My assumption – damn those assumptions and the ever-seductive need to make them! – would generally have been to think he had a thing for her, hence the careful hair strategy. Except he’s gay. Flaming gay, if the pink brush didn’t tip you off. Besides, only gay men sally. Straight men stride. Or occasionally swagger. Maybe he just thought his hair was mussed? Maybe he always combs it before he leaves his desk? Maybe it’s like eating a large, chocolate muffin – you do it not because you’re hungry but because a chocolate muffin soothes the soul in ways deep, meaningful thoughts can’t?

Now, I’m not a primper. My senior prom got a maximum of fifteen minutes out of me, and I can generally be ready – dressed, hair combed, foundation slapped on – in under ten minutes. Whether or not I look good is another matter entirely, but this is why I don’t check the mirror before I leave. Unless it’s a very special occasion. Yet, even as a professed non-primper, I still spend ghastly amounts of money to make my hair and lips a different color.

So what’s up with the need to groom? Is it the human equivalent of fanning the tail feathers and strutting? In the case of my pink hairbrush-wielding friend, it’s not. Unless Anna is a man, which seems unlikely. My own current stance on dating is Can’t Be Bothered, Thanks. (Which also cuts down on the amount of leg shaving time, SCORE.) Cleanly negating my Grooming To Attract a Mate theory. So…why?

In my case, the only rational motive I can discern is pure, undiluted vanity. Which mostly stems from a need to avoid wondering if the cashier is staring at me because she’s apathetically bored or because my pasty white face is prompting worry in the general populace that I’m a vampiric specter searching for tasty necks to gnaw, if vampiric specters sport unseemly blemishes on their chins. Another argument in favor of vanity: When trying to force my brain to contemplate universal human truths about our biological need to look cute, I just end up buying lip gloss.

One unexpected downside to letting myself eat whatever I darn well please for a few months is I start thinking traitorous thoughts like: “Maybe a lean cut of chicken and some green beans would taste better than a bacon cheeseburger with shoestring fries.” Then I have to pick up the nearest hardcover book and pummel some sense into myself.

Announcement (Prepare Your Merriam-Webster For Pummeling): I started eating fruit again. I’ve even eaten a strange, green thing that scientists refer to as “a vegetable.” It was odd. Crunchy and entirely lacking in the soothing grease of a french fry.

Food and I are reinventing our relationship. I spent a week saying no to bacon and anything else that didn’t come in a tofu package. I spent the first three days of this week just eating raw food. (Until I felt like I was going to faint, and coped by shovelling macaroni and cheese into my gaping maw.) I’m finally coming around to the notion that what I eat affects how I feel. I don’t particularly want to give up buttery croissants and chocolate mousse, but if doing so will give me more energy and help keep my emotions stable – it might just be worth a try. Plus, there are all those animals to consider and what happens if God is really a big chicken, huh? WHAT THEN?

But can you really have emotional stability without grilled cheese? Really?

See that sentence above? FIERY RED FLAG. I use food to comfort myself. On the one hand, I don’t see much wrong with that. It’s not like I’m comforting myself with crack cocaine or the warm blood of stolen infants. On the other hand (damn that other hand), I wonder if I’m repressing certain things by eating a spot of something nice, flipping on an episode of Firefly, and tuning out whatever bothers me. I’d really rather deal with things than let them get worse by ignoring them. Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I don’t want to deal with things. Why would I want to take a good, hard look at my life and change my habits when I can just guzzle a mocha and watch Legally Blonde?

Being a grownup is tough.

Who knows where I’ll end up on the food spectrum when I’m finished – there are so many nuances of vegetarianism and veganism it would give any red meat eater a migraine. Maybe I’ll become so crunchy even the most hardened Berkeley dweller gets aggravated. Maybe I’ll be vegetarian every second Tuesday. Maybe I’ll just end up right back where I started. (Mmmm…barbequed short ribs.) Worse case scenario, I’ve eaten a little extra spinach. Or maybe I’ll end up eating more responsibly – for myself and the chickens.

Good punctuation transcends gender. If you use it right, I will think you are incredible and I will want to make out with you. Which probably means I’m going to end up with someone barely literate. Or at least has illegible handwriting. I think this is good. What we want (or think we want) (or find super hot) is not necessarily what we should have. So, um, please note that I DO NOT WANT, NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT, someone funny, kind, intelligent, tall, and dreadfully cute. Ahem.

(I suspect Fate (or the Great Powers of Randomness) (whichever you prefer) is too clever for my weak attempts at trickery. Damn.)

But I think the theory holds. If you’re attracted to a certain type of person, and relationships with said types keep exploding in a shower of cornea-gouging debris, isn’t that a sign that you should change your pattern? That maybe impeccable punctuation is not the sole indicator of a happy, lasting relationship?

