Recently in Les Affaires de Coeur Category

Oh my dears, you know what happens when you have a brilliant blog post rambling around in your head while you're folding the laundry, and you think about stopping to write it down, but then you think, oh I'll remember, and anyway, if I leave this pile of laundry unguarded, on top of the bed, the cat will nest in it, and it'll not be so much clean as downy-fresh but full of cat hair.

And then you get it all put away, and all the can't-be-dried stuff hung out (of which there is a considerable amount, me being a cyclist, and American Apparel being given to not edge-finishing their short little skirts so that they shrink to the size of post-it notes if you dry them), you can't for the life of you remember the Big Blog Idea (much less where this sentence was going before that tremendous parenthetical interruption).

All I know is it had something to do with longing, which, you know, is rather a theme of mine.

When I die, my gravestone might just as well say, "Here lies Lizbon. She longed." Though I'd be happier if it said "Here flies Lizbon."

Anyway. The time has come for a new male playmate to enter my life. The only trouble is, no one seems to have alerted the men to this. And then I make the mistake of reading things like this, with all its depressing stats, and its even more depressing (and often barely literate) comments.

But at least Target is offering the Waiting for Your Bangs to Grow Out Collection. So there's that. Plenty of useful implements to tame my growing-out mop.

I tried, I really did. I went to a party last night (small, intimate) and another tonight (big, anonymous). I had two scoops of ice cream.

I rode my bike in dresses (one black and flowy, one purple and tight). I put on makeup.

I flirted with an unsuitable boy I'd never met and pined (against my will) for another I'd already messed around with and discarded.

Last year I hid in the house and watched a succession of terrible, heartache-inducing movies on TV.

This year, I had the opportunity to be out and socialize. I thought it would help. Nope. Still grumpy. Still hate being in the human race.

Just wish I could ride my bike, alone, forever, into the quiet chill blue starlight. It's all I love right now. (that, and the cat)

Someone stuck a paper heart onto my helmet as I was leaving the party and I pulled it right off.

Yep, it's one of those weeks where I keep making drafts and more drafts, sitting next to my (you guessed it) drafty window, where the cat bravely offers to keep me company on the adjacent big fluffy pillow.

I guess when you have fur, drafts don't scare you.

And then I get distracted by the fact that my lunch is ready, or my second dinner, or I need another cup of coffee, or this chair hurts my butt, or the outdoors exists, and so on, and I don't post the thing, because really I am not so sure about that draft, and there it languishes next to the three other drafts I wrote this week, and the hundred-and-something other ones I wrote that will never see the light of -er- cathrode ray tubing.

Yes, I know, hardly anyone has CRT monitors anymore. Shut up and let me have my literary devices, willya?

Anyway. At the risk of injecting yet another unpublished draft into my Folder of Oblivion, I am going to set forth a list, in hopes that my beloved list format will put me at ease about publishing the damn thing.

1. They have promised us 8 inches of snow, and so far all we've got are flurries.
2. I rode around with snow tires and a fender all ready like a badass boy scout, and I hardly even got flaked on.
3. I had a little talk with my hairdresser, and we agreed that growing my hair out is an awesome idea. Then he cut it so that the right bits will grow out in (it is hoped) a non-driving-me-crazy sort of way. It was a big step. I've had the same haircut for years.

4. See? I need a whole extra space between paragraphs after that.
5. Lemon ice cream. Lemon ice cream, I tell you!
6. I am 1.5 hats through my 3 hats of gift knitting that must be accomplished before I get to cast on for the Incredibly Cool Sweater Design I drew on an envelope.
7. I deleted my online profile and then when I went to resurrect it, thinking, what if Mr. Fabulous is looking for me there? the site first wouldn't let me log in, telling me I must've typed in the wrong username (I know my own name, you bastards), and then when I finally got in through a backdoor, it chided me for having disabled the account. "You will now not be able to disable your account again for a period of...one week." Whoop-de-fracking-doo.
8. I haven't written about boys in a while, I know. It might be because I haven't met anyone of interest, or anyone who seems interested in me. And there's been less strife in the former-boys department. I seem to be able to be around the ex-lovers without feeling sad or needing to drag them home by the hair.
9. In point of fact, I had dinner with summerboy this evening and had a pretty darn good time, laughing and joking around. I was only slightly annoyed at him for still looking cute. Don't boys know they should immediately go to pot after you cease to be involved with them? Really, it would be just great if he'd get horribly ugly. How about some gooseturd-colored contact lenses? Try, really try, to gain a hundred pounds (he's skinny, so it would take a hundred). Take up smoking! That's an instant turn-off. No? Oh well, it was fun hanging with you anyway, cutie.
10. Squirrel!

