I can't make you love me if you don't

For me, the most painful thing in the world is allowing other people and their lives to matter to me and then learning that I don't matter back. Ask me what the past nine months has been like for me, and that is my answer.

I've been told to expect less from others than I'm willing to give. If anyone has learned how to lower their expectations, I'm all ears. This pattern must be broken.

Hee.

As a history major and grammar punk, I had to post this little gem.

A patriotic grievance

I need to get something off my chest. Someday I promise to write something funny and winning, but today is not the day. Today, I am truly angry and deeply disappointed.

So, on Friday that horrible Westboro Baptist Church -- the one that sends both adults and small children to protest at military funerals -- will be protesting outside one of our gates. I just read an intelligence briefing encouraging Hanscom people to stay away from the protest due to the emotionally-charged and offensive nature of their protests (apparently they tape protests in case someone becomes violent, then they prosecute to earn funds for more protests -- sick). The protests include desecration of the flag and offensive slogans, both shouted and written on signs. I just read some sample slogans, and my eyes are literally stinging in revulsion.

My great wish is that those with base-related duties, as well as everyone else, will stay far away from that gate and refuse to give these people what they most want -- attention -- but I know already that the press has been alerted to the event. We have received calls from media outlets requesting comment; obviously we do not have one we deem appropriate to share.

I dislike these people far more than I dislike the protesters who hang out at Temple Square. No matter what one's religion, race, gender, sexual-orientation, or creed, the U.S. military should be a uniting entity for Americans. Whether or not we agree on the missions they are commanded to carry out, whether or not every individual who wears the uniform acts in a way that is worthy of it, our troops are who keep us and many others safe and free. I realize the military is not perfect; the mission certainly is not perfect. My eyes are wide open to historical and present controversies and I have my reservations about many things, as those who have talked to me well know.

If one does not agree with the mission, however, the appropriate action to take should be to inform their Congress-person or protest in a federal arena, such as on Capitol Hill, not near the homes of those who serve dutifully to make sure our borders are secure, our people safe and our interests protected.

Whatever the extravagances, arrogance and failures of this nation, its leaders past and present and our military campaigns, I truly believe that our service members are some of the very best of the best. I know the service members that I work with every day are. When I think of the grieving families I see on an all too frequent basis, piled in cars following their loved ones' hearses, and then of these protesters whose insolent slogans have to be drowned out of the cemeteries by the Patriot Riders' revving Harleys, I can't even describe the disgust that floods my soul.

How many of us can say with certainty that we know people who would give their lives for us, if necessary? Every American who knows a member of the military, because our service members have pledged to defend us from "all enemies, foreign and domestic." There should not be domestic enemies.

It does no one any good to upset and hurt people who spend their lives sacrificing their safety, comfort, and family lives to help and protect others. I will never understand people who enjoy doing so, or who imagine God would encourage such behavior.

Shame on this protest, and on the Westboro Baptist Church.*

*I want to clarify that I do NOT associate this particular congregation with any other of the Baptist faith, or with any other faith, for that matter.

Drawing inspiration, seeking clarity

My dear friend, Frank, performed this poem at a poetry reading in a small, quasi-seedy club in Cambridge that we frequented together. I've been drawing inspiration from it lately, though I'm still trudging through the "wild night" at this point. I wish you could hear him perform it, but posting the text will have to do until he gets back to Boston and I can get him to recite it on camera.

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I Want to Win! Do You?

I am shameless. I will admit it freely. I am posting this entirely so I can comment on Jana's blog and win something that she has made (she is outrageously creative and talented, you know). However, I will make good on the promise to follow. Here goes:

I am unlucky when it comes to winning contests...How lucky are you? I double dare you to accept this challenge.This game involves a few of my favorite things: handmade goods, creativity, and gift-giving.

Here are the tagging instructions: The first five people to respond to this post will get something made by me! My choice. For you. This offer does have some restrictions and limitations:

1- I make no guarantees that you will like what I make!

2- What I create will be just for you.

