I am out of words.

For all of the good advice and caring I’ve received this week, I am out of words.

For all of the moody music I’ve listened to, for the pint of ice cream I ate, for the mindless TV I’ve watched, I’m out of words.

I am not depressed or terribly sad or crying anymore. I’m not bitter or rage-filled. I am out of words.

So I’m sitting, curled up alone in this bed without my words to comfort me, thinking about myself, thanking the heavens for my kind friends.

Grand realizations and cathartic outbursts deserve a moment or two to sink in. So I am marinating in my past choices, pausing in this slight melancholy and planning my next step.

I was relaying a conversation I had with a certain man to a friend. He’d said he’d come over and didn’t and so I sent him a snippy text the next morning because I am actually 12 years old and he wrote back later to say he was sorry.

“And then I said, ‘Look, I’m going to stop worrying about this, I’m not your girlfriend. This is not supposed to be stressful for me,’ which I thought was pretty reasonable,” I told my friend. “But remember this was on instant messenger.”

“Uh-huh,” said my friend.

“So he writes back, ‘I understand’,” I said. “And so I write back, ‘I just want to have fun.’”

“Right.”

“And he writes back, ‘I know.’”

“Okay …”

“And I say, ‘So, if you’re not up for that, let me know.’”

“And?”

“He said, ‘Oh I am,’” I said. “And then whole thing drove me crazy because I was so incredibly pissed about him just not calling me to say he wasn’t coming and here I am trying to have a conversation about this and all he can muster is one or two word answers? But then I was thinking that he WAS on his Treo, so maybe that’s all he could type.”

“Wait, excuse me?” My friend had been skeptically listening to me vent, but her ears perked up at this.

“Well, you know, they have small keyboards.”

“Smaller than the keyboard on your Blackberry, which you seem to have no problems typing at length on?” she asked.

“Well, you know, not everyone can type …”

“Do Treos have full keyboards?”

“Yes.”

“Does he have the most GINORMOUS hands ever? Are his fingers so big that he can’t wiggle them? Are his hands FREAKISHLY large?” My friend asked, clearly annoyed.

“Well, not really.”

“SO, you’re telling me that you’re now making excuses for a guy for sending crap one and two word responses on his phone, which doesn’t even have one of those lame keyboards with two letters to a key?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” I said. “What was I supposed to say?”

“APOLOGY NOT ACCEPTED. WTF!” And to punctuate she airkeyboarded on her Blackberry and slammed it down on the table.

If you did all of the following this weekend …

• Worked.
• Bought a light brown (I’ve decided it is a “pale latte” color.) Antonio Melani handbag on sale. (Regularly $199, I got it for $49.)
• Wished someone would make a cell phone with a breathalyzer to prevent drunk texting.
• Drank margaritas with friends instead of watching the Oscars.
• Became annoyed with the people at a newly opened wine bar who were standing around taking up space while they drank Miller Lite from the bottle. (The point of a wine bar? Is not to drink crappy domestic beer and stand around looking bored.)
• Slept in one day.
• Grumbled about not having someone to sleep in with.
• Pined after a certain cute, smart guy.  (Attention cute, smart guys: Stop having girlfriends.)
• Practiced walking nice and smoothly for a big appointment at the orthopedist on Monday. (The fracture will be healed. It must!)
• Became obsessed with “Love Today” by MIKA.
• Prepared to launch an all out War on Dillard’s because their salespeople refused to look in the back for my size in a shoe that was on super sale, saying that they had everything out. (I happen to know that they DID have more shoes in the back because they pulled different sizes of sale shoes for one of my girlfriends and her mother. IT IS ON.)
• Failed to write three coherent sentences.

… then you’re me.

Saturday evening, after seeing “Juno” with my girlfriends, I decided to pick up a few things for dinner and head in for a quiet night of watching Season Three of The Office. My ankle still hurts and I’m heading out on Thursday for a whirlwind wedding weekend, so a bit of relaxation was in order. I stopped by a new gourmet market to browse and wait for food-related inspiration.

