Now I know a talk a big game about s*x and all that, but really, when it comes right down to it, I’m a romantic. Yeah, lately I’ve been obsessed with giant c**ks, but that’s only cause I’m not getting any (in the Clintonian sense, that is.) Or rather, the boys who wanna give it to me won’t commit so they’re not getting any. Ha.



But I digress.



Tonight, I let myself have fantasies of a kind that I haven’t had in a long, long time. And not about giant c**ks. These were wedding fantasies. Oh-my-God-you’re-such-a-beautiful-bride fantasies. Kid fantasies (two brunette daughters). Fancy-house-on-Lake- Washington-with-hardwood-floor fantasies. Honeymoon -in-paradise-fantasies. Happily-ever-after-fantasies.



There was absolutely no justification except, perhaps, boredom. It was a long car ride home from the mountains after our family holiday trip. (All went well except I called my mother a bit*h on Christmas Eve, which is not bad considering five years ago on Christmas Eve, I threw a spoon that hit her in the face. That was after she had called me "sl*t." This time she had only called me a “pain in the neck.” We’re all a little mellower now).



Maybe it’s because for the last two years I thought I was going to marry Loser, yet I could never bring myself to fantasize about our wedding. I got as far as my hairdo (French twist), the guest list (50 on my side, 2 on his), potential locales (Orcas Island, Port Townsend) the music (karaoke) and then bam – I hit a wall. I couldn’t picture the saying-vows part, much less the happily ever after part. And for good reason, I guess. Because he was a lying, cheating SOB!



But I digress.



Maybe I'm just tired of being so cynical about relationships lately. So clenched with fear, and so certain that things will end badly, no matter who I'm with. I think a good wedding fantasy might be like a good cry; you just need to have one once in a while. And so I did.



For a good hour, I fantasized all about you-know-who (and if you don’t I’m not going to tell you because you'll just be disappointed in me), and really, it’s my mother’s fault because all weekend she was asking me questions about him, encouraging me to pursue him despite every red flag known TO MAN.



And not once in that hour did I think about s*x or the size of his c*ck (which of course I haven’t seen, so can only imagine how big it might be). No, it was all about love and kisses and white dresses and bliss, with absolutely no realism—much less cynicism—whatsoever. And all I have to say about it was this:



It rocked.

Good Things About My Last Date with the Doctor (Monday night)

• Doctor is flirtatious, warm, and affectionate
  
  
• Doctor is serious, smart, kind
  
  
• Doctor wears tacky Polo shirt that makes him less godlike
  
  
• Presence of older, married couple who accompanies us provides calming buffer
  
  
• Doctor has progressed to kissing me on the cheek
  
  
• Doctor laughs appreciatively at all my jokes
  
  

Bad Things About My Last Date with the Doctor

• Doctor is flirtatious, warm, and affectionate
  
  
• Doctor is serious, smart, kind
  
  
• Doctor laughs appreciatively at all my jokes
  
  
• Doctor kisses me on the cheek only
  
  
• Presence of calming couple prevents The “You’re hard to get to know” Discussion I was planning to have with him, in the vain hope that he would see the error of his ways, shed his defenses, and declare that he has been waiting his entire life to meet a beautiful, brilliant Jewish woman like myself, and that he will stop lagging IMMEDIATELY
  
  

Good Things About My Last Date with Silent But Deadly Boy (Tuesday night)

• Dancing with wild abandon til 1 a.m. on a work night
  
  
• Doing other stuff with wild abandon til 3 a.m. on a work night
  
  
• Abundance of affection from SBDB makes up for very bad Loser-related day
  
  
• Abundance of affection from SBDB makes up for a lot of things

Bad Things About My Last Date with Silent But Deadly Boy

• Note from downstairs neighbor complaining about the noise in my apartment from 1 a.m. to 3 a.m. Tuesday night
  
  
• Fear that something that feels this good can only end badly
  
  

OK, so Galpal #1 was right. Eminem is a smoldering sex god. And it sucks that I will never get to f***k him.



But you know, SBDB ain't bad either. He came with me to my holiday party on Friday night and then we had a little party of our own. And, while I plan to keep my vow of chastity until we’re married, or at least until he’s my boyfriend, I have to say girls, it's not gonna be easy. (Note to A.B., stop reading now!)



