I just finished reading an eighteenth-century novel, Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding. It's considered a classic and I'd agree it was pretty good. I have half a mind to write this entry mimicing its style. I won't; but certain stylistic things (like the overuse of semicolons) might slip in.

There are certain things that, by themselves, are fun or at least no great shakes. Things like playing golf or drinking wine or going to parties and meeting people. But if there's an ulterior motive, these things change and are no longer fun -- it becomes a dreaded action.

Last night, I attended a holiday party, given by some local movers and shakers. Planning on attending was okay in itself, but attending with the idea of putting my face out there for a new job or a career turned the idea of this party into a journey to hell.

But I had no illusions about my motives and so had time to prepare. Armed with a new wardrobe, a pleasant disposition and a gift for the hostess, I showed up exactly one-half-hour after it was supposed to begin. And sure enough, the giant room was already filled with glittering human decorations mingling with the artwork and the catered buffet.

And things started well enough. My first victim had recently changed jobs and I approached him knowing this. How had he done it? He had not been looking, he said, until a former coworker called and asked him to interview. They had made him an offer he couldn't refuse.

How wonderful, fascinating, interesting and intriguing, I said. I was curious, I said, because I'm looking to change jobs. Oh really, he said, and what is your background? And I answered, presenting a summary of qualifications in a sentence or two; soundbytes that mentioned my education, my longevity at BIPC, and "a combination of product and technical management." A seed was planted. Enough said, we moved on.

The Hunter realized a disturbing element to the game. The room had many prizes, but the trend too often revealed managers and executives with 'former' in their title; 'consultants' about ten years older than myself and just as eager to hunt. The wine contained a bouquet of desperation with a swirling finish of bitterness.

The hunter also became the hunted. A man appeared, wearing a form-fitting sweater that revealed too much form, a receding chin and badly scarred face from adult acne. "Your drink," he said, taking hold of my glass, "what are you drinking." A gin and tonic, I said, and from that point on, my glass was never less than half full with an ever stronger alcohol content as he shadowed me from group to group.

I gave up on the networking and began to enjoy myself. I met two sets of cool people.

The first couple stood surveying the scene and our eyes met. After introducing myself, the woman, speaking with a rich accent, spoke as if she had been reading my mind: "I think it is insufferably cruel this corporate mindset of moving people from interesting places to a wasteland -- only to fire them a year later." To which her husband, also with an accent, added, "At first we thought this place was a prison, but we have lived here fourteen years now and think it okay." They were Swiss.

The second couple was wearing thrift clothes and were the most interesting looking people in the room. I bee-lined for them as soon as I could. The first thing they said to me was: We like your shoes. The second thing they said was: Who's this guy that's following you around? We must hang out, I said. They are both writers.

But the evening ended with a surprise.

I suppose I should have expected non-boyfriend to be there -- he knows the hosts and in fact its how I know the hosts -- but I hadn't thought of it.

"Want to get a drink?" I asked.
"Let's go." he said.

"Hey, where are you guys going?" cried the alcohol supplying shadow, running after us as we got into the elevator.

"The roof," said non-boyfriend as the doors were closing and punching 'L' on the console.

In a martini bar, drinking coffee, we continued our conversation from last week. "I think of you as a fine piece of china," I said. Non-Boyfriend said nothing to that and to other things. He just looked at me a lot. I suppose I did most of the talking.

But dropping him off at his car, I said, "Why don't you give me a kiss." And he did. He kissed me, then drew back. I said, "How bout another one." and we kissed again, twice, he drew back again. I said, "Oh c'mon, one more time." And non-boyfriend said, in a panic-y sort of voice, "No, I can't. I have to go. It's late. I have to go. I can't!" and he jumped out of my car and into his own.