Yet more proof that this city is shrinking and every man on Catch dot Mom is in some way a blast from my past

Word has it that it's a whopping 19 degrees outside at the moment, and while that may not feel particularly balmy to you, it is in fact 39 degrees warmer than it has been for the previous two days. Thirty-nine degrees. In one day. I am glad swings like this generally happen only in the winter. Even in Minnesota I doubt we'd adapt well to a lovely 71-degree day followed immediately by an unexpectedly brisk 32-degree one.

Despite the welcome warm front, I haven't actually ventured outside yet today. I should, of course. I should be determining how to reattach my license plate, since the so-called self-healing Saturn doesn't seem to be taking the initiative to do so itself. No fewer than three people have now helpfully pointed out to me, "You know, you can get a ticket for driving without a front license plate, even if the plate is in your car." My excuse to the undoubtedly kind and understanding officer was going to be, "But it's negative-20 degrees outside, and I don't have a heated garage! Sir, do you really want me outside testing my resourcefulness in weather like this? Do I look particularly hardy to you?" Successfully batting my eyelashes at officers of the law has never been a strong suit of mine, but surely that excuse would work. No? Right. Best get myself out of these yoga pants and off to my tool chest before the sun goes down.

I promise I will stop talking about the weather now, though. Why? Because I have far more interesting things to tell you. Namely, that I am having dinner tonight at a local Buddhist center. With an ex-boyfriend whom I have not seen in eight years. Who is now a Buddhist. Living at a Buddhist center. Where he is making me dinner tonight. Did you get all of that?

Somehow I always sort of assumed I would run into Jimmy again eventually. (You remember Jimmy, don't you? He is the reason I get approximately 17 search engine hits a week for search strings such as "pothead boyfriend" and "dating a pothead.") While I always thought I would see him again someday, however, I never actually thought it would be on Catch dot Mom. And yet, there he was in my Inbox earlier this week, in one of those confounding "Daily 5" messages. "[Insert user name here] noticed you in his Daily 5. And he's interested!"

I almost didn't even click through to the profile. The photo was a tiny, from-a-distance full-body shot in which I couldn't even see the guy's face. The user name was an annoying combination of letters and numbers spelling out a cheery, optimistic message to potential dates. My automatic reaction was to hit "Delete" without clicking through for any more detail. Besides that, my energy for this nonsense wanes regularly, and after the defeated, deflated feeling that followed what I (one-sidedly) deemed my best date of '08, I haven't felt much renewed motivation to log in. But for some reason I clicked through anyway, and my jaw dropped as I realized who'd found me.

I've been trying to recall exactly what I've done in the past eight years, and whether my life is notably different now than it was then. Every time someone I haven't seen in a while asks me what I've been up to lately, I draw a blank, generally replying with something meaningless and far-from-clever, such as, "Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Nothing new, I guess." But surely something must be new. In eight years? Certainly. Yes, I am still single (or rather, single again). Yes, I am still at the same job. But I bought a house. Fell in love. Had my heart broken. Fell out of love. (The order of those last two is questionable.) Went to Mexico, Jamaica, Austin, Philly, Boston, and various other locales. Made friends. Lost friends. Unintentionally dented a few hearts. Finally acquired salt and pepper shakers. Learned to knit. Read lots of books. Gained ten pounds. Met a depressing number of men on the Internet. Didn't like most of them. Made some strides toward figuring out who I am and what I need.

Eight years. Eight. It sort of baffles me that someone I dated in my mid/late-twenties was eight years ago at this point. I sound like a trite movie cliche, all "Turn, Turn, Turn" and "Sunrise, Sunset," but tell me, where on earth does the time go?

I don't know exactly what Jimmy's been up to the past eight years, but somehow I feel like his list might be a little more interesting than mine. Got married. Got divorced. Became a Buddhist. Oh yeah. And apparently stopped smoking so damn much pot.

In any case, we greeted each other online with enthusiastic friendliness. "Stefanie! I thought that was you! It would be great to catch up," he said. And you know what? It would be great. We always got along well and had fun talking, and besides that, I'm terribly curious. Every woman has a few unanswered questions in her past, and he's been one of mine. Hence, the get-together this evening. A get-together that started out as "let's meet for a drink" and then turned into "how about dinner first," which then became, "I'll cook for you over at my place." His place being the Buddhist center, of course.

I relayed all of this to Carrie via email. "You're having dinner at the Buddhist center? Delightful!" she replied. Almost as delightful as the time her late-middle-aged Bohemian woodworker friend invited her to his century-old home for spaghetti and martinis. At two o' clock on a Sunday afternoon. "Where do we find these characters?" I asked her. I don't know, but I do appreciate the odd little details that make our humdrum lives seem worthy of a scene in a movie or a sitcom. "It's all going in my book," she said. It's a book we could probably write together, pooling our material seamlessly. It worked for those girls who wrote The Nanny Diaries, and we are at least as clever as they are, I say.

I'll get right on that, of course. Right after I fix that damn license plate.

And now, for a total pick-me-up post...

First off, a public service message to my single friends out there. Have you ever had a Catch.mom subscription, but let it lapse (or set up a user name and password, but didn't actually pay for membership, thinking, "I'm just going to lurk and check things out for a little while first")? During that period of non-payment, have you gotten messages from Catch.mom excitedly telling you that someone winked at you(!), and encouraging you to pony up for membership to find out who? In case you have wondered if perhaps Catch.mom is messing with you, if perhaps NO ONE has winked at you, and these mysterious emails are just a way of suckering you over to the signup screen, YOU WOULD BE CORRECT! Do not fall for this trap, my friends.

I am feeling more than a bit jaded and beaten down at the moment, so before my account could auto-renew recently, I clicked through the four pages of hoops they make you jump through ("Are you SURE you want to cancel? No, are you really, REALLY sure you want to cancel? Perhaps you didn't understand the question. Do you really, really, REALLY want to cancel? You must be joking, right? Because NO ONE could possibly EVER want to leave..."), and I stopped my membership. But because I didn't want Mr. Perfect-for-Me stumbling across my profile immediately thereafter and sending me an impossibly clever, well-crafted message that I would actually never see, I also hid my profile so that no one browsing through the listings would be able to view me. And yet, THREE TIMES since I did this, I have gotten messages from Catch.mom, assuring me that Mr. Right is out there, and he's winked at and is waiting for me. Obviously I am unconvinced. If Mr. Perfect-for-Me has the techno-skills to find and view my invisible-to-him profile and discern a way to wink at me, then he should have the skills to locate me in person and woo me in real life, possibly plying me with free drinks. Until that happens, I'm just going to assume Catch.mom takes me for a sucker, and frankly I won't have some silly web site do that to me.

All this is a roundabout lead-in to the question I have been dodging for a while now. I have been vague-blogging recently, and I do apologize for that, mentioning a stupid boy and a metaphorical stomach ache, but not elaborating beyond that at all. I've talked about only one prospect recently, and hence, the question could of course be distilled simply to, "Hey Stef. What ever happened to The Buddhist?"

What ever happened to The Buddhist indeed. Unfortunately, I can distill it to an equally simple answer. I have no fucking idea, to be frank. The Buddhist has, as far as I can tell, completely vanished on me.

I could tell you the long version or the short version of this story. The long version is fraught with idle details and personal commentary, so perhaps the short, "just the facts" version is the one you'd rather hear from me. The facts are thus. I had my doubts. I knew The Buddhist was in a not-so-great place personally and professionally right now. He lost his job the week we reconnected. His finances are a mess. But I honestly thought he had grown up a lot emotionally since we'd last met. I wanted to believe our paths crossed again for a reason. I wanted to believe maybe it was supposed to work this time. There were red flags just like there were eight years ago. But along with those red flags, there were compliments and glimmers of hope. He used the words "relationship" and "girlfriend" in near-direct allusion to me. He gave me the key-code to his house. He told me to remember what kind of cake I baked for his birthday, because he'd want the same cake again next year. We talked about how the last time we dated, he didn't break up with me when he started feeling freaked out about the status of us; he just grew more distant and flakey until it forced me to break up with him. We talked about that, and he looked me in the eyes and said, in all earnestness, "I promise I won't do that this time. I promise that if this isn't working for me, I will tell you it's not working for me. I promise I won't do that to you again." He told me that, and I followed it, of course, by asking, "So... is this working for you?" and he answered, "Absolutely." And a week later, he vanished with no explanation or warning. And I remain hurt and baffled by it.

