Story Part VIII

The day after Sebastian left, I was busy with meetings with the advisor, teaching class--back to the grind, back to reality. The weekend had been a roller coaster of emotion--on paper, he was perfect; on email and phone, ideal...in person, I felt there was potential, but it had gone severely unrealized. I called him that afternoon, but he never answered. I checked my voicemail that evening, but he had never called back. I resorted to our first form of contact, the tried and true email:

"Dear Sebastian,
I'm feeling strangely deflated and I don't know why. Please call me when you have a moment."

There were too many emotions swirling around, pumping through my veins, blinding my insight. I suppose I merely wanted confirmation. And he began to give it to me in obscured, over-prosed words. So hazy was that email, I now find I am unable to fetch it from my mind. But I do remember my response:

"Sebastian,
If I am just not what you're looking for, please be so kind as to tell me plainly."

He replied,

"Lexi,
I apologize for being so opaque. My mind is still trying to process everything. But I just didn't feel any intimacy with you this weekend. I hate to assess our time that way, because I know that intimacy takes time to develop, but I feel I must remain critical in my choices if I am to find happiness. A long-distance relationship is a bear for the both of us, so no, I don't think we should pursue a relationship. If we lived closer to one another, we could certainly date and answer any questions. But we don't. I would like to continue to know you, but we can leave that as something to be discussed. I hope I was at least mildly amusing.

Sebastian."

I was floored. The neurotic mess was rapidly devolving into psychotic mess. I tried to call him so that I could at least have the gift of a two-way conversation during my swift rejection. He did not answer. He emailed again,

"Lexi,
I apologize for not calling. You are much more articulate than I, and it is certainly intimidating to think of speaking with you on the phone. I guess I should apologize for initiating that which I was unable to carry through. You are a remarkable person despite my own hang-ups.

S."

I could not believe my eyes. "More articulate than I"? "Intimidating"? Did he realize the degree to which he was currently patronizing me? Was he really so certain of his abilities to sum up an individual over three days that he would carelessly toss over a month of intense communication? Before he visited, he had told me he loved me! And now, he hoped he was 'at least mildly amusing"?

I snapped. I sent about five emails over the course of four days--each filled to the brim with my thoughts of his emotional immaturity, his psychological hang-ups, his complete ineptness...all couched in "I only want to help you, even if you're not meant to be with me" terms, of course. Clearly I wasn't the crazy one. I was the friendly ex who harbored only slight feelings of rage at the man who dared to break up with me over email rather than taking the opportunity to do so in person, or even on the phone. No, I was fine.

I was also late. A-hem. Late. In that I'm-a-woman-my- body's-a-calendar-surely-time- is-shifting late. If I was fine before, I was now friggin' spectacular.

Obsession became my new passion in life. I began to hate him like I have never hated another human being. Ever. That he could come into my life, fill me with expectations (of course those were not my doing), judge me, potentially knock me up, and then have the audacity to break up with me over email...And after sending those five epic emails depicting every flaw of which I determined he was in possession, I knew I couldn't tell him. Hell, the chances of me getting him on the phone had just gone from slim to none. And I also knew I couldn't tell him until I knew myself, but my fear of being pregnant manifested itself as a fear of taking a pregnancy test.

I had always shaken my finger at others who had refused to be tested for Other Things: "The Test will not change the Reality," I wisely thought. However, it turned out that taking the test lended more Reality to the Possibility. And I just didn't have the courage to do that at the moment.

I had been hanging on by an emotional thread, and it was beginning to fray.

*********

(Note: I will be out of town this weekend for my pals' wedding (yea!!), but stay tuned...)

Story Part VII: Miscellany and Details

I feel I should take a break from the telling of chronological events, and zoom out so that you, dear reader, might have some broader sense for this story--I feel you need context. Further, this story is about to take a serious turn, and perhaps I might brace you for what is to come...

As a graduate student, I had become increasingly depressed with the future I was confronting as an academic--the petty bickering, the need to state all opinions as fact, the compulsion to be right at all times. I was uncomfortable with the persona I had increasingly adopted as my own. And, I was becoming increasingly adept at maneuvering myself in this environment, and that fact petrified me.

