Diary of Why

Why I love Jeff Mangum

2012-01-30T23:31:00.000-05:00

If I hadn't bought a Groupon, then I wouldn't have gotten my hair cut on Saturday. If my haircut hadn't taken twice as long as I had anticipated, and I didn't live so far away, then I would have gone home to change before the Jeff Mangum show. If I had gone home to change before the Jeff Mangum show I would have been rushing to get back to meet my friend by 7:00, instead of walking around U Street with an hour to kill. If I hadn't been right down the street from the theater with an hour to kill, I wouldn't have walked past the ticket window at 6:15, and thought to ask, offhandedly, "You don't have any tickets, do you?" sure the answer would be no. After all, Ticketmaster had been sold out for months, and tickets for sale elsewhere online were going for three and four times face value. So it was no small shock to me when the woman said, "Wait five minutes. We might." And? They did! I got tickets to see Jeff Mangum! At face value! I didn't even have to pay the Ticketmaster fees! For someone who often feels like the Charlie Brown of, well, everything, I am still a bit stunned by how perfectly everything came together for me for that one perfect night.

And now, on to the show!

The opening band, Music Tapes, was dreamy. Seriously, like ethereal, am-I-asleep-or-am-I-awake, dreamy. Julian Koster played a saw and a banjo with a frayed violin bow. He told a story about old Romanian gypsy circus folk who pulled European cities from their mouths. There was a seven-foot tall ticking metronome.

It reminded me a little of Beirut, at times a little of Rufus Wainwright, but mostly it was like nothing I had ever seen or heard before. Magical.

And then there was Jeff.

Let me tell you why I love Jeff Mangum. First, because he said, "Alright guys, if you sing along at home, you might as well sing here, too." It was a singalong love fest as he played his way around The Aeroplane Over the Sea album, with a bit of On Avery Island for good measure. The only song I hadn't heard before was "Little Birds," a song that I am going to have to insist that you stop and listen to (but not watch, unfortunately) right now.

It's about seven minutes long, but worth it. So, so powerful. (Check out the lyrics here, if you dare.)

Reason number two why I love Jeff Mangum: because he said, "Have you all had a nice decade?" (The crowd goes wild. ~~Ten~~ Fourteen years is a long time to wait for someone to come out of seclusion. But worth it.) And because he then said, "I've just been living my life, being happy."

And really, is there anything more any of us could ask for?

Why I wish every bad date could turn out this well

2012-01-25T23:19:00.000-05:00

There are many things women can bond over, for instance a shared love of travel, or similar taste in shoes. But there is a very special kind of bonding that occurs between two women who have just met and who suddenly and unexpectedly discover that they have both dated the same man.

Shock is followed by disbelief, which is followed by, "Tell me everything. No, you first." And it may have been a French meet-up, but for once the French thing was not happening, not for this kind of dirt. We huddled at the bar whispering in English, casting furtive glances and hoping that no one would guess either the topic of our conversation (after all, quel petit monde!) or the language we were sneakily indulging in.

I had only gone out with him once; it was, in fact, the Frenchie from the terrifyingly awkward date and motorcycle ride from hell. She, however, had not gotten off so easily, and was still somewhat unwillingly entangled, it seemed. Apparently, I really "dodged a bullet" there. (Me: "That's so funny, because usually I tend to throw myself directly in the path of speeding bullets. First time for everything!")

Apparently this guy had been laying it on pretty thick, saying that prior to her, he hadn't gone on "a single date" since his divorce, that he had "never" messaged anyone through Meetup before, and, well. Whoops. Besides a propensity for telling lies of the little and white variety, he was also possessed of several other less than charming personality traits, and so she had been trying to end things with him for a while. But our encounter gave her the little extra nudge she needed to put an end to it once and for all, she said. (Yup, just call me the anti-Cupid.)

But, it turns out that this story has a happy ending after all, because she and I are hanging out this weekend! She wants to see Jeff Mangum with me! We don't have tickets! But I am still really excited! (And since I told her about my blog, for the sake of my own dignity I am imposing a moratorium on all further exclamation points. Period. Ellipsis.)

Why he's fading fast and I'm over it slowly

2012-01-19T23:44:00.002-05:00

After about a week of silently observing the fastest slow fade known to man, I decided enough was enough. Under normal circumstances, for a guy I wasn't sure I was particularly into I might have just let it drop, but for someone I would have to continue to see occasionally in a professional capacity, an exception had to be made. There was a pachyderm in the room, and I was determined to blast it into obscurity, or failing that, at least poke it gently and ask if it might like to leave.

So what's up? I texted the man formerly known as my Not-So-Secret Admirer. It was his day off, and just moments prior he had confessed that he was doing "absolutely nothing." It seemed like the right time for a little talk. Do you not like me anymore? I continued, putting it all out there.

Actually I very much do, he responded a full thirty minutes later. What's new with you?

I was just picking up on some signals and wanted to clear the air, I replied.

I don't do signals, I just say what I think, he said, forty minutes later. That said, I felt really bad about you catching shit about me last week.

Ok, I said, waiting for him to elaborate.

An hour later, he still hadn't volunteered any further information, though after his last statement it really seemed like a follow-up was necessary. I had a few pointed remarks I was dying to make regarding the communication skills of a guy who supposedly "doesn't do signals" and "says what he thinks," but I held them in. And you know? I thought. He probably honestly does believe that about himself. Just like all guys, e.g.: "Deep down I'm a really good guy." "I don't play games." "There's nothing wrong with my breath." Delusional, the lot of 'em.

Instead I sent him another, pared down version of the text I really wanted to send: I guess I am still unclear as to what you are saying.

I'm not willing to let u get shit because of me, he replied.

Ok, I said. But again he ignored this, the universal signal for "please go on," or "tell me more." And that was all he wrote.

My reaction? Well I'm glad he was able to use my awkward conversation about him with my boss as a convenient excuse. Otherwise he might have had to tell me the truth. Or, you know, at least come up with a different excuse. Now, I know some of you may be tempted to take him at his word, and a commenter on the last post even predicted something similar. But honey, this ain't my first rodeo. They never tell you the truth.

And honestly, I was ok with it, for the most part. Until he posted this to Facebook today:

They got rid of Shatner as pitchman for priceline? That just ruined my day.

Shatner...not on Priceline? That ruined his day?

And then, flames...flames on the...side of my face...

Does he also have strong feelings about the Travelocity gnome, I wonder? Did he shed a tear for the Taco Bell talking chihuahua? What does it take to get to this guy?!

That just ruined his day? That makes two of us.

Why my tolerance for awkwardness is building to dangerously high levels

2012-01-17T22:37:00.001-05:00

The other day my boss called me into his office. Not my boss, but her boss. The Boss. (Not to be confused with Springsteen, though if they have anything in common it's probably that they both bathe regularly in swimming pools full of money (or so I can only assume)). And why is it that on the rare occasion when I am called back there is always a small part of me that secretly hopes it's because I'm doing such a fantastic job and he wants to give me a raise? Spoiler alert: nope. But I guess you don't make swimming pools of money by giving people raises.

"Have a seat," he gestured, barely looking up from his computer. I did, and finally he sighed and turned to face me. "So, I know you and [Not-So-Secret Admirer] are dating," he said.

"We're just friends," I said, my hands flying up unbidden to form the universal symbol for No. Stop. Wait a minute.

"Well, that's not what I heard," he said.

The over sharer in me desperately wanted to tell him that we haven't even kissed, and that where I come from, people who hang out and don't kiss are called friends, but luckily the rational and professional part of me jumped in just in time, and I said nothing.

"Well, I know that you went to a party at his house," he said.

I wanted to say that a lot of people went to the party at his house, but as I opened my mouth to speak he held up his hand in the universal symbol for You will let me speak, minion.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter. The point is, you work with payroll, and a lot of other confidential information. You hear a lot of things in this office that should never, ever leave the office." He continued on in this vein, as I nodded, of course, of course, a bit stunned, and assured him that I was "very discrete." (I could have chosen any adjective in the world, and the one I landed on in that moment makes it sound like I spend my free time trolling for dates in the "Casual Encounters" section of Craigslist. Great.) "We're just friends," I concluded, for no apparent reason at all (and why do my hands keep doing that?) He grunted, which I took as my signal to leave.

In other news, work continues to suck.

UPDATE: Sitting on posts for a week is never a good idea, as they are sure to become rendered utterly and completely moot by the time I get around to posting them. Case in point: Not-So-Secret-Admirer is quickly becoming ancient history by now, as I've never seen anyone pull a faster slow fade. And if you think rejection gets any easier when you're not sure if you're particularly attracted to the person, let me fill you in--it still sucks.

Meanwhile, if anyone needs any confidential payroll data, you know where to find me.

Why sometimes you don't need to know why

2012-01-15T10:32:00.003-05:00

So, who sent the mystery text? My initial reaction, like many of yours, was that it was from the Moroccan, since he was freshest in my mind. But once I read the text a second time, I realized the spelling and grammar were much too good (and as many of you pointed out, the spelling and grammar were not even that good). We used to joke that even his texts had an accent, and so I knew that it wasn't from him. Thus narrowing the field to...

Commenter Erin guessed the "chubby bearded guy" I briefly dated in Mythaca. I think she meant this guy (whose name I honestly, at this moment, can't remember--hooray!), and while it wasn't him, it turns out that our mystery man was indeed a different chubby bearded guy that I dated briefly(ish) in Mythaca. (So, apparently I have a type?) Otherwise known as Luke, otherwise known as the apartment complex guy. The reason I didn't immediately recognize the area code was because he has a Rochester number (thank you, Google), which is the city nearest the small town where he's from.

And, like many of you, my first instinct was also to reply with "Who's this?", and then almost as quickly I realized that I did not want him to (correctly) assume that my past is littered with so many assholes that I can't keep them straight (even though it is and I can't). I immediately texted Pete for advice, who responded: Def don't respond. If he likes you then he might stop liking you. If you never respond for the rest of your life then you don't risk him not liking you.

What? I replied.

I'm saying that if you respond you may end up never talking to him again...so you should just never respond.

So not only was Pete entirely unhelpful here, but I also had the vague feeling he was making fun of me. I turned instead to my friend Eric, who had always been particularly perceptive when it came to Luke. In fact, six months ago when we used to sit in my living room in Mythaca and gab for hours, he had even predicted that this exact situation would occur, that at some unknown point in the future I would hear from Luke again, and that it would all be a continued part of his manipulation and mind-fuckery. "You see, for guys like these," he told me back then, "the biggest challenge of all is to take a girl that they've completely fucked things up with, a girl who hates his guts and never wants to talk to him again, and see if they can get her back. That's like...that's power."

"That's sick!" I told him.

"I know," he said. "And I used to do it, so I know. I don't know why I did it... I just...I liked being in control. It was fun for me, I guess. Just to see how far you can go, how much you can get her to put up with. And then after all that, if you can get her to do it again... Just be careful, is all I'm saying."

Grumpy echoed something very similar in his comment on the last post, and though it is perhaps a pessimistic view to take, I believe it to be true. You know, it's honestly not that I assume the worst about humanity. But I do assume the worst about this guy. And even if the apology was sincere, I still don't feel the need to respond. It's over. It's been over.

The angsty twenty-something Rachel would never have been able to let something like this go without a response. She would have been consumed with a burning curiosity, and an unquenchable need to know WHY? If you knew you were being a jerk, then why did you do it in the first place? Why are you sorry now, six months after the fact? Why text me after I move to a different state? Why re-open that can of worms? Why, why, why??? (There, is that enough whys for you, Grumpy? Happy now?)

The current Rachel, however, is content to blog about it and then let it roll harmlessly off her back like so many raindrops off of something water repellent. I feel so grown up, all of a sudden. Welcome to your thirties, self! Like your twenties, but with 50% less crazy! I'll be honest, I do sometimes miss the crazy. If I ever miss it too much, though, it's nice to know that it's always just a mouse click away...

Why it's too late to apologize

2012-01-12T22:08:00.001-05:00

So this text arrived about half an hour ago:

"Rachel, I owe you a sincere apology for the way I acted and treated you. I am truely sorry, you are a great person and a wonderful woman. I hope your doing great and enjoying your new adventure. Again I am truely sorry and I wish you the best."

And what does it say about my sad dating history that I had to Google the area code to figure out which bridge-burning loser from my past it was from?

So now I put it to you. Who do you think sent it? And, more importantly, do I respond? Or ignore?

Why I blame this on the fact that I didn't start drinking until I was 21...and a half

2012-01-09T23:17:00.001-05:00

In answer to the question that I know has been on everyone's minds (but only if that question happens to be, How was the dinner party, Rach?!), I believe it can best be summed up in the following text conversation, which took place slightly before midnight on Friday night:

Me: Effbwtf

Not-So-Secret Admirer: What the hell does that mean?

Me: Fucj
Me: Non.orwndinner parties edver

NSSA: Rachel I have no idea what u r trying to say!

Me: Sok
Me: I'm nevwr dinking agasinn
Me: Fcjn

NSSA: That I understand. How much have u had?

Me: Dunnoo
Me: Too much?

NSSA: Where r u?

Me: Jhome. No worry
Me: Such is the. Besuty of dinner party on secind floor
Me: Sorry

NSSA: It's fine, I think its adorable.

Me: Omg. So not
Me: Never. Been bso dru k
Me: And pukey

NSSA: Uh oh. Do u have water?

Me: I do bjut no hel;p
Me: Too bllate
Me: Will be sorryt tomorrow

NSSA: I know but keep drinking it and take aspirin or you'll be very unhappy tomorrow

Turns out, we were both right. It was too "bllate," and I was very unhappy the next day. You want to know the worst part? I didn't even make it through dinner. It was sometime before the dessert course that my internal Danger! Threat imminent! sensors started going off, and I was all, "Well, it's been real, guys, but I think I'm going to...go...now...Kthanksbye!" I was out the door so fast you could practically see the cartoon speed lines coming off my heels. (Not stink lines! Speed lines! It's different!) At least no one can accuse me of overstaying my welcome.

But I guess that's what happens when you combine two of my favorite alcohols in one intoxicatingly delightful beverage. (Gin! and champagne! and Cointreau, oh my! And it has French in its name, and I speak French! Clearly this was a match made in heaven. I will have two, and then some more sparkling wine, and then some more wine, please.) This is a recipe I recommend only if you are ok with yakking. ("Just like a nineteen year old!" my sister said when I told her. Which I thought was pretty condescending coming from someone who recently threw punches at some dickhead in a bar. (He called her fat, and so he deserved it.) (She's not fat, but that's not really the point.) She hits like a girl, as it turns out, but did get herself a pretty good goose egg in all the kerfuffle. Is not in a position to judge, is my point.)

New Year's resolution 2012? Learn how to drink like a grown-up. Or at least find a safer signature drink. (I hear Long Island iced teas are good?)

Why my nose knows no bounds, and other assorted tidbits

2012-01-05T22:25:00.003-05:00

I like to think that most of the time I have an above average sense of smell, but lately it's just been ridiculous. Suddenly from my desk at work I can smell my boss's cigarette butts in the trash can in the kitchen (I know). I can smell the guy's breath two rows away from me on the Metro. I can smell a distinct urine smell coming from...somewhere on the Metro. And why oh why must someone always bring french fries on the bus? Looking at it now, I can see that most of these are probably "public transit in a large city" issues more than "my nose" issues. But seriously, multiple times a day it's all I can do to stop myself from screaming out in frustration to no one in particular, "I CAN SMELL EVERYTHING!!!!" And before you ask, NO, I am definitely not pregnant. Yes, I am sure. I also kept waiting for this sudden olfactory sensitivity to be followed by a monster migraine, but so far nothing. I guess I am just gifted.

WHY DON'T YOU GET A LIFE UPDATE:
First, let me preface this by saying, NO ONE GET EXCITED. But my neighbor extended me a last-minute (like six hours before, and probably only because I ran into her on my way to the mailbox) invitation for New Year's Eve, as she was having a casual get-together at her apartment. I felt pretty lame admitting (six hours before the event) that actually, I didn't have plans, and yes, I would love to attend, but I did, and lo, an amusing time was had by all. I mean, it was not crazy by any means, the women outnumbered the men (both of whom were married) eight to two, but it was a low-key good time, probably aided by copious amounts of bubbly wine and the fact that I only had to travel twenty feet to get there. Also, I discovered that this girl has a collection of first-edition L.M. Montgomery novels, so as Anne Shirley would say, I'm pretty sure we're kindred spirits. Now, I initially met this neighbor after I left a particularly, shall we say, pointed note on her door at 2:30 a.m. after hours of non-stop dog barking through paper-thin walls. I regretted it in the morning, but forced sleep deprivation is a form of torture, in my book, and honestly, I can't be held responsible for my actions under those circumstances. I regretted it even more after my neighbor came over the next day and introduced herself and apologized profusely and was so embarrassingly nice about it. I found out that it wasn't even her dog, but our upstairs neighbors' dog, who she had been watching for the night. Normally she would have been home with him but she had gone out for her cousin's birthday, etc. As it turns out, these upstairs neighbors with the dog were also at the New Year's Eve shindig, and at one point in the evening offhandedly mentioned the note I had left all those months ago, which obviously they had heard about, not in an accusatory way, but in a "this is how loud and obnoxious our dog is" way. Nonetheless I was chagrined and turned red and apologized, but then I was like, well, if I hadn't left that note I probably would never have met my neighbor and thus wouldn't be here tonight, so actually, it kind of all worked out for the best.

Then yesterday the upstairs dog-having neighbors invited me to a dinner party tomorrow night, so like I said, NO ONE GET EXCITED, but slowly, surely, and with baby steps I am maybe sort of getting to know people here.

Relatedly, a full week after my Facebook message, my new best friend/girl crush wrote back to me! Apparently my message had gone to her "other mail" folder which she rarely checks. She thought my misunderstanding was hilarious, and mentioned how she had told her mother-in-law the next day (they both love Kristen Wiig) how she had met someone "as adorable and funny" as KW (!), but that I didn't seem to take it as a compliment and she couldn't understand why. Take that, commenter who used my own words to try to make me feel bad about myself, thus missing the point of self-deprecation completely. Anyway, she closed by telling me to let her know if I wanted to get together sometime, which, yes. No concrete plans yet, but like I said, all steps in the right direction.

Also, after hanging out several times with my not-so-secret admirer, I've confirmed my suspicion that he is good friend material, at most. I have also come to the conclusion that if that is the case, I should probably stop getting drunk and flirting with him. Like, I should probably not hand feed him popcorn in a bar, because that is only going to encourage him. But that was only because he said he hated it! I mean, how do you hate popcorn, guys?! So I forced him to eat it, because it was funny, and...ohhh, I maybe see what he did there. But he continues to be very sweet, and he brings me little things like cookies his mom sent him, and a pudding cup (long story). And even my boss has remarked upon his complete transformation whenever he stops by the office now. The first few times I met him he wore the same ratty, grungy hooded sweatshirt and jeans, but now it's suits or sweater-with-leather jacket every time. "I'm just saying, I never saw that boy not in a baseball cap before you started working here," she (my boss) said. She also says things like, "Hey, where are you going? Aren't you going to stay and flirt for a while?" to him as he's leaving, which is not at all embarrassing. And then he'll reply with something just as cute, like, "Well, you see, I've determined I'm only charming in small doses," as he waves and walks out the door, and honestly, it just makes work a little bit more fun. (Don't get your hopes up, other than that work is still terrible and not at all fun.) Now, is that so wrong?

You have been updated. Carry on.

Why it really is ironic, don't you think? (No, really, it is)

2011-12-28T23:24:00.004-05:00

At this year's company holiday party (which I attended alone, dateless, and otherwise all by myself--aren't you proud of me for not chickening out?), I ended up in a long and only somewhat drunken conversation with one of the chef's wives--total girl crush material, and I desperately hoped I was hiding my social retardation enough for her to want to be my new best friend. (We high-fived over our mutually strained relationships with our mothers! "How do you not like your mother?" the guy across the table asked in horror, as she and I exchanged knowing glances.)

And then this happened: "You know who you remind me of?" she said. "Kristen Wiig."

"Um...oh..." I said, no doubt doing something really awful with my face, that caused her to say, "I mean, I hope you take that as a compliment. I really like her, I think she's awesome."

"Um...yeah...That's...cool," I murmured, my face still registering a mixture of shock and disappointment. Luckily we both let it drop at that point, but believe me, it was awkward.

Because, are you ready for this? I don't know if you were aware, but this is who Kristen Wiig actually is:

But this is who I thought she meant:

For the uninitated, that is actually Kristen Schaal, otherwise known as Mel from Flight of the Conchords. Honestly, I don't know why I just assumed that that's who she was talking about. I blame the Kristens-with-double-vowels-in-their-last-names thing. Also, I think I've been a bit edgy about this sort of thing ever since a guy I met at a party told me I looked like Kathy Griffin. You don't get over something like that.

But, to reiterate, this is Kristen Wiig:

And this is not Kristen Wiig:

Again, below is the hilarious, talented, and beautiful Kristen Wiig...ok, so this one is not the best example:

Here we go. Much better:

And again, this is who I thought I was being compared to:

I do need to interject here to say that I'm a huge Kristen Schaal fan. I think she's talented and funny and adorable, and I actually had a lot of trouble locating awkward enough pictures of her, since in the majority of the photos I found of her online she is looking pretty and polished. It's just that in that moment, my mind latched on to her Mel persona and couldn't let it go. So this girl basically called me out as the funny-looking funny girl, or so I thought. And right when we were getting along so well!

"Can you believe she said I look like Kristen Wiig?" I griped later to my not-so-secret admirer/new friend, who had been at my elbow all night.

"Who?" he replied, not so helpfully. I explained. "Um, yeah. So?" he replied.

"Argh!" I replied.

I texted something similar to my sister, who replied, "Nah, she's cute. I liked her in Bridesmaids."

Suddenly the heavens opened and a beam of light shone down on my forehead, which I promptly smacked. Kristen WIIG! Oh my god, of course, Kristen WIIG! Well I love Kristen WIIG! She's beautiful and funny and...oh my god, I must explain this hilarious misunderstanding to my new best friend right away! Except she wasn't there; she had already left. Of course she had, I remembered, which would explain why she had said goodbye and asked for my e-mail address (score!)

I explained my life-changing revelation to my not-so-secret admirer/new friend, still at my elbow, who replied, "Um, so?"

"No, you don't get it!" I exclaimed. "It's like someone telling you you look like Carrot Top, and then you find out that actually they meant Brad Pitt!"

"Why would that matter anyway?" he said. "I've been telling you you look great all night."

"Kristen WIIG!" I exclaimed.

STATUS UPDATE:
Facebook message sent to ~~new best friend~~ girl I met once and will probably never see again, explaining hilarious misunderstanding: over forty-eight hours and still no response. Not looking so good, folks. Granted, a married mother of three small children might not have been the best candidate for a new friendship. Still though, she lives nearby, and I was super hoping.

