After a Good Walk and 48 Hours

"'Will you ever learn? You're just an empty cage girl, if you kill the bird'" -- Crucify, Tori Amos

Yes, some posts have disappeared. You aren't imagining it.

So in my reflective state, I would like to point out that I do listen to you. QO and his philosophies on attraction and availability . . . that you won't look if you get hung up, won't see opportunity while you are busy treading water. Bop bop with his new agey stuff (see? I didn't say bullshit.) although I'm not going with the mantra he suggested. But comforting, his belief that there is someone for everyone. My mother, who did an excellent job of talking me down . . . with stories (all men are the same whether they are 14 or 45) and suggestions (all of her suggestions involved homework or working) E2 and M2, who haven't even said "We told you so . . . " Not once. Thank you.

I need some space and he now feels bad so is not giving any.

And perhaps I need to move. Get a new job. Or take a vacation.

I need to do something different.

Wasn't Meant to Be

Chatting with my friend H last night, when that came up. "Wasn't meant to be." The ultimate in placation. The fates wove your thread in a different direction. Wasn't meant to be.

But doesn't that make you want to ask "What is meant to be?" To question the weavers. Where is this going? Why?

And there were lots of fish and fishing metaphors, that we have all heard before . . . plenty of fish, throwing out lines, fish out of water . . . how we are atypical . . . about small target markets . . .

But what is meant to be? If there is "wasn't" certainly there is a was somewhere. Somehow.

And I don't want predictable. And I like the tapestry I have so far . . . even the holes and dark spots. So I don't want to change anything. Just want to question for a bit. So how do you know what is meant to be?

What is it that happens when you question the fates?

Slurp Geek

I am going to what is basically a D & D convention next weekend. I imagine it will be something like this. (Sorry, I can no longer upload from youtube for some reason. A technical problem for another day. Something to do with switching to blogger beta.) (Love the lizard thing, by the way.)

I am going with my brother and his friends to the Palladium book convention, invited because it seems like an opportunity to meet slurp geeks . . . and I have developed an affinity for men wearing digital watches lately. Slurp geeks is a term coined by my other brother, J., to describe, well . . . the slurping sound of one's retainer being readjusted in one's mouth. When J. finds something that he deems as extremely geeky, he will make this sound . . . you put your tongue against the roof of your mouth and suck spit on the sides of your mouth.

Goes something like this: "Hey J. You want to go to the Palladium con with me? Seems they have like, four hour gaming sessions of Robocop."

J. makes long slurping noise with a look of distaste. "No."

Or "Hey J. look at that guy over there in the white socks."
"Umm, yeah . . . (slurp)"

And hence the term slurp geek was born. It's not in the urban dictionary yet . . . so it is truly a Emily's family made up term. You all know one, I'm sure.

Keep in mind, both of my brothers could be categorized as slurp geeks, in their day . . . J. possibly still is one, with his penchant for everything techie. And D. was, for sure, before he got married and his wife started buying him shirts from J. Crew. Mr. Crabbypants? Definitely slurp geek material. He was one part of the A.V. club . . . and the radio club in high school. I've seen pictures.

And a gaming convention (or "con" as D. keeps calling it) seems like an excellent opportunity to meet slurp geeks. I think I'm going to wear something that shows some cleavage. And no, I will not be gaming . . . at least not in the traditional sense. I read all the D & D books as a 4th grader, but was a girl and had no one to play with. Plus, once I figured out that there was just a bunch of dice rolling and you had to have this collective imaginary world . . . well . . . it just seemed like a lot of energy expended. Evidently, my brother J. was one of those Dungeon Masters who was a real tool. Found that out today.

P: "Yeah, I stopped playing with your brother after the butter knife incident."
"Butter knife incident?" (I don't remember anything about butter knives in D & D)
"I killed someone's character because J. told me he was running at me with a knife. Then he'd say, 'Why'd you kill him? It was a butter knife.' "

Evidently, that was bad form. My brother would do this, killing off the character who had the key to neutralize the nuclear bomb, or what have you, over a butter knife . . . thus killing off the whole room. The boy does like a good mind game.