Let’s just say this. When I decided to call him Silent But Deadly Boy (thanks for the acronym A.B., even though you’re not supposed to be reading anymore!) I didn’t realize quite how deadly certain parts of him might be. I mean, really! Normally I don’t obsess about such things, but when you see something that beautiful and that big…how can you not want it?



But he says he doesn’t want a girlfriend now, so fine. WHATever. I thought I might want a boyfriend now but I guess I was WRONG. Until he does want a girlfriend, though, that big, beautiful thing will just have to wave sadly in the wind, cause this window is CLOSED for deposits (though still accepting other transactions, thank you).



Meanwhile, I’m not going to tell you whether I accepted the date with the doctor because I know you’ll all be so horribly disappointed in me. But please. Believe me when I say: it is not my fault. He is hardcoded into my genes. Get: Jewish: Doctor: Reproduce: Daughter: Get: Jewish: Doctor: Die: Happy: End.

Great. Mr. Full-of-Himself-Pediatrician-Weeny-Boy (aka the doctor) asked me out for Monday night. To some fancy thing at the symphony.



After cancelling our date on Saturday because of his "infectious diseases holiday party" (to which he did not invite me, THANK YOU, but I didn't invite him to my holiday party either, SO THERE.) I know I should say no. I know I should say no.



I should say no, right?

So. Silent but Deadly Boy. You haven't heard much about him because I've been going on about that cursed doctor. You know, the one I can't have, who doesn't want me? But I think SBDB might be a keeper.



I don’t know for sure, of course. I have been known to make bad decisions. To get crushes on the wrong people. People with intimacy issues. People I have nothing in common with. People who smoke pot five times a day. People who cheat and lie and wear tighty-whities.



BUT. SBDB seems…SOLID. Yeah, I know, boring, right? Well, that’s what I thought the first two times I met him. Bland. Boring. Yawn. And certainly not glam. In the immortal words of Sleater-Kinney, call the doctor! The third time I met him, it was like “oh!” You are kind, and real, and hot! And seemingly not afraid of me!



Lemme tell you a little story. Two weeks ago, in the sleep-deprived thrall of my karaoke date with the doctor, I wandered down the street for coffee. All I could think about was the doctor this, the doctor that.



Then, from a block away, I saw the most beautiful cat. It was sleek and black and delicate. Suddenly, all my energy became focused on that cat. I wanted to pet it. To pick it up and nuzzle that glossy fur.



So I made kissy noises. The cat whipped around. It looked at me expectantly and my heart leapt. A friendly cat! I slowed my pace so as not to scare it.



“Hey kitty kitty,” I cooed, holding out my hand. As I got closer, I saw it was even cuter than I’d imagined, with a red heart collar, and huge aqua eyes. “I love black kitties,” I was thinking. “I miss kitties. You’re so pretty, don’t run away! Please let me pet you!”



I approached and the cat ran towards me. I breathed in sharply as it brushed against my fingers and then skittered away up the little slope that led to its owner’s gate. Oh no.



“Kitty! Come back! Don’t do this to me!” The cat turned to look at me. It’s eyes were longing, but it was scared. I tried to be still. "Don’t frighten it," I thought. "Don’t breathe."



It meowed. Several times. Watched me with its wide-set eyes.



I talked to it low, seductive tones. “Kittttyyy….come here... I just want to pet you.” And the cat would make a motion forward, then jump back. It didn’t know whether to come or go. Then finally, with one last anguished look, it slipped under the fence.



That, I thought, as I walked away, is a sign.



Tonight I was running down my street. Trying to calm my nerves because, suddenly, now that I liked someone, now that I was, perhaps, ready to try dating one person for a while, I was utterly afraid that that this person didn’t like me – despite every evidence to the contrary.



Maybe I had scared him already. Maybe I had asked him to do too many things. Maybe I seemed too eager. Maybe he doesn't want a girlfriend.



The anxious thoughts were circling like sharks, when suddenly, I came upon a black cat -- in almost the same location as before. Because it was dark, I didn’t see it until I was almost right on top of it. But, as I came barreling towards it, it didn’t run away.



This was a fat black cat, with speckled fur. Not the sleek, glossy creature I’d seen before. I was going to run right past but it looked so friendly, so unafraid, so solid, I stopped. I petted it. It arched into my hands. Then it looked at my face, as if it wanted up.



