sheistolerable

2007-10-03T18:47:00.001-07:00

I'm eating a Hershey bar for dinner (same number of calories as a Luna
bar. Don't you judge me.) It has very specific instructions for
opening. "Hold," the wrapper says on one corner, and on the other,
"Lift and Pull."

Don't you wish relationships came with directions like that? To get to
the sweet stuff, when do you hold and when do you apply force?

2007-07-16T17:55:00.001-07:00

I'm glad I'm going on vacation because it seems the endorphins have taken over my brain. My brain is the large part of what I have going for me and I need it to work. I need to analyze situations and make wise choices and dispassionate judgments. "I want to spend every waking moment with C, either in bed or out somewhere PDAing" is probably not the most dispassionate judgment, so much.

2007-07-05T10:30:00.001-07:00

Coworker generally calls and texts so faithfully that when he doesn't, I need to be talked down from the (trees? rafters? cliff? I guess I'm not that up on my cliches.) Talked down from some frazzled headspace. My current overblown worry is that he's pissed at me for drunkenly alluding to his suspicion that two of our coworkers, exes, are back together.

Oh btw, drunken? Allusions? Yeah, everybody at work knows. They've BEEN knowing. Went out with a bunch of them a couple days ago (C's out of town and you best believe I'm antsy, angsty, even) and B revealed that she had guessed and E, who knows, wouldn't stop making comments about who I was texting and A told me he'd tested me a few days ago and figured it out, and then J, who we were all supposed to be keeping it from for C's amusement, found out and flipped a glorious bitch, and it was fun and hilarious and um, now what?

Dwight and Angela and Ryan and Kelly

2007-06-14T08:23:00.001-07:00

Q recently started dating someone she works with, too. (She's dating Jake! LULZ!) We are now adorable twin sisters in all the experiences afforded by shitting where you eat, including

1) acting awkward when you first see the object of desire, then growing increasingly comfortable throughout the day to the point where you need to watch your behavior

2) attempting to send sub rosa messages to the object (dropping a catchphrase the two of you established together, wearing something he commented on to work)

3) a gripping inability to think of anything else than his gorgeous physique throughout the workday

Every time my brain shifts to Coworker, I need to squirm in my seat.

Am I Pam?

2007-06-05T21:15:00.001-07:00

One of the things I most admire about Coworker*: he loves his job. It is inspiring, if wistful-making, to be around someone who gets paid to do something that gtives them energy, that they feel is making a difference in some way they feel the world needs to change.

(wry trombone sound)

Clearly, I'm not there yet.

I'm going through old files right now, preparing for our move next month, and coming across papers I've written for my current degree, relics from my psych studies in college, things I've written just for fun along the way, and it's hard to even remember what I found fun or interesting or compelling about most of them. Sure, I like my turns of phrase or my conclusions, but what, then, made me feel so strongly about Pope Benedict's relations with Islam (let's say) that I actually put hands to typing and produced something about it? I don't feel that way about anything now--the creative, nay, the organizational, imperative. (One reason for this virtuous paper-purge is the very real need to find my W-2 so I can get my tax refund back before it ends up at Halliburton or somewhere.)

I'm not stoked for my classes, can barely make an effort at work, and think I'm about to hit the kitchen for more food even though I already consumed a bag of spearmint leaves today (the Walgreen's brand are my favorite guilty pleasure; also, I had meat at lunch and it did NOT fill me up for the afternoon, Fuhrman is right, Atkins is wrong and dead, end of story.) I have one good friend, a male companion who may be settling, some small savings with no goal in mind and an enuretic cat to show for the last two years in Chicago. So why the heck don't I change my situation?

I'm afraid I'm trapped by Pam Beezley-itis. Everything is fine until it's not anymore, and I just fear that it'll take me five more years to reach that point. If my job would get drunk and jealous and attempt to punch out its rivel for my affections, grad school, leading grad school to become more awesome and try harder to win me, or something, that would sure help my decision-making, although maybe not my passion. I wonder if I'm just grouchy because that W-2 is nowhere in this shit heap I call a bedroom, or if that dangerous anomie of last month is coming back.

*I know I talk about him a lot and it's not like a hopes-dreams-and-plans thing, it's more like this: he's what's new in my life, and plus if I were honest with myself the purpose of this blog is a little bit to recount the boy triumphs and tragedies.

vroom, screech, crunch

2007-06-04T15:11:00.001-07:00

This Memorial Day weekend it was exactly a year since I'd been in a car accident.

Today, it's two days.

It was just an idiotic fender bender in Oak Park, but it makes me feel fragile and stupid.

Last year I totaled a beautiful rental car, fortunately without harm to any living creatures including myself. I just got a call from Mama Tolerable to the effect that the rental company is sending bills to my parents' house (the address on my driver's license . . . ) still trying to get money out of me, even though I, thank God, had all the insurance on it, and did everything right. I thought I had straightened this out with them a long time ago. She asked me if I had all the paperwork for it, and of course I snottily told her so.

The problem? I don't. I cleaned off my desk this weekend and clearly remember throwing the rental agreement into the recycling bag. Like I said, thought I had straightened this all out . . .

I think I'm about to go home and dig through the Dumpster.

2007-06-02T23:14:00.000-07:00

Found an old journal entry (scribbled on one of the little legal pads I use at work, then buried under one of the stalagmites that SOMEHOW form on my desk) pining for Alejandro, a dude I dated right before I moved here. It is not helping my cynicism (?--how 'bout, my deuced cold and frigid heartlessness) about Coworker. I mean I had to read until I got to his name before I figured out it was about Alejandro, so little do I now associate the feelings with him--"Because we did have something, I feel. Something unfakable by calling forth that flow of hormones. I don't know why it should matter so much. How can I say it's not just his touch that I miss, but something behind it, when his touch was joy from the beginning." Etc etc etc. Now looking back, I can say with no compunction that whatever we had probably came from the joy of being two (relatively) intellectualy compatible folk willing to hook up with each other. He was more or less the first guy I'd dated who could talk at the level I like about the things I like, so no wonder it felt like something amazing. But what's the difference between finding someone you like to talk to and also happen to like to make out with, and finding someone you actually care for?

I think it's time. Q and I were talking lately about the amazing connection you had with the people you met first week of college, and how frequently these connections fizzle once your life really begins. But that doesn't mean that you didn't have fun having those conversations--only that you somehow both couldn't sustain the interest to keep doing the same things with the same people. In the case of couples, sexuality and social pressure make it much harder to dissolve such a bond than it is for friends, especially freshman week friends--but time is still a trial that you can't fake with any other measure. Coworker is making me a little nervous on these grounds. He seems to be rushing us on the terminology quite a bit, for one thing. He's been calling me his "lady friend" to colleagues for quite some time (I mean, they still don't know it's me, but they know I exist, which is more than they do for him, if that makes any sense) and the other day he told this story in which a client spoke of me as C's girlfriend. UM. Would you have caught me relaying such a story without redaction, one month-ish in? Hayl no. Oh, that's the other thing. He was out of town for work this week and called me, seriously, almost every day. This after we'd spent time together on three days of the long weekend--at his place Saturday, out at a bar Sun where he met Q (the Bouncer's bar--AWKWARDNESS--but it couldn't have been avoided and in fact, all escaped without incident) and then on Monday, when he was swamped with work stuff, I went with him on a work-related errand.

Well, why'd you do that, Elle? That doesn't sound fun.

Well, it was, though. And that's the thing. I totally enjoy him. We can talk about work, or books, or most often random crap, and it's just so much fun. He affects (?) this sort of giddiness around me that can get so obnoxious when other guys do it--you know the kind, where all you ever talk about is how cute you both thought you were when you met each other or whatever--but it just makes me more enchanted. Q says that all my talk of one-month this and that "doesn't matter if you really like someone." But I think it does. If you haven't sttod the test of time, you have no way of knowing whether your connection is real (as I conveniently avoid describing either "real" or "connection" in this entire post) or just infatuation. Viz. Alejandro.

Slips of the lips

2007-06-02T22:45:00.001-07:00

Last week or so we had some of Q's coworkers over on a Friday night. They'd started drinking around 3 at a work party, and by the time they made it over Q was gone. She ended up crawling into one of our empty bedrooms (sadly, in addition to the demise of our one evil roommate, we have now also lost P to a family tragedy) and <strike>passing out</strike> putting herself to bed, she insists. However, her coworkers continued merrily drinking and singing karaoke until around two, when they all left except for one, Jake, whom (oops!) I made out with. Sorry, Coworker!

