Firstbasawassa

Coach Conrads Sit-up Camp for Shirtless Boys

I Ransacked My Landlord's Garden

You charged Joanie downstairs for heat and water
for the washer everybody, including you, uses.
You yelled at Ali for not composting eggshells.

And when I asked you to replace the backdoor eyehook
with a deadbolt
you told me that such paranoid vibes
sent forth into the world
will only serve to attract rapists to me, and
by your inaction, you declared you deemed
a lock
unnecessary.

You didn’t tell me that squirrels nest
in the vent ducts in the cold and will
break into my house and might
smash my stained glass art,
pee on my bookshelf
and claw the window sills so they look
torn, like the work
of a crowbar
which sent me screaming down
the stairs to the neighbors
There's A Man In My House
when it was just three stinking rats
with bushy tails.

Yes,
it has been a while, I know, but today,
I ransacked your garden.
All summer you have been bent
yanking and digging and sweating and I
have watched you
from my comfortable chair on the balcony,
sipping wine, grilling burgers and now,
Steve,
A half-dozen red ripe tomatoes
sit in my bowl.

Three hot peppers,
the only yellow squash,
several cucumbers (there are a thousand),
a head of lettuce, five carrots,
a most beautiful violet eggplant with
waxed-shiny skin and
a spongy core fresh
and white,
like a daisy.

I wonder, Steve, if you put some
fear-of-people-steeling-your-vegetables
paranoid vibe
into the Universe
because
I blame your vibe
for making me hack through
enough rhubarb
for twenty-seven pies.

I do have one regret.
I did not not take
the lovely lone melon.
The cord, too strong
for me to break
by myself.

Jackpot.

I picked up my new car last night. The sellers and I went to the DMV together to with our sickle’s (for the red tape), and after nearly keeling over from the amount of taxes I had to pay (there is no sales tax in Oregon, so what a surprise!) and dealing with a guy who didn’t want to accept my out-of-state check (Yes, I’ve lived here 2 years and still have Oregon checks. Sue me.), and filling stuff out and all that jazz, I have my new car. Well, it is new to me.

My old car—well, dears, my old car is very old. If my old car were a person, she’d be named something like Matilda and would be someone’s 80-year-old grandma who wears fuchsia polyester pants, smokes 3-packs of Parlaments a day, complains about her aching liver and spends far too many late nights drinking cheap gin through a straw in front of the slot machines at the casino. She’s not stylish, has a broken tape deck, coffee stickiness on the dash (no cupholders), and no cruise control. She wheezes and coughs and clunks and exudes a puff of smelliness every time I turn left. And like said granny-lady, she’s been there when I needed her—gotten me around in my underemployed days, made it through a snowdrift in rural Wisconsin, blasted through Chicago toll roads without (accidentally) paying, remained relatively rust-free, and recently survived being driven into an (almost) flash flood. Matilda, she’s a trooper when she isn’t groaning about her aching CV joints and asking for insanely heavy buckets of change to be dropped in her engine.

My new car, if she were a person, her name would be Ruby and she’d be dressed in stylish yet comfortable designer shoes she found at a consignment shop. She’d belong to MPR, vote, pluck her eyebrows and occasionally date a motorcycle. She would see Paris while she’s young, eat chocolate ice cream in her pajamas and escape to the boundary waters for the weekend. She’s pretty but not too frilly. Practical, safe, and zippy enough to be fun and free-wheelin’.

I feel like I just went from a college-age futon and milk-crate coffee table to Pottery Barn. Not Ethan Allen, but happy to have it.

Word of the day: Phhhhht.

Things that suck:

Family issues that I won’t bother going into and some other unfortunate crap.
Dreams about hurt friends and burnt love letters in the toaster (Hey, it was a dream).
Schlepping boxes and stuffing 250 marketing launch packets.
Heavy boxes.
Incompetent people who say they’re going to do something (that is ON a DEADLINE) then don’t do what they said they’ll do, and to fix it, you must make 42,000 phone calls like this: “Dial 1 for loans, 2 for contracts, 3 to wait on hold for 5000 more minutes only to be connected to someone COMPLETELY useless who will just fuck up your paperwork even MORE.”
Eating cheap take-out lunch while trying to assemble 250 shipping boxes.
Clowns. Okay, clowns have nothing to do with today, but aren’t they totally creepy?
My boss, who got in at 9 and left at 4.
Cute shoes that really hurt.
Stupid people who demand stupid unreasonable things and change their mind at the last effing second and don’t understand what you do enough to know you can’t just freaking whip out jobs in two seconds by command.
TWO presentations on poets that may or may not be due tomorrow but must be prepared anyway.
PMS.

