[Dating Papers]

I went to Ann Arbor a week and a half ago for an overnight business trip. I always enjoy this trip, which I usually take once a year, if the budget permits.

Two years before I moved to DC, I spent the summer in Ann Arbor. I had a traineeship for which I did almost nothing, mostly because I had no idea what I was supposed to do. In theory, I was using a particular dataset to develop my dissertation topic. It turned out that the data were not appropriate for what I wanted to do—eventually I dumped the data and kept the topic. But during that summer I spent a lot of time running SAS programs and generating useless output. I felt guilty for getting paid, even if it was only for 20 hours a week at $10/hour.

I had quite a nice time otherwise. I was worried about going because I thought I would be lonely. I remembered how hard it was to move to Chapel Hill, where I only had a single friend. I’d been miserable for months. In Ann Arbor, I knew no one.

Yet, everyone I met was very friendly and they took particular pains to include me in things. For example, when I mentioned to my officemate that I wanted to see the Mariners play the Tigers, she invited me to the game with her and her husband. Word got around that I was a baseball fan and another guy in the office invited me to a different game that same weekend. (Yes, I went to two Mariners games, two days in a row.) A graduate student who tried (and failed) to help me arrange housing became a summer friend and we went to dinner and played tennis a few times. Also, my friend, Spesh, was around for a few days here and there and I hung out with him and his friend, Josh.

I found a place to live in one of the Ann Arbor co-ops. I sent an email to someone at the main office and didn’t hear anything for while. I wasn’t even sure if it were possible to let a room just for the summer. Then I got a message saying, “Linder House voted and you can stay here this summer.” So I did. I had a brief scare when I thought they put me in a double instead of a single, but they hadn’t, so I was happy. I was in a tiny room on the third floor of an old Victorian house. There was no a/c, which is pretty necessary for a Michigan summer, but I survived.

While most of the people in the house were a lot younger than me, it didn’t matter. They were all friendly and even dragged me out of my room when I was doggedly doing a paint-by-numbers thing for my brother’s wedding (long story, best left for another time).

I was enamored of the co-op concept, where everyone had a job and a stake in the house. I asked several times in my first week what my job was, but it took them a long time to assign me something. Then, in the second summer session, I was voted “work manager,” which meant that I had to make the work assignments and ensure everyone did their job. That was ridiculous and I didn’t enjoy it, but what could I do? I was pleased to have been nominated for something, even if knew it was because no one else wanted the job.

I rarely used my car that summer. I remember spending an afternoon in the living room attaching a speedometer to my bike that I’d picked up at a yard sale while listening to This American Life for the first time. Members of the house passed through and tried to help me. I went on a few short rides with a guy in the house who may have had a crush on me. I did my grocery shopping and clothing shopping on the bike. The only time I drove the car was once to Detroit and to the malls that were not too far to bike to, but too unfriendly to navigate. I would bring my bike into shops with me, if possible and no one ever said boo about it. It was a much better biking town than Chapel Hill (or DC, for that matter).

Somehow, I also got connected with a practice softball game. I’d show up once a week for practice and go for drinks with them afterwards, but I never played in the “real” games.

I still had plenty of free time and I spent most of it reading. I was there for eight weeks and I read fourteen novels. Not all of them were crap, either. I read Gore Vidal for the first time. Good stuff.

I also had one romantic encounter. We had a party at my house and towards the end of the evening there was a bike race—just around the block. I declined to participate, but I loaned my bike (which was then almost brand-new) to this guy, David, who I’d been flirting with. He was mighty impressed. And we flirted tons more. There was a drop-by, a coffee date and then a party at his house. That’s where I learned that he had a girlfriend in New York. He waited a good long time to tell me about her. It seemed a particularly cruel turn of fate, since my issues with the then already ex-important grad school boyfriend, Tom, had centered around his girlfriend in New York. But I still made out with David and even spent the night in his room (fully clothed). And then I didn’t call him. At least not until two days before I left town. We had coffee in the morning the day I drove back to Chapel Hill. I’ve never spoken to him since.

