Grateful

Wow.

This week kicked me in the ass.

You've probably had a week like it. You know, when you've been maintaining your edge of uprightness and balance trying to fulfill the daily list of desires and responsibilities. And you've maintained for a while. And all at once, your body, mind, sanity don't want to work so hard any more.

Enough.

Suddenly, late for every rehearsal. Crabby for every rehearsal. More crabby at friends who have the audacity to be cheerful. Sick and at the doctor's office buying antibiotics for preventable infections. Late paying bills. Late for work. Wearing unbearable clothes combinations. Losing $7M clients. Aggravating the marketing staff via bad attitude. Sending an e-mail with a typo to the wrong person, triggering a 30-email chaos chain to clear it up. Not sleeping, of course.

Today, luckily, brought turnaround. I don't know why; it's not as if I slept enough last night or I feel any more relaxed. But it IS Friday. Maybe that's all it takes sometimes, to get to 5 p.m. on the final work day and be able to view the weekend with some hope.

Or. Maybe it was at about 4:30, actually, as I attached quarterly reports and letters to e-mails and checked off the sent ones, when my favorite music radio station (WERS 88.9 FM), brought one of my favorite singer/songwriters (Ellis Paul) into their Tremont Street studio as part of their fall fundraising drive (Live Music Week) and let him wail on the Steinway and sing, and then talk about how much he liked to wail on that Steinway and sing, and how grateful he was that WERS kept asking him back to do so.

See, tomorrow at 1 p.m. .... I, too, get to wail on that same f*#&ing Steinway in the Tremont Street studio while the cast of my show does the singing. See, we were invited, just like Ellis, as part of Live Music Week, in our case to perform numbers from "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown" for WERS' weekend musical theater show "Standing Room Only." (Hint: WERS streams live online. You can listen if you want.)

How grateful am I for that? Like Ellis, to want to play and be able to play and be allowed to play and to perform on the radio with my friends.

Gratefulness must breed hope, eh?

Thank God. I think it has redeemed my week

Caption Contest

When I got to church choir last night, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the absurdity of my outfit. Each piece in and of itself was acceptable for a cold & rainy night. It was the sheer combination of styles & materials & colors, plus the rain-soaked hairdo, that defied rational explanation.

I asked my friend Mitch to take a picture to prove it.

Contenders for potential captions:

1) Purple paisley & green plaid & brown stripes & periwinkle nylon .... who knew?

2) What all the fashionable finance girls are wearing this fall.

3) Having trouble finding a boyfriend, eh? With that sense of style? Bollocks!

Feel free to add your own.

Early holiday

Late-night rehearsal plus bacterial infection that inhibited serious sleep plus early-morning doctor visit plus a pile'o paperwork that threatens to topple plus noting that the most recent OKC inbox message was from a 54-y-old and we've all already been-there-done-that, I think this morning is better served by the image of a toddler in dragon-drag with fire-breathing toes.

Henry -- 14 months

This Week's Sign that The Apocalypse is Upon Us

Perhaps .... that I unexpectedly and entirely whole-heartedly cried this morning when leaving my final physical therapy appointment with Ian?

Either I'm taking this supposed autumnal loneliness factor too seriously or I'm just really, really, really already nostalgic for those 6 months of weekly hip massages and manual groin stretches.

**with props to old school Sports Illustrated.

The need to need

About 4:30 on Saturday my good friend B treated me (thank you very much) to Thai Basil on Newbury, where we downed a couple beers and he ordered the crispy duck and I the pad thai, and I told him I just might be going out on Date #2 with Friday-night man, and B rolled his eyes and told me to not stay up all night again (since I had, naturally, shared with him details of Date #1) because I had to be fresh for the concert we were both in on Sunday afternoon....

... and one would think I should listen to B because he's become very sage since having a girlfriend and he thinks all I do is date (ha!) and he furthermore doesn't think many of these dates have been very good for me and then insinuated, because it's October and the seasons are changing and it's a time that people might become more lonely than usual and crave companionship more than usual, that just perhaps that was the reason I was going out on Date #2 even though I had already commented that I wasn't sure of the long-term potential of this situation, and that maybe it would be better if I just went home and got some sleep instead.

