Take Care

Like everyone else, I am trying to cope with these bizarro times. And I mean bizarro respectfully, as all the current happenings are serious and weighty and important. But, I’m not that great at being serious and important. Weighty is an entirely different story. I’ll get to that in a minute. First, the dating updates.

I don’t know if all the guys I know have reached their breaking point, but I’ve been the lucky recipient of several offers to have sex recently. I know, I know, very generous of them to think of me. But, since I have grown so much, both emotionally and physically (again, we’ll get back to that), I haven’t been bending over backwards, or forwards, to take them up on it. I did try to do the friends with benefits thing recently, but it ends up just feeling hollow. I need the opposite of hollow.

However, spurred on by a friend’s recent rapid-fire dating experiences, I did follow up on one offer. Enter army guy.

Army guy and I dated a few times back in the beginning of the year, but it seemed to just fade out, or in my brain, he ghosted me. He popped up to tell me about a concert that was streaming back in May, and we texted back and forth a tiny bit. He ended the conversation with “take care.” Now, in my world, take care means fuck off. So, my reaction of course, was, oh, hell no.

This week, however, he texted me and said, “…I’m not sure why we stopped talking.” I took the bait and told him I didn’t either, which led to an invitation to meet. Since he’s been on double lock-down due to a blown-out knee, I decided to go for it, so we met up.

Our plan was to go for a walk, and pretty early on he commented that when he texted me, I sounded distant and uninterested. My response was, well, you told me to TAKE CARE! He didn’t understand, so I explained to him what take care means to me. He was genuinely astonished that I took it that way. I told him I’d do some recon (army lingo), to determine if my friends (especially the nicer ones), agreed with me. He responded by saying it was only important that I felt that way, and we went on to have a nice, albeit sweaty, walk around the downtown Tampa riverfront.

Back to weighty. I’m trying to use this time to become more grounded, so I am journaling and attempting meditation, which has been supplemented by almost daily trips to the golden arches to score an Oreo McFlurry.

I know all about weighty.




It Never Gets Easy

Last night, I had a zoom call with two of my buds from high school.

The topic? Um, boys, of course. Of the three of us, one recently experienced a lightning bolt shoot through Facebook Messenger, and right smack into somewhere she thought was closed for business. Apparently not. 

We’ll call her Venus.

She was messaged by a guy who, according to legend (hers), she shared breathless teenage interludes with, pressed against a fig tree, and surrounded by goats and chickens. They all lived together in harmony in a tiny Greek village. Yes, really. Their super-secret rendezvous went undetected because she used the one excuse that never fails – she had to go to the bathroom. Or in this case, the outhouse. Now, a zillion years later, they reconnected, if only for a little while. She’s plotting her entry into the world of online dating. 

Friend number two, and one of my besties forever and ever, had imbibed in a few glasses of wine and was chanting for Venus to “color yo roots, color yo roots, color yo roots,” which she meant literally. Venus, in her view, must color her grey hair (on her head).  She’s game to enter the arena too, and for the record, her roots are colored. 

My role is to be the wise old sage of online dating, or as I like to tell my friends, to be their sex fairy godmother. They asked questions on which site to use and mentioned the sites geared toward our age. Silver Singles, really? I can’t even think of something funny to say to that. 

So here goes round two. I am looking forward to having wing women for this reentry into the wild and wooly world of dating over 50. Together, we’ll be seeking love or sex (or the jackpot – BOTH) in this bizarro time filled with protests, a pandemic, and politics. It gets easier, but it never gets easy.

… and since Jason Isbell came out with a new album last month, called Reunions, appropriately enough, it is only fittin’ that he’s my first pick for adventures 2.0, followed by a bonus track.

Saturday Night’s Alright

It’s Saturday at 10pm.  I’m texting two guys.  One is an old friend who just agreed that I have a dark soul (I volunteered the description). The other is a guy I met on Tinder who I believe, in addition to wanting to have sex with me, is making lots of suggestions on how to alleviate the darkness in my soul.  “Do you journal?  Have you tried meditation?”  The answers are “sometimes, not as often as I’d like, and yes, but I need to get back to it.”

