"Take another picture with your click click click click camera."

Last week I was supposed to post a Friday Fave and while I started an entry, and tried my very damnedest to not talk about music, I couldn't help myself. In the end, quite unsure of what to write about, I abandoned my fragmented entry and rolled on with my Pride-soaked weekend.

So now, two weeks after my last Friday Fave, I feel the pressure to be extra favorite-y. Let's spin the wheel and see what I could discuss. Harry Potter? Cooking? Picnics? Prospect Park? The new iPhone? (Sadly no iPhone for me.)

Whirl . . .

Whirl . . .

Whirl . . .

Cooking?

Okay! Cooking. I like cooking. I'm a good cook. I'm such a good cook that it doesn't make sense that I am single. I'm also a foodie. All my coworkers are foodies. In fact last Friday, when I should have been writing a blog entry, I was at a coworker's house cooking up a Southern inspired feast of grits, ham, roasted okra, catfish, biscuits, kohlrabi hashbrowns, and pecan pie. I made the butter pie crust, a classic recipe that I got from Epicurious, in addition to being a dutiful sous chef and bourbon drinker. Mmmmm . . . pie and bourbon.

And yet despite all this talk of food I still want to talk about music. Check out Bishop Allen, my new favorite band. The song Click Click Click Click is perfect for Summer . . . and for cooking.

"Having you post my SAS on your blog would be the highlight of my week!"

Remember back in the day (oh, say, January) I declared a new phase in OFAG, a new phase called Operation Prove Me Wrong also know as Single And Sane (SAS).

Seriously, I need to stop with the acronyms. Can you tell that I grew up in Washington, DC?

SAS was an attempt to show that there were other women out there who had it going on and yet couldn't seem to get it on. Or just perhaps couldn't find Ms. Right. While a got a few nominations for SAS other than myself, the emails didn't exactly flood in. Perhaps a bad sign for the sanity of blog reading lesbians at large? However recently one intrepid soul has nominated herself for SAS.

Name: Ms. M
Occupation: Project Management Consultant
Actual Occupation: Full Time Babysitter of well paid adults

* I am 26 and glad to be rid of those more tedious younger years . . . The memories are sweet though.
* I really think about how my words/actions will impact individuals (intimates as well as complete strangers).
* My daily goal is to contribute to a reason people smile.
* My cooking is abysmal, but I am an excellent second mate and love cleaning up a kitchen to thank the cook.
* I recently ended a relationship that was less of a partnership and more of a constant counseling session . . . for her.
* I am on the hunt for an equal.
* I do things like fill this list out at work to keep sane and remind myself that I am not dating my laptop.
* I think sane A-type personalities are hot.
* I am not an A-type, but mentally, emotionally and physically strong enough to hold my own.
* I am very down to earth.
* Speaking of earth . . . I am huge fan of hiking, backpack-style traveling and road/mountain biking.
* I will be a practicing psychologist someday!
* I love closet nerds . . . just not closet cases.
* I am an extrovert, but use my introverted soft skills to work with people.

There you go people. For any of you out there who want to review the rules of Single And Sane, please read here. And please use the comments section to give Ms. M, this month's SAS, a morale boost.

"I wish I could remember these words."

I think I'm still recovering from Pride, an exhaustion that has refused to subside. Monday started off with a yawn and two days into the workweek I still need coffee. Lots of coffee. Not only did I go to the Mermaid Parade in Coney Island on Saturday, but I caught the very end of the Dyke March in the Village. (I spotted Anne from afar. I hid.) And then after a day of drinking, my friends and I commenced with more drinking. Emma and I even shut down the bar we were in.

Finding ourselves without a place to drink, intoxicated on Belgian beer, Emma and I stumbled onto to 2nd Avenue sometime around 4 am with a plan to find a cab. I am not sure how it started, but we ended up standing on the corner of East 7th Street talking until the first stirrings of sunlight began to warm the eastern sky. We talked of life and other subjects that seem hazy in retrospect. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but at one point, embarrassingly, I was even reduced to tears. It felt nice to be held while I cried involuntarily -- it also felt intimate. And it being New York, the moment was interrupted when a bum rattled a cup full of change at us.

