Reconstructing Stacey

We are all a work in progress, or more specifically, The July Project # 1

12:02 a.m. (background about The July Project)

Tonight I went to the first class in a 3-part series called "Creating a Life Worth Living." It's taught by a life coach and is sponsored by American Jewish World Service, which mostly helps impoverished and underserved populations in Asia, Latin America and Africa, but also creates programming for young American Jews who want to look at the world through a Jewish and social justice lens. 

So the teacher is a local Jewish woman (for these purposes we'll call her LG) and she is incredible. There are 18 people in the class. Three boys, the rest women. It's so encouraging to be in a room full of people who know their life holds promise, but aren't sure in which direction to turn to seek said promise. It's a reminder that I'm not alone in my quest for ... well, I'm not sure yet. Generally, I applied to take this class (we had to apply!) because I know that what I'm doing is not satisfying me in the ways I want/need, but I'm not sure what kind of changes I need to make in my life to feel wholly satisfied. For instance, do I need a different journalism job, or a different career? Do I need to just make some changes at my current job to improve it? Can I derive fulfillment from nonwork pursuits, and if so, how can I focus myself to really commit to a few of those?

LG posed the following question: How does "pretty good" hold us back from achieving great?

Lots of people spoke up -- fear of failure, fear of success, complacency, comfort, resistance to change, concern that the change won't be any better (or even worse) than the existing situation....

I felt I had already said quite a bit, so I didn't add what came to mind while considering this question, and that is: Inability to let go of your old goals.

I always thought I'd be a famous news reporter. If I don't become that, I'm obviously finally accepting that, but then... what? What do I do? Is it okay that my work no longer fulfills me completely? Is it okay that a job is just a job, as long as I'm finding satisfaction and happiness in other elements of my life, and that my job is not sucking my energy too much? I asked the group that question and LG pointed out that all of the questions we're posing tonight (and in future sessions) can really truly only be answered individually.

One girl said she hopes the class helps her listen to herself. I seconded that. In the hubbub that is daily life, I don't often enough find time or space or energy to ask myself: What do I need? What do I want? And I mean these questions in a small context, not necessarily in a huge, wordly way.

LG also reminded us numerous times that this is not a career seminar, though of course we should feel free to talk about our careers, and direct the focus that way if we so choose. I found it interesting that for many of us, "work" is our default setting. It's endemic to society, really, and a bit surprising in a group of San Franciscans, who have made an art out of chasing work-life harmony. Everyone in this city has something they're passionate about, whether it's art or yoga or volunteering or planting trees or teaching people how to compost. It's inspiring and yet daunting because if you don't have these dual (or tri or quad) identieis, then who are you really? Work defines the minority of people in San Francisco, and yet when asked to first consider how we "create a life worth living" we all think first about work.

One of the participants is a rabbi, so she led us in a short text study of a passage from Genesis. Did you know the very first question in the Torah is: Where are you? God asks Adam this question, and Adam responds by saying he was hiding because he heard God's voice and was afraid. God asks him if he ate from the forbidden tree, and Adam confesses but blames Eve for the indiscretion. Then God asks Eve if this is true, and she blames the Serpent.

What we learned is that this question "Where are you" is perennial. It is a constant presence in our lives, and it is not an accident that it is the first question in the Torah. The rabbi pointed out that neither Adam nor Eve took responsibility for themselves in answering the question, and that in doing so, failed to truly answer God's questions. Therefore, if we don't own our choices and take responsibility for ourselves, we cannot honestly answer "where are you?" It follows then, that if we can't honestly answer the question, we can't figure out where we are or where we need to go to feel happy, whole and fulfilled. (Clearly, the question is not so much one of geography but of headspace.)

