Category Archives: Dating

The Sassy Sundries: My Week(ish) in Review

Happy hazy, hot, and humid Friday! Summer finally made a comeback here on the East Coast. Not only that, but the heat’s going to last through the weekend, so I’ll be hitting the beach. Only eight hours of work to go.

Well, it’s that time again. Time for me to give my numerical tally of events transpiring over the last seven days. This time, however, I’m going to cheat and haul a few dusty items off the shelves of time. I’ve stolen this idea from the Weekly Dig’s Bean Counter column. The Dig finally got their new site up and running. I haven’t looked through it too much, but I’m a little disconcerted about the “User Login” at the top of the page. We shall see.

OK, shut up, Sassy, and start assigning points. Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

I now have a roommate. After the chaos of moving in (and a good therapy appointment), things have settled down. Although I would have preferred to live alone, it is really nice to have someone around to talk to. Plus Five

A bridge collapses in Minneapolis, killing at least five. A steam pipe explodes in Manhattan. Minneapolis and Manhattan join Boston for failed engineering projects. But none of these cities touch Japan, what with that little nuclear plant accident and all. Geeks are weeping. Minus Five

Tammy Faye has begun her mascara sales campaign in the afterlife. Angels and demons wage war over who has to take her, as she weeps tears of black tar. At least we don’t have to deal with her anymore. Even

I have a date tonight with a new guy. I’m pulling a Dive on remaining mum on the whole McI situation. As he says, it’s complicated. Think of the date as heart insurance. Even

W has maintained that he can do whatever he wants because he has Executive Privilege. Alberto Gonzales, our man in the Halls of Justice, lies on the stand. Congress seems powerless to stop them. Another couple of weeks in government. I have to say I miss the days when the most exciting thing going on in politics was a debate over whether or not blow jobs constitute sex. Minus Ten

Things have gotten all 1984 at the place of employment. Minus Two

Fare thee well, Igmar Bergman. Thank you for living and for making so many incredible films. Even

People in Blogland think I’m pretty. Good thing I didn’t post that other one. Plus Three

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 17


Last Time’s Total: -1

The Talk

At long last, McI and I had our overdue conversation. It went much better than I had expected. Things came to a head on Friday, when he didn’t bother to contact me to cancel tentative plans. He’d never done that before, and so I sent him a text telling him that we needed to talk (meaning whatever it is people who aren’t a couple do to “break up”).

I heard back from him, with an apology, saying that he needed to go hide and that he understood that the writing was on the wall. We wound up texting into the wee hours of the morning about where and when we’d meet and settled on the Charles St. T Saturday morning. I got about two hours of sleep, and smoked an entire pack of cigarettes (I know, I know, but given my self-destructive tendencies when I’m hurt, my choices were getting hammered or smoking, and I chose having a clearer head).

Throughout the night, I tried to figure out what I might say. I settled on being honest, and telling him how I felt and what I wanted—and what I didn’t want. I’ve never really done that before, and I was going to regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t tell him. As best as I could, I prepared myself for hearing the likely truth that we didn’t want the same things. I resolved to remain calm, not to cry, and not to attack. I wasn’t going to be Little Sassy Schmoozer, but I was going to employ some of her communication skills. The Little One sets people at ease, and allows for people to respond calmly (and honestly), not defensively. I needed her.

That morning before we met was one of the longer mornings of my life. How do you really prepare yourself to say goodbye to someone you love and want to be with? How do you prepare to do it without reading rejection as a reflection on you and your worth? Although I have learned to value myself on my own, I think perhaps that meeting with McArtsyPants couldn’t have been more timely. Someone who’d dated me and treated me less-than well had just expressed regret that he hadn’t recognized what he’d had when he had it. That gave me some external strength, and I needed it.

I walked to the T a little early, preparing myself along the way. I looked at my watch and told myself that it would all be over in an hour. I just needed to get through this hour. I hadn’t really talked to myself like that since I took my Master’s exam. Like the exam, it would be OK. I’d live, even if I didn’t “pass” this one (I passed my exam with flying colors, even though I was convinced I’d flunk).

The train arrived and deposited me at Downtown Crossing. Just as I’d sat down to wait for the Red Line, in walked McI. We laughed at our punctuality, and he sat beside me. “Come here often?” I joked. We had an easy chat, interrupted at times by uncomfortable silences. We got on the train, and I learned why he had wanted to hide. His life isn’t for broadcast on this blog, but I will say that I would have run home to hide myself. But that doesn’t make it OK.

