The Fellini paper

During my stay in Seattle, I kept remembering one particularly embarrassing college experience. It had to do with a Comparative Literature class I took about the films of Federico Fellini. (Why was this a Comp Lit class? I have no idea.) During the class we watched all the early Fellini films and some of the later ones as well. The professor arranged for the films to be shown at the Neptune (back when it was still a rep house) on Tuesday evenings and we would discuss the films in class the next day. He would also sometimes show the films during class and point out interesting parts.

I loved this class. I'd never seen a Fellini film before, and I can't say I'm his most ardent fan, but as a huge film buff, I was completely enchanted with this way of looking at film. I'd never done it before and I really enjoyed it.

I went to talk to the professor about the paper I was writing on La Dolce Vita. I had a particular observation and I wanted to run it by him before starting the paper. When I got there I gave him my name--and he said, "Barab? Is that the same as Nathan Barab [not his real name] who did the music for Summertime [not the actual picture]?"

"Yes." I was stunned. I have one semi-famous movie business relative. He was the in-house musical director for a major studio for over twenty years. He worked on over 100 films starting in the 1930's and ending in the 1960's. He was my grandfather's uncle or cousin, I'm not sure which. He died in 1980, before I had a chance to meet him. His name appears on some of my favorite films from the 40's and 50's. It never fails to delight me when I see the family name on screen and I always look for it on films of that era. But until that day I had never, not once, met someone who recognized my last name because of Nathan Barab.

After I got over my shock, I told the professor about my idea for the paper. La Dolce Vita is an episodic film that toys with the themes of sin and redemption. I'd noticed that each episode began in the evening and ended at dawn. The professor said he hadn't noticed this and he seemed impressed by my observation. I wrote the paper and got a good grade.

By the end of the quarter I was flagging. I had just gone back to school after a quarter off and I was not back in the game. Going to class was no problem, doing the reading was fine, but actually turning in final papers? Too much. I didn't get the final paper for the Fellini class in by the due date and the quarter was ending.

I was acquainted with the TA for the class. He was friends with Amanda. He knew me, though I was fuzzy on who he was (a friend of Amanda's brother, I think). He was friendly towards me and we chatted from time to time during the quarter. When I didn't get the paper in on time, he called me. I told him I was still working on it. He said he could give me to the end of the weekend. He called me again on Sunday and needed the paper. He'd told the professor that he'd left my paper at home and would get it to him later. For whatever reason, he couldn't come to my house to get the paper (and why would he, though I remember feeling annoyed that he wouldn't come and fetch it). Instead, he gave me the address of the professor's house and I was supposed to leave the paper on his front porch in a manila envelope (without being seen, of course).

I finished the paper. It was crap.

I walked up University Way to his house. (Here is the path of my walk of shame.) It was less than ten blocks north of where I lived. I crossed the little bridge over Cowen Park, turned right on 63rd and walked past his house to make sure it was the right place. I turned back, tiptoed up to the porch, leaned the envelope against the front door and walked away as quickly as I could.

I was ashamed of myself. How could I have let things go so far? And why had the TA gone out on a limb for me? He saved me from failing or having to take an incomplete (if the professor were even willing to give one).

Why did that story keep coming to mind? From Mom's house in North Seattle, the bus I took went down the same street off of which the professor's house was located. It's not that I haven't passed that intersection many times, but on this last visit, it conjured up that memory. I have a feeling it is related to my complete lack of enthusiasm about work and inability to finish the easiest of tasks. Damn. At least I don't get graded at work (or do I?). Where's a nice TA with a crush on me when I need him to cover for me?

Grateful for: Fellini

The weekend

What I accomplished:

• Watched three more episodes of Firefly. Highly recommended.
• Did one load of laundry.
• Ran dishwasher.
• Picked up trash in front yard.
• Changed air filters in living room and basement.
• Downloaded a million old radio shows to listen to at my leisure.
• Wrote final October review for The Weblog Review. (My reviews are published under the name "Jamy Barab.")
• Bought new space heater in attempt to save on impending winter gas bill.
• Bought new doorbell ringer and got it to work.
(Above two items required a visit to Home Depot. Did I mention how much I hate Home Depot?)
• Grocery shopped.
• Got drunk Friday night.
• Flirted with boys on Friday and Saturday, albeit unintentionally.
• Played softball.
• Went to book group.
• Cooked dinner on Sunday night (shocking!).

What I failed to do:

• Finish reading book group book (as it turned out, I'd read more of the book than anyone else).
• Make brownies for party on Saturday.
• Put away laundry.
• Unload dishwasher.
• Not mention that I'd just broken up with someone at Friday night party (though it seemed to be a winning strategy with the boys).
• Not send embarrassing late night text message to Tim on Friday.

All in all, not a bad weekend.

Grateful for: productive weekends.

What, what, what?

As you know, I just broke up with someone. I said to TR when we walked home on Friday night, "I'd like to crawl into a hole for a week, but instead I have a party to go to on Friday and Saturday. I don't think I've ever been less happy to have two parties to go to in one weekend." He asked, "Why are you going if you don't want to?"

Good question. I don't know yet if this is a break up where I need to sit home and mope or where I need to get out and be sociable.

When I was 22, I had a break up after which I found myself completely unable to have fun when I went out. I remember going to see my friends who were in a band, walking up to the bar to get a beer, being accosted by some guy and telling him, "I had a really bad experience." I looked so miserable that every new man I met asked me, "What's wrong?"

I decided I needed to stay home for a while and mope. Telling every new guy I met that I'd had a really bad experience wasn't really doing it for me--or them. Being around other people made me feel worse than holing up in my tiny room and watching the black and white tv. I stayed home until I felt better. Since then, I give myself permission to be anti-social for a while after a break up if that's what I need.

This time, I didn't have a bad experience. I had a good experience. I spent time with a guy who I really liked and with whom I had tons of fun. I'm sad and I miss him, but I'd like to have more fun. I think I'll be ready soon for more fun.

I went to a party on Friday night where I knew no one (the perfect kind) and where the average age was 25, if you included me and Pele. (I actually did the math.) Yikes.

Several cute boys flirted with me and one seemed to want to kiss me.

I was flattered. Under any other circumstances, I would have kissed that boy, but my heart wasn't in it. Still it's nice to know that I can pull them in. Even the young 'uns.

My heart is so not in it that I can't even write out the amusing scene that led to a discussion of kissing. It started when I reapplied my lipstick and made reference to not kissing anyone for a long time to come. The boy said he hadn't kissed anyone for a long time and asked me why I was kissing glasses. I tried to explain that lipstick comes off on cups unless you wear the kiss-proof kind. I know I also asked him if he'd played kissing games as a kid. Please forgive me; I was drunk. But I don't understand why he hasn't kissed anyone for a long time. He was the most attractive man at the party.

I was surprised by the attention, but Pele wasn't. Her friend, the hostess, was impressed. I didn't quite believe it, but it was confirmed by others, so it had to be true. How's that for swerve?

I don't think I'm going the moping route this time.

Grateful for: "it."

Should I?

Before I fall asleep, I write him letters in my head. None of these letters ask him to come back to me. I want that, of course, but it's not what I write.

I want to tell him to choose happiness.

I want to tell him to stop feeling terrible for me and start feeling terrible for himself. His situation fills me with sorrow. It's depressing and impossible. Doesn't he think he deserves better? Deserves to be treated well? Deserves to have a happy life?

I don't feel bad for myself. I know I'm well out of it. I'm sad. I miss him already. But there was nothing I could do. I don't feel rejected. Not at all. I feel wanted. But I couldn't live like that--I'm too impatient. I could not stand waiting for the other shoe to drop. I couldn't be in a relationship where I never knew if it was ok to expect anything.

I want to tell him:
The hard choice is usually the right choice.
There are worse things than being alone.
You deserve to be happy.
You've tried long enough and it's ok to let go.
No one will think less of you.
They will admire you for making a hard, painful choice.
It will be ok.

Yesterday I became convinced that he will reconcile with his wife and spend the rest of his life in that unhappy marriage.

That's when I knew I was going to have to move on even though I don't want to.

Grateful for: really knowing.

Poor me

The day after you break up with someone you get to eat cold pizza and ice cream and call in sick.

He says it's not really a break-up but you call bullshit on that and point out that he's been acting like your boyfriend for the past month so it certainly is a break up. And if during the conversation he refers to you as his girlfriend you don't need to call him out on it.

Then again, since he's been reading your blog, maybe you just did call him out on it. (If you don't remember saying it, you'll just have to trust me.)