I was rolling through the aisles aimlessly, trying to decide what to cook. And this led me to a logical place – the meat counter. You see, I’ve been working hard in my post-vegetarian months to build dinners around meat instead of adding it in at the last minute.

So I’m looking at different cuts of meats – incidentally, I went with chicken breast and later made the world’s worst chicken. I’d meant to make a nice Parmesan crusted chicken breast, but oh did I crash and burn and end up with a lumpy mess. But, of course, I didn’t know that that this point.

What I did know at this point was that, gee golly, I was about to have an encounter of the uncomfortable kind. Because as I looked up from the applewood smoked pepper bacon, I spied a familiar face. One I’d only seen once in person but studied extensively via MySpace before coming to the conclusion that, yes, I was cuter than she is.

It was The Nurse’s Girlfriend, in all of her not me glory.

Whereas I looked put together – a rose-colored sweater with a cowl neck, wide-legged trouser jeans, flats, with my hair pulled back and simple makeup with glossy lips – she was not only wearing what I assume was an oversized men’s polo-style red plaid shirt and, horror of horrors, a SKORT.

Now, I know it is impolite to mock your ex’s current fling, especially when she was unfortunate enough to bear his spawn recently, but I really don’t care, because this isn’t actually about her right now. Girlfriend was wearing a denim skort. A pair of denim shorts with a faux skirt flap in the front. The definition of frumpy. And I should have just giggled and went about on my merry little way, happily not saddled with a child by a soulless liar. But at that moment, my New Year’s Resolution to find the blessings in my daily life fell from my mind and all I could think was, “He dumped me for someone who wears a skort.”

My maniacal fashion judgment gave way to the realization that she probably wasn’t alone. And I was right – The Nurse and Their Child were right behind her.

And, yep, I was there in my cute outfit, but hopelessly alone with a package of chicken breast and two baking potatoes. As I peered at him holding his baby and perusing the aisles, the blood drained from my face and I fumbled in my purse for my phone and called Southern Belle.

“Are you busy?”

“No, just painting my nails. What’s up?” she asked.

I told her I needed someone to distract me while I finished my shopping because I could not risk having to talk to the happy family.

And it turns out that I was going to need the distraction. Because they were everywhere – at the meat counter by the pork chops. In the deli section by the sliced cheeses and the prosciutto, comparing babies with another couple with an infant. At the seafood case by the scallops. In the produce section by the portabellas.

I was skillfully dodging him while carrying on my conversation and silently seething about how much I hated him for dumping me without bothering to give a reason and then occasionally dropping back into my life to flirt or suggest that we reunite for a night. And really hating myself the most for caring so much at this point and for letting him remain under my skin when I should have banished him like the poisonous rash that he is.

But as I went to replace a package of gnocchi on the pasta aisle, he was leading his brood down the same aisle and we ended up face-to-face. We made direct eye contact, he nodded and smiled to acknowledge me and I managed a weak smile and turned my cart around.

Later, as I walked to my car, I moped to Southern Belle.

“It isn’t him,” I said. “It is that he just dumped me for no reason, or at least if he had a reason he didn’t share it. And now he’s dating some woman who just doesn’t seem to be as fun as I am and he keeps popping up and making inappropriate comments to me and telling me how awful she is.”

“Yes, it would be easier if he were just gone.”

“Right. And, I’m sorry, she was wearing a skort.”

“Excuse me? His girlfriend was wearing a skort?” she asked.

“Yes, a skort. A denim skort. Like we wore in 1993. When we were 13.”

“Oh dear, I see why you’re upset,” Southern Belle said. “I don’t think there is any good reason to wear a denim skort out in public. Ever.”

“And this means I am officially the girl who got dumped for no reason so that her guy could go off and date a skort-wearer,” I said.

“The sad truth is, you’ll probably never know why he dumped you. And that’s crazy, but at least you’re not still with him,” Southern Belle said.

And she’s right. There isn’t always a tangible reason you can see for why a man dumps you. And that needs to be okay, because sometimes you’re the one the guy lusts after and the one who makes his heart pound.

And then other times you’re just not what he wants. And so, inexplicably, you get dumped for the girl in the denim skort.

Self –

You’ve been flirting with disaster lately. And by “disaster,” I mean The Nurse.