* In cycling, drafting means following another cyclist very closely to take advantage of the reduction in wind drag.

Wow, what a week. Lots of late-night shenanigans (no, not that kind) and random weirdness. Highlights:

Found two kittens abandoned in a plastic bag. Found someone to take them home. Wondered about the mess that is human nature. Who the hell would do such a thing? My diagnosis: Lack of ability to put oneself into another creature's shoes (or in this case paws).

Finished the first small item of holiday knitting. Started next while at laundromat. Annoying little girl came over and bumped up against me and got right in my space while I was knitting. If I were a child-liking person, I would no doubt have chatted with her and showed her what I was making. Instead, I glared until her mother came and got her. Hey, she's no niece o' mine.

I was, in fact, knitting mittens for my niece at the time. Yes, I know, that's horribly inconsistent, but what can I say? I'm a complicated woman. Also, I'm fairly certain I'm not the only one who dislikes children writ large but has special relationships with specific children who are related by blood or friendship.

Danced with handsome boy on Friday. That was fun. He lives far away.

Kissed different handsome boy yesterday. Nice, but you know, nothing doing there.

Had conversation with male friend that went like this:

He: "Hey, will you tell Summerboy XYZ?"

Me: "Um. I don't see him very...we're not...I don't..."

He: "Oh. Hey, you should just get a guy you can (less polite term for have sex with) on the DL."

Me: "No, I'm not built for that."

He: "You mean you want a BOYFRIEND?" (surprised)

Me: "I know you haven't heard that word come out of my mouth in a while (or ever), but yeah. I think it's time."

He: "Hey, if I wasn't doing so well with my girlfriend, you're totally my type."

Me: "Ack."

Later that night, I pondered. Lots of men say I'm their "type." And yet.

It gave me to think. And what I thought was this: I'm intimidating. I may look like someone they'd want, but get me in a conversation and within five minutes most guys are feeling kind of stupid. Or at least they're thinking, what the hell would she need me for?

And they're not wrong. I probably project self-sufficiency at a radius of 90 yards. I certainly don't like being approached by guys in clubs or bars, and I'm very adept at warding off all attempts. I tend to have a kneejerk reaction of, "I'm with my friends. Buzz off."

So how did I end up dancing with a handsome 20-something doctor? He was a friend of my friends, of course. And because of that, he had a chance where none of the other boys in the bar did.

Tell her you love big thighs.
Tell her sweaty is sexy.
Tell her you hate high heels.
Develop a fetish for knee-length pants and legwarmers.
Let her lead the way sometimes.
If you are faster than her, refrain from showing that off constantly.
Be patient with her extensive locking-up routine.
Join her for second dinner. Or third.
Flirt with her by making innuendos about bike parts.
Tell her she doesn't have helmet head.
Bring her snacks.
When she falls in love with that perfect little NJS frame but doesn't have the money to buy it, buy it for her secretly and then casually park it in your apartment and wait for her to notice.
Take her dancing.
Understand that she will always love and need her bikes just a little bit more than she loves and needs you. Be okay with that. At least you get to sleep in the bed.

It rained and rained today, after a Friday so blustery that I had to leap off my bike to avoid being knocked down by the wind.

I'm pretty experienced at riding in bad weather, so that emergency-maneuver moment came as something of a surprise. I'm guessing that gust was 60mph or higher. It's been a weird few days, and I am spinning a little in place, not sure which direction to move.

I had a silly revelation in which I realized that what I'd thought was me having lost my magic touch with bread dough was in fact simply ill-placed frugality. I was stubbornly trying to use up the last of a few packets of expired yeast. They weren't terribly long-expired - just a couple of months, but apparently it does make a difference.

This time around I immediately felt the yeast lively and springing under my hands as I began to knead. No elaborate coaxing necessary. The final product is light and delicate and moist and chewy and delightful. Only six ingredients: flour, water, yeast, molasses, salt, canola oil. Seven if you count the fact that the flour was two different kinds - whole wheat and white hard-wheat (bread-specific). I used a larger ratio of whole wheat to white, because I wanted it to pretty much be whole wheat bread.

I brought some to a dinner party and froze one and kept one out, wrapped up, to be eaten in the next couple of days.

I dunno what to say in the boy department. I feel like it's almost time to meet someone. Someone a bit more than the casual-friend-lover hybrid(s) I've been fooling about with for the last year.

But I can't say I'm especially sanguine about the prospects. I just don't meet people all that often or easily, and I have a lot of requirements. Which is funny, given how much I've teased other people about that very thing - "Your list is too long to be realistic."

