I like back-packs

Is anyone else profoundly disturbed that a santitized version of "Baby Got Back" by Sir Mix-a-Lot is featured in a commercial to sell back-to-school merchandise at Target®?

Not one of the kids in the commercial has back or should be associated in anyway with this silly, raunchy and wonderful song.

Best line: I like back-packs and I cannot lie.

Grateful for: silly tv.

How (not) to have sex

Grad-school-friend Kathy taught me: the surest way to have sex is to say, "We're not having sex."

It's like when you go on a diet and all you can think about is food. Anyone who is trying to get a guy to sleep with you, give it a try. When I was trying not to sleep with vip-ex (significant grad-school boyfriend) all the talking about not having sex didn't help us not to have sex.

That said, I'm pretty good at not having sex. I learned how not to have sex long before I'd actually had sex. It is harder to wait, though, now that I've had sex.

My friend Amanda began one long-term relationship when she slept with a guy on the first date. She marveled at my ability not to have sex and she asked me how I did it. We were teenagers, but I'd given it a lot of thought:

You have to know why you are not having sex. You have to think it through beforehand. That way you know you have a really good reason not to have sex. When you're with the guy, you may not remember the reason, but you can tell yourself, 'there is a really good reason not to have sex, so I won't.' It's not possible to think it through in the heat of the moment. But you can remember that there is a good reason, even if you can't remember what it is.

She liked it but I don't think she applied it.*

When I would be in the clinch with a guy, I would say to myself, "there is a really good reason not to have sex."

Jamy: Stop. You need to stop. We can't.
Guy: Why can't we?
Jamy: We can't.
Guy: Why not?
Jamy: I can't remember right now but there is a really good reason.
Guy: What?
Jamy: There is a really good reason. Stop. We have to stop.


And we would stop.

I was similarly impressive in my ability to have sex-free sleepovers. I had a summer roommate who had several guys spend the night in her room over a two-month period. I refused to believe that she was having sex with all of them. Audrey said, "I would think she was having sex with all of them, except I know it's possible that she's not--because I know you." It's true. I spent the night with guys all through college and didn't have sex with any of them. In fact, I still do. I just did it again.

Sometimes I wonder why I spent all that time in college not having sex. But I knew what I wanted. Or what I didn't want. I didn't want to get pregnant. I didn't want to think a guy was my boyfriend because we'd had sex. Once we had sex, I would want him to be my boyfriend, even if that didn't make sense. When everyone was fooling around or starting serious long-term relationships I was having no-sex sleepovers and trying to "date." I knew what I wanted, even if I wasn't going to get it. I didn't want a "big deal relationship." I wanted a boyfriend. And all that stupid old shit.

It's harder now to wait to have sex. It's still easy not to have sex with strangers. Even when I bring a guy home and I'm tempted to have sex, it's easy to resist. I reach a point where something clicks and I want to stop. I want to know the guy before I have sex with him. I want it to be fun and comfortable not strange and nerve wracking. But, that's not to say I'm happy about these long dry spells, I just don't see a better solution.

Grateful for: good instincts.

*Amanda read this entry and sent me an email, which read in part:

I DID apply your advice and still do (though I had forgotten where I got it). I even generalize it to non-sexual situations (e.g., "Right now I'm having fun surfing the web and I have no desire to go to bed, but I remember that I had a really good reason to go to bed before 11:00, so I will."). I have passed it on to clients [she is a social worker] as well.

Thanks for setting the record straight, Amanda!

Stop it right now

I wish I knew how to stop feeling sad. I feel sad because nothing has happened, which is about as dumb as it gets. I feel sad because my super-ultra-impossible crush, who happens to like me too, hasn't called. I didn't even realize I was expecting him to call yesterday, but when I turned off the cell phone at 12:30 last night so I wouldn't wait for it to ring anymore, I knew I was in trouble. I knew that being on the edge of tears all morning was not a good sign. I knew that it would be damn hard to cheer myself up. I knew it would be next to impossible to get any work done today, but work must get done.

I tried talking to myself, "Look at the evidence. There is no reason to think that he doesn't like you. Why wouldn't he call? Because he doesn't like me. But he does like you. So he will call. Eventually. Remember what Pele said, He's Useless. That means he has no sense and won't always handle things quite right. There is no mystery here. He's tired or busy or assumes we already have plans. What's a big confusion to you is a no-brainer to him. So stop worrying. There's nothing to be done. But I could call him. No, don't call him. Calling him is fine, but it's all wrong here. You have to trust him. He said he would call. He said "I'll call you" about half a dozen times. You never asked him to call, he said it all on his own. But couldn't he just call me now so I don't have to lose my mind over this foolishness? He could, but he won't, so get over yourself. But if he doesn't call, does it mean he doesn't like me? If he doesn't call, it really doesn't matter why. So, why am I so sad? Why doesn't the phone ring? Have I scared him off? How? What did I do wrong?"

At least I'm not having this conversation out loud.

The facts are: we spent a long evening together and had a great time. He said he liked me. He was worried that I didn't like him (silly, silly boy). He invited me to his sister's wedding and he wasn't joking.

My boundless capacity to get worked up over such things as not receiving phones calls or whether to make phones calls has kicked in. I'd get this crazy no matter who the guy was, no matter how much or how little I liked him. Getting crazy on the upswing is part of my charm; getting crazy on the downswing is my curse. But the two go together. Being enthusiastic and hopeful is often met by cold showers of disappointment. What a crap metaphor. Even my writing is on a downswing.

I will get through this day and tomorrow will be better, phone call or no phone call. I will work, I will listen to music and I will get a beer tonight. Anyone care to join me for a sorrow drowning happy hour? I get off at 6:00.

Grateful for: not talking to myself OUT LOUD.

PS I just got this lovely advice from Lola (one of my absolute favorite bloggers): I think you should believe that you are the super-ultra-impossible crush and start thinking about if you will even have time to speak to him when he does call.

I like that. I mean, I know that when he calls, I'll be completely available to see him whenever he wants (not that I'll break any commitments), but you know, maybe he's just scared to call because his feelings are so strong. Sure, that's it.

Now, back to work.

Not me

It would be normal for me to obsess in this situation. Should I call him? Should I wait for him to call? Will he still like me if I call? How long should I wait to call? Does he really like me? However, I don't have his number, so about half of these questions are off the table. I have to wait for him to call. Either he'll call me or he won't. I know, I know, he'll call me. Sure he will. But, until he does, none of it seems quite real. Thus, the obsessing is more a faint background noise than a loud distraction.

(It would be easy for me to track down his number. I know his last name, the name of his company and where he lives. But I'm not going to track it down.)

I've had little conversational snippets popping into my head today. Like our conversation about shaving. We were sitting on the sofa and I was leaning against him and coming into contact with his several-days growth of beard. He said, "I wish I had shaved. It can't be very comfortable for you."

"Oh, it's not so bad. I wish I had shaved too." I rubbed my shin. Then he rubbed it. I was wearing a skirt and no tights.

"You mean you would have shaved if you knew you were going to hang out with me?"

"Sure, but I had no idea this was going to happen. I don't usually shave every day. Weren't you just saying you would have shaved if you knew I was coming over?"

"Yes. And because it's itchy." He rubs his face. We both laugh.

He also noticed when I put on some little pink socks (anklets). "Are you wearing pink sockies?"

"Yes."

"Why do you have them?" He seemed to think that extra socks implied some kind of forethought. Like, I'm seeing Jay tonight and maybe I'll end up spending the night at his house. Better not forget to pack extra socks!

"I always carry socks in case I get blisters. If I'd known I was sleeping over, I'd have a change of clothes and a toothbrush."

"They're cute. Protip, did you see these sockies?" He asked me to hold up my foot so his friend could see. "Aren't they cute?"

"Sure. Very cute."

He noticed girly things that I never used to do. He said, "That lipstick you have on tastes good." (It wasn't lipstick, but this fruity sticky lip gloss.) I've never had a guy tell me that before. Because I never was wearing lip gloss when I kissed a guy before.

I'm starting to see the point of those girly things that I've always thought were a stupid waste of time. They are wonderfully mysterious to boys. They represent the foreign world of women. They are enticing. I can't believe I'm just getting this now. There are girl things I'll never do, like paint my toenails (too lazy) or wax my bikini area (ouch), but I can do the cute pink clothing and lip gloss.

Wednesday morning around 10am, we had this (previously mentioned) conversation. I said, "So, do you want to get together again?"

"Sure. When?"

"I don't know. I don't know when you're free."

"Well, tonight I have a concert. Tomorrow I'm sleeping. Friday I'm going to [do something very time consuming that I wouldn't expect to be invited to]. This weekend is more sleeping. What about Wednesday?"

"Next Wednesday?"

"Yes."

"I have kickball."

"Cancel it!" I give him a look. "Ok. Tuesday? But no trivia."

"Tuesday? Ok." I sounded doubtful.

"I'll call you."

"Ok."

"Did we talk about going canoeing?"

"Yes, you said you wanted to go on Saturday."

"Oh. Maybe we'll do that. I'll call you."

"Ok."

The conversation about canoeing happened much earlier, around 4am. Something he said made me think about the weekend and I remembered that I'd agreed to go to this Jewish singles party I'd been invited to by the woman who'd also invited me to a potluck via JDate. Then I thought, I don't need to go to the horrible singles party! And I laughed. Jay asked me why I laughed. I didn't want to tell him, because that would be getting ahead of myself. He said, "Tell me."

"No."

"C'mon, tell me what you were thinking."

"I don't want to. It's not important. It's nothing."

"Tell me."

