Procrastination is O.K.

I've known my friend Joy for many years and as speech-language pathologist, wife and mother of 2 toddlers, she's as bright and as practical as they come and rarely not on-the-go.  If not in the midst of cooking for friends or working weekends or making her own yogurt, she's organizing large-scale group activities for charitable organizations or her daughters' pre-school.  When she began blogging at Bundles of Joy earlier this year -- writing about her lif e as it is, much as I write about the down and dirty of mine --  I was unsurprised that the medium suited both her opinions and writing skills well.  It's been a lot of fun to read .... and keeps me up on her family's life when all of us are running in a million directions.

Joy is a busy lady. 

I'm usually not as busy as her .... but currently, in a way, I am.  This is the week in April that pops up every year and   I love so much:  the apex of time-sensitive deadlines at work and piles of pending reports-to-mail are as high as my head .... plus the point in marathon training where Saturday runs are 20-plus miles (and this year including trip-planning for Sweden that has been inexcusably back-burnered already) ... plus the point in the musical production where it's all coming together (open in 10 days!) and rehearsal is every night to 10:30 and that doesn't include the bike-ride home or making dinner after. 

Yeah. The week where I feel I don't know my friends anymore and realized I haven't spoken with my parents since mid-March or my younger sister since mid-February and my hands are swollen and my body over-caffeinated and it's only 10 a.m. and already I kinda wish this day was over and I was flat on my back under the covers

That said, I'm not now suggesting that I'm glad to read this entry from Joy's blog from a few days ago. (Joy set herself up promising a weekly Sunday post about her stewardship of various personal details.)  Just relieved that other busy people aren't shy about letting their fatigue show and relaxing the self-improvement regimen we often all impose on ourselves:

Sunday Procrastination Again

I should be writing a blog entry. But instead I'm watching back episodes of GCB and giving a doll a new hairstyle. Actually, I'm trying to make the doll look like she has hair again instead of a nasty frizz puff on her head. I promise to try to write more tomorrow....

And, most nights in the past 10 days, I've been playing Facebook Tetris and Solitaire Blitz instead of writing blog entries. 

So Joy ...... it's OK. 

I absolve you.  :-)

Other girls' (dating) lives

Since my dating life of late has been fairly static, what with MSF around (even if from afar), I fully acknowledge that said details of said dating life are also relatively nil.

So. Well.  This is the time, then, where I direct you to some awesome blogs of women who are writing about their dating lives:

Things Deb Loves .... sharing the nittiest of the nitty-gritty about first and second dates in lengthy, lengthy detail.   Warning:  bathroom humor and much exasperation.   Also, perhaps you have never heard of Freeganism before; read this and you will have.

All the Wrong Cards .... 3 women talk about a bevy of goods, bads, earlies, lates, OKC chats gone right.  The most recent entry contains a reference to a penis made of jello.  I kid you not.

Good Times with Jess ... a local bartender with a boyfriend, a vibrator, 30 pairs of underwear for a weekend ski trip, and a therapist  She's pithy, razor-sharp and overhears a lot of conversations.

Do, please, patronize these ladies' tales.

2-day weeks can be hell ....

...as I discovered today. 

Even on a Friday, with the sun shining.

Some work got done.  (I could not in good conscience or in deference to my employers say otherwise in a public forum. :-)  But body and mind generally resisted all attempts to be motivated.  Apples & pb, my (boyfriend) Ben Folds' Pandora channel, strategic Tetris breaks ....  eh.   It could be that I scheduled my weekly long run of 11 miles tonight after work and ain't really feeling it.  It could be that all of my wearable clothes are dirty.  Or that tomorrow, the snow comes ....  and on Sunday, ostensibly, the cold.

It was a godsend, then, that Student Driver showed up in Gmail chat about 5:30, because she saved me from having nothing to blog about with the following:

Student Driver: OMG
Karin: ....
SD: I'm sitting across from this girl at [local coffee shop]
     for hours
     she needed a seat and
     I said she could share my booth
     barely chat
     then, somewhere, towards the end, we start chatting
     and it comes out that I date men, but used to be gay
     and she vice versa
     and she says....
     (you'll love this)
     ( ...)
     I read this great blog by this girl who was gay
     for 10 years and now only dates men
     LMFAO
     so, I reached my hand across the table
     and introduced myself
     then she .... freaked out
     she said that she always thought I lived in NYC
 K: Well, you have a new blog entry, I guess....;)
     Fun stuff.

