How I Met Abraham Lincoln

This is how I met Mr. Lincoln.

"Hey get the EFF out of here, man!"
Only he didn't say "eff."

He was charging across the concrete outside the Magic Mart toward some derelict wearing a flannel shirt and a stocking hat. It was August.

"How many times we gotta tell you, man. Take your shit and get outta here!"

I grimaced and raised my eyebrows in surprise. It was as much about the confrontational words as it was about the guy who was saying them.
"Forgive my language, please. But you gotta do what you gotta do, right?"
On his way back into the store he grinned at me and shrugged after apologizing.
"It's okay," I said, grinning back.
He had on a red t-shirt and some nice looking jeans. He wore shoes that made me second guess his job at the gas station. His outfit looked like something a trendy college kid would wear. It just had that look to it. Its hard to pin point what makes a t-shirt and jeans look trendy, but they can. It helped that his hair was gelled into a tiny faux hawk.
"Innnnteresting." I mused to myself, shutting the car door behind me.

It took me four visits to the Magic Mart to actually determine he wasn't hispanic. I thought from day one that he spoke Spanish. Then one day he chased some guy down in the parking lot for walking out with a beer and not showing ID. All this hwa-ha-kha stuff came out of his mouth to the other cashier and I realized he was actually an Arab of some sort.

"Egypt," he told me. "See this right here?" He held out his wrist.
"That X from a club or something?"
"What?" He threw back his head and laughed. He did that alot. He was a generally happy person. "No, no. It means eternal life. Its a good symbol. A symbol of faith."
"Its a tattoo?"
He laughed again. "Yeah! You don't believe me?"
"It's all faded. It really looks like you went to the club yesterday and tried to wash it off in the sink."
"My mom gave this to me when I was nine years old. Its a tattoo. It's just grown with me. Can you believe that?"
"I guess so."
"In my country, we do that sort of thing. Everybody has these things. Kids, too."

In my country, in my country. Everybody has a country. I guess we Americans just never realize it because we never live anywhere else, and when we do nobody asks us about our country. Our country is television.
The only thing I knew about Egypt was that the pyramids were there.

"I NEED SOME HONEY MUSTARD."
"I can't understand you, sir." The clerk was older. He was also Egyptian. But I didn't know that the first day I walked in. I felt sorry for him.
"HONEY. MUSTARD. FOR. MY. CHICKEN."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir."
"THANK YOUUUUUU."
The customers were always the most magical part of the Magic Mart.

That first day I was taken aback by how ugly they were to the two employees. The older Arab man, and this young guy with a perma-grin and a faux hawk.

"That's a nice car you have," he said that day.
"Thank you."
"You wanna trade? I have a Lexus for you."
"Nah, I like my car."
"I'll show it to you right now if you want."
"I bet you will."
"You don't want my car? Fair trade!"
"Not fair trade. If you want my car, its because yours isn't as nice."
That was the first time I saw him tip his head back and laugh like that. The old guy laughed, too.
"You're good!" He said, handed me my receipt, and smiled again.

Two months passed before he told me his name. It was then that I discovered that the laughing Egyptian faux hawk was really Abraham Lincoln. An American forefather. Who knew?!

But I Love Me More

"Five hundred dollars!?"
"Thats actually less than I thought it was going to be."
"Five hundred dollars..."
"For the cracked wheel, and two new tires. We also have no idea about the rotars yet, but we'll check it out when we get in there."
"Five hundred dollars..."

Outside the service station I went digging through my glove compartment. I was trying to find the receipt from when I had my brakes done almost this exact same time last year. I pulled out all sorts of random things. I found a thick receipt from a prescription that was a year old. I found two plastic packages of "new car" scented Little Trees. I found the ipod radio jack I'd been looking for. And I found three photos of Daniel Castillo.

I knew what they were before I touched them. I squeezed my eyes shut for the tiniest second before looking down at them. They were my favorites from the trip to the beach we took. He looked so happy. He looked like a cute little boy who just happened to have abs and caramel colored skin. His hair was shiny from the sea water, and he was looking at me with his hands up, like "I don't know!?" In the next picture he was grinning, looking down, digging something in the sand. His teeth were small and white between his pink lips. I couldn't see it, but I knew there was a freckle right there on his upper lip. In the last one, he was silhouetted against the setting sun, standing in the ocean, a row of vacation houses behind him. I couldn't see his face very well. He had these crazy sunglasses on we had bought at Walgreens one time. They made him look like a rockstar. Like Daddy Yankee. I flipped back to the "I don't know!?" one.
"I was never good enough for you," I said to his picture.
"I don't know!?" he stared back at me, covered in sea water.
"Thats right, you don't know. You never knew. You had no idea who I was." I suddenly wanted to cry. "And I'm so sorry that you never got to meet me. I'm so sorry I couldn't be what you wanted."

I never had to dress up to be with him. I could come out wearing shorts and a t-shirt that was too small and made me look incredibly fat, and he would tell me how beautiful I was.

Why is life so unfair? Why is insecurity so cruel?

I remembered, suddenly, the way back from the beach. I remembered the resturant we went to, and how he told me that I was flirting with the waiter and to never do that in front of him again. I remembered the next couple weeks, during which he found a number in my cell phone that was unnamed, and how he accused me of cheating and talking to other guys, when in reality, the number was one I had called inquiring about an apartment I had seen for rent. Daniel's family had been trying to move and I had wanted to help.

"I don't understand why you say I can't trust you. I trust you!"
"No, Daniel, you don't. If you did you wouldn't be doing this. And if you don't trust me, you don't really love me."
"No! Its not that way! Why are you so mad? Every time! Every time, you doing this!"
"Because it never changes!"
"I think, en realidad, you do not love me. You always making these little problems, and you don't want to fix this."
"There's nothing to fix! I'm not the one that needs fixing!"
"I know now. I know! You no love me!"
"I do love you, Daniel! I love you so much! ... but I love me more... I have to love me more..."

"Yeah its going to be about five hundred dollars. I'm going to have to call you when the wheel comes in, cause we gotta get it shipped up here. It'll probably come tomorrow."
The mechanic was right in my window.
"Here, I found the receipt from the brakes," I said. I handed it to him from behind Daniel's pictures.
"All right. Lets see what we got here." He took the receipt inside the office, and I sat there, looking at the three pictures, my mind blank.

I wanted to throw them away. But I just couldn't.

Mazatlan's Return: A Decrescendo

I was ticked off because they didn't have mutligrain bagels this morning. The crazy lady from the fourth floor who has bald spots and wears at least six extra pieces of fake hair was trying to tell me that my bagel wasn't getting brown enough. I pulled it out thirty seconds later. It was burnt.
"Stupid bitch," I mumbled. I really was NOT in a good mood.

