what began as an open letter to the boy who followed just behind me in the park yesterday.

in

{disclaimer: this whole thing only makes half-sense to me, so expect confusion.}

i knew immediately i wasn't attracted to you.

call it female intuition.

but i was impressed.

impressed that you asked for directions (a lie, no?) and then proceeded to follow two paces behind me as we crossed to the west side.

and then annoyed. annoyed that the guys who follow girls home in the parks are never the guys you'd like to interrupt your meditative walk.

you kept the conversation going (difficult since i gave you one to two word answers), you in your floppy hat and me in my black, below-the-knee boots.

and still i wasn't interested.

and you asked what i did, and i said writer. and you asked if i self-published and i said no (known lie #2) and you wondered why not, after all, you had a blog (discernible turn-off #2 {ironic, no?} the first being the hat). you went on to talk about grad school and working in a restaurant (turn off, again).

and i felt bad judging you harshly for those things that i myself did. but then you did it. you said you were off to the Met with a friend where you'd smoke pot and wander around the galleries marveling at all the artwork.

and there it was.

i have passed the point of finding such cliche's attractive (though i'm quite sure that was never a line that impressed me).

but bottom line is this: you're a boy. you're still a boy.

it's funny how taste changes over time.

but it does.

quickly, sometimes.

and you wake to find you want something else entirely. because the things that used to draw you in now serve as warning signs. index-finger-ring? keep walking. silver pocket chain? not for me. the brain has evolved into a multi-layered thinking device. step one: tatoos, heavy scruff, no nine-to-five job? immediate interest (and this is where it used to end), but now, the mind continues on to step two: that interest muted by other more pressing matters. like the knowledge that in the past, men with those things never provided any kind of meaningful relationship.

and believe it or not i do learn from mistakes.

yes, i want adventure. and yes, the bad-boy will always hold a certain lure, but i want so much more than that.

i had a conversation with a male-friend a few months back where i spoke of a changing set of attractions--one where stability ranked much higher than a proclivity for the grunge-band look.

and said friend said i was settling.

and instinctively (female intuition once more) i knew he was wrong.

this biological clock thing isn't just about wanting children. it's about needing to provide for those children. about choosing the right partner to bear children with. and as a woman you start preparing for the final step (children) years before you've ever even met the man.

(i think.)

because it's biology. evolution, even. it comes down to a working science that we don't even realize is in operation until long after the plates have shifted.

my friends used to joke about what high standards i have. and i would balk and say no. take me to a ballgame, feed me a hot dog and call it a day. i'm easy in that sense. but you know what? maybe they were right. take me to a ballgame, yes. but the guy sure as hell has to be worth it.

no floppy hats here, please.

and the doppelganger saga continues.

in


remember when i posted about my intellectual elitist tendencies (regarding the word doppelganger)? and then you all made me feel much better because you knew the meaning of the word--along with others that i had to then go look up?

well, the saga continues.

the word has served as the catalyst for a sort of treasure hunt within my family. we look to find the word written, spoken aloud, published--anything, and then we attempt to use it ourselves--to casually drop it into conversation.

the first night my parents were here, we were sitting around (my largest nyc bedroom to date) drinking champagne out of my brand-new-violet-colored flutes when my father relayed a story he had seen on oprah (this is confusing to me since my father doesn't usually catch a 4:00 showing of the reigning queen of day-time). but, for whatever reason, he saw an episode in which a former play-boy model (god is in the details) suffered from sex addiction (details), but only went for guys who were the (wait for it) dope-layngers of her father.

what? you say.

dope-layngers?

i had the same thought too.

and then the brain mushed it around, processed, and the revelation came out as good solid-week of laughter.

my dad was trying to say doppelganger. he did not. he said dope-laynger. and my father is an intelligent man.

so now the question (and thus the quest) is: do you know what it means? do others know what it means? and can you say it correctly?



the picture?
you can actually buy one
of these little guys at
urban outfitters. they're
called doppelgangers.
said co-worker in
the initial post got me one.
it sits on my desk as
an omen of good-tidings (though
doppelgangers are thought to be
bad signs, i decided i would turn
this idea upside-down.)

all around.

in


it's beginning to feel a lot like christmas.

i bought my own tree. my first tree.

i am blogging now under the glow of the tree lights. and only the tree lights.

17 days till i go home.

and for those 17 days i sure as heck am gonna enjoy this tree.


in defense of real books.

in



i feel guilty buying books.


there.

i said it.

i who value words above almost all else feel guilt when buying a book.

(though it should be noted that i who value words above almost all else also rarely know how to use them when it matters most).

the thing is, i believe in books.

not kindles. not ebook readers. not nooks.

but books. real-life, flip-the-page, spill-the-coffee-on books.

i know that as a woman who has no sustainable source of income (euf) books are a luxury that not only can i not afford, but i can easily navigate around--i mean, nothing is easier than borrowing and lending books--whole buildings have sprung up around this concept! (we call them libraries).

but i am selfish. and have no monetary foresight where stories are concerned. i want the paper. and the breakable spine. i want to scribble and write and underline and dog-ear to my heart's content.

the stories on my bookshelf are now my singular story. they are a part of me. and i want to be able to take them down again and again.

they are my proof of passing time. they are my life made tangible.