During that summer I also realized that if I didn’t change advisors, I’d never finish my PhD. A grad school friend was in town for a week to teach a class and I had lunch with her one day. I poured out my advisor woes to her. She was sympathetic but couldn’t really understand how bad it was for me, since her advisor was a great, supportive guy. My advisor thought I was stupid. That conversation, which we couldn’t have had in Chapel Hill, helped make it clear to me what I needed to do. It wasn’t that I hadn’t know for a good long while, but this time, I finally succeeded. I changed to my new advisor as soon as I got back and it was one of the best decisions I ever made in grad school.

P.S. When I was in the Detroit airport I spotted a sign for the “Religious Reflection Room.” What the heck? I think it’s ok to call it a chapel—that’s a nondenominational word, after all.

Grateful for: Ann Arbor.

Drop me a line.

After a long hiatus, I present the return of the very occasional “Dear Jamy” advice feature. This week, we have a question about the non-beginning of one relationship eand the probable ending of another.

Jamy–

I know the answer, but I have to give it a try. I have a crush on this great guy — he’s smart, adorable, athletic, and as sweet as can be. He’s one of those guys that I had an instant attraction to (and I blushed when I met him. I don’t blush). Well, throughout the year we’ve known each other, we haven’t dated at all. In fact, the only time he ever asked me out was the night we met (I skirted the issue because I had just gotten out of a relationship).

Thanks,
Sandra

Sandra,
You are never stupid for liking someone. Feelings are feelings—they are hard, nay, impossible to control. But you can control your actions.

There are a lot of reasons you two haven’t gotten together. Perhaps he’s not interested. Then again, he did give you the mix CD. That usually indicates interest. You haven’t been available, and neither has he, so there hasn’t been much opportunity for the two of you to get together. And since you are so nervous around him, he may not understand that you like him. Guys seem to do better with non-mixed signals. They need a direct approach and are easily confused (as are many women).

Instead of deciding that a relationship with this guy won’t work out, why don’t you ask him on a date and find out for sure? He’s leaving soon anyway, so what have you got to lose? But if you enjoy the crushing, feel free to indulge yourself indefinitely. Just don’t complain about it.

love,
Jamy

Dear Jamy,

Kat

Dear Kat,
People don’t have expiration dates or “sell-by” dates. And I certainly hope that you don’t consider three years of your life spent with someone you love a waste. Do you know what you want? Marriage? Kids? This man? If your relationship remained as it is now, but you never married, would you be satisfied?

Even if you don’t marry him or can’t conceive biologically, it doesn’t mean you can’t have kids. But why are you raising this issue if you don’t care about it? I’m confused.

I’m also having a hard time understanding why it is the guy who gets to deicide whether or not you are marriage material. Why don’t you get to decide if you want to marry him? Why don’t the two of you decide together what you want to happen in this relationship?

Then again, perhaps what you really want is out and the lack of a proposal is your excuse.

Tell me if I’m wrong.

Jamy

P.S. I think that one can figure out if one’s partner is “marriage material” in the first six months or so of dating. I used to think you could tell immediately if the guy was marriageable (for you); I’ve since revised my opinion. Now, I think the best answer to the question, “Could I marry this guy?” (upon first acquaintance) is “Maybe.” If you think you’ve met your future husband after one meeting, you have lost your mind (I speak from experience). But I don’t understand why people stay together for many years and don’t get married if what they want to do is get married (unless they were 18 when they got together). My longest relationship lasted a year (plus). It ended, in part, because we weren’t going to get married (we discussed it, directly and indirectly). All my other longish relationships ended when either it was clear we weren’t suited or we weren’t going to get married. Hey, at least I know what I want. Sort of.

Grateful for: knowing my own mind.

Drop me a line.

It’s been a pretty lazy weekend. Sort of.

Friday, I ushered at the Arena Stage and saw On the Verge or the Geography of Yearning, which was a fairly boring play. The acting, as usual, was good, though one of the three leading actresses had this odd and distracting habit of pursing her lips. I couldn’t tell if it was a character tic or the natural resting shape of her mouth, but it certainly did not help me suspend disbelief.