I’ve had three beers, am barely buzzed, and the local dive bar beckons.  I know it’ll be filled with old guys smoking, a lineup of captivating karaoke, and a disparate set of regulars.  As one Yelp reviewer wrote, “the place is a Tom Waits song.” There’s a lowdown, crazy magic about the place.  It makes me (temporarily) believe that everything is right with the world. But the magic isn’t real, and the next day I wake up facing inevitable answers to inevitable questions… Who?  What?  Where?  When?  And my personal favorite… WHY? 

Instead, I choose YouTube.  A sweet older gentleman convinces me, that yes, I, too can find my voice and sing like a bird. I begin my singing career by practicing “ah’s” and singing along to Ed Sheeran songs I don’t know. Next, I watch Jason Isbell concert clips and pretend I’m there jamming with the best of them. 

There really is a moral to the story. Yup, I’m still alone.  

Not that I haven’t tried. In the past year, I had a brief relationship with a kind and loving man who reveled in taking care of all my wants and needs. He cooked for me on his boat (at sunset no less), was never without lit candles, and even washed my hair once. It was all so romantic that I couldn’t decide if I was drowning in rainbows (there were literally giant rainbows on our first date) or if I was part of some sex-filled Hallmark movie. Side note:  not a bad idea for a new movie channel. 

But, as is the case with my old friend, I am a weird combo of dark soul and eternal optimist. And, there are always records. 


A Mother of a Day

I admit it.  I was not looking forward to Mother’s Day. This, I realize, is pretty silly, that a date on a calendar wields such power over me, but it does.  

I dread the day, because, by definition, it’s dedicated to family, and I am alone.  This is a fact.  I am the only inhabitant of my apartment, except for the robot vacuum I named Bob.  Bob is a welcome addition to the household.  He cleans, (even with a cheery little tune when he starts), is communicative (texts me to tell me when he’s done), and is mostly self-sufficient.  I do, however, have to rescue him when he occasionally gets stuck in the closet.   

Then there are the Mother’s Days of the past.  You can’t really complain on Mother’s Day, because, well, it’s so unmother-like.  But, I have been known to anyway.  One year, I had a temper tantrum because no one got me a card or a gift or anything.  Later that day, my kids made a run to Publix and got me a furry little cactus (which eventually became affectionately known as Grandpa).  I wasn’t sure if the cactus had a hidden meaning, but I didn’t care.  It was something. 

This year, one of my best friends, Mary, invited me to her parent’s house for brunch. I gratefully accepted and found myself driving across the Skyway bridge not so early this morning.  On the way, I called my Mom in Norway to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day and to talk.  This is a feat not to be underestimated.  After over 30 years of calls when she often had to go because “something was on the stove,” we are now able to have a lively and loving conversation.    Getting older sucks in many ways, but there are gifts, and this is one.  All the old bitterness and resentment now just feels like a big fat waste of time. 

When I arrived at brunch, the cooking (crab benedict and biscuits and gravy and other yummy stuff) was in full swing and the mimosas were flowing. I watched and listened and laughed with folks I’ve known and not known most of my life.  When it was time to go, I left that house, a house where we often landed after any number of teenage-infused activities (stealing massive signs and hats off fast food drive-thru workers).  My belly was full, and yes, as corny as it sounds, my heart was too. 

On the way home, as I drove back over the Skyway, it occurred to me that this day is not just to honor my mother and to celebrate my kids.  Today, thanks to Mary, her family, and the many, many women (and men) who have supported me in ways big and small, on this journey as a daughter and a mother, I realize this day belongs to all of them, and to all of us.    

Back at home, sitting at my dining room table, in my apartment (with Bob), as I FaceTime with my kids, I realize (I know), that I am not at all alone.  

This song speaks for itself. Happy Mother’s Day.  



Happy April Fool’s Day or Fool me once, fool me twice, fool me… 15 times?

Since starting this blog, I’ve been on A LOT of dates. Here is a list of most of them (I think).

