Today Was a Pathetic Day



Saw Indie Rock Dad out running and missed him so much I then had to instant message him, which of course did not go well. He was all like oh yeah, I'm so happy, things are so great, the kid mentions you once in a while, maybe we should get together in like six months?



Hey, wait a minute - I'm happy too you freak with high cheekbones! I just forgot about it when I saw you, and when you seemed se freaking OVER me, unlike two months ago when you were practically begging to hang out with me!



Can you say P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C?



I keep putting off the sweetest boy ever, who e-mails me, asks me out, likes me sooo much, is so available, because I'm interested in people who DON'T LIKE ME. Can you say P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C?



Never mind the other thing, I was going to tell you about; it's too P-A-T-H-E-T-I-C!



Oh and things will get better tomorrow when me and Sexy-Blue-Eyed-Boy -- who gets to keep his acronym, and despite not being included in the Year in Review only because I like him so much BETTER than all those noncommittal ******** and I go to the karaoke superstore! Oh, and the best part of my PATHETIC day was getting drunk with him.



See, good things happen when you don't sleep with people.



Your PATHETIC friend, Breakup Babe, who will hopefully be not so PATHETIC tomorrow.



p.s. Bye Mom, I miss you, things weren't so PATHETIC when you were here.

You know, the problem with the love drug – like any drug -- is that once you get a little taste, you just want more.



Now I did my time in rehab in October and I’ll admit – it wasn’t pretty. But these last couple months, I’ve been clean and sober, and more creative than I’ve ever been in my life. When I fall into bed at night, I think “How nice to be alone.” Or, “How would I ever have time for a boyfriend?”



Yeah, I know, the lust thing has been creeping up on me. But that’s still under control for the moment. The Magic Wand lives up to its name.



But it’s the affection thing that gets me. That’s the addictive part of the love drug. Once I get a little taste of that I’m like a dog begging to be let in. My mind gets addled. I replay things over and over in my head. Was it really affection? Or was it lust disguised as affection? What did it mean? Anything? And most importantly, how can I get more?



It was a bad idea to fall off the wagon, like that, I know it. I can get back on it, if I have to. It’s a whole lot safer up there anyway, don’t you think?



Especially with my taste in men.

A special fan of mine asked if I would do a Breakup Babe Year in Review-type deal to add even more merriment to your holiday season.



And since I would do almost anything for my fans, including sleep with them (read on and see if you can figure out upon whom I bestowed that honor!) - I agreed.



We'll start with a general recap of the year in men, and maybe I'll do a few more of these before the year is over, 'cause God knows I won't be doing much else.



After this I will be offline (gasp!) for four days but I'll be thinking of you all.



And here we go! In chronological order.



Silent But Deadly Boy (January)

Pro: supremely well-endowed

Con: noncommittal



Sexy Boy (January)

Pro: smart, articulate, good kisser, good friend

Con: talks too much, noncommittal



The Doctor (January)

Pro: gorgeous, Ivy-league educated, karaoke devotee

Con: obnoxious, self-centered, noncommittal



Pierced Political Boy (February-March)

Pro: hot, smart, passionate, politically engaged

Con: anger management issues, noncommittal



Mr. Millionaire Boy (March)

Pro: owned condos in Whistler

Con: terminally annoying



Cute Train Boy (April-May)

Pro: charming, laid back

Con: a self-proclaimed "recluse," noncommittal



Alt-Country Boy (May)

Pro: sexy, flirtatious, sweet

Con: noncommital doesn't even describe it



Charming but Goofy Lawyer Boy (June)

Pro: fun, funny, not afraid of committment

Con: bad kisser



Indie Rock Dad (June - September)

Pro: Knife-edged cheekbones, outdoorsy, used the "L" word

Con: crazy, noncommittal (despite using the "L" word)



Friendster Boy (November - now)

Pro: mature, hip, not afraid of committment

Con: no chemistry



Melancholy Hipster Boy (November - now)

Pro: heartbreaking smile, friendly, Leo

Con: stuck, self-absorbed, noncommittal



Stud Athlete Software Boy (last week)

Pro: the current only hope for the future of the Breakup Babe line

Con: I don't know, I've only met him once, but if I had to guess, noncommittal



Sexy Boy (last night)

See above

All right folks, it’s been a little while. And you know how I can tell this?



As a work event, our group went to see Lord of the Rings yesterday (yes, there are benefits to working at the largest software company in the world) and despite my halfhearted objection to all that violence, I noticed something a little funny going on.



I started getting a little hot and bothered by all those long, hard, flaming, uh, swords and stuff.



You know things are dire when a flaming sword turns you on.



And you know when things are dire you tend to make bad choices.



Unfortunately, there are no good choices to be made out there right now unless Stud Athlete Software Boy (SASB) asks me out again after the holidays (can you believe I have to wait that long?), or if Sexy Boy (SB) decides he might want to experiment with more than a New Year's fling.



Melancholy Hipster Boy continues to be cute but emotionally unavailable, despite the fact that he constantly invites me over for spaghetti. From what I can tell his sword is long, but a little limp at this time.



And Friendster Boy - the best prospect of them all - well, I'm just not attracted to him, though I've tried, believe me, I've tried. And his sword may be very nice for all I know, I’m just not tempted to pull it out of its sheath.



So as we plunge the holidays, I have this wish for all of you: I hope you are getting more flaming sword action than me. And if you are - enjoy it please! But don't forget about those less fortunate than you.

So, yesterday I indulged myself and bought a very cute alpaca hat. After all, I am wearing hats even more than usual now, due to my bad 80s haircut. (And no, Lotus, I haven't started wearing my retainer or leg warmers again - although I did have some hip purple sparkly ones back in the day!)



This hat was 40 bucks, which is way too expensive for a hat -- especially because I'll probably lose it. Not to mention, it's from Peru, which means that it would have cost me, oh, $5-$10 if I bought it in Peru - maybe even less!



But, after beating myself up over this purchase, I decided to look at it this way instead: A plane ticket to Peru would probably cost about $800. So really, I've actually saved myself at least $760 on this hat (and really, more, if you count all the the lodging and traveling costs I would have to pay in Peru!)



Now that's a pretty substantial savings, if I do say so myself.

So. Let’s see. What can I tell you?



Oh yes! I mentioned last time, with a world-weary sigh and a cynical roll of the eyes, yet another blind date I was about to embark on.



But this boy, people, was all he was cracked up to be. Hot, smart, witty, successful.



It was only a lunch date, so there was no XXX action (not that I do that kind of thing on the first date – what do you take me for anyway?), but of all the myriad men I’ve met lately he’s about the only one who could get my heart rate up above 60.



Well, we all know Melancholy Hipster Boy had me going for a while, with that hand up the pants leg maneuver, and that dashing, playful grin.



And I have to admit, even though he’s a post breakup basket case, it’s still a thrill for me that he likes me (as much as a post breakup basket case can.)That he calls me up and e-mails me and invites me over to dinner. And I’m actually being patient. Not worrying. Not caring. Not calling him. Just letting him find his own way, while I search for more promising prospects elsewhere.



Tres well adjusted, don’t you think?



But, aside from MHB, who is beautiful but broken, in that sea of setups out there is not a man who has gotten me excited til now. (Therein lies my problem, I’m sure, that excitement is the number one thing I look for but hey – if it weren’t for my adrenalin addiction, there would be no blog, OK?)



Anyway, Stud Athlete Software Boy, as we’ll call him (I apologize, but the well is running dry on these acronyms), is off in Europe on business and then back to Spokane for the holidays so no chance for any XXX action – I mean, good conversation, any time soon. But let’s hope for a little post-holiday doings, shall we?



Meanwhile, Sexy Boy has suggested more than once that we reprise our New Year’s fling of last year. I am leaning towards it, but the problem is I actually like him. Again. Or rather, still. Even after all the annoyances of last year. But his mind is elsewhere. Not sure where, exactly, but not on me. Except, maybe when he thinks about New Year’s Eve.



Finally, I am touched that you are all so certain of the blockbuster potential of my little book! There are a few problems, though. The only way I got that draft done was to go to bed early every single night and get up early every morning, which is not very conducive to an XXX social life. I can live with that in order to get the next draft done, but can you?



Not to mention, I now have to practice keyboards in the evening to prepare for my second career as token sexy girl in my latest favorite band.



But once I’m in a band I’ll have to stay up late, and then, of course, there are all those cute groupies I’ll be meeting, so it will be hard to get my writing done. But the rock star thing is a practical alternative if the bestselling author thing doesn’t work out, don’t you think?



This is all probably moot anyway, because I just got a haircut that makes me look like I did in 1982. We’re talking big, heavy bangs that fluff up like a helmet around my head. So maybe the boys will just leave me alone for a while.

Well, so far, all I want to do in December, in this order, is swaddle myself in warm but unflattering sweaters, sleep, and read bestsellers.



Note that these urges do not include s*x or exercise. Or buying gifts, or continuing to work on the fluffy little book I wrote in November.



Oh yes, did I mention I wrote a book in November? Oui. Breakup Babe, the novel, if you will. Perhaps that’s why I’m feeling so lethargic this month. Anyway, all your favorite characters are there: The Doctor (remember him?), Silent But Deadly Boy, the L’il Rocklimbing Spy. And ME!



