Who wants to be a skinny bitch?

Well, evidently Marisa does, since she's not just reading the best-selling diet book, she's so excited about it, she wants me to read it, too.

Skinny Bitchis by a pair of women, Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin, who are, in fact, skinny bitches.


As evidence of their skinniness, I offer up their pictures.

I will say that, thus far, the book is both snarkier and funnier than the one about sports by Kenny Maynethat I just read.

On the downside, regrettably from Marisa's point of view, I don't particularly want to be a skinny bitch - even if the book differentiates skinny bitches from scrawny bitches.

And, regrettably from the authors' point of view, Marisa got the book from the library.

One of those days...

Did you ever have one of those days?

Yesterday, our entire household managed to be sick.

Marisa left work early with the illness she was nursing all weekend...

... And wound up taking care of me.

I never even made it in, managing to spend the morning throwing up and the afternoon at the doctor's office being checked for everything from a virus to appendicitis. In the one bit of good news, we opted for virus and swollen side lymph nodes causing pain, meaning all I had to do was spend the evening recovering from the flushing drink I had to take for the CT scan. Rather than, say, an appendectomy.

(Aside, on the drink, munkees don't like berries that much.)

Even Norton threw up yesterday. I didn't think dogs could catch human viruses. Maybe it was sympathy pains.

On the upside, I think we're all feeling better today. Sort of.

But if you're wondering where the last part of the 33 Years of Me is, that's the excuse this week.

I do feel worse than her today, which is only fair, because a) I started getting sick first, on Friday; and b) she felt worse than me all weekend after getting sick Saturday.

Not even a trip to Horrorfind on Saturday or watching Wrestlemania with me and Ed on Sunday could cheer her up.

I guess she got even today, though, since she told me she's feeling decent, if not 100%, today, and I feel much worse than that.

Happy April Fools' Day! This post is not a joke. I'm too sick to joke.

Time flies when you're having fun!

A year ago today, February 3, I went on a date.

It was, it would turn out, to be my last Match.com date.

A lot can change in a year.

• I got promoted.

• I sold a house.

• I bought another one.

But mostly, I fell in love with the girl I went on that date with.

• We got engaged.

• And we started planning our wedding.

It hasn't always been easy. But it's been the best year of my life.

She's not perfect. Neither am I. But we're perfect for each other. And that girl, who introduced me to Ethiopian food on that first date, has never ceased to dazzle me with her stories, her knowledge, her infectious enthusiasm, and above all, her positive outlook on life.

No, above all, her love. For me. For her students. For her family and friends. For just about everyone. But second to that, her positive outlook on life.

She brings out the best in me. She makes me a better person just by being around her.

She loves me. She loves me when I'm serious. When I'm silly. When I'm upset. When I'm brave.

She tells me how good I am for her. She tells me how good I am. Even when I don't believe it.

She is, as one of my friends said, the silver lining to my black cloud.

My life has changed in a year. And each one of those 365 days was better than the one before.

A year ago, I might've figured myself for the luckiest guy on the face of the Earth. There was been a lot of good fortune in the first 32 years of my life.

But today, a year after that date, nine days shy of my 33rd birthday, I know I am.

It's been a good year. Here's hoping for many more with my love.

We'll get married. Build our home. Raise our family. Share our love. Spend our time together. Travel. Read. Watch movies. Sleep in each other's arms. Love.

I'm greedy. And I can dream. I've dreamed a year, and I never want it to end.

Dream a little dream

A slightly belated Merry Christmas, if that's your thing!

Maybe you remember a few days ago, I mentioned the vivid dreams I have sometimes. Well, last night/this morning, I think I had a first: I dreamed about blogging.

Well, actually, I dreamed about dreaming, then writing a blog about the dream.

Unfortunately for all of us, I suspect my dream-blog was much better and more interesting than this post. I'll try to re-create in shortened form, but in many ways, it was an experience not just surreal and bittersweet, but ideal in the sense of finding links and information, and so forth.

THE DREAM WITHIN THE DREAM

The dream itself was, as I said, bittersweet. It mostly took place during the pregame wait for some kind of youth soccer game, and involved two of my best friends and regular soccer teammates from childhood, Turbo and Chris. We were like the Three Musketeers (read the link, I don't mean the candy bar) in elementary school, but over the years, drifted apart in many ways.

One of the nice aspects of the dream was that some of it centered on the coaching of Chris' father, Craig, who was a perpetual assistant coach on teams we played for, and in many ways one of the finest and most honorable men I've known.

Aside, I know the dream was realistic because, as usual, even though Chris - who I think might have played in college - and Turbo were starters and stars, I was a backup. At least I was slated for my usual half-game of playing time. Maybe it was an AYSO game.

Anyway, we never actually played the game. The whole dream was just a bunch of kids pal-ing around and getting psyched up to play. It was a different time in my life (as anybody who's seen me play any sports lately can attest). And even though my life is certainly a good one now, I suppose in some ways, this dream made me miss the way it was. Innocent. No pressures, except to play my best, play the game the right way for Chris' dad. No remorse, no regrets and the whole future ahead of me.

THE BLOG WITHIN THE DREAM

My blog post in the second part of the dream was something like an extended version of the above, in more detail, with a nice little paean to Chris' dad, including his full name - which I wouldn't post here - a full transcript of his pregame speech and links to what Chris and Turbo and others are doing now.

Not to mention some small details, some stories from my soccer days, mostly involving us, that I am going to save, to paraphrase Capt. Miller in "Saving Pvt. Ryan", just for me.

You get none of that. Mostly because some of it doesn't exist or I can't find it, and partly because, well, as usual, in my dreams I'm far more eloquent... and I promptly forget all the words I used when I wake up.

AND BACK TO REALITY

In any event, it was an interesting, slightly strange experience. And like I said, bittersweet. I have a happy life now, and I had a good holiday with Marisa and my family and hers.

Yet there's something nostalgic about my youth, at least for me, and not in a mid-life crisis kind of way. Just something about innocence, a time before jobs and bills and worrying about money and the mortgage. A time when life was simple, and praise measured for how hard and well you played a game. No politics, no backstabbing at work, no ridiculous b.s. Just friends and the joy of a game, and the knowledge that you could measure yourself by time on the field and the final score.

And be comfortable in the knowledge that there are good men out there, like Chris' dad, looking out for you and looking out for their son. Teaching you the right way to play, the right way to live.

I guess maybe, as I approach my wedding and begin to think about a subsequent fatherhood, it's a reminder of certain things my subconscious doesn't want me to forget. Things to teach my kids, God willing, when they come.

Who's to say? It was a blog within a dream about a dream.

The miracle of MySpace

There are certain things that, to me, really bring home the amazing cultural differences between my late-20s fiancee and my early-30s self. We're not quite four years apart, but there are things she's involved in that just baffle me in ways I'm normally not baffled in the slightest.

Like the Internet, or gadgets.

For instance, she's a texter. The first month after we dated, I got a cell-phone bill that nailed for more than $70 in text-message overages. I had to get a whole new plan just to keep up. This was second nature to her, but I probably send more texts back-and-forth with her in a day than I did in a week (maybe month) prior to her. (Years 1-32 B.M.? That sounds wrong...)

A couple of other things she's all around that I can't quite get right: MySpace and Facebook.

I have a MySpace page, and I even got it before we met, but mostly I just use it to add friends. (I have 250 and counting. Only 4.8 billion more 'til I catch Tila Tequila.

And lately, I've gotten a couple of Facebook invites that I haven't done anything with, despite a colleague showing me all the cool bells and whistles.

The one thing I love about MySpace, though, is that everyone seems to have it.

And I mean everyone.

I spent a good chunk of yesterday in an e-mail conversation with a friend from high school I've seen maybe once in the years since. We were best of pals for about two years growing up (my junior and senior years, her freshman and sophomore), but went I went away to college, we just sort of lost touch - her family moved away and she went off to school herself.

Out of the blue... Bam! A MySpace e-mail asking if I'm the guy she knows, or just some other dude with the same name.

About 2,000 words worth of e-mail later, we've caught up on our lives like we never left off the conversation.

I could spend months telling stories about the two best years of my high school life, which she was a big part of, but I'm just amazed that in some small way, she's back in my life again after 15 years. I used to think about her from time to time, wonder if she was happy, what she was up to.

Now I know what she's up to, and yes, she's happy. And it made my day.

I'm still 99.9% clue-free on MySpace, but I'm sure glad it's there.

Editor's note: You've seen the Jinpost about me, haven't you? Well, watch this space for my Adventures in Jinland post/rebuttal (cookie-stealing munkee, indeed!) soon.

Stop the bus and turn the radio up high...

I'm going back to the Vermont well one more time, if you please...

You may recall the other week, in my Thanksgiving political rant I cited my latest fave band, Grace Potter & the Nocturnals.

Well, if there's a song I like even better than the rockin' "Ah Mary," it's the rockin' "Stop the Bus." Not as political, but just as fun.



Anyway, now that you're done listening, maybe I should clarify. I picked up on Grace Potter from Marisa, the Queen of Random Indie Music herself.