So I've been promised that there will be more interesting things to do than watching a big bunch of slurp geeks play role playing games. Something about a costume contest and meeting all the writers. My brother has books for me to take around and get signed. And with the dawn of computers, it should be a thirtyish crowd. No one plays role playing games sitting around a table anymore. I think it's all done on the net nowadays. Low tech, old, slurp geeks. Yum. Hope they have jobs . . . and are not living in their mother's basement.

Do for Me

"So what do you want a man to do for you?"

I was asked this yesterday by a very sincere, earnest boy, who is dating my best friend. He is in love. Totally, unbashedly, in love. And like most people in love . . . he wants everyone else to feel like he's feeling. So he is trying to set me up.

And I was totally taken aback by the question. Do for me? I don't want anyone to do anything for me. Maybe that's my problem? Or his slip of the tongue . . . he really just wanted my list, the list of what I am looking for. And I have forgotten all about my list. Seems it only takes a month off to forget totally and be at a loss for words.

When I was in my twenties, I thought I had men all figured out . . . I worked at an all boys' school, with primarily male teachers. My thought was that the male brain was simple. Linear. There were clear established patterns. Food. Sex. Money. Power. But now, after this week, not so sure that I have it figured out. Well, actually, I know that I attribute more emotion and thought to what is there. But it never occured to me . . . men like to do things. They are doers.

Hmmm. . . so what do I want a man to do for me? Sounds so . . . put on your loincloth and get go me some bison.

The Ramp of Possibility

Okay, here's the deal.

Once upon a time, I decided to not date. I made the determination that I picked, or liked, or was attracted to, the wrong type of person and so I stopped picking, and liking and being attracted to. I ignored, well, basically my sexuality, (sorry Dad) . . . and it was easy to delve into work and not worry about other people. It was way easier than being disappointed or hurt. Plus, you could eat anything you wanted. I mentally shut myself off to that aspect of life, didn't even entertain possibility.

And I was very good at being alone. (still am, really) I do what I want to do . . . whether I have friends that want to go or not.

And despite the comments from Q.O. about being more positive . . . with the thought that things will work themselves out, that the universe will fall into place, I'm tired. I'm tired of the ramp of possibility and the fall. It doesn't matter if the fall is when I meet them and they have three kids and they aren't really divorced and their life is a mess . . . and then they look at me and say, "So . . . why is it you are 35 and haven't been married?" judgementally, like there was something wrong with me. (and yes, I realize that it is all in how you internalize the comment . . . he could have meant nothing by it . . . just making small talk . . . so we could instead go to the example of "Oh, you're skinny enough to date.") So the fall at the beginning, I'm tired of sitting in front of a person in the middle of an interaction, knowing I will never speak to them again. And I like to give everyone a chance, but frankly, there is a turning point. So should I just end things at that turning point? Should I just get up and walk out? Hmmmm.

I know that dating is a process. That you may, in fact, have to go out with a lot of people to find the right one. But the stories aren't enough anymore . . . and I'm not asking for marriage (God, they so freak out about that) but I would like to get to the fifth date . . . or maybe sixth months . . . because I'm really beginning to believe it's me that's the problem.

But let's talk about the other fall. When the ramp of possibility is higher . . . let's just say we get along. It's fun. Maybe it's that I think he is cute and therefore don't hear the annoying question or statement (I wonder what mine is . . . it's a two way street, I have to have one . . . and no, don't tell me). I had a great date last week. And it wasn't the date (although the Berkley Front is always exciting) it was the person I was with. The right combination of geeky and cool . . . glasses, I do love a boy in glasses . . . nice solid Midwestern values . . . liked to argue . . . called himself a liberal . . . had an interesting job we could talk about . . . never married, no kids and didn't live with his mom . . . oh, and wasn't gay. He was nice. Really, I'm just looking for that. That is so hard to find. Well, it's easy to find. I've met quite a few men that I find attractive and intelligent . . . but they all have girlfriends. So no possibility. But this one, there was no mention of a girlfriend. And I thought he was with me, in the "this is fun" thought. Up the ramp I go.

