The Trouble with One

On a few recent occasions, when friends have inquired about my dating life, I expressed some exhaustion with it. As I near the end of my three-month stint on a harmonious online dating site, I haven't been matched with anyone on the 29 dimensions of compatibility that's resulted in that 30th dimension - actually being someone I wanted to date.

And since that 30th dimension seems to continually elude me, I've started contemplating the very real possibility that there's not someone out there for me. When I say this, it is not accompanied by a litany of my faults and insecurities. It is not backed up with a diatribe against my neuroses and cottage cheese thighs. In fact, the word "because" doesn't factor in...because I don't know why this is the case.

At a recent happy hour with coworkers, a good friend and coworker called bullsh*t on me repeatedly. Maybe because he assumed that my monologue of faults was just 'round the bend, but then, after I calmed him down and explained my position, he still angrily denied the possibility that I could be alone.

I think that this argument comes from a place of affection - those who care about me don't want me to be alone. There's the impulse to defend my honor to me and force me to acknowledge my finer attributes, even though I wasn't making an attack on myself in the first place.

But, let's face it: the world is not Noah's Ark. We don't all go about two by two.

And what is it to other people if I accept solitude? I'm not locked away in a convent somewhere. I'm not even exhibiting particularly spinster-like behavior. My social calendar is rather full, in fact.

I'm unclear on why accepting one's single status is so unacceptable. If I don't concede that it's a possibility, I live my life in a constant state of discontent waiting for what will be. And what of putting off things until that time? Should I constantly hit the hold button on living life until there's someone to share it with?

And for the record, it's hard enough to not feel sorry for oneself for not having someone. I don't need someone to tell me that I should be feeling sorry for myself.

So I'm not going to feel sorry for myself. I'm going to take a deep breath every day and remind myself that I am okay all alone. That by myself, I've bought a house and have a great job and am surrounded by truly amazing friends and have a wonderful family. I'm going to be open to what comes, embrace my freedom and remind myself that I am not incomplete. In fact, I'm extraordinary. And until something comes along that is equally extraordinary, I'm going to be happy being in a long-term relationship with one amazing person: me.

Me, The Professor and The Come to Jesus

Some of you have been inquiring about the status of The Professor, considering my mention of a less-than-stellar date with Mississippi and his absence from the tags on posts about the Coldplay concert. The former can be attributed to my determination to keep my options open - I just got back in the saddle, so it seems awfully soon to be narrowing down the field of play. The second can be attributed to my need to keep Coldplay untainted by my flailing dating life.

It wasn't so easy in actuality to separate "The Scientist" and The Professor, since our journey to, enjoyment of, and return from the concert put us together for a solid eight-hour stint. We managed to avoid the heavy stuff until the return trip...but there was no denying it was time for a talk - for each of us to lay out our case for Defining the Status.

He kicked it off by lamenting my distant demeanor and his inability to crack through my shell.

I countered with the well-known fact that three out of the past five weekends, he's spent with his ex-girlfriend (if you count the weekends bookending the entire week she visited). And on that latest jaunt into the past relationship, he attended a Halloween party dressed as an angel - to counter her devil costume. Score one point for me.

But he persisted and explained (as best he could) the tangled and undefined nature of the broken-up-but-friends-not-dating-but-special-relationship situation. If you can deconstruct that one for me, I'll give you a dollar.

And then I explained that this crazy web he's weaving doesn't make me want to let my guard down. Score another point for me.

Then we moved into the P-phase of the discussion in which he used the word "priorities" a lot. I mean. A. Lot. As in, he would really like to be a higher one of mine. (Please, see counter argument numero uno in which I cite his involvement with The Ex.) We went tit for tat for a bit, with him shooting out needs like Han Solo's blaster gun and me deflecting them at every turn with my light sabre.

By that time, we had circled one another quite exhaustingly in a verbal endgame, and we were rolling into the driveway. This provoked a round of conversation in which there existed in his tone a subtle note of disdain for my current living situation that was tempered with (excessive) praise for the closeness of my family and punctuated with The Declaration of Independence: "I just want to make sure you know that I'm dating you and not your family."

