How Christians might smooch their way into ’05

At the risk of conducting some possible, er, blog perfidy, this entry was mostly drafted from an undisclosed location that reminds me of a Led Zep song ... by way of a laptop much healthier than mine. The owner even offered a little blog advice. He, for instance, suggests I should skip the now-abandoned date-with-Granny Blog Reader World Series prize nonsense and cut straight to the blogstress: a date with me. But I’m not sure what I think about that, much less my contestants, so it seems the best to offer a choice. Besides, Poster Boy recently made all these muddled mutterings about dating wagons and wolves ... so I’m convinced he’d be much better off with a six-pack of beer (also suggested as prize). However if Frasier wins — and is amenable — I think we could swing the date. I mean, after all, assuming that 50-percent chance works out and you do end up in my town within the next 25 years, that’s practically a ready-made date in itself, right? ;)

But if all those contingencies sound like so much silly babbling, another friend suggests I consider burning a special mix CD for the winner — a most appropriately High Fidelity-like suggestion. In fact, in the logic of that estimable film, one might conceivably ask which would be the more meaningful of the two options: a date with Anna Broadway ... or the Anna Broadway mix CD.

If kissing Christians kiss each other quickly...
What High Fidelity cannot provide insight on, however, is the theory of Christian kissing proposed by ... well, let’s call him my “blog consultant,” shall we? He claims that as long as the smooch only lasts one second it qualifies as chaste. I, of course, immediately latched onto the problem: How long do you hafta wait between kisses? His rule of tongue — I mean thumb — the same amount of time as the kiss. So, whereas the recommended avoidance-of-brain-freeze treatment might be slurp-breath-slurp-breath, the recommended kissing-Christian avoidance-of-unchastity treatment might be: kiss-one, breath-one, kiss-one, breath-one.

Or so he claims. I’ve never heard the likes of such hypotheses before, so the jury’s still out as far I’m concerned. Besides, I’ve never even kissed another Jesus freak before, thus I really cannot comment on our kissing customs* — crazy or chaste or otherwise.

Please advise!!!
What I’m hoping ya’ll might be willing to comment on, however, is a little fund-Anna’s-move scheme I’ve come up with. Yes, it’s only been 12 short days, but I’m already convinced that Sexless in the Suburbs is the next life stage for me. If all goes ahead as planned, you can expect me to return to my West Coast roots within the month. Now, truthfully, I haven’t quite come up with a job yet, but if I do say so myself I am a pretty darn employable office worker, not to mention an overflowing source of trivial drivel (as you all know well). And heck, at the rate I’ve attracted so many of ya’ll, I might even have a shot at marketing.

Still, finding work out here - from New York - seems a bit of a challenge. But from the cat-infested and nudie-pic adorned abode** that is my aunt’s sprawling Sunnyvale ranch-style (yes, she’s offered housing) I’m sure I could find a job in no time. Your part? Help me assess a certain, de-packrating-cum-fundraising scheme I’ve hit on. The key component: those 10 black-n-white, 5 color digital prints most of which were hung in November at a local Starbucks. I’ve sold prints in the past, but none of these were hits with Brooklynites (Note: image quality much better than these links suggest). So now I have 15 matted, framed, single-edition prints made from my own hands that I’ve gotta pack and move - or sell. Since selling ’em would both a) raise cash and b) reduce the poundage to ship (quite possibly by 50-100 pounds), I prefer to sell.

Question for you all to weigh in on: Do you think my New York friends would be offended if I offered them a chance to buy up my prints before I leave town? More importantly, d’ya think any-o’ them’d be takers? My thought is to do it by a no-minimum, donation-based scheme. Considering the Captain paid $100 for his print (probably on the low end for the New York art market), if I could unload all 15 that’s potentially most of my move expenses right there.

Finally, speaking of pictures, don’t forget to enter this week’s contest. Only Poster Boy and Frasier are up for the Blog Reader World Series, but I’m still handing out some swank second-place prizes to the non-BRWS entrants.

*Nor is tomorrow night likely to provide new insights. As of this date, my plans are either sitting it out with Samwise the devil-cat ... or boozing it up with un-Jesus-freaky Broadway relatives. Survey says: Anna watches her dehydration levels but does without kitty “love bites.” back
**There is a painting of an unclothed female in the living room. Just ask the Berkeley friends who crashed there once; five years later and it’s still their primary memory. back

Might not be ringin’ in the New Year ...

You ever have one of those days where you feel like your brain is just so much mushy, ill-cooked spaghetti, and you’d like nothing better than the nerve to throw it all out and buy fish tacos and Coronas for dinner? Oy.