I wonder what The Chicago Manual of Style has to say on this matter.

Friday was my 30th birthday. This is what we did:

(Camels & Chocolate, yours truly, Holly – who organized the whole event, bless her kind soul – and Jemima)

Here we are a few hours later. Notice that pronounced list to the left? There’s a reason for that list and that reason is RYE’S BARTENDER.

I’ve been looking forward to my 30th birthday for, oh, six years now. Someone once told me that by the time you hit 30 you’re more comfortable in your own skin. I’m happy to report they’re right, and THANK THE DEAR LORD FOR THAT. My confidence wasn’t going to win me any awards when I was younger, and that can make life a lot harder than it needs to be. But I know myself better now, know what I want, and developed some solid coping skills. In short, I’m a lot more sure of footing and far less willing to beat myself up over stupidity, real or imagined. I also extol the virtues of sunscreen.

I think the very best thing I’ve figured out is to not waste my time. Worrying? Wastes my time. Fretting over something lame I said? Wastes my time. (Especially when those lame somethings fly so fast and thick that it requires an entire calendar month to parse out a single dinner party. Said month could be so much better spent watching back episodes of Lost, don’t you agree?) Angsting over the men folk and their peculiarities? Quite possibly the biggest waste of time ever, after those lines at the DMV. Turning 30 hasn’t morphed me into some zen master, I’m sorry to say, but the squirrels in my brain are a lot more relaxed than they were five years ago. Perhaps all the alcohol just stunned them into submission, but I like to think that I’ve gotten smarter. It seems a reasonable trade-off for slower metabolism.

I’m happy where I am, even though where I am is not where I wanted or expected to be. And if that doesn’t shriek maturity, don’t tell me. (I like my delusions, thank you.) (Turning 30! Means being better able to lie to oneself with reckless abandon!)

I think my 30s are going to kick my 20s ever-loving ass. Stay tuned for the cage fight.

(If you want to see the birthday photos in all their tipsy glory, go here. None of these pictures were taken by me, because I am apparently allergic to photographic documentation. Luckily, many of my favorite people were present and many of them brought cameras. So I shamelessly pillaged their flickr accounts.)

Which sounds like considerably less fun than owning a tropical island, but here’s the thing – EATING BROCCOLI WILL PROBABLY MAKE YOU HAPPIER IN THE LONG RUN. I know. My brain rejects this notion too.

I’ve always had some trouble staying balanced. The problem with eating well is you can’t just eat a spinach salad and be done with it. You have to KEEP eating spinach salad. You can’t do five half-hearted situps and declare yourself done for the month. (Believe me, I’ve tried.) You have to do all these things regularly. AND FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Earn enough money to live, eat your whole grains, move your twitchy limbs, keep your stuff organized so you can find your keys when you leave the house, volunteer your time to worthy causes, do the projects that keep you interested in life, nurture your relationships, and maybe dust under the sofa once in awhile.

Are you tired yet? I am. It’s official: Being human is exhausting. And the kicker is, if I did all these things on a regular basis, I wouldn’t BE so exhausted. Because I’d be full of all that spry energy promised by wheat sprouts. And the self-satisfied smugness that comes with treating yourself well.

To my point: I’m trying to get my life in balance. And keep it that way – which seems to be the tricky part. Do plenty of work, have some fun, treat my physical carapace well so it doesn’t up and die on me when I’m 37. Be a better friend, daughter, etc. Volunteer with some cute dogs. (I will only care for the cute ones, you understand. The matted, scrawny mutts are on their own.) (I’m kidding.) (You probably realized that.) (But I feel the need to explain myself.) It’s a somewhat daunting process to drag oneself out from the macaroni and cheese encrusted hermitage, but I’m sure I can do it. I know how much happier I feel when I’m healthy and organized and busy – and that makes it all worthwhile.

But I’m still not so sure about the regular sit-ups.

[Edit: I amuse myself. Seriously. This was supposed to be a positive "I can do it!" "And so can you!" "Eat broccoli! It's good for you!" kind of post. And then I started thinking and I wore myself out. And everyone else, it seems. Is this not funny? I find this funny. I also just guzzled an enormous mocha. Which tends to make things more entertaining. Anyway, I see this post as evidence that you shouldn't think about something until you keel over from the stress, you should just do it. By "you" I of course mean "me". There is value in doing something concrete rather than fretting. I guess this means I have to stop writing and go eat some broccoli.]

If I was a superhero, it would be due to my ability to make myself ill with the POWER OF MY BRAIN. I find this interesting. I can’t say I understand my brain, but it seems capable of quite a bit. Not advanced mathematics certainly, not even the analytic manipulation needed to refold a map properly, but it sure can take me down if I’ve over-exerted myself.

