This is not dedicated to A.J. Jacobs' wife

In The Know-It-All: One Man's Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World, my new favorite author A.J. Jacobs fumes about Dante and Petrarch dedicating their works of art to married women they had loved from afar for years. "Stalkers," is the word A.J. uses.

I agree with him, although I am not sure The Inferno is really a love poem. I know nothing about romance, action or getting some, but if I were wooing a woman I would not say: "Hey, I just wrote a long poem about hell and its inhabitants and I dedicated it to you." I mean maybe that is the way to a Goth girl's heart, but how many many Goth girls am I likely to woo?

The bigger problem: I think I am in love with A.J.'s wife, Julie.

He makes her sound perfect for introverted, weird writers. She does stuff and brings him along, getting him out of the house, or at least tries.

What won me over to her completely is his story on page 163, where Julie wrote "Where's Julie?" at the appropriate point in the j's of the encyclopedia he is reading. I'm still not sure why, but this may be the coolest thing I have read. It made me all tingly.

I am not sure how she feels about wheelchairs and nasty disabilities, but I have faith in her.

I have just started A.J. Jacobs' next book, The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible, and I am already getting bombarded with the coveting my neighbor's wife thing. Boy, is somebody nervous?

Beating you with a wheelchair tied behind my back

I told a former co-worker once that I was surprised how much I enjoyed competing in horse shows because I did not consider myself competitive at all. But that's not quite true.

I am competitive when people talk about their issues, and I think to myself: “You think those are issues? Those kinds of things don't even keep me up at night!”

The Washington Post Magazine's XX Files weekly column is easy to find – right next to the crossword so Dad has almost always creased own up work the puzzle – and I read it religiously, even though it has nothing to do with that awesome TV show its name plays off.

Actually the XX doesn't refer to an FBI case but chromosomes. I am actually not sure if I lose guy points for reading it, but I am confident in my manhood. And sometimes you read really strong stories, like one about a dog and a somewhat crazy man who while petting the usually scared dog told its owner: “Animals like me because they know why I'm sad."

But you also have to read ones like today's column in which a 28-year-old feels she is being left behind because her two siblings have gotten married and have one child each.

Oh please; 28 practically is a child! (The following may not be so much the good kind of bitter as pathetic rant – does it make it better that I know this -- and I am sure the 28-year-old is a wonderful person.)

Try being on the edge of your 38th birthday and the only single one among six siblings in a family where family life is of high importance. Try having no expectation of your marital status changing in one year or 10.

Try being one of two siblings (my brother who also has Friedreich's ataxia is the other) without children. The one brother who has kids has one daughter. Dad is an only child, so goodbye family name.

And I am not even directly playing the wheelchair card.

Want to go to a Springsteen concert, Natalie Portman?

I do wish Natalie Portman would hurry up and fall for me; I am getting too much practice being an also-ran.

I have written that Claren is good practice for my future life with Ms.Portman because Claren is obviously the star and I am easily overlooked.

This morning at brunch, for instance. All the little kids walking by Claren looked; one even blew her a kiss.

The Claren worship took an unexpected turn when an older lady asked if she was Marley. I am pretty sure she meant Marley, the dog from the movie Marley and Me, not say Jacob Marley from a Christmas Carol or Bob Marley.

My dog is being mistaken for a movie star.

I see this as only another plus when I am pitching woo at Ms. Portman. She won't have to hide from the paparazzi. Claren will have the attention and she will lap it up.

Ms. Portman may have to wear her disguise on our first date: I propose to take her to the Bruce Springsteen concert next week her in DC, and I would leave Claren at home.

I wasn't planning on going -- I went in Boston and I don't know that that concert can be topped. But my wonderful brother and his super-freaking-cool wife gave me their tickets because she can't go. I may have to explain things to the head of disability seating who my brother sweet-talked to get the tickets. That will be Ms. Portman's job.

My poor thighs!

I have new respect for strippers and exotic dancers after the shenanigans of last night: Metal poles are really chafing.

I was getting into bed last night, wearing just my shorts. I was holding the Super Pole with one hand when I stepped on to a shoe that I had not gotten out of the way.

WHAM, I flew into the pole.At that point if it were biblical times, you could probably say I knew the pole and we'd have to get married.

After getting over the initial shock, I then had to pull myself up the pole and into bed. Granted, it was nowhere near as graceful as what the ladies do (so I understand, never having seen that), but even if I had the ability of a veteran pole dancer, I don't think I could have escaped the rubbing.

Gals, I feel for you.