I do feel bad about this, but Coworker shouldn't worry. Awkwardly bumping tongues with Jake made me realize just how different I feel about C--normally, after only about a month in, I'd be all like, Suck it, monogamy, we haven't had the other-people conversation yet so this is my right. Instead, it was like one big chorus of angels sang "meh" and I realized, nope, I do not want other guys. As further mitigating factors, we were drunk, it was 3 am and I have a long-imbedded aversion to passing up something when I could get it--frugal perpetual single chick that I am.

Whatever, so Jake went home and when I told Q about it the next morning (worrying that she might have a partially-disclosed crush on him) she was fine. We were both sorta hoping Jake wouldn't be weird, since we're about to move into his building and he is good company, but whatever. Anyway, this week Q goes to work and endures much razzing from Jake and his married sidekick, JC, about her early, uh, swoonage. Apparently in the early stages of her torpor she'd announced that she'd made out with someone from work (no one known to me) at their company retreat, but that she wouldn't tell anyone who it was. Jake and JC now have one goal in life.

However, Q was quite amused to "coincidentally" overhear the following exchange, which you'll notice is not at all stilted and has a lot in common with the way people actually talk:
JC: So, Friday night . . . did you black out at all?
Jake: Yes. Yes I did. Right after you left, I don't remember anything for the rest of the night.

Hm, track-covering, much? Apparently the Js imagine I've fallen madly in love with Jake and, believing he returns my feelings, am prepared to stalk him all around the town . . .

The next time we see the two of them, Q and I are totally stoked for me to ask her: "So, remember your work retreat? (pause) Did you black out at all?"

Geek Love*

2007-05-21T18:29:00.000-07:00

"She realized she just married him because he would have her."

This is my beautiful, amazing, very fat friend Prisca telling me about her aunt, recently divorced after marrying someone while fat, then losing 350 pounds (holy crap!) with surgery. Prisca recently broke up with her boyfriend, who loved her but whom she didn't love. Brave and mature.

It's crossed my mind to wonder if Coworker sees me as someone who'll have him. Not that I'm not a catch. I am! But some things about me that are neutral from most perspectives are kinda negative from his. He's an atheist; I'm a pretty straightforward believer. And while believers have the luxury of pitying atheists (if not condemning them to hell), the atheist attitude towards believers tends to be more frustrated than tolerant. I have no idea if he thinks I'm deluded, or stuck in habit, or what. We haven't talked about it.

The other drawback? I'm taller than he is. Coworker is a small man. Muscled and distractingly cute, ~~but~~ and small. Oddly enough, it doesn't bother me. I usually wear flats around him, making us close enough in height to feel like equals, which is lovely, although I can also imagine enjoying wearing heels and striding around with him like a celebrity with her man. Atticus ( blast from the past!) was redonk tall--I mean he literally could not get his arm around my waist if we were standing next to each other. Sometimes he'd just drape it vaguely around there anyway, and sometimes he'd put it around my shoulder, which I hated--it felt patronizing, and if he changed his path of movement he'd yank me around with him like a tetherball. I remember realizing at one point that I couldn't grab his ass while kissing him. My arms wouldn't reach.

It's fascinating the way height differences affect your interactions as male and female and in public space, but actually I'll save that for a later post. I just wanted to say that Coworker is self-conscious about his height (size?) and that makes me wonder if he would be so into me if, to hash grammar, me not caring about it weren't so important. If he felt like he had more options.

*Geek Love is a horrible, depressing not in the good way novel about the romantic proclivities of circus freaks, known as geeks in old argot. I'm not linking to it because you shouldn't read it. I proudly declare myself a geek, but in this post I was thinking about the circus-freak way. I know, that's insulting.

2007-04-23T13:21:00.001-07:00

Last night my roommate and I had a ten-minute discussion about whether "She's Always A Woman" is satire or sincere. Karaoke will do that to you.

My position--and it might have to do with my own croaky crooning, which gave the song a bitter, Judy-Garland-singing-"Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" flair--is that Billy Joel could be mocking the woman as she tries to make most of the statements in the song about herself. Don't they sound defensive? "I take care of myself. I can wait if I want. I'm ahead of my time. I never give in, I just change my mind." Self-justifying, much?

Q points to lines like "she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding" to support her position that this woman's a self-gratifying bitch and Joel just likes it that way. She's probably right.

2007-04-21T00:30:00.001-07:00

When the female bartender comped my drink, I really started to freak. I've been riding this wave of what can only be caled mojo--pink, sparkly, and undeniable, and it may just have crested tonight, preparing to bury me under it.

Consider:
-Coworker, Tuesday, and today he called me back, which is great! Yay Coworker! So I've got that going for me.
-Before that, a neighborhood guy got my number as I was walking back from my car, holding the remains of a hot dish I'd taken to a potluck.
-Dean, a while ago but arguably the start of this stint.
-The green jacketed gent who kissed me on St. Patrick's Day.
-The roomies and I had all managed to make out with reveling strangers on St. Paddy's, and Q, misunderstanding the assignment, somehow made a rendezvous with hers for the following weekend. P and I tagged along for safety, but not too stoked to stand there and watch her make out with this dude (he looks like a death's-head Dave Matthews), we tucked ourselves into a much lovelier bar right across the street. The bouncer, broadshouldered, goateed, shaved head (for some reason I imagine all guys who look like this come from Boston) was watching us with amusement as we stalked Wrigleyville looking for a place to alight. P and I chatted and drank, he swung by more than was probably necessary to maintain order, he offered us shots, I asked for whiskey, he came back with Jameson (well played, both!) and when we boiled out the door, he held my hands and said, "If you come back in here, I might have to ask for your number."
"Where's your phone!" I cried. "I'll give it to you!"
"No," he said, and this could have been a line, but I thought he was genuinely having scruples. "You've had stuff to drink--Maybe if you come back in."
Well, THAT was adorable. Then the girls and I went and had food. A taco al lengua on a Friday in Lent! Ha!
Fast forward to today, about three weeks later. We were back in Wrigley because Q wanted to make out (not with the same guy, at least) and the ladies did me the favor of meeting up at his bar, just so I could see. How sad was I as I entered and the bouncer was someone totally else, ugly and humorless. I went in; Q waved at me from behind an Irish dude bending over her (awesome), P was with her tucked into some guy's orbit, and I went and third-wheeled. Then P started making excited motions and I turned, omg, Bouncer, bartending!
His face lit up and he remembered my name, and asked if I remembered his, which I did. That's actually about the whole story. He bought us drinks. I admired as he shook them for others. Something about a really big, solid male body, dressed in well fitting clothes. I wish I could've gawked more openly, but it's a fairly well lit and classy spot. We had to leave in quest of a makeout for Q (which never materialized; more fool us, should've gone to the Hangge Up.) Anyway, he's unbelievably sweet, and how cool do I feel? I know the bartender.

But to continue with the mojo, the next place we went to, I got eyed by the sexy cocktail waitress (mm, yes please) and the bartendress, as stated, did not charge me (for those keeping track, I drank free all night.) This is what life must be like for supermodels. Do I go out normally? Yes. Do I go to work normally? Yes? Walk down the street? Yes, and why all these people are falling over themselves to notice my lusciousness is more than I can say. It's like someone took a voodoo doll of me and dipped it in chocolate.

They're the people that you meet each day

2007-04-20T07:45:00.001-07:00

One of the first strangers I recognized in Chicago was this older lady who rides my bus. (The other was this mountain of a woman with elaborate hair who works at the post office in the Sears Tower. I went there once to mail a package and almost exclaimed "I know you!" She rides my bus too.)

This first lady lives right near me and works right near me, so sometimes we'll travel the whole way together and other times I'll pick her up mid-commute, if one of us took the express and the other's transferring. I noticed her at first because she's an older black lady who wears the makeup of a 60's Stepford wife--frosted pink lipstick, frosted blue eyeshadow, big ol' stripes of blush. She has a fragile, careful look about her, like a regimented eater, and her face has a slack look which makes it older than her body.

Today she got on the crosstown bus with me, having not been on my uptown bus--it's amazing how often that happens. I took my sunglasses off to see if she was wearing her makeup, but she wasn't. She looked tired. She got off a few stops early and went into a Starbucks, and I noticed she was almost a head shorter than everyone else on the street. A class trip of high schoolers, rounded and pink-cheeked, stopped to let her through, bouncing off one another like bubbles.

