Quick, Someone Commit Me

Greetings from the Gwretch.

Things are looking up, if by "up" I mean into a clear night sky where constellations and planets shine lazily. If I blink and realize I don't know what I'm looking at, I can begin to make out their patterns. Start to plot a course.

I've been taking a dear friend's advice and living with my balls out, albeit with some trepidation and I hope, more sensitivity than I've displayed in the past.

As those balls have taken on a decidedly blue tinge over the last weeks, I decided to ask my Date for clarification. Being me, I wrote an incredibly detailed-yet-succinct script for myself before addressing the target of my desire. Yessir, had all my points numbered, essay form. Of course, being me what came out was a hesistant "Uh, do you like me?" Way to go for kickin' er off, eh?

Perhaps this was the way to go, though, as neither of us have had a clear idea of what we're supposed to be doing as participants in this extended dating thing. However, I've known enough to be close to giving up. An example of this is an exchange we had a couple of days ago over tea, when I asked about his plans later on in the week.

After a rambling description of his various work- and recreation-related activities, I responded with a shrug. "Well, call me when you've got some free time and want to hang out."

Could it be any more noncommital. Apparently so. His reaction was, "Aw, that's not going to work...I can never remember to call you." And then, showing he was not totally bereft of his senses, his mouth snapped shut.

A pause. With a smile as sweet as anti-freeze, I gave the appropriate response. "Well, honey, if you can't remember to call me then perhaps that's a good indication we shouldn't hang out anymore."

He looked frozen for a second. "No, no. I'm going to call you. I'll remember."

I bit my tongue to stop an "Oh, goody!" from escaping. It's not fair to be a reflexive bitch. It's part of what makes men so terrified of women. I didn't know what was going on with him but have had enough faith in my own judgment (still!) to give him some grace.

Sure enough, he did call the next day to make not one, but two plans with me for the week. As plan-making, along with telephone-talking and sober getting-it-on have been his weak points, I congratulated him on his progress. (Okay, maybe a bit of a reflexive bitch surfaces from time to time, can you blame me?)

Last night I launched an offensive. Yes sisters, I wore a skirt, thigh-high stockings and some sexy boots. After dinner we went back to his place to watch a movie. Here we go, I thought. Who can resist the lethal trifecta of leggy wear, especially when backed up with the artillery of subtle eye make-up?

I got my hand held. The whole movie. Apparently, the trifecta's powers have waned in recent years. Afterwards, although it was late and he was yawning, I was compelled to kick off the can-we-talk with the blurted "Uh, do you like me?" I got my answers.

In summary, yes, but he'd been spooked by his own assumptions. He'd reckoned once we did the deed I'd start demanding he go on automatic Boyfriend mode. Staying over regularly, public displays of affection, plans being made for him, having to introduce me as the Girlfriend. Commitment. Frequent allusions to the future, long talks about the Relationship and Where This Is Going and We're Not Getting Any Younger, You Know. Terrifying stuff, especially to a guy who for many years was pretty damn single due to the travel requirements of his old job.

The irony was that I'd been worried myself about what he wanted as commitment. I'd thought, good lord, this guy is sensitive (I knew he wasn't dumb). Cripes, he doesn't want to have sex until he gets to "know me". Jeepers. What a relief to hear he'd been sweating the same stuff as me, kinda.

This is great, I thought, now he'll be stoked to learn I'm planning to only be here a few more months and am just looking for a casual dating thing (i.e. fuck-buddy who likes to occasionally hang out as well). In truth, I'd liked him enough till then to have been open to more, but only slightly more. I'd even been alarmed by slightly more and its possible repercussions on my life.

He seemed taken aback by my venturing that we stick to just dating, and not even exclusive dating at that. Startled, even. Like he'd secretly wanted the extended warranty option without investing in it up front. Yes, part of me says jeesh; part of me sympathizes. So who knows where it'll go.

I made him a good offer, I think, friendship and sex and no expectation of exclusivity. But I understand that the tricky thing about getting a good offer is that it can make you realize that's not what you wanted after all. After many hours of serious reflection, I conclude: Fuck it. See how it plays.

