Rough night

I’ve gone to the bathroom a number of times today just to see if I can look at myself without crying.

I can’t.

The longest short-sleeve shirt I have still reveals two bruises on my right arm in the shape of the Dakotas. My left arm is worse. It’s a mix of horrendous shades--which Cameron always said should never be mixed together--that starts above my elbow and extends to the back of my shoulder.

There’s a lump on the back of my head near my neck where he punched repeatedly, and my back is littered with large and small black and blue marks.

My neck showed red fingerprints last night where he choked me, but they’ve since faded.

I suppose all the signs were there. But because he never hit me, I thought he never would.

I’ve never been more wrong.

Last night, every abusive, degrading word he ever spoke to me was channeled into bruises and bumps all over my body. From start to finish, it was only the length of a car ride from Carnegie to Mount Lebanon, but while he was hitting me I remember feeling like he’d never stop.

I definitely fought back.

But as he sits today without any badge of violence, I’m decorated from the neck down in shades of purple, cranberry and gray. It hurts to type, to sit upright, to breathe.

And I’m angry. Devastated. Scared--not that he’ll hurt me again, but whether or not I’ll get past this easily. Annoyed--because, as bad as it sounds, I just don’t have time for domestic violence this week. Relieved--as it seems for every bad guy, there’s one good one.

Thank you, Josh.

It’s funny, you know. I spent an entry or two hinting around that I couldn’t be with someone like Josh because he wants older things, more mature things, than I do. Maybe he’s a little too together for me, a little too good.

But it’s that kind of mature, good guy who you can call to pick you up from a bad situation. You can hand your cell phone over to a cop and know he won’t think differently of you as the officer tells him what happened.

He got there to pick me up as fast as he could, and when he did show up, he wasn’t weird. I wasn’t in the car for a second before I had my head in my hands crying, begging “Please just don’t look at me right now. My face is full of violence and mascara.”

“If that’s what you want, then I won’t look at you,” he said. “What DO you want?”

“I just want to be driven around with the windows down until the makeup dries on my face and I can’t feel the places where he punched me,” I said. “Think you can make that happen?”

“I have a full tank of gas, and if that runs out, I’ll buy more,” he said.

“How are you like this?” I said.

“Like what?” he said.

“So good all the time. Doesn’t it ever exhaust you to constantly be what everyone else needs?” I said.

“I don’t think of it that way. I’m not exhausted. I’m happy,” he said.

That illogically led me into:

“Yeah? Well right now I’m needy, and right now I need to do this,” I said, as I leaned over the console to rest my head on his shoulder.

He just picked up the shirt from the dry cleaners that morning. It was perfectly clean, starched and ironed, and he said it was perfectly OK if I cried mascara all over it.

“See that road there? It takes you to that park I told you about,” he said. “I used to live in that house there with a few buddies while I was in college. This was all covered during the flood.”

“I bet you tried to rescue everyone during the flood, didn’t you?” I said sarcastically.

“What pisses you off more right now? That you asked for help or that I’m seeing you cry?” he said softly.

Then we just drove on every road that leads into and out of Carnegie while I came to my senses. I dropped my attitude and decided it was OK to make myself vulnerable in that moment. It was OK to be needy. It was OK to just rest on his shoulder and listen to him give me a history lesson on the town we live in.

And I did get to see some great views.

“Josh, how do you drive a stick? Teach me,” I said.

There wasn’t much of a lesson. He just mentioned what gears are used in what situation and put his hand over mine on the shift.

We drove like that the rest of the way with him squeezing my hand as he shifted. Cute indeed.

And I thanked God that, while I was in the same space with a guy earlier who respected me so little he hurt me enough to attract nine police officers, there was a man with me later who respected me so much he was afraid of shifting in case he’d hurt my hand.

After traveling along what seemed like every road in Carnegie without the radio on--which is really unusual in my life-- and I yawned 80 times, he said, “You know, even if we go home, that doesn’t mean I have to leave. I can stay until you’re ready to be alone.”

