Lucky Friday?

Yesterday a colleague who, like me, works in client service for our finance firm incited a lively workplace discussion by suggesting a work pool for the $540 million (and counting) MegaMillions Jackpot:  chip in 1 to 5 dollars apiece and he'll buy as many tickets as he has cash for by 1 p.m. today.

"Regardless if you put in $1 or $5 the winnings will be divided amongst everyone evenly."

This is finance: we're all about return on investment.  One of the Investment Managers naturally replied: "Good idea! However, the line highlighted is a bit troubling for us investment minded folks. Shouldn’t the winnings be proportional to your contribution?"

Client Service: "I figured the investment people would have questions..."

Investment Manager: "Someone has to keep the sales/marketing folks in check!!"

Client Service: "You can trust us Client Service folks, we are known for our GREAT ETHICS!!!"

Compliance Rep: "I thought that was what compliance was here for. :-)"

Operations Rep: "If it was proportional rather than equal would you put more in the pool? If the answer is yes, then go proportional and buy more tickets. If we win, I’ll put together the spreadsheet to divvy it up ;)"

At the end of it all, the pool was my CS colleague's baby, so he kept the (in the words of another colleague) "quasi-socialist" equal-share rule despite the protests of others.  About 25 of us have put in....which means about $27 million pre-tax apiece.  He's getting the tickets this afternoon and will give everyone copies so we can follow the 11 p.m. drawing tonight, ourselves. 

The last couple hours we've been klatching informally about the future of our lives and our firm should the odds fall in our favor....the joke being that if we win, will anyone remain at the firm at all, or will we all put the winnings into accounts that could be managed by each other.

Me?  I might just buy a new car.  And a cabin in the hills of Vermont.  And a condo in Seattle.  And a grand piano and a 'cello and the services of Yo-Yo Ma to teach me to make it sing. And unlimited airfare to Minneapolis from anywhere else in the country so I can see my grandma and play with my nephews more than 3 times a year.  And a guru to meditate with me every morning and lead me through 2 hours of power yoga every night.   And all the Pretty Things Baby Tree Quadruple in stock in Greater Boston, with which I would throw a block party to rival that of the Southie St. Paddy's Day parade.

Crossing fingers, y'all.  Crossing fingers.

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

Friend who blogs

On April 27, Bill sent this Facebook message:

"You've inspired me to start my own blog. Here's the link. Its a work in progress, but I'm having fun with it so far...

Bill writes well, both with authority and self-deprecation. When we drink together (which has been fairly often over the years), he always exclaims over his beverage with the same fervor as Homer Simpson invoking the Duffman. So it's appropriate that Bill calls the site Man Drinks Beer and reviews one new (sometimes obscure) brew per week.

Daresay, I feel like a proud parent. Speaking of, here's yesterday's entry:

"With the hustle and bustle of Mothers Day and my wife's b-day this weekend, I neglected to leave enough time to go out and select a new brew to review. Somehow asking for time to go buy a beer to review for a blog didn't seem very important in relation to these other things. This left me high and dry on Sunday night, until I brought some laundry down to the basement and saw that one last bottle of 2010 Olde School Barleywine, just sitting there all alone on the book case. I dusted it off, popped it in the fridge for 20 minutes, and was ready to drink."

Hope Bill doesn't mind me advertising his work in progress.

Cheers!

Thanks II (for Karaoke and PBR)

It has been something like 3 years since 

Joshua and I went to the Courtside for karaoke.

Fortuitous camera shutter malfunction.

There was a time, for a long time, 

when we used to go every week. 

That was before Joshua moved to New York 

and I started doing other things with my 

Thursday nights.

But Joshua is back in Boston.

My Thursday night was otherwise unoccupied.

Wilson Phillips' "Hold On",
specifically "you got yourself into your own mess..."

So we went, and 

Mark the Shark remembered my name.  

Mary Ellen still brought the beer. 

(I helped pour.)

Vintage cheap draft.

Joshua and I once again lustily belted back-up harmony 

to "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)."

We might be 3 years older,

but we can still put down 

2 pitchers of Pabst Blue Ribbon in 2 hours,

no sweat.

Savoring vintage cheap draft.

And even though Joshua doesn't look like Aaron Neville 

and I don't sound like Linda Ronstadt, 

the DJ let us end the night 

one more time with

"Don't Know Much."

Serious singers.

(Round here)

we stayed up very, very late.

Vintage, my friends.

