Dateline: Columbia Heights, MN 5/31/09

Kisses from the nephew on his baptism day. 

Kisses from boys are good things.

Um.....

If you read the Thursday, May 28 entry regarding my lost wallet and subsequent fortuitous reclamation, would you possibly have any reason to believe that on Friday, May 29 you would be reading an entry that describes me sitting, at midnight, at my sister's computer in Columbia Heights, Minnesota, looking up the numbers for the Logan Airport Lost and Found and the Northwest Airlines Baggage services and the Transportation Security Administration offices so that tomorrow I can call and ask them if I am allowed to fly back to Boston on Sunday night without my photo ID since, ostensibly, it is in my wallet, which was either left on the carpet in front of Gate A31 at Logan as I slung my backpack to my shoulders, or otherwise hiding under a seat cushion on flight 321 having perhaps fallen out of my coat pocket during the flight (even though the flight attendant already went back and searched the plane), since I really can't remember which possibility could be true, and then, mulling over this sequence of events, go on to wonder how I have made it 36 years 2 months on this earth without losing my mind?

Just curious.

Thank you, Beantown ...

... for once again saving me from my own flakiness.

The scene: 9:25 a.m. Thursday, jury room at Suffolk Superior Courthouse. Having arrived at the last possible moment before the court session began--having had to forego the morning coffee run due to tardiness--I reached into my backpack for my wallet to take into court with me, in order to more quickly facilitate a bolt to Starbucks at the 11 a.m. break.

No wallet. Which meant no money. Which meant no coffee until lunch.

Oy. 90 minutes of testimony, 20-minute break, 100 more minutes of testimony. Head pressure continually rising. Then a bolt for my bike and a 20-minute ride back to Southie, a caffeine headache asserting itself on every asphalt bump on Tremont and Herald Streets. Into the apartment, searching.

No wallet. Which meant no money.

The night before I had been traipsing the Back Bay, shopping, when the wallet was last seen. Which meant it was somewhere out in great expanse of Greater Boston. Which meant I required 3 quick Advil for both the aggravation and the headache, since I had to get back to court, and there would be no coffee until ....

... the possibility of infinity felt very real.

So I couldn't then have guessed that after court, when I started the wallet search in earnest, my savior would be the head cashier at Barnes & Noble booksellers, Prudential Center. I called there to identify myself ... and she in turn identified my wallet as one they were holding behind their counter. Left there by me the night before. Which someone had seen and turned in. Which the staff had tried to get back to me by paging me, unsuccessfully, because I had already left the premises.

This is easily the 15th time my wallet has gone missing in my 10 years in Boston. And this is the 10th time someone has found it and turned it back intact.

Thank you, people of Boston, whomever you are.

Boys are dumb

I don't feel I'm required to offer any explanation tonight for thinking so. 

Back to our regularly-scheduled optimism tomorrow.

State of the Union

So I've mentioned I'm on jury duty for a couple weeks, for a trial that started today.

The good news:   so far I'm totally engrossed.  As a blogger, consumed with self-reflection, it's a rare treat to have to think so hard and seriously about someone other than oneself.  And I'll reveal nothing more, not wanting to be one of those people responsible for a mistrial.

The other news:  today's lunch hour was unexpectedly 90 minutes long.  And I failed to bring either reading material or my laptop, and had already downed the entire Tuesday Times while waiting for the morning session to start.   No worries.  It was a sunny, breezy day, so I picked up a fresh iced black-eye, headed onto the "brick desert" of City Hall Plaza, and laid back on a step to stare up at the clouds for an hour.

Chill. 

Me being me in my current me-ness ... idle thoughts turned to my dating life, currently in a solid neutral. Connections are there:  occasional suggestive chat with one of the bare-chested OKC dudes (lucid but prone to writing in the wee hours just as I'm signing off). Occasional text from the CFO, checking in. Dating and physical-therapy advice swaps with Young Scientist. And a couple outings with a match.com concert-goer with whom I seem to be trending in a comfortable (albeit, friend-like) direction.

Which are all well and good.  No grand passions but, then again, my past grand passions have all been eventual heartbreakers.  Once in awhile it is nice to just chill. Maybe re-evaluate where I want any of these connections to go. Or if it is worth continuing to go with them.

Into this mix comes an OKC message today from a Man who gets no name or defining qualities, other than he does seem to know what he wants:  me.    To illustrate, the Man cut and pasted several of the OKC profile questions, plus my responses, then gave his own further replies in not uncreative fashion:

Question "I spend a lot of time thinking about"     

K:  .... how much I wished I was living with someone with strong hands so I could request a massage at will. 

