Tevas & Socks - Not Okay

From: smrtygrl
To: Gigi
Date: January 30, 2006
Subject: Christ...

M3 may have made a fatal flaw this evening that's simply unforgivable.

We were on the phone last night (we can dissect why I was on the phone with him in the first place at a later date), talking among other things about the [city removed] trip on the 10th and the hockey tickets I won on eBay (Detroit vs. Vancouver in March) and then eventually I said how I need to be careful not to use up all of my vacation days before the first half of the year isn't even over yet...

And then he commented that I'll need to hang on to at least a week's worth of days off...

To go backpacking.

For god's sake. Over-sharing about the girlfriend I can almost forgive.

But backpacking?!?

I fucking hate the Pacific NW.


From: Gigi
To: smrtygrl
Date: January 31, 2006
Subject: Re: Christ...

Utterly unacceptable.

Why can't these people just go to the movies like the rest of the regular world and call it a day?

Ice, Ice Baby

Deeply and profoundly troubled by M3's weekend admission that he's struggling with emotional fallout from his breakup and it's (surprise!) getting in the way of his feelings for me, I turned to an old, dear and brilliant pal who, in nine years of friendship, has never failed me even once in the "I'm gonna give it to you straight even if it sucks so don't argue with me because you know I love you " advice-giving department.

When presented with the news that M3 was having serious regrets and doubts about the breakup, yet still was somehow maintaining that *our* potential was "limitless," said friend chose to invoke the oft-used, frequently-lamented-because-its-so-god-damn-true, and incredibly-versatile-in-so-many-life-scenarios analogy of The Hockey Player.

It goes a little something like this.

(P.S. Old, dear friend, you are hencewith invited and encouraged to utilize the comment feature to correct the inevitable bastardization of your brilliant analogy that's about to transpire.)

It doesn't matter how good of a hockey player a guy claims to be. Or how good of a hockey player others claim him to be. Until he's laced up the skates and can prove once and for all that he's a good hockey player, who the fuck cares, really?

Perhaps due in part to my newly-obtained grown-up status, it turns out I didn't actually need to wait for my brilliant friend to chime in before responding to M3. I knew exactly what to say. This was, is and will continue to be *his* shit to deal with. And deal with it he must. Without my counsel, without my advice, without my assistance navigating what is, yes, very confusing and difficult and hard, but through it all, remains *not my shit to deal with*.

M3 later admitted all on his very own that sharing his feelings about the girlfriend, regardless of how valid they might have been, was selfish and inconsiderate. And he regrets sending the email. And then he started talking about "us" again. The destined-to-happen, inevitable and burgeoning "us".

When you suspect that something might be worth waiting for, what follows is generally pretty simple: you wait. So why, just one week after M3 ditched the girlfriend, am I expecting to discover some loophole at the intersection of emotion and science where its rational and fair to expect that M3'd a) be capable of instantaneously shutting off of the emotions related to the demise of one relationship and b) concurrently open his heart, mind and soul so quickly to the possibility of another?

It positively makes my heart leap to know that M3 sees a future with me, it really does. Because despite how treacherous and dangerous as it may be to admit at this early stage, I'm pretty sure I see one with him, too.

And M3 can talk about the allegedly-inevitable "us" all he wants. But until he's got 100% of his head in the game, who the fuck cares, really?

Conjecture's not worth a damn on the ice. Or in relationships.

And you are 58 years old and positively repugnant.

From: Lorenzo
Date: Jan 27
Subject: You are what...

...eye candy is all about. I would love to have you on the back of my Harley and watch the heads turn. Stunning!

Lorenzo

Fuckin' A, No!

Yesterday afternoon, long after M3 left my house under cover of darkness for a 9am meeting in his mid-sized city two hours north, something started to feel a little bit off. He had back to back to back meetings all day, this I knew, but when 1:30pm rolled around and he hadn't yet managed to find even a quick moment to send a "morning after slash I adore you" email, what started as a barely perceptible and easily deniable twinge of doubt and concern began its slow evolution into a case of official anxiety. Always the over-communicator, it was just totally and completely unlike him to be out of touch for this long. And particularly given the circumstances.