On other fronts, this week has been a good one for decision-making and opportunities. I've turned down an exciting but not-for-me business proposal (oh so lucrative...so respectable...so not me).

I've been accepted into a post-graduate program in a faraway, large city. I was shocked to feel so pleased about the acceptance, I'd reckoned I was a long-shot. It's looking like that will be my future plan, although I haven't abandoned altogether my "Eureka!" idea of travelling the world studying various forms of martial arts and writing a book about it. Maybe I can have it all, who knows.

And a strange peace was won with my lover and friend. We've resumed a more familiar tone in our correspondence, one grounded in friendship and affection and mutual respect and who knows? I was blunt with him, that I didn't know if what we'd been doing was over or not, and that I value his friendship above all. That I've come to the conclusion I don't have anything of real worth to offer anyone in the ways of Love until I figure my own shit out. That I just didn't know anymore but was going to make it, lovesexromance, a secondary consideration until I got a better sense of myself. (And then I shut up about it. I've stopped saying things to get reactions, I just needed to get it off my chest, and now we can continue.)

This 'Not Good Enough' may sound like a harsh self-analysis--those of you who know me, I do believe you love and value me and wish to see me well-matched--but I believe it to be a fair one. It's taken me a lot of soul-searching to come to this conclusion. I'm getting used to it and it's freeing me up, maybe even compelling me to be a grounded person, above all else.

Lordy. Thirty-six going on eighteen. I'll let you know how the second adolescence continues to play out. In the meantime, I'm starting capoeira tonight. Ha!

~Gretchen "Lethal Weapon" Rutte

I Claim Thee, Blue Balls

Hello. A few weeks back, you may remember I was sick with a Mancold, and claimed it for my own. Well, the head has cleared and all traces of the fever blister have faded. I find myself with a fresh discomfort to claim from the sole purview of dudes.

Let me predicate this post by expressing gratitude. I'm blessed with bustin' good health, surrounded by loving friends and family, and live with more opportunity and comfort than 99% of my fellow humans. Thank you, whoever is responsible. Now let me continue.

I have a raging case of blue balls. I went to sleep with them, and I woke up with them. In case it's been a while since you experienced this condition, it feels like two stones where I reckon my ovaries reside. Let's imagine them to be porous granite. Now let's imagine water droplets embedded deep within minute cracks and imperfections. Now let's place these stones inside of me, where they alternately heat and freeze at the extremes brought on by desire and frustration.

Expansion, contraction. Result: discomfort which flips me side to side in bed; general antsiness in the pantsiness. A sullen irritation with the human cause of said discomfort, and with myself. Whaddaya mean, I can't get cock on demand? Bring me cock on demand! Sigh. Someone's feeling entitled, someone is craven and petulant...COCK! ON! DEMAND! Double sigh.

This wasn't something I predicted would arise from dating this new man. It's been a long time. I'd forgotten how trixie modern men can be. I'd assumed it was fairly easy to get laid, once the general howyadoin' was established. Not so. It may be a consequence of our age.

By our mid-thirties, we've had our share of good sex and bad sex and scream so loud you scare housekeeping staff and have fellow hotel guests complaining to the front desk and getting upgraded to a better room sex. (Yes, that was me; yes, you're welcome. I do what I can.)

My point is, by now we're fastidious. We like our bad sex stories from our 20s, lord yes. They are fun to share and giggle over with girlfriends, what doofuses we all were. But we don't need more. The quota gets filled quickly and with, one hopes, a safe finality. We get picky. I'm picky, despite moments of lust where I feel quite capable of raping entire villages. I respect picky. Doesn't have to mean I like it when someone I've picked wants to "go slow".

That said, I appreciate the comedy. I'm confident in how I look to the point of arrogance, and assume under correct circumstances most men would wish to sleep with me, why not? Making this statement goes completely against every feminine principle washed into my brain from an early age, but I suspect it's more true than untrue. Except I'm blue-balled and now those feminine principles are poking a stick into my ego and laughing, oh looky here, look at Ms. Ever So Fuckable. Those rocks ain't getting off anytime soon, at least not with a person. Ha!

