Popular opinion is that today's 3% rise came because bargain hunters were picking up under-priced offerings due to the crappy conditions of the last month.
We haven't been as close of friends since -- life has moved on, it has little to do with his falling in love -- so I've been unaware of the ins and outs of his daily life.
But I am Facebook friends with both he and his girlfriend. Which means I had to swallow my surprise a couple nights ago when Dave went from being "in a relationship" to "single." Several friends commented on this change: "What?!" and ":-( ".
His next 2 status updates have been, appropriate for a man who lives and dies for karaoke, song lyrics by Billy Joel: "Honesty is such a lonely word." Which in the song is followed by "everyone is so untrue."
Ouch.
Over on his girlfriend's page, she no longer shows the "in a relationship" status but is not advertising the change. In fact, she has a series of status updates featuring exclamation points and platitudes about how much she loves everyone she knows. Which of course could be ironic. But of course I'll never know, because she and Dave will most likely go on being cryptic until this plays out -- one obviously airing his heartbreak, the other obviously not, from which the casual reader such as myself can infer much but know nothing.
And don't get me wrong. I'm not asking to know anything. But they're putting it out there either because they want someone to ask, or because they are people who have shared intimate details of their lives on Facebook and will have to make this announcement in this space at some point .... in which case everyone would ask, and probably make them feel worse.
Which brings me to my deep thought of the day .... that a benefit of the inability to establish a serious relationship of any length is that I never have to break-up on Facebook.
Seems as if it kind of sucks.
(And Dave, if you're reading this, let me know how you're doing ...)
It was after 12:15 and 2 beers that I spoke with Piano Man last night, at his request, our first conversation since Holy Thursday. We went through the litany of our respective weekends and the day just ended, after which I branched into a tale about a former love interest. (One of those times that, when I'm buzzed on high-test stout, it seems essential to spare no detail.) Piano Man, to his credit, murmured assents, commented, urged me to continue. After which I felt sheepish for launching into Karin's Greatest Story Ever mode. And thusly declared, "OK! Your turn! Tell me a story of a love lost!" To which he hemmed and hawed (even clearing his throat) and suggested he did not feel like sharing at present and pointedly returned to subjects we have already worn well -- purchase of a keyboard, rehearsal schedule for the show, his addiction to his local wine bar, and if I've recovered from my cold. AKA, we headed back to the surface. Fair enough -- I had brandished my past lover without him asking, but as a way to share an experience that has made me me. I thought. Which I figured if he likes me as he says he likes me, he would want to know. I similarily want to know more about him. Is this not how it works? The deflation was so acute it pinged in my stomach. His sudden discomfort, equally so. Perhaps he and I are at that point where avoiding the depths is stagnating.
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.
This afternoon, under a crisp midday sun, tempted, I took the elevator down to Stuart Street, walked into Starbucks, and ordered an iced black-eye. And drank it. Not my first Starbucks, but my official first workday-purchased coffee since April 11. Since I had vowed not to purchase coffee during the workdays until next April 11.
Oy.
This evening -- albeit after a day that included a walk, weights class, running and about 12 miles on the bike -- I ate enough baked fish, curry and naan bread (plus most of a bag of BBQ-style potato chips, french vanilla ice cream, fresh blueberries and strawberries and pineapple and mangoes, after drinking several pints of Berkshire Steel Rail Extra Pale Ale) to fulfill the daily nutritional needs of several grown adults. Despite tomorrow being the weekly Bikini weigh-in and only 2 weeks to D-Day.
Eh.
I try to make myself feel better by hoping that no one cares about either of these sins except me. That I'm only writing about them because, at arbitrary points in the last 2 months, I was overwhelmed by self-improvement urges. Which aren't bad in and of themselves .... and I've been about 95% faithful to both.
But for which I'm obviously feeling enough guilt tonight that I have to confess. To you. Who do not (and need not) care.
Well. Some days -- like picture-perfect Tuesdays, at the end of which folks offer to construct masterful skillets full of Indian hotdish and offer their home and company, for which I needed a mini-caffeine boost to stay awake for enough to survive the bike ride home through an ensuing food coma ....
(Got all that logic?)
Damn. I've just got to admit that it was worth ditching the diet(s) today. Totally.
Last night I was on a family e-mail from a relative dealing with workplace budget cuts that may very well result in her longtime job being reduced or eliminated ... familiar language in this climate, unfortunately. After explaining the ups and downs of her last couple weeks, this paragraph:
"In the midst of all of this uncertainty, [my husband] is my focus and centers me. He is unfailingly supportive and will work with me in any direction this all may lead. He sent me gorgeous orange tulips, streaked with purple - in a vase yesterday for my desk.....every time I look at them, I smile.....that is a good thing as having a smile on my face has been difficult lately."