You told him it was fine to keep reading the blog after catching him fibbing about it and slapping him around (in a playful way). You are the two worst liars in the world. You asked him to tell you what was ok to write about and what wasn't but all he said was that he didn't want to censor you. Not helpful.

It's a break up because you won't have it any other way. It's your decision. He would ask you to wait, but you both know that's no good and not fair. He says, "It's good that you draw the line." You say, "I have a line and that's where it is. Until you make a decision, I can't be involved with you." It doesn't mean you like him any less. Or want to be with him any less. But you can't be happy in this situation. And that's what it feels like--a "situation" that is surrounding you, affecting you, but not about you. It is frustrating. It makes it hard to get really angry.

You could write a sad post or an angry post or an I-don't-care post. But "I don't care" would be a lie because you just don't want to care. You're tired of these non-boyfriends and these failed romances and you wonder if maybe you'll just stay home for the next thirty years. Or start drinking heavily. Nah, not gonna happen. At the least the staying home part.

Grateful for: knowing.

Two things

1. I totally blew it by not picking up any Red Vines while I was in Seattle. Red Vines are a delicious type of red licorice, only available West of the Mississippi. What was I thinking? Twizzlers don't hold a candle to Red Vines.
2. How completely hilarious is it that someone found this site via the search, "finding casual sex in washington dc." How disappointing for them! I think you could easily rename the site, "not finding casual sex in dc." I'll keep that in mind when I get tired of the whole "grateful for" shtick.

Grateful for: red vines.

Home at last

Did I mention how good it feels to be home?

I entered a house with carpets akimbo and salt all over the sofa due to the use of my salt and pepper shakers as cat toys. (Wonder how that happened? Click here.) There was a stack of mail, mostly bills and junk. Yet it felt so good to be in my place, with my things, with my life.

I fed the obviously hungry kitty and listened for the second time to the message from Spesh very politely asking me to pick him up at Dulles on Monday. Sorry, no can do--seeing as your plane arrives at 4:00pm and it's my first day of work after a week off. And, are you planning to stay with me? No mention of that! (Turns out he's not. And perhaps he's already in town. See you soon Spesh!)

Kitty looked puzzled that I was there and mostly ignored me. When I finally made it to bed after unpacking (on the same night I arrived? Unheard of!), she looked at me again as if to say, "What are you doing in that bed? It's my bed. Who do you think you are?" But she didn't bother me too much and even crawled under the covers for a little while and snuggled down by my feet. Maybe she missed me just a little.

I will update you on the Tim situation, but I've decided I need to talk to him first about what is on and off limits for the blog, so there won't be much detail. We talked yesterday and it was good and there is no breaking up happening yet. I hadn't heard from him since Tuesday and that caused me to think the worst. Turns out he sent me a text on Wednesday and I never received it. I wasted all that gloom on nothing! I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm feeling more calm and at ease. It's almost like I'm prepared to take things as they come. We'll see how long that lasts.

Maybe it's the jetlag.

Grateful for: home.

A condom story

A funny thing about drug stores in Seattle is that you can't pick up a package of Sudafed directly from the shelves. You have to pick up a card printed with information about the type of Sudafed you want, carry it to the pharmacy and have a clerk hand you the drugs after checking your id (for what, I'm not sure). However, you can readily access every type of condom imaginable.

In DC, the condoms are kept under lock and key or hidden behind the counter. The message? We don't care if you grind up cold medicine to make methamphetamine or whatever it is--that's good for the local economy. But stealing condoms? Oh no, must put a stop to that. But think about it--who is stealing condoms? Not me. It's teenagers. Shouldn't we encourage teenagers to steal condoms? Shouldn't we just subsidize the drug stores so that it's as easy as possible to obtain condoms?

This reminds me of a story about condoms from my Seattle days.

When I was 15 I took a class called the "Psychology of Human Sexuality." It was essentially a sex-ed class. I entered college early and I'd skipped traditional sex-ed. We'd gotten one or two days of it in the sixth grade and my parents told me the basics when I was quite young, but my modesty kept me from asking my mother too many questions. She would have answered, but I didn't like to talk to her about such things. I also wasn't that interested. Curious, yes. Burning with desire? No.

The class was fantastic. The professor was charismatic and managed to make very giggle-prone teenagers listen with rapt attention. We learned about orgasms, birth control, erections, masturbation and more. That class taught me what to expect from sex and gave me a practical approach.

One day, the professor told us how she used to instruct the men in her class to always carry a condom. A female student had come to her after class and asked, "Why do you only tell the guys to carry a condom?" The professor then said to us, "Now I tell all my students to carry a condom."

I was taking the class with a few friends: Audrey, Hans and Chris. Chris was inspired by the lecture and went to Bartell Drugs after class and bought a box of lubricated Trojans. He brought them to the E.E.P. lounge and I walked in that afternoon on a bunch of kids playing with condoms, putting them on doorknobs, a baseball bat (that one broke) and anything else that seemed likely. I'd never seen a condom before and only had a hypothetical understanding of their operation. There were plenty left over and Chris distributed them to everyone there. I put one in my wallet. That happened when I was 15 and I carried that condom around for four or five years. And, no, I never used it.

When I was 18, I spent a lot of time hanging out at a local coffee shop called "The Last Exit." I was friends with a fellow, Jerry, who had a bit of a crush on me. I tried to like him, I really did, but I could never quite get there. We had a good time hanging out and I'd be lying if I said I didn't like the attention. One day he said, "Let me look at your wallet." Isn't this a common mating ritual? Looking at each other's id's, photos, other random cards, etc. I told him no. "You don't want to do that."

"Oh, c'mon. Let me see."

"No. Here, I'll just show you what's in it." I started to pull out cards and random bits of paper I had in there. Jerry grabbed the wallet from me. "You don't want to do that." He started going through it. I gave up trying to get it back. When Jerry got to the condom he handed it back to me abruptly.

"Here. Why didn't you tell me not to look through it?"

"I did tell you!" Sigh. "Let me explain why it's there..."

"No. I don't want to talk about it." He got up and went and sat with some other friends of ours. He never ever acted the same way around me again. That's one way to kill a crush.

In a little over a year, I would finally have sex for the first time.

Grateful for: sex-ed.

Seattle highlights

• For the most part, getting along with Mom.


• Seeing Audrey and Amanda on Sunday (separately) and telling them the current dating saga. In Audrey's case, I told the story in the presence of a five-year-old, which required using code words. Amanda had me over for dinner and I told her the story after her son went to sleep. She reciprocated by telling me about her recent break-up. Now that's a good story. (I have other friends here, but not the energy to deal with them, so this is a four person visit: Audrey, Amanda, vip-ex and Mom.)


• Drinking many very good cappuccinos. The best moment? On Saturday Mom and I walked into a funky coffee shop, ordered my usual: short, skim cap and the barista asked, "wet or dry?" Sigh. Like heaven. "Dry."


• On the same Saturday, running into Victor, the owner of Big People Scooters and reminiscing about an ill-fated scooter rally to Canada many, many years ago. We recognized each other and he said, "That was 18 years ago!" Seventeen, actually. But I remember it vividly. I'll have to tell you that story another time.


• Talking to a bunch of grad students about why they shouldn't go into academia. Ha. Ok, that wasn't exactly it. It was a brown bag about non-academic careers. It was well attended and the students asked some interesting questions. I enjoyed myself.


• Coffee with vip-ex. He was out of town the day I gave my talk (in his department no less!). We had coffee on Wednesday afternoon. I told him about Tim and he was very interested. Jealous? Not exactly. Maybe just a little? It's the first time for a long time that I've told him a good news story about a boyfriend. I recognize that the story about Tim is not entirely good news, but was I going to tell vip-ex all that? No, I was not. I started this way, "You were funny about my mom when you called. She doesn't care if I talk to you."

  "She used to mind. How do I know?"
  
  "Well, she doesn't care so much now that there's a new boyfriend in the picture."
  
  "Oh really. Who is this new boyfriend? Is he a government worker like you?"
  
  "Sort of. He's in the military. Career."
  
  "That's great!"

  And on like that. Talking about Tim makes me smile, so vip-ex definitely got a good impression of him. I called him my boyfriend, which wasn't exactly kosher, but can you blame me? Vip-ex said something about my well-known reputation for restlessness. That was odd and news to me. Little does he know of my capacity for sitting for many hours in coffee shops working on the blog. At the very end of our conversation, vip-ex was going on about my rosy future with Tim. Strange, that. I said it was complicated. "Does he have a wife?"

  "Yes."
  
  "Separated?"
  
  "Yes. But she wants to reconcile."
  
  "It's just weeds. You have to be able to live with some weeds."
  
