Right Idea, Wrong Name

Just before Christmas my uncle called my mom with a sticky question. I had sent him a Christmas card and signed only my name. He wanted to send one back but he wanted to check in with her and make sure I wasn't still dating Frank.

Right.
Frank.
The dog.

All this time I've been signing my cards "Eileen & Frank" and he thought she was my boyfriend. We have been together for almost 10 years...

Cha!

Oh for fucksake you knew I'd get over it, right?

I'm smitten. That's what my mom says. Smitten.

How can you NOT be smitten with a guy who makes you dinner so you can work on your grad school application essays, who sits with you at the coffee shop while you work on said essays to help you make sure you're actually working, who drives you through the snow for an hour trying to find the prettiest place in the city, who does the "leech" when he's cold and it's so funny and crazy you giggle (like a friggin' school girl) every time you think about it, who actually WANTS to go square dancing, who brings you muffins from his office's breakfast spread so you won't get hungry while you're running errands, who calls your dog "sweetie", who puts his arm around you just so when he kisses you goodbye at the airport, and who passes on a ski trip with his buddies so he can spend his first weekend back in town in two weeks with you? How can you not be totally and completely schmoopsy?

And this guy is a lawyer. A lanky little balding Jewish lawyer. Course, that doesn't mean he's not sexy and adorable. Bald matters less as we get older, yes? But he's just not someone I ever thought I'd be falling all over myself for. I guess it's good not to have a type. All I ask is that he be smart and funny and respect me and after that I don't know what else we can really want. I suppose we all gravitate towards a certain personality (mine is tall and lanky and tatooed and moody and usually aimless- fortunately I rarely go out with those guys) but everyone has something to offer.

School! School! School! If I'm not with Mr. P I'm working on School! Just a few more weeks and the application process will be over. Then it's all about applying for scholarships and fellowships and grants and aid and making decisions about my future. I do not understand how we as a society expect anyone under the age of 25 to make these kinds of decisions. I remember thinking that I could have had my masters at 24 and how the hell could anyone call me a master of anything at 24? Thirty-one feels a little more realistic. Course, I'll be 34 or 35 when I'm done. Whoa holy.

That Point

It always happens. I reach that point where I'm really not sure how I feel about all this and am I not usually happier alone and how much effort do I want to put into this and how much does he want to put into it and probably it's going to require a discussion but I hate talking and jesus wouldn't it be easier to just end it?

And I dropped that bomb on my sister, that I thought I was done, and she freaked out and told me to get over myself.

Probably I'm sick. Well, I am. And that clouds my judgement of all things (wouldn't right now be a really great time to buy a new little red dress and a pair of shoes to go with it? See, all things.). But especially in matters of relationships. Because I feel like ass and I want to be alone but can't he be a mind reader and help me out here? And he was gone for nine days for Thanksgiving. And of course wasn't in touch as much as I would have liked. Mind reader. And last night when he came by I felt a wall but I'm pretty sure it was my wall. I don't know.

Some mornings I walk Frank and I think that probably I'm not cut out for this and probably I will be the auntie forever and probably I will be OK with that.

Christ almighty I have a ton of stuff to do, too. All this school stuff. Packets of various hoo-ha to put together and send to the right people and statements to write and rewrite and professors to harass. And one of those professors is kicking my ass, asking for rewrites and edits and don't I want this to be perfect? Yes. Yes I do. But I'm sick.

Come February all this school stuff will be over and I can breathe til April when I have to make a decision. About where I'm headed for the next 2-3 years of my life.

And probably this whole school thing doesn't help the whole relationship thing. Bleh. Can I just blame this on the plague?

Head Over Heels

I've had some questions. A few hints. That maybe some of you are wondering what I've been up to. The short answer is that things have reached a point with Mr. P that well, blogging would be kissing and telling and laying bare a friendship that has turned into something a little more and since he doesn't know about this blog it's really not fair to do that. It might be slightly tacky, anyway, to talk about our Halloween sleepover.

But I can tell you that things are going well. Really well. That I am having incredible fun. That he makes me feel so good and sexy and funny and wanted. That the days I'm going to see him are the longest and the time we spend together goes too quickly. I am head over heels schmoopsy and I love it. He's adorable and sexy and smart and tests nearly every preconception I have about relationships and what I think I want and who I think I would want to be with. He's whip smart. Whip smart. That's high on my list. And funny. And such a shit. An instigator. He's benignly offensive (is that possible?) at the best possible moments. And corny (last night he told me that geologists make the bed rock). He dances. The man dances. He opens car doors. He tells me I look nice. And he likes to do things. To do things. Last night we went out to eat and then over to the Tractor and saw two bluegrass bands and it was the most fun I've had in awhile. And today we went sailing. I left work early and we went sailing with some of his friends. Sailing. I love to do things. Anything. Ohmigod I can't tell you how much fun this has been. I'm in so much trouble.

On Mr. P's end. His father passed away while he was in Chicago. He had been sick for almost two years. It was terribly sad but also a bit of a relief to know he wouldn't suffer any longer. The same week he passed away Mr. P found out he'd passed the bar. And yesterday he went to what he thought was an informational meeting with a firm downtown that turned into an interview. He received an informal offer and will hopefully know by the end of the week what the next six months of his life will look like. I am so excited for him. It's been a shitty year. He deserves all the good that's tumbling his way right now.

And yes, I deserve it, too. A great guy.

What's What

So right. Moving along now.

Sometimes I get desperate. Especially when it's the first real rainy, boring Wednesday night here in Sea Town and all I really want is a fireplace and some good company and a beer. And my fingers find their way to a phone number I know better than to call. Mr. P. Dude. And of course his voicemail freaks out. This is a problem I've had before. And I can't leave a message. And so I know my number is on his caller ID without a message and oh well whatever. I promptly delete his number from my phone book and my call history. This is what? About three weeks ago.

And then. And then. Two days later I find an email from him in my inbox. And I have my sister read it because I'm 100% pure positive it's begging me to just leave him the fuck alone. But no. It's asking me to come to a BBQ at his new house that Sunday. And with a little work and some game playing I find myself there. Me and his roommates and a bunch of everyone's friends and somehow. Somehow. I manage to pull off the coolest girl in the world. This probably has to do with eight beers and one hot dog and some warm September sun. Nevertheless, I manage to play it cool and not make an ass of myself and escape with only a wicked hangover and a lost hat.

A few days later I realize my hat is lost. My favorite hat. The hat that keeps the pencil behind my ear at the studio and makes my hair look better not worse. And I contact Mr. P to see if maybe I've left it at their house. And to see if maybe, maybe I can take him up on this offer of high end Scotch he keeps making. And at first he's all excuses. And then something changes. And Sunday morning I find myself hopping into his yuppie SUV (did I mention that he's a balding, yuppie, Jewish, soon to be lawyer but is still incredibly cute?) and heading into the woods for a crisp fall hike. And it's awesome. And I've found my hat in the laundry. And the hike is crazy fun and we talk talk talk and drive back into town and get a pizza and a six pack and head back to my place and talk talk talk some more. And we do a little me show & tell. And it's fun. And 12 hours blows by like nobody's business. And then I check my email.

And he's invited me to come over to his place for debate night (these are attorneys and environmental consultants with sailboats we're talking about so yes, debate night) with some of his friends. That night I get a call that everyone has bailed and so if I'm going to bail, too, then please let him know. But of course I had been trying to decide what to wear when he called, not deciding to bail. So I head over there and he makes some food and we watch the debate and then talk talk talk and oggle his bikes and talk talk talk and drink Scotch and watch the late shows and pretty soon I'm ringing in my 31st with my third glass of Scotch and Mr. P next to me on the couch.

And I can tell that when I mention my birthday plans he really, really wants to go. But I've been instructed not to invite him. And I think about it all day and I figure what the hell. It's my birthday. And so I ring him and he'd LOVE to come. And off we all go for Morrocan food. And it's fun. And it's my birthday. And then Mr. P and I go up the hill to see The Duchess & The Duke. And I start to realize how different his life has been. With money and the symphony and foie gras and I'm telling him the stand next to the bar has the best fries in Seattle. And still. It's fun. He takes the long way home. I notice.

Please note that there has been no kissing. No making out. Not even a birthday hug. This is friendly friendly. And it's awesome.

Friday evening I come home from work and put together Mr. P's Waiting For the Bar Exam Results Survival Kit. And I call him Saturday afternoon to see if I can swing by that night to drop it off. His voicemail works this time. And I don't hear from him. I start to get pissed. What the hell, man? I figure he's gone into the woods to wait out the weekend before the bar. He does things like that. And I drink some wine and pass out on the couch with Juno. And the phone rings at 10:30. This is early for me except I've been drinking wine. And it's Mr. P. He's sorry he didn't ring earlier but he's been called to Chicago to see his dad. Because Mr. P's dad is fighting the good fight against cancer but it's not going so well. On debate night he'd been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. And Friday night they moved him to the ICU. And Saturday morning Mr. P gets the call from his mom to come home now. And so I say, "OK. Yeah," about 400 times and let him go to drive home with his brothers.

I feel a bit of an ass. Here I'm getting pissed he hasn't called and he's in Chicago seeing his dad for what very well may be the last time. Fuck. How do you deal with that?