Fortunately, as I sat beside a good friend en route to a semi-spontaneous weekend getaway in the City by the Bay, I found myself focused instead on all that was good about the night before. Without a doubt (and with very little effort might I add) the sensation of being totally and completely smitten far outweighed any of my lingering concern that I hadn't heard a peep out of him. After all, we spent a truly wonderful evening together...after building our expectations up to a level that two mere mortals could only aspire to meet, let alone achieve. And we did a pretty damn fine job.

Plus, I made sure that he'd spend at least the first twenty to twenty-five minutes of his drive home recuperating from a big fat hard-on. We were going to fulfill our promise, I was sure of it.

But by the time I returned to the hotel from dinner last night and M3 was still nowhere to be found, I was no longer content to rationalize his absence in my inbox.

"Oh, he probably assumes you don't have email access from the hotel" my ass.

He finally resurfaced this morning. Via text message.

"Hi. Do you have email access? Its pouring."

Funny, weather.com didn't indicate that a shitstorm was blowing into town.

He knows he's an idiot for sending this to me.
But he spent three and a half hours with the ex-girlfriend last night.
He's not sure if he's done the right thing by letting her go.
Going into their meeting, he was 99% sure but now he's only at 75%.
But he had a wonderful time with me the other night and thinks the possibilities for us are limitless.
And he wants to see me again as soon as possible.
Yet isn't sure if we should keep our plans to see one another tomorrow when I return home.
Because maybe it'd be best to wait until he's officially moved out.
He doesn't know what he's feeling.
His brain is mushy.
He hopes this email isn't too much of a downer.
And that I'm having a great time.

Oh, and with my relationship smarts, can I help him figure things out.

FUCK NO I CAN NOT.

Fuckin' A, Yeah!

Totally and completely and incredibly and super awesomely and this-really-can't-be-happening-its-so-good worth the wait.

T-Minus Oh Fuck

In fewer than 10 hours, M3 and I will be face-to-face for the first time in over three weeks.

No limitations.
No first-date inhibitions.
No girlfriend.

After the most promising six hour-long first date either of us have ever had, after so many emails we've both lost count, after repeated opportunities to see one another that on ethical grounds I had to regretfully and torturously deny until M3 was free of his commitments, and after spending the better part of each and every single solitary day since January 2 thinking about him, us and what we could be...

"When you finally figure out what you want, and you know how to rule out the riff raff, and you find someone who is in the same place, it all just works." -- The Girl From Hickopolis, January 24, 2006

I don't know if its an idiom or an axiom or just a really smart girl making an unbelievably not-complex yet hopefully very profound observation...

But I gotta say, I like the odds.

Until tomorrow...

Pleased To Meet Me

The astounding observation came to me on Monday night. As part of a valiant if not somewhat callous attempt to distract myself from the constant thoughts of my imminent reunion with M3, I was making tea for a under-the-weather 26 year old and some hot cocoa for a strangely-all-of-a-sudden-very-nurturing me.

The water for J's tea was boiling. Removing the kettle from the burner with one hand, I adeptly reached into the fridge with my other hand to fetch the skinny pint of milk I was pretty sure I'd find wedged into the shelf on the door that isn't quite tall enough for a pint of milk to be wedged into.

I made a few ceremonial dunks of the tea bag into the steaming mug before passing it to the pathetic, sniffling boy perched on my counter. Then, having indeed located the milk, I filled a cup of my own and headed toward the microwave. The microwave that, in hindsight, I should never have accepted from M2 in the first place because something is inexplicably and very clearly wrong with a guy who gives appliances as gifts to someone he's been dating for three weeks. I don't care if you got a good deal at Costco. That's fucked.

Then, just as I swung open the microwave door, I noticed a funny smell.

Self, allow me to introduce you to someone.

This is Self.

In Self's former life, she could never comprehend why people would buy the small-sized milk. Or who those people were. Unless, of course, they were sold-out of the gallons or there was a coupon in the Safeway circular or you were, say, going on vacation in a few days. But in any other circumstance, the pint served as little more than a confusing representation of a life not being lived.

In Self's former life, she and the person with whom she used to share a home would routinely power through a gallon of milk in a matter of days. Milk would be turned into pudding, act as a cereal vehicle sometimes two or three times a day, morph into fancy desserts taken to fancy dinner parties.

