AWK-WAAARRRRRDDDD....

Let's set the scene:

It was a busy Wednesday. I was bogged down at work - endless decks to pull together, meetings to run, cats to herd. I was down to the wire on a crazy-big project with lots of visibility. And, noticing Mickey's big hand was on the 12 on my clock, I realized with a pang that I was STARVING.

With less than a 20-minute window before my next meeting, I had no time to sit down somewhere. Worse, the secret pseudo-food health bar stash in my top drawer was depressingly empty. I had no choice but to run for some deliciously bad takeout.

The teriyaki place across the street is a far cry from the best I've had, but it's predictable, and thus was my choice.

My stomach grumbling, I entered the strip-mall-style shop to find every table full and a line at the register. Waiting to order, it registered that I had caught that magical lunch hour rush when the crowd in local restaraunts gets a little... awkward.

See, my company is very near a large high school with an open campus for lunch. This means that on any given day between about 12:15 and 12:45 the local establishments are the meeting grounds for many longing, lecherous businessmen suffering mid-life-crises in suits AND (the awkward part) herds of scantily-clad teenage girls. Cheerleaders and Lil' Kim wannabes abound, noisily giggling and madly text-messaging.

Hysterically, during these strange lunch hour mixings, these two different tribes do their best to pretend to completely ignore each other, at which they epically fail. At these moments, everyone is actually acutely aware of each other. I'd say there's a fair amount of eavesdropping, and more sideways glancing that is technically comfortable to watch happen. I was in the midst of musing about this when...

"What you want today, lady?"

Shaken from my rapt people-watching (people-judging, to be more accurate), I ordered the lunch special: a slab of sliced chicken covered in a sticky-sweet sauce, an ice-cream scoop of gluey white rice and a handful of iceberg lettuce covered in a mayo moonlighting as "dressing".

I stepped out of line after settling up and found a seat on the long bench between the register and the door to wait for my order to come up. In front of this bench, the distracted line of customers queuing up to order meanders from the register out onto the sidewalk. Further inside the restaraunt are tables for dine-in patrons.

A few minutes had passed when a woman from the kitchen made her way over to me, arm outstretched to hand me my white plastic take-out bag. I was shoving my pen and that day's NY Times crossword into my purse with one hand and taking my takeout with the other when I heard him.

"HI! I'M BEN!"

I jumped, startled by the inappropriately loud volume of his voice, and looked up. Meanwhile, the rest of the restaraunt's patrons did the same. His volume alone managed to hush the entire joint and, impossibly, capture the attention of all the teenagers and professionals in it.

I gulped, and slowly looked up. As I had feared, Mr. Mortifying was addressing me. Trying not to cringe, I smiled, said hi, and looked back down at the paper in my lap, silently willing him to dissappear.

Please, please... I thought, eyes squeezed tight.

"I WAS JUST WALKING BY AND SAW YOU IN THE WINDOW..."

Oh no, I thought. This can't be happening.

"...AND THOUGHT I SHOULD STOP TO TELL YOU I THINK YOU'RE REALLY, UH... BEAUTIFUL..."

Cue waves of crippling guilt.

Here he was, giving me a compliment, and just because he was SCREAMING IT EMBARASSINGLY AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS IN A PUBLIC PLACE, I was feeling all panicky and ungrateful.

But he just kept going.

"...AND I JUST WANTED TO KNOW IF I COULD TAKE YOU OUT SOMETIME!"

Fuck. There it was.

The restaraunt was tomblike in silence. I suddenly knew what it was like to be on-stage, the main event, one of those terrified dogs on bicycles in the center ring of the circus. The only sound was the fryers and grills in the back of the restaraunt. Every cheerleader, hoochie mama and corporate VP had his or her eyes trained on the train wreck-slash-soap opera in front of them, featuring me and my new volume-and-tact-challenged Romeo.

Handle this, I thought. Don't panic. Be cool. But I just couldn't stop it. It was coming out of my mouth before I even had a chance to take hold of my internal E-brake and yank:

"AAAWWWWK-WAAARRRRRD!"

My inner dialogue had escaped like some clever little yappy dog. Rather than gracefully diffusing the completely mortifying experience and politely declining this gentleman's clumsy advances, I had sprung a leak in my filter and instead yelled - YELLED - "Awkward!", volume 10, drawn out theatrically into a 7-syllable groan of disgust and embarrassment.

The crowd's response was a gasp, and then some giggling. The moment the word escaped, I clapped both hands over my mouth, eyes as big as saucers and frantically shook my head.

"No, no, I'm sorry. It's just... right here? Right now? Do you think..." I took a deep breath, getting a grip. "Uh, can we speak outside, maybe?"

I leapt up, took his arm and lead him outside into the parking lot like he was a bad child. The next few moments were a mishmash of apologizing and thanking him for the compliment but (obviously) declining the offer. Shockingly, he didn't seem even close to as humiliated as I had been, which helped, though he did mention that he realized he had yelled, probably because he was "nervous".

But we managed to somehow extricate ourselves from the conversation, and both turned to go our separate ways on foot, me in front of him.

And a few minutes later, as I opened the front door to my giant office building and glanced behind me, guess what? He was still there. When I turned to address him, he smiled sheepishly at me.

"Well, if you thought THAT was awkward, I can't imagine what you'll make of this... you work here too??!"

Can a girl please catch a break? I must have kicked a kitten in a past life.

"Talk about awkward...

It just feels right.

"Okay, let me see you," he said, holding his little camcorder. We were in a gift shop, surrounded by children scurring around with glee and parents who looked frazzled but happy, all to a very familiar soundtrack which was piped in from the ceiling.

We were in Disneyland. Just for the weekend. And I had run into the gift shop (one of a thousand on Disney's Main Street) on a whim and scrambled to the floor-to-ceiling display of mickey mouse ears; the felt ones, the old-school kind.

I snatched a child-sized blue pair with their floppy plastic mouse ears and propped it jauntily on my head, stretching that cheap (and dangerous) little elastic band around my chin to secure it. My heart immediately swelled a half-size.

I looked up to find Jim pointing his tiny video camera at me, smiling with his eyes, sun pouring in the shop all around him like some sort of beam of happiness. He looked golden. I felt golden. The moment crystallized.

"Can you see how cute you look right now?" he said.

I looked around the store. No mirrors. Was that possible? Ah, well.

I patted my head with satisfaction and grinned back at him from the very center of my inner 5-year old self.

"No," I said, "But it just feels right."

Tre, domesticated.

Due to a series of unfortunate events, my big ass house and my two other roommates and I have been, recently, seeking a fourth roommate. The unfortunate events include but are not limited to letting a douche live with us -- a douche who we thought was our friend -- and then later having that douche douche out on us, by which I mean move to another state a mere week before the beginning of the month (when, lest you forget, rent in the amount of $600-$800 is due).

This has resulted in a few interesting twists in my life over the past month or two.

One of them is that my boyfriend moved into my house.

Now, before my mother starts sobbing hysterically about how hard she tried to "raise me right" and my brother starts repeatedly calling said boyfriend to threaten his life unless he propose, I should clarify: he moved temporarily into my house. Just for a month. To help us with the rent while we sought a "real", non-boyfriend, roommate.

The whole living with your significant other thing is an interesting experience. I've never really been decided on whether or not the rule should be one MUST live with their significant other before marraige or one MUST NOT, and this experience hasn't done much to convince me either way.

Let me explain, pro-con style:

Pros: Your respective schedules, and coordinating them, is no longer an issue, as you're guaranteed to see each other at least once a day, albeit sometimes when you're sleeping.

Another pro? Mealtime. Without even discussing it, Jim and I slipped effortlessly into the ryhthm of making breakfast and dinner for each other. I'd make french toast one day, he'd make egg sandwiches the next. I'd do corn chowder for dinner, he'd do salmon and rice the next day. There's something, as you know, that I find ridiculously sexy about cooking, and cooking together in a house that you both belong in is a whole 'nother hot, intimate, wonderful experience.

Plus there's just the pro of being in the general vicinity of the person who is your most significant other and therefore one of your best friends. Yes -- you better be able to fart in front of each other or your relationship is doomed -- but more than that, it's just nice to come home or wake up and have that person be there, happy to see you, every day.

But there are some cons. Like now he knows exactly how long it takes me to get ready to go out -- about 15 minutes longer than I'd like to have him believe. And he's seen -- and smelled -- me in less than desireable conditions. Living together, you're no longer able to carefully craft your image... cards are all on the table, face up, chips down.

But it gets worse. Take, for instance, the other day, when Jim came home to find me in the hallway outside the washer/dryer, a confused, guilty look on my face.

"I couldn't help it!" I cried, perplexed and flustered.
"Help what?!" Jim was confused and suspicious.
"I saw your laundry pile, and it was just sitting there," I said, face red, hands flapping about, "...and I had nothing better to do, so I just... I just... DID YOUR LAUNDRY!!! Without asking!"

I was horrified. I had become, overnight, a wifey/matronly type who, under the guise of doing her significant other a "favor", occupied her compulsive self by doing laundry like some sort of crack-chore-doing-whore.

There is no end to all the things I suddenly want to do for Jim that he is perfectly capable of doing on his own -- and probably likes doing as a perfectly capable modern man! Like making doctor appointments, cleaning up, doing dishes. Hell, I don't know how to iron and I've been tempted to iron for him!