And so. As my truth spouting massage therapist has put it, this is an opportunity to establish a good and trusting friendship with this man before the shit starts rolling and if I think I'm going to jump in and start making out and sleeping with him and being a girl then well. I may as well shoot you all now to save you the pain of having to listen to my whining about fucking it up. Instead, I will take this opportunity to establish a good and trusting friendship with Mr. P and if that's all it ever is than so be it. The guy is kind and funny and takes my shit and scoops it back as quickly as I can dish it out. And I haven't kept anything from him. And we're already giggling about bodily functions. Why would anyone fuck that up?

Stopping By

It is alarming to me what a little positive male attention can do for making one feel whole. Fuck. Did I just say that? Not whole. Centered. Quieted. Something that I wish didn't take positive reinforcement from a man.

Still. It's kind of nice.

Right. We'll be working on an update.

Tornado

OK. I admit it. I am two weeks shy of 31 and I sometimes have my sister check my email when there's something there I don't think I want to read.

Sometimes things just work themselves out. And sometimes it takes a near nervous breakdown and three phone calls to your sister at work and a surprise free evening of printing and making some silly blunders and playing the game and changing your plans and pulling up your big girl pants to get things to work out. And sometimes they work out swimmingly and your world returns to a sort of stasis. And while you still might be freaked out about money (who isn't right now?) all that crap you went through leads you to some crazy coincidences and new friends and a shit ton of good prints.

And so you can sit quietly for awhile and hope the next storm is less intense.

Kick You In the Ass

Jen Brown has this theory. That I have learned to subscribe to. That you should never get too comfortable with how well things are going. Because once you start feeling OK with things karma (or your own cockiness) will catch up with you and kick you in the face. While you're down. And then you'll spend twice as long getting back up as you did feeling pretty damned good. It's a shitty thing. But I'm finding it's true.

Yesterday was a good day. I finally caught up with the head of the printmaking MFA at CSU-Fort Collins. Or he caught up with me. Whatever, we had a good chat and it felt promising. I'm headed out there in October to tour the studios and meet the faculty and other grads. It's a great little program, sweet studios, close to my family, and Fort Collins has a happenin' bike community. And, in my own secret little dark places, I know that Fort Collins is an easy drive from Colorado Springs where Matt Barton is a professor. Cause I'm creepy.

Anyway. Then I got word that the class I was supposed to start Sunday had been cancelled. This is good news because it frees up my Sunday nights and, since the money was already spent, gets me three months worth of studio rental at the Pratt. Awesome. Monday night square dancing will just have to take the back burner.

These two little (monumental in my world, actually) things had me feeling pretty good about life. Forget boys. I could concentrate on school and printing. And so I headed off to fix some bikes with my mechanic and thought I didn't have a care in the world.

Except that last night it became more than glaringly apparent that what I thought was sort of innocent flirtation was much more to Mr. Mechanic. And that I had been encouraging this fliration thinking that he knew full well that it wasn't going anywhere. Because he has a girlfriend. And I'm not interested in him in that way. But the looks I got when I told him I'd take him to a show to pay for the work he'd done! I crossed some boundary. I'm not sure what it was. But the boys' eyebrows all raised and Mr. Mechanic's enthusiasm was a little too. And in trying to find myself innocent I found I couldn't be let off the hook. Jen Brown put it to me straight; just because I work with 20 year olds doesn't mean I have to act like one.

And so I will be putting my "startling" directness to work Friday. I will say, "Dear sir. Judging from the looks I got from your friends in inviting you to this show I crossed some man boundary. I don't know what it was, but I do know we hae been flirting with that line pretty intensely. And now it will stop. No more sexual innuendo. No more hanging out just the two of us. If your girlfriend knew about this she'd be pissed and she has every right. I am just as guilty as you. And it's done. From now on no innuendo and if we hang out it's you and me and a number three."

As long as I'm putting my directness to work (mind you these will most likely never be said):

"Fuck it, Andy. Come play polo. I don't need to date you. I like you, you like me. I know how to be friends. I'm surrounded by men I don't sleep with and what's one more?"

"Matt. Can we talk?"

Dear Matt Barton

It is quite likely that you do not remember much of this. We met some 10 years ago in Robert Smith's painting class. I am not sure how we started talking but I do remember discovering that I'd started college in your home town. The next class you brought photos of your parents' home so that I could confirm that yes, I had walked on their (and your) brick wall down Lincoln Ave. on my way to the market in Evansville, IN.

Matt Barton, I am sorry that I spent the next three years keeping you at bay.

Do you remember that day in the sculpture studio? It was a Sunday, an open studio day. I was covered head to toe in dust. I was wearing an air mask. I had my sander in hand. You approached the table I was standing on. I don't remember what you said I only remember that the way you looked at me was so intense I knew if I took that mask off I would be left with no choice but to strip down right there in the studio and let you have your way with me. That mask was the only thing that kept me from making what I thought at the time was a Very Big Mistake.

After that I was afraid to be alone with you. I made sure only to see you in class. That day in the studio left me feeling oddly guilty but also exhilarated, unsure of what to do with you.

I remember that you went to Italy. I remember when you came back. It was the first day of classes my last semester at school. I remember I was walking into the printmaking studio and you were walking out of ceramics. And you stopped me. And that familiar feeling of panic and excitement came over me. And you said (and I will never forget), "I thought about you a lot while I was over there." And what did I do? I turned on my heel and walked quickly into class. My god what was I thinking?

Matt Barton I am sorry.

Because I thought about you, too. I missed you. I can't say that my feelings were intense or needful. I had so much going on then, so much to sort through. But I sensed you were absent. And every time your memory slips into my head I regret walking away from you.

And so, Matt Barton, I have found you through the magic of Facebook. And I have contacted you. And you were nice enough to "friend" me. And most likely that is the most I will get. Not that I am looking to "get". Only to know that you are alive and doing so well and living the way we all wish we could. I am sorry if I hurt you. I am sorry that I was so young and knew so little. I am sorry that I didn't take a chance with you.

Jesus, Matt Barton, I am sorry.

The Situation(s)

Let me start by saying that I've been oh-so-strong. I can't say that I haven't been thinking about all this horseshit but I can say I haven't called, emailed, driven by his house, checked the schedule of flights leaving for Pittsburgh tomorrow, or any number of other crazy things I could have done and may very well have done in the past. And so I thought it time to explain the situations that made this mess a bigger mess than it needed to be.

It started the night of the porch make out session. We spent about half the evening trying not to touch one another. And then Mr. P's phone buzzed. And he said it was his mom. And then we sat there for a bit. And he put on his hand on my leg and said, "In the interest of full disclosure..." and we exchanged the following stories.

Mr. P is about three months out from an eight year relationship that ended with a broken engagement because he returned from law school to find that his fiancee had been cheating on him for two and a half years. (This I knew before we sat on his porch). Awesome. Anyhoo, that night he told me he needed to let me know that there was a girl (and that's who had really called), with whom he had been close friends all through law school and who he knew had feelings for him, who was coming to visit (and she is here now and leaves tomorrow) and he didn't know what was going to happen. And at the time, Joe was coming and I wasn't sure how I was going to handle that and I told him as much. This is when we decided that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and that we wouldn't sleep together. But that it was OK to make out. In retrospect I should have stood up, told him it was nice to meet him but neither of us was in a spot to start anything, and that he could call me when she had come and gone.

The whole story to his story is that she had been very clear that she had feelings for him for two years but he was engaged and so when he told her he thought it was over (before he really knew what had happened and when he still thought they might work it out) they slept together. In his words it was a mistake- they'd both been drinking, she felt differently about it than he did, etc. So he wasn't exactly proud of that but was honest. I assumed with her as well. Honest, I mean. At any rate, he got out here, the shit hit the fan, and since most of his friends here have since married and procreated and moved to islands or have left Seattle all together she became his emotional dumping ground. (My words, not his.) So it was her idea to come out here and he said at the time it sounded good and so he told her to book the flight and they'd have fun together for a few days and then she could go back to school. It was very much a "let's see what happens" trip. Kind of like with Joe only I'd never slept with Joe.

Because the thing with Joe is that we've been friends for a really long time but the timing was always off. I was being crazy, he had a girlfriend, I had a boyfriend, he moved across the country. So in July he finally broke up with the girlfriend he's been breaking up with over and over for three years and in order to avoid the really dangerous few days after a big break up he high tailed it out here. Joe and I have been flirting with this (and disaster) for a year now. Talking about his making a trip and it'd be like old times. And the whole getting naked thing was always under the surface but never spoken. So he books his trip and I'm pretty sure the time is right to finally get this out of my system and then I meet Mr. P. And so as we're sitting on the porch I'm trying to decide how I want to handle this. Because I really like Mr. P. But there's Joe. And I've been waiting for this for over six years. But I also know that Joe feels differently about it than I do. As in he feels more. And I'm just curious. Up until the Thursday of the week that Joe was here I wasn't sure what I was going to do. And then we didn't. Didn't mess around. We talked about it- the whys and hows of why we haven't. But we didn't do it and it's a good thing. Whew. What was I thinking? I'm not cut out for that kind of crap.

So anyway. Neither of us is completely innocent (although I might be a tinier bit so if we want to measure) and that's what has made this whole mess messier.

