So last week I mentioned my reunion with Frenchie, a rather Groundhog Day-like experience in that it was a repeat of the exact circumstances in which we met, which he apparently does not remember. To add to this bizarre turn of events is the following text message exchange I had today with my co-worker:
Her: Do you remember one time we were walking somewhere and a random French guy started talking to you?
Me: I have a French stalker, but not sure it's the same person. Why?
Her: Someone just started texting me named [intentionally omitted]? Claiming we met in Dupont. He described me as "sweet" and "nice". Doesn't sound like me. [Editor's note: she is indeed neither sweet, nor nice, and is in fact a self-described Big Angry Black Woman.]
Me: OMG! That is him!!!! How does he have your number???
Her: I. Don't. Know.
Me: Wait. Remember when I made you call that random number for me? What's the number??
Her: 202-257-2340 [Intentionally included--take that Stalker!]. That must be how he got it. What an odd ball.
Me: That's him!!! What a psycho!!
Her: He asked me to meet him for coffee in Adams Morgan.
So apparently the freak who can't remember me also can't keep my phone number straight. Which is why he deserves the Ultimate Stalker Retribution: a rendez-vous with the Big Angry Black Woman when he's expecting me instead.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Couldn't Make this Up
Last summer I wrote about my quest for the Perfect Summer Fling. In it, I told of how I was stalked from the Dupont Circle Metro stop by a guy who turned out to be a) French and b) desirous of my phone number. I obliged--temporarily hypnotized by the accent--but quickly thereafter regretted the decision when he turned out to be a bit of a Text Message Stalker (not to mention total sap). I never went out with him.
Fast forward to last weekend.In what can only be described as The Farce that is My Dating Life, or maybe Seriously, Does God Hate Me?, last weekend I found myself once again in that scenario. That exact scenario. And when I say exact, I mean same Metro stop, same why-is-this-guy-following-me internal monologue, same eventual pick-up line and...wait for it...the same freaking French guy.
OK, so it would be one thing if he saw me on the train, recognized me and, given my general state of iPod-wearing oblivion, had to chase me down to reconnect. That might actually justify his jog up the 188-foot escalator. But no. He didn't even remember me. And this is how it went down:
Me: [walking with a purpose, sensing a man walking a little too close, reaching for pocket mace]
Him: [gaining on me] Hey! Are you from New York or something?
Me: [stopped, turned around] Uh, no.
Him: It's just that you walk with such determination. It's very New Yorker-like.
Me: Uh, no. I'm from Ohio [thinking: which is why I have politely acknowledged your existence and not yet maced you.]
Him: Wow, you're really beautiful. Those eyes... Have you lived here long?
Me: [thinking: why does this sound familiar? Why does he look familiar? And what is that accent??] Three years now.
Him: So you're almost native! My name is [intentionally omitted]. I'd love to take you out sometime.
Me: [realization-coming-on-like-a-Mack-truck, FRENCHIE!, cannot help but start laughing]
Him: What's funny? Is that a yes?
Me: I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I'm involved with someone, but it was nice meeting you.
Him: Ah, no! Perhaps we will run into each other some time in the future? Perhaps when you are single? I want to see you again.
Me: [thinking: this cannot be happening] Well, you never know... [indeed!]
And I walked away, mouth agape in incredulity, thinking about the Cosmic Joke that is my dating life.
Friday, November 21, 2008
My Shameless Plug for Sonicare
I have a friend who's a pro at dating. Sometimes she'll say things like, "OK, I just need to line up a guy for Thursday night and then I'll be set for the week." It will be Tuesday. And she'll find someone. This same friend is also a Match.com subscriber. She claims it's an easy go-to when you're in a slump. Just jump online, get a few dates and *poof* no more slump. So earlier this year, when I was in between guys, she convinced me to try it. Mostly, I thought it was pretty lame. My inbox would fill up with ridiculous, and often grammatically botched, missives from random dudes with aliases like "sexynfun" or "dclawyer4u". And what's with the winks? Seriously? My curiosity waned after about a week and I went back to dating the old fashioned way.
Around this same time I decided that, after two years in DC, it was time to find a dentist. My intense fear of dental trauma, combined with my proven inability to check practical things like "make dentist appointment" off my to-do list, had led to prolonged neglect of my pearly whites. So when my co-worker returned to the office from a dentist appointment one day, I asked for a referral. They were able to squeeze me in the following week.
