an open letter to my last date

In the spirit of McSweeney's, I offer the following:

Young Man,

I'll start from the assumption that you intended for this first date to be memorable, which I assure you it was, but perhaps not for the reasons you intended. So, I offer a few pointers for future reference. I would be happy to repeat these aloud to you, given your professed aversion to reading. You, as I know very well, have my number.

Constant mention of your date's race (by referring to her as "white" multiple times each hour, for example) actually belies your assertion that you are "cool with it."

I would have to check Emily Post to be sure, but I can only assume that the proper moment to mention your "unfortunate incarceration" (as I'll euphemize it) for dealing drugs is not hour one of date number one. While it is true that I work in drug policy reform, this does not mean that I would automatically welcome a felon into my bed.

It might be seen in some circles as rather disingenuous to dismiss all your poor choices as "a Middle Eastern thing." Taking responsibility for your own actions (like recently totalling your father's "Benz") is refreshing, and far more attractive.

I was puzzled by your decision, in light of your very candid admission that you don't handle alcohol very well, to nevertheless drink until "shitfaced." It evidences irresolute character. And, when confronted, said condition of inebriation should under no circumstances be offered to excuse other behavior. A simple, direct apology works best.

Unfortunately, when someone is forced to assess a suitor's prospects in hour two of date number one, most often that person tends to reply in the negative. I would save such "where-is-this-relationship-going" ponderments until at least date number ten or eleven.

A potential love interest's given name--in lieu of such endearments, charming though they may be, as "sexy" and "baby girl"--is the preferred method of address and also has the added bonus of assuring your date that you do in fact know what it is.

To close, when your subway seatmate pulls out her book and begins to read, that is your cue to lift your head from between your legs and cease all "I-thought-you-would-really-like-me" querulousness. In fact, such actions are never acceptable subway behavior. As has often been noted, nobody likes a whiner!

I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. Good luck.

nostoi

The mind ought sometimes to be diverted that it may return to better thinking.
--Phaedrus

I live to post again, despite all evidence to the contrary. I wanted to tell my, . . . well, reader (What's up, PMK?), that I am trying to get a handle on my schedule so as to be able to write much more often. I actually tried to post this past weekend, but the %&^#@ blogger.com server was down. Or maybe it's just my little PowerBook, which has seen better days.

Since I last wrote, I have been assiduously practicing the role of Dr. Joan Bushell (reference, anyone?) by working seven days and 60 hours a week at two jobs for the past month, by volunteering for two organizations, by running the office's March Madness pool, and by willing myself to be attracted to someone--anyone--so that I can for the love of all that is good in this world stop thinking about him already (and stop listening to that damn Ani Difranco song and crying). I have, however, managed to read three wonderful books, see two fascinating documentaries, attend a thought-provoking lecture, hear a wonderfully innovative female acapella trio, and procure the undying devotion of the young man who works down the street from the cafe. I hope to tell you about each of these things in more detail soon.

For now, just a few notes, as I am in the midst of my comforting routine of packing and cleaning and organizing the night before a trip. Tomorrow, I head to Raleigh (for my first day off since February 20) to see friends and family. I can't wait. Yay for mini-breaks!

Horrifyingly, one of my favorite professors at UT met with an untimely death, in some sort of household accident at his home in Middlebury. He was 44 years old and is survived by his wife and 2 small daughters. As his very well observed obituary said, "Our world will be a little darker without him."

Bravely, I bought a new car, a white 1991 Volvo 240 named Fenno. It is, bar none, the fanciest car I have ever owned. It has power windows. And automatic transmission. I am living the life here, people.

Thankfully, I have discovered the open letters on McSweeney's. Read them. You won't be sorry.

Surprisingly, my ex-boyfriend was a jackass.