I turn on my computer. I wait patiently as it connects. I go online. My breath catches in my chest until I hear 3 little words, "You've got mail."

(Meg Ryan in the 1998 film, You've Got Mail.)

I've been involved in an email relationship since the early part of August. It's not quite like the movie You've Got Mail, because I know the guy's name, what he looks like (cute) and I've actually been out in fresh air with him twice. (Also, we do not work in sparring bookstores.) But most of our interaction is via email.

How did I meet this guy, you ask? Through an online dating service. Yes, I went on a second date with a guy with whom I had zero chemistry and thought, well, maybe he's a "nice guy," I hear that happens sometimes. (I know of at least two women who slogged through at least 3 bad dates with the men they ended up marrying.) So I Googled "dating a nice guy" and a quiz came up, "Could you date a nice guy?" Well, yes, it turned out that I could, but in order to find that out, I had to join the dating service that sponsored the quiz. I created a user name and a password and I got my results. I was a "sweetheart" and compatible with "nice guys."

And a few days later, I got an automated email from one of the founders saying you should add a picture, answer some questions. It was a boring Sunday afternoon, so I uploaded the picture of me next to the Stanley Cup and answered some questions. I even looked at the profiles of some guys that the site thought I might match up with.

And a few days after that, I got matched with Xander (not his real name.) We emailed for about a week and then he asked me out for coffee. We share an interest in the author Malcolm Gladwell, the Harry Potter books, and movies. Finally, I have found someone who watches the movie before reading the book.

It's kind of fun and kind of scary. I do not have a lot of great dating experience under my belt, so my neurotic side comes out to taunt me a lot. Fortunately, I have amazing friends who remind me that I'm not dating those men right now, I'm dating THIS one. Who seems incredibly laid back, nice, respectful.

(I probably will not be blogging too much about this because of respect, privacy, and boundaries.)

What I'm discovering is that my encyclopedic knowledge of SATC comes in handy. Anything that could ever happen to me has happened either to one of the girls (Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte, or Miranda) or one of the writers. I'm not alone, this is not new, this has happened to someone else!!

So that's what's new in the life of Sarah Louise. What's new for you?

"Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection..."

Yesterday I went to visit Marian the Librarian. I took her a green pen that I'd purchased at our favorite lunch counter at the local pharmacy. (Yes, just like out of the fifties, we adore it.) This was not just any green pen, it was a green pen with a moppet top and when you jiggled a lever, the moppet top sprung off the end of the pen, tethered by a thin green elastic.

She loved it. As we sat there on her sofa, talking, she played with it, like I knew she would, wondering at the sheer silliness of the mechanics. I love that about Marian, that she has a childlike love for silly things. This is a woman, I recall, who bought clothes for her many WebKinz, back in the day.

I spent almost two hours with her, and she was animated, she talked, I talked, it was like old times. But when I left, I knew it wasn't like old times, she still has far to go, and so do I. She has a lot of crap to work on, and I do too. And she's not coming back to work tomorrow. And Sally isn't moving back from Michigan. I need more people in my life.

Summer is an especially hard time--folks taking vacations, spending time with their families, and oh, yeah, there was that bout of SHINGLES.

This week I peaked on Wednesday. I saw a million Cadillacs everywhere (my secret good luck charm) and I was going out to dinner with the French teacher for the second time, this time to a neighborhood Thai restaurant.

What was it like, Sarah Louise?

It was a bit like having dinner with Larry King on steroids. If I talked about the library, he wanted to know every detail about weeding books. And damaged books. And what? Classics get weeded too? I have no idea if we'll go out again, but I know this: he is a nice guy. And I've never dated one of those. So we're in uncharted territory...

How did I determine he was a nice guy? I used my deductive skills, realized he might be, and then Googled "dating a nice guy." (Ever the librarian.)

This is what I tweeted that night: no clue. not a clue. not a single solitary clue. Well, let's say I've heard stories. #cryptictweet

(The stories are of women who weren't really sure about the guy until at least a month in. One stuck around because the guy had season tickets to the Steelers. Which is not a shallow reason, if you're from Pittsburgh. She's now married and owns a home with said guy.)

And my mother? It took eight years for her to warm up to my dad. Marian said, and you're worrying about two dates?

So who knows? Well, I know one thing. I have laundry that is probably ready to be flipped down in the basement. I need clean clothes BADLY.

Ta!