When I think I've read it all ...

... I forget that on dating websites, 29-year-old men (like this one this morning) will always send pick-up lines like this one:

Subject:  sexy time
Message:  "Lets do it! I'll make you a very nice macaronee neclace."

I have exhausted my ability to comment.

(Or, perchance, my ability to still be excited when I see I have a new message.)

(Or, even, my faith in my fellow womankind of OKC, who at some point along the way, have to have responded favorably to such entreaties for men to still be using them.)

Done (writing)

tonight.

I think

I wrote

200 e-mails

today

(that dealt with at least

100 issues

during the

11 hours

spent at the office,

most of those writing),

and while

such productivity

(and of course the need for it) is

good for business,

it's surely

bad for blogging,

because at this hour,

all I want to do is

drink my Guinness and

take an Advil and

sleep,

since

in not so many hours

I must get up

and write

200 more e-mails,

probably.

Cheers.

Dateline: View from the Office 4/27/10

7:16 p.m.

If you've gotta stay late,

at least be thankful for sunsets after storms and

Comm Ave dressed in lime green

and being 28 floors up.

Stasis, thy name is mud....

Wow.  I have now felt what it feels like to decide, at present, that I no longer wish to let my inertia kick me in the butt and, instead, wish to kick it back.

The beatdown began Thursday night, as I sat in the office until 10:15 p.m. -- actually working until 10:15 p.m.  In doing so I cleared easily 20 tasks from my to-do list that had been on the list for a week or more.

Sure, I would have rather been sitting with a pitcher of PBR singing karaoke.  I would rather have had Peter Saarsgard giving me a foot massage. 

But damn, did it break the seal.

Friday night:  home from the gym at 9:30 p.m. and no longer able to stand the state of apartment. Dusted. Vacuumed. Purged foot-high pile of paper on my kitchen table.  Cleaned 2-month old egg detritus out of the microwave.  Windexed winter smudge off the patio doors.  Ran the stove grates through the dishwasher. Swept, then scrubbed living room and kitchen floor on hands and knees.  At 3 a.m., ceased activity, checked e-mail, downed a Long Trail Double Bag Ale, fell asleep like a baby on codeine

Saturday:  removed contents of medicine cabinet, wiped shelves, returned contents in sorted, logical fashion. Mailed package to nephew that should have been mailed 2 weeks ago.  Dropped 2 bags of clothes at the Goodwill, including my post-college interview suit hanging in my closet since 1994. Bought groceries and made a trip to the drugstore, using up stack of coupons from aforementioned kitchen table pile.  Removed Tupperware tub of old bedding unopened for 3 years, shook out moths, threw out more collegiate-era items.  Washed and dried the rest of contents, along with 3 additional loads of laundry.  Scrubbed down outside bedroom windows with soapy water.   While outside with step-ladder, pruned unruly boulevard tree with kitchen shears.

Sunday:  ran a 10K in the morning in 54 minutes, in the process catching up with  Bill and his family, who I haven't seen in 10 months.  Stopped at Home Depot to buy moth repellent devices. Got home, napped for energy.  Changed the cat litter.  Awoke and began laundering all earthly bedding and packing it with with moth repellent into trunk in storage unit.  In process, spent 4 unanticipated hours sorting all contents of basement storage unit, breaking down 15 shoe boxes and 15 more damp moving boxes last used in 2006.  Swept the basement floor.  At 12:30 a.m., in wind-down mode, logged onto OKC.  Purged all random IM messages and wrote several men to whom I had not yet replied, despite intentions.  Searched for awhile longer ... suddenly aware that the uncluttered mind has a lot of room to scope when not stressed about backlogged work, backlogged linens and unpruned boulevard tree.

Meanwhile, Monday is off to a wicked fast start.  I've already completed most of my day's tasks and know exactly how and when I'm going to finish the rest of them.

Amen.

Girl Friday?

Last night, my peeps at The Longwood Players put on a stellar version of City of Angels at the Cambridge Y in Central Square.

