So there.

I've made a point to stay out of touch with Date Meltdown Man. 

He, however, wants to be in touch despite my lack of interest, and has written several times to ask how I am. Friendly-like. I have uniformly not replied.

Last Friday on OKC, DMDM showed up wanting to talk. 

Meh. My curiosity got the better for the first time since February. So we chatted.

I was reminded why I had not previously engaged. Qualities that made him aggravating then made him aggravating now: Insistence that I was irrational for not wanting to be friends. Memories from dates that are not actually from our dates -- i.e., are from other women he was also dating at the time. Apologies for being an ass juxtaposed immediately with lists of my purported screw-ups.

Typical hash-out with an ex.

This exchange arose after I told him I was doing a long run on Saturday followed by a date. Which maybe explains all the reasons we don't need to be friends.

DMDM:  have a great date. enjoy it - listen to his story if you will
DMDM:  see what he's all about
Karin:   Thanks for the tip.
DMDM:  it's the best tip you've received in a while
DMDM:  you have a tendency to dominate the conversation
DMDM:  you are a great catch
DMDM:  more tennis though - less fishing
Karin:  You're a hoot.
DMDM:  - all joking aside - that was always a challenge
Karin:  Are you seriously saying this to me?
DMDM:  I'd start a story that was poignant and it would just get obliterated
Karin:  The man who talks a blue streak?  All the time?
DMDM:  me.  with you?  neeeeeeeeeeever
Karin:  Short memory.
DMDM:  you talked almost the whole time
DMDM: i loved your stories but we never had a dialogue
Karin:  Good to know.
DMDM:  you thought i talked too much? me?
Karin:  You talk more than any guy I've ever dated.
DMDM:  oh that's probably because i interrupted you more than other guys
DMDM: that was funny
Karin:  I have memories of driving in my car and listening to you talk for 20 or 30 minutes without breathing.
DMDM:  never. that wasn't me.  that was you
DMDM:  sometimes i would rant but seriously
DMDM:  i have memories of you and i together and you just going on for 2 to 3 hours
DMDM:  and me just thinking...what if we just made out would that work
Karin:  Are you really working to aggravate me or do you just do this without trying?

DMDM wants to be friends. Which perhaps means he just wants to get together to have sex when it's handy. Brilliant.

So I went on my date Saturday night and it was decent. Enough so that later in the evening, I felt comfortable asking if he thought I talked too much. To which he replied:

"Well, you do like to talk. But I like listening to you."

(Great first-date answer. Thanks!)

Sunday afternoon Balint and I went for a sushi lunch. I also asked him if he thought I talked too much.  He laughed loudly and said:

"Yes, you do talk a lot. But you say interesting things."

Now that's the kind of friend I need.

BBC 8: Singing in the City

Take one Sunday afternoon on the Common.

Add one girl on her way home from church

who hadn't until that moment known that

Keith Lockhart and the Pops were 

playing there for free,

so 

she forgot plans to clean her apartment

 and stopped and stayed

and called Claudia,

who appeared with 

her iPhone,

 her intention to put it to good use,

and her complete lack of inhibition,

all of which she kindly shared.

(Cue the 70's sing-a-long medley, Keith.)

Long Run #10: Hot (but not)

From the Wikipedia:

"In endurance sports, particularly cycling and running, hitting the wall .... describes a condition caused by the depletion of glycogen stores in the liver and muscles, which manifests itself by precipitous fatigue and loss of energy. Unless glycogen stores are replenished during exercise, glycogen stores in such an individual will be depleted after ... 15 miles (24 km) of running."

It was 81 degrees, or more, on Saturday morning.  I did start said run with 9 miles of continuous uphill from Roslindale Square to Boston College. But I did also eat a big breakfast that included peanut butter, bananas and V-8. Did drink water, lots, before and during. Did (think I did, anyway) replenish glycogen stores at miles 3 and 9. Did try to talk myself out of talking myself out of stopping.

Alas. While approaching the lovely shaded paths of Olmsted Park (indeed, Wikipedia, at mile 15!) I hit the wall so hard a helmet would have been helpful.

Hm. Sucks.

However, walking the last 4.14 (waterless, glycogen-less) miles in the noon sun (while alternatively berating myself for failure to load and berating myself for berating myself because I did, after all, make it 15 miles) was markedly less hellish because of the pretty path back to the car (around the Jamaica Pond and Arnold Arboretum).

