Out of the blue on Monday night, I got the following text messages from the ex’s new lady….

“Hey, this is Ms. X, now you have my number. I’d love to hang out sometime. Seriously”

“I don’t know if (ex) and I will work out, but either way, I think I’d like you to meet my friends.”

“They’re all quite clever fun and civilized. that’s why I’m so sure you’ll like them.”

So either she’s hitting on me… or spying on me…. or wants to size me up. I’m thinking this is a definite no-go (thanks tweeps).

Hooray! I was delighted to be picked for the Gap brand ambassador program… and even more delighted to get a giant box welcoming me on board with a “Born to Blog” Gap T, perfume, a huge tote bag, a very nice backpack, and a pack of lipglosses.

In the interest of being clear about the deal here, I am not getting paid to participate in the campaign (other than the merchandise), was already a Gap airport store regular, and they do not insist that I only post positive content about them when I do post. But, to maintain my integrity, I will try and tag any content about the Gap as “sponsored content” and will honestly review the “Born to Fit” new line of jeans… (please actually fit). Fingers crossed. I’ll also be hosting a party sometime in the next month to have people try on the new jeans line… if you’re in Pittsburgh, a lady type, and are interested in being on the guest list, post a comment and I’ll try and squeeze you in.

Get it? New jeans, squeeze you in? Man, I’m funny.

Generally, I am a very well-behaved work traveller. I fly in, do my job, try to eat something delicious and local, and possibly hit up happy hour with local friends or colleagues. This was not the case last Wednesday. The evening started out as usual, running out to do some shopping in New Orleans for chicory coffee and gifts in the Quarter as soon as work let out for the day.

And then, as I had just decided to go back to the hotel and get some much-needed sleep, I ran into a group of colleagues who were hitting the town and hitting it hard. They asked me to join them for a drink, so we meandered to the next bar and had two drinks each. Those led to some dancing, and a few more. Which led to a few more. Finally around midnight, I decided I needed to toss myself in a cab and head back the 20 blocks or so to the hotel.

But, my perfect plan was thwarted by a very persistent male colleague. He insisted that we walk back to the hotel, together, making some noise about how it would help us sober up, what a nice night, etc. And then, when I wanted to get a cab anyway, he teasingly insisted on carrying my purse and shopping bag back for me. He was so persistent, and my naive self decided he must be the one making better decisions, so away we went headed to the hotel.

But somewhere along the way, I got an odd sense that all was not as it should be. I pretended to dip into  a hotel to use the restroom and snuck out the back door- only to realize that he still had my purse and bags and I had no money to get a cab, or even a cell phone to call anyone with. When I rounded the building, he had ambled on, but there I was. Drunk alone after dark- with no keys to my hotel room and at least a mile from the hotel.

My brilliant drunken self decided I could still make it on foot and headed off in the general direction of my hotel, but after a mile had come and gone, I realized I didn’t see anything I recognized anywhere. So, being the powerful woman I am, I promptly sat down on the curb and burst into self-pity tears. Having sobbed it out of my system, I trekked on, but by the time I realized where I had gone wrong, I was at least 15 blocks off course. By 2 am, I wandered into the h0tel lobby, face streaked with mascara tears, begged the front desk for a key to my room (which they kindly granted), called my friend S and left a tear-filled voicemail explanation that I had lost my phone and was all alone in the world and crawled into bed.  

By daybreak, I regained a little more equilibrium. I pulled my aching self out of bed, got washed and dressed for the workday, and made a call to my colleague’s room to see if he still had my things- no answer. As I was just about to walk out the door, my hotel phone rang. The front desk said some man was down there claiming to have my purse. I assumed they were confused and it was my co-worker. Nope. It was a guy who apparently lived nearby. He had found my purse outside his house because my 6:00 am alarm was still set from the day before and he heard it beeping. Inside- my id, my hotel key card (which he used to figure out where I was staying), my credit card, cash, and my cell phone. The only thing missing, unfortunately, was my six month old digital camera. I thanked him profusely and offered him cash, which he declined… because he was clearly a saint from heaven.