M: .... well, at least when I am 'at hand' live and in person, my hands will be at your beck and call, I am not a professional, but all my friends who are say I have skill and energy a plenty.  It is almost as pleasurable to give a good massage as to receive, (must be a "mirror neuron" thang) so...got that one covered too, check! ;)

Q:  My 6 things I couldn't live without ...

K:  #3:  "The New Yorker."

M:  damn, reminds me i gotta get my script renewed and stop waiting for my mom to hand over batches after she's done...

The reason you should message me is ...

K:  you need a little light in your life and Debby Boone just isn't doing it for you. 

M: that's so sweet/romantic and so funny at the same time you should be a writer..oh, wait a sec, you are, eye c!   ciao bella!

I was already falling under your spell just from reading thus far- now I am certain

I mean not at all to mock and hope I am not. It's all very sweet and anyone who utilizes "ciao bella" deserves a reply.  I've just tried this exact approach several times with certain men's online profiles.  Smitten with his picture/profile combo.  Going down the checklist of his profile traits determining I fit 98 percent of them. Convinced if I respond point-by-point he will be convinced right back. 

Which in hindsight hasn't worked, yet -- no such men have ever responded.  Which I admit will most likely be my reaction to this Man here -- other than a thank you for the hello -- and not for any lack of effort or sweetness on his part. More because I checked out his profile, believe that the odds are slim we might be compatible, and am not willing to pursue.

Who knows.

It just serves to remind me the myriad of elusive qualities that have to fall into place for a romantic connection to even take one small step off the ground.  Even profound, perceived compatibility sometimes isn't enough.

Ghosts of Mem Days past

Roy E. Anderson, U.S.A.F.

Because my grandfather served in the air force, when I was 8 I got to do what all girl 8-year-old descendants of military personnel were asked to do, and are still asked to do, in my hometown every spring: wear a white dress and hold red flowers for Memorial Day.

American Legion Poppy Girl -- 1981, Cando (N.D.) Public School

Laying poppies -- 1981, I.O.O.F. Cemetery, Cando

Clean and quiet

It's quiet tonight from the back patio.

This has something to do with it being 2:41 a.m.   No crickets, no dogs.  No planes taking off.   No drunken stragglers yelling.  Even very few cars.

Maybe it just seems more quiet than usual because I'm drinking a Sam Adams Irish Red, lounging in an Adirondack chair, surrounded by impatiens and begonias and basil (finally) planted and arranged, and looking in through a scrubbed-down window into an apartment that, over the last 6 hours, I stripped free of winter parkas and dozens of rinsed-out tin cans from the dish drainer and New Yorkers from November 2008 and dust and cat litter and dried footprints from some February slush storm. 

Spring cleaning -- even 2 full months after spring began -- always produces this high.  The high that makes me stay up past 2 a.m. changing the duvet cover and sheets, then crawling on my hands and knees through the apartment with a sponge and bucket, just so I can go to sleep (muscles exhausted, on the clean sheets) knowing I'll wake up tomorrow morning and the red wood of my kitchen floor will reflect the morning sun and the image of my cats lounging on it, waiting for their breakfast.

Love it.

The Elevator

Time: 6:20 p.m.

Location: Office tower, 28th Floor.

Scene: Reception area of an office. Empty, except for a woman in blue spotted sundress and Asics tennies, pulling on her backpack and iPod, waiting for the elevator.

Cue Mood: 91 degrees outside but 62 degrees inside, where woman has been holed up in air conditioning for 9 hours. The vibe is impending freedom.

Cue Music: "Never Alone," unheralded gospel tune from the Fame movie soundtrack.

Cue Elevator Arrival: (Ding!)

Cue Action: Woman dances. Dances through the elevator's open doors. Dances while pushing the button for the ground floor. Throws arms wide. Spins. Pirouettes. Anticipates 28 glorious downward floors of dancing as the doors close.

Cue Elevator Stop: (Ding!)

Cue Action: Doors open to 27th floor. Man with briefcase and suitcoat steps on. Woman abruptly stops pirouette. Slides into back corner. Keeps tapping foot, beating hand on thigh. Pretends to not have been pirouetting to the Fame soundtrack in the elevator. Doors close. Elevator descends for 27 self-conscious downward floors of foot-tapping and thigh-beating.

Cue Elevator Arrival: (Ding!)

Scene: Lobby of office tower.

Cue Action: Door opens. Woman walks forward 5 steps out the elevator, damns the self-consciousness. Resumes dancing.

Fini.

Enpaneled & sat

C'est moi.

