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02.26.01 11:54 a.m.

"No trophies, no flowers, no flashbulbs, no line
He's haunted by something he cannot define"

-  Cake "Going the Distance"

Evidently, CG is denying me not only the gold and silver, but I may be completely disqualified from the Rejection Olympics. Because, you see, I have not been rejected. At all. How completely unexpected.
Usually, if I may dare to use such a term when I really cannot judge this fairly new level of life (post-break-up), I am nowhere near this pessimistic. I have oft been called a cynical optimist, actually. Hardly the same thing.
Oh, but you want the story, don't you? After I prattled on in such a hurried, worried fashion last night, you expect you deserve to read this turn of events. Well, if you are going to have such a sense of self-entitlement about it, I suppose I can allow you into my confidences. But don't tell anyone else. I don't want it getting out that I danced with a Pekinese poodle.
For the most part today, I sat around my house in a usual bored fashion. This entailed reading excerpts from ten different books, exercising, reading a bit more, rewatching Buffy to figure out if Buffy's mom is really dead (didn't notice her eyes were open and staring blankly at the ceiling before. Hmmm... that's pretty dead. I bet Brian did it! See, Buffy's mom went on a date with this guy Brian and... hey, wait... you are reading this journal about me, not about Buffy!), typing e-mail, calling a few friends, working on a completely unrelated website, taking notes for a presentation, and slightly moping. Just a smidgeon of a pigeon of a bit. So, a busy nothing.
While I was in the midst of taking notes on Fareed Zakaria's article/interview "Culture is Destiny," my mother loudly announced that Venessa was on the phone. Venessa is an interesting story, one I will get to a little later. Not tonight.
So I hopped to the phone, ready to field the summer mist of Venessa's voice. Instead, I hear a very familiar, but certainly not Venessa voice say, "Hi, it's [CG]."
I firmly believe I levitated, just for a moment. It was about four PM and I had pretty much decided that CG wasn't going to call and I was going to say I was perfectly okay with that (I wouldn't be, but I like to pretend I am believable). To actually hear the birdsong of her over the phone (albeit with the static one associates with malfunctioning cell phones on bad sitcoms) removed me, bodily, from the earth for one precious moment (unfortunately, I am now picturing those creepy, big-eyed Precious Moments figurines. Bastard Hallmark).
I will not subject you to the numerous and completely nonexistent intricacies of our conversations, except to give you a pleasant overview, like the one gets from the window of an airplane (I've never been on an airplane, so I will just take my own word for it). She told me that, obviously, she could not see me this weekend. However (I am suddenly very much liking that word), she wondered if we could maybe have dinner together on Tuesday after the test. Thus altering the casual coffee/study date to a not as casual dinner/no study date. Bumped from coach to business class (see, I'm still on the plane idea...) Of course, I happily accepted. So, barring having to baby-sit (I love you Chris and JeanMarie and promise to baby-sit soon!) or hideously bad weather, I shall have my first date with Miss CG in under 72 hours.
I am still maintaining that I just want to get to know her and count her among my friends. That way my waxen wings will not melt off (now we are into mythology, so try not to picture wax airplane wings).
Now, you may wonder where the poodle comes in. After I got the happy news, I decided that the most logical course of action would be to dance with my very small dog. Unfortunately, movies fail us and small dogs only dance merrily when offered food. Way of the world, I suppose.

reading : Another Roadside Attraction, Tom Robbins, The New Shape of World Politics, some MAD magazine
listening: Cake
wanting: for people I barely know to stop projecting their immense issues upon me.
interesting thought: Some day, I may be in a new mutually monogamous, mature, committed relationship and I cannot say for certain who is shall be with. Uncertainty is frightening.

Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. Double Dragon publishes four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, and Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings. He likes when you comment.

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