Dates gone on with not-so-secret admirer: one last night, and he has already asked me out again for Friday, and he invited me to a party at his house on Sunday/New Year's Day. (New Year's Eve still looking sad as all get-out, unfortunately. Sidebar--Ok, so I do have an invitation to hang out with a friend of a friend and his friends (got it?), but somehow a pity invite and hanging out with strangers on New Year's Eve just seems sadder than spending the night alone. End sidebar). Not-so-secret admirer is short, chubby, and blond. Also very sweet, and seems super into me. Still though, could I not once be pursued by tall, dark, and handsome? Although, I have already met his friends (date zero, and he already introduced me to his friends!), and we are already Facebook friends. Which, I have the vague feeling may be the two things I specifically mentioned recently as very much lacking in my last "relationship," and why do I have the feeling the universe is laughing at me?

I will give you everything you ever professed to want in a man except, haaa, yeah, you will never, ever in a million years be attracted to him! Mwahahaha...

The universe, she is a devious bitch.

Why I guess that's why they call it the blues

2011-12-21T19:38:00.000-05:00

In an effort to avoid writing about that again, I was going to basically do a copy-paste of a series of five e-mails sent to me on Plenty of Fish over a 24-hour period from one increasingly agitated dude. His growing exasperation over the fact that I hadn't yet responded to him (gasp! The nerve!) finally reached a breaking point ("STILL no response? Not cool!"), which was followed several minutes later with his final e-mail ("Bye bye"), and did I mention this was all within 24 hours? But then I deleted my PoF account in a fit of disgust, and sadly, those particular e-mails were lost forever, so now you will just have to take my word for it. But seriously, dude was nuts.

So, you see, I wasn't going to write about that (that) at all, but then someone felt the need to do the Formal Breakup Phone Call, and for once that someone wasn't even me. This delightful conversation was filled with heartwarming gems like, "I just didn't feel like our relationship was going to flourish" (Bam!), and, "I like you, but you can't spend your life with someone just because you like them. You have to love them." (Kapow!) At which point my instinct for self-preservation kicked in. "Hey, you really don't have to explain all this to me," I said. "I mean, I get it. You're not that into me! I've known that for two months now. You really don't have to explain how not into me you are. Just stop." I asked him why he had called me (he didn't want to just leave things the way they were, although he was starting to think perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea), he said he hoped we could be friends (I said, I don't think so, bud), I said good luck, because it's less heartbreaking than "goodbye forever," and he said it too, and if his voice sounded a bit watery at the end, then good. Let the motherfucker cry, I thought. I had held it together this entire conversation, you see (having had weeks to prepare for it), which of course means that as soon as I hung up I burst into bitter, gasping, hopeless tears and spent the remainder of that fine Friday evening on my bed weeping and huddled in the fetal position. But it was ok, because I didn't have plans anyway. Ba dum bum!

So, now I can finally put a lid on this thing once and for all and close with the fucking end.

Why I'm glad we're all on the same page here

2011-12-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

Dear Schizophrenic Commenters of the Internet*,

I have to admit I was a little confused by some of the comments on my last post. Chiefly because a majority of comments on the post just before that one, seriously, the one right below it, were to the tune of:

"Give that bloke the BOOT!!!!!!"

"It's time to dump his Moroccan ass."

"Definitely drop the boy."

"Yeah, he's done."

"Drop him like a hot potato."

"Do not waste your time."

"Get rid of this guy."

So, message received, loud and clear. And believe me, you weren't telling me anything I didn't already know. Get rid of the guy, I got it! But then, when I did just that (albeit perhaps in a bit more of a passive-aggressive manner than some people seem comfortable with), somehow the general tone of the comments section turned into:

"You came across as very abrupt and off-putting."

"Your text to him was really aggressive."

"Your pattern is aloofness, and defensiveness."

"Poor guy..."

"I imagine he is really confused by what has happened, and probably offended too."

And my personal favorite: "Don't forget that if you're the slightest bit emotionnaly [sic] needy, you will blow things with him, and any other guy."

I mean, I get it, sort of. As a stand alone post, even I would read that and be like, whoa, bitch be crazy. But I've been writing about this guy for a while, now, and I guess I sort of assumed everyone was there with me. But since it appears that wasn't the case, let me clarify: I wasn't sad because he seemed eager to get off the phone with me or because he didn't respond to my provocation at picking a fight. I've been sad for weeks now, because he doesn't want to date me but I want to date him waaahhhh why doesn't he like me??? This is the guy who's kept me at arm's length for the last two months, and let's not kid ourselves--arms length? He's got two arms and a leg in there. So, yes, the sadness and frustration was a cumulative effect reaching last-straw proportions, not because of one phone conversation. I mean, can't you people read my mind? Or failing that, at least my last three blog posts? Jeesh.

Evolutionary Revolutionary suggested sending him an e-mail to clear the air, which, haaa, funny story. After two months of ~~dating~~ ~~hanging out~~ ~~dating~~ ~~sleeping together~~ oh whatthefuckever, I don't actually have his e-mail address. And, as previously mentioned, we aren't acquainted on Facebook, either, so the only way I have of reaching him electronically is through the Plenty of Fish website, and...ehhh, I didn't want to do that. But, after careful consideration, I decided to send him a text. Because goddamn, do you people have a knack for making me second guess myself.

I'm sorry for not answering you, I said. I was afraid of getting hurt, and it just seemed easier.

And then, after ~~checking my phone every five minutes for the next four hours~~ losing myself in my work and completely forgetting I had texted him (haaa!), he finally replied: No problem, I understood your frustration... Hope you had a good time in Philly.

I replied that I did have a good time, and hoped he had a nice weekend as well.

And that, it appears, is that. There's been no further communication, which is as it should be, I suppose. So basically, the same net result as before, only it all feels slightly more civil, now. Still raw, still painful. But civil.

And now is when you all offer up supportive, inspirational, lovely words of encouragement for me, yes? Yes. Or, you know, highlight my most glaring weaknesses, personality flaws, and personal failures. Commenters' choice!

*You know I still love you, right?

Why (I am led to wonder why) I try

2011-12-14T21:14:00.002-05:00

It hurts more than it should, considering. Considering it was only two months, considering how little time we actually spent together during those two months, considering that we both knew all along that there was no hope for a future. (Did we? Did we both know that? Or are some of us eternal ~~optimists~~ idiots in that regard?) But goddammit, I liked him. I really, really liked him. And how often does that happen to me? Once, maybe twice a year, I meet someone I actually like, and so when it happens, I cling to it. That feeling that I had lost, that I was afraid I would never find again. And so I let myself get swept away in it, for a little while, until I lose it again. Until it gets taken from me.

On Friday he called. A rarity (usually he texts), but it happens. Happened. I was waiting for a bus to Philly, off to visit friends for the weekend. I missed his call, just, and called him back. "I left you a message!" he said. Oh? I said. What did you say? "Just wanted to see how your week was and that I hope you have a good time in Philly," he said. Oh, thanks, I said. "So send me a text when you arrive to let me know you got there safe," he said. "Ok? Well I'll talk to you later, bye!"

I blinked at the phone in my hand. A phone call was a rarity, as I said, and this one hardly allowed for time to catch up. Wanted to see how your week was? Talk to you later, bye? I could have said nothing. Before I probably would have said nothing, but this time I didn't.

Why did you call if you didn't actually want to talk to me? I texted.

What? he replied.

But I didn't answer. And neither did he. And that, it seems, is that.

Only, it hurts. It hurts to know that I am not worth the tiniest bit of a chase, even if it would have led straight to a dead end. That he couldn't be bothered. That after two months, this is how it ends. What?

What, indeed.

This one's for the lonely
The ones that seek and find
Only to be let down
Time after time

This one's for the torn down
The experts at the fall
Come on friends get up now
You're not alone at all

[...]

It comes and goes in waves
I am only led to wonder why
It comes and goes in waves
I am only led to wonder why
Why I try

Why I've been scrooged. Scrooged!

2011-12-05T22:08:00.001-05:00

Only one week in and already I'm 0 for 2 in the great "Ask for What You Want" experiment.

Re: Wanting to see the Moroccan more than two or three times a month:

Him: "You will see me exactly the same amount or possibly less, and also, due to our vastly different religious beliefs, there is almost no chance of our having any kind of future together."

Me: "Did I hear an almost? I like the sound of those odds. I accept your generous offer to continue seeing each other casually when your schedule allows for it and 'see where things go.'" (I know, I know. Baby steps.)

The second part didn't even intentionally start out as "Ask For What You Want" (AFWYW), but rather as a casual question at work, namely, "Oh, hey, what days do we get off for Christmas?"

Answer: "What day is Christmas this year? Sunday? So, none, then. None days."

Me: "Um?"

"Oh, and New Year's Day is also a Sunday, huh? Yeah, that's too bad."

I was tempted to quit right then out of protest, and also spite (so much spite!), for this and numerous other indignities, but, you know. (Homelessness not being on my wish list this year.) And so I stay.

***
Dear Santa,

All I want for Christmas this year is a better job and a boy who will want to see me as often as two times a week, and maybe introduce me to his friends. But I don't want to ask for too much. I would settle for winning the lottery.

Sincerely,

About to Join the Occupy Wall Street Protesters, or a Convent

Why is it so hard to ask for what you want?

2011-11-29T21:03:00.002-05:00

Anonymous commented on my last post, "[...]Ask yourself what kind of relationship message you are putting out? You are afraid of getting hurt and so often keep men at arms length. That message comes out that YOU are afraid of commitment as well. That YOU aren't capable of being close to another person, because of your fear."

In an instant I recognized this as truth. The timing of the comment was perfect, because its message was actually something that I have been thinking about a lot over the last couple days. In one of the most surprisingly helpful conversations I have ever had with Pete, he led me to this fairly life-changing idea: If you're not getting what you want, why don't you try asking for it? Ask for what you want.

My gut reaction was immediate and visceral: No way! With his well-duh question of "Why not?", suddenly, in a flash, I finally saw myself from the outside, saw every relationship and pseudo-relationship of the last few years, and their freakily similar demises: boy meets girl. Girl hopes against hope that boy will fall madly in love with her and give her everything she's ever wanted, all the while pretending she could care less. When inevitably he doesn't give her what she had hoped for in the time frame she would have desired, girl writes off boy forever. He gets vilified as a jerk for not giving her everything she wanted, when the fact is, she never asked for anything in the first place.

The fact is, the past four and a half years I have been so afraid of not getting what I want that I've been afraid to admit that I want anything at all. I've been so afraid of getting told 'no' that it seemed easier to never ask a question at all. This whole time I've been waiting for "The One," he who would fall madly and deeply in love with me and prove this with overwhelming displays of his passion and also long-term commitment, only after which would I finally feel safe and secure enough to begrudgingly admit that I returned his affections. If this plot sounds familiar it's because it's at the root of every single rom-com ever made, but in real life? PEOPLE DON'T DO THIS. Any kind of relationship is a mutual endeavor and requires effort and encouragement from both parties; it's not supposed to be some big pass/fail test that the guy doesn't even know he is taking. ("YOU FAILED!" "Wait, but...what was the question?" "Didn't you know you were supposed to read my mind? You lose, get out!")

Pete's advice was surprisingly pragmatic. So, I am upset that the Moroccan doesn't seem to want to spend more time with me. Have I asked him to spend more time with me? Well, no, he should just want to! I am upset that he still has his online dating profile up or that he has not Facebook friended me, but have I asked him what he thinks about taking down his profile? Have I sent him a Facebook friend request? Well no, but... "But what?" Pete says. I don't want to be that girl, I think, and then just as quickly I think, wait, what girl? The girl who has a boyfriend? Suddenly it occurred to me that all these married women I see everywhere probably didn't just sit around twiddling their thumbs until someone asked them to marry him, and when he did they probably didn't respond by saying, "Oh, gosh, wow! Honestly I had never even thought about it before, but now that you ask, well, okay!" But, in a way, that's what I've been doing for years. I've been so afraid of scaring guys off that I wait around hoping he'll give me something, and when he does I say, "Well, ok, if that's what you want!" But I have never once even hinted at what I want.

It seems so revolutionary, and at the same time so astonishingly simple: Ask for what you want. ASK for what you want! It's a new way of life, it's a new way of dating, maybe a whole new me.

Of course, the downside of "ask for what you want" is that you could be told no. But, as Pete put it, at least then you know where you stand, and you know it a lot sooner than if you keep dragging things out indefinitely as some people (ahem) are wont to do.

I should mention after my last post that the Moroccan is not a jerk, and he is not just like every other guy. I was disappointed that things weren't progressing as I wanted (even though I had never told him what I wanted), and I wrote that post under the influence of some pretty serious hormonal fluctuation. I am not saying that things are all good, but they might not be as hopeless as they seem (although they also might be).

Stay tuned for part 2 of the "Ask for what you want" saga, otherwise known as, "But you might not like the answer..."

Why it's the end of the beginning

2011-11-26T16:02:00.000-05:00

In the end, it always ends. It's the Six Week Slow Fade, and by now I can see it coming from miles away. Six weeks being the length of time that my charm remains charming, apparently. It's become so predictable, so routine, that this time I don't even have to hang around for weeks more, wondering if that's what's really happening or if I'm just going crazy, if he's just busy; I don't have to wait around to find out exactly how little he's willing to give me, not this time. It's happened all before. Andrew. Jimmy. Luke. Just enough time for my guard to drop. Just enough time to hope. And then the disappearing act. I tried to hold back this time. I always do, now. I always try not to let myself like him too much. I try to remain a bit apart. Did I succeed? This awful, knotty, crushing feeling that is much more than just wounded pride tells me that I didn't. I let myself get hurt again and I could kick myself, could slap, pinch, pull hair, and I have been, only on the inside where you can't see.

And in the end, contrary to the dire predictions, it wasn't even because he was Muslim, and it had nothing to do with cultural or religious or linguistic differences. I thought that maybe this time I had found someone different, but in the end, he ended up to be just like every other guy.

Why my Thanksgiving will be turkey free

2011-11-23T21:09:00.000-05:00

This year my sister and I decided fairly last-minute to do Thanksgiving at my house, just the two of us. Our parents are going down to Virginia to see family that my sister and I don't know particularly well, and we both have to work on Friday, and so we responded to our parents' offer to join them with a resounding "meh." Although it was less us "deciding" to have our own Thanksgiving at my house, and more me attempting to lure her out of her anti-social bedroom hidey hole with promises of gratin dauphinois! Butternut squash, brussel sprouts, a whole pumpkin stuffed with bread and cheese and cream! And pie, Becca, pie! The one thing I didn't want to bother with was the turkey. I mean, turkey. Meh. Who needs it? We would have a Very Vegetarian Thanksgiving, I decided, and after way more convincing than you would think would be necessary (I will take care of everything! All you need to do is show up!), my sister finally agreed.

While I like to keep my gustatory options open, I've been eating vegetarian about 90% of the time for the last couple of years now, and don't really feel like I am missing out on anything. (The other ten percent of the time is reserved for special occasions, like restaurants or pretty much anytime someone else is cooking, and for Bacon Fridays at work. Yes, I may only get four paid holidays a year and one measly week of vacation only after I've worked there a full calendar year, and maybe they "don't do" direct deposit, but by god, there is bacon every Friday.) Plus, everyone knows the best part of Thanksgiving is the carbs and the veggies drowned in butter and cream. And the pie. And the wine. Doing a turkey-less Thanksgiving just made sense for us.

Although just try telling that to some people.

"Oh," my mother said after I told her about our Very Vegetarian Thanksgiving. "Is that because you couldn't get a turkey?"

Well, no, I explained to her, it's that both Becca and I enjoy eating vegetarian. And, you know. Gratin dauphinois! An entire pumpkin stuffed with goodness! Etc.

"Well, maybe your father and I will bring you back some turkey," she said.

Nope! Won't be necessary! I explained. Totally good on the turkey. No turkey needed. Enjoy yours, but, you know, we're fine.

I thought the matter was settled, but my mother was not giving up that easily. I missed her call tonight and she left a voicemail on my phone. "I have great news!" the message begins. "Your father got a spiral ham from work, so I can give it to Becca to bring with her if you'd like!"

I think I'll wait a while before I break the news that I'm dating a Muslim. The vegetarian thing seems to be enough for her to handle right now.

Why I'm looking for snowflakes

2011-11-20T12:50:00.001-05:00

Sometimes I think I'm only really happy when things are snowballing. It only feels right to me when we're both spiraling out of control, tumbling towards some kind of present and future happiness, always more, ever bigger. When this doesn't happen, when, god forbid, things sort of just stay...the same, it almost feels like a rejection to me. Why don't you want more? Why won't you fall with me? Must we always walk on tiptoes? I want to run.

Sometimes I think I'm only really happy when things are snowballing. And so, sometimes I think I am never really happy. But still, there are the quiet moments in between. If you keep looking for the snowball you might miss them, but if you pay attention, you might find a snowflake.
***
"Anti," he said, placing his hand on my chest.

"Anta," I said, placing my hand on his chest.

"Nahnu," he said, drawing me to him with his arms around me.

"Nahnu," I repeated.

Pronouns are tricky in Arabic. I, he, she...fine. But there's a feminine you and a masculine you. Then there is a different you for you plural (feminine) and you plural (masculine). Then there is they, when you are referring to a group of women, and they, when you are referring to a group of men. My head spun. We is a different story, though. There is only one we. We practiced it again, and I thought, now this "nahnu" I can get behind. I liked the way it sounded. I liked how the second syllable of it sounds like the French for we, which meant I actually stood a chance of remembering it. I liked how every time he said it he wrapped his arms around me, enclosing us in our own little we bubble. And so, without much thinking about it, "I like nahnu," I said, snuggling in. My brain a half second behind my mouth, I only then realized the implications of what I had said. A half second after that, I realized I didn't really care. I did like nahnu. And perhaps, deep down, I had actually known what I was saying all along. By now we were kissing, which is always a good way to gloss over potential awkwardness. But then he stopped. "I like nahnu too," he said. And there it was. Not a snowball, but a snowflake moment. Each one small and perfect and unique.

When you want to run, leap, and tumble with wild abandon, when you want to let yourself fall, standing still can be the hardest thing in the world. In the stillness comes doubt, and the too loud shrieking of your own inner voice. But, if you are very quiet, and you pay attention, sometimes you may find a snowflake.

Why (hi ho, hi ho) it's off to hell I go

2011-11-17T22:02:00.000-05:00

In case you were wondering how things with my new job are going two months in, I think it can best be described in list form.

Things that can be found on my desk at work:

a paper calendar, the old-fashioned kind that doesn't sync with anything, for reasons that will soon become obvious;
an adding machine. Who knew that when I was four years old, tappy tap tapping on my grandpa's old adding machine in the basement I was actually foreshadowing my own fut....*snore*.
an actual, I shit you not, Rolodex.

Things that cannot be found on my desk at work:

a keyboard;
a mouse;
and oh yeah, a motherflipping computer.

I mean, there is a computer in the office, of course. A mid-nineties model that we all share that runs our DOS-based accounting program. (DOS. DOOOOOSSSSSSSSSS.)

There is also a brand-new computer with flat-screen monitor (conveniently in direct view of my boss's desk) that we only use to check our company e-mail account, the address of which ends in hotmail.com.

And before you go getting ideas about ends and means and bootstraps, this is a company with several hundred employees and millions of dollars in profits.

We don't even have voicemail. There's an answering machine in the corner that no one ever looks at and I have no idea how to use. The thing has flashing lights and about five different buttons and not one of them says "play."

So I guess that's about how my job is going. Any questions?

Why dating is difficult

2011-11-12T14:58:00.003-05:00

While things with the Moroccan are all still for the most part glowy and goofy and good, there is a part of me that knows that this is all still very precarious. The part of me who has seen this all before knows that, historically speaking, this happy, swoony europhic feeling is usually what comes right before the part where I start feeling really, really bad. Pessimistic? Maybe. Realistic? Definitely.

This is usually the part where I lose all interest in dating other guys and turn all of my attention towards what I think will be (though inevitably never is) the beginning of a promising new relationship. Right around this time, the remaining POF or OKC prospects start looking even worse than usual (and that's saying something), and the desire to actively search out new people to meet dwindles down to practically nothing. But, in the interest of learning from my mistakes, and not putting all my eggs in the same basket, and all manner of other cliches, I decided that until a conversation was had dictating otherwise, I would actively try to continue dating other people. Which is easier said than done (as I mentioned, the POF prospects are looking particularly sad as of late). But when a French gentlemen I met over the course of a couple French meet-ups began e-mailing me, I thought, well, why not. I had already met him and conversed with him, so I knew the date couldn't be that bad. When he suggested a museum one Sunday and I shot him down due to not enough notice and a full list of errands already planned for the day, he backed off. So I figured, what the hell, and a few days later, I asked him out for sushi. He quickly accepted, and so we met in Chinatown after work one night.

I cannot express to you the dull awfulness of this date. The awful dullness. The tedium. The drear. I had thought, you see, that since we had already met and had a perfectly fine time, we were in the clear, but apparently having other people participating in the conversation was a key factor, and one that was sorely lacking this time. It was just awkward, from beginning to end. The conversation dragged, he talked softly, the happy hour crowd was raucous, and it just wasn't good. After dinner he proposed going somewhere for a drink, but I declined, saying that I had a lot of translation work to do. (Bonus points for being true!) He offered to drive me home on his motorcycle, and I again declined. But after about the third time that he asked, and again mentioned that be had brought an extra helmet with him, I thought, You know what, Rachel? Maybe live a little. When was the last time you were on a motorcycle? How bad could it be? (Famous last words.)

If it is possible for something to be both awkward and terrifying, it was. It was awkwardly terrifying, and terrifyingly awkward. With my work pants riding halfway up my shins, and my helmet (no visor) that I realized too late I hadn't tightened enough slipping down the back of my head, I held on for dear life, the cold wind causing tears to stream down my face. At every red light I thought I was going to pitch over his shoulders, and every time we accelerated I thought I would fly off the back. I held on with one hand behind me, as he had shown, and the other I placed hesitantly and uncomfortably on his waist, prompting him to tell me not to "squeeze" him. "Not that you are," he said, "it's just that some people do. They squeeze hard!" Not particularly wanting to be touching him at all, I didn't really have any other choice in the matter, since my quickly formed goal for this trip was to make it home alive and in one piece. My fingers ached from my death grip on the handle behind me, and all my muscles tensed as I concentrated on not "squeezing" him, while bracing myself to not go flying into the back of him every time we slowed down. Half a mile from my house I got a foot cramp. It was the longest six miles of my life.

Once I had said goodnight and was safely inside my apartment, I laughed a bit at the sheer awfulness of it all, and thought, well, at least we gave it a shot. Can't win 'em all! But then who, I ask you, sent me an e-mail not two days later, asking if I'd like to watch a French movie with him sometime that week? Was it Mr. I-don't-see-the-problem French guy himself? It was. I hedged, not particularly wanting to see him ever again, but thought, well maybe I could go see a French movie in an indie theater somewhere, as long as I made it clear that I would be taking the Metro home after. I asked him what movie he had in mind, and he sent me an IMDB link to some French movie from 1973. So, clearly what he had in mind was a dvd home-viewing situation, and hellllll no, that was not at all what I wanted to do, was this guy kidding? Had he not been on the same, terrifyingly awkward date as me? Guys---I do. Not. Get. Them.