Also, I had been on a string of terrible dates--the week long trip to Boston (aka Hell) had severely shaken my confidence--a fact I was unwilling to admit to myself or others. After a two-weeks of email and phone courting, my Boston date flew me cross-country for a New Years nightmare. After three days of coldness bordering on moderate hostility, I broke down into a puddle of tears in the middle of a pool hall in front of my date during our third match. He finally confided that he had seen his ex-girlfriend on his visit home during Christmas, realized he was still in love with her, but had already purchased my ticket. He thought he was being kind by restraining himself from any and all signs of flirtation. I had been under the impression I had marks of the plague which I just couldn't see (I'm color blind and can't see red or green). So, although the confusion was resolved, it was still a pretty terrible week...feeling extremely uwnanted but, for all intents and purposes, trapped with my excrutiatingly polite (and frigidly cold) host.

Sebastian came along soon thereafter, and his letters to me were brimming with complements, hope, and raw attraction. While I desperately needed to hear those words at the time--to feel attractive to someone, I wasn't emotionally prepared for them; every complement became yet another expectation I felt incapable of meeting. But, so clever was I at fooling myself, I adamantly maintained that I was whole, healthy, and ready.

While he was here, we weren't experiencing that infamous connection of which poets write, but we were having fun. We laughed for hours on end. But, having spent so much of our pre-visit time conversing about our intolerably high standards, our inability to become intimate with most others, we were simply incapable of breaking the routine with one another. We had woven webs, and we were indefinitely stuck.

And, though we were not emotionally intimate with one another, we were physically intimate on numerous occasions. It was just easier to substitute physicality for the intimacy we both sought, but of which we were both incapable at the time. And, though we were careful on every occasion, on our last morning together, an accident did indeed occur.

So, this was the state of affairs as we enter into the next segment of our story. And if you thought I was to be your heroine, I fear you are soon to be thoroughly disappointed.

Story Part VI

After the usual morning rituals, I noticed he was checking out my music collection, my books...he was investigating the evidence. I, myself, am guilty of doing the same upon my first exposure to a potential's abode. However, having been poor for some time, I had given up painting, collecting music (not to mention that my music collection had been stolen out of my car the year before), my dreams of a Dia De Los Muertos doll collection; in short, my possessions weren't really telling all that much. And I realized he was fairly fixed on using his eyes rather than his ears to assess my worth.

Conversation was excrutiating--I've always hated small talk, but I've never quite been able to figure out how to get big talk going. When it happens, it is marvelous and I'd gladly let hours melt away into an intriguing discussion, but when it doesn't, I'd prefer to be alone. He, being much the same, must have been in quite a bit of pain as well. And, while pithy or sarcastic remarks are easy to come by when filling out the fields of a profile, when you're talking about where you're going to eat lunch, it's a bit more strained.

Oh, but to add the icing on the fun-cake that was becoming this weekend, I realized my department had made a mistake with my pay that month and so not only was I the normal poor, I was now po'. I had $0 to spend on our adventures together. So, in deciding what to do, where to eat, how to fill the weekend which seemed to now be stretching into oblivion, I had to try to minimize however much he was going to have to spend on me.

An aside is probably necessary here: I abhor letting others pay for me. This does not make dating as a graduate student entirely viable. Further, this man had just spent a quarter of my monthly pay to just share the same physical space as me; now, he was going to have to keep shelling out cash to entertain us while he was here. I am unsure if words exist which might capture the feelings of shame, self-consciousness, resignation and discomfort I felt. But there are four for you in a meagre attempt.

So, back to the visit. It was clear that we weren't going to be hanging around my apartment lost in time-melting conversation. I asked him what he wanted to see or do while he was here. And I got that dreaded response: "I don't care. Whatever you want to do."

Aaaaauuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

This response might not have elicited such despair on my part if we had already established an enjoyable rhythm of conversation; however, we had barely knocked out three beats. Further, I am primarily a home-body. I enjoy sitting by myself in my apartment, book in hands, music en stereo, random thoughts spinning through my head. For kicks, I ride my bike to the grocery store. Being continually poor, this routine suits me well. I used to look through the weekly guide for concerts, shows, museums, etc, but because I can never afford them, I don't bother to look anymore. And now, here was a man who wanted to be entertained, had to pay for said entertainment, and was also forcing me to decide what this entertainment would be (and therefore, how much I expected him to pay for me). Awkward doesn't quite sum it up, dear reader.

