Did I ever tell you that I once figured out the identity of a fellow DC blogger based on an entry she wrote about two other people I know, even though she disguised their identities and the events portrayed in the story?
Did I tell you about the time a woman I’ve known casually for years and years but never really talked to told me she’d been reading a blog and couldn’t help but think it was mine? (It was.)
Or — and this is a good one — the time someone emailed me to say that she recognized one of my commenters as the person she regularly sat next to in yoga class — IN ANOTHER COUNTRY?
I mean, I’m not exactly Dooce as far as traffic is concerned. But it is a small, small, small world.
And that’s too bad, because if it wasn’t I could tell you the MOST AWESOMELY OUTRAGEOUS work stories ever, and we would laugh and laugh together, and oh that would be so nice, because left to my own devices I have not been chuckling.
Whoops. disregard that exclamation point. It’s not that kind of update, sadly. (Did I ever tell you I used to have a boss who considered herself the world authority on all things grammar and style, and she called these –> !!!! <— “explanation points?” I’d say it drove me crazy, but it actually gave me a warm, glowing feeling of smugness that helped me survive some very irritating days.)
First, a big thank you for your cheerleading and suggestions in the comments and on Twitter. They totally got me through my last day of work, especially when you-know-who decided to telecommute that day.
AS IF. Like my plans mean NOTHING.
So, at around 1 p.m. I messaged him on our interoffice IM client. (I thought that seemed like a reasonable amount of time to wait, and I very carefully did not do it on the stroke of 1, because I didn’t want to seem like I was plotting, you know?) (AS IF.)
ME: Well, I guess xyz will never get done after all since you’re not here.
WC: I’m not there now, but I may show up when you least expect it.
ME: (inside my head) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (WINNING!!!)
ME: (in real life) good. you definitely should not miss my going away happy hour at the crappy corner bar
<insert a little blah blah blah and time passing>
WC: hey, something’s come up and it looks like i’m not going to make it in there after all (frowny face) i’m sorry. have fun though.
ME: (day ruined even more than it already was by all of the WORKING MY GOD THE WORKING)
(i let a few moments pass, because I’m suave)
(and because I was on the phone with my sister plotting next steps)
ME: raincheck? (let’s pause a moment to recognize my extraordinary bravery)
WC: but the raincheck cannot be cashed at the crappy corner bar. (DOESN’T THAT SOUND PROMISING?)
ME: ooh, good point. you pick then
WC: (nothing about this ever again, including when I saw him in person on Monday)
Because that is how it goes, you guys. I’m a 37 year old woman who hasn’t been on a date for 18 months. I just blogged the only interesting IM conversation I’ve had in eons — and it wasn’t really that interesting. If that’s not the lamest thing you ever heard, may I suggest that you stop speaking to the person who told you the lamer thing, because that person is a hopeless loser.
Pot, kettle, etc. Soon I will just put one of these over my head because why not, that’s why.
The thing is, I really like the OC, with his twinkly eyes and general good-person vibe. Now I wish I hadn’t talked about it so much because it made it worse. (On the other hand, I think talking about the IO has really dampened my ardor.) (I like to talk a lot.) (But I can be companionably quiet and peaceful too! Call me?)
I NEVER meet anyone I like. EVER. And when I do, they do not even care. That’s how the dating game works, I know. It’s a numbers thing, happens when you least expect it, when god closes a door my finger usually gets smashed, etc. But oh, I am so, so over it. My poor little emotions and hopes are so fragile, and they just get more tattered every time I take them out.
But I can’t quite get over wanting it to work out somehow, someday, some way. That’s too bad, because I wish I could just pack them away in a charming wooden chest for my sister’s future children to inherit.
But the struggle continues, for now at least.
There is a new Find Me Some Lovin’ or Die in the Attempt plan that has kind of been in effect for a while but is now, like, WAY in effect.
Background: Some complete asshole explained a theory of tipping to me long ago that blew my mind with its preposterous, pompous, epic shittiness. He said that he always went into a restaurant with the intention of tipping 20%, but as the meal went on he deducted points for every transgression he perceived. Minus 1% for making him wait for a menu. Minus 1% if the pacing is off. Etc, etc, go jump in a lake you miserable bastard.
But! I have adopted this strategy for my love life, to help me stay focused and on course.
To maintain the proper attitude, every day I wear a cute outfit. I use shampoo and body oil that cost too much money but smell really, subtly good. I apply my makeup with a great deal of care. I wear Spanx every day. EVERY SAUSAGEY DAY. I wear my hair down, which used to only happen never because it is very hot and wild. LIKE ME. (Except I am also warn nurturing loyal etc.)
And I enter every encounter I have with a man with the 100% assumption that we will fall in love/fall into bed, and then I deduct points from there based on applicable factors. Every barista, every guy standing next to me at a crosswalk, every man I pass in the hallway at work or sit next to in a conference room — I smile and smile and toss my hair, merely as a starting point.
Then, I start tallying up deductions.
–Wedding ring — automatic fail. Fake smiles only for you, and I will not fall into the trap of mirroring your body language. No.
–Too old — my daddy issues are well documented. Next.
–Halitosis — not an automatic dealbreaker, but a serious, serious deduction.
–Rude to anyone ever –see you later.
–Unattractive — this could cover a lot of ground, but is also easily overlooked in light of other positive characteristics. I’m much more interested in what my gut tells me than my eyes.
–Asshole –Internet, it is here that I must confess something. I like nice guys. I’m attracted to men who are soft, and emotional, and I get irritated with women who get irritated with these kinds of men. I PREFER them. My kingdom for some emotional availability–even if your emotions are only available to you right now, at least you have recognized that they exist. That puts you light years ahead of 75% of the other men on earth.
But I also have lately recognized that I have kind of a thing for really smart assholes. Not overcompensators or meanies, but guys with just a little…edge. A flash of steel. I think it brings out my competitive side. Or some even more interesting side.
So, deductions for being an asshole, yes, but I can no longer say that it’s an automatic fail.
Note, I am not looking for reasons to judge people harshly. I’m only trying to practice The Secret, and put out in the universe what I want to receive — possibility and hope and even just casual flirtation. I want to keep my eyes peeled for every opportunity, and be receptive to all possible chances, so I can fall in love before the stress of this job kills me.
Is that so much to ask?