Enigmatic Female

The Poverty Line

Dallas is spending this year clerking for a federal judge here in Dallas. While Dallas respects and admires the judge tremendously, he sometimes struggles to extend that same admiration to the judge's staff. Perhaps it's because they tell stories like the one I'm about to write here.

"I have a nephew who was a science major in college. He thought he wanted to go to medical school, but he wasn't sure, so he decided to get a teaching job for a while. You know, teachers only make like $40,000. They live at the poverty line."

Dallas tried to intercede that $40,000 is hardly the poverty line, especially if two people were living together making $40,000 each, as under this woman's logic, Dallas and I are living at the poverty line, as we're living on his $80,000 salary, since I haven't started working yet. This just isn't a hardship, I assure you. I can even buy name brand cereal! And we have health insurance! And other stuff!

The woman (who lives in a very upscale neighborhood in Fort Worth with her husband, a surgeon) responded (and got agreement from another woman) that you just cannot afford everything you need when you only make $40,000, and that it's therefore the poverty line. She clearly wasn't prepared for resistance on this idea, as her strongest argument was this: "I know that when the judge went into public service, there were a lot of things he had to give up [federal judges make over $100,000, and they make it for the rest of their lives]. People who make $40,000 have to make sacrifices. Like where they go on vacation..."

Dallas responded, "Yup, people at the poverty line really have it rough. They can't just go to Europe for a couple weeks, they have to make sacrifices."
_______________

A couple days pass, and the staff is again assembled at lunch, and Dallas has yet another macaroni-based leftover (have I mentioned how much macaroni we've been eating?). His co-clerk commented on it, and Dallas responded, "Well, when you're living at the poverty line, you can't have that many options." Chuckles from everyone but the woman making the poverty line comment.

J is for Judgmental

A friend of ours, here in Dallas, recently met a girl (she's 30 and an attorney for a state agency) in Austin. Having heard several lovely things about her and their flirtship/courtship, we've been eager to meet her. Friday night we got our chance at a Lower Greenville bar. Dallas and I sat far away from, but in clear view of, the door, so that we might be able to observe her a bit before we met her. Our friends walked in, the girl among them, and we watched. She is quite petite, as is our friend, and thus suitable visually for him. She had a mousy hair color and a mousy hair style with too little makeup to make any of her pallid features stand out. She was dressed fashionably in a filmy halter top, long jeans and high-heeled sandals. Her purse, quilted of black and white fabric, did not go with her ensemble. After a few moments, we made our way across the bar for introductions. She seemed sweet, but not terribly interesting. I sat on a high bar stool next to another girl in our group. She and I were chatting and she pulled me close to whisper that she didn't think the girl was particularly bright, as the girl had made a comment about a legal policy of the State of Texas in the car on the way to the bar that didn't seem accurate, and had no rebuttal when challenged on that point, even to discuss it and clarify it for the other girl, who is not a lawyer and was curious. I soon got further support for my supposition that she wasn't very interesting, and my friend's statement that she wasn't very bright. As I sat sipping a Grey Goose and tonic (a fairly common drink in NY, and it has seemed, in TX as well), she asked what I was drinking. I said it was a vodka tonic. She beamed at me, "THAT is what I'M drinking TOO!" As if this uncanny coincidence alone could lay the foundation for a friendship. A few minutes before this comment, Dallas had gone to procure another round, and as the bartender put the drinks on the bar, she told him, pointing at the two drinks he'd ordered, "this one is the vodka drink, and this one is the Jack and Coke." I, of course, started making fun of the bartender with Dallas, for feeling it necessary to show us which drink was which, as if we were trying to find a red five in a sea of green dots and just weren't quite able to tell the apparent difference between the brown coke and the clear tonic. When Dallas handed me my drink, the girl told him that she and I were drinking the same thing, again, as if it were newsworthy. He just smiled. She then asked what he was drinking. He responded that it was a Jack and Coke. She looked puzzled for a moment and said, "Jack Daniels?" "Mmhmm," Dallas nodded. [You were expecting Jack Frost, maybe, or Jack Kerouac, to commonly mix with Coke at a bar?] "That's whiskey, right?" "Right," I said. "Well, [boyfriend] was drinking a Crown and Coke before. That's whiskey too, right?" "Right," we both said, wondering where the punchline was. "So what's the difference between them?" Dallas just stood there. I helped her out and explained that one was sweeter than the other (just making up any old thing to let her know that the TASTE is what is different). Instead of being helpful, though, I wanted to made a snide comment about how many things are in the same category, Coca Cola and Pepsi for example, are both colas, but have variations in how they taste. We don't go around wondering at the various varieties in colas, or tampons, or pens, for while they all have the same function as the other brands in their category, there are differences between them, certainly. I felt that this may have been lost on this girl, though, who, while older than we are by some three years, seemed as inexperienced as a seventeen year old at her first frat party. Of course, this is nothing compared with my ire when, later on that evening, I explained that I've never been at a bar with shuffleboard before, as they just don't have that much in the North, and she challenged me by saying, snottily, "Where in the North?" As if I haven't been to many bars and couldn't be trusted for my limited experience. Pu-lease! Unable to contain the snide side, this time, I replied, "Oh, let's see, New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, D.C.... Nowhere have I ever been, in any state, have I seen shuffleboard as a bar activity. Perhaps on a cruiseship parked somewhere in the Caribbean, populated by wrinkled white men, but not at a bar." Being as I was a bit tipsy by then, I didn't listen for a response, but turned to flirt with Dallas, instead. We relived all the comments the next morning, Dallas, grudgingly agreeing that she didn't seem too bright.