This came from the same person I previously dismissed because he didn’t make me chase him enough or lure me with some fleeting, emotionless proposition. The guy I had been chasing hasn’t bothered to find out if I’m even OK.

“I can handle that,” I said.

We went inside. I paid the baby-sitter and sent her home. I couldn’t kiss Cienna good night though. I tried, but I didn’t want my face to touch her. And that made me cry. And when I cried I just wanted to be in comfy pajamas under warm blankets.

I changed my clothes, washed my face and walked into the living room looking as I never have in front of a guy I’m interested in.

But it was OK.

He sat up and I rested my head on his legs, attempting to stretch out on the couch only to end up in a ball. We started talking about his grandfather, and I became inspired to make a fort of pillows and blankets on the floor.

The floor was much better, and we cuddled and talked until 5 a.m. when I started to fall asleep because the sun was finally coming out. He got up and said he’d pick Cienna and me up in the morning. And before he left, he tucked me in and said he’d lock the door on his way out.

He even set my alarm just so I wouldn’t have to move.

This is the shit that counts. It’s not who creates the chase or best challenge. What the fuck was wrong with me?

Morning came entirely too soon, and everything hurt worse when I woke up--such is the case the day after anything bad. It kind of felt the way things feel when a loved one dies. The morning after confirms that they’re really gone, it really happened, and you can’t go back. It’s just gone.

I talked to Maria. I talked to Bill. I got a shower. I bathed Cienna. I somehow made it out of the house in time to make Josh only 15 minutes late for work.

But in the mix of everything last night, we left the carseat in my car, so Cienna and I had to get belted together this morning in Josh’s car. Cienna and Josh have met before, and they’re always charmed by each other. Today, though, she was laying it on thick. She counted to four twice for him and blew many kisses his way...even though we were only in the passenger seat.

Of course he had to show off and reveal that there was yet another way into Mt. Lebanon from Carnegie that I didn’t know about.

During the drive, I said, “So I bet this is the most bizarre 12 hours you’ve had in a long time.”

“It’s been different,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ll try to get beat up much earlier next time,” I said.

I left his car for mine, and the minute I sat in the driver’s seat and had to readjust the side mirrors to fit me, I cried. Everything was as it was the night before. Messy, broken, a little bloody.

So I listened to Howard Stern, rolled down the windows and just started moving.

I got to work to many “Are you OK?” emails from my friend Sue who was there for the beginning of last night and was questioned by the police. Then text messages came through from Josh, “Hows ur day going so far?”

“Well, nobody’s kicked my ass yet. So off to a good start.”

Then my friend Glenn brought over a CD for me. I’m not sure he even knows what happened, but he knew something did. It was not a mix. It was one song. “The Scientist” by Coldplay. One of my favorites.

But the thing about that song is it can make me cry even when nothing is wrong. Two seconds into it--literally--and I was sobbing in the bathroom.

“I love that song, Glenn, but it kills me. Know what I mean?” I wrote to him in an email.

“Yup...I do. But you need to let it out,” he replied.

He’s another good guy.

Maybe for every bad one, there are two good ones.

The day went on, full of pain, and I tried to walk it off. I tried to avoid “The Scientist” but couldn’t because it’s so bittersweet. And I can’t avoid anything bittersweet, especially if it makes me cry my eyes out.

Nobody really bothered me at work. I went to the bathroom to cry when I needed to. I went for walks to dry my eyes. I allowed myself to be upset about an upsetting event.

And then I allowed myself to call Mary Beth, which I hate to do when I have bad news. She’s so good that I hate to tell her anything bad. I asked for her help on Saturday, and of course she’ll be at my house first thing that morning.

My work day is ending now, and I need to pick up Cienna and go have an x-ray for the bump on the back of my head that may be causing other problems. I also have to have pictures taken of my bruises which have now formed.

