Bleh. Nothing like being trapped in the office on a lovely summer evening. These are the days I fantasize about being an intrepid freelance journalist who jets off on a dime to write articles like: "Alaska's Hottest Bachelors: Breakup Babe Looks for a Husband Among the Fabled Hunks of the North" or some such fluff that would involve 1)travel 2)hot men and 3)outdoor adventure.

Well, just you wait. I'll be doing it some day soon. Because the ascendancy of Breakup Babe is coming!

Not because I have illusions that I am suddenly going to be transformed into a bestelling author when my book comes out. I have hopes, of course. But most of the time when I'm at work on it, I'm just praying that the critics won't tear me to shreds. Actually, I'm just praying to finish it. Especially because I'm back in that rough-draft-phase of writing where I'm thinking, "Why is anyone paying me to do this? I CANNOT write! And soon the whole country will know it!"

No, the ascendancy of BB is nigh because this phase of my life is ending. Whatever "this" refers to (I'll let you figure that one out). This phase is ending and I'm busy figuring out what the next one will be about. It will, of naturally, involve being a published author, and all the opportunities that brings. It will have include hot but AVAILABLE guys because I have made it a point (in this "figuring-out" sort of period) what the h*ll has caused me to go after the unavailable ones time and again. It will involve travel and journalism, and, of course, my next book.

In other news, I started my newly-single-yet-again lifestyle with a bang last weekend, or should I say, a flash. Since, true to my promises, I donned the slinkiest tank top I owned, threw back some cocktails and hit the dance floor at the Mirabeau Room. Things were going fine until I engaged in some up-close and dirty-dancing with a male friend, who enthusiastically gripped my shoulders as we danced, therefore causing my skimpy tank top to balloon open in two strategic strategic spot and reveal my braless treasures to the sweaty crowd for a good five minutes or so.

Thank you very much, ladies and germs! For the rest of the summer, I'll be wearing turtlenecks.

Well I started my newly-single-yet-again lifestyle with a bang last night, or should I say, a flash. Since, true to my promises, I donned the slinkiest tank top I owned, threw back some cocktails and hit the dance floor at the Mirabeau Room.

Things were going fine until I engaged in some up-close and dirty-dancing with a friend, who enthusiastically gripped my shoulders as we danced, therefore causing my skimpy tank top to balloon open in two strategic strategic spot and reveal my braless treasures to the sweaty crowd for a good five minutes or so.

There are dangers to getting drunk and wearing skimpy clothing (as Serial Loser pointed out in his recent comment).

(I also lost a brand new, moderately expensive earring, but nothing new about that.)

Sigh. They don't call me Breakup Babe for nothing.

Have I doomed myself with this name? (Some of you astute readers have suggested that before). Maybe I need to call myself "Will Soon Find True Love" Babe or "Bound for the Altar Babe" if I'm *actually* as serious as I say I am about meeting a guy who is right for me.

Because, seriously, I have never gone through so many breakups as I have since dubbing myself Breakup Babe. Granted, I also have a publishing contract, a first novel on the way, and boy-related material that could supply sequels. I have learned a lot (too much!) about dating in your thirties (the men are all married, mentally ill, or emotionally unavailable.) I've dated everyone from unemployed stoners to Microso*t millionaire stoners to doctor stoners!

And what do you know? Here is it is, summer, and I'm single again. Wonder what kind of stoner I'll date next?

Time to don that skimpy clothing and get drunk.

Cheers. I guess. (Picks self up off floor, pretends to feel OK, because isn't this all in a day's work for Breakup Babe?)

What a grey and lonely day outside!

Perfect for my mood.

What is with me these days? Lonely, lonely, lonely, even though I've got all the friends in the world.

Is it because I'm dating someone who's in absentia most of the time? Is it because I'm off my meds (three months now!)? Is it because most of my friends are married? Am I just a person who's prone to feeling this way? A melancholy artiste? A writer whose a solitary profession is at odds with my extroverted personality? Am I spending too much time in the city and not enough in the mountains? Is it just another form of post-birthday depression? Is it because my family lives far away and I must ride a plane to see them?