(I've played 5 shows with TLP over the years, including the one from last November.  First time I've sat in the audience.  Reminds me of the f@#$ing amount of work required to produce such a show. Humbling.)

Until last night, I'd never seen this particular musical's story: the parallel tales of a 1940's crime novelist turning his book into a screenplay, alongside his protagonist -- a suave private eye investigating a missing-persons case --  and the women who love and lose them both. The music: be-bop, jazz harmonies.  The style: noirish, sassy, sexy.

I was tooling along, enjoying the show, until early in the second act, when Oolie, the detective's Girl Friday, stands on stage in her negligee after her lover has crept away, yet again, to belt out,  "You Can Always Count on Me:"

I'm one of a long line of good girls
Who choose the wrong guy to be sweet on
The girl with a face that says welcome
That men can wipe their feet on

I'm there when he calls me
The trusted girl friday alright
But what good does it do me
Alone on a saturday night

I'm solely to blame

My head gives advice that my heart ignores

I'm my only enemy

Hmm.  Interested in the wrong man, or at least the one who doesn't deliver. Like this one?  Or this?  And then most certainly this?  And from the history books, this?

And dateless on a Saturday night?

Seem to have found some parallels of my own.

And controlling (evidently?)

I know, I know.

I know.

Don't even give it the time of day, the week, the month .... whatever.

Tonight, now, another one-liner from the OKC universe:

"Hi. Why is it that most women are so controlling?"

Something I said?

Jeez.

Hot (evidently)

From today's OKC inbox:

"you seem like a firecracker about to go off and i wanna be around when you blow off someone's hand :p"

From a man whose profile contends:

I spend a lot of time thinking about ...  "USELESS SHIT! I really need to stay focused."

I'm not sure I want to be the firecracker in the hand of an unfocused individual.

And I'll take any suggestions about what kind of reply this pick-up attempt has earned.

The YMC: Update #1

Those of you who know me well, stand back:

I have not so much as been tempted to walk on the same side of the street as a Dunkin' Donuts or Starbucks this week. 

It's amazing what a $1396 computer will do to one's coffee craving. 

Or maybe it's amazing that I actually, occasionally have willpower.

Or maybe I've finally, finally, finally gotten the coffee-to-water ratio down pat on my French Press and, after 8 days of experimentation, woke up this morning and realized I was looking forward to the coffee I would brew and drink (with the correct portion of Equal and skim milk) out of a mug in my very own kitchen.

Either way. 

Week one, accomplished.

Tired, tempted

Last night, beginning just after sunset, I ran nearly 9 miles around the city, finished laundry, created a batch of homemade chicken lentil soup and ate several bowls, realized insomnia was inevitable, resultingly got into a series of IM conversations, and crawled into bed just as the BBC World News began its 8 am (GMT) news round-up.

Let's just say that today ... I'm tired.

(And work was busy, too.  Straight-out busy. It's 7:11 and I'm just getting done enough to the point it feels safe to leave.)

So it might explain why I curiously indulged an OKC chat request a few moments ago, from a 25-year old artist with big, round eyes, despite being sure I was likely the 13th girl he had run this line by today.

A couple of brain cells deep in the recesses almost wanted to submit.

Artist-Boy:  I have something kind of random to propose, but it may be JUST the thing for a kissable leggy insomniac with a great personality and a good sense of humor (and musical taste!)

Karin: Well, if it fits that well ... !

AB:  I live in NYC, but I'm staying in B------  for the night watching after my grandfather, but he goes to bed at 8:30. Tonight I was thinking about a roaring fire and a dusty scrabble board. Maybe walk down to the dock by the lake. The unfortunate thing is, I have no friends in sight. There's lots of cabernet. There's a candlelit jacuzzi too, but that might be too romantic and I don't want to pressure you into anything.

K:  Ah. Well that's kind.

AB:  It's random and out there, I know. But I'm bored and kinda lonely.