It's also amusing for me to feel like the man in this situation. "I'm shy," he warns jokingly on one of our first dates. Aww. That's...nice. Forewarned, I've been wooing this one carefully, being respectful and patient and my version of alluring, which likely resembles a rabid deer in the headlights. But whatever, I've tried to be cool. Once physical contact is initiated, however, I figure we're good to go, at least for a few bases. I strike out.

"I'm reeeeeeeeally tired," he says. Once, okay. Two times in a week? Really? You're that tired? I suggest perhaps not exercising so strenuously before seeing me, an allusion that seems to sail over his pretty head. Or maybe things are sailing over my pretty head.

Impatient with lying next to an attractive man in bed with way too many clothes on while he appears to drift into sleep, I jump up and get my jacket to go home. I am definitely not tired.

"What, you're going?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. "Aw, that's probably good, I'm really tired." And then kisses me good night. In my hyper-aroused state, I respond to his kiss--and get the double shoulder-pat. Good night. Yeah, sure. I leave a little pissed off, go to sleep a little pissed off, and wake up a little pissed off. But it does crack me up: I'm the dude in this scenario. Totally.

My girlfriends don't really know what to say.

"Maybe he's just wanting to get to know you as a person," reassures one friend. "Maybe he's afraid to get too close to you, because he knows you're probably leaving town soon. Or maybe you're sending out signals that you don't want to get intimate because you're hung up about your lover, or you don't want to get attached because you're leaving town."

This ascribes some nobility to both him and I, and is a sensitive analysis in suitable shades of grey. It may be true, entirely or at least in part. I may indeed be wearing the stamp of the infatuated, following a recent rendezvous with my lovely, maddening lover.

My other friend is more catholic in her analysis. "He's gay," she says. "Totally gay. I know, I've been there, I was the last woman for a few guys. One or two have gone back, but most have stayed the course. He's gay."

I could accept being the transition female for a man struggling to come out; would be honoured, in fact. In this case, it's unlikely. He speaks with a degree of friendly indifference about gay guys he knows that bespeaks Comfortably Straight. My friend is mistaken. I appreciate her faith in my powers, but must conclude I'm not sexual kryptonite to every hetero male out there. Alas.

Of course, further proof of my perverse nature is that I'm currently with period, and so am in no position to actually have first-time intercourse. In my world, logic dictates that he doesn't know this so he should give it a try. I make so much sense to myself at times I want to slap myself.

It is worth noting here that a spare panti-liner somehow escaped my jacket pocket while I was over there last night. It's likely been discovered this morning by my date or one of his roommates or the ancient dog. Excellent. In my defence, it was not used, of course, and why shouldn't I have one in my pocket? But the Grade 6er in me laughs in mortified delight as I imagine him or the roommate staring at this innocuous but definitely feminine object lying on the floor, and computing its origins. Dear me.

I'll have to ask if I "dropped something" when I speak to him next, there's no point in pretending otherwise. Oh, I'm sure to get some now, I think, men love to be reminded of the fact we menstruate. It's sexy! Third sigh. Perhaps this relationship is doomed to be a friendly and curious failure. In the meantime, I carry my stones and laugh my ass off.

Ms. Ever so Fuckable out.

The Current Between Us

"Human beings have two ways of breathing: breathing out and breathing in. Whenever there is another person, there is communication, there is a current, inhalation and exhalation

-Hanae Sawada, hanshi (master) of atarashii naginata (b. 1916)

No, I'm not turning into Yoda, at least not yet. I do find wisdom in the words of people who devote their lives to practising an art. They live a life of humility I find awe-inspiring. They dedicate themselves to learning, knowing that they'll be so much left unlearned, that mastery is an illusion and age will eventually rob much of their hard-won skill. They'll likely face an ignominious struggle, and be misunderstood and even disparaged by the comfortable. Yet they persist. It is poetry.

So let's look at what dear Hanae has to say, this little old grande dame of naginata. (A Japanese form of fighting using long wooden sticks.)

Current: choose your metaphor, electric or water. I choose water.

I like the idea of a current between two people. It reminds me to be respectful. It's easy to be heedless. I'm prone to arrogance, to hasty opinions that can border on the selfish and even destructive.

