The Soap Opera of Our Lives

Casey and I stood in the restaurant's bathroom, washing the soap off of our hands and contemplating how we ended up at Venti’s with two unknown guys who responded to our Facebook plea for a Friday night double date. Friends of a friend, the two men were the first set of males we had cajoled into undergoing our little experiment. No, we hadn’t drugged them with Love Potion Number Nine. It was our good looks, quick wit, and sparkling white smiles that had drawn these men out of the dark video game dens that their fellow kind dwell in.
             Before we even met Ryan and Zach* in person, Casey and I were sure to e-mail them our rules. The document read as follows:

Rules
1. Absolutely no kissing.
2. You must actually be single. You can’t be married, engaged, or have a girlfriend.
2. Participants must be at least 21 years of age.
3. We go halvsies. Everyone brings their own wallet.
4. Joelle is allowed to blog about the experience. But she’ll change your name. And your appearance. So if you’re muscly and bald, you’ll end up being scrawny with an afro in the story.
5. No commitment to follow up. You don’t have to call us the next day. We won’t cry our eyes out or text you 5 million times.
            I have to admit, number 4 worried me a bit. I didn’t want people to think I was just out for a good story and that I would write lies about them. But awkward dates make for really great blog posts, and I didn’t want anyone to feel tricked when three days later they read a story about themselves on The Real Pretend.

Not to mention, I thought rule number 4 might attract only self-centered D-bags that wanted to become famous. Because, you know, this blog gets a lot of hits. And not all of them are from my mother. But let’s get back to the date I’m currently in the middle of.

“What do you think Casey? Possibilities or no?”
            “I think it’s going well so far. They’re both really open and relaxed, even though this whole thing is a bit out of the comfort zone.”

“A little bit out of the comfort zone? Try off the charts. The comfort zone for me was sitting at home wearing a snuggie and watching Joshua Lucas on TV.” Because I don’t know about you, but I just don’t go hang out with strangers found on the FB. I pondered the other option. “Case, do you think posting our themed dates on Facebook was a better idea than organizing Spiritual Speed Dating at Broadway Cafe?”

 That had been our original idea/joke. How we wanted to find guys who loved Jesus but weren’t already head over heels for the blond YWAMer who just got back from her mission trip in Ecuador.

Casey and I had discussed spiritual speed dating, and how we’d kind of poke fun at the whole thing, but it could maybe turn out well. In order to make the event spiritual, participants would have to recite Bible verses in order to meet more people. If you only memorized three verses, you only got to meet three people. I figured this strategy would really motivate twenty-somethings to study the Word. Plus, I still remembered most of James chapter 1 from when I was in middle school (also the Gettysburg address, but that won’t count).  And those GT and the Halo Express songs really helped with memorization too.
            After the joking ended, I approached Casey with the idea to get friends of friends of friends to go on dates with us (the friends of friends were mostly already married). We’d advertise on Facebook in a completely non-desperate-I-so-don’t-cry-my-eyes-out-on-Friday-nights sort of way.

“Casey, How does my eye patch look?” I asked.
“Really good. Reminds me of Pirates of the Carribean.”

To launch off our themed dates, we had started with a Blind Date, but we took it literally. This isn’t an episode of The Bachelorette, so there will be no dates to Dollywood, but Casey and I are creative and know how to put together a memorable experience. We had a unique night of braille reading, blind folds**, and trust walks planned. We really needed to get back to the table so as to continue with the trivia game before our food arrived.

***

I sat opposite Ryan and picked up one of the cards we had made. “Okay, for three points, what does a green tipped cane mean?” I looked expectantly around the room, thinking most people would remember this from reading the Oregon Driver’s Manual at age 15.

“Um…the person’s blind?” Zach answered.

“Close.”

“Blind and deaf!” Ryan shouted. The couple from the table next to us looked over.

“Correct,” I said.

Casey picked up the next card. “Who invented glasses?”

“Benjamin Franklin?”