So I reached down and scooped it up – all 13 or so pounds of it. I took the risk of getting scratched, of having it run away, and picked that cat up and cuddled it. It purred. It let me squish it up against my face and whisper in its ear. It let me kiss it. And when I finally, reluctantly put it down, my anxious thoughts were not so anxious anymore.



This cat knew who it was and knew what it wanted. It wanted what we all want. But some of us are comfortable asking for it and some of us are not. Some of us are comfortable getting it and some of us are not. This cat, though, was all about love.



And that, I thought, as I ran away, is a sign.

OK, I know you’re all desperately waiting to hear what happened on my last date with the doctor. You can’t sleep, you can’t eat, you’re constantly on edge. What happened?, you cry out to anyone who will listen. Why won't she tell us?!



Well, the moment you’ve all been waiting for has arrived. I’m going to tell you what happened on that fabled last date. NOTHING, OK? Nothing! Jesus, I wish you people would leave me alone.



In fact, I’ve got much better stories to tell about Silent but Deadly Boy (SBDB), whose been “watching videos” with me a lot lately, but since you people can’t get enough of that damn doctor, here it is:



1)Doctor comes over to my house. Looking. Utterly. Drop-dead. Gorgeous. Exclaims over the great beauty of my apartment. Of my APARTMENT. Talks about himself. Lets me get a few words in edgewise. Alternates between obnoxious superficiality, which makes me want to boot him out the third floor window, and kind seriousness which makes me want to curl up in his lap and stay there forever.



2)We go to dinner at intimate restaurant. We act intimate. I get a thrill pretending I actually know this stunning specimen of manhood.



3)Get st**ed in Seattle back alley. Doctor teaches me extra-special technique learned in medical school for getting super-duper st**ed .



4)Go to to Doug Martsch (musical god) show. Doctor immediately becomes serious. Every single song is heartbreaking. Turns to me, when D.M. starts another crazy-sad cover, and says “I might actually cry.” Finally, FINALLY, wraps his arms around me. At the very end. The last two songs to be exact. I love the doctor.



5)We leave show. Doctor loses serious aspect and immediately becomes fount of obnoxious superficiality, made worse by the fact that he is super-duper st**ed , and I can’t follow a thing he is saying. I hate the doctor.



6)We approach my apartment. The eternal debate begins. Do I invite him up? Will he come up? What if I invite him up and he says no? Wouldn’t it be best NOT to invite him up? I invite him up. He says yes. I love the doctor.



7)He comes up. We drink water and eat ice cream and sit on opposite corners of the red Couch o' Love. Doctor talks about himself. Doesn’t let me get a word in edgewise. Alternates between obnoxious superficiality and kind seriousness, but focuses on the former. Feel myself carried along on a conversational wave that I cannot control and do not want to participate in. This is not me, I’m thinking. He’s not getting to know me, and I’m not getting to know him. I hate the doctor.



8)At one point, doctor looks at me with that LOOK. That shy, sparkly-eyed look that says “Gee whiz, you are so pretty and great and I want to kiss you!” I love the doctor.



9) The moment passes. He doesn’t kiss me. He leaves and gives me a long, warm hug. Says “see you later.” I have a big ache in my gut. I hate the doctor.

QUOTES FROM THE CROWD

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



On Commitmentphobic Men

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

GalPal #1, mother of twins



On the Doctor

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

Galpal #2



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

L'il Sis, happily married, and always right



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

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



On Loser

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

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



On Breakup Babe

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

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



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

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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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

Must

not

get

hopes

up

BUT.



Am infatuated with (incoherent mumbling here).



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



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



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



Um, yes?



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



(Incoherent mumbling here.)



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



Um…



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



Um...



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



He’s uh… glamorous?



Uh-huh.



He’s uh…dazzling?



Uh-huh.



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



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



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



Deep?



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



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



Um, yeah.



So’d you get any?



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



Did he kiss you?



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



Ah.



But it was sexy!



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



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



Oh ho ho. So you think he likes you?



Well, I don’t know. Maybe.



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



No, but…



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



I WAS going to, but…



No, you didn’t. Did you?



Um...



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



(Incoherent mumbling here.)



And, what did he say?



He said yes!



Oh shit. When are you going out?



Tomorrow!



Christ, girl. You're in trouble now.



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

So Dr. S. came roaring back, malheureusement.