After a meeting, I ran into my other co-workers looking somewhat hungover, minus my walking “friend”. They asked if I knew what had happened to him. He had apparently woken up in his room covered with mud, scratched up and with a gash on his forehead. He also claimed to have no idea how it happened. He made himself scarce for the rest of the conference, and I called him to see if he had my other bag. Nope. And in his recollection, he had never had it.

The best I can figure out, working it out with S by phone and with much more mature and sober eyes, he had plans to put the moves on me when we left (which my naive self never considered). Why else would he try to get me alone from the group and then insist on walking instead of letting me pay for a cab like I wanted to? And then, after I ditched him, he apparently either stumbled around, losing my things, and fell or picked a fight, resulting in his injuries.

All this is a scary reminder of how very lucky I was this didn’t turn out any worse and how I’m grateful that I trusted my own instincts enough to get away from him, even if it meant wandering around for hours and losing my camera. The co-worker? It’ll be too soon if I never hear from him again. Luckily, we work in different states and rarely see each other or have any projects in common, so avoidance won’t be a challenge.

For now, you can find me at the bar- sipping a Diet Coke. It’s not forever, but unless I’m with very responsible friends or in my own home, for now, I feel a bit safer that way. And as lucky as I was, I don’t want to test my luck again.

I’ve been dilly-dallying about writing this post for months. In some ways, writing this out will make it more real for me, and in some ways it terrifies me to write it. Because what if writing it makes it not so? What if writing it curses the whole thing? This will all seem very confusing in light of recent developments in my previously existing love life, I’m sure. What if everyone says I’m crazy. But hey, it’s Independence Day, so let’s give it a whirl.

Things have been in the works, in discussion, for years in a way. But now? The back-up plan may just come to fruition. And while I am entirely glowingly delighted, I am nervous something will go wrong.

BC, my dearest homo friend, and I have been friends for nine years, ever since a summer as camp counselors in New Jersey. We’ve been through deaths in the family, break ups, horrible birthdays, living together (twice), long distance friendship, and thousands of hours talking, laughing, crying, and watching the Golden Girls on t.v.

And we’re both good little citizens. He has a great job in public service working with kids. I have a good stable job in the bureaucracy. He’s buying a home. I’m looking. We have good benefits, close families, and local friends. And all along the way, we’ve discussed the back-up plan.

The back-up plan has been around for at least three years now as a fully functioning concept. Essentially, we’d become Will & Grace. But it would actually work out in the end and not have some bizarre flashback-filled series end episode. We want to have a baby. Our baby. And to raise it- together.

 You see, through ten years and even my engagement, we both like each other better than anyone else. Well, except for the “intimate” bits. We have the same ideas about what we want as parents- education, religion, family, neighborhoods, rules, etc.  BC has been my go-to person in matters of the heart, when I needed nursed back from my surgery (even when I was living with the ex who couldn’t bother), when I needed moved in a flood, when I needed a bourbon or a shoulder to cry on.

And after a few swoon-worthy moments lately, I still want the back-up plan.

It probably doesn’t make sense to a lot of people who would argue that we should both partner off with our own kind and wait, even if we had to adopt to make it happen with our significant others. But the thing of it is- I don’t want to. And we both glow like fireflies when we get talking about it- about the logistics, about the late nights in the early years (when BC would move in with me to help with the load), about baby names.

And we both agree, neither of us would want more than a baby just like the other. Which is something I’ve always wanted to feel about whoever I had children with.  So in January while we were both in New Orleans, I floated the plan again. And he said he’s just waiting for me to say the word. On my own time.

So, am I insane? Would it really be so odd- to have a baby with someone I love dearly and who loves me back, even if we aren’t the traditional couple everyone thinks of as parents? Would it be so bad to raise a child with two people who never divorced or had drama to love it, even if they eventually paired off with other people?

I’ve been over and over it all in my head a thousand times and asked all the questions about what the future would hold if… if BC met someone. If I did. If work kept calling me out of town all the time. If, if, if. And it keeps coming down to the basics. In ten years, a thousand ifs have come up. And we have always, with grace, laughter, and a sense of humor, managed to come together stronger than ever in our love for each other.

