I really ought to channel this into some damp sex scenes for my novel.

But maybe because it was the first time, and because my heart got broken extensively and over a long, protracted period of time, and because I knew squat about how to protect myself, defend myself, speak up for myself, or any of those other crucial skills one develops to cope with the hazards that intimate interaction can bring - it was tough, very tough to get over.

There's a line from a Star Trek (TNG) episode that springs to mind (I know, I know, but bear with me a moment). Wesley the Boy Wonder Crusher (yes, I know) says to Guinan that he won't ever feel the same way about anyone as he does about the Girl. And she says, "You're right, you won't." And he is shocked by that answer.

And then she goes on to explain that every time we fall in love, it's different. She's right, of course. It's always different - because people are different, and the way two people interact is different from the way one of those people will interact with a different partner. And I know that. What I can't figure out, at the moment, is why some people, even ones you don't know well enough to love, get under your skin at a level that defies logic or bargaining or intellectual decision-making.

Someone asked me earlier this week what it was about the damned blonde, and I couldn't adequately explain it. I felt very put-on-the-spot, and kept wriggling under scrutiny. "It's chemical," I say. "So it's just that he's pretty?" "No, it's not just that. He isn't even that pretty." (Though he does happen to be pretty in a way that particularly appeals to me.) But it isn't pure prettiness. In fact, I often don't like pretty boys that much.

It's something. Something that reminds me in some small way of the mess I got into with that first love. I don't love this guy. I barely know him. And the first love had a whole lot of intellectual, philosophical connections happening that aren't in play here (at least as of yet). But there is something similar in the ineffableness of it. The sense of transparent tendrils binding me to it. It's dangerous. It's hard to make good decisions. It's possibly bad for me, and like most things that may be hazardous to your health, it's damn near irresistible. Except for the tiny detail that he's resisting it just fine.

a) Annabelle pointed out to me that I'd left off Ewan McGregor. I must, in fairness, admit that I only lust after him when he is portrayed in all his naked glory. If you've ever seen him in the buff, you know whereof I speak. If you haven't, lock up the kiddies for the night and get thee to the video store, pronto.

b) Dule Hill. Too young for me, certainly, but who cares? He's a great and underappreciated beauty, if you want my opinion.

c) Oh holy god, the serious crush of my youth, and now that I look at him with fresh, mature, and more highly sexed eyes, I realize that he's pretty much the template for my ideal: (don't laugh) Dick Van Dyke as Bert in Mary Poppins. Tall, limber, imaginative, infinitely twinkly, and not a little goofy. I know, it's not meant to be a sexy movie, but just look at the man dance and tell me you don't share my fixation. Dreamboat in the guise of a goofball. My very favorite type. Nice aqua eyes, too.

Okay, on to other matters. That yarn up there - 'tis Silk Dream (Lang); 50% merino, 50% silk, in Teal. The pic doesn't do it justice - no matter how hard I turned the Photoshop thumbscrews I just couldn't get it as saturated as it is in real life. I tried not to buy this yarn. I walked out of the shop without it, got two blocks north, and turned right around, as soon as I realized that it was for my mom. It's her favorite color, and she will just adore the feel, and the nearly-electric glow of it. I'm nearly through the first ball of it, and I so hope there will be enough to add some fringe, because it'll kick ass in fringe.

And now before I leave you with these relatively trivial entertainments (plus a gratuitous pic of the feline looking characteristically skeptical about having her photograph taken - geez, you'd think she'd have made her peace with the handsome Nikon by now), I will tell you the most spectacular thing that happened to me today. Toward the end of my run, when the rain was getting to be a little much and I'd slowed to a walk on a steep hill (not out of a desire to wimp out, but rather because I need to baby my injured right knee), who should run right by me, within inches of my face? Lance Armstrong, baby. Lance fucking Armstrong. One of my bona fide athletic heroes and definitely one of the people I've most wanted to run into in real life.

If only I'd been running the other way, I might've sprinted for a few moments to keep pace with him (he runs really fast). As it was, I had time enough to double-check that it was him, and give him a little smile before he whipped by me. I glanced around after him, saw the legs - those famous, famous legs - which were indeed impressive and fabulous, noticed that he's a bit burlier now than when he was in Tour de France trim, and then gleefully finished the rest of my run. Talk about your motivation to Just Do those last few meters.