I stayed up very late fiddling with my blog template. I finally got the pull down menus working the way I want—with fonts and colors that match the rest of the page. I am mighty pleased with myself. I have a mania for pull down menus now—should I put all the links into pull downs? Perhaps I have a second career in super low-tech, crappy site design.

Saturday, instead of going to yoga at 9am, I slept until 9:30am. I met Pele for brunch and then we went to see my first National’s game of the season. That was good fun. We walked back from the stadium to retrieve her car and stopped at a new coffee shop near Eastern Market. Awful. Pele had an Americano and they managed to screw it up. I had a blended drink that was sweet and watery. Sorry, Port City Java, I’ll have to stick with Murky. (But Murky, could you work on the foam? The swirly design is pretty, but the foam is not thick enough–it used to be perfect. Please bring back the old foam.)

After Pele dropped me home, I did a little bike repair. Got my hands dirty but I mostly cleaned up ok.

Then, it was off to meet a friend to see X Men: The Last Stand. I have to say that I liked the movie. It required no thinking at all on my part, something I value very much these days. Was it a good movie? Not really. But it was entertaining—big, pretty and action packed. Expect no character development, a lot of non-bloody violence and overly dramatized moral dilemmas and you should be fine. If you want good dialog, interesting characterizations and understandable sequencing, you should skip it.

I got home at a reasonable hour and I was in bed by 1am. Not too shabby.

Sunday was really lazy. My only plan was to go to a dance in the evening. And I didn’t even manage that. Perhaps my relatively busy Saturday wore me out.

I have been working on the story about Stella. It’s up to seven pages now. Today, Monday, I called Audrey (in Seattle) and talked to her about the story. She had some good thoughts and I will act on some of her suggestions to make the story live a little more.

I spent a lot of time today getting my computer completely back in shape. Copying, reinstalling, backing up. Etc. Tiresome and tedious, but I’m almost back to where I was before I lost the hard drive. I combined that excitement with coffee drinking, grocery shopping and phone talking.

And VACUUMING. Finally. I didn’t do the whole house, but I made a good start.

And rowing practice! It went well.

And, one amusing dating-related incident.

I’m on the bike, riding back from practice. It’s around 8:30pm, just on to twilight. I’m halfway home and I’m taking a shortcut through an alley. I cross paths with a tall, good-looking guy. Whom I recognize. Who is he? He recognizes me too—and he even knows my name. “Hey, Jamy, hi.”

I stop riding and say, “Hi.” Now I know him. He’s the guy I met last weekend at the frisbee party.

He reminds me of the name of the bar where we met.

“Right, ” I say, “I know. Frank. Hi.”

And he gives me a hug—sort of a half hug since I’m on the bike. Why? Not that I mind, I just didn’t realize we were so close.

“Do you live around here? I’m just heading to the [nearby bar].”

“I’m on my way back from practice. I live about a mile away.”

“I live…right here.” He points to the building we just passed.

“We’re just getting ready for our regatta. It went really well.”

“Your regatta? You sail?”

“No—it’s a rowing regatta. But I do sail…”

“Right, I was going to call you about sailing.”

“I’m not much of a sailor, but I do know how.”

We got to the place where our paths split and I said goodnight. He said, “It’s always great to run into you.” Which I thought was an odd thing to say.

“Ok! Have fun!” And I sped off.

Now, I still don’t think he’ll call, and I certainly felt self-conscious seeing him in my nasty Anacostia-wet clothes, sweaty from practice, looking a fright. But I just don’t care. Practice leaves me feeling sure and confident, even if I’m sweaty.

And that was a great long weekend.

Grateful for: practice (it makes perfect, right?).

Drop me a line.

How could I forget to tell you this?

On Wednesday, on the way to rowing practice, I was rear-ended by a car. ON MY BIKE.

That’s right, a car very gently rolled into my bike while we I was stopped at a red light waiting to turn left.

Note: it is my practice to ride in the street and obey the traffic rules for cars. I use hand signals, stop at lights, etc. I stay as far over to the right as possible and I will ride on the sidewalk if it is safer than the street. I claim the right lane at stop signs to avoid getting hit by cars that are turning right. I get in the left hand lane to make left turns—and get over to the right as soon as I’m through the intersection.