Without going into too much detail, I can think of at least two semi-valid (in his mind) reasons he might have completely shut down and shut me out. Because I have an overactive imagination, I can think of at least 11 additional, near-ludicrous reasons he disappeared with no notice. But none of those reasons justify the complete and total vanishing act. None of those reasons keep me from wanting to punch him in the stomach should I ever see him again. I say this, and yet, I know this idiot has some hold on me. I am a smart girl, and yet, I still want to hear from him. I want an explanation. And somewhere, in some shameful, Jerry Springer Guest Candidate part of me that I wouldn't admit if I hadn't just finished off the rest of the sangria I made for a friend's brunch yesterday, I actually want to believe we still have a chance.

What that is about I have no idea. When did I become an "I sure know how to pick 'em" kind of girl? Did I tell you that The Traffic Engineer contacted me yet again not so long ago? The Traffic Engineer, who is a perfectly nice man who unfortunately does nothing for me. A man who I had a completely filters-off dinner with two months ago, in which I sighed about my recent (at the time) "best date of '08" disappointment and he gingerly countered by asking if perhaps I'd considered the possibility that I might be too picky. I was not in top form on that non-date. I didn't care what he thought of me, because nice as he is, I thought little of him. And yet, a month and a half later, in comes another message from the man, asking if I'd perhaps like to see another movie together. Maybe The Traffic Engineer is a prideless loser. The more time passes, the more I think that's probably the case. Or maybe he's just a nice guy beaten down by dating just like I am. It's unfortunate I can't muster any interest in him whatsoever. No, instead I'm crying over some apparently fake Buddhist who should be concerned about karmic consequences and yet who's treated me with more disregard than any idiot since my 25 and clueless days. Perhaps you have some insight on that, because I really can't explain it myself.

Maybe I'm supposed to meet The Buddhist again in another eight years. Maybe the third time is a charm. Wouldn't that be an even better Lifetime movie? Or maybe, as is more likely, I need to admit that I was wrong about him, that all that wondering over the years was for nothing and he has never particularly been worth my time. It'd be easier if it really were just that simple, wouldn't it?

The rest of the story, because I promised it to you. But then, back to our regularly scheduled frivolity, I hope.

All right; I owe you an update. I just wish I could decide how many words and how much energy to devote to said update. If you are on the Stefanie Says distribution list, you already read the whole sordid story last Friday, in the latest email blast. I'm kidding, of course. There is no such distribution list. I did, however, send a very long, very angry message to several friends detailing the whole ordeal. Seriously, people, it was so long, it could have been divvied into chapters. At the very least, there should have been headings and subheadings. Girl obviously had a whole lot on her mind, and apparently decided she simply needed to let it OUT.

Last Friday, I was so hurt and so angry, I wanted to tell all of you publicly on the Internet that The Buddhist's real name is Jimmy ______, and that now that he is partially employed again, you can perhaps find him at the __________ ______ store on ________. Also, that he is being kicked out of the Buddhist Center (for failure to pay rent and other transgressions) and is now staying at his new girlfriend's house, and that her name is _____ ____, and she lives at ____ ______ ___ in Minneapolis.

That's right, I said new girlfriend. Guess that explains the vanishing act, eh?

Except that it doesn't, of course. The fact that he apparently met someone far more fabulous (or possibly, far more dysfunctional) than I during the four freaking days that I was out of the country last month doesn't actually justify disappearing on me five days after that with no explanation or notice. I can only assume even The Buddhist himself knows that kind of jackassery was unjustified, as he had almost nothing to say for himself when we finally talked last week.

Did I mention that if I tell this story, there will likely be swearing? If I tell this story, there will likely be swearing. I'm sorry; it's all good and fine to be one of those graceful, even-keeled people who feel they can express themselves far more eloquently and dignified-like without resorting to profanity. I am not one of those people, for sometimes a well placed "Jackass fucker shithead" seems entirely more than apropos to me.

I didn't actually call him a jackass fucker shithead. I did, however, call him an asshole. To his face. Which is something I don't think I've ever done to anyone before. And the fact that I'm starting to feel just a teensy bit guilty about that makes me wonder if perhaps my anger is possibly cooling just a tad. And then I remind myself that The Buddhist is, in fact, an asshole (and a liar and a player and a flake, all of which I also called him)--or at least, has been insofar as I have been privy to see--and as such, maybe I should allow myself the luxury of not feeling guilty at all.

Six paragraphs in and still no real story. Clearly this post is turning out to be just as to-the-point and efficient as that email was. Good work, Stef.

Actually, the full story doesn't even really matter, I suppose. The short of it is that he met someone else at a party--a party I can only assume I would have been at with him, had I not been partaking in forced socialization with my coworkers that particular weekend. He met her, and he apparently fell head-over-heels into some instantaneous relationship with her, and saw no reason to tie up any loose ends or keep any promises upon doing so. It was convenient timing, given that his fellow Buddhists held an intervention of sorts that same week, which apparently culminated in him being asked to leave the house in light of his not paying rent for the past two months, owing nearly everyone there money, and abandoning the meditation practice that bound him to the group and also grounded and centered him in an obviously important and useful way. I can only assume the new girl was happy to take him in, given that her previous boyfriend apparently moved out mere days before she met Jimmy. Perhaps they are perfect for each other. Neediness and codependence is a recipe for relationship success, is it not? I expect I'll be able to find their registry at Crate & Barrel any day now, no?

I didn't find any of this out from Jimmy himself, of course. No, all of this information came courtesy of a friend and roommate of his who was kind enough to fill me in when she realized he hadn't, despite him specifically telling her not to. She offered to meet me for drinks to lend some insight, and as luck or misfortune had it, Jimmy himself decided to get a drink at that very same bar the same evening. It shouldn't have been a surprise, given that it's a bar where he is so much a regular, his Catch.mom profile actually suggests that anyone interested in meeting him might find him there. He hadn't gone in weeks, though, according to his friend and roommate. "He won't be there," she assured me.

He was there, of course, as was his new girlfriend. When he saw me, he was surprisingly unfazed. In fact, after telling me that our relationship was "absolutely" working for him and then subsequently vanishing on me a week later, his only words to me that night (after a chipper "Hi guys") were, "Happy birthday!" Happy birthday. Not on my actual birthday, even, (on my actual birthday he was still AWOL) but on the day after. Happy birthday. I've decided that this shall be the new phrase of choice in any situation where I am in any way tongue-tied, out of line, or wrong. No need for discussion, apologies, or the like. Just "Happy birthday!" It's appropriate in any number of awkward situations. Try it yourself the next time you've been a total ass to someone you know and have claimed to care about.

We talked for a while. Or rather, *I* talked. He said nearly nothing. When I replay those several minutes in my head, I still can't believe he looked at me as blank-faced and expressionless as he did. I may have actually said at one point, "Have you lost your soul??" It was maddening and baffling. I couldn't believe I was looking at the same person who kissed me in my kitchen as he left just a few weeks ago. I don't know what happened to him. I don't know where the Jimmy I knew (or thought I knew) went. It was almost eerie, frankly. Something is going on with him. Something besides a new girlfriend. But obviously I'm not going to be the one still around to find out what.