I think this trumps brunching with Harrison, don't you? His eyes are really blue, by the way - much more vividly dark blue than on TV. Now pardon me while I go watch Dick Van D dance on the rooftops of London. Dreamy.

Anyway, suffice it to say that I don't feel like airing this particular difficult laundry in this public space. As Cari recently reminded us all, you never know who's looking in the windows. Also, I am beginning to be bored of the sound of my own voice, waxing happy and waning sad, and so on and so forth. It's so much like being a teenager - and I suppose that dating is always and forever like that, inescapably, unto the ending of the earth.

Butanyway, that was not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you something funny Annabelle said while we were lustily swilling wine and laughing our fool heads off earlier tonight. She said, "You should definitely get some better underwear, just in case you suddenly find yourself having the opportunity to have sex with Mos Def."

Good point. Smart girl, that Annabelle. Got her priorities in order.

Hey, if I lived in some dry, plain, white-bread town in the Midwest (nothing against either that region or small towns, apart from the fact that you couldn't possibly pay me enough money to live there), I'd say, yeah right. Like that'll happen.

But here, well, you never know when you might run into Harrison Ford at breakfast, and while he is decidedly not on my list (sorry girls, he just doesn't float my boat that way), running into him means I might also, one day, run into Monsieur Def, say in a nightclub, where my exceedingly sinuous and yet frolicsome dancing might lure him in for a little menage a deux.

I'm not counting on it, mind you, but it might be as well to do a little shopping. Just in case.

In other news, um, I'm knitting. I managed to produce several inches of a gift scarf (only one row of which required unknitting and reknitting because it was dark and I was drunk) while sitting in the bar. And it made the subway ride go faster. I know this will shock - just SHOCK - y'all, but I don't normally bring knitting on the train. Why?

I seem to be given to daydreaming while in transit, and as long as I have my trusty (so far) iPod, I am covered. If I were to knit constantly while on the train, I'd miss out on things like the big epiphany I had a couple of weeks ago. And frankly, in my universe, big epiphanies are a lot more important than making the swiftest possible work of an algae sweater.

But it is evidence of the seasonal knitting progressing apace. Or at the snail's pace that is all I seem to be able to manage, what with the shopping and the four work projects to finish by next week and the need to read The Golden Compass before I go see it in the theatre.

In the interests of ironing out the contents of my head into some form of actual readable post, I am moved to offer you the following set of lists. It is all lists around here these days. I am writing them on every available surface, shoving them in pockets, losing track of them, pulling them out, hoping that I've rewritten down half the contents since I've only accomplished about that much from each, and then losing track of where this sentence was intended to be headed and deciding to just stop, now, before I do any more damage to the contents of all your heads.

Okay, without further ado, on to List #1.

List of Reasons (or Rather, Pieces of Evidence) That Apple Computer Hates My Guts

1. Back in the summer, the keyboard to my desktop computer died. I started working on my laptop instead.
2. A couple of months later, the power supply to my laptop died. During a deadline.
3. I replaced both the laptop power supply and the desktop keyboard.
4. One week later, the desktop computer itself died (a power issue, apparently).
5. Lacking the physical strength necessary to hoist the desktop computer onto the subway or into a cab, down the street, and into the repair shop, I decided to open up the desktop computer and yank the hard drive out of it, and then carry that to the repair shop to have the data recovered from it.
6. I then discovered, after stripping one of them rather badly, that there are two screws on the bottom of the beast that require special fancy Torx screwdrivers. This was after having unscrewed all the Allen bolts (I have Allen wrenches) and after buying a special set of tiny electronics screwdrivers for about $7 (which did not, in fact, contain the Torx ones).
7. I then proceeded to buy another set of fancy electronics screwdrivers, which allegedly does contain the aforementioned mythical Torx screwdrivers.
8. I also borrowed Miz Fury's Dremel, which (I have been assured by my friendly neighborhood electronics expert - aka Boywich) may be used in an emergency such as mine to cut a new screwdriver slot into a screw that has been stripped by the use of a non-Torx screwdriver.
9. Yesterday, the laptop's battery died. In the process of diagnosing this problem, I inadvertently destroyed the little locking mechanism that would hold a replacement battery inside the computer.
10. I hate you, too, Apple. Just don't fuck with my iPod, or we are gonna have a serious problem.