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



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



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



Huh.



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



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



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



He's not Loser.



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



So....yeah.



And the other, truly evil thought.



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



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



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



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

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



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



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



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



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



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



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

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



And it felt…sad.



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



[ARCHIVE SCRUB OCCURRED HERE - OUCH!]



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



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



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



Oh, jus' joshin'!



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



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

NEWS BRIEFS



The Doctor is History

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



Memphis Boy Deemed “Blah”

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



Sexy Boy Sees the Light

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



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



L’il Rockclimbing Spy Relapse Avoided

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



Loser Still a Loser

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

Thank you so-sad-Sour Bob for the Breakup Babe graphic! And thanks to Super-Brother-In-Law (I'll link to his Web site here) for hosting it!



You boys rock.

OK, so Memphis Boy is nice and all, but unless he starts putting out, he’s history! I mean, come on, last night I spent my evening sipping green tea, watching a video called “The Scenic Splendors of the Pacific Northwest,” and holding hands. Until midnight.



When I have to be at f***ing work at the crack of dawn. Well, 9 a.m. But still. It’s not like we’re an old married couple. It’s not even like it’s our first date, where such a thing might be exciting. It’s our fourth f***ing date, OK!



When I couldn’t lie around anymore waiting for him to throw himself at me, I left, and was rewarded for my patience with the most chaste kiss on the lips I have received since D.W. gave me my first “kiss” in the bathhouse at Venture Valley camp when I was fifteen. In other words, not really a kiss.



And now I'm sleep deprived. For that.



And don’t tell me I can throw myself at him because I’ve tried that (naturally). On Sunday night, we watched a movie while getting quite cozy on my red Couch o’ Love. There was hand-holding, arm putting around-ing, hair playing with, meaningful looks, adoring comments about my beauty, etc.



Finally, when he was about to leave, I pounced. Kissed him. Several times. For my efforts I received a few closed-mouth kisses in return and lots of hugs. Hugs! Hugs are nice but if I want those I can go visit Fluffy, the golden retriever. At least Fluffy will go horizontal with me.



BUT. I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I was sick! Ohhh, he doesn’t want to kiss me when I’m sick, I thought. Kinda lame, but understandable! And OK, so I’m still kind of sick. Maybe that’s why he wouldn’t kiss me last night. Or maybe he’s gay!



It’s enough to make me call the LRS, I tell you. Get a l’il action, you know?



Anyway, I’m giving MB one more chance. I'm not asking for the Full Monty, mind you. But a little tongue would be would be nice!



GalPal #1 suggested maybe he was just “a gentleman.” Yeah, WHATever! A eunuch gentleman, perhaps!



In the meantime, I did a Bad Thing. Despite claiming to be “burned out on” and “not into” the personals thing, I went in and refreshed my ad, posting a new and more flattering foto. The e-mails have been flooding in and my ego has been stoked; though of course, there is the inevitable anticipation and disappointment each time I see my suitor's picture (trying not to be superficial, trying not to be superficial.)



There does, however, seem to be a crop of fun (if balding) young fellows, and one hunky, alpha-looking snowboarder with all his hair who wants to “rock till the bitter end” and is looking for a “rabid lover,” whatever that is. My guess however, is that, he would put out.



Hmmph.

So I swore I’d never go to AmbiguityLand again. But, alas. If you’re dating at all, it’s impossible to avoid.



Everything is in code; everything is between the lines. If it weren’t, I’d be every boy's worst nightmare. I'd say things to Dr. S. like, “What does it mean when you take three days to respond to my e-mail?!” and “If you’re asking me out for a third time, does that mean we’re going to get married?!”



This, however, is why I have girlfriends. They provide free, immediate interpretation of coded messages, which I am too biased to decode, as well as providing deeply cynical commentary and advice.



When I wrote a gushy e-mail to them about my second date with Memphis Boy (MB), for example, GalPal#1 wrote back:



“MB sounds delightful. But so does a nice hot bath.”



Ouch.



Anyway, now I’m in a très ambiguous situation with the L’il Rockclimbing Spy (LRS). Remember him? Yeah, I know, SO two weeks ago!



Anyway, before I went to the Big Apple, he appeared to be blowing me off. FINE, right? Who needs him and his nice muscles, etc.? But I felt bad, I really did. For about four days. I mean, I’m only human. ™ Then I got over it, and – poof—I let him go as I crossed this great big, star-spangled country on a Xanax high.



