Someone suggested a co-worker and I pretend to be sleeping together; their aim was to drive another co-worker over the edge (please don’t ask, because I honestly don’t know).

I live in a town so small that all it would take to start that particular rumor would be my vehicle parked at his house overnight, or vice versa.

Keep in mind, I thought this was a stupid idea. I never agreed to it. I don’t even like the guy I was supposed to be pretending with. Anyway, he came into the office and the subject was raised and he said, “I have a reputation to uphold.”

EXCUSE ME? Nevermind my not wanting to play along, I HAPPEN TO BE VERY DOABLE. Or at least I was a long time ago, when I went on my last date. I don’t have a bad reputation – I even go to church sometimes (okay, once in the last year…on Easter). I help the elderly get unreachable items from shelves in the grocery store. I’m nice.

But obviously not nice enough for Mr. I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt, who PS is NOT that good looking and only thinks he’s hot shit because of his glory days from high school, where his biggest achievement was sports. Ooooh, you can throw a football? GUESS WHAT, SO COULD OJ SIMPSON. Asshole.

Now that I’ve reverted to sixteen again (I wish I was still irresponsible enough to key his car without fretting over the consequences & bad karma), I’ll finish by saying that if I can’t get an unattractive jerk-off, I’m doomed to be sexless forever, spending the rest of my existence watching Buffy reruns and cuddling up to ice cream and my cat.

There’s this guy.

According to my sister he asked me out multiple times a couple of years ago, but I refused.

As fate would have it I ran into him and recognized him immediately – possibly because Heidi mentioned him, or possibly because he was singing along with the jukebox to the oldies. He was funny and charming. He invited me to sit with his group and I accepted. He’s tall, with a full head of hair. He has pretty blue eyes and a nice smile.

The longer we sat there, conversing and sharing drinks, the more I started wondering why I turned him down two years ago. There’s nothing wrong with him, NOTHING. He’s not rude or ugly (bite me, I’m shallow). He seemed fine – better than fine, actually. He seemed great, confident and happy.

I left – after politely refusing an invitation to follow them to a different bar – and found myself wondering if my standards have changed so much in two years, or if he just approached me at a bad time, or if I was just MYSELF – judgmental, defensive, and suspicious of any male who looks at me sideways. (Ah, therapy. So enlightening).

My point is, I’d be more than happy to let him take me to dinner – assuming he’s still interested (and by the way he was flirting last night I’m thinking it’s a definite possibility). Now if only I had his phone number.

The following conversation took place this afternoon by telephone.

Me: “Hello?”
Heidi, sounding chipper: “Hi. How come you sound constipated?”
Me: “It’s a work thing. I have a thing going on.”
Heidi: “How would you feel if I set you up? We could go out in a big group, so there’s no pressure or anything.”
Me, recalling the LAST time we went “in a big group” so there “wouldn’t be any pressure”: “Um, I don’t know. What’s his name?”
Heidi: “Why does that matter? You don’t know him.”
Me: “What is it?”
Heidi: “Eric.”
Me: “Oh. I guess, maybe.”
Heidi: “He’s missing a tooth.”
Me, rolling my eyes so far back into my skull they almost pop out the other side: “Good grief. So he looks like a hillbilly. Why is it whenever you push a guy at me he’s missing a tooth?” (Seriously! She did this last year!)
Heidi: “He had an accident a couple of days ago, I think. He’s cute, Amber.”
Me: “Huh. Are you just saying that so I’ll agree, or do you really think he’s cute?” (My sister has nearly impossible standards.)
Heidi: “No, he’s really cute. I think he’s good looking.”
Me, distracted by my work and with a healthy sense of skepticism: “I’m busy. Can we talk about this later?”
Heidi: “Okay. Bye.”

WHY? Why are they always bald or missing teeth or carrying so much baggage they need a damn cart to push it on? I’m beginning to question my sister’s opinion of me. But you know what the WORST part about it is?

I’ll probably go. I’m so tired of not dating and not having sex and not having a man to take with me to activities where everyone else is in a couple that I’m ACTUALLY CONSIDERING going on a group date to get to know Mr. Clampett.

I bitch and moan, I know, but my social life could use some spicing up. Thank god for my sister. If she wasn’t such a pain in the ass, I wouldn’t have half as much fun as I do.