The Right Thing

So Tuesday night I'm running some errands and I get back to my car to a voicemail from- you'll never believe it- Mr. P. He was back in Seattle and things had settled down and did I have some time this week. So of course I called my sister. And I called Alley. And I emailed Jen. And we all decided that I probably did have some time this week but that I needed to let him know I was not OK with wishy washy and that I was not to kiss him.

So. We meet. We get warmed up. We're having a good time. It's fun. I'm thinking, oh yeah, I did like you. And so we go to the lake and we're talking about everything and the moment is totally right to kiss and I launch into it. I let him know I remember that his "friend" his coming. I let him know that I remember that we were in similar situations when we last met. And that I handled my situation (and this situation as well as Mr. P's deserves its own post) in a certain way and that it was right for everyone involved. And that I've changed gears- no more murky, no more grey. I don't want to fuck around because it doesn't work. And he tells me if I'm looking for straight forward he can't give that to me right now. Because he doesn't know how things are going to go down and he hasn't even thought about how he's going to handle his friend's visit. And he doesn't want to put me in that position. He really likes me and he likes hanging out and goddamnit if I want to go for a ride or anything I should call him. And so I tell him he can turn in his resume when he gets his head on straight and we'll talk then. Man I hate that book. I know it was the right thing to do. I know. But that doesn't mean it doesn't suck.

After awhile I thought that I probably liked Mr. P because he was someone new and exciting and different and he'd kissed me. But last night I remembered that he was funny and smart and loved his family and actually remembered what I said and things I liked and talked about and made me feel cute and like a bad ass. And he just assumed, talked, like we were going to move forward with this. Last night he was talking about taking me snowshoeing and where we could go eat and ride and how he wanted to meet my friends and do things together.

And then he goes and says he can't give me straight forward. Which I guess is at least an honest answer but it doesn't line up with, "It's too bad you can't ski but we could snowshoe at Mt. Baker, too." So then you have to wonder if he's just filling you full of shit to keep you around or saying things that he thinks you want to hear (which he admitted to doing at times and said that since I was being honest about this he was going to be, too) or just maybe really isn't all that sure about things and is speaking before he thinks. According to the book any and all of these things indicate that 1) he's just not that into me and 2) he's an asshole.

After all my very measured and controlled speaking about the situation, trying very hard not to get desperate and crazy, he was the one who asked me, "So where does this leave us?" And honestly, what I'd hoped, is that he'd hear all this and just go away. Well, first I hoped that he'd hear all this and say, "You're right. I do want to be with you and we can't do this if I'm not sure how I'll handle it when my visitor comes and so I'm going to handle it X and we'll make this work." But if I'm saying I don't want murky and I don't want grey and I didn't want to do this if he couldn't give me 100% and he's saying he can't give me what I need it sounds like a perfect opportunity for him to bail. Unless he doesn't want to bail because he knows she's going back to Pittsburgh and so nothing can really happen there and so when she goes he'll be alone and it'll be easier to just pick up where we left off than try to find someone new. This is what the book tells me.

But when he asked I had to breathe in and out a few times and think about it some and that's when I told him that when he got his head on straight he could resubmit his resume and we'd talk then. And yes, that's what I told him. My sister nearly died. But he thought it was funny and asked if this would be a committee review and whether Jen Brown would be participating from New Zealand. And see? That's why I like the guy.

And so. And so. That's why I hate the book. I mean, I know it's right and that I should believe that he's taking the easy way out in not giving me a committment and I don't for one second think that he's being noble by being honest. He's just being honest. I'd like to think that he's going to talk to her about it because man does that suck for her if she thinks she's coming out here to start something that will carry her through the rest of school and he has no intention of that nevermind me. I'd like to think that our talking about things so candidly will make him realize that he should do the same for her. But I won't hold my breath.

I don't know what to do here. I don't think he's going to go away. I would bet money he calls next week as soon as she leaves. She gets here Sunday and I'm pretty sure they saw one another while he was traveling and then she leaves Thursday and he wants to know about bike polo that night. A few hours is not time enough to get one's head on straight. I'm not sure how I feel about the "waiting" (which I'm not doing but let's be honest in that the odds are against my finding another boy I like in a week or less) while he has his fun. He didn't ask me to wait but still. However, as Bridget (who was adamant that he's a jerk and not worth my time) put it, he actually probably wouldn't be coming back for the wrong reasons. I haven't slept with him. And I've just told him I'm not going to put up with any shit and delivered on those words and that if he's up for that then OK and so he knows what he's getting into (I think he may have told me my directness was startling). It's not like he told me he wanted out only to come crawling back. I've told him.

And so, thank you book, I hold the power. I love power.

This is me right this second deciding not to pine. To hold my head high (and hope I don't see him and his friend anywhere next week) and let him decide he should act like a man who knows what he wants.

That's better, right? Twelve hours of feeling all mixed up as opposed to three weeks.

To Live By

Another rule (or two) for my sweet self:

I will not even think about getting into a relationship with a man because it would be easy. If I am not physically attracted to him now I will not, no matter how frustrated I may be right now, "get over it".

A ding was made in the can of worms but, thanks to my new bible, I stepped back and thought about what I was about to do (further upset myself about patterned behavior that I can control, hurt him, and most definitely ruin a friendship) and decided it wasn't worth it. It's a tiny little ding that can be ignored. On top of that, I'm better than that and I deserve better than that. Whew.

I was so upset about the situation with Mr. P I gave myself a cold sore (yes, I get stress related cold sores because I am awesome). Was that necessary? No. I will not allow that to happen again. Having a stress related cold sore because of a man makes it hard to meet a better one.

Epiphany

So tonight, at the behest of my bikini wax lady, I went and picked up He's Just Not That Into You. Right. This little book is full of gems like, "You've got one asshole. Why do you need another?" and, "Don't be with someone who doesn't do what they say they're going to do." It should also say, "If your bike mechanic, who has nothing but your best interests in mind because he has a very serious girlfriend, tells you that the guy you've been pining over for three weeks is a 'total prick' and he knows this first hand, heed his warning."

At this point I am switching gears. I don't hate men. I spent a couple of good hours Tuesday evening hating myself for no good reason. Well, because of how I let this shit get to me. But no, I don't hate myself nor do I hate men. I hate Mr. P. Not really, but I'm focusing my frustration on the cause. I've proven I'm strong and independent. Fuck that. I don't have to prove it because I am. And now I want a boyfriend. Yes. I want a boyfriend. I am on the prowl. I want a man who likes me and thinks I'm the best thing since Morning Star Sausage Paddies and makes me feel sexy and wanted. According to the book, "You know you deserve a great relationship!"

This one especially hit home for me:
"Meeting someone you like and dating him is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. That's always a good rule to live by no matter what the special circumstances (excuses) are."

And this one:
"If a (sane) guy really likes you, there ain't nothing that's going to get in his way. And if he's not sane, why would you want him?"

Wish I'd thought of that one...

My sister, bless her heart, said perhaps the nicest thing I've heard all week (and it's been a really bizarre week Mr. P notwithstanding) to me tonight. She said, "You know, I really hoped he was going to be a nice guy." So did I.

The Solution

I think my problem this summer has been that I haven't spent enough time in my garden. Not at all. Because tonight while I was home for the first time in literally weeks I did some cleaning up in my flower beds and the clarity washed over me; I decided to just sit tight. Not wait. But chill and let what happens happen. I don't wait. I've got too much to do. But I don't have to be a freak and email again (which I wasn't going to do) or call (even though I'd like to and I don't understand why I can't if that's what I want to do- see me sitting tight?). If he doesn't email, fine. And if he doesn't I will call him when he gets back. I was excited enough about him that I think it's worthwhile to put myself out there. That doesn't really sound like sitting tight but really it's more an internal sitting tight. Cause that's where I have the problem. At any rate. Tight.

I never cook anymore but tonight I'm having braised greens in a mustard dressing with walnuts on whole wheat pasta. I remember when I did this every night...

Please, go check out The Duchess & The Duke.

The Rules

Yehovah help me I will not make the same mistakes twice. Or thrice. Well, I won't make the same mistakes again. While driving home from the Pratt the other night I started thinking about the rules. Rules I need to lay down for myself. They are as follows:

1. I will not lust after men with mental health issues.
2. I will not lust after men who have more than one roommate after the age of 27.
3. I will not sleep with anyone just to "get it out of my system".
4. I will not lust after musicians who cannot get their acts together.
5. I will not take what men say literally.

No. I will not sleep with anyone just to get it over with. This means I will not sleep with Joe. No. No. No. What the fuck was I thinking when I even brought it up? Now I've started something. Let sleeping dogs lie, I say. But I didn't. And now this. Bleh. I have to choose to ignore it (which didn't seem to be working while he visited) or address it again and say, "You know what? I never should have said anything. Consider this door closed. Permanently. You may put that back."

And so. The spiral of despair. I haven't heard from Mr. P. So yes, his father is dying and he's got a lot on his plate and he's traveling right now but is a tiny little email too much to ask? Just a wee one. Right. This isn't about me. I am trying to be cool. I will work hard to be cool. I have any number of girlfriends who have offered me an ear in order to back off the ledge. So far my craziness has been restricted to frantic phone calls to my sister. Whew. The general consensus seems to be that if he does email back it will be OK for me to sit on it, perhaps call (because he said I could) next week. If he doesn't email it sounds like I can call him when I know he's going to be back. God this is so much work. Why do we have to think about it like this? Why is it wrong and crazy and weird for me to call or email and say, "You know, you left just as I was getting kind of excited about you and now I'm going a little crazy. I'm looking forward to your getting back." Sure, a little crazy is probably an understatement. But still. What did Jill say? One day girl time equals four days boy time. So Friday. Fuck. I may have an aneurysm in that time.