Then from the kitchen, behind the toaster, came Mazatlan. He winked at me and moved on without staring uncomfortably, illiciting secret smiles from both of us. And I did smile despite myself. Because even though Nestor and I were perfectly happy, I felt like Mazatlan was exactly what he was meant to be. He was a piece of hopeful furniture in my life. He was a little reminder of what I was capable of.

"I don't care about money, Nestor."
"Really? Because it sounds like you do. You are making me feel bad."
"Thats not what I mean. I mean that I will need to make money so that I can prepare my life for you."
"In Costa Rica?"
I grinned and raised my eyebrows. "My only problem with this little equation I have worked out, is being able to work and make enough money to live there."
"You need to learn Spanish, ninita. You will be valuable to everyone if you do. Not just me."
"I'd be valuable if I did that here! Nestor, you have no idea what you are capable of just because you speak two languages. Two WIDELY KNOWN languages."
"You can find work there. It will be easy for you."
"And in time, to come back, all we need to do is say 'Hey, US government! I met this GREAT GUY in Costa Rica!?' and by that time the five year limitations will have run out or been forgotten and you will come back with me and do whatever you want!"
"What about what you said? About children? About a better life?"
"Nestor I want a HAPPY life. And besides, children will be minors. They go wherever I go. I'm an American. As long as you don't pull a Not-Without-My-Daughter, I won't ever have to become Sally Field."
"What?"

I didn't mind so much that Mazatlan had decreased the intensity of his stare. It wasn't even a stare now. It was more like a quick, Bewitched, eyebrow wiggle. It was enough to make me smile and remember that I could live any life I wanted, in a sense. I could be working at a hotel in Managua, or Santo Domingo, or I could teach school in flippin Rockmart, Georgia. But whatever I did, it was going to involve passion. It was going to be real. It was going to be difficult. But aren't all life affirming experiences?

Who the Hell Is This Fat Chick?

I looked down at my new drivers license. A fat girl stared at me from the picture on the left side. Who the hell was this fat chick?

"I told you, I am gonna be honest, and I'm sorry, but you are correct. You are a little fat."

My jaw dropped and I sat there gaping at him. Nestor was laughing at his own candor, so the corners of my mouth went up, too. But I felt so disgusting all of a sudden. We were at a resturant, and I didn't even look up when the waiter came over.

"Here's your chicken salad, ma'am. And here's a black bean salad for you, sir." I suddenly wanted to die before I ate that chicken salad.

Liquids only! my mind chirped at me. Fiber! Nutrients! Exercize! What the hell was I going to do for exercize?! My brain was working out plans for myself in the only way it knew how. Which, of course, was in response to male criticism.

"I can't believe you just said that," I told him. I scooted my food around with the fork.

"I didn't mean to be rude. And I don't want you to be thinking about it too much. But you are. I love you the way you are, though, and its not important to me. But, yes, it is true."

"Oh my god." I laughed like I was surprised and amused at the same time. What I really felt was disappointed. I was sad that it had gotten to this point. I was going to have to do something for real.

"I'm sorry! You are a little puffy!" Nestor was still laughing at these admissions. I think he was laughing at my horror, too.

The next twenty minutes were the quietest lunch date I've ever had. It wasn't because I was eating.

Jameson Hanby

Jameson Hanby had a gimpy leg. It forced him to hobble a bit when he walked, and was a birth defect that had nothing to do with multiple sclerosis or muscular distrophy or any other syndrome involving muscle deterioration. In fact, his slight lisp was merely something he'd developed as an outcast child, nervous and alone in corners and behind trees at his elementary school's playground. He was fair haired and freckled. He wore white tennis shoes and long sleeved shirts. He owned two cats, and the house he shared with his brother reeked of them.

Some kids warm to the idea of being outcast. They flourish in subcultures involving video games and/or black clothing. Jameson, on the other hand, had mastered the subculture of being an asshole. He had developed a mean streak. There were lots of situations in which he would inevitably look silly, and if Jameson was an asshole, people wrote him off as such. They didn't pay as much attention to the fact that his ego might bleed when they treated him differently, or looked at him like a wounded bird.

I first met him through the lens of a camera. He was finishing a Bachelors degree in Mass Communication with an emphasis on Television Production. He spent all the money he ever saved on audio/video equipment, and came up with killer packages for the evening student-run news where I worked. The fact that Jameson didn't have to talk might have had something to do with it. Though when he did talk, he was known to be unpleasantly blunt and snippy.

"I'm not going to tell you again. Move three inches to the left, and stay there."
"Geez. Sorry."

We met filming a package about tornado relief just to the north of Nashville. A whole subdivision had nearly been leveled, and I wanted Jameson to get shots of the Cabbage Patch doll hanging 50 feet above ground from a cedar tree. Jameson wanted to film me walking along side a house with its left side completely cut out. It looked like a doll house.

"You know, I didn't really get to say anything to that Commissioner back there. He didn't let me get a word in edgewise."
"Thats because you wouldn't have had anything important to say anyway." Jameson scoffed. "You ask the questions. The answers are what we want on tape."
"I guess." I had always secretly fantasized about becoming Barbara Walters. Though I was three fourths of the way through with my teaching degree, I sometimes wondered what I could have done with a Mass Comm degree.
"Oh, yeah. That's great." Jameson was crouching, panning around the middle of this cul de sac where one side looked completely untouched.
"Isn't that amazing?" I marvelled.
"Sure." The wind was ruffling his sandy colored hair, and his long, pale fingers steadied the camera as he turned it on its base. He had pale blue eyes. They got smaller and more intense when he was concentrating.
"What are you doing when you get back?"
"Excuse me?" I didn't expect that.
"What are you doing? When we get back to town?"
"Uh. Nothing."
"Do you want to have a drink?"
Jameson? Drinking?
"Sure, I guess."

I didn't intend for him to fall in love with me or anything. Things like that just happen to me. I don't know what it is about me that means anyone should fall in love with me, and I guess I'm being presumptuous to even imply that Jameson was in love with me. Still, after we hung out a few times and flirted after news tapings for around three weeks, Jameson became extremely aggitated to find out that I was interested in someone else.