Upon returning to Rozzie Square, the only thing my body craved was Gatorade and a Dunkin' Donuts low-fat blueberry muffin.  Both of which I put down in about 45 seconds and did not photograph for your viewing pleasure before doing so.

(Here. Have a DD logo instead.)

I have unfinished business with this 19.14 route, my friends.

Both you and I are are going to see it again next week.

View

 Friday night, patio time ....

... and someone, today it seems, knocked down the empty warehouse behind my place that, until today, obscured the South Boston Waterfront from view

The good news:  no more brick smokestack as the focal point of my backyard.

The bad news:  12-unit condo building in my backyard, under construction until the spring of 2011.

The OK news:  the someone who did the knocking down hasn't started putting up new walls yet.  Which means until then, on nights like tonight when a jacket isn't necessary and the sky is a little purple from lights shining through humidity and it doesn't seem that certain life frustrations will ever be solved, it somehow helps to have a unexpectedly wider horizon at which to stare.

Long Run #9: RTB Relay, aftermath

I've tried to explain RTB Relay and its idiosyncrasies to folks who haven't run it .... and when I do, their eyes glaze over.  My own eyes glaze over.  In part because, well .... you just have to be there.  In part, because the experience both exhilarates and kicks the fatiguing shit out of me.

So I'll dispense with description.  Here are the stats from New Hampshire, to prove I compiled a Long Run's-worth (21.54) of mileage:

Friday, September 17:
Leg 6:  Crawford Notch Rd, White Mt National Forest (4 p.m.) --  8.62 miles in 71 minutes (8.15-min/mile)

Saturday, September 18:
Leg 17:  Meredith to Laconia (2 a.m.) --   7.39 miles in 65 minutes (8.48-min/mile)
Leg 28:  Chester to Sandown (11:30 a.m.) --  5.55 miles in 46 minutes.(8.18-min/mile)

To pre-emptively answer questions you would no doubt ask if given the chance:

1)  Yes, the Leg 6 sundown view coming out of the White Mountains, heading towards Conway and the Maine border, was spectacular and should be experienced by all, even non-runners.

2)  Yes, Leg 17's pace was the slowest because it was 85-percent uphill and made possible only by obscene amounts of caffeine.  And yes, I slept pretty hard after it.

3)  No, actually, my own legs felt pretty stellar by Leg 28 and I kicked some ass. In fact, I passed 8 runners and sprinted hard to the hand-off.  Was so jacked up by feeling so good so late in the game and what that means for my overall marathon fitness... did not sleep after it; rather, ate a banana and rolled down the van window as we cruised on.

4) Yes, there were a number of hot men on my squad.  Yes, 8 of 10 are married.  Yes, I became best buddies with one of the 2 single guys and flirted really hard (as he flirted back), even knowing he has a serious girlfriend and is moving to Denver this weekend.  C'est la vie.

Meanwhile, in the 4 days since my return I inherited a head cold and insomnia and some genuine crises at work, and am trying refind the legs I had on Leg 28.

General condition:  shredded.  Exhausted. 

This morning before work I was watering my basil plant.  The same one that a month ago, while in full-flower, tipped over in a storm and lay wounded on the patio for 3 days, 98% dead before I had mercy and re-potted the corpse. 

And damn, if it hasn't come back.  Enough, I think, for at least 2 recipes-worth of seasoning.

"Rejuvenated basil" is a good metaphor for how I hope to feel sooner than later.

Much to learn

For some time this summer, I klatched with a guy known as Mr. Reach the Beach Relay ... so named because he used the race as part of his pick-up line on OKCupid.

You haven't heard of him for awhile .... mostly because I haven't heard from him in awhile.  We did talk regularly, at first, and it was decent, and I said we should meet for a drink, and he agreed that sounded good. Then we went a bunch of days without talking .... before he hit me up randomly late one night to chat.  After which I again suggested we go out for a drink to meet each other, and he agreed that sounded good.  Then we went a bunch of days without talking ... before he hit me up randomly late one night.

Etc., etc.  This sort of thing tends to trail off, and did.

Last Saturday at about 3:15 a.m., Mr. RTB Relay finally appeared in the flesh. At Reach the Beach Relay.  At the Robbie Mills Sports Complex in Laconia, NH.  I had just come off 7.32 miles of uphill running in the dark, complete with sweaty headlamp on forehead, and he walked out of the crowd and introduced himself.  

