OK, I realize that since the character's birth, most notably in movie form, women the world over have claimed that they are Bridget Jones. And, that's brilliant. Bridget is the everywoman, slightly magnified in the embarrassing ways that few of us care to admit to out loud. But both random strangers and close friends have told me that I remind them of Bridget, both in appearance and ridiculous, clutzy, messy demeanor. I rented the movie (again) last night, bringing all of our undeniable parallels flying to the forefront of my mind. Pardon me as I indulge myself in listing them. (THRILLING!)

First of all, there are the little, yet still valid, factors.

1) I have friends who love me for who I am, faults and all. They are amused by my misadventures, but always sympathetic.

2) I have a very high-energy, emotionally high-maintenance, sometimes absurd, but ulitimately loveable mother who frightens my above-mentioned friends, and it must be confessed that the rest of my family gangs up on her for some quality eye-rolling from time to time.

3) I may or may not sit on my bed enacting dramatic renditions of sad, sappy songs about love gone wrong.

4) I may or may not wander around my apartment covered in schrapnel from my latest culinary concoction.

5) I may or may not eat jam out of the jar while gazing whistfully out of my window.

6) I am a romantic parody. Details to follow.

And, the bigger, more elaborated reasons:

First of all, there's the incurable verbal incontinence. I have a tendency to refrain from speaking altogether, until just the "right" moment, when I choose to make some weird comment that only makes sense to me. I'm sometimes attempting to lighten a serious or formal mood in these cases, which may be my main problem. There are precious few people who appreciate a quirky wise-ass in a corporate setting. (Maybe it's just that the people I direct these jokes to often aren't listening to me, anyway. Their ears are only open to their own jokes.) In any case, I often cross the line between funny and bizarre. It still amuses me, and those who know me well, but generally makes me look like a bumbling asshole.

Case in Point: On Friday, I was with Meghan, my former college roommate, and some of her friends whom I'd never met. We were talking about strip clubs, and I mentioned a former stripper friend of mine (former stripper, but still present friend) who in her trade, acquired the skill of counting change with her vagina. That was funny, was regarded as such, and further jokes ensued.

"Woah. You don't mean she could make change, right? Haw haw ... 'gimme two dimes and a nickel for this quarter?' Haw haw."

To which I replied, "Hell, what do you think fallopian tubes are for? Coin storage!"

*cricket ... cricket ... cricket ...*

Not as well-received as I might have hoped. Meghan alone managed to laugh, not because it was a good joke, but because she's known me for years and appreciated the comment's asinine Kellyness. Well, that killed that conversation. None too soon. See? I'm a genius at what I like to think are conversational mercy killings.

Then, on Sunday, I attended the show of a friend whom I'd been writing to, meeting him in person for the first time after the show. What's one of the first things I said to him?

"I thought you were taller."

Not "I thought you'd be taller," which is somehow more normal and less assumptive, or even "How are you," but "I thought you were taller." Luckily, Vincent (hello, sir!) didn't seem to mind.

Later that same evening I made some inscrutable comment about male-pattern baldness, but realized halfway through, that, despite my harmless and even thoughtful intentions, I was headed into potentially unfriendly territory, and the only way I could think to cover my ass was to completely stop talking mid-sentence. Or, as Brij would say, "Stop talking, full stop." Smooth.

Also like Bridget, I am a complete klutz, and often eluded by grace under pressure.

Case in point: I used to work in an office that was frequenly visited by cute rocker boys and their teachers, coming to pick up paychecks and/or loan notices. When they flirted with me, I would, without fail, blush like an engorged tomato and either drop something, trip over a giant stack of papers, or fall on my face. It was as if the stumble over my words manifested into an actual, physical fall. Didn't help, really, that the fellows I worked with treated me like a little sister and made fun of me non-stop. And, they called me "Bridget." Their idea.

OK, here's an anecdote, if you'll come with me on a little flashback: (Cue spooky music and hazy fade-out -- Doodlidoo-doodlidoo-doodlidoo)

So, it's last year. I work in aforementioned office, and there are 2 Peters who come by and flirt with me. Peter1 is an older student, a cellist and a singer, and stops by frequently for his paycheck and to have a few words with me. Our flirtation gets more and more direct, and he asks for my phone number close to the end of the school year. In the meantime, there's Peter2, a computer programmer, who uses his paycheck-pickup-time to tell me how much my smile brightens his day. Nice guy, but I'm not really interested. When I receive my very first business cards, I casually give one to Peter2 in an over-exhuberant "hey, lookit me all grown up with my very own business cards" kind of way, a gesture which he apparently takes to mean "call me anytime." (I'm not deriding him for that, by the way.)