Keep in mind that reasonable health care of any kind in DC can only be found in one place: Georgetown. Well, for this car-free girl, Georgetown is quite possibly the least accessible place to travel to (the elite residents there have successfully kept icky public transportation away from their cobble-stoned paradise). So I rented a ZipCar for a cool $9.25/hour and off I went.
My dentist turned out to be a young, attractive guy, and when we met he gave me a quizzical glance that I couldn't quite interpret. But just as quickly he got to the business of poking around in my mouth, and that was that. And while I survived with little trauma (aided in large part by the Bose headphones and DVD of Planet Earth), my new dentist had bad news to report: I had six cavities and needed a porcelain crown. Crap. But it got worse. After explaining that I had about $2000 worth of dental care in my future, he whispered, "So how long have you been on Match?"
Cue dental trauma.
My horrified expression sent him backpedaling, but before it got extremely awkward, I was saved by a hygienist who summoned him to another patient. After scheduling the four required follow up appointments, I raced home and logged on to Match. And there he was: Dentaluv. Right there in my inbox. Having lost interest so early on in my month-long membership, I hadn't been checking my messages. He had "winked" at me several days prior.
I spent the subsequent six weeks making almost weekly trips to Dentaluv's Georgetown office for what I now refer to as The Great Dental Intervention of 2008. Slapping down my AMEX to the tune of $425 or $613 became old hat. So did the $30/visit I was paying to freaking drive there. In total I endured 15 shots of Novocaine, endless minutes of drilling (which the Bose headphones do not entirely block out, btw) and the unsettling reality that the man attacking my plaque problem had also hit on me online. To make matters worse, the women in the office were excessively nice to me, fueling my suspicion that I was part of the watercooler gossip. I thought perhaps I was being paranoid, but then in between appointments I dyed my hair. And although it took my co-workers a week to notice, the receptionist noticed immediately. They fawned over me constantly.
On the last of my many visits, after slapping down the AMEX for the final time, I glanced behind the receptionist to a product shelf containing boxes of fancy, electronic toothbrushes. So I asked her, "What's the deal with those?" And she responded animatedly, "They are really expensive, but they truly are like preventative medicine. My boyfriend used to get tons of cavities, but since he got his Sonicare he hasn't had any. He hardly even needs to see the dentist anymore!"
Sold.
In summary:
Dental Intervention of 2008: $1890.83
Transportation to Dental Intervention of 2008: $124.16
Phillips Sonicare Elite e9500: $149.99
Insurance Against Future Incidents of Dentaluv Awkwardness: Priceless
Around this same time I decided that, after two years in DC, it was time to find a dentist. My intense fear of dental trauma, combined with my proven inability to check practical things like "make dentist appointment" off my to-do list, had led to prolonged neglect of my pearly whites. So when my co-worker returned to the office from a dentist appointment one day, I asked for a referral. They were able to squeeze me in the following week.
Keep in mind that reasonable health care of any kind in DC can only be found in one place: Georgetown. Well, for this car-free girl, Georgetown is quite possibly the least accessible place to travel to (the elite residents there have successfully kept icky public transportation away from their cobble-stoned paradise). So I rented a ZipCar for a cool $9.25/hour and off I went.
My dentist turned out to be a young, attractive guy, and when we met he gave me a quizzical glance that I couldn't quite interpret. But just as quickly he got to the business of poking around in my mouth, and that was that. And while I survived with little trauma (aided in large part by the Bose headphones and DVD of Planet Earth), my new dentist had bad news to report: I had six cavities and needed a porcelain crown. Crap. But it got worse. After explaining that I had about $2000 worth of dental care in my future, he whispered, "So how long have you been on Match?"
Cue dental trauma.
My horrified expression sent him backpedaling, but before it got extremely awkward, I was saved by a hygienist who summoned him to another patient. After scheduling the four required follow up appointments, I raced home and logged on to Match. And there he was: Dentaluv. Right there in my inbox. Having lost interest so early on in my month-long membership, I hadn't been checking my messages. He had "winked" at me several days prior.