A few months ago, I decided the best way to manage a breakup and a new apartment and new bills was to…get this…find a full-time job. What did I tell you about the power of my brain? So I worked my contract job during the day, did freelance work at night, and spent weekends preparing the writing samples deemed necessary by interviewing companies. After a few weeks (maybe a month) of not giving myself any time off, my body sent a hearty FUCK YOU to my cerebral cortex and dropped me in bed, not letting me up for two full days. I took this as a sign. A very subdued sign that read: STOP, FOOL.

General wisdom states that when you’re going through a rough time, you should take care of yourself. I assume you should always take care of yourself, but eating vegetables and flexing your (somewhat nonexistent, thanks) muscles seems to become more important when all you want to do is shovel macaroni into your face and stare blankly at the TV. What’s more insidious is when I try to give myself what I need, but realize I can’t quite decode the messages if they aren’t blinking neon. Subtlety is easy to misinterpret. And I like to misinterpret things to make them say what I want them to say. Which is usually MORE MACARONI AND CHEESE.

I did a bit of hibernating the first few months post-breakup. I saw my friends and was social enough to keep my fingernails from growing long and yellowed, the better to scratch at my mossy teeth, but I shied away from new people. I’d go to parties (by “parties” I mean “a party”), but I’d either talk to people I already knew and liked or cower in the kitchen. Anything more strenuous (like a new face, THE HORROR) made me feel like plastering the back of my hand to my forehead and collapsing delicately against the wall.

For the past month or so, my brain seems to be creeping back into the WANT FUN mode, as opposed to the WANT SLEEP mode. Judging by my past few entries here, my brain also seems to be pointing out the boys. I’ve been hesitant to dive into dating – not wanting to flail about in that particular pool until I’m ready, feeling like I should maybe be sure I can pay rent beyond August before participating in any recreational activities, etc. But I think dipping my proverbial toe in the proverbial dating water might be a good idea. If that toe gets bitten off by the sharks, so be it. Who needs ten toes anyway? What have your toes done for you lately? All mine do is wiggle and knock over glasses of water. Judging by the amount of thought I just gave to my toes and their purpose (five minutes of staring off into space, if you must know), it’s long past time to emerge from my cave and into the waiting arms of the human race. (Not even just the boys. Anyone – male, female, reptile – who will expand my world a bit and who might benefit from contact with a girl who knows her way around a box of macaroni and cheese.)

By announcing it here, I’m hoping to force myself to actually do it. Instead of diving back under the bed, the sound of squawking chickens ringing in my ears.

Take, for example, last night’s tomato soup. I’ve made this soup before – tomatoes, garlic cloves, fennel bulb, and a carrot, all roasted in olive oil and sea salt – and it’s lick-the-bowl-clean tasty. The recipe is from one of my well-loved (meaning “covered in splatters of oil and bits of something I assume is zucchini”) Bill Granger cookbooks. Before I go on, I need to tell you that I’m the self-appointed Leader of the Bill Granger Cult. To have Bill Granger be wrong would be to shake the underpinnings of my very existence. Bill Granger is all that embodies food perfection – ease, taste, the guarantee of a meal I can concoct without destroying the kitchen or setting off the fire alarm.

When Bill told me to shake two tablespoons of sea salt into my roasting pan, I had my doubts. “But Bill,” I told my cookbook, “Isn’t two tablespoons a bit…excessive? There aren’t that many tomatoes in here, and that much salt will make them all white and crusty.” Bill sat silently on the kitchen table, looking at me with a raised brow. ”It will be like drinking a nice, hot glass of Pacific Ocean – minus the shrimp,” I said weakly. But Bill insisted. I reread the instructions three times, just to make sure I wasn’t seeing “tablespoons” where “teaspoons” should be. I wasn’t. I thought to myself, “Well. I’ve made this before. I don’t remember altering the recipe and it’s always been delicious.” So I dumped in two tablespoons of sea salt and popped my pan in the oven.

Two hours later, my pan came out of the oven and was subjected to vigorous blending. I took my soup and my grilled cheese into the living room/bedroom/dining room/office and began to eat. After three bites, I had to race to the kitchen for water. When water didn’t vanquish the layer of salt coating my tongue, I turned to milk. When that failed, I turned to vanilla ice cream. Half a pint later, my face unscrewed and I could breathe without inhaling flecks of white. I’m still dehydrated.

When I listen to others over my own better judgment, is it a fundamental lack of confidence? Am I remembering all the times I thought I was right and, in fact, was not? When I confidently told someone to take the upcoming exit when we were really supposed to be on an entirely different freeway? I’m beginning to see how a relationship can utterly fail when one person is quite sure he’s never wrong and the other isn’t convinced she’s ever right.