  "I am able to. I don't mind the fact of her. I can live with that. But he has some figuring out to do. I don't want to be one of the weeds."
  
  "No, of course not. But you're not. It'll be ok."

  And then we said goodbye. Now even vip-ex is comforting me. Hate that.


• Hanging out in the hideous main branch of the Seattle Public Library. I was there for a few hours and availed myself of the free wifi and the handy outlets built into the desks. The design was unbelievably ugly but great for computer use. This is the area where I sat. Audrey gave me a test before I went into the building: take the elevator to the top floor and see if you can get downstairs without using it. I managed it but not without difficulty. There is an entire floor that is red. The walls and ceiling are red. It's like being inside an intestine and you want to get out as quick as can be. The building is a testament to misguided progressive thinking. See for yourself.

It's not a real vacation being here. It's an attempt to see my mother and not have her drive me crazy. And vise versa. We're doing ok on that front. We're not feeling tense. We're liking each other. We're even having a little bit of fun and a few laughs. I told her about the blog and she was curious but didn't insist on reading it. She was happy for me. She was glad I found a venue for self-expression. When I was blue about the way Tim reacted to the blog, she didn't want his feelings to stop me from writing. She took my side without question, though she could understand how he felt. She suggested that I keep writing, but make it non-public. She encouraged me to give Tim a new alias and make it less easy to identify him (done and done).

I've also spent a lot of time doing computer technical assistance for Mom's mac. I don't mind. It keeps me out of trouble and she is grateful. It makes me feel useful. She bought herself the newest version of the OS, which means (ahem) that, somehow, it got installed on my machine as well. Sweet.

Seattle is a lovely town and I could happily live here again. I don't care about the weather, as much as I'd prefer sunshine. California might be more the ticket, but I like it here. I like the pace, I like the neighborhoods, I like my old friends. It's good to be close to Mom, though I'd like to live a few miles away. It's very hilly here and I'd probably need a car. Though I lived here for years and only used the bus and my feet. I suppose I'd get used to the hills again.

Still, I miss DC quite a bit. I have a good life there. So different that what my life was like when I lived here. I've grown up pretty much completely since I left Seattle, not that I was such a baby before I moved. I said to Mom that I feel very old and very young being here. Old because it's been so long since I lived here and young because when I lived here I was so much younger.

I like it here. I like it in DC. I've always wanted to live in NY. I think Chicago would be fun. Or LA or SF or...probably quite a few other places.

Did I mention that I'm getting a cold? That's a fun thing for "vacation."

I haven't talked to Tim since Tuesday. That's a strange feeling. I don't want to pressure him or be one more thing to worry about, so I'm not calling. I've given him enough to worry about this week, so I decided to lay off. It was easy once I got the right perspective on it. Pele said silence=pause and I know that's true. Deep breath. Enjoy the dry cappuccinos while they last and get ready for two more good days with Mom and a long plane ride home.

Grateful for: dry cappuccinos.

Keep on bloggin'

I'm overwhelmed with your kind, thoughtful words asking me to continue blogging.

Maybe I wasn't clear. I have no intention of stopping. The content may change. That's all.

One comment suggested that "Tim" (not his real name) write a guest post. Tim--are you reading? Are you game? I'll happily post anything you have to say.

Tim is uncomfortable with being known this way and I respect his feelings. (There are also military-type legal issues that make his concerns extra valid, but I don't want to go into that here.) He understands how important writing the blog is to me because he did not ask me to stop. However, I will have to stop writing about him, at least to some extent, because I would feel bad doing otherwise.

I talked to my Seattle friend Amanda about this and she had an interesting perspective. She said, "Having dated a writer, I can understand how he feels. Though, in a way, it's better than having it be fiction. Then people guess that it's you and think you really did say or do things that you didn't really say or do. If I were him, I wouldn't like it either. But I am pretty private." And I'm not, which means I've gone to the limit of my sympathy with Tim. However, I always knew, always, that this was going to be a problem for him. I let my needs trump his and I hoped, hoped, that it wouldn't bother him too much. That he could shake it off and forget about it. Maybe he can. In the meantime, I will make sure to subject him to less scrutiny and keep the focus where it belongs--on me, me, me!

I don't think I would have had the same reaction as Tim to the blog, though. For example, when JenA and I made a three minute movie together a few months ago, I wanted to be in front of the camera. I still have a fantasy about being a movie star. I want to be known. If it means sacrificing some privacy in the process, so be it.

Another comment asked if I were writing for myself or my audience. It's both. I had no idea that I would get an audience when I started blogging--though I hoped I would. The fact that I have an audience is delightful and it's a wonderful motivator. It certainly makes it more likely that I will keep writing. I don't think that there are any writers out there who don't care if they are read. Diarists maybe. I'm a diarist and I'm a writer and I want to be read. I write for my own reasons, to vent, to get my feelings out there, out of my head. But I'm also an inveterate story-teller. I love the sound of my own voice. I have a lot of stories to tell. Many, many stories.

I could stick with stories from my past, of which there are many amusing ones. I could also stick with non-Tim current events, which also abound, but aren't as compelling.

I'll figure something out and I hope you'll stick around for the ride.

Grateful for: readers.

To blog or not to blog

This may be the hardest thing I've ever done. Well, not really. Not even close. But it's sure not easy.

The blog has brought me a lot of happiness. It's added a new dimension to my life. I've made new friends, learned a lot and, most importantly, found a way to write regulary.

I have a blog problem.

Before I left for Seattle (where I still am) I told Tim (my "boyfriend") about the blog. He was surprised, curious and not particularly happy about it.

The night before I left town, I showed him the blog. He insisted and I couldn't say no. Everyone else has seen it and he can't? He didn't think that was right and I had to agree.

We also had a "big serious discussion" about our relationship.

The outcome of the big serious discussion? We're "pausing." Whatever that means. When I get back to DC, we get to have another "big serious discussion." Love this! Not.

The reason for the pause should be obvious, but here is the shortest possible summary:
He thinks I deserve better than this--I should be with someone who can give me his full attention. (No argument from me, but I enjoy all the time I spend with Tim.) My view is that I don't know if this is a good situation for him while he's trying to resolve his marriage stuff. We were both thinking about splitting but we couldn't quite do it. Maybe we won't have to, but I'm getting mentally prepared for it. Great way to spend a vacation.

Tim: We can't go backwards but I don't want to stop. I'd like to pause. Can we pause?
Jamy: Sure. I guess so.
Tim: We'll talk when you get back. Ten days can be a long time.

It sure can. In the rain. With Mom. While catching a headcold. And when spending many hours revising the blog.

Ah yes, the blog. Tim's not happy about it. If it were up to him, you wouldn't be reading our conversations or know anything about him. If I'd asked for his permission to write about him, he wouldn't have given it. Ouch. Yet he understands how important the blog is to me. That it is my outlet, my main venue for self-expression. Not to mention the free therapy!

I'm not very private. I keep some secrets, but not many. But I know that Tim is private. I hesitated to post about him from the beginning. I've been careful about what I've written. But I have given many details about our interactions and about his life. And friends of mine read the blog so it's not actually secret. It might be better if all of you were strangers. The dozen who aren't strangers are more of a problem than the hundred who are.

I tried to make him more anonymous (without being asked). I offered to take posts about him down or move the whole thing somewhere else--make it invisible. I offered to stop writing about him. I felt very, very bad.

Funny, my worry about Tim reading the blog was that he would think I was nuts when he read about my fears, doubts and hesitations. But that didn't bother him. What bothered him was being seen--how the writing showed him to the world. I worried that it would change the way he saw me and he was worried that it would expose him to--you. Except for not being happy with me, he sees me the same way because, well, I pretty much have told him most of the things I've written about and he gets that this is a journal and not exactly, precisely how I feel about things. I, however, did not come close to anticipating how it would make him feel to be written about--probably because I would not have felt the same way.

At the risk of violating his trust even more ('cause who knows if he's reading. I asked him not to, but I'm not going to forbid it. That seems as wrong as any other decision I've made.), I'll repeat some of our conversation:

He said, "...there is sort of a competing interest here between my privacy and your...desires. I wouldn't have consented to it, but it's important to you and I won't ask you to take it down. What bothered me the most was that your friends were reading about us. But then I realized that you would tell them most of that stuff anyway."

"Well, yes. I was going to point that out..."

"You tell Pele everything."

"It's true. But I tell Pele more than I tell other people. But she likes you. Everyone likes you. You're likeable!"

I'm not sure what to do. Keep writing about Tim? Cut him out of the blog? Paraphrase him instead of quoting? Fictionalize like crazy? Change the focus of this site?