So, fast forward to the very next day post-terrifying sushi date. The bearded Canadian scientist (who had already put me in the just-friends zone) texted me, asking if I had plans for dinner. It was a Thursday night, and I didn't, and so he picked me up and we went to a little Burmese restaurant that he had picked out. The food was good, but the conversation was...rough. He had always been a bit difficult to draw out of his shell, but at least when we had gone out previously multiple beers had been involved, perhaps slightly aiding conversational efforts. He did have a beer with dinner, but it didn't seem to help. He is just generally a very quiet guy, and I found myself straining to ask him questions, and yet thinking, Even as a friend, I'm just not sure if I can do this... I mean, it's not usually so hard to talk to your friends, right? It just felt like maybe we were forcing something that wasn't meant to be. After dinner, he offered to take me to Whole Foods, knowing I don't have a car and can't often get there. I jumped at the chance, and loaded my cart down as quickly as I could with all manner of things my local Safeway doesn't carry (hello, red lentils!) After this, as we headed back, he said he didn't know what else I had planned for the evening, but would I maybe want to watch a movie or something? A bit stunned, I gaped for a minute and resisted my initial reaction, which was to say, "Oh, um...no," and instead fumbled around for an excuse (translations, again!) The fact of the matter was, 1) it was a Thursday night, 2) we had already done two activities (dinner and Whole Foods), on a weeknight, which as far as I was concerned was already more than enough, 3) we had only ever hung out in public venues before, 4) he was supposedly dating someone else, and 5) now he wanted to watch a movie on the couch together?! It just didn't add up.

Safely home, I shook my head and marveled at the mysterious thought processes of men, which come to think of it are probably not all that mysterious at all, and go something like: Penis Boobs Penis Penis Movie Penis Couch Penis Boobs Penis.

So far I'm 0 for 2 in this trying to see other people thing, and I'm running out of options, so for the moment it seems that I still have all of my eggs in one precariously held basket. Let's just hope someone doesn't get hungry for an omlet.

Why I don't know why you say goodbye I say salam

2011-11-05T17:33:00.003-04:00

When I went to his house he made us Moroccan tea, a complicated affair involving a mix of tea leaves, herbs, and spices brought over in suitcases from the homeland, and stored in plastic bins in his kitchen. Oh, and sugar. Lots and lots of sugar. There was an intricate silver tea pot and those tiny clear glasses with no handle that burn the prints right off your fingers.

When he came to my house, he brought the tea ingredients with him. It was too hot in my furnace-blasted apartment for tea, even with windows open, but he left the stuff here, anyway. "Next time," he said. Next time, I thought to myself, knowing how precarious this all is, but allowing myself to hope, anyway.

I melt for a man that tells me stories in bed, and he did, in franglais and with accompanying funny voices and dramatic gestures. He told me one that he performed while volunteering in Morocco with a non-profit organization that works with children, and could he just stop already, with all the extraneous heart-melting information that I did not need to know?

He brought me cereal in bed. He puts honey in his Honey Bunches of Oats. He makes me laugh. I make him laugh.

"Leila sa'eeda," he whispered, before falling asleep.

"Leila sa'eeda?" I repeated.

"Yes, it means good night. Actually, it means...happy night. Sa'eeda means happy."

"Sa'eeda," I whispered. Sa'eeda.

Why the heart is the stupidest of organs

2011-10-30T14:11:00.002-04:00

A month or so ago I quit OkCupid cold turkey and, on the recommendation of a friend, went straight for the Fish (as in, Plenty of). While I haven't been exactly blown away by the prospects, I did manage to sort through the guppies and go out on a handful of dates over the last few weeks. But which ones did I throw back? Just to give you a brief run-down, there was:

--the thirty-seven-year-old traveling bicycle-parts salesman; lives 100 miles away in Richmond, VA, but travels through DC frequently on business. Separated, with kid(s)? Surprisingly good-looking, but mentioned church about three times too many for my taste.

--the forty-year-old graphic designer. Divorced, no kids. Quirky, extremely high energy. When we met he went in for a hug, lunging in with his upper body while kicking one leg out behind him. (There was full leg extension.) Later he would tell me about a "crazy woman" he went on a date with who told him that he "hugged funny." He concluded this story by saying dismissively, "but she was crazy, though." Yes, you keep telling yourself that, quirky, in denial, weird-hugging guy!

--the thirty-seven-year-old bearded Canadian scientist. Divorced with a four-year-old daughter, who lives in Canada. Cycling fanatic. Quiet, slow-talking and soft-spoken, but we share similar tastes in music and food. Conveniently lives less than a mile from my house; rare indeed considering my less-than-central location.

--the six foot four, thirty-one-year-old Moroccan with an adorable accent. Speaks: English, French, Arabic. Never married, no kids. Doesn't drink. Muslim. Lives a very inconvenient 25 miles away in VA. Likes: soccer (playing and watching), dancing, smokin' the hookah.

Four men, but only one of them makes my heart go pitter-pat. So which one is it? Which wildly inappropriate bachelor sends my traitor heart all aflutter? Why, none other than the Allah praising, alcohol abstaining, suburb dwelling, Green Card winner himself, of course!

In my defense, the perfect-on-paper Canadian sent me a "let's just be friends" e-mail explaining that he had begun seeing someone else. The fact that my primary emotion upon reading this was annoyance that he had "just friended" me before I could do it to him first should tell you all you need to know about our chemistry together.

Also, I suppose it could be worse. I could have fallen for the Christian who lives 100 miles away.

So, the Moroccan. At first I was wary, willingness to swill a beer and an aversion to organized religion being fairly high on my list of priorities. But we met, we went to a museum, we walked, we sat, we talked. We discussed religion and lack thereof, and politics, and family. We spoke in French and English and a weird mix of the two. He's the only guy I've met who will ooh and ahh with me over small dogs, and not just the big ones (he actually used the word "cute"), and he pulled out his phone to show me pictures of his co-worker's new chihuahua puppies. He was physically assertive bordering on aggressive, the way he leaned over me, into me, sat right next to me shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, and had me edging slightly uncomfortably away. I declined an invitation to see a movie with him later that night, needing to go home and regroup, needing space and time to think. We took the Metro two stops together before I got off to transfer. We hugged and said goodbye, and I got up to stand by the doors as the train slowed to a stop. As the doors opened I turned and perhaps too enthusiastically waved goodbye, realizing at the same time how goofy I probably came off, and I cringed inside at my lack of finesse. Such a dork! I scolded myself. Minutes later on the red line, my phone beeped; a text. It was the Moroccan, already. After I waved, apparently the guy sitting by the door turned to him and said, "So sweet!" The fact that this random stranger would say that, and that the Moroccan would pass it along to me, complete with smiley face emoticon, for some reason warmed my heart.

Once I got home I was ready to dismiss him, but for some reason I couldn't stop thinking about him. He texts me just to say hi almost every day. He calls me "jamila," which means beautiful in Arabic, and tells me he misses my pretty eyes. And this is where the white boys can really take a lesson--I love me some nerdy white boys, but flirting isn't usually their forte.

In short, the Moroccan is sort of awesome I am sure our cultural, religious, geographic, and lifestyle differences will all work themselves out.

...

Bwa! Ha ha ha ha ha!

Seriously though, he is really cute.

Why it's my picture and I'll bershon if I want to

2011-10-26T21:53:00.000-04:00

Inspired by a post over at Hilarity in Shoes, I decided to post my own bershon picture. You all know what bershon is, right? If not, take a minute, I'll wait for you to catch up. Or you can just look at the following photo, circa 1993, because it will tell you all you need to know and more about bershon. Are you ready? I'm not sure if I'm ready, actually. I can't believe I am going to show the Internet a picture from the height of my (admittedly lengthy) awkward phase. Deep breaths...

Ok, here we go...

No, wait.

Ok, now.

Here I am, thirteen years old, and clearly loving life. Don't be fooled by the disarmingly folksy church lady-ness of my mother, as clearly (as you can see by my expression), she is to be punished for her desire to do things like be proud of me and stand next to me. Don't you know pride is a sin, mother?

We are all dressed up fancy-like, because I am about to go perform at a band concert. With my clarinet. I am actually a bit surprised I was not forced to pose with it for the picture, but then, there probably would have been actual blood. What's that? Why, yes, that is an extra-large sized lavender silk shirt I'm wearing, how kind of you to notice! What's that, now? I don't seem like an extra-large to you? Well I have to buy it in extra-large because I am tall! God! I mean, no, I didn't say god, I said gosh, mo-ther! (When the real reason is "because all the cool kids are doing it," it's good to have a back-up excuse. Similarly to when my sneakers were no longer white, and I would push my toe all the way to the very end and make my mom feel to make it seem as if I had outgrown them. Worked every time.)

From a distance of almost twenty years (!), I can tell you a few things about this picture right off the bat:

1) Though it may seem that by including not only ours but also our neighbors' trash cans in the frame, the photographer was making a pointed statement on American consumerism and modern decay, I'm pretty sure it was just a coincidence combined with a lack of any and all photographic instinct.
2) This was not taken on a national holiday, as evidenced by the rolled-up American flag in the garage, waiting for its next chance to ~~billow gracefully~~ hang limply over
~~the land of the free~~ our front door.
3) The passenger side car door is open, indicating that someone (me) had already gotten in the car, and then was forced to get out of the car again to take this picture, I mean god. Are you people trying to kill me?

I tell you, my mistake was wearing pantyhose. Whenever the pantyhose came out (and pretty much only then), it was, Wait, let me get the caaaaameraaaa! Precious moments, indeed.

So there you have it, folks. The bershonniest bershon that ever bershonned. Anyone want to fight for the crown?

Why I would live inside these pictures if I could

2011-10-24T10:02:00.002-04:00

The prints are here! The prints are here!

Thank you to everyone who chimed in with advice on this post. Thanks to you I was able to come up with something I really love and that looks great together, if I do say so myself. And without further ado, here they are!

As you can see, with the beige couch and beige walls, that space was in desperate need of a pop of color. Also, you may notice that I went with something slightly different than was dictated by the general consensus. I really loved the Paris cityscape, and so I subbed it for the houses on cliffs photo, which felt like it didn't really belong, somehow, and was also a bit too beige, considering how much beige I already had going on. And voila! The final result. I put them in order of light to dark sky, which I think gives it a kind of morning-noon-night feel. You like? I like.

Thankfully, I can take no credit for the perfectly level and evenly-spaced hanging of the pictures themselves, a task I was more than happy to hand off to my friend Pete as he blew through town on the way to see his other, realer friends. (I jest. Sort of.) But no, seriously, he knocked out in twenty minutes what would have taken me two hours of hair-pulling and Marge Simpson-like angry grumbling, only to end up with a wall full of crooked pictures and dozens of superfluous and toothpaste-spackled nail holes. Luckily I was saved from this fate, and just look! (Pay no attention to the wonky Ikea lamp! The wonky Ikea lamp is crooked, the pictures are straight!) Ok, so the last two are just a millimeter or so too close together, but I think I can let that go. I'm trying, anyway.

Et voila, a little bit of France in my living room. (Not quite as good as a living room in France, but it will have to do.)

Why life ain't grand

2011-10-20T22:34:00.002-04:00

The cat/no cat debate came to a swift end today when I crunched some numbers and came to the depressing realization that I can't actually, well, afford a cat. If you think that's bad, here's what's worse: according to my calculations I also can't afford the modest and non-cat-having lifestyle that I currently enjoy. Ba dum bum! Yes, even though I am currently employed (in a job that I despise with the burning fire of a thousand suns) the P&L of my life is stacking up more and more in the losing column. You see, when I first moved to our fair (and hellishly expensive) city, it was with the anticipation of earning roughly 35% more a year than I do now. But we all know how that turned out. You know it's bad when a teacher's salary is now but an out of reach dream. Anyway, as you might imagine, that 35% amounts to a pretty sizable difference when it comes to things like paying rent and student loans and the $14 farmer's market cheese I accidentally bought out of politeness today.

(I did not even want to go to the stupid farmer's market, you see, because I already had to stay late at my stupid job but my boss had insisted like twenty times over the last week that I must go to the farmer's market after work on Thursday. I considered not going and just telling her I went, but I was worried that it would have been canceled or she would ask me a very specific question or something and then she would know I was lying to her, so blah, I went. After passing by tents selling apples and smelly soaps I spotted a cheese booth. Naturally, I made a beeline, and after sampling five or six different ones from the friendly cheese lady, I pointed decisively to a small wedge and said, "I'll have that one."

"That will be one million dollars, please," the no longer so friendly cheese lady said, with a gleam in her eye. And what was I going to say? Oh, I don't think the cheese that you and your husband slaved over for months is worth a million dollars? Do you happen to have any less extravagantly-priced cheeses for the budget-minded consumer? There was nothing to say, so instead I opened my wallet and gave her my last twenty.)

Even with my relatively "cheap" (ha!) apartment in a decidedly unswanky and inconveniently located part of town (complete with back alley views), and even battling the 9-5:30 or 6:00 grind of a job I hate, and even giving up my car, and shopping, and vacations (not that I'll get any paid time off until after I've worked there a full year), this is still going to be a losing venture. In the ongoing battle of Rachel v. Life, I think it's fair to say that I have encountered yet another setback. And this time I'm all out of ideas.

Why you can have at it with your crazy cat lady cliches. I can take it.

2011-10-17T22:47:00.000-04:00

becca: u need a puppy. u would be happier.
me: oh i know. nothing like being gone 10 hours a day to make you need a puppy.
becca: well u need a dog walker too
me: one day, when i'm rich and happy
becca: paha
me: besides, i'm too unstable. always plotting my next move
becca: scruffy says hello. he would like to know what you had for dinner
me: aww. i needa scruff
becca: u do though. someone happy to see u come home.
me: cat?
becca: cats are such a crapshoot. they aren't so much happy to see you
me: guys are always shooting me down when i tell them i want to get a cat. like, the two guy friends i've talked to about it are really adamantly against it.
becca: HAHAHA. maybe u shouldn't. man repellent.
me: that would ensure i remain single forever, i guess. although sometimes certain guys tell you that and then these certain guys go and fall for some crazy chick with...guess what...a cat! and have the cat over for visits at their apartment! and stuff
becca: ur the rule, not the exception
me: i know, man. but maybe that's how i'll know if a guy really likes me. if he likes me in spite of my cat
becca: but rach. there are so many other things to like you in spite of.
me: ...
becca: HAHAHAHAHA

Who needs haters when you have a sister, amiright?

Why the past is now present and the future is weird

2011-10-11T22:45:00.000-04:00

Internet, I have a confession to make. Hi, my name is Rachel and I am a premature purger of cell phone contacts. Please tell me I'm not alone.

While some people hoard their friends and acquaintances like so many dollars in Mark Zuckerberg's bank account, and keep years worth of penis pictures literally at their fingertips, I am very nearly the exact opposite. Namely, if I suspect I may never have cause to talk to a person again, I delete that person from my phone without a backwards glance. Zap, they're gone! (I like to keep things tidy.) Of course this, this can lead to awkward situations when you run into someone unexpectedly after not talking for a year or more, and they're like, "Call me!" and you're like, "No, call me!"

Or, like tonight, when I received a mystery text--"Hows dc?" (sic). The only clue was a Mythaca area code. Admittedly, I performed a pretty thorough contact list clean-up after my move, deleting anyone I suspected I would no longer talk to after I left Mythaca (which happened to be pretty much everyone I knew in Mythaca). I replied, "So far so good. How are you?" hoping the mystery texter's response would provide a clue. But no dice. "Im good im. glad your happu" Hmm. So, this person was either drunk or really bad at texting. Now I was curious. "Hey, don't hate me cuz I got a new phone," I texted (lies), "but who are you?"

"Hajaj iys james." Oh. Because that clears things up. Sheesh.

"Phlegm?" I asked. (Not his real last name, but close enough, anyway.)

"What?" he asked. Ok, so not that James, then. Definitely for the best.

"Flay?" I tried again.

"Ha yes." Jackpot. Good ole Jimmy James coming out of nowhere with the surprise text again.

"James Flay is my dentist," I responded (again, not his real last name, but true story. Not only am I destined to make the acquaintance of/spend multiple years of my life in a relationship with a more than coincidental number of James/Jims/Jimmys, but now apparently there aren't even enough last names to go around). "You're Jimmy," I kindly reminded him.

"Haha sorry jimmy," he responded.

No, I'm Rachel, I was tempted to respond, but didn't. (Punctuation is important, people!)

Apparently he had just texted to tell me he was glad I was happy, and to ask if I had met any tall, handsome men yet. ("All the time," I told him.) He joked about being "dust in the wind," (a relationship metaphor I am more than familiar with), I joked back about not snapping me up when he had the chance, and if there's a better way to put a quick stop to a casual text conversation, I don't know what it is. Try it sometime!

So, to delete or not to delete, that is the question. Are you a hoarder or a purger? And does anyone remember the days when you would actually call someone on the phone when you wanted to talk to them, like, using your voice? Oh, hey, you know what would be great? Voice activated text messages! You just speak your message into your phone, and it translates it into a text message for you, so you can have an entire text conversation with someone by using your voice, but without the hassle of actually having to talk to each other!

The future is weird.

Why are you so angry, men of the "manosphere?"

2011-10-04T22:49:00.006-04:00

Dear Manosphere Haters,

I really think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, here. So, hi. I'm Rachel. Nice to meet you. (Not really, but we may as well all be polite here, no? Which is more than I can say about you.)

Now, I know what you have been saying about me, and I have to say, a lot of it hasn't been very nice. But, no matter. Clearly, the Internet is not a forum for people to be nice to each other; it's for expressing your opinions! Of which you have so, so many. Or really, just one opinion, expressed over and over in a virtual shouting match, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. The thing is, you are making this into an Us vs. Them, when I really think we could all be on the same page, here. What I mean is, I am single and bitter, and clearly a majority of you are also single and just as bitter. Can't we all just be bitter together? Because, look, some of the things you are saying, I agree with. Like, for example, when you say that I am 29 and still single. Horrors! Ok, actually, I have to admit, I don't totally agree with that. I wish I did, but this is what happens when you show up two whole years late to the party. So. Hi. My name is Rachel. I'm 31, and I'm single. Can we all agree to that? Yes, I think we can. Look at us all, agreeing! Truly the Internet is a wonderful thing.

So, look, I realize the mere fact that I am 31 and single and a woman is personally offensive to many of you, for reasons I am only beginning to try to understand. But if I am going to try to understand you, I hope you will try to understand me, too. I know it's hard, because as a woman I am completely irrational. (Giggle giggle, eyelash flutter.) But let's still try to understand each other. Please know that me being single has nothing to do with you, either individually or as a sex. I don't hate you, and I don't hate men. (If I suspected that most men were as bitter and hate-filled as I've witnessed some of you be, I might have to reconsider my position, but as it is I still have a modicum of faith in the fundamental decency of malekind. Please don't prove me wrong.) Yes, I am still single at an age that apparently many people would be more comfortable with me being firmly settled down and breeding. But look, if I had kids I would just raise them liberal, and I have a sneaking suspicion that many of you would have just as big a problem with that, and so perhaps we can all once again agree that me not having children is actually for the best in that sense, no? So, yes, as I said, I am 31 and single (although you can all keep calling me 29 and single, if it floats your boat; I'm not going to stop you). But it's not because I "rode the c*ck carousel," and it's not because I "chased a career" (ha! And this is how I know none of you have ever read my blog before. Is there a support group for 31-year-old Professional Fuck-ups?), and it's not because I rejected the oh-so-many offers of marriage I received in my younger and "cuter" years (seriously, you guys kill me with your very generous assumptions). No, it's not any of that. Instead, the reason I am single is probably very similar to the reason a lot of you are (clearly) single--a combination of bad luck and worse timing. Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they don't, eh? Sometimes they work out sooner, and sometimes later. Maybe they don't ever work out, although we all hope that isn't the case. Does that really make me a "c*nt" and a "pretentious vain-glory harridan?" Really? (Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?)

You are clearly talking about someone in your hate-filled rants, but here's the thing: you're not actually talking about me. You can quote me out of context, and you can use the basic (and largely incorrect) biographical details of my life that I have willingly shared to burn me in effigy. Because you need a target for your anger, and I get that. (But from whence comes this anger? Can we discuss? Do you need a hug? A cookie?) But I cannot and do not represent all women, just as all of you (hopefully, please god) do not represent all men. I mean, I am sorry if some girl somewhere rejected you; I feel for you, I really do. I've been there! But you don't have to vilify every other woman in the world for it. Or maybe you do, what do I know about things like feelings and emotions? I am just a woman, after all.

I hope you find your peace, woman haters. At least have a cookie.

Why the grass is always greener on someone else's blog

2011-09-30T20:16:00.002-04:00

If the rumors are to be believed, it seems that blogging can sometimes lead to good things happening for for some very lucky bloggers. Free trips to exotic locales, free products to review, paid writing gigs, and all because they started a blog. Without fail, these bloggers describe their windfalls this way: "When I first started this blog a year ago, I never would have imagined that [x, y, and z] would happen to me because of it!" And I'm like, one year? Jesus. But ok, I'm willing to accept that I'm a late bloomer. (Four and a half years later...) Whatever. (Only marginally related: does anyone actually make money off of those banner ads? I have to assume that somewhere, someone is making money off of those banner ads, and yet...) Still, whenever I read about someone landing a paid writing gig through their blog, I start asking myself mopey-dope questions, like, "Is she really that much better a writer than me? What does she have that I don't have?" And I've found that, more often than not, the answer to that last question can be summed up in one word--kids. And so, it is for this reason that I would like to announce to you that, Internet...I'm having a baby.

Well, not having, obviously, so much as getting. With all the lucrative mommy-blogging possibilities, I figure this kid will pay for itself in a year or two. Heck, maybe I'll pick myself up a couple. New or used, it doesn't matter to me.

So, if you know anyone who has a new or used kid they need taken off their hands, please shoot me an e-mail. Now that I'm thinking about it, I probably shouldn't have used "kid" and "shoot" in the same sentence, but believe me when I say that it will be very well taken care of. (Or its, if there's two.) I will promise to lovingly and artistically document its (its') childhood in blog form for all of you, my loyal readers, to marvel at in wonderment, but only on weekdays. (It(s) will have weekends off in accordance with child labor laws.)

If that doesn't work out, I would also accept a free trip to an exotic locale, if anyone reading happens to be handing those out.

Your move, Universe.

Why my life was like The Wire

2011-09-25T18:53:00.000-04:00

I really wish I had started watching season 4 of The Wire before my short-lived attempt at employment as a Dee Cee Pee Ess school teacher. I might have learned something, or at least had some idea of what it was I was getting myself into. But then, I probably would have told myself that it was "dramatized for television" or some such, and that it couldn't possibly be that bad. But I would have been wrong. Though 40 miles south of Baltimore, what I saw in the classroom was eerily similar to the televised version on The Wire. The only differences being:

a) our kids didn't have uniforms
b) I taught high school, not middle school, so the kids giving me problems were 18 instead of 13
c) subject matter (French instead of math--considered to be an "elective," thus generally lumped together with art and P.E. and accorded about as much respect)

Aside from that, it's pretty much the same story. In fact, the only way I can tell for sure it's fiction is that when the teacher, Mr. Prezbylewski, assigns detention, the kids (all thirty-some) actually show up. Pshaw, I say.