By then it was seriously getting light and the city was slowly coming awake. Free of tears, I led us further into the East Village looking for a new destination, perhaps a diner that was open and serving breakfast. As we wandered towards Alphabet City, I impulsively grabbed Emma by the hand and pulled her into a doorway, kissing her. It was rushed, aggressive, and with surprisingly too much tongue from Emma. I struggled to lead the make-out session, wishing that girls would learn one day that using tongue is a delicate art. But then it was over, our kissing reduced to smiles and coy glances.

Onward we continued into the east before realizing that we were far too tired for breakfast. We left in separate cabs, dazed. As my own cab rushed over the Manhattan Bridge, I checked my watch and noted that Manhattan looked especially beautiful during sunrise. When reached my bed by quarter to six in the morning, the previous hours seemed like a strange dream.

I'm not sure what my feelings are for Emma. Obviously I've wavered on them in the past, sometimes put off by her frenetic energy. She's leaving tomorrow and won't be back until the end of the summer so I suspect that if there is anything between us, it will most definitely be on hold. And for those who have been keeping up and wondering why I am changing my mind when Emma acted so poorly the last time I saw her, she ended up explaining more about what was going on that day with a friend of hers who had tagged along, so my opinion of her has softened a little.

Ugh. Why does everything have to be so confusing?

"Would you like to buy a tiara or a feather boa?"

Instead of blogging about Laura, I should have been mentioning that I went to see the True Colors tour last Monday at Radio City Music Hall. I guess I didn't blog about it sooner since I didn't have much to say owing to arriving terribly late -- sometime near the end of Rosie's monologue, yellow Croc shoes visible all the way from the from the other end of the hall like a beacon of bad lesbian footwear. My faithful band buddy Maire and I had managed to miss The Gossip, Dresden Dolls, Amanda Lapore, and Debbie Harry. Tsk. We're such bad gays.

However once we found our seats in the orchestra, drinks in hand, we arrived in time to catch Erasure, Margaret Cho, and Cindy Lauper. Basically we arrived in time (apart from the fabulously bitchy/raunchy Ms. Cho) for the 1980s revival part of the tour. Sorry, Ms. Lauper, I totally respect all your hard work for the gays and putting this tour together, but Maire and I cut out of your set early to head back to Brooklyn. Tsk. We're such bad gays.

Speaking of gays, I LOVE me some gay boys. They were so happy when Erasure went on and danced, and danced, and danced. Now, you don't see that level of enthusiasm at an indie rock concert. Clearly my life is missing something. I need more gay boy friends! Mr. Bad Apologies, can you help? I desire to be a fag hag.

"We're going to give it another go."

I love Laura, aka Fake Girlfriend. While I don't love her that way, I love her enough to want the best for her with the same fierce intensity that I reserve for all my friends. I have been there for her over the last couple of months while her job situation imploded and while her ex-girlfriend stalked and harassed her to the point of driving Laura to tears. I gave her my unflinching support as she changed her cell phone number twice to avoid an unrelenting stream of texts from The Ex where Laura was called a cunt and a whore who deserved to die for dumping her.

So I'm rather shocked and incensed to learn that Laura got back with The Ex this past weekend.

Why? Why? Why would one suffer such abuse at the hands of someone who purportedly loves them? Why could any self respecting person think that maybe the third time is the charm? (Yes, this will make the third time they have gotten back together.) Hear that sound? It's the sound of me alternately banging my fist and my forehead against my desk out of sheer disbelief.

"I knew you'd be mad at me," Laura said guiltily after she was done telling me the outcome of this past weekend. Her voice echoed from the other end of the cell phone making me wonder if she was calling from a bathroom.

"I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed," I replied with a long sigh. Inside my head was raging with a torrent of words I wanted to scream at Laura, words that I hoped would somehow save her from the huge backward leap into the abyss she was making.