From everyone I've told this story to, the reaction has been the same. I dodged a bullet. I'm better off without him. I'm too good for him. And while I know they're right, none of those words really help. If I'm better off without him, why am I so hurt and angry that it ended this way? If he's not good enough for me, why was he the one who deserted me, instead of the other way around? He's the loser, and yet, he had two women willing to be with him at the same time. How is that in any way fair or sensical? None of these are new questions, of course. But that doesn't make them any less maddening.

It sounds so ridiculous now, but I thought we had a connection. I thought we had chemistry. I wanted to believe all the wonderful things he said. I wanted to believe he'd actually grown up a lot since we knew each other last. That I was apparently wrong about all of that makes me lose hope and distrust my instincts. More importantly, though, it makes me want to retract every fond thing I ever wrote about him--every past entry where I mentioned his name (not just since January, but in the four years prior). I want to insert an "edited to add..." note on the posts where I said we should have met five or ten years later to say, "WRONG! Once a flake, always a flake, my friend."

I've done a lot of dating, as anyone who's read this blog for very long knows. A lot. Both the upside and the downside to all that dating is that it's hardened and desensitized me a bit. I don't get easily invested. It takes more to get to me. Small transgressions don't bother me much; I've grown to expect them, in fact. That may make it harder for me to let any right guy in and past the shell, but it protects me from a lot of needless "But why didn't he call?" cries as well. The bigger transgressions, though? The ones that come after I have let someone in? Those hurt more each time. The cumulative effect is wearying. Each chink in the armor comes closer to totally destroying it and breaking me. I grow more jaded, more cynical, more slow to trust. I've become a fucking movie/sitcom cliche.

I honestly don't mind being alone. I'm used to it. I'm good at it. Being alone I can deal with. Being hurt and disappointed is what I'm tired of.

This is quickly taking a direction I didn't mean to turn, so I'll wrap this up before I peer any deeper into the damn Bell Jar.

I started this post two days ago, and I actually almost deleted nearly all of it tonight. I don't want to think about this anymore. I finally know what happened, which means I can stop wondering if there was some legitimate reason he vanished on me (something of the head injury or life's rock bottom variety) or if he honestly did just flake out on me with total careless disregard. Now that I know it was the latter, I can be angry and feel justified in the anger. The anger will eventually lift and I'll move on. The wondering would have nagged at me for life.

Friday night I did the crazy person inside myself a favor. I went to Jimmy's Facebook profile and clicked the "Remove from Friends" link. It's the first time I've ever clicked that link, and part of me wondered if it was too hasty. Once it's done, it can't be undone, and maybe somewhere down the line, I'll want to torture myself by spying on his life without me. I'd like to think I'm the grown-up in this situation, though, and letting him disappear seemed like the far more grown-up (and sane) thing to do. It was almost liberating. "Remove from Friends." Gone. Now if only there were a "Remove from Memory" link as well.

Don't you love it when I say I'm not going to talk about something and then I talk about it anyway? Yeah, this is one of those posts.

A few status updates...

License plate: Still sitting on my passenger seat, rather than affixed to my bumper.
Weather: Still in the balmy above-zero range.
Bush's term: Mere hours from over. HOURS! Wheeee!

I think that about covers all the important stuff. No? Oh. Right. You probably want to hear about The Buddhist.

To be honest, I'm not entirely sure how much I want to say about that on-blog. If I know you in person, I will be happy to share my muddled jumble of thoughts on that evening, but I'm not so keen on trying to corral those thoughts into a logical post that will live on the Internet indefinitely. Fair enough? Maybe? I hope so.

I will tell you this, though. It turns out that a Buddhist center, in this case, is really just a house. A beautiful old brick house divided into two apartments, in which a combined total of seven people (specifically, seven urban Buddhists) live. Not only is it a lovely and cozy home, but it is furnished! With a multitude of chairs and tables and dressers and bookshelves that my ex-boyfriend the ex-pothead OWNS!

I'm sorry; have you met me? Then perhaps you're familiar with my tendency to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, no matter how strange or inappropriate that thing may be. Hence, as I walked into the Buddhist's home on Saturday, after the expected hellos and "Wow; it's been a long time"s and "You look good!"s, the first comment out of my mouth was, "You have FURNITURE!!" My ex-boyfriend the Buddhist just laughed at me. "I do! I have furniture," he said. He seemed confused by my surprise. Perhaps he forgot that when I knew him last, he slept on a twin-sized mattress on the floor and his dresser was a laundry basket. Ah, good times.

I don't suspect the decor is in particular what you are curious about, however, but the rest is the part I'm less willing to commit to print. In short, we had a lovely time. I don't know what it means or where (if anywhere) it will go, but regardless of whether or how often I see him again, I am glad we had the chance to cross paths once more. (Note: If he flakes on me and I never hear from him after this, despite his repeated claims that he wants to see me again, please remind me that I said that, OK?)

It doesn't seem possible that I should be able to get together with someone I haven't seen in eight years and fall instantly into the same comfortable rapport we had back then, and yet, we sort of did. He remembers more than I thought he would. I remember more than he thought I would. It may turn out to be no more than just a few hours of reminiscing with an old friend, but I almost don't even mind if that's the case. Above all else, I am happy I saw him again simply for the validation that I am not a clinging-to-the-past crazy person, that I actually was more than a long-forgotten blip in his storied history. Though we dated for only a few months, Jimmy has always been significant to me, but I had no idea if it was at all mutual. He's one I've wondered about often, thinking if we'd met at a different point in his life, things might have gone differently. Turns out I'm not alone. Jimmy told me on Saturday that when we broke up, he thought, "This is a girl I should meet five to ten years from now." He smirked when I admitted to Googling him over the years, not because he was surprised, but because he had Googled me as well. And when I said, "Your Facebook page is all locked down!" he quickly replied, "Yeah... yours is, too."

Essentially, it played out exactly like I imagined it on those rare occasions when I let my mind stir up silly little fantasies or daydreams, wondering "What would happen if I ever ran into Jimmy again?" He said everything I would have wanted him to say. It went just like I would have wanted it to go. It was one of those very rare times where life actually DOES work like it does in the movies, at least for a little while (which is the only part movies show you anyway before they cut to credits). So. It was nice. I don't know what will happen from here. But it's lovely to hold on to some good memories, at least for a bit, anyway.

In other news, I had a blind date tonight with a stranger from the Internet. Yes, yes, that is nothing new, but in this case it was with another Stefanie, a sometimes-commenter who found me while vanity Googling her name a long while back. She is in town helping her mother move, and we met for dinner this evening. As it turns out, Internet strangers who read my blog can be at least as charming and interesting as most of the men I've met on meMarmony and Catch dot Mom. Or maybe it's just a Stefanie thing. We're thinking of holding a reunion. Or rather, a union, as most of us Stefanies on the Internet haven't actually ever met. How many more of us are out there anyway? And how many of you are in?

I suppose in this economy, a "staycation" does make the most sense.

Well then. Much as that Someecard I lifted for my Inauguration Day post does continue to perfectly sum up how I'm feeling (raise your hand if you're still smiling involuntarily every time you hear the words "President Obama"), Inauguration was a week ago, and I'd best be posting something new, hadn't I? After all, I received an email from 3Carnations today wondering if I'd run off and moved into a Buddhist center. Perhaps some of the rest of you were wondering the same thing.

Nope. Still here, and it's a very good thing I do not live in a Buddhist center, as they likely would have kicked me out by now given that I don't think anyone could peacefully meditate with me barking like a pack-a-day smoker with advanced emphysema for the past five days. I routinely think about the many reasons it's probably best I live alone, but usually they have to do with things like being able to leave the bathroom door open when I pee and having complete control over the TV (which I can actually see from the bathroom when I leave the door open to pee, not that I would ever do something so tacky and barbarian, of course). This week I'm thankful I live alone for another reason, though, and that's that I managed to pick up a case of bronchitis, and I'm well aware that sharing bronchitis is significantly less fun than sharing anything else that comes in a case.

