Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

If you've never seen the British show Coupling, trust me, it's hilarious. For the uninitiated, the show is a cross between the now-defunct Friends and "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus." And it's funny. Damn funny. Laugh-out-loud-so-loud-your-neighbor-knocks-on-the-door-to-complain-but-decides-to-join-you-and-laugh-so-hard-your-other-neighbor-complains funny. If you haven't seen it, seriously, watch it. It's better than most of the reality-bites crap on TV now.

There was a pitiful attempt to bring it to the American airwaves, but, frankly, the casting is so perfect on the other side of the Atlantic, it really was just destin for failure. Last week, I decided that catching random episodes on BBC America just wasn't good enough. I broke down and bought the entire series on DVD.

I got home late last night (as you may have inferred by the early morning post) and was greeted with the excitement of a package. I don't know what gets me so excited about that little key and that cardboard box. Maybe it goes back to those care packages from camp where my mother made me food and snacks. It's almost the only food I ever remember getting when I was away back then...or was that college? Whichever...you get the idea.

So, I brought in the package, furiously ripped apart the packing tape and found my four-season box set of Coupling. Within the span of 15 seconds I had the DVD in the player and was listening to that great little song, "Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps..." Then I got to the DVD menu and realized something. There were only 5 to 9 episodes per season. While my West Wing DVDs can keep me busy for an entire day or two per season, British television just isn't the same!

I started scanning the DVDs and discovered something else. Something horrible. Something that you never want to discover when you buy a new DVD from a television show. I had already seen all of the episodes on BBC America. I don't mean, I saw all the episodes in the first season. No, that would have still given me three more seasons of hilarious entertainment. I mean I saw all the episodes in the entire series.

That's not to say I didn't watch them again and they weren't funny this time, but it's just not the same. Watching an episode of Coupling for the second time makes you laugh at the things you laughed at before. But it's almost like an attempt to capture the pure, unadulturated hysteria that took over the first time you watched the episode. Once you've lost your Coupling virginity, there's simply no going back.

So, if you haven't watched the show yet, look for it on BBC America or pick up the first season on DVD from Amazon or dvdpricesearch.com. Sit back and get ready to laugh hysterically. You might even want to invite a friend so you have someone to enjoy it with. But make sure you take the proper precautions because once you've seen it, it's still good, but there's no going back to your first time.

Regrets... I've had a few...

I've been out. I know the follow-up question. "So, where have you been?" Sorry, it's classified. Not because I'm a superhero or something silly like that (not that being a superhero is even remotely silly, in fact it's fantastically cool, so if you're a superhero and reading this and need a guy to communicate from the "batcave" or "X-Mansion" or whatever and pay really well and have great benefits, drop me an email. I've been looking for those classifieds for ages, but for some reason never seem to find them.) Nope, I just don't talk about work here. Which, for people who know me is probably a little strange because I talk about it everywhere else.

You see, before I began this little escapade, I was told by someone wise, who was the subject of a previous post, "do not write about work." Well, imagine my surprise when I returned from a business trip to find this little post from last week (and I will point out, I'm very jealous of the new phones). I guess when you're actually talented, you can break the rules. Nevertheless, as I fall under the "untalented" classification, I'm leaving the work stuff in the classified bin. So break out the rubber hoses and do your worst folks, because as far as this place is concerned, that stuff is under lock and key.

But I've been itching to tell a different story for quite some time. I've only told this story once or twice, so posting it for the world to see (yeah, right, there's like two people reading this crappolla anyway, but even posting it for them to see) is a bit of a step for me. Anyway, here goes:

I live in Florida, but I'm not from Florida. I moved from California a few weeks before I started seventh grade (I'm not from California either, but that's a story for another day). My father had a job that kept us on the move. No, not the military. And, no, not career criminal either.

For me, starting seventh grade in Florida was a huge change, and not for the better. I came from a magnet program in my previous school in California. The unique nature of the program was that my previous school was like high school for kids from 4th to 12th grade. So we had 6 different classes, electives, lockers, lots of open grassy areas, etc. Essentially, it was a lot of freedom and, of course, accompanying responsibility. Accordingly, it fostered a lot of independent thought. So I never thought twice about little things, like eating my lunch outside, because, well, of course, lunch was my time.