And I'm tired of this ramp metaphor. He didn't call. It's been a week. And despite what women think . . . and what other men have told me this week, he knows how to use a phone and no one is that busy. I will assume that he was kidnapped by pirates. Because that is so much cooler that not realizing that he was just a jerk, or even harder, that he is just not into me. But while he is out getting his peg leg fitted, I'm sitting here thinking, "Shit, I'm going to have to do this all over again." And I know it was only one date. But I thought there was a possibility and evidently, I'm a really sucky judge of possibility.

And I'm sure I'll get comments . . . and I'm not giving up. I may even email him and ask if he was kidnapped by pirates, if only to get the comforting line about being busy . . . or no response, but I can say I did the extra thing. But it is so much easier for me to suck into myself. Not as fun, but easier. I'm tired of the car crash. Maybe I should stop getting into cars. (See? Brand new metaphor.)

Or maybe I should get kidnapped by pirates.

Getting Stood Up for an Independent Film

I think. To his credit, I don't even know if my phone is in the house, or in the car. Should go check.

(check) It's on the kitchen table.

This morning I was lounging. Didn't get up with the alarm. Did some stuff on the computer. The im thingy pops up with my brother.

"You coming? Should we pick you up?"

Pick me up for what? Shit. Z.'s class. I promised that I would go. And I when I made the whole stay at home and clean plan, along with the "date" plan, I had this funny "forgetting something" feeling.

"Yeah. Don't pick me up. I'll be there, but late."

Have to go get my shots. Go and work out, so there will be no workout guilt. And this will be great because the guy I'm meeting is somewhere near the class, so we can just meet there. But then have the problem of getting dressed for a date AND getting dressed to go to Z.'s class . . . and merging the two. Black turtleneck sweater. Jeans. Boots. Pink scarf. Pleather motorcycle jacket. Make up casual but on my face (and a bit too pink, once it was all said and done). Trying for Audrey Hepburn. Probably more looks more Joan Jett. Going for the dressed but not looking like I thought about it . . . even though I did. And no heels, because I couldn't explain heels in the snow.

Get to the place with Z.'s class only an hour and twenty minutes late. We go to Traffic Jam and Snug for lunch and have fried dill pickles. Then we take Z. to the DIA again and he goes through all the same rooms but looks at different paintings. Poor Z., he has that damn aunt with an art degree that keeps asking him questions about what he thinks about the art. (insert eye roll here)

Guy said that he would call sometime around five. The DIA closes at five. So I had nothing else to do . . . and so drove home. Now I may take my paper and go to Starbucks for some crack-like latte, because I can't take a nap with the makeup on and I would have to change clothes to clean. But it's after five, and so there is no free parking for crack lattes. And my sweater keeps riding up in the back. And I'm sure he will call . . . you can't plan on when your independent film will stop shooting. But it just would have been more convenient if he had called while I was already down there. But it would have been more convenient to sit on my couch instead of going to Z.'s class . . . and I could have said "no". But I had made the commitment last week.

But if he doesn't call in the next hour, I am so going to sleep.

I Wanna Be Like You Hoo Hoo

"So tattoos of a spine on someone's neck screams 'Go sit next to this person' to you?"
"Cause it only screams painful to me."
"It screams that I'm going to have to tell Emily to stop talking to him in a couple of months to me."
"What we need to find is a guy that is totally mainstream . . . but thinks he isn't."
"So just like Emily?"
"Pretty much."
Emily, cutting in on conversation: "Yeah, but where do you find one of those?"
"You would think you could just go where you go . . . but that so isn't working is it?"

"It's a New Year, Trying to Be Nice."

Actual quote from my mother this afternoon.

This was after she told me that . . . well (lips smoosch to center) . . . the hair, it wasn't any better . . . well . . . the cut is better . . . but you looked younger with the black hair . . . maybe you should go back to that . . .

Okay, then.

Concert was awesomely awesome. Bought t-shirts. Actually M1 and I bought matching t-shirts, but we don't live in the same state, so it's okay. Wearing my pink "Deal's Gone Bad" tee today, with just enough of the jolly roger sticking out of my sweater. Good pit. Good music. No one to pick up. Oh, well.

M1 kept looking out into the crowd (it was sold out) and saying . . . "This is the dating pool." with a circular hand gesture. I thought she was being sarcastic . . . like I should try the bar at the Townsend instead . . . but she was serious and commenting on the bleak state of affairs.