In Self's former life, 20 days old milk was an abomination. Self would wonder why and how and in what unimaginable way could someone have so many distractions so as to be unaware that an item in one's fridge is currently taking on a life of its own?

In Self's former life, she most certainly wouldn't have put her nose in the vicinity of the carton, asked the boy still perched on her counter to read the expiration date aloud, laughed heartily, and then not realizing she'd done so until the 26 year old asked if she'd really done what he thought she'd just done, returned the carton to the shelf on the door that isn't quite tall enough for a pint of milk to be wedged into.

But that's exactly what Self did.

I think we're going to be fast friends.

GodAwful, IReallyNeedToCancelThisSpace

From: smith
Date: Jan 24
Subject: HELLO

Hello. how u doin hope all is well with u there.am smith johnson. i live in Nabraska (usa)so am 47 yrs old. so am an engineer. why am here is that am lookin for trustfull,carin,lovin and honest woman to marry so if u dont mind talk to me.so u look beautiful in ur pic ok so nice to me u. i wish i was ur blanket,i wish i was ur bed, i wish i was ur pillow underneath ur head,i wanna b around u,i wanna hold u tight, & b the lucky person who kisses u goodnite.Sweet as a rose bud,bright as a star,cute as a kitten thats what u are.bundles of joy, sunshine and fun,u are everything i luv all rolled into 1

Still Bad & EvenMoreHorribleSpace

From: El Niño
Date: Jan 23
Subject: hey beautiful

wow you are very pretty. I am interested in chattin get back at me when you can.


From: toby
Date: Jan 23
Subject: SO WHERE DO

I READ MORE ABOUT YA


From: DreamsRobber
Date: Jan 23
Subject: No Subject

So Do U Think That Can WE Chat SomeTimes?


From: CrazyAZZ
Date: Jan 23
Subject: [my name removed] !!

Hi, I just saw your pictures. You’re Amazingly BEAUTIFUL !! How was your weekend ??

XoXo’s
Steve

Game On

The deed is done.

T-minus four.

The What?!?!

Date: January 21
From: Steven
Subject: Your Kodak Moment

Nice photograph. Nice bod too!

My sweetie and I will be in [name of mid-sized town removed] next weekend for fun, good food, sightseeing, great accomodations, and will hopefully meet another beautiful woman to explore all the intimate possibilities and sensual desires of the Feminine Divine.

Let us know your thoughts.

Out With A Bang

I have a sneaking suspicion that last night's...uh...engagement with S might have been my final...er...date with anyone aside from M3 for a very, very long time. Too bad it was so wholly unsatisfying. Calling to let me know he'd be late was most certainly not an indicator of future behavior. Nice ass, though.

In a horrid twist, M3 did not -- as originally anticipated, scheduled, and planned -- become single today at around noon after all. Girlfriend is, naturally, stranded on the isle of a large asian superpower in her temporarily-thwarted efforts to return home. ETA = tomorrow evening.

Fortunately, due to the presence of a signed lease, a confirmed move-out/move-in date and a temporary housing solution to bridge the gap between the two, M3 and I are now mere days away from dropping the "hypothetical" and embarking upon the "us."

Its about fucking time.

T-minus five.

This Explains A Lot

Rather than put my nose to the grindstone this afternoon to earn the taxpayer dollars that fairly generously pay my salary, instead I took some dumb online IQ test only to learn that, despite what my mom's been saying for 30-something years, I'm not so smart after all.

Actually, I did just fine on three out of four categories. Including math! And, I've decided that my poor showing on the fourth and final dimension isn't so much a shortcoming, instead its scientific evidence (albeit a bit shady in the credibility department) to support/explain/justify any and all future poor life choices I may make in the dating milieu. Clearly I'm challenged in this arena.

Your Verbal Intelligence is Exceptional
Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average
Your General Knowledge is Above Average
Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average

And speaking of smarts, the only reason I even have time for this post is because S just phoned to very courteously advise me of his pending tardiness due to flooding. If half of my state wasn't currently underwater, I'd be dubious. Instead, I find myself swooning just a little bit. Because in spite of the fact that he has the worst, most offensive and horrid Boston accent ever, swears like every sixth word, generally only dates 20-something blondes, frequently can't spell worth shit, and is far, far too interested in my outward appearance, his mama raised him right.