Cienna and I will get home eventually, and when we do, Josh said he’d come back again if I need him to.

“I’m seriously just a block away. And I can stay away or I can come over. And if I come over, we can sit on opposite ends of the couch or lay next to each other. We can talk or say nothing at all...” he said.

“Stop. I get it. Maybe I’ll call you, but first I’m taking the longest bubble bath in the history of the world,” I said. “I’m going to be OK, you know?”

“You already are,” he said.

Bill

I miss Bill like crazy.

We haven’t trained together in two weeks. I was unavailable for a weekend, he was at a competition in Florida for a weekend, and the stand-in just hasn’t done the trick.

I’ve even had ice cream. Twice. Chocolate inside of chocolate kind of ice cream. I’m typically a vanilla ice cream kinda girl.

His fill-in is named Jason, a level five trainer who is really hot in a white t-shirt and jeans. We have a very odd dynamic and it’s a long story why. I’m not telling that story. But it’s difficult for me to focus in front of him. Neither of us can really keep a straight face.

Bill is a level four trainer and a wonderful guy. He’s married to a former Miss Fitness Universe who is out competing again after just four months of giving birth to their son Joey. He’s a kickboxer also and runs his own ultimate fighting-type school. His mom raised him and his brother all on her own, and his older brother died at age 19. Bill never knew his dad.

And when I met him, I could just tell. I could tell he’d be the kind of man to fall madly in love with someone and devote his whole heart to her and his family because he never had that.

I got all that from watching him train another girl while I was on the elliptical. That was when I decided to take on his services. My heart told me that I could trust him, learn from him and change my life with his help.

I’m 10 times stronger since the day I met him.

Our sessions are never without laughter, encouragement and respect.

That’s not something I take for granted anymore.

Thursday

Before I get into the harrowing subject of booty shaking, let’s first discuss my playlist (which is basically the antithesis to the booty shake):

Laid by James
Ramble On by Led Zeppelin
Yellow by Coldplay
I Want You by Third Eye Blind
Late at Night by Buffalo Tom
Only the Good Die Young by Billy Joel
Come On Eileen by Dexy’s Midnight Runners
Fast Car by Tracy Chapman
Smells like Teen Spirit by Nirvana
My My, Hey Hey by Neil Young
Captain Jack by Billy Joel
Fool in the Rain by Led Zeppelin
Motorcycle Drive By by Third Eye Blind
Clocks by Coldplay

It’s one of the best parts of my job, really. Having multiple playlists, not booty shaking.

The window seat is pretty cool, too. Then again, when haven’t I had a window seat in Pittsburgh?

This time I get to gaze at old building, inside one of which is a white cat. Sometimes the cat sits in a basket along one of three window ledges it can choose from. I always smile when I see this cat because it’s a very consistent part of my life. Odd maybe, but it’s so true.

There was a series of small, consistent things that made up my Point Park experience. For example, passing Kubi in the halls. Kubi and I weren’t friends. We knew each other, however, and said hello when we saw each other. But we didn’t have conversations. Our words were limited to “hello” basically.

So why, when I saw him on a Mount Washington street last Thursday, did I rush to him and give him a gigantic hug?

Probably because he was a memento of my old life, and seeing him was like unlocking a chest of fond memories from a time when all I had were feelings and dreams.

“Holy shit! Dave Kubisek. What the hell, dude?! How are you?” I said.

“Candy Gola. Oh my goodness. I haven’t seen you in years. You look different. It’s good. What are you doing these days?” he said.

I told him what I’ve been doing in three sentences or less, and he revealed that he’s teaching and coaching in Houston, Texas.

That dialogue alone marked more than we had ever said to each other in college and seemed reason enough to get a drink together.

Sidenote: There were two Spanish-looking men with him the whole time, but I didn’t hear them speak all night.

We ended up at Margarita Mama’s, which isn’t very me, but is very Kubi. It’s basically a warehouse of booty. I think there are eight bars in there, one dance floor, a deck and tons of drunk college girls with lollipops. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that...)