Vermont is one of her favorite places, and the Nocturnals are out of that state. She was playing them en route last month, when we took a little long-weekend road trip up to Burlington.

Tragically, the only live music we heard was a show at Higher Ground headlined by the overrated and underwhelming Matt Pond PA, who we both wanted to like but unfortunately couldn't. The show was cheap, though, and the opening act, a local band called The Year's Best was actually really entertaining.

On the other hand, two things more than made up for that.


The first was the discovery of the delightful Danforth Pewter, whose jewelry M absolutely adored.

You may have noticed she got some for Hanukkah, and let me tell you, guys, not only is it striking, it's a steal. Many of the pieces, including the one above that she just loves, are in the $25 range.

(Danforth folks, send coupons for your very own Mookie J. Monkey endorsement, in the right-hand rail!)

The second highlight was meeting up with the Healthy Hippie herself, Taraleigh, whose sainted mother is M's "Work Mom."

Not only is Taraleigh very cool, she publishes a fascinating newsletter (with a mag in the works) on good health (duh) and general hippie-ness (double-duh). M even merited a mention in a recent issue, though sadly I wasn't healthy enough or hippie enough to get in.

Anyway, if healthy or hippie-type thinking is your thing, check her out. Hey, you'll know if you're the right audience. Jin.

M talks about retiring to Vermont someday. I could dig that. Burlington's a nice town with some fine shopping, good food, clean air... and Division I ice hockey, by God.

Plus, the environs include (all of which we saw in a measly four days):

• Ben & Jerry's
• Cabot Cheese
• All the fruit wine you can drink...
• ...And then some! (Try the Strawberry Rhubarb!)
• Green Mountain Coffee
• Plus, the world famous On the Rise bakery

So maybe someday, once the kids are grown and I can cash in my pension... it'll be breakfast at Uncommon Grounds on Church Street, followed by some shopping at the Crow Bookshop, then a glass of Grand View wine after dinner... and on to the game! Go Catamounts!

Poll results: For the curious, the final tally was 3 for "Write more, ya bugger" and 1 for "Knock it off with the damn monkeys." So don't say I don't give my fans what they want. This is three posts in like 24 hours. None about monkeys. The rest of you, hey, vote next time.

New label: It's high time I added a "travel" label for those posts that involve me going somewhere (other than Hawaii, Miami or Scotland, of course.

Time, time, time, see what's become of me

To say it's been a strange year would be an understatement.

On the one hand, it's without a doubt been the happiest year of my life: The year I fell in love.

On the other hand, to say I've been in something of a funk this fall would be an understatement.

You name it, it's been an issue.

From the dog's neuroses to problems at work to just about everything, it sometimes feels like it's been every bit as bad as it has been good.

That's got very little to do with Marisa, who has been, as one of my friends put it, the silver lining to my dark cloud.

And yet, in a way, it's got everything to do with her.

You see, I was alone, for so long, in many ways, I let myself go.

Not in the sense of weight (though I gained some) or hygiene (though grooming isn't exactly a strong suit) or anything like that.

Just in the sense of a lonely man trying to fill his days with whatever struck his fancy.

Which is to say, I got in a rut. A comfortable rut, but I suppose, looking back, a rut all the same.

The problem is, getting out of it.

Or rather, getting out of it all at once.

I was, as I said, comfortable. I filled my days. Writing reviews. Covering football games. Watching movies, playing Strat-O-Matic, whatever.

I was my own man, doing what I wanted, when I wanted. I went to work, I slept, I screwed around - in the metaphorical sense.

Then everything happened at once.

And my safe, comfortable, lonely life went to pieces. In a good way, and yet, in a very frustrating one.

I fell in love.

I got promoted.

We moved.

And the damnedest thing is, it feels like, since we moved, nothing's gone right. Money's tight and the house buy/sell mating ritual is stressful. The shit hit the fan at work, and if my performance is better, my morale is not. The dog, of course, has been berserk.

And in a way, I don't blame him. I don't feel comfortable here. I guess when someone owns a house for 20 years, from the day it was built, just hanging some shit on the walls doesn't make it yours and stop making it theirs, in some ways.

But it still doesn't feel like home.

Even though the happiest part of my day is here, when I curl up in bed by her side.

Hillsborough felt like home. It's not so much that I miss it, as I just know how this feels different. It takes getting used to. The whole thing - living with someone, for the first time in God knows how long, living with her pets, too - everything.

The hardest part is trying to find time anymore. We had a nice, relaxing day, ironically enough because the game I was supposed to cover didn't pan out, so we had nothing planned.

But it was just sort of the last straw toward this blog post I've been kicking around for a while in my head.

How I don't understand how I can be so happy, and yet so unhappy.

Maybe I should go back on the drugs. But I don't like how they make me feel in some ways. I don't have the lows, but I don't get the highs, either.

And now that I have her, I'd rather have the highs.

But that doesn't make the lows any easier.

And it feels like it's been a low since September, when Marisa went back to school so I never see her, since everything went to shit at work all at once, just elevating my blood pressure through the roof as if I didn't have enough crap to worry about but some peoples' neuroses.

The thing about integrating two lives is that, suddenly, you go from having one busy weekend and one free to relax or do fun stuff, to having someone else's plans on that "off weekend."

Which only adds to my stress and guilt, because suddenly, I can't get anything done. Because there's always something else to do.

I've been trying to extricate myself from my commitments. I resigned from one Strat hockey league. Another became a disaster of late scores somewhere amid the rubble of that wall. I haven't written a review in months, and I don't know if I ever will again. I spend more time editing the new Raiderfans magazine than I do writing my column. Because it feels like I can't even follow the Raiders as obsessively as I did.

Don't get me started on keeping up with my blog.

And screw work and my professional commitments. One more blockage for the arteries.

The thing is, there's a part of me that just wants to be able to do nothing. Work, sleep, spend time with M, maybe read a book or watch a movie now and then. Hell, do things for the sheer joy of it.

And there's the part of me that's screaming at the rest of me to get off my ass and do the things I love. Like write. Cover the Raiders. Play hockey.

I just don't have the goddamn time. And that turns love into hate - turns fun into guilt. And it sucks.

There's so much I want to do. But I work so hard, and spend so much time at it. And it wears on me. The good part, the good stress. The bad part, the bullshit, the bad stress.

I hate having to choose between things I love. I didn't have to before. Because my life was so full - when it was so empty.

Above all, I don't want to resent Marisa. She's the best thing in my life, the best thing that's ever happened to me. And I've seen people give things up for their spouse, and hate them forever because of it.

But I'm having such a hard time adjusting. I was alone too long. Like that guy in Shawshank who gets out and just can't cope.

It's like I can't cope with happiness. With sharing my life, which is all I ever wanted.

But I don't want to fight every time she asks me to do something around the house. I don't want to feel guilty every time I do one thing I want, because I should be doing something else.

I traded a life alone for the chance to indulge in everything I love.

And I traded that indulgence for a wonderful life with a wonderful girl.

And when I'm not starry-eyed, I'm despondent.

Because there's always something else to do. Whether it's a night I don't do something I should so I can sleep by her side, or a night I don't sleep by her side, so I can stay up and do what needs to be done.

I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't.

And lately, I've just felt damned.

That's a long, frustrated, venting way of saying don't be surprised if the blog eventually gets to the front of the "fuck it, who has the time" line. Fair warning. I started this thing vowing to write daily. Now I'm thinking monthly.

Besides, it's almost November, and in a fit of idiocy, I'm going to try National Novel Writing Month again. Which pushes the blog even farther down the list of "things I should be doing."

It sounds stupid, I know, but if I'm going to stick with one kind of writing, it's going to be the one I love the most - even if it's not the one I'm best at - and it's going to be creative writing. Not journalism. It's one thing to be a Raiders beat writer. That's a dream come true. But it's not happening this year, and much like a movie review career, I'm starting to doubt it ever will, even as Raiderfans thrives. (It's not them. It's me. Yeah, my freelance career has reached that cliche.)

But hey, I wrote a movie, didn't I? So I figure, why not try to write this novel?

Yeah, I'm picking up right where I left off last year. Which probably doesn't help my chances of success - 30,000 words in 30 days ain't easy - but might give me 25,000 good words out of 60,000, and that might be enough to turn it into something good.

(One random fantasy: Since my novel's episodic, make a blog out of it. Chapter a day for 50 days or however long. Self-publish at the end. What the hell, right?)

And maybe that'll make a million bucks, and I can have my early-retirement cake, and eat it, too. It's that, or keep blowing my spare change on lottery tickets.

Review again. Cover every Raiders game. Get my damn hockey team into the playoffs next year. Dog days of summer have killed my Earthquakes two seasons in a row.

Or just stop feeling like a little munkee in a maze of obligations, scared and frustrated and missing my love all the day long.

The one in which I answer the questions

Hullo! Now that I'm back in the swing of blogging, I can finally get to the interview questions Jin asked me a few weeks back!

Kind of nice to not be obsessing over moving and packing... and finally able to catch up on my life.

Speaking of which: Anybody want to buy a townhouse in scenic Hillsborough, N.J., the nation's 23rd best place to live?