I must have had the need to need someone because I didn't listen to B, but did instead go out Date #2 with my younger man who needed more time to freshen up when I arrived to get him so we missed the early movie and and only as we were walking in at 9 p.m. did he mention he was starving so we instead went to get him supper and then hit the 10:15 show, which meant that by the time we walked back across the Boston Common in a downpour sharing one umbrella and I dropped him off and re-parked the car and ate my leftover pad thai and climbed into my bed it was 2 a.m. and I'd have to confess that it was not a bad date but was rather just an OK date and, because I haven't yet decided if my need was worth the resulting fatigue I'll now know for the rest of this week, I'd furthermore admit that B, as usual, was probably on to something.

Dateline 10/22/09: On the Charles

Crossing to Cambridge via the Harvard Bridge, 6:28 p.m.

Catching up (with little success)

So the move to being "more serious" on OKC, admittedly an oxymoron if there ever were, is coinciding with a week where all responsibility in my life decided to get really, really busy.

(Except for sleep, that is. I'm so jazzed at 1:30 a.m. when I finally lie down it takes another full hour to relax. This morning I checked in on a friend's blog -- a friend who has a 3-year old and 1-year old triplets, all of whom have been sick for several weeks -- to read about how she hasn't been sleeping more than 4 hours a night. It's sad that, when I have no right to, I felt I could relate. Even sadder: she's got a really good attitude about it, which thus gives me an inferiority complex ... but I digress.)

This is probably a good thing. It's been difficult enough to focus and complete tasks as it is without fielding a chat request from a philosophy grad student who claims his girlfriend really doesn't care if he's online at 12:45 a.m. with (his words) "hot women" and when questioned about the possible validity of this, claims that he even shares the chats and photos of "hot women" with said girlfriend.

Like I said, probably a good thing.

The downside of serious, as you might expect knowing 20- and 30- (and 40-) something men as you do, traffic to my profile has ground to a serious halt. Which while probably a good thing, too, does make me slightly nostalgic for the occasional "where might this go?" titillation. And does leave me with few people to start conversations.

With that in mind.

A couple nights ago a 33-y-old from Cambridge viewed my profile. He was notable-looking enough (dark-rimmed glasses, sidelong glance, funky-nerdy vibe) that I recognized him as repeat visitor. I also remembered him because on October 2, while I was at work, he had sent along an IM request that I never answered because (duh) I was at work. It was a better lead-in than most:

Glasses: I once happened upon an anonymous dating
blogger with whom I was about to have a date.

Glasses: One of my goals, though devious, was to make it on her blog

Hmm. That's certainly of higher quality than IM requests that start with "Hellllooooo!" And on first glance he's quite attractive. Nonetheless, I don't remember why I never circled back, other than I was probably just otherwise busy and preoccupied.

So with no randy requests to fend off, this man's profile was one of several old IM requesters that I dug down into .... just to see. Without divulging too much, he has a lot going for him. Including that he seems to be a trail runner and musician and works in financial services and writes like a smart-ass.

Worthy, IMO. Worthy of at least a response in its own right. Even worthier, because he checked out my profile again this week, so is obviously still a) on the prowl; b) interested in me on some level; and c) interesting, on some level, to me.

Thus:

Karin: So,

I've been out of the message-responding groove the last several weeks for several elaborate reasons. When you stalked by today (are you also disappointed that they've dispensed with that term?) I was reminded of my gaffe in not responding to say that I tend to have no shame about blogging about dates, especially first and second dates who earn their stories.

Do I get to hear if your devious goal was executed? And how?

Hmm. That was Tuesday night. He's been online since and re-viewed my profile, again, but has not explained his devious goal. Naturally, now, I'm dissecting this 20 ways to Friday as to how I mis-approached this. The super-casual sarcasm? The 18-day delay? Too obvious? A mistake to try to catch up on old hellos? That I've taken "strong hands" off my profile?

So much for seriousness. Randy requests require a lot less distracting thought .....

Need for Speed(o) II: Wherest Willpower?

Last night after work, I ran up and down Commonwealth Avenue for 3 miles.

Then, when I got to rehearsal, I ate a bag of Skittles for supper. Washed down with 5 Dunkin' Donuts munchkins covered in orange and yellow sprinkles.