Communication, even at its earliest stage, is the beginning of a relationship. And what is a relationship but a tacit agreement to push and pull against each other for the sake of utility or curiosity or comfort? We create a current that takes us in one direction, with ripple effects that may travel far out of sight and cause whirlpools, riptides, rogue waves in the distance.

I've never thought fully of the consequences of my relationships, except in hindsight. Have any of us? It might paralyze us with fear if we were conscious of the responsibility we assume for one another.

I have nothing figured out. My impulse is to flee. However, the loose ends won't let me, the strings of unfinished business tangled around both wrists and ankles are holding me fast. I'm not in control, must demand patience from myself. If I struggle too hard, the knots only tighten.

So what's a gal to do, trussed up in bondage with a slew of currents pulsing around her? Think. I can try to be a better person, but that's sucky. It makes me either pious (read: self-righteous), or resentful (read: no one notices my perfect attendance record!). Think. Oh god, please don't use the word 'mindful'. Let's look to the people we love for inspiration.

My best friend puts it this way. She's visceral! "Live with your balls out," she says. "Put your balls on the fucking table, it takes guts to live like this. But you'll feel better about yourself. Show the real you. If people don't like it, too bad. Life's too short. You'll have people who love you for who you really are because you're not hiding."

Another friend prefers to nettle me with an appraising glance. He's oblique! I don't know if he trusts that I will attain enlightenment with such encouragement. Maybe he's thinking about what he'd like to eat for lunch, and I'm seeing a cryptic challenge where in fact, there is only the age-old debate of sandwich versus soup...or both.

Actually, what he says is, "You're 36 years old. Look at us: we're at an age that is telling. Neither of us is married, we don't want kids or a house or the Job. There's a reason that we don't want these things now. So figure out what you do want instead of trying to figure out how to want those other things."

Good advice from both that I have absorbed. The irony is that the currents I've created with the people I love is carrying me away from them. I don't know where, but I know at least physically I will be apart from them. Cause for panic, but the more I kick against it in my confusion, the more I struggle in the opposite direction, the more I am dragged under.

I'm not, however, encouraging a posture of submission. If I cede, I sink. I draw the distinction between passivity and patience, between resignation and faith.

It's fucking maddening to think about these things, to feel unsettled and curse myself for choosing to persist in this. What am I doing? Why can't I just pick a course that would be easier, more suitable to my surroundings? I could be happy, I could have a nice life, I could hide my balls most of my time and not feel it too great an imposition. And the answer that's emerging is very simple. I don't want to hide them away. I'm the guy at the BBQ who rests his leg on someone's Adirondack chair and flashes his sac as he takes a refreshing swallow of his Sleeman's. Yeah, he knows, he can't help it. He's a freak. I can relate.

I'm embarking on a weird trip. I've started by being more honest with others, less sophisticated with myself. Far from being admirable at this, I'm a fucking klutz. I'm asking dumb questions and praying they don't get me excommunicated.

I wish I had better things to offer. I wish I could let myself fall for the good guy, and say goodbye lovingly yet firmly to the one who wanders (in every sense). I wish I could roll up my sleeves and fix things. But this would be perpetuating a lie under the guise of efficiency.

So while figuring out how to correctly display my newfound balls, mainly I'll try to not get them mistaken for chum as I bob stupidly in this current. Bon voyage for now, G

PS Yes, I promise to lighten up with my next post! I've had a lot of heavy shit go down, yo. I've got a full complement of the absurd ahead of me, however, and the promise of a visit from my pirate pal Jody. What a pirate pal is, exactly, and how I came to have one will be forthcoming in the next coupla weeks.

Tomorrow Will Be Better Than Yesterday

"I train every day, and I always keep the idea, not only in karate but in the rest of my life, that tomorrow will be better than yesterday. No matter what you face, whatever weakness or handicap, training gives you the courage to believe--better than yesterday, better than yesterday. This is how I feel. There will always be mistakes and successes. But mistakes are not bad, they are based on something, on an effort. This is trial and error. If you are afraid, you'll never try. But you must try."

