The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Phew. What a strange week. I think that’s all I have to say about that. Without further ado, here are the Sassy Sundries, my (sort-of) weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical.

My dad’s alive. My mom’s alive. They might drive me crazy sometimes, but I love my parents. Too Much Trauma to Rate

Can someone please tell me why one of the most intelligent and incisive interviews I’ve seen by an American was Jon Stewart’s grilling of CNBC’s Mad Money host Jim Cramer on the Daily Show? Stewart exposed how Cramer (and by extension, other financial reporters) had gotten into bed with Wall Street honchos, and in the process fucked the country. He did his research, that thing reporters are supposed to do, not guys who tell fart jokes. News networks, let this be a lesson to you. Plus Five

Date called it quits with me in what had to be the most honest, kindest way ever. We had a great time, but the magic just wasn’t there with us. I’ll miss what we had, but I’m looking forward to our friendship. Plus Five

In a GQ interview, Michael Steele admitted that he believed in a woman’s right choose abortion. He’s also compared quitting being gay to quitting being black—impossible. Conservatives railed against him for the break with their anti-choice, homophobic platform. Man, this head of the Republican Party is just walking in a shitstorm. Heh. Plus One

Bernie Madoff pled guilty to stealing from everyone from celebrities to little old me (my retirement plan had investments with Madoff). I’m happy that he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail, but I’d like my money back, please. Minus Two

This week we marked International Women’s Day. President Obama created an Interagency Task force on Women and Girls. This isn’t everything feminists wanted, but it sure as hell beats the eight-year assault on women’s rights by W & Co. We’re not there yet, Baby. Plus Three

Long, long ago, I won the top-seller award for my Girl Scout troop because my friend’s grandfather purchased two hundred boxes of Thin Mints. Would you believe he was a rail? Times have changed. An enterprising Girl Scout took to YouTube to boost her sales. Alas, Internet advertising is verboten for Girl Scout Cookies, and the young girl had to take the ad down. Honey, you just need to find my friend’s grandpa. You’ll do fine. Plus One

Total Plus 15
Total Minus 2
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +13
Last Week’s Total: -651,000

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

This morning I awoke to the sweet clang of the recycling truck. Today is Friday! I am so happy! I thought, singing my old Friday Song in my sleepy head. Or, I sang until I remembered that I had once again forgotten to take the recycling out. Then I started reciting “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out,” and envisioned waste overflowing the confines of my apartment and spilling onto the street below:

At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come out to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was to late…

— Shel Silverstein, from Where the Sidewalk Ends

Hrmph. Happy Friday indeed. Anyway, I thought today might be a good day to resurrect the Sassy Sundries, my occasional weekly roundup of things personal, political, and nonsensical. In a blatant ripoff of the Bean Counter in the Weekly Dig, I assign points to each item and then tally them up to reveal just how my week went.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

The unemployment figures for February came out today. I am in good company—651,000 of us lost jobs last month. While personally, unemployment has treated me well, our economy has officially landed in Hell in our handbasket. Minus 651,000

Rush Limbaugh, the ignorant hypocritical prick, misquotes the Constitution he accused President Obama of bastardizing. At the beginning of his speech to the Conservative Political Action Conference, he bellowed, “We believe that the preamble to the Constitution contains an inarguable truth that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life. Liberty. Freedom. And the pursuit of happiness.” In so speaking, he bastardized the Declaration of Independence. By making Rush the de facto leader of the Republican Party, the conservatives have given us an even bigger present than Sarah Palin. Minus Five for Rush, Plus Two for the future of the Democrats.

The International Criminal Court indicted Sudanese president Omar al-Bashir for war crimes. The government there then retaliated by ordering the expulsion of all aid workers. It’s unknown how the Court intends to follow through with the indictment, but right now many people are suffering. An old friend of mine is working there. Not Sure How to Rank

Earlier this week I met Date’s best friends. It went well. Tonight I meet more of his friends at a party. Plus Five

I never thought I’d hear Karl Kassel, of NPR fame, put his gravitas behind the news that a foot of snow fell in New Hampshire. Unless, of course, it happened in August. Less than a foot fell here, and you’d think that the flakes ushered in the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from all the national attention they received. Minus Two

This week marked fifty years of Barbie. For fifty years, girls have learned that their bodies would never be good enough. Oh, and how to make her get it on with Ken. One of these days, Barbie! Poof! Those boobs are going to sink to your knees. Minus Two

President Obama holds a healthcare summit yesterday to begin to address one of the issues that has gotten us into this catastrophe. Ted Kennedy (now an honorary knight) was able to make an appearance. I’m not sure if Obama will be able to pull off what others have tried and failed to achieve, but I am hopeful. Hope counts for something. Plus Two

Total Plus: 9
Total Minus: 651,009

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -651,000

The Sassy Sundries: Six Months (?!) of My Life in Review

I say, GODAMN! Six months, more, since I last tended this bloggy thing? Oh Holy Jesus. I can’t believe it.

Well, to tell you the truth, I do believe it. For one thing, Fresh Hell hasn’t let me forget it (see below for more about that fabulous lady). For another, even if you've forgotten all about me, I have thought about you denizens of Blogville a lot these last months. Robyn, I hadn’t checked that inbox in quite some time. Thanks for you concern—I am still alive, and all things considered, just fine and dandy. Dive, I miss you.

God, what a lot of pressure. The first post back has to be perfect. Or, at least that’s what I kept telling myself, which is why I haven’t posted for so long. Tonight, though, I say fuck it to that thought, because it’s high time I wrote something. And what better way for me to break back into blogging than with an extended version of the Sassy Sundries, my tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical. Without further ado, here are the Sassy Sundries for the last six months:

Call me Auntie Sassy. My sister had the cutest, coolest little boy on the planet back in March. Babies might not be my thing, but my goodness I love that little guy. He seems to dig me too. The last time he saw me, his face lit up, he smiled, and reached for me. He’s just great. I’ve dressed him up in homemade onesies with sayings like, “When two people love each other very much…” and “I ate, slept, and pooped today!” Styling baby, Nephew is. Plus Twenty

Now that Mom’s officially Grammy, she’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints that it’s high time for me to settle down. Had a bit of a rough visit this past weekend. I called her up tonight, though, and we seem to have sorted things out. Three cheers for therapy! Minus Two

Knudsen scares me. He predicted a McCain presidency way back when, and I hope to Everything that his prediction was only true for the nomination. Come on, Obama! We need you! Minus Two for the prediction; Plus Three for hoping we get us some change.