Things that do not suck about today:

French Meadow’s Almond Croissants and my friend Kate.
Getting home from work.
Flannel pajamas.
Purple. I just like purple.
The 42,000-phone-calls-stupidity working out in the end.
People who help stuff 250 packets and assemble shipping boxes.
Overtime.
Fall. Fireplaces.
72 hours until I leave town for a north woods cabin.
Myself, who has good work ethic. Except for that whole personal-emails thing.
Good. Boxed. Wine.
Cheesy chick TV shows.
Quality frozen pizza.
My new car. Well, new to me. I pick it up on Thursday.
Phones with an off button.

Oh, more good things on the list than bad things. That’s good.

-Deborah Keenan

Your job is to add
To the river.
You might be
a drop of rain.

If you break down, I'll drive out and find you...

I spent my actual b-day in Indiana with my family—my whole immediate family—and that is exactly what I wanted. My older sister and I drove out to the country to our masseuse friend’s house for massages. After my massage I dozed off in a patch of tall grass next to the big red barn while I waited for my sister. There were chickens and a big green cornfield and a little pumpkin and sunflower patch and a big blue sky. It smelled like home.

I also went to see my 96 year-old granny and my aunt and uncle and cousins and parents and cousin’s babies came over, and I played with little Autumn who is 3 and when we parted she gave me a kiss and made the I-love-you sign with her hand—her mom is teaching her sign language now—and it was all very sweet. Then we barbecued in my back yard and had really yummy cake and wine on the screened in porch of our big old house and talked about our lives, and how blessed we are and how fast time goes. On our refrigerator there is a picture of my father at age 5 on his bicycle just outside that screened in porch. My family’s been in that house for almost 3 generations now, and he grew up in it too.

Back in Minnesota, Voix and Frances threw a killer party for me with all of my favorite stuff and all my favorite people. We drank champagne and had the best cake ever and red curry for dinner (fav) and went to a swanky place where we drank drinks that end with –tini. I got presents: a journal, salt and pepper shaker, litjo subscriptions, a set of golf clubs, a great ACDC t-shirt. It was classy and fun, and Voix’s cooking totally kicks ass.

I love my birthday time because the sun is high and bright and people are jamming the last bits of fun into the rest of summer and then we get to calm down, rest, harvest stuff, turn inward, get the sweaters out of the closet, turn on the fireplace, pick apples, read and write more, and the life cools down. This time of year, school starting and things ripening and everyone resting from a busy fun summer. It is good. Being 30 is good.

I am going home to Indiana today to celebrate my thirtieth birthday,

which is Sunday. Because I'm leaving work early, I needed to work extra to hit my 40 hours. Because work dinners count as hours, I decided to leave work at the regular time yesterday and go to the dinner planned for our sales reps. Usually, I skip these.

Now, I haven't worked at a company that actually has money for a long time. I've certainly never been in a position to go out to a shmancy restaurant, eat and drink well and get paid for it. My last job was at a very poor nonprofit. My other job was nannying two little boys. My job before that was a receptionist. You get the idea.

Can I just tell you that for about 15 people, we ran up a tab that was the same amount of money that I lived on for an entire semester. It's approximately enough cash to feed all the starving children in China, AND fund research to learn to make fuel out of corn cobs. I was astounded. People ordered so many shots of Patrone that eventually, when one young woman nearly slid out of her chair like a wet noodle, the waiter cut us off. I was even more astounded when one of my co-workers, the leader of the whole young, flash, hammer-fied group, tried to kiss me in front of everyone, and when I dodged him, he accidentally licked my face.*

I don't know if this is common protocol or not. Maybe it was a particularly crazy night. If I ever, ever tell you I'm dating either a sales rep or a surgeon, you have my permission--rather, you are required--to come to my house and perform a lobotomy. Not that they're ALL bad, but I'd certainly consider it a high-risk endeavor.

Now, I have to roll out of bed and go into the office, and I really, really don't want to.

*Lucky for him, I know he's a very respectful guy who was having a rare, dipshit moment.

With salt. Extra salt.

Moi. And Voix.

I am playing hookey from work.