Even though I have some good deja vu scenarios because of this blog-- my favorite being when a date I didn't hit it off with went on to use his knowledge of my blog to pick up his subsequent OKC date, not to mention that Student Driver and I share unfortunate carnal knowledge of a certain scraggly Somervillian -- I can't stress how unlikely it is that, as one of this city's thousands of bloggers, Student Driver would be sharing a table at a coffee shop, one of this city's bajillion, with a regular, previously unknown reader .... who would know enough about it to bring it up in conversation with anyone, much less the author.

Worth mentioning, methinks.

Thanks-Essay 5: Mondays, mortality

I read on Facebook this morning that a girl (woman now of course, mother of 3 teenagers) who went to high school with me died yesterday of fast-moving colon cancer. She and I were always just acquaintances and not friends and were never really in touch, but she was a good friend to many of my friends, and since I read the news her face as I knew her then, back in Cando, keeps floating up ... blonde, boisterous, saucer-eyed wild child with the biggest laugh ever, bangs teased to a tower, cadre of equally boisterous and loyal girlfriends with whom to cruise Main looking for the parties, her 80's era sports car a fixture at Bob's parking lot for years.  She could not have known then that this would be how her life would end 20 years later ... although of course, none of us can know the hour or the time of our own ends.

Concurrently, today has turned into a very hard day for 2 of my other friends, coping with their own crushing loss of a similar sort. Watching, listening, wanting to help in whatever way but not knowing how, I am humbled (again) by the resiliency of the human spirit when faced with the things in life that can quickly become awful. These friends are able to, as they often do even in benign circumstances, approach the day with grace and selfless consideration of where it will fit into the larger scope of their lives -- and that in this case, it will somehow shape their futures in the way God somehow means them to be.

Again, can I possibly always remember this -- even in the good times? -- this edict that seems so obvious today, this necessity to live as if you can't know what the next day will bring, or how your life will change, or shape others, or end?

"There are only two ways to live your life.  One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” -- Albert Einstein

Take Back Thanksgiving

I'm a fan (as you can see by the blogroll listing to the lower right) of the highly-trafficked  healthy living blog Carrots 'N' Cake.  The author, Tina, lives on the South Shore and writes several times a day about food, exercise, running, etc. etc.

On Sunday, she wrote a post about her frustration with current society's (mostly retail-based) trend of celebrating Christmas too early, and how it bypasses the arguably longer-traditioned and more-observed Thanksgiving holiday.  Then today she put in a plug for a website by allrecipes.com called "Respect The Bird."  The site implores folks to .... do just that ... and pledge to "restore Thanksgiving to its rightful place as a meaningful, respected American holiday, not one that’s merely a one-day delicious afterthought between Halloween and Christmas."

"Tapping into its original roots—thankfulness, a celebration of friendships, family, and gifts from the earth—Respect the Bird supporters want to create a Thanksgiving experience extending beyond meal planning. It is, after all, one of the treasured holidays that’s not about spending."

Organizers even put out a list of "suggested activities" to keep pledgers focussed on the task.

Corny a bit?  Yeah.  Sure.  But I'll be the thousandth person to admit to feeling nauseous and annoyed  at the sound of Christmas carols in department stores and the telltale red, snowy cups in Starbucks.

So I'm on board.  Please feel so moved to do the same -- even if just in your mind.

A (sort of) Good Poem

There once was a girl
Who had great intentions
Of a great Thursday blogpost

But who was instead
consumed by
work (really!) and
getting ready to leave for
Reach the Beach Relay
(her 5th occasion of)
and ended up with
nothing to say and
no time to say it.

So, instead
she will
just post
a photo of the
Bubbly Sex Pot

(at Prohibition in downtown MSP)
and the
(inebriated) feet
of the 6 girls
who drank 2 of them
and lived to tell the tale.