-Hidetaka Nishiyama, ninth degree black belt in karate-do

From The Warrior's Path by James Sidney

Everyone Together Now: Let's Crap Our Pants

Dearies, my dear dearies. My apologies for a prolonged silence (well, for me). It's been a thoughtful few days and I haven't wanted to write anything, so busy was I chewing my mental cud. Rumination is a solitary task. Sometimes it's best to just chew away in silence until you've got something you can swallow.

So. In case you're wondering, I did get to see my friend when he was passing through the city earlier this week. Twenty-six hours of walking, banter, honest conversation, good eats, hot tubbing, mutual affection and general randiness. Lovely, lovely, lovely. I've never had a chronic friendship like this, and am finding it alternately touching and frustrating.

I've accepted that for the time being, the romance factor is secondary due to the tug of ambition each one of us faces. Neither is in hospitable circumstances for a relationship, with each other or other potential candidates. We're focused on seizing individual opportunities. Both of us have felt thwarted or restrained from pursuing (in my case, even identifying) our desires by past relationships, and are now intent on realizing them. This entails a peripatetic lifestyle for the two of us, in opposite directions for now.

At least in my case, this doesn't mean I like it 100%. I have great love for this person, great curiosity about the "What if...". There's also self-doubt, a nagging fear that he may be quite capable of resisting my myriad charms in the end.

That said, he is sincere and direct about wanting my happiness, whatever form that may take. Hearing him say this is greatly reassuring, and gives me confidence in going after it. In summary: I'm not at all certain of the definition, but am grateful for this love in my life.

That said, let me re-visit the title of this post. Yes, crapping my pants as the events of the past two weeks have led me to an unexpected epiphany. At first, I pushed it away as just a silly fancy, but it immediately came right back and sat down and still will not leave. I've been humouring it, sitting with it expecting to find its fatal weaknesses and escort it out the door in due course. Instead, it's seducing me in its outlandishness, roiling my guts and making me alternately hyperconstipated and on the verge of an explosive accident. In short, I'm falling in love with this idea.

I've done some interesting things in life so far. Atypical things, exciting things, foolish and risky things. However, I can't get away from the nagging feeling that I've been caught up in the adventures and ideas of others. I no longer want to be a sidekick.

That said, a couple of the alternatives I've been hatching for after my house sells and I can close out this chapter of my life, well, they now seem like very safe alternatives. Cool, exciting, fun, potentially lucrative, but safe. I'm almost 37, a good place to be. I have good health and looks, ever-diminishing responsibilities, and most importantly, the means (shortly) to do something wacko and life-altering.

One of my original options looks now to be highly unlikely, as my business partner is dealing with a family health crisis. It'll take some time for recovery. It's major enough to send him in a completely different direction than we'd planned, on his own pursuit of what matters to him. I wish him only happiness. The fates have intervened, and there's no good trying to argue when they send such an emphatic message. A time to fight and a time to cede gracefully: not drawing that distinction leads one to get muddled beyond belief. It's terrifying to lose sight of oneself.

Plan B is schooling in another city. This would be fine, more than fine. I could learn and be stimulated and have a variety of potential sexmates and eat exotic foods and set myself up with a nice life in the big city in my own country. I could make do and enjoy. But, always a but.

It has been hard for me to figure out what I like to do. This deserves zero pity; I'm blessed with the luxury of choice when most people on the planet suffer daily just to survive. Gratitude, it's good to feel you.

Accepting that, I've still been stuck trying to define my "passion". Good lord, most people appear to have this shit figured out; they find or create or at least know the things that nourish them. Whereas I've felt fradulent for so long, adapting to my surroundings like a cheerful chameleon. Not questioning why my colours change so readily.

The last several months, I've been stuck in neutral. I've made minimal progress on every front, other than the day to day logistics of getting by. I've been patient without knowing why, had faith when I've had no cause to even entertain it, and yes, rapped my head against the wall a few times in consternation.

Three days ago I was struck with an idea, totally out of left field. It has purpose, it has form, it has meaning and intent to me alone. All previously lacking. So for now, I chew away some more, and try not to make messy-time in my drawers.