There is a man in my life who likes me. He’s single and considerate and persistent, all of which are good qualities (especially the persistence, especially in my case). One night while I was working he popped in unannounced with a couple of tabloids for my entertainment. He grabbed two or three, because while he noticed my weakness for them, he didn’t know which ones I liked. He calls sometimes – not often enough to be labeled a stalker, but often enough to let me know he’s still interested.

A week after my surgery, he had flowers delivered to my house. I’m helpless against flowers, and normally a gesture such as that one would have caused me to swoon and immediately kiss the person responsible senseless. The card said that he was thinking of me, and hoping for a speedy recovery.

He’s a genuine, sweet man with the best of intentions. He’s the type to marry and raise a family and never take his wife for granted (or at least not usually). He works hard at the BioDiesel plant here in town, and he doesn’t smoke. He comes from a large, close-knit family of his own.

He stopped by the office last night to ask me to go to dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have to work, thank god, so I gave him that excuse instead of just telling him he doesn’t have the slightest chance with me. I don’t like hurting people’s feelings. I wish I could fall in love with him, or at the very least be madly turned on by him. The problem is, he excites me about as much as watching paint dry.

My sister says this is because I won’t give him a chance. She says I took note of the way he dresses and his balding head and dismissed him. I admit she’s right about the head thing; I like a man with hair, end of story. I’ve never been attracted to hairless types. It’s just who I am. As for the clothes, she’s wrong – I could care less that the guy wears Wranglers and Carhartts. She claims I want someone more stylish, like her husband. (Truthfully, I went shopping with him once, and it scared me how GOOD he was. He was quick, he knew just where to find the sale rack, and exactly what looked good on his tall, lean frame. I was amused & a little intimidated. I have never been that good at shopping). I’ve never cared what clothes someone wears. As long as he’s not filthy or patched together with duct tape, I say live and let live.

The Marine has a style similar to mine, but like Heidi’s husband, he’s also a better dresser than I am. Now that I’m thinking about it, most people are better dressers than me. I consider jeans and a sweatshirt acceptable for almost every occasion, I wear socks with my Keen sandals (PISS OFF, naysayers), and I consider throwing on my American Eagle khaki pants being “very dressed up”. But I’m getting way off track here.

The point I’m trying to make is, The Marine makes me laugh. He keeps me interested. I find him (and his dark hair) very sexy. I worry about what to say and what to wear when faced with seeing him. When faced with the sweet, genuine man who actually likes me and DOESN’T blow me off, I feel nothing. Except for a hopefulness that he’ll take a hint and give up on me and date a woman who wants nothing more than to settle down and be his wife.

I’m not wifely material. Heidi? Heidi is wifely material. She’s considerate and thoughtful and attacks dust and grime like they’re the enemy. She has GADS of love to pass around, absolute gads. Her dogs are a little spoiled and very happy, and I suspect her children (when she has them) will be the same.

I wish I could spend Valentine’s Day with the man I love, laughing and eating chocolate (or possibly whipped cream) and just BEING. I wish the Nice Guy could spend it with the woman he loves. I wish we could all, just for one day, eat conversation hearts until we’re sick and smile until our faces ache.

Welcome back to the fourth grade. You can sit next to me if you want to.

And hey, while we’re being all chummy, let’s GOSSIP.

Boys suck. All of them. All of them with their cute floppy hair and their sudden charm which they seem to be able to turn on and off like a light switch. I’m finished trying to understand or decipher or have ANY IDEA what the hell is going on with them. Except, of course, the obvious – they SUCK (or drool, as the case may be).

I ran into the Marine again, purely by chance. It was nice. We stood and talked for about a half an hour, in the way that people do when neither is anxious to part ways. We lingered and caught up on each other’s lives. I inquired as to whether he planned to stick around a little while, or head straight out of town. He said he wasn’t in a rush, and that he would call me. “I’ll call you,” he said. We talked about maybe meeting up for dinner.

Having been stuck at home for days on end after surgery I was eager for some social interaction, you know? Good, clean fun? Dinner, conversation, possibly a lusty kiss goodnight after reminding myself that he couldn’t see the gross & disfiguring scars marring my belly flesh?

BUT NO.