3- It'll be done this year. (might be a little while)

4- You have no clue what it's going to be. It may be a story. It may be poetry or an article on properly cleaning your face before a masque. I may draw or paint something. I may bake you something and mail it to you. Who knows? Not you, that's for sure!

5- I reserve the right to do something extremely strange.

The catch?

Oh, the catch is that you must re-post this on your blog and offer the same to the first 5 people who do the same on your blog. The first 5 people to do so and leave a comment telling me they did win a FAB-U-LOUS homemade gift by me! Oh, and be sure to post a picture of what you win when you get it!

Sound good? Good.

On Tom Hanks

Perhaps you have heard about Tom Hanks' recent remark about his perception that Mormons' support of Proposition 8 was un-American. Perhaps you have not. Much ado was NOT made about Mr. Hanks' statement or eventual "apology," and that is wrong.

Had he offended any other religion or race, we would have had an international event on our hands. Regardless of how I feel about the Mormon faith, homosexuality or Proposition 8, I'm pretty bugged.

It is interesting to me how people justify themselves. I’m irritated that Mr. Hanks finds it reprehensible to discriminate against homosexuals, yet feels fine about discriminating against Mormons. If one is truly against discrimination, one should be against discrimination of ALL peoples -- else would one not be, in fact, discriminating?

I appreciate his clarification, yet he is not apologizing for and reconsidering his generalization of and negative feelings toward Mormons, as is what one should do when he realizes he has judged an entire people and ventured into hypocrisy. His statement seemed calculated to take the offensive edge off his heartfelt remark and nip any residual chatter in the bud.

If one shouldn't say something about people of a specific race or religious affiliation or sexual persuasion lest it cause offense, one should not say it about Mormons either. The Mormons' right to be treated and spoken to and about with respect is as sacred and Constitutional as any other group's.

(I will not go into the vast amounts of Catholic, Methodist, Evangelical, and minority cash and votes which assisted those of California's Mormons who truly voted for Prop 8, in passing it. Alternately, I know many Mormons who voted against it. Mormons make up less than two percent of California's population, yet they alone -- minus a large chunk of their ranks -- got a law passed? That would be a feat indeed!)

Comment for my thoughts?

Well, someone finally said it. "Uh, hello! It's time for a new post!" Honestly, I was hoping no one would notice how long it has been. And yet, in addition to feeling a teensy bit of shame, I'm also flattered that I have readers who care.

But anyway . . . I would love to oblige you. It's just . . . well, there is naught to do but admit to horrible writer's block. I honestly don't know what to say.

Perhaps it is a work-related hazard? For a living, I DO stare daily at blank and horribly disfigured Word documents -- hoping to somehow infuse them with life and push them to reach their potential. But that's no excuse for abandoning a perfectly decent blog and faithful readers.

How's this: I'll make this a little more interactive. I'm no autocrat! I'll take suggestions. What would YOU like me to write about? Anything come to mind? Anything?

Majorly Spiralling (Oooh!)

A year and a half ago, I fell hard for these broody Brits who clothed their sexy disillusionment in bouncy, anthemic orchestrations. I mean, really, what red-blooded, tragic young woman could resist such sensitive, arty babes -- uh, boys -- compelling her to head-bob along with them as, over and over, their hearts all broke together in perfect harmony?

(Not to mention those white belts and that hair tossing . . . )

Not this one. No, sir-ee.

So, since the moment they announced they were working on a new album, that things were better than ever between them and they were having the time of their lives, I have dreaded the release of their third album, "Perfect Symmetry." Not that I don't want them to be happy without me -- I absolutely do! But couldn't their music stay miserable?

Well, you can imagine my horrified delight when I got a load of the first track on P.S., which all the reviews are calling "sassy," "disco-rockin'" and "Bowie-esque."

AND I LOVED IT! I loved every "Ooooh!"

So, enjoy. If you find yourself downloading and listening to it to the exclusion of all other worthy tunes, let's chat.

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

~By Stevie Smith~

We'll Be Loving You (Forever), NKOTB

That was then . . .

This is now . . . (!!!)