List #2:

In no particular order:

1. Paul Bettany
2. Leonard Nimoy
3. Gary Dourdan
4. Robson Green
5. Mos Def
6. Viggo Mortensen
7. Oded Fehr
8. Hugh Laurie
9. Rupert Everett (shut up, I know he's gay)
10. Eric Bana
11. Jeff Goldblum

In case you haven't guessed by now, the preceding is a small sampling of my To Do List. As you can see, my taste varies widely. I did not include some of the more embarrassing choices, such as Sam Elliott and Jack Black, nor have I included people I only find sexy in certain roles, such as Brendan Gleeson (as Hamish in Braveheart). I also haven't really included the ones whose appeal is frozen in time (the young Peter Weller, for instance, was devastating, as was Robert Redford, of course - especially all bearded and overgrown in Jeremiah Johnson).

This list is long-running and ever-changing. People get dropped off it, and new ones get added, and so on. It's not solely about looks, I suppose, though most of these fellas are beautiful in some way. They range in age, and frankly, some of them I think have improved with age - notably Nimoy and Laurie. Oh god, has Laurie improved with age. Geezus.

And on that note, I am off to bed, belatedly and without really having offered good value for your contribution of time and eyestrain. But it's 4am, and that's what I've got to offer.

PS. I love carousels, don't you?

I have been having a grand awakening lately, and I don't just mean the last few weeks - I am talking the past year or so. And it occurs to me that what's been happening is larger than just finding the passionate self I'd kept under wraps out of necessity the previous three years. I've been finding things I never knew I had in me. I know, I am being vague, and that is to some extent necessary given the highly personal nature of the specifics, but I promise, I will explain better in a moment.

I just want to tell you, first, that I think we all do this - hide parts of our natures from our own selves, not to mention from the larger world, with its dangers both physical and emotional. I was thinking about this in a rather different context this morning as I read Juno's post about how difficult it can be to trust her own instincts when cooking. Everyone has these kinds of challenges, and some of them are buried so deep that we aren't even aware of the barriers, much less able to do much about them.

Well, I've been working on some of mine, and before I've even gotten into the meat of that work, I seem to be pulling some of them out by the roots. Or at least getting pieces of them into the daylight, where they are dissolving, bit by bit. It's a kind of magic, which is a quote from a fairly bad sci-fi movie that I loved nevertheless. Partly because of its devastatingly sexy Highlands scenery (no, I don't mean the kilts - I mean the mountains. Those mountains are damned sexy. Don't tell me you haven't noticed).

Anyway, to get back to my main thrust. (Yes, that innuendo is intentional - and in this case, apropos.)

I know not everybody gets an epiphany from browsing through Brazilian thongs on the Vicky's Secret website, but, well, I do. At least I do today. At the risk of really fracking up the google bots' little robot brains, I am going to tell you that I never before today felt any desire to see what I looked like in sexy underwear. Now, that's not to say I haven't owned my share of lingerie - but I always shied away from the teeny bottoms. Recent events both physical and (more importantly) psychological have suddenly made me feel like I want to see what all the fuss is about.

So I tried some on. And - hunh - whatdya know? I looked pretty good in them. I mean, good in the sense of what a regular woman looks like, not what a physical-trainered, plastic-surgeried, Photoshopped swimsuit model looks like. But much better than I would have expected. And it was fun.

Yeah, I know - big whoop. ("So what, big deal..." - another geek-film reference for those who are counting.) But it is kind of a big whoop, because there's a lot more to it than just blowing some hard-earned cash on frilly little bits of lace and nonsense. It has to do with confidence, I think, and with suddenly having access to parts of myself that I didn't even know existed.

Boywich is now cursing, no doubt, since he would have liked to be around for this particular discovery, and that kinda sucks, and he's convinced that anybody who's currently the benefactor of such riches is wildly undeserving of the honour. (I choose to use the UK spelling here - it's fuller, rounder, butterier.) But the truth is, it's really me who's being the chief benefactor. I get to enjoy this aspect of myself - the discovery of it and the growing to fully inhabit it. And I doubt he begrudges me a bit of that.

