[Dating Papers]

Click on the title to see me in Chinese.

I asked myself the other day, “what is more important to you, books or clothing?”




My answer was “books.” My next thought was, “that’s silly.’ I wear clothing every day. (I also either carry a book or a magazine with me everywhere I go.) We are constantly judged (overtly or not) on the physical impression we make and clothing is a big part of that. Clothing is non-trivial. I’m not a clothes horse, but I do care about my clothing. I treat it well, especially my legion of sweaters. I’m particularly attached to my many pairs of black shoes.




I started down this particular track of thought because I’m considering rearranging my apartment. Bear with me, the track is a bit circuitous.




I don’t use my backroom very much. It used to be a porch and it was converted to a room. Thus, it has some odd angles and it’s cold in the winter and hot in the summer. It can’t be a second bedroom because the windows in the “real” bedroom open directly into the room (it used to be outdoors). It is an odd setup. There is a big closet in the back that I converted to an office, but I never go back there. The back room is mostly a utility room. There is another closet with the laundry machines stacked in it. When I use the computer I sit in the dining area or in the living room. Yet, I have this nice ergonomic set up back there, going to waste.




I also have a lovely dining area that I use infrequently for dining.




I thought, why not turn the back room into the dining room and move the office to the dining area? (Friends who’ve been to my place–what do you think about this?)




One problem is that I have three full bookcases in my dining area, two tall and one short. One would have to go somewhere else. There isn’t room for it in the back. But there might be room in my bedroom, if I got rid of some of my clothing. But I don’t want to get rid of my clothing, even the stuff I never wear.




And that’s when I had the thought, “What’s more important, clothing or books?”




It’s not that I never get rid of books. I do. I have a box sitting around waiting to go…somewhere else. The books that I won’t read again, the cheap entertainment books, I don’t keep those. I keep the books that I intend to read, the ones I read and might re-read, the ones I love and want to be able to loan (possibly permanently) to friends, the books that belonged to my parents. Those books stay.




Bookstores are dangerous places that I try to avoid. Why? Once I buy a book I may own it for the rest of my life. The library is a much safer place.




Then again, I don’t read as much since I started writing the blog. The open weekend hours reserved for reading are now dedicated to writing. I may even read more words per week because of all the blogs I track. I have (mostly) kept up with the book group books–but only reading one novel a month? That’s not like me. I suppose it’s about the rate I dropped to in grad school when I spent most of the time reading things that bored me to tears. Given my inability to focus on any of the stuff I need to read for work these days, I’m astonished I made it through grad school at all. Then again, I didn’t have a blog to distract me.




Maybe I’ll just move that short bookcase into the back room. Put the bike in the closet when I have guests over. And start having breakfast in the back room.




P.S. Pele pretty much convinced me that there was nothing much I could do to make the backroom more useful and that there was a good reason to keep the dining table in the dining area. Also, I don’t want to hide the fabulous new red chairs in the back. I still may move one of the bookcases back there, though. We’ll see.






Grateful for
: books.





Drop me a line.

First and foremost, these are not Tamara’s dating stories. These are stories emailed to Tamara that she can post them for all to see. Tamara does not get THAT many dates. It is true Tamara has a few stories on here, they are early stories of the life of this blog. Additionally, it’s one thing to disagree with a person, it’s another to bad mouth them or call them out.




Since we are all adults and mature, please be kind, and remember, these date stories are emailed to Tamara and Tamara, out of courtesy, posts them.




Thank you.

Nothing will snap you out of a maudlin haze faster than almost fucking up at work.




Last night, I went to the weblogger meetup. I talked to some old friends and met some new folks. I stayed later than I intended. I did not drink. I heard some HILARIOUS jokes and almost went salsa dancing.




It was a good time.




I didn’t get in a cab home until 11:30pm (or was it later?). The driver took a completely unique route and scared me half to death by:

• Speeding.
• Running a red light.
• Turning right on red where not allowed.
• Turning left where no turns were allowed.
• Did I mention the speeding?

He did wait to see that I was safely inside my house before driving away, which is something.




I was home in plenty of time to get a decent night’s sleep, but I didn’t want to go to bed. I stayed up, fooling around on the computer, going in search of my old comic books and watching an episode of Six Feet Under (damn you Netflix).