1 Chef Guy — my first blog entry, he texted me about 6 months later, but I didn’t respond.

2 Patch Guy — the only one I still see regularly. We are both Jason Isbell super-fans, and he is a very good guy and a good friend.

3 The By the Book Guy – took me on some very “nice” dates, including ice cream and a picnic. We just didn’t have anything in common, so I was noncommittal at our last parting. I heard him muttering to himself “I mess everything up.” That was that.

4 The Belgian — he texted me and asked to meet, “No strings attached,” then texted at the last minute to ask to reschedule. I stopped responding.

5 Hawaii Guy — had recently moved here from Hawaii, and wanted me to be his girlfriend right away. When I called it off, he texted me “thanks — you had a lot of red flags.”

6 1029 Guy — a guy I dared to meet at a mattress store, which he did (which I thought was very funny). We discovered we had the same birthday. He would text me nothing for days, then “1029” at 10:29. He did this several times. He also sported a front license plate, with the number, you guessed it, “10-29.”

7 The Therapist — we had a few nice dates, but he called it off. Hmmmm.

8 The Tall in Bed Guy — I agreed to go over his place for dinner, then he changed his mind, or something.

9 Blank Guy #1 — see him occasionally, and I’m happy to say we are friends.

10 Blank Guy #2 — we do not see each other, even occasionally, and are no longer friends.

11 The Doctor — very nice, but no chemistry.

12 Not a Match Guy — I had one date and really liked him. He asked to see me again, then texted a few days later and said he didn’t think we were a “match.” Sigh.

13 The Gift Giver — we texted, then talked on the phone for weeks. When we finally made plans to go out on a date, he brought me a whole bunch of gifts (flowers, bubble bath, a piece of carrot cake, chocolate covered strawberries…). This was coupled with some very strange behavior. I blocked his number. Big sigh.

14 What’s Up Guy — he always says, “What’s up?” He’s a lot of fun, and I think we could be buddies.

15 Really Bad Idea Guys — no details necessary.

These were spread out, of course, over the last year and a half, but I have to admit, I got to the point that I let discouragement get the best of me, I rolled around in my self-pity for a while, but eventually, I had to admit that self-pity is just never a good look. Ever.

So now what?

Well, my focus is on the relationships that I DO have. My kids, my family, my friends, my colleagues, and yes, even myself. There are still plenty of adventures to be had.

Ain’t no man gonna change that. But, if he happens to come along…

An American (Florida) Legend and Two American (Florida) Girls

There are three facts that are crucial to this story:

  1. I loved Tom Petty
  2. I lived in Gainesville (briefly)
  3. The story makes my friend Blair laugh.  EVERY SINGLE TIME.

It’s 1985 and I’m 20 years old.  I had just completed my first year at FSU.  My parents had recently divorced, my Mom had sold our house in Sarasota and moved back to Norway.  There was simply no money for me to continue at FSU, so I dropped out to establish myself as financially independent (still hasn’t happened).  To top if off, my boyfriend had just left Tallahassee to attend graduate school in North Carolina.  I was homeless, broke and heartbroken.

At the same time, one of my best friends from high school, Lynne, needed a roommate.  She was living in Gainesville and attending school.  Off to Gainesville I went.

I got a job as the morning hostess at a hotel restaurant for $3.35 an hour.  My day began at 5:30 am, and consisted of me groggily greeting well-heeled hotel guests and showing them to their tables.  At that time in the morning, I wasn’t capable of much else.

But, there was one more thing.  I took the room service orders.

One morning, I got a call and the guest told me his order in what sounded like a sleep-deprived voice.  “Yeah… I’d like…a.. BLT.”

The 52 year-old Kari would have said, “Sure, we’ll get right on it.”  The 20 year-old Kari said, “I’m sorry, but that’s not on the menu.”  The caller’s response… “you got bacon, don’t ya?”

BIG GIANT IMPORTANT NOTE: This is the point in the story when Blair can’t contain herself, and dissolves into laughter.  Since Blair is truly one of the funniest people on the planet, this accomplishment makes me almost unreasonably happy.