"Fine. I'm supposed to go to this horrible Jewish singles party on Saturday with a friend. And I just remembered and I don't want to go."

"We should go canoeing on Saturday."

"I want to go canoeing. But I have to pick my friends up at the airport at 3:30."

"It stays dark late. We can still go."

"Ok. I'd like to."

Then we tried to go to sleep.

In the sober light of morning I said, "Dude, you totally invited me to your sister's wedding!"

"So? You're still invited."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I don't think so. No. Why would I do that?"

"I don't know. But you told me you already had a date!"

"She's a friend of my sister's. She's only 24, she won't mind. It's not a date-date."

"Maybe I'll mind."

"You can never have too many dates."

"That's good for you, but maybe not for the dates."

"But you can still come. It's fine."

"It's in California. I do need to go home [Seattle] for a visit. I might go in September."

"Then you can come. It's not that far."

"Maybe."

There are many things that might happen but nothing is certain. We don't actually have plans. He needs to call me.

I am terrified he'll find the blog. I even considered taking down all the posts that mention him. I'm not going to do it. I don't know why I'm scared.

I'm stopping, right now, I promise. Nothing to see here folks. Move along, please.

Grateful for: not obsessing (too much).

Wedding Crashers: Alternate Ending

I mentioned in a previous post that Pele and I worked out a better ending for Wedding Crashers (which we both enjoyed). Shane asked me what it was and since I'm rather taken with the new ending, here it is.

I am assuming you have seen the movie. If not, please stop reading. It will be a spoiler. Or merely confusing.

The flaw in the movie is that Owen Wilson (OW) wants Rachel McAdams (RM) to dump her fiancé and give him a chance. "Don't marry him, because you love me" is the message. In order for the audience to respect her, RM needs to dump the fiancé on her own initiative. He is a big jerk and doesn't treat her well (which she knows) and he is cheating on her in a casual way (which she doesn't know).

When OW's cover is blown and RM refuses to speak to him for many months, she shouldn't continue the engagement with the boorish fiancé. What happens in the film: she gives OW the silent treatment and walks away from him because he was lying to her.

What should happen: as soon as OW is gone, she should DUMP the creepy fiancé--or at least very soon after. Perhaps add a scene where she overhears him talking about the "slutty activist girls" or catched him in an indiscretion. She might consider calling OW or responding to his overtures, but she decides not to because she doesn't know if she can trust him.

(Side note: The creepy gay-artistic little brother was sort of funny, but unnecessary. He also seemed to be from a different movie. The Addams' Family perhaps? Cut him and spend more time developing the relationship between OW and RM.)

OW can be all depressed, avoid VV, obsessively try and contact RM, just as happens in the film. The scenes of him fumbling around crashing weddings on his own are priceless--but it should be made clear that he doesn't succeed in picking up women because his heart isn't in it. He's in love with someone else.

I like OW walking in on VV and his girlfriend having sex. Finding out about them that way was in the spirit of their relationship. I love that VV has to keep her a secret from OW to keep his manly street cred. Very funny.

When VV shows up at OW's place for their annual sleepover and says he hasn't seen him for months, it doesn't make much sense (Pele's point). Don't they work together? There should be a better way to demonstrate their estrangement, but this is a minor point. We'd be more willing to suspend disbelief if the rest of the third act rang true.

In the next to last scene, at VV's wedding, OW could try and convince RM to give him another chance--at the RECEPTION! He's the best man, right? The best man always gives a toast. Maybe he could woo her through the toast. It would parallel the beginning of the film--boy met girl at a wedding reception where he was trying to snow her. Girl could finally accept boy at a wedding reception. (Boy wouldn’t need to wreck his best friend's wedding ceremony. Plus, imagine the nice little eye contact, longing looks stuff they could do during the ceremony.) OW and RM bonded over the help he gave her during her toast. There is a great line in OW's wedding ceremony speech where he says how pathetic and immature it was to crash weddings just to meet (and sleep with) women--but "I don't regret it because it brought me to you." That's a nice touch. He could say something about that in his best man speech because it's how VV met his bride--but then he could look at RM and she would understand it was about her. And then they could talk and she could fall into his arms, etc.

They could all leave the reception early and drive off into the sunset together, planning future wedding crashing. Sweet!

You better believe it

I am very, very tired. I'm wrapped in a fuzzy post-nap haze and I can barely type. I'll give the bulk of my IM chat with Pele today at 11:30am.

Jamy: I just got home. This is crazy.

Pele: You make no sense.

J: I went to trivia last night. Jay was there. We did not play trivia because it was too crowded. CC brought some work friends and Jay had a friend (Protip). We drank and played darts for a few hours. Then everyone left except for me, Jay and his friend. We went to another bar. Drank too much [I only had one drink at the second bar, the guys drank...much more]. Jay kissed me at the bar.

P: Proving that the boy needs to be plied with alcohol. So you slept at the bar?

J: Yes. No! Protip wanted to watch a movie at Jay's place, so we went over there. We did not watch a movie. Protip left. I "slept" there. Jay just drove me home.

P: So the friend knew he needed to help Jay along, you both played hookie from work, and you didn't do much sleeping?

J: Yes, but Jay doesn't have much work to do. We didn't sleep, but mostly we were talking, some kissing, but actually less in the bed. He didn't think I liked him. He also invited me to his sister's wedding in September.

P: With this boy--I'm glad to hear there was talking.

J: I don't know how serious it was...but I wouldn't answer.

P: Wow--so he has already imagined a long term thing with you too! Wouldn't answer!

J: This morning, I tried to leave, but I was dying to find out when I'd see him again. Finally, I said, do you want to get together again? He said, what about next Wednesday? That didn't make me too happy. So I said, no need to rush things, why not just wait for the next weekend? He said he was going to be out of town. Then he said he didn't have my number, but I told him he did because I put it in his phone at the bar. He said he would call me.

P: I think there may be little room for coyness (while there is reason to be sensible).

J: I still don't have his number! Argh. He really wouldn't give it to me. Weirdo.

P: Maybe he wants to call you. But he is probably confused because you don't want to rush things and wouldn't agree to the wedding. I'm glad you had a good night. Isn't that the point of all this too?

J: Of course I want to go to the wedding. It's in California though! He said, well you might be in the area anyway [my dad lives in Berkeley] so then you could come. I really don't think he was joking.

P: The point is, shy boy Jay invited you to his SISTER'S wedding in CALIFORNIA.

J: I know, it's crazy!

P: Not crazy--good.

J: It was really surreal. I'd written him off after what CC said. I couldn't believe he was interested...in anything.

P: Ah, alcohol. And friend who knows him.

J: The friend was like, "I feel bad, am I cockblocking?" I said, no, he's not that interested. [Though, by then, Jay had his arm on my shoulders and was holding my hand.]

P: Really?

J: So dumb.

P: I guess my point is, be careful not to blow him off when he shows interest...but that doesn't mean you have to be crazy!

J: But, in that situation in the bar, I was the shy one. He was emboldened by alcohol.

P: Good! He needed to do a little work!

J: You are right. I need to not be coy. Is he going to call me?

P: I also said you shouldn't be crazy--and in this case that has two meanings! Crazy: caution to the wind crazy. And crazy: he doesn't like me and will never call me.

J: Oh, and when he first asked me to the wedding and I was surprised, he said, "I'm not asking you to marry me!" If only he knew.

P: We are operating on the "men tell you everything you need to know in the first three dates rule." Thus, clearly, he wants to marry you.

J: He actually said, "I love you" in that joking way. [I said something that he particularly liked and he said, "I love you" and gave my shoulders a squeeze.] I don't believe the whole thing. Maybe I wasn't right (in that we won't actually get married) but I was RIGHT. He was way more touchy than I was in the bar.

P: Well that's that. I'm wishing we could skip to the end where I'm at the wedding.

J: He was very restrained in the bed.

P: Good I approve of that.

[We talked a little more about the three date rule, which I'd forgotten about. We came up with it when Pele was dating a fellow who said, on their first or second date, "I don't need any other woman besides my mother."]

The rule is true, you know.

J: Then he loves me and wants to marry me. Therefore, sex is no rush because we have the rest of our lives for that. [As much as I find him attractive, there was no desperate need to have sex and he was not pushy at all. I choose to see this as a positive thing.]

P: The three date rule is scary to me because looking back I think it is really true.

J: So, we haven't really had three dates, just three meetings. He said he loves me, wants to take me to important family event, thought I didn't really like him and just wanted to be friends with the group (which I told him was true, but that I really liked him a lot).

P: Doesn't matter--your time is up. The rest of the information will be harder to get (you might have one more event).

J: I knew it would be easy to be with him and it was.

P: Did you tell him about my dive for the chair, did he notice that you sat next to him?

J: No, no, no! I did tell him that CC said he didn't like me (which I probably shouldn't have).

P: Oh no, that is fair enough, she won't care.

J: I also said I asked her for his number, and that I was annoyed that he ran away after trivia. He was like, my ride was leaving! And, why are you annoyed, you're here aren't you?

P: No excuse for rudeness.

J: I laughed and said I was still annoyed but that it was funny now.

P: Key word "was" and, you were there no thanks to him.

J: No shit!

P: He's still useless .

J: Well, we know what that was about. Also, I think he liked someone else! He was hinting about that.

P: Really?

J: But it was busted up and now he's all mine. He seemed to think CC might've told me about it.

P: Interesting. No, CC was good!

J: He said he liked a girl for a long time, then she hooked up with his friend. So he got his heart broke a little. He didn't tell me more (which was fine).

P: Telling you some was good! Sign of moving on. Telling you too much would mean he hadn't really moved on.

