Life in the Long Term

Happy Anniversary, my Dashing Litigator

2007-08-24T08:25:00.000-05:00

Two years ago today, I was sitting nervously at a lively bar in a tapas restaurant awaiting your arrival.

Two years ago today, I couldn't have known how profoundly my life was about to change.

Two years ago today, 1,000 prayers said in the dark, alone in my bed, over many, many nights - were answered.

I know a lot of words. In the past, I have been awarded on my ability to spell a lot of words. And I've made a career of speaking other people's words aloud on stage. And yet, at this moment, I am without words, at a loss as to how to adequately convey what you mean to me. What you've done for me. Who you are to me.
But I will try.

First, you have healed me. For years I had been walking around completely convinced that I was healthy and whole, capable and sure. While underneath I was a mass of unseen cracks and crevices. But you were so patient with me, smoothing over my rough spots and creating a safe place for me to emerge from my cocoon. You didn't run from my frequent tears and anxieties. You simply wrapped your arms around me until they passed.

You have nourished me. Literally, in the countless delicious meals you have cooked for me. From coq a vin and risotto, to peanut butter toast and smoothies. And in each and every morsel, I have felt your love and care for me.

I have learned so much about myself from being with you. I never knew that I could give so much love and care so much for another as I do for you, that someone could matter to me so much. I now celebrate each calendar holiday as though it were my first...because everything seems fresh and new and takes on a deeper and more profound meaning with you .

I love our routine...but I don't like that word. Routine sounds so boring, so un-exciting. And my life with you is anything but. I love starting each day in your arms, I love hearing your voice singing as you dress - whether it's a take on Elvis or Johnny Cash - it never ceases to amuse me. I love our rides to work in the car...your hand on my leg, and my fingers tickling the back of your neck. Humdrum chores like cleaning and folding laundry suddenly become loving little things we do for the upkeep of our happy home.

I love our Duncan, and I love watching you be a 'dog daddy'. I am in awe of your devotion to him - to us, to our family. I am humbled by your generosity, astounded at your energy, grateful for your endless support of me and my dreams...however silly they are. You are my biggest fan, my most enthusiastic cheerleader, my date on a Saturday night, my fiercest backgammon opponent.
You are my best friend. You are the first one I call when I have good news, and the first one I run to for a hug. You know me - better than I know myself - you know my flaws, shortcomings and late bloomer tendencies - and you're still here.

Together we've come through the trials and tribulations of having a dog, we've survived vacations, extended stays and holidays with our respective families, moving (three times), taking the Bar (one time!), and time apart (Divas, Live!).

Together we've conquered co-habitation (3 months and counting), cranky landlords, weddings, inadequate dog boarding facilities, flight delays, luggage delays, flat tires and sickness - laughing through most of it.

My darling, you are quite simply the love of my life. I believe that God meant for us to be together. Perhaps it's our 'matching moles', our mutual love for good food, wine and Jackass, the way my hand fits so easily into yours, or perhaps it's something far deeper than that. I only know that I have never felt more at peace with myself or with another, than I do with you.

I am so proud to be with you, so honored that you choose me, and so thrilled to be your Carrie.

I love you, honey.

Happy Anniversary.

More from Duncan's Big Day...

2007-08-13T12:16:00.000-05:00

Duncan went for his first boat ride EVER, played with his new girlfriend Izzy, swam, ran, played catch...and then dropped when we got home.

Duncan's New Trick

2007-08-13T11:37:00.001-05:00

Duncan Dives Again!

2007-08-13T10:37:00.000-05:00

Proposal Purgatory

2007-07-16T13:59:00.000-05:00

I can't believe I'm here.

I never, in a million years, thought that I would be here.

Where is here, exactly? Here is that pocket of time between the discussion of an engagement ring and the proposal -where one receives said engagement ring. It's a waiting period. And at times the wait can be alternately frustrating and fantastic, crazy making and over-the-moon exciting, awful and awesome. I've been 'here' for eight months.

It was about eight months ago that my Dashing Litigator proposed...that we get a joint membership to Costco. With butterflies in my tummy and a smile that would not quit, I gleefully waited in line to get my picture taken - and moments later we were holding our brand new Costco Membership cards. We strolled the aisles, hand in hand, ooh-ing and aaah-ing at the marvels before us. Slowly our cart began to fill up with things like 'One Gallon of Basil Pesto', 'A 20 lb. block of Gouda', a '100 Pack of Paper Towel' and 'One Ton of Tylenol'. At one point we passed a cart that was loaded with three children of various ages, being pushed by two tired parents. "WOW!" my dashing litigator remarked, "You really CAN get everything at Costco!" Just then we turned a corner and found ourselves in the jewelry section. I stopped, with my hand on the cart and I swallowed hard. "Well, what have we here, Carrie? It looks like the jewelry section."

"Yup", I managed to say.

He turned to me. "You know...I realized that I have no idea what sort of ring you might like. What do you like, Carrie?"

And so began 'the ring talk', and the precise moment I entered Proposal Purgatory.

The thing was, I hadn't the faintest idea what sort of ring I liked. I realize that a lot of women know the answer to this question better than they know their social security number. They have known it since they were small. But while those girls played house and made brownies in their Easy-Bake Ovens, I was choreographing dance routines on our back deck, camping in our tree fort, writing plays and having big wheel races with my next door neighbor, Nick. (And I was far more interested in beating him on my bike than playing make believe that I was his wife. )

In fact, I can recall only one moment in my tender years where I actually considered the idea of an engagement ring. I was about 4 years old, and at that time I was prone to sucking on the middle and ring fingers of my left hand, as a means of comfort. Often, my prolonged biting and sucking left two baby teeth mark indentations on the top of my ring finger. One afternoon, as I was getting up from a nap, my mother took my left hand in hers, inspected my soggy and dented fingers and remarked, "You know, if you keep sucking and biting your fingers like this, they'll get so swollen that you'll never be able to wear a diamond ring."

I stopped sucking my fingers then and there. I don't think my toddler brain could comprehend the gravity of what my mother was telling me, but I knew one thing: if they were going to be passing out diamond rings, I didn't want to be left out on account of a couple of swollen fingers.

Looking back, I now see that I was far too hasty. If I had known that a good 28 years later, I'd still be waiting for a ring, I would've clamped my little mouth down on my hand and sucked away to my heart's content, diamond rings be damned.

Soon after we'd had 'the ring talk', I started looking online at different settings. And after perusing a few sites, I learned that I preferred white gold over platinum (It's shinier and cheaper, and if it gets dull, you just have it re-dipped - who knew?) and that I liked the Princess cut. I also looooooved the heirloom look.

As I hopped from one diamond site to the next, I grew more and more...obsessed. I became like a diamond drug addict, tingling and buzzing with each sparkly setting. I started printing out every fabulous ring I saw, making sure I wrote down a link to the website. This ring shopping thing was fun! I went to a local chain jewelry store to find out my ring size (6), and soon I had a good idea of what I liked.

One evening after my Dashing Litigator and I were lingering over a lovely dinner and bottle of wine, I pulled out my pretty pictures and promptly handed them over. His reaction? "Wow. Um...are you sure these are engagement rings?"

"YES." I said, suddenly becoming defensive. "They are engagement rings. These are vintage settings to give them sort of an heirloom look, okay? You asked me what I like and this is what I like!" I heard my voice. It was bordering on shrill. Suddenly I was reminded of an old neighbor of ours who's gold-digging daughter told her boyfriend she would accept nothing less than a 3 karat diamond engagement ring. From the way I was acting, I wasn't too far off. And afterall, it isn't about the ring...but what that ring means. He is declaring to the world that I am his and he is mine, and that is something quite special. Remembering all of this, I added, "Honey, I want you to know that I will be happy with whatever you pick out." And I punctuated this by wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing the top of his head.

And now I wait. This is a truly exquisite and beautiful time. I must relish the calm. I will (hopefully) never in my life be here again. At this moment I am (hopefully) on the brink of being forever bound to another. And once I (hopefully) shift out of this place, I will leave my single days behind. For good. And it truly is for good. For something better than good, really.

And so, as I sit in my purgatory - in (hopeful) anticipation, I will do my best to ignore the pesky mosquitoes that swarm around me, buzzing with their chorus of, "What is he waiting for?" *swat* "When are you getting engaged?" *swat* "So...no ring yet, huh?" *SWAT*

Instead I shall close my eyes to the din and with a serene smile remember the mantra that I used to say to myself when I was very single - in fact, it was written on a poster that hung in my teenage room - and seems quite apropos now:

Love understands, and therefore waits.

...and so I shall... and I'll resist the temptation to suck on my fingers...just in case.

So long, sad songs

2007-07-10T10:05:00.001-05:00

I am folding laundry one hot and humid Saturday, listening to the radio to add some spice to this humdrum chore. My dashing litigator is out getting the car washed and making the weekly run to Trader Joe's, and Duncan is out on the balcony, keeping a watchful eye on a pair of grey squirrels who are flirting on top of the neighbor's fence.

I am just pulling a load of warm, dark clothes from the dryer, when I hear the beginnings of "I am so Ordinary" by Paula Cole. It is a song I haven't heard in ages. Instantly, I am back in French class, freshman year of college, crushing on Shawn Zimmerman - the blond haired blue-eyed hockey player from Canada. Totally adorable and totally taken. I used to play that song on repeat in my dorm room and sing along with my whole aching heart.

"I watched you lean across the table, I watched you whisper in her ear...and she is your holy Mary, and I am so ordinary...!"

A year later, I found myself crushing on someone new. My dance partner, Don. He was tall and handsome with curly black hair, hugely talented, straight - and, oh yes - impossibly taken. My soundtrack for this unrequited romance was set to the tune of "But Not For Me", as sung by Linda Ronstadt.

"...with love to lead the way, I've found more clouds of grey, than any Russian play..."

In high school, I was hugely infatuated with the Broadway musical Les Miserables, an epic three-hour-long homage to heartache. Eponine, the street rat who falls in love with the charming and oh-so-out-of-her-league Marius - was my heroine. I would close my bedroom door, turn off all the lights and belt "On My Own" to an audience of stuffed animals and glow in the dark sticker stars. "I love him, but only on my own." Oh, and that one was for Tom Hanton - the drum major and football player with Garth Brooks looks who played fast and loose with my young heart on more than one occasion. And when I was feeling particularly angry and jilted by these boys, I would drive around town in my red Ford Escort, windows down, permed curls flying, scream-singing "Precious Things" by Tori Amos.

"Those beautiful boys, those Christian boys...so you can make me come, that doesn't make you Jesus..."

But hidden in the melancholy of each melody, I found such delicious solace. This music lifted me, soothing my sad and longing heart. These women (for it was only the female vocalists who truly 'got me') had been there. It was as if they were saying, "Girlfriend, I know how you're feeling...so you just sing along and let it all out...that's right...good girl."

But these days (if you'll pardon the cliche), I'm singing a different tune.

I've found that I haven't had much need for those sad songs in nearly two years. These days, my life track sounds a bit more sunny.

As we make our Saturday breakfasts and he scrambles eggs, I nuzzle his neck and croon "Close to You" by the Carpenters. "Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?"

We take a road trip to St. Louis and Keith Urban's "Better Life" is our companion. "Someday baby, you and I are gonna be the ones...good luck's gonna shine..."

While driving to the beach, Duncan in the back, Luce sings, "Buy a Dog" and we smile at each other and squeeze hands. "So if you wanna try, we'll make it you and I. We'll never be alone, we'll buy a dog and bring him home..."

My mental mix tape is filled with saccharine ditties and Pollyanna pop. Life is sweet and the notes sound sweeter. I'm "Walking on Sunshine". I have a man who makes me feel like a "Natural Woman", and when I think about him, "I Touch Myself".

There was a time when I found happy love songs to be boring and blah. After all, it was far more tortuous and dramatic to be lovelorn. But since I have crossed over to the sunny side of the street, I now understand the giddy heart-zinging pleasure of a love song and its' ability to convey all those mushy emotions you are feeling, but perhaps can't adequately articulate. That is the reason I love musical theatre so much. Because there exist moments that are so powerful and filled with so much passion and feeling that words simply aren't enough. You gotta sing it.

But what of those old sad songs that I loved so well? Those 'been there' ballads that saw me through dateless Prom nights, un-returned phone calls, and the 'I just like you as a friend' blues? They'll still be there. But when I hear them today it's with a grateful ear. Remembering those bleak and lonely periods of my life only fills me with more gratitude and appreciation for what I have now.

And I have a lot. I have a love that I never knew existed. A level of comfort and intimacy so exquisitely beautiful that I am forever in awe that this is really happening. This is mine.

Quite simply, there aren't enough love songs in the world to convey what he means to me. But you better believe this reformed Pollyanna is going to listen to every damn one of them, complete with sickening hearts over my starry eyes and fluttery feet that won't touch the ground.

Blood Brothers

2006-08-22T07:55:00.000-05:00

from wikipedia.com:

Blood Brothers: Refers to two or more men, not related by birth parents, who swear loyalty to one another. This is usually done in a ceremony where the blood of each man is mingled together. In simple terms, this is an extension of fraternization.

***************************************************

"You know that your couch is a piece of crap when Goodwill won't even take it."

The Dashing Litigator sold his house. It is moving day and he has taken the day off from work to finish packing and meet with the movers. He has been calling me at the office as he boxes up the last remnants of his life in that house.

"The couch in the basement? What are you going to do with it, then?" I ask.

"Well," he says, "it won't fit out the side door with that new fence there, so I'm going to take my Louisville Slugger and just attack it - bash it to pieces, then have the movers put it in a dumpster. It actually might be quite therapeutic."

I laugh. "Ok, then. You knock yourself out!"

He and Duncan will now live in a two bedroom loft just one El stop south of my studio.

Over the weekend, we packed the easy stuff and loaded up the car: dishes, glassware, artwork, towels, sheets, cookware, etc. We made runs to Target for fluffy new towels and Menard's for colorful area rugs and bar stools. We had Duncan at day care for much of the weekend to keep him occupied and exercised and out of our way. This new place is gorgeous, with far too much space than my boys need. Duncan will even have his own bedroom complete with a new 'big boy bed' and various treats and toys stowed in the closet.

Sunday was our last night in the soon-to-be 'old house'. We ordered Chinese food, ate in the dining room surrounded by boxes - and sighed alot. And we talked about all the memories that were created under that roof. The spot where we had our first make-out session. The living room where we slow danced to Sinatra. The kitchen floor, where my Dashing Litigator slept by Duncan's crate on his first night home. The meals he cooked for me. That basement couch where I spent many an evening flanked by 'my boys' watching a movie in the dark. The cozy, familiar smells and sounds and routines that have nestled and nurtured our little threesome over this last year.

"It's a tad sad to leave here...but I'm ready for chapter two. Aren't you?", he asks.

I am indeed.
**************************************************

I leave work that day and head directly to the Dashing Litigators new digs - stopping first at Trader Joes for a housewarming bottle of red and bouquet of flowers. He greets me looking a little worse for wear, but adorable. His face sports three days worth of scruff, his clothes are sweatstained, dusty and grungy and his hands look mangled and raw. The middle finger of his left hand is wrapped haphazardly in paper towel that has been bound gruffly with gray duct tape.

I pick up his hand and inspect the make-shift bandage. "What happened here?"

Apparently, while he was working out some aggression - smashing his couch to bits with a baseball bat and pulling off the upholstery, his hand came down on a small nail that punctured his middle finger fairly deeply.

"It bled like hell when I first did it, but it seems to have stopped now." I take a peek at the wound and after confirming that his Tetnus shots are up to date, make a mental note to clean and dress it properly for him later.

We hit the road to pick up Duncan and I can't wait to show him his new home. He is a little unsure at first, reluctant on his leash and splaying his paws as he fights crossing the threshold into the lobby. The elevator freaks him out even more, but when we finally get inside the loft, his curious and energetic nature return.

He sniffs around his bedroom, recognizing the familiar crate and blanket. He puts two brown paws on his new bed as though testing for firmness and notices the small stuffed 'bee' toy that I had bought him, complete with twisted rope-like legs for chewing. He picks up the toy and runs out the door with it, looking for his daddy, who is at the other end of the loft.

I hear the click click click of his nails on the wood and then my Dashing Litigator's voice, "Hi buddy...what's this? Oh...hey...you're bleeding. Carrie? I think he cut his paw on something. Oh, wow. He's really bleeding badly."

I come around the corner and see the trail of dark red splotches on the wood floor. The trail starts near a large black plastic garbage bag that is propped up against the island in the kitchen.

"Dammit", he says, "My glass decanter broke during the move and I put all the broken glass in this bag. I meant to take it out. He must've cut his paw on it."

I grab paper towel and press it to Duncan's rear right paw. Instantly it is soaked with blood. I drop the paper towel and look up at my dashing litigator. I am scared. We have a moment as our eyes meet and then in an instant he takes charge. He picks up our bleeding baby and his jaw is set. "Let's go. We're taking him in." I grab his wallet and we are out the door.

We are frantic as we place a very confused, yet very calm Duncan in the back seat and head off to the Animal Urgent Care center. The Dashing Litigator is upset and blaming himself for leaving the garbage bag in the kitchen. I can hardly blame him as he's had a tremendous amount on his plate this past week. He wonders if we should be putting pressure on Duncan's paw, and I agree, climbing into the back of the SUV to be with our boy. I grab a thin blanket and gingerly wrap it around his paw before squeezing it. Duncan not only complies, but rests his head in my lap. It's not long before the blanket is soaked. I split my time between comforting our dog and calming my boyfriend, who is banging the steering wheel and yelling at red lights - ordering them to turn green. We can't get there fast enough.

We do arrive and he carries our baby into the stark white flourescent lobby of the animal clinic. We are met by calm assitants who lead the three of us to a room. A trail of blood follows us. My Dashing Litigator's khaki pants are now a deep rust color, and I notice that my black and white flower printed skirt now has a few red flowers as well. After a bit we are led out of the room and told to wait in the lobby while they tend to our Duncan.

We are shell shocked. We lean on each other and fill the quiet by squeezing hands and rubbing thighs. In a few moments we learn that Duncan has a small, but deep cut that will need to be sutured, but that he will be ok.

We can breathe again. I am so proud of my Dashing Litigator and how quickly he assessed and took charge of the situation, and I tell him this. He corrects me, saying he is so proud of us and he is grateful for my calm demeanor. But it was his strength that allowed me to be calm. And we are struck by how deeply we love that furry brown guy. How much he has affected us and how terrible it would be if anything happened to him.