(She realized it had been a
good party and
she'd never
told you about it.
You can guess
which one is her,
if you want.)

And
she'll see you again
on Sunday
(20 miles o'running
worse, or better,
for the wear).

Fri-day Par-tay

What
with
more market tanking (hooray!)
and
more obstinate political discord (no way!)
and
more flooding (damn hurricane season)
and
more terrorist threats (anniversaries, schmaniversaries),

it's
a relief
to see
the sun
and some
blue-sky
relief
this afternoon.

Seems appropriate that came
just as I'm
to get on a plane to MSP
and hang with
Cousin J
in celebration of her
wedding-to-be.

(She and I have always been
great partiers, natch.)
 


Oct 2002 -- Minneapolis
Red Zin in HS prom goblets 

Jan 2009 -- Washington DC
Inauguration meltdown

May 2011 - Columbia Heights, MN
Afternoon delight (w/Kristin & Missy)

Besides.

Haven't been to a
bachelorette party
in ages.

See ya on the other side...

Farewell to (a necessary) evil

I've been in mourning these past weeks:   Jakki, the kick-ass instructor for my weekly weight-lifting class, the kicker-of-my-wimpy-ass on every Tuesday afternoon for the past 18 months is no longer teaching at my gym after today.

It's said that the best are always the first to leave and, well....  Seriously.   Jakki gets full credit for any and all muscle tone I own.  Relentless, demanding, creative, fun, aggravating, goading, with a buff physique only attributable to doing everything she's doling out, and -- oh, yeah -- evil.

As in, the first time I went to her class in November 2009, I. Hated. Her:

"On my gym's website, Jakki's bio states that she enjoys challenging participants with a safe but intense workout. "My favorite part of teaching isn’t the music or the exercises, it’s the smile I see when people leave class feeling better about themselves and more confident to take on a new challenge…maybe another class!”

What Jakki's bio didn't say: "I like to stride around the room when you're on the 13th minute of the 15-minute non-stop abdominal workout and shout out, 'I know what I'm asking you to do is evil. Who thinks I'm evil?! I don't hear you! Who thinks I'm evil! You will thank me later! You will!"

I'm thanking her now ... with fond regret.

20-minute Monday: Gluttony

Walking down Elm Street tonight, into the center of Davis Square, I was trying to imagine how I would reflect back on a night like this. One of my best friends is at the hospital with his wife, preparing for their daughter to be born. Earlier, I both cleaned out my clothes closet for the first time in a year and still found time for yoga in Thomas Park in a gusty wind, with storm clouds threatening.


Made veggie curry in the crockpot, too. Go figure.

Now, I've got the Times sports section in front of me -- Nadal at the Open! -- and a fragrant bourbon, mint and ginger concoction to my left here at the bar. I just ate some Jonah crab claws and a BBQ chicken sandwich with apple coleslaw and fries. (Kind of but not really saving room for when Student Driver and I meet for ice cream later.) As I've been eating and drinking, the Man from San Francisco and I are texting images back and forth as if we were dining together: he's seen my cocktail and claws; I've seen his crusty sourdough, cheese spread, TCHO citrus dark chocolate and Big Daddy IPA, as clear as if it were in front of me and not 3100 miles to the west. We're calling these messages "food porn." I seem to have forgotten the potential sensuality of this medium, until now.

Everything about this day just seems right. The luxury in the good joy of friends, in the occasional gluttony, in girlfriends to talk shit with and boys to talk food with, in thunderstorms threatened but not materializing, and in (what I think I've deduced now as) relief at the forecast of a rewarding September, making short work of whatever past gloom has pervaded this so-called last day of summer.

Monday, September 5 (9:16-9:36 p.m.)
Davis Square, Somerville

Sunday numbers

Proof 

that I rose from the dead at 

6 a.m. 

and drove to Gloucester to 

(alongside Anne and Chris)

complete a

7-mile road race at

8 a.m. in

62 minutes flat and in

80 degrees and 81% humidity,

that produced approximately 

8 liters of sweat

(from me alone).

Pretend fisher(wo)men

Then,

as I dodged the
100s of tourists
to get out of town for
the 43-mile drive home,
my car stereo quit.
One minute on,
one minute off.
Forever.