In my last two minutes of writing, here's my final thought, and it's this. The rabbi, who said she read these passages a million times, found one new meaning while preparing for the class. She added up the numeric value of "where are you" in Hebrew, which is "ayecka." Turns out it adds up to 36, which is 18 + 18, which means double chai, or double life (for those not in the know, 18 is a highly significant number in Judaism and you should check wikipedia or jewfaq.com for more). Which basically means that the question "where are you" is a living, evolving question (and answer) that should serve as a bridge between all of life's transitions.

12:22 a.m. (yay! 20 minutes of freewriting)

end note: the only things I corrected in this blog post were spelling errors, which will be my practice from now on.

Restless

My cat sleeps with one eye open. But just for a moment. Then his lids flutter shut and he rolls from his belly onto his side, the motion inspiring the kind of deep sleep that makes his paws quiver. He is still. Then he stretches, curls back into a ball, his fuzzy midsection rising and falling in his meditative state.

I am jealous. My mind is total chaos, a blurred mess. I feel like my brain can't find its glasses, or maybe like the San Francisco fog has invaded my cerebellum and refuses to rise, dissipate and let the sun shine in. It's cloudy in here. Help.

This is why my blog has turned quite self-indulgent/reflective these past few weeks. I am OFF BALANCE.

Here, I'll show you. Come closer. OK, that's good. Right there. Now, take a look inside my brain, circa the previous 11 hours: I want to quit my job. Damn it's cold outside. I want to move to Guatemala and learn Spanish. I wonder if anyone has sent me an email since the last time I checked 5 minutes ago? I'm bored. I'm out of shape. Should I join the YMCA? Even a waitressing job would be better than what I'm doing. I'm tired of journalism. I love journalism. Am I struggling to focus at work because I'm burnt out on writing in general, or because I'm burnt out writing for this particular publication? I think I'll read Slate.com. How exactly do freelancers do it -- not just the writing, but the not-being-afraid of failure? I wonder if any new jobs have been posted to craigslist? I know I shouldn't eat that cookie but I really want it. Maybe I'll go get coffee. Should I take a creative writing class? I know O's sister recommended the classes at Stanford, but shit, I'd have to throw down $400 for that plus commute via train on a Wednesday night. Maybe there are some classes in the city. Oooh, the SF Writer's Grotto. That sounds cool. Huh, one of the founding members wrote a book titled "What Should I Do With My Life?" Bet Paperbackswap.com has that book. Score. I'm ordering it now. Serendipity. Yay, it's almost 5 p.m. I should really print my resume and take it to kinko's after work. Do I still have that last piece of Israeli chocolate in my desk drawer?

I am schizophrenic. I am so consumed by my restless state that I can't focus on anything. One minute I want a new job, the next I want to dedicate myself fully to a freelance writing career, or maybe to a different career and graduate school, or perhaps I just want to quit work all together and donate my eggs and travel the world and wear my Birkenstocks all day while slurping fresh squeezed juice that I bought from the street vendor. My skirt will graze my ankles in the warm breeze and the sun will dance on my shoulders and I will be far away from all that ails me.

If only my sage-like cat could offer me advice. Hmm. That reminds me. What would I do with the cat if I decided to travel?

Tuesday night's alright

Spending time with a good girlfriend is like putting ice on a sore joint. It relieves the pressure of a long day; it cools the aching of a heavy heart.

I am lucky to have so many beautiful women in my life here. In fact, I think this is in my Top Five Favorite Elements of Life in San Francisco (I'll save the other four for another posting). ANYWAY, this is beside the point. The point is that I love having so many good girlfriends in such close proximity to me. And yet, it's hard to find the time to have the one-on-one encounters I crave, the kind that allows for deep, 3-dimensional conversation.

But somehow, in the swirl of the city, I've made a new girlfriend, and all we do is have one-on-one time. Her name is M. We met in a cooking class this summer, which was purchased for me as a birthday present from my friends. The menu consisted of watermelon-feta salad, garlic sauteed artichokes with fava beans, poached seasoned fish and honey biscuits. Divine. Well, in the midst of the kitchen's steaming and simmering, M and I struck up a conversation. We chatted easily and exchanged business cards, agreeing that meeting for brunch would be a good idea. Nonetheless, I didn't expect any follow-through, since it's become so common at social functions to say you intend to do something but not do it. She sent me an email a few weeks later and we did indeed meet for brunch. I don't even remember where our first date was. All I know is that it didn't take us long to realize we were kindred spirits.