Munchausen's Singledom by Proxy

2007-04-18T19:51:00.001-07:00

In the Times Magazine profile of Maureen Dowd that came out when her book did, the author sniffed that MoDo, "at age 50, has never lived with a boyfriend." I don't like her much in general (it's not her fault that she happens to perform ultra-femininity in a position of power few women have, but it sure does make it look like that's how she got there) but that line helped us bond. When you're chronically single--or, like Dowd and not like me, chronically hopping along a string of enviable suitors--you tend to forget that some folks regard singleness as a disease or, at the very least, a symptom of some pathology.

I bring this up because (a) I've been having a crazy run lately where I get asked out left and right, entirely unprecedentedly and (b) I am largely a happy single, which the singlehood-disease camp REALLY hates. If you have someone who says "oh, it's okay, you'll find someone someday" or encourages you to give a chance to folks you're perfectly fine living without, it's because they think allowing yourself to remain unpartnered is on a danger par with fucking bareback. The fun only multiplies when the same person expects you to hear out the weepy details of their serious relationships or the numbing details of their inconsequential ones (and I am generally pleased to do this, because I am a good friend and a happy single.) But you know you've hit the pinnacle of awesomeness when the same person looks like they're swallowing vomit if you! the single! DARE to have even a mini-romantic success of your own. I told two of my friends a brief and less gushy version of the post below about last night. P was excited and happy for me while Q looked like she'd been poisoned. She left after a few minutes without having said, I swear, another word. It was the same way when I was with Dean (story someday) not too long ago.

Yes, Q has been having romantic hard times lately because she's still in love with her ex, but I'm not asking her to genuinely be happy for me or even not to bitch behind my back. Either of those would be totally acceptable reactions I'd pursue myself. But I would also muster enough of an act of interest and support to show the friend that I cared enough to muster the act. Hell, I'd pull off the act and she'd believe me. But I'm cool like that.

He Said/She Said

2007-04-18T09:40:00.001-07:00

Hey, can I ask you something completely ridiculous?

Me? Sure.

Do you want to do something sometime?

Yeah.

We started grinning. We both look like we're about twelve. It must have been cute.
Later:

I've been thinking about this for a long time. How did it take four beers for me to ask Elle Daley out?

I was thinking the same thing. No, actually, it wasn't. It was the opposite of that.

What?

Oh, I was thinking that it isn't necessarily bad to make mistakes.

He was perplexed by this but took it in good spirit. Then we talked about books.

When he left, I put my number in his phone, and teased him because he already had another "Elle" in there, so I had to put "Elle D." He said "Or I could just label you Cute Cute Cute." I said "Shut up!" And then he left. We both still had grins on our faces.

I'll let you know if anything comes of it. I hope it does, but then I think it might be a mistake. We work for the same company.

Extreme dubiousness

2006-09-18T21:02:00.000-07:00

My roommate is dating a guy who buys her stuff. Like, clothes and furniture. Here's a quote from her earlier today: "I mean, I have my doubts about this relationship, but it can't be that casual, right? He bought me a chair!"

I certainly have my doubts about this relationship. Even if it is that easy to impress you, shouldn't dignity suggest that you conceal it?

She's on the phone with him right now cutely, in theory, making fun of his English, which isn't his first language. Does that seem weird and patronizing to any of you? It's not really the same as, like, poking fun at someone's Southern accent, or their weird proclivity for putting ketchup on eggs. I think I may puke. Yeah, that was definitely a chunk.

Ha ha ha! Bless your soul!

2006-09-08T14:45:00.000-07:00

I get through my workday by stalking. Alas, technical changes in my
drug site of choice have made a lot of people leery of updating, so my
steady stream of voyeuristic minutiae has slowed to a trickle. It
occurred to me to Google this guy I dated in high school, a theater
type with Goth tendencies (redundancy flag). OMG. He's gone from
flowing wavy locks (shut up, I was in high school!) to a SHAVED HEAD
(doesn't look bad, actually, except that I regard a shaved head as
similar to a beard in rendering the wearer utterly sexless.) And he is
indeed still in the performing arts and he has his IMDB profile and
his resume out there. Here is, I kid you not, a list of his last four
film roles:

Homeless Guy
Software Pirate
Zombie
Hit Man

Aww. Back in high school, he was totally the hottest thing on the stage.

Item

2006-08-30T13:50:00.000-07:00

Today Will, the hot law clerk, has five o'clock shadow.

(growls softly)

(bites knuckle)

He's wearing a plain white button-down and jeans.

sigh . . .

2006-08-13T22:18:00.000-07:00

Today I met a really cute and smart guy on the train! That never happens to me!

I know I haven't finished the story of Atticus yet, and I will, because it's just stupid, but later, my friends, later.

Who does that? pt. 2

2006-08-03T13:21:00.000-07:00

So things went on and they went well and plans were made for our trip, which had somehow stretched into a hypothetical five days. One of my friends swoonily referred to it as a "mini-break," (signifier of relationship bliss as per Bridget Jones), while I didn't know whether to look at it as an extreme adventure of interpersonal tolerance (will they return alive?), an inspired finish to a fun summer fling, or a superserious Relationship Next Step.

I should have mentioned the conversation A and I had the morning after he suggested it, which did not add to my ease:

Elle (attempt at lightness): So what happens if we're two hours out of Chicago and you already hate me?

Atticus: Then that'll be good to know.

E: ?

A (not as pompous as this makes him sound): I used to work for a pharmeceutical company, and there comes a point where you have to decide what products you're going to invest in. If it's good, you decide to throw a lot of resources into it, and if not, you kill it.

So then, of course, I said "So if that happens you'll kill me?" But seriously, if that doesn't suggest that this trip was somehow conceived as a Test of Future Potential, I don't know what does, right?

No pressure.

But things went well and a couple weeks after that conversation, Atticus, in a very non-fling-like gesture, dropped me off at O'Hare to catch my flight to Tokyo. (Long story, but it was an amazing and fairly spur-of-the-moment vacation.) And while I'm there, checking my email in my friend's apartment, I get the following:

Urgh. I hate to say, but I probably don't have quite the time or $$ to go to Mt. Rushmore. Urgh. I hate to break plans that were made. Sorry!

~atticus~

That's complete and verbatim, except for a few words changed for Google paranoia. How do you think I interpreted it?

Who does that? pt. 1

2006-08-01T11:34:00.000-07:00

Atticus and I were cuddling in his bed, totally zoned out to the sounds of the A/C and our own breaths. It was our--let's see, first date we met, second date kissed, third met his friends, fourth date ended at my place, so it was our fifth.
"Hey," he murmured, "you know how you always said you wanted to see Mount Rushmore?"
"Mm-hm." Who knows what you talk about at four a.m. moments like this?
"I was thinking we should go. I'm free the last weekend in August. We could do a roadtrip."
Long pause from me. Long, long long pause.
"Sure, if I can get the time off," I finally said, my thoughts racing. Atticus is leaving Chicago in September. He'll come back in a year, but two scant months don't really add up to long-distance potential, as I've mourned in this space before. Now the man wants to spend--how many days alone with me? Does this mean he might want to stay together? I don't even know how long it takes to drive to Mount Rushmore! Or is he just thinking we'll end our summer together with a bang? Can I even ask him what he's thinking after five freakin' dates?
Aloud I was trying to figure out how many days off I had left, and Atticus laughed at what he thought were my poor math skills.
Oh, I was confused, believe me. But not by my work schedule.

to be continued . . .

2006-07-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed I had a girlfriend. We were looking at apartments together (classic Elle dream, combining my real estate lust with, uh, the other kind) and nervous that we wouldn't get the one we'd chosen. The girlfriend embraced me and drew my head to her shoulder. She was cafe au lait skinned, short-haired and rounded, and totally into me in a tender, l/Lifetime kind of way. And yet, as she kissed me, I could feel a little doubt in the pit of my stomach. Did I not want this place, this girl, this settledness? Was it the committment, or the fear of disapproval, or was I just not that into her?

The weird dream was comforting, in a way. I usually am the skittish one in relationships, taking it light and going slow: "Meet your parents? WHOA! We should break up." Partly, that's because I've dated some guys I didn't really like that much, and jettisoning them was a wiser choice than "working on" whatever wasn't there. But it's good to remember that even when the person's all you could wish, there can be legitimate reasons to draw away from the highest possible level of intimacy, legitimate sources of doubt.