A little romance

I am only moderately embarrassed that I rarely pass by a romantic comedy when I am channel surfing. They are almost as alluring to me as Star Wars, which I will sit and watch entranced whenever I come across any of the six movies.

I suppose the romantic comedies are chick flicks, but in my defense the actresses in them are universally accepted as easy on the eyes.

That then is my chief excuse for knowing more than guys might normally know about Ever After (Drew Barrymore), 13 Going on 30 (Jennifer Garner who is also the reason I have seen Elektra more than once) or Saturday night's diversion: Reese Witherspoon's Just Like Heaven.

I came to the realization Saturday night, perhaps when Reese's character's spirit, the guy she has been haunting and one if his friends try to steal her body out of the hospital before doctors pull the plug on her (she is in a coma). It was a funny scene with the hauntee, who is now in love with spirit Reese, getting cornered in the hospital, and he is just spinning her bed this way and that to try to find an escape.

Anyway, my realization, oh yeah, that. I think I watch this type of movie because I am pretty sure that to find love I am going to need a spirit or some other supernatural thing happening.

I mean I tried the cute dog. I put Claren up against almost any adult dog just on looks and then her personality is easily too cut for words. She has a problem, though, and it is my fault. I never taught her, as my college roommate suggested, to look for wedding rings. As a result, most of her good friends at work are married women. Or perhaps it is because most of my friends are married women. Maybe we both need to work on that.

I guess I could borrow my nephew, but he already likes moms. He goes to an after-school thing and ask him who he hung out with and he says Mrs. So-and-so.

Once again, I think romantic comedy fantasy is my best bet.

You know how hard it is not to stare at breasts?

Actually, not too hard, but I wanted your attention.

I have mentioned my blessing and curse of being in a wheelchair, which puts me at eye level with gals' chests. But a new trend is developing.

Thanks to a confluence of fashion, bad hearing and a cute dog I have found myself recently on the receiving end of more than women want to show me. I assume.

The women, wearing loose shirts (the fashion), bend over to talk to me (the bad hearing) or pet Claren (the cute dog). The result is that all of a sudden my eyes are now staring down the inside of a loose shirt.

Being a gentleman, I don't look, but it is hard not to stare at breasts. Not that way. But just try obviously not looking at something. I feel like it is crystal clear what I am not looking at and I feel like a buffoon. It is like Austin Powers with Fred Savage's character "The Mole."

I swear, breasts are nothing but trouble.

SOB at the cardiologist

I went to the cardiologist yesterday and am heading back tomorrow for an echocardiogram. It's nothing unusual, just an annual visit to make sure the walls of my heart haven't gotten too thick, which happens for some people with Friedreich's ataxia. Most neurologists I have seen think I may possibyt avoid it because my FA seems to be on the less bad side. But then again, the doctors say, I may not avoid it.

I actually did not see my cardiologist, but rather the RN that works in his group, and let me tell you: She can take my vials signs anytime.

By that, of course, I mean I felt very confident and relaxed in the capable hands of this fine medical professional. Also, she was easy on the eyes, although too old for me. I would guess she was 40. HEE

I told her the only cardiac symptom I had was trouble catching my breath (I'll pause here while every family member, at least, takes a deep breath). She wrote on my chart "SOB." I hope this stands for "shortness of breath," and is not some medical shorthand for either, "this son of a bitch is wasting my time" or "poor son of a bitch, he'll be dead in a week." Or maybe it was short for "I spent umpteen years in medical school, and this son of a bitch is judging me on my looks."

I guess I'll know if I go in for the echo, and my chart says "JACKASS."

What a drag it is getting old

I realized recently that I am in my late 30s.

I figured this because a decade has 10 years and dividing it into early, middle and late makes each third 3 1/3. So the switch from middle to late occurs at 6 2/3 years in the decade. For me that was about March 29.

I suggested to a friend at work that my snazzy new wheelchair might be the equivalent of a sports car for able-bodied men going through a midlife crisis. I didn't tell her that according to pamphlets on Friedreich's ataxia I am on the downside of life (not that I am going to stand for that shit).

My friend laughed and told me that maybe I could find a younger babe. I assume she meant younger than me because I do not have a current babe to trade in on a younger one.

I did tell her I didn't think trophy wives were for my kind of thing … unless they were really hot. She laughed again, which is one reason I like her -- she finds me funny -– and told me it was good to have standards.

I may not need standards, it turns out.

Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Gene Weingarten writes today about an article in the Atlantic Monthly that advises women to settle for a decent guy, not Mr. Right as they get older.

Now Gene suggests that this might not be the worst thing in the world as far as his male readers are concerned. As a successful 30-something (albeit late 30s) straight and single man, I initially was right there with Gene's readers.