Schmoopsy

This is the word that can be used to describe me and my condition at this point in my life. I am schmoopsy. Over a boy.

I went to Super Cute Glen's party. Yes I did. And what did I learn but that besides being Super Cute and Really Quite Nice, Glen is A) bisexual, B) has a girlfriend, and C) all of 23 years old. That was the clincher. Twenty-three is much too young. And no, of course I wouldn't mess around with a taken man but 23 was the biggie. At any rate, Glen had invited a Super Cute Friend. Because guys like Glen have Super Cute Friends. Probably stocks and stores of them in their strange cool and good looking universe that they live in. Parallel to mine. Not quite intersecting. But said Super Cute Friend had had almost as much to drink as I and so he stumbled into my path and I had my courage on and we hit it off. Mr. Pittsburgh we'll call him. Mr. P for short.

I did not leave the bar with Mr. P's number nor did he leave with mine. Glen offered it to me after Mr. P left while I was in the men's room. Yes, it was one of those nights. And so I had to nut up the next day and make the call to Glen to get the number and then I had to sit on it for a few days as I was out of town and didn't feel quite right about calling while I was 700 miles away. And so I was shocked when Mr. P answered the phone the following Monday and said that yes, he would like to meet for a beer at Uber. A little confession? I had been hoping to leave him a message and I had even written out a script while sitting in the Boise airport.

Mr. P and I went out. And then we went out again. And again. And it was fun. And it was awesome. And yes I kissed him all over his front porch and in the kitchen and out the door. And then he grabbed my arm and pulled me back in for one last kiss. Dude. You cannot, simply cannot, grab a girl by the arm as she's leaving and plant a big old sexy kiss on her and think that she won't be schmoopsy. I don't really think that he thought I wasn't going to be. But I kind of wasn't expecting it. Because I am, essentially, retarded. And then Mr. P left town and will be gone for three, count them THREE, fucking weeks. And I am left here to pretend to be cool. And I'm not good at that. And so today when he sent an email after I was fairly certain I was never going to hear from him again (he's been gone all of four days) I became schmoopsy all over again. Someone help me.

FYI. The man is totally age appropriate. Yes, man. He's 30, also. And he just graduated from law school and finished the bar. And he's incredibly smart. And funny. And a bit of a shit and I like that. And he is an avid climber and skiier and hiker and cyclist and pretty much all things outside and it shows. Yes, he is built nicely. Not big and bulky but, as a friend put it, yummy.

Did I just say yummy?

Ohmigodandthenhesaid

Let's pretend that I am a 16 year old girl for just a second so I can tell you these silly stories without feeling like a total jackass.

The other day I was standing at the front counter at Gregg's hanging up some shorts and this family was leaving with ALL this gear for their little boy's birthday- helmet, tricycle, gloves, flag, streamers, etc. I had seen them around the store for about an hour and knew they were all paid up but your bike sales person is supposed to walk you to the door and as they were leaving Super Cute Glen came trotting up behind them to let me know they were OK. I talked to the Dad and Glen gave me a thumbs up so I gave him a thumbs up and then he gave me two thumbs up so I gave him two back. AND THEN HE CAME OVER BEHIND THE COUNTER TO TALK TO ME. OHMIGOD I NEARLY DIED. Not to talk to Bridget (a nice girl I work with on Sundays), not to ring up a customer, but to talk to ME. Holy shit. So we chatted a bit about why he was leaving Gregg's (to take a job working with troubled youth- is this not a cool guy?) and how he'd still be at Gregg's on Sundays and he stayed to ring up some folks and he didn't leave until I had to answer the phone. And THEN as I was leaving my lunch break I ran into Luke leaving the store and he told me I'd missed a great party the night before (which Bridget told me ended up being a total "shit show") and how Harrison's "naked cock" had been bandied about. I don't need to see that. I am 30 years old, for chrissake. I don't even need to hear the words "Harrison's naked cock" and told him as much. So as I'm saying that Glen's coming up to take HIS lunch break and he hears it and looks at me and whispers the magic words. I made the proper horrified face and then tried to devise a strategy that would allow me to stay in the break room a bit longer. It involved me spilling water all over the floor so that was smooth. In another attempt to hang around a bit I remembered that I had met a guy named Rainer that morning at the triathalon (B&A and I did a relay Sunday morning) and I work with a kid named Rainer, whose name I thought was made up and who happened to be in the break room with Glen, and so I said something to Rainer about it. As I was headed back downstairs I heard Glen say, "How did she meet a guy named Rainer this morning?" I don't care what he was insinuating. The fact that he paid me any mind was positively exhilirating. And yes I am a totally pathetic.

AND THEN. I stopped in at Gregg's yesterday on the way home to check the schedule because I had this feeling the manager hadn't given me Sunday off (it's so crappy- they ask you to put your requests in this book so they can schedule your time off and then they ignore it) and I was totally right. Anyhoo, I knew Glen was working but I also knew the likelihood of my seeing him was pretty slim. My only clean bike clothes yesterday were this hideous pair of shorts in which the pad is all lumpy and they give me camel toe and this giant triathalon t-shirt that I normally wouldn't be caught dead in outside my bathroom. So of course, as I'm standing there talking to Bridget about the schedule, Super Cute Glen comes down the walkway with a customer and a bike and shouts something to the effect of, "Hey there, hot stuff." Yeah. I think I turned 6 shades of red. I popped my helmet off REAL quick so at least I wouldn't be a bobble head and put my suave on. You can giggle here. When he came back in he asked me if I was a racer because I still had my number on my bike and the numbers on my legs from the tri. Too bad I had to say no. And then he wanted to see the schedule and he just kind of snatched it out of my hand but in a funny way, not a crappy way. So at least he knows he can joke around with me, right?

He's invited people to meet him at the Latona after work on Thursday and I was getting ready to make a big deal about finding someone to go to with me but after the schedule snatch I decided I could go by my lonesome. Maybe he'll throw me a bone or something.

Did I just say that?

Can you believe that at 30 I can write this much about a boy and whether or not he may or may not have even the slightest interest in me? A boy who is probably no older than 27 if I'm lucky and may have a girlfriend with crusty makeup (according to my new friend Megan). It is infuriating. I am not sure if there was a vibe. I thought maybe there was. But then again it may just be that we haven't talked pretty much since I started working there and so he doesn't know what to do with me or what to say. But to me it felt like a vibe. I'm so bad at this. I'm pretty sure he came to talk to me at the counter the other day to let me know about his thing Thursday but I opened the conversation by asking why he was leaving so he knew that I knew. I actually came up with a really good, non-creepy way to give him my number tonight when I went to pick up my check but he wasn't around. Fucking hell. Now I have to sit tight til Thursday and think of all the ways NOT to make an ass of myself just so I can see if he's just nice or maybe the tiniest bit curious about me. Why does he have to be so hot?

Tattooed Trauma

In February I started thinking about getting another tattoo. I was at a funky little store in Olympia and they had this gorgeous ring with a snake pattern on it and I thought, Man, that would make a sweet tattoo. So I sat on it. And finally decided I wanted that damned snake tattoo.

I actually stopped off at Liberty Tattoo one night. The guy was really cool and had some ideas about how to make my snake a little softer without being cutesy. I paid him a $20 deposit and left pretty happy.

Then I started thinking. Like did I really want this tattoo? Or was it just some weird itch that would go away after I got going? Like internet dating. Why was I getting it? Did it really have all the personal meaning I thought it did or was it just because a snake tattooed on your arm is pretty bad ass? Because I have not for one second regretted my Frank tattoo. But I was in the bathroom thinking about what I would tell my niece about getting tattooed and in my head I told her that after all was said and done I wished I only had Frank. So would I regret the snake? I could cancel and only be out the $20. I imagined myself cancelling and then feeling relieved as I rode my bike to the gallery opening I was supposed to go to that evening. But then I thought about how freaking cool I would feel with that damned snake. Which is probably not the right way to feel about it. Or maybe I just have this weird built up idea about tattoos because Frank is so meaningful. Whatever. I didn't think I'd actually regret getting it. I just didn't know if I NEEDED it.

I woke up the next morning raring to go and get that damned tattoo. But then. But then! The guy in Olympia who I'd emailed a few days previous about a bike he had for sale contacted me and told me it was still available. NNNNOOOOO. Now I had to make a choice. Bike or tattoo? I decided on the bike because I figured I'd get more mileage out of it. Literally. Of course, as my friend Bill pointed out, it really depended on where I was getting the tattoo. Anyway. I called the bike guy and made arrangements to go pick it up.

But then I started thinking. Again. Did I really NEED this bike? I already have two, one of which doesn't work. Yet. And I was going to have to take at least 3, probably closer to 4, hours out of my only day off that week to drive down to Oly to see the stupid thing. And what if I didn't like it? I couldn't get ahold of my friend Betsy who lives down there so I couldn't even turn the trip into a social event. Hell fire.