J: Yes. He also told me a very funny blind date story. And I told a couple "old bf" anecdotes and he just laughed. Thank God.

P: All sounds good.

J: It's about time I dated someone who doesn't take that stuff personally.

P: I want to hear more, but I have a swamped day. Not taking bf stories personally is a big must. I'm not surprised that he doesn't take them personally.

J: I'm worried I'll feel like a fool if he doesn't call.

P: Back to crazy. He will call.

J: Oh. Ok. I will stop.

P: And if it takes a little longer, it is because he is nervous about rejection. He will call.

So, get the picture? I got together with my fantasy boy. I'm very unsure of the whole thing. I wondered if I should not spend the night with him but I couldn't help it. I was going to ride that train to the end of the line. I wanted to sleep next to him, I couldn't resist. Of course, I was so jumpy, I couldn't sleep--but it wasn't a sex thing. He was telling me that bed was a king and how it had an extra six inches but he said "sex" inches. I said, there's a lot of extra sex in this bed.

What else? He asked if I wanted a t-shirt to sleep in. I hadn't thought about it. He handed me the shirt and stood there looking at me. I grinned at him. He said, "Should I leave for a second?"

"I guess so." He left the room and I put on the shirt, but I left my skirt on. He came back and got under the covers and we cuddled up. He said, "So what are you wearing?"

"The t-shirt?"

"Underneath?"

"Nothing. I still have my skirt on. Why are you asking? You weren't going to check?"

"No, well, I was curious. I didn't want to be too..."

"Right." Much later I took the skirt off too. It is not practical to sleep in a skirt.

I never had to say, "We're not having sex." We joked about it a bit. I said, "What would you do if I said, I want to have sex RIGHT NOW?

" "I would turn you down."

"Good. You would turn me down!"

"You women." We laughed. Of course I want to have sex, but I don't think waiting will be problem. I want to wait. It was good just being close to him. And surreal. It seemed so unlikely that I was there with him and that we liked each other. And that he ever thought I wasn't interested. We had this conversation in the bar, "CC said you weren't interested."

"I love hanging out with you!"

"Really?"

"I thought you just wanted to be friends. It was more about CC and Nick and the group."

"It was. But I liked you. Of course. Right away."

"No. Really?"

"Really!" I hugged him.

Can you believe that when he first leaned in for a kiss, I dodged him? (I had to take the inititive and kiss him a moment later.) I couldn't believe it. I still don't believe it. It was pretty hard to leave this morning. It was really nice that he drove me home. I have to take Pele's word that he's going to call me because I don't know which way is up.

There was one discouraging note: he's making noises about moving to California. He's not all that thrilled about living in DC. He doesn't like the politics. I didn't argue with him about it too much but it left me feeling uneasy. I said, most of my friends are not involved with politics. I didn't say, don't leave, Jay, before I have a chance to get to know you better! Sigh. (My mind goes here: as much as I like DC, I'm not exactly in love with my job. If I were to live somewhere else it would be NY, Seattle or (somewhere) in California (or maybe Chicago), so maybe we'll move away together. Really need to stop doing that.)

I'm exhausted. I'm not going to far into the future with this. But, he did ask me to that wedding in September. Damn.

Grateful for: my boy.

A happy ending

I wasn't too pleased with my behavior with Mom. I yelled at her during part of the cappuccino-making experience, "You are not being helpful! I said it wasn't obvious how to do it and now you are telling me it's easy. It's not easy!"

I snapped at her when I was trying to secretly read blogs, "Do you have a label?" she asked.

"What? What do you mean?"

"A label. For an envelope. I need to address an envelope and I need a blank label." "Fine. Here." I handed her some labels, thinking she was crazy (she brought a Netflix dvd with her and was going to send it back to the receiving center near me rather than the one near her). She hovered. I felt under scrutiny.

"Can I just have five minutes?!" She retreated to the living room.

Monday night we had dinner. It was good. She wasn't sure I wanted to come. I did, because I didn't want the visit to end on a sour note.

Over dinner, Mom said, "I try not to say those things that make you angry. I know it's something I do. Checking on things. Things I say that bother you. There were lots of things I didn't say." I smiled. "We should have a good time together. We like a lot of the same things and we're funny. But you get angry at me. But I don't know if I can keep doing it like this. If there is some deeper issue, I want to explore it. Maybe there is some role playing or something we could to just get it all out there and have it done with."

"I don't know that there is any deeper issue." I said. I liked that we'd reached the same conclusion. I think maybe recognizing the problem will help me. Intellectually, I know her behavior is not about me. I don't know why it drives me crazy. I also thought that not having her stay at my house might help. "You don't usually get that angry, do you?"

"No." I said. "I've recently been told I'm not angry person. It's rare that I get angry."

"That's what I thought. Is there anything..."

"I don't like how you keep bringing up the stuff." Honestly, I don't know what the deeper issue is. But I was uncomfortable so I brought up an issue, which may not be the issue.

We talked for a while about the stuff that she wants me to take. We had a calm conversation about it. The rest of the meal went well.

We walked back to her hotel and I went up to the room and we watched HBO (Six Feet Under came on and I had to stay for that). Mom asked me to spend the night, but I said I had to get home. It was the most relaxed time we spent together.

I really like my mom and I wish it wasn't so hard for me to be around her. I'm hoping that this is a good sign, though. She used to be the one that would lose it with me. Now I'm more likely to lose it, but tonight I demonstrated that I could pull it together. We both behaved well and that was good. We actually enjoyed being together. We talk on the phone at least once a week and about 80% of those conversations are good. It's the in-person meetings that are painful.

Even though Mom didn't seem to recognize it, we've had MUCH worse times together. Times when she's said amazingly hurtful things to me. This time, she said nothing hurtful to me (go Mom!). I did yell, snipe and generally behave like a baby (not all the time, but way too much of the time), but I did not say anything hurtful. I asked her to stop second-guessing me and questioning me and checking on me. I showed some anger, but the words I spoke were requests for her to stop judging me. I'm sure she didn't like hearing that--but it wasn't "I hate you and never want to spend time with you again."

A real sore spot with me is when I feel like I'm being patronized. I think I feel that way with Mom. She does stuff that could be interpreted as patronizing and that's where I go with it. But I know it's not her intention. She knows that it comes off that way and is trying to restrain herself. Trying and not always succeeding. I need to cut her some slack. I think I can do better. I'm sure I can. Got to laugh it off, baby.

Grateful for: learning to laugh at myself.

All movies, all the time

In a surprising turnabout of my normal priorities, I've been working at work in order to avoid blogging. That's funny. Not in order to avoid blog-reading catch-up and catch-up commenting, though. I'm out there spreading joy! Or not.

This is a long one, so be warned.

The kickball happy hour on Friday was a bust. I didn't even make it inside. I met Pele at the door, on her way out. "There's no one there."

"No one?"

"No one. And if we're just going to hang out at a bar, I'd rather go somewhere else." "Indeed." Because the kickball bar is, well, a little stinky. We ambled a couple of blocks to the Union Pub where Pele inadvertently purchased the most expensive glass of Hefewiesen ever. The atmosphere was ok. Pele called a bar foul on a fellow to our right who made a point of examining a couple of expensive bottles of scotch and then throwing back of shot of scotch. "No, no, no. You didn't just slam a shot of scotch. That is not right" she said quietly to me. What's that about? If you need a shot, make it cheap scotch or tequila or vodka. She thought he was showing off but failing and making a fool of himself instead.

We drank our beers and engaged in pleasant conversation for about an hour. It wasn't the plan, but I had a good time. While it may seem that we are in constant communication, Pele and I don't sit and talk very often. So when it happens, I'm appreciative.

[Movie review below. Skip if you don't care about Wedding Crashers.]

Then we went to see Wedding Crashers. It had some third act problems but I laughed out loud many, many times during the picture. The main reason to see it is Vince Vaughn. Owen Wilson was good, and he was the "hero" in a classic boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-(I won't give away the end) plot, but this was Vaughn's show all the way. He is the sexiest least handsome actor working in Hollywood. Maybe that's why it's so easy to love him--he's actually approachable looking, not superstar handsome. Of course Wilson's looks are amazingly flawed by his wacky nose, but he still looks more polished than Vaughn. As Pele pointed out, in one scene, Vaughn is supposed to look like shit--he's been beaten up, gotten no sleep and should be hung-over--and he looks like shit. Not every actor is willing to show himself like that. Wilson is nothing less than shiny-clean and sparkly, even in his sad mood scenes. [Note: I'm thinking of starting another blog with just reviews--of movies, books and blogs. Would anyone read such a thing? Would I actually make time to write such a thing? Any thoughts?] We thoroughly enjoyed the film and figured out how to make the ending work better. Hollywood, if you need a script doctor, I am here.

[End of movie review.]

Saturday was busy, as expected, but I didn't go crazy. It started out with an airport run, which left me with a car for the rest of the week (yes!). I took the little sister (not my actual sister) and her (actual) brother to see the Bad News Bears and we all liked it. Faithful to the original, but still entertaining. We also had dim sum lunch. Yum.

I fetched Mom at the airport around 4:30 and we went straight to the revitalized "Barracks Row" (also known as 8th Street SE) and walked around. I'd recommended the new Belgian Restaurant, Belga Café, to Mom (I ate there once with Pele and Dad) and that's where we went. The service was not the best, but not terrible. The food was very good. Despite the heat we sat outside and a breeze kept us comfortable. There was a quietly howling then loudly barking basset-type hound tied up near us and Mom was worried about the dog. Did he need water? Eventually, the party that included the dog owner moved outside and the dog and Mom were happy.

