Wednesday, February 25, 2004
      ( 8:56 AM ) Rebecca  

I am having re-entry issues.

I am still jet-lagged.

Work feels like a straitjacket.

Boys make me anxious.

My tan is going to fade.

On the upside, I found a tres promising prospect (handsome! Jewish! outdoorsy! fun!) on, who lives only, oh, a few hundred miles away in Salem, Oregon. But that is not too far for my WOMB, people. She is on the march! So stay tuned for news on this hot, tele-skiing, soon-to-be lawyer because it seemed like he might be easily persuaded to come for a Seattle visit!

And I think I'm going to need him soon because, despite all my intentions to wait for the Captain to ask me out next, what did I do but send him a casual l'il email asking him if he wanted to hang out again soon. (Keep in mind, he did e-mail me earlier in the week to say "hi," though no date invitations, naturally, were forthcoming) But am I patient enough for such a thing? NO? And did we not agree that we would hang out about once a week? YES?

And what did he say in his e-mail! Oh, of course, I'd love to hang out with you soon you brilliant, adorable babe! How about this Saturday night?

Try again.

OK, how about something like this (abridged version): "I have a pain in my face and I have to go to the doctor."

Well. A pain in one's face is a terrible thing to have and I am very sympathetic. No doubt I would be going out of my mind with worry if I had a pain in my face. Why I'd probably think it was a brain tumor and demand to be given a CAT scan toute de suite! But still. He might have responded to my invitation, MIGHT HE NOT HAVE?

It?s all resolved now, because when I asked him AGAIN about hanging out this weekend (who me, pushy?), he said oh, yes, let's. Now if this were just a friend I wouldn?t give a rat's a** about asking twice (or once!) but with a commitmentphobic man, well, playing hard to get is probably what?s best, but we all know is utterly incapable of playing hard to get when she's actually into someone.

But f*ck it. It's all going to work out how it's going to work out anyway, so there.

Plus, there's the Jewish ski god, not to mention the Benjamin Bratt lookalike architect in San Franciso. Yeah, I know. Believe me, I do not want to move back to San Francisco. But if my womb could find a rich, handsome husband who would buy her a house in Pacific Heights or North Beach, she just might do it.

And I might not be able to stop her.

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