I'm a sucker for stories like this: when a friend or a partner or a lover knows the small thing to do that keeps someone's boat floating for another day. Sometimes, in those depths of March before the first day of Spring, it could be tulips.
.... on the days that, despite working very hard to be equable in face of overwhelming chaos, you manage to directly or indirectly offend everyone you encounter ....
.... from the Southie meter maids ($100 for being too close to an unmarked "handicapped ramp" abutting, of all things, a marked driveway?), to your first direct manager and then your second direct manager and then the sales manager and then his internal sales associate and then one of your service contacts in Tampa and then another service contact at Schwab, followed by the doctor you ended up seeing because your own doctor was unavailable, followed by the office manager at your church, to a recent date who won't answer your e-mail .....
.... and you haven't even gotten to 4 p.m. and think of all the folks you should encounter in the next 8 hours and can't wait to see what kinds of shenanigans you'll resultingly kick up, if trends continue .....
.... do you ever just wonder if the problem is you? ....
..... or, could there possibly be a city-wide conspiracy of dunces pulling the strings to ensure your relative insanity?
With the money I have spent on iced black eyes at Starbucks, Dunkin' and the Diesel Cafe since Labor Day, had I not spent it, I could afford to treat my parents to the comforts of a hotel.
Alas.
So my parents are coming, and we will share my 1-bedroom apartment. I am sleeping on the sofa. They will sleep in my bedroom. With the litter box. And the contents of my nightstand.
Sometime in the next 12 days I need to clean out the contents of my nightstand.
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.
(She's got good taste. I watched this clip, easily, 40 times after work. In fact, I skipped going to the gym because I was caught up in watching NPH delightfulness. It is so delightful I'm going to make you watch it too.)
As you might remember, Kaitlyn is currently my cohort, the director (to my music director) of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown." So I commented thusly, sparking this string o' comments:
Karin: Kaitlyn. I want to marry him too. And I'd like to hire him for our show. Can we?
Kaitlyn: Yes. We can. Who will break the news to [the members of our cast] Matt? And Mike? And Jason? And Rachel?
Mike (who plays Schroeder): I'll willingly offer my spot to NPH
Sandy (Kaitlyn's mother): Love him, too. So why aren't you watching him every week on TV? (Monday nights 8:00 CBS) The rest of the show is ordinary, but - go figure! - he's very fun!
Kaitlyn: Let's see... what am I doing at 8pm on Mondays? Oh yeah. I'm rehearsing a show. And since Mike just gave up his spot, that's what NPH is doing Mondays at 8pm too! Way to take one for the team, Schroeder. ♥
At rehearsal last night when greeting Kaitlyn, I brought up the Facebook posting .... and she smiled, and we sighed in unison ... the unspoken implication being, "he sings, he dances, he acts, he charms, he's stunning, he's witty, he's deft, he's smart, he's rich .... if only he didn't have a live-in boyfriend ...."
Our nearby stage manager, who happens to be lesbian, heard this exchange, to which she added:
"Neil Patrick Harris? LOVE him."
So let's review: 2 straight girls (1 single, 1 not), 1 straight guy, 1 married woman and 1 gay woman ... all in love with the gay man.
NPH is a singular talent and more appealing than the average, gay or straight. Most likely he does not want to marry any of us. Although it is clear we all (pretend to, anyway) think that we would bypass his sexuality in exchange for a lifetime of hanging out with his appealing personality.
Eh. I'm not about to give up male/female sexual tension in my relationship; at least right now, it matters a lot to me. But is there a lesson about priorities in this observation?
The Young Scientist and I used to IM frequently, yet haven't done much since May, caught up in our respective dating lives and other lives.
Our gap wasn't due to anger or repellence, and we had had good chats, so I knew we'd reconnect eventually. Thus, not a surprise to log onto g-mail yesterday to find:
Young Scientist: hmm no dating news in your blog since the disaster date?
Karin: I'm not that swift on the turnaround...
K: I have to revamp and recoup...
YS: the readers demand a sacrifice
K: Such as? (example?)
YS: well not a literal sacrifice
YS: but perhaps you'll have to take one for the team and go on a date
Good point.
I know that one can only take so many stories of post-grad sex chats and old cars (with, BTW, a set of $300 ball-joint repairs my mechanic strongly recommended just this morning) and photos of either a) Henry or b) my toenails.
Young Scientist and I chatted for awhile. We reviewed my months-long experience with Saturday Date Meltdown man, concluding that in this fallout, what I really want rather than a Casual Boyfriend is a Boyfriend Boyfriend.
Meanwhile, YS just ended a relationship and is in the mood to casually date.
Acknowledging that in 7 months we have never made it onto the same dating page at the same time .... we could agree on the refreshment of fresh starts, and that we each should go forth boldly.
