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.