In that moment, at 1:30 a.m., hoarse and overwrought from three hours of screaming and the hour of verbal sparring, I felt approximately one quart of acid dump into my stomach, a gallon of ice water pour through my veins, and experienced instantaneous paralysis.

At which, The Professor knew he'd stepped in It. He tried to retract, backtrack, strike the previous statement from the record. Especially after I said, "My family...is non-negotiable."

In the end, it was time to get out of the car, weary, bewildered and bleary-eyed...to bid him adieu on good terms for having bought such amazing seats, and to take his arguments to the jury room with me.

So far, the jury seems to be voting in my favor, pondering holding The Professor in contempt of court, and finding him guilty of being unsuitable for long-term dating. If said verdict is returned...what will the punishment be? Life...in the Friend Zone.

Don't I Already Have This CD?

Dear Sarah,
I have loved you for many, many (okay - let's not get carried away here, but I'm getting old, you know) years. And I have to say that I felt this teenage-girl thrill of excitement when I saw the video for "U Want Me 2." That was after I got over the pang of annoyance that your song title appears to be a text message of some sort. But it was new material!!!

I eagerly looked up the details on your new album...only to discover that it was a greatest hits album. I'm not trying to take away your right to a greatest hits...but...well, I'm a bit disappointed. Maybe it's because your last new album was Wintersong, and it was Christmas music, and it was beautiful, but not music you listen to every day in your car. And before that was Afterglow, which was lovely, but that was four years ago and even though you released two different versions of the live tour...that doesn't count.

Because Afterglow was preceded by an insanely long break after Mirrorball - which, quite frankly, was a live greatest hits album -- before Afterglow Live was a live greatest hits album. And somewhere in there, you rereleased Rarities B-Sides & Other Stuff, which I bought at a bootleg price in downtown A-town when I was in high school. Let us not forget the two remix albums. Oh, and that fake Sarah McLachlan album from Target that made me think that it would be covers of your favorite songs only to find out it was like "Sarah made you a mixed tape."

I guess my point is that you put out Touch and then Solace and Fumbling Towards Ecstasy in the first five years of your career. And the next fifteen brought just two albums of new material. Two! Since 1994, you have put out TWO new albums. I mean...two new albums since the first W was in the White House, and now all I get is a greatest hits album? After three different kinds of live albums and two remixers. I mean, if I'd even bought one of your live albums and one of your originals, I'd have like an 80 percent chance of having everything that's on your "new" album. I hate to tell you, Sarah, but there's some fuzzy math in there. And honestly, did you sit down and say, "Let's put 'Hold On' on one more album. I'm going for a record here."

I want to hang in there with you - we've been through a lot. But u want me 2 buy this new album when all I get is a text message? I dnt thnk so.

Less-than-three,
Ash

Facing the Negativo

The last couple of weeks, I seem to have fallen prey to The Negativo. Suddenly, my first reaction to everything is negative. Anger, irritation, impatience, anxiety, dread. It's seething just underneath my skin, and it's provoked at the least infraction. And then it's like the worst version of me just jumps down the nearest person's throat. For example,

* The Dirty Film Boys are back, smelling up the common area. Every time I walk to the bathroom, the one closest to the door turns and stares at me. I am SORRY if the click-clack of my heels on the concrete annoys you, but get over it.

* On the way back from J. Island last week, my Garmin lost its ever-loving mind and directed me into the least populated corridors of the state. And when I turned around for the second time that day using the interstate median out of frustration, I promptly found myself sidelined by the state patrol. I had never ever cried on a cop until that day. "Happy belated birthday," he said. "I'm just going to give you warning."

* The Fam is experiencing too much togetherness. Patience is fraying; tempers are flaring. We're all slightly sick of the sight of each other but are quite at a loss how to avoid the suffocating conditions. Anna, though doing remarkably well, just isn't quite ready for abandonment and so we go and we sit together and we try not to kill each other.

* Work has me tense and knotted. I love my job, but right now, it just feels like everything is on level ten. There are too many balls in the air and I'm distracted...by...what, I don't know. By the shift in the office environs because of the Rockstar's impending departure. And the potential replacement's frightening Type-A over-achieving ways.