But I digress.

Anyway, on with the interview!

1. Do you remember the first horror movie you saw? Do you think it was
this film that began your obsession? (I mean 'obsession' in a good way! ;-)

When I was 10, I went to a sleepover birthday party, and (among other films) we watched "Jaws"and "Jaws 2"back-to-back. I didn't go swimming for about two years. And I still shower quickly. I think that's really what did it.

2. Dead Hunt! How did it come about? Did you just start writing and out
it came or was it a long process? Most importantly, will I be able to
get it from Netflix and when?

The idea for "Dead Hunt" was one I'd come up with a couple of years before the whole process started, visiting the HorrorFind Weekend with my friends from HorrorTalk.com. I started on a short story and never really finished it... but then, when my friend Joe Ripple, of Timewarp Films had an idea that eventually led to "DH," it turned out, when we were talking, it was the same idea that I'd based my story on. So we discussed it, and he took my treatment (a synopsis of a script) to his partner, the late Don Dohler, and they decided to have me write it. The actual writing didn't take too long. I'm a very momentum-based writer, so there were some sleepless nights, but I delivered a first draft fairly quickly. Of course, there was the inevitable revision process after that, which they were kind enough to let me be a part of.

And you should be able to get it from many different places very soon. Last I've heard, it's a September release.

3. YAY! You are engaged to a cute chick that seems pretty darn fabulous!
Tell us more about the wedding plans, honeymoon plans or basically
anything you haven't told us already!

The wedding is Aug. 3, 2008, at the Berkeley Plaza in Berkeley Heights, N.J. It's a very popular wedding location, and has nothing but rave reviews. We've booked a highly regarded DJ and a highly regarded photography studio. And then we put a lot of the planning on hold until after our move, though we are registered at a few places, notably Fortunoff.

As for the honeymoon, we were thinking of somewhere exotic, like Iceland, but because of the house purchase, we're pondering something a little more domestic, but equally fun.

4. After a glance at your 101 in 1,001 I noticed this entry: "97. Be
interviewed by someone, instead of doing the interviewing." I don't
suppose this counts...does it? I bet you meant in real life! ;-) What
famous news person would you most like to meet in the flesh?

I've actually met quite a few vaguely well-known news people, thanks to my profession, but among the truly famous, it's a tough call. The late Peter Jennings was the newsman I grew up listening to, as "World News Tonight" was my parents' nightly news of choice. But among the living, I think the obvious choice is Walter Cronkite, just for everything he's seen and done in, and for, the profession.

Among newspapers, of course, at this point I'd think Woodward & Bernstein are probably the heroes of choice.

But all in all, I'm not too interested in newsman as celebrity. I enjoy sharing a press box with the Oakland Raiders beat writers, none of whom are household names, and I respect their professionalism tremendously. Often even the least-known of journalists has some great stories to tell. My father spent some time as an intern in radio news in college (he was a journalism major), and I love the stories he tells.

That's not really an answer, is it?

5. Wow. A click back to your first post ever informed me that you have
been blogging for 2 years this month. Why did you start blogging? Has
there ever been something you wanted to blog but found you just couldn't
'type about it' or is Life on the Rim pretty much a 'tell all'?

Two years, really?

I didn't think it had been that long. I'll have to check.

I started because one of my friends had started a blog, I'd read some about it in the tech pieces we ran in the paper, and as a writer, the thought really interested me. But I was either too busy or too lazy to do anything about it, until one day, I had a story I wanted to share with the world. And that became my first post.

Which, now that I look it up for the link, was in March 2005. If you're curious.

As for taboo subjects, like anybody else, I suppose I have certain secrets I just will never tell. Plus, I try to stay away from anything that might get me in trouble at work. After all, journalists pride themselves on their objectivity, and newspapers have an editorial board that speaks for them and their staff.

So I don't say where I work, I don't talk about work too much, and I leave out a few secrets from my past, particularly painful ones or ones that might involve people who don't need those stories brought to light.

Other than that, though, as far as my thoughts on things, there, it's pretty much a tell-all.

Thanks, Jin! Hope you (and everyone else) enjoyed my answers!

Miami Diari, Day 3 (the one with Tina Kim)

When last we left our intrepid and procrastinating-blogger hero...

It was Friday, Day 3 of the adventures in Miami.

For the curious, 'twas also my six-month anniversary with Marisa, who has finally posted some serious pictures. Check 'em out. They're much better than mine.

(Which isn't even mine, but one I ripped off Tina Kim's MySpace.)

Anyway, I spent the morning working the booth, the noontime hour mooching a free lunch at the Awards Luncheon and the afternoon in one fascinating seminar (online ethics) and one less-than-fascinating, but much prettier one (making your cover designs pop - aimed, regrettably, at page designers).

The excitement of the afternoon was the luncheon, and not just because I got two desserts. Which was a plus, but not quite so much a plus as my cracking up a professional comedienne.

Those of you who know me, of course, know I pride myself on my sense of humor. It's what I use to make people smile, and what I used to use to try and get girls, in lieu of big muscles and big paychecks.

Of course, I'm no longer trying to get girls, but that doesn't mean I can't bust out the ol' joke-a-minute riff once in a while.

Like at the luncheon, when one of my colleagues at the paper arrived with the aforementioned Ms. Kim. Now, bear in mind, at the gala tonight (Saturday, Day 4 - the one with the munkees) they auctioned off a seat at the table with Yul Kwon (see Day 1) and Tina Kim for money.

And I got to spend the luncheon with Tina Kim for free. My buddy took off partway through, my other colleague had already vacated, and after a few jokes with this journalist-turned-acerbic comedienne, me and my buddy from our local AAJA chapter got to spend a little time chatting with her over lunch.

I must've done well with my humor - she asked for my business card, after having to whisper the rest of our conversation in my ear as she vacated the luncheon during the awards presentation. (No, we weren't that rude, people were gabbing and wandering in-and-out through the whole thing.) And lest you think I just ended up on her mailing list, she didn't ask anyone else at the table for a business card, thank you very much.

So that was exciting.

Anyway, we skip past the aforementioned afternoon seminars and move on to the evening's festivities. As also aforementioned, it was M and I's sixth-month anniversary and also one year to the day of our wedding.


So we went out to celebrate. After our disastrous evening on South Beach, we decided to try something a little more mellow.

We headed for Coconut Grove, a different kind of touristy attraction.

After walking around a bit, and giving the comedy of Judah Friedlander a miss, we found ourselves sitting down for dinner in a place called Cafe Tu Tu Tango (get it? tu. tu. tango?).

The place is a tapas-style restaurant/bar, the food was pretty tasty and the sangria was nice and cold. But the best part was, the place is full of art and artists and stuff. There was a guy painting just a few feet away. Even better, there was one of the best balloon artists I've ever seen.

No lame hats and poodles for this guy. He made Goofy. He made a giant hat. A sceptre. A bunny.

And for us, as seen above, a munkee. Not just any monkey, but a whole palm tree, with coconuts and a munkee climbing it. A real work of art. I mean, M asked him to make a monkey and it took her about halfway through to realize he was working on her balloon.

Not only that, as you might expect, my ever-chipper lady made friends with the other women in line. Turns out one is a doctor starting a special ed school. Figures.

He capped off the evening by climbing into a giant balloon. Don't ask. I can't even begin to explain. But trust me, this made my inner child smile. And my not-so-inner child.


All in all, a great evening out for our special night. Plus, we got looks from EVERYBODY on the way home, carrying that thing around. (Marisa included in the above picture for scale. She's 5-foot-8.)

By the time I catch up with today (Saturday), you'll see a lot more munkees!

Today was our visit to Monkey Jungle!

But first, I have a gala to attend and Karaoke night to drink beer at.

On to the next part!

Packs(es) and relaxes

For those wondering just what's up... Well, I'm on vacation.

It's not exactly vacation in the sense of "Oh, look, another Diarii!"

But it was a week off from work. It was actually supposed to be the week I took off to move Marisa in, but it ended up being the week we started packing to move out.

After all, I've now completed what I've lovingly dubbed the, pardon my French, "What the fuck was I thinking???" hat trick:

• I got promoted. Added job stress.
• I (we) got engaged. Added wedding-planning stress.
• I (we) bought a house. Added moving/selling stress.

So never fear, I've got some posts in mind to entertain and delight. But I haven't had time to write them, yet. Don't feel bad; I completely blew off my Weight Watchers tracking this week, too. And it shows.

Meanwhile, a brief summary of where I've been since I last left work on Friday the 6th:

Saturday: Packed and cleaned and stuff to get ready for the first open house at my (current) home. Toted boxes up and down two flights of stairs all day. Fun for all. We did cap the evening with a return trip to Makeda, the Ethiopian restaurant where we had our first date. It was our first time back in a while, but the food was as great as ever.

Sunday: Spent the day with M's family - partly to get out of the house for said open house - partly because it was just a nice family event, capped by a nice dinner with M, her Mom & Dad, her Grandma, her brother and his wife, and her sister and her boyfriend.

