I Have No Snappy Title

I don't have a title or much of anything to report, but remember that in 10 days it's time for the big old blog party get together with the funny name, as reported here. And if you read this blog, you are invited to the party, so drop me an email if you would like directions. You also have less than 24 hours to email your nominations to my friend G, a.k.a. Screwy, which should all be on top of that link. So do it. And spend some time reading the Blogasheville blogroll, because there's some damn good stuff in there.

That was your public service announcement. As for me, I'm reading Fay Weldon - Rhode Island Blues - and realizing again, like I always do when I read Fay Weldon, how much I like her. I've also been reading some Tim Powers short stories and a whole bunch more Elizabeth Hand which I could rave on and on about but I won't, tonight, since my elbow hurts for some inexplicable reason and I'm cranky, because tomorrow I have one of those dreaded and dreadful parent/teacher conferences.

I've been having one of those days when I brood about being single. This is usually tied to PMS, but apparently not this time. This time it was triggered, I think, by a conversation I had with my friend S, who recently met a guy I decided against a long time ago for a host of excellent reasons (3 am drink & dial person. 'Nuf said?) and she, not knowing this history, thought that he and I might make a good match. So I lamented my woeful, yet eerily predictable, lack of taste a bit and she pointed out that the odds are against the kind of guys I'm attracted to aging well or, really, sort of getting anywhere. Most of them tend to fall into the substance abuse abyss, and that's because I really only like guys who, like me, walk on the thin edge. My, that sounds pretentious, doesn't it? What this means in actual fact is I'm hopelessly attracted to bad boys and if they're smart, creative, bitter, slightly insane bad boys with a twisted sense of humor, well, I'm lost.

The only problem is that bad boys don't just sort of fade away - they burn out and only a few of them ever take that creativity and actually do anything with it, besides keep some barstools from getting lonely. Now there's nothing wrong with that - I myself am a close personal friend of more than a few barstools and I've accomplished little in this world. Except I do have a job and a car and a place to live and a bunch of great friends and two dogs and all those accoutrements of the vaguely civilized life and I sort of feel that it ought to be possible for me to find a guy who also has these things or some facsimile thereof. Yet it seems not to be and I'm tired of dating the homeless. But at the same time, to the despair of my friends and no doubt my therapist, I automatically assume that if a male has those things then he's pretty much certainly out of my league and definitely not going to be interested in me anyway. Which has been the case in the past, let's face it.

Of course, I'm not actually dating anyone, homeless or otherwise. And maybe that should worry me more than it usually does, but except for occasional days like this one, mostly it makes me feel relieved. It's easier. And it seems to be damn near impossible for me to meet anyone anyway - bad, good or otherwise, so it's all a moot point. Whine. Whine, whine, whine.

Ah, fuck it. I made a kickass Irish stew tonight and ate it with good French bread and I still have like 7 books I haven't read yet. That's more than enough for one life.