Sofia

The summer I was 19 I took an English class where we read Tom Jones and Clarissa. I'd read Tom Jones before and seen the movie. I re-read it for the class. More challenging was Clarissa. It's one of the worst books I've ever attempted to read. I say attempted because not one of us, including the professor, managed to lay eyes on each of that wretched book's 1,500 over-sized pages.

Our professor reasoned that in the short summer session we could handle reading two (very long) books, despite the short-attention span summer usually entailed. It seemed reasonable to me too. Unfortunately, we were both wrong. He announced, happily, on the first day of class, that we were going to read the unabridged version of Clarissa. In fact, it's almost impossible to buy anything other than an abridged version of this monstrosity. In the end, though, the prof created, on the fly, his own abridged version. When seeing the demoralized looks on our once-eager faces, he started instructing us to skip certain chapters. He also became increasingly frustrated with the sanctimonious moral tone of the book. The thing about Clarissa is that no one reads it because it's a good book. They read it because it is an early book--one of the first novels in the English language. It is revolutionary. It's epistolary (one more reason I hate it). It is also atrocious. You must read Fielding to properly appreciate how atrocious Clarissa is. Fielding and Richardson were contemporaries and Fielding hilariously ridiculed Richardson's first novel (twice, in fact!). You will adore Fielding. It's almost impossible not to love him.

The other reason our professor only wanted us to read two books and write two papers is that immediately at the end of the quarter, he was leaving for a sabbatical in Sofia, Bulgaria. (Why an English professor was taking a sabbatical in Bulgaria is a question for which I don't have an answer. Maybe it was a guest teaching position.) He made a big point of explaining how to pronounce it correctly, which he had hard time with since his daughter was named Sofia. He told us about Sofia (the city) on the first day of class and announced, "I can't take late papers or give incompletes. I want to be completely done with this class when I leave." Again, this seemed perfectly reasonable. I had taken incompletes in college, but not for a while and I didn't anticipate any problem with such a light workload.

In addition to the class, which met four days a week at 10:30 (he gave us Wednesdays off) and TAing for a history class in the afternoons, I was also dating my first serious boyfriend. My day went something like: sleep late, barely make it to class on time; meet my boyfriend for lunch and hanging out; go to teach my section; and go home/read.

We read Tom Jones in no time flat and everyone loved it. Then we started Clarissa and everyone struggled. I was still making it to class and discussing the book...but just barely.

And then my boyfriend broke up with me. I was devastated and I stopped going to class. I couldn't face it. There was a paper due and I didn't turn it in. I stopped reading Clarissa.

When I came up for air, I went back to class. I talked to the professor and apologized for blowing off the paper. He said, "I was worried about you. It wasn't like you to miss class."

What could I say? No one had died. A break-up seemed like such a sorry excuse for screwing up, I couldn't bring myself to mention it. But I was so sad--I'm sure he could tell something was wrong. I said, "I'm sorry, I've just had a lot going on and I'm having a hard time and I don't know what to do."

He made a bargain with me: turn in one paper and he'd base my grade on that. I got that paper in on time and I passed the class with a B+. Was I lucky or what? Sofia saved me.

Grateful for: my understanding professor.

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Who me?

It's funny the things that terrify me. I expected to get a lot more comments on yesterday's post and I expected them to mostly be negative. Instead, I got relatively few comments and they were mostly positive. I was so worried that my fight with Owen was much worse than it seemed and I was missing it.

I have a hard time not thinking the worst when situations get ever so slightly negative. Here's an example. (Patience, it takes some background.) My parents were divorced when I was 12. Not longer after that, my father started seeing Susan,the woman who he would eventually marry. She is a nice lady and was always kind to me but I never cared for her much (these days, we get along fine). I spent several teenage summer with my father and Susan in Berkeley, sometimes joined by an assortment of step and half siblings. I was undeniable dour, sour and miserable. I did an exceptionally fine job of spreading my unhappiness wherever I went. Why was I so unhappy? I was 13, 14, 15 and 16 and I had no friends in Berkeley. I barely knew my step-sisters and one of them, the one closest to my age, though still 4 years older, got all kinds of attention from boys--boys who completely ignored me. I was terribly jealous. Even worse was the one summer B1 (my eldest half-brother) came to stay and showered all kinds of affection on my youngest step-sister. Attention that I felt I deserved. Oh boy, was I unhappy! Dad frequently took me aside and asked me to be nicer to Susan--who I jabbed with many fine, sarcastic barbs. Once he even asked me to stop talking about my mother so much around Susan. As you might imagine, that request had pretty much the opposite effect.

Now, the impact of all of this on me was that I felt excluded from the family. I was the crazy one. The troublemaker. I grew to feel that if there were a problem and I was involved, it was my fault.

Years later, when I was in my early 20s, I was visiting Dad in Berkeley. My angst was gone for the most part and there was at least detente with Susan, if not actual affection. This particular day, I'd woken up with the flu, though Susan left before being told I was sick. (Dad knew and was in touch with me off and on through the day.) I spent most of the day napping and watching movies on cable. When Susan got home, I was watching the 1950 version of Cyrano de Bergerac with José Ferrer. It's a good movie and I hadn't seen it before and Susan came in just as the movie was reaching it's climax which comes in the very last minutes. She had a bag of groceries in her arms and sad, "Can you help me unload the car?"

I said, "I'll help--but can I just watch the last five minutes of this movie?" I was sure she'd understand since she speaks French and likes old movies--but before I got a chance to tell her the name of the film she stomped out to get more groceries. On her second appearance, seeing me still in the same spot, watching the movie, she proceeded to yell. "Why is ok for you to just sit there and do nothing all day! I'm tired and I need help! You can't just sit around!"

I don't think Susan had ever yelled at me before. Without saying a word I jumped up and ran out to the car to get the rest of the groceries. I left the tv on and then I'm sure she saw what I'd been watching since she asked me about it when I came back in. I told her I was sick and then did my best to help put away the food. As soon as the task was done, I went down to my room and got hysterical crying.

It sounds crazy to me now, but I was completely distraught because my stepmother yelled at me. I was sure I'd done something wrong. I thought, "what did I do this time?" As soon as I calmed down a little, I called my mother, who didn't answer. Next, I called Audrey. I told her what had happened and she was confused, "Wait, I thought you said you did something."

"I did. I must have."

"No you didn't. She was wrong. She overreacted. It's not that she's a bad person, she just lost it and yelled at you. But you weren't doing anything wrong. You were sick and just wanted to watch the last five minutes of a movie."

"You mean...she was wrong?" After all those years of everything being my fault it was hard to fathom that someone else had acted badly. Upside down world! I felt a little better after talking to Audrey but I was still upset and stayed in my room. A while later, my dad came to see me. He gave me one of his awkward bear hugs and thumped me on the back. He said, "Susan feels bad about what happened. She is sorry. She didn't realize you were sick today."

It was surreal.

So, sometimes, I think, everything really is my fault and if I just try harder and do better then I can fix it. I'm ready to change--or to try to change. but maybe I expect you to be ready too and no one really is, are they? But, seriously, don't feel sorry for me. I had it so good and others had it so much worse, I hate to complain for even a second. Which may explain why I'm often so blind to serious faults of boyfriends (and sometimes friends) until long after the fact. After all, maybe there was something I could have done....

Grateful for: knowing it's not always my fault.

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No bother

I've been thinking about taking a break from blogging. Not for any particular reason but just to see how it feels. To give myself a break, not that I'm particularly busy. But, when I've said I'd take a day or two off, I never did. I don't know.

Anyway, I'm not taking a break yet, so I can tell you about my weekend with Owen. It's all about the boyfriend these days. Boring!

Owen, Barry and I planned to see the Bond movie Friday evening. Yes, I'd already seen it, but I knew Owen would like it and it seemed like a fun thing to do--I actually suggested that we go. I found that I was really looking forward to seeing the opening foot chase. It lived up to my expectations and the film was quite watchable a second time. Who knew?

When we talked on Friday, I told Owen that I had to sleep at my house that night. He said ok--an ok that meant he'd stay at my place, which is, indeed, what happened. In line for the movie I said, "Are you coming over? Is that all you have?" He just had the clothes on his back.

He said, "I don't need anything. I'll go home in the morning and change and then we can do something later on Saturday."

"We can?"

"Do you want to do something on Saturday?"

"Maybe..." I used a gentle, teasing tone, but I was thrilled that he was suggesting it and that it was assumed that we'd spend the whole weekend together, with reasonable breaks. This is where I want to be--not worrying, planning in an easy way and being comfortable spending a lot of time together.

"Well, if you don't want to, I can call Bonnie. Maybe she wants to come to DC on Saturday."

All I could say was, "Nice one." Bonnie is a friend of his from work who I think has a small crush on Owen. I told him so last weekend. When I played coy, he pulled her out of his hat. Nice? Rude? Funny? (I thought it was funny.) Mostly, a reminder: there is no need to play coy.