And I'm OBSESSED with my crockpot. Jesus. I spend 15 minutes a day on Recipes.com looking up crock-pot enchiladas, crockpot stews, crockpot winter chicken roasts. I'm like the weirdly domesticated version of my former self -- suddenly my greatest concern is how I'm going to get a fresh, hot meal on the table in the least amount of time after work. Two months ago, my greatest concern was how to get my blood alcohol level up to .20 in the least amount of time after work.

What has become of me? Am I losing my sex appeal? My spark? My wiley singleton way? Has the constant exposure to testosterone suddenly caused a surge of the opposite in me? Or is it just the winter and the approaching holidays, and that innate female desire to nest, nest, nest when the weather gets chilly?

Whatever it is, it's a phenomenon, and one that's taken me by surprise. I think it must be a phase (a theory I'll test in a week when Jim moves out and into his new place 45 minutes away from me).

In the meantime, I'm going to play out the rest of this little domestic fantasty by going home during lunch to start my spicy black bean soup -- tonight's meal.

But aybe while I'm there, just to be safe, I'll change into some lacy underwear... you know, to keep things cosmically balanced.

Goodminton

"You know, we should be nicer to each other," Jim said. We were setting up badminton set in my backyard, while drinking red wine and sweating after work one day recently.

"Yeah? Nicer, huh?" I was focused on untying a knot. Things weren't going particularly well with the badminton set -- stuff was tangled, the ground was too soft, then too hard, the net was crooked.

With Jim and I, things were going smashingly, except both he and I have acerbic wits, sharp tongues, and a wide sarcastic streak. Before we dated, these traits were fun. Once we started hanging out, these traits served as flirty little conversation crutches. But lately, once in a pretty solid relationship, our barbs have started to occasionally stick, which means we've each spent a little more time than we should every week nursing unnecessary wounds and pouting at each other.

"Yeah, nicer," he continued. "I think our communication could be a little better lately, don't you?"

I just about threw down the badminton set and ran to the nearest gas station to buy a lottery ticket. Was I getting a talk about communication? From a man? Who I am dating?

Who is, then and therefore, not gay?

It was a minor miracle.

In an attempt to not overreact to the awesomeness of the moment, I played it cool.

"Yeah, I think you're probably right. Less sarcasm would be good. Deal."

(That was a lie. I did not play it cool. I launched into a 4 minute psychological dissection of why our normally entertaining and sarcastic conversations were starting to drive us both nuts. Standard communication-happy emo-girl stuff.)

Then, as quickly as we'd started talking about it, the conversation was over. A solution was in place. We agreed to take it easier on each other. More love, less war. At the same time, my knot was untied. The net was up. We each stepped back and picked up our rackets, looking over our handiwork.

"There. Look how much we accomplished in a few minutes!" Jim grinned at me from across the net.

"Yeah," I said, admiring the net with my own broad smile. "It looks awesome!"

Then, a moment of silence, which I noted a tad awkward. I looked over at Jim, who had his head tilted quizzically at me.

"What?" I said.

"Um, I was talking about our relationship... but the net looks good, too," he laughed, shaking his head.

Holy shit. Either I'm totally out of my element, or I've met my match.

Cardinal sin #28: Pity-dating

"I know she's not the one," sighed my friend P into his pint of Red Hook IPA. He was having "relationship issues". I love talking about "relationship issues". Hence us, together, over Bang Bang shrimp and drinks, (two more things I love) dissecting his relationship with his girlfriend of a couple years.

He's never cheated (hell, he felt guilty about meeting me for some platonic female counseling), treats his girlfriends like gold, is smart and an idealist and is actually capable of expressing himself intelligently with some real emotional maturity while also maintaining a distincly masculine air. He's no weenie, but he's also no brute.

Christ, looking back at that paragraph, he's like the holy grail of men, isn't he? And, dear single ladies, he's attractive. AND bilingual.

But he's also a notorious pity-dater.

This girl, who he met and almost immediately started dating and later moved in with, was a "pretty", "nice" girl. The prettiness and niceness were, well, pretty and nice at first.

"There weren't 'sparks', per se," he said, "But she was sweet, and liked me, and it just felt right."

"Right?" I raised my eyebrow.

"Easy," he conceded. "Routine. Which seemed at the time like the way it was supposed to be, I guess."

They never fought. (Let it be known that I believe every great relationship survives because its members know how to do two things very intelligently: fight and apologize -- and mean them both). He never cheated. The sex was just okay. (I asked.) Their phone conversations were short.

"Okay, so let me extrapolate this and see if I'm getting your drift," I said, taking a deep breath. "You go to work in grey cubicles every morning, meet for cheese sandwich lunches during which you hardly speak except about the weather. You come home at night, eat vanilla ice cream after your chicken just before putting on your footie P.J.s and saying your prayers every night at 8:30 sharp on the way to your (separate) beds."

"Yes!" he said. "Exactly! This is a vanilla relationship. At first, I liked the vanilla. It was sweet and looked nice and felt good going down..." He paused for effect while enjoying my cringe.

"But now, all the things that attracted me in the first place turn out not to matter. Yeah, she's pretty. But Jesus Christ, she's boring. We're boring. We don't talk about anything. She doesn't care about anything. She's totally dependent on me, and she's clueless that I could ultimately take her or leave her. I don't know what to do. I mean, I feel bad. She's just so nice."

He spat out the "n" word like it was bitter.

There he sat in relationship limbo, dating a girl that was perfectly fine but nothing special, and it was driving him crazy. To make matters worse for him, he felt completely helpless to rectify the situation because she was literally killing him with kindess. And he didn't want to "hurt her feelings" by breaking it off.

This, of course, was ridiculous.

I, of course, pointed that out.

"Um, don't take this the wrong way, P," I said, "but do you really think anyone wants to be with somebody who is just dating them out of pity? I meam, life goes on after you. Give this girl a little credit... if you told her how you felt, I bet she'd be out of there in 10 seconds flat."

And then we played my favorite game ever: Worst to best.

This game is best played when trying to helpfully counsel your friends through a tough decision -- one they're afraid to make (or not make).

You ask them to start out by describing the worst possible outcome of a situation. In this case, if he did option 1 (break up with her), the worst possible outcome was that she'd cry, scream, slam doors and move out. And P would be single. And he'd be lonely and depressed for a few weeks. The breakup could get ugly, but even in the worst possible scenario, he'd be free of an unsatisfying relationship.

Once you've thoroughly described the worst possible outcome, you do the same with other outcomes that are a few degrees better than the last one, until you come to the best possible outcome. In this case, that would be him talking to her, her understanding and even agreeing, and them peacefully going their separate ways.

We then did this for option 2: Not breaking up with her. The worst possible outcome there was that he would spend a lifetime with her, growing to resent her, and he either ends up cheating or just hating her because she's keeping him from actually falling in love. The best possible outcome would be him getting to just be satisfied with "eh", "eh-ing" out into infinity.

"So?" I asked after P had gamely gone through these scenarios with me.

"I know what I have to do," he nodded.

That was three weeks ago. P ended it two and a half weeks ago. She didn't even cry. He was lonely for about a week (it's not that hard to break up with someone you didn't really love to begin with, you know? A few good nights out and a dirty movie or two and he was over it.)

Yesterday he called me and said he'd met someone at a wedding over the weekend and they'd spent three solid days together since.

I haven't ever heard him talk about someone the way he talked about this girl. I'd repeat it all, but the superlatives even make me want to gag a little. And let it be known that there wasn't a "pretty" or "nice" in there anywhere. Try "breathtaking", "fantastic", "whip-smart", "hilarious".

Long story short: there are sparks. For the first time ever for him. I suspect he's not going back to "eh".

Let that be a lesson to all of us who have ever pity-dated (God knows I have -- biggest purple Bronco-driving, tongue ring having, 7-foot, leg-shaving mistake ever).

Hold out for sparks. Life's too long for "eh", and too short to never know what it feels like to glow in the company of someone you think is far, far more than just okay.

Persistence pays.

"I seriously don't understand how anyone ever ends up together," I said, shaking my head at a friend and his wife across the breakfast table.

They had just finished telling the "how we met" story, and let me tell you, it was epic:

At a party, boy meets and schmoozes girl. Girl remains aloof and chilly. Boy asks for phone number. Girl denies. One week later, they bump into each other again. Boy is hammered at a bar, drinking with the bartender. Girl is sober. Boy again asks for girl's number. Girl gives it to him, verbally. Boy belligerently swears to remember it. Girl leaves. Boy (surprise!) forgets number. A few days go by. Boy runs into mutual friend, who he asks for the girl's phone number. Friend gives him girl's work number. Boy calls girl at work, interrupting her while mispronouncing both her first and last names. Girl asks if she can call him back at a better time.

A few hours later, girl calls boy who has now been schmoozy, sloppy and forgetful around her, and possibly doesn’t even know her name. That is far more than three strikes, is it not? A few weeks later, they're inseparable. Now, they’re married (and adorable).

"I mean, you didn't even say her name right!" I rolled my eyes, thinking about all the poor schleps I'd dismissed for crimes far less eggregious.

“I know,” he chuckled, as his wife looked at him adoringly. “My success with women can only be attributed to my ability to be so ridiculously persistent that they finally give in and give me a shot.”

Ain’t that the truth, too? There is much to be said for the persistence of a man who simply will not take “no” for an answer.