When I came back, he started calling again. Playing it cool. But obviously still interested. I’m playing it cool too (if you can believe that) and have not grabbed that plastic fly with my gaping jaws.



And so far, it's all hi, how are you, and not, why were we so hot, and then NOT, and just what exactly is happening now, which are really the questions on everybody’s mind.



You know what, though? I’m FINE with it this time, I really am. Because I have achieved ZEN detachment from the situation. He hurt my feelings, I got over it, and now I don’t really care. That much. It would be nice to see that cute “pouch” underwear and feel that soft skin and…well, you know.



But still. Now I’m trying to blow him off. Why get sucked back in? He behaved badly once. And besides, the girlfriends all agree: Let it go. I'm just not good at blowing cute boys off, that's all.



But there are plenty of other boys around to take my mind off his nice, uh, personality.



MB, for example, who doesn’t exude the same seductive maleness (he says “golly” in every other sentence), but who is a lovely human being. (Can he kiss, though? I still don't know. And does he wear pouch underwear?).



Dr. S., of course. We’ll have our third date soon. Maybe in ten years he’ll bust a move. Then, Mountain Man and Hotshot Lawyer Boy, who are still waiting in the wings. Lord only knows what kind of underwear they wear. Makes me tired to think about it.



But you know, there is an upside to this whole situation. I get to fall in love again someday. Before a life of diapers and mortgages, or before my heart gets decimated again, I get to experience the giddiness, the lust, the sex-every-night, the oh-my-God thrill you only get with someone new, the utter sense of well-being you get when it's all infatuation and no bitterness.



I'm sure there's good stuff after that too. With the diapers and mortagages. It's just that I wouldn't know.

You know I’m sick when I go to the store wearing sandals with striped socks, a purple hat, and a dark blue fleece jacket three sizes too large.

Especially because, on principal (and unlike the majority of fashion-impaired Seattleites), I do not wear fleece to parties, fancy restaurants, etc. I wear it for outdoor activities and outdoor activities ONLY.

Except of course, when I’m sick. As in-I-must-go-to-the-store-and-get-cold medicine-and-tissues-ASAP sick. As in I-feel-too-disgusting-to even-put on-my-nice-coat-and-brand new-pointy- $200-boots-that-I-just-bought-in-New-York-City sick, so I will go out looking like a complete slob DESPITE the possibility of running into at least one former lover (the sleazy F.) and one potential lover (Hotshot Lawyer Boy) at this earthy-crunchy store.

And, since aforementioned store would never carry something as unnatural as Actifed, I wait for 10 minutes while "Jane," the “Personal Care Manager," dispenses advice about vegan multivitamins to some long-haired dude, so I can get her opinion on which natural cold remedy to buy.

Well, lemme tell you, there’s a huge difference between homeopathic remedies and herbal remedies, which Jane gladly explains to met in great depth while I stand there sniffling and dripping, wanting nothing more than to get back home and watch "Wet Hot American Summer." Then she sells me a ten dollar bottle of freeze-dried nettles. Yes, nettles. She says it’s the closest thing to Actifed there is in the herbal (not homeopathic!) world, and because I'm too lazy to drive 10 more blocks to Safeway, I buy it.

And I feel too disgusting to even talk about sex and dating and boys, if you can believe that. Let’s just say I had a great time on the ex-boyfriend tour of NYC (though I only saw one ex-boyfriend; the other one didn’t deign to show up which really shouldn’t surprise me since he dumped me for that ho’ S.J. at the homecoming dance, who is still as bitchy as she ever was – I mean, grow UP! – and an Internet millionaire to boot, not that I’m bitter), and there was no sex or dating or boys, except for of the platonic sort. And hey, maybe that’s why I had a good time.

Now, for the freeze dried nettles. If they don't work and I can't sleep, I might have to call in sick to work tomorrow -- oh no!

Dating Is Not for the Faint of Heart— So Why Do I Keep Doing IT?!




Well people, let's just say I understand now WHY I didn't put out for the LRS!



Because he is blowing me off. Yes, moi.



Maybe because I wouldn't put out? Or maybe because I got annoyed with him that we went to a party and he flirted madly with, and got the phone numbers of, every single girl in sight? (Dating, I've rediscovered, is NOT for the faint of heart.)