You too - O Gentle Readers – you’re in the book too! Because what would a novel about blogging be without the fellow bloggers who function like a Greek chorus for my tragicomic dating life. “Stay away from that one!” you warn. “Ohhh, go for that one even though he’s only 19!” you exclaim, trying to live vicariously through me (don’t tell me you don’t!). “BB, you’re brilliant! Beautiful!” you cry, stoking my ever-needy ego.



But back to the subject at hand. December. I have to say that despite my (relative) lack of interest in dating, I have been the victim of one set-up after another this month. Though I’ve stuffed that biological clock under my pillow, my friends must hear it ticking loud and clear – TICK TOCK! – and the sound, apparently, is torturing them, because they won’t let me alone.



“Ohh BB, you must meet Mergatroid! He is catatonic and lost all his limbs in a plane crash and is really nothing more than a head on a platter but I think you’d have a lot in common!” Etc.



So far they’ve come up with Melancholy Hipster Boy, who, yes, I continue to hang out with because of his good cheekbones, listening to tales of woe about his ex-girlfriend and his career crisis.



Then there was another set up - Morose Literary Boy -- who impressed me by asking me out to dinner promptly after our first meeting, then unimpressed me by canceling because he had a “head cold.” As if I’m gonna wait around for his a*s.



And there will be yet another one tomorrow. A setup from the boytoy of GalPal #1 – supposedly “good-looking, very funny, and a stud athlete.” Yeah right.



I suppose I shouldn’t complain. When I’m in the nursing home, old and alone, no doubt I’ll be torturing my companions with tales of my wild youth. All the upstanding young men who wanted to date me, and all the messed up men I turned them down for.



So just let me say I am grateful to all my friends who are setting me up left and right!



Even if I would rather be in bed with a bestseller, wearing a warm but unflattering sweater.

I am really and truly f*cked for eternity.



Are you a nice boy? Happy in your life? Well-adusted? Securely employed? Then don’t waste your time with me.



However, are you one of the following?

• Obsessed with your ex-girlfriend?
  
  
• In serious need of antidepressants?
  
  
• Stuck in a career crisis?
  
  
• Possessed of stunning cheekbones or bedroom eyes?
  
  
• Otherwise emotionally unavailable (i.e. married, in a serious relationship, in a mental institution)?
  
  

Then apply within for a position as one of UnBoyfriends ™! You’ll be one of many, but why should you care? You can’t commit anyway.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not a monster. I can be very tenderhearted and caring, when not mocking the size of my ex’s male members online.



That’s why I do feel a twinge of regret when exes stumble onto this site? Not only because they now get to follow every twist and turn of my love life (if they’re obsessive compulsive, as they often are), but because it’s not nice to be publicly savaged.



I myself would probably hide under my bed indefinitely if I read equivalent comments about myself (Dear exes, if you start a blog, please don’t tell me. No one else tell me about it either).



Anyway, the other night after receiving e-mail from the big L (a surprisingly non-angry, and at at times, loving note, but more on that some other time), I had a dream that I was a cold-blooded murderer who turned myself in because I knew I was a danger to society. In other words, I dreamed I was a monster.



The question is – am I? Do I need to stop all this boy bashing? I know you get endless hours of entertainment from it, but be honest with me – it’s not really nice is it? Yeah, yeah, I know they deserve it. But what about that "two wrongs don't make a right" thing?



God, listen to me! Church Lady here! Boooooooooring.



All right, then, the news you’ve all been waiting for. *Boy News!* *Boy News*



Ummm.



I’m tired of boys.



Oh wait, that’s not what you want to hear, is it?



God, you people are such vultures. Nice ones, of course.



OK, let’s see. Went on yet another blind lunch date yesterday. Despite the guy being big, burly, and bearded – I usually go for the quicksilvery, medium-build, dark-haired ones - I was quasi-attracted to him and his literary ways.



He gets bonus points for sending me an e-mail immediately after lunch asking me out for Friday night. Yay, straightforward dating behavior! Had to turn him down, naturally, but we’re now going out on Monday night. I’d rather go to bed early with a glass of red wine, but c’est la vie.



In other non-news, Melancholy Hipster Boy and I are cat-and-mousing, an empty, though at times, entertaining pastime when one is bored at work.



Frienster Boy and I are being very friendly – though not quite to the level of Friends Plus – but I don’t doubt that he might stop being quite so friendly with me if I don’t do some plussing soon. He’s throwing a gigantic party this Saturday, which will no doubt be distracting if not truly entertaining.



Note to self: Avoid monster-like behavior of early spring when I ditched one boy for another at Boy #1s birthday party, and ended up with neither one of them plus eternal guilt.

Egads. Ex-boyfriends are finding this site in droves.



At least they have the courtesy not to air our dirty laundry in the comments section, unlike one ex-boyfriend who shall remain nameless. (Only a few of you were lucky enough to see that post before I yanked it off the site).



Anyway, I shall perservere. I have been quite circumspect lately, in my latest dating phase, not to mention the existence of ye olde blog to my potential suitors. They'll probably all find it anyway, but at least the drama will be delayed for a while.



Not that I don't like drama. Why else would I still be in the arena with such an ineligible cutie-pie like Melancholy Hipster Boy?



And why else would I have told my best prospect, Friendster Boy, that I just want to be friends? (And, as A.B. suggested, could someone please start a site called Boyfriendster?)



All right. My brain is clearly dead. Too much novel writing, turkey and pecan-pie eating in the month of November and not enough s*x.



Not that I care, of course. Because I live only for my Art now. But still.

Dating is such a freaking pain in the a*s.



First there are the ever-present ex-boyfriends who one makes the mistake of sending friendly e-mails to occasionally, only to receive equally friendly e-mails back that sting like a wasp. (“I’m doing well too! Oh, you’re not ready to hang out yet? No hurry!" In other words, I am sooooo fine without you!”)



Then there are the great boys who like you (Friendster Boy) and you just can’t whip up an attraction for. The ones who think you’re funny and cool and smart – cute even! -- and who would probably make good husbands. I didn’t want to do it but I had to pull out the “Let’s Be Friends” line, only I swore that with time, I might see the light, and I'm hoping I still might.



Next there are the guys who get your pulse going a little, but these are invariably the emotionally unavailable guys. Melancholy Hipster Boy, for example, who sends you lots of friendly emails and makes it obvious that he wants to hang out with you but then when you do hoof it over to his apartment at 9 pm for pecan pie (when you really should be in bed so you can get up early to finish that ridiculous novel), and spends the whole time talking about himself. Like “Helloooo! I am here! Do you notice me?”



It is just discouraging sometimes, people. And I don’t have time for it. Between trying to become a bestselling novelist and a rock star, not to mention holding down a full-time job, I don't have much patience for this stuff anymore.



I’m off to California for the next few days, so there will be a much-needed break from it all. I’m worried, though, that after spending five days in suburbs, I might dissolve into a shapeless blob; please pray for me.

OK. I’ve realized what my biggest weakness is when it comes to men. Cheekbones.



This would explain my last two big mistakes. Loser. Indie Rock Dad. I overlooked all their issues, and why? Because of their exquisite cheekbones.



See, we have no cheekbones in my family. We are all puffy cheeks and weird multiple chins. So apparently I am programmed to value high cheekbones in a mate above all other qualities, including mental health and emotional availability.



This hitherto unearthed obsession with cheekbones would also explain my current attraction (downgraded from megacrush) to Melancholy Hipster Boy.



MHB is, in a word, adorable. But also, alas, emotionally unavailable. (Please remind me of this statement in a month when I declare my undying love for him.)



Now since none of my friends have met him, his adorableness cannot be confirmed. He may well be, for all I know, truly obnoxious and obsequious, but -- because of those cheekbones glinting in the starlight -- that farm-fresh blonde hair and periwinkle blue eyes (not a look I usually go for, mind you), not to mention that cute little engineers cap he had on last night -- I cannot see it. I see adorableness.



But at least I was not so blinded by adorableness as to miss his emotional unavailability. Though he touched and flirted with me all night long, it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. Inside his own head. Sucked up by his grief towards the woman who dumped him and left him for some other guy a few months ago. And with trying to fix other stuff in his life that’s broken.



MHB is, in a word, depressed. And while I know I cheered him up by dragging him to a karaoke bar, where he sang and laughed into the small hours of the evening, I also know he’s not what I need.



I mean, I’m actually happy at the moment. And I’ve mostly been made unhappy by adorable, high-cheekboned, depressed men.



So guess who I should not fall in love with? Guess who I will try (perhaps unsuccessfully) to stay away from? Guess who I will try to actually make it work with? Who is actually happy and into me, though he does not have high cheekbones?



Well just stay tuned Breakup Babies, and find out.

OK, OK I need to get you all caught up. So much is happening here in BB Land, but I’ve been buried in that silly, sprawling confection of a “novel” that I’m writing for NaNoRiMo that I haven’t had time...



So, the bullet points:

• I just "happened" to leave my card on Melancholy Hipster Boy’s kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
• MHB just "happened" to call.
  
  
  
  
• I have been thinking nonstop about MHB ever since I met him.
  
  
  
  
• This is not necessarily a good thing. Means I will overlook mental illness, sociopathic tendencies, and host of other BRIGHT RED flags for the sake of lightning, thunderbolts etc
  
  
  
  
• MHB and I are going out tonight.
  
  
  
  
• Meanwhile, I smooched Friendster Boy.
  
  
  
  
• Friendster Boy is a catch. Smart, funny, laid back, sporty, outdoorsy, together, attractive. And FB likes BB.
  