Atticus is awesome. He makes me laugh, he shares my values, and he's totally sexy in just the slightly goofy way that I like. But if he goes back to school a free man, I'll be okay. Sad, but okay. I will miss him, personally, but if I had to wait longer to find that one person who is all those great things, and to tame him, somehow that feels right to me. And who knows? Maybe there's a nice girl out there somewhere . . .

2006-07-11T14:50:00.000-07:00

no, you know what? it's just preposterous. it's never going to happen. we've got like three weeks left. I feel like such a girl. I HATE feeling like a girl.

things are going well with Atticus, the guy my friend set me up with . . . too well. too freakin' well, considering that he's leaving town in under a month . . . you can't base a long-distance r*********** on a couple months, can you?

no. of course not. that would be preposterous.

When it rains . . .

2006-06-21T10:30:00.000-07:00

It fucking pours. Both in the fields of iniquity and men.

Part 1: I spent the last month frantically trying to find more roommates and placate my landlord and the other future roommates because my evil current roommate "decided" June 8 that she wanted to move out June 31. Our apartment holds four, and for July we were going to scrape along with two. You bet I was scared. And pissed. And afraid to give vent to any of these emotions lest she upped and left in the night with all our furniture, which is hers.

And the iniquity at work. I take two weeks to do easy tasks because I'm too stone-bored to spend more than a few minutes on them without reading a blog. And the doing things outside my job description, and the needing a car, which I don't have, and the indecision about whether to get one or not. (Environment--convenience. Money--not screwing up at work due to lack of car.)

But on the other hand . . .

Part 2: Out of town friend sets me up with in-town friend, a tall Harvard lawyer . . .

Evening class yields contact with impish brown-eyed nonprofit manager . . .

And today, Will the Work Hottie RETURNS IN A BLAZE OF GLORY.

And so, it seems, does Elle.

ah ha ha

2006-04-12T09:21:00.000-07:00

This guy from home who was pursuing me for awhile is now dating this girl who, I swear, looks like a version of me with lighter eyebrows. Fetishist.

suits are made for stalking

2006-04-11T13:39:00.000-07:00

Okay, I realize that's like the lamest title ever. You'll have to forgive me. This is getting ridiculous with hottie Will at work. He wore a suit today (why I don't know; must have had an interview for another job) and OH MY GOD HE LOOKED SO HOT I WANTED TO BITE HIM. We don't work together at all, so it's not like there would be sexual harassment issues if I asked him out, but we're geographically close which would be bad if things got awkward . . . meaning that his office is by the copier and mine's between his and his boss's. That's why he's always walking by here, which is why I'm always swooning . . . And we haven't really chatted in awhile; I feel there's been a loss of momentum there. I know he's only here till the summer, but don't know when that means, or what the hell I should do when and if I find out . . .

Look how they shine for ME

2006-04-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

The club hottie called me back!!!

Lest you imagine this is in flagrant violation of the two-day rule, he told me when he gave me his # that he was going out of town for a few weeks--I remembered this strenuously for about one week, and then forgot all about it. Yesterday I accidentally left my phone off all day and had actually begun to think, "Dear me, it's almost spring and there's no man in my life--" and then, hello, I turn my phone on and there's a message from Chris Martin.** He was in town last night and is leaving again for a week. What to do?

I called the Best Childhood Friend, who was there on St. Patrick's day. Couldn't reach her; called the Best Gay Friend, and it was determined that I call back not last night--since it was already too late to hang with any sort of propriety--and not later than today, because that would indicate that I'd been thinking about it for a long time. My dear blogfans who are good at math will correctly conclude that this means I have to call him back . . . today.

Dun dun dun . . .

** That's what we're going to call him. He does happen to have the same name as an unattractive rock star, although not that one.

Good news for the pale and curvy

2006-03-28T13:55:00.000-08:00

Scarlett Johansson's been named sexiest woman alive. By the readers of FHM?!?

A fly in the soup, or something

2006-03-22T13:37:00.000-08:00

I hooked up with a hot guy in a club this weekend. Yay!

He gave me his number. Yay!

I left him a message with mine that night, since he was going out of town. Now the ball's in his court. Clever.

He's on Facebook. Now I can stalk him. Yay!

But since I discovered this, he changed his prefs so non-friends can no longer see it.

And now I'm all paranoid'n shit.

I know you can't see who's looked at you on there, right?

And I don't care if he ever calls me--that's not what I was expecting (though I'm sure it would be fun.)

It's just that I don't want to look WEIRD.

Sigh . . .

The theme song for my life is

2006-03-16T08:33:00.000-08:00

Lady Marmalade. Gitchee gitchee ya ya . . .

Major Important Announcement

2006-03-11T12:01:00.000-08:00

Hey guys, I'm starting a new blog, the Daily Crave, collecting fly things you can win (mostly along the lines of the, shall we say, girly.) Why? Well, once I won a RevoStyler from a magazine. My hair's straight and I had no idea what to do with the thing anyway, but regardless, it was a formative experience. I love entering those damn contests online, but it requires too much effort to find them, so I'm doing it for you. Enjoy.

WORKING TOMORROW FOR A STUPID EVENT WHYYYYYY

2006-03-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

I thought it would be two hours. Yeah, it's gonna be five, and involves getting up at eight-thirty for a vehicle transfer, and quite possibly standing outside in the rain. <i>Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine . . . </i>

Not too clever for us blondes

2006-03-08T11:58:00.000-08:00

I was talking to the unattainable crush the other day (Stewie-like shuddery moan) and he threw me a line I realized I've heard from a few guys. Here's how it went:

UC: (pretending to take notes) And what kind of guys do you like?

Me: Tall.

How tall?

Taller than me.

And hair?

Dark.

How dark?

Darker than mine. (I wasn't describing UC on purpose, although he is indeed gloriously tall, but I insist on not feeling like I can break a guy, and I do tend to be more attracted to dark-haired men, although I don't have a formal policy on hair. Once, looking over my friend's shoulder, I said I saw a really hot guy, and she described him perfectly without turning: "Ooh! Freakishly tall, stubble, ragged profile, dark curly hair, kind of dirty looking?" I was miffed because she was absolutely correct.) Anyway, then UC said: "Darker than your natural color, or your current one?" Much hilarity all around. "No, this is my natural color!" "Yeah, but you've got highlights, right?" Dude, I've totally gotten this from guys before. Is there some forward going around that this is the key to inspiring total beauty-related frankness in women? They think they're so clever. Congrats, guys, your knowledge of hair technology has advanced to 1983. For your information, UC, I do not process these locks at all, but if I did, I'd probably get a thermal process to shine 'em up.

OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

2006-03-07T07:34:00.000-08:00

CTA workers authorize strike over bus work rules

(AP) - Chicago Transit Authority union workers on Tuesday overwhelmingly voted to authorize a strike against the transit system over work rules that affect bus drivers' routes and salaries.

Good thing I bought a bike . . . too bad it's a piece!

Be still my heart . . .

2006-03-03T15:38:00.000-08:00

If I'm not careful, I'm going to make a hella fool of myself. The work cutie (who I really need to come up with a name for, or I'm no blogger) poked his head in just now, on his way out. I was just about to stuff Kleenex into my shoes, which are a little too big, and I whisked them out of sight and got my shoe back on just in time. Hopefully. I do such embarassing things at my desk, it isn't funny. I'm always plucking my eyebrows and staring at myself in this little makeup bag that has a mirror in the side of it, but if you're not familiar with the Nine West canon it would look when you walk past my office like I'm holding a makeup bag to my face and staring at it intently. Earlier today Will (there we go) walked past my door while I was p****** m* n***. I'm a freaking gross caveman. In a pink leather skirt (far classier than it sounds) and slightly-too-big shoes.

Ahh. I'm going to go hang in Starbucks for an hour or two, maybe get one of those spicy cocoas (I saw Chocolat last night, and have a great desire to learn my secret desires, or whatever, through the consumption of cacao) and then I'm going to the opera!!!!

God. Still with the adrenalin.

Seriously. I had to type my password like three times logging in to write this.