The doors open and we rush to greet our boy who is groggy in his Elizabethan collar, and sporting a bright purple bandage on his injured paw.

We bring him home and try and make him as comfortable as possible, nestling him into his bed in his new bedroom. And we clean up and get ourselves ready for bed in this new and strange place. I help wash and dress the Dashing Litigator’s deeply cut finger - both of my boys suffering injuries in this tumultuous move - a move to a new home that is ironically only a mile away from the old one.

My Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, “I know this isn’t the only crisis we’ll endure together, and when the time comes to face another one - there is no one I’d rather be with, than you. We’re a great team.”

Indeed we are.

The Move

2006-06-14T15:39:00.000-05:00

I am standing in front of my new apartment building, fumbling with my keys.

Let's see...the small round one is for the front door...or was it the big square one? Ah, yes...here. Ok...and the little rectangular one is for my mailbox...Do I have any mail? Here's something for...Timothy Miller? - must be the last tenant - and a flyer for Curves addressed to "Juana Flores - or current female resident"...huh. Must be for the tenant two tenants ago. Hrm. I guess that would make me the 'current female resident', then.

I have moved into a new apartment. A studio apartment. For the past two years I had been living in a spacious two bedroom with hardwood floors, dishwasher, central heat, central air, free washer and dryer on a quiet street right next to a Trader Joes. I was also living with a roommate. And now I'm living in a 400 square foot studio with carpeting and gas heat and coin laundry. But - I no longer have a roommate.

Four months ago, my roommate announced that he wanted to move out into his own place. This did not come as a complete shock to me, as I never imagined that when we moved to Chicago and moved in together - it would be a permanent arrangement.

But I knew I had to figure out a plan. Should I stay in the apartment and look for a new roommate? Should I move into my own place? Should I move in with the Dashing Litigator?

*********************************************

"Why don't you just move in here?"

We are sitting at his kitchen table. I am sipping a glass of wine, he a bourbon. Duncan is between us, chewing on his stuffed dog toy that we call "Karl with a K".

I smile and take a long slow sip of my wine before I answer.

"I can't." I say, "You know I can't."

He smiles, and I know that underneath it all, he truly feels the same way. "Alright. But I want you to know - if you have trouble finding a place and you need to stay here for a bit, that's fine. Don't stress about it."

I fully realize that in this year of 2006 it is becoming more and more acceptable for unmarried couples to cohabitate. Whether it be for financial reasons, convenience, or because they just plain can't stand to be apart - couples are shackin' up. I know many who do it successfully, and kudos to them! But for me, it just isn't an option. I would never dream of it. Call me a traditionalist, idealist, a hopeless romantic, incurably Catholic, whatever - but there you have it. I've always upheld the belief that there was something sacred and meaningful about not living together until you are married. Sharing a name before sharing an address.

Now don't get me wrong. I certainly spend a lot of time at the Dashing Litigator's. And yes, when I'm there with him and sweet Duncan...it feels like home. And though I may have clothes, toiletries, even tampons at his place - my mail does not go there. I do not live there. This is just something that will happen in it's own time. And now is not that time.

*********************************************

It's the day of the move, and I have been packing nonstop for the past four hours, taping up boxes, cleaning out my refrigerator, making countless trips to the dumpster. I'm already a sweaty, stinky mess and the move hasn't even officially started. The Dashing Litigator will be here at any moment to start loading up his SUV.

That's right, he is helping me move.

He's convinced me that movers weren't really necessary as I didn't have much stuff. "I mean, you have, what - your bed, dresser, small couch and clothes? That shouldn't be too hard."

But now as I stand in the middle of my very echoey apartment, surrounded by rows upon rows and stacks upon stacks of bags and boxes, I start to panic.

I have a lot of stuff.

I mean, a LOT of stuff.

I'm praying the Dashing Litigator won't notice. I'm remembering what my friend Trista told me when she found out that we were going to tackle the move ourselves. "You're going to have a fight. Trust me on this. Moving is stressful."

I prayed she was wrong.

The Dashing Litigator arrives and kisses me, telling me I look cute. He looks beyond me at the aforementioned 'stuff' and is momentarily taken aback.

"Jesus, Carrie! Um... you do realize you're going from a two bedroom to a studio, right?"

"Hey! I know it looks like a lot, but...it will fit." I try to convince myself...but even I'm not so sure. We dig in.

Six and half hours and nine trips with the SUV later - I am moved.

By the time we make the final push, we are both exhausted and starving, dirty and depleted - but - we have not had one fight. Not even close! We hauled and we lugged and we carried - chugging water to stay hydrated, occasionally 'pantsing' each other on the stairs, flipping mattresses over railings, giving each other high-fives and salty sweaty kisses - surprising ourselves with how strong we were together. But truth be told, my Dashing Litigator carried the bulk of the heavy stuff. He is an Adonis. Not much has been written on his physique, but let it be known now. He is one finely built man. And the sight of his body lifting and pulling and performing such grueling manual labor was like a delicious carrot dangling before me, urging me onward to the finish line. The finish line that ended at Moody's pub, with a pitcher of Michelob and two blue cheese burgers.

This, my friends, was love. Helping somebody move has got to be somewhere around the third level of hell. As I looked across the table to my Dashing Litigator, both of us happily filled and drowsy on burgers and beer - I wondered if I ever loved or appreciated him more.

Be that as it may...I know I can't push it. If we do end up sharing a residence in the future, and we are faced with another move, this crazy actress and self-proclaimed pack rat will need to make some changes...as well as some trips to the Salvation Army.

What He Means...

2006-05-23T16:37:00.000-05:00

I am half-leaping, half-falling out of a cab, nearly tripping on my oversized shoulder bag, my purse, my own feet. I laugh, recalling how the Dashing Litigator often refers to me as his 'bag lady', since I seem unable to go anywhere without lugging half my belongings with me, like some kind of urban turtle. It is the end of another workday, and I am meeting the Dashing Litigator (who is having drinks with his parents) inside a hip bar in Chicago's west loop. I am only making a brief appearance to collect his rather newish car (a huge, black and beautiful SUV that we call "Aretha"), to head home in rush hour traffic to feed our Duncan before driving out to the burbs for a dress rehearsal.

This has been the way for the past couple weeks. The Dashing Litigator has lived without his car and sometimes his girlfriend - spending his evenings entertaining Duncan, trying out new recipes, doing my laundry, preparing me lunches and dinners. He's become a regular stay-at-home dad, making temporary sacrifices so that I can pursue my craft.

We are 9 months into this relationship and I can say without hesitation that I have never known a love so rare, so supportive, so genuine - as this.

In the time since my last post, we have taken vacations together... a weekend excursion to St. Louis, and to my hometown of Novi, Michigan for Easter. We've traveled to Marco Island twice and had enough romantic adventures to rival the most extravagant of honeymoons...champagne sunsets, decadent dinners alfresco, collecting shells, catamaran excursions, and "From Here to Eternity" moments on the surf. And while travelling can be a typically stressful time for some couples, we made it through unscathed and actually more in love.

We have spent time apart - nearly two weeks while I was out of town on a theatre job. While separated, we talked on the phone every night, missed each other terribly, and came home to each other more appreciative and more connected than ever before.

And then - there's Duncan. I never knew that I could love a dog as much as my beloved family dog, Cole - but Duncan has found a permanent place in my heart. The three of us have become a family of sorts, and the Dashing Litigator still marvels that he is a dogowner. He also delights in watching Duncan grow, pointing out that his physical growth is an outward reflection of our growth as a couple. I couldn't agree more. We discuss obedience training, feel guilty about putting him in a kennel while we travel, worry about him when he is in doggie daycare and being bullied by a boxer. We buy him treats, show off pictures like proud parents, take lazy Saturday naps with him, cheer when he finally jumps from the back of the SUV by himself, take him to the park, are embarrassed when he misbehaves in front of strangers, but through it all - we laugh.

I've met and spent time with his lovely parents, his friends, his siblings and their families. He has spent time with my family, given my father legal advice when they were encountering obstacles in opening their bed and breakfast, and completely won them over. We have seen each other through family crises, apartment hunting, and sickness (projectile vomitting, no less, and high fevers).

Every day I learn something new about my Dashing Litigator. The little things...how he doesn't like milk in his cereal, how he can't fall asleep unless his feet are sticking out from under the sheets, his borderline obsession with cherry chapstick, his love for the Miami Dolphins, Anita Baker, bourbon, and a pair of stonewashed blue jeans he's had since undergrad. And the bigger things...what he wants from his life, in his dream house, what he fears, what he hopes for, what keeps him awake at night, what brings him solace.

There is an energy about him that is palpable...a forward moving momentum that I want to be part of. He is kind, generous, mischievous, hilarious, intimidatingly smart and wildly sexy. He is warmth and passion - possibility and hope- head and heart. He is home.

And I need him.

I'm surprised that I could need someone so much, actually. I was the perpetually single girl who could take care of herself, thank you very much. The Grace to a host of Will's. "I don't need a man. Sure, I'd like one to have around, but I don't need one." And yet here I am - verymuch needing this man. There is a tremendous feeling of peace and relief when I'm with him - like falling into bed - or slipping slowly into a hot bath.

We talk about the future. To us, our life is a book that is being written, chapter by chapter. Occasionally we go back and read the earlier parts. I remember the moment I started to fall in love with him: on our second date - he left to use the restroom and returned with a hanky for me, as I had the sniffles. Such a kind and simple gesture...and yet I melted. He remembers the first time I cried in front of him, telling him something that was very difficult, and how at that moment - every ounce of his being screamed to protect me.

My heart breaks for girlfriends who are, at this very moment, mourning the abrupt and confusing end of a relationship; girlfriends who are hanging onto men who are slowly eroding their spirit and soul - as it's better than being alone. Girlfriends who are single and resigning themselves to that sort of an existence - forcing themselves to be content with this outcome, giving up on any sort of hope that there is a good man out there who will love them for who they are.

I want to fly a banner from a Cessna...I want to broadcast it on the 6 o'clock news:

I love him madly.

****************************

The Dashing Litigator has picked me up to take me to his house for dinner. Earlier, I had gone for a run that left my right calf aching and throbbing. In the backseat I greet Duncan and he wags his tail happily. This is a familiar routine, spending a weeknight with my boys.

An hour later we are sitting at the kitchen table, savoring his delicious homemade pasta while Duncan lays at our feet. We are talking about the meal, our families, our days.

He looks up at me suddenly and smiles. "I love you, Carrie."

I love you, too.

He nods his head as though arriving at a decision. "I'm in." He adds. "I'm totally in."

Later we will go to the park with Duncan and play catch with him. We will come home and clean up the dishes from dinner. He will take Duncan out one last time while I brush my teeth and remove my contact lenses. I will spread peanut butter on a chew toy and put Duncan to bed, while the Dashing Litigator flosses his teeth.

This is one of our many rituals. Loving routines that remind us that we are in this together.

As we fall asleep holding each other, I watch him - silently knowing that there is no place on earth I'd rather be.

As I fall asleep, I know it in my heart.

I'm in, too.

Counting my blessings...

2005-12-19T20:54:00.000-06:00

It's remarkable to me how the meaning of the holidays has changed from when I was a child. When I was a child I was all about Santa (Well - once I got over my fear of him, that is - a legitimate fear that held me back from asking what I wanted for Christmas for two straight years in a row). I always looked forward to coming downstairs with my brother, and later my sister, tearing through piles of presents, reading Santa's note, staying in my pajamas for longer than was respectable and gleefully calling all my friends to talk about what Santa brought us.

When I was a teenager, I looked forward to a break from school, to sleeping in, and to getting money and clothing for Christmas. Any gift other than the above was promptly returned for cash or exchanged for clothing.

In college I looked forward to coming home and reconnecting (read: going to the bars and clubs) with old high school friends - and getting money or clothes for Christmas. In the years since college, Christmas has become centered around the family, all of us coming together, celebrating those traditions we have always done (Going out for Chinese food on Chrismas Eve, driving around and looking at lights, midnight Mass, monkey bread).

I've always felt that Christmas was a time for family - for truly looking at your life and counting your blessings and loving those people you are related to - faults, quirks, and all. It's always been my favorite time of year. The 24 hours of Christmas music, the Christmas specials on tv, the lights, baking cookies, the decorations, the cards, the first snow fall, roaring fires, the anticipation that comes with lighting the Advent candles. I love all of it. As Johnny Mathis sings, "It's the most wonderful time of the year."

I can easily count on one hand the number of times I've been dating someone during this time of year. To be more accurate, I can count on two fingers. So when I think of my Christmasses past, I don't think of mistletoe, cozying up to a fire, or those scenes you see in Jared Jewelry commercials. I think of my crazy family and our traditions and being together. Not so bad, really.

But this year...things are different.

This year I happen to find myself dating somebody truly special. Someone who is making this holiday season even more festive, warm and bright. And this Christmas Eve will mark four months that this person has been in my life.

This Dashing Litigator and his beautiful dog are now "my boys". In the month since he has welcomed Duncan into his home, the shape of my life has changed. For the better.

Two weeks ago we were snowed in when the biggest blizzard of the season hit. We ventured out into the snow and I walked the puppy while the Dashing Litigator shoveled his walkway. We ordered Chinese food delivered and over-tipped the delivery man for his troubles. We wore our winter hats indoors and played Trivial Pursuit while Duncan played at our feet. We were visited by neighbors who wanted to stop by and see 'the baby.' And we fell asleep - neither of us knowing how much snow would continue to fall nor caring if we would ever dig ourselves out. Partly because we were so content to just be together, and partly because the Dashing Litigator lives next door to a Dunkin' Donuts - so we would not go hungry.

And there have been other things, too. So many moments that I have memorized and hold in my heart to relive whenever I need to. Moments like attending Mass with the Dashing Litigator and smiling as he allows me to walk up to communion ahead of him. A small, simple gesture, yes - but one that my father has done for as long as I can remember. The first time he referred to me as Duncan's 'mommy'. Arriving to work in the morning, tired and pre-caffeinated to find a lovely 'good morning' email from him. Being picked up for a date and discovering he has brought Duncan along so I can have a fix. Lazy Saturday afternoon naps with my boys. The exquisite joy that comes from having a puppy fall asleep in your arms. The pleasant thrill of him calling just as I was thinking of him.

Part of the reason I have dropped off the blogging planet for so long was that I've been too busy living to blog. And just as the shape of my life has been changing, the shape of this blog may be changing as well. I may change the name, the focus of the stories, etc. I think the time has come to respect the privacy and sacredness of this relationship and see what other topics interest me.

I wish all of you all the best for this holiday season. I am truly blessed and I wish everyone continued health and happiness in 2006.

God Bless.

Oh, Brother

2005-11-23T18:50:00.000-06:00

Note: This is a re-post. To my readers: Even though it may appear that my brother was a heartless monster, rattling off embarrassing stories and facts about me - he was not sabotaging my relationship. He was purely being a brother. And you must remember that this blog is from MY point of view. Of course I'm going to see things in a different way! And by 'different way', I mean 'the right way.' Love you, brother!
*****************
Think. Who knows you better than your best friend? Better than your parents? Who knows all of your faults and failings, foibles and flaws - and has them all catalogued in an anecdotal arsenal, primed and ready for a full-on assault at a moments notice? YOUR BROTHER - or, in this case - my brother.

A little background: My brother and I are 17 months apart - he is younger. Through the years we have had periods of being close - and being close to killing. Both of us bear various half moon scars on our bodies from where our nails once tore at each other, vying for the auspicious title of "Front Seat Passenger on the Way to the Orthodontist." My brother still delights in pointing out his scars that he has charted by name and date, almost the way an astronomer would keep track of stars in a galaxy: "Murphy's Inn, Boyne City, Michigan - 1987." Though my brother is younger, I've often felt that he is older, for several reasons. He is taller. He left the house and got a 'real job' long before I did. He bought a condo, later a house, and later still - another condo. He got a dog. He got married.

Last weekend, my brother and sister-in-law visited me in Chicago for a chilly weekend to take in the sights. Among them: my home, the city and the Dashing Litigator. The plan for the latter sight was for all four of us to have dinner together, then hear my friend Jim's band play, then attend a pajama party thrown by my friend Trista.

At 4:30 we are on our way to the Dashing Litigators. I am driving my roommate's car, and I am nervous. I nearly rear-end a vehicle as I am making a left hand turn - and my brother, seated beside me, nearly has a coronary at age 29. He lets out an expletive, I snap at him, and I realize this situation is very similar to when the Dashing Litigator was about to meet my parents. I am once again on edge. I turn to my brother. I plead. "Please don't say anything to embarrass me or make me look bad." He smiles back, "Carrie, come on. Don't worry about it." From the back seat, my sister-in-law reassures me, "I won't let him say anything bad, Carrie." Ok. I find myself breathing just a little bit easier.

We pull up to his house, and because of my earlier behind-the-wheel blunder, my brother has me get out of the car so he can parallel park it. I'm momentarily irked, but realize it's probably a very good call.

We are walking down the sidewalk when I see the Dashing Litigator outside with Duncan on his leash. He looks nervous, too. Once Duncan recognizes me, he ambles toward me and I scoop him up, kissing both of my boys. Introductions are made and soon we are all inside the Dashing Litigator's cozy home that is warmly lit with candles. My brother pulls out gifts that they have brought for little Duncan, (puppy shampoo, a ball that glows when bounced and a stuffed squirrel chew toy). The Dashing Litigator is hugely grateful and the puppy doesn't know what to play with first. My sister-in-law is bonding with Duncan (he is alternately nibbling her toes and the cuffs of her jeans) and my brother is asking the Dashing Litigator about the work he has done on his house. Everyone is sipping wine, relaxed, laughing, and enjoying each others' company. The Dashing Litigator takes my hand and squeezes it, and I realize, "Hey. This isn't bad at all."

Soon we are off to dinner in Bucktown. I am once again behind the wheel, and once again driving like a fifteen year old who has borrowed dad's car for the night. My brother, from the back seat this time, takes this opportunity to spout off my driving record from age 16 on, including my mastery of direction. "Carrie didn't know where our highschool was until she was a junior. She couldn't drive there if her life depended on it." Sadly, this story is true. And thankfully it is one that I had already told the Dashing Litigator. Take that, brother. The subsequent stories of near-squirrel-collisions that ended with cars in ditches, tickets, and failures to stop - only worsened my present driving abilities, psyching me out completely. And aside from nearly turning the wrong way down a one-way street and running a red light (The Dashing Litigator's fault, as he was my navigator), we arrive in one piece at Feast, and I am more than happy and relieved to hand the keys off to the valet.