We got off at Charles St. and walked to the Esplanade. I’d thought that it would make a good spot to chat. Pretty, public enough to discourage a scene, and with plenty of exits. We chatted as we walked along before sitting down on a bench. I took a deep breath and started.

“I really like you, McI,” I said (OK, I didn’t say “love,” but Little Sassy Schmoozer knows how not to freak people out). “I’d really like to keep dating you. But I can’t have you blowing me off, even for good reasons, and I don’t like the way I’ve often wondered if you’d just disappeared. You’ve always had good reasons for doing this kind of stuff, which is why I’ve been understanding, but I can’t do it anymore. It hurts. I need to know if you still want to know me.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry,” and he proceeded to tell me how he felt. We’re not in the same place, but he doesn’t want me out of his life. I learned a little more about why he’s been hesitant about getting more involved with me—things that have nothing to do with me. Things that in time could be resolved (like I said, his life isn’t for broadcast, so although this part of the story is incomplete, you’ll have to trust me that it wasn’t hopeless). I asked him if he thought that he could be better about communicating with me.

“Definitely,” he said without hesitation.

We talked some more, and we left it that we’d work on getting to know each other better. We agreed that there’s something there with us that would be sad to lose. It was really nice to hear that he likes me, and not matter what happens to with us romantically, he’d hate to lose my friendship. That might sound strange, but I’ve often struggled with feelings that I’m not worth knowing and that guys only want me for sex. That’s not to say that we didn’t talk about that—we laughed when we talked about how good other aspects of our relationship are. In general the conversation was calm, honest, and kind. The setting provided ample opportunity for diversions when things got a bit uncomfortable.

For now we’re both free to date other people. I know this sounds weird, but that’s fine with me. He’s a busy guy, and I’ve wanted a little more company. I like knowing that I can have some without feeling like I’m sneaking around. He also knows that I’m not going to wait forever and that I’m going to live my life. We’ll see what happens, but things are no longer on his terms exclusively.

“Well,” I sighed. “THAT was somewhat unpleasant. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I know you weren’t looking forward to this conversation.”

“Yeah, I know. These things are never fun, but we needed to do it, and I’m glad you said something.”

All in all, we talked for about an hour, and then we parted company with a hug. “I’ll be in touch, and I won’t disappear,” he said, smiling. He went his way, and I went to the North End for a coffee.

I’m proud of myself. I was able to say what I wanted and to express what I didn’t want honestly and in a way that didn’t put him on the defensive. I found out where we stand, and I realized that things weren’t as dark as I’d thought. He agreed to communicate with me more, and ultimately, this was what I really wanted. And the thing is, even if he doesn’t follow through with that, and even if things don’t (and there’s every possibility that they won’t) work out with us, it won’t be because I didn’t say anything. I don’t have to live with that regret.

This concludes the blogging I’m doing about my dating life for a while. Things are fucked up enough in this world these days that a good ol’ political rant is in order soon.

A Surprising Evening

“So, I’m dying to know,” I said, fiddling with the lemon twist atop my summer ale, “What on Earth made you call me?”

McArtsyPants and I had met up at a fun little bar and grill in Central Square and had slipped into the old silliness, making circle patterns with our beer glasses on the soapstone tables and giggling. He was clearly very happy to see me, and we’d been exchanging updates from the last year or so of our lives, when I posed my question.

“I’m not sure if it was anything on Earth,” he said, giving me a half-kidding look. McAP can be a little spiritual sometimes, but he’s also quite the kidder. I went with that.

“So what alien life form told you that you had to call me?”

At first, he appeared ready to come up with a humorous answer to that question, but then his face turned serious. “You came into my head one day, and I wanted to get in touch with you. I always really liked you, and, I don’t know, the timing was off for me. I wound up getting back together with my ex for a bit after I was with you. I realized that I’d been a jerk to you, because I didn’t know what I wanted. So I went and found the e-mail where you gave me your phone number and decided to get in touch with you.”

This surprised me. I’ve often wondered if my exes ever thought about me, particularly the ones who jerked me around a lot, unsure of what they wanted from me. Did they regret letting me go? Did they feel badly about how they’d behaved? Did they just think of me and smile? McAP, it seems, had.