What's great about our friendship is that exists in a perfect bubble. I have never met her boyfriend or friends, and she has never met mine (though I'm sure all these paths will intersect eventually). This is particularly awesome because when we hang out it's totally and completely without clutter. It's just good conversation and good food (brunch is our standard fare, though tonight we mixed it up and met for dinner).

I sort of feel like we have a Hollywood-Sex-and-the-City-grown-up friendship. Like tonight, we met at her fancy gym and went to a yoga class, and after went into the hot tub and sauna, nude like all the other women in the locker room. This is an experience that is rare for me and probably for many other American women. In our culture, nudity is always equated with sexuality, when in many other countries it's considered natural, human. When I was abroad in 2002 and went to the public baths in Budapest, my girlfriends and I wore bathing suits, even though all the Hungarian women were walking around sans suit, saggy boobs and all. I felt like the weird one in my  suit, and yet I couldn't bring myself to take it off. So when M first mentioned the hot tub, I thought, "Shit, I didn't bring a bathing suit." But then I realized everybody was uncovered, and so joining the ranks wasn't weird or embarrassing. It was normal. And it made me realize that even though it's unusual, it can be comforting to be naked with your girlfriends.

After the gym, we ate dinner at this delicious Rome-inspired restaurant and talked about work/career, specifically, how to find inspiration and satisfaction from  these things. We also strategized about how she could cook a Christmas dinner for her boyfriend's family (12 people). I felt very useful, taking notes in my Moleskin, figuring out if it made more sense to cook the vegetable tart or the butternut squash soup first.

I walked home (another favorite element of San Francisco) thinking how lucky I am to open my heart and expand my mind on a random Tuesday night over a dinner of roast chicken and marinated eggplant.

Happy anniversary, San Francisco

Exactly 365 days ago, I woke up for the first time in my new home of San Francisco. This means that today I celebrated my one year anniversary as a resident of what I now believe to be the best city on the planet.

I knew the date was approaching, but didn't fully deconstruct it until I arrived in Golden Gate Park after work and located my friends in a crowd of Jeff Tweedy fans. They greeted me with hugs and smiles and cold white wine. Overall, an excellent way to celebrate a Friday, especially one which marks my one year anniversary. In between songs, I told E how, cheesy as it sounds, I still feel nothing but gratitude about my locale. I remembered that when I made the choice to move here, I felt bold and brave and daring, a Risk Taker. Now I see it wasn't so much courage as common sense. I realized that life was more than work, and as such, I needed to find a way to experience that sea change of thought. I predicted moving to SF would be a start. As I reflect on the past year, I am thankful that I was right. I was so very right.

As Tweedy reached into his vault of songs and played ditties from "Summerteeth" and "Being There" and even "Anodyne," the sun cast a golden glaze over the park and the air was a perfectly cool, crisp fall day. Beautiful birds zoomed over head, dark bullets against the clear blue sky. God's airplanes.

We hung out in a clearing behind the crowd just before leaving the show. I did cartwheels and J did somersaults while A-squared made shadow dancers on the grass. I felt free. Totally unhinged, light as air, free as a bird. May we all bathe in such peace at least once a year.

I'd like to leave you with the text from last year's Oct. 4 blog posting, which I wrote the night before my SF arrival.

"My life is about to profoundly change. It's overwhelming, really. I spent 7 hours in the car today. It was the first time in a couple of weeks that I had the space and time to think about my destination and not just the logistical bullshit involved in getting there. (Moving by yourself is not something I recommend, nor is it something I want to do ever again).