Thank God there were TVs with the basketball game on. We watched and reminisced about the days when I worked for Point Park’s best basketball team ever. Good times, good times. And yeah we laughed a lot.

He started telling me random shit and commented that I was always so easy to talk to.

“But you never told me anything. We never really talked before tonight,” I said.

Uncontested laughter.

“Other people told you everything though,” he said.

At that point it seemed like a fine idea to go to a back bar and see girls with lollipops.

I’m not sure what he saw. At 6’5” (or maybe taller), I’m sure he saw a lot.

I saw my favorite J dancing. He’s actually a really good dancer, but I couldn’t help but laugh. I thought he was at a concert.

The only concert in town I knew of that night was Def Leppard, so I was actually relieved to see him there dancing with cute girls.

Inner dialogue moment one: “Thank God I’m not hooking up with a Def Leppard fan.”

I was in the middle of text messaging Maria about it when suddenly he was in front of me ordering a drink. He mentioned something about them being stuck up and stupid, and all I could do was laugh.

Though I’m certain he had no idea why I was laughing.

We played cat and mouse for about 20 minutes before I got a text message that said, “i’m waiting for you in the parking garage.”

How could I resist a message like that, right? Come on, people!

Truth is, I knew when I got to the car it would be worth it.

And it was.

Lost files

A week ago I had lunch with Ken. Ken lives up to his name in that he looks like the Barbie-doll Ken. He’s handsome, funny, nice, smart, married with children and my source. I’m thankful to have a platonic, professional relationship with someone of his caliber.

We discussed Father’s Day and how I’ve avoided it --successfully so-- my entire life. He has a four-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl, but he said he still spent his day spreading mulch.

“Ah, the joys of being a homeowner,” he said.

“So what else do you do in the summer, Ken?”

“Golf,” he said.

We started discussing how golf is a big networking and schmoozing tool in the sales industry, and that conversation led to stories about winter drinks versus summer drinks.

Yeah, we talked very little about the tech and telecom industries. But, as Ken said, “things are slow now.”

That’s when it really occurred to me--I hate when things are slow.

Yesterday was too slow for my taste. Today...slow so far.

I want fast-paced, wild, passionate experiences. That’s just who I am.

Let’s take this from a book perspective, shall we. I’m the queen of reading material. Not necessarily the queen of reading, but definitely the queen of reading material. My sitting room is full of options--fiction, non-fiction, periodicals, newspapers, cards, letters. Sometimes I’m in four or five different things at a time. There’s a certain chair I like to curl up in, read something, contemplate and move on.

I think I like my life the same way--especially when it comes to romance.

There was a time I was such a hopeless romantic that I was known to drive nine hours just to give someone a hug in Rhode Island. Surely the entire excursion was masked as an east coast road trip. But hugging an intellectual, brilliant, talented Italian was really what it was all about.

I used to take walks around the city at night and cry because Pittsburgh was so beautiful.

Quoting passages from classic romance films and novels (not the Mary Beth variety with names like “Thorn”) was second nature. My favorite line of all time is from “The Great Gatsby” when his personality is being compared to a machine that measures earthquakes. I’ve read it a hundred different times in a hundred different places, and each time it takes my breath away.

That’s half because it’s phenomenal fucking writing and half because it’s an amazing portrait of an amazing man.

But it’s a character. And even villains are written to be perfect and likable in some way.

Real people aren’t like that. I suppose we’re all heroes by our own right. You never know what’s in someone’s heart, after all.

I’m no longer so naive, though, that I expect people to be as flawless, enigmatic and captivating as those passages.

There are four guys in my life right now whose names all begin with the letter “J.” I’m certain I could hook up with all of them as they’ve pursued, but I choose to play with only one. There are many reasons why, but the most important one is I just can’t sleep with more than one person at a time.

Two are 29. One is 26. One is 24.

