Grace.

Okay, I realize that the list of 100 deal breakers might be a bit too negative. Even for me. I’ll take Scholiast’s advice and I’ll make a list of deal makers(?), if that’s a term. It’s a damn cheesy one, I know. Just let it go. She’s also right about how difficult it is to think in terms of "dos" instead of "dont’s."

Also, at the fear of being labeled shallow and overly demanding, I’ll say that none of these things really matter. Nor does the previous list of 100 deal breakers matter either. The truth is that people are very complex packages, and it’s more about the inexplicable X-factor than any other factor. It’s also about finding that handful of things that you really can’t live without, and learning how to live with the rest of the 10,000 things that aren’t that important, but that can still be irritating and trying.

It is fun to make lists, though.

Without further ado, here is a list of 100 things that get my attention, and that I’d prefer to not live without.

1. Smells good (the natural smell, not masked by cologne)

2. Pulls off the haggard look flawlessly–unshaven, slightly messy hair, just-woke-up look

3. Can’t answer the following question (or really hesitates before answering): "What would you kick first, a puppy or a baby?"

4. Watches cartoons

5. Helps me in the kitchen and actually enjoys doing it

6. Offers to help friends and family without being asked

7. Lets the little things go, and sometimes the big things too

8. Understands that he’ll probably never understand me

9. Makes me go to the doctor when I’m scared to, and goes with me to my appointments

10. Leaves the cell phone at home and doesn’t mind not having a yapping prop

11. Writes me hand-written notes in thoughtful cards

12. Reads what I write and doesn’t comment on the style or grammar (to be read: "Is more forgiving in the literary sense than I am.")

13. Lets my hypocrisy go

14. Forgives me for whatever stupid things I do before I even open my mouth to say, "I’m sorry."

15. Gives me the benefit of the doubt

16. Sticks up for me in front of mean people

17. Doesn’t correct me in public if I’m wrong, but does so in private without rubbing it in

18. Understands the value of alone time

19. Lets me read in bed and snuggles up against me when I say, "Wait, wait... Just a few more minutes. I’m at the good part."

20. Leaves the toilet seat down (I know. Them’s fightin’ words.)

21. Doesn’t mind spending oodles of time with my parents

22. Wants to meet my friends and memorizes their names and stats before he meets them

23. Will hug trees with me

24. Can sit still without moving or talking for long periods of time

25. Spends 12 hours in a room with me, talking or not talking for hours (bonus if he gets the reference), without any distractions like TV, and doesn’t mind spending another 12 doing exactly the same thing: nothing.

26. Stays away from cliches and generally thinks for himself

27. Keeps his childhood friends close

28. Keeps old notes and birthday cards/is sentimental

29. Has a bit of a nerd/dork/geek in him and isn’t afraid to show it

30. Knows what Captain Picard’s drink of choice is

31. Can hang a picture on a wall

32. Will do art projects with me that include colored pencils, watercolors and googly eyes

33. Can play an instrument that accompanies flute, or can just hum along or even sing

34. Goes on trips with "the guys"

35. Treats me with respect even when he’s angry and about to blow a fuse

36. Tells the truth, no matter how much it hurts

37. Has a quirky, witty sense of humor that makes me laugh to the point where no laugher comes out–it’s just a ridiculously spastic, loss-of-bladder-control, pure joy kind of laughter

38. Lets me sleep in and doesn’t mind that I stay up late

39. Keeps me honest

40. Encourages me to do things on my own and to explore things without him

41. Holds my hand all the time: in public, in private, while driving, while sleeping, while... you get the point

42. Trusts me no matter what

43. Votes and does research on the candidates

44. Speaks softly and gently

45. Can sit through a classical music concert

46. Knows where the line "It’s just that very few people surprise me anymore" comes from

47. Uses made-up swear words when he runs his shin into the coffee table

48. Likes to watch green things grow

49. Knows about things that I have no clue about

50. Smiles often just because he feels like it, and then winks in a cowboy sort of way at me

51. Kills spiders only when he can’t let them outside

52. Avoids stepping on ants when outside

53. Likes dark chocolate

54. Saves fortunes from fortune cookies

55. Keeps a picture of his family in his wallet...and his dog

56. Knows that buying clothing for a woman is almost always a no-no

57. Is patient

58. Keeps his photos organized

59. Likes flannel pjs

60. Will take me to services because he knows I won’t make myself go otherwise

61. Eats breakfast

62. Pretends that he hates girlie movies, but when forced to watch one, actually gets into it

63. Is close to his siblings, even though he may have not spoken to them in months

64. Folds his own laundry, and mine too

65. Offers me the bigger half of his sandwich/cookie and really means it

66. Reads my top 5 favorite books so he can understand me better

67. Opens doors for me, but lets me open doors for him too

68. Introduces me to new things, like Fraggles

69. Thinks less concretely and more abstractly

70. Keeps his word

71. Would rather walk, bike, or metro instead of take a car

72. Likes camping (in a tent) and would like to stay at a cabin for weeks at a time

73. Plays Chinese checkers

74. Is generous

75. Will go rock climbing with me

76. Enjoys traveling at a moment’s notice

77. Has kept his childhood baseball cards and toys someplace safe

78. Keeps a first aide kit at home

79. Loves cold weather and snow

80. Says things like, "My grandma always used to say..."

81. Enjoys zoos

82. Would rather spare a person’s feelings than win a debate

83. Thinks that good chemistry trumps the absence of any item on this list

84. Ignores Julia Roberts’ platypus lips and admits that she’s still adorable

85. Likes to read plaques on historic buildings

86. Plays boggle and doesn’t let me win just to be nice

87. Calls his mom at least once a week

88. Eats meat

89. Builds sand castles

90. Meditates

91. Tries Pilates at least once

92. Drives carefully, and even more so when I’m in the car

93. Is better at spelling than me

94. Brings a gift when going to a party

95. Can ask for help

96. Sings in the shower

97. Empathizes

98. Feels genuine happiness for his friends’ successes, and empathizes when something bad happens to them

99. Doesn’t give money to homeless people, but always gives food

100. Has few regrets

After every break up, I used to get on the phone with my best friend and update my “deal breakers” list. Sometimes, we’d do this in person with a fair amount of girlie ingredients—nail polish, nachos, facemasks, and cheesy movies. I’m not usually a person that thinks in terms of black and white. And most things are negotiable. But I’d say 99% of the list below is non-negotiable. Hey, a girl’s gotta be picky. In no particular order, stream of consciousness... I say "no" to:

