so much! Just give me a little time to get used to this.

Me: Maybe we need to take a break . . . 

Me: I'm so sorry! I just have a few fears about relationships I need to deal with. 

This wasn't a real texting conversation, but it might as well have been. I put the two of us on such a roller coaster that it's amazing he didn't puke on my shoes at the end and say, "Fuck this ride, I'm done."

He did eventually stop communicating, though, after sending several texts letting me know how much he enjoyed our time together.

Him: You're making this too hard. Life is too short for this.

And eventually we were done.

Clearly this fear is something I need to figure out - most likely stemming from my last relationship with The Narcissist. And I will. But this time, I let my trigger finger kill every good thing that was about to happen. Not in person, of course.

It happened all. over. texts.

Today, I'm chatting with a few men who seem to have some potential . . . one is a gorgeous Italian who moved here from Milan six years ago. He's an engineer on an oil rig, and I probably won't meet him for about a month - he's stuck on a rig somewhere in the Santa Barbara channel. He's a little over the top with his flattery, a little too melodramatic at times, and he gets impatient when I don't respond quickly enough.

But you know what? It's only texts. And I won't shut this down till I see what he's like in real life.

Another man is a lifelong entrepreneur, super smart, very busy and inconsistent with his messages. He'll easily go three or four days without a word, then pop in to say hi as if we'd just chatted yesterday. He seems interested one day, completely disappears for the next two or three, then shows up again to say, "I can't wait to meet you!" It feels like mixed messages.

But you know what? It's only texts. And I won't shut this down till I see what he's like in real life.

I'm learning, however slowly, that texting is exactly what you make of it. It can be the driving force in your relationships, or it can just be words on a screen. It can symbolize a person's interest in you, or it can be lighthearted banter. It can be used for good, or it can be used for evil. Like a superpower.

Except it's not. It's really just (say it with me) "words on a screen."

If I'm honest, I have to admit it's played way too big of role in my relationships. Way too big.

Thankfully that's changing. And moving forward, I am resolved to reserve judgment about the potential of a relationship based on our face-to-face interaction, not on what's happening on our screens. And I will deal with unresolved issues with spoken words, not written ones. Especially not ones I type into a little blue orb on my iPhone.

If I fail, well, the Pacific will get one more iPhone. And I will resort back to talking on a phone attached to my kitchen wall. Assuming I can still find a phone cord.

-Sienna

It's Valentine's Day, and I'm single. Not *just* single, but happily single. I'm not moping around with my face stuck in a carton of Haagen Daz, or watching a marathon of rom-coms with mascara-stained tears dripping down my face. Nope. I'm silently celebrating the fact that I'm footloose and fancy-free with no pressure to get all romantic up in here and make someone feel loved, appreciated, adored and all that other schmoopy-faced crap.

In no way do I intend to sound bitter. I love men as much as any woman. I'm just quietly relieved today that I'm not attached to one.

When I first became truly unattached almost four years ago, I was scared - I hadn't been alone for well over 20 years. But I was also determined. I wanted to find my way back to me, so I plunged headlong into the world of singledom, and I embraced my newly-found relationship status with all the exuberance I could muster. Was it hard? Absolutely. But as the months ticked by, I grew comfortable in my newly single skin.

Today, I fear that maybe I'm a little too comfortable. Recently I've connected with a man who I'd describe as an amazing catch. He's smart, kind, well-rounded, sexy, successful - so many wonderful qualities, all wrapped up in one handsome gentleman.

We went to a cozy wine bar for our first date and nabbed a spot on a comfy couch in the corner where we could talk and flirt (and eventually kiss) over a bottle of Zin without much attention or distraction. Sparks flew immediately. Our second date took us on a beautiful waterfall hike in Marin county, then back to his house where he whipped us up a spread of bread and cheeses, guacamole, watermelon radishes and Chinese chicken salad. And did I mention he has a wine collection of about 200 bottles? Be still my heart.

On our third date, we met at a bar halfway between our homes and simply talked and kissed and talked and hugged and laughed and talked some more. That was just last Thursday. It's Sunday, and I'm still reeling from that evening. It was simple, yet wonderful. Easy, yet emotional. In short, it was perfect. And we talked about the future - in hypothetical terms, maybe, but still.

"What if we went to Greece in May? Wouldn't that be amazing!" "How far from Santa Cruz are you? I'll be working at a hospital there in a few weeks, and would love for you come spend an evening with me." "Let's say we're in a relationship, and we give each other a free card to have sex with any celebrity of our choosing. Who would you choose?"

Silly, but you get the point. Talk went beyond tonight to "what about tomorrow?" Or next week. Or next May. That made my comfortably single self sit up and freak the hell out.