My requirements, in order of non-negotiability, are:

non-smoker
not addicted to alcohol or drugs
cyclist
attractive (to me)

I guess that's it, but the last item on the list encompasses a wide range of subcategories. I mean, I'm not attracted to men who are significantly less intelligent than me - unless I'm using them for sex, in which case, Whatever.

They kind of have to have a decent sense of humor, and by that I mean that they have to have some measure of original wit and also to think I'm damn funny when I'm being damn funny.

They can't be a macho chauvinist pig.

They have to think I'm da bomb.

They have to be damn good in bed.

They have to smell right and/or taste right.

They can't live in New Jersey. They can't be domineering. They can't be married or have kids. They can't take the subway. (I'm sorry; that just grosses the shit out of me.) They can't be pining for a high-heels, ponytail sort of girl. I'd prefer that they weren't rampant carnivores, since it makes it hard to agree on restaurants, though that one isn't a deal breaker. It would be really, really nice if they wanted to dance with me sometimes. It would be nice if they had actual hair on their head. It would be nice if they were handsome in an un-mainstream, un-GQ sort of way. A little exotic or a little quirky (or both) is fine. Awesome, actually.

Know anyone?

The old Dr. Dolittle (Rex Harrison, was it Rex Harrison?) used to be one of my favorite movies, and next to the magic sea snail in which they traveled (which I really thought of more as a conveyance than a character), my favorite character was the Pushmepullyou. This amounted to a llamalike beast with two front ends and no rear. I am going on memory here; I refuse to google for a Proustian essay.

Over the years the pushmepullyou has become a personal shorthand for a person (often me) who isn't sure what they want, whose desires are all over the map, pulling him or her in several conflicting directions at once.

At the moment, pushmepullyou describes my emotional state perfectly, especially as it pertains to boys. Or what I'd want from a boy if I were offered one. Or...you get the picture. I can't even write in a straight line to tell you what it is that I can't think in a straight line about.

I sent Summerboy a rambunctious text message today, to which he chose to respond in a fairly straightforward manner, ignoring the subtext. Which I guess is okay, and allows me to pass it off as merely jesting and not outright flirtation. I can pretend I was talking about sex because we always used to talk about sex, before we'd had any together. I can pretend I was trying to go back to the way we were, to act as if it all had never happened, or as if it hadn't made much difference in how I feel around him.

It was a total lie.

And the funny thing is, I always joked with him about the fact that I can't lie, that I never even try.

But, hanging around with my girlfriends at a party the last time I saw him, I realized that I lie all the time - to me. I lied when I told myself I wasn't interested. I lied when I told myself all I wanted was a "friend with benefits." I lied when I told myself I could handle that arrangement. And then later, I lied when I told myself I was over it, and that I couldn't even see why I'd been attracted to him.

I lied like a rug when I smiled and played the cool unruffled bachelor at the party, and I lied when I ignored him standing there talking to other girls, and I lied when I told myself it didn't matter that his lunch date probably was a date.

So when he called tonight to follow up on that cagey text, it's no wonder that I lied to him, too. I put on a good show of the lighthearted friend making sex jokes. And I got off the phone and thought, Shit. That new boy, whoever he is, better fucking show up fast.

I read my tarot cards the other night, and the weirdest thing happened.

It told me that everything is going to be just the way I've always wanted it to be.
I don't mean that I'm suddenly going to be unnaturally blessed or anything - just that the work I've been doing is going to pay off.

It's a strange thing when you get that kind of message. You're metaphorically standing there, holding the piece of paper in your hand, and it falls to the ground, and you don't even notice it, because you're basically frozen with disbelief. It's like someone's just told you the world is flat, really for real, it's flat, and you have to rethink everything that ever happened to you in light of that new knowledge.

I put the cards away, and smiled, and went to bed.

Last night I dreamed of having sex with an ex-lover, and then woke up and made coffee and rode my bike. I wasn't exactly sure where I was headed; I just knew that I needed to go. On the street I ran into someone I know slightly - a man who'd made it fairly clear on more than one occasion that he was interested in me.

I'm not attracted to him, I don't think, but I keep having these interesting, sunny conversations with him.

I don't mean that the sun is actually shining at the time, just that the thing bounces along in a merry sort of way, and we end up talking about insoluble math problems.
I thought, when the first conversation happened, that it was a pity he wasn't cuter. The second time I caught myself wondering if maybe he is cuter, and I just can't see it quite yet.

I had a terrible time trying to be (natural and relaxed and casual yet sexy) around the summer boy at the party I went to, and today I was mulling it over, and being bothered that it was still difficult, and then I ran into this other fellow, who happened to be heading exactly where I'd loosely planned to go myself, and so we rode together for a bit. I felt like it was the universe trying to help me out of the hole a little.

