S/he's Just Not That Into You. Their Loss.

Good Lord, possums. Egad. It has been weeks and weeks and weeks since I last wrote, an anamoly for me. Although I haven't been so regular in my postings in the last few months, I've never gone more than 10 days without throwing out at least a link to a funny video or a snippet of poetry.

The bleated excuse of the 21st century slips from my lips in a murmur: I've been quite busy. Luckily, for the finances; unfortunately, for the writing. Between normal work and extra work (I'm now toting around a Blackberry for one short-term contract in addition to my own brick-like cellphone and deadweight laptop) and new work (a brand new company I'm co-founding, so exciting), and volunteer work (the last two out of three weekends, music festival and mixed martial arts extravaganza, respectively)...well, there's been lots of work in my life recently, and goodness while having a sense of newfound purpose is grand not to mention getting some cash back in hand, it's all taken up a lot of time.

So my apologies. It's rather banal to point the respective digit at "work", but that is the chief culprit. Sigh. I suspect I used to be more interesting than this. Now, despite myself, I'm working away diligently and dating a sweet fella with a goshdarn, occasional toddler. Jeez Almighty. I do have the occasional pang for sexcapades with Guyfriend, as I relate those to fancy/not so fancy hotels and restaurant meals and long, conversational coffees in big cities. This one: equal parts cosy pub, swimholes, rented movies, short roadtrips with a dash of Dora the Explorer. Ooooo.

Actually, for a Daddy-O he's pretty cool, but even he can't help falling into the alternately wheedling/stern tone of parenthood. Last Friday, exhausted and irritable with PMS, I had to rapidly drink a glass of wine and a Lucky lager to calmly endure a six-year old's energy for several minutes while Honey put his own kid to bed. Lordy, Lawdy. Mind you, I do enjoy the company of some children for sporadic, short bouts. I simply prefer the company of most adults.

Ah, adults. Interesting creatures. I once started to write about friendship but got onto lustier or funnier topics. Now, though, it's at the forefront of my thoughts.

In the last five months, I've been rejected three times. Once, sexually by my dear old Guyfriend; next, by the poor Date who just wasn't into me, ultimately; and now by a pretty good female friend who, it turns out, is struggling to come to terms with the fact that she's just not that into me either.

This last is bemusing, to say the least. I should clarify that there is nothing romantic between this gal and myself; nothing, in fact, romantic between me and any woman, past or present. Nope, this is just a friend who really likes the idea of me, and is confounded by the reality.

Here's a summary of our recent conversation, once it was established I did have time to talk and hello, how ya been, etc.

"Well, I've been really wanting to talk to you about something, and I haven't known how." she says.

"Well, go ahead, shoot." I say this jovially, thinking it is something unrelated to myself, of course. "It's hopefully nothing I've done to make you mad." I think this unlikely, you see.

"No, and that's what's so weird. You've probably noticed I haven't been making the effort to hang out with you or even talk to you the past month or so. I just haven't wanted to, and I can't figure it out."

Oh. In fact, I hadn't really noticed (see paragraph 1-3, busy). There had been the odd flash of I haven't seen this person for a while, but I honestly hadn't thought about it past these fleeting thoughts. I'd assumed we'd come together when we could, as friends do.

"Well...I talk a lot about business. Maybe you've wanted a break from that. I talk a lot about work and maybe you're at a point where you're happy with your work, or don't want to think about it in your off-time." I'm trying to be gracious here, and give her an out. She doesn't take it.

"No...that's not it. I just haven't been motivated to hang out with you. I think, 'Oh, I should give her a call, or we should do something...' and then I realize I don't really want to, and I feel guilty. Because I think you're a great person, I really do! I can't figure it out."

At this point, I just start giggling, and remain in a state of giggle for the rest of the conversation. It seems surreal. I like this person, partly because she is so interested in examining her own thought processes and reactions. But in this case, I believe she is overthinking the situation. I cannot and will not persuade her to like me, no matter what merits I may possess.

After drawing parallels to foods I like but have overdosed on in the past and thus needed a rest from, I let her know I'd rather have her not call or see me than build up resentment towards my existence out of friendship guilt.

And that's pretty much that. I'm not going to spend too much time or energy on convincing someone they should be stoked to be friends with me, or in trying to reassure them I'm okay, you're okay, it's all okay. Because it's not that neat, even if it is simple.

People attract and repel. I don't mean this purely in the sexual sense: it happens platonically as well. I've been attracted to people when I should have known better, and repelled by people who meant well but set my teeth on edge. That's that.

I'm learning to take rejection with grace. I prefer to think of it as dissolution, of feeling once imagined or fancies dissolving with exposure and time. My friend likes the idea of me, but not the reality. The Date thought I was hot and a good person, but found we were not as compatible as it seemed at the beginning. Guyfriend...well, he's got his own damage, but I like to think he treasures the friendship we have over the sex.

Lest you think me a trifle saintly, let me be clear. These, I understand, are generous assessments. They are made not so much to sanctify the Other; more to protect my own ego. Besides this, I do like to think positively, or barring this, pragmatically. "What is the lesson I can learn from this pain?" I'm finding is my usual reaction almost immediately following the painful surprise of rejection. And so it goes.

And lest you think me a trifle Zen, I think these people are fucking idiots, to a certain degree. Yes, even my beloved Guyfriend, who is still one of my nearest and dearest friends and is likely to remain so for life; yes, even a man who is so close to myself in temperament and tastes that we frequently and mutually refer to "our twinship"; a person for whom I have enormous respect intellectually and spiritually--yes, even this exalted figure in my life I feel, in this regard, is a complete and utter doofus.