“Name five animals with excellent night vision.”
“Cats, lemurs, wolves, raccoons, and….”

“Owls!” Zach finished.

            Shortly after our round of trivia, the food arrived. I had the falafel pita and Greek salad, which is my usual. I’m a fan of Greek food, but I never tell anyone this because I hate olives and don’t want people serving me food stuffed with kalamata olives. Also, saying you don’t like olives is offensive to Greek people. It’s like not valuing the knowledge of Latin and Greek root words.

            During the meal, Zach winked at me. Or at least I thought he did. It might have just been that his eye patch was irritating him and he needed to blink. But still.  

            When the bill came, we all pulled out our wallets. There wasn’t any of that “Is he paying? Should I offer to pay? Am I making him feel like less of a man for purchasing my own meal?” Rule 3 clearly stated that you pay your own way on this date.

            Casey was pretty excited for the next part of the date. She had thought it up. We were headed over to Bush Park for some trust building activities, because a very important foundation for a relationship is trust. We wanted to put the guys to the test.

            “Alright,” Casey said. “This is what’s going to happen. We are going to blindfold you. Then we are going to lead you through the trees. You will have to follow our directions to stay safe, and trust that we are telling the truth.”

            Guys are forever not wanting to follow the instructions of a woman. Apparently it’s hard for some reason. Smart is the man who just does what his wife asks. Casey and I had plans to open up the vulnerability of these two strangers, testing them out in situations that could cause conflict.

            After the blindfolds were secure, I gave Ryan my first set of directions. “Okay, take five steps forward. Good. Keep walking.”

            Casey had her work cut out for her, having to navigate Zach through a cluster of trees. “Take a left. Okay, go forward until I tell you to stop. Stop. Take a right. We’re going to go up a hill. Lift up your feet.”  

            I am happy to say that both men made it to our end location safely. Nobody tripped on a branch or got attacked by a rosebush. And the blindfolds helped keep the guys from being distracted by the other park-goers who were more attractive than me. For some reason, slender women are always wearing short shorts and running at Bush Park, despite the fact that there are no bears in sight.

Casey and I had our turns next. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be blindfolded and directed down a path sprawling with roots and rocks. I’ve got a terribly loose knee joint, and if you so much as nudge me at the wrong angle, my patella will pop out and it’s all kinds of gruesome. If you don’t believe me, just Google images of “dislocated knees.” I needed my date to know how very sensitive I was to terrain changes.

“Don’t let me fall in a hole or you’ll be carrying me back to the car.” The last part was a lie. I’m resilient and typically good to walk after my right knee dislocates, provided I get it back in quickly. But I wanted him to know that I’d expect him to carry me if I were injured. I’ve never been carried by a man, unless you count  the time when my brother in law carried me to the river edge to throw me in, or when I was ten and stepped on a rusty tent peg and my foot was bleeding and my friend’s dad carried me into the house—which I don’t. I’d like to be rescued by an attractive prince man at least once in my life. Disney taught me that.

“All set.”

I took baby steps forward as Ryan navigated. I could hear Casey walking a few feet away. Everything was going fine and I totally was keeping all my joints in place until I heard an additional male voice.

“Joelle? Is that you?”

I ripped off my blindfold and took a look. My stomach lurched. It was Evan*, a guy I’ve liked for longer than I care to admit.

“Hey,” I said, as casually as one could.

“What are you guys doing?” he asked.

“Ah, you know. Just some blind games. Trust walk and all that...”

“Oh. How come?” Evan asked.

Men are forever wanting explanations to why single girls wear blindfolds and stroll through the park with near perfect strangers.

Zach, who must be an extrovert, piped in. “We’re on a blind date. And it’s like, literal.”

I could feel my face turn crimson. Now Evan is going to think that I’m signed up for Match.com or something, when really all I did was make a plea offer on the world’s largest social media site. I started to worry. What if Evan started to think that I was unavailable? That I was going to pursue a relationship with a man in an eye patch? He’d never take me on a non-date to Word of Mouth then.