* I'm totally annoyed by people who do things better than me. How ridiculous is that? But it's like, I want the universe to give me a break, to give me some arena where I'm a winner free and clear. But instead, I'm on the insecurity train and riding shotgun.

* Another wave of grief seems to have washed over us all, and at times, it makes me resent every spark of happiness in the world. I want to tell other people not to smile. Because every time I think we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, it fades into the distance, and all I can hear is the echo of our voices in a long dark cavern that never seems to end.

* I hate waiting. I'm so mad at waiting. Waiting for the next thing. Waiting for it to be the right time to buy a house. Waiting for the time when I'll feel like writing a book. Waiting for friends to blossom out of acquaintances. Waiting for a time when I don't stand in a room full of people and feel like the loneliest person in the world. Waiting for a time when my whole life isn't hijacked by mourning.

* I resent practicality. I want to throw caution to the wind and plan trips and be carefree. I have 80 percent of my vacation left. I have no idea when or how to take it. And sometimes, when I think about it, I just feel more tired trying to think of how to use it. I just sort of want it to go away.

* I worry about us all...all of us with our respective heart conditions. Anna's broken into a million tiny pieces. Dad's grown tired and stressed. Mom's heavy with her worry for us all. And mine empty and lonely and guilty and sad for feeling all that it feels.

A Myriad of Miscellany

* Completely annoyed by Kid Rock's new song that samples liberally from Warren Zevon's "Werewolves of London" and Lynard Skynard's "Sweet Home Alabama." You can't make it better, Kid.

* Christian Bale was on VH1 this morning talking about The Dark Knight in his native Welsh accent. Dreamy.

* Les Mis is coming to the Fox Theatre in September. I am pee-in-my-pants excited!!!

* At a chamber function last night, was invited by two almost-40 married men to have a drink at a bar along with my intern who is 21. Wrongness.

* This morning, I tried on no less than six outfits with four different pair of shoes before I left the house.

* I'm considering possibly maybe starting my own charitable organization. More later as my plans take shape...

* Headed northwest for the weekend and considering a trip up to old B.C. for taking photos. A new round of 26 things started last week, and I've got to get crackin'.

* Me, at work today? Totally useless. But that's okay...I've already put in about 50+ hours this week.

Atop the Soapbox: Thoughts on the Literati

"But reading was never dead with the kids. Au contraire, right now it's probably healthier than the adult version, which has to cope with what seems like at least 400 boring and pretentious 'literary novels' each year." --Stephen King in an Entertainment Weekly article about Harry Potter.

The Growler posted a link to the New York Times Notable Book List. And while the Growler feels tremulous excitement reviewing the NYT's who's who, I feel, well, a bit annoyed. Aside from the obvious kudos to the seventh installment of the Potter series (how could they ignore the fastest selling book of all time?), most of the books sound like absolute snoozefests. And perhaps it's me and my narrow window on the world, but I'm not enticed at all to pick up most of these titles. The exception might be Rebecca Barry's Later, at the Bar, but for the most part, the descriptions sound positively...pretentious.

And I know, I know - it's the New York Times book review. What did I expect? But, I guess I wonder: what happened to good stories? Why is the notable list chock full of maudlin tales of Libya in 1979 and another Martin Amis book that recounts the painful tragedies of World War II that sound dry and boring? These could be good stories. But at first glance, it sounds like the authors are trying too hard. Trying to be smart. Trying to break into the literati. Trying to be the kind of book that people get told they should read.

Should read...the only time I want to hear that I should read a book is if it's an amazing story that I should read. That it's so hilarious that I should read it. That it's so unforgettable and I will fall in love with the characters so I should read it. But if you just think it's going to make me smart...just going to be something that will sound good if I say I've read it...well, I'm not interested. Most of the descriptions give little impression of great characters or page-turning, can't-put-it-down, stay-up-late-to-read-it excitement. And isn't that what we all want? To go back to that place when you were ten and trying to read Encyclopedia Brown under the covers with a flashlight?

A certain professor I had in grad school referred to himself as an "immortality queen". He also referred to my writing as a donut: all sweet and delicious on the outside and hollow on the inside - but that's a story for another day. And his point was that writing wasn't worth doing unless you would be remembered for generations.