A boy with manners gets me every damn time.

Plus, M3's not single 'til tomorrow around noon.

Well, Almost

In less than 48 hours, M3's girlfriend will return from her travels abroad to discover that, in her absence, their life has been sorted, separated and one half of it packed into boxes of varying shapes and sizes, temporarily taking up residence in their second bedroom, awaiting impending relocation to M3's new bachelor-style digs.

It also just so happens that I'll be in M3's medium-sized city (two hours to my north) on Saturday afternoon for another engagement. And while its like the understatement of the millennium to admit that I ache to see him, I've nonetheless declined his demand that we get together that evening.

Until M3 can produce a signed copy of a lease corresponding to a newly-rented abode that he does not currently and has no immediate plans to share with another woman, I will continue to invoke the obstinate yet all-knowing wisdom of countless friends, colleagues and 80s pop icons, Hall & Oates. No can do, my devastatingly charming, irresistibly handsome and irritatingly tenacious friend.

This morning, like so many others before, I plunked myself down in front of the computer to embark upon what has become an almost-daily ritual: closing out the supposed matches that one of my other online dating sites has delivered to me overnight.

Now, to be entirely truthful, since M3 came along in early December, none of these "matches" have even remotely piqued my interest, so the act of closing them is rather quite immaterial. Not wanting to hurt their feelings by checking the "Other" option and filling in the blank with the true sentiment that generally prevails upon reviewing their unimpressive credentials and unilaterally horrendous likenesses, I've tended to gravitate toward one of the more innocuous and who's-to-say-if-it-is-or-is-not-true options, like "The distance between us is too far" or "I'm currently taking a break from dating". Or, "you're totally hideous."

Today, feeling entirely confident for the very first time that M3's breakup is imminent, I took a decidedly different approach to letting this morning's crop of matches down easy.

"Sorry, but I'm pursuing another relationship."

Honesty is, after all, the best policy.

Bendy

Today, with nothing terribly newsworthy to report on either the M3 or 26 year old fronts and my first date with S still a good 48 hours in the future, I'm electing instead to wax philosophical about the notion of adaptability. Particularly as it pertains to the boudoir.

Every time you hook up with someone new, you embark upon a journey. One where the destination, and particularly the route ultimately taken, is entirely unknown at the outset. Your travels can be fraught with tremendous disappointment (ladies, y'all know what I'm talking about) or can deliver the greatest heights of elation when, for example, you discover that the chemistry you'd detected while sitting across from one another over that very first cup of coffee or cocktail actually translates to sparks between the sheets.

Take the 26 year old. Best maker-outer ever, hands down. No absence of chemistry whatsoever. In fact, for a youngster, who I'd assume would be speedy and selfish and impatient because of his youth and presumed inexperience, he's remarkably sweet, gentle and thoughtful.

He's also of the mind not to engage in full-on sexual relations until/unless he's in some sort of relationship.

Huh?

Given his perplexing stand on this issue, and as many of my prior posts have recently attested, we make out a lot. A lot a lot. Sure, now and again, we dabble in some other stuff, but for the most part, our repertoire on any given evening consists of movie watching, heavy petting and the occasional x-rated fondle. If I'm lucky.

Since J and I decided to rekindle (and hopefully improve upon) whatever-it-was-we-were-doing-back-in-October, I've relucantly agreed to shelf my rampant, trampy desires to rip all of his clothes off and knock proverbial boots. Instead, when it comes to boy-on-girl relations, I'm endeavoring now to embrace life's more simple pleasures.

Like how J's stubble tickles the tip of my nose, how he almost always keeps his eyes open when he kisses me, the way we fall asleep face-to-face and often wake up the same way, how much I love the way he smells, and how well-intended but poorly-executed his efforts are to make my bed each morning.

Having adopted a surprisingly zen approach to our sex life (or lack thereof), I now look forward to spending my evenings with J, fingers and legs and lips entwined, but our feet planted firmly on second base.

Because t-minus three days 'til The One With The Girlfriend's girlfriend gets home.

This Just In

M3 is packed. 90% of the way there, at least. His life's possessions have been boxed and moved to the second bedroom. Awaiting the girlfriend's return.