2006-03-01T15:08:00.000-08:00

now he's being nice, and I feel bad. Thought I should set the record straight, even though no one knows who I am or who I'm talking about (and do I, really? inquiring eyebrows, pseudo-deep finger point.) Ach. On to the end of the day.

je deteste ma vie

2006-03-01T10:15:00.000-08:00

it was so cool at work for awhile. boss transition, no one telling me what do do, very little to do at all. now we have a consultant who comes in three days a week and consults me every 20 minutes, needing updates on things that happened a long time ago, making me change an address on a letter, printing out EVERYTHING, and changing stuff that was all settled for no apparent reason. I mean, you don't want to be one of those people who's all like, we could just do X, it'd be fine. but we could! and it would! I feel like a secretary!

Internet idiocy

2006-02-21T22:35:00.000-08:00

God, it's stupid how much useless emotion can be stirred by the exchange of a few pixels.

I dated John freshman year of college for like, oh, six weeks. We were good friends, which is the sad part. I may've not really wanted a boyfriend; I suspect this has at bottom been the case throughout my life; but my roommate and best friend had a boyfriend and I wanted one, and John was one of the coolest, most original people I'd ever known, and still is. He had a habit of sleep deprivation which I used to think was the product of a ridiculous intellect; the only way he could stand being around normal people like us was by rendering himself stuporous through lack of sleep. Anyway. I broke up with him for a reason that, in my current wisdom, I'd try harder to fix, but it was a good reason at the time; the boy never touched me. I mean never; no arm-around--I think we kissed like a total of five times. I know, and I knew, that he was just painfully shy on that level; I'd been his first kiss (that's the Ivy League for you.) But it is a hard thing to take when somebody acts like they almost don't desire you; especially if you have any image issues already (and who doesn't, my friends?) the situation's all the more painful.

So I broke up with him, our friendship died, and for the next four years we drifted in and out of each other's orbit a little, but were never close, or really spent any time together. The Elle who dated John and was his friends seems like an entirely different person. A few weeks ago, I get this facebook message--they have this new feature where you put down how you met someone or whatever. I never answer; I think it's stupid. But John filled it out to indicate that we were dating. I was like wow. Obviously he remembers it fondly. It was especially interesting because even though we'd had a lot of the same friends at the time, we never talked about the fact that we were dating, although I imagine everyone's certainly found out by now. So I thought that was sweet. John's still cool, still original, and hotter than when we dated. I was like go me. Thinking maybe, hey, who knows? Maybe he'll come visit--

Then I was stalking him again today (seriously, these sites are all I ever do) and noticed he's still apparently together with the girl he was dating end of senior year, somebody--okay, she's a sweet girl, but she's no Elle Daley. A mutual friend gave me to understand it was a sort of desperate situation. But there he is on thefacebook being all "I like this girl" and apparently they're living together and practically married. The hell?

Now I feel stupid for caring in the first place. And I should. It's thefacebook.

I need to get some face-to-face flirt on.

Happy cheap candy eve!

2006-02-14T08:18:00.000-08:00

I celebrated the season by finally talking to the hottie at work last Friday. Wow, what a cutie, and soon to be a lawyer! I credit the sassy boots I was wearing. Today, I'm celebrating by sporting another pair with a blue sweater (always wear blue on V-day . . . when is it easier to look original?) Tonight there'll be a gathering and my extremely, supremely, and steamily inaccessible crush will be there. And then I will drown my sorrows in discount jelly hearts. And prepare for Mardi Gras.

A long, long time ago . . .

2006-02-03T15:17:00.000-08:00

Betcha didn't know today's the day the music died .

Dying . . . slow . . . death!!!!

2006-01-26T09:53:00.000-08:00

Boss leaving tomorrow!

Massive work to do!

Project due for evening class tomorrow!

Friend visiting tonight!

Uterus shedding lining!

Brain barely functional!

If anyone has one of those Harry Potter keys that pause time for a day or two they could FedEx over, I would so appreciate it.

2006-01-24T20:06:00.000-08:00

Wow. Trying desperately to resist the sudden plethora of unusually appealing guys' posts on Craigslist. It's funny, months of unmitigated musclebound can't-spelling loserheads, and all of a sudden everybody's in their twenties and sporting black-frames. Hott.

My other experiences with Craigs, I don't know, it was weird. I really liked both the guys I met on there. Like, they were funny, and not bad looking, and we could talk about lots of stuff. But somehow, I don't know if it just hapened to be these two guys or what, but I felt like there was no chemistry. Like the situation of both having expressed an interest in meeting each other took all the mystery out of it, the flirtation.

But the notion of just sitting in your living room and ordering a date off the Internet remains awfully tempting . . .

A prayer to my ex-fling

2006-01-24T08:45:00.000-08:00

Miss Manners says that etiquette recognizes only three classes of relationship: marriage, engagement and friends.

I just found out that a friend of mine died more than a year ago. Only he wasn’t a friend, he was a fling on two occasions, more than a year apart. We didn’t keep in touch between those times, and we didn’t keep in touch after them. I found out about the man he grew into, the countless acts of good he did in his social justice profession, and the reality of what I had only suspected about his hard childhood from his obituary.

We met as teenagers at a conference. He pursued me more fearlessly and openly than anyone I’d ever known. When I finally gave in to this relentless guy with the goofy smile and the pretty body, who danced so gracefully it pained you to watch, it drove me nuts that his shamefully obvious tactics were working on my sophisticated teenage self, but at the same time I was giving in with glee.

You couldn’t be around this guy and not be happy. Literally, even if you were trying to remain mad or sad, just to yank his chain, he’d mug and sing and caper and tickle and you’d find yourself not only laughing, but just slightly bewildered that such a simply happy creature as Joe could exist. He wasn’t perky, or trying to appear happy. He was happy. He carried happiness and hurt inside him at the same time, but they never clouded one another, and like oil and water, the happiness stayed on top.

I’m not surprised that he ended up making such a well-deserved name for himself in the movement he chose, but the accomplishment that was for him makes his death all the more unfair. Joe wasn’t one of those kids who know twenty colleges by the time they’re in middle school, who grow up knowing their GPAs and can’t fail unless they’ve got a needle in each arm and a news camera on them. He had it harder. In the back of my mind, I’d sort of figured he’d be someone’s baby daddy by now, working at a video store. Not because he didn’t work hard, but just because working hard and meaning every smile you give often aren’t enough.

I always meant to look him up someday, see what he’s up to. I wondered if I’d be able to track him down. Then I get this email from my friend, titled “Sad news,” and what do you know, Joe is all over the Internet. Moving testimonies, and bad poems, and mentions on the blogs of people who never even once touched him, and weirder still, many pages that talk about him as if he were still alive, because he was. More than a year ago. “Joe will be speaking tomorrow.” “Joe says to believe.”

I haven’t seen or heard from Joe in one, two—eight years. We were fifteen and then we were sixteen. I don’t know a single thought he had between that time and now, or then and October 29, 2004. I don’t know if he prayed, or hurt anyone badly, or fell in love. I don’t know if he ended up speaking to his parents, the ones who almost every post-death mention carefully notes abused him. They’ve lost a son, a better one than they deserved, and now they have this to live down in front of the whole world. Maybe they’re dead, too, and reconciling with him in some way beyond our understanding.

I have this clichéd need to speak to Joe “just one more time.” I doubt I mattered to his life one bit, but that doesn’t matter. I want him to know I’m in awe of the person he became while I spent the same number of years, and more than one year more, without achieving that kind of balance and generosity toward others. Without really concerning myself about achieving it. In one article, they said he went to the conference where we met “because there’d be girls there,” and that made me feel acknowledged, feel remembered, as my small role in his life doesn’t deserve.

I believe that the dead, the good dead, are allowed to know things we don’t, that their reward is to be anywhere and with anyone, if they want to be. I’m trying to admit to myself that I’m about to say a prayer to my ex-fling, now one whole year younger than I am.

Joe, I’m so proud of everything you did. Look at all the people who loved and admired you. I want you to know that you made me happy. I’m sad now, but I’m smiling a little because I realize what a good thing it was to have known you. I didn’t miss you before I knew that you were gone. (I’m a little embarrassed about writing this. Are you thinking I’m overreacting? Quite a lot of emotional ink to waste on a long-ago fling? Anyway.) I don’t miss you now, not exactly, but I’m aware of you, who you were and who you still are. I’m thinking you’ll be in the back of my mind for quite some time.

If I’m somewhere in a little corner of yours, I’m grateful. If some tiny idea of me is up there with you, I feel blessed.

Take care.