"Am I not hard enough for you?" We sat on the loading ramp to the tv studio hours after the live broadcast was finished.
"Jameson. Come on."
"God, you girls are all the same! You just flirt around when its convenient for you, and then you leave like nothing ever happened."
"Who said I was leaving? Leaving what? I thought we were friends."
"Don't give me that bullshit. You know as well as I do that's not what this was about."
"Jameson. It could never be about that. We're too different. We're... I mean you're... a virgin, you know, and--"
"Damn it!" He swore and stood up. "Take it! I don't want to say that anymore. I'm sorry I even mentioned it. I--"
"That's not what its about."
"Tha'ts ALL its about! That's all the world is about! Its the only motivation for any important action ever made!"
I smiled a little bit. He could be so dramatic.
"Look," he said, "Next chance I get, we're going to get drunk and we're going to fix this little problem of ours."
"--Oh my god! Jameson, chill out. Its not that big of a deal."
"Yes it is." He sat back down. "You just said it is. You want somebody else who'll GIVE it to you."
"You're such an asshole, you know that?"
"Apparently I'm not enough of one. If I were enough of an asshole, you'd think I didn't care. And then YOU'D care."
His reverse psychology actually made logical sense to me. Sadly.
"Jameson, I'm not sure we can be friends anymore if you're going to be like this."
"God. Screw you, you know. Just screw you."
And he got up, with this awful twisted scowl on his face, and walked off toward his car.

I didn't know what to do with that. And I didn't even end up dating the guy Jameson was so mad about. I kept doing the news and Jameson ignored me like nothing had ever happened between us. It was only then that I began hearing what people said about him. They made jokes about how he was such a douche, and how he was so conceited, and they laughed hysterically from inside the sound booth when he asked out my cutesy blonde co-anchor, probably just to spite me. She had a boyfriend. It made Jameson look like an idiot. He didn't flinch though, he just kept his conversation rolling right along. I admired that. Even when the tech kids were imitating him behind me like he was mentally challenged. I knew it was all an act. I felt like I knew him better than he would have admited to anyone else there. I knew why he had to hide behind all that anger and meanness. Deep down, just like everybody else, Jameson was insecure as hell.

Why is it that virtually every problem known to mankind originates in insecurity. Whole wars have been started because of insecure leaders with agendas of greatness. Is it possible that the entire world is made solely of insecure people constantly digging at each other so that they can feel a little better about the wounds they got from OTHER insecure people? Thats some vicious cycle!

"Don't talk to me again," Jameson replied, after I messaged him online about how it felt to be a video journalist.
I never actually did talk to him again. In fact, within minutes, I had forgotten about him entirely.

The Nature of the Game: How the Cops Stole My ID

Some stories don't even need embellishment to be entertaining. Some can be related simply, flat out, across a lunch table, and something inside the listener can still shift with piqued interest.
This is the story of how a police officer ripped off my drivers license.

"Are you aware that this particular location is frequented by drug users and prostitutes?"
"We're not on drugs," Nestor said, his accent forcing a twitch from the cop's mouth.
"And I am NOT a prostitute!" I almost laughed. I would have, if my heart hadn't been beating so fast.

They made us get out of the car. They made Nestor put his hands behind his head. They separated us, then searched the car. One cop asked me various unusually personal questions. Another cop took Nestor over by the third car that had pulled up. They asked if I was married. They asked how well I knew Nestor. They asked why I was so far from home, gesturing to my school badge from when I taught seventh grade. They may have felt they knew me after they saw that.

"We want you to know that you shouldn't come out here at night. For one, its trespassing. For two, its dangerous. This unit has been working this area because we've come up against a lot of drug usage out here. A lot of crime."
"Oh. My god."
"Yeah, believe it. The last thing we want is for you to be made a victim coming out here. Have some guy pop up at your window holding a gun."
"I will never come here again. You will never SEE me again!"
"All right, ma'am, we're just trying to verify the identity of your boyfriend so we can send you guys on with a warning."

Nestor was talking quickly, but his eyes were directed at me. I could hear the cop answer.
"So whats your last name again? Spell it please."

This terrible feeling started coiling, welling up inside me. I felt panicked all of a sudden. What if they took Nestor away? What if it was my fault! What if me cursing repeatedly at the officer's approach was the last thing he'd ever hear me say? And honestly, I thought of Lavery. I thought of March 24th, 2005. I thought of all the pain and bad poetry and the scab that later formed, and that I continued to pick at in the years that followed.

I made an uncomfortable noise. "Is he saying his name is Jonathan? He goes by Jonathan sometimes." I said.

The cop standing next to me walked over to the one talking to Nestor and they chatted. I gave Nestor an anguished look, and I saw him mouth the words I Love You. Logically I knew that couldn't be true. But I felt like my life was overlapping itself. I felt like I was being swallowed up by the same stupid stuff all over again, so I mouthed back Yo Te Amo Tambien, and smiled weakly.

"Hey, did you hear that?"
"What?"
"The radio, did you catch that?"
"Yeah, lets go."

The cop who was hearing things walked over to me quickly and I noticed suddenly that all the other policemen were backing into their cars and shutting their doors.

"Ma'am, listen, we're going to let you go tonight. You need to go home. But if I were you, I wouldn't trust that guy as far as I could throw him. I don't know who you think he is, but we can't seem to get a straight answer out of him. We got enough ID from him to let you guys go, all right. So drive safely, okay?"
"Okay."

Four police cars backed away from us in a carnival of blue lights. I was still standing there when the last one had gone. Nestor was still, too.
"Oh my god." I said.
"We're alive!"
"I know! I was so worried!"
He came and hugged me, hard. Waves of relief were washing over me.
"I knew you were. I could see it in your face." He kissed me.
"That can NEVER happen again, Nestor. We are so stupid!"
"I'm sorry. It was my idea. I'm so sorry."
I let go of him and opened my car door. "Come on, we've got to get out of here before they decide to come back."
"You're in love with me. I can feel it."
"Oh, shut up."

I only realized later that my drivers license was still missing. There had been at least five policemen running around my car. Two different people had asked me Nestor's name and how to spell it. Another two had searched my car with gloves and flashlights. I couldn't even remember which officer had taken my ID, but I remembered it leaving my hands.

"Maybe they wanted you to feel like me." Nestor joked.
I didn't think so.

My mother wanted to kill me for my lateness. She was getting dressed for work when I came in. She delivered a speech of chastisement for approximately 30 minutes before allowing me to pass out for an hour before work. It was stupid.
I kept remembering that face Nestor made at me while he was waiting for the cops to identify him. We didn't want to be taken from each other. We didn't want to be separated. Not now. Not so soon. Not when things were going so well.

"This is the nature of the game, Querida. This may not be the last time."
"We have to try harder, then. We can't let it happen so easily. We have to know better. We need to live the quiet life. Stop living so loudly."

What happened at Lavery would never happen again. I wanted to have broken that spell. I did not ever want to be interrupted and taken from like that, so unexpectedly. After we were told to leave Lavery I never saw Micah again. I never saw him, and I never quite saw myself the same way, either. Of course, those things had nothing to do with Nestor being deported. But the sting, that same sharp stab in my heart, the wound I thought had healed, started throbbing all over again when I thought about it.

