is one of the curiosities of on-line dating. When one ventures into the on-line dating world, there are certain givens. 99% of all men you contact will not be into you. You will not be into 99% of the men who contact you.

Of the latter, you find yourself quickly categorizing: men I'm not into right now but with whom I could see a potential for interest and the "cold day in hell" group. You might chat with the first but, as soon as the conversation fizzles, you will do to them what you did with the "cold day in hell" group. You will, as the responsible dater, quickly e-mail a thanks but no thanks note.

Of the men I contact, I've discovered there are a variety of means by which those 99% of all men I contact tell me that I am not their type, not anywhere close to their type, ewww, ick, etc. Some of them never respond at all. Sort of rude but I can take the hint. Some of them send the thanks but no thanks note (sometimes before chatting, sometimes after). Some of them send the, um, you're way too unattractive to talk to note (only once but ouch). But the worst of the lot are the men I call "polite responders."

They respond to my e-mails, answer whatever stupid question I've come up with as an ice-breaker. They may even ask a question in return. Of note, their question will be something obviously obvious...like where are you from when you're home town is on your bio. But, figuring there are many socially challenged men in the world, you respond anyway, offer up more ice-breaking get-to-know-you questions and the like. This goes on for some time, their responses getting increasingly short. Where the first response may have had three sentences, they drop to two and then one, caps get lost, etc. And you know.

And, really, that's the worst. I'll take the worst of declinations over that. The polite responders? They waste time, wear on your nerves. Really, in the on-line world, the on-line DATING world? It's stressful enough.

I have yet to figure out the dating phenomenon. Weird guys like me. It's a proven fact. I have apparently not yet learned that, if I'm calling a guy "Mr. Potentially Creepy" to friends and inside my own head, the guy is likely creepy. Which I did and the latest was. So he's over. As soon will be my subscription to the service. I've got maybe a week left.

And so I figured...why not?

Why not? Why not? Why not?

Why not what?

Why not the short list.

If you do the on-line thing at all, you'll know that you're allowed to browse.

And, the better sites, they let you tag a few favorites.

What you're supposed to do is tag your favorites for ease of reference as you start wading through the selection of possibles on your search for Mr. Right.

What I do, on the other hand, is drool. Not over looks. I'm really not a looks girl. Over witticisms mostly, the profiles that make me smile, the occasional profile that reads sweet. But mostly, I like wit, sarcasm, humor.

I'd always tell myself...when I lose that last few pounds or, if one of these guys sends me a wink, or...

They are out of my league.

They feel out of my league.

And, again, it's not looks. It's...that quick wit. I've always loved the wit-tipped tongue. I put that in a poem once. Wit-tipped tongue. It was about a young man I had a crush on in college. I never spoke to him beyond the basics. But I'd hear him in class and he was so smart and funny and quick!

And I wasn't any of those things. I'm not any of those things.

Sometimes I pretend. I get pretty good at the e-mail banter. And I'm not dumb.

Give me a day and a blank page and I can write you dialogue.

Put me in front of a human being, make me talk? My brain doesn't work that way.

But, anyway, the short list.

My favorites.

The maybes and the what-ifs.

I thought...why not?

And I picked one.

My favorite of my favorites.

The one that made me laugh out loud.

I wrote him.

He wrote back.

It means nothing.

Only that he's polite, maybe kind.

But still...I wrote and he wrote back. And he made me smile.

That's nice. It feels good. Normal.

Even if he cuts me down tomorrow.

Okay, so I've been playing Sims 3...which was, yes, a very foolish purchase considering how I'm counting pennies right now. In my defense, I bought the thing before the doubled pg&e bill came in. But, anyway, I'm playing Sims 3 and I'm making Sims versions of my novel characters. Some of them come out freaky good. Then I let them loose. If you're not familiar, you only get to control one set of sims. The others...do as they will. Somewhat annoying but quite amusing too.

And, I don't know, there's something about seeing these little sims people totally screwing up my idea of who and what these novel characters are (my great warrior/teacher Coln has already died of old age and was at the end a divorcee single parent and my vengeful witch Eerin? Just donated like $5K to my political sim for good causes) that makes me think.

Not about rewriting per se. Though I spent half of last night wondering if I should scrap the majority of what I have in favor of a simpler young-hero-comes-of-age story. But about taking the Nike slogan to just do it. I spent half the night thinking of starting over? The other half I spent thinking of note cards. I know where the story starts. I know where it ends. I just need to navigate the two points.

That's it. Two points. In the wide wide world of the in between, I can go anywhere and do anything. And I've written half of it! That's what gets me! I've written half of the damn thing! But every time I tell myself I'm going to tackle that next scene, that next transition, a lethargy comes over me...a sense of helplessness that I really don't understand.