Starting Tuesday I'll be serving on the jury of a civil case in this fair jurisdiction. According to the judge who sat me, all I can tell you is, "I'll tell you more when it's over."

I've lived in Boston for a decade and today was my 4th jury pool ... and this was the first time I made it out of the pool, much less into a trial. So like the typical novice, I failed to give a convincing hardship excuse after finding out the trial would most likely last 2 full weeks. With no true conflict of interest, the best I could summon?

"But I have a plane ticket to my friend's wedding in Minnesota on the morning of Friday, June 5!"

The judge just shook her head. Guess I'm changing my plane ticket to that evening.

Oy.

Truthfully, I am not dismayed at the actual prospect of the trial. Although ask me in a couple weeks if the trial dismayed me. No plans to live-blog or distract myself with people-watching. Although who is to say what could happen regarding interaction with my fellow jurors? I'll have to wait and see how the scene unfolds and what can be shared or not.

Perhaps I should create a new label ...

... Can civic duty save my dating life?

Rules for going out in Southie on a Tuesday

Rule 1:

If meeting friend John at The Playwright on Broadway after work and running late, hop on the bike.  Changing into comfortable -- or even rideable -- shoes, optional.

Rule 2: 

After wolfing down the world's cheesiest nachos dipped in cream cheese spinach dip and 2 Guinness (me) and 4 Coors Light (John) while shouting for 3 hours to hear each other over the city's boomiest bar-trivia moderator, make John take a picture of me on my bike.  

Clarity of image, optional.

Although can something be said for my 2-beer bike balancing act in Mary Jane 4-inch heels?

Cheers.

Must be something in the water ...

... or it just must be hot and bothered season on the OKC.

In the last 4 days I've been hit up on the site more than I have in the last month. And I haven't updated my profile or added a new photo or even browsed many other profiles--a move that often results in a flurry of hits simply because the viewees want to see who's viewing them.

Talk about wham, bam, thank you ma'am.  Every contact has been brash, lacking preamble, wanting to move straight to the date or the bed at the same time he says hello. For illustrative purposes only -- and no, not at all to stroke my ego -- here are a few opening lines:

1) "Ever considered 20 more experienced fingers?" (Friday, via Instant Messenger, in reference to one of my profile comments in which I say I am grateful  my hands are intact to do the things I love most ... like play the piano. The extra 10 fingers to which he referred, other than his own, are those of his girlfriend ... who evidently would have also been part of the proposal ... if you get the drift of the proposal ... )

2) "Hi. Yeah, you've got gorgeous legs ... I work in S. Boston. I would be delighted to meet you for coffee or dinner sometime." (Friday, late, from the inbox.)

3) "I'm gonna be in Boston this weekend ... Let's go out ... " (Friday, from  IM, via NYC, from a guy I last exchanged messages with 3 months ago. Whose profile photo is his reclining bare chest and waistband of his briefs.)

4) "you are extremely sexy. what are you up to?" (Received during work today, from IM, whose profile has no personal information but 2 photos of a man's bare chest. As if he and #3 got together to tag-team.)

5) "hello there gorgeous lady, how are you today? i was wondering if I could ask you a kinky question. if not, its ok:)" (Later today, also from IM. Out of base curiosity I replied to ask what the question was.  He came back with a reply so x-rated that my hair follicles blushed. Why I thought I'd get a gentleman's response is, probably, a good question.)

Oy.  Seems if I wanted, a sure outing at every turn.  If I wanted.  None of the above is really something I'm wanting.  But it's hard to look away.

Meanwhile, I've been talking a lot lately with comrade Young Scientist -- himself experiencing the same rank forwardness on the OKC, but from the opposite sex.  Last night a woman got his attention via IM with "u r hot! let's chat!"  He went on to say:

"Now, I must admit that I stayed up 10 min past my bedtime then to see what she was all about. As one might have predicted, she was an idiot "let's talk about cheese! Cheddar!" And I was like wtf and signed off."

This afternoon, "cheese lady" appeared again on OKC. Young Scientist and I happened to be on g-mail, chatting at the same time.  So via g-mail he gave me a play-by-play of his IM conversation with her, in real time. Very meta, yes. 

A brief sample:

YS: Remember the one with the cheese comment?

K: !!!! So that was a real comment? I thought maybe you were paraphrasing.

YS: just im'd me saying "fancy meeting you here, let's talk about cheese!!" yeah it's totally true

K: wtf? What does the cheese have to do with anything?

YS: i just asked if cheese was a euphemism for something else

K: Good move.

YS: she said "nope"

K: Ha! Hysterical.