• Smokers
• Liars
• Cheaters
• Drug users
• Men who don’t ask me questions
• Men who don’t read
• Men with mommy-issues
• Men who are rude to any of their family members, to strangers or to wait staff
• Republicans
• Men who make fun of blogging
• Men who have kids
• Idiots who, when they see a beautiful woman, say to me, “I’d do her.”
• Men who let their eyes wander when a beautiful woman walks by and while I’m maintaining eye contact with them
• Pushovers
• Men who can’t make a decision
• Men obsessed with anything—gambling, video games, drinking, painkillers, etc.
• Judgmental people
• Men who say anything disparaging about gays or are homophobic
• Men who can’t let go of their exes
• Men who are touchy-feely with female roommates and female “friends.”
• Cheap men
• Shallow men
• Men who have nasty feet and nails
• Bald men (sorry, that’s just a personal thing)
• Men who talk at me
• Men who raise their voice
• Men who swear mid-sentence for no particular reason
• Men who are attached to their cell phone/blackberry/ipod
• Men who feel that their taste in music/fashion/design is superior to anyone else’s
• Men who shave their backs/legs/chest
• Men who are mean to animals
• Hand kissers
• Bad kissers
• Bad spellers/use improper grammar
• Men who talk about their exes like they’re still together
• Men who chew with their mouth open or have bad table manners in general
• Men who aren’t Jewish
• Men who are socially awkward
• Men who can’t shut up
• Men who snore
• Men who don’t make time for me or who have to write me into their calendar
• Unspontaneous men
• Men who are ignorant of the outside world (don’t like to travel, keep up with the news)
• Men who can’t support themselves financially
• Helpless men
• Men with old-fashioned views of what being a woman is and actually share these views
• Givers of unsolicited advice
• Those who laugh when someone gets hurt
• Men who can’t watch sports and talk at the same time
• Men who don’t understand boundaries
• Redheads (Sorry, it’s like dating that kid from Harry Potter. I just can’t take redheads seriously.)
• Men who play games
• Men who are snobby towards ivy-leaguers or corporate workers (Just for a second, put that indie, grassroots crap away and give credit where credit is due. Navigating these environments is hard work.)
• Those who think violence is funny
• Men who don’t wear seat belts
• Those who can’t say “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.”
• Men who care more about who’s right than what’s right for the unit
• Selfish men
• Jealous, possessive or controlling crazies
• Takers but not givers (in all senses)
• Racist men
• Pushy and demanding bulls
• Boys
• Men with crazy parents
• Those with irritating laughs
• Men who care more about what they say than how they say it
• Men who use the word “bitch” in reference to women, and say, “But you do it!” (That’s because I am a woman. I get special rights that way.)
• Men who embarrass themselves and me, but don’t know they're doing it
• Men who can’t dress themselves
• Men who don’t tip well
• Men who can’t include me in groups
• Losers with no aspirations
• Those who insist-on, instead of request-for something
• Eager beavers who jump to call me their “soul mate”
• Men who are mean
• Those who have tattoos
• Men who don’t care about their health and let weight issues get out of hand
• Men with small you-know-whats
• Angry drivers
• Men who walk too fast and are oblivious that others can’t keep up
• Men who are shorter or smaller than me
• Men who rely on clichés because they don’t require extra thought (like flowers)
• Men who can’t or won’t say my name (or worse, mispronounce it on our 3^rd date)
• Men with chronic depression
• Men who can’t manage their finances or don’t see anything wrong with carrying a balance on credit cards
• Men who put women on pedestals
• Men who don’t like kids
• Men who can’t entertain themselves and are clingy
• Psychos with a criminal record
• Hypocrites
• Men with low self-esteem or ridiculously inflated egos
• Men who have dog hair all over their clothes/apartment
• Men with no sense of humor (or a sense of humor that’s stuck in junior high)
• Men with mustaches (I don’t trust them)
• Men who are arrogant or talk in a nasal voice
• Men who can’t talk without being sarcastic
• Drivers of SUVs who have no qualms about it
• Men who fist pump and howl out the windows of cars (Like frat boys driving down University Avenue)
• Men who insist on knowing my “history”
• Men who call every woman "honey" or "sweetheart"

I have an, at times, paralyzing fear of failure. If we’re really going to get into Deconstructing Marina, we’ll have to discuss this issue.

It’s actually quite insane.

It used to be much worse. I wouldn’t raise my hand in high school, even if I was 95 percent sure I had the right answer.

In eleventh grade, I took AP European History. One day, the teacher played a sample of classical piano music and asked the class to guess which composer had written it. I knew the answer right away. The rest of the class kept throwing out random names, guessing anything that came to mind, but I couldn’t raise my hand with the right answer. I was paralyzed and scared.

It was loud in the room with everyone talking and making fun of each other’s guesses. “Yeah, you would guess that, you orchestra dork.”

“Shut up. You’re shorter than Napoleon.”

“Hey, at least I don’t have an ulcer.”

I was sitting by the teacher’s desk, close enough to lean over to her and whisper, “It’s Chopin.”

“How do you know that?” She asked me.

The rest of the class was oblivious to this conversation. I heard some kid yell, “Hey Joel, look up the answer in that book you’re always reading. What’s it called? Oh yeah, The Seven Habits of Highly Deffective People.”

“Shut up, dipshit!” Joel yelled back.

I could’ve thought of a few answers to the teacher’s question. That Chopin’s music is unmistakably his. That I listened to him every night before I went to bed. That I got the shivers (and still do) when I heard his music. I quietly answered her, “I don’t know… It’s romantic. Emotional.”

She didn’t answer me. She sort of stared at me for a few seconds and then turned her attention to the room filled with ridiculously smart kids, which brings me to my point: I always thought I was somehow the exception to that, as if I had snuck in to the class illegitimately, like I wasn’t supposed to be there.

It gets worse. I felt that if I opened my mouth and talked, that people would discover I was a fraud. And their little genius brains would turn on me, calling me out on my bullshit.

I never tried to get straight A’s. I wondered, “Why bother? It’s not that big of a deal.” I think the truth is that I was afraid of failing, of having to say, “I tried my hardest, and I still couldn’t do it.”

Here’s the kicker. I’ve changed a lot since high school, but not that much. I’m exactly the same way towards my writing. I reject it before it rejects me.

A friend of mine has been discussing with me his desire to write a novel, to create something that changes people’s lives. He asked me why I haven’t written one.

The answer, in part, is that I don’t have the attention span. Or, I’m not really a novel sort of person.

The more truthful answer is that I’m afraid of producing something so awful that it exposes me completely. That shows people I’m full of crap. That I really don’t have anything to say, after all, and I’ve been faking it all along.

Once, in eighth grade, I came home with my report card. I had seven A’s and one A-. My mom’s immediate response was, “What happened here? Why didn’t you get an A?”

On other occasions, I was even asked the question, “Why didn’t you get an A+? Didn’t the teacher give those out?”

In college, I once called my mom to tell her how stressed out I was with the work load. I was probably going on very little sleep with finals and term papers hanging over my head. Her response was, “Yes, your brother and I are really worried you’ll drop out of school. Please, don’t do it.”