The Plumber Cometh

Our kitchen drain has been a little slow lately.  More to the point, it doesn't so much drain for hours after we get even an inch of water in the sink. I've tried no fewer than six liquid plumbing products, including the promising "Foaming Pipe Snake." Could I recommend a single one of them? Hell no. Yesterday, fearing that it wouldn't be fixed by Dallas' birthday party this weekend, I called a plumbing serving. I would list the name, but the story that the plumber told me about five minutes ago in the kitchen makes we want to protect as much of his, and my, anonymity as possible.

I offered the plumber, a short, round-bellied man with strawberry blonde hair and red skin, a cup of coffee, as I was having one and thought he might like to share. He politely declined, saying he'd been up since 3:30 that morning (all the more reason for coffee, no?). I said, "Wow, sometimes I don't even go to bed til that late. I guess people don't choose what time their house floods, though." He replied, "Well, let's say that I've got some, Extra-Curricular activities going on at home lately. Me and my wife was recently married..." I interrupted, "We were recently married too! When did ya'll get married." "The Fourth of July." "Oh, that's nice! We got married July 29th." Then the story took a turn I would have never seen coming, unless it was captured in a Lifetime: Television for Women movie. This is what he said as I stood by with wide eyes, sipping my coffee. I am not making this up.

"My wife was kidnapped for about two years by a man who stalked her for about seven years before he even introduced himself to her. They were both in my house, but I didn't know he was a stalker. I met her when he came to my house and she was with him. He was posing as a man of the Lord Jesus Christ and a counselor, and saying how he was ministering to a few different women, including my wife. Only, he never let her talk to me by herself, and she always had to be with somebody else. She ran away to a woman's shelter in Florida. He had put tracking devices on her and was using my internet to try to find her and get her back. The woman's shelter in Florida had to deprogram her. He had programmed her using about five different trigger words. Once he got her back and found out they weren't working anymore, he got upset and really laid into her. She went to the police with bruises all over her, but they said she couldn't prove that he did it, so they couldn't do anything about it. We got her back in June, and we got married in July. I'm real nervous for her to be alone, or go out alone in case anything might happen to her."

IS THIS GUY FOR REAL?? I saw something like this on Oprah about a minister who would bring girls from Asia and molest and abuse them in the minister's home that he kept with his wife and children, but that's Oprah and this guy is working on my kitchen sink. If it is true, it's horrifying. If it's not true, this guy should be a writer. Tracking devices? Trigger words? What?

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world...