He didn’t call. He didn’t even call to say, “Sorry, gotta run.” He didn’t call to say, “I’m a total jackass and haven’t the slightest clue what I want from you or in general.” Do you know what happened? Because I do. He’s clearly not interested, nevermind his very confusing flirtations, and just too cowardly to say, “No, I’m not interested in dinner OR you, thanks anyway.” Which would be a lot less insulting than continually agreeing to meet and then blowing me off.

So. Now that we’ve gossiped and bonded over boys, would you like to be my Valentine? We could exchange those candy hearts and cartoon cards. I’ve got dibs on Hello Kitty. What are your V-Day plans?

Last night was Saturday, and for the first time in a long time I was supposed to be on a date. I bought a flattering black sweater, I got my hair to cooperate, I looked reasonably attractive. I was excited about having prime rib and engaging conversation with a man who’s company I enjoy. All systems were go. Or so I thought.

He called. We chatted. He made no reference to the date, but continued to make small talk. Which drove me slowly crazy, because I don’t like talking on the damn phone to start with, and I kept wondering why we were carrying on via telephone when we could be at a table, face to face.

I finally asked him what time he wanted to meet, and he balked. There’s no better word for it. He cleared his throat and made some mention of my plans for Christmas and New Years. He inquired about December in general. I remain stupefied.

Basically, he didn’t want to go. And he gave no reason other than that in itself. The date was originally scheduled for the previous evening, but he ended up helping a friend who’s basement was flooding – and I completely understand. We rescheduled, for last night – but then he cancelled.

Worst of all, I’m on my period. I’m bloated. I feel ugly and undesirable, but I made the effort. I got dolled up and took some Advil for the cramps and put on a happy face. I wanted good food and good company. Instead, I got the ever so pleasant all-dressed-up-with-nowhere-to-go sensation.

I sat around for a while, considering my options.

Option 1: Suck it up. Make the best of the situation. Translated = Ask grandmother (yes, you heard me) to dinner so that preparations and the good food portion of the evening don’t go to waste.

Option 2: Feel sorry for self. Get back into sloppy pajamas, eat ice cream. Loathe men in general. Speculate that ice cream intake will make fat ass even larger, and thus increase undesirable factor. Refuse to care.

Option 3: Call sister and friends to bitch about men and dating in general.

Option 4: Be an adult, and get over it.

I think we all know Option 4 was out of the question before I wrote it down. So I tried Option 1, but my grandma didn’t want to participate, and eating alone in public where everyone else’s date showed up seemed too depressing. I settled on Option 3, but no one was answering their phones. Anyone want to hazard a guess as to why? OH YEAH. Because it was Saturday fucking night, and they all had people they were spending time with. My only recourse was to dive straight into Option 2, but I didn’t actually eat ice cream. Not because I worried about fat intake, but because the weather here is below freezing and ice cream seemed like a bad idea at the time. Instead, I got into my sloppy gym clothes and worked out for an hour. I sweated and mumbled insulting things about anyone sporting a Y chromosome and consoled myself with the knowledge that my butt was probably shrinking instead of growing.

I’m still sort of bummed. I hate feeling rejected. I especially hate making plans for something and then having them fall through. And I really, really hate wondering if I did something to cause his change of mind.

I think I’ll just go back to bed until the new year.

* I got an alarming message about my domain name and required payments, under threat of the site expiring. Bad timing all around.

* I renamed Archimedes. She’s Clio now, and to tell the truth she responds better to being yelled at in shorter, more concise words – like her name. Heh.

* I couldn’t find my Christmas tree or ornaments anywhere. I searched and searched, high and low, near and far. I had to buy new ones today, and luckily it wasn’t incredibly bank-breaking. Okay, it hurt a little.

* But now I’m basking in holiday spirit. My house has Christmas in every corner, nook & cranny. There’s even a zesty reindeer doormat I got last year on clearance after the season was over. I feel like an elf, but with better shoes.

* I finished my seventh complete journal. I keep a personal record, on paper, for my own sanity. (It’s theraputic). I’m ridiculously excited to start my 8th one, which is gorgeous blue & black leather. Mmm, leather.

* I found two books I’ve been dying to read at the library, NO PURCHASE NECESSARY! They were right up front, which was handy, because for someone who loves to read & write I can’t be bothered with alphabetical shelving.