Let’s just say today was one of those days. Been driving strange cars on strange roads, navigating on oral directions with no map, and figuring out strange-car defrost systems in the midst of heavy downpours, bad visibility, sometimes-flooded freeways and ... well, you get the idea.

At least I’m finally sitcheated (for a few days) at my friends’ apartment in Berkeley where I’ve only their crazy, love-starved cat for company and some blessed space to sort out my head. Make that crazy, love-starved, fond-of-biting cat. Dang mongrel. Of course I may soon find myself ambling down to the local bar in search of a solitary beer with book to fend off men ... but we’ll see.

‘I saw the sign...’
I have after all, as of today, officially lost my purity ring, so I’m not sure I trust myself in any potential leading-to-date situations. Technically the ring vanished sometime last Monday, when I took it off to apply a little hand salve, but I assumed it was one of the rings found by my friend when I left their car (she called five minutes later). As of arrival today in Berkeley, however, I found that my reminder-that-God-is-faithful ring had been found, along with a funky-shaped but otherwise meaningless adornment. The more-significant purity ring however ... gone.

I’m trying not to take it as a sign. After all, when the first version of said ring acquired a most distressing crack shortly after my fever-inducing dance with Swinger #1, I took it as a portend of the very worst kind. Remarkably, however, my virtue largely survived that disaster (although the ring did not).

At some point I must have been conscience-stricken for I later acquired a cheaper but larger replacement. Besides, the first had been bought by my parents, in my adolescence. In time, it seemed to me to represent their own expectations and hopes rather than my personal commitment - to virtue, piety, patience, what-have-you. With the crack of the first ring came personal investment in the cause, whatever its aim might be.

All hail cynicism
However by grad-school days (circa heart-wrenching drama with the Married Man) that goal had sufficiently deteriorated to ambiguity that one night full of resolve I took it off. It had become, I decided, a symbol of living my life defined by the expectation that someday I would marry. And seeing as how so many of my dreams were apparently manifest and dashed - simultaneously - in the person of the Married Man, I decided I’d better accept the fact that that fate (marriage) was less than certain to happen. Did I really want to live my life as a presently single woman defined by the possible existence of some man I did not know and who might not really exist at all? Did such a person deserve to so heavily overshadow my life that I wore a ring for him every day?!!

HELL no, I decided. And hence the journey into the land of the naked ring finger.

Except that, with time, I think this lack of expectation lead to a short-term (but ongoing) lowering of my standards rather than face the absolute despair of a long-term dream I doubted God would ever fulfill.

And then at some point this summer, after I’d returned from my brother’s depression-inducing nuptials, I came across that abandoned ring in a box of stuff I’d finally shipped East from Arizona. And with a small sigh that stood for I-knew-not-what, I slowly slipped it back onto my hand again.

This time it wasn’t so much about hope-for-marriage renewed (that I’m convinced will take nothing short of a real, honest miracle - quite probably the sort that makes that drama with The Winner blanch to palest of pale). Instead it was about a reluctant realization that come a marriage-worthy man or not, it was time I sucked it up and did things God’s way. And if it took a ring reminding me that ultimately the way I lived my life was out of accountability to Him, so be it.

What the disappearance of this ring means now, I’ve no idea. Maybe it’s God’s little hint to my silly, superstitious self not to think of venturing out on Craigslist for a New Year’s Eve adventure. Sniff.

Matchmaker, matchmaker, she ain’t no catch
And while I’m at it, to forget trying to be anything besides some friends’ inadvertant pimp. I mean, let’s face it: the date with Granny Broadway was never gonna work. Sorry, Fraz, I know ya had your heart set on it as prize fare, should ya win ... but honestly. She’s single and likes her salt, to be sure, but she also tends to sleep a lot and ain’t been very mobile for a while. And if you think, on my account, the Broadway gels run klutzy ... well you should see us at one-oh-five!

So, sorry my dears, but I’m takin’ that possible prize clear off the table. PB, you’ll just have to drop better hints as to what you consider worth competing for. I for one am out of the matchmaking bizness, even if Granny be a worthy cause. And hell, the way my brain’s all scrambled lately, I may resign myself to blogging ’bout other people’s sex- and dating-related conversations. It’s just too darn exhausting maintaining an endlessly ill-fated love life. Besides, that’s really why ya’ll come here, isn’t it? ;) The entertaining, car-crash value of it all? I’ve even had readers confess it: a secret hope I’m always unlucky in love, so as to guarantee an endless store of blog material.

Ah, well. Come morning and warmer apartment (can’t figure out the heat in this darn, freakin’ chilly place!) perhaps I’ll manage to blog a little less grimly. Don’t forget about the contest! And feel free to suggest a great-big, wham-bam concluding prize for the Blog Reader World Series winner.

December contest, week 3

Week #3 pic.