Cautious optimism is the only option for me at this point. Anything more resolute or hopeful is simply far too dangerous.

(But just FYI, t-minus 12 days until he's allegedly moving out.)

Sah-weet!

I'm only on MySpace because Z made me. I have just one photo up there, virtually no personal info to speak of aside from what was initially required of me to get an account, and most certainly am not engaging in dialogues with even one of the unfortunate cast of characters represented in yesterday's disheartening post.

The primary objective of MySpace appears, to my untrained eye at least, to be one of collecting as many friends as possible. It doesn't matter if you know shit or shinola about any of them and bonus points are awarded if 90% or more of the peeps on your friends list look like hos.

I really just don't see the point.

However, this evening, with J otherwise engaged, M3 incommunicado due to a parental visit and my 90 minute phone call with S (the boy from Boston who I'll be going out with for the first time on Friday) having concluded hours ago, I decided to make the best of an unfortunate situation.

Deeply saddened by today's dearth of communiques in particular from M3, I elected -- rather than unproductively mope and pine -- to instead pretend that he didn't exist, making believe that we'd never met and that I most certainly hadn't managed to unwittingly fall under his charmingly deceptive and manipulative spell after a mere six hours.

Then I theorized what it would be like, if he was indeed a figment of my imagination, to have copious amounts of free time and energy now available to devote to new hobbies and, more importantly, to channel in the direction of exploring new friendships.

It was a strangely freeing sensation. And one that ultimately resulted in me engaging in a tete-a-tete with a young man who made my acquaintance via My(allegedly abhorred)Space. He presently lives in Virginia but tomorrow will be returning to my mid-sized town that he also calls home for 25 days.

That's one day for each of his years on earth. Give or take.

He's proposed that we get me tipsy, I let my hair down, lose my inhibitions and join him for a few rounds of beer pong and flip cup.

(I don't know what flip cup is but I'm reasonably certain that roofies are involved.)

Then he called me "sophisticated and experienced".

(aka "hot older lady who might rock my world.")

It was a profoundly unsatisfying experiment.

But I gave him my number anyway.

MySpace: BadHorribleSpace

Date: Jan 15, 2006
From: Stroker
Subject: hi

You are very hot!!!!write me back


Date: Jan 10, 2006
From: Anderson
Subject: cute smile

Hi, I saw your from [state removed] and wanted to say hi and see what you are up to. Anyways I hope I'm not interupting or anything. Um, would you like to chat sometime? If you would that would be cool...if no thats ok too lol. Hope to hear back from you.


Date: Jan 3, 2006
From: Tod
Subject: You look fun and intelligent

I would love to get to know more about you. I own a theater in [city removed]..what do you do?


Date: Jan 2, 2006
From: Brian
Subject: Hottie!

u need more friends and pics.lol


Date: Jan 1, 2006
From: John
Subject: No Subject

hi my name is john i know my profiel is linght on info but please ad me and go ahead and ask me anything.i hope to get my profiel all together soon


Date: Dec 27, 2005
From: Austin
Subject: No Subject

Hello there Sweet Thing...
Could I interest you in a nice kinda old fashioned country gentleman???
Smile!!!


Date: Dec 26, 2005
From: Tony
Subject: hi

hello dear...need a friend?


Date: Dec 26, 2005
From: DJ
Subject: Hello

Hi, I was just looking around on here and seen a very pretty lady, If you don,t mind I would like to add you as a friend and maybe get to know a little more about you, so what do you say?

Must Love Dogs

I go to the offleash park most every weekend. Generally on Saturday mornings, after I've returned home from my watersport practice that begins at an ungodly and horrific hour, have had my coffee, and manage to apply some lipgloss in case the park's demographic doesn't consist, as per its usual, entirely of 50-something lesbians and/or small children who always insist on talking to me.

Today, I never quite made it.

The 26 Year Old and I have navigated the waters of the Weekend Sleepover before. Everyone's familiar with the concept: a boy sleeps over and when dawn breaks, there's no job to get to or meetings you're late for. You have nothing, whether you like it or not, but time.