Monday: Went to the American Museum of Natural History in New York, one of my favorite places, to see the special exhibits on frogs (yay!) and mythical creatures (yay!) plus my favorites like the dinosaurs (yay!) and the Hall of Ocean Life (double-yay!). Then we went to Candle Cafe, this vegan restaurant my co-workers Ally and Rob told me about. M loved it and I found the food to be incredibly delicious, too. Then we capped off the evening by watching "Night at the Museum."Much better than I thought it would be, I must say. Call it a 3.5 out of 5.

Tuesday: Tuesday involved canceling my cleaning service and getting an estimate from the movers I've used twice before. Then it was off to meet M for some lunch and to do some registering (at Fortunoff, if you're curious; we're also registered at Williams-Sonoma and Bed Bath & Beyond if you're curious or want to send gifts in exchange for a Mookie J. Monkey endorsement of your product). We fought over the registering, as usual, but made up, of course. More overzealous scanning might be too blame. Then we met with our photographer, a very cool dude. Then we had dinner (Indian) with M's friend Dave, a fellow horror movie fan, not to be confused with my friend Dave, a fellow Flyers fan.

Wednesday: Wednesday began with Norton getting sick. That was fun. Poor doggie had it coming out both ends, so we spent most of the day home, doing stuff around the house and minding him (and dodging Realtors, who of course picked sick-dog day to flock to the house). Then at night, we went down to the Electric Factory in Philadelphia for a concert by Travis, a rocking Scottish band I've mentioned before. The concert was great - the downside was, the Electric Factory is general admission, and I was having flashbacks to a Neville Bros. concert I saw down in New Orleans right after I hurt my left calf, where I literally couldn't stand any longer and had to leave. Calf still hurts, so my honey was sweet enough to let us go upstairs to the spot where we (read: "I") could sit at the bar, rather than standing through the whole show down on the main floor. Of course, Travis came in by running through the crowd on the main floor, so I felt guilty as hell for a while, but she was really sweet about it and then got caught up in the show, which absolutely rocked. I think we're now leaning towards Travis' one song for our wedding song.

Thursday: We had our day at the museum, my fun thing for the week, and this was our day down the Shore, her fun thing. M got a terrific sunburn on the beach, then we went to the Jenkinson's Boardwalk at Point Pleasant, where we ate so much I got sick and we converted my (our) fine Skee-Ball skills into a sizable, smelly (er... sweet-smelling?) candle. Meanwhile, the dog was getting better, so that was good news. Plus, I stayed up late to watch the first three episodes of "Burn Notice," which I'm really digging.

Friday: Today, we spent part of the day at the Somerville Center Antiques, which was M's idea, and my trade for seeing the "Transformers" movie later. Of course, I bought more stuff than her, but that's not my fault. One guy had a dozen media guides amid the assorted candlesticks/plates/used crap. At $5 each or less! An absolute steal! And the dog seems to be all better, too. Wins all around. Speaking of media guides, time to get packing some more boxes...

Still to come: Saturday should be spent playing Dungeons & Dragons with my buds, and then watching the Arturo Gatti-Alfonso Gomez fight. Sunday is my Mom's birthday, so we're going to (hopefully) drop some boxes by my buddy Dave's house - my basement's just about full - and then head off to Skytop Lodge to spend the day with my folks and some friends.

So, yes, moving sucks, but we've tried to make it a week to both get things done and enjoy a little downtime together. I think we're succeeding so far.

As they say in the business, further bulletins as events warrant.

The one in which I question my masculinity

I sometimes joke I'm in touch with my feminine side. Mostly because I exude what I think of as a "beta male" vibe: I'm not quite an "alpha male," but close.

What a buddy in college referred to as a "flaming heterosexual" - in the sense that I'm the straight-male equivalent of a drag queen; ain't nobody going to mistake me for gay.

You know, the sports-loving, horror-movie-watching little munkee you've all come to know and love.

But the thing is, I really do think I am at least slightly in touch with that "kinder, gentler" Ace. Not so much because I sometimes think my action-figure-loving childhood might have been even better with Barbies and a dollhouse (the better to act out my little overactive imagination scenarios that mostly featured G.I. Joes and "Star Wars" figures). But just because I think I do have a softer side underneath it all - I've been known to sniffle a bit - and JUST A BIT! - during movies, or TV shows, even the occasional commercial. That sort of thing, anyway.

Still, the other day, I think my "beta male" vibe hit a nadir.

Bad enough I'm getting addicted to a show on the O! Oxygen Network for crying out loud.

But this was a double-whammy the likes of which nearly required a hooker, or at least some porn, to restore appropriate testosterone levels.

What happened? You ask?

(Or have you given up and sat back to await my next post, which might address the Chris Benoit tragedy?)

Well, if you're still reading, here's how it went down:

Marisa has a game called "Battle of the Sexes," in which the object is to answer trivia questions that should be obvious to members of the opposite gender, while mysterious to your own.

For instance, I kept asking her questions off cards related to things like tools and sports. She kept asking me questions off cards related to things like makeup and fashion.

I kicked her ass.

And then, a couple of days later, when I played a team of her, her kid sister and a good friend, I kicked their asses, too.

Which is to say, I know a lot about things like... makeup and fashion.

Urp?

Yeah, I'm good at trivia games, generally. But for crying out loud. I can't cook, I don't wear makeup and I dress like a retired jock. And yet, I know a helluva lot about food, makeup and clothing... and other things stereotypically popular with women, but not (straight) men.

This was a somewhat mixed blessing. On the one hand, I got to gloat about winning. Twice. On the other hand, it made me start to question my relationship with my testes and their natural function.

Still, I might have laughed everything off and chalked it up to my superior trivia skills, except...

Then something else happened.

It was Marisa's turn to pick our movie-of-the-week (hey, she sat through "300," and in a theater, no less. So we've agreed to alternate picking films, even though the first two I picked were romantic comedies I thought she'd like. (See "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"for example.)

Anyway, despite that bit of give/effort to impress her, she opted to not choose a favorite movie (of hers) in a favorite genre (of mine).

She picked "Bridget Jones's Diary."

And I loved it.

Laughed my ass off.

Grinned with delight when the right guy gets the girl.

Called the "twist" before it even happened.

And... wanted to cry.

Not about the movie. About my sudden, near-complete, conversion from beta-male extraordinaire to...

What?

I don't even know what this means.

Except that I'll probably have to turn in my membership card in the Manly Men of America Society.

(OK, so I have no affiliation whatsoever with that site. It just came up on a Google search for "Manly Men of America Society," a term I made up on the spot. And I wanted a link.)

Now, anybody got a copy of "Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason"that I can borrow?

Oh, I do hope she (SPOILER!) hangs on to that D'arcy fellow.

A rare, random follow-up post

Marisa and I were sort of randomly talking this weekend about stuff, and I remembered a post I wrote a long time ago (well, relatively speaking) about the five things I was looking for in a partner.

After some blog-searching, I found it.

This one right here.

Anyway, I turned out to be eight things. So while we were laughing about it, I thought I'd run down the list right here. A sort of update.

It started out as a survey (I got tagged by Freak). So what'd I write?

1. She should be able to put up with me.
Check. I knew she was a keeper when she bought into the whole monkey thing.

2. She should be attractive to me.
Check. Beautiful. And yet delightfully not perfect. But perfect to, and for, me.

3. We should have shared interests.
Check. Ish. We like some of the same things, and are often interested in the other things the other likes. See No. 5 below.

4. We should be able to communicate and/or compromise.
Check. Despite the fact that, well, she can be stubborn as a mule. And y'all know me. But we do love talking with each other.

5. She should be able to teach me things.
Check. Vegetarian cooking, traveling to interesting places and much more.

6. She must, must, must must, must be faithful.
Check. This is probably even more important to her than to me.

7. She must not have a father who hates me or potentially could hate me.
Check. So far, so good. He's a really nice guy. Keep your fingers crossed.

8. She should be independent.
Check. I've got to get used to the twentysomething love of the text message and cell phone, but otherwise, all's good. I need to be alone to do something, she leaves me alone. And vice versa.

Oh, and 9. She should be able to drive.
Check. She likes driving even more than me.

And you want to hear the oddest thing?

I answered that survey Feb. 6, 2006. Almost exactly a year to the day we went on our first date (Feb. 3, 2007). Isn't that bizarre?

She said yes!

As of Sunday night, I am engaged!

After a small scavenger hunt that included most every room in my house, most every stuffed monkey in my possession and a few trips up and down the stairs, Marisa ended up on my back balcony, where I asked her to marry me.

As the title says, she said yes.

Which officially makes me the happiest munkee on the planet.

It was a good day. My first day engaged to her, my first day as the boss of my copy desk, the first day of the rest of my life.

I'm not a religious man, but I actually paused to thank God for the blessings in my life, something I don't do often enough, but do more often now that I have her, and truly know what it means to be blessed.

I always tell her she's the third-best thing that ever happened to me, because you have to understand the circumstances of my life. Getting out of Vietnam, and even better, being given to my parents, will always have to be No. 1 and No. 2, because without them, I would have nothing, and that includes her.

But there's nothing in my life since I was two months old that can top the way I feel every day I'm with her.

