Almost without fail, after I turn on the lights, by the time I make it to my cube Clingerstein has made his way into the narrow hallway that leads to my cube. It’s very Pavlovian. He’ll position himself in front of the printer or the window and obstruct my path. Of course, to establish some degree of believability, he’ll turn his back to me and pretend he can’t hear me coming, even though my keys are jangling and I’m a notorious shuffler. Next, he’ll turn around and act SHOCKED to see me. OH MY GOD! PEOPLE COME TO WORK!! It’s so exciting for him that he can barely contain himself. It’s an added bonus if you’re close enough to him that when he turns around “shocked” he gets to touch your shoulders so he doesn’t fall on top of you as he’s pretending to take a step back to his cube.

I used to take this bait, but now I don’t. I’ll avert my eyes, check my iPhone, and mumble “good morning.” He’ll try to start dialog by asking me about my weekend or some inane thing he knows about me, and I’ll mumble some short response and fire up my PC, which makes phase 1 of Operation Engage Poor Alaine a fail for now. But it’s not over.

I have to have my free coffee in the morning, so I’ll grab the tumbler and head to the break room, and guess who’s there. Guess. (This is Phase 2.) So I’ll pour my coffee and answer his annoying questions in my usual mumble voice and every now and again throw in a statement about how early it is and how grumpy I am in the morning. And then I’ll scurry away with him following close behind.

These two routines of mine feed the clinger, but I can’t really change them. I have to turn the lights on–working in the dark makes me sleepy. And I have to have my morning coffee–not having it makes me a menace to society. Mumbling is the quick solution, but it’s by no means a kill.

Phase 3 of Operation Engage Poor Alaine involves me cracking open my yogurt, opening up the NY Times webpage, and getting a little mind edification to ease into the day. Often, I’ll put on my headphones to send a very powerful message: eff off. At this point, Mr. Clingerstein will print something, and unfortunately the printer is right in front of my desk. To counter Mr. C’s move, I’ll open up my Lotus Notes and compose a new message to my grandmother. The point is to type feverishly to give the impression that I’m so very extremely busy and that now isn’t a good time to bother me. Mr. C. will then stretch and turn toward me and stand on tiptoe to peek over my monitor and catch my eye. I’ve learned to resist looking back at him and to just keep typing. Engaging him at this point will result in his taking approximately 45 minutes of my time telling the same story I’ve heard 604 times. And his stories always involve sniggering, which is poison to me, especially in the morning. Sniggering is an act of terrorism, and the offenders should be waterboarded. Anyway, so the feverish typing will send him away momentarily, and he’ll then start walking laps around the cube area, which means he’ll pass right in front of my cube two or three times. If you show one moment of weakness, one tiny bit of eye contact, you’ll pay.

Next comes Phase 4. Since my cube faces the window, Mr. C. has decided a plant needs to go there–a plant that he maintains. After I have brilliantly avoided all of his attempts at engagement thus far, it’s now time for him to tend to the plant. He needs to pull the dead leaves off and deposit them into my garbage can, all the while trying to start conversation with me about the plant or the weather or the traffic that’s visible from the window. So I type even more feverishly. (Notice that there’s no enjoyment here–you can’t pause to actually eat your yogurt or to read.) Next, he needs to grab the jug sitting next to the plant, which he has filled with water and some sort of powdered plant food that miraculously hasn’t dissolved over the course of 24 hours. He’ll pound on the jug and and shake it and turn it upside down. Alaine doesn’t bite. She’s learned. Next, he’ll empty the water into the plant and he’ll place the empty jug beside the plant.

Several minutes later, it will occur to him that he needs to refill the jug, so he returns, peeks over my monitor, and tries to start conversation. I resist. He will then carry the jug away to fill it and then return and place it next to the plant. Then he’ll start the laps again.

This scenario occurs every morning without fail. Manic nirvana occurs for him when he can position himself in a place where you have to say “excuse me” to get by him. This means you have initiated conversation with him, and there’s nothing in the world more exciting than that.

If you go too long without engaging him, he gets visibly upset. His face turns red, his mouth turns down, and he will refuse to look at you when you pass him in the hallway. This is OK with me, and he eventually gets over it anyway. The point is not to make an enemy of him, but to keep myself from getting extremely pissed off after he wastes an hour of my time every day. It’s not worth the high blood pressure and, frankly, it’s not my responsibility to indulge his need to cling. Another pitfall of engaging him is that he’ll start conveniently forgetting how to do things like use the software we’ve all been using for a decade, and he’ll have to call you over to help him through it.