This weekend, he's in Tahoe with a group of friends, and today I did what I've become accustomed to doing when things get to an uncomfortably intimate point with a man: I tried to shut it down. Via texts, no less. Real mature, Sienna. If I've ever wondered whether I harbor a fear of intimacy, I erased all doubts.

"I like you. Very much. But I don't think I can do this. I haven't connected with anyone like you in quite some time, and it's scaring me, and I'm not sure I'm ready to feel all this yet."

It's been almost four years since my last relationship, and I'm not sure I'm ready . . . for what? Feeling vulnerable? Taking risks? The pain of a break-up? The emotional energy required for a romantic partner?

In a word, yes. All of the above.

I was texting with another friend about this today, and I told him, "I'm at the stage of life where I should be fearless and carefree. But in all honesty, I feel like a scared little girl. I'm afraid I may be 85 in a nursing home and still wondering if I'll ever get over my relationship fears."

My Amazing Catch texted me back after my attempt to shut him down:

"Oh, my. I'm sorry I haven't been very attentive this weekend, I've been hanging with my friends - we planned this trip a while ago. I hope I haven't made you feel bad. But I hope to see you again. I was looking forward to a romantic evening with you in Santa Cruz."

And BOOM: I felt like a big piece of shit. I've met this wonderful man, and I'm pushing him away because the scared little girl in me is whining. And winning. Truth be told, it's not that I don't want to be in a relationship. It's that I'm afraid of a relationship.

After all the work I did to get comfortably single, I'm not sure I know how to become comfortably coupled. Maybe I've become too single for my own good?

I texted My Amazing Catch back:

Let's talk when you're back from Tahoe.

I didn't know what else to say. I was embarrassed. Scared. And very much wanting to text a long explanation about how hard I'd worked to get okay with being alone, but now perhaps I'm a little too okay with it, and the thought of losing myself again scares me shitless because no relationship comes with a guarantee of happily ever after . . . but I stopped myself. Because it seems like the proper context for that conversation is on a couch in my shrink's office, not in a text message thread on My Amazing Catch's iPhone.

I don't know what's going to happen next. I wish I could say I'm going to push through my fears and find a beautiful, healthy, mutually satisfying relationship on the other side, but right now, I'm not sure I'll even make it to that romantic evening in Santa Cruz.

I've become quite adept at living happily single. Nobody told me that once I arrived here, there would still be shit to figure out on the other side.

Stay tuned. I'll keep you posted on what becomes of My Amazing Catch. For now, I'm going to open my favorite bottle of Pinot, gaze at the gorgeous peach roses I bought for myself and savor the sweet French chocolate I brought back from my solo trip to Paris last month.

Happy Valentine's Day to me. Perhaps one day I'll be able to say that to someone else.

-Sienna

You know when someone's hitting on you, but you're not sure if he's hitting on you, but you think he's hitting on you . . .  and it turns out he is?

Or maybe you don't. Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake.

My massage therapist is a 27-year-old hottie named Peter. Which is exactly how I like it. I'm not looking for a happy ending, but please--90 minutes with a gorgeous man's hands on my body is a sexy and much appreciated way to close out my work day.

At my last massage session, Peter got a little personal.

Him: "I read your blog, it's really funny."

Wait. Isn't there a no-talking rule here?

Me: "Oh, thanks . . . I try. I mean, actually, I don't. Funny stories seem to just find me."

Him: "I read the one about your date with the younger man . . . do you date a lot of younger men?"

About that no-talking rule . . .

Me: "Umm, well, yeah - I guess. But, I mean, not THAT young."

As in, not my young hot massage therapist. Probably. I dunno. Maybe. Wait - how old again?

Him: "Well, attractive older women like you . . . you are definitely wanted by younger men. Definitely. Wanted."

Screw the no-talking rule. Tell me more.

Actually, I didn't really want him to tell me more. And yet I did. And yet, nope. I didn't. Because it was all starting to feel a little awkward. And the massage strokes a little sexier. And the oil a little slipperier. And me a little nakeder. And the sheet on top of me a little more revealing. Er.

But Peter went on to describe why young men are attracted to older women and how "wanted" they really are and, hey, wouldn't it be great if he and I worked together because he has this great idea about creating a YouTube channel for my blog, and he could edit my videos, and we could see each other outside of massage appointments to do this, and would I be down for that and blah, blah, blah . . . in fact, he went on for a while about younger men and older women and how we should work together (apparently there is no no-talking rule) but I tuned him out because eventually the only thing I could hear were the voices in my head going, "OMG and WTF! Your massage therapist is totally hitting on you!"

I wasn't offended. At all. In fact, I would be lying if I said I wasn't aroused by his flattery, the subtly sexy mood in the room, his incredible hands with the perfect pressure and the thought of turning over and pulling my hot 27-year-old massage therapist on top of me.