Dinner is off to a lovely start. My brother picks out a bottle of wine and the laughs are non-stop. My brother and sister-in-law recount their courtship and how on their first date my brother took his now wife up for a ride in a Cessna. The Dashing Litigator ribs my brother for ruining every hope of coming up with a good first date of his own. "How can you top that?!" he asks.

Somewhere between my first and second glass of wine, my brother says, "Carrie said to me earlier, "Don't say anything to embarrass me!!" I shoot him a look that clearly says, "SHUT UP."

He continues, "Carrie told me that she hasn't farted around you, yet. Well, you should've heard her last night. Wow. Impressive."

Again I shoot him my best "SHUT UP" look. He says, "Uh oh. She's giving me a look!"

He is on a roll.

There are more embarrassing trips down memory lane - and I feel myself floundering, unable to recover. I've had 29 years experience of dishing it out and taking it with my brother - but in this moment all I can do is sit there, numbly, in shock.

The bill comes and the Dashing Litigator pays for dinner. His gesture is, as usual, generous. We are getting up from the table, and I find that I am awkward, shy, embarrassed, unable to look him in the eyes. I am noticeably quiet for the rest of the evening. An evening that includes introducing them to more of my friends at a Quinn's Uncles gig, eating rum cake that I had baked for the Dashing Litigator's birthday, and dressing up in matching jammies to attend a party where they meet more of my friends. We take a cab home, dropping the Dashing Litigator off before heading back to my place.

As I fall asleep that night, I play back the evening. I realize that I am possibly reacting in an overly sensitive way. My brother loves me, and I completely had overlooked the section of dinner conversation wherein he praised my performance in "The Who's Tommy", boasting to the Dashing Litigator that he had attended every performance of that show, bragging that he is "my biggest fan". And the part where he said how great I was, and how happy he was for me that I had found such a great guy.

The two leave to head back to Boston the next day, and after bringing some order back to my apartment, I make plans to see the Dashing Litigator, as today is his birthday.When I see him, I apologize to him for the way that I had acted the night before. That I had allowed my brother's words to embarrass me, and that I was possibly being too sensitive. It was clear the night before, that I was angry with my brother, and I was embarrassed that the illusion that we had a perfect relationship was shattered.

Again, he reassured me."Carrie, my own brother called me to wish me a happy birthday this morning, and within ten seconds he had launched into a litany of reasons why my sister was the most ridiculous person on the planet. After five minutes, I put the phone down. Carrie, no family is perfect - mine is far from it - and there is obviously a lot of love between you and your brother. That was very clear."

And I will come to realize that no family is perfect. You cannot choose your siblings or your parents. You can only choose to love them. My brother has a quick wit and huge heart. I should've just let things be, roll with the punches, premature flatulation stories and all. Eventually the Dashing Litigator will see all of this anyway, and if he chooses to run away based on some silly stories of a much younger Carrie, then he is just not meant to be.

The Dashing Litigator is holding me in his arms on his birthday, which is also the eve of a weeklong trip he will be taking to visit his family in Florida.

"My mom asks about you," he says.

This is news. His parents don't even know he has a puppy. I didn't expect that they'd know he had a girlfriend.

He continues, "When we talk on the phone, she'll ask, 'And how's Carrie?'"

I look up at him with a smile - then doubt - momentarily turning into a 14 year old. "Wait. Does she ask about your friend Carrie?"

"Nooo." he says, "My girlfriend Carrie."I am all smiles again. This is a step. And even though our styles may vastly differ (I thrust nearly my entire family upon him in under three months and blog our entire relationship - while I am only just now becoming 'known' by his family) it is enough to know that we are progressing. That this self-proclaimed private person is now sharing me with his family...it's huge. And comforting. We are getting more comfortable with each other.

And no, I have not farted in front of him...yet.

Terms of Endearment

2005-11-12T15:36:00.000-06:00

My father calls me "Care Bear" and has done so ever since the 1982 heyday of the popular plush toy with the varying cute designs on it's belly. My mom, sister, and I all call each other "Bia" and nobody can quite agree on how this began. My theory is that it originally derived from my little sister who - when in a moment of provocation from moi - started to call me a "Beeyatch" (which most know is simply an urbanized and hip way of calling someone a "Bitch") but because she did not want to get into trouble for saying such a word, stopped herself at "Beeeyah-". Somewhere along the way this very nasty name became a loving term of endearment. In fact, I use the word 'Bia' more than I do 'mom'. I call my brother "Manzier" which is a spin-off of a Seinfeld episode wherein Kramer, George and Mr. Costanza are trying to come up with a brassiere for men: The Bro or The Manzier. Even my closest friends have terms of endearments attached to their names by the addition of a simple possessive pronoun: my. My friend Julie is "majulie" and my friend Brooke is "mabrooke". All of these loving petnames evolved inasmuch as the relationships themselves have evolved, and are reminders of how dear each of these people are to me.

And though I've never had problems coming up with or incorporating terms of endearment for friends or family, it has always been difficult for me to use them in my dating life. Words like "sweetheart" or "honey" feel foolish and foreign coming out of my mouth, and don't even get me started on the word "baby". Perhaps it's that I've not had practice at it. My past relationships were so brief that terms of endearment never entered the picture. I once dated a guy that called me "Sweetface". And then after we broke up and I spoke with him he called me "Kiddo". My how things can change.

From nearly the beginning, the Dashing Litigator and I have been calling each other 'lovey' in our emails and aloud. Though when it is mentioned in the latter form, it is always said in the Thurston Howell III "Giligan's Island" kind of way. It is a very silly and goofy term of endearment and always said in a haughty, putting-on-airs kind of way.

We've also started changing the adjectives in our nicknames. He has, on days, been The Darling Litigator, the Drunk Litigator, the Drowsy Litigator and the Duracell Litigator. While I have been The Charismatic Actress, the Cavalier Actress, the Clumsy Actress and the Caring Actress.

About a month ago, I was staying over at the Dashing Litigator's and was battling what were the beginning symptoms of a cold. I was in that scratchy, hard-to-swallow phase which was also making it hard to sleep. At one point in the middle of the night I coughed and winced aloud in pain. The Dashing Litigator was roused from his sleep and said, "Are you ok, baby?" I nodded silently and tried to get back to sleep. But there it was: baby. In the dark I laid there shocked and pleasantly thrilled.

In the coming days he'd begin to incorporate honey into his every day vocabulary with me. It sounded lovely and natural and made me feel warm and hugged.

Good morning, honey.

What's that, honey?

Hi honey.

What do you think, honey?

But I had a hard time saying it back. And I began to wonder what was wrong with me. I certainly had the mushy feelings to go along with the mushy words. What then, was my problem? I rationalized that it must be because the Dashing Litigator has had more long-term relationships than I have. Certainly when you're in a relationship that lasts three years the honeys, babys and sweethearts come as naturally as breathing. When you're only with someone for two months, that's barely enough time to feel natural saying their 'actual' name.

************************

The Dashing Litigator and I are out to dinner and staring at each other with googly eyes over our pasta. He reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Hi honey." He says. I smile. "Hi." He lets go of my hand and focuses on his pasta, stabbing at it and twisting the noodles with his fork. "I need to stop doing that, " he says.

Doing what?

"Calling you 'honey'. I'm realizing that I do it all the time. I'm starting to annoy myself."

I put my own fork down and put a hand on his arm. "Please don't stop. I have an entire lifetime of 'honeys' that I need to catch up on."

He smiles. "Well me, too. Even though I may have had more lengthy relationships than you have, they've all been seriously lacking in the 'honey' department. So you see, I too, have a lifetime of 'honeys' to catch up on.

Let's not waste anymore time then. Alright, honey?

A Pup-date

2005-11-06T12:06:00.000-06:00

As I sit down to compose this latest post, I am still wearing yesterday's clothes - pink velveteen pants that have been nibbled here and there and a sweater that has been intermittently pulled apart by tiny sharp puppy claws. I have a small bite mark on my pinky finger, (the Dashing Litigator has a tiny scratch near his left eye), I am sleep deprived and oh so deliriously happy.

Duncan has arrived.

All week we had been anticipating this big day. Friday at work we sent each other "T minus" emails counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until Duncan was 'home'.

************
It is early on Saturday, and I bake a loaf of banana nut bread, writing "Duncan" across it in black icing, and trimming it with chocolate frosting. Later, when I get the call from the Dashing Litigator that he is home - and hear the proof positive puppy yelps in the background - I quickly grab my things and head out the door.

The Dashing Litigator is in the house on the phone and his best friend is sitting out on the porch with Duncan on his leash when I arrive. It is he who introduces me to the pup. This pup that is barely a foot long, made of chocolately velvet and with the palest grey/blue eyes I've ever seen. Much like my first encounter with his owner, it is love at first sight.

In a matter of moments I have dumped my bag and the loaf of bread in the house and have an 8 week old puppy climbing into my lap. Not a bad way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon. The best friend leaves and soon the Dashing Litigator and I are left to care for this very adorable puppy by ourselves. This puppy that is sleeping and snoring softly against my cheek. The Dashing Litigator finds the disposable camera that I've brought and begins putting it to use, capturing each adorable moment.

What follows is an entire 24 hours of such moments. Some captured on film, but most held in my mind and in my heart:

- The Dashing Litigator teaching his dog to follow him throughout the house- watching his large frame being trailed by the awkward ambling of a puppy who has not yet grown into his oversized paws.

- Observing the magical power of the words "Go Pee!" and the shared joyous excitement over a puppy-sized bowel movement.

- The hesitation to leave the crying puppy alone for two hours in his crate while we (selfishly?) went to Greek town for dinner.

- Being on our first real date in over a week - and feeling our connection with each other grow even deeper as we reveal things that we love about each other.

- Arriving home to find Duncan awake and dry and very happy to see us.

- Cuddling on the couch flanked by two very tired boys who have had a very big day. Duncan dozing with his head on my right shoulder, and the Dashing Litigator dozing with his head on my left. While I smile in the middle, silently knowing that this is heaven to me.

- Waking up at 2:30am to puppy yelps and all three of us taking that opportunity to 'Go Pee'.

- Waking up at 4am to more puppy yelps and the pungent smack-you-in-the-face smell of puppy pee pee and puppy poo poo.

- The Dashing Litigator cleaning up a messy Duncan in the kitchen sink, while I clean out his cage. Both fully embracing these duties with more laughter and I-can't-believe-we're-doing-this than annoyance.

- Waking up to find the Dashing Litigator asleep with a pillow on his kitchen floor beside his sleeping and caged puppy, who had finally stopped crying.

- The undeniable maternal and paternal instincts that have kicked in for both of us with the arrival of this precious Duncan.

*************************

The Dashing Litigator is terrified. He has never had a pet before, let alone an 8 week old puppy. He is flying without a net, asking me questions at every turn, trusting my judgment. When he drops me off to head back home to his Duncan, I can see doubt all over his face. I turn to him, "You are doing all the right things. You just need to commit to this and be confident. Be as confident as you are when you walk into the courtroom. You can do this. Trust yourself. You're going to be ok."

He smiles and thanks me, kisses me, then drives home. And it occurs to me that the doubt and lack of confidence the Dashing Litigator is feeling about Duncan is the same that I had been feeling with regards to this relationship. I have never been in a relationship that latest longer than 2 months, and here we are in week 11. I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm terrified as well.

And it occurs to me that this puppy is barely 8 weeks old. We have been dating longer than Duncan has been alive. Already he is becoming aware of the Dashing Litigator as someone important to him, following him around, obeying him dutifully. And as was made evident by the number of times he crawled into my lap and fell asleep - he's realizing I am important, too.

This 8 week old puppy is too young to have ever known us apart. He only knows us together. And it is my prayer that he'll know us this way for a long, long time.

That Girl

2005-10-27T21:00:00.000-05:00

Five years ago, I was an unhappy girl. I was living with my parents, working part time as a theatre director and choreographer, part time as a low-paid actor, and part time waiting tables at a local restaurant. The latter most of these positions was lucrative money-wise, but dampening spirit-wise. I was frustrated and stuck. I did not have a boyfriend, nor did I feel particularly date worthy. I did however, have a rather innocent crush on my chiropractor. He was tall and handsome with wavy hair and Wally Cleaver looks. He smiled a lot. He asked me about my day. He noticed when I cut my hair or lost weight. I would lay on his table and he would rub my tired back. Sometimes, on particularly hard days, he would perform an adjustment that I affectionately referred to as "The Maneuver". It was a chiropractic procedure, but if we had not been wearing clothes, I'm fairly certain it could be found in the pages of the Kama Sutra. And for a dateless twenty-something who was broke and living with mom and dad, it was enough.

I was working a double at the restaurant one long and dreary January day, and was nearing the end of my dinner shift, when I came around a corner and spotted my handsome chiropractor seated at a booth in the bar. Across from him was a beautiful brunette with shoulder length hair and large eyes. They were laughing, leaning in toward each other, completely unaware of me, let alone anyone else in the restaurant. They were so obviously in love. I smiled to myself, a sad, sort of wistful smile and went back to sorting silverware, bussing tables, running food and sweeping my section. A plaintive Cinderella. Later, I passed by the front of the restaurant and caught sight of them once again. They were standing in the lobby, both in black leather coats. She was holding onto a bag that presumably contained leftovers. He leaned in to give her a kiss, she wrapped his scarf around his neck, and then he disappeared through the doors. It was a cold, wet night, and it occurred to me that he was probably going to get the car and bring it around, so she wouldn't have to walk as far. As I stood there quietly observing, she turned around. Her face was lit up with a smile so radiant that it was nearly impossible to not smile myself. Her happiness was so tangible I could almost feel what she was feeling: Giddy, warm, grateful. Our eyes met and she lowered her head briefly, smiling sheepishly. Seconds later the car pulled up and she skipped out the door, ducking into the passenger side and off to the rest of her evening with her handsome date - my chiropractor.

***********************************
The Dashing Litigator and I are on a mission. A mission to find two perfect pumpkins. It is a brisk and wet Sunday night, my show has just closed and we are on a date. We pull up to a makeshift streetside pumpkin patch, lit by strings of lights and guarded by a sturdy and temporary trailer. There are rows upon rows of pumpkins that will - in another six weeks - be replaced by Christmas trees. The seller of the pumpkins and dweller of the trailer is Ron - a large man with long fuzzy hair poking out of his grey woolen watchman's cap. He's layered with several shirts, the outermost being a dingey green flannel, and his gloves are fingerless. He smiles at us, greeting us with a "Hey there! Feel free to look around!" and I notice he's missing a couple teeth.

Immediately I'm off, darting across rows of pumpkins, squatting to take a closer look at some, picking up others, examining their 'carve-ability'.

The Dashing Litigator is watching me, laughing. "Ooooh! I see the little girl Carrie! She's coming out!" I find my pumpkin, a fat, sturdy one, and plonk it on the table. Ron takes out a soiled rag and wipes the mud off of it. The Dashing Litigator finds his pumpkin, too. A smaller one - as his theory is, "The smaller the pumpkin, the less guts to scoop out."

Ron adds bluntly: "Man, aren't them things a pain in the ass to scoop out?" We laugh hysterically and wonder what the Illinois pumpkin growers would think of Ron's very 'bad-for-business' blabbing.

Our pumpkins are rolling around in the back of his truck, as we head off to our next stop: Dinner. It is the night of another White Sox game. The second game of the world series. The Dashing Litigator takes me to yet another new restuarant - 42 Degrees N. Latitude. The bar is crowded and smokey, but he leads the way to the restaurant part and soon we have a front row seat to the game by way of a flat screen tv. We are one of only two couples in the room, which is warm and lit with candles.

Dinner is lovely. Even though the game is on, we manage to split our attention between each other and the White Sox. We are sipping wine and feeding each other pasta and when we see the poor fans at the game who are wearing ponchos, soaked and miserable, the Dashing Litigator says, "Now this is the way to do it." I am feeling content and happily filled. We order two desserts to take home - an apple bread pudding and a pumpkin cheesecake, and put on our coats to leave. Outside it has started to rain again. As we approach the door, the Dashing Litigator turns to me and says, "You wait here. It's raining. I'll bring the car around." He kisses me quickly before disappearing through the revolving door, bounding across the street, dodging raindrops. I am holding our desserts in a bag, and I smile, hugging the bag to my chest. I turn around to face the inside of the restaurant and momentarily catch the eye of the bartender, a dark haired woman of about my age. She smiles at me, and I find myself embarrassed and shyly look away. When I turn to face the street, my Dashing Litigator is there. I push through the doors, jump in his truck and we are off to the rest of our date. We will carve pumpkins and the Dashing Litigator will learn the hard way that "The smaller pumpkins have the most guts". We will make coffee, cuddle on the couch and watch the final innings of the game. We will share our desserts and I will fall asleep in his arms, warm and cozy.

This is for the Carrie of five years ago. The Carrie that numbly lived her life in a holding pattern. Endlessly circling the runway waiting to take off, but terrified to leave the safety of the ground. The Carrie that watched love happen to other people and wondered, as she straightened her apron and counted her tips, if it would ever happen to her.

Wondering if she would ever be 'that girl'.

Puppy Love

2005-10-21T15:02:00.000-05:00

Last summer, when I was doing stock theatre in Cold Water, Michigan and living with a host mom (whom I called my 'ho sistah', as she was far too young to be my mom), I fell in love with Logan - the sweetest, most kind, gentle and loving chocolate lab there ever was. I can recall coming home from a long day of rehearsals to his big brown welcoming eyes, and taking long walks with him along Cold Water lake. Often I'd be sitting out by the water, my nose stuck in my script, only to be delightfully distracted by the scratches of his paws on the metal dock as he ambled up beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder. In that stressful, crazy whirlwind of a summer, Logan was a calm, chocolatey source of solace on four legs. It was during this time that I decided - if I were to ever get a dog of my own- it would be a gentle, sweet, loving chocolate lab- just like Logan.

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The Dashing Litigator and I are day dreaming out loud together. Talking about our future homes in New York City and Miami Beach, surfing lessons, traveling to Paris, children, our plans to take over the world. These conversations are light-hearted and innocent pipe dreams without promises that flutter to the surface now and again, making us smile and look at each other with brighter eyes. To us the future is a clean slate with no pressures and endless possibilities.

We're day dreaming out loud about dogs when I tell him about Logan, my summer love. He tells me that though he never had pets growing up, he's always dreamed of having a chocolate lab. He even has a name picked out: Duncan. I love it.