Sure, the first IM seemed innocent enough. Just casually catching up with a friend and former fling, right?

Wrong!

He’s not your friend. He doesn’t care about you. He may say that he still cares, that he made a mistake, that you are awesome and wonderful and sexy. But his actions in the past – most notably the Dumping by Not Calling – prove otherwise. (See also: The Impregnating of Someone Else.)

Yes, it does bolster your confidence to have man who once spurned your affections say that he still wants you. But what he wants is not you. He wants an easy fall back girl for when he finds himself single and lonely – or just lonely and lustful.

He’s bad news. Stop the MySpace stalking. Stop comparing yourself to his girlfriend. Stop oooohing over pictures of his baby.

He doesn’t want you. And, more importantly, you don’t want him. Period. End of story. There are many many many better men out there. And even if there aren’t, being alone is far better than being strung along by an immature, manipulative jerk who admits that he knew you liked him and chose to run to another woman’s bed.

Stop IMing. Stop texting. Stop caring. Just stop.

Cheers,

Charming

Sunday afternoon I saw “Dan in Real Life.” I liked the movie, but it is the kind of movie that was made for someone like me – heartwarming, funny and hopeful. I saw it in spite of the fact that Dane Cook is in it, which speaks to how much I love Steve Carell.

There is this scene in a book store and in passing Steve Carell’s character references Anna Karenina. And this, of course, took me back to my own brush with this epic tale a few years back.

T, it seems, loved that book, which is widely regarded as one of the best novels ever written. And he had talked me into reading it and he asked me about it often and alluded to us getting together to discuss the book when I was finished. He’d never scheduled a formal date with me, but when I finished that book he had plans for us, he’d said.

So I’d read chunks of it each day and was up to the middle of the long book when T unceremoniously (and quite publicly) rejected me.

And I put the book down.

I enjoyed it, I did. I would escape for a few hours in the story about nobility and formality and an affair that could never be. But all I could think each time I looked at the cover was how I felt so pathetic for rushing out to read an 864-page book as a way to win a man’s affections. Over the years, reading Anna Karenina has served as the high end of measuring stick of annoyances I will endure to get a man’s attention. It isn’t that reading a book is such a huge stretch. It is that the motivation behind my reading was less about expanding my horizons and more about getting the guy.

Even though our relationship was purely casual, I’d assumed that this shared interest could for a foundation for dating or more. It was stupid and desperate, but I’d spent a good two or more years chasing after a guy who didn’t love me and then I developed a crush on T as a way to get over the other guy. He’d seemed interested and I’d jumped.

The level of desperation associated with the action of reading the book is directly related to the outcome of the situation. Had he not screwed me over so terribly, I would have been glowing about our deep relationship forged over a shared love of Russian literature.

Yes, in the movie version of this tale, T and I would have bonded over this book and lived a Tolstoy-themed existence. Or he’d reject me and I’d finally finish the book to spite him and then one night I’d come back to my apartment and he’d be there with an elaborate Russian dinner set out to offer an apology for his rude behavior.

In the real-life version, the book is sitting at the bottom of a box somewhere, packed away out of sight. There were so, so many red flags – the not calling, the heavy, heavy drinking, never making firm plans for the future. I still feel so incredibly lame for playing into his game and hoping he’d finally notice me as a serious contender and not a drunken conquest.

I was so, so wrong.

Saturday night was a big Halloween party out of town. I had a hotel room and matching costumes with The Lawyer and Southern Belle – black dresses, heels, different colored wigs and matching fake eyelashes. Part “sexy alien” and part just plain sexy.

Southern Belle’s Boyfriend and his friends put together the party and it was quite a production – the lot next to the house was walled off with plastic, they built a bar along the back side of the yard, brought in port-o-potties and even had a “shot bar” built into the maze of plastic walls you walked through to enter the party. Clearly they take this party seriously and we’d been warned to show up in good costumes, as everyone else would be decked out in their Halloween finest.

We met at the hotel and dropped off our cars. We knew we’d be drinking, so we arranged cabs and designated drivers for the evening and night. I’ve been trying desperately to pull myself out of my slump and a night of dancing and drinking was just what the doctor ordered.

