[Dating Papers]

The topic of my blog “persona” came up twice on Saturday. First, in a brief phone conversation with my sister-in-law, Ilena, and later over lunch with The Playwright. Ilena seems to have just started reading the blog more regularly (thus, she knew about Owen) and we talked about how much of “Jamy” is really me. She said, “But it seems like you.” I said, “It is all me–everything I write is me. It’s just there’s more that I don’t write so you don’t see all of me. What you do see is real, but it’s not the whole story.”

The Playwright knows me from the blog and was meeting me for the first time in person. When I talked to The Playwright, we touched on the same topic and I said, “You don’t get a three dimensional picture.”

He said, “I know what you mean, but it seems three dimensional.”

“That’s good…but it’s still not the whole story.”

“Well, people like the “Jamy” persona–they like the character.” He said.

“It’s true. Some of the comments make me crazy but it’s not really about me. It’s about the character.”

“When people ask me what something I’ve written means…I ask them, ‘what does it mean to you?’ It doesn’t really matter what it meant when I wrote it.”

I said, “Yeah, I guess that’s true. When people make those comments that drive me crazy, it’s not about me. It’s about what they bring to it. It’s more about them.”

“Exactly.”

This is a reassuring observation and one, I hope, that will keep me from getting overly frustrated with comments that feel like personal insults. It’s more about what the commenter brings to the table and how they view what I’ve written than about me. The fact that my writing is open to different interpretations is actually a good thing.

Here’s an example. A couple of weeks ago MQ left a comment that annoyed the heck out of me. MQ’s comments consistently annoy me and one was so harsh that I actually deleted it–something I’ve only done one other time. Why do his comments bother me so much? In part, I feel unfairly characterized by him and I think he’s presumptuous. I also know that if I’d written more about Owen, more about our interactions, more about things he’s said, that MQ would not be able to make such comments. Since my posts about Owen are more consistently positive, MQ hasn’t made a comment and I wonder, where did he go? Where are MQ’s comments, helpfully telling me that if I want to get married and have kids I shouldn’t waste my time with a “younger man”?

But, really, I need to lighten up. I put myself out there, in this public venue, and I control what I write. I have my reasons for not sharing every tiny little detail. In the past I might have. I did it with Tim (the separated-but-not-divorced guy) and it was quite a painful experience. When I met Owen back in September, I made a conscious choice not to share as much about him. I had an idea that he would be around for a while and that I would show him the blog. That doesn’t mean I haven’t been honest in what I’ve written, but it does mean that it’s possible to read the situation on the blog quite a bit differently than the “real life” situation.

I’m going to try and take the words of MQ and other more “critical” commenters less personally. You bring your experiences, of which I know nothing, to the party and that’s such an incredible gift of your time and attention that I don’t want to reject it, even if I’m not going to like it. The truth of the blog is subjective and open to interpretation. As honest as I am, what you read here is simply part of my life and you flesh it out with your own views of the world. The fact that you bother is such an honor, I really can’t complain.

Thanks to EVERYONE who ever leaves a comment. Hearing from you makes my day. But if you’ve never left a comment and don’t want to, don’t sweat it; that you bother to read is more than enough.

Grateful for: readers and comments.

Drop me a line.

Friday, I hit some kind of limit in my patience with Owen and all the waiting. I hadn’t talked to him since Sunday, and call me crazy, but what kind of boyfriend is it you only talk to every five days? I retained most of my ability to function, but I was not happy. And then he called. Everything was fine. He came over and I made some dinner. Not my greatest cooking moment, but that’s what you get for last minute. He was such a sad character, since he got completely soaking wet walking to my house in the rain with no jacket or umbrella. Poor puppy.

He’d had a good week and a bad day and told me about it. He said he’d wanted to invite me over on Friday for dinner. What’s up with the secret plans? I said, “You need to keep me in the loop more. We really need to do something different–I have to be able to call you and not feel like it’s a crime.” He agreed and said we would figure it out and he did want to see me more often. I said that mostly I needed some mid-week contact–that I wasn’t asking to spend every waking moment together. Who wants that? It was a good night. Talking to him about what I wanted was much easier than I’d expected.