Mom and I were getting along fine but I was starting to feel on edge, like I often do when we're together. She's great and she wasn't doing anything wrong but she was just bugging me. Poor Mom. I'm impossible.

The first "mom" moment was when the check came. She didn't make a move for it. In the past, she's complained about how she has to pay for everything. It's a well-known fact that parents pay. I buy her plenty of stuff (expensive gifts) but our trade-deficit will never be balanced. She doesn't even want it to be. But she doesn't like the assumption that she will pay for everything when we go out. However, I wasn't quite prepared, mentally (I had the money), to pay the bill. Yet I paid. She didn't even make a gesture towards paying. She could have offered to split (that's what I was expecting) and then given me a chance to be magnanimous--as a child who pays for a parent ought to be granted. But no. I just swallowed hard and paid. No fighting.

We went to the movies after dinner. I love the movies. Can you tell? I did not love the movie we saw (obscure Burt Lancaster), but it was fun.

Sunday, I went to play softball in the morning. I discouraged Mom from joining me. "There's no point. It's too early and I hate everyone on the team so there's no one for you to meet. And it will be boring and we will lose." She stayed home.

It would have been fine if she'd come, but I wanted some time away from her. Did I mention that she was bugging me? "Did you remember to bring the tomatoes in?" "Which towel should I use?" "Did you set the alarm?" "Do you have a fan?" "How do I get the dvd to play?" "Is it ok to open the window in the bathroom?" She's horrible! (No, not really.) She is an odd combination of helpless and overbearing--checking to make sure I did everything right and needing help figuring out little things that should be obvious. There was absolutely no need to be annoyed, but I was. Very annoyed. Please (don't) hate me.

[Skip the following paragraph if you don't care about my softball game.]

Softball was ridiculous. We had eight players--enough to play if the other side loans you a non-fielding catcher, which they did. Actually, it was the most fun I'd had all season and we played well. We came within three runs of winning, which was huge considering the other team had a more than full roster. I played second base most of the game with one inning in right field. My glory moment was catching an infield fly--something I've never done. It wasn't hard, but I was scared. I had to call it. My call was almost a whisper. I was afraid to yell "I got it" because I wasn't sure I had it. But I did have it. In another play, I stopped a grounder and made a throw to first for an out. Unfortunately, my inglorious moments were more numerous: not stopping a fast moving grounder, missing a catch at second for an out (it touched my glove, but got away from me), letting a fly to right drop in front of me (but making a good relay throw that resulted in an out), and getting hit in the head with a line drive--no, it wasn't that bad--I put up my glove to catch the line drive--it hit my glove, then bounced out and on my head. I grabbed the ball and threw it to first, but too late. It was a very hard-hit ball! The runner on first said, "I'm sorry--are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Only my pride was hurt."

I worked the count twice for walks and got on once on a fielder's choice. Two other times I was out at first. I never scored. Altogether, a good game for me. More practice in the field and I think I could be decent at second base. It's a lot more fun than catcher, that's for sure. We all commented that it was a fun game. Our captain said, "It's really more about who is playing than how we are playing." So true. The absence of the sour girl and the crazy guy really added to my enjoyment. My former softball crush was not there either…but that was neither good nor bad. If we could just add two people we liked to the roster, I would start looking forward to softball again.

[End of softball game description.]

I got home and gave Mom a lively description of the game. I was still excited. Mom had been watching movies and playing with Tabitha (the cat). I got ready and we trucked off to Crate and Barrel where the plan was to buy me this flatware, this espresso maker or some of these towels. (The "buy me" plan was Mom's idea.)

At Crate and Barrel, we had our first near-meltdown. They had the towels I wanted but Mom started saying that the towels wouldn't serve my purpose. "What is my purpose?" Her objection was that the towels were brown and white, not black and white. The appeal of the towels is that my shower curtain has the same Marimekko pattern, but it is black on clear plastic. Ideally, the towels would be black on white (my bathroom tile is black and white), but the brown is so dark it is close to black and I thought it might work. My tone was shrill. She walked away. I decided against the towels. I didn't like the flatware, so I got the espresso maker.

After that excitement it was time for lunch. And we faced a crisis of indecision. I had a place in mind, but if Mom wanted to eat somewhere else, that was fine with me. Yet, I failed to tell her that I had a place in mind. She failed to express any preferences at all. I said, "Fine. There is a place up here. Let's go there." She was happy with it. She said, "This is perfect. You pay for lunch. But I'm taking you to dinner tonight." Yay for me. I paid. (Not complaining.)

I was getting tired. We stopped at the grocery store for some coffee (for the new espresso maker) and tonic. ("Do you have gin? Can I drink some?" Yes and yes. Due to my very low tolerance for alcohol, I always have a pretty well stocked liquor cabinet. I buy a few bottles and they last for years.) Mom suggested going to the Renwick. I didn't want to go. I said, "I can drop you off if you want to go. But I want to go home."

She said, "I'll choose you over the Renwick." But, why, Mom, when I'm so damn unpleasant?

At home, I tried out the espresso maker. Before using its ingenious milk-steaming feature, I had to brew and discard three pots of coffee (according to the instructions). Then I put in the milk and tried to make a cappuccino.

Hmm, not quite right. Try again. No, still not terribly frothy. Oh, TR is calling from Michigan. His house alarm went off. Take a break and walk with Mom over to his house to make sure no windows are broken. House looks undisturbed. Try the front door to make sure it's locked. Laugh maniacally when Mom immediately tries the door after I do. "Is it so wrong that I have to satisfy myself? I have my own needs!" Sure, Mom. And is one of those the need to demonstrate your lack of faith in my competence at every possible opportunity? [I know very well this is completely irrational.]

Walk home, shaking head. Get back to important cappuccino making attempt. Watch instructional video (downloaded very patiently) and learn nothing. Ask for Mom's opinion and get lots of critique and no help. Clean machine of sticky milk debris. Then, turn on the garbage disposal to grind up some ice cubes and instead grind vital part of brand-new espresso maker. Feel 1) stupid, 2) impossibly committed to not as great as hoped for machine, and 3) super annoyed at Mom because she wants to comfort me. Sigh.

(Good news: I was able to order a replacement part for the espresso maker this morning for only $7.)

Completely exhausted, I made popcorn so Mom and I could watch Princess Mononoke (we are Japanese anime fans). The way I felt, I never wanted to leave the house again. But Mom wanted to go out to dinner. Not because she was starving to death, but because she felt that she owed me dinner. God, we are BOTH impossible. I drove us the few blocks to Sonoma, this new Italian wine, cheese and small plates place on Penn SE. It was pretty and the food was good, but I only ordered one small thing. Mom wanted me to get more but I said I wasn't hungry and she said she felt bad. I said I still wasn't hungry. She ordered chocolate cake to go. After we left, I expressed my hatred of the people in the restaurant. Mom agreed that they weren't so great. "All that talk about nannies and where to go on vacation…"

"And the people on the right were just as bad. And more boring. That place is bad for people watching."

We ate the chocolate cake at home with blueberries and watched the end of the movie. I went to sleep early.

This morning, we did not end well. For some reason, Mom asked if I take Tabitha to the vet for her shots and I answered, "No, never. She never goes to the vet." Mom didn't realize I was being sarcastic. "You don't take her?"

"Of course I take her."

"You just said you didn't."

"I was being sarcastic."

"Being sarcastic right then wasn't very helpful."

"Look, I take her once a year for a check up. Why? Why do you need to know?" "Never mind. I'm taking my shower now."

And that was how we said goodbye because I was ready to leave for work. I felt terrible. I called when I got to the office and I didn't apologize but I asked her to call me when her meeting was over (that's why she's here: she has an all-day meeting today). We talked for a while about the meeting, which she was not looking forward to. Later, I called to let her know I'd found the replacement part for the espresso maker and she was happy. Maybe I'll see her tonight, but she might have dinner with her colleagues.

I've certainly had worse visits with Mom. This trip, the main problem was me and my ridiculously thin skin. She was good and (mostly) did not escalate things. When I got annoyed at her she pointed out I was being unreasonable (true, but not helpful) and then backed away. I tried to stop. I tried and failed to let go of things that annoyed me. Maybe I can get better. I hope so.

Grateful for: not fighting too much with Mom.

Passive internet dating

You know how I'm not doing the on-line dating thing anymore, right? Well, I started doing it again but in the most passive way imaginable. I have a profile on the site-that-shall-remain-nameless (nameless site from now on) that I never de-activated. For the last week, I've logged on to the nameless site and let people see that I'm "on-line." And that's it. I haven't paid and there is no way to initiate contact on this site unless you pay. There is a free thing, but you have to have money in your account to use it. So, not actually free.

This week, three people have contacted me. One contact resulted in an aborted chat session (I responded to his message, but he didn't answer me), the second contact resulted in a rather long IM session (probably our only one, but it was fun) and the third contact resulted in this:

Poet: You have great eyes! Has anyone written a poem about you?

Jamy: Not to my knowledge. You are first to comment on eyes. Usually I get "great smile." Thanks.

Poet: I could say eyes too-wow-I could gaze into them forever! Are you very passionate and romantic?

Good God. Weird how he repeated the eyes line. Must be scared of my big strong teeth. And why would I want anyone gazing into my eyes forever? I have staring contests with the cat now and then, but it's not very romantic. And, the best part: am I very passionate and romantic? Because just being passionate and romantic wouldn't be enough. I must be very. How on earth would one answer such a question anyway? But if you were a poet, it would be just the question to ask because you are a very passionate and romantic artist. Right. Moving on. (No, I didn't just abruptly halt the chat--after starting it, he went off-line and I felt no need to continue via email.)