So that's how the cops stole my license.
And that's why I can't drink or run red lights for the foreseeable future.

Get the Girl of Your Dreams: 6 Steps

1. Bring flowers
I don't care if its a silk rose from a gas station that smells like motor oil, the gesture is dying and it will make her feel special. Simply because flowers are not given that often anymore, it will, at the least, seem like you don't just give them to anyone. Once your relationship is established, this can be upped to actually sending flowers to her workplace. This is the best place EVER to receive flowers, because it makes every other girl there green with envy. Don't always pick red roses. Going with a different color, or even a different flower, will make you stand out.

2. Tell Her She's Beautiful/Pretty/Gorgeous/Sexy
Don't overdo it, now. Don't push her into that void called Maybe-I'm-Too-Good-For-Him, but make it just so that she hears it at unexpected times. If she really is beautiful, she probably doesn't think so, or hear it enough. And if she is actually hideous, she needs to hear that she's beautiful, at least, to you.

3. Do the Unexpected
You don't have to "figure her out" to get it right. All women love tiny surprises. I'm not talking about embarassing surprises, I'm talking about romantic surprises. In fact, the whole idea behind "romantic surprises" doesn't really have anything to do with "romance" at all. Its all about preparation, and proving that you think about her when she's not around. Get dinner reservations without being asked. Buy the cd she said she wanted when you went shopping last week. Prepare dinner before she gets there and light a candle in the center of the table. Don't go over the top. One candle will do the trick.

4. Listen... and care about it.
If she's really the girl of your dreams, you should be able to stand her bitching about how obnoxious her coworkers are. You should express concern about the things she is concerned about. You should seriously show that you care and pay extreme detail to her emotions. The art of listening, also, is a dying art. Remember that the average guy will be self-absorbed. You, however, are not average. So don't be an average boyfriend.

5. Be Passionate
Touch her! When you aren't telling her she's beautiful, you can show her. Some mature couples have said that they maintain the spark in their relationship because they can't keep their hands off each other. This does not mean that they grope in public. Yet a simple hand on the small of her back as you are led to your table is important. Don't wait for her to reach for your hand. Grab hers. Slip your fingers through her fingers. Reach across dinner tables. Put your hand on her knee when she's next to you. When kissing her, use your hands and touch the sides of her face. Brush the hair out of her eyes. Smooth it behind her ear. You don't even have to be kissing to do that one. Be soft with her. These displays prove that you are not solely concerned with the inside of your pants. They say you are gentle, and you absolutely adore her.

6. Be Real
You don't have to be smooth to pull this off, kids. In fact, its when you are NOT smooth that proves to her you are sincere. It says that you are trying because of her, not because you do this all the time. Girls want to think that, even if its not true. They want to feel like loving them means you want to do things you wouldn't normally do. Thus, some discomfort, along with sincerity, is a GOOD thing. Its cute. Its sweet. Its important. And it will let her know you're serious.

.................
In Closing:

Do NOT stop doing these things when you are officially together, or when you think you've "got" her, or when you're married. The minute you stop is the minute she stops. This is not a game. This could be the rest of your life. So, if you love her, you won't mind going above and beyond, because you'll be rewarded with that light in her smile every time. Don't ever forget that.

Marriage Story (excerpt 2)

Once upon a time, there was perfect love. A man would only marry the woman he was made for, and a woman only married the man she was made for. And everyone could easily find each other. Because everyone knows that each person is designed expressly with another in mind. We were created to fit togther like halves of a puzzle. Everyone knows that. In this time, a man cared when he hurt his wife's feelings, and a woman understood when to say what. They had children who had perfect childhoods and happy parents, and those children grew up to find their own one-and-only.


This continued for years and years and generations, until one day a certain Eve walked into a bar and met a serpent, dressed in black, who wore a faux hawk and had a lip piercing. The serpent tempted Eve, and she was weak. He seemed to like her so immediately; he wanted her! She had never felt such passion or such power. And in the morning, when Eve woke up she was different. She noticed Adam throwing his dirty clothes on the floor. She noticed the seat was up in the bathroom. And she noticed the sideways look he gave the girl next door when she bent down to get the paper. Eve burnt the toast that morning.
And after twenty eight pieces of burnt toast, Adam couldn't understand why Eve kept nagging about the seat, and the dishes, and the way they never had romantic dinners any more. He couldn't understand why she wanted to go out with him on Saturdays all of a sudden. He couldn't understand about the toast.



Thinking there was no other way, they had a child. Then another. And they couldn't understand why everything was so hard all of a sudden. They didn't mean to scream about it, but they were so unlike their parents, and their friends. They felt so wrong all the time. There wasn't much else they could do but scream, often at one another.


The children, growing up this way, were ostracized because of their unconventional parents. They went into the world trying to find someone to save them from themselves, and to prove to them that they were special. They didn't find their one-and-only's. They were mixed up. Their minds were jumbles of burnt and buttery toast. Instead they found the wrong people. And they had the wrong children that they would not have otherwise had.


And this happened, and happened, and occasionally someone would get it right. Because even in a sea of wrong, God made sure to create for everyone his or her other half. But the serpent had blinded all the people by making them see, long ago in the bar with Eve. And now its harder to find your perfect love than it is to put a camel through the eye of a needle.


Oh, it can be done.
You just have to trust in he who made your Other.
Look long and hard, and through your blindness, you'll see.

The Catch

"Well crap," I said. "Dang it!" I was laughing, but nothing about it was funny. "You know... that's okay. That's okay!" He was watching my face, I could feel it.
"No," he said, "It's not okay."
"Well, what are you gonna do about it, you know. You can't do anything about it now. It's done. You can't change that about yourself. Its like you were saying about tattoos, its immoveable, immutable, unchangeable. I mean, the government will hate you now. They don't forgive that kind of thing like they used to."
"Maybe with 5 years in jail and deportation."
"Thats not what I mean."
He sighed. "I do have a couple of options. I have thought about this. I am not here with any government knowledge."
"What do you mean?"
"Its called fraud."
"Oh."
"So. I could either go back and apply for a work visa as myself, or--"
"--A work visa that they'll never give you because you are young, and male, and able-bodied, and going to steal American women and jobs..."
He laughed at that. "Right, right." I was almost saddened by how well I knew this drill. "Or! The only other thing," he said next, "is if I get married."