Saturday, I made pancakes. I woke much earlier than Owen and I made the batter (from scratch, of course!). He was surprised, “Pancakes are relationship food.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

“You can make eggs for anyone. Eggs are easy. They’re for a one night stand.” Owen said.

“But pancakes…”

“Take more intention.”

“Ok. If you say so.” I laughed.

I can’t actually remember the last time I made pancakes. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were for a boyfriend.

After breakfast, Owen said, “I’m going to read your blog!” It made me nervous, but it was fine. He almost left a comment. Maybe he will eventually. I said readers would love that and he seemed surprised. But you would, wouldn’t you?

We left the house around noon because I had to meet a guy for lunch. That is a story probably worthy of it’s own post, but oh well. A couple of days ago, I got an email from a guy who is writing a play about teenage Jewish girls. A friend of his reads my blog and referred him to the post I wrote about my sixth grade date. He read it and liked it and wanted to talk to me to get some ideas about how to flesh out the characters in his play. I told my mom about it and she said, “Meet him in a public place.” I told Owen about it and he said, “Make sure he doesn’t steal your ideas.”

Owen walked me to where I was meeting the guy and I introduced them. It felt slightly awkward, but I’m not sure why. Maybe that was in my head. I shared way too many stories about me and boys in junior high, my first days of college and a few experiences at Hebrew school. It was fun. Thanks for lunch, Mr. Playwright.

I went home after lunch and did some serious nothing. I was going to a party with Owen later and I was conserving my energy until then. I was tired.

The party was fun, but, sadly, Owen and I were the first people there. Hate that. The hosts were great, though, and someone has to be first. The other sad thing was that I had two drinks and was out. I’ve had more to drink and not been as affected. I did eat supper, so I can’t explain it. But by midnight all I wanted to do was go home and lie down and sleep.

The whole party as a couple thing is tricky. I can understand dinner parties where you pretty much know everyone and chat and talk. But a party-party? The purpose of that is to meet someone. I can’t even remember the last time I went to a “real” party with a boyfriend. It’s been years and years. I like parties, I like talking to people. I like meeting guys. It’s not that I wasn’t looking forward to going to the party with Owen, I was, I just wasn’t sure what to expect–from him, from me or from the party. It’s not even the first party I’ve gone to with Owen, but the other time we’d just started dating and I was very unsure about where we stood. It’s different now.

I did fine–we talked to other people, we talked to each other, we mingled separately and together. I always have a good time with Owen and this night was no different. The problem was when I started to fade. He was in the kitchen and I was in the living room and a wave of tiredness hit me–I could hardly keep my eyes open. I wanted to go home. I knew Owen was having a good time and I didn’t want to drag him out, but I didn’t see how I could leave without him. It just wasn’t an option. I found him and said, “I’m ready to go.”

“You want to go?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really tired.”

“But…I. You really want to go?” He said.

“I do, but I know you want to stay.”

“So, we can compromise. You tell me where your point is and I’ll tell you where my point is and we’ll find the point in between and compromise. What’s your point?”

“My point is now.” I said.

“Now?”

“Yes. When is your point?” I said.

“Usually…well, usually, when I’ve had a girlfriend, we compromise and do what she wants!”

“What I want? Don’t put that on me. Tell me, what is your point?”

“I dunno. Maybe 30 to 45 minutes?”

“Ok. That’s fine.” I said.

“That’s fine? Really?” He said.

“Really. Yes.”

“Ok, just hold me to it.” He said.

“No. I’m not doing that. I’m not telling you what to do.” I walked back to the living room.

A minute later, Owen found me and said, “Are you ok?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He went back to the kitchen. I sat in the living room, drinking club soda and trying to keep my eyes open. I moved to a more comfortable seat on the sofa, leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I was sitting next to a fellow who asked if I was ok. I was ok but I was not happy. I thought, “It’s the downside of having a boyfriend; you can’t just leave the party when you want to.” I really wanted to leave. I wouldn’t have minded going home without Owen. I did not want to get in the way of his fun. I wanted to lie down and close my eyes. The fellow sitting next to me said, again, “Are you ok?” Sigh.

After about a half hour of that I, I was done. I could not sit there one minute longer. I got up and found Owen. “I have to go.”

“Ok. Now?”