Laura's voice sounded distant. "She showed up at my doorstep and my stomach just dropped. We had a really good conversation this weekend and we're going to give it another go. We realized that we just really love each other."

I knew then I couldn't save her, that there was nothing I could say to prevent the car crash of a relationship that would be unfolding. And then I felt that awful tug that comes when you realize that you either reluctantly support your friend or stop being their friend.

"Should I just keep my mouth shut?" I asked, beaten. "I mean you're an adult and can do whatever you want to do."

"There's nothing you can say. It's done."

Indeed it is. When the call was finished, I threw my phone against my desk in disgust.




Ladies, gather 'round and repeat after me.

I love myself.

I am an awesome person.

I love myself too much to give my love to someone undeserving.

I will not take abuse from a lover.

I will fight till my last breath before I let someone drag me down with their anger, hate, and disrespect.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Repeat till these words are BURNED into your soul. Too many good women -- and seriously, Laura is a good woman despite her idiocy when it comes to love -- settle for these emotionally crippled and abusive relationships. I know I have my own flaws and lord knows I've taken many a ride on the Carousel of Stupidity™, but there comes a point in everyone's life where they just say ¡no más! No, I'm not going to go down that road again. No, I will not take that girl back because she STALKED me. No, I can't change her. I demand more. I demand better.

What is the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. C'mon ladies, time to get off the Carousel.

GLBT Blogger Weenie Roast. In BROOKLYN!

I think it's safe to say that the details in the image above speak for itself, but in case your web browser blocks images, here's the rundown. Curly McDimple of Ham & Cheese on Wry has invited me to a GLBT blogger summit/weenie roast on July 8th 15th, 4 pm, located at Cattyshack in Brooklyn. While obviously I have no qualms about meeting people off the internet, Ms. McDimple and I already know each from Lesbian Club, so no mystery element there.

I feel like I'm doing a bad job of selling this idea, but I think it's an open event for all GLBT bloggers. Actually I'm just going to let Ms. McDimple clarify the details.

"I think it's safe to say that I have no game."

Perhaps it's because I'm a little hungover, or perhaps because only had four hours of sleep owing to the fact that I thought it was a good idea to go hang out with members of Pela and Brakes till 2 am last night, that trying to form coherent sentences is rather challenging. I have my ambient music turned up and I'm hoping for some sort of design breakthrough with this tight deadlined work project. Mostly I'm just drooling.

Despite my best intentions, I got jack shit done this weekend unless you count copious amounts of drinking with friends. Friday night? A therapeutic dose of alcohol and tapas with coworker friends. Saturday? A prosecco soaked picnic with Lesbian Club, a trip to Ginger's to avoid the rain, and then a free Joan Osborne concert in Prospect Park with some new friends. Sunday? Brunch followed by an ill advised exploration of gin based beverages while sitting in the back garden of Flatbush Farm. My arm apparently needed no twisting when my roommate said I should join her for the Pela concert at the Mercury Lounge.

But let us rewind back to Sunday's brunch at Beast.

I should briefly mention that my second date with Ms. Y ended with her admission that she wants to be just friends. Disappointed, my friend Kerry and I used brunch to not only come up with some dating strategy, but to shine a light on my flaws. Some of which are:

* I intellectualize my emotions too much.
* I'm too afraid to make the first move.
* As someone who is aggressive in every other aspect life, the lack of this quality in my lovelife is a detriment if not an irony.

"Yeah because I don't want to get hurt!" I protested shortly after chewing through a mouthful of raspberry muffin.

Kerry, who was slicing through a sausage, made a face. "As they say in finance, you have to spread the risk. The more times you put yourself out there, the more success rate you'll have."

I frowned and stared into the remains of my burger. I wanted to remind Kerry of all the risk I spread while engaging in OFTL. Five first dates in January 2006? Risk-tastic. "I think it's safe to say that I have no game."