OKC may err on the slimy side. But it has, without peer, provided me with copious dating opportunities. I haven't updated my profile from the strong-hands "I'm a cynic" theme since mid-June. And if I want to go for a Boyfriend Boyfriend, I need to say that and stop being so coy.
So that's next on the agenda. The profile rewrite. When I re-do it (this weekend, perhaps?), you'll know about it.
My nephew turns 1 year old today and I'm still a maiden aunt.
Henry & Karin, Cando ND - July 4, 2009
Eh. My relationship status isn't really the point of Henry's birthday, I guess, until he gets old enough to start asking me why I don't show up with an uncle for him to practice WWF neck-breakers on.
You know, the moment where you're writing your rent check and debiting your American Express bill and your other credit card payment from checking and moving over cash from savings because you're recalling that your IRA deposit and gym membership both automatically withdraw before the next paycheck, just then realizing you still haven't bought your bridesmaid sandals for that wedding on August 29 and that you should replenish the cat litter, stat, and while going to get the litter notice that those squeaks emanating from the car brakes-when-stepped-on are probably not the best and, besides, that baby hasn't had an oil change since April, and how you still want to be able to visit the Copley Farmers Market on Fridays and maybe, just maybe, go up to Singing Beach on Saturday, but there is only so much money in savings and there are still 10 more days to paycheck, and then, just then, the landlord writes you quite seriously about the broken washing machine in your basement that for many reasons he wants you to help pay to replace, and you think, I know I am spending way too much at Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts to get my espresso-iced-coffee every morning and from now on, until the end of time, I am going to brew my own iced coffee and keep it in a pitcher in my fridge and add my own half-and-half and put it in a mug and bring it from home and and save that 20 bucks a week.
When you come upon these moments and then you actually try to make your own iced coffee and then you drink it and you want to spit it back in the sink, I implore you.
I'm paying $7.95 for Logan Wifi. Ay. But I feel compelled to do something constructive with my 2 hours (blog? yes!) besides drink Guinness and socialize with the men in suits also spending their weather-related delays drinking Guinness. Or martinis which, come to think of it, don't sound too awful either. This might have to do with the fact that I'm in a non-pick-up-able outfit of yoga pants, purple hoodie, running shoes and unwashed hair.
But hey. My butt is numb from sitting on this linoleum floor watching folks come through TSA security. My thighs are numb from holding up this laptop. And there's Boston Beer Works to my left. And some men in suits there-in.
Anyway, NBC's comedy 30 Rock was playing on the elliptical's attached television. Love this show, written by and starring current everywhere woman Tina Fey: her character is 30-something, writerly, and neurotic....with great legs. Last night she hooked up with a United Nations operative (Peter Dinklage).....whom she meets on a street corner when she approaches and ruffles his hair, maternally, thinking he's a child.
He could be offended. He's not. He responds thusly: (and approximately....hey, I was ellipticalling pretty hard...)
"Should we get a cup of coffee? Aggressive women with a touch of nerdiness are a complete turn-on."
And off they go for coffee.
Hmmmm.... who else do I know that is 30-something, writerly, neurotic, (by some standard) nerdy, and (by some standard) has great legs?
Is it OK to want a boyfriend for no other reason than to have someone guaranteed to stay around at the end of the dinner party to help with the dishes?
(Especially when the bottom of the chili pot has a black crust?)
I love 90.9 WBUR, Boston's NPR News Source. I listen at least 3 hours a day.
I hate their pledge drives. I don't hate that they do pledge drives. But I hate the 15 minutes per hour the announcers shower me with guilt for not more enthusiastically paying them for programming. Especially when it cuts into The Diane Rehm Show.
Nevertheless, WBUR has balls. Granted, their hawkers speak to microphones and sound engineers and not into the faces of donors in a recession. Yet they say: you love our shows. You know you do. You are lucky to have our shows. We need money. Give us money. We'll give you a gift.
WBUR just began their two-week, year-end pledge drive. This morning, I lay half-gone and oversleeping, Morning Edition droning away on my radio. Bob Oakes had just stopped saying interesting things and started lecturing, and I wanted to reach through the clock face and put my hand over his mouth.
Then it occurred to me. WBUR is making the right moves, if WBUR were wooing a potential lover. Direct. Chiding, teasing. Generous with time and attention, and not taking no for an answer. Slightly grating, perhaps. But effective.
To be emulated?
Update, 3:20 p.m.: Please check out the comments...earlier today this post received a visit from a new media guru at WBUR. I hope I assured him there is no personal gripe with their morning news host. I did forget to mention that I've already donated to WBUR this year, a primary reason there's no guilt when ignoring their current pleas.
She rents an apartment in a neighborhood of trendy condos.
Her bike is vintage Raleigh. Her car is from 1991.
The cat's litter box is next to her bed and she doesn't own a dresser.
She likes to make fun of herself.
Occasionally she runs marathons.
And yes, she has to wear glasses. Contacts are not an option.
