"She's the other half of my zipper."

ST. PETE – Today I had lunch with one of my oldest friends in Florida.

It was at a Thai restaurant called The King & I, and we were talking about relationships – his not mine – and I could tell by his blushing and squirming that the chick he's dating is turning his insides to goo.

If he hadn't squirmed and hadn't blushed, I'd be writing about his smile. His smile was a billboard that flashed: DUDE IN LIKE, as it was one of those punch-drunk smiles that you cannot, no matter how much you think you're in control of your facial contortions, pinch shut.

Basically, the man is smitten and getting smitten-er by the day.

Before I tell you what he told me today, which I'm pretty sure you garnered from the title of this post, I've gotta give you context. I've gotta paint a picture of this kid so you can squint him into focus in your brain.

I won't tell you his name for fear that She, whom he is falling for, might read this. We're not Facebook friends or Twitter friends, but who knows? We might one day be, and just you watch this relationship go in the shitter.

Ey! I pray it doesn't. At heart, I'm a romantic. By trade, a cynic. It's just that in the event that She screws Him over, or He screws Her over, I don't want to air His vulnerabilities on the Internet.

This friend of mine. He's analytical. Nerdy in the best way. Wears T-shirts with ironic expressions and dinosaurs decals. He's a whore for gadgetry and all technological advances. And despite his CNET membership and frequent use of the word, "app," he's devoutly religious. I think the only friend I have who goes to church every week.

For four years he has insisted on paying for our lunches and dinners, which usually run several hours long and have functioned, for me, as food-talk-therapy sessions.

Anyway. So he's dating someone new. A girl I've never met, but whose name I've invented a song for. (Well, not invented, per-se since the song I sing is a real song with a refrain that sounds like this chick's name, but more like a song I adapted in the spirit of her name.)

It's a nice name. Makes me think of gingham curtains and Ashley Judd in bare feet.

As grease dripped down my chin from the tubular spring roll I was eating, this glowy friend of mine explained in the most rudimentary terms, how this girl is just about perfect for him.

"It's like my zipper theory," he said. "You know how a zipper has two parts that are a little different, but kind of alike? We're like that. She's just different enough."

"You're so head over heels it's killing you," I said.

He blushed. Smiled like clothespins were pinching his cheeks and nodded begrudgingly in agreement. My supremely picky, painfully rational friend had found himself a lass.

As I began pounding the table in approval, he began pointing out that there was, of course, one problem.

The Perfect Fit had been really busy lately. So busy, that last month they went one whole week without speaking or seeing each other. So my friend, the self-preservator, decided to end the relationship. Nip it in the bud, as they say.

But of course, there was one other problem, he said.

He liked her. Good and plenty. He liked her tons. And when he dumped her, he felt cinematic-ly sad. Couldn't concentrate at all at work the next day.

"She wasn't making time for me, so I figured maybe she didn't like me. But when I broke up with her or whatever, I could tell that night, by her face that maybe she liked me."

So he decided to call her a few days later to see if she wanted to meet for dinner. And without officially reconciling, they began dating again.

As he told me this story, blushing and eating spring rolls, insisting he wasn't going to invest himself in the situation because he wasn't sure how the gal felt about him, I couldn't help but pound the table again.

"But she's your zipper," I cried.

"I know," he said.

Thank you for pushing my buttons.

Of all countries, my first blog critic hails from Canada. Miffed over my blase attitude toward guardian bum angels.

You may have already read Natasha's comment after the Tree frogs, bums & wedding dress post. My face was burning when I read it. I haven't been this scolded since a newspaper advertiser reprimanded me for likening his real estate gimmicks to David Hasselhoff's German popularity.

YET, I was simultaneously thrilled and pissed. A Mormon Canadian mother-of-four wearing an adorable scarf in her blog photo AGHAST at something I wrote in St. Petersburg, Fla.?

Bring it, benevolent Canadian!

Before I hammered out a reply I Mapquested Alberta, Canada and saw that her province's southern towns border Montana. Picturing this blonde woman and her husband Jude, their four kiddos and tag-a-long dog living in some prairie mountain town north of the border, I was flattered to have held her attention.