.................
When I was a little girl, there was a movie called Green Card with Gerard Depardieu and Andie MacDowell. My mom loved it and thought it was the cutest thing, so I saw it more than once. The movie came out when I was five years old, but I was seven by the time my mother was explaining to me from the sofa in our orange carpeted living room that a green card was something that foreign people got, sometimes through marriage, when they wanted to be citizens in the United States. I didn't understand why that had to be so hard. Why have hoops to jump through if people were just people no matter where they were? The plot involved a French guy who had to work together with an American girl to invent this long, loving relationship between them so that they could pass the series of interviews conducted by Immigration. By the end of the movie, they actually did fall in love and get married for real. I was fascinated. I sipped root beer, my legs crossed inside my oversized Carebear shirt, and imagined a frenchman with a big nose and an arrogant accent depending on me to keep them here.
So much can change in twenty years. Immigration policies are not what they were.
And I still think about this movie sometimes when someone says the kind of things that Nestor was saying.
.................

"If you get married in your country, right?"
"Yes. In my country. If I marry an American girl in my country, then I can come to the US as her husband."
"Esposo."
The word flew off the tip of my tongue. It had been sitting there since 4 months ago and now flew out with a quickness like it hadn't sat in storage for over 120 days at all.
"Yes," he said, "como su esposo." And he smiled.
"But she'd have to separate from you for months at a time waiting on the visa here in the states."
"Yeah, I don't know. I told myself I'd never do that. If I am gonna love somebody then I will never be apart from them like that. I won't hurt them with my distance."

I sat and thought about it for a second. I could turn back now if I wanted. I could say I didn't want to try. Hadn't I just said that to sushi boy? Okay, I told myself, sushi boy had other issues regarding inexpereince and unfounded enthusiasm. This situation was different. Its just that its not 1990 any more. There is no relationship that will fix what the government now sees as legal suicide. Still, I couldn't let this pass. I felt that constant and intrinsic refusal to let it go.

"Its not like I don't understand what it means," I said. "I am aware of the pitfalls. I am aware of the fact that you could go to the store to pick up milk and eggs and never make it back home."
"Home with you."
I cracked a grin. "Yes, home with me."
He smiled, too, and reached around, pulling me into his shoulder. "Its okay. Its up to you. It was my problem six years ago, so now I feel the consequences."
"No, I completely understand why people do it. I really do. I just wish it were something fixable. You know?
"Yes. I know."

Here was the catch. Here was the one big problem that made him too good to be true. I had known it would be there, and it was. Staring me in the face, larger than Gerard Depardieu's nose.

"What a romantic movie," my mom used to say. "Accents can be so attractive. Don't you think, honey?"
"Yup!" came my answer, my upper lip covered in root beer foam.

What's the Catch?

One thing in this world I know: when something seems to good to be true, it usually is.
Still, I was stumped on this one. What was the catch!? I couldn't find the flaw in this rare and mystical equation of a man I had met. As an optimist trapped in the body of a pessimist, I wanted to say words like "fate" and "God" and "magic," but my knowing mouth couldn't push out the sounds.

When we were sitting at the resturant, my shoe fell off and he bent over to pick it up. He took my ankle in his hand and placed the shoe on my foot like I was Cinderella. Thats the exact thought that went through my mind.

Honestly, guys that are attractive, not even hot like this one, just simply attractive, are usually too aware by the age of 26 to know any better than to taketaketake. Nobody wants to give anymore. They see something they like and its like they seriously think it is YOUR privilege to be sitting in the same room, the same car, the same table with them.

"So I brought you something. I hope you like energy drinks. Oh, and flowers. I hope you like flowers."

In the real world, outside of this boy wonder, I was accustomed to doing lots of legwork. I was used to working hard to get what I wanted, and sometimes working even harder to keep it there. But this was different. So far, at least. This was me slowing myself down long enough to remember that I was worth all those things. I was worth flowers, and candles, and wine under starry skies. Despite the cliches, it was... perfectly romantic. And believe it or not, I felt releif, in a way, to know that I still deserved those things.

"All I want to do is make a life. I want to buy a house. I want to have a family. I want to be a good father to my children."

People don't say things like that anymore. They don't think ahead. They don't plan for the things in life that will clearly end up happening. Every word that came out of his mouth seemed to pop with this energy I hadn't ever felt before. It was strange. It was like looking down a long dark hole and seeing exactly what you want on the other side of the world, then suddenly looking up and realizing it was standing right in front of you.
Was it here? Was this really it?

"I wish you didn't have to go. But I know you must work. Besides, we have our whole lives."

So seriously, kids. What's the catch?

Remember (Excerpt 1)

"I have seen what you are, what you were, and what you will be. I love you. Even the things you think no one knows, I know them. And I love you. No matter what you think of yourself. No matter what you think I'm thinking. My opinions are unwavering. They are truth. And you are the most beautiful thing in the world."
"Don't be silly. You don't know me like you think you do. And you can't possibly love me."
"But I do. Of course I do. Our souls were born at the same time, side by side. We have in fact wandered the expanses of the world to find each other, our spirits like planets in rotation around a sun, and here we are. Did you not look for me like I looked for you?"
"How do you know that. You don't know that. What the hell are you talking about?!"
"I DO know that. It was written that we are all made, two pieces of the same thing. You were taken from me, and I from you. We were lost from each other, and here we are found."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't worry about it. Its hard to explain."

Deep down something small was telling me he was right. I know it sounds crazy. I know HE sounds crazy. But I could feel my strength and my mind and maybe even my heart so clearly. I was not confused. I could see everything in more definition than ever before. Could he really be right? Was it all because HE sat inches from me, his hand centimeters away from mine on the wooden slats of the bench. My very skin tingled all over and urged me to touch him.

"Do you know how hard it is for me not to?"
I raised my eyes to his. They were green, just like mine.
"To what?"
"To touch you."
"Who said anything about touching?"
"I can feel that you want to."
I laughed suddenly and uneasily. His immediate smiling response was adorable.
"You can FEEL me?" I laughed. "Thats hilarious. What is this?" He looked back at me, unblinking. "You know what? You are crazy-bizarre, my friend. What the hell..."
"Stop covering yourself with that laughter. I know you. I told you."
I stopped smiling toward the bus stop on the corner and suddenly felt it. He knew me. He knew me somehow. ... My face changed, and I refused to admit it. "I have no idea who you are at all."
"But you know that I know you. You know I do. And you know me too, you know. You just need to remember."
"Remember what?" I spit out the words. "What am I supposed to remember that hasn't even happened. There isn't anything to remember. I've never met you before now."
"There are things you don't know, I guess." He folded his hands in his lap, staring at them when he spoke.
"And you do? You know these things?"
"I do," he said, inching his hand closer to mine. "I remember."