Seeing is believing. Watch for yourself.

How much money would they have to pay you to do this every day? Not a hypothetical question; I'm actually curious. What's your number?

Why you can take this job and...push it?

2011-09-21T21:43:00.001-04:00

I recently picked up a couple translation projects (that were passed on to me by a reader! Thanks Elliott!) Around the same time I stumbled on this girl's Youtube channel and found her hilarious and scarily accurate video representation of what the translation process is like:

Pajamas? check. Mug of tea? check. One browser tab opened on Facebook and one on Thesaurus.com? And here I was thinking I was original.

The fun and games and working from home couldn't last forever, though, and today found me at my new temp job at the posh law firm. I coded 38,000 lines of data in an Excel spreadsheet, with a Y (for yes), N (for no), or ? (for wtf?) Thirty-eight thousand lines, people, oh my gah. In case you were wondering where exactly that falls on the slit-your-wrists scale of temporary employment, it was...what's the word? catastrophic? calamitous? Oh, right. I felt dreadful. I think what I'm trying to say is, I would rather be translating.

Why my life isn't picture perfect, but at least my walls will be

2011-09-17T15:07:00.001-04:00

And now for something completely frivolous...

Back when I thought I had a job and disposable income, I decided to spend some of it on one of those Groupon things everyone is always talking about. You see, I had a couch with miles of blank wall space above it begging to be filled, so I bought three of those digital-to-canvas deals that seem to be all the rage, thinking I would simply choose three pictures I had taken "of my travels" (oh, gag, I know) and voilà, easiest decorating project ever. Cue smug hand-brushing gesture indicating done and done. Except, as it turns out, it's not just that simple.

Combing through folder after folder of pictures I've taken "of my travels" (gag) over the years, I came to the swift conclusion that, for one, as it turns out, I am not all that great of a photographer. For two, the entire time that I lived in and around Paris, I had a strong aversion to looking like a tourist ("I live here! I am not a tourist! I will not take pictures!") and so carrying such potentially useful objects as maps or a camera was simply out of the question. So, because I am an idiot, not only are there very few pictures of that time in my life, but the few that do exist are mostly of my sister and I acting like fools in front of Parisian landmarks:

Luckily, when I was on vacation and traveling, I did give myself permission to take pictures, and so I was able to find a handful of photos that I hadn't ruined with either my terrible photography skills or shameless muppet-mouth mugging. Only, when trying to select three of them I realized that not only does each individual photo have to be attractive and personally meaningful, but they also all have to look good together. Hanging three photos next to each other on a wall requires that they look somehow cohesive and related by some kind of theme--by color, or subject, or whatever. Trying different combinations I realized that having one photo of mountains, one of the ocean, and one of a building, for example, just looked...odd. And so back to the drawing board I went.

Here's one combination I came up with. I know the theme will be hard to spot, but see if you can do it:

And here is what they look like together:

Let's call it option 1. What I like about these is that they evoke a feeling of calm serenity. Which is good! But are they perhaps...too calm? Too serene? Maybe a tad wee bit boring?

Here's my next set of three. Let's call it option B:

And here's what they look like together:

Maybe I would shift the order a bit? Anyway, potential problems with this option include the fact that these were all taken on a vacation with the ex-boyfriend many years ago. In fact, I'm pretty sure all of these photos were actually taken by the ex, which perhaps explains why they don't all, you know, suck. So, would having these pictures in my living room serve as a constant reminder of the past? Or would I quickly forget about the person behind the camera, since I spent an extended amount of time living in Paris as a single, and could just as easily have taken these myself? In stark contrast to the first set of three, I like these photos for their grittiness and urban vibe, and how the train evokes a feeling of adventure, and of something new right around the corner.

Finally, I have some miscellaneous pics that I really like for different reasons, but that don't necessarily "go" together. (Or do they?):

Let's call this option "buildings on cliffs and with boats and weird trees."

I'm leaning towards option B, Paris (duh). What about you? I need help here, people! Please advise.

EDITED TO ADD: Here are the last three together in the order Anonymous suggests. What do you think?

Why no news is...no news

2011-09-13T14:38:00.001-04:00

So, the people have demanded an update. And by people, I mean Dawn. I haven't updated so far because I have nothing new to report. I am still here, still unemployed, and growing queasier about it with every passing day. I still have not told my parents, but then I have managed to handily avoid talking to them for the past week. But I will tell them, probably, the next time I talk to them. Whenever that is. I had some vain hope that I would be able to follow up the announcement of quitting my old job with the happier news of having already locked down a new one, but it's looking less and less likely that that is going to happen.

But here I am going on, when what I really wanted to do was address all the comments and e-mails I received over the last week. If I ever doubted the capacity of humans for kindness and compassion, the outpouring of support I received on the last post alone would have changed my mind. It makes me so happy to know that this little corner of the Internet, at least, is filled with such warm, caring and concerned people. So, thank you, warm, caring, and concerned people of the Internet. There were so many valid questions and comments that, rather than answering them one by one in the comments section of the last post, I thought I would address some of them now.

Re: was I assigned a mentor or a master teacher? A mentoring program for first-year teachers was briefly mentioned at the HR orientation (quickly glossed over and sandwiched between information on when to expect our first paycheck and the difference between HMOs and PPOs), and that was the first and last I ever heard of that. Here is what was stated: "All first-year teachers will have a mentor teacher." Here is what happened: nothing. So, like so many other grand ideas of the Dee Cee Pee Ess that sound nice in theory, in practice I never saw any actual evidence of it.

Re: teaching perhaps not being my calling, or something in my online personality not striking people as particularly teacher-like--Is it because I am not at all a nurturing or patient person? Because I am much too introspective and marginally aloof? In any case, you are probably right. Teaching isn't something I always wanted to do, and it felt like something I somehow stumbled into due to lack of other options. But here's what happened: based on my experiences as a graduate student TA at Boston University (with full responsibility for teaching one section of undergraduate French per semester) and later teaching French as an adjunct instructor at Mythaca College, I found that, surprisingly enough, teaching was something I actually liked to do. Finally, after years of professional wandering, I had found something that I seemed to be good at, and that I actually enjoyed. I enjoyed teaching French to college kids. However, given the treatment of adjuncts in the university system these days, it wasn't a financially sustainable option for me (or for any single and non-independently wealthy person, for that matter). (For an informative and honest perspective on the challenges of teaching as an adjunct instructor, you should read this article in the Boston Globe. I can particularly relate to the part about having to work two or three side jobs, and then living in terror that one of your students will "catch you" (their French professor!) at work at your decidedly un-glamorous second job.) I needed to make a change, and so I thought, what can I do that is similar to this, but pays an actual livable salary plus benefits? I racked my brain and landed on high school teacher, thinking that it would have its challenges, sure, but teaching high school students French full-time couldn't be that different from what I had been doing, teaching college students French, part-time. And now you're all laughing at me. The answer is, of course, that it is completely different, that it is not at all the same thing, and to think otherwise puts you in a very special category of naive or possibly brain-dead optimist. And though it's completely out of character for me, knowing the potential obstacles involved, for once in my life I chose to hope for the best. (Clearly, my brief foray into optimism didn't work out, and so back to prune-faced pessimist I go.)

Re: you should use this time to write a book, or pursue a writing career. First, I mean, thanks. The fact that any of you think that that would even be an option for me is beyond flattering. Though whether or not it actually is an option for me is still not something I'm ready to explore. I wouldn't have the first idea how to go about it, for one thing, and for another, I'm in a bit of a desperate financial situation, as I may have mentioned. At this point I am looking for anyone who will hire me and pay me money (and for a job that won't make me physically ill or give me daily panic attacks, but as long as I stay away from teenagers I think I'll be alright. I must be allergic to 'em or something). And I don't want to be all, oh man, this economy, because that is such a tiresome refrain, but, oh man, guys. This economy.

I'm reminded of something an occasionally wise man named Pete once said, which is, "Fuck doing what you love. This is the problem; we've all been told since birth that we should do what we love, but it's a lie. Don't do what you love. Do what makes you money, and use the money to do what you love." At 22 I don't think I would have listened to him. But knowing what I do now, I don't think he's wrong. Knowing what I do now, I would tell my 22 year-old self to get an MBA, or a law degree. Because no one ever grows up dreaming of becoming an admin assistant. Does the world need admin assistants? Sure. But when it comes down to it, there are admin assistants, and there are people who need admin assistants, and which would you rather be? If your answer is the former, then by all means get your liberal arts degree in the humanities, but otherwise, you might want to re-think your course.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, if that isn't obvious. Maybe too much.

And finally, re: everyone who said "Eat something!"--Don't worry, I've been more than making up for lost time. Lately I can't seem to stop eating, though that's more from boredom than actual life-sustaining purposes.

So, you see, I am fine. Fine! You can all stop worrying now.

Why it could have been a brilliant career

2011-09-08T14:15:00.000-04:00

I didn't want to write this post. I've been putting it off, too embarrassed. Everyone has been so nice, leaving comments, sending e-mails. Then another comment, then another e-mail, "just checking in." Hoping I'm feeling better, that things are getting better, if only a little bit. I suppose, in a way, things are a little bit better, since I quit my job. However, in another and much more real way, things are also much, much worse, since...I quit my job. And there it is. I quit my job. What I have been to embarrassed, too ashamed to post about, to tell even my close friends about, to tell my parents about. They still don't know. But now you do. On Thursday I talked to my principal, in tears, and on Tuesday, after a long weekend, I didn't go back. I didn't go back.

Everyone has been so nice, the steady stream of social workers and instructional coaches the principal sent into my classroom on Friday to "check up" on me, perhaps hoping they would sway me, but no one even tried to. They hugged me, these complete strangers, and told me it would be ok, that it wasn't my fault, that they understood and that I had to do what was right for me. But I don't deserve their kindness. I don't deserve the e-mails of support and offers to share contacts at other schools, in other districts. I don't deserve it because I am the worst kind of person, because who abandons her students only two weeks into the school year? Who gives up and throws in the towel without even giving it a proper go? What kind of person devotes an entire year of her life to a Masters program and goes into debt all in the name of teaching, and then gives up when the going gets hard? Three weeks ago I would never have thought that would be me. But I guess we can all surprise ourselves, sometimes.

I am finding it hard to explain myself, because really, there is no excuse for what I have done. But here are the facts. I wasn't sleeping. I couldn't eat. I felt nauseous 24 hours a day, my entire body a twisted knot of nerves, and every day it got worse, and not better. I started out on an adrenaline high that lasted most of the first week (a day out for an earthquake mid-week helped), but by week two, things had changed. Week two, it was real. My attempts at re-gaining control in my classroom all failed. I couldn't teach my students; I couldn't even get them to sit down. Nothing I did seemed to help. I assigned detention; no one came. I called parents and sent e-mails and spoke to administrators and logged all of my actions, staying at school until late, way past the point of drained, and then went home to prepare lesson plans. I came in early to prepare and I went to morning all-staff meetings, and then I steeled myself for the rest of the day, but the fact was, I couldn't teach my students. Years of experience and training, and suddenly, I knew nothing at all, anymore. The truth is, I only had one really bad class (one out of three, with demon-from-hell block scheduling and classes lasting an hour and twenty minutes each, so help me god). But even in the good classes, the "good" classes, I didn't know how to reach them. I didn't know how to get them to learn, there was such resistance. And the bad ones I couldn't even get to acknowledge my existence. I would speak and they would ignore me as if I wasn't even there. If I assigned detention, they laughed at me. When word got out that I was calling homes, that egged them on. "I look forward to your call tonight," they would say laughing, defiant. "You gonna call my house? Go ahead."

And eighteen-year-old Rico, on his fifth year of high school, who had begged them to let him back in so he could graduate, not even a kid but a man. With a head full of braids, a booming, resonant voice and a swagger, he said, "Man, you ain't got no control of this class. Look at you, they aren't even listening to you." I wanted to say, No, because they're listening to you. But I didn't. The first time I tried to be light, make a joke out of it. "You want to get up here and do this?" I said, faking a smile. "I'd probably do a lot better at it than you," he said, scowling, and my smile faded; it was true. The second time he said it, the next day, I snapped. "Can I get a pass to see my counselor?" he complained. "I gotta get out of this class. You don't know what you're doing, you ain't got no control." His voice oozed contempt.

"Get out," I snapped, losing any pretense of dignity or calm.

"I'm already goin'," he said. "I don't want to be in this class anyway, you don't know how to teach." And it was true. I didn't.

They said, they said, all you need is to have your procedures in place, and you would have nothing to worry about. All about structure and routines. They said all you need are engaging lesson plans and you'll have them eating from your hand. I never saw the footnote that said, *This is what will work for white, suburban kids. Your results may vary. Teach at your own risk.

If I could have kept on, I would have. If I could have finished out the year, finished out the semester, if it had been even a possibility, I would have. Somehow, some way. But as it was, if I managed to go to sleep at all, I would wake up at 2:00 in the morning, without fail, violently sweating, and then lie awake the rest of the night, and start the day at 6:00. I could barely choke down half a piece of peanut butter toast in the morning without wanting to vomit, picked at my lunch, would throw together completely unappetizing leftovers for dinner, making meals of things like steamed broccoli and two-week old mashed potatoes, no time and no energy for more. Losing weight without having weight to lose. But instead of feeling light I felt heavy, dragging myself to the bus stop and down hallways like I had weights attached. I felt sick when I was there, and sick when I was at home, anticipating being there. I couldn't relax, couldn't turn off, couldn't not think about it. My hands would shake, and I had no idea how to fix it, how to fix any of it. It all seemed insurmountable, like more than I could do. And so, instead of fighting, I gave up. I gave up.

My kids deserved better than me. They deserve better than me. They deserve someone who can teach them. Leaving after two weeks, I thought, or justified, would be less traumatic than leaving them after a month, or two months. They would still have a chance at a normal semester if they could just get someone else in there right away, someone who could teach them, but it wasn't me. It isn't me.

I didn't say a word to them when I left. I am still thinking about them. I hope they aren't thinking about me. I hope they don't think I left because of them. I hope they have forgotten me.

I know it seems like the easy way out, but if you think there's a weight off my shoulders now, there's not. Instead now I am burdened by guilt, by regret, by shame, by impending financial disaster. It wasn't the right decision but it was the only one. I didn't want to leave, but I couldn't stay. I wish it could have been different. I don't know why I feel the need to explain myself to strangers but I do. I want to scream from the rooftops, I am sorry, please don't hate me, there is already enough of that to go around.

So, now you know. But how will I tell my parents?

Why I am not here, this isn't happening

2011-08-30T20:32:00.000-04:00

And suddenly I am one of those people, quietly crying on the bus. Hiding behind sunglasses, but sunglasses are not a dam, just shadow, and so they spill over, overflow. I am a cliche--of what, I don't know--of quiet desperation, of anyone who has ever broken down surrounded by strangers on a public bus, wanting to be home but not quite, wondering where that is. This terrible, awful certainty--I have made a mistake. I have made dozens of them, and they have all led me to where I am, and from where I cannot escape. I want to run away, I want to never go back, and I would, too, except for all the terrible and mundane reasons that I can't. Can't not. I dream of leaving everything behind, going away where no one would ever find me, but where would that be? In this era of credit cards and digital technologies, I would be found. Impossible to really disappear, anymore, and so, what? Even if I lasted the year--a year--what then? What then? There are no more alternatives, I have exhausted them all and now here I am. Indebted and my soul signed away--a lease, a contract, and government loans, I am legally bound, legally trapped, going nowhere, and nowhere to hide. This much is certain--I can't. I can't. I cry on the bus and I lie awake at night and I can't bear the thought of going back, of doing this day after day, I can't, I just can't. I don't know why I ever thought that I would, that I could, but I can't. But I will but how long when every day is worse than the one before and it all comes down to why, anyway? So I can work 12 hours a day so I can afford my apartment so I can live in this city that I never see and don't know and maybe watch a Netflix at night before bed before I get up and do it all over again amen. Times like this I wish I was religious, oh Jesus please save me, it would be nice, anyway, to be saved. Please help me, dear amorphous something, dear nothing in the sky, please help. Because I cannot do this shit. I cannot do it.

Me and Thom Yorke, wondering how long before we can disappear completely.

Why I am not Michelle Pfeiffer

2011-08-24T10:38:00.001-04:00

I thought I would take advantage of a brief and unexpected moment of calm in an otherwise mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world to write a little blog post. Way back in February, and another lifetime ago, in a little town called Mythaca, our young-ish heroine (What, I can call myself whatever I want, get your own blog) was delighted to discover that on her second day of student teaching school was canceled due to snow. And there was much rejoicing in all the land. Fast forward six months and our rapidly-aging-but-still-considered-young-ish-in-some-circles heroine is on her second day of no-longer-student teaching, otherwise known as Shit Gets Real. At this time, Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom knows she can't go throwing a snowstorm in mid-August, and so reaches into her natural disaster bag and pulls out something I like to call--Earthquake Day!!! In other words, this is all my fault, guys. (Actually, it was the Earth's fault (line)--get it?) Sorry. Citing the mantra of better safe than sorry, the powers that be decided to close the schools one day post-quake, a fact that I only learned after dragging my sorry carcass from bed pre-six in the morning, throwing myself in the shower, and slapping on my face paint and my professionally boring clothes. Which means that I probably could have gone to DateMeDC et al's happy hour last night instead of lesson planning and feeling sorry for myself and crying into my pillows, but then, I couldn't have known that.

So, a brief rundown of the state of me with roughly 1.7 days of actual classroom experience under my belt: Stressed. Anxious. Ball of nerves. Overwhelmed. I do not think I can do this, guys. (You can totally do it! Go you!) Ok, I do not think I want to do this, guys. The one thing I have determined: All teachers are masochists. There is no other explanation. These are...these are...these are kids with neck tattoos, guys. These are kids with kids, and another on the way. These are eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds on their fifth year of high school who are still considered freshmen. These are kids who don't give a shit about learning French, and tell me so. These are also kids who come up to me on the first day and sweetly tell me that they aren't very good at French, but they are excited to learn. Or who write on their questionnaires that they are very professional and will work hard in my class. Or who write on their questionnaires that they don't like "getting yelled at," and I want to say, oh baby, who's yelling at you? But I can't even see them. They disappear in the mess and they are quiet and I am so grateful for them that I forget they even exist. Instead I am tap-tap-tapping sleepers, head up, head up, phone away, you can't have your phone, put your phone away, two times, three, five times in one class and still the phones are out and it's not like I can pretend not to see it because it's on me, it will come back and come down on me. They, not the kids, but the powers that be, they are observing, they are watching, they are judging me and they are judging me through my kids, and my future and my money depend on it, depend on them, depend on the kids staying awake, staying off their phones, listening to me, learning French, somehow, some way. But how? But what way?

Anyone who mentions Dangerous Minds will get a virtual ass-kicking and a lecture on reality vs. the product of someone's fertile and highly optimistic imagination. Meanwhile, the grocery store next to my house sells wine. I'd stopped keeping alcohol in the house for a while there, but I'm thinking it might be time to stock up.

Why "stress" doesn't even begin to describe it

2011-08-21T08:17:00.000-04:00

The last week has been madness. School starts tomorrow. I'll be back when things calm down a bit. So, Christmas? Next summer? Wait, how many years before I can retire?

Send good thoughts. And Xanax.

Why sext sells

2011-08-13T16:43:00.002-04:00

Hanging out with local bloggers The Chaser and Date Me DC Friday night, I came face to face with the startling realization that women everywhere are walking around with pictures of penises saved in their phones. As both of them whipped them out, so to speak, (um, their phones) and scrolled past penises of all shapes and sizes, we burst into uncontrollable shrieks of laughter. There were big ones, small ones, and even one shockingly, unbelievably teeny tiny one. There were different angles, different props; some included the rather proud face of the owner, while others were disembodied and floating weirdly in space. A quick survey around the bar revealed the fact that I may be the only 31-year-old woman living in the digital age to have never received an unsolicited picture of a penis, let alone have a whole saved file of them at her fingertips. Though this was never an area in which I had felt lacking before, I was suddenly overcome by the need to join my fellow ladies in this heretofore overlooked aspect of the female human experience. So I sent out a quick text to my go to penis guy (who shall remain nameless for the purposes of this post): Quick, I need you to send me a pic of your penis. Please? Normally eager to show off his favorite body part, he became suddenly and uncharacteristically suspicious: Maybe...but why?

My fellow bloggers caught the competitive spirit and sent out similar requests of their own. Date Me DC tweeted her request, and I knew it was all over for me. But it was actually The Chaser who had the first response, receiving pics from not one but two different guys, and then had to spend the rest of the night fending off promises/threats to come down there and "give it to her in person." Meanwhile all I received were three more "but why?" texts, and then radio silence.

Through the fog of a particularly vile next-day hangover, I have decided that I am ok with missing out on this particular aspect of modern dating. I am ok with my phone being filled with pics of cute dogs that I happen across and the occasional baby deer. And if I should change my mind about this, I know exactly who to ask--if I ever need a penis pic, hopefully these fine ladies would be willing to share.

Why I'm calling this an "adjustment period"

2011-08-05T19:05:00.000-04:00

I moved out of my old apartment in Mythaca on Saturday. On Monday I moved into my new one in DC. It wasn't until Thursday that the glums hit. The oh-my-god-what-have-I-dones. Pacing around this apartment of barely controlled chaos, with too many cardboard boxes and not enough furniture, and no tv and no internet (make Rachel something something.)

The view from my old bedroom window was all baby deer and bunny rabbits.

Also chipmunks, squirrels, woodpeckers, and towards the end of my stay, sometimes a very shy red fox.

Here, though, it's not even worth the effort to look out the window, the horizontal blinds competing with the vertical iron bars on the other side, but if you were to peer very carefully through the cross-hatching you would be rewarded with a view of the scenic back alley. As far as I can determine, it's where people go to yell loudly at each other, and sometimes to take out the trash.

When I moved in, there was an over-powering sewer smell. I don't smell it anymore, but did it go away, or am I just used to it? The upstairs neighbors have very, very creaky floorboards, and the water here is either warm or hot, but never, ever cold. The air conditioning is crazy loud.

Oh, woe.

Why I'm leeeaaaving...in some kind of vehicle

2011-07-27T20:09:00.001-04:00

Things I have unintentionally done or said today that have made complete strangers laugh at me:

1. Heaved an unconscious though apparently dramatic sigh while stuck in traffic in the car with the windows down, and the light turned red without anyone moving again.

2. At the doctor's, responded to the question "Are you sexually active?" with a frown and a "Not very." What? I have discriminating tastes. (Ok, not really.)

In other news, I have pre-emptively set up my OkCupid account for DC and am already corresponding with a few guys. One in particular caught my eye with his description of who he was looking for on his profile: someone "tall, smart, liberal, and laid back." It didn't necessarily hit me in a, hey, that's me! way, but more in a hey, that's what I'm looking for too! way. So at least we know we're both looking for the same thing. Plus, the one e-mail I've received from him so far was peppered with phrases like "cavalcade of schlock" and "a rather insidious bind." I know, I know, not everyone's cup of tea, but to me? Dreamboat.