Why is that “eye on the prize” approach so attractive? It should be interpreted as arrogant, but its effect is sometimes positively the opposite, compelling women to do exactly what these overeager types ask, as if we simply have no choice in the matter.

According to Webster, "persistence" is the quality of continuing steadily despite problems or obstacles. So is that it, then? Is it purely biological? Are we all ultimately seeking someone we know isn't going to give up only because we realize in life there will be obstacles to overcome that will seem monumental enough to make it feel like quitting is the best possible option? Is this our built in "stability-meter"?

Whatever it is, there’s just something about a man who thinks he wants you badly enough to treat pursuing you like it’s a full time job.

I have absolutely fallen for it before, against all my better judgment. But it’s not a surefire path to success -- if there’s no chance for a relationship’s survival, someone will ultimately snap out of it. In my case, it took about a month and a half before I realized I was somehow mysteriously dating a bi-curious man who only ate Jack in the Box chicken sandwiches, failed out of school twice and who had... wait for it... just pierced his tongue.

Two days after I saw the light and after the world's hottest and most exfoliating shower, it was over. But props to him for a strong, if manipulative and ultimately creepy, start.

By the time breakfast had wrapped up with my lovebird friends, I was thoroughly convinced that dating, love and marraige was just a game of chance that God invented one day to keep him entertained (okay, and ensure procreation) -- something like a bully with a magnifying glass on a sunny day might keep himself entertained by scorching ants on the asphalt between his dirty feet.

(Sorry, God. I hope we can still be friends. I'm just saying...)

Except the ants have tiny brains and get to burn to death. We just have to go on hideous date after hideous date, having the same exact conversations with different versions of the same exact people, all of whom likely find us as boring or crazy as we find them, until someday, almost against our will and certainly with no help from us, something is just... different. And then, maybe even all the things that would have otherwise mattered (hell, even the pronunciation of your name) just won't.

I hope that makes it all worth it in the end.

I like to think it might.

The Note, Part II: Why I'll never write another

It was my first year of college. I was fresh and alone at a school far enough from home that I didn't know anyone. The campus, though only mid-sized, felt huge. I was awash with the power and excitement that comes with being anonymous in a brand new place.

I knew only one person at the university -- a girl I'd become friends with through sports in high school. She was a year older than me and I always looked up to her -- she was that girl who seemed to have it all figured out. Every high school boy with a pulse was simultaneously a little afraid of her and completely obsessed. She had gotten a scholarship to play ball at the university I attended, but during my first couple months at school I was busy getting settled in my sorority and breaking up with the then-love of my life (a whole 'nother story), so I hadn't seen her, though we talked occasionally on the phone.

One late weeknight a few months into school, I found myself in the campus library late, writing in a computer lab. There were people at every computer, which were laid out in rows with computers back to back. As I worked, the guy in the computer facing me caught my eye. He was tall, had hazel eyes and sandy blonde hair and rakish, crooked smile. He was a couple years older than me, I guessed, from all the muscles. Clearly an athelete, and brazen; periodically he leaned around his computer to catch my eye and sort of half-smiled and nodded.

I was flattered by his attention, but it was a computer lab and I was a goody-goody 18-year old who had had a grand total of one long-term, intimate relationship, like, ever! I pretended not to notice, all the while my thoughts were racing: what do I do? How do I act? Holy Christ! My life is AWESOME and TERRIFYING all at ONCE!!

Nobody was talking, so saying something clever wasn't an option (both because it was dead-silent and I was not clever in the least). And I was supposed to be working. I was in waaay over my head, but was determined to "sieze the opportunity" and "make the most of my college experience" and shit. And then, it came to me. A note.

A Note.

Discreetly, I wrote him a Note right there in the computer lab. It was too long, and went into too much detail about how I didn't know anyone here and what, hypothetically, we could get together and do, like maybe coffee or a movie or something. (I am SO cringing as I write this). Worse, I remember leaving TWO numbers at the bottom of the paper -- one to my room and one to my cell phone. TWO NUMBERS! Can you imagine? I might as well have left him a lock of hair, blood test results and a pee sample too, but I thought I was being verrrry cool.

I finished up at the computer, and, very smooth-like, stood up, walked around the table, and slipped my note into his Biology book on my way out.

I barely made it out of the library before being near-paralyzed with dread. I had been so confident a moment before, all hopped up on hormones and adrenaline -- but once I stepped outside the library into the night, the reality of the half-page long note I left for some random athelete in my new university library was enough to nearly break me out into cold sweats. If I could have burned the place down with him in it, I would have.

A few days went by and that Sunday morning, I got a phone call around 9:30 a.m. It was my old friend from high school on the other end.

"I had the craziest night! You'll never believe it..." she launched into a story about the night before, focusing particularly heavily on a handsome basketball player she met there. "So we went to his house," she continued. "No funny business, but this morning, I hopped in the shower with him." (At this point, I shriek as if my virginal ears just caught on fire. She SHOWERED with a GUY. Holy shit.)

"And when we got out," she continued, but at this point she starts laughing, so words are coming in bursts, "On the floor... by his wallet... was this crumpled up paper... and the handwriting looked familiar, so I... picked it up... and..."

I about died on the spot as she, between fits of laughter, essentially read me the note I'd left with my little library crush a few days before. She thought it was the funniest thing in the world, and, if his hysterics in the background were any indication, so did he.

"Wait a minute," I gasped, between my own horrified gulps, "You mean... you... took... a SHOWER with HIM?!!"

Yep, the only person on campus I knew not only beat me to my library crush, she SHOWERED WITH HIM, and then they, naked, read the most embarrassing note I have ever written. And then called me to replay the incident with me as their witness.

For the rest of my college existence, every time I was out, I inevitably ran into GooglyLibraryEyes and all his buddies, who mercilessly gave me shit, and somehow magically never fucking forgot it or cut me some slack. Let me tell you, by the end of my college career, he wasn't looking attractive anymore. I don't think. To be honest, I never looked at him directly again, afraid my eyes would be burned by the reflection of my own stupidity shining off him like a "neener-neener" beacon forever.

That was the end of my Note-writing career. Thank God I had a sense of humor or I mightn't have survived it.

Lesson: The Note gets read. Often. And by way more people than you intend.

So now its your turn to share hideous come-on stories. Can you beat this? I doubt it, but could really use a little morale boost now, so if you wouldn't mind trying...

:)

The Note (a tale of a misguided come-on tactic), Part I

[Before we begin, a note: I love how I can write about pretty much anything and elicit a response from y'all, but the day I actually get hit by a bus and write about that? Nothing. A couple emails along the lines of "are you okay? because that's pretty funny..." but other than that, radio silence. You guys kick ass.]

...

"So I'm having a little bit of a crisis," she said. "I tried to lick the company stamps, or whatever, and now I'm paying the price."

My best friend and I are sort of regulars at this little Mexican restaraunt near her house, where we meet sometimes once every couple weeks, sometimes a few times a week, to eat chips and salsa and drink beer with lime in it and talk about... well... everything.

Last week, the topic was Workboy. We'd run into Workboy a few weekends ago on a night out on the town. He'd recognized her as the girl who works in the office building next to him, and described her black Audi and where she parked in their small, shared parking lot. He'd bought her a drink and they'd laughed and flirted. He was doing that thing where you touch the other person when they say something funny. At the end of the night, they exchanged numbers and went their separate ways.

The following week they bumped into each other a couple times, talked about getting together again. So, in an attempt to keep the momentum they'd begun during the weekend, she wrote A Note to Workboy.

Now, the Note is a notoriously female move. And my friend, bless her heart, did exactly what every one of us known Note-Leavers does: First, she wrote The Note four days before she worked up the nerve to leave The Note somewhere for him to read. The Note was, though totally premeditated, intentionally a little sloppy and very short, in an attempt to look, well, not premeditated.

"...it was just very cool," she said. "I mean, very casual."

After obsessing for the obligatory three days about exactly what words should go in The Note, she finally worked up the considerable nerve it took to slip it under his wiper on her way out to her car one day after work.

Just after she did, she saw him come out of his building on his way to his car, and panicked, essentially sprinting to her car and racing off before he could read the note in front of her, the whole way home wishing she could go back, run him over, and snatch the note back out of his adorable, lifeless hands.

"Well," I nodded, "I think you handled that pretty well. So?"

"So he hasn't called. And it's been two weeks," she moaned. "And honestly, I'm dissapointed, but more than that, I'm completely fucked, because I see his car every day and he walks past my office every day, and we haven't spoken since, and it is the most awkward thing EVER!" Cue wailing.

I agreed. What? Well, she was right. It was a completely awkward situation, and after some discussion, we determined that not only was it awkward, it was totally possible he had a girlfriend who he showed the note to, in addition to everyone he works with and possibly also my friend's boss and co-workers. Which led to a whole 'nother bout of wailing.

And that's the thing about The Note. It always seems like such a good idea to us women, but the second you leave it, you realize the gravity of the mistake you've made in leaving it:

You hit on a man like he was a woman, and left cold, hard, physical evidence of your transgression.

It's like we take the biggest mistake men make in hitting on women (the pick-up lines, sometimes some grabbing and and hi-fives with the boys and a few pelvic thrusts) and do completely the opposite thing. We hit on men coyly and nearly anonymously in an attempt to risk as little as possible. Consider the fact that most women's repertoire of moves when it comes to attracting a man (mine included) borrow heavily from deaf, dumb and mute: we ignore them completely, believing this makes us more attractive to them. Nice.