Men are forever fearful of taking women on non-dates. Because sometimes they like the girl and just want to find an excuse to hang out with her, but they are afraid that a breakfast burrito or some French toast will mean that they are saying “I like you.” And guys are terrified of telling girls that they like them (this is what all the articles tell me), because they are just as self-conscious as girls and don’t want to be rejected.

For every guy who secretly likes a girl, there are ten girls who are mad crazy about that guy. But instead of just taking a chance, the guys have to make sure we like them, so they force us to do things like bat our eyelashes or show cleavage to get the message across. I can’t do either of those things. So what I do instead is go silent as a mime every time a guy is around. Then all the guys think I hate them, but really the problem is that I was home schooled for nine years and don’t know how to interact with the opposite sex.

“Well, have fun,” Evan said.

I smiled dumbly.

Turning to Casey I said, “Shall we move on to the last activity?”

Casey nodded.

Some people end dates by getting ice cream or by making out at the top of a hill while in a parked car. Or maybe you get a kiss on the front step while your mother peeks out the curtains at you. That’s what they show on TV anyway, I don’t really know. We did none of those things. Instead, Casey and I had some braille reading for the boys to do. We had created our messages using puffy paint. They were fairly short, because writing in braille by hand is a lot of work and we weren’t that committed.
            “You’ll have to do some research to figure out what these say.” Or, you know, just throw them in the garbage on your way out.

The night ended. If you think there was a rose ceremony and we picked our favorite bachelor, you’re wrong, because this isn’t ABC television and Chris Harrison isn’t telling me what to do. Instead Casey and I went to her house to gossip and plan our next themed double-date.

*not their real names

**if you are thinking something dirty, then shame on you.

Author's note: Just like The Bachelorette, this "reality" story is completely fictional. This did not ever happen. Yet.

The Case of the Missing Mr. Binney

On Friday 11-11-11, I had a bunch of associates over for a secret detective society dinner. I told my neighbors that it was just my birthday party, so that they wouldn't suspect anything out of the ordinary. About ten of us convened for supper and sleuthing. I basically had the time of my life and thoroughly enjoyed watching everyone try to solve the case I had set up for them.

Here are shots of dinner

Each place setting featured a notepad, pen, and magnifying glass or mustache.

A file folder acted as a place mat.

Vanessa, my dear Natalie's little sister.

Kaitlynn doesn't even try to hide her look of surprise.

Maybe Kaitlynn was surprised that I invited Count Olaf to my party.

 After enjoying a delicious dinner of lasagna, salad, garlic bread, and wine, I prepared my team with a little training. Our first stop was the

I took my spare bedroom and transformed it into a drug education center and fingerprinting lab. Drug education is very important, and I did my best to create a realistic atmosphere.

The person who does this drug is probably distraught that Borders closed and he/she can no longer use a Border's rewards card. 

Ice.

You're gonna go trippin' on them dots.

Shrooms.

Beans, Hug Drug, Lovers Speed

Black Tar, Hell Dust, Smack

To gain all sorts of knowledge on drugs, you should visit the DEA's website like I did. Here is a link. You can look up a drug, see its effects, learn its street names, and more. The detectives took really good notes.

After the drug education portion, people took their own prints using a stamp pad so that they could use them as a reference during the fingerprinting slide show presentation. You can easily dust for prints using powdered chalk, clear tape, and a paintbrush.

The other room that I set up for use was the

This is where people could study codes and practice writing them.

I've had these code books since I was a kid.

There was also an invisible ink station. Use a q-tip and dip it into lemon juice. Write your message and allow it to dry. It should be invisible. To show the message, put the paper under a light bulb. The writing will turn brown. This is because lemon juice is an organic compound and contains enzymes, which burn faster than the paper. It is also supposed to work with milk and apple juice. 

And okay, never mind that the Cryptology Center was actually my laundry room. It worked.

Agents study and write codes while looking fantastic.