I couldn’t believe the non sequitur. How could she jump from my obviously over-worked, over-stressed, standard-college-student-phone-call-home to “Mom, I’m dropping out of school”? As if struggling was a sign of automatic failure. And what the hell did my brother know about my situation, anyway?

If you haven’t already done this, type in “failure” in google and click “I’m feeling lucky.”

I thought I’d finish this post on a very unsettling note and some easy deflection without actually having gotten to the bottom of anything.

I was on facebook today, doing my usual rounds, when I ran across a link to this video on YouTube. It's a bunch of Minnesotans eating things on sticks, which is pretty much what the State Fair is for.

The coolest thing about the video is that my best friend makes an appearance in it for 3 seconds. (If you don't want to watch the whole thing, skip to timestamp 4:53. She's the blonde on the right.) 

My mom is a wise woman, and I’m oftentimes stunned by what she says. The false simplicity of her wisdom surprises me most. That’s because I’ll analyze something to death and still not reach the same beautiful “aha!” moment that I get from one conversation with her.

A long time ago, I went through a phase of loving rabbits, rabidly loving them. I would go to the House Rabbit Society website and click on the pictures link, probably annoying my roommate at the time because I’d squeal each time I’d hit “show me another picture.” My mom didn’t understand this phase I was going through, considering I was in college and I was well beyond the “please please please get me a pony” age.

It was just something my boyfriend and I both loved at the time. We loved looking at cute animals and bonding over something so simple and innocent.

The little things are easy to overlook, in almost any context. I tend to complicate things by nature too, which makes it hard to get to the Real.

Last night, my mom and dad returned from a weekend mushroom-picking trip to Ithaca, NY. It’s a Russian thing. Once my parents descend onto a forest, no mushroom is safe. As a disclaimer, don’t try this at home, kids. Skillfully avoiding poisonous mushrooms is the culmination of a Russian upbringing and cultural nuances, which take decades to seep into the bloodstream until they become just as much a part of you as Sunday night football or Chinese take-out and poker nights.

My mom once got admonished by a park ranger for picking wild mushrooms at a state park. Little did the ranger know, my dad’s pockets were filled with white tops and gray stems too. They work as a unit, like Bonnie and Clyde. And they work quickly, which is key when pilfering mushrooms from public lands.

While my parents were gone, I spent the weekend the way I usually do—doing things that complicate my life and that make me feel alive.

I also went to Rosh Hashana services on Saturday and Sunday morning. It’s been a year since I went to services, and I feel like I’m in confession right now, or maybe some sort of 12-step support group.

“Hi, my name is Marina, and I haven’t gone to synagogue in a year.”

I went for the same reason that women insist on wearing a thong: even though it’s uncomfortable, it’s necessary. High Holiday services have become crucial to the wellbeing of my soul. I use the time to meditate, and I rarely follow along with the prayers. If I do, I do it absent-mindedly. I think about myself a lot more than I do about God, but somehow I don’t think God minds. I enjoy the feeling of being surrounded by other Jews in various states of belief and non-belief. Tradition creeps up on you, in much the same way that becoming an avid mushroom-picker does.

As I was getting ready to go to sleep last night, my mom sat on the edge of my bed and we talked about our weekends. Mostly, I blabbered and she listened. She listened to my drama with boys and relationships, about falling for someone who is keeping me at a distance for the same reasons I want to keep him away. I talked to her about wanting more than pedestals, about wanting to be independent, about how much I’ve changed in the last few months.

My mom didn’t say anything at this point about the gallon jar of mushrooms that were in the fridge downstairs. She let me go first with my sycophantic me-me-monologue. About how I’m not sure if he likes me or not, but I…like him a lot. And about how he intrigues me, and how he’s so much like me right now, it’s scary. And then, I quoted one of my mom’s little bits of astonishing wisdom back to her: “Don’t be afraid to love someone who doesn’t love you back. It only matters that you love something.”

My mom sat on my bed, nodding. “Exactly, that’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”

In my strange bunny-loving phase, my mom’s heavy-hearted, soviet-émigré view of the world obstructed her ability to see why I was so obsessed with something as idiotic and mindless as a pet rabbit. I’d have to say, in retrospect, that this phase coincided with the nation’s post-September 11^th depression, and with my simultaneous interest in anything to do with the Iron Chef and the Cooking Channel, in general. Avoidance. Reclusiveness. Introspection. These became the nation’s pastimes.

I could’ve pursued anything but CNN and my-then boyfriend’s real life problems, like his cousins and family home in Afghanistan, and the drunk veteran who hissed into my ear on a city bus, “You know he’s only with you to get his citizenship.” I imagined myself turning around and clobbering the man’s face with my shoes, just until I’d collapse on the floor in hysterical sobs of complete and utter defeat: “This world will never be the same.” I managed to turn around and say to the man, "You are cruel."

He replied in alcohol breathe, "This world is cruel."

What the veteran didn’t know is that my boyfriend and I had spent the afternoon at Marshall Field’s, shopping for a friend’s wedding gift. In the fine china department, I pointed to a Lennox statue of a man and woman in an embrace that was beautiful, corny and comforting. A piece that my boyfriend remembered, and which he gave me one week later for Valentine’s Day. What the veteran couldn’t have known was that my boyfriend was already a citizen and a PhD student in physics. What the veteran couldn’t have ever imagined was that I was madly in love with this dark-skinned man, and that we both loved rabbits more than people at that time in our lives.

Don’t be afraid to love something that doesn’t love you back. As long as you love something, that’s all that matters.

I eventually grew out of my obsession with rabbits in much the same way that home theater sales have leveled off and declined in the last few years. I stopped watching the Iron Chef and returned to CNN.

My parents still love being surrounded by trees and nature, smelling the clean air of an isolated forest, picking baskets full of mushrooms. And I am no longer afraid to love something that doesn’t love me back—an unmistakably bittersweet and Real emotion that makes me feel alive, an emotion that I am grateful for.

I bought a little address book to copy down my friends’ phone numbers, just in case I lose my cell phone (to be read: in case I throw it out of a moving vehicle).

Last night, I had a phone date with Belle, an old friend from Minnesota. I haven’t seen her since July, and I’m not sure when I’ll be in Minnesota next; maybe in December for a rather fanciful dog mushing trip that I’ve been dreaming of.

Phone dates are a strange concept, but with time zone changes and nighttime minutes starting at different times, it’s just easier to plan phone calls in advance. Belle and I covered the essentials: work, school, boys, and friends.

And then she said something that poignantly illustrates why I like her so much: “What’s your home address?”