But WHATever (my new mantra)! I don't need the likes of a 23-year old anyway. It's so, like, 11 years ago! And nice muscles aren't everything. Besides, did I mention he had the most humongous nose of anyone I'd ever dated?



Plus, there's a much more promising field of stallions chomping at the bit now. For example:

• Memphis Boy (MB). Met him that fateful night at the Tractor, when M. was handing out my business cards. Finally went on our first date Monday, the day I felt dumpage coming my way, and the day one of my friends wrote me such a *mean* e-mail it made me cry.
  
  
  
  After all that crap, Memphis boy was like a l'il blonde angel sent from Heaven! Cute, smart, politically engaged, 27 (they're getting older!), with a southern charming accent and a kick-ass smile.





• Dr. S. (aka Dreamboat). As my friend J. so aptly put it, Dreamboat is like one of those CDs you buy, and don't like on first listening to it; but then it grows on you until you can't get enough. At least I'm hoping J. is right. Because, not only is Dreamboat a dreamboat, he is a dream mate! (This is my mother speaking, not me).





• Mountain Man (MM). A fixer-upper from aformentioned friend J (who is a fount of single male friends). Imagine! A boy who would drag me up mountains and rock faces! It is my dream, I tell you, my dream. We have yet to go on our first date, but will as soon as I return from the ex-boyfriend tour of New York City.





• Hotshot Lawyer Boy (HLB) Jewish. Cocky. Tackles the evil corporate forces of the world. Does Yoga (is that good quality in a guy?). Outdoorsy. *Extra added bonus: Loser was always intimidated by him, and therefore hated him. Yet to go on a date with him, but the groundwork has been laid.
  
  
  
  It may be a few days before I write again, since, as mentioned am leaving on the ex-boyfriend tour of the Big Apple tonight. Since I have a phobia of flying, my only consolation, since I know, of course, that my plane will crash, is that, if it does, Loser will probably feel *horrible.* In fact, it might be his undoing! And that's something we can all get behind.

Now that things have gotten hot n’ heavy with the L’il Rocklimbing Spy (LRS) – who possesses an irresistible combination of nice muscles, soft lips, and macho swagger -- my chastity is being put to the test.



And I’m forced to wonder. Am I being arbitrary when I say I don’t want to go all the way? (Excuse my quaint turns of phrase, but I'm a nice girl at heart.) Why does that one little act that have so much significance even though it is just slighty different (a little tug there, a little pull there, and ohhhh yeah) from all the other stuff you’re doing ?



In this libertine age, there seems such an arbitrary line between going all the way and going part way. I have told myself many times in the past that I was not going to have sex with so-and-so, only to have sex with so-and-so because it seemed silly not to— after all weren’t we practically doing it anyway?



But that’s a load of crap and I’ve always known it.



So, in keeping with my new evolved personality, I’ve shown remarkable restraint with LRS. But it ain’t easy. Because after all, I’m only human. ™ I have my needs, you know. And it’s been more than three months since I’ve gotten it nice and reg'lar. That’s too *$@#$! long!



Nonetheless, despite pressure from the youngster, I haven’t caved yet and I’m happy about it, dammit. Because once I do, I’m gonna be:

1. More vulnerable
   
   
2. More neurotic
   
   
3. Even more poised to fall in love with him than I already am
   
   

When really, despite his massive potential, he is bright, bold, brash wine that is just not ready to drink (unlike moi, who is in the flower of my ripeness and, uh, drinkability).



And, never mind the fact that it would be totally inappropriate for me to do so at this time with this person, I am freakin’ scared to fall in love with someone again! I always thought people who claimed to be “scared” of relationships were full of shit. But that was before I had been cheated on, lied to, and cruelly mistreated by the person I most loved and trusted in the entire world (swelling violins PLEASE!).



The question is, seeing that I he is, in fact, oh-so-foxy, and I am, in fact, only human, how long can I hold out?



And if I were a guy, would this be easier?

Newsflash -- War on Iraq Imminent and I'm a Cradle Robber!

I found out yesterday that L'il Rockclimber Boy (LRB) is — get this — 23 years old! Apparently he was "joking" when he told me he was 26. Ha ha.