From the look on his face, it was clear that he had a glimmer of hope that I’d take him back, and I didn’t want to encourage that. “You were a bit of a jerk to me,” I said. “But I got over it and moved on, and honestly, I’ve always thought of you fondly. I knew you meant well, really. It was just one of those things.”

Our food arrived, and we ate and chatted about other things, bands, how hot it was outside, various other topics. After dinner, we decided to take a walk along the Charles. He talked about his new car, where he was hoping to live, and I talked about my move and the view from the river. We laughed a lot, but there was no spark, at least from me.

We stopped about a half-mile down the path and looked at the Red Line train cross the bridge against the lights of the John Hancock and the Pru. I thought about how romantic the spot could be, if only I was there with someone else. It had occurred to me that perhaps I would see McAP and, despite my better judgment, want to be with him again, but I didn’t. It was over, and while I was happy to be with him in that moment and happy to hear that he still thought about me, I didn’t want to go back.

McAP walked me back to the train, and gave me his old look that said he wanted to kiss me, but I just said, “It was great to see you again, McAP. Thanks for getting in touch.” He hugged me and said he’d call again. Maybe he will, maybe he won’t.

Unlike CraigslistGuy, I didn’t cry when I got home from our date. I felt better. Meeting up with McAP gave me outside confirmation that I am worthy of good treatment. It’s given me something to think about.


Yes, the confusement will pass. And it will be replaced by a quandary.

On Saturday, I had plans to get together with McArtsyPants. In addition making a Craigslist date, I’d also contacted McAP, figuring that he would make a nice no-strings distraction for the weekend. Saturday morning had me feeling rather poorly, but with coffee and a shower (and OK, a few cigarettes—for the stress of it all), I rallied and was prepared to see McAP.

I wasn’t thrilled, but I figured that it was better than sitting at home. Plus, if I went through with my scheduled outing with Mc(m)I(a) on Sunday, the date with McAP would see me achieve the Dating Trifecta. The Trifecta is three dates (no scams—“friend dates”), with three different guys, in three days (or less). This has been a long-standing goal of my intrepid friend and I, but since I’m a date-one-guy-at-a-time kind of gal, I’ve rarely come close. The last time was last spring, the weekend of my first date with McAsshole. Come to think of it, I think my third date was supposed to be McAP.

Well, McAP called Saturday around noon and wanted to know if I wanted to go on a boat ride with him. Now I said I’d rallied. I didn’t say that I was prepared to be tossed about on the open seas. Nor was I prepared to be trapped with McAP and his friends. I tried to talk him out of the boat ride and into lunch, but he really wanted to go, so we agreed to see each other during the week.

Honestly, it was for the best. My rally didn’t last all that long. I spent most of the day milling around my neighborhood’s community-building block party (=one really good band+ mediocre food+ entirely too many little girls dancing like call girls [that was disturbing]) and then went to bed.

Sunday saw me in a much better frame of mind. My emotions are very strong, overpoweringly so, but they are short-lived. I can deal with turmoil for only so long, and then it just doesn’t seem so important anymore. It can be a problem, because it’s not as though I deal with why I was so upset, I just stop caring about it. Healthy or no, I still felt relieved. My head was clear, and I felt lighter. That’s not to say that I was happy, but I felt like I was going to be OK, no matter what happened. McI got in touch with me around one, and we made arrangements to meet that evening. It was a beautiful day, and I headed into the North End to sit at a caffé for a while.

I had just settled in with a Campari and soda and my book (Oracle Night, by Paul Auster) to enjoy the lovely weather when an artist came in. I say “artist” because he was wearing black clothes spattered with different colors of paint, and he did not appear to be the type to mess around with walls. Definitely a hot ticket, even if he was getting on in years, when he moved across the room and women’s eyes followed. He sat down next to his friends at the table next to me, and I looked down at my book lightning fast.

Alas, not fast enough. I could feel him looking me over, and I tried not to notice. God knows why, but the song “Car Wash” came on just then. The artist started clapping along with the beginning, and then I saw an arm snaking into my field of vision. I looked up to find him staring at me intently, far more intently than the “Car Wash” should inspire. He then started dancing, daring me to join him. So I did. I think I shocked him. His dare turned into a grin and we did a few moves, and I took a bow before going back to my book. He laughed.

“How come you’re reading? How can you read with this music on?” His accent was Italian.

“I’m literate, and I have amazing powers of concentration,” I replied.