It's not like I can't write whatever I want and not publish it. And don't think that's not happening.

I feel like I'm letting my scores of readers down. But that would be vain. It's just...I love your attention. I am vain! I love having your feedback, even when I fight with you. It's like one big, happy, dysfunctional family. (You know who my favorite fictional family is, right? The Addams Family, of course!)

Tim said it himself, "It's like reality tv, but interactive." True. I also hope it's at least a tiny bit more dignified. And funnier. Heh.

Grateful for: time to think.

Camp Story

Part I

The summer before I started the 6th grade, when I was 11, I went to overnight camp for three weeks in [Nowheresville], Indiana. The prior two summers I'd gone to overnight camp for two weeks at Camp [Very Small Town] in North Carolina, close to our home in Knoxville, TN. The camp in NC was run by a Quaker family and my mother thought I should go to a Jewish camp instead. She'd gone to a Jewish camp in upstate New York for most of her childhood and she'd loved it. She hoped I would have a similar experience. I loved my small town NC camp and I wasn't happy about going to the Jewish camp, but what could I do? The Jewish camp was pretty much a total and complete nightmare.


This is a picture of me at the old camp. I'm in the upper right hand corner with the dark brown hair and the wide open mouth.

At the old camp, there were only thirty kids and we ate vegetables we picked in the garden and fresh-baked bread. There were only five girls in a cabin (see above) and we slept in rudimentary "platform" tents. I even had a little boyfriend who I held hands with each of the summers I was there. And there was a Nigerian counselor who I had a crush on.

The Jewish camp was much bigger than the old camp and there were many more campers. My cabin housed twelve girls with a little room for our counselor. The cabin itself was a real building and the bunks were lined against the walls. The cafeteria was huge and the food was terrible. I had no friends and I was even the wrong kind of Jewish. I was Reform but most of the campers were Conservative. There was a Friday night service and it contained prayers in Hebrew that I had only learned in English.

Attire was very important at the Jewish camp and I didn't have the right labels or brands. I also did not have a bra. The other girls teased me and said I needed to wear a bra. I told them that I didn't and the idea that I did was ridiculous--there was NOTHING there. They kept on. "Fine, someone loan me a bra and I'll wear it." They claimed that sharing bras was the equivalent of sharing underwear and therefore disgusting. How could I suggest such a disgusting thing? I said, "Look, it's obviously not the same thing at all. It's your idea that I wear a bra and I'm willing. But if no one will lend me one then I can't wear one. So stop giving me a hard time about it." I think that ended it. I was astonished at their rudeness and embarrassed by my lack of sophistication. Even though I was born in New York City, I'd lived in Knoxville since I was five. I became famous at camp for my Southernized swearing, which consisted of "crud" and "gosh-dangit."

At Jewish camp, prior to the Friday night service, there was a ritual called the "Shabbat Walk." All the campers dressed up in their nicest, whitest clothing. (It's traditional to wear white on the Sabbath. We never did this at my house.) The campers walked through the camp, starting at the boys' section. Every girl wanted a boy ask her on the Shabbat Walk. When the walk got to the girl's section, you would walk next to the boy who asked you.

There was one boy I liked (Morrie) and one girl I was friends with (Naomi). I hoped Morrie would ask me on the Shabbat Walk. A lot of my energy was spent trying to get him to pop the question, though I knew there was a good chance he would ask Naomi instead of me. The three of us were out by the swings and Morrie took me to the side and said, "I like both of you. You're the smart one. She is the pretty one. I'm going to ask her." I thought, "I'm the smart one AND the pretty one." Naomi dropped me immediately after Morrie asked her on the walk. Either she'd been using me to get to him or she was embarrassed. After that, I was totally alone. I gave up on having friends, gave up on the walk and I resigned myself to a completely miserable summer.

Yet, there was more humiliation in store.



Part II

There was a boy at camp, John, who liked to tease me. Like all little girls, I'd been told that when a boy was mean it meant that he liked me. I did not think that John liked me. (In retrospect, he probably did like me. Or he was a sadist. The teasing he threw my way was relentless. Even if he liked me, it in no way excuses his behavior.) John was the boyfriend of one of the most popular and prettiest girls in the camp.

John loved to harass me about my sneakers. I wore yellow Addidas running shoes with dark blue stripes. I loved those shoes. Everyone else wore white Nike tennis shoes with a light blue swoosh. I loved my shoes and no one in Knoxville wore Nikes. John would say, "What are you, a runner? Why are you wearing running shoes?" I would say, "I like them." He would say, "Don't you know they are running shoes? Don’t you even know what kind of shoes you're wearing?" I would say, "Why do you care? You don't have to wear them." Then I would try and ignore him, but he would persist. That scene was repeated many times. I hated him.

One day, at dinner, I was sitting two tables over from John and we were facing each other. He started gesturing to me and pointing to the boy sitting beside him, a boy I had never met. I tried to ignore John. I knew only pain and horror could come from anything connected to him. He continued to gesture and make eye contact--so openly and broadly that the girls at my table noticed. They said, "Jamy--is John trying to talk to you?"

Jamy [Thinking, "I hate John."]: No.
Girls: He's pointing at Danny. Ooo…Danny is really nice.
Jamy: Who is Danny?
Girls: Don't you like Danny? Everyone loves Danny.
Jamy: I don't know Danny. I've never even seen Danny.
Girls: Oooo….I think John is saying Danny likes you. He wants to ask you on the Shabbat Walk!
Jamy: I don't think so.

In fact, it was obvious that John was suggesting that Danny wanted to go on the Shabbat Walk with me, but the girls wouldn't let me ignore him. No one seemed to know that John had it out for me. I never complained about John. John's girlfriend was in my tent and was very popular. I knew I had to keep my mouth shut. Not having any friends made it pretty easy--there was no one to talk to.

After dinner there was a social activity scheduled. My group and John's (and Danny's) group met in the social hall. The girls asked me if I were going to talk to Danny. I said no. They said that Danny was really nice and I should go and talk to him. I said no. Danny was looking at me. A couple of the girls pushed me up to Danny. I found myself standing in front of him looking directly into his hazel eyes. I said, "Hi." Before Danny could say anything, a girl popped up in between us like a jack-in-the-box and said, "He's taken."

I didn't I say anything. Just stood there with my mouth open. I backed away to the corner of the room. John had planned the whole thing. The room of campers witnessed the entire of drama and, of course, I was at fault. One of the girls whose two little hands pushed me up to Danny came over and said, "Didn't you know that Danny had a girlfriend?"

I said, "How was I supposed to know? I've never even seen him before. Why did you push me to him if he had a girlfriend?"

"Well, I thought they'd broken up."

"Um, well, I guess not." I hated her too. I hated everything about that place.

The next day, Danny's girlfriend said she realized that I didn't know that she and Danny were together. She knew that John had cooked up the whole thing and even though she didn't come out and say it, she knew that John had it out for me. She felt bad about being implicated in John's scheme and asked me to join Danny and her on the Shabbat walk. I did. It turned out that Danny was a nice guy. I remember the three of us sitting all by ourselves in the cafeteria for Shabbat dinner. I was far away from John and I didn't have to talk to the nasty girls. That was my last year at overnight camp and I never wanted to go back.

This is why when Jeff asked me out in public, I ran away. Even though I knew I was pretty and smart I wasn't used to boys noticing. Maybe it's time for me to get over this. It was a long time ago and I'm all grown up now. Sort of.


This is a picture of me and my dog on the stoop of our house in DC when I was 12, less than a year after the Jewish camp. (I'm wearing one of my favorite shirts, a hand-me-down from Mom.)

Grateful for: camp.

A quick one

Yom Kippur starts tonight and I will be attending services and fasting, as I do every year. I've fasted since I was 13, but I've been a little spotty on attending services. From about age 16 to 23, I didn't go. I have tickets this year and I like the Rabbi, so I'm definitely going tonight. I'll be there part of tomorrow, certainly for the evening services. I like the morning service, but I may sleep in and get my life organized instead. We'll see how inspired I am.

Tonight I will do some laundry and go to bed early. Maybe I'll read the book group book, which I finally managed to buy on Monday. Tomorrow, in the mid-day, I may start packing and finish the laundry. Maybe I'll mail Tim his birthday present so he'll get it by next Tuesday. I'm bummed that I'll miss his birthday. I'm especially bummed because instead of seeing me, he'll probably do something with his wife. This situation is icky.

I haven't spoken to Tim since Tuesday morning. Given that it is now Wednesday afternoon, it is no big deal. And guess what? I'm not freaking out. It's a first. Of course, it helps that we made plans. We're seeing each other on Thursday evening, after I'm done with the praying and the fasting. I don't suppose we'll do anything elaborate--I'll be tired. Fasting tends to take it out of me (and it's a dry fast, so I'll probably have a headache by the end of the day).