I like walking in snow. I've always liked it, whatever kind of landscape I'm in, and snow in the city is no exception, though it does have its own particular issues. Like, for instance, the instant-greying factor. And the misleading slush pile - if you've ever found yourself suddenly up to your ankle after stepping on what you thought was solid ground at the edge of the street, you know what I am talking about.

After the first few times, you learn to spot the deep puddle coated with slush - it's like urban quicksand. Not quite as deadly, perhaps, but very cold and unpleasant.

But I really don't mind braving a few hazards. I like everything about snow - the fresh smell, the odd sense of quiet, even when there's traffic. I walked around on Sunday, ambling here and there, admiring the way the lions guarding the gates of the NYPL look completely dignified, their extra mantles of snow making them more regal than ever. I liked the way the holiday lights strung about the little glass-walled temporary Xmas shops turned the park into a place for fairies or an idealized Victorian village, even though the merchandise inside was utterly prosaic - I spied Guinness T-shirts and similar tchockes through the glass.

And then I went on a quest - on the face of it a simple shopping trip brought on by the realization that it's freaking cold out these days, and my winter-weight coat is 15 years old, 4 sizes too big, and getting threadbare to boot.

Thence followed about four hours of frustration, during which I discovered that the department store with the city's largest petite section not only had just one coat in my size, and that in an ugly style, uglier color, and with a $500 price tag, but that they also don't even carry Jockeys in my size.

Needless to say, I gave up on the department stores and went to J Crew and Banana Republic. J Crew had a pretty coat for $350, but didn't have it in my size, nor did any of their other locations in the city. Banana had several coats in my size, even in petite, but they all looked wrong on me. Funny collars, or no collars at all (I like me some collar action), wrongly placed darts for my bosom, and so on and so forth.

In a last-ditch effort, I wandered into H&M, without much hope, and only because my (tall, statuesque, broad-shouldered) friend had said she found her winter coat there. Their stuff often doesn't fit me, perhaps because I am neither tall, nor statuesque, nor broad-shouldered. But there it was - my funky, cool, dare I say mad-chic winter coat. $99. Big giant crazy spreading collar, which somehow works with my tiny head perched in the middle of it, and looks right with my various goofy hats. The sleeves aren't even too long.

It is swoopy. It brings on my funk. And it cost me less than a third of what I almost paid to special-order the one at J Crew. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

I was talking to my dad this evening, and he remarked upon how good (read: cheerful) I sounded. I hadn't been aware of it, and then I wondered why I suddenly sounded cheerful, when I was pretty darned sure I'd had a blueish sort of week. Not a deep blue week, just a kind of lonely blah sitting around eating too much late at night and wishing I had something better to do kind of week.

But he's right, I am suddenly rather cheery tonight. I don't really know why. Perhaps it's because the PMS has finished and we are now into the uncomfortable but less grumpy portion of the cycle. Perhaps it's because it's Friday. Perhaps it's because I sat next to a guy on the train back from Westchester who, after asking me if I was making a scarf ("Nope, a sweater") then said that he used to knit, too.

Something about hearing that the guy used to knit when he was a kid just tickled me. He was a nice-seeming fellow. Nonthreatening enough that I actually sat right down next to him, even though there was no empty seat between us (I normally strive to find a place where the seats are only alternately filled). It was a crowded train, I could see which way the wind was blowing - find a seat fast or stand for a full hour - but still, he seemed okay. His vibes were pleasant.

I try to go by the vibe these days. The blonde I have been raving about for months? All about the vibe. He just feels good to me. (I know, that sounds like innuendo, and that part is also true, but here I am talking about something more ineffable.)

I suppose if every guy in the universe were knitting on trains, there'd be nothing special about hearing that from a random fellow reading a book that appeared to be a guide to writing mystery novels. But it is unusual to hear that from a guy, especially one whose first question about the knitting was so typical.

I dunno. Color me charmed, for some reason. Or just hormonally better balanced than I was yesterday. Or something.