YS: here she says "do you have any money? because sweet doesn't pay for dinner! .... i would like to go somewhere that serves cheese please ... swiss ..... cheddar .... mozzarella ... brie .... american ... macaroni and ... "

Eventually, not much later and after many lines of dialogue that would make no sense in this retelling -- it came out that she wanted to come over to his apartment in short order and ... eat cheese .... among other activities one might want to engage in after getting a man's attention by calling him "hot". Especially "hot" with multiple exclamation points.

(Although, amazingly, she never explained her cheese-drenched opening.)

Is it just the season?  This go-for-broke, damn-it's sunny-outside, I'm-gonna-get-me-a-lover heedlessness about it?

One of my long-time FWABs is a gentleman in nearly all respects and while straight as a ruler, never ogled other women in my presence.  Until his first April in grad school at Boston University.   One day on the BU Bridge, he told me how without him even knowing when it happened, all the undergraduate girls started wearing sundresses and sandals and suddenly he couldn't look at or think of anything else except for those girls' bare shoulders.  

(I was walking with him. I had already noticed.)

This week on the OKC reminds me that feeling ... minus the PG-rating.

Yes, folks. It's all surface distraction and it's hard to look away.

Dateline: Southie 5/16/09

Corner of Vinton & Dorchester Streets near Andrew Square, 9:39 a.m.

The late great Senator from Minnesota?

This is not your father's Southie, that's for damn sure.

Incidentally, 50 feet up the block another car sported a "North Dakota" bumper sticker. 

If I hadn't been on a walk to spend 130 bucks at the car tow lot, I would have said it was my kind of morning.

Why do you think you're single?

So here is today so far:

1) Oversleep.

2) Be woken from said oversleep by a contractor ringing my doorbell.

3) Discover that car was towed for being in a street-cleaning zone (oh fair and finely-scrubbed Southie) to the tune of $111 and;

4) Because said car was not available, started walking to the bus only to realize that last night's run must have re-decimated my groin muscles strain because I cannot walk.

So at the moment I'm actually not really that interested in dissecting why I'm single.

(Unless, of course, insomnia and flakiness probably aren't helping either the status or the desire to dissect.)

However, I logged onto OKC a few moments ago and a discussion board doing just that was in full swing. A sample:

Age 25 Male Does anyone even care why we're single?

28M cause God hates me.

25M I'm single because I don't want to miss out on all the fun that can be had by not being stuck in a relationship.

37 Female I've come to the place in my life where I don't want to settle. I'm picky because I know exactly what I want. I don't mind meeting new people because that is the only way to know...but I know pretty quickly if they match my needs or not. I've already done the whole settling thing. Plus I'm told that I'm "intimidating" to approach - so it seems that I'm always the one to break the ice. I think it's also that I don't hold myself in the "normal" girly category maybe.

20F i'm single because im far too insecure. no one wants to deal with it.

25F My friends say I have an intimidating presence, which I kind of agree with. I'm also too shy to just go up to a guy and start talking to him or to ask him out.

20F Because I'm too trusting and emotionally involved with people I date, This makes me an easy target for users... Plus when the the other half stops making an effort (such as, stops being romantic, starts ignoring me more to do their own thing all the time ect ect...) I get insecure and needy which then probably drives them into breaking up with me, But tbh If they didn't want to keep this whole romantic you are so loved charade up, they shouldn't have done it in the first place.

25M Im single cause I just dont get out enough. Ive had one relationship in the last 10yrs and that was for only 3 weeks. I need to do something about that!

23F I'm picky.

23M I am single for a multitude of reasons. 1) I find philosophical discussion more stimulating than going to a bar and drinking, 2) I am an intense person, 3) I see the world of a unique perspective of a religion that's been dead since the time of Christ, 4) I am in a town full of people who are hidebound traditionalists, 5) I have an unmedicated, but controlled bi-polar disorder combined with a deep depression, and last but in no way least 6) I am a recovering alcoholic.

23M I come off as friendly but then unintentionally treat girls terrible. :/

20F I am shy and I probably don't get out enough. Also, I have some insecurities on how people view me and that adds to my shyness.

26M I am getting VERY turned on by all the girls saying how insecure they are.

Two lists

This is how I envision the routine of a chronically want-to-quit cigarette smoker :

1) Stop smoking.
2) Eat to fill the holes in the day.
3) Gain weight.
4) Crave nicotine.
5) Succumb to craving.
6) Bum a smoke and smoke it.
7) For 4 minutes, feel better.
8) Feel guilty.
9) Stop smoking.