K:  No, it's kind and creative.I appreciate the thought.   I hate to tell you that I was up until 4 a.m. last night and am about to fall asleep here at my desk.

AB:  I see.   Hmm...

K:  I think my energy level would not be up to it.

AB:  well. I don't mind low energy. I have lots of reading and writing to do.

K:  Thanks. I can't go out to B------ tonight.

AB:  You could sleep at my feet by the fire, maybe with your head against my knee. I'll work and you'll doze. Nothing too intense.  You could even power nap before you leave. I was hoping 9:30 or 10 as a start time.

K:  You're sweet. I'm going to have to decline.

AB:  aww that's really too bad. :-/ Sure there's nothing i can do?

Hmm.  Insomnia sucks.

Grateful (IV)

Thief steals computer.

Thief, or thief's beneficiary, among other things, perhaps now enjoys the myriad contents of my iTunes library.

Purchase new computer.

Dig through backlog of CDs to populate new iTunes library.

Thusly, then, rediscover a choir disc from 2002, containing Irving Fine's "The Hour-Glass," a suite set to some poetry Ben Jonson wrote in 1606.

Download into iTunes.

Sync iPod.

Go running on a pleasant Sunday evening, with iPod, and listen to the first piece of "The Hour-Glass":

O know to end, as to begin :

A minute's loss in love is sin.

These humors will the night out-wear

In their own pastimes here ;

You do our rites much wrong,

In seeking to prolong

These outward pleasures :

The night hath other treasures

Than these, though long conceal'd,

Ere day to be reveal'd.

Then, know to end, as to begin ;

A minute's loss in love is sin.

Realize that Ben Jonson is an effing poetic genius.

Marvel at, yet again, how meaningful ends can sometimes emerge from shitty beginnings.

Grateful (III)

Southie, 1:44 pm

Rainy, cold outside.

Inside, heat on. 

Pajamas on.

Cats curled on the couch blankets.

WERS 88.9 SRO on the radio.

Second mug of (Peets French Roast, homemade, French press) coffee down the hatch.

Daily duties (laundry, closet-cleaning, floor-scrubbing, yoga-performing, 6-mile-running) list mapped out in head but not on paper, so nothing's not technically not been accomplished yet.

So I know I need to get out of the pajamas and get a move on.

I will. In a few moments.

It occurs to me, on some level, how grateful I am for my apartment having been broken into a couple Sundays ago.  

Otherwise I wouldn't have had to replace my laptop with this pretty Mac Book Pro, the price of which inspired me to (previously unthinkably) sacrifice my Dunkin' Donuts addiction for 365 days (which includes 52 Saturday mornings), which in turn means that enjoying the caffeine jitters I've imposed on myself thusfar  would have meant changing out of my pajamas earlier than 1:44 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon that truly deserves this exact degree of laziness.

"Dating in any Large City is Difficult"

Tax Day.  The combination of Armageddon and finish line at any finance firm.  We here don't get to have the same celebration as accountants .... nah, we're only in the middle of producing quarter-end reports and communiques.

But at least the requests for Realized Gain/Loss and fee statements cease.  Clients go on school break vacation.  And the frantic accountants take their yearly 9-month break from frantic phone calls.

(And McCormick & Schmicks offers $10.40 dinner specials and endless happy hour tonight. And there is one of those just down the street from here.  Score.)

That said, it's my lunch hour but there are still 3.5 hours left in Tax Day in this office.  Blogging is not the priority.

So I take this time instead to wimp out and share something from yesterday's Salon.com Broadsheet blog (and the incomparable Mary Elizabeth Williams) that is so awesome, as usual, that I want to put the entire piece in pull quotes and post it here. Since I can't, here's the link, and here are the vitals which, I believe, speak for their inclusion in this space

Title:  "The Tyranny of Dating Choice"

Sub-title: "We have more romantic options than ever -- is it making us miserable?"