"Yeah. You have no game," Kerry said with a slow shake of her head that belied her embarrassment for me. "Girls see you and expect you to be the aggressor and I think it confuses them when you're not. Just go get a date with a girl and get her drunk and make out with her."

This is apparently my new strategy. It is a timeless strategy that has worked for millions of love challenged humans. Or I could just stop being a pussy and spread a little more risk.

Why does that sound dirty?

"The music and medicine you needed for comfort"

I'm not feeling particularly festive today, despite my professed love of Fridays, but it is nonetheless time for another My Friday Faves.

I feel like I'm cheating a little bit since my last Friday Fave was music related, but music plays such an integral part in my existence. I remember the staggering moment when I first put earphones to ears and played my newly purchased 20 gig iPod -- my life threatening to never be the same. You mean I can listening to anything, anywhere, at anytime???? Whoa! Perhaps this love of music started early, my parents playing LPs while my mom was pregnant with me, a hazy mix of late 70s classics and my father's love of Mozart. In fact my middle name has its genesis in the title of popular Beethoven song.

Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over The Sea" has been on near repeat over the last week. I'm not sure why, but the fuzzy distortion of such songs as "The King of Carrot Flowers" and "10" has filled something in me that has been lacking. An indie rock masterpiece, the album was inspired by the story of Anne Frank. If that isn't brilliance then I don't know what.

Neutral Milk Hotel – Holland, 1945

"uh oh . . . does that mean you can't be candid on the blog anymore? that would suck."

Ah yes, candidness. The thing about having a (somewhat) anonymous blog is that I can talk honestly about the people who have incurred my wrath -- specifically the people who have jockeyed for bit parts in OFTL/OFAG. The reason I have talked with abandon about Fake Girlfriend, Holly, and other exes is that they are obviously not reading. So what do I do now that the woman I had a date with last Sunday is reading?

I think one of the reasons this blog works is my level of candor. Having contemplated how I would mention Ms. Y, my date from Sunday and with whom I have a second date tonight, I have realized that I can't censor her out of my writing -- the validity of my blog would be compromised. Not to mention that you all would stage a revolt. So here is what I proposing: (1) I will write honestly and fairly about Ms. Y, maintaining respectful anonymity. (2) Ms. Y knows that she reads at her own risk and I know that I write at my own risk. (All good natured of course.)

Okay? Okay. Yay!



Ms. Y contacted me shortly before Memorial Day weekend, writing a well crafted response to my dating manifesto from last summer. To be honest I wasn't in the mood to deal with her email and even though I had proclaimed that OFAG was back on, I was still struggling with the same burnout that I experienced last year. When I finally wrote her back I figured I had nothing to lose and quietly prayed that she wasn't mentally unbalanced when we set up a date to meet for brunch.

When the time came to meet up, I was struggling to cast off a hangover from the night before. I honestly had no expectations, but when she sat down across from me at the Rocking Horse Cafe my first thought was Oh my god she's hot! I then proceeded to have a throughly and unexpectedly wonderful time. She was smart, interested in art, grew up not too far from me, and seemed to truly embody the qualities that I was seeking when I wrote my manifesto. When we laid in the fresh cut grass of Central Park, shielding our eyes from the sun, I couldn't think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

"What are the odds?!"

Dear Ms. Thornton,

Hi! You probably don't remember me, but you were my government teacher during my sophomore year of high school. You were gay. Really gay. Out and proud. You even married the principal, which was scandalous even for 1995 -- a time when gay marriage was not the hot button issue that it is today.

You probably didn't know -- how could you since even my parents didn't know -- that I was only a couple of years away from struggling with my sexuality. Did you know that you were name checked when my mother found out I was gay? Perhaps you might find it funny that she thought you made me gay. Ah, bless.

Well your name recently came up again because it seems my date from Sunday also had you as a teacher. What coincidence! She wasn't out at the time, but has since seen the light. Oh Ms. Thornton, how many other students did you make gay? Perhaps you could claim Mr. Bad Apologies too? You deserve a toaster. A really nice toaster.

