Nerd Alert

For Don't Eat the Token:

Your Score: quotation marks

You scored 61% Sociability and 64% Sophistication!

There is a lot more to you than meets the eye. You certainly get plenty of "action," but you'd be happier if those who lusted after you were more selective. You hate being used as a general intensifier; haven't these people ever heard of underlining? Italics? And yes, you remember the cruel words Mr. Joyce directed at you.

But you let none of this get you down; those who abuse you are destined for a "special" reward, sooner or later. You feel particularly warm toward periods, commas, exclamation points, and question marks, and usually wish to have them next to you. Parenthesis can sometimes trouble you.

Link: The Which Punctuation Mark Are You Test written by Gazda on OkCupid, home of the The Dating Persona Test

The Girlfriend Chronicles: Day 3

Boyfriend called today. Managed to wreck his scooter as well. Asked him if he was okay and said no, so left work early to possibly take him to ER. Instead found him at local tattoo parlor getting another tattoo while he was waiting on me. Said he wouldn't feel anything anyways.

Boyfriend may be crazy.

Friends can't stop laughing at 2 of us as story has now come full circle. His wounds are identical to mine. Bet we look awesome together as mine haven't healed yet. People will wonder who is beating whom. Boyfriend made remark about how smug I feel right now. He's right. This brings his scooter wrecking total to 5 against my 1.

I win.

Because no one actually knows who he is

This made me laugh a lot harder than I probably should have.

----------------- Original Message -----------------
From: Jonathan
To: Jamie
Date: Jun 20, 2007 7:27 PM


I'm on yo momma!

Not literally though.

Here's a link to the episode with the Ying Yang Twins that I'm kinda on.
Pause it at 5:01 and look.

www.mtv.com/overdrive/?id=1559154&vid=148066

-----------------End Original Message -------------


So I did. Can you see my friend Jonathan?


He's the white guy.

Boyfriended

So I got boyfriended the other night.

He mumbled it quickly and quietly but he definitely put it out there, "So I guess I'm your boyfriend."

Continuing my strife to be the most commitment-phobic and emotionally damaged person ever, I froze. A deer in headlights, I thought if I ignored it, it didn't happen.

So I guess I'm your boyfriend.

Oh. My. God.

"You're in it now," cautioned Cubicle Neighbor. "If you go out with someone else, he can get angry and say that you didn't argue with him when he put the monogamy out there."

Oh my god. What have I done?

It's not Boyfriend, it's really not. He saved me. He's my own personal hero. And he continues to amaze me every time I see him.

It's these things:

• My actions will now affect someone else. It was a hard lesson I learned with The Boy that caused anguish on both of our parts. I can't just plan my weekends with my friends and send him a text message letting him know he's invited. Apparently that makes boys very angry, even if he didn't want to spend time with you in the first place. Don't ask me why.


• As much as I am going to want to, I can't run away. When I begin to fall, I just start dating someone new on the side so I don't get attached. I think attachment is the point here. And with attachment, see below.


• This is going to hurt. George Carlin says every time you purchase a pet, you are also purchasing a small tragedy. This is true for me and relationships. Hello boyfriend. Hello sobbing, vomiting, loss of appetite, low self-esteem, and all around feeling undesirable. Also,


• Thousands of people are going to die. You laugh, but my first massive breakup was September 10th, 2001. And my horrible breakup of 2005? Katrina was two days later. You do the math.


• Did he mean it? Why did he say it? Did he think that was something I wanted to hear after a joke I made? Or does he really want to be with me? Ugh, that's such a scary thought. Why was there no conversation about it? No ground rules?

This morning I stared at my MySpace. Do I dare change it? It has stated I'm single since I set up the account.

In 2005.

I closed out my MySpace and opened up my Hotmail account. I looked at the e-mail addresses of the various men I've been out with in the past month. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. I hit reply one in particular I've been avoiding-- the one I went out with the day I met Boyfriend.

Sorry I've been absent, but things have gotten serious with someone else...

I stared at "serious" until my chest began to compact into itself. I Xed out the window, e-mail unsent but anxiety multiplying. Real, physical pain over one sentence.

So I guess I'm your boyfriend.

I'm just going to have to get drunk and tell him some things about myself. Because that's another thing I'm not good at:

• Confrontation...
• Opening up...
• Trusting...

Let this prove my superstition. I never put his number back in my phone.

The Great Murphy

I've become something of a superstitious dater. At first I just thought of them as rules: don't give them your last name until the third date, don't save their numbers into your phone until the fourth date is planned, etc. But they have since crossed the realm of silly rules to Gumperson's Law:

The probability of anything happening is in inverse ratio to its desirability.

A boy was supposed to call me to confirm our date last week. At 4 p.m. the day of scheduled date, I got into such a foul mood over work that I got angry and deleted all of his numbers and e-mails.