His eyebrows arched, and he grinned wickedly. “Why? I like my women illiterate.” He was kidding, sure, but there was an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.

“Good luck with that,” I said, taking a sip of my drink and winking at him. I read a bit longer, and then it was time to meet McI.

I had no idea what to make of this meeting. We were getting together to hang out and then check out a movie. I didn’t know if I would talk to him or not. I didn’t know if it was worth it to talk to him or not. Like I said, the storm had passed.

We met up, kissed, exchanged pleasantries, and proceeded to have a fine time. I found out why he hadn’t called. I’m not OK with it, and I’m still going out with McArtsyPants, but if I had McI’s communication skills, I wouldn’t have called me either. In fact, even with my communication skills, I might not have called me. If there ever was an excuse to disappear, he had it. That doesn’t mean that I’m cool with it.

I think he sensed this, because I’ve heard from him since, and he suggested getting together this week. He wanted to know if Thursday would work, and I let him know that I had plans, so we might do tonight, and we might do the weekend. I checked my online dating messages last night. There’s no one out there I really want to date right now, but I’ve decided that until I talk to McI that I’m dating “tapas style” (thanks, Andraste).

So I’m still in a bit of a quandary where all of this is concerned, but at least I’m not bogged down by confusement.


Some years back, I had my palm read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown. My intrepid friend and I saw the sign and decided that we had to check it out, if for no other reason than to say that we had our palms read by an old Indian woman who lived a dingy flight up in New York’s Chinatown.

Well, that’s not entirely true.

We also were in need of some guidance in the love arena, and we hoped that our palms would reveal something. So up the smelly stairs we went. We knocked on the door and were let in by a young girl who called out for her grandmother. Other children were eating in the kitchen, and a woman was standing over the stove. The whole place smelled like an earthy curry. Out came the friendly—yet decidedly mysterious—old woman, and she promptly ushered us into a little hallway, decorated ornately with draped lamps and Indian cushions.

“It is ten for fifteen minutes, OK?” and she took my hand.

Aside from her flatly stating one eerily specific, alarmingly accurate, thing about my life that she would have had no way of knowing or guessing (seriously—my friend and I are both skeptics, and our mouths dropped open when she said it), the only thing I really remember is a word she used, confusement. “Ah,” she’d say, “I see some confusement here. You need to make a decision.” “This confusement will resolve itself in time.”

My friend and I were both very taken with the term, and we’ve since used it to describe tricky romantic situations. Well, I have to say that I have confusement up the whazoo. I’m feeling better than I did about everything on Saturday, but that could just be because my hangover disappeared. Who’s to say?

So most of the day on Friday, I sat around and got madder and madder at McI for not calling me. I was absolutely convinced that he’d just split and that I would never hear from him again. However Zen I may have been on Thursday, I was anti-Zen on Friday. I cried as I got ready for my date with CraigslistGuy and then I got mad. Fuck it, I said to myself, I’m going out with this guy, and I’m going to have a good time. Someday this is all going to hurt a lot less, but let’s just focus on getting through tonight. I made myself presentable, and waltzed out the door.

En route to the T, I got a text message from McI. He’d had a terrible week, hoped I was doing well, and wanted to see if I’d get together with him on Sunday. Perhaps it was weakness on my part that I didn’t say no, but I didn’t. And I was happy. Of course, I was also on my way to meet a guy I didn’t want to meet for a date I didn’t want to have.

Too late to back out now, I thought as I headed to the bar. The guy was late, and I thought about leaving, but I didn’t. When he showed up, I realized that he was just what the doctor ordered—cute but not too cute, and while appealing, not someone I was going to fall for. Perfect for an evening out on the town.

He joined me at the bar, and we proceeded to talk and drink. And drink and talk. The conversation was easy, nothing too interesting, as we didn’t have much in common, but interesting enough. There was a certain attraction. The time came, and we headed over to the show.

Listening to the National is like that last sip between tipsy and drunk. The world is clear and hazy, full of hope and impending sadness. Matt Berninger’s baritone lulls you, tempts you, makes you think that something might be OK, even when you know it won’t be. Unfortunately, it doesn’t always translate well in a live set. The band’s amazing, all of them incredibly talented, especially the drummer, but I’m in it for the voice. And I couldn’t really hear it.