* I bought a cute black sweater for my dinner date tomorrow night. It’s a turtle neck, which I would normally hate because they’re evil and constricting, but it was the only top the store had that didn’t emphasize my extra stomach flesh. I also bought a festive green t-shirt that says, “Be naughty. Save Santa a trip.” Also, saves me the trouble of being nice.

That about caps the last week.

This morning my phone jarred me out of a deep, comfortable sleep. It was my sister, calling to talk about the upcoming Centennial this weekend – and to dispense a bit of advice.

Sister: “And on Friday there’s a dance and then the poker run.”
Me: “Yeah, and maybe (insert name of love interest) will be there.”
There’s a brief pause, and then: “Yeah…I don’t think he’s your type.”
Me: “What?”
“He’s too nice of a guy. You tend to like assholes.”
In the most defensive tone of voice I can muster while still being groggy: “I don’t always like assholes!”
Sister: “Well, (insert name of sister’s husband & close friend of love interest) wanted me to tell you that if you play the mind games with him that you played with Fortune Cookie, you won’t be liked by the (insert last name of husband & his two brothers) boys.”
Me: “Fortune Cookie wasn’t just nice, he was boring! He never said anything and he always expected me to entertain him.”
Sister: “Yes, well, I was told to pass that message along. You’re his sister-in-law, and he wants to love you, but…”
Me: “Got it.”

So I’m forbidden to date the new love interest because I accidentally played a few games of brain ball with Fortune Cookie. To be fair, she did agree that I never screw people over on purpose – it’s just a not-so-charming side effect of my personality.

While I don’t usually like being told what to do, however indirectly, I guess I should probably consider the friend of sister’s husband off limits. I don’t want my brother-in-law to hate me. He’s actually a great guy. Wanting to protect one’s friends is an admirable quality, one I happen to possess myself.

So my available dating pool just shrank to men my sister and her husband don’t know. Let the brain ball begin.

Sometimes when I close my eyes, I can still feel his arms around me. I remember standing under the stars in a parking lot and stepping into his embrace for the first time. He was so solid, so warm. My feet didn’t even touch the ground on my way home.

He was charming and intellectual. On our first date we were squished into a corner booth in a crowded island-themed bar arguing politics. He was liberal, I was conservative. Our differences didn’t seem to matter. He gave me a piggy back ride to his car. He smelled like spices and the dark.

I dated him because I felt sorry for him. He was attractive enough – tall, built like a basketball player. I wasn’t particularly interested, but he exuded innocence and desperation. And he was a good kisser.

We were friends first, for a long time, but I think we both knew that we would be together eventually. He crossed two states to see me. We had Guinness and steak and watched the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We didn’t flash or spark; we were comfortable with each other. He hogged the covers.

He was my friend’s little brother, and we’d known each other since childhood. What was always harmless flirtation led to something more. He cuddled in the strangest ways – he used to sit on the floor in front of me during movies and hold my legs.

We had long conversations about everything and anything. We understood each other, respected one another. His eyes were kind and honest – they undid me. I still see him sometimes. I always miss him, even when he’s right beside me.

I’m alone now, wondering who my next lover will be. Wherever he is, I hope he knows I’m waiting.

I almost feel guilty mentioning a haircut here since I’m still without a digital camera and have no way to post pictures. Part of the thrill of a haircut is letting everyone point and laugh, right? Except I AM going to mention it, because I love it! I chopped off six very long, very heavy inches and now have shoulderlength (barely) hair! I turn my head and it brushes the base of my neck and I feel like I should have my own theme song and carry a badass weapon and wear lots of black Kevlar. I feel light and free! Everything seems newer and better.

And of course my grandmother hates it. But like I said, pointing and laughing is sort of a given.

The date was OK. It’s becoming more and more evident that Fortune Cookie is never going to trust me. He was very standoffish, almost cool – although perfectly polite. I had delicious chicken wings and he had a pricey steak and then we were off to see the new X-Men movie, Wolverine. The movie was terrific – I recommend it. My only regret was that there weren’t more gratuitous Ryan Reynolds scenes, because MMM that is one fine looking man. Even when he has no mouth or eyelids.

Fortune Cookie and I did have fun, and I’m optimistic about the potential for long-lasting friendship. As for anything else…probably not as much.