It's not you; it's me.

Who else remembers an old Seinfeld episode where Elaine breaks up with a guy because she doesn't agree with his punctuation use? While she's out, she gets a call letting her know that a friend had a baby, and the guy, jotting the message on a post-it note, neglects to add an exclamation point to the news. Elaine thinks it's worthy of an exclamation point; he argues that he doesn't just toss exclamation points out willy-nilly; so clearly the relationship is doomed to fail.

I'd like to think I'm more open minded than this. Really I would. And yet, reading an email from a guy who apparently wants to go on a date with me, all I can think is, "Seven exclamation points? In three paragraphs? Is that really necessary?"

Bear in mind that this was little more than a small-talk message, where the topics ranged from the Guthrie Theater's latest production to the guy's plans to visit his parents this weekend. I simply see no reason to punctuate excitement or urgency on any of these matters.

And this is why the Internet is maybe not the best place for an overanalytical dork like me to find my mate. At least I'm aware that the problem is, mostly likely, me.

Actually, I identify more with a well-placed semi-colon

I've seen this quiz all over the dang place lately, but I was hesitant to be a joiner and take it because, frankly, I sleep alone, and I don't need to be reminded that a big chunk of the rest of the population doesn't. I don't need to see a line drawing assessment of the ideal pose for me and my honey because honey, it's just me in the bed.

Still, eventually I got curious (and bored), so I clicked the link. Turns out I'm a colon.

Find your own pose!

I'm going to assume that's colon as in punctuation and not colon as in large intestines because, well, even if neither makes a particular amount of sense, the latter is just a bit gross.

In any case, while I don't really grasp the relevance of most of the quirky questions in this quiz, I'm almost convinced Evany is onto something, because this? This is pretty much spot-on.

Colon Traits and Tendencies: The Colon is the chosen pose of individuals who, on their own, seem awkward or remote. They may be the sort who responds to telephone messages with email, or spends their lunchtimes quietly pedometer-walking in lieu of socializing with coworkers. But when a Colonist finds its mate, together they acquire a grace and ease that surprises friends and family.

In addition, I do, incidentally, often curl up much like the lady on the left in that picture, but I had no idea it said something about me as a person. Seriously, this is a little creepy. I'm starting to wonder again if I'm being watched.

Stamp collecting

This weekend, I somehow managed to forget or ignore the fact that I am old and antisocial and actually went out three nights in a row. I don't remember the last time I did that, and I'm considering the faded black smudge on the back of my hand a bizarre badge of honor for this accomplishment.

The smudge is, of course, the remains of the stamps that three separate burly men in doorways pressed onto my skin in that semi-permanent ink of which bars and concert venues are so fond. Three showers and multiple handwashings are no match for that stuff; I'll be showing traces of my weekend tomorrow still , I'm sure.


Stamp #1 - Thursday, Northrup Auditorium
Thursday night, six friends and I went to see Franz Ferdinand & Death Cab for Cutie on the U of M campus, where we were pleased to see we were not the oldest people in attendance after all. I was cracking jokes about finding a place to stash our walkers, but as it turned out, another distinct demographic was bringing up the curve: the parents who came accompanying their teenagers. I may have been one of the few people at that show without a Myspace page, but at least I'm not sporting the Mom Hair just yet. There's some small comfort in that, I suppose.

Stamp #2 - Friday, First Avenue
Friday I was at First Ave. for Rhett Miller's show, where I was too transfixed on the impossibly energetic Rhett, with his free-swaying ever-bendable hips and his shiny tousled rock star hair to pay much attention to anyone else. Few artists make me swoon like the giddy teenagers I've seen on old Beatles concert footage, but Rhett has a strange power over me that actually made me flutter my hands in front of me involuntarily more than once. He appeals to the good-girl geek in me. Sure, it's nearly a given that any man who's reasonably attractive becomes instantly sexier when he picks up a guitar, but the fact that this one has worked Kafka and Salinger and long division into his lyrics only adds to his charismatic appeal. I'm convinced that when Rhett introes the song Four-Eyed Girl with "This one's for nerdy girls everywhere!" he's speaking directly to me, of course. (I'm fully aware that he's got a wife and two small children who I'm sure he's loyal to completely, but let me have this one small fantasy for just a moment, OK?)