One late morning after enjoying a delicious Sunday brunch at Square Kitchen, we're strolling down Lincoln Avenue hand in hand. We're enjoying the sunshine and the lazy luxury of the day when we encounter a chocolate lab who has been curbed outside a bookstore, lounging on the sidewalk. We pause and talk to him for a bit before continuing on, smiling at each other silently and knowingly.

It is Wednesday afternoon. I'm at work, eating my lunch at my desk, when suddenly an email drops in from the Dashing Litigator. The email reads: "Please tell me why I should not do this." Attached to the email is a picture of a two week old chocolate lab puppy being held entirely in the palm of the hand of a smiling young woman. The woman, it turns out, is the daughter of one of his secretaries at the firm. Her boyfriend's dog just gave birth to a litter of labs. Among them - only one chocolate lab - a boy.

I am instantly reduced to a pile of 'awww-ing' mush. As the puppy is only two weeks old, it will be available for adopting in about 5 weeks. The Dashing Litigator and I exchange a few emails - and just like an attorney - he lists out the pros and cons of this potentially huge and life changing purchase. The arguments are virtually equal on either side. I call him and my heart is saying, "Do this! He's soooo adorable, how could you not?" And my head is saying, "This is a major thing! You're trying to sell your house, you work long hours...you've never had a dog before! This is a huge committment!" But what I end up saying is:

"It's Duncan. You have to have him."

He agrees and then says, "Well...you would help me with him, right?"

Without question.

Later that night, the Dashing Litigator picks me up for a date - our first real 'going-out' date in a couple weeks. What follows is a fabulous evening that starts with pumpkin martinis at the very cozy Bungalow Lounge, then dinner at Feast in Bucktown and finally a giddy after-dinner drink in the Signature Room, atop the Hancock Building. Being with him is, as usual, never boring. We talk of many things, including our now verymuch official 'boyfriend and girlfriend status'...but we don't talk about the potential puppy.

And then we are in his truck and stopped at a light. "Look!" he exclaims. I turn my head, and there, in the other lane and facing the opposite direction - also stopped - is an SUV. In the backseat with his head out the window, is an adult chocolate lab. Our window is also open and I find that I can't contain myself. "Hellooooo puppy!!" I call. The pup's ears perk up and he cocks his head. The Dashing Litigator laughs. The owner of the canine is nonplussed, and soon they are on their way and out of our sight.

"Where is your head right now?" I ask him.

"I know it would be a lot of work. But it might be nice to have a living thing to take care of. And if I wait - would there EVER be a 'good time' for it?" I am silently pondering his point when he leans into me and nuzzles my neck, drawing in quick sniffs and tickling me like a puppy dog would. I laugh and push him away. "Great. Then I'd have two puppies to contend with!"

As we drive, I look out the window, feeling the cool fall night air on my face, the Dashing Litigator's fingers laced through my own, feeling everybit the picture of contentment. I sigh an audible sigh.

"You know," he says, "I love being out with you."

"Why is that?" I ask.

"Because everyone smiles at us."

My heart melts at that observation. It is quite possibly the sweetest observation ever made in the history of mankind. Or at least dating-man-kind. And again I find myself slipping.

And I think about this two week old chocolate lab puppy. This puppy that could quite possibly be the first of our outloud 'daydreams' to come true. Duncan. I know that I would love this dog - I feel as though I already do. This dog would be the Dashing Litigator's, of course, but as I am now a part of the picture, I can't help feeling he would be partly mine, too.

And then I have a mild panic attack. What if this relationship ends? Not only would I lose the man, but I would also lose the dog.

The thought of the former makes me feel sick.

But the thought of the latter makes me feel suicidal.

I decide there is only one clear solution if this dog is to become a part of my life:

The Dashing Litigator must never become apart from it.

"The Linda Look"

2005-10-17T16:15:00.000-05:00

When I was a teenager and had entered into the world of dating, the time would eventually come when my boyfriend would meet my parents. Granted, the times that this actually occurred were relatively few and far between, and more often than not centered around huge events like homecomings, winter formals, or proms. The doorbell would ring and my dad would flip into paparazzi mode, capturing each awkward moment for posterity. My date, feeling cramped and on display in his rented mall tux and too tight shoes, fumbled with my corsage. Me, feeling wobbly in my high heels, my permed hair teased within an inch of its life, wearing my mother's blush because she said I looked too pale, and wearing a dress that I would never wear again - attempted to gracefully descend the staircase. My mother would stand off to the side, smiling, but quietly assessing. The smile, to the casual observer, would appear warm, nearly genuine. "Mom, this is Jason. Jason this is my mom." She'd step toward him, with the same smile and shake his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jason. I've heard so much about you." Then dad would call to us for "...one more parting shot of the happy couple!" Finally, Jason - or whichever date it was, it didn't matter - would turn his back to either get my coat, open the door, or shake my father's hand. It was in that moment, I would catch my mother's eye. The smile would have vanished - just briefly - and be replaced by "The Linda Look." The Linda Look was meant only for me and managed to convey mild annoyance, disapproval and dismissal all with a single expression. The lips set in a line, the eyes narrowed, the ever so slight shake of the head. It was the kiss of death for any poor young suitor of mine. And the look, like Linda herself, was never wrong.

************************

I'm standing in my bedroom in my apartment, surrounded by piles of skirts and tops. I have tried on at least 6 different outfits and nothing seems right. Too slutty, too conservative, too casual, too dressy. I'm standing half dressed with my head in my closet, frustrated, rummaging for something decent to wear when my phone rings. It's mom. She and dad have been traveling to Chicago by train and have just arrived, an hour later than expected, but they are now here. They've rented a car downtown and will soon be on their way. It is early afternoon. I throw on jeans and a black sleeveless tee, and decide - for now anyway - that will do.

My phone rings again and this time it's the Dashing Litigator. He has been out and about, and has called to check in and confirm the plans for the evening.

5:15pm. Srega Nona. See you then.

The Dashing Litigator is about to meet my parents.

My parents are in town for a 24 hour whirlwind stop that will not only include a first time meeting with the Dashing Litigator, but also tickets to my show that evening. After a couple hours of catching up with them and enjoying the gorgeous fall day, I get down to the real business at hand. Like an attorney prepping a client for a cross examination, I address my parents. They are not to bring up any embarrassing episodes from my childhood, they are not to mention marriage, children, their shared dreams for grandchildren, past boyfriends of mine, or that time that I cut my own bangs in the 6th grade and looked like an Ewok for three months. And even though I am very open with my parents and I have shared with them countless tales of my adventures with the Dashing Litigator, they are to pretend that all they know of him is what they have read in this blog.

Mom - typically calm, cool and collected - suddenly appears nervous. As we're walking out the door, she notices my father is wearing a yellow knit Nautica shirt with black pants. He looks very casual, very nice. She gives him a disapproving look and tells him to put on his leather jacket - even though it is 65 degrees out - as that looks nicer. Dad is confused, hesitant to oblige this bizarre wardrobe request. He resists. I tell them both to hush and climb into the back seat of the car, slamming the door.

We are all a bit edgy.

We arrive at Strega Nona and walk through the door. The Dashing Litigator is sitting casually at the bar, facing us. It occurs to me that it has been more than four days since I last saw him, and the sight of him now quite literally takes my breath away. He is wearing a deep blue dress shirt and khaki slacks and his smile floods me with both warmth and reassurance. I realize that these are my parents, and I have no reason to be nervous. He, on the other hand, should run straight out the door, had he any sense.

Too late.

Introductions are made and soon we're seated at a cozy four-person booth. My parents on one side and us on the other.

Our server comes by and takes our drink order. Mom orders a Bacardi Cocktail, which is some sort of daiquiri drink that she tried once in 1973 and has ordered ever since. And as she has learned from experience that no bartender under the age of 45 knows how to make this drink, nor has ever heard of the drink, she carries a typed out recipe card with her at all times. It is at this point that she pulls said card from her wallet and hands it to our server. My father, without missing a beat, says, "Don't worry, I'm just having a beer." I am laughing too loudly at this very 'Stiller and Meara' routine before me and when I turn to the Dashing Litigator, he is doubled over as well. He leans over to me, whispering excitedly, "Oh my GOD! They are just like my parents!"

"Is that a good thing?" I ask.

"Absolutely!" he grins, and gives my hand a squeeze.

And aside from a few conversation fumbles on my parents' side - including one ill-timed mention of a colonoscopy - the evening is a success. The banter is non-stop and he really seems to be enjoying himself. My parents ask him questions about his family, his job - and he answers them all gracefully and with ease. He asks them about their house in Maine, how things are with selling the house in Michigan. I am feeling elated, proud, happy. Under the table we are alternately holding hands and patting knees. After our plates are cleared, the Dashing Litigator excuses himself to use the washroom. My father takes that opportunity to walk over to the bar to watch the end of the Notre Dame game.

And I take this opportunity to check in with Linda. I turn to my mother, bracing myself for that "Linda Look" I know so well. But she is smiling - a broad, genuine smile. And nodding her head.

"So...? Isn't he great?" I ask.

"He's wonderful." As her smile widens, I study her face. I detect a flicker of something else, hidden beneath the smile, behind the eyes. Concern. Concern for the heart of her eldest daughter, who is so clearly falling for this handsome man. This look is a different sort of Linda Look. Or perhaps it's an after effect of the Bacardi Cocktail.

I turn away to search for the Dashing Litigator, wondering where he has gone - and then I spot him, standing beside my father, their backs to us, both watching the football game. Occasionally one leans into the other to comment on a play or offer his personal commentary. It's a lovely moment, a bonding moment, and I smile, feeling myself sigh and slip a little further.

When the bill comes, the Dashing Litigator is quick with his wallet and generously offers to pay for half of our dinner. My father protests, but soon it's a done deal and we are heading outside. I am, once again, moved by his generous gesture and want to kiss him - but hold back.

Dad takes a couple pictures (he can't resist) and we say our goodbyes, mom hugging a surprised Dashing Litigator, and dad - probably wanting to hug him, too - but opting for a firm handshake. I say my own quick goodbye with a tight squeeze and a chaste kiss on the cheek.

As we're driving to the theatre, my parents are enthusiastically endorsing the Dashing Litigator and talking about what a great dinner that was. They truly enjoyed themselves.

We arrive at the theatre and I head backstage, leaving my parents at the box office. I plunk down my bag and pull out my phone. Though I just saw my Dashing Litigator, I miss him. Though we were together, I was so tense, so nervous for him, for my parents, for everything, really, that the time felt so fleeting. I want to call him.

I do.

He answers and says, "I miss you. Is that odd? I just saw you."

I miss you, too.

We are laughing, babbling, giddy. Finally able to be ourselves. We are like teenagers, even at 30 and 34. I tell him how much my parents loved him and he says he enjoyed them as well. He says that his mother is so much like my mother.

"Well, then they should get along famously." I say.

"Or they'll butt heads!" he laughs. He continues, "When you meet my mom, you'll see. She's very feisty. Dad may have a say in some major decisions, but it's all about mom."

I am laughing, but my ears have perked up at those five words:

When you meet my mom

This is the first time I have heard him mention such a possibility. And though I don't know 'when' this will happen, the idea of it makes me feel warm and happy and excited.

And then I remember my mom and her "Linda Look".

Oh dear God.

I can only pray that the Dashing Litigator's mother doesn't have such a look.

Heaven help me.

The Teeter Totter

2005-10-11T19:55:00.000-05:00

When I was in the 2nd grade my favorite recess activity was the teeter totter. The bell would sound and I'd make a beeline for the row of sturdy boards, always opting for the red one. I'd be joined by a friend, usually Karen Kett, (who matched me in height all the way to high school.) We'd level the plank to make it easier to mount and soon we'd be off, bobbing up and down, soaring up to the sky, patent leather shoes dangling, and then softly back to the ground. Up and down. Up and down. I remember the rush in my tummy, the woosh of the wind in my hair, the giddy exhileration of this very simple activity. Sometimes Karen would hold her end to the ground for awhile, allowing me to hover over my world, smiling in the sun. I would let go of the handle and stretch both hands into the air, feeling the breeze tickle my fingers. One afternoon we were positioned this way - with me on the up end of the teeter totter, my head back, smiling, legs swinging, about as euphoric as a seven year old can be.

Suddenly the recess bell. Time to head back into the classroom.

Karen, acting on purely Pavlovian instincts, bolted from her seat on the ground, scrambling to the school in a flurry of ribbons and blonde curls.

Thud.

In an instant I was on the ground, the wind knocked out of me, covered in dust - shocked, hurt, completely caught off guard. Abandoned. Numbly I walked back to my classroom, rubbing my sore bottom, trying to catch my breath. Confused, stung.

It was awhile before I got back onto another teeter totter. (Especially with Karen Kett) And when I did get back on, it was with both hands firmly gripping the handle, both ears pealed for that kill joy bell. The once blithe, carefree exuberance I had derived from my favorite activity, had forever been replaced with a more guarded gaiety, a jaded joy.

20 plus years later, in my budding relationship with the Dashing Litigator, I am once again on the 'Up' end of the teeter totter, and with those same trepidations. Like that seven year old Carrie, I am nervous. Terrified of crashing into the dirt again, sputtering and stunned.

Perhaps it's because my last two forays into romance have ended painfully and abruptly. Perhaps it's that we are at the 6 week mark and that's when my eHarmony faux-mance fizzled.
Perhaps it's because I'm a girl and think too much about where things are going, instead of enjoying where we are.

I revealed these feelings to the Dashing Litigator, stuttering and stumbling over my words with all the articulate eloquence of a toad. As I spoke, I covered my face with my hair, hid behind pillows and tried in vain to abandon the subject. I was on the up end of the teeter totter, alright - terrified, flailing, fumbling for something real and true to hold onto. He was on the ground watching me grapple for some sense of security. Some sort of reasurrance. What was I looking for, exactly? I didn't know. All I knew was that I was terrified, poised for a fall, feet dangling.

And then, with the kindest eyes, he said to me, "Carrie, I've been hurt before, too."

And just like that I realized I wasn't alone.

I don't know if the Dashing Litigator has ever been dropped on his ass from a teeter totter, but he, too has been bruised by the abrupt ending of the romance recess bell.

We all have.

To get back on that proverbial teeter totter takes courage. It is always a risk. It will always be scary. One never knows if and when the bell will sound and the ride will end.

But I can feel myself beginning to trust, to stretch out a tentative hand to the sky, to begin to look upward with my face to the sun. And whenever I feel that familiar twinge of panic, I look into his eyes, recall the countless thoughtful ways that he has conveyed his feelings for me, and I breathe a little easier.

Who knows when or if this ride will end? If any of the recent disasters in the world have taught us anything, it's that nothing is certain.

But to live with a death grip on the handle bars of life, teeth gritted, terrified - that's not living.

And so I shall endeavor to live fully in every joyous moment - not only in my life, but in my relationship with the Dashing Litigator. To really soak up and treasure every little discovery, experience and connection that we encounter on this passion playground.

Steps

2005-10-02T09:55:00.000-05:00

First:
I am overwhelmed by those of you that have come out of your cyber shells to encourage me, support me, and cheer me on. I am humbled and happy that the ramblings of my romantic life have somehow brought hope and comfort to so many. Thank you, whoever and wherever you are. x.
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An amazing phenomenon occurs when you start dating somebody - men suddenly come out of the woodwork, hoping to woo you. Men who once wouldn't give you the time of day before are now banging down your door. Even men who are strangers - on elevators, in airplanes, the El. It's almost as if they have this radar. They're in the soulmate supermarket and suddenly they've been alerted that a 'hot commodity' is flying off the shelf and now they simply must have it.

First, there was 'The Weed' calling me, then there was an old Match.com emailer named Jack. Jack's profile had caught my eye and we had exchanged a couple engaging emails before he suddenly, and without warning, dropped off the cyberplanet. This was about 6 weeks ago. He reappeared just as mysteriously asking me to forgive him for the lapse in communication. I guessed that the reason for the lag was that he had been dating someone, it didn't work out, and now he was back in that supermarket, shopping. He agreed. I responded with my now customary, "Timing is everything" email and clicked 'send'.

I decided to ask my friend Jim about this phenomenom. How I can go months without so much as a look from a man, and suddenly now that I'm seeing somebody, they're everywhere. Jim is a dear friend of mine and has been in a relationship for about 5 months now. Being a self-proclaimed serial monogomist, he's become my male relationship guru. His take? "There's a different energy about you when you're in a new relationship. Your focus is ahead, strong, confident. To a casual observer it's like, 'Wow...I don't know what she's looking at or where she's going, but I wanna find out.' They're drawn to the energy that is coming off you." Interesting.

But what of the Dashing Litigator?

I am standing in my kitchen dressed in blue jeans and a snug black top that bares my shoulders. My shoulders that have been dusted with an iridescent powder to draw attention to my collarbone. I read somewhere that the collarbone is a sexy body part. At least that's what I keep telling myself every time I skip the gym or the ab section of my workout. "Who cares about my chubby tummy, when I've got a sexy collarbone?"

It is another dark, windy night in Chicago. It has just rained and brought about a temperature drop of about 15 degrees. Fall is certainly upon us. I am awaiting the arrival of the Dashing Litigator who should be by at any moment to whisk me away to dinner. It has been three days since I saw him last and the sense memory of our parting kisses still causes a warmth to seep through me, from my toes to my lips, spreading them into a warm, gooey, lovesick smile.

It is Wednesday. And it has been exactly 5 weeks since the Dashing Litigator first stepped into my life and into my heart. I wonder if he will notice the significance of the day? I close my eyes and am shocked to realize how nervous I am. Still. I know this feeling. It is the same that comes on opening night, waiting in the wings, mouth dry, heart racing. It's an excitement; a delicious anticipation mingled with sheer terror.

Much of the anxiety over him...still...is that I don't know what we are. Are we just casually dating? I know that I have no desire to date anybody else. But is he? Has he? Are we inching toward boyfriend and girlfriend status? Is he one of those committment-phobes that doesn't believe in labels? Do I even need a label?

The doorbell.

I don't need a label. I need a drink.

I step outside and he is standing there, too dashing for words, in his suit and smile. (He ended up meeting with a new client at the end of the day and left the office just in time for our date). His first words? "Hello lovey. You look cute. And it's a Wednesday. Can you stand it?" (He did notice).

The Chicago wind is whipping the trees and he pulls me to him, wrapping me in the warmest of hugs, our cheeks pressed together. We are standing that way when suddenly my next-door neighbor steps out onto his porch - his porch that is so close it's practically a Siamese twin to my own porch. We both start to giggle, caught in an act of PDA. I try to free myself from his nuzzling noose, but he just holds me tighter, determined to turn me into the harlot of my block. Look at that shameless hussy canoodling out in the open for everyone to see!