Forgive me for again disappearing into the woodwork. I've been having a rough time of it. Things are ultraweird on several levels, and I'm exhausted, and I need to finish that sweater tout de suite because it is cold out.

I've been plying the new pocketcam with mixed results. Still learning its capabilities, which are sometimes pretty good and sometimes strangely bad. I seem to end up with unfocused shots more than I would expect to. Though perhaps the light hasn't been very good.

As usual, I have trouble stopping on the bridges to take those pics that I always want to show you. It's just so difficult, once I'm pedaling, to want to ever get off the bike.

I ended up riding around the park again tonight, and then taking a detour on my way home, after having already ridden 30 miles today, simply because I couldn't resist the lure of the cool fall night and perpetual motion. It's good, and it's a good thing, too, because when things are like they are now, it's about all I can stand to do. Booga booga.

Anyway, I really don't know what to tell you. I haven't got much fun stuff to report.

I met a guy I thought was interesting, and cute, but he was introduced to me as someone on whom a friend of mine has a crush, so there's not much I can do about following up on the possible interest. I mean, maybe eventually, but I have to sit back and watch things play out with the friend first.

He's not the same guy I mentioned in the last post. He's more suitable, at least in age, and possibly in other ways, though it's awfully difficult to tell in a first meeting like that. At least he is not from the Internet. We have sworn off that as a source of boy material. Yuck. It never works.

Things have been weird with the boy formerly known as boy number two. Sometimes it seems like we'll be friends again and sometimes I'm not so sure. It's part of the whole weirdness casserole I've got going on right now, but by no means the main ingredient.

Like a lot of people, I have been wanting to knit again, which is good, because my sweaters are getting very threadbare.

I'm starting to feel ever so slightly sorry for myself that I won't be at Rhinebeck this year. Though I've just remembered that a lot of people can't go to Rhinebeck because they live in Portland or some such place, so maybe I can pretend I live far away.

Bear with me a moment; I've had this whole essay going in my head while I was getting ready for bed, and at last it became clear that I was going to have to write it down or face listening to it whirl while I tried to sleep.

The trouble is, I've the urge to start with where I ended up, rather than begin at the beginning.

It began with a conversation I had over IM this afternoon. It wasn't all that different from hundreds or thousands of conversations taking place all over the world, I imagine. Two women were talking about feeling self-conscious about aspects of their bodies.

In this case, it happened to be two rather strong-minded, unsuperficial, relatively confident, self-assured, fully adult women who on the whole like themselves quite well.

But we'd both been having moments lately where we look in the mirror and are not pleased. In my own case, I think it stems from external circumstances that have caused me to feel a bit like I did when I was a very unself-confident teen. The kinds of things one likes to think one has grown out of at the ripe old age of my ripe old age.

Anyway, I find myself missing being told nice things about my physical self. Boywich used to tell me I was beautiful - or at least I think he did. In any case, he managed to make me feel that he felt I was.

I know in some sense that it came from him loving me. That when he looked at me, he wasn't just seeing my packaging but also the person in there, whom he found beautiful and worthy of love. So it was easy for him to say it. Or to bring me lots of roses. Or both.

You can't have that with someone who doesn't know you, and doesn't really want to know you any better than they do. I guess it's the latter part that does more than simply not make me feel beautiful - it makes me feel unbeautiful. Not wanting to know me, not wanting, in point of fact, to admit to being involved with me, made me feel quite ugly. (Not to mention angry)

And no matter how much I tell myself it doesn't matter, and that I can consider myself beautiful anyway, I've lost a little bit of my shine. Just for a little while, I think. But it's definitely there, the dull spot.

That scar on my stomach looks more noticeable than it used to. I feel like I look pregnant about half of the month. My face looks heavy and old. I bet no one sees this but me. I bet most of it isn't true (I do in fact bloat to an amazing degree of late, and there's no getting around that. The clingy dresses are taking some time off).

It's a curse that someone else's opinion should matter more than my own. It's a curse I've fought extremely hard against, and will probably have to keep fighting forever.

Rice and beans and sauteed greens, that's what little girls are made of.

Well, this one anyway. Then of course, I had to have a second dinner a few hours later, which consisted of oatmeal and apples. Before you get on your aghast horse about the apparent healthyness of all that, know this:

a) I had a little dark chocolate, too. (Green & Black's 85%)

b) If you ever want to improve your eating habits, just become a serious (or even quasi-serious) athlete. You'll have no trouble at all, because your body will be constantly crying out for high-quality fuel, not junk.

It's been quite a week or two hereabouts. I have had bad days and good days, and bad hours and good hours. On the whole, I think things are fine.