It is 12:30 and I am home sick. Am I sick? Well, a little. I have a cold. And lots of paid sick time. So I am home, and I just left a v-mail for the Voix and I'm going to read and take a nap and watch some movies that I swiped from Kate and Tim when I went over to water their plants. They are on their honeymoon.

I am not going to stay on the computer very long. It is not okay to play hookey from work then spend all day on the computer unless you are doing mandatory homework, and I have no homework right now. I must find mischief. I don't know what kind. One can't ditch out on something unless it's to do something Ferris-Buhler's-Day-Off-esque. At least a little bit.

Now, I'm off to eat enchiladas and drink margaritas with the Voix. Suckas.

Yes. A while.

I just called my ex in Australia and he was asleep—it’s 11 p.m. or so—-so we agreed to talk later and I said Love You because we still do that even though it is a different kind of Love You than before. He didn’t say it back. Which means either his mother is present or he’s in bed with a woman, because I know he loves me to pieces and I know him well enough to know when he’s up to mischief. I shrieked at him—OMG, you totally have a girl over. I teased the shit out of him for a minute and he laughed and said he’ll talk to me tomorrow. He wasn’t dating anyone when I talked to him less than a week ago, so she’s either really new or an ex or a one-nighter. Where once I’d have found this utterly heartbreaking, now it’s just funny and whatever and no big whoop.
That is kind of weird, that this isn’t weird. Does that make sense? I used to live with this man and bought us dishes and talked about marriage and had Christmas with his parents and washed his endless pile of rugby socks. There was a time that I couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t include us together. Then, things changed. When we were heartbroken about it, it was impossible to imagine that being apart would ever feel natural or okay. We thought it would feel wrong and foreign forever. And it doesn’t feel that way—it feels like finally, after 5 years of knowing each other, our relationship is finally exactly where it is meant to be for the long haul. He’s there and I’m here and he dates and I date and we call each other to whine about who we’re dating and we send birthday presents and have a whole new meaning for the I Love Yous between us. Sometimes we can promise to love someone forever and move heaven and earth to keep them as safe and happy as possible. Sometimes you are wrong, and can’t and don’t keep that promise, and that is scary to think about, because if you can be wrong once, you can be wrong again.
I guess… that’s where we’re lucky, Dan and me, is that that part hasn’t changed at the core, it just looks different than before. I still would jump in front of a speeding train to save the guy, and he would for me. And whenever I call him crying about something, he cries with me because even though he’s a big, burly, hairy, steak-lovin’ manly man he can’t hear me cry without getting teary. But the love does not look like I expected it to—we don’t have romantic feelings for each other anymore--and there was a time that I couldn’t trust that things would ever be okay. But they are. It took a lot of time and hurt like hell, but they are okay. And I’m really lucky for that. That even though we’ve been through a train wreck and couldn’t ever imagine how it would ever get untangled, it really is all back on track. It feels good to finally be able to say that and mean it. It’s taken a while.

Grodie.

Did you know that Dairy Queen has a flavor of Blizzard called "Cheesequake?" Excuse me, but I do not want my Blizzards to evoke the image of quaking cheese. I like cheese. I like ice cream. I approve of these dairy products. Please do not mix them.

Ich lebe mein Leben in Wachsenden Ringen

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

-Rainier Maria Rilke

Some sad notes from an old notebook I used to write in when I was half asleep:

In bed
I smooth my foot along
my dry white calf.
So soft
after you were gone
from lying here
Evening.
Night.
All morning.

***

The earrings I wore tonight
glisten on the counter top

You will never understand
the depth of my sadness.

When my last lover saw me
In the picture by the waters

He said standing there
You look like you might
dive in
and swim away.

***

The tree has borne a thousand seeds
and none will ever live.
Last night, the storm
ripped a thousand branches
to the ground.

Why didn't you tell me?

She is sick
to think of it.

***

What I remember most about you
is orange skies
in Minnesota winters.
I was amazed
that it never got
truly dark.

Sponge-Tim No-Pants

My friends Tim and Kate got married yesterday at 5:30 in the morning. They rented a giant camping space in the boonies that was private and pretty. A bunch of people camped and the grandparents and aunties and such stayed at a hotel nearby. Camping Friday night. Wedding at 5:30 Saturday morning. Brunch. Free time for swimming, golfing, canoeing, etc. Reception at 3. Camping again Saturday night.

