"Nobody puts Baby in the corner."

Lenny....

We're gonna miss you buddy.

http://www.slate.com/id/2111540/

[Other L&O-related journalistic meditations. In tribute the behemoth for which we all have undying affection. Yes, this of course comes from the girl that decided that the 3 months that she has before law school are better spent watching hours upon hours of L&O re-runs than getting a job. Who needs money anyway? Besides, what is better preparation for the practice of law in the real world, than a drama where the cases are always investigated in half an hour, and tried in the following thirty minutes. That's the way things work here... ha.]

http://www.slate.com/id/2073983/
http://www.villagevoice.com/issues/0415/essay.php

Okay, so let's nip this thing in the bud.

Since the beginning of time, I have always spoken like this. Well, I suppose in this medium, the better term is communicated. Then again, wouldn't want to scare anyone with the appropriate usage of a polysyllabic verb being thrown in here and there.

I love words. As I think I have declared (or "professed", if you like) before, I am a total vocabulary slut.

Totally get off on big words.

Especially big word from unexpected sources.

Truly a butter-melting proposition.

Yummy.

How so?

Example:

In my formative tween years, watching an interview of Steve Young, the 49ers QB, after a game, not only accepting repsonsibility for a last minute loss (oooh, personal responsibility and admitting one's shortcomings - how utterly delectable) but using the following phrase: "Clearly, I am disappointed in myself. The onus is on me to make sure we win games."

The man is a professional athlete, in the NFL no less, and he used the word "onus" - I love it.

(Of course I learned in intervening years that this probably was not such a big deal, in that Young in fact was a closet "Esq." - plenty on time riding the bench behind J. Montana apparently left him with too much time on his hands - but nonetheless, it was a big deal at the time.)

All of this being said, there are certain truths which my large vocabulary (aka hefty lexicon, if you will) have made self evident:

(1) A Little Bit of Knowledge is A Dangerous Thing: Like Joey on Friends it will be obvious if you have been speed reading your Thesaurus as of late and are dropping big words in order to appear smart. Yes, Smartysaurus, just keep in mind that your efforts will be big, lumbering and awkward and therefore will leave you completely obvious to all those you want to impress, and completely perplexing to those you do not.

I have, on occasion been accused of such behavior, but that is simply not the case: (1) because I have been talking since this way since I was 3, (2) I have been made fun of for talking this way since I was 3, (3) who would keep talking this way voluntarily, under such abuse, clearly it is not a dating-magnet (see #3 below).

I am dorky, I admit it. The only beauty of that state for me, is that my dorkiness is completely effortless.

(2) Hearing is Believing: You came across a new word. You like it. You have figured out its meaning from context, and it appears to be fairly utilitarian. You go about your day. Suddenly, there is there is the golden opportunity. Your new word would fit just like a hand in a glove in the middle of this choice conversation you are having with your best buddies and [INSERT PERSON YOU WANT TO IMPRESS HERE - i.e. hot dating prospect, potential new boss, your first dinner with your in-laws]. You aim. You shoot. You score. *Ahhh* *The crowd goes wild*

Wait, why is everyone looking at you funny? Pained sympathetic forced smiles were not what you were going for. What is the deal?

Apparently, you only read your new word before using it. You never heard it. The result: Proper context, improper pronunciation. Dead give away the word is new. Making you look like an utter poser.

Examples from daily life (in italics - spelled phonetically):

- "Where did you get that carrot?" "Oh, off of the crew-dite platter over there."

[Ooh, that one has to hurt. CORRECT WAY: Crudite = Crew-dih-tay]

- "Things were going smoothly, until suddenly our plan went awe-ree."

[This has the additional blow that it will probably also generate puzzled looks from your conversation-mates, in that it will take them a couple of seconds to figure out what the hell you actually meant. CORRECT WAY: Awry = Uh-rye or Ah-rye]

- "You know, if you were going to try not to call attention to yourself, you probably should have worn something more sub-tull than a bright yellow ALF tee-shirt."

[Doh! Oh, the irony. CORRECT WAY: Subtle = Suddle]

- MY FAVORITE (from an A&W Root Beer commercial): "I think I am more than qualified for this job Mr. Dumb-Ass. I would really appreciate it if you hired me Mr. Dumb-Ass. When will I hear back from you Mr. Dumb-Ass?"

[Fade back to name plate on desk reading "Mr. Dumas"]

"It's Mr. Doom-ah-ss."

Hee.

(3) Friends Don't Let Friends Converse Drunk: So this girl walks into a bar... She is accompanied by a couple of her female partners in crime. The PICs get approached by a group of guys. Dutifully, the girl plays wingwoman, as she should. She converses about this. She chats about that. Some pleasant inane laughter thrown in here and there for effect. She must keep the guy interested enough that he won't leave and persuade his mates who are talking to her PICs to do the same, yet she stands there wondering if it bothers him as much as it bothers her that she can see straight over the top of his head. Then again, this gives him a prime view of her twin hillside real estate, so I suppose, he is neither bothered nor listening to her, really. Until... She makes as statement about "people's proclivities around the office" or some such thing. He throws a stop sign into the whole conversation with a turtle-like thrust of his head forward (uncomfortably close to aforementioned hillsides) but far enough away to afford her a direct view of the quizzical tilt of his head and the befuddled look on his face. "What does that mean?" he gurgles out. Okay, "proclivities" - got it. It's a $2M word. SAT type material. Not general fodder for Saturday night conversation. No big deal. Back away. Recoup. Try again. "Tendencies?" she hopefully intoned. Some squinting on his part. Tilting of the head the other direction. A throat clear. And again, "What?" This time louder and more emphatic. Oh dear Lord. Is he serious? Oh man, he is nothing but. Her voice cracking with the hope against hope that this was not in fact all there was of the dating scene, she managed to croak out: "Like habits?" Silence. Breath held. She needed this to work. She was standing ankle-deep in the shallow end of the pool of words in this category. There was nowhere to go from here. She began to desperately imagine how one might act out "habits" using shadow puppets, a bar napkin, and a half eaten olive. Then again, she might just have to aim that plastic sword-shaped swizzle stick in her drink at her own eye. Oy - self inflicted pirate attack. That would definitely be a new low. Then again, at this point... Anything to get out of this conversational quagmire.

And then the slow motion cam of life set in:

He rocks back on his heels. His head is moving. She thinks it may be, yes, it appears to be moving up... and then down again...and then up... and then down. And he is saying something now.

"Ohhhhhhhh, ooooooh-kaaaaaaay."

Thank god.

She was never sure if he had really ultimately understood, or if he had finally gotten with the program that when you are chatting up chicks at a bar, even if you don't understand, you just nod and smile, nod and smile. Saturday night, four cocktails deep (at least), perception definitely becomes reality.

The only reality for her that night was the uneven (and oftentimes) frightening quality of the people on the dating scene.

Ultimately, the wingwoman flies alone.

For reference, here is the text of an e-mail I sent to my oldest brother shortly before Thanksgiving:

Sent: Tuesday, November 23, 2004 5:26 PM
Subject: Hey

Hey there,
I hope you are doing well. I would call, but I assume you wouldn't pick up the phone if you saw it was me (yes, I admit it - guilt trip implied). I figured I would write you an e-mail in the hope that you might actually read it, and maybe even respond. I know you have been busy - I understand that, believe
me. It is difficult to stay on top of things when you appear to be cramming an activity into every waking moment of the day. Totally been there - that is
usually the story of my life. That being said, remember that there are folks out here who like to just make sure you are alive - so the occasional 2 line e-mail confirming that would be much appreciated. Funny thing is that when people start to worry about you, the first thing they seem to do is to call me. They are always disappointed when I don't have any news to share. It then worries me that *no one* has heard from you. I then try to get a hold of you and I can't, and, well, it worries me even more. Would that I could write you off and not worry about you, but you are my brother and I love you, and so I will always be
concerned for your health and well being. Anyway, I am sending this before Thanksgiving because I would love to see you (as would many other people - it would mean a lot, lot, lot to mom). It wasn't meant to be a scathing and awful letter. I hope you don't take it as such. I am just frustrated with the fact that you won't talk to me (I am not really sure what it is I did wrong), and I wanted to let you know that I hope you are coming home.

Talk to you soon??

I then signed it. (Tricky, tricky - I left my name out here... Oh, I am a sly one).

Over the top? Scathing? Demanding? Bitchy? I don't think so. At least, despite all of my aggravation with him, it was not what I was going for. Heavy on the guilt-trip factor, but, at least it was admittedly so. I really, sincerely, just wanted a reply.

He is my brother after all. We have been related for my 27 years of life, and almost the entirety of his 29 (nearly 30) years on this planet. We used to talk, if only infrequently. When I placed a call his direction, he picked up. When he was in town for his birthday, we hung out. Unthinkable, I know. And yet...

Then it all changed. With the onset of summer, apparently came a change of heart. He decided to break up with his girlfriend of three years (a long distance situation) by simply ceasing to speak to her. A hysterical type, she calls me concerned for his health and well being, frightened that he is missing. A quick spot check of the family (immediate and extended) reveals no one has spoken to him in a couple weeks (though this is not unusual). She then calls campus police. (My older sibling's addiction of choice is not designer drugs nor gambling incessantly nor even mainlining Starbucks coffee drinks, he is addicted to higher education. Though only moderately higher - he is in year 13 and school number 4 of his undergraduate education. His receipt of a degree is now seriously meriting consideration for the ultimate sign that the apocalypse is upon us. The Red Sox won the World Series before he has graduated for God's sake. Maybe he has a Ruthian curse upon him. Nah.) The campus police are wary of a claim that a near-30 year old man has gone missing after 27 hours, but they check it out. His roommate says he is not around but he will give him the message. Does she take comfort in this? No. The running theory then becomes the roommate must have killed him.

