I could easily go into business with all the thingys that guys end up leaving at my house. I could make a fortune. The only trouble is, I’d run out of space to put the stuff.

First there was the guy who left his expensive runner’s shirt and socks. We had both thought it was an omen; that it meant he was to be back for another round of fun—no such luck. His stuff ended up at Goodwill. Then the next guy left his shorts and socks (what is this thingy with leaving socks at my house, anyway?). His I easily threw away as I was afraid I would be contaminated by his dandruff, which happened to turn up everywhere, including the back of my lipstick red couch.

Then there is the short-term (two and a half week) tenant, who I was helping out. He left behind a plastic lid container and (what else?) a lone sock that was in the dryer. Recently when my daughter still lived with me, her boyfriend left various socks and undies around the house. And there’s the most recent trail: a guy I have dated for around two-and-a-half weeks; he left his cell phone and—naturally—a pair of his socks. I’d like to think that the guy who left his cell phone was connected with me on a deeper level than the other ones. At least that’s what he continually told me. Our very first meeting included a very sweet kiss in the center of a very chaotic and busy restaurant. From there on, we touched one another’s hearts with our hands and it only became more exciting and sweet, at the same time. And now I have his cell phone (and socks). I tried paging him, yet he hasn’t responded; I don’t know if the call goes to his cell phone—however as I paged him, I watched his cell for signs of movement and didn’t see any. So maybe he’s just playing coy. Or maybe his cell phone is turned off. Either way, it’s a sad tale: he and I really clicked (as he mentioned, several times); we really connected on many levels.

This morning he told me he wished we had met a year later. He’s a married man, separated and living apart only two months. He most definitely isn’t as available as I had thought, since he didn’t disclose this information until our first date, halfway through dinner.

Oh, the woes of contemporary dating. At least—as a writer who loves to write about relationships—it gives me plenty of fodder. So the question is this: is the fodder/writing more vital to a writer than the quality of relationships? If these guys were ultimately boooring, could I write about them, would I want to? I’m an obsessive writer—it’s always going on in my head, whether or not I pursue it onto paper or computer. Do I create all this drama just to have something to write about? And is there a deeper meaning to the left behind socks? Could it mean I'm not grounded, but flying willy-nilly in unfettered bare feet? And is this a bad thingy, necessarily?

This is getting a bit too heavy for my little brain; I think I’ll hermit myself awhile and look for some missing socks at my house—in the meantime, I’ll be writing about it.