  
  
  
• Then why isn’t BB crushed out on FB? Because it would be too sensible that’s why.
  
  
  
  
• But she is going to give it a chance. BB is not going to let her inner 5-year old run the show this time
  
  
  
  
• BB has told FB she wants to take things “slow” and that she is dating others
  
  
  
  
• Meanwhile, everyone and their mother is trying to set BB up with their friends
  
  
  
  
• Oh, and there’s the French guy I picked up in the Bldg 44 cafeteria.
  
  
  
  
• Have I missed anything? Probably.
  
  
  
  
• Oh yeah. The Backcountry Ski God appears to not care about my existence. Hmmph.
  
  
  
  Now what should I wear tonight?

Wait, wait, wait. Did I say I fell in love yesterday? Around 3 p.m.?



Well. It happened again at 10 p.m. I fell. In love. Again.



What are the odds now, really? I mean, twice in week, OK. Twice in one day? That hasn’t happened since…junior high!



This boy – let’s call him Melancholy Hipster Boy – had a big, flashing, white grin (when he wasn’t looking melancholy over some girl who recently broke his heart. WHATever.).



He was flirty and funny (when he wasn’t looking sadly into his glass of wine. WHATever.).



He had the cleanest, most stylish apartment of any male I’ve ever met (and yes, he’s straight.).



And, like me, and unlike Backcountry Ski God, this one talks a mile a minute (when not gazing forlornly off into the distance. WHATever.).



Also, he is not shy. Pas de tout. MHB lost no chance to touch me when he had the opportunity, including slipping his hand under my pants leg, putting his hand around my calf, and asking – while looking straight into my eyes -- “Do these boots go all the way up to your thighs?”



But will he call me? That is the question. He may be too busy bemoaning his poor, hip, broken heart. (I, personellement, have no time for those stupid things anymore, now that I seem to have BURST, all of a sudden, out of my cave.) Or he may not like me at all, fondling aside.



Fern Boy, the long-lost friend who introduced us, stayed mum on the topic of what MHB may have said about me during my numerous bathroom breaks at the Hopvine last night. For my part, when MHB wandered off, I practically drooled into FB’s lap. “He is sooo sexy!”



But, after we had left MHB to his melancholy self, and FB dropped me off chez moi, he muttered, “If anyone can cure him of this broken heart, it’s you.”



Thank you for the vote of confidence, FB! Just tell him to hurry up and figure it out before I fall in love again (countdown five minutes).

All right. This is it. I am in looove.



Do you know how long it is since I’ve been in love? THREE DAYS.



That’s right. It’s been three long days since I looked into the velvety brown eyes of Shy Barista Boy, and thought, this is it. I am in looove.



This, however, is much more serious. I am talking, of course, about the Backcountry Ski God.



I went to coffee today with BSG expecting someone arrogant. Someone “cool.” Someone with serious attitude. But instead I found a shy, modest, adorable - I mean adorable - boy.



The problem with shy, modest boys is that they get a little nervous on blind dates arranged by gregarious extroverts like myself, causing gregarious extroverts (who are just a little bit nervous themselves, and who are wearing their tighest shirt and their shortest skirt) to start talking 1000 miles per hour about this, that, everything, to put shy, modest boys at ease.



He did seemed charmed by me, at moments, if I do say so myself. And, unlike SBB, he actually has a real career (no offense to baristas, really, you are the rock stars of the food service world), and is, of course, a known outdoor god.



So, even if he does like me, Ms. Steamroller (doubtful), he’ll be too shy to ask me out, I know it. This is going to be one of those massive unrequited crushes that's good for taking your mind off war, world hunger, work, past relationships, and boys who might actually like you -- but not much else.



He did say he might go see the Reluctants play on Friday night though.



Maybe I'll just send him a gentle reminder that I hope to see him there because I LOVE him?

Sooo. It being Labor Day and all – I mean Veteran’s Day – I thought I would take the day off. I have been under a lot of “stress” lately, with all this novel-writing, getting up early, socializing, dating, coffee-drinking, hiking, biking, stalking baristas and backcountry ski gods, etc.



Speaking of baristas, who should I find working at Victrola this afternoon but Shy Barista Boy himself? Now that he’s behind the counter, of course, we have the perfect excuse to talk to each other. “I only work here a couple days a week now,” he said, shyly, when I expressed my delight (well-camouflaged, of course) that he was still working here. We exchanged names (again), though I couldn’t exactly throw myself at him from across the counter when other patrons were crowding up behind me. (What, is this France or something?)



At least now I know WHEN he works here (Tuesday afternoons, maybe evenings?) so I can insinuate myself into his consciousness and maybe find the guts to…what…give him my card? Ask him to go to that non-coffee drink? Say “hey, you’re cute, wanna hang out sometime?” Or maybe get one of my friends to do it for me. Now there's a great idea straight from our seventh grade pasts!



On e-mail, the WimpDatingTool ™, I’m much better. In fact, I now have a theoretical coffee date with the Backcountry Ski God (BSG) that friends A. & J. (backcountry ski gods themselves) threw in my lap unknowingly when they pointed me to his Web site.



Seeing so many strapping young men engaged in life-threatening activities mountaineering activities got my pulse pounding so hard that I could not help but e-mail the creator of this Web site, and ask, point blank, if he and any of his friends were single.



(Update: I just went up to get my free coffee refill – not because I should be drinking any more coffee, mind you, I really should NOT – but just to get another chance at SBB. Well. I have to say the pain and suffering I shall feel later at the hands of this caffeine was worth the adoring gaze he leveled right into my eyes. Oh. My.)



So, not only did BSG write me back, as it turns out, he IS single; not only THAT, he works here at good old Acme Software Company (name courtesy of my coworker Odious Woman). Software developer – good sign – means he’s rich. Used the word “phat” in his e-mail. Bad sign? Does this mean he’s 23? Well, whatever. So am I. Or at least I LOOK 23.



I’m sure he will lose interest as soon as he realizes what a horrible backcountry skier I really am, but if I wear a short enough skirt, maybe he can be swayed in the opposite direction. And at least I can casually drop the fact that I climbed Rainier. “Oh, yeah, when I was climbing Rainier this summer…”

Boys, boys, take a number, would ya?



You, pesky tester boy, it’s nice that you’ve taken such a shine to me but stop IMing me all the time.



You, French guy from the cafeteria, you’re very friendly for a French guy. Suspiciously so. But oui, I will go hiking with you sometime.



You, backcountry ski god whom I so brazenly e-mailed and who so sweetly replied. Um, why yes, I, backcountry ski! I fell all the way down Mt. St. Helens on a pair of backcountry skiis. I could have walked faster, but "A" for effort, right?



And you, Friendster guy. You’re cute. And funny. And smart. But I don’t know if I like you enough to kiss you. Yet. Can we take things slow?



Besides, I’m too busy becoming a would-be-famous novelist and soon-to-be rock star to concern myself with men. Besides having written 30 pages of pure drivel for NaNoRiMo this month, next week I begin my transformation to keyboard goddess.



Yes, I am going back to piano lessons, so I can take those 13 years of classical piano training my parents scrimped and saved for, and turn them into rock and roll goodness. Rock star dad J. probably believed I would never take him up on his offer to guest star in his kickass country punk band The Reluctants. But he should have known better.

WHERE: Victrola coffee shop



WHEN: 9 am this morning



WHO: Yours truly swings into Victrola with laptop (Dell $1400), her Mac Odyssey (Nordstrom’s $14) freshly applied, her pink striped cap (Retro Viva $19) perfectly matching her new magenta cardigan (Old Navy, $19) atop new gray Banana Republic pants ($50) and white ribbed sweater (Gap $29), looking like, oh, 1500 bucks.



Before walking in the door, she thinks, yet again about, that cute barista who used to work there, and with whom she had that very special conversation one day, and wonders, yet again, if she should ask one of the other baristas, yet again, where he is.



Then thinks to self: should really prepare something to say should I run into aforementioned barista. Right, will do that promptly after reaching NaNoRiMo word count for day.



As yours truly enters Victrola , home of hip ambience but bad coffee, she notes, with dismay that there are hardly any tables. What are the hipsters doing up so early? She needs table, with outlet, NOW.



Then boy by window starts to get up. She moves towards table. Boy at window has big glasses, suspenders – wait. No. Could it be?



He stands. Smiles at her. Then smiles a little more broadly in recognition. It is.



Yours truly smiles back. Says hi. Waits to see if adoring recognition pours forth from Cute Barista Boy, but instead he starts to walk past her, so she says:



“Is there an outlet at that table?” Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.



“Oh yeah, I think so,” says CBB, politely. Gesturing to the wall. “Over there.”



This would be the point where he should say “Hey, how are you? I remember staring at you longingly from behind the counter SO many times! Remember how we chatted about Mt. Rainier that day before you climbed it? I have WONDERED how you’ve been and if I’d see you again!”



Instead he walks right past and over to the counter where he buses his dishes then chats with one of the baristas.



Then yours truly sits down and thinks, “OK, he will chat with me on his way out. Table is right by the door. He has to walk by. If he doesn’t say anything, I will, I’ll say – “



CBB walks by. Leans on door, starts to open door. Brain of yours truly spinning its wheels – say something say something! – CBB Smiles at yours truly. Yours truly smiles back and says nothing. CBB walks out.



YT can’t believe it. Did she just not say anything to him? Is this junior high? IS SHE NOT A THIRTY-SOMETHING WOMAN WITH A SOLID CV OF FLIRTING?