Still, the show proved to be very good, and on a whim, I kissed Craigslist guy. It was nice. He asked me about the chances of it happening again, and I told him rather good. When the show was over, he got us backstage, and we met a couple of the band members. I didn’t say much, and we left soon afterwards for his place. In the cab, I told him I wasn’t going to sleep with him, and he said that was fine. We’d just hang out.

“So,” he said, while we were drinking water in his kitchen, “why did you have an extra ticket? You obviously aren’t available.”

I grimaced. “I’m sorry. I’m really not. I was mad at someone, and so I posted the ticket instead of asking him.”

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

“I suppose I am, but I really don’t think it’s going to happen. We haven’t made any promises or anything, so it’s not even like I’m cheating on him.”

“OK,” he said. And with that, we went to bed. We fooled around a bit, but in the middle of it, all I could think about was McI, and so I stopped. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“That’s OK. I know how you feel. I’ve done the same thing.”

When we woke up early the next morning, we were both still a bit tipsy, so we hung out for a bit to collect our wits. We talked about his ex, my situation, we laughed ruefully over our fates. He found me a bus, gave me a hug, and I left.

I laughed to myself on the bus. I must have been a fright. I didn’t have my brush with me, and I’m sure I didn’t smell all that nice. I’m getting a bit old for the bus ride of shame, I mused. Oh well. I’ll live.

As soon as I got home, I started to sob. I knew what I wanted. I knew that it was unlikely that I was going to get it. I felt confusement. I smiled. The confusement would resolve itself in time, I supposed.

More to come…

Craigslist Date: A Recipe


1 Part Feeling Pissed Off at Certain Someone
1 Part Moxie (the nerves kind—not the drink)
1 Part Killer Band
1 Part Willing Guy
1 Part Hearing from Certain Someone Right before Date
Several Parts Alcohol
1 Part Getting Backstage after Show
1 Part Cab Ride
1 Part Honest Discussion of Why Date Is Taking Place
1 Part Fooling Around (not THAT)
1 Part Amusing Discussion this Morning
1 Part Getting Home
1 Part Hearing from Guy to Make Sure I Got Home (he really is very sweet)
1 Part Realizing that I Am in Love with Certain Someone and Not Wanting It to End
10 Parts Feeling Incredibly Guilty and Like I Made a Huge Mistake
1 Part Not Feeling Guilty
1 Part Crying Jag
1 Part Giggle

Shake and Serve. Might cause confusion.

How Not to Respond to a Personals Ad

There’s a first time for everything. Yesterday I posted a personals ad on Craigslist. It wasn’t a big deal—I just said that I had an extra ticket to see The National for tonight and that if a guy was interested in seeing a show with a smart, cute, and funny woman to e-mail me through the site. I didn’t post a picture, and I made no mention of hanky panky.

Turns out that the first guy to answer the ad was the winner. His response was direct, just flirty enough, and expressed an interest in the band. He seems sane (we spoke on the phone) and decent, and he has a sense of humor and adventure. Oh, and he’s cute, which, let’s face it, if you’re going to date your way through a messy situation, is essential. I can’t really see wanting to date him on a regular basis, but he’ll do nicely for tonight.

A few of the responses I received were just sick and wrong. One guy complimented my tits—I really don’t like the idea of psychics using Craigslist. Another guy said that he didn’t like the band but thought that we’d be a perfect match. And then, there was this guy:

I’m a con-man. I seduce rich women out of their fortunes. I love my work, and the hours are good, so my friends would describe me as laid-back.

Are you the smart, beautiful woman with great taste that I will partner up with? We both have to think quick and cover our sociopathic tendencies?

Be sharp in every way — I’m picky. And I deal in face-to-face scams so you must include a picture.

He posted a picture. Here’s the thing, straight men. This kind of crap doesn’t work on any woman with half a brain cell in her head, but if you are going to try it, do be devastatingly handsome.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Ah… A Friday off. Of course, it’s for a family wedding, which means one thing for this single woman in her thirties.