I do feel bad for my coworkers, who despite never having taken any sort of vow to love me in sickness and in health are forced to listen to me cough away all day, and yet bless their hearts, haven't sealed me in a sound- and germ-proof bubble just yet. Hooray. And today I spent my lunch hour at the walk-in clinic in a local grocery store, where the nice physician's assistant readily handed out Zithromax and Codeine-laced cough syrup as if they were candy, a seemingly devil-may-care attitude to this whole "we must stop overprescribing antibiotics" nonsense. I actually passed on the Codeine (Which was totally the wrong move, right? How often do we get the chance to try the good stuff??), but I have high hopes that with the Zithromax alone I will be on the mend soon. Fingers crossed, because I do think I'd miss my lungs if I just inadvertently hacked one out mid-cough.

In case you are curious, however, while I haven't moved into a Buddhist center, the Buddhist is still in the picture, and I very much hope he's not hacking up any internal organs on my account soon too. I also hope I didn't breathe too closely to the guy I had a date with on Thursday, as I turned down his invitation for a second date, and to be rejected and infected in the same evening is something I wouldn't wish on even the most boring of Catch dot Mom man. Which this one wasn't, by the way. Boring, I mean. No, he was perfectly nice and friendly and even fun-ish and mildly interesting. I also felt absolutely zero romantic chemistry with him, however, and while I know it's an ongoing debate whether that sort of thing matters from the start, I'd still prefer to trust my instincts and skip the ho-hum second date this time. I may be irreparably wrecking my dating karma in a way that will come back to haunt me in a manner similar to the so-called best date of '08, but that is a risk I'm going to take, my friends.

Speaking of Catch dot Mom men, I would like to tell you about the latest one to wink at me. His favorite local hot spots include "the airport," and his favorite place "abroad" is New York City. I realize there are times I'm not as smart as I like to think I am. I can think of more than two times when I've snidely mocked the absurdity of something only to realize it was I who was in the wrong. So help me out here, word nerds. I know the Midwest is deemed fly-over land. I know it's a foreign country to many of those on the coast. But New York City? A location "abroad"? Technically, perhaps, but please tell me I'm not the only one who thinks that dude's horizons (or vocabulary) could stand some growth?

If I keep this up, I may find myself becoming one of those people who uses "party" as a verb.

My weekends are starting to feel a bit like Groundhog Day. You know... drink some wine, watch a couple get engaged... same old, same old.

Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.

The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.

I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.

In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.

The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.

Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.

With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?

In which I try to remember what I did all year, and realize I didn't do much all year

Well hello and happy new year, friends. Yes, yes, most of you wrote your New Year's posts days or more ago already, and many of you have already pushed 2009 far, far out of your memory, never to be spoken of again. But most of you probably didn't spend the last week embarking on a remodeling project that sucked up all of your free time and physical energy and rendered you temporarily homeless to boot. Remember when I thought I would have ample free evenings between Christmas and New Year's to catch up with my Internet friends? That was hilarious, in retrospect. My best intentions and estimations slay me at times, really.

Hence, my year-end post is late, which is only fitting, given that my annual trip back through my archives proved to me that I spent most of the year feeling behind and out of the loop. I would like to think 2010 will be different, and as such, I am back-dating this post to keep it in 2009, where it belongs. The new year starts with my next post. Meanwhile, here's a recap of what I did in '09.

January: Hopped on a Flurrious bandwagon and proclaimed myself a Spinster Blogger. (Note: I am still waiting for my Prius, as well as my crock pot.) Tried to up my dairy intake via buttercream frosting. Learned that there really is a web site for everything. Graduated from the Arthur Fonzarelli School of Car Repair. Had dinner with an old boyfriend at a Buddhist Center. Told G.W. not to let the door hit him on the way out. 

February: Realized that Facebook isn't the place for the over-analytical or paranoid. Watched two lovely friends get engaged. Went on vacation (yay!) with my coworkers (meh).

March: Celebrated National Grammar Day with a grammartini. Proved yet again that my aging Saturn may be invincible. Met Pauly Shore. (Not really.) Observed Library Boy in his natural habitat. Turned 35. Realized that in The Buddhist's case, once a fuckwit, always a fuckwit, unfortunately. Joined the 21st century with a new-to-me laptop (Thanks, Steve!). Spent too much time on Facebook. (Admittedly, that probably happened in every month of 2009, but not every month includes two relevant links.)

April: Was told to steer clear of Aquarius men. Learned that I don't don't like skate wings. Considered marrying yet another inanimate object (this time, an avocado). Asked out a total stranger whose work email address happens to be in the public domain.

May: Went out with the aforementioned total stranger. Got only one story out of it. Took casting and soundtrack suggestions for the movie version of my life. Went all She-Ra with my yard work and broke a shovel. (Also, learned there may be a lawn tools fairy who puts broken shovels back together.) Vowed never to go into my basement again. Had an epic baking fail and an unintentional and almost frightening garden success. Used a camping trip as an excuse to make the same Thoreau joke I made last year, despite it garnering no real laughs the first time I tried. 

June: Grew increasingly wary of the mutant space rhubarb. Narrowly escaped the road to alcoholism, despite that road possibly running quite adjacent to the road to plucky hermitude. Proved that 16-months-expired salad dressing won't kill you (but obsessed about it for several paragraphs anyway). Clicked the "Confirm as friend" button at least one time more than necessary. Maintained that holding a not-so-secret appreciation for the ridiculous does not make me unrelateably highbrow. Finally finished the landscaping project I'd rambled about since May.

July: Learned I am a master negotiator. (Or rather, that I could successfully negotiate at least once.) Went to see Garrison Keillor in a sweltering city park. Decided not to ask out every appealing man I see on stage at the Varsity. Tried to explain all of my yard-related mysteries with semi-obscure movie references.

August: Complained about the trials of being a grown-up, and then vanished from the Internet for the remainder of the month. (I'm sure I did lots of other things, too, but if I didn't write it down, it didn't happen, I guess.)

September: Remembered that I DID do worthwhile things in August. Like went on an old-school family road trip, and discovered South Dakota is far more beautiful than I ever knew. Held an impromptu Beatles debate. Spent a fun-filled, hilarious long weekend in California, and came home with the Amish Friendship Cold.

October: Failed to successfully explain why my father needs a gallon of soda at his immediate disposal, nor why he brings his own spoon to restaurants. Made out with an Australian stranger in public. Took trampoline classes! Proposed a Boot Camp for Lost Boys. Got food poisoning. (But didn't write about it. You're welcome.) Went on a Halloween Pedal Pub ride.

November: Tried to make up for my lack of Stefanie Says posts by pointing you to my Greenists posts. (Failed to convince anyone that this was a reasonable trade-off.) Had a perfect, KFC-free Thanksgiving with friends.

December: Bemoaned the recession hitting too close to home. Learned that I still can't be trusted with a damn checkbook, and that my inability to do math may be my bank's primary source of profit. Showed the Internet my ghetto shower. (Again.) Won a small prize for donning a ridiculous (but festive!) getup. Also, finally began my long-postponed bathroom remodel, and used it as an (entirely valid) excuse to continue neglecting the Internet into the early days of 2010.

In all, it was a mostly uneventful year interspersed with many good times with friends but maybe not quite enough adventures and escapades. If the Facebook population is to be trusted (and why wouldn't it be?), 2010 is already off to a more auspicious start, so I am going to try to piggy-back on that optimism and see good things in store for me as well. First up: indoor plumbing and brand new tile. After that: the world! Peace out, 2009. Let's get this new year a-rolling.

In Tulsa, someone's ears are burning.

I met an old friend tonight for what was supposed to be an economically sound and culturally rich evening. Thursday nights are free at the Walker, so we decided to browse the galleries and try our hand at the current project in the art lab. Instead, we perused exactly one gallery, discovered that the art lab was full, and spent two hours chatting over wine and overpriced appetizers instead. What's that you say? Budget schmudget. At least the "let's catch up" part went as planned.