In truth, I occasionally fantasize about him seeing the error of his ways and Developing Feelings for me at some point in the years to come, and blurting out (perhaps in the afternoon rain, oh yes) that he'd made a mistake when he said no to continuing as lovers; and me sympathetically nodding and smiling sweetly and telling him he made the right call, all those years ago. In other words, eat your fucking heart out, chump. Interesting how one can carry affection and vengeance in one's heart simultaneously.

As for my friend, I don't know what to say to her. She's a few years younger than myself, so I think her over-communication springs partly from this, partly from her fiercely psychiatric-intellectual outlook. At any rate, I shrug in her general direction: I'm interested to know you, but won't miss you much if you're gone.

The number of people who are genuinely close to me are few and far between, and even they shift over the years. I'm lucky to have them in my life when I have them, but recognize they can come and go with the currents of their life, which may not necessarily be carrying them in my direction. A Gallic shrug here, and more wine, garçon.

And yes, mostly I am that self-assured. I'm fairly pleased with myself and my own company, and think that while I'm lucky to have my friends and family, why, they're also pretty lucky to have me.

At any rate, I do find it all pretty interesting. Now, I shall go to sleep soon, but apologize again to no one in particular re: my long absence from this space. I've liked the time to be busybusy and mull things over without expression in the corners of my brain, but also am enjoying returning to the act of writing. See you soon, possums.

-Gretchen

Men Who Hate Women

This, dear Reader, was the original title of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Of course, you know this, as you are likely in the deep end of the trilogy along with several million other Canadians. I am. It took me a few hundred pages to get there, but I'm pleasantly in now.

The joy of getting into a thick, hastily printed paperback is unlike any other joy. Akin to finding a box of fudgesicles in the freezer on a blazing hot day and eat them languorously on the deck naked and staring at the uncut lawn. You didn't know you needed to do that until you did it, and you don't regret it while you're doing it and don't regret it after. Such is the pleasure afforded by Steig Larsson's novels.

There was a humourous article printed in the national newspaper last weekend, fondly lampooning the saga. For example, how everyone is always making coffee and unappealing sandwiches (meat/spread + pickle on rye is a recurring theme).

Or the dispassionate, pragmatic way people go about having (consensual) sex with one another, for no other reason than they want to at the time. Might I add people not only in their twenties, but also in their 40s and 50s. Infidelity is explained matter-of-factly as either being a condition of one relationship or the cause of its end, but provokes no floods of tears or hysterical displays.

Or the level of brandname-itis that runs throughout, not in any overtly commercial way but as mere fact. Lisbeth does not go shopping for a computer; she sets her sights on "the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminum case with a Power PC 7451 processor with an Altivec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had Bluetooth and built-in CD and DVD burners." It's the Rainman approach to narrative, every detail noted and shared.

It is curious and even a little tedious until the action picks up, and then you realize you've been lulled into a highly suggestible state. The rythym you've fallen into is thoroughly engrossing, like listening to someone with a calm demeanor and soft voice telling you how they exacted gruesome revenge upon those who had wronged them.

Of course, Ms. Salander is the heart of the novel, a cryptic little heroine with a flat chest and tattoos. Blomkvist is fine, but hardly a character which could drive the series. Nope, it's weird little Lisbeth that we love and identify with and admire for not feeling sorry for herself or being a victim, even as we are allowed to glimpse her self-doubt and fear. We are not told what she feels; we are told what she does and how she reacts and to a certain extent, why. It's refreshing.

She's not a flake nor a victim, not a sidekick or an ass-kicking heroine. I'm only just finished the first novel, but so far she not "on a journey" or had any revelations about who she really is, really. She has not gone shopping to make herself feel better; she goes shopping to get things she needs. And the other main characters only grocery shop, it seems. Message being that you can't make sandwiches from nothing.

Even if the series is several years old by now, it seems a timely antidote to the fictional women that dominate our cinema screens. There's the sexily scowling, invincible heroine taking on all evil-doers with physically impossible (and apparently painless) stunts; the domestically-demanding, skirted Wife/Girlfriend who just loves to go shopping with the gals when she's not berating her Manchild; and her sister, the independent city gal who is supposed to be defined by her job though we never see her do it or hear her refer to it in any detail, as she's too busy gushing on about how all the good men are taken, etc. A jockey-sized, borderline autistic computer-hacker is just what we need.

Having gone to see La Belle Jolie in the instantly forgettable Salt on matinee impulse with Honey the other day, I walked out saying how it'd be nice to see a movie heroine who looks like she's been in a few fights. How about a stocky, fit middle-aged broad with a few scars, maybe even a broken nose or chipped teeth? No make-up, thoughtlessly tied pony-tail, sensible shoes, clothes that allow her to move uninhibited, and most of all, believable fighting chops that leave her sweating and panting and probably too sore to slip into a Galiano gown to drink champagne all night. That's right: someone who looks like a middle-aged, possibly lesbian yoga enthusiast. Why not? It shall have to be my creation.

In the meantime, I'm a trifle miffed that the Swedish movie version of TGWTDT, which I've heard is excellent and had rented to do prime wallowing veg-out to tonight, is not actually in my possession. The wrong DVD was placed in the case, so I can either watch season 1 of Mad Men or start book 2. I start book 2.

Signing off from her place in her 2010 queen-sized, Tempur-Pedic OriginalBed with crumpled white cotton sheets and bright green pillow cases,

GR

ps Holy shit, my bed's Swedish!