Thus, the dichotomy of the challenge in trying to prepare for the Great Speedo Exposé in 52 short days. I have the willpower to work out. I have enough experience in eating to know that 300 calories of square meal does not go directly to one's gut like a sugar-infused 300 does.

Further, I know there will be a dozen photographers waiting to chronicle the event on boston.com, much like this:

Yet, there will always be too many convenience stores in this town that sell candy.

Help.

Seriousing up

Maybe it was the weekend with family, observing and rehashing details of the numerous long-lasting relationships all around.

Maybe it was my date last Wednesday with the big-handed man with the rock-climbing chest, from San Francisco, in town for a family wedding, intrigued at the idea of meeting an "elder" (his words!) woman. Which, even though I was prepared for a one-shot outing, nonetheless left my soul in a black-hole as it ended .... realizing, perhaps, that one-shot outings officially depress me.

Maybe, finally, it was the message at 1:48 a.m. on Monday, the sender (age 21) from East Weymouth, MA, whose photo looks vaguely like a senior picture, crew neck sweater and all, with no preamble or introduction:

"Would you have sex with me?"

Sigh.

And thus, yesterday, after 9 months on the OKC, I removed 2 items from my profile:

1) any reference to strong hands; and

2) as far as "what I'm looking for," my acquiescence for casual dating, replacing it with the scintillating

3) "I spend a lot of time thinking about: being 36 and unmarried and the delicious pros and occasional cons of such a status. "

Hopefully, insinuating some taste for wild streak in a man's character but removing any chance that I am advertising myself as a sex toy for college students.

Who knows. Maybe I'll still get hellos from those in the youth movement who appreciate girls with strong calves. Such inquiries have always amused me and, by toning things down, I must admit a twinge of sadness to becoming slightly more staid.

Oh well. It's only "slightly," right?

The Martha Chronicles (III): Par-tay

Some of the best times ever are found in church basements.

Cheers, Martha. And happy birthday very soon.

The Martha Chronicles (II): Reminiscence

Martha (and my late grandpa, Roy) can claim 5 grandchildren, all of whom like to and excel at writing. Which is why Cousin J's idea of a gift for Grandma's birthday -- a "memory box", which each of us contributed 10 cards with specific memories -- was so prescient.

Reading through them today, as we are getting dressed and ready to go over to the party, certain themes arose as to her and grandpa's influence over all 5 of us: travel, cooking, cleaning, and love of family. Here's a sampling.

"I remember my (then) 85 year old grandmother boogying down at my wedding! You have always had a sense of fun! Chad and I are so happy that you were able to celebrate that day with us." -- Missy

"I bragged to all my classmates that my grandparents packed food and sleeping bags and scored us Twins playoff tickets -- I was so proud! What a treat!" -- Daniel

"Your red shell, VISA card and lipstick -- and you're ready to tackle Europe!" -- Kristin

"Why did we grandchildren hate to have our pictures taken so much? Ah, teenagers. But we certainly had an awful hard time dragging ourselves away from the living room bookshelf after the trips and the holidays were over and the albums were finished ... Grandma, to her credit, always did remind us of that dichotomy while she was taking the pictures, be it at Ellis Island or the state line of Arizona or in front of the Christmas tree. So we always complied." -- Karin

"Grandma -- you may not realize this, but I have bragged you up to many people regarding your willingness and enthusiasm to use your computer ... - and for so much more than just computer games! When I tell people that you have had to upgrade your computer at least three times since your initial computer purchase, people are blown away! I also appreciate it when you call me and ask me for advice on computer issues as if I'm the computer expert, because it is a real boost to my ego as well. And you make a mean egg salad sandwich, too. :)" -- Kristin

"Treasures to enjoy at Grandma's house: I was always enthralled by the witch you hung in the kitchen door frame. You had that wonderful box of old keys. Frozen cookies. Cactus in a ski boot! A special wood smell to the attic. Pink bathrooms and the little vanity chair in the upstairs one. Down comforters and egg crate cushions to sleep on. The laundry chute and a milk can of canes!" -- Cousin J

"When I was living with you, I remember rising at 7 a.m. to help you scrape the pain off the house and garage. By noon I was spent. By afternoon I was a zombie. You kept working all day, and the next, and soon you decided to do more sides of the house and garage until everything was freshly painted!" -- Daniel

"I remember Swedish pancakes and Ruby's Brunch Dish, Swedish Meatballs and chocolate chip cookies - we always loved coming to your house for the love, the food, and the fun. I have learned to be a hostess from watching you, Grandma!" -- Missy

"Did I just imagine Grandma once opened and more firmly slammed shut the massive door of her 2-door car while driving full speed northbound through Minneapolis on 35W? Even if it is just the figment of a 6-year-old's imagination, it should be true. In the 30 years since, I've never had the figurative chutzpah to do so myself." -- Karin

"Grandma, you give amazingly warm and comforting hugs!" -- Cousin J.

