Okay. Dissect this one: He doesn't pick up the phone to call, and by extension, doesn’t return phone messages. He doesn't e-mail. By all indications, he doesn't think about me at all.

But he sends me a present?

On Saturday, I got a really lovely gift from him -- nothing huge; just something he saw while online and knew I would love -- that is the kind of thoughtful, no-occasion-necessary consideration that makes him so generous and special. And yet, what the hell? Not to sound ungrateful, because I'm totally not, but he can get the urge to give me something and yet he doesn't actually want to talk to me? What is going on here?

I wish you could've seen my face and Lauren's when it happened. We were standing in the middle of the living room holding the box, our faces a perfect mixture of "Oh my God, how awesome!" and "WHAAAAA??!?!?!?!" Every so often for the rest of the day, we'd gesture to it and go, "What the…? I mean, it's so nice, but I don't…. it's…. huh?"

I'm confused. Flattered that he did it, but totally flummoxed because it doesn't line up with the rest of his behavior. Apparently we're going to have That Conversation sooner, rather than later, because just when I'd started to give up on the idea that we'd be remaining close friends, he goes and does something that indicates we are indeed still close friends in his mind. That, or he needed to spend a little more cash at Crate & Barrel to get free shipping.

Oooh, maybe I cracked it.

But, no, I'll give credit where it's due -- he had a really sweet, thoughtful impulse, and that's awesome. And so, so, SO not befitting what our relationship -- or lack thereof -- has been the past month.

Oh well. He'll be getting another phone call tonight… that he will promptly neither answer nor return. And this strange, illogical cycle can continue unbroken.

Jessica's birthday bash was Saturday night, and it was the kind of evening where I came away wishing I'd spoken to everyone for longer, rather than running around saying little bits of stupid things to everyone.

Dr. No and I had a long and totally hilarious -- to us -- conversation about how Paula Abdul is the Ralph Wiggum of American Idol. "Your face is like sunshine, and you sang a song. Simon?" … "Sleep! That's where I'm a Viking. Simon?"

This went on for a while, and if memory serves, we repeated it a lot to whomever would listen. But we were laughing hard enough to hurt my stomach.

And then Lauren made out with him, just because she felt like it. Poor Dr. No. Is it in his contract that he has to get tongued by one or all of us every single time we go out and drink? After Lauren smooched him I said, "Hey, I've done that! Look, I can do it too!" I kissed him for about a second and then slurred, "I didn't get to kiss you as long as Lauren did, so don't judge me. No judgment! Just Wiggum." Or something. I'm not sure. He was so calm about it, though. So accepting of these apparently fated molestations. We're all going, "Hey, look! Dr. No is adorable. Even though he doesn't like us That Way, we should probably lick some part of his body!" He is brave.

Jessica, meanwhile, is piecing together the night. She was drunk when we got there; ergo, way drunker by the time she left. But she's the opposite of most people. Usually, people who get that loaded wake up the next morning thinking, "Man, I had a fantastic time! So great." Yet through the course of the day, they realize how much they don't remember, and the horror grows as people fill in the blanks.

Not Jessica. She woke up worrying in advance about the doubtless terrifying acts of lunacy she surely committed in her drunken stupor, only to hear nice story after nice story, and compliment after compliment that she'd bestowed upon us. The drunker she got, the more she went around and told each of us that we were extremely talented and pretty, and that if she were a hot heterosexual guy, she'd want to date us. She hugged more and more people. And she's a good hostess, too -- last night she lamented that when she introduced me to her friend C., she'd meant to tell me that C. used to work in soaps for a while. "But you did tell me that," I said.

Pause.

"I did?" she squeaked.

"Sure! See, even when you're loaded, you're introducing people with meaningful details," I said.

"I guess! Apparently I'm Bridget Jones," Jessica sighed.

It was a great night. We were surrounded by friends and alcohol, so we laughed constantly, even if we did pay the price the next morning with hangovers ranging from bad headaches to What Is That Suspicious Smell Emanating From My Bedskirt?

I wish I'd talked to this one and this one more. I wish Jessica's friend C. had heard me say something even mildly intelligent. I think I frightened her. And I meant to talk to Mac and Aletha more, and also Grant and his boyfriend, but somehow my attention span was extremely poor. Hmm. I wonder why.

Happy Birthday, Jess!

Someone got here by searching for: Lauren Jessica Playboy… Nice, ladies! Reading: Still A Walk In The Woods -- I finally worked through a chunk of it last night and it's just so good. Watching: Let's see. As I spent all day on the couch yesterday going, "Ohhhhhh," I went through: The Indianapolis 500, Back to the Future, two old episodes of Melrose Place courtesy of the Style Network, part of Toy Story, part of The Rocketeer, and the last forty-five minutes of Blue Crush. That's some good couch potatoing right there. Let's not even talk about what I ate.

This entry as a poem:
Dancing Brave: For longer, rather Putting It
Away • Okay. Dissect this material
is like us every single
time. So we were laughing hard enough to
whomever would listen. But
totally not Even if she
lamented that when she woke up worrying in his boyfriend,
but we should probably
lick some good hostess,
too last night she
left.
Hey, look! Dr. No. give up on for
the doubtless terrifying acts
of his body! He has to
hear nice story part of
dreams.