In other other news, someone finally decided to rent an apartment to me! (Sucker.) Yes, just in the nick of time, the good news arrived after weeks of being passed over and receiving e-mails that all started, "After a very difficult decision, we have decided to go with another applicant." (And who knew apartment hunting would start to feel so much like dating?) I dug up these pictures of it online:

In the place of this person's lovely and tastefully chosen furniture (complete with decorative swan) you will have to imagine the cavernous void composed of all the furniture I don't own. The furniture I do own? A bed. A desk. Not even a chair for the desk; just the desk. And that's pretty much it. The furniture I don't own could fill volumes. Or, you know, a very spartan one bedroom apartment. (Not to mention that I don't own a single wood-carved fowl of any kind, without which my apartment will clearly be incomplete.) So, yes, the moving process continues to be not at all difficult or stressful in any way. Also, the truck my parents were going to bring up to help me move is no longer, you know, trucking, or something. I'm fuzzy on the details. But no truck. Surprise! So, let's just rent a truck then, on the busiest moving weekend of the whole year. In a college town! And try to reserve it three days in advance! (The answer to that is no, by the way.) So, again: totally not complicated or in any way anxiety-inducing. Am calm, zen cucumber.

What's that, a cucumber shaped like a duck?! Well that just sort of ties it all together, doesn't it?

Why it's a blog world after all

2011-07-24T14:02:00.001-04:00

Friday was a banner day here in Mythaca. I finally got to swim in (near, around) a waterfall! I didn't take any pictures myself, but I can assure you it looked pretty much exactly like this:

It was gorgeous and hot and the water a balmy 78 degrees. Also, crowded, but what can you do.

And, not only that, but I had my very first blogger sighting! I spotted the adorable family from the blog NYC Taught Me also enjoying the day at the falls and then spent the remainder of afternoon gaping and elbowing my friend Cara in the ribs as if there was a celebrity in our midst. Which there was, as far as I was concerned. Cara continued talking as if it were nothing, while I craned my neck and mhmm-ed absently. "It's like seeing someone you've seen on t.v. in real life!" I marveled to her. "Right here, in Mythaca! What are the chances?"

"Rachel, it's just someone with a blog," she replied, clearly not comprehending. "Why don't you go say hi?" I waffled for a bit, ultimately deciding to leave them alone to enjoy their day sans overtures from an overly excited, bathing suit-clad stranger.

Have any of you ever spotted a blogger "in the wild?" If you did, would you say hello? (By the way, if any of you ever see me anywhere, you'd better say hi! Four years of blogging and I have yet to be spotted. Believe me, you would make my year!)

UPDATE: I left a comment on her blog, and she mentioned me in her post about Mythaca! Check it out!

Why I will probably lose half my readers for this

2011-07-21T10:31:00.001-04:00

"'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house..." read Timmy's father. Timmy waited for the "all snug in their beds" line, and sighed contentedly as his father tucked the blankets tighter around him like he was supposed to. "Happy Christmas to all, and to all..." and here he paused to ruffle Timmy's hair, which was part of it as well, "...a good night."

Timmy's father clapped the book shut and stood to leave. "Dad?" said Timmy.

"Yes?" said Dad, returning to Timmy's bedside.

"Is Santa Claus real?"

"Of course he's real, Timmy. You know that."

"No, I mean... is He really real? Or is it just a story for little kids? You can tell me..."

"Timmy, I don't know where this is coming from. Your mother and I have always raised you to believe in Santa Claus."

"Well, it's just that, in school today, Abdul said that He isn't real, and that his mom and dad said it was all a lie."

"Yes, well I'm not surprised that Abdul's parents would tell him that, since Abdul's parents probably don't know any better. But this is what you can say to Abdul, the next time you see him: How do you explain all the books that have been written about Him, all the movies that have been made about Him, if He doesn't exist? Think about it; that many people all believing in the same thing can't be wrong."

"Ok, but..."

"And it's not just that, Timmy. We have evidence of his existence. The story that I just read to you was written by Clement Clark Moore in 1822. And it is not just a story, Timmy, it's a firsthand account."

"But Dad, that was written so long ago. How do we know that it's real?"

"Well Timmy, let's look at the evidence. In his poem, Mr. Moore says, 'He had a broad face and a little round belly,' and, 'The beard on his chin was as white as the snow.' And how does he look in the movies you've seen about him? How does he look in commercials and on tv and at the mall?"

"The same," said Timmy.

"That's right," said Timmy's father.

"But Dad, if He's real, then why haven't I seen Him?" asked Timmy. "I mean the real Him, not His helper at the mall. His brother, right? You told me that that's His brother? He must have a lot of brothers."

"Er, yes," said Timmy's father, "but 'brother' might not mean exactly the same thing to us as it does to Him. And let us not forget that we are all brothers, who believe in Him. But to answer your question, Timmy, even though you haven't seen Him, it doesn't mean that He doesn't exist. What about the cookies you leave out for Him every Christmas Eve? What happens to those?"

"He eats them," said Timmy.

"And the reindeers' hooves on the roof? You heard those, right?" Timmy nodded. "And remember when I showed you the hoofprints on the driveway the next day?"

"I know, Dad, it's just that in school we learned about the different kinds of Santas people have in different countries. Are those Santas real, too?"

Timmy's father suddenly had a violent coughing fit, his face turning a vaguely purplish color as as he muttered something in between gasps that Timmy couldn't quite make out, though it sounded like, "Goddamn liberals."

"No, Timmy. You know there is only one true Santa and that is Santa Claus. All others are imposters and pagan idols."

"But how do you explain that so many of the stories of the other Santas are so similar to ours?"

"Clearly, they have taken the story of the one, true Santa and perverted it to their own twisted uses," answered Timmy's father.

"But Mrs. Needly says that some of these stories came before the story of our Santa..."

"Mrs. Needly!" sputtered Timmy's father, a purplish hue returning to his face. "Now, you know as well as I do that the true Santa wears a red suit and lives in the North Pole and drinks Coca-goddamn-Cola. Not like your cloak-wearing, shoe-filling imposters from Europe."

"Yes, but how do we know?"

Timmy's father sighed. "Look, son, we could sit here and I could give you reason after reason and fact after fact, but when it comes down to it we just have to have faith."

"What's faith, Dad?"

"Faith is believing, son. It's what allows us to believe in Santa, even when we can't see Him. So, when I say goodnight to you and leave your room every night, you know I'm still there, right? Even though you can't see me?"

"Of course."

"Well, that's faith."

"But, I don't understand. Before you were telling me about all the evidence for Santa Claus existing, and now you're telling me that evidence doesn't matter when you have faith. So which one is it?"

"Blast it, son, I... I thought you were with me on this, but now I can see that you're not really understanding. I think this all may be a little over your head. Maybe when you're older..."

"No, no, I... I think I get it."

"Explain it to me then, son."

"Ok, well, we know that Santa is real because of all the evidence. But even if there wasn't any evidence, it would be ok, because we know He is real because we have faith. And the reason we have faith is because we know He is real."

"Well, I stand corrected, son. That was exactly right."

"In class the other day Mrs. Needly taught us about something called 'circular logic'..."

"Now I don't want to hear another goddamned word about Mrs. Needly," barked Timmy's father. "That's just what we need is another goddamn teacher mucking things up with her own personal opinions. As if it isn't bad enough that they're trying to take Santa Claus out of the schools altogether. I really don't know what this world is coming to..."

"Mrs. N--I mean, well, shouldn't schools be a place for people with all kinds of different beliefs?"

"Well, let me ask you this, son. If you know you are right about something, if you know the truth about something, don't you tell people about it? Aren't schools a place for telling the truth? Let's say...you know the answer to a hard math problem. You figured it out, and you know you are right. But your friend thinks it's a different answer. Are you going to tell him, 'Well, maybe I'm right, and maybe you're right, too?' Or, 'Maybe we're both right?' No! There can only be one right answer, and that's what schools should teach. The truth."

"I guess that makes sense..."

"Of course it makes sense! The way this country is going, though, they're just as likely to teach you that the Easter Bunny brings your Christmas presents, that's how far backwards we've gone. And that is why we need to take this country back, son. We need to make sure we get true Santa believers voted into office, taking over every branch of government, so they can pass legislation supporting our Santa-based beliefs. It's the only way."

"But, shouldn't Santa be kept out of politics? I mean, he's good at Christmas, but can't we just figure things out without him the rest of the year?"

"Now, son. You know that bit about if you've been naughty or nice? That's not just at Christmastime; he is watching you all year long. So we need to govern ourselves, and our country, with the idea that he is watching us and judging us all year long; not just at Christmas."

"It still seems a little strange. What about people who don't believe in Santa? Why should they have to be governed by Santa-based politics?"

"Because, Timmy. We know we are right. And if the non-believers can't see that, even though they've been given plenty of opportunities, well, we will just have to force them to believe."

"Can you really do that?"

"Well, Timmy, all we can do is try. And we have to keep on trying, no matter what. It's what He wants."

"I think I get it now, Dad. Thanks."

"No problem, son. Now get some sleep."

"Ok, Dad. 'Night."

"Goodnight, son." Timmy's father stood and turned out the lights. "Go to sleep now."

But Timmy lay in bed unable to sleep, facing the darkness with wide open eyes. "Santa?" he whispered into the dark void of his room. "Are you there Santa? It's me, Timmy." He waited a long time, but no response came.

Why it's a dog's life

2011-07-16T20:31:00.003-04:00

Things are going no better on the apartment front (and yes, Kono, this is another post about apartment hunting, and at this rate you might as well get used to it). One apartment was yanked off the market between the time the ad was posted and when I was scheduled to view it the next day; another received such an overwhelming response that by the time I showed up to look at it, the owner decided the right and just thing to do would be to up the rent by a cool $250 a month, thus tipping the balance from probably affordable, just barely, to ha, in your dreams can you afford to pay that much for rent. After a "difficult" decision, the owner of yet another apartment decided to go with the other candidate, and my e-mails in regards to at least two other apartments are currently going unanswered. It is tough out there, is what I am saying.

As such, I am still at my parents' house, after not having planned on being here much longer than a long weekend, rotating the same two outfits and doing teeny tiny loads of laundry every couple of days. Besides apartment hunting, I've been spending my time being bored and lazing about in the hammock in the backyard. Which was all well and good, and from there I had a good vantage point of a robin doing its robin thing in its nest right above me, and hummingbirds flitting around the mimosa tree, and about a million gnats endearing themselves to me around my face and eyes, until! I walked out in the backyard the other day to find this travesty:

Hide your eyes, it's hideous! Oh, the humanity. "But what...what happened?" I gasped, once I found breath to speak. It would seem that someone, clearly intent on destroying my happiness, tore into it with the gear shift of a riding mower, thus rendering it--"totally fixable!" Says my mother, beginning knot-tier and lifelong cheapskate. The thing is, there is a pretty severe disconnect in this house between things that can, in theory, be fixed, and things that actually will be fixed in this decade, or ever. One the one hand, you have pretty much everything; on the other, next to nothing.

But enough about my very important problems. On to The Cute.

A Dog and His Bone: The Life and Times of a Scruffdog

Busted hammock, busted screen door, and plastic bucket o' water on porch. Because that is how we roll in this house.

Play dead, Deucey! Good boy.

'Cause everyone needs a "duck" buddy. Friends with bonefits?

Can you imagine the insanity this blog would devolve into if I had pets of my own? I mean, can you? Let's all hope I find an apartment and get out of my parents' house soon, or I'm afraid we're in for more posts like this one.

And since some of you have already made your displeasure known (ahem), what do you think I should write about, Internet? What would you like to know? Post suggestions welcome!

Why finding the apartment of your dreams is harder than it seems

2011-07-14T11:09:00.002-04:00

I drove down to my parents' house in Maryland last Friday to look at apartments in DC. August 1st is ever more rapidly approaching, and I wanted to to get my living arrangements settled as soon as possible. I figured I would look at a few places on Saturday, lock something down on Sunday, and be back on my merry way by Monday.

Ha! Ha ha!

As it turns out, I am still here, with no clear departure date in sight. And not only am I itching (literally! mosquito bites everywhere!) to get out of my parents' house, but I don't know if you realize, but it is summer right now in Mythaca, a rare blink-and-you'll-miss-it event, and Internet, I am missing it. We do have four seasons there, sure--winter, early winter, late winter, and summer; and summer, as far as I am concerned, is the only reason worth sticking out the other three. I have put in more than my fair share of winters, and now I am ready for some sweet, sweet Mythaca summer, dammit! I only have--gulp--sixteen days left on my lease there, and instead of actually being there and hiking and swimming in waterfalls, I am stuck in the soul-sucking suburbs of Maryland going bleary-eyed from all the Craigslist searching.

I've seen a dozen or so apartments over the last few days--~~two~~ ~~three~~ two more on the docket for today. So far none has fulfilled the trifecta of apartment perfection--the perfect apartment at the perfect location at the perfect price. I am hesitant to settle (perfectionist much?) but my dogged persistence at apartment-hunting in the past has paid off in spades, and I am finding it hard to go backwards, as far as standard of living is concerned. One apartment is practically perfect, with plenty of room, perfect neighborhood--but there's no laundry, and the price is my upper limit for rent--utilities not included. Another is similarly gorgeous, large, with washer and dryer and the price is right--but it's a couple miles too far north, in the hinterlands of DC. Two miles to my school (and I really wanted easy walking distance), and I definitely couldn't walk out my door and stroll to restaurants and bars like I could in the other place, but there are buses that go past regularly, at all hours of the day and night. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad? So, keep looking, and risk losing what's already there? Or settle for slightly less than perfect?

The other problem being, of course, that even once I decide on an apartment there are no guarantees I'll actually get it. Nearly every apartment I've seen so far has been an open house type of situation. It generally goes like this: I'll arrive five or more minutes early and walk in to find there are already ten or more people there, milling about the tiny space, and more pouring in every minute. It is quite literally insane. I've even started recognizing some of the same people over and over (Orphan Annie, Dreadlocks Guy). It's a ridiculously competitive market, and apparently my soon-to-be-employed-as-a-French-teacher gig is not winning any contests. I put in an application on the nearly-perfect, expensive-but-no-laundry apartment and did the obligatory interview-to-prove-I-am-not-crazy with the landlord, who said she would try to make a decision by Tuesday. Given that it is now Thursday, and as far as I can tell she has not even called my references, I am afraid that it's not looking good.

I am hoping my luck is about to turn. It is Bastille Day, after all. How could it not be lucky? So here's to le quatorze juillet, et l'appartement de mes rêves! (And my swift and triumphant return to Mythaca!)

Why you laugh, and then you sing, and then everything is alright again

2011-07-08T23:27:00.001-04:00

Sometimes there is nothing to do but look for the humor in a situation, even when it doesn't necessarily feel funny. But when you are talking boys and your same-age boss/partner in gossip (but still, your boss) then asks you carefully, "So...what's your dad like?," come on, that is funny. (Answer: He's a nice guy! Really! No daddy issues here!) And when your friend asks you seriously, "So, do you think you might be attracted to guys who treat you badly?," like you're worthy of a Lifetime movie story plot or something, that is funny to me, too. (Answer, as honestly as I am able to give it: You know, I really think I actually like nice, sweet guys. That's just not who I end up meeting.) And when my petty problems provoke 30+ comments and even some e-mails saying, "Have you ever considered...?," as if my guy problems are in any way important and worthy of consideration by anyone other than myself, well, that also is pretty damn funny, in my book. Thank you, people who like to solve problems! In all honesty, your comments, your support, they warm my heart. Don't ever stop.

Of course it's one thing to be able to see the humor in the situation from a slightly detached perspective, and quite another to retain those same good spirits when it really comes down to it; you know what I mean? Let me 'splain. And voila, I give you Luke: The Denouement.

Since we last talked, Luke has become more and more evasive (surprise surprise), and I followed suit. I stopped engaging in idle text conversations, I let 24 hours go by before responding to a text, and when I did respond, I pretty much kept it to one word answers. My new-found vagueness seemed to intrigue him, and so he stepped it up about half a notch, proposing outings I knew he would probably never follow through on. A restaurant he had heard good things about 30 minutes outside of town? When even going to dinner once in the town where we both live was like pulling teeth? Yeah, sure, babe, whatever. Sometime this week? I mean, ok, I guess. That's what I said, too; I guess. But no matter how sullen and teenaged I acted, he kept responding with good humor. You guess? LOL. In the meantime, he didn't seem too anxious to see me, which was fine with me, as I was growing increasingly less anxious to see him. But still though, he kept up the pretext, texting me 'hi baby' in the morning, and 'mwah,' at night. As if he has the right to call me baby, I grumbled to myself. And to wake me up at 7:00 a.m. to say it. The nerve. It had to come to a head sooner or later. Sooner, as it turned out.

Whatcha doing? he texted me today; my most hated idle chatter text, and a favorite of his. What are YOU doing? I replied pointedly.

At work, he said. Lunch?

I knew better than to take that at face value, so instead I replied, Lunch is good.

No, LOL, he replied. Do you want to go to lunch with me?

Aha, the ever-elusive direct invitation. With anyone else I would have accepted without hesitation, and yet, even with the offer extended I knew this guy could still pull a Houdini act. If I say yes are you just going to say you have to do laundry? I asked.

Babe, he chided me. LOL.

Ok, so, he knew I was on to him, then. There was no way he could back out now when I had already called him on his very backing out-ness. So, Yes, Luke [Last Name], I texted, I would like to have lunch with you. And then I waited. But then, like clockwork, 5...4...3...2...

Dammit I have a meeting, they just came in and ruined my lunch :(

A familiar feeling of adrenaline-fueled rage gurgled up from inside of me. But wait, I thought. Before you go exploding all over the place, wait just a minute. Surely this is a joke. Surely he is poking fun at the fact that I had predicted he would back out, and he will follow this with an 'LOL, j/k.' Surely. But sadly, he was all too serious. How bout dinner? he proposed with a smiley face.

No can do, I replied. And yeah, I pretty much figured I was calling your bluff with the lunch thing.

Ouch babe. I would love to but I can't miss this meeting.

I would really like to believe that, I said. Have a nice meeting. Maybe a nice life too.

Wow, that's pretty intense, he replied.

I'm sure you're familiar with the expression 'the last straw,' I told him.

How many straws were there? he asked.

You're the worst of the worst, I replied. Have fun treating some other girl like shit.

I didn't realize you felt I treated you badly, he said.

But that was it. I had said what I needed to say, and anything else would have been arguing semantics. I didn't add anything further, and neither did he. After our last go-round and an experiment in playing it cool and employing the silent treatment, it felt good to actually say what I felt, for once. Lesson learned.

In the meantime, I've been listening to this song on repeat; driving to MD/DC, volume up, singing at the top of my lungs. It's quite possibly the world's most perfect break-up song, with just the right amount of fuck you to it. Check it out, and sing it with me now:

You think I'll run, not walk, to you
Why would I want to talk to you?
I want you crawling back to me
Down on your knees, yeah
Like an appendectomy
Sans anesthesia

If you think you can leave the past behind
You must be out of your mind
If you think you can simply press rewind
You must be out of your mind, son
You must be out of your mind

You want what you've turned off turned on
You call at sunset, now it's dawn
You can't go 'round just saying stuff
Because it's pretty
And I no longer drink enough
To think you're witty

If you think you can leave the past behind
You must be out of your mind
If you think you can simply press rewind
You must be out of your mind, son
You must be out of your mind

Why fool me twice, it's shame on me

2011-07-06T09:00:00.017-04:00

In case I needed one more glaring example of why He Is Not Different, I Am Not Special, and People Don't Change, Not Really, here it is: we are right back where we were before. You know, in case that inevitable outcome wasn't already obvious to everyone reading. (Please hold your I-told-you-so's until the end of the presentation.) What surprised me wasn't so much that it happened, but the speed at which it happened. It went straight from morning-after glow to, oh yeah, this again, practically overnight.

He texts me when he's bored, and only then. At work, he sent me a barrage of messages the other day, indicating his desire to be anywhere else, and suggesting I "kidnap" him. I knew he wasn't serious, and so I replied in kind, jokingly. But when he persisted, I thought, well, maybe... "Could you really do that?" I asked him. "Sure," he replied. "I'll just say I'm going on a site visit." "You're forgetting I don't know where you work," I replied. "You know where I work," he said; "I work at Cronell." "Ok, I'll just walk around Cronell calling your name until I find you," I replied, jokingly. "LOL," he replied with no further detail, and so I knew, again, he wasn't serious. But yet, he kept on persisting, kept texting, gently reeling me in on his line, until I thought again, well maybe... and said to him this time, "Do you want to go for a walk around Beebe Lake with me at 4:00?" But no sooner had I said it, than, "Wish I could," he replied, "but I still have too much work to do here." It seemed to me with that much work to do he would have less time for bullshit texts, but before I could reply he asked, "What are you doing for dinner?" But I knew better this time. It was evasive enough that it could be misconstrued as an invitation, though I knew it probably was not. "Dunno," I replied, and off he went on a textual monologue, musing aloud on the contents of his fridge and what he might possibly have for dinner. I set my phone aside and ignored him. But then, when I didn't respond, "Do you want to go to dinner?" he asked. "I'm thinking Just a Taste." This, finally, seemed to be a direct invitation, and so I replied in kind--directly. "Yes," I said. Then, "What time?" I asked, thinking this to be a fair enough question. But yet again, when approached with a direct question, he hedged. "Um," he replied. And that was it. Um. Twenty minutes later, he modified his response: "I don't know, I have to do laundry... I work too much..." I had reached the end of my rope. I could no longer write his behavior off as merely bumbling or indecisive; it had started to feel overtly aggressive. Again I ignored him. An hour later I was starting to get hungry, and with the possibility of dinner plans being vague at best, I began rummaging through my refrigerator. Again, my phone beeped. "Whatcha doing?" he asked. I sighed, and picked up the phone to call him directly, this time.

"I'm still at work," he complained.

"Mmm hmm," I replied.

"What are you doing?"

"Just getting ready to eat something," I said.

"What are you eating?"

"I don't know yet," I said, annoyed.

"Oh, well, what time do you want to go?" he said.

"Oh," I said, confused. "I didn't know if we were doing that."

"Do you want to go to Viva?"

Ah, the old bait-and-switch. To go from tapas to tacos seemed a bit unfair, in my book, and so, "Actually, I've been eating a lot of burritos lately," I replied.

"Ok, so, Just a Taste, then? Meet me there in 15 minutes?"

"Well I could have met you there in 15 minutes if I'd had more warning," I replied as pleasantly as possible.

"Alright, well just meet me there at 7:00, then," he replied. And so I did, but man, all that, just to go to dinner.

"Oh man, this guy is on thin ice," I texted my friend Eric. Because apparently I can't get enough of the texting. "Going to dinner now, but I'll tell you about it later." "Uh oh..." he responded. Which is why I burst out laughing when I walked into the restaurant several minutes later, and the first face I saw was Eric's, there eating dinner with his Spanish class. I mean, what are the odds? "You get to see him!" I whispered excitedly as we said hello and I pointed discreetly towards the bar.