Stamp #3 - Saturday, Mario's Keller Bar
I haven't been to this place (or any loud crowded place with hundreds of young singles in scope 'n hope mode) in probably over a year, but I went there last night for a going away party for the last guy I mentioned in this post, who's taking a job in China for a year. I'm not sure what to consider the highpoint of the night... hearing an accordian-fueled polka version of "Love Me Do"? Jumping on a bandwagon about four years late and ordering my first vodka & Red Bull? No, I think it was being told by a 26-year-old guy that I have "a great body for a 32-year-old." Thanks for the twisted half-compliment, buddy. I'm sure he gets all the ladies with gems like that. Clearly if I were 27, he'd deem me a bit flabby, but since I'm 32, his expectations are lower and it ups my rating a bit? I shouldn't be so harsh, I suppose; he seemed like a nice guy (more or less), and he did at one point turn to his friend to say, "I like this girl; she's smart." Still, between the body comment and his friend's repeated request to make out with me, I'm really torn over which of the two wins the award for most charming and eligible bachelor. I'll admit the whole scenario was entertaining, though I can't decide if the experience means I should hit the bars again more often or less.

Stamp #4 - Tonight, my living room
No, I'm not inking up a rubber stamp and charging a cover for friends entering my home. What I'm referring to here is the checkerboard impression that my couch cushion made on my face when I dozed off for a bit just now. I may occasionally still try to party like a 22-year-old, but the bounceback will just never be as quick.

How's it going to end?

You know that scene in The Truman Show when the producers are trying to keep Truman from seeing the... guy? who's in that... building?... where... something is going on, and...

OK, so I haven't seen that movie in forever, and therefore the details are a little hazy, but I remember all sorts of complicated and carefully planned obstacles to thwart Jim Carrey's access to something or other... Cars veer out in front of him; women rush into the elevator and refuse to hold the door... Truman's onto them, however, because he heard the director's audio accidentally broadcast over his car radio, and he saw inside the fake elevator that's not actually equipped with any mechanism to go up or down, and he knows that something's up.

That's kind of how my commute feels some days. I'm just trying to get myself to work in time to avoid any disapproving glares from the few people who actually care what time I arrive, and yet, the world around me has other plans. Annoying drivers in enormous SUVs pull out into my lane and then proceed to go the exact same speed as the car beside them, boxing me out from any hope of passing. Elderly men in dark, wraparound glasses turn onto the street in front of me and then coast along at 10 mph below the speed limit. Every traffic light mysteriously turns red just as I approach. Families of ducks waddle slowly across my path. The UPS guy steps into the crosswalk with a teetering stack of packages. Two men lift a huge pane of glass from a truck and carry it across the street. You know--the usual. Just like in the movies. And all of these suspicious obstacles are orchestrated for one purpose only: to make. me. late.

OK, so it's really just the SUVs and the traffic lights (and occasionally, I guess, the elderly folk), and I'm sure there's no mastermind (or TV director) behind it. Clearly none of this would even be a concern if I could just drag my sorry self out of bed the first (or even the third) time my alarm goes off, therefore allowing more than three minutes of leeway in my routine.

It's really nothing new for me to momentarily entertain the possibility that the world revolves around me. To think my every move is being recorded for an always-on reality TV program, however? That's far-fetched even for my overactive imagination. I don't care how bad TV has gotten; no one would watch that show. It would be kind of fun to see what the editors would splice together to make it passable, however.

Sacrilege and Laziness (i.e., just my average Sunday)

Once again, I decided to skip the trip back to Wisconsin for Easter and spent the weekend with my urban family instead. For the second year in a row, my sister and I gathered a group of friends at Nye's for a Heathens and Easter Orphans Brunch. There were, I'm sure, several differences between our Easter buffet and the one my parents and grandmother likely had at a supper club back home. Nye's per-person price is twice as high (and I had to pay my share out of my own wallet rather than letting my dad foot the bill), but the food was immeasurably better, and I saw no diners whose idea of Easter Sunday Best was Packer sweats or a flannel shirt. It's probably also a fair guess that the conversation at my parents' table didn't turn to someone's former employment as a phone sex actress, nor that my very Catholic mother would have appreciated my sister's boyfriend's Jewish humor as he explained how he likes to watch The Ten Commandments because "Every year, my people win!"

