tallnlucky: blog

U Wanna Go Wit Me?

I only have a minute before my lunchtime run -

(Side note: I have lately become obsessed with running because, I've realized, I always must have a Project that Consumes My World, Munches it Alive)  Past projects include: home purchase, world travel, getting a ring on my finger, losing 70 pounds of baby fat, and finding my way back from Paris in bare feet but all of those are blog posts of yesteryear.)  Anyway, I've been running long and hard and everyday, pushing myself to the tits and you know what?  I'm in seriously wicked shape.  My butt has lift, I can see muscles in my arms, and I can easily run 10 kilometers without stopping, at a 5 minute per km pace.  I'm appalled by all of this, shocked at how fast the body can twist and turn and sleek itself - and you would be too, if you had witnessed the kind of lifestyle I led for my entire twenties.  To keep myself on the straight and narrow, I registered myself for the Vancouver Sun Run in April - one of the biggest 10Ks in the world.  And then because I'm obsessive compulsive and wretchedly addictive personalitied, I registered myself in a marathon in May.  This may be a pre mid life crisis, who knows, but I suppose it's better than eating crack or downing multiple bottles of wine for breakfast, which is something else that might appeal to addictive obsessive personalities like mine.)

But!  I wanted to share this video, of Nolan showing a little friend how to go down the slide:

Untitled from Kristin on Vimeo.

Three things:

1) My ex gave N that haircut last weekend, I didn't know till he sent me a picture with his camera of N getting all his thick, grom locks shorn. Justin came over last week and took one look at N and said, "What's up the the Dumb and Dumber bangs?" I am trying to take the high road, there are other things to get worked up about and also: WOE.

2) Nolan is a close talker, which, here, is incredibly endearing. I can't tell you who this little girl is just yet, but my son adores her and is a complete, gentle gentleman with her.

3) The morning after this video was shot, my son and I were curled up on the couch, eating toast and watching the spring rays slant in the patio doors. Strawberry jam on his face, he touched my hair, as he does when he is asking me something serious, and said: Will you make me a little sister, Mommy?

I can't right now, I said, but I will make you homemade strawberry jam in the summer and everything else I can make because I love you ten hundred million times the size of the Universe. And I do.

Wistful thoughts on serial monogamy

I never had to date, before.  I went from the Gangly Undateable Smart Girl (Who Had a lot of Pretty Friends) to What The Hell Why Are Those Guys Looking at Me (Are My Panties Tucked in my Tights?) sometime overnight between the age of 20 and 21.

I relished in the sudden attention, knew that it must be something random and fleeting and reveled in the wooing of males: those members of the opposite sex who had, for two decades previous, only talked to me to ask me about my best friend who kinda looked like Charlize Theron. 

I went crazy for about seventeen minutes, when I realized that my unmentionables were not, in fact, exposed by a bad tuck job into my nylons, but that the dudes were interested in me.  Or, my legs, maybe.  But it didn't matter much: they were suddenly looking. I was debaucherous for a gleeful spurt and then I pursued what I'd yearned for in high school, in University: a meaningful, monogamous relationship.

I found it first in Phil, a cunning bartender.  Then with Jae, a punk rock snowboarder who bought me an umbrella'd cocktail in a smoky bar and went on to be my lifemate for several years.   Then there was Wes, and my brother's inappropriately young friend Shawn, then Dale, and then my most recent ex, my son's Father.  Outside of those 6 men, spanning more than a decade, I'd never had to "date".  In each case, I'd met a man, felt an attraction, kissed him, fell into a physical relationship, and instantly became a significant other.  There were no questions, no perplexing queries: did I sleep with him too quickly, did I expose my soul when I shouldn't have?  It just happened, each time, smoothly and without game playing and eff, I took serial monogamy for granted for way too many years.

***

I met Mike online, because, cringingly, that's how I roll these days.  He is 30, he is tall, he is an entrepreneur, he knows how to fix anything. He snowboards and he boats and he's a self-professed geek: he's the perfect combination of sexy and serious.  I met him at a restaurant and we clicked and I got a little lost in his limpid hazel eyes.  Right after we met he had to go to a neighbouring province for work and he texted me everyday: sweet, short texts.  He thought I was special, he hoped he had a shot, he had his fingers crossed that he'd still have an edge on whoever else, when he got back.

