Sidelined! (and a confession)

Well, my body is finally starting to rebel against the insane amounts of yoga I've been enjoying. For the foreseeable future, I'm banned from practicing vinyasa yoga. No chaturanga, no downward facing dog, no inversions, no crow. I'm not happy about it, of course, but I don't really have anyone to blame but myself. And, until my wrist stabilizes and my bicep tendon stops...doing whatever it's doing that's causing me blinding pain from time to time, I'm going to need to explore other endeavours.

And the confession? Sometimes, despite all my verbal and textual evidence to the contrary, I really do want a boyfriend.

A coupla single gals out on the town

Jodi and I went to Grumpys tonight after a somewhat successful (read: successful for her, total failure for me) workshop on Loft teaching proposals. The purpose was to discuss life, celebrate birthdays, eat tots, and, most importantly, drink beer.

Jodi and I are each other's only single friend. So, the talk inevitably turns to something of that subject--either how happy we are to be single, how sick we are of our married friends feeling sorry that we're single, or comparing various "singleton" habits. Once in awhile we chuckle over the idea of us living with any other human being.

Tonight we covered all of those subjects and more. And, from our conversation came two insights: one, that I have virtually everything I would need to survive nuclear warfare within arm's reach of my "spot" on the couch. Two, that it's possible, just *possible* that we don't actually want to get married.

The topic got started because Jodi was lamenting about the latest barrage of questions on her singleness. She said she's not sure she wants to get married but doesn't know if that's her "real answer" or a defense mechanism. I said I thought that we're at the age where the dream needs to become a reality or we switch the dream to one we can achieve (I said it neither that poetically or that sappily, by the way), and likened it to a novel. "Like when people ask me if I want to publish a novel," I said. "Sure, I say, if I've written one!" "Yes!" Jodi said, "It's exactly like that!" And we decided that, as thirtysomethings, we needed concrete dreams. It's not enough to say "Yes, I want to get married." Rather, it needs to be "I want to be married to _____."

Jodi then asked the million dollar question: "Have you ever not gotten something that you really wanted?" And I paused, swilled some of my Miller Lite, and realized that, no, I have never NOT gotten something that I REALLY wanted. Bing! Grumpy's lit up enough for me to see the smoke ring shadows on the walls from yesteryear. She went on to say, "Don't you think that if we really wanted to be married we would be? Why would that be the one thing we wanted and didn't get?"

And it's true....from the time I was little I have led a very blessed, very fulfilled life. I can honestly say I want for nothing. And yeah, I complain a lot, but when the end of the day rolls around and I crawl into my bed with a full belly and a roof over my head and my beloved Gatsby curled up next to me, my complaints always seem to fade away. I wanted to go to St. Olaf. Got it. I wanted to become a teacher. Got it. I wanted to, more recently, go to Belize to the writer's conference. Got it. I wanted to teach yoga. Done. I wanted to be published. Yep, got that too.

Of course my wants have changed over the years, and there are things that I probably wanted at one time and didn't get so my wants changed. I think marriage is in that category, but I'm not sure. In my 20s I wanted to get married because that's what you're supposed to want in your twenties. But now? Do I want to get married? Sure. Why not? But do I WANT to get married? Not enough to work for it. Not like I work to write, or work to educate myself, or work at yoga. If I meet an awesome guy? Sure, it could change.

There really is nothing in this world quite like getting together with someone who understands exactly where you're coming from with myriad life elements relating to singlehood. We single gals are few and far between--and far more similar than I think even we realize.

Okay, enough with the "_____ looks."

No, that's not an obscenity blank...it's a fill in, with "concerned" or "knowing" or "amused."

People have been exchanging looks with one another about me, directly in front of me, for several weeks now. Whether it's about my future career as a funeral director or about this man that I'm sort of-kind of-maybe-almost-sort of seeing, the looks are flying. I'm done with the looks.

Friend Jenn said yesterday while we were at lunch that it's pretty rude for my friends to be exchanging looks right in front of me; she said if they were concerned that they should be verbal about it. "Use your words", right? I don't think it's rude, I guess...I know that looks of concern are more about the concern than the look, but that doesn't stop me from being somewhat aggravated. I mean, do they think that I'm not seeing the look? I am. And, well, it's a slow news day so I thought I'd share my annoyance.