That all disappeared in middle school. My first day, I had my bagged lunch and walked toward the door (because, of course, there wasn't a green area in the entire fortress that was an excuse for a school...Apparently, Florida middle schools were designed specifically to avoid student elopements...gee, I wonder why...). An administrator cut me off and said, "Excuse me. Where do you think you're going?"

I said, "To eat my lunch." Apparently that wasn't the right answer.

"The cafeteria's the other direction young man." I hate that phrase, always have. I don't mind "young" and I don't mind "man." But for some reason you put those two together and it's like scratching your nails across a chalkboard while having a ruler rapped across your fingers at the same time.

"Yes, I know. I didn't say I'm going to buy my lunch. I'm going to eat my lunch." I said, lifting my bag, recognizing that surely this man in a horribly dated knit tie understood the distinction between purchasing and eating lunch. I mean, I would hope if he worked in a school he was at least college-educated. Of course, now that I think about it, he could have had an MBA, which would explain his response.

"Lunch is in the cafeteria."

Shaking my head, I responded again, "Right, I understand. If I want to buy lunch I can get it in the cafeteria. But I don't need to buy lunch, I have it already. So I'm going to sit down outside and eat my lunch."

"No, you're not. You're going to eat lunch in the cafeteria."

"Why do I have to eat lunch in the cafeteria?"

"Because that's where you have to eat lunch." Sixteeen years later and I still don't understand how this response was an answer to my question.

"OK. Why do I have to eat lunch in the cafeteria."

"Because you do." Apparently, the questioning of authority in the search for rationality that was so strongly rewarded in California wasn't quite the goal of the Florida education system. Recognizing that I was not going to get anywhere with the knit tie, I resigned myself to the fact that I was an inmate in the prison of middle school and was forced to revert to no longer being treated as anything more than an elementary school student with more hormones. So, defeated, I went to the cafeteria.

The "cafeteria," which apparently doubled as an auditorium, was a large room with a series of long table and attached benches. And, of course, you get to spend your lunch time under the fine fluorescent lights that you enjoy your entire educational day. Joy. I later learned that there was a whole subcultural sociological organization to sitting in the cafeteria, but, frankly, I didn't give a shit. I was pissed off that I couldn't even get 45 minutes of fresh air. So I found some free space by the door and began to eat my lunch.

I looked up and saw her. Two long tables over from me was perhaps the most amazinglystupendouslybeautiful creature my pre-teenage eyes had ever laid upon. I mean, don't get me wrong, I had had crushes at that point (we'll save a talk about R___ for another day), but this girl was incredible. She had slightly olive skin, deep brown eyes and this cute little nose that you just wanted to tilt slightly to the side so you could kiss her right there. Even at that age, when trend was supersheik, she was just classy. So, even though I was trapped inside, for me, eating lunch and looking at her was a little bit of freedom that even the loser in the knit tie couldn't take from me. That lunch must have lasted 15 minutes, because I know, to this day, it wasn't long enough.

A few weeks into school, I learned I would go to Hebrew school two days a week. For the uninitiated, Hebrew school was an after-school school where Jewish kids go for two days a week to be inculcated with the Jewish education and values they are deprived of by living in a Gentile society and going to a Gentile-dominated public school. Of course, because it was not actually schooling that would directly affect my ability to get into college or get a good job, I never took it too seriously. I mean, what was the big deal if I got bad marks in Hebrew school? I wouldn't be able to be a rabbi or something? Big whoop. Of course, now that I'm more of a philomath, I regret not taking it very seriously, but I'm sure everyone has something like that they regret.

A few minutes after I entered my Gimel class (Gimel is the third letter in the Hebrew alphabet...as you can see, class names are quite original in Hebrew school), who should walk in, but that amazinglystupendouslybeautiful creature that I had watched in my cafeteria. She was one of only two girls in my class. (I can hear the simultaneous response from the two people that read this: "Oh my goodness, she's Jewish!!!" Yes, yes...keep reading.) At Hebrew school recess, the guys in my class took off to do whatever it is that boys do in a yard during a 30-minute recess. However, I think because I was new to the area, the two girls in my class, amazinglystupendouslybeautiful and the other one, decided that talking to me would be intriguing, so we sat at the top of a jungle gym doing just that. I learned that amazinglystupendouslybeautiful had a name, F____, as did the other girl in my class, J_____. While I was polite to J____ (I was raised in the South), I obviously took more interest in F____. I learned that F___ was a bit shy, but in that classy, incredibly cute way that makes you want to know even more about her. I also learned that she had a beautiful smile, that made her deep eyes sparkle and warmed your heart just by knowing you're what inspired it. Her laugh was adorable; one of those cute little laughs that makes you search for something even remotely funny so that you could get her to laugh just a little more. And, what made her incredibly sexy was she was brilliant. Like seriously brilliant. I don't care what other guys say or think or tell other people they think. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, more sexy than a smart woman. In short, F____ was as amazinglystupendous as I had hoped.