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from a law school professor of mine regarding proposed changes to the curriculum of the seminar I took with him in the fall of 2003. He sent the email to a fair number of his former students, and along with the request for feedback on the curriculum, he wanted us to update him on our lives. I emailed him back about the curriculum, and told him that I left my firm in New York in the spring, and that I was recently married and now reside in Dallas. He responded that one of his good friends is running for Congress from Dallas and that I should look the guy up, as he is extremely well-connected and could be helpful in getting a job with a prosecutor's office. I checked out the candidate's campaign website and determined that I would get in touch with him soon, but hadn't made contact yet.

Saturday morning began as all Saturday mornings do for Dallas and me. I woke up, fed the dogs, and parked my ass in an enormous reading chair with outlines and sketches for a novel I've been working on while Dallas slept. Then someone knocked on the door. Annoyed, because I hate solicitors who come door to door, especially on a Saturday morning, I gave him a blank, slightly irritated stare through the glass of the door. I opened the door in my pajamas, and our house alarm started shrieking loudly and the dogs started barking at the top of their voices. I shut off the alarm and saw the flyer he carried with his name prominently displayed at the top. Stunned, I said, "Do you know Professor T?" He was taken aback for a moment, from all the noise and confusion, then said, "Of all the hundreds of doors I've knocked on, you're the only one who has asked me that. You mean, do I know 'The Man'? Of course I know 'The Man'! He's a dear friend of mine." I told him to come in for a minute, and explained that I had taken a course with Professor T in law school, that I had recently moved to Dallas, recently taken the Texas Bar Exam, and that Professor T suggested I contact him, and that I was so happy to meet him. He asked my name, said he would be happy to sit down with me and let me pick his brain about where to apply for jobs, as he and his wife (a professor at a local law school) know almost every lawyer in town. He reminded me to vote for him, and he was on his way. I, of course, immediately emailed Professor T telling him of the crazy coincidence. He seemed like a great guy, and I guess the ball is in my court. I haven't yet decided whether I would want to help him with his campaign, or just sit down with him for a bit, but either way, the hard part is over, as we've now met and he knows my name.

Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup

Last Thanksgiving, knowing how important my family is to me, and to demonstrate his commitment to me, Dallas volunteered to meet me in Maryland to spend the holiday at my parents' house. I took the train from New York on Tuesday night, and he flew in on Wednesday evening, in time for supper. As my parents were working on Wednesday and busy putting things together for our Thanksgiving meal, I decided I would cook dinner for everyone, especially for Dallas, who loves my cooking. One of the meals we enjoyed together several times in law school was my homemade chili, so I decided to make that. My parents were a few ingredients short, so I went to the store for some beans and other assorted goods. While I was browsing through the varieties of black beans, a tall, think black lady with short curly hair told me how much she loved black beans, and that if I loved them too, that I should try her recipe for black bean soup. She was making it to take to her Thanskgiving celebration, because people always requested it. I, not intending to be diverted from my chili, listened politely, but wasn't really interested until she told me the ingredients. The soup called for black beans, lentils, Italian style tomatos, sausage, and fresh spinach. It sounded good to me, so I thanked her and she left the aisle. A few seconds later, she popped back up, as I was looking for the lentils and Italian style tomatos. She was so excited that I was going to make her soup (I still purchased all the chili ingredients, in case it was a bust), that she led me around the store picking out the rest of the things I would need. I decided to add three different colors of green peppers to the mix for some color, and to use real Italian pork sausage instead of turkey kielbasa, as she recommended. I thanked her for the tip, and asked her for her name. She said it was Leola, I thanked her again, and went home.

When I arrived home, I cleaned up the kitchen and immediately started making the soup, just in case it sucked and I needed to quickly throw together the chili. It didn't suck. I could tell almost immediately that it was going to be excellent and very very easy, probably becoming a particular favorite of mine, as I adore black beans. My mom tasted it when she arrived home, and thought it was as good as I did. I left it on the stove while I went to collect Dallas from the airport. By the time we arrived home, everyone was there, including my Aunt P**. We all sat down to eat and everyone was raving about the soup, so I told the story of meeting Leola at the grocery store, and how she had led me around picking out various items and instructing me how to make the soup just so. My Aunt asked whether I was sure her name was Leola and what she looked like. She said that the woman sounded exactly like her friend Lola, whom my sisters, mother, and brother had all met. My aunt reminded me that I had even given the woman, along with another friend and my Aunt a ride home a few summers ago when my Aunt's car had broken down. I told her to call Lola right away and find out whether it was her. My Aunt started laughing hard on the phone, and told Lola the story. It was her at the store! She asked to speak with me and I told her how much everyone was enjoying the soup, and how happy I was that we met at the store. She said that she thought there was something about me that looked friendly or familiar and now she knew why. I told her that I was going to name the soup after her and tell the story each time I serve it. As the air here in Texas has turned slightly chilly (highs only in the upper 80s, low 90s!), I've been thinking of autumn and all the delicious autumn foods that I'm looking forward to. Lola's Sausage and Spinach Black Bean Soup is at the top of the list.