Meanwhile, I suspect a man really wants us to come up to him unannounced at a bar, grab his junk, wrap a leg around him, press our chest against his arm and tell him his legs must be tired because he's been running through our sex dreams all night. But noooo. Instead, like the classy but clueless broads we are, we take the leave The Note angle, thinking it will be sweet and clever and mysterious. Which gets us into BIG trouble. Women want mystery. Men want exactly the opposite. I know this firsthand.

[Next, in Part II, how I know this firsthand.]

Or, you could just wear your shirt...

I have talked to two different men in the last week who say they take off their shirts when they go number two.

Yep, I know. Bizarre, right?

And they both say this isn't restricted to just their homes. Public restroom? Shirt off. Work men's room? Yep. Porta-Potty? (Actually, I didn't ask either about a Porta Potty, but now I wish I would have. Meanwhile my general rule is to stay a minimum of .25 miles away from Porta-Potty's at all times, no matter how badly you have to pee. As for the other function? No way. )

This clothing removal thing disturbs me for two reasons. One is the basic concept. WHY would you remove clothing to use the bathroom? It's unnecessary, and the mental picture is so icky. Also, this is totally inconvenient. Imagine a man in a shirt and tie: he enters the bathroom, removes his tie, hangs it on that little hook on the door, unbuttons seventy million buttons (and those ones around his wrists), takes off his shirt, then his undershirt, and hangs those both over the door. He's now been in there for 4 or 5 minutes. People are coming and going and watching his clothes be flung over the stall door. He then sits down on the sani-paper, a weird, pasty-white man with his shirt off in a cold work bathroom, and does his deed. (Both shirt-removers are white, so by default, that's my mental picture. But a brown man shirtless on the pot is just as icky). Then, when he's done, he reverses the process. Clothes go back on. Does he tie his tie in the mirror with all the other guys watching? Do they know he just disrobed? And if he's taking off his shirt, why not go the whole way and get rid of the pants and socks, too?

[Actually, come to think of it, I think I did have an ex-boyfriend who took his shoes off when he went number two. I feel like I remember him saying something to this effect, and I just didn't ask more questions because it was weirding me out. Then again, this is also the ex who ate lasagna in the bathtub, so maybe the whole relationship was weirding me out, truth be told. But I digress.]

What's worse about my discovery of this strange male behavior is that I heard about it twice in one week from two different and unrelated men, which makes me believe it stands to reason this isn't a rare occurrance at all. Is it possible there are lots of men out there doing this? Or--gasp--women?

And why were both these guys -- one of whom I barely know, who made this revelation in a big group of people out on a Saturday night -- so willing to share this perverse and private detail?

It's like i'm in the twilight zone. Anyone?

New Year, new adventure

Having just had shoulder surgery, it has recently come to my attention that nearly all my friends have enjoyed going a few rounds with a bottle of prescription pills. Having two very large bottles of them -- Oxycodin and Valium, specifically -- after surgery, therefore, made me a very popular person.

This popularity ended about a week after surgery, when the no-refill prescription ran out and I was too chicken to ask for more, having very little remaining pain and a possible ulcer from overindulging when I did.

And I wasn't really that sad to see those empty bottles in the trash, honestly. I'm just not a big pill person. The payout is a little dissapointing for me. I mean, I can drink one beer and hold my breath for 30 seconds and get the same floaty, sleepy feeling I have when on pain meds. This apathy extends to all prescriptions with two exceptions: Xanax (thank you, Xanax) and Ambien.

Not long ago, I dated a slightly self-obsessed and very dramatic recovering hypochondriac who struggled for a while with anxiety.

(It is fuzzy as to exactly what these anxieties were about, as his main activities in life were not working, eating, drinking, watching VH1 and browsing homoerotic websites. That said, I suspect they included worries about why women only sleep with him when they're blacked out and whether or not he can convince a woman to bear him children before he has an inevitable midlife crisis -- brought about by hair-loss and penis-size insecurities -- which will drive him to collossal weight gain and one reckless night in a swingers club where he inadvertently gets blown by a man, loves it, and simultaneously ruins his marraige and breaks his mother's heart by coming out of the closet with his liberal, Eastern-European vegetarian hairdresser/lover, Stefan.)

But I digress. This ex, as part of his genius step-by-step-seduction-program, hooked me up a couple times with both Xanax and Ambien, which was pretty great, as I was going through a crazy career change and some stress-related issues of my own at that time.

And they worked like a charm. Xanax was my superhighway to my "happy place", while Ambien was the equivalent of slipping into a bathtub full of warm pasta on the way to a dreamless coma, all in 11 minutes, max.

So that's me and my two favorite meds. (Oh, and a little unfortunate foray into one of many awesomely strange dating experiences).

Now, on to New Year's.

Z and I went to Idaho to spend the three-day weekend (WAHOO!!) with his family, who have a kick-ass place at the base of a resort with easy access to a ski hill, snowmobiles, an outdoor hottub, a sauna, and general awesomeness. While we stayed, his family had a guest who took a twice-daily cocktail of pills to stay even-keeled. Of course, as I'm not a pill enthusiast, this meant nothing to me. Yet.

On the first day, we engaged in a (rad) routine of snowmobiling and hot tubbing and beer drinking and football watching. On the second day, we repeated this routine, and by the time we got off the mountain that afternoon, we were ready to take it a little easier. The plan was a hot tub, some drinking and cards, and then off to the local sports bar to watch the BSU-Oklahoma game.

I shook off the cold and my frozen coat, Z kicked off his boots and retreated upstairs, presumably to pee or change. I hit the sunroom, sprawling out on a big leather couch. Moments later, Z appeared in the doorway, eyes twinkling.

"Hi!" he said, grinning like a kid with a secret.

"What did you do?" I asked "Or are we about to do it?"

"Nope," he said. "Better."

Something was clearly up. I waited for the bomb to drop.

He extended his hand, turned it over, and unclenched his fist to show me his big secret: a tiny white pill.

"Look what I got you!" he stage-whispered. "Take it!"

I picked up the pill and drew it close to my face. Something about it was vaguely familiar...

"Oh Jesus," I said. "You didn't take one already, did you?"

"Yeah... why?"

"Well, because in about 20 minutes, your limbs will be asleep, your lips will be numb, your heart rate will drop to "almost not beating" and you'll be drooling."

"What?" he said, confused.

What I forgot to mention is that Z, though a pill enthusiast, is not a pill expert. He, having the constitution of a small Russian army, is never sick, and is the opposite of hypochondriacal. He is a picture of health. Sleeps when he's supposed to, wakes up when he's supposed to, and is the most even-keeled, solid person I know. (A nice compliment to my crazy, and a fucking relief after dating drama queen after drama queen.) This means when Z reached into the bag of houseguest goodies hoping to pull out two happy pills, he had no clue he popped the world's tiniest and most effective sleeping pill, instead.

I, of course, am obsessed enough with illness that I whip myself into a frenzy about some disease or another (and its remedy) about once every four to six days.

"It's Ambien," I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

His face flickered between surprised, confused, and bemused, while I slowly realized that unless I took the one he was offering me, he was going to coma the afternoon away, leaving me to spend family time with his family. Ummm, they're lovely and all, but no thank you.

"Fuck," I half-laughed, rolling my eyes, "Well, if you're sleeping, I'm sleeping too," I said, and popped the tiny wonder-pill in my mouth, swallowing.

No sooner was the pill solidly in my stomach, and beginning to wrap its warm tentacles around my brain, than he got that kid-with-a-secret look again -- but this time it was tinged with a little crazy-and-drugged, too.

"Oh God," I said, "What?"

"I'm gonna fight it," he grinned.

You can imagine how the rest of the afternoon played out:

I dissolved into a fit of laughter, and Z, already glazed over and loopy, did the same. Ten minutes later, we were both still laughing, lying in a hysterical pair of heaps on the floor, knees and elbows flailing, clutching our ribs, tears running down our faces.

Twenty minutes later, we were clutching our faces, sore from the laughter, then each other's faces, which soon turned back into laughing fits.

Then we had a snack.

Then the dog farted, and more laughing.

Then hot tubbing. More laughing and some water-splashing, which nearly resulted in a nasal drowning accident.

Out of the hot tub, a slip and fall into a snowbank -- in a bikini -- then more laughing, right up to snack #2.

Three hours later, we were at the sports bar eating pizza, drinking beer, playing cards and yelling our way through the BSU game. There was some slurring, for sure, and some pretty reckless card betting, but no sleep.

...

Seven hours later, the game was over, and it was mercifully dark. I enthusiastically hit the sack, from where I didn't move for nearly eleven hours. I was finally awoken with a cappuccino sometime mid-morning on the second bright day of the new year -- without a hangover.

What a fabulous way to welcome in the new year. Hope yours was as utterly memorable.

Upgrade

I am putting an unhealthy amount of energy into hoping this bit of celebrity gossip is true.

This guy can't seem to figure it out. First he's with the south's future trashiest barefoot coffee stand and truckstop regular who just happens to have also built her career on her navel, the word "y'all", and impersonating not-that-innocent schoolgirls. Then, he moves on to a 7-foot giant with a Joker-esque mouth and less body-fat (and indications she's actually female) than Lance Armstrong. Plus, she has this irritating "aren't I every man's dreamgirl? I burp, fart, wear boycut undies AND put out!!! Hahahahahaha!!!" persona that really bugs.