I mean, I may not be a full-fledged cougar, but I'm not immune to feeling sexually attracted to a man much younger. He was hot, charming and giving me a massage that felt sexier than any I'd had before. I was turned on. Of course I was.

By the end of our 90 minutes together, I was unfortunately not any more relaxed than when we'd started. In fact, I was tense. Keyed up.And slightly flustered. Every muscle in my body had been sufficiently rubbed . . . but there were other parts of me craving attention. My body was in a serious state of confusion.

Peter came in after I'd gotten dressed, handed me a glass of water, a chocolate and a card with his personal phone number scrawled on it. "Don't tell the ladies at the front desk," he winked. "But call me. Any time." He gave me a hug, flashed his sexy smile and said, "See you in four weeks."

Ah hah. Confirmation: Those voices in my head were right. He was hitting on me, and now I had the business card to prove it.

I was flattered. For about five minutes. My gut told me I probably wasn't the only client Peter was hitting on, and my suspicions were confirmed three weeks later when the spa called to reschedule my next appointmnet.

"Hi, Sienna, unfortunately Peter is no longer with us--we had to let him go. Can we reschedule your next massage with a different therapist?" Boom.

"Oh! That's too bad, but of course. Who do you recommend?"

"Well, we could get you in with Karen next Tuesday at 6:30. Or Kasia on Wednesday at 4:00. Or how about Missy on Monday? At like, 5:00?"

"Um . . . are there any . . . men?"

Sue me. Peter was inappropriate, but I'm sorry - after him, I can't do women. It's just not going to happen.

Today I met John. Personal trainer-turned-massage therapist. Hot. Sexy voice. Great hands. Nice pressure. I think he'll do just fine.

Single ladies, you feel me, right? If you're unattached and you don't want to sleep around, a sexy massage therapist with a Midas touch is a welcome part of your work week.

Here's hoping that John stays appropriate so he keeps his job so we can begin a lovely relationship that includes oils, lotions, lights down low, soft music, a warm . . . table (almost said bed, but I caught myself), and his hands all over (almost all of) my body. Still not looking for a happy ending from my my massage therapist . . . but I'm down with a regular 90-minute date on a massage table.

A single lady who doesn't wanna fuck around has to take what she can get.

-Sienna

Three and a half years ago, I became single for the first time. I had always been a relationship girl, so the whole "table for one" concept was a bit foreign. But I knew it was time to get to know me apart from a man, and I chose to stay adamantly single, at least for a while.

That's when I started traveling to Italy. I followed Julia Roberts (Eat, Pray, Love) and Diane Lane (Under a Tuscan Sun). They were both writers. They'd both ended their marriages. Then they both fell in love with Italy. Obviously, a Roman holiday was my next step.

Every year since, I have gone back. Alone. And every time, I learn something new--about myself, about life and often about men. (Let's face it: There is no getting away from them, even if we want to. Especially in Italy.) On my second trip to Rome, I met Massimiliano--he was a charming, beautiful Italiano who put an end to my 20-month dating hiatus.

And broke my still somewhat fragile heart.

Recently I returned to Italy for a post-holiday vacation, and Massi and I reunited. Kind of. If you have a minute, you can read what happened the first time we met. In a nutshell, it involved cheesy lines, delicious champagne, awkward sex and, unbeknownst to me, his girlfriend.

This time, I was determined to right any wrongs and send Max a clear message: I will not be played, even in the face of gorgeous dark eyes, a sexy Italian accent and light-up-the-room smile. I was after one thing: Empowerment. I wanted to walk away this time with my integrity--and my clothes--intact.

And I did exactly that. But not without some significant attempts on his part to get me back into bed. Here's how things went down:

Max saw that I was in Italy via Facebook and messaged me. "Sienna! I see you are in Italia. Will you be in Rome? It would be my pleasure to enjoy your company."

I responded. "Yes, Max, I will be. My company? Maybe dinner or a glass of wine. How does that sound?"

Max: "Great! I would be delighted. You are so pretty and you haven't aged. What's your secret? You are still the beautiful, sexy woman I met two years ago."

Me: "Ah, Max . . . you're still a sweet talker."

Ah, Massimiliano. You're still the stereotypical smooth-talking Italian douchey player clearly hoping to butter me up and get me naked again. The difference was, this time I knew better.

Max picked me up from my hotel lobby (after asking for my room number because, of course, he wanted to be a gentleman and pick me up right at my door, duh) and took me to an adorable Italian trattoria for spaghetti carbonara, cacio e pepe and delicious wine. I made sure he paid.

Afterward, he whisked me around Rome and showed me the sites at night--the Colliseum lit up in all its splendor, Palatine Hill with its gorgeous views,  Vatican City and St. Peter's basilica, with it's magnificent Michelango-designed dome.