So I called my sister. She gave me a firm no on the tattoo. Not being tattooed she doesn't get it. And she gave me a firm no on the bike. Not being a bike lover she doesn't get it. She told me I should instead take my money and get myself a pair of shoes as I was literally walking through my favorite pair and the soles were falling off the other. So I listened to her and cancelled my trip to Oly and went to the shoe store. And found NOTHING. At three shoe stores I found NOTHING.

So now I am without tattoo (which I actually ended up regretting NOT getting). I am now without cool old bike with a headlight that runs off the rear wheel. And I am without new shoes. I ended up taking my money to the Snow Goose for some beers with friends. And that worked out just fine. But think how much cooler I would have been showing up at the Snow Goose on my new old bike with a snake tattoo.

If you're listening, please go check out Frightened Rabbit and tell me they don't rock. I kept hearing these songs on KEXP and thinking, Damn that's good, and I'd go look and it was FR. Had to buy the album. Also check out The Maldives. They opened for Bobby Bare Jr. last night at the Tractor and they were quite good. And they have the cutest mandolin player EVAH. Seriously. Unfortunately I didn't hear his name so I can't be all creepy and go find a picture of him for you. At any rate, lovely songs about missed chances and poor timing in love. And if you don't know Bobby you don't know me.

Twenty Things

Ten things I L-O-V-E right now:

1. Tofuti Cutie choclate "ice cream" sandwiches
2. My brand new old GAP pants (as in I bought a pair 3 or 4 years ago, wore them to hell and back, and then found them at the GAP again the other day)
3. Plain GU (the energy gel you eat when you're riding miles and miles)
4. Double IPA
5. My Morning Jacket .
6. 70 and sunny
7. My Crocs (I've had them for literally years and just recently started wearing them around- I get it now)
8. Riding my bike after a few beers (you get this crazy hill euphoria)
9. Ferris Bueller (Yeah, I bought it awhile back and can't stop watching it. Again.)
10. Singledom

Ten things I hate right now:

1. Microsoft Word
2. Not getting to bed til 11:30 (yes, totally my fault, but I just can't get myself ready before then)
3. Insecure girlfriends (as in I was supposed to have beers with N. tonight but it made Hallie "uncomfortable"- does anyone else see the irony in this?)
4. Tattling coworkers (especially when there's nothing to tattle about)
5. Dishes (they're waiting for me and I'm having the damnedest time getting myself over to the sink)

I could only think of five things I hate right now. That's good, yes? And really they're pretty innocuous.

Screwed

I shouldn't be allowed to listen to music. It makes me fall in love.

Talk On Indolence

OK. So I borrowed that from an Avett Bros song. Off of Four Thieves Gone. Indolence is not a problem I have. Hardly. Maybe if I was more indolent I'd feel more rested. But the song has this great couple of lines that are really fun to sing out loud:

I'm aaaa
little
worried
bout what you'll think
when yyyoouuu
see me
in my
swimming trunks and
last night
New York
I got
raging drunk
remember
last night
I got
raging drunk with you.

Anyway. So yes. We all survived the set up and subsequent overreaction to having to let someone know you're not interested. After many reassurances that I probably didn't cause him suicidal thoughts or end his dating career due to a shattered ego I finally finally realized that sometimes people meet and they just don't feel it. Or one of them doesn't. I tend to fall hard and quickly and I never have to tell anyone no and so this was unfamiliar territory. But a good lesson. No more set ups. No more boys, really, for awhile. This brings to mind another Avett Bros song from the above album. Title escapes me. But it's a fun one to sing, too:

Now if I gathered up the damage
that I'd rendered in my life
placed it on a scale and weighed it
gainst the damage done that night
then it'd be safe to say the weight
of all I did and didn't do
would surely float against
the lightest wrong
I. Ever. Did. To. You.

Except that no wrong was done that afternoon. Still a good song.

On a different note, I suddenly find myself scheduling appointments with high school counselors and researching transitional housing for my young friend. She finds herself in a situation which makes it necessary for her to leave home. No one, no one, at the age of 17 should be trying to figure out how to afford an apartment and finish high school. She has, since the gitgo of our relationship, talked about being emancipated from her family. I have fought it every time it has come up, insisting to her that having free room and board makes most things bearable (barring abuse, of course). Unfortunately her home life has taken a turn for the worse and I now feel it is appropriate for her to leave and not look back. Here we go. If I had a two bedroom apartment I would invite her in in a heartbeat.

I have been incredibly upset about this. Tonight on the ride home I'd worked myself into a near frenzy wondering if I was doing the right thing in encouraging, helping, her to leave. Is living in transitional housing, or worse the YMCA shelter, better than what she has at home? I quailed. And in a moment of what is best described as desperation I called T. He faced a similar (though worse) situation as a teen and I needed to know what he would have wanted if he could have had control of the situation. Did he think it was going to be a party? Was he scared? How did he figure shit out? If he had had help available would he have taken it? And did he feel like what happened was in his best interest? It was affirming. I am doing the right thing. She needs to leave. And while I can't offer her a bed I can change into a more formal hat (think something big and red with a bird and some fruit versus the little green cycling cap I wear currently) and help her take control of her life.

And then T. and I talked for an hour. And this has always been the problem. Too much to say to one another. We could hardly shut up. I miss that. A quick phone call and 30 minutes later we were at the pub having a burger and talking about everything. Tonight it was my young friend, African orphans, gas prices, eating right, shows, the creative process, his struggles to get some recording done, my plans for school. Just on the phone. And not at the pub. Because 206 miles is a long way to go for a burger. This is where I make a confession. He mentioned he'd dated someone for a bit and I felt my heart squeeze harder. A rush of sadness or disappointment or jealousy or something. Even though I have talked often with myself about making sure I've slept with someone else before I see him again. And I think he could make a confession, too. I didn't want to say too much about my plans for school as one of my options is Portland. But I did tell him because that's the whole story. And I heard the optimism in his voice. Talking to him, though, reminded me of what the issues were. And so I feel nothing more than the sweet satisfaction of reconnecting with a friend.

One more Avett Bros song. "Shame" off of Emotionalism.

OK so I was wrong about
my reasons for us falling out
Love I want to fall back in.
My life is different now I swear
I know now what it means to care
about somebody other than myself.
I know the things I said to you
they were untender and untrue
I'd like to see those things undo...

Shame.
Boatloads of shame.
Day after day
More of the same
Blame
Please lift it off
Please take it off
Please make it stop.

Or at least it's just sweet satisfaction now.

Nip It In the Bud

Well I think I made it clear that I'm not interested in dating and I can't say I managed to do it with much grace but hopefully spared both our egos a bit of bruising and worthless confusion. It wasn't like I was a total ass and I didn't have to say the F(riends) word. It just sucks because he is a nice guy and I do like him, I just wasn't attracted to him. At all. And sure you could argue that I didn't give him much of a chance but I wasn't the only one thinking he just wasn't my type, even if I don't really have a type. Sure the whole unstable with a checkered past thing might be the tiniest bit true, but just a tiny bit. It's not like I seek them out. And yes, I am feeling pretty bad. Because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. And I didn't want to have to be the bad guy. But I do know 100% pure positive that I spared us both some agony down the road.

This is not really how I wanted to handle it, leaving him at his car with a "See ya." GOD. I am a dick.

Even though the Friends thing is true, that I think he's a cool guy and he's done some cool stuff and I wouldn't mind hanging out with him more, he doesn't want to hear that. "I just want to be friends." No one wants to hear that. But my sister, and I am grateful to her for telling me this, said that she thinks it would be OK for me to email him in a week, suggest a cup of coffee or something. That we could probably just be friends without having to say it.

At any rate, I'm feeling kind of shitty. And there's no reason to, I know. It's not like we were invested in one another at all. But I've never, ever been the person doing the rejecting (even though this really isn't rejection) and I don't like it. This must be why I became a serial monogamist. In some ways there's less pain and suffering. But then. But then.

I want a do over on my twenties. I don't know why I felt like I needed to grow up so fast. That was stupid. And so here at 30 I find myself wanting all the things I should have had at 23 or 25. I am at a point where I actually feel like I could date, see more than one person or just go out a few times with someone and have that be OK (whatever- I'm so not OK about this but I think it's mostly because he's so damned nice and just not doin' it for me). I think that this time around I could recognize when I am getting to know someone and it is a good thing and that I could go for it rather than running in the other direction every time I saw him. I do apologize, Matt Barton.

I have a confession. Not only do I have a mad crush on Mr. Grand Canyon at the bike shop, I am head over heels for another young man. Young. He's all of 20. Not even 21. TWENTY. He has no idea how cute and incredibly cool he is. He will make some woman very happy. I'm sure of it. I do believe Mr. Grand Canyon is more age appropriate. Man, he drives me nuts any time he comes near. I think I might be boy crazy right now. And another. I still, despite all the bullshit, feel like I have unfinished business with T. It may be something I just have to let go but every time I think I'm "cured" he pops back up. In my mind or my heart or whatever. I don't know what to do with these feelings that I'm not even sure about; he really got under my skin.

Fucking men. Back to life.

Here It Comes

The biggest, crunchiest, dilly-est motherfucking pickle you've ever seen.