My reaction to the tap was something like this, “What the FUCK are you doing? Godammit! What are you doing?!?!?”

The guy, in his enormous burgundy truck said, “What? I didn’t see you.”

He didn’t see me. I was directly in front of him.

“You can kill people that way!!” I shouted.

Oddly, my first thoughts were about the bike. Did he break my bike? Did he bend the frame? How much time is this going to take to resolve?

I pulled over to the side of the road to assess damage and he pulled over next to me—just as though it were a car accident. He got out of his car—a young, sweet looking, black guy. He spoke quietly, “I didn’t see you. I thought the light was going to change and I just rolled forward.”

I said, “Harrumph.”

He said, “Are you ok? Is the bike ok? Can you ride it?”

“It looks ok. I’m fine. But you bent the fender—here—see the stays are bent. They’re rubbing against the tire.”

“Can you ride?” He grabbed one of the stays and tried to bend it back.

“Sure, I can ride it. It’s just rubbing the tire. I can fix it later.”

“Here’s my card…just send me the bill. I’ll pay for a new one.”

I started to feel bad. He seemed so sincere and stunned. I knew I would never ask him to pay to replace the fender. The money is trivial. (Note: I found replacement parts on the internet for $15.) I got back on the bike and rode to practice, only a little shaken. Not as shaken as I thought I should be.

Later that night, I looked at the man’s card and saw that he works for a construction contractor. My thought? “Maybe we can get him to do some work around the condo.” Then again, running into bicyclists isn’t really a good recommendation…for anything.

Grateful for: my physical safety.

Drop me a line.

I’m interrupting regularly scheduled blogging to promote, gently, the debut novel of a fellow dating blogger, Rebecca Agiewich (her real name!). Rebecca started Breakup Babe in 2002 and for several years chronicled her dating adventures, working life and struggle to produce a novel (based on the blog). Her archives are down and she no longer writes about boys, but you can read the novelized, fictionalized version any day now–the book goes on sale on May 30.

I enjoyed the blog, so I bet the book is a good, engaging read too.

(Yes, I get something for this–a free copy of the book.)

Click here to buy/preorder a copy.

Good luck Rebecca!

Y’all didn’t do so great on the questions. There were only two. I can only blame myself since I feel peculiar asking you to ask me questions.

The first one is reasonable:

Does your writing cover the point where dates become relationships?

As long time readers know, it has. I suspect it will again, if I ever have another relationship. I have to admit, I’m feeling pretty discouraged these days on the relationship front. I feel emotionally healthy, though—like I’m at the right balance of liking my life, but being open to having someone else in it. But it’s so not clear how I’m supposed to pull this off. I should be happy and content even if I remain single. But, no guy will want to date me unless he feels that he is necessary and not optional.

I do feel that a guy is necessary to my life. And I’m sad that I don’t have someone to share the day-to-day with (Tabitha does not count). But I’m so happy about everything else going on (friends, rowing, writing, reading, etc.) that I’m somewhat amused by my self-pity. I play it for laughs, but I know this is serious business. Time is running out, clocks are ticking, parents are desperate. But what am I do to?

Back to the question. If I start dating someone, I will write about it, but I will proceed with caution.

The second question, however, seems somewhat unreasonable:

Will you marry me?!?

Dearest, I know you are joking, and it is very sweet. Perhaps this humorous proposal should be taken as a sign that there is hope for me yet in the dating/relationship/marriage arena. Sure, why not? I decline to answer, but thanks for asking.

Also, even though I worry about boring you with so many non-dating stories, I’m probably not going to stop writing about whatever the hell I feel like. My constraint is the lack of mental energy to construct good stories. But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.

That said, I’ve made a good start on the Stella story and should have something final in a few days. I also have some “Dear Jamy” questions in the hopper, which should provide interesting material.

Thanks for sticking around, folks, I appreciate it.

Grateful for: patience, hope and humor.

Drop me a line.

Actually, I have plenty of things to say, I just don’t have plenty of time to say them. Had to work at work today (not complaining) and I’m feeling slightly directionless about the blog. Not directionless like I want to give it up—heaven forefend—but directionless like, what, precisely should I write about? Old boyfriend stories? Current (mundane) events? Pele’s dating life? (It actually exists, unlike mine.)