But this Scarlett thing could turn it around for him -- she's classy enough to bring shoes on a road trip, subtle enough not to end up dancing on some nightclub table or star in every cheesy comedy as the quirky, burping girl next door, and has enough booty to actually shake something to Alpha Dog's little poppy r & b stuff.

...

I've got to stop spending my money on these US Weekly magazines.

Dating Epiphany: It's all about your Story

Dating epiphany: The importance of the "how we met" story is the aspect of dating that is undeniably most underestimated by men.

Yes, physical attraction is important. Chemistry, religion, and how much she likes sports: all critical. But honestly, probably one of the three most important things to any woman you're dating that she'll never admit to your face is the story of how you met.

Consider:

The wedding toast. A proper wedding toast must be sugary and prophetic -- about how you first met, you knew instantly you'd be together forever. Love at first sight, butterflies, 12 straight hours of holding hands and talking about God and music, yadda yadda. Nobody wants to hear this:

"Yeah, Rob was wasted one night, as usual, and he saw this chick -- well, actually, he was about to call her a bitch because she cut in front of him in the drink line, but then he noticed she had a nice ass. You should have heard the pickup line... and then she threw up on his new Pumas, but he wasn't even mad, because he knew he was gonna score. Anyway, one thing led to another, and when they woke up the next morning, they realized they had more in common than a mutual love of tequila..."

And even before the nuptuals, there's the introduction to friends. Nobody in their right minds is going to admit they met their new man in a chatroom, or in a tanning salon, or the day he got out on parole. And no guy wants to bring a girl home for Thanksgiving and tell his folks he met his new lover at Rick's, when she suddenly stopped dancing on poles and instead, in one magical moment, picked up his $20 with her butt cheeks.

I once briefly dated a man I met in real life after a series of email exchanges inspired by the wonderful Web (no, not a dating site, which I actually think seems like a good idea, should I ever be in the market again for a real relationship with a qualified man who is seeking the same). Anyway, in my case, initial contact was made via a nerdy email encounter. In my defense, it was the first time I'd met someone this way, and I had no idea romance would blossom as a result of said email (and, later, in-person) encounter -- at best I thought it would result in a good party story.

But then one thing led to another (no, not like that) and he was eventually (poor, dear, terrified man) introduced to the parents.

"Mom, Dad, this is Rob."

Enter "How did you meet?" question, which I knew was coming, but was just hoping I could will away. No such luck.

After weighing the options, while frantically looking at each other in silent "You go." "No, you go." conversation, one of us settled on "Uh, we met... at... a... bar?" before quickly changing the subject.

Good one. The only thing my parents wanted to hear more than "I met him on the Internet" was "I met him at a bar". It wasn't a total lie -- we did, in fact, meet for the first real time at a bar, but if a truth, it was an amended one. The "On the Internet" explanation is a bit more... complicated, inevitably resulting in a bizarre rehash of email exchanges, all of which we would have remembered as far more clever than they, in acutality, were. It all would have seemed very weird, and desperate, and nerdy, no matter how we delivered it.

So we fibbed... sorta.

With his family, it was the same sort of scenario, only he prepped me before with a full-on "appropriate" Story. It went something like this: We met at a bar when he was in town. First time we ever communicated. Like at first sight. First date the next day. A fated, happy coincidence.

He made me swear to stick to this story, and I gladly obliged.

But in situations like this, some of your friends know, right? You gotta tell them. And ultimately, you tell your parents the real story once they start liking him, and all.

But you both consider ever so often the painful truth: you will have to negotiate this awkward exchange -- your Story -- FOREVER, should the relationship last. Oy.

Then comes the aforementioned wedding toast. Brutal. And later you have to tell your kids when they ask. And grandchildren. I mean, in the end, it doesn't matter if she watches football or he opens doors. And yeah, she's hot, but you get used to it, right? Stay married to Jessica Alba for long enough, and eventually, no matter what, she just becomes your wife. But you can never escape your Story. It's permanent. Like a tattoo.

So guys, just a thought: if you're at the stage where you're ready to meet "the one", don't even bother with strip clubs, which will dissapoint you (well, in the light of day, anyway) or bars/the Internet (which will dissapoint her).

Instead, try picking up girls at the park, or coffee shops, or comment on the book she's reading on the bus. Or "accidentally" run into her on the street and pick up all her stuff after it flies out of her arms.

Or light her cigarette, or commisserate about the traffic, or slip her a note at a book reading.

Or take a hint from Hollywood, who created this whole fascination with the "How we met" story in the first place. They practically relase step-by-step guides on a quarterly basis. On their list of suggestions: rescue her from Nazis, or terrorists, or wild animals, preferably all on a bus rigged with a bomb that will explode, should it go less than 60 miles per hour. Or send her gloves and an invitation to dinner.

But watch out for traps: Pretty Woman never works out in real life. In real life, the hooker robs you on the third night after that bubble bath and you just end up broke with an STD, a story you can never tell, a huge, ridiculous-looking cell phone and a humiliating nickname that, should you be lucky enough to eventually get married to some non-hooker, will inevitably be explained on your wedding night when your best man stands up to give a toast about you and your lovely bride which digresses from the "how you met" story into something entirely more damning.

Consider yourself warned.

Now get out there and woo, already! The single women of the world are waiting, with baited breat and unrealistic expectations, for you to sweep them off their feet (with nicely toned pecs and a decent job, mind you).

(Oh, and don't thank us women for the honor of this incredible challenge. Thank Walt Disney, Warner Bros., Barbie and Danielle Steele.)

Ex and Oz.

During my Legwarmers hiatus of last week, I dinner with an ex. I know what you're thinking: Dinner with exes=pathetic loneliness, romantic regression or "well, we've done it before..." sex. But for once, you're wrong. Thank God.

It was all business, in the friendliest way. And I am fortunate enough that with one exception I've ended up friends with my exes (okay, two exceptions, but the leg-shaving national tennis player ex turned out to be gay AND a birthday-forgetting asshole, so he doesn't count). Which is nice.

But this dinner was with an ex from a VERY long time ago. You could say he was the first (one of two) boy I ever loved. As you can imagine, that particular relationship took more than a few months to get back into the "cool" zone. Really, I'm not sure it ever did, as we both harbored some lingering stuff for a while. I took him out to dinner for two reasons:

1) to reaffirm my gut-feeling that the thought of getting back together with him (though we've both toyed with the idea in the past) no longer has any appeal -- important to establish in order to be fair to current and future Mr. Rights, and

2) to reaffirm my gut-feeling that in fact a critical reason we didn't work then and couln't ever work out now is because he has a quality that is, for me, a dealbraker.

First, let's paint the picture: This guy is scary-smart, kind and good natured, loves his parents, is selfless to a fault, and is, well, dashing.

If you recall my dealbreaker post, you might have noted that apathy is a major no-no for me. I'm rabidly enthusiastic about pretty much everything, (which really means I'm highly opinionated, stubborn and ambitious, but sounds better). Apathy seems to me to be a good way to waste life, which is short, short, short. (Ask anyone who's old.)

Mr. Past has EVERYTHING going for him, which he serially refuses to do anything about. It's like he's the Lion in the Wizard of Oz, but he's just never woken up from a lovely opium-induced nap in that poppy field -- the location of which is so close to the thing he wants most of all.

Mr. Past wants, for one simple example of many, to go to law school. He has always has. He finally took the LSATs, which he only sorta studied for, and did well. But instead of just going, he's working in a small law office 5 days a week, answering phones and crap. He's been fired from this job once already, for sleeping in and arriving late, which is actually the theme of his life. (He has slept through finals in college, and entire holiday family get-togethers for example).

Anyway, he HATES this job. He makes no money and it makes him miserable. He says he does it because he knows if he got a better job he'd never go back to school. But I have a theory. My theory is that he continues to do this job which he says he hates because if he does, it assures that he'll continue to do just okay without every really risking any time, effort or emotional investment.

It's the most frustrating thing in the world to watch, which I told him, but more kindly, of course. I also asked him, point blank, why he acts afraid of success -- why he's constantly getting close to going after what he wants (in life, in love, in his career), and then freezing up, backing out, and blowing it all off for something lesser, easier, and that he doesn't care about.

He actually agreed, in part, with my philosophy, but I also suspect he didn't care to think too hard about it, either, finding agreement easier than real analysis. I don't know. Though overall a positive exchange, the experience was frustrating, and a little bit sad, too.

There's a point where I realize, certainly, that confessing my hypothesis to him so frankly is not only ineffective, it's presumptuous. But consider this:

HE has defined his goals. HE says what he wants, and then fails to take action to get it. I'm not imposing my own set of definitions for success and happiness on him -- I'm only holding him to his own standard.

And I get it. He is ultimately unconcerned by his own apathy, most of the time.

But what I worry about is the restof the time, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and feels sick, realizing he's getting older by the minute and is still so afraid of something that he's settling for nothing at all instead. And that makes me really sad, because he deserves more than nothing. He deserves everything he wants, and I wish I could just will him to have it all.

I guess, in the end, I hoped a little shock therapy might help snap him out of his life's sleepwalk. But it seems he's still dreaming away somewhere in OZ, and I think I've realized that he might always prefer that to those little red slippers and home (with all its risk of slipping into the pigpen or getting sucked up in a twister), anyway.