After the movie, on the way back to my place, Frank (remember him?) called and asked Owen to meet him at a bar. Owen declined but suggested they do something on Saturday night. I checked to see if I were included in that plan since I didn't hear Owen mention me to Frank. Owen said, "But we already talked about this! Of course you can come."

"Ok then. Just checking."

When we got back to my place, something was a little off. He made a joke I don't care for (a joke he's made several times, which I've asked him to stop making) and instead of laughing, I got serious and asked him to knock it off. He, in turn, got pissed and said, "So many things bother you! I can't keep track."

"What?"

"A lot of things bother you, don't you agree?"

"I think a normal amount of things bother me."

Owen said, "I think you have an idea of who I am, but it's not quite me. When I do something that doesn't fit your idea, it bothers you."

What he told me knocked me on my heels. I took a breath and put my head down. I said, "I could say the same thing about you. It's not surprising--we can't know each other that well after such a short acquaintance. I still want to get to know you better."

"That's your first mistake."

I was stunned. We'd spent an easy time together over Thanksgiving and I didn't think there was anything wrong. I did feel some tension when we got home on Friday, but I didn't know what the root was. What Owen said hit me hard. The idea that you have to watch what you say around me is a common trope of complaint amongst my boyfriends. I'm demanding, hard to please, difficult...but I feel as though I've been exceptionally relaxed with Owen, letting many little things go that, in the past, would have bothered me. It was shocking to hear that the two or three times I've asked him to lay off a certain joke had multiplied into a pattern of behavior. Or was I doing it more than I realized? I didn't know.

I said, "If I made you feel that way, I'm sorry. It was not my intention."

Most of his humor amuses me. He cracks me up with his silly ways and childlike approach to the world. I said, "I like your humor and your silliness. Your immaturity. It's why I like you."

He said, "Say it again with more feeling."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't sound like you mean it."

"Of course I mean it. I wouldn't say so otherwise."

And then, Owen "left." No, he didn't leave the house, but emotionally, he withdrew. He started to fall asleep on the couch while I was talking to him. I told him to go in to the bedroom and he tucked himself in. I joined him a few minutes later and it was clear that we were not going to continue our conversation. I asked if we could talk again in the morning and he said yes. I said, "Do you think this is worthwhile or too much trouble?"

"What?"

"You know, us."

He said, "Yes."

"Yes? Yes to what?"

In a sleepy voice, he said, "It was a yes or no question, so I said yes."

I laughed a little. "Are you saying 'yes, it's worthwhile'?"

"Yes! Yes, of course."

"Ok, you go to sleep now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He fell asleep quickly, but I tossed and turned. Was he right? Was I being too hard on him? Even if he was wrong, it hardly mattered if he felt put upon by me. If either of us is walking on eggshells, watching what we say, trying not to offend, it's a disaster. The only way out of that is to drop all worries and move on, attempting to be kind and respectful--and not to watch what you say. I was particularly frustrated because Owen seemed to think I was annoyed with him all the time. Annoyance is a major issue for me whenever approaching new relationships--sometimes I get annoyed and I can't stop being annoyed--and that's the end. I have been annoyed with Owen a few times, but, amazingly, the feeling passed and I was happy and "un-annoyed" the next time I saw him. This proved to be true yet again, because the next day was a fresh start with no hurt feelings and very little anguish over the fight of the previous evening.

In the morning, I tried to explain why I didn't like the joke he made. He was understanding. He gave me credit for being self-aware--sometimes when I freak out I'll say, "It's nothing, just ignore me" and he will, and then we're fine. I said, "See--you say that, but then you threw all that back in my face last night! I can't be perfectly aware all the time."

"Ok, I understand that."

"And, if I'm doing something--or saying something--that bothers you, you have to tell me. You can't store it up and spring it on me later. You have to meet me halfway."

"You're right, I was thinking about that. I have to do a better job of telling you if there is something that bothers me."

"Good, tell me, because otherwise I won't know. But not in front of other people, ok? No embarrassing me."

"You got it, babe."

I tell him when the teasing goes too far, when the silly jokes are too much--but he's just swallowing everything. That won't do. We give each other a joking hard time and, if anything, he's harder on me than I am on him. Mostly, I can take it, but I tell him when I can't. Maybe there are times when he can't take it, but he won't tell me to back off. He needs to tell me since I can't read his mind.

I wonder how bad it sounds. It was bad in the moment and he pushed my buttons, but I didn't get angry, I didn't overreact. I tried to listen. I told him how I thought we generally communicate well and it's one of the strengths of our relationship. That I've learned a lot from talking to him and it's a big step for me. That I'm hoping we can get through these bumps and that I think it's worthwhile.

I had to ask myself, how bad was our fight? Because, while we've had some minor arguments before, this was the first time we both showed temper. But we weren't angry in the morning, we resolved the issues at hand and we quickly got back to smiling and laughing as usual. And teasing.

Before he went home on Saturday, we planned to meet later to see a movie with some friends of mine. I had some trepidation before meeting him, but when I saw him, we were fine. It occurred to me that what our fight was really about was a bad mood, a little annoyance and some relationship growing pains. We had to stretch a little and we did. We're actually better for it.

Saturday night, after the movie, was an amusing tipsy-fest with Frank. It started as just the three of us but the group grew to eight people by the end of the night. Owen got drunk, but he wasn't crazy, over-the-top drunk like some of the other times we've gone out. On our way home he said, "You know, I've been out with Frank a lot times and it's more fun with you than without you."

I said, "Really, why is that?"

"Well, before, there would always be a moment when I'd look around and have nothing to say and no one to talk to. Now, you're there. And you're not like some other chicks, where I have to take care of you all night. You can talk to other people, then we can compare notes. It's fun."

I smiled. "It is fun. I don't think I've ever been part of a 'good' couple before. It's cool." I added that a lot of guys are needy too (I've dated many!) and can't be left alone for a minute. When I'm out with Owen, we don't have to monitor each other every second, but we know that the other person is there if needed. It's a good feeling.

The weekend ended on a positive note and I'm grateful for that. We've had a number of bumps in this relationship and I don't know what that means. Will the road stay bumpy or will things get better? Easier? My gut says yes. My gut says we're smoothing the path by learning to communicate. I know that I've worked hard to base my expectations on what he can do, not on what he "should" do. I get to choose to be in this relationship, I don't get to choose how Owen behaves. If I don't like it, I can tell him, and maybe we can work things out. But in the end, I have to decide if being with him makes me happy. So far, it does.

It's funny how a relationship turns so much on chance--the chance that you meet in the first place, the chance that you were at a particular party--and Owen sees things like this. But it's not true. Sure, we met at random--and if it weren't for Frank, we never would have gotten together. But I made a choice--an active choice--to be with Owen. I picked him for all the right reasons. I'm finally ready to see something through for the right reasons. I'm not sacrificing myself, I'm not tormenting myself, I'm not secretly hoping he'll change. I'm letting go of a lot and it seemed hard at first but it's getting easier and easier. I'm walking slowly forward with Owen. Most of all, though, I'm having fun.

Grateful for: having fun.

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How did it go?

Thanksgiving went rather well. We were only three, but there was enough food for an army. The bird was huge. It came out perfectly. We had several side dishes (mashed potatoes, yams, turnips, green beans, stuffing). It was absurd and wonderful. I have to admit, as far as big holiday meals go, the smaller the crowd the better. I don't enjoy making inane small talk with strangers and people I don't like. I dig the family gatherings where I can catch up with my far-flung relatives--I also like it if there are little kids around to play with--but other than that, the smaller the better.

I tend to hover a bit in the kitchen, but beyond helping determine where to insert the meat thermometer in the turkey and exhorting Owen to remove the bird when the temp hit 160, I didn't help very much. I removed myself from the kitchen while Owen was hustling around getting the side dishes ready. The turkey was done much earlier than expected, which threw the schedule off a bit, but we just ate earlier. No problem. I whipped some cream for the pie I made, I heated up the potatoes I brought--but mostly I let Owen and Barry take care of the meal. They did a great job and you would never have guessed they hadn't make a Thanksgiving meal before.

In the comments, dan-E requested my recipe for garlic mashed potatoes. It's the silliest most labor intensive mashed potato recipe ever, which is why I only make it once a year. But, once a year, it's worth it. It's from Cook's Illustrated, which is a fantastic magazine, but the recipes are so precise it can be maddening. I'm going to reproduce this one from memory--let's see how I do.

Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Serves 4

2 pounds potatoes, preferably russets
22 cloves garlic (about 3 oz.)
1 stick (1/2 cup) butter, melted
1 cup half and half, warmed
1.5 teaspoons salt
black pepper

1. Toast the garlic, unpeeled, in a small saucepan on lowest possible heat for about 22 minutes. Shake frequently. When they are toasted all over, set off heat and cover for another 15-20 minutes until completely softened. Best to use cloves of similar sizes. When cool, peel and trim off hard end of cloves. They may be processed with the potatoes, but to ensure smoothness, I ran them through a garlic press.