Lede:  "The romantically pathetic urbanite, the one with a full dance card but an empty love life, is as familiar as Seinfeld or Carrie Bradshaw."

Summary Quote:  "When faced with choices, humans tend to give the thumbs down to the first third of their options before making a decision." 

(You're supposed to ponder what this means to someone who dates in a large city and has the possibility to meet a couple hundred-thousand potential dates in any given year. Yeah. And then do the math.  I showed this quote yesterday to the Young Scientist who replied, "Have you hit your 30%? :-))

Best Quote : "First, let's get rid of the idea that playing the field is a miserable, self-defeating experience. For some, dating a thousand people before landing on that mythic one sounds nightmarish. For others, it's pretty freaking awesome."

Second Best Quote:  "It's easier to keep up the appearance, even to oneself, of being on a romantic quest for true love than admitting, yeah, actually, I might prefer what I already have. Being in a real relationship with a fellow flawed individual isn't all picnics and reliable sex; it's also challenging and fraught with annoyance. It's not for everybody."

Quote My Parents Will Probably Call Me On:  "Maybe, however, it's time ... we freed ourselves from the notion that dating has to be some conveyer belt of hopeless suck, something that people who get around more are doing wrong."

Discuss!

Agreeing to (ahem) disagree

Biking up Stuart Street at 8:30 this morning, traffic was dead-stopped.  I didn't remember why until I righted onto Charles Street and cruised by an idling bus wrapped in this banner:

Yippee. 

But, I remembered that a friend noted on his Facebook page yesterday that he was attending a counter-rally today, also on the Common, that looks more like this:

I'm a fan of free speech and political engagement, but not of the Tea Party as political movement and the resulting irrationality of some involved (i.e. Obama as Hitler, the "Pro-Life, Pro-Gun, Pro-God Veteran. A Right-Wing Extremist Who Won't Apologize" signage). Not a fan of Palin, particularly. 

But even if I was, I was overcome by the brilliant creativity of this tea party's approach.  Folks taking back the definition.  Embracing the tenets of "good tea, good food, beautiful clothing, beautiful china and linens, and inoffensiveness," to wit:

"My ideal would be for the press to come up to interview people about their opinions on tax policies and health care, and have responses such as, "Oh, dear, isn't that a rather personal question?" and, "Really, I prefer not to discuss politics over tea. Would you care for a cup?"

Maybe I've just been reading too many of Joan Didion's late-1960's essays about San Francisco lately, but I love this.  Not exactly putting daisies in gun barrels, but not yelling obscenities.

It's a moment where I remember that I live in a scarily interesting city and am glad to do so.

I have a friend who is politically in the same camp as me, and yesterday we e-mailed about this series of protests and counterprotests.  He had posted the polite link to his Facebook page, attaching it to a comment about "teabagging."  Which, he said:  "resulted in several Obamahaters taking offense at the use of the term followed by various quotes of gandhi and our founding fathers ...

Him: in a rare move i deleted and reposted the link saying "For those of you attending this week's Tea Party" as i decided its funnier on its own

Me: You're facebook friends with Obamahaters?

Him: i have friends of all shapes and sizes - makes it more fun

Also, at some point, this:

Him: there have to be people we disagree with otherwise we'll die of boredom

Of course.

It's a Wednesday morning in April.  The magnolia trees are blooming. The sun shines.  Helicopters are circling the park.  Tea of all kinds is being either drunk or listed on tagboard signs or symbolically dumped in the harbor. 

It's a good day to disagree in Boston.

Runner's Low

You know me. Despite these years of wallowing about everything from insomnia to 20-year-old sex-trollers to rainy, soggy skies, I have never, never, never, wallowed about the Boston Marathon.

Today I need to wallow about the Boston Marathon.

This morning as I biked down St. James Street towards the office, and I saw all those pesky, post-race Family Meeting Area alphabet signs hanging from the streetlights, and my stomach muscles cramped up and I got really, really crabby.

I hate that it is going to go on next Monday.

