Hello Breakup Babies old and new. How farest ye as nonexistent Seattle summer becomes beautiful, sparkly fall? Let's dig up a post from almost exactly three years ago, when I was in full-fledged Breakup Babe-o-rama mode. Ah how those Celexa-dazed days seem so far away. Funny how we can miss the traumatic times in our lives, isn't it? But those are the times we often feel most alive. At least the drama queens among us.

Monday, September 27, 2004
( 5:37 PM ) Breakup Babe

Egads. Remind me never to come back from vacation again, would you?

I am currently on Day 2, post-vacation, otherwise known as when-everything-fell-apart-at-work-and-in-my-personal-life-and-why- didn't-I-just-buy-a-house-on-the-Oregon-coast-when-I-was-down-there-where-it-is-actually-affordable Hell.

OK,OK, I exaggerate.

Things did not completely fall apart with Library Boy (who still has not trimmed his nosehairs by the way, despite me giving him a nosehair trimmer, and I don't CARE if he reads this, so THERE!) He merely told me last night that after some "soul-searching," he's decided he does not want to have children. This was after I put a wee bit of pressure on him several weeks ago, by blurting out, apropos of nothing, "I don't wan't to fall madly in love with you only to find out you don't want children!"

Ahem. Granted, this would be enough to make most men run screaming. But it had to be said, people!

Maybe I only want children because I have been brainwashed into thinking I do, because, after all, who wants to be awash in diapers and poop and vomit and drool for years on end when you could live in a nice home with nice furniture that isn't covered in strained peas, but damn it, it has nonetheless been in my general life plan since I was oh, two years old, and swaddling my teddy bears in diapers!

OK, maybe I didn't actually do that. It's just that I saw J. and A's superstar three-year old putting diapers on her Elmo doll and I thought it would make a good example of how we females are PROGRAMMED FROM BIRTH to put diapers on!

While we're on the topic of the superstar three-year old, I'll add that the high point of my vacation came with her. It was lunchtime at yet another beautiful empty Oregon coast beach, oh somewhere halfway down the coast. While the other adults milled about on the bluff above, we wandered to the beach to check out the scene.

Of course what does she want to do but take off her shoes and run in the waves? I, jaded and weary as I was, tried to resist the taking-off-shoe-plan, but when it was clear that she was hell-bent on touching that marble-green oceanwater with her toes, I was forced to.

Well! Never, I tell you, never have I seen a person be so happy or laugh so hard as did Superstar Child as we ran in and out of that water, which chased us and retreated like some crazy animal on that sparkling beach.

Those peals of laughter so packed with joy just broke right through me, people, and lo and behold I was happy too! Pure and simply happy to be there in that perfect moment. Feeling like I, too, was being chased for the first time by that big blue thing called the ocean.

So there you have it. One reason I want to have kids.

And now I have used up all my creative energy on that digression so let's forget about the rest of this dilemma til tomorrow, shall we?

Oh except to say that after that lovely discussion with LB, I then proceeded to have the best s*x of my life with him. Go f*cking figure.

It's been a while since I provided you with a everything-that's-old-is-new-again gem from the archive. Let's look back in time almost exactly four years, when Breakup Babe was at the height of her post-breakup boy craziness, heading out on a fourth-of-July backpacking trip with no less than three guys at a time. (Scroll down to the July 3 entry).Oh, those were the days.

xo
BB

Darling readers -- pulled from my archives yet another delightful description of a going-nowhere date. Those of you who've read the novel note that I lifted some things from my real-life blog (for example, listing the prices of clothing and acessories, a humorous little touch if I do say so myself), but that in other ways, my real-life blog is very different from its fictionalized counterpart. If Rachel were blogging about this date, she would have gone on and on and ON about it. In a witty way, of course. Whereas I used my blog to give a pithy, high-level overview of things, always making sure to get in a good dig at the guy who was about to break my heart/dump me/not call, or say LJBF! (Which happened shortly after this date).