Speaking of politics, what happened to our Democratic majority in Congress? I just checked the news, and they caved to Dumb W about warrantless wiretapping. Ever heard of the Fourth Amendment, people? And why are we still funding that illegal, pointless war? Minus Ten

Fresh Hell and I have become fast friends, proof that Blogville camaraderie can exist in reality. Love you, Lady. And, Andraste, the three of us are due for some beer! Plus Twenty

Blogging wasn’t the only thing I took a break from. Aside from the Australia Day Smooching Incident, and a wee little Irish fellow asking me, “Do you want to go home and fuck?” (priceless accent—but the line still didn’t work) after a night of heavy drinking with Fresh, I hadn’t had any hint of dating action since the holidays until last week. Alas, the "date" was a setup, and there was no chemistry whatsoever. Still, we made the best of it and us a fine old time, laughing about how we didn’t want to get into one another’s knickers. It might not have been a real date, but the seal’s broken, and I think I might be ready to risk my heart again. Even

So it only happened because Little Blue Peep finally bit the dust, but I’m still happy to say that I’ve reduced my carbon footprint. Now that I’m sans car, things take a little bit more planning to happen, but I’m managing just fine. My Sudoku skills have definitely improved. Plus Three

OK, so the Sox are in second place? There’s still time. And we’re not second to the Yankees. Even

Total Plus: 46
Total Minus: 14

TOTAL FOR THE LAST SIX MONTHS OF MY LIFE: +32

Holiday Dating: Nice Dates with McAlmost and McGuyIUsedtoKnow

One evening in early December I somehow managed to online chat with both of these guys at the same time—and had agreed to go out with each of them. Wistfully I thought if only I could somehow combine parts of them, say McAlmost’s hilarious sense of the absurd with a dash of McGuyIUsedtoKnow’s wonder at it all, I would hit romantic paydirt. Paydirt, alas, I did not hit, but I still had a good time on my dates with these guys, and here are the stories.

Dinner and a Walk with McAlmost
Have you ever had one of those dates where you had a great time but just didn’t feel that desire to become someone’s special friend? Well, that was me with McAlmost. I suppose anyone after the McWorstDate would have appeared to be Prince Charming, but I really did enjoy my date with McA. Witty, smart, and an actual grownup, McA was pretty darn close to the closest thing I have to a type. What’s more, I was apparently pretty darn close to being his type. I’m not sure what it is about audio/other-type-of-computer engineer musicians, but they leap out of the screen for me. As my sister says in her best commercial voice, “If you like being an audio engineer and a musician, you’ll LOVE Sassy.” I don’t know. I can’t explain it.

In any event, over a yummy Indian dinner in Davis Square, McA and I bandied about stories and anecdotes, talking so long that we shut the place down. We then went out for a wintry walk about town, chatting and laughing some more. It would have been perfect, except that we were missing that ever-elusive chemistry. We got to the T stop at the end of the night, and we proceeded to gab for another fifteen minutes or so, shared a brief hug, and then parted ways.

Very Late to My Date with McGuyIUsedtoKnow
McGuyIUsedtoKnow didn’t recognize me for my shorter hair when he sent me what had to be the sweetest initial message I’ve ever received from an online guy. That’s the thing about McGIUK—he’s really sweet. So sweet that he waited for forty-five minutes for me when the lovely MBTA bus let me down. Yes, I was horribly late for this date. On my way, I almost wish he’d told me to forget it. I wasn’t sure if I could go through with seeing him again.

Back in the day, I had aspired to be one of those lovely, airy, peace-loving women who do Yoga and run around fire circles to celebrate the full moon. I know, funny. I’ve since learned that I am not one of those women, that I have what I call “sharp elbows” in my personality, and I’m too much of a skeptic to run around a fire circle without rolling my eyes at least a little bit. My intentions can be a bit pointed. I had given the hippie woman the college try, though, and it was around the height of this experiment that I had met McGIUK.

I don’t know how else to describe McGIUK other than to say that he’s a male version of who I wanted to be. He’s (very) smart and an activist, but he’s also a sweet, airy, Reiki-practicing man who runs around fire circles to celebrate the full moon. I didn’t know him well, but he was loosely connected to a peace group I hung around with years ago, and we had talked a few times. When I saw that he’d checked out my profile, I had a feeling I knew who he was, and when he sent me a message saying that he sensed that I had an open mind and an open heart and that he’d love to know me, that confirmed it.

I replied to his message thanking him for being so sweet, and I told him that we used to know each other a few years back. He replied that he’d sensed a cosmic familiarity about me. Wasn’t it just regular familiarity? I thought somewhat meanly, and I turned it into a joke in my message back. When he initiated an online chat session, it was apparent that he did indeed remember me but hadn’t gotten the joke—but he was so sweet that he charmed me. Or, rather, there was something about my resistance to his charms that made me feel like a bad person (what’s wrong with me that I consider “sweetness” a character flaw?). I felt compelled to give it a try.

My friends know just how much I was dreading this date—some of them asked my why I was even going. “Well, we know each other, and he still knows a few of my friends. How can I be the bitch who turned him down for a date? Who wouldn’t want to date McGIUK? He’s so SWEET!”

Well, meet we did, forty minutes later than originally planned, and I’m glad that I went through with it. We had an interesting conversation about things I don’t normally talk about on dates. I don’t know too many people these days who still work in the nonprofit sector. The years and all of the crap going on in the world had altered his understanding of possible change, and he was seeking some kind of employment that would allow him to pay the rent, but his basic optimism remained undimmed. It was refreshing, and he made me think.

Unfortunately, our time together did not convince me that we would make a good couple, and I think perhaps he felt otherwise. Our goodbye was a bit awkward. I do sincerely wish him a lovely, peaceful woman who will run around fire circles with him to celebrate the full moon. He’s a wonderful guy, and he deserves to be happy.

Epilogue
I did have one more date this holiday season, but I don’t entirely know what the story is there yet, so I’m not going to jinx it. Suffice it to say that I panicked a bit, but I didn’t completely lose my mind this holiday season. Instead I took advantage of holiday dating to branch out (OK, too far in a couple of cases) and see what’s out there. This isn’t the time of year to find the perfect date—but it is a great time to experiment. And even if things don’t work out with the last date, January’s coming, and that’s often when I find a guy who’s just right.

Holiday Dating: My One Hour and Fifteen Minutes with McWorstDate

Before he became McWorstDate, there were warning signs. McWD’s profile indicated that he was into polyamory (I’m not—in nursery school I declared, “Sharing is damn yucky stuff!” I’ve learned since then, but there are still some things I don’t share), and it didn’t look as though we had all that much in common. All the same, he seemed quirky and fun, and you just never know.

Now I know. Our date lasted one hour and fifteen minutes. We had agreed to meet for hot chocolate at a chocolatier’s in Harvard Square on a Sunday afternoon. McWD had arrived before I did, but didn’t snag a table before they filled up, and so we had to get our hot chocolate to go instead. We ordered, and I pulled out my wallet to make the obligatory gesture to pay for my drink. McWD let me pay for him too. We decided to wait for a few minutes by the candy counter to see if a table would open up. He wanted to talked about what a ripoff the high-quality chocolate was.

When it became obvious that we were going to strike out on the table front, we left. “I’m starving,” McWD said. “I really need a sandwich.” Then why didn’t you ask me to lunch? I thought. He led us into an Au bon Pain, not the big one in the square (bad enough), but a little hole in the wall next to a Bertucci’s. There I watched him eat a sandwich and drink a container of milk, as he told me about different people he’d dated from the web site. He then said, “I’m surprised my profile didn’t freak you out.”

I’m freaked out now, I thought but said something more polite. After he finished, we agreed to go to the Harvard Book store. “Where do you usually hang out in the bookstore?” he asked.

“Oh, usually the fiction section. Sometimes I check out criticism or poetry, but mostly I just stick to fiction.”