The very first instance of the weekend sleepover, it was summer and we'd just started dating. I returned home from practice, in a rather unbecoming state, and to my surprise, J's brooding sexiness was lazed casually in a wide beam of sunshine upon my front porch, reading a book and eating string cheese.

Only a 25 year old would have stuck around.

(Or a 26 year old.)

This morning, I walked in the door to see J lounging sleepily on my couch, thumbing through a different book this time, one he'd plucked from my shelf last night before we entered the making out portion of the evening. Dropping my damp clothes to the floor, I made a b-line for the shower, knowing that the sooner I no longer smelled of lake water, the sooner I'd be nestled in that soft yet slightly prickly spot where a boy's jawline meets his neck, with one particular boy's long, slender arms wrapped tightly and warmly around me.

We stayed like that for a good long while.

And then we spent the next four hours doing something we never got around to the first time we dated. Because we were never quite ready.

We ran errands.

And then I made him grilled cheese.
And then he laid on my couch, reading, while I unloaded the dishwasher. And did laundry. And took out the garbage.

And it was really, really nice.

So, while I still think about M3 incessantly and the two of us continue to freefall into a careless yet entirely deliberate something-that-could-easily-turn-out-to-be-nothing, today I realized that J could be more than just a temporary distraction. Maybe.

T-minus seven days until The One With The Girlfriend's girlfriend comes home.

Bunk

I just spent an inordinately long time writing and rewriting a super lame and wholly uninterestingly post about how M3 is in my mid-sized town today and while I know his itinerary (down to precisely where he'll be spending the 90 minutes between his first meeting and his second), I'm refusing his continual, tenacious and debilitatingly charming attempts to rendezvous this afternoon. Then I gave myself props.

Next, I proceeded to summarize the rather uneventful but nonetheless joyous events of last evening, rambling on about how The 26 Year Old and I stayed in last night and masqueraded as an old, married couple. We ate dinner on the couch, snuggled as we watched the cinematic masterpiece that is "Fame" and I tried to get him drunk so I could take his clothes off. Rather anticlimactically but not entirely unsurprisingly, success on the first account proved unnecessary to achieve my secondary goal.

I then went on to explain how this morning, The 26 Year Old somewhat strangely endeavored to extend our final moments together by sitting down on my couch for no apparent reason (as opposed to leaving straight away after making my bed, retrieving from the floor and subsequently folding the pants I'd worn last night, and knocking back some of the Listerine that I very thoughtfully keep around the house for boys who don't have the foresight to pack a toothbrush). Once seated, he divulged that he has a "date with a girl from the Internet tonight."

I then took the opportunity in this morning's post to analyze my emotional response to this information, unexpectedly shocking due to my complete lack thereof. Rather than the news of his date giving rise to feelings of unwarranted jealousy, insecurity or regret, I instead found myself entirely non-plussed. While I certainly like him, definitely wish to continue seeing him, and absolutely need for him to make-out with me as much as possible, I guess I'm also entirely prepared for The 26 Year Old to take to this Internet girl person and for that to render our arrangement effectively moot.

I then posited whether -- after countless fits and starts, after failing repeatedly to try to play with lots of different boys at one time without falling for any of them, and after sabotaging at least one Potentially Good Thing over the summer because I was entirely incapable of keeping it light n' breezy -- I've finally mastered the elusive art of dating.

And finally, I called bullshit on my own ass because, while I'm totally basing the following statement on a mere six hours of face-to-face interaction, two phone calls, and four weeks of written correspondence, I'd do just about anything right now for a shot at being M3's girlfriend. If he didn't already have one, that is.

It was a pretty boring post.

Diagnosis

Frankly, I'm really not sure when it happened. Or who I caught it from. Or how long the condition will be present. Or if its contagious, or chronic, or if there's a cure. But somewhere between having my heart macerated this summer by K and being fully worked-over this fall by the hairless triathlete, I think I've turned into a grown-up.

Symptoms include but hopefully are not limited to:

1. Happening upon a boy who I really, really like.
2. Discovering in the process of date #1 that he not only has a girlfriend but that he lives with her.
3. Deciding somewhat against my better judgement to nonetheless engage in an ongoing email exchange with said boy...
4. ...and, thus, finding myself distracted by thoughts of him, like, pretty much all the time.
5. Yet somehow, remarkably, amazingly and entirely inconsistent with all of my prior boy-related behavior, summoning the strength and self-respect and presence of mind to decline opportunities to see him in person as they continue to present themselves.