The Martha Chronicles (I): introduction

Today I did that cool thing blog sites allow you to do .... post into the future. It's some god-awful hour of the early morning that I won't share ... but this tidbit should post at 6 a.m., (hopefully) about the time Delta 3788 goes wheels up from Logan, taking me to Minneapolis for a weekend of family saturation.

Very glad to go. It's gusty and rainy in Beantown and a break is welcome.

And besides, we're celebrating my Grandma Anderson's 90th birthday.

It'll be a party all weekend, peaking Saturday night with a dinner in the Nokomis Heights Lutheran Church basement. Cousins from Managua, Stockholm and San Francisco will be there. My sister Missy is creating something like 95 pounds of mashed potatoes and my uncle is roasting enough pork to feed 60. The Denison sisters will sing Martha's favorite hymn. Speeches will undoubtedly be poured out. Daughters and grandchildren will serve the meal wearing the family aprons, sewn by Aunt Barbara and trimmed with Great-Grandma Anderson's hand-made lace. Then someone will arrange us all in several dozen configurations for photos of it all.

Hooray for Martha. I hope she does a lot of what she is doing in this photo.

So in deference to the great lady from Sweden, I dedicate this normally narcissistic blogspace for this day and the next 2 days to her and entirely to her.

Pictures and stories to come. In the meantime, first things first ... a salute to the motherland:

Skål!

Coffee, beer, big hands

If' you've been around this space awhile (and this space has been around awhile)*, you might remember this July 13 posting about multiple OKC promising but non-viable leads:

Lead-off Batter: 27, goofy smile, from San Fran, here visiting relatives:

SF: "Your profile makes you seem like a really witty and funny person. I would love to buy you an espresso-charged coffee and talk to me more about Pixar movies or running. I also play hockey and rock climb, so my hands are very strong and they also happen to be disproportionately large - perfect for giving massages if you are so inclined. As far as cure for cynicism is concerned - ice cream always works for me."

We exchanged a bit. I suggested he keep flattering me as he did, that I never turn down a coffee hour and I am indeed attracted to men with powerful hands.

So SF and I did attempt a coffee on July 14, but his amended flight schedule and my work schedule failed to mesh, so we split a rain check. Specifically:

Karin: You're sweet, though, for the coffee offer and if you get back this way again, do say hi.

SF: Sounds good.

And I thought, yeah, right.

But lo, late in the evening of October 1, an IM message appeared with a familiar face:

SF: i messaged you over the summer, do you remember?

K: Yes, that's right. You have the same nickname as my old roommate!

SF: ha

K: You live not on this coast, I thought...

SF: so, i am going to be back around boston in a week

K: Wow, you're being proactive.

SF: ha - that's right

We conversed smoothly for an hour. About jobs (he's a teacher), food likes (sushi), book likes (someone else in love with Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, yee-haw), and attractions (we liked each other's photos, and he's tall w/red hair). Dating, too, and a bit of sex talk that wasn't at all sexual. We left it agreeing that when he got to town, we would get around to that cup of coffee.

And I thought, yeah, right.

But lo, he did contact me when he got to town. We're going out tonight. Both with daytime and early-evening obligations, we've graduated beverages.... from coffee to beer, which most likely will drive the conversation towards our original topic: big hands. Maybe I can remind him that he offered a back rub.

With full knowledge that this might be the only time we hang out, a cute and gregarious (ahem, younger) man taking me out for a friendly beer is still a good deal in my book.

*(and this is is the 400th posting on this site. That alone deserves a beverage of any flavor. Thank you for your continued patronage!)

Deep Thought: Have a perfect day!