Should have seen it coming:
for 2 weeks
I couldn't switch stations;
( WUMB 91.9 Folk Radio,
all the time, baby!)
it was original to the car,
and the car is 20.

I can't decide why I'm
10 times more upset
over this loss than
the impending demise of
the rest of the vehicle.

20-Minute Monday: Coffee dream

Yesterday afternoon it was drizzling and muggy outside and I was on Newbury Street and inside L'Aroma Cafe, ordering an iced red eye and looking at the help wanted sign.  At that moment I really, really wanted to just say, "I'll do it.  I'll pull espressos and dish quiche for 9 bucks an hour alongside a bevy of open-faced college kids, all completely hipper than thou (and me)."

The place is cozy and bustling.  The manual labor once again -- says she of the years of table-waiting provenance -- seemed like it might be cathartic and relaxing all at once.  My feet would probably blister over from standing long shifts like that again ... my back too.  (Student Driver, who works in hospitality and would love to get out, confirms this job doesn't get better with age.)

But I've always envisioned working as a barista, especially in a pseudo-European stop-off like L'Aroma, as a great romantic ideal:  tossing a decent (and decent-paying) job for cheap living and the adrenaline and good company of a coffee shop.  Kind of like in the movie In Her Shoes ... when Toni Collette's dowdy, uptight corporate lawyer quits the firm and hurls into life as a dog walker.   A move that puts apples in her cheeks, loses her 20 pounds, and gives her courage to relax and persuade her (extremely) hot male friend to date and marry her.

Yeah. It's a chick flick: idealized, unrealistic in its happy ending.  I still kind of want it, though.  Even if could physically walk 5 dogs at once.  Even I could afford to do it.

This afternoon I took a break at Starbucks for a hang with Claudia ... and, otherwise lacking a notebook, thought it would be cute to steal recyclable beverage napkins to write this post on. Then Claudia and I got (predictably) chatty and I had to get back to the office without doing so. Now I'm sitting here after the closing bell, in my office's 28th floor lobby, its windows covered in water, the Charles obscured by the mist rising from the downpour coming down for hours already.  Starbucks naps are not only proving impractical (lots of ballpoint drag), but now feel precious and not worth the effort.  So I'm writing my wanna-be-barista post on a corporate-themed notepad, in a leather armchair, dry, mentally preparing for yoga, enjoying the comfortable view, and realizing I'm also kind of OK where I'm at.

The napkins will do fine with tomorrow's oatmeal.

-- Monday, August 15 (5:20 - 5:37 p.m.)

the 28th Floor

He who can't be loved.

My friend Student Driver has been writing about a man she calls Type Geek for as long as I've known her writing.   This morning she wrote about him again in a post titled "One Last Time."  Because after 14 months of pushing and pulling, he's pushed her away again because he feels he has to, and this time is the (ostensibly) true end.

"We had an intensely passionate last few hours, we held each other tightly afterwards and slept for an hour, curled into each other, hands touching. In my hallway, we hugged. Longer and tighter and with more emotion than I have ever felt from him. He thanked me for everything. I told him that while I knew he wouldn’t, he knew where to find me, if ever…   Last night was the most senseless loss I have ever experienced. All because one little boy grew up thinking he was inherently not worth loving."

I'm sad for him ... that he knows that he holds people at length and can't get around it.  I'm sad for her more -- because she had to acknowledge that she was capable of loving someone unconditionally but that doesn't mean he's capable of loving back. 

I give Student Driver props; she's taken nothing about this situation lightly. Or for granted. For 14 months she's lived it from all angles -- as the aggressor, as the patient one, as caretaker and lover and sounding board and compatriot and in the end, the heartbroken one. 

And she writes so eloquently about her heartbreak it's difficult to not be heartbroken for her, especially as she walks away with grace.

Always a bridesmaid....

Last weekend was Joshua's wedding, August of 2009 was Justin's wedding, and in 6 months I'll be standing up for Cousin J and her husband-to-be.

These 3, among select others, are 3 of the dearest people to me. I'd be lying if I didn't confess to mixed feelings at their marriages ... in all 3 cases, gratefulness for their loves and the undeniable fact that our relationships by necessity will / did / could change.