I used to collect and read comic books and I still occasionally buy a graphic novel. I’d mentioned Watchmen to a friend and I couldn’t find my copy on the bookshelf. I thought it might be in the backroom in the box of the comics I kept when I moved away from Seattle (I sold most of them). And it was. I might read it again.




What I didn’t expect to find in that box was another, smaller, box full of letters.




The letters were from the late 1970’s, when we lived in Knoxville, through the 1980’s, after I moved to Seattle. There were several from my best friend in Knoxville, Carla, with whom I kept up a correspondence for three or four years after I moved. The topics of all of these letters? Boys. 100% boys. Oddly, in one letter she gives me her height (5ft) and weight (90 lbs–she was always skinny). I have no idea why.




There were several letters from my mom sent to me at camp. Reading those letters, I thought, if I am a good writer, it is because of Mom. She set a good example.




And, there was a love letter that I’d completely forgotten about, which I received when I was 15 from a boy who was 18. No, I did not forget the boy, but I forgot how torn up he was and how he’d poured out his heart to me in tiny, cramped handwriting. Unfortunately, I did not return his affection.




I wish I had the letters I wrote to him, to my mom, to Carla. That is the great thing about email correspondence—it’s easy to keep both sides of the exchange.




I finally went to sleep and I when I got out of the house this morning, very late, I was feeling sentimental and nostalgic. Walking along, listening to a song on the music player, sadness overwhelmed me.




Then the cell phone rang. “Where are you? There is a meeting at 10am!” It was 10:10am.




“What meeting? The one with the Assistant Secretary? I thought that meeting was rescheduled.”




“You’re supposed to be here, aren’t you? Why aren’t you here?”




“I’m sorry; I was running late. I didn’t know about the meeting. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”




So much for a comforting walk to work. I hailed the first cab I saw and was at the office by 10:20am. The meeting was postponed until 10:30—because the Assistant Secretary was running late. I am incredibly lucky.




When I got in, my boss said, again, “You’re supposed to be here by 9:30!” True enough. I apologized again, but what could I do?




The meeting was fine. Stupid, but fine.




A little while later, my boss came into my office and said, “Can you go to this other meeting for me at 2pm?”




“Of course.”




So. I roll into work whenever I feel like it, make life hard for my boss (he would have had to cover for me at the stupid meeting), and I am still trusted to represent him in another meeting later the same day? What is that?




The moral: nostalgic reveries only lead to trouble. Stick with the now.






Grateful for
: a second chance.









Drop me a line.

I banked a few “general interest” posts last weekend, but now I don”t need them. It seems whenever I write ahead, life presents me with “real time” things to write about. Today, I give you a round up of the mildly interesting things going on in my life, not necessarily presented in the order of interest.

Item #1: Furniture
Recently, I purchased some new furniture for my house (condo). In my first apartment, in Seattle, when I was 17, I had almost no furniture at all and I liked it that way. It was a studio and there was a built-in bench and table in the kitchen. I had a rug and a single futon (on the floor) in the main room and a small dresser (my childhood dresser) in the closet. The stereo rested on a shelf built over the non-functioning radiator. I think I had one bookcase. My clothing was always fuzzy from sitting the sheddy rug, but that was the main drawback of no furniture. My college-age friends did not mind sitting on the floor.

Now, I have sofas, a coffee table, bench, chair and a make-shift entertainment center in the living room. In the bedroom, I have a completely easy to dismantle platform bed with a regular mattress on top. I have a dresser and shelves of Danish modern design that I salvaged from a friend”s house.

I also have three tables. One is a very nice heavy duty card table. It folds up and can live in my backroom or basement. It has four matching folding chairs.

I also have a kitchen table that I don”t like much. It will have to go.

And I just bought this new table:

And four red chairs to go with it:


The red in the picture is not true-to-life. The real life color is much more palatable. The reason for the red chairs? I”m cheap. They were half the price of the non-red chairs. It turns out that red chairs are pretty cool and look just fine in my place. They are comfortable too. The new table is awesome. It”s very pretty in real life and has built-in leaves (they call it “self-storing”). Perhaps not surprisingly, both the table and chairs are Danish design. The table was actually made in Denmark. I have a thing for Scandanavian design. I”m a little hung up on Marimekko too.