Soon we're off in his trusty truck and he confesses that, for the first time ever, he doesn't have a plan for the evening. I can hardly blame him, considering he's been battling the flu bug of the century for the past three days, spiking to a fever of 104.5, sleepless nights, hectic days. It's a wonder he's alive, let alone there with me now. I'll take the man over a plan any day.

We drive, and along the way I'm telling him about The Weed and how funny it is that he popped up after so many weeks. The Dashing Litigator admits to having some old dates resurface in the past couple weeks, as well.

This is news.

I am holding his strong smooth hand, which is resting on my thigh and I turn to look at him. I'm wondering if he's been dating other people. I decide to act as though he has. And I decide to act as though this is totally cool. It is quite the Tony award winning performance. "Wow! Really? Well, ok. Am I at least in the top five?"

He laughs. "Pleeeeeease."

"Top 3?" I venture.

"Come on. But seriously, no. I can't date more than one person at once. I mean, there was a time when I could - and I did - but at this point in my life? No. I can't do it. I won't."

"Me neither."

And just like that we were dating. Exclusively. Ok, then. I smile and lean my head against the headrest, feeling some of my 'opening night jitters' wane.

Steps. I'm learning that relationships are a series of steps. Some small, some challenging. And over the next few days we will climb a little higher, take a few more: Sharing feelings, step - being vulnerable and revealing imperfections, step, step - meeting a small circle of his friends, including his best friend - STEP - the significance understood with the seemingly small purchase of a toothbrush, step - the addition of a carton of half and half in the refrigerator of a man who takes his coffee black, step, step - and tonight - the Dashing Litigator will be my date for a dinner party being thrown by my director. Every cast member is bringing their significant other, and for the first time in a long time - I, too, have someone rather significant to bring.

And that - for me, anyway - is another big step.

An Apropos Season (Part III of III)

2005-09-26T20:23:00.000-05:00

Ever since the Dashing Litigator combed the internet to find my blog (needing scarcely a hair pick, I might add) read it, and left me feeling more naked, vulnerable and idiotic than I've ever felt in my entire life, I've been sitting here paralyzed. I take full responsibility for it's untimely unveiling. I was caught off guard, caught up in the moment, caught in the arms of the Dashing Litigator (arms that would make Fabio look like a prebuscent preteen, I might add) and I hiccupped...tossing my proverbial cookies all over his six-pack stomach. In just a few mouse clicks I had gone from the guise of a girl who has got it together, who still has a few great cards in her hand, to having them all dumped out on the table, completely crapped out. My gut instinct was to quash the thing entirely. Mayday! Mayday! Abort! She's goin' down in a flurry of curls and red feathers, taking a dating nose dive, crashing and burning, doooooomed!

The day that the Dashing Litigator exposed me and my dirty little black blogging-book was a dark one indeed. It was a particularly hellish day at work. We were in the throes of mediation madness and I spent the majority of it refilling coffee, picking up boxed lunches and engaging in forced-friendly chit chat with clients. I had much going on and was unable to tend to my own personal crisis. Throughout the day, the Dashing Litigator flooded my inbox with reassurance. He complimented me in dozens of ways on my writing style, encouraged me to continue - that he would not be able to live with himself if he were the cause of its demise, that he would not look at it ever again, and when I asked him point blank if this discovery had sent him running, he said:

Maybe running to. But not from.

It was enough. On our date Saturday night, he was to pick me up at 4:30pm for an evening that would include dinner and a ticket to my show. It was 4:32pm when he rang my doorbell. For those two minutes in between, I hyperventilated, paced, nearly vomitted, and almost called my mother - convinced that I really had scared him away. That I had revealed too much. I then recalled something my friend Brooke told me the day before: "Carrie, if he's the right guy, he won't be scared away. The right guy won't run."

When I opened the door to his handsome and smiling face, my heart felt hopeful. Relieved. He was there. He wasn't running away. But I still grabbed ahold of his hand, anyway - just in case. I still felt naked, foolish and in desperate need of some reassurance, but sucked it up and smiled, acting as though I wasn't at all phased by what he now knew. Over the course of the evening, a glorious, lovely evening - I received countless tokens of reassurance, bestowed upon me in a variety of caring, genuine and thoughtful ways as only the Dashing Litigator can do.

It was the internet that first introduced us. And now it has been the internet (in a rather embarrassing way) that has somehow brought this Crazy Actress closer to her Dashing Litigator. I'm wondering if this normally very open girl, should begin to keep some things sacred. I have the Dashing Litigator's blessing to continue my writing of our adventures, (he's actually been demanding that I continue) and his word that he will abstain from reading up on them. And I trust that.

But perhaps it is time that I keep 'this' private. Who really wants to read up on my mushy romantic ramblings, anyhow?

Who is even out there reading this? Thoughts? Opinions? Who are you? (I know who some of you are) Who are the rest?

P.S.
As I sat here to compose this blog (after first calling to check in on my dear Dashing Litigator who is in bed sick with the flu), my phone rang. It was The Dentist. (aka The Weed) The last time I heard from him was on the day before my first date with the Dashing Litigator, nearly 5 weeks ago. The Weed wondered who was 'supposed' to call. According to him, it had been a couple weeks and he was wondering. I engaged in mild chit chat before asking him if he'd ever heard the expression Strike while the iron is hot. He had.

"Well, " I said, "I would be the hot iron, and somebody else has struck. Repeatedly."

We wished each other well, and hung up. I promptly deleted him from my contact list in my cell phone - the fact that he was still there was merely an oversight. And besides, in this garden that I am slowly creating...this garden of friendships, life experiences, budding romance - there is definitely no longer any room for weeds.

A Recipe For Humiliation: (Part II of III)

2005-09-24T00:05:00.000-05:00

To make this deplorable dish of Humble Pie you will need the following:

1 part Dashing Litigator
1 part Crazy Actress
Add to this duo 2 steins of German Beer.

Let sit in Brauhaus and marinade in a sauce of accordians, keyboards, muzak, saurbraten, and weinerschnitzel. Add a dash of 'Hilda', (our server) and a pinch of 'Mexi' (Germany's answer to John Tesh) for extra flavor.

After 90 minutes, transfer the two to Carole's Karaoke 'blender' to mix it up a bit. Throw in equal parts drama queens, rednecks, misfits and nightcrawlers.
Add to this any karaoke song that has a cat reference...for that seems to drive the pair into a tizzy of PDA.
Add 2 bottles of Bud Light.

Pour this mixture into a beautifully rehabbed pad - er pan and cook at 350 degrees for 2 hours. Be sure to add the red wine, dark chocolate, Frank Sinatra hits, slow dancing, moon watching and lip locking.

Watch closely.

You'll know the Dish of Humiliation is ready when the crazy actress begins to bubble and overflow. When she erupts with the words, "I have a dating blog and there is more than one post about you, dear dashing litigator."

Bon Apetit.

Me? I may just eat crow...or perhaps the egg that is on my face.

My Hero (Part I of III)

2005-09-21T07:04:00.000-05:00

To say that yesterday was a bad day would be the understatement of the year. (See previous post). I commemorated the passing of my four legged friend by walking to Lake Michigan on my lunch break, sitting on a bench, watching the sailboats float by, holding a picture of my beloved Cole in my lap, listening to Sarah MacLachlan and sobbing. I returned to my desk, solemn and quiet. Just when I thought I had cried every last drop, my brother called me - weeping - from work, and then I was at it again, closing myself in the conference room, holding him in a long distance embrace from Chicago to Boston. An hour later I called my mom to check in with her - she was the saint who sat with our Colebaby as he fell asleep for the last time. She shared with me the details of Cole's final hours - his meal of scrambled eggies and bacon (his favorite), the two scoops of ice cream (he must've already been in heaven!) The absent minded veterenary assistant who greeted my mom and my dog with a too cheery "And what are we here for today?" The poem she read to him, how he licked her cheek, how she held his head in her hands and felt it grow heavy...then cold. Coming home to an empty doggie bed, a water dish, a now useless fenced-in 'dog run' on the side of the house. This loss is definitely one my family will feel for some time, and we will all deal with it in many different ways.

I cried my way through the rest of the day. My friend and coworker Jim couldn't help but laugh at me every time he passed. "What?" I snapped. "I'm sorry, " he said "It's just that everytime I pass by your desk, you're blowing your nose." I pouted and threw my soggy kleenex at him. All day, well meaning friends had emailed me their condolences, e-cards and text messages. And each one brought a fresh enslaught of the old water works.

At about 4:45pm I'd decided I'd had enough of this pity party. I shot the dashing litigator an email. I hadn't heard from him all day, but knew that he was in the throes of showing his house and making stellar court appearances. I sent him a very sarcastic email, bestowing myself with the "Debbie Downer of the Year" award for my day of depression...my trail of tears. He replied immediately, saying he had just arrived in the office and was I able to chat?

Minutes later I found myself back in the conference room, behind closed doors, but this time I was shaking with laughter...not convulsing with sobs. He allowed me to talk about Cole, to share what I was going through and offered his utmost sympathy. He never had pets growing up (he was allergic) but I so appreciated his sensitivity to me. He then asked if I would be alright for my performance that night.

"I don't have a performance tonight, " I said.

He then asked if anyone was going to cheer me up for the night and what my plans were. I told him I had planned to hit the gym, then hit the hay...as it had been 'a day'.

We hung up reconfirming our date for Thursday (that's right, folks, THURSDAY. The dashing litigator decided that seeing me on Saturday was not soon enough.) I returned to my desk and sent him an email thanking him for cheering me up.

But the dashing litigator wasn't finished bringing me cheer. Nor was he satisfied with waiting until Thursday to see the crazy actress. He asked to see me later that night, after we both had put in our miles on our respective treadmills at our respective gyms. I agreed.

At 8 o'clock I'm standing outside the Brownstone Tavern, holding my breath as my litigator steps out of his truck and literally 'dashes' across the street - wearing his now customary suit and tie - to greet me. He envelops me in the warmest of hugs and to say he is 'a sight for sore eyes' would be another understatment of the year.

What follows is the most perfect ending to a very emotional day. We sit outside...at first across from each other...then side by side (I'm so happy he notices the too far away physical distance between us). We talk and laugh and share and grew even closer.

I confess that I fear he will grow sick of me...with this evening being only 'Part I' of a three part dating week with the crazy actress. He assures me that this will not happen.

I feel close with him and completely myself. Holding his hand feels as natural as breathing. I feel safe, cared for, beautiful, adored. We talk 'past relationships' (a typically heavy topic) and I am relieved to hear that we are coming from very similar places.

The White Sox game is on...it is a tied game, bottom of the ninth...a crucial game. When the patio closes and we are moved inside, I suddenly find that we are surrounded by flat screen tv's and rowdy sports fans. A 'typical' guy would look past me, easily diverted by the moving balls and ticking clocks. But he is not typical. I excuse myself to use the restroom to give him time to watch his beloved team. When I re-enter the room, his eyes are on me and only me.

This feels nice. This feels safe. This feels good.

I'm wondering what Part II will have in store...

For Cole

2005-09-19T22:09:00.000-05:00

Times Like This
A friendly face, the kind of face that melts you with a grin
The kind of eyes that welcome you the minute you walk in
A tender glance you simply can't refuse
At times like this, a girl could use
A dog

He listens when you tell him things - there's nothing you can't say
And unlike certain people, you can teach him how to stay
And if the world is giving you the blues,
He cheers you up by chewing up the news.
It's things like that, that make you choose
A dog

Other people need romance, dancing, playing around
Other people need constant fun - well I'm not one
I have my feet on the ground.

Give me
A quiet night, a stack of books - a tuna melt on rye
A simple walk together underneath a starry sky
And suddenly the night is something rare
And all because there's someone special there
Who's gazing at the views
His head upon your shoes.

It's times like this I sure could use...a dog.
__________________________________________________________

I love you, Cole. And I will miss you dearly.
You will always be a part of our family and I thank you for the many times you licked away my tears and cheered me up. You are the greatest dog ever and I'm so grateful that God chose us to be your family. x

Cancellation Blues

2005-09-15T18:58:00.000-05:00

My head is throbbing and my heart is laden with heavy sighs. As I walk home from the train on this cold and grey day, it begins to rain...and I care not. Karen Carpenter sings a plaintive "Goodbye to Love" through my iPod as I trudge through the gloom and the damp and the wind, climbing the steps to my apartment.

The dashing litigator has canceled our date.

Early this morning he sent me an email asking how the opening of my show went. (Very well! In fact I just learned that we were "Jeff Recommended") He said he was feeling a tad sick but that we were still on for tonight.

An hour later he wrote: "Carrie, I am dying. Would you mind if we rescheduled for another night? Otherwise I anticipate that you will see the meal I just ate when I see you tonight." Eek.

Truthfully, I was not feeling so hot myself. We had an opening night reception and I had a bit too much of the bubbly and not enough zzzzz's. I probably wouldn't have been at my best. But I was still bummed to not be able to spend time with him.

Especially since it looks as though we won't be seeing each other until next weekend when he suggested he come see my show and then take me out afterward.

I was ok with these plans. I'm a bizzee gal, he's a bizzee guy. We are bizzee people with fabulous lives who are striving to make time for each other. Quite commendable, really. Quite grown up. Quite. Throughout the remainder of the day, however, my calm, cool, collectedness quickly slipped into doubt, depression and downright derangement.

I recalled a conversation I had only yesterday with my friend - the pants guy. He had all but convinced me that I was ridiculous for putting all of my dating eggs in one manbasket. That as long as I was on match.com and the dashing litigator was on match.com, he was dating other people and I should, too. I protested, "I cannot pursue more than one person at once! How can you adequately get to know someone if your focus is split?" He disagreed. "This guy may be into you, but if he's as great as you say he is, I'm sure he's seeing other people. This is Chicago. Why shouldn't he? And why shouldn't you?" I hung up feeling empty and wondering if he was right. We've only had a few dates and so far they've been so few and far between that perhaps we're not really going anywhere. Perhaps he's just not that into me.

My head began to swim, replaying every relationship I've ever had, especially the most recent ones in memory. My summer eharmony romance...I had thought things were going so well. I slapped that 'girlfriend' label on without hesitation and wore it proudly until it was ripped from my chest, taking a layer of skin with it, leaving me red and raw. And my winter wonderman...the impossible dreamer who was my warm, downy comforter wrapping me in a cozy cocoon for three bitter winter weeks in Chicago, before returning to his native Australia...taking his heat and my heart with him.

I lifted my head and stood tall. I was resolute. I will not go through this again, if I can help it.

I decided to go back onto match.com. I have been receiving emails from potential suitors (some of them quite fetching), but had been responding to each with a very courteous "Thank you, but I've just started seeing someone. Good luck to you." email. Now things had changed. With my friend's words and my own bruised ego fresh in my mind, I logged onto match.com. I read a very nice email from a seemingly nice guy and clicked to respond. I found it to be a rather arduous task. Quite simply, my heart wasn't in it. I strung together some mildly engaging sentences and clicked 'send'. I sighed. Idly, I searched for my dashing litigator's profile, wondering when he'd last been online, wanting to see his handsome faraway face.

And a curious thing happened.

I could not find him. I scanned through profile after profile, frantically, before finally entering his username. My jaw dropped at what I saw: This user has hidden his profile.

This means one of several things. He's not pursuing anyone on match.com. He's pursuing someone else. He's pursuing me.

And any of the above scenarios suits me just fine.

I will strive to be patient (a difficult task for an Aries) and to live my very full life here. I will be gentle with myself and with my friends - my friends who have listened to more than their fair share of my neurotic ramblings over the past couple weeks. I love you all and I thank you for wrapping me in hugs (choke holds?) and for providing me with your patience, your precious airtime minutes and sweet chocolate for this very single soul.

When things calm down for the dashing litigator and the crazy actress - when opening nights and house closings, court cases and weddings, family engagements and social obligations - are out of the way, hopefully this 'datingship' will be underway...and we can finally find a tranquil bay to really set sail.

Until then, I will find the joy in this unexpected 'dateless' Thursday night. Eating Chinese cashew chicken and watching Taxi with my roommate. Laughing, resting, reconnecting. Taking a hot bath and getting to bed early, catching up on much needed beauty sleep.

Could be better...but could definitely be worse.

A Meal Ticket (Date #3)

2005-09-07T13:45:00.000-05:00

As I sit here to compose this latest blog entry, I am smiling, laughing, and fresh from Date #3 with the Dashing Litigator. After our incredibly romantic second date we exchanged emails trying to coordinate when we'd see each other again. It was decided (mostly due to my crazy and hectic rehearsal/performance schedule) that we would meet for lunch some day this week. That day was today. Today is Wednesday, which makes it not only our third date, but also our third Wednesday date. *cue Twilight Zone music*

What I had pictured in my mind for this lunch date was a typical, casual affair. I'd walk a few blocks from my office, he'd walk a few blocks from his, and we'd meet in the middle somewhere in the loop, at a Potbelly's or Corner Bakery. We'd dine on sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, or salads with plastic forks, talking over the din of the lunch rush with all the other skirts and suits. Then we'd part with a casual hug and go our separate ways.

But there is nothing typical about the Dashing Litigator.

At 11:30 he picks me up from work looking gorgeous in a black suit with pale blue pressed shirt and bold yellow tie. He whisks me away to Chicago's Little Italy neighborhood. There we drive around for a bit looking for parking, nearly knocking off his passenger side mirror when he zips down a narrow alley. I laugh hysterically, while he is nonplussed, saying it will 'add character' to his trusty Chevy truck. His driver's side door also 'has character' in that every once in a while he must open it part way and then slam it shut again, to secure it. Each time he does this, I momentarily panic, thinking he is trying to escape the date. He laughs.

He takes me to Tufano's, an authentic Italian restaurant that has been around for more than 60 years and only accepts cash. The specials are scrawled on a chalkboard that runs along one wall, and the walls have that Tuscany feel, plastered, painted a dry mustard color and with intermittent patches of exposed brick. We choose a table near the window and the place is virtually empty, save for a couple of small parties.

The time absolutely flies by. We talk about (in no particular order) my show, my career, lesbian gym teachers, taking naps, his upcoming trip to Florida to buy a unit on Marco Island, and weddings - or rather, things we know that we want and don't want for our wedding. Well, not 'our' wedding...but, well, I mean it could be...but no, it's just the third date people, geez! I wouldn't want to assume anything and - ok. Shutting up now.