I spent a lot of time trying to get to know F____ more. We would talk at Hebrew school, speak at school on occasion and I attempted to befriend her friends (hoping the, "oh, he's nice, I like him," thing would work). Seems logical, but then, (as now) I didn't exactly have game.

Eventually, bar and bat mitzvah time started rolling along. When you're Jewish and 12 to 13 you have a bar or bat mitzvah every weekend. It's like weddings when you're in your late twenties. In fact, there were so many twelve and thirteen year-olds in my area that we had have a b'ni mitzvah, which is when you share your bar or bat mitzvah with another kid. Nevertheless, you invite everyone to your bar or bat mitzvah and you were invited to everyone else's. I think my formal wardrobe when I was thirteen was more extensive than my father's when he was an adult and I know my formal wear was more extensive than it is now. F____ was no exception and had her bat mitvah on one of those marathon weekend dates. And for me, the greatest task in the world was buying a gift that she would like. I enlisted the help of my mother and we hit the stores, eventually settling on a "Pop Swatch." Give me a break . . . it was the eighties.

The Monday after her bat mitzvah, I went to F____ in our English class (which, surprisingly enough, since she sat almost directly in front of me, was a class in which I had a rather difficult time concentrating) and asked her if she liked my gift. She gave me one of those heart-melting smiles and enthusiastically said, "Absolutely!," reaching down to her shirt, where he had "popped on" the watch. I was in heaven. Who knew a plastic Swiss timepiece could make a boy so happy?

I spent the rest of middle and high school falling for F___. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, "it's just a crush, we've all had them." Trust me when I say this. No, it wasn't. I fell for F____. Totally and completely. I've dated my share of women since and the feelings that I had for F____ were more real and intense than any I've had since. I may have loved F____ from afar, but that doesn't make that love any less real.

But for some reason, I could never tell her. I don't know if it was the possibility of rejection or the realization that I was just not mature enough to handle even trying to make these feelings into a reality of happiness with F____. But one thing was clear to me: I was totally transparent. To everyone. People simply had to know how I felt about her. At least that's how I felt. And, in a sense, I think I always hoped she knew, but I didn't want to deal with the prospect that she didn't feel even a bit the same way. F___ was the reason I went to school every day. I took certain paths to classes so I would run into her. I got involved in certain organizations so I could spend time with her. I sought to capitalize on every opportunity to learn more about her, so I felt I couldn't be any more obvious than I thought I was.

In high school, F___ and I began to grow apart, but we always remained friends. She became friends with a certain crowd and I hung out with another crowd. She started to get into the retro-hippy thing: Vegetarianism, Earth-day kinda stuff. I, on the other hand, began to become involved in debate and spent time with friends I had made in neighboring cities, so we began to diverge from one another.

There's one day that I remember quite distinctly. I was walking to my locker before school and F____'s crowd hung out before school started just down the corridor from where my locker was (that actually was not intentional...just good luck on locker selection day). F____ approached the rest of the hippy girls. She had a different glow about her that day. I mean, to me, F____ always had an aura, but for some reason something was different. Although I couldn't hear the words, I saw her talking to her friends and just standing there with a sheepish look. One of her friends asked her something, she nodded and the friend exclaimed, "Oh my goodness!" loud enough for me to hear down the corridor and began hugging F____. To this day, I think that was F____ telling her friends about her first time.

Eventually, F___ and I went off to different colleges and, although I never forgot about her, I moved on with my life. However, I always wondered what happened to her. One day I figured "what the hell" and googled her. I found out something that caused me pause. F____ had filed for an injunction for domestic abuse against a boyfriend.

I was crushed. This girl who I loved, who sat atop my pedestal for years, was being mistreated by someone. I wanted to find out who the bastard was and kill him with my bare hands. I didn't, but I wanted to.

I also found out that F___ hadn't moved from her college town she was a student. For entirely unrelated reasons, I ended up moving near that city and, one day, I figured I would give F____ a call. I needed to know how she was and what she was doing. Basically, I needed closure.