I guess I'm a little more here-and-now than that. I read to enjoy...to be taken away and to escape. I hope that if I ever write a book that it will be enjoyed by people while I'm still alive. Because, generations from now, I'll be mouldering in the ground somewhere. Maybe that's why I have such mad respect for Stephen King. The literati sort of shun him - he's like the establishment's bastard son - but he knows good story. He knows how to tell a story that engages the reader, that gives them characters that last forever in their minds. And that, my friends, is far greater than any notable designation by the book snobs at the NYT.

I suppose I balk at the idea that books are being written and delineated in this way, gathered up into a tight circle and pushed toward that immortality level. Like those of us reading right now don't even matter.

All of these thoughts, of course, come from a woman with an MFA who hasn't read a "notable" book in about 3 years and devours pulp romance novels. So maybe this really is all about my own insecurity. Still...who is breaking their neck to pick up this one? Knots, by Nuruddin Farah. (Riverhead, $25.95.) After 20 years, a Somali woman returns home to Mogadishu from Canada, intent on reclaiming a family house from a warlord.

Yeah. That's what I thought.

TomCut

Tom Cruise's hair cut makes me irrationally angry with its dangerously close approach to an early '90s bowl cut and sweeping feathered bangs. I can't get over it - I mean, I posted a comment on Daisy's blog weeks ago, and anyone I've talked to in the last few days will attest that I'm still extraordinarily bothered by it. I will even lecture you on how it diminishes any ounce of hotness he still possessed after...well, he went crazy. It's just enraging. Seriously. Flames on the side of my face.

About Me

I know it's just one of those things about having moved to a new place and starting a new job. But I cannot be held responsible for what I say to the next person who prompts me to tell them "about myself." What is there to say to this prompt? Tell me a little bit about yourself. What little bit? What little bit is there that can really say anything about me? I have a cat. I read. I am left handed. The roster of factual information that passes back and forth during this conversation actually says very little about me.

And following is the realization that it's a choose-your-own-adventure. I am in the process of inventing who I am to these people. They don't know who I am, and so I could be anybody. Whoever I am, I am definitely running low on patience.

Sister Mary Sunshine Gets Sucker Punched

Sometimes you just can't anymore. Can't act brave. Can't give them the stiff upper lip. Chin up, smile on. When they ask if you're worried, sometimes you can't find that place inside yourself that makes, "No, no, not at all" sound natural. And when they ask you the questions you don't know the answer to, it gets hard to say, "I don't know" onemoretime.

Sometimes you just don't believe your friends when they tell you how great you are. Or if you can really hang your hat on how infinitely talented you are in your parents' eyes. Sometimes you really don't know if you're going to be fine. You don't want to get past this, because you know after this, there is something else and something else. (At the same time, you know that it could be worse, but, another voice says, "This ain't so great either.")

And all those things that everyone says are out there? Isn't it possible that they don't exist? Sometimes, you have to wonder if this or that is out there. And if they aren't, what then? If you live in anticipation of fulfillment by what's out there, and it never comes, how do you reconcile?

On top of that, there's what's behind you. All that you gave up to be here that sometimes gets ignored. At times, when people ask you about that place, those people and events, you are reminded that no one really knows you. And you feel the sudden disconnect between then and now and you wish (maybe) that you hadn't done this to yourself.

And sometimes, there's the quiet to contend with, the solitude, the oneness. Sometimes you can't believe one more person is asking you when you're going to buy a house, get married, have a baby, write a book...become something else other than what you are. And sometimes, you think that it's just going to take one more time to put you over the edge. Just one more time and you aren't going to be able to say with a sweet, sweet smile, "In good time...when the time comes"...when, if, then, etc. etc. The time is going to come when it all gets to be more than you can bear and then...then it's going to get ugly. Because you can't be take-it-as-it-comes every second of your life. For every day that you get up and get brave and get through it, there's a day or maybe just an hour that you think, "I'm going to punch somebody in the face."

