Saturday, September 28, 2002
      ( 11:58 AM ) Rebecca  

The other day, I got 250 business cards printed up. Not because I need them for business, mind you. Hell, my “business” consists of sitting in a windowless office editing things like:

"The wParam of this message contains a Boolean value that, if zero, disables the OK pushbutton. If the wParam is non-zero, the OK pushbutton is enabled. By default, the OK pushbutton is enabled."



No one needs to call me for any reason, unless it’s to make sure I haven’t gone into a coma.



But hey. Work paid for them. And they are a handy way to get my phone number and e-mail address out into the big, bad world of boys. It beats desperately searching for a scrap of paper on which to write so I can thrust it into the hands of that hottie as he leaves the party.



Now I know what you’re thinking. And it’s true. My sister and I used to say we inherited our "slut genes" from our mother. But now that l’il sis is married to Super Brother-in-Law (SBL), she no longer engages in such behavior (I hope!). AND, I might add, I am no longer the sluttiest one in the family because that distinction now goes to SBL’s sister! So there.



In my defense, I’d like to say it's not insecurity that prompts my profligate behavior, but a mere over-enthusiasm for boys. Caught up in the wave of this enthusiasm, I am, as my father used to say, “boy-crazy.” Or, as Gal Pal #2 put it last week, “indiscriminating.”



For example, I gave my card out twice on Thursday night. Although, officially, my friend M., taking on the role of agent, gave my card out once, when a nerdy (but slightly cute!) boy at the Tractor fumbled his attempt to ask for my e-mail. At which point, M., smooth as silk, and sympathetic towards nerdy (but slightly cute!) boy, whipped out his wallet and said, “Yeah, you should e-mail her. Here’s her card.”



Then there was L’il Rockclimbing Boy (LRB) (not to be confused with | #
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Tuesday, September 24, 2002
      ( 8:38 AM ) Rebecca  
Last week, I went on my first blind date since becoming a swinging single. On paper, this guy would give my mom a major orgasm with these three little words: Jewish. Doctor. Yale.




In person, well. Let’s just say it was a blind date. And you know how blind dates usually are. Lots of nervous anticipation thudding into dull disappointment. And plenty of alcohol to lubricate the conversation in the face of creeping boredom.




But this was not that kind of date. This boy was, how shall I say, a Baberaham Lincoln. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Perfect fair skin. Sweet brown eyes. And all his hair! Which was cut – if you can believe it – in that George Clooney style, which is too funny because he’s a pediatrician, just like George Clooney was on ER!!




Anyway. I would, of course, like to date this boy solely because it would make Loser so jealous. The Yale thing, for one, would drive him up the wall, because he’s sooo insecure about where he went to college (state school in the Midwest). The tall thing, for another, since Loser himself is only about 3’ 5”. And the gorgeous doctor part? Just frosting on the cake.




But seeing as I am now a more evolved person (and because he has not yet asked me on a second date), I have maintained an admirable detachment in this situation, and have not picked out my wedding dress yet. Plus, there were some possible personality flaws. And, thanks to wise fellow blogger Radmila, who advised keeping track of a guy’s major flaws and ditching him if the list reaches five in a short time, I am keeping my googly eyes wide open.




So I decided to check his references. I went to the source of the set-up, my friend M. in L.A. And I sent him the following e-mail:




Dear M., I met your pal Dr. S. last night I liked him. V. cute! But...while he is very charming and clever, I wonder -- does he have a serious side at all? Like does he ever talk about real stuff? I know he just met me, but it seems like he could possibly be all surface and no depth. Also, he didn't ask too much about me -- is he very self--absorbed? Give me "the scoop."




M. wrote back in golden, glowing prose:




Dr. S. is an amazing person. He's one of the kindest guys you'll ever
meet, but he's very much his own guy. Very goofy, very random,
incredibly funny. He does have a serious side. He cares about a lot
of things. He helped pass handgun legislation in California. He is a
fantastic drummer. He's a hellova doodlist.




But he's also not one to make small talk. I think he's the kind of
guy who feels comfortable wherever he is. He has zero self-consciousness.
But I wouldn't say that he's self-involved. He just goes with the
flow. It makes him the ideal guy to hang out with.




Dr. S. is definitely an aquired taste and takes some time to get to
know. How could you not like the guy, though? I'm glad you met him, whether
anything happens or not. If you have appendicitis, he's the guy to
call.




I admit I fell for M’s hard-sell. That is, until I forwarded the e-mail to my panel of cynical gal pals (without whose tough-love advice this summer, I would now be occupying a room at the state mental hospital.) Instead of expressing their amazement at what a great guy Dr. S. appeared to be from M.’s e-mail, they expressed the following sentiments:




From GP#1
I don't know. I guess it depends on your taste, but in some ways people
who are their own person are real pains in the asses. Give me a
codependent any day!




