It's Not Called Settling

Being ridiculously picky while searching for a gynecologist is a fantastic idea. Scrutinizing the acceptability of the nutrition labels of your food is probably a good thing. Sometimes being too picky can prevent you from getting something you'd like to accomplish in life. I know I’ll probably get many people - most likely women - who are going to cringe at what I'm saying, but just hear me out. There is a huge myth that no one should ever “settle” for the less-than-perfect man and, frankly, that’s just a really stupid way of thinking.

I read an article by Lori Gottlieb a few years ago and, at the time, I snorted. Of course, I had done what most people reading Internet publications do: I had only skimmed. Then I evaluated my own station in life and thought again about my closed-minded stupidity. Besides, all of us should realize that “perfect” doesn’t exist.

I was in a relationship with someone (We'll call him Jason) whom I believed was my perfect match. He was generous and smart and self-motivated and determined. I have a wide range of hobbies and he always encouraged me to pursue the ones we didn't have in common. There were four things I didn't like. 1) He was loud and talked a lot. It wasn't intentional, I don't believe, but it got significantly worse when he was excited or enthusiastic about something. 2) He had chicken legs. He just looked silly in shorts. 3) Tact wasn't in his vocabulary and he was unaware of his tone of voice. 4) He never wanted to get married.

The marriage thing was a problem for me. Then one day he gave me a grain of hope, by saying that there were many things about me that made him think we could be married and happy. That was all it took; I ran with it. I ran with it like a thief with an armful of stolen convenience store cigarettes.

Time went on and nothing had changed. I'd bring marriage up on occasion and it was a short-lived, vague conversation. After three years, I took an informal poll of all my male friends. I asked them, "When did you first realize you wanted to marry your wife, even if it didn't happen for years?" Without fail, every one of them gave me an answer that was less than six months. 

I scrutinized every last little detail about myself to try to figure out what was wrong with me. He loved me enough to want to be with me, but not enough to make a permanent commitment to me. He knew that was something I valued. I began remembering all the off-handed comments, including things about my "out of control" sex drive, and my weight (I need to lose less than 20 pounds to be in the middle of my optimal BMI, by the way).

I felt like he didn't love me enough to overlook some things that weren't perfect but I wouldn't think should be deal-breakers. I was absolutely sick and after many emotional arguments and heated accusations on my part, I chose to start seeing someone else who seemed to worship me. Yet I was miserable with him.

I met someone else (We'll call him James). He was wonderful and virtually perfect. I thought Jason was wonderful, but this man surpassed everything I dreamed a man could be - AND be interested in me! His generosity knew no bounds. His caring words and sensitivity was a refreshing change. His talents and interests were a few of the same ones I enjoyed.

I loved everything about him, except for a few things (you knew that was coming). His hairline was quite odd. He didn't have broad, manly shoulders. He had a duck-footed gait, which made him look like a ballet dancer. He was way more devoted to religion than I was comfortable with. His parents were too, and they put a lot of pressure on him to stick to traditional Biblical values. There were so many of my hobbies that he just wasn't into. His unstable jobs - all seasonal and he rotated with about 3 - kept him living several hours away from me. And, the biggest one...he was 14 years younger than me. Often, those things were all I could see when we were together. So I broke up with him.

After a few sessions with my psychiatrist, he made me see something very real. He introduced me to the 80/20 guideline: If you can find someone who is 80% ideal with 20% less-than-optimal qualities, as long as they aren't the dreaded "deal-breakers," you should take a serious look at yourself and see if you're really just being too picky and missing out on someone who may be the best thing that's ever happened to you.

How important is a hairline, really? I'd seen pictures of haircuts that flattered him. He'd expressed a desire to keep his hair shorter. So what was my problem? How embarrassed should a woman be over her man's shoulders? Really? That just sounds asinine now. It didn't keep me from being insanely attracted to him, mind, body, and soul.

The only two big obstacles were going to be the distance and the age. He never had an issue with the age - it was me; he was very mature (I think it was from being an only child) and all of his friends were much older than him. 

