Tuesday, November 26, 2002




QUOTES FROM THE CROWD

Since I'm too tired and overworked to write anything of my own today, I've decided to quote some of my nearest and dearest— a kind of behind the scenes look at Breakup Babe, if you will.



On Commitmentphobic Men

Here's my quote for the day: "Families are Where the Strong People Go".

GalPal #1, mother of twins



On the Doctor

I think you should keep a close eye on your feelings in this one: people who seem to fit a perfect package sometimes can lead one to close ones eyes to problems. Just because he is tall and Jewish and has lots of money means nothing— Loser had all that except for the tall part. Do not be seduced by status. Doctor S. may be a great guy, but he's going to have to convince you by showing you he 's great, you're going to demand nothing less.

Galpal #2



Why put yourself through the ringer for an emotionally inaccessible, overworked, non-outdoorsy guy? Remember, relationships don't have to be hard.

L'il Sis, happily married, and always right



I wish you could have seen the look on your face when he started yelling and banging the table. Priceless, as they say.

F., on the doctor's drunken antics at the karaoke bar



On Loser

Loser can choke on his hot dog. Alone. In the single residency hotel.

The Propgandist, in response to my weepy post about how Loser loved hot dogs.



On Breakup Babe

If Rob Lowe plays "J" in the pilot run of HBO's "Breakup Babe in the City," I'd request he grow his hair and feather it, a la "St. Elmo's Fire." He's no longer with NBC's "The West Wing," y'know, and I presume he's looking for work.

J. (Who, besides requesting that Rob Lowe play him, has also requested a more exciting pseudonym)



"Mountain Man" evokes an image of a very smelly, toothless old miner who spits tobacco juice on his mangy, but loyal dog.

J. (On finding a better acronym for the cute boy currently known here as "Mountain Man.")













Saturday, November 23, 2002

Late last night, after the doctor left, after our fun yet anticlimactic, flirty yet frustrating, date was over, I found myself in the bathroom thumbing through "The Onion's Finest News Reporting." I then stumbled across the brilliant article by "Christopher Walken" about how he loves hot dogs.



"I would like to end by emphasizing once again that I really like to eat hot dogs. If any of you people disagree, I loathe you. I despise you. Not only that, but I also despise all your loved ones. I want to see them torn to pieces by wild dogs. If I ever meet you in person, I'll smash your brains in with a fucking bat. Then we'll see who doesn't like hot dogs."



It made me laugh and took my mind off the stupid, beautiful doctor (more on him SOON) but it did something else too. It made me think of Loser. Loser loved hot dogs more than life itself. I used to cook him fabulous vegetarian feasts but I knew that deep down, all he wanted was a hot dog. We used to laugh about it.



And I had a sudden impulse. Which was pure, I think, and free of all ulterior motives except generosity. I thought, “I want to photocopy this and send it to him. It’ll make him laugh.”



Then I recoiled from my own thought. What the hell?



If I sent it to him, he’d know it was from me. It would be a gesture of forgiveness. Of friendship. Of love, even. Because you’d have to love someone a lot to forgive them for the kinds of things he did.



And if I made that kind of gesture, how would he react? How would I want him to react? A whole new world of anxiety spread before me. More complicated than the icy and definitive distance I’ve put between us. And I don’t need that anxiety. I don't want his friendship, do I? I don't want a reconciliation, do I? I don’t think I could even go back to calling him by his real name.



At times, though, I feel sorry for him. He’s so weak and sad. He betrayed someone he utterly adored, and then didn’t know how to make it right. And he has no friends. No family to love or to love him, although that's his own fault for pushing them away. It’s possible he has a girlfriend. But still. He’s hurting, I’m sure. And sometimes I’m glad about that. And other times it makes me cry. And cry.



I first realized something was up the other day in Yoga class. At the end of class, we did a little prayer for the "happiness of all living beings." And a wish for Loser’s happiness came to me unbidden. I stifled it, of course. Quickly. But the idea hung there in my mind like a question mark.



And then the Christopher Walken article. Something is changing. Is it because I’m happy (thank youuu Celexa!) and moving on? Having a swingin' time with every bachelor in Seattle? Moving forward with my writing and a creative energy that I’ve never had before?



Whatever it is, I’m not sure what I think of it. Anger was more comfortable.







Thursday, November 21, 2002




Must

not

get

hopes

up

BUT.



Am infatuated with (incoherent mumbling here).



WHO? The one who was banned for bad behavior??



Yes, OK, him. And I already explained about the bad behavior and how he apologized!



HMM. The one who talks about himself all the time, hardly asks you any questions about yourself, and yet while talking about himself constantly has revealed nary a personal detail? Who is, in other words, as slippery as a banana peel?



Um, yes?



The doctor. You’re infatuated with the f***ing doctor.