While we were on our walks to the park or sitting outside at the neighborhood taco stand, he began to make 'observations':

"I bet lesbians hit on you all the time. No, it's just that you're not that feminine--I bet most guys aren't attracted to you."

"You look like a Mom tonight."

"You seem to notice mistakes."

"You haven't bought music since 1997, huh? That's okay, no really it is!"

I think I've blocked from memory most of these kind and gentle observations...which, usually sent me into a wild fit of laughter. I laughed so heartily because I could tell that he didn't realize how completely inept he was at conversing with a potential sweetheart. I gently explained to him how awkward these observations made me feel, and he responded, "Well, I just make observations; they're neutral. I don't mean them positively or negatively...I mean, don't lesbians hit on you a lot?"

I gave up. He just didn't get that when you're on a date, every comment on one's self is being filtered into either "positive--he likes me" or "negative--he doesn't". So, the proper filing for "I bet most guys aren't attracted to you"? Well, this is how that one gets decoded and filed:

"Most guys aren't attracted to you."
"I am a guy."
"I am therefore probably not attracted to you."

Perhaps I might have been more liberal with the 'positive' category, but remember my emotional state at the onset of his visit: neurotic mess.

I had to clear emotional shelves for all of the boxes increasingly filled with negative files.

****

On our last night together, we drove back to LA. We went to my friend's restaurant (I could at least manage a free meal if I couldn't pay for one, myself), and then stayed in a hotel downtown. The next day, while he trolled Ameoba for his expansive music collection, I went across the street to a movie. It was the first respite I had had, and while I didn't care for the movie, I would have stayed for the next showing had the ushers let me.

It was about an hour before he would take me to the train station and depart for the airport. As we sat outside, twirling pieces of pie in our forks, pigeons pecking for whatever crumbs they might rescue, I began my fourth cup of coffee and my 17th cigarette that day. I knew the weekend was not going well. I also knew that if we had met under different circumstances, or if just a few of the details of that weekend had been changed, things most likely would have gone much better. We did have a deep well of commonalities. I knew he hadn't seen many of those similarities, because upon learning of my trial for his affections, I been careful to safely hide them away from his keen eye. Yet despite this most terrible first date, there was something drawing me to him, and I wondered if he felt drawn, too. If he didn't, he could take me to the train station, and the minutes of ensuing awkwardness would be minimized:

"So, do you think you'll come back to San Diego? You have an invitation."
"Yeah, I'd like to do that." (heard: I'll think about that)
"What?"
"Yeah, I'd like to do that." (heard: I'll think about that)
"What?"
"YES. I'd_like_to_do_that."

I have a hearing problem. So, each response was a mumbly mystery, interpreted as described above.

But maybe that day, my hearing was working just fine.

We kissed at the train station before he left, he gave me a hug, and told me he would call the next day. I still haven't received that call.

But that was by no means the last time we spoke.

Story Part V

He flew into LA late in the evening, rented a car, and drove two hours to my apartment. I had returned from school around 4 pm; the nine hours until his arrival was almost enough time to perfect my hair, my makeup and my pajamas. I had smoked about one pack of cigarettes since that afternoon, and was just sitting down to yet another on my stoop when I heard my cell phone ring. I could hear footsteps and a rolling suitcase up the street. He was here.

I wish I could say I was frantic, or even anxious; but in reality, I think I was finally numb from the two-week adrenaline ride. Standing up and looking to my right, I saw him wheeling his luggage down the sidewalk.

He was tall, dressed in jeans, a brown button-down sweater over a t-shirt, and glasses which were somehow missing in every picture he sent. His hair had grown out from the spiky, recently shaven mess which I had come to picture (and adore) every time we spoke; I could now see the cowlick on the top left side of his hairline, which he had tried in vain to tame with hair gel. And as I went to greet him with a hug, he finally smiled and bared his immensely crooked teeth. The voice now meshed with the image I saw.

You might think I was disappointed by the way in which I've just described him, but I was not; if anything, I was slighly relieved because while I still found him immensely attractive, my dream Sebastian and the one standing before me had now cleaved apart...There was a real, live, human-and-everything Sebastian standing before me. And these deviations from my ideal-type S. only made him more approachable, more real.