He was gone for 3 weeks and when he came home I ended it with Dude I Had Nothing In Common With, because years of serial monogamy has taught me that I suck at dating more than one man at a time.  And, really, I didn't want to, in this case.  Mike had me excited: Mike seemed to be comprised of the components I was looking for.

He got back on a Tuesday, but I was in Seattle for meetings.  Wednesday, we met after work, breathless, excited by the absence and the reunion.

"I missed you, couldn't wait to come back," he said and I replied.

"Mmm."

Wednesday was firecracker awesome, and we made plans for Friday, and Saturday we wrapped ourselves in blankets and curled on the couch by the blue glow of a movie and  inhaled each other's scent.   He talked about summer, about an upcoming party: my mojo is off, my instinct's a little rusty, but I thought, perilously: I think he might be my next long term relationship.  In these last few months of dating, I've never really thought that before.

I don't know what possessed me, exactly, but tonight, for the first time since I met Mike, I logged into the Shady Dating Website where we met.  And because it's a shite site, and because I'm a snoop, and because he has me on his "favorites" list - I clicked to see what time he'd last logged into the site.

Ten minutes previous.

He's still trolling the site.

Maybe he's doing what I am, checking  up on me to see if I'm still looking for something better, but I don't think so.  I don't think guys roll that way.

Next steps: say nothing?  Ask if he's still wanting to see other people? (He told me kind of clearly he didn't, and I don't want to admit to being such a snoopy wanker)  Walk away and become a nun?  There's no compelling option at this point.  Houseladies, I know you're all married and shit and online dating is a relic for weirdos with ten cats, but all that aside: what would you do?  I liked this dude, I really did.

Mutual Dumpation

I step into his apartment and it smells like Pine Sol and green tea.  The blue flourescent light of  his manly flatscreen pulsates out over the living room and casts green flickering light into the corner walls.

"Hi,"I say,
"Hey, you," he responds and draws me in and in two seconds I've forgotten all the reasons I've come here: he smells like soap and good cologne, the outline of his chest and his stomach muscles scratch against his shirt and his eyes are golden brown. 

I've meant to sit down with him and talk earnestly and shamefacedly and instead I'm up against a wall and thinking, god no, god yes, god, how is it possible to be this physically attracted to someone I have nothing in common with?

We watch a movie, an hour later, Rachel Getting Married.  We sit close but don't touch and periodically I glance at him: thinking.

Finally I say,"If you won 5 million dollars in a lottery, what would you do with it?"

"Buy a nice house in (the suburb where I live now)," he responds, and I look at him blankly."And save the rest," he adds.

I look at him blankly: "You wouldn't buy something waterfront, near downtown?"

"I don't like the water," he responds.

"Would you travel the world?" I ask, holding my breath.

"I like it here," he responds,"Why do I need to go anywhere else?"

***
He kisses me goodbye, after the movie, and we say, I'll see you next week, OK, OK.  But as I'm fumbling for my keys in my purse, in the elevator, I think: we both want something more than this.

***

I don't text him the next day, and my incoming messages from him are nil, but still, on Tuesday I'm surprised he hasn't contacted me.  We didn't have much to say to each other, but we'd exchanged vague niceties for three months now.

Finally, I texted him today, guilt ridden. I've met someone else: someone who I have chemistry with, someone who is not opposed to strapping himself to a board and careening down a mountain.  I've been keeping him at bay, but now I know: physical chemistry alone won't make it in the long haul.  And I want to be somewhere with potential for a long haul.

"Hey stranger...you around later?"

His reply didn't come until an hour later, which is when I knew something was up with him too, definitely.

"Hey, I'm just grocery shopping, but yeah, I'll be around later.  Guess we should talk, huh?"

My stomach sank, but I texted back immediately.

"I have the feeling we're on the same page so nothing painful.  But yeah, we should talk.

***
I called him after work: "Do you wanna go first?" I asked.

"Well -" he pauses, and I can see his handsome face: brown, caramel eyed, with small creases around his eyes.  "You're an adrenaline girl - into snowboarding and water and you have a high powered career.  I work in a factory and am happy to stay here for the rest of my life - I love hanging out with you but - "

I laugh, inappropriately, but my whole body is relieved.

"We have no future."

"None."

"But man, you're fun to hang out with."

"God, you too.  But there needs to be at least one common interest, to sustain a long term relationship, and really, that's what we're both looking for right?"

"Right."