(Incoherent mumbling here.)



So what about the NICE boys that like you? The ones who move things along at a normal pace and tell you they’re going to call you, and then do, and don’t need seven shots of Jim Beam to put their arm around you? For example, MEMPHIS BOY, have you already forgotten about him! Poor MB, who had to jet off to Memphis for a month for family reasons and writes you longing e-mails asking you to come visit?



Um…



And that nice, sexy Mountain Man! Who let you hide on his shoulder during “The Ring” and looks at you with rapt attention when you talk and who is a lover of the outdoors and who, if you play your cards right, will take you on great adventures? I mean the doctor is f***ing lazy. He told you as much.



Um...



So why? Why do you need to go get hung up on him?



He’s uh… glamorous?



Uh-huh.



He’s uh…dazzling?



Uh-huh.



He’s, uh… a tall, dark, handsome Jewish doctor who went to Yale?



Well I’m glad to know it’s not for superficial reasons, at least!



Hey, lay off will you?! I mean this is all biological anyway! It’s not my fault the doctor whips me into a frenzy! I’m just trying to find the best-looking, smartest mate with the highest earning potential! But it’s not me who’s trying. It’s my genes! Plus, he seems…deep.



Deep?



Beneath that slippery surface, there’s a lot going on. He’s creative and passionate and caring. I think.



OK, just keep telling yourself that. I guess your l'il date must have gone well on Saturday, then?



Um, yeah.



So’d you get any?



What?? You know I don’t do that anymore! But he did put his arm around me and hold my hand.



Did he kiss you?



No he didn’t really kiss me. He sort of put his lips everywhere, though. Kinda like halfway between kissing and smelling.



Ah.



But it was sexy!



Uh-huh. So what’d you do on your l'il date?



We went to dinner and karaoke. And I wore a slinky dress and had just gotten my hair cut and looked really good. In fact, I’ll probably never look better again. And when I sang “The Rose,” I saw it in his face. That was when he really started to like me.



Oh ho ho. So you think he likes you?



Well, I don’t know. Maybe.



Did he say something about when you’d go out again? In another MONTH? A YEAR maybe?



No, but…



So you’re going to play hard to get, right?



I WAS going to, but…



No, you didn’t. Did you?



Um...



You asked him out? Already? You couldn’t have waited at least a week?



(Incoherent mumbling here.)



And, what did he say?



He said yes!



Oh shit. When are you going out?



Tomorrow!



Christ, girl. You're in trouble now.



Yeah, I know. And I have absolutely NOTHING to wear!



Thursday, November 14, 2002

So Dr. S. came roaring back, malheureusement.



Would-be-ice-princess that I am, I said NO to his invitation last week, which sent him into a frenzy of friendliness and yet another invitation (note to self: say no to attractive men more often).



Since I am not really an ice princess, and since he is, after all, my destiny, I decided to give the doctor another chance. BUT. Not without telling him how I felt about his flaky sheninagans. And after that, I was fully prepared never to hear from his royal badass-ness again.



But then he came back and apologized for aforementioned behavior, said he was glad I'd said something, and that he would avoid such behavior in the future.



Huh.



So we’re going out this weekend. In the two months we’ve been “dating,” we have yet to go out on a weekend night. It will be interesting to see how the doctor comports himself under the spell of alchohol and a Saturday night. Though I don't doubt his manliness, I have the feeling this guy isn’t making a move until he’s really into it. Like, once we kiss, if we kiss, it’s for real. And I can respect that, even though personally, of course, I will kiss just about anyone.



But it's just as well, because if he does bust a move, it will only make things complicated with Memphis Boy, with whom I have the most lovely relationship a ce moment. Every time we’re together, I end up relaxed and blissed out. And this is without s*x, and despite the fact that I’m constantly racking my brain for what could be wrong/doomed about our liaison.



Two thoughts, however, clouded my blissed out state last night, after MB and I had spent an entire day together. The first, entirely unwelcome, thought.



He's not Loser.



No, he's f***ing not, and that's a good thing, but... feeling euphoric made me flash back to other times I'd felt euphoric. Namely: pre-relationship days, when Loser and I were still just "friends," a tight, self-contained unit, all sparkle and sexual tension. How happy that made me.



So....yeah.



And the other, truly evil thought.



I'd rather invite the doctor to my holiday party.



Now don't get me wrong— I'm not inviting any boy to my work holiday party. I'm still a free agent, after all. And who knows what, uh, poorly-dressed, overweight computer geeks might be there at the work holiday party to sweep me off my feet. But I could, in theory, invite a boy, of course, and both MB and Dr. S. are candidates, with MB being a much more likely AND deserving candidate. After all, he actually likes me! And I actually like him! And we're actually dating!