San Francisco will offer me a community I've never had before. A huge, exciting, diverse, cultural city where some of my best friends reside.  It's such a giant idea. I'm going to be like a kid in a candy story for the first few weeks (or months?). I can meet Adam or Erica for coffee, which seems so small, but I haven't gone out for coffee in 16 months because the Tri-Cities doesn't really have a cool coffee shop that facilitates good conversation and steamy windows. I can see independent films in the theater. I can hear authors speak, musicians play every night of the week. I can take dance classes, creative writing classes, knitting classes.

On the morning of my last day of work, I woke up paralyzed with fear. After a good, brief cry, I went to the office and while getting my French vanilla coffee creamer out of the fridge, I suddenly couldn't breathe. The feeling passed almost as quickly as it came. But it made me realize that even though I'm going to an exciting place, and even though I'm ready for the change, I'm still terrified.

Like I always say, deciding to change is much scarier and harder than change itself. I was scared. But I ended up happy, smoothly sliding into the change, making new friends, keeping the old, creating a community.

Sorry about gushing, again. Perhaps my one year anniversary will also mark the conclusion of fawning over the city in which I live. But no promises.

Listening to:
 
Mr. Jeff Tweedy at bluegrass weekend!!!

How to examine a week in the life

Sept. 1: The stars are a sparkling blanket up above. I breath in and out, in and out, the clean, crisp air reminding me why even one night in the forest is cleansing for the lungs and the mind. It's quiet. In Mendocino National Forest, you can hear a single leaf dance in the breeze or crunch beneath your feet. The solitude is rejuvinating. As wonderful as the city is, leaving it serves as a critical reminder of the big wide world that surrounds our little 7-by-7 urban jungle. And that world is pretty dry this summer. The edges of Lake Pillsbury are evaporated. The water is gone. This is what the West Coast drought looks like. It's eerie to see a huge swath of land that should be invisible under meters of water, to see wooden docks sitting on land instead of floating on water. For some reason, it also smells a bit like an outhouse. We swim in Eel River instead. We sun ourselves by its banks and listen to the current lick the boulders in the middle of the river.

Sept 2: A hike. Sweeping vistas. Driving through wineries in Sonoma County. Taking pictures at Goat Rocks beach. Eating Bodega Bay fish tacos. Traffic over the bridge. Sleep.

Sept. 3: Given that I'm at least 2 issues behind in every magazine I subscribe to, I lay in bed all morning and read Esquire cover to cover. Did you know that NBC's "To Catch a Predator" led a man to commit suicide while the cameras were rolling? Isn't that crazy? It's apparently one of the reasons the  show is no longer on the air. Also, Sean Penn is directing the film version of one of my favorite books, "Into the Wild," and I'm excited to see it. When I'm finished with my coffee/breakfast/magazine in bed, I run through the Panhandle. It's part of my get-back-into-running regime (a low-key approach that involves running 3 miles twice a week for the entire month, to prove to myself I'm capable of sticking to a routine). E and I take ourselves out to lunch at Cafe Flora. We split salads and sip white wine and on our way back home, we get sucked into Books Inc. An hour later, we've each selected two books. Later that night, A, G and C come over and we drink sangria and watch Justin Timberlake bring sexy back, into our family room. Hot.

Sept. 4: Rabbi Katie is so smart that I decided to go to Part 2 of her teshuvah (repentence) workshop just for fun (Part 1 being for work). She's brilliant. She suggests in the workshop that perhaps Rosh Hashanah (representing birth) and Yom Kippur (representing death) is a metaphor for life, and that the "10 days" of atonement in between the holidays symbolize our whole lives. I like this theory. When I leave the workshop, I think it's awesome that 24 hours earlier I was dancing in my family room to Justin's HBO special.