***

It was the most painless breakup I've ever had - if it can be called a breakup.  On to better, more cohesive things: on to the same thing, again, with the faint, but real,  expectation of different results.  That's the definition of insanity, right?

Your Face is Pasty

My son scrambles out of the Jeep: he knows how to undo his seatbelt now, and manipulate the door handle toward his compact, nimble body so that he can leap out on to the sidewalk, preferring the routine when there's a puddle of mashed brown maple leaves in a stagnant pool of lawn rainwater.

He stands in his Canucks baseball hat and blinking running shoes, shuffling in whatever nature's discards lay by the sidewalk. I gather my 17 pound purse, my Blackberry, a wadded ball of clothes, PJ's and, crap, I forgot his toothbrush again, didn't I?  I take my time pulling the key from the ignition, soaking the last strains of Kate Nash. Foundations, it's on every mix CD I own, because she makes me remember why I am content do do this, why I am OK with leaving all that regret back in its place in time, months ago.

We cross the road and the snow-capped North Shore mountains loom in front of us, the glittering water of the inlet laying in expanse under the bridge to the City on the other side.  N lets go of my fingers as we reach the pavement of his Father's driveway and runs ahead, slightly pigeon toed, like his Dad, blonde tendrils flying and thought bubbles flying.

He stops a few meters ahead of me, suddenly, perplexed.

"Why's all this...Mommy, wook!  There's poop all over Daddy's door step!"

I look, and sure enough, there are thirteen or sixteen giant logs of excrement laying in a carefully constructed pile outside the front door of my ex's suite.

At first I think: elk?  Racoons?  But no, this is very distinctly Jordi-esque shit and I bend down and put my hands on my hips, inspecting.  And then a smile spreads to my face, and I understand exactly what's happened.

The door flies open and a large, robust 31-year-old man stands in front of me.  He bears little resemblance to the young player I met at a Modest Mouse concert six years ago: his glasses are tied to his head with string and silver shoots of hair mingle with thick black, in spikes on top of his head.  He's wearing warmup pants and a rugby shirt and only his chiclet smile is the same as it once was.

"Your neighbours,"I say,"Are evidently not very happy about Jordi shitting at random in their yard."

"Oh no!" he peers behind me and witnesses the shit, piled up in a neat little line of turd aggression.

"That's a lot of crap,"I say.

"I didn't realize he was going over there so much."

"Yeah, well."

"Daddy!" our son yells, wide eyed,"It's not nice to have poop all over your house!"

We look at each other and laugh, and I hand over our son's overnight articles.

"Better get a shovel," I say,"And a bag."  And I lean down to kiss our son, who scrambles into the house and then leans in for a tight hug.

"I see you tomorrow, Mommy."

"Be good," I reply.

As a sidestep the shit, back to my Jeep, I think, he is OK.  He's never known anything else and this is his normal and he will be just fine.

***

My birthday is coming up, in a little over a month, and I should be inspecting for wrinkles and checking for ass sag and wondering why I am not married with 2.3 kids at this age, as almost everyone else is, but I'm surprised to find myself with no regrets.  When my ex first moved here, almost 6 months ago, I was paralyzed with fear - and, maybe, a little anticipation.  I harboured good memories, hoarded them really, and still mourned heavily for what was, what could have been.  I saw my ex fiance in the legs and expressions and eyes of my baby boy, and it ripped me, constantly, like something was clawing at a piece of my soul that needed to heal on its own, inside. 

Since then, though, I've garnered a new sense of clarity: a full understanding of why I left a bad relationship and finally: nearly three years after the beginning of its irrevocable disintegration, I understand with perfect presence that it was exactly the right decision.  The only decision.

I walk across the street and feel gratitude for the serenity of this city I live in, where I've laid down roots and hope and promise for my son. 

I've left behind a steaming pile of pointed dog shit, and I don't have to shovel it, and I'm starting again in a clean yard, here in my almost-mid thirties and, dammit, you know?  It feels really good.

Trolling for connections

It's late on a Friday night and my ex has our son and I should be out eating avocado rolls in a hole-in-the-wall sushi joint, staring at the twinkling lights of the city reflecting in the cold grey harbour.  I should have arranged a trip out to the suburbs where I grew up for a long-overdue get together with the girls who helped form my identity in my malleable junior high years.  I should maybe be scrubbing mildew off the seventies-green of my tub, folding laundry into neat piles in my son's room but instead I'm on the Internet, rabidly curious about who else is in there.