Yeah, perhaps these pics are getting to be a stretch ... but hey, I’ve been holed up with the fambly most of the week. How can I get much action - I mean, blog-worthy action - that way? ;)

At any rate, your challenge once again is to devise a creative caption relating this swank photophone image to Anna’s life. As inspired, perhaps, by this week’s search for employment. Feel free, also, to make suggestions for the Blog Reader World Series prize. Poster Boy has officially turned up his nose at a date with Grammy Broadway (though Frasier was enticed by said prospect) so we may have to have a winner-specific prize. Should I stick with the date category, or move on to other options?

And while we’re speaking of dates, I clearly need to start making plans for my New Year’s. I can’t help it, really. I mean, I was at the airport, waiting for my luggage, and there’s Harry on the Muzak! So inspirational. So familiar. So timely: “What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve?”

I once spent a Singapore New Year’s pining to that song as played on - what else - “repeat one” mode on my discman. Hanging out over the balcony, storing up rhino-love points no doubt, and moping away for some boy who - if I am recalling correctly - always walked like “some frog with a stick up his butt” (as I used to put it).

Ask me why I found him attractive? Well, he was a Christian and a musician. Only he played sax. As a newly- but not well-kissed college freshman, I was convinced all those tongue-ing exercises had to have made him a most proficient smoocher. And, um, yeah, he loved Jesus. That was great too. Hence the pining ... the repeat-plays of Harry (who, as at least a quasi-jazz musician also brought pleasant associations with said sax player: we were acquainted through our membership in the small-college jazz band) ... and so on.

That guy’s been married several years now, but he was always too attached to Iowa for an urbanite like me. I mean - hello! - I take far too masochistic a pleasure in high heels (and, sometimes, falling in them) to ever survive in cow-tipping territory. What was I thinking?!!

But it’s what you’re all thinking of this week’s picture that I want to know. That, and ideas for the BRWS prize. Don’t be shy with your comments now! Captions accepted through Sunday, Jan. 2.

Almost fully booked*

Drafted 6ish a.m., Christmas morning

It’s back to California for me, my dears. Out here a full two weeks in hopes of shortly becoming sexless in another city. We shall see how the job-hunting goes.

Meanwhile, as for the Christmas-with-family adventures, all ended rather quietly. Yesterday Grandma sent us off with bellies full of split-pea soup and more Better Than Sex Cake (for which I now have the recipe, you’ll be relieved to know; a possible Blog Reader World Series prize, Frasier/Poster Boy?).

The soup reminded me that the last time I had taken in such repast, it was at my mid-week lunch date with Hapless Hesitator (the same day I had a surprise dinner date with Hippie the Groper). God knows he gave it a good try with me — and I even shared my pumpkin pie — but the poor chap hadn’t a chance.

First off, we both had only an hour for lunch, and were working in offices a good 15 blocks or so apart. Initially he suggested the Sony Atrium, ostensibly between us though probably more convenient for him, but we ultimately lunched at the Rock ’n Roll Deli, a tiny, unromantic outfit on the edge of Central Park — and a brisk 15-20 minutes’ walk from my office.

The walk was no skin off my nose (as the grandfolks might say) but did cut our lunch to merely 30 minutes. Once inside, I found Hapless at one of three narrow booths surrounded by boxed and canned and shrink-wrapped goods stacked up to the high ceilings. Perhaps so as to better leer down at the panoply of nearly naked models and wannabes winking and bedroom-eyeing out from the headshots that papered the wall.

Hapless seemed untroubled by this flagrant display of debauchery and dubious virtue, rising to join me at the counter. We peered at the bank of stacked microwaves (four or five at least) and decided our lunch would not be complete without use of such provisions. At his suggestion, I consented to split what he promised would be a sizeable Cuban sandwich. It even came with soup! And we were still in the midst of Hanukkah after all. What better way to say “L’Chaim!” than by choking down greasy pork?

Which the sandwich had much of. But it was fairly good for a lunch I didn’t buy. And, to the Hesitator’s delight, the split-pea soup had flakes of something in it (parsley, perhaps?) which he declared proof that it was “home-made” as it should be. I thought of the dingy counter and microwave multiplex. Yes… Homemade indeed.

Grandma’s version, Friday, was more my idea of homemade soup, but hey, he grew up somewhere southern like Florida. Maybe their standards for soup and cooking are different out there.

The standards that are not different since my last visit are those of the Broadway family (maternal side) regarding Christian virtue. And as is typical in “subtle” family exhortations to piety, there were books to be dispensed.

