I'm still alive, which is good. It's a close thing, though, or it feels that way sometimes. I'm still infected with The Plague That Will Not Die, but it's not nearly as virulent as it was. Everybody I know seems to be infected with some bug or another, so I have plenty of company.

The fact that it's so fucking cold in here probably has a lot to do with it. It's a pretty sad state of affairs when you go outside, and its 15C (59F), and windy and raining, and it actually feels warmer. Right. "Pass me my umbrella, Sweetums, I need to go outside to warm up a bit." Good lord. It's central heating, o you people of Portugal. Try it. It's a good thing.

Oh, and the plug-in rolling radiators, besides sucking expensive electricity like (insert something crude here, it's too early to think up similes that won't get me sued), don't work for shit. This afternoon, I plan to dig out my ski underwear.

Aside from working frantically on my NaNoWriMo Novel (which is going just fine by the way, thanks for asking), I haven't done all that much of interest. Women's group, getting rained on constantly, hanging out in bars all night long. The usual.

So, let's talk about other people for a change. They're more interesting.

First up: Sir.

Sir has been frantically getting ready for his Shakepeare opening night, in a last minute push to learn his lines. The playbills and posters came out last week, and I'm impressed. He signed one for me, which was just too cute-- "just in case I get famous, My First Autograph." Awww.

The frantic push to learn his lines undoubtedly has quite a bit to do with Sir having....well, let's just say other things on his mind. Yes indeedy: Sir has got himself a Girlfriend. A cute one, too, as it happens. She has a second job in a bar we frequent. Sometimes she's even the bouncer. She doesn't look like a bouncer, mind you, but she also doesn't put up with a lot of shit. Which is probably all to the good. The other weekend, they spent Sunday in bed watching dvds and eating pizza. He's met her mother-- in a bar, which is perfectly normal for Cascais. "Hey, Sir, do you know who that was?" "Why didn't you tell me before!" They do seem, however, to get on well. Apparently, she's got a good sense of humor.

Last week, they spent all evening at the mall. Shopping. For shoes. For her. Very impressive.

He's been putting a lot more effort into his lines, lately. Which is just as it should be: they open Thursday night.

Miss Kitty hasn't been left out, either, although she's not reached a happy ending as yet. She met a portuguese man, on a Saturday night, in a bar. He tells her immediately that he loves her. She wonders how this could be, seeing as they just met an hour ago. Well, he says, I've seen you before, and as soon as we spoke I felt an immediate connection.

Ah ha.

But this man is very cute, and he passed the one question quiz that should administered to any portuguese man before considering him for a date:

Question: Where do you live?
Acceptable Answer: Not at home with Mummy.

So she gave him her phone number, told him she was very busy until Wednesday but they could do coffee in the afternoon then, and had us walk her home. She hadn't been there for fifteen minutes before he's calling her. Then he left several rambling messages on Sunday, to the effect of he must see her that very day because he's "lovesick."

Ah ha.

So she calls him Sunday afternoon, says she meant it when she told him that she was busy until Wednesday, but that she was still willing to do coffee Wed afternoon. Why, I don't know-- she has another friend of ours following her around like a lovesick puppy (complete with the requisite sad eyes)-- so it's hardly desperation. He calls again Monday, and Tuesday. Wednesday rolls around, day of the Big Coffee Date-- and he doesn't call. We speculate why: he's trying to be controlling and play portuguese mind games, or possibly because it's raining and he doesn't want to get his hair wet.

He calls on Friday or Saturday, and leaves another rambling, lovesick message. He calls Sunday--"I simply must see you today"-- and Miss Kitty tells him that she's not feeling up to going anywhere. Which, as I happen to know, she wasn't. Miss Kitty has a nap and some dry toast, then feels up to meeting us for lunch around 6 pm, mainly because she has no food in the house. She gets a voicemail from Lover Boy, saying that he feels they were meant to be together, and he can't understand why, but she obviously doesn't feel the same, and how could that be, but that he won't call her anymore, but that she can call him if she wants. (Yes, it really was pretty much one sentence.)

Success, right?

Wrong, apparently, because Miss Kitty picks up the phone and calls him. She tells him that she's out with friends getting something to eat, but that he can meet her after she's finished eating, if he wants. He calls after an hour or so, and wants to know where she lives. Apparently, he thought she was planning to meet him, alone, in her house. Undoubtedly so they could discuss their rosy future together. Miss Kitty disabuses him of this notion, and he shows up shortly.

The first thing to note is that Cute at 5am in a dimly lit bar is not the same as 7pm on a Sunday evening. Fair enough, it's easy to overlook things like lardy asses under those circumstances. Happens to guys all the time, or so I hear. But still presentable, although washing the hair would have helped. The second thing is that the guy seems so normal. Intelligent, even. He's got a degree, his own business, his own apartment. Likes to read poetry, too, and history. He speaks English very well.

But when it's time for her to go, Miss Kitty catches a clue and asks Pooka Boy to walk her home. I distract him while they slip out to avoid being followed. Lover Boy was quite disappointed by that. I think he was expecting, at the very least, a kiss. But they made their getaway. I, however, was trapped, doing my best not to drown in the overflow from this guy's tortured heart. He's just an emotional kind of guy, he says. He tells me about their one, idealized dance. Their immediate "connection." His lovesickness. His bewilderment that Miss Kitty is not swooning in his arms right that very second. I have stumbled unwittingly into a Harlequin Romance.

Pooka Boy comes back, and he and Elvis and some other friends start playing darts. Without me, so I remain trapped.

Traitors.

As for Miss Kitty: will she give Lover Boy another chance? I would say NO, but then again, look at her track record concerning LB thus far.

As for Lover Boy: I realize that he's got to be at least in his mid thirties, and that he's got his own apartment and all, but what I really think is that he needs his Mommy.