Though it was late, we stayed up for three hours talking before I finally unfolded my Murphy bed. It was awkward; he was climbing into bed with me and not only had we not yet kissed, we'd only just met. But ah, that internet--it has a tendency to warp the natural progression of things, and so who was I to question this new set of rules?

As we lied in bed, our knees touching, we kept opening an eye only to catch the other staring, which led to an outburst of giggles usually heard in a girls' junior high summer camp cabin. And then, I felt his hand on my knee. It was so innocent and full of so much hope, and it was...somehow the sweetest 'move' ever put on this girl. We grabbed each others' hands and entwined our legs. He kissed me and I melted into those extraordinary lips. And then, we drifted off to sleep.

That night, I learned that he snored.

Loudly.

The next day, I learned that I was being judged.

Severely.

Story Part IV

I suppose in an effort to keep this tale short as promised, I should spare you the details of the numerous emails we sent one another, our daily phone conversations. So, I will share those I feel, in hindsight, were perhaps the most central to the development of said tale.

As I've said, we began communicating, in one form or another, daily. Consistency was our theme, and so we continued to present the personalities we had assumed in our profiles. We were both sarcastic, funny and closed. I enjoyed telling him how amazing and unique I was, my impressive life resume; he did the same. One day, while speaking on the phone, he asked, "So, what do you think of this whole situation?"

I thought for a moment, and knew I should probably take this rare opportunity to be honest, rather than entertaining:

"I'm nervous. People have a tendency to weave webs with their words; once some thought or opinion is articulated, verbalized to another person, it takes on the form of a truth, whether or not anyone believed it initially. We both love words, and I fear we're weaving these webs every time we speak. It's just so easy to become trapped in your articulated half-truths..."

And, in our first turn at a relationship, I suppose this is the most honest conversation we ever had. He was intrigued, delighted, in agreement...but as it happened, it was a warning to which he paid no heed.


Of course, I wasn't just referring to one's ideas on evolution or the war in the Middle East. In speaking with someone you've just met, there's a tendency to screen for any positive (or negative) feedback and adjust one's projection of oneself accordingly. It's natural, it's rarely conscious, and, for most platonic relationships, seldom matters. But when you're searching for love (and we were both clearly on a quest), it's entirely dangerous. You're not lying when you adjust to conform to someone's expectations, but you do begin to pare down the dimensions you share with someone to those which have received some form of positive feedback. I became a shadow of my true self--one which was arrogant, intelligent, elitist, and impenetetrable. I admit these traits are all my own at times, but if traits are clothing, they barely formed one sock. However, as I had received feedback that he was interested in my foot, I took that sock off for him, and wiggled my toes under his nose.

The stench must have been awful.

***

After about one month of correspondence, Sebastian asked if he could come to visit me. We agreed that in two weeks, he would make the unbelievably long trip to see me. The knowledge that this was about to become real, that I might lose more than a few socks along the way, and that I would be spending three days with this man sent my mind into an ever-frantic spiral. We had sent each other photos of ourselves, but we all know which photos are chosen to send: the ones with the kind and gentle light, the best hair-days...When he told me how beautiful I was in my picture, I became increasingly nervous that I had misrepresented myself. I dragged each of my friends to my computer screen to show them my photo: "Does this look like me?"

They thought I was going insane. They were correct. Oddly, I never once stopped to wonder if he would look like his photo...my dream was coming to visit and of course he would look just as amazing in person. He would probably be even more handsome. I would clearly disappoint. This fear took almost total control over my life, growing into a huge monster which ripped through my appetite, kept me awake at night, and threw my hands into sparring matches with one another as I sat in class.

But the ticket had already been purchased, and there was no going back now. And yes, it was about to get worse.

Story Part III

We thus began our cyber-dance. We were like two awkward teenagers, groping for a connection, trying to cop a feeling. My computer was now always on, my ears perked for the alarm telling me that there was yet another message to read, a new set of words to tumble through my mind. While he simultaneously became more real through our correspondence, my mind was busying itself incorporating these new details into the dream I was building. I was dating two men: one, a sarcastic, clever and mildly poetic Sebastian who had contacted me from an online dating site; the other, the fantasy named Sebastian whom I was silently, unwittingly constructing out of fragments pulled here and there from words on a screen.