Then, both of them disappear.

A few weeks later, I get this very warm, friendly e-mail in my office inbox signed "Peter." Thinking it's from sexy cellist Peter1, I reply, all "Hiya Q-T! :) Where ya been? :P :) I wuz wonderin' when I'd C U again! :0 ;) It's sooooooooo great to hear from U! OMG! :)" (OK, not quite like that.) I get an immediate reply from "Peter" explaining that he's taken another job, and that he hopes it isn't too forward, but he'd like to take me out for dinner. Remembering that I'd given Peter1 my phone number, I'm all, "Sure. You have my phone number. Use it."

Two minutes later, I receive a call at the office. It's "Peter." I'm totally confused, wondering why Peter1 would call me at the office, when he knows how weird and prison-like my little office is. I mean, I'd given him my home number ... why not call me there?

Mid-conversation, it dawns on me that I must be speaking/flirting with Peter2. Whoops. So, I get totally flustered, and the only thing I can think to say is "I thought you were someone else. I thought you were someone else." I felt horrible, and poor Peter2 probably felt even worse. True Bridget moment.

End flashback. (Doodlidoo ... doodlidoo ...)

Peter1 and I, by the way, became very dear friends. Not more than that, unfortunately, because the reason for his disappearance was that he was busy doing some brilliant show in Milwaukee and falling in love with an African dancer.

Which brings me to another Bridgish quality:

I am the queen of horrendous romantic timing.

Case in Point: I seldom find myself in mutual like with someone. I develop thousands of crushes every day, more often on passing strangers than anyone else ... actually, come to think of it, I think I have a bit of a crush on all of my friends. However, actual sexual tension, that joy and electricity you feel with shared attraction and respect, along with enjoyment of another's company, is rather a rarity with me.

Last summer, I got invited to a party by someone I'd never met. His name was Ben. He came by my office (which was, I am suddenly realizing, more of a meat market than I was aware of at the time) and very casually handed me his information, including the time and place of the party. I was like, "OK, but I'm warning you, if you invite me, I'll probably come." I love parties.

Carlos and I went, and ended up staying until 6 a.m. Ben was cute, he was funny, he laughed at me, and he was uncannily gifted at connecting my non-sequiters with our previous conversations. Ben and I talked for hours, and arranged a couple of additional outings traversing through the streets of Boston, talking about nothing and everything. At one point, I said to him, "I can spend an inordinate amount of time with you."

"Same here," he said.

Silence.

You see, all in all, I'm a very private person, and I relish my alone-time. So, to find someone with whom I relish shared time is rather rare. It was an official, mutual crush.

Minor technical drawback: Eight months prior to our meeting, Ben had vowed a year of celibacy after breaking up with his fiancee. He was taking a hiatus not only from sex, but from romance of any kind. I respected that, but ... fuck.

Ben's year of celibacy ended right after I moved to Chicago, of course. We're still friends, anyway, and I suppose a long-distance friendship is alot easier and more sensible to maintain than a long-distance romantic relationship. But ... fuck.

A number of other interesting men, both old acquaintances and new, asked me out the week before I moved halfway across the country. And the Fates, weilding their cruel shears, had another chortle at my expense.

All that being said, I don't want to ignore the good things. Like Brij,

1) I have very little pride, but a buttload of self-respect.

2) I am moral (for the most part) and loving.

3) I amuse myself. (Sometimes at the expense of my non-existent pride, but whatever. A laugh's a laugh.)

4) I am deserving of good things, and even if I have to wait for them, I believe they'll eventually get here. Or, I'll get there.

5) I have a sneaking suspicion that, despite my leanings toward the ridiculous, I am bloody adorable.

In other news, I hope that Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise reunite. I think that Nicole's sweeter than she gets credit for being, and I wish her happiness.

And NOW, as if it were possible, ON TO TACKLE EVEN MORE PRESSING WORLD ISSUES!

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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