Them's Fightin' Words

When I arrived at Eva & Justin's house last week, I interrupted play group. This means that I walked into the kitchen filled with four mothers and six children. Eva had warned me, knowing that there's no love lost between me and other people's children.

I was handling it pretty well, seeking refuge at one end of the kitchen table and trying to make polite conversation and keep up with talk of Exersaucers and Johnny Jump Ups. Eva had just finished feeding Dillon and handed him off to me to take one of the other mothers to see a project she'd been working on. He fussed, and I checked his diaper and confirmed that it was wet. I said as much aloud.

That's when one of the mommies totally overstepped bounds. In this voice one would use to speak to a child, she said, "Since Auntie Ashley is holding Dillon, will she change the diaper?"

In my head, I turned to her and said, "Don't patronize me or I will cut you." But in real life, I simply gathered Dillon up and headed off to change him. And she followed me. Standing over my shoulder, she cooed to her own infant, as though giving her approval, "Look at Auntie Ashley go!"

I held my temper in check, but I was so enraged that I couldn't quite get over it. What was it about this woman's ridiculous behavior that had me itching to lash out at her? Perhaps it was due in part to facing one of those moments when I felt more Bridget Jones-esque than ever, surrounded by the Mom Squad with their infants and toddlers, and me wondering if they were feeling sorry for me or thinking "tick tock, tick tock." But more than that - because I didn't feel this Hulkish rage toward anyone else - I think it was her condescension to insinuate that I would be too squeamish or too inept to change a diaper. And no disrespect to the moms out there, but rocket science it ain't.

I couldn't help thinking about the book I blogged about recently that called women on the carpet for being stay-at-home moms. In that moment, I found myself faced with the complete opposite opinion - someone who thought that they could talk down to me, treat me like a child, because I am unmarried and childless. I was angry at the woman, and I was angry at myself because, what does her judgment matter to me? She isn't someone I know, and certainly (after this) someone I respect. Why should I allow her to make me feel so inadequate about myself? It was dispicable, really.

But there, with her cooing her baby-talk commentary, I seriously considered punching her in the mouth. And I'm pretty sure I'd have been sent to timeout.

Dial M for Murder

Dear 264-7440:
This is a cease and desist request. Stop calling me. We are not - nor have we ever been - friends. I don't know you. And you don't know me. I think we've established that from the awkward pause from you after I pick up the phone and the way you say "hello" with a definite question mark like you don't know who you called. I wouldn't think much of it except that you keep calling. How is it that you keep calling the same wrong number? How stupid are you?

I would think by now that you would be more careful when dialing your phone. But no! You called me twice when I was in Atlanta, once in the week that followed, twice on Tuesday, and even though I left my cell phone at home today on accident, I noticed that you called twice in a row this morning. Get a clue! I am not your boyfriend or the man you wish was your boyfriend or the man you're stalking. I don't know who you're trying to call, but it isn't me. Or if it is, I don't want to talk to you.

Hang it up,
Ash

Shut It!

Dear Neighbor Man:
Even though you smile at me sometimes in the morning and raise your hand in greeting, we are not friends. And our mutual love of our back porches is beginning to be problematic. I don't even know if you've noticed that I'm out here. Why? Because I'm sitting here quietly working on my laptop, a couple of candles burning, a cat - generally unobtrusive.

Could you take a tip from me and shut up?! Seriously, there's only three of you on the porch so you don't need to shout. Or if you do need to shout, it's only because you've got the classic rock turned up so loud you can't hear one another. Although from what I can tell, all three of you are absolute nitwits and not worth hearing anyway. And I don't mean to be unkind, but that woman you're with has a truly wretched laugh. I can't stand it. And she seems to think you and your other companion are exceedingly funny.

I really, really love my porch, so I can understand why you also love your porch - especially in this weather when it's so lovely to be outside and have the windows open. But I do not, I repeat DO NOT, need to hear Steve Miller Band's "Jet Airliner" at 2:30 this Sunday morning like I did last. Judging from the way you're just getting started over there with your shouting and your odious laughing and that ugly band of green lights you've got running around the railing, I'm not hopeful. But I just thought I'd ask. Maybe I should shout so you can hear me.

THANKS!
Ash