Hills Like White Elephants-2009

I’ve been saving this story until I thought enough time had past so as not to trouble the main character, so-to-speak. We met in New York through a friend during my first semester of grad school.  Fresh on Broadway via the Pacific Northwest, I welcomed the touch of home from Fiona, a native Portlander ensconced in Harlem. We were to meet for the first time in Chelsea for some gay exhibit. No, it was really gay with a selection of portraits depicting gay couples that hardly seem radical these days (thankfully), but the mocking of convention was much appreciated.

I was 45 minutes late, and extremely angered by my ignorance of weekend subway timetables. Although it shouldn’t have mattered, I was even more upset with myself when I saw her wide blue eyes staring back at me with understanding. My friend neglected to mention how attractive she was.

I convinced her to let me buy her a vegan cupcake as penance. I had never dated a vegan before, and until Fiona, I had thought the practice a deal-breaker of sorts. Vegans are too good for me, I thought. I would love to live so ethically, but I am a slave to my taste buds, a sucker for blue cheese and filet. Yet she was not militant, despite working for an animal rights organization. I felt comfortable around her, and even tried a wheat grass concoction with her urging at Liquiteria in the East Village one day. To my surprise, I liked it, almost as much as I liked her.

After a couple of leafy green gay city adventures, I wasn’t sure how she felt about me, and I was shy about finding out. One night, I worked up the courage to ask her on a real date over the phone. During the ensuing silence, I felt I could’ve done my laundry and come back. Painful. Then, she said it.

“I’ve been thinking about how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out with it… I’m pregnant.” She probably did her dishes while she waited patiently for the news to filter through my heady hamster wheels.  Short of marriage, red flags are hopelessly lost on me. I am optimistic to a fault—sometimes cocky. Hmm, preg-naaaant, I thought. I let the word spin around for a bit, resting long enough to form one question—does this mean no date? (I hope I didn’t say that out loud. Of course it means no date you selfish moron! Her life is soon to be completely transformed.) Then, as if reading my thoughts, she added, “And I’m moving back to Portland.” Thwap!—red flag #2 hit me in the face. Even I could not argue my way around that one.

I honestly do not remember what I said to her in that moment. I must’ve congratulated her because she was excited about it. I dimly recall asking about the father, as I had known her to be mostly gay—a factor adding to my shock. I do remember feeling mildly depressed, thwarted by a fetus. Of course, her daughter is clearly the best thing that ever happened to her—and I am genuinely happy for her and long since over my little crush. And as the New Year unfurls, I wonder what red flags will be on the horizon. What novel warning signs will bruise my brow? Or maybe, just maybe, some lovely will ask me out for a change, and I will say yes. I will lift her baggage, and she mine, but there will be neither hills like white elephants, nor unforgivable bastardizations of Hemingway.

Tooky

I once sat in my NYU advisor’s office and read aloud a passage from De Certeau. I cried in the process. I was embarrassed, but she hugged me with words, saying the world needed more people like me, people deeply connected with their emotions. She called it a rare gift.

I don’t know about that. In any case, I blame my mother. She cries at Hallmark commercials. We invented a word for such behavior: tooky (pronounced: 2key). I think the word choice may have been influenced by a radio station contest at the time on the Tampa Q105 Morning Zoo. A bird voice would screech, “aa-aa-ee-ee-tooky-tooky”—the cue to call. It was just stupid enough to be brilliant and to stick in my head decades later. (Nancy, did you write it?) So tooky we remain.

Tooky really gets in the way of my dating life. Although Big always said I was beautiful when I cried. Sad thing is, I was usually crying about her. I frankly have never dated anyone like me in this regard. Perhaps that’s for the best. I will say, there is something beautiful about tears from those who seldom cry.

I am thinking of Scarlet. I know I haven’t talked about her in years– she of my first maybe-date in New York. We never did find romance together, but she became one of my best friends, the kind of person you call at 3 a.m. Actually, I call her at 3 a.m. when I think I’m going to die (this happens way more than it should). She’s a doctor. But this is not why I love her. She is goofy and completely easy to be around—I can “took” it up with abandon around her.