This time I ’spose I got off easy. Plenty sibling distraction, with the two Marines in attendance, to help my relatives forget that Anna is single, aging, and has not one but two degrees in Religious Studies. God help me if they’d spied the ring! It was bad enough when Brother #1 went and got his ear pierced. Not that Grandpap didn’t make fuss over my midriff, mind you. But he was merely reacting to the unfortunate occurrence of gapping between my shirts and jeans. Not for me, the Marine Corps., he surmised. I was better suited for Naval duty. But a “belly nice girl” nonetheless.

At any rate, my piercing, degrees, and naked left hand managed to squeak by under the radar. The grandparentals doubtless felt secure knowing I am now the possessor of “How to find a godly spouse,” both parts 1 and 2, as recorded on CD for easy listening. And I suppose I might have carefully trailed a couple red herrings here and there …

But these were not enough to forestall the traditional giving of books where other relatives are concerned. The latest additions to my nightstand pile? And the Bride Wore White, some “seven secrets to sexual purity,” and the latest John Piper book, “When I don’t desire God.” Perhaps it’s because you’re desiring something other than white?

Just kidding. Actually, all the immediate Broadway fam and I received the Piper book, so its choice was hardly personal or indictment. I’m always suspicious of people who pen whole bookshelves’ worth of books, but we’ll see what Piper has to say. But don’t worry; I won’t try to sic it on you all as some secret proselytizing BOTtoM-in-disguise. That place is reserved by this month’s/quarter’s special BOTtoM: The Rise of Viagra!

I’m hoping to read a little more on my flight, but with Grandpap deeply immersed in talks of biblical man- and womanhood (the role of women being his favorite topic, as creationism is Dad’s), I wasn’t about to sneak out my blue-and-yellow book. Some fights don’t need to be fought, ya know? I mean, shocking-with-bawdy-book versus impressing-with-crazy-mad-knitting skillz … hard call (makes weighing motion with hands.). Pride and self-preservation won out. ;) It’s all about the public relations and talking points … Which is why I should go into marketing, doncha think? More on that later.

Oh, and if you find this entry less sexually charged than usual, I’ve got my excuse all ready. It’s 6 a.m. Christmas morning and I’m cooped up at the airport. What more can you ask of a girl on three hours’ sleep and one weak latte, exactly? But have no fear:

• That Groovey Geezer sent an email Thursday, and
• With Poster Boy’s endorsement of “working the system,” perhaps I’ll troll the SF Craigslist for movie dates. Strictly for research purposes, of course. But maybe that way I can find an amenable techie eager to cuddle in exchange for huddle-time with my laptop. Which is in dire need of help.

But don’t think that’ll stop me from blogging. More Anna coming Monday or Tuesday.

*Except for New Year’s Eve. Thoughts on how I should spend the holiday? There’s always Craigslist, but still ... Maybe this’ll require consultation with my one-time matchmaker. ;)

Sexless in the country

Yes, ya’ll, there’s good reason for my silence this week. And it’s not just the holidays. You see, since Monday night I’ve been cloistered with the fam, out on my grandparents’ parcel of land in rural western Washington. So rural you get no cell signal of any kind until you’re in the nearest small town.

It is nice to be out in such, uh, rusticity, I ’spose — just not so great for blogging.

At least not on the face of it. I mean here I am, with only immediate and extended family for company ... not much chance of blog-worthy adventures, right? Sure, I got to have coffee with my main man (Dad) yesterday afternoon, but that’s not quite the same.

Then yesterday my grandfather brings out the array of vibrating massage tools he and my grandmother have somehow inherited or collected, and I knew my readership need not be disappointed. ;)

The best part came mid-morning today though, while I was pottering around the kitchen, making individual cups of coffee for my siblings and I in the mini French press my sister brought down (the grandparentals barely take in caffeine of any kind, except for what’s in chocolate. In fact I was shocked their instant coffee was actually a prior-to-this-visit unopened container; last time the jar was vintage 70s, I swear).

I’m focused on the coffee when I come in on the middle of some conversation about cake. Grandpa’s angling for chocolate cake, but Grandma says it’s not his birthday. “Jesus doesn’t like chocolate,” I deadpan, guessing at the occasion. (It turns out the cake is for a joint celebration of all the birthdays missed — mine, my sister’s, my brother’s, and so on — never mind that mine’s in July.) But Grandma’s more intent upon the business of the cake. “You like this cake,” she asserts to Grandpa.

And with good reason. But the reason was not immediately apparent. At first Grandma was merely describing the cake, which involves pineapple drizzled over a yellow cake, and various decadent toppings such as pudding and cool whip. She kept referring to it as “Martha’s Cake.”

But somehow it came out that this was actually a renaming of the cake, which an infamous family friend (known for the legendary Broadway family pie crust) had created. Grandma was acting funny about the original name.