And then I wanted gelato. Of course. And he paid. Of course.

Through it all, this much was clear: My dear Massimiliano wanted sex. Here's a sampling of his cheesy lines, all drenched in a thick Italian accent:

"You're so sexy . . . your lips, your eyes. Do you know what your smile does to me?"

"Sienna, don't look at me like that! You get me aroused so easily, with just one glance." (Disclaimer: I wasn't even looking at him, I was looking at Valentino. We were driving in a fabulous shopping district.)

"Making love with you would be so sweet. I remember the first time--we had such good chemistry!" (Disclaimer #2: Good chemistry? Maybe. But please. Our first time was awkward as hell.)

"Sex isn't just me putting my penis inside you . . . we could do other things. Oral things."

And when he started to get really desperate:

(Taking my hand and placing it on his crotch): "Can you feel what you do to me? Just your eyes . . . see how aroused you make me?" (Disclaimer #3: There wasn't much to feel. He wasn't that hard. And he's not very big. There was no groping on my part.)

Finally at one point, I turned to him and said, "Max. I don't understand. You still have a girlfriend, no? And yet you sleep with other women. This isn't wrong to you?"

Max: "Well, I don't fuck around with just anyone. Only the pretty girls. Or my exes."

Me: "Does your girlfriend sleep with other men?"

Max: "Oh no! I mean, I don't think so. Why would she? I keep her satisfied, she doesn't need to."

Me: (rolling my eyes) "Well . . . to be clear, I won't be inviting you to my room this time. Not tonight. Not ever."

Max: "But why not?! Making love with me would make you so happy!"

It was right about then that I decided I was sufficiently full of spaghetti, gelato, sight seeing and Max's ridiculous bullshit cheesy lines.

I had him take me back to my hotel where I refused to let him walk me in ("I can manage on my own, Max") but where he did sneak in a big wet kiss. He was all tongue--I guess this was his last-ditch effort to seduce me.

I felt like I'd just had my face licked off by a labradoodle.

"Max. This isn't happening tonight. But thank you for dinner and for the free tour. Your city is magnificent."

He looked at me with those big dark Italian puppy dog eyes and said, "I'm so glad I got to see you again, Sienna. Be well." Rejected. Dejected. His Italian ego was hurt. And he would have to take his package home and unwrap it all by himself.

I walked myself back to my room. Alone. Fully clothed. Fully satisfied. And sufficiently empowered.

I'm not gonna lie: I love charming men. I mean, I eat up charm like sprinkles on a cupcake. A sexy accent can make me week in the knees. I have been known to be sucked in by a cheesy line or two. In all honesty, there's still a part of me that's attracted to douchey players of any ethnicity. Old habits die hard, am I right? I have always, always loved the type of men who are smooth with women.

But now? Well, now I love me more. And being able to revisit this part of my past and do things differently was slightly healing.

On this lovely evening in glorious Italia, I put myself to bed, thankful that I wouldn't be waking up in the morning with a sexy Italiano licking my face and a heart aching with regret.

I don't think I want to be single forever. But sometimes it's good to know that, if I am, I'll rock it pretty damn well.

-Sienna

I went to San Diego last weekend with friends. Just for fun.

What I found instead was a large dose of chaos, craziness and confusion. That happens sometimes, right? You go in search of one thing but find something unexpected that makes you go, "WTF? This wasn't on the agenda."

Would it surprise you to know that much of the chaos, craziness and confusion involved men from my past, present and future?

I didn't think so.

Because I know that you know that when those three Cs are present, 9 times out of 10 it involves the opposite sex. Mars and Venus don't always spin in sync. And last weekend, I felt like my whole galaxy was fucked up.

It didn't help that my hotel room got robbed by some douche bag who stole everything from my favorite Victoria Secret bras to that day's mall purchases. But for the sake of brevity, I won't go into that and will leave him out of my story. As well as the cop who took seven hours to show up to take photos and dust for fingerprints. Neither of them deserve much air time.

For now, shall we play a game? I call it The Bachelor Party. Here are the players. They were all key components to my weekend of bat-shit craziness.

Bachelor #1: A tall, handsome, brooding man from my past. The Widower. Still in love with his late wife, but trying desperately to move on. He's stuck, the poor guy. And I say that with all the sincerity and compassion in my soul. We tried to date a year ago, but his heart was (and is) still wrapped up in the woman he lost five years ago. I reconnected with him in a large group setting last weekend, and he was nothing like I remembered: he seemed socially shy, a bit awkward, slightly depressed and way too negative. And a little directionless. This was not the man in my memories, but probably more indicative of the man in reality. Sometimes the universe decides to show you when you dodged a bullet. Much appreciated, universe. The confirmation that he and I would never work provided closure. But damn. This was a reunion riddled with sadness.