Some of you are familiar with my penchant for fandemonium in general, which is why I wanted to share an email I sent last week to some good friends who knew me at the height of a particularly intense period of fandom. (Does anyone else remember the poster, featuring my dreamboats posed atop a ladder, which spanned the entire length and width of my bedroom door?) Good times.

Dear (picture your name here),

I was belly laughing this morning on my way to work. Two radio stations I switch back and forth between during my morning drive were taking calls about the two New Kids on the Block concerts that took place here this weekend (you know the Kids are Boston natives, right?).

It was hilarious. All these women around my age (20s to early 40s) were calling in absolutely GUSHING about how great it was.

"Oh, my God! It was the BEST night of my life!"

"I sat in the __ row, and when they came into the audience, I could practically TOUCH them! EEEEEE! I almost fainted!"

"It was definitely the BEST concert I've EVER been to! They were absolutely a-MAZE-ing!!! I couldn't stop screaming and crying!"

"I love them so much!!!!! They're so hot!!!!!!"

"You should have seen the pregnant women trying to squeeze into their teenage New Kids T-shirts!"

"I wore a jean jacket COVERED with the pins I collected in the 90s!"

"All of the sudden I was 12 again!"

"I only have their cassettes, but I am going out TODAY to buy ALL of their music and an iPod!"

So many exclamation points. I kind of wish I had shelled out the cash to go. Apparently they sang ALL of the classics. Aaahhh, the memories.

One station even decided to play, "You Got It (the Right Stuff)," and all these women called in to thank them.

"Just hearing their songs makes my heart pound!"

"That's just what I needed to get me out of bed and excited about the day!"

Ah, je regret! I guess it might have been worth $60 to be that ridiculous again. (And to see other adult women--some much older and there with their DAUGHTERS--do the same.) Next time for SURE. But I won't be calling in to any radio stations--before or after.

--Mere

Happy Birthday, Baby

Dear Maddie,

I can't believe I met you six years ago today. It's cliche, but true. At the same time it seems like I've always known you and that you've been around such a short time. How is that possible?

I met you the day you were born. I didn't realize on the drive to the hospital how that would boggle my mind forever after, and feel so significant. But as I looked at you, this tiny, tiny little bedroll in a pink and blue hospital cap, I couldn't wrap my head around the idea that only the day before--even a few hours earlier, actually--you were this bump in your mom's tummy that caused heartburn and backaches, and now you were this miniature, pink, sleeping person, with perfect little person parts. It was amazing. I wondered how well you might already know us, and what your late night and early morning had been like before you came. I still marvel that we've been acquainted since the very beginning of your journey.

I've never seen your parents so exhausted, but so happy. When I pronounced you perfect, they smiled graciously--modestly trying to hide the fact that they were already well aware. I appreciated their pretending I had said something totally new and original. But I could tell they had already had the very same thought at least a million times before I arrived.

When your mom asked if I wanted to hold you, I could not contain myself. I don't know if I actually shouted in the maternity ward full of sleeping babies and exhausted mothers, but it felt like I did. While scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial gel, my own mother was giving me one of her looks.

I'm still not sure if that look meant that I should know the offer was merely a polite gesture or that I should have refused because I could cause you harm, but it was clear my mom was annoyed that I hadn't declined.

Now, Maddie, it's very important to do what your mother says. I've learned that 99.95 percent of the time we should believe and obey our mothers. However, in this case, I was completely, 100 percent in the right when I smiled and deliberately ignored the look, and took you in my arms.

You were so light! I was afraid I would fumble you, trying to make sense of how tiny you were. When you nestled in the crook of my arm, sleeping peacefully and looking impossibly like a tiny copy of both of your parents, I fell madly in love for the first time.

Standing in your mom's hospital room and holding you when you were brand new gave me insight I hadn't gained in multitudes of conferences, devotionals, meetings and firesides. Instantly, seeing you wearing baby-sized copies of your mommy's nose and upper lip, I knew that you are what our lives are all about.

Little, innocent baby Maddies and Ians and Jacobs and Nicholases are why we value God, love and family, friends, honesty, integrity, health and strength, hard work, education, and all other forms of purity. We keep our bodies and minds clean and pure, so when the time comes, nothing in our power will interfere with our babies being as perfect and healthy as you were that day. We live the way we know we should, educate ourselves, and take care of our bodies and our reputations, so we have the tools we need to educate you, take care of you, and give you a name you can be proud of.

