What you said A soupçon of your letters BY CAITLIN SHETTERLY

What I really want to do this time of year is slit my wrists, as another check bounces and I try to think of great ways to make gifts out of thumbtacks and black-bean cans. My mind slips into the land of Dylan Thomas, where I can never remember if it snowed for six days and six nights when I was a child in Gouldsboro and we used to make forts out of snow that we could stand up in and my brother was someone I loved and played with and my parents were still together and we were a family, or whether it only happened to Thomas and all the rest was in my imagination and maybe we never were all that. So in my mind I go back home to my mother’s house with her decorated jade plant instead of a tree, and all her hopes to be something different than we are, and I wonder at this whole charade and why I’m not good at playing it.

But is anyone really?

Fuggedaboudit. I’m just going to round up the year in letters.

First there was Kevin:

"Hello,

"Your articles well illustrate the values of self centered gen-exers. Who cares that you lived in NYC or don’t have a boyfriend?

"Kevin

"p.s. Theater sucks."

Then long losts trying to find me on the Internet:

"Dear Caitlin,

"I’m not sure if you’ll remember me, but four summers ago . . ."

"Caitlin:

"Firstly, I’m wondering if you are the person I’m thinking of. Secondly, I’m wondering whether or not you’d remember me. For what it’s worth: Hello, Caitlin. I found you by accident. I was reading what I thought was the Boston Phoenix online. But I realize now Portland has their own Phoenix. Being out west, I sometimes read northeast papers online to catch up with what’s happening back home. I happen to live in the other Portland. Listen, I won’t carry on (for all I know, you’re not the Caitlin I’m thinking of) but I wanted to say hey."

Then there were the guys asking me out, sight unseen.

"Hi, Caitlin,

"It’d be cool to connect with you at some point. I’ve a job starting in Ocean Park soon — but should be around Portland some weekends."

"Ms. Shetterly,

"That ink drawing of you looks pretty classy.

"I’d like to date a writer. If you’re into it, let me know and I can tell you what I’m good at and what I’m bad at and maybe we can go out.

"Have a nice day."

And the balls-of-steel self-nominating types:

"Hola,

"I must warn you right now that this is a shameless attempt at personal correspondence driven by a belief that you might be a hottie. But you did ask for nominations for the 10 sexiest guys in Portland, and, while I’m certainly not among them, I can undoubtedly lay claim to being one of the sexiest guys in SoPo. Or the sexiest. My post-postmodernist ego dictates that I consider myself one of the greatest living prose writers and rap lyricists alive and a young genius who will be appreciated in decades or centuries yet to come. My neo-existentialist insights inform me to not apologize for my confidence, though it may border on arrogance. My sense of reality tells me I’m taking ludicrous claims to new heights of inflated nonsense. Seriously, though, I am a writer, a rapper-producer, and a handsome (white) devil."

"Dear Caitlin,

"I’ve noticed in the Portland Phoenix that you are compiling a list. Specifically, "The Sexiest Men of Portland." My mind has been turning ever since, wondering how I would qualify for this esteemed, and seemingly exclusive list . . . While I feel I’m a sexy person (usually), I’m not so thick to believe that everyone shares my viewpoint. At the risk of sounding braggadocious, I will venture to say that a moderate majority of women would say I’m sexy. As an additional qualifier, I enjoy being sexy. I love the shared glances, the slight contact, the mimicked body language that I believe to be a reward for being sexy. I have to admit that I’ve desired placement on a list, such as yours, since I was a boy. I can no longer read People magazine’s annual list, out of envy. Ashton Kutcher? C’mon."

And then, the department of useful information on penis size, burgers, and apartments:

"Caitlin,

"Just wanted you to know that I passed the tube test with flying colors, much to everyone’s relief. I would have let you know sooner but it took awhile to get the paper off the roll (I had to promise to call — yeah, whatever), and then the security guards at the supermarket wouldn’t stop chasing me."

"Caitlin,

"Norm’s on Congress St and Parker’s on outer Washington Ave. are two of my favorite burger joints. Great Lost Bear ranks right up there also."

"Hi there,

"I always enjoy your article and it turns out that I have a apartment available. Let me know if you are interested."

And then there’s just the nice sound of someone out there listening:

"Hi Caitlin,

"I just wanted to say how much I enjoy your writing. You have a wonderful style of making what is probably a very ordinary life seem very exciting. Just a quick note to mention that I’ve always appreciated your column — your light, conversational slice-of-life stories are always a joy to read. Kind of a Portland-based Sex-in-the-City-meets-American-Splendor, without the pictures. There was the line that "men . . . don’t notice all the exceptions we women make to like them." I’ve actually suspected this for some time now, and I thank you for this confirmation. I’m still uncertain why they even bother (I’ve long suspected that lesbians are simply women who have come to their senses)."

Caitlin Shetterly can be reached at bramhallsquare@yahoo.com