Pasted below is our exchange. It is by far the most constructive feedback I've received since starting Lance last April.

BUT, before I go ... Natasha, how do you feel about the word canuck?

--

Heidi,

I was going to give you some Twitter advice to help you promote your blog because I uncharacteristically clicked on your spam barrage of links on your Twitter feed and I thought, Huh-- this blog is not half bad.

Then I read this post.

I am AGHAST at your LACK of "humanity". You were indignant and offended at the ladies at the store who didn't say "good anything" to you and yet when presented with a man whose foot just might even have to be amputated, you told him it was disgusting and gave him all of one dollar. When telling his friend to get Jed to a clinic, you forgot to add, "...after you collect a lot more money because, of course, a dollar isn't going to get you anywhere." Maybe you don't have much money or didn't have much on you. That's understandable. What is not understandable is your comments to him. Not, "I hope that gets better soon!" or "I'm so sorry. That looks painful." No, you "snapped" that his foot was "dis-gusting". Where was your compassion? You judge some ladies for having poor manners when you lacked something greater?

Your first thought was "Foot ointment? Ah, this is one I haven't heard before." You were judging him. Sure, a lot of homeless people suffer from alcoholism, to try and shut out the pain of their world, but not all of them do. And because you cannot know for certain, you should never, ever take it upon yourself to judge. Live generously without judging and be blessed while letting the sin of lying be upon the head of he who lied to get money from you.

You couldn't have taken him to the clinic yourself and asked someone to fix his foot? Asked if they had any sort of charity program or whatnot? I don't know how it works there. In Canada you don't have to pay for basic health care-- everyone is cared for.

Even the word you use for these people-- "bums"-- associates them with something lowly and maybe they are by appearances. But when judgment day comes, it's very possible that these bums will rise higher than you, because they've very likely been given very little with which to work.

And even if you don't believe in God, you claim to believe in humanity. But you begrudged it.

Even to sandwich such a sad issue like homelessness in with your prophetic tree frog and your wedding dress shopping is so dismissive!

I NEVER leave critical comments on people's blogs. But you really don't seem to have any idea how this post comes across and since you put it out there, and you linked to it, and you're trying to drive more traffic to it, and you're trying to become a writer, I couldn't in good conscience walk by and just toss you a measly dollar.

Best of luck with not stepping on the tree frog, finding the right dress, and dealing with "the bums".

--

Natasha,
Your blog is very pretty. I like the scarf in your picture and I dig most of the to do's on your bucket list. I figured this place was as good as any to post a reply to your criticism (ie: MY first hate mail.)

What can I say? I refer to bums as bums. It rolls off the tongue.

I realize it's less P.C. than "homeless person," "man on the street," or "transient.” I've learned from many conversations with bums that street peeps resent the word transient. Most of these guys/gals hang around one city block longer than I've lived in some apartments. And since “homeless man" or "man on the street" sounds too Phil Collins, and since most of the ones I interact with nearly every day tend to do a lot of bumming around, I’ll stick with bums.

Despite my crude sense of humor, I do have a heart. I’m a sucker for GD bums. In fact, I have friends with much more sarcastic senses of humor who've suggested I suffer from, “a Pollyanna complex.”

Note: I only had two bucks on me that day.

Note: When my boyfriend moved out of his apartment two years ago, I delivered a stack of his old blankets and pillows to a man sleeping on the sidewalk. Having observed this man earlier in the day on a bike ride, I returned with my car and the bedding, careful not to wake the old bugger as I set a pillow by his head.

Good lord, Mormon. I wasn't passing judgment. Sure the guy's foot was battered, but no more than mine after a muddy music festival and a bad fall. His request for foot ointment WAS a new plea. Usually I get asked for cigarettes, quarters, dollar bills, lighters, etc ... And usually these requests are followed by - or preceded by - a catcall.

Was I cavalier? Probably. Am I always cavalier? No. Was this post an honest snapshot of the day? Sure. Did I embellish his wound by calling it "gangrenous?" Probably. I'm a writer not a doctor.

