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.

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.

To Jersey101Summatime, Thank you for the email telling me how hot you think I am. I have to admit that I did not even read your profile before deleting your message. Why would I need to after seeing your two profile photos that highlighted you and your guns? I am not complimenting your massive biceps, though they were impressive in your tight t-shirt, I am referring to the literal gun you are brandishing in your photo. That is a first, and hopefully it will be the last. I am dying to know if you score any chicks with that ploy. Oh, and the other photos that showed your artistic side?

I want to start off by saying that Bob is not a bad guy. He is not a creepster douche bag that deserves a little mockery in exchange for disrespect. Instead, Bob is a guy that walked into my salon last Thursday morning, with a flimsy excuse to “scope out the digs”, who chatted me up for twenty minutes. He had a bejeweled band on his wedding finger, so I assumed he was married and just wanted to flirt. Then his inquiries got a little personal, and he asked me my age and whether or not I was “spoken for”.

Dear John. I've never written a “Dear John” before, and I feel very old fashioned, or romantic, or nostalgic, or really just like my normal self, only different. Who was the original John? I envision him in army fatigues, or something a little smarter, like a lieutenant's uniform. Handsome and young. Freshly shaved and scrubbed clean. Dear John, or Unwelcome lover who I no longer want in my life, And here I thought I'd rid myself of you for good. I patched the weak spots and filled the open spots, making myself impenetrable, stronger, a wall.

Opposites attract. Of course. We've heard that idiom countless times, Paula Abdul sang about it with a cartoon cat that liked to smoke (I write this with a straight face, I swear) and you have probably even experienced this phenomenon firsthand. But what happens when you are attracted to someone that is your synonym? Surely this must happen a lot, and yet there is no catchy phrase to toss around like “opposites attract”.