Remember Ethan? He called me yesterday. His timing was terrible--I only had five minutes to talk. He kept asking if I had allergies. "Why are you asking me that?" I said.

"You sound sniffley."

"I'm fine." Very annoying.

He said, "You don't have to talk to me, you know." I laughed. "Why are you laughing? Is it funny that I said that? It's true."

"I'm laughing because I know it's true. You don't have to tell me that."

He asked me out for Friday, but I'm busy (kickball happy hour with Pele! Followed by dash to movie).

And I'm busy Saturday: taking TR & family to airport, seeing little sister, picking up Mom at airport.

And I'm busy Sunday: playing softball in the morning, fighting with Mom the rest of the day.

And I'm busy Monday: because after that weekend, I don't want to hang out with Ethan.

And I'm busy Tuesday: pub trivia.

And I'm busy Wednesday: kickball!

I suggested Thursday and he had a bunch of reasons why that might not work for him. I said, "Why don't you call me early next week and we can see what your schedule is like." Yes, I'm just that smooth.

Have a great weekend everybody and have lots and lots of fun with your very passionate and very romantic selves.

Grateful for: busy weekends.

Kickball

I had some good snarky ideas for the post today and then I heard about more bombings in London. That's just shitty. Please, let someone else take a turn. Leave off London already. This is starting to piss me off.

However, in the spirit of cheering up readers from London or anyone who feels like me, I will continue with the regularly scheduled post. I dedicate the post to London, as wildly inappropriate as that may be.

I did something stupid. I convinced Pele (aka Princess) to join a kickball team with me. Like most Americans, I played this game in elementary school. I hated it then, but that had more to do with playground social dynamics than the game itself. (Amusing moments: my shoe coming off when I tried to kick the ball; my team refusing to play when I was arbitrarily appointed captain by the teacher.) The rules are similar to softball but the athletic skill needed is minimal. Since softball has been a social bust this season, I figured why not give kickball a chance. Kickball is very social--there is a happy hour after every game for the entire division (eight teams). This is good because you have the chance to meet people from other teams in case the people on your team suck.

Wednesday was the first game of the season. But it was also the night of the Washington Weblogger Meetup. I went to the meetup and planned to find Pele at the bar after, if possible. The meetup was "Fantastic! Tremendous!" Actually, it was small--only Rob was there. We chatted before he ran off to play in the final game of the season for his kickball team (different league). Kickball is the in-thing in DC, apparently. But I'm in the "non-blogging" league, as Rob put it.

I went to meet Pele and the rest of my team. That is when I realized the error of my ways. I asked the age range of the team before I joined the league, but as I was going to be part of a new division, no information was forthcoming. Upon entering the bar, I immediately started wondering what I should give as my age when I lied about it. And I don't lie about my age.

I don't mind dating younger guys. I don't care. But when the guys are ten years younger they tend to freak out. I don't want to scare them off right away. It will be obvious that I'm older, but what about 31? 32? 28? I think I can pass. Pele said I could be her age (she's five years younger than me). That didn't seem quite right so I said I would be one year older.

It is a joke with my friends that I attract younger guys. I had one semi-serious boyfriend who was ten years younger and some other guys who were interested that were younger. I figure it's because I'm so immature.

My plan is not to mention my age. If anyone is rude enough to ask, I'll change the subject.

I remarked to Pele that it was a shame that I don't do casual sex, because that was the most I could hope for out of that crowd. Maybe I'll give it a second thought.

Here's the rundown on my teammates:

Unhappy short guy: not too short and rather good looking. Flirted with Pele when she gave him a ride to the game. Fished for an invitation to a sporting event, which she declined to issue. Flirted with me as soon as I arrived in the bar. When his girlfriend arrived, he did not introduce her to us and sat with her away from the group for the rest of the night. Pele and I were astonished, "No way. No way does he have a girlfriend. But she is so his girlfriend." Later I said, "He's getting the cold-shoulder from us. He must be punished."

Cute married couple: really nice, really cute, really live in Shirlington.

Two sweet twenty-somethings: two friendly young women. Pele talked to one of them (the strawberry blonde) for quite a while and liked her. I talked to neither of them beyond "hi." (It's all about the boys. I smiled a lot at them so I don't think they hate me.)

The manager: one of the thinnest women I have ever seen. She looked brittle, fragile and not very happy. Very blonde hair pulled into a very tight pony-tail. She may be dating the coach. (I confused her by explaining that I'm J___ and Jamy--I've conducted business with this group under both names. I'm an idiot. And she thinks I'm crazy.)

The coach: to-die-for. I said to Pele, "I could go for him in a big way." (It's a quote from an old movie, but I can't remember which one.) He was in his late 20's (only my wishful thinking would put him over 30), very tall, nice build, rugged face. I didn't talk to him, but he clinked cups with me and seemed friendly. Pele reported that he was probably with the manager, but not in a happy way. I said, "Maybe I can drive them apart. I only said that because I've had two beers."

Pele said, "He was checking you out. He likes the way you look."

"Then why is he dating the skinniest woman in the world?"

"He doesn't know what he likes."

"Ah. He's probably under thirty. Damn."

Kickball is likely to be a bust in terms of dates and probably even in terms of making new friends (but you never know). But it will get me out-of-doors and running around once a week. It will be easy compared to softball. And it's convenient since we play on the Mall, a few blocks from my office. And the bar is on the way to my house. Hooray for kickball, I guess.

Grateful for: laughing through the beers.

Lipstick

Grandma Paula wore bright red lipstick. It left marks on everything--coffee cups, cigarette filters, cheeks. She would touch up her lipstick at the table after a meal using the tiny mirror in her lipstick case. I hated it. Grandma went to the beauty parlor once a week to have her hair set and trimmed. Her nails were polished and kept short. When she was an old lady, her hair was white-white and worn in a wiry brush cut. Her hair was gorgeous. Her make-up was thick and ugly and unnecessary. When I was little, I hated that she smoked. I would cough and wave away her smoke. I would complain that no matter where she sat, her smoke would blow into my face. When she quit, I took credit for it. Mom told me that Grandma didn't start smoking until after Grandpa died.

When Grandma was younger, she had blonde hair. She looked like a movie star. She had narrow hips and a big bust. She bound her breasts to fit in the narrow dresses of the '20s. She wore cloche hats and wool bathing suits. She was a flapper. She told me that the term "flapper" referred to the flapping of untied shoelaces on women's shoes. When she was a middle-aged married woman in the '50s she had bouffant hair-dos and wore full skirts and lamé party dresses. She wore a lot of costume jewelry. She was always fashionable. Men loved her.

Her house was immaculate. Dad joked that if he tipped ashes from his cigarette into an ashtray and next thing he knew there was a clean ashtray there--before he even finished the cigarette. If you stayed with Grandma, you didn't leave things lying around. Never, under any circumstances, was it acceptable to put damp towels in the hamper. There were consequences if you did.

My mom didn't inherit Grandma's neatness or style. Mom dresses well, but her hair was never "done" like Grandma's. Mom never wore foundation and the lipstick and blush she might put on rarely made it to the end of the day. She bites her nails and doesn't polish them. She is more beautiful than Grandma, though. Grandma was striking, but didn't have a fine nose or well-defined features. She had presence. Mom was in her shadow--where Grandma needed her to be.

I'm more like Mom than Grandma. I bite my nails and can't keep polish on them. I have the same super-straight, dark brown, impossible to style hair as mom. I've never worn spiky heels and I never will. I don't look like Grandma. I don't have her polish. I wear make-up for costume parties not to go to work.

But I've started to wear lipstick. And I'm leaving marks on things--like the straw through which I sipped my iced coffee this morning. Those traces of lipstick on the straw made me think about Grandma.

I'm like Grandma because I'm stubborn and I know who I am. I take care of people if they need it. I can listen to anyone's problems and provide reassurance. I'm more organized than almost anyone I know.

When people complained about getting older, Grandma would say, "Consider the alternative." Grandma said that when we die, we live on in the memories of others. I find this sad and reassuring. Even though not all of my memories of Grandma are happy, I do remember her. She lives in me. And my lipstick.

Grateful for: Grandma.

Doors

Today I feel like crap. My eyelids are swollen and heavy. There is no rational explanation for this. I'm doing minimal work at work, but there is some work to be done, and I'm doing it. Dammit.

I don't know if you remember the saga of the entrepreneur-next-door (aka the drug dealer), but back in February he was busted. Since then, as far as I could tell, the lower unit in the building was vacant. Yesterday, when I got home, there was a pile of lumber and a door on my front lawn--on the part of the lawn that appears to be shared by the two buildings, but actually belongs to my building. They had ripped out the old door frame and replaced the door. The new door was painted grey and had no door knob, just a deadbolt lock. You read that correctly: no door knob. Is that creepy or what?

This morning, much to my dismay, the door and lumber were still resting in the front yard. The knob-less door was ajar so I knocked to see if anyone was there. No answer. I poked my head in--it smelled bad. I saw a rather dank and dingy staircase and three (?) mailboxes and a table lamp without a shade on the landing. Where could a third unit possibly be? (My building has four units, two up, two down; this building is half the size of our building and shares a wall, thus it should only have two units.) I wanted to ask them, politely, of course, not to dump their construction debris on my front yard. No luck. I wonder what surprises I will come home to today.

I decided to move the lumber to the neighbor's side of the yard. A man (middle aged, black) ran from across the street to help me. It was a good thing, too, because that door was damn heavy. He did some yard work for us this weekend, under the direction of clueless upstairs neighbor, who has yet to mention anything about it (like, how much she paid him so I can reimburse her). He wanted to know if we were going to hire him and I had to say that she hadn't talked to me and that we all needed to agree. He nodded and mumbled and went back across the street.