Also, the train journey helped me get several inches done on the first sleeve of the tiny-yarn algae sweater. Gotta love those small circumferences for making you feel like you're making progress.

PS. Yes, I know I promised you a funny Boywich story. But I am saving that for a sunny day. Or a day when I have nothing to say. Not that this is such a scintillating collection of brilliant insights or anything. But I am feeling like hoarding. All squirrellike.

Sometimes it is so weird that an invitation to go to a holiday party at my sister's house feels like a lead weight. I love my sister and I enjoy seeing her, but if I go to this party (which requires travel), I have to relinquish the only down time I am likely to have that week, and I miss any chance to see the newly reacquired blonde (whom I still have not seen in three weeks, and by then it will be a month. Don't talk to me about this weekend; there are other issues with that. No, I'm not going to tell you; it involves my bodily functions, and while it may seem like I have no propriety whatsoever, there are one or two limits. Little ones), and furthermore (and this is the biggest problem, honestly) I have to drop all my work (which is a lot right now) and rush around like a mad headless dinner fowl trying to buy gifts for a dozen people.

Ack, my head wants to explode in a fiery torrent just thinking about it.

Whereas, if I stay home, my entire family will be pissed at me, and I will have three more weeks in which to procrastinate my holiday shopping. No, I am not going to knit any gifts this year. Well, except for Annabelle's annual mittens and hopefully a pair of "I'm sorry I haven't finished your sweater yet" mitts for Miz Fury. Oh, and the chemo cap for Shan's pal. But really, no knitting. Ahem. Whew. Can I have my nap now?

PS. If anyone knows how to transfer text and pix messages from an old cell phone to a new one, will you please email me instructions? Yes, it's what you think. Yeah, I know - no propriety whatsoever, except the kind where I hint at naughtiness rather than come right out and say it.
PS2. That first pic is my very very fabulous gingerbread. It is all gone. It had brandy-vanilla sauce on top, too. If you can tell me the answer to PS1, I will send you the recipe. It is an original and cannot be found in any cookbook. Because I am a rockstar in the kitchen. Ask Boywich. He will tell you.
PS3. I have another story about Boywich giving me a reference, and it is funny, and I will tell you next time. So you have that to look forward to. Okay, I will shut up and knit now. No, not mittens for anybody - I am still trying to make something happen on the algae sweater. It is hopeless, I know. I went out and bought sweaters the other day, and still I knit a little round here, a little round there. Don't I know it is futile? What is my problem? Nap, nap nappity nap.

I don't know what possessed me (I do, sort of, but it doesn't bear repeating here), but Saturday morning I woke up feeling a sudden desire to just slap my cards down on the table and demand what I felt I deserved: an answer of some kind.

So I called and left a very direct voicemail. And then I felt better. I didn't necessarily expect a response, but I felt better having done it. An hour later, I got a text in response, promising a phone call. That night I went out with a friend and had a good time. The next day I went on a date with HBG. He was nice. He was H in person, he was interesting, he was pleasant to talk to. But I kept looking out the window, hoping to see the blonde. There was no reason why I should see the blonde. It was pure reflex.

There was, in fact, nothing wrong with the HBG - nothing except that he wasn't my blonde. And I wanted my blonde.

Afterwards, I went shopping. I bought a present for the nieces, and for myself a little tape measure whose pull tab is Pinocchio's nose (who could resist?), and then five merino sweaters (I was in dire need) at the fabulous Uniqlo. Then I went home, and straight into the bathroom (needing to pee like the proverbial racehorse) (TMI, I know, but I say this only to point out the immediacy of these events), and before I even had a chance to flush, the cell phone in my pocket (still on vibrate from my date) buzzed. Blondie. Of course.

We had a long, long talk. A long, straightforward talk. A talk with depth. A talk in which he owned up that he was feeling overwhelmed with a newly weighty workload, with not having enough solitary down time, with feeling obligated to see friends and to see me and so on. I understood this, and said so. We talked about what he wanted and what I wanted.

I had been trying for days to work out in my own mind what I wanted from him and also what else I might be willing to deal with. I'm in a weird frame of mind. A more flexible, experimental, not-to-say trampy frame of mind than my normal modus operandi. But truth be told, I don't like to juggle. I like to see one person and let that run its course before looking elsewhere.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly what the blonde asked me for. Just what I really wanted from him in the first place. I had not expected to get it - to the extent that I had been trying for two weeks to purge my system of pining after him - and suddenly there it was, on a lovely, creamy, long-limbed platter.

