So. I know you are all jealous, but I went on a date with the Cutest Boy in the World (CBW) the other night.



No, I'm sorry. Your boyfriend is NOT the cutest boy in the world. Neither is yours! They're cute, I grant you that. To YOU they may be the cutest boy in the world, but I guess that's what it's all about isn't it?



Because, for me, CBW is IT. He's seriously got it all. Everything I've looked for and hoped for in a guy, in one sweet, lovely package.



But hell, what do I know? We've only been on one freakin' date. So don't listen to me. And most of all, don't get your hopes up.



I don't know yet if we actually have real chemistry. I don't know yet if he thinks I'm just as dreamy as I think he is (though I most certainly am). And for the record, I failed miserably at lying about my age. I told the truth!



Now we'll just have to see. I don't like this wait-and-see period. I despise it in fact. So don't bother me, OK? I'm a little on edge.



Meanwhile, before all my critics descend and tell me to get a life, to stop being so "afraid" and "desperate," there is other news.



Sporty Architect Boy is coming to visit next weekend! This could be good or bad. All my friends disapprove of him based on my descriptions of his partying ways, but never mind about that.



It will be a fun time if I'm not too distracted by CBW. If CBW doesn't think that I'm the Cutest Girl in the World, then well, it will simply be a fun time. There will be nothing to distract me except thoughts of future angst that I will have after getting further emotionally attached to someone who is inappropraite for me. But never mind about that.



And there is book news! Things are looking (cautiously) good on the book front. There is an agent who is excited about it! Now, if only it were that easy. If only, now that I've found a potential taker so quickly, they would sign me up and sell my book for big bucks toute de suite!



But it never works that way. Instead, they want me to work with them to restructure a bit and make it more "saleable." And I'm like "OK! Forget about artistic vision! I'm all about the sales, baby!" So I'm restructuring, resending, and THEN hopefully getting signed up for the big bucks.



Plus, soon enough I'll get to play on stage with he Reluctants (listen to some of their recordings!) and then my life will be complete. No boys necessary. Oh, maybe a few cute groupies, depending on what kind of "favors" they're willing to give.



Then I'll gather 'em all up to go on tour with me for the book in a big pink bus that says "Breakup Babe" on the side in glittering letters, how about that?

OK, this is what I want to know. How am I supposed to work under such circumstances? I have a date with the cutest, most charming boy in the world tonight and it's still almost FOUR hours away.



Not only that, I'm having a chat with someone tomorrow who may launch my literary career. Now that I've told you about it of course, I've undoubtedly jinxed it and will just end up a sad-sack old maid alchoholic instead of the Next Big Thing with my own candy-colered chick lit sensation (why yes I'll sign a copy!).



But ANYWAY. The point is, I've got 3 hours and 45 minutes left in this windowless hole and I don't know how I'm going to stand it.



Well, three hours and 44 minutes now.

This weekend has been a relay race with tricky handoffs. Getting back from hiking or biking, tearing off my sweaty clothes, taking a five-minute cold shower (because it takes my shower twenty minutes to heat up) trying on at least three different outfits for the next event, all the while tripping over the laundry basket and the numerous pairs of shoes I've tried and then rejected.



And each time I leave a different mess in my wake as I sprint off to the next event (the play, the show, dinner at GalPal #3s). Meanwhile, the dishes are piling up in the sink, my coffee table is piled high with refuse from my now-disappeared desk, which I gave away two weeks ago, leaving a mess of tangled cords and non-working modems. And for some mysterious reason, the entire apartment smells like garbage even though I just emptied my garbage can.



As I crawl into a bed piled high with rejected outfits, closing my bedroom door against the garbage smells, I think, tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll clean it up. Then I try not to beat myself up about it but instead think of all the things I've accomplished this weekend as squalor crept in.



I biked 20 miles home from work on Friday. I went to two (count them, two!), "cultural"-type events. I led a hike. I saw a band full of cute boys. I revised the elusive Chapter 3 of the book, and came up with a new ending. I bought an 80s-style dress, so ugly its hip (think me in 9th grade if only I'd been sexy). I practiced piano. I drank much too much coffee and ate too much sugar. And, most importantly of all, I fell in looooovvvee.