Clearly, she (and I suppose I, for ultimately joining in her hysteria) have been watching too many Lifetime movies of the week. I figured he did not want to talk to her and, as such, was ignoring her calls. I assumed, however, that he would talk to me.

Well, in assuming, I did make an ass of myself, but I did not make an ass of him - he already took care of that. Nearly a week and a half, 50 odd calls to his cell, one more call to the campus police, several impromptu faux-therapy sessions for his GF, numerous sleepless nights, and surfing the travel sites for a deal to fly down and look for him - I get a call from him.

So swamped. So unavoidable. Couldn't be helped.

But not "so sorry."

Though in my relief, I didn't hear that part - the loudest part of our conversation, that which was unsaid - at the time.

I just swam in the refreshing pool of my relief. I told him to call the GF. It was his responsibility. It was just what is right.

He never did it.

He broke up with a GF of 3 years by simply ceasing to take her calls. A move indicative of a base and shameless person. Someone with no consideration, no class. A move which inspires disgust and wrath in even in those that are bound by blood to love him forever.

Little did we know that would not be the most vile thing he would do. Ultimately, it appears he has also broken up with his family of 29 years by simply ceasing to take their calls.

My calls - inquiring as to whether he is around, wants to hang out, how it is going, what he is doing etc. - all unanswered. Troubling, but not the end of the world. Paternal calls regarding leases, rent and shared creditcards and responsibility thereof - also unanswered. Flakey, unreliable and slightly audacious, but also short of the repugnant. Repeated calls from his mother, his aunts and the rest of his maternal line regarding the quickly failing health of our grandmother - our abuelita - with whom he holds a closer relationship than any grandchild for he lived with her for sometime, and who, amidst her fevers and drifting in and out of consciousness in hospice care, was consistent in her insistent requests for him - all went unheeded. Ignored.

Vile. Repugnant. Putrid.

And yet, there is it once again. The pull of blood, of the familial relationship. The urge, the desire, the need to forgive. To believe he is better than his actions represent him to be.

But then he actually picked up the phone. He picked up the phone for the sister who - not so coincidentally - has an area code in her city similar to that of the one in his. He spoke to her for the first time in nearly a year. He spoke only of himself. So busy. No time. No money. Really buried. New girlfriend. Nearly a decade his junior. But no time. When the sister got a word in edge wise, she cut to the chase. Declared Abuelita was dying. She wants to see him. She asks for him. Repeatedly. His response: Lip-service. No money, but gonna try to get there. Maybe over holidays since they are right around the corner. Maybe will call her.

In the end: Nothing. He did nothing. We expected nothing. He lived up to it.

Problem is, even in the wake of non-existent expectations, there still lurks that damning prospect which hurts only the innocent, never the transgressor - hope.

Everyone's hopes of seeing him - those recently born, those dying, those stressed, those happy and wanting to share, those wanting to vent, those wanting to hug - all dashed.

And so the conclusion: He is my brother. He is a bad person.

No other explanation.

When you are so self absorbed that even the matters of life and death cannot jar you out of your stupor of narcissism, you are a bad person.

I would judge him an ideal candidate for the next installment of The Real World (a 6 month homage to moral turpitude and exuberant, irrepressible narcissism. "I just can't volunteer to help with disabled kids. They are creepy."), except he is too old (and I don't think I will ever see him again in order to catch him on videotape for his entry-application).

That's my brother. The Loch Ness monster. The Yetty.

And yet...

I think even Nessie and Big Foot called home every 0nce in a while.

FYI - the Boy is just not that into me. But you knew that already didn't you?

I always have a four-day, four-week, four-year gap in catching on to these things. This one came in right under the four-week mark.

Disappointing. A bit disheartening. But not devastating. That might be progress.

For now, there is a whole passel of work waiting for me. That is probably generous. I would have used the phrase "tsunami" but it seems rather disrespectful in light of the tragedy in Indonesia. So, blessed with work as I am, I can ignore the romantic shortcomings of my life.

Silver lining? Well, if I was deliriously-fall-down-in-love smitten/happy, I would lose a current major topic of conversation: "The On-Going Meditations of Girl-Singular: Lamentations, Incantations, Supplications, and Hyperventilations about Wandering the Wilderness of Uncoupledness" or "The Road to Owning 12 Cats and A Shotgun."

See - then I would be boring. It would just be "we" this and "we" that and, generalized, "whee!!!" *Hands Up*

Ugh. Talk about a social emetic.

(Not that I will not revel in invoking queasiness in others when my time finally comes. I mean, I have put in my time. Fair is fair.)

I deserve some sort of karmic restitution - after all, there is some woman out there married to my husband. Well, not quite, but momentarily, that is how it felt. Out and about celebrating the holidays with my sister-favorita, bottle of wine having been duly enjoyed, debating on where to grab a night cap. Consider one spot. Dismiss it as too empty. Head to a closer locale. Run into (for a second time of weird coincidences) a familiar face from high school past.

"Come in. Everyone's here."

Well, actually, he just said that a particular someone was there. Let's call him the Man From the Past ("MFP"). There were others I knew - I talked to them, I embraced them, I did the requisite catching up, but he is the one I caught up with (got caught up in?). I knew he had gotten married. I had heard the news on my first chance meeting with the familiar face from high school past some months before. So I was not surprised. Likewise, I knew the bride. I had briefly met her before. She was someone who had captured his heart and imagination years before. He loved her then, he loves her now. For him to be happy, pleases me to no end. The fact that I can type that sentence without bursting into flames or being struck by lightning also pleases me to no end. That all being said, the missed opportunity, the remorse, the misty-fog of the unsaid which just hung there - unmoving, unrelenting - was palpable. From the delayed introduction of the wife, standing there for five minutes silent, only to receive a cursory introduction that may or may not have included her name. Chit chat. Then reclamations. "You never answered your door every time I came by." Apparently, I became the visual representation of "crestfallen." I was a collapsed souffle. I was the party balloon discovered 6 months after the fact behind the couch. Defeat. Defeated.

What I didn't say at that moment was, "I didn't know you were there!" or "I wasn't home!" or " I would have answered, I would have run home, had I known you were looking for me!"

I didn't say anything. I thought about the fact that I had actually been looking for him since the beginning of this year. I had so far been unsuccessful, but I had been looking. I did tell him I had tried to find his e-mail address - as he was leaving, and simultaneously making reclamations to me about not asking for his contact information. Oh. There was also the seeming nonsequitur: "My wife really likes people." A panacea thrown out, I think, because it was abundantly evident that she did not like me.

Oh.

This doesn't hurt. Not like the searing pain that often accompanies rejection in romantic matters. This has, however, left a dull ache. I suppose it is the ache of the possibility of what once could have been. But truth be told, I believe in my heart of hearts that the issue was one of timing. He could have been my One, but the cross sections of our lives did not synch up at the appropriate times. I was not ready then. Maybe I am not ready now.

For all of his kindesses, his friendship, his love so sincerely offered forth without condition or reprimand (if only at one time), he will always hold a dear and cherished place in my heart.

Have a wonderful and happy life, dear one. You deserve it.

I have always hated rollercoasters.

What I hate even more is being afraid of something. So, while I was willing to live with a keen dislike (verging on passionate hatred) of rollercoasters, I was not willing to live with the fear. Not when there was something (within reason) that I might do about it. So the summer after I graduated from high school, I packed myself and some friends into my means of transportation and off we went for a day of fun and excitement at 6 Flags Great America. I rode every rollercoaster they had at the park that day. Granted, I rode them all with my eyes screwed shut, my knuckles white and circulation-free, and ear-piercing shrieks emanating from somewhere deep within me from start to finish - but I rode them. All.

I have yet to undertake the physical act of riding a rollercoaster at any time since that day. Been there. Done that. Don't ever want to do it again. But, now I know that if I wanted to (read: had to), I am capable of riding said contraptions without any perceptible future harm coming to me (though I don't know that I can say the same for my companions that day - even now, I think the skrieks left them with permanent hearing loss).

So no love lost for the physical roller coaster. The metaphysical one, however, I seem to be a sucker for.

"You must be this tall to ride this ride."

How tall is that? Metaphysically speaking how tall (and, presumably, grown up) must you be to ride the violent wave of one's own emotional roller coaster from crest to trough? Zenith to nadir? Pie-in-the-sky to rock-bottom?

I have always felt I should be taller.

I am long-waisted. Perhaps I fooled the metaphysical sentinel into thinking I was qualified to ride this ride, when in fact, through a freak of body composition (which everyone deinies, but which I know is true), my legs are, in fact, too short to ride the ride safely.

Long shot? Maybe.

However I choose to rationalize it, the bottom line is this: I have a season pass for this meta-physical rollercoaster. Time to open my eyes, loosen my grip a bit, and replace my blood-curdling screams of terror with shrieks of delight. Someday, I might even be able to wave my hands in the air as the ride progresses. Anything is possible.

For now, however, I am still rather unsure of myself. Feeling precarious and vulnerable as a passenger here. I have taken the first few steps towards easing the motion sickness often precipitated by the amusement park of life. The happy pill does act as a sort of emotional dramamine. Still, there is more to it.

Calm. Rational. Carefree. Exhilarated. Exuberant. These are words I want to describe my ride, my journey. My approach.

Not just up and down and up and down and down and up and down and up. Hell, even typing that sentence was tiring.