Sunday night beer

Sunday night was my first date in more than a month:  that in and of itself was noteworthy.

But when my date suggested a Southie dive bar and we ended up at Croke Park/Whitey's, I learned there is a place in my neighborhood where you can buy 2 pints of beer, together, for 5 bucks.

Yes.  This perfectly-poured Guinness cost 3 dollars. 

(My date is drinking a pint of Rolling Rock.  Which, as you guessed, was $2 a pint.)

The second, poured by a second bartender, was equally masterful.  For this round, we bought a handful of mixed nuts out of a vending machine for 50 cents.  There were no napkins nearby, so we improvised.

Maybe it is THIS place I should stop into on my way to work every morning, instead of Dunkin' Donuts.  It's certainly less expensive.

Super scary...

....or, just one of those meddling kids.

Decided to be "sporty Velma" after discovering that no retailer in Boston sells red mini-skirts after Labor Day.  And that no retailer anywhere sells rust orange knee highs, ever.  And that I look really busty in a tight turtleneck.  And that red Chucks are cheaper than red Mary Janes.

As my mother would say .... these are all pieces one could wear again.

The party was chock full of interesting guests (none who realized who I was dressed as -- although several guessed "autumn?"-- and them having to ask started many a conversation) and, as a bonus, featured the host's homemade Altbier, three pints of which went down So. Smoothly.

Yum.

If I'm allowed in my life to have one good Halloween, I'd say this one is allowed to count as that.

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 #6: Slow pain

A recipe for almost letting a run defeat you:

1) Don't get on the trail until 5:28 at night when it's hot .... like 85 degrees hot.

2)  Feel like crap:  Tense shoulders. Headache.  Calf muscles that hate you for no reason.

3) Unwittingly choose a route that forces you uphill, without break, for the first 8 miles.

4)  Miss the turnoff for planned loop out to the Mystic River at mile 6 and don't realize for another 2, inspiring fear of getting lost and forcing the dreaded and often numbing "out-and-back" on the same trail.

5) Starting at the 34th minute, check watch every 2 minutes.  Sometimes every 1.  If the run is to be 160 minutes, it could be the most times you've checked your watch in your entire career.  It doesn't matter; do it.

Hm.

Having survived the experience, what made this run on these heavier-than-thou legs NOT defeat me were the exact qualities that made the first 8 miles excrutiating.

1) Leaving at 5:28 meant that the temperature was headed down rather than up.  So the last 45 minutes were in a cool dusk.

2) Missing the turn at mile 6 meant I spent the whole 16-plus miles on the Minuteman Bikeway.  Which is 95 percent under tree canopy.

3) Out-and-back when the first 8 miles are uphill means that the second 8 will be downhill.

4) There is zero problem getting at stool at the Rosebud Diner in Davis Square on a Saturday night.  I didn't have to worry about post-run aroma smoking out fellow diners, at all.

Dining companions.

6) A diner meal at breakfast does not always include a BLT triple-decker club, saucy potato salad and Harpoon UFO .... which, when consumed simultaneously, will save the experience from ruin.

And the name of the waitress (at left) was ... Karen.

Summer Sundays

It's hard to blog on weekends in the summer. 

Harder than defrosting (truly hard) chicken breasts that have sat in the freezer for 7 months.    Harder than sitting in church when the sun is hot and blazing outside, trying not to fidget during a 30-minute sermon, wishing wickedly instead to be  sunbathing. Harder than getting a date these days.

(Which is really hard, since I haven't been on an old-fashion he-asks-me-out-and-pays-and-might-want-to-go-out-a-second-time date since April.  It might be March.  I do not remember the last time.  Which is ... probably a bad sign.)

Who wants to think about writing?  I'd rather just take a Sam Summer and sit in the Adirondack chair on the shade side of the patio and stare at the impatiens.

But, laziness aside, maybe if I were more diligent about blogging on the weekends, by simple equation, maybe I'd bump up the ease factor on getting a date.

Right? 

OK. Ready, set ....