Not three hours after talking to my sister about how to make it clear that this is just a friendly thing what do I do? Exactly what we decided I shouldn't do. Walk him home from pizza with a couple of my friends. I knew I was sending the wrong message in inviting him to pizza. Don't get me wrong, we had a good time. It was actually really fun. I have cool friends. But I didn't want him to think that it was an audition or anything. And then I go and walk him home. What the fuck? This does not say I just want to be friends. I am a bad, bad person.

Because, at the same time I thinking about how I had just told my sister that my type is more the unstable with a checkered past kind of guy and she's saying how's that working out for you and that maybe I might give this guy a chance, this guy who's kind of goofy charming and too nice for his own good, I'm thinking about the guy who just came back to the bike shop from vacation. The one who I noticed as soon as I walked into the morning meeting today. The who just spent 16 days in the Grand Canyon and has fresh tatoos on his arms and who wears his jeans just so and his shirt that kind of short and small sexy bike messenger way. The guy who made a point of visiting with me and who complimented me on my choice of ride. Goddamn.

Then again, maybe it was just the bee sting on my jaw that I received yesterday about a third of the way into my ride and that has since swollen and made me look like I have a bad tooth. Maybe he wanted to stare but felt bad and so had to talk to me to cover up for himself.

I am a bad, bad person. Friendly. Friendly. It's all friendly from here on out. Why oh why would I fuck with someone so nice? Especially since I have been fucked with myself. I blame the beer. No more drinking around this guy until I can make sure we all know what's going on. Myself included. Especially me. Please god let me not be an ass.

I am, as my sister is fond of saying, a disaster.

Set Up

I am two days off a set up with a friend of a friend and feeling that familiar pull to turn this into something I don't necessarily want or need. He's really nice. Really nice. And smart, which is important. Has a dry sense of humor. Has done lots of cool things. Is a cyclist. And, perhaps most importantly here, has a hernia. Why the hell would that be important? Because I am infamous for taking the F train right into the bedroom. And you can't really do that with a hernia. So I will be forced to get to know this guy before I see any nudity. And that's good. Because I like him but I don't know if I'll Like him. I could easily turn this into a pickle.

I talked to the friend that did the setting up tonight and she made some of my reservations go away. Told me that he is probably the most well liked guy in her class. Serves as a bridge between the cool kids and the not cool kids (ie the under and over 30s). That the sole person she told about the set up was really excited about it and hoped it went well for him. So people like and respect him. I think he's the secret cool kid. You know that one guy who you always kind of gravitated towards despite his nerdy glasses and weird gestures and strange taste in music? Andrew Dauernheim was mine. Carried around a copy of Naked Lunch full of post-its with notes he wrote down as he went about his day. He took me to get a tattoo recolored once. Anyway, I think this guy might be another Andrew. The guy you're so grateful to see in at a BBQ full of people you don't know.

At any rate, we'll see how it goes. I didn't really have any intention of trying this kind of thing right now. I'm only about 70% here in Seattle and I've still got at least a year to go, probably closer to a year and a half. And lately I feel like there's some unfinished business as far as this heart of mine goes. So right. We'll see.

Settling In to Sanity

I recently had the opportunity to take a new job. Really, a chance to apply for it with excellent odds of getting it. I'd have been making nearly double what I make now at my daily job. Great benefits. Vacation accruing immediately. But I took one look at the words "anything over 50 hours pays double time" and I got sick to my stomach. Sure I work 55 hours a week now. But I'm not sitting at a desk. I'm not in front of a computer. I'm not on the phone with folks who are convinced that if their files aren't complete by 5PM (and they're telling me this at 4:50) blood will rain from the sky. I have worked hard for the sanity that I now enjoy. Hard I tell you. And I promised myself in October when I left the job from hell that I would never, ever, ever again work a shit job just for the money. No I don't live in luxury. I struggle. And no I probably don't work to my "full potential". But I am sane when I get home. I have room left in my head to do the things I feel passionate about. And I actually like my crappy, poorly paying jobs. You cannot make me go back to a desk.

By the by, there are indeed numerous lovely and appealing boys at the bike shop. Look, don't touch. Anyone that cute is sure to be an irresponsible ass. It is, however, surprising the number of them that are married.

Helluva Few Days

My young friend and I saw Swell Season Wednesday night. I will not be able to adequately express how simply goddamned good they were. I will just tell you they blew me away.

But there is a story... My YF and I are standing in line at the theatre and our big plan was that she was going to take my Starbucks card (a thank you from work) and go around the corner for coffee and a bathroom while I held our place and then I would go to the bathroom once she came back. Anyway, she set off and not two minutes later I see this guy strolling up the sidewalk and I'm thinking, holy shit that looks like T. Then he crosses the street and heads to this big old bus and I realize it's Glen Hansard. And I don't think anyone else noticed. So then my YF calls and Starbucks is closed so she comes back to get in line but now she's antsy and thinks I NEED coffee and she really does need a bathroom so she heads off in the other direction down 2nd Ave. (the one time we want a Starbucks in Seattle and we can't find one). About two minutes later I see this girl sprinting up 2nd and she makes to run across the street against the light but decides better of it and I realize it's Marketa Irglova. I'd bet she and my YF went right by each other on the street. Anyway, then the line starts moving a whole hour before I thought it was going to and I have to call my YF and she's just getting on the escalator at Westlake (a really long way away- she must have booked it) to go to the bathroom and I tell her forget it and come back. So we didn't get our coffee. And she barely made it to the bathroom. But I saw Glen and Marketa.

While introducing one of the songs Swell Season played Glen Hansard talked about giving a sweetheart a mix tape that said everything you couldn't. It made me realize that we, as the tail end of the Gen Xers, are the last of the mix tape aficionados. Never again will teenagers and college students sit on the edges of their beds painstakingly fast forwarding and rewinding through the "Reality Bites" and "So I Married An Axe Murderer" soundtracks finding just the right song to record, tape to tape, for that special someone. Sad, really. It's just too easy to burn a CD off of iTunes. Making a mix tape showed you really cared.


For dinner the other night my YF and I went to Mr. Gyro's. I was totally jonesing (did I just say that?) for a big old drippy chicken gyro and a coupla cute boys and she's up for anything. One thing I love about her... Anyhoo, it's a couple of Greek to the bone brothers who run the place and they are incredibly cute. And they're really friendly. And I like going in there because I always feel like they opened the store just for me to get my gyro fix. The older of the two isn't necessarily the cuter but I like him better. When I walked in the other night he remembered that I get a chicken gyro to go and was all smiles and hellos even though I hadn't been in there since March. They're like that with everyone. I know T. liked going there for the same reasons. But the other night I got a little different vibe from the older brother. My YF and I ended up sticking around to eat and we were all chatty and silly like always. When we left she announced that she had caught the older brother checking me out more than once or twice (and not because we were being loud- she said once she caught him during a lull in our conversation when I was reading this review and she made eye contact with him and he got all red and looked away) and that the vibe she got was definitely one of interest. And I kind of thought so but I'm pretty bad at this. I should just start hauling her around. (Please excuse the run on paragraphs that are about to occur so as to indicate that this is one lllooonnnggg story). So then I was telling my sister about Mr. Gyro and I told her how I was going to go in there and be all smooth and she heard me say smooth and started laughing maniacally and said, "You're doomed." Because, yes, I am anti-smooth. I told my wax lady about it and she said that at least if I wasn't smooth acting I'd be smooth "somewhere". I thought that was funny and called my sister and told her and she was like, "NOOO. Doesn't she know that if she puts those words in your head they might come out of your mouth?" So then I told Jen about my sister and the wax lady and she almost choked on her bagel knowing full well that something so horrifying as, "Hey baby, at least I'm smooth down there," could very easily come out of my mouth during a weak moment. Then she goes and mentions "My Big Fat Greek Wedding". So then I got all worried that something about that might come out of my mouth the next time I went in. Jesus. I decided I needed to get back in there ASAP and see for myself if there was really a vibe. So I concocted a plan to go in and pick up some baklava for a dinner engagement this weekend. I figured if I could get my name out of my mouth and maybe get his I'd be leaps and bounds ahead of myself. So in I went today and you know what? The vibe was totally different. And they were out of baklava. So all that getting worked up and worried and wearing sexy underwear (confidence booster, you know) for probably a whole lot of nothing. Didn't even have to say my name. Just, "Out of baklava? Bummer. Thanks."

And if you can't get a cute boy at Mr. Gyro's you can at Gregg's. I start the first part time job (in addition to my full time drudgery) I've had in years at the local bike shop next week. The employee discount is just one of the perks of working at a bike shop.

My new job was also an excuse to buy a much needed pair of shoes. I just needed a cheap but decent pair to wear to work so my poor sad Earth shoes didn't get anymore wear than already have. Near death. Anyhoo, I went and bought myself a pair of Ked's. Ked's! Remember those? And I love them.

Another product I'm in love with? Kiss My Face peaches and cream lotion. You know those weird bumps you get on your upper arms? Of course you do. Gone in like two days. And I smell nice all day long. And it's all natural. Hooray!

Breathe

Friday night on the way home from the Pratt (because I may as well live at the Pratt- I'm only home tonight because my landlord is finally coming to fix the dryer tomorrow and I needed to clean up some secret messes I didn't want him to see) I heard an interesting report on meditation. Nothing I hadn't heard before, really, but it reminded me that I too often let things get me worked up. Little things. Like the Great Bell Helemt Fiasco (although that did prevent me from riding my bike on the first really nice day this year) and the girl at the beach tonight who was letting her dog play in the wetland preserve. Seriously now. But I should just let it go. And after a spin around the path I did feel better. In and out. Nothing's threatening my life here.