According to my dad, buying new furniture makes me a real grown up. No wonder I feel so old.

Item #2: Mom
My mom has been rather stressed out and depressed recently and I haven”t been able to do much for her. The reason for her stress is that she bought a new condo and is selling her house. I”ve witnessed her handle this kind of transaction many times and I”ve never known her to have such a bad reaction. Usually, she just handles it. She”s a good businesswoman with great instincts and she always does fine.

She did fine this time, too, because she just called to let me know that she has a buyer for the house (at over the asking price). If all goes well, she”ll be moving in June. That means I”ll be going to Seattle around then to help. That”s what good daughters do.

I also told her about my new rowing opportunity. She was happy for me but, in classic mom style, also tried to put a damper on it. She asked, “When are you going to start?”

“Next week. This week, I”m all booked up. Next week I can make three practices.”

“Well, when you are starting something like that, it”s best to not do too much all at once.”

“I”ll go on Monday. I have plans on Tuesday, so I won”t go then. Then I”ll go on Wednesday and Thursday. So I”ll have a break in there.”

“Just don”t overdo it.”

Ok, Mom. Please don”t worry. I need to overdo it a little. But she does have confidence in me. I told her about my previous experience with this club and getting a seat in the boat because I”d proved my consistency. She said, “That”s right. You”re like me. You always show up. They like that.” They do. And they always notice.

Item #3: Kyle
Completely to my surprise, I received an email from Kyle yesterday. He was sweet, apologetic (but not too apologetic) and totally took my snippiness in stride.

What he hasn”t done is call or suggest making plans.

I wrote back today (this time I made myself wait a day). I: 1) apologized (but not too much), 2) suggested we get together, and 3) gave him a couple of times to choose from.

I still don”t think this is going anywhere, but I”m giving it a chance.

Grateful for : new opportunities.
Drop me a line.

Not sure how much suspense you’ve been in since I left you hanging with the rowing story last week….




I did join the rowing club at UNC. (You don’t say “crew club” because “crew” means “club.” However, most peole call the sport “crew.” We did too; I still do. We just never said we “rowed crew.”) There was an informational meeting at the beginning of the semester and there were over 100 women there. We learned that we would practice five or six times a week. Most of the practices would be on land (running), but we would get into the boats two or three times a week. We would only have one or two early morning practices (6am–not that early by rowing standards) and only in the Spring when it was light enough. Practice would be at 4pm. We had to share equipment and a small lake with the men, so we had to alternate practice times with them–anther reason for the lack of a water practice every day.




After that first meeting, I was a bit overwhelmed. I called my mom to ask her opinion. She said, “Oh, you can’t do that.”




“I can’t?”




“No, it’s too much.”




I was terribly offended. I took them to mean that I wasn’t capable of meeting the physical challenge of a five-day-a-week practice schedule. She probably meant that it was too much to take on during my first year of graduate school. Um, yeah, she was probably right about that.




Offended and defiant, I joined the team.




Once I decide to do something, it is very, very hard for me to quit.




When I decided to go to college early, my dad said, “If you don’t like it, you can always go back to high school.” But I knew that wouldn’t be an option for me.




When I joined the rowing team, that was it, I had to see it through.




I rowed for two and a half years and quitting was one of the hardest things I ever had to do. It was the right decision, though. I quit because I had to focus on my master’s thesis and I hated our new coach. I’ll tell that story another time.




I rowed for two and a half years. I started with a class of 100 that was down to 70 by the end of the first semester. To 40 by the beginning of the second semester. We were 20 by the second year. By the fourth semester, there were ten of us. My fifth semester rowing, the beginning of my third year, I was in a boat with girls who had been novices the prior year. I can’t remember how many of my group were left on the team because I didn’t see them.




I lost every race I rowed while on that team. We did come in third in the last race of my second year; the last race with my group. Our boat was elated. Coming in the medals was huge for that boat.