From our first date, when we talked for hours amid all the nervousness and evaluation, to the night we stayed up all night talking, to that scaredmunkee first kiss, to the first night we spent together, to the first time, well, nevermind that, but you get the point. My life changed.

I can't remember the last time I truly believed my life was good, and wasn't just talking myself into it. My life has been good since the day we met.

It probably seems sudden, after just three and a half months, but when you know in your heart and soul that something is so wonderful, and patience isn't your strong suit, you just can't wait.

So I couldn't wait. I know what I want. Who I want. For the rest of my life.

Evidently, she agrees. Because she said yes. And made me the happiest munkee alive. But I said that already.

Now, how to get a wedding cake imported from Wisconsin...

Why I went ring shopping (the long version)

"Please, God, don't let him quote lyrics."
~ President Haney, "My Fellow Americans"

"Had you been there tonight,
you might know how it feels
to be struck to the bone
in a moment of breathless delight.

Had you been there tonight,
you might also have known
how your world may be changed
in just one burst of light,

and what was right seems wrong,
and what was wrong seems right..."
~ Marius, "Les Miserables"

I'm pretty sure back when I started dating Marisa I promised this wouldn't become a relationship blog. Because, after all, who wants that?

Trust me, I'm not so far removed from abject loneliness that I can't remember what it was like to gaze upon happy couples with something that falls between sheer bitterness and complete hatred.

But the thing is, in the three months since our first date - three months today - my entire life is changed.

And not just because I got the promotion I've been working toward for seven years today, effective in a few weeks. I don't even want to think about the stress that's going to add.

No, I'm talking about how my life has changed away from work.

Which in and of itself is a change. After all, when you have nothing waiting at home but some DVDs, beer and a stuffed monkey, there's really no reason to hustle out of the office at the end of the day.

Still, I had a pretty good life. Make good money, own my own house, had my nice set little routine. Everything just so. What I wanted, I bought, and put it exactly where I wanted it. The routine of an empty life trying to be filled.

For those just catching up, I was engaged once, a long time ago, from the time I was 19 1/2 to about 22. I believed in my heart and soul that I knew what love was, that I was one of the lucky ones who got a chance to know how it felt, even if things didn't quite go as I planned.

That was the memory that sometime between my 30th birthday and Feb. 3, I decided was probably enough to be some small comfort as I grew old alone, that guy at the office who people always whispered about behind his back: "He's such a nice guy. Wonder why he never got married?" "I heard somebody broke his heart." Etc.

I won't insult the memory of that love by saying it wasn't any such thing.

But over the past three months, I've found out that love has depths, levels, that go far beyond anything I ever imagined. Ever understood.

I was in love a second time, I think, back when I was 25. It also ended badly, and I suspect part of the reason - and most of the reason it ended badly was my fault - I suspect part of the reason was that I was gun-shy. Holding something back. Or maybe wanting so badly to believe, that my emotions were as out of control as the rest of my life back then. Or maybe just that my broken heart hadn't quite healed.

One three-month girlfriend in seven years, spiced with countless disastrous dates, changed all that.

In some ways, I went from a coward to a quitter. I drank my ass off at Mardi Gras a couple of weeks before my 30th birthday.

"29, you think I'd know better, living like a kid..."
~ Gin Blossoms, "29"

There I was, down in NOLA, God bless it, bleached-blonde spiked hair, shitfaced drunk, dancing with college girls and hitting on bartendrixes and just cherishing every touch, every bit of human (female) contact.

Because when I got home, in the midst of the movie and a vague case of clinical depression, somewhere along the way, I'd lost hope.

I often like to think, in my melodramatic way, that life is game. One I used to think I could win. And when I thought I couldn't, I'd change the victory conditions.

So love stopped being something that mattered. Because it was never going to come. I spent my money on toys and DVDs and video games and limited-edition horror fiction and prescription drugs to keep me sane.

And I found a quasi-happy medium. Life was good. Not great, not wonderful, but good. I could live with good. It beat bad. And on the nights I cried, alone in bed in the dark, thinking of my sins and karma and wondering where I'd gone so horribly wrong and if I deserved my fate... well, I lied to myself until I believed it was truth. I was going to be fine.

I had my best friend's kids to play with. It was what I'd settle for since I knew I would never have any of my own. I joked about my parents' desire for grandchildren, since I knew I would inevitably disappoint them.

I realized that I could add something to my list of fears: Being that old man who dies alone, and no one misses him, so the mail piles up until finally some bill collector kicks in the door and that's how they find him, mummified, still in front of the TV. Unwept, unloved.

I realize I'm rambling a bit, but I don't know if I can explain where I am without explaining how I got here. Hell, I don't know if I can explain it at all.

The point is, three months ago today, my life changed.

I may not have known it at the time. I was too busy being scared of opening up, being overanalytical about my body and hers, trying to remember if I'd told the damn joke on this date or one of the many Matches of the past.

But I met a girl. We'd talked on the phone and had a great laugh, and e-mailed every day, but this was a date. Meeting in person. Face to face.

Trying not to get those damn lentils on my shirt.

We talked so long they kicked us out of the restaurant. We talked at the bar until it got so loud we couldn't hear each other.

I got a second date, and that glimmer of hope. I went home and pondered and overthought and lied to myself in the dark. It went well, but first dates had gone well before.

I didn't know.

The second date, wasn't so good - turned out she wasn't feeling well - but I left it kicking myself and expecting bad news when I e-mailed my usual thank-you/prayer the next day.

But I got a third date, and still baffled by that, I went balls-out as far as showing off. I took her to the best restaurant I knew of in the area and figured I had nothing to lose but a bunch of money. I was tired of the dating game and, frankly, if this wasn't it, I was about ready to quit.

Heck, I was e-mailing another Match at the time, and couldn't even bring myself to ask her out to dinner.

The dinner went well. I walked her to her car, and we were chatting in the cold. And freezing. So I gritted my teeth and asked her back. I swore my intentions were anything but nefarious. I just didn't want to stop our conversation.

We talked all night. And I do mean all night. When I walked her to her car, again, it was something like five in the morning, and we'd barely touched. Just talked. And laughed.

And there, at the car, we kissed. Nervous as a fuckin' schoolboy, I. I don't know why. It's not like I never kissed a girl before.

I lied. I do know why, I think. I think it was because I never wanted to kiss somebody well in all my life. I never wanted a kiss to be perfect more.

I don't know why, exactly. I think I know, but I don't have the right words (me, a writer, hah!).

What I know is, I'll never forget that kiss as long as I live. Just a little kiss, there in the cool dawn. A little shy, maybe a little embarrassed that I'm out there kissing a girl on my street at that hour.

Just a little kiss. My first thought was that she had the softest lips I've ever felt. My second thought, well, that just went all to hell because...

My life changed.

Right there, on the street, in that wee hour of the morning.

I don't even know if I knew it at the time. You know what they say about that feeling in the bit of your stomach just turning out to be indigestion?

I was scared. Confused. Hopeful. All wrapped into one. That's a lot of emotions all at once. A lot of emotions I hadn't felt in a long time.

For years, I'd told myself I'd be cautious with my heart. Once bitten, twice shy and all that. I told myself I'd be prudent. Careful. I'd rushed into love twice and been hurt both times.

I swore so many times, alone in the dark, that it wouldn't happen again.

And it didn't.

Because I stopped believing in love at first whatever. "The one." All of those things I used to believe that got beaten out of me by fate, or whatever you want to call it.

Then it hit. Like a bolt of lightning. Love. And I never saw it coming.

I try to look back at three months and figure out when, exactly, I fell in love.

I'm going with that kiss. I don't know if that's the exact spot, because I don't know anymore what was me lying to myself and trying to protect myself from something in my head, and what was real and I just didn't let myself recognize it.

But I really think it happened somewhere along the way, not much later, when I wasn't alone in the dark anymore, but with someone.

With her.

I wrote something on my Match profile that said something about what I wanted most was to lie in bed, in the dark, and put my arms around someone and feel like home.

I don't know if that's a turn of the poet's phrase, a pathetic sort of honesty, or a Hallmark card waiting to happen.

But the damndest thing happened.

My wish came true.

I'm still scared. I'm scared I'll wake up. And it won't be real.

I'm not a religious man. But I pray every day now. I thank God because I'm not so sure I deserve this. But I dreamed of it, and it's here, and sometimes I think of all the things I've done, and all the nights I prayed for forgiveness, prayed for redemption, prayed for one-last-chance-and-I-swear-to-fucking-God-I-won't-blow-this-one-prettyplease.

I found love. In all of its wonder, all the wonder I thought I'd known only to find out I knew nothing of the sort.

And she's beautiful, and kind, and generous, and endearingly goofy and the most amazing thing is, she loves me, too. Every bit as much and more. I can see my future - ours - in her eyes.

I used to say that the best day of my life was the day I got engaged, because no matter what happened afterward, that day was wonderful. I meant it, too. Right up until somewhere around mid-March.

But I swear, it feels like there's a moment every day these days that's better than that. Because of her.

And trust me, I've (over)thought it all. Is it loneliness? Desperation? Has it been so long I'd forgotten? None of the above.