2. While toasting garlic, place whole, unpeeled potatoes in a large pot and cover with one inch of water. Bring to a boil and then simmer on medium heat for 20-30 minutes, until soft (easily poked with a fork, not quite breaking apart).

3. When potatoes are ready, drain water. Peel potatoes. (This is a challenging step. The skins will come off easily, but the potatoes are HOT. Wear an oven mitt, hold potato on a fork and use a paring knife to peel.) If you are using a food mill, drop the peeled potatoes in the hopper and process in batches over now empty pot. A food mill or ricer will give the smoothest potatoes. A regular masher is fine, but the consistency will be chunky. If you use a food mill, put the garlic in with the potatoes. If you use a masher, put it through a garlic press or mince first.

4. Add the melted butter to the potatoes and stir with a wooden spoon.

5. Add the half and half and whisk.

6. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

Serve immediately. (Yeah, sure. I've never been able to serve them immediately and they are always very tasty several hours later. Don't refrigerate them, though, unless absolutely necessary.)

A few notes based on Cook's test kitchen: the boiling of whole, unpeeled potatoes is the key to good flavor. If you peel and cube first, it will dilute the flavor into the cooking water. The testers also found that toasting the garlic gave the right level of intensity--not too strong and not too mellow. Also, it's important to add the butter first. The fat coats the starch and makes it more receptive to the half and half. Adding the liquid first will make the potatoes gluey.

My note on processing: I use a food mill, but I've always had a hard time getting enough downward pressure on the blades to force the potatoes through the mill. Yesterday, I stood on a chair in order to get more leverage and it worked like a charm. I probably wouldn't have this problem with a newer, better adjusted food mill, but this seemed to solve the problem--so next year, I'll just start out on a chair. It will also save me from the garlic press step since I'll be able to add the toasted cloves right into the hopper with the potatoes.

I do think it's absurd to use three pots (toasting garlic, boiling potatoes, melting butter) to make mashed potatoes--but what can you do?

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!

Grateful for: a mellow holiday.

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Happy Thanksgiving

Happy T-day everyone! I made a pumpkin pie last night and this morning I made my decadent garlic mashed potatoes. I'm borrowing TR's car and driving over to Owen's in about an hour. It's going to be a small gathering, but I'm looking forward to it. A nice lazy, football and movie watching day with friends and boyfriend. Not bad, not bad at all.

And, if you're so inclined, you can also read my review of Borat.

Grateful for: a good day.

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Thanksgiving

Owen is cooking Thanksgiving dinner. He was planning this before we met and about a month into our relationship, he invited me. Last year I had a bit of a difficult time finding somewhere to go and I happily accepted. Owen and Barry (the roommate) did a lot of shopping last Friday and Saturday, unaided by me. It's clearly important to Owen that he do this on his own. I'm making a dish and I've volunteered to help, but heeding Nancy's advice, I've tried to take a step back from the preparations. Owen's needs to do it without my help.

Last night, I planned to go grocery shopping. I am loaning Owen an extra table and some chairs and I emailed him to find out if last night was a good time to bring those things over since I would have the car anyway. He called me around 5:30, just as he was leaving work, and said that would be great. He also listed a bunch of other kitchen stuff that he wanted to borrow. We'd talked about this before and it was fine. Along with the card table, I took him a large sauce pan, a couple of casserole dishes, a loaf pan and a roasting pan. I've loaned him half my kitchen and it's barely enough! I realized that most of my pots and pans were hand-me-downs or gifts from my parents. That's how you start a kitchen--your parents help--at least in my world. Owen hasn't had the benefit of this, so I'm happy to share. You can't go buy a whole new kitchen just for one day.

After I got to Owen's and unloaded, we went to the grocery store. Originally, I was only going to make mashed potatoes, but now I'm also making a pumpkin pie. I got the ingredients for both and he picked up the few odds and ends that he'd missed on the last shop. And we STILL forgot a couple of things. He's taking the day off today and I'm sure he'll make at least one more visit to the grocery store.

What is so great is how excited Owen is. He sees making this Thanksgiving as a rite of passage. I suppose it is. He's a mix of happy, excited, nervous and worried. His enthusiasm is delightful and a bit exhausting. I'm very happy to be part of this event.

The funny thing is, while I am an experienced (though far from expert) cook, I've never made a turkey. I have a thing about whole, raw poultry. I don't like to touch it. If I cook chicken, it's skinless, boneless breasts. I have roasted a chicken or two, and they came out fine. I also tend not to work with large cuts of meat, though I once made a mighty fine brisket for Passover. I usually make sauces, stir fry, steak, hamburger...but not roasts or whole chickens. My mom did a lot of that kind of cooking so I'm familiar with it, but I won't be too much help to Owen.

He is a little worried that I think he "can't" do things. I said, "I've never had that thought, not once. I know you can cook and I know you can take care of yourself. You don't need me for that."

"Right. But you've been doing this a lot longer than I have."

"Sure, I've been cooking longer--so why not use the benefit of my experience? But I've never made a turkey, so you're on your own there." We laughed.

I'm really looking forward to this Thanksgiving. Owen says he wants it to be perfect, and I can understand that, but I also know it's not realistic. Regardless of how the food turns out,though, it's going to be great--Owen's enthusiasm is more than enough to ensure that.

Grateful for: a first Thanksgiving.

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Review: Casino Royale (2006)

I didn’t think I’d like it but I liked it. Call it the magic of lowered expectations. I also needed to see a movie where I could get out of my head, where I wouldn’t have to think, where I wouldn’t have to reflect on or evaluate my life. I thought a little about why I like James Bond—why anyone likes James Bond—or perhaps why any women like James Bond. Of course, he’s sexy and mysterious. He travels the world, is stylish, suave and masculine. All attractive qualities. But I identify with James Bond, not with the Bond girls. I want to be that sexy, stylish spy who travels the world and makes love without breaking hearts, leaving only satisfied, grateful partners in my wake. Ah, that’s the life.

Casino Royale is an origin story, which tend to be the best. It’s cold, brutal and action-packed. The titles were not the greatest but they were refreshingly free of naked ladies (sorry fellas). In fact, there’s damn little sex in this picture and more than enough violence. One of the first chase scenes is actually conducted on foot and is astonishing, exciting and completely held my attention. It contrasted the gymnastic agility of the “bad” guy with the brutish more direct approach of Bond. Perfect set up and was exceptionally fun to watch. In general, the action in this picture was more realistic than I’ve seen for a while—it’s more about the physicality of the actors (and stuntmen) and less about CGI effects.

Eva Green plays the female foil for James and I liked what she did. I did not buy her British accent (good reason for that: she’s French) but I did buy her repressed sexiness. (I would also like to air my on-going issue with casting: Eva Green is twelve years younger than Daniel Craig. What gives?)

I liked Craig as Bond. He was rugged and not too refined and very physical. He was cold and brutal, witty and sneering. His wisecracking fell a little flat—he is better on the move. Still, he is a Bond I could get used to.

Grateful for: a new Bond.

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Much better

Wow, Friday was something, wasn't it? I was sooo frustrated with the blog world, my own behavior, and the stupid comments from a site I refuse to link to (if you send me an email, I'll give you the link). I could not wait to get out of the office. Luckily, my impromptu plans with Pele panned out and we went to see the new James Bond in a crowded theater with an enthusiastic audience. I'll write a longer short review later, but I liked it. You know what it is you are looking for when you go see a Bond movie? This one has it.

Pele was kind enough, as usual, to drive me home. We sat and talked in the car, as usual. I did more listening than usual, but that was good. It was good to get a little outside myself.

I slept well on Friday and got up early on Saturday for "put away day" at the boathouse. I arrived at 8:30am and stayed until noon. We took all the boats out of the boathouse, derigged, washed and waxed them. Minor repairs to all the boat parts were made. It was a big job and I have the sore shoulder to prove it, though I didn't stay until the official end time of 2pm.

Before going home, I stopped by the local Italian store in my neighborhood, A. Litteri. If you've never been, go. The subs are fantastic, though all I got was some olive oil, cheese, crackers and cookies.

When I got home, I called Owen to figure out when I should head over there. It was pushing noon and I told him I'd get there by 3pm. I had lunch, bathed and packed a small bag. That evening, we were going to a party on a boat--you know one of those dinner/dancing cruises on the Potomac. I cannot tell you the foolishness of planning such an outing for NOVEMBER. (No, he did not plan it--this was his work's holiday party.) It was a dress-up affair so I brought my nice clothes, fancy shoes and optional make-up to Owen's place.

When I arrived, Owen greeted me enthusiastically. Barry (the roommate) was also happy to see me and they showed me their full cupboards and fridge--all in preparation for Thanksgiving. They were so pleased! It was cute.

We watched some college football. Barry and I had a long conversation about rowing--he rowed in high school. I have to say, it's great to get along so well with him. I feel completely comfortable hanging out at Owen's when he's home. It's nice--very friendly and homey. Too bad Tabitha (the cat) can't join us! Poor baby, all alone.