I'd really fucked up. The only thing I could do was get back in touch with him and beg him to forgive me, reconsider our relationship, and take me back.

He did. And I've never been happier. As partners - a team - I'm happy to support his career choices, knowing that my stable and sufficient income can carry us through the hard times and provide us with the health coverage we need. His parents love me and I love them. When I hug him, his sloped shoulders don't even enter my mind. Walking next to him, hand in hand, I don't see his feet. When we're nose-to-nose, looking into each other's eyes, the last thing I'm worried about is his hair. But I feel his love in every way and I realize it's not settling at all. It's being realistic and focusing on what's really important.

  

Chapter Six - Mike S.

Mike was younger than me by a few years and he was incredibly hot. He was in a band. Mike was probably 6' 3" and built like a Greek god, which wasn't too far off; he WAS Greek. With a shaved head full-sleeve tattoos, he looked like a bad boy and played the part well.

Our group of friends used to go to this nasty pool hall once a week. I wasn't good, but I was learning. Mike was the best player of all of us, and he wasn't one to let us forget it.

It all started the one night I finally got good enough to start kicking his ass at the game. It fired him up like crazy. I kept winning - not every game, but more than he was - and maybe he felt the need to assert his manhood or something, but I got the benefit from it. The sexual tension had been building for awhile. We all knew it but, let's be honest...there was always a lot of sexual tension between me and someone or another. :-/

At some point, he grabbed my hand, and began pulling me off my barstool, saying we needed to go outside and talk for a minute. We left the others to the game and I quickly found out that "talking" was not an accurate statement.

He literally threw me into our friend's car, jumped on top of me, and started kissing me. He was forceful, stripping off my clothes and tossing them all over the car. We were in a small parking lot, full of cars and people, and it just didn't matter. It was hot, sweaty, and passionate. I can remember the feel of the tapestry upholstery on my body; the slight dusty smell of the classic car's backseat. And his body against mine. Oh, GOD, his body...

Sidenote: If you've never had sex in the back of a 1960s-era car, you simply must. The seats are big and the springs give a certain sensation that you just can't get anywhere else...

Anyway, I could have probably gone all night from the sheer momentum of what had been building. With each movement, his chest sliding up and down against mine, I thought I was going to die - in the good way. Everyone knows how this kind of short narrative ends: with Stillie getting louder and louder, followed by sharp gasps of breath that just don't seem to fill her lungs fast enough.

There was no tender moment afterwards, only the realization (and huge sense of pride following the discovery) that our friends were (respectfully?) standing on the sidewalk one row away from the car. We got dressed and Mike stepped out of the car. I sat in the backseat, trying to adjust my boot laces, and he stood there looking at me. "You know we're not done...right?" All I could do was brush a little hair out of my face and nod.

Lionel (it was his car) walked up and carefully inspected the backseat. "Do I really want my friends sitting back here?" he asked, laughing. I guess nobody cared, because they all started piling in.

"We got kicked out because Richard knocked the cue ball off the table and didn't want to put any money in the jukebox," he said. "Besides, they're closing down in twenty minutes, so it's not like it matters. Everybody ready to get back to the house and drink a few?" Lionel was a lucky guy. His mother worked nights as a nurse, so his apartment was always our drinking spot. So, away we went.

Mike was attentive the rest of the evening, so it wasn't like he was embarrassed or anything - which was my first thought because, hell...he was one of those guys that every girl wanted to fuck, so what the hell was he doing with me? - and we hung out until about 4, when Lionel was nice enough to drive both Mike and me home. With no words, Mike wrote his number on a gas station receipt as he got out. He got to his door, turned around, and hollered, "Call me. We should get together."

Guys play the game, and so do I. I waited almost a week before I called him. It made my heart soar when I heard him say, "Well...I was wondering if you were ever going to call me." I laughed, because it's not like he needed me to get any. The tone of his voice hinted at a bit of insecurity, which made me giggle.