Sept. 5: Boring day at work. After, I get a pedicure. It's indulgent. For 50 minutes, I feel like royalty. My toes are bronze and beautiful. I later go to the JCC and attend an interfaith workshop. My bosses want me to go so I can write a column, presumably, about how young Jews struggle and succeed at making an interfaith relationship work. I quickly realize what I'd rather write about is how the non-Jewish partner feels about dating someone Jewish. That's way more interesting and a side of the coin that never gets any ink. I hope they like the approach. 

Sept. 6: A painfully boring day at work. I think how I'd rather smoke crack or be forced to eat bugs than sit at my desk one minute longer. I am not built to sit at a computer for 40 hours a week. I eat animal crackers even though I'm not hungry, just bored. I wish my bosses valued non-office time more. I need a job or a career that is not so involved with consecutive hours on the computer. I make plans to clean my room after work but instead I watch TV and eat scrambled eggs.

Sept 7: The two most boring days in recent memory are followed up by a day in which I have two assignments. Take a moment to relish this with me. The first is with an incredible professor who's traveled all around the globe, speaks Hebrew and Arabic, started a conflict resolution program for teens and college students, AND puts his feet up on his desk during the interview. I want to go to Morocco and Thailand and South Africa. I'm envious. Then, I go to Millbrae where I interview people at a high school reunion for the International/American School in Manila, the Phillipines. Of the 200 people who came from all over the globe, about 15 are Jewish, so I mostly talk to them. They're thrilled to share their stories and be in the newspaper. They refer to me as "the press." I then have Shabbat dinner with A, E and DW. We talk politics and airplanes and food. It's so much fun. I love challah.

Sept. 8: Today. Today is marvelous. I wake up early and walk to Yoga Tree. It's wonderful except that the heater for the room blows directly into my face and I feel like I'm doing yoga in a vacuum cleaner for the first 30 minutes of class. Then I walk to the neighborhood park, where I get to pick out my very own garden plot! I'm thrilled to be a part of the community garden. I plant native grasses along the hillside with Nora, who directs the garden. It feels awesome to dig and plant in the dirt. I can't wait for next week, when I think I'm going to remove the lavender, mint and amarynth leftover from the plot's previous owner, and instead plant fava beans, broccoli, basil and lettuce. I envision it in bloom. I get on my bike and ride to Golden Gate Park for a free music/peace festival. My friends and I jump up and down, shake our hips. We munch on pretzels and hummus. We people watch. Have I told you lately, San Francisco, that I love you?

Still got time

I think Monday nights are too often used for boring things like laundry or bill-paying. I'm shaking it up. Last Monday I went to stand-up comedy. This Monday I saw a movie. The latter made me think. And cry. And want to give all the music in the world a bear hug.

The film: Once. It's an Irish flick about this depressed, lonely Guy who's stuck in the black hole of longing. He misses his ex-girlfriend. He writes songs about her while watching videos of her on his laptop. At night, he stands on barren street corners in front of shopping malls and sings angry love songs. Then, he meets Girl. And she's sad too, but for different reasons. Music brings them together in an incendiary, ethereal way. The first time they sing/play together in the back of a used musical instrument store was so powerful I couldn't help but cry. During the scene, I felt like I was a fly on the wall, watching two strangers realize their meeting was proof that fate can intervene, flagging you left when you might  otherwise go right.

The movie reinforces the idea that a person’s impact on your life often is not measured by time. That is, sometimes people come into your life for a week, a month, a year, then go. Life happens, not everyone gets to stick around for the duration. But before they disappear, they wiggle their toes into the sands of your soul. Their essense remains. You’re changed because you met this person, and their absence doesn’t and shouldn’t depreciate their value.

I think this is a dangerous and beautiful idea. The former because you certainly don’t want to go through life being totally laissez faire about people, otherwise you’d make no effort and have no deep relationships. But it’s also a sweet thought. If you must let go of someone you once loved, then at least hold onto and embrace what they taught you. Let their impression make you better, instead of mourning their figurative passing.