Why? Because I got all direct and forceful about what I needed to know, and because I asked for what I wanted. Because I let myself Be Big.

He also tells me that Feline Princess is very photogenic, and that when he sees pics of her, he misses her live company. He has his own cat, who is very (very) full of personality, so it's not like he's all lonely on his oddy-knocky and we must feel sorry for him out there in his feline-deprived universe. But Miss FP is a unique creature, and I can well see why a man who'd been there through her early development and her rather nutty adolescence might pine for her when faced with her pretty face.

As a remedy, I offer the following alternate and far less photogenic view of her. Because I am home sick again, and it is the day before Thanksgiving, and I am hoping that I will not be shunned for being a vat of germs tomorrow. And I have a lot of gingerbread and even more stuffed squash to make for the party. I am spending Thanksgiving with friends, for a change, which means that I don't have to cook absolutely everything under the sun, as I did last year, but I am still called upon to use my evil talents in the kitchen as a force for good in the world. So there's that.

And I forgot to buy brandy yesterday when I was running errands (I got seduced by the Dark Side, aka. red wine, and completely spaced on part of my liquor-store errand). My plan is to go to the littler (and hopefully less-crowded) shop, where the proprietor advertises his wares with an inaccurate but highly endearing cry of "All good, All French!"

I also need more eggs. For the aforementioned gingerbread. I had some (okay, Eggbeaters; I don't eat regular eggs), but then I needed a midnight (okay, 2am) snack, and there they went, along with toast, a clementine, and a bunch of French jam (which was, in fact, very good).

See how trivial my blogging would have been had I known about NaBloPoMo?

Of course, you are all stuck with it, anyway, because I am stuck in the house and have nothing exciting to report. No boys to play with. Just some work to finish before Monday, and a bunch of zinc to ingest, and a cat, and a slow-moving sweater. After giving myself permission to start the half-alpaca wrap (sounds like a dance move, doesn't it?), I ended up gaining some steam on the skinny algae sweater, and am now working on a sleeve. It's still slow-going, since the yarn is narrow, and I am only inclined to knit about 3 rounds before falling into bed and reading and daydreaming and wishing I'd done X, Y, and Z differently either in my life in general or just in the past two weeks. Sigh.

Them's the breaks, kid, I always tell myself. Time is not an 8-track player. It goes and goes, sometimes on fast-forward, but there's no rewind.

PS. Almost forgot. The other thing Boywich tells me is that he is not, in fact, jealous, and would I please mention that here, so that all the good people out here in blogland know that he is a cool cat and a fine ex, and so on. He thought the HBG was indeed handsome and recommended him over the other chap whose profile I'd been eyeing. Also, he felt that the blonde was not interesting enough for me. Well, duh, but that is only because he's never seen him naked. I mean, there's interesting and there's interesting, ya know?

Could be the fact that I am apparently getting another cold - a bare month after getting over bronchitis. I don't want to think about the implications of getting three colds within one fall. Or the fact that two of them happened right after my first sexual encounter in a decade with someone of unknown HIV status. Yeah, great.

Let's just hope it's all the exercise being a little tough on my immune system, shall we? Not that kind of exercise. Jeez, you guys have been around me and my dirty mind too long.

So, the bummer of getting sick this week, in addition to possibly getting screwed for Thanksgiving (not that kind of screwed), is that I had a date planned with Mr. HBG (handsome black guy) tonight. I already called to cancel, because, frankly, between being sick and having all this running around to do, it's too much for a Monday night. Especially after having gone out Thursday, Friday, and Sunday nights. Whew.

Maybe it's the fact that I still have no proper winter clothing ("Knit faster!" said Annabelle), and I keep being underdressed and shivering whenever I am out anywhere. Or the running, which always leads to shivering beforehand, because one can't wear too much while running, and then afterward because one is all sweaty (and can't wear too much while running).