I don’t remember the last time someone actually asked me that question. Come to think of it, it was probably Belle and Sillyegg when they sent me this magnet:

And then, as if that question wasn’t enough, she asked, “Would you like to be my pen pal?”

I almost peed my pants with excitement. I love getting handwritten letters. And packages, of course. It reminds me of elementary school—the last few years before the behemoth that is technology exploded and got parts of its intestines and goop on everyone within a one-billion mile radius.

I used to have a pen pal from Japan named Hiroko. We met in first grade ESL and she moved back to Japan before second grade started. She thought I was Christian, and I never bothered to correct her. She’d send me gifts for “X-mas,” as she always called it, and I’d send her pictures of me over the years, with descriptions of what I was doing in them on the back, pen indentations raising up the picture in inverted words. At some point, the writing stopped and the absence of packages went unnoticed, I’m sad to say. Until the internet happened, that is.

I miss the human connection that real mail gives you. It’s probably trite to say that, but I don’t care. Emails are about quantity, not quality. But letters take time and care, and they last forever in shoeboxes stowed under beds and stashed in closets. Then, one rainy afternoon, when I’m meandering between the kitchen and my bed, whining that “I’m bored,” I’ll pull out one of those boxes and take a trip down memory lane.

I pulled out my little address book and asked Belle for her address, wondering to myself if I should write it down in pen or pencil. Pencil implies that there will be address changes in the future, more moving, not quite settled down yet. The permanency of pen sort of shocked me though. Its finality implies a home with a yard, a husband, kids, perhaps a dog. It’s strange that I’d think of that, and I don’t know if other people would’ve hesitated as much as I did. It’s just an address, after all. But to me, it’s symbolic. I thought to myself, “How long will Belle live in her new apartment? Will the next place she'll move to be the place where she starts a family and settles down in?”

My parents have a nasty, gray address book that has decades of cooking oil and a general layer of fingerprints and splattered stains on it. That book has been by the phone in every house my family has ever lived in. Some numbers are written in pen, some marker, but most are written in pencil. When someone moves, changes a phone number (or dies), my mom goes into the book and updates their information.

I always felt secure with the penciled-in contacts, yet somehow apprehensive when I’d see my mom go in to erase some piece of information. I’d have a feeling of, “Didn’t anyone ask me if this change was ok?” I always felt somehow slighted that people didn’t consult me before they went ahead with a change as big as canceling their second phone line.

With Belle, I settled on pen, resolving to use whiteout when the next move happens. At least it gave me a sense of temporary permanence.

Today is the official International Talk Like a Pirate Day. So, with that...

Arr, avast¹! A buxom maiden whispered to me, much like the easterly wind², that a young lad of the employed varrrriety was looking to find a cabin mate on a chartered ship. I hoist sails with this fella on a daily basis, so I know he’s not the hornswaggling³ type. I think we’ll get along just fine, as long as he puts down the seat on the head⁴. He’s not a landlubber⁵, which was my primarrrry concern about finding a cockswain⁶ on craigslist. Perhaps we’ll have a pint of bumboo⁷ or grog⁸ over salmagundi⁹ sometime in the next few days or meet in the morn’ for some cackle fruit¹⁰. We have some details to irrrron out that should be as easy as swinging lead¹¹. As far as the eye can see (ay, just the one eye that I have), the waters look calm and it’s smooth sailin’ from here.

1. From the Dutch term for “hold fast” and means “stop and pay attention.” Like, “get a load of this.”

2. A storm or wind coming from the east.

3. To cheat or defraud, often of money or belongings.

4. A marine toilet, which could be no more than a hole cut in the decking at the head or bow of the ship that would allow waste to go into the sea. The waves would hopefully wash away what may have not hit the water. Also called a “jardin”.

5. “Lubber” was an old English word for a big, slow, clumsy person, and this term was aimed at those persons on ship who were not very skilled or at ease with ship life, as if to say, “You were no better on land.”

6. Originally the Captain’s attendant who would row him to and fro the ship, later came to mean the helmsman.

7. A drunk of the West Indies made with watered rum and flavored with sugar and nutmeg.

8. The nickname of a British admiral was applied to a mix of water and rum. The rum was a cheap antiseptic and flavor mask for the poor tasting water that sailors often encountered while at sea.

9. A popular dish of chopped meat (beef, fish, chicken, pig, turtle, etc.), eggs, anchovies, onions, grapes, cabbage or herring, seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, oil and vinegar.

10. Chicken eggs.

11. Swinging a lead weight from a line into water when near shore was a way to measure depth. The job’s simple requirements caused the phrase to evolve into a term for slacking off.

There are lots more words where these came from. Check them out here.

A spontaneous friend of mine, Aiden, said, “Lets go to New York City for the day!” And so we drove 4 ½ hours on Sunday morning and got to Manhattan at 12:30 PM. The weather was perfect, so we spent a few hours lounging on the big rocks in Central Park. We shared a giant pretzel (no salt). We people watched and listened to a jazz clarinetist doing his thing. 

Sometime later, we walked down 5^th Ave, and I kept pulling Aiden into girlie stores along the way. I got a strawberry sundae somewhere on our walk towards the Empire State Building. Of course, once we got there, we discovered that there was a two hour wait to get to the top, so I settled for taking a picture of the lobby area—a very famous lobby, might I add, which appeared in one of the best movies of all time: Sleepless in Seattle.

Aiden’s friend joined us for pizza, and somehow, through a random succession of strangely good luck, the three of us scored tickets through the lottery for front-row seats to Avenue Q, an adult muppet show dealing with the quarter-life crisis, and other hairy issues. Josh and Josh write about it here. It would've been great to meet up with Kirsten Major and Josh H., but alas, no such luck this time.

On our drive back to DC, Aiden and I went through a mighty slow drive thru McDonald’s and played a game called Spot the Parked Cop Car in the Ditch. We got back to DC in the wee hours of, well, today. I feel like we were gone on a weeklong vacation.

I sometimes forget that if I stop compartmentalizing my time into days, hours and minutes, I can actually get out of the mold for how a “normal” Sunday is supposed to be spent. On a usual Sunday night, I’d probably watch a bad movie, eat dinner, and get my stuff ready for work on Monday morning. A lot of the things I do are simply fillers for the next item on my to-do list, and I don’t notice how the in-between time just gets sucked into this transitional abyss of “where the hell did my day go?”

In high school, I decided that I didn’t want to wear a watch because I didn’t want my days to become five-minute slots of prescheduled responsibilities. It was a symbolic gesture, a lot like when I would take my glasses off during passing time because I didn’t want kids in the hallways to see me. I just wanted to be ignored and left alone.

I didn’t notice the absolute absurdity of the fact that the school administrators decided to start each day at 7:47 AM. My mom noticed it though, and she laughed, saying, “What if you get there at 7:48 AM? What then?”