“Yes. I’ve had enough.” I went upstairs and got my coat. When I came back down, Owen was saying goodnight to the hostess. She gave me a hug. We left the house and started walking to where we could find a cab. As we walked, I grumbled. “I’m fine. I’m not upset.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m not! Wait. I am. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s good–we compromised. What time is it?” I told him it was 1:15. “And when did we talk about leaving.” I told him it had been 12:30. “So…it was 45 minutes…exactly! Perfect!”

I said, “You know I would have been fine if you stayed. I just had enough.”

“I know! But I want you to be happy.”

“You want me to be happy? Why? What do you care?”

He said, “I care! Of course I care. Look, about 89% of the time I’m not worried about you, but the rest of the time I want you to be happy.”

“You mean you only care if I’m happy 11% of the time?”

“Umm….”

I said, “That’s good! You know, I had this boyfriend and all he cared about was making me happy. And if I wasn’t happy? He’d get angry at me! He’d yell at me.”

“He yelled at you if you weren’t happy?”

“Yep. So don’t worry about making me happy too much.”

He said, “Ok, but I was fine leaving the party.”

“Whatever.”

When we got back to my place, I continued to grump. I said, “I’m sure in a foul mood.”

“You sure are! What’s up with that?”

“I have no idea.”

“You know, I can’t help if I don’t know what you want.”

“Look, all I want is…”

“What? What do you want?”

“What I want is…to be able to call you when I feel like it, for you to tell me I’m pretty sometimes, and for you to stop saying crazy things.”

“You want me to tell you you’re pretty? But you are pretty, I don’t need to tell you every day. I wouldn’t go out with you if you weren’t pretty. I’m shallow!”

“You’re not shallow. And I didn’t say every day–I just said ’sometimes.’”

“Fine. You’re pretty. Are you happy now?”

“Yes! Dammit.”

We kept rambling on about relationship things as we got ready for bed and right before I feel asleep I said, “That was the best fight ever.” I don’t think Owen heard me.

I think I could get used to this.

Grateful for: not blowing things out of proportion.

Drop me a line.

I am so excited–I actually have WORK to do today! Who would have thought that such a thing would make me happy? I have to read a 130 page document, prepare comments, collate other people’s comment and prepare a snappy memo by next Friday. While it’s not like I’m under a lot of pressure, I want to take a big bite out of reading the report today. The problem is that when it comes to reading reports, I tend to do it very slowly. Why so slow? Because it is tremendously boring! Also, it turns out that this report, while substantively very good, only rates a B- (or less) in the syntax/grammar/flow category. I read like an editor, rewriting as I go, so what would normally take me an hour to read will take much longer (I am a fast reader). I usually spread the reading out over a couple of days so I don’t kill myself.

This is where I earn my pay, though. I will take a B- report and, in this case, turn it into a A or an A+ report, which our office can be proud of–and for which the contractor may claim 100% of the credit. I’ll get a mention in the acknowledgements, but that’s all. After this round of comments, the contractor gets another crack at rewriting the report (that’s the second draft). I get to comment on the second draft and then the contractor prepares the final-final-final. All contractors HATE the second draft, but I’ve yet to have a contract that didn’t desperately need a second round of edits. And the more they protest? The more I am sure that the report will need a second draft. This report is a case in point. Ten pages in, I knew that it needed a massive re-write, though the substance was fine. It was so crowded with unnecessary words obscuring the meaning, it just wouldn’t do. Those extra words destroy the flow and don’t add any information.

Anyway, I am working on a longer story about my distant past (fifth grade!), but I won’t have time to finish it today, or maybe not even tomorrow–because I have to work. Hooray!

Grateful for: work.

Drop me a line.

I don’t have much to report on the dating front since Owen and I are in our mid-week lull. How am I feeling about it? Pretty good. We had a fun weekend that included drunken hijinks, intense talking, and mellow hanging-out. We did it all. Now, I’m back at work, things are painfully slow and I’m trying not to spend too much time musing on my relationship. It is tempting, of course, but where does it get me? Nowhere. I can worry with the best of them, but what’s the point? Everyone has fears–I told Pele that Owen and I seem to oscillate between euphoria and terror. The good news is that, despite the high-highs, the lows are not very low (I wouldn’t call anything a “low” at this point–maybe “lull” is more accurate). Even better, lows are not accompanied by fighting. I would be worried if a month-plus in we were fighting, but stranger things have happened.

