It’s 2018. Be the Steak.

Let me first start by saying that I love broccoli. It’s green, it’s healthy, it’s a super veggie. But in reality, it’s often a side dish. And lately, that’s how I feel when it comes to dating at 40. I’m not the most important part of the meal, I’m something on the side that is quickly consumed and then forgotten.

As a female of a certain age, it’s been inspiring to watch the latest movements to end sexual harassment. Let’s face it, the more years you accumulate, the more likely you are to have been the subject of some type of harassment. Show me one woman who hasn’t. The blackout at the Golden Globes, Oprah’s speech, the #MeToo movement. All of these initiatives are long overdue. They make us stand tall from our previously crouched defensive position and take pride in being a woman in 2018 and more importantly a woman with power and a strong, united voice.

We are taking major steps forward to win the war in the workplace, but what about when it comes to love and dating?

If you are a woman who is Bumbling around Tinder waiting for OKCupid to deliver your perfect Match in a sea of Plenty of Fishes, you know what I’m talking about.

No one plans to get divorced and start over at 40. I certainly didn’t have that in my life plan. Let’s just say the three years I’ve been “back on the market” have taught me lessons a 20-year-old me never learned. Maybe society and how we treat each other has just…changed. Sad to say, but respect and chivalry are totally dead to 95% of dating males. I’ve learned the hard way who’s looking for the real me and those looking for the “just right now” me.  With a little experience under my belt navigating the perverted shark infested single waters, I feel it’s my duty to help other women who are just getting off the shore and are looking for Mr. Right.

Here’s what I know:

  • Most men who say they are separated have never sent that memo to their wives. Separated is a very non-legal catchall term that grants men an out to cheat on their clueless spouses. Most of these men are married and just looking for a side dish, their broccoli so to speak. I have talked to countless married men online who represent themselves as single. You must become a detective when you start dating. I will find your truth in 5 minutes max. Challenge me. I dare you.


  • Men online think it’s great to call you “sexxxy”. With extra x’s thrown in to add to that “compliment”. It seems the more “x’s” one uses directly relates to their desire to get you in the bedroom completely forgoing any sort of actual date. Because, hey, why waste time getting to know each other? That’s SO 1991. I received a message from a man this week simply asking for my address because drinks with him needed to be earned. I’ve got news for you dude, I’m a freakin’ prize. It’s a privilege to spend time with me and my respect will be earned OUT IN PUBLIC. Take your extra “x’s” and your shirtless gym selfies and send them back to the bizarre tinderverse you live in.


  • Coo coo ca-choo. Younger men have a strong Mrs. Robinson complex. The answer as to why they like the older, more mature ladies is always the same. Older women are more confident and they just know what they want. Shocking, right? We didn’t get to be this age without learning a few things. But news flash…they aren’t talking about your hard-fought career choices, your latest vacation destination or choosing the perfect paint color for your foyer. They want you for one thing. There is no May/December romance that’s going to happen here. It’s all about getting a fist bump for the cougar score. I don’t know about you, but why in the hell do I want someone who doesn’t know what they want? I don’t have time to teach you what I know. Next please.


  • I’ve become very fluent in the male language. When a guy says he “isn’t looking for a relationship”, he really means…” I am looking for the perfect domesticated, super model but right now she’s MIA, so I’ll hang out with you/date/talk for now, but don’t get attached, you aren’t the person I want to be in a relationship with so let’s just Netflix and chill until my dream girl comes along.” This guy is willing to be vegan and binge vegetables until the meat counter has his “perfect” cut of filet. There is nothing more soul crushing than knowing you are the backup plan until the steak is available. You are better than that. Don’t settle.


  • If he’s interested in you, he won’t inquire about your single hot friends. No. Just no. Don’t try to sleep with my friends, don’t friend them on Facebook when you don’t know them, and don’t send me a message on Match because you’d like to meet the girl standing beside me in my profile pictures. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m calling your Mom.


  • Most of us don’t want to be called baby, sweetie, honey, beautiful, or whatever before a man even meets us. Trust me, you won’t know if I’m sweet, beautiful, OR your baby until you have spent some actual time with me. I also don’t want to know about your foot fetish, or how you want to see me in a dunk tank (someone actually told me that) or want you to inquire about my favorite sexual position. None of your business darling.  If you are smart, witty, and treat me with respect, you might be lucky enough to find that out one day. But it’s not going to be in our first five text messages.


  • Never sacrifice your ideals or morals to impress someone. Because when someone is almost “Mr. Right”, you find yourself trading on those ideals. I’ve dated completely unavailable men. Completely. Totally. I see it now, not so much in the moment.  We all want to feel like we can change someone for the better, or be the person they have been looking for that will inspire the change. You can’t change someone. You can only work on being the best version of yourself. Take a class. Make new friends. Host a single’s event. Find some new hobbies. Exercise. Be passionate about real issues. Work your ass off and make a name for yourself. When you find YOUR happiness, you are more likely to find it in others.