Said the Starbucks barista this morning as he swiped and handed back my debit card:

"Now, you have a wonderful day .... if not a totally perfect one!"

To which I replied in best taken-aback fashion:

"Likewise!"

If only it were as easy to do as to say.

Since that admonition, I've decided the runny nose I woke up with is sincerely growing into a cold. And my stomach hurts. And I have most-likely antagonistic 2 p.m. meeting about custodial procedural issues that I don't want to go to.

But, I guess, what constitutes a perfect day? Could be a mix of the aggravating and benign, right? Kind of like how anything that is nothing but good is just plain boring? How you need the aggravating to make you more appreciate the benign?

So. I got out of bed on time this morning. And the large iced black-eye that came with the barista's proverb is most excellent. And I got an e-mail from my grandma.

It's a start.

Dateline: Franklin Park 10/11/09

Thanks, AB&C (and C's rents) for showing up at the halfway of today's half-marathon, providing a much-needed adrenaline boost and unanticipated photo-op.

(Peace? Involuntary reflex. No intended commentary on Obama's gift from Norway this week. Although my choice in tank top unfortunately did not assist the home team.)

And no dramatic story here. The 1 hour 55 min finish fell squarely between my 2006 (1:52) and 2005 (1:59) finishes. The bursitis did not flare. The bones on the top of my left foot weirdly did but didn't make mischief. Weather= perfect.

Just another October Sunday in the city.

So it follows that

if I stay out until 3 a.m. because my birthday-celebrating friend prides himself on closing down bars that stay open after last call and I thought it would be nice to indulge the occasion,

it follows that

at the pub, after a couple pints of Guinness, when I threw my coat over the seat of a bar stool,

it would follow

that my cellphone would fall out of my coat pocket and I wouldn't notice because of course,

it follows

that the combination of Guinness and post-2 a.m. jukebox dancing and lots of new friends would mean I was hardly paying attention to the contents of my coat pocket,

so it follows that

I didn't notice it was missing until the following morning, which was when I broke into laughs of exceeding gratefulness that my friend's favorite bar is an Irish pub, because who else but an Irish pub morning bartender named Raymond would scroll through a lost cell's phonebook for the most logical contact to find the phone's owner, which of course is

"Mom and Dad Home"

(as in home in Buffalo, Minnesota, doing laundry, and a bit confused perhaps to be hearing from Raymond from JJ Foleys in Boston at 10:30 a.m., but enjoying Raymond's thick brogue and the relief in knowing that Boston is full of such gentlemen assisting a daughter who tends to flakiness)

and of course it follows that Dad would immediately call me at work to tell me, so that I could immediately call Raymond and hear how tickled he was that he had phoned someone in Minnesota ("was that really where they were?") and what nice parents it sounds like I have and that I should stop by anytime to get my phone, which of course

was followed by a wave of my own relief that indeed, Boston has some gentlemen who occasionally save me from myself.

Not that I don't want to regularly save myself. But it is nice to have back-up.

Opportunities (update)

As my mother so often writes to open her 3,000-word e-mails, this entry will be "just a quickie."

Because I must go drink. A 5 p.m. beer with my manager and co-worker at the newest bar in the neighborhood: Post 390. Probably on my manager. Sweet.

(So, this beer replaces my planned 5-mile run .... um, oops. Probably not good for the Speedo Challenge. Although my soul is happy. Priorities, priorities.)

What's more, tonight after rehearsal I'll be heading to a downtown pub for C-2's all-night birthday celebration. Now, I know no one except for the host, but according to his Facebook Event RSVP list 54 guests have confirmed. Since C-2 works in liberal politics and is a rabid people-person, I assume I might find at least some of the other 53 revelers just as simpatico and talkative.

(So, hooray! A party! And new friends, maybe, in addition to more quality time with C-2, a new favorite FWABs. Sweet.)

Then, finally, I didn't ever give you the post-mortem on last week's Friday-night date. But it went well enough that I woke up the next morning smelling his aftershave on my cheek. Well enough that we spoke on the phone last night and he asked, "when will I see you again?" in the tone of someone who wants to see me again sooner than later, and he most likely will see me this Friday night, too.

(So, a new date #2. Even sweeter.)

Lots of opportunities. Updates to follow. Cheers.

Template

Yesterday afternoon I got a hit in my OKC inbox and, for a moment, thought, "aw shucks....."

