waider

Just learned this one from a Spanish friend: "amigos con derecho a roce" - literally, friends with the right to touch. It's a category of friend which is more than just a friend but less than a partner; as she put it, "you still do "just friends" stuff, too".

And no, this is not being applied reflexively, before you ask.

It's been an odd weekend. Sometimes it feels like everyone around me and her (no, a different her to the previous post) is thinking we should be together except, well, me and her. And I'm kinda on shaky ground on that question; the single-since-whenever part thinks HELL YEAH, and the rational side of me has a more practical view on obvious incongruities and certain historical recollections. So the weekend was spent in hanging out with her, but in a friend-friend way that even people who should - and probably do - know better misinterpret into something worth gossipping about.

Ay me.

So out of the blue I get instant message from an ex. As I'm chatting to her, the jukebox switches to Bob Dylan's Most Of The Time. Now it's on a track called, approximately, "$her_husband's_name's Song".

Just watched the final episode of Friends and although I've never been more than a fair-weather follower of the programme, I did feel a few twinges of sadness - mostly thinking about my own friends over the last ten years, and how we've drifted apart both physically and in terms of relationships - I think it's pretty safe to say that I was a lot closer to most of those I'd consider friends ten years ago. Also noting that it took Ross ten years to get to the point that J.D. in Scrubs reached in the middle of season three vis-a-vis relationships and speaking your mind and whatnot. My personal jury is still out on the advisibility of such actions, but I guess someone's got to live by the "nothing ventured, nothing gained" maxim. It just ain't me.

In other news, tonight's bike run was almost bang on 10km - I discovered a 10km route that doesn't involve either Dalkey Hill or stopping at some arbitrary point and turning around. I stopped at Teddy's for a 99 on the way back, which is most likely utterly meaningless to anyone who hasn't spent some summer time in Dun Laoghaire.

I'm going to hell for this.

I sent someone on a dating site a message pointing out a grammatical error on their profile.

Giggling. giggling giggling giggling.

One of my old-school talk.bizarre friends made a useful comment to me earlier; what if I'm just now reacting to a failure to advance emotionallly from where I was seven years ago. It's taken four pints and maybe one hundred pages of a book for me to drag that view into perspective, and in all honesty I think it's the one I want and the best line of pursuit. It simultaneously promises delivery from a persistent state of past and a promise for the future, which I guess is what I've been trying to find. You know who you are; go you! you rock!

A fun weekend of visitors.

Bob mentioned that he found one of my female friends difficult to read. However, reading people isn't Bob's strong point, on top of which YOU DON'T KNOW THE HALF OF IT, BOB. I've had an easier time reading poorly printed books by candlelight.

SIGH.

Anyway, we went to see Pirates of the Carribean (second time for me, first time for Bob and the aforementioned femme) and this time I stuck around to see the little monkey cameo at the end.

My boss, giving a presentation, which for some reason involves rotting tomatoes.

An ex-grilf, probably the one I care most about still, with me, trailing along into the presentation room in that carelessly close way that attached people do.

Dropping notes related to the presentation - I'm either supposed to be a plant in the audience, or a co-presenter - and trying to get them back in order. For some reason they're printed on credit-card receipts.

I have no interpretation for any of this.

One of the people I just about worked with at Stepstone was having a going-away bash last night. He's going to cycle around the world, apparently. I went along, all dolled up after Louise laughed at the idea of me dressing up. Near-new black 501s (so they're still black), black shoes, black argyle socks, white Diesel shirt (out), and my cocktail-party jacket (as worn to Meredith's office party in SF). And I even went to the trouble of taming the squid on my head into something resembling actual hair.

The seisiún was pretty good. Stefan, the cyclist, is French, and when I arrived there were a few other French folk, Kristen from Hamburg, and Girgana (not sure if that's how you spell it, but that's how she pronounced it, except the g's were kinda aspirated, like 'gh') from Bulgaria. I was the first Irish person to show up! We were in Café en Seine, home to Dublin's longest bar, and the place was (a) huge and (b) packed. As Louise put it, all the beautiful people were there. Over the course of the evening I had a long conversation with Girgana (albeit not as long as I'd have liked, because she was cute AND smart) who it turns out is a qualified architect. I also had a conversation in bad french with one of the French guys, which at some point covered rugby of all things. You know, my French is bad enough without me getting into a conversation that involves specialised terms that I KNOW NOT. D'oh. Anyway, I eventually decided I'd had quite enough to drink, thankyou, and Louise graciously offered me the spare bed at her place. Again. If I stayed there any more often I'd have to pay rent. But it is a convenient alternative to the nightmare that is getting home from the city centre at 2:30AM.

This morning, I had a hangover, but at least I had enough fun to justify it, so that's okay. Also, I managed to spill some guinness on my nice white shirt. Aigh. Bad Waider, no cookies.

Oh, and I had another message in my MaybeFriends account this morning, complaining that all my messages are very short. So I replied with a very long message. Hee. Should be interesting to see what results that gets.