I spent the subsequent six weeks making almost weekly trips to Dentaluv's Georgetown office for what I now refer to as The Great Dental Intervention of 2008. Slapping down my AMEX to the tune of $425 or $613 became old hat. So did the $30/visit I was paying to freaking drive there. In total I endured 15 shots of Novocaine, endless minutes of drilling (which the Bose headphones do not entirely block out, btw) and the unsettling reality that the man attacking my plaque problem had also hit on me online. To make matters worse, the women in the office were excessively nice to me, fueling my suspicion that I was part of the watercooler gossip. I thought perhaps I was being paranoid, but then in between appointments I dyed my hair. And although it took my co-workers a week to notice, the receptionist noticed immediately. They fawned over me constantly.
On the last of my many visits, after slapping down the AMEX for the final time, I glanced behind the receptionist to a product shelf containing boxes of fancy, electronic toothbrushes. So I asked her, "What's the deal with those?" And she responded animatedly, "They are really expensive, but they truly are like preventative medicine. My boyfriend used to get tons of cavities, but since he got his Sonicare he hasn't had any. He hardly even needs to see the dentist anymore!"
Sold.
In summary:
Dental Intervention of 2008: $1890.83
Transportation to Dental Intervention of 2008: $124.16
Phillips Sonicare Elite e9500: $149.99
Insurance Against Future Incidents of Dentaluv Awkwardness: Priceless
Monday, November 10, 2008
You Know What They Say...
What's fun about being in Washington is that everyone knows everyone, and the Kevin Bacon game can actually make a small town Midwestern girl like me feel important. So this past Sunday--the first official Day of Brunch since Obama's election--a couple of girlfriends and I gathered for Eggs Benedict and whatnot. After the usual catching up (i.e. work, dating, etc.), our conversation turned to the Obama transition. Let's just say that the ensuing discussion quickly answered the question I'd been asking myself since November 5: What will we talk about now??
Both of the friends I was brunching with are alums of the fellowship program I was in after grad school and are now currently working for pretty powerful national associations. So it follows that they both know a number of people on the short list for cabinet positions (I, on the other hand, sacrificed that cred when I defected to the for-profit sector). But we're all urban policy nerds, so we conspired in hushed tones about The Short List. We were each feeling a little starstruck and excited about the potential for people we, eh hem, know to be in such important leadership positions. Competence in Washington! Imagine!
Forty-five minutes of uber-wonky-Cabinet-Member-selection-chatter later and one of my friends said of the Rahm Emmanuel pick, "Well you know what they say...once a Chief of Staff, always a Chief of Staff." There was a momentary pause while we reflected, nodded in agreement...and then burst into laughter. You know what they say?? Really??? Pretty sure "they" never say that. Well, no one outside the beltway, that is. And yet, my love affair with this city grew a little bit deeper...
Both of the friends I was brunching with are alums of the fellowship program I was in after grad school and are now currently working for pretty powerful national associations. So it follows that they both know a number of people on the short list for cabinet positions (I, on the other hand, sacrificed that cred when I defected to the for-profit sector). But we're all urban policy nerds, so we conspired in hushed tones about The Short List. We were each feeling a little starstruck and excited about the potential for people we, eh hem, know to be in such important leadership positions. Competence in Washington! Imagine!
Forty-five minutes of uber-wonky-Cabinet-Member-selection-chatter later and one of my friends said of the Rahm Emmanuel pick, "Well you know what they say...once a Chief of Staff, always a Chief of Staff." There was a momentary pause while we reflected, nodded in agreement...and then burst into laughter. You know what they say?? Really??? Pretty sure "they" never say that. Well, no one outside the beltway, that is. And yet, my love affair with this city grew a little bit deeper...
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Where I Was
In the same way that I'll never forget where I was when I saw The Challenger explode or the World Trade Center buildings go down, I will never forget where I was when America celebrated the election of its first black president. And thanks to our friends at YouTube, this video should make it a lot easier to tell my grandkids:
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Battle Ready
Last night my braided belt guy came over to watch the Obama Infomercial. Afterward, when even we had become nauseated by the post-analysis on MSNBC (i.e. Olbermann and Matthews taking turns drooling all over themselves) our conversation turned to my upcoming Halloween party, and more specifically, our costumes. Keep in mind, this guy has an above average committment to costumes (remember: movie accurate Indiana Jones garb), and it runs in his family. I've heard numerous stories over the past couple of months about family outings to Renaissance Fairs (his little brother made his own chain mail!) and his dad's penchant for dressing up like a pirate on down days. I was expressing concern that the costume I bought for five bucks in a stranger's stinky basement would fall far below his standards. He reassured me but went on to tell stories of his first boyhood longings for the Indy garb and how they were nurtured by his family. He even busted out his BlackBerry to show me a photo of him, his brothers and his dad dressed in kilts (the family tartan!) and toting $2500 "battle ready" swords.