I'll be extra full of nerves since I leave for Seattle on Friday morning. Luckily, my flight is at 11:00 am so no crazy early waking up is required. Tim may have to come over to my house and watch me pack. What fun! I'm oddly transformed while packing into a hyper, flitting creature. Packing for this trip should be easy: three pairs of black pants, some long sleeve shirts, a fleece jacket, my parka and waterproof boots. (Of course, there will be more: sneakers, exercise clothes, night clothes, one skirt, one nice pair of shoes, electronic equipment, toiletries, under things, etc.) It's already cold and rainy in Seattle and I'm not planning to go out on the town, so it should be easy. I'm still thinking I should start the packing tonight so I don't have too much to do on Thursday and I can have a good time with Tim instead of subjecting him to my packing drama.

I don't feel anxious or crazy, but I do feel a little sad. The situation with Tim is so sticky, how can anything good come of it? How long will it take him to resolve the divorce issue? Will it go on until he's actually divorced? Will he come out of it and still want to be with me? Does my presence make things worse? How long should I wait for him?

I can't answer these questions, but they are floating around, leaving me uneasy. I hope that while I'm home, drinking perfect cappuccinos and staying well insulated in many layers of wool clothing, I can put these thoughts out of my head. I will see my friends, have fun with Mom, do a lot of writing and enjoy Seattle. I'll miss Tim. But I'll also miss Pele and the rest of the DC crew. Not to mention Miss Tabitha. Poor baby! TR is coming to feed her, so she should be ok. But she'll be lonely. Ah, feel the guilt? Tim offered to look in on her too, but we didn't decide if he would or not. We'll see.

As far as the blog goes, I have something in the hopper that will go up tomorrow. It's a long childhood story, but relevant to dating. It will be up for a few days so you can take your time to read it. There will even be pictures! I don't know when I'll be able to post from Seattle. I'm sure I'll find a nice coffee shop near Mom's with wifi and post from there, but I won't use Mom's computer (scary!). Can you believe I told Tim about the blog before I told Mom or Dad? Ah, the parents--always the last to know.

Take care everyone. Have an easy fast.

Grateful for: time away.

I didn't mean to do it

Last night, I told Tim about the blog.

It was rather like the conversation I had with Spesh about it. I got to his house at 7:40pm for dinner. Tim asked how I spent my day. I said I took care of bills, finally put away the camping gear, went to a coffee shop and did some writing. (I also bought him a birthday present, but I didn't mention that.)

"Did you write in your journal?"

"Not exactly."

"What were you writing? A story?"

"No."

"A novel?"

"No."

"A play?"

"No. It's like a journal. Not the journal you saw [I'd told him about my paper journal]. But basically a journal."

"A blog?"

"Yes. A blog."

He asked how many people read it, what did I write about. "Do you write about movies?"

"Sometimes."

"Football?"

"Sometimes."

"What's it called?"

"I'm not telling you that! You can't read the blog. You don't want to read it. Really."

He asked what I said about him. I told him I didn't say anything bad. That I keep certain things private. That I never write about sex. That I never write about his wife, other than that she exists. "It's mostly how I feel about things. It's like a journal, but it's also like fiction. It's heavily edited and sometimes fictionalized. It's edited for flow. It's different from my journal--I have dialog in my journal, but not as much. There is a lot of dialog in the blog."

"Why wouldn't I want to read it?"

"There are things I wouldn't tell you."

"You don't have to worry about not telling me things."

"It's not that--it's that I need to process those things on my own first. I'm not ready to tell you everything. I...it isn't about you. There's no point telling you. There is stuff I have to deal with. Like this week, I was feeling anxious and I didn't tell you, but I wrote about it. It was mostly my thing. I just had to deal with it."

"You can talk to me."

"I know."

"Do people read it? Do they comment? Do they know I'm married?"

"Oh yes. Today I had a big fight with some people in the comments. They don't like what I'm doing."

"What are they saying?"

"That I should stop calling you so much. I'll scare you away. That men are 'hard wired' to pursue women. That I shouldn't get too emotionally involved. They pretty much think I'm crazy."

He shook his head.

I said, "I was going to tell you about the blog eventually."

"You should tell me. People are reading about me!"

"I was going to tell you, but there was no point unless you were going to be around for a while. I was always planning to tell you."

I watched him as he cooked dinner. Instead of being helpful, I made him nervous. We ate and chatted but I had to keep repeating myself. He has a bad ear and usually I make a point to speak clearly. "You're quiet tonight. I can't hear you."

"Maybe I am. I think I'm nervous."

"I can tell."

After dinner, he did the dishes (I offered, but he wouldn't let me help). I rubbed his back while he washed. He said we had to hurry because we were to be late to meet his buddy to watch the game. "We're going out?"

"Didn't I mention that? I'm sorry. I guess I forgot to tell you."

"It's ok. It's fine. I don't mind."

He went upstairs to change into jeans and get his jacket. I sat on the couch, trying to ground myself, but I was full of anxiety. He came downstairs and he could tell something was wrong. "Are you ready?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?" He sat down and took my hand.

"Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't know what's wrong. I feel bad."

"It's probably the same reason that I feel bad."

"Why do you feel bad?"

"Something's not the same. We had a nice conversation at dinner, but we didn't really talk. Anyone could have had that conversation. It doesn't feel the same. When I hold your hand, it feels different." He was still holding my hand.

"What do you mean?"

"Even though we're not 'boyfriend/girlfriend' we're still in this exclusive relationship...but...I thought my wife was out of it. And so was I. But now..."

"But now you feel married again. You didn't feel married before."

"Yes. It feels different because I feel guilty now. I didn't before. I don't know why you would want to be with me."

"It doesn't feel different to me. You're still the same person. I still like you." He hugged me and we lay on the sofa, holding on tight.

"You do? Why do you like me?"

"Why do you like me?"

"No way. I asked you first!"

"Ok. I like you because you're funny and smart and silly. And we get along so well. And you're cute and a good kisser." He laughed. "What?"

"I'm embarrassed." He held me tighter.

"Silly. And...I like you because I like you. It's easy being together. For all those intangible reasons. So...why do you like me?"

"That's a hard question to answer...but easy to ask. You're intelligent, you're a doctor, because we get along so well. Even though we don't agree on everything, we can still talk about it. It's interesting. Because you are so responsive. I never thought about the kissing thing..."

"You don't think I'm a good kisser?" I said.

"I just never thought about it like that before. I like kissing you."

"Look, we have to make plans for this week or it's going to make me crazy." We did make plans, eventually.

Then his wife called and he didn't answer. We rode our bikes to meet his friend. We only missed a few minutes of the game.

There are a lot of problems with this situation, but there are not a lot of problems with Tim. When we talked, he looked like a boy. Lost and scared and worried--and trying so hard not to hurt me. He knows that it is his choice to stay engaged with his wife. He knows that just because she is asking him to return, it doesn't mean he has to go back. But he can't quite let go. Not quite. It's got nothing to do with me.

Folks, you can stop telling me that he is not available. I know that. And please don't tell me that I like him because he is not available. I like him because he's him. I liked him when he was available. I like him now that he's not available. I like him even though I know he may never be available.

It's crazy, but I feel closer to him than ever before. We both know it's absurd to feel this way after such a short time together and under these circumstances. Yet I think it's the circumstances that have brought us closer than we would have been otherwise. He's opened up to me in a way that he might not have otherwise and I've done the same. It's unusual.

I hope he chooses not to stay in a marriage that will only bring him more unhappiness. I hope he can forgive himself. I have faith that he will let go of the past and walk in to the future.

Grateful for: the here and now.

So wrong

I'm not sure what's happening to me, but I am getting a perverse thrill from arguing with DCDireWolf and Ms. (!) Anonymous in the comments on today's earlier post. It's wrong, I tell you.

I know my posture is defensive. It belies the comfort I feel regarding Tim. But, you know, too fucking bad. My current state of mind is ephemeral and I could well be back on the anxiety express tomorrow. That's life.

In the last couple of posts, I told you what happened, but I didn't interpret. I let you draw your own conclusions. I did not think that meant that some readers would think that I didn't know what the hell was going on with me and Tim.

I know what is going on! I know he's withdrawing. He told me! (That was in the post, by the way.) He needs to withdraw so he can work on his marriage/divorce issues. He is sharing some of it with me in the interests of being open and honest and building a foundation of trust for our potential relationship. He can't be completely, 100% available to me now. Is that a good thing? Yes and no.