There seemed to be two demographic groups at the Magic Stick last night. "Old" people who actually remembered Gangster Fun and the Parka Kings when they were bands. And their children. There were groups who looked like they hadn't seen anywhere except the inside of a mini-van for a long, long time. And they kept walking past . . .

"M? Do we look like that? When the twenty-somethings see us . . . do they see that? Do they think what I'm thinking right now?"
"No. We aren't carrying Liz Claiborne purses."
"Cause those people are old . . . and they're our age."
"Yeah. We don't look like that."
"Are you sure? Cause they don't know they look like that."

Now the ska crowd is geeky in general . . . boys in skinny ties and white shirts, newsboy hats (fedoras, if they are really into it) and spectator shoes, who look like they know how to really work a computer. Boys in glasses, who look like they might actually enjoy doing your taxes after they were done bouncing up and down . . . (my idea of hot, by the way) Boys with a bit of an edge, but way too nerdy (or too smart?) to end up pulling off goth.

But mix that in with groups of nerdy soccer moms (that married the nerdy old guys?) and it gets kinda surreal.

M1 did talk to the lead singer of Deal's Gone Bad, who was just wandering around, looking like he needed a friend. He remembered us from last year. M1 wanted to see what R looked like . . . and his doppelganger was at the show . . . but skinnier with neck tattoos. He was part of "the Rovers" (a scooter club, very manly) so maybe I'll see him again at the Front (just what I need, someone with neck tatts). No students this year. Almost disappointing.

Can't wait until next year though.

Just Sharing

The shoes . . . they work. It's like magic.

While Sitting in the "Cone of Silence"

I talk to a lot of divorced men. Something about being single and 35. And I always take their stories with a grain of salt . . . figuring that there are two sides to every story I hear (and sometimes three or four). I never get to hear the ex-wife, but know I would present my story in a way that is favorable to me. We all do it to some extent. It's psyche preservation.

And I don't really want to hear from the ex-wives anyhow. Not even curious. Well, maybe with that one . . . and the moving away to live in the single wide with the "platonic" friend and the goat . . . but just because it's such an interesting story.

And unfortunately, the stories are very similar . . . married in our twenties . . . thought I knew the girl . . . people change . . . she doesn't want to be married anymore . . . she left.

With a smattering of infidelity mixed in.

And as someone who really wants to be married, I never understand the motivation. As someone who really wants children, I can't understand why anyone would leave them. And so I listen to the stories and hope that there is another side. A rationable, reasonable side . . . though not too reasonable (like he beat me) because I'm probably about to go out with the storyteller.

And then I went to Starbucks today and my fears were realized. (No, I didn't run into anyone's ex . . . but that would have been fun, wouldn't it?) People talk on their cell phones like they are in a magical "cone of silence" somehow and the woman next to me . . . she is leaving her husband. She knows that it is at least 50% her fault, but she can't be married anymore . . . just can't. And single people, they can do anything, you know . . . they can be authors and . . .

The whole time, her toddler is sleeping in his mega-mobile stroller.

And he wants to sell the house . . . and she could get a pretty good job . . . and yeah, I've thought about marriage counseling but really, what's the point?

I wanted to snatch her parenting license away . . . until I realized that there is no parenting license. A woman on her cell phone telling her friend that she was leaving her husband. Not because he was mean, or beating her, or for any other good reason that I can't think of right now, oh, like cheating on her . . . just because she didn't want to be married anymore. And those single people . . . yeah, well, they have it so good.

I really wanted to turn and tell her about being single, but I talk to strangers too much about things they don't want to hear. So I held my tongue. I didn't tell her that she could be whatever it was that she so wanted to be . . . and she could still be married doing it. I didn't talk to her about the stress and needless crap that her two-year old was going to go through because she just didn't feel like staying married anymore. Didn't talk to her about the dating pool for 35 year old women, like ourselves, who would all be men like her husband . . . except a little more angry because they had found someone that they wanted to commit to . . . and that other woman didn't feel like being married anymore either.