Monday, May 17, 2004
( 9:50 AM ) Breakup Babe

After our date on Saturday, I still think CBW is the Cutest Boy In the World. He did show up for our date, however, wearing flip-flops and reeking of garlic, which I did not take to be a good sign. Especially after yours truly had just spent a good hour showering, blow-drying, pouffing, smoothing, brushing, flossing, rinsing, and attempting different outfits.

I smelled, if I might say it, delicious, freshly scrubbed with Origins Pomegranite Shower Gel ($16) and generously spritzed with Christian Dior's "J'Adore" ($53), my hair gently tousled with some other overly expensive product that I can't remember the name of ($17). I had on a *new* and fetchingly low-cut shirt from Anthropologie (on sale at $35!), my size 4 Banana Republic jeans (they still fit!), and sexy black boots from Nordie's ($100).

I was in a word, one hot customer.

Anyway, despite CBW's rather weak start, we proceeded to have one of the most fun dates in recent memory, first taking in a fabulous improv show at the Pike Place Market Theater, then heading next door to that swank temple of hipdom the Alibi Room, where we dined with friends of his and I made numerous witty remarks while CBW nodded approvingly at my intelligence and my low-cut shirt.

After dinner (by which point his two martinis had neutralized the garlic smell) he and I headed downstairs where we danced feverishly for the next hour to the sounds of an Aryan looking DJ who dropped his glowing Apple in the middle of the whole thing, but was nonetheless quite proficient.

Dancing was mostly PG-rated (the low-cut shirt taking it out of the "G" range) except for the time when I whispered to him that we were alone on the dance floor, at which point he grabbed me and whirled me across the floor in a parody of "Strictly Ballroom," ending the maneuver by clutching me close to him for three precious seconds. Then, in our last ten minutes of dancing, he moved noticeably closer to me, bringing the rating up to a PG-13.

Then he drove me home and I rushed nervously out of the car, no doubt giving the impression that I wanted to get away from him as quickly as possible, when instead I just wanted to avoid any awkward moments, waiting to see if he'd kiss me (because I knew he wouldn't), or waiting to see if he'd suggest another date, or worse yet, suggesting another date myself - even though, of course, I wanted all that.

And there you have it. My PG-13 date with Cutest Boy in the World. Stay tuned to see if I get to go on another date with this guitar-playing, rock-climbing, bespectacled hottie in the next year or so.

*Newsflash* *Newflash*

BreakupBabe: A Novel is a finalist for the 2007 Lulu Blooker Prize!

Check out the shortlist here.

If I win that 10K, I could finally buy myself that mail-order husband I've been dreaming about!

But I must not get greedy here. Even if I just won in the fiction category, why I could at least buy myself a new pair of shoes. But no, no. It's not about winning, it's all about gloating! being grateful for the impeccable taste of the Blooker judges who had so many other fine blooks to choose from.

I am so hot humbled.

Thank you, dear judges.

xo
Rebecca

Hello Breakup Babe-ettes,
Here we have another oldie but goodie from the archives. Here we see Breakup Babe emerging from the throes of her broken heart to become - well - Breakup Babe, eager pursuer of mountain climbers, musicians, and all kinds of other pot-smoking, hard-living, loverboys.

Friday, September 13, 2002
( 8:08 AM ) Breakup Babe

Muscle Bound Climbing Boy (MBCB) walks into foyer where I am innocently getting my mail. I glance over, see who it is, and go into FlirtAlert®.

"Hi!" I say. Friendly yet cool. Opening my mailbox. "You’re H., right?" Turn away from mailbox and smile. He is looking stubbly. Tres masculine.

"Hi," he says, processing. His tone is neutral. As in, Who is this girl? Have I met her?

"I’m BB. We met just as I was moving in."

"Oh, right!" Light clicks on in his glacier-blue eyes. "You know, I’m sorry I missed your party, but I was climbing in the Cascades that weekend."

But of course.