Because I know better.

Because apparently I'm an adult who now makes smart choices.

When the hell did that happen?

Amen, Sister

As first dates go, Saturday night with V was actually pretty great. There wasn't a single lull in conversation. The five hours of conversation. And, as much as I hate to draw a parallel, we shared an immediate ease with one another that was uncannily reminiscent of my first date with M3. But more about him in a minute.

V came equipped with a bottle of wine, arrived a mere two minutes late, and his cute little JCrew stripey button-down was not only tucked in, but it coordinated with the rest of his ensemble, right down to his shoes.

There was much laughter, repeated instances of gratuitous leg touching (his touching, my leg, natch), even a request for a second date within the first 15 minutes of arriving at my abode. (Seriously, that's gotta be some sort of a record.) Oh, and I scored some front porch action at the end of the night, too. Fortunately, there were also only two known incidents of M3 surreptitiously creeping into my conscious and distracting me from the very lovely, charming and color-coordinated boy currently in my midst.

Ladies and (gay) gentlemen, I do believe that V is a contender.

(Too bad he's apparently in the market for a relationship of the exclusive variety. I don't see this ending well.)

And speaking of not being anyone's girlfriend, the 25 year old is now 26 but as brooding and introspective and sexy as the first time we had a relationship based almost entirely on our deep love of making out with one another. After three hours of conversation and many beers, we mutually decided to cut the crap and start exploring our newfound friendship asap. Said exploration began last night in the parking lot. And ended this morning on the sidewalk in front of my house.

I haven't the slightest idea, really, why I'm seeing him again or how long it will last this time around or what his motives are or frankly if I really care on any of the aforementioned accounts...but does it really matter if we're just pals who might occasionally have sleepovers?

After all, as someone far wiser than I (likely a single woman in her 30s also trying to rationalize her way into another purposeless engagement) once said....

A friend is a gift you give yourself.

Profanity Redux

I received an unexpected phone call last night after exchanging a battery of consummately witty and charming emails with M3. The girlfriend doesn't return until the 21st, you see, so he continues to be at the liberty of putting forth ongoing, frequent and super awesome communication with me at his leisure and without the threat of any consequences whatsoever.

When I informed M3 a few days ago that we wouldn't be seeing one another until she was out of the picture, I hadn't technically *not* authorized phone contact in the interim...so I suppose it wasn't a violation of our agreed-upon terms. Although, in the morning light and with roughly 12 hours to reflect upon said call, we've since agreed that talking on the phone is second only to seeing one another in the Really Bad Idea Department. With at least a few weeks remaining until the mere idea of dating M3 becomes even remotely a possibility, we need to stick exclusively to email. Anything more is too vivid a reminder of what we simply can't have.

In the meantime, its important to keep busy. Accordingly, V arrives for dinner in roughly four hours. I will try to have a good time on this date. I will try to have a good time on this date. I will try to have a good time on this date.

Tomorrow evening I'm meeting the 25 year old for a beer. Our outing is predicated on the notion of seeing how the "friends" thing would work out. Uh, yeah.

Oh, and one other thing. I almost forgot!

M3 is going to vividly be in my mid-sized town at the end of next week for a meeting.

Fuck.

Nothin' But A Number?

That night at the castle with the 25 year old was one of the last we spent together. (See "Blood On The Tracks" in October archives if you weren't privy to the astonishing tale the first time around. Its a good read, if I do say so myself.)

It was just one of those things...girl and boy stumble upon one another in cyberspace, hang out a little, make out a lot, go to boy's relative's Christian nuptials on their third date, and then about two weeks later, girl and boy both wake up one morning and realize that there's really not much happening between them now and there probably will be even less happening later, so an unspoken and mutual decision to cut bait is made. Boy rides off into the dawn on his super hot motorcycle, neither boy nor girl ever verbally acknowledging that this is the last time they'll see one another. The two never speak or email again. And neither really care.