For instance, this thing with the Boy. So I have been trying to approach it calmly and coolly and casually. But I can't. I get fired up about things. I get excited. I get hopeful. I get impatient. I don't think these are necessarily bad things. In fact, I think they are pretty cool things. Issue is usually just one of expectations. I don't know if I have too many, they are too lofty, they are just skewed or what. Either way, I tend to set them up and things always work out, well, differently, and not necessarily to my liking. Likewise, there are all these rules out there now about dating, which I have referred to before. The whole HJNTIY phenomenon. And, I must confess, I was in a bookstore today, and happened to spot a copy of the one and only original: "The Rules." I scanned the headings that made up "The Rules" themselves: Examples - never call a man, and don't return his calls too often; make yourself and elegant and mysterious creature; do not talk about marriage, kids, future - he should take the lead here; always end a date first; do not ask him to do anything till after the fourth date; do not accept a date for Saturday after Wednesday etcetera etecetera. Oh dear. I have broken half of these Rules if not more with the Boy. And, well, look how well that is going. We can't even schedule a second date. Ugh. People I talked to, both male and female, said I should ask him out again. They all thought it was a good idea. Not too psycho-crazy-manic stalker. Just nice-I-am-interested-and-would-like-to-go-out again.

Agh. I cannot deal with this uncertainty.

But I guess it comes back to the premise of the books - if I am uncertain, then.... he's just not that into me.

God damnit.

I hate it when self help books are right.

I asked him to dinner. (Well, via e-mail).

He said yes. He would "love to get together...."

Will telling the rules to go to hell continue to work? Stay tuned.

Start and stop. Start and stop. Start and stop.

This is the staccato pattern of my Blog. Is it tacky that I am self-referential to my Blog within my Blog? Is it gauche? Will I be jettisoned from this corner of cyberspace for my utter lack of hipness? Probably not, as I have yet to be jettisoned from the corner of reality that I inhabit while committing the very same crime.

Steady inspiration. Inspired joy. Joyous Happiness. Happy laughter. Laughter and love.

Love. Love. Love.

I really like that idea. Love. I have spent a lot of time attempting to define love. I have invested words, time, tears, angst and worry into uncovering what it means. If I can define love, then it shall be mine. Love may conquer all, but I, in turn, can conquer it. Why? Because I can control everything. Yes, of course, because I am so good at that. Control of others. Control of things. Control of myself. Sure.

I cannot control anything.

Once again, for those in the cheap seats: (Louder, and with more feeling) I cannot control anything.

And....

That is okay.

Really.

No fooling.

Well, okay, it still eats away at my corners. The worry, the need for perfection, the driving desire for control. Those things are me. There is no divorcing myself from my realities. However, if I can manage them in such a way that they remain relegated to fraying my edges, but leaving my core center intact, well, let's just say I can live with that. Hell, I will have a party for that. Those palpable shadows of mine have been living far too close to my heart for far too long. Hard to let love in when there are already so many unsavory characters living in that neighborhood. Really, worry and stress and unyielding Type-A ambitions for control do not belong in the high rent district of one's self. Really, one's soul should be surrounded by beautiful topiary and rolling hills, not urban blight and drive by shootings.

My heart is South Central L.A.

Wow. That's not good.

Time for some inner gentrification. Realization of one's own inner property values.

************************************************************************************

So I saw these folks on the Today show. They were selling a book. Turns out they had also been on Oprah. Selling this book. They had been writers for Sex and the City. Upon which they based said book. The book: "He's Just Not That Into You." (Which I referenced previously in an entry with an article re. said book).

The book - HJNTIY - was a revelation. I had, in fact, been trying to put my finger on a similar sentiment in the several weeks prior. My general lament of "Why isn't' anything easy?" had lately taken the form of "I have a sneaking suspicion that relationships can be easy. People must have easy relationships. At least relationships that that require effort, but not work. Because let's face it - "work" is never a good thing. In any context." When you want to do something, you put forth effort. When you do something for some other reason than your own inner desire (e.g. to pay to bills, to make your parents happy, to fulfill an obligation) then it is work. Plain and simple.

My last relationship was work. Four years of work. For both of us. He was in the relationship because of some sense of societal propriety of having a girlfriend, and, eventually, out of a sense of obligation to me. I was in the relationship due to societal pressure to be involved and just not to be alone.

Note: Neither of us were in the relationship in order to be with the other. At least not primarily. The result: Tears, angst and misery on my part. Indifference on his.

Relationship - over. Good news for all.

But back to HJNTIY. Though the book itself is about 100 pages long (and yet still $20 a pop) the message could be delivered (if its target audience were not women in desperate need of being deprogrammed of certain inherent core beliefs) in a couple of lines:

If a guy is really interested in you, he will pursue you. This pursuit, while varying from guy to guy, will not require you to be making excuses for him at every turn. If you are having to make excuses for him, HJNTIY.

HJNTIY opened my eyes. Seems sort of silly to say, because it is intuitive, I suppose. But the idea here being that if a guy likes me, then he will pretty much do the same things I do when I like him. He will call when he says he will. He will make efforts to do things. He will want to spend time with me. He will want to introduce me to his friends. He will want to hang out. He will want to go out. He will want to, ahem, stay in. He will want to be with me. The way I want to be with him.

I didn't know that was possible.

I have never had that.

Not with someone I liked. (This references a whole topic for another day - i.e. my chicken/egg problem: Why do guys not like me when I like them or is it that I only like guys who don't like me?)

So all due props being given to HJNTIY - I have some problems with it, at least in the execution. HJNTIY says never to ask a man out. He likes to be in pursuit. He likes what he cannot have. I understand this. We all like this. But what if you are dealing with a shy guy? What if you are dealing with other stumbling blocks - like different backgrounds? What if you are trying to be cool and coy and are sending mixed signals?

HJNTIY - like "The Rules" (that book from the mid-90's that told women they needed to play by certain rules if they wanted to get a man and keep him) before it - plays in black-and-white absolutes. Seems to me you can't always be that way.

And I get disturbed when I am trying to figure out how to deal with something in my life and I start every sentence about that topic out with, "Yes, but the Book says...." That is completely insane. The book is not living my life. The book doesn't know me. The book cannot possible cover every situation.

The New York Times Wedding Page (yes, I read it. I admit it. Though for reasons different now, than when I first started. Now it is not out of envy for the marrieds, but rather, I like to look for people I know, and I especially like the profiles that talk about how people met.) is instructive in this way. Though not wholly representative of a diverse cross-section of relationships, I am sure. The NYT Wedding Page does represent a lot of smart, talented, different people. So how do they meet? Anecdotally, it seems, most often, through friends, or being brought back together through some common activity (e.g. reunions, dinner parties etc.). A lot of times the courtships begin very slowly, almost unawaredly (is that a word?). They build. One pursues. Then the other. Oftentimes it is the man. A good number of times it is the woman. Eventually it ends up in the Sunday Times. Where it goes from there, I am not sure. Point is, there is no science to it.

As some friends pointed out to me recently, as I continued to angst over how to approach a current situation (see below): "If you like the person, then everything they do is cute, adorable, and wonderful. If you don't like them, then the very same action is deemed psychotic, weird or dorky."

True.

So really, if you made a connection, then nothing you do is wrong. If you didn't, then keep your eyes peeled for that person not being into you and just walk away before wasting any time.

So this is all how I came to asking a guy out. The Book said I shouldn't. The NYT was indifferent. I wanted to do it. Granted, the track record of my judgment, especially in areas concerning matters of the heart, has not been so stellar, but I feel good about this one. I think I could really like this one. I think it really has potential, and well, I got tired of waiting. We went out once. I thought it went well. There were references to going out again. There was a call the next morning saying he had a good time. There were e-mails exchanged back and forth. But no second date has been proposed. Why? I don't know. Maybe he is not that into me. I just can't tell. I guess I just need to be hit over the head with a brick about it one way or another in order for me to know what it going on. It has been 2 weeks. 2 weeks is enough to wait. Isn't it?

Well, if he likes me, it doesn't matter. If he doesn't, then assuredly, I won't hear from him again. But at least I will know.

It was an e-mail invitation to dinner. Hardly intrusive. Hopefully tempting, and not completely divesting me of my leverage. But see, here is the thing, I do not want to be concerned with leverage. I just want to date someone I like who likes me. Simple. Really. Life is complicated enough without dating people who don't like you.

I believe myself to be a nice looking girl (some days being particularly better than others). I make a nice living. I work too much - but I can work on that. I dress nicely. I have cool friends. I have diverse interests - I can talk sports, rail on about J.Lo or Lindsay Lohan, discuss what I am reading, address trash TV, sing Duran Duran's greatest hits, eulogize my iPod. I can be funny, or at least I am fun to laugh at, because, let's face it, I do some pretty silly things. My family is crazy, but not always in a bad way. I like to go out, but I also enjoy hanging on my couch. I can drink you under the table (okay, well maybe not quite, but I have been told that I am "all liver from neck to knees" on a couple of occasions - oops). I am geographically knowledgeable - at least in the domestic U.S. And, I am working on being less high maintenance.

That can't be all bad, right?

Other people's blogs talk about the little things in their day, the mundane, the riveting pop-culture artifacts that send ripples (be they ever so slight) through their lives. Perhaps I should start doing this. I have been resistant to the idea for a number of reasons: (1) discussion of such things would take away from my intense focus on my own ranting, raving and airing of grievances about my perceived miseries, suffered injustices and overall martyrdom, (2) I have always felt like references to dates, times, particular pop-culture icons would date my writing, thus making it inescapably temporal, and (3)

I have fallen off the wagon again. Not the wagon of sobriety - that would, of course, require a commitment to staying away from Happy Hour. And, as much as I do love my Cap'ns & Diet Coke, I remain, solely a weekend social drinker, as I just don't see the use in drinking alone. (Even alcohol would not be enough of a mechanism to make me truly uninhibited with myself - not the way I need to be.)

So whence is this rickety wagon off of which I have tumbled? The writing wagon. I was supposed to write with greater commitment and zeal. To bind myself to the goal of actually making a go of doing this over the long haul. I can't become a writer if I don't write. So, is it a question of my fearing what I want or that not being what I want at all?

Oy. Too much existentialism for a beginning of the week afternoon where my head feels full of cotton and I am about to expectorate a lung (look at who is grumpy about having picked up the unshakeable head cold going around the office).