So I called her. She and I spent some time catching up. We made lunch plans. When I got to her house, I met her husband and two children and took them for lunch. You read right. F___ had gotten married to a fantastic man and was the mother of two beautiful children. She was also pursuing a career in medicine. Spending time with F___ and her family was a truly special experience. And having the opportunity to spend some time with them couldn't have made me happier.

Sure, I couldn't help but think of what would have happened if she and I ended up together, of how her children would have looked if they were ours, of what times we would have had if we had gotten together, but at the end of the day it didn't matter. She was happy, genuinely happy. The man that she had married loved her, cared for her, and supported her (and, no, it was not the motherfucker that laid his hand on her that I had learned about...I would be writing this from San Quintin if that had been the case). He loved his life with her and treasured their children like very few fathers I have ever seen. F____ and their children were his heart and soul. I couldn't feel bad about that. I had my opportunity and missed it. A wonderful man unknowingly took advantage of my hesitation and made me proud of what he made of it.

They asked to keep in touch with me and, maybe once every 3 to 6 months, I drop them an email asking how things are going and how the kids are doing. But I don't think I want to get any closer than that. F____ is a very special part of my past, but, now, she's part of my past.

After 15 years of wondering, F___ taught me that I can't live my life regretting what could have been. Opportunity knocks, but it's up to me to answer and make that opportunity into something unique and special. Since that lunch I spent with F___ and her family, I've taken more chances, recognizing that when I have that special connection, I have to try and if I'm rejected, so be it. But I will never regret that way again.

But beyond those things, F___ will always have a place in my heart. She was and will always be my first real love. And, over 15 years later, she became one of my most important teachers.

At least we can grill some hot dogs before hurricane season...

Summer is officially here. I know this not because of the hot temperatures or the fact that kids are giddy at the prospect of getting away from school or even the coming of yet another Star Wars film (although I must say, this one didn't suck as much as the last two). Nope. I know this because I have, quite literally, shed my skin for the first time this year.

When someone like me, who could probably best be analogized to Casper the friendly ghost, drives in a convertable, there is one immutable truth: I will get a sunburn that will seriously suck. This year was no exception. To give you an idea how bad this year's it's-summer-time-for-the-pain was this year, my skin peeled, not once, but twice. That's right. My skin was so damaged by the sun that it said, "This sun crap sucks, I'm getting the hell out of here." And then, the little immature layer of epidermis lying below said, "I think those guys in the penthouse have the right idea...Let's jump out the window too!"

Thankfully, this was not the only way I greeted coming of summer. Yesterday, I went with my father and sister to put American flags on the graves of fallen soliders. Spending the morning with a number of war veterens giving former servicemen and servicewomen the honor they deserve really gives meaning to the holiday. In fact, courtesy of either NPR or PBS, I recently learned that Memorial Day began from people puttng flowers on the graves of fallen heros of the Civil War. It felt pretty incredible to take a small part in continuing that legacy. You may also want to check out National Geographic's special on Arlington National Cemetary, which has been airing all weekend. Of course, you can always get a copy from PBS's website.

And in other news, my family decided to begin a tradition that most people have had for ages. Since my sister and father's birthdays are both by Memorial Day, we have officially decided to have an annual Memorial Day Bar-B-Q! So, if you're in the area, bring your appetite and come join us to welcome summer!

If you can't make it, have a great Memorial Day!!!

Strands of Gold

When I was a boy, I had long blonde hair. I'm talking the kind of blonde you would get if you took strands of gold and attached them to a person's head. I loved my hair. I loved when I swam, it would reach out in all directions like an octopus. I loved how it would give me a California sun-kissed look, even before I lived in California. I loved how when people found out I was Jewish, they would look at me and say, "You're Jewish? You don't look Jewish. I mean, I've never met a blonde Jew before. I could have sworn you were a Presbyterian or something!" I loved how having those long thin locks of sunshine made you feel different, special, unique.

One day a woman was talking to my mother about velcro for leather kippahs. For those who are unfamiliar, a kippah is a Jewish head covering. Most American conservative and reform Jews only wear them in synagogue, but they serve as a sign of respect to G-d. Some of them are made of leather and, generally, people keep leather kippahs on their heads with bobbypins. However, bobbypins can hurt your scalp, so some industrious Jewish person somewhere came up with the idea that if you put strips of straight velcro in a kippah, it will stick to your hair. So, back to the point. This woman ran her fingers through my hair and said to my mother, "I don't see how this velcro can work for people. I mean, feel your son's hair. It's just so thin, I don't see how it would keep the kippah on."