Jokes aside, just wanted to say wow! Way to trail-blaze! You didn't care who knew you were out and those were the pre-Ellen dark ages of visibility. You were out in a public high school! I remember you took every last student to task who dared to use the word fag or dyke, to which I profess my very belated respect. I hope you're still married to our principal because that would be awesome.

Best,

Rouge
Class of '96

"Is this going in the blog, then?"

While Saturday evoked many reminders of what I am not seeking through OFAG, Sunday made for breath of fresh air. I had a date. She reads this blog. She will invariably read these words, but why should I hide the fact that I had a truly enjoyable time? So enjoyable that it made me question what exactly had I been participating in all these years? So enjoyable that it made Emma's actions the night previous seem that much more infantile?

We went for brunch in Chelsea followed by a trip to the Met (undeterred by an accidental detour to Queens and then having to traverse the Puerto Rican Day parade). Then we laid in the grass in Central Park before going up to Morningside Heights to check out the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

Ms. Post No Bills is at a loss for words.

"Stop talking my ear off!"

Saturday had started promising enough -- afternoon drinks and burgers at Flatbush Farm with Wendy, Laura (Fake Girlfriend), Carm, Emma, and Emma's friend. Afterwards we ambled through Prospect Park on our way to Brooklyn Pride, later ending up at Commonwealth for more drinks. Despite what should had been a lovely day, the vibe was off, exacerbated by the five hours of sleep I had the night previous. And despite my attempts to find my happy place through alcohol and caffeine, I couldn't shake an uneasy feeling.

All day Emma had been acting strange. First she was upset (annoyed?) that I wasn't paying enough attention and talking to her (sleep deprivation and lack of caffeine doesn't exactly make me engaging). Then she made catty (jealous?) comments that hinted that she was quietly angry over something. Her moodiness was noticeable, contrasting sharply with the celebratory vibe -- so much that Laura made a couple of attempts to lighten the mood to no avail. When some of us left the bar to find food, she abruptly chose to go home instead.

In her wake she left a strange buzz kill of a vibe that wormed its way into my emotions so deep that the evening seemed regrettably shot. I threw in the towel sometime around midnight, head aching slightly from the mix of bourbon and other strange liquors. Why had Emma been so moody? Why did I care? Why did I feel a little dirty?

And then I had my epiphany.

Emma actions would have (barely) made sense if we were dating. But -- newsflash -- we are not dating. While there may be some mutual interest expressed, we are still not dating. I want you to be in my book, however eloquent, does not give license to be possessive.

The worst part was that her behavior had dredged up some unpleasant emotions associated with a girlfriend I dated for a year and a half back in Maryland -- emotions that I had not visited in a while and emotions I never want to visit again.

This is not a good sign. Even if there had been a big misunderstanding and her emotions had not stemmed from something I did, acting the way she did around my friends is cause for pause. I refuse to even consider dating someone who is that emotionally needy. Sorry, not going on that circus ride again. Somebody else can.

"The lesbians of the world are lucky to have you among them."

I think I might be a little verklempt. Two of my coworkers just stopped by to give me a card that they had made out of colored construction paper from the supply room. Written in blue ink upon cut out hearts is the affirmation You Are So Gay. Inside:

The lesbians of the world are lucky to have you among them.
Happy Anniversary!!!

Sniffle.

"Please consider it since I will need something to listen to when I'm penniless and alone."

Friday is my favorite day of the week. I was born on a Friday. Fridays are fluff. Fridays in the city during the summer are languid and hold promise of catching a drink outside while the sun goes down, traffic blaring in the background. Since it's a summer Friday, let us turn our gaze away from the serious (and the anniversary of my coming out) and embrace the frivolous.

Recently I got a plea from one of my readers, who on my orders, went forth and listened to Andrew Bird's "Armchairs". Over. And over. So much that she bought the album. The song (actually the whole album) had been my favorite of the moment, rocking it almost daily in the early weeks of this May, and my reader pleaded for more musical recommendations. Thus begins a summer feature here at Post No Bills called . . .

