eHarmony.

So. I was watching TV and I saw a commercial for eHarmony. "We lived five miles away and never would have found each other... It was like we had known each other all our lives, but lived on the other side of the planet." Sickeningly sweet, right?

Well. Years back (while I was still actually dating the psychologist), I created an account on eHarmony in order to get my free personality profile. Twenty-six dimensions of compatibility, they say. So they start randomly sending me matches. First one: "Who do you admire the most?" Answer: "Rush Limbaugh." Yeah, I can see this is totally my type of guy. Next one they send me: "Things I can't live with out." Answer: "My Mercedes and Christian rock." Wow. Their dimensions of compatibility really worked. I cancelled the account within two days. Suffice it to say, I didn't really think my personality profile was really accurate either.

About a month or two later I was at the mall a few towns over and I struck up a conversation with some kid sitting next to me. He was two years younger than I and going to school for his graduate degree in teaching. He also coached undergraduate baseball. So. We start dating. He loved sports. He thought that fart and scrotum jokes were the ultimate hilarity. I begin to think that maybe this really isn't going to work out. My feelings are confirmed when he one days says to me, "I have a secret. I saw your profile on eHarmony a few months back. We were matched up. I almost joined and paid just so I could write to you." It's no surprise that relationship didn't last long.

The moral of the story? I poop on eHarmony.

Taking inventory.

Warning: I do try not to write streams of consciousness. But I'm tired right now, and that's exactly what this entry is. A wholly self-indulgant musing of things that are important only to me.

I've not written anything serious here in quite sometime. Sure, there's the rants about bad '80s music, and short pieces regarding a possible career selling hot dogs. The last serious thing I've written was likely some missive about Mike, something I thought was well written and heartfelt, but was likely only histrionic and trite.

And so, The Saucy Vixen becomes serious as she takes inventory of her life:

Housing.

Let's see. I just bought a house. It's nothing particularly lavish. It's a cute, little cape with yellow siding and brown shudders. The carport (attached to the single car garage) and cracked black tar driveway add just a hint of Americana to it. The house is on a borderline commercial/industrial area, but still in the town with the "good" schools. It is within fifteen hundred feet of a school, so any drug dealers in the area will get even more time if convicted. Groovy, huh? Gotta love the penal code.

I wish I could say that I did it all on my own. I wish I could pontificate about how incredibly independent I am. But the sad truth is that my parents helped me with the down payment. The other sad truth is that I need a roommate to support the mortgage. There is a small chance that my current roommate may be staying in-state for a clerkship. However, the judge has yet to let her know. Graduation is tomorrow and she plans on moving to Virginia on Monday if she doesn't hear from the judge. And so, for the first time ever, I shall be living with a stranger (as all my friends have their own living situations).

Career.

This work thing is going pretty well. It's been almost a year, and no one's been killed yet because of me. So that's good. I don't think I've messed up too badly, and I don't think anyone wound up in jail because I screwed up. No one killed, no one in jail when s/he shouldn't be because I messed up. Decent track record thus far, I think. The "Oh my God, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing" feeling is gone. And I feel like I have a damn good grasp on evidence. I could have applied to go "upstairs" to work on more serious cases. For personal reasons, I decided not to. This was hard for me, as I'm usually the go-getter type when it comes to career moves. But for reasons I choose not to expound upon, I think this was a good move for me.

More importantly, though, I like what I do. I dreaded work a bit in the beginning. I was afraid of days in court. I felt like I was missing a lot, and I hated having to ask for help (I always have). But I'm starting to really get into all this. And not just for the rhetorical reasons having to do with my personal notions of justice and fairness. I'm starting to actually enjoy the day-to-day stuff. Which is good.

On the downside, my carpool buddy left he fold. I know he wasn't particularly happy, and I know his commute was gruesome. But I miss riding to and from work with him. He kept me just a little more sane. I'd be working on something some evening and have a question. No problem. I'd ask Carpool Buddy on the way to work in the morning. And between the two of us, no matter what the issue was, we could usually figure it out during the thirty-five minute drive. In addition to his legal acumen, he was also pretty damn cool. And he pretended not to mind the two weeks I constantly sang We Built This City. The rest of the office wanted to murder me. Or at least assault and batter me. With a dangerous weapon.