A friend who's in a position to know remarked to me today that it was a neat trick of mine to only date men who are past masters in the art of mixed messages, since it helps ensure that I won't be trapped in a relationship that makes serious demands of me.

I laughed and laughed. Genius, ain't it?

And I instantly had an image of Thomas Crown raising a glass to his female toxic bachelor counterpart, Catherine Banning, saying, "Here's to the fear of being trapped." Oh yes, my darling, oh yes.

I rode brilliantly, smiling all the way, in bright sunshine and hefty headwind, and stopped and ate an apple (thank the gods it's apple season once again), and ran into two handsome fellows of my acquaintance (no wait, three), and generally enjoyed my beautiful bachelorhood. Sometimes it's fun to know what you're doing, under all that uncertainty.

I do not like endings. Maybe it's because I'm a natural-born storyteller, and maybe it's because, all my life, when I was reading a good book, I never, ever wanted it to end. Whatever it is, I don't like saying goodbye. I don't like changing seasons, and I don't like crossing borders. I want everyone and everything to keep spinning on its pleasant, familiar little axis. And unfortunately, that sometimes extends to keeping things spinning on their unpleasant familiar little axes, too.

I find, since I began dating again after a long absence, that I get more emotional than I expect to about the breakups of even small relationships - even the ones where you've really only seen the person a few times. Or the longer ones that are casual in name, but feel like they went a little deeper than the other person (and sometimes me) wants to admit.

I had a good day yesterday, and a mostly good day today. And despite that, or just next to it, I am a little sad tonight, on the couch with the knitting and the little pieces of memory from last week.

My head swims with this or that image, and I am unsure what to do with it. Chase it away, or watch it flutter by like falling leaves?

It was cold today, the kind of cold that tells me winter really is coming back, even though it felt all summer like it had only just left. I wanted my legwarmers. I knitted a hat last night, and I am starting another.

I miss him. He hurt my feelings on a number of occasions, and for various reasons I decided I needed Out, but I think about tangling up with him, all awkward limbs on the couch, and I'm sad again. I wish for him and I don't wish for him. I had a really nice series of kisses with the other boy to keep me company yesterday, to leave me feeling like sunshine on my face (he always reminds me of the sun, that one. It's his smile). And those thoughts came to me tonight on the couch, too, and I mechanically swatted them away before I realized he's no longer the one who's vaguely off-limits in my thoughts. It's the other one, the boy I spent all summer with.

Every week, we rode somewhere together - errands or the beach or the ice cream parlor. Someplace that could have been romantic and was never quite allowed to be, because we weren't doing that.

That part was a bit of a lie. At least for me. Despite myself, I knew I was getting a little attached. I tried to explain it not once but a number of times, tried to explain about sex and all its tendrils that tangle you together in ways and places you're half unaware of.

He didn't get it. I think because he's young - younger even than his age. When I mentioned that to Boywich, I could hear him nodding on the phone. Of course, he said. Sex is different. It's different than fooling around. It just IS. It changes things. It changes things and it's hard to come back from and resume where you left off. I don't think it'll ever be the same with this boy. Paradoxically, I think it'll be worse precisely because he doesn't know or won't admit that it made things different.

If he understood, if he were experiencing the same thing, we might, after a time, return to just being friends.

I don't know why I think that's less likely to succeed with someone I un-dated for four months than it was with someone I was in love with for nearly a decade.

I love and adore Boywich and always will, but I was able to become his friend, and not to want anything different. We had this conversation not too long ago, in which I remember telling him that he's my person. He's my guy. He's the one I would call in what Tolkien referred to as the utmost hour of need. And he knew that, already.

I am rambling, I suppose, and I want to watch Harold and Maude again. There's a commercial on lately that uses the Cat Stevens song that fits Harold and Maude so well, and it's completely out of place in the ad, but it keeps prodding me to re-watch the movie.

The movie is like a compass for me; it resets my direction when I start to feel lost. I can't even tell you why. Maybe it's the scene with the daisies. You know, where she asks him what kind of flower he'd like to be, and he points to the daisies, and says because they're all alike. And she says, no, they're not. Look closer, and you'll see that each one is unique (I am paraphrasing). And then she says something like, "I think a lot of the pain in this world comes from people who are this (holding up an individual daisy) but who allow themselves to be treated like that (sweeping her arm across the same-seeming field of daisies)."

My next tattoo will be of flowers, you know.

You know, there are times when I'd really like to blog and just can't muster it up. I'm afraid there have been a lot of those lately.

It's usually because there's too much going on that's personal, that I don't want to talk about because it will be too much like prodding a bruise.

It's times like those when a list of random thoughts or observations is a girl's best friend.