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve told the same story a couple of times about my old (ex) friend Stella. I want to write that one down, ’cause it’s good. But, brother, is it long. Super extra long if I tell the whole thing. Merely typical length long if I just tell the part about the end of our friendship (the part I’ve been sharing recently).

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to write either version.

What about the super short version:

I met Stella when I was 14. She was also in the Early Entrance Program. She was ahead of me in school, but actually a few months younger than me. She was known to be crazy. She first noticed me when this guy asked me out, but we were never more than distant friends. A few years later, when we lived in the same dorm, we became close friends briefly. Our friendship broke up when she said she was dying, but it turned out to be a lie. I haven’t spoken to her in nearly 20 years and I have no idea where she is today. I’m a little curious, but mostly happy that she’s not in my life.

The long version is a lot more interesting. I’ll get started on it.

Oh, and if you have any requests, this would be a good time to make them. Or we could do that thing where you ask me questions in the comments and I answer them. Any questions?

Grateful for: ideas.

Drop me a line.

My energy is low, thus, I have ideas for posts floating around in my head, but no time to flesh them out. Excuses, excuses!

I gave myself permission to take a day off from rowing. What a luxury to get in by 7pm after walking home with work friend, TR. I enjoyed talking his ear off, complaining about my lack of love life (standard walking home topic for us) and hearing about his crazy work schedule.

I was a bit unsure about taking the day off, so I cleared it with my official sports exercise consultant, Pele (she is not a doctor, but has appropriate credentials). My basic question was when should I tough it out and when should I lay off. After a complete description of my symptoms (extreme muscle soreness upon any movement, some resting aches and pains in my knees and right side (shoulder, neck, arm)), Pele gave me permission to take the day off. Thank you Dr. Pele.

I needed the time to recover so I can work hard tomorrow. I hesitated to take the day off, not only because I feel like a slacker, but because I’ve agreed to row in a regatta in two weeks. I am excited! But, wow. It’s been YEARS. All races are 1,000 meters, half the length of collegiate sprints so I know I can make it. I’m going to be in two races—one is a master’s women’s four, the other a mixed eight. Oh, and actually, I’m in a third race—as a coxswain. A very unfortunate thing, for the boat—but the coach’s note said, “no complaining” so I will not complain.

If anyone wants to come to the regatta, you are welcome. Send an email if you want the details. It’s an all day affair—my first race is at 11am, the second at 1pm.

The other reason I was so knocked out today was that I played two games of softball on Sunday and rode my bike something like 8.5 miles (total) to get there and back home. After the game, I met the team at a bar (where I neither ate nor drank—I did have a glass of water). I was the last one there because I spent about 10 minutes trying to find the place after I got to the correct intersection. When I finally found the place, only the guys from the team were there. Our captain said, “How do like this—eight guys and you! Good ratio. What do you think?”

I said, “I think it’s great. I like the odds.”

Unfortunately, great ratios don’t help a bit if the guys don’t talk to you. Or if you’re too tired to strike up a conversation. Ah well. At least they’ll think I’m a good sport for showing. I don’t see any likely prospects in this group, but you never know. Maybe one of them will grow on me.

Grateful for: a day off.

Drop me a line.

This Saturday, I found myself in the enviable position of having invitations to two parties that would be FULL of strangers. That is to say, the best kind of parties.

I recruited good friend, Pele, to accompany me to said parties. One was the spring closer for the frisbee league. The other was a small get-together for my softball team. I was a tad shy to go to the softball party alone because I have yet to meet anyone on my team, which is why Pele’s presence was essential. The frisbee party I could have handled solo because I was sure to see at least one or two friendly faces there.

We had a good time, which I think is the main point. Key to Pele and I doing well, though, is to spend some time together pre-party/outing just talking to each other. We get out of our system and when we get to the gathering, we have energy for other people.

We hung out for a few hours before the party (I was in her neighborhood.) We put a game plan in place (sort of) and she decided that it was “my turn.” Little does she know that it’s always my turn, but I wasn’t going to argue with her.