We spent a lot of time together back West this summer-a bright spot in an otherwise trying time. She had unexpectedly lost a close family member, and I was the closest thing to family in her vicinity. She asked if she could come over. There in the sunlight, filtered through the white rails of my front porch, she sat and quietly wept. I perched across from her, crying and watching. There was something so achingly beautiful about her release. Her blonde hair, mottled on her red face, soaked up her tears welling from haunting blue eyes, all glistening in the sun. We sat in silence, until she was ready to speak a handful of words. Then, back to quiet.

I asked if I could make her dinner, even though I am a terrible cook. For some bizarre reason I had some arugula and crusty bread on hand. I toasted pine nuts, shaved some parmesan, and made a mustard and olive oil dressing—a trick I’d learned from a Italian friend whilst living lean in Paris. The meal was delicious because it needed to be. We ate, mostly in silence.

This memory is clearly not about dating. I offer it here because you might need to cry more or less. This is about feeling. This is about connection. This is about the people you cry around, the impetus, the inspiration, the healing, the trust, the quiet, the tooky and the reserved.

The Tyranny of the Binary-Or How I Learned to Love My Sexuality

I recently went on a date with a man. <needle skipping across record> In the context of this blog, of my efforts to be a kind of lesbian Carrie Bradshaw, this may come as a shock. And no, I’m not turning into Jessica Stein. I’m still mostly gay. In fact, I’ve always been mostly gay. Yet, I hesitate to write about any attractions to men. This is partially due to my team player mentality. Friends of Dorothy must stick together. Rainbow solidarity aside though, I actually do not believe that my sexuality works in a binary way.

So why not identify as bi? Well, this word comes with enough baggage to sink an Olivia cruise. For one, it implies a 50/50 split—not true in my case. And to many, bisexual signals a type of promiscuity that betrays my sense of morality. (To be fair, the character of Carrie Bradshaw conflicts with this, too.) I am not judging bi, promiscuous or polyamorous peeps. First, I know a bunch of monogamous lovelies who identify as bi. Second, I’m a no harm, no foul gal. More slut power to you and what not. I have even read an interesting book called The Ethical Slut to try to understand the polyamory so prevalent in my circles around Portland, Oregon. The concept of polyamory was really foreign to my upbringing, and I wanted some insight into the beliefs of certain friends. That said, I choose a different path.

As I kick my ethical queer into gear, I am surprised at my continued reluctance to acknowledge the fluidity, however viscous, of my sexuality. I have started identifying as queer (as opposed to lesbian) this year, and as 98% gay to help round out any confusion. However, I am experiencing a reverse closet effect. I refuse to deliver any hint of this news to many people in my life, including my father. He’s an old-school Catholic. I had my dear mother come out to him on my behalf years ago. He’s a poet of a man–a strong, yet gentle soul. I never feared outright rejection from him, only disappointment. His arc of acceptance is remarkable, a wonderful story for another day, but suffice it to say I do not want to confuse him with my double closet. Or more to the point, I do not want to give him false hope that I will end up with a man, nor undo years of progress.

Queer theory talks about the paradox of the closet, how coming out of one actually creates it (Fuss, 1991). No one usually knows you are in a box unless you declare it. One is assumed straight until self-disclosed otherwise–the nested closet in the house of the binary. The closet is a poor metaphor for people who live on a continuum. Although I reside in the “Very Gay” space today, I hate to think my anthro-sexuality, my person based sense of romance is something to hide. Yes, in terms of probability, my future partner will likely be a woman, but I’ve never had much use for math outside of paying bills. Love is not a card game.

So about the date with the guy…wait, I’m actually not going to write about it, at the risk of pissing you off. Because when I mentioned it to a friend back home, she freaked out in a comical way, faux screaming about how I don’t like dick. (I am paraphrasing.) At first I was a little annoyed, but then I thought about how I would respond if she came over to my house and tried to make out with me. I would laugh my ass off. She doesn’t dig chicks. (I am paraphrasing myself.) In other words, I am just as certain about her as she thought she was about me and men.