I hate that I'll just go to work like any normal day, except that Copley Square will be covered in folding tables that are in turn covered with towers of stacked Gatorade glasses. 

I hate that later the streets will be covered with folks in mylar capes and sweaty hair.  That I'll have to walk by them all as I leave the office.

I never anticipated that, when I started running marathons 8 years ago, that I would hate so badly watching races I'm not running in.  The first time I watched Boston after having done a race myself, even though it was 90 degrees and folks were stumbling to the finish, I stood at mile 25 and cried for an hour.  I found that I was not happy for all those noble finishers.  I was ridiculous jealous.

Well, I chose quite specifically not to run this race this year.  And I know it.

I guess that means I should promise to work on my attitude.

The Year of Making Coffee

Y'all know last week my computer was stolen.

And it wasn't the worst thing in the world.  Most nights this past week, instead of staring at a screen for hours agonizing over how to solve my endless Facebook Scrabble losing streak, I re-read (and re-marveled over) Joan Didion's Year of Magical Thinking.  I more frequently petted my cats.  And more than once, I went to bed before midnight.

(Yes.)

However, offline-fun time must end. 

In the next couple nights, I am going down the street to the Apple Store to buy this computer.

It's pretty.  It's functional.  But in doing the math, I thusly realized that the price of this computer is roughly the amount of money that I spend on coffee at Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts in a calendar year.

(For you non-math types:  $5/day x 52 weeks + $10 for the occasional emergency espresso frappuccino x at least 12 late afternoons post-cost-basis-calculation-spreadsheet = um, yeah....you know what it equals.)

Folks, this one is gonna be tough.  But I must. 

So I'm gonna say it simply.

I cannot get a second job in order to spend $1500 on a computer and $1500 on coffee in the same year.

I do own a coffee maker.

Starting Monday, April 12, 2010 I will make my morning coffee.

At home. 
 
And furthermore:  I will not buy a single-serve cup of coffee in public for the next 365 days.
 
 (Although ... I will accept gift cards and make exceptions for dates who refuse to go elsewhere and most certainly exclude any coffee served at a diner, as well as decaf Americanos on the Diesel Cafe patio on Sunday nights in Davis because, well, that would just be otherwise wrong.).

But seriously. Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts moratorium until April 12, 2011.
 
On your marks, get set ....
 
... (sob) ...

Seriousing up (2) .... ?

This comes from one of this blog's readers (Veggiegal) in response to Wednesday's post: how some recent advice has inspired me to consider what I want regarding "serious dating," and how I'm going about it ... either correctly or not.

"Interestingly, in writing this, I realized that even though I've been reading your blog for a long time now, I am not entirely sure whether or not you actually enjoy casual dating, the kind you know won't lead anywhere...? I would guess that you do in the moment, but in the grand scheme of things, it sucks energy out of you. Is that right??"

(Go back and check it out. She was the first of 3 and all are well-told stories of dating success.  Thanks, ladies....)

Veggiegal's comment has indeed given me pause, although not necessarily because I think she is right.

More, it causes me to think of another part of my conversation Sunday night with C-2.  I was telling him about my Good Friday coffee date (a situation that for reasons of tact will go unexplored here, except to note that it  does not have a long-term component).  C-2 is more open to the variety of life than many folks I know...and has proved himself so .... but even he thought I was foolish in this instance.  In defending myself, I recall saying, in several different ways at several different times:

"I don't know.  I guess my curiosity just got the better of me."

And that's the reason I have to wonder if I really am looking for a serious relationship.

Recall, also, that C-2 questioned my intent, even as firmly as I stated it.  I've tried to make it a priority in the past.  I only lasted a couple weeks before reverting to an approach decidedly more edgy.  Which is where I'm still kind of living.

Curiosity does not, indeed, make good company to grow old with.  Yet as I reconsider these things this week, I realize how reluctant I am to step away from my curiosity ... the wide variety of people and situations available to a woman my age, in this city, with my particular personality and interests and tastes. 