Tonight -- while it was still light and before the downpour began -- I ran for the first time in 12 days. For 12 days I have either felt unable (sore muscles) or unwilling (no energy) to run.

So I:

1) Stopped running.
2) Ate cereal and crackers at midnight every night like I still had a marathon to get ready for.
3) Gained 5 pounds.
4) Wanted to run so badly I cried at least twice.
5) Felt more able and willing today, so
6) Decided on an easy 4 miles on the Esplanade.
7) Had to re-teach my legs the motion, my lungs the breathing. But for the 10 minutes (of 37) where no muscles protested ... I felt better.
8) Then when I finished, all my muscles did protest, and I felt worse.
9) So I might quit running again.

Or I might not quit.

Actually, no. I won't quit. Sometimes a little pain as the result of an accomplishment of will is OK.

Contents ...

... of my backpack this afternoon.

For no real reason ... except, of course, if it's true that the contents of a woman's bag say something about her state of mind.


RE: Consumption

1 Poland Spring 1L plastic bottle, empty, on 7th use.

1 package Eclipse gum, unchewed.

1 piece of Eclipse gum, chewed, covered in crumpled foil.

3 Dunkin' Donuts straw wrappers.

1 sandwich bag of uncooked Quaker Old-Fashioned oats (which, incidentally, I couldn't manage to find at 8:30 this morning despite a diligent search, after which I then had to eat my yogurt, unhappily, plain).

RE: Health and/or lack thereof

5 swim passes to the Wang YMCA of Chinatown, pre-paid, unusued, issued 1/12/09.

1 pair Asics 2140s, including Tuesday's socks stuffed there-in.

1 folded printout from sportsinjuryclinic.net outlining strengthening exercises for groin strain.

1 CVS ibuprofen bottle, empty.

1 Contour Pak cold therapy gel pak (unfrozen, limp), 1 green TheraBand Exercise Band (knotted, also limp) 1 golf ball, 1 crumpled set of instructions for "The Stick" (a "toothbrush for muscles"), 1 "The Stick."

1 Miles for Miracles bound "Run Manual," also containing the following loose material: 1 special offer to rejoin WeightWatchers, 1 Healthworks Focus Training Schedule, 1 sketch of a left foot by the prescriber and constructor of my orthotic, 1 business card from said orthotic-maker.

1 pair yoga top and pants, used, inside out.

1 bra, brown, which I forgot to put back on after today's yoga class.

RE: Mindful Miscellany

The New Yorker (May 4, 2009), folded in half, featuring on its cover, appropriately, a braless, airplaning, zaftig woman with curly hair.

1 Barnes & Noble Gift Card, $15, from my friend Lisa, issued (I'm guessing) for Christmas 2007.

RE: Mindless Miscellany

1 pencil, 1 yellow highlighter, 1 pen cap, 9 pens.

2 chapsticks, 1 lipstick.

3 dimes, loose.

1 book of checks, no cover, no ledger.

1 sunglasses case (thank God) with sunglasses inside.

1 AAA window sticker.

1 parking ticket, issued for blocking an auto-body detailer's driveway, unpaid.

1 envelope, unopened, from the City of Boston re: several other parking tickets, also unpaid.

Soliloquy #1: To be (or not to be) friends

Audacious Man said he wanted to be my friend on Facebook.

Yes. At the end of the e-mail in which he didn't think we should continue dating, he said he would welcome such an acquaintance should I so choose to request it from him. “With open arms,” to quote.

Just the thing a girl getting dumped wants to hear: “I'd like to stay in touch ... really.”

My first response to Audacious Man was bitter, asking him why he was dumping me. So he replied and clarified.

But evidently he did not clarify to my satisfaction. Because my second response was bitter and long and just as sarcastic as I felt compelled to be. I envisioned us never communicating again.

(No Facebook friending, no sir.)

I envisioned wrong. Audacious Man wrote again last Friday night – evidently not repelled by my repelling -- and clarified some more. Primarily, he was put-off by how I portrayed myself on this blog. How I made my dates into unflattering characters. How I seemed to want to preen and be admired by as many men as possible --- and that the need to share my dates with an audience signaled some underlying, unattractive insecurity.

Obviously, I was thrilled at this assessment. After 2 days of building up steam, I made my response: Bitter. Long. Sarcastic. Defensive. A Triple-sized Indignation Tour-de-force.

Now I really envision us never communicating again. He bared his brain, I bared my teeth.

Today, however, I admit to thinking about friending Audacious Man on Facebook.

Perhaps it with the regret that I once again substituted the hasty emotion of getting dumped for the long-term sensibility of it. We were 2 people who weren't going to exist on the same plane; he saw it first, and chose to end it. Which I should thank him for. A man who doesn't want to stomach living with a writer and her need to write would probably not make the writer a satisfying partner.