“Well, I really like the erotic section there,” my date said exactly thirty-five minutes into our first less-than-successful encounter. Not only did I find this comment to be a bit sketchy, but I also found it to be just plain odd. The erotic section in this store is one skinny little shelf, and so far as I can tell, it has mostly best-of collections. Odd pick, that one.

We wandered around the front of the store a bit before heading back to the fiction section. “Oh there’s your section,” I said to him, pointing out the little shelf right before the fiction.

“Did they move it?” he asked, surprised by its location.

“No.”

There, in the section, was a best-of gay men’s short fiction or something like that, featuring a ripped torso on the front cover with a book covering the goods. “Oh my god, that man is hot,” McWD said lustfully. “There is nothing like a really hot man’s chest.” Drool was practically dripping off his chin.

Excuse me? I know you are Mr. Polyamory Man, but you are out on a date with ME! I don’t want you talking about men. I don’t want you talking about other women. I want you to be talking about ME! Tell someone else about the bod!

“Yeah, that is one hot faceless torso,” I said and wandered into the fiction section. My date picked up a book, one I had actually enjoyed, and I said so. He found a damaged copy and decided to try to get a discount on it. “I used to work in a bookstore,” he said knowingly. Just then, his phone rang.

He answered it. Then he proceeded to talk for about fifteen minutes in the store. I nearly left, but for some reason, I didn’t. Instead, I wandered about the store pondering just how bad this date really was. He finished talking and then walked over to me and explained that a friend of his was contemplating dating her professor and she really needed advice. OK.

Next he went to the counter to try to procure a discount, only to be informed that discounts apply to the last copy only. “We have four available now,” I heard her say pointedly.

We left the store, and I informed him that I needed to go. He walked me to the T, gave me a weak hug, and then left to get his bike. I stayed down in the T station for about five minutes, walked back out and did some shopping. I got an e-mail from him saying that although the sparks didn’t fly that it was great to meet me. Yeah.

Next Post: Nice Dates with McAlmost and McGuyIUsedtoKnow

Holiday Dating—A Series of Panic-Induced Encounters

Not to make a sweeping generalization or anything, but no one wants to be alone for the fall and early winter holidays. True, true, Valentine’s Day can suck, but at least one can disdain VD with impunity. No, there’s nothing like the dark days of November and December to strike terror in the heart of the singleton. Faced with yet another season of wandering through glittering parties alone, the object of pity and scorn, not to mention all of the questions from family, many lonely souls turn to the Internet to save the holidays.

Those of you who read this bloggy thing know that I am actually a big fan of online dating. It might not be the most romantic means to meet people, but it does have its advantages. After all, that adorable guy in the bar just might wind up trying to romance you with his Elliott Smith covers that he’s uploaded onto YouTube before sloppily kissing you in front of your friend. With the Internet at least you usually have a general idea of what you’re getting into. And right around the holidays, you stand a pretty good chance of someone wanting to (ahem) get into you. Unfortunately, while you are statistically more likely to get a date this time of year, you also run a greater risk of having a bad one.

I am attributing the fact that I have had arrangements for dates with a several suitors since Halloween to the annual holiday rush. And I’ll be honest. I think I’ve succumbed to the panic as well, as a couple of my dates passed my highly scientific selection process on a sliding scale. Over the next few posts, I will be regaling you with stories of my holiday dating life. Allow me to start with the tales of McNeighborBoy and McSleepyMcDorkwad.

Brief Fling with McNeighborBoy
In true postmodern fashion, I met my cute neighbor on the Internet, and we had our first “real life” meeting on Halloween. It went very well. We had ourselves a fine time for about a week or so, when we realized that we didn’t have all that much in common other than a mutual appreciation for each other’s (pardon the pun) bones. We decided to be neighbors instead, and that has worked out just fine. We chat every now and again when we see each other, and McNB shoveled out my car after last week’s storm. Now that's neighborly.

Stood Up by McSleepyMcDorkwad
About a week after McNeighborBoy and I decided to be plain-old neighbors, I signed on to check a message from what proved to be a disappointing lad. Sighing, I prepared to log back out again when I got an instant message from a more amusing character. We chatted for twenty minutes or so, and he seemed like a fun guy. He asked me if I was up for a drink sometime, and I said yes. The only problem was that the only night I had free between then and Thanksgiving was that night.

“Well, what about tonight?” he wrote.

“Why not?” I wrote back, and we agreed to meet up around ten at a decent watering hole in Union Square.

I got dressed, put on lipstick, and headed out into a rather cold evening excited for my spontaneous date. I arrived at the establishment, and he hadn't gotten there yet, so I stood outside and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited a bit longer until I realized that I had been stood up. What the hell? It was his idea to meet up! Why would he do that?

Ooooh, I was pissed, and I was even more pissed that I didn’t have his number to call him and tell him what-for. I had to console myself by going into the bar and having a drink anyway. I talked a bit with another guy and then left. I got home to an e-mail with the subject line, “So I fucked up big time :(” (yes, he used an emoticon). Turns out, McSMcD had gone down for a nap and slept until 10:45. He was deeply apologetic and asked if he could make it up to me after Thanksgiving. I wondered why he couldn't set an alarm, but I replied to McSMcD that I’d think about getting in touch with him after I got back.

I was bored the Saturday after the big T-day, so I sent McSMcD an e-mail saying that if he was up for it, I could meet him for a drink and gave him my number. I got a text message at 11:55 PM asking me if it was too late to meet up. I didn’t answer until the next morning. I know how to have a good time, but I’m not a booty call. I didn’t hear from him again until the following Saturday night when he sent me a text at 12:17 AM asking me out for a “light lunch” (WHAT is that?) on Sunday. No thanks, McSleepyMcDorkwad. I have to wash my hair.

Next post: My One Hour and Fifteen Minutes with McWorstDate

I’m Baaaaaack (Well, for about Ten More Minutes)

Ugh. Little Sassy Schmoozer dragged me off to San Diego for a conference, and she didn’t let me go anywhere. I was able to fit in a few moments with Fluff in the Gaslamp Quarter, but that was it. What an exhausting trip. Successful, from LSS’s point of view, but exhausting for poor me.

My connector flight from Denver was delayed by over three hours, two of them spent on the plane. Originally, we were told that it was due to a mechanical problem, and we were grateful that the airline wouldn't send us hurtling through space in a broken tin can. Later, however, it came out that we were parked at the gate for hours because an unoccupied seat in first class was a bit “dirty.” Our pilot decided to pull a publicity stunt by delaying the flight until corporate headquarters cleaned it up. He handed out fliers and encouraged passengers to contact the media. If he’d handed one to me, I would have delivered this story, Don’t Fly United Airlines: They Suck. Thanks to a dirty seat, I was stuck next to a chatty real estate agent for nearly six hours. Fuck the dirty seat, I wanted to go home.

What that flight delay means for you is that you will have to wait for the few Fluff photos and the story of my brief fling with McNeighborBoy. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a rerun, the story of my freakshow Thanksgiving.

Off to New Hampshire, for a quiet (I hope) holiday. Happy Turkey, or as I call it, Happy Vegetable Pigout Day! Back soon.

Time Slips Away

In the words of Willie Nelson, “ain’t it funny how times slips away.” Today Sassy Sundry Thoughts turns one. What a great experiment. I know I have not posted much lately, and I’ve commented even less, but I am enjoying this immensely. Thank you for reading. Thank you for posting. This is a blast.