All right. Now you're probably saying "Uh-huh," with a world-weary sigh. You know, in all likelihood, he'll be:



-here today, gone tomorrow when I fall in love with someone ELSE

-a noncommital bastard

-or a nice guy who I will reject because he's not a noncommital bastard



OK! So maybe you're right! But can I just say this guy is 120% my type? In fact, let me go so far as to say there has never been anyone more my type in the entire world than this boy. Forget that I've only spoken about five words to him in person.



But I'll stop here because the ball is in his court right now and if he doesn't whack it back all my foaming at the mouth willl be for naught. Let's just hope I was as irresistible yesterday as my damn horoscope promised I would be all month.



In other news, I have decided to start lying about my age. Let's all say this together: 32. Repeat it several times so when anyone asks, you won't f*ck up.



Merci.

Well. I'm finally starting to understand that t-shirt my dad had that he loved so much back in the early 80s. It said, "I have now abandoned my search for Truth and am looking for a good fantasy."



Even though I sometimes wore that shirt for 7th grade P.E., I didn't get why he and my mom thought it was so d*mn funny. "You'll understand when you're older," they said (which is what they ALWAYS said when they were too lazy to explain something), and then they'd smirk at each other.



I now understand it and you know why? I am willingly engaging in a fling, that's why. Sporty Architect Boy is coming up from San Francisco to visit me for four whole days in early May, and I am like, "Bring it on, baby. We don't have a future but you are hot."



Actually I am more angst-ridden than that. I am more like "Oh my gosh I shouldn't get involved oh my gosh I'm just falling into my old pattern of getting involved with anyone who's cute, oh my gosh I'm just bored, I really shouldn't, oh my gosh, if I have a fling now I'm going to be alone forever and EVER! Oh my gosh I must buckle down and look for Mr. Right. Right now!"



But you know what? F*ck it. I could meet Mr. Right in two weeks and he could die two weeks after that, and meanwhile I'd miss a whole weekend of fun with Sporty Architect Boy, who, by the way, does think we have a future (I think.)



Yes. So there you have it. The problem is, I'm not actually sure I want to have s*x with him. Now you're saying WTF?! Well, excuse me - but I don't have sex with just anybody these days! I mean, The Captain, hello, I dated him for two months, liked him a lot, and never gave it up!



I guess I can't exactly have a fling without having s*x, can I? If he flies all the way up here, he's gonna want it, isn't he?



Hmm.



But anyway. I've abandoned my search for True Love (for the month of May anyway) and am indulging myself in a good fantasy.



So there.

Just a few reasons I need a boyfriend:

• I cannot get the back tire back on my bicycle.
  
  
  
  
• I can't get a roof rack for my car because I'm not tall enough to put my own bicycle on it.
  
  
  
  
• My DSL modem is not working.
  
  
  
  
• My karaoke machine is not working.
  
  
  
  
• I live up three flights of stairs and am consistently carrying at least 500 pounds of things with me every time I come home.
  
  
  
  
• I need to take my piano to the shop and it weighs at least 500 pounds.
  
  
  
  
• I haven't had s*x in -- oh, never mind.
  
  
  
  

Sigh. Another evening, another blind date, another swank new bar. Will it ever end?



Alas, I have not had a shower in two days, through no fault of my own. Sleeping late, broken hair dryer, book that needs writing, etc. My greasy hair is therefore pulled into two, what-I-hope-are-charming pigtails, and my piquant yet feminine body odor hidden under one psychedelic hot-pink-and-orange shirt layered under one velour sweater, doused liberally with rose perfume.



Perhaps he will be so distracted by my big brown eyes that he will ignore all signs of my lack of hygiene. Did I tell you what the Captain once said to me, in one of his sweeter moments? That my "gorgeous brown eyes caused him to melt inside?"



Da*mn it.



We've been corresponding jauntily over e-mail as if our break-up never occurred. But he got the Dear Captain letter, I know he did. And yes, 'twould probably be best if I just shut him down entirely for a while, but can I help it if I want him to do an about-face and say "BB, I LOVE you, I was so WRONG to be so FLAKY, I will change my entire PERSONALITY for you if only you will take me BACK!"