Bachelor #2: A man I only know from Facebook, phone calls and texts. He shoots straight, and I like that. He's a smart ass--always welcome. He makes me laugh--I like that too. And he's a Midwest guy, which I have a soft spot for. We were planning on meeting at an event in San Diego last weekend. I was secretly hoping for a "boy meets girl, sparks fly, and kissing ensues" story. But plot twist: his sparks had begun flying with someone else, and he didn't mention that until the day before said event.

Guess what? Disappointment + a few cocktails + a phone in my hand = 13-year-old sassy Sienna. I texted a few slightly inebriated things I shouldn't have, he vomited anger and insults all over my phone, and what ensued was a ridiculous texting battle that both of us should be ashamed of. I eventually texted back long apologies complete with junior high-appropriate animated GIFs and "let's be friends" sentiments, but he wouldn't have it. I suspected he had a mean streak when he called another woman the C word on the phone once, but this confirmed it. So Bachelor #2 and I will likely never meet let alone be friends, and that just sucks because at our age, this kind of shit should never go down.

Bachelor #3: A handsome, charming professional who lives in San Diego. We'd chatted on and off for months, lost touch, then reconnected via Facebook when I was in town. We met for the first time Saturday night when we toured some of the hot spots in SD, flirted over a delicious Barbera, shared an intensely satisfying flourless chocolate dessert, and ended the evening with breathtaking views on the island of Coronado. I like this guy. Funny, quirky (in the best way possible), smart, sexy, straightforward and an amazing kisser. We had a great date. But he has a thing about the distance between us. NorCal to SoCal might as well be Iceland to Australia in his eyes, plus I detect a hint of commitment phobia (just my type, am I right?). So this was a lovely evening with a wonderful gentleman who I will probably never see again. Not my first time to this rodeo. But sometimes I do get a little tired of riding the same bull.

Stop it. That's not a euphemism for sex. We got a little sexy, but no literal riding occurred.

Bachelor #4: A hot (and I mean hot) professional who lives in my 'hood (as in, not long distance--you can applaud now) with one of the best online profiles I've seen in the past three years. We've been chatting for a few weeks, and he continued to reach out a bit while I was in San Diego dealing in some capacity with each of the other three bachelors above. Of all the men I've chatted with recently, he has the most potential in terms of location, life stage and compatibility. Of course, you never know about chemistry until you meet in person, but I'm hopeful.

Well . . . at least I was. After all my weekend shenanigans and dealings with Bachelors 1, 2 and 3, I got straight with Bachelor #4:

"Hey! I'm so glad we've connected, but how do you feel about actually meeting? Like, in person? I'm not picking up much interest from you that way, and I'm not really interested in just texting. So, your call. If you want to meet, awesome. If not, I wish you all the best."

There you have it: Impatient Sienna. Blunt-And-To-The Point Sienna. I'm-Tired-Of-Nothing-Working-Quite-The-Way-I-Want-It-To Sienna.

Dating-Is-Becoming-An-Even-Bigger-Bitch-Lately Sienna.

It remains to be seen how Bachelor #4 will respond since I just texted that, but I'm not holding out hope for a positive response. Men don't like ultimatums or being put on the spot. I know that. And under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been so pushy. Under my last weekend's circumstances, I think I just want to shut this down, too. Mars isn't looking very attractive right now, and I don't have the gumption to make anything work at this point. All I want to do is pack my bags and go dance in a piazza in Italy.

Good thing I'm doing just that in two weeks. When nothing is going right, I go to Italy. For me, it's the happiest place on earth, and I never feel more alive, empowered and absolutely thrilled about being an unattached single woman than when I'm traveling solo through the hills of Tuscany or the cobblestone streets of Rome.

Maybe one day Bachelor number-whatever will come along, the planets will align, Mars and Venus will spin in sync, and the unexpected will happen: it will work. Without all that craziness, chaos and confusion.

Until then, I'll be content to be Just Sienna. Because you know what? That's a pretty damn good thing to be.

It sure beats the hell out of playing bachelor games.

-Sienna

This is a man I dated on and off for several years after my 20-year marriage. The one whom I refer to as The Narcissist. The one who tried to convince me through thousands of texts and emails and IMs and phone calls and fake crocodile tears that I was the woman he'd been waiting for all his life, while presenting to the rest of the world an image of a happily married man with a beautiful family.

This is the man who, once he got divorced, begged me to give him a chance because, even though he'd cheated his way through his 10-year marriage with well over 15 women, he was ready to be a "good man." In fact, he confessed that he'd never been faithful to any woman in his life. But somehow he was sure I would inspire him to be different.