I really didn't want to think that the stories were true. And yet, here, in the seat next to me, was the confirmation . . . gabbing into her cell phone . . . surrounded by her imaginary cone of silence. And I felt horrible. And sad. For all the stories that I have heard.

And I think I should get props for slipping a "Get Smart" reference in . . . and not hitting anyone at the Starbucks.

Aside

The universe is still conspiring . . . and I'm currently experiencing some anxiety about it. Not too much, could just be that I need some breakfast.

Why is it that when you really, really like someone, they want nothing to do with you? And when you are kind of eh, I might sorta like you . . . well, then they really, really like you . . .

Wrong time, wrong place, wrong emotional level . . .

And I just wanna find my lobster. And he isn't it.

I don't think anyway . . .

(and then there is the sinking feeling . . . shit, what if he is? No, he's not. But what if he is? But he is not, although he is the nicest man in the world . . . and so it goes . . .)

And I'm not sure that he even likes me. Just a scenario I'm playing with in my head.

The Universe Conspires

It has been the days of cancellation . . . R perhaps thought more clearly and cancelled tonight. (R being formerly known as RBBF. Yes, he has a name) And perhaps it is all for the best.

M36 called tonight while walking his dog. Very nice, and has a dog, so has some sense of responsibility. Answered all 39 questions quite reasonably and has a job. In fact, has a master's degree. So I might meet him. Maybe. Quite a jump from my usual fiasco, but we grew up in the same town, so we have that goin' for us. Plus he throws poker "tournaments"? There must be other boys there if he doesn't work out.

Trying very hard not to jump ahead in my mind. Don't have to have any expections, right? And R just makes me think of RB. Which is not his fault, but I just don't want to loop there anymore. He is the nicest guy on the planet. Wrong place, wrong time. Kinda my story, all the time. And glad he cancelled. It would have been fun to hang out, but complicated . . . and I'm so done with complicated. Want simple. Attracted to complicated, but want simple. No more imaginary rock stars . . . just boys walking their dogs and taking their dads to poker tournaments.

And yet, the universe still conspires against me . . .

Closing a Chapter

Funny, the things that happen in our lives that allow us to move on . . . from longing and regret. Never anything earth shattering, sometimes just a soft sound or a rustling (metaphorically, of course).

And you always want the earth shattering, the end, the finality. Want to make it go boom and poke it with a stick, which never makes it better. But instead, it is like the state between being aware and daydreaming . . . you can't make yourself be in that state or remember it anyhow.

Today I got out of bed and it was okay.

3 Billion People

There are what? Three billion people in the United States alone? So surely I can find someone else to "date" other than RBBF right?

I mean that is a possibility, right?

"Dude, that's gross"

My baby brother is home for a wedding. Last night I was his driver and so went to the hometown bar with him and his girlfriend to meet up with some old friends. It was joining the "after the rehearsal dinner" party.

My brother and I are six years apart. So his friends recognize me and know who I am, but we certainly didn't run in the same crowds. And I haven't seen most of them in ten years . . . so a lot of walking up and saying "oh, you're Emily" and me politely smiling and wondering who they are . . . because they are not eighteen anymore. So I was on the edges all night . . . sat and talked to Mel about any and all things because she is from Miami and doesn't know them either. And Mel is one of the most fun people I know.

As Mel and I were talking, a guy in a yellow polo shirt leaned up against me. Touching me. I can't imagine what my face looked like . . . we all know how much I like to be touched, especially touched by strangers. I knew he was with the wedding crew, so to be polite, I said nothing. Continued my conversation. Yellow polo shirt man began rubbing my shoulders. Again, he is someone in the wedding party and probably wasted . . . better just to ignore it. Could be a high school friend for all I know. After all, I didn't recognize the groom. He joins the conversation. Makes some odd comments about going to Thailand (evidently you can buy baby chickens and then can throw them in an alligator pit?) (went over big with Mel, who practically runs a "no kill" animal shelter with my brother in their apartment).

When he goes to get a beer, I mouth to my brother "Who the hell is that?" It is the bride's sister's husband. Great, married yellow polo shirt man. He comes back. Rubs my back some more, cooing about how I have a nice arch (because I'm uncomfortable and trying to pull away from him). It was a lot like a Pepi le Pew cartoon. He is standing behind me and put his arms around my shoulders . . . and "oops, I didn't mean to put my hand there!" Of course you didn't.