A couple of fellow party-goers came by--they were leaving their car at Owen's and taking the metro to the boat with us. I turned out to be dressed appropriately, but modestly, for the occasion. I have never seen such a display of cleavage in my life. Owen gave me a mildly hard time for not wearing something more revealing and he (incorrectly) said I could pull off the low-cut style one of our dinner companions was wearing. While inaccurate, his comments were flattering.

The party itself was...not terrible. It was on a boat. The dinner was inside and condensation covered the windows as soon as the boat launched so there was no view unless you went outside. It was chilly outside. The view was so-so--heading South to Alexandria does not provide the most dramatic nighttime scenery. The festivities also included a mildly entertaining floor show. Three performers, a couple of medleys and some goofy dancing. I was terribly embarrassed for them. For one of the numbers, they recruited audience members to act as back-up "singers" (no actual singing required). They tapped Owen and he handled it remarkably well. He accepted the "honor" uncomplainingly, unlike our other friend who wanted to refuse. Owen followed the dance steps pretty well and he smiled through the whole thing. I gave him a big hug when he was done. While I would not have enjoyed it, I love that he did. He's such a good sport and completely un-embarrassed.

After the boat docked, Barry took off home. A little odd, but he's done that before. When he's ready to call it a night, he doesn't wait for anyone else. We stayed on the boat about an hour after it docked, dancing and talking to folks. I was done drinking, and so was Owen, but a few of the other people in our group were still going at it. By 11pm, Owen corralled them and we got a ride back to Arlington with Nick. Our party numbered six--all of whom ended up sleeping in Owen's living room (as anticipated).

When we got back, Barry had a bunch of food ready for us. He also offered alcohol, but only Nick (the driver) took him up on it, thus ensuring he would also spend the night. We watched a movie and Owen unsuccessfully tried to get everyone to keep their voices down since a baby lives upstairs. I didn't hear a baby cry, so hopefully we didn't wake anyone up.

Owen and I sat together, cuddled up, a bit separate from the rest of the group. Every once in a while Barry would say something like, "they sure look cozy over there." Bonnie, who I'd met before, would also call out to us occasionally. I'd say she was the drunkest person there, though not the first one to pass out. Everyone went to sleep around 2am.

Bonnie woke us up by knocking on the door around 8am (really? that early? Yes, I think so). Because we had cars, as soon as everyone was awake and dressed, we went out to breakfast. I do enjoy that. We sat at two tables--Owen and I with Nick, Barry with Bonnie and two others. Nick and I had a long-ish talk about rowing when Owen told him I'd been putting boats away the day before.

I spent the rest of the day watching dvds and football with Owen and Barry. Around 4:30, I got a little restless and I said, "I think I'm going for a walk." Barry said, "You're leaving already?"

Owen and I said, almost at the same time, "No." I continued, "I just need to stretch my legs." Since they live a five minute walk from the mall at Pentagon City, I went over there and ended up buying a ton of socks (on sale) at Nordstrom's. I stopped at the grocery store too and got some cookies and tonic water. (The tonic was because Barry said he should have gotten some to mix with the gin he bought in their shopping frenzy.) I also made a couple of calls, one to Pele, who called me back right before I returned to Owen's. I sat on a bench in the park next to his building and we talked for about half an hour--until it got too cold to sit still.

While we were on the phone, a call came in from a number I don't have programmed in the phone. From an unfamiliar area code. I didn't take it but I said to Pele, "You know, I bet it's that guy! It's that David." When I got off the phone with Pele, she said, "Text me if it's him."

It was him and he'd left a rather long message. What did he have to say after almost three months? That he was a clod, he wanted to see how I was doing even though I was probably mad at him because of what happened. That he wanted to chat, I was very cool and a good person to know and I should call him.

About the same time, Owen sent a text that said, "dinner?"

I went up to his place and put the tonic in the fridge and the cookies on the counter. I sat in the living room and Barry said, "She brought tonic and cookies! What more could you ask?" Not much, apparently.

I told Owen, in a hushed voice, that David had called. He was very surprised. He said, "Like he's getting a call back!"

"I know! What was he thinking?"

And yet...and yet. My curiosity is so strong...I sort of want to call David. Maybe I want to gloat a little? I have a great boyfriend now, so there! I haven't decided yet. I'm not mad any more but odds are I won't call. Beyond satisfying my curiosity, I don't see the point.

Owen made some dinner for Barry and me. We ate and watched football and then Simpsons. By 9:30, I was falling asleep for real and I put myself to bed.

Owen and I didn't have a cross word the entire weekend. The party was fun, the hanging out with friends was fun and I feel like we're in a good place. We were both angry on Thursday, but by Saturday, we were fine. No resentment, no lingering recriminations, nada. Of course, we weren't alone very much, but even if we had been, I didn't feel the need go over anything. Being alone would have been good too, but being together was great.

This relationship keeps surprising me. I can't always anticipate how I'm going to feel and I was pleased with how well I handled myself, what with the party on the boat, the group of friends, the roommate--all things that have potential to cause stress and unhappiness. Instead, I was comfortable and pleased through it all. In the one or two moments where I needed to be alone, Owen never took it personally. He let me have the space I needed and was just happy that I came back. Was there ever any doubt?

Grateful for: letting it be and being happy.

Drop me a line.

Beelog: If I Spilled It

If you need a laugh as much as I do today, read this. F'ing hilarious.

Relax

I need to stop. I'm going to spare you the details of my last off-the-rails conversation with Owen. (Well, I'm going to spare myself the re-telling.) The problem is me, of course. Well, the problem is him too.

The part that is him: he works too much. He is very, super, monstrously, stressed out and busy at work. He has too much work to do, a commute that's too long and no energy left at the end of the day.

The part that is me: I want more connection. I want something that he can't give me--at least not all the time. I get it on the weekends, not during the week. It's hard for me.

He's doing the best he can. I see that. I get it. And then I lose it. Just a little. And it freaks him out. It freaks me out too. I don't want to feel like that. I don't want to act like that.

The solution: I have to back the hell off. I have to accept that this is how it is. I can tolerate it or I can leave. I can't complain, I can't freak out, I can't ask for more. He's maxed out. I'm exhausted.

To that end, tonight I'm doing something with friends. I'll see him tomorrow for his company's holiday party. I will be calm, well-rested and ready to shine in front of the work friends and bosses. They'll love me. He'll love me. We'll have fun and I will relax.

It's getting increasingly hard to write about Owen. It's so odd to have an actual boyfriend and tell stories about him/us. I pretty much still know where to draw the line but I'm not relishing so much scrutiny, especially when it is so critical. I like getting different perspectives and opinions but I don't love so much being called "psycho" or "whiny" or "high-maintenance." I don't love all the advice. I never asked you what I should do. And, dammit, I'm always pretty clear on how I've fucked up. I'm not deluded about my behavior, I am just not able to get it together all the time, perfectly. Folks, please cut me some slack. I would really appreciate it.

Last, to those of you who arrived here via a dating advice blog that put the smack down on yours truly today, please take a minute and read the whole post (below) before weighing in.

I sure don't care for the heavy judgment floating around today. I need a break.

Grateful for: a break. See y'all next week.

Drop me a line.

Interesting

Owen called last night. I'd sent him a series of amusing and then increasingly perturbed text messages. The last one said, "Mad at me?" Yes, I am that crazy.

He said, "Hey, I noticed I'd missed your messages and your call..."

I said, "Yeah, you did."

"My phone was charging in the other room and on vibrate."

We chatted for a while and it was good. I need to talk to him more than anything during the week. If we could have a couple of good conversations, I'd happily trade those for a sleepover.

I said, "You know, when I'm sick you should keep the phone closer. What if I needed you to come over here and take care of me?"

"What? Why would you need that?" He said.

"Because I'm sick!"

"You needed me to come over?"

"Well, no. I'm not that sick. But I could have been."

"You don't need that."

"Why not?"

"Because we're grown-ups."

"Are you kidding? You're kidding right?" I said.

He said. "No. You're kidding."

I said, "No. I'm not kidding. That's the whole point. That's your job."

"That's my job?"

"Yeah. If I'm sick, you have to take care of me."

"I didn't..."

"I know you didn't expect me to come home early on Saturday. But you weren't sad that I did, right?"

He said, "Boo hoo. No, I was glad you came home."

"Good. So, what if I were so sick I couldn't leave the house? You wouldn't come over?"

"If you were that sick...I'd probably take the day off and stay with you."

"Well, that's not...that's sweet."

"But, usually, what can you do? I don't usually take a sick day...I don't mean you shouldn't have..."

I said, "No, no...I know what I need to do. But I think it's just nice to have some one take care of you."

"But what do they do? Bring you food? Rub your head?"

"Yes. But mostly it's for the company. If you stay home all day, not talking to anyone, it gets lonely. Maybe you don't know because you've never lived alone. It's nice to have someone around."