So, bear with me as I cheat here, and make a list of all of the things I had wanted to discuss over the past couple weeks but had been to negligent to make good on. Need to jot them down before my recollection becomes irretrievable:

• My Maternal Grandmother: How She Makes My Mom Crazy & How My Mom Can't Live Without Her (& How I Fit Into The Sordid Mess).
• Ignoring the Weatherman: My Baby Steps Towards Banishing My Personal Rain Cloud (Or At Least Learning How to Carry An Umbrella)
• My 10TH High School Reunion: Nerdy Girl Makes Good, Gets Date, Loses Cell Phone
• Elusive Affection: Dating as an Adult, What to Do When You Like Him, Like Him, and Learning to Live with Disappointment.

These are all fertile areas to mine for information, anecdotes to share, and goodies to discuss. However, I confess that at this moment, I am pretty much fixated on the last one. My new happy pill, or the placebo effect it may be having on me, had me utterly convinced this weekend (even as I lay flat on my back in bed coughing away) that life was pretty damn good, that I was pretty damn lucky, and that, given all that, I damn well deserved that things were finally going my way. Still think I deserve it. But now, I am still sick, at work, feeling fat, not sure I can go work out (due to much lamented illness), and a little sad. No, that is not quite the right word. Rather, I am disappointed. I went out on a date last week. With a boy. That I was excited about. Who was taller than me. In my heels. Who plays music. Who seemed just as nervous as I was. Who is cute. Who I met (again) at my reunion. Who I have known since the sixth grade. Who lives in my zip code. Who is not affiliated with the military in any way. Who is funny. Who reads the New York Times. Who has multiple siblings. Who lives in my zip code. Who really seems to know who he is. Who was a gentleman. Who didn't seem to be afraid of who I am or what I have done. Who made me feel comfortable. Who made me believe in possibilities for the first time in a long time. Who called me less than 12 hours after he left me on my porch the night before to tell me he had a really good time the night before. Who made references throughour our date to "the next time we go out." And yet....

That was Thursday. Today is Monday. In the cold relief of the beginning of the week, I now get the distinct feeling that something has gone wrong. I extended an invitation to my holiday party next weekend. He declined, citing prior concert plans. He inquired as to how my weekend went. I wrote a witty, inquisitive e-mail in response (well, at least I thought it was) and received no response. At all.

If he was into me, he would have written back. If he was into me, he would have called. He is not into me. Sad. Sad because I thought there was a possibility. Sad because I seem to have no perspective/judgment at all when it comes to men. None. At all. Seriously. I really, really thought he liked me. Oh well.

At least I have learned by this point in life that you cannot make someone like you. Believe me, I have tried. I have spent my whole life to this point trying to force people to like me. Hell, I spent four years with my boyfriend trying to get him to love me. I think I even had him fooled into believing that he really did about half of the time.

But once again, this, like the last thing (where there also was a mysterious "I am going to stop talking to you all of a sudden, when up to now everything seemed just fine, and I won't tell you why" situation), leaves me feeling a melancholy, if for no other reason than my great fatigue of disappointment, and my realization of a longing for the simple affections of sustained, unquantified, required love.

I am an exceedingly fickle person when it comes to love. It will not find me easily. If for no other reason than I tend to bestow my affections on those who will not love me. But truly, it would be such a gift if someone I was interested in were also interested in me wholly/truly/not as a band-aid or an emotional crutch, but just for me. It would be a gift that I would cherish. Every day. Always.

Would it be forward to tell someone that I would always be kind, gentle, tender, thoughtful, reverent, faithful, careful and loving in caring for their heart?

To give your heart away - what an infinite trust. To give it to a proper and reverent caretaker - what rare and resplendent fortune.

A random assortment (a myriad, if you will) of quotes that speak to me:


To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for. - Allan K. Chalmers

Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime,Therefore, we are saved by hope.Nothing true or beautiful or good makes complete sense in any immediate context of history;Therefore, we are saved by faith.Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone.Therefore, we are saved by love.No virtuous act is quite a virtuous from the standpoint of our friend or foe as from our own;Therefore, we are saved by the final form of love which is forgiveness. -Reinhold Niebuhr

There was never a good biography of a good novelist. There couldn't be. He is too many people if he's any good. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else. - Gloria Steinem

To get the right word in the right place is a rare achievement. To condense the diffused light of a page of thought into the luminous flash of a single sentence, is worthy to rank as a prize composition just by itself...Anybody can have ideas--the difficulty is to express them without squandering a quire of paper on an idea that ought to be reduced to one glittering paragraph. - Mark Twain

The lawyer's truth is not Truth, but consistency or a consistent expediency. - Henry David Thoreau

Moral excellence comes about as a result of habit. We become just by doing just acts, temperate by doing temperate acts, brave by doing brave acts. - Aristotle


Marge: Lisa, if you want to tell this boy you're not interested, just tell him the truth.
Homer: And if that doesn't work- six magic words: 'I'm not gay but I'll learn'.


Bart: We want the truth.
Sideshow Bob: You can't handle the truth. No truth-handler, you. I deride your truth-handling abilities


Lisa: Relax? I can't relax. Nor can I yield, relent, or... Only two synonyms? Oh my God, I'm losing my perspicacity. Aaaaa!
Homer: Well, it's always in the last place you look.


After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is Music. - Aldous Huxley

In this lifelong battle which I have been fighting, this war of attrition against myself, the simple truth (no fancy words, no overdone hyperbole, no melodrama) is this:

I am losing.

Over the years, I have made strides. Taken some baby steps towards progress. But intermittenly I have also given ground. So therefore I never really make gains, I just recover (somewhat) what I have lost.

I am in the same place and I am losing.

I say it all the time and yet I don't think I have ever really admitted it: I am losing and I need help. I cannot continue to wage this war alone. I need to be victorious in this war and I need help so that I can learn not only to survive and to make due, but to live fully and to cope and reason and enjoy and live and love and laugh.

When I am in a phase when I lose ground (as I suppose I am now), I do not like myself. Let's face it, I loathe myself. The hatred and contempt that I launch at myself is not anything I would wish on my worst enemy and yet it is par for the course for me. I can take it. I always have. And yet, I cannot. Why? Because I see how hard it is for my friends and loved ones (I suppose they are one and the same) to watch. It is painful for them. I try to isolate myself to spare them and yet I cannot. But when I am around them, I start to believe that they *must* loathe me as much as I loathe myself. That is when I start to say silly and unreasoned things, frustrating to the normal and well-balanced people I am so blessed and so lucky to call friends.

For instance, tonight I could have gone out with the gang. The function in question was invite only. I did not have an invitation. There was one available. I could have gone. And yet, I couldn't. I felt like I was intruding. Why? Well, I am not sure. What did I expect? What did I want an engraved invitation? People had asked me to come along. What more could I want?And yet, I think what I was really suffering from, under all of the shrieks and pretense and protestations was this: Because I really don't like myself very much right now, I don't think they like me very much either. So I take what are genuine displays of friendship and affection and assume that "they are just saying that" because they need to be nice etc.

How dumb is that? And yet that is my gut reaction and even now I can't shake it.

So dumb.

So can a miracle brain-drug help me see that that is dumb? I mean really. I know it is dumb, but I am unable to believe it/to know it in the moment in which I am making an ass of myself in front of my friends who are doing nothing more than care about me. Will an anti-depressant (there - I said it - are you happy now?) really help that? I suppose it couldn't hurt.

Why am I so afraid of it then?

But I am also so terribly afraid of losing my friends - that they will lost patience with me and my ridiculous guerrilla campaign against myself. You can only watch someone throw themselves against a wall (even after you begged and pleaded with them to stop) so many times before giving up on them as hopeless.

Is it too late for me? I don't want them to give up on me.

I have to do something. I am now in a place where there are too many people I care about in close proximity. I can no longer shut my door and wallow in my misery alone. Everyone else is exposed to it now as well.

Agh! Why do I make things so complicated/difficult/melodramatic. Really?!

More from the front lines of my battle with narcolepsy, frustration, and an apparent life-long inability to shake a perpetual state of PMS:

Being extremely tired does not make it any easier to cope. Not a revolutionary concept, but true. It also makes original thought, smiling and/or laughing, and common courtesy more like aspirational goals than achievable realities.

In my ennui and my fatigue and perpetual state of just-below-the-surface crisis, I have been having a GroundHog Day like conversation with a good friend of mine. He is kind enough to ask me how I am. I respond with an obfuscatory, "Well, you know..." He prods me for details. I demur for a split second and then rant on incessantly till, tears brimming, I make a declaration that "I just can't take this anymore" or "I just can't do this anymore" or "I am just so tired." He then says he is sorry. He is sorry for me, he genuinely feels bad for me, I know. The rant was likely meant to incite such pity, however, once it is forthcoming, I am ashamed. So I always reply, "Sorry for what? There is nothing you can do about it." And there we stand. Not very productive. Basically, this is just an example of how I have made all my friendships boring. I have either tuned out of them altogether or I just prattle on in lamentation about my favorite topic - me. Nothing interests me more, apparently, than my own misery. Who knew?

My problems are of my own making. With luck a good night's sleep (which should bring along with it at least a modicum of perspective) will be forthcoming, and I can make some progress here.

I will finish my random thoughts post from November 4th - because I think it is worthwhile and because I have a lot of random things to say. If I don't write them down, then I will forget them, and then the records of my randomness will be lost to the world forever. Oh, woe is everyone. Tragic. Well, not quite, but for the sake of memorializing things to amuse myself with my inanity at a later date, I should and will write it down, soon, when I have time, which will be, well, soon, I think, I hope, I delude myself.