I could plow forward, and tell you anyway, shielded somewhat by the screen, the two-way blogging mirror. But you might be watching. I suspect I might turn the date recap into a proving game—let me use the right adjectives about him to convince you I’m not self-deluded. Parts of my sexuality engender more self-surveillance. However, I feel no such pressure as a lesbian raconteur. A bigger closet would be nice though.

A Bold Commute

I did something patently absurd this morning.  Incredibly romantic.  Before I tell you, let me assure you that I am working on an explanation for my whereabouts the last 6 months.  It is a Valentine of sorts to the people I hold most dear in New York.  Now, on with the besotted foolery.

I noticed her red canvas shoes first, as I boarded the G train going the wrong way.  Most of us have to go the wrong way until May, while the MTA does construction.  To get to Manhattan from my stop, you must first go deeper into Brooklyn.  I had planned to rid myself of my New York Times to some deserving stranger.  She became the obvious choice.  She was reading Revolutionary Road.  I sat down next to her, and made the offer.

No, thank you.

I can’t give it away!

If you leave it on the seat, I’m sure someone will take it.

Good idea.

That’s it.  This was the sum total of our conversation, yet I began to feel a little dizzy.  With her slender frame and hipster librarian attire, she looked remarkably like my Sylvia, the person I was with for a year and a half, tied for my longest relationship, and certainly my best.  Her voice even sounded vaguely like hers, calm and a bit dreamy like a poet sitting in the middle of an Illinois wheat field–seemingly in the middle of nowhere, especially to my urban sensibilities, yet fantastically somewhere very specific, some exotic locale to which I was not yet privy.  Yet.

Naturally, I couldn’t speak further.  We got off to make the transfer, and I slowed my pace to see where she stopped.  I leaned casually against a column, trying to channel James Dean, but looking more like Bart Simpson with my baseball cap and backpack.  Yesterday, I had worn a skirt.  Why couldn’t she have seen me yesterday?  Maybe she likes Barts.

I did not walk to the end of the platform, per my usual practice, to find the optimum time-saving spot for my walk to campus.  I hovered near her, feeling rather creepy about it the whole time.  We boarded the F train to Manhattan, on opposite sides of the same car.  Will she get off at my stop?  I wondered.  If she does, it is a sign that I should talk to her more.  By 7th Ave. I decided to write on the back of my business card (business being a loose term, as I am a full-time student).  I like having cards, one of the few trappings of corporate life I miss, so I kept the practice.  I digress.  Here’s what I wrote:

I’ve never given my card to a stranger before, but you have a beautiful speaking voice.  Drink sometime?

I finished the card by Carroll Street, and began to contemplate my journey to the other side of the car.  I didn’t want to bring my bag, but leaving it with strangers seemed foolish, even to this fool.  Then, a woman got on with coffee spilling out of her cup.  She tried to manage it, as I looked down, making sure it wasn’t spilling on my pant leg as it hit the train floor.  I stole a glance at red shoe girl.  She was still reading.  Would she get off at Jay Street?  If so, I was running out of time.  My heart began to box like Pacquiao.  Surely she would be heading to the city.

The woman next to me continued to struggle with her coffee to the point where I snapped out of my amorous punching.

Would you like a napkin?  I think I have one.

Oh, thank you!  That would be great.

With my new caffeinated friend secured, I decided I could safely leave my bag for a minute.  Clearly, napkin buddies would not steal.  I asked her to watch it, and marched up the train, praying I wouldn’t smash into a pole, or worse, onto her.  When I arrived at her seat she had her eyes closed!  Hmmm, this is problematic, I thought.  So I gently nudged her red shoe with my hiking boot and said, “Pardon me.”  She opened her heavy lids revealing deep brown eyes, framed by short, stylishly shaggy hair.  ”Oh dear God, what am I doing?”  (said the cartoon thought bubble over my head)

“I want to give you my card.” (slight pause)

“Uh, okay.” (in sleepy disbelief)

“And since I know this is incredibly awkward, I’m going to go back there now.”

With that, I turned and left.  I don’t know at which stop she exited.  I could not look back.  I also could not stop smiling.

Havana Nights?