“So what was it?” I badgered her. Finally she fessed up: Better Than Sex Cake. Martha had been the man’s wife, so Grandma deemed this a more-appropriate name. You can expect me to remain coy about any cake-sex comparisons, but if you’re lucky maybe I’ll try my hand at making the cake, and share some with blog readers. In fact, maybe that could be the Blog Reader World Series prize ...

You see, it’s kind of a puzzle for me. Poster Boy maintains it has to be something worth him competing for, but refused to give any suggestions other than encouraging creativity on my part. Although on second thought, asking him for advice is a guarantee of poor participation. This month I use his idea for the contest, and not a single bloomin’ entry do I get! Don’t be inspired by his example, though. Get your entries in for this week! How hard can it be to explain my bruises? Reader Jay’s already taken a stab, and I’m not sure he even means it as a contest entry ...

But as for the BRWS prize, I can’t continue with food. This needs to top all the prizes somehow! Although my grandpa thinks it would be funny to mail the winner two dates (the food kind) and hint about a possible third one in the offing (not necessarily the food kind). Other relatives think I should offer a blind date, and Little Brother Broadway thinks I should offer a date with our 105-year-old great grandmother: “She’s single!” But yeah, I don’t see any of those options happening.

So, readers, thoughts on this conundrum? Consider it your holiday gift to me to make some suggestions. And no, I will not consent to making slippers. Besides, California and Australia are simply too warm for most knit goods ....

Coming later this week: why Gramps concludes I’m more cut out for Naval service than joining up the Marines (as two of my sibs have done).

December contest, week 2

Week #2 photo.

Caption this! Yeah, it’s a little gorey, but what can I say? Out here barely three days, and already I’ve taken a battering. Various train delays outbound, sore forearm muscles from schlepping suitcases many blocks and up and down multiple flights of stairs ... and then my luggage got delayed until Saturday, noon (at least they deliver). Plus today my calves are wicked tight from a run Saturday afternoon, and obviously I won’t be spending much time on my knees anytime soon.

The cause for which, by the way, provides this week’s exciting caption-contest challenge! Don’t delay. Entries accepted through Sunday, Dec. 26, so send in your best creative explanation for/interpretation of my dramatic injury before the holiday. Winners of last week’s contest still being determined.

But back to the injury. All I have to say is, bad. My knee is practically purple in some places and apparently my shin is even swollen. Funny I didn’t notice that at dinner with Poster Boy. Which, by the way, went off without disruption. Although I do believe Poster Boy managed to arrive at my uncle’s house in time for a command performance of Tom belting “Sex Bomb” from the stereo. Ah, the Jones ...

As for other man-related adventures, I fear the days have so far been dull. My plane-mate was an iPod-owning Yale alum, but we barely spoke except when summoning airplane staff to supply more water for yours truly. Which is sad because, you know, airplane flights can sometimes be the stuff of grand adventure.

In the spring of 2001, for instance, I was flying back from a spring-break trip to France when I got delayed. Extensively. Somehow as the wait stretched on and on, I became acquainted with a cute-ish book-shop worker from Portland. We did the whole West Coast/Northwest bonding thing and by the time accommodations were provided since our flight would be delayed some 20 hours ... well, let’s just say a different woman would have had herself a one-night stand.

I of course did not. But the next morning my new flight buddy demonstrated admirable negotiation skills, finessing a multi-passenger seat-swap that scored him a coveted place at my side. Of course, not until the descent was he so bold as to grab my hand, and in the long run I did the best by him in my discovery of Alain de Botton. Although I have to say, there’s something more than a little disconcerting about sitting next a man you’ve just met, on an international flight from Paris, and discovering that his book is the tale of a romantic who spends pages detailing the wild-card combination of chances which brought him together with his love on a flight en route from Paris to London. I remember thinking “I hope you’re not making too much of this...” Then I read the first two paragraphs of the novel, it was like someone had a written a book from all my journals, and I was permanently hooked on the Brit (i.e., de Botton).

So much for travel hook-ups. Still, there is today’s flight up to Seattle. Maybe if I wear a nice skirt or something - strategically displaying my bruises - I can finagle a little sympathy from some hot Seattle-bound traveler. After all, Poster Boy advised me to “work the system” by using dates to get such out-of-my budget items as movie tickets, so why not leverage the bruises?

Which is something you, too, can do in this week’s contest. Don’t forget (or delay) to enter!

Um .... um ....

’Fraid it is well beyond toothpicks this morning, my dears (moans, Oh God... in background). On a bare three hours’ sleep have already schlepped horrifying quantities of luggage 7 minutes’s teeth-gritting walk to the subway, up and down stairs, in and out of multiple confounded turnstiles ... in heels, with no breakfast, and on three hours sleep. Said heels regretably put me at all the wrong height for hauling heavier suitcase but it’s too late now.