Perhaps I also realized I don't desire to make an enemy. I'm a Christian. It is a well-worn platitude that God brings a person into one's life for a purpose. No reason to de-friend Audacious Man before I've had a chance to figure out what his purpose might be.

I'm not saying I'm going to make a habit of friending ex-dates. And I might not friend this one.

But there seems no reason not to.

Non sequitur (about a non sequitur)

I love yoga.

However, I am not a fan of Monday-night yoga at my gym. Past experience has proved that any instructor on that night must be quirky. (Do non-quirky teachers skip out in fear of cranky types like me that are also known to show up Mondays?)

I practice yoga to relax, breathe deeply, and tone my shoulders and back. I can't do quirky. So I usually skip Mondays.

Nonetheless, tonight was an emergency. My legs are sore. Wicked and unexplainably sore, as if someone took a sledgehammer to the groin and gluteal muscles of my left leg. Yesterday afternoon I was on a coffee date and after a half-mile strolling on the Esplanade my outer thigh convulsed in cramps.

I can't yet diagnose this pain. (At least I can't think of an interesting reason for it ... other than, perhaps, residual marathon weariness that continues to hinder running or as I mentioned, walking.) I also have not yet gotten myself to a health professional to aid.

But yoga has fixed a lot of things for me in the past. Tonight it couldn't hurt worse than it might help.

So I walked in, sat down on my mat, crossed my legs, closed my eyes, folded my hands into prayer, started to breathe in rhythm. And the teacher introduced himself:

"Tonight there is a full moon, big and fat there, hanging in the sky. On full moons I always like to do backbends. Tonight we will do backbends!"

Thus began .... the class of backbends: the arching one's spine and neck to the point of near-break repeatedly, for 75 minutes, for no other reason it seemed, than the lunar calendar's whim.

We jumped into 5 variations of the locust pose, followed by another 7 breathing cycles of cobra, and then stepped cold into the intricate one-legged king pigeon pose a couple times on both legs. Then our teacher led us through a sequence of bridge poses where, for each repetition, for 40 seconds unceasing, he yelled (yes, yelled) "up! up! up! up! breathe! breathe! up! up! don't stop! don't stop! get those hands back! hold it! hold it! up! up! don't stop!"

Oh my. Like a bad porno. And taxing on the spine. I exited the studio with an elevated heart rate, thighs still sore, and defined frustration that I didn't step out of that third bridge to put a hand over someone's mouth.

Sigh.

There is no good point to this story. From the moment the words "full moon" escaped my instructor's (surely) well-meaning but (surely) misguided lips, I wanted to write about the backbends. Ergo the non sequitur about the non sequitur.

Frankly, such a tactic fits my mood today. Blasé. Middling. Finishing last week's work tasks with diligence but no enthusiasm. Realizing my body is not up to running and feeling sad, but not heartbroken. Too tired to scrub the floor but awake enough to finish the laundry. Scrolling match profiles with some interest, but not enough to write anyone.

All the rote details of this life, on display, it seems. I've written about them all before. Cycling through as regularly as the appearance of a full moon.

(Which, perhaps, I can blame for this scattered writing effort?)

Dateline: Hull MA 5/10/09

Nantasket Beach

5:18 p.m.  

(Or a.k.a.

"at other times, 

just say 'what the f@#*'

and 

drive 40 miles 

out of the way 

to find the ocean.")

What sunny Sundays are made for.

Lesson 5: If only I had known sooner...

From Yahoo!'s unavoidable homepage news feed today:

What the Single Woman Needs to Date Well: 9 Essentials for Single Women

#1: The Third-Date Outfit. The first date's a formality. The second establishes mutual attraction. And the third date is all about turning up the heat. So whether it's those saucy black boots you splurged on at Bloomies, or that curve-hugging skirt, or even that sensual spaghetti-strap top, a single girl's gotta have something that makes her feel like a million bucks for that rare but fabulous third date.

Thank you, internationally renowned dating expert Lisa Steadman. You're telling me after all the online profiles and angst and insomnia and yoga and carefully-crafted e-mails in just the right combination of interest and hard-to-get that all it would have taken for me to get more than one Date #4 this year was a sensual spaghetti-strap top?

The #1 reason, really?

Score!

(I am SO on this for next year) ....

Lesson 4: Sometimes, just say "what the f#$* ...

.... and spend the night at Fenway.