Parts of the Cat Were Missing

As I was driving away from some of the slummiest apartments I'd ever seen, I started crying because this stupid cat. It was running around in the parking lot with only half a tail. For some reason, the bachata coming through my speakers didn't help my mood, and I imagined the cat shrieking in pain after realizing that it had lost a good four inches. I imagined it hiding under something, shaking, scared, alone and bleeding. Now it strutted across the parking lot in front of my car without even running. It wasn't afraid of me, or the sound it might make if it crunched itself under my tires. It wasn't afraid of anything. It made me so sad that I started crying right there in the car, not knowing why.

Two days later, sushi boy texted my phone at six in the morning to tell me that he wished I loved him like he loved me.
Upon reading this ridiculously forward and disappointing, but unfortunately typical text message, I sighed, sagged against the bathroom wall, and texted back "You don't know me. You think you do, but you don't."

I didn't even have the energy to deal with it. Long ago I would have tried very hard to match his fervor, "giving it a whirl" like the kid from Home Alone in the grocery check out line. Not now. I don't have the time or the patience for that. Frankly I've just lost any patience I ever had. I don't want a reincarnation of things past. In the end, I know it won't matter how much he says he loves me when he doesn't know me. There will be a rift between us. A divide he can't cross, and that I'm not willing to travel. So hell no, I wasn't about to work myself up for that. I wasn't in the mood to train somebody up on myself and American culture. Or to teach them English. Or to be their American-Girl advocate. It made me sick to think of slumming through the muck of it all. Overcoming the same insecurities, the same "sacrifices," the same idealistic baloney.

"This will not work between us." I texted.
It won't, I knew. I can't give you a chance, sushi boy. I'm not that strong anymore.

Halfway down the street past Altamont, where I saw the cat, I stopped crying. That poor cat had lived through some traumatic stuff, you know. And it was okay. It was living and breathing and it was just fine. Sure there was a scar, and parts of the cat were indeed missing. But it was okay. Somebody probably loved it a lot. It hadn't been starving. I bet lots of people loved that cat. I bet they fed it tuna and cans of cat food out on their patios.
I bet the tail had been an accident that didn't involve malice.
I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe someone had picked it up when it was all bleeding and scared and saved it. I pictured that part in my head and held it there.
I sniffed and changed out my bachata cd for my french rap mix. I felt a little better.

Return to Sender

"You got a package from Shevan today."
I was leaving Casa Fiesta with my mom and brother. The sun was hot, the twilight air chokingly thick with humidity.
"Oh god, you're kidding. Please say you're kidding." We had to walk up a hill to get back to our car, and the huff and puff of our ascent made my outburst at Lens admission that much more dramatic.
"It's one of those big envelopes with bubble wrap inside. There's this lumpy thing in the middle. I think its a ring."
Len kept staring at the asphalt as we neared the top of the hill.
"Len, come on. It can't be a ring." My mom said. "He wouldn't send her a ring in the mail." She laughed like it was nothing, and unlocked the family car, a golden 99' Buick Regal.
"I wonder whats in it..." I said.
"Why does he keep doing this? Its been like four years since you last saw him, right?"
In fact, only three years had passed. But three years was more than necessary for most guys to get the picture. When someone ignores you that long, especially after cursing at you to stay the hell away and let it go, most people would take the hint and move on. Not Shevan.
I affectionately refered to him as my stalker.
"I told him I was married last time. He called me Sweetie before I hung up on his face," I said. Len had taken the front seat leaving me to stretch my legs out across the back. I fanned in the stuffy heat.
"He must have mental problems," Len said from the front. "He's probably retarded."
"Well if he comes by the house again, I'm not answering the door."

Len had answered the phone one day when we didn't realize how bad it was. A husky voice had asked for me and Len had replied, like normal, that I wasn't there. The voice said "okay I'll call back later", and never did. What the voice did, was to come to our house the next week and knock on the door. Because the voice belonged to Shevan. And the voice had gone all the way through the phone book, calling every addressed listing of our last name before reaching Len. Shevan wanted to see me. My mother had answered the door and said I didn't live there. Which was true, I lived in an apartment complex two miles away, but Shevan didn't know that. My mom thought it was creepy. She always looks before she answers the door now.

*****************
I met Shevan in college.
It was only a year or so after Zyan had left for the military, and I still remembered all my Kurdish words. When Shevan showed up at an orientation for Dorm Desk Assistants, I made a point to follow him out of the lobby.
"Hey, are you Kurdish?"
"...Yes." He turned abruptly to face me. It was a strange question to ask someone you don't know. "Are you Kurdish, too?"
"Oh, no. I just knew some people from there. In high school." I wouldn't mention Zyan. In fact, I never mentioned him at all. It was years and years later before I found out they knew each other.
A conversation ensued whereby we found that we were both studying History, we both grew up in the same neighborhood, and we both had lofty ideas regarding politics and religion.

I never settled down long enough to spend very much time with him. After exchanging numbers that first day we met, we had lunch a few times, walked around campus once or twice, and shared a class that I later dropped. Something about Shevan seemed off to me. I couldn't figure out what it was. He would take these high level courses and talk about getting a PhD. He had a great GPA, but when he opened his mouth it was like common sense was not there. I couldn't decide if it was his culture talking, or a learning disability. Whatever it was, it didn't seem normal.

One day, about a year or so after we had met, I invited him out with a group of my friends. We hung out, had some appetizers, then came back to my friend Shana's apartment and watched bad tv until I had to go home.

Almost as an afterthought outside my car, where he had walked me, I kissed him goodnight. During this action, I surmised several things. 1) He had horrible breath. 2) He didn't know how to kiss at all. 3) He was overly excited about kissing me in general. Inevitably the odds were not on his side. I mean, I was not about to waste any more time trying to placate him with consolation prizes when I had no intention of being with him. I cut straight to the chase and over the next few days I ignored all four of his calls.

"Um, you know that guy that went to dinner with us the other night?"
"Yeah." Shana called me on my way home from work one day.
"Well, he kinda came by my apartment. He said he was worried about you."
"Shevan? Why would he come to your apartment?"
"I think he was upset you didn't answer his calls."
"Oh god. I guess I have to call him now."
"Yeah, because I don't want weirdos knocking on my door. I told him you were probably ignoring him."
"Well gee, thanks, Shana. Now he's going to be mad when I call, too."

He wasn't. He was delighted to hear from me. Like always. I downplayed the goodnight kiss and tried to keep a safe distance.