With that in mind, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries (WARNING: Grey’s news ahead):

Today I will be Bridget Jones, my spinsterhood on display as a cautionary tale. Everyone will ask me (or worse, my mother) what happened. You are such a pretty girl, Sassy. Why has no one scooped you up? (Answer: Why, RandomBusybodyRelative, that would put a real dent in my orgy schedule, now wouldn’t it?) I’m sure I’ll hear Lesbian staged whispered more than once (Answer: Oh, Auntie Homophobe, we’re in Massachusetts. If I were a lesbian, my sweet, loving wife would be right here at my side in this Catholic church! ) Someone is almost certain to try to fix me up.Sassy, I have a young man I’d like you to meet. Well, he isn’t so young anymore, and he’s fat and doesn’t have all of his own teeth, but he isn’t afraid of a single, educated working girl like you. Why don’t I introduce you? (Answer: Well, there is no answer. I’ll probably wind up meeting the feller and smiling wanly at his jokes in the name of politeness.) While I wish that everyone would just leave me alone, I suppose all this concern is my family’s way of saying that they love me and want to see me happy. Sigh… Minus Three

Speaking of Auntie Homophobe, she’s pissed, and I’m pleased as punch. The Massachusetts legislature refused to put discrimination to a vote. Gay marriage will stand in Massachusetts for the foreseeable future. Deval Patrick actually did something right in getting behind this fight. Plus Five

James K. Seale, a former member of the KKK, was convicted in the 1964 murder of two black teenagers. He got to live almost his entire life as a free man, but justice has finally been served in this Civil Rights era case. Plus Four

Realized that I have better options now than I did when I was dating McArtsyPants. Plus Five

Republicans in the Senate rally to support an Attorney General who takes advantage of the sick and possibly dying to reauthorize an illegal wire-tapping program. Yeah, they are the party of morals. Disgusting. Minus Two

I had a fantastic weekend last weekend. Great date, great visit from a friend, creepy conversation with Lawnmoah Man, what more can anyone ask for? Plus Ten

It’s looking more and more like Scooter Libby will really go to the clink. Too bad he needs a pardon from W to avoid it. If it were up to the Republicans in Congress, he’d probably get it. Plus Two

Bye, bye, Dr. Burke. Isaiah Washington’s big mouth and volatile temper get him canned from Grey’s. It’s not exactly shocking news, but there it is. I can’t say as I’m sorry. He did cajole Christina into getting her eyebrows removed, only to jilt her at the altar. Even

The Red Sox are in a slump. Still, they are 7.5 games ahead of the evil Yankees. Minus Two

Total Plus: 25
Total Minus: 7


Last Week’s Total: -4

Six O’clock Already…

I was just in the middle of a dream, I thought when the alarm went off this morning. OK, well, it was more like, Shut up! Stupid thing! No one likes you! followed by a slam, but hey, that’s not the point. The point is that I had a lovely weekend, and I was sad that it was over.

My date with McIntriguing on Friday went great, as always. The little black dress was a definite hit. As for the jazz, however, it was a bit of a mixed bag. While there were some very nice moments, the five players seemed a bit too much at odds with each other. It was hard not to giggle after we both observed that one of the saxophone players bore a strong resemblance to a dirty pigeon and that a woman in the audience was wearing a hat that demanded twinkling Christmas lights. We left during the second set and headed to a funky local bar for gin and tonics and conversation. Somehow (not intentionally, honest), we wound up talking around the issue of relationships. Although we weren’t talking about whatever it is we’re doing, we did have similar ideas about how things should go. An interesting conversation, that.

Saturday afternoon my friend Smokestack (an old nickname, and I suppose for fairness’ sake, I should say that my nickname at the time was Chimney) graced me with her presence, and we spent the afternoon and evening gallivanting around Boston. The weather wasn’t overly cooperative, but we managed just fine. She crashed at my place that night, and we went to brunch and did a little more shopping before she left to head back to Portland in the afternoon. It was great to see her.

After Smokestack left, I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I took to the backyard with my book and a glass of wine to hang out on the patio. Someone, I assumed the landlord, had cut the grass that morning. While I was relaxing in the sunshine, my neighbor, the Lawnmoah Man (see this post if you don’t know who he is), went down the stairs to his backyard.

In looking back on that previous post, I realized that I had neglected to mention how I met Lawnmoah Man. I had mentioned a while back that I had gone to Casey’s during the Week of Wrecked Plans and that I had fended off the advances of a man who couldn’t pronounce the title of my book but drunkenly claimed to be fascinated by cultural anthropology. Well, that was Lawnmoah Man. That evening, Lawnmoah Man was very, very drunk. He made me a little nervous (he’s a big guy, with a shaved head and a lot of tattoos), but I let him chat me up for a bit. That is until he said, “Well, yer kinda cute, Sassy. Whatcha doin’ latah?” which prompted me to say, “I have to go now. Bye,” and leave. I felt a bit bad about responding that way, but given his condition, I was worried about how he’d react to being turned down. I’ve since learned that he’s basically a nice and harmless, if a little dim, man. But he’s still not my cup of tea.