He went on to list the rest of the BLT’s ingredients (things like toast), essentially arguing the lack of logic in my response.   I asked the caller to hold on, and I ran to the kitchen to ask the chef to make the BLT.  The chef’s reply?  NO!  I marched back to the phone, and heard myself tell this poor guest “I’m sorry, but a BLT isn’t on the menu.”  I interrupted myself, embarrassed by the idiocy of it all and told him, “I’ll figure out.”

I asked for his room number and last name, so I could enter the order into the computer.  I thanked Mr. Teddy and told him we’d get right on it.  But the computer rejected the name, so I called the front desk to see if I got the number or the name wrong.  The front desk person apathetically relayed the information.  “T. Petty.”


I can’t remember if I actually screamed, or did an introvert version of a scream (you know, the silent kind).  Tom Petty!  In the same building!  My mind was swirling with excitement, but I knew I had to take control of the situation so no one else would steal my opportunity to meet him.  Instead of the normal process of giving the order to a member of the wait staff, I grabbed a busboy, and told him he was delivering the order, and that I would follow behind with the check.  He went along with the plan (this was before I learned the invaluable skill of carrying large trays).

Up to the top floor we went, and to my disappointment, the door was answered by a woman who I presumed to be his wife.  (Of course I knew his marital status).  I wanted to meet him, so I said, “I’m really sorry to ask, but, can I get an autograph?”

She looked slightly annoyed, but told me, “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, otherwise I’d tell you to fuck off.” She led Roderick and me into the room, and disappeared behind the door to the bedroom.  She emerged with a paper torn from a hotel pad, which read, “Hi Kari!  (smiley face) Tom Petty.”

Over the next few days, I continued to accompany Roderick on every order.  His wife and I became friendly, and she told me they were in town visiting family, etc. etc.  I never did catch a glimpse of him, but I was elated nonetheless.

Back to Blair.  I’ve known her since the 7th grade.  Blair is one of those people who could read a toaster manual aloud and it would be funny.  And for some reason, the punchline of “you got bacon, don’t ya?” kills her EVERY SINGLE TIME.

That is why the story lives on.  Because it is about two of the great loves of my life.

I could pick two dozen songs for this story, but I’ll pick just two. One is the first Tom Petty song I every heard.  The other, is an anthem dedicated to my girl Blair.

Thank you, Tom Petty.  This American girl will never forget you.  And Happy Birthday Blair Henderson.  This one’s for you.



I’ve Got Green and I’ve Got Blue 

I’m back from a trip to Dublin, Ireland.  This is where Tiger Man and I decided to meet to spend some time together and get to know one another.

When I left Norway, I was convinced I wouldn’t hear from him again.  But, to my surprise, I got a text after I landed on American soil.  We texted daily ever since.

Until now.

It’s so easy to be flirtatious and gooey with texts, photos, and even heart emojis (am I really 52?). I told myself, over and over, this isn’t REAL.  But, did I listen to myself?  Nope. Nada.  Not a chance.  I forged ahead with this romantic notion that we were inexplicably drawn to one another, and the fact that we lived a gazillion miles away only further cemented my belief in the romance of it all.  Should I have been less gullible? Probably, but I went with the “life is short” credo, and hopped on a plane to Dublin, full of optimism.

When I spotted him at the airport, we greeted each other warmly, and decided to grab a quick bite, since we had some time to kill before heading over to our Airbnb.  And this is when it happened, and IT remained my captor from the moment I was struck.


I had imagined so many scenarios prior to that moment, that by the time the moment finally arrived, I become frozen with fear and anxiety.  I wanted everything to go so well, that the real me got lost behind a wall of uncertainty and utter blankness.  I couldn’t even decide which groceries to buy when we were stocking up for the apartment.  Where did I go?  Why couldn’t I just let go and be the weird, witty and warm person that I believe I am?

I chose to hide my weakness instead of coming clean.  I couldn’t bring myself to burden him with my demons on this grand plan for a third date. He was wonderful, and I believe the poor guy worked his ass off trying to maintain the conversation, make plans, make decisions, and entertain me, all while I gamely went along, teased him here and there, and tried to overcompensate with physical affection.