Let me stop right here and say that what happened next, I asked for.
That is to say, I asked when exactly he expected to engage in a battle. From his reaction it became obvious I'd missed the point entirely, and before I knew it, I was receiving a full academic lecture in blacksmithing. This wasn't a re-telling of a Renaissance Fair craft booth experience. Oh no. We're talking the difference between Greek and British methods and the delicate balance of iron-to-carbon ratios. At that point it occurred to me that the braided belt is really the least of my problems (albeit an obvious accessory for a man with such serious appreciation for craftsmanship). I now fear future meals sitting around the table with a man-dressed-as-knight a la that scene in Garden State.
Despite having problems of her own, my friend Kate regularly doles out nuggets of dating wisdom and is a go-to for me when it comes to venting about dating dysfunction. Also a Columbus-to-DC transplant, I found myself recently seeking her validation for my memory of a decidedly more "normal" dating life in Columbus. This was her response:
And so I'm preparing for a battle of my own, it would seem. Wish me luck.
Let me stop right here and say that what happened next, I asked for.
That is to say, I asked when exactly he expected to engage in a battle. From his reaction it became obvious I'd missed the point entirely, and before I knew it, I was receiving a full academic lecture in blacksmithing. This wasn't a re-telling of a Renaissance Fair craft booth experience. Oh no. We're talking the difference between Greek and British methods and the delicate balance of iron-to-carbon ratios. At that point it occurred to me that the braided belt is really the least of my problems (albeit an obvious accessory for a man with such serious appreciation for craftsmanship). I now fear future meals sitting around the table with a man-dressed-as-knight a la that scene in Garden State.
Despite having problems of her own, my friend Kate regularly doles out nuggets of dating wisdom and is a go-to for me when it comes to venting about dating dysfunction. Also a Columbus-to-DC transplant, I found myself recently seeking her validation for my memory of a decidedly more "normal" dating life in Columbus. This was her response:
Hate to be the one to impart bad news, but dating in Columbus was just as dysfunctional. Instead of the ego-tripping prats who hang out with their politico buddies, you got the pleated khaki wearing frat boys who hung out with their HS friends. Same problems, different pants.(Or in some cases skirt)
And so I'm preparing for a battle of my own, it would seem. Wish me luck.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Hollywood for Nerds
People say DC is like Hollywood for nerds, and it’s true. News flies fast when someone sees Bill Clinton at a restaurant or Barack Obama at the gym, and it’s always fun to guess who’s behind the tinted windows of the ubiquitous motorcades. Only in DC can you excitedly gush to your friends about seeing an obscure wonk-type no one else would even care about.
So it should come as no surprise that the pool of eligible men here is heavily skewed toward Debate Team rather than Football Team. Not that I mind. I maintain that a band nerd from my high school is one of the best kissers I’ve ever kissed. He played the trumpet. Firm lips. Still, even so, it has taken me a month to admit I’m dating a guy who proudly wears a braided belt. He’s brilliant, witty, and handsome, but there’s also no doubt in my mind that somewhere in a basement in Texas there’s home video footage of him wielding a light saber a la George Michael on Arrested Development. And yes, I said Texas. Groan. He even wears cowboy boots.
My friend Kate, a self-proclaimed, card-carrying Geek, says I’m probably in over my head with this one. And she may be right. I mean it’s one thing to tell me about the Tolkien themes embedded in Zeppelin IV (swoon!), but it’s quite another to own a “movie accurate” Indiana Jones costume (yes, seriously). I almost had myself convinced that this kid was from a galaxy too far, far away when this happened:
Two nights ago, I got a 1:00 a.m. phone call from the back of an ambulance, where my guy found himself after being jumped on his way home from my apartment. By the time I got him back here, I barely recognized his face it was so broken and bruised. But when I referred to him “getting his ass kicked,” he was quick to correct me with a full account of what went down. Apparently, my uber-nerdy crush judo-kicked the shit out of his attacker (all the True Geeks know martial arts) and even used the heel of his cowboy boot to kick the scumbag in the back of the head. While pinned on his back. With a knife to his throat. Yeah. I just looked at him, lying on my couch in his rumpled LSU t-shirt and hideous Lone Star belt buckle, ice packs on his face and Guinness in his hand, and thought:
Hot.