I just can't get over the knob-less door. What is that about?? (And in my neighborhood condos go for $300k+ and houses start at $500k. They usually have door knobs.)

Grateful for: helpful neighbors.

More Mike

I've been thinking about the whole thing with Mike. I saw him again today because he was in town for a meeting. And, yes, that's a whole lotta Mike. Of course, there was a time when I saw him nearly every day. We reminisced about some old friends, but we tiptoed around things that directly related to our old relationship. For example, we talked about some of Mike's old roommates. We did talk about how they grew illicit substances in the basement and how the house was filthy. We didn't talk about how those roommates were always trying to set us up. If they were having a party they would all conspire to get me alone in a room with Mike. Not talking about those things wasn't much of a sacrifice. But it was a little odd. And he never asked if I was seeing anyone and I didn't volunteer that information. I guess we're doing our own "don't ask, don't tell" thing. Hey, whatever works.

My larger thought: I blew the whole thing out of proportion. I was worried about...nothing. Is this a pattern? I seem to get ahead of myself all the time. I seem to see things that aren't there. I exaggerate. It's not that my instincts are wrong, but I over interpret. I definitely did it with Jay. Sigh.

So. Mike. Sure, Mike likes me. And I like him. I have the same ambivalent, never-to-be-completely-resolved feelings about him that I have always had. Nothing has changed. But now we're mature enough to know there's no point delving into our unresolved (and un-resolvable) romantic feelings. We can hang out and talk politics like we always did. I can tell him my stories and he can be amused. He can talk about his kids and I can be happy for him. And I don't have to feel that I've lost him as a friend.

Grateful for: Mike.

Ulysses

After my exhausting week of training (and shopping) I needed a couple of days to recover. Thank goodness I had the whole weekend at home. My flight out of Atlanta was delayed as well; more weather. My original flight was supposed to leave at 6pm, but the plane didn't lift-off until 10pm. I saw the most fantastic and enormous black thunderstorm to the west of our plane as we flew over North Carolina. Flashes of lightning and all. There was a surprising lack of turbulence and except for the time I kept my eye on the storm I slept.

It was too late to take public transportation when we landed. And then my driver got a ticket, which added another 30 minutes to the ride home. I still gave him a nice tip. He's going to need it to pay that ticket.

The next day I was managing to sleep in, but the pest control guy called at 10--it's our monthly visit. I got some pants on and let him in. I tidied up a bit while he did his thing. After he left, I sat around watching golf for the next couple of hours. I know, I know, but I couldn't help it. I don't care for golf or have any desire to play it, but the "best boyfriend ever" (old Seattle boyfriend) played a little and like to watch. I watched with him and I was surprised how much I liked it. It's soothing, calming. I don't watch regularly, but I remember the names of the players who I saw with him: Nick Faldo, Fred Couples, Greg Norman. It's cool to see all those guys playing after all these years (and playing well) in the British Open. I fell asleep watching.

The phone woke me. It was TR (work friend) calling to see if I could babysit and if I wanted to go to the pool with him and the kids (four year old twins and a three year old). I said yes to both. His wife was working, which meant there was a spot in the car for me (and another pair of eyes to watch the three kids was probably not such a bad thing either). I imagined lying by the pool and getting a slight sunburn. A good thing. When I hopped in the car the girls told me they had fed my cat and played with her while I was gone (they had, under Daddy's supervision). I thanked them.

The pool was closed due to thunder and the chance of lightning. We went to a marina instead and the kids survived, though there was a little bit of crying. "Daddy, it's not going to rain! I want to go swimming!" After the marina, TR took me home to rest.

I babysat that night and did a fabulous job if I may say so myself. We watched a (parent approved) video and then I let the kids entertain me for about half and hour. They sang and danced. Grown-ups were not allowed to participate. After the show I got them into a bath, pjs, and bed. One girl reminded me that they needed to brush teeth but broke down sobbing when I put the toothpaste on the brush for her and ran into her room. "You have to brush your teeth in the bathroom. As soon as you're finished, you can come back in here." She cried, "I'm not tired!" and flung herself face down on her bed. I laughed and carried her limp body into the bathroom where she did brush her teeth, on her own, just fine. I read them a couple of books and they were all asleep by 8:30pm.

Mrs. TR provided leftovers, homemade ice cream and cherry pie for dinner. She is a good cook and it was great to have a homey meal my first night back without having to lift a finger. I put on The Aviator, which they had conveniently rented, and pigged out. Mr. & Mrs. TR got home around 9:30 and we finished watching the movie together. (The Aviator is pretty to look at, but kind of a bummer. And Kate Beckinsdale is no Ava Gardner.) They like it when I babysit. It's nice when we all get to hang out too.

Today's 3pm softball game was canceled due to the rain yesterday. But couldn't it have been canceled due to the heat advisory today? I don't know what the schedulers were thinking.

I made it in good time to book group this morning to discuss the book I will never finish: Ulysses. The other two attendees had read the entire thing, but only one of them liked it. The two of us who didn't like it couldn't quite see the point. It's a book that is all technique, almost no plot and very little character development. It's very hard to tell what is going on--it's like watching the events happen through a thick fog. If anyone has read it and has any deeper insight, I'd be interested to hear it.

I'm going to try and finish it, but it will take a while. I'm only 240 pages in and the damn thing is 760 pages long. Can I do it? Yes I can! It's one of those books I want to have read but I don't actually want to read. It's like taking on a second job. One job at a time is what I say. If my postings are a little more incoherent and infrequent, just blame it on James Joyce.

Grateful for: babysitting.

Mike and me

I saw Mike on Wednesday night. We had dinner (he took me to a Thai restaurant without asking--a good choice) then went back to his house to say hi to his wife, Trina. It was fine. I was worried about nothing.

He doesn't seem like the happiest married guy in the world and they are about the least affectionate couple I've ever seen. Which makes me a little sad. But she doesn't hate me. She excluded herself from dinner because it would have been boring for her to listen Mike and me talk about the old days. Thank you Trina. But, what's funny is that Mike and I don't now, nor have we ever, talked about the old days. We do make passing references to events and people in the past, which I guess counts. I tell him the same number of stories about myself that I would tell anyone else. I've probably told him all of these stories before, he doesn't remember and neither do I. We mostly talk about work, politics, life in Atlanta, current events and his kids. Mike is not a sentimentalist and I don't need to be. I wish our lives weren't so disconnected.

Since my flight isn't until late on Friday, he suggested that we get together again on Friday afternoon. He wants to tour me around Atlanta a bit. I hoped that would happen and I'm very glad he suggested it.

There was no need for my imaginary boyfriend to make an appearance, but it was fun to create him. You never know when he may come in handy.

Grateful for: old friends.

Shopping insanity

I'm not much of a shopper. I hate malls. I mostly get my clothes through catalogues. But I've gone a little crazy in Atlanta. First, the two skirts and a twin-set at Talbot's, on Tuesday. Then Wednesday, two pairs of hose and one pair of underwear (on sale) at Bloomingdales. And make-up: tinted moisturizer, powder blush (which I will never wear, but it looked so nice when she put it on me I couldn't resist), lipstick and lip-gloss. Then over to Macy's where there is a huge sale. I finally found the right kind of underwear and bought seven pairs and a bra that fit. Everything on big, big sale!!! I kept hunting around and ended up with three shirts. That's fine because most of my tops are 5-8 years old and I'm in danger of looking very out of style. I don't even want to know how much money I spent. Or maybe I do...about $375.00. Damn. Except for the make-up, which was overpriced, it was a very good deal.

I've been asked twice on this trip if I'm a student by women near my mother's age. Nice.

I shopped more tonight. I bought a pair of black pants, the one item that I actually wanted (not on sale) and a white pin-tuck shirt with a zipper. Sort of like a tuxedo shirt. I wasn't sure if it looked good, but I've wanted a shirt like this for years, it was on sale, so I bought it. I also found a bra at Saks Fifth Avenue for $16 (originally $52!!). The sale racks at Saks were sorted by designer, not by size, making it impossible to find anything. Even on sale, though, most of the stuff there was still fabulously expensive. I have never shopped this much in my life. I'm completely exhausted.

I won't shop like that again for years. It has to have been many, many years since I went on such a spending spree. For those of us who can afford it, retail therapy is a nice thing. Ah, to be young-ish and privileged.

Grateful for: end of season sales. Who knew?

Super-fancy

Atlanta is...fine. My first day here was disconcerting because I spent the first half of the day inside a building that I hadn't had a good look at from the outside. When I finally saw them, the exteriors were less than impressive, matching the less than inspiring interiors. I have a couple of buddies who I'm eating lunch with but not spending the evenings with.

I ate dinner with my grad school friend last night and we had a great time. I don't know her that well, but it's good so see her happy and contended. I told her about the imaginary boyfriend and she was delighted. She asked me a few questions and said my story was credible. I'm not sure I can tell the lie, though, if it comes to it, but I've been going over the story in my head for the last couple of days.

His name is Jack Karchmer and he is from Pennsylvania, but he moved around a lot as a kid. His parents are divorced. His mom lives in Maryland, his dad is in PA. He does computer stuff. We met at an art gallery. He's shy, but funny. He's tall, medium build, but a bit awkward--the lanky, gawky type. He's 33. I like him a lot.