Me? I'll take the natural disaster, any day.
Hell, I'd even like to BE the natural disaster.

Maybe I already am.

HEATwaaaayve! Naked! Bagels! Laywers!

Over the past week, Seattle has experienced a major heatwave. (No, not like the band, like the weather.) And it almost killed me.

It has been so fucking hot here that at night, even after popping a Xanax AND a Tylenol PM (which I'm sure will probably kill me if the heat doesn't), I STILL can't sleep. Instead, I lie there on top of my bed very close to naked, "glistening", as each one of my limbs goes entirely numb (because of the drugs), and fantasize about either dying of heatstroke or driving to my air conditioned office in my underwear, breaking in, and sleeping under my desk until morning, where I'm awoken by our small and very shy hispanic office cleaning man, who is hitting me with his vaccum cleaner, trying not to look at the strange half-clad white girl under her desk.

Meanwhile, what I should really be concerned about is the fact that I'm so heavily medicated that I couldn't get out of bed to save myself if there were a fire or defend myself if there were a prowler (and even if I did, I'd be in my underwear, and with all the drugs there's no way I could get further dressed, so that would be pretty embarrassing, too).

(And other totally logical and likely examples of dangerous things like that.)

By the time I got to sleep last night, it was 4:15 a.m., and I was sprawled out in the middle of my livingroom floor in front of the sliding door and open screen door and window, with three fans pointed right at me and set on full-speed, pushing around air so hot it feels like I'm being blowdried all night. Awesome.

When I finally started to wake up, late, I was groggy and disoriented from the long night, and it was bright as all shit in my apartment. So, I kept my eyes closed to ease into this whole "waking up after 3 hours of tortured sleep" thing. The noise was incredible. It was like I was lying in the middle of a helicopter pad. And then I realized, as I really began to wake up, that it was super bright in the place because all the windows were open. All the windows were open. OPEN. And I was LYING, BARELY CLOTHED, ON MY FLOOR with my hair blowing everywhichway, for all the neighbors and commuters on the street directly outside my sliding door, to see.

After the momentary frozen shock of it all (and a few "WhoOOOOoooo!"'s from outside), I rolled over onto my stomach and army-crawled to the hallway, in my undies, where I found refuge in the form of a pillowcase, which I wrapped around me like a too-short towel/too large tube top and dashed into my dark, hot bedroom, where I sat on the floor and half-giggled, half-burned in humiliation until I was approximately 10 minutes late for work, exhausted and still not dressed.

Awesome.


But, on the upside, my office is today full of 1)food 2) coffee and 3)reasonably attractive young lawyers.

Fridays are bagel days at my office. And that makes me VERY happy, as I spend the rest of the week calorically scrimping (no breakfast, Zone Bar for lunch, a couple Americanos, and salad for dinner) so that I can drink whatever I want (alcohol is very high-calorie!) and, most of all, indulge on bagel day.

Today was 1/2 a jalepeno bagel with jalepeno cream cheese and 1/4 a cinnamon twist bagel with strawberry. Delicious and incredibly overindulgent.

To top it all off, we've also got a bunch of lawyers and consultants in our office this week, (apparently we only hire the 25-35 year old, attractive lawyers and consultants - Yay!!!) which means we ALSO had fresh coffee in every office (I guess to impress/motivate them. I dunno). I am on my third cup. Buzzzz.

So not only am I focused (thank you, caffeine) on work, but I've also been incredibly productive otherwise today: I've made eyes at at least three delicious little lawyer-types, who keep walking by my office.

Probably because they think I'm cute. (Which would be a minor miracle, as on three hours of sleep I look like Rob Schneider.) So far, at least one made eyes back. (I think. Or maybe he was checking himSELF out in my window.)

(I've got to stop with these excessive, sarcastic, parentheticals.)

(It's really getting ridiculous.)

________________________________

Have a good weekend, all!

(And if you have a little time to click around, check out Ron Silliman, who is smart and on point with poetics. Because after you leave here, you probably need a little intelligent stimulation. Just looking out for you.)

"Be David Caruso in 'Jade'."

My foot is healed. Thank you for your concern. I still haven't caught the little/enormous creature who bit me, but trust me: I'm trying. Have you ever seen Spider Tape? That stuff is all over my house. When I catch that spider, he's in serious trouble.

In other news, a reader (Lebatron) recently pointed me to his blog, which I took a peek at today. If you read the post linked above, you'll find that he has figured out that women love mysterious confidence (a tactic I refer to as MC). Which reminded me of my friend, who I affectionately refer to as "The Guppy", and how he discovered the wonders of well-executed MC.

For those of you unfamiliar with MC: Even men with serious shortcomings (peg legs, wives, lobotomies, unemployment, a criminal record or a combover) can, by properly executing the MC, get women. Jealous witnesses find this mysterious. Also, it IS mysterious. Hence the name.

Anyway, The Guppy is the most awkward man on the planet in typical social situations. He does this thing where he just sorta opens and closes his mouth with big, surprised eyes when it's his turn to talk, letting a few nonsensical syllables slip out before wilting like a snotty tissue and darting away. The Guppy is reasonably good looking and doesn't drink, but he has a crappy job, no drive, plays videogames 8-15 hours per day, is totally nerdy but has a very small vocabulary and totally lacks a sense of style. He is terrified of women, who throw him into intense Guppy mode, down to the damp, dead-fish handshake. He just has absolutely zero game.

I'm embarrassed how often I refer to the movie "40 Year Old Virgin", as I didn't even find it that funny, but there's a scene where Andy Stitzer gets some advice from his friend on how to talk to women. His friend's advice is to "...be David Caruso in Jade". <<<<< David Caruso in Jade, obviously. Guppy must have watched this movie. Either that, or he stumbled into his golden ticket.

You see, one night, the Guppy decided to throw a few drinks back at party we dragged him out to. Well, it turns out that alcohol magically turns off all the little ticks and causes Guppy to just stand and brood, which (to the disbelief of the noisy "look at me" type guys there) attracted the attention of two very beautiful, if a little scandalous, girls who spent the greater part of the night competing for his attention. Finally, something in him must have clicked, because he totally pulled an epic MC:

With both hands, one pointed at each girl, Guppy made the "come hither" motion with his pointer fingers. He then turned and strode into a back bedroom. He didn't say a single word. I don't even think he smiled. 35 minutes later he emerged, drunk and disheveled, saying things like "I didn't know where to put my hands!" and "What did I just do?". Yes, folks, the Guppy had a threesome-esque encounter -- almost by accident. He learned (and taught all the other male witnesses present) an invaluable lesson in the MC.

You see, with MC, it is possible to convince women (particularly dense, desperate or drunk women) that you are entirely as cool and desireable as you wish you actually were.

Have a good weekend! (And try it out, Caruso. It's a gem.)

Date #3: the dealbreaker

A single girlfriend of mine and I got together the other day for a drink and to catch up. This particular girl is one I can count on to be single, like, forever -- which is great when I am also single, because it means I have someone to go out with who doesn't have either:

a)a penis or
b)a curfew because she has to get back to her husband

(For the record, these are both types of friends that are good to have, but tend to make only mediocre companions for a single female out on the town on Saturday nights.)

At any rate, prior to this get-together, she had alluded to having a story for me, presumably about the guy she'd recently gone on her third date with. So, after the standard squealing and work-talk, we got down to the whole reason we'd gotten together: to talk about sex, love, and men.

Based on our conversation about her recent dates with Mr. Now up to this point, I had braced myself to learn that soon I'd be alone in my singledom... he'd thus far been an impressive date and she was hopeful and excited about him. He was the owner of a successful construction company on the Eastside, she is an intern at the UW hospital. The first date had been a drink. They'd met after work downtown. The second, they'd met for drinks and dinner (also mid-week), and a kiss. The third was a coveted Saturday night: he was supposed to pick her up and actually take her OUT. This was a big deal. Everything was going well. I was happy for her, and certain her urgent news was actually going to be the "so, do I sleep with him now or wait?" discussion that inevitably prefaces a real relationship (and leaves me, as I mentioned, alone in singledom).

Me: "So.... how's Mr. Now? What's the news?"
Her: "Oh, God. Don't even get me started."
Me: "That good? Details! Now!"
Her: "Nonono...I found, you know... ::pregnant pause:: it."
Me: "IT?! Oh, no. He carries a pocket mirror? No -- wait -- he cried, right?"
Her: "Nope. Guess again?"
Me: "No way. Just tell me."
Her: "Okay, but it's bad. I mean, really bad. He drives a Hummer."
Me: "NO!!"
Her: "Yes. And on the way to dinner he actually passed two cars on the wrong side of a residential street. It's SO over. Who knew? It was going so well..."

Look, we've all been in that situation: you've had a good date or two. There seems to be hope. He's charming, handsome, interesting, attentive, or at least two out of the four. Until magical date number three.

Date number three is when, seventy percent of the time, the fledgling relationship will come to an untimely and gruesome end because you will discover the thing from which there is no recovery: the dealbreaker.

In my eco-conscious friend's world, the Hummer is a dealbreaker. Macho driving is a close second. She prefers her men a little rough around the edges, but with the testosterone manifesting itself in an abundance of body hair or shows of posessiveness, not in moronic driving or an "I have a big dick" car. Upon hearing the word "Hummer", I realized that the relationship I had been so threatened by a moment earlier had absolutely no hope of recovering. He might has well have dropped trou and exposed his vagina. I was spared one of my best single friends by the dealbreaker, yet again. I was guiltily relieved.