It's good because he is taking the time he needs to do what he needs to do--he is putting his emotional health first. That's good because I want to be with someone who knows how to take care of himself. I'm here to help him if I can, but it's not the kind of thing a new girlfriend (for lack of a better word) can help with. He needs to do this himself.

It's bad because there a risk that he is not sufficiently emotionally available to be in a relationship (of any kind). There is a huge risk. That is why I'm not calling him and not pressuring him. That is why it may be a good thing that I'm going out of town.

The current state of affairs is a shift from when I first met Tim. Three weeks ago, he was a pursuer. He knew what he wanted from me. Now, he's not as sure. He wants me to be there for him when he's ready. But is he ready? He doesn't know. I don't know. When will he be ready? It could be tonight. It could be in six months.

That's where how I feel comes in. If I can be satisfied with what he has to offer, then I will stick around. If he is stringing me along, keeping me at arms length, not engaging with me, then I know I have the option to leave. But I'm not giving up yet. We still have a good thing. I want to see if it will continue. If it starts to make me more unhappy than happy, then I will reassess.

I am not looking for advice. I'm not confused. I think the comments have many purposes, but one of them is not for people to tell me how to live my life. I'm tempted to turn the comments off, but I'm not going to do that. I haven't censored anyone and I won't. I will reconsider my policy of responding to comments, though. I've let that get a bit out of hand.

Grateful for: a sense of humor.

The waiting game

Sunday was a long day.

If you think I've been calling Tim too much, maybe you will change your mind after reading this story.

I said goodbye to Tim on Saturday morning. He went to Annapolis to see a football game with his buddy and I went to see my "little sister" (not my actual sister). We discussed getting together later in the day and he said he would call me.

He called me at 2:30pm, after I dropped off the little sister. He said they were going to watch another football game on tv later in the afternoon somewhere in DC. I said I was going to the grocery store and would take a nap when I got home. He asked me to call him when I woke up from my nap.

I woke up around 4:30, after not really napping, and called Tim. He said they were on their way to the bar in DC and he would call me when they got there. I went back to sleep.

At 6:00pm Tim called me and told me where to meet them. I puttered a little, fed the cat, and headed out. I was about a block away from home when Tim called again, at 6:15pm. He asked where I was and began apologizing. He had to talk to his wife and was leaving the bar to meet her. I turned around and walked home. He apologized some more. He said, "This has nothing to do with you. I hate bringing you into this. It doesn't reflect on you as a person. I'll make it up to you."

I said it was ok, though I didn't understand why he needed to spend another night fighting with her. "You're worried about her, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Just remember to think about what you want and take care of yourself."

"Thank you." He said he would call me later or the next morning.

He called Sunday morning at 10:15am. He apologized for not calling Saturday night. When he got home he fell asleep in his clothes and woke up that way in the morning. The conversation was awkward. I wanted to see him but he couldn't make plans. He said, "I'll call you later. I need to be alone. I'm still tired and I need to take care of some things around the house and have some time to myself."

"Sure, I understand. I'd like to see you. But..."

"I'll call you this afternoon. I'll probably feel better by then."'

I'd gotten up early and vacuumed. After we hung up, I ate breakfast and watched a movie. I called Pele at noon and gave her the scoop.

Then I spent 45 minutes working through the jungle of my back yard. There were small tree-like weeds growing out there that I could not uproot as they were wedged between the paving stones. Crazy. It needs another hour to be completely weed-free, but it looks much better than before.

Pele called me at 5:00pm. I hadn't heard from Tim. She came over and got me out of the house. We went for a bite to eat and watched part of the Redskins game. She knew I was waiting for a call, but there was nothing to be done.

By 7:30 I hadn't heard from him. I felt bad. I was worried about him but there wasn't much I could do to help. It was tempting to call, but there was no point in calling. It was hard to wait. It hurt. It wasn't the same kind of anxiety that I felt last week, but it still was not fun. I thought, "This could be it. It's entirely possible that he won't go back to his wife and that we'll still break up. Maybe starting something new is too much right now. "

He called at 8:30pm and we were on the phone for about an hour. When I told him I'd gone out with Pele he wanted to know where. I said, "It's not like you weren't invited."

"I was just home. In a funk." Indeed.

He started to tell me about his conversation with his wife. I said, "I don't know if I'm supposed to ask you--but I'll listen to anything you want to tell me."

"That's why I'm telling you. Do you want to know? Did you feel like you have to drag it out of me?"

"No--you're telling me. I do want to know. But..."

"But how much..."

"Right. I don't need to know everything." He told me quite a bit. It helped to understand what he's going through.

He doesn't think their problems can be fixed. But he feels guilty. He feels like a failure for leaving the marriage. I said, "Staying because you would feel like a failure for leaving would be the worst reason to stay." He agreed. He told me that if he could figure out a way to be happy with her, he would. It's not the first time he's told me this and I understand the sentiment. "I left the door open a crack, " he said. I agree. He's 99% sure about his decision, but that last 1% is still unsure. We both agreed that I did not and should not figure into his decision making.

He still has some sorting out to do, which is why he couldn't see me on Sunday. He said, "That stuff was still bothering me when I saw you on Friday. I want to get it out of my mind before I see you."

At the beginning of our conversation on Sunday night he made sure I was free to see the game Monday night. He asked me to come over for dinner first.

I told him I was disappointed about how the weekend turned out; that I won't get to see him very much before I leave for Seattle. He apologized and I told him to stop. I said, "No more. I want to apologize too."

"But you're blameless!"

"I hate that."

Of course he likes me, of course he wants to see me. I feel the same. He is ready to leave his marriage, but he still needs to reconcile himself to the fact that it's over. Really over. That must be hard. He thought it was over when he met me, three weeks ago, but his wife changed her mind and he's had to make the decision all over again.

I want to stay out of his way and leave him the space to figure it out on his own. But I still want to see him--it feels selfish.

Maybe this isn't the worst possible time for ten days out of town (I leave on Friday).

Maybe it's just the right time.

Grateful for: calm.

It ain't over 'til it's over

On Thursday, I was chipper and calm and in a great mood. Thursday evening, when I got home, I gave Tim a call a little after 11:00pm to say goodnight. He didn't answer so I left a short message, ending with, "see you tomorrow."

Friday was a busy day at work, but as it wore on, my anxiety grew as I waited to hear from Tim. I knew that he was probably asleep when I called. I knew that he assumed we had plans and would probably call me when he got off work. So I waited. I didn't want to be unhappy. I wanted to be happy. I reminded myself of all the good things about Tim. I replayed some of our last conversation. I thought, "What would happen if he never called?" I realized that there was no way he wouldn't call. Still, I was uneasy.

I went to Herndon for a meeting in the afternoon and got off the metro near home around 5:30. I still hadn't heard from Tim and I was very uneasy. When I got home, I had a drink.

By 6:30, I was starting to lose it. I called him. No answer. I sent a text. No response.

I waited half an hour and I called again. No answer.

I was distraught. Beside myself. Miserable.

It didn't make any sense. Tim has always called when he said he would. Even if he were going to break up with me, I know he would call. Yet, I didn't know what to make of his silence and I didn't know what to do with myself.

I had another drink. I smoked a cigarette.

He called. He apologized. He'd been having a fight with his wife and he couldn't take my call. He said he would be over in 20 minutes. I said I was upset but we could talk about it when he got here.

I put a cool washcloth on my eyes and listened to some music.

When he arrived, I wasn't angry. Just sad.

We sat on the couch. He apologized again and said he'd meant to call at 5:30, when he thought I would be done with work, but instead he was fighting with his wife. She wants him back.

He'd planned to make me dinner. He had it all thought out. He said, "You can say it was wrong. It was wrong not to call."

He said, "Are you going to dump me? You said you were upset and wanted to talk to me when I got here..."

"I'm not going to dump you. Are you kidding? I thought you were going to dump me. We have a cheerful view of things, don't we?"

I asked him what he was going to do. He said, "I'm here, aren't I?"

I get it now. Why I've been anxious all week. It's not just that I'm afraid he's going to break up with me. I'm afraid he's going back to his wife. And, if that's what he needs to do, I wouldn't be angry. But it's there, always, looming. That's the feeling of doom. Me and my crazy high standards, dating a married man. That, combined with how much I like him, is enough to make me anxious.

We held each other. He said, "Let's go see a stupid movie at Union Station."

"Do you want to?"

"Do you?"

"I guess not really. I have a movie here. We can watch that and make something to eat."

And that's what we did. Despite the terrible beginning, it turned out to be one of our best dates so far. We laughed, joked, kissed, cooked, watched some of the movie and talked about whatever we wanted to.