I don't know. Probably some combination of all these things. What I do know is I have no friggin' reason to feel sorry for myself whatsoever. Does that stop me? NO.

But you can help. That's right! Just participate in the Adopt-a-Breakup Babe program, which means that on a given Saturday night, I come over to your house, eat a home-cooked meal ( take-out is fine in a pinch ), entertain your children (because BB always forgets her own woes around children), then you tuck me into bed with a good book, assure me I am lovable, and be there in the morning when I wake up (preferably with breafast ready) so I do not get my Sunday-morning sadness!

I got this idea from listening to this DJ today, who was suggesting an Adopt-an-Artist program, wherein you take in depressed artists, give them some TLC, and reassure them that everything is going to be OK. The goal being that they ultimately they keep producing great art and don't off themselves.

I'm certainly not about to off myself, don't worry about that. And most of my friends are doing pretty well at the inviting-me-over and feeding me dinner part. But, you know, I just thought I'd extend the invitation to all of you are serious about helping support great art.

Or at least great chicklit.

My goodness but my brain is tired. I am slogging through a bunch of revisions right now so that - within a day or two - I can start writing the final section of my book. That's right. The ending! I hope it won't be as hard to write as the section I've been working on, but my guess is it will be. If not harder. This is the section where the crisis/climax/ephipany and resolutions have to happen in one fell swoop. But never mind that. I will start panicking about it soon enough, especially since my deadline is August 1.

Ha ha! August 1!

Meanwhile, must. finish. current. section.

To boost productivity today, I did, unfortunately feel suddenly "ill" and was not able to go to work. I've been "resting" at the Seattle public library. Remember that place? That big, inspiring, light-filled structure where almost one year ago I met Library Boy, looking all cute and scholarly across the table from me, and was therefore launched on a stormy eight-month journey?

Yeah well. Luckily I didn't see him here again, nor did I encounter any attractive men. Just as well. They are distracting. I was also able to write just fine on the 10th floor Reading Room, which is where we met, without getting all weepy or anything. So there!

In other news, the wedding gig went smashingly well. We had the best audience you could ask for, because they were tipsy and happy and hopeful and danced to every single song! Even the songs about shooting heroin in basements! In addition, my keyboards were drowned out by the other instruments, so no one could hear my f*ck-ups. On the flip side, no one probably heard my sweet little solo either, but whatever: there's always next time.

I sang a couple numbers too, and while I suspect I went off-key once or twice, everyone was too busy dancing to notice. Gotta love that.

No real flirting occurred, but I was occupied enough by my own butterflies that I didn't get bored. Nor did any guys fling their underwear at me, but I'm hoping that happens next time. Now if only we could find another gig. Getting married soon? Call us! We love weddings!

I am slowly getting into the swing of this summer thing. At times, I am quite a grump about summer. I hide from the sun, pray for rain, think everyone else out there is having a smashing, romantic time strolling by the lake with their beloved while it's only me who feels unloved and alone. But that's only on Sundays, my all-time worst day of the week. And usually only on Sunday mornings.

Today, however, on a hot, sunny Monday when I'm "sick", and the rest of the world is at work, and I'm doing what I love best in a big, airy place filled with books, I can get with the program.

Summer ain't so bad.

You guys are such good sports to stick with me even as I become so deathly dull in my dotage and my celebrity-dating phase. But what celebrity would that be? NONE! Because this is now a Celebrity-free zone. He's out of the blog for good, because that's a promise I made way back when and I have to keep it because - well, he wants me to. And I gotta respect that. Even though it makes my blog so....zzzzzz.

So say bye-bye to the pretty celebrity. Bye bye! We could have said so much about you!

In other news. My coffee-shop-writing experience has been greatly marred this morning by two obnoxious theater types talking loudly at the next table. Can't they see that there is a GENIUS AT WORK here (or at least a talented hack) and they need to shut the f*ck up?

I am almost ready to hand off the section of the book I've been slaving and sweating and writinging my hands over for the last 2.5 months, and start working on the final section . Yes, that would be the ENDING. Now that is exciting. Exciting but frightening as it will mean another two months of increasingly anguished effort, but my - after two years of working on this book - it is exhilarating to glimpse the end. Because it's there. I know it is. No matter how elusive it might prove to be in the next two months, no matter how I whine and tell you I'm never going to finish it or it's going to be horrible, my ending is there and I'm going to find it, and it's going to rock.