Really, I think I could have time now, if only I weren't so tired. I don't remember what it is like not to feel tired. Basically I just live on a scale between "So utterly exhausted that blinking becomes a Herculean effort" and "I know I got six-hours of sleep last night, but I still have that 'my head is stuffed with cotton' and I drank too much cheap tequila after running a 10K" kind of feeling. Basically, I drag myself from place to place. I continually make lists of what I have to get done. I cross about a third of them off right away then spend the next few weeks/months putting the rest of them off. I am perpetually late for everything. The first thing I do in the morning and the last thing I do at night (sometimes, many times, these two events are not all that far apart) is that I make a mental list of what I have to do that day/the next day, I order it and reorder it in my head, allotting each activity an amount of time, trying to impose logic and efficiency on my schedule while still building in time for contingencies. Does it ever work? Nope. Never build in enough time for (1) stress, (2) several mini-mental breakdowns over the course of the day, (3) more stress, (4) the inability to get out of bed due to anxiety, exhaustion, sheer inertia, (5) additional stress, (6) guilt about having to rearrange said schedule and inevitably flaking on something, or more often, someone, (7) apologies for the aforementioned flaking, (8) more guilt and stress about said guilt, (8) frustration with self due to seeming inability to concentrate and hopeful contemplation of the possibility of adult-onset ADD, (9) additionally, contemplation of potential undiagnosed narcoleptic tendencies, (10) whining, complaining and lamenting to anyone who will listen about all of the above, (11) apologizing to anyone who had to listen to my unrelenting wailing about all of the above, (12) guilt about all of the above, and (13) oh yeah, more stress.

As you can probably tell, I don't have time to be writing this either. Yes, it is 3:30 on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, but I don't have time. I am in my office, writing this, when I should be researching and drafting a memorandum. I have been researching and reading, but I still feel as though I have done nothing. It is 3:30 and I have been unable to write anything down due to overwhelming anxiety of not having written anything down yet. Flaked on 3 things, people, events yesterday. Gonna have to flake on at least one more person tonight due to my inability to get anything done in a timely manner. Slept for 8 hours last night, I think. Still feel like crap. Tired of feeling tired. Seriously, when does it end? "I need a vacation" no longer seems like it will cut it - I am moving on to "I need a sabbatical." Oy.

It has gotten so bad that I literally sit and imagine bad things happen to me (e.g. getting mugged, hit by car, falling and breaking an arm or leg) and think, "Well, at least that would be a legitimate excuse for not getting X, Y, or Z assignment done." That is not good.

Other people do their jobs without this happening to them. Other people do my job without this happening to them. Everyone I know works harder than me and this does not happen to them. What is wrong with me? Seriously? Why am I (1) unable to be efficient, and (2) seemingly unable to cope? Why does the sky always have to be falling?

So not cool.

I know, I know. Time to make the appointment. To deal with things, or rather, have things dealt with for me. People I have told of my contemplation of making said appointment with said doctor keep asking me if I have done it yet. Guess they wouldn't keep asking if they weren't concerned and if they didn't think it was a good idea. I am scared to do it. But I think I am scared to continue the way I am. Okay, that will be the first thing for the contemplated list of Monday morning - make the call....

Random thoughts (which I shouldn't be writing because I don't have time, but I never have time, so it appears that now is as good a time as any):

Signs of the Apocalypse: A Meditation of the Irrational, the Exuberant, the Faithful, the Blind, the Miasma, and Why That All Pleases Me.

(1) Joy In Mudville:

The Red Sox Won The Pennant. The Red Sox won the World Series. The Red Sox Beat The Yankees. The Red Sox Came Back from 3 Games to 0, from within 3 outs of elimination in the ALCS, to topple the Evil Empire, to sweep through the Midwest (0 for 4, Sorry Cards - October is never Tony LaRussa's time of year anyway - magical World Series moments are made against him, not for him. Takes a natural disaster - be it of 7.2 magnitude on the Richter scale or simply by the name of the SF Giants to bring him a championship ring). The Red Sox silence the smug Yankee fans. Rooting for the house in blackjack is not indicative of strong character. It indicates only a strong predilection for bon-bons and whining. It builds no heart. The Red Sox Win the World Series. They make an inordinate amount of errors along the way (heart palpitations all around), but they win nonetheless. The Nation rejoices (except for A-Rod and Jeter - too busy frolicking - and the black hearted aforementioned Yankee fans).

Question: Why was the experience all so moving to me? I am not a Red Sox fan. Never have been. Spent four years in Boston. Never picked up the bug that is Red Sox Nation. So why the tears, the joy, the elation, the giddiness, the deep-seated satisfaction, the unrelenting grin?

Answer: Because all lessons in life were encompassed in this magical October.

• LESSON #1: Evil is Fallible. Pinstripes, cash, a smirk and a steady stream of condescension put you on a collision course with karma. Fly a little too close to the sun, blind yourself to real problems, trade for a $250M shortstop-cum-thrid baseman who is a little too pretty, and the result, in the end, will always be the same. You get what is coming to you. 26 World Championships. True enough. But no one - no one - will forget the world's most spectacular collapse of four straight games in the ALCS when coming within 1 out of victory. It wasn't lack of skill. It was a classic Wizard of Oz problem - no brains, no courage, no heart.
• LESSON #2: Why not us? The ode to Schill' was to take place a little further down this list, but now is as good a time as any. So this man makes a promise to the longest suffering fans (if not in the measure of years, then in tragic near misses and resultant lamentations thereof) of the world's most exhilarating and yet heart-breaking sport. He promises them they can win. They can be the king of the mountain. They can be "that guy." They can take home all the marbles for once. They can decide whether to take the lump sum or pro-rated payments over the next 20 years. They could be Miss America. This would be their prerogative. He would deliver to them the joy and they, like children with a bag of long awaited candy, could decide what to do with it. They all thought he was crazy - the members of this ragged brethren of suffering souls, as did the rest of us, observers of the game, of the long-standing vigil in the northeast at the precipice of that large green wailing wall in left field. The MLB thought him crazy too. http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=stark_jayson&id=1683054
• The contract provision making the promise one of legal tender was nullified. There would be no paper to back this promise up. Nevermind. In the end, there really was no need. What surfaced instead was the following - this blue t-shirt. Cotton and colors, spelling out one simple phrase: "Why not us?" It got a lot of attention in the press, then and now. There is a certain sense of it being revolutionary. However, the magic is in the fact that the revolution, the resultant victory, were based on words the brethren had had access to, had in fact been using, over and over, all along - then entire drawn out, nearly century long journey. "Why not us?" "Why not us?" "Why not us?" How many times had the words been repeated over the years. Babe. "Why Not Us?" No, no Nannette. "Why Not Us?" Bill Buckner. "Why Not Us?" Clemens. "Why Not Us?" Grady Little. "Why Not Us?" Over and over. So where was the revolution in the t-shirt? In the phraseology? In the timing? No. The Revolution was in the source. A man who can be described in conflicting terms - which make him as unpopular as they make him awe inspiring - a man who is both heroic and audacious. He is a man who believes. He believes in himself. He does not hesitate to let everyone know that. It grates. It is difficult. It has been overpowering to teammates and managers alike in the past. And yet. It was this power, this energy, this jarring audacity, that was necessary - that set it all into motion. He was the one who asked, rather than cried out, "Why not us?" He refocused the query from lamentation, to incantation. This man believed. He believed in himself. He made incredible things happen before. He had beaten the Evil Empire before. He had done so almost single handedly. He could help here. He believed he could do it. He believed they could do it. He believed it could get done. On top of that, he was not afraid to say it. So he said it. And he said it. And he said it again. Were the motives purely altruistic? One suspects not. There is a sealing of his legacy that goes along with this feat. It feeds the ego. All those deciding how to memorialize the moment, as well as the man point to this. But they don't get it. It doesn't matter. Whatever the myth is, it was the man that the team needed. Someone with such unmitigated gall, such unabashed hubris, he could speak the unspeakable, mention the unmentionable, think the unthinkable. And then, of all things, back it up. The message, the magic, needed to be one of words and action. That is what they needed, that is what they got. The psychological state of the RSN, of their team, of their collective psyche was such that they were their own self-fulfilling prophecy. They couldn't see past the next bobbled ground ball. The next departed superstar. Yet Nomah was shipped off. There were 8 errors in the first 2 games of the World Series. They still won. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't pretty. Neither are they. But they won. They won because of guts. Because of heart. Because of courage. Because of faith. Because they dared to believe. Because they ignored Tim McCarver. Because it was destiny. Because (as Manny Ramirez stated in an appropos Yogi-ism) it was destination. Curt Schilling asked "Why not us?" and, in doing so, tipped the downtrodden faces of the Red Sox brethren up ever so slightly so that they faces the sky, the sun, the stars, the moon, the possibilities. All in one brief moment that is 162 games in an 86 year vigil.
• LESSON #3: Redemption of Magic Moments
• LESSON #4: Heroes Can Be Made
• LESSON #5: New Chapters - though scary and inconceivable - Are Made To Be Lived
• LESSON #6: Happy, Happy. Joy, Joy.
• LESSON #7: Outcomes Are Not Determined By Your Color Commentators.
• LESSON $8: The Best Things Can Happen When There Are 2 Strikes Against You and You Step Up To The Plate.
• LESSON #9: It is Not Destiny - It is A Destination.
• LESSON #10: I Believe.