Ingredients:
one can lentil soup (Progresso works well)
two cans black beans
two cans Italian style tomatos
green, red, yellow peppers to taste
one pound of good italian sausage, removed from casings and crumbled (remove from casing and crumble before cooking the sauage -- you want something about the consistency of ground beef)
one bag of fresh spinach leaves (use 1/2 bag of frozen, if necessary)

Procedure:
Sautee the sausage and the peppers together in the bottom of a Dutch oven. When the sausage is completely cooked, dump all the ingredients into the pan and stir, except the spinach. Simmer together for an hour or so until the peppers are tender. Just before serving, wilt the spinach leaves into the soup and let cook about 2-3 minutes. Serve hot with a salad and warm corn bread.

Dain-ja, Dain-ja, Dain-ja

That's what my talking Crocodile Hunter doll says the first time you press its tummy. My sisters got me that doll for Christmas a few years ago, because I was obsessed with Steve Irwin. I would watch Croc Files regularly and was sad to learn he was married, and then had children. See, I nursed this secret hope that one day he and I would meet and he'd know, as I'd known the first time I heard him say "Whadda little beauty!" that he was the one for me. Nevermind that the closest I'm willing to get to camping is a Holiday Inn. Nevermind that I refuse to urinate in the woods. Nevermind that I am irrationally afraid of snakes and large insects. He could teach me -- showing me that nature is beautiful and that snakes are special and wonderful in their own way. I'm no homewrecker though, so when Terri came on the scene, I moved on to other, more obtainable dreams. She was perfect for him, traipsing along after him on all his adventures, giving an easier-to-understand American narrative to his shows. Then he had the kids and the world was outraged when he held a tiny son near a crocodile he was feeding -- whatever, said I, this is a man who knows what he's doing, and he wouldn't jeopardize his tiny son. I still say I'm right about that. Unfortunately, he wasn't so cautious of himself. I've seen him bitten by crocs, pulling out inch long teeth embedded in his knuckle. I've seen him withstand snake bites. He's gotten close to any number of insanely dangerous creature, and always made it out alive. How is it that one simple stingray could kill him? At first when I read the article, I thought it was a joke, kind of like the Cambodian Midget Fighting League brawl with an African Lion. But sadly, I was wrong. Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray. How sad for his family and for the millions of people who loved his shows. So many people have a greater appreciation for dangerous wildlife and the need for preservation through his efforts, especially me. He showed me that even kimodo dragons are wonderful and that is something truly special, because I generally hate lizard-life.

Every Bit As Painful As The Swingers Answering Machine

My roommate has been accused of doing a woman wrong. On voicemail. After repeatedly trying to be transparent, he thought (against all my advice) that they could be friends, so he invited her to his birthday last night, at which 5 other girls he'd hooked up with in the past, as well as the girl he's currently dating were also in attendance. It did not go well. She left 3 messages on his voicemail last night, the longest of which has been transcribed below. Before you read this and think I'm a terrible person for making light of this, or for thinking it funny, know that I have told him this would happen for the past 6 months, as I could see this woman was not understanding a few basic truths about men and dating them. I offer this voicemail as a lesson to other women to be preceded by the following tips:

1. If you haven't met his friends, you're not his girlfriend.
2. If you haven't seen the inside of his apartment, you're not his girlfriend.
3. If he repeatedly tells you he only wants to hook up and not date, you're not his girlfriend.
4. If he only calls you when he's drunk, you're not his girlfriend.
5. If he doesn't call for 2 or more weeks each time you try to initiate relationship talks, you're not his girlfriend.