The dealbreaker can come in any number of forms, which vary from woman to woman. I'm sure men have their own lists of dealbreakers, most likely including things like children, disproportionate bodies, severe emotional disorders and addictions to "A Wedding Story" on TLC, but I suspect women's lists of dealbreakers are somewhat more subtle and extensive. Take, for example, mine:

1. Manity (also known as pretty boys, powder-puffers or Poodles) Obvious vanity is a huge turnoff. This includes excessive grooming, makeup, checking out of one's self in storefront windows, carrying a pocket mirror, or, as you all know, SPRAY TANNING. Also falling under Manity is focusing too heavily on my appearance while neglecting my other, less gene-based offerings incuding but not limited to my unparallelled intellect, humor and charm, of course. The arm-candy factor is a big red flag. (My thought is that there are tons of women out there who out-pretty me by far, so getting into a relationship reliant on my appearance alone is precarious and stupid, at best).

2. Displaying rudeness or disrespect for family, specifically mother-figures: The moment a man talks disrespectfully about his momma, I'm out.

3. Listens exclusively to country music: Awful choice of genre. Just awful. Appreciation of select country artists I can get with. Consumption of only country music, however, is surefire sign we will not get along. Ever. No matter how otherwise normal he is. Same goes for those who listen exclusively to rap.

4. Arrogance: not to be confused with manity or humorous self-aggrandizing, which I appreciate, arrogance is an unwillingness to learn and a total lack of humility. To make it in my world, a man must be humble and down-to-earth enough to kick it gracefully and simultaneously with the most intelligent and the dumbest people on the planet (my friends are these colors and every hue in between, and I love them dearly).

5. Bad table manners: Smack your lips while eating or do something crude and it's over in a heartbeat. My meals are sacred, dammit, and chewing is a silent sport. Honestly, this is probably a dealbreaker because of my mother. She was big on table manners growing up and once drove a fork into the back of my hand when I tried to push food on my plate with my thumb. No, I'm not kidding.

7. Dislike of animals: I love them. Talk shit about my dog or cat, and I'll be certain you don't have to come home to them. Which is to say you won't be coming home with me. And what's wrong with you if you don't like animals, anyway? I find that disturbing on a fundamental level. Doesn't that make you automatically more likely to be a serial killer? I think so... or something like that.

8. Lack of passion: I like to be around people who care passionately about things. Well, anything except Monster Trucks, pornography, WWF and their cars. Few things get me more worked up (in a bad way) than trying to have a discussion about something and realizing that there's no brain activity or interest on the other side of the table. Someone who lacks the energy to passionately engage in conversation about a variety of topics (including but not limited to family, politics, bugs, sex, food, sports, violence, travel, literature, giant squid, religion, music, penguins, film, the media, my awesomeness, science, popsicles, education, work, bruising, cocaine, etc...) is a total dealbreaker. I'm feisty. I need to be around people who can at least attempt to match my enthusiasm for, well, everything.

9. Laziness: Self-explanatory.

10. Any three of the following, combined: Girly hands, a lowered car, shortness, an STD, a tobacco-chewing habit, snobbishness, a history of violence, the patchouli-stink, a unibrow, an anger management problem, an unironic mullet, pit stains, unemployment, a habit of wearing black socks with shorts, a fidelity problem, an ex-girlfriend I am related to or used to live with or tapered jeans/too-short suit pants.

I don't want to hear that dealbreakers are superficial or that you don't have them. I have never met anyone who can honestly say there isn't one thing that they could never tolerate in a potential significant other. This extends to friends, too. For example, I can't have girlfriends who are groupies. I hate musician/sports groupies in particular, and would feel ridiculous hanging out with someone who participates in groupie-esque behavior. So let's get over the superficiality right now. There. Don't you feel better?

Fantasty #18: My grocery store romance

I am convinced that sometime soon I will have a produce-aisle romantic encounter. As you know, I have predicted that 2006 will be my best year so far, and so would not be surprised if aforementioned encounter took place this very year, and was extremely hot. Remember, I'm a little clairvoyant. I certainly wouldn't bet against me, anyway. Unless it's on baseball, which I can't stand. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. Produce-aisle romance. This is a long-running, little-understood fantasy of mine, and I promise it's not as deviant as it sounds. Hear me out:

There is something very, very sexy about the grocery store. Actually, that's not precisely accurate. I should say that I feel very, very sexy when I'm shopping, alone, AT the grocery store. This inner sense of sex-appeal is something akin to the way I presume everyone feels when driving alone on a sunny day very fast on a nearly empty road, sunglasses on, great music up loud, windows down, with a bit of a tan. It's that "I could totally be in a movie right now" feeling. This feeling also strikes most people when driving slowly in the pounding rain with anything classical or melancholy/edgy (think Fiona Apple or Bjork) playing, while occasionally glancing dramatically out the window.

In short: Very dramatic, extremely cool, and, well, hot.

In the grocery store, for whatever reason, I am able to channel this inner sense of hotness. But there are a few things you have to understand:

1. It's important to note that I am not a "prancing around in heels and a mini-skirt" grocery shopper, and that wardrobe/physical attractiveness isn't the source of the sex appeal. I'm typically dressed down. Casual, presentable, but distinctly fresh and a little mussed. Hair not perfect, definitely. But teeth always, always brushed and lip gloss applied.
2. No PJ's. Jeans. Exclusively. Unless traveling on business or coming from work, in which case the occasional business apparel is acceptable, but it is preferred to have hair secured with a pen or pencil and to only be buying beverages (bottled water, juice, or wine.)
3. This is the most important parameter of all: No one feels hot pushing around a cart. I ALWAYS carry one of those little red baskets.

There is something very empowering about being a single woman in a grocery store. While I have female friends who loathe to grocery shop, citing "old-maid" shopping carts of three cans of soup, cat food and two bananas, I revel in this red flag that I am shopping for only my sustinence. I carefully select my four too-expensive Wolfgang-Puck soups and my 1/2 gallon of milk (preferably chocolate soy). I love the five different flavors of yogurt and the small boxes of handmade pasta. I make careful choices, and I'm never ashamed... in fact, I'm a little proud of the fact that everything in my basket represents me.

As I breeze up and down the aisles, I know exactly what I'm looking for and where to find it. And I smile at people and feel mysterious that they don't know what's on my list. After the boring basics are covered I head to the wine aisle. I select a couple bottles (one red, one white, usually) while thinking about what meal I'll make to correspond. (Or, more often than not, which night I will consume the entire bottle with no help from my beer-drinking friends).

Then, on to the critical last leg of the trip, where the fantasy culminates: the produce aisle.

In my fantasy, up to this point, I've been going aisle to aisle, occasionally passing the male counterpart -- a single guy braving the grocery store for his monthly stockpile, including but not limited to large amounts of cheese, beer, eggs and cereal. Dog food is a bonus. The encounters to this point might go as follows:

When we first pass each other, we notice, but secretly. Politely. The next time, we might meet on opposite sides of an old couple's shopping cart, which sits perpendicular to the aisle and has nearly blocked it off except for a space large enough for one person and a basket to pass through, we do the awkward "you go..." "no, you--" dance and exchange knowing eye-rolls. A few minutes later, we find ourselves in the same aisle again. There might be a "you again?!" exchange this time. (This is where I usually get particularly witty and irresistable.)

**note: this is the best thing about fantasies -- as they're products of your own deranged ego/imagination, you can be as cool and desireable as you... uh... desire. So please excuse the nauseating lens through which you are viewing this fantasy. You are my guest, this day, in MY psyche. Don't push it.**

Anyway, as I was saying, we pass each other a few times, there's a flirtatious exchange, and we go on our separate ways.

On my way to the register, I stop at the produce section. I carefully select some fresh food. Maybe three apples, a few oranges, a mango, greens, maybe an onion, a bag of tomatoes, celery. I dally a bit on my way out, but finally turn to go when I stop for one last thing. Perhaps portabellos... And grocery store crush is suddenly next to me, or just over my shoulder - very close, anyway - and without so much as a greeting suddenly launches into a gratuitous but hushed question about the portabello. How do you choose them, or cook them? We are conspiratorial appropriately surface, though the conversation is full of innuendo. My basket is heavy, now, and I have to prop it on a hip. My arms are tired, but he never suggests it's too much for me.

There are any number of ways the fantasy goes from here. Sometimes I cut our conversation short, making my way to the checkout line and even the parking lot before he approaches me. Sometimes we, uh, never leave the produce department. Sometimes we don't even really speak there, but look at each other furtively and then leave, never meeting again. In this case the ending doesn't matter, because it's the waiting for the ending part that's so good. Something like the cooking of a meal...

I don't know why this one has stuck with me for so long. There's just something about being around all the food -- ingredients with so much potential, possibility. And there is the mysteriousness and anonymity of obviously being a single girl in a grocery store in the city. And the fact that my basket is always full of good, exotic, interesting food that I get pleasure from selecting by scent, texture, color. It's all very, very sexy.

Please tell me someone else out there finds this hot. Anyone? It might be a little unusual, but at least it's not the standard "So I'm a teacher..." or "So I get a flat tire on a hot day and..." fantasy. It's got flair! Imagination! Subtlety!