OK. Time for an update about the time that slipped away from me. Some of the time has slipped away in delightful ways, but mostly I’ve just been drifting, adjusting, and trying to figure things out. Here’s what I’ve been up to since last time.

First things first. I met Devin! Oh, the lovely, lovely Devin. She flew into Boston to go horseback riding with her wonderful friend C and suggested a meet-up before her equestrian adventure. When faced with Krappy Koffee as the only option at the airport, she and C had another adventure—driving to Sullivan Square to meet me at the T. They did great.

Devin and C with Fluff on Da Orange Line


When I met Devin, it was meeting an old friend. Hugs and smiles all around. From Sullivan, we went to Newbury Street (ladies who brunch must brunch on the fashionable street). There was much catching up and establishing the “real” details of our lives over mimosas and Bloody Marys (Devin—“See. My drink comes with salad). The only weird thing was that it wasn’t weird at all to be sitting there chatting away with someone I’ve known only in cyberspace. Devin has inspired me in her blog, and she is even more inspiring in person. She’s also hilarious. We laughed a lot.

After brunch, we wandered among the beautiful people (and savaging their outfits—clear bra straps be damned!) and into the public garden before heading back to the T. If meeting blog friends will always be this much fun, I’m game. Bostonian bloggers, I suggest a meet-up somewhere.

Fluff with Devin and I

As I mentioned, life got a little strange on me. The evening after meeting Devin found me at a watering hole (not one in my immediate locale—so don’t think I was doing this at one of the bars I’ve described here), having a couple of drinks while reading my novel. “Excuse me,” this adorable young man said, “Would you mind if I joined you?” Well, we got to chatting, and we really hit it off, despite the TEN-year age difference (he was the beauty). One thing led to another, and well… (*sheepish grin*) At least we didn’t make a scene in the bar.

How does one not crack up when someone says sincerely, “Wow. You really have your life together” upon waking up hungover on a Monday morning after scandalously little sleep with a boy one picked up in a bar in one’s bed? I’m crediting the hangover. I don’t think I have it together at all, but I really needed the distraction.

It didn’t last long. No sooner had I finished giggling over the “Boytoy Incident” with friends that I heard from McI. He invited me to his next gig. Now I’m sure that he was just being nice and friendly, and in a way I’m glad that he invited me, but you know. Seeing his name in my inbox threw me for a loop. A very painful loop. I didn’t respond, which might not have been the best thing, and I didn’t go, which definitely was the best thing, but both were really hard. I would like to be his friend someday, but I just can’t right now.

More time has slipped away with a few entertaining online-dating prospects. None of them have the butterflies fluttering. I hate this phase. It, too, will slip away someday, and someone will excite me.

In other news, I’m really enjoying having a roommate. She also lives for brunch, and we’ve had a great time checking out new spots. Last week, we espied this sign after particularly filling meal.

We vowed to work out more.

Roommate also plugged in the cable, and we spent a very hot Friday evening on the couch sucked into reality television. America’s Next Top Model is strangely hilarious, and inexplicably addictive when presented in marathon format. Now that I’ve connected with my culture, I’ll be very content to remain ignorant of it for the next several years.

So that’s how my time has slipped away. The world goes on around me. Rove’s gone. Gonzales is gone. I’m nearly thirty four. And my blog is now one.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Well, this week featured resolution for me. I’m afraid that I did not pay attention to much else (including all of your blogs—part of this is due to a major crackdown on web usage at work, but mostly it’s because I’ve been in my own head—I’ll be back soon).

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical:

McOver. I’m disappointed that things didn’t work out with us, but I’m relieved to finally have things resolved. At least I’m not seething with anger over how the breakup took place (McAsshole doesn’t hold a candle to McI in the class department). I’m glad that I had the time that I did with McI, and I learned a lot about what I want and what I don’t want in a relationship. My friends and blogpals have supported me, and my therapist is worth her weight in gold. I have no idea how to rate this

I had a fantastic day at the beach with my friend Smokestack. We’ve both been going through some things the last couple of years, and it’s been a while since we had an all-fun-all-the-time day together. I think we both needed it. We’re still laughing over THAT’S NOT HEALTHY! Plus Ten

While writing about habits that freak me out, I remembered the best billboard ever. A couple of years ago, my sister and I were driving into NYC with friends to go to an art opening (she had a piece displayed). All of the sudden we looked up and say a billboard with this on it:



We couldn’t stop laughing for days. Maybe I’m feeling punchy, but this thing still cracks me up. I need to laugh, so I’m giving it a Plus Five

The War’s still going on, and W’s still an idiot. How can he stand there and express confidence in the Iraqi government? How can he say that the safety of Americans traveling on the roads isn’t worth five cents a gallon? Minus Five

Barry Bonds breaks* Hank Aaron’s homerun record. Baseball wishes he’d just go away. I don’t like A-Rod at all, but I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his breaking Bonds’s record. Just so long as it isn’t against the Red Sox. Minus Two

I’m going to have brunch with the Hangar Queen on Sunday! Look for Fluff pictures soon. Plus Ten

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 2

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +23 (not counting McOver)

Last Week’s Total: -9

McOver

Yesterday morning I woke up, and I realized that I was happy. I’d had a date Friday night—not a good date (the guy was really, really good looking— there was just nothing there)—but a date all the same. Saturday I’d headed up to Portland and had a wonderful day at the beach with my old friend Smokestack. Thirty years of inside jokes came roaring out of us, and we were laughing like fools. I had all these plans with friends set for the week. I had no plans with McI, and it occurred to me that it really didn’t bother me.

My poor roommate’s plan of her Sunday at the beach fell through, and we went to brunch instead. After that I headed home and hung out in the backyard with the paper. Then I broke my moratorium on sequels again and went to see the new Bourne flick (I know, I know, but when The New Yorker gives an action flick a decent review, I figure it’s OK). On my way home, I tried to decide if I was going to let McI know that I was moving on or just let him go. I went with just letting him go.

This morning I woke up to a message from him saying that he just wasn’t in a space where a relationship with me was something he could do but that he had enjoyed our time together and that he’d be happy to hear from me sometime in the future. I messaged back saying much the same thing.

So, it’s over. I’m sad, and I’m cursing the Timing Gods, for timing was the real issue here, but I’m going to be OK. The parts of this relationship that were good were really good, but I deserve something that is all good. It's hard to remain optimistic when I have to keep picking up the pieces of myself, but I'm a survivor because I have hope.

I’m probably going to be offline for a bit, but I will try to get back to commenting form soon.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week(ish) in Review

Happy hazy, hot, and humid Friday! Summer finally made a comeback here on the East Coast. Not only that, but the heat’s going to last through the weekend, so I’ll be hitting the beach. Only eight hours of work to go.

Well, it’s that time again. Time for me to give my numerical tally of events transpiring over the last seven days. This time, however, I’m going to cheat and haul a few dusty items off the shelves of time. I’ve stolen this idea from the Weekly Dig’s Bean Counter column. The Dig finally got their new site up and running. I haven’t looked through it too much, but I’m a little disconcerted about the “User Login” at the top of the page. We shall see.