It makes me think of Tom, my grad school boyfriend, with whom I had a rocky-roller coaster type relationship–we had a lot of ups and downs and most of the downs were accompanied by anger and tears. It sucked. I don’t want to do it that way. I can’t do it that way. But there is no reason to think it will be that way with Owen. So far, when issues have come up, we’ve talked about them. We have had a few serious talks that I found mildly upsetting (or incredibly satisfying), but they have always been productive. We don’t go plowing over the same ground again and again (but really, how could we? there hasn’t been time!). These few talks actually feel like minor victories because we cover important stuff easily, indicating that we actually communicate rather well.

I found it encouraging when Owen said, “I can’t do that passive-aggressive thing. I refuse to.” I assured him that it won’t be a problem. I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being passive-aggressive. Aggressive, maybe. But passive? I don’t think so. It’s true, I can hold on to my feelings, but that’s because I know that sometimes my feelings will change and I want to make sure of them before getting into a big-deal conversation. I don’t want to have any big-deal conversations with Owen right now. I want to have fun and let the serious stuff wait until we see what kind of legs this relationship has.

It’s so easy to get carried away when you click this well with someone. That’s what I want to say to Owen, “Let’s have fun now and save the serious talks for later, when we have more time under our belts.” If I can get used to the idea of having a boyfriend before deciding, for example, if I’m going home to meet his mother, that would be a good start. I’m so afraid that if I start telling people, I’ll jinx it and my little house of cards will come tumbling down. There’s that fear, rearing it’s ugly head. At any moment, is he going to change his mind and cancel everything? Why in the world would I think that? Actually, I think I know why, and mostly it doesn’t have much to do with Owen, but it has something to do with Owen. I can sense a tiny bit of ambivalence from him. But, hell, I feel the same way and I know why–it’s the fear of something real. (I can’t say for sure that Owen’s ambivalence has the same source–though it might.) The fear of actually having to make the kinds of decisions I’ve assiduously avoided my entire adult dating life. Oh yes, that might cause a slight case of ambivalence, no matter how much you care about the other person. In fact, the more you care, the worse it is! But don’t worry, 98% of the time, I’m having fun with Owen and not thinking about any of this stuff at all.

Damn. Are you as surprised as I am that I have a boyfriend? It seems crazy! I really do feel lucky.

Grateful for: my good luck.

Drop me a line.

After writing about my sixth grade “protest” I realized that I have a lot of stories from that year–what I usually consider to be the worst year of my life. Why the worst? It was the year my parents split for good and they fought almost constantly. We lived in three unpleasant places and the dog went crazy. Our row house apartment in Mt. Pleasant had mice, roaches and only one bedroom. (My parents bought the building, but didn’t evict the other tenants, so we ended up in a one-bedroom second floor unit.) Even though I loved the city and the independence it granted me via the public transportation system, I had a hard time making friends and felt like a small-town outsider. The first summer we were there was one of record-breaking heat and the last summer wasn’t much better. When I left, eventually moving to Seattle (a place I’d never even visited), I knew I would NEVER live in Washington D.C. again. As you know, I eventually changed my mind.

For most of my sixth grade year, I had a crush on Michael. He wasn’t in my class of outcasts, but I spent a fair amount of time with him because we attended the same temple (hey Mom, I DO date Jewish guys!). The temple was not far from our school and we began walking there together once a week, on Thursday, to attend religious school. I didn’t get to talk to him much otherwise, except occasionally at recess.

He was a blustery, popular boy with curly, light-brown hair. During our walks we’d have long “meaningful” talks and I thought that I was getting to know him. He confided in me that he used to smoke pot–way back when he was in the fourth grade. He’d since given it up. I told my mother this and she was appalled. I wasn’t perturbed and it was good enough for me that he didn’t smoke anymore.

One day, walking to Thursday school, we were teased by a couple of boys, “You love her! She’s your girlfriend!” This enraged Michael and he chased them off with threats and a stick. I was embarrassed because I did like him and I wanted to be his girlfriend. He said, “Ignore those guys. They are assholes.” I said, “Yeah, they sure are.” But I felt terrible.