My Friday Faves

Music is one of my faves, which might be apparent from the frequency it features into my blog entries, whether it's a Dean Martin inspired musical daydream or concerts at Carnegie Hall. My roommate wants me to go to the Pela show at Mercury Lounge on Sunday and I have been listening to Nicole Atkins and Bishop Allen too, which reminds me that I apparently have been inadvertently keeping up with the Brooklyn scene. But here's my new favorite song -- "I Was a Daughter" by Basia Bulat -- and she's from Canada, not Brooklyn. Click on the arrow below to play a clip of the song.

Basia Bulat – I Was A Daughter

Enjoy!

"If you gamble everything for love you gonna be alright . . ."

Man oh MAN am I cranky! It's amazing what the effects a hangover, lack of sleep, and a lack of coffee will do to a girl. The hangover was a product of Korean vodka and sake consumed after a spirited outing of karaoke on 35th Street; the lack of sleep because I got home late and my cats like to chase each other at 5 am; and the lack of coffee because we ran out of it in the office and the new batch hasn't arrived yet. KILL.

Now back to OFAG.

Before you think that I am limiting my options, take heart. While Emma has presented herself as an option, there are others. I have a date on Sunday and when I was at Cattyshack on Friday I ran into Patricia. "I'm going to call you and we're going to get you out," she said looking very interested. Okay, you do that. Although I think I'm just going to email her myself and ask her for drinks since I'm starting to get impatient.

In the meantime, singer Ben Lee reminds me what I have to do (too bad the video is kind of shit, but the song is catchy):

"I want you to be in my book"

I was surprised how down I felt yesterday. It wasn't so much what happened between Emma and I, but the frustration it stirred, especially in light Fake Girlfriend and other people with their fucking mixed signals. After venting to a couple of friends (and oh, um, a whole mess of you via this blog) I felt better and all systems had returned to normal by the evening as my roommate and I shared a homemade batch of margaritas.

It was quarter past nine in the evening when my cell phone rang, the caller ID flashing Emma's name. I hesitated answering, but figured for some reason it was probably a good idea to pick up. After exchanging chitchat and other pleasantries, we got into the real reason she was calling.

"I felt like things ended on a bad note yesterday," she said. "You seemed sullen and distant."

My stomach clenched a little from nerves, yet at the same time I was impressed that she had the bravery to call. I made some excuses, the kind of excuses I would have normally made to anyone else if I wanted to glaze over my true emotions, but then I struck upon a novel idea.

"Can I just be totally honest?" I asked.

"Yes. Please."

"Look, the reason I was distant or, uh, sullen, was because what you said when we were passing notes made me think that we were just friends and I was just thrown for a loop because I thought I was interpreting the signals pretty well. The situation reminded me of the bullshit I was dealing with Laura--"

"I can't believe you're comparing me to Laura!" she protested.

"No, I'm not comparing you to Laura, I'm comparing the situation to Laura. Big difference."

"What I was trying to say yesterday that I think got lost in the translation is that the reason I didn't accept your offer to go home with you was that I think that relationships that start with sex end poorly. When I didn't go home with you, I was paying you the highest complement. I like you enough to not fuck it up."

When I get nervous, verbal diarrhea sets in. Struggling to reign in my babbling, I tried my best to explain myself.

"Everyone's life is a book," she continued. "Some characters we have no choice over, like our parents and our coworkers. But it's our friends that we get to choose to be in our book. I want you to be in my book."

I didn't know what to say, though I thought of what she said on Friday, which was the confession that she thought I was "special." I think I felt a little embarrassed -- at least in a shy way. Here was someone telling me that they were making a conscious decision to be my friend and auditioning for a part in my book. I was flattered. I was speechless. I babbled more to fill in the silence.

To wrap up a long story and a long conversation (we ended up talking over an hour), we decided to get to know each other as friends and keep the process organic. She though that I forced the issue too soon when I asked whether or not she liked me. While I countered with that I felt pretty proud of myself for demanding some sort of definition on our friendship because I had been in way too many murky situations that I didn't have the balls to get the details on.