OK, shut up, Sassy, and start assigning points. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

I now have a roommate. After the chaos of moving in (and a good therapy appointment), things have settled down. Although I would have preferred to live alone, it is really nice to have someone around to talk to. Plus Five

A bridge collapses in Minneapolis, killing at least five. A steam pipe explodes in Manhattan. Minneapolis and Manhattan join Boston for failed engineering projects. But none of these cities touch Japan, what with that little nuclear plant accident and all. Geeks are weeping. Minus Five

Tammy Faye has begun her mascara sales campaign in the afterlife. Angels and demons wage war over who has to take her, as she weeps tears of black tar. At least we don’t have to deal with her anymore. Even

I have a date tonight with a new guy. I’m pulling a Dive on remaining mum on the whole McI situation. As he says, it’s complicated. Think of the date as heart insurance. Even

W has maintained that he can do whatever he wants because he has Executive Privilege. Alberto Gonzales, our man in the Halls of Justice, lies on the stand. Congress seems powerless to stop them. Another couple of weeks in government. I have to say I miss the days when the most exciting thing going on in politics was a debate over whether or not blow jobs constitute sex. Minus Ten

Things have gotten all 1984 at the place of employment. Minus Two

Fare thee well, Igmar Bergman. Thank you for living and for making so many incredible films. Even

People in Blogland think I’m pretty. Good thing I didn’t post that other one. Plus Three

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 17

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -9

Last Time’s Total: -1

The Talk

At long last, McI and I had our overdue conversation. It went much better than I had expected. Things came to a head on Friday, when he didn’t bother to contact me to cancel tentative plans. He’d never done that before, and so I sent him a text telling him that we needed to talk (meaning whatever it is people who aren’t a couple do to “break up”).

I heard back from him, with an apology, saying that he needed to go hide and that he understood that the writing was on the wall. We wound up texting into the wee hours of the morning about where and when we’d meet and settled on the Charles St. T Saturday morning. I got about two hours of sleep, and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, but given my self-destructive tendencies when I’m hurt, my choices were getting hammered or smoking, and I chose having a clearer head).

Throughout the night, I tried to figure out what I might say. I settled on being honest, and telling him how I felt and what I wanted—and what I didn’t want. I’ve never really done that before, and I was going to regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t tell him. As best as I could, I prepared myself for hearing the likely truth that we didn’t want the same things. I resolved to remain calm, not to cry, and not to attack. I wasn’t going to be Little Sassy Schmoozer, but I was going to employ some of her communication skills. The Little One sets people at ease, and allows for people to respond calmly (and honestly), not defensively. I needed her.

That morning before we met was one of the longer mornings of my life. How do you really prepare yourself to say goodbye to someone you love and want to be with? How do you prepare to do it without reading rejection as a reflection on you and your worth? Although I have learned to value myself on my own, I think perhaps that meeting with McArtsyPants couldn’t have been more timely. Someone who’d dated me and treated me less-than well had just expressed regret that he hadn’t recognized what he’d had when he had it. That gave me some external strength, and I needed it.

I walked to the T a little early, preparing myself along the way. I looked at my watch and told myself that it would all be over in an hour. I just needed to get through this hour. I hadn’t really talked to myself like that since I took my Master’s exam. Like the exam, it would be OK. I’d live, even if I didn’t “pass” this one (I passed my exam with flying colors, even though I was convinced I’d flunk).

The train arrived and deposited me at Downtown Crossing. Just as I’d sat down to wait for the Red Line, in walked McI. We laughed at our punctuality, and he sat beside me. “Come here often?” I joked. We had an easy chat, interrupted at times by uncomfortable silences. We got on the train, and I learned why he had wanted to hide. His life isn’t for broadcast on this blog, but I will say that I would have run home to hide myself. But that doesn’t make it OK.

We got off at Charles St. and walked to the Esplanade. I’d thought that it would make a good spot to chat. Pretty, public enough to discourage a scene, and with plenty of exits. We chatted as we walked along before sitting down on a bench. I took a deep breath and started.

“I really like you, McI,” I said (OK, I didn’t say “love,” but Little Sassy Schmoozer knows how not to freak people out). “I’d really like to keep dating you. But I can’t have you blowing me off, even for good reasons, and I don’t like the way I’ve often wondered if you’d just disappeared. You’ve always had good reasons for doing this kind of stuff, which is why I’ve been understanding, but I can’t do it anymore. It hurts. I need to know if you still want to know me.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry,” and he proceeded to tell me how he felt. We’re not in the same place, but he doesn’t want me out of his life. I learned a little more about why he’s been hesitant about getting more involved with me—things that have nothing to do with me. Things that in time could be resolved (like I said, his life isn’t for broadcast, so although this part of the story is incomplete, you’ll have to trust me that it wasn’t hopeless). I asked him if he thought that he could be better about communicating with me.

“Definitely,” he said without hesitation.

We talked some more, and we left it that we’d work on getting to know each other better. We agreed that there’s something there with us that would be sad to lose. It was really nice to hear that he likes me, and not matter what happens to with us romantically, he’d hate to lose my friendship. That might sound strange, but I’ve often struggled with feelings that I’m not worth knowing and that guys only want me for sex. That’s not to say that we didn’t talk about that—we laughed when we talked about how good other aspects of our relationship are. In general the conversation was calm, honest, and kind. The setting provided ample opportunity for diversions when things got a bit uncomfortable.

For now we’re both free to date other people. I know this sounds weird, but that’s fine with me. He’s a busy guy, and I’ve wanted a little more company. I like knowing that I can have some without feeling like I’m sneaking around. He also knows that I’m not going to wait forever and that I’m going to live my life. We’ll see what happens, but things are no longer on his terms exclusively.

“Well,” I sighed. “THAT was somewhat unpleasant. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I know you weren’t looking forward to this conversation.”

“Yeah, I know. These things are never fun, but we needed to do it, and I’m glad you said something.”

All in all, we talked for about an hour, and then we parted company with a hug. “I’ll be in touch, and I won’t disappear,” he said, smiling. He went his way, and I went to the North End for a coffee.

I’m proud of myself. I was able to say what I wanted and to express what I didn’t want honestly and in a way that didn’t put him on the defensive. I found out where we stand, and I realized that things weren’t as dark as I’d thought. He agreed to communicate with me more, and ultimately, this was what I really wanted. And the thing is, even if he doesn’t follow through with that, and even if things don’t (and there’s every possibility that they won’t) work out with us, it won’t be because I didn’t say anything. I don’t have to live with that regret.

This concludes the blogging I’m doing about my dating life for a while. Things are fucked up enough in this world these days that a good ol’ political rant is in order soon.

A Surprising Evening

“So, I’m dying to know,” I said, fiddling with the lemon twist atop my summer ale, “What on Earth made you call me?”

McArtsyPants and I had met up at a fun little bar and grill in Central Square and had slipped into the old silliness, making circle patterns with our beer glasses on the soapstone tables and giggling. He was clearly very happy to see me, and we’d been exchanging updates from the last year or so of our lives, when I posed my question.

“I’m not sure if it was anything on Earth,” he said, giving me a half-kidding look. McAP can be a little spiritual sometimes, but he’s also quite the kidder. I went with that.

“So what alien life form told you that you had to call me?”