Michael’s younger sister was a friend of mine, also through Temple. She knew I had a crush on her brother and constantly warned me that he was an asshole and to stay far away. I ignored her.

In the spring, a couple of months before the end of the year, Michael asked me on a date. I remember carefully choosing my outfit: a navy t-shirt with a band of vertical white stripes and my baby blue carpenter pants. Below is a pic of me from that year, wearing the shirt in question. I’m on the stoop of our house in Mt. Pleasant. (If you are a long time reader, you may have seen this pic before.)

Our date was to go roller skating. As it happened, I was the proud owner of a pair of white leather skates with translucent red wheels (I still own these skates, and they still fit, more or less). They made the outfit pop. Michael’s mother drove us to the skating rink and I had the distinct impression that she didn’t like me. Why, I have no idea, since there wasn’t any risk of me corrupting him. After she dropped us off, we skated, did a little hand holding, ate some ice cream and that was it.

Michael asked me out again for the next weekend–this time to a movie. I remember the movie, “The Legend of the Lone Ranger,” but I don’t remember my outfit. During the movie, he put his arm around me and asked if he could kiss me. I said yes. Then he stuck his tongue in my mouth. It was…unpleasant. Michael had braces, which made it a little uncomfortable, but the real problem was that his tongue was a mushy, directionless blob. Icky. It was so unpleasant that it turned me off of french kissing for over a year. (More precisely, I was still turned off when the next french kissing opportunity arose, about a year later).

After the movie, we went to a party hosted by Michael’s friend, John. The parents were upstairs and the party was in the basement. The kids were playing spin the bottle. In fact, it was the only party I went to that year. I was a new, not very popular kid in the misfit class. The misfits did not host parties.

Michael asked if I wanted to join the game. I hesitated, but I wanted to play–it would be a first for me. Spin the bottle was something out of a book; I hadn’t realized that kids actually played kissing games. Before we started playing, Michael whispered something in John’s ear. They looked at me and laughed. When John spun the bottle and it pointed at me, he tried to slip his tongue in my mouth when he kissed me. I resisted and I felt sure Michael had told him that I’d “let” him kiss me, with tongue. I stopped playing the game and I did not want to be at the party anymore.

Not long after the party, there was a sleepover at the temple. It was on a Friday night and all the kids attended services together first then bunked down for the night in the building. My grandmother, with whom I share a first and last name, had died recently–less than a week before. My father had gone to California for the funeral, leaving my mother and me in DC. He still wasn’t back and my mother was having a hard time, which might explain why she sent me off to this event.

At the end of a Jewish service, names of those who have died in that season, recently and in the past, are read before the final prayer, the Kaddish, is recited. Because the Kaddish is the closing prayer for services it has also become the prayer for the dead. On this particular Friday night, to my surprise, my grandmother’s name was read. It was shocking, not only because I didn’t expect it, but because it was MY NAME.

After the service, I found myself walking next to Michael, down the main aisle of the sanctuary. He made a crack about my name being read, “Are you dead? Why did they read your name?” He laughed. I don’t recall what I said, if anything, but I do recall swinging my arm back and hitting him, hard, with an open hand, in the center of his back. He stopped walking. He was stunned and shouted, “Bitch!” and walked quickly away from me, out of the sanctuary. I was stunned myself because I’d felt anger and then, wham, I hit him, but I hadn’t consciously decided to hit him. A couple of the girls heard and rushed up and asked what he’d done. “I don’t know. He made a joke about my grandmother.” I found him and apologized, even though I couldn’t explain myself. He seemed to let it go.

Michael and I talked on the phone after that and I thought, for certain, that we would have another date. (Why I wanted another date with him is shrouded in mystery.) Instead, he gave me what I still consider to be one of the greatest break up lines of all time, “I want to be free for the summer.”

I was infuriated and argued with him for a minute or two and then hung up in exasperation. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that his sister was right and that Michael was an asshole. A fully formed twelve-year-old asshole.