RED SOX SCOREBOARD

FINAL 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 R H E Cleveland 0 0 0 0 2 0 0 1 0 3 7 0 Boston 1 0 0 0 0 12 0 0 x 13 13 0 Preview | Box | At the Park | Recap

 

(Thanks, Newton girls, for the pick-me-up.)

Lesson 3: The perfect time of day....

....seems to be 12:48 a.m.

I just looked down at the clock on the corner of my screen and there, again, it was.

(I knew there was a reason I was still up.)  

Tonight I'm functioning better in this space and time than last night.  Alert. Un-nauseated. Checking the NY Times website. Distracted.  Funny, since today unfolded in a near-mirror of yesterday, right down to the late-afternoon iced red-eye and inappropriate supper (strawberries, wheat thins and several handfuls of GoLean washed down with the dregs of the white zinfandel bottle, while helping my friend M pack to move).

Power yoga this noon might have something to do with the clarity.  God save power yoga ... its deep cleansing breaths, warrior poses and mantras about not fearing fear.

Tonight also included a chat with a FWAB who is deeply enamored with his girlfriend. Several months into dating and I can't speak for her, but he is still giddy. Last night was the 10th night in a row they had slept in the same bed, he told me.  And it had been comfortable rest.

"Now," he added, wry grin. "It's almost going to be weird, the nights we don't sleep together!"

Clock has ticked up to 1:21 and I'm trying to figure how to wrap this up. If I had a man waiting or wanting to sleep comfortably next to me, like hell would I be sitting on this patio in (yet another night of) chill drizzle, writing or even thinking about writing.

Yes.  I am jealous much.

Lesson 2: Frantic is as frantic does

The mind is mush, folks. Mush.

It is my studied and experienced opinion that the moment my schedule goes from frantic (i.e. marathoning and musical-playing and dating all of Boston at once)  to slightly less overscheduled ...  I must scramble to re-fill the glass. 

Because otherwise I might actually relax with feet up, chill with the cats, and go to bed before midnight. And that, folks, would be madness.

Observe.  

While work was 9 hours of head-down phone calls and e-mails and heading off paperwork crises while sucking down several espresso-fueled iced coffees (oh, the sexy days I lead....) ... theoretically,  I had a free evening to follow.  No rehearsals, meetings, haircuts, dates. No real commitments.

OK. So then, why not bolt the office at 6:30 and skip supper (optional) to hit the gym for 45 minutes (also optional) before Red-Lining it to Harvard Square for a friend's jazz concert (again, optional) and then stop for a couple hours in Central Square, after, for a glass of wine with a musician friend (finally, also optional).

I enjoyed all of these things, all with fine people, granted. 

Yet ... here's a second weeknight where I arrive home at 12:30, wired, having nothing but a bowl of mixed nuts and 2 chardonnays to show for my evening's nourishment, and insist that I must blog before bed.

Last night's lesson, so quickly unheeded.  Once again I'm working to be my own worst enemy.

And the mind is, consequently mush.

It does occur to me that perhaps this is why I've lately worked so hard to find a boyfriend: I need someone to fill my time,  so I don't feel like I constantly have to. 

Or, maybe, need someone other than myself to save me from myself.

Lesson 1: Weeknight wine limit = 1 glass

Oy.

Of course it was a mistake to advertise that I wanted to write a blog anniversary posting. Big build-ups into grand finales--on multiple levels-- have never been my strong suit.

After the gym tonight, I did indeed head out on my own for a celebratory panini and 2 glasses of Pinot Gris. But now it is very late. I'm grease-filled and tipsy .... bundled on my porch listening to the rain drip. My laptop battery-about-to-die sign popped up and I've got 3 minutes before termination.

And I can't articulate anything, much less what blogging has done to change me.

I just finished a month of piano-playing for a musical, "Nine", in which the protagonist is a once-successful film director plagued by insecurities and inability to produce a script, pronto. In one scene, he laments his "artistic block" to his wife, to which she attempts to soothe him:

"Relax! I know how you work. Your ideas have to come of their own accord ..."

That's always been a hallmark of how I write. Many nights I ride home on the #9, wiped-out, scrounging, thinking:

"I've got to write something. I've got to write something."

And it isn't until I come in from the city and out into this dark space, where the squirrels scrabble in the branches behind me, and I don't think about pleasing or entertaining anyone, even myself, or about what an opening sentence should sound like, that I'll start typing some nonsense just to get the fingers moving....and an idea comes.

Of course, tonight, I'm so close to dozing that no ideas are squeezing through.

But I like the anonymous reader's suggestion that this blog has produced enough good dates and strange coincidences that maybe I indulge a week to reflect.

