I only date chefs, musicians, and writers. Here is a retrospective, although I haven’t included the one night stands (neither one of them).
- Writer. Every bouquet of flowers came with a limerick.
- 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.
- Chef. Pesky cocaine problem.
- Anomaly. Engaged two years.
- Chef. Bad habit of stealing from the company we both worked for.
- Musician. Said he wrote a song about me, but I heard the Muzac of the original playing in an elevator.
- Anomaly. Married seven years.
- Writer. Well, his autobiographical statement on Match was compelling, anyway.
- Musician. Said he didn’t write a song about me, but that one about the daffodils definitely was.
- Chef-ish, Writer-ish. He had a way with figs, and he once wrote a blog post that moved me to tears.
- 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.