And...note cards. My next great investment.

I've always found people frustrating. I know several people who have started things...books, degrees, jobs and they're full of excitement and wonder about the possibilities of the future...and then they stop. They just stop. They stop writing, stop reading, stop submitting. They stop going to school. They stop training. They stop applying. They just stop. And they are always so matter of fact about it, the whys of it.

They have other priorities.

They aren't good enough.

They don't have time.

But, y'know what? When they tell me this?

All the wonder and excitement is gone.

Their new priorities? Are offered by rote, flat and uninspired.

I can understand new dreams. I can understand how passions might root in other pastimes, other pleasures. I can.

But it seems to me they have none. They have exchanged them for something else, for reality maybe, but, if so, it's a reality that excludes dreaming, that excludes wonder and hope and excitement. And that I do not understand.

I don't want that to be me.

Of all time? Or that I've held?

Of all time? It's got to be some manner of sewage clean-up job. I mean, I think I might choose starvation versus that job. But then I've always had a major gag reflex. I think starvation might actually be easier on the stomach than the routine regurgitation I must believe would follow such employment.

That I've held? Sad to say, a server for a catering company. I was not coordinated or smooth and when I wasn't absolutely terrified about dropping something (once again my sincerest apologies to that very nice lady and her very nice coat...I hope the chocolate cake came out), I remember an entire night shivering outside next to the catering truck while diners ate and laughed and were warm in the building in front of us. Man, that sucked.

I'm not scared. I really should be. I'm looking at my budget and counting down towards...something. I don't quite know what it is. It's not bankruptcy. Because, technically speaking, worst case scenario, I can still do this. Maybe I don't get to eat anymore. Or maybe I'll be reduced to the Ramen diet. But I can do this.

It's just...do I want to?

The governor calls 10% a haircut. I haven't paid for a haircut in years. Not since the last gal tried to sell me on yet another hair-loss solution. I decided it was easier on my budget and on my heart to avoid such in future. So I have cut my own hair going on five years now? Six? Something like that.

10% is not a haircut. Back when I paid for them, I paid at most thirty dollars and more often ten. When I cut that luxury / torture from my regime, I didn't notice the loss.

This? 10%? I notice. It is birthday presents and restaurants. It is gas money and groceries and a trip to the movies. It is gas and electricity, a bill that's doubled on balance pay since last month. It is the gardener and the water company and my mortgage.

And each month is getting harder.

I have some decisions to make.

I tell myself I'm luckier than most. I will keep my house.

I'm not sure it's enough.

I have tried to analyze my purpose in keeping this journal. My readers are few and far between. I really don't expect that anyone much reads it. Maybe a friend will pop in for curiosity's sake. I write it for me. Because there's something about the potential readership (despite the actual) that forces my hand to more thoughtful expression than otherwise. My bedside journal is varied and frenetic, at times poetic, at others mundane. It is filled with whatever my last thoughts were of a given day.

This journal captures the more introspective moments before, allows me to apply craft to my thoughts and my hurts to make of them an almost art, a haphazard art.

It is a risk and a thrill.

What if the man I am starting to date should find this journal, know too much too soon, understand too quickly how my mind works? Would it be a good thing? Or a disaster?

I suspect the latter even as I continue to type.

The possibility excites and frightens and I edit myself even now, wishing the risk small, feeling it great and knowing it next to nothing at all.

To get a glimpse, just one glimpse into the world that will be. I want to see my future. I mean isn't that the ultimate advantage? To have some assurance that tomorrow will be okay?

But I'm overthinking. I know that.

Okay, so I didn't really do the whole flashlight thing. Well, I did. A few times when I was a kid. But it was awkward. And generally much better to wait till my parents were sleeping and then just flip my bedroom light on. But I used to do the late-night reads, to midnight, beyond.

I would read till my eyes hurt. I hated that moment when sheer exhaustion won out and I had to put the book away. I would always promise myself I would wake up just that few minutes early in the morning and cram a few more pages in before school.

I haven't done that in years. Not since I was grown and life sucked a little less and I could leave the light on and read however late I wanted.

Even this past year, reading as much as I have, I haven't managed that fanatacism. I'd read a bit here and there. A half hour before bed, maybe an hour if the mood was right. And wherever circumstance and boredom allowed. Or a deadline. Book clubs will do that to you.

But I've been reading more than I have since I was a teenager and in love with anything that wasn't my life.

But today I read a book all-through. I stopped for dinner, to refill my glass of tea, what have you. But I read, start to finish, a book.

And, when I finished, it struck me that I haven't done that in forever.

Was it that good? Maybe. My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult. It kept me.

And maybe that's enough.