Strangely, this little conversation started me running my own fingers through my hair, enjoying the texture of my hair as I would move it from my face or move pieces from left to right. It became habit. When I was bored or thinking or reading or just not doing anything with my hands, my fingers would move to my head, to run through my hair.

Then, one day, I noticed something strange in the texture in the back of my head. One hair felt different from the others. I felt it between my index and middle finger, then between my index finger and thumb. It was different. It just didn't match the rest for some odd reason. There were bends in this strand of hair. I said to myself that I couldn't have this strand of hair on my head, this deviation from the uniform beauty of my thin golden locks. So, I gripped the strand with my index finder and thumb and there was a little "pop" as the hair dislodged from the follicle.

I took the hair and looked at it. I was different alright. It was twisted in a strange spiral that I had never seen in any of my hairs before. What could have caused this strange little hair to grow in my thin, straight hair? Then I held the strand with one hand and ran my fingers over it with the other, stroking it, feeling the bends and curves that I had never noticed before.

Perhaps there are more! Perhaps there are other similar strands hiding in my otherwise straight locks. Perhaps there are other fugitive hairs hiding out, seeking sanctuary in the surrounding straight hairs on my head. So, I felt for them, only half-heartedly, but I felt a whole different type of texture in my hair. Suddenly, my hair was individual strands, some were very thick, some exceedingly thin. And at some point, those hairs became too thick or too thin. They too could be abnormal hairs hiding among my otherwise perfect locks.

So I began to pull each one that I found. There were not very many outlaw strands, so I didn't pull too many hairs. Until college. There, pulling strands of hair became a way to cope with stress. When I was concentrating, the little "pop" and the feeling of running a hair through my fingers or over my lips became a distraction, a little break for my brain when it needed to avoid focusing. So, I would pull when I was reading, studying, or taking exams. Just one strand at a time. And just from the crown of my head. With such long hair, no one would ever know.

But one hair at a time, over time, is a lot more than one hair.

One day, I was sitting on my couch, running my fingers through my hair and one of my friends walked up behind me and said, "So, getting a bald spot, huh?" My eyes opened wide and, for one of the few occasions, I was speechless.

I had been outed. This little habit that I used to control my stress was more than a little habit, it was a problem. A real problem. A problem that confused me for someone who was actually losing their hair. But I couldn't tell anyone, because I was the only person that did this and I was deathly afraid. Afraid that this hair pulling thing I did meant that I had a serious mental disorder or made me crazy or something.

Soon thereafter, I was fipping through channels, and caught one of those sensationalist want-to-be-dateline-type television shows. Inside Inquirer or National Instigator or some other ridiculous name. Then the return promo made my heart stop:

"After our commercial, you'll hear about a woman who has a disorder that makes her pull out her own hair!"

Once the great-I'm-a-freak-feeling that initially came over me subsided, I was actually relieved. In the next segment, not only did I discover that I was not the only person with this problem, but I didn't even have it that bad. There are people who pull out all their hair, not just a little, but the whole kit-and-kaboodle. This little bald spot I had was nothing.

The disorder, I learned, is related to obsessive compulsive disorder. It's called trichotillomania or trich for short. That translates into the compulsive desire to pull out your own hair.

Now that I had a name for this thing that I do, I hit the internet. In true internet fashion, if you use a left nostril inhaler that plays "Swanne River," but only in February, there's an internet site and group out there that does the same thing. So on the internet I found a whole community of people who were battling the same problem. Some more severe than others, but everyone supportive. There were people who suggested fish oil pills, people who talked about how many days they were "pf" or "pull free," people who made me feel that I was not alone. And there were people who understood the horrible feeling of going to the barber and having that uncomfortable moment of silence as the barber looks at your hair, wondering why you have damage to portions of your scalp or small thinning sections of hair. When the barber finally says, "Well, looks like you've got an interesting spot back here," you might as well be on a shrink's couch because you're going to have a long, uncomfortable conversation about pulling.

What people who don't pull don't understand is that pulling is more than texture, more than thickness, more than running your fingers over that little piece of hair follicle after you've pulled it. When you find a hair that you would pull, you want to pull, you need to pull. The desire is almost insatiable. And having someone tell you, "Leave your hair alone" doesn't eliminate the desire, it just pisses you off, even though you know that they are saying it for your own good. Because for that short moment after you pull just the right hair, you get a little release, a little break. You are fulfilled because all is right for just that moment.