"It's good to have someone to drive you to the hospital."

"Uh, yeah, sure. But that's not really my point."

"I know."

"So that's my job, huh? If you fire me, what kind of unemployment do I get?"

"Unemployment? You have to give me some time to think about that. I haven't worked out the metaphor that far."

"Damn."

Owen seems to think it's a sign of immaturity (or weakness?) to ask for help when you're sick. Or just feeling low. Yet, I've noticed that he likes to take care of me--he's made sure I don't grab hot pot handles, I don't get lost, I have enough to eat. He's cooked for me and generally looked out for me--without me having to ask. My instinct is to comfort those who are sick. I'm rather indulgent of sick boyfriends and I've rarely received the same kind of attention in return. I can't live without it. I do think it's the whole point of a committed relationship--the care taking, the looking out for each other, and the sex. That's your boyfriend job: when I'm sick, offer to come over. I'll tell you if you need to or not.

With Owen, since I cut short my Saturday night to take care of him, I assumed that he would know it was what I wanted. Owen didn't ask me to come home early on Saturday. In fact, he told me to stay out. He was sincere. I, however, didn't want to stay out--I was worried about him and I needed to go home and comfort him. Being out when he was sick made me miserable. Would he have felt the same way? Maybe not. But if I asked him to come home and comfort me, would he be willing to do that? I think so.

It's funny, though, yesterday I wondered if I should tell Owen how important it is to me that he make the offer to help. I've had this happen many times in relationships: I was a fantastic caretaker when my boyfriend was sick and then received nothing similar when I was ill. (I'm thinking of occasions when I had a fever and was unable to function or leave the house.) I tried to remember if I ever told those other boyfriends what I wanted. I assumed because I did for them, they would know to do for me. I don't recall ever having such a conversation with a boyfriend. I realized after talking to Owen that they may simply not have known what I wanted--because I never asked. At least Owen knows. And I know to tell him what I need.

I need him to coddle me a little when I'm sick. It cheers me up and makes me feel better. Just because he doesn't think it's necessary--well, that doesn't matter--he can do it and I'm pretty sure he can do it uncomplainingly. It's what I need. And I need to be able to do it for him. Maybe he doesn't need that--but as long as he doesn't mind, we're ok.

Perhaps I've been making all kinds of wrong assumptions all these years. There is a lot more to talk about than I thought! How interesting.

Grateful for: learning something new.

Drop me a line.

Sick day

Today is a sick day. I'm home. Well, at this moment, I'm at the coffee shop. The brand new coffee shop that opened a mere block, not even, from my front door. I can see my building from where I'm sitting, it's that close. Too bad the coffee is for crap. The owners are nice and friendly, though, and persist in giving me free slices of very thin, dry cake, so I will come back.

I have not much to say since I've spent the entire day, until now, on the sofa watching tv via the internet and part of an old movie on dvd. I also ate, drank tea and IM'd, briefly, with Pele. Owen sent me an email saying he hoped I was feeling better (yesterday I told him I was getting sick). I responded that I wasn't better and that I was staying home. Haven't heard from him since.

Maybe I can complain about Owen? He is not perfect in every way. He did not volunteer to rush over and hold my hand and make me feel better. Isn't he supposed to know that's what I want? What kind of boyfriend doesn't know that? Eh, truth is, I'm not very sick. I'm tired and worn out, but not sniffling, sneezing or coughing. I don't even have a fever. However, boyfriend does not know that! I could be dying over here...at the coffee shop...with my dry cake and cocoa.

Oh, sigh. I'm giving myself the rest of the day for my pity-party and it's back to "work" tomorrow.

And I did get the work done yesterday what I needed to get done. I even brought work home, which I did not do. There is a limit, after all.

Grateful for: a break.

Drop me a line.

Good weekend, blah Monday

I'm not feeling well but I dragged myself to work because there is something I must absolutely get done today. Yet, I haven't actually started work on that task. Instead, I'd rather wallow in my lethargy and dream about going home and climbing in bed. Ah, sweet, warm, cozy bed....

If I can't actually get any work done, at least I can write for the blog. I wanted to put something up last night, but I was beat. For no good reason since this weekend brought record amounts of sleep--at least since I met Owen. And, yes, that is good news because I did not wake him up or fuss at him at any time regarding sleeping habits and we did spend the night together on Friday and Saturday.

Friday, as I wrote, I had the day off and spent it well. When I got home, I was able to do some relaxing. Then I started dinner. It wasn't anything fancy, but I went ahead and set the table with pretty linen place mats and candles and I opened a bottle of wine. I tried to pick some appropriate music and I ended up putting on Edith Piaf. Music was playing and the table was set when Owen arrived just before 7pm. He liked the music and took me in his arms for a few impromptu dance steps. It was very sweet and a little embarrassing... and I know that makes no sense because only Miss Tabitha was there to witness us and she already thinks I'm crazy. I had to break free from the dancing to check on dinner, but Owen guided me through a few more steps before we ate...I started to relax and enjoy myself.

We sat down to eat and we were both pleased to be there, together, enjoying a meal. The wine was good too. (Thank you anonymous party guest who brought it as a present who knows how long ago.) I was a little nervous because we hadn't talked since Wednesday morning and I still felt bad about my behavior. I brought it up over dinner. He had received my email and I apologized again. He nodded and gave me a wry smile and said, "If I'd been more awake, we would have had a real fight."

I said, "If I'd been more awake, I would never have started that in the first place. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"You know I really need my sleep. I'm grumpy and I snap at people if I don't sleep enough...so it's important to me."

"I know. And I know...I know you were withdrawn, but that it wasn't because of me. I overreacted. I'd like to say it will never happen again...but at least I know what was going on."

"It was a really hard week. It was the first time I've been at work without [the guy who was fired] and it was really hard."

"I'm sorry, I'm sure it was tough." Pause. "So, do you forgive me?"

"Of course." And he took my hand. I think we're ok.

After dinner, we watched a movie. It was pretty dumb but we enjoyed it. We went to sleep early.

In the morning, Owen slept while I puttered around getting ready for my regatta (not a big deal--an end of the season scrimmage). He'd decided to go straight home and shower, etc. there. I was ready by 9am and I roused Owen. When it was time to go, I couldn't find my metrocard. I was riding my bike but I needed to find the card so I wouldn't go crazy wondering all day where it disappeared to. Owen was very patient, "Where are the pants you wore yesterday?"

"Hanging on the door, but I already checked there." He checked again anyway. Then it hit me, "Aha!" I'd placed it on top of a pile of papers that I'd moved off the dining room table to prepare for dinner. I'd tucked the pile in a bookshelf. I plucked the card off the pile. "That's what I get for cleaning up!" We laughed and headed out together.

The regatta was fun. My mixed eight, which was six women and two men, rowed a great race. We were together, kept up a good pace the entire piece, and sprinted our hearts out. It was a great way to end the season. I stuck around for the post-racing barbecue and then I headed home. I tried to nap, somewhat successfully, and then took a shower. Later on, there was a party for the end of the season, near where Owen lives. The plan was to go to his place and hang out before the party, go to the party, then spend the night at Owen's. Because the party included awards and announcements, I was going to get there first and Owen would come about an hour later.

I got to Owen's house around 6pm and we snuggled up on the sofa and watched tv. I mentioned that I needed to eat. But he'd already eaten! I said, "What are you, 65? Eating at 5pm."

"Sorry! I don't have much food here. I could make you a sandwich..."

"I guess I should have picked something up. I didn't think about it."

"Do you want a sandwich?"

"Sure. That would be great. Can I have it on toast?"

"I guess so." Smart aleck! He made me a sandwich. How sweet was that?

I asked him if he wanted to come to the party earlier and he said, "I thought you said it was going to be boring."

"It is. But if you want to come with me..."

"Do you want me to come now?"

"It isn't a test. You can come later, it's fine."

"Ok, that's what I'll do. When should I get there?"

"Around 9:45 or 10. We should be done with the announcements and all that by then."

I took off early enough to stop by the store and buy some beer. But I couldn't find the store so I called Owen and asked him where it was. He helped me get there and I gave him better directions to the party since I found it while wandering aimlessly.

I got to the party a little before 9:00pm and said hello to the handful of people I knew. Because my group rows in the afternoon and everyone else rows in the morning, I haven't met many folks outside of my circle. It was a good turnout, though, and it seemed like it would be a good time.

Then the awards started. A young woman who rows in the morning is starting to do stand-up comedy and she was the MC. Oh lord, that was a bit of a painful experience listening to her 15 minutes of stand-up before the awards even started. Long evening coming right up.

Around 9:30, I checked my cell phone and found this message from Owen: I just threw up :(

He hadn't been feeling great earlier in the evening but we didn't think he was sick. Guess we were wrong. I found a quiet room and called him. "Are you ok?"

"I don't feel so great. I'm sorry I can't make it."

I said, "Of course you should stay home. I don't need to stay much longer."

"No, you stay and have fun. Socialize with your friends."