...Did I mention the sleep part yet?

Even if I were not still half-blind from squinting at tiny dark-teal stitches of my latest sweater while finishing the final seam last night ... I’d be pretty cross-eyed anyway from fighting with my reluctant-to-open eyelids. Anticipate many a covert bathroom trip this morning to sneak in little naps. Also likely to spend much of the morning staring blankly into space and trying to remember the previous thought. Wanna place bets on the latte talley for today? One down, ?? to go.

Oh yeah, and then I had to wrestle with my damn bed this morning, taking it apart and boxing the mattress and springs while Donald Trump did an interview on the radio.

In sum: I can barely think, much less muse about boys and then blog such thoughts.

Wish me happy journeys and don’t forget to enter the contest by Sunday! Have packed prizes into monstrous luggage; will be conducting award mailings from the road, in addition to delivering last month’s second prizzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

PS: Am however wearing infamous red hot pants so perhaps some sort of travel adventures worthy of write-up will ensue. Have laptop in tow, so will try to blog something early next week if not over the weekend.

Cocktail-hour closure

You know those mornings where it feels like you have to prop your eyes open with toothpicks? Well … this is one of them.

But I’m blogging, reader dears. Or doing my best to. And doing so at work. Oh yes.

Theoretically I could have blogged yesterday (as some readers were apparently awaiting — whoops! Guess ya had to wait a little longer, but ya’ll are patient types, right? ;)) … but last night was that infamous monthly cocktail hour and then when I got home a Brooklyn friend rang me up for drinks in a neighborhood bar that went till nearly 1 a.m.*

Back at the bar, however, I was apparently missing lots of excitement involving Best Friend, Blogfather, Covert Romantic (who allegedly “hooked up” with a certain late-coming interloper) and so forth.

But that’s OK. Plenty “excitement” had anyway over chicken quesadillas, red velvet cupcakes … oh, but I suppose you don’t care much for the food part, eh?

The rhythm method
So Covert Romantic was there, as mentioned, and we had our usual kiss-cheek, “Good to see you” “Oh you’re leaving? Sorry we didn’t get to talk this time” farcical exchange. It’s kind of like with Hapless Hesitator, in a way. With me, the man is perpetually doomed to be just a tad behind the beat. He missed — and continues to miss — that window of opportunity by just a little bit. I, of course, have frequently been ahead of the beat with certain men — in that bad, rushing way when the drummer’s not holding the tempo steady — as opposed to the good, driving, on-top-of-the-beat tempo.

Sorry, flashbacks to my rhythm-section days. Based on what I remember, I think the ticket is waiting for that time when the rhythm is right “in the pocket” as we used to say — or was that the name of a song? At nearly 10 a.m. on still no coffee, I can’t be expected to remember these things. Maybe Poster Boy can set me straight on it all, Saturday. Since I haven’t heard back from that Tom Jones ticket holder, looks like I’m back to Plan A for the evening.

Lickwit gets sentimental
Plan A for last night involved more extensive socializing, but with everything I’m trying to do this week in preparation for ze Beeg Trr-eep, it was all I could do greet Tim Robbins Type and banter with the Harvard Lickwit awhile. He kept calling me Anna Broadstreet and bragging of how he was doing pro-bono PR for my blog.

He was actually quite nice last night: bored, on good behavior, or else feeling a bit of remorse at the prospect of probably never seeing me again. Or so he would have me believe.

I think it was possibly one of the longest conversations we’ve had in recent memory. And, at its most ribald moments harkened back to our initial flirtation. We discussed how he had always admired my figure (particularly the top half), and I told him that women have what we dubbed a “comparative bra advantage” (CBA for short), which men don’t often take into account. Of course by the point a chap might realize this moderate deception, we both agreed he probably doesn’t care much because he’s just so ... grateful. Enthused? We never did settle on the precise word for that state of mind.

Then later, speaking of CBAs and all, Lickwit chided me for constantly folding arms across my middle so much and generally concealing the figure in question. I told him I didn’t want his wit to suffer (as it does when he is visually overcome) and then we bantered about how both our wits had been a significant part of that briefly explored attraction. Well, wit and the CBA, on my part. ;)

And that was about the evening. Then Lickwit gave me a hug goodbye, swinging me up off the floor in a final, funny, vaguely chivalrous gesture (or would that be dashing?), briefly appearing to consider a parting ass-grab. There was even some neck-nuzzling. Not bad for a girl with no perfume, no makeup, and only a form-fitting polyester dress!