After a nice dinner, we relived our younger days when we’d get ready to go out at someone’s apartment with music and mounds of makeup in the hotel. I felt slightly awkward hailing a cab outside of our hotel in a neon wig.

“I need to be around other people dressed like morons,” I said as a crew of young twenty-something guys gave us weird stares.

The party was a lot of fun – it seemed to mostly be couples, but there were some notable single guys in attendance. To be honest, I’d hoped Passport would be there since he’s a friend of Southern Belle’s Boyfriend. But she told me flat out that they really hadn’t seen him lately, leaving me without a real target for my costumed flirting.

Early on in the evening I had a run in with a very hot guy in a spandex costume that left little to the imagination. Spandex Guy was attractive and he knew it. He was quick to point out that he wasn’t wearing anything under his costume. At first I found him somewhat funny and The Lawyer encouraged me to flirt with him. I sipped on a Vodka cranberry and summoned up some liquid courage, but I generally found him to be aggressive, drunk and highly disrespectful of personal space. There’s a fine line between confident and cocky and he was firmly the latter.

After a few hours of mingling at the party and more Jell-o shots that I care to admit, we walked over to a nearby bar to check out the scene and I mistakenly decided to have a Red Headed Slut shot, which is when I think the evening went from rowdy fun to ridiculous. We rejoined the party and Spandex Guy found me again. If I was drunk then he was, well, extremely drunk and his antics wore on me even more. He was, I guess, trying to dance with me when I attempted to untangle myself from his grasp. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he thought I was teasingly pulling away from him, which only made him want to dance more.

And then, because this is me we’re talking about and I simply can’t deal in only mild annoyances, a dancing disaster struck.

He tackled me.

Now, I’m not talking about him innocently tripping and pulling me down with him. I’m talking about full on pulling me down to the hard, cold, slightly muddy ground with force while I screeched.

Oh. My. Word.

My first instinct while we were dancing was to laugh, but as I felt myself falling and his arm tugging against my long earrings and my skirt swinging in the wind, the whole thing went from fun to obnoxious. And once I screeched loudly some guys intervened and pushed him down and pulled me up out of his arms.

Thankfully the top of my dress was a faux wrap and the bottom was a full skirt. Because had it been an actual wrap dress, the entire party would have seen my bra, my panties and my tights even more than I imagine they already did.

I steadied myself and made it known that I was Not Amused and sulked over to a chair with The Lawyer. I pulled out my earrings from my sore earlobes and peeled off my eyelashes, which came askew in the fall.

“I am done. No more Halloween for me,” I snipped, crossing my arms across my chest.

Shortly thereafter we left, but only after Spandex Guy put an arm around me and said, “Hey, everyone knows I’m just playing, right? You know I was just being playful?”

Now, I don’t know if The Tackle was some sort of caveman courting ritual or simply a failed technique that seemed like a good idea in his drunken mind but played out poorly in reality. I suspect it was a combination of both. I don’t think he had any ill intentions; rather I think he’s just a jerk who lacks any concept of boundaries. (Attention Men: No woman I know wants to wrestle, in public, in a skirt, at a party. Ever.)

Seriously? What a tool. We can scratch “Drinking a Halloween Party” from my list of places to find potential suitors. No more flirting with drunken dudes ever. EVER.

Southern Belle’s Boyfriend took us back to the hotel and I tried to carefully climb out of his SUV, as I’d spent my more than my fair share of time sprawled out on the ground at the party. As I struggled with my heel caught in the doorway of the car, a group was leaving a bar near our hotel. A guy rushed over to take my hand.

“I don’t NEED your assistance!” I hissed. (Add “All Men Everywhere” to the list of things I was So Over for the night.)

“Aw, baby, you look like you could use a helping hand,” he said, a clear nod to the wig I was grasping and my grumpy demeanor.

And then this strange guy grabbed my hand, helped me down from the car and gave me a hug.

I thanked him, wished him a Happy Halloween and pushed him away at once.

“No more Halloween until next year,” I grumbled to my girlfriends as we rode the elevator to our room.