We order bruschetta. He orders meatballs and sausage (cutting them up to share with me when they arrive) and pasta. I order the eggplant lasagna. We share everything and can't understand people who don't like to share their food. All too soon it is time to go. I glance at my watch and realize I am officially 2 minutes late for work.

We hop back into his truck and make tracks for the south loop. We're making great time when suddenly I'm aware of a police car, lights flashing, about a block behind us. He continues through two green lights before making a left hand turn. "I think that police car is chasing us!" I shriek, clapping my hands. He isn't so sure, but just then we see the blue lights round the corner slowly gaining on us. He pulls to the side of the road and sure enough, so does the police car.

He is completely cool and calm. He turns to me, winks and says, "I told you. Never boring, right?" According to Grumpy Officer Murphy, my date made a turn in a lane that was not designated for turning. And for that, in Chicago, they fine you $75. He handles the whole situation, which could've been quite embarrassing, with ease. I am smiling and laughing and enjoying this adventure with him, even though it has now made me nearly a half hour late to work. He assures me that he will contest the ticket - and being a lawyer, how could he not?

Soon we are back on the road. As we drive down Jackson, one whole side of the street is lined with a red carpet. I tell him to let me out - that I can walk the rest of the way on the red carpet and appease the paparazzi. He puts on his best Golden Globe announcer voice and says, "And now coming down the red carpet, Tim Robbins...oooh, and look at who's just stepped out, folks. You can tell by her gams, it's Carrie Wickert!" I collapse in hysterics and I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt and now I really don't want to go back to work.

We pull up to my building and begin the arduous task of figuring out when we can see each other again. With my show opening and his trip to Florida - that next date would have to be Thursday. Of next week. I lean in and give him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and cross up to my building, turning to wave at him before I disappear thru the revolving door.

Minutes later I'm back at my desk, smiling and sighing and wishing next Thursday were already here. I go to the copier to run some things off and when I return there is an email from him - thanking me for meeting him for lunch and confirming that we are on for next Thursday, (actually he wrote he would "...love to get together Thursday") and that he will most definitely 'torment me' via email in the time between.

I must admit, even with our mutual hatred for cats, I am slowly turning into one smitten kitten.

Me. Ow.

To be continued...

Stick a fork in me...I'm done

2005-09-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Chicago has never looked lovelier, brighter, sunshinier. I feel light and warm - I'm smiling, sighing, laughing for no reason, and singing "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady. Even the smarmy homeless men who typically taunt me, seem to tip their hats as I pass. Why is this? What is the reason? Something in the air? The water? My coffee?

No, my friends. I am currently basking in the warm, gooey afterglow of a stellar second date with "The Dashing Litigator".

After our first date it was four full days before I heard from him. By the third day I was thoroughly convinced that he was not interested and I would not hear from him again.

And then on day four he appeared in my inbox asking me when I would be free to get together. I danced around my apartment like a lovestruck teenager who's just been asked to the prom.

After a few emails coordinating schedules, we arranged a date. Last night.

The evening played out like a movie. He rang my doorbell promptly at 7:30pm wearing dark blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, greeting me with a hug and whisking me away to Mon Ami Gabi, a beautiful french restaurant in Lincoln Park. He looked as gorgeous as I remembered him and his ready smile put me immediately at ease. We dined al fresco amid trees sparkling with white lights and waiters wearing bowties. We sipped beaujolais, dined on steak roquefort, and laughed. The chivalrous theme of our previous date pervaded this one as well. At one point - from laughing and mild allergies - my nose was a bit stuffy. I apologized for sniffling and he laughed. He left the table after a bit to use the restroom and when he returned he presented me with several neatly folded tissues. He then politely turned his head while I blew my brains out. I know it was a small gesture, but add that to the countless other 'small ones' (Making a reservation in advance, opening my door, pulling out my chair, offering me every bit of food before he took some for himself) and it equalled one heckuva Prince Charming.

I cannot adequately convey the magic of the conversation, which was dazzling and electric. A veritable 'Cirque de Soleil' of stories, shared observations, verbalized dreams and wonderings. Our eyes scarcely broke contact. We were both leaning in toward each other, unaware of anything around us. I lost track of time and space.

Three hours later we found ourselves at "Katerina's", a jazz club in our neighborhood. We cozied up at a table - he swilled a bourbon on the rocks, I sipped a merlot. We listened to the swing band and I completely forgot that it was a 'school night'. An elderly couple was on the dance floor dressed to the nines, swing dancing gently and gracefully to the music. We watched them and smiled at each other. He squeezed my hand. Every time we spoke we leaned in to each other - at first because it was necessary in order to be heard, and then just because it was nice be close.

I warned him repeatedly that I may turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of twelve. He took off his watch and set it on the table and when it was midnight, we stood to leave. He drove me home and immediately asked, "When do I get to see you again?" Because of my hectic upcoming tech week and show opening, a lunch date would have to do - sometime next week.

I thanked him for a truly lovely evening and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek...but apparently his lips were feeling left out.

And we couldn't have that.

I currently feel like I have high fructose corn syrup oozing out of my pores. This morning I greeted my roommate (who was trying to make breakfast) with a too-cheery-for-6:30am "Gooood morning!" I only had about 5 1/2 hours of sleep and yet I feel invigorated and refreshed and if my mood were a Crayola crayon I would be razzle dazzle rose.

Perhaps this latest mushy post is merely a precursor, heralding the 'end time' of this blog. The end of an era of dead-end dates and disappointing duds.

Oh, wouldn't it be lover-ly.

Date #9: Chivalry is not dead

2005-08-24T22:48:00.000-05:00

I'm in trouble.

I knew this was going to happen. All day I knew it. I couldn't sit still at work, knees bouncing, fingers tapping. I was restless. I'd cross to the window, stare at the blue sky, the clouds moving past the buildings, the city alive below me, scanning the streets, anticipating something. But what?

Date #9.

I winked at him on Match.com one week ago today. There wasn't anything particular about his photos that caught my eye. In one he was wearing shades. In the other he was sans shades, but so far away it was difficult to make out that the figure in the photo was human, much less a man. It was what he had to say in his profile that piqued my interest. He loved old movies, boycotted reading The DaVinci Code, and - he disliked cats. He wrote me a VERY witty and extremely well thought out email. I responded with equally matched scintillating sentences, and my private email account. I also asked if he was in witness protection - and would it be too much trouble to see a close up shot? He obliged, and there wasn't anything extraordinary about his face. In the photo, he was at a bowling alley, surrounded by beer bottles, with a sort of serious expression, not even looking at the camera. But there was something about the way he expressed himself...and expressed interest in me. We exchanged a couple more emails and I offered my phone number.

Monday night he called while I was at rehearsal and left a voicemail. I returned home too late to return the call. Tuesday, on a whim, I emailed him and asked him to dinner. He responded that he was working late that night, but he loved my initiative and how about Wednesday?

Perfect.

What I knew of him before the date: He's a partner in a lawfirm in the loop specializing in commerical litigation. He's 6'0. He's 34. He's Catholic (though I wasn't sure if he was practicing), he has an ecclectic taste in music and movies. His favorite drink is a martini up with an olive. He drives a truck and just recently rehabbed his house. By himself.

That was it.

We exchanged a couple emails on the day of the date, sorting out the where and the when for dinner. The where? Cafe Iberico - a fabulous tapas restaurant. The when? 6:00pm. I was being picked up for rehearsal near an El stop at 8:00, so he chose something in that vicinity - very thoughtful. He apologized ahead of time for wearing a suit, as he didn't bring a change of clothes. I told him that with me in my skirt we'd make the perfect picture of corporate America.

At 6:00 on the dot, I am sitting at the bar, crossing and uncrossing my legs, opening and closing my flip phone, fluffing my hair, glancing around the room, watching pedestrians go by, waiting for him to arrive. I'm so nervous I could pee. Several men walk in talking loudly, a young couple, a priest. At about five minutes past six, a pick-up truck pulls to the curb and out steps my date. I know it's him. And in that instant I know I'm totally done for. He is wearing a navy suit, white pressed shirt, blue and yellow striped tie. He is gorgeous. He strides toward the door, and spots me immediately. Do we hug? Shake hands? I think we hug. I can't seem to recall now. Immediately he's apologizing for being late (2 points) and that he sent me an email but wasn't sure if I got it, etc. I'm just nodding and smiling and "It's ok" - ing. The truth is, I am too bowled over by his looks, his manners, his suit, his smile...him, to say much of anything.

We're shown a table and he allows me to choose where I'd like to sit. Before I can reach to touch the chair - he is there, pulling it out for me. (2 points) We sit and immediately start chatting. He's asking about how my rehearsals are going, where I grew up, how I first got started acting. I tell him I was voted by my class to be the narrator in the Thanksgiving presentation in first grade - and he tells me he played a turkey in his first grade Thanksgiving presentation - and wet his pants. It was our first bonding moment. We order drinks. A martini for him, a glass of sangria for me. We're talking so much we forget to order. We both admit to being starved and after our server drops by for the third time, we open our menus. I start to get a bit nervous. The idea behind tapas (as most know) is to order many 'little plates' and share them. I have no idea what food he likes, doesn't like, etc. The whole process seems daunting and I'm staring at my menu unsure of what to say, how to proceed. He says, "Any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?" I laugh. "No. But I'm not a huge fan of seafood." He asks my opinion on a couple of dishes and when the server returns, orders for the both of us. I love that he took charge (2 points). We're talking non-stop. I learn that he's the baby, born and raised in Chicago, he is a practicing Catholic and his favorite movie is "Casablanca". He had originally wanted to be a fighter pilot, but didn't have perfect vision so being a lawyer was his back-up plan. He told me what he loves about his profession and what he loathes. How the work is hard and the hours are long, but he strives to maintain a balance. At one point he confessed something to me. Something that made me blush.

He'd Google'd me.

He starts rattling off reviews I'd received in productions and commenting on roles I'd played. I am hugely flattered that he did his research (2 points). I then admit to him that I'd gone through my trusty Sullivan's Law Directory and read all about him - and his firm- online. Though I was disappointed to not find any photographs of him looking everybit the dashing litigator. "Like this?" he asks, and strikes a very legal pose, arms crossed, holding a mimed pair of spectacles to lips. I throw back my head and howl. The food comes and we dig in. He offers me every plate before he takes some for himself (2 points). In a moment of weakness, I beam at him and gush, "I'm...I'm having a great time!" He smiles. "Me, too." We spend so much time talking that the food goes mostly untouched. In fact, I realize I'm not that hungry afterall.

He seems to be a man from an earlier era. The era of Dean Martin, cigars and big band music. An era where women wore red lipstick and pumps and pantyhose on a date, and men wore suits and were chivalrous. Where a date included swing dancing, a drive in a car and sharing a soda.

He's frequently checking his watch to be sure we leave in enough time to get me to the El stop. (So thoughtful - 2 points) We finish our meal, and in an instant he's paid the check and we're walking toward the door. He offers me a ride to the stop and I accept. We're standing outside waiting our turn for the valet and a homeless man approaches, asking for change. "I'll have change in a minute," my date says and returns his attention to me. A minute later the homeless man returns asking for change. "I'll have change in just a minute," he repeats, not at all rude, but firm. A minute later he's paying the valet, and making good on his promise to the homeless man. (2 points)

He opens my door for me and we're off. He has Frank Sinatra playing on his CD and I don't want to go to rehearsal. I'm having such a grand time. We arrive at the stop all too quickly and he turns to me and says, "I had a really great time with you." I smile. "Me, too," I say. "Would you like to go out again?" He asks.

"I would love to."

"Great." He leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I step out of his truck, shut the door and wave. I start to walk down the sidewalk and turn back to look at him. His head is turned to look at me and we catch each other's eye. I wave. He waves back. And then he is gone.

I am on a cloud for the rest of the night. Even now as I type this, I am not here, but hovering above in some giddy bubble, floating.

This right brained, heart on her sleeve, incurably idealistic romantic is struggling to be practical, level headed, guarded, blase. He said he would call. But the possibility exists that he may not. He may have been so much of a gentleman that he asked to see me again only to tie up the date nicely and end on a positive note.

If nothing more comes of this, I can say that it was lovely to be reminded, through countless chivalrous gestures, that I am a woman. To be in the company of such an intelligent, caring, interesting, funny and warm man.

The bar has officially been raised.

The Weed

2005-08-23T14:14:00.000-05:00

When last I wrote of "The Dentist", I had given up on him. He was too bizzee drinking and blowing me off to warrant any more of my time or energy. I had weeded him out of my dating garden, tossed him onto my compost heap of rejects, never to think of him again.

But the funny thing about weeds is they keep coming back.

Almost a week after he had blown off our Sunday date, I heard from him. He left a voicemail saying, "You're probably wondering what happened to me...if I fell off the planet or something, but the truth is - I've been a very sick kid. I'm sure you're busy with rehearsals, but call me if you get a chance."

I yanked him out of the soil and flung him aside. (i.e. I did NOT call him)

Two days later he called again. I was out at a going away party for a friend of mine and in the cab ride home, discovered the pesky weed on my voicemail. "Hi Carrie...I'm calling you back again. You must be busy. Please call if you get a chance."

I had my clippers out, poised and ready to obliterate him again, (i.e. delete his voicemail) when - in a moment of mercy, perhaps clouded by the effects of a double pint of Blue Moon - I called him. I got his voice mail and gave that weed one more chance to stay in my garden and perhaps become something more dignified, like a tulip or a nice sturdy shrubbery. "Sorry I haven't called sooner," I said, "but I was quite shocked to hear from you. I had assumed that you just weren't that into me - which is fine, as that can happen. So. I'm calling you back. Hope to hear from you. Bye."

An entire week goes by without a word from him. I calmly walked out to my garden and danced a jig on that weed, trampling him with my garden clogs.

The weed came back.

Last night in the middle of rehearsal, in the form of yet another voice mail. I am typing it word for word:

"So, this is quite possibly the most random phone call you'll receive this evening. I'm sure you thought, 'This guy has totally written me off again', which I didn't. I'm back at work and have joined the world of a productive person and...I had a very interesting encounter with a bicycle as I was jogging along the lake last week. Two broken ribs later, I have just not really been all that psyched to go out or call very many people. So, give me a call if you would like to, if I'm still deemed worthy of such a phone call and let me know how you're doing and what you're up to and if you're still crazy busy. I'm sorry it's been a week. I know that's not acceptable. And I'll just quit rambling now and talk to you later. Maybe. Ok. Bye."

He broke his ribs?! Maybe my metaphoric weed pulling has somehow transferred into an odd sort of telekenesis, much like the Stephen King novel bearing my name?

Alright friends.

My weed whacker is poised and at the ready. Should I use it? Should I end this once and for all? Or do I give him another chance to thrive?

Please advise!

Date #8: The Rambling Man

2005-08-21T15:10:00.000-05:00

It's a well known fact that I have a tendency to, well 'ramble', at times. My brother, parents and various friends can all attest to this. Whether it's in the email form, the blog form, or on the phone - sometimes this gal cannot shut up. In the past, people have tried various ways at 'stopping my mouth'. I remember once when I was 21 and at a dance club, I had met this guy and we were cozying up on a couch, talking - rather screaming - at each other over the music. As he sat there, I began to ramble about college and how my summer was going and how the music in this club is always so great and it takes me back to junior high and - BAM - he leaned in and kissed me. I was floored. "I was...I was talking." I sputtered. "I know," he said, with a smirk, "I was trying to shut you up." Since then I've been a bit more sensitive to my talking tendencies - I look for the signs - if my date is yawning, fidgeting, or if his plate is empty, for instance, whilst mine still looks like it just came out of the kitchen - I know I need to shut up for a bit.

Well, my friends, I met my rambling match with Date #8.

We started exchanging emails over Match.com. Now, my 'typical' pattern with these internet dates is to spend as little time as possible emailing. Afterall, the point is not to find a pen-pal, but a playdate, and potentially a partner. While it is somewhat important that a person can express himself, it's more important that we hit it off in person. The same goes for talking on the phone. I try and keep the first phone call to a half hour or less. Chat a bit, make a plan for meeting, and get off the phone.

Easier said than done with this one.

This past week was a bizzee one for me, and for my date as well, and so communicating by email was really the most convenient way. His first email was fluid, a tad humorous at times and well thought out. I appreciated that. I responded in a like manner. Over that week, we exchanged ten emails, and his grew longer and longer with each correspondence. Initially, I was matching him word count for word count but soon I found myself struggling to keep up with his pace. Much like the "Candy Factory" Episode of I Love Lucy, I couldn't keep up with the endless string of words coming along that conveyor belt. I was madly answering each question he had while rapidly commenting on everything he had shared with me and furtively asking him more questions, etc. and by the end of writing an email, an hour had gone by, I was just plain exhausted, more than a bit irritated and in desperate need of chocolate. Toward the end of the week, I gave up trying. I could not compete. I was spent, drained, wiped out. And we hadn't even had a date, yet. In my last email to him I could only muster enough strength to type my phone number.

I knew he would be calling sometime early Friday evening. I also knew that we were planning to have a Sunday afternoon date. When he called I was prepared to spend about 20 minutes chatting, ending with the decision of where to meet and hanging up with a "see you soon!"

He called. The conversation was great at first. He's a saxophone player from Indiana and he works in the music marketing industry. He'd been taking some French lessons and so we were speaking broken french to each other. 25 minutes into the phone call I try to steer it toward Sunday and making a definite plan. He says he may have practice with this jazz band he is starting to play with - but he's not sure, because, "Well...there's a story about this band, and well - let me just start at the beginning..."

100 minutes later I am still on the phone with him, with no end to this story-that-isn't-really-a-story in sight. I'm praying that my cell phone battery will die or that my house will catch fire - anything to get me off the phone with him. In a moment of desperation, I push the mute button on my phone and scream at him to relieve some of my pent-up frustration. When I release the mute button, he is still talking, and for a moment I contemplate screaming again, without pressing mute.

Finally I'm able to get a word in and pull the conversation back to the task at hand. I say, "So, Sunday afternoon. What would you like to do?" And he says, "Oh. Well. What do you want to do?" This irritates me even more because not only has he been rambling for the past 100 minutes, but he doesn't have a plan for the date.

I ask if he does brunch. "No."

What?? Who ever heard of anyone living in Chicago who doesn't do brunch?!

I tell him to meet me at Uncommon Ground at noon for lunch (their brunch menu goes until 2pm, but I'm not telling him that).