In any case, when I got home, I had exactly one task in mind (well, one task before "get my tired ass self to bed before I collapse forward onto my keyboard"), and that was to answer the interview questions that 3Carnations was kind enough to pass along to me. Naturally, however, before I could do that, I had to check in on my Facebook Scrabble games, and that put me a wee bit off schedule. You know how Liz doesn't want to admit to the Internet exactly how many cats she has? I may be in a similar position with the number of concurrent Scrabble games I have going. It's not my fault, people. I swear I started only half of them. I don't have a Scrabble problem. I can quit any time. Ahem.

So anyway, the interview questions will have to wait a bit longer. Meanwhile, speaking of Liz, she has a new litmus test for me to determine whether a potential suitor is worth my time. Remember how I successfully drunk-spelled my way to victory in that bee last year? You might be surprised to learn that "I won the Twin Cities' first Drunken Spelling Bee" doesn't garner quite the awe and respect you might think it could. As marginal claims to fame go, I'll admit it doesn't rank that high. It's not like I designed the Summit label or named Rocky Road, after all. But seriously... Nothing, boys?? Not a single date I've told that story to (save for the one who signed me up for the bee in the first place) has been impressed by my mad skillz or dumb luck. That is, until last night. Last night, The Buddhist and I were talking to my good friend Amy (who did design the Summit label and has gotten due props from past dates on that fun fact), and the topic of the spelling bee came up. And finally! HE was impressed! (Or, said he was, anyway.) Liz has decided this is a good measure of The Buddhist's worth. He has passed the spelling bee litmus test. Surely it's all only uphill from here. (No?)

And because I might as well mention Liz one more time in a post that is quickly becoming more about her than about me, let's play a little game I saw in an e-mail she forwarded me today. The message asked me to describe Liz in one word and one word only--click "Reply" on her message, type the word, and send it just like that. After sending my word about Liz, though, I was supposed to send the same message to all my friends to see what word they'd attach to me. My friends aren't exactly the "responsive to e-mail forwards" type, and besides that, if there's one way to make an exercise like this slightly more self-absorbed, it's to post it on my blog. So tell me: what's the one word you'd use to describe me? I'm gonna go with "lazy," given that I'd apparently rather milk a post out of three idle details than actually write the post I'm supposed to be writing, but maybe that's just me. Have at it.

Weekend update on a Tuesday (but fully bullet-free!)

So it seems I'm on the one-post-a-week plan now, which I suppose would be fine, if I were spending those several days between posts mulling over amusing little anecdotes to share on my next login. Instead, in the intervening time it seems I not only forget I have a blog, but also forget how to write. Maybe it's not entirely my fault. I am still reading that damn Twilight series, after all, so maybe Stephenie Meyer is to blame. Maybe I could craft clever, poignant sentences, but thanks to Bella Swan, the only adjectives in my head are "impossibly beautiful" and "dazzling," and unless I am writing about eternally 17-year-old vampires or Julia Roberts's teeth, neither of those do me much good.

Fear not, however. I am a mere 200 pages away from saying goodbye to the Cullens for good, at which point I plan to cleanse my mental palate with something of substance. Or at least something more charged with the pointless, light-hearted frivolity we've come to expect around here. Maybe some Jane Austen, so I can have my light-hearted frivolity under the guise of heady literature. Win-win!

Meanwhile, I could at least try to tell you what I've been up to lately without resorting to the quick and lazy bullet-point form... Let's see. Last night, I listened to a Presidential address without heckling for the first time in eight years. The night before that, I scored a prime, two-feet-from-the-stage spot at a surprisingly sparse Rhett Miller show, putting me in clear, up-close view of one of my very favorite imaginary boyfriends and his not-so-imaginary shiny rock star hair and ever-bendy rock star hips. We were close enough for him to sweat on us (though if you've ever seen Rhett perform, you know that you could probably be a good fifteen feet from the stage and still make that same claim). It would have been even better if the very sloshed girl and her even more sloshed husband in front of us hadn't thought the fact that they got engaged at a Rhett show two years ago entitled them the right to command Rhett's attention for the duration of his set, but hey, there's one of those at every concert, is there not?

Working backwards, that brings us to Saturday. And what did I do Saturday? Oh, nothing special. Just watched a couple of dear friends get engaged in a snowy, candle-lit downtown park. In all seriousness, it was magical, which is only fitting given that the man who was doing the proposing is the one I long ago referred to as The Magical Boy. He wanted to propose to his lovely girlfriend at Peavey Plaza on Nicollet Mall, and he enlisted me and Carrie to set the scene for him while they were at dinner. We arranged ice luminaries around the frozen fountain and placed flickering candles inside, then queued up a stereo to play a love song from La Boheme when the couple arrived. She said yes, of course, after which Carrie and I (and The Buddhist, who, though he'd never met The Magical Boy, was happy to come along for the ride anyway) popped out of our hiding spots on the other end of the park and joined in an impromptu dance party on the skating rink.

If we are keeping track of checkmarks in The Buddhist's "plus" column, by the way, we can add two more to the list. First, that he was fully OK with changing our plans for the evening when I told him this very special task had come up, and second, that, after meeting The Magical Boy and his new fiance', he summed up his first impressions with, "It's hard to say which one of those two is cuter." My thoughts exactly. They truly are the most non-sickeningly adorable couple I know. So congrats, Aaron and Colleen. Can't wait to attend the undoubtedly fun, creative, and uniquely environmentally friendly and socially responsible party you're sure to throw when you tie that knot.

Is this what blogging in a third world country is like?

It is no longer my birthday, obviously, so I'd really best post something new, hadn't I? Unfortunately, I just spent well over an hour completing a handful of simple Internet-related tasks that should have taken a mere few minutes, if my computer weren't older than my blog (which just turned four a few days ago, in case you want to bake a belated cake for Stefanie Says as well), and apparently the effort involved in those very strenuous commands was too much for this aging Dell; it's now insisting upon a one-minute rest after nearly every click or keystroke. I waited a full thirty seconds for the blinking cursor to return after typing that last sentence. Friends, I may be content to be old school a good majority of the time (what with my land line and my paper checkbook register and my still-in-use VHS recorder), but frankly, this is no way to live.

I do have stories to tell you... or rather, a story, but that particular story incites enough rage all on its own without my agitation at my inferior in-home technology heightening my ire. Hence, the story will have to wait. This, meanwhile, is just a pointless interim post--a courtesy, "I'm still alive" note so you don't fear that I've gone the way of The Buddhist and simply vanished without warning. The Buddhist is very much alive, by the way, and, as it turns out, very much worthy of all the kneecap-bashing threats generated in the comments on that post. More on that later; I promise.

I'm well aware it's almost rude of me to type that much without continuing, but seriously, it just took me a full six minutes to create that last hyperlink and type the two sentences that followed it, and it wasn't because I was editing and re-editing to fine-tune my thoughts. No, this computer is clearly crying for some shut-eye, and in the spirit of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em," I guess it's the same for me.

Meanwhile, I hope you all had a lovely weekend. I had a German dinner at a Spanish movie night, held a preemie who is so tiny, I'm pretty sure the Chipotle burrito I had last week weighed more than her, and celebrated the first Sunday of spring by not leaving my house all damn day.

What about you?

This charming man

It's been a while since I started a post with, "Woah, has it been a week already?" So. Woah. Has it been a week already? Perhaps I have been super busy lately. I suspect not, however. No, on the contrary, it has been one of those weeks where, despite the fact that no one would ever mistake me for a sci-fi buff, I am convinced I am going through time warps repeatedly at both mundane and inopportune times. Some houses have mice; mine has wormholes. Given my irrational fear of any critter bigger than my thumbnail, I suppose I'll take the wormholes, but it does make for some concern about early onset Alzheimers when someone asks, on a Monday morning, "So, how was your weekend?" and I actually have to stop and focus concentrated thought to remember exactly what my weekend entailed.