Holding you, I thought of a line from a movie that has always struck me, and I felt deep inside how true it really was. Of his ancestors, a man said, "Now, I am the only reason they ever existed." I knew that now you are the reason many incredible human beings--some whose names we don't even know--existed.

So, even though you're so grown up now and we've played Polly Pockets and Barbies and dress ups and hairdresser, I realize that you taught me more in your first day than I will ever teach you, and I'm so grateful for what I've learned from you.

I love you so much. I'm very excited to see you next week.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MADDIE-CAKE!!!

Karma is indeed a boomerang

Certain individuals in my office are known for having fun with Photoshop. I will cop to being the mastermind in this instance, but I will not claim the dirty work -- i.e. making light of our fearless commander's judging position by assembling faux Mrs. Massachusetts contestant dossiers -- complete with profile photos featuring high-ranking wing officials' heads on Patriots cheerleaders' bodies.

Lest you fear for my job, I will report that the joke went over famously. Our fearless commander-turned-pageant-judge gave us all high marks and the game officials' biggest concern was who had the best legs, tush, and other salient female parts.

It was almost the perfect prank. Almost.

So, I have been tasked with getting the word out about the annual Military Retiree Day events on base, which I am thrilled about. I'm the proud granddaughter of a World War II veteran, so every elderly retiree is an adopted grandparent. Unless he laps me on the track, in which case he is no family of mine.

A dear, grandfatherly retired master sergeant interrupted my online New York Times perusal this afternoon (hey, a fulfilled employee is a productive employee!) to give me updated information for an event press release. He was very sorry, but I would have to photocopy of one of the forms. I assured him this would be easy as pie--happily pointing out that with my scanner, I could accomplish that task without even leaving my desk.

As Mr. Master Sergeant stood at my elbow, I opened the scanner lid to find . . .

This . . .

staring up at us!

"Oooh myyyy . . . " Mr. M. S. breathed, a mite disapprovingly, I felt.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Um . . . oh. Those are, um, the Patriots cheerleaders!" That explained why it was tucked away in my scanner, right? My arched-to-the-ceiling eyebrows and strangely pitchy voice had me feeling a bit like a cheerleader myself. "They always come to Heroes' Homecoming events," I said, my head bouncing in staccato nods. Suddenly the room was stuffy and I felt moisture spring up along my hairline.

"It's not mine!" I blurted.

He mumbled something, fixed his gaze on the cube diagonal to mine as I hurriedly scanned the document, and didn't linger after I'd finished.

Whoops.

You call me crazy; I call me a music connoisseur

The men I love are recording their third album. I've already begun saving so I can join the insane -- or enthusiastic, rather -- women who remain perfectly above board (read: are not groupies in that sense) while indulging themselves in mini-tours. What's a mini-tour? It's when one attends several (often, but not always, consecutive) concert dates by the same band during the same tour. It's especially fun when one goes to several concerts within a four-to-six state radius and continually bumps into other mini-tourists. Not that I would know anything about this. True, I did go to two Keane concerts in as many days, but I WON tickets to one of them. That pretty much obligated me to go, I felt. You know, gift horse and mouth and all of that.

Anyway, here is a comical little update regarding Tom's, Tim's, and Richard's current creative progress. For fun, watch for my favorite part -- where Tom's lovely eyebrows make a special guest appearance. I take small comfort in knowing he'll never be mine by imagining the plucking and waxing we would be subjecting innocent offspring to.

Non-Commital Goal-Making

So, I've had very little willpower this weekend. I'm pretty sure that in the last three to four days I've put away a good two or more 8.5 oz. bags of those devilishly delicious Cadbury Mini Eggs. Actually, my bet is on the "or more." And I won't go into the other sweet and savory delights I've been cramming into my aptly-named cakehole.