At first, he appeared ready to come up with a humorous answer to that question, but then his face turned serious. “You came into my head one day, and I wanted to get in touch with you. I always really liked you, and, I don’t know, the timing was off for me. I wound up getting back together with my ex for a bit after I was with you. I realized that I’d been a jerk to you, because I didn’t know what I wanted. So I went and found the e-mail where you gave me your phone number and decided to get in touch with you.”

This surprised me. I’ve often wondered if my exes ever thought about me, particularly the ones who jerked me around a lot, unsure of what they wanted from me. Did they regret letting me go? Did they feel badly about how they’d behaved? Did they just think of me and smile? McAP, it seems, had.

From the look on his face, it was clear that he had a glimmer of hope that I’d take him back, and I didn’t want to encourage that. “You were a bit of a jerk to me,” I said. “But I got over it and moved on, and honestly, I’ve always thought of you fondly. I knew you meant well, really. It was just one of those things.”

Our food arrived, and we ate and chatted about other things, bands, how hot it was outside, various other topics. After dinner, we decided to take a walk along the Charles. He talked about his new car, where he was hoping to live, and I talked about my move and the view from the river. We laughed a lot, but there was no spark, at least from me.

We stopped about a half-mile down the path and looked at the Red Line train cross the bridge against the lights of the John Hancock and the Pru. I thought about how romantic the spot could be, if only I was there with someone else. It had occurred to me that perhaps I would see McAP and, despite my better judgment, want to be with him again, but I didn’t. It was over, and while I was happy to be with him in that moment and happy to hear that he still thought about me, I didn’t want to go back.

McAP walked me back to the train, and gave me his old look that said he wanted to kiss me, but I just said, “It was great to see you again, McAP. Thanks for getting in touch.” He hugged me and said he’d call again. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.

Unlike CraigslistGuy, I didn’t cry when I got home from our date. I felt better. Meeting up with McAP gave me outside confirmation that I am worthy of good treatment. It’s given me something to think about.

Quandary

Yes, the confusement will pass. And it will be replaced by a quandary.

On Saturday, I had plans to get together with McArtsyPants. In addition making a Craigslist date, I’d also contacted McAP, figuring that he would make a nice no-strings distraction for the weekend. Saturday morning had me feeling rather poorly, but with coffee and a shower (and OK, a few cigarettes—for the stress of it all), I rallied and was prepared to see McAP.

I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that it was better than sitting at home. Plus, if I went through with my scheduled outing with Mc(m)I(a) on Sunday, the date with McAP would see me achieve the Dating Trifecta. The Trifecta is three dates (no scams—“friend dates”), with three different guys, in three days (or less). This has been a long-standing goal of my intrepid friend and I, but since I’m a date-one-guy-at-a-time kind of gal, I’ve rarely come close. The last time was last spring, the weekend of my first date with McAsshole. Come to think of it, I think my third date was supposed to be McAP.

Well, McAP called Saturday around noon and wanted to know if I wanted to go on a boat ride with him. Now I said I’d rallied. I didn’t say that I was prepared to be tossed about on the open seas. Nor was I prepared to be trapped with McAP and his friends. I tried to talk him out of the boat ride and into lunch, but he really wanted to go, so we agreed to see each other during the week.

Honestly, it was for the best. My rally didn’t last all that long. I spent most of the day milling around my neighborhood’s community-building block party (=one really good band+ mediocre food+ entirely too many little girls dancing like call girls [that was disturbing]) and then went to bed.

Sunday saw me in a much better frame of mind. My emotions are very strong, overpoweringly so, but they are short-lived. I can deal with turmoil for only so long, and then it just doesn’t seem so important anymore. It can be a problem, because it’s not as though I deal with why I was so upset, I just stop caring about it. Healthy or no, I still felt relieved. My head was clear, and I felt lighter. That’s not to say that I was happy, but I felt like I was going to be OK, no matter what happened. McI got in touch with me around one, and we made arrangements to meet that evening. It was a beautiful day, and I headed into the North End to sit at a caffé for a while.

I had just settled in with a Campari and soda and my book (Oracle Night, by Paul Auster) to enjoy the lovely weather when an artist came in. I say “artist” because he was wearing black clothes spattered with different colors of paint, and he did not appear to be the type to mess around with walls. Definitely a hot ticket, even if he was getting on in years, when he moved across the room and women’s eyes followed. He sat down next to his friends at the table next to me, and I looked down at my book lightning fast.

Alas, not fast enough. I could feel him looking me over, and I tried not to notice. God knows why, but the song “Car Wash” came on just then. The artist started clapping along with the beginning, and then I saw an arm snaking into my field of vision. I looked up to find him staring at me intently, far more intently than the “Car Wash” should inspire. He then started dancing, daring me to join him. So I did. I think I shocked him. His dare turned into a grin and we did a few moves, and I took a bow before going back to my book. He laughed.

“How come you’re reading? How can you read with this music on?” His accent was Italian.

“I’m literate, and I have amazing powers of concentration,” I replied.

His eyebrows arched, and he grinned wickedly. “Why? I like my women illiterate.” He was kidding, sure, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.

“Good luck with that,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and winking at him. I read a bit longer, and then it was time to meet McI.

I had no idea what to make of this meeting. We were getting together to hang out and then check out a movie. I didn’t know if I would talk to him or not. I didn’t know if it was worth it to talk to him or not. Like I said, the storm had passed.

We met up, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, and proceeded to have a fine time. I found out why he hadn’t called. I’m not OK with it, and I’m still going out with McArtsyPants, but if I had McI’s communication skills, I wouldn’t have called me either. In fact, even with my communication skills, I might not have called me. If there ever was an excuse to disappear, he had it. That doesn't mean that I'm cool with it.

I think he sensed this, because I’ve heard from him since, and he suggested getting together this week. He wanted to know if Thursday would work, and I let him know that I had plans, so we might do tonight, and we might do the weekend. I checked my online dating messages last night. There’s no one out there I really want to date right now, but I’ve decided that until I talk to McI that I’m dating “tapas style” (thanks, Andraste).

So I’m still in a bit of a quandary where all of this is concerned, but at least I’m not bogged down by confusement.

"Confusement"

Some years back, I had my palm read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown. My intrepid friend and I saw the sign and decided that we had to check it out, if for no other reason than to say that we had our palms read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

We also were in need of some guidance in the love arena, and we hoped that our palms would reveal something. So up the smelly stairs we went. We knocked on the door and were let in by a young girl who called out for her grandmother. Other children were eating in the kitchen, and a woman was standing over the stove. The whole place smelled like an earthy curry. Out came the friendly—yet decidedly mysterious—old woman, and she promptly ushered us into a little hallway, decorated ornately with draped lamps and Indian cushions.

“It is ten for fifteen minutes, OK?” and she took my hand.

Aside from her flatly stating one eerily specific, alarmingly accurate, thing about my life that she would have had no way of knowing or guessing (seriously—my friend and I are both skeptics, and our mouths dropped open when she said it), the only thing I really remember is a word she used, confusement. “Ah,” she’d say, “I see some confusement here. You need to make a decision.” “This confusement will resolve itself in time.”

My friend and I were both very taken with the term, and we’ve since used it to describe tricky romantic situations. Well, I have to say that I have confusement up the whazoo. I’m feeling better than I did about everything on Saturday, but that could just be because my hangover disappeared. Who’s to say?