It was approximately 1005968493 degrees yesterday, so the 5:30 a.m. nuptials outdoors turned out to be a good idea, a cool 83 degrees with a nice breeze. The bride dragged me out of my tent at 4 a.m. We woke up the bride’s sister and a friend or two. We went to the bridal tent (tall enough to stand up in) where we strapped Kate into a bra that looked much like a torture device, Lauren clipped on jewelry and I put on a headlamp, the kind you use for spelunking, to do the bride’s makeup. It was still totally dark out.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel (the groom loves his bride’s hardcore outdoorsyness, but wanted AC and, you know, a shower before his own wedding), the groom and his best friend were dressing. Tim put on his shirt, his tie, his jacket. Then he felt a cool breeze and realized something was missing: he had no pants. There were no pants on the hangar, none in the bag, none under the bed. The groom, he had no pants.

Tim made the 40 minute drive back to Minneapolis in SEVENTEEN minutes wearing a dress shirt, tie, and his boxer shorts.

At 5:30 a.m., all the friends were caked in bug spray and sweat and bed-head and had breath that could kill an elephant. There was no running water, you see, and pit toilets. But Kate—not Kate. Kate was born with mutant naturally-gorgeous genes. She rolled out of her tent with flowing hair soft as cornsilk, as fresh as a spring daisy. She was dazzling. When she walked across the field with her father to marry her groom, she was glowing, Tim was glowing, and he had on pants. It was all as it should be. We would’ve cried if we hadn’t been so dehydrated that it was impossible to produce tears. The ceremony was meaningful and the J.O.P. said relevant and touching things. Tim’s father sang a very appropriate and lovely song he wrote for the couple. His sister sang “All you need is love.”

Then we ate brunch. And instead of canoeing and golfing and swimming, per The Plan, everyone went home or to various hotel rooms to shower and shave their teeth and take a 2 or 3 hour nap. Then we went to the reception where we visited and hugged lots of people and ate barbecue food and really good cheesecake. I skipped the second night of camping and drove home and slept in my own bed for 10 whole hours. It was happy, and I am glad they are married and I am glad to be clean and in air conditioning.

Tonight I rowed on the Mississippi

...in a double with a young woman named Erika. It was a skinny double--not much wider than my hips--and very sensitive to every movement. Sleek and white on the outside, and all wood on the inside. An old boat.

Erika bowed, so she sat behind me and called out instructions every once in a while to steer, but mostly we just rowed. It was cloudy, so it wasn’t too hot, and the water was totally calm. Because she was bowing, I didn’t have to look back or think about what direction we were headed or if we’d hit anything. All I had to do was my job, a rhythmic motion, and look straight out ahead at the rippling V we sliced through the water, at the three ducks by the shore, at the one white cloud atop gray ones the shape of a crumpled quilt, at the airplane just taking off at the horizon, at the arc and pedicles of the Lake Street Bridge and the lone biker crossing from one city to the next. Arms away, slow up the slide, click, plunk, exhale and power through the drive, handle heights even around the corner at the finish and click to feather the oars for the recovery.

The first thing I bought with my first paycheck...

...was a pair of Levi 501 button fly jeans. They were boys’, so they sat lower on the hips and were relaxed. It was the early 90’s. Baggy enough to be grunge, fitting enough to still look like a girl. I loved them. I wore them to school. To make out with my boyfriend in his parent’s basement. I took them to college. They traveled across the country with me when I graduated. I hiked up volcanoes in them. I hiked in caves. I sat in them on the floor of my first one-room studio apartment, which had no furniture, cross legged, the hems at the feet all frayed, and cried to my sister twelve states away about not being able to find a job. Eventually, I wore them to my job.

First they got a hole at the knee, then the butt started to wear thin on account of my bony ass. Eventually, they were ratty as hell. I had to do something. Drastic? Yes: I cut them into jean shorts. The button holes on the fly were so worn they’d come undone of their own accord, so I sewed them smaller. I ironed patches beneath the back pockets where you could see the sun shine through. I wore them more. Then: it was time.

I retired the first pair of jeans I bought with my first paycheck when I moved to Australia. It was sad, but they were dead. Gone. Practically just a series of patches and thread. It was time.