I'm sure the Catholic people who raised me would also be disappointed that on this holiest of all days, my closest brush with anything Biblical was an adherence to that "On the seventh day, He rested" bit. Good idea with that one, God; I'm totally with you on that. After stuffing myself at brunch, I spent the next four hours parked near-immobile on my couch. It's now been five hours since my last feeding, and my stomach is feeling only the slightest twinge of wanting me to add anything to it to possibly top it off.

It's not just the binging that spawned my laziness today, though. I don't know what's wrong with me, but the past few days, despite the lovely spring weather, I've been feeling like a sloth. When I left the restaurant after brunch, I was actually glad to see that the sky was cloudy and there were rain drops on my car. I figured rain gave me a free pass to stay in and do nothing, guilt-free. Now, however, the clouds have cleared and the wind has died down, and it looks by all signs to be a gorgeous, sunny day. I'm still not outside breathing fresh air into my lungs, however. Instead, I'm sitting at my computer and I'm staring out my window, thinking "I should build a patio."

The patio idea wasn't prompted by any urge to entertain; I'm not suddenly envisioning fabulous barbecues and lively summer get-togethers with intimate groups of friends. No, like so many ideas I conjure up and then abandon, this one follows a progressive string from Thought A. to Thought E. that is logical, likely, to no one but me. In this case, it went something like this: (A. It's such a nice day. I should really get outside and do something to enjoy it. (B. But what am I going to do out there? I don't feel like taking a walk; I don't want to clean the dust off my bike and pump the tires for a ride. I can't just sit out there, can I? Don't only old people do that? (C. If I had some proper lawn furniture, I could sit out there without feeling like a fool. If I had a real patio table and actual patio chairs, rather than the sad little cheap and uncomfortable green plastic chairs I've had since my "apartments with balconies" days, then I could sit outside and have a drink and do nothing, and it would look totally normal. (D. But if I had proper lawn furniture, I'd have to drag every heavy piece of it out of the way each time I mow. That would be a pain in the ass. That would be no fun. (E. If only I had a patio... The proper furniture could stay there, out of the way of the mower, off the grass where the bugs live... That would be an excellent solution. I should build a patio.

Does anyone else see a problem with this plan? I want a place to sit and do nothing, and I want to have this place while also avoiding any unnecessary additional effort when doing yard work. Obviously, the core driver in this patio idea is laziness. But building a patio is hard work. Hard work that the frugal (i.e., poor) girl I am would feel compelled to take on herself rather than hire someone more qualified to do. Laziness and patio-building do not go hand in hand. Hence, the patio idea will likely end here. It was a lovely thought while it lasted, however. Maybe a hammock is a more appropriate option to pursue. Do hammocks come with cupholders? I think further investigation is in order...

Epicuri-not

I'm going to go out on a not-so-shocking limb here and admit something that probably everyone who knows me has already figured out. Despite the fact that I am, inarguably, a full-grown and mostly responsible adult, my diet is not unlike that of a twelve-year-old who has foolishly and inexplicably been left to her own devices.

I don't mean to imply that I eat ice cream as a meal or consider ketchup a vegetable. (Not usually, anyway.) But I do somewhat routinely have cereal for dinner, and it has occurred to me to wonder how long one can subsist solely on the grains and starches slice of the food pyramid before showing early signs of scurvy. Does red wine count as a fruit serving? If so, that could bide me some time.

If I were truly a mature and self-reliant adult, I would understand that my eating habits are my own responsibility and that it's up to me to realize nutrients are important, buy the proper groceries, and learn to cook regular and reasonable meals. Since I'm lazy and I love a scapegoat, however, I'm going to blame my parents.

Don't get me wrong. My parents are good people. I may not agree with their politics, and I may find myself baffled by the quirks they acquire as they age, but I don't have a whole lot of qualms with how they raised me. I really do think they did a reasonably fine job of teaching me the sorts of things it's important to know to function as a productive adult. I can tie my shoes, match my clothes, ride a bike, drive a car, and balance my checkbook all because of the useful knowledge they bestowed. Unfortunately, it seems they skipped the chapter in the parenting handbook that deals with food and cooking. As a result, I have no idea what "normal" grown-ups eat, and I'd have little idea how to prepare things if I did.