That is all.

Attachments

So, last week I opted to stay home and study rather than go to Fabulous Rita's CorePower yoga class. The week before I was too hungover to speak on Saturday morning (the reunion) and the two weeks before that she wasn't teaching. So, you can imagine how much I was looking forward to her class this Saturday.

She's not teaching for at least the next two weeks. Anywhere. She's still on the schedule for November, but, well, frankly after this week with Carina the Chiropractor falling off the face of the earth, I'm a little nervous about whether or now I may have missed a possible goodbye with Rita last week. And I'm a little upset.

Which got me thinking. When did I start forming these lifelong attachments to people I don't even know? I know nothing of Carina's personal life, and even less about Rita. Yet both of these women are important in my life--they make me feel good when I'm with them, I look forward to seeing them, and I'm sad when I miss the opportunity to interact with them. And this week has been unnecessarily hard on me, not because anyone did anything wrong, but because these darn people keep living their lives without consulting me first! And I'm really starting to get confused by it all.

When I was growing up I used to form "attractions" to women--camp counselors, teachers, etc. It wasn't a sexual thing at all, but more of an "I want to be you" sort of draw. I wanted to be exactly like them--be their best friend, be their sister, be someone important to them. This carried on to a few people in college but faded as I became an adult.

Now it seems as though it may be back. I can't label the attraction this time, though, because adulthood is more complicated. It's more sexual in the way that I want to be *with* these women, as opposed to "being them"....but it's not sexual in the way that I can't imagine ever having sex with another woman. So not for me.

So I don't really know what to do. I think my life would be a lot easier if I didn't develop feelings for acquaintances beyond what is probably socially acceptable. I wouldn't feel a sense of loss when they moved on. It's not like I'm devastated for the rest of my life or anything, but when I lose someone it definitely puts a dent in a few of my days. Mostly I want to know *why* I do this. It's not being starved for attention or affection or anything, because it's not ALL women (or men), it's only certain women. But its been four women in the last calendar year. That's a bit much. Even for me.

Hit me with your best shot...I'll "signal" you in for a landing.

Yesterday I met at Redstone with Fabulous Friend Heather. We try to meet at least every six weeks to debrief on life and occasionally exchange writing for each other's feedback. Yesterday was no business, all pleasure. We sucked down our bloody marys and were very kind to the nice waiter who appeared very innocent the first few times he asked if we were ready to order. But then:

We called him over to the table because we were all set. He approached on my right, as he had done several times earlier, and touched my arm. My arm. Right below my sleeve. My bare flesh. I had enough time to think "He's touching me. His hand is on my arm. His hand is STILL on my arm." at which point he had made his way to the other side of me (with, I think, his hand still attached to my arm, though unless he was Waiter Gumby that would not be possible). "Are we ready to order?"

I ordered my calamari and Heather managed to order her flatbread without choking or bursting out into a gale of laughter, but once he walked away we turned into two teenage girls who assume that because the teacher has turned his back means he can't hear anything anymore.

"What the hell was that?" I screeched.

"He so just hit on you!" Heather howled.

I put my head in my hands. "What WAS that??" I asked again.

And we proceeded to giggle and marvel over this unexpected full-on show of affection for a good half hour. Heather suggested I give him my number, which led into a conversation about our "types"--and how I am so not a beefcake guy kind of girl. I said something about "you marrieds" because she was enjoying this whole thing all too much, and she reminded me about the need for married folk to live vicariously through their single friends in certain regards. Understood.

The situation would have been funny enough on its own but the additional irony of the fact we had just, not five minutes earlier, been discussing the "signals" women may or may not put out to the men around them. Damn me and my siren song!

We were also able to recall the last time we ate at the patio at Redstone where the server was very openly hitting on me, flirting away (he didn't, however, wrap his hand around my bare damn arm!) until I gave him a big fat tip, at which point he said "Yeah, my girlfriend and I ....blah blah blah." But that was a common type of hitting-on. Nothing like yesterday's kamikaze, suicide-bomber type of flirtation.

