Who’s who? The Love Stain Glossary.

G: Well-traveled conquest from college. He’s now writing on the East coast. Much much smarter than I. Also better looking. Wasn’t meant to be.Rating: Five out of Five kisses. He really was pretty spectacular, he’ll tell you so himself.

B: Large male friend. Sometimes offers me black magic love spells and threatens to beat up men who’ve hurt me. These, of course, are empty threats. But they are still sweet.

M: My greatest, most melodramatic heartbreak. It was a teenage thing. Wasn’t meant to be.

J: Neurotic bartender/writer extraordinaire. Dated for a few months. Let’s not discuss that. Puts a genuine effort into living. As B. puts it “he really cares about the little things….like finding the perfect flavor of cheddar, the kind that really rolls around in your mouth.” He really likes doing compulsory domestic activities like laundry. North Side snob. Sometimes we Karoake.

Rating: Four out of Five kisses. Very talented and charming; and surprisingly good at singing Neil Diamond songs.

KW: Our friendship began in 1998 and mostly revolved around me copying his physics homework, and waxing melodramatic about my “crush” on him. In my defense I was 16; I also fancied myself an actress-in-training, considered Mariah Carey an “artist” and ate pizza with Oreos on it. KW now lives with his lovely wife and dog in WI.

Rating: No kisses. He’s married!

T: 21-yr-old boy. Emphasis on word “boy.” Possibly a klepto.

Rating: No kisses. Don’t steal on a date, ’nuff said.

P: Male friend who likes to settle.

Some things.

Realization number 1:

I choose poorly when it comes to men.

Realization number 2:

Phenomenal people break your heart in phenomenal ways.

Realization number 3:

Dating might not be for me.

Realization number 4:

I will probably love like it’s never going to leave, in spite of these things.

Realization number 5:

Sigh. I’m an idiot.

Adversarial forces.

P:  I had a dream that the girl I am dating was a snake and wanted to eat me.

 

Me: And then what did you do?

 

P:  I woke up and I was sweating.

 

Me:  Hmm.

 

P: But later that day she called me.

 

Me:  And?

 

P: Well, I kind of like snakes, you know?

 

Me: Yeah, sure.

My date…went, um, well.

Since so many people have been inquiring into my date (meaning three, but the quantity isn’t so important as the quality of the requests), I present you with the low down.

 

After systematically going through our joint lexicon of comic book characters and assigning them various tarot card personas (i.e. Wolverine would be the King of Swords, Batman’s Joker would be the Fool), we began to discuss deeper matters.

 

These involved pizza with odd cheeses (that, um, still taste delicious), the rules of soccer and David Sedaris. Then we began discussing my blog. Why I thought it kosher to mention this on a first date is still beyond me. But sometimes I’m just a big ol’ all-you- can-eat word salad.

 

Me: Yeah, I’ve got a blog about breaking up.

 

Him: (shifting in his chair) You’ve had that much experience with it?

 

Me: Um, sure?

 

Him: Is that an answer or are you just trying to skirt the issue?

 

Me: Um, sure?

 

Him: (laughing) Big heartache in your past, then?

 

Me: No, just enough to write 300 word write ups. I’m really more of a reviewer rather than someone who provides in-depth analysis.

 

Him: (sarcastically) Well, this should probably be the time to tell you…if we go out on a second and third and eventually an eighth date, well at that point it’s all going to be about me. I’ll talk to you when I want to, you can be there for me, but I’m not really going to have time for you. Just so you know.

 

Me: (crushed) Oh, I see.

 

Him: I wasn’t serious! Did you seriously think I was serious? Dear god, who have you been dating that you thought I was serious?

 

Me: Um, people.

The regular new: Part deux

P, the ever self-searching friend that I, in spite of my better efforts to rid myself of him, have and continue to aid in relationship advice is still dating a girl whom he is terrified of dating.

 

Make sense? No, not really. But that’s the way it goes.

 

Today he emailed me:

 

“I’m not sure if I can do this, I can’t live with her I can’t live without her. What’s wrong with me?”

 

Because I have been doing research on a particular subject (commitment phobia) for my own personal reasons, I respond with this:

 

“Have you ever thought you might have some kind of problem? Here is an excerpt from an article I read, hope this helps.

Commitment phobia, real commitment phobia, not the kind that people refer to when they are dumping someone they don’t really like, is a paralyzing fear of being with someone whom you actually care for. In fact, the greater you care for the person the more paralyzing the fear can be. The physical symptoms are similar to other phobias like claustrophobia and arachnophobia, and manifest themselves as panic attacks or almost panic attacks. Oftentimes, people who are commitment phobic will sabotage their most promising and satisfying relationships simply because the fear of becoming attached to or losing that person becomes too great. If commitment phobics go untreated, they may end up alone or with someone who they are not terribly satisfied with, because they view relationships like these as “easy.”

 

P responded with a shocked:

 

“What the hell am I supposed to do then?”

 

On the other end of my computer I can imagine his wide eyes and terrified expression, because I’ve seen it many times before.

 

Being ever helpful, I respond with this:

 

Uh, sucks to be you?

The fortune inside my fortune cookie.

Every man you date thinks that ignoring you is some kind of original approach to dumping you.

Yeah, like no one’s ever thought of that one before.

Death, Taxes and Breakups

 

I have a friend whose accountant is going through nasty divorce.  Let’s just say her accountant may not be in the most “serene” place right now.  

 

She found out she owes the IRS $35,000; she only makes 20G’s a year.

 

Irony?  No, only if it’s spelled M-I-S-E-R-Y.

P never ceases to inspire me with the scope of his emotional capacities.

Today P called me while on a work break.

 

P: Hey.

 

Me: What’s up?

 

P: (With a tone of dull but incapacitating fear) I met a girl.

 

Me: Is that what you’re calling about?

 

P: Yeah. (Pause) There’s a problem.

 

Me: What?

 

P: I keep thinking about her.

 

Me: And that’s a problem?

 

P: Yes. So how do I dump her?

 

Me: Are you serious?

 

P: Yeah. This whole “not being able to stop thinking about someone” is really really paralyzing. (Tone of fear becoming more pronounced, voice deepening) Nothing good can from this.

Don’t believe me? Models ain’t all that.

Real beauty.

I know what I know. I know what I’ll turn into.

My marriage will end on a Tuesday. It will be raining. I will be running some inconsequential errand, like picking up lemons, getting gas or going to the bank.

My mobile will ring. I’ll hear the most familiar voice I know on the other end but he will sound unfamiliar.

 

“Katie,” he’ll say timidly, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

 

I’ll think he’s going to yammer on about our pipes, or our tulips or some other facet of our middle class existence. I’ll be half listening. I’ll be smelling lemons for their freshness or playing with some credit card machine.

 

Then he’ll say, “I’ve met someone else. She’s your Pilates instructor.”

 

I’ll say, “Janice? That skinny white bitch? She doesn’t look like she’s very good in bed!”

 

He’ll say, “Well she’s not, because that’s not what this is about, Katie.”

 

I’ll say, “Is this about the fact that I’m a stripper? That I accidentally killed our dog? That I’ve twice been convicted of stalking other men?”

 

He’ll say, “No, Katie, none of those things had any impact on our marriage. But it’s been two weeks, and our agreement was that I’d only have to be married to you for two weeks. To get the feds off your back, don’t you remember?”

 

And I’ll say, “Oh, yeah. Maybe you and me and Janice should go out for drinks or sumthin’.”