And, I swear, less than 5 minutes later the number I just deleted called to confirm.

A boy was supposed to come over on Sunday night for some awesome TV watching. I saved his number into my phone earlier that afternoon as this would be our fourth time together. Surprise, he doesn't call and I thought, That's what I get for putting his number in my phone. So I deleted him from my life before going to bed.

At 9:30 the next morning, my phone rings with the generic ring tone so I let it go to voicemail. It was the boy, apologizing that his nap lasted until 3:19 a.m.

I don't think I'm ever going to save another guy's number in my phone again. I just want to know how boys and exes know to not come back until you're fed up.

Fun with Emoticons

Cubicle Neighbor sent me this charming little e-mail Friday afternoon:

Cubicle Neighbor: So was I right?
Jamie: Yeah, pretty much!

I guess she's heard enough Monday Morning Stories to know.

Wrecked

The salesman, feeling responsible, has called me every afternoon to see how I'm doing. I have more large black bruises than I have fingers and toes. I limp. I can't stand or even cross my legs without pain. Advil and I have become close buddies. So has an additional chair in my cubicle that I prop both my legs on. While my right leg doesn't have the massive bruise that stretches down my calf like the left one, it has several brothers and sisters who are just as angry.

"I'm okay," I tell him. "I ate dinner last night and passed out before 8 p.m. I think I slept a lot of it off. Now I'm just sore."

"Are you taking anti-inflammatories for your knee?"

"By the threes."

"Good. That's prescription strength and that's what you need to be on."

"I went out to lunch yesterday and I scooted my chair up to the table as I sat down. My knee lightly bumped into the chair that was already scooted in and I just cried out and laid my head down on the table it hurt so badly."

"See, that's your problem. You're still scooting. No more scooting for you until you get healed up," he laughed.

It hit me that this Sunday is Father's Day, and I'm expected to show up at my father's house. For his pool party. I don't know how else to explain what I look like in place of the truth--because I literally look like I got run over by a scooter.

He knew that I was looking at them, and he was a proponent for me getting one; he just doesn't know that I laid it down. It's not this that bothers me so much. It's his reaction when I tell him I still want one.

I would like to tell you a story called "Too Much Front Brake."

As he promised, the salesman called Tuesday while I was at work. I told him how I basically sold myself on the idea, "But it's a lifestyle change, and I want be sure this is something I would enjoy, but I need more than a couple minutes in a parking lot on a scooter."

So he told me to come by after the shop had closed for the evening and he and I would go for a ride together.

Sounds great, right?

I pulled up behind the shop and he had two scooters waiting: the one I would be buying and a cheap used one for, you know, just in case. He quizzed me on all the buttons, where the gas and each of the brakes were, and we drove out of the shop towards Piedmont Park.

We zipped through the little house-lined streets adjacent to the park. We came up on a stop sign and I began breaking, but it wasn't breaking as fast as I wanted it to. I don’t know what exactly happened: I think I used too much front brake and not enough back break, or maybe the wheel turned while I was using the front break, but in any case I laid the bike down, which is slang for wiping out.

Eating pavement.

Sprawled out on the road with the bike on top of me.

I tried to get up as quickly as I could, but my left foot and ankle were trapped under the 200-something pound machine. The salesman ran towards me, "What happened?"

"Too much front brake. Too much front brake," I stood there on the side of the road, doing my best Rain Man, "Definitely too much front brake."

"Are you okay?"

I pointed down to my leg and then shrugged, "I'm stuck," I said matter of factly. "I can't move my leg."

So he pulled it off of me and I gingerly put my foot down, and was surprised there wasn't any pain. I alternated each ankle and gently stood on the tips of my toes, and my foot was fine. My shirt and jeans were bloody and we quickly saw that my hand was bleeding where I tried to catch myself.

We stood there on the side of the road looking at each other and trying to figure out what to do about my hand, which was filling up with blood. I looked towards the front yard of a house to see if there is a leaf I could use, and he sort of looked at his shirt, tugging at the bottom and debating if he should offer it or not. However my hand wasn't cut or gashed, it was just missing several layers of skin.

"Just stick your hand in your pocket," he said. "Let the pocket soak up the blood."

So I did.

"Omigod, you're shaking."

"I shake naturally," I said, trying to play it off. And my hands do naturally shake, but it's much closer to a subtle quiver. Here I was standing wide-eyed and my whole body was shaking--my hands alone were jumping inches without my consent. "I always do this," I tried again. Yeah, if I had Parkinson's.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're shaking pretty badly."

"I'm fine," just really, really horrified. Thankfully, there were only two witnesses: the salesman and a guy walking his dog.

"Well if you want to climb on the back of mine..."

"Nope."

"You want to keep going?"

"Yup."

"Are you sure?"