After I got home from Australia, I flew to New York and Becky and I shopped at a discount store in New Jersey. I spotted them across the room. This is the part where we would have locked eyes (you know, if jeans had eyes) and cheesy love music would have played over the loud speaker. I made my way to the clearance rack. I snatched them up, tried them on in the dressing room, and Becky exclaimed, “Yeah, I like ‘em. They’re cool.” We’ve been together ever since. They came with me to Japan, another move to Portland. Road trips. Dates. They were aptly named “the nice-ass jeans” by my ex-boyfriend. The hems around the feet are just the right length in my favorite pair of shoes.

I regret to inform you that the Lucky nice-ass jeans are dying. They’ve got a hole on the top of the left thigh, which I can live with. But around Christmas, they started getting the same worn-thin transparency around the sit-bones that the Levis had. Damn my bony ass. I asked my mother to perform some serious surgery, patches and stitching here and there. It worked for a while. Now, it’s no use. It’s time to retire them. Before I’m entirely forced to turn them into strictly around-the-house jeans, I’m trying one more set of ass-patches. But they won’t feel the same. It won’t be long now. The patches will feel stiff and weird. I won’t wear them as often. Today, at the mall, I shopped for a new favorite pair of jeans.

I also regret to inform you that, much to my dismay, the jeans with zippers on the side at the ankle, the kind that burn your leg when you put them on straight out of the dryer, the kind we wore in the SEVENTH GRADE, are back. I tried on maybe 10 pair (not the ones with the zippers—I’m SO not going back to seventh grade). I tried on the “boyfriend cut” jeans, which do not fit like boyfriend’s jeans at all. I tried on the ones that are pre-bleached to look like they’re worn and wrinkled, which The Voix said made me look like I’d gotten fat, washed them a bunch, then lost weight. Bleachy stretch-marks. No thank you. I found a pair that I liked—they’re cute and make my legs look long—so I bought them. But they’re trendy. They’re good for a fling, but not the real thing. Now that I’m on the market for some new Most Favorite Jeans, it looks like what’s out there since last time has changed. Maybe I’ll never fall in love with a pair of jeans again, but I’ll keep trying them on, and who knows. It could happened when I least expect it.

Fun with online dating

My latest love letter from a total stranger. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried:



Hello [Cavu],
I hope you are doing ok.
Have you ever danced untill you felt that you were like an eagle flying graciously across the blue sky?
You look and sound so genuin and sweet. When I first saw your pic I had this feelings in my heart that I have been unable to shake since then. I have not felt like this in a very long time.
Me--I will start off by letting you know that I am a very honest man and expect the same from others. I am not a Denzel Washington but I have this feeling that we could be great friends. I am a down to earth and caring person and I do not play games. I felt an urge to write to you bacause I was overcome with feelings looking at your pic.
Tell me-Do you believe in "Love at first sight?"
Even though we've never met, something about your looks and profile got my equilibrium disturbed.My mind raced as waves of passion flushed over my dark skin, causing me to gaze upon visions of impossible romantic possibilities.I felt like a pathetic man who anticipates the true rhythm of love, with a woman he might never hold. My imagined discourse of thoughts left me suffering, as my lips quivered with the words I might never speak
"I have loved you more than anybody in this world."

I am looking foward to hearing from you. A pic will follow your responce.
Take care for now.
Regards,
-Rico

I am leaving for the Twins game in a few minutes

It's a work thing. We have about 30 marketing peeps in town from all over the globe. I have eaten 3 meals a day with work people for the last 3 business days. We are going to feed our guests hotdogs and they will love us.

Crap that is piled upon my coffee table

One candle. Cream. Unscented.

Currents from the Dancing River: Contemporary Latino Fiction, for lesson planning creative writing classes for immigrants.

Photo negatives, mostly from New Year’s Eve in New York.

A photograph of me, taken by me, in my bathroom because there is better light, for a trial on-line dating profile. The trial is going swimmingly well, assuming I want to date John Lovitz.

A box of 4 gourmet chocolates, the latest copy of GQ Magazine, a Sudoku book, a crumpled map of Indiana Amish country saved from the last time I saw him: All items for a care package for Josh who is a pilot in the navy, and just left for three months at sea.

A piece of particle board with a stretched piece of watercolor paper glued to it.

A surgical technique manual for a titanium intervertebral disc cage, designed for both anterior and posterior implementation.

An exam: “1. From the superior to the inferior, list the five major regions of the spine; indicate the type of curvature it has. Write the tame of each component of a typical vertebra on the spaces provided.”

Two ink pens.

A small rock.

A receipt from Nina’s Coffee Shop.