You know what I like best about NAPSTER? (the legal version?) That you can download your favorite cheesy hits from the 80s without having to buy the whole damn album! "Total Eclipse of the Heart." "Keep On Lovin' You." "The Gambler!" "All out of Love!" It doesn't get any better than that, now does it?



All right. Off to the dating jungle.

Now. 'Tis time for a shameless plea.



Do any of you dear readers have connections in the literary world that might be helpful to moi, Breakup Babe, as I pitch my book out there into the deep, dark abyss of literary agents and publishing houses?



If so, e-mail me at breakupbabe@msn.com.



You will earn my undying gratitude and a big fat kiss! Oh, and a dedication, of course. And a picture of me in a bathing suit! (hee hee).



Seriously. It's tough out there and we all know the only way to get anywhere is with connections.



So if you like my writing, and you are someone, or you know someone, or you know someone who knows someone who might be willing to talk to me, let me know.



Thank you!

In high school, I was not cute. I was not popular. Until my senior year, I had a bad haircut and bad clothes and the boys on whom I developed monumental, Air-Supply-fueled crushes showed not a whit of interest in me. I went to parties and prayed for boys to swoon over me, but it never happened. I didn't have a date for the prom.



But now, at the ripe old age of 35, I'm finally living out my high school fantasies. Going to glamorous parties in big cities wearing slinky dresses where a gorgeous man (Sporty Architect Boy) wants nothing more than to make out with me every half hour, fighting off the other boys who are buzzing around as if I were a hot pink flower in full bloom.



I tell you, even in sixth grade, I was dreaming about such things. My best friend Jill and I would spend hours acting out scenarios, where we, famous singers/writers/photgraphers and/or supermodels lived together in a chic apartment in New York or San Francisco, where we performed/accepted awards/partied with the best-looking and most successful men on Earth, all the while wearing fabulous outfits yet retaining our essential innocence and high moral character.



In these fantasies, though, I was always about age 22. Because at 12, I could not possibly imagine being older than that. To me, 22 seemed the pinnacle of young womanhood, the age to which I aspired. At age 22, college degree in hand, my destiny would unfurl in the bright, bold colors of fame, fortune, and romance.



I never thought about my thirties back then. I assumed all the fun would end in my mid twenties, when I would inevitably marry another singer/writer/photographer/supermodel, settle down, and have kids - just like my parents (only with a more glamorous life than they).



Instead I spent my early twenties having bad jobs, going to grad school, and dating nice, but unexciting men. I spent my late twenties doing semi-glamorous jobs and dating semi-glamorous but inappropriate men. My writing career was happening, at least, but it was taking its time.



Marriage? I didn't stress about that til I hit 30. But at 32, I met The Big L. and thought I had it made. I had a book on the way, a handsome, devoted man at my side, and it looked like life was about to slide into place - if just a few years behind schedule.



Then, of course, it all went to hell. There was a breakup in which I was betrayed, lied to, and saddled with a piece of emotional baggage too big to fit into any overhead bin. Not to mention, I was 34 and single, with a shattered sense of self-esteem and no prospects in sight. Let's not forget, I also had an ex who worked right down the hall, and who shacked up with my manager as soon as he tossed me from his condo into the street.



But you all know the story. I fought my way back and became a better writer than ever before by churning out stories of heartbreak and noncommital men. I make money than ever before. I can afford late nights, fancy restaurants, and as many mixed drinks as I want without even balancing my checkbook. I dropped 15 pounds and can suddenly fit into any sexy piece of clothing I desire.



Men now appear out of the woodwork. Handsome men. Sexy men. Smart men. Dumb men. Successful men. Slacker men. Artistic men. Intellectual men. Crazy men. And I date them all. Whether or not they're good husband material. I go to parties, I sing karaoke, I drink pink cocktails, I dance, I make my married friends swoon in jealousy. Meanwhile, I inch towards some kind of breakthrough with my writing.



It's time, I know, to get more serious about the men I date. It's time for me to tell Sporty Architect Boy - who, by the way, is an ex-runway model (straight, thank you) - that we have no future, so maybe he doesn't need to come visit me, and maybe I don't need to have my birthday in San Francisco - but you know what? It's hard for me to resist the bubbly intoxication of it all.