"Hey. It's J--. Um. I wasn't going to call you again but, um, I just can't sleep because I'm just so upset with you and with myself. I mean when I came tonight I really wanted to meet all your friends and get to know them. And they they were great. J and A were great; it was fun talking to E too. I was really sad that you decided you didn't want to spend any time with me. And you didn't even... aside from an initial hello... you didnt even come over to sit, even after D had left and there was room. You didn't do anything. You just spent all your time with somebody else. And when I left I realized you know, you have you hand around her waist and you had moved on. I was like...I just...I guess I didnt expect it to happen that quickly. I had wanted to...I was thinking about and had wanted to try again. because you know what? I was stupid. I was stupid and I cared so much about you. But I never could get...I mean you were saying I was being confusing, but I could never get anything out of you that you cared anything about me other than as just somebody to sleep with, and you know, you never wanted to talk, you never wanted anything. I just felt that I could never talk about how I cared about you and about how I wanted to make to try to make this work and you never wanted to talk. You would always throw off anytime I wanted to talk about our relationship, "oh you want the relationship talk again." But, I mean it's clear that you've moved on. And it's clear that you've moved on and I was stupid to think that we would ever work, because I know now how you are, and I know you're just gonna...I know I am just another stepping stone until you move onto another girl who is as stupid as me to think that you were actually able/capable of being in a loving relationship or that you could be...you know...that you could be strong enough or man enough or not afraid to tell to tell that person that you cared. Recently I wouldn't hear from you again and I thought that's just how he is, he doesnt like to talk to me that much. I was just stupid to think that was ok. I just. You know what? Uh...when I care about somebody I really care about them. And when I don't feel like I'm getting it back I knew it should've been the signal. I just can't. It's too hard right now. And I can't sleep. and you know what...<click>"

The Right Way To Hate Your Neighbor

There I sat, at Sarabeth's on the UWS, waiting. I sipped my water, introduced some freshly-squeezed orange juice into my struggling immune system, and spied unabashedly on the diners at the surrounding tables. The table to my left provided what seemed to be an uncommon family dinner for older parents and their obnoxious, Patagonia-clad 10 year old son and his cell phone. Who has time for caesar salad and conversation with one's parents when there's the Motorola equivalent of Pong to be played? Their conversation was uninspired until the bill came, at which point there was a lengthier than necessary conversation about who would pay. Finally it was settled. She would pay, as he had paid last time. Then they both laughed. Their son looked up, nonplussed. His father quickly explained that this amused them because it was all the same money. As the ever-crunchy and accepting oh-so-PC UWSiders that they were, they felt the need to show their son some tolerance, explaining, "Not all mommies and daddies do it this way. Sometimes the woman has her money and the man has his money." The son went back to his game. I applauded his choice.

The ladies to my right were far far more amusing to me, and I chuckled into my orange juice several times as their conversation progressed. They were reunited childhood friends of the same age and the same brown hair with perm that is so fashionable among the 50something crowd. A New York City Public Library tote bag sat on the seat beside the thinner of the two, a lifetime New Yorker who now works in computers, previously selling and educating users of Microsoft Word. Her friend, somewhat shorter and rounder than she, asked repeatedly, loudly, and with a giggle "are you a computer geek? Are you??" This shorter, rounder friend was covered in diamonds of the sparkly variety, which seemed somewhat out of place when worn with her handmade necklace and hippie skirt. She lives on an island near Seattle and raises chickens, she's planning a move to New Zealand soon, with her husband who is a doctor, perhaps an endocrinologist from the types of patients she described, and she hates her neighbor.