My grand ego aside, I won't drag it out that long. But after searching most of Monday for the right opening sentence, I've stumbled on several points of yet-unexplored entry.

Which I'll soon explore ... after sleep ... and a little less wine ...

Post #277 ...

... coming to you live, 365 days after blog post #1.

So. 

The author is taking requests for what should be contained in First Anniversary Commemorative Post #278, which she will compose, later today, after a few glasses of her favorite vino bianco.

Such as, perhaps ... 

... a summary tally of bad dates ? ... or, 

... a summary tally of good sex, tastefully rendered? .... or, 

... a recap of readers who've been offended and by what? ... or,

... an essay profiling all men who think that the author writing a dating blog makes her confident and empowered, but who soon become flummoxed when they become the subjects? ... or, finally

... some attempted insight into if, 1 year later, this damned occasion to spill has done more harm than good to the author's well-being.

Speak, dear readers. 

It's my party and I'm inviting y'all.

Ditched

When a relationship isn't going to work out, can we all agree its dissolution provides lessons of some sort?  About oneself, perhaps, or about how the other sex operates.

Today I believe I've nailed down this era's telltale sign for getting ditched:  the unanswered e-mail. 

Audacious Man last wrote Monday night, to which I replied, he but didn't respond again. He had been a ridiculously attentive communicator up to then, so I suspected something was off. At first I chalked it up to his lingering illness.  Then figured work was stressful. Or maybe that it had something to do with his social schedule (thusly outlined in his last message):

AM:  "Week ahead is all full of catch up ... perhaps later in the week a drink is in order on Sunday? I have plans tonight, tomorrow night, Thursday, Friday and Saturday."

Free Wednesday, it seemed. So I wrote him Wednesday.  No answer. At that point I knew I knew--but still, I wondered if he was in the hospital, perhaps.  (Guilt, really, since I had ostensibly passed him this virus on Date #3). So yesterday after work I wrote again, just a hello, to see how he was doing. 

To no surprise, soon after I got up this morning I checked my e-mail to find this:

AM:  "I have had a great time these past few dates but something says we aren't as compatible as we should be. I think you are amazing and beautiful but something says you have a little more to get out of your system before you are ready for the "one". Maybe after some more fun you'll be ready but for me, I need a different level of commitment to a relationship. I hope you understand. I think you need to rock the Boston summer and enjoy the courting as much as one can."

I have been ditched via e-mail enough to know it is not cool to write him right back. Unfortunately, I had taken Tylenol PM last night, had just woke up, and was still groggy.  And after 6 days of frustration, I also lacked restraint ... and wrote him right back.

(It was fairly unformed and I'm not going to quote myself.  Although I suggested he might have written earlier in the week. I suggested he help me out by telling me what made him feel I had more to get out of my system.  I suggested I had not changed my modus operandi or attitude in the 2 months we had known each other.)

Of course he might respond, but I don't expect him to.  He at one time (to quote him from a previous e-mail) was a "professional dater," so I'm sure he appreciates the beauty of the e-mail brush-off: he doesn't have to discuss it.  He doesn't have to explain why on Monday night he felt one way and how, perhaps as early as later on Monday night, he felt another.  He doesn't have to explain how, despite his schedule constraints, I was the party not illustrating a sufficient "commitment" vibe. 

Any questions I have are already beside the point.

Of course,  he's being polite.  The last time a man told me I was beautiful and amazing but he didn't want to date me anymore, he was already dating someone else.  So it very well could be that. Or perhaps he just didn't feel the love and didn't want to hurt my feelings and say so.

In any case, it is good to be disappointed rather than frustrated. I'm giving myself today to be pissed off.

Tomorrow, onward.

May Day mayday

Not insomnia tonight,

I promise,

but that

damned

Dunkin' Donuts

free-shot-of-espresso-in-an-iced-coffee

promotion

(until June 2 and I love you too, Dustin Pedroia!)

persuading me that

a new cup every afternoon

saves me a dollar and

rescues my last hours of work from numbness and

pumps my fingers full of mojo

(to play those millions of 16th notes yet another night)

and really, this time,

will not

keep me up

way past midnight,

out in the chill, on the patio,

bundled in fleece and Adirondack chair

watching the cats quizzical through the window

while listening to Sufjan Christmas tunes,

yet again,

and fretting,

yet again,

on one man who is busy, busy, busy

(and not writing me back)

and another man who is also busy

(and ambiguous),

and then make me alert enough to have to wonder

why,

again,

I can't control my caffeine lust and

why,

again,

I can't figure out how to get past

Date #3.

May already

looks like a long month.