BUT. The Great Bell Helmet Fiasco. I only bought the damned thing because my other helmet smelled like urine and it was making me sick when I went on long rides. I was at REI for an STP clinic, Bell helmets were on sale, and despite my reservations about the quality I bought the thing so I wouldn't have to smell my head all 70 miles the next day. And man was it uncomfortable. And there was this pad in the front where the sweat pooled really bad so any time I looked up (like at a light or the impending rain clouds that were relentless til just this weekend) it ran all down my face like I was wringing out a rag. Gross. And sweat in your eyes is not good when you're cruising downhill at 35 mph. No more than ten rides later the plastic cage that holds the stupid thing on your head snapped, fortunately while I was sitting in my driveway. Bell wouldn't take it back depsite the fact that it was obviously a manufacturer defect. But REI did. And so Bell has lost a customer. And while I probably won't be visiting REI any more than I usually do they were really excellent about taking it back. I am now happily installed in a super fast Giro helmet. White. I am fly.

I am a mentor again. My 16 year old friend has returned. Truthfully? I'm really glad. I know I was relieved that she may have given up before but I think I missed her. Since her return we have had pizza for dinner (you can always count on pizza to get the conversation flowing), visited the best freaking Mexican restaurant in town, and had anti-pasta and watched "Once" (of course)of an evening. She turns 17 in a few days and for her birthday I am treating her to the Swell Season. I had two tickets... When we went out for Mexican we stumbled into a local record store on our way for cupcakes and lo and behold there was a band playing, Moondoggies (and there's a funny story here). We only caught the last song but she liked it which I found encouraging and so I burned her the Glen and Marketa CDs and she liked those, too, and so now she's my date. I am so excited to share this with her. She's never been to a "concert" and my god I cannot even begin to describe to her what your first show is like. Mine was Skiploader at the YMCA in Billings, MT, 1994.

So the funny Moondoggies story. We walked into the record store and there's this band on the stage (with an incredibly cute, incredibly married piano player) and I'm looking at the poor guy who has to play all the etcetera instruments and sing backups and thinking, Man, he looks familiar. They finish up, start cleaning up, and my young friend and I are tooling around the store sampling CDs and the etc. guy walks down our aisle. He kind of smiles and waves at me and it takes me a minute and then I shout, "Ken's Market!" He's the checker at my corner market. The one who, on his first weekend there, noted that I visited the store no less than 4 times in 3 days. I should split my time between Ken's and the Pratt. I'm mildly embarassed that I called him Ken's Market but I don't know his name because he's always wearing a different name tag. Next time I catch him... FYI, Moondoggies did just sign with a label and are making a name for themselves. So being the etc. guy can't be all bad. You probably don't get laid as often as the drummer even but at least if your band is good you have a little cred.

And OK. Fuck it. I give up trying to keep Seattle anonymous since I can't be consistent.

Some Things

To Jen, 4/11/08:

Earlier today (or maybe it was yesterday) I read this article on MSN about women who choose to be single mothers, whether by an oops or adoption or artificial insemination. It was oddly encouraging. Then tonight on the way home from the Pratt NPR interviewed this woman who conducted a study regarding women who do not have kids and she found that almost 100% across the board their relationships were better, more intimate, and lasted longer and that they considered themselves happier than women who did have kids. Even women who just kind of woke up one morning and realized they were too old to have kids even though they'd always thought they would were happier and healthier. Again, oddly encouraging. I wish I could remember the lady's name- I'd hook you up to her article. THEN there was another interview with a woman who had edited a collection of poetry about motherhood and she talked a lot about finding time to be a mother and an artist and how some women just knew they didn't have it in them for both and so chose not to have kids. Even though she was kind of righteous about her choice to have children and continue to write it was a good interview. It made me think that this whole crazy auntie bit maybe isn't so crazy. I mean, wouldn't Emma love to have an auntie who is an artist and lives in Dublin (this is my current fantasy) that she can visit every summer and travel around Europe with and come to stay with when she turns 18 and can't figure out what to do with her life?

I know we've talked about it over and over but... I always thought I'd have kids but it seems like I just keep pushing it out and pushing it out and that the only way it will happen is if it's an accident and I'm just way too careful to have an accident. So. It may never happen and I'm really pretty OK with that.

So that's what I've been thinking about lately. Among other things. And really it's not so much being careful as not having sex that's keeping me an independent (although I am really careful). I mean, you just plain old can't get pregnant if you're not sleeping with someone. Which is the situation I find myself in right now. And mostly I'm too busy to care much but I must admit that I miss that belly to belly feel sometimes. But don't get me wrong here. And while I'm thinking about it...

I do not think that any of the men who have passed through my life have been jerks.
Well, maybe S. But no one else. And really probably S. was mostly just young and in a situation he didn't know how to get out of. I sure didn't. And N. and I. Well, we just happened and it never should have lasted as long as it did. We made really good friends, but not lovers. I think we could still probably run a very successful business together. Sure, the way he left was pretty ugly but he was right to do it. And T. Well, he's got probably three luggage carts of emotional baggage he's hauling around the airport and while I think he thinks he's put it on the plane to mental health it just keeps circling the baggage carousel. This is not an excuse for any of his behavior but it does explain some things. And he never treated me poorly. He was just selfish. Maybe I'm being too kind here. I could say some really ugly stuff about all three of them (and a few things about men who have had more minor roles) but what good is it? I hope they look at me and figure that whatever shit I threw was, in the grand scheme of things, fairly harmless. We're all working on it. I hope.

So now. Show season is in full swing here and Good Music Month has migrated from March to April. I saw The Avett Brothers last weekend. Two nights (I only attended the Saturday show) totally and completely sold out. Lovely. I love a sold out show. And they were pretty damned good. Non-stop music. I also witnessed The Reason I Prefer To Go To Shows Alone. The Bitter Girlfriend. She didn't have enough fun and it's his fault. Been there done that and it's no fun for anyone. Go alone. Flirt with the bartender (I did! Hooray for me!). Smile at the guys behind you. Agree with the girls next to you that the mullet in front of you is, indeed, reprehensible and how could anyone sleep with him? It's a good time to be had by you by your not so lonesome. Next up is Devotchka. I saw them at Bumbershoot this summer and I just knew that if the beer garden had been any closer it would have gotten out of hand real quick. They have a lighted tuba, for god's sake! But actually, there's a little something before Devotchka. Oh yes, yours truly scored tickets to see Glen and Marketa. I have died and gone to hell with all the rest of the fun loving folks.

Once

The Frames had been in my periphery. They weren't a band that I paid any particular attention to but I understood they were Irish and I understood they were good. Over the past weekend I saw a little movie called "Once". I had balked at seeing it as I'd heard it billed as a contemporary musical. Gross. But I found myself falling in love with this movie and its people and especially its music.

The Frames aren't in "Once". Glen Hansard, their lead singer, is. I am in love with Glen Hansard. I am in love with his passion. I am in love with the way he puts words together. I am in love with the way he closes his eyes to feel. I think Glen Hansard could kill me with one verse. I am also in love with the lovely Marketa Irglova. I am in love with her ghostly sweet voice and how she fools you into thinking she's just there to play the piano.

I may up and move to Dublin. Don't be surprised. I may get the courage yet to do that one stupid thing.

It is knowing that a song can make your soul ache where you heart should be. That anyone can feel so intensely, so intensely they might break. That you would open yourself up to that and then share it with others. Such incredibly personal and private experiences cut and pinned for all to hear. My god. How do we survive this drudgery when we are capable of feeling well beyond?

Maybe A Little Ridiculous

Eating breakfast at 10:23PM in the hopes that it might save me from two pints and a schooner of bitters and enable me to get up at 6:30AM for my ride tomorrow morning. Thinking, again, about "Once"...

Without any touch of jackassedness (the bitters do not allow me to find the word) I can tell you that this might save your life. Ache and want and need and you can feel your eyes close with his to know this passion that allows you to feel this.

Worst Case Scenario

I think I used to mentor a 16 year old girl. That's a funny thing to say, I know. I think I used to because I haven't seen her in over two weeks and she hasn't called me despite my messages. I think I'm deciding to let it go. I think she has chosen a path that she knows I would disapprove of and she doesn't want to see my face across the table trying not to be a parent.

The last time I saw her was with Jen. We were supposed to pick her up from work but I got a message that her work schedule had been "changed" and that I should pick her up at her house. Changed my ass. She was hung over and had called in sick I'm quite sure. Granted, Jen and I were also a little bleary eyed and gravelly voiced but we're 30, not 16. She spoke highly of her friends who had dropped out of school to care for their baby. He works at KFC, she doesn't work. She mentioned they'd been cruising a neighborhood that I know well is as ghetto as it gets up here. She mentioned she'd forgotten to register for the college preview we'd been talking about attending for weeks. She was talking emancipation from her mom. And that's when I knew it was over.

I have called her and left several messages with her family and on her machine but to no avail. She hasn't contacted me. And really, she is 16 and is reaching an age where she can make her own decisions. Not always the best decisions as we all know but still capable of it and ready to exercise that ability.