It's a bit late in the week for a weekend update, but just what did my weekend entail? Well, Friday night I went out for drinks with friends and discovered a happy hour deal that frankly I should have known about ages ago by now. $3.50 for TWO gin and tonics, and the bartender reimbursed me my two-dollar parking fee, too. Seriously--I handed her a meter receipt and she pulled two dollars from the till. I am considering going back and trying to trade in a dry cleaners receipt as well, but I think that may be pushing my luck just a wee bit. Also, dry cleaners receipt? Where did that come from? That particular train of thought would imply that I actually take my dry cleanables in for dry cleaning, rather than seemingly treating them as disposable items that just get tossed by the wayside when laundering is required. I vetoed a skirt at Target tonight primarily because I realized the multiple ruffles involved would be a pain in the arse to iron, so presumably I am maybe finally learning my lesson and taking garment care into account before purchasing, but that doesn't make the fact that I've had a pair of dry clean-only pants balled up in a pile at the base of my closet for the better part of a year any less ridiculous and shameful. Wait a minute. How did this post suddenly become all about laundry? Sorry about that. Moving on.

Saturday I met with a friend of a friend who did my astrological chart for me. That reading should perhaps warrant a post of its own, but instead, I will just try to summarize some of the take-away points, the first of which is that apparently there is great wealth in my future if I can just stop being such a damn Pisces and actually SWIM in the murky stream I'm floating in instead of just letting the stream carry me. Apparently I'm supposed to own my own business (or at least partner in one). It seems the planets say I have leadership and communication skills, and people will really listen to me, but I need to figure out just what sort of business would make me happily get out of bed in the morning to make those people listen to me. Frankly, when I get out of bed in the morning, what I'm usually thinking about is getting right back into bed for more sleep. Is there a business idea there? I'll have to think on that.

In that reading, I also learned that I'm best to stay away from Aquarius men, which is both a surprise and not a surprise to me. I realized a while ago that nearly every man who's held any significance in my life, relationship-wise, has a late January to mid-February birthday, and I've been wondering if that means I'm drawn to Aquarians for any valid reason or if, since none of those relationships have worked out, I should steer clear of Aquarians from now on. (In case you're keeping track? The Buddhist? An Aquarius. The newly divorced "One who I used to think was The One"? Aquarius. This guy? Aquarius. This one too? Aquarius. Seriously, if I put all of these guys in a room and tried to draw similarities, I'd be hard pressed to come up with many, but if you believe in this whole sun sign thing, perhaps there's something to it nonetheless.) In any case, my chart says the answer is the latter: Aquarius = NOT a good match for me. For me, apparently it's all about the Libras. Have I dated one single Libra yet? Not that I can recall. I guess I should add "When's your birthday?" to the litany of questions asked on a first date and cut to the chase on this matter from now on. Meanwhile, do you know any eligible Libras? If so, feel free to pass them along.

Let's see. What else have I been up to? Well, Monday night I saw Morrissey in concert, and it was a fine opener to what will be a three-concert week. It is April, you see, which means that the concert calendar for the next two months is jam-packed with acts who have shied away from the Minneapolis/St. Paul area all winter long. It's as though every manager and booking agent says, in mid-February, "Time to start planning this spring's dates. April? Yeah, it should be safe to go to Minneapolis by April. My client shouldn't freeze solid upon landing by then." If I had unlimited funds and unlimited energy, I would be attending no fewer than 17 concerts between now and the end of May. Since my budget is scant and my energy is constantly waning, however, I will instead be seeing only a few. Monday was Morrissey, which basically I had to attend almost as a way of tidying up some unfinished business from my youth. I never saw him in high school or college, you see. I had the chance to tag along with a group during my semester in Scotland, and oddly I've always sort of regretted not going. I like to survey the crowd at any show and determine the dominant demographic, and I was comforted to see that, at the State Theater Monday night, the demographic was, basically, me. Well, me and my friend Amy, who accompanied me, and hundreds of other thirtysomethings who we probably have more than a few things in common with, life history-wise. Morrissey put on a fine, high-energy show with a fine band of buff young boy toys in matching tight plaid shirts. I sort of think it's best I waited until now to see Morrissey live, because I doubt that in the 90s his shows had the same grandiose celebratory air they have now. Morrissey is a diva, no question about that. But by now, he has earned his diva status. He can prance around the stage with dramatic arm flourishes, telling the girl in the front row who cried, "I just love you unconditionally!" that, "unconditionally isn't quite enough" for him. Could he have gotten away with that in the 90s? Perhaps. But the arrogance seems somehow more charming and warranted now.

This weekend I'm off to see Lily Allen, as well as Mates of State (with featured opener Black Kids). In between those two shows, I'll be attending the fourth annual Easter Orphans and Heathens Brunch, wherein my friends and I who have no family in the Twin Cities (or who are, for one reason or another, not spending this religious holiday with family) gather together for conversation and daytime cocktails and gluttony. Easter is a bit late this year, and yet I sort of still can't believe it's upon us so soon. I've worked my way through a whole bag of Reeses Pieces candy-coated mini eggs, but I've yet to have a Cadbury Creme Egg, and as such, the season still feels a bit incomplete. I should probably remedy that before the Easter candy disappears entirely from the Target shelves. It's good to have goals and time lines, after all. I'm sure my astrological chart would agree.

The Boot Camp for Lost Boys

I live in a city of over 300,000 people, but in a way, none of us really live in the same city. We see our different parts of it, live our different lives in it. We all have personal landmarks, and they're rarely shared, communal ones. Other people don't drive past the Chatterbox on France and think, "That's where I had what I thought was my best date of '08. Man, was I wrong about that." Other people don't see the Figlio billboard and remember their awkward dinner with a burly guy who not only finished a plate of pasta so enormous it could feed a small village but who roughly stopped the waitress from taking his CLEARLY EMPTY plate by spouting through a mouthful of bread, "No! I'm DIPPING!" And I'm guessing (though I could be wrong, of course) that not a lot of other people think, every time they drive past that big house on Emerson, "Heh. I was deflowered there."

I was out with Carrie last night and we found ourselves stopped at the traffic light beside another of my personal landmarks. It was the corner where I had my first (and thus far only) truly angry, yelly, incredulous breakup. Previously, my only reference point for the restaurant on that corner was that it was the venue for my urban family's second annual Easter Orphans and Heathens Brunch. Now it will always be the place where I stood chastising a soulless, unrepentant manchild in the cold while his new girlfriend watched from a bar stool inside.

I'm talking about Jimmy, of course. The pothead. The damn Buddhist. Remember him? Remember what a sweet story it was originally but how spectacularly it went awry?

I still sort of can't believe that happened. It's absurd, really, and as such, I have to laugh at it. Or maybe not laugh, but at least shake my head and roll my eyes. I'm not angry anymore. I knew I wouldn't be. There's no reason to stay upset over losing a person I'm better off without. But I do still think about him. I do wonder what he's doing. And though I'm not hurt anymore, I'm also not perfect, so when I wonder about him, I'll admit that I hope he's not doing well.

It's not [entirely] that I'm bitter. It's that I honestly think the man needs to hit rock bottom. He has been down, yes. He has been broke and destitute. He's even spent the night in a jail cell at least once. But I don't think he's ever really gotten it. I'm not sure he's realized that any of it is his own damn fault. And I don't think it helps that through all of it, he's always had someone saying, "You are awesome, Jimmy. You're a great person." And I think he needs to stop hearing that. Because he is NOT awesome. He is a flake. He is a fuckup. He is a great big irresponsible child. And you know what? Children get reprimanded when their behavior is inappropriate. Children get punished when they misbehave. Jimmy got fired, skipped out on his rent, lied to his friends, and vanished on me, and what was his punishment? Free room and board with a new girlfriend and a free vacation on said new girlfriend's dime.