1. I'd like to get a new nose-ring. I've looked and don't see any I like yet.
2. I broke up with that boy I wasn't dating.
3. As a gift to myself, I then went to see (flirt with) the other boy I also wasn't dating. It was nice to see him, but it didn't help much.
4. I feel sad about breaking up with the boy I wasn't dating.
5. I don't necessarily feel like it's the wrong decision, but it is not so easy. I mean, one clever little text does not really solve anything. There are still a tangle of raggedy edges in my chest with his name all over them.
6. Also, there is the lust, which will no doubt be a problem the next time I see him.
7. Oy.
8. See? Even when I set out to make a random list, it is anything but, and the true thing that's occupying my thoughts comes right out front. I might as well stop this list right now and lapse into paragraphy.
9. Though if I do that, I might be tempted into other lapses as well.
10. Consciousness. Employment. Judgment.

Also, I am thirsty, which seems like a metaphor somehow.

The funny thing is, as soon as I decide to lapse into paragraphy, I get all pithy and listlike.

I am a perverse creature. In more ways than (the obvious) one.

It seems to be setting out to be a week of making prudent decisions which I rapidly regret and then pine about. I had also decided not to spend some additional money on a bicycle I can't afford. And now I am sad about that, too.

I think I am still not ready to relinquish my extended adolescent funfest. Despite summer being patently on its way out. Appropriately enough, I am also nervous because my period is a little late. Dudes, that is taking teenage verisimilitude a little too far. Cramps and blood, please. Stat.

Note: Photo courtesy of cell phone cam.

Goodbye, summer. You sucked, by and large.

You presented very little in the way of good weather or vacations (haven't seen one of those since 2005). There was no grand summer romance. I was not filled with joy and mischief. I didn't lose weight. Quite the opposite in fact.

You rained and stormed and made me ill for the entire first month of you.

You sent me what I asked for, a playmate who'd want nothing more, and I wasn't at all sure, once I had it, that it was enough. I'm still not sure. I think it is what I want, but I want him to want me more often than he does.

You gave me some work when I desperately needed it, and I do appreciate that part.

But you didn't really feel like summer at all. I kept waiting and waiting for you to start, in earnest, and all you offered was a burst of hot weather and humidity, like a pressure cooker. And then rain. And now it's September, and I have knitted the rim of a little wool hat. I've an inch of ribbing already. And that means you're done. Gone.

Sure, I may have one last day to ride to the beach with one or the other boy (preferably the older one; he's more handsome, and I've never seen him in beach clothes). I may wear my tie-dyes a few more weeks.

I might want to smell like Delirium a ways into fall, and I might cut off a few more pairs of jeans - but they'll really be for the cold weather to come. It's going to rain again, and this time it'll be cold, and it'll be harder to leave the house. It'll snow, and I'll have to figure out how to seal these windows up. I'll think about having a friend over to bake bread, but it won't happen. He'll make jokes about it; bread will be an innuendo for the rising of other passions. And that won't happen either.

The leaves will fall and I'll wish I had an apple tree.

What is it about the end of summer that just fills me with longing? I feel the same way about Sunday nights, which makes a tail-of-summer Sunday night a double whammy.

It was a slightly odd weekend. Not bad, but full of unacted-upon impulses and chance meetings. It left me feeling a little gnawing emptiness, like hunger - nothing to get excited about, but discomfiting.

I wonder, sometimes, whether the end of life will feel like that - like a meal that wasn't quite right. One enjoyed the things one ate, but there was surely something missing - a magical lemon sorbet that never appeared.

I had a friend whose mother died very young, and I remember her talking about the tragedy of it, not just of her dying, but of all the things left unfinished in that early departure. Of her never having been sufficiently loved.

That's a fear that drives a lot of us, I think. That we won't find the "loves of our lives" before we die, and then, it is supposed, our years here will have been in vain. I am not sure I believe it's got that kind of importance.

Oh, it's not that I don't believe in the existence of love; I've experienced it several times, in several different ways, each of them interesting and imperfect and not destined to last.

I guess that's okay.

You can say this is terrible, cynical, depressing, or whathaveyou, but I don't necessarily think it's all that important to be in love in a way that lasts forever and takes you through to the edge of the grave.

I think love in the wider sense teaches us things and helps our lives feel substantial and worthy. But romantic love? I dunno. There are so many different kinds, after all.

There is the kind that seems to grow right out of one's body, as if it were a tree with roots in our groin. There is the kind that suggests an electrical spark jumping the gap between two minds, so that you needn't always voice the thought to have it heard. There is the kind that makes one aware of the texture of one's heart, as a soft, yielding, springy presence in one's chest. Like those very expensive mattresses that take on an imprint of the flesh pressing into them and retain it for a time.