My M.O. these days relates best to 24, which is why I probably hook up with him. I have a lot in common with the others, but 26 is a little too boring for me and the 29s are one year from 30.

Thirty doesn’t scare me, and it’s not supposed to scare men, but both guys are restless. I almost want to fast forward until they’re 31 so they can relax again.

They talk about how they need to calm down because “you can’t party forever.” And they need to figure out what it is they want to do with their lives for the next 30 or 40 years. The topic of marriage comes up. Then children.

And I always end up going for water, pushing my chair back a little or moving further away on the couch.

Aren’t guys supposed to have this bugout when they’re 50?

I use to embrace all the things that now scare me.

I’m not sure why it scares me, and I don’t necessarily like it.

However, I’m not really willing to change it either.

This is just who I am right now.

When they start talking about settling down, I know they’re not asking me to settle down with them. But it’s just the thought of settling and permanence that freaks me out.

I refuse to settle. And permanence just isn’t part of my romantic resume right now.

I don’t like feeling locked in or that I’ve lost my sense of freedom.

I’m responsible for enough, I’m mature for enough other reasons.

When it comes to romance and passion, I want it to be fleeting, passionate and fast.

I guess that’s why I don’t golf, Ken.

Good news

Allow me to gush.

One of my best friends, Maria, just got a choreography job with a New York film company. Not only is it wonderful that she’ll be dancing again--which has always been that girl’s soul--and creating amazing art, there’s one really great perk to the whole situation. However, I refrain from getting into all that for fear a Brit will have my head. So let’s just leave it at this: every week we have major girl talk sessions about boys whose last names end in “R.”

Cienna is not allergic to bees. She had her first bee sting, following an afternoon of running around the yard barefoot. Suddenly, she stood still--a very rare occurance--got the saddest look on her face, put up her best pouty lip and cried. After the stinger was out and she got a Dora bandaid, she was fine.

I may be going to Ft. Lauderdale soon--for two days.

Trainer Bill doesn’t want to kill me for hitting a wall. He’s hooked me up with J.C. while he’s out of town. J.C. is a level 5 trainer, so I’ll basically be getting my butt kicked.

Last night I laughed the most I ever have in one single day, but that’s a totally different story.

Sad day in the city

The publisher of the Post-Gazette died.

Myron Cope retired.

I intend to drive to my favorite spot in the city later and cry. Briefly.

Six favorite songs RIGHT NOW

As requested by Jocelyn...

1. Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan (right now and always)
2. Deathly by Aimee Mann
3. Ramble On by Led Zepplin
4. Clocks by Coldplay
5. Captain Jack by Billy Joel
6. Tenderness by General Public

The Js

I’ve been swamped at work since last Friday, and the whole idea of being under the most deadline pressure I’ve felt in years had me so down yesterday. Sexy a.m. text messages from Best Ever (better known as Ja) weren’t enough to keep me perky at 5.

And I always miss Cienna at 5 on Mondays because I’m not picking her up at the children’s school. Instead, she was running through a sprinkler having the time of her life.

I was in such a foul mood that I rushed home--skipped the gym (which would’ve helped)--crawled under the blankets, cried and pouted.

When I was too wired to sleep, I stared at the ceiling, hating myself for not going to the gym, hating Ja for not sending sexy afternoon messages, hating the world for not revolving around me.

That’s when I remembered the words of an Indian man who probably hated me more in college than I’ve ever hated any of those other things.

“Oh my fucking shit,” he’d say in an Indian accent whenever a stressed mood striked.

Merely remembering those words had me laughing aloud. I called my friend Mary Beth, the college roomie who was most subjected to that same sentence from the same Indian man, and I laughed in her voice mail.

Then the other J, neighbor J (better known as J-O), text messaged me. This time it was not about white thread. It was about hot water, karate class and sore shoulders.

Inner dialogue moment one: Hmm...Both Js have really great shoulders.