Over time, I began to tell friends about it. And I was pleasantly surprised by the reactions. Sure, there was the group of people that looked at me like I had spent my life on another planet and could only muster up the words, "Uh, that's pretty fucked up." But there were other people that said, "Oh my goodness, there was a girl in my sorority that did the same thing, but with her eyelashes" or "I'm also compulsive, but about earwax" or so many other statements that made me realize that there are so many normal people out there who are fighting similar problems on a daily basis.

A few weeks ago, a woman I had come to know quite well confided in me that her daughter was a "cutter." For those who are unfamiliar with cutting, it's when a person literally takes a knife or other sharp instrument and mutilates themself. Usually cutters pick a part of their body that can be easily disguised, such as the upper thighs or upper arm. This woman told me that she once asked her daughter, "Why do you do that?" and her daughter replied, "Because for that moment that I cut, I don't feel any pain." I immediately replied, "I understand how she feels." She asked why and I began telling her about my decade-long battle with trich.

I think years ago, before I started pulling, I would have looked at what this woman's daughter did as "abnormal" to say the least or "freakish" to be accurate. But now, while I don't have the desire to do the same thing, I certainly can understand it. If that little "pop" from releasing a hair from its follicle can have that relaxing effect on me, cutting oneself must be a massive release for excruciating pain. And from what I learned of this girl, whohad suffered through pain that I could not even imagine, a childhood of physical and emotional abuse from her other parent, the ability to control any pain for her must have been incredibly empowering. So while I worry for this girl's well-being, I don't see her in the wow-what-a-freak way that many people probably do. I just see her as someone like me, who's struggling to carry their baggage, and, in her case, taking desperate measures to do so.

I think the woman was comforted by what I told her. I mean, don't get me wrong, cutting needs to be taken care of and if you do it please get professional help, but at the same time, we all have our issues, our little coping mechanisms. Some are destructive, some are constructive, but at the end of the day, they make us who we are. And sometimes our struggles to beat the destructive mechanisms are just as important as the stress that brings them out.

After dealing with it for more than ten years, I generally have my pulling under control, although I think it will follow me for the rest of my life. I constantly have the reminder of the changed direction of hair growth that only comes with a scared scalp. And, in moments of exceptional stress, I have bouts of hair-pulling that are incredibly difficult to control. But other than that, I cut my hair shorter than I did before and I visit the barber more often than I did years ago. And there's still a moment at the beginning of each one of those visits that I sit uncomfortably in the chair, thinking "I hope he doesn't notice."

Now that my hair has changed to more of a brownish hue, there are times I miss my golden boyhood locks. But I think the color has changed for a reason: I've outgrown the days of gold.


To learn more about trichotillomania, go here.

If you are struggling with cutting, please get help and go here.

The Great and Powerful Double Entendre

I was going to post on another topic, but it just didn't feel right to start a blog with what I was going to write about, so I'll save that story for another day. As I was hanging at the pharmacy late at night (I was actually picking something up...I don't just "hang out" at Walgreen's), I realized what the only topic I could write about is: The person that pestered me to start this whole blog thing to begin with. The incomparable Julia.

Ok...there's no getting around this one: Julia is internet famous. Like seriously internet famous. Award-winning, publication-worthy, click-refresh-hoping-for-a-new-post-like-it-will-win-you-a-million-dollars famous. And she's told so many stories about herself, in a way that I can't even begin to compete with. She gets a mass of hits on a daily basis and, folks, they aren't all from me (although I add my fair share). But I didn't meet Julia through her blog, and I couldn't be happier I didn't.

One day Julia was visiting the city I live in, spending time with a number of people I know (yeah, I know, it's vague...sorry folks, it's the best you're going to get for now). I walked by and someone introduced us. The first thing you notice about Julia is that she's totally adorable. Seriously, you just want to pick her up and take her with you wherever you go. She's also a fabulous dresser. Don't believe that "I'm the witty friend" crap. She's the girl that you see walking in D.C. and say to yourself, "Now that chick's got her shit together." But most importantly, when you talk to her for even five minutes, you discover that Julia is also overpoweringly brilliant. And let me tell you, this girl will call you out, so you better be on your toes.