I live my life online: I write there, and here, and over yonder too - and at the epicentre of my career are blogs written by women.  All the friends I've garnered in the two years I've lived in this city have Internet ties.  My good single Mom friend was introduced to me by Libby, a reader of D&D who emailed me several years ago with a charming introduction: she wondered if it were kosher to solicit friends on the Internet, because if it were, she thought she and I would get along splendidly.  And we do, and I adored her friends too: a friend of hers from a Halloween party two years ago has become a very good friend: her daughter is my son's girlfriend.  Then there's Kgrrl, a longtime reader and commenter who has become my social planner in the city: a girl of gregarious laughter and huge eyes whose tinkling laughter has become a cornerstone in my social life.  Her friend Brenda has become a snowboarding buddy, and I'm eternally grateful. There are others: a wise Westcoast Mama and of course, Dustin, who I met through a Sketchy Online Dating Site and who has become a trusted confidante and truly great friend. It hasn't all been perfect, of course - there is Hairy Dude Who is Still Mad at Me, Angry Dude Who (temporarily) Stole My Jeep, and Perplexing Volvo Buying Dude...but they've all added fascinating texture to a life that would otherwise be pretty mundane.

All of these very real connections have made me wonder: who else is out there and what are they all about?  They've made me pause guaranteed real-life interactions on a Friday night, to root through possibilities, to assuage my curiosity with clicks and sends.

***

I should be elsewhere, on a Friday night, but I'm flipping through dudes on the Internet, eyeing keyholes of lives with trainwrecky interest and I come across a picture of a very tall man in a smeary mirror, his handheld camera obscuring his face but magnifying a rippled naked torso and I can't help myself, I write a note:

"How is the shirt off thing working for you?"

He replies instantly,"LOL.  Actually, surprisingly well."

He writes back a surprisingly charming email, and after several instant message conversations on lunch breaks throughout the week, I agree to meet him for a beer, next kid free night.

He is tall, obscenely so, his license plate reads 6-ft-8, and he chuckles as he explains it keeps the tailgaters away.

His favorite movies are documentaries, he listens to good music, he is slightly shy and has never lived with a woman.  I grill him about work, family, interests but he grills me more and he's interesting: there's little spark on my end but I can tell he might be interested in more with me and I make inner plans to mould him into the fabric of my life: as a friend, workout partner, suburban comrade?

I have to be honest: I have little faith that the Internet will bring me my soulmate, but I do believe that the people inside it are every bit as likely to change and mould and shape my spirit as the real-life people who inspired me before blogging and social media were invented.

Unexpected Diamonds

I conducted a short-lived Underrated Monday experiment here, where I highlighted awesome bloggers that (I believed) were under-recognized.  But because the girth of my attention span is equal to the underbelly of a pin needle, and also because I've been seriously lax on my blog updating (note to self: blog at least three times a week, it makes you less neurotic) I've kind of let that idea slide under my filthy jeep mats, along with several goldfsh cracker remnants, a rancid to-go-coffee cup, and a pair of tiny apple-juice boy sneakers that have seen much better days,

I'm kid-free tonight, and on my way out the door to meet a friend, but I got way laid by a series of blog links that led me to the blog of a single Mom in my city, a wickedly honest and provocative blog of a seriously talented young writer whose sentiments - and ability to convey them - inspire me.  Perhaps she reminds me a bit of myself, two or three years ago.  Go take a look, you won't be sorry.

And I'll update here tomorrow, that's a promise.

Angsty Neuroses of a Former Badass

Since I know so many of my readers are recovering bad asses, I'd be interested in hearing your thoughts over here, if you're interested in sharing them.  Actually, I'd also be pretty interested in hearing from you if you intend to expressly forbid your kids to have sex, drugs, and illegal (and potentially life-damaging) fun, too.

Tale of the skittering thong

I have no doubt that I'm a good Mom where it counts.  My son and I take taxi boats to hidden cafes across the inlet just to giggle together over fresh brioche, we comb the sand on beaches near and far for scuttling crabs and marvelously shaped sea stones.  We trudge through forests, we jump in mud, I read stories in hushed tones and pause to let my boy chime in with the missing words.  I've developed a patience with him, an attribute that does not come naturally to me in any other facet of my life, and I can honestly say I've never raised my voice to him. 