From GP#2
ok, i was going to exercise this morning and didn't so
i'm in a crabby mood, so forgive my cynicism, but i
think that men have different standards of what makes
a person ideal to hang out with then women. M.
after all thought Loser was the greatest too. how
does someone have zero self-consciousness and feel
comfortable wherever they are--i think that's weird.
And sometimes you just GOTTA make small talk.




From GP#1 again.
HA! I see GP#2 takes MY view of things. I already told BB that the e-mail
from M. didn't impress me one bit. I don't trust people with zero
self-consciousness. Give me NEUROSIS!



So thanks gal pals for helping puncture the bright-colored balloons of my expectations. I needed that! Now where's the tequila?


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Sunday, September 22, 2002
      ( 2:14 PM ) Rebecca  


NEXT STOP: AMBIGUITYLAND

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



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



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



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



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



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




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Tuesday, September 17, 2002
      ( 10:46 PM ) Rebecca  


Seeing as:

  • CuteBoyCallBlock® has been activated on my phone
  • I am terminally impatient and easily bored


Last night, I made a foray into the online personals. And oh, quelle reward! A mere 24 hours later, I have 14 responses! Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about, baby. Numbers!



A couple years ago, I ventured into the personals too. I met K., now one of my best friends. I met S., who fell madly in love with my friend R. (who also writes a mean blog) had twins with her, and then turned out to be Anger Boy.



And I met P., a short, insane rock climbing elf, partial to setting himself on fire, scaling buildings, and smoking pot, whom I dated for a rollicking two months until Loser ditched his ex-girlfriend for me (what goes around comes around, doesn’t it?).



I must mention, too, that despite being technologically-challenged, I actually took a photo of me and you-know-who, and, using Photoshop, cropped him out of it, and posted it in my ad! Now that felt good! You graphic designers are laughing at me, but figuring out how to crop a picture for me is akin to apes learning to bash each other’s heads in with rocks. I think I’m going to crop him out of all my pictures!



And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. A snippet from one of my responses. What you must know about the personals is that they are an orgy of cleverness; everyone trying to outdo each other with verbal shenanigans. To wit:



So, how do you want the world to end? If you saw some variety of Transcendent White Light beckoning to you while you were getting your appendix out, what would keep you from joining it? What are you drinking now that summer's past and the g/ts are distant memories? What do you see when you close your eyes?”



Oy. I am so tired.



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Sunday, September 15, 2002
      ( 11:48 AM ) Rebecca  


SWIM ONLY WHEN LIFEGUARD IS ON DUTY

Recently, a sexy boy (SB) of my acquaintance used what I thought was an apt metaphor to describe relationships. (Note to all men: I am easily impressed by apt metaphors).



He said that physical attraction is the "diving board" that gets you into the "swimming pool" of a relationship. The pool may be empty, but you’re never going to know unless you jump in, and you’re never going to jump in unless you think the other person is, in some way, hot.



Most sane people, after diving into an empty swimming pool, would get the hell out. (The metaphor breaks down here, because you’d be dead after diving into an empty swimming pool, but SB still gets an "A" for effort). There are those of us, however, who, carried away with physical attraction, dive right into that empty swimming pool, and keep “swimming,” sometimes for years, until something forces us to realize that we’re just flopping around on concrete.



And usually the something that forces us (ok, me) to understand the situation is getting dumped. Maybe my, um, goggles are on too tight, or maybe I’m too scared too see the truth because that trusty old biological clock is ticking, but it’s usually le garcon, in recent years, who has to say, hey chicky, let’s get out of this empty pool. (See “Crushdom,” Aug.25, for more information on this phenom).



But now, thanks to the events of this evil summer, I am becoming a more evolved human being. One who will no longer make the sexual frisson into my religion. (It would help if I had a real religion, but oh well). In my evolved state, I will be able to be overwhelmingly attracted to someone, and perhaps not sleep with them, unless I know there is water in that pool. Or, if I do, by accident sleep with them, I will nonetheless be able to stand back and say, well, just because we have hot sex doesn’t mean I’m going to marry him.



I’m not saying this is going to be easy. Au contraire. I’m a hot-blooded girl in my sexual prime! If I didn’t form emotional attachments so easily, and wasn’t such a nice, sweet, wonderful person, I’d be a real predator. As it is, my evolved state will require patience and probably many cold showers. Luckily, this is not a problem as the shower in my apartment is a piece of crap and doesn't heat up for 15 minutes anyway.



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Friday, September 13, 2002
      ( 8:08 AM ) Rebecca  

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



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



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



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



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



But of course.



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



But of course.



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Tuesday, September 10, 2002
      ( 10:58 PM ) Rebecca  
I didn't realize it until now, but my phone has a setting that blocks calls from all cute boys. It's been activated for the last few days and I do not know how to turn it off!
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My novel BreakupBabe is out! You can buy it here.

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This blog was the inspiration for my novel. It helped me get through a horrible breakup and kept me entertained for years. But all good things must come to an end. I will recycle oldies but goodies from the archives here, but will blog about about writing here, and about all kinds of other stuff here.

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