After initial training, we all sat in the conference room so that I could do the debriefing.

This is what my team was told:
Last Monday night a man went missing. His name is Franklin Binney. I’ve been working with the police for the past few days trying to locate Frank, but he has not yet been found. We are suspecting foul play, a revenge of sorts, as no ransom note has been received. We’re not sure if it is a kidnapping or a getaway. 


At any rate, Frank’s family is worried about him, and they need us to find him. Mrs. Binney came home on Friday evening after a round of Bingo with her grandmother. She expected Frank to be at home watching TV, but he was not. Instead, the garage door was left open, but his car was still parked inside. Frank was no where to be found, and did not answer his cell phone. Police gathered clues from inside the house and garage, and it is up to our team of detectives to decipher their meanings and find Frank. He may be dead or alive. We need to find him stat.

The detectives discussed for a while to come up with a list of questions and to decide where to go from there. Then I gave out the first clue envelope. It contained what looked like loose pieces of Smarties. Agent Schuyler reflected upon his drug training and immediately suggested we take it to the lab for testing, as he suspected it might actually be Ecstasy pills.

Schuyler may or may not work for the FBI. I can't really say.

The next clue envelope looked like this. It was a grocery list with a Reeses peanut butter cup wrapper inside. This evidence was found in the garage on the floor near Mr. Binney's car.

I had the absolute most fun watching my detectives try to analyze this piece of evidence. They a had a hay day over it. First they thought it was in code and wanted to take it to the Cryptology Center to be studied. Then they noticed all the grease from the candy wrapper and wanted to lift prints from the thing. Everyone got really riled up when someone suggested it was actually a drug shopping list using drug street names. This is because the word "beans" was written on the list.

I know a lot of people who make shopping lists for all the drugs they need, don't you? : )

Oh, the team also thought that there might be invisible ink on the paper, so they stuck it under a light bulb but nothing showed up.

The photo below depicts Agent Brown in hysterics because she can't believe certain people want to discuss pre-nuptial agreements WHEN A MAN IS MISSING! I really appreciated her concern for a fictional stranger. Be assured that if anyone she knows in actual life goes missing, she will be all over it.

After a while this envelope was given. That's right, people. It was a bag of cocaine.

 The detectives thought it was a red herring and had nothing to do with Frank Binney's case, as the baggie was found down the street from Frank's house. The team decided to make a phone call to Mrs. Binney and one of the Binney's neighbors to interview them. Unfortunately, I was not in the room during the phone conversations due to my responsibilities managing the crime lab.

Travis holds the phone up on speaker so everyone can hear while Natalie uses her lap top to do some investigating of her own.

Another clue was given and the team knew exactly what to do with the information. They looked up the owner of the phone number online and went from there. They begged police to be sent to Tualatin without even seeing the final clue.

Don't call this number. I don't know the guy.

The final clue.

The agents were anxious to hear from the police if they found anything in the Tualatin home belonging to Michael Jones. I then read the full case to them.

Frank got in his car to go to the grocery store. He’s on a sugar-less diet, by his wife’s commands. He was looking for a fix. He found what looked like  loose Smarties in his child’s Halloween bucket, which they kept on the top of the fridge. They were actually Ecstasy pills. He went to the grocery store and bought twinkies and Reeses peanut butter cups. When he got home, he was so enthralled and energized from the drugs that he went for a run down the street, leaving the garage door open. 


He ran down the street and was crossing unsafely when a car struck him. It was mostly Frank’s fault, as he was wearing no reflective clothing. The driver was a crack cocaine user named Tony Tantino. Because of Frank’s mental state, he wasn’t all that damaged, but the crack user could tell he was on something. Tony Tantino didn’t want to call the police or ambulance for help, because he was afraid they would notice Frank’s drug use and get suspicious about Tony Tantino. So he figured he’d help a brother out, take him back to his place, and let the drugs wear off. 