This will not stand. I will have a line next time. I. will. Have. A. line. NEXT TIME. Anyone got one for me?



And anyone know CBB? You know, a medium-build dark haired guy with dark hair and glasses who used to work at Victrola? Is he straight? Single? Huh?



Oh wait. No boys. Only art. I live only for my art. Art. ART, DAMN IT!



Right. Feel better now.

D*mn it.



No sooner than the words come out of my mouth than what do I do?



I stay up half the night doing something stupid. And of course did not get up early today (never mind that I did three times already this week) and of course drank too much caffeine and ate too much sugar and am thinking “What the f*ck am I doing?”



And though I may not know what I'm doing, but I do know where I am. The Danger Zone.



(And didn’t I just talk to my therapist about the Danger Zoneand what I would do when I got there, and did I just not do the exact opposite?)



Another thing – I know there are biological drives and all that, but wouldn’t it make more sense if our drives actually drove us to make smart decisions instead of driving us to do the things that are completely stupid and yet which feel so GOOD.



Why are the smart decisions the hardest ones to make? Is there not something evolutionarily WRONG with that, people?



And you know what? At least I don’t feel sad today. That sad sh*t is getting real old. But I’m no fool. I know it’ll come back worse than ever once this sleep-deprived adrenalin-, caffeine-, and sugar- high wears off.



(Hey, but at least Lonely Planet guidebooks just hired me to write an essay about climbing Mt. Rainier. So at least my "art" is givin' it back a little right now. Even if my brain seems to have stopped functioning.)

Hear ye, hear ye! I want you all to know I have turned over a new leaf. No longer am I stay up late-go on too many dates-kiss too many boys - sleep til noon Breakup Babe.



No.



I now live only for my art.



I go to sleep early. I read good literature. (Or the latest chicklit phenom as the case may be). I rise early. And I write.



Then I make it through the rest of the day somehow until that time when I can climb back into my new Certa® Euro-top mattress on my new Arts and Crafts Soaring Heart frame with flannel sheets, down comforter, 20 pillows, and stuffed elephant, and read “Good in Bed” – I mean, Anna Karenina.



I know you’re all waiting for Breakup Babe, The Book, The Movie, and soon-to-be franchise. Breakup Babe figurines that come with your McDonald’s Happy Meal, complete with thrift-shop minidress, knee-high boots, and little pink pill vial so she can remember all her meds!



Well, it’s only another ten or twenty years away! OK, maybe less. Just believe me, I’m working and I’m working hard. I’ve been working semi-hard for years now, but with my new laserlike focus; my new clean-living routine, well – we might see the fruits of my labor before the next decade.



And next month, thanks to a suggestion from Odious Woman, I’ll be feverishly churning a draft of the book for NaNoRiMo.



As for my addiction problem, well. Sounds like we all share that one. So far, at least, you’ll be happy to know I haven’t done anything stupid. Oh I’ve come close. Stupidity makes for better copy though, doesn’t it?

OK, I feel it starting to creep up on me. That need to be held. That need to be kissed and touched and adored, and to have someone throw their arms around me as the autumn light seeps through the blinds on a Sunday morning.



This is the need that drives me to unwise decisions. It is not a need for s*x, mind you. That will come later, and will drive me to even more unwise decisions.



This is a human need right? It’s not just me, right? Or maybe I was just held a lot as a baby or something.



I remember when I first started seeing Indie Rock Dad. There had been a dry spell, punctuated by only brief cloudbursts, when he first took me in his arms and asked, with bedroom eyes, “Do you trust me?”



“Yes,” I said. And I let him have his way with me.



“No,” I should have said, “but I’m hungry for love.”



And I didn’t trust him – not that first time, not ever – but I convinced myself I did, because I so much wanted to be held, because he offered me his warm embrace and his own confused version of love. And for three months, the power of touch made me feel like myself again.



Now? Well. I’m tempted to crawl into beds I shouldn’t crawl into for the sake of that drug. So far I’ve resisted, but how long can that last?

The Collector

I have a talent for collecting random men. I find them at work, on hiking trips, through other friends. They’re so shiny and pretty, men! So easy to talk to when the chips are down or my computer needs fixing. So broad-shouldered, so adventurous, so…male.



But sometimes I get distracted by all the random men. I get confused by a comforting presence, a fun time, a glimmer of attraction. And because I’m so scared of being alone I grab for some sparkly man in my collection– usually the cheapest, flimsiest, prettiest one, – and think, aha, the answer to all my problems!



This has not worked well for me. And I want to know if it's possible to keep collecting but stop grabbing.



Out, Damned Spot!

I have been feeling like Lady Macbeth of late. Because there is a spot on the hardwood floor in my bedroom that is (will the squeamish please stop reading here) a remnant of bodily fluids left by Indie Rock Dad. I do not know how to get it out.



And it is always there, taunting me, every time I’m forced to open my closet door (which is often, considering I usually try on at least two outfits before leaving the house).



I obsess about this spot.



This morning I kept putting an unread copy of “Blind Assassin” over it, but I had move the book every time I opened my closet, and then replace it after I'd closed the closet door.

This is not the behavior of a well person.







A Good Kind of Spot

So you all know about The Garage. The narrow, 1920s garage that within two weeks of the start of our relationship put a nasty gash in my new Subaru.



Well. Having learned some difficult life lessons recently, I put a stop to our relationship soon thereafter, though it was tempting to keep trying. I mean, who wants to search for parking in a sketchy neighborhood at 2 a.m. in the rain, and then have to walk five blocks home carrying twenty bags and backpacks (as I am wont to do?)



As soon as I told my well-manicured and deceptively benign landlord, regretfully, that I would have to give up my new spot, he said “Oh, why don’t you just park next door in my other building?”



Having heard of the fabled “modern” garage in this building, I asked with some suspicion, “How much does it cost?”



“Oh,” he said, “it’s cheaper!”



Thanks for telling me about this before, landlord buddy.



But at least now my dented Subaru can rest in the embrace of a big modern garage that’s easy as pie to park in – even for moi.

Last night, I went over to A & J’s house. They are my first refuge when I feel down, because: 1) They have two kids and so are always home

2) They are always excited to see me (at least they pretend that they are), and

3)They will feed me. Oh, and

4) They are a stable family unit, and therefore help me, Miss Flightiness, to feel more stable myself



Unfortunately, Darling Daughter #1 was asleep when I got there. DD #1 has recently become a fan of mine. I think it’s because she’s almost three – the age when kids first start to realize who the cool people are. So I was looking forward to a little adulation from DD#1, but when that didn’t work out, I tried to be a sport and pal around with Darling Daughter #2, who is only three months old.



Now don’t get me wrong. I like babies. Sort of. Not as much as kids who talk, and kids who adore me. I’m not the kind of person who goes into a house where a baby is and says, “OOhh, let me hooolldd it!” Though I am the type who will immediately gravitate towards the three-to-six-year-olds.



Anyway, I tried to hold DD #2. Twice. And both times, she went from a smiling, serene, little angel to a screaming banshee. Within five seconds.



So much for that ego boost,. But a reprieve came later in the evening. While A. was talking on the phone, holding DD#2, there was, apparently, a quiet thump upstairs. One that I never even heard. “Did DD #1 fall off the bed?” A. asked me, putting the phone down briefly, looking half-amused, half-concerned.



Since A. had her hands full, I tiptoed up the stairs, to see DD#1 lying face down on the floor, with a pillow on top of her. I worried for a second that she was dead. I held my breath and walked over, but no, in fact, she was just sound asleep. Just a tiny little girl sound asleep on a big floor. Looking so vulnerable and alone that my heart nearly broke.



I slowly picked her up and put her on her big bed. I tried not to wake her, but of course she woke up. “Mama..” she started to whimper. And I expected the floodgates to open when she realized it wasn’t her mother there in the dark with her.



But instead she opened her big blue eyes wide, saw who it was, and said my name as if I were throwing her a lifejacket in a stormy sea. “B***y!” Not once, but four times in a row, as if she couldn’t quite believe what God had sent her in her sleep.



I lay down on the bed next to her. Then she cupped my face in her hands, like, and said one last time, half-sigh, half-exclamation, “B***y!”



So I lay on the bed with her until she fell back asleep, and for a while afterwards.



And it was the best part of a very bad day.

Oh, did I mention, besides feeling slightly sorry for myself this weekend, I also did this?

• Went on a date with a charming hipster a la High Fidelity
  
  
• Responded to badly-spelled-mail from my 19-year old admirer
  
  
• Went on two bike rides (one with a beautiful boy)
  
  
• Went out to a two-hour dinner with three other boys
  
  
• Went to a party with aforementioned three boys
  
  
• Cooked a gourmet dinner for my best friend
  
  
• Saw "Under the Tuscan Sun" (I know, I know)
  
  
• Paid two social visits to two happy families in two lovely Seattle homes
  
  
• Spent several hours working on my soon-to-be-bestselling kiss-and-tell memoir
  
  

Not too shabby for a weekend, if I do say so myself.

Ok, people. I know you want to live vicariously through me. I know you want me to regale you with tales of lust-filled nights and love gone wrong.



I mean, the stupider the situations I get myself into, the more I have to write about, right?



But listen. I am now about mature. I am about practical. I am about screening. And making smart choices from the BEGINNING, when they're easiest to make. I am about not getting swept up into the moment, unless that moment has a future.