"Ok, but...do you need anything?"

"I don't know..."

"What about some ginger ale?"

"Oh. That sounds good."

"Crackers?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Ok, I'm bringing you some ginger ale and saltines. I shouldn't be any later than 11."

"Don't rush. I'm fine. I'll leave the ringer on loud so I'll hear it when you get here." (You have to call his cell to get into the building.)

"Ok, please, yes do that. I'll see you soon."

I went back to listening to the speeches and tedious comedy bits and I couldn't stand it. It would have been impossibly rude to leave but I didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to go take care of my sick boyfriend! Not that there was much I could do for him but I was very done with the party.

I wasn't able to make a break for it until 10:00 pm. I said goodbye to my few friends and I almost ran out of there. I picked up the ginger ale and crackers and got back to Owen's before 10:30. He was a little surprised to see me--but happy too. I poured him some ginger ale but he was so out of it we went to sleep before he could drink it all.

Because of the early bedtime, I was wide awake by 6:30am. I didn't wake Owen but I was restless. At 7:30, I got up and went to the living room and read for a while. Around 8:30, I poked my head in Owen's room and he said hello. I got back in bed and we talked and cuddled for a while before getting moving. He seemed fine--much perkier than the night before. We never did figure out what was wrong with him.

We actually went out to breakfast and, because I had the flexcar, I took him and the roommate grocery shopping. I tell you, those are two of the fastest shoppers I've ever met. I spent a couple more hours of that miserable, wet Sunday watching football with them and then I got on the metro back to DC to meet my book group. It's been ages since I made it to book group and it was fun to see those folks. It was a good meeting and I'm glad I read the book.

I was completely exhausted by the time I got home but I couldn't figure out why. I'd slept fairly well both Friday and Saturday. This morning, I had my answer: I'm getting sick. Boo!

I'm still here at work and I'm still unproductive. I'm going home soon. I wonder if I have a boyfriend who will take care of me. That would be nice, wouldn't it?

Grateful for: a completely reasonable weekend.

Drop me a line.

My day off

Often I feel like I squander my unexpected days off...this one, I didn't even realize it was a holiday until about a week ago. I'd made a doctor's appointment for the morning and I decided to keep it. I figured it would be a good way to get me out of the house. I got up ridiculously early and did some light housework. I put away the rest of the summer clothes and put out the winter clothes. I did laundry. I cleared off the dining room table and filed. I balanced the condo accounts.

Then I headed to the doctor. I knew the visit would be easy--I had a blood draw on Wednesday and Kaiser helpfully emailed me the results. I'm in great shape! Perfect cholesterol and good everything else (most of which I didn't understand). On the way, I stopped for a little pastry at Breadline.

After the doctor, I called Pele we had a nice chat and confirmed lunch plans. I had a few hours to kill and I drank some coffee and finished my book (I actually read the book group book this month!). The Renwick was nearby so I got my art on. I didn't love the art but I enjoyed watching 15 minutes of a biographical video of the artist, Ruth Duckworth.

I walked from the gallery to meet Pele in Chinatown. I stopped at H&M on the way and bought myself a cheap pair of striped winter gloves and a cute bag that I probably don't need. Oh well, at least I don't spend a fortune on my bag obsession. Going into that place really made me feel old, though. I don't understand how people wear half the clothes in there!

Lunch was tasty (sushi!). Pele and I had a good long talk--we had some catching up to do. After lunch, I hopped on the bus and now I'm home, waiting on a grocery delivery. Later tonight, Owen is coming over and I'm cooking him dinner.

A very good day, indeed.

Grateful for: a day off.

Drop me a line.

I may be crazy

Oh boy. What can I tell you? Just when I thought I was happy, comfortable--settled even--I take another detour to crazy land.

I had a nice talk about it with Nancy, who has become my closest confident on all things Owen, and she agreed that I'd been crazy. But she also said, "You handled it like a champ. You contained it, you resolved it and it's ok now."

But is it? Maybe. I hope.

Last night, I went out with work friend MB. It was a long-delayed visit to H St. We had a drink and a snack and I happily texted with Owen while we were at the bar. When we left and MB returned a call from her mother, I called Owen. He sounded low and unhappy. All he would say was, "I had a terrible day." I was so sad! MB and I decided to head to Cap City to meet other friends for election-returns-watching. We waited for the bus and I said, "You know, I might just go home. Are you ok on your own?" MB wasn't sure, but I gave her directions and she gained confidence.

I jumped off the bus at my house and hopped right on the computer. I'd decided to use the Flexcar to go to Owen's house. I called him, "Can I come over?"

"Um, sure, if you want to."

"Do you need anything? What if I bring a beer?"

"That would be great!"

I got there in about twenty minutes. What Owen didn't realize is that I planned to spend the night. I reserved the car until 9am and planned to get up early and drive home. He said, "Isn't it too expensive?"

"No, there are 'free' hours between midnight and 7am."

"Really? They don't charge you at all?"

"Nope. So I'm going to spend the night, if that's ok."

"Of course it is."

He quizzed me a little about why I came over, but other than that, we didn't do much talking. It was odd that I came over on Tuesday night when I expected to see him on Wednesday for dinner at my house, but there I was. We sat cuddled up on the sofa and watched tv. Around 10:30pm, we went to bed.

Where did things go wrong? Some time in the night, Owen said, "I can't sleep if you're touching me." And I was pissed. I was offended. I moved to my edge of the bed and harrumphed myself back to sleep.

It's not exactly news that Owen can't sleep cuddled up. I can't sleep that way either. It can take a long time to sleep well with a new bed partner and we're not quite there yet. It doesn't matter so much on the weekends when we can sleep late, but Owen needs his eight hours. He desperately needs them. I prefer eight hours, but I'm good on seven and if I only get six I can still function. Owen needs his eight hours or he's a wreck, which I know very well. I also knew that he was feeling low and that I couldn't expect much from him. I knew it, yet, when I didn't get whatever it was I thought I needed, I freaked out.

Way too early in the morning (6:30am?), I had to talk to him. He was barely coherent and super annoyed that I wasn't letting him sleep. I was ready to leave in a huff, but I knew that would be a mistake. As I tried to explain that I felt rejected, I realized that I sounded like a lunatic. It was so wrong. But I felt so bad. I didn't know what to do.

Owen to got up at 7:30, which ended our "conversation." I was dressed and went into the living room. Roommate, Barry, was up and excitedly reported the returns to me--most of which I didn't know, since we'd gone to sleep before the accurate counts came it. Owen overheard and stumbled into the living room to get the details. He looked at me, sadly, and I stood up to give him a hug. He moved back to the bathroom and started to brush his teeth. I stood next to him and said, "Look, can we just pretend that I'm not crazy?"

He gave me the raised eyebrow and nodded.

"Tonight--don't worry about coming over. You need to get some sleep."

"Ok."

"And we'll do something this weekend...on Friday."

"Yes, definitely, Friday!"

"But we have to do something at home because I have a regatta on Saturday and I have to get up early."

"Sure, that's fine."

"You can come over--I have a movie." I gave him a big hug and I skedaddled home in traffic and rain.

I felt like a complete lunatic. Talking to Nancy helped. I said, "But what do I do now? I think I have a handle on it, but should I send him an email?"

"Sure, send him a note and make sure he knows you don't think he did anything wrong. He's probably just confused with your mixed signals: needy--not needy--needy--not needy."

"Oh lord, what is wrong with me? Am I trying to wreck things?"

"Maybe, but everything is fine. He's crazy about you. It's fine. It will be fine. You handled it."

"Ok, if you say so."

I wrote him a nice note (I think) and he didn't write back. I trust that means nothing--simply that he's having another lousy day and no response was necessary (it wasn't).

I will get it together. I am capable of distinguishing a change in his feelings for me from a bad mood after an exhausting day. I sure as hell can't stand much more of this craziness. It's too hard, too confusing, too tiring. It must stop.

Grateful for: the end of craziness.

Drop me a line.

Field trip

Today, I took a three-hour field trip. It was actually more a site visit than a field trip. Technically, we did a survey, but not a survey of people. Rather, it was a survey of a building. You don't talk to the building, but you measure it up and down and make sure it conforms.

My contractor told me the site visit would be in Dupont. We both assumed that meant Dupont Circle. But when he sent me the details, we saw that it was Dupont Park, in SE, across the Anacostia River. He was concerned, "The area is not so safe." I was not concerned. Actually, I was thrilled. It's not a part of town I have much occasion to visit and this would be a great way to look around. Middle of the day, via car, how bad could it be?

I used a Flexcar near the office and drove for only 15 minutes to find the building--and a different world. Who has been to the other side of the Anacostia? It is hilly and pretty and desolate. I saw a lot of new construction and a lot of abandoned, gutted buildings. I didn't see much free-standing single family housing; small apartment blocks and townhouses were prevalent where I visited. I did not feel unsafe or fearful--how silly would that be?