I suppose he was doing the same.

Drunk one evening, I wrote the following email:

"Dear Sebastian,

I suppose this email is the beginning of my own journal of sorts. I just had a conversation with a friend in which we discussed love and the pursuit thereof...how much are you willing to imagine just to have someone to spoon...

Yes, I am drunk, and rightly so. I am home from my first day back at school, back to the halls of my disenchantment.

Favorite Weber quote: 'Disenchantment is bittersweet.'

I suppose this is why I love Baldwin's writing so much--he so elegantly captures that cognitive dissonance which occurs when one becomes disenchanted--that divide between religion and morality, religion and reality...Marching down one perceived path and discovering yourself in a wilderness altogether unantipicated.

I danced around their idol,
and twirled their mantras over my tongue
and I nodded when they whispered about --

Yes, growing up as a preacher's daughter has been odd.

Well, I suppose I should cease my ramblings for the evening. But if you would like to call, here is my number is 717-555-5789. Our emails have been wonderful, but there's just something about a disembodied voice...

I hope your own evening has been full of everything beautiful.

Lexi"

***

He didn't respond. I felt horrible at ever having sent such sentimental prose to a stranger across the country. Remembering that he was not yet a real presence in my life, I simply shrugged off this mere instant in a near-continuous existence of missed opportunities, went to my computer and pulled the lever again, hoping that one of the four faces greeting me might begin yet another dance.

And then one week later, I received a response:

"Lexi,
I apologize for not writing sooner. A grocery list of events has kept me away. Also, such great writing deserves a much better response than I am able to provide currently. But, I would welcome the opportunity to speak to your disembodied voice. Let me know when I can call.

Sebastian."

***

I still remember hearing his voice that first time. I was expecting his call, so I instantly knew with whom I was speaking, but it was not the voice in my dream. He sounded much more optimistic than his picture had led me to expect; and he sounded stuffy, as though he was working his way through a nine-year cold. It was jarring, it was intriguing, it was a warning to which I paid no heed.

Story Part II

I had seen him before. Much like playing the slot machines in Vegas, this dating site offers four random gentlmen (or women) from across the world for your viewing pleasure when you log in. "Here," they say, "take a look at these fine specimen. See anything you fancy?"

He looked morbidly depressed in his picture, but there was something tongue-in-cheek about the way he was posed. He had a strong, graceful neck which rose up to meet a perfect, square jaw. His lips were so sensual, and those sad dreamy eyes just stared back at me from cyber-abyss. You could see one perfect hand in the photo; it was strong, and his fingers looked nimble, capable. He was standing in some sort of shower stall, obviously taking the picture of his reflection. His hair was brown and messy, unintentionally spiked in the middle. My stomach turned, and my blood pulsed with a bit of adrenaline. He was beautiful.

He didn't live anywhere near me. Over 2,000 miles away, in fact. But I was curious. And so, with another magical click, I traveled the distance and met him:

Age: 31
Location: Milwaukee
Occupation: Antiques dealer
Education: Masters

Last Great Book I Read: A Flannery O'Connor omnibus.

My Most Humbling Moment: Every time I realize another limitation.

Favorite On-Screen Sex Scene: Oscar and Lucinda playing cards.

Best Lie I've Ever Told: Only the ones we tell ourselves.

Five Items I Can't Live Without: Taking it literally: laptop (well it's true), down comfortor for dreaming, my ipod, my passport, words.


About Me:
I have been described as remarkable. I may be the second most intelligent person you will ever know. I have razor-sharp perception, and try to keep a healthy and balanced perspective on life. I love music, the movies, and rare beauty stolen in private moments. And, I've been told, after a while, my bone-dry sense of humor becomes entirely endearing.

What I'm Looking For:
I am looking for the most unbelievable woman in the world: critically intelligent, sarcastic and funny, mature and self-confident, generous and happy. I am looking for someone incredible to trust and love and enjoy. I am looking for my partner for life.