Sadly, the discipline drought doesn't merely extend to food. Although I'd hoped to be in bed by 10 -- one might even have called it a goal or aspiration -- I ridiculously started another episode of Grey's Anatomy, assuring myself I would only watch until my horrifically boring story was finished. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? Story finished, seventeen minutes into the episode and 20 minutes into the 10 o' clock hour, I'm thinking I've made a mistake. But will I turn McDreamy and Co. off anytime soon? Not bloody likely.

My point -- assuming I have one besides hoping that confessing my sins will shame me into shunning them forevermore -- is that I need to regain some control. The mere thought of which makes me start wondering what I've got in the fridge, freezer, and my cupboard that just might hit the spot. . .

But anyway -- CONTROL. That's the ticket, unless I fancy wedging myself into size ginormous jeans while trying to see over the dufflebags that are my under-eyes. How is it regained? I'm open to suggestions. By all means, flood the comment section with suggestions. Please.

The only solution I can think of is to list some goals I've been considering today. They're not set in stone, which is to say I'm definitely not ready to commit (oh boy -- another topic for another day!), but I'm thinking about them. Again, (kind and constructive) comments and concerns are welcome. Oooh . . . alliteration.

For the Body

1. Low carbs for the foreseeable future. No bagels, grilled cheese sandwiches, or corn chips at work anymore. Veggie omelets with no cheese and salads with feta crumbles from now on. This should be easier with the ruggedly attractive IMA coming back into the office for a couple of weeks. Maybe pretending to love rabbit food for two weeks will break me of my bad habits. Fingers crossed.

2. Bedtime at 10:30 at the very latest -- with solid efforts aiming more toward 10. No computer after 9. Unless I get home late. This one is negotiable? Maybe 9:30?

For the Soul

1. Pursue voice lessons with Mary. Sing again. Maybe others will hear and enjoy, but that doesn't really matter. Perfection would not be the object; music -- whether rough or refined -- would be the object.

2. Ever-so-slightly related to #1: Sing in ward choir. Not necessarily for the vocal advancement, but for the spiritual involvement, the opportunity to enjoy the company of friends who also love to sing, and the impetus to arrive at church early and adjust to the spirit there rather than skid in at the last moment, hoping to find an empty seat in the chapel.

3. Stop comparing myself to others. Stop hurting myself and holding myself back by comparing myself with others. 'Nuff said.

Which Jane Austen Heroine Are You?

I could not resist this silly quiz. I'm very surprised by the results, actually. I was expecting to be a mixture of Marianne Dashwood and Emma Woodhouse (unbridled emotion meets a well-meaning make-over fanatic). I was afraid I might be Jane Bennett, whom I've always considered excruciatingly dull. I can be very happy, however, about resembling the revered Miss Eliza Bennett. (I've always fancied my eyes to be quite fine, I'll confess.)

And so you have it:

You are Elizabeth Bennet of Pride & Prejudice! You are intelligent, witty, and tremendously attractive. You have a good head on your shoulders, and oftentimes find yourself the lone beacon of reason in a sea of ridiculousness. You take great pleasure in many things. You are proficient in nearly all of them, though you will never own it. Lest you seem too perfect, you have a tendency toward prejudgement that serves you very ill indeed.

Must work on the last part.

If, indeed, it is true.

You Ask, I Deliver

I really should be asleep. I have a big day tomorrow. I was haunted, however, by the request for pictures in the previous post's comments section. (I do read them. Sincere gratitude to those who comment on my rambles.)

Ever the conscientious journalist, I decided to spare just a moment of beauty sleep (now matter how necessary!) to upload a picture or two. I'll try to post more, provided I can locate my stubbornly missing camera cable-thingy.

This was taken outside my house during the Leap Day party my roomies and I hosted. It was great fun. My dear friends Kim and Adrianne are middle and top girls, respectively. We were attempting one of Kim's famous "jumping photos," but when gravity proved too consistent a force, we eventually settled for a leap-frog theme instead.

It started to snow right as we went outside, giving our shoot a bit of Boston ambience.

This is one of the cupcakes that Brittany and Katie made. Just imagine a few dozen of them together--too cute. Brittany is a party genius. Someday she will be the new Jackie O, except more fun.