This is the man I said yes to (because I naively believed that such men can change) and subsequently entered into an emotionally abusive hell that would last for several months before I finally kicked, scratched and clawed my way out.

This is the man who I thought would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Then last week happened. I saw pictures of him and her and the ring and their glowing faces beaming at his iPhone camera, and I felt nothing. I. Felt. Nothing. Except gratitude. Thank God I got out. Thank God that's not me. Thank God his life no longer touches mine.

Three years ago, it would have been a different story. Images like these would have left me emotionally devastated, curled up in a crumpled, sobbing heap on my living room floor.

Never mind the fact that The Narcissist hurt me deeper than anyone ever has.

Never mind that he criticized me often ("you used to be sexy and now you walk like you're old and hunched over"), punished me with The Silent Treatment for being bad ("I can't talk to you, you're so fucked up"), and raged at me until I believed I was nothing but damaged goods.

Never mind the fact that he made it abundantly clear that I'd never be enough to satisfy him sexually. That he would always need porn stars to help him get off.

Never mind that he'd complain about the cost of taking me out, then drop a fuck-ton of money to trick out his Scion for car shows. "People say cars shouldn't come before women," he told me, "but this is just who I am."

I could give you 50 shades of other "never minds," but my point is, regardless of how toxic he was in my life, I was deeply committed to our painful relationship and madly in love with who I wanted him to be. It's a small miracle that I was relieved to see him with another woman--one, I'm sure, who believes that she's the one he's been waiting for all his life.

I've only briefly mentioned the term Narcissistic Personality Disorder on this blog, but this is a disorder that goes way beyond stopping to look twice in a mirror. Bonafide narcissists have a black hole where their sense of self should be, usually because some childhood trauma kept them from developing into healthy adults. They go through life with a false image - wearing a mask, so to speak - and they use everyone around them in order to survive. They put others down to elevate themselves. Seek constant affirmation in order to feel worthy and lovable. Lie if it suits them. Cheat without remorse. And if you call them on their shit, they will either try to destroy you or eliminate you from their life. Nothing is ever their fault.

Ultimately, they spin reality in order to make themselves the victims, and the people they hurt the "abusers."

That's what The Narcissist told me in the end - that I was his abuser. And I didn't know how to love him.

Do you know what I did the last day I saw him? I was desperate to hang on and convinced that if I could just be better (because all our problems were my fault), we would have a healthy relationship. I wasn't sure I wanted him, but I was absolutely sure I couldn't live without him. So I drove an hour from my house to his in nothing but black heels and a black trench coat. I showed up on his doorstep practically naked, and told him, "I'm yours for the day."

In the end, the only good thing we had left was sex. Even that had begun to leave me feeling empty and used, but if he needed a porn star, then so be it. I would give up my last shred of dignity to be who I needed to be in order to make him happy. I was, after all, the girl he'd been waiting for all his life. Right?

Later that evening - my last one with The Narcissist  - he told me this: "You don't know how to love me and you never have. Maybe we're just transition people on our way to the ones we're meant to be with."

My heart broke into a million pieces.

"You're the girl of my dreams," he'd told me in the beginning. And now I had become a transition? That's the last time I saw him. I drove away and I never looked back.

I knew that detaching from him would be another form of hell because he had become my drug. I knew that letting go would take months, if not years. And that I would need to be alone for some time in order to fix the broken parts of me that had held me in such sludge and toxicity.

But I also knew that I didn't have a choice. Staying with him would have meant death. Maybe not physically, but in every other way that mattered.

Recovering from a narcissitic relationship like this is not easy, but it's possible. For almost two years, I was fiercely single with no dating, men or sex. I was adamantly committed to my own spiritual and emotional health. And ultimately, I grew into a woman I began to respect, love and care for. It took millions of tears, painful soul-searching and humble pleas for help from both friends and strangers. But I did it, and I am stronger, wiser and more compassionate because of it.

Today, I barely recognize the woman who showed up naked on a man's doorstep, begging him to love her. Thank God.

Thank God I got out. Thank God that's not me. Thank God his life no longer touches mine.

If any of this sounds familiar, I want you to know: You are not alone, and you can get help. My journey began with a website called A Path Forward. This is a place where you can learn more about personality disorders, specifically NPD, how to recognize emotional abuse, break free and then heal. Please go there if you're struggling in a toxic relationship, or message me so I can put you in touch with people who can help.

It took me too long to realize I deserve a relationship with mutual love, respect, care and adoration. But now I will never settle for anything less.

Don't you either.

-Sienna

IN THE GYM

Last month, my 24-year-old personal trainer dumped me. We'd been working out together twice a week for six months until one day, as he was counting my reps on the rowing machine, he abruptly told me, "Thursday is our last workout." He then texted me a few days later to say, "I have to ask that we stop communicating on a regular basis. Sometimes our communication is too personal, with the use of winky faces and an occasional midnight text. It's starting to put a strain on my personal life."