I really didn't mean to go into so long a rant about someone who's worth so little energy. I didn't mean to launch into a similar rant when Carrie and I pulled up to that stop light last night. But Carrie, no stranger to fuckwits and manchildren herself, didn't stop me. No, instead, she joined right in.

"It's too bad there's not a boot camp for lost boys," she said. It was a flash of brilliance. Yes! A boot camp for lost boys! We can probably all think of a few candidates for new recruits.

"Do you think it would really work as a boot camp, though?" I asked.

Carrie: "What do you mean?"

Me: "Boot camp is a short-term program for immediate results. Lost boys are driven by instant gratification, but they've also got short memory spans. We need to shoot for long-term change. It might need to be a reform school."

Carrie: "Yeah. They need to go AWAY. Maybe for a long while."

Me: "Or at the very least, an ongoing outpatient program."

Carrie: "Like social work. They'd be assigned a case number."

Me: "And a case manager. They'd have to report in on their progress. And the case manager would talk to their friends, too."

Carrie: "And their parents!"

Me: "None of that manipulating and revising history and skewing the story to make themselves the victim. The case manager would need context. She'd talk to the people who actually KNOW the guy so she'd know what's really up."

Carrie: "But the lost boys would have to meet with each other regularly, too, right? Like an AA meeting?"

Me: "Definitely. And they'd go around the circle.... I'm Adam. I'm a lost boy. It's been six weeks since my last irresponsible, capricious act. And a chorus of lost boys would reply, Hi, Adam. Oh! And they'd get chips after each milestone!"

Carrie: "Chips? People in AA get chips?"

Me: "It's like a little medallion to mark an accomplishment. 'One month sober,' 'One year sober.' That sort of thing."

Carrie: "Oh, so they wouldn't cash them in for anything... not like poker chips, or skee ball tickets..."

Me: "Ha! No, but that would be awesome. I applied for six jobs this week. Here is my chip. I would like to trade it in for that bottle of Jaegermeister."

Carrie: "Nooo! We'd have to take their alcohol AWAY, not reward them with it! Their cigarettes, too. Maybe even movies."

Me: "They definitely wouldn't be allowed to watch Swingers or Fight Club or Reservoir Dogs. And nothing that glorifies life as a manchild."

Carrie: "Would there be twelve steps? And the Serenity prayer?"

Me: "They should at least have some sort of creed. I will not be careless with hearts. Or finances."

Carrie: "I will do no irreparable harm to women."

Me: "I will take responsibility for my actions."

Carrie: "We should totally transcribe this conversation and put it on the Internet."

Me: "I'm way ahead of you on that."


Of course, gauging success in the lost boys program might be difficult. An alcoholic measures progress in concrete milestones that are easily quantifiable. "I haven't had a drink in thirty days." That's clear cut. Black and white. But "It's been six months since I frustrated a woman to tears in the privacy of her own bedroom"? "It's been two months since my mother silently wondered to herself where she went wrong with me"? These things are harder to verify. Still, it's an idea whose time has come, I say. Any social workers out there looking for a new project?

What did I do for paranoia BEFORE I joined Facebook?

So. That little interview game was fun while it lasted. Questions have been sent to Steve, Liz, Courtney, and Sauntering Soul. (Clarification: Questions for Sauntering Soul have been saved in my Drafts folder and will be sent just as soon as I track down her address. Details, details.)

Unfortunately, with that out of the way, I'm left to come up with my own blog topics again. Hmmm. Sure there's nothing else you guys want to know about me? If so, speak up and I'll do my best to oblige (maybe even within a week).

Meanwhile, let's talk about Facebook again, shall we? (3Carnations, you might as well just stop reading here and go get yourself a snack. You don't need any more reasons not to join us on "the Book," right?) I am seriously considering changing my privacy settings to prevent that little "Add as Friend" link from popping up next to my name when people search for me. I honestly didn't think this would be a problem, as I tend to assume I am entirely forgettable and somehow never considered for a moment that anyone from my past would ever even think to search for me, much less take that search one step further and decide they want to put me in their little box of online pseudo-friends. In the past four days, however, I have gotten friend requests from 1. a cousin who lives several states away and whom I have not seen nor talked to directly since I was fourteen, 2. a college friend I lost touch with several years ago, after she decided she was too busy to return letters or phone calls anymore, and 3. a friend of The Buddhist's whom I met on Saturday and who seemed rather nice and even fun until a few drinks later, when she walked in on me in the bathroom while I was peeing and told me it was a waste of my time to be dating him. Hrmm.

I have accepted the cousin request (because whatever; she's family, and you can't very well click "Ignore" on them, can you?). I even accepted the request from the long-lost college friend, admittedly at least in part because she actually included a note with her friend request, and that note said, "Holy crap are you looking good!" Flattery may not get you everywhere, but apparently it will get me to click that "Confirm" button. I haven't yet decided what to do with that third request. I suppose I will just confirm. The path of least resistance is likely best; is it not? But why did she click that "Add as friend" link? Is there a motive here, or is she just an "I'll friend anyone I've met once" sort of girl? Facebook is not the place for over-analyzers. I really ought to know this by now. My point is I doubt any of these requests would have come through if people were forced to send a message to me rather than just being able to click that "Add as friend" link. Of course, if I had my settings set as such, I wouldn't have connected with plenty of people I am happy to have in my little Friends box. Oh, the back and forth. The madness. I am starting to think Facebook was created by a subversive anti-establishment group who knew that unleashing such a beast onto society would keep us all sufficiently distracted with mind games (not to mention real games--cough; Scrabble addiction; cough) that they could quickly carry out their plan for world domination without anyone noticing.

If that's the case, those last holdouts on the Facebook front are our only hope, I suppose. 3Cs, are you still here? You'll keep an eye out for us, for the good of humanity, won't you? (If you're not going to join and play Scramble with us, it does seem it's the least you can do.)

I'm tempted to use that famous Go-Go's line as a title, but "Had to get away" is less relevant when you're not getting away from much.

Hello! I am back. Did you miss me? (Please, don't answer that.) To answer the question that really only one of my friends was asking (hi, Ang), Yes! I am home. Have been for a full 26 hours now. And what have I done in those intervening hours? Let's see...

• Nearly fully unpacked (within two hours of my return--surely that is a new record for me).
• Had a particularly unproductive day at work.
• Had one of my most prolific Facebook days to date. (No, that last item isn't necessarily related to this one; I'm just surprised to notice that today's Wall activities take up a full screen length.)
• Went grocery shopping to ensure that a meal encompassing more than just the Refined Carbs and Processed Foods group might again be possible in my home.
• Shoveled the snow Mother Nature was rude enough to leave for me in my absence.
• Watched another Presidential address without heckling. (Seriously, when will this start to feel commonplace to me rather than make me smile involuntarily in relief and hope?)

What I have NOT done is even open my feed reader. I am far too scared to do that without a few free hours in front of me. Have I missed anything particularly notable? Well of course I did. Blog Share was the day after my last Bloglines check-in. I'll catch up eventually, I suppose. Meanwhile, if anything of particularly notable import happened in the past several days, feel free to fill me in.

So. Mexico. Honestly, I don't have a whole lot to tell you about that. Nothing about it was so exciting as to warrant an enthusiastic "It was FUN!!" summary, but it would be awfully lame and ungrateful of me not to appreciate the mere fact that I spent three and a half days basking in the sunshine (sans any sort of layers) in the middle of February.

As you may recall, this trip was with my coworkers, so perhaps the weirdest part was being away from work for several days, only to come in this morning and think, "Huh. Haven't been here in a while, and yet, I just saw you yesterday!" Strange. In a way, it was a long weekend without a weekend, but since that weekend included free drinks and the aforementioned sunshine, I suppose I can't complain too much.