(61) GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER: Lincoln, Freud, John Lennon, Jenna Jameson and Gandhi are coming to a potluck dinner party at your house. What dish does each of them bring?
(60) FICTION CAN BE FUN: Best and worst lies you have ever told (at least 1 each)
(59) MY BODY, MY BILLBOARD: Best t-shirt slogan
(58) EXTRA, EXTRA: Headline in the newspaper after you win the $317M lottery jackpot
(57) VOCAB REDUX: Word you overuse
(56) VOCAB: Favorite word
(55) TO THE END OF THE EARTH AND BACK: Things to which you are devoted (at least 2)
(54) SELF HELP: What you would do in order to be a better person
(53) TO YOU, JUST AS YOU ARE: Characteristic about yourself that will NEVER change
(52) TIMES MAY CHANGE, BUT THE BRUSSEL SPROUT IS TIMELESS: Food that you wouldn't eat as a child that you just love now
(51) JUST A LITTLE VERCLEMPT: Song that Moves You (at least 1, no more than 3)
(50) THAT IS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BARISTA: Starbucks Drink of Choice
(49) LAYING DOWN THE LAW:
Dealbreakers (i.e. the triggers to walking away; list at least 1 in the following categories):
(A) Friendship,
(B) Relationship,
(C) Work
(48) A WISE MAN ONCE SAID: Favorite Quote(s) (any source is acceptable, though please provide attribution)
(47) STUPID HUMAN TRICKS: Most obscure skill/talent
(46) THE PRICE IS RIGHT: Craziest thing you would do for $10M
(45) RED SPORTS CARS ARE SO CLICHED: First thing you do upon entering your mid-life crisis
(44) IN FOND REMEMBRANCE: Opening line to your epitaph
(43) YOU LOVE ME, YOU REALLY LOVE ME: Opening line to your Oscar acceptance speech
(42) HUMBLE PIE: Things which, if you have to say them about yourself, cannot be true (list at least 2)
(41) "SMOTEN" IS A WORD, RIGHT?: Make up a word (provide definition to said word; part of speech is optional)
(40) IS WHERE THE HEART IS, ON THE RANGE, SWEET - ALABAMA: Define the word "Home"
(39) I FOUGHT THE LAW: Brush With the Law (1)
(38) THE OLDER I GET...: Kooky Behavior of a Parent (at least 1 example)
(37) OFFICE SPACE: Most annoying thing a boss has done
(36) LOOK AT LITTLE "IMOGENE" - SHE'S BREATHTAKING: Names of Your Future Kids/Pets/Houseplants/Imaginary Friends
(35) CALM, COOL & COLLECTED - REALLY: Nervous habits (list 3)
(34) STYLING: Aspirational Haircolor
(33) YOU THINK YOU KNOW ME, YOU DON'T KNOW ME: The words that are farthest from describing you accurately (list 4)
(32) WHERE DO YOU PUT "BAD ASS" ON A RESUME?: Title (job, royal, sports or otherwise) you would ideally like to hold
(31) DO I HAVE TO GROW UP: Career Goal in the 4th Grade v. Career Goal Now
(30) THE TRUTH COMES OUT: Complete the phrase "Every time the Yankees win the pennant, ...."
(29) OUCH! PART DEUX: Best Break Up Lines Said To/By You (Specify speaker; list 3)
(28) I WAS NOT READY FOR MY CLOSE UP: Moment When You Were Sure You Were On Candid Camera
(27) AND NOW BURNING UP THE CHARTS AND APPEARING ON "TRL": Coolest Names for a Band (That Aren't) (list at least 2)
(26) OUCH!: Worst feelings in the world (list 3)
(25) LIGHTNING ROUND:
· NL or AL?
· Shaq or Kobe?
· Coke or Pepsi?
· Britney or Christina?
· Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw?
· Baseball or Football?
· Mulder or Scully?
· Steak fries or curly fries?
· Atkins or South Beach?
· Krispy or Dunkin'?
· Puffy or Diddy?
· East Side or West Side?
· Hef or The Donald?
· U2 or Metallica?
· Morning or Night?
· Sip or Gulp?
· Tourist or Sunbather?
· Cotton or Flannel?
· Scalia or Thomas?
· Butter or Margerine?
· Beer or Cocktails?
· Madonna or Esther?
· Vegetarian who picks the pepperoni off the pizza or Vegetarian who requires fresh cheese pizza?
· Dog or Cat?
· Chia Pet or Ficas tree?
· Peets or Starbucks?
· Star Spangled Banner or God Bless America?
· Toe-may-toe or Toh-mah-toe?
· Blind faith or Cautious Optimism?
· "All You Need is Love" or "Love is a Battlefield"?
· Square watermelon or featherless chicken?
· Franken-food or Organic?
· Drive or Fly?
· Shoes or Handbags?
· Designer Jeans or the GAP?
· Party or Pageant?
· Nature or nurture?
· Stairs or elevator?
· Venti or Large?
· Red or White?
· Self-Help Laundry or Wash n’ Fold?
· Blonde or Brunette?
· Have or Have Not?
· Lavender or Lilac?
· Tupac or Biggie?
· Baked or fried?

(24) HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL: Cubs or Red Sox?
(23) INTROSPECTION: Do you talk or wait to listen?
(22) INSTANT GRATIFICATION: Something that gives you a contact high, but shouldn't (guilty pleasure; list at least 2)
(21) EMBRACING "NFW": "What Was I Thinking?" Moments (list 3)
(20) RAMBLE ON: Places You Have Been (list 10)
(19) DAMN IT - I DON'T THINK THE FLASH WENT OFF: Moments When You Wish You Had A Camera With You But Didn't (list 2)
(18) GIVE AND TAKE: Gifts You Have Gotten/Given (list 10; in whatever proportion you like)
(17) I STILL HAVEN'T FOUND: Things You Are Looking For (list at least 2)
(16) INSPIRATION AND AGGRAVATION: Heroes & Anti-Christs (list 10; in whatever proportion you like)
(15) WOULDN'T CHANGE A THING: Favorite Mistakes (list 3)
(14.5) YOUR LIBRARY OF CONGRESS AND/OR IMDB PROFILE:
Titles of the following:
(A) College Course on Your Life,
(B) Movie re. Your Life,
(C) Album re. your life
(D) CourtTV Trial Coverage (of your trial)
(E) TV show re. your life (drama? comedy?)
(F) Your first novel
(G) Your last novel

(14) DO I HAVE TO BUY THEM OR WILL THEY BE KEPT ON RESERVE: Books On the Syllabus of the College Course on Your Life
(13) PAY IT FORWARD: Ways You Have Affected The World Around You (list at least 1)
(12) EVERYTHING YOU HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW, ARE STILL AFRAID TO ASK, & CAN'T FIND THE ANSWER TO ON THE INTERNET: Questions You Have Had That Have Gone Unanswered
(11) STONE PHILLIPS REALLY LIKES ME: Movies You Would Use Clips From In Assembling A Montage To The
Dateline Retrospective Special About Your Life (list no more than 6)
(10) BUT CAN YOU GET THE LICENSING RIGHTS?: Songs that Make Up the Soundtrack of Your Life (list 10 - no more, no less)
(9) IT LOOKED SO COOL IN "A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT": Hobbies, Pastimes, Habits You Took Up (Which Simply Didn't Last)(name 2)
(8) THINGS THAT MAKE YOU GO "BLECH!!!": Things You Cannot Tolerate (name at least 3)
(7) IN THE ZONE: Things That Make You Feel "At Home" (name 3)
(6) RESTRAINT IS THE BETTER PART OF VALOR: Compulsions You Have/Had But Did Not Act Upon (name 5)
(5) IF MY MOTHER ONLY KNEW: Worst Things You Have Ever Done (name 5)
(4) TAKING A MULLIGAN: Things You Wish You Had Done Differently (name at least 3)
(3) LOVE ME, LOVE MY CRAZY: Quirks You Possess (name at least 3)
(2) AFFECTED V. EFFECTED: People That Changed Your Life (for better or worse, though please specify; names optional, descriptions mandatory; name at least 2)
(1) THE HEART OF THE MATTER: Walrus or Eggman?

Zero Calls, And One Cruel Answer Why Men Don't Phone: It's Not Him, It's You
By Roxanne Roberts
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, August 23, 2004; Page C01

It was a great date. He promised to call. He never called. The average single woman will stare at the phone, willing it to ring. A long list of possibilities noisily circle through her brain, like a hamster on an exercise wheel: He lost my number. He's really busy. He's intimidated. I talked too much. I drank too much. I slept with him. I didn't sleep with him. Ei-yi-yi . . . No, no, no. None of the above. The answer, according to author Greg Behrendt, is that he's not really interested. Doesn't matter why. No ego-soothing platitudes. No pop psychology. No cute relationship tricks. He's just not that into you. The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable. The tough talk is tough love for women from Behrendt, who strips away all the excuses for men (why he didn't call, isn't faithful, disappears, won't commit, etc., etc.) in the new book, "He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys," so that women will stop wasting their time on the wrong guy. The Los Angeles comedian was a bachelor for two decades before settling down. By his own admission, he was guilty of plenty of bad dating behavior -- which made him a perfect consultant to the hit HBO series "Sex and the City."

For the last three seasons, Behrendt advised the show's all-female writing staff and Executive Producer Michael Patrick King, who is gay. Behrendt sat in on scriptwriting sessions a couple of times a week, providing the "straight male" feedback. "The biggest lie of all is 'It's not you' -- because you are the person I'm in the relationship with. The truth is, 'It is you, and I'm not into you,' " says Behrendt, 41, now a happily married father of a 2-year-old daughter. About 18 months ago, Behrendt listened to the female writers ("All sharp, all attractive, couldn't have more going for themselves," he says) discuss a guy who had gone out with one of them, kissed her, then declined to come up to her apartment because he had an early meeting. No call the next day, but he sent an e-mail a week later. The women all reassured her that she was fabulous and that he must be scared or really busy. She asked Behrendt to weigh in. He knew no morning meeting will keep an attracted man from a midnight mambo. "My first thought was, 'I don't care if I'm flying the space shuttle tomorrow, I'm coming up.' " He broke the news: The guy wasn't into her. The writers gasped. "We were horrified," remembers Liz Tuccillo. "It was like we were all punched in the stomach. Then we started laughing." The cruel reality descended on the room. Each woman grilled Behrendt about her own relationship, and each time he shot down all the sympathetic excuses. The bottom line: If these men were truly interested, they would call, be faithful, commit, and more. It was just common sense to him, but a revelation -- like cracking an ancient, secret code -- to the women.