Frank was very friendly and happy. They played games on the xbox and ate cake. Then Tony’s girlfriend came home. Tony did a line of coke. Frank got cozy with the gf. By morning, (which was actually 1pm the next day), Frank found himself in bed with the girlfriend. Tony was strung out on the kitchen floor. Frank thought “Oh crap, what’s happened?” but he was still riding the thrills of ecstasy. He saw some cocaine on the table and snorted some of it out of curiosity.
 

Tony wanted to drop Frank off at his house, but Frank was paranoid to go home (effect of ecstacy), and because he had cheated on his wife while under the influence. But he didn’t know he had been under the influence of ecstacy. Confused and paranoid, Frank didn’t think he could go home. He called his buddy Mike from college, asking if he could stay at his house for a few days while he sorted some things out. Mike said “yeah, you can stay at my place, but I am leaving for business in Germany today, I’ll leave you a key.” Frank had his wallet still and bought a bus ticket to his friend’s house, being fearful of going home for the car. 

Mr. Binney was found in Tualatin eating Cheetos, drinking beer, and being paranoid. His friend has no idea about anything and is in Germany, so he didn’t know to notify police of Franks' whereabouts.

moral of the story is: check your kids’ Halloween candy. 

 The detectives did a great job with the case. I was really impressed with their reasoning and thought processes. I think I am going to host a case party at least every three months, because they are so much fun for me. Only the next case I create is going to be really, really good. I might hire some actors. Stage a murder. Get the police involved. It will be very realistic. 

Animal Impersonations

When I was four years old, my sister locked me in the dog carrier and rolled me down the hill. She thought it would be fun for me, like a Ferris wheel ride at the fair. I'm about to tell you the story of all the animals I pretended to be, all so that my sister would play with me. You may leave this story thinking that Jessamy was cruel to me, and maybe she was, but when I now look back on those memories, I think of them fondly.

The Dog
So you know about the dog carrier thing. Sure, I ended up a little bruised, but the whole experience only last about five minutes, which was a lot better than the time I was chained to the dog house for a half an hour. Our Springer Spaniel, Senna, lived exclusively outside. She was a farm dog and had a stinky, spider dwelling, wooden dog house to call her own. Normally she was chained up to the tree near it, but when my mom mowed the lawn, she would let Senna loose. It was during our dog's free time that my sister decided I should play puppy.

"Get in the dog house, Jo jo."
"But it's dark in there and it stinks!"
"You have to pretend to be my dog or I won't play with you."

 Immediately I began to cry. I gathered my courage and two pairs of boots. I had on the ones covering my feet, but I convinced Jess to let me put her boots on my hands, so that way my "paws" wouldn't get all nasty when I went inside the pooch's home. Jessy put one of Senna's old collars on me and snapped me on to the wire cable. There was no escaping it now. I went into the dog house, tried to lay down among the matted hair, stuck out my tongue panting, and wagged my butt like I had a tail. If I was going to be a dog, I was going to be a good dog.

Four boots and walking in dirt.

Eat your heart out, Lassie.

The Duck
Pretending to be a duck was by far the best animal I've ever impersonated. Being a duck was actually fun, minus the part where I was fed stale crackers. It was a hot July day and my mother had filled up the tiny blue kiddie pool with water for us so that we could splash around. Jess and I put on our swim suits and hopped on in. I was a duck for a while, quacking and ruffling my feathers. But then I got a really brilliant idea. Or my sister did, I'm not sure who it was. All I know is there is photo-graphical evidence of me wearing yellow rubber dish washing gloves on my feet, standing in a water like a lemon colored duck with webbed feet. I was by far the most inventive human-duck you ever did see.

 The Lion
When the Lion King came out, I became totally obsessed. It may have had more to do with my already developed crush on Jonathon Taylor Thomas that it had to do with The Circle of Life and my belief that it is important to grow up to do great things. At any rate, I loved imagining to be Lion King characters. The very best part was that my sister always let me be Simba, due to the fact that I had a shoulder length brown mane with golden sun streaks in it. I have very thick hair, and I would shake it around to accompany my ferocious roar.