I know we're still on dangerous ground and I don't know what's going to happen, but it's so much fun being together that I hope it lasts quite a bit longer.

Grateful for: feelings.

Laughing all the way

Today, the sun is out and it's a bright and glorious day. Well, actually, it's cloudy and drizzly, but you take my meaning. This morning, I emerged feeling happy and content from my haze of anxiety.

But I am still little stunned by all the comments telling me what I should do:

• Quit overanalyzing
• Try not to think about the relationship
• Relax
• Stop calling Tim so often

Yesterday, I wasn't thinking very much about Tim as a person or about any of the specifics of how we get along, what our time is like together or what I expect to happen. It was a general bad feeling, disconnected from any specific thought or incident. There was also an urge to flee. I need to find better ways to deal with these feelings, better strategies to get me through anxious times. I will work on that.

However, telling someone who occasionally suffers from anxiety that she should "quit overanalyzing" is not helpful. I wasn't analyzing at all. One of the things that helped me feel better was a conversation with Pele where I focused on some concrete things about Tim. Thinking of him as a flesh and blood person and remembering what I like about him helped ground me. Not thinking about him wasn't possible. Making him more real and less a looming unknown was helpful.

Relaxing, of course, is always a good idea. I didn't use any specific relaxation techniques, but I walked to work, went to the gym and walked home. I tired myself out physically and was rewarded with a restful night's sleep.

Calling Tim yesterday afternoon was fine. He didn't care. He was happy to hear from me. In the short run, it helped calm me down and for that alone it was worth it. If he can't handle one call in the afternoon, then he's not worth the trouble. For the record, it was the first time I've called him during working hours and it won't be a regular thing. Generally, he calls me. I know when I'm being pushy and this is not one of those times. It's not even in my tone when we talk. If anything, I'm withdrawn (which isn't good either, but totally understandable). He called me last night, just when he said he would, and we had a good, funny conversation where he suggested we go to the movies on Friday (swing dancing was rejected). We hung up looking forward to our next date.

It's funny that anyone could think that we're not in a relationship. It doesn't matter if it's a formal BF/GF thing or if we're "friends." It's a relationship. If we were to end it now, it would be a break up. I'm not saying it would crush me or that it would be hard to recover--it wouldn't. I would be sad. I would move on.

Several people have made the comment that it will fizzle quickly. It is one of my fears. However, when I read that comment, my gut says "no." I can't say with certainty what will happen. It may be over quickly. But all of his behavior indicates a desire to stick around. I want to stick around too. I want to accept things for what they are--appreciate the time I spend with him and enjoy myself--and not have the need for formal definitions. That's what I want. Doing it without being an anxious wreck is the goal. If it gets to be more anxiety than fun, I will consider leaving (after talking to him first, of course).

I'm sure that everyone who wrote comments meant well and I'm touched that you took the trouble. I'm honored and flattered that you are reading and following and feeling engaged with my life. The last time we had an advice-fest was regarding Jay and I explicitly asked you to stop giving advice. I was overwhelmed and couldn't handle all the different comments and ideas coming at me.

I'm not going to do that this time. I know how I feel. I'm not unsure about his motivations or how much he likes me. I don't have to guess about that stuff. He is an open book, not a cipher. There may be things that throw us off course; things that I can't foresee or things that are obvious. But it's so much clearer to me where we are headed that the comments don't really matter.

But I take comments seriously and sometimes they can hurt my feelings, make me doubt myself or cheer me up. I guess I was hoping for more cheering comments on the last post and fewer "stop acting crazy" ones. Especially since I wasn't acting crazy, merely feeling crazy. In the past, those feelings might have led to crazy actions, desperate phone calls or who knows what. But not now.

One last point: the entire post was totally funny! Why didn't anyone laugh? I wrote it after I was feeling much calmer and less anxious. I wrote it because I HATE being "poor me" when there is absolutely nothing wrong. I wrote it in the spirit of sharing some of my internal life with you and letting you join me in my journey--and letting you know how I struggle sometimes. I can't help poking a little fun at the ways in which many of us humans get a little out of control for no reason--me especially. I'm hilarious and absurd--and that's life!

Grateful for: never taking myself too seriously.

It's not easy being crazy

Today, for no reason that I could identify, I was overwhelmed with anxiety and on the edge of tears. It would be easy to blame Tim because he is, of course, the source of my anxiety. He has done nothing wrong.

Nothing.

Yet I was having a major league freak out.

About nothing.

I knew, rationally, there was nothing to worry about. He did not call me last night, but that didn't seem like a huge thing. I didn't call him either. I knew that even if there were something to worry about, I would survive just fine. The way I have survived every other break up in my life.

It didn't help.

I emailed Pele and she gave me rational words: It's fine that Tim didn't call last night. He sent a text. It's fine that you don't have something on the books right now. If you would like to have something on the books, call him and ask him to do something.

That was my plan, actually. That I would call him tonight and suggest that we go out on Friday. That I would, under no circumstances say, "when am I going to see you again?" I even had two suggestions ready: swing dancing or movies. The same two date ideas that Pele suggested. We're scary.

I thought, "I'll just send him a text this afternoon." I didn't want to bother him at work. I composed the message, but I couldn't send it. I decided to call him, but I waited. At 4:00pm, I called. I used my work phone so I could hang up without leaving a message if he didn't answer. I might have left a message, but I wanted the option. Calling from work provides freedom from caller id since it displays a different number every time.

He answered. "Oh, you're calling from the work phone."

"Yes. It's phone number lottery, you never know which one you'll get."

"What's up?"

"Nothing. Just working. Well, not this minute." I'm incabaple of coming straight to the point in a phone call. I need a few minutes to warm up.

"I took the afternoon off so I could do my homework. I'm way behind. I need to get this studying done." Wonder why. My fault! "Can you hang on for a second?" He comes back on the line, "Sorry about that. It was my therapist. I'm missing an appointment right now. I got so caught up in studying I forgot all about it."

I started laughing, apologized, and kept laughing.

"Is that funny?" He sounded amused.

"No. I don't know. No. Are you going?" I was thinking, lord, at least I'm not the only crazy one. And he's not the only one who needs a therapist. Of course, his issues are situational. I get to be crazy ALL the time.

"Yes, I have to run."

"Ok. I was just wondering if you wanted to get together."

"Sure, but tonight I have class..."

"No, I know. Not tonight. I was thinking Friday. I'm busy Thursday."

"Oh, what are you doing on Thursday?"

"I have plans." Me: coy.

"Oh. Ok."

"No, heh, I'm ushering." At Arena Stage. Get to see the play for free.

We discussed ushering and he asks what play I'm seeing and says, "That's great. You get to see the play and you're helping out the community." Damn. Stop being so nice, Tim, I might start to like you or something. "Can I call you when I get home from class tonight?"

"Sure. Talk to you later."

Maybe he is going to break up with me suddenly, unexpectedly, and with no warning.

But it sure doesn't feel like it.

Grateful for: stopping the insanity. For now.

How much is too much?

I met Tim on Saturday, September 17th. Seventeen days ago.

That was our first date (approx. 9 hours).
We talked on the phone twice, briefly, before our second date.
Our second date was the following Friday (9/23, approx. 9 hours).
The next date was that Sunday (9/25, approx 10 hours).
We talked on the phone before the next date, but not for more than 30 minutes.
The fourth date was on Tuesday, for the movies (9/27, 5.5 hours).
We talked on the phone Wednesday and Thursday for about an hour each time.
The fifth date was dinner with Pele and JenA on Friday (9/30, approx 9 hours).
We talked on the phone Saturday (20 minutes) and Sunday (1.5 hours).
We had a date last night (10/3, approx 10 hours).

Six dates in two and a half weeks. Since most of our dates have crossed the 9 hour mark, it does add up. Interestingly, our most intense date (#4) was the shortest, but it felt much longer. Despite all this time together, I have cancelled no plans for him and given up nothing of importance except for my tv time. As far as tv time goes, I tape like a demon so that tv will never keep me home when there is something social in the offing. Tim counts as social.

Last night was date #6. We agreed that I would go over to his house after Rosh Hashanah services and watch Monday Night Football. He ordered a pizza when he knew I was on my way. I think it's the first time in my life I've purposefully watched Monday Night Football. I can't honestly say that I've ever watched it before, accidentally or otherwise. But, not only did I not mind, I rather enjoyed it.