Strike me dead (and surprised).  Not required to seek me out at this point.  And did.

I wrote him Monday when back and fully operational, thanking him and asking how his race went.  Despite being ostensibly present on Gmail most of the last 2 days, he's not responded.  While I'm quite beyond expecting anything from him .... grrr. 

Make.
Up.
Your.
Mind.

I wrote Bill this afternoon to get his opinion on the matter.

Karin:  I know it isn’t worth it to get frustrated about. But men suck sometimes.
Bill:   Yeah, I really can’t defend that behavior. You should have kicked him in the nuts and been done with it.
K:  True.  Why is that always required?  Why do men need to be kicked in the nuts to get the message?
B:  Because that’s what we think with.    Duh…
K:  You think you’d rather have other things done to them than be kicked, then. And wouldn’t act like that.
B:  Yeah, you’d think that but you’d be wrong.
K:  I seem to have much to learn.
B:  We all do, we all do.

Deep Thought: Staples rule

So today I was in the company copy room about 4:30, a quiet time in the copy room, doing a downward-facing dog while waiting for a gratuitous fax to complete transmission to Schwab and, as my calf muscles sank back and relaxed, I found that at that angle, the first thing I see are my scuffed knees (refusing to heal from a year's ago trip-off-the-curb) and then my charcoal (polyester) skirt (c. 2003) from The Limited, hem held together with staples (most likely via the stapler from my desk a couple years ago), and I am reminded that when otherwise on a budget in an industry where clothes must reflect commitment to good taste and presentation, duct tape isn't the only office supply able to fix anything .... or if not exactly fix, present at least a convincing façade of togetherness.

Dateline: 9/18/10 Hampton, NH

One more Reach the Beach Relay down.

One more traverse of the state of New Hampshire,
on foot.

20.46 miles in 182 minutes.  

(Yup ... sub-9s.)

29 hours spent either in a conversion van 

or running

or eating either dried fruit 

or spaghetti at Joseph's Spaghetti Shed in Bartlett

or sleeping 

(for about 5 of those 29)

and doing all these things

in proximity to

 my 10 teammates from

Cheap Yellow Mustard,

who ran the rest of the 200 miles involved.

Time to rest the feet.

And time for some sleep.

More later.

Close call

My candidate did not win yesterday.  Furthermore, the candidate who prevailed was, in the eyes of my fellow campaigners and me, the least desirable choice of the 3 remaining.

(Think:  George W. Bush of the Southie Democrats. On multiple intellectual levels.   And that's not meant as a compliment.)

I hit up the post-election gathering about 10:15, having had a church meeting to attend first.  I was glad I hadn't been there the whole time:  the mood was bleak.  Most folks had been drinking, hugging and commiserating since 7:30, and the stereo blasted heavy metal power ballads. 

After hugging and commiserating with Mike, I grabbed a Sam and a slice of congealed pepperoni pizza and sat down with a group of ladies.   Conversation had turned to the cuteness factor of someone's pet dog.  Soon, I got into a more involved chat with my immediate neighbor -- a woman my age, who I've known for a couple years but have never really known much about. 

Talk turned to our respective careers. 

She said:  she works in Copley Square. 
I said:  I did the same. 

She said: she works in educational publishing. 
I said:  I once went on several dates with a man in educational publishing who also worked in Copley Square. 

She asked: what his name was.
(Before I could answer)
She asked: if my date's name was (the real name of) The Editor. 

I hesitated.
(Because it, indeed, was.)
(Man of the loaner scarf.)

I asked:  if he were short, bald and Jewish.
She said: no.  Tall, blond.  Made New Jersey jokes.

I remembered: The Editor moved here from New Jersey.

(But said nothing more.)
(Wanting to take no more chances.)

Grateful (VI) ....

On a Monday night where I'm feeling just off enough that righting the ship before sleeping is non-negotiable ....

.... for every day that ends with my sister and my in-utero nephew in good health ....

.... for a job, even on a day when it is nothing but ....

.... for non-bikeable rain showers, which mean not having to water the impatiens ....

.... for minced garlic sauteed in olive oil, which makes all things better ....

.... for Nico Muhly's choral album based on Psalm 111 ("The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom: a good understanding have all they that do his commandments: his praise endureth for ever.") ....