I stated the obvious, “You’ll be marked tardy then.” I’ve always hated that word, by the way. Tardy is a gray-haired, pointed-nosed, pencil-behind-ear, reading-glasses-on-a-beaded-string, stickler-for-the-rules teacher. She’d teach something like biology. Definitely not art or English.

My dad would say, “It’s better to be a half an hour early than to be a minute late,” and there are times when I’d agree with him. But it’s great to get away from schedules, calendars and have-tos. And it’s even better to get away from Sunday night ennui.

In high school, I could never fall asleep on Sunday nights. I’d lay awake with my stomach tied into knots, tossing and turning, agonizing over the impending stress that the week was sure to bring. I felt suffocated by the fact that my weekends were only 1 ½ days long because the second half of Sunday would be robbed by homework and varying degrees of mild panic attacks about the fact that, even if I had done homework during every waking minute of the weekend, I still wouldn’t have completed everything that I was expected to hand in on Monday.

I read an article recently about how kids today don’t really have a childhood anymore. This isn’t a new idea; I’ve been hearing grumblings from parents about how kids have summer reading lists that include several of the classics and mandatory essays that are pretty time-consuming. There’s a lot of concern for poor kids who don’t get to sit on a beach somewhere and just poke a stick into the sand to see if the next wave will knock it over.

What about poor adults who don’t get to do the same? Maybe right alongside their kids. Who says that adulthood has to be tolerated and endured? How about enjoyed and relished? And if we hate cubicles as much as sitcoms tell us we do, then why do we cubicle our very precious free time?

I'm glad I got a chance to get away for a day. That's all I'm saying.

***

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
Someday our ocean
Will find its shore.

So I'll leave the ways that are making me be
What I really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making me love
What I really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You came with the dawn
A soul with no footprint
A rose with no thorn.

Your tears they tell me
There's really no way
Of ending your troubles
With things you can say.

And time will tell you
To stay by my side
To keep on trying
'til there's no more to hide.

So leave the ways that are making you be
What you really don't want to be
Leave the ways that are making you love
What you really don't want to love.

Time has told me
You're a rare rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind.

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For some day our ocean
Will find its shore.
--Nick Drake, "Time Has Told Me"

My friend and I decided that it was time to hit up a happy hour and get happy. So we did. I got trashed on a Thursday night at a tapas bar called La Tasca.

Ironically, the place was swarming with hot Jewish guys (and women too, but really, it’s not about them). It turns out that the downstairs level of the restaurant was reserved for a reunion of a Birthright trip. Birthright is a program that sends young adults to Israel on a one-week excursion, but only if they’ve never been on an organized youth trip to Israel before. I went on one in high school.

I vaguely remember talking to a guy at the bar. His name tag said "David Weiner," and I told him that I was "so drunk." And then he left. My friend quietly reminded me not to tell guys at bars that I’m drunk. They can usually figure it out themselves.

In three hours, we finished off two pitchers of sangria, some garlic cheese bread, and some deep-fried eggplant with an amazing cheese dip. As I write this, nausea is starting to float back and I might have to put down my laptop to walk it off.

Happy hours are an interesting phenomenon. My more sarcastic self would probably attribute this city invention to rush-hour traffic. Someone, somewhere, decided to avoid rush-hour by getting a little bit drunk first, and then getting into their car. Happy hour is quintessential DC. A bunch of people in suits, standing around, shmoozing about their jobs at first, and then loosening up to talk about who’s sleeping with whom at the office.

The younger joints are filled with interns during the summer months, wearing suits made of seersucker and various Rampage-brand attire, throwing names around like crazy, flinging business cards at total strangers, "accidentally" forgetting to take off their work badges. I once saw an intern take off her shoes to reveal nasty socks with a big hole in the right toe; these people are broke college students just trying to rub elbows with the right people. Now that fall semester has started, the crowds have thinned a bit and they’ve gotten a little older.

My friend and I decided to call it a night around 8:30 PM, and I was still okay until I realized that I had to get on the metro. I was starting to feel a little bit queasy and panicky. Just last week, I sat in front of a seemingly innocuous man, until his projectile vomiting on the back of my seat drove me to the other side of the car. As I stepped on the train last night, I began to semi-lucidly pray that that wouldn’t be me, the woman who vomits on her neighbor. It was still sort of rush-hour, and the train was packed. I had to elbow my way towards a seat.

I don’t know about you, but I hate to vomit. It’s one of the worst things to anticipate EVER. Sort of like going to the dentist to get your wisdom teeth pulled out. Or like going to get a pap smear (which, by the way, is the grossest thing to call something related to getting a sample out of a woman’s cervix. Can someone tell me what you would "smear" that sample across?). Vomiting is worse than taking a big swig of spoiled milk and swallowing, and then eating an entire garlic clove after that. Who would do such a thing? I don’t know. But I’m just thinking of things that I would rather do than vomit.

By some miracle of God, I made it to my final destination without hurling a pitcher of sangria and lots of cheese onto anyone. My journey wasn’t over, however, because my dad was waiting to pick me up at the metro stop.

Yes, I now had to look my dad in the eyes and tell him, "Don’t talk to me. I’m drunk, and I will throw up if you do." And that is exactly what I said to my sweet dad. We drove the entire way to TJ Maxx in silence, with my head hanging out the open window like a dog loves to do. Wait. TJ Maxx? Wtf? We had to pick up my mom from her shopping excursion before we went home. I was in such agony at this point that I could no longer talk. I felt like I was going to die at any moment.

My mom got in the car, and my dad quickly summarized the situation by saying, "She’s drunk."

Then, my parents’ cell phone rang. It was my mom’s best friend in California calling. My dad explained to her, "I’m driving my drunk daughter and shop-a-holic wife home right now. Can I call you back later?"

I heard her laughing hysterically on the other end.

I got home eventually and fell into bed, happy that vomiting wasn’t in the cards. I know this is the part where I’m supposed to have a clincher paragraph that touches on a moral lesson to be gleaned from this entire experience. And I think the only thing that I can think of is that happy hours don’t make you happy.

And I love my parents more than anyone else on this planet because they didn’t ask me, "Why?" They just got me home and left me alone. One more drop in the proverbial teen bucket. I can almost hear fifteen year old me screaming through the house, "Just leave me alone!"

Turns out I’ve regressed into adolescence more than I thought. But hey, isn’t this what the quarter-life crisis is all about?

I have a friend that was recently mugged and assaulted across the street from my office building. He was walking home at 10:30 PM on Sunday and was talking on his cell phone. Apparently, the assailant came up to him and asked for money, but my friend said, “No.” The next thing he knew, he was hit several times across the right side of his face with a brick. The only things that were taken were his car keys and the cell phone he was on. His wallet was left untouched.

My friend is having facial reconstructive surgery this Friday and he can’t eat solid foods right now. Half the bones in his face were shattered.