Next time I go to Redstone I'm wearing a wedding band. And a chastity belt. And sleeves.

My annual date with Roger Fererer

Ahh, Roger Federer. Once a year I get myself dressed up and prepared for my date with him at the Wimbledon championship game. Nadal has joined us the last three years, which I don't much care for, but I guess I can't complain too much. He gives my boy a run for his money which, essentially, extends our dates well into the afternoon. I don't see Federer during the year...once in awhile on manly-smelling-stuff commercials or on the occasional Open match, but I don't stalk. I don't seek him out.

Three years ago, back in '06, I had no idea who Roger Federer was. I knew a bit of tennis, like that Wimbledon was important, and I knew the Williams sisters and Steffi Graf, Andre Agassi, and, of course, John McEnroe. But I didn't know the scoring (love? deuce? what?) or care much who won.

But then, I was also dating Greg. Greg liked his tennis. And, as enthralled as he was with the game, he was equally irritated that I didn't understand the simple concept of tennis scoring, so he set out to explain it to me. We watched *lots* of tennis together throughout our tenure. What Greg didn't know, though, was that while he was explaining the scoring, I was listening with about 75% of my brain. The other 25% was devoted to wondering how exactly Roger Federer could have an ass that tight and still be able to move his legs independently of one another. Hinges, surely?

I never told Greg this because our only fight that held any weight was one where he got pissed at me because I was discussing my full-on crush on Johnny Depp. He was troubled by what he described as my "boy crazy" side. So, I left out that little detail about my evolving love and admiration for the Swiss, namely one Roger Federer. (Never mind that while he was on my ass about being in lust with a celebrity who lives in France and has two children with a French model, Greg was in love with a girl from, you know, like, down the street.)

But, fortunately, Federer isn't nearly as judgmental. He's content to allow me to watch him bounce around the court for a few hours once a year and doesn't mind that I *heart* Johnny Depp and a few other highly hot people. Ahh....I love championship Sunday.

Simple pleasures, the bad with the good, the silver lining, fate stepping in (aka my 32nd birthday)

The fates are really trying. They're gathering around, totally rallied, working together to try to outwit the badness (karma?) and make my birthday the best possible day. Here is the yin and yang that has been my first fourteen hours of 32:

+ Going out for fabulous drinks at my only official "party" which wasn't really official
-- I sometimes feel when I'm with the people that I was with that I'm a total outsider and kind of like they just let me tag along (I know all of the aforementioned people read this and we all know it's me and my brain and not you at all so don't flip out *grin*) and like I don't really know anything about books or music or any of the important things in life.
-- When I got to my car there was a glowing ticket there for $105. Thanks for the birthday gift, Hennepin County.

-- This morning I woke up crabby and hot and angry.
+ When I let Gatsby out there was a marvelous breeze that cooled me down (on all levels)

-- Had to teach summer school rather than sleeping in, and the kids talked non-stop
+ I had a great conversation with three kids and when I was walking out of school with my bag and my coffee I felt every inch of 32 in the best way possible: professional, together, needed.

+I studied for my bio quiz and felt like I knew everything there is to know about photosynthesis
-- I got a C on the bio test I took on Tuesday

+ I did not get an F on the bio test I took on Tuesday
-- I definitely failed the quiz on photosynthesis, which I had trouble seeing since I was literally wiping away my tears from the C on the test.

--I went to the vending machines between bio class and lab and realized I was 20 cents short of affording anything.
+ I dug deeply in every crevice of my purse and bag and found a quarter

-- I put all the money into the machine and found out everything in the machine is mislabled and I was five cents short. No food.
+ As the tears were threatening again 'Stay' by Lisa Loeb and the Nine Stories came on the radio. My karaoke song.

See what I mean?

My birthday has been a day of enjoying simple pleasures. It could have very, very easily have been a bad day. There was a time when I would have made it a bad day. But, the fates seem insistent that for every bad that happens there is a good right along with it, and I'm totally willing to go along with them on that. I stopped at picked up some chinese food on the way home from lab, and now I'm crashed out on the couch reading a shitload of messages from people who love me and don't mind telling me so on my special day. One of the realizations that comes with being older is realizing that a person has to pave their own way in this world, and that includes their happiness. I can dwell on the Cs and the failures and the expensive ticket, or I can be loved, eat Chinese food, pick up fresh dry cleaning, enjoy the gorgeous 78 degree, cloudless sunny day, and read the summer Tin House.