As I read the Atlantic article, though, I started feeling kind of bad. I don't want some woman just settling for me because, say, I provide a second income.

Then I started feeling worse because the women are encouraged to settle so they can have help putting kids to bed, changing diapers, etc. FA does not make those things easy. I guess I could change a diaper if no pins were involved and I didn't mind taking a shower afterward because I suspect I would be a full-contact diaper changer. But I might need almost as much help as I provide, so the settling woman might be out of the question.

To sum up, then: I got a wheelchair for a midlife crisis and I am not the type of guy desperate women will even settle for. Jealous as hell, aren't you?

I guess I'll wait for Natalie Portman to realize she has an endearing love for a guy she has never met. It could happen. And I'd settle for Alyson Hannigan.

What an eyeful

I think I owe the Internet an apology.

I did a Google search this morning of eyeful, expecting to be inundated with sites of nekkid ladies. The first result seemed promising but turned out to be a news story about a mom breast-feeding in public.

I had to go to page seven of the search results to find a definite hit for nakedness. I assume the link "Yvette Gives An Eyeful" was to a questionable site. I didn't look. Really.

On the first six pages were results about celebrities, science images and photos in general. That is basically what Merriam-Webster would expect to find: It says that eyeful means a "a full or completely satisfying view." In my defense, "a strikingly beautiful woman" is definition number two. But apparently the Web is not just about babes. Who knew?

Unfortunately, when I say "I got an eyeful this morning," I don't mean I opened the door to Natalie Portman.

No, I mean Metamucil gushed into my eye.

I was having my morning toddy (definition No. 2, Metamucil is better warm, but no liquor), and during the drink I coughed. This threw me off-balance, and my arm jumped. The drink spilled and somehow went under my glasses and in my right eye. I don't think my eye, which has been savaged by allergies already, needed the fiber. It still stings.

I really wish Natalie had been at my door instead.

Matt's best friend

One of the hardest things I do these days is going to work without Claren.

It isn't that everyone ignores me and asks where my service dog is. I will admit that got old real fast when I couldn't bring Claren in because I broke my collar bone. Here I am with a bloody brace, and people are asking if my dog is OK.

I just miss her badly. I look under my desk to get her before I go anywhere. I leave things on the floor because she is not there to reach them.

She has become a part of me, and when she is not there I am not all there either.

Claren pulled a muscle Sunday, I think, so she had to stay home Monday because she could not really walk. She was limping around and looking pathetic.

I don't know if I looked pathetic but I sure felt it. I told my little sister that I wanted to cry or barf. I missed Claren; I was worried about her; it just didn't feel right without her.

Maybe it is a good thing I have no prospects for a girlfriend; she or Claren would be way jealous. (Note to Natalie Portman: We would totally figure it out.)

I'll decide tomorrow whether to give her another sick day, but I am loathe too do it. If she is out sick, I wind up feeling poopy.

What I'd give for a few sourcesI

I hate reporting.

In college I got taken to task by the head of the board of visitors at UVa. for something. My editor in chief did not seem to think it was a big deal, so he was probably just mad, the story was not wrong.

Some peaceniks got so mad at me they complained, too. I went to their meeting and just listened. I didn't tell them I was a reporter, not that I hid it, I just didn't stop their meeting, stand up and announce myself. I did tell the people near me, but one of them wrote a letter accusing me of deceit. I rolled my eyes, but wish I had figured out a way to tell people I was a reporter.

In grad school, I tried to interview a scientist who reportedly was the basis for Jeff Goldbloom's character in Jurassic Park. I was pretty excited, but he turned out to be kind of a jerk. He answered every question with a one-word answer. It was probably my fault -- I should have asked better questions -- but still.

I don't mind answering questions and talking about myself, but I always felt like I was imposing as a reporter. Plus, hearing and writing fast have never been my strong suits, and they are really crummy now.

Nevertheless, I wanted to be a journalist. Gay Talese says in The Kingdom and The Power that Harrison Salisbury of the New York Times was destined for journalism because he was very shy and very curious.

That's me, so I became an editor. That way I could just read stuff.

But with my friends, I find myself back in the reporter role because they don't volunteer much. I have to ask. It is hard for me, and everyone, I am sure, and when I find something obvious out that I didn't know I feel stupid.

For instance, I did not know this couple at work was dating until I got an invitation to their wedding. Well, not an invitation really. It was an email from the groom that he had sent to a number of folks telling us about the wedding website and mentioning that one could RSVP there. I did nothing because I never got an invite to RSVP to. Then I got another email that went to a subset of that first email's respondents asking everyone to please RSVP. I emailed him back that I had never been invited so I didn't RSVP. That was the last I heard from him.

