The Players

I only date chefs, musicians, and writers. Here is a retrospective, although I haven’t included the one night stands (neither one of them).

  1. Writer. Every bouquet of flowers came with a limerick.
  2. Musician. Bass guitarist in a ska band. I’ll give him points for being a Writer, too, since he wrote several pages of brilliant prose to tell me he preferred sleeping with my best friend.
  3. Chef. Pesky cocaine problem.
  4. Anomaly. Engaged two years.
  5. Chef. Bad habit of stealing from the company we both worked for.
  6. Musician. Said he wrote a song about me, but I heard the Muzac of the original playing in an elevator.
  7. Anomaly. Married seven years.
  8. Writer. Well, his autobiographical statement on Match was compelling, anyway.
  9. Musician. Said he didn’t write a song about me, but that one about the daffodils definitely was.
  10. Chef-ish, Writer-ish. He had a way with figs, and he once wrote a blog post that moved me to tears.
  11. Musician (opera); Chef (first breakfast: pancakes with real blueberries); Writer (wrote a haiku for me every day for sixty-seven days). He was the trifecta. Alas, it just wasn’t a good fit.
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Filed under autobigraphy, dating, humor, irony, memoir, relationships, sarcasm, single, Uncategorized, women

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