Right before school ended my parents split for good. My dad packed up and moved to California and Mom and I went down to Knoxville to claim some possessions from the house we still owned there. We returned, briefly, to DC and I called Michael’s sister and commiserated with her about what an asshole her brother was. She said, “I warned you!” I said, “You were right! I didn’t understand.” And then I went off to spend the summer in San Francisco with my father and I never saw Michael again.

I don’t care in the least what happened to Michael, but I don’t wish him ill either. I only wonder why his mother didn’t like me. I’ll never understand that.

Grateful for: remembering.

Drop me a line.

Friday night, around 7pm, the phone rang. I expected it to be CK, who I had plans with that evening. But it wasn’t CK, it was Owen. “Hey! What’s going on?”

“Not much. How are you?”

“Good. I got out of work early…so do you want to do something?”

“Yeah, sure, but I made plans with CK. Um, you want to meet us?”

“Sure, ok.” We let the specifics wait until I had a chance to talk to CK. After a few rounds of calling, we decided to meet at the Brickskeller in Dupont.

CK volunteered to cancel our plan but I told her that was ridiculous. “He’s bringing his roommate and I want you to meet him anyway. It will be fun.” She was convinced and was also kind enough to pick me up and drive us to Dupont. We got very lucky with the parking, especially considering that it was almost 9pm when we got there.

The group consisted of Owen, Barry (Owen’s roommate) and Nick (a friend of Owen’s from work). I thought we were going to eat, and we did get some snacks, but mostly we drank. I was happy to introduce Owen to one of my friends (he has met Pele, but no one else–well, unless you count TR, but that’s another story).

We sat and talked and it was generally hilarious. I hope CK enjoyed herself–she seemed to. I sat near Owen, who was talking to Nick, but I couldn’t hear most of their conversation. Nick said, “What, are you judging me? Do I hear judgment?”

Owen said, “I never judge anyone! Never!” And then he looked at me and said, “Except for her!”

I said, “That’s right! I’m the only one he judges. It’s like a goddamn test over here!” We both laughed, hard. Nick looked puzzled.

Barry said something that ended with, “…your boyfriend.”

I said to Owen, “He just called you my boyfriend.”

“Yeah? I am your boyfriend. And you are my girlfriend.”

“Really.”

“You’re not?”

“I don’t know.”

(Later I said, “You know, if you’re my boyfriend you can’t date other people.” Owen sighed and said, “I know.” Poor guy.)

After we finished our beer and snacks we piled in a cab and headed to Adams Morgan. We barely fit in the cab. The cab driver asked CK, who sat in the front seat, what radio station she wanted to listen to. Barry said, “We don’t need the radio!” And he sang–everyone else joined in. I would have too, but I was laughing too hard. Our first stop was Dan’s but Nick declared that it was a karaoke night and we would go to Peyote Cafe later. And we did. I had a great time. I like hanging out with Owen and his friends. But, I must say, I can not handle that much drinking on such a regular basis. But next weekend is a big Halloween party…what’s a girl to do?

Owen and I took a cab back to my place. I rambled, drunkenly, “You’re just a part-time boyfriend. I don’t really want a full-time boyfriend. But a three-quarter-time boyfriend would be ok.”

“How do I make the move up to three-quarter-time?”

“We have to spend more time together.”

“What? The whole weekend isn’t enough?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. We have to see each other on a weekDAY.”

“Oh, like, spend the night? I could do that. I could come over after work. I’d have to leave some clothes at your house.”

“Really? You’d do that? You can leave some stuff, that’s no problem.”

“I’d like to do that. It would be a good change. Yeah, I’d get to see you after work…that would be good.”

“Good! Then you can move up to three-quarter time status. Good for you!”

When we got home, I said, “You can see the blog.” I pulled up the page and showed it to him. He admitted that he’d already seen it. Last weekend, he used my computer and by pulling down the list of sites visited in the menu bar, he found it. “But I didn’t read it, I just figured out the name.” I wasn’t surprised–in fact, letting him use the computer struck me as risky at the time. I believed him when he said he hadn’t read it.

He said, “I don’t want to have to read the blog to know you.”

“Of course not. I’ll tell you what’s going on with me.”

“Because I want you to tell me…”

I said, “It’s just, sometimes, I use the blog to work things out, I’m still thinking about things…”

“I understand…but you have to talk to me.”

“I will. I do.”