Over the next two years Shevan went into the military as a contractor, begged me to "wait for him," told me he would change anything and everything about himself if only I'd be with him, and proposed marriage to me more than once via international text message. Yeah. From Iraq.
*****************

"So what do you think is in there?" Len was feeling up the lumpy envelope on our kitchen counter.
"Its probably something stupid."
"What if its a bomb?" Len widened his eyes and grinned. He was the best at exaggeration.
"They don't make bombs that small."
"How do you know? Maybe they do in Khazakstan or Romania or whatever."
"Kurdistan."
"Maybe they've harnessed the technology to make microchip bombs and they're just waiting to play a huge joke on American PC users."
"Shut up, Len."
I really wanted to open that package. Len put it back on the counter and slouched out of the kitchen.
"Just put Return to Sender on it and put it back in the mail," he said over his shoulder. "I don't wanna have to worry about his weird ass showing up on the porch again."
I stared at the envelope on the counter before picking it up and running my fingers over the length of the little protrusion near the bottom left corner. It felt like there was nothing in there but this little oddly shaped thing.
"I bet it's a keychain!" I yelled toward Len at the back of the house.
In response, I heard his X-Box make its ritual noises and power on.
Before I could think too hard, I put it back on the counter and left the room, too.

How many lives could I have lived before this day? How many choices could I have made that would have turned me into something completely different than I am now? All I would have had to do is say one tiny word and I could have been in Germany, in France, in Amsterdam, in Dubai with Shevan Ibrahim. And that was only one life I could have had. I could have just decided to get along with Miguel Morales. I'd be married and maybe have brown children with green eyes. I could have tried harder with Russ when I was first in college at Lavery. I could have been a Lavery success story, a rich Brentwood wife.
But I didn't do these things. I wouldn't settle. I wouldn't compromise. I don't even remember sometimes what it was I was having to compromise on, but if you want the basics, I wasn't READY. Besides, in Shevan's case, I'll never be "ready" to marry a lunatic.

The package came back a week later. My mother had boldly printed RETURN TO SENDER on it in sharpe marker and I sighed when I opened the mailbox and saw it all bent up and stuffed back inside.

"Should we put it in there again? I really don't want him to think you care." My mom said. "You don't care, do you?"
"Who, me? Are you kidding?" I felt the lump inside the bubble wrap again.
"I guess I'll take it to work with me tomorrow and put it in the mail there."
"Oh... This is ridiculous." On impulse, I ripped open the envelope at its top.
"Wait for me!!!" Len busted out of his room. How he heard me open that envelope I'll never know. "I wanna see!"
I reached in, pulling out first a typed letter on a single sheet of print paper, and then a shiny blue keychain of the Eifel Tower.
"I told you it was a keychain."
"Oh." Len looked at it for a few seconds before turning back around toward his room. "That was anticlimactic."

Shevan's letter detailed the last year and half during which time he had apparently been in Paris, Rome, Naples, Dubai, the Netherlands, and last but not least, a VA hospital for PTSD treatment. He said he'd lost some military friends in Iraq and had some "close calls" himself. I suddenly remembered him telling me, during one of those unwanted international calls, that he'd had shrapnel removed from the whole right side of his body, sparing his face.

I would love to talk to you. To hear your voice. We don't have to get married; I just want to be your friend. I want to talk to you as friends do. I rolled my eyes reading it. I'm sorry I tried to get in touch with you so many times and so many different ways, but you know what they say. When you tell someone you don't want to see them anymore, your girlfriends will tell you, "If he loves you, he will find you no matter what." That is how I feel. But I understand now. Please take my phone number and call me if you want to talk.

"Hell no," I said to piece of paper in my hands.
"I really wish you hadn't opened it," my mother said from the living room.
"Oh don't worry about it." But I knew she would just a little.

Even though there are many lives I could be living in some parallel universe somewhere, being with Shevan Ibrahim, stalker extraordinaire, would never be one of them. Besides, its not good to hang on to the things you have cast off, or the things that have cast you off. Its better to forge ahead and quit turning around to look back at the things you passed.

Because seriously, if you do that in a moving car, you can get super motion sickness. I mean, I do, anyway.

Must... Resist...

Mazatlan is on to me in the caf.

At 5 minutes until the close of breakfast service, I waltz in and make a beeline for the bagels. The last 12 grain is still sitting where I put it yesterday at the back of the bottom left cubby hole. I grab it and start toasting. Thats when I have to stand there and rock back and forth on my heels for 240 seconds.

I do that, while listening to the cashier discuss his sour stomach with some creepy lady from accounting who always manages to look homeless. She wears these big flanel coats that look like blankets. I know she has a red one and a green one. Why would anyone buy an item like that in more than one color? Why would anyone buy an item like that at all???

My bagel pops up and interrupts my inner monologue.

As I drop it quickly into a little paper basket like a Hot Potato, I look up and see Mazatlan coming through the center of the caf and staring right at me. He's grinning a little bit and he knows exactly what he's doing. He knows I've been looking at him and now he's gonna look at me, too. This is the kind of stare that says "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Nothing," comes my inaudible answer, as I smile back warmly, but politely, and shuffle over to the cashier. I have this warm tingly feeling like I've either just escaped something or started something else. He is laughing with the head cook when I turn around to grab a napkin. He glances at me. Everything about him seems warm.

I start walking faster toward the exit, through the dining area, so the kitchen can't see me.
I don't need to say anything to him. I know all about him before he even opens his mouth. The "romantic high point" of working in a place like this is so you can meet eligible bachelors who have cars and money, not cafeteria workers. Thats the last thing I need.

Still, though. Must... resist... asking... for real name...

Celibacy in the Suburbs

When you're 25, what's the last thing you want to be reminded of?

"I think the last time we sealed the driveway, you were both in college." My mom had taken Len and I to lunch since we'd spent the entire morning slaving away with brushes trying to evenly coat our driveway with tar scented black goo. "You were in college, thats right. Because nobody could help me but your grandparents. We spent two days breaking our backs. Thank goodness you guys were here this time."
I swirled a piece of bread around in the plate of olive oil at our table. "I must not have been living at home then. I don't remember anything about that."
"Yeah," Len said, "Me neither."
The only sealing-the-driveway episodes of my life that I recalled were from when my dad had lived with us. It was like he couldn't complete any household project without getting really angry, really sweaty, and driving everyone away from him. Oh, and possibly chucking a few curses we didn't often hear in there as well. Sealing the driveway had been long and hot, but it hadn't been anything I'd whip out my Sailor's Thesaurus of Colorful Metaphors for.
"Well, I guess if we did it around four or five years ago, we won't have to do it for another four or five years from now!" Mom chirped like a little bird when she was happy. She also smoothed over situations that way. She might have been doing that at lunch too, because Len was looking particularly cranky. He kept closing his eyes like he didn't want to be there. Then again, Len did that alot. He would probably have rather been playing X-Box games than sealing the driveway or even eating with us. Len was weird for being 21.
"Hey, honey!" Mom turned to me. "You know, the next time we seal the driveway-- you'll be thirty!"

Is it really that bad to be 25 and have no hope of living the life you thought you'd live?

"What do you want to be when you grow up?: An archaeologist."