This particular island in Seattle where she lives with her husband and four chickens (one of which lays blue eggs) is one large hill, and the higher up the hill and toward the middle of the island you are, the better your view of Seattle is. Her neighbor who lives slightly uphill from her would have a tremendous view of the city, except for one small problem -- the trees on her property periodically obscure his view, as they have for the prior 16 years they've been neighbors. From time to time, he takes it upon himself to come down the hill and send his gardener up into her trees in order to top them, pruning away any of the offensive branches standing between him and the view of the Seattle skyline. As she explained this to her computer geek friend, there was a shrillness in her voice and the volume rose ever so slightly as the pace of her speech quickened enough to let me know that this truly was a sore spot. Trying to garner sympathy from her friend, she explained that topping is terrible for trees and that he had no right to come onto her property in order to do this. Recently, she found the neighbor's gardener in her tree, and incensed, she sent the neighbor a letter. The neighbor furiously called her husband at work and they attempted to work something out, whereby she and her husband would be willing to remove the trees, at the neighbor's expense, and replace them with smaller trees, also at the neighbor's expense. This was unacceptable to the neighbor, who called the police when they got too close to his property line, and who has been unwilling to further discuss the problem. But not to worry, the round lady with the diamonds had a solution: she and her husband are building an expansion onto their house in order to obstruct the neighbor's view in lieu of the trees. Her friend asked, "Do you need more space?" "No, we just want to build up so that he can't complain the trees are blocking his view -- it'll be our house instead."

Old Friends Are The Best Friends

I have gotten in trouble for past posts on this and other blogs where I've called to light negative qualities about various people that irritate me. In order to restore my karma in this area (and to make it OK to keep doing it where it's deserved), I am going to write about a few remarkable people I know and hope that they recognize themselves in these posts.

The first night I went to a law school drinking event (about 4 years ago), I met a guy who didn't, at that time, drink, as he was not yet 21. I later had the opportunity to attend his 21st birthday party, but that's a story for another time, as it was the first time I met The Roommate. Back to the story: We were all crammed into the basement of an Upper West Side pub, sweating our asses off, and I was ready to leave approximately 8 minutes after arriving due to the heat and the rude behavior of the person I had previously thought the most handsome in our class.  I was standing behind him at the bar, having never met him and not knowing his name. Barely audible over the din of the crowd, he ordered a drink. Standing two feet from him I couldn't hear what he said, but saw the bartender, a woman, place a small snifter of brown liquid before him a minute later. "What is this?" he demanded. She replied, "Hennessy, like you ordered." His friends were now paying attention to this and he was clearly embarrassed and getting angrier by the second (finding out later from a friend that he had a tiny penis did not surprise me based on his clear insecurity). "Why would I have ordered a Hennessy? I said a Guiness!" The tone of his voice cannot be accurately described here, but it was obnoxious and angry and I wanted no part of it. I wandered away, maybe I ordered a drink, maybe I abandoned my plan, I can't remember now.

I went and stood by my friend, A, and decided to introduce myself to a guy in a yellow shirt. He was immediately friendly and not drinking. We chatted for a bit, and for some reason that I still cannot explain, I felt immediately comfortable with him and suggested that we go and get a bite to eat rather than melting in that too-hot basement. He agreed and we went to a small cafe on Broadway in the eighties. We ran into a homeless person on our way who asked us for money. I just shook my head and tried to keep walking, but my new friend stopped to talk with this person for a full five minutes, discussing with him that he would like to help, but could not in good conscience give him money. I was blown away, but a little freaked out. My friend recently told me that he doesn't remember this incident, but it will stay with me.

Over the next year or so we didn't spend much time together, running into each other mostly at group social events. Then, second semester of our second year of law school, we started spending the bulk of our time together. We cooked dinner together most nights, talked and talked, played on swings near our apartments, went for long walks, and generally got closer and closer. Then one afternoon I realized that the person I was getting to know better each day was someone who could be just what I had been looking for since moving to New York, but that I just hadn't considered him in this way before. The more I thought about this and the more time we spent together, the more convinced I became that we should try dating. I confronted him (awkwardly) about this and he had some serious reservations, but we went ahead with it. For several reasons that I will not elaborate on, not the least of which was bad timing, it didn't work out. Last night he said that he hadn't handled things well with our relationship, but I think neither of us knew what the hell we were doing and it's a testament to our friendship that there has never really been any awkwardness between us since then.