Especially when I'm afraid to love someone again. I'm ready, I really am, but I'm afraid. Because look what happened last time. Someone who I thought was more loyal, more loving than it was possible to be - disappeared in a puff of smoke.



Hell, maybe it's just an excuse. Maybe I'm too busy having fun to having to settle down, and that's why I flit around to the most glamorous, the most inappropriate guys. I mean, how often do you get to live out fantasies of any sort? So what if my

fantasies are those of a 12-year old girl?



Did I ever say I wanted to grow up?



It's just that I'm 35 years old. And I'm torn between letting those fantasies go so I can "settle down" or milking them until I'm old and pathetic.



And what I want to know is this - is there any sort of middle road?

Bleh. What was I on yesterday?



Oh yes, caffeine. That's the only time I feel buzzy right now. After my giant cup of morning coffee, which I persist in drinking even though I now have a horrible cold, brought on by too much time spent on the dating roller-coaster. Last weekend was a whirwind of heartbreak, excitement, romance, travel, and now -



I'm faced with the aftermath.



Which is, sickness. And no one to feed me or hold me or help me feel better.



Which is, no Captain. No smart-ass, sarcastic e-mails that we've been trading for the last two months. No long, lazy Saturdays and Sundays. No soft, sweet, skillful lips of his. No more feeling so funny and smart and sexy around him, and no more enjoying the way he was so affectionate with me in public.



Which is, no Sporty Architect Boy. After three days away from him, no word from this beautiful, (overly) alpha male, who dripped lovely endearments from his drunken lips about how he wanted to be "my boy," and how I was such a "rock star" and was the best thing to happen to him on his birthday, and could he come visit? - has not deigned to call or e-mail.



Which is, work.



Which I gotta go to now, since it is, after all, noon.



(Makes sounds of weak and dying bee here.)



Bzz.

No time.



Must write fast.



Weekend in California = Whirlwind.



Sporty Architect Boy = F*$#ing hot!!



Future with San Francisco-dwelling SAB = Not so hot.



The Captain = Officially dumped. By post. As of Monday.



Other Prospects = Yes, but uninspiring.



Number of boys kissed last week = 3 (ties with all-time record!)



Horoscope for the month: "Wow, Gemini, you are about to hit the astrological jackpot when it comes to love and romance! Venus and Mars will BOTH be in Gemini this month, traveling very close to one another, and that means you are about to create a buzz wherever you go. Aren't you the popular one!"



Buzz buzz buzz.

My God, could this week be any more traumatic? It's not even over yet so I'm sure it can -- and will! - be. Good thing I indulged in retail therapy last weekend and bought a big comfy chair for my office that is perfect for throwing oneself into and sobbing. It beats doing it under my desk.



It's my own fault, isn't it? Did not I say, just two months ago:



And so, because I am dedicated to bringing you the best in romantic angst I simply refuse to hook up with someone who would make life too easy for me and too boring for you.



What is my f*cking problem? Um, don't answer that. Let's just refrain from our little psychoanalyses of me today - my fear, my desperation, my lack of self-esteem - ok? Why don't you, instead, just laugh and cry along with me and rest assured that I have a life outside all this romantic angst; it's just that romantic f*cking angst is the subject of this blog!

So, here it is.



The Good News

I have dumped the Captain.



The Bad News

He doesn't know it yet.



The Good News

There are *three* strapping prospects in the wings! One of whom - Sporty Architect Boy - I shall meet this weekend when I flee this mess for California. (Stay tuned).



The Bad News

Because I have not "officially" ended it with The Captain, I could lose my nerve and fall prey to a sweet word.



The Good News

But I won't!



The Bad News

Um, hopefully I won't.



The Good News

I have my health! (That biopsy reference was just a metaphor - no worries.) I'm young (ish)! I have a great life!



The Bad News

I'm sad. There's going to be more crying in the big red chair before this is over.



The Good News

But then I'll pick myself up and go, and soon enough I'll be happy enough to give my heart to a man - not a boy - who will love me back.



The Bad News

I could die in a plane crash before I do.



The Good News

Heaven is probably full of hot yet intellectual guys looking to get married.