This one time, Jessamy was pretending to be Rafiki. She was really into Rafiki because he had an exotic accent and carried around an awesome stick. My sister had found a similar stick in the woods behind our house and had attached a few stink balls* to it with twine from a hay bale. It looked very aboriginal.
 *when I say stink balls, I mean those things that drop from Oak trees and have green must in them.

Jessamy and I were re-enacting scenes when it came time for me to receive a bit of advice.

"It's all in de past!" Jess yelled, then whacked me on the head with her giant stick.

The intention was to knock some sense into me, but all it did was knock me senseless. When I came to, I immediately began to cry and went screaming to my mother, clutching my skull. I told her what happened and she confiscated Jessy's Rafiki stick. Jess was very bitter about it, because the Rafiki stick lay unobtainable on top of the freezer in the garage for the following two months of summer.

Yes, the Rafiki stick did instill wisdom. My sister learned never to whack her baby sister on the head even if she wasn't trying to be mean. If you ever see my sister in person, you should say to her "So...tell me about the Rafiki stick." Even though it happened 17 years ago, I'm sure the memory is carved clearly in the tree that is her mind.

The Horse
My sister always wanted a horse, and until she got a real one, she forced me to be her equine. She liked to do things like feed me carrots, which sounds all fine and dandy, but not when the carrots have been plucked straight out of the garden and still have dirt and worms hanging on them.

I acted my part as horse both inside the house and outside. Jessy's favorite thing to do was to lunge me (she didn't try to ride me that often because she didn't want to hear me say she weighed too much). When a horse gets lunged, it basically means it is on a long rope and you make it run in circles around you for exercise. Lunging on the carpet on all fours is not really a pleasant experience, as it caused my knees to bleed. Lunging on all fours is also not an effective way to lose weight, and if you are trying to get in shape then I suggest running in circles on your two feet, rope tied to your head is optional.

Jess also made me walk on my hands and knees outside in the grass. Sometimes she tied rope to me and made me pull the red Radio Flyer wagon. When this happened, she'd sit inside the "carriage" and whip my butt with a stick if I wasn't going fast enough. I'm not exactly sure where my mother was in all of this. I feel like she should have intervened. Thank God my sister got a real pony when she was 11 years old.

The Cat
Surprisingly enough, when we played Cat and Owner, I did not have to be the cat. This was because my sister adored cats and wished she was one. She'd make me do things like scratch her between the ears, rub her tummy while she purred, or feed her a bowl of milk on the floor. This was by far the easiest pretending I ever had to do, and I welcomed it with open arms. Whenever Jessy suggested an animal impersonation game, I would first ask her if she wanted to pretend to be a cat. This usually bought me a little time before I had to sleep in the dog house, quack, get hit on the head, or have bloody knees.

Yes, I spent much of my childhood pretending to be something other than a homo sapien. You can see that I went to great lengths to convince people to spend time with me, something I still do today. Only difference is, I walk on my own two feet and no longer eat dirt.

Why No One Will Even Ask Me Out

          I’m staring at his chestnut hair, silently willing him to turn around and look at me, but he won’t. Nobody ever does. I’m too quiet for anybody to notice, too short for a person ten feet away to see, and too dangerous for anybody with half a sense to get close to. I mean, I’ve been marked. Metaphorically, that is. It’s like I’ve got “vampire” written across my forehead, only not, because even though I wear 01 Pale foundation, I like the sunshine and don’t suck blood. Also, I’m the one who needs to be afraid. You see, I’m in protective services, as in, the Witness Protection Program.

The thing about being in witness protection is that people never want to get close to you, because they are pretty sure you will be shot or get kidnapped sometime in the near future. And nobody wants a dead girlfriend. Actually, scratch that—vampires do (you know, after they suck all your blood). But here’s the thing of it, despite the fact that my obituary has shown up in the papers and my social security number is now defunct, I’m very much alive. I just have a new identity, that’s all.