When we got to the frisbee party (which was held in a bar), I saw Travis almost right away. I introduced him to Pele and we met some of his other friends. Travis seemed surprised that I was still blogging. I’ve noticed that when people stop blogging, they also stop reading blogs, so Travis was not aware of my absolute consistency in this area. (Except when circumstances conspire against me.)

I spotted a guy as soon as we got there about whom I thought, “There is my boyfriend. Why doesn’t he come and talk to me?” He was one of the few age appropriate men there (I could tell by his grey hairs and weathered, but extremely handsome, looks). Unfortunately, he left soon after we arrived. I made eye contact with him like crazy, but to no avail.

We talked to all of my team members who showed up, but didn’t do much to expand beyond that group. There was a moment when I sensed someone standing behind, looking over my shoulder. I turned to talk to him and he joined our group for a while. I made some inappropriate comments about him not being the only guy in the place with a shaved head and how I would probably not look very good with a shaved head (why, Jamy, why?). It was a go-nowhere conversation.

Around 10:30pm, I turned to Pele and said, “I’m ready for the next event.” She agreed and we got moving.

It took us about 20 minutes to drive to the softball party. Which we did not attend. We walked by, saw about five people in the front window and turned right around and went back to the car. I said, “We are very bad. Very, very bad.”

Pele did not agree, “No. There are not enough people at that party. It’s no good.”

We went back to the first party. I was determined to NOT talk to any of the same people.

We got another beer and stood roughly in the middle of the wide-open room. There were tons of people there and at least one or two guys were making eye contact with me. I enjoyed the hum of the crowd.

Pele decided she needed some water and as soon as she stepped away, one of my eye-contactors made a beeline for me. ZOOM. He walked right up to me and introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Owen.” Very brave!

Owen was young, blond and bearded. He had little round glasses and was quite a bit taller than me (6′1″?). Early in our conversation, he told me he was a hippie. That was funny and interesting and I said, “You’re rather young to be a hippy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, your parents are probably the right age to be hippies. But you don’t see too many around these days. I’m just wondering what it means to you. Do you smoke a lot of pot?”

“My parents were hippies! They gave me my first joint.”

“Me too [not exactly, but they did smoke a lot of pot when I was a kid]. But that doesn’t mean they were hippies.”

Then he started to explain the whole beatnik-to-hippie transition. I said, “I’m more on the beatnik/mod side. I used to wear a black beret and I had a Vespa.”

While this was going on, Pele conveniently found a fellow to engage in conversation. She’d noticed when Owen made the beeline for me and decided to give us our space. Pele—master strategizer! However, when her conversation turned to stories of the Renaissance Festival her new friend had just come from, she decided to rejoin me.

I introduced her to Owen and then his other friends came over—another single guy, Frank, and a couple (they were introduced to me, but I’ll be damned if I can remember their names or be bothered to make up fake ones). Frank was even taller than Owen. The girlfriend was so tiny as to be almost elflike. Her boyfriend was average sized.

As soon as Frank joined the group, Owen faded away and did not talk to me again for the rest of the evening. Not that our conversation was great, but I hadn’t given up on him. But Frank took over the whole group, commanding both Pele’s and my attention. I didn’t mind. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, though good looking, but he had an off-kilter charm that I found appealing.

Frank made all kinds of sexual references and innuendo that I would normally find offensive. But every potentially off-putting statement was tempered with a humorous, self-effacing comment. The overall effect was completely charming. It caused me to see him as a potential sexual partner, which I’m sure was part of his game (though probably not a deliberate strategy), and as a guy who was not available for a long-term relationship. Basically, all I needed to know. Still, I enjoyed his company immensely.

Rather early on in our conversation he said he was going sailing the next morning and asked if I knew how. I said yes (I took sailing lessons when I was a teenager). Then he asked me if I wanted to go—an offer that was subsequently retracted/downplayed. He said, “Do you have a card?”

“What?” I thought he said “car,” which seemed like an odd question.

“A card. You know, with your information on it.” He held his thumb and forefinger parallel, in the shape of a business card.

“Oh. A card. No. I don’t have a card.” I started rummaging in my purse anyway. “I have a pen.”