His "personal life" is a 22-year-old beautiful but insecure girlfriend who, in no way, should feel threatened by his not-anywhere-near-22-year-old client. Ahem. Former client. And for the record, I've always thought winky faces mean "just kidding," not "I want to fuck you," and any midnight texts I had sent simply said, "I need to cancel/reschedule our next workout."

Not "I want to fuck you."

Lesson learned: Emojis are subject to interpretation. Midnight texts are only appropriate for booty calls. And (I guess) I should be flattered if I'm doing anything at midlife worthy of "putting a strain" on a hot 24-year-old's personal life. At least, that's how I'm spinning this. Do not burst my bubble; my birthday is tomorrow, and this is getting me through it.

IN DATING

Last week, I met up again with Ted. Handsome. Sexy. Smart. And brutally honest. He's been my crush from afar as he lives 1800 miles away from me in a city I visit frequently. I have, without any shred of dignity or doubt, developed feelings for this man who is, in almost every respect, emotionally unavailable. Shocker.

He's not married nor does he have a girlfriend, but otherwise he's terribly bad dating/boyfriend material. He may be good fuck buddy material, if that's what you're looking for (I'm not). This is what he said to me while we had a drink at a bar on my first day in town:

"I'm absolutely against long-distance relationships. And sex to me is just sex—I can easily separate it from emotions. In fact, I'm paranoid of anyone getting attached to me. We could have amazing sex tonight, and tomorrow you could tell me you're engaged and I'd say, 'Congrats!’” Winky face.

I'm still picking out shards of metal from the knife he dug into my heart.

Lesson learned: Before you go plunging heart-first into feelings territory with a man you have a crazy intense attraction to, be sure he's willing to plunge with you—not just in your wishful thinking, but in real life. If I'd been honest with myself six months ago, I wouldn't have been around for his brutal honesty last week. It would have been one date and done because I would have heeded the emotionally unavailable red flags. And I would be celebrating my birthday tomorrow without this nagging twinge of sadness.

IN FRIENDSHIPS

I have two male coworkers-turned-friends who have been a part of my life for almost 10 years and though I don't get to see them as often as I'd like, I love them madly—and they prove Harry dead wrong. I don't want to bang either of them, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual, contrary to this famous dialogue from When Harry Met Sally:

Harry Burns: You realize of course that we could never be friends. 
Sally Albright: Why not? 
Harry Burns: What I'm saying is - and this is not a come-on in any way, shape or form - is that men and women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way. 
Sally Albright: That's not true. I have a number of men friends and there is no sex involved. 
Harry Burns: No you don't. 
Sally Albright: Yes I do. 
Harry Burns: No you don't. 
Sally Albright: Yes I do. 
Harry Burns: You only think you do. 
Sally Albright: You say I'm having sex with these men without my knowledge? 
Harry Burns: No, what I'm saying is they all WANT to have sex with you. 
Sally Albright: They do not. 
Harry Burns: Do too. 
Sally Albright: They do not. 
Harry Burns: Do too. 
Sally Albright: How do you know? 
Harry Burns: Because no man can be friends with a woman that he finds attractive. He always wants to have sex with her. 
Sally Albright: So, you're saying that a man can be friends with a woman he finds unattractive? 
Harry Burns: No. You pretty much want to nail 'em too. 
Sally Albright: What if THEY don't want to have sex with YOU? 
Harry Burns: Doesn't matter because the sex thing is already out there so the friendship is ultimately doomed and that is the end of the story. 
Sally Albright: Well, I guess we're not going to be friends then. 
Harry Burns: I guess not. 
Sally Albright: That's too bad. You were the only person I knew in New York.

The three of us recently spent an evening together, and these men stole my heart, in a very platonic sense. Sometimes friendships transcend all that male/female bullshit and you simply enjoy each other for who you are as individuals, not as sex organs. They gently tell me the truth when I need perspective, encourage me when I'm flailing in emotional turmoil, and make me laugh at the ridiculousness that is my dating life.

Wait. I think that's them laughing at my dating life. Winky face.

My point is, they've walked with me through a difficult divorce, a blistering toxic relationship and a slightly bizarre move across the country, as well as a smattering of regular old trials, tribulations and stupid shit. And to this day, whenever I get to see them, my life is sweeter because of it.

Lesson learned: Men can make valuable friends for us, ladies. And they don't even have to be gay. I know I have two who'd buy me a birthday drink tomorrow if they could. And nothing goes down smoother than a drink from a man with no ulterior motives.