I elected to spend tonight on my own. There is a fancy mall across the street from the hotel and a super-fancy mall one block away. I walked to the super-fancy mall tonight. Shops included: Tiffany's, Giorgio Armani, and Saks Fifth Avenue. I bought a pink silk/cotton twin-set and two skirts at Talbot's. Their clothing is very conservative, but if you choose carefully, there are nice classic pieces to be found. And it fits me. And everything was on sale.

I talked to my mom while I shopped, which was fairly amusing. Our conversation deteriorated slightly when she started to nag me about taking my stuff out of her house. We have this argument a couple of times a year. Unlike most kids, I had to move every single thing I owned out of my mom's house when I was 18 and she moved to a tiny houseboat. When I left Seattle, she let me leave my skis, ski clothing and two pieces of furniture that were technically mine, but which she has used for years: a 'slipper' chair and a gate-leg table. When my grandmother died, I asked for the china, and mom agreed to keep it for me. What this has led to are occasional accusations that I'm refusing to take these things. For a time, it was true. I didn't want the fancy Wedgwood china in my dumpy grad school apartment, nor did I have room for the chair and table. But, in her view a box of china, a table (which is being used) and a small chair are, indeed, evidence of my misanthropy. Even though she explicitly agreed to keep them for me.

I told her tonight, as I always do, that I'll take the things as soon as I can, but I don't know how to go about shipping the chair. I even said, this time, that I'd send her money to ship the things. She complained that it was a pain and I need to do the shipping myself. We've talked about it so many times and she's agreed not to nag me about it, but she won't stop. I asked her why she was bringing it up and she didn't have an answer. Only that she's planning to move soon and doesn't want to deal with those things. I suppose she's just anxious about moving, though she has no definite plans to move. I reminded her that she agreed not to talk about it and to keep the things until I could get them and she said it wasn't true. Yes, she accused me of lying. I almost hung up right then, but I told a deep breath and de-escalated the conversation. Hooray for me!

However, the next time I'm home, I'm getting those things out of there so I NEVER have to talk to her about it again. At least she's not making fun of me. That's something.

Grateful for: new clothes!

Flight delayed

I checked the website before leaving and the flight was on time. Got to the airport and every other flight to Atlanta is delayed but not mine. Nice. Ten minutes before scheduled take-off, they tell us we're delayed.

Well, duh. There's a hurricane in the gulf and it's storming like crazy in Atlanta. I'm not in a much of a rush, but even if I were, I don't care. I'm not interested in flying around anywhere near a hurricane. Flying is scary enough. Hurricanes are terrifying.

I have a healthy respect for hurricanes having lived through one in Chapel Hill. I was out of power for three days. It wasn't so bad and made me realize how dependent we are on electricity. But the power was awesome--trees down everywhere and a few crushed cars. We were very lucky that no one was hurt.

My stomach was fluttery long before I knew there was a delay so I drugged myself. I took a Dramamine and it hit me about an hour later. As I type this, my eyelids are droopy and my fingers slightly numb. I heart Dramamine. Kills nausea and puts me to sleep. And wears out in four hours. What more could you ask?

I developed a fear of flying about seven years ago after a particularly rocky flight from Newark to Chapel Hill. There had been electrical storms all day and things were just clearing up when my brother (B1) got me to the airport. Our ascent was very rough. We had almost leveled off when the plane dropped several hundred feet. The fall was so sudden that the cabin let out a "whoop" in unison as though we were on a roller coaster. I lost it. I didn't yell or cry, but I felt sick to my stomach and I started sweating like crazy--it was that nasty smelling fear sweat, flop-sweat. My mind was racing and the first thing that popped in my head was "I'm going to die and I haven't even finished my dissertation." Even at the time I was surprised that my first thought was of my dissertation. I didn't think I cared that much about it. From then on I knew I would finish.

I spent the rest of the time telling myself the story of my relationship with vip-ex (important grad school boyfriend). I sat with elbows on my knees, my head bent down and some ice on the back of my neck. I was in the window seat of a three seat row, with an empty seat between me and the man on the aisle. He noticed that I was in distress and called the stewardess over. She asked how I was and if I thought I was going to be sick. I said, "I don't feel so good."

"Keep your head down."

The entire cabin knew something was wrong with me and I heard whispers of concern radiate out from my row. The other passengers all seemed calm. I served a purpose because they could all worry about me instead of whether or not the plane was going to crash. The man on my row clumsily patted me on the back and talked to me a little, but I didn't have much to say. When it was time to deplane, he wouldn't let me carry my bag.

When we landed the passengers erupted in chatter and laughter.

JenA picked me up and when I saw her, the fellow handed her my bag. She knew something was wrong. "What happened?" I was still shaky. "It was just a terrible, terrible fight." An anonymous fellow passenger who was walking by confirmed it, "It was terrible! Awful flight!"

That flight did me in. Year by year, my fear had been growing. I've been flying since I was a year old and when I was little, I loved it. I loved looking out the window and I loved the adventure. I loved flying alone when I was acutually too young to do so. I still feel that way about train travel. I'm fine with the traveling part; it's the up in the air part I don't like. After that bad flight, I avoided flying for as long as I could, but when I had to fly I would be terrified. There would be one bump and my adrenaline would surge, I would start to sweat, my mind would race and I wouldn't be able to read or concentrate. Forget doing work. Talking seemed to help and I chewed many seatmates' ears off in this period.

A few years later, a friend advised me to go to the doctor and ask for some drugs. The doctor saw me for about five minutes and gave me a prescription for Atavan. The first time I took one, it knocked me out for almost 24 hours. It turns out that Atavan is a heavy-duty drug. They give it to you in the emergency room before they intubate. It is an "amnesiac." That means that it makes you forget--which is good when they are doing painful medical things to you, like, say, giving you chemotherapy. I told a friend who had gone through chemo and she said, "Is that why I can't remember anything that happened that year? I was taking those things every day!"

I can't believe they didn't tell her it was a side effect. Bastards.

Because Atavan stays in your system for a long time, if I needed to be alert when I got off the plane, I couldn't take one. If I needed to be sure I would remember what I had done, I couldn't take one. These pills were so overkill it's not even funny. I used them twice.

I had to figure something else out. Valerian was recommended by Pele (aka Princess)--it's a mild herbal tranquilizer. It works pretty well and it is not habit forming and you can be functional, if sleepy, after you take it. That, plus Dramamine to cut the nausea, seem to do the trick. When I'm feeling confident, like today, I only take the Dramamine. I'm also not as scared as I used to be.

We finally boarded, but were delayed again. We sat in the plane, away from the gate, from 8:30 until 9:30 pm. The baby behind me indulged in some ear-shattering screams. I felt bad for her, her parents and me. But that's why God invented noise-muffling earphones. The stewardesses brought us mini bottles of water and two tiny packs of peanuts. The shuffle mode of the iPod is treated me to New Pornographers and Wilco. I saw a most gorgeous sunset. And I got to write. It could have been worse.

We finally took off and the captain told us, "It should be smooth going for the next 150 miles. In Atlanta there are 30 mile per hour winds and 800 foot ceilings. We are exactly 400 miles from Atlanta." That was not terribly reassuring.

Most of the miles were not choppy, but I still had some nerves and I ended up in a boring but distracting conversation with my seatmate. She had been to DC to visit an old high school friend (she was in her mid-60s). She couldn't choose any one museum to visit and instead opted for a driving tour and no museums. I kept smiling and nodding. There were a few exciting bumps on the decent. The landing was tippy and hair raising but it could have been worse. I wasn't white knuckle but I wasn't the epitome of calm either. I am much better than in years past.

At the hotel, I was safe and cozy in my room. I ordered room-service breakfast. Probably crap but I'm treating myself to a relaxing morning. The hotel is North of downtown, across the street from a mall and it's raining non-stop. Looks to be a heck of a week.

Grateful for: safe flights.

A quick word

Talked to mom yesterday. She said, "I read what you wrote. You were right." That was surprising. "I don't know when we stopped talking about men--maybe it was during [vip-ex]. I just couldn't take it. I think it was me." That may have been when she stopped asking, but I didn't stop telling until several years later. "Can I suggest something? If you want to talk to me about men, we can put a time limit on it. I'll just listen for ten minutes and not say anything. And then we can move on to another topic." I thought that was a terrible idea, but I said, "Okay."

"We don't have to decide anything right now."

"Okay."

"I escalated things...you didn't mean anything."

"I just thought the Netflix thing would be fun. I never had any other idea."

"I know." And then we proceeded to have pleasant chat, interrupted by the arrival of Pele (aka Princess).

Pele and I grilled some hot dogs, ate some salad and had ice cream while watching "Laura." It's such a good flick. I'm glad to own that one. We didn't go out to play pool, so I wasn't able to test the man-attracting power of the imaginary boyfriend, but we enjoyed chatting and watching tv until after midnight.

This morning I go up early for softball so I could make the first game of a double header. The softball guy (formerly My Future Husband) was there and he was still flirting with me. I think about 94% of it is that he's a very friendly guy. We lost, as usual, but my favorite ump was calling the game ((I catch, so I talk to all the umps) and he was disappointed when I left. "You can't go!" he called as I walked to my car. He's like a grumpy, funny grandpa.

I had to get home so I could pack, shower, eat some lunch and get to the airport ridiculously early. I hate flying. It's less than two hours to Atlanta, so I don't plan to drug myself. I need to get some reading done for class tomorrow. The instructions were, "read the first eight chapters in the textbook." The textbook is eight chapters long. It's easy reading and I'm about halfway through. I should be able to finish it up on the plane.

I have to assume that I won't be able to post every day next week. I don't even know if I'll have internet access. Then again, unless you care about housing development finance, I won't have much interesting to report--at least until Wednesday when I get to test the power of the imaginary boyfriend.