But it wouldn’t have mattered. If we’d come in dead last, it still would have been the best race I ever rowed. Our boat was completely together. Beforehand, we decided what encouraging things we would say to each other during the race. We were only allowed to say those things. So, about halfway, when I started to flag, and I heard 5 seat yell, “Sit up!” I knew it was for me. And I sat straighter and got my head in the race. When I came off the water, I was dizzy and seeing spots. I knew I’d given it everything.




And that’s what rowing was about. Doing something that seemed impossible and giving it 100% and still not having anything to show for it. I learned how to find satisfaction in losing. I knew when I tried hard and I knew when I hadn’t. I knew when I rowed a good race.




Now, when I’m faced with an extreme physical challenge, I know that I can do it. I know that it may be hard and painful and not much fun, but that if I really want it, I can succeed. I just don’t expect to win. That’s how I knew when I planned to do the four day trek to Machu Picchu two years ago, I could do it. It was hard and I was the last person in my little group each day. But did I care? No. I didn’t have anything to prove. I knew I could do it and I set myself a pace that I could keep. And I did it.




I have a lot more rowing stories to tell, but I’ll get to them later.




All this thinking I’ve been doing about rowing has made me miss it. The first summer I spent in DC, I joined a rowing club. I started in an afternoon class, but I was frustrated. I was rowing with novices and there was so much fumbling around that we never just rowed. On the recommendation of my coach, I joined the competitive group for a few weeks. They had 5am practices (ugh). My first day out, the gruff, Russian coach asked who I was and why I was there. Then he stuck me on an erg (rowing machine) and told me to row 2,000 meters (a sprint). I didn’t fuss, I just did it. That’s the game. He said, “We may not have a seat for you.” But when he came back to the dock and saw that I’d done the piece (my time was very so-so), he immediately put me in a boat. And each time I showed up, I was seated, no question. I went back to Chapel Hill at the end of the summer and I haven’t rowed since. That was…seven years ago.




I found the club’s webpage yesterday and they now have an afternoon club program. It’s as though it were made for me–it’s for experienced rowers who are not super competitive. I could handle the 5am practices, physically, but mentally, it takes a toll. The only friends you can have are other rowers who keep the same crazy schedule. It’s too limiting. But this group? It’s a 6:30pm practice four days a week. It’s a lot, but it leaves me some room for a social life. Missing the occasional practice is ok, and I would get to row.




I’m going to be a rower again. This is huge.






Grateful for
: rowing, again.

Perhaps some of you were wondering what happened to Kyle. He’s the guy I was corresponding with last week, who I met via an internet dating site.




He wished me a Happy Passover on Wednesday. I responded with a very short note. I didn’t hear from him again last week. I thought that was odd. On Sunday evening, I wrote to him. I asked how he was feeling (remember, he’s been very ill) and said I hoped to hear from him.




This afternoon he wrote and said he was just starting to feel better. And that he’d gone on a date this weekend.




Really. Well, I’ll be. I’ll be what? Annoyed, that’s what.




This is how I responded:

Glad to hear you are feeling better.




Surprised to hear that you went on a date. Gee. You haven’t even called me yet. What’s up with that?




My life is silly busy, as usual. But I had a pretty relaxing weekend, which is not. Today, I’m getting lots of work done as I have to meet a deadline. Deadlines are good.

I care enough to respond, but not enough to play games. (The game would have been to wait until tomorrow to respond.) I don’t have time to pretend that I’m not annoyed.




How’s that for not caring? Yeah, I know. Still working on it.






Grateful for
: no games.

I received an e-mail from a gentleman asking the usual questions and

after an e-mail or two a date was set. We live about 30 minutes from

each other and he said he would be glad to drive out my way. I suggest

a Starbuck’s in a very common shopping mall and that we go for coffee.

He writes back to let me know that he’s not sure where Pentagon Row is

(odd, he has internet) and suggests getting breakfast near where he

lives.




I’m always hesitant on doing meals for the first date and I was a bit

skeptical when he changes his mind about coming towards where Iive,

but, there is an Ikea near him, so I’ll make a day of it.




So, on the Sunday morning of our plans, I get in the car to go meet

“Al”. I got to the diner before him and in a few moments a guy with a

fanny pack comes over and introduces himself. He does not just have any

fanny pack, but a pleather one that he is carrying by one strap and

swinging. He’s not what I expected looks wise but I know, you shouldn’t

judge a book by it’s cover.