.... for the democratic process and my buddy Mike McGee's infinitely crazy 10 months of work leading up to tomorrow's Fourth Suffolk District state rep primary ....

.... for yesterday's 5 hours of NFL watching, agonizing for the Packers' first victory in Philly since 1962, and for being reminded that both are things I like to do ....

.... for, when burning away on the elliptical machine at the gym, being able to watch The Food Channel describe in minute detail how the orange center of a Butterfinger is manufactured, because what better time to have that information ....

.... and for crackless, burn-free, effing-amazing (or at least better-damn-well-be-amazing) Key Lime Cheesecake that came out on the third try, asphyxiating no one.

Thanks be to God.

Long Run #8: Backroads, beaches

Claudia owns a stunning property on the Lower Cape that she rents out in the summer.  Occasionally she will invite me along on the Saturdays she cleans the house before turning it over to the next guest.

Last week came one such invitation. I told her I'd come help if she'd let me fit in my training run.  This concession was sacrifice for neither of us. Hence, the plan was agreed on, and we sped away from the sunset Friday night to dine with and bunk with some of her friends in Truro.  We would both rise early Saturday morning to attend to our labors.

(With the help of Claudia and our host, I mapped out this route.)

The backroads of the Cape Cod National Seashore on a September Saturday were all one might dream of. No traffic. No people, period ... only the occasional wild turkey. Serious rolling hills for maximum leg burn and challenge. Roads that end in beaches, like this one at the junction of North and South Pamet Roads:

Ballston Beach, 8:38 am

About mile 12, as I ran north on Castle Hill Road, the bells in town began ringing to commemorate the time of the 9/11 attacks ... which I appreciated, because the silent beauty of the morning had until then made me forget the day and the time.

I also appreciated, after nearly 14 miles of hill-running, stumbling upon Savory Pizza Grill and Sweet Escapes and their cranberry walnut muffins and scones.

Missing it

Just sitting here, eating a reheated bowl of penne pasta at my desk, updating tabs in the company CRM as to who gets directed brokerage designation or not, and while there are of course many reasons it can be desirable to be in love or be with someone, I'm thinking about how, at this moment anyway, the thing I miss most about not dating someone seriously or even just dating someone intermittently, is that I miss having someone who I really want to kiss. 

And then even more, I miss the act of kissing him.

Whoever him may be.

No hands

I just got home,
via bike,
from Cambridge,
and for
3 blocks on Broadway
in Southie,
(starting on A Street
and ending when I had to swerve around
a semi
double-parking in front of McDonalds
at the corner of D),
I rode with no hands.

I have great memories of biking no-handed.

Most of them
in Cando, North Dakota,
age 7,
hot-pink single gear with flowered basket,
heading to the swimming pool.

In college
between junior and senior year,
the July evening Alan and I
rode no-handed
the wrong way down the one-way
(racing, more precisely)
from downtown Moorhead to downtown Fargo,
NP Avenue,
for what seemed like miles,
even though memory likely romanticizes this distance.

On the Danube,
not long ago,
Balint and I laboring
off-road on the tops of grassy levees,
mosquito swarms dense as gum,
when we unexpectedly hung a right onto a
stretch of blacktop
with no seeming end
and no seeming traffic.
I couldn't help but
let go of the handles
and cruise.
I looked over
as if to say
"see! look!"
but he was already doing the same and
(again it seemed)
this went on
for miles.

Tonight was perhaps
the first time in Boston
I've dared let go.

Could be due to the potholed terrain.
The hundred opening car doors.
The general need to be steering
around jaywalkers.
Stop signs every block.
Semis that double-park
on the street in front of McDonalds
when there's a parking lot out back
just because it's Southie
and everyone double-parks.

I think that's why
when I crossed over A Street
and felt I could go for it,
the freedom caught me off-guard enough
that just thinking about it
now
still makes
my throat catch.

Even though it was
only 3 blocks.

Nice to know,
some nights,
that little things
still have power.

Domestic Goddess (2)

It's ever so disheartening,
for the second night in a row,
to destroy my kitchen counter
with baking mess
and use up $20 worth of groceries
(plus the cost of the $11 springform pan)
to end up with

No. Cheesecake. Again.

Especially after the indignity
of buying the $4.98 can of Easy-Off
and scrubbing for 40 minutes
to remove the scalded butter
from the oven floor
that had kindly set off
my carbon monoxide detector
and both smoke alarms
last night at 11:15.