To hug her. To kiss her. Just to hear her voice on the telephone, brings a smile like you wouldn't believe. A feeling of comfort, safety, peace.

You could take everything else in my life, save my family and friends, and she'd be enough.

I used to say I'd seen the gates of heaven once. Once upon a time, that glimpse might've been enough.

But this time, I think they let me in. And I found an angel.

I think of her every moment we're not together. At least, that's the way it feels.

And when we are together?

The best of it is, I can put my arms around her in the dark, feel her body next to mine, feel her very soul wrap itself around mine to keep me warm, and it really does feel like home.

She's the best in my life.

I don't know what I did to deserve this, and I pray every day, please God, don't ever let this end.

Because sometimes, when we can't be together, I'm alone, but I can feel in my heart, in my soul, that I'll never be lonely again.

I'm in love. And I never want this feeling to end.

More.

I never want to let Marisa go. Because it's not love that I'm in love with. It's her.

So that stupid look that's been fixed on my face for weeks? It's joy. Joy so great, I think my face doesn't quite remember how to make the right expression.

And that's the long version of why I went ring shopping.

Because I've found the woman I've waited my life for. I've found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. I know it in my heart, my soul and everywhere in between. I'm not a boy anymore, I'm a man, and I know the difference between what's now and what was then.

So, 32 years after I left a war zone for the American Dream, I've found peace. I've found that dream, complete. I've found someone to share it with, too, and that makes all the difference in the world.

Thirty-two years of living, and my life climbed the ramp to perfect in about 14 weeks.

Three months ago today, my life changed forever. It's a great day. These days, in my life, every day's a great day.

Isn't that wild?

(* Disclaimer: I'm not writing this to show off or brag, I swear. I wish you all could feel the way I feel, if you don't already. I've just thought of it so much today that I can't help but write it down. Like if I don't let some of the joy out, I'll just burst from sheer happiness. Thanks for indulging me.

** Disclaimer 2: No, I haven't actually bought anything yet. Much less given anything. But I'm really enjoying looking. Mom.)

Recovery time!

If you're wondering, yes, I'm back from Scotland.

I've just been a bit busy. I'll get to stuff like reformatting the above-linked Lowlands Diary soon. Just got some stuff to catch up on the next couple of weeks and then, presto! Suddenly, my life is (relatively) easier.

So pardon the relative lack of postage the past, and next, few days.

One thing that's occupied my mind recently, just to give y'all something to discuss amongst yourselves: Am I really that transparent?

Everybody's telling me how happy I look, and when the subject of Marisa comes up, inevitably people seem to be asking things like, "Are you going to get married?"

We haven't even been dating for three months (almost!). And yes, even if I am (relatively, this is me we're talking about...) deliriously happy, does it show that much?

Was I that much of a downer before that even the remotest bit of happiness has people wondering if I'm off ring shopping*?

Wait. Don't answer that.

My high school tennis coach used to say you could tell how my match was going from across the park, so I guess I'm not really that good at hiding my emotions. Maybe it's just been so long since I've been this happy - if I ever have - that I've forgotten how I look.

And some people, who haven't known me as long as I have, have never seen me that way.

Not that I'm complaining about being happy. But I think it's ruining my reputation as a glowering, snark- and venom-spewing, anti-social barbarian.

Eh. You win some, you lose some.

(* Oh, and if you're wondering, those rings have gotten damn expensive since the last time I went nosing around about one. Not that I bought one. I just asked. Mom.)

I did well for myself, huh?

That's my girl and me...

What do you think? I did alright, didn't I?

I promise, this is the last time I put up something sappy like this without good reason.

Well, there might be a reason: I met her parents this weekend. I did well, I think, which stands in stark contrast to prior gf's parental types.

Maybe that's a story worth telling.

Just not today. I'm in too good a mood.

Off topic, "300" kicks complete and utter ass.

And yes, we went together. She's that kind of girl. Lucky me, huh? 'Cause I couldn't deal with somebody who wouldn't let me indulge myself from time to time.

(And she paid... ain't she awesome?)

(Yes, Mom, I bought dinner. You didn't raise a complete barbarian.)

Munkee Python's the Meaning of Life

I've been pondering the meaning of life the past few days. Well, the meaning of love and life.

I've been dating a girl - Marisa - and as we've gotten more serious, it's had me thinking a lot about the past, present and ... dare I dream? ... future.

As many of you probably know, I was engaged once, a long time ago, and it didn't work out. I was young, innocent, naive, a lot of things both good and bad. And I dreamed. I figured out back then my sort-of definition of love: If you can hold someone, look at someone, look into their eyes, and see your future... if you want to see them every moment you're not with them, and it's got nothing to do with sex or loneliness... if you smile when you think about the next time you'll be together, even if you're just going to be sitting around...

I've been in love twice, at least by my reckoning. And not to put the cart ahead of the horse in my brand-new relationship, but I mean, let's be real. I'm 32 years old. I've been on so many Match.com dates, if I get to a third one I start forgetting what stories and jokes I've told to whom. I'm not looking for casual sex, much as I've enjoyed it (in my admittedly limited experience). I'm not looking for someone to keep me company because I've got nothing better to do and no one to hang out with.

I would like to meet the woman I'll spend the rest of my life with.

I thought I had, once upon a time. I did a lot of things right and probably a lot more things wrong. And then, after years of brooding and wondering and questioning, I got what I thought was a second chance.

I threw myself in, head-first, and in six months, had a more intense relationship than the four-and-a-half years of the one before. And it ended in disaster.

Lesson: You can't MAKE it work. You can't fight your way to victory in love. Love isn't a hockey game. Life isn't a hockey game.

Much as I wish it were different. Simpler.

But as I've gotten older, and maybe traded some of the fire in my belly for maturity, as I've passed the age at which my father married - late, for the time - as I've bought a house, and made out a will, and thought about my parents dying, and my own death...

I find I want something different. That doesn't mean settling. No, never that. But something different from what I used to want. And really, something more. Security, comfort, mutual devotion. I don't need someone who's crazy - but exciting! - and although I don't want someone boring, I want someone stable. Someone interesting. Someone I enjoy talking with even more than having wild sex with. Someone I enjoy holding in my arms when I dream.

(Not that there's anything wrong with wild sex. I'm getting older, but I'm not dead, eh?)

In short, my outlook on relationships has gone from sports car to SUV, kind of like my outlook on vehicles. No reason to live fast and die young. There's glory in that, but not the kind I seek.

I guess I just realized I want something different out of my life than I thought I did in my younger, wilder, more aggressive days. I'm not that guy anymore. I'm still me, just a newer - and hopefully better - version.

I used to wonder if my selling out for love as a teenager and losing it had ruined me. If I could repair a broken heart all the way, or if I was destined to never be able to give that much again, out of fear, out of hurt, out of shame.

I don't know if you ever can repair a broken heart and make it good as mint-in-box new, but I've learned I'm not ruined. I've learned I can love again, and I don't have to wait for and wish for perfection - I just have to find the person who's perfect for me.

Does that make any sense? Don't you hate when I get philosophical like that?

As for whether or not the third time's a charm, and I'm in love with Marisa, and whether or not I can see our future in her eyes... Well, that's between her and me.

That's right, suckers, you read this far and you don't even get an answer. Hey, I may be older and wiser, but I'm still me!

Insert big grin here.

Yellow men can't wrap...

An announcement: I have survived my holiday shopping.

As is my wont, I hit the mall like a hurricane for a day of hostilities, hypertension and entertainment.

(You may notice, on the Bridgewater Commons page linked above, a picture of a child holding a stuffed monkey not too different from my own! Bonusmunkee!)

And now, with presents for many, many people in hand, I can relax.

I'm too wiped out to do the remaining things on my monkey-do list, but that's sort of par for the course. I've gotten most of what I had to get done, done this weekend, but not most of the things I merely wanted to get done.

None of this is to say I don't like either a) shopping; or b) buying gifts for others. If I may say so without sounding disingenuous, I've reached the point in my life where I actually enjoy buying gifts for others probably more than I enjoy buying things for myself. That's not to say I don't spend plenty of my money on myself. I mean, duh, I'm human. But I do get a genuine joy out of buying something unexpected, and/or something special, for someone I care about.

This year's big gift, I think some of you know about, but I won't detail until after the holidays because, well, the recipient reads this blog and I want it to be a surprise.

But my mall and bookstore misadventures were generally successful and provided all the broad-shouldered shoving one little munkee can take on any given day.

I also got my holiday cards in the mail. In contrast, I rather hate doing those. Not because I don't like to think of the people I'm sending them to - and isn't that really the point? - but just because I lack whatever sort of skills are necessary to make them quality efforts. So it's more a chore to try and make them pleasant and fun, than it is a joy to send them and wish people well for the coming days and year. I wish there were a better way, or a better way I knew of.

On a more positive note, I have acquired every gift I need but one. So I don't have to brave the mall traffic, which this year was shockingly not too bad. Perhaps because I did my shopping late on a Sunday.