Joining Luke, now, I pointed out Eric to him, and they shared a brief, if grudging, hello. After a tasty though fairly subdued dinner, we left the restaurant, and Luke walked me to my car. "You wanna come over?" he asked unenthusiastically. "I have to do laundry, but you could hang out with Kevin for a while."

I laughed. "That's a really tempting and heartfelt invitation," I said, "but I think I'm gonna pass."

"Oh, come on..." he said. "Please?"

"No, you know...you've seemed a bit weird all day today, and you have stuff to do, so I think I'm just going to go home."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Why have I seemed weird?"

"Oh come on," I said. "Really? You really don't know?"

"No," he said. "What did I do?"

"I mean...do I really have to explain all this to you? How do you not know?"

"Well I don't often analyze my own behavior," he said. "So, what? Tell me."

"Well, where do I start?" I said. "I mean, the whole thing about kidnapping you, and then when I offered you turned me down. And then the dinner thing...and you replied with um. I mean, I know you told me you're indecisive, but honestly, if that's the case, if it's actually this bad, then I don't know how you function on a daily basis. I don't know how you have a job," I said, throwing up my arms in genuine bafflement. Here he started laughing, and kept going for a really long time.

"Oh come on," he said, as I crossed my arms and waited for him to finish. "That was funny. Don't you think that was funny?"

"Well I've been thinking about it for a while, so I guess I've had longer to get over it," I said. "But at least you find it amusing."

"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. So you're really not coming over?"

"No, I'm going to go home."

"So I'm a puppy, and you're punishing me for my bad behavior, huh?" I stayed silent. "Alright. Come over tomorrow, then? I'll make dinner."

"Ok," I agreed.

Back at home I called Eric over for a de-briefing. "Ok," he said, "but you're not going to like what I have to say." I braced myself for it, and he began.

"First of all," he said, "you can do better than that guy. Way better. You know you're not a bad looking girl, and this guy... Anyway, besides that, the guy was...well, it's not good. His body language was awful. And then later, I saw you guys from across the street, when you guys were talking and he was leaning against your car? I mean, he couldn't have been leaning further away from you."

"Well," I said, "maybe he was just tired. Sometimes leaning is just leaning, right?"

"No, no," he said. "Sometimes it is, but he was leaning waaaaaaay back, like this," and here he affected an extremely uncomfortable-looking though fairly representative posture, and I realized it was true. And where had I been during all this? I suddenly realized--right up in there, attentive, eager, leaning into him. "And then at dinner," he continued. "It was just so obvious. He wasn't there because of you. He was there...just to be there." And suddenly I realized that that was true, too. Eric had just put into words the feeling that only a little while earlier I had felt but been unable to articulate. The evening eerily reminiscent of a dinner at the very same restaurant two months earlier. That same feeling that he was bored, that I had to entertain him, put on a show. The feeling that if I didn't carry the conversation we would have just been sitting there. Eating. And so I grew more and more animated as the evening went on in an attempt to elicit a reaction of any kind from him, trying to please him. But despite my best attempts, the only time he smiled all night was when he got a text message from his buddy regarding their 4th of July weekend plans, as he checked his texts at the table. Eric was right, I knew. And he kept hitting way too close to home. "And the thing is?" he said. "The guy's a shlub. And he knows he's a shlub," he continued, starting to sound angry now. "And instead of trying harder, like he should have, he just sat there, being shlubby." I sighed. "What is it you like about this guy, anyway?" he asked.

"There are things..." I murmured dejectedly.

"I saw his face," Eric said. "I saw his eyes, and he's hiding something. The guy's an asshole, and Rach, it takes one to know one. And I know."

"Ok," I said. "Okay. But...well, so what's the harm, really? As long as I know, and I'm not expecting anything from him, and it's only for a month, then what's the big deal?"

"Well," he said carefully, "I guess the harm is in how it affects your self-esteem, and what it means you'll put up with from guys in the future. But other than that, I guess there's no harm in it."

God, I hate it when people are right.

[Comments are open, but proceed with caution, please. No helpful advice or armchair analysis necessary. I think we have already established that I am a hopeless case, so no need to rub it in.]

Why I am moving on

2011-07-04T08:39:00.002-04:00

So, about the job. The last time we talked I had two prospects on the horizon, each of which was far from perfect, though for very different reasons. Well, I seriously considered the Cairo option for all of 12 hours, then read this blog recommended by Oneika, and realized, what the hell was I thinking? Yes, it would have been an adventure. And I may very well have considered it when I was 22, or 24, or even 26 (I think you get the picture), but at the moment it doesn't fit in with any of the goals I have for my life right now. Though settling down at 31 and single may look a bit different than I would have imagined ten years ago, nonetheless, I want to settle down. I want my own place, I want to nest. I want to live in the same place for longer than a year or two. I want to form relationships with friends and family; I want a social network. I want a dog, and maybe a cat, too. It might not be picket fences, but this is what I'm asking from life right now. I may have given up on finding someone to share it all with, but if I can't have that, then please, just give me this. And somehow, I just couldn't see myself doing any of it in Cairo.

And the other job prospect, the one that sounded like the exact opposite of what I was looking for, that fulfilled none of my requirements except the most important one, namely, being a job, any job at all that would pay me a salary plus benefits; that one? The all-girl private boarding school in the middle of nowhere, VA, that would require me to live in the residence hall? I humored them for a while, submitting to not one but two phone interviews. Then, when my contact said he would like to put me in touch with the headmistress of the school if I was still interested, I said yes, please, and also let her know that I would be in the area the following week, if it would be helpful to meet in person. And then I heard...nothing. Not a thank you for your time, not a we've decided to go with another candidate; nothing. That was over a month ago. I didn't follow up because I wasn't particularly interested in the job anyway, but still, after two phone interviews? Rude.

But, after all this, happily there was another prospect looming on the horizon, and it happened to be in a city where I could actually see myself living. I spent a nervous hour on the phone with HR, sweating bullets and gripping the phone so tightly that afterwards my fingers hurt, as they threw at me one tough question after another. It wasn't as if I was unprepared for these questions; I had spent the last 12 months in a teacher prep program, after all. But the phone interviews I had had before this had all been a bit easier, and more laid back. There were some tough questions, sure, but they were interspersed with fluffier ones, and they sure as hell didn't last for a solid hour. But somehow, miraculously, it appeared that I had passed, and I was invited to the school to do a teaching audition. I planned a lesson based on the objective they had given me, but otherwise I went in completely blind. I knew nothing about the students, or what or how much they knew. Then, after hours of practice and preparation, the day came. Even after the best of intentions and careful allotment of extra travel time, I arrived just on the edge of late--harried, flustered, and breathless. The set-up of the classroom was strange, and I realized that in order to operate my PowerPoint, I would have to be standing at the back of the room, behind my computer, instead of in front of the class. From that perspective, not only would my back be facing the video camera the whole time (oh, yeah, that), but I had trouble seeing the nametags taped to my students' desks. There was a lot of scurrying back and forth as I dealt with the computer in the back, then ran to the front to interact with students and read their nametags in order to call on them (and each time catching a faceful of light from the projector). I had trouble pronouncing one student's name, and each time I attempted it, the rest of the students would titter. Another student had written her name as "Mrs. Pember." After calling her Mrs. Pember for half the class, and feeling slightly ridiculous, I asked her if she might have a first name she would like to share with me. "Yeah, but like, I'm just tryin' to keep things professional," she informed me. Basically, it was not the most spectacular teaching audition in the world, but I rolled with it and I did the best I could. At the end, the students expressed positive feedback, and whether they were just being nice or enjoyed the diversion from the everyday grind, I thought that should count for something. The HR rep who had recorded my performance told me they would give the video to someone who spoke French, and then I would find out in a week or two if I was recommended for hire. In the meantime, she said, I would be able to interview with schools where there were openings. And verily, not a week later, I was asked to do a phone interview with the language department at the very school where I had done my audition. This interview was even more intense than the first, if possible. Again, the tough questions just kept coming. Then they asked me for my top three strengths, and my top three weaknesses. Three! Weaknesses! Anyone who has ever interviewed knows that the weakness one is a trick question, and like anyone who has ever interviewed I had previously thought long and hard in order to come up with the one perfect weakness that I was ready to spout off at any moment. I repeat, the one perfect weakness. And they wanted three? On the spot? Maybe if I had had twenty minutes or so to think it over I could have come up with something halfway decent, but argh. I went over my one prepared weakness in breathtaking detail, hoping that by the end of my spiel they would have forgotten about the other two, but no dice. I mumbled something vague and hopefully not too incriminating for the others and hoped for the best.

Meanwhile, I allowed myself to imagine what would happen if I actually did get a job there. I played the Craigslist where would I live if I lived there? game, and tried not to faint when I saw the going rate for a one bedroom apartment. I imagined meet-ups and book clubs, wine tastings and French conversation groups. Brunch! Walking places! Urban living! Urban dating! And so it was particularly spirit-crushing when I received this e-mail several days later:

"We would like to thank you for taking the time to apply for a position for the 2011-2012 school year. We appreciate the time and effort you have committed to sharing your instructional practices and experiences with us. After careful consideration, we are unable to invite you to the next level of selection."

It wasn't until I lost it that I realized how much I had actually wanted it. In an instant, all of my dreams and hopes for the future had been crushed. And what's more, I didn't have anything else on the horizon. I didn't have a backup plan. All in all, I was pretty damn glum.

Which is why I'm sure you can imagine my shock when a week later the principal of the school in question called to offer me the job. Bwah?

"After your phone interview with the language department teachers here, they were very impressed with what you had to say, and we would like to extend an offer to you. You're not showing up in our candidate tracking system here yet, for some reason, but I think I can push you through with your resume that we have here. That is, if you accept?"

I certainly didn't want to tell her that I knew exactly why I wasn't showing up in the tracking system, and instead blurted out a hurried, "Yes! Yes, I accept!" This was followed by a week of awful limbo, an employment purgatory where I didn't know if I actually had a job or not. I was relunctant to tell anyone, lest it turn out that they retracted their offer again, and so instead, I just waited, and worried. But finally, I was contacted by HR with their congratulations and a long laundry list of documents I need to start getting together, and I could breathe again. I have a job. I have a JOB!

And so, without further ado, I would like to introduce you to my new home for the next year or possibly, hopefully more:

Internet, I'm moving to DC!!!!!

Why sometimes you need a second chance, part three

2011-06-29T20:59:00.001-04:00

If you're going to be in the neighborhood, you should come over for dinner. I'm going to grill up some tuna steaks with garlic lemon butter, texted the man who broke my heart.

I hesitated; I fidgeted; I weighed the pros, and then the cons. And then, finally, I made up a very small lie. I need to go to Target at some point anyway, so I could probably stop by, I said. Though I never did make it to Target, I managed to arrive at his apartment just late enough that he was sure I wasn't coming (he later told me). Dinner was ready when I got there. "Make the salad dressing?" he asked me, and with that, I fell into my old familiar role of maker of the vinaigrette. I reached for the ingredients--the dijon mustard I had bought for just such an occasion was still there, in the fridge--and silently dressed the salad. We didn't talk much, at first, and when he passed by me in the small kitchen I sensed, rather than saw, his hands instinctively reach out to caress me, and then just as quickly pull back.

As we ate I started up a stream of chatter, filling him in on the highs and mostly lows of my job search, and of my impending departure from Mythaca, to parts, at that time, still unknown. He said he still wanted to move out west, was trying to move to Colorado, hopefully in September. He had gone to visit a friend out there, and described four feet of snow and eighty degree weather, and camping in Rocky Mountain National Park. He said it was amazing. After dinner we retired to his balcony, overlooking scenic views of the Norwood parking lot and its accompanying bank of garages. I shivered briefly. "Cold?" he asked, reaching out a finger and hesitantly touching my arm. "No, I'm ok," I said.

"I was just going to watch a movie tonight and go to bed," he said. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

"Ok," I said.

We started the movie at opposite ends of his couch, with miles of space between us. But when he leaned down and laid his head in my lap, it felt right; so right that my fingers immediately went to his hair. "Your stomach is gurgly," he said, a few minutes later.

"It's probably because you're pushing on it," I said.

"Here," he said, turning me and then nestling himself around me--two spoons watching tv--and that also felt right. Then, when he kissed me, that felt right too. "Stay with me tonight," he whispered.

"I should go home," I said.

"Please, just stay with me."

"Why?"

"Because...I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"About...things. About us."

"Ok," I said. "Start talking."

He sighed. "I'm...so, here's the thing. I don't fall for girls, ok? That's just...that's not what I do. But...I fell for you. And now exactly what I was afraid of is happening, and you're leaving in a month. And I don't know what to do." I didn't know either. There wasn't an answer, and so we both were silent.

"And I was drinking a lot then," he continued. "Too much. But I've stopped, and I'm even going to the gym almost every day, now. And...I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you."

"Don't flatter yourself," I replied automatically, because I wasn't ready to make myself vulnerable to him.

"Oh, uh, no, I mean...of course not," he replied, flustered. I had thrown him. Good. "But still," he continued, "I am. I'm sorry for pushing you away."

I sat with that knowledge for a few minutes. "Why didn't you call me?" I asked.

"I did. I left you a voicemail and I sent you texts. You never replied."

"You called me in the middle of the night," I said.

"It was 12:30," he said.

"It was 1:30," I said. "Anyway, you called once and sent two texts, and one was a throwaway."

"A throwaway?"

"'I have your earrings?' What am I supposed to do with that? Anyway, if you had called just once when it wasn't the middle of the night, I would have answered."

"You would have?"

"Yeah. It just seems like...you didn't try very hard."

"Well, I thought you hated me."

"That's true," I said nodding, "I did. I really did."

"So, why did you call me yesterday?" he asked.

"Oh, um, because I needed your lease renewal," I said with a hint of a smile. Busted.

"You could have called Kevin."

"Oh, that? Simple alphabetical order," I said slyly. "You were just first on the list."

"Well, I was really happy to hear from you," he said.

"I guess, really...I was tired of being angry. All of a sudden I kept seeing you everywhere, and I hated that it felt so awful. I just wanted to be able to look back and not be angry, you know?"

"That makes sense, I guess," he said.

"When you guys came in my office a week ago, I felt ambushed. I don't know if you could tell, but I was really flustered, and the whole thing was so awkward and terrible. I mean, I don't know what you must have thought when you left. You must have thought I was a complete bitch."

"No, not at all. Actually," he said, grinning now, "all I said to Kevin when we left was, 'Damn, she looked good in that skirt.'"

I laughed and silently thanked the gods of long legs for their powers of distraction in the face of bad hair days.

"You know, my sister hates you," I told him. "She really hates you. She doesn't tend to give second chances."

"There's probably quite a few people who read your blog who aren't very fond of me either, huh?" he added.

"Oh, yeah," I said, just then remembering that that I had at one point mentioned to him the existence of a blog (and of his presence on it), though without giving away any identifying details. "Yeah, that's true too."

And that was pretty much it. We talked, we kissed, we finished watching the movie, we went to bed. And as I tossed and turned, as usual mostly sleepless in a strange bed, whenever I accidentally woke him up, he would sleepily mumble, "Hi babe," each time sounding surprised and happy to find me there. A dozen times that night, whenever our moments of consciousness overlapped, "Hi babe," he would say, each time sounding as delighted to see me as the first.

"I'm really glad you came over last night," he told me in the morning.

"I am too," I said, and I meant it.

And here is where we are: something seems different this time around, if only the fact that I know I am leaving Mythaca in a month, and he is probably leaving a couple months after that, and there is nothing to be done about any of it. Maybe if we didn't have the timeline I would be more hesitant, more vulnerable to getting hurt again, but as it stands, I am in no danger of emotional slaughter, this time. I am good. I am content. I will also probably be increasingly sad, the closer I get to leaving, but this time it will be the bittersweet sadness of unrealized potential, constrained by geographical forces largely beyond our control, rather than the bitterness of a broken heart fueled by gnawing pangs of "What if?" I have been asking myself "what if?" for months now, and now I finally have an answer: it still won't work out. And that's ok. In another world, another time, another place, I think, maybe, I could love him. I think maybe he could love me. Or, it's equally likely that we would find out we're completely incompatible and every little thing about him would drive me insane. In another world we might have had the time and the space to figure these things out. But in this world, all we have is right now.

"About those earrings," I said to him in the morning. "Do you still have them?"

"They're in there, somewhere," he said, motioning to his nightstand, but making no move to retrieve them. "But anyway, it will give me a good excuse to see you again. That is, if you want to see me again," he said, almost shyly. I nodded. "Ok," I said.

And that's where I am. I am ok. At best I feel good about it, at worst I feel neutral. I definitely don't feel bad about what happened, and you shouldn't either. And I won't be made to feel bad about it, so if that's what you had in mind, you can just forget about it.

Basically, what I'm saying is, I am good. How are you?

Why sometimes you need a second chance, part two

2011-06-28T14:34:00.000-04:00

My heart pounding, I dialed Luke's number and prayed for voicemail. It rang once, twice, three times, and just when I thought I was home free, "This is Luke." Crap.

"Hi Luke, this is Rachel. From Norwood Apartments," I added to establish that this was a call undertaken in a professional capacity.

Suddenly, his tone of voice changed from curt and businesslike to soft and almost tender. "Hi Rachel," he said, sounding genuinely happy to hear from me. Just as quickly, I found myself softening, too. "Hi Luke."

"How are you?" he asked, and somehow it didn't sound like a throwaway formality but like an actual question.

"Good," I replied. "How have you been?"

"Good," he said. "So what can I do for you?"

"I was just calling to remind you and Kevin to bring back your signed lease renewal when you have a chance," I said, just like I had practiced, and if I sounded utterly unnatural and robotic, at least I wasn't stuttering and stumbling over my words, I told myself.

"Oh, right. Kevin's been MIA this last week so we haven't had a chance to sign it, but I've got him here right now, so we can sign it and bring it over tonight," he said.

"Ok, great, thanks," I said, and as we said our goodbyes, I thought, we? Surely he wouldn't bring Kevin with him just to drop off a piece of paper, would he? It wasn't that I had any expectations for our meeting, or that I anticipated any kind of conversation at all beyond the marginally awkward hi and how are you that we had already practiced on the phone, but whatever happened, I definitely hadn't pictured Kevin being there. Maybe he would figure it out, I thought. But, not fifteen minutes later, in he walked with Kevin, as promised. "Here you go," he said, handing me their lease document.

"Great, thanks," I said, looking it over. "Would you like a copy of it now, or do you want to wait until my manager signs it?"

"You can just e-mail us a copy," he said.

"Um, well I can't really e-mail a signed document..." I said.

His whole demeanor had changed since a week earlier, when he had sat quietly and seriously, not saying a word. Now he was leaning casually over me on the desk and smiling.

"Oryoucanjustdropitinourmailboxorwhatever," he might have said, though I couldn't be sure.

"Um, what?" I said.

But when he repeated the exact same seemingly nonsensical syllables at exactly the same rapid-fire pace, I wondered, Is he nervous too?

Rather than ask him to repeat himself again, I simply agreed. "Ok," I said.

And that was that. The whole exchange had taken less than a minute, and as they left I felt strangely empty. Like I said, I had no pre-conceived notions about our meeting, and yet it felt sadly lacking. In the end though, I decided that I had gotten what I wanted--I had seen him again on my terms, and that had to be good enough. And if secretly I thought that maybe he would text me later that night, I was wrong.

He waited until the next day.

Though I had long since removed his name from my contacts list, I recognized the number right away.

How much are the garages at Norwood? he asked.

It was the first text I had received from him in over two months, having let his last two texts to me after our fallout go unanswered, after which he took the hint and gave up. I knew this text wasn't really about garages; he was testing the metaphorical waters to see if I would respond to him, and he probably thought he had a better chance if he played upon our professional relationship. $95 a month, I replied.

Can it go month to month or does it have to coincide with the lease? he asked.

Has to coincide with lease, I said.

Are you working tonight? he said.

Not tonight, I said.

I was gonna say, if you were going to be in the neighborhood you should come over for dinner. I'm going to grill some tuna steaks with some garlic lemon butter.

I paused. Was this a peace offering, a white flag waving, or was it just more of the same? In any case, he knew exactly what angle to take, playing off of my love of good food cooked by someone other than myself. I had no idea what to do. Everything hinged upon whatever it was I would say next. I stared at my phone blankly, snapping it shut, and then opening it again a few minutes later. Finally, I started tapping out a response, and it said...

Why sometimes you need a second chance

2011-06-26T09:43:00.000-04:00

At work a couple weeks ago, I glanced at the calendar and suddenly my stomach flip-flopped. Under Monday's date someone had taken down an appointment: "Kevin and Luke to sign lease renewal." As if it wasn't bad enough that I have to drive by his apartment every time I come to work and then leave work, unable to stop myself from looking for his car in the parking lot every time, now I had this reminder of his continued existence without me. There was a time when he and Kevin had "coincidentally" scheduled all their office visits on Thursday evenings; I flattered myself into thinking it was because of me. And now they were coming in on a Monday, when I wouldn't be there, and I didn't know whether to feel hurt or relieved. But it was for the best, I decided. The only way I had been able to continue on so far was because I didn't have to see him, and by consoling myself with the thought that soon enough I would be leaving Mythaca forever, and he would be but part of a hazy and vaguely distasteful memory of my time here.

And so, you can see how I was not at all expecting to see them, both of them, Luke and Kevin, formerly known as tall and cute, walk through my office door on Thursday evening. "Hi Rachel," Kevin said, coming in first. "Hi," I replied automatically while glancing up from my desk, and then did a quick double take as my heart leapt and pure adrenaline began coursing through my veins. One word echoed over and over in my head--ambush. I was not at all prepared for this. "We're here to sign our lease renewal," Kevin said. "We were supposed to come in on Monday but we didn't make it."

"Sure," I attempted to reply casually, all business. "Let me just see if it's ready." It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. Meaning..."Well," I said grudgingly, "I could just type it up for you now, if you have a few minutes." While you both watch me type and this awkward tension grows even more. As I spoke, I addressed only Kevin, utterly incapable of making eye contact with Luke for fear of losing my cool completely. Then, afraid that obviously ignoring him would appear not only unprofessional, but also contradictory to the cool nonchalance I hoped to project, I glanced over at him every once in a while, but was unable to hold my gaze any longer than a half a second at a time. What I saw unnerved me. He was serious, oh so serious, and his dark eyes bore into mine. His hair was longer than when I had seen him last, and curling a bit in the front. He was cute, goddammit. And why had I called them the cute one and the tall one when obviously I should have been calling them the cute one and the tall and cute one? As I spoke I concentrated on keeping the tremor I felt in the pit of my stomach (and beginning to radiate to every part of my body) out of my voice. I was doing pretty well (I assured myself) until it came time to type. As soon as I raised my hands to the keys, a clattering sound arose as my violently shaking hands hit apparently every key all at once. This was...not good. I took a breath and tried again, but it was too late. My hands were shaking like a ninety-year-old alcoholic with the DT's after her twelfth espresso of the day.

"Maybe they didn't notice," my friend Eric suggested sympathetically when I recounted it to him later. "People don't notice as much as you think." But as much as I would have liked to think this was true, "They noticed," I said. They were sitting right in front of me, staring at me. I mean, there was nowhere else to look."