Last night.

Last night
it was just the crust,
which I salvaged,
covered in plastic wrap
and sent to the fridge
to wait until tonight.

Tonight.

Tonight though, it was
the cream cheese, eggs, sugar and lime
that I blended smooth
and poured onto said crust
and put into the non-fuming oven .....
for 5 whole minutes .....
at which point
the alarms again
went crazy.

This time at 12:35 a.m.

It was only at this moment
I (think I) figured out
that the new $11 springform pan
is leaking crust butter
and scalding on contact.

But how can I clean the oven again,
(rubber gloves, chemicals,
hands & knees, oh my)
then put the offending springform and lime batter
inside a cake pan
so it doesn't leak
and reheat it for an hour
so it turns out to be something
after all this something
I've tried so very hard to do
but can't quite manage to do
and think the something
is going to turn out?

And if I do that,
when will I sleep?

And what if I'm thinking wrong?
What if the oven is
just f***ed up?

What if the sirens
again go off,
this time at 2:38?

I'm thinking,
instead,
respectively:

Trash (cake).
Beer (in hand).
Bath (with book).
Bed (with pleasure).

Goodnight!

Domestic goddess

Just cracked the 3 eggs and
softened the butter and
grated the lime zest
until my knuckles nearly cut

and damn.

I just wanted to finish
making the cheesecake
before bed.

Didn't want to set off

a grease fire in the oven
(while baking the crust,
itself not burning)

or both smoke alarms
(surprisingly resistant to being
ripped from the ceiling,
I learned,
and did I know
that a 400-square-foot living space needs
2 smoke alarms?)

or both my upstairs and my next door neighbors
(all pajamas and furrowed brows)

or the patio screen door,
while throwing it open
(with still-bubbling crust in other hand ...
salvaged, I think).

(Can't say the same for the screen door, yet.)

Thank God for the cool of the patio,
for a half-pint of Ben & Jerry's half-baked,
and that I can clean the f***ing oven
tomorrow.

Long Run #7: Did it

I'm going to venture that perhaps no one but me noticed, thusfar, Week 7's lack of chronicled Saturday run.

(If you did, you're free to sign on as an unpaid coach ....)

Nonetheless, not trying to shirk.  It was done.  I did it.  Done it.  Kicked its 16.63-mile butt with a bunch of sub-9:30 miles.

Refuelled via a frappuccino immediately after, followed by a pre-made egg salad sandwich from the same joint on Memorial Drive in Cambridge.

Late lunch of champions.

Not exactly my original plan, which was to patronize the venerable Brookline Lunch in Central Square.  Which did not get patronized because I

a)  slept the morning away until 11 a.m. and
b)  know that brunch at 4:28 p.m. when the diner closes at 5 is tacky and,

in addition,

c) forgot that all Cambridge city parking meters have 2-hour limits and
d) remembered that the Trader Joe's complex on Mem Drive has a (gasp) parking lot and
e) Starbucks is next door to Trader Joes and
f) espresso and Gatorade do indeed mix and
g) what a fine vantage from which to watch all the other river runners still slogging away.

Worthy.

Done run was decent, also. Shoes that held their shape for one last week.  Charles Watershed parkland  unceasing.  Sun that heated and wind that chilled. Well-timed water fountain at the Newton Yacht Club. (Yes. Only in Newton.)  Complete score to Godspell, on a memory loop, to keep me sufficiently distracted from checking my watch more than once per bridge ... which I did not.

O Bless the Lord My Soul, indeed.

Sock

A gym sock has been in the back window of my car since June 19.

That morning, I wore 2 gym socks, under brown Skechers, as I headed out for a Guinness at 2 a.m. and ended up instead making out with C-2 at Spy Pond.

While we were still in the front seat,  C-2 removed these Skechers and socks with unusual energy.  He tossed both shoes up and out the open moon roof; one landed on the hood below a windshield wiper, the other (to be discovered later) on the parking lot asphalt.  A few hours later, as I gathered myself, I found Sock #1 under the accelerator.  A glancing search did not produce Sock #2.

I think I drove home in my bare feet.

One Sunday evening in July, returning to Boston from Cape Ann, I was thrilled to find an open service station in Beverly, since I was running on fumes.  Zoning out while filling up, I noticed it.

Arriving home, I e-mailed C-2.