We had a ridiculous text conversation that I refuse to write about or remember simply because this morning’s was so much better.

But then instead of the little annoying beep that sounds when I have a new message of any kind, the pleasant sound of “Clocks” by Coldplay sang to me as a phone call came through. That song plays when anyone calls, and I like the mystery of going to check who it is. I wouldn’t want a ring tone to give it away.

A-ha! It was J-A, on his way home from a long day of golf and schmoozing. Of course we were just going to have a quick conversation, during which he’d make me laugh several times, and both go to bed because our days were long. Of course we both needed to wake up early today. Of course we’d say goodbye quickly.

Of course he said he was going to come over for a little bit. Of course we reasoned that we could keep it brief.

It was at this point that J-O, who lives a mere block away, decided he should walk down so I could help him plan a children’s festival he’s volunteering his business expertise to. (I know. Isn’t it adorable. He’s an amazing guy, really. He’s on the board for four different charities, and he’s only 29.) I said it wasn’t a good time because my gay friend was coming over with a crisis.

I could’ve just said that I was getting company.

Why, Candy, why.

So J-A gets there. “How are you?”

“About to make you very happy,” I said.

You know, J-A is really wonderful too. He’s been through it, but he’s not bitter. Though he is overdue for some serious healing, and I like to help with that.

We stood in the doorway kissing for 15 minutes before one of us took a step.

I kept my word and kicked him out after about an hour and a half.

OK, two hours. (But, whatever because this is that really fun, euphoric, new stage. And as soon as it passes, so will he. That’s what this is.)

J-O would try to bring Coldplay to my house. He doesn’t spend days golfing--though he does schmooze. From the time he wakes up until he goes to bed,most of his life is dedicated to helping other people simply because he believes his life is pointless if he’s not using his talent to make somebody else’s life better. His biggest cause is multiple sclerosis, but he also sits on boards for battered women, children with physical disabilities, children with learning disabilities and he bikes for something too.

J-A is 24 and only five years separate the two, but they are two totally different lifetimes.

There’s no choice to be made, and nobody is asking me.

I’ve definitely done things with J-O the right way. We go night fishing. We talk. We’ve gradually gotten to know each other without alcohol, without sex. There’s tons of flirting, he’s met Cienna, we’ve both expressed interest, and he’ll come over tonight. The attraction between us is certain, but he’s not someone I’d ever be with until I was just as certain I’d no longer want someone like J-A stopping by randomly after golf.

I’ve definitely done things with J-A the wrong way. We hook up. We drink. We hook up. We flirt. We’ve gotten to know each other through promiscuity, beer and vodka. We’ve both expressed interest in hooking up. I’m sure he’ll be back before the week is over, as the attraction between us is also certain. But it’s the kind that doesn’t grow. It just fades.

The hook ups will grow farther apart until there are none. We’ll stop text messaging, and, at best, maybe we’ll see each other in a bar someday.

I know all of this. And I’m OK with all of it.

Because they’re both great. They’re both charming in their own ways. And they’re both attractive.

But when J-O comes in, we sit down and start talking. When J-A comes in, we stand up and start kissing.

And until that feeling goes away, J-O and I will just have to keep talking about charities.

Long, dangling earrings

Let’s just give Friday night an A+ right now.

OK. Done. It’s out of the way now.

And I’m not saying why because I can’t. I just can’t talk about it. Except that I already told Maria yesterday morning. In fact, we talked about it for two hours--the A+, a certain Brit she knows and sunflowers. Oh, and I intend to give Joe full details because I’ve been giving Joe full details since I was 19. Yeah, and maybe I told Mary Beth a little about it briefly.

But they are best friends, so if I want to talk about an A+ with them I totally can. However, A+ details will never appear in a mass email or blog.

Best ever.