Bear with me,
G

PS In case you're wondering how dating life is, I don't know. The date's been struck down with the Mancold and is in hiding, texting me "keeping lo pro 4 now", aka leave me alone. Could he too have a fever blister, wonders I? Is he repellent in his illness, or having his own rendezvous elsewhere? Have I scared him off inadvertantly? Only the Shadow knows...but I'll get to the bottom of it too and let you know.

Impenetrability! That's What I Say!

"When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean – neither more nor less."

"The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean different things."

"The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master – that's all."

Alice was too much puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again.

"They've a temper, some of them – particularly verbs, they're the proudest – adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs – however, I can manage the whole lot! Impenetrability! That's what I say!"

-Lewis Carroll

The more I pass through life, the more relevant I find Alice's wanderings in wonderland and through the looking glass.

Exhibit A: Impenetrability & coherence.

I've fancied myself as fairly deft with language these last 20-plus years, since coming out of my own humpydumpy teenage shell and giving voice to the thoughts coursing through my head like so many ginger-bottomed greyhounds.

I've been glib enough to be a minor hit at dinner parties, piss people off at times, and even be called "insightful" on occasion. (This last is a Ha! moment for me, as I usually feel fradulent and alien on a daily, if not hourly basis.)

As fradulent or insecure as I may be feeling, I've always been able to compose my thoughts and spit out something approaching coherence. A neat stream of baccyjuice banging into the nearest spittoon with a resounding Twaack!--ayuh, 'notha zinger.

Nowadays when I open my mouth, what is likely to fall out is a lump of cold congealed spaghetti, strands fused together in an impenetrable mess. It does not Twaack! pithily. It's like, I dunno...hmmm...I think maybe what I'm doing is...ummm...aka PLOP.

I conclude it's okay not to have a conclusion handy at all times. It's passable not to know what one is feeling or why, not to dissect every nervous flutter or anxiety immediately and stick little pins into every part, naming it Thus and So and Opinion. And of course, examining the underlying pathology and discussing prognoses with emphatic certainty. Gosh, no. It sounds like a lot of work.

Comparatively, PLOP is a pretty little sound. Kind of lazy and reassuring and human. So I'll keep plopping and chugging, and maybe one day I'll just shut up for a while and smile serenely and people will think I'm wise. Yah, a plan it sounds.

Exhibit B: Impenetrability & trauma

An acquaintance has suffered a small hemorrhagic stroke. Thankfully, she continues to astound everyone with her progress. A remarkable woman, only 47 and very physically fit.

It is not comforting to think a genetic twitch may result in sloppy wiring of one tiny section of a brain, and that all the healthy living in the world can't prevent it from one day misfiring. However, perhaps the consequences would've been graver for her if she were not in otherwise supreme health.

The stroke occured in the part of the brain which governs the use of language. Think about language stored inside your skull in a pantry: here's a bin of verbs, a box of adjectives, a tasty stack of adverbs (eat those slow/ly, they say).

She has misplaced her nouns. Apparently, this is not uncommon when damage occurs in the parietal lobe. Construct a simple sentence, like "This juice is refreshing, and I like it." But you can't connect a word to the juice you hold in your hand, and have to ask someone for the name of the object. Imagine re-learning your own native tongue like you were a foreigner in your own head. This is real impenetrability.

I don't know how she and her family are dealing with this. I can only imagine they are all grateful she's doing as well as she is, and dealing with noun-loss with grace and humour. Surely it must be perplexing, frustrating at times...but surely it could be much, much worse.

Exhibit C: Impenetrability & penetration.

On a lighter note, a word or several on dating norms. I am not fluent in norms. I was never an orthodox dater even when it was what I was supposedly doing all those years ago. I either just fooled around with someone in a liquored-up state and that was that, or became (self) anointed as someone's Girlfriend very quickly.

The last 10 years (10!) have seen me in LTR mode, and more recently, scratching a long-time itch with a buckfuddy in sporadic, linen-degrading bursts of hotelling in the GTA.

However, if you've been paying attention, I have recently embarked on a series of Real Dates (when not hiding in purdah with a fever blister). It is nice (oh, making out is so nice) but a bit startling in its newness to me, especially in the many rules governing when to call and how to make plans and of course, the sexual roadmap. I'm navigating it in leaps and bounds.