"Really?" I say, very interested, but turning back to my mailbox so as not to appear too much so. “What did you climb?” As if I am an expert on the myriad summits of the Cascades.

"Mount Forbidden." The name of this precipitous peak trips off his tongue. He waits to see what kind of effect it will have, and I do not disappoint.

"Ooh," I say. "I’ve heard that one is really hard." Voice goes down a register on the final word.

"Do you climb?" There is a hint of eagerness in his voice.

"Yeah," I say, casual, modest. Perusing my one piece of mail. So what if I haven’t climbed anything in a while? Look up at him, and, just perhaps, the eyelashes bat. "But nothing that hard."

Then MBCB launches into a description of just how hard Mount Forbidden actually is, with its many thousands of feet of exposure. As he talks, look directly at him and shake my head a few times to indicate incomprehension of how a person could accomplish such a manly feat. Meanwhile, am sending subliminal signals. "You want to ask me to coffee…you want to take me climbing…you want to..."

"Well," I say, when he is finished, "It sounds much more exciting than coming to my party." Turn towards the stairs to indicate that I am ready to exit. Mustn't overstay my welcome.

"Yeah," he says, rueful. He is regretting – just a little– that he missed my party now. After all, he would have seen me in a backless dress.

"Well I was committed to it anyway." He starts heading down the stairs to his basement apartment. "But next time you have a party, be sure to invite me…"

But of course.

Hello! I hope you are all suriving OK without that party girl Breakup Babe. I am hanging in there though I can't say that I don't miss her and that I'm not tempted to just open up and let it all out to you once again. I do believe that one day soon I will find a way to write about dating for the masses again, but until now, I offer you this post from the very early days. Note how I "swear" never to go to Ambiguityland at the end of this post, and of course, I did it over and over again over BB's four-year history, giving you plenty of juicy stuff to read about.

xo
BB

Sunday, September 22, 2002
( 2:14 PM ) Breakup Babe

NEXT STOP: AMBIGUITYLAND

The Dating Express has now stopped at my most feared and hated destination. That wasteland exactly between Friendship and Love: AmbiguityLand. Not only has it made its regular stop here, but the train appears to have stalled.

Some people love AmbiguityLand. You can see these weirdos walking around in their visors, cameras in hand, reveling in relationships that are not quite platonic, but not quite sexual, or relationships that are sexual, but not quite committed.

I am not one of these people. I stay inside the train, cowering. Headphones clamped over my ears. This is because I am, as Sexy Boy put it recently, in that quaint Alaskan way of his, “a straight-shootin’ son of a gun.” I do not like ambiguity in any form, but most especially when it comes to matters of my overly-tender, overly-optimistic heart.

When the train breaks down (as it has before) I’m forced to step outside sometimes for fresh air. But every time I do, I get smacked upside the head and knocked down in the gutter. Or I do it to someone else. Or maybe both at the same time.

Like last night, for example. Which, by the way, was not the first official night of fall. Because this year, I declare that fall begins TODAY, September 22. I have been waiting for fall for the last two months. For the beautiful, honeyed Seattle fall to carry away the heartbreak of this summer. Autumn is the time when my life starts turning bright jewel tones, like the leaves.

And so the stupid, stupid, heartbreak I felt last night when I made my misguided venture into AmbiguityLand was, I’d like to say, for the record, not indicative of how my fall is going to be. Because I am not stepping foot in that godforsaken place again, even if this train stays broken, and I have to sit my ass onboard forever.

Now we go back a few years to Breakup Babe's prime to revisit a night with the Doctor. Remember him? Oh yes, how could we forget. One of the best characters ever to grace this blog, and he made it into the novel too.

You know, I am much more mellow nowadays, but sometimes I miss those melodramatic ecstasies and agonies of early, Celexa-fueled Breakup Babe.

Oh! You can now see my book as an offical entry in the Lulu Blooker Prize contest. Wish me luck!

xo
R

Sunday, December 01, 2002
( 4:13 PM ) Breakup Babe

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.