Then one rainy evening almost four months later, girl comes home from work to see something propped up against her front door. Boy has returned a book that was borrowed (and long since forgotten) during their short-lived, PG-13 affair. Accompanying book is a note written in painfully small blank ink on even painfully smaller notebook paper of the ilk that only a boy would ever possess. Behind it, a photo of boy and girl, arms entwined, at aforementioned nuptials.

Damn, he was really sorta cute.

Now, if only I could remember how old I told him I was.

Mercury Retrograde

Its kind of hard to approach a first date with a chipper and optimistic First Date Attitude when the last song playing as you pull up to the agreed-upon date venue is "Another One Bites the Dust."

And then the date venue is actually closed.

I tried, I really did. But The One With The Girlfriend is proving to be a formidable distraction. Fortunately, last night's date with the SoCal guy was just that: a date with a SoCal guy. Seriously, who cares.

Actually, it was fine. Had I not been comparing every fibre of this boy's being to M3, I'd probably be making a far more positive day-after assessment of how it went. Alas, I was...and therefore, I can't.

On deck: First date with V. Dinner. Saturday.

Conscientious Objections

M3 isn't going down without a fight.

My "sorry, can't" declaration of yesterday eve was met this morning with a willfully-crafted message that was infused with breathtakingly charming resistance and featured a valiant attempt to schedule date #2.

But you know what really sucks? He also acknowledged that should I choose to adhere to my position, "if something more important between us is waiting to be discovered, the passage of a few weeks or months won't change that."

Now why did he have to go and be all rational and sensible about things? Nothing undermines my own admittedly-unreliable and often ephemeral attempts at emotional maturity than when someone responds in kind. Isn't this the point at which one of us makes a super-bad decision based on her short-term desires, generally resulting in consequences including but not limited to a provisional bout with alcoholism and/or seeking temporary solace in the arms of a boy in his mid-20s?

Thing is, if he hadn't suggested going for a hike in the mud, I'd probably have said yes.

The Prophecy: Hall & Oates

The mighty triumvirate of being on the receiving end of some seriously cold, hard and sage advice from one old, wise friend, followed by the exact same cold, hard and sage advice delivered by one new, equally-wise friend combined with me miraculously pulling my head out of my ass for the first time ever resulted in the most grown-up maneuver of my 30-something dating life taking place at approximately 5:02pm today.

I will not see M3 until his circumstances (otherwise known as present cohabitation-with-girl scenario) improve.

'Cause I can't go for that.

(No can do.)

T-Minus Are You Fucking Kidding?!?

M3 has a girlfriend.

A girlfriend *he lives with*.

Trouble is, today was fabulous. Like, I've-gone-out-with-at-least-two-dozen-boys-in-the-last-six-months-which-makes-me-an-authority-on-these-matters fabulous.

(Of course.)

Because he has a girlfriend.

A girlfriend he lives with.

I'm unable to comment further at this time.

Fuck.

Precipice

We never did play Boggle. The making out (and the being hammered) sorta got in the way.

A few minutes shy of noon, when we finally dragged ourselves of bed, still sporting our respective wardrobe choices from the night before, Z ran out so I'd be adequately equipped for a hopefully-speedy recuperation fueled by the healing properties of grilled cheese sandwiches, apple juice and a lengthy period of uninterrupted contact between my ass and the couch. He got two kinds of bread because he wasn't sure which I'd like.

This evening, ill-effects from last night's festivities having finally dissipated, I had a remarkably fabulous 90 minute First Phone Call with yet another boy who's name, yet again, begins with "D". So, for no logical reason whatsoever other than because I can barely keep them straight myself, we shall henceforth refer to him as "V." V lives about 40 minutes north, knows how to cook, coaches soccer, and has cats. We're going to dinner on Saturday.

In the interim, because both phoned this evening while I was firmly entrenched with V, there will likely be dates with one of the other myriad Ds (this time, the SoCal artist guy) and quite possibly even with S, the boy from Boston who never misses a workout. Or an opportunity to talk about a workout. Or talk about my workout. Or someone else's workout. Anyway...he's big and buff and I should probably know better but whatever.

Before I try my luck with this latest batch of suitors, however, I have my first date with M3. Like, about 16 hours from now. He's driving down from the big city and we're meeting around noon.

I will be nervous.

(And I never get nervous.)

T-minus this so better be worth the wait.