We force J. to save me. So now as J. is talking to married yellow polo shirt man, I keep hearing "so you think sixty dollars would be enough?" "No, dude that's my sister." "So what do you think, sixty-five?" "Dude, it doesn't matter . . . she's my sister . . . "

I look at married yellow polo shirt man. "Are you trying to buy me? For sixty dollars?" J. takes up the placating . . . his girlfriend is a spitfire and I'm well . . . about the same. I think J. didn't want a fist fight. "No, that's not what we were talking about," J. says.

Married yellow polo shirt guy chimes in "Yeah, you know "Girls Gone Wild"? You know those videos? Where they pay girls to lift up their tops?" He leers at me. "I'm much more expensive . . . I don't think you could afford me." Mel goes at him. Don't remember what was said, but myps guy left within five minutes.

"Thanks a lot" my brother says. "I have to see him tomorrow." I was surprised that J. didn't deck him (cause I would have if he had said it about my sister) but J. does have to go to the wedding today. "Guy's a tool." he says with a shrug.

And married yellow polo shirt guy went home to his wife and two kids. Certainly didn't see anything wrong with his behavior. Wasn't so drunk that he was stumbling or slurring, so knew what he was doing. And seriously thought it was a good idea to discuss with my brother whether or not I would lift my top for sixty dollars. I think "tool" is an understatement. And as for my whining about being 35 and unmarried . . . I could have that instead. I'm a lucky girl. Have to remember that.

You're Emily

While I was out on my "I'm not sure if this is a date" outing . . . which is why I wore converse (because if you have to ask . . . then it's not a date . . . ) (I had fun, by the way) I saw someone in a "Weakerthans" T-shirt.

I have never seen anyone in a Weakerthans t-shirt. I have never known anyone who has ever heard of the Weakerthans, other than my brother. So D. suggested that I go talk to the gentleman in the Weakerthans t-shirt, as to not miss this opportunity.

I could only see his back. So I walked up to join their table. "Hi, ummm, I had to ask because of your . . . "

"You're Emily ___" said the man in the Weakerthans t-shirt. I'm sure there was this look of either horror or shock and awe. How did this man know my name? How did he know me? I looked at him carefully . . . still looking . . . sorta familiar . . .

"Kevin?" Turns out he is one of my brother J.'s friends from high school. He now lives in Berkley and therefore hangs out at the Berkley Front (because we are required to . . . living in Berkley and all). My brother is coming home next week, so I will probably see him then but how funny, that the guy I had to talk to because he was so cool (no one knows the Weakerthans) turns out to be someone I already know. Someone I've known since he was fourteen.

So much for me being anonymous or hard to recognize. Creepy.

Rain

In my quest for making matchdotcom performance art, I wrote questions today. While writing questions, I looked back at all the dating questions I've gotten over email, or ranted about on my blog. In doing this, there were the emails from the beginning of RB . . . his questions and my questions after his insistence that I ask him some questions. And while I had fun reading about how we were doomed from the start, it made me miss him alittle. Mostly in the "he always fixed my tag if it was sticking out" kind of way. Luckily, he was accidently very clear (crystal) in our last email exchange. Maybe it's the rain.

I have all this weirdness to write about . . . that I can't write about. RBBF calls me once a week. In fact, he is the only male person, other than blood relatives, to call me in weeks. And talking to him is interesting, so I still answer the phone. And he said two very sweet things to me (1. "I could talk to you all night" and 2. "I could get those for you off of [RB's] computer" -- RB has nine different copies of one of my favorite songs and I did not get copies in the breakup) Anyhow. . . Have received no calls from the "midnight caller", which makes me slightly depressed . . . depressed enough to want to go shopping anyhow. (It doesn't take much) The match stalker keeps emailing me about how cool he is and what a bitch I am for not realizing it. We won the football game. I had lots of kids to take pictures. Somehow, I lost my copy of Bladerunner. So I'll probably purchase that today with a Bedouin Soundclash CD . . . maybe some All American Rejects.