And okay, I get it, why would you want to be with someone whose life is a lie? I have a fake name, fake hair color, and when I first entered, a fake tan as well. But everything in my heart is very real. The good part about being too quiet for people to notice is that when I go out in public, I’m in less danger. The bad part about being too quiet for people to notice is that I find myself sitting behind guys like Jude, wishing they’d turn around and actually see me. Or you know, realize I could be their soul mate (or at least, the me that fake died three years ago could be).

But here’s what happens. Well, actually it goes one of two ways. If the guy ever talks to me, and even shows a hint of liking me, he’s all “hey, are you on Facebook?” And I tell him no. Because why would I plaster my face and info all over the web when there is a group of very mad criminals looking for me? Sure, hey guys, here’s some photos of what I did last weekend, this is where I work, and oh yeah, here are all of my friends so you can kill them too. I think not.

But then let’s say I actually sort of know the guy. Maybe we are budding friends, and I trust him to know this important aspect of my dangerous life. After I’m all “Well, I don’t have Facebook because I’m in the Witness Protection Program, and my name is not really Elle, but I can’t tell you who I really am either. Oh, and if some guys wearing ugly Italian business suits and carrying large briefcases ever show up on your doorstep, tell them you don’t know me,” then the guy is like “Actually, I’m busy next Friday, let’s not do dinner.”

Though it hardly ever gets that far. Like I said, most of the time I just spend staring at the back of their heads. Similar to right now. I’ve known Jude for about eight months, but he hardly ever talks to me, so I guess “know” is a very generous term. Maybe I should instead say I’ve been in close proximity to Jude repeatedly for about eight months, but he probably doesn’t even notice me when I walk right past him. Which you know, is sort of depressing. Especially when you can’t really talk to any of your real friends because they all think you died in a boating accident.

Jude is really beautiful, only I’m certain he would prefer it if I said handsome. Although since he never talks to me and will never read this, I can describe him any way I want. He has dark chestnut hair, and sometimes it sort of curls a bit around his ears. He has a very attractive manly jaw and chin, which is adorable when he occasionally has a bit of stubble on it. Jude’s eyes are like the fourth planet's twin moons, Phobos and Deimos. But the thing that I like most about Jude is that he enjoys traveling to foreign countries, which is comforting to me. Pretend that on an off chance he did talk to me, and he did fall in love with me, and I did get found out by a bunch of fake business men wearing ugly Italian suits, Jude would have no problem leaving this comfortable country behind and hiding with me in some remote village in Malaysia or whatever.

 So here I am, watching Jude from a distance, praying to the Lord in heaven that maybe today he will notice me, which is actually sort of the equivalent to praying that the Pacific Ocean will part when I step into it, or that the water pitcher sitting in my fridge at home will miraculously turn into wine or vodka or something. Because like I said, nobody ever notices me.

I observe as a small group of people crowd around Jude, asking him questions, conversing, and laughing. I watch with envy. Then I decide that I should probably just go home, because obviously today is not the day. Yesterday wasn’t either. I pop into the restroom real quick on my way out. As I’m washing my hands, I evaluate myself in the mirror. Is this really supposed to be my life? All of these charades? But I’ve been living this way for three years. I’ve gotten into the groove of things so much that sometimes I forget that this isn’t really me. That I’m not really some girl named Elle. It’s like maybe this is really a long dream I’m having and soon I will wake up in my own bed and see the people who know the true me. Though I think I’ve sort of forgotten who that is.

Sighing, I open the bathroom door and step out. My stomach jolts as I realize who’s standing two feet in front of me. Jude. Only, it’s his backside. It takes a second and then it is like the heavens breaking open and God himself shining a flashlight down onto Earth. Jude turns around and sees me. A smile spreads across his face as he recognizes me, or at least, I think he does.

“Hi,” he says. “I know I should know you, but I can’t remember your name. What is it again?”

My real name or the name I use now?