I love planless summer Sundays like today.  When I slept in until 9, lying heavily in the cool of the air conditioned dark bedroom, hearing the first half-hour of Weekend Edition on the clock radio.  Followed by 30 minutes of power yoga on the patio.  Followed by homemade iced coffee and milk and a cool shower.  Then biking up East Berkeley Street to the Back Bay, no traffic, no need to stop for the red lights.  Wearing the bikini top under the t-shirt with ripped-jean cutoffs and sandals to church, then seeing old friends there, after 4 weeks away.  Catching up with one of those old friends, after what seems like months away, over Pad Thai at Thai Basil.  Decaf iced Americano and the Times, briefly, on the patio of L'Aroma on Newbury.  Over to the empty office to clean a few hours of backlog off the desk, The Decemberists heavily rotating on Pandora.  Feeling good about finishing, which leads to planning a 15-mile bike ride in the early evening (perhaps out to Chestnut Hill and back) through the deserted Brookline streets, to be followed by a 6-mile run once the sun and heat go down, to be followed by a homemade salad of farmer's market lettuce, tomatoes, sqaush and basil (and maybe some defrosted chicken breasts, sauteed in garlic) and a Sam Summer, of course, and then some more sweet, sweet sleep in the cool of the air conditioned dark bedroom.

Ah, not so hard to blog after all.

(Now we'll see if the ease in dating naturally follows.)

Vacation Journal VI: True Vacation

This here vacation has been a vacation in the traditional sense, like I knew it would be .... from work -- cats -- diet -- Boston on the nation's birthday ....

I didn't anticipate a 5-day holiday from the internet.  But wireless connectivity is evidently not common in the cafes and hotels of Prague and the former East Germany.

Which turned out to not at all be a problem. This left plenty of time to visit cathedrals and coffee shops and pull stops for Balint's organ recitals and drink quarts of Schwarzbier (might I highly recommend the Köstritzer?) and realize that I need to learn to spreche Deutsche because it would be cool to be less of an American when in Europe, sometimes, not resorting to pointing to menus and shelves instead of giving pronunciation a go.

All good. Except it did leave this here blog in a bit of back-dated limbo.

Entschuldigung.

A brief photo journal of the trip north from Budapest ... to make amends.

Tuesday

Cobbers reunited .... meeting college choir friend Christoph for a coffee, 

for the first time in 15 years .... in Bratislava, Slovakia's main square.

Ah, Prague!

Ah, Prague! (again)

Sundown refreshment in the shadow of St. Vitus Cathedral.

Wednesday

Evening run through Merseburg, on the river Saale.

Thursday

A musician with the keys to both 

the Merseburg Cathedral organ 

and the 1746 Hildebrant organ of the Wenzelkirche in Naumburg 

on the same day 

... is having the happiest day of his life.

The organist's assistant, listening for balance, inside the Wenzelkirche.

Friday

In the Naumburg square ... after the Weckmann 

and the Bach and one of the world's most revered organs ... 

heading towards beer and the drama of Uruguay / Ghana.

Saturday

Pipes of Concert I - Merseburg.

Pipes of Concert II - Milznau.

Two Schwarzbiers after two concerts ... all in a day's work.

Deep Thought: Ditch the diet(s)

I have sinned.

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.

The patio chronicles (cont.)

It feels sinful to enjoy something 

as much as I enjoy this moment,

out on the patio 

(where else)

reclining on the molded plastic Adirondack

with feet bare 

and legs bare

and arms bare,

wearing jean cutoffs from 1997

and a cotton yellow Target tee (gift of sister)

printed with a big yellow apple

(which shouldn't make it necessarily more comfortable, but does?),

an empty Stella Artois chalice on the ground

(recently full of Sam Adams Cranberry Lambic),

and a belly full of sauteed chicken and mushrooms and balsamic vinegar and green lettuce and strawberries from the Copley Farmers Market,

legs satisfyingly sore from sprinting the tallest hill in Southie not long ago,

WGBH jazz tinny through the screen,

boston.com saying it's still 77 degrees at 1:21 a.m.

(and the thunderstorms they mentioned 3 times in tonight's forecast

nowhere to be found, funny),

and I'm not sad to be here alone, quite frankly,  

with a brain full of anticipation for tomorrow because

it's a Sunday in June

and maybe the storms will hold off and

and there's a bike to be ridden all afternoon

and friends to see and eat and drink with

and concerts to attend .... 

... and the body feels nourished and fatigued 

and as sunny as the yellow apple on my t-shirt

and, sometimes,

life is just good,

for no one special reason.

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.

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.

Two (un)related dating items

Last night I drank a first (2) beer(s) at one of my favorite beer and sandwich spots, The Parish Cafe on Boylston, with a new OKCupid guy. 