"He's just not that into you" was written in a sixth season script of the show, the blunt answer to Miranda when she puzzled over the baffling behavior of her new beau. But Tuccillo (never married and 41 years old) was so taken with the idea that she also decided to write a book with Behrendt detailing the many variations of "JNTIY" in relationships. "I had so many years and years of making excuses for men," she says. Writing the book with Behrendt forced her to break decades of bad habits. To wit: While working on the manuscript, Tuccillo mentioned that a new guy promised to call over the weekend. "It was Sunday night, and he hadn't called. I was bummed out. On Monday night, he calls and I'm overjoyed. I tell Greg, 'That guy called. I'm so happy.' And Greg's reaction was, 'But he didn't call you when he said he was going to.' " Tuccillo was annoyed -- at Behrendt. "You are such a drag, Greg," she told him. "Give me a break. He was off by 24 hours." But ultimately, Behrendt was right. "He's the big brother you wish you had. He's demanding these men treat you the way you should be treated."

There's plenty of dating advice, God knows, and most of it is for women trying to deconstruct the hearts of men. The premise, of course, is that men are complicated, emotionally stunted creatures incapable of direct action. And so women spend years obsessing with understanding girlfriends, wildly hoping that deep down he's really in love and wants to be with them. Even if he doesn't pick up the phone. Oh, wait -- even if he can't reach into his pocket and dial his cell phone, which is otherwise glued to his adorable ear. When you Google "Why didn't he call?" you get more than 1,500 hits in this vein: "I went out on a date about two weeks ago with a guy who seemed EXTREMELY interested in me and I in him. We had a great time and he wasn't afraid to express to me what a great time he was having. . . . I was 100% when he said good night and what a great time he had and that he would definitely call." He didn't, of course, and about a week later the heartsick writer ran into him. He said he had lost her number, and asked for it again. And then he (duh!) didn't call. She was utterly baffled.

People always want to know, "What happened?" Nothing happened, says Nancy Kirsch, senior vice president of It's Just Lunch international dating service. "Ultimately, chemistry is impossible to predict. That's what it boils down to." Sometimes, she has to break it gently to clients. "I hate to think that someone thinks they did something wrong or something not right enough on a date. That's just not the case." But women, she says, are much more prone to second-guessing than men. "We want to try to figure it out. We want to fix it." And they so want to believe men are telling the truth. But no.

Behrendt believes men would rather chew off their arms than admit the truth. Why do they lie? Not just lie, but kiss and compliment and generally mess with women's heads rather than say, "I'm just not that into you"? He thinks it's fear of confrontation. "I can't even tell you why. Men are afraid of women being upset or yelling. In a fight with a guy, you know what it is: It gets verbal, then it gets physical. With a women, you don't know where it's going to go, and you know it can't and shouldn't get physical." Relationship correspondent Jon Platner weighs the pros and cons of honesty in a column on AskMen.com called How to Reject the Girl You Don't Want. He concludes that honesty can make women defensive and confrontational. "She may also ask you countless questions about what she did wrong, a situation you definitely don't want to be stuck in," he writes. He prefers Option 2: Give her gradual hints such as stop returning her calls, saying you just got out of a relationship and are hesitant to leap into another one, or are too busy with your career. Platner's strategy is that the woman will give up: "This is ideal because it ends the relationship without you having to outright reject her. But even if she's slow to get the hint and it still comes down to you spelling it out, at least you will have softened the blow."

So it's better to lie? Or not call? Or just disappear? Well, yeah. Behrendt admits he was one of those guys. He doesn't remember cheating on girlfriends, but "other than that, you can mark me down as all of them." That is, until he met his wife, Amiira, six years ago. He was really, really into her from the very start. "It was like being brought up from the minors to the majors," he says. "She was just 'it.' I was able to envision a future with her almost immediately." He says he worked hard to make Amiira part of his life: She operated at a certain level, and he had to step up to that level. "I really had to be a better man, all the way around, to be with her," he says. "Other women in other relationships would suggest changes that I wasn't willing to make." When a guy is truly interested in a woman, he pursues her. That's the way it's always been, he says, and equality hasn't changed it. And so Behrendt strips away the excuses: If a man is into you, he'll ask you out. (In fact, Behrendt believes no woman should ask out a man who hasn't asked her out first.) He will call, no matter now busy, because you'll be a bright spot in his day. He will want to have sex with you, and will stop having sex with other women. He will want to be with you when he's sober, not just to party. If he's really, really into you he'll want to marry you. He's not into you if he's breaking up with you, or disappearing with no explanation, or married to someone else, or abusive. There are exceptions to every rule, he says, but he really wants you to ignore them. You might be wonderful, but many wonderful women are in relationships with men who don't call, don't bother, don't care. It's wiser, he says, to assume the worst: You're the rule. He's not that into you, so get out and find someone who is. "I'm hoping this starts a revolution that gets everyone to step up and behave better," he says. "I want women to honor themselves, and I want men to honor women."

Unlike Carrie, Tuccillo hasn't found her Mr. Big. "I'd love to say I met the man of my dreams and he treats me like a queen -- but that's not the case," she says. ". . . Obviously, I still feel bad if a guy rejects me, but the hours I spent agonizing and strategizing and trying to figure them out are gone. You can't help but feel stronger and more confident when that's out of your life."

It was my birthday the other day. Sunday to be precise. I ambled - in a sweet, slow alcohol induced haze - straight into 27. Food and drink, friends and foes, wine and song. All were to be had. All gathered to celebrate. All on my account. Pretty crazy. All of my different world's colliding. Now whenever I make reference to one friend, another knows exactly who I am talking about. I have eliminated the need for providing context. Who knew? I will have to find other areas of conversation to fill the resultant gap in time.

Better expression through t-shirts. That was the theme of my party. Or rather, in the memorable words of the wise man known as Mike D, it was a fuckin' pageant, not a party. Birthday girl made a splash with her lavish eye makeup and "Spitters are Quitters" t-shirt (capped off at the end of the night by a variety of costume changes from "This Job Sucks" to "Cheap. Easy. Fun" and "Lawyers do it in front of a jury of their peers.") Yet, she was clearly not the winner. The dear friend, 3 months away from delivery, wearing the "Trust Me, I'm a Virgin" t-shirt was the hands-down victor.

Good birthday. No. Great Birthday.

Now let's make it a great year.

I should be doing work. That is a feeling I want to shake.

I want to be in love. That is a feeling I want to have.

Between ridding myself of the first feeling, and surrendering myself wholly and without reservation to the depths of the second, therein lies the answer to having it all.

"All" (as defined in my universe): A warm, safe, beautiful corner of the world where, regardless of what flurries of chaos go on around me or where I may happen to be, I carry with me the indellible feeling that I am always "home."

Simple needs. Considerate gestures. A cup of hot cocoa. A back rub. A well timed call. A "seeing you lights me up inside" smile - no matter how early or late in the day it might be. Bliss. Beaming. Proud. Support. Luckyducky.

This is what I want. This is what I need. Having waited so long, this is what I deserve. Even if I am not perfect, I deserve the - falling down, mad with passion, can't get over the fact that in the roar and bustle of the crowd I found you, pink-purple-green-blue-red-orange-with stars, stripes, spangles and glitter, laughing till my belly aches and/or milk comes out of my nose, split your Red Rope with me at the ball game, remember the kooky story I told you but laugh every time I happen to retell it, listen instead of waiting-to-talk, going to Starbucks even though you don't like it because I have an insurmountable chai tea latte problem, share - not stuff - but share you, curl up in bed on a Sunday reading the NYTimes together after being out dancing on tables the night before, hold my hair when I am sick, adore my crazy, recite "Field of Dreams" verbatim, hate mayonnaise, celebrate random days, tell the world and anyone who will listen (and even those who won't), do not just surrender but give your heart wholly and freely - kind of love.

Soon....please.

 
Hello.
 
Hello.
 
Is this thing on?
 
*Ahem* No will not say "sibillance" - what is that anyway?
 
Anyway - for anyone out there who may be looking round or listening peripherally - I stumbled across the smattered ramblings below just now - written Feb 20, 2004. So obviously not a lot has changed - rising like the phoenix is apparently a fairly lengthy process. Guess the accomplishment is in keeping on.
 
Oh, come on, humor me:

Human interpersonal relationships – a wonderfully scientific label for the art of getting along with your family, friends, lovers, co-workers, and any person you stand next to on the bus or pass on your way into the gym. It is a tidy, sterile way of describing all of these complex interactions. These daily dances with the other people accompanying us on this journey called life – designed to maximize happiness, minimize social discomfort, and make the world run smoothly. Or so it seems. I have lived my life under the banner of the happiness maximization (theirs), discomfort minimization (mine) for as long as I can remember. It has allowed me to cope with a lot of difficult situations. It has allowed me to adopt the self-aggrandizing moniker of “peacemaker” and “woman of compromise.” But mostly, it leaves me feeling compromised. Afraid of expressing my own opinions – as it is little known, that expressing one’s own preference on matters as important as whether Derek Jeter really looks good in pin stripes may cause one to spontaneously burst into flames – I dance, I dance. Dropped into a situation where an opinion might be required, I cleverly put forth some neutral statement – hoping to entice a nugget of what the other party’s opinion in the matter might be, from which I can then base my own statements on the matter. It is not so much a matter of agreeing with the other person all the time (that would make my fear of “rocking the boat” too obvious) but rather of embarking on a tight-rope walk of one-sided diplomacy, where any position I might have is appropriately tempered by acknowledging the inherent fairness, justification, and, ultimately, superiority of the other person’s positions.