I think archaeologist was the biggest word I could spell at nine. I was proud of it. I liked dinosaurs. So I wrote down archaeologist and had my fourth grade teacher come over to check my spelling not because I needed my spelling checked, but because I knew I'd spelled it correctly and wanted her to know. From there I changed my "career path" from archaeology to writer, to actor, back to writer, then to English teacher, then to ESL teacher, and now to... young professional? I don't know what I am.

"Maybe somebody will snatch you up and marry you, and you won't have to worry what you're gonna be anymore."

My grandma is hilarious. But she's not exactly this-century.
The truth is, I am the exact opposite of Sex and the City. My life is Celibacy in the Suburbs. In fact, there's nothing wrong with Celibacy in the Suburbs. The only thing is that I kinda wish I could claim more. Sometimes, grandma's right. I wish some hot soccer player like Sergio Ramos would scoop me up out of bored suburbia and keep me from having to make decisions. The only decision I'd have to make is to do his intense amount of laundry (you know, cuz he gets all sweaty) and that'd be that.
But you know, I don't want that for myself. The truth is that I need to scoop myself up. I need to reclaim all the life I have to live. And that doesn't mean I should become Sex and the City as opposed to Celibacy in the Suburbs. That means I need to have enough faith in myself to take a leap and DO something.

"Are you sure you're American?"
I was calling Copenhagen. The city. In Denmark. Yes, that one. Never mind why.
"I've been here my entire life," I said. I made a right turn out of the drive to the lookout.
"And you never wanted to go somewhere else?"
"My mother would tell you that she doesn't have to leave the country to know she's in the best possible place."
"But you're not like that." He kept beginning his sentences with conjunctions.
"Nope. I'm not. I never have been." I laughed to myself. "I've always had to try everything. I've gotten in lots of trouble because of it, but that's the way I am."
"You should get your passport at least. Get yourself ready."
"Ready for what? I'm not leaving unless somebody goes with me. And who's gonna go with me anyway."
"You don't understand. In Europe-- oh, you would love Europe. In Europe people don't look at you with bad intentions. They look at you because you're there. Lots of girls are beautiful in Europe you would fit right in and you don't even know it." I doubted that. Both parts.
"Well, thanks. But you don't know how short I am. Or the fact that I'm not right in places."
"You're right all over I'm sure. Just save your money. Then go somewhere cool."
"I should." I considered this. I appreciated the fact that he wasn't telling me to go to Denmark. I did want my passport.
"Canada would be inexpensive. It would be different."
"New York would be different, though. Its in the US and I've never even seen it."
"Europe should be your aim. Try Spain. Its so perfect."
"I could hunt down Sergio Ramos..."
"You could drink wine on the streets..."
"Yeah..." I pictured dark hair and dark eyes with a strong bone structure and impeccable fashion taste.
"I just told myself one day," he said, "I can't live here and work until I die. I want to live my life. The time here is short. And to be on this planet and not see what it is capable of, to not see what YOU are capable of... is sad."

Thats when I realized I had been driving around aimlessly and was going to have to go way out of my way to get back home.
I decided I was going to save money. I would take advantage of living at home and save it all. No matter how cranky Len was. No matter how poorly I could spell my own profession, or even define it. Man or no man. I might have moved home because Daniel Castillo didn't like my neighbors saying hi to me, or the fact that I was young and unmarried and living alone, but I was sure as hell going to use this time at home to save money and eventually be young and unmarried and hanging out abroad!

I almost ran over the three empty containers of tar-scented goo before remembering that I had to park on the grass. By the time the driveway is sealed again, I thought to myself, I want to be more than Celibate in the Suburbs. I want to have scooped myself up and carried myself away. I want to know what myself and the world can do for each other.

10 Reasons to Watch Soccer

1) Fernando Torres...

2) Sergio Ramos...
3) Cristiano Ronaldo... (even tho he's a JERK!)

4) Guillermo Ochoa...

5) Javier Hernandez, aka Chicharito...6) Luis Suarez...

7) Lionel Messi... Not that he's hot, but he is the BOMB...

8) Roque Santa Cruz...9) Kaka...10) Rafael Nadal...

Well, he did play soccer. But inevitably chose tennis. Because he's the shizz at it. And no, Landon Donovan does not make the list.

Also: Sorry to all the websites from which I jacked these photos.

SICK Quote of the Day

"I don't want anyone else to realize how amazing you are."

Ladies: Please. Although your heart may skip a beat, this is the sign from hell that says you are about to start dating a controlling, mistrustful freak of nature.

Gentlemen: If this sounds like you, adjust your trust-o-meter so that you can acknowledge the fact that such an amazing lady is probably unmistakeable in the world, and that many will attempt to engage her in conversation. But if she loves you enough, she will pledge her undying love to you. Thus, based on this progression, the above sentiment is unnecessary, uncalled for, excessive, redundant, and superfluous. It is completely void. In fact, as indicated by the above forewarning to my lady friends, it will throw up a red flag that will make you the object of scrutiny for the entire remainder of your relationship, which, undoubtedly, there will only be remainders of, because, as indicated by your sentiment, YOU ARE TOO INSECURE TO FUNCTION.
My advice to you? Go home, grow some balls, and come back when you can handle a real woman.

I Dated John Mayer

"I was made to believe I'd never love somebody else," he said. "I made a plan to stay a man who can only love himself."

"Right." I said. We were standing in my kitchen. "And I came busting in all roses and smiles and soft hair. I went to your soccer games. Your family loved me. I bought everybody Christmas presents they would never buy for themselves. I cooked three course meals and casseroles. Like this one." I was just about to put a potato casserole in the oven.

He said, "But half of my heart's got a real good imagination. And half of my heart's got you."

And I said, still mixing the casserole, "Hold up now. So you're all thinking too much, huh? Well I'll show you. You do have me. You'll never lose me. Stop thinking that way and just trust me. I want all of your heart."

He said, "Half of my heart would marry you in a second and half of my heart knows I'll never love anything."

And so I pushed the casserole in the oven, slammed the door, and said, "Dang it! Every day its back and forth like this. You just have to trust me. I don't know what I did to keep you from giving your whole heart to me, but just let me prove this to you. I'm all here. I'm all in."

But he said, "I know. Your faith is strong. But I can only fall short for so long. Still I can't stop loving you. I can't stop loving you. With half of my heart."

And I'm like, "John. Seriously. What am I supposed to do with that?" I start moving around the kitchen, cleaning up the casserole mess. "So, like, what do you want? You want to leave me?"

And thats when he starts saying "Half of my heart" over and over and over again and I'm like, well, this sucks, he's a broken record.

Then he goes silent, disappears, and I try not to cry leaning against the sink with a fist full of dirty paper towels.