But sometimes I fail miserably, in the soft, natural tendencies of Motherhood that so many of my friends seem to possess instinctively.  I let N wear shorts over his pants, because he wants to look like a rugby player and who am I to tell him that he instead he looks like an eccentric little boy with embarassingly too-small underwear lodged over his jeans?  I let him eat crackers in bed, and I drive around in a filth-encrusted vehicle that most Moms would be scared to step foot in.

Last week, I noticed a sign on the door at his daycare: "Parents: please take bedding home once a week to wash."  The four and under set still nap every day at daycare, and oh my god, he'd been going there a year and there was his blanket and his sheet and...yeah, it had never even crossed my mind to take them home to wash them.

I gathered them up furtively in my hands, dust and fruit roll-up shrapnel falling off them in the late afternoon sunlight, and I placed my son's feet in his (also rather dirty) rain boots.  My God.  Was I the only parent that had not thought to ever take home my son's bedding to wash?

I wonder what the teacher's at N's daycare make of me.  While other thirty-something mothers breeze in in the morning in pinstripes and wafts of expensive perfume, I lope in in my coffee-decorated yoga pans and a tightly moulded toque: unbrushed hair and last night's mascara crusting in one eye.  I wonder, sometimes, if they think I just drop my son off so I can go home and sleep: I most definitely don't look like I'm en route to any legitimate office. 

I wonder what they think of N's "family" portrait: they'd asked for one last year to put on the wall, so the kids could see their families all day long, and after much agonizing and fretting I got my brother to snap a picture of my son's father and I, with our son, at Nolan's third birthday party at my home.  The result is a painstakingly awkward photo.  I look drunk, but I'm really just paralyzed with anxiety, and N's father looks like he'd rather be eating seagull carcass than partake in a photo with me: our son is in the middle with a giant cowlick and chocolate cake on his face and someone deemed that cursed photo appropriate to be placed in the very front and center of the collage of families and god, seriously, it just makes us all seem that much weirder. 

On Friday, after two days of forgetting (and of my son being forced to borrow naptime bedding items from the daycare) I brought in his cleaned sheet and blanket, attempting to stuff them unceremoniously into his cubby.  But since I am as shiteous with the washing machine as I am with de-goldfishing my car, I washed his bedclothes with something red and as I was heaving the blankets into their tiny cubby space, the red thing came flying out and landed with as loud a thud as a pair of lacy red thong underwear can possibly make.  I don't know how I did it, but those things went flying, over the couch and into the story circle transpiring on the carpet underneath the window and jesus H Christ.

"Mommy!" my son cried frantically,"Your underwear went over there!"

"Uh!" I said, and then froze, as I do, perpetually, in unfathomably awkward situations,"Uh!  Sorry those are my panties."

OMF I just said panties in a room full of three and four year olds and why the f couldn't I have just said underwear like a normal human and now there was nothing left to do but slump over in my orange rain boots and my stained ancient lululemons and go...gather my thong underwear up from the center of the party and, seriously, now what do they think I do for a living?

It would have been much more comfortable if they would have been black fullback sensible Mom underwear, but I have already told you about my bra-underwear match obsession and now I wondered: maybe they think I am some sort of aged call girl, who wears inappropriately sexy underwear beneath all that scrubby gear.

A normal woman would have quickly and cheerfully walked over to that story circle and nonchalantly stuffed the errant panties into her pocket, but I had no pocket and in any social situation I will do the opposite of what is comfortable for everyone and so I picked them up, mumbling, oh god I am so sorry about my panties, and on the way out I threw them into the bin by the door.  You know, so they could sit there all day, peeking horrifyingly out of the waste basket of tissue paper and discarded art projects.

God.  

**

I already put these pictures up on Facebook and Flickr but because I am fully into overexposure (and because, actually, I really like these pictures) I'm posting them here too:

He doesn't wear this shirt all the time, but it's present in many photos because it's fuzzy and warm and perfect for forest ambling and crab inspecting.  Here, in the grassy knoll adjacent to the harbour by our house, he is pointing out the red and yellow sails of boats in the water, the kayakers braving the not-quite-spring weather.  His observances are my soul candy.

Mom took this picture while we were illegally feeding shithawks and even though I can't do laundry and I am a bit of a screw-up when it comes to the niceties and normalicies of Motherhood, I think this captures us - and the insanely beautiful corner of the earth we inhabit - with perfect, defined clarity.  There's spirit here, and overflowing love, and I hope one day he's as grateful for this as I am.

