romance

Lacy and Alison with Ellen the Koala

There are the simple things, like boot versus trunk
or toe-mah-toe sauce versus ketchup.
(Catsup? Does anyone spell it that way, anymore?)
That first time you told me you had the shits,
and I was alarmed.
When my sister killed her interview,
you were alarmed,
then turned around and murdered your burger.
Who sings that song, “I Got You Babe”?
Sonny and … Sure.
Sure. That’s not how you spell it.
Sure! Sure! You say. It’s Sure.
And then your dad offered me a rissole,
which sounded like rizzle,

It's like this. The weekend before the hurricane, I watched friends and colleagues scramble in preparation. I don't mean that they were stocking up on water or batteries or candles (though some of them were responsible while others regretted not taking the prep more seriously), but rather they were scrolling through their little black book.

And so I wonder, which one are you? Are you the one who believes that there is another person walking this earth meant for you and you alone? Are you the one that thinks that God has created another half, just for you, and that you will one day meet this person and suddenly you two will fit together like no other, making you realize that those people before were great, but not right, puzzle pieces that could be finagled together if you cheated a little bit with a bend here or a squeeze there, but it's not the same as when two designated pieces slide in together just so.

When I cry. When I sob, I sound just like my mother. I look in the mirror and the tears have magnified my eyes, making them less squinty than normal, less Telles-like, and that face in the mirror is a mirror of my mom's. It's moments like these, when I see myself and hear myself gushing pain and heartache, that I feel most like her daughter.
There are few foods as comforting as spaghetti with red sauce, or as filling. Spaghetti fills everything.

I just want to make sure we're on the same page.
Or: It's becoming obvious we're not on the same page. Would you mind flipping to mine?
Or: I want this to appear like a mutual decision, and I hope you fall for it.
Or: I thought we'd discussed this already, but it appears you need to be schooled again.
Or: So, listen, open up and expose what you are feeling (I will take it in), then sit back and accept how I want things to be.
Or: Do you like me? Then nod and agree, “Totally, we're totally on the same page”.

I resisted Facebook for a long time. I remember using words like “lame” and “trendy” and “not gonna last” when my friends first started peer pressuring me to join. But then, I caved. And now, I post photos on Fbook on a regular basis, and I love looking at friends' photos, and I certainly am entertained by the ridiculous comments that my hilarious friends post on my photos. But. But! Facebook is of a certain strain of evil that is weaved into our world so deftly it is disguised as fun. One obvious element is the fact that it can be (and is for most) a total time suck.

Alas, I have no fun stories to relay. This is good news, folks, because it means I have only been going on good dates. Lovely dinners, delicious brunches, good company, blah blah blah. No gun-toting punks with poor grammar and horrific spelling. No recent vomiting (thank God) to report, and no strange experiences to share. I know I should be happy that the dating gods have smiled on me these past couple of weeks, but I can't help but feel a little despondent that my fodder jar is so empty.

I am curious about ladies who date multiple people at once. Jugglers. I mean, this is a city replete with multi-taskers, so I suppose it only makes sense that it would overlap into the dating scene. And I feel like the stereotype is that men casually balance a few gals at once, so it seems only fair that women should be able to do the same. And me? I am the queen at multi-tasking. According to my friends, sometimes it's to a fault (reading while driving). I make my lists, sometimes scrawling on tiny scraps of paper, or using my handy “notes” section on my iPhone.

Listen. If we just say what we mean, what we want, who we are, what we are looking for, this whole dating thing would be a lot easier. I mean, let's be clear from the get go, you know what I'm saying? If you like me, tell me! (Ok, ok, ok . . .no need to go overboard here. A simple “You're a cool gal” will suffice. I don't want to feel claustrophobic.) And for some reason, this city starts blurring lines when trying to define a date. Sometimes I think I am on a date, but really we are just friends hanging out.

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