On Sunday, during the part of our conversation about the Chargers, Tim thought I was being sarcastic when I was excited about the Chargers win over the Patriots. "You don't care if the Chargers win."
"I do care! I want them to win."
"Can you name one player?"
"Umm, LT?"
"What's his first name?"
"I dunno."
"What's his last name?"
"I don't remember...but he's 21, right? And 41 was blocking for 21...and 21 made all the big runs."
"That's right...not bad."
"Look, after I watch a few more games, I'll know their names."

When I got to work on Monday, I sent Tim a text message, "LaDainian Tomlinson" Tim wrote back, "You are too smart! Go chargers!"

When I saw him on Monday, he was impressed that I'd spelled LT's name correctly. And that I'd taken the time to find out a few things about the team.

The evening was fun. We chatted until the game came on and then ate pizza while watching. I've always been able to enjoy watching football and this was no exception. We kissed during the slow times and commercials and stopped to watch the plays.

We didn't discuss the "boyfriend" issue, going steady or anything about his wife. I didn't feel the need to have a talk with him. I just enjoyed myself. When I need to talk to him, I will.

Before halftime, I started to fall asleep. Tim asked me if I was ready for bed. We went up to his room. Rather more sleeping occurred than on other occasions, but still not enough. I don't know why, but I had a feeling I'd be more comfortable in his bed than in mine, and I was. We got up at 6:00am and Tim gave me a bowl of frosted flakes and we watched the news together. I rode my bike home and instead of taking a nap, I watched some taped tv and took a shower. I made it to services a little late, but I was there.

I wondered what would happen next, because we didn't make plans before I left. There was some vague what-are-you-doing-this-weekend talk, initiated by yours truly, but no definite plans. I thought, "Maybe he'll call me today...or send a text message. Or maybe he won't. But I won't call him. At least not until tomorrow." Wait-and-see seemed like the best approach.

As discussed in the comments for yesterday's post, I think Tim is pursuing a relationship with me, but balks at the "boyfriend" title. Fine, whatever. I don't care about that. However, I'm left little unclear on what to expect...or if I should expect anything. Yet, he keeps coming through in boyfriend-like fashion.

At 12:45 pm today he sent me this message, "I really enjoyed that last night! Have a great tuesday." Sweet.

I'll call him if I feel like it and I won't if I don't. I'm not pressuring him for anything, including time together. I can handle it.

Grateful for: starting something new.

Quack, quack

When I last left you, I was on my way to see Natasha. It was great. Jen made a fine short documentary and I highly recommend seeing it if you get a chance. I hope she continues her filmmaking along with the sociology graduate work. Jen--you can do it all!

Pele and I met in time to see the film. Unfortunately, Tim had to work late and wasn't able to meet us until afterwards. Jen, Pele, Tim and I went out to dinner. I was nervous. I have this problem when my new guys meet my friends. I worry that they won't like him, that he will say something stupid, that he will reflect poorly on me. Pele told me later that she was nervous too, not because she'd heard so much about Tim, but because she was worried if he would like her, if she would say something stupid and if she would reflect well on me as my friend. Oh, silly Pele. This was not a test to see if Tim approves of my friends. Oh no. If he doesn't like you, JenA or anyone else, then I can easily say goodbye to him. The "test" was to see how he handled himself around you.

He did well. He put his foot in it at least once and when the three of us warned him off, he apologized and regrouped. I've noticed this behavior before--he'll make a very broad joke or exaggeration and when I say, "Um, ok, that's offensive" he'll back off, apologize and get back to a more even tone. I think it may just be his nerves. And who can blame him? I was terribly nervous; he might have been too.

He was rather touchy-feely, as he has been every time we've gone out. I knew this would be a problem for me in front of my friends. I don't mind making a total spectacle of myself in front of strangers, but I'm self-conscious in front of my friends because I don't want them to feel uncomfortable. Still, there was some hugging, a quick kiss and a little hand holding. I'd meant to tell him that I wouldn't be as affectionate in front of my friends, giving him a little warning so he wouldn't think I was rejecting him, but I didn't get around to it. I was too busy worrying that he might be going back to his wife or deciding that he didn't want to be my boyfriend to warn him.

Later, he mentioned it and said he said he understood that I might not be comfortable with that around my friends. All right, good for you Tim--for never taking things personally that have nothing to do with you.

After dinner, Pele went home, and JenA, Tim and I went back to my place. That was a bit of a scene too, as Tim attempted to put his head in my lap (denied!) and generally drove JenA out of the apartment. Oh, the guilt. She went out to catch some more of the film festival at 10:30pm and reassured me later that she was fine and happy to have seen more movies. But, she felt that Tim wanted her to leave, so she left. Sigh. I didn't want her to leave. I didn't know how to handle that incredibly awkward situation.

Tim spent the night and we had our usual fun banter thing going on and the boyfriend topic came up again. He said, "I have to tell you, I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"What?"

"Your comment made me think..." [The comment was a joke, which he initiated, that involved me uttering the words "te amo" as though someone were saying them to me and Tim thinking I was saying them to him. Projection much? Good Lord, does he think I have no sense at all?]

"It was a joke! Geez."

"I know it was a joke, but I've been thinking about this a lot. I'm not sure I can make that commitment...to be your boyfriend. I'm afraid...it's stupid to say it. But I guess I'm afraid of commitment."

I took it in, not liking it, but not feeling terribly upset either. "I'm not sure what you have in mind. Mostly, if we're going to sleep together, I don't want you having sex with other women. I don't care if you say you're my boyfriend."

There was more talk in this vein and I was shockingly understanding, but also very confused. Nothing whatsoever was decided, though we made tentative plans for Sunday.

He left early in the morning because he had to work this weekend.

I talked to JenA until she left at 9:30am and took my sweet time getting ready for camping with Pele. She didn't come get me until after 2pm.

I sent Tim this text message at 1:30pm, "Sure you can't go camping? Still haven't left yet." He responded, "I'd love to, but i'm still at work. I also have to meet with a plumber and meet with my tenants, homework...i really enjoyed last night!"

After Pele and I were on the road, he called me. We had a normal, cute conversation, quite a bit of which was about Army uniforms. I told him I would call him on Sunday when we got back to DC.

When we got off the phone, I said, "Quack, quack."

Pele said, "What?"

"If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck....What's going on here? He's acting exactly like he's my boyfriend. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he was my boyfriend."

Pele said, "He wants to be your boyfriend, but without the commitment."

"I can understand why he'd be afraid of commitment. It makes sense. But he sucks. It's not fair to me."

"You don't have to do it, but it's ok to give him time to figure this out. It is good that he told you how he was feeling."

"I'm not sure how I feel. I was really unhappy this morning. But I'm also sleep deprived. I couldn't get comfortable with him in the bed last night. I may feel better when I'm rested, but I'm not happy. Yet, I'm still going through the motions. I think I still like him."

"You don't have to decide anything right now. He is a good guy and if he stops treating you well, you will put an end to it."

"You think so?"

"You? Oh yes, I know you will."

Pele and I have this camping thing down. We set up the tent in record time with zero cross feelings. We walked to the beach, then went out to dinner. We slept relatively well and spent the next day shopping outlets and enjoying the sun at Rehoboth beach.

When I got home on Sunday, I called Tim and left him a message. He called back around 9:00pm, after he got home from work, and invited me over to hang out while he did his laundry (romantic!). I didn't say no, but I didn't say yes, as I was tired and didn't want to leave the house. Instead, we talked on the phone for an hour and a half. Topics included: Sinter Klaas, Jewish High Holidays (Happy New Year!), Chargers football, Episcopal priests, graduate school grading practices, dangling prepositions, and much, much more. We made plans for Monday night (tonight).

I was surprised that he talked to me for so long, wanted me to come over, was eager to make plans for Monday, is planning future events with me (Chargers vs. Steelers), and was checking on when I leave for Seattle and how long I'll be gone (Oct. 14-23). All things that a boyfriend would do. Pele wasn't surprised and she thinks I'm crazy (just a little). I'd probably be surprised at getting this much attention even if he were "officially" my boyfriend. The problem is, if he keeps acting like he's my boyfriend, then I'm going to think he's my boyfriend. And then...and then what? I have no idea.

Ah, isn't it nice to have clueless, confused me back again?

A lot depends on how I feel when I see him tonight. Our phone conversation was good and left me much more cheerful than I'd been before I talked to him. It's still early days of the relationship and there is no burning need to define everything (not that I wouldn't like to). It's annoying that he started with the relationship talk and then backed off, but at least he's telling me how he feels and not just skirting along the surface.

I'm going with this thing until I'm not happy anymore. As long as I'm having fun and he's treating me well, I'll stick in there. But if he wants to lock me up while he sees other people, I'm out. Here I go...cool, calm and collected. Heh.

Grateful for: a good night's sleep.