Now…here’s what men should know:

Women deserve to be respected not just in Hollywood or the workplace, but also in a bar, at a beach, and on a dating site. We just want to find that rare someone who accepts us for all of our flaws, respects us for our accomplishments and genuinely wants to get to know us better. We want to be courted and be made to feel important when dating. I don’t care if it’s the first email message or the last break up text, your words should be respectful and kind.

I will swipe right all day long for the man who sees me as the smart, witty, creative, interesting individual that I strive to be in life. Sure, there needs to be an attraction, but I miss the days when people had real, genuine interactions and really got to know each other. Now, it’s just easier to flip the page in the dating catalog and find the newest, shiniest toy to play with.

I am not just any piece of meat or a microwaved side dish. I KNOW I AM THE STEAK.  I have raw emotions and I might be a little thicker than others with a tough exterior. Even so, my feelings are tender and I’m proud to be in my prime. I will no longer date people who don’t treat me like I belong on the center of their plate. Everyone is different. Maybe for you it’s shrimp linguine, or maybe it’s a giant piece of tofu. But you are not a side dish either.

It’s 2018 and I choose to be the main course. Who’s with me?



When Should You Put the Punta Back in the Cana?

I’d wallowed, went through the stages of grief. Twice by March. I knew I had to move on. I had to move forward. It felt like everything was still crumbling and I couldn’t think straight enough to keep going. What would be my jumping off point? I needed one. I also needed someone (or some group of bitches) to shove me off the cliff.

My best friend from the 2nd grade was turning 40 and she’d planned a girls trip to Punta Cana. I couldn’t go. Too much going on at work. Craziness in my life at home. Remember me, hot mess over here. And I also remember my friends not giving me a choice about going. They shoved me off the cliff. I packed a bag and off I went.

Leading up to this trip, this fine group of women in their infinite wisdom, decided that I just needed to get back on the proverbial horse. I just needed to have sex with someone else to move on. It was March. The break-up/death/my-life-ending happened at Christmas. In my head I knew I had to get back out there…but I wasn’t quite ready to saddle up. Maybe getting lucky would be more of a St.Patrick’s Day celebration or Easter. Sex…are you kidding me…I didn’t know how to even hook-up with anyone else. Had that changed too? I was screwed…and not in the good way.

My vagina was in hiding. Or Siberia. I wasn’t sure where I had left her. Covered in dust and cobwebs most likely. How would I summon her home? I remember talking to Cookie one night during a late night trip to Target. Did I have the essentials? Did I have condoms? Hell no, why would I?!  And then she made me walk to the…dare I say it…condom aisle… like a freaking adult. We laughed over the phone at the options as I read the boxes and tried to decide what mattered most at this point in my life. Did I know? Did I care about his pleasure?  Should I focus on mine? That sounded more like it. Should it be highly lubricated or feel like second skin? F*%$ if I knew. When was the last time I had even used a condom? Oh yeah. It was 18 years ago.

I bought a jumbo box to make Cookie happy. I scattered some in my jeep, sprinkled some in my purse and shoved them in just about every drawer at home. You know…just in case someone, some day, wanted to…oh my god. I was going back out there. To the dating world, where men would kiss me on the mouth and see me naked. Maybe it would be fun but I highly doubted it. Terrifying was more like it.

We left for the island in the middle of an ice storm which seemed fitting. I slid down my steep driveway on my suitcase and we trekked to the airport. This felt a lot like my reluctant entry back onto the dating scene. A few short hours later, I remembered why these women were my friends. Island cocktails, infused with enough rum to keep Blackbeard down for the count were flowing. My groove was resurfacing thanks to 151, sunshine and these ladies. That’s what your four best friends do when you need it most. That and shove you down the driveway through the ice to find your dusty vagina.

By day 3, the staff high-fived us and made drinking motions with their hands every time we passed. I was slowly remembering what it was like to have fun. Boys were chirping at breakfast like some kind of island mating call. I was dialing in my mojo.

We crashed a wedding, drank too much, and I screamed “me gusta” and “no me gusta” at the top of my lungs for 4 days. I met a hot guy who had his zip code tattooed on his torso. He was young, dumb, and oh so pretty. We admired his abs which showcased this tattoo that would no doubt help authorities when he was lost and too drunk to remember his address. Men our age didn’t look like that. Maybe I was going to be ok out there in the world. Our conversation was stimulating. “My bitches are from the bad ass 17111…what about you?” Look at me. I could still flirt. I was rusty but I had this bull by the horns.

I took the advice of one very drunk girl at the bar that night who yelled over and said: “Make good choices!!!!!” I didn’t hook up. I didn’t need condoms. Everyone’s punta and cana stayed in there respective zip codes.

All I needed was that girl time away from the world to remember the old me. Time to sit on the beach and soak up the sun. Breathe a little. Cry a little too.  Four days where your best friends reassure you that you are strong and amazing and you WILL be get through this.


And YOU will. It just takes time, best friends, some chirping, and rum shooters.