Me:  So I was filling my car with gas tonight.   And I saw one of my socks in the back driver's side window.   I think you put it there. Just saying.
Him:   :)
Me:  Indeed.

It's not exaggerating to note that's one of the longer conversations we have had since July 18.  I have looked at that sock many times.

Tonight, while pulling groceries out of my back seat, it seemed the moment to pull the damn thing from the window, and it's already in the washing machine.

Originally, I planned to more acidly parse this Sock #2 removal for the metaphor it could be.

Don't know if I quite have the stomach for it yet.

Realist ... ?

I was a teenager in 1989.  If you were also, I guarantee that you too, for at least a couple hours, were in lust with Dead Poets Society.

Fall leaves swirling around cadres of boys in blazers and flannels, quoting Whitman and acting on passions.  ("Oh Captain, My Captain!")  Josh Charles, Robert Sean Leonard and Ethan Hawke in baby face and angst before they became stars.   Robin Williams reading Shakespeare with a John Wayne accent. 

What's not to lust after?

A Google search reveals whole sections of dialogue as "quotes" from this eminently quotable film .... most of which I already know by heart.  But as an adult it is a drier exchange -- between Keating (the Williams teacher) and his colleague -- that I sought out and found:

McAllister:  You take a big risk by encouraging them to be artists, John. When they realize they're not Rembrandts, Shakespeares or Mozarts, they'll hate you for it.
Keating:  We're not talking artists, George, we're talking freethinkers.
McAllister:  Freethinkers at seventeen?
Keating:  Funny — I never pegged you as a cynic.
McAllister:  Not a cynic, a realist. Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams, and I'll show you a happy man.
Keating:  But only in their dreams can man be truly free. 'Twas always thus, and always thus will be.
McAllister:  Tennyson?
Keating:  No, Keating.

I've battled cynicism for a long time.  Or at least I say I have. 

But recent events and my generally unemotional reactions to them have left me wondering if I've overstated my own negativity.

Such as: 

1) Hurricane Earl is making an appearance in this hood this weekend .... specifically around the time I'm wanting to stay in my routine and do Long Run #7 on Saturday.  Or earlier, depending on how it fares in North Carolina tonight.  There's no concrete way to plan around it until tomorrow which, when I have to prep body and mind to run 16 miles, is not a lot of prep time.

But I'm not losing my shit over it, thinking, "yeah, sure, it's always SOMETHING!"  I might actually just do my run on Sunday, instead. 

A hurricane is a hurricane.  You can't be pissed at it until after it's gone by.

2) There's a guy I've been spending time with as a friend, when at one time I wanted him as more.  It's generally comfortable.  Although I sense myself (and of him, can only guess as) constantly navigating how to "be" ... which lends a slight veneer of awkwardness to the proceedings.

But I'm not worried about it. 

If the situation were not slightly awkward, or if either of us really knew how to act with each other at all times .... come on.  No one does. That would actually be a lot more to worry about, no?

3) Last night, for the first time in a long time, I got into a Gmail exchange with the Young Scientist.  You might recall we had a couple dates last spring, then lapsed into Banter Alone.  In the 18 months since we last saw each other, we've vowed at least 10 times to get together .... which is exactly 10 times more than we have. 

Last night was no exception .... at X point he suggested we recreate our 2 steamy encounters for old time's sake.  I admitted that I would be curious to do so as well, anticipating a move directly to the planning stages.  But instead he replied:

" =) good, im heading to bed- to be discussed at a later pt. gnight."

Hm. The last time YS suggested "discussing it later," several months elapsed. Which means he is flaky, distracted, noncommittal, or too tired at night to remember our conversations in the morning.

When reading that, and not because of his smiley face, I laughed out loud.  I have no unfettered foolish dreams about what it actually implies:  last night at midnight, in our conversation, he would like to talk about going out, which I know means jack shit, because it is unlikely we ever will talk about it, or ever will go out.

And that's just the way it is:  I'm attracted to men who chronically overstate intentions.

(Kind of like C-2 telling me, also this week, "we will get that beer SOON!"  When after our last face-to-face on June 19, we were also supposed to "get a beer SOON!"  Which means that his most recent proclamation might get us a beer by Thanksgiving. )

Knowing it and resigning to it (and realizing maybe I should work to change it) .... not cynical, I'm pretty sure.

Right? Not any of it?

I thought not.