Yearning for Hot Wheels, and an Inherent Knowledge on How To Do This

My son has a totally one track mind, and though I am fully cognizant of the genetic reasons for this, it's desperately frustrating to be on the receiving end of it.  He's gone from manic obsession with Hot Wheels cars to a deep and undying love for "his guys" - various action figures lined up, encased in perplexingly impenetrable plastic on the dingy walls of drug stores.  These "guys" normally come equipped with accessories - a baffling suitcase for a long-haired wrestling action figure, for instance, or a mighty sword for a midieval knight, a wobby helmet for a red-and-black superhero.  Invariably, Nolan loses the accessory for his brand new guy about an hour after I've fished out three toonies and purchased the damned thing: a bribe for being good while I stuff shampoo and socks in my basket.  The realization of the loss of the sword - or the suitcase or the baseball bat or whatever - invariably leads to a panicked scramble.

"I can't find his thing!" my son will wail, tears streaming down his agonized face,"Look Mommy, help me look!"  And his panic is contagious, and soon I am on my hands and knees on a filthy department store floor, peering under shelves to find a miniscule, ridiculously useless object.  Onlookers stare and cluck and sometimes a yellow-smocked matron will stop and share her story about when her kid was three.  And reassure me that this "stage" won't last long. Under the seat of my filthy Jeep (Dustin was transported in it last week, and he earnestly told me to never, ever let any guy I want to date into my vehicle), lay dozens of swords and suitcases and helmets and superpower vests, amidst shrapnel of cracker and sticky dried juice.

My son is a defined person, now, no longer a maleable character in the novel of my head, and I've been hyper-aware of this as I've struggled to put ideas down here: ones that I know he will not cringe to read in fifteen years. He is stubborn, and charismatic, and his laughter bubbles easily and often.  He insists on wearing shorts over his pants, like a rugby player, like Daddy, and he tells me no one can touch his body, he learned that at school.  He's got shocks of long thick blonde hair that fall into his giant, soulful blue eyes and his legs are as thick and strong as tree trunks.  He is just like his Dad, physically, and like a better version of me, soulfully, and I don't write about him as much as I used to, but he and his insane passions and shockingly strong little personality continue to be the centre of my ever-shifting Universe. 

***

Those of you following along at home (and honestly: I have often been shocked by your emails recounting stories I told years ago - so many of you have Rainman memories, I'm envious) may remember Jack, a young man I dated several times many weeks ago.  Jack was 27, a little too young for me really: earnest and intelligent and intense, with a palpable eagerness and...a plethora of body hair.  And a disdain for physical fitness.

I liked Jack because we connected mentally, but I couldn't convince my body to feel the same way, and I eventually attempted the "fade out", justifying the cowardly act by the fact that we'd never slept together.

"What gives?" he texted me about a week after the attempted coup, and I texted back,

"I'm just not ready for a physical relationship, Jack, I am sorry.  But I dig you and think you're smart and I would love to hang out and be friends."

There was a pause.

And then: "I want more from you than that.  I need more."

Another pause.

"I'm sorry. I can't give it. But I know, you deserve more."

Silence.

Though we'd connected in conversation on numerous occasions, I didn't realize I owed him more than that text conversation until I received a random IM from him the other night.

Verbatim: 

Jack 931: I just wanted to say I'm extremely disappointed in the way you treated me, dealt with things with me, etc.  I never would've expected it from you.  I read your blog postings and from things you said about the way guys have treated you, etc I was astonished that in the end you acted in a very similar manner.

Me: Stunned silence.  And then a scramble of apologies.  The more I apologized, the more hurt and angry he seemed, and the deeper I felt: Jesus Gay I am not made to date.

After 4 dates, a few of which ended in kisses, I probably owed him more than a text.  But god, meeting someone face-to-face prior to physical intimacy, just to say, dude, I don't wanna get intimate with you, is about appealing as prying my toenails off with a cheese grater.

As a woman, I'd rather a man "fade out" then tell me that physically, he just isn't into me.  I know, honesty is generally the best policy, but sometimes there are just things that shouldn't be explicitly said, right?

I know most of you are married, some happily, some not, but I would like to know, since I'm firmly entrenched in this shark pool and sometimes on the biting end: is honesty really the best policy in dating?  Even if it means telling someone that he's just not doing it for you?