A new screensaver for the old brain

2006-01-11T20:35:00.000-08:00

I logged onto AIM the other night, which I never do, to interview some old friends about The Mister, and got an unexpected reminder at the lovely variety of fish out there in the sea. Got an IM from Zane . . . someone I haven't seen since I was, oh, sixteen, and it's a mystery that I'm still on his list and that he messaged me. But what a pleasure, as he's a smart and interesting person, and as it sparked up daydream fodder of classic vintage. I was reading Streetcar Named Desire when I met Zane and the phrase "animal joy in his being," which Williams uses to describe his sexy (something like a) hero Stanley, immediately stuck to Zane in my mind. I thought then, and still think, that Zane is about the most perfectly composed male to my taste I've ever seen: a flatteringly direct gaze, compact and solid body, a loose stance and a cocky walk, and that amazing skin guys sometimes have like a constant blush visible under a tan, his skin that clear and his blood that . . . hot. HE was that hot. I used to sit behind him just to stare at the back of his neck--tan and vulnerable, glints of sun-bleached hair--and at the way his forearm widened into the elbow. My, my, did I ever sweat that boy. But he had a girlfriend (and you know those camp relationships) and so nothing ever happened. It was a few smoky gazes and lots of studious fine-you-have-a-girlfriend-so-I'll-ignore-you-just-to-show-I'm-in-your-league-ing on my part, which, come to think of it, may have worked, if that IM's any evidence. Huh. Anyway, how good, right, because no twentysomething in their right mind would consider getting back together with the old camp sweetheart, right? Eew! So hottie Zane and I still have a shot. Beautiful. Of course, it seems all these lovely fish who've been swimming my way reside in the general New England area, but fuck it. They can move.

Re The Mister: one of my friends, who happens to be female and I'm just saying, was incredibly helpful: "No, I don't think he's extremely eager to commit . . . Yes, it does seem strange that he's emailing you all the time even though you've never met . . . But I never got that from him, he seems like a pretty normal guy, though he was always goofy [that I got, and it's fine] . . . with his previous girlfriend, she was more the one who really wanted to be settled, not him." Thank you, K. Then my other friend, who happens to be male and I'm just saying, Griff:
Elle: Hey Griff, I just wanted to ask you if you know anything about The Mister.
Griff: Not really.
Elle: Because we've kind of been emailing a lot.
Griff: Huh. Weird.
And yes, he knows The Mister, and knows that I don't know him. Ex-treme-ly frustrating. Griff is a good, funny guy, a little problematic when drunk, who was "just like a brother" in school but has since undergone a major image change with confidence boost to match, to the point where I'm thinking about bumping him up into the "maybe if we're both single at 30" category, or something. Hasn't happened yet, though, I adjure you; he's still in the friend zone. Anyway, I think the lesson we can all take away from thie blogpost (which was really all an excuse for me to drool over Zane . . . ahhhhh) is the importance of confidence to the hotness of the human male. That, and if you want insight into someone's character, ask a woman.

Blogthings Is Stalking Me

2006-01-11T12:18:00.000-08:00

Too scary! I AM 22. Guess you can get pretty specific when someone expresses a strong interest in both candy and wine.

You Are 22 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

"Biggest Loser" contestants, Chicago aldermen equated

2006-01-11T08:34:00.000-08:00

Mm-kay, am I the only one to have noticed that the job of Chicago alderman seems roughly equivalent to that of Miss America? All it seems they do is serve as poster children for various scraps and issue naively personal statements to the media, which reply adoringly by crafting a loveable persona for each and every one. (Burton Natarus--Santa Claus and elder statesman! Manny Flores--the mayor of Hispanic Chicago!) My favorite aldermanic 'ploit is still the gay-partner benefits meeting where someone shouted "We are not here to discuss what the father of the mayor may or may not be doing in his grave."

Click, change world

2006-01-09T08:58:00.000-08:00

Steve Johnson in the Tribune writes of a contest to pick the best world-changing idea submitted by an ordinary Jane or Joe. Fun procrastination; I thought some of them were too general, but liked "Personal Money Management," "Medicare as Single-Payer Pilot" and "Farm Produce Distribution Network," which I thought were well thought through, targeted a specific problem, and were of manageable size. You can vote at SinceSlicedBread.com.

First Fridays fun

2006-01-06T22:54:00.000-08:00

I went! Yay for me.

Met up with a girl I met at a bar (nice, because it's harder to meet girls than guys, and she's a sweetie) and some of her friends, and we looked at some art and ate some apps. The headline Tropicalia exhibit's really cool; accessible and fun, in contrast with Dan Flavin, the last artist I saw at FF, whose art you sort of had to put up with and struggle to find interesting or pleasing points about. Tropicalia featured everything from adorable '60s poly dresses to media by hippies who look exactly like our own, and a song, "Prohibido prohibir," taken from the French redical cry of the time, Il est interdit d'interdire. I learned more Portugese, too: Seja Marginal Seja Herói; Be an Outlaw, Be a Hero. I like that. It was a cool exhibit.

After they rolled on to some kind of DJ show or something I stuck around to spend my drink tickets and ended up talking to a group of three guys (gotta love that), who reminded me of my DC crew--whoops, you haven't heard that one yet, but you will soon. Anyway, I loaded the gun right, but totally misfired (hmm, that's a rather violent metaphor, Elle, where'd that one come from?) because I had my eye on this cute dark-haired guy, but the leader of the group was Luke, a handsome beachy type. He was so outgoing and friendly that I ended up doing all the talking to him, while struggling to make eyes at dark Sean, so it was like:
Luke: What brings you to Chicago?
Elle: (puzzled look)
Luke: Because you have an accent.
Elle, to Sean: No way! You think I have an accent?
And like that. They thought I had an English accent, which I so don't. (I started listening to myself and decided that I bring my voice up at the end of a question, whereas some Americans just make theirs louder, which might have been where they were getting that, but anyway, please.) But next thing I know Sean with excruciating obviousness switches places with Luke so he's next to me and Sean's talking to the sidekick, John, and I was like, crap! Because of Luke's gregariousness I failed to communicate with the guy I was there for. That, or Sean just didn't like me.

Nah!
But Luke actually turned out to be cool (and was an undeniable cutie) and got my number at the end of the evening, so I was happy. He's moving to Columbus or something next month though. Grumble.
Wonder if his buddies will ever go back to the MCA . . .

Today's pressing question

2006-01-06T10:52:00.000-08:00

Should I go to First Fridays at the MCA tonight, though all my usual escorts are out of town?

Or should I go home and be lazy?

Taste Just Like Mandy

2006-01-05T20:43:00.000-08:00

Have I told you about how my roommate has the shittiest taste in movies E*V*E*R? I didn't know anyone in the world actually liked With Honors, the flick about a Harvard undergrad who learns the Real Meaning of Life through befriending a homeless guy, except one of my boyfriends who once made me sit down and watch every puke-inducing minute of the damn thing, and in retrospect, I marvel that I didn't break up with him on the spot, except that he was really hot, but my roommate owns it on VHS. I mean, all I have to tell you is that the woman owns Kate and Leopold, like, the single most laughable movie ever. But I had a strenuous vacation and am in the mood to veg, which is why I'm sitting here tonight having a Mandy Moore-fest. Actually, nothing against the actress. I think she's darling and genuine, and her cover of "Someday We'll Know" in A Walk to Remember is a fantastic version of one of my favorite songs. But you know the movies they put her in. Deliberate dialogue and radio soundtracks and high school boys asking people out on real dates--ha ha. That's okay, I'd been feeling like I had a few too many brain cells recently, anyway.

Overheard on Washington and Wells

2006-01-04T14:32:00.000-08:00

Italian tourist, spying the El, to her boyfriend: "Oh, look! It is the sky train. I want to see!"

Even when I went to Disney World as a little tot, I thought it odd how excited everyone got about the monorail. You'd think la signorina there would recognize that all that matters is whether the thing runs on time . . .

We're getting MARRIED!

2005-12-22T10:16:00.000-08:00

Well--not really.
Story: I've been enjoying an online flirtation with The Mister for several months now. We belonged to one of the same groups at school, but since he was a few years older than me I actually never met him. Towards the end of senior year I tracked him down via MyFriendSpaceBook to ask him a question, and a conversation developed--first "do you know? do you know?" and gradually ranging into everything from politics, ethics, religion, past loves (his), careers (mine), even our visions on child rearing (which isn't as weird as it sounds, given that the context was already odd enough.) Turns out we share a lot of the same views, similar level of intellect, sense of humor, our hometowns are even fairly close. I have to admit, I was kind of thinking "ding ding ding" despite the fact that The Mister lives in NY. Whatever, I go there sometimes. We're both young and mobile. (And nubile, natch.) I was pleased to have this intriguing possibility on the back burner.