More later, with some luck and my cable-thingy. Off to sleep for me!

Out!

"You know what they say: 'Fool me once, strike one. But fool me twice . . . strike three.'"

-Michael Scott, The Office

When I Look at You, What I Always See . . .

The new guy on the shuttle looks a lot like M. I've seen him on every 5 o' clock shuttle for the past month, yet my body reacts to him without my permission every day, at every sighting. As soon as his head emerges from the bus' staircase, my pulse quickens, my eyes widen, and my lungs pull in a sharp, noisy breath. I usually become conscious of his presence and my gaping mouth in the same instant. As I clamp my jaw shut, I notice that I have not yet exhaled, so I let it drop again. I release my breath slowly through my mouth while my mind races.

"What if he looks over here? What do I do if he sees me? Do I look away? Smile? Maybe I should look away now. That might keep him from noticing me. But what if he doesn't notice me? How will I get his attention?"

I'm surprised he never notices (or at least acknowledges that he's noticed) my eyes desperately searching his features in disbelief. I imagine him generous for this.

Inevitably, this man's hair brings me back to reality. It's a bit wild -- long, like M.'s but not as straight or shiny. He has a winsome smile and dimples like M.'s, but his face is wider, his eyes smaller. He's not nearly as handsome. Or maybe he's as handsome to another woman as M. was to me. I'd have to love him to know.

This lasts only a moment, and when I remember that M. is miles and years and heartaches away, I feel silly. I wonder if the man who is not M. sees my daily embarrassed smile and nod, and what he must think of me if he does. Sometimes I feel I should offer a casual, "You look like a man I once loved," as an explanation, but sanity mercifully returns and intervenes.

As I turn to the window both in relief and disappointment, I always wonder how long it will take for my heart to stop racing.

Any Questions?

Today's theme song, a la that lovable 90s waif, Ally McBeal, is . . .

32 Flavors

squint your eyes and look closer
I'm not between you and your ambition
I am a poster girl with no poster
I am 32 flavors and then some
and I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you're going to get hungry
and eat most of the words you just said

God help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
'cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash
a thousand eyes will smolder with jealousy
while you are just flying past

I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone

I'm not trying to give my life meaning
by demeaning you
and I would like to state for the record
I did everything that I could do

I'm beyond your peripheral vision
so you might want to turn your head
'cause someday you might find you're starving
and eating all of the words you said

I am what i am
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm taking my chances as they come
I am 32 flavors and then some
I'm nobody but I am someone

-Ani DiFranco

Sugar or Spice?

I've been told that I'm a nice person. Some have even said that I'm very nice. I don't say this as either self congratulation or self criticism. Though I have perceived these statements from others as both compliment and critique, I have mostly just come to view them as simply fact. I am nice. There are both better and worse things I could be, I suppose.

I have been desired because I am kind. I have been overlooked because I am sweet. I have at times cultivated, and at others suppressed, my "niceness." Should I be caring, or do I need an edge? Which is more appealing? When is "niceness" an asset, and when is it a liability? These questions have plagued me for most of my conscious existence. Where is the line between "good person" nice and "bland spinster" nice?

I am not saying that I'm never mean. I have been quite mean on several occasions. (Which reminds me, if anyone who reads this knows anyone named Ben Cameron, would you tell him that I'm so sorry? Please beg his forgiveness for me. Seriously--it doesn't even have to be the right Ben Cameron; just do it.) But I am truly never unkind on purpose.

This facet of my personality leads to serious astonishment and bewilderment (and pain, for sure) on my part when someone is NOT nice, and does NOT care about how their behavior affects others. I simply don't understand. It would save me a lot of time and hurt if I could understand this kind of person, but is it possible? Do I really even want to? I don't know that I do.

After spending a year in close proximity to someone who is not nice, I've come to a conclusion. Whether men find "niceness" attractive is irrelevant to me now. I don't mind if people overlook me because I am "too nice." Since I'm prone to extremes, I think I will cling to this side of the spectrum. I'm more comfortable here.

So, to those who have called me nice, thanks for the compliment. To those who prefer edgy, may I introduce you to . . .