Well, to make a long story short, Julia wasn't doing anything the evening she was in town, so I asked her if she wanted to hit the city with some company. As a testament to her character (or possibly poor vision), she indicated that she would be up for it.

While we were at dinner, we touched on our romantic lives (or lack thereof). As best I can recall (it was a while ago), Julia says:

"I haven't really dated in a while."

"I find that extremely difficult to believe." [As you can see, my vision is just fine]

"No, really, it's been a while."

"What's a while?"

"Two years."

"OK, now you're just a fucking liar."

"No, no...really. I don't know what it is, I just don't meet people."

"Whatever."

Then there was this moment of hesitation on Julia's part. I say:

"You were going to say something."

"Well, I was going to tell you a story."

"Yeah, go ahead."

"In order to tell you this story, there's a little preface I have to tell you."

"Uh huh."

"Here's the thing. I write online. It's this little website I have. I write literary non-fiction. Just, you know, stories about my life."

Anyone who's read Julia's site (and if you're reading this shlop, you probably are a regular there and are just burning time until her next post) knows that this is the world's greatest understatement. But I'll get back to that later.

"Oh, how cool! What's the page?"

*Deep breath* "I'll give it to you later. But let me know what you think. Honestly."

Now, since you don't really know me yet, there's one thing I should let you know I have no problem with: Providing an honest opinion when asked. Usually I try to stay tactful, but sometimes I just can't help myself.

"Um...do you get the sense that I have a problem with that?"

"The exact opposite actually."

"Yeah, that's usually the impression I give. Okay, so cool, you write..."

"There was this one guy who wrote me based on what I wrote and I've been corresponding with him..."

In respect of Jules (and in respect of the guy who screwed up the best thing he'd ever get), I'm going to end this part of the story right there. But you get the gist. Well, after Jules leaves town, I hit the website. Oh, cute graphic. Then I start reading and I'm hooked. I'm reading, and reading, and reading. Here I am, literally spending the entire weekend in front of my computer reading years of this girl's life and feeling like I'm living it with her for the first time. I read about a guy at the office that she just wants to tell so many things from her heart. I read about her mother, about her sister's cancer, about how she was raped. I curse Brian Lamb for being a complete asshole and cheer when she wins best new blog and cry and laugh out loud. But above those things, I catch myself smiling in a way that I would never expect from just reading words on a computer screen. Simply, I'm touched.

But I don't just feel this way because I stumbled on to these words. Nope. I'm constantly thinking, here's this incredible person who has so much to say, but who (at that time) says it without really publicizing her identity and she chose to share it with me. To trust me. To let me know her innermost (yet, strangely, outermost) thoughts and to know that I would never use them in a way she wouldn't want. That was the most touching part of it all.

Well, on Monday I was raving to her. "Julia, it's incredible! I mean, you're incredible! I mean, and I don't say that about everything, you know I don't say that about everything! It's amazing!!!" And then I realized something. It was unfair. Here I was privy to so much about my friend, but she didn't know this kind of stuff about me. She didn't know about my first love or my hardships or my family issues or really anything near what I knew about her. That just wasn't fair. So I told her that. In true Julia fashion she said:

"Don't worry. I told you because I wanted you to know, not because I wanted you to feel obligated to do something similar for me."

"I know, but I want to do something anyway. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to do a 100-thing list, but it's a list just for you. Sorry, I'm not exactly comfortable going public just yet. [Oh, the irony...] And I'm not exactly as 'literary' as you, so don't expect wonders."

"You don't have to be. Just be honest."

Seriously, how do you not love this girl? I made her a list (that will remain just hers) and I think she was really touched. Ever since, our friendship has blossomed. Not only do I check her site daily, but I love to hear Julia's self-censored stories that don't make the page.

But what her site doesn't tell you is that this girl is an incredible giver. Despite the fact that she publishes stories about her life for the world to see, she is more interested in hearing about me than telling me about herself. She is my confidant, my voice of reason, and my reason to plan visits to D.C. The fact is that as amazing as she may appear on her site, it's only the tip of the iceberg. Get as much of a glimpse as you can folks, because there's just not a lot of people like her.

I guess you could say that we started our friendship with a head start. Julia took a small leap of trust in someone that she didn't really know and it led me to let down the walls that I put up for the rest of the world. Usually, it takes years to learn so much about someone, but we did it a week. And since then, I've never looked back.

For that and so many other things, I love you Jules.