I’ve heard of other stories from people about how unsafe DC can be, but I just assumed that things like muggings only happen to someone else. I wonder, if something like that happened to me, what would I be able to do to protect myself?

I’ve thought about buying a can of mace, but I think I’d be more likely to spray myself by accident than actually need to pull it out on a real mugger. Now, I’m not so sure.

While in college, I developed a habit of walking to my car at night with my keys sticking out from between my knuckles. I’d keep my metal-laced hand in my pocket, while my eyes darted all around like radar piercing the darkness for a possible rapist.

What do you think? Should I get a can of mace? Ladies, what do you do to feel safer when you’re walking alone at night?

It’s not easy confronting people. Most of the time, it sucks. And if you’re anything like me, you find it hard to let go of feeling hurt. I find it hard to let go of people, in general, even after they’ve wronged me in some way. I think I used to be much worse at it, but over the years, I’ve had enough encounters with people to understand that sometimes, people do or say things without thinking first. And that doesn’t mean that they’re evil, plotting creeps (no, not crepes, but creeps).

It just means that they’re too far into their own world to care about someone else’s in any deep, meaningful way. They’re withdrawn enough into themselves that they can’t sympathize with another person. I’ve been in that dark place myself, and have only emerged recently.

It’s far better on this side, much lighter. More like crêpe batter instead of pancake batter.

I’ve learned not to be afraid to tell people they’ve disappointed me, and I’ve learned to let people redeem themselves. I’d rather have real emotions and real interactions, than to avoid conflict and awkward moments. This is the stuff that life is made of.

And maybe waffle batter.

I’ve learned that happiness comes in small doses, and rarely rains down in generous portions. Even for people who seem like they have it all, and don’t deserve any of it. For some, happiness stands waiting outside the front door, but the door is never opened because the person inside is too content in their solitary, wounded state. They’re so uncomfortable, they’re comfortable. Like a kid who craps in his diapers and smiles, or pees in the pool, but keeps swimming anyway.

Maybe it’s about knowing what you deserve and not letting people treat you as anything less than the whole and wonderful person that you are. Even with all of your faults and chipped edges. With your own hurt and bad moods, through times when you might not be entirely perfect yourself. You’re still a human being who’s already been raised. You’ve lived enough to know what you expect, what you need and what you can’t live without.

***

"Don't let anybody raise you. You've been raised." —Maya Angelou

"Don't be so quick to dismiss another human being." —Barbara Boxer

The following conversation took place between an insomniac and a wound-up person at about 1:30 AM today:

Me: Even average people have really difficult moments in life.

Mom: I know. That’s true.

Me: Like, for example, I was brushing my teeth and I stabbed my gums with my toothbrush pretty badly. Now, my whole face hurts.

Mom: Why don’t you use some vouse mawsh?

Me: Some what??

Both: Hysterical laugher.

I can’t explain why this was so funny to me, other than to say that it was very late. It was also my mom’s way of saying “mouth wash,” with a Russian accent, and accidentally switching the first letters of the words.

I’ve thought of a thousand and one different ways to start this post. I’ve thought of cliches, and maxims. Garbled, jumbled thoughts with cherries on top, like grandiose realizations of purpose. An opening worthy of oral recitation.

I’ve settled on a quote from the back of my tourist’s map book of DC:

"Looking for an Adams-Morgan bistro or a Georgetown boutique? A downtown nightclub or the nearest Metro station? Wherever you want to go, Flashmaps will get you there quickly. First-time visitors or life-long residents–anyone can easily navigate DC with Flashmaps."

I wish it were that easy. Navigating anything, at this point in my life, seems like navigating the Potomac with a dead otter for an oar and colander for a boat.

I’m not a first-time visitor, and I’m not a life-long resident. I’ve had one toe on DC’s soil and the other 99% of me anywhere else but here. Minnesota, Israel, Manhattan, anywhere but here. And I’ve known this for a long time, it’s not a sudden realization that I’ve actually been avoiding my own reality.

Please forgive the utter girliness of what I’m about to say, but last night, I watched "Rumor Has It" starring Jennifer Aniston and Kevin Costner. Costner’s character uttered absolutely drivelish lines like–and I’m paraphrasing here–"You’ve got to do something crazy once in a while. Otherwise, life becomes a bunch of Thursdays strung together." Immortal words, I know.

He also tried to comfort Aniston’s character, as she completely fell apart in her pre-mid-life crisis, by telling to her to "be present."

So, that’s what I’m trying to be–present.

I feel that I must add some things to this post before I get into the meat of what I want to say. I have two rules when I blog. And I probably got them from Stephanie Klein, because she’s a blogging diva, and she’s had plenty of years of experience with this medium.

Rule number one is don’t blog about something that you couldn’t tell your friend face to face. Rule number two is don’t blog about the person you’re seeing. I’ve written about men on here, people who’ve graced my life with their presence and have made me feel great, and people who have made me want to scream and lose all hope in humanity, especially the male variety.

It’s pandora’s box, however. Once I write about a man, I know that I will never pursue him again, or try to see him. I just lose interest in him, and I no longer want to keep him close–I want to show him to you, and throw him to the wolves for scrutiny. It’s fucked up, quite possibly. I don’t care.

What I’m about to disclose is true. It really did happen.

I started chatting with Jdate loser number 198, 237, 998. I liked him. I liked him enough to call my best friend in Minnesota to talk her ear off about how this one is different.

We had two great dates, and I only got a quirky, fun-loving vibe from him. He didn’t make me want to vomit, and I told him so. This guy was unique.

The third date rolls around and we agree that I’ll be spending the night at his place. I didn’t have anything in mind necessarily, other than I just wanted to be by him, with him, near him, next to him, on top of him, beside him, you get the point.

He didn’t object to the idea, needless to say.

Fast forward to imagine a man, a woman, a bed and dim lights. It’s eleven o’clock. Things are going well, and I can only assume that we’re both enjoying each other’s company because suddenly, as if a lioness has grabbed her cub by the neck, the guy bolts out of bed and runs out of the room. I thought he was going to let the cat in, or something. Or something, indeed. It turns out he was tending to another sort of pussy. His female roommate.

Ten minutes later, he comes back into the room, shuts the door, and says, "I don’t know how to tell you this, but my roommate is crazy and she doesn’t want to have anyone staying over. She’s pissed at me that I invited you over because she doesn’t feel comfortable with strangers spending the night in the apartment, and she doesn’t want anyone seeing her when she gets up in the morning..."

All of this was interspersed with awkward-ass silences and pierced by an utterly mind-fucked look on my face, much like the look that Katherine the Great must have had when she realized she was about to be crushed by the horse that she was trying to have sex with.