Maybe.

Meanwhile, my rock star debut approaches. I hope I do not embarrass myself or my band. I hope the spaghetti strap of my dress does not fall down while I'm playing to cause a Janet-Jackson-like moment. I hope I do not get drunk and morose because I do not have a date. I hope I get drunk and happy and flirty and escape the dangerous double-edge of champagne unscathed.

Wish me luck.

Darlings, you can stop your begging now because I am never going to tell you who the Celebrity is. I have probably revealed too much already! Though I can tell you no, he is not a rock star and no, he is not married. At least, I don't think he's married.

*I* am the rock star here, let's remember that. In fact, my band will be making our debut next weekend with moi on the keyboards. We're performing at a wedding however, so you won't be able to come see me play. It also means I won't be able to wear a really rock-star-like-outfit, which is really the whole point of playing in a band, but I'm sure I'll be able to dig up something sexy.

Gotta run.

xo

My God. Every time the Celebrity blows through town, I feel as if I've been hit by a tornado. These days, he's usually only here for one night at a time (most often a weeknight) and he inevitably has to get up at some ungodly hour, so there is always a lot of action - and very little sleep - packed into those short hours of his visit.

That is because the Celebrity is a one-man drinking, f*cking, partying machine. On the days after his visits, I am always in an exhausted daze and my condo looks like a war zone. I have usually had more s*x in a few hours than I thought possible with a man over age 18.

I've also gotten a truckload of compliments and affection and attention - because the Celebrity may know how to party like a rock star (for the record, he is not a rock star), but he is nonetheless focused on me like a laser when we're together. So even though he runs me ragged (yours truly is not a partying machine), that kind of attention - from someone who lives everything to the hilt, from work to adventure to relationships - is addictive.

If not exactly restful.

Sigh. I am so close - yet so far - from finishing my book. I approach the end like train pulling into the station. Moving. Halting. Groaning. Screeching. Then moving again, oh-so-slowly.

This morning started out promisingly. Fresh and optimistic from a miraculous 12 hours of sleep, I bounded up to my nearby coffee house to rewrite (for the fifth f*cking time), the final ill-fated date scene of a book packed with ill-fated dates. One couldn't blame me if I am, perhaps, a bit tired of writing about ill-fated dates - but I started out with a good attitude today.

But I forgot - conveniently! - how hard it is to write a rough draft. How discouraging it is to be writing a rough draft of anything so late in the game! But this scene had to change. Because up until now, the final ill-fated romance of the book has been boring as hell. And it needs to be funny, damn it! It needs to be the crowning glory of ill-fated dates. This guy has to be the biggest loser of them all, yet charming enough to make the heroine fall for him, until finally, finally - he proves himself SUCH a loser that her common sense kicks in. And she learns how to stand on her own two feet at last. (Until the next guy comes along!)

But that's a lot of pressure, people. Writing this whole final section of the book, where everything picks up speed, gets more serious yet also funnier, where everything is at stake, where the heroine has to learn from her mistakes - it's hard! MY LIFE IS SO HARD.

There. Do you feel sorry for me now? Can you tell I'm just procrastinating from writing the final-ill fated date scene? It's actually going better now than it was half an hour ago. I do say, I pity the boy that this character is based on (I won't tell you who it is.). It's going to hurt his manhood just a little. He was almost going to escape my book unscathed, but he has many too inspiring comic traits. Perhaps he'll be happy just to be famous.

Meanwhile, the Celebrity if off on tour and I miss him. That's the problem with celebrities, they do things like go off on tour. Once upon a time, I thought my life was fast-paced but no more. I've seen fast-paced. And it scares me. Mostly because I wonder if it leaves enough room for me. Me me me! Though as GalPal #3 just pointed out, "If this guy had enough time for you, you'd probably be bored by him."

Hmm.

Time shall tell, I suppose. Meanwhile, I'm never going to be a celebrity myself if I don't finish this f*cking scene.