In the search for a kind of closure (assuming I do move, shortly, to the West), I suppose it wasn’t bad. I mean, at most Lickwit and I shared something like 5-8 dates, some of them more loosely defined than others. Perhaps I should say we were “couple-y” on that many occasions? At any rate, that makes him the closest thing to a boyfriend I’ve ever had. And though I’ve certainly gotten over whatever wounds he may have caused, it was nice to part on such friendly terms.

Getting to be a goodbye girl?
Geez, made peace with Hippie the Groper, the Harvard Lickwit … I’m just crossing all my New York men off the list. I guess there’s still the Latin American … but truthfully I can’t really see dragging myself to the Comedian’s weekly laugh-show tonight just for the sake of Burlesque Bar closure and a possible chance of saying one last goodbye. Today I’m wearing the sweater I knit** while he was away at his homeland, but I think that’s enough. Tonight, perhaps, I’ll go home and play some Nina — “I’m going where the chilly winds don’t blow,”*** tip my hand in a little salute, and finally be done with that whole business.

Music makes for an apt parting line all around, in fact. Last night I was fastening the buttons on my coat, when what song should break over the sound system, but ole Frank singing “New York, New York” — an oddly apt homage. I remember my brother playing that song shortly before I left Arizona for New York; last night it seemed it could signal the end of this New York chapter. Only time — and the next few weeks — will tell.

*Beers for her, two Tequila Sunrises for me. “Do you even know what that is?” she asked, mystified, when I ordered. “No, but the bartender will.” back
**It’s pretty but doesn’t fit so well — kind of like the man would have been in my life.
***Which was a strange kind of theme song in his absence, and inspired many winter batches of sangria.

Blogging slump continues

Updated 12:09 p.m.

I know, I know, the reading’s been rather thin lately.

But what can I say? I may be going through a mini-Job phase here (as in, rhymes with lobe). :( I mean, there’s the sis going off to war, rejections keep pouring in on the job front (as in, rhymes with fob), and yesterday I learned my bed will have to go.

Maybe this is punishment for writing such a sometimes-racy blog? But no, no, not even I could tolerate such messed-up theology. It’s merely the case that the friends who’ve so kindly been loaning me said bed (for more than two years now) actually need to reclaim it - a project that’s been theoretically in the works for some time, but had no urgency until yesterday. Now they need to claim it pronto.

Actually, perhaps, this could auger well for the future. I mean, if I were one of those peeps who make much of signs I’d conclude this forecasts a change in my status. Consider all the omens after all:

• finished reading When God Writes Your Love Story
• in desperate need of work
• unemployment funds almost gone
• out of milk and other, er, essentials
• losing bed
• received “How to Find a Godly Spouse,” on CD
• received the next Sexless BOTtoM in the mail yesterday: The Rise of Viagra
• weather taking turn for the frigid
• recently invited to attend Tom Jones show in California
• met Tom Wolfe at lecture and book-signing Monday night

My conclusion? While in California I am going to meet an older-but-with-it gentleman in almost-immediate search of a wife, whose name will probably be Tom. Because, you know, clearly this is how God would choose to fix my problems. I mean, all the movies I’ve ever seen are pretty much unanimous. Find a man, and everything in your life works out. You could have mumps, measles and rubella, all at once ... but find the right man, and poof! All gone. Instantly.

So, I’m sure that between this spate of minor tragedies and the strangely repetitive appearance of old dudes named Tom ... and the emphasis on marriage in reading and other material ... this Means Something. This could be God writing my love story! Can’t you almost hear the cheesy theme music?

PS: Readers of my other blog may be happy to know a 9-day silence at last has been broken. Albeit somewhat grimly. Hey, this is why they warn against drinking alone, what can I say?

December contest, week 1

Photo #1.

Yes, it’s finally here: the Blog Reader World Series conclusion you’ve been waiting for. Based on reader suggestion, we will be featuring a weekly caption-this contest, in which the challenge is to imaginatively relate the chosen photo to Anna’s life or otherwise embroider its relevance to this blog. Since this may be somewhat, er, challenging, I’ve started you off with a choice of images.

Photo #2.

Winners each week, so don’t be shy about entering. Just be sure to identify which photo your caption is for. Have fun! This week’s winner takes home a live recording of the Addison Groove Project performing at some bar in Boston. A decent CD, I promise.

All for now, my lovelies. A real entry coming soonish, I hope, but as this is the final stretch before Friday’s departure (for three weeks on the West Coast) and I have a busy-as-usual social skej, things are running a little ragged on the blogging end. Feel free to supply guest-blogging material as desired. ;)

Today’s the day

I’m glad I’m not dead. Oh wait: obscure swing-band lyric reference probably none of you got. Whoops.

No, actually, it’s the day of my long-delayed lunch with the Hapless Hesitator. In fact by the time many of you read this, it will doubtless have occurred. (Nearly live post-lunch blogging this afternoon, depending on demands at the office.)