"Don't worry," my sister said helpfully when I talked to her later, "they probably just thought you needed to be medicated." (She followed this up with an equally helpful "mwahaha.")

So, yes, things were a bit...shaky at this juncture. Luckily, just then someone entered the office looking for information on our apartments, and providing me with a welcome distraction. "Should I come back...?" she asked, looking around hesitantly, perhaps picking up on the tension in the air.

"Oh, no," I replied, "I can help you if you just want to wait for a few minutes." Knowing then that I would never be able to type an entire lease renewal form under these circumstances, and with the added pressure of another spectator, now, I suddenly had an idea.

"You know what?" I said to the guys. "Why don't I just type this up and drop it by your apartment later?" It was a perfect plan. I and my shaking hands would be able to type the document in peace, and dropping it off later would provide me with time to recover myself and present the cool, calm, friendly yet professional image I hoped to project. Not to mention the time to fix my hair and apply lip gloss, because gah. It would be a second chance. The only problem was, when I knocked on their door at the end of my shift half an hour later, freshly primped and primed, they weren't there. I tucked the envelope into the door and sighed. So that was it. That was the last impression he would have of me. Flustered, aloof, and on a bad hair day to boot. Luckily I had worn a skirt, but still.

So that was it, then. And yet...after two months of seeing him nowhere, I suddenly began to see him everywhere. A few days later, sitting outside a restaurant with a glass of wine and my French meet-up group, watching the world drive by, whose all too familiar and oft looked for blue Audi pulled up to the stoplight? His window down, it was all too definitely him, though he didn't notice me looking. Then, two days after that, forced to park several streets away from my hair salon, I hiked a steep hill back to my car after my appointment, and again saw a familiar navy blue Audi negotiating the downgrade, coming directly towards me. Through my sunglasses I tried to see the driver through the windshield (all while appearing to not be looking), but there was too much glare on the glass. But he works in the area, and it was around lunchtime. I was fairly sure it was him. It was all too much. I had to do something.

The following week I went into work ready, hoping that they hadn't yet returned the signed lease renewal. I changed my outfit three times before I left the house, finally settling on a navy blue dress made out of t-shirt material, a thin metallic leather belt, and sandals. My hair was freshly cut and styled, and I put extra attention into my makeup. No more ambushes. If this was going to be the last time I saw him, I wanted it to be on my terms. At the office, I found that I was correct, and that the boys hadn't yet brought back their renewal document. Feeling an all too familiar shakiness returning, I took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and dialed Luke's number, praying I would reach his voicemail. Though I had rehearsed what I planned to say, I wasn't sure how it would go if he actually picked up, and I had to go off-script. It was ringing now: once, twice, three times...

To be continued...

Why maybe I should give comic books another chance

2011-06-16T12:58:00.000-04:00

Speaking of the games some women feel the need to play in order to convince men to seal the deal, so to speak, here's one I hadn't considered before. Apparently all I need to do is learn how to speak geek. Who knew it was just that easy?

Why can't men be happy with good enough?

2011-06-10T19:01:00.001-04:00

Walking out onto the commons after yoga class last week with Mythaca Fest in full swing, everywhere I looked I saw faces I recognized. Seemingly every one of my former high school students was there (most of whom studiously avoided eye contact, or maybe just didn't recognize me in ponytail, sunglasses and yoga attire), and then, standing watching a band play, I saw S. I hadn't seen much of him since he, James and I used to hang out together (which, thankfully, seems like a million years ago now). I tapped him on the shoulder, and he was surprised, and then happy to see me, immediately spreading his arms for a hug. Reminded by the chance encounter of each other's continued existence, we exchanged information and met for a drink to catch up soon after. And as it does whenever two single people start talking, the conversation soon moved to the difficulties of dating, particularly when one is over the age of thirty and lives in a small town, where the pickings are slim and everyone knows everyone. His last relationship ended, he said, ("Ok, I ended it," he said), because the woman he was dating was too agreeable. She was willing to just go along with anything he said, and he needed someone... "Feistier?" I suggested. Yeah, he agreed. "Plus, she was older than me," he said. "I tried not to let it get to me, but..."

I sighed. Been there. I have been the perfectly nice, slightly older woman, hotly pursued and then rejected time and again for...who knows what? A certain, undefinable something, always either lacking or in excess, and the feeling that perhaps there is something, someone, better, or at least somehow more desirable out there. Someone new to pursue and then throw away.

"Carol," I remembered. "I liked her."

"I did too," S. replied almost wistfully. "The worst part was that one of my good friends was also friends with her. After I ended it with Carol, my friend bitched me out." I started to express sympathy, but, "No," S. said, "I deserved it."

It reminded me of my friend Eric, who recently met and fell deeply in crush with a slightly (by three years) older woman; a townie. They were instantly attracted to each other and spent a whirl-wind week or two hanging out together, but then almost as quickly Eric just...stopped. Suddenly, everything she did started to annoy him and became just another "reason" on a long list of reasons why she didn't deserve his attention. "Look, she's texting me again," he said, holding his phone up in disgust, when just days earlier he had been thrilled to spend hours texting back and forth with her, and she, not knowing, or perhaps just starting to sense that something was now different, was simply carrying on as usual. Having been on the receiving end of a very similar scenario, not just in a general sense, but having already once been frozen out by Eric himself, I told him he needed to be clear, unambiguous, and honest with her. "And please," I begged him, "please be nice." He yeah-yeah-yeah-ed me and proceeded to do the exact opposite, prompting a long and expletive-laden text message from the girl in question a few days later, which, honestly, he fully deserved.

It got me thinking. Here was a beautiful, fun girl who, while she may have had more baggage and more crazy than most, still had a lot to offer, and certainly didn't deserve the treatment she got. It was a conversation I had had several times with my friend Pete, who--hold on. Can we pause for a brief aside, here? The long-time bachelor has now, according to Facebook, entered into an actual relationship, a side effect of which is that he seems to have now cut me out completely, all of my attempts at congratulations and/or communication ending up in a virtual dead letter box somewhere. It wouldn't be so annoying if he hadn't spent the last two months detailing his attempts to seduce this, at first, seemingly unwilling girl, to me in agonizing detail. Once or twice weekly he would call asking my advice on one plan of attack or another, or updating me on their most recent communication, repeating her words verbatim and then asking me, "But what do you think it means?" I am happy that he seems to have finally, against all odds, gotten the girl, but, you know, disappointed that it apparently means the end of our (admittedly screwed up) friendship. And without even a word of goodbye. So, congratulations Pete. You jerk. (End of aside.)

One of Pete's qualities that I always appreciated (even if it wasn't one that I always particularly liked) was his brutally honest explanation of the male psyche. "If they think there's even the slightest chance that they can do better in some way," he would say about men, "then they're going to take it. If they think that if they keep looking they might find someone just a little bit younger, or a little bit better looking, then they're going to keep looking." He admitted that a lot of the time these guys were probably delusional. "Let's face it, chances are, Jessica Alba's not going to come along," he said, citing his perpetually baby-faced sex symbol of choice. So the problem, then, is that these men--S., Eric, Luke, Andrew, and countless others even now ripping some poor girl's heart to shreds--what they say is that they don't want to settle down, but what they actually mean is that they don't want to settle.

And why should this be a bad thing? Aren't we forever hearing, women particularly, how we shouldn't settle for just some guy? How this is the worst thing we could do, undoubtedly leading to a lifetime of misery and regret? I'm not so sure...

While I would never "settle" for a guy I didn't like, I think there is a case to be made for settling. Several of the guys I have dated over the last few years have been nice enough, interesting enough, and physically attractive enough that I would have been happy sticking it out with any of them. In other words, I was willing to "settle" for good enough. I wasn't holding out for a male model or a millionaire; in fact, if one had come along, I probably would have turned him down anyway, because I was happy with what I had, with who I had in that moment. And it makes me sad to know that every time I have dated a guy, while I was finding reasons to like him more, he was looking for reasons to like me less. And unfortunately, it's the least delusional males of the species who tend to get married right away, leaving us with, well, the rest. And so the cycle continues.

Countless books have been written on the subject, promising to help women quietly convince men that actually, they can't do better, and if you only follow this set of rules, you will soon have the most die-hard of commitment-phobes begging you to marry him. "Create a sense of urgency," they always tell you in sales, and in the apartment rental business, I hear it from my boss all the time. "I don't care how many apartments we have, there is always only one left." Convince the man that if he doesn't snap you up, and soon, someone else surely will. The thing is, I am a terrible salesperson, in apartments and in life. I hate convincing someone of my inherent value, and with my tendency towards self-deprecation, I am much more likely to do the opposite.

So what to do? I don't think I have it in me to play the kinds of games that seem to be necessary in order to enter into any kind of long-term relationship these days. All I can do is keep hoping that there's a man out there who's also tired of the games. A man who decides that, even though I'm not perfect, and I'm certainly no Jessica Alba, I just might be good enough.

Why we are the walking wounded

2011-06-01T21:15:00.000-04:00

When a normally perky, upbeat, and optimistic dating blogger (in short, the anti-me) posts something like this, I pay attention.

She details her dating history, the rise and fall of each failed relationship--who she trusted, who she shouldn't have, what she lost: Mark, David, Jack, John, Chris. I have my own Mark/David/Jack/John/Chris--I suppose we all do--only mine are named David, Jason, James, Andrew, Luke. Each one taking something vital, leaving less and less. Each time wondering how it's possible to do it all again. And yet we do, taking that flying leap, only each time with a little less gusto, each time with a little bit more of a backward glance. Is it any surprise, then, when we land on our ass?

Then, in a straw/camel's back denouement: "I'm broken," she concludes. "They broke me." Not just one, but all of them, cumulatively, the hurt slowly building until she broke. Comments were closed, but I wanted to say, "Yeah, me too. I'm broken too."

Then, not even an hour after reading that, I settled in for a dose of Ally, and yikes:

I have some strange synchronicity with Ally McBeal re-runs, always managing to land on an episode that speaks to me at that moment. But yeah, "one gigantic stress fracture" sounds about right to me.

Hit over the head with this double whammy of emotional introspection, first in blog form and then through the t.v., I wonder, how many of us are walking around broken? Will we be alright again? Can everyone be fixed? Will I be?

When I started the Diary of Why four years and a couple weeks ago (missed my blog's birthday, damn), I wrote this in the very first entry:

"[M]y mind drifted back to the past, to the guys I once knew, and the myriad ways each and every one of them had jerked me around and broken my heart. Being once again at the dawn of a fresh new heartbreak (fresh like roadkill, or an open wound), it seemed appropriate to dwell upon the subject, pouring out to the cosmos all manner of questions, such as Why me? Why again? And, Why, God, why????"

Some things never change, it seems. Some things do change, of course; in my experience, mainly the good stuff. But the shit? It sure is hard to get rid of some shit. The shit, it sticks.

That broken blogger I mentioned? Turns out that post was one of a three-part series. Part two reveals that she's met someone, a "good man," her "life raft." So, maybe good things can happen, after all. Maybe we are fixable.

Or maybe some people eventually hit the jackpot while the rest of us keep playing the wrong numbers, over and over again. I just don't know. I'm still holding out for part three.

Why I need GPS

2011-05-27T22:25:00.000-04:00

You know what's just terrible? Trying to get home and driving 45 miles in the wrong direction. Snapping out of your six-hour driving coma, glancing at the clock and thinking, "Hmm, should be just about home by now..." Then looking slowly around and saying, "...Um, where am I?" Answer? Nowhere near home. Do you know what forty-five miles in one direction plus the exact same forty-five miles in the other direction equals? About a ten-minute string of expletives, for one thing. Followed by another seventy minutes of jaw-grinding and forehead-smacking and full bladder wiggle-dancing.

I spent four days at my parents' house this week, and some of you may already know how I feel about that. On the plus side, there was deliciously sunny, hot weather, and this!:

("I like it except for the commentary," my sister said after watching it, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Which...ok. It's...not my best work. You may wish to watch the following with the sound off. You have been warned.)

This here is the little guy known as Deuce Magoose.

And this is the vicious Scruffster.

They're alright, when they're not chewing shoes, or the lid of every plastic container I had packed in my bag to bring back with me.

Anyway, I got back to Mythaca eight hours after I left Maryland this morning (grumble mutter), dressed in shorts and sleeveless top and sandals, all of which had been perfectly appropriate for the summery Maryland weather. When I finally I stepped out of the car it was into a cloudy haze with temperatures hovering around 60 degrees.

Sigh. Welcome...home?

Why I wish I had a crystal ball

2011-05-20T13:18:00.001-04:00

Now that student teaching is finally over--tests returned, farewells bid, crêpes eaten, armful of roses accepted like a grateful yet particularly haggard Miss America hopeful--I find myself at a bit of a crossroads. The stress of this last semester has been undeniable. At the end of it, gathered in celebration with my peers, several of us actually expressed audible relief to be finished, in the context of, "Whew! Glad we never have to do that again!" And then looking around and breaking into nervous laughter, the reality of it suddenly dawning on us. "But...but...it will be different when they're my own students. Right? Right?"

And though teaching is done, for now, the road is long from over, as over the next month I am required to take an intensive French summer course and write a 30 page research paper, not to mention undertake a massive online job application blitzkrieg that hopefully results in my gainful employment a few months hence. Easy peasy, right? But here comes the sticky part. Because while on the one hand it would be nice to have a job, any job at all that will pay me to teach French, on the other hand, I kind of don't want just any French teaching job. I kind of want the perfect French teaching job. I feel like I have spent enough years of my life being unhappy in my career (or lack thereof) and unhappy with my location, that I just want to start being fucking happy, for once. I realize this is a lot to ask of a job.

In any case, I've been thinking it over, and these are some of the things that I think might make me happy:

I want to live in a city
I would prefer to teach in the suburbs
I'm kind of through with harsh winters
I would like to live near friends and/or family
I don't want to prep for four or five different classes every day, though this is becoming increasingly common for French teachers due to low enrollment numbers
I want a dog

I realize that any job I am likely to get is never going to fulfill all of these requirements. I'd be willing to sacrifice certain items on the list in exchange for others. It's all sort of a balancing act, isn't it? Now here's where I need your advice.

Let's say, let's just say, that it came down to a choice between these two options: Option A--a very small, private, all-girls boarding school in the middle of nowhere, VA. Downsides--in the middle of nowhere. An hour from DC if there's no traffic. Two if there is. I would be required to live in the dorms. I would be required to prep for at least four classes--French 1 through 4/5. Though class sizes would be small, it still takes just as much time to create a lesson plan for five students as it does to create one for twenty-five students. Perks--living expenses paid (housing, internet, etc.). Though I would be required to live in the dorms, I would only be "on duty" one out of every few weekends. Two week expenses-paid trip to Paris every summer as part of a study abroad program. Students live in homestays during this time, so I would be able to spend some time out and exploring on my own. "Opportunity to build a program."

Option B--American International School in Cairo. Much larger school, with potentially more opportunities to befriend other teachers. Downsides--in Cairo. Far from friends and family. Pollution. The unknown. Danger and potential sketchiness? Two year contract. Salary not great. Parents would freak. (Could also be considered a perk?) Perks--in Cairo. A new country and new continent to explore. Big city. Adventure! Warm to hot weather year-round. No snow! Housing and transportation expenses paid. One free round-trip plane ticket for visit home every year.

I'm not saying it will definitely come down to these two choices, although, dozens of applications submitted elsewhere notwithstanding, they are the only two schools actively pursuing me at the moment. The two extremes. (What I wouldn't give for a happy medium right now.)

But, readers, if it were you...what would you do?

Why girlfriends are a girl's best friend

2011-05-16T11:12:00.001-04:00

So Blogger fell down, knocking down millions of blog posts in the process, and then it got back up again, and now it swears that it has put everyone's posts back right where it found them, except, hello, not everyone's, Blogger! Not everyone's! No, you haven't! And the version saved in my draft folder was only half the original post, so this is my painstaking recreation of that post. Comments have gone missing, too, even the one in which commenter Erin called me gorgeous, intelligent, and beautiful, and I may never forgive Blogger for this, not ever.

Any single girl knows the importance of having single girlfriends. Even if they don't live in the same town, or even the same state, they're always just a phone call away to commiserate about the latest heartbreak. They make great travel partners, and they're always willing to lend you the other half of their bed to crash on when you're in town. And I had some awesome single girlfriends. (Note ominous foreshadowing...)

...Then, of course, Molly went to Spain and fell for her Spanish siren.

And then Erin went monogamous.

This all happened a couple years ago, and since then, life and friendships have pretty much continued on as usual. I visited Molly in Spain and New Jersey, and I hang out with Erin in Philly when I can. And though they're no longer single, they are still some pretty rockin' friends.

And besides, I still had my friend Canaan on my side, and my girls Jamie and Julia. And among their many endearing qualities, I definitely appreciated that these ladies were always up for a trip.

In 2007, Jamie, Jules and I all went to Martha's Vineyard together.

Then Jamie moved to Seattle and Julia moved to Zambia, but nonetheless, we still managed a whirlwind camping trip on Assateague Island last summer.

Then there was the time I spent Thanksgiving with Jamie in Seattle, and then our trip to San Francisco a few months ago.

(We may have tasted some wine there. Me and my purple tongue will never tell.)

And then there's Canaan, who may have single-handedly saved me from loneliness and desperation during a year when I was otherwise all alone in France. By some lucky twist of fate, Canaan was living a few hours train ride away from me that year, and we were able to spend all the major holidays together--I visited her in Grenoble over Thanksgiving (not even a holiday in France! So we made it up!), she was kind enough to invite me along to visit some friends of hers in the north for Christmas, and she and some other friends came to Paris for New Year's.

Thanksgiving in Grenoble

Christmas on the beach in Normandy

NYE in Paris

Then, as if that wasn't enough quality time together, I convinced her to travel to Spain with me in February.

(Sadly, this is the closest we came to getting both of us in the same picture there.)

Yes, it was a good time for girlfriends.

But lately, things have been changing, as things tend to do. Chatting with Jamie online, I mentioned that Facebook seemed to imply that Julia was involved with a handsome Zambian man, or at least they were appearing in an awful lot of pictures together. "Yes!" she replied. "She's engaged!"

"What?" I said. "Wait, what?!"

As it turned out, the rumors were true, I confirmed with the bride-to-be later. Jamie herself is currently smitten with a man she met on Okcupid, to the point of being in L-word (I can't, I just can't bring myself to say it).

And Canaan? Well, I had to laugh when I came across this comment that she left on a blog post about rejection I wrote just eight short months ago:

"I was seriously just thinking today that maybe I should just give up on the whole dating/love/marriage idea and just end the [family] lineage with myself. Or find some random guy to impregnate me at the right time. (Although statistics say it's not great to raise a kid with one parent. But I'm trying!) So I totally hear your rant today. I feel like a kind of alien reject. Come visit me so we can cry woe is us together!"

Do I even have to tell you that Canaan and her boyfriend are moving in together next week?

If there's one thing I have learned from all this it's that being friends with me is great for your love life. Also, all of my future vacations are about to become 100% less interesting.

Lastly, because it seems appropriate:

All the single ladies? Hello, all the single ladies? Put your hands up, please, I can't see you. Yup, that's what I thought. I guess from here on out, this is going to be me:

(In case I wasn't clear enough, I didn't mean that from now on I am going to be perpetually hazy and out of focus, or Canadian, not that there's anything wrong with that.)

Why good fences make good neighbors, but bad neighbors make you jump fences

2011-05-07T13:19:00.000-04:00

Filled with a sudden burst of nostalgia (and an insatiable urge to procrastinate), I was inspired to do a Google street view search of my old house in France. And I found it! When I lived at 4 avenue Jéhan de Chelles, this was my entrance gate:

My house was further back, down a path, and not visible from the street. Which is probably for the best, as the yard was always filled with children's toys, and not very well maintained.

But oh, the memories I have of that gate. Locking it and unlocking it with a delightfully unwieldy skeleton key, and then the time that I got locked inside my own yard, and had to break out.

That's right, I got locked inside. You see, though the gate did lock with the aforementioned skeleton key, the neighbor in the apartment downstairs, after an incident with a stolen bicycle, insisted on wrapping a thick chain and a padlock around it for an extra layer of protection, and thus ensuring that at least 45 seconds to one minute would be spent every time one wished to go in or out--fumbling for two different keys, unwrapping the chain, unlocking the gate, re-locking the gate, re-wrapping the chain. My attempts at short-cutting the system were met with disapproval from downstairs. I was not fond of the neighbor.

One day, the system broke down. After several days of it becoming increasingly difficult to turn the key in the padlock, it stopped working altogether. Though I tried again and again, the lock would not open. I was trapped. Trapped in my own yard. And it wasn't as if I didn't have places to be. It happened to be my birthday, and I was on my way to my birthday dinner, along with my sister, who happened to be visiting, and thus was able to document the event. The only way out was over, we determined, and so after sussing out the situation, we took a deep breath, and made a break for it. My sister, more appropriately dressed for scaling fences, got out first. I, wearing an inappropriately short dress (as is my habit), and highly rippable tights, was a bit slower about it.

Do you see the spikes? The sharp, metal, criminal-deterring and quite possibly internal organ-impaling spikes?

(I decided to demonstrate my displeasure by mooning the neighbors.)

I hovered there on the top of that fence for quite a few minutes, gone too far to turn back, but too frightened to make my next move. The ground seemed so far away, and the metal spikes so ominous. One false move and I was toast. But I did have a birthday dinner to get to, after all, and I didn't want to spend the night on that fence. And so, I carefully heaved and oofed my way down, and with only one small stocking snag to show for it.

My sister, continuing her tradition of taking only the most flattering pictures of me, snapped this one milliseconds after I made my final leap to freedom. Here I am windblown, disgruntled, and badly in need of a trim:

When we got home, the chain had been cut open, and lay in a heap next to the gate. After that, we never had to double-lock the gate again, and lo, there was much rejoicing in all the land.

But I still hated that neighbor.

Why my life is a joke

2011-05-04T17:22:00.000-04:00

This video is called Hipster Dating, but really, it works equally well if you take out the hipster and call it Humans Dating, so universal are its themes. Other equally viable titles: Rachel Dating, or, Why Oh Why Am I Still Dating?, or, Oh My God, Someone Made A Cartoon Of My Life; Is There Any Way I Can Get Royalties From This?

"We have an unbelievable connection and I have a karmic need to see where this is going."

"Ok. Then when do you want to get together?"

"I just met you, and I don't understand why you are inquiring about my schedule."

"You are fucking weird, bro."

It's funny. Watch it.

Why someone clearly didn't get hugged enough as a child

2011-04-30T10:40:00.001-04:00

"Ok, I gotta go now."

"Ok, love ya, sis."

"Bye."

"Becca!"

"What?"

"Tell me you love me."

"No."

"Tell me!"

"You stink."

"Tell. Me. You. Love. Me. Do it. Now."

"You love me."

"Tell me you love me!"

"You love me!"

"Becca!!!"

"Ok, fine."

"Really?"

"I love...uuuuuuuuurinalysis!"

"Come on, seriously Bec? Just tell me you love me."

"I love euuuuuuulogies!"