I've said for years that it's not that I can't cook, but rather that I choose not to. That's really only half true, I guess. I can follow a recipe with fairly reliable success, but I have no idea how to whimsically toss things together to make a meal out of what's on hand. I never learned the importance of having the right things on hand to even attempt such a feat if I so chose. I think people pass on to their children the things that are meaningful and enjoyable to them. Since my mother didn't cook any more than absolutely necessary, she was never particularly concerned if I did either. As a result, I really never learned the basics. I can boil water, sure, and even bake a potato just fine, but I couldn't even make corn on the cob last summer without consulting the Internet for instructions. (Does it go in the water for two minutes or twenty? If I want to grill it, do I soak it first or not?) It's ludicrous, I realize, but this isn't innate knowledge. Someone has to teach you. In my case, no one did. Or, if they did, I had so little interest that the knowledge didn't stick, kind of like the way I never really learned the "right way" to fold sheets. (The fitted sheet is always a lumpy mess, and I can't help but imagine my mother's disappointment each time I try to smooth it out.)

Since I don't cook, I'm entirely confused by people who do, and who do so not just out of necessity but because they actually enjoy the process and not just the result. I'm awed when my friends describe meals that incorporate all major food groups--meals they created in their own home from reasonably fresh meat and whole, actual vegetables. Meals where the majority of the ingredients did not come from a box, can, or freezer package. Meals that involved slicing and dicing and at least four kitchen gadgets or appliances that I myself do not own. To me, preparing a meal like this on an average Tuesday (with no special occasion or visitor prompting it) is akin to churning my own butter in my backyard. It's simply an archaic and unnecessary concept I just cannot understand. Why would I go through all that work when I can just rip open a pack of Easy Mac or microwave a can of soup? Why should I buy fresh vegetables when they're just going to go bad before I can use them?

Some people, upon visiting friends' homes, like to peek in the medicine cabinet to see what's inside. Me--I'm more interested in the refrigerator. When a friend tells me to help myself to a drink, I can't help but quickly scan the contents of the fridge, and I'm often amazed by the wonders it holds. Ooh--polenta... what are you going to do with that? Really?--Edamame? You can buy that in a store? Hmm... Actual lettuce. Isn't it easier to get a bag of it, pre-chopped? Sprouts? You really like those? No one's forcing you to eat that? Wait, are those actual leftovers? You mean, you have a lunch to bring to work that's not frozen in a non-recyclable plastic tray?

It's amazing, really. A parallel universe, in a way.

Unfortunately, the older I get, the less acceptable it feels to be a kitchen incompetent, to shun broccoli like a child. In college, piling a stack of frozen pizzas in your grocery cart was the norm; now it's a little embarrassing. These days, every time I head to the grocery store, I tell myself, "I am going to buy real food." I swear I will do my shopping around the perimeter of the store, avoiding my usual stand-bys in the inner aisles and freezer cases. But every time, I wander the produce department thinking, "But I don't like any of this stuff." I stroll through the meat department and think, "What would I do with that?" Clearly the answer is to do my research ahead of time--to consult menus and web sites and make a proper list as a guide. Planning is rarely my strong point, it seems. So instead, each time, I find myself wanting to hide behind dark glasses as I shamefully pile box after box of processed, preservative-filled convenience foods on the conveyor belt at the register. And the whole process starts over again.

I have made some small steps to improve in specific areas. I buy my cereal from the organic & natural aisle, because the ingredients list on those varieties is generally just a few items long and consists of items I can actually pronounce and even identify. I try to avoid transfats, since I heard a nutritionist on NPR explain that they're just one molecule away from a plastic. (Even with my limited knowledge of nutrition, I know that can't be good.) I do wonder how much better I'd feel if I actually ate a real vegetable more than a couple times a month, if I got more of my nutrients from food instead of from the multivitamins I too often forget to take. But then, as in so many scenarios in life, I recall the proper Simpsons reference for the situation, and I remember everyone but Lisa doubling over in pain after a healthy and vegetable-heavy meal. And I think, maybe I've simply evolved. My body now relies on the preservatives... is in fact using them to morph me into some indestructible super-human with a rock-solid immune system. I actually haven't had a cold in well over a year; maybe I have the Freschettas and Easy Mac to thank.

It's a stretch, I realize. Just go with it, OK?