                                         . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, going in reverse chronological order, I want to briefly share last Monday night’s revelations. So I’m at this comedy club with A (note to E: I’m back to using first initials, what do you think?). We’re chit-chatting with the people sitting near us, about A having to wake up at 4 a.m. and how V creates the questions that tele-pollers ask registered voters. Somehow we get around to the topic of Dream Jobs. It comes around to me. I don’t know what to say. I always thought I'd work at a major metropolitan daily, but now I don’t think I want to, or at least, don’t think my life will turn out that way, and I’m not sure what else I want to do. Then A interjects and makes it all clear.

“Stacey’s pursuing the Dream Life,” he says.

He elaborates. He explains that for a few years I chased the dream job, an aspiration that took me to “such exotic places” like Cedar Falls, Iowa and Kennewick, Wash., but then I decided to take a break from the chasing-career-goals pace to live in a Great American City. The change has allowed me, therefore, to pursue “the Dream Life,” as A so nicely phrased. The Life Pursuit (thanks belle and sebastian) includes such excursions as comedy clubs and national parks and concert venues and meeting friends for Friday lunches downtown. The Dream Life values happiness over success. (Though consider: If you’re happy, aren’t you also successful? Happiness don’t come easy.) It prizes close relationships over bulging clip files. It cannot be explained on a resume.

The Dream Life. A perfect way to describe the fruits that have grown on my San Francisco tree. Oh, and the stand-up comedians were funny, too.

Listening to:

Summer outside the city

So I just had the best 5 days of my life. Well, probably not the best 5, to be realistic, but I guess I'd place these five days in my Top 10 Best Consecutive Days list. Yes. Yes, definitely in the Top 10.

I went to High Sierra Music Festival in Quincy, Calif. It's four days of music and camping, but it's actually so much more than that. You see, High Sierra is unique in that it's a destination for the musicians as well as the fans, and the fans are also quite unique, because unlike Bonnaroo or Vegoose, High Sierra draws only a small crowd (about 5 or 8,000 compared with 80,000 at Bonnaroo) and the crowd ranges in age from like 2 months old to 80 years. Tons of people bring their kids and strollers and diaper bags, and camp in the designated family camp area. So the festival feels like this utopian village in the mountains.

Let me back up. So there are 5 stages that have live music from about 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. every night. This is an amazing concept for any music lover. A full day of music, four days in a row? It's unreal. If you don't like the show you're at, you simply walk 5-10 minutes to another stage, and voila, a different band. Then, throughout the day, in the indoor buildings ordinarily used for the County Fair, High Sierra organizes playshops and "troubador sessions." The former brings together one or two musicians to talk about something technical, like afrobeat percussion or picking on a ukelele or mandolin. The latter brings together 4-5 musicians, who take turns playing songs. They tell a little background about the song they are about to sing, then they say: "Ok, this is in the key of A, if you want to join in." And then the musicians, who never play together under normal circumstances, jam out on an acoustic number. Everyone listens. It's absolutely amazing. Furthermore, because the musicians camp in a designated area that is in the center of the festival, as opposed to somewhere outside of all the fans, the musicians jam all over the festival grounds at various times throughout the day. We happened upon Dan and Steve from ALO playing a late night jazz show in between two RVs, and we also caught Chris Thile playing his mandolin in a garden courtyard.

The other cool element of High Sierra is the music goes on till 4 a.m. every night. These "late night" shows cost a bit extra, and usually the musicians bring out various special guests. I only went to two late night shows in the same night, first Phix, a Phish cover band, and then Hot Buttered Rum String Band, a fabulous bluegrass/newgrass outfit that's actually based in the Bay Area. We rolled back to our tent at 4 a.m. I felt like a rockstar.

The music continues even when you want to take a nap in the shade of your campsite, courtesy of High Sierra's shortwave radio that broadcasts music from all the stages. Thanks to Adam's circa-1994 boombox, we had music pretty much all day and night long.

