What I meant when I said

First of all, I just want to say that Anonymous' comment on that last post cracked me up (entirely without meaning to, I suspect). I can't help but agree with you—my blogging has much improved, with that particular post showcasing the height of raw my talent in both the creative and original categories. In all seriousness, thank you for the compliment. (And if you were just being facetious, I appreciate that as well and thank you for the laugh.)

When the rest of the world eventually realizes what Anonymous already has (he or she is a truly ahead of his or her time) and I win that Nobel prize for blogging, may I suggest that you shop for my gifts in Anthropologie's kitchen section? You really can't go wrong with these. Or anything with a bird on it. Trust me. I spent two hours there today talking myself out of buying everything with a bird on it.

Anyway, what did I come here for again? Oh yes, that's right. I was supposed to talk about just how hot "really hot" really is. First of all, I wasn't actually trying to be elusive when I posted that as the totality of my date update. Honestly, the guy is cute and...the end.

He's really just cute. And that's really just enough. I don't have the time or emotional energy to invest in dating someone who's much more. In this case, I throw on a little eyeliner, and I've pretty much done all I need to rise to the occasion.

And again, you ask, "How cute?"

Well, when he came to pick me up last week, I thought, "You look sort of like that guy who's married to Buffy the vampire slayer. What's his name? Something sort of absurd...oh yes, Freddie Prince, Jr. You look like Freddie Prince, Jr. Except, you have better hair."

I suppose the next obvious question is, "When are you and Freddie going out again?" Well, that was supposed to be tonight. We were actually on the phone deciding on a movie just before 6 when his pager went off. Damn those traumas. He just called to say he was finally done for the night. He said he was disappointed about missing our movie but that he had a hell of a lot of fun in that big, bloody case. I don't blame him. I would have enjoyed it, too.

We now have tentative plans to get together on Friday. He was hoping for Saturday, but I already have a date with a cute boy on Saturday. Isn't that right, Evan? (He's the taller one on the left.)


Blake is on call on Saturday night, and well...the other half of that piano bench isn't going to fill itself now, is it? Evan's going to make French food and cocktails. Then, we're going to sit on that bench while he does Virginia Woolf doing I Dreamed a Dream. That's probably really only funny if you have known Evan, read Virginia Woolf, seen The Hours, and loved Les Misérables. But in that case, it's really, really funny.

Although I very much appreciate all the delightful trouble you can get into with a Freddie, I'm saving my Saturday night for all the hysterical laughing you can get into with an Evan.

Finally, I think Maria may have been on to something when she said...

Mostly, everything depends on three questions:

1) Do I look forward to our talks more than the kissing?
2) If something really good or really bad happens to me, is he the one who I want to tell about it?
3) Am I comfortable dancing with him?

If you can answer yes to all three, you have yourself a possibility.

In this case, not a possibility...just a whole lot of hot.