“Elle,” I say. “My name is Elle. You know, like the 12^th letter of the alphabet.”

Jude’s eyes crinkle up a bit as he smiles. I try not to stare at his beautiful teeth. If Jude were a moron, I might be afraid that if he ever doodles my name on notebook paper, he’ll spell it El. Or worse yet, L, like that one time I ordered a pizza from Little Caesar’s.  But Jude is quite intelligent. I mean, I’ve had a few conversations with him before, (or at least overheard him talk to other people), and he always sounds quite smart, like maybe he scored pretty well on the verbal part of the SATs his senior year of high school.

“So, Elle. How have you been?”

This is typically the part in an opening conversation where you have to lie. If you don’t know someone well, you really can’t delve into the deeper and more dangerous aspects of your life.

“I’ve been pretty well. How are things going for you?” I reply.

You can obviously see why this conversation never goes anywhere. Neither of us ever reveals anything really worth talking about. And because I don’t know that much about Jude’s actual life, I can’t think to ask about anything he might like to talk about.

“Ah, good. Busy. I’m in the process of moving.”

Oh shit, I think. Because now he’s going to move away and I’ll never see him again and that will be the end to the story that never began.

“Really? Where are you moving to?”

I know a lot about relocation. I mean, I moved about a thousand miles away from where I used to live, didn’t I? If anybody knows about starting over, I do.

“Just to the other side of town,” Jude replies. “By 15th Street.”

I suck in some air. Apparently I had been holding my breath.

I play the biggest card I have, which is low, because it’s like I’m holding a deck of threes and fours.

“There’s a really good little restaurant near 15^th Street. Off of Maple? It’s called Komi. You should definitely go there after you move.”

If this were my dream, or a fictional story that I was writing, then Jude would say “Oh yeah? Maybe we could go sometime.” But this isn’t my dream.

“Yeah? Do you live over there?”

I wish.

“No, but I like to eat there. I live on Clayton Road.”

“You’re an artist, right?” Jude asks, rather randomly. But who am I to judge how the synapses in his brain fire?

“Um, I guess you could say that. I do graphic design work for websites. It’s nice because I get to work from home.”

You know, where I’m safe from the mob.

“That’s cool. Have you ever done CD stuff?” Jude’s eyes brighten. “I have these friends who are trying to release a demo, but they need some cover art.”

An entire three month scenario reels in my head instantly. I could become friends with his friends, do some work for them, get chummy, and then Jude would realize that he should probably spend some one-on-one time with me. You know, in the form of a date.

“Well, I haven’t before, but if your friends are interested, I could meet with them to discuss what kind of aesthetic appeal they’re going for. Do you want to give them my card?”

“Oh sure, that’d be great.”

I root around in my purse as I realize this is the longest individual conversation I’ve ever had with Jude. I open up my wallet and pull one of my cards out of a pocket. I hand it over to him. It has my name and phone number and website printed in a smooth font.

“Thanks so much, Elle,” Jude says.

“No problem,” I smile.

“I’ll see ya,” he says as he turns to leave.

Will he? Will he actually see me? Because I’m here. I’ve been here all along, but whether or not he’s seen me is debatable.

“Bye.” And then I walk away. He still doesn’t know that I like him. Still doesn’t know that we’d probably get along really well, if I could just be straight with him. And I’m still going home without plans for the weekend. But I’m a step closer. I mean, he’s got my number now, hasn’t he? If God hit him over the head with a metaphorical baseball bat while he was sleeping one night, and he woke up thinking “I’ve got to talk to Elle,” he could call me, right?

Once I’m home, I start to replay everything in my mind. Could I have said anything different? Winked maybe? After a bit of thinking, I pull out an album that I keep stashed under my bed. It’s full of pictures of my old life, of the real me, of the people I used to love. Looking at it is quite painful, so I eventually slam it shut and immerse myself in complicated day dreams. What I have to do is envelope myself into fiction. This whole life I’m living isn’t real. I mean, I just made up this whole story, didn’t I?