I arrive at noon and the place is packed. He calls and says he'll be 15 minutes late due to the trains. I put my name on the list and wait. I spot him as he's waiting to cross the street and I want to hide. He's wearing denim shorts that go to his knees, white socks and black tennis shoes. He has a black rayon short-sleeved shirt and his greasy blonde hair is sticking out from underneath his backward black baseball hat. We're soon seated and he takes off his hat. His head is shaved about an inch and a half above his ears, all the way around. His hair is long everywhere else, giving him a very 'roadie for Motley Crue circa 1989' look. I wonder why I didn't notice this in his pictures, and wish he'd throw manners out the window and put his hat back on. I order French toast, he orders the egg, ham and cheese croissant. (Call me crazy, but that sounds like brunch to me).

And a funny thing happened. For all his earlier verbal and literary stamina...here on our date he seemed to have run out of things to talk about. I took the 'rambling reins' for a bit, but found myself to be much more interested in my fruity french toast than in my date.

The check came and it sat on our table for a bit. I excused myself to use the restroom and when I came back said, "Well, shall we get going?" He pushed the checkbook toward me and said, "You owe $12." Excusez-moi? He opened the book and there were a handful of bills and coins. He had used exact change - and taking note that my french toast cost one dollar more than his croissant - told me exactly what I owed.

And this rambling girl was left speechless, mouth open, and not a chocolate bon-bon in sight.

I have run out of words for this date.

For Mom

2005-08-15T23:03:00.000-05:00

I talked with my mom on the phone today and we were catching up on what had been going on in our lives. She had a show open, her seasonal allergies are giving her hell, and she and my father just bought the 'for sale' sign that is now gracing the front yard of the house I grew up in. My parents also just celebrated their 32nd wedding anniversary. As we were chatting, she asked if I had been going on any dates lately. What?

"Mom, have you not been reading my blog?" I asked.

There was an awkward silence.

"Well. No. I stopped reading it after I got to the part where the pants and the skirt had come off."

She's referring, of course, to the 'Up Date' on Date #3 wherein I mentioned that my guy friend and I had briefly crossed that border into 'Makeout Land' - but then decided we're better off in 'Just Friendsville'. According to my mother, from the way I worded things, it seemed as though we had gone all the way to the 'Shire of Shag'. *gasp*

Allow me to clarify to my mother, my grandmother (I didn't even know you owned a computer!), my priest, our family friend Agnes and anyone else my mother gave this blog to and who may now have a tainted and tawdry image of me as a result of that post.

The name of my blog is "Sexless in the City".

SEXLESS. Okay?? I'm looking for the real deal and will not be sidetracked by meaningless romps.

I love you, mom, and I would never do anything to shame or embarrass you. And if I did, well, hell! I certainly wouldn't blog it!

KIDDING.

Now, pardon me, while I readjust my halo.

Oh Mon Dieu!

2005-08-15T16:25:00.000-05:00

This technically isn't a 'date', but I just had to post it. I received an email through Match.com in very broken English from a Frenchman who is living in Boston, but staying in Chicago for a few days on business. He wondered if I might be free for dinner. Why not? Well, it turns out our schedules did not line up, but he sent me this very charming email:

Hi Carrie

Thanks for your sweet email…you wrote that chocolate covered everything and when placed in good hands, life is like a chocolate: Take something bitter, something dry, something wet, and a little bit of leaven, mix well, and let it someplace hot. The result is something sweet like you :-)

What?

Something tells me that the above would've sounded much better when spoken in French...or even with a French accent...maybe while eating French toast. But in this format? Pure frommage.

Date #7

2005-08-14T16:29:00.000-05:00

Well, boys and girls - after a brief hiatus from the online dating world (mostly due to a bizzier than normal rehearsal schedule) - I'm back. It feels grand to once again be gallavanting about the city of Chicago - on a mad quest for true love. Or something like it. And I do believe that with every picture posted, every profile filled, every email exchanged - I am somehow one step closer to finding 'him'.

This latest date was from Match.com. I was a member of this site three years ago, when I lived in Michigan. A year ago I thought of joining up again, and even marked a couple profiles as 'favorites' - but never went further than that. I joined two weeks ago officially, and discovered they still had my old profile on file. After some tweaking and updating (I'm much wiser than I was three years ago - ahhh, that twenty-something Carrie was sooo naive) my profile was ready for posting. Almost immediately I began shopping for men - which is what a girl feels like - a girl in a man-candy shop, that is. Yum. Each page loaded with varying specimens of midwestern Chicago male morsels. I began 'winking' at anything that caught my eye...and soon the 'winks' were being returned. Including Date #7.

The opening line of his profile read:
"At ease with yourself, passionate about life, & appreciative of the importance of close friends? Love city life in Chicago? Looking for a healthy balance of family, close friends, fun acquaintances, work & play? That's what I try to do and it's made the past few years some of the best & exicting of my life."

There seemed to be a nice energy about him, and I liked that.

We began communicating. I learned that he was from Louisville, his mom died three years ago, his younger sister got married two years ago and he just finished taking the bar. A couple days later we talked on the phone and I learned that it was his 32nd birthday. He attends Mass at St. Alphonsus where a friend of mine is the cantor. He is also a lector. We talked about educational childhood computer games like 'Lemonade Stand' and 'Oregon Trail'. I told him I always died of cholera, and he said he usually died 'fording the river.' Soon we decided to meet for dinner. Joey's Brickhouse at 4:15pm on Friday afternoon.

I was in rehearsal that day, and walked over from The Theatre Building. As I was approaching Joey's, I saw what appeared to be a middle-aged man out front, holding a closed umbrella. As I came closer, I realized it was him. Maybe it was his slightly hunched shoulders, or his hairline - he's bald in back and his dark brown hair is thinning on top - but it gave the impression that he was older than his actual age. He has very fair skin and the palest blue eyes I'd ever seen. We hugged and he told me that Joey's was closed - it didn't open until 5pm. Ooops. So we decided to go to Harmony Grill instead.

The food was delicious - he had a burger, I had a salad, and we split an impossibly large 'side dish' of sweet potato fries. The conversation was non-stop. He asked me questions about me and my career and what brought me to Chicago. I learned that he has two female roommates - friends from college - and it's a very 'Three's Company' set up. I told him that mine was more of a 'Will and Grace' arrangement. This led to a discussion on television and movies and he told me that Tom Cruise was once his babysitter. Unfortunately, my date was only 4 years old at the time and the only thing he can remember from the experience was that it was snowing out. I asked him what sort of law he wants to practice - he wants to be a prosecutor - doing criminal cases. We talked about going to Catholic school and being Catholic.

It was a very enjoyable time. Three hours and three beers later, I couldn't tell if he was 'into me' or not. And I wasn't sure if I was 'into' him. He seemed very nice and friendly and easy to talk to - but that elusive chemistry factor didn't seem to be present - at least not yet. After we parted with a hug on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, he asked if he could email me or call me and get together again. (Of course, that's what they ALL say, so only time will tell if he meant it.)

UPDATE:
Saturday afternoon I received a call from him. I was in the middle of rehearsal and had to sneak out to answer the call. He wanted to say "Break a leg" on my performance that night. I was TRULY touched that he remembered I had an opening Saturday. BIG POINTS. I'm not sure when I'll see him again, but I shall keep you all informed!

AND IN OTHER BIZARRE NEWS: As I sat here typing up this latest entry, I noticed I had a voice mail message...FROM THE DENTIST. Will wonders never cease? Apparently he had been sick (I'm resisting all urges to insert a 'binge drinking' reference here, and - oops, too late.) He wondered if I had been wondering what happened to him (Answer: No). He knew I was busy this weekend with rehearsals, but hoped to hear from me soon. Keep drinkin' - er HOPIN', buddy.

An Up 'Date'

2005-08-09T11:37:00.000-05:00

Ok, so many of you have been emailing me and calling me and otherwise harassing me - eager to learn the skinny on some of my dates. Simmah down. I shall tell all. Though I must warn you, the reality is infinitely more mundane than you could ever hope for.

Date #1: There's no Place Like Home: - I never heard back from him. Perhaps he got in too late from his date with me and his mom has grounded him. Indefinitely.

Date #2: Did you blink? You missed it: Haven't heard a thing, though there is a rumor he was recently kicked out of a "speed-dating" convention for being 'too' speedy. Go figure.

Date #3: It's All About the Pants: - Ok, this one gets complicated. In a nut shell: The pants came off. The skirt came off. Briefly. Then the pants went back on. The skirt went back on. And they've stayed on ever since. We're both ok with the fact that it went there -but happy to be back where we started. We see each other a couple times a week and discovered that the song "We don't have to take our clothes off to have a good time" really does have some truth to it.

Date #4: Great Expectations: - He emailed me about a week after our date and asked if I'd like to go sing karaoke with him sometime. Talk about a completely random offer. If he sings karaoke the way he behaves on a date, I'm wondering if he'd pick a duet and then sing both parts by himself. Selfish bastard. I never emailed him back.

Date #5: Much Less Painful Than a Root Canal: - *sigh* Many of you had such high hopes for this dentist - as did I. Our first date was so much fun. I did notice that he had more than a few stories that involved heavy drinking, but I didn't think too much of it. Two nights later when he drunk dialed me, I thought it was 'cute'. The next day when I talked to him and he was horribly hungover and didn't remember calling me - I was momentarily stung, but then thought, "Well, if I'm still in his cell phone, that must be a good sign." We met for lunch the following week and had a great time. He asked about how he could get a ticket to see the staged reading I am doing next weekend. I wasn't too sure if the physical chemistry was there, but I enjoyed his company nonetheless and thought I would stick with it awhile. Three days went by and I didn't hear from him, nor did I call him. He called Friday night and we chatted, though he was tired and not making too much sense (I now wonder if he was drunk). We made plans to see each other on Sunday and he would call me then. Sunday rolls around and he calls - sounding awful. He is hungover yet again after going out with his roommate and her gay friends. "Boy, those gay boys can drink," he says.

"So are you gay?" I ask - completely over it.

"No! I just...I tried to keep up with them. And now...I'm not feelin' so hot. So, I'm going to have to cancel - I'm sorry. I'll call you later." In the background I hear women's laughter and general good cheer. Hrm. Either he really is hungover or he's just not that into me. And either prospect is not attractive. Good night.

And now...

I recently joined Match.com and have a few dates in the works. But I'm in the throes of rehearsals for two shows. Bear with me and I'll be back soon!!

Date #6: "Datingpalooza"

2005-07-31T10:47:00.000-05:00

Well, this has been one heckuva week for me from a dating perspective. I had joked to some friends and coworkers that with the prospect of 3 dates in 4 days, I was gearing up for "Datingpalooza". I thought it would be fun and exciting to be out each night with a new 'potential', living the life of a carefree single gal in the city. What I didn't count on was the confusion, the anxiety and the exhaustion. Confusion over keeping all of these dates straight. (Who grew up in Minnesota? Who's the oldest child? Who's a Republican?) Anxiety over remembering exactly what I've told to each of these dates beforehand so I'm not launching into witty stories that they've already heard. Exhaustion over all of the above, plus the added energy it takes to be 'on' all the time - not to mention the wear and tear on this thirty year old body from going out every night.

By the time last night's date rolled around, I was feeling the effects of four days of "Datingpalooza". I was tired, cranky, and mentally drained. In hindsight I should have canceled this date...but, hardcore dater that I am, I slapped on that wristband and headed back out into the dating mosh pit.

This was a lavalife date. He's three years younger than me, a second year law student and an aspiring musician on the side. His profile said he was hoping to meet "...a creative type who is witty, kind and compassionate." Hrm. Okay! Soon we were emailing. He just moved up to Bucktown from Hyde Park and doesn't yet have internet or cable hooked up. I asked if he also slept on a straw mat and took a horse and carriage to work. We had one very disjointed phone conversation. Disjointed because his cellphone kept cutting out so I was only getting every second or third word that he was saying. (He claimed that the reception 'out in the barn' wasn't too great.) I found the remark funny, but it was still mildly frustrating. Somehow, though, we managed to set up a date.

He was to pick me up at 6:45 and we were to go to the Lincoln Avenue Taste Fest. At 7:15 he finally shows up. A half hour late. This is mildly irritating. First impression? Short. Which is not a bad thing, really - but when somebody puts 5'10 on their profile, well, you sort of have a different visual in mind. He is probably 5'6. Thankfully, I am wearing my flattest sandals yet again. I haven't had dinner and I'm a bit hungry, tired, and headachy. He unlocks my door, I get in the car, and we're off. We spend the next half hour driving around looking for parking. We're turning down this street, stopping short on that block, swerving to miss pedestrians, circling and circling and soon I'm feeling downright nautious. It's clear that we're not going to find parking anywhere near the fair, and come to think of it - I just really want to eat and go home.

I tell him this - well, not in so many words. I say, "You know, if you want, we can skip the fest and just find someplace to eat? I'm open to anything." He agrees and asks how I feel about icecream. Oh, let me count the ways. He takes me to a little icecream parlor near his place - that also has 'real' food. It's been around since 1921 and reminds me a lot of Sander's, back in Michigan. There is so much kitsch and crap being sold - dolls, stuffed kittens, needlepoint work, etc. and the tables are wedged in together so tightly that you have the feeling you're really at one huge dining table, practically sitting on the lap of the patron in the next booth. Definitely not a place for claustrophobics. We order sandwiches and malts. The conversation takes effort. I will fully admit it's mostly due to my current 'state', but I'm trying my hardest to focus. He has a cat named 'Cat', and a friend who has OCD and once binged on 4 pounds of blueberries until he threw up, because he couldn't stop eating them. Fascinating. I involuntarily touch my finger to my temple and rub it a bit. "Are you feeling ok?" He asks. "No, actually. I have a bit of a headache." We eat our meals mostly in silence. At the table next to us, two little girls are celebrating their birthday, and they're so close we almost feel guilty for not having bought them a gift. At one point, a server (a woman who is probably in her 70's) tries to squeeze past our table and nearly topples over my date's malt. She shoots him the dirtiest look as if to say, "You put that there on purpose, sonny." This causes both of us to laugh hysterically. Laugh because our tiny table is so loaded with food you can't even see the table. Laugh because we feel like Alice in Wonderland, where everything is shrinking and we're like giants sitting on doll chairs in a dollhouse. Laugh because this is the oddest dining experience either of us have ever encountered.

The rest of the meal passes uneventfully, and after he pays, and I tip, we head back out to his car. He says, "Do you need to stop somewhere and get some aspirin before I take you home?" This truly is a sweet offer and I feel a tinge of guilt for not being completely honest with him. He drops me off at home - speeding away before I even have my key in the door. I climb the steps of shame to my apartment, pop two aspirin and flop on my bed.

Just then I get a call from my friend (see post: It's All About the Pants). He's about to get some Chinese and just hang out at his place. I ask if he wants company. He picks me up, and a half hour later we're on his couch, listening to music and talking as he eats his chicken chow mein. I feel myself relax and my headache start to fade.

I realize that while there is a lot to be said for the excitement of going out on dates, meeting new people and experiencing new places in the city, sometimes it's the quiet, simple comfort of just sitting on a couch with a friend who knows you (and who happens to be an attractive guy) that is pure bliss. There's no confusion over who he is, no anxiety over trying to remember shared conversations and stories, no exhaustion from the energy of being 'on'. I'm free to sit on his couch without any expectations -without being aware of how my hair looks, if my tummy is sticking out, or if I have something in my teeth.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't given up. This was just a reminder that I should probably leave all "Datingpalooza" adventures to teenagers, hipsters, and other people with more energy. I've learned through this experience, that perhaps I'm more of a 'one date a week' gal.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to crash out on that couch for a just a little while longer.

Date #5: Much Less Painful Than A Root Canal

2005-07-30T11:10:00.000-05:00

When I first learned that my date was a dentist, I have to admit - every negative experience I had with a dentist came flooding back. The dentist who called me a 'baby' for crying during my post root canal crown replacement. The amount of money I had to pay out of pocket for said 'root canal' for not having insurance at the time. Steve Martin maniacally drilling and singing "I am your dentist" in the movie version of 'Little Shop of Horrors'. Based on my own experiences, I fully expected 'this' dentist to be cocky, mean and certifiably nuts. I mean, what kind of person wants to be a dentist anyway?

Thankfully, none of the above traits came close to 'this' dentist.

We were matched on eHarmony and after going through the 'Five Phases of Communication' we were emailing and talking on the phone. I found him to be hysterically funny and easy to talk to. He's from Denver and complained about the fact that when people meet him, they automatically assume that he must be this hard core Aspen Extreme skier. He can't ski. I sympathized with him, saying that when people find out I grew up near Detroit, they automatically assume that I'm this hardcore rapper and that I know all sorts of things about cars - or at least how to hotwire one. I don't even own a car. His voice had that Michael J. Fox as Alex P. Keaton quality to it - young, energetic and bright. I tried to picture 'this' dentist and in my mind I saw a boy in a suit with a labcoat over it - looking very Doogie Howser, DDS .

So, after three very enjoyable phone chats, we were planning our date. We decided to meet late on Friday for dinner. I had a few errands to run after work and was not going to be available until after 9pm. He lives downtown and offered to come up to my neighborhood, where I would meet him outside the El station. Since he just recently finished his year of residence at Northwestern - where he basically lived 24 hours a day - he had never ventured out of the downtown area. As is fairly typical in Chicago, the trains were running erratically. It took him nearly an hour to make a trip that should have taken half that time. As a result I was wandering the streets of Chicago for a good half hour waiting for him. I called him several times to check in, but since he was underground, his phone went to voicemail. When I finally did reach him, I apologized for the four times I called him: "I'm sorry for calling you so much, you must think I have A.D.D." And he said, "No, don't apologize - it was a great boost to the ego."

Finally we find each other - both starved, but relieved. First impression? Cute! He is the exact same height as I am (so it was another outing for the 'flats') and he does indeed have this boyish look about him. If I had to guess his age, I would've said 18- 20. He's 29. Almost immediately I had the distinct feeling he was checking out my teeth, focusing on my smile. When I called him out on it, he laughed and became slightly embarrassed: "I don't even think about it. It's a total subconscious thing. I look at a girl's teeth before I look at her breasts."

We end up at Uncommon Ground - I know what you're thinking - are there no other restaurants in this city?! But it's the closest restaurant to where we were, and I knew it would be quiet and the food would be good and I was introducing him to my neighborhood and - wait. I don't need to justify this to anyone. I love that place, and they love me and I will eat there every damn day if I want to. So there.