Which, on a more negative note, means I have to wrap gifts. Also something for which I, in some infamous words, lack the necessities to be good at. I can't wrap a decent package to save my life. So you can always spot mine in the crowd. It's the ugly one, but hey, it's what's inside that counts, right?

(Except maybe for Dave's kids, who really do like tearing the things apart.)

And really, it's the thought that counts. So, considering my antisocial tendencies, I'd like to think that whether it's taking the time to try to write something witty on a card, or ordering something custom-made in a foreign country...

(Speaking of which, did you know Polo makes its socks in not one, not two, but three different foreign countries? Yes, somebody asked for socks this year. And if you ask for socks, you're getting them!)

... I'd like to think that the people I love and care about know the way I feel, regardless of the lame note in the card, or the utter lack of surprise in the gift that's exactly what they asked for.

And hopefully, the two most important people on my list, my Mom and Dad, enjoy the gifts I carefully chose (or ordered) for them. Because they're the most important people in my life, the people who have done the most for me, and if it truly is the thought that counts, I want their gifts to be the best, and I don't think I could give them enough.

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming, "JAG" on DVD.

Guaranteed neurosis

So after all my confusion about this mysterious "tagging," I got tagged. And it really is just like the game, it seems. Freak tagged me. And also tagged just about every other regular single blogger I know who might read this and who I might conceivably tag. This isn't starting well.

So what'd she tag me with?

Describing my perfect partner in eight requirements. This got me thinking.

And that's never a good thing.

Because, fundamentally, there's perfection, then there's reality. And then, of course, there's acceptability.

So let's set some ground rules before I describe my "perfect" partner. First off, I'm trying to be reasonable here - because after all, Keira Knightly could be a royal brat in real life, but I have no idea, just a sad little crush. Secondly, I'm not stating my minimums, but aspiring to something greater - and I feel guilty about that. I was in love once, and ladies, just because you don't fit the list doesn't mean I couldn't be in love with you. Third, OK, I understand I'm not perfect. A guy like me is going to have to compete for any woman who lives up to these standards. But it's a fantasy world. So I'm going to indulge myself. Fourth and final, remember, I'm trying to list the things I'd want in a woman who might actually exist here on Earth. And be MY perfect partner. Forever and ever.

That out of the way, here goes. These are not necessarily in order of importance, but more like the order I think them up. Oh, and keep in mind, I'll give what I get - I expect my girl would have a list of eight of her own, and I'd do my best to live up to it.

1. She should be able to put up with me. Look, I may not be as weird as it seems if you only know me from this blog, but at the very least I'm quirky. And I'm at least a little weird, if not a lot. I have a variety of interests, a series of nervous tics, a dreadful aversion to mornings and I snore like a chainsaw. She's got to be able to deal with them all without nagging me about them. I'm 30 years old. This is who I am. Yes, I can stop talking to my stuffed monkey in front of her. No, I will not stop playing Dungeons & Dragons with my friends. Yes, it's important to me to craft a well-rounded, interesting character for said game. No, I will not stop screaming at the TV while the Raiders are blowing another &#$#ing game. And so on. I promise, I'll try my best to be tolerant of her quirks, too.

2. She should be attractive to me. Yeah, it's shallow. But I'm not talking about Body By Goddess here. I'm saying she has to be attractive enough that a) I want her all the time; and b) I'm not embarassed to put her picture on my desk at work. Y'all know at least one co-worker whose spouse, in a desktop photo, is so freakin' ugly you feel sorry for the guy/girl for having to go home to that. Ideally for me, maybe a blonde, or an Asian. Nice breasts. Some curves, but not too fat. My theory, which may be a bad one, is that I'm probably a "6" or "6.5" if you like broad-shouldered Asians. So I figure I'm entitled to at least a "5." And I would be delighted with a "7." I don't really have a type, though Stephanie's coloring was vaguely reminiscent of Michelle's (pale skin, auburn hair, pretty face), they were built completely different. You get the point. Sexy is good. Great. Point is: I want to be able to look at her and see love, and lust, and everything in between.

3. We should have shared interests. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean we have to like the same things and do the same things together. But it would be nice to be able to do things together we both enjoy. For me, big ones would be sports and horror movies - I know they're not high on a lot of girls' lists, but they're things I love. A guy can only take so many long walks and visits to museums - I like those, too, but come on. You guys know me. Can you imagine a girl who hates sports, dating me? And I am not going to live my life with someone who resents my interests. (Guess that sort of makes this a corollary to #1.) I know people that's happened to, and it's not pretty. Again, I'm 30 years old, and I like what I like. What would be even better is if we really did share a lot of interests - I remember fondly playing SOM hockey with Steph, and watching movies with Michelle, and even road trips with my friend Sari, who I've never gone out with but have gone places with. I guess what I mean is she ought to be good company. Life is best when shared with someone else.

4. We should be able to communicate and/or compromise. Look, I'll give a little. I'll give a lot. But I've been in relationships where I'm the only one giving, and frankly, that burns me out, and frankly, that brings out the worst in me. I'm easy to get along with, mostly. As for communication, I'm honest, to a fault. I want honesty back. I'd rather be told my shirt's hideous and should be thrown away than have this become some kind of festering bit of anger. Plus, I like to talk, and I like to converse. I want to be able to talk to, and converse with, and ask questions of, whoever I'm with. Yes, at the risk of sounding riduculously feminine, I want to be able to snuggle up with someone at night and talk about my hopes and dreams, her hopes and dreams, OUR hopes and dreams.

5. She should be able to teach me things. By this, I don't mean math. I mean, I want someone who will help me grow as a person. It could be actually literally teaching me things, like cooking. Nothing too girly like knitting, please. But it could also be showing me a better way to live, a better way to think, a deeper connection, whatever. This doesn't mean she has to be a genius. She can be downright stupid - but I'm sure there are things I can learn from stupid people. I'm a bright, somewhat naive little munkee. I can be trained. But I like to be impressed. And not just by shiny, pretty things.

6. She must, must, must must, must be faithful. That's my one demand of any partner. Faithfulness. I got cheated on once. Maybe twice. It's not about pride, it's not about sex or power. It's about honesty and trust. I'm trusting, but once my trust is violated, I have a very difficult time building it back up. Maybe it's a flaw on my part. But I have NEVER cheated on a girl, and I NEVER will. (NEVER intend to? I usually never say never, but my honor is important to me.) I expect the same courtesy. I demand it.

7. She must not have a father who hates me or potentially could hate me. Been there. Done that. More than once. Maybe it's me. I don't care.

8. She should be independent. I am. I mean, it's great to spend as much time as you can with the person you love, but I don't want someone who demands I be around all the time. I need time to myself, I need time to go out with my other friends (I hope she gets along, or even comes along, but you know how it is, sometimes you just want a beer with the guys), I need a little independence. I'm fair about this - she's certainly entitled, too. But while I'm happy to make a woman my No. 1 priority in life, she can't insist on being my ONLY priority.

Oh, and 9. She should be able to drive. I've got bad luck with that.

Um, I guess I should tag someone now. Except I don't know anybody single who wasn't tagged already. So if you want to be tagged, post a comment and I'll tag you. Otherwise... it's Monkey or nothing.

You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!

So after another round of semi-successful Match.com dating, I was giving some thought to updating my profile description, which is a sort of mix of "inspired," "ridiculous" and "resigned."

The thing is, I've noticed women SAY they want certain things in a guy, and fresh off being called "cute and funny" at a party last weekend - by someone I doubt I'll ever date - I was pondering just what I could say to make my profile more interesting.

The fundamental flaw in the strategy is, of course, it's not that I don't have much luck GETTING the dates. I get a fair amount for a not-drop-dead-gorgeous guy. It's getting past, say, the second date.

So maybe it's just me.

That said, I found myself pondering what women SAY they want. (It's not that I don't believe them. It's that I don't really understand women. So they could be lying.)

Women say they want (in no particular order):

1. Someone honest
2. Someone smart
3. Someone who will make them laugh
and frequently,
4. Someone who likes the outdoors

So three out of four ain't bad. I'm honest, to a fault. I'm smart, probably too smart for my own good. And I'm funny as hell, or at least I think so. The outdoors, the wildlife can have.

But the thing is, near as I can tell, either all women want the same thing - which I know from dating several isn't true - or they're almost all lying.

Because face it, I wrote a profile on the damn site. I lied. Well, I didn't lie. I tried to put myself in the best light possible, and downplay my flaws, plus be diplomatic and generally avoid saying unpleasant things. I'm no salesman, but I figure that's a bad way to attract women, being a complete jackass. I could be wrong.

If I were really to tell the truth, would women want that kind of honesty? I don't think so. They say they want honesty, but I really do wonder.

The joke I always read is about Match's unfortunate request to list your "body type." This one was written by a guy, interpreting how women answer (Match's phraseology first). Note I DIDN'T WRITE THIS, I'm merely citing/paraphrasing it:

1. Athletic and Toned = Thin enough
2. Slender = Acceptable
3. About Average = A little chunky
4. A Few Extra Pounds = Fat
5. Curvy = Hey, round is a shape
6. Full-figured = Holy @"#&ing #$&#!