I remember 16. It sucked. I made some ugly and embarrassing mistakes with boys. I made some ugly and embarrassing mistakes with what I decided to wear out of the house. I lost my best friend. I disappeared into some sort of deep numbness that I didn't resurface from for several years. Not depressed necessarily, but on my own for sure. I was a year off from losing my virginity, two years off from leaving home, and eight years off from learning that most of the time it's a lot easier to walk away from a bad situation than you might think. I would not do 16 over again for any amount of money or peace of mind that might be promised. I might apologize to Justin and Michael, though, for what probably appeared to be scary stalking insanity.

This is where I make a confession. I am a bit relieved that I think I used to mentor a 16 year old. That maybe my commitment is fulfilled. I know that she is just beginning a time in her life when she needs a good, strong role model more than ever. But I don't think she wants one. I thinks she feels like she's made her bed and now she'll lay in it. Really. It is easier to repeat your family's mistakes than escape them and change. So much easier. Of course if she called me I would meet her for coffee in a heartbeat. But I don't think she wants to hear from me. And that's OK. I'm ready to move on.

An aside. If you have not seen the movie "Once" I highly recommend it. I balked as I had heard it called a contemporary musical but my curiosity got the best of me. Loved it. Right now trying to decide if I should tear open the sealed Netflix return envelope and watch it again.

That Woman

I am that woman at the pool. You know, the one who showers facing out from the wall and who waltzes all over the locker room totally naked save for her pink flip flops. The one who, when you were 13, made you so incredibly embarassed about everything about yourself and your mom and women in general you wished your bra and underwear were painted on like Skipper's. That's me. I realized it a few weeks ago. I don't know when it happened. Maybe with the regular bikini waxing. But now I think it's time that I take that locker room confidence out on the town.

I know. I come across as sassy and brash and trusting of my every instinct. But you better believe that I spend a good amount of time practicing in the mirror and at the kitchen sink and with Frank. For a long time after I moved I didn't have a full length mirror and it was actually a blessing. I had to trust that the outfit I was wearing up to the market to get milk on a Sunday morning was good enough. Now that's become a wardrobe event. Do I look cool enough for the Bike Messenger Checker but not so cool that the Weird Girl Checker will know I stood in front of the mirror?

Then again, sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and I think, Is that really me? Do I look that grown up and together? Cause I don't feel that way very often. I want my inside to match my outside all the time. Well, at least when I look grown up and sure of myself. Not necessarily what I look like on laundry day.

So anyway, this is me in an extremely corny and Lifetime TV worthy moment, promising myself that I will not second guess myself anymore. I will not worry that what I just said to the Bike Messenger Checker was not funny enough, I will not keep my thoughts to myself at my Sunday night class, I will go boldly to the bar and get that drink, I will smile and look people in the eye, and I will change my shirt no more than two times before I leave the house. From now on I will be waltzing naked in my pink flip-flops everywhere I go.

Damned Brazilians

Thanks, Jen. It's not like I'd forgotten about meeting Guillerme in Barcelona but I had not, until I saw the picture of us on your flickr, lusted for him. In meeting Guillerme I felt I'd found a kindred spirit, a fellow goof ball in the world of hipper than thou print artists. But now I am kicking myself for not taking down his email. It was posted right there on the wall, after all. I mean, I could be living in Brazil with an adorable and talented man of indeterminate age who barely speaks English (how great is that?) right now if I had taken down his email. Oh Guillerme. I know that you wanted to love me.

If you are so inclined, please have yourself a peak at Bon Iver's myspace. Billed as the heir to the Iron & Wine throne he is a lovely and haunting musician. Give a listen.

To Wit

To clarify, I am not looking for a boyfriend. Not at all. And certainly not Mr. Right or a Husband. I am not pining, hunting, searching, or longing. I certainly do a little window shopping now and then, but it's a lot of work to try things on. I mean, you've got to find your size, get undressed, put it on, twirl around in the mirror, decide if you like it and if so decide if you want to spend the cash and if not take it off, hang it up again, button it up, put it back where you found it. Ugh. And anyway, how do I squeeze a boyfriend into this mania that is my life? I don't need nor do I want that hassle of having a Commitment, having to worry about someone else's Wants and Needs, showing my Ugly Side. No ma'am. Not right now. It's terrifying, the thought of it. This is not to say I don't get lonely sometimes. It would be nice to have a boy friend to call and meet for a beer or try a new restaurant or with whom to attend a friendly function. But he's not sleeping over. Maybe just staying late. Because he's two words, not one.

So right, the whole match.com thing. I thought this was a good way to "meet people" and have a few "dates". And, like I said, I found match is not for me. Not once did I think I was going to meet anyone worth more than a cup of coffee or a few beers. My god did I just say that? It was for practice. And did I just say that?

And to any of you who suggest I might meet a nice young man at the dog park I beg to differ. The dog park is not for meeting men. It is for running your dog. Men go to the dog park with their dogs or quite possibly their girlfriends' dogs and their girlfriends. Men who go to the dog park alone are usually either grandpas or freaks. Just my experience. Maybe not vast but I've been to at least a few dog parks over the the years.

What I have discovered about dog parks is that lesbians go there to pick up women. Yes. Lots of lesbians at the dog park. I am not a lesbian, though. I know my super short hair might suggest otherwise but no. I'm not. Please make no assumptions. I try not to. I have absolutely no gay-dar. None at all. It took me a long time to figure out my friend Craig was gay and not creepy. (You'd understand if you met him- this is not to say that all gay men are creepy.) And since I am oft mistaken I have developed a "well you just never know" thing about other women.

This actually totally sucks. Because I know other women do it, too. I mean, it is absolutely totally and completely uncool to suggest to a relative stranger of the same gender that you might get along and should hang out. Not that I have plans to go running around asking random women at the grocery store if they might like to get lunch, but it would be nice to be able to approach another woman who looks cool or interesting, have a chat, and, if you get along, suggest you hang out sometime without either of you feeling weird. It just might be nice. To not have everyone worrying that everyone else is hitting on them.

So I'm trying to be friendlier to everyone. In the hopes that that will start to break down that barrier in my life. Smile at the guys at the market, make a little small talk. Go out for coffee by myself so that I am forced to talk to the barista or the person at the table next to me. Let Frank meet other dogs. She's good for breaking down barriers. Talk to the folks at the bike shop. You know, participate in humanity. I'm pretty good at getting in, getting out, and getting done. Not so good at friendly.

Anyhoo, yes. No boyfriend today.

Bugger

To Jen, just the other day:

So can you bear a little story that I think you'll be relieved to hear? My infatuation with T. is effectively over. You see, he hasn't had much to do with me since February when I told him to get over himself. Still, I emailed him once or twice a week. Nothing scary or sad or needy, just telling him what I was up to. Course, he never had much if anything to say back. On Friday night I did this really nice painting that I am really excited about and I emailed him and told him about it and really didn't expect a response I just felt like we had that connection and I wanted to tell him. Anyway, I got an email back Sunday basically telling me that he didn't have the time or energy to maintain any sort of relationship with me and that it made him feel bad when I emailed and he didn't have anything to say back and even though he appreciated that I felt I could share with him he didn't really want to hear from me. It was a tiny bit nicer than that but you get the gist.

So of course I fired off a pissed off response. Then I fired off an apology. Then I thought, What the fuck? I sat through his mid-life crisis, I fucked him nightly, I listened to him complain about his house, his cold, B. & A., his realtor, his
siblings, his best friend, the girl he fucked while I was in Europe, his back, his hair, his jeans, his job and lack thereof?!?! And he can't fucking listen to, Hey, I'm having a great day and I did this really cool thing and I'm really excited? Selfish prick. Fuck, man. Thank god he's 200 miles away now. Don't know why it always takes me so long to figure this shit out.

From Jen, just the other day:

HELL YEAH. If he can't be an adult and be your friend, then fuck him. He doesn't deserve to hear about all the good things in your life. I had a similar thing with that guy M. that I dated for awhile. When he moved I would still call because I liked chatting with him, not because I expected anything and when he was in town once I ran into him and he said he felt weird coming into Colombo's with his girlfriend... This was nearly two years later. Men are weird.

I've decided to repurpose this space. Bring it up to real time. This exchange was just the other day and I think it may be one of my favorites ever.

To get you up to speed, I should let you know about my first and last match.com connection. There was really nothing wrong with this guy, just some seriously ugly shoes and a little too enthusiastic. But I wasn't feelin' it. Just wasn't. And so what do I do? I tell him to email me. So he does. So I shoot him down then. Basically I told him to ask me to reject him. Nice. No more match.com for me.

Oh, and I should tell you about the other guy. The guy I sort of met at a Big Brothers Big Sisters event. He was a BB/BS employee. This is a totally inappropriate way to meet guys, by the way. Nevermind, the connection I thought we had apparently was not. I contacted him and never heard back. No, he didn't ask me to but I was being ballsy and it was easy enough to get his email. Or maybe there was a connection and it was just that he had a girlfriend. Which I found out a week later when I saw him at the beach with her. Half a million people in this city and we're at the same beach. And even better, I had unknowingly parked in front of his apartment building. I had to watch in horror from across the street as he and the girl entered the building right at my car.

So yes, I'm repurposing this space. I promise it won't all be about men. Maybe mostly just the neuroses of a soon to be a thirty-something.