*****

He lived so far away, but those eyes and that profile and that simple invitation...Of course I wrote back. I had already flown out to Boston to meet someone by this time, and though it didn't work out, I was enamored with my new romance story--Girl Travels All Over the World for Love. So, when I saw Sebastian, and read those words, I knew I had to meet the second-most intelligent person ever. I mean, how could I, the most intelligent person ever not correspond with him? He would surely know how to spell 'piqued'.

"Sebastian,

I know I live far away; I had no idea you were in Milwaukee or I would have planned better. These moirae, they enjoy toying with me by placing the most interesting people far away from me. In fact, Showtime is now working on a pilot about my life, tentatively titled, "Look What We Can Get This Crazy Gal To Do!" But if the universe ever collapses, I'll be sure to find you and buy you a drink. And in the meanwhile, I could use a good penpal.

Lexi"

Story Part I

I've decided to write a short story (somewhat fictional) on internet dating. This is done at the advice of Mr. B-Baltimore, and so, if you are bored to tears, or miss my ramblings occasionally, please direct all hate-mail to him. He needs more e-mail in his life anyway. So, this is Part 1.

Part I

I enjoy writing fake profiles for on-line dating sites. It is not to mislead others, nor is it for other nefarious purposes, such as stalking, baiting, or what-have-you. The fake profiles I write are mostly me, but I change the occupation listed to one of my several dream jobs (photographer, artist, baker, writer, etc). I change my location to a city in which I would like to live (NYC, Chicago, SF). Then, I use photo-shopped pictures of myself. Once I have created my fantasy life, oddly, I am more at ease discussing myself. When I had a "real" profile on-line, I was pithy, sarcastic, witty, and closed. I believe this is quite rational given the audience. However, when I am writing as a dream, I become more real...I divulge my quirks, my awkward personality, my flaws. And with that one magical click, it felt like I was creating a person--bringing into existence a me from another dimension. One that got to leave graduate school and pursue photography in New York. And really, what were the odds he would find that profile?

But I suppose I'm beginning in the middle, and I would hate to confuse everyone. So, if I may take you back a year, this was me, on-line and in the flesh:

Age: 27
Location: San Diego
Occupation: Graduate Student
Education: PhD

Last Great Book I Read: Another Country, Going to Meet the Man, Baldwin; Love in the Time of Cholera, Garcia-Marquez; Of Human Bondage, Maugham; Last Exit to Brooklyn, Selby Jr.

My Most Humbling Moment: I realized I was mid-air and shouting because a man had won on the $25,000 Pyramid 20 years ago. (Yeah, I know this is *embarrassing* and not humbling, but I'm just going with this site's equilibrium interpretation)

Favorite On-Screen Sex Scene: Oh, Screw culture and art. I like the one in Dirty Dancing, damnit. Nooo, I don't feel defensive about this.

If I Could Be Anywhere Right Now: I'd use this power "to be anywhere" for good, not evil.

Best Lie I've Ever Told: Lies make the baby Jesus cry.

Five Items I Can't Live Without: My bike, "funny stories", my dog Suki, things for Suki to hump, fixed point theorems.

Wait, does olive oil count? If so, then I'd like to substitute that for "things for Suki to hump"...he can always hump your leg.

About Me:
Of course, I cannot wholly sum up my yummy goodness in a laundry list, but here goes:

1. I say yummy goodness
2. I'll laugh at your jokes
3. I tell "funny stories"
4. I was the sixth-grade co-ed leg wrestling champ
5. I am both socially and physically flexible
6. I can check your oil, change your tires and cook a pot roast (but not at the same time. that's just freaky and I am not a freak).
7. I am good pool (billiards, that is) partner.
8. I know how to fold that bottom bed sheet.
9. I have a pi tattoo.

Really, I'm quite interesting. I would date myself if the rules allowed, but alas...

What I'm Looking For:
1. You tell me funny stories.
2. You listen to my funny stories, or at least pretend to, and laugh when the conversational cues so prompt.
3. You have a big brain and are not afraid to use it.
4. And finally, when something "piques" your interest, you don't refer to mountains.

Really, I'd like to find someone with whom I can go on a bike ride Saturday morning, to a dive bar Saturday night, and a diner Sunday morning to work on the NYT crossword puzzle.