So what if we just go through with it? I’ve already been to my doctor and gotten the long list of to-do’s for the next year to get ready- vitamins, exercise, quitting smoking, and switching out the bourbon for water more often. I’ve got an eye on the income and the finances. I’ve started to set aside a little money and scoped out the health insurance, which would cover the whole procedure.

It’s a game of hurry up and wait. But for once, I’m actually excited about a back-up plan more than the original. And I have a year to make the final arrangements. The clock (my biological one) is ticking on down at 32.

And I think, just once, I have made the right decision about a man.

The Canadian gave me a call on the final day and asked what I had to do after work. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So, we decided it was the perfect evening to rendezvous late and go for a streetcar ride. I had ridden the car from Union Square halfway up for a quick bite to eat, but hadn’t gotten around to the end of the line yet. We met up by my hotel and strolled over to get in line.

The whole time, I wanted to become a complete tourist and whip out the digital camera. OK, partially because I wanted a picture of the Canadian to take home and partly to take in the scenery. The Canadian pointed out various landmarks and places already visited along the way. It was chilly and we’d decided on the outside bench seating on the car, so we snuggled up a little bit closer.

At the end of line, we wandered into Little Italy to a beer spot and I got treated to a java mocha porter while we sat and chatted. The Canadian was a little restless though. I’d start a conversation only to get interrupted or have a menu thrust at me by a waiter. In the end, we decided to split some nachos which got wolfed down in short order and since I had an early morning at work we started winding our way back to the streetcar.

I couldn’t believe it. After all the drama of the last year, I finally meet an interesting, smart, funny urban planner in San Francisco who I can spend three wonderful evenings with and of course it would be someone from another country. Clearly, I never choose the easy way. The whole chilly ride back I smiled and nodded, but kept thinking how bummed I was that I had to go back to Pittsburgh alone the next day.

When we got back to Union Square, there was another offer to walk me back to my hotel. We held hands swinging along down the sidewalk. The Canadian had another two weeks before the long trip back to Vancouver. I had a week to go before I winged off for two weeks in New Orleans. We both had a craving for pizza which we quickly satisfied. And as the evening went later and later, well, I started to wonder how late it could go…. or if we had other, ahem, cravings in common, if you know what I mean….

Finally I insisted on heading back to the hotel so I could get a few hours of sleep before the long trip back to Pittsburgh the next day. Ever polite, the Canadian escorted me back. We talked about how rare it was to meet someone who really clicked, especially in a random bar, in a random town, from another country, with as much in common as we had. We swooned and made a few moony eyes at each other. We exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to drop each other a line. We both agreed it had been a wonderful three days. And…….

Well, ever the lady, I will leave it at this. We went out for a lovely coffee- the next morning.

Not to keep you waiting, I promised more to come, and here’s part two of the Canadian incident. I went to work for the day the next day, called and arranged to change my table for one to a table for two, texted the details to the Canadian, threw on a semi-acceptable dress (I don’t generally pack for dinner dates on work trips), and flew out the door.

When I got to the restaurant a few minutes early, I had one of those awkward moments- should I go in and sit down until the Canadian arrived, call and see when to expect to meet, stand like a big geek outside looking confused? Luckily, I was rescued by a text: “I’m in the bar next door- come join me when you arrive.”  The Canadian was right inside the door slowly nursing a Red Stripe and watching hockey news. We made small talk about Pittsburgh’s Stanley Cup chances and headed over to the restaurant.

I’d made sure to ask for seating in the outdoor courtyard where they were showing Chinatown, but was a little nervous about the chilly, breezy night. No need. The courtyard was glowing with candles and white string lights, and heaters spaced all over which made it Florida warm. We checked out the menu, were relieved to find neither of us had weird food issues, and the waitress asked about wine. I know nothing about wine. The Canadian asked if I minded a suggestion and ordered a bottle of red and an appetizer to share.