Twenty minutes into the second date she looks at me and deadpans, “What’s wrong with you?  You were so bouncy and fun last time.  Now, you’re all serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize your less than 24 hours of knowing me qualified you to speak to me in that tone, and with such authority.”

I didn’t really say that.  Naturally, I apologized to her in an effort to avoid conflict.  I should’ve avoided a bad evening and asked for the check.  At this point, the more astute among you may be wondering how I found myself on a second date with this woman.  The first date ended with us making out on the dance floor at The Ritz in Midtown.  The Cuban bottle blonde had moves.  Caliente.  However, sans the beats of Gaga our chemistry was somewhere between cardboard and a mosquito bite.

I called an audible and suggested we go see Inception thinking at least my evening wouldn’t be entirely wasted.  While walking to the theater, she continued to badger me about what was wrong, repeatedly saying, “as long as it’s not me.”  “No, really, what’s wrong?  I’m a Scorpio; I can sense these things.”  Dating foul #2: Never mention your astrological sign in any meaningful sense unless you’ve already signed a pre-nuptial.

I made up some excuse about over-thinking a conversation I’d just had with my mother.  It should be noted that the conversation in question had absolutely nothing to do with any dispute between my mother and me.  This is why I was flabbergasted, and I don’t use that word lightly, when her solution was to not speak to my mother again.  I protested that I didn’t think this was the appropriate response, in a non-Norman Bates sort of way.  She swore that not speaking to her mom on any kind of a regular basis was the smartest behavior change she’d ever made.  Yes, well, good luck with that.

Inception was sold out so we saw Cyrus instead.  She was super handsy—even did the yawn, arm over my shoulder bit. I bit my straw.

We had planned to go dancing, but my arthritis was flaring up.  I asked what she would rather do instead. You might be wondering why I just didn’t beg off and go home.  I get worse.  I have issues with disappointing people, even people I don’t like.  Oh, like you’re so perfect.  I digress.

She says, “My honest answer?  [no, give me your Buck Rogers in the 21^st Century answer] I want to make out in a park with you.”

“Uh, okay, um.  [looks down at feet] Which park?”

“How about this one?”  [motions to Union Square]

We walk into Union Square searching for a spot when a genuine realization hits me.

“I’m not a city dater!  I feel awkward about this.  It’s not the gay thing; it’s the PDA thing.  There are too many people here.”

“Oh, no one is looking.  Besides, it’s my dream to make out in a park with you.”

I really wish this was fiction, folks.

We take a lap around and I’m secretly praying for no open benches, when she settles on one sufficiently far from a sleeping homeless person.  We sit and I grimace uncomfortably as scads of people walk past.  I feel a thousand eyes and two CCTV cameras boring holes into me.  Even the corgis are in on the debacle.

“I really can’t do this.  I’m just not comfortable,” I mutter after a salty, unpleasant smooch.

Undeterred she repeatedly tried to put her hand up my shirt calling me a “classic, voluptuous beauty.”  Flattering.  Painful.  We Pisceans have different dreams than getting mauled by bisexuals in Union Square.

“You travel so much that we just don’t have time to take it slow.”

We parted company soon thereafter.  I was extremely polite.

Le Fail

I’m in Paris for a study abroad.  Correction: I am single in Paris on a study abroad.  Watch as I crumble under the weight of 50 movies all telling me that I must, as a matter of course, have an affair whilst here.  That, and eat many baguettes.  Although I’ve managed the latter, the former is proving problematic.  It turns out, I’m far too reliant on language for connection, and not the body kind.

So when I found myself, on Gay Pride no less, lumbering through a Parisian alley densely packed with more lesbians than I’ve seen since a Melissa Etheridge show, I wasn’t sure what to do.  Oh sure, there was wanton eye contact and whatnot, but I seriously can’t keep a straight face with that sort of thing in that sort of context.  I’m cute, not sexy.  I own this in the States, not here.  In France, cute is kitsch; cute is the ridiculous Pompidou; cute is mispronouncing the word for pepper.  I do THAT very well.