Happy birthday to me---here's to another year of learning, growing, and loving my friends and family. In the last calendar year I've met new people, some of whom are becoming very dear to me. I've also had some pretty staunch reminders that we aren't guaranteed anything but this present moment and it's important to make that moment special and surrounded by people I care about. Thirty-two years is thirty-one, -two, -three longer than a lot of other people get, so I'm incredibly thankful.

Go away! Wait, come back! Go away! Wait...

This last week was one of the most stressful I've had in a long time. I went back and read through my teaching posts to give myself some perspective. Tomorrow is Craig's funeral. The last time I went to a funeral that was held in a gymnasium it was for my own English teacher in high school. I know that I will draw significant parallels tomorrow between myself now and myself as a fifteen year old.

No doubt it's due to the events of the week, but over the last few days I've felt so unbelievably needy I almost can't stand to be with myself. I've become obsessive, paranoid, and, what's worst, I feel lonely. I almost can't be by myself. That's so damn annoying. I'm a loner--I always have been. I've savored my time alone to the point that occasionally I'll actually cancel plans with people in order to spend time with my numero uno: me. I'll turn off my phone. But now, I'm reaching out like crazy to anyone who will listen. But, my friends are the type of friends a loner person can have--they're busy people, always off doing things. So they're not really around. And that's okay, 99.9% of the time. This week, though, not so much.

It's Friday night. I'm watching the National Spelling Bee, playing games on pogo.com, and hanging with Gatsby. I plan to make popcorn later, do some math, and read my book. I need to get back to where I'm okay being in my own head. This is just very, very strange to me.

Sad news on delay

When I was in high school I had the fortune of a very special woman coming into my life: Amy Haugen (now Beecher). She was the youth director at my church, and she let me spend most of my senior year of high school on her couch, in her kitchen, and lounging on her floor. She never sent me away when I showed up on her doorstep unannounced late at night. When I worked at a bible camp during the summer and was absolutely exhausted, she gave me a safe haven in her air conditioned room in the ARC (for visiting youth directors and pastors) so I could nap. She was an unbelievably good friend to me and, I would say, the most important person in my life.

She got married to Jason and though I liked him very much, I felt like I was losing a big sister...and I was. Our paths split--she went into married life and I went deeper into college and my own world. I went to visit them in the summer of 1999 in Colorado, and that's the last time I've seen them.

Amy and Jason have two children--Noah and Jess. This morning I woke up having dreamed about Amy. Random dream, we flew to France together, but what wasn't random was the incredible urge I felt to contact her. To reconnect. For whatever reason, I googled them rather than just shooting off an email. I met shocking news: Jess, their daughter, died last summer from complications due to epilepsy. I knew that she struggled with this illness, but I guess I just assumed that because the email updates stopped coming that Jess's seizures were under control and she was happily enjoying being a 4 year old kid. She died on June 18th, 2007.

In honor of her memory and to raise money for seizure related disorders such as Epilepsy and Tuberous Sclerosis, Jason is doing 'Journey for Jess,' where he will travel to 31 national parks taking pictures and collecting donations for their local chapters of the Epilepsy Foundation and TS Alliance.

Please consider donating to this extremely worthy cause. What Amy, Jason, and Noah have gone through is something that no one should have to. Taking this loss and turning it into a positive impact on others is exactly the type of thing that Amy and Jason would do. They are a kind, generous, caring couple. Donate whatever you can to help Jason and to help their family heal.

The Trifecta

When I was growing up, there were three women who were instrumental in keeping my only-child-self amused. I would say now that I had crushes on these women in a very real way, and I went back and forth between wanting to be their best friends, wanting to be married to them, and wanting to actually be them. Looking back on them now, the traits that all three of them share are pretty interesting and are, I think, pretty telling of who I am.