So most of the day on Friday, I sat around and got madder and madder at McI for not calling me. I was absolutely convinced that he’d just split and that I would never hear from him again. However Zen I may have been on Thursday, I was anti-Zen on Friday. I cried as I got ready for my date with CraigslistGuy and then I got mad. Fuck it, I said to myself, I’m going out with this guy, and I’m going to have a good time. Someday this is all going to hurt a lot less, but let’s just focus on getting through tonight. I made myself presentable, and waltzed out the door.

En route to the T, I got a text message from McI. He’d had a terrible week, hoped I was doing well, and wanted to see if I’d get together with him on Sunday. Perhaps it was weakness on my part that I didn’t say no, but I didn’t. And I was happy. Of course, I was also on my way to meet a guy I didn’t want to meet for a date I didn’t want to have.

Too late to back out now, I thought as I headed to the bar. The guy was late, and I thought about leaving, but I didn’t. When he showed up, I realized that he was just what the doctor ordered—cute but not too cute, and while appealing, not someone I was going to fall for. Perfect for an evening out on the town.

He joined me at the bar, and we proceeded to talk and drink. And drink and talk. The conversation was easy, nothing too interesting, as we didn’t have much in common, but interesting enough. There was a certain attraction. The time came, and we headed over to the show.

Listening to the National is like that last sip between tipsy and drunk. The world is clear and hazy, full of hope and impending sadness. Matt Berninger's baritone lulls you, tempts you, makes you think that something might be OK, even when you know it won’t be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always translate well in a live set. The band’s amazing, all of them incredibly talented, especially the drummer, but I’m in it for the voice. And I couldn’t really hear it.

Still, the show proved to be very good, and on a whim, I kissed Craigslist guy. It was nice. He asked me about the chances of it happening again, and I told him rather good. When the show was over, he got us backstage, and we met a couple of the band members. I didn’t say much, and we left soon afterwards for his place. In the cab, I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, and he said that was fine. We’d just hang out.

“So,” he said, while we were drinking water in his kitchen, “why did you have an extra ticket? You obviously aren’t available.”

I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m really not. I was mad at someone, and so I posted the ticket instead of asking him.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am, but I really don’t think it’s going to happen. We haven’t made any promises or anything, so it’s not even like I’m cheating on him.”

“OK,” he said. And with that, we went to bed. We fooled around a bit, but in the middle of it, all I could think about was McI, and so I stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK. I know how you feel. I’ve done the same thing.”

When we woke up early the next morning, we were both still a bit tipsy, so we hung out for a bit to collect our wits. We talked about his ex, my situation, we laughed ruefully over our fates. He found me a bus, gave me a hug, and I left.

I laughed to myself on the bus. I must have been a fright. I didn’t have my brush with me, and I’m sure I didn’t smell all that nice. I’m getting a bit old for the bus ride of shame, I mused. Oh well. I’ll live.

As soon as I got home, I started to sob. I knew what I wanted. I knew that it was unlikely that I was going to get it. I felt confusement. I smiled. The confusement would resolve itself in time, I supposed.

More to come…

Craigslist Date: A Recipe

Mix:

1 Part Feeling Pissed Off at Certain Someone
1 Part Moxie (the nerves kind—not the drink)
1 Part Killer Band
1 Part Willing Guy
1 Part Hearing from Certain Someone Right before Date
Several Parts Alcohol
1 Part Getting Backstage after Show
1 Part Cab Ride
1 Part Honest Discussion of Why Date Is Taking Place
1 Part Fooling Around (not THAT)
1 Part Amusing Discussion this Morning
1 Part Getting Home
1 Part Hearing from Guy to Make Sure I Got Home (he really is very sweet)
1 Part Realizing that I Am in Love with Certain Someone and Not Wanting It to End
10 Parts Feeling Incredibly Guilty and Like I Made a Huge Mistake
1 Part Not Feeling Guilty
1 Part Crying Jag
1 Part Giggle

Shake and Serve. Might cause confusion.

How Not to Respond to a Personals Ad

There’s a first time for everything. Yesterday I posted a personals ad on Craigslist. It wasn’t a big deal—I just said that I had an extra ticket to see The National for tonight and that if a guy was interested in seeing a show with a smart, cute, and funny woman to e-mail me through the site. I didn’t post a picture, and I made no mention of hanky panky.

Turns out that the first guy to answer the ad was the winner. His response was direct, just flirty enough, and expressed an interest in the band. He seems sane (we spoke on the phone) and decent, and he has a sense of humor and adventure. Oh, and he’s cute, which, let’s face it, if you’re going to date your way through a messy situation, is essential. I can’t really see wanting to date him on a regular basis, but he’ll do nicely for tonight.

A few of the responses I received were just sick and wrong. One guy complimented my tits—I really don’t like the idea of psychics using Craigslist. Another guy said that he didn’t like the band but thought that we’d be a perfect match. And then, there was this guy:

I'm a con-man. I seduce rich women out of their fortunes. I love my work, and the hours are good, so my friends would describe me as laid-back.

Are you the smart, beautiful woman with great taste that I will partner up with? We both have to think quick and cover our sociopathic tendencies?

Be sharp in every way -- I'm picky. And I deal in face-to-face scams so you must include a picture.

He posted a picture. Here’s the thing, straight men. This kind of crap doesn’t work on any woman with half a brain cell in her head, but if you are going to try it, do be devastatingly handsome.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Ah… A Friday off. Of course, it’s for a family wedding, which means one thing for this single woman in her thirties.

With that in mind, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: Grey’s news ahead):

Today I will be Bridget Jones, my spinsterhood on display as a cautionary tale. Everyone will ask me (or worse, my mother) what happened. You are such a pretty girl, Sassy. Why has no one scooped you up? (Answer: Why, RandomBusybodyRelative, that would put a real dent in my orgy schedule, now wouldn’t it?) I’m sure I’ll hear Lesbian staged whispered more than once (Answer: Oh, Auntie Homophobe, we’re in Massachusetts. If I were a lesbian, my sweet, loving wife would be right here at my side in this Catholic church! ) Someone is almost certain to try to fix me up.Sassy, I have a young man I’d like you to meet. Well, he isn’t so young anymore, and he’s fat and doesn’t have all of his own teeth, but he isn’t afraid of a single, educated working girl like you. Why don’t I introduce you? (Answer: Well, there is no answer. I’ll probably wind up meeting the feller and smiling wanly at his jokes in the name of politeness.) While I wish that everyone would just leave me alone, I suppose all this concern is my family’s way of saying that they love me and want to see me happy. Sigh… Minus Three

Speaking of Auntie Homophobe, she’s pissed, and I’m pleased as punch. The Massachusetts legislature refused to put discrimination to a vote. Gay marriage will stand in Massachusetts for the foreseeable future. Deval Patrick actually did something right in getting behind this fight. Plus Five

James K. Seale, a former member of the KKK, was convicted in the 1964 murder of two black teenagers. He got to live almost his entire life as a free man, but justice has finally been served in this Civil Rights era case. Plus Four

Realized that I have better options now than I did when I was dating McArtsyPants. Plus Five