It’s hard to know which is more annoying: the actual clinging, or the fact that he thinks he’s not being transparent by positioning himself in my path. I often wonder if he really thinks my intelligence level is so low that I can’t catch on to his act. As I’m writing this blog (hey, a girl needs a break every now and then from work), he’s pacing by my cube, looking out the window, trying to catch my eye. Or anyone’s eye. Maybe I could defenestrate him. Nah. And there he is again. Pacing by.

In summary, I wish I had a pack of guard dogs in my cube.

The skinny on N vs. S is this: The N’s—they like abstractions and possibilities and cuckoo s***. The S’s—they don’t like that at all. They like the facts, the data, the boring s***. When it comes to blows, the N’s would describe the S’s as shallow (deep as a Dixie cup, I’ve heard it said), and the S’s would describe the N’s as “out there.” These descriptions are proven and have been tested in a laboratory at an extremely prestigious university. So there you go.

Anyway, if you’re in a new relationship, and your communication style is opposite, then your relationship will either be short-term, or it will become swiftly unfulfilling, and you’ll find yourself wanting to focus your attention on something other than your shallow or cuckoo partner. This is just my prediction. Don’t get mad.

I’ve created the following cheat sheet to help people figure out early on what they’re in for. This list provides the temperament, followed by the dating warning sign each one should wear.

• INTP: “I’m emotionally inaccessible and I’m way smarter than you. Cope if you want.”
• INTJ: “I scowl when I’m content, sad, happy, ecstatic, surprised, pleased, vexed, or experiencing ennui. Cope or don’t.”
• ENTJ: “I will boss your ass around nine ways from Tuesday, soldier! After you cope, drop and give me twenty!”
• ENTP: “I know every gd thing, and I’ll let you know about it by running that fact in a verbal loop every twenty minutes. Live with it.”

• ISTP: “I’m so freaking dour I can hardly stand myself. Take it or leave it.”
• ISTJ: “I’m pretty damned boring, but I’ll never bounce a check. There’s no reason this fact shouldn’t meet with your expectations.”
• ESTJ: “If you need an opinion about someone or something, no need to ask. I’ll furnish you with your opinions in a rapid-fire hurry. Know it.”
• ESTP: “I live in a state of constant competition (yes, with you, too), and I have no impulse control. Wanna grab a beer?”

• INFP: “I’m an emotional wreck most of the time, and my goal is to know every gd thought you’ve ever had so I can use this info in warfare against you later. Love you.”
• INFJ: “I have no sense whatsoever of the real world, but I will expect you to conform in every way to my ideals. Love you (conditionally).”
• ENFJ: “I will thrust my feelings (and I have lots of them) on you and everyone you love. Believe it.”
• ENFP: “I will prattle on and on and on incessantly, and I will do so loudly, and I will make sure to choose the most controversial topic available.”

• ISFP: “I have no goals to speak of, but I’m good at fixing things, if I can ever get around to it. Later.”
• ISFJ: “I worry way too much, and I’m what you might call a bitcher. Conform.”
• ESFJ: “I have very clear ideas about how everything works, even you. If you break a rule, I will abandon you.”
• ESFP: “I am the most superficial dumbass you’ll ever meet. But I’m charming, and you’ll love me. Rock on!”

To sum up, cross-date at your own risk.

In the night I hear ‘em talk,
The coldest story ever told,
Somewhere far along this road
He lost his soul
To a woman so heartless…

This is what happens in March. That is to say, nothing good ever, ever, ever happens in March. I don’t know what it is about me and March, but it’s not good. (Do I need to say it again?) It’s NOT GOOD.

But things like these never get wings and take off. Just as March is drawing to a close, and I’m inches from selling all my stuff, quitting my job, and moving to a nice horse ranch somewhere, March ends, and people go back to their typical weird selves. Sometimes I wonder if that’s just too bad. Maybe March is more like a window–an opportunity to start a new life. The way it feels from this end is that I just need to hunker down, avoid eye contact, and plow through the time until the shining light of April becomes visible on the other end. I walk toward it, arms outstretched like a Ghost Whisperer character, hoping I don’t trip into a bear trap or slip on marbles.

But it is what it is. Alaine Nation, this is your March. Good day.