I have to give some details for this story to make sense. It turns out that this guy had just moved into the apartment with a young woman who was recently divorced. She moved across the country to start a new job, and these two didn’t know each other very well when they decided to live together over email.

Well, he certainly got to know her a bit better when, after explaining to me that he was kicking me out, he received a cell phone call from her while she was standing right outside his bedroom. Yes. Instead of knocking, and having to face me, she decided to CALL HIM to scream at him some more. Flustered and really fed up with my entire existence, I changed into normal clothes, got my shit together, and agreed to let him drive me to my car. Correction, my parents’ car.

He proceeds to tell me that once, when psycho-bitch was drunk, she confessed to him that she thought he was "hot" and "her type." So, I stepped into a rabid lion’s den there, ladies and gentleman. Yes, again. Jealous crazy bitch, allow me to introduce you to your new roommate: spineless-jelly-beans-for-testicles man. You deserve each other.

I should work for the DC police because I’m really good at finding where the crackheads hang out.

This place was crackhead central.

I now have to admit the most embarrassing part of the entire story–the part that shows how insane I am, and how utterly ridiculous I can be. I emailed the fucker the next morning to find out if he was okay. And guess what? He didn’t email me back.

I called two days later to see if maybe, just maybe, he’d say to me, "Oh my god. I was so embarrassed by all of that... I just didn’t know how to face you again." But no. He proceeds to tell me over the phone that he has a "friend" in town, and that they’re going to be staying with him. And that the two of them are going dancing and to the zoo.

I’m the monkey. I should charge people money to see me. I could make a fortune, I’m sure.

Fast forward to tonight. Friday, September 8^th, 2006.

I’m on my way to meet a friend for drinks and dinner–yes, a real and actual friend. I walk past the Supreme Court, the Hart Senate Building, the Library of Congress. I’m vaguely aware that these buildings inspire a sort of awe in me. The weather is starting to feel more like fall, and I watch my feet as they crush the dried leaves that have already started to speckle the sidewalk. I try to sort out what the hell has happened to me over the last few days. What forces have conspired against me to make life so painful? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?

Over wine and pizza, my friend tells me that he has a condo in The District that he’s trying to rent out, and am I interested in it? At first, I dismiss the idea as ridiculous. All kinds of excuses come to mind, and I begin to utter a few of them, until I realize that they don’t hold any water. I actually want this place. I want it because it’s a chance for me to live my own life–to begin to plant both feet on DC soil, to focus on anything but the crackheads who’ve come and gone over the last two months. To start living. To be present.

We drive to his place and he gives me the grand tour. I’m excited by the prospect of living in Chinatown, and I decide to take the night to think it over. We part ways.

The night is still young, but I decide that I’ve had a long week. I just want to go home and get to bed. I call my parents to coordinate a ride, and nobody answers. I call about twenty-three more times, and still, no answer. So I’m stranded, watching happy, drunk couples and sad, drunk loners pack the streets.

And now, I have to go to the bathroom.

What’s the only business that lets loiterers use their bathroom? Besides McDonald’s. Starbucks, of course. I run in, and plop down in a chair to wait for the potty to free up.

Gorgeous guy at three o’clock, I’m thinking. But he says, "hello," and asks a question about the gym bag I’m carrying, so I’m plunged into reality again, because before they speak, they really aren’t even human. They’re just posters of someone. I say "hi" back and then the bathroom door flings open, and I smile awkwardly, leaving his question unanswered. Relieved. Two-fold. When I come out, he’s still there, with his tiny laptop and a really sweet smile. I decide to sit down and strike up a conversation.

It turns out he’s a social worker who counsels HIV positive drug addicts. I think about telling him about a crackhouse I just discovered, but decide against inflicting this sort of reality on him–he’s probably never experienced anything like that.

I don’t know how much time passed, but he made me feel much better. Especially when he told me that he was gay, and that his boyfriend would be joining him soon. If you hadn’t read the above, you might think that I was disappointed by the fact that he was unavailable, but if you’ve seen the movie "Monster," then you can probably breathe a sigh of relief that no blood was spilled tonight. A perfectly wonderful gay gentleman ended up offering to take me to a coffee shop where people do poetry readings. We exchanged phone numbers, and before I forget, I did ask him if he’s heard of Josh and Josh Are Rich and Famous. It turns out he used to read it "all the time."

I place another dozen or so calls to my parents, and nobody answers. I waste a half an hour putzing around the United Colors of Beneton, but thankfully talking to my best friend on the phone, spilling my guts to this angel who’s been with me since I was six.

Finally, contact is made with the parental pod, and I run underground to get on the metro.

My head is filled with thoughts of the apartment. How much furniture I’ll have to buy. Could I sleep on the floor for a while, just until I can buy a mattress?

I make eye contact with a guy who looks like John Travolta in his younger years. I contemplate telling him this, but I decide to curb my ridiculously random appetite.

The train arrives, and I sit down in a two-seater. He sits down next to me.

He’s holding a tie in his hands, and I can’t control my impulse to talk to him, so I ask, "Those things are uncomfortable, aren’t they?" Small talk, blah blah blah. Pleasant overall, handsome. But I'm just not sure. I’ve just gone through one of the most humiliating experiences of my life–it’ll take a lot more than a nice guy to impress me at this point. Or will it?

We discuss our final destinations, and I know what’s coming next. So does the gray-haired man sitting next to us, because he looks me right in the eyes and smiles a sagacious middle-aged smile that says, "He’s about to ask you for your phone number, you easy creature, you."

And that’s exactly what happens.

And I give my number to him. Because I’m my own worst enemy. And I’m not one of those women who can set a man’s hair on fire and freeze his feet in place with just one nasty glance. I don’t know how to control myself, let alone another person. And I’m just so tired of all of this. I’m sick of dating. And I’m sick of meaningless lessons that just leave third-degree burns, but which teach me nothing. I’ll stick my head in the oven the next time, and the next time, and the next time...

I’m scarred, and still...

I just want to be present.

I have just, very unceremoniously, cancelled my subscription to Jdate.

All gifts and congratulations cards may be shoved through the wires of your computer, and stacked in my inbox or in the comments section below.

Dear God, I am a liberated woman. And it feels good.

I was friends with two girls in high school who were sort of punky: Britt and Jackie. They were the artsy, musical, grungy kind of girls who’d smoke weed when they had somewhere to do it. Britt dropped off the face of the planet to me after I found out from a little birdie that she thought I “was embarrassing.”

Yes, it stung, considering that we’d been inseparable friends for three years leading up to that unfortunate revelation of hers. Three years of me being “not that embarrassing” and then something tipped the scales just a bit too far, and I was no longer cool. Later, she dropped off the face of the planet in a totally different way—weed got her, and she became a lame pothead. I remember the last time we hung out, and I remember thinking at that time that, “This will be the last time we’ll see each other.”