I’m a little out of practice on the dating front. It’s been four years since I had anything resembling a first date, and even then, I had met my eventual ex through friends, so I knew I could make small talk. What if we had absolutely nothing to talk about? My hockey knowledge was not going to be enough to get us through a two hour dinner. I was rescued again by the lovely couple seated next to us. They were doing shots of Jameson’s with a tasting menu, so were feeling very friendly and asked us where we were from, made suggestions from the menu, had hilarious tales of road trips, and took frequent smoke breaks which gave the Canadian and I a chance to bond over how amusingly drunk the two of them were. By the time they had finished their meal and left, we were clipping along nicely on our own.

A month on the road in San Francisco and five years teaching English in Korea left the Canadian with a wealth of stories to tell, and I fell back on travel disasters and work stories. We toasted our general good fortune, to being young and  travelling and in a fine restaurant in a beautiful city. And by the time the check came around, the waitress was asking us how long we had been together, which made both of us blush. And did I mention that the Canadian is a fellow redhead? When two redheads blush, you can see the glow from space.

We slipped out into the chilly night and somehow, on the walk to the BART, one hand slipped into another and we strolled along, thumbs rubbing, and at least in my stomach, butterflies fluttering about while we grinned like Cheshire cats. And when the Canadian decided to get off at my stop and walk me back to my hotel, and we lingered to share a kiss with the sounds of the streetcar bell in the background at Union Square, well….

Let’s just say… it was quite a date. And that I had one more night in San Francisco to go.

Sometimes being a blogger has its perks. It’s a great way to kill a lunch break or a rainy Saturday.  It can be done in pajamas (or nothing at all, I suppose). You get the chance to meet really great people who root for you when things are going well and send thoughtful messages when they aren’t. And occasionally, if you are very, very lucky, you get free stuff.

You may have noticed that it’s not very commercialized around here. The blog is free, which fits my budget just right, and sometimes the ads on other pages give me a headache or make it too hard to find the actual content. Besides, WordPress won’t let me unless I give them money. Free is one of my favorite words.

So, when I got an email out of the blue asking if I’d like to meet up about hosting a Gap promo party for free  I had my doubts, but hello, the price was right. And when I went to said meeting and was allowed to pick out a Gap outfit for free I realized this could be love.

Call me a sell-out. Fine. I do not intend to blog excessively about my love of all things Gap, with product placement and clever denim taglines. But if you see me around, I may be wearing these very cute (and did I mention free) items .  And fingers crossed, if they liked me back, there may be more schwag in my future. And I promise to share it with you, if that happens.

Because you all rule. And I hope you’ll still love me, even if I am now a proud recipient of the man’s free goodies. Like these?

My pretty, pretty tank top

The pants which actually came in ankle length

Not quite the cardigan, I got but the color is right. Mine has a flirty ruffle at the bottom

And yes, I will fill you in on the Canadian. Possibly tonight? Possibly tomorrow morning? Who knows…. I am an international woman of mystery.

Last night, to regain a little perspective on the ex’s new love life, I dug down deep in the stack of pink-covered books hidden in the corner behind the bookshelf where the respectable books can’t see them for my copy of It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. OK. Generally, this kind of book makes my eyes bleed. But a friend insisted after the called-off wedding when I stayed in bed for four days that I give this book a shot. It’s a little bit cheesy, but the repetition of all the reasons it’s over and why it’s a good thing and it should stay that way is soothing. And I vigorously outlined all the parts that reminded me what an ass he had been. Over three cups of the strong coffee I smuggled back from N’awlins. Not my ideal way to spend an evening, but it helped with perspective.

Because I am trying to force myself to be fully emotionally bipolar at all times for your reading pleasure, here’s a rundown on my own, non-ex-related, so-called love life of late.

On my trip to San Francisco last month, in addition to devouring frites and going on the loveliest shopping spree with Green (where I bought rosewater, candy delicacies, and an Italian leather journal no less), I kind of…. um…. met someone.

It happened precisely the way these things never happen to me.  I was bumming around the Mission District in search of a giant burrito the size of my forearm (which I definitely found), and while finishing it up, I decided to scan the Crackberry for other things to do in the neighborhood. An off-the-map locals bar popped up that looked ideal for happy hour, and just so happened to be a block and a half from the taqueria. Away I went, probably with cilantro still in my teeth.