It is a difficult emotion to express without it coming out like jealousy.

Which is why when I read this "Coupling" column in the Boston Globe this weekend, I could relate:

"Surely I can’t be the only person who feels like weddings are a bit of a rejection – two people announcing in public that they love each other more than they love you."

But instead of succumbing to unhappiness, she goes on to suggest that there should be likewise celebration of friendships.

"Can we just take a moment to marvel at the fact that there are people in this world willing to chip in for your birthday cocktails and hold your hair back after you disappear them, even though there is zero chance you’ll ever give them grandchildren – or hickeys?"

Which I liked. I know I've oft marveled at Joshua (scholar and singer), Justin (performer and producer) and Cousin J (traveler and tough-love) in this space. None of them have given me hickeys. But even though things have of course changed, none stopped being my friends since finding their better halves.

Which for a cloudy Monday, isn't a bad sentiment to marvel at.

Cookies!

I know I said I would make the effort not to be a Single Girl Whining About Love Life Issues.

But.

One of my least favorite things about being single is that a tour of my bed more often than not reveals my laptop, an outdated New Yorker, at least one cat (usually with rear end on my pillow), a popsicle wrapper, and me. Very rarely, lately, another human being. And even then, not usually one I'm able to sleep comfortably next to.

So yeah. I kind of miss having a human bed buddy.

My old theater friend, Fran, luckily, was reading my mind this morning. Now an LA-based singer-songwriter, she posted this link on Facebook about how when a guy doesn't show up when he said he would, she makes do with cookies. And then, eventually, how she realizes she might prefer the latter to the former.

Other than thinking that Keebler Elves have cornered the market on sexy, I can relate.

I like to make the best of a shit situation.
I used to wash it down with a tasty libation
But now I've found another way around
My single bed and its cold and lonely covers.
I can warm it up without your smothering arms around.
Here's a little trick I've found.

I'm eating cookies in bed 'til you come over
Crumblin' up the sheets 'til you roll me over
You're sweet, but not like my cookies.
I'm eating cookies in bed without a lover
Lickin' up the chocolate beneath the covers
You're sweet, but not like my cookies.

Help (oh help)

Last night at Courtside Karaoke was a night I might construe as "slightly too much fun."

As in ... glad for a hearty supper that helped soak up the tequila and 3 pitchers (oh yes, indeed) of PBR that helped celebrate the upcoming birthday of Joshua, who thankfully helped share in those 180 ounces of fun until past last call.

Snaps to Random Blog Reader, then, for saving me from having to think too creatively today. Last night she forwarded a link to a blog that compiles the Best Real Perplexing Pick-Up Lines from match.com.

Or, as the subheading suggests:

how to fail miserably at online dating. we couldn't make these up if we tried.

It is only because I'm both taking a break from cynicism and gave up on the overearnest unproductiveness of match.com quite some time ago that I can laugh at these. RBR suggested in her accompanying note that I could "probably relate to 90% of these."

Indeeed, she is correct. Some samples:

From May 20:  I was reading the most interesting article about how men and women fall in love differently. And it was saying that men (being the visual creatures that we are) usually feel an attraction first, but that women, by contrast, usually feels a “connection” first, then subsequently becomes more “attracted.” I mean, you know that kind of special connection you sometimes feel…that mysterious compelling click that takes place right THERE. Well, being the mere “male” mammal that I am, I must confess to being rather “attracted” to the photo in your ad, but then felt, “connected” to the words you wrote to accompany it. After all, intelligence is beauty in its purest form. Am I right?

From May 13:   Have you ever talked to a very submissive guy before? Would you give me a chance to entertain you?

From May 11:  I share your passion and affinity for great music, I am a very well dressed gentleman in great shape since I came out of the fashion business and I’m extraordinarily creative in my profession and I like a woman who knows what she wants in man just like a hungry lion who has an avarice appetite without Filet Mignon for a month.

From April 20:   You’ve just reaffirmed my wish to be a dog in another life. No, not the type of guy women refer to with disdain as “a dog”; I mean an actual English Bulldog. I mean they get it all: head-scratches, free food and drink, and as your picture shows, the adoration of multiple beautiful women. Other guys want to be Astronauts or Presidents; I want to be a dog. Ah, if only life were so simple. What kind of animal would you like to be?