Britt thought she was an artist so she applied to The Arts High School in Golden Valley, Minnesota, a place where potheads go to “express themselves” and to cultivate their utterly unrealistic expectations of the world. Parents encourage this. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve struggled with my own art-induced hallucinations of the way I wish things were, but damn, in the left-brain world, a person really has to be talented to succeed. And you can’t fake talent.

Basically, she thought her art was good. I thought it sucked, but I never told her. I’d smile and nod when she’d show me her gianormous paintings that were “still wet, so don’t touch them.” I humored her. I never told her that I thought she’d be going nowhere, that I could’ve done better, without even calling myself an artist.

Jackie applied to The Arts High too, but Britt edged her out during the highly competitive interview process. The truth about Jackie is that she really was talented. She had the kind of creativity that was unmistakably unique, and she should’ve been admitted to the program instead of Britt.

A week after Jackie got her rejection letter, we were sitting in our calculus class, not listening to the lesson, and I asked her, “What happened? Why didn’t you get in?” She thought about that question and said, “I think I screwed up when I didn’t have an answer for ‘What kind of risks have you taken with your art?’ I just couldn’t think of a response. I was so nervous.”

“Why didn’t you say you’ve taken your paintings skydiving?” I asked.

She laughed. “I should’ve said something like that. But I froze.”

I haven’t forgotten Jackie, even though I’ve only seen her a handful of times in the last six years. She eventually enrolled in an art school in California and spent some time in Hawaii living with her mom on a military base. No doubt, she’ll be fine, because she’ll carry her talent with her no matter where she goes.

I haven’t seen Britt in seven years, not since I found out that I “embarrassed her.” And something tells me that she’ll embarrass herself even more than I embarrassed her.

Lately, I’ve been wondering about that interview question: What kind of risks have you taken with your art?

I know that blogging doesn’t seem like a risky endeavor, but to me, it has opened doors that I bolted shut years ago. A long time ago, I branded myself as being “not talented enough,” so I ignored my artsy side and followed my parents' advice, who rather bluntly told me I’d be unemployed if I majored in English, and I’m not saying they weren’t right. And I’m not saying I regret the choice I made.

But I sometimes wonder if I’m the sort of person that carries talent within me, instead of being the person who bullshits through admissions interviews.

Risks? It’s a huge risk to start believing that you have something to say. That someone out there wants to hear your version of things. That your life experiences mean something, anything. That you live a sort of universal life. That even someone in Denmark can relate to you.

I’m taking a risk here, and this is a big step for me.

I have an unbearably embarrassing jealous streak. It comes up whenever I could do well without it. It serves no purpose, other than to perhaps add more unnecessary subject matter for me to drama-up my life with.

This sort of jealousy isn’t the disgusting kind that scares me, and it’s not the violently possessive jealousy that I’ve been a victim of in the past.

It has something to do with how furniture tends to outlast a relationship, how unfair things can be. Or how plans seem to stretch further into the future than the love or even the friendship that was sworn eternal.

I sometimes wonder how many years he’ll wear the clothes I bought him at Old Navy, or how long it’ll take him to wear out the shoes we picked out on our trip to New York. How long it'll take him to get through that last bottle of my favorite cologne; how long it'll be until his smell changes. When we first met, he gave me free reign (with veto power) to redesign his look. I sometimes wonder if he’ll give the next girl the same decree—“Dress me.” And then, “Undress me.”

I am now approaching the point of not knowing what happens to him next. The expiration date on plans seems to be about three months. That’s how long it’s taken me to lose him in a string of living wills. That’s how long my eyes have followed him into the horizon.

On one of my last trips to the old apartment, I parked in the basement garage in a “temporary parking” spot. I registered my car at the front desk and pretended that I didn’t live there. In an out of body experience, we loaded the car full of my things—paintings, clothes, art materials, toiletries, pillows. Drenched in sweat from the humidity, inhaling exhaust fumes, drifting off mentally as much as I could, just there to “get my stuff, and get out,” we said our final goodbyes. No more crying at this point. After the last things were lodged into the car, I finally pulled up to the automatic doors, and pressed the intercom button. This fortress condo building had security that rivaled the Pentagon’s. A sign explained, “Turn off headlights. Cameras cannot read license plate number with lights on.”

I fought the urge to spastically press the round exit button 50,000 times. Once was enough. Just wait. Sit and wait. Wait.

“Yes?” Came a muffled buzzing noise from the speaker.

I took a deep breath and enunciated loudly into the intercom, “VISITOR LEAVING.”

Visitor leaving. I fought the urge to cry at that point. I couldn't believe the irony in those words, and I was so out of my mind--but not out of it enough, because I still picked up on the tragedy of the entire situation. I had been a visitor in his life, just like he had been a visitor in my life. The life we'd built up over the last two and a half years, and all the plans we'd made would just linger in the air and in the immediate future, just long enough to fade day by day, until we wouldn't know anything about each other anymore. The expiration date of future plans is positively correlated to how much two people love each other. If you love each other indiferently, you only get a few months.

Seconds later, the garage door opened, releasing the wild animals out of the Coliseum. And I got the hell out with them. Things had started to smell pretty bad in there anyway, and the outdoor summer air was beckoning me.

***
Months later, I drove by the building on the date that our lease expired, and a man with a dog, a virtual stranger sat at the wheel. We slowed past the loading dock, and I knew that the truck at the gate was being loaded with things I helped pick out. The mattress’s pillow top had my body’s contour etched into it. A gift for the next person who sleeps in that bed. A reminder for him that I once was, in case she ever asks.

I spent this weekend visiting friends in Connecticut, NYC and New Jersey. Aside from a lovely time dancing with a rather dashing young man to some Cape Verde music, I’d have to say that the highlight of my weekend was spending Saturday with Skip Major. She describes our day in Manhattan here.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew that we’d have fun, being that when you put two blogging women together in a downpour, and throw in a curly-haired, Jewish artist/amateur boxer/torah scribe into the mix, things will never be boring.

Anyway, I couldn’t believe how witty and on this woman was. A few minutes after meeting me, she loaded my plate with fish and chips, as if in preparation for her surrogate Jewish mother role, and had succeeded in making me want to move to Manhattan so I could spend more wonderful days with her. Later, she rescued me from a ridiculously made dress, during which I copped a feel, while completely doubled over with laughter. And she didn’t kick me for that.

The later part of the rainy evening was spent at The View, a rotating restaurant. My parents had a great time hanging out with us young 'uns, and I enjoyed their company just as much. What more could a girl ask for? Sugary drinks, a wonderfully rainy night, and great company. 

I don’t think words really do justice to some things, so I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

The stuff in that cup isn't poop, although it certainly looks like it. It's just D's backwash. (Okay, Turkish coffee backwash.)