No, I need to talk about Foucault to get my flirt on.  Wait, he’s French, bad example, but seriously I can’t even manage to ask for moutard on my fucking sandwich, much less engage in verbal nerdy foreplay.  Some women I know would find the bright side in this and revert to a more primitive sexuality.  Perhaps I’m too cerebral?

Regardless, I did get my dance on with some friends last night at a straight club (damn the majority).  Truth be told, I love dancing with men or women; I just like to dance.  However, my dancing partner (who has a lovely boyfriend back home) is the kind of beautiful that makes the earth turn more slowly.  You’d think this would be a plus, yet much of our night was devoted to brushing aggressive Frenchmen off of her as nicely as possible.  We both have that absurd “please like me even though I don’t like you” gene.  The French sense this weakness.  For instance, while desperately searching for a cab, walking arm over shoulders, a man asked us, in French, if we were lesbians.  In unison, we said,  “Oui.”  He then said in English, “I’m gay, too.”  <beat> “I’ll go home with you.”  Au revoir, mon idiot.

Sadly, I found myself thinking about my last date in New York with a skinny Cuban bottle blonde.  Let’s just say you didn’t need a dry ice machine around us on the dance floor.  Plus, she went to Cornell.  Superficial of me?  Guilty as charged.  Some people like T&A, while I usually go for the TA.  Looks like I might be the fluer de wall here.

C-Stand Crush

I’m supposed to meet my crush for coffee tonight.  I have no idea if she is interested in me.  I only just worked up the courage to speak to her last week, after months of debating on how to recover from our first meeting during which I actually said the words, “I’m not stalking you.”  Gah!  Did I really say that out loud?

I think it was January, and I had time to kill before class.  I wandered into the department lounge overlooking Washington Square park.  As I sat down to finish my reading, I noticed this striking woman eating a Subway sandwich.  Brunette, tall, skinny, glasses…your basic librarian dream.  I read the same sentence three times as I thought about what I could possibly say to this random, beautiful person sitting next to me.  Veggie delites are the best, eh?  No, weak.  Um, you have some mustard there on the corner of your mouth…here, let me get that.  Hmmm, desperate, and not true.  She left; I was sad.

About twenty minutes later I headed around the corner and up the elevator to my department office.  The doors opened and there she was sans sandwich, drinking from the water fountain.  I froze and then muttered the stalking line.  Why was she in MY department!?  Was she (shudder) an undergraduate student?  I scurried away to the safety of the classroom and tried to focus on privacy law.

During a short break, I left the room, thinking the route would be clear from crush girl by now.  As I rounded the corner, I spotted her at the front desk, working.  Of course, she works in my department and now I’ve said something about stalking and I feel awkward and how am I going to get past her to go to the bathroom and what if I trip and fall through the glass door.  Would she call 911?

I returned to class without incident, or speaking to the file clerk from heaven.  I saw her countless times after that.  She even smiled at me once when I was laughing, walking out of the office with my adviser.  That time, I really did almost fall through the door.  Yet, I said nothing, until last week when I realized since I always said hello to the other person at the front desk, it was really rude of me not to include her.  She seemed delighted to talk to me, or she was just glad to have a distraction while affixing folder labels.  That’s me, better than sticking labels!

Turns out she just graduated from Tisch (pant, pant), and she’s a filmmaker.  She peppered her conversation with all kinds of technical jargon about cameras and angles.  Normally, I find such speech pretentious, and mock people (including myself) in my head while they spout off about semiotics.  Not so with my little femme Kubrick.  Leica lens?  Swoon.  She’s off for principal shooting on her first film tomorrow so I spoke to her at literally the last opportunity.  We live five minutes away from each other.  I wonder if she wears contacts when she shoots.  I hope I don’t trip.

The Story of B.

I’ll be in the Time Out New York Singles’ Edition coming out this week.  Confession: I’m participating as much for blog fodder, as I am for dates.  Yes, gentle reader, I am devoted to you.  I’ve also joined an online dating site again.  I’m kicking this ginger snap into high gear.