Okay, I'm clearly just making myself feel better because I realize no one is going to understand my little produce-aisle daydream. Eh, well. I tried.

Look, it's not my only fantasy. But it is one of the many reasons I rarely have an empty fridge. (Another high-ranking one: I get very, very cranky when hungry. Ask anyone who knows me. It's terrible.)

A valentine's day confession: My fall from "cool girl" to self help

Here's the thing: I went through a heavy-duty breakup last summer.

It was the classic college romance, and I was uncharacteristically idiotic from the start: We met the first day of my freshman year, he blew me away by absolutely not noticing me at all (I told you, idiotic), I thought he was mysterious and interesting for a couple years but he never called so I dated other people who DID ask me out (only smart move I made), and finally, because we were the only two people left on campus for summer school one year, we got together. But let me be clear: he didn't really pursue me, and I most certainly didn't pursue him.

I was the standard "cool girl" in college: I cared about the NCAA championship games. I could keep up with the rigorous alcoholism training: drink malt liquour every day in the summer, (literally 10 am through 2 am) even through work and classes, while maintaining good grades and helping my friends with papers and finals. I was non-clingy, high-energy, a little feisty, totally un-skanky and up for anything. This was an idiotic and unrealistic way to live, but goddamn was it fun.

Ultimately, one day he and I just sorta ended up watching a movie exclusively with each other, sans the rest of the crew, and that was it. We, for lack of a better word, spontaneously morphed into a couple.

Fast forward: It lasted a long time. Perhaps this was because we were living in the alternate universe called "college", where dysfunction comes standard, a solid relationship is as unlikely as sobriety on a Saturday night, and turbulence abounds. Good times with him were ephemeral, but sincere and passionately good. Though not typically idiotic, I was (and still confess to being) a bit naieve, very forgiving, and far too hopeful that people are equal to or greater than what they seem, which is rarely the case.

I won't get into the details, as much to spare you as protect the guilty, but after about 5 years (3 in college, almost two out) and a few months of living together, it finally ended. It ended quietly, unlike the many intense arguments and hideous and suprising betrayals leading up to that point. I'd call the split loving, even. Without a fuss, he took the computer, I took the couches. He took the dog, I the cat. He the bed, both TV's and the microwave, I... well, I got to sleep on an air mattress for a month and haven't eaten popcorn since August, but that's really not the point.

The point is that after the split I went and did It. The cardinal sin that no "cool" girl should ever confess to. Yes. I read a self-help book.

Well, really, it's more of a runaway pop-culture hit with critical acclaim but with self-help undertones.

What?

OK, it's a self help book, written by "striped shirt guy" (see Pat's Manity scale). And I actually read not one, but two of them. (Full disclosure, Liz. Good girl.)

That's right, I read He's Just Not That Into You AND It's Called A Breakup Because It's Broken. But in my defense, my boss bought me the latter, and a girlfriend gave me the former, so I figured they must be trying to tell me something. Because they love me dearly. And it would be rude not to read and report back to them, since that's what they were hoping for. So really only out of duty, I read them.

Voraciously.
Cover to cover, both in the same day.

And I gotta say, the guy's on to something.

He may have hideous hair, dress like a 19 year old frat dick and clearly be either gay or insanely egotistical (in spite of the wife), but he's right:

Early mistakes in a relationship almost always indicate there will be more -- increasing in seriousness -- from that point forward. If he doesn't appear to aggressively pursue you, he's unlikely to aggressively anything you in the future. (Romance you, defend you, compliment you, converse with you or... well, you know...).

His theory is that relationship mistakes don't happen. Everything is pretty much controllable. Unless you are in a hospital bed with two broken hands and laryngitis, there's really no excuse not to call. Cheating isn't an accident, getting drunk isn't like "oops!!", and as far as I'm concerned, failing to laugh at my jokes may as well be premeditated splitsville.

And he makes the good point that if you're thinking maybe you should break up, or you find him in bed with someone else, or you recieve flowers "from" him that are actually from a friend of his who is better at romancing you than he, or he tells you you're not fabulous -- ever -- you probably should trust your instinct and listen to what he's clearly trying to say by being an asshole. And pop him in the schnoz, knee him in the groin and walk away forever. Early. Before you get attached.

Because once you get knee-deep it's like quicksand. The more you struggle, the deeper you sink into a distinctly unsatisfactory situation. Nobody likes to aspirate on sand. It's not fun, it doesn't feel lovely. But when you're deep in it, it's easy to at least be relieved you're pulling something into your lungs - sand, water or air makes no difference. The absence of something is almost as painful as the suffocation on something not quite right that you really really wish WAS right.

So here's to you, Greg Behrendt. I really believe your new show may bomb faster than the goodyear blimp in a lightning storm (because who wants to be caught watching it? that's worse than a girl having 5 cats and living in a studio apartment!), but I wish you all the best of luck. You may prey on stupid, optimistic, idealistic women in varying states of woe, but you've got a good (if late) message and one hell of a business acumen. We LOVE retail therapy and/or ice cream (cliche but true) when we're in the throes of heartache, after all.

And I didn't feel quite as guilty after reading you as I might have had I gone for the Ben&Jerry's. Not quite.

______________________________

This Valentine's day, I am happily without any expectations.

I may be a little melancholy somewhere deep down, and I might be furtively listening to a few (read: LOTS) more sappy songs than usual, but this is for no specific reason other than the fact that it's sometimes nice to find a familiar arm thrown across you in the morning. Or to wake up for comfort after a bad dream (or, in my case, homoerotic dreams about Connie Chung and/or irrational panic attacks). Or to fall asleep on the couch with in front of that Sundance Film you swore you'd both like but that turned out to be worse than a Keanu Reeves variety show.

All this means that this Valentine's day, as I have no expectations, I more than likely won't be dissapointed. And the confession is that that's a sincere relief.
_______________________
Now in my iPod: Squarepusher's "Iambic Nine"

"S" words: synonyms, sex, slaying, Superbowl & slow jam.

Word of the day: callibogus. Apparently it is synonymous with "alcohol".
_________________

So I recently had a conversation with a friend about the word "slay". I'm a fan of using it as a substitution for the word "kill" in the following contexts:

"Oh, man! Ron Burgundy KILLS me!!" or "Watching pair figure skaters drop their partners in those cheesy sparkly spandexy costumes totally KILLS me!" etc.

I had just said something like "You SLAY me!" in response to some comedic moment, which then led to the discussion of why "slay" is such a good word. There are the obvious reasons (it's not a funny word when used appropriately, which means that when you use it ironically, it's funny), and then there is my friend's reason:

Him: "I dunno... I just like it. It's romantic, or something. It makes me think of dragons, and... and, like, hot knight sex!"

I spent easily the next 5 minutes laughing hysterically, with visions of two dim-witted armored men clanking against each other, trying to figure out just how to accomplish the sex act in the cumbersome and impenetrable outerwear. The details are the best part of this visual: their little face plates clanking down over their eyes at inopportune and frustrating times, their huge, heavy arms and boots, the inflexibility... it was priceless.

The next day, I shared this story with another friend, who had the same reaction, and proceeded to blog about his little mental picture. i thought I'd share his version with you, too.

I guess he should have said "hot knight-and-damsel sex", if that's what he meant, huh? (Not that there's anything wrong with hot knight sex...)

___________________

I just watched "Lord of War" - a non-preachy but thinly veiled statement film about the illegal international weapons trafficking (particularly in the poorest regions: Libya, Sierra Leon, etc.). The premise is provocative, much of the film leans heavily on historical events, and they actually worked with arms dealers in the making of the movie. Apparently it was cheaper to use real illegal AK-47's in scenes than to build out thousands of prop versions. Which is scary, and cool.

Though I'm generally tempted not to like Nicholas Cage for a variety of reasons including but not limited to the fact that his face depresses me and he sometimes seems to mistake "subtle" for "sleeping", I am generally reluctantly impressed by him. I even own and love "Adaptation" and found him quite brilliant in it. And "Lord of War" also proved to be his own little stage, though he was supported by a decent cast, including Jared Leto (plays his cokehead brother... weird, huh?) and Eamonn Walker as a perfect Andre Baptiste. Ethan Hawke (the token FBI guy) was a stretch, but he was really just there to deliver some statistics and monologue every once in a while about all the death the arms trade causes, so he's as forgivable as he is forgettable in the flick.

It was remarkably intelligent without being over-politicized. And Cage played his role with depth and coolness, yet again proving me shallow and wrong about him. And he delivered some dark but very funny lines like a champ. Asshole. Look, it's not 5-star, but it's good. See it.
_________________

I'm throwing a Superbowl party, it appears. And the face paint will be in full effect. But this time my roommate has come up with a few new elements. His tentative concept is to hand out T-shirts and sharpies at the door, on the back of which everyone must ink a number (for the halftime parking lot game - to make the commentators jobs easier) and on the front of which everyone must write something incorporating one of the following three words: "Score", "Sack", or "Waterboy". My contribution to the party will be the food, the wit, and a keg of ice-cold libation.

Our cranky neighbor is going to blow a gasket.

Current soundtrack:
"Raindrops" -- Ben Folds Five
"Amber" -- 311
"Nothing Even Matters" -- D'Angelo feat. Lauryn Hill
"Lonliest Girl in the World" -- Cary Brothers
"Heaven" -- D'Angelo feat. Erykah Badu

(it's rainy. we're doing the cool slow jams thing today.)