So Saturday...Ci Ci and I traveled to the country to visit my great aunt, cousins and Godchildren. And while it was nice, it seemed a bit unremarkable compared to less than 12 hours before. I glowed. I had trouble keeping a straight face. I was constantly two words away from telling my very Christian aunt things that could send her into a heart attack--or at least a 1960s hippie commune. And she was never a hippie.

When I got home, we both took naps. I fell asleep smiling and refusing to smell the pillow. I assured myself it was ridiculous to even have THAT PILLOW near me, so I put it in one of my closets. I woke up four hours later, gave Cienna dinner and a bath, and then we both slept some more.

Yesterday was the highlight of the weekend. Maria and I had a major girl talk session. I completely ignored the fact that it was Father’s Day, as I’ve successfully done for many years. Drove to the Mon Valley as I do most Sundays, had a conversation with Linda, Mark and the neighbors. By the way, the summer neighbors--the boating neighbors--are such cool people. Many of you probably remember me talking about them last summer.

The subject of work came up. Somebody asked me how I liked my beat--technology, telecommunications, education, work force development, labor unions--and that’s when it really hit me.

“I love it,” I said.

During the interviewing process, the editors had me pegged for manufacturing or health care--both huge beats in Pittsburgh. (Of all the beats I have now, education is the most active industry, and they thought I’d do best with that.) My editor was literally seconds away from having my business cards printed to indicate I cover health care, insurance and employee benefits. It was so up in the air that it just says “reporter” under my name on the cards.

If I had that beat however, I would not have been able to have fun Friday, last night or that which is slated for this evening. The conflict of interest policy is very strict here.

Then I went boating, flirted with disaster, went back to the city, drank some lemonade, met Aimee Mann...

I’m fortunate to have made friends with a WYEP guy in an elevator once. We’ve been elevator pals ever since. YEP hosted the music at the festival, and I went alone last night. Deliberately. When I spotted my pal, I naturally said hello.

“Hey, do you want to meet Aimee Mann? I think you’ll love her,” he said.

“Um, I already do, so yes,” I said.

Pal introduced me to her as “a writer, mother and great person to ride a slow elevator with.”

I was really unfazed by her talent and accomplishment for some reason. I really felt like I was just talking to a girl.

“Hi, I’m Aimee,” she said. “I like to think I’m a writer too.”

Undoubtedly, her writing has made more of a contribution than mine ever has.

“And those are really great earrings,” she said, reaching out to touch them.

“Candy always wears long, dangling earrings like that,” Pal said.

“Well, smart move. It’s a great look for you from what I can tell,” she said. “So what do you think I should play?”

Of course she’d play new stuff from “The Forgotten Arm” and already had a set list, but I entertained the question. She just wanted to see what I knew about her other stuff, I think. And she was being friendly.

“If I had to pick three I’d go with “Deathly”--my all-time Aimee Mann fave-- “Wise Up” and “You Could Make a Killing,” I said.

“Deathly” and “Wise Up” are both from the “Magnolia” soundtrack, and “You Could Make a Killing” was before all that.

She played “Wise Up” early on, and “Deathly” closed the show.

We talked briefly about when I first heard those songs and how they made me feel, we talked about perseverance and, again, the earrings.

When I said goodbye, she kissed me on the lips and cheek and thanked me for coming. (It wasn’t Madonna-Brittany. It was very hippie-like.)

The concert was great, and I was so happy that I went alone. I needed that.

On my way home, I listened to a mixed CD and smiled. There was so much to smile about, and everything else would just work itself out.

My Carnegie interrupted my daydreams to ask if I had any white thread.

“Josh, I’m driving. Why do you need white thread at 9:30?” I said.

“I need to hem my karate pants,” he said.

This is his latest activity. He does absolutely everything. He works for a tech company Downtown--which is why we only talk about things like thread at night--and he’s involved in many charities. My theory is that he’ll one day run for some kind of office.

We continued text messaging until I fell asleep, freezing because I forgot to deprogram my central air before the concert.