"Look, just pretend you're singing the Barney song. Come on, you can do it."

"I love...u-turns!"

"Just say it!"

"I love euthanasia!"

"Gah. You're the worst; you know that, right? Look--U-hauls! Eunuchs! Units of measurement! See, I can do it too!"

"Gotta go."

"K, love ya."

"Bye."

Which I guess explains why my sister posted, "Happy birthday! I love euthanasia!" on my Facebook wall. It's the thought that counts, right?

Why April is the cruellest month

2011-04-20T16:59:00.000-04:00

I once said that, for whatever reason, most of my relationships begin in the spring. Perhaps this is true for many people--the world is all new and fresh, the days are longer, the air is warmer, and can you blame people for getting a little twitterpated? But what I am just now beginning to realize is that most of my relationships also end in the spring. Specifically, in the month of April. Even more specifically, about a week before my birthday. And if that isn't the recipe for a wrist-slittingly good time, I don't know what is. To wit:

April 19, 2007--The end of a three-year relationship, and a week to the day before my 27th birthday. Our problems are myriad and complex, but not least among them is his decided fear of commitment.

April 17, 2010--A guy I have been dating about a month pleads commitment-phobia.

April 2011--Another guy I have been dating about a month also pleads commitment-phobia. Hmmm. We go back and forth a bit, but ultimately, after not returning his middle-of-the-night phone call, the last I hear from him is during the early morning hours of Sunday, April 17.

Even I think this is getting weird.

Obviously, I have to put a stop to this sick cycle. The only ideas I have come up with so far are, 1) stop dating any guys, ever, or 2) stop having birthdays. Or maybe 3) lock myself in my house on March 31 and do not come out again until May.

Thoughts?

Why you can't put stitches in a broken heart

2011-04-18T15:06:00.003-04:00

I had it all planned out, everything I would say to him. The next time he called, either he would bring up his brother's birthday dinner or I would. A few weeks ago, you asked me to go to that dinner with you, I would say. And then you never brought it up again, which is a pretty subtle way of un-inviting someone, I have to say. I think that's a pretty clear signal. And I can take a hint. So, I'm done, Luke. Done.

But as with all the best-laid plans, it didn't exactly work out that way.

Later that very same night, the night of the dinner that broke the camel's back, my phone rang. Now, when phones ring in the middle of the night, it's usually for one of two reasons: either the caller is drunk, or something has happened. In this case, it was both. When I answered, he began talking so calmly, so nonchalantly, that at first I thought he had just called to chat at 3:30 in the morning. My still sleeping brain struggled to keep up; "Why are you calling me?" I kept repeating. Blah blah blah Rochester, blah blah blah emergency room...he said. "But why are you calling me?" I repeated, my brain still working on a significant delay. Blah blah blah emergency room, he said again, and then finally it clicked. "What?" I said. "Wait, what?"

His brother had pissed him off, he said, and so he, Luke, ended up losing it and putting his fist through a window. Now he was in the ER waiting on stitches and x-rays. Even in my still sleep-befuddled state, red flags started popping up. Uh oh, anger issues, the red flags said. Though this didn't make much sense, because the Luke I knew was a gentle giant, even-keeled and mild-tempered, and I had never seen him approach anything even resembling anger before. And besides, wasn't it better that he punch a window instead of his brother? "Well, what happened?" I asked. "What did your brother do?"

"He accused me of sleeping with his girlfriend," he said. More and more red flags. I composed my next question carefully.

"Why did he say that?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "He was really drunk."

I decided to circle back to that one later. "Ok, but...why are you calling me?" I said again, trying to reconcile this suddenly boyfriend-like behavior from a man I hadn't heard anything from in days, and who had already made it abundantly clear that whatever was going on between us wasn't going to go any farther than it already had.

"I don't know," he said. "I just felt like I should."

I mulled that over. "I don't even know what to say," I said. "That's all just...wow." My mind swirled as more and more questions bubbled into consciousness, begging to be asked. Times, locations, and unifying details suddenly seemed of utmost importance. "Whose window did you break? And who is with you in the emergency room?" I started to ask, going into investigative reporter mode. (Once upon a time I dated a guy who made up an emergency room visit as a cover for having gone MIA on Valentine's Day. I decided I believed him, because who would make something like that up? I finally found out the truth a year later, and if you think something like that won't scar you for the rest of your life, think again.) But before I could give voice to even the first question, the line suddenly went dead. I tried calling him back twice, but it just rang and went to voicemail. I lay in bed wide awake, no point in even trying to sleep now, with my mind racing and adrenaline pumping, and even though it was the weekend I had to be at work at the apartments in a few hours. He didn't call back that night.

He finally called back sometime after noon the next day. I was at work, but the office had been slow, and so I had time to talk to him. "You hung up on me," I accused him.

"Sorry about that," he replied, "the x-ray machines scrambled my phone."

I decided to let this go for the moment and move on to more pressing matters. "Ok," I said. "So...what happened last night?"

They had gone out to a restaurant, he said, (perhaps hoping I had forgotten the significance of the event), and then they went back to his brother's house. His brother got really drunk and then just kind of lost it. He started yelling at his girlfriend, calling her a whore, and accusing her of sleeping with all these guys. Then he turned on Luke, saying he couldn't believe he would do something like that, that he was the worst person he knew. He started shoving him. Luke walked outside, but his brother followed him, kept shoving him, and then, at some point, Luke got so upset, he punched a window on the porch. A friend assessed the damage (a seven inch long gash further up on his bicep), wrapped a shirt around his arm, and hustled him off to the ER, where he received so many stitches, they stopped counting after thirty-two. After they left, apparently his brother started to get physical with his girlfriend, who called the police. "This morning she packed her bags and left," he concluded. "I don't know why my brother would say that to me," he then said, sounding genuinely baffled. "Carrie and I don't even talk. We don't hang out or anything. And this morning my brother kept insisting he hadn't done anything wrong. I don't even know how much he remembers of last night. My parents are pretty worried about him."

"Huh," I said. "Wow."

"I'm on my way back to Mythaca now," he said, "so if you want to watch a movie or something tonight, give me a call."

"Ok," I said.

"Oh, wait, that's my brother calling now," he said. "I should take this. I'll call you back."

"Ok," I said again.

But he didn't call back. I finished work and went home, and thought about things. He had called me from the ER, I decided, because he was confused, and in pain, and probably feeling pretty sorry for himself. It didn't necessarily mean anything. But then again, as Pete said when as I rehashed things with him, "He called you. I mean, he called you." I would go and see him tonight, I decided. We would talk, and I would bring up the dinner un-vitation, and I would tell him how that made me feel. I didn't necessarily expect anything to be different, but then again, sometimes traumatic events change things for people.

I still hadn't heard back from Luke, though, so at about 6:30 I texted him. How are you feeling? I asked. He took a while to respond. Then, tired, he said. I waited, but he didn't add anything else.

I bet, I said. Want some company?

I'm at my parents' house, he said.

I blinked, an old, familiar feeling rising up in me, wondering what exactly I had missed this time. Again, he volunteered no further explanation. But you said you were on your way back to Mythaca when we talked before? I typed. Read aloud, I realized, it would sound like I was talking to a very small child.

I was, he replied, but then mom called. She wanted to talk to my brother as a family.

In spite of myself, I felt anger rising in me. I tried to stop it. I can't, I can't make this about me, I told myself. I can't get mad at him in the middle of his family drama. But it wasn't about that, it wasn't about what he was going through, it was about him doing the same old things that he had always done. Him flaking, him not calling, and always having an excuse--he had lost track of time, something had come up, he had fallen asleep. I couldn't believe I had actually been thinking about giving him another chance; nothing had changed. I refrained from texting him the choice phrases I really wanted to in the heat of the moment--no point adding drama to drama--and instead said, Call me when you get a chance. But he didn't, of course. How many times had I made the same request over the last few weeks--call me when you get a chance--and how many times had he responded? Not once.

Hours later, I got a second middle-of-the-night phone call in as many days. But I didn't answer this time. He followed that up with a text. Hi, I'm sorry. Just woke up. Soo tired.

But I didn't respond. I wondered what I would say if I heard from him again, and I also wondered what I would do if I didn't.

Why it's not over, but it's over

2011-04-15T20:52:00.000-04:00

And so I talked to him. After a long day at school and nearly three more hours of class at the college after, I sat with him on his sofa after dinner, barely able to keep my eyes open. "Why don't you go lie down in my room?" he suggested, and so I did, and he unsurprisingly followed right after. We hadn't seen each other in nearly a week, and I knew he was hungry to be touched. We lied down like spoons in a drawer, and he rubbed my back gently. "So what's going on with you?" I began, a question that could be interpreted in myriad ways. I had wanted to keep the talking separate from the cuddling; after all, a good cuddle can so quickly make one lose one's resolve. But who knew when I would see him again, at this rate, and anyway, accusations sound so much less accusatory when mumbled into ear folds and neck nooks, and I wanted to avoid emotions and high drama at all costs.

"Nothing," he answered back; a fair enough response to my altogether vague question.

"It's just that," I said calmly, coolly, rationally, "well, something seems different between us lately. I don't know what it is, but something's just...different, and I wanted to know if you thought so too."

"Nope," he replied sleepily, still rubbing my back. "Everything's good. I'm just busy, is all."

So, he was going with the non-response, though this wasn't altogether a surprise. I kept probing, gently, gently. "Yeah," I said, "that makes sense. Everyone gets busy once in a while."

Silence.

"It's just that," I continued, "I can't help but feel that something's changed. In the beginning, when we were first hanging out, you were all about me meeting your family and talking about us taking trips together. You just seemed excited about being together. And lately there hasn't been any of that."

He persisted in his vague non-responses, brushing me off with half-mumbled assurances: "don't worry," "all good," "no problem." I waited, but there was no elaboration, nothing. Like I said, I wasn't altogether surprised. But still. Still.

"You're not very talkative tonight," I mentioned, as silence reigned and we curled up close, so close together.

"Maybe I'm just not a talkative guy," he said, as if that was the answer to everything. I mulled it over. I was willing to consider it, except...

"Well, not to belabor the point," I said, "but when we first started hanging out, you were very talkative. You were always telling me how much you liked me, and when we weren't together you always texted. You didn't have any problems talking, then."

He heaved a sigh, and spoke. "Have you ever thought that maybe I'm afraid of commitment?" he said.

One beat of my heart. Two beats. Three. "Yes," I said evenly. "I had actually considered that." And how could I not? Although at this rate it's beginning to feel like an all too predictable line in an even more predictable movie, and I refrained from telling him that in the future he might want to avoid such blatant attempts at Hollywood cliche. Though he might have felt like a special, unique flower, I, and a long line of commitment-phobes before him, knew differently.

"Well," he said, the shrug implied in his voice, "that's it. I'm afraid of commitment." I did what I do best in these kinds of situations and said nothing, now, and he, forced to pick up the conversational slack, continued. "It's just that, I could be in Colorado in a month," he said, referencing a job he had applied to, "and you're probably leaving in a few months, too. Why make it harder on ourselves?" He went on, saying that he was torn; for a while he was really thinking about settling down, building his own house, and "everything that goes along with that." But now, there was Colorado, and the allure of skiing all the time. "And you don't like snow," he said, as if this was a logical thing to say. Now, instead of settling and house-building, he said, he was itching for the next adventure, somewhere, Colorado, or somewhere else, anywhere. He talked, and we talked, all the way around it and through it, and never did come to any conclusion. What I didn't think to say then, and wish I had, was, "I don't remember asking you for a commitment. So this really is some kind of bullshit. Why don't you just say that you don't actually like me that much?"

What I did say was, "I was ready to break up with you at least twice in the last couple weeks. Well, not break up with you since we're not actually together, apparently, but you know what I mean. I don't do well with ambiguity. I'm either in or I'm out, so, you know, that's where I'm coming from."

And still, even still, all of this, and still there was cuddling, and still there was kissing, like there always had been. When I finally said I had to go home, it was late, he urged me to stay. I didn't, I couldn't, not on a school night and when I still had work to do, and so I left. "I feel like I'm never going to hear from you again," he said, and for some reason this surprised me. No, it was the other way around if it was anything, wasn't it? Or was it? I texted him the next day, bounced the ball back in his court if he wanted it, though it's looking less and less likely. But still, nothing definitive, he's still straddling that fence with his long and tall legs, half-heartedly batting the ball back every once in a while. But this is what the truth really is:

About three weeks ago he asked what I was doing on April 15th, "tax day," he said, though as it turns out it isn't. I shrugged, because Friday, three weeks in advance? Hmm, dunno. Because it was his brother's birthday, he said, and he was having a dinner with some friends, and, no pressure, but he'd really like it if I went along, too. I had previously said no to meeting family, because hello, we had just started dating, and so he extended this new invitation to me hesitantly, but hopefully. You see, this was back when I was the one who was afraid, and oh, how much things can change in just three short weeks. I mulled it over briefly, and said, "Yeah, that sounds really nice, actually. I'd like to go with you." This was back when I felt happy, for once, and hopeful, and confident that the thing we were building wouldn't all come crashing down around my ears, even though it had a dozen times before, even though it undoubtedly would again.

I'm sure it goes without saying that I never heard another word about the dinner, which I can only assume, at 8:23 p.m., is going on right now, without me. I'm sure I will hear from him again, maybe tomorrow, or the next day, or the next, and he will maybe even want to hang out, but it doesn't matter. It's already done.

Maybe the next time a guy comes along saying all the right things I'll finally have learned not to listen.

Why hope is a thing with feathers, and it's dead

2011-04-09T19:09:00.001-04:00

Oh how fleeting happiness is when you're the Charlie Brown of dating. That's the thing about bluebirds on your shoulder, I guess--they're a temperamental sort. Make too sudden a move and their little bird hearts can't take it--poof, and all you're left with are some feathers and a pile of shit. Now I'm watching the life and near-death of a relationship in fast forward. Caught in dating purgatory, we're still alive, if not entirely well, and now there's an elephant in the room trumpeting for attention, yet deaf-blind-dumbly ignored by all.

Everything seems fine in person--when we see each other in person. But everything else makes me want to volunteer for experimental emotion reassignment surgery--on a spectrum of flesh-and-blood human to clod of dirt, I'll take anesthetized robot, thanks.

Feeeeeelings, nothing more than...fucking awful hurty painful feeeeelings...

I can see it coming because I've been through it a dozen times before. It's a gradual step-down process, like he's a smoker and I'm the patch. We see each other less. He calls less, texts less. "Well," he sighs, two minutes into a phone conversation, "I just felt like I should call you," his sense of obligation hanging heavy in the air. Then he blames traffic and safe driving practices, raging aloud at the stupidity of other motorists for good measure, before quickly saying goodbye. "TTYL," he says, where L is an unknown variable, representing an undetermined length of time, upon which TTY is entirely dependent.

I haven't felt much like blogging lately. I haven't felt much like doing anything lately. But I have. Things must be done, after all. Blogging among them. Also eating, showering, going to school, doing work, and (only somewhat successfully) sleeping. Life, huh? Just one long string of -ings. (Feeeeelings.) The one -ing I wish I could feel--nothing.

Why the way to my heart is through spell check

2011-03-30T09:00:00.001-04:00

The other day I got an e-mail from my sister, with this attached:

"Saw this and thought of you," she wrote.

She knows me so well.

Why "share and share alike" takes on a whole new meaning

2011-03-26T11:43:00.001-04:00

Luke made dinner again the other night. A simple meal of spaghetti with peppers and Italian sausage. I was in charge of salad, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you I way over-thought it. It must be the perfect salad! I thought to myself. It would be Luke's first taste of my culinary abilities (or lack thereof), and I wanted to make a good impression. This was complicated by the fact that personally, I prefer my salad the French way; just greens with a basic vinaigrette, and maybe some grape tomatoes if I'm really feeling crazy. In the end I decided to go with what I know, serving field greens with grape tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a quickly mixed-together batch of balsamic vinaigrette. So yes, it was a cozy, romantic evening in; dinner and a movie on the couch, just him and me...oh, and Kevin. ("What are these yellow things?" Kevin asked, poking suspiciously at the salad. "Tomatoes? Are you sure they're ripe?")

As they are roommates, it was inevitable that I would see him sooner or later, and it actually wasn't awkward at all. You see, the scoop, according to Luke, is this: At the same time that I was debating whether Kevin was too short for me (he is), he was also coming to the conclusion that perhaps I was too tall for him (I am). At this very same time, he was also in the beginning stages of communication with a girl from back home, who he is now, in fact, dating. This explains his radio silence and his non-rejection rejection, and also explains why Luke took so long to finally ask me out. Luke was hanging back, thinking that Kevin was going to ask me out, and only when the coast was clear did he finally contact me again. ("Well you almost missed your chance," I told him. "Because I was this close to telling you where you could stick it.") But the kicker is this (because there's always a kicker, right?): the girl Kevin is now dating? Is Luke's ex-girlfriend. Are you laughing and shaking your head yet? I am.

They dated, according to Luke, for six months three years ago, and again last summer, an experience he then qualified as "a disaster." He provided no further details and I did not ask, because la la la, fingers in my ears, I can't hear you. Kevin, by all accounts, feels incredibly weird about it (as he probably should), and asked Luke about a thousand times if he was sure he was ok with it (he was). Luke's brother and all their mutual friends have also apparently been giving Kevin a hard time about it (as they probably should), because yeah, it's weird. In fact, the only person who doesn't feel weird about it, apparently, is Luke. "As long as they're both happy..." he says. And if Luke is happy, and Kevin is happy, and I am happy, and this girl is happy, then who's to say what's wrong or what's right? As long as I don't have to see this girl, which I don't (because Kevin drives back to Smalltown, USA every weekend to see her, and not the other way around), then I really have no opinion about it one way or the other. Though who would have figured that two such different guys--the odd couple, really--would have such similar taste in women?

***
Rummaging around in their mostly bare fridge last night, I noticed that someone had taken the time to start a shopping list and affix it to the refrigerator door. Shopping list, it was carefully titled, lest there be any confusion. Underneath, there was only one, hastily scrawled item: gum. I read it again, looking around at the bare fridge and mostly empty cabinets. Shopping List: gum. And then I laughed, and laughed.

Why just like Aretha said, it's in his kiss

2011-03-22T18:04:00.001-04:00

Ok, where did I leave off...? So, he picked me up in the middle of a raging snowstorm, and we went to dinner. And it was...fine. We ate some tacos, we talked a bit, and he had me back home again not an hour and twenty minutes after we had left. Not horrible, but not exactly anything to write home about either. So, I was a bit surprised when he texted me minutes after dropping me off, telling me he had had a great time, and he would love to see me again sometime. Sure, I replied. I mean, why not, right?

And then he began texting me all the blessed time. Texts in the morning, texts at night, and everything in between. Man, these boys sure do love their texting, I thought. He wanted to know what was up, how I was doing, my favorite color, and if I liked any sports. It all got to be a bit much, and finally I just said, Look, I'm better at this kind of thing in person than I am over text.

Ok. When can I see you again? he replied.

Probably next weekend, I said.

And so, other than one or two more just checking in-type texts throughout the course of the week, I didn't hear much at all from him until Friday afternoon, when he proposed this: Do you want to drink some wine and watch a movie tonight? I paused. I had no idea how to answer that question. No, I absolutely do not want to drink wine and watch a movie with you tonight would have been honest, but maybe a bit too abrupt. How about, That sounds great, but not with you? Or, not with you yet, anyway. I mean, I barely knew the guy, and already he was angling for a couch date? Who are these guys these days, I wondered, who take you out on one date and then think they can get in your pants? And was there any way I could say what I actually wanted--No, I want you to take me out on a real date--without coming across as some kind of high maintenance Rules-type girl? I needed backup on this one, and so I picked up my phone and called my friend Pete.

"Well, you have a few options," he said. "You can say 'no, that's a terrible idea, let's do something else,' or you can say that you can't tonight, and propose an alternate activity for tomorrow, or you can just say that you think it's a bit soon for that, and then suggest something else for tonight."

"Wait, I can say that? I can say it's a bit soon for that? That's ok? It's not too...?"

"Of course you can say that. If a guy likes you he's going to want to see you, and he won't care what you do."

"So I can say, 'I think it's a bit soon for that, how about we go drink wine at this wine bar instead?'"

"Yeah."

And so that's just what I did. Luke, as predicted, did not have a problem with that. When we arrived the place was packed full of middle-aged jazzercisers (for real, I asked), and yet we still managed to snag the best seat in the house, planting ourselves on the couch right in front of the fireplace. We talked, we flirted, we drank too much wine. In other words, it was pretty much perfect. The place emptied and we finally made our way out, too. In the parking lot, saying our goodbyes, there was no hesitation--he leaned down, and he kissed me. And it was good! Oh heavens, hallelujah, it was good!

"I have to go to my parents' house to help my dad out tomorrow," he said. "But have lunch with me before I go?"

In my swoony, post-kiss state I probably would have agreed to anything, and so, "Mmmhmm," I replied.

And so we did, going to the little restaurant on the lake that he had proposed for our first date. "Can I see you tomorrow, on my way back from my parents' house?" he asked. And for some reason, I said yes again. It's what he says at the end of most of our dates. "Can I see you tomorrow?" Sometimes I say no, but a lot of the time I say yes. More and more I say yes.

Why I love a man who can cook

2011-03-19T15:55:00.001-04:00

As it turns out, when it comes to cooking he leaves his indecision at the door. "How do you feel about scallops for dinner?" he asked me the night before. I felt pretty good about it, and I told him so. "Do you like tomatoes?" he asked. "I like everything," I said, and he was off and running.

The wine, apparently, was a different story. Luke is not a wine drinker, but he knows that I am. So after hitting the grocery store last night, he stepped into the wine store across the street for the first time. Not only was it his first time in that particular wine store, but in any wine store at all, and as he entered, he looked around helplessly. The way Luke tells the story (because unfortunately I wasn't there to see it), he was soon approached by a store employee who gave him a long once over: all 6'6" of him, straight from the job site in his work boots and grubby jeans, and obviously way out of his element. "Let me guess," the employee said drily, the way only a haughty gay man can, "you're cooking dinner for a girl, and you don't know what kind of wine to get."

"Um, yes," Luke said, a bit taken aback. "That's exactly it."

"Well, what are you cooking?" he asked, and Luke told him. "And do you know what kind of wine she likes?"

"Well, I know she lived in France for a while," Luke said.

"You look like the kind of guy who can cook," the wine store employee said, looking him slowly up and down once again. "I think I can help you out." And he was right on both accounts, sending Luke on his way with a bottle of Muscadet, and another of Saumur Champigny.

Later on that evening, Luke met me at his door with garlicky kisses, and showed me to a plate of bread with homemade garlic butter, paired with a Colorado IPA. Then it was a field green salad with carrots, radishes, blue cheese, and a balsamic vinaigrette. We switched to the wine, then: a light red with the bread and salad, and then the white for the main course: pan-seared scallops cooked in butter and a little bit of bacon grease, flavored with shallots and fresh parsley. Corn frozen fresh from his parents' garden, cooked with a chopped up red pepper, and a tomato salad. That wine store guy knows his stuff: not only was the wine spot-on, but, as he predicted, this is a man that can cook.

Yum.