---

So, that was my on-line self the first time he found me. In my message box, I found the following short and simple invitation into what would be anything but short, and far from simple:

"Why, being so cute, funny and clearly intelligent you would choose to live so far away from me I'll never know. But maybe we could write? I need more of the unattainable in my life anyway.

Sebastian."

I Can Hardly Sit Still

My blood-excitement level is at least .20. I'm pretty sure that means I shouldn't get behind the wheel any time soon.

Snakes on a Plane is opening this Friday. I am so thrilled this movie actually exists, and that I, faithful blogger, will be there opening night. It's caught in that magical space betwixt cringe-worthy and ridiculously funny.

And as if that were not enough, dear readers, I now tell you more exciting things coming down the pipes this weekend: The Teen Choice Awards. I'm sure this is usually a lackluster affair, full of screaming hormones in overpriced shoes. But this year, there are two events of note. First, there will be a Grillz award. And for the grande spanking goodness finale, Kevin Federline, or K-Fed for all you hip young kids out there, is making his worldwide television debut, with uber-preggers wifey Britney cheering him on from the audience.

So, even though my laptop is still broken, my office computer can't handle my datasets and ate half of my prospectus this week, I think it's safe to say that everything's going to work out just fine.

Plan B

Yes, that's what they're calling the over-the-counter version of the emergency contraceptive, which, if taken within 72 hours of 'a sexual accident', prevents the embryo from attaching to the uterine lining, and growin' into a big bundle of headaches and diapers.

I think the name is kinda catchy, myself. But apparently, this is highly offensive to many a Right-Winger. In fact, this is just making it that much easier to kill babies. This woman's story? Just another tale of a harlot who uses abortion as birth control--and would have had an easier time of it with an OTC pill! Well, in good Puritan fashion, thank goodness we're making this difficult decision as painful as possible--if only whipping were still legal...

I'll tell you why this whole saga pisses me off. First, I think a lot of 'opinion' becomes fact when these arguments flare up. I've heard the "life starts at conception", um, "argument", and while this may be a legitimate opinion, it ain't fact! But, when these opinions about 'when life starts' appear, there's so much conviction attached to the belief that "every embryo is a life" and further, "every life has value." {I'll leave the incompatability of "every life has value" and "let's kill serial murderers" (which is so often the winning campaign platform of Conservative Coalition folk) aside, and proceed with our discussion of Plan B.}

Bring up the question of traumatic pregnancies (rape, incest, etc)? The response is generally two-fold: a) they're selling Plan B to harlots, not rape victims and b) even that rape-baby's life has value.

I try to work this around in my brain to make sense, but I just can't. If every life has equal value, then the woman's and 'baby's' life are of equal value. Therefore, every woman who wants Plan B (or Plan C, for that matter), should get the option of flipping a coin when she enters a pharmacy. If she gets a heads, she gets Plan B. If she gets tails, it's off to another pharmacy, fingers crossed for a better flip. Seem silly? Well, it's just as silly as forcing a woman to weave her way through a bureaucracy guilded with false morals and irrational sentiment, all the while hoping to find a doctor or pharmacist who values her life as much as the bundle of cells in her uterus.

Finally, the Conservative Coalition/pro-lifers generally stop the argument at birth. So, they'd like to meddle in the 'baby's' life as long as the baby doesn't have its hands reaching into their wallets...Where are these people when the baby needs diapers, food, or someone to cradle it in the middle of the night? Where are they to protect that child's value then? These people who are protesting at abortion clinics would better serve their public, their God and even their cause if they were to picket the White House Lawn to provide better support services for pregnant women, free health coverage for all mothers and children, and better childcare options for working mothers.

Yes, I am aware that many pro-life groups actively encourage adoption. But that gives me nightmarish flashes from The Handmaid's Tale...

Going to the Chapel and

No, I'm not getting married. My friends are.

I started to rant about still not having a computer at home. But it was boring. Even to me. And when one's own rant bores oneself, it is probably wisest to not subject others to said rant.

So, I'll turn more personal. My favorite couple in the whole wide world, Mr. PHB and Miss SEWF are gettin' hitched tomorrow. I'm attending the reception (What up, My Pittsburgh readers! I'll be in town, available for autographs, press photos, and the like August 31!) By the way, that 's' on the end of 'readers' was the most hopeful, most dillusional 's' I've ever written. See, this is exactly why I changed the title of my blog to "But I Digress." Because I do. I just did, as a matter of fact. But I'm bringin' it back 'round, folks.

