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

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

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

I have exhausted my ability to comment.

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

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

Done (writing)

tonight.

I think

I wrote

200 e-mails

today

(that dealt with at least

100 issues

during the

11 hours

spent at the office,

most of those writing),

and while

such productivity

(and of course the need for it) is

good for business,

it's surely

bad for blogging,

because at this hour,

all I want to do is

drink my Guinness and

take an Advil and

sleep,

since

in not so many hours

I must get up

and write

200 more e-mails,

probably.

Cheers.

Dateline: View from the Office 4/27/10

7:16 p.m.

If you've gotta stay late,

at least be thankful for sunsets after storms and

Comm Ave dressed in lime green

and being 28 floors up.

Stasis, thy name is mud....

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

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

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

But damn, did it break the seal.

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Girl Friday?

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm solely to blame

My head gives advice that my heart ignores

I'm my only enemy

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

And dateless on a Saturday night?

Seem to have found some parallels of my own.

And controlling (evidently?)

I know, I know.

I know.

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

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

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

Something I said?

Jeez.

Hot (evidently)

From today's OKC inbox:

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

From a man whose profile contends:

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

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

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

The YMC: Update #1

Those of you who know me well, stand back:

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

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

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

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

Either way. 

Week one, accomplished.

Tired, tempted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K:  Ah. Well that's kind.

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

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

AB:  I see.   Hmm...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm.  Insomnia sucks.

Grateful (IV)

Thief steals computer.

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

Purchase new computer.

Dig through backlog of CDs to populate new iTunes library.

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

Download into iTunes.

Sync iPod.

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

O know to end, as to begin :

A minute's loss in love is sin.

These humors will the night out-wear

In their own pastimes here ;

You do our rites much wrong,

In seeking to prolong

These outward pleasures :

The night hath other treasures

Than these, though long conceal'd,

Ere day to be reveal'd.

Then, know to end, as to begin ;

A minute's loss in love is sin.

Realize that Ben Jonson is an effing poetic genius.

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