They're all compelling. But as the center of one's life? One's whole purpose for being here? I don't buy it.

My own purpose(s) for being here (and I begin to think they are plural) are shifting, shadowy. They change and mutate and morph. They are magical creatures whom I never quite catch. I find that it's best not to look for them directly, and best not to chase. I can sense their presence, and I can make them welcome in my home, and that's about all. Like all wild creatures, they're to be respected, not tamed.

The vampire says to the werewolf: "Maybe we need a bit of risky."

The werewolf says to the vamp: "We need to set some ground rules about guests. Like don't kill them."

Snicker.

So. In no particular order:

I cooked some chickpeas. I wore my Oscar T-shirt and, walking down the street, a guy stops me and in friendly manner requests a high-five because I am "Rockin' the Grouch."

I rode into town and back at approximately a million miles an hour. I helped a friend hang some blinds and picked up some T-shirts I'd tie-dyed with her a few days ago. I got back on the bike and raced over to the restaurant where I was meeting this cute boy. Sigh. Cute boy.

Cute boy and I ate food and then cupcakes in rapid succession and then hopped on our bikes. He said I could come stay if I wanted, though he'd just moved that day and his apt was a mess. I declined. Not because I didn't want him, but because I was all sweaty, and I feel that a person's first night in a new apt should be spent solo. For the human-apartment bonding. I didn't explain my reasoning, I just called "good night" as I turned left, away from him.

Then of course I regretted it, because, you know - cute boy.

PS. Those lines of dialogue come from Being Human, which is effing brilliant, like so much of what's on BBC America.

I have been known on occasion to howl at the moon. - Crash Davis.

We are mysteries to ourselves, much of the time. This is what I think. Lately, I think it, in one form or another, with varying degrees of awareness, almost daily.

Sometimes we don't find out what is going on until, watching someone else's story, a thrumming goes off somewhere in us - a reverberation of the chest bones.

It's hot in here. I'm restless as a lizard who's stayed too long on the rock.

I notice that the cat sleeps with all four feet together, as if to be always ready to run. I wonder if I should learn to do that.

A lot of characters in movies seem to cut themselves off from risk, and then to be taught that that's wrong. Watching, I usually think I'd make a more interesting character if I were the kind who held it all back and had to be opened up like that.

And then I find how little I allow myself to play at life. How foreign it is to simply do what I want to do, in the moment.

I'm watching a horrendously expurgated - nay, butchered - version of Bull Durham on TV, and it's only just occurred to me that Annie has some things in common with me. In a way I'd never expected she would. Not because the movie has altered over time, but because I have.

Reading a book on story forms and classic archetypes from myth, I came upon a paragraph that stopped me in the proverbial tracks.

In the realm of love, the Mentor's function may be to initiate us into the mysteries of love or sex. In India they speak of the shakti - a sexual initiator, a partner who helps you experience the power of sex as a vehicle of higher consciousness. (from The Writer's Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers)

Sigh. Damn, I guess that's me. At least in this particular story.
I kind of love the idea; I just hadn't thought of it that way. Yet.

*with apologies to the incomparable Walt.

Hey, I warned you. In the absence of pocketcam, you get what I got, which is a whole lotta Cat.

Well, more properly it is a lot of views of one smallish cat.

Maybe if she weren't so photogenic. Maybe if anyone else would let me take photographs of their faces.

Not that I'd post pics of Boys here. That would be ill-advised.

For one, I'd have to disclose to them the existence of this blog, and then there would go my pressure valve for when they are driving me apeshit batty.

For another, well, I don't like to share my toys, ya know?

Anyway. All of this is by-the-by. Kitwich is pretty, and even though she generally leaps for cover when I point the Nikon at her, occasionally I do capture some hilarious expressions on her face, and she can't verbalize to me her dislike of being Famous, so here she is, looking sarcastic, as she often does when she's sleepy.

I was telling a friend of mine about how Boy Number Two (who really needs a new designation, since he's now my primary playmate) had accidentally left things at my place a couple of times, and she was telling me it was the modern male's equivalent of marking territory, and then I told her that I'd done the same thing at his place.

And then I thought about it.

When I was in college (way back in the dark ages; I used to ride my pet brontosaur to school), the popular wisdom among us inexperienced college folk held that if a boy or girl left behind an item of clothing or a toothbrush or something at your house, it meant they were into you.

When I realized that the boy and I had begun to do that, I immediately thought of that interpretation and then shrugged it off as silly. I mean, really, who wants to read too much into a toothbrush?

But the curious thing is, the idea of there being some kind of interesting psychological underpinning seems to hold water. Neither of us did that for the first couple of months that we were playing with each other. (Yes, by playing I mean having sex.) The day I left something at his house, I'd been very careful to locate (or so I thought) all my random items. And I got home, all proud that my incriminating undies were safely ensconced in my bike bag, and thought, Oh good. I got everything.