He's a post-doc in genetics at Harvard Medical, engineer by training, claims to have practiced yoga on occasion. We met at 10:15 and were both fading by 11:15. But we did manage 2 full hours of conversation -- mostly opinions regarding match.com (too suburban, agreed) and OKC (he trusted the compatibility algorithms, I saw them only as rough guides and gateways), and then an extended, bantering discourse on how he had become drunk off of one Blue Moon and I was still lucid after 2 Left Hand Brewing Milk Stouts.

[I know it's cliche to live in this city and expect high-level academic discourse whenever Harvard (and in last night's case, Stanford and Brown, too.... and, furthermore, what is it about my ability to attract Brown alumni, this being my FIFTH?) comes attached to a date CV. I just don't expect queries about how I might have answered specific questions on online dating quizzes. ]

In any case, after we both relaxed into it, Harvard post-doc and I had a decent vibe not to be totally discounted. I think we will meet up again. He's out of town for a week; when he comes back we'll do a Southie dive-bar crawl. More to follow, perhaps.

In the meantime, I found myself fretting this morning after reading today's "Love Letters" column on boston.com.  The subject:  "She Dotes on Her Men."  The downlow: the author, in past dating scenarios, has "waited hand and foot" on men as her way of demonstrating she cares for them; one of her guy friends has told her to lighten up and "act more equal" and now she's worried that this instinct is "unhealthy."

Then I read through the reader comments to this post, and most agreed that, indeed, she needs to back off and avoid a smother-fest. The following one specifically caught my eye:

"I read a book a while ago, called 'Why Men Love B*tches'. Don't be deceived by the title; she didn't mean you should treat a guy like crap. To quote the author, Sherry Argov: 'Women need to understand that trying too hard and sacrificing yourself turns guys off, and pretty much guarantees you'll be taken for granted and dumped.' Here is a quote from a guy on her website: 'Men need to put in some work to really appreciate what they get. When a woman gives too much, too soon, she is viewed as absolutely positively BORING to men.'

I read this and recalled Claudia's advice from Monday (and from countless previous conversations) about the emotional and situational perils of making myself just the right balance of "available." I recall how I struggle (and frequently worry to distraction) with, when interested in someone, I don't know how to show myself as interested and caring enough, but not too interested and caring.

Oy. Headache.

Over No Hill (thank you very much)

Yesterday I worked through lunch until 6:30 p.m., after which I ran 4 miles and then stopped off at a friend's house to rehearse some songs, before riding the B Line to Allston to hang with a friend and a bunch of his friends while imbibing some truly smooth Atwater Vanilla Java Porter, before riding the B Line to the Red Line to the 15-minute walk home ....

So. By the time I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor and kicked off my shoes, the hour was approaching late and what more could I possibly have been in the mood for after such social frivolity.... but a hop onto OKC to see if anyone was up and in the mood for more social frivolity.

It was a fruitful choice. An acquaintance I'd chatted with a couple times last fall appeared and we fell into a benign, amiable conversation about our shared interests: running (he's an ultra-marathoner) and blogging (which because of his running success, for various reasons, is also a success). At one point, he was talking about a 125-mile run (you read right). I was feeling small potatoes:

Karin: So my 5 miles yesterday is really impressing you, I can tell...

Runner-Blogger: It actually is... I'm always impressed when people get out for a run. Its one of the hardest things to do

K: It's very exhilarating to me .... running, when it feels good. It doesn't always. These last couple of days have felt fabulous, which is always great, because it makes me want to do more.

R-B: I wish I was older. I feel like if I was.. I might actually have a chance with you.

We really hadn't been talking about chances of any sort. Or anything other than running and blogging. Tone-shift 180.

K: ? Do you feel as if you don't?

R-B: sorta..

R-B: I mean.. I'm just a young 28 yr old with a babyface

R-B: still a student, no steady job

R-B: I live an hour from you

R-B: ....

So then, I'm thinking .... why did this man, 28, start talking to me in the first place? And why was it only after talking and determining we had some real points in common, that he decided age was indeed a factor? And why had he already decided that I would never consider him?

OKC's site hosts a blog called "OkTrends," in which they "compile data from the hundreds of millions of user interactions on the site to explore the data side of the online dating world." One of their more recent studies, drowning in data, is called The Case for An Older Woman.

It's a good read and contains many beautiful rainbow charts. I'll leave it to you if you want to. But I like their findings which, as the blog's author and researcher states after a lengthy introduction of men's proclivities to find younger mates:

"I will show that an older woman's attitudes, both about sex and life, are just as good if not better than her younger counterparts', and hopefully I'll convince more guys to venture north of their current age-limits."