Grateful for: calming weekends.

Rats!

When you see a fat rat saunter across the sidewalk at 2:25 on a bright summer afternoon it makes you think twice about wearing sandals.

It also makes you say, "Hi rat!"

Crazy Alcoholic

I posted a new story over here. Some of you clever people found it already. I cannot tell you how much I hated writing this story. Still, there it is. It's about twice as long as the other one.

I have a really long semi-fictional piece that I worked on for about a year about my teenage years and my first super-duper hopeless crush. Should that go up too? That one I rather like and it was much more enjoyable to write. However, it doesn't feel finished. Nothing I write ever feels finished.

More history on the creation of "Crazy Alcoholic": it began as a combination of three entries in the RealLife™ Dating Guidelines: Parties, Certainty and Torture. I sure learned a lot from that short and ridiculous experience. Who knew he would turn out to be such great blog fodder?

I worked on the story for my hated writing class. It became a chronological narrative with the didactic elements are removed. It was painful to write. Once I got started I didn't have time to begin something else, so I gritted it out. I didn't hate the piece quite as much after I got positive feedback from my classmates, whose reactions were along the lines of, "I've been there," and "the pain is palpable."

It made me feel better. I felt foolish and stupid revealing all my poor choices and tolerance of bad boyfriend behavior. It was comforting to know that others have had similar experience, they didn't think any less of me for it and they could even understand the appeal of such notorious characters as the crazy, alcoholic boyfriend.

Grateful for: a sympathetic audience.

Don't bother me

An imaginary boyfriend comes in handy when you get to the coffee shop where you plan to plant yourself for hours and see a guy who picked you up at a bar about six years ago, who you made out with once and who never called. When you called him he apologized and said he was getting back together with his ex-girlfriend. When you see him, you think asshole. But you feel like a loser because you are single and he probably married that girlfriend. Then you think, I'm not single, I have a boyfriend. Who cares if he's imaginary. As far as the asshole's concerned you're not single. And you stand taller. Not that you talk to him or anything.

Grateful for: my imaginary boyfriend.

My imaginary boyfriend

I'm going to Atlanta next week for five days for work. I hate Atlanta (sprawling, dead-downtown, car-centric, too many streets named "Peachtree"), but I won't have to deal much with the city or the heat because I'll be in a hotel meeting room from 8-5 every day I'm there. It will be boring but I might learn something.

I know a couple of people in Atlanta. One is a woman from grad school. She's not a close friend, but a very lively and entertaining person. I'm meeting her Monday for dinner.

The other one is Mike, one of my best friends from college. I've known him since I was fourteen. His wife hates me. I'm having dinner with him and his wife on Wednesday. The story of our friendship is ridiculously complicated. (My first attempt to write about it went past three pages and just scratched the surface--I may post it elsewhere eventually.)

A short(er) version: We liked each other but never at the same time. When we did like each other at the same time we lived 3,000 miles apart (but I think I only liked him then). We never slept together despite many bungled attempts on his part. We kissed a few times. It was kid stuff and was over many years ago. But we were always friends. We spent a lot of time together. We talked a lot. I drove him crazy sometimes and he did the same for me.

When he started dating his wife, it had been many years since we'd even flirted. I was happy for him when he got married. But his wife doesn't like me. I know this because he told me about six years ago. He said, "she gets upset when you call." I stopped calling. He did too (coward). I haven't seen her since their wedding. I've seen him twice. Once was two years ago when I was in Atlanta for a conference. We hung out for an afternoon with his kids. Last year he was in DC and we had dinner. He complained about his wife. I didn't like that.

Talking to Pele (aka Princess) it occurred to me that the one time I'd met Mike's wife and we'd gotten along was when I had a boyfriend. I told Pele, "I need a fake boyfriend." She said, "I think you just might. You have plenty to choose from."

Indeed I do. I am a terrible liar so if I have a fake boyfriend, I can't wing it. I need to have details and a back story in place. Potential imaginary boyfriends: The Republican, Jake or Jay. Or maybe someone else?

I used to pretend that I had a boyfriend when I went salsa dancing in Chapel Hill. I thought it would be an easy way to deal with some of the very aggressive guys there.

The first question those guys would ask, "Speak Spanish?"

The second question, "Have a boyfriend?"

I answered "no" to the first and "yes" to the second. I can (sort of) speak Spanish, but not while I'm dancing and listening to loud music. After I said I had a boyfriend I would be asked, "Where is he?"

"He lives in NY." I modeled him on the vip-ex, who was from NY.

One time I got a follow-up, "What does he do in NY?"

I had no idea. I said, "He's in business."

"What kind of business?"

Gulp. "He works for Smith-Barney." Vip-ex had a summer job there once. I felt like I'd been busted but he didn't say anything. Once I'd told the lie, I had to stick with it--the lie went on for over a year because I became a regular at the salsa place. Sometimes a guy would ask about my boyfriend and it would surprise me, "What boyfriend? Oh--the one in NY. Yes, he's still my boyfriend."

Thus, as a liar, I suck. But I think lying in this instance would lead to a more pleasant evening for all concerned. And coming up with an imaginary boyfriend is a lot more fun than worrying about whether Mike's wife is going to hate me.

Question: who should be my imaginary boyfriend?

Grateful for: Mike, even if it's a pain to see him.

P.S. I still haven't heard from Alicia, my friend in London, but I'm assuming it just means she's busy.

P.P.S. I went to a bizarre show last night and I would have written about it, but my companion did a much better job than I could have. Take a look.

London

This morning I listened to the news on the radio long before I was fully awake, which is normal. I heard some kind of speech but I drifted back to sleep. I dreamt about the roof of a bus getting ripped off...then I realized it wasn't part of my dream. It had happened. Bombings. Underground. London. Bus. Three dead. Now closer to 40. But the injured...in the hundreds. London.

I start making a list in my head of who I know in London. Alicia, a good friend from college; NML, my blog friend; the Hardings, friends of my father's; Amanda, their daughter (does she even live in London?); Dan, a fellow I met when he spent a summer in Berkeley and who showed me around London one evening many years ago (he may not live there either). I send Alicia and NML email. I think about NML's stories of the crowded Underground. I wonder if Alicia takes the tube to work. I don't know where either of them live or work. The Hardings are retired so that means they are probably safe.

I haven't heard from Alicia yet (I will worry--she has a toddler, a husband and a pack of in-laws in London), but NML kindly posted on her blog and let us know she is fine, stuck in the office, and more than a little upset.

The world doesn't stop when these things happen, but it hits a little closer when you know people there and when you've spent time in the place where it happened. I've been to England several times, including about six weeks in London.

I admire the reserve with which the authorities are handling things. There doesn't seem to be any media hysteria. People were scared, but the emergency response was quick and competent. Everyone is thinking 9/11--all the interviewees on NPR mentioned it--but London was spared that many deaths and that level of destruction. Thank God. I hope it is over.

The police sirens and ambulances I hear today make me jumpy. I didn't want to take the subway this morning. I'm more on edge than usual. Living in DC when bombings start is not a comfortable thing. I was here on 9/11. We're in the middle of the bullseye.

But, life does, and should go on. And, as I like to say, no news is good news. I wish Alicia would write, though, and I need to drop a line to Dad about his friends.

Grateful for: life.

Kissing styles

I used to think that there were good kissers and bad kissers. A conversation with my friend, Pam, changed my mind (mostly). She told me a story about her ex-boyfriend and how they had different kissing styles. They used to fight about it. "Kissing styles? Really?" I said.

"Sure. People like different things," she said. She tried to convert him to her style and he resisted. He got the boot for non-kissing reasons, but it was related to his attempts to control her in every possible way.

I had never thought about kissing like that--there weren't actually "good" and "bad" kissers--there were different kissing styles. Pam's practical and generous approach was great and amusing. It meant I could have a conversation about kissing without having to say, or think, "you're a bad kisser." The fellow I was dating around that time was a "bad kisser"--all wet and mushy. I'd tried to tell him once but all I said was, "too wet." He changed nothing so I avoided kissing him (the horror) and he decided that I didn't like kissing. Sigh. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Several years later, after I moved to DC, I went out with Victor a few times. The first time we kissed it was terrible. It was like a little darting snake had been let loose in my mouth. I couldn't get away fast enough. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to kiss him again…and if I wasn't going to kiss him, how could we date? I was still trying to figure out how much I liked him. I called Pam and asked for her advice. She said to talk to Victor and explain that I wasn't comfortable with his kissing style. I shouldn't have, but I also told a bunch of my friends the story. One reaction, "That's porno kissing! Does he think he's a porn star?" Ugh.

The next time Victor and I went out things got a little cozy and I tried to talk to him about the kissing. I said, "I need to talk to you about something."

Long pause.

"It's kind of awkward."

Long pause.

"It's not that big a deal. Maybe it's really not that important."

"Say what you want to say. It's fine."

I said, "Um, well, it's um, about the kissing. I, um, think, um, we have different styles. Maybe…"

"That's it? That's no big deal." We kissed again and it was much better. Nice, even.

And that was it for me--I didn't like him enough to continue seeing him, but I knew it wasn't because of the kissing.

It occurs to me that since I dated the first guy in this story for a LONG time without particularly enjoying kissing him, it should have been obvious that I never liked Victor enough to date him. Ah, the lessons the blog teaches us. Two, here, I think:

1. if I am ready to reject a guy because he is a lousy kisser, it means I don't dig him that much to begin with, and
2. don't date a guy for over a year who is a lousy kisser and let things get so far that he actually thinks you don't like kissing. TALK TO HIM.

Check and check.

Grateful for: Pam's lesson on kissing styles.