ON MY PHONE

I'm texting right now with an adorable younger man who just moved to my area from Rhode Island and is in the market for new friends. I can't wait to meet him—tomorrow we're going to make a plan for that to happen. He seems smart and funny and witty. If his pics are accurate, he's hottie hot hot. He's charming, but not in a smarmy-player-"hey baby" way. We have many things in common. He's also full of compliments and flattery and keeps questioning my age (as in, "you look at least 10 years younger"), which won't get him everywhere, but if he keeps it up and we're attracted, he's got a good shot at getting somewhere.

The older I get, the more I appreciate that a man 15 years younger thinks I'm sexy. I mean, I still feel like I've got it going on, but a little affirmation never hurt anyone, amirite? Winky face.

Lesson learned: At the end of the day, I'm a hopeful optimist, and a nice word from a charming man can still make me smile.

Oh, and age is just a fucking number. That's always a good thing to be reminded of the night before your birthday.

I may take some heat for what I'm about to say, but I don't care. That's the beauty of being not-20-something: I don't give a shit what people think. But you're here reading this, so I'm going to tell you what I think.

<Begin rant.>

If you are actively dating--as in, seeing and chatting up multiple people at one time--do it discreetly. Respectfully. And for the love of all things good and proper, with some class.

By that I mean, shut the hell up about the other people you're seeing and chatting up.

I feel like this should have been covered in Dating 101 when we were 16 and starting to dip our toes into the dating pool. But experience has proven otherwise. Either that or I'm managing to meet the men who fell asleep during that part.

Last night, a man I've been chatting with told me about another woman he'd recently connected with. "Sounds like good date material," I commented. "Maybe," he said.

"Next," I said.

Way to pour a bucket of ice cold water on our fun flirty conversation, because, dude, I'm sorry, but telling me about other women you're flirting with is going to extinguish any flicker of a spark we have between the two of us.

Another man I went out with - for the second time - told me about a woman he'd recently met and made out with. Nice. And an ex he'd recently reconnected with. And another lady he almost slept with (but she got "weird" or he couldn't get hard--I dunno, I stopped listening).

Damn, if that isn't the kind of conversation every woman wants to have with a man who's casually sipping his Campari in a sexy little bar. 

That was the last time I saw him.

And yet another man I dated last summer clearly stated, "I don't want a relationship," and I clearly said, "Okay, I get it, this is casual." What I don't get is why he took that as license to tell me about his "friend" (read: with benefits) who's 20 years younger, and another attractive woman he'd been seeing who lives an hour away and yet another hot-but-crazy woman he wants to fuck but is worried she'll get attached. Actually, he's worried that any woman will get attached. And maybe that's why he talks about his harem to whoever he's with--to reaffirm his anti-commitment stance.

I understand dating around. I don't believe everyone needs to be in a committed relationship to enjoy the opposite sex. If you're the kind of person who can get to know multiple people at once while searching (or not) for your perfect partner, then by all means, do it.

What I don't understand is telling the person you're with at the moment about all the rest. Ignorance is bliss, am I right? And keeping your mouth shut about the rest is simply respectful.

When I'm initially getting to know someone, I don't talk in detail about my ex husband or previous boyfriends. I don't chat about other men I'm chatting with. Because, why would I? It seems the only purpose that would serve is to see if I can get a reaction: Does he like me enough to be jealous?

And if I'm doing that, well, then I'm a passive aggressive bitch he should block immediately.

Maybe this whole thing is a byproduct of online dating and social media where we have this smorgasbord of potential partners at our fingertips, and we can swipe them away at a glance or woo them with flowery words and sexy texts until the next best thing comes along. Maybe we talk to people nowadays as if they're just one of many because the truth is, they are just one of many. The internet has widened our dating pools and made people much more disposable. Maybe people have become too easy to discard. Or disrespect.

I don't really understand this "let's talk about my harem" weirdness, but I do know this: Unless you're polyamorous and your partners are cool with hearing about each other, it's not considerate. Or thoughtful.

To the men, I'd say just stop. Stop it. You wanna talk about all the women in your life? Save it for guys' night out.

You want to get to know a woman? Take a lesson from your Italian counterparts: Talk to her as if she's the only one you're interested in. Speaking from experience, Italian men are crazy adept at making a woman feel special, even if there are 50 others banging on his door. Don't be a douche bag and lie that you're exclusive if you're not. But there's no reason to talk about your other "interests."

Ladies, I believe the same should apply to us, even if he doesn't give a shit if you talk about other men. It's just more respectful to leave other dudes out of the conversation and off your phone when you're out with the gentleman at hand.

<End rant.>

Now here's your chance: What do you think about this? Am I being too sensitive? Or have we lost a little consideration for each other? Hit me up with your best rant on this subject. And GO.

(Just please--don't tell me about all the bloggers you're reading. I have to draw the line somewhere.)

-Sienna