It kept me.

Better than any book has in years.

I wanted to push on just a few more pages, and then a few more after that till there were no more pages to be read.

And it doesn't matter that I pegged the ending. At a certain point in any given book, you just know. And this one kept me guessing a little longer than most.

It had its soapish moments, those absolutely perfect never happen ever moments that soap fans everywhere just love. That I love.

But it was beautiful, image and voice, and I read it all in one day.

All in one day.

A flashlight moment.

Do I really want him to write back? I mean half my courage is grounded in my unassailable right to halt communication.

So, having received a note and having written back, why am I suddenly convinced I'd rather not hear from him ever again?

Because it's easier.

Because there's something about him.

Something about the process.

It leaves me always unsettled, uncertain.

There is peace in isolation, don't let them tell you otherwise.

So I'm doing the on-line thing again. Why? Because I'm a glutton for punishment. Or a diehard romantic. I really don't know which.

But I'm doing it.

And mostly just looking.

Eying pics, looking for the crazy eyes...which my own pic has so I really don't know why it bothers me when the guy has crazy eyes.

I mean...maybe two crazies would be a hit?

But I mostly look.

And judge.

After the last couple attempts, I'd mostly resolved to be a wuss for the rest of my life. I mean, why not? The last few dating attempts were disasters. The guys who like me are weird and there are oh so many more who don't like me and why do friends want to set me up with scumbags? Besides, I'm good at the alone thing.

My mom worries. I know she does. And I know she's having the big internal debate of how much to pressure or not pressure. I mean, should she continue in her teasing reminders that I have not contributed to the grandchild pool? Or should she stop and thereby give me tacit indication that she no longer expects me to. She doesn't know what to do and I don't know what to tell her because my feelings on the matter change daily and that's something we both have to live with I guess.

And I don't know.

But now there's this guy. Who likes my profile. Sent a wink. And an e-mail.

And he's older than me. And smooth.

And smooth bothers me more than age.

He's being too nice.

But...no guts...no glory...and why not?

Oi! If only I didn't have so many ready responses to that one.

Both?

In real life, I'm timid. I stick to the background. I don't speak up.

But I think a lot of what I do, the effort I put into my job and my writing and everything in between...I think a lot of it's in the hopes that someone will take note.

I want the boss to say "Hey, great! This gal rocks! She knows her stuff!" Preferably in a public forum. And I've always been working toward the goal of publication with my fiction. If that's not an attention thing, I don't know what is.

I think that there's this rift in my own mindset...I want the attention but it feels improper to ask for it. If something I produce happens to do well...get me that attention...somehow that's okay.

Yeah, I'm weird. And a dork. I accept that.

I dreamt of the money pit the other night, dreamt that I had bought a fixer-upper, a house with multiple stories, split open like a doll's dream. In my dream, I had just realized the enormity of the disaster I had undertaken, was trying to manage the climb from one split floor to another in an effort to retrieve the furnishings I had foolishly moved in prior to any repairs. It might have been a library, or a den. The room had a table, chair, some bookshelves.

My efforts were futile and the floor fell away beneath me.

I made someone cry today.

As much as I tell myself I'm the messenger, I made someone cry.

And that phrase has repeated in my brain ever since.

I made someone cry.

I made someone cry.

I made someone...

and then I realized why it was sticking.

Because, when it was over, I was thinking about how much time her tears had taken from my day.

And, as I drove home, I was thinking about medical research for my novel.

And whether I'd try the Week 3 work-out today or not.

Whether I'd eat chicken tonight or turkey tacos.

I made someone cry...and I handled it.

I handled her.

And I moved on.

There was a time when I would have cried too.

Aunt Bernice is dead. It doesn't feel right to start without saying. Aunt Bernice is dead. She sent me three cards when I graduated high school, three spread out over six months. Two of them were exactly the same. They made me laugh. She meant it for good but I suspect she kept coming across the announcement in a kitchen drawer and was - repeatedly - unable to recall exactly whose kid I was or whether she'd already sent the obligatory congrats. Last time I saw her, she was small and bent with a puffy cloud of white hair. That was some time ago. And now she is dead.

I am not sad. I did not really know her. But I feel some sense of obligation to note these things, note them before moving on to the frivolous, the new. So I have done and so will I continue on.

I went to the Ramona Bowl this weekend. Saw "Ramona." It is the longest running outdoor play and...oddly (read into that what you will)...they are having trouble filling seats, selling tickets, raising money to...continue. So I sat. I watched the play. I was excited, eager. I love drama.

But, as I watched, I was overcome with this insane desire to find the director, steal the script and fix it. I'm not talking about tweaks and twinges here. I want to fix it. Because it's broken. I felt like I was trying to pick out the largest pieces of a broken vase, trying to get the idea of what it should be rather than bothering to look at the mess of what it is.