After a history of epic online dating folly, I blame blind faith for forging ahead with this method.  Aside from meeting one of my best friends on Jdate (see Shalom post), I’ve only had one decent date from the online world out of at least 20 meet ups; and it was the first one.  ”Decent” is woefully inadequate; it was the best date of my entire life, the slow-motion movie montage this-can’t-be-happening-to-me sort of date.

B. found me first.  In fact, my age filter was set so that I would not have seen her; she is ten years younger than I am.  She sent me the following note, charming in its brevity: “you’re neat.”  One contraction and one adjective, backed up by one intriguing profile page, and I was determined to meet this woman.  She put up a chase, but after one month, multiple emails and one awkward phone conversation, she agreed to a non-mediated cup of coffee.  She walked in wearing a fedora.  Let’s pause for a moment.  A FEDORA.  Who does that?  A fragile, beautiful artist who tells stories with words, pictures, music, martial arts, even haberdashery.  B. does that.

Coffee turned to dinner at Three Doors Down, a charming Italian place I’d been meaning to try.  We talked for hours, and for once I was appreciative of soft restaurant candlelight. We shared a fondness for Maleficent, the big bad in Sleeping Beauty.  I walked her home.  On her porch, she said something that made me blush, and made it wonderfully clear she wanted a second date.  I’ve fallen in love before and after her, yet no one moment has compared to the astounding joy of possibility I felt on the drive home that night.

We did not last, obviously, and no, she’s not my Big nor my Burger.  She’s older than that; she’s just B.  I’m not going to talk about the break up, how we went from that electric start to me holding her on my kitchen floor to me showing her the door.  And then driving all over NE Portland trying to find her, and failing.

No, I’m not going to talk about that, because if I do, I might not fill out the next profile summary, or answer what I do or where I’m from.  I like a varied cheese course, Almodovar films, Buffy the Vampire Slayer on tv; and I believe in love, despite knowing better.

Big Burger

It occurred to me recently that my Big might actually be my Berger.  Sex in the City fans will recall that Jack Berger breaks up with Carrie via a post-it note.  My Big dealt her blow via a long email that bandied the word friend about like a weapon.  I submit that the difference between a post-it and an email is about as slim as she is.

Like the Bradshaw-Berger relationship, ours was one of unprecedented chemistry (at least for me), yet troubles with her then recent ex and certain insecurities on both sides reared immediately.  One of our major differences, the deal breaker in the second end (because she had to essentially tell me twice since the first time was basically a “not now, but maybe later”) was our opposing view of what a relationship dynamic looks like.  She believes in the idea of “sameness,” that you feel the same way about each other all the time, a sort of balance of power although she would never use that phrasing.

Before I get to my view, I must interject what most of my straight female friends are thinking at this moment, some variation of: “Jesus, I’m so glad I don’t date women.  Guys are simple.”  As one friend recently put it, “You just sort of kick ‘em in the balls, and move on with your shared lives.”  Ahem, no thank you.

So my conception of a relationship is that, when it comes to dynamics, the minute-by-minute roller coaster cliché is more apt.  Even my best, long-term relationship fit this mold, and it wasn’t as exhausting as it might sound.  We learned to have fun with it, and there were many more common highs than discordant lows.  Yet, Big runs from such pitches.  We, in an ill-advised attempt at friendship waaay too early, got into an epic argument over this because, not understanding it, I questioned her sincerity.  I threw bombshells around like “fear” and “you only want what you can’t have.”  We did not speak to each other for months.

Regardless of my accuracy in that moment, I have since learned from observation in her new relationship that, in fact, she still holds this sameness value in high esteem.  I feel like this aspect, this fundamental relationship expectation is crucial, yet it’s not something you’re likely going to discover early on.  The practical side of me longs for a drop down menu of compatibility options including, but not limited to, your preferred side of the bed.  One need not meet all the criteria, but at least you know what is coming to the table.

Perhaps I’m too high maintenance, yet that’s the nasty chaffing bit because my unicorn interpretation of her view seems to me to be the untenable part.  My coaster leaves loads of room for ambiguity, realism, love, growth, and admittedly, sadness.  One of my favorite SITC episodes is called “La Douleur Exquise”, when Big breaks up with Carrie unexpectedly before he heads off to France.