1. Linda Hamilton -- Catherine Chandler on Beauty and the Beast
2. Louise Robey -- Micki Foster on Friday the 13th: The Series
3. Gillian Anderson -- Dana Scully on The X-Files

All three women had peripheral relationships with men, but were never *really* involved with them. None of them ever married, and all three were fantastically devoted to their jobs, to the point of distraction. All lived very dangerous, risky lives.

I wonder if part of the reason that I don't see any reason to involve myself with a man is because during my most formative years (1987 -- 1997, ages 10-20), I watched these women as models of who I wanted to someday be when I grew up. Part of being an only child is modeling oneself after specific adults rather than after peers. I never felt a connection to anyone my age, only to these television women.

It's interesting to look at them now, pictures on the internet and articles on what they're doing now, because now I see that these women were really just women. They were all married, they had children, they were simply doing their jobs acting out characters. I have no doubt that if I had seen these shows as an adult that they would have been just tv shows, nothing more and nothing less.

So what's the moral here? Keep track of what your kids watch on tv, lest they fall in love with a beast-man from the New York City subway system or an alien-hunting-socially-retarded G-man, while busy working at their job as an assistant district attorney or alien hunter or paranormal object collector. Seriously.

Johnny Depp called--he wants his "cry baby" t-shirt back

I've been a sobbing mess for days. It's absolutely stupid, because I'm not even crying over anything. I'm crying over sentimentality, people doing nice things for each other, or even just because of nothing at all. It makes no sense. I'm happy. Life is good. Classes, yoga, working out, it's all going exactly according to plan.

The only thing I can think of is that I've reached my saturation level with the amount of aloneness I can handle. I've found myself both this week and last week reaching out to people who aren't really my friends--they're more acquaintances. But I'm reaching out because they're in the place and time where I am, and I need people to talk to. I've never needed people like I do now. And it's a strange situation, because it's not like I've been abandoned by any of my friends; if anything, I've abandoned them. A part of me knows that this is a natural part of life: people often "switch friends" when they go to high school, to college, and then into the real world. I see teenagers every day clinging to each other and promising to stay friends forever and I know the reality is that only a small percentage of them will. As an adult, I'm cognizant of how fleeting even the deepest and truest friendships can be. The fact is, we befriend who we are around. We are a society that places a tremendous amount of importance on proximity. And relationships take work and effort. If I don't have the time to work on my relationships, it doesn't matter how much I love the friend; that friendship will diminish.

So I'm handling it by crying my eyes out at nearly every available opportunity. I'm sure that'll help things about as well as it always does. I just have to remember, I guess, that this whole transition I'm going through is worth the trouble I have to go through now. I hope.

Golden Globes, a minor slip, school, and the Packers

So I'm sitting here watching the "Golden Globes". I'm not sure why. A part of me thinks that this might be a much better way to do the awards...the other part of me misses the glitz and the glam.

I went for thirteen days (actually 12 days, 19 hours, 11 minutes and 34 seconds, according to my quitplan tracker) without even one drag off of a cigarette. Then I decided to take a trip back through memory lane via email folders and went back to a message I sent Greg two years ago tonight. Nothing special, just a report on how conferences went (actually, *after* conferences, with the drinking and the singing and the drinking and the singing) and I grabbed a smoke. Just like that. Because yes, I still have half a pack stashed away. It's part of my quitting plan. And it's working, see, because I had three drags off the thing and then tossed it. I didn't go out and buy a whole pack and then carry the obligation of needing to smoke the whole damn thing and then stop smoking after that.

I think slip-ups will occur from time to time. I'm not going to kill myself over it--most of the smoking I did in the last two years was either with Greg or because of him, so it's pretty natural that an email communication would draw it out of me.

I start biology in nineteen hours and fifteen minutes. See the new blog (Death Becomes Her) for frequent updates on all of my mania in that department.

And hey, guess what? The Packers are going to play at home next weekend! No silly Dallas curse, no "Brett has never won in Dallas," absolutely none of it.

Thinking about...

Right now, with lots of good stories to tell about the final night of class and Grumpy's, I'm thinking about my best friend and how she's having surgery tomorrow.

Jessie is having a hysterectomy to clean up the pre-cancerous that her doctor found a few months ago on her cervix. She went through several procedures but her doctor kept finding more and more cells that varied in degree from mild to severe dysplasia. The most effective way to "cure" her is to remove her cervix.