“Look, here.” He pulled out his cell phone. “Just give me your number.” And I programmed my number into his phone.

At least this time I programmed my number (not Pele’s) into some strange guy’s phone. That’s something.

When he retracted the sailing invite, it was totally inoffensive. After our group had shifted, broken up and reunited, Frank said, “This is how it will work. I have a group of about seven people on a list. I’ll get your email and write to you when there is a spot for you. You’ll be sailing within a month.”

It’s not that I actually believed him, but it was sweet of him to say. And I would like to go sailing.

Perhaps the funniest moment in the evening came early in the conversation. Frank made a comment about my shirt. It was a lavender colored “johnny collar” shirt. A johnny collar is a v-neck polo shirt with no buttons. The shirt has a tiny pocket above the left breast. You could fit some change in there, but that’s about all. It is clearly for decorative purposes only.

Frank said, “Do you ever put anything in that pocket?”

“I have put things in there [like a key], but no, not really.” I stuck my finger in the pocket. “It’s not very useful.”

“What is the point of a pocket like that?”

“I think it’s just decorative.”

“You know what would be cool? If you had a condom in there.” I had no response to that. “You know, if I were at a woman’s house, and we were on her couch, making out and I felt a little…something…there on her shirt. And I looked down and saw she had a condom. That would be awesome.”

“If you were at her house, she wouldn’t need to have a condom in her shirt pocket.”

“You know men, we’re all about the non-verbal communication.”

“I have to agree with you there.”

“Mostly, we like to grunt.” And with that, he and Owen showcased several different types of grunts for us.

Later, Pele slipped me a condom. (Why did Pele have a condom in her purse? Ask her.) I managed to get it in the tiny pocket, after I folded the edges down. She went back to standing on the other side of Frank and I tapped him on the arm.

“Look here.” I nodded to my pocket and eased the edge of the condom out. Frank started laughing and pointed it out to his friends. “That’s great!” We all cracked up.

I highly enjoyed this moment. We even discussed the unfairness of locking up condoms.

There was one last amusing moment, right before Pele and I left, where Frank insisted that I couldn’t possibly be older than him. I assured him that it was most certainly possible. He was 27. He professed disbelief for a long, long time until I cracked and told him my age. He said, “No big deal.” Really? Since when is a ten year age difference no big deal? When I was in grad school and made out with a 20-year-old he completely freaked when I told him I was 25.

But, whatever, it was a good time. I walked away from Frank thinking:

• There is no way he will call.
• If he does call, that would be cool, because I would like to go sailing.
• One of he benefits of being 37 and still on the dating scene is that I don’t get worked up when boys don’t call.
• Unless I’ve made out with them already.
• Or if I decide, after one meeting, that I’ve met my future husband.
• Then I turn into a raving lunatic.
• But I think I’m done with that kind of foolishness. Not with feeling that way, but with acting crazy when I do.
• Finally, if I were the type to have casual sex, Frank would be a good candidate. He put me at ease. I figure, at least one person would need to be comfortable and at ease with all that first time sex awkwardness, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be me.

Pele wanted me to turn our two experiences (first one here) with meeting guys at bars into a guideline, but I’ll be damned if I can do it.

Grateful for: a fun night and realistic expectations.

Drop me a line.

1. I have my computer back and, thanks to vigilant backing up, I have lost almost nothing. At least not enough to be painful.
2. Because it made so much sense (and was easier than concentrating on a substantive post), I decided to fool around with my blogger template yesterday. I put the “dating Guidelines” series and the “Dear Jamy” entries into drop down menus. What do you think? Does anyone know how to make them prettier? Change the font, the color, etc.? I tried and only managed to make them non-functional.
3. If you read via RSS, you will see lots of old posts being republished. This is because I changed the default post template in blogger and I have to edit old posts to add line breaks. Nothing new is being added to the old posts, though I have fixed typos and done a little editing when it seemed appropriate.
4. I am very tired because I played a softball double header yesterday. That wasn’t so tiring. But biking to the field and home wiped me out.
5. I thought I had more things for this list, but now I can’t remember. There will probably be a real post later today. If not, tomorrow for sure.

Grateful for: having baby computer home.

Drop me a line.