A boy of about ten soon joined Lawnmoah Man in the backyard, calling LM “Dad.” They were playing with a remote-control car. Lawnmoah Man sauntered over to the fence and said hello. “I mowed yer lawn this mornin’,” he said, beaming.

“That was you?” I said, surprised. “I assumed it was my landlord. Well, thank you. That was nice of you.” Please go away now, I was thinking, along with, Oh shit. Why would he mow my lawn? We chatted for a couple of seconds, and his son called out to him to see what he was doing with the car.

Phew, I thought, and went back to my book.

There was a little commotion near our fence, and I saw Lawnmoah Man with the controls of the car, trying to get through a little gap in the fence. He eventually got the car through, and it headed down the little path, through a bush, and landed at my feet. Oh double shit! What is going on here? I mean, come on, he saw me with McI that time. What is he doing?

“Heh, heh. I just wanted to see if it would work,” Lawnmoah Man said. “How are ya doin’?”

“I’m fine, I said. It looks as though it did work, didn’t it?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I just sat there, looking down at the freshly mown grass.

He said a few more things, and then got the car out of my yard. I went back to my book and the sunshine. After the sun went down, I went back upstairs. Smokestack called me to let me know that she got home OK, and we chuckled about Lawnmoah Man. I then listened to some music, and went to sleep.

And now I’m at the end of another Manic Monday.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Time keeps going faster and faster, it seems. Here we are at another Friday, and a beautiful one at that. The sun is shining, flowers are in bloom, and it’s time to tally up the week’s events. What a mindfuck of a week it’s been, too. Overall, I’m in a fine mood, but when W is unleashed on the world, it’s time to be scared. Oh, that and Oprah and Paris Hilton.

Behold, the week’s Sassy Sundries:

Oprah picked Middlesex for her book club. What the hell? Why, why, why does she have to go and ruin every good book? It’s bad enough that you can’t get a copy of The Virgin Suicides without a picture of Kirsten Dunst on it, but now we have to have the dreaded “O” business on the cover of Middlesex? Why couldn’t Jeffrey Eugenides be like Jonathan Franzen and tell Oprah to stick it where the sun don’t shine? Gah! Minus Five

Have hot date tonight with McI. The fashion gods smiled upon me, and I found the sexiest little black dress for an evening of jazz and… No, Dive. No pictures. Plus Ten

Scooter Libby gets 2.5 years in the slammer for lying about the leak in the Valerie Plame case. Now we just need to get Rove and Cheney behind bars. Plus Five

Speaking of prison, Paris Hilton took up residence in her new digs and then decided that she didn’t like clink. And guess what? They let her out! The LA Sheriff allowed the repeat drunk driver out of jail for a “medical problem.” I hope the law takes pity on the poor kid arrested with a joint, but somehow I doubt it. It’s not like they let Martha Stewart out because her uniform clashed with her towel. Makes me sick, I tell you. Minus Ten
Update: She’s going back to the slammer. Poor thing cried. Hee hee.

Have potential new career as a private eye. Will begin scouring stores at once for 30s noir dresses, and will come up with new hair style. Can anyone tell me how to sound like Lauren Bacall? Craigslist is fun. Plus Two

My parents saw the new bachelorette pad, and my mother didn’t make one condescending comment. Plus Three

George W. Bush blows hot air about global warming. What can you expect from an oil man? I’m glad he got a tummy ache. Too bad he didn’t barf all over some world leader like his old man did. Minus Ten

My friend Smokestack is coming to visit me tomorrow afternoon. A grand time shall be had. Plus Five

What the hell is going on with the rhetoric between Bush and Putin? Are we back to the Cold War or something? Note to George: Using the word “hyperventilating” to describe a touchy situation isn’t very diplomatic. Please don’t get me nuked. I’d really like to live to see thirty-four. Minus Five

Things are looking up on the roommate front. I have two possible candidates who would do just fine. Plus Four

Have potential stalker problem on my hands, in the form of Neighbor’s ex-boyfriend. Minus Three

Total Plus: 29
Total Minus: 33

Last Week’s Total: +14