Much later, he said, “If you get engaged…or married, what are you going to do about the blog?”

“What?”

“What are you going to call it? If I were engaged to you, I don’t want to read about ‘grateful dating’!”

“No, I guess not. I don’t know. I never thought about that. But I love the title. It’s funny! And I don’t even like the Grateful Dead.”

“It’s a great title. I like it…wait, wait, I have it. When you get married, you can call it ‘Grateful Wed’.”

“Oh my god, that’s perfect! I can’t believe it. ‘Grateful Wed.’ Too much.”

Too much, indeed.

We had a great time hanging out on Saturday and said goodbye in the afternoon. I went babysitting in the evening, which was good fun as well. Those kids are a hoot and very easy to handle. Mostly, they entertained me and I made sure they brushed their teeth and read them a book at bedtime. Easy-peasy.

Today, I’m supposed to meet Pele to watch some football. Maybe Owen will even join us. Maybe I’ll even meet Pele’s boyfriend. It’s been another great weekend so far. How did I get so lucky?

Grateful for: understanding friends.

Drop me a line.

Owen canceled our date for tonight. He called yesterday and told me he had to work late. “I wanted to let you know as soon as possible so you could do something else.” Oh sigh. I wasn’t upset, just disappointed. He said, “But we can do something on Saturday, ok?”

“Well, um, I have to babysit on Saturday night.”

“Oh…Sunday then?” Owen said.

“Sure. But, well, you can join me…if you want.”

“Um, yeah, after this crazy week, taking care of little kids is the last thing I want to do.”

I said, “No, I don’t blame you. But you could come over after they go to sleep. They’re in bed by 8:30. You could come over at 9pm.”

“We’ll see. I’ll talk to you tomorrow or Saturday, ok?”

“Ok. Wait…are you sure about Friday? If you are, I’m going to make other plans.”

He said, “I’m sure. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Just…well…I hope you get all your work done.”

“Thanks. I will. I have to go. Bye.”

“Bye.”

It surprises me that I’m not upset. It’s so clearly not a rejection that I can’t get angry about it, but I’m starting to miss him. I haven’t seen him since Sunday and yesterday was the first time we spoke. The entire conversation lasted ten minutes and it wasn’t exactly satisfying. Frustrating, that’s what this is. And yet, yet, there are certain advantages. If I know I’ll see him on the weekend, then I’m comfortable not seeing him during the week–at least for now. I like my routine and I don’t feel crowded, which often happens to me in the early stages of a relationship. While our time together is super intense, it’s also nice to kinda-sorta take things slowly. But it’s not nice if I never get to see him! It was clear when we spoke that he wanted to see me too and that we’ll figure something out. We will and it will be fine. And I made plans with CK for Friday, I’m back to eating normally and I’ve exercised every day this week (only rowed once, though, it was a bit too hard for me)–life is good.

Grateful for: my routine.

Drop me a line.

Today, I got to work at 7:45am. My boss was shocked, TR was shocked, our secretary was shocked and even I found it a little surprising. I decided to try something new this morning: I got up when I woke up. I usually wake up around 5am and go back to sleep for at least an hour–two if I’m lucky. I don’t use an alarm clock; I haven’t in years. I will set the alarm if I have to catch a plane, but on those night I generally don’t get much sleep anyway. This morning was no different. At 6am, quite awake, I decided to get up instead of lolling in bed for another hour. I’d taken a shower last night, so there wasn’t much I needed to do to get ready, but I allowed myself my usual hour-plus of puttering time and didn’t leave the house until 7:25. I rode my bike, nice and easy, and was sitting at my desk by 7:45am. I don’t know if I’ll make this a habit–and I certainly won’t if I manage sleep later–but it’s kind of nice. Technically, I could leave by 4:15, but I won’t do that. I’ll stay until 5:30 and bike to rowing. The extra time will be banked and I can use it in lieu of vacation time later on–that’s the real reason to come in early.

I wonder why I’m waking up so early. It is still dark, so I can’t blame the sun. It’s probably Tabitha (the cat) romping around and bugging me. Maybe she is due for another term of exile from my bedroom. I do hate to exile her when it’s getting colder, though. She hasn’t started sleeping under the covers yet, so maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.