The rest of the sexual relationship isn't worth mentioning. I mean, it was always good, but nothing as exciting or as memorable as the parking lot thing. Eventually, I realized I was too insecure to carry on with a guy who could have his pick of just about any girl - and I'm sure he still did anyway - and I just sort of faded away. He didn't try to follow, which made me realize it was probably for the best.

Where is he now? Still playing in a band. He's made a few solo albums, traveled a bit, done a lot of collaborations with a lot of talented artists. I'm guessing he still has a real name, but he has a stage name that he uses professionally and on Facebook. I found him through a friend and sent him a request; we've had a few exchanges, but it's been nothing important. He's doing well, pretty successful as a musician, and I'm happy for him. In case you're wondering, he's still incredibly drool-inducing.

Next up: Zack P.

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A Rescue Dog Rant

I always get rescue dogs. I've had a Toy Fox / Rat Terrier mix (who was a puppy mill breeder dog), a black tri Aussie (the owner found out he was sick and didn't give him any treatment, and decided to give him away on Craigslist to dump the problem), and I currently have two Aussies, one who is deaf due to irresponsible breeding. I've been considering getting another small dog - either another Terrier or an Italian Greyhound - so I've been cruising the rescue groups' sites. What I see is a ridiculous amount of Chihuahuas or variation thereof.

This always happens when the media uses a dog to either promote something or star in a TV show.

Responsible Collie breeders have been fighting for years to reclaim the health and stability of the breed following "Lassie." The same can be said of German Shepherd breeders following "Rin Tin Tin." Jack Russell Terrier breeders and Chihuahua breeders are battling the same thing now, due to "Frazier" and the Taco Bell dog (which wasn't a standard Chihuahua, anyway!)

I get so annoyed with two different types of people: a) people who decide they have to have a particular breed because they see it on TV and, b) idiots who decide to breed those dogs because they've suddenly become popular and see dollar signs.

Here's what I see happen, and I'd like you to stop and think about whether or not you agree. I'm just voicing my observations in my area.

When "Frazier" was a popular show, there was a cute Jack Russell on the show. People watched the show and decided they wanted that type of dog. I'm guessing they didn't do much research on the breed because, within a couple of years, there was a huge influx of Jack Russells into rescue. I'm assuming people bought these dogs through backyard breeders or a pet store, because a responsible breeder would have made sure the buyer knew what they were in for. After living with the highly-energetic handful of a dog, the less-than-educated owners decided they couldn't handle the dog anymore. The dog went into rescue or shelters because they didn't know what else to do. Some of those people bought JRs and bred them themselves, deciding to make money the same way the others were.

A few years after that, the dogs used for irresponsible breeding began showing up in rescue. When the litter-producers could no longer turn a crazy profit, they dumped their dogs as well. That ended up being the second wave of rescue JRs.

Very few of these rescue dogs were healthy, met the breed standard, were eligible to be registered with the AKC, or maintained the integrity of the breed. That's what happens when people breed dogs for profit, as opposed to breeding for the love of the dog and to preserve the breed's initial purpose.

The exact same thing happened with Chihuahuas. The "Taco Bell Dog" wasn't even a true Chihuahua; it was a mix. But the Chihuahua Craze had already started, and even now, several years after that advertising campaign ended, rescues and shelters are being inundated with these dogs. Most are mixes, and my theory on that is that people bought the dog on a whim, never altered the pet because they were either too ignorant to realize that, unless you're a breeder, you probably shouldn't keep an intact dog as a pet, or they just didn't give a shit about it at all.

The problem with the Chihuahua thing is that there are congenital defects and problems these dogs have that responsible breeders try to eliminate from their litters. They have a tendency to have knee problems (luxating patellas), seizures, heart problems, eye problems, dental issues, and fontanelles that never harden. Poor commitment to responsible breeding most often results in temperament issues, regardless of breed. Backyard breeders aren't concerned with that; they just want the money, and there have been plenty of customers. As a result, all of the rescues and shelters are trying to adopt out or eternally-foster special-needs dogs which, I'm sure you can imagine, is next to impossible.