Oh sure I might get desperate again one of these days. I might let myself have a little fling if circumstances become dire.



But IRD was supposed to be a little fling, and look what happened with that?



So maybe, just maybe, you can think about my unborn children for once instead of your entertainment-starved little selves. Help me make the good choices, people!



Yeah I know. BORING, right? Well, so is living in the nursing home without anyone to visit me, OK?!



And meanwhile, I will help myself too. I am formulating a little questionnaire to hand out to potential...uh...whatevers. Questions will include these, and some others I haven't thought of yet.

• What medications have you taken in the past?
  
  
• Why are you not taking them now?
  
  
• Do you hear voices?
  
  
• How long did your first marriage last?
  
  
• Why did you even marry that chick?
  
  
• Are you less than 15 years younger than me?
  
  
• Can you fix my computer?

Sugestions are welcome.

The Good News

I was innocently sitting at a cafe just now, working on my laptop and looking adorable in a tight gray wool mini-dress, when a cute-ish college student hits on me. Well, community college student.



The Bad News

I gave him my number.



The Good News

I like to encourage the hitting upon of women by men. It doesn't happen nearly enough, especially in Seattle. Oh, there's staring, and gawking, and meaningful eye contact galore. But so little action. I bet many men would be shocked to discover that all they have to do to get my number is ASK.



The Bad News

He now has my number. He might be psychotic. Scratch that. I don't think he's old enough to be psychotic.



The Good News

This guy is surrounded by cute 20-year-olds on a daily basis. He is cute enough to get some of them to date him.



The Bad News

I will have to turn him down.



The Good News

He probably has an unstoppable sex drive.



The Bad News

I should not even consider having s*x with someone so young.



The Good News

I will not consider it. I will take the compliment and go on my merry way.



La de da.

It rained last night. When I emerged from work at 7:30, I saw the slick pavement shining in the dark and thought “Thank God!”



I thought, I can finally go home and have a relaxing night. I’d been on the run for four days – sleeping on strange beds in different cities. Escaping from my own thoughts, my own life.



So I drive home in the rain and it’s so mesmerizing, I don’t even turn on the radio. I don’t have to cry in the rain; it’s like the sky is crying for me.



I think about crawling into bed, reading a book, falling asleep at 9 p.m., sleeping clear through til 9 a.m. the next day – untroubled by sad, confused dreams.



But there is one more challenge I have to face before I can pull the down comforters over me.



The Garage.



I have been parking in The Garage under my building for only two weeks now. For over a year, I struggled nightly to find parking in my neighborhood, so imagine my delight when someone moved out of the building and I got one of the five coveted parking spots.



Well. I soon discovered that for the spatially challenged, navigating this narrow parking spot from a narrow alley is a nightmare. Within one week, I gouged, scraped, and dented the right side of my new car one dark night.



Facing The Garage has now become a harrowing experience. I sweat. My heart beats rapidly. And for ten minutes, I pull in, out, in, out, clipping the side mirrors, praying I won’t do any more damage, until finally, I get in safely – but usually with the car only two inches from the wall.



So you can imagine my state of mind last night when I approached The Garage in a loaner car from my dealership. Imagine my state of mind as I started the endless, fearful process of inching my way in. And you can imagine the complete and utter despair that gripped me when I heard the first crunch of metal against wood.



This time, though, despair notwithstanding, I did something smart. I got out of the car. Unlike last time, I did not try to fix the mess I had gotten myself into, therefore only making it much, much worse. Instead, I left the loaner car halfway in The Garage, hazard lights on, and made a phone call.



A somewhat pathetic, female phone call to GuyPal #1, which ended with me saying in a small, pathetic, female voice, “Can you come over and help me with this?”



Pause. “Well, I just ordered a pizza. And I’m in my pajamas…”



I held my breath.



“OK, I’ll be there in half an hour.”



Then I got off the phone and cried. I cried for how pathetic I am. I cried for how lucky I am and how unlucky I am. I cried because I don’t have anyone to put their arms around me and say “it’s OK.” I cried because the sky just wasn't crying enough for me right then.



Half an hour later, GuyPal #1 arrived and miraculously saved the car from any damage. I threw my arms around him and thanked him profusely.



“You’re my hero,” I told him. And he is. He has been there for me countless times in the last year and a half. From waiting for me while I confronted Loser about his infidelity, to advising me on first-date and post-breakup strategies, from telling me how wonderful I am, to keeping me company in my darkest hours, he has been the best of friends.



I went to bed at 11:30 instead of 9, and my sleep was troubled, and I woke up too early, but at least I don’t have another banged up car in The Garage.



I gotta get rid of that parking space. Before it hurts me any more.



See, I'm learning.

Ode to Hot but Inappropriate Boys (HBIBs)



Well there is some poetic justice in the fact that an ex-boyfriend of mine, one who broke my heart into smithereens four years ago, seems to be pursuing me.



In fact, I think he’s been after me for the last year. (Yeah, the one I smooched on the dance floor as a defensive maneuver.) Is he just bored? H*rny? Or has he finally realized what a catch I am?



I don’t know and I don’t really care. I’m just going to take it for what it’s worth and say HA! I have no desire to get back together with him. (Hear that, Mom?) We are so NOT compatible. BUT. I admit, I like the attention. Is that so wrong?



If only there was a way to avoid unnecessary emotional entanglements and still have myself a barrel o’ fun. Remember, this is the boy who rules the dance floor, so maybe we could restrict our "activities" to “dancing?”



Speaking of Hot but Inappropriate Boys (HBIBs) I’m off this weekend to see the Strapping Outdoor Adventure God, who lives in Bellingham. Now I think that SOAG would like nothing better than to marry some hot chick who would tag along on his wordly adventures, mountain climbs, kayak races, bike trips, etc. And what more appropriate hot chick than moi?



But we are so not on the same intellectual wavelength. SIGH. He's smart , but hard to talk to and somewhat unsophisticated given the wordly adventures he's been on. A bit humor-impaired too, alas.



But tres babe. Tall, broad-shouldered, handsome, blonde, and in the most amazing Superman shape.



According to my Astroglide* horoscope, however, “Friday, October 3 should be lovely and romantic, when the Sun will send Neptune a beautiful white envelope filled with rose petals.”



Yeah, whatever. My whole month is supposed to be f*cking romantic. Maybe I could just have an itty bitty fling with SOAG. So itty bitty we wouldn't even notice it except for one night and then could go on our merry way being friends.



Now there is a hot but inappopriate idea.



*Nickname courtesy of Guypal #1

The sun is back and I'm not too happy about it. All I can say (and I've no doubt said this before) is thank God for the drugs! Long live the drugs!



In other news, the "new" blog is history. I'm back here. Indie Rock Dad found the new blog and is now angry, and who can blame him?



I think my new blogosophy is to write only about people I don't give a sh*t about. And no doubt there will be many more of those in the years to come before my sister shuts me away in her attic to rot.



So I know we're all disappointed about how my golden summer wound up. But much as I appreciate you defending me, let's move on to greener pastures and slander someone else.



Like...oh, I know, the religious fanatic at the coffee shop I go to in the morning! It's a small coffee shop, usually mostly empty, with a few crazy regulars who all have one thing in common - they talk very LOUDLY and they do not shut up.



Today the religious fanatic was talking - loudly - about the "cosmic" effect of beans on his digestive system. The other day, he was singing joyful hymns to God -- loudly - at 7 a.m. For 10 freaking minutes. I mean, I'm happy for him that he's divinely inspired and all, but dude. Shut the f*ck up!



Ok, it's not the drama you expect from me. Just give me a little time to recover, all right?

Thank God the weather is colder today. Gray. Threatening. That's the way it's supposed to be around here. It's almost October, for crying out loud! The leaves are turning red and gold and it's been 80-f*cking degrees.



It's not right, I tell you.



The people of Seattle are, however, eating this sh*t up. They're outside for one more dose of sunshine, and one more, before winter closes in on them and turns them back into the larval creatures they're meant to be.



Me, I've still got my tan. I've got my Mt. Rainier muscles and my biking legs and I'm looking pretty kick-ass. Not to mention new 100-dollar highlights, and an ever-increasing collection of post-breakup, sex-kitten clothes.



But inside, I feel broken. When it's so damn sunny outside, the world can see how broken I feel. I can see how broken I feel.



In the immortal words of the Everly Brothers, I'll do my crying in the rain.



So bring it on, baby. Let it rain. NOW.

It's a small (OK, big) consolation that I turn heads everywhere I go around here.



Not that I have much competition. Men, mostly, who favor long, stringy hair, balding on top, accented by generous (yet ill-kempt) facial hair.



There are a few chicks. Like the ex-wife of my my most recent ex-boyfriend (who works in the same hallway) and the now ex-girlfriend of my penultimate ex-boyfriend (who still blights a number of my meetings with her presence), but these chicks just do not have my panache.



Anyway. I enjoy all the wide-eyed, longing looks I get, mostly from men who look like they've crawled out of the primordial ooze. But there are a few hotties too. Doubtless all married, all with girlfriends, or all mentally ill.



(And special thanks to RB who saw my summit photo from Mt. Rainier and said I looked like "Lara Croft!")



But these looks aren't going to help me when I'm in the nursing home: old, alone, with no one to visit me. L'il Sis and Super Brother-in-Law will be too busy jetting around the country to their various palazzos, and visiting their perfect granchildren to pay much attention to the likes of me.