Another for instance: I found out a friend has a boyfriend. Part of me was glad because she is smart, funny, cool and beautiful, and I would hope someone like that would have someone. A little part of me was glad. Mostly, I was kind of sad. She was, I thought, my only unattached friend, and it made me feel better about my unattached status. If she did not have someone, how the heck could I? She doesn't have to deal with a wheelchair. I'd be lying, too, if I didn't say that part of me held out hope we could be unattached together in some way, shape or form.

My friends rarely vent to me either, which maybe I should be glad about. But it actually makes me feel a little left out. My little sister said people probably feel a little stupid venting to someone in a wheelchair, but I miss it. I never think or say: "You think that's bad; try getting into a wheelchair from the floor, you lazy ass." It would make me feel more normal to have regular problems to think about.

I guess I need to do some more reporting, but what if I get sued for slander?

I guess I need gloves

Probably I should be looking at glove websites, not writing this.

Why? Well, let me tell you ...

I returned from my walk tonight and decided to get my mail. I forgot there was no mail today because of the MLK holiday. I had some because I had not gotten my mail Friday. But I almost didn't get it.

I pulled off my glove to get my keys, and my fingers were too numb to pull the keys out of my pocket. I could feel them, I thought, but not get them.

I actually entertained ideas of going to a neighbor and asking her to reach into my pocket and get my keys. And even though my keys were in my coat pocket and nowhere near anything questionable, the idea struck me as sexual harassment or at least just really weird.

Instead, I went to my door and tried to get my keys there, but now I could not even feel them. I then took my jacket off and shook it: no keys.

Now I was real confused, not to mention cold. I knew I had put them in that pocket. I decided to call Mom and Dad and ask them to come out with keys but tell them I was retracing my steps so might find them.

I got my coat back on, pulled put my cellphone and headed out of the entrance-way so reception would be better.

There, in front of the mailboxes were my keys.

A skirt, I mean kilt, wouldn't have helped this time, huh?

Explain this, please

I see my neighbor so little, one might wonder if she maybe is avoiding me. After tonight, we can remove the "maybe."

As I was heading out to walk Claren, Carissa came out. (I only remember her name because it reminds me of Clarissa, who explained it all.) My neighbor, without the "L," had a brace on her forearm.

I asked what had happened and she said she fell. She said she was going tomorrow to get the X-ray results, but she didn't think it was broken. She didn't sound all that broken up by it (hee), and when I said sorry, she said: "It's OK, what are you going to do?"

I really replied: "Yeah, I know about falls."

Nervous laughter and a "yeah" ensued.

At least I didn't tell her this:

I was cold this morning. I don't know why because it is so nice out I didn't even where a coat to work. Still, I was cold, so I stayed in the shower too long. I also was in the shower extra because my new bottle of shampoo didn't just have a cap, it had a seal, which I had to peel off with my teeth.

I don't know if that is why I fell – because I was hurrying. I don't know why I fell; I just did. I swept half the stuff off my sink on the way down, too, as I tried to catch myself. It didn't work. I hit the ground, and my head smacked the toilet, luckily I hit the plastic seat parts, not the porclien. But I had some trouble getting up. There was lots of howling, and I called myself or my legs a word that I am not sure even exists but sounds really bad. I didn't really want to shimmy up the wheelchair backward because I was shirtless and that would cause scratches from hell. I finally got up but was so tired.

I went to brush my teeth and my brand new electric toothbrush was dead. It works tonight, but seriously it was powerless this morning. I dragged the dead toothbrush across my teeth a few times, then put on my shirt and went to zip up my pants, and no, I also don't know why I did it in that order. The zipper was totally wedged down in the pants fabric and would need pliers to get out. No time for that, though, because at that point my ride called to say it was outside. I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed some food (not even my normal breakfast muffins) and left. That is actually why I didn't have my coat, not because it was really warm.

I was more or less on time for my ride – it had called early – and we left by 7:10 a.m. for another pickup. We got there in five minutes and waited until 7:45 a.m. I rushed, nearly killed myself, left my coat and preferred breakfast all so I could sit in a GODDAMN bus for 30 minutes. Clarissa would have had an explanation. But I sure don't.

No, people are great

For a few days now, I have been thinking about my winter in Chicago (well, Evanston, a close suburb) and this girl.

I was in grad school and she was in another program but also lived in the graduate dorm. I forget her name; I want to say "Michelle."