It's hard for me to imagine that my best friend is having such an "adult" procedure done. We won't be able to exchange stories about tampons, or match our cycles, or do any of those other ultra-girly things anymore. That's such a minor thing in the scope of what could be, but there's still a loss there.

And if anything should happen to her, I don't know what I would do. Her doctor told her that typically the surgery is easy and textbook, and in only a few extreme cases do bad things happen. Jess reminded him then that of the three procedures she's had with him already (the pregnancy/labor, the testing for bad cells, and the removal of her fallopian tubes) none of them have been textbook; he's always been surprised in some way. I'm praying that there will be no surprises tomorrow.

Her mom will call me when she's out of surgery and everything is all clear. Hopefully this surgery will take care of the problem...her doc said that if she walked out of his office today without doing anything, she'd have full blown cancer in little more than a year. I don't know quite how I'm going to sleep tonight, or how I'll work tomorrow until I know that she's okay.

A fascinating turn of events...

I wasn't going to say anything. I was going to just let it go, smiling and continuing on my merry way, but given the fact that I appear to be establishing something of a pattern, I guess I'm going to speak up.

It has come to my attention that, for the second time in under ten years, an ex-boyfriend of mine is marrying the girl that he dated immediately after (or slightly while... those lines can get so damn blurry, can't they?) dating me.

The first time was a work situation, and I was just a baby: 24 years old. I didn't even know what hit me. I was dating this amazing 32 year old guy, and then all of a sudden he was spending a lot of time with another friend of mine. A lot of time. He worked it so that he told me we should date in secret (work, of course) and also told her they should date in secret. She finally confided in me that she was dating this awesome guy, and, well, they married less than a year later. I still remember the exact moment where I ran into the two of them together and knew that they were dating, and they knew that I knew, and it was AWKWARD.

But, I lived, I learned. I decided then and there that I would never be someone's rebound again. Well, six years later I forgot myself. I wandered openly and willingly right smack into a rebound. He even said--I don't know which of you I want to date. I shudder to recall how honest with me he was at the start and how I just nodded and smiled and walked right into it. We dated for around five months before he ended it, citing a lack of a desire to get married. I asked if it had anything to do with "her." " 'Her?' he asked, wide eyed. 'Noooo, it has nothing to do with her.' "

Hook, line, and sinker.

So, I guess the best I can do is promise myself to be more vigilant. Or, resign myself to the fact that I make guys really want to get married....just not to me. Ultimately, of course, Guy #1 is still happily married and, while we're sort of friends, I can't imagine being married to him. I'm sure it's the same with Guy #2, though it's still a little early to directly compare the situations. I'll let you know in five years.

Preach on, Sister Sara

Sara Bareilles sang her song Love Song tonight while Heather and I were at happy hour discussing her fabulous story, and there was one particular grouping of lyrics that stood out to me, especially tonight. Funny how that can happen when you learn things about the people from your past.

I learned the hard way
that they all say things you want to hear
and my heavy heart sinks deep down under you
and your twisted words, your help just hurts
you are not what i thought you were

I love the song, I love the lyrics, and I love that I can dance/run/boogie to the song from start to finish.

A year later

Last year my posts around this time were few and far between. Those that exist ring so artificial to me I can hardly stand to read them. There isn't a post for Sept. 23, 2006, because on this day last year I was on the phone all day with everyone I knew trying to figure out if my boyfriend was going to break up with me, why he might be doing that, and what I was going to do about it.

We went to see the Black Dalia, then went back to his house to end our relationship. He gave me bizarre reasons; the most interesting being that he wasn't sure he wanted to get married. Some people misinterpreted this as that he had thought about marrying me and had gotten freaked. I knew that he gave me that reason likely because it had been the reason that worked on the woman he had dated before me. I won't lie, I was bummed for a LONG time. My friends and family surrounded me, and they said and did all the right things.