So I guess I'm, uh, seeing, someone eleven years my junior. Eleven years! I mean people, come on, I am not old enough to be dating anyone who is that much younger than me! But according to the girlfriends I've polled today (2), I must dump him right away before getting "sucked in."

But..but..but..can I just say in his defense, he is much more smart and together than I was when I was 23 (granted, that's not saying much). But LRB (whose acronym is officially changing to LRS for L'il Rockclimbing Spy, because that's what he does for a living, really), has already had his own business, traveled all over the world, climbed myriad spires and Seattle landmarks, and plays a mean flamenco guitar.

This is much more than I can say for Loser, whose biggest aspiration is making sure his toilet is clean and his car expensive enough to impress his coworkers. Then again, my therapist told me that dating someone just because they're different from Loser is a stupid idea.

So, whatever, I'm lost on this issue. For the moment.

In other news, Dr. S. — aka the Dreamboat — broke his two week vow of silence and asked me out again. I thought about saying, "Can we just skip dinner and go straight for marriage?" But I refrained.

Anyway, I still haven't figured out if he's a nice guy or not. But I'll know more after tomorrow night, so stay tuned.

Once upon a time, a roommate of mine placed a personals ad and received a charming response from a non-native English speaker, which ended in the following way:

“P.S. I am a very happy person and do not have much emotional luggage.”

Lucky him!

There are benefits to staying single into your 30s, like financial independence and sex with lots of different boys. But there are disadvantages too, one of those being that I am now saddled with way too much emotional luggage (none of it matching, I might add).

And now, post-Loser, I have a big new piece of ugly-ass luggage (plaid, if you can believe it!). And, if you were to look inside, here are just a few of the items you’d find:

• Trust issues



• Abandonment issues



• Self-esteem issues



• Fear of falling in love again



• Fear of never falling in love again



• Fear of getting married



• Fear of never getting married



• Fear that I am evil, controlling selfish bitch who drives men away

To name just a few.

And then there is the question of the rebound. Am I on the rebound? Sexy Boy (SB) claims I am (his “excuse” for not going out with me). But what does it mean to be on the rebound? Is the first relationship post-breakup always a rebound? Does that mean it is by default doomed, and that you just have to get it over with?

Three years ago to the month, when I was mourning the breakup of a less serious relationship, over which I got much more depressed (having not yet discovered the wonder drug, *Celexa,* which I recently recommended to so-sad Sour Bob), I fell into a “relationship” with a rock-climbing (what else?) district attorney. And oh. My. Was the sex ever hot. Scorching!

But we could not hold a conversation to save our sex-addled lives. This was a guy who was smart, literate, outdoorsy. Everything, on paper, that I look for. And when he walked in the door, my knees – quite literally – got weak.

Doing my usual thing, I convinced myself that someday we’d have something to talk about.This had to be more than just scorching sex! Then, after three weeks, he dumped me. I felt bad for a couple days, certain I’d never have sex that scintillating again (I haven't). But then I got over it. And more than that, I got a little more over my ex.

Now it’s October again, and my love life seems poised to improve. But the plaid luggage is weighing me down. As I (possibly) sidle into a l’il something with L’il Rockclimber Boy (LRB), who is, by the way SOOO cute, I don’t know where my head’s at.

Do I really like him? Is this just a fling? Is this just a rebound? Do I even know that yet? Do I need to figure that out yet? Don’t I need to keep dating? How can I keep dating when I’m kissing someone and enjoying it so much? If I keep dating, do I tell him? Is he seeing anyone else? Is he even going to call today like he said he would?

All of a sudden I’m just like the girl in the Offspring song,

“I'm seeing this girl and she just might be out of her mind


Well she's got baggage and it's all the emotional kind


She talks about closure and that validation bit


I don't mean to be insensitive, but I really hate that shit…”

Sorry boys!

TOP 5 REASONS I LIKE L’IL ROCKCLIMBER BOYS

1. Strong hands



2. Strong arms



3. Swagger



4. Passion for life as evidenced by devotion to death-defying sport



5. Favorite word is “epic,” as in "That's epic, dude!"

Note that you can now "subscribe" to Breakup Babe. I think. Every time I update the site, you'll get notified, if you sign up in that little box thingy in the upper-left-hand corner.
Toodles, BB.

A mere two weeks after placing my personals ad, I have burned out on dating.