To share or not to share?
Meanwhile, however, I am totally overcome by such dilemmas as whether or not to share the pumpkin pie I made over the weekend or just let him enjoy his bag-lunch unmodified. After all, the effects of Anna’s baking on single, Christian (and therefore probably sexually frustrated) males is indeterminate. We have early crushes who proved quite impervious to such retrosexual affections ... and then, well, blog-readers who have enjoyed said edibles as prize fare. Plus the peeps at a certain Burlesque Bar who enjoyed my full-dairy cinnamon rolls the night Jose no Dinero’s comedian friend launched his weekly laugh-in. Esther, he’s a very nice Jewish boy, by the way! Wink, wink.

Then there’s always the critical wardrobe question. Yesterday, as Best Friend can attest, I clearly dressed while far removed from the necessary doses of coffee. In fact, perhaps there was a caffeine extraction from my bloodstream before I got dressed (shudders). Let’s just say I found a way to morph into the frumpy wingwoman-from-hell guys never wanna talk to. Although if I’m truly sticking to the path of dating only Christians* perhaps this is the way to fend off heathen suitors. Not that I usually apply such precise or offensive labels to people in my life ... but somehow this morning the word “heathen” has such a deliciously archaic sound to it. Dude, my inner retrosexual must be off her meds this morning ...

But if you haven’t figured it out from this ramble yet, sadly there won’t be a proper blog today. Too much socializing so far this week. DO, however, partake of two highly entertaining pieces:

1. Esther’s careful, um, octonography of the love-lives of octupi
2. This tantalizing academic work on the vernacular use of “dude” (because, you know, there are so many formal uses the scholar has clearly left out ;)). Wow, he sounds like my kinda nerd! Too bad he teaches at Pitt ...

And now, must run. Already late, *sigh*. Perhaps no pumpkin pie for anyone.

*Laughs hysterically at prospect Christian men would ever ask me out.

Waiting for my ride

Dahlings, I fear it may be light blogging today. Yours truly did not quite hit her blogging rhythm last night (choosing to stitch up seams in a sweater I’m finishing, then gossip with the roomie over pizza and hot toddies), and is presently at work. What’s more, I need to spend all idle time at work today practicing my best sloe-eyed, hapless-female helpless face.

In a West Coast state of mind ...
Why is that, you ask? Well you see, there’s a little thing called Anna’s West Coast tour that launches 10 SHORT DAYS from today. Of course, being the cinch traveler that I am, arrangements have been made in only the most rudimentary fashion. Housing I think I’ve secured, but transport on the other hand ... Well let’s just say I’m not quite dumb enough to believe some swell bus (or train) runs speedily, on the hour, from SFO to, say, Palo Alto (wherein my uncle and first source of housing resides). Certainly my budget doesn’t run to taxi fare ... nor is the distance anything close to walkable, bikeable, hitch-hikeable, etc.

Hence the need to pull in a few favors. Which requires a strategic mustering of helplessness, vulnerability, etc. Because of course, these transfer very well over email to the friends/family/random bums I know with whom I may soon attempt such wheedling, begging, pleading and general cajoling for said transit favor. Hence the practicing in idle time ... and the inability to blog at length.

So, SWF26 + XN = SWF37?!?
But as one short item ... last weekend friends and I conferred about the rather unique plight of Christian singles. The girlfriends in question are convinced that singlehood, for Christians, is measured in something akin to dog years. Thus, being single and 26 is really akin to being single and 37ish for the secularist. But I think all of that has just the tetch of bunkum. I mean, it’s not like your clock ticks any faster cuz Jesus is your (main) man.

You just get less sex over a lifetime. But possibly this is akin to the scenario whereby high-quality winemakers actually reduce the yield per grape so as to result in better-quality vino. Thoughts?

I apologize if this morning’s entry is somewhat more confusing than usual; in a desperate attempt to conserve funds (and justify this morning’s purchase of both C monster Odwalla and croissant) I have temporarily switched to office coffee. Yech. This ain’t no Starbucks latte.

But should you desire more structured, deliberate reading, check out Blogfather’s tale of romantic woe, which was the essay of the month over at The Subway Chronicles. Warning bells for the romantic in all of us ...

Lastly, since comments on the matter of this month’s contest have been sparse, I’m giving you one more day to opine. Remember, the key here is weekly winners. I’ve been accused of being a packrat, ya’ll. Anna must unload belongings, even if they are on the smallish side.

Plus, coming soon ...
Lunch with Hesitator on Thursday, possible dinner with Hippie the Groper, and exciting times trolling a conservative book fair (in the skirt Ad Weasel asked to look up). Much droll blogging for sure, if I can only get my caffeine on.