I feel I am being harsh. But it's three hours long! And the story has substance for maybe an hour! The dialogue is painful and the villain a clumsy caricature at best! I wanted to cut the dead space and the empty characters to find the heart of the story and, yes, the heart of the villain. I hate a poorly drawn villain. If I am to boo or hiss, let it come freely, without artifice or obligation. Let me hate him. Let me hate his walk and his talk and his reasoning. Give him reason! So that I may understand and hate that too! Make him real. Or do not proffer him as a villain.

And the truly sad part? I could see the vase! I know what the play could be! C'mon! Starcrossed lovers! Racial tension? A war? A love story in the mix? The potential for conflict and heartache is immense! And relevant! And they're trying...they're trying so hard. But I have to believe they are using the same script that debuted in 1923 (don't quote me on the year). All that potential is lost in their zeal to honor 86 years of tradition.

Sometimes, change is good. I'm just saying.

That said, I've got the C25K Week 2 workout down! Yeeeeah!

So I managed Week 2 Day 1. Oddly, it seemed almost easier than Week 1. I think it's mental. I think some portion of my brain counts how many running sessions I have to do and therefore...

I did it. And I felt good. Well, at least I did. Till the next morning when my knee sort of went wonky, catching at odd moments. The curse of post-surgical knees I suppose. Or lazy been-fat-all-my-life knees. One or the other. Either way, a day of rest...and then I'm back on program.

In other news, law school. I've toyed with the idea, you know. And, in mid-whine (something about the lack of passion, compassion and fight in my at-work attorneys), my father said...you should go to law school.

And, instead of letting the comment pass (as I normally do)...I'm thinking about it.

Like I don't have enough work, worry and financial obligations...

I'm thinking.

Yep, repeating Week 1 till I get it right...more than once in a row.

W1D4...I did it. I ran every running interval. Walked through all the walking intervals. Completed both warm up and cool down walks. I did it.

And I am tired. Which is good. Better than before I went out.

And I'm sweaty. Eeww.

Today, I was accused of bad faith.

What is that, huh? Bad faith?

Like I'm some parishioner gone astray.

And, truth is, I think I'm all that's left of the faithful.

I've been told I'm overconfident, my vision skewed pink, my glasses a cliche I cannot escape. I'm told it is folly to have faith, folly to trust that the system will be right, that the system will be fair.

I am told that time will make of me jade, a green goddess, untouchable.

Consider it done.

The accusation is mean-spirited and false. It is a stunt.

I am bitter.

And I am done.

Please? Let me be done.

I am tired of caring.

So, on this program, I'm supposed to take a day off between efforts but I've talked to a couple people who say, basically, listen to your body...

So I went out today because I felt pretty good (if a little guilty over some shortbread cookies...dang girl scouts!)...and...I don't know.

Better than day 2...I guess. I managed to reset my podcast mid session and had to sort of make it up thereafter. I think I managed the rough time elements but I don't know if I got enough running intervals in. Yes, I rely on the podcast voice. I admit it. I was always good at Simon Says.

Anyhoo, I have discovered that utilizing my longish legs is helpful in the jogging stints. I was trying to go fast with short strides when come to find out that longer strides is easier. I don't know which expends more energy. I could feel the legs working either way. But anything, technique or cheat I don't care, that gets me through this and on to the next step...gotta be good.

Side note...Indie Christian is actually a pretty awesome soundtrack to some of my mid-jog fantasies. They're mostly elements of the BNIP I'm trying to sort in my head but..."Bring Your Rain?" Yeah, that works.

And here I thought Day 2 would be easier. So...no. I did not manage all my running intervals. I got most of them. But there were a couple...I just could not do it and I walked. I never thought I'd be ashamed to mention walking but I am. But I suppose a lifetime on the couch (to borrow their term) does not go away in two days.

That said, exercise is exercise. I shall just have to keep working on it till I have the Week 1 workout handled. I can definitely feel it. My body is not used to this.

Also, my podcast (recently downloaded) seemed longer than the written schedule. It was longer. I timed it. Maybe the warm-up time was longer? Oh well, if it is longer...better for the bod? I mean what am I going to do? Complain that the free exercise aid is actually making me exercise more?

So...Day 2 of the Week 1 workout. Not perfect. But I was out there. I was breathing hard. And my body still aches from Day 1. I'm still counting it as a win.

And I'm very awake after the session. Maybe another bonus for the morning slug in me?

www.c25k.com

A plan to take the couch potato to three miles in 9 weeks. Today was Day 1.

I managed it. Sweaty with numb knees at the end. But...Day 1.