could i be the girlfriend? highly dubious.

I swear I don't want to let this blog die, but I just haven't had much to say lately, nor much time in which to say it. There's a lot going on right now, and I s'pose I haven't sorted out how I feel about it all. I've just moved into a new apartment, and Henry found out he is moving to a continent far, far away come September. Big Excitement!

In other news, it seems there are some interesting parallels between The Girlfriend and me. I found out that when she's talking to Henry, she refers to me as "Dolores, your girlfriend." I am not sure what to make of this. I suppose she could be jealous of all the time Henry and I spend together, since she lives in another town and doesn't see him all that often. At the same time, the tone in which (I am told) she says it seems meant to antagonize.

I have no idea what I am going to do when he moves away. Then again, I assume she is thinking the same thing. I don't know whether I am pleased or appalled by this. Highly, highly dubious.

relentless in my geniality

I was happy to notice she had gained a little weight since the last time I saw her. I feel certain she was happy to notice the same thing about me. Whenever we run into each other, the degree of civility in our conversations is regulated by the presence of mutual friends. With the exception of one time that still sticks out in my memory:

I was sitting, cozy, at a bar, sharing a pitcher of PBR with one of my best friends--he called her, his girlfriend, to tell her he was running late; she took it upon herself to join us. For an hour, she behaved as if it were only she and he at the table--I fought back. Relentless in my geniality, I suckered her into conversation. I wasn't about to let her act as if her boyfriend's best-good friend wasn't sitting two feet from her sour face. I won.

Ever since, I have used the same technique. I was shy when I was younger. People read me as snobby and aloof, but truth was, I didn't want to jeopardize my well-being by letting them in. These days I have learned to trick them: let them think they're "in." Of course, it's all lies.

Last week, she showed up at a party, studiously ignoring me as usual. I sucked down a few beers, relentlessly bugged her, borrowed her lighter, asked about her life, referred to things we'd talked about last time she was in town, acted interested.

I still wonder if she realizes my affability is meant to antagonize--I suspect she doesn't.

every one of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal

One of the fundamental differences I have between me and my male friends is this: I will not pursue a guy I know I will be "settling for." There's always a point where you know: a point where you have to explain a joke or a reference he should have gotten, a point where you have to shrug off an offensive comment he made. Ladies, you know what I mean.

Sure, a gal could keep going at that point: impress him with wit and self-assurance, with style and connections--the social currency he would understand. And tits, of course. But why bother? Why waste carefully lifted-and-separated tits on a guy who can't string together a sentence, or who doesn't know your favorite book, band, film, or whatever cultural reference du jour?

These things may sound petty, but I have thrown men out of bed for less.

One very cute, worldly, polyglot younger guy with a great ass and the perfect ass-flattering jeans, for example, never got invited back for a seemingly minor music faux pas. "Are you insane," you ask? "Yes, most likely."

Here's the rub:

Dude with Ass: So, what's a Bob Dylan song I might know?
Dubious Dolores: So you don't know any? Like not even "Highway 61?"
DWA: Um...
DD: [sings Hwy 61]
DWA: no, I dunno.
DD: How about "Rainy Day Women?" [sings it]
DWA: ...nah...huh? Is that about pot?

The conversation went on long enough to plumb my Dylan Singles Resource, until the coffee was drunk, and I could reasonable ask him to leave. I begged off on grounds of having "work" to do (which we all know means "I want you outta here, like an hour ago!").

Of course, certain characteristics might override such a lack of cultural awareness. Like, if he were a millionaire who worshipped me and was great in the sack. But seriously, ladies, those are not as common as television would have us believe.

A poor man with a great CD collection is much more realistic. Even if he is shorter than me! One day I will have osteoporosis, so that won't matter. We will still have hour after hour to discuss the meaning of "the ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face." Boys, if you have an interesting analysis of that line, please let me know. I am still (god, surprisingly!) single as all get-out.

studious researchers only, please

I have just spent the evening drinking wine and hanging out (god, what a cliché) with my gay best friend (another cliché! someone should write a sitcom...oh, nevermind).

He is addicted to the discovery channel, which aired a special about an apparently synaesthetic numbers genius. Only we pegged it as synaesthesia immediately, and it took the show about an hour to get around to giving his condition a name.

Would that I were so afflicted! What the french call l'audition colorée is ridiculously fascinating to me. Imagine seeing letters and sounds as uniquely colored. Wouldn't that make linguistic comprehension and memorization so much easier? Methinks.

Any rate, I feel quite certain this can all be chalked up to an informative night of studious research. Important questions were answered, such as:

--How bad are the visual effects on low-budget cable channels? (important cinematic issues!)
--How cheap is a bottle of Australian merlot at the Korean grocery in the neighborhood where I will be moving in June? (important cross-cultural issues, local and international!)
--How much closet space do these apartments really have? (important fashion and home decor issues!)

I shall certainly record these as study hours. Tick, Tick. V. V. G.

if helen fielding has anything to teach us, it is this

Well, apparently some new people are stopping by to read my cantankerous posts--welcome, and I do apologize about all the cursing!

In interesting boy news, I spoke to Needy Old Friend today, and (comme d'habitude!) the second question out of his mouth was "how's your love life?" I don't necessarily think everyone should read Bridget Jones' Diary or anything, but if Helen Fielding has anything to teach us, it is that we ladies do not like to be asked that. Especially singletons, and especially me.

Then, Ol' Needy proceeded to tell me I "need to get out and meet new men." Whaaaa? Um, thanks for your advice, but no thanks, mister. I do not take dating advice from the likes of ye, manslut! Besides, I am perfectly happy spending time with my good friends, whom I have no intention of dating, and on whom I certainly do not nourish secret crushes. (Now see if you can pick out the lie....)