In response, she hurls a Filet O’ Fish sandwich at him and it hits the stainless steal surface behind Chris Noth’s head.  You see the mayo streaking down—a disgusting, perfect visual juxtaposed with the gut wrenching look on SJP’s face.  How odd, then, to realize I’ve been mourning a faux fish moment, a Berger moment in disguise.  My torrid love affair may have been a brightly colored sticky square all along, ready for the trash can before the ink had dried.

The side of fries here is that if she is not my Big, then someone else is.  It only took me one year and nine months to realize this.  Quick wit, turtle heart.

Love’s Fire Heats Water; Water Cools Not Love

The title of my post is from a Shakespearean sonnet.  Basically, a really hot chick steals Cupid’s torch and dips it in a well.  Instead of going out, the torch sets the well en fuego!  Then, our poet goes to the well to take the cure/water and finds that his passion is only kindled, and not by Amazon, although the object of his affection may have been rather tall and forceful.  This is debatable.

Technology, myth and our Bard’s sexuality aside, the fact that I adore his words with such fervor has set me to wondering.  Did my romanticism come first or did Shakespeare?  Am I perpetually besotted because I mainline Keats and Neruda or was I predisposed to be an orange-topped sap on two strong, somewhat frog-like legs leaping into love?

This question is classic poultry huevos territory, but I’ve given up on other questions when it comes to me and love.  Just last night at Barcade with friends, we were laughing about how I’ve even located my point of no return—the moment where I fall somewhere beneath the earth’s molten crust, yet rise to race Voyager at the same time.  The obvious answer to avoid this lover’s fate, we all concurred, is to not pass this point, or rather to pass it LATER.  In other words, slow down, Harley*, there’s plenty o’ road with you and that gorgeous, stunning, insanely intelligent woman.

The latter string of adjectives hints at why I’ve given up.  I can’t even write a sentence without waxing something or someone.  So I’m swimming to the green light on the dock to ask F. if he’s at all to blame.  Something tells me he’d tell me it’s Puccini’s fault, but being in New York and not Italy, I’d go pester Bernstein instead.  (If you’re letting me swim to West Egg, then surely you’ll let me time travel and break into song, too.)

Maria!

Say it loud and there’s music playing,

Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.

Lenny would humbly remind me that dear Sondheim wrote the words, and redeem me from the future and unforgivable mistake I made whilst playing Trivial Pursuit for the win in a Scottish manor.  (How could the musical theater kid miss that?)  Sondheim is mine!  After playing a few bars of Sunday and imagining Seurat, Steve turns to me and gives all credit to William.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

And I drift to sleep, perchance to dream.

*Harley was my nickname in college.  Before I tell you the story here in the world’s longest footnote, you should know that I went to a religious liberal arts college with literally 600 or so students.  You do something once and everyone will know it–no Internet required.  Here, in this tiny enclave by a wheat field, I accidentally became synonymous with the stuff of biker gangs.  Put on your black chaps…

At freshmen orientation, we played a “get to know you” game called Honey, I Love You But I Just Can’t Smile in front of a huge bon fire.  Of course, someone made me laugh and I was in the middle—of strangers, keep in mind, when I trotted over to a handsome soccer player to try and make him smile so I could get out of the middle.  Also, keep in mind I had no idea I was gay at this age, but there is no argument I have great taste with either gender to this day.

So I crouch down on one knee and stare directly in his magically delicious shamrock green eyes and say…

WAIT.  TIME OUT.  I also need to tell you that a few days prior to this moment I received a care package in the mail from my best friend who was attending William & Mary.  She sent me a college newspaper clip containing the top ten pick-up lines on campus.  Number one struck me as particularly funny, and so I said to the unknown Greek statue before me…

“Hey, baby.  I wanna ride you like a Harley down a baaaad stretch of road.”

He DID NOT laugh.  I think I frightened poor Danny boy.  Go figure.  For weeks after this, when I would get introduced to people, they would say, “Oh, you’re THAT girl” with much excitement.  And that is why my Howard House baseball cap has Harley stitched on it; and I will never throw it away.