Or maybe they'll put me in the attic of their San Francisco mansion and let me rot away up there, with only my yellowing photos of happier days for company. Then I won't be able to harrass the poor old men in the nursing home with my shouts of "I was a hottie once, you know! They even said I looked like Lara Croft! Wanna get married?"



Good luck finding another brainy girlfriend who looks like Lara Croft, whats-your-name. That's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity right there. But there's always the next life, isn't there?

I'm getting chillingly efficient at this breakup thing.



It helps that it was only three months, and that I expected it to come crumbling down at any second, and like Jezebel says, I poured some "concrete walls" around my heart.



But I just keep running from the sadness and it doesn't get me. It's become a drill. I pull my friends around me like a blanket, I stay up late, I write, I ride my bike. I pedal fast in the late September sun that just keeps coming even though I wish it would rain.



He accused me one day, of not being "totally emotionally open" to him, of being "hot and cold," and I thought, on the one hand, my GOD. Look who's talking!



On the other hand, I thought, well yeah. How else am I supposed to be with someone like him? Someone who keeps pulling me closer, than the closer I get the farther he pushes me away?



In the old days, I would have let myself get completely wrapped up, red flags be damned. I would have thought, because this feels right, it is right. Because we love each other, things will work out.



Ha.



I had my little fantasies, but I certainly wasn't about to give them any room to grow. And so, to quote one of my favorite books, I would say about this breakup:



"...We're too old to make each other miserable, and that's a good thing, not a bad thing...Those days are gone, and good f*cking riddance to them; unhappiness really meant something back then. Now it's just a drag, like a cold or having no money. If you really wanted to mess me up, you should have got to me earlier."

-Nick Hornby, "High Fidelity"

Well, I may have lost a friend-that-is-a-boy (I never did OFFICIALLY call him my b-b-boyf - well WHATEVER, now did I?) but yesterday, I gained the perfect pair of jeans.



Used. Size 6 (I gotta feel good about something, OK?). Sexy and stylish but comfortable. Feel like I've been wearing them all my life.



Total: $12.



Of course, then I had to go buy a slinky dress, a slinky tank top, a mini skirt, and sexy-stripey t-shirt (all very practical for fall, don't you think?) and the monetary damage got a little worse. Oh, there was the manicure too.



But all in all, not to bad pricewise, all things considered.



Maybe I'll even go against policy and post a picture of me wearing the jeans. It's time you guys got a look at me anyway.



For now, I'll probably be posting in both places, until I figure out who I am and what I'm doing. For those of who you don't have the new link yet, I'll send it soon. I'm being slow, sorry!



Confidential to Indie Rock Dad: don't you dare create a fake e-mail address and ask me for the link!



Confidential to CGLB: If you're still reading, I'm sorry you found this blog and I'm sorry that you had to read those things about yourself.

Please note: I no longer have the urge to talk to Loseur.



Saw him slink across the courtyard at work today while I enjoyed lunch with my hunky ex-hallmate South African Boy. He looked pasty and unhappy and fat.



Well not FAT. That's an exaggeration. But not good. He did not look good. He looked like crap. And I pointed him out to SAB as if he were a sideshow freak as he crossed the courtyard, eyes cast down, so obviously not looking our way.



"He looks horrible!" I said, loudly, maybe loud enough for him to hear, as we both ogled him. And then we laughed, meanly, as he disappeared like the rat he is into the nearest building.



Funny thing was, just as he tried to crawl into his hole, out came a friend of mine and former friend of his who is ALSO no longer speaking to him. And I saw him shrink from her her too, and it makes me wonder: what is it like to alienate so many people in your life, in such rapid succession?



It must be lonely's all I can say.

Dear Breakup Babies,



The time has (perhaps) come to start a new blog. One that doesn't carry the same baggage as "Breakup Babe."



I mean, am I gonna be dragging that sorry breakup around with me for the rest of my sorry life?



I should hope not.



Besides, it's a new era. After all, I climbed Mt. Rainier! I triumphed over adversity! The elements! My own fear! I proved (as if I didn't already know) that I am a strong, independent woman who can kick some serious ass.



And I have certainly triumphed over The Great Unpleasantness of last summer.



I'm not going to leave the blogosphere though. Oh no. It's too much fun.



So please, if you like BB, and want to continue reading her in her new incarnation, please send your e-mail address to breakupbabe@msn.com. Then I'll let you know when (and if) the new site goes up. We might just find some new uses for Breakup Babe too, so don't get out your black veil just yet.



Those of you who have a subscription on that *$#$$!! site that doesn't work; I have your e-mail addresses already. Those of who you've sent me e-mail, I have your addresses already, but send them again - why not?



And, of course, I must say, that you have all helped me so much this year. I know I don't comment much on other people's sites; but believe me, I read your adventures avidly, and look forward to reading your comments and e-mail every single day.



So thank you. And foor now, until you get an e-mail from me, stay tuned to this station.



BB

At least GalPal #1 is willing to share back.



What goes around comes around!



Give and ye shall receive!



[Insert your own cliche here!].

Hot, adventurous, mid-30s babe – adventurous, fit, brilliant, charismatic, equally at home in stilettos and crampons; sassy and independent yet loving and sweet; seeks boy brave enough to admit when the (second) best thing in his life has just happened to him.

My friends are suggesting I go back to Defensive Dating (TM).



(Let's just say, all is not magenta sunsets and ephiphanic moments of happiness here in "I'm-so-in-love!"-land. What goes up must come down. And then go up immediately two days later. But that's a discussion for another time.)



But, I ask you, how am I supposed to do that when I've given all my cutest backups to GalPal #1? Hmmmm?



I knew I should hoard!

Last night, I rode my bike home from work in the velvety dusk and watched a magenta sunset streak the sky. There was a slight chill in the soft air, a slant to the light that meant my favorite season was coming soon. And I realized I was happy.



Then I remembered I was on drugs. Lots of them.



But no matter. I’ve learned to accept those moments of happiness, drug-enabled or not, and let them wash over me without trying to hold on too hard. Because they don’t stick around.



Not an hour later, in fact, I was desperately throwing clothes, sleeping bags, and other assorted luggage around my apartment, looking for my wallet (never found); so I would have my driver’s license to bring to the tow lot to which my NEW car had been towed this weekend while I was camping on the Olympic Peninsula.



Unable to find my wallet, I then had to search desperately for some other form of ID. When I realized they wouldn’t take a check with anything but a driver’s license, I tore through all the mail piled on my hall table to find the new credit card that luckily, had not yet been assimilated into the now-lost wallet, and that would let me pay the exorbitant towing fee.



Anyway.



It’s hard to shake the idea that happiness is something that’s just around the corner, instead of something that comes to you at odd moments. You think:



When I write a book, and they turn it into a movie, and I get to hang around the set chatting up Jake Gyllenhaal and Johnny Depp, I’ll be happy. When I finally trust Indie Rock Dad, I’ll be happy. When I get married, I’ll be happy.



You don’t think, When I’m riding my bike home on a Monday night, and there’s a beautiful sunset, I’m going to be happy.



Sometimes, if you’re especially lucky, you get a series of happy moments in row. Usually this happens when you’re in love, which means the karmic payback is that later on, you’ll get many miserable moments in a row, but still – you can’t think that way (though, of course I do). My life has been like that lately. Lucky.



So lucky, in fact, that I’ve hardly even noticed the fact that GalPal #1 has appropriated South African Boy, he of the sculpted torso, whom I was keeping in reserve for myself.



So lucky that I have photo after photo of me smiling somewhere in the Cascades, surrounded by peaks and lakes and sunshine, with the arm of a heartbreakingly lovely boy around me. One who says he loves me, even.



It can’t last. Something bad will happen. Remember Loser? Remember how much he claimed to love you, remember how much you trusted him, and then remember (how can you forget?) how he turned on a dime and treated you like the most lowly piece of garbage until all your trust and love was destroyed?



Right. It can’t last. Nothing lasts. As Sly but Philosophical Russian Boy is famous for saying, “We all gonna die sometime.”



All I can do is try to enjoy this beauty while it lasts.



And, of course, remember to take my meds.

Please! Don’t lose any more sleep! I made it down from the mountain alive!



Phew. I know you have been thinking of nothing else, and I want to apologize for letting you dangle for so long, ignorant of whether I survived or whether my life was taken in the jaws of an icy crevasse.



Yes, I, Breakup Babe, survived the toughest endurance climb in the lower 48 states. Not only that, I made it to the top. Not only that, I wasn’t even tired! Well, a little, teeny bit. I was too busy being terrified to be tired!



I mean, how can you be tired, for crying out loud, when you are standing on the side of 14,000-foot mountain, staring down at giant crevasses? Or walking across a foot-wide ledge with a cliff on one side and a chasm on the other?



When the terror would momentarily give way, there was room for exhilaration too. At the sight of the Northern Lights at 2 a.m. Or the snaking line of headlamps coming up the mountain with a pink and purple sunrise behind it. Or a bergschrund curving its giant edges delicately over the trail.



And the guides! My! They were a sight in themselves. Breakup Babe may have a b-b-boyf—well, you know what I’m trying to say – these days, but she cannot help but notice such spectacular specimens of manhood!



Anyway. While most of you probably imagine me as some glamorous model type gadding about town in the latest fashions and sipping designer cocktails at the coolest bars, there is another side to me too (Gemini, remember?), and that would be the Earthy Crunchy Outdoor Girl who loves nothing more than to spend whole days and nights climbing mountains. Preferably steep, hard mountains. Preferably with a cute boy who has lots of stamina.