However, Super Bowl invitations went out, and of course he accepted for the both of us. The assumption is always that chicks who complain about football all year will somehow feel differently when the SB rolls around. Thing is…I don’t.

I think I can enjoy the people for a little while, but doesn’t the thing last about four hours? Geez. I’m wiping away a tear just thinking about giving away four hours of my life to watch a bunch of dudes engage in idolatry. Glory to Green Bay in the highest.

I munna be honest witch ya. I know that Pittsburgh is playing, but I have no idea who the other team is. I know it’s not the Cowboys or the Texans or the Broncos. And I’m pretty sure it’s not the Saints or the Dolphins or the Spurs. I’m sensing that it’s a cold place. Yes, very cold.

I don’t go to Mary Kay parties, and I’m not particularly feminine. (“That girl has a mouth on her.”) And it’s not that I hate football; it’s just that it takes forEVER to finish a game, and, besides, I can just go to CNN and see how it ended.  Life’s about the destination, not the journey. Now you know.

Anywho, I’m not going to complain about going to the dang SB party, but I think I might let Mr. Nation know that he owes me one and that he might be accompanying me to New In Town or He’s Just Not That Into You.

My point is that I wasn’t born with the football gene, so I don’t get the rush of adrenaline when someone defends his house. So if I were given a choice between a Mary Kay party and a SB party, I’m going to have to go with MK.

But still. How rude am I? Very.

And it’s also on this interesting day that you discover that weirdness in others–the ones who were SOOOO selective about who they invited to their Christmas parties. And they try to hide it from you that you weren’t invited.

It’s a wicked path through the weeds roun’ here some days.

You’re going to be overcommitted for the next month, and that’s something you should just resign yourself to. Also, you’re about to run out of money and, chances are, someone in your family is going to either create a drama or resurrect some old drama that hasn’t received proper attention in a very long time.

There’s really nothing you can do about it, aside from converting to Judaism, and that’s just going to royally piss your great-grandmother off, and she’ll promptly purse her lips and write your @$$ out of the will.

Now is a good time to work on your coping skills. Here’s a tip for you that oftentimes works for me.

Over the next month, assign a neutral object (or phenomenon) to people who might annoy you. The reason for this assignation is to emphasize that it’s easier to forgive an object than it is to forgive a human, because human motives are mostly unknown, and oftentimes not worth spending brain time on. (This experiment will require that you have a large supply of nouns at your disposal, so prepare for that.)

Here’s an example. Let’s say you’re at home wrapping presents and whistling a happy tune, and then the phone jangles and it’s your dear and high-maintenance cousin Sarah Beth. She wants to talk to you about how last year at Christmas dinner you used an expletive at the table, and she wants to make sure that this year you be very careful with your words because li’l Trevor is off-the-charts intelligent and will definitely store your foul language in his photographic memory.

Here’s where you assign an object to Sarah Beth. We’ll go with fire hydrant.

Without the object, you would roll your eyes, correct Sarah Beth on her assessment of her child’s intellectual abilities, tell her she’s uptight, assure her that you plan on using whatever f***ing words you please, and then let her know that THIS is why her husband hates her.

Productive? No. Worth the back-and-forth yarping that will ensue? Absolutely not.

With the object, you can refill your wine glass, turn up the music, continue wrapping your gifts, and let the fire hydrant sit on the other end of the line and talk about how dogs urinate on her, firefighters abuse her, and teenagers vandalize her. And that’s too bad. And that’s the end of your obligation to her.

And my thoughts are lucid now, so I’m going to also say that energy drinks may have too much caffeine, at least for me. Also, I read that some of the other ingredients–vitamins such as niacin and riboflavin–are water soluble and so your body just flushes them out because chances are, unless you live in an undeveloped country, your bod’s already fully stocked on these things.

I didn’t like breaking this news to myself.

The caffeine high I got from energy drinks seemed to convince me that I actually liked the flavor, just as the alcohol in a margarita convinces me that I like the flavor. The truth is, if there were a caffeine-free herbal tea flavored to taste like energy drinks, I wouldn’t drink it. Likewise, I’m not going to drink frozen lime and sugar by themselves. Add tequila to the mix, however, and I am SO IN. Add tequila to oatmeal, I’ll eat it. OK, just kidding. Don’t judge me.

To sum up, I miss my Diet Dr. Peppers. I would like to dedicate this song…from Alaine to Diet DP (and Pepsi). I love you very much and miss you terribly.

Alaine, here’s your request and dedication. Click Here (imeem)