So I'm going to go to Starbucks and read the ads from the newspaper. After that, if it's still raining, I'm going to go to the mall. I promise not to buy any more shoes . . . unless they are cute and a good deal. Then maybe I'll clean . . . vacuum or something.

Have Six Minutes

I'm so tired that I'm thinking longingly about putting my head down on the keyboard, which would create a long string of h's and b's . . .

The run did not go well this evening. Didn't feel right and had to keep stopping. Don't know if it's the tired, or the fact that I had a snack beforehand, or that my muscles are pissed about last time. But it didn't feel right. Will have to get up early tomorrow morning and try again.

Am going out to coffee . . . but am having trouble staying awake. I slept for 7 hours last night (not including the nap I took), so I don't know if it's because I did five "performances" in a row today or if I'm getting sick or what. I did stay on the phone way too late on Tuesday night.

Okay, my six minutes are up . . . must shower and find some suitable "going out to coffee" clothes. And take off these shoes. (four blisters from cute shoes from yesterday . . . could explain lack of running too)

Will the world end if I wear jeans to work tomorrow?

And I swear I'm drinking decaf and going to bed at 9 p.m.

50 Pairs are Enough, Right?

I am limiting myself to 50 pairs of shoes.

This is the current number of shoe cubbies I have. While the Water Heater man was working, I did many of the little jobs that I had put off all summer . . . bleaching the bamboo rocks, moving the digitial cable box upstairs and . . . building more shoe cubbies.

I did throw some shoes away.

Well, this is not really true. I have set some shoes aside in a "throw away-donate" pile . . . so I can think about them and be really sure. They are like old friends, so we have to go through the grieving process in order to end our relationship and move on.

It doesn't help that I bought five pairs today. Some high heels with lovely open toes, showing some toe cleavage. Two pairs of ballet flats (though both very different), one pair of pointy flats (but not too pointy, otherwise I feel like an elf) and a pair of "Aunt Hazel" shoes, which is only a good description if you have an Aunt Hazel.

I also went to H&M 5nd bought a suit and a dress. Evidently, spending two thousand on a water heater (when you are only supposed to spend $500) puts me in an "Ah, f$%k it" mood, causing me to spend money at the mall. The shoes are good though.

What's up with men calling me after midnight? Makes me think that they went trolling earlier in the evening and it didn't work out, therefore I am the backup plan. F.Y.I. . . . I don't answer the phone after 11 p.m. Even if I'm interested.

Superhuman Powers

A new friend of mine lists his superhuman abilities on one of his profiles . . . I believe "eating cheese" is one of them. So it came up in conversation what I thought my superhuman abilities were. And I had nothing.

So after a small survey, E2 pointed out on superhuman power that I have. And it's a good one. My superhuman power is . . . I have the ability to say no . . . without ever actually saying the word no.

For example, last night some burnout (I know, high school term . . . but I was in my hometown and the description fits, dirty AC/DC t-shirt and all. He may have even had high top tennis shoes on. I didn't check.) came up, complimented my hair and then asked if he could have my barrette. "I'm sorry, it's really my schitck . . . " and then after his insistence . . . "Well, tell you what, at the end of the night you can have my barrette." There was a lot of pestering from the burnout and many statements of "But I'm leaving right now." This wasn't true, as he went back and sat at the bar for another two hours. But I never actually said the word "No". Just made the situation impossible.

I had done this earlier in the day also . . . but I don't want to be dooced, so we can't talk about it.

And now, twelve hours later, I realize that the burner was probably making fun of my hair, as I recall that his hair was black and spiked, but then again, he was assuming that I actually looked at him for more than a nanosecond . . . and didn't know that I was busy making eyes at the guy across the room. Somehow, I was introduced to his boss also . . . interesting evening. And I paid cover to get into a bar in Plymouth. New experience. And the only time I will ever do that. There was a reason I had never been to that bar, despite it being four blocks from my brother's house. It was like a microcosism of Westland in the eighties. And Westland in the eighties . . . it wasn't pretty. I'm not sure it's pretty now.

So chalk up another superhuman power . . . being totally oblivious to people making fun of me . . . and then not caring when I figure it out. Any others?