I took a wrong turn on the way back to work and found myself on Pennsylvania Ave SE. I decided it was a sign to visit an Italian Deli on that part of the street that I've wanted to go to for years. The place is closed on the weekends and too far for a normal lunch hour, and it's only open from 7:30am to 3:00pm, so it's remained merely a desire. Today was the day to fulfill that desire. I had the Italian Cold Cut on a soft roll with lettuce, tomato, oil and vinegar (no mayo or peppers). It wasn't the best sub ever--I think I had that in Philly--but for $4.85, I can't complain. I'd like to go back another time and try one of the other subs, maybe on a hard roll this time, but it would be blind because I'm too shy to ask what's on the "G" Man or Super Sub. If you have a chance, check it out: Mangialardos^TM on Capitol Hill, 1317 Pennsylvania Ave, SE. "Serving the public for over 50 years."

Grateful for: a tasty sub.

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Lost and found weekend

I have Owen's explicit permission to tell this story.

He said, "Are you going to put it on the blog?"

I said, "Are you sure it's ok for me to write it?"

"It's so funny! Why wouldn't you?"

"Um, because it will make you look like a complete goofball."

He said, "But I AM a complete goofball."

"Ok, sure, but you do realize that you will eventually meet some of the people reading the blog. Like my brother. Do you want my brother reading this stuff?"

"I don't care."

"Yeah, well, maybe I do." Or do I?

Let's see how this goes. And, B1, Mom and Ilena, if you are reading...well, I don't know what!

Our plan for Friday was simple. I would go to Owen's house straight from my happy hour. Owen was going home right after work--he was tired from a long week and wanted to relax. Late in the day, though, he sent me an email saying that a friend of his got fired and they were going for drinks after work. He would keep me updated about the timing. Fine.

When I got off the metro to meet the folks for my happy hour, I had a message from Owen. I called him back and we decided that it would make more sense for him to come to my place because I would get there earlier than he would get home. Fine.

I joined my friends and we had a good time. My phone did not have reception in the bar and I went outside to call Owen around 8pm to see if he knew how much longer he'd be out. He was with his friends in far away Rockville, drinking (drunk, in fact), and didn't figure on leaving for at least an hour. I said that I would probably not get home until after 9pm either. Fine.

I rejoined my friends and continued to eat and drink (moderately). We left around 8:45 and I when I got home I sent Owen a text, letting him know I'd arrived. Up to then, I still thought I would see him that night. But when I hadn't heard from him by 10pm, I started to have my doubts. I called him and he was very drunk and still in Rockville. I asked when he planned on leaving. Soon, he said. He put me on the phone with his friend, Stan (not the one who was fired), and we talked for a few minutes. When Owen got back on the line, I was annoyed, "Look, I'm sorry your friend got fired, but you have to make a choice. I deserve some consideration too!" Owen said, "But my friend was fired! Oh, I miss you!" I was exasperated, "You know, I think you should just go home. Just forget it." And I hung up.

As you may know, It's very unsatisfying to hang up on someone via cell phone. In this case, Owen called back about five minutes later and didn't seem to notice that I'd hung up. I could hear Stan shout in the background, "Dude, did she hang up? Did she totally hang up? Ask her, man, ask her!" But Owen didn't ask me. Instead he said he was leaving soon and he'd get to my place by 11:30pm. I wasn't thrilled but I said it was fine. Fine.

I stayed in the living room, watching tv, covered with a blanket. I wanted nothing more than to get into the bed and under the down comforter, but I was afraid that I wouldn't hear the doorbell if I went to my room. I fell asleep for a while and I woke up around 11:15pm. I had a strong feeling Owen would not be coming over. At 11:30pm, he called. His words were slurred and his voice was deep, "I'm in Rosslyn...I'm in Rosslyn." I was puzzled. What in the world was he doing in Rosslyn? It's not on the way to his place or mine. He sounded terrible. I pictured him roaming around the metro system, lost, passing out, getting sick--who knows what. I said, "Is your friend there? Let me talk to your friend." Stan came on the line and I said, "Where are you?"

He said, "We're near the Shady Grove metro." They had never left the original bar.

I said, "I don't know what you want me to do. I don't have a car, I can't come pick you up."

"I don't know what you're supposed to do."

"I don't want you to put him on the train alone. He can't go home alone. There's no way he can make it to my place. You have to stay with him. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take him to my house and he can sleep on the couch."

"Good. Yes. Take him to your house. Thank you."

I talked to Owen again, "Look, Stan is taking you home. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He said, "Ok baby, you know I love you right?"

I said, "Yes, yes, I know. It's ok. Go get some sleep." I hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Owen, sounding less drunk, "I'm at Stan's house now. I'm on the sofa."

"That's good."

"I really wanted to see you tonight and do the couple thing."

"The couple thing?"

Owen explained, "You know, the couple thing, where we fall asleep together and I have my arms around you and hold you."

"But you don't like to fall asleep like that." I said.

"Well, ok, but we could do that until I fell asleep. I really wanted to do that."

"I know, baby, I did too. We'll have lots of chances to do that."

"We will? We will. You know I love you, right? I really do. I really care about you."

"I care about you too."

"I love you baby."

"Ok."

"Are you still scared?"

"No, I'm not scared, I'm just not as drunk as you are." I laughed. "And I'm kind of pissed."

"Oh, ok. Don't be angry. I love you."

"Yes. Ok. Why don't you get some sleep and I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

We hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. It was Owen. We had another short conversation where he told me where he was and that he loved me. "I love you. You know I love you, right?"

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. Guess who? I was having a hard time not laughing through Owen's further declarations of love.

After that, I turned off my phone. I did not sleep particularly well but I was also not terribly upset. First, I was angry. Then I was worried. Finally, I was amused. Luckily, amusement won the day.

I don't want to be the woman who is a shrew because her man doesn't come home when he said he would. Ideally, he would have canceled when he decided to go out with his friends--but he still wanted to see me and didn't anticipate going overboard with the drinking. The circumstances were exceptional--it's not every day someone gets fired--and Owen kept me in the loop so I never felt ignored. I don't want to excuse his behavior and he needs to cut back on the drinking (he agrees)--but the four "I love you" calls at fifteen minute intervals made it impossible to be upset.

Some context: Owen has said "I love you" to me before. He was drunk the first time he said it, but not the second time. I told him I wasn't ready to say it. I explained it further when I saw him on Saturday, "It's not that I don't feel it, it's just that I want to know that the feeling is going to stick around before I say it." (It's been two months, people. We all know two months is nothing. It's fun--and hopefully it will last--but who knows?)

He said, "I say it when I feel it. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. But...but...this is why I wait. When you say it...when anyone says it...it sets up expectations. Expectations that I might not have otherwise, about the future, about what will happen with us. So if we break up in a couple of months, I'll be even more disappointed if I'd said it and didn't feel it anymore. I'd feel like even more of a relationship failure than I already am."

"Poopy."

"Goddammit! I'm trying to say something important here, could you be serious for a MINUTE?"

"Oh, fine. I'm serious sometimes."

"Sure you are. But does any of that make sense?"

"Of course it does, but I still don't feel bad about dropping the L-bomb."

"The 'L-bomb'? Are you kidding? That really is a generation gap."

"Heh. I guess it is."

We did the couple thing a lot on Saturday and I amazed myself by not being angry or upset or frustrated or anything bad. I just didn't have those feelings. I was very happy to see him and we had a great time hanging out--first with some of my friends and later on our own. We went back to his place Saturday evening and watched a movie. I fell asleep on the couch (in his arms) and he had to wake me up to move me to the bedroom. "Get up! It's time to go to sleep!" I left early-ish on Sunday to go to do a fundraising thing with the rowing club.

I'm so damn happy when we're together, I can't believe my good luck.

Grateful for: my goofball.

Drop me a line.

Email good

Remember how lots of you told me to get Owen's email address? I knew it made sense, but I never did anything about it. I wasn't sure that I preferred email communication over other methods. Actually, I have a preference for the phone, then email, then text message. Owen's first preference seems to be text, but it's too temperamental and very limited in the amount of information that can actually be communicated.

So, on Wednesday, Owen sent me a text asking for my email address. I sent it to him. A while later, he forwarded me an invitation to a party (a party to which he'd already invited me). He'd already given me most of the party details, so I'm not exactly sure why he sent it, but I liked the thought. Perhaps he wanted to make it 100% clear that I was invited. I wrote him back about a couple of unrelated things and he did not reply--but that did not bother me.

On Thursday, he sent me another email--a forward of a funny mp3 with no additional message. I responded with "ha ha ha" and that was it. No big deal, but nice to know he was thinking about me.

Friday rolls around and, while I know we have some plans on Saturday, I have no sense at all about how the weekend will shape up. I don't like to get into this easy pattern of assuming I'll spend the whole weekend with Owen. What if he has other plans and I'm not included? (Did you just hear yourself? Craaaazy.) More importantly: what if I stop making plans with my friends based on that idea and I never see them again? Bad, very bad!