In the end, we spent four days learning a little more about each other, seeing a smidgen of Ireland, and making memories that I’ll never forget. When it was time to go, we kissed goodbye, I stepped on the escalator, and then turned around briefly to catch a glimpse of him one last time.

The adventure is over, I’m back home, and the communication seems to have moved from steamy and sultry to positive and oh so polite.  Today was the first day I didn’t hear from him at all.

I can’t say I blame him.

This song is dedicated to Tiger Man.  I don’t know what the future holds, for either of us, but I thank him for being a good sport, for my morning coffee accompanied by a single biscuit, and for the excellent DJ skills.

Two Chocolate Biscuits and One Tiger 

After I met Tiger Man, we started to text every night. Some of the texts were innocent.  Some were not.  Since I was in Norway for only two weeks, I let my guard down a little more than usual and decided to throw caution to the wind (which isn’t always easy for us Nordic types).

After staying with my mom for a week, I decided to drive to Sweden to visit my “ancient aunt” (her words).  With the plans all set, I ever so casually mentioned to Tiger Man that I would just happen to be passing Oslo on my way to Sweden.  He responded by inviting me to his place to stop and have a meal on the way.

My answer…yes.

After several hours of driving, I finally arrived thanks to Google Maps’ decision to send me through a maze of narrow Oslo neighborhood streets. He met a tired and frustrated me at the door with a hug, and quickly gave me a tour of his place.  We settled on his couch and I slowly began to relax.  Somehow that quickly morphed into kissing, and it quickly became clear that we shared a pretty strong mutual attraction (I’ll leave it at that).

After a little while, we decided we were famished, so he migrated to the kitchen to warm up some bread for the chili he had made. While we enjoyed the food, he played me a variety of music, ranging from Cat Stevens to AC/DC, to some unrecognizable Norwegian metal bands.  I asked him if there was one band he wishes he would’ve seen, and he answered ”NirvaaaaaaaNAH” in that stilted, sing-songy Norwegian way.

After dinner, he offered to make me coffee because he said he needed to make sure all my needs were met (swooning begins now). He also asked if I wanted a “chocolate biscuit,” and I said yes, thanks.  He proceeded to put two oreos in a nice little bowl to set on the table with the coffee.  Of everything that happened that night, I think the two oreos (one for each of us), melted my heart the most. It was getting late and I needed to get on the road, so he drove me to where my car was, and kissed me goodbye.

We continued to text, but time and circumstances got in the way of us seeing each other again.  He was out-of-town for work on the day of my flight home, but I wasn’t sure exactly when he’d return.  So I decided to take a risk and make a (sort of) grand gesture.

I texted him to let him know that I wanted to see him and say goodbye, and that I’d be at the tiger statue where we met, for one hour.  I didn’t receive a response, but I went anyway.

So I ordered a cappuccino at an outdoor cafe, and staked out the tiger.  The hour passed with no sighting of him. I grabbed by bags, and began my journey home.

This week’s song is from one of Tiger Man’s favorite bands.  I hope we meet again.

Isn’t it Good?

A fabulous friend of my roommate, and a new friend of mine, suggested that I should date while I’m in Norway.   He sounded so enthusiastic and hopeful about the idea that I thought, why not?  I know Stretchy Pants Guy uses Tinder to meet people as he roams the earth.  Why can’t I?

As it turns out, due to a delayed flight and a lack of planning on my part, I found myself stuck at the Oslo Central Train Station the day of my arrival. With 7 hours to kill, I parked myself at Starbucks (where else?) and began to pass the time by searching through the stockpile of available Norwegian men.  I edited my profile to alert my potential date(s) that I was in Norway for two weeks visiting family, and that I was up for coffee, dinner or “adventure.”  I think it was the latter that inspired interpretation.

Apparently, there are LOTS of Norwegian men who are interested in meeting an American woman with an expiration date. I’m guessing they assumed that meant no strings attached sex for two weeks without having to deal with the hassle of breaking it off – woohooo! (um, no). 