My friend has never really let me down--when I've needed to talk about anything, even the boring and depressing, he's always listened. Aside from being an intellectual peer and being able to make me laugh on command, he's one of the few people who really sees me. All of me. Flaws too. And he doesn't judge me for any of it. Once I had this plan that backfired where I tried to guess the parts I thought he wouldn't like to hide them away and only show him my virtuous nature (a stretch, I assure you). I was shocked and delighted to (much) later discover that he likes and accepts the very things I thought I had to stifle, and that my favorite qualities about myself are also ones he enjoys. It's amazing how little I understood about him at that time from my current vantage point. From where I stand now, he is easily one of my favorite people and I am so glad to have had the opportunity to know him.

The Serial Summer Has Ended

In the past few weeks I've been systematically closing out my summer of bad dates with odd men. All told, I believe I saw eight people over twelve weeks and I'm exhausted. This is not a sustainable lifestyle by any means.

First there was Chris. An overall good guy who had a taste for beer, hockey, and public displays of affection. Our most notable experience was seeing raccoons together in Central Park where we stood making out at 1:30am. He was by far the most normal of the lot, just kind of blah. It quickly slid downhill from there.

Second on the list was Rob. 5'2" posing as 5'5". He led me to make an observation about proportionality in the lies men tell about their height. Everyone has heard that men add 2", but I assumed (wrongly) that the shorter the man and the more obvious the lie, the fewer inches he would add. Wrong. This dude and I had a full out conversation about how he hates when women judge him about his height, and how the problems women have with height are all their own, when clearly guy had some major issues. That and he was intensely boring, ordered a White Russian at a pub known for its beer selection, and has never lived outside of New York. No, really. He has barely left it at all, in fact.

Third up was Dave, a hottie musician, and I believe recovering alcoholic. We only had one date, but it was full of laughter and awkward making out. He was my first experience with men who trim their pubes and chest hair. I thought I liked this at first, but no, no I didn't.

Fourth was Jeff. Dear God. He never got past the stage where it's OK to list Ayn Rand as your favorite novelist and the boy lisped. No potential. He was, however -- by far -- the most polite of all the boys. He called to ask me out on a second date, which I responded to with an email expressing my disinterest, to which he responded with a kind email saying he could tell I wasn't interested and returning my good wishes. Stand-up fella.

Fifth and worst was Josh. The rudest, weirdest, most issue-laden, and likely gay of the lot. So I went out with him 5 times and let him sleep in my bed. Stunning display on my part, really. I even cooked him breakfast. If I never hear another man call his mother "mommy" or saying that he just took a great shit and now feels all cleaned out and nice, it would be A-OK.

Sixth was a fellow golfer named Peter who I never actually went out with. While I was on the phone with him making plans for our first date, I got a call from number 7, made plans with number 7, and when I returned to the first conversation, he'd hung up. My roommate (curses!) made me call him back. He talked like Stan's sister from South Park. You know, braces, throat full of saliva, crazy speech problem. Yeah, that was him and I'm a total bitch for putting that into words. We had a date, he cancelled due to something family-related and never called to reschedule. No hardship.

Seventh, Eric had perhaps the most potential. That is, until he called me the Wednesday following our date (which had ended with an awkward kiss planted somewhere near my hairline) and said that the woman he'd been dating for a couple of months before he met me called him to reconcile the day after our date and that he wanted to work things out with her. I wished him the best and told him to call me if it didn't work out. Stunned, I think he considered leaving her on the spot based on my oh-so-cleverly- adult response to his news. Sometimes I impress myself. I would never go out with him again, though. What a pussy.

Finally we have another Chris. Lovely how that creates bookends, right? I could never quite pin down what this guy does for a living. He paid for our iced tea ($4.89) with a credit card, not a good sign. He talked too fast, left me alone for 20 minutes in a record store on our first date while he "went to the bathroom," talked quite a bit about my drug resume (scanty compared to his, I can guarantee), and thought that a great second date would be staying in at his place with a movie and a bottle of wine. Surprising, considering he asked whether it was moving too fast when he held my hand on our first date. Did I mention that when I jested about driving away the pigeons who nest near our living room window, this guy had a ready plan on how to kill pigeons? He also idolized his cousin's husband who would visit estate sales on Long Island, get antiques at low prices, bring them to Manhattan and "make one or two grand a weekend." He would "like to make that kind of money." Get a job, motherfucker, get a job.

And now I rest.