But all I could think of was the doctor's arm-candy potential. The thought of having my coworkers see him and think "Wow, she's really done well for herself since Loser!" Memphis Boy is cute and all, and I adore him, but...a tall, dark, handsome doctor...now that would impress people.



And I am the shallowest person on the fact of the planet.



Monday, November 11, 2002

So it turns out Memphis Boy (MB) is a man after all and not a eunuch as previously supposed!



Not that I’ve seen the “hard” evidence mind you. Not yet. But he’s acting a little more manly, if you get my drift.



Not as manly, as say, the L’il Rockclimbing Spy (LRS), who got down in more ways than one, with little or no prompting, and who quite frequently had to be restrained.



We girls are used to this. I would venture to say that a wild (over)enthusiasm about s*x is the norm among boys in their 20s and 30s (EXCEPT those who are on lifetime prescriptions of anti-depressants, and who wear tighty-whities, who shall remain nameless).



But, you know, there’s something to be said for this moving slow business. It can be a real turn-on— that is, if you can accept the idea that if a boy walks into your apartment and doesn’t immediately try to rip your clothes off (and I mean, what kind of a turn-on is that, really?) it doesn’t mean you’re not sexy.



There’s something to be said for dating for a month and still barely reaching second base. ‘Cause when you do, well…it’s just better. I mean, a home run is exciting, but how much more exciting is hit to hit the winning home run at the end of the game with the bases loaded?



(Note to self: come up with something to replace tired baseball metaphor).

Thursday, November 7, 2002

So, thanks to the impassioned advice of my pal, The Propagandist, I ripped up that Loser birthday card – the one that called me his beautiful f***ing darling, the one he wrote after he cheated on me – and threw it away.



And it felt…sad.



I immediately wondered “what have I done?” and wanted to gather up those tiny pieces and tape them back together. I hope they emptied my trash at work last night so I don’t have to sit there with those fragments haunting me.



[ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!]



And now, for the latest updates. In a stunning display of cluelessness, Dr. S., now known as MFHPWB (for Mr. Full of Himself Pedriatician Weeny Boy), e-mailed yesterday (a WEDNESDAY) to ask me out for FRIDAY night (as if I wouldn’t have plans, as if I’m sitting around waiting for his weeny-boy self to ask me out), after ignoring TWO of my invitations last week. Like, hello? Even friends respond to invitations yay or nay.



Sigh. The panel of cynical galpals says to respond, simply, "No thank you." But, ice princess though I long to be, this goes so against the grain for me. So I am pondering.



Meanwhile, despite GalPal #2's’ “blah” assessment, Memphis Boy is growing on me. In more ways than one. Heh heh.



Oh, jus' joshin'!



But he's smart and cute and nice and a real li'l thinker. And at least he kisses me now. That’s all I really want out of life, anyway. Kissing is so much better than all that other crap.



I do have to, uh, control myself a li’l bit with him, but a li’l self-control never hurt anyone, right? Ah, the thirties. Gotta love 'em.

Sunday, November 3, 2002




NEWS BRIEFS



The Doctor is History

My new policy: one strike and you’re out. El doctor completely blew me off this week in a most immature manner. After he asked ME out, I responded with two *fun* suggestions. Did I get a reponse? NO! The evenings in question came and went without a peep from Mr.-Full-of-Himself “It’s all about saving lives” Pediatrician-Weeny-Boy (MFHPWB).



Memphis Boy Deemed “Blah”

Poor, innocent MB got the thumbs-down from GalPal #2 the other night, when she deemed him “a bit blah.” Combined with his vow of chastity, things ain’t lookin’ so good for MB. But I have a soft spot for this sweet boy and his southern drawl, so I think we’ll have a l’il “talk.”



Sexy Boy Sees the Light

It was my girl scout costume that did it. Two months after I was first overcome with lust for SB; one month after I confessed my (obvious) crush, to which he responded, in the most lukewarm manner, with an offer of casual s*x; SB finally saw me in all my revved-up glory.



The best he could come up with was more offers of casual s*x, alas, but at least this time he did it with great gusto and many innuendo-laced compliments. Then, of course, my kiss-deprived self dreamed about kissing him, and it was so...mmmmm. Now if only SB could show just a little motivation in pursuing me…



L’il Rockclimbing Spy Relapse Avoided

In my kiss-deprived state, I almost called the LRS on Halloween. Thanks to quick work from GalPal #2, who convinced me this was stupid, the crisis was averted.



Loser Still a Loser

MB asked me the other night if I “still love” Loser. "No," I said. The next night I found the birthday card Loser had written me in May. “Throw it away,” I thought. “Don’t read it.” I read it. Big mistake. “Rip it into shreds and throw it away,” I thought, as I sat there, alone in my office and crying. But I couldn’t. I couldn't rip it up or throw it away.