Or it could be the swimming, with wet head afterward. Which I'm about to go do, I think. 'Cause if I get sick I won't get to do it later in the week. Yeah, brilliant logic, I know. See what I mean? Kind of out of it. Not quite here, exactly.

In other news, I must point out the fact that this pigeon looks like he's meandering along a shoreline. I wonder if he dreams of being a seagull.

The weather here has that unsettled look that I like but which fires my insides in some strange way that is hard to describe. It happens every windy day, and some cloudy ones, and often when there is a change. I guess external changes tend to remind me of the internal ones, to wake up my eyes or just set up a longing for the Next.

All of which is a vague way of saying - Look Out.

Today's topic, and it's been brewing for a while, is the ever-frustrating subject of finding people who get you. I expect to see a lot of nodding heads in the audience about this one, because all that crap and hype that's spun about True Love and finding "the One" is really just subterfuge, disguise, veil, smoke n' mirrors obscuring the yearning we (all, I suspect) have for feeling really, deeply understood - and, hand in hand with that - valued. To truly be seen - at the level of that hard-to-express kernel that is the essence of us.

I'll be honest with you. I am not altogether sure that everyone has a wonderful hidden self inside. I don't necessarily think the whole world is peopled with magic creatures who carry secret depths nestled in their business-suited breasts like the bomb in the briefcase.

And I'll tell you another thing: I make no secret of my deeper self. It's pretty much right out there - surrounding me and suffusing me like a giant golden halo - and yet, and yet, and yet - not everybody seems to see it. Maybe it's just that some folks are wearing blinders. Let's be specific, shall we? Some boys are wearing blinders.

(Oh, he better never fucking find this blog address.)

The nascent thing with the blonde has suddenly (though there were signs) arrived at the point where he doesn't call or return mine, and the last time I saw him I had that definite and awful feeling that I was somehow competing for his attention with the whole rutting world - oops, sorry, lapsed into Firefly lingo for a moment. Not the whole rutting world - just all the girls in it.

Anyway, that, as I'm sure you know, is a sucky feeling, and it's rather rude on his part to put me into the particular situation that brought about that sucky feeling. So I've been chewing on it all week. (Yes, I did wink at the handsome black man. He emailed me back. We are going to meet. I'm not a total idiot.)

So as I was masticating this unsavory development, it occurred to me: I usually don't try to compete with the whole rutting world because I am not accustomed to feeling like I have to. Because I am accustomed to being appreciated for my uniqueness - the big brain, the big funny, the spark of fire, the Deep Thoughts and big ideas, you know - all that stuff that gets a lot of airtime here at Chez My Brain.

Well, this guy doesn't know any of that because he hasn't seen it. Nor has he gone looking for it. He never asks me anything. He appears to have no interest in the insides of my head (or heart), which to my mind is the most interesting part of me. Other than that, it's just a package of limbs and breasts, which, while they are in very good shape for my age and all, is not much different from anything else that's out there in the city streets.

I keep looking in the mirror to see if something has changed - nope, still rather pretty. Still have the big, open, wise, sad, serious, twinkly eyes that I've always thought were the best thing about my face because - well, if you look in there, you can kind of see the inside, too. But he doesn't ever look in there. I know, because I've offered. Given that slightly-long glance that's an invitation to peek in. Nope. Nothin'. Nada. No wonder, eh?

And while I'm being a yarn tramp, I think I will also knit a pair of fingerless mittens for Miz Fury, as a sort of woolly apology to her for still not having finished her giant orange hoodie from last winter. And there's another small project to do, too - quite soon, in fact. A friend of a friend has a particular need for a nice soft hat, and I have a particular merino in mind, and as soon as I get her head measurement, that becomes a priority. Though of course, a hat can practically be knit in an evening, if one can get into that nice obsessive mindset about it, instead of obsessing about everything else under the sun (read: sex and boys and rock n' roll). (I don't go in much for drugs.)

In the meantime, though, I have a little work to finish up tonight before I can wind the first delicious skein of alpaca off my happy beechwood swift and get it between my hot little hands. If you look closely at all the adjective choices in this post, you will see that I still have sex and boys and rock n' roll on the brain (okay, the first two), though I am, in this instance, attempting a temporary substitution with the fruit of the sheep (and alpaca). We'll see how it works.