It seems I really should have some sort of recap, however, but as 9:00 p.m. has somehow quickly become 10:56, I'm afraid that recap is going to happen in quick and lazy bullet-point form. Let's see. Some high and low lights...

• Yes, there were liquor dispensers in my room. I thought about providing a photo as evidence, but I fear that doing so might only remind us of the cold, sad reality that there aren't liquor dispensers everywhere in life. You say I'm too lazy to upload a photo; I say I'm just helping you out. (Disclaimer: If you are my Flickr friend, you'll probably see photos within the next day or so, actually. I'm just not getting to it quite yet.)
  
  
• My ex-boyfriend who is also my coworker is in seemingly a really not very good place right now. To everyone who for some reason keeps asking, "So, now that he's divorced, do you think you two will get back together?" I say again, "NO!! What am I, some kind of masochist??" The most important fact is that his ex-wife was in no part any of the reason he and I broke up. He did not meet her until over a full year after we parted ways. Yes, I think his divorce somehow helped me to finally let that wall of bitterness fall down. I can say in some lame, karmic way, "OK, we're even now." I might venture so far as to say enough time has passed that we could maybe even be friends again. (We were extremely close friends before, and the fact that our romance didn't end badly should have meant we could be friends after as well.) But does that mean I want it to be my turn again relationship-wise? Hell to the no. I still feel that it was largely me who helped him pick up the pieces after his first divorce. Damned if I want any part of that role a second time. Besides that, I am already possibly making the same mistakes I made once before with one ex-boyfriend. Why would I add another one to the list?
  
  
• You don't have to go on a Carnival cruise to have a different animal-shaped towel sculpture in your room every day. Again, if I had actually visited Flickr before I started this post, perhaps I'd have photographic evidence of this.
  
  
• Yes, I realize I again made allusion to The Buddhist in that second-to-last item without actually telling you anything, and also wrangled what could possibly be a post in and of itself about an ex-boyfriend into a poorly summarized bullet point. You're just going to have to accept that for now.
  
  
• The food at an all-inclusive resort isn't always awful. It's still nothing to write home about, however.
  
  
• When you're gone only three (plus two travel) days, there really isn't much to write home about at all, actually. Or so is the story for those of you who might be expecting post cards. (i.e., Don't hold your breath for those.)

And honestly, that about wraps it up. I ate too much, drank almost too much, read a book and a half, and came back with what I'm certain will be a sadly short-lived sunny souvenir vacation glow.

So. What have you been up to since I heard from you last?

It's been a quiet week in Lake Wo... Wait a minute. This post may ramble on to nowhere, but I still can't use that line.

I stand by my sensible vow to blog about work only in the most general of terms, but today was one of those frustrating days where the nature of my company's business required me to pretend to be an expert in an area I'm not, which is something I will never be particularly good at or comfortable with. I maintain that my liberal arts education successfully prepared me to bullshit my way through myriad tasks and situations, but sometimes it just seems more appropriate and ethical to say, "Sorry, but no, we don't do that. Seriously, don't hire me for this."

Or maybe I am hiding behind ethics simply because I don't want to do the thing they want to pay me to do. In any given situation, if it's a question of ethics or laziness, there's a good chance the latter is more solidly to blame. Or, equally possible, maybe I am making a big deal out of nothing. Perhaps this is just the way business works. After all, lots of people get paid to lie. Meteorologists, for instance. Nine times out of ten they're just making stuff up, right? Maybe I should be a meteorologist. Would I have to get a helmet-like haircut for that?

At the moment, I couldn't possibly be any less accurate a meteorologist than the ones currently serving the Twin Cities metro area, because every one of them repeatedly assured me that the temperature would reach 30 the past two days, and every one of them was downright wrong. Which wouldn't be so bad had I not BELIEVED them and been so bold as to downgrade from my down jacket back to my flimsy wool pea coat and to leave my hat at home. After nearly two solid weeks of sub-zero temperatures, I should be used to this. Instead, I feel perma-cold.

Even if I'd been out of the country in some balmy locale for the past week, I would still be able to tell that it'd been ridiculously cold for days on end. No one dares get a car wash in weather like this, for fear that the damn thing will freeze solid. Hence, everyone's car becomes so uniformly spattered with road spray that you can barely see its original paint job. Highways and parking lots start to look like suburban subdivisions--just like the cookie cutter houses in those neighborhoods, every car on the road is an only slightly varying shade of beige. As soon as the temperature reaches the mid-30s, there will be lines ten deep at every car wash, not unlike the gas crisis of 1973. Except that people will let their gas-guzzling giant SUVs idle for the duration that they wait in that line, so really, I guess nothing like the gas crisis of 1973 at all.

Moving on. I realize there are few less interesting things to talk about than the weather, but I am a Midwesterner. Talking about the weather is what we do. It ensures we don't have to muster any creativity in our small talk, and it prevents most of us from getting too personal (which makes Midwesterners uncomfortable), too. Besides that, even our esteemed public radio affiliate thinks the weather is news. Just the other day, I heard a thoroughly interesting and enlightening (read: utterly obvious and pointless) story explaining just why driving on every residential street in Minneapolis is like driving on a glacier right now. Really, MPR? When the snow melts a bit and then immediately freezes again, it turns into bumpy mounds of ice? And snow plows aren't designed for solid masses of ice? They can clear piles of snow, but not ice floes? How fascinating! Shocking, really! You learn something new every day.

In truth, I may have been predisposed to annoyance at that particular story solely because it was presented by the reporter who didn't find me charming enough to warrant a second date. I should be over and past that by now, of course, but usually when a dude doesn't like me (or I don't like him) I have only to worry about spotting him in Target. I don't typically have to hear his voice in my car on my commute, reminding me of the rejection, taunting me, if you will. This particular reporter has a specific beat, so when I hear the intro for a story that falls under that topic, I'm at least prepared for the commentator to say, "Here with more on that is Tim Becker." But ice floes in the street are not Tim's beat. What is he doing on my radio so often these days?

I'm not the only one to notice he's been in increased rotation, either. Ever the supportive friend, Carrie said out of the blue one day, "I'm so sick of Tim Becker." It surprised me, because if we're being entirely objective, there's actually nothing wrong with his reporting style, nothing at all unpleasant about his voice. Truly, the man's only offense was his lack of interest in me. But my disappointments are her disappointments, apparently. It's nice to know a friend's got my back. I'm equally grateful to my pal Flurrious, who once wrote, "That MPR reporter was a fool. When we cast your montage, let's find someone ugly to play him." Heh.

Incidentally, I should mention that Tim Becker is, of course, not the reporter's real name. I am not quite foolish enough to type that. I was, however, foolish enough to give the man my blog URL. (It was an experiment, part of a brief period where I decided to do the opposite of what I'd usually do in certain social situations, which unfortunately met with no notable results.) I cannot imagine any reason said reporter would still be checking in here regularly, but if I'm wrong about that, well, hello, Tim. Keep up the good work. How's it going? Call me! (Sigh.)

Maybe I should return to dating again. It has, after all, been a while. I went on fewer dates in 2009 than any year in recent memory, but you know what? I think I was, on the whole, happier in 2009 than in other recent years as well (nonsense with the Buddhist notwithstanding, that is). Could the two be correlated? Perhaps. Still, dates give me stories, and if I had stories, I probably wouldn't subject the Internet to three consecutive paragraphs about the weather. It's food for thought, I suppose.

Of course, before I go on another date, I should probably have a usable shower, because this showering at the gym or trying to get clean hair in my tub really isn't quite working for me. I can't bring myself to get up early enough to mess with a bath or the gym in the a.m., so I've been washing my hair at night and then sleeping on it unstyled, which leads to this misshapen conehead sort of thing in the morning. It's a good look, I tell you. I should take my next Catch dot Mom profile pic right NOW.

And that about catches you up, I think. I am cold, tired, and not-so-recently showered with no definitive remedy to any of those soon in sight. Tell me, what's new with YOU?