Adam told me I'd feel like a kid in a candy store, and I absolutely did. The first day I had to acclimate to the crowds, hot weather and 5,000 feet elevation, but after that, I became a total pro, wandering around by myself to catch the music I really wanted to see, and then meeting up with the group throughout the day, since we had our favorite spots at each stage to make finding each other a simple endeavor.

High Sierra was an interesting study in intentional communities. A tent metropolis sprouted up in the middle of the mountains. People were kind, helpful and generous. Because it was so so so hot, people walked around all weekend with these pressurized spritzer things and blasted people with a cool mist. When we went swimming at the community pool just outside the festival gates, people offered us Sno Cones and icecream as we waited in line. In the bathrooms, Nature's Gate provided organic soap for all to use, and everyone followed the guidelines scrawled in a Sharpy: For all to share. The food was mostly organic and delicious. I was blessed with dairy-free coconut milk icecream. And periodically throughout the day I'd pass a local farmer selling his freshly picked peaches or avocados (the latter of which I ate with a spoon on the spot). I felt really safe and happy all weekend.

And I didn't even mention that the day before the festival we rented a pontoon boat on Lake Oroville and spent all afternoon drinking Coors Light, swimming with noodles, laughing at our good fortune to be with each other in this beautiful lake.... The evening concluded with an awesome fireworks display (since it was the 4th of July).

So, the company was perfect, the music was perfect, the sunshine and my sunscreen were in perfect harmony. On top of all of this, I spent 5 full days -- 120 hours -- outside. I was dirty and smelly and sweaty and tired. But I felt free. Conclusion: Being outside is good.

I also danced my ass off. I calculated how many miles I danced this weekend, and (based upon the idea that I walk a mile in about 20 minutes) came up with a rough estimate of: 33 miles. If anyone wants to offer their massage services, my sore muscles are available.

And now, drumroll please, The List of Music I Loved (in no particular order and including old favorites and newly discovered gems) from this weekend:

1. Po'Girl
2. Carolyn Wonderland
3. Mother Truckers
4. Xavier Rudd
5. ALO
6. Hot Buttered Rum
7. Brett Dennen
8. Papa Mali
9. Mammals
10. Tha MuseMent
11. Soulive
12. Eddie Roberts/New Mastersounds
13. Bassnectar

And though it may be hard to believe, I missed so many musicians due to time conflicts or naptime.

Thank goodness there's always next year.

Are boys dumber than the average goat?

Let's get something straight: We are all searching for love. We, as in humans, men and women, young and old. We all want to fill our days with loving people and loving memories, including but not limited to the following: friends, family, romances, pets, hairdressers. We all have the same ultimate goal, and yet in regards to courtship, it is always weird.

This is only the fault of one species: Male humans. I do not think we women make it so hard. We have already made a profile on some Internet dating site, so obviously we want to go on a date. This means the chances for rejection are low, at least for a first date. So what do you have to lose in being a man and offering to buy a drink or go to dinner or even make a damn phone call? Is it so much to ask that men, or in my unfortunate reality, boys, exert some sort of effort? Women may like a challenge, but we also like to be pursued.

Yes, I have tried and am trying Internet dating and am almost totally done with the fruitless enterprise. I have gone out on 5.5 dates in SF (the .5 being that I went to a concert tonight for one of them, who plays pedal steel, and we didn't exactly have a date but more like an awkward exchange after the show). Anyway, according to a 2004 report by some random researchers, the longer an online relationship continues through email, the more likely the individuals will be disappointed when they meet face to face. True in my experience (maybe this is why meeting, let's call him Bill, was quite strange). But apparently, 12 percent of recently married and engaged couples met their partner online. This is probably why people (including me) invest dollars and time into Match.com and Prescription4love.com (I did not make this one up). Sixty-three percent of singles have said they're open to online dating, and those people spent $526 million on some Internet dating site in 2005.

The Census Bureau has counted 90 million singles 18 and over. Of those, 78 percent are seeking a romantic relationship. You'd think my odds would be better than crappy.

Listening to: Or, the Whale.