So, they caught Saddam. 'Bout bloody time.

While US soldiers were unearthing Hussain Saturday night, I was conducting an Internet search for my estranged father. Given that he goes to some lengths to keep his contact information private, has a fairly common name, and lives in a major US city, I was expecting the endeavor to be fruitless. But adding my stepmother's name to the search string, I was surprised to uncover first a news article quoting both, then fairly current photos of each of them. Even more surprising to me, I burst into tears the moment I made these discoveries.

It was the first time I'd seen my father's face or his words in over 6 years. On one hand, there was relief in knowing he was still alive, and probably living in the same place. On the other hand, there was a sinking sadness in knowing that his life has gone on, without me.

The rift between us started long before our last conversation, and the blame for that falls on both our shoulders; we were perhaps always far too alike to really get along. But with my father lies the prototype for a pattern that has dogged my entire adult life: he was the first man to be seemingly unwilling to do what it takes to sustain a relationship with me, to fight for me. When the going got tough between us, he just seemed to give up, and it broke my heart.

Now, I'm not without male friends, and I've certainly been pursued in my time. Yet as much as men may like, love, or lust after me, they seem more than capable of living without me. The fascination I hold seems to be quite fleeting, as if there is a "best used by" date stamped somewhere on my person. I have friends who can't shake suitors years after they've been dismissed, and it's weird to envy someone who is essentially being stalked, but I do. For whatever reason - be it that I project cool disinterest and self-sufficiency a little too well, or that I simply attract the unmotivated - I do not seem to inspire that kind of dogged devotion. Perhaps the men I've encountered live lives of quiet desperation and secret pining, but if so I am none the wiser. On an intellectual level, it's easy to say that they have issues of their own, that it's nothing personal. But when you are the common denominator, it's hard not to wonder, on a visceral level, What is wrong with ME?

The answer, of course, is nothing, really, or nothing more than anyone else. I'm not perfect, but I'm certainly not repugnant. While I possess certain talents, I'm not off-puttingly extraordinary. I speak English and usually smell nice. I've never killed anyone who displeased me. And while I've the secret fear of hackdom that plagues most creative types, my self-esteem is really pretty healthy. Just the same, at times it's hard not to think that if my own father can carry on without me, be it through lack of courage or lack of interest, why should any other man feel differently? Meanwhile, I seem to get along alright myself without them, without him, but deep down, there's a bit of blues that's tough to shake.

So, they caught Saddam. Huh.