We walk into the diner and are seated at a table about 20 feet from

the bathroom (and remember, he just got out of the car). Within 2

minutes he takes out a test kit from his fanny pack to check his blood

sugar. Remember, bathroom within view and he just got out of his car. I

must have a made a face because he asked what was wrong. I mentioned

that blood makes me a bit queasy and he said he’d be done in a second.

He then proceeds to take out his syringe, fills it with insulin and

injects himself right at the table. I commented as he filled the needle

that needles make me even more queasy than blood and he suggested

turning away.




Needless to say I suffered through breakfast and ran out as quickly as

I could. But, not before seeing him get into his VW Beatle with the

stuffed animal in the front window.




To add a bit of comic relief to this story, I was telling a neighbor

about him and she said he sounded a bit familiar. It seems after some

fact sharing that “insulin boy”, Al’s new nickname, works in the office

next to her. She was so embarrassed for him and mentioned that she now

knows why his 3, yes 3, marriages did not work out.




And then when sharing the story of “insulin boy” with some girlfriends

on a night out, it seems I was not the only one who had experienced

this same Jdate! We now check with each other before dates…just to

make sure!

Two things seem to happen when I go out with Kristin:




1) I get drunk.

2) Strange men hit on me.




Last night, I met Kristin and two other friends for a drink at a favorite and convenient (for me and Kristin) local bar. Kristin arrived first and we sat inside for a while. When the others arrived, we moved out of doors. We sat outside, enjoying the warm weather, watching people arrive at the bar and occasionally stagger out.




During that time, I drank one beer.




I biked there and figured even if I drank a little, riding home would not be a problem.




When everyone else was leaving, around midnight, Kristin and I decided to reclaim our spots at the little bar downstairs.




I started on my second beer–which I intended to be my last. I figured that I would go home when I finished it and leave Kristin to her own devices.




We chatted with the bartender, Carl, talked to each other and said hello to many of the folks who came up to the bar. When I was just about to finish my second beer, Paul (not the bartender) slipped behind the bar and pulled out another beer for me. The bartender had stepped away for minute.




Did I mention that I was drinking Bud(weiser) in a bottle? Generally, I don’t drink Bud, but sometimes, it hits the spot. (Remember, I’m from Seattle, which means I’m a beer and coffee snob.) I’m not sure why I started with the Bud last night, but it was a good idea. Since it’s only a 12 oz serving, I drank 12 oz less beer than I would have if I’d been drinking pints. I think I’ll stick with bottles–of whatever–from now on.




Paul wasn’t exactly working there that night. I believe he works at that bar and at some of the other bars on Penn SE as a manager. But he was helping out Carl, pulling in dirty glasses, hanging out with him and paying for a steady stream of Jameson’s. When the Carl (the bartender) came back and saw the beer in front of me he looked surprised. “Did you steal that beer?”




“What?”




“I know you slipped back here when I wasn’t looking.”




“No–it was him.” I nodded to Paul.




Paul said, “You’ll take it and you’ll like it.” Ok then.




I said to Kristin, “What are you doing to me?”




Right around then, a friend of Kristin’s, an Irish guy, came up to the bar and bought seven shots of Jaeger for his friends–and us. And Paul. When someone buys you a shot, you can’t just say no. I mean, you could, but I didn’t. Though I did curse, after the generous fellow left, about why when someone buys you shot it has to be goddamn Jaeger. (This has happened to me at this very same bar on another occasion with Kristin.)




“If someone wants to buy you a shot, the least they could do is ask you what you want to drink. Goddamn Jaeger.”




A fellow standing at the bar said, “It’s not just Jaeger. It’s goddamn Jaeger.”




He was telling Carl, “I never drink alcohol. It gets you into trouble.” (Note: that business about people pouring out their hearts to bartenders? SO TRUE. I never knew because I don’t do it.)




I said, “I can’t get into trouble no matter how much I drink.” Sad but true.




The guy at the bar continued and said something about being in love with a stripper and having a restraining order. Carl laughed at his joke and added, “It’s just a piece of paper.”




Later, Mr. Restraining Order came back for another soda and said to me, “Is this 100 yards?”