Recently, for some reason I as yet don't know, the flirt-quotient really started to heat up. "Manifestoes are hot," he wrote after I sent him one. "I like you, Elle Daley. I don't know what it is about your emails that I like so much." He sighed about his singlehood (which is odd for a young guy living in New York, and never such a sure-fire suggestion tactic regardless, but it showed he's relationship-minded, which I liked.) Then, after a particularly furious spate of email exchange (three from him, including a long and compliment-filled one) he wrote "Is my voicemail message annoying? Everyone says it is."

"Are you trying to get me to call you? I'm not sure we're ready for this!" I typed back. "Actually, I think you're trying to get me to call you and have you not answer!"

"I do want you to call me," he replied. "In fact, now I don't even know if I'm going to answer. What would I say?"

So it was back to MyFriendSpaceBook and I called him. The voicemail was annoying. He called back (midnight my time) and we proceeded to talk for three hours, which could be the first time I've logged that on a phone call since--I don't even know, it could be the first time I've talked on the phone that long when I wasn't trapped by a loquacious friend and my own too-gentle spirit. Reader, I really like him. He's funny, intelligent, thoughtful. Confident enough to be masculine but self-deprecating enough to be funny and kind (or interested) enough to ask about my side of things and to listen to what I'm saying. In some ways he reminds me of a male version of myself. And while phone may not be the perfect way to gauge attraction (remember, we've still never met) it's a way better gauge than email. I like his voice. Teasing me once about how young I am, he said "If I were standing next to you right now" (pause; Elle's entire body proceeds to blush) "I'd be patting you on the head." Whew! I was astonished at my own reaction.

So I came into work the next day with a pounding head (after hanging up, reluctantly, at 3 am) and, I confess, started doodling lists of baby names. NOT SERIOUSLY! It's just the kind of thing that runs through a person's head at a time like this. I mean, I wasn't totally sold on the whole thing. The Mister and I have enough in common that if we were to get together, this could be it. IT it. I really don't think I'm ready for that at 22. I have a few more good years of traveling, making out with strangers and Febreezeing the jeans I have on to get out of my system before any parent-meeting and life-sharing and baby-naming enters the equation. But still, I was blown away: this is the person, out of everyone I know, who it could make the most sense for me to one day be serious with, and we haven't even met yet.

This was two days ago. The next night, which was last night, he called me again (I was on the other line and let it go.) Suddenly I feel like this bride here, nailed to the floor by bouquets.

What do you think, readers? Is it creepy to spend so much energy pursuing a girl you've never met? Is The Mister some sort of anomalous committment-crazed freak? (He did say he hopes to get married by 30, but he's only 25.) Is that creepy that marriage even came up? The thing is, he seems like such a normal guy. Drinks, swears, makes inappropriate jokes (like me), had a few long-term girlfriends--basically as normal as you could hope for, at least, as far as I can judge via extended electronic communication.

But then I got another email from him today--admiring, intelligent, sharing enough about himself to keep the conversation going without being a creepy or needy overshare. And now I'm thinking that little girl up there kinda looks like a Ramona, or maybe a Rachel.

Help me, blogosphere! Should I run, withdraw or just throw myself into whatever The Mister has in mind? (Bear in mind that if I go with that, by the next time I post here it's just barely possible I'd be reporting to you as The Missus . . .)

By the Book

2005-12-21T14:01:00.000-08:00

I was admiring a young gentleman on the bus this morning. He had that great is-he-or-isn't-he-straight style: flared jeans, fitted coat, matching scarf and skullie, le tout ensemble sported with Tims, which I love when black guys do but, well, I've never seen anyone else try it, but if they did it would be horrible. Anyway, he looked good. And as a bonus, he was reading: a brightly colored hardcover, looked like a Jonathan Franzen or something like that. (I actually almost never read contemporary writers because I'm too cheap, but I know what they look like.) Perhaps the choice of literature would give me a clue as to his availability. I shifted in my seat and peered unobtrusively. The Abs Diet.

Damn.

Yep, I'm a big terrorist

2005-12-21T08:04:00.000-08:00

Note to would-be Santas with packages yet to send (get to it, slackers!) when the nice lady at USPS asks you if you've got anything fragile in there, do not say "Yup. A bottle of liquor." "What?" "SODA." Didn't work. I had to haul the darn thing to FedEx and pay $13 more, all because of my pernicious plot to combust the world with hot cocoa and cinnamon schnapps. Funnily, at FedEx he didn't even ask: it was like (mumbling to self) "hazardous materials . . ." (makes check mark) "There, you're all set." What a trustworthy face. (It helped that I found the earmuffs.) I would probably make a very good terrorist.

Goin' to get m'eyebrows threaded!

2005-12-20T15:15:00.000-08:00

I'm so excited. Now I can be beautiful like her instead of what I usually am, which is beautiful like her:
Actually, that was just an example, but now that I look, geez, those are some serious eyebrows, Alicia. Ha! 1996!

HAT HAIR

2005-12-20T08:19:00.000-08:00

Even the giant butterfly clip doesn't help.

The cold is digging in like a fanatic adolescent after a blackhead, and the past few mornings I have been forced to make a painful choice. Wear the cunning earmuffs--in which I'm insouciant, radiant, truly have the world at my feet--or a warmer and less likely to sproing off my head when my hands are full, but seriously debilitating in the follicular region, knitted cap? The decision was made for me when I lost my earmuffs (and really, I don't know why, but I look smashing in those earmuffs) in the tussle of Washington unpacking. So yesterday it was a tight red number--too long for a skullie and too short for a stocking, resembling nothing so much as a knit condom on my head--and today one of those brilliant Andes hats with the earflaps and the braids that hang down. SERIOUSLY WARM. But now my bangs are plastered to my head like those of an eight-year-old child whose mom has a serious Detangler fetish. And let's not even talk about how juvenile yours truly looks in the hats--if I were smaller I'd get taken by the hand crossing streets, as it is, I look like a horribly overgrown child with a boring dress-up box. Oh, and the other thing about bangs in the winter? When you sneeze, they fly straight up, like you were just surprised by a cartoon character going "Ah-OO-ga!" It's [English accent] damn silly.

Blast from the heart's past

2005-12-19T22:39:00.000-08:00

I was out at a bar tonight (yup, I'm a mad crazy partier, but also my roommate's boyfriend's band was tearin' it up) and saw this guy whose face pounded me back into the past. He looked like an older, fatter version of King T, this boy I had a crush on for, if I'm honest, many years of college. King T was on the short side, earnest and solemn and a little nerdy, but I, and as I sometimes found out and sometimes just believed, many of my friends fell for him on the DL because he was also insightful and funny and good. In some ways he was manlier at 19 than some people I know will ever be. We called him by a macho nickname because it was so incogruous, but he came to wear it until the hubris really did accrue to him, and he was a cult favorite by any standards after a few months' acquaintance. This year I found out that King T is becoming a priest. Not without a pang, let me tell you. I know he'll be a good one, and it's not like I was really planning to march back there and marry him anyway. but still . . . The decision fits, I guess; if anyone I know is making a decision as a college senior that'll shape the rest of their lives, he'd be the one to do it, and to have it be the right one. I don't see that kind of permanence anywhere else around me. I know I'm not ready for it myself, but that's what worries me; it's like a nation of people who can't digest milk, when it's that that makes your skeleton strong.

I also accidentalDRUNKENly basically told my roomates tonight that I have a little student-crush on one of my grad professors, who was supposed to meet us out (frisson! a new experience for me, drinkin' with the profs) and didn't. Just as freakin' well. But anyway, ooooops. Hey, we're both adults, damn it. I know many kids whose parents met that way, which is actually a little frightening. I love to keep a closed mouth about my matters of the heart (except that I, um, started this blog, but you suckas don't know me after all) but whenever a drop of booze crosses my lips, it's Unasked-for Truth City. The reason I like to keep my stories close is that somehow, your stories never seem to sound as good to your friends as they do to you, naimean? Maybe I just have extremely phlegmatic friends, but I could be all like " . . . and then the puma spit out my left nipple, turned to Madeline Albright and said 'Hey, don't I know you from sophomore lit class?'" and they'd be like this: " . . . . . . . Ha! And what else did you do in England?" It's more satisfying to tell myself my own Big Fish stories. But that said, dag have I got some good ones for you from my escapades in DC. But not for now. Cookies are only for sometimes, and now Elle Daley is for BAID, son.