There's the added complication of an urban reunion very shortly with my lover, the question mark. We recently became peevish with one another over email before declaring a truce, and have been friendly but circumspect since. I'm curious to see whether intellectual jousting, emotional recrimination or sexual confirmation (or a combination of all three) ensues when next we meet.

I don't know the etiquette of messing around with two men, albeit in different degrees and in separate cities (which surely counts for something, like allotting them each territory is a sign of respect or something, sigh). The good girl is dismayed, the real girl says why not? At this point, the Talk (you know the Talk, I don't have to explain it) has occurred with neither. Surely this lets me off the hook; as long as I remain cryptic all penetration is fair game. But I'm a little uneasy with this logic.

Luckily, I'm not left alone to stumble around like freshly unearthed mole-rat; I have friends to advise me.

"Don't give it up too soon", cautions my 24-year old friend on the sex in dating (who also tells me her perspective is changing now that she's "getting older"--yes, she is sincerely adorable).

"Go get what you want, do whatever you want as long as you play safe!" urges another gal, this one in her early 40s and fully supportive of my confused, naive, slutty longings.

"What does your heart say?" asks the dear best friend, giving me the lesbian perspective.

Hmm, did I hear a PLOP? I dunno.
Keep you posted as I fall down this hole,
Gretchen in Wonderbra

I Claim Thee, Mancold.

Hello everyone. I have a mancold. In the final stages of my fever blister, I'd been feeling hopeful, if a little run down and pleasantly delirious. I'd been avoiding re-booking date #3 until I could be sure there was no trace of contagion upon my face. Now I have a nose which alternately stuffs and runs, a bit of a scratchy throat and general malaise.

I'm throwing myself into the spirit of the thing, and claiming the Mancold as my own. I bleat most pathetically and stubbornly. I eat chocolate cake out of sheer spite for myself. I had a bath this evening in which I dumped a shot of Vick's VapoSteam, and now feel like a greasy lozenge. Playing the invalid is perversely fun, if mainly for my own benefit.

I'm dosing myself with rented movies, and have seen many good ones; even the iffy ones have been interesting. And of course, I love watching trailers. Have you ever rented a movie with someone who skipped the trailers? Or who wanted to go late to a movie theatre to miss them? So shocking, it's like skipping adolescence. It disrupts the natural order. Even the bad trailers--no, especially the bad trailers--are incredible. The Voice, for one thing, that one dude who does all the trailers. Ah hello, my old friend...

Last night I watched "Away We Go", which was good. It's rare to see 30-something couples portrayed with humour and realism and affection, and who don't have all their shit together, not by a long shot. Makes me feel in the company of misfits, albeit fictional ones.

This is a very dull post, as it's been a dull week, full of tedious things like car trouble and aggravated finances and laundromats and cleaning kitchen cupboards. (Old pans, I resolve to recycle thee! I'm claiming "Thee" as well, apparently.)

My Valentine's was unlovely, I was in full scab mode and perhaps chose unwisely in watching Ashley Judd succumb to suicidal paranoia in "Bug". Jeez. I got a V-Day email from my lover, but even that I couldn't really enjoy, as it came late in the day and with the whiff of duty versus inspiration. Better than nothing, though, that I do recognize.

It is testament to my boredom that I took a bath tonight. Frankly, I usually only do this if I am truly cold or filthy, and can have a nice glass of wine and an interesting chat to keep me from feeling like I'm making soup with myself. I used to have a ritual with the ex, who loved baths. I would always join him in the bathroom, sitting fully clothed on the covered toilet reading the paper, bantering, just keeping him company. Funny the things you miss.

Maybe instead of looking for the One, I should look for Ones that suit certain rooms in my house. The x would be my bathroom boy; my lover could take up residence in the bedroom, a date or two could hang out in my kitchen or living room. And a psychoanalyst in my crawlspace to complete me.

On that note, snuffle and good night. As I am almost completely healed, I intend to have a mildly romantic weekend which is sure to lift my spirits.

Adieu, G