As for driving this guy to a walk-in clinic, if I were to personally escort every ailing person I pass to a medical facility in St. Pete, I'd log more miles than a NYC cab.

Natasha, your blog is lovely. And I mean that sincerely. My boyfriend was "following" you on Twitter and since I'm a blogger with limited readership I figured I'd follow you too. I wanted to share my posts. The "spam barrage of links" on my Twitter feed is the only way I know how to draw traffic to my site, that and Facebook and MySpace. As irritating and exhausting as social networking sites can be, they’ve introduced me to a bevy of talented writers and photographers.

Like you, I just want to make people laugh and think and come back for more. If my "behavior" chaps your ass, I encourage you to read more of my posts. I'm much more than a bum-bashing pisspot.

Also, by scolding my dismissive behavior you totally overlooked my two favorite literary devices - juxtaposition and symbolism. The post that left you AGHAST had both.

Having said all that, thank you for your comment. I’m tickled by hate mail too. I was working on a freelance piece about a Tuskegee Airman when I read your comment. It woke me up and carried me through to deadline.

Maybe we can be friends.

--

Hi, Heidi. (That was the name of our favourite cat, by the way.)

Okay, first of all, I did not give you hate mail. I didn't call you stupid or use crude language. I was commenting on your behaviour and I believe my writing left it open as a dialogue.

I sort of hear you on the symbolism and juxtaposition thing. Sort of. I wrote a post about my Twitter philosophy that got me MY first critical comment, except that unlike my comment to you, this one attacked ME personally instead of just my behaviour. And the reason she attacked me was because she didn't notice the symbolism in the very thing she was criticizing: I was telling people who use Twitter to tell me (or you or any other Twitter follower) how they could make them happy, make them "remarkable", etc. etc. I objected to the arrogant language by using it myself to say, "Maybe I can help YOU!" and then proceeded to tell them a better way to use Twitter and it was TOTALLY on purpose and some readers picked up on it.

Speaking of which, here is what I wanted to tell you: People want to get to know you. If you tweeted little random thoughts, links to other things on the web, comments back to people, and funny observations, only then intermingling links to your blog, you'd get a lot more followers and ones who would be following not out of obligation but because they found you engaging. Twitter really is about relationships. But when all your tweets are about your blog, it looks like you don't want a relationship. You just want to talk about you.

And that's NOT a criticism. I am not suggesting that there's any symbolism there with how you use Twitter. You just started. And normally I don't even bother to tell people how to use it better but I could tell you weren't just some big business jerk-off and I liked your blog title.

However, approaching your point about symbolism and juxtaposition, I don't see it. If we're going to critique it as a piece of writing, here goes: It read like a "Here's what I did today" diary type post. It did not seem to have a moral, a lesson, etc. There was no point. Which is fine, for a blog post. Not all of my posts have a point. But for there to be juxtaposition or symbolism as a creative writing tool, there needs to be a point that is magnified by those tools.

And because it doesn't look like there was any intended point besides to give a snapshot of your day and your life (and your character, so it seemed) it did put you in a bad light. As I said, I didn't think you realized how it made you look and how it encouraged a similar mindset for readers. A few of these points that you're saying here, could have been included. Like how often you're catcalled, etc. You could have worked it in without breaking up the writing.

My heart is warmed to hear about you dropping off the blankets and I don't doubt you're telling the truth.

I'm friends with lots of people and you've made it clear that you can have a mature dialogue and are not easily offended. So, SURE!

--

PS. I took the photo above a year ago on a bike ride through downtown St. Pete. It is the staircase of the country's first open-air post office. Built in 1916, the St. Petersburg Post Office was designed by George Stuart, an architect who served as a captain in the Canadian militia in the 1890s. After he was shot in the neck by an arrow in Canada's Last Indian War, Stuart moved to Texas – where they used guns. Eventually he retired to St. Petersburg, Fla. (go figure) where he designed the St. Petersburg Yacht Club, the post office and dozens of gothic-y homes. I thought it was an appropriate picture given the context.