So back to the honesty part. I put "About Average." My doctor says I have A Few Extra Pounds, but be honest: Have you seen most guys these days? I'm not skinny, and I've got a bit of a beer gut. But I'm built broad and I carry it well. And I've actually been told that by women, so that's an outside opinion. I can see my wee-wee, and I can see my feet. That's better than most. I used to put "Athletic" on another site, because I am. But "toned" I'm definitely not. I don't have THOSE kind of six-pack abs. I have the kind your average ex-jock yelling from the cheap seats has. Abs COVERED BY six packs.

(Aside, Asian women, I've noticed, have a very different opinion of what constitutes a few extra pounds than white women. So round down.)

Now that I've explained that I'm stretching the truth, but no further than I'm stretching my boxer waistband, I ask again. Do women really want the truth? And does it really matter?

After all, if you think I'm ugly - and I've always figured I'm a "you've gotta like the type" kind of guy, maybe a 6-6.5, a 7 if you like the type - do you really care if I've got some love handles? No, you think I've got a lousy haircut, worse complexion and the makings of a second chin. But I put a recent picture up. With the same lousy haircut and bad complexion, etc. It's a good picture, not one of those bullshit too-close-out-of-focus-I'm-not-showing-my-body kind of deals. Look at my pictures on Match, you'll be able to spot me in a bar. We Asians all look alike, but not THAT much.

You want the truth? I'm fairly inept around women. I get nervous, I talk too much, I'll look at their chest if they show a lot of cleavage, I never know what to say, and I do a lousy job of hiding my feelings, good or bad. But that's not going to get me dates. Is it fair to hide that little bit of truth? Because some women have, in the past, found me quite charming. And I've got plenty of friends and co-workers who think I'm witty as hell. But really, who'd go on a date with a guy whose profile says "hey, I'd love to date you, just don't expect Mr. Smooth." One girl I went out with laughed like hell when I told her the way we were sitting at the movies, I wasn't going to be able to show her my move. Singular. (I did get to show it, with decent success. I still didn't get a second date. This is why I don't understand women.)

Other truths too ugly to tell: The site asks you for your ideal match. So I said I'd rather have someone I could talk with than someone who's all looks and no personality. (I mean, I said it a little smoother than that. Not much...) That's the truth. It's not that I have a low standard in beauty, it's that I find many different kinds of women attractive. I find that there are certain types, everyone knows they're hot, but I find many women attractive who aren't hot in the traditional sense. But fair's fair. If I think you're ugly as sin, I'm not sending you an e-mail because I don't want to date you. Really, I expect the same from others so I don't see anything wrong with this.

But I have one real turn-off. I find there's a line of overweight that ceases to be curvy and cuddly and starts becoming fat and unpleasant to look at. There. That's truth. How many of you are starting to prepare your nasty comment already? Look, as I've already stated on the record, I'm not exactly skin-and-bones. I'm a 5-9, 200+ pound guy. I don't think it's unfair that I don't want to sleep with a woman who's bigger than I am. And frankly, I found this out the hard way. No pun intended. I went out with someone, who shall remain nameless, and when we finally got nekkid, well, I wish she'd kept her clothes on. Sorry. It's true. I wonder if anyone's ever felt the same way about me. Maybe. I can live with that.

But who the hell says that? That's the kind of truth, much like the way Jack Nicholson guards Gitmo, that some people can't handle. Where's the line between tact and decency and honesty. If I opt for a Policy of Truth a la Depeche Mode, and say "no fat chicks" on my profile... well, that makes me an asshole, doesn't it? But does it make me more of an asshole to reject the overweight women who've contacted me and/or I've gone out on a date with (people lie, and pictures flatter, let's face it) and make up some other reason why I don't want to see them again?

I don't know. I already don't understand women. Maybe I don't understand life. I had this conversation with a girl I met on Match when I said I don't see why people don't hit the "reject" button on a communication - it's easy, it's free, and it's honest. If I don't want to date you from seeing your profile, I'll hit the little button that says "thanks but no thanks" because I figure it's only fair that you know one way or another. You contacted me, clearly you're interested.

But almost no one ever responds to my little communiques. Match keeps a list of the people you've contacted (they call them "Connections," but they don't have to be two-way, so it's a little presumptuous/ridiculous. I just delete people when I see that they've been online more recently than I sent my Wink (the little communique) or e-mail or whatever - and haven't replied.

But I reply to everyone who Winks/e-mails/etc. The girl I was talking with said it's because women are non-confrontational and don't want to just reject someone out of concern for their feelings. But if that's true, it's better that I ignore a women I don't find appealing, out of risk of hurting her feelings, rather than simply stating, hey, you're not my type?

To me, that's kind of messed up. Oh, I forgot... Women also want (5.) Someone who doesn't play games.

The only games I play are tennis, Strat hockey, D&D and stuff made by EA Sports.

But the whole Match dance-of-death is a game, isn't it? I just want to find a girl, talk to her a little, go on a date and see if we like each other and are hot for each other, and take it from there. This other bullshit I just don't get.

I guess I'm fairly good at relationships (not so good at the end, but good at the meaty part) and just not very good at "dating." Every good relationship I've had I've kind of stumbled into.

Speaking of which, that's another bit of honesty that women really don't want.

I was in love once. That shows I'm capable of deep feelings, romance, commitment and other stuff women SAY they want.

But it's also something that's over, and that I may never recover from. Well, not that I'll never recover from, but that I've never been the same after. I guess I'm scarred. (Not a typo. I'm scared, too, but not right now.) Does someone dating me want to know that truth? Do they want to know that the stranger they're about to me is brimming with hope at the possibility of finding love, and at the same time broken somewhere inside and just hoping to find someone who can help him heal?

No. That's fucking psycho and scary. But I'm not psycho and scary, at least no more than I ever was. Honest.

Someone told me once you can't love someone else if you don't love yourself. I don't think that's true. I was in love, and I don't know that I loved myself. I didn't really have to: I loved HER. But I guess when she was gone, that didn't leave much left. But I've gotten older. I don't know if I love myself (not a euphemism) but I think I at least like myself. Most of the time.

Women say they want (6.) Loyalty. I'd fight to the death for someone I love. That sounds good in theory. Not so good in practice, like when you have to deal with certain Complete And Utter Shit almost-future-father-in-laws. Is that really what women want? Someone who'd actually kill for them?

(Hey, I'm not THAT psycho. I wouldn't kill just random people on the street. But I am old-fashioned, and believe me, if my Complete and Utter Shit almost-future-father-in-law actually LIVED in the 19th century instead of just thinking that way, I'd have 10-paces-turn-and-Aaron-Burr'd his ass, no question. I don't care what he thought of me. He insulted my mother so badly she wouldn't repeat what he said - saintly woman - and deliberately hurt the girl I loved, just because she loved me. That's not something to forgive or forget. Hell, the acting governor of New Jersey threatened to smack a DJ who insulted his wife - I'm not completely crazy. But in hindsight, when you've had to be physically restrained from a guy - TWICE - he's probably not going to be too thrilled to walk his little girl down the aisle to you. No matter how glad he might be to hand her off to Someone Else's Problem World.)

Maybe there's something wrong with me. But I'm on medication. I've been to therapy. (Again, not things I list in my profile.) It can't be that bad.

But I just can't figure out how to get through this Match-bullshit-salesmanship thing without feeling guilty, like I'm misrepresenting myself. To know me is to love me. Really. And I'll tell you anything you want to know.

But in the end, I suspect, it just comes down to looks. So why can't women say (7.) Someone's who's freakin' hot? Hey, I'm accepting of who I am. I don't write to the people whose date isn't Asian (you can eliminate people on the basis of race and/or religion, among other things - and I really don't have a problem with that). I also don't list "full-figured" under my list of Stuff I'm Looking For. Fair's fair.

So in the end, I left my profile alone. The girls who write back say it's different. Evidently, "different" is good. And I'm as honest as I can be without being a turn-off. I admit my flaws. Some of them. Or at least masked as quirks.

Beause, face it, I don't want to wake up one morning next to my wife of a dozen years and find out she thought I was Person A and I'm really Person B. DM says you'll regret that Policy of Truth. But I think I'd regret a Policy of Lies more.

Links:
• Match.com - hey, it gets me dates
• What Women Want: Mel Gibson
• There'd be a link to some site about truth here, but they're just too scary

The thing I feel guiltiest about is feeling unloved. My parents love me with all their hearts. And I feel guilty that this is not enough. I don't understand why it's not. It's not their fault. That makes it mine, and that's why I feel guilty.

You want loving parents? My parents helped buy my ill-fated engagement ring. They paid for most of it, really.

And years later, after they'd sold the ring in NYC at a serious loss, they told me they knew we were never getting married. But I believed it, and they were willing to support that belief right up until it crumbled.

Bonus link: Why diamonds suck: note No. 3 about the resale value or lack thereof

(Something else you won't find in my profile: When I'm scared and depressed, as I am now after writing this post, I want to curl up under the covers and pretend I'm a tiny little munkee without a care in the world except whether I should spend my date swinging from my prehensile tail or just sit on my multicolored little butt and eat bananas. But no. I think I'll just play video games for a while.)