“But…I see ALL SIDES,” I tell myself. “Perhaps Bill LIKES salty soup. Perhaps that’s the way real cooks do it. Maybe I’M wrong for not liking my soup so salty. Perhaps I just need to broaden my horizons and embrace the layers upon layers of sea sodium.”

Or maybe I need to dump the soup in the trash and listen to the little voices in my head when they say HANDFULS AND HANDFULS OF SALT? ARE TOO MUCH.

So let me tell you about the elevator I just stepped into. Flagging energy sent me downstairs for a Snickers bar and I was poking at my wallet – for no good reason except I like to poke at things – when I looked up and saw someone already in the elevator patiently waiting for me to stop poking at my belongings and walk in. He was covered in piercings – not really my thing because, um, OUCH – but he was still easily the cutest guy I’ve seen in months. That’s how cute he was. So cute that I might have to use the word “cute” a few more times. Just for good measure and extra descriptive story-telling. Cute. 

He smiled and struck up a conversation with me. Not even the uncomfortable two strangers standing in an enclosed space conversation, an enthusiastic one with arm motions. And smiles. Did I mention the smiles? The CUTE smiles?

I shuffled my green sneakered feet. I stammered a bit. I think the only thing I didn’t do was hit myself in the face with my wallet and send my glasses flying into the elevator wall.

At long last (maybe two seconds later), I managed to smile back and mumble something innocuous, something surely enhanced by my bright red cheeks. Then I wished him a good weekend and stepped out of the elevator on my floor. Only to mentally pummel myself in the head with my candy bar because doesn’t effective flirting mean you DON’T pry the elevator door open and fling yourself out at first opportunity? Should have I done something else? If so, what? DEAR GOD, WHAT? I do not understand the flirting.

I can only flirt with someone if I’ve been with them for at least two years. Then I’m a master – especially if it gets me out of doing the dishes. But as it happens, it’s far more helpful to a single girl to simper attractively at a pierced stranger in an elevator than to mark “bat lashes” in her calendar on the 2010 page and hope she still knows him.

Does anyone else detect the faint hint of missed opportunity in the air? It smells like a melting Snickers bar.

Which I did. It was lovely.

I’ve been fighting a cold for almost a month now and I’d love to boast about how the granite-like force of my mighty willpower beat back the germs, but I fear retribution. Blogging about certain subjects is like giving the Evil Eye a magnifying glass and a medium size star, and pointing it toward the scurrying ant that is your life. If I brag about my diligent slurping of teas named “Organic Cold Season Defense” and “Wiccans Use Echinacea,” surely I’ll be dying of dengue fever by the following morning.

We’ll call this post a misguided experiment in Assuming I’ve Beaten Blogger’s Retribution Because I Was Already Sick. Sort Of.

I claim the constitution of an ox, but my lack of phlegmy symptoms is probably due to my lack of children. Or any real responsibility. So when I start feeling weak and tired, I can just crawl into bed and sleep it off. Rather than wrestle a teenager into subservience or fry chicken for a brood of three. Not to mention the widespread phenomena called Wipe Your Snot-Encrusted Nose on Mama’s Shirt.

We do have a dog, but she’s easy to ignore. Her inability to speak English is handy, as is her blatant lack of opposable thumbs for Operation: Doorknob. She can shuffle up to my prone form and thrust her wet nose under my limp hand all she wants, but I just flop over and mumble something that sounds suspiciously like “Jeeves.” As in, “Jeeves, take the dog for her evening constitutional and fix me some Eggs Benedict.”

Jeeves has yet to show and the dog has a full bladder and a surly expression, but I’m feeling much better, thanks.

I make Rice-a-roni at 2 a.m. on a freezing February night. Our dorm’s poor ventilation becomes clogged with smoke that may or may not have poured from my pan. The fire alarm goes off and everyone troops out into the cold, grumbling. The firemen come. I grumble along with everyone else and hope no one notices that the smoke is seeping from under my door.

~

I take my visiting mother to a history class and nap on her shoulder. She does the math on my tuition and sends me the bill.

~

The girl sitting next to me in Victorian Poetry has long brown hair and long legs; she sits with her chin resting on a striped knee. She trains with the Joffrey Ballet and makes insightful comments about Christina Rossetti. Part of me feels stupid and dumpy. Part of me really enjoys listening to smart people. I let that part win.

~ 

It’s a blustery Friday night. A friend and I listen to Garrison Keillor on NPR as she teaches me how to fry zucchini. We look out into the blowing snow and pop hot green circles in our mouths. For the first time in months, I don’t feel lonely.