After chatting up our server Nathan, and a table visit from the manager Steve, we end up splitting a bottle of wine and several dishes. The conversation is non-stop. He's asking me all sorts of questions and truly expressing interest in me and what I have to say. I find myself wanting to learn more about him. What made him want to be a dentist? What was it like to go through his parents divorce when he was only five? How does he feel about having a gay brother?

I also felt this bizarre need to inform him of my dental history - to sort of tout my superb oral hygiene. In a rush, I tell him that I've only ever had one cavity and I floss every day. I did have a root canal but only due to an error by my orthodontist. However, I should point out that I do have a bit of gum recession, as a result of some over-zealous brushing. I wondered if I had a piece of food in my teeth, would he tell me? He said he'd not only tell me, but he carries a 'scraper thingie' with him at all times for such an emergency.

I tell him he has a great personality, and I mean it. He laughs and says, "Does that mean I'm fat?" We talk movies and music (He loves Christopher Guest movies and Tori Amos), our families, our eHarmony experiences and how we're finding life in Chicago.

The night flies by and soon my friends at "UG" are closing up. He picks up the check and after he signs his name, I ask if I can see his signature. I'm commenting on it, when I happen to glance at the tip amount that he's leaving our server: $7 on a $60 bill. Immediately I start to panic. There is no way we are leaving that paltry tip for our server. Especially here. I'll never be able to show my face again! I excuse myself to run to the restroom and while I'm in there I pull out a $5 bill. Maybe I can find Nathan, slip this to him and return to the table all without my date noticing a thing. But the door to the restroom is directly in view of our table and there is no way. I'm panicked. I squeeze back into my seat, with the $5 bill wadded up in my hand, trying to think of a different plan. Just then I notice he is scribbling something onto his receipt. "I don't know what I was thinking!" he says. "Did you notice what tip I had written down? I had left him $7. $7 on a $60 bill!! I waited tables for years while in school. I should be shot. I'm so glad I caught that."

Me, too.

I nonchalantly slide my $5 bill back into my wallet and find that I can breathe once again. We leave "UG", and I smile with relief, grateful that I will be able to return to my favorite place without the scarlet stigma of 'cheapskate' attached to me.

We walk back to my place and he comes up for another drink. He's commenting on how cozy our apartment is, he's looking at my pictures and asking questions about the people in them. I'm verymuch enjoying his company and he seems to be enjoying mine - but it's always so hard to tell.

It gets to be quite late and soon I'm yawning. I walk him out and we stand on the porch talking and winding down. He hugs me and we make plans to have lunch together on Tuesday, as he will be downtown at work. Suddenly this very confident dentist turns almost adorably boyish and awkward. "Ok, this is the part of the date that I'm not very good at...I mean, well, you know - saying goodbye at the end of the night and all that. How do we...um, I mean, do I-" I lean in and give him a quick kiss, to shut him up and put him out of his adolescent misery. "Ok," he says, "Well, good. That's...that's perfect. Good. Goodnight." He sort of stumbles down the steps of my porch and walks away, whistling.

Later, as I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, brushing (and flossing) my teeth - I think of him. Who knew that a dentist could be charming, funny, sincere and adorable? And while I may have negative past experiences from those dentists forever lodged in my psyche, I have to say I'm kind of looking forward to seeing this dentist again.

Date #4: Great Expectations

2005-07-28T09:27:00.000-05:00

Every time I prepare for another one of these blind dates, I go through a mental sort of checklist as I'm getting ready. Aside from the obvious (teeth brushed, hair fluffed and lips glossed), I also make sure that I strip myself of any 'expectations' that I may have about the date. I carefully unzip them and discard them on the bed - along with the various skirts and tops that have been tried on, hastily removed and rejected. By the time I leave my house I'm looking great and feeling expectation-free.

But there are certain things that are perfectly natural to expect when you're meeting somebody for the first time. For coffee. Allow me to explain...

This date was with a friendster of a friendster of a friendster. I had been browsing the site from the confines of my cool apartment one hot and lazy Saturday when I stumbled upon a very intriguing looking face. He was smiling at me, and from behind his very Buddy Holly -esque spectacles, I could see that he had very kind eyes. I browsed further and really liked how he expressed himself. I learned that he was a teacher, he loved board games, and he sited Madeline Peyroux as one of his favorite vocalists. I sent him a message. He responded. And eventually we were planning to meet for coffee.

We were to meet at "Uncommon Ground" (my 'Cheers'-everybody-knows-your-name-place) for coffee at 7pm. I arrive at 7pm on the dot and am greeted by Kristen, a hostess there. (See? They DO know me!) I tell her I'm meeting somebody - a boy - and after casually (alright NERVOUSLY) glancing about the room conclude that he has not yet arrived. I am about to have a seat by the door when she says, "Hey. There is somebody that's by himself in the next room. It could be him." I ask her what he looks like. She arches an eyebrow as if to say, 'Shouldn't you know?'

"Well, it's sort of a ...blind thing. I mean, he's not blind. It's a, well...I've never seen him before." She graciously offers to walk me into the room, allowing me to hide behind her until I can discern if the man seated by himself is, in fact, MY blind man - er, date. It is. And here we go.

I approach the table and immediately have the sense that I'm interrupting someone's private little dinner: A cup of coffee that has several sips missing, the torn up sugar packets, the half-drunk glass of courtesy water, a mostly eaten hummus plate once loaded with veggies and pita slices, the open book laid at just the right reading angle. All signs point to the makings of a quaint little table for one. As I stand there quietly observing, he is chewing and reading, chewing and reading. He suddenly looks up and sees me, sips some water to swallow his food, wipes his mouth with his napkin and thrusts out his hand. "I'm sorry. I got here early and I was hungry, so I...ordered some food. Would you like some?" I glance over to the sad little glob of hummus and remaining few pita slices. I can't tell which is more pitiful: The plate or his offer. I decline.

The server comes over and asks me if I'd like a $4 martini - they're on special tonight. I'm about to ask for a coffee - as that is what I was 'expecting' from this date- but then my thoughts are interrupted by a slurping sound and it's him sucking down his coffee and I think, my God - he must have the patience of a tse tse fly to not be able to wait FIVE MINUTES for somebody that you're supposed be having coffee WITH and you know what? Screw it. "I'll have a lemon drop martini, please."

Five minutes later I'm sipping a very tangy, very citrussy, very yummy four-dollar lemon ginger martini and feeling some of my edginess wane. I sip and I listen to him. And listen to him. In between mouthfulls of hummus and pita he talks about how he discovered he wanted to be a teacher, how much he loves his students, how it took him forever to graduate college, etc. etc. He talks about applying for jobs, being rejected for jobs, interviewing for jobs, etc. etc. At one point he throws up his hands and says, "Well! Enough about meeee!" Just then the server comes back and asks if he'd like some more coffee. "Is it free?" He asks. The server nods. "Is it decaf?" She nods again.

Oh, good night.

I'm sure he's a decent guy, even though he seems to be an old man trapped in the body of a mid 30's man, talks about himself incessantly, and has two cats.

And as for him starting the date without me, my quiet moment of vindication came in the form of a long blonde hair that had been hiding in the hummus, unnoticed, and made its appearance just as he was about to polish off that last bite.

And I'm sure he wasn't 'expecting' that.

Date #3: It's all about the pants

2005-07-20T09:19:00.000-05:00

Recently I began 'hanging out' with a guy who first contacted me online. It wasn't through Match.com or Lavalife or eHarmony or any of these 'dating sites'. It was through 'Friendster'. So...a 'friend site', if you will. (Which will prove to be quite prophetic). He commented on my taste in music, I commented on his hair, and the friendster-ship was born. We exchanged two very casual emails. Soon we began spotting each other in and around the city. Finally, after three such sightings, he suggested it was "...the universe's way of telling us we should get together for a drink." Not being one to ever go against the universe or it's urgings (especially when a cocktail is involved), I was happy to oblige. One problem: At the time I was still dating the Camarro driving, shot glass collecting, eHarmony match numero uno. Pfft. I put a reluctant kabash on the cocktails and sent him the email equivalent of a handshake and a "nice knowin' ya".

But oh, what a difference a day makes. Or, in this case, three days.

After taking three days to fully recover from the bruises made to my ego, I emailed him. Three days after that we were sitting outside one of our neighborhood bars (for it was discovered we live blocks from each other) enjoying a beer and talking about music, our day jobs and various tales involving poop. (Ok, so HE was telling me tales about poop.) Which sounds sick when I type it out, but was actually squirt-beer-out-your-nose funny at the time. Really! We ended up going back to his place to listen to music and talk and finish off a bottle of wine. Later he walked me home and we parted with a hug. We've 'hung out' several times since then, always enjoying each other's company (he thinks I'm hysterically funny and smart - which are both obvious qualities, I know - but so few seem to get that), always walking me home, and always ending in a hug.

I read somewhere once that men and women can't be 'just friends' because inevitably someone wants to get in the other person's skirt or pants and is just hanging around until that day when that skirt or those pants come OFF. Or words to that effect. I thought of that as I spent time with this new friend, trying to decide how I felt about him. Or rather, how I felt about his pants. "I like his pants. They're very nice. They're cut pretty well, hang nicely and seem very comfy. But perhaps his pants look better ON him. And should stay on him." And so it went. He's a musician, working in a day job that he hates. He loves good food, good music, the Cubs, and Dairy Queen. (I know what you're thinking - he's an enabler. But I don't have a problem, ok?!) He dishes out tough love, has a sincere interest in what I'm trying to do here, and most importantly: HE'S ABOVE 6 FEET TALL. 6'4" to be exact. My once woefully neglected 2 inch heels are outta the closet and back on the street - they (and I) couldn't be happier. Not only that, but there's a certain indescribable sense of femininity that a girl feels when in the company of someone who is so tall. I call it the Scarlett O'Hara Effect. Put me next to a tall, dashing Rhett Butler of a man and instantly I feel small and feminine, fragile and protected. I start involuntarily batting my eyes, fanning myself, and speaking in a southern accent.

But frankly, my dears, who gives a damn? What is this "friendship" meant to be? And how do I feel about those pants, anyway?

Well. The moment came last night, somewhere between the first bottle of wine and the last spoonful of my (SMALL, ok?) blizzard. The verdict? We are just friends, and his pants look much better ON him. And even though there is a sense of relief that comes from knowing where to 'put' him, there is a bit of sadness, as well. Sadness in realizing that - Oh, poop. Nope, you're not it.

Many of you may be wondering, "Why? He seemed so great!" And the truth is, he IS great. And there are many things I enjoy about him. But there are also certain core values, beliefs and ideals that I hold close to my heart that are non-negotiable (thank you mom and dad), things that I could tolerate in a friend, but not in a boyfriend.

Will I still hang out with him? Sure. Whenever I want to see live music, enjoy my favorite frozen treat, break out my heels, or take a trip to Tara, he's my guy.

Date #2: Did you blink? You missed it.

2005-07-16T00:32:00.000-05:00

Well, here I am to report on my second blogged internet date. Ever. It's currently well after midnight, but don't let the late hour fool you into thinking I've been out having a raucous good time with a fantastic guy that was SO fantastic I lost track of time and space and sanity and all the rest.

I've been home since 9 o'clock.

In the time since, I've stopped at Dairy Queen - again (yes, I know what you're thinking), paid some bills, changed into my jammies, and watched all 196 minutes of Schindler's List, a movie I had not yet seen. So you see, it has been a most productive evening.

But this is supposed to be about the date, and so it shall be. Though I'm not sure you'd call it a date, and quite frankly there isn't much to report, but well - here it is:

This was yet another eHarmony match. His name was Robert. I shall call him that because from his pictures he looked verymuch like Robert Sean Leonard, with the dark hair, dark eyes, and cleft in the chin. We met at Uncommon Ground, my most favorite-est place. It takes me about 20 minutes to walk there from my apartment, and at about 7:25 he called me to say that he was already there and seated outside at a table. I thought that was very nice and courteous. I arrived shortly thereafter, spotted him, and the date began.

I knew that Robert was supposed to be 5'9 - and so I wore my flattest shoes yet again. But when he stood up to shake my hand/half-hug me, he was more like 5'7. No matter. I sat down. The waiter came over and took our drink order. I had a Blue Moon, he had "some German beer that comes in a funky bottle". The waiter brought the drinks. I told Robert how this was my favorite restaurant and that they had the best, most delicious food. (I am starving.) The waiter comes back to take our order and Robert says, "Oh. We're just having drinks." What? When did we decide this? No matter. We're talking about our drinks and what we drink in general and he says, "Well, I would've had a martini, but I have to drive home in an hour." An hour? Geez. I'd better start covering some ground. That's not much time.

Not much time, true. But not much time was needed. He was very nice, though a bit of a soft talker, which made conversing awkward at times. He has a place just off of Lake Shore Drive and he grew up in the suburbs. His parents and sister live out of state. He likes to paint - which I found fascinating, considering he's a computer geek, and is right now trying to do more consulting work with webdesign that would exercise both his left and right brain. He's a nature guy and loves mountain biking and running. Overall the conversation was pleasant, not too awkward, but I didn't feel that spark. And perhaps he sensed it, too. Or maybe I was just distracted by the smell of the savory dishes being served all around me, and the sounds of my stomach gurgling as it digested itself. Again - no matter.

Later when he asked what I had going on for the rest of the evening, I answered, "This. This was my evening. Well, and I suppose dinner. I haven't had dinner yet, so...food. Food will be my Friday night. You?"

"Well, I'm getting up at 6:30am to go running with some friends, so I'll be getting to bed early."

Great. He'll be getting fit. I'll be getting fat.

*sound of alarm buzzing* Oh, wow. I guess that hour is up. That was fast. Nice meeting you, Robert. Now if you'll excuse me, I must be off to my next date - with the Queen of Dairy.

And...scene.

Date #1: There's No Place Like Home

2005-07-13T23:30:00.000-05:00

*whew*
Ok. Here we go. As I type this I have just been dropped off by one *Scott, my first blogged internet date. Ever. Scott and I were matched on eHarmony. The plan was to meet at *Sylvia's at 8pm. I was there at 8pm, wearing what has now become my 'first date' outfit. Black flowered skirt, with sleeveless black v-neck top. And sandals. My most flatest sandals. Scott is 5'8. I am 5'8 and a half. And this girl loves her heels. Trista asked me yesterday on the train, "Are you going to wear flats? Or wear heels and...give it to him?"

I wore flats.

Scott showed up ten minutes late, but to his credit, was very apologetic and had trouble parking. First impression? Tom Cruise looks (without the scientology freak factor) and the BLUEST eyes EVER. He looked ten times handsomer in person than his online pictures, and I was pleased as punch. We sat at the bar. Or, rather, I was already sitting at the bar and he sat down beside me. I had a glass of red wine, he had a Corona. The conversation was easy. We talked music, family, the arts, ice cream, Seinfeld. You know. The important stuff. I'm verymuch enjoying myself at this point. He's laughing at my stories, I'm finding him very charming and a good listener...and funny! Sylvia herself comes over and hugs him, telling me he is the best *saxaphone player EVER. (He's played a few gigs there - he's a jazz musician). He puts a hand on my knee as he excuses himself to run to the restroom and I take that as a DEFINITE good sign.

He returns and we talk more. I ask about where he's from. *Schaumberg. "Oh," I say, "do your parents live near you?" Without pause he says, "Yes, well, actually I live with my parents. I've been sorta saving to buy a place." Now, I'm not one to be the pot calling the kettle black, as I did live with my parents until I was well into my late twenties, but Scott is 34. 34!! Am I wrong in being a little alarmed at that? And he's lived at home since he was 24. TEN YEARS! Is he saving to buy the Taj Mahal?! I want to say: I think it's time to grow up, Scotty. I think you've been playing this "baby of the family" card a little too long. But - in the interest of the date (and this blog) I didn't freak out. I made him feel like that wasn't a huge deal...and even told him about my own prolonged stay at home, to hopefully make him feel better. But the thing is, he didn't need ego stroking. His living with his parents at age 34 was as natural to him as folding his laundry. Which his mom probably still does for him. Oh, gawd...that's so unfair of me. But probably true, right?

Ok, moving on. Right around this time I notice he's sweating. Profusely. He asks if I'd like to go get icecream - to cool off. I say a'la Renee Zellweger in 'Jerry Maguire' - "You had me at hello- er, cookie dough." We stand up to go, and that's when he notices it. My obvious height advantage. He kinda furrows his brow and tilts his head a bit. We walk out the door and down the sidewalk and he says, "You're....how tall?" 5'8. "Huh. Ok." Why do I feel like he doesn't believe me? Oh, my kingdom for a tape measure!

The rest of the date is actually fun. We go to Dairy Queen, I pay. We sit outside and chat. It's nice. The thing is, I really enjoyed his company. He was funny, he was intelligent, he was cute! He thought I was funny, too! But could I date someone who is 34 and still living with mom and dad? "Hey, my parents are going out of town. Two words. Par. Tay." or, "Dad's makin' waffles in the morning, wanna sleepover? I call top bunk!" *Shiver* The truth is, it didn't seem like he had any plan to move out any time soon. If anything, he kept touting how great and supportive and wonderful his parents were.

Pffft. I dunno. He dropped me off with a hug (oh, and for those that are wondering, he drives a Toyota Corolla) I really don't give a flying fig about cars, but it has been brought to my attention that a man's car says a lot about him. What does a Corolla say, then? "Deathly afraid of cutting the apron strings"??

And here I sit. In my first date outfit. He asked if he could call me again to go out and I said "Sure."

Maybe I need to mull this one over a bit. Weigh the pros and cons. Maybe it's too soon to judge? Any thoughts? Please do share.

Until then, I remain....sexless in the city.

* PLEASE NOTE: Names, locations and occupations have been altered to protect the identity of this mama's boy

Back in the saddle again...

2005-07-12T16:37:00.000-05:00

After regaling my friends and family over the years with tales of my online dating adventures, and being told "You should write a BOOK!" I've decided to do the next best thing, and jump on the blogging bandwagon. Yeehaw!

As some of you know, it has been one week since I was dumped by my eHarmony match
(29 Key Dimensions of Compatibility my ass), and I am ready to take on the online dating world once again!

Hoping to meet somebody who doesn't have a pet albino ferret, live in Australia, or collect shot glasses that he displays in his house. Not too much to ask, right?

I fully realize that I am opening myself up to a world that may include: hurt, embarrassment, humor, disappointment and disbelief...but hopefully along the way it will include love. *cue sappy Lifetime Movie of Week music*

Fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy night...