Interpersonal relationships.

I've already lost touch with friends from school. My clinic partner works far away, lives far away, and has a boyfriend (as much as I love her, she tends to forget people when she's romantically involved). James lives the fuck down state, so I never see him much either. AIDS Boy won't return my correspondence; I can't blame him.

I still hang out with Joe. He still brings me pizza and ice cream and cigarettes and Dunkin' Donuts gift cards. I can't help but feel guilty.

Mike called me a week (or two?) ago, and I didn't return his call. I chatted with him via IM last night. He still continues to piss me off by dating very pretty but irritatingly vapid women. He told me he met someone at a bar a little while ago. She's a social worker. She's socially aware and attends political events. He told me more (stuff I don't remember now), and she actually sounded really cool. Actually smart. No children. Minimal baggage. But is he interested in her? Of course not. "Something just isn't there," he tells me. Yeah, she's missing the gaping hole in her head that the women he dates usually have.

None of this should bother me, really. But I can't help but be disappointed in Mike and his God-awful taste in the female company he keeps. And yes, some of it is just resentment. It all reflects poorly on me. I may not be tall and thin and gorgeous, but dammit, I'm nearly brilliant. (Nearly. Not quite totally brilliant. But close enough so that most folks can't tell the difference.) And I'm cute enough. I'm certainly attractive. And as it has been ascertained time and again by random passers-by, I have a stupendous rack. What more could he ask for? It occurs to me once again that if he really is only interested in the pretty morons, then I really am too good for him.

So are my personal relationships fulfilling? For now, I suppose. I've kind of gone on a social hiatus. I've lost touch with some friends, but I still have a social circle that I enjoy. A random cornucopia of folks I stay in touch with: high school friends, college friends, law school friends, work people, drum circle folk, and the like. As far as romantic relationships go, I am way too busy with work and homeownership to deal with such things. Dating is exhausting and I feel I've gone through all the potential suitors in my area. The people of interest I do meet are completely wrong for me, and I don't have the energy to get involved with yet another person who is oh-so-emotionally unavailable.

So what of my life inventory? Am I happy? I suppose. But for the first time in a long while, I am content. And that's good enough.

Underwear and eBay.

When I was in college, I made lots of money selling undies on eBay. The premise was quite simple. "Sexy college co-ed used panties," I'd advertise. Then I'd buy a lacy thong at TJ Maxx, Marshalls, or some similar shop. Then I'd sell 'em for fifty bucks a pop. Each purchaser had specific shipping instructions. Some wanted the panties wrapped in tissue paper. Others wanted them freshly worn and packaged in an airtight, Ziploc baggie. I never did wear them. False advertising? Perhaps. But the skeezy men got their masturbation fantasies, and I got money. A good deal all around.

But no more. The Powers That Be over at eBay no longer allow the booming used underwear market to thrive. They no longer allow the selling of internal organs or children, either.

Even though I no longer embrace the entrepreneurial spirit I once had, I'm starting to realize that my eBay enterprise may have sparked something in me. I fear that I have an obsession with underwear.

Just this afternoon, I was pointing out panty lines in the courthouse to a male colleague of mine. It is common knowledge that I have a (perhaps unhealthy) penchant for stockings and corsetry. And just minutes ago, I explained to someone that I categorize my underwear as follows:

There's the "I should likely just throw these out because they're so old, but I'll keep them for those time when I REALLY don't feel like doing laundry, and it doesn't matter anyway because no one will ever see them" category. Then we have the "cute cotton panty" category, which were purchased at WalMart, and which no self-respecting women should wear -- cute turquoise briefs with words across the ass that say such things as "Purrrfect 10!" complete with a picture of a cat. Then we have the simple "thong" category (to avoid the dreaded visible panty line). "Boyshorts" and "sexy ones" round out the collection.

I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me. This fixation cannot be a good thing.

Courtesy.

If someone you hadn't heard from in years e-mailed you out of nowhere, wouldn't you write back? Wouldn't you write back out of curiosity if nothing else? People's lack of curiosity (as well as their lack of so-called "common" courtesy) depresses me.