At times this approach has led  to aggravation. Time and energy sucking.  Lack of sleep.  Unsatisfactory ends.  Resolution.  I've wished for someone to spend nights with, to help pay the mortgage on, to help make decisions I didn't want to make.

But do not serious relationships have the same potential positives and negatives?  Are we talking about 2 sides of the same coin?

Perhaps the upshot of all this is I now can recognize the focus required if/when serious is what I want to be. 

And now I just have to decide what it is I want to be.

Guys say the damndest things

Thanks, guys.

The first damndest thing:

On Sunday late, while on our second Guinness, C-2 and I moved from Red Sox euphoria into relationship talk. After a year of bantering over beers, we have our own feisty dynamic (and, consequently, a not easily-summarized history), but as usual, we don't discuss us.

We discuss, as usual, our own stories. At some point, he wondered aloud if perhaps after many (many, many) years of dating, he's realizing he might not be cut out for something long-term. I then suggested that conversely, I really was ready for something long-term. Which spurred this (paraphrased) exchange:

C-2: That's curious. You seem to me to be doing everything except illustrate that you want to be in a long-term relationship. Are you sure?

Karin: Hmm. I am. Well. Maybe it's just that I can't find anyone who wants to be in one with me. So I need to kill time somehow. I figure, why not?

Why not? Why not (be unfocussed and waste my own time and my biological clock's time)?

Lame.

The second damndest thing:

Last night, I got a surprise when friend Justin, of New Jersey, called to say he would be in town on business. So we did late dinner at Franklin Southie and got caught up.

I was in a slightly griping mood. One of my gripes was about the recent plethora of men who, after either dumping me or just ignoring me out of the picture, have suddenly re-emerged and presented themselves, again, as viable options. The whole, "well, you weren't good enough the first time but now, um, well, maybe I've reconsidered (or maybe I'm lonely or maybe I'm horny) and wonder what's up" thing. 

This week there were 3 of them ... yes, 3 more since I last griped to Justin about it. 

Which plain exhausts me.

Justin knows me better than just about anyone and, to his credit, often turns sage when needed. So (again paraphrased) he said:

"So here's the thing. If you really want a relationship, you need to draw your line in the sand with the guys you date. You need to say 'this is what I put up with, and this is what I don't.' And then you make the guy decide if he is willing to step up to your line - to fix the things that might not make him someone you want to be with. If he isn't willing, he isn't willing. And you wouldn't want someone who isn't. Right?"

Right.

And I don't know why the hell I've never thought of it that way before.

Two-date fadeout

So today's Tuesday.

For a couple weeks on Tuesdays, you may remember, I hauled tail along Carson Beach with Erudite Runner and his buddies, later gathering at Boston Beer Garden for grub.   Last week I did not get an invite.  And obviously, not this week either.  In fact, I haven't heard a peep out of Erudite Runner since our goodbye that night on Broadway, 2 weeks ago.

Hmmm. 

Well, I haven't written him either .... which means we're not missing each other ... which is how it should be, considering that at our last outing I spent majority time engrossed in a yoga conversation with someone who was not him.  Nevertheless, half of me thought he and I would keep hanging out and running, friend-like. Although the other half of me realizes he probably already has enough running friends .... friends who actually run at his speed.

No heartbreak here. Sometimes, it's an actual relief when you go out on 2 dates with someone and know it's over.  (Friday-night man, Southie Med, for other recent examples.)  To just know. It is so rare in relationships and dating to ever just know.  And almost a gift when you do.

Soldier on.

Finding grace

Sandra Bullock, the actress, executed one grand emotional swan dive in recent days:   profession's highest honor on March 7th .... gratuitous, ongoing, public humiliation starting on the 17th. 

Has anyone thought about Sandra Bullock's Oscar in the past 3 weeks? I don't like thinking about what she is, herself, thinking or feeling. This (bad pun) blind side seems particularly cruel.

So.  I had an experience of this sort yesterday.