Ok here goes nothing:

So - first things first - I realize I don't have a picture up on my profile. I assure you I'm not a leper or some troll (quite the contrary I'd like to believe - i used to model). Really, I never thought I'd be writing someone off of here, I normally just come on here and browse around to see what's out there.

But your profile really caught me off guard; you're incredibly sexy, and seem smart, down to earth and fun to be around. I'm also from LA.

Me - I'm 6'1, black hair short hair, tall dark and handsome to be confident and concise. I'm well educated and successful.

Here comes the brutally honest part - I'm here in Boston getting my MBA and between that and the business I run back home, I don't really have much time to date. So (and I really have no intention of offending you, just want to be brutally honest), would you have any interest in getting together on a respectful but mostly physical level - like a one night stand or friends with benefits?

There, I said it (I told myself I'd regret it if I didn't at least try).

Eagerly awaiting your response,

A hot young MBAer bowled over by me....?

About a moment later I thought: a form letter. Probably because he said, "I don't have a profile picture," when in fact he did: a naked torso reflected in a bathroom mirror.

I've seen enough naked torsos on this site. They can not be trusted. A man who uses his chest to woo women is either lying, faking, or being unrealistically self-deprecating (i.e., not to be trusted).

There's the lack of specificity. ("You seem fun.") That he's "from LA" and "doesn't have time for a girlfriend," which automatically excuses him from having to ask any personal questions.

Then the use of "down to earth." That's just disingenuous. Someone from the west coast looking for a local sex partner does not want a down to earth girl. He wants an eager experimenter who will meet him in the corner booth of a bar having forgotten her panties.

Hackles raised, I ran my suspicions by my official, seasoned online-dating smell-tester: Young Scientist. He answered as I expected, with confirmation and plan of action:

"Haha completely a form letter! i get more pissed off getting form letters than not getting anything. But email him back asking for a pic. Don't say anything else. Actually when I got a form letter last time I wrote back the equivalent of "What did you think makes it seem like I would be fun to be around?" or calling her out on what she said. She wrote back something completely lame i didn't respond. So totally say "how about a pic, stud muffin, and what did you think made me fun to be around?"

Perhaps excepting the "stud muffin" moniker, I might do just that. Or might not ... because to answer Form Letter Man would be to affirm his approach.

To be clear: it is not a badly-written plea. Reading it again this morning, I confess that on some level it smacks of, simply, a businesslike approach. I've been around a lot of business dudes after 5 years in finance; if indeed the writer is who he claims to be, it's possible he's just efficient, resourceful and clinical -- not confident enough in his creative writing skills to use anything but a template, and sending in bulk to increase his odds.

But as the recipient: to be lumped into what was probably a search-engine troll of "Boston, MA, single, sexy" is, despite what one might think, rather dispiriting.

Perhaps that is how I'll reply.

Ode to wakefulness

It's starting to work for me, this minimal-hours-of-sleep thing.

Who'd have thunk? I'm loving this. I have to get up for physical therapy in 4 hours, after which I actually have to do 2 hours of physical therapy. Then the coffee. And then I have to go to work. And a run. And rehearsal.

But I'm loving this.

It is so still tonight, from the patio perch. You never think the city can make itself still, but then poof, it does. Perhaps that's why I can live here, and stay living here ... its self-calming ability.

(Thank God for chilly Monday nights.)

The pots of salmon & white impatiens yet survive, so it's not cold enough yet, but cold enough for a blanket, which I don't have, and am OK. A medium chill? The cats have stayed inside, smartly and typically for them, on the couch. The Oreos in my cupboard beckon, but the peace outside is helping to calm restlessness, I think, so that maybe I can make myself sleep soon.

I'm not stressed about not wanting to sleep. Part of me knows that if I got under the covers and imagined my feet plastered to the mattress, turned on the BBC, uncreased my creased forehead and demanded that my breathing slow, I'd go there. The cats would wander in from the living room and jump up to flank me, Velvet on the left armpit, Tusker on the right hip, curling in, purring heavily enough so I can feel it.

Sometimes, though, it is more restful to just hear the breeze as it picks up, then dies, then comes back and drowns out the distant hum of freeway traffic. There's plenty of time to sleep ... some other time.