I am dating a Billy Bad Ass Dork.
So it should come as no surprise that the pool of eligible men here is heavily skewed toward Debate Team rather than Football Team. Not that I mind. I maintain that a band nerd from my high school is one of the best kissers I’ve ever kissed. He played the trumpet. Firm lips. Still, even so, it has taken me a month to admit I’m dating a guy who proudly wears a braided belt. He’s brilliant, witty, and handsome, but there’s also no doubt in my mind that somewhere in a basement in Texas there’s home video footage of him wielding a light saber a la George Michael on Arrested Development. And yes, I said Texas. Groan. He even wears cowboy boots.
My friend Kate, a self-proclaimed, card-carrying Geek, says I’m probably in over my head with this one. And she may be right. I mean it’s one thing to tell me about the Tolkien themes embedded in Zeppelin IV (swoon!), but it’s quite another to own a “movie accurate” Indiana Jones costume (yes, seriously). I almost had myself convinced that this kid was from a galaxy too far, far away when this happened:
Two nights ago, I got a 1:00 a.m. phone call from the back of an ambulance, where my guy found himself after being jumped on his way home from my apartment. By the time I got him back here, I barely recognized his face it was so broken and bruised. But when I referred to him “getting his ass kicked,” he was quick to correct me with a full account of what went down. Apparently, my uber-nerdy crush judo-kicked the shit out of his attacker (all the True Geeks know martial arts) and even used the heel of his cowboy boot to kick the scumbag in the back of the head. While pinned on his back. With a knife to his throat. Yeah. I just looked at him, lying on my couch in his rumpled LSU t-shirt and hideous Lone Star belt buckle, ice packs on his face and Guinness in his hand, and thought:
Hot.
I am dating a Billy Bad Ass Dork.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Charlie
In case there is anyone left in the free world who hasn't yet heard: I am aunt to the cutest kid in Christendom (Yeah, Christendom. I needed the alliteration.) And since I am regularly--rightfully--accused of hyperbole, I have included photos so you can see for yourself. My brother and his wife want four kids, but I honestly can't imagine another genetic cocktail with such a perfect, more cherubic outcome. Time will tell.
It's good actually, that Charlie is so freaking cute. I mean even if I do have kids one day, I figure my brother has this category in the bag. Which is great because growing up I was always the bratty, one-upping little sister. He was due his day. And since we're talking about it, I'm not shy about mentioning that I have no idea if I will procreate one day or even if I want to. It all seems so theoretical and not worth pondering sans a suitable life partner. Plus let's face it. I've spent the last ten years consumed with one thing only: me. This is not to say I'm self-centered (although I am), but that I have had the luxury of living on my own terms and doing all that annoyingly predictable Gen-Y self-discovery stuff. And as it turns out, I'm a pretty cool person.
Plus I'm a career girl. I'm like head-over-heels, can't-get-enough, totally in love with what I do. I simply can't think of anything more fascinating than contemplating cities and unraveling complex urban policy problems. I want to be on the front lines of this massive creative class takeover of the 21st century. And I am already. In the mix, that is. Which means I'd clearly be one of those horrible mothers who puts their kids in daycare and on a million prescription meds. Or ships them off to live with their Auntie Jill, a total natural, until they're too old for me to break. (Not a bad idea, actually.)
All that being said, you should see how Charlie levels me. I mean just totally depletes me of all ability to act cool, and in fact reduces me to one of those blubbering women I've always judged. Turns out "poopykins" and "buddah butt" are in my vocabulary. I actually coo! How embarrassing. But I could lay on the floor next to that little guy for hours just watching him figure out he has a tongue, and it's utterly, inexplicably, riveting. Who knew?
Monday, July 21, 2008
Is Brodie There?
When I was in college, and far less scrupulous about who I doled out my cell phone number to, my roommate and I invented The Brodie Game. We played The Brodie Game whenever one of us would miss a call from a non-programmed phone number and the Mystery Caller wouldn't leave a message. Rather than wrack our brains guessing who it was, we'd call from another cell phone and pray for an identity-revealing voicemail. If the Mystery Caller happened to answer, our default cover was to ask for Brodie. The point being that the name "Brodie" is rare enough to ensure a "wrong number" exit strategy. (Brodie also happened to be this adorable Freshman kid who practically lived in our dorm sophomore year and was subject to/of many of our antics.)
