No, thanks. I'd rather not be involved in a Guatemalan love quadrangle

a.k.a. It's not as bad as Dubuque (Then again, not much is.)

So, tonight one of my ESL students asked if I was looking for a boyfriend. While "looking" is not exactly the verb I'd choose, I'm obviously open to meeting someone new.

"He's my brother-in-law's brother," she said. "He's tall, and he has green eyes."

"Okay," I said. "Sure, bring a photo next week."

"And he's married in Guatemala," she said. "But it's okay because his wife has another man there and he was sad for awhile but now he's okay."

Um. Okay. Maybe not.

Turns out simpatico guy (see July 18) is definitely moving here, or close to here. (An hour-and-a-half from here, to be precise.) The person whom we have in common keeps mentioning him to me: what he's reading, how kind and thoughtful he is, etc., etc.

"He's so my type," I keep thinking. Which is odd, because I don't have a "type." I've dated all sorts of people: scientists, artists, and martial artists. But if I had to describe the type of person who I enjoy being with and the type of person I find phyically attractive, I would describe simpatico guy.

He makes me nervous and flustered. For goodness' sake, I said "mosquito" instead of "Muskego." How pathetic can you get?

And I can't do anything about it.

P.S. Em sez check out www.dresdendolls.com. I concur.

On this my 10,219th day

(Tonight's workout accompaniment: Over The Rhine: Eve)

Like Rob, I've come to the stage where birthdays are not what they used to be. No big parties, no big deal. More of a chance to reflect.

At 3:00 a.m. on New Year's Day, I met a prophet in an elevator. I said I hoped this year would be better than last. He said: "It will, if you stay good."

Well, sir, I've done my best. And this year has had its ups and downs. So I'm starting my New Year tomorrow.

I wanted to get a tattoo tomorrow night, but I'm waiting until the muscles in my upper arm are a little more well-defined. Perhaps I'll be ready on my half-birthday.

So I'll settle with enumerating what I've learned this year:

• I'm damn sexy, all the time.
• Working out feels good.
• People change.
• My intuition is always right.
• I prefer brilliant colors in art, shades of gray in life.
• Love is all around us.
• (And I don't mean romantic love.)
• Creativity is not something to be fit into a schedule.
• People pay attention to me for more than which I give them credit.
• Ask, and it shall be given unto you.
• (But you may not recognize it when you get it. In fact, you may not even appreciate it. It may make you mad as hell.)
• My list of lifelong dreams needs updating.

Fever

The sexiest song ever is Karin Bergquist singing Peggy Lee's Fever.

Brad and Janelle and I went out to dinner and to see Over the Rhine tonight. (Liz joined us for the concert.) I've been in a funk for the whole week, but the good music just seeped into my soul and healed me.

One of the things I learned at the Parliament of World's Religions this summer is that Westerners are cursed with a linear understanding of the nature of time, rather than a circular or spiral model.

My recent past has been an exhausting depressive episode. My most recent temporal touchstones have been disappointments.

Tonight, I feel a new point of reference: of love, of passion, of creativity. Of overcoming obstacles.

Karin sang: "I'm looking forward to looking back on this day."

Tonight I crossed over into looking back on my disappointments, rather than living in them.

Amen.

Funeral for a friend

I couldn't stop crying yesterday. It started at about four at my desk at work. I had to leave by four-thirty to drop off my negs at the photo shop and make it to English class on time.

By the time I reached my car, I was sobbing.

Completely emotionally wrecked.

I cried for my entire commute. I managed to compose myself before running into the photo shop. But by the time I made it home, I was crying again. Huge, primal sobs.

And I realized it wasn't rejection or self-pity.

I kept thinking about how much I'd enjoyed getting to know the letter-writer. How he really is a good guy, and someone I would very much want to be my friend.

And how I'd turned that friendship down.

So I wrote him, and said as much.

I haven't cried since.

And now I wait.

Intuition

(Tonight's workout accompaniment: According to Jim)

Hey! It was on at the gym and I live in Chicago. Jim Belushi cracks me up.


So, I knew things weren't working out on the date, actually. There was no real spark. The friends I spoke to about it later sensed my hesitation. But I was ready to give it a second chance. It was hard for me to accept that I wouldn't get a second chance, though.

We talked about it last night, he and I. He apologized for not telling me about the other woman sooner. So. For whatever that's worth. I wished him luck.

So I called the Jeep guy, since my obligation to the letter-writer had expired.

He turned out to be rather creepy. I think he was drunk. He started grilling me about where I live and where I work. He's text messaged me three times now, "so r u bored or what" ... okay, I'm a journalist. I can't deal with the atrocious grammar of text-messaging.

I blocked his number, which I think is only working for calls and not text messages.

So. Out of all this I've gained a good cry and a stalker.

Sick of it all

(Tonight's workout accompaniment: Arabic Groove and righteous anger)

I'm so sick of it. The half-truths, more than anything. The half-promises. "Nothing will hold us back," and "I enjoy being able to share what matters most in my life with you."

Well, nothing will hold us back except the OTHER woman you're dating whom you just happened to forget to mention. Until three days after a date. Upon which you mentioned you'd like to see me again. Uh huh. Yeah. Well. Good-bye.

Imperatives, questions and catalogs

1. Imperatives

Read Emlyn's exposition on stealth jets and breasts. Hilarious.

2. Questions

Would it be too weird to get the logo of the Parliament of the World's Religions as a tattoo? (See it here.)

3. Catalogs

Every time I receive a lingerie catalog my neighbor removes it from my mailbox and puts it on my doormat. Only the catalog. Not the rest of the mail. Ewww.

T minus 2 days until date with letter-writer

Here's the question:

Black pants, black shirt
or
black pants, red shirt

It's casual and we're going somewhere dark for the second half of the date. Meckhead says he might not be able to find me if I wear all-black.

Afterwards, I'm dogsitting out in the West suburbs for the weekend. Hello, weekend away from home. It'll be just me and a good book and a dog named Tex. And laundry. Part of the compensation package for dog-sitting. (Grin.)

Take back these old letters / They're fetters 'round the brain

(The title belongs to a woman whom I'd credit if I could remember her name.)

I'm two days into an apartment reorganization mission. And this morning, I stumbled over the cleaning stumbling-block, a box of old letters.

Love letters whose prophecies proved false. Postcards from the world, mostly from my Dad. Christmas cards from my paternal grandparents, who have both died. Photographs sent in cards, labeled on the back. Cards from people whose names I have to strain to place. Five years in a life in correspondence.

Did I say something about free time?

That was last week. Now it's back to the grindstone. Sigh.