D'oh!

I'm convinced that this blog would not exist if I wasn't such a general f@#$-up, on occasion.

Yesterday, I scheduled an 8-mile run in the hours between the conclusion of church (12:30) and the beginning of rehearsal (2:30). Since my rehearsal was in Davis Square, near Tufts University, I decided to drive up and park near the rehearsal site and run in that neighborhood, grateful for the change of scenery.

Important: I had to leave all my belongings in my locked car. Since my bundle-o-keys is substantial, and I didn't want to have that bulkiness in my hand for 8 miles, I removed the Mazda key from the ring, better to carry in pocket. And off I went to enjoy the Mystic Valley Parkway, Arlington Heights, Mass Ave through Cambridge and lower Somerville on a sunny, cool afternoon -- thusly:



This was all well and good. It was a good run. Nine-minute miles, even, which I'll certainly take.

So, I chugged back into my start point and checked in at rehearsal, pulling iPod out of shorts pocket to turn it off, only to realize that my car key, supposedly in same pocket, was no longer in same pocket, or on my person at all.

Dropped somewhere along those 8 miles.

Shit.

Must. Be. Found. Now.

Go.

So I left my start point and backtracked. For 6 miles and 2 hours, thusly:



At least it was a lovely afternoon. I mean, it isn't nearly as enjoyable when walking slowly with head down, scouring among the acorns and leaves and cigarette butts and pebbles, trying to remember if I ran on the sidewalk or the street and if so, which side of the street, and when I crossed Highland Ave not at the crosswalk, exactly where was that?, and what about that moment I took my iPod out to replay a song, exactly where was that?, and wondering if the kid on the trike I passed on Cherry Street maybe saw the key and thought it would be fun to play with .... and on and on.

By the time I re-hit the Alewife Brook Parkway my feet were swelling out of my shoe tops, I hadn't had food or water since breakfast, and losses had to be cut. I walked 2 more miles back to rehearsal, asked a cast-mate for $5 to take the Red Line back to Southie to pick up my spare keys .... so I could take the Red Line from Southie back up to Davis and drive the car home.

The time was now 7:30 p.m. And it was time for a beer.

Here's the best part of the whole sordid tale: back at 2:30, at the moment I first realized the key was lost, our rehearsal's stage manager informed me that, due to a late change in the schedule, I didn't have to be at rehearsal ... at all. There was zero reason I needed to be up by Tufts or in Davis or changing clothes out of my car ... at all.

Hmm. I had not known this.

To this the stage manager replied: "Didn't you get my message? I called you earlier today to tell you not to come."

No, I hadn't gotten the message. I had forgotten my cell phone at home.

D'oh! Indeed.

Reason #45 ....

.... to plan on seeing my musical in November:

Your's truly dressed as Woodstock.

It's for real.

The whole orchestra will be clad in goldenrod.

I was just lucky enough to draw the leotard.

Not quite a bikini or a Speedo,

but still,

kind of a kick in the pants to be a ballerina again

after all these years.

Trying on costumes at the Cambridge YMCA

October 1, 2009

I have a date tonight.

That is all.

(Well, OK, it actually isn't all.

This is a date with a 20-something man who winked at me on OKC on July 22. His self-summary was a poem about goal-setting and among the things he cannot live without is turmeric.

We got to exchanging e-mails a couple days later; he appealed to me in that he liked to cook curry, liked to run, liked to rock climb, and said, "I dunno about cynicism in general but if it's Boston induced - I can say that coming from Mumabi via NYC it's better to yell and curse rather than just go with the flow."

And we never got around to going for a Beer because he went to India for awhile, but he reappeared a couple weeks ago and I'm not otherwise occupied this weekend, so we're getting around to it. I thought perhaps it would just be a Beer and asked him to choose where we go. He responded with 5 (count 'em, 5) options ... ranging from a pub in Dorchester to the the MFA to a carnival in West Springfield to the Acton Jazz Cafe ...

This is some serious enthusiasm. A serious date. So much so that to expound any further on this enthusiastic date might jinx it.

So we've made the plan: a possibly pretentious (his words) place in Mission Hill for a cocktail, and then to Wally's Cafe on Mass Ave for jazz. Hopefully good jazz.

And that indeed is all, finally.)

Happy Friday.