As I busily responded to multiple texts from multiple men, one guy started to pull ahead of the pack. He suggested we meet at the giant tiger statue in front of the station, and I agreed.  As I approached the statue, I caught sight of Tiger Man ducking for cover as it started to rain.  We said our hellos, then headed for the station hall that housed some shops and restaurants.  He directed me to sit while he grabbed drinks, and I dutifully took my seat.

Tiger Man was easy to talk to, and I was grateful for the company.   After the unavoidable discussion on the disbelief over the state of the US, he revealed he was an engineer who recently left the petroleum industry, has three grown children, and has been single for quite some time.  When we discovered a mutual love of books and offbeat movies (he’s a huge David Lynch fan), I started to become genuinely interested in Tiger Man.  After some candid sharing about why we felt we hadn’t met the right person, I looked at the time and realized I needed to get going.  He needed to close out the check, and I needed to grab my luggage out of the lockers, so we said a hurried goodbye.  He rose to give me a hug, and gently kissed me.

I rushed to get my stuff and boarded the train, and began to imagine how cool it would have been to have had a dramatic kiss goodbye on the platform outside the train.  It’s then that I received a text saying he tried to catch me at the train, but he missed me.  I told him we didn’t get a chance to kiss long enough.  He said he was thinking exactly the same thing.

This song is dedicated to my new fabulous friend, who gave me a very “good” idea indeed.


Playing for Keeps

The dating sites I use make finding “matches” deceptively simple. Swipe right if I like a photo; swipe left if I don’t.  If the guy swipes right on me, “Boom!” (one of them actually says “boom”), then there is a match.  We may or may not start communicating. If not, then, well, you just keep swiping.

Last night, at dinner with a few of my high school BFFs, I offered up my phone so they could participate in some vicarious swiping.  They did what I do, which is carefully evaluate each one, then make a firm decision before moving on to the next photo.  This went on for a minute or two.  But, then, the daughter of one my friends and our waitress, wanted in on the action.

Her method was far different from ours.  She leaned over the table, and swiped rapid-fire through the photos, swiping left on nearly every single one.  While I calmly witnessed the hijacking of my love life, my friends were visibly (and audibly) upset.  “What are you DO-ing?”  “Stop. stop. stop.”  “What’s she DOING?”  “NO NO NO NO!”

Two entirely different perspectives.  My friends were looking at these men as Potential.  Our young conspirator knew what I know; there will always be more photos.  This struck me with a mixture of both hope and sadness. Hope, because, there’s always that “maybe…”. Sadness, I think, for the same reason.  The maybes, more often than not, remain only maybes.  And I’m playing for keeps.

Which leads me to my list of maybes.

  1. The Belgian texted me and asked if… a) I’ve found my Prince Charming and b) if I remembered him.  I only answered the second question.  He asked me to join him for a drink, “no pressure,” and I said yes.  He ended up canceling. Several days later, he asked if I was busy the next weekend.  I didn’t answer this time.
  2. After telling Patch Guy I couldn’t see him again, we reconnected over our shared anticipation (ok, yes, obsession) for the new Jason Isbell album.  He invited me to join him and his friends tailgating outside a Jimmy Buffet concert.  I went for a bit, and had fun.  But being friends with men is tricky business.
  3. Success Guy is traveling for the summer, and sends me texts and photos here and there.  A possible maybe.
  4. RV Guy is off in the “sticks in Georgia,” and is doing some serious wandering. I think that’s all he is really serious about.
  5. The new guy, Sports Dad.  Unlike most of the men I meet, Sports Dad is cautious. In person, he’s a low talker (yup, a Seinfeld reference).  In his texting, he’s more animated and clearly interested.  But, he does little to move that interest into reality.  He’s smart and finds me funny (both essential ingredients), so I’m doing my best to squash my impatience and see where it goes.  Another maybe.

This week’s songs are dedicated to Betsy, my partner in crime, mainly misdemeanors.  I was lucky enough to have her join me in Nashville at the Grand Ole Opry to see Jason, Amanda and John Prine.  They, for sure, were playing for keeps.