Yesterday, in fact, I was so burned out, I had to call in sick to work. But it was only my soul that was sick. I went to Yoga, tried to become “indifferent.” When that didn’t work, I bought a gigantic piece of piece of cake, ate it in bed, and then promptly fell asleep for several hours (only to dream of throwing a glass of beer at Loser and missing).

The thing is, I have met only two personals boys in person. And the were nice. Sweet! Intelligent! Outdoorsy! I have a knack for meeting high-quality men through the personals. And then not being attracted to them.

My problem is, I try to be a friend to the whole wide world. I’ve responded to a mere quarter of the boys who’ve e-mailed me, but still – the correspondence is voluminous.

I want to give these boys the benefit of the doubt. But I know how it goes: I schedule them all in for coffee, and then they like me, and I like them, but only in a FRIENDS way, and then I have to tell them, and –

It’s exhausting.

I know, I know, a couple weeks ago, I was trying to make things happen, since CuteBoyCallBlock was activated on my phone and I didn’t know how to turn it off.

But now it’s unblocked. And half the men in Seattle are asking me out! (OK, that's an exaggeration. But I was cruelly cheated on and dumped two months ago, so I gotta brag about something!) Suddenly, I’m juggling the names of a dozen boys in my head, and on top of trying to hold down a job, a clean kitchen, my sanity, and I just can't do it.

On top of that, I have to keep their real names and their pseudonyms straight. There’s John (FreeandOpen), who loves Vegas and parties; Craig (Corio), who looks like Johnny Depp and doesn’t believe in “traditional” relationships; Henry (sfboy), who’s coming up for the weekend from S.F. and wants a fling; Brian (SnazzyShoes), who writes children’s plays but is kinda bald, Adam (Arrows andStars), a wine importer with a boyish grin...

And that’s just the personals guys. Then there are the ones I’ve met the "natural" way: in smoky bars, through friends, etc. Brad, the blonde mountain climber (ooohh, climbers), David, the politico from Memphis, Jake (aka Li’l Rockclimbing Boy, aka LRB, the 26-year old rockclimbing spy), Dr. S., the glib but good-looking pediatrician (who’s about to drop off the list since he hasn’t called, but ANYWAY)…

Even a Gemini like me can only handle this kind of volume for only so long. Once upon a time, in a different single life, I made a spreadsheet for my mom – to detail who was who among the men in my life. Now I need one for myself.

But fuck the spreadsheet. I can’t date all these guys; I can’t even be friends with all of them. Much as I hate to hurt feelings, much as I hate to close any doors when the room inside looks the least bit intriguing; if I keep going this way I’m headed for a nervous breakdown. In the immortal words of Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Breakup Babe needs to RELAX!

The other day, I got 250 business cards printed up. Not because I need them for business, mind you. Hell, my “business” consists of sitting in a windowless office editing things like:

"The wParam of this message contains a Boolean value that, if zero, disables the OK pushbutton. If the wParam is non-zero, the OK pushbutton is enabled. By default, the OK pushbutton is enabled."

No one needs to call me for any reason, unless it’s to make sure I haven’t gone into a coma.

But hey. Work paid for them. And they are a handy way to get my phone number and e-mail address out into the big, bad world of boys. It beats desperately searching for a scrap of paper on which to write so I can thrust it into the hands of that hottie as he leaves the party.

Now I know what you’re thinking. And it’s true. My sister and I used to say we inherited our "slut genes" from our mother. But now that l’il sis is married to Super Brother-in-Law (SBL), she no longer engages in such behavior (I hope!). AND, I might add, I am no longer the sluttiest one in the family because that distinction now goes to SBL’s sister! So there.

In my defense, I’d like to say it's not insecurity that prompts my profligate behavior, but a mere over-enthusiasm for boys. Caught up in the wave of this enthusiasm, I am, as my father used to say, “boy-crazy.” Or, as Gal Pal #2 put it last week, “indiscriminating.”

For example, I gave my card out twice on Thursday night. Although, officially, my friend M., taking on the role of agent, gave my card out once, when a nerdy (but slightly cute!) boy at the Tractor fumbled his attempt to ask for my e-mail. At which point, M., smooth as silk, and sympathetic towards nerdy (but slightly cute!) boy, whipped out his wallet and said, “Yeah, you should e-mail her. Here’s her card.”

Then there was L’il Rockclimbing Boy (LRB) (not to be confused with