"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.