Once or twice a year I e-mail my college boyfriend. We met ten years ago, broke up eight years ago, and haven't seen each other in six years. But has he ever responded to any of the twelve-or-so e-mails I've sent over the last six years? Nope. Why? The answer is simple: He lacks courtesy and curiosity, and could give a shit about anyone but himself (not that this has changed since I knew him). In short: He's a douchebag. Our breakup was as amicable as one can be when the participants of the doomed relationship are twenty years old. If someone I'd not heard from in years e-mailed me -- especially if that someone was a person I purported to be in love with at one time -- I would totally write back. My morbid fascination with the unknown wouldn't allow me not to respond.

What music makes us remember.

I have had four substantive romantic relationships.

(1) Ben. We met in 1997, our freshman year at Emerson College. He was from Indiana. His parents were Republicans. He was tall and dressed exclusively in Abercrombie & Fitch. He was the antithesis of who anyone would expect me to end up with. Relationship duration: a year-and-a-half. Last contact: May 2001.

(2) David. We met in Boston at the beginning of 2002. He was far too old for me. A forensic psychologist who lacked self-awareness. Relationship duration: two-and-a-half years. Last contact: Several months ago.

(3) Mike. We met in a very surreal fashion on March 11, 2005. Absolutely insane, and by far, the most fun person I've ever dated (if that's what you can call what we were doing). Tall, bald, tattooed. The black sheep of his family and very anti-authority. Relationship duration: somewhere between 6 months and a year, depending on who you ask. Last contact: This afternoon.

(4) Joe. April 2006. Long-haired, birkenstock-wearing, non-meat-eating do-gooder type. We matched on an intellectual level. Of all four, he treated me the best. He was also punctual and understood how to use a semicolon. Relationship duration: nine months. Last contact: This afternoon.

As you can see, I keep in touch with all of them except for Ben, who I last saw six years ago. He's out west somewhere, chasing his dream of being the next David Lynch. While I harbor no animosity for him, I have no fondness for him, either.

I've been making a mix on iTunes tonight of hippie music. Joni Mitchell, Carol King, Janis Joplin, et al. I came across one song, and amazingly, for about five seconds, I was in love with Ben all over again. Why? They say that scent is the sense most closely linked to memory. But for me, it's music. It's always been amazing to me what certain songs will make us remember, and the times a certain song can make us relive, even if only for a moment.

Part II: I've been outed!

I'm not the only one! See, see? Here.

(Now I get to feel all haughty because I've never actually discussed office or agency politics in this forum. In fact, this blog has nearly nothing to do with law. You know what? Because I'm just that good.)

I've been outed.

The Powers That Be (i.e., the head of the agency for which I work) have discovered by blog.

At first, I was shocked and appalled. Alright, so I was a tad shocked, and not at all appalled. But it got me thinking. On my ride home from work today, I began second-guessing myself. Have I written anything that identifies who I am? Have I ever stated which state I work for? Is there anything I've written that would cast a pall on the agency? Do I talk about work? Do I identify cases? Has my first name ever appeared on this blog?

I've always been extremely careful in what I write, knowing that I have no expectation of privacy in any of it. I've attempted not to identify where I work. And short of stating that I hate VOP hearings (and let's face it -- who doesn't?), and that I had a great client who send me a thank you card, I've never written about work.

I got home and checked out the blog. Phew. Safe. I took out the one reference to my name, and the one reference to which bar exams I've taken. Done and done.

My mind is at ease. Now I must only live with the knowledge that the big boss knows of my unhealthy obsessions with bordellos and bad '80s music.

What's gonna stop us?

All the movies of the 1980s seem to have the same message: Live by what your heart says! Fight for your dream!

What's gonna stop us?

According to Starship, the answer is a word: Nothin'.

The Saucy Hotdog Hawker.

And so, the town of Winsted, Connecticut has brought us more than just Ralph Nader. Indeed, for a tawdry $2,000, you can go out to Winsted and make this hotdog cart your very own.

I'm thinking about it myself. Perhaps a career change is in order. I'm nearly certain that I'd make more money as a Hotdog Hawker than as a wage slave public servant with a law degree. The possibilities here are truly endless.