Yesterday, I ate a lot more than usual (turkey sandwich! crackers!) and went to the gym again. I did some weights and a more intense 15 minutes of cardio and it went much better. I had snacks for after the workout (apple! cookie!) and I never got that shaky low-blood sugar feeling. Today I’m determined to go to rowing. The weather is clear and warm, I brought my gear and I’m all set. I’m a bit tired, but I think I’ll make it. Maybe all the tiredness will help me sleep well tonight.

That’s about when I would usually start freaking out. But I didn’t. I thought, “I’ll call him tomorrow and we can figure it out then. And if I don’t have time to go shopping, we’ll do something else.” I had to make it ok to let go of my plan, which is not easy for me. But I didn’t think he was avoiding me or didn’t want to see me or anything like that. I almost did, but I stopped myself. He’d explained the uncommunicative mindset he gets in because of work and I know he’s been at the office some nights until 10pm, so I’m not taking it personally.

I was getting ready to take a shower around 11pm when the phone beeped: “Sounds like fun.” So we’re on for Friday. Cool!

I had a nice long talk on the phone with Pele last night and I filled her in on some of the details of my crazy weekend. She really likes Owen and she said, “He’s such a good guy, a nice guy. And you’re not worried about being mean to him.”

“What?” But I knew what she meant. I’ve dated some very sweet guys in the past and I had a tendency to walk all over them. It was never intentional, but I’d end up awkwardly making all the decisions and getting annoyed and, subsequently, losing interest. I’d feel terribly guilty about mistreating these guys. I’d beat myself up about it and feel like I was a bad person.

Pele said, “Well, you’ve not worried once about that with Owen. I haven’t heard it.”

“You know, that’s true. It hasn’t even crossed my mind that I was being mean…and I haven’t been annoyed either.”

“You’ve really handled it well.”

I said, “Not perfectly! ‘Were you ever going to call me?’ That wasn’t so good. But, you know, he just let that go. That was good.”

“He’s good. And that was just one thing.” Pele said.

“Also, he gives me as much of a hard time as I ever give him. Maybe that’s why it’s not a problem?”

“I think you’re right. He gives as good as he gets.”

And, my friends, I think I may have met my match. He’s funny, smart–a wiseass. Takes my guff and dishes it right back. Has his own ideas and his own life. Likes that I’m smart. Knows that he’s smart. Is possibly the silliest man I’ve ever met and can make me laugh, hard, in an instant. I like him for all those reasons, as well as reasons that I can’t describe (and some reasons I won’t describe). I feel silly, I feel happy. I feel good.

Grateful for: more food!

Drop me a line.

I should clarify that Owen did not “officially” invite me to Christmas–at least that’s not how I look at it. It was sweet that he was even thinking about it. If he asks me again in a couple of weeks, I’ll consider it. It’s just…well, I am hesitant to make plans that far in advance when I know how quickly things can sour in a relationship. No, I don’t think that will happen with Owen. Still and all, I don’t want to get ahead of myself. I’m only seeing him on the weekends and even though it’s getting more like an actual relationship, there is quite a lot we don’t know about each other. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Perhpas it also builds a healthy and happy relationship.

In other news, I finally went to the gym yesterday after many weeks off. I’m so tired of being vaguely sick that I decided to declare myself well. I’m going to start introducing more food (type and quantity) into my diet and I’m getting back to exercise. I walked to work a few times last week and that was fine. I rode my bike yesterday, thinking I’d go rowing. By the end of the day, I knew that was a bad idea, so I opted for the gym instead. I spent 15 minutes on the stair climber, got my heart rate up and sweated a bit. After I cooled down, I was STARVING. Ah, that’s a problem–I’m not eating enough to sustain a long workout. Today, I’m going to eat a little bit more and try and do more cardio (still in the gym). Wednesday, I will row. Maybe.

Sadly, rowing season ends on October 26, right before the time change. That makes sense. It will be too dark to go out in the evenings. The morning rowers will get a few more weeks on the water, but I have no intention of joining them for their 5am practices. So not worth it.

Other than that, work is slow, Tabitha (the cat) is always hungry and I put the down comforter on the bed last week. Pure excitement!

Grateful for: feeling mostly better.

Drop me a line.