So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:
A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:
202-257-2340
First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.
So, not to wax too nostalgic (or reveal just how much time I had on my hands in college), but I've decided to introduce the 10th Anniversary Edition of The Brodie Game based on recent events:
A week or so ago, I got a Mystery Text (MT) from someone who apparently knows me (the text referred to me by name) but is not programmed into my phone. My response (and request for the MT's identity) went unanswered. So I asked my co-worker to call the number and, frustratingly, his voicemail message was, "Hey, it's me. Leave a message." Blast! So she hung up, but now this person is randomly text messaging her too! So I've decided that it's only appropriate, in the world of non-conspicuous, Internet oversharing that we all live in, to put this guy on blast:
202-257-2340
First person to come up with his identity gets a cup of Mr. Yogato on me.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Going Back to the Well
People thought it was funny when I declared, “clearing the bullpen” to be one of my 2008 New Year’s resolutions (and no, not just because I correctly used a sports metaphor). The thing is, there were a handful of guys I’d been cycling through for a while—nine years in one case—and I was sick of warming them up over and over again. Sometimes you just have to make room for new ones. Sort of like my once-per-year closet purge.
Anyway, it’s been a bit of a process, but I’ve successfully eliminated men in three states. I’ve even managed to clear out the nice guys—you know, the ones you never officially rule out because you tell yourself that one day “nice” may matter a lot more than it does now and perhaps even surpass “chemistry” on the must-have list. (By the way, I think this entire category has been maintained for my mother’s sake.) And lastly, I’ve also found the guts to quit torturing myself and cut ties with The Nine Year Guy, whom I’ve remained inexplicably hopeful about despite no real evidence of a workable future together. Blah blah, this blog isn’t for sob stories. Bottom line: I’ve been making progress.
The thing is, it didn’t dawn on me until this morning, when I was rehashing last night over brunch, that I’ve actually accomplished my goal. Mara was commenting on my dance floor makeout session with Bill, which in and of itself was a non-event (Nate used to regularly call the over/under). It had been a while though—a year maybe?—and after giving it no more than 30 seconds of commentary, I had a light bulb moment: the bullpen! The only time Bill and I ever make out is when both of us are unattached and uninspired. In short, when our bullpens are mutually clear. It’s an odd sort of circumstantial star alignment thing, when you think about it. But more importantly, it’s a clear indication that I’m kicking off the summer with a clean slate.
Coincidentally, I ran into Bill on my way home. He too had just finished rehashing our spectacle (and thankfully ensuring the photos don’t end up on Facebook), so I proposed my theory. He added in the very obvious alcohol variable but totally agreed with me, commenting, “It’s kind of like going back to the well.” I laughed, said something about catching up with him later, and continued walking. I think it’s going to be a good summer.
Anyway, it’s been a bit of a process, but I’ve successfully eliminated men in three states. I’ve even managed to clear out the nice guys—you know, the ones you never officially rule out because you tell yourself that one day “nice” may matter a lot more than it does now and perhaps even surpass “chemistry” on the must-have list. (By the way, I think this entire category has been maintained for my mother’s sake.) And lastly, I’ve also found the guts to quit torturing myself and cut ties with The Nine Year Guy, whom I’ve remained inexplicably hopeful about despite no real evidence of a workable future together. Blah blah, this blog isn’t for sob stories. Bottom line: I’ve been making progress.
The thing is, it didn’t dawn on me until this morning, when I was rehashing last night over brunch, that I’ve actually accomplished my goal. Mara was commenting on my dance floor makeout session with Bill, which in and of itself was a non-event (Nate used to regularly call the over/under). It had been a while though—a year maybe?—and after giving it no more than 30 seconds of commentary, I had a light bulb moment: the bullpen! The only time Bill and I ever make out is when both of us are unattached and uninspired. In short, when our bullpens are mutually clear. It’s an odd sort of circumstantial star alignment thing, when you think about it. But more importantly, it’s a clear indication that I’m kicking off the summer with a clean slate.
Coincidentally, I ran into Bill on my way home. He too had just finished rehashing our spectacle (and thankfully ensuring the photos don’t end up on Facebook), so I proposed my theory. He added in the very obvious alcohol variable but totally agreed with me, commenting, “It’s kind of like going back to the well.” I laughed, said something about catching up with him later, and continued walking. I think it’s going to be a good summer.
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