"Yup." I stuck my hand in my pocket again so I could keep the amount of blood on the handle bar minimal. We took off again and I slightly panicked when I saw his left turn signal which would put us on Ponce.

Ponce de Leon during rush hour traffic.

There are several main veins in Atlanta: Peachtree Street, Piedmont Road, North Avenue, and Ponce de Leon Boulevard. This was it--real riding on a real road. With real cars. Like a white Malibu, for instance, who had no problem getting right up behind me.

I hate you, white Malibu.

We pulled into the shop and he led me directly into the bathroom where I ran my hand under the faucet until the black and red skin turned soft pink. Now that the ride was over, I began to shake again like I did right after the accident. My knee began to throb and felt puffy under the thin veil of my blue jeans. My shoes were missing entire chunks of leather.

"Look at you," he said half-laughing, half-concerned.

"Now we drink until I stop shaking," I informed him.

It took about four beers.

Doh!

This was a blog post I had originally written in January, but didn't post because it makes a certain someone look a little slutty:

You know it's time to start dating in a new city when the band you worked your way through in college gets a new drummer--and you have previously made out with him.

Except now that sentence needs to be revised:

You know it's time to start dating in another state because you moved cities, found a new musician--and it turns out the college band and the new band are old friends, and are perhaps playing together Saturday night.

Yep.

Scoot

I spent Saturday afternoon test driving Vespas. With gas prices expecting to reach $4 a gallon and my gas-hog of an SUV, I figured I could afford a scooter for tooling around the city with what I would be saving on gas.

My chipped-tooth and tattooed but cute-as-a-button salesmantook me into a parking lot and taught me how to drive the scooter... after I insisted on riding with him of course. Afterwards we sat together at the table and worked out some figures on paper.

"Well let me take this with me--I never jump into things so I need to think about it. And call me when you get the battery replaced on the used one. I'm interested in driving it."

"Okay, I'll give you a call on Tuesday. Wait, do I even have your number?"

"Nope."

"Well I was going to get it anyways. I'm a single guy, you know."

I laughed. And this is what I said (in all of my glory):

"Wow, you're trying really hard for the sale."

Sometimes, I have no game at all.

And when he calls on Tuesday, I'm resolved to let him know that non-scooter related phone calls would be okay as well.

He thinks I'm more beautiful than a Picasso. And slightly less creepy.

I came across this slightly outrageous product-promotion website. You create an avatar of your dream man who then lives in --wait for it--a ManQuarium.

Your man compliments you as he floats around with cheesy phrases like “I know. Guys are supposed to be into cars and stuff. But I'm just into you," sends you e-mails, and, apparently, is intended to make you feel like the goddess you are. He even knocks on the glass if you ignore him for too long.

Lovely though my avatar is, I’m ignoring him. I got wolf-whistled today. And as a woman in the city, that definitely counts as a compliment of even higher value than an avatar.

Even if it was from a white-van man.

She was shot.

This is the funniest thing I have seen since I Googled flaming shots gone wrong.

Sylvia Brown Worlds Worst Psychic - Watch more free videos

Back in Blonde

And just in time for summer.

Let's never talk about the last 3 months, what I refer to as The Dark Period, ever again.

I guess it's obvious, I also like to write.

J called me yesterday while I was at work. We went out last Sunday and it was a good date. Of course any outing where I get serenaded at a sushi bar with "The Humpty Dance" is obviously one for the books.

"I would be a lucky guy if you came to my show this Saturday," he offered.

He was trying and it won him major points, but as I hung up the phone, my mind wandered. I'm attracted to men with their own interests and their own passions. A semi-known musician, J was no different. But more often than not, I feel like I'm always cheering on their passions with fleeting reciprocation.

This writing thing: I'm good at it. The carousel post got me several e-mails. I write every day and I think about it even more. But the men that pass through my life, they don't take this part of me seriously.

Maybe it's because I am not a serious person. I think it's hard to be both goofy and intellectual. I met a guy a few weeks ago who said to me, "It's a good thing you're pretty." He repeated it as a way to justify my goofiness, but the line really irritated me. I'm smart--I'm downright brainy--but he couldn't see how I could be both.

Maybe it's because I haven't been published since I was in college, and how long can someone live off of recognition of the past? I've submitted material here and there (read: once) since college--and I made it to the final selection--but in the end I never heard back from them. I once saw a PostSecret card that read something to the effect of, "I'm creative enough to write, but I lack the talent to succeed." The postcard was a rejection letter from a publishing house, and--I swear--I checked the letter to see if my name was on it. That somehow I submitted the card unconsciously.

And how often can one really talk about writing? Whereas a new comic book comes out every week, there is no running conversation with writing. My pieces are short and are worked out in one sitting. I do it alone and without help. There is no commentary.

J wants me to go to his show. I understand why; it'll be his chance to show off.

I just wonder if I'll get my turn.