I have been very patient with you on the phone.

Has anyone told you that you overtalk? You rambled so long about acupuncture for your back, I didn't dare ask how you hurt your back. I didn't want to hear another long story about your back pain.

Then there was your extended complaining about how airline flights are not as fun and nice as when you were a teenager. You sounded like a grumpy old fart.

"What age did you develop asthma?" I asked. "Age 40" would have sufficed. Instead you rambled on-and-on about coughing and tightness in your chest, how it was discovered, discussions with doctors, and even your morning asthma medicine routine. "First I do this, then this..."

When I said I'm having oral surgery, did I tell the tooth history? No. That would be boring.

Also, you seem to have reduced me to my feet, breasts and butt. "I want to see your breasts," you said. "You look like a B. I want to see that your breasts aren't hanging to your pants pockets." Before that, you wanted to see my feet. And my butt. Stop it.

This is sexual objectification: seeing women as an object for men's sexual pleasure. I can't stand it. The more you talk, the more disenchanted I become.

I'm not willing to put up with it. Good luck with your search.