And if ever there was a poor match for BB in terms of boys with stamina, it was Loseur. Oh he tried to keep up with me, I’ll give him that much. In the beginning, he desperately wanted to impress me. He spent lots of money on lots of fancy gear. And in fact, we went on some great bike rides.



But the truth is, when it came to the mountains, he was tres wimpy! My God! That man would not have made it five steps up Mt. Rainier before whining that he was tired and sick; turning around; then getting mad at me later for not offering to turn around with him, even though 1)he didn’t ask and 2)it was my fondest with in the world to climb Mt. Rainier.



Hmmph. Lucky, then, that I found a boy who likes to climb mountains as much, if not even more than me. IRD (who has already climbed Mt. Rainier) is currently trying to convince me to climb Mount McKinley with him. Fat chance of that ever happening, but I’ve been a long time looking for a boy who would even ask such questions.



So, this summer continues its amazing run. Do you think it can end without anything bad happening?



The only thing that would make it a little more perfect is that if my father were still alive. I so much want to tell him about Mount Rainier!

Remember how Davy, from the Monkees, used to get all sparkly-eyed when he saw a girl he liked? They would put him in soft-focus, and show actual stars shooting from his eyes? That's how I feel when I see IRD -- soft and sparkly.

Oh dear Breakup Babies, don't seethe with jealousy! (Well, maybe do just a little.)



I am not sitting around on a chaise lounge feasting on the fact that I'm in "L;" in fact, it's quite the opposite. I'm pacing around wondering "Is this real? What have I gotten myself into?"



Because wasn't it just, oh, four days before he used the word that Indie Rock Dad (IRD) told me he was worried that he "wasn't in love with me?" That, in the past, when he was "in love," he always thought the object of his affections was "perfect," and he didn't think I was "perfect," and therefore, he was worried that (see above).



I haven't thought any of my lovers were perfect unless they ignored me. Let me wallow in my Air-Supply-fueled fantasies about them; maybe toyed with me once in a while, or had amazing s*x with me (and isn't the s*x always better when you're anxious?), then dropped me like a hot potato. Then I worshipped them endlessly.



But when someone really let me into their world? How could I think they were perfect then? They wanted me, for one. If I could get over that, well, there were all those little things. The ridiculous look they got on their faces during s*x. The loud snoring. The stupid jokes or the social handicaps or the complete lack of appreciation for foreign movies.



Because isn't love about truly knowing a person, in all their flawed glory, and accepting them?



I think IRD's got his head screwed on straighter than he thinks. But only time will tell. As we've said before, seething (but adorable, sexy, brilliant) mass of contradictions.



Note to self: must stop looking down mountain as climbing up. View much better up ahead.



Meanwhile, go on some dates for me, will ya? Have some raunchy one night stands, throw back a few tequila shots, flirt til you drop (or you're dropped like a hot potato)! Crushes are all about endless possiblity and love is about reality, so feast on the possibilities while you can, babies.



And speaking of mountains, if you don't hear from me til next week, it's cause I'm climbing a big a*s mountain called Mount Rainier. I might not make it down alive. If not, I heart you all and your many imperfections.



If so, well, I'll tell you about it. I can only hope that my rope leader is a hot babe.

Big developments over the weekend.



The "L" word was exchanged.



How do I feel about this?



Well. We all love the love drug. And baby, you know I've been jonesing for it.



But that love drug, it's heavy sh*t. It takes you higher and drags you lower than anything else. And when you're comin' down off that baby, you gotta pump yourself full of all kind of other pharmaceuticals just to survive.



Am I ready? Don't know.



Do I have a choice? Don't think so.



Funny this should happen exactly on Breakup Babe's one-year birthday, isn't it?



Happy Birthday BB! Maybe it's time to change your name and put the past behind you, eh?

OK, it is the moment you’ve all been waiting for, or perhaps the moment you’ve all been dreading.



Breakup Babe has a friend that is a boy. No, no. That would not be a boyfriend. It will be months, years, perhaps before I can ever utter that word again with the same insouciance that I used to in my young, carefree days.



Things with Indie Rock Dad get lovelier and lovelier and I expect them any day now to blow up in my face.



Did we catch the train?



I don’t know.



Maybe? I feel the wind blowing in my face and the sweet smell of adventure coming my way but I feel like this baby could derail at any second.



Or, to switch metaphors, I feel like we’re climbing a mountain, ice axes in hand. It’s a gorgeous mountain, and when you look up, there are glaciers and meadows and waterfalls as far as the eye can see. When you look down, it’s a sheer drop. Thousands of feet. So if you look down, you get scared. You lose your nerve.



And we look down a lot.



But we’re still climbing. And that's something.



Meanwhile, GalPal #1, newly single and on a rampage, has demanded that I hand over South African Boy to her, as a swing dancing partner if nothing else.



When I protested, she said I was making “double dibs” and that it was "unfair. "



He still doesn’t know about me and IRD, despite the fact that we drove right past him on the way to work today. (My heart, needless to say, went to my throat).



But nothing is happening on that front, platonic dating relationship aside. We’re good friends and that’s that. We’re hallmates and that’s that. He wore a tank top today and I lusted after his muscles but that’s that.



Must let go. Must share. Must not hoard. After all, my own life is pretty full.



But isn’t hoarding a survival instinct?

So that train is barreling down the tracks, and between me and Indie Rock Dad (IRD), we have so much freakin' baggage, only the Good Lord knows whether we'll be able to struggle onboard.



He’s had very few relationships, I’ve had way too many. I’m afraid of giving up boys, he’s afraid of giving up independence.



He worries that he doesn’t think I’m “perfect,” I worry that he’s moody and anxious. I adore his child; he worries she'll get too attached to me.



I’m actively seeking marriage; he just escaped an oppressive marriage. He thinks I’m an “enigma;” I think he’s a seething mass of contradictions.



I worry that we both worry too much, and that because we worry so much, we are Doomed as couple.



And yet.



I feel myself trying to lift those heavy bags. Because when I look in his forest green eyes, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. That I don’t want to feel, maybe, and yet I do.



Because when he smiles at me, I would sign my life away in an instant. And because when I climb mountains with him, winding ever higher into sun and snow and lake-studded cirques, I feel like I’ve found someone who shares my same beating heart.



But hey. Trains move fast and baggage-laden people move slow, and the view certainly ain’t too bad here in Boysville. If we miss it, well, we’ll go our separate ways and each catch another one soon. Maybe.



I just wonder where this one is going, you know? 'Cause my restless self never much liked staying in one place for too long.

Mondays are SO anticlimactic.



Oh wait, it’s Tuesday? I had a three-day weekend? Even worse.



Three days of boys, s*x, hiking, emotional rollercoasters, sun, swimming, writing, living.



And now THIS. I need drugs. I need coffee. I need sugar. I need a lobotomy!



Ack.

OK, a girl has her limits.



And mine was reached last night when I had to sit inches away from South African Boy, bronzed, muscular, and dripping wet, wearing nothing but a towel.



#$%#(%(@%*(!!!



What, I ask, you, am I supposed to do?



I suppose I could put a moratorium on us swimming laps together (for which, I might add, he wears a Speedo.) “Sorry SAB, but I cannot bear to be in such close proximity with your godlike body any longer!”



Every guy-girl friendship has its moment of truth, no? The point at which one expresses interest in the other, and the other either reciprocates or he doesn’t? But either way, at least the truth is on the table, and you try to make things work from there, right? Well, I’m almost at that point.



As if swimming laps next to me in a Speedo weren’t enough, SAB took me and Galpal #1 out swing dancing the other night. Though I barely knew what I was doing, the firm yet gentle way he swung me around, dipping me, turning me, pushing me away, then pulling me close, made me feel graceful and taken-care of.



Add to that the the fact that he was the best looking man there.



Add to that the fact that I got to hold his hand and touch him.



Add to that the fact that I've always wanted a man who can dance.



And you have one surefire way to reignite le crush de BB on SAB, which has lain dormant these last two weeks as my feelings for IRD have intensified.



I am not so excited about another moment of truth. I just had one of those in New Orleans with Sexy Blue-Eyed Boy. They are necessary sometimes, but tres sucky. Especially if you are the one forcing the truth.



And this is what I think SAB will say.



“BB, I like you, but you work right across the HALL from me. And I am smart enough --- unlike you apparently, which is really crazy because just last summer you thought you were going to DIE because you had to work down the hall from the man who broke your heart – to not date someone who works in such close proximity to me.”



Or he might say, “Huh? Wha'? Me attracted to you? Are you kidding?” Or “Oh yeah, baby, I’ve just been waiting for you to say something!” in which case I would have to make a choice between him and IRD, and how in the world would I do that?



OK, I’m going to admit something here that I’ve never admitted before. This is hard for me, so please be kind. Don’t judge too harshly.



I am Breakup Babe. And I have a commitment problem.



Oh, you knew that already? Hmm. Well good for you.

So things just continue to get weirder around here.



Last weekend, for example, I plunged unexpectedly into the temperate waters of domesticity, a place I have not been for oh, let’s say, ONE YEAR EXACTLY when I was forced out of the condo I shared with Loseur and into my own sexy bachelorette pad complete with hardwood floors, red lamps, and the Red Couch O’ Love.