In the early days of the big D, I quickly realized the only way to survive what had become my train wreck of a life was great wine, loyal family, and amazing friends. But I needed an objective third-party. Someone who wouldn’t pity me, see me as helpless, or paint me a victim. Someone who could look me straight in my bloodshot eyes and tell me it was normal to cry, swear, swear more, miss your ex, hate your ex, drink, drink more and date the wrong men.
Enter Frank. In my first session, he sat me down and promised he would never give me any of that “psycho babble bullshit”. He was a straight shooter and I needed that. I wanted someone to listen to me and give me guidance. He did all of those things. He still does. Although, I think I entertain him now. My life has changed so much since those early days with Frank. I had only ever really seriously dated one person and then married him.
How in the hell was I going to date now? The internet wasn’t even a thing when my ex and I were dating. Hell, I didn’t even have a cell phone. Now there was an app for everything, including meeting Mr. Right or at least Mr. Good Enough for Right Now. I had to be entertaining. Was this happening to every other 40-year-old who was dating again? It was surreal.
I was entering uncharted, shark infested waters. Most of my friends were married. They couldn’t relate to this “WTF” situation that I was faced with. Frank could. I was a hot mess. He has taught me that I’m a good catch. Divorce doesn’t make me used goods. It doesn’t mean someone else won’t want to be with me.  Divorce doesn’t define me. It doesn’t make me bad at marriage, or relationships, or life. It just makes ME, me.
Frank became that little voice in my head. Cookie (one of many kick ass friends you’ll meet as I tell you these stories), gave me my “going out” mantra:
WWFD? What would Frank do? 
Bad choices or “teachable moments” as I like to think of them now were everywhere. On the street, at a restaurant and good lord all over on my phone. WWFD?
I’m social. I like people and when I have a few drinks, I should instantly lose access to my phone. I should have to blow into it, breathalyzer style, before it lets me communicate with the opposite sex. No texting until you can prove your blood alcohol level can write the appropriate, lady-like responses to the guy you should NEVER text. Or the other guy you should never call. Let alone the one with the tattoos and piercings that boasts of things you didn’t know existed. The list goes on and on and on. WWFD? I don’t know, he was drowning in the martini I just had and I couldn’t hear him. I had things to learn.
I usually still make the wrong decision. Is it wrong if I’m happy though? Is it wrong if I learn something new about myself? Maybe. Maybe not.
Either way Frank is always there waiting for the sordid details because you know what…I’m a good catch dammit. And…I pay him to be there….so there’s that.

40 is just a number…

40 is just a number. That’s what I told myself when I had a mild freak out about that particular birthday. My friends and family threw me a hell of a party in November. A year before, I had started a public relations company with a friend. That was harder than it seemed and life was complicated. But business was good though and I thought ok…I got this. By December, my entire world changed. I was 40, starting over professionally and living alone for the first time. Ever. Holy shit.

You read about divorce all the time and think, not me, no way. That won’t happen to me. And then it did.

Relationships are a lot like bras. You struggle to adjust the cups because it’s just not comfortable. Sometimes your shoulders can’t hold the straps. No amount of shimmying or jiggling is going to make it work. It’s just worn out. I think we were trying to pretend we were the perfect fit for a long time. We weren’t.

For me, I didn’t realize we were in trouble, because I was just trying to be happy. Does that make sense? Somewhere in the process of trying to make it work – I lost myself. I think that happens a little in every relationship. You become another person. You see your friends and family less. You kind of adopt your partner’s philosophies on things, whether they are yours or not.  And when that relationship ends after 18 years,  you need to find your new normal. Deal with the pain of a break-up which feels like someone died and learn how to live alone. Learn how to be a party of one and not a couple.

As I write this very first entry, I have tears in my eyes. I still have good days and bad. And that’s ok. Reflecting back on the last year and a half and knowing most of it wasn’t fun. Well…some of it was fun. We’ll get to that part later.  But you know what? I made it. I survived.

Just because your marriage ends…doesn’t mean YOU end. And all the first “all by myself” milestones come and go. Holidays change. Vacations change. Friends change. Your family changes. And one morning you wake up and realize…sometimes change is good. Sometimes…change is exactly what you need to move forward. You have a new, blank page, and you decide what that story is going to be. Just you.

Welcome to my change. I am writing this to help other women who think it’s not possible to move on after divorce. This blog is what it’s really like out there when you start over. It will be gritty and raw and real. I promise you that.

What’s next? Do you date your phone? Do you swipe right for the prison guy? Do you become Mrs. Robinson for a night…or a week? Hey! No judging. It’s a wild, uncensored ride and I hope you want to take it with me.

Here is what I do know. You are NOT perfect and you don’t have to be. You are totally going to F things up. You are going to make some amazingly bad choices more than once. You are going to drink WAY too much wine, go out WAY too much, and meet all the wrong guys in all the wrong places. You will be totally miserable…and you are going to KILL it! You got this.

Your journey doesn’t end here. It’s only just the beginning. So here’s to new beginnings and being 40, divorced and dating. Welcome to the 40DD club. May your cups always runneth over as we navigate this strange new world together.