Like any winter in Chicago, it snowed a lot. Unlike anywhere else I have lived, though, life goes on pretty normally. You wear multiple layers and brave the elements.

There was some serious "braving" going on because I was still walking at the time, but not steadily. I had a homeless guy wander by me and make a crack about me being drunk. For some reason it was very important to me to track him down and tell him I was disabled, not drunk. Like that's better. Man, I'd give anything to wake up with a hangover but able to walk.

One day it was snowing, and by the time I left for home it was up to my calves. I saw this girl and she said: We need to help each other. I knew that she was going to be doing most of the helping, and I am sure she did, too. But she put it in such a way that I could not turn down.

And so we helped each other home, or she helped me.

A new hope

It is time, I am afraid, for a change in plans since Drew Barrymore hasn't called. And I don't mean Natalie Portman, although she is pretty much all that and a bag of chips.

No, I think my next option is the psychiatrist I worked with in high school. Not because he was good and kind and helped me, but because he danced with Lynda Carter.

My short balding psychiatrist really danced with Wonder Woman.

Apparently they were both at a party, he wanted to dance with her, so he asked her to dance. And they did. He asked her husband first to make sure there would be no ruffled feathers. He's not stupid.

I went to see him because I started having three recurring worries in high school.

First, I was worried I'd start doing drugs. I'm not sure why. I can't stand taking Advil even, but for some reason I was worried I'd start snorting and smoking anything available. Maybe I thought the only way I'd find friends is if their minds and mine were blurred by drugs.

And I was terrified by the idea of losing control of my mind. It's one reason I don't drink even now, although I also hate the taste. I am sure that the loss of control is very unappealing to me, a person who has little control of his body. I wonder if the fear of drugs was because I knew subconsciously that I was losing control of my body?

But that does not explain why on earth I thought I'd do drugs. I do keenly remember sitting in church in front of a guy in the grade ahead of me and being terrified he was going to stick a drug needle through the pew into my back and get me hooked. Really.

Somewhere out there Nancy Reagan ought to be doing a happy dance because she convinced me drugs are evil.

I was also worried I might kill myself. No surprise there, high school sucked.

But I would never hurt myself, not a fan of pain, and I would be afraid of taking drugs. I might do it wrong and just wind up making myself throw up, which is a fate worse than death.

Of course, being dead would make my life easier (hee-hee). But it would be pretty uncool for my family and friends. So I would not do that to them.

In the end, though, I just don't want to be dead. Not scared, just not ready and awful curious.

I got lots to do, and I want to see how this all turns out. Does our hero get the girl? Who is said girl? Do doctors cure Friedreich's ataxia? Does Star Fleet ever form? Does the big guy (not Mr. Carlson) ever apologize or at least offer an excuse or an explanation?

Finally, I went to see him because I was scared I was gay. I didn't want to be gay because there were things one does with women that seemed awfully cool. Still do. Yes, I know that is kind of illogical to worry about being gay and be attracted to women, but logic, high school and worries don't mix.

The absolute absence of amorous attention must have overpowered the logic of the situation. Not that I tried to stir up any myself. That was where the shrink came in.

After trying to convince me I wasn't gay, he offered to bring in a woman to prove it to me. I recently told my mom that I didn't think he was just going to pick me up a prostitute, and she was more horrified because it meant he had some girl on call.

I declined his offer because just the idea was motivating to my masculinity. In retrospect, maybe I should have accepted. I would not only have got some (although I still don't know what some is) but also have an excellent story.

So with that lane closed, the shrink tried to get me to ask some girl out, any girl. He would say: Is anyone at school cute. Sure, I'd say, I like Amy, but she has a boyfriend. As long as there is no ring, go for it, he advised. I didn't. I haven't seen anyone from high school in years, but I did notice in a class update somewhere that Amy was married to the guy she was dating in high school.

I also didn't take his advice when he wanted me to ask out a secretary at an office I was at for the summer. She was probably 35-40 and I was 21.

I think, though, I am ready to do as he suggested. The problem now is that most of my women friends do have rings. I wonder what he'd say to that: As long as there is no kid, go for it? Or maybe he'd just offer me a prostitute. It would be unkind to refuse again.

Would that I were pitching woo

I wish I could say that I haven't written much recently because Drew Barrymore and I have been too busy making whoopie. I mean going to the malt shop, Mom.

But the truth is I have been feeling so wrecked lately. I have been working five-day weeks but different shifts. It kills me. I can't sleep the same time or eat at the same time or anything.

Now, though, I am working my regular shift for the rest of the week and am off all next week. If I can just get back on schedule.