Something woke me up at 1:41 a.m., and I noticed four text messages on my phone. I assumed they were all from Josh, but I read them anyway. Two from Josh. Two from A+.

I peed and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn’t. I read, but I only became more annoyed.

So I returned the text messages from A+--hey, they were inviting.

This morning, two more from him woke me up. We had a brief text chat before we both got showers and started our days.

It will be very interesting to see how this day ends.

But for now I’m just enjoying being treated by a guy--who’s just 24--with more respect and maturity than I thought possible. He’s just a great human being.

So far.

Which awards him the benefit of the doubt in any and all situations. Though I have no reason or place to doubt him. I mean, I’ve only really known him for a little more than two weeks.

I’m just enjoying things as they naturally happen.

Oh, and I’m having a fantastic time!

Napoleonic bee

When I met Cameron, he had a white living room. White furniture, white carpeting, white walls. Of course there were lavish floral arrangements and gold trim accenting the room. And all of the decorations screamed, “Don’t break anything or get something dirty.”

It was very museum-esque to me. Perhaps my taste wasn’t yet refined, but nothing about it seemed like what a home would be.

Maybe it really was a house to him then--one he could decorate fabulously.

Now he’s done so much more with the space he’s in. Versace is somehow part of every room--especially his closet, which he busted out of years ago. Again, everything is expertly decorated and expensively put together.

But the personal and professional changes he’s made have truly created a home instead of four walls with a business office.

Yet because it’s not just an average house with an average office, I was quite nervous to take my 19-month-old daughter there for the first time. Cienna hasn’t quite mastered delicacy and grace. Despite her many attempts at ballet, she often still stumbles into things, knocks them over, puts them in her mouth, takes her shoes off, puts them in her shoes, colors them and puts them back in her mouth.

Other people who spend time with children recognize this as the norm.

So I had no idea how I would ever explain this behavior to a man who thinks stocking stuffers are the jewelry industry’s highest-priced diamonds.

Much to my surprise, however, he was completely taken by Cienna.

In the past 10 years, I’ve never seen him take a real break--especially at home. But when Cienna was there, he put work aside (sort of) and spent time showing her his outdoor waterfountain that spills into a fish pond. She loved it, of course, as she loves all fountains, and he couldn’t stop watching her love it.

It was very sweet and very touching to see him show that side of his personality I’ve always known was there. The part of life that really motivates him has always been showing someone else beautiful things. I sometimes refer to it as his Santa Claus complex.

And Cienna looked at him as most children look at Santa Claus--with trust, excitement and hope.

I’ve known him since puberty, but she just met him for the first time last month. Before then he said he was scared to meet her because he “might like her too much.”

He invited us to his place this past Saturday and we may visit him again this weekend as well.

The first time Cienna and I went there, we spent a lot of time running around in his beautiful garden. It went smoothly, but for the fact she picked a few flowers and assumed she could put them back.

Last time we were there, we hung out inside, mainly in the office. She played with some toys I keep in the car for her. (OK, truth be told, if you’ve ever seen my backseat, “some” is a gross understatement.) But her favorite thing to do was rummage through his expensive swatches of fabric and decor.

She may have even wrinkled a blueprint or two and slobbered on his invoices.

Instead of flipping out or being upset, he said he was thrilled that she went for the nicest stuff.

Best dialogue:
Cameron: “Apple, that’s a Napoleonic bee she’s running around with.”
Me: “Hmm. Will it stunt her growth?”

He did his best to charm her back, including buying her chicken nuggets--which definitely won her approval.

“Thank you for coming over,” he said. “Really, it’s been so great having her around. She really lightens things up, makes them fun again. I bet she’s great company for you.”

“It’s true,” I said. “With her, it’s sort of like re-discovering the world.”

The sky is falling

It's raining in Pittsburgh.

And it's beautiful.

The light casts a glow on the buildings that make them all seem like mirrors, and the Golden Triangle starts to look like Gotham City.

It's a view that's often missed, but I love it.