From April 13:  What silly idiot let you get away! ;-) I have a feeling someone didn’t wear his helmut when he rode the short bus to school! haha just wanted to say hi ;-)

Day 19 of 31: 4 miles

May Total: 38.56

2011 Total:  250.76

Good idea

Meghann and I did check out Telegraph Hill Saturday night, which was fine.

But we also braved the genuinely local scene at Sullivans across the street (complete with two inebriates attempting to pick us up as a pair) and stayed until the wee hours at Quencher's Tavern on I Street.  And I think we both agreed that Southie should forget about trying to upscale its pubs and stick to dive bars.  Cheaper, livelier.  More real.

It was while on the stools at Quencher's that Meghann interrupted whatever gripe-ridden story I was telling to proclaim:

"I think you are ready for a major shake-up."

As in job. Neighborhood. City.  Church.  Or something to pull me out of my sense of stagnation that feels potentially un-ending.

Two days later, and I'm still thinking about her proclamation and what might be required to have one occur, and what kind.

Because I like the idea.

Day 20 of 28: 3.25 miles

February Total: 41.01

2011 Total: 91.01

Never hurts to ask

I was glad

Random Blog Reader

weighed in yesterday

with her suggestion on

Central Bottle's

Thursday Wine Bar.

What fun, for $14.

(And in Cambridge, too.)

RBR and I

got caught up on each other's lives

after long absence

and tried

falanghina

romorantin

schioppetino

and

gagglioppo.

Then
we went down Mass Ave
to find
Miracle of Science
to full to sit down,
but the night was warm
so we walked further to

ZuZubar,

home of the shaggy, friendly bartenders

(we discovered)

and had

empanadas and black olive paste with labenah

and beer.

Refreshing a dormant friendship.
New places to hang.
Weather that melts snow.

A good Thursday night.

Day 16 of 28: 3.35 miles

Day 17 of 28: 2.15 miles

February Total: 33.65

2011 Total: 83.66

New friends

Thirty-seven is
(not)
too old
to participate in an
all-day
pub crawl.

Or
at least 5 hours
of the one I hit up
Saturday,
with its hundreds of
20- and 30-somethings
wearing t-shirts from
Iowa, Michigan,
Penn State, Illinois,
Minnesota (hooray!),
the friendliest folks
you'd ever meet.

(All alums,
but not ribbing me
for not being
an alum.)

Folks who would be
that friendly anyway,
even if not
filled to the brim with
trash talk
and
Bud Lite.

After this
august occasion
(beer-induced
gut rot aside),
I told my friend L
how much fun I'm having
becoming better friends
with her,
and actual friends
with her Michigan crew,
all
uniformly friendlier than
they have to be.

And that it's
no knock on my
old friends.

But
new friends
are
good for the soul.

Day 30 of 31:  3.15 miles

Day 31 of 31: 2.2 miles

January Total:  50.01

Weekend observations...

....from a Monday in the deep freeze.  (The river I wished I had to skate away on, thusly materialized. Now if I just owned skates.)

1) Thank heaven. 

Just in time for sanity, friend L reconstituted Rooftop Thursdays into Fireplace Fridays ... the second of which I hit up at posh Post 390. Remembered all the Michiganders by sight, a few by name. Sociability level still high. And 2 glasses of riesling took the edge off my getting-dumped pissiness. Resulting in multiple animated conversations with multiple eligible bachelors of all ages and professions, one of whom said as I was leaving, "you're coming back next week, aren't you?"

Indeed.

2) Diet be damned.

Between Wednesday and Saturday I ate an entire jar of peanut butter straight from the spoon in addition to all other regular meals.

But I still fit into the dress Saturday night.

So ha.

3) Good point.

Joshua came to my cabaret performance Saturday night, after which we stopped for a beer at People's Republik on Mass Ave in Cambridge. During which I expounded at length my frustration at men in their 40s with self-involved lack-of-commitment annoyingness. To which he listened patiently and then replied: "I know that he dumped you via wishy-washy e-mail, but would you have preferred he instead just disappeared and said nothing?"