Then, around 11am, I get an email from Owen: what are you doing tonight? Was I pleased! I do have plans for a happy hour tonight and I invited him. We correspond back and forth a few times in order to pin down the details for this evening and it was completely painless. This email thing is working out well. Who knew?

Everyone except me, apparently.

Grateful for: email.

Drop me a line.

Three little words

When I was growing up, both of my parents worked full-time, which meant that until I was 11 or so, I went to some kind of day care after school. I was fine to be home alone for a few hours by age nine, but I would get bored, so when I was in the fifth grade, my dad found an after school program for me at the downtown YMCA in Knoxville. I only remember three kids from the program: Kathy, John and Brian, John's little brother. I also remember the counselor--he was a bearded, gruff man who didn't seem suited for his job. We all liked him a lot and he treated us like little adults and didn't monitor our behavior very closely.We used all the facilities at the Y, which meant we swam and did some rudimentary gymnastics. We also went on a few field trips to Tyson's park and took at least one illicit and very short ride on our counselor's motorcycle.

When I arrived on the scene, all the other kids had been coming to the program for a while--at least long enough that their relationships were already established. In particular, John and Kathy were a couple. The problem was, as soon as John and I met, we fell for each other. I didn't do anything about it. He had a girlfriend and he was younger than me. I was in the fifth grade and he was only in the third grade.

Kathy knew what was going on and she was not pleased with either of us. I felt bad about the whole thing. John wanted to hold my hand, but I wouldn't let him, because of Kathy. We saw each other every day, but not for very long, so our time was precious, and Kathy was always there. One day, Kathy pulled me aside and said, "I know you didn't mean for this to happen so it's ok. I'm not angry. I know you like John a lot and you couldn't help it. We can all be friends." That let us come out in the open and we were able to hold hands, at least when the counselor wasn't looking, though I'm sure he knew very well what was going on. We took this all very seriously and I remember how it felt: very serious.

The first time we kissed was at Tyson's park, which contained some lovely, complicated play structures. We sat, cross-legged on the ground in a hidden enclosed space, looking into each other's eyes. John said, "You're beautiful." I didn't know how to respond. I didn't really believe him. I blushed. He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. We heard the counselor calling and we ran to the van that would take us back to the Y.

John wanted me to tell him I loved him. I couldn’t say it. We had swimming lessons and John and I were alone for a moment in our "class" room after everyone else went to the locker room. He said, "I love you." I was silent. He asked, "Can you say it?" I stood there in the dark, the lights turned before we left the room. He walked to the door and I stood by the wall, my mouth open, but without words. I whispered, "I love you" but I don't know if he heard me. I didn't know it would be so hard to say.

Once, later, my dad took me to John's house for what I think we would now call a "play-date." I don't think our parents knew that we were boyfriend-girlfriend. The little brother hung around for most of the day. But we had a few minutes alone in John's room. He said, "You're my main girlfriend."

I said, "Really. You have other girlfriends."

John said, "A couple, but you’re my main girlfriend."

"You don't have any other girlfriends. I'm your only girlfriend."

"No…I mean…"

"Well, you're my main boyfriend then."

It's funny how early we start to play these games. First, I felt hurt, then bemused. Because it was John and me and neither of us was interested in anyone else. We couldn't be.

At the end of that year, I was moving to DC and we were both very said. Even so, there was no talk of writing or otherwise staying in touch. He wrote me a note in my autograph book that said, "I love you, I will miss you." I still have that note.

I stayed in touch with my best friend Carla for several years after moving and she passed some messages and at least one letter along to John (they ended up attending the same school the year after I moved). But that was it. I never saw him or talked to him again. That memory does make me a little sad. What was he, two years younger? Three? Meaningless now. I wonder if that kind of attraction lasts. If I saw him again, would I recognize him? Would I still feel the same pull?

The last time I wrote about a grade-school boyfriend, someone asked if I would want to find out what happened to him. My answer was no. If you asked that about John, the answer is easy and different. The first time I was on my own back in Knoxville--it was during grad school and I was there for a regatta--I looked up John's name in the phone book. I wasn't sure if it was him, since he was a "junior" and I didn't call. Almost, but I didn't. Maybe I should have.

Grateful for: knowing the value of those words.

Drop me a line.

Night of watching the living dead...

When I told Owen I had Night of the Living Dead on DVD, he suggested that we watch it at his house on Halloween night. He invited a couple of (female) friends to join us. He informed me later, "The whole thing was kind of a test."

I said, "Oh great, another goddamn test! Just what I need."

"Yeah!" He laughed. "This one was good because I've talked quite a bit about you to Lucy but hardly at all to Mary. So it will be interesting to see what they think."

"Well, I liked them. They seemed nice. I mean, why wouldn't they like me?"

"I don't know. We'll see what they have to say."

"Do you really think they'd say mean things about me? They don't seem like the types."

"Oh, but they are. They totally are."

"Really. Well maybe you don't need to tell me what they say. Unless it's good."

Of course, it's not like I don't care what my friends think about Owen, but I assume they will like him because I like him and and because he is likable. I figure the same will be true with his friends. So far, I've gotten along with all of them--but, until last night, I'd only met the guys.

I said, "You know, I knew it was a test. You already told me."

"I did? When?"

"It was a couple of weeks ago and we were out at the bar. You said, 'The real test is when you meet my female friends.' And then you invited me home for Christmas."

"I said that? Oh."

But it's not like I wouldn't have been on my best behavior anyway. Not only do I want to make a good impression on his friends but I don't want to embarrass him. Owen should be commended for his good taste in choosing me as a girlfriend--and I wouldn't want to do anything to screw that up! Damn straight.

Last night was also our first mid-week sleepover. It went rather well. It was a friendly, social evening, due to the movie-watching event. Owen had pizza and beer for us to eat and was a good host. I brought Halloween candy. Amusingly, when we put the movie in, Owen and I were sitting on opposite sides of the room--we each blamed the other for sitting so far away. He said: I couldn't sit on the couch with you and Mary! I thought, "Why not?" I resolved that awkwardness by getting myself some water halfway through the movie and relocating next to Owen. We proceeded to hold hands, lean on each other and generally engage in all kinds of quiet cuteness (no kissing!) that I find terribly annoying to be around. Oh well. Hope the other guest didn't hate me.

After we were on our own, he ran down the morning shower schedule for me--which seemed to leave very little room for me to take a shower. Well, I could take a leisurely shower if I planned to leave after Owen and Barry (the roommate). I grumped about that in the morning, but I managed to squeeze in a quick shower and also leave at the same time as the guys. I don't know why, but I wasn't comfortable hanging around the house on my own. Getting out with them also got me to work at 8:30, a more than reasonable arrival time.

Also, I was mildly grumpy for much of the evening. It was almost like the grumpiness from the weekend carried over to Tuesday. So frustrating. Owen was a good host and fun to be around, as usual. Yet, I felt slightly off--like he wasn't paying enough attention to me? Nah, that wasn't it. Like, he should have been doing something different...but even in the moment I could see that I needed to be doing something different--but what? Maybe something like relaxing and enjoying myself and not worrying so goddamn much about nothing? Yeah. That might help.

Grateful for: a good night.

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Night of the Living Dead (1968)

I hadn't seen this picture before and it arrived from Netflix (tm) appropriately in time for Halloween. The special effects are laughable, the cause of the zombie-i-zation of people is absurd and the acting is wooden--but this is a very good film. My friends and I heckled the first half of the picture...but by at least the halfway point we shut up. We were drawn into the impossible dilemma the characters faced and which they could not resolve due to their own madness, ineptitude and selfishness. The plot was not moved by the stupidity of the characters, the way it so often happens in horror movies (don't go into the basement! don't open that door!). Rather, the wrong moves were pretty obvious and the solution to their problem was not that difficult to achieve. Yet, they failed because they just could not get it together. They could not trust each other; they could not communicate; they failed to cooperate. The zombies became a metaphor and it did not matter howun -zombie-like they appeared. The end of the movie was truly chilling. I also loved the totally spot-on and hilarious news casts that let citizens know what was going on. So great and absurd, but very real too. If you haven't seen this film, you must. It's a gem.

Short review: The Prestige (2006)

You may feel like you've already seen this movie or read about it, but that is because there is a similarly-themed movie (The Illusionist) currently in release. Both are set at similar times (late 19th Century) but the locations are different and so are the characters and the plot lines. Of the two films, I preferred The Prestige (2006). Why? It's not that the acting is better or the writing is better or the cinematography is prettier. No, I preferred it because it is much less pretentious. The Illusionist was a seemingly meaningful story that actually had no substance. There is no particular substance to The Prestige either, but there is an entertaining puzzle, good performances and a truly creepy (though not surprising) ending that actually did provide food for thought, though it wasn't particularly deep or meaningful. If you like magic, Christian Bale, Hugh Jackman, David Bowie (!) and creepy visuals, I recommend The Prestige. It's a good two hours spent and it won't leave you feeling cheated. All secrets are revealed.