Okay. So, I'm going to PHB and SEWF's wedding party soon. I have to say these two form the best couple I know under the age of 75. Legend has it I introduced the two, but SEWF and I recently couldn't quite remember how or when that happened...Anyway, I'm sure the two have had fights and such as all couples do, but all of my memories of the two together/talking about each other involve lots of smiling and (given that a laugh weighs about 1 gram), tons of laughter. I mean, the abs on these two must be outstanding...

So, while I'm still single, I'm beginning to realize that martyrdom is not necessary to a meaningful relationship--in fact, I don't think anyone has to suffer deeply at all! It's crazy, I know, but I think you can be intimate and trusting and close and devoted without suffering deeply!! This is all new, and it will take some time to digest, I'm sure...but wow--revolutionary, indeed.

My Apologies

My home computer has been quite ill of late. who knew you could _actually_fill_up a hard drive? And, further, that one's computer would revolt by refusing to turn on once said computer's hard drive was filled? Hmmm.

So, my dissertation data has been trapped in an increasingly evil-looking IBM laptop, which between coughs and sputters, I know is sneering at me. I have been one whole week without my data. I'm not sure I can express the emotion of this situation--in fact, I don't think we've yet named this emotion in the English language. Well, I now call it Schalfiblachusmichus. I have been anxiety-ridden over not being able to crank out those necessary graphs, regressions and the like for my advisor, nor do the constitutions coding which is what I'm supposedly being paid to do, nor check my email nor play word racer nor putter around people's blogs nor google what movie i ended up watching on saturday starring jodie foster, rob lowe and beau bridges, nor whether marilyn manson and shirley manson are related; but i haven't felt any of the guilt I usually feel as I watch movies on the weekend, while my data sits neglected in the corner. I've also never wanted to do work so badly in my whole life. Surely, I should see someone about this. I clearly have issues.

I clearly STILL do not have a laptop.

Well, I must make the most of my time here--I have so much googling to do it would boogle your mind.

The Vein in My Neck Will Surely Bust

if I hear yet one more jerk say thus: "oh, do you want to go into politics?!?"

I do political science. I prefer not to lie to people. When people ask me what I do, I tell them. I am a graduate student in political science.

Now, the three most common responses, in order of frequency, and, as it happens, level of irritation induced upon asking, are:

1) So, do you think you'll run for office some day? (or, the above-cited, "do you want to go into politics?")

2) Oh, do you want to be a lawyer?

3) Oh! I love to talk about politics. Tell me, what do you think of Joe B. Nobody who's running in Nowhere, Nohow for dogcatchter?/Tell me, what do you think of the current situation in Lebanon....blah blah blah

The first is irksome because, well, how many politicians with PhD's in political science are you aware of? I can think of Woodrow Wilson and...Nope, that's it.

The second...damn, people--if I wanted to be a lawyer, I'd be in law school!!! I don't think people get the distinction between college student and graduate student. My bitterness at this response resides in my inability to forget that distinction, what with the poor pay, terrible work conditions and yelling screaming advisors and all.

The last... if I told you I were a math grad student, would you try to get me to discuss algebra? Prolly not. You would assume that my knowledge superceded yours, and that I might be bored speaking on a topic you could understand, and you might be bored if I got to speak on what I actually do.

That does it. From now on, I'm a math grad student. And if you look down on me because I'm lying to people, well...damn, at least I'm not a lawyer or a politician!!


PS:
I used to be an economics grad student. Upon learning this, numerous strangers would enquire as to their stock options, the state of the economy, the exchange rate of the Euro, etc etc. I studied at an institution which specializes in deeply abstract theory. The most useful bit of information I could offer someone? Well, I tell you now of the_most real-world scenario we were learned:

"listen, if you're ever on an island with one other person, and it's somehow ordained by God that one of you is in charge of all the coconuts, and one is in charge of all the fish, and you give me your utility function for cocunuts and fish (preferrably in log-linear form), then I can tell you the optimal trade to make with your partner."