Ask and ye shall receive (II)

Last night I went to hear my friend Ben's band(s) play at a club in the Fenway. After the set, I hung with him and his friends at the bar for awhile over a Rusty Nail (him) and Narragansett straight from the 16-oz can (me).

Ben is a talented bass player, so we talked about his success making a living as a musician. He introduced me to his drummer, who works a day job at a local college but rocks out at night. As we sat, guys from the other bands came over, too, speaking the language of riffs and songwriting and artistic freedom.

But after all that I confess that the moment of last night I felt most like a rock star was at 12:57 am, Arlington Street, after the final #9 bus of the night appeared around the corner and I stepped on, only to spy this '68 Mercury Cougar (naturally!) resting on the first available seat.

Under the relative haze of a Narragansett buzz ... no sweeter sight.

*Thanks for the shout-out, UH....

A Tuesday

Yesterday was up and down.

Morning: Mixed performance review at work. Near-tears involved at key moments. Boss comment: "You've seemed a bit off the last month or so. Would you agree? Instead of giving your normal 110%, you're only at, like 90?"

Noon: First ever successful parking ticket appeal at City Hall, resulting in $100 that can now be earmarked instead for coffee. Followed shortly thereafter by acquisition of first ever (110% legal) resident parking sticker, despite my earlier assurances to the contrary, since the process was held up by said $100 parking ticket. As I wrote in text to a friend, "Shazam!"

Evening: Church council meeting. I'm the secretary. 3.5 hours on a folding chair in a Back Bay basement, taking minutes. Although my friend and council colleague, Chris, provided some excellent Flying Dog Ale to make the proceedings go down smoother. Sometimes church business does go better with beer. Although it does certainly go slower.

Late Evening: Ride home from said meeting on the #9. iPod listening choice: Indigo Girls, 1200 Curfews. In the way that sometimes, some nights, some songs just make you, listened harder than necessary to the dressing-room cover of Gerard McHugh's "Thin Line," to wit:

i thought the time was passed when i could
find beauty in the birds
i set the stage and the scenery
rehearsing every word

with my confidence on fire
i set to fixin' up my roles
my separation of desires
just left me deeper down the hole

now i'm tryin to get back
to what i know that i should be
hoping to God that i was just
a temporary absentee

yeah when i tried to make it more
well it was always less
it's a thin line between pleasing yourself
and pleasing somebody else

Very Late Evening. Fried up a $2 steak with onions, tried to pair it with seriously overaged and overchilled Sangiovese from the fridge. Realized with some heavy-handedness that I'm on that thin line a lot these days. Grateful for coffeehouse songs from 1994 that still have truth about the ears.

It's always on day 3 of The Diet ...

... that you find yourself recalling fondly

(perhaps too fondly)

the Sunday night before

The Diet,

at N & C's place,

and the feast of

Minestrone

reheated Hanukkah latkes

(doused with sour cream & applesauce)

and, naturally,

one of the finer Belgian Trappist Dubbels that exists,
breathing out waves of chocolate and fruit,
still calling my name.

Greetings from Minnesota

It's been snowing for 2 days. Christmas just ended. Two days full of Swedish meatballs and prime rib and candy up the wazoo and singing and lounging and driving over the, amazingly, drivable highways of the central part of the state, to the various homes of various family.

Now I'm just back from a late night tromp down the road from my mom and dad's place, here in Buffalo, for fresh air and some quiet after these days of talking. The streets are slushy, so I stayed on the sidewalk. Or what used to be a sidewalk. Tonight it evidently doubled as a snowmobile path.

It's so very Minnesota.

This is a good thing. Minnesota is a good thing. This girl's reflectivenss gene has lain dormant these last several weeks .... stymieing production of a Christmas letter and Christmas gifts and general goodwill to all people. Which is a fancy way for saying that I've been damn crabby.

It's difficult to stay crabby when hanging out with family members who drive through both slush and wind to be there, and the toddler nephew toddles about dressed in a toddler Santa outfit and the red zinfandel is flowing, followed by coffee and then a couple cans of Grain Belt beer apiece and dozens of tangential conversations and so much homemade food goodness there's no room here to elaborate.

Here is when I must recall some folks don't get even one of these many luxuries .... and when I know I must be so. very. grateful.

And then, after all that, I get home safely. And I get to put on the Sperry Topsiders and skate down the snowmobile paths of a traffic-free road as the flakes just keep falling on my bare head and hands.

Crabbiness, begone.