I ask myself – when did I get this way? The echoing answer – I didn’t get this way. I have always been this way. So here I sit, a woman of vast education and an accomplished paper resume – Ivy League honors, topped with a J.D., a practicing attorney at a “BigLaw” firm, with the icing of having accomplished all such tasks at a break-neck speed before the age of 24 -  unable to express myself. So is this it? I am English major, book junkie, lawyer who talks and talks to fill the silences but who ultimately says nothing? I have been told for years that I had a gift for writing. Yes, it is my mother who is saying this, but it is someone nonetheless. Someone else recognizing the facility with language that I have been fortunate to be deeded in this life, that many others are continuously searching for. And yet, even acknowledging, if not a talent for writing, at least the inherent comfort I feel within the medium, I have been – for at least the last 15 years, afraid to write. I will write when I am in situations of comfort – the e-mails to family, to friends. On a smaller scale, in a sheltered environment. I have been unable… no, I have been unwilling to write in a larger forum, on a grander scale, for eyes whose biases are not tempered by affection for the spastic writer and her sensitivities. I have not had the courage to write in a forum to be judged by the biases of the rest of the world. I have not thought that anyone would want to hear what I had to say. I have long thought myself “the other,” that my quirks, my neuroses, my problems were all unique to me. And they are. But it occurs to me now, as I continue the long process of awakening from my guilt and anxiety ridden stupor that I may have something to say. That I do have something to say. That others can relate to the core experience. The quirks are just what make it funny, what make it me. What will allow me to express myself.

Lately I have found myself feeling different. The old pains are still there. The fear, the anxiety – my security blanket still present. But there are now moments. Flashes of time when I forget myself – the image of myself that I had long ago created and spent all subsequent years propping up, applying more spit and bubblegum to the cracks as need be, for the world to see. The me I thought the world could be comfortable with. There are slices, slivers and beams of me that begin to seep through the cardboard image. I let them out now. I did not even know they were there. They surprise me. But they are a victory. They lend hope to escaping what has always been the ache of being me. Relieving me of the fatigue that comes in tap dancing through life without respite to the steps of some mad choreographer who cares only for the image presented and not the toll taken on the dancer.

Often I only realize the moments in retrospect. Often they are born of painful situations. But they are there. They are mine. One particularly difficult area in my life has been my love life, or lack thereof. I have been involved. I have been on dates. I have had a long term relationship. But it has all been a struggle. A struggle for love. I like to play myself as the doomed lover – the one whom the fates have aligned against. The one who cannot fight the destiny of being alone – but who along the way will incur more pain in trying to love those who will not love her. She is unlovable. I believe myself unlovable. This could be because I choose to love those who are not capable of love, or who dole it out in little teaspoonfuls here and there. To serve their needs – both conscious and subsconscious. True enough, I pick men with issues. However, we all have issues. Really, the truth is this: No man can love me enough because I need enough love for two people – the love they would give me, and the love I need to make up for the fact of my loathing myself. No one is capable of that. Not in the long run.

I always pride myself of saying that I think a relationship is or could be healthy (were it to work out) because I can see the other persons flaws and I “know they are not perfect” so I am not suffering from idolatry and it would be a partnership of equal footing – blah, blah, blah. It’s all lip service. Yes, I do see the other persons flaws. I excuse them, I love in spite of them, I love them for them. Lovely thoughts. Appropriate even. However, it leads to the same idolatry as thinking the person is perfect in the first place. Idolatry is okay. A relationship filled with adoration is wonderful – we should all be so lucky. A relationship of lasting adoration, resplendent laughter, and unending respect is, if I do say so myself, the ideal. However, the admiration must be mutual. Everything, absolutely everything, in a relationship must be mutual. If I love someone in spite of and even because of their flaws, they must do the same. And maybe, they have. I have always been unwilling to accept that scenario though. I figure they love the paper-machiere version of me that I dangle before the masses. The “perfect” version of me. The “perfect” version of me, that I have always been aware, fools no one. The strain of maintaining it is too much. The chinks in the armor necessarily revealed by the crying jags and the nervous hysterics unleashed by the self imposed 24-7 puppet show. I have been conducting this show so long that I have forgotten what the real me is like. I have not spent any time with her in a long, long while. As I said before, she is starting to seep out a bit. Mostly in angry little spurts (she has been cooped up for an awfully long time). Yes, it is time to put the lights out on my travel-edition Broadway, the hatching process has begun.

 

So this is the story of me and the boys.

When I started out to tell this story, I thought I would just be recounting the sordid history that is my relationship with a certain little problem by the name of "Ed." Many of my trials and tribulations in life have stemmed from my relationship with Ed. However, I have come to realize that, in fact, it is Ed's fraternal twin, "Clide" who has been the driving force in my life's tumult. In retrospect, though I thought he was at the forefront and his involvement with me was his priority, I realize that Ed is pretty much a tag along. Trailing after Clide. Seeing what he does, and acting accordingly. Always trying to get his attention. To distract Clide from other things. This could be why I find myself so fond of Ed, though ultimately I think I know he isn't good for me. He distracts Clide from me. Ed helps me find some breathing room when I feel that Clide is absolutely smothering me. Clide is very possessive and unforgiving. If I didn't have Ed to run interference for me, I am not entirely sure what I would do.

This is the state of affairs now, and pretty fairly sums up the general history of the three of us over the last 15 years or so. Granted the relationship has changed over time, as we have all alternately imposed ourselves more adamantly at times and then receded in kind.
 
When I first got involved with Ed, he was very rigid. Much the way Clide is today, and generally always has been. Ed imposed very strict rules and boundaries on our relationship. This is also why I liked him. He brought order and control to my life. Especially in light of my concurrently trying to ride out Clide's unpredictable mood swings. Ed gave me patterns and stability. I always knew what to expect from Ed. I followed his rules, he gave me the promise of being on the path to perfect. If I made it there, Clide would leave me alone. Of course, the problem was always that "the path to perfect" was interminable - the destination elusive. This was compounded by the fact that if I didn't follow Ed's rules - because I was too tired, or I was being sloppy and careless, or because I just forgot - he was unforgiving. Not that he did anything to me mind you - but he would, at those moments in which I failed to remain vigilant, simply step away. Then it was just Clide and I - and the mirror, and my life. The funhouse mirror. My funhouse life. Abusive Clide. Laughing at me till I cried. I cowered. I whimpered. Waiting for Ed to cool off and come back to help me. He always did, but always with some extra rule or demand. It all got so very complicated to keep up with. Ed took so very much of my concentration. Following his routines required a lot of planning. Not to mention discretion. No one else in my life liked Ed very much. For the most part my family ignored his presence for a long time. Then they started to make comments. Ed and I had to start sneaking around. Clide of course raged on in front of people. No one liked him much either, but for some reason, no one ever said anything about Clide. He kind of has a way of making everyone feel helpless. Even when Ed has been militant, for some reason, people think that I have control of him. I guess his level headed methodical nature, makes his appear like he is eminently reasonable. That he can be reasoned with. Then again - I am sure Jim Jones and David Koresh appeared eminently reasonable too.

There have been periods of time over the years when Ed and I have been on the outs for a significant period of time (i.e. months rather than days). I am left to spar endlessly with Clide. It is draining. Oftentimes, I found the solution was to hide in bed or out of the way places. To remain uninvolved. Somehow I figured Clide couldn't find me while I watched endless Law & Order re-runs. So, left to my own devices, I try to check out of any possible squabble with Clyde. I reject structure. I reject effort. I pull the blankets over my head, close my eyes and wish Clide away. Obviously, this is not really effective. Clide knows he is winning our little contest when I pull these stunts. "Playing dead" won't make Clide go away. He can see me breathing. He waits around. He pokes me till I respond.  (Damnit! I blinked.) He lives for the responses, whatever they might be. I think Clide must have terribly low self esteem, deep down inside, because he seems to really thrive off of the negative reinforcement. He knows I loathe him. Yet the more I let him know that, the more tenacious his grip. So, Clide is really tiresome in his way as well.

It is after long periods of hanging out one-on-one with Clide that I find myself desperate to have Ed back into my life. I wish and hope and dream of him. I fantasize constantly about his return. I am never certain of it though. I know I need to commit to his strictures, to promise to adhere, if he is to come back. I am never sure if I have the time, the concentration, the fortitude necessary. When he does came back, it is always quiet. Very little fanfare.  I never notice right away, only ever after a while.
 
The sneaking around is less of an issue now. The advantage of "being an adult" is you see whom you like, do what you like. Everyone else comments. You just say "Fuck you." Ultimately, I revel in Ed's bad boy image. I deny to people that I am seeing him, but I am sure a knowing smile crosses my lips when he is mentioned. Then again, today, people are so afraid of Clide's effect on me, that I think they tolerate Ed more than ever before. They know he helps me cope. Today Ed and I have a pretty effective give and take relationship. When I don't follow the rules, Ed is not so quick to walk out. He watches me. He taps his foot disapprovingly as I take my liberties. He then grabs my hand, sits me down, goes over the rules again, and we start all over again. It works out pretty well. It requires far less concentration. It is still difficult because he gets in little snits and will go away momentarily. But he is always back much sooner. Truth of the matter is, I don't want him to go away. Ever. Even if I can manage to get Clide to shove off (and this is goal number one in my life - he is a boor that has taken up too much of my time and brings absolutely nothing to the proverbial table), I don't want Ed to go. I know everyone else will think that is pathological. Maybe it is. And if we were still talking about the Ed I first knew 15 years ago when we first met, it would probably be dangerous. It was too much. But the mellowed Ed I can take. For now, his presence is useful, familiar and steady.
 
So there it is - the story of the boys and me. It is a long and checkered past, coupled with an uncertain future. But it is a story that I own now, if only because I am finally willing to tell it. Not looking for a Hollywood ending to the story, just simple resolution and fulfillment.
 
Someday... stay tuned.