Republicans in the Senate rally to support an Attorney General who takes advantage of the sick and possibly dying to reauthorize an illegal wire-tapping program. Yeah, they are the party of morals. Disgusting. Minus Two

I had a fantastic weekend last weekend. Great date, great visit from a friend, creepy conversation with Lawnmoah Man, what more can anyone ask for? Plus Ten

It’s looking more and more like Scooter Libby will really go to the clink. Too bad he needs a pardon from W to avoid it. If it were up to the Republicans in Congress, he’d probably get it. Plus Two

Bye, bye, Dr. Burke. Isaiah Washington’s big mouth and volatile temper get him canned from Grey’s. It’s not exactly shocking news, but there it is. I can’t say as I’m sorry. He did cajole Christina into getting her eyebrows removed, only to jilt her at the altar. Even

The Red Sox are in a slump. Still, they are 7.5 games ahead of the evil Yankees. Minus Two

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 7

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: +18

Last Week’s Total: -4

Six O’clock Already…

I was just in the middle of a dream, I thought when the alarm went off this morning. OK, well, it was more like, Shut up! Stupid thing! No one likes you! followed by a slam, but hey, that’s not the point. The point is that I had a lovely weekend, and I was sad that it was over.

My date with McIntriguing on Friday went great, as always. The little black dress was a definite hit. As for the jazz, however, it was a bit of a mixed bag. While there were some very nice moments, the five players seemed a bit too much at odds with each other. It was hard not to giggle after we both observed that one of the saxophone players bore a strong resemblance to a dirty pigeon and that a woman in the audience was wearing a hat that demanded twinkling Christmas lights. We left during the second set and headed to a funky local bar for gin and tonics and conversation. Somehow (not intentionally, honest), we wound up talking around the issue of relationships. Although we weren’t talking about whatever it is we’re doing, we did have similar ideas about how things should go. An interesting conversation, that.

Saturday afternoon my friend Smokestack (an old nickname, and I suppose for fairness’ sake, I should say that my nickname at the time was Chimney) graced me with her presence, and we spent the afternoon and evening gallivanting around Boston. The weather wasn’t overly cooperative, but we managed just fine. She crashed at my place that night, and we went to brunch and did a little more shopping before she left to head back to Portland in the afternoon. It was great to see her.

After Smokestack left, I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I took to the backyard with my book and a glass of wine to hang out on the patio. Someone, I assumed the landlord, had cut the grass that morning. While I was relaxing in the sunshine, my neighbor, the Lawnmoah Man (see this post if you don’t know who he is), went down the stairs to his backyard.

In looking back on that previous post, I realized that I had neglected to mention how I met Lawnmoah Man. I had mentioned a while back that I had gone to Casey’s during the Week of Wrecked Plans and that I had fended off the advances of a man who couldn’t pronounce the title of my book but drunkenly claimed to be fascinated by cultural anthropology. Well, that was Lawnmoah Man. That evening, Lawnmoah Man was very, very drunk. He made me a little nervous (he’s a big guy, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos), but I let him chat me up for a bit. That is until he said, “Well, yer kinda cute, Sassy. Whatcha doin’ latah?” which prompted me to say, “I have to go now. Bye,” and leave. I felt a bit bad about responding that way, but given his condition, I was worried about how he’d react to being turned down. I’ve since learned that he’s basically a nice and harmless, if a little dim, man. But he’s still not my cup of tea.

A boy of about ten soon joined Lawnmoah Man in the backyard, calling LM “Dad.” They were playing with a remote-control car. Lawnmoah Man sauntered over to the fence and said hello. “I mowed yer lawn this mornin’,” he said, beaming.

“That was you?” I said, surprised. “I assumed it was my landlord. Well, thank you. That was nice of you.” Please go away now, I was thinking, along with, Oh shit. Why would he mow my lawn? We chatted for a couple of seconds, and his son called out to him to see what he was doing with the car.

Phew, I thought, and went back to my book.

There was a little commotion near our fence, and I saw Lawnmoah Man with the controls of the car, trying to get through a little gap in the fence. He eventually got the car through, and it headed down the little path, through a bush, and landed at my feet. Oh double shit! What is going on here? I mean, come on, he saw me with McI that time. What is he doing?

“Heh, heh. I just wanted to see if it would work,” Lawnmoah Man said. “How are ya doin’?”

“I’m fine, I said. It looks as though it did work, didn’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there, looking down at the freshly mown grass.

He said a few more things, and then got the car out of my yard. I went back to my book and the sunshine. After the sun went down, I went back upstairs. Smokestack called me to let me know that she got home OK, and we chuckled about Lawnmoah Man. I then listened to some music, and went to sleep.

And now I'm at the end of another Manic Monday.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Time keeps going faster and faster, it seems. Here we are at another Friday, and a beautiful one at that. The sun is shining, flowers are in bloom, and it’s time to tally up the week’s events. What a mindfuck of a week it’s been, too. Overall, I’m in a fine mood, but when W is unleashed on the world, it’s time to be scared. Oh, that and Oprah and Paris Hilton.

Behold, the week’s Sassy Sundries:

Oprah picked Middlesex for her book club. What the hell? Why, why, why does she have to go and ruin every good book? It’s bad enough that you can’t get a copy of The Virgin Suicides without a picture of Kirsten Dunst on it, but now we have to have the dreaded “O” business on the cover of Middlesex? Why couldn’t Jeffrey Eugenides be like Jonathan Franzen and tell Oprah to stick it where the sun don’t shine? Gah! Minus Five

Have hot date tonight with McI. The fashion gods smiled upon me, and I found the sexiest little black dress for an evening of jazz and… No, Dive. No pictures. Plus Ten

Scooter Libby gets 2.5 years in the slammer for lying about the leak in the Valerie Plame case. Now we just need to get Rove and Cheney behind bars. Plus Five

Speaking of prison, Paris Hilton took up residence in her new digs and then decided that she didn’t like clink. And guess what? They let her out! The LA Sheriff allowed the repeat drunk driver out of jail for a “medical problem.” I hope the law takes pity on the poor kid arrested with a joint, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they let Martha Stewart out because her uniform clashed with her towel. Makes me sick, I tell you. Minus Ten
Update: She's going back to the slammer. Poor thing cried. Hee hee.

Have potential new career as a private eye. Will begin scouring stores at once for 30s noir dresses, and will come up with new hair style. Can anyone tell me how to sound like Lauren Bacall? Craigslist is fun. Plus Two

My parents saw the new bachelorette pad, and my mother didn’t make one condescending comment. Plus Three

George W. Bush blows hot air about global warming. What can you expect from an oil man? I’m glad he got a tummy ache. Too bad he didn’t barf all over some world leader like his old man did. Minus Ten

My friend Smokestack is coming to visit me tomorrow afternoon. A grand time shall be had. Plus Five

What the hell is going on with the rhetoric between Bush and Putin? Are we back to the Cold War or something? Note to George: Using the word “hyperventilating” to describe a touchy situation isn’t very diplomatic. Please don’t get me nuked. I’d really like to live to see thirty-four. Minus Five

Things are looking up on the roommate front. I have two possible candidates who would do just fine. Plus Four

Have potential stalker problem on my hands, in the form of Neighbor’s ex-boyfriend. Minus Three

Total Plus: 29
Total Minus: 33
TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -4

Last Week’s Total: +14