Don't even get me started on the "pocket dogs" and Peek-a-Poos and Cock-a-Poos netting stupidly high prices, or any ridiculous version of a "designer pet" that us old-schoolers call mutts. Or the fighting dog thing. PLEASE don't get me started on the ghetto trash that want fighting dogs...

Understand my view on this, though: Mutts are perfectly wonderful pets. And many special-needs dogs are very easily manageable, although some require lifetime medication or other financially-draining treatment, although that doesn't keep them from being great pets. And my issue here isn't with the dogs themselves, and I'm not trying to come across as purely pro-breeder, either. Shit happens. People die, people become too old to care for a dog, people get divorced or have to move and can't give the dog appropriate accommodations, dogs get loose and are never reclaimed, or whatever. I get that.

I guess what I'm really mad about are people who see animals as a cash cow when the opportunity comes up. Irresponsible breeders don't worry about spay/neuter contracts, genetics testing, education, consulting with families to ensure proper placement, or anything else. They're in it for the money. As a result, hundreds of thousands of dogs are euthanized in my area every year because, while they may BE adoptable, there are simply too many dogs to place. It breaks my heart.

I think about my girl, Holly. She's a 14-year old rescue Australian Shepherd who I adopted at a year and a half of age. She was put into a shelter in Louisiana because she killed another dog on the dairy farm where she lived. The owner never fed her dog food; she had nothing to eat but milk from the cows. She was abused by use of a cattle prod. When she got pregnant from the "family dog," a black lab, she was given no shelter or whelping box in which to have her puppies. She had to defend her puppies from predators and the other dogs through aggression. She went into rescue because she's a highly sought-after blue merle female with blue eyes. Three of her puppies were euthanized because they "didn't look right." Even the rescue had a date for euthanasia because she was so dog-aggressive.

Then I came along; a single, dogless woman who wanted a pet who would just jump up into the cab of mytruck and go...anywhere and everywhere. And Holly's nature fit that bill perfectly.

It took me 8 years to get her accustomed to other dogs. On a leash, she was fine. She graduated at the top of her obedience class at the age of two, beating out a Golden Retriever from a reputable breeder. Let her loose around other dogs, though, and it was full-on war. Like I said, it took me 8 years of working with her before I could take her to the dog park and get another dog as a pet. Even before that breakthrough, she was the best dog ever.

When I got her, she was damaged. Almost unadoptable to anyone except someone like me. Lots of people wanted her because they liked the way she looked, but her situation was not optimal for anyone. Not to mention that there were so many other dogs in rescue that were "more adoptable" than she was.

Holly has slowed down quite a bit, being almost 14 and suffering from laryngeal paralysis - most likely due to the abuse she suffered as a young dog - but she's perfect for me. That's the catalyst for my rant.

Holly's the best thing that's ever happened to me. When I felt I had no reason to live, I realized that Holly would, most likely, be euthanized because nobody else could handle her. I could never let that happen, because she had so much love to give, is so willing to please, and has been so easy to train. But she suffered for far too long and we went through so many hard years - even with me - as I tried to undo all the damage she'd incurred before I came along. It was difficult. I refused to give up, because I saw her love and intellect and, without meaning to be too cheesy, we are like soulmates.

My deaf boy came to me in a different way, and he is a HUGE responsibility in a few ways, but what I get out of our relationship outweighs the complications. It could also be argued that some of the undesirable issues could easily be solved if I put some work into it. Just to give you an idea about that special-needs stuff...he was in rescue for two years before I adopted him. The others at the rescue - the deaf ones with eye problems as well - had been there for as long as six years.

It's a tragedy that so many people view animals as a way to make money, rather than recognize their true purposes: either to do what their breed was meant to do, or to be fantastic companions. I'm tired of seeing pit bull, terrier, and chihuahua mixes stuck in shelters where they're living on borrowed time.

I feel as if I lost my focus. I'm sorry for that. There are just so many points I wanted to make and so many facets to the problem...Maybe I should have done some pre-writing! LOL.

Please...leave a comment and let me know what YOU think about anything I touched on here. Am I off-base? Too critical? Do you agree? Have any information or thoughts you'd like to add?