the awkward fairy

An email I sent to Marian, my best friend, one fine midsummer Tuesday afternoon:

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On the Fourth of July, I:

- Almost lit the house on fire.  Note to self:  Do not believe the guys at the fireworks stand who tell you that "nothing we sell will explode any higher than waist-height," since clearly they are talking about waist-height for Sasquatch.

Yesterday, I:

- Threw Adam out of my apartment at 10 a.m. so he would not be there when Nolan came to pick me up at 10:30 a.m.  I think I am a bad person.

- Went on an 11-hour maybe-date with Nolan, which was dive-bombed somewhere around hour 10 by a visit from the Awkward Fairy, in the guise of a Channel 9 newswoman.  I'm heading into a meeting right now, but do I have a story for you later.

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I'll tell you the rest next week, yes?

how it's done

The message popped up unexpectedly, interrupting my mid-afternoon malaise.  He had seen from my Facebook wall that I was planning on going to the preseason football rally at our mutual alma mater.  The least I could do, he said, was to let him buy me a drink afterward.

This was awkward because I couldn't for the life of me remember how I knew this guy.

He's on my Facebook friends list.  I remember accepting his friend request because he happens to share an unusual last name with a family of kids who went to my elementary school, so I figured he was one of them.  But once I accepted, I realized that all our mutual friends -- more than 30 of them -- were from college.  I must have met him at some point then, and promptly forgotten all about it.  (This happens to me more often than I'd like to admit.  I blame it on all the undergrad boozing.)

Anyway, after an hour of racking my brain, I had to give up and send him one of my patented "This is embarrassing, but I can't remember how I know you; pardon me/remind me?" emails.

The response came back that evening.  No need to be embarrassed, he said; we'd had a couple of classes together years and years ago.  He thought we might have been at some of the same college social events, too.  But really he was interested in getting to know me better now.  "Maybe a shot in the dark," he wrote, "but I saw that you were heading this way and I couldn't deny that I was long hoping for a reason to run into you."

Gentlemen:  Want to ask a girl out?  Want to do it in a way that is both flattering and respectful?  Want to make it quite clear to her that you are interested, not dabbling in the murky waters of friendship?  Of course you do, because then she'll say yes.  And that sentence, right there at the end of the last paragraph -- that's how it's done.

jet set

The first thing you need to know is that I've never actually met him.

He lives here in LA, but I was busy last weekend, and now he's in New York on business for the week. We've taken to email in the interim. I tell him about the crises of the last few days; he writes about restaurants, and thronging tourists that remind him of the swallows back home.

Then, at the end of his most recent email, this: "Was just about to click send but had an idea. How do you fancy escaping to New York? I’m supposed to be here until Thursday but could stay for the weekend. You would, of course, have your own hotel room and an open return ticket to LA should you find me entirely repugnant! I have to work during the days but could be finished by 5pm and the hotel has, by all accounts, a brilliant spa. Even if we don’t click it’d be an adventure."

I look around my room, to make sure I haven't accidentally time-warped onto the set of Pretty Woman.

Is it ridiculous that I'm tempted to accept?  I don’t have many plans for this weekend yet.  There are people I'd love to visit in New York.  More than anything, I'd like to do something crazy.  I'm not the type of girl to whom these offers are usually made -- I don't play in these leagues. I like the thought of trying on that persona, just for a few days.

But I say no, my mother’s voice echoing in my ear. And then spend the afternoon half-regretting it.

yet again

Eight o’clock on a cold Monday morning at the end of February.  I should already be dressed, getting in the car, heading towards the office.  Instead I’m still sitting at my computer in panties and a tee shirt, compulsively re-reading the few bleak lines of text that represent my latest romantic abortion.

“You deserved better than that and I’m sorry,” he writes.  He’s at least the fourth boy who’s said this to me in recent memory.  Almost word-for-word, in fact.

And yes, I do bloody well deserve better than that.  Any girl does.  So at what point does everyone stop with these tired apologies, and just start behaving themselves in the first place?