I didn’t get it. “What?”




“Am I at least 100 yards away?”




“Um, no. You’re not even…” I held up my fingers in the space between us, “…a hundred millimeters away.”




He got his soda and walked to the other side of the bar, next to Kristin. “Your friend doesn’t like me.”




Kristin said, “Why do you say that?”




“She doesn’t like my joke. She said I wasn’t even 100 millimeters away from her.”




“Hey,” I said, leaning over Kristin, “I was making a joke too. Why doesn’t anyone ever get my jokes?”




He smiled at me. Kristin stepped away. I started rubbing my neck. For the last couple of days, my neck has been killing me. The guy looked at me and asked what was wrong–pulled muscle?




“It’s just sore. I don’t know what’s going on.”




He walked over and gave me a neck rub. A really good one. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I can’t even begin to tell you how uncharacteristic this is for me. I’d probably be more comfortable kissing a strange guy in a bar (actual times this occurred: once, about five years ago) than receiving a neck rub from a strange guy.




Oddly, it wasn’t my first neck rub of the night. Let’s back up, shall we?




Some time around the Jaeger shot (is it a surprise that things went blurry around then?), Paul put his arms around me and rubbed my shoulders. I was sitting on the bar stool and he hugged me. He whispered how wonderful I was and how every time he’s seen me, he’s told me so.




For the record, I’ve spoken to Paul one other time and he DID NOT flirt with me. I’ve seen him a few other times and said hello, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. Needless to say, I was lost.




He said, “It’s too bad you’re taken.”




“Taken? By whom?” Don’t you love that I still use correct grammar when I’m drunk?




“You have a boyfriend. A really nice boyfriend.”




“No I don’t. I don’t have a boyfriend.” I said.




“You don’t? I thought you did.” I guess I must seem like the kind of person who has a boyfriend. Nice. That’s the reason I’m single! Guys take one look at me and think, “No way is she available.” And they don’t even bother to approach. Yah, sure. That’s it.




When Kristin came back (she’d stepped away again), he slid away, back to his spot at the bar. Why did all these boys make their moves in Kristin’s absence? I told her, in tidbits what happened, because Paul was standing next to her for most of the night. “He thought I had a boyfriend. He must have me confused with someone else.”




“Do you want him to think you have a boyfriend? I can tell him you do.”




“No. Just tell the truth.” I said.




“I always do.”




That was kind of funny because, earlier, when the Irish guy bought us the shots he asked what my name was and I turned to Kristin and said, “What’s my name?”




She said, “This is Jamy!”




Irish said, “You forgot your name?”




Heh.




Later, Paul took one more opportunity to flirt with me, telling me what a great woman I was. I was embarrassed. Paul is a good guy. Can’t say I’m interested in him, though. And I certainly can’t handle such an excess of compliments from a stranger.




Last call finally came and Kristin and I walked out together; she to a cab, me to my bike. I was a little fuzzy, but the ride home was pleasant and cool.




Except for a fairly significant headache today, I feel pretty good. I may even leave the house.




I believe the moral of this story is that I should go out with Kristin more often.






Grateful for
: 12 oz beers.

The plan today? I thought I wanted to get a lot of writing done. I thought I wanted to get up early and catch the free opening at the Philips. Well, it turned out that I wanted to do nothing. I made a pretty bad start on it by getting up at 8:30 and finishing up some dishes. But I got into the groove by not showering immediately and settling in front of the TV with some movies and a bowl of cereal.




I was going along fine, until I got the idea that I would go out for a movie. I made it to the shower and got ready to go. I had a movie all picked out, but it required getting on the metro. I have to say that on such a pretty day, I don’t want to take the train. I decided, spur of the moment, to give the Christian coffee shop another chance. It’s on the way to Union Station after all…and that is where I sit right now. It’s empty, non-Christian music is playing and the wifi is functional. I have a seat by the window and the sunshine is balancing out the a/c. Not a bad way to spend a lazy afternoon.




Let’s see if I can get some writing done.




(I did go see Brick last night and if you like Dashiell Hammet, you should enjoy it. Keep your ears peeled, though. They are quite mumbly.)






Grateful for
: relaxing days.