Not only did I spend three days straight with Indie Rock Dad (IRD) (not very defensive of me, I admit), one of those days was spent with his three-and-a-half year old daughter.



You’re thinking “Uh-oh. Kids. Is this the Breakup Babe we know? She’s supposed to be writing about cute boys, smoky bars, romantic angst! But kids?!”



Well. You might find this surprising, but BB hearts kids. And kids heart BB. This adorable child was no exception. And in fact, in the way she opened her heart to me so quickly, she reminded me of her father, who seems to have done a complete about face since a month ago.



Once he did, in fact, decide that he wanted to date me (after two weeks of pretending he didn’t), IRD’s true colors emerged. The fact is, he is a romantic. Easily smitten, intensely affectionate, and emotionally vulnerable – he has put his heart right out there on that big dining room table of his for me to stomp on or embrace as I choose.



Just like his utterly charming little daughter, who, an hour after meeting me, wanted nothing more than to hold my hand, play with me, cuddle with me, and later – for me to lie in bed with her and sing her to sleep.



“Will you sing a song to me?” she whispered in the darkness, her little arm thrown around my neck, her hand on my cheek, as she faced me sideways on the bed just like her father does.



It was an odd sort of intimacy. Completely genuine, yet not founded on anything but a day’s worth of knowing me.



Like the outlines of love. Just waiting to be filled in.



The question is, after a year of being on the run, of jumping from boy to boy, can I do this? I’m not as trusting as I used to be, like that little girl who asks a stranger to sing to her in darkness. Once I was, maybe. I believed that if someone said they loved me, they would take care of me always, just like my parents (who sang to me in the dark) have done.



Now, however, post-Loser, I just expect someone to slash my throat.

OK, I agree it’s really not fair.

What’s with me and all these gorgeous males? It might be exaggeration to say they’re swarming. Then again, it might not.

Maybe it’s some kind of karmic retribution for the torture I endured last summer.
Someone’s way of saying, “Congratulations, Breakup Babe, you survived your new job and your broken heart despite [ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!] Not only did you survive, you thrived, and for that I’m sending to you a gift-wrapped bevy of beautiful hommes with whom to enjoy yourself. Bon appetit!”

As if Indie Rock Dad (IRD) and South African Boy (SAB) weren’t enough, just the other night, my mysterious benefactor handed me Adorable Journalist Boy (AJB), a tall, dark-haired drink of water, who’s sweet and hip and -- it goes without saying -- immensely adorable.

Oy. I mean – yay!

The thing is, you all know about my impending train wreck with IRD. I am smitten. With his British accent, his knife-edged cheekbones, his drop-dead smile. And it’s bound to come to no good, because love never does.

And so I am engaged in DefensiveDating ™. To hedge my bets, as they say.

Not that I am officially dating SAB at this point in time. No, we are merely joined at the hip, entertaining each other at work (where he is like bottled sunshine in my windowless office), engaging in datelike activities outside work, but without any of the stuff that might make it messy, or, um, really fun.

It’s quite perfect, really (except I wish, wish WISH he would take his shirt off again). Because we all know what would happen to our workplace lovefest should we get involved and (inevitably) break up. Meanwhile, I get to be the focus of his adoring attentions, which prevents me from investing too much in IRD.

And AJB. Mmm. Am still deciding what to do about that one. Not much time in my schedule, naturally, so I think he can be my Tuesday night date.

I'll also come clean about my other men just so he doesn't fall madly in love with me (until I want him too, that is). He'll be fine with being part of my DefensiveDating ™ coterie; I mean, men want what they can't get, right? And if things go well with IRD, well maybe I'll pass AJB off to a deserving galpal. Until then, he's MINE!

As you might guess, I'm a bit lacking in sleep these days. A concerned reader recently wrote that I should "swear off men and drugs and alcohol until [I] finish [my] book." Now that is sound advice if I've ever heard any!

But who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Huh.



Something strange is happening.



I had a very romantic time with Indie Rock Dad (IRD) last night. So romantic, in fact, that a forbidden word kept popping into my head.



You know what word I'm talking about. And I want it to go away! I don't want it around! I haven’t let myself think that word or speak that word in a year.



I mean, yeah. I know. Every guy I meet, I think he’s The One for about a week and then I dump him in favor of The Next One.



And there’s been a lot of the other L word. Lust. We like that word around here. Lllllllllllllllllllllust. But have you heard me even mention the that other word once? NO.



And just for the record I’m not saying the L word now either. I’m merely alluding to it.



Because it could just be a case of lust. We all know the tricks lust plays on you. It easily masquerades as the “L” word. I am especially susceptible to lust masquerading as that other thing.



But I swear to God I had that falling in um, you know, feeling last night. It might have been a long time since I’ve felt it but I certainly haven’t forgotten it.



It can only lead to no trouble, I know that much. For one, I don't know if I trust this guy. He was tres squirrely for a while there -- I want you, I want you not. And if he likes me so much, why isn't he more jealous about Breakup Babe's other boys of summer?



I'm probably about to get hit by a train. But oh my, how it feels good to lay down on those tracks, open your arms, and feel the heat and the heaviness and the thrill as it rushes towards you.

All righty then!



I recently made the mistake of starting to date someone smart. I also made the mistake of bragging about my blog too much and thowing around catchy phrases with too much abandon.



Let's just say this: Security has been breached.



Indie Rock Dad found the blog. From an e-mail I received this morning.



"Dear R,

While munching my breakfast, I idly typed in "seething mass of contradictions" into Google, since it is such a delightful phrase, and out popped your blog about 3 links down. Oops."

Ahem.



He didn't get angry. He didn't dump me. He, in fact, wrote me a very nice e-mail apologizing for finding it, telling me I was a good writer, and expressing the desire that I didn't dump HIM.



Which of course I don't want to do because I like him a lot, SAB's shoulders be damned. There is a lot more to say on this topic but there is a pressing issue at hand, which is...



What to do about dear old Breakup Babe now that one of the current boys has found it? We all know what happened when I made the mistake of dating someone who read my blog before. Bad. News.



Is it time for a new blog? A new persona? Am I over my breakup enough to become someone else so that I can keep myself hidden from IRD? Or is he just going to be dust in the wind in two weeks anyway, like LRS, MB, SB, HLB, KLG, SBDB, PPB, MMB, CTB, ACB, CGLB?



Help me out my dear readers, because I, for once, am at a loss.

Le U.N. Backpacking Trip Part Deux



Anguished moment #1

See Thrilling moment #5 in last entry. As SAB and I exchange massages by the creek, I worry that IRD will appear and:



-Break up our idyll

-Break up with me (after all, I had been making out in the tent with him 15 minutes before).



But, I think, it's just a massage, right? No big deal, right? I'm not a bad person, right?



Except SAB's shoulders are sooooo strong, mmmmm....



Anguished moment #2

Night #2. My affections have shifted, somewhat, from IRD to SAB (Is it just human nature? Perversely wanting what you don't have, the way I wanted IRD so bad before he wanted me? Or is it just SAB's rock hard shoulders?)



IRD and I are sleeping outside. Everyone else is planning to sleep in the tents but haven't gone to bed yet. We've both thrown our sleeping bags on the ground while SAB sits by the fire right next to us.



As soon as I get in my sleeping bag, IRD sweetly cuddles up to me and throws his arm over me -- WHILE SAB IS RIGHT THERE. Well, his arm is hidden in the sleeping bag, but still. I freeze up. Does SAB see? SAB goes to bed and I lie there wondering over and over what, if anything, he saw. Thinking over and over what a mean, awful girl I am.



To Be Continued...

Jeez. Unless I post every five minutes, there's no way to keep up with the ever-changing currents of my fickle heart. So read quick before everything changes yet again!



Le United Nations Backpacking Trip



Thrilling moment #1

Half an hour into the hike, Indie Rock Dad, owner of the outrageously sexy smile, tells me he has now"changed his mind about me" and wants to date. Ow!



Thrilling moments #2,#3,#4

Getting it on with IRD in tiny REI tent. Quietly, of course...



Thrilling moment #5

Massage #1 from South African Boy (SAB) by babbling creek, mountains in distance.



Thrilling moment #6

When I reciprocate and massage his strong, hard, bronzed shoulders, the most beautiful I have seen in years, it's all I can do not to gush "OOhhhhh, your arms, they are sooo STRONG!" and prostrate myself before him.



Thrilling moment #7

Sleeping under stars with SAB. Chastely and innocently, but oh the undercurrent...



Thrilling moment #8

IRD and SAB attempt, together, to throw me into cold rushing river because of my "sarcasm" and Sly but Philosophical Russian Boy (SPRB) rescues me. For a good ten seconds, I am clasped in an intimate embrace with three spectacular specimens of manhood.



[Quote from brilliant blogger Odious Woman on seeing the backpacking pix, "Oh my GOD. They are ALL TOTALLY HOT. How did you not break down and just have a foursome right there in the middle of nowhere?"]



Thrilling moment #9

A shirtless SAB throws me over his broad, bronzed shoulders like I'm nothing but the lightest wisp of female and jumps into azureRoss Lake with me. My seventh grade fantasies come true!



Thrilling moment #10

Massage #2 from SAB at the end of trip, this time in full view of IRD (Are we noticing a trend here?)



And the thrills go on. By night I have dark-haired IRD (tres steamy) by day I have blonde SAB, for coffee, lunch, adoration.



Can I just say, this summer rocks? Especially in comparison to last summer, my GOD.