It was one year ago today that my iBook came via FedEx.

And since then?

No blue screen of death.

No weird errors.

No weird virii.

No problems connecting with the wifi.

I’m not saying Macs are perfect, or that they’re perfect for everyone. But Martin (my iBook) is one of the best investments I’ve ever made.

Happy Birthday, my wee milky Apple.

Thanks for not sucking.

I’m an arguer. I like to argue. Not because I’m a (complete) jerk, but because I’m passionate.

I know.

I laughed at me, too, right then.

And I realize that I just used passionate as a synonym for pain in the ass.

But that’s me. I’m a former debater. A trivia/fact/philosophy nerd. A girl with an elephant memory for conversations and statements. A girl unafraid of speaking her mind. And consequently, a single girl. You’d think there would be at least one man out there who can handle the verbal sparring, wouldn’t you? No?

Damn.

I mean, don’t get the wrong idea.

I don’t insult, I don’t belittle, I don’t nag. That would be lame. And mean. And I am neither lame nor mean. I’m not one for questioning the intelligence of my opponents or mocking their views or slamming their ethical viewpoints.
I just tend to be a little more animated — and more blunt — than is absolutely necessary. And incredulous.

For some reason, this hasn’t gone over beautifully with the kind of men I seem drawn to: easygoing, soft-spoken, fiercely anti-conflict, sunnily-optimistic types.

They like my “passion” as far as expressing my ideas and my loves and my joie de vivre goes… as long as we’re in agreement. In fact, it’s one of the things that men often appreciate most about me, along with my love of televised sports and Dave Chappelle and not asking if I look good in what I’m wearing… along with my ability to grin at very, very inappropriate things.

But when we disagree, I think they’d rather I just shrug and smile or — better yet! — be magically persuaded to their point of view. Like, now. Right now. Before I take exception or cock an eyebrow or simply say, “Wha?!”

Oops.

The quote I hear most often?

“Can we just drop it?”

And granted, as I get older, I’m learning to do that more and more, but I don’t think I’ll ever get really good at putting down my Nerf Bat to concede that Cory Stillman isn’t a bum or The West Wing isn’t a pander-fest or that it’s okay to call women “bitches” or that Jewel can actually sing.

Or, you know, not pushing questions like, “Why are you so terrified of trusting anyone?” or “Why are you still looking for a perfect woman?”

Because, you know… I’d like to know.

I must say that I rarely argue with my female friends. And it’s not because we don’t ever disagree. It’s more likely because we tend to veer from topic to topic so quickly that conflict falls by the wayside in favour of a new idea or a total conversational switch. Not to mention that the whole sexual chemistry thing is absent, so I’m less charged in the way I communicate. Or is it bigger than that?

Am I actually a really lame episode of Moonlighting?

Or a Meg Ryan movie?

Or am I putting men — one of which I plan to keep for the rest of his life, no takebacks — to the test to ensure that, no matter how bad it gets (I get), they’re still going to be there?

Yeah.

Because the ones that hold their ground and don’t walk away?

Those are the ones I love.

Oy.

I guess it’s me that’s the terrified one. You’d think I was used to being alone by now, but at the end of the day, it probably scares me more than anything else.

I want a guy who can read me like a book and call me on the last chapter before I even know I’m working on it.

I want a guy who doesn’t view disagreement as the end of the world.

I want a guy who tells me what he thinks and trusts that, when I’m done asking questions about it, I’ll get it. And if I don’t get it, I won’t stop trying. And that I accept him even if I never quite understand.

I want a guy who will watch me get into a red-faced monologue about something entirely not that important, and laugh.

And deal with the aftermath of laughing at me.

And not leave.

Is that too much to ask?

I never really thought of myself as difficult until recently. In fact, I used to think I was a martyr/placator/pollyanna.

But anyone who has ever watched Oprah with me knows that isn’t nearly the case. Or, you know, watched a hockey game.

First morning back at work after the longest vacation EVER in the history of Meg.

Several shocking things have already occurred:

• I ate breakfast! WHAT?! Yes, indeed, a bowl of Kashi. I’m now all about the “I never do that!” activities. But it took a long time. You really need to chew that Kashi. I was pretty tired by the last spoonful, but there was no time to nap again before I had to leave.

• I packed a lunch. WHAT?! Yes, indeed, a tuna sandwich on flax bread, coronation grapes, and carrot sticks. And, uh, Pepperidge Farms soft cookies. BECAUSE IT’S MY FIRST DAY BACK.

• A man I have never noticed before on the bus said, “You’re back!” Oy.

• I had 466 emails. Meep.

• I look less tan under these lights. Dammit.

• I missed my co-workers. They are very cute. Woo!