And then he texted me. Oops. The last three times we've spent the night together, the visiting party has left something behind.

So here's what I think.

I don't think it means anything Big. I think it's part and parcel of our weird, non-definable connection to each other. We clearly want to be around each other. For various, private, probably differing reasons, we don't want to be boyfriend/girlfriend. But there is something there that is hard to explain. It's primarily physical, but not in the way that I was with the famous Blonde.

{Note: Longtime readers may remember the Blonde, but more recent recruits can get enough of an image from his nom de plume: The Junk. He acquired that name while I was trying to give him up, and one of my friends kept teasing me about what a hard time I was having with it. "Are you off the Junk yet?" "Yes. I'm off the Junk. Well, nearly." "You are so totally still on the Junk. I bet you're in his apartment right now." "Yeah. I am."}

Anyway.

The Blonde used to drive me but absolutely up a wall, in a good way (mostly). This doesn't quite have the same 50-caliber lust factor, but there is certainly something going on that I don't want to give up. And I think (at least for the moment) that's okay. It's messy. Oh boy is it messy. But there is something there that makes us both want to leave little marks of ourselves behind. Footprints in the sand.

I eat and I eat and I eat, and then in half an hour I am hungry again, and the cat comes over to say hello and perch at my shoulder.

Thankfully she is not perching on my shoulder, as it is hot(ish) and she is furry.

I got this hungry by dint of sprinting 15 miles this morning, then another 8 or so, then the last 7 or so home. So. Tired.

So tired that I had to stop at every light to drape my upper body over the handlebars. So tired that even my friend (boy) said I looked tired, and usually he says something a little nicer, like that I look about 12 in my Oscar T-shirt.

He looked adorable, by the way. In case anybody is asking.

I had a funny day. I did so much riding, and then a bit of hanging out with friends who were equally tired (nobody slept last night, it seems), so that we were a roving yawnfest with very interesting bicycles. It was fun.

I realized today that the odd, confusing situation I am in (with regard to boys) happens to be exactly what I need. It reflects my emotional weather forecast, which is rather unsettled and not quite this thing or the other. It's not necessarily comfortable, but it's certainly interesting. And it's fun. Sometimes it's a lot of fun.

It's strange that I needed to give myself permission to not know what I want. And once I did that, I felt better. Why we think we always have to have so much taped down and clear, I don't know.

Sometimes life is just a muddle, and sometimes that's fine. It's like having your good angel and your devilish angel having a party above both shoulders. Occasionally you get kicked in the head (by accident), but the music they make is really entertaining.

PS. I found the pocketcam I want, but it's twice what I was expecting to spend, so I am going to sit on that for a while and ponder.

PS2. Oh my lord. How can it be possible? I am starving again.

When people introduce themselves, the first few questions are invariably the civilian equivalent of name/rank/serial number: What's your name? What do you do?

The latter being perceived as the most important, the real identifier. We are what we do. Presumably.

Why, then, do I feel so far removed from my self-identifiers? When asked, I usually say "I'm a writer." And occasionally, "I'm a writer and an artist."

But honestly, the only places I write lately are here, the fridge, and work. None of which align with the sort of writing that I'd expected - or hoped - to define my life, to be the conduit for everything I want to say and make for this world.

I don't think I'm finished or anything. Heck, I've hardly started.

But when I look at the things that occupy the bulk of my thought and conversation, they're like the joke someone made about me recently - "You're all about the two B's - bikes and boys."

Yes, I am.

At least, most of my surface-level thoughts are.

I suspect, though, that there's something more happening underneath. I think what the two B's have in common, and what may explain why they're so compelling to me, is this: PLAY.

I haven't played nearly enough in my life. I've been so damn serious, for so very long. SO SERIOUS. So serious, in fact, that last summer I had to consciously strive not to think so much. Not to make any big decisions, at least not with my brain. Last year was all about learning to listen to my body, to lead with hormones and chemicals and muscle.

This summer I haven't been quite sure what's going on, until now. Side note: It's interesting that I seem to do a lot of big work during summers. It's as if each has a theme, and at the moment, paradoxically, the theme seems to be about not working so much - and not only that but actively learning to play. Allowing myself to be all about play, and all about the two B's - my favorite forms of it.

So while that may seem shallow, especially to that judgmental part of me that's been so harsh, so demanding - it's maybe not a waste of energy, nor of my not-inconsiderable talents and brainpower.

I desperately need to play, I think. I don't think I can really write that great novel without it. My brain needs to grow some frills, some frosting; it needs pink.