Reasons I need a camera phone

2005-12-18T18:23:00.000-08:00

The VIc Brew and View listed its movies on three marquee lines instead of two, so it reads like one long phrase: "40 Year Old Virgin Wedding Crashers." When I have nightmares about my future . . .

Broke my heart, and I love it

2005-12-17T23:53:00.000-08:00

After raving "Rent," I want to promise you I don't only fall for love stories about gay people, but here's the thing, Brokeback Mountain is so much more than that. Everyone from the New York Times to the Salvation Army Santa's been saying it, so I'll be the million and oneth. There aren't many ways left to convey love against all odds, which is what all the great love stories are. Brokeback does it. It makes you want to be in love, even if that means being wrenched and shattered. It makes wrenched and shattered look transcendent. Broke my heart, made me want to suffer, made me write drunken poems in Clarke's on Belmont at 1 a.m. I can't give you a single reason not to see it; it's 100% perfect. Whether before or after you see it, read the story; the best lit to film transition I can imagine.

Livin' large at Madam's Organ

2005-12-12T21:34:00.000-08:00

I'm in DC for work and went out to Adams Morgan (to a great bar called Madam's Organ--ah ha ha) with some fellow conventioneers.

Jiminy crickets, I love this bar!

We were an adorable group of mostly chicks, and when we started grooving to the fantastic jazz band everybody got up--including, unfortunately, this creepy old guy with absolutely no sense of proportion, by which I mean no sense of the fact that he was like fifty, and in a suit minus jacket, and clearly had "NO SENSE OF PROPORTION: HAS NO IDEA HOW PROPORTIONLESS HE LOOKS" stamped all over him. It was entertaining for awhile as he did his stiff old overtan white man dance; okay, he's enjoying the music, lovely. But when he started getting all up on our circle, and particularly all up on yours truly--but in classic creepy old man fashion, not up on enough to the point that I could have just wreaked bodily or psychic harm and driven him away, but was reduced to never, ever, ever meeting his gaze, which is impossible to do just by coincidence--I got pissed, and started making eyes at anything in the vicinity (actually, a cute HAPA boy in a suit, not a bad eyes target) to lure some, any, physical division between me and Papa Creepy. The darling band, though, situated as they were about ten inches from the dancing action, picked up on the idea of a physical division. They started playing "The Wall," and the vocalist got down among us with her mike so we could all belt together "LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE!" He still didn't get it.

Life At Times Is Pleasurable

2005-12-08T22:08:00.000-08:00

Like this: I feel gross all day, get snowed on for an hour for a work thing (don't ask) while everyone sails by to their Metra train, slalom my way to the bus in all my soaked-ass glory, benefit from the kindness of strangers, ride for an hour while breathing down the snowy neck of half Hyde Park and now I'm in slippers and a giant sweater, drinking mulled wine and Christmas shopping online. And life is good indeed.

Least fun way to spend New Year's EVER

2005-12-03T16:17:00.000-08:00

Celebration of the Soul, a crunchy-style blowout. $80 for no booze, "inspring" speakers, and drums banging in your ear. Seriously, could anything be worse?

Well, other than eating crackers and dip on your parents' couch.

Worst political branding ever

2005-12-01T09:00:00.000-08:00

Republican Judy Baar Topinka is running for governor. Her opponents, claiming she's a clone of the current guv, have seen fit to dub her Topinkojevich. Whassa? By the time you get that one past the tip of your tongue, you've forgotten who you're talking about. Might I instead suggest J-Rod?

Can I get some sympathy right now?

2005-11-30T13:10:00.000-08:00

I'm really smarter than this bonnet makes me look.

I had to create a list of 500 certain companies in the Chicago area. I trawled the Internet, worked off a partial list we had, and got it done. Now we're supposed to start calling the cos to find out their HR directors. It's becoming frighteningly clear to me that I fucked up the list. At some point I must have hit the wrong thing in Excel; companies don't go with addresses don't go with zips don't go with phone numbers . . . I'd tell you that I'm a smart woman, but you'd be justified in laughing ad pissendum. Any minute now my boss is going to be calling me pointing out that McDonalds is not based on Wacker Drive. It was below my intelligence and I couldn't hack it! I'm working frantically right now trying to fix; probably going to be doing that all night and then I have to figure out how to casually get everyone to start using a doc that's going to look completely different. So they don't notice that I, you know, can't create an Excel sheet.

I need a hug.

Girl Dies After Boy's Peanut Kiss

2005-11-30T08:17:00.000-08:00

See, boys and girls? This is what happens when you give in to your lustful desires!

Actually, am I weird for thinking there's something starkly romantic about this?

Total shocker: designers not cultural symbols

2005-11-28T11:55:00.000-08:00

The New York Times found that Donald Trump is better-known than Ralph Lauren or even household names Dolce and Gabbana (Is This the Most Trusted Man in Fashion?, Thursday.) Quoth the Times: "That only one designer, Mr. Lauren, made it into the top category on the strength of his own steam [not celebrity endorsements or whatever] is interesting, though. It says to Mr. Passikoff, and perhaps everyone else, that designers are not the cultural symbols we suppose them to be." The cultural symbols who supposed them to be, you twee numbnuts? Yeah, keep your eye out for the Karl Lagerfeld Christmas Special on ABC.

No more chocolate wafting on the breeze?!?

2005-11-28T07:16:00.000-08:00

This is the saddest thing ever. (Blommer's chocolate aroma to vanish--Crain's Chicago Business) How are we supposed to get through the winter now? I'm going to go install fondue pots in all my scarves. And sulk.

Hipster doppelgangers swarm my life

2005-11-27T22:41:00.000-08:00

I saw Rent this weekend and it was a weird and wonderful experience. Wonderful because it's a fantastic movie--I loved the show and was worried about what they'd do to it, but the film both honors the stage show and stands on its own. Weird because Roger reminded me a lot of Daniel, this bookstore guy I was trying to hit on about a month ago, although while Daniel was cute, Roger, eighties 'do and all, is a stone cold, pants-dampening hottie. Weirder still because narrator Mark reminded me to a disturbing degree of my friend Plato, to the point where I couldn't distinguish between them by the end of the film. Same general aesthetic, same asexual-yet-whipped demeanor. (The movie plays up Mark's pining for Maureen a lot more than the stage show, with a few lost-your-girl-to-a-girl jokes, which surprised me.) Mark came across as more asexual in the stage version; in the movie it's more like, as Lady M. would say, unmann'd. But seriously, the Mark-Plato congruence was such that I had to fight hard not to fall for Plato all over again throughout. Plato is a grad student, Elle, not an self-deprecating, filmmaking hottie suffering through the AIDS crisis and in need of rescue. Though the latter may be true, let some other girl do it; you go work on finding your own Roger-style rock-god-cum-little-boy-cum-savior-figure. Anyway, whew. See Rent!

(P.S. to those who've seen it: did the fake snow in the "Here Goes" scene also make you want to kill yourself?)

There is no justice.

2005-11-27T21:44:00.000-08:00

A call from my mom interrupted a post-red eye nap today. I WAS DREAMING OF MAKING OUT WITH ROGER FROM RENT, YOU HARPY!!!!

2005-11-23T16:46:00.000-08:00

You know how sometimes you think your jeans are still pretty clean, and then you wear them that one last time, and it's like, God, that was a mistake?

Yeah.

I'm still at work, although most have cleared out, because there's no point in going home before my flight leaves. It'd actually feel kind of cool and rebellious if my workaholic boss weren't still here too, and didn't have the office right next to me. Sigh.

2005-11-23T13:27:00.000-08:00

The Chicago Transit Authority is multiplying the potential for oddities during the commute with its holiday El train. Still sounds to me like a trixie spoiled by her sugar daddy. "Check out that bling. Someone's ridin' the Santa train!"

2005-11-23T08:21:00.000-08:00

Rob Thomas said he was more worried about beating 50 Cent at the AMAs than losing to him. Does this strike anyone besides me as (a) racist, (b) attention-starved, (c) if sincere, particularly stupid?