When I walked in, I promptly remembered that I am no good at talking to strangers in bars, and bellied up to make some small talk with the bartender and grab a bourbon.  Then, being the adventuress that I am, I hopped back on the Crackberry and tried to look busy instead of socially awkward. A few minutes go by, and the bar stool next to mine fills up. I glance over- polo shirt, cargo shorts, leather wrist cuff… and ring on left hand. But of the funky sterling silver twisty variety and not very formal looking … hmmm.

Both of us continued the texting and web surfing bit for fifteen or twenty minutes until we were bumped, literally. The pool table was about two feet behind us and apparently we got in the way of the shot. Which meant we had pull our stools closer together. I made some silly comment about the dual dueling phones and we made polite introductions. From Canada, in town for a month visiting friends, who were supposed to come to the bar but bailed. The Canadian was peeved in a very cute way. I mentioned being in town on business and we started chatting.

One thing led to another, and two hours later we were still at the bar, talking about cities, and the bartender, and politics, taking turns saving seats to go outside and smoke, and swapping whose turn it was to buy the next round. I asked if the Canadian wanted another and the reply? “No, I’d rather get out of here before I’m drunk. Which way are you headed?” We strolled out and took the long way back to the BART in the dusk still rambling on and finding oddly that we had a lot in common, including fairly ugly break-ups in the last year (this girl’s thought? score!- I had hoped I was right about the ring).

The Canadian mentioned that the local friends, a lesbian couple, were homebodies and so travelling solo had become the norm. I mentioned a reservation for one at Foreign Cinema for great food the next night. And that it could probably easily become a reservation for two. Numbers were exchanged, and I promised to call or text if I could get a table for two with the address and time.

And dear readers….. I did. More to come on the continuing saga…

OK gang. I’m back- from San Francisco, Las Vegas, and two long bourbon-soaked weeks in New Orleans and have lots to tell. Shall I start with dinner with Green Yogurt on the West Coast? Or with the lovely Canadian I met in San Francisco and shared a romantic dinner and streetcar ride with? Or my big winnings on the penny slots in Vegas? Or the night I mixed six different kinds of cocktails on Bourbon Street and spilled my guts to a co-worker? With the story of BC’s newest venture? A summary of the rooftop party I went to last night? Or with the “big one” I promised over a month ago?

So many options, and so little time this morning, so I’ll leave those teasers and just add that the last few days have been a little rough. The ex is seeing someone. Seriously. Like, about to move in together seriously. And while I am trying to take Green’s advice and just be glad he’s making someone else miserable and not me, I’m taking it a little harder than I thought I would. Yes, he is jerk. Who cheated on me multiple times, drank too much, and made me cry until my face swelled shut. But, I confess, I’d prefer him to die old and alone and regretting breaking my heart. Not moving on and in with some girl he just met three weeks ago for pete’s sake.

Argh. Just when I think I have breathed my last pained breath over him, he invents a new and novel way of twisting the knife. I am trying to ignore it. I am trying to chant “Better her than me,” as my new mantra. And I am trying to get to a place where I can actually be happy for him (but really, that’s asking a bit much).

So, Saturday night, I holed up in bed with my Crackberry headphones, a pack of smokes, and a pile of blankets and listened to Tom Waits and stared at the ceiling until I was worn out from the effort. Avoiding that it hurts doesn’t make it any better. So, I may be wallowing in it this week. The sooner I get in and get dirty about grieving, the sooner this too shall pass. Right?

I’ve been working on kind of a major post for a week or so now and can’t seem to get the tone just right. And that seems to be the way that life is going these days. I get a freelance writing assignment and everything I have to say sounds corny. I email my boss about some comp time coming up and it sounds like I’m kissing up. I text BC back teasingly and he apologizes profusely, thinking he’s offended me.

My communicator bits must be broken. Which is why I’m holding off on posting the major post until I can say what I mean and mean what I say again. In the meantime, no, I’m not mad at you.