I guess this means that Emma isn't a bad guy after all. It's so refreshing to meet someone I feel I can be a 100% honest with, even if we are just friends with potential. So there you go.

"No agenda, no secret motives."

Is it possible to have two gay people be friends without . . . .? Whatever.

This is the question my friend Emma posed as we passed messages back and forth last night in Carnegie Hall. I had been trying to get some resolution on our nebulous friendship situation when the start of the concert halted our post dinner conversation. Passing my moleskine notebook, Beethoven's string quartets as soundtrack, we continued it in ink instead.

Is it possible to have two gay people be friends without . . . . What, Emma? Sex? Dating? Where does the line fall between friends and girlfriends? What are we doing?

A while ago I got to wondering whether or not she was just a friend or whether or not she was sending me signals. Existing mostly in my peripheral, the intensity in which Emma sought my friendship seemed to go just a little beyond. She was touchy-feely. I was not by nature. She seemed incredibly flabbergasted by my presence in a way that was reminiscent of teenage crushes. My magic 8 ball said Reply hazy, try again.

There were more mixed signals, especially on Friday when she was cuddling on me while sitting outside on Cattyshack's deck. My incredibly touch deprived body began to feel the pangs of lust while my higher brain wondered what to make of her intense closeness.

"Do you like me?" I asked point blank.

She paused to think.

"When I first saw you I knew you were someone special," she said. "I didn't know it was going to be so hard to get to know you. I couldn't believe that you were single."

Let's just take a moment to review the facts here. (1) I had a pretty girl hanging all over me telling me that she thought I was special. (2) She also couldn't believe that I'm single, which would mean that I exuded some sort of quality that is normally found quite desirable. She even asked me out to go see the Emerson String Quartet as if she magically knew that I am a huge fan of classical music.

So what would your conclusion be? Just friends? Special Friends? Ponder that for a moment.

Later that night, fueled by lust, a lingering buzz, and a desire to be reckless, I asked Emma to go home with me. Nada. I tried to kiss her. Nada. Frustrated and confused, I went home alone. When we got together two days later I tried to get some resolution, or perhaps just apologize for being too forward and perhaps a bit rude.

Passing the notebook back and forth it became more apparent that she saw us as just friends.

"The problem is that benign touching is tremendously gratifying in the sense of being freely interconnected to other people, but it is easily off-putting or misleading."

Misleading? Yes. Therefore my previous conclusion was wrong. We are just friends.

Later on the train ride home to Brooklyn, she said awkwardly, "I didn't realize I had been grossly misrepresenting myself."

"It's cool," I shrug.

"If one could die of embarrassment, my parents would be mourning my loss."

Sigh. I think I'm feeling rather cynical about life and love right now. I'm going to go buy myself a rice krispie treat.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

Last night I dreamt I had a baby, the delivery of which I can't remember, but the nurses handed me a plump baby wrapped in a blue blanket nonetheless. He looked a lot like my brother when he was young and as I stared into his sleeping face, I was struck with the profound realization that I was truly and honestly screwed.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked to no one in particular, feeling both the maternal tug and the crushing weight of responsibility.

Standing close by, my father answered wryly, "Looks like you should have been participating less in certain activities."

This fragment of dream stayed with me enough that I found my eye lingering on babies throughout my morning commute. And then as I was leaving the subway in Midtown, iPod blaring, oblivious to those around me, I failed to hear a strange man say hi as he passed me on the landing. When I didn't answer, he followed up with, "Happy Mother's Day." A coworker, who had been walking up the stairs behind me, later recounted the conversation when we were out of the subway. Sharing a small laugh, we wondered why the man chose to wish me a happy mother's day. "Do I look like a mother?" I asked incredulously.

Later when I went to fix my breakfast, pouring oatmeal into a bowl, I noticed the tagline on the box of oatmeal said Every Day is Mother's Day!

Freaky? Yes.