Of course not.

3a) Good point #2.

During same conversation, we recalled one of Joshua's ex-girlfriends .... a relationship that was notorious between us at the time for me thinking he should break it off and him kind of also thinking so, but unable to drop the axe for something like a year. To which Joshua noted: "Isn't finding the words to end a relationship you want to end one of the hardest things to find words for?"

Of course.

3b) But still.

Even further into same conversation, I talked for 10 minutes without pause about my frustration with unrealistic pre-expectations and lack of patience in dating among folks my age, set in our habits and ways as we are and unwilling to compromise. As in, with Sunday-Night Man, how I felt he and I, from what he told and showed me, were 80 percent compatible .... not perfect, enough for me to want to see him and get to know him better .... because who on this earth is 100 percent compatible with anyone?

Yet he wanted 100 percent compatibility and immediate emotional connection without putting in the face time. Four dates spread out over 12 weeks is not going to breed emotional connection, and he did not choose to make himself available for more.

I'm no longer mad about Sunday-Night Man. Yet I'm concerned most men his age will continue to be like him. And all I can see on my horizon is frustration ....

.... unless I, too, learn some further patience.

4) Relationships, too, sometimes suck.

After long hiatus, I reconnected yesterday with Student Driver .... because I noticed she hadn't blogged in eons and eons. And discovered that, sadly, it has much to do with her current angst with her current love.

When feeling pissy about one's relationship status, it is often helpful to remember that fustration is not limited to the dateless.

(And hope that Student Driver's man shapes himself up.)

5) So do delayed Christmas cards. 

If you're still waiting, you might be getting one today .....since I finished writing and mailing another 20 last night.

Only 40 more to go. Only a month behind. Only for sure going to finish this week.

(Sorry for sucking.)

I stand corrected

In the interest of full disclosure, I must amend a previously asserted inaccuracy in regards to my outing a few weeks ago with Student Driver:

"I cannot top her with the sheer number of different men I've dated in the last year."

This morning I did some calculating and got back to her with concrete numbers, and she got back to me with some too.

Me: 15 (for a total of 29 outings. Thirteen containing quality-and-more make-out sessions. And one or more dates pending with Sunday-night Man, whose schedule might just be freeing up.)

Her: 34 (and, she's ending the year with the one she's been seeing regularly since July.)

She wasn't lying when she suggested I might be off in my estimation of victory. Snaps, my friend. Thirty-four men in 7 months is full-press dating.

Is less than 3 dates per month a lame average? Perhaps. Regardless, it wasn't unenjoyable to scroll back through the many hots and colds that have brought me to my current state of lukewarm:

-- The months of July and August .... where I was entirely dateless but super-social, including dozens of fruitless nights fantasizing on chat with HBI and doing the Rooftop Thursdays thing that produced dozens of new friends, mostly from the great state of Michigan.

--Valentine's Day Weekend .... when I didn't have a date but found myself first consoling a good friend who had just gotten dumped, only to end up in a hot embrace with another friend who didn't deserve it because he was part of the reason for friend #1's dumping and the hot embrace developed while he was apologizing to me for his role in said dumping, only to then end up more-or-less dumped by the man I was actually kind-of seeing and for no reasons related to my hot embrace with friend #2. Oy.

-- March / April / June/ October .... whose make-out sessions with C-2 must still be deemed the wickedest and most dramatic (Spy Pond grass or handprints on the windshield, anyone?) and, despite his flake-out at the finish, still the most visceral. I'm still working out why, and why I'm still attracted to him in spite of him.

-- My general failure to have dated any men this year because of politics. Or work. Or church. Or musical endeavors. Or bikini-wearing.  Or running (when allowed to spend 2 days bonding in New Hampshire with a vanload of talented runner-engineers, discovering only one would be single and he would not be interested). Which are the activities I spent the most time doing. Evaluation of my activities may be in order.

In any case, please swing over to Student Driver's blog entry summing up her year of Learning to Drive Stick.  Do congratulate her. After trying on 34 men, would you agree she might be able to shed her training-permit status in the new year?

(And, SD, please take that as a compliment.)