A year later, I spent the day not on the phone but doing my normal weekend thing. I've got food on the grill, I'm grading papers, football is on, and the washer/dryer are heating the house. I lived. I'm still bummed if I let myself dwell too much. Michael Perry said (okay, wrote) that every time he had gotten his heart broken and thought he'd never be happy again, he always ended up being happy again, and it was himself that made it that way. This year has been that process: knowing that I am ultimately the only person who can make me happy and figuring out how exactly to do that.

Good news, peeps: I did it.

A friend said to me a few days ago while we were listening to Mozella's Amnesia "I bet you wish you could forget Greg." I don't. I enjoyed nearly every minute I spent with him and even though we didn't end up together, I wouldn't erase or want to forget any of that time. I do wish that we had been able to pull a friendship out of it...we were friends first and the biggest slap in the face was not the actual end of the dating but the denial of friendship afterward.

Well, my chicken is cooked. Jalapeno chicken on the grill--tastiest stuff ever. After I'm done with lunch I'm going to go back to grading papers, take Gatsby for a walk, go out for a run, and critique a story. I also need to write a poem and revise a story for my classes this week. Man, I've got shit to do. Happy anniversary.

Words I've Longed to Hear...........from a psycho. Of course.

So, in a moment of weakness a few months ago (maybe it was turning 31, maybe it wasn't, I'm not saying) I signed back up for match.com. I've always had reasonable luck, a few dates here, a few dates there....all good.

This time around, match.com has proven to be one of the most base, humiliating experiences of my still relatively young life. Here's why:

1. Apparently men think an "about average" body type includes morbid obesity.

2. I am not getting winked at or emailed by these "about average" men any more than I'm getting winked at or emailed by men that I might actually consider.

3. The men that are winking and emailing me are psychos. Psycho #1 says, " am definitely not inclined to let you slip away without a fight." and "If we went out just one time, I could die happy." No man has ever said to me that he won't let me go without a fight.....kind of wish I could still say that. Psycho #2 (a 41 year old from South Dakota) sends me something I think must be his own poetry/philosophical thoughts....then asks me "In what format have you enticed the mind to open up to the gift of writing?" I don't even know what that means.

Seriously....it's always an adventure, isn't it?

Only I care, but...

Jodi and I chat frequently about how the only person who cares about dreams is the dreamer, but I'm going to talk about my dream anyway because of how vivid it was.

Last night I dreamed about my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend. She invited me over to her house (which was actually her parents house and it was a mansion) and she said that she knew that she needed to be worried about me but that she still wanted to be friends. There were tons of people at the house; it was a huge party.

It was the first time Ex and I had seen each other since road-tripping together immediately post-break up. He greeted me and then he kissed me in the bathroom and told me that he missed me. I left the party thinking that I was worse off for going because now I had hope again that we would get back together but I knew that we couldn't.

There were other parts that faded away, but when I woke up I tried to say "Gatsby" to call him but instead said my Ex's name out loud into my empty room.

That was weird. It's the type of dream that has stuck with me throughout the day and makes me want to do things like email him to see how he's doing and say that it's been long enough since we talked last. But, I know that he wouldn't email me back and then I would feel like an idiot.

I do enough things in my life to make me feel like an idiot, you know?

A quieter, gentler Oscars

Last year I spent the afternoon of Oscar day making deviled eggs to take to my first ever Oscar party. It hadn't occurred to me to ever watch the awards show with other people. So, I made my eggs and grabbed my friend and we traipsed over to the party.

There were four of us there: a good friend I work with, two friends I wrote with, and me. I can't remember if I was crushing on the guy friend or not, but if I wasn't at that time I began soon after. Maybe Oscar night had something to do with it, who knows.

At any rate, tonight is a different night. The end of the trimester is this week so even if I wanted to go out I wouldn't have been able to. I'll be spending the Oscars grading papers. One writing friend is, I think, out of town (or maybe having an Oscar party with the other writing friend and his girlfriend), the other writing friend decided he didn't want me to be his friend, and the working friend is with her family.

It's amazing to me how quickly things change. It's impossible to predict the future, no matter how obvious things might seem, or how happy things might be at a particular event. It's imperative to enjoy our moments for what they are, because there might not be a "next year's Oscar party."

It's hard to hate Valentine's Day...

...when I'm staring at a dozen long stemmed red roses chosen just for me.

I may need to amend my hatred of this holiday.