A postcard from Greece.

How many women I crammed into my attic apartment last night: 13

How long Kate and Tim have been in love: 20 months
Days till their wedding: 55
Time Kate will rise on her wedding day in order to put on her gown and hike a leg up on a tree (we’ll be camping) to strap on a garter belt in the middle of the wilderness in time for her dawn ceremony: 4:30 AM.
How many penis shaped cakes I baked yesterday: 2
How many Ben dropped on his foul kitchen floor: 2
How many penis-shaped cakes Ben baked yesterday: 2

How many women I crammed into my attic apartment last night: 13
How many jell-o shots someone brought to my house: 8 million
How many I consumed: 2
How many the bride consumed: approximately 9
How many times she yacked: 0. That I know of. [Update: Make that 2.]
How many times she drunk-dialed the groom: 2

How long my parents have been married: 35 years
How long they were engaged: 3 months
How long it’s been since my younger sister disappeared for a month and came home married to a man 25 years older than her: 5 years
How many family members have been married in the same small town church with the most gorgeous stained glass windows ever: 8
How many babies those couples had: 20

How many dance clubs we attended last night: 3
How many we rides we took in a black stretch limo: 1
How much we paid for said limo: $6
How many times I had my ass pinched: 3
How many bathrooms I peed in and, using the well-honed skills I learned at college frat parties, managed not to touch a single thing except TP: 3
How many guys bought me a drink: 1
Number of times we heard the song “Baby Got Back”: 4
Number of women in the “Baby Got Back” video who actually have a large ass: 0
Number of times I thought to myself, “Dear God, I am too old for this”: 1,000,000
How many trips to the spa my friends are getting me to thank me for hosting this madness: 1. Yay.

In my 4th grade diary, how old I said I expected to be when I got married: 30
How many times I’ve informally been proposed to: 3
Age I was when my grandmother told me she’d never live to see the day I found a husband and gave me my wedding gift early: 23
Her age on her wedding day: 29
My age now: 29
How often I use the non-wedding gift she gave me: Almost daily

How many times I’ve been asked out this year: 3
How many dates I said yes to: 3
How many of these men are gay: 1
How many of whom had a degree: The gay one.
Days since I heard “I love you” from a man: 1 day
Miles apart I am from that man: 10,629
How many internet dates I’ve been on, total: 4
How many I had a second date with: 1
How many were totally freaks: 0
How long its been since I went on an internet date: 10 months
How many men I’ve met not on the internet (since I moved here) who turned out to be freaks: 5

How many feather boas were in my bed when I woke up this morning: 2
How much random shit I found strewn about my house when I got up:
1 stray sock
1 make-up bag
1 purple bra
7 lemons
1 vibrating cock ring
1 card that said “I dare you to kiss a stranger”
2 jars of frosting
1 t-shirt
1 bag of shredded coconut
6,958 nearly empty cups of God-knows-what drinks
1 dry-erase marker.
How many gallons of warm, sugary, rummy, nauseating Mojito mix I dumped down the toilet this morning: 1
Leftovers I am most excited to chow down on: Mexican layer dip, mixed nuts, wedge of brie.
What’s left of the penis-shaped cakes: 2 cherry-chip testicles
How many bags of trash I hauled to the dumpster: 6
How many drinks I mopped off the floor: 1
What I am going to do with 7 lemons: I have no idea.

The number of years that will pass before I do another jell-o shot, make a penis cake or dance to “It’s Getting Hot in Here/So Take off All Your Clothes”: 3,593,559,293

How many friends I’ve held up the giant hoop of her wedding dress for so she could go pee at her own reception: 3
How much more important it is to have a great partner than any of the wedding stuff: 100x
How nice it is to have both, if that’s what you want: Quite nice, I'm sure.
How much better it is to be single right now than in something that isn’t right: 16 tons
How it feels right now knowing that I’m not vulnerable to or responsible for a relationship: Light as a Feather
How jazzed I’ll be if I find an excellent partner: Super, super jazzed
How urgent is it to find a partner: Not at all.

How it feels to see two wonderful friends fall deeply in love and make each other very, very happy: Amazing.
How it feels to have your friend tell you 10 times in one night that she loves you, and that this is just the kind of girl’s night she wanted: Worth every dropped and re-baked penis cake.
How sure I am that these two punks are a fantastic match: 100%
How weepy and happy will I be at their wedding: Very.