Thanks to the largesse of a co-worker, I was gifted 2 free tickets to the 2010 opener at Fenway Park. Bleacher seats on the first-base line. Versus the Yankees. A rabid Red-Sox friend (C-2) to enjoy it with.  A 65-degree, breezeless evening. Pedro throwing the first pitch.  Youkilis and Pedroia propelling the home team from behind, twice.  Steve Tyler surprise in the 7th-inning stretch. Neil Diamond surprise in the 8th. Papelbon's "Shipping Up to Boston" keeping the full house on their feet for 5 minutes.  The victory. 

(And all this on Easter, no less.  Glorious singing and worship in the morning.  A gloriously rich party of Austrian wine and Hungarian feasting in the afternoon with 50 friends. Followed by 5 hours with Red Sox nation followed by more Guinness and conversation with C-2. Very nice.)

Just after 2 a.m. I rolled back into Southie, parked the car, and got out to discover both the front door of my apartment building and the front door of my apartment ajar.  And not left that way by me.

I retreated to the street to dial 911. The cops appeared (5 of them, striding manfully!) to lead the way in ... and as the doors had predicted, my apartment had been rightly sacked.

Laptop computer (also predictably) gone. Wine rack (curiously) pilfered of its 3 cheap bottles.  Non-plentiful jewelry cache (also curiously) pilfered, including Cobber ring.  Blue cloth napkins from last week's birthday dinner scattered over the bedroom floor. Stock of square-cut pillar candles removed.  Every drawer open.  Every purse and bag from the closet on the bed, one with lining sliced through. Window open. Patio door open.

Serious downer.

(Not of Sandra-Bullock proportions.  But in my world?  Slightly precipitous.  Those clean, unironed napkins, a stray left in the building foyer, caught on his/her shoe? Somehow scooped up with the candles? Someone scooped up my candles? What the hell?)

Something about those f#$%ing dinner napkins seemed the greatest violation.

The cops stayed for 15 minutes. When they left, it felt not right to start righting things. The only thing to do was sit on the sofa, still in Red Sox t-shirt and cap, overhead lights glaring, staring at the open liquor cabinet with its knocked-over bottle of Peppermint Schnapps, searching for some sort of grace.

With relief, I soon identified some. The fast response of the BPD.  The cats who, rather than wandering out into the night, soon emerged from under the bed.  The (again, curiously) neglected stereo unit and brand-new bicycle.  The good-night's sleep I soon eked out, even if it didn't start until 3:45 a.m.

And, it goes without saying, the very good day that preceded it -- that, even while making the bad stand in stark relief, also proved to be the barrier against panic, against further fear, against irrational anger:

Jesus arose. The Sox beat the Yankees.  The cats emerged.  Guinness still rocks.

Screw the laptop.

Dateline 4/03/10: Beautiful Day

It's beautiful to now own a reconstituted, red Raleigh. 

(Thanks, Bikes Not Bombs.)

It's beautiful to be looking at it in the reflection
of the Hancock tower instead of being inside the tower, working.

It's beautiful to wear shorts and tank while riding it on (by far)

the most beautiful day we've had so far in 2010.

No complaints here.

Good Friday

So.

Here's what my tomorrow now looks like:

1) All day, the stock market is closed.  So is my office.

2) In the morning, coffee date at my favorite Southie coffee hang.  With a man I've been talking to who seems pretty darn nice.

3) In the afternoon, headed here to buy a bike, just in time for a day forecasted as "high of 68 degrees and mostly sunny."
      3b) Let me say again:  "68 degrees and mostly sunny."
      3c) Let me also say:   This is the forecast for Saturday and Sunday, too.

4) Later in the afternoon, a 5- or 6-mile run.

5) Early evening, a beer date.  With another man I've been talking to who also seems pretty nice.  And he's a runner.

So  none of this fits into the theological parameters of the most serious day of the Christian calendar.

But come on.  Still sounds pretty good, eh?