Meaningless Mumbo-Jumbo

I'm sorry for not writing in a few days, this weekend was busy in light of my aunt's passing.

However, I still had time to think about some random things:

- Don't you dare tell me a new waxing technique is painless  Under no circumstances on any planet in the trillions of universes in existence is there any amount of "soothing botanicals" with which you can pull large sections of my hair out by the root with a sticky substance and have it not hurt.  It's impossible.  Just be honest-- "it hurts like a bitch but it's organic!" or "paying more for this fancy treatment will hurt your wallet so badly, the pain of our wax will barely register" or "we're about to pluck so much money from your hands that the hair on your (body part) won't even compare!"

(I'm sure this didn't hurt a bit!)

- Is it possible that the Dominos by my apartment is four blocks away and five minutes IN THE FUTURE?  If I place an order for cheesy bread at 8:57PM, how has Mohammed alllready put it in the oven at 9:02PM?  Is there a loophole in the space/time continuum wherein chain pizza places don't have to follow the rules which bind the rest of us?  If I were to ever get off of my fat ass and pick up my own food, would I come home jet-lagged?

(And yes, I'm quite aware that I live in NYC proper, home of some of 

the best pizza in the world.  I like cheesy bread.  So sue me.)

- How come (and I swear I don't do this often) when my hand talks to me, it has the same voice as Peter Griffin?  It baffles me.  What a personality on that guy!  (My hand, not Peter.)

(My hand usually wears lipstick though.)

- This one's really just for my secretary: I know that you feign stupidity with me.  It will NOT get you out of doing work.  If you play dumb, it's only going to take you longer to complete the goddamn task.  And frankly, I don't ever think about how long it takes you to do anything.  As long as I don't have to do it, I could care less if/when/how you finish up.  I do my job, you do yours.  If you don't know how it's done by now then it might be time for you to move on.

 (My secretary has less makeup and more cats.)

- Attention anyone who uses the downstairs bathroom in my apartment: Toilet Paper is sold at many fine establishments in the neighborhood.   It's also sold at almost all of the not-so-fine establishments.  In movies spotlighting wily suburban teenagers, it can usually even be found hanging from the trees.  Why, oh why, then does everyone besides myself have such trouble purchasing some?  Seriously, I need to hear the explanation because I can't come up with anything.

(I would just buy a cow-- if I thought anyone else would bother to buy food for it.)

Hump Day

Hump day my...humps.

The only thing that's not happening to me is humping, getting laid.  And trust me, it's been...Christ...a while.  A long while. Right? I don't read this blog-- someone else check and remind me.  Scratch that, if I need to be reminded, it's definitely been too long.  Or too bad to be worth remembering. 

On second thought, maybe humping WAS part of my day today... life was like a little un-neutered dog, just pounding away, fucking me from every angle.

My aunt passed away last night.  Her heart slowed to a stop and she left us.  I like to think it was peaceful.  I, of course, got this news about four minutes after walking into my office.  If it was four minutes after leaving my apartment, I would've stayed home to deal with everything today, but instead I was thrown into "emergency-clean-up-the-shitstorm-we-created-while-you-were-out-sick-and-then-waste-your-afternoon-at-a-holiday-party" madness a full seven seconds after hearing from my mother.  It was a very long day.

The holiday party was great though.  There was tons of food (that I had no appetite for), lots of champagne (that I guzzled to try and numb myself a little), and the main topic of conversation was how LE's television show is the best show on TV right now.  Anyone from 20-somethings to the 74 year-old secretary agreed, and all were raving about the main character and oh! how funny the rest of the cast is.  I made a totally not-at-all subtle joke about how after we broke up, I told my family that the show was banned (everyone had started watching it to support him, then ultimately wound up really enjoying it).  They all laughed...then asked for any "inside" information.    Great.  Thanks guys. 

However, after being reminded that I'm single, my boss diiiiid invite me to a Superbowl party at her place.  She promised me it'd be filled with available men.  So I mean, at least I have that...the possibility of finding a date two months from now if any of these unattached gentlemen still happen to be free.

(Please let either of these men be in attendance and sans significant other)

When I got back to my office, I checked my emails.  Some from friends, some from work, one from a travel site I like, some spam.  Wait, back up.  Ooooh, I love travel emails.  Nothing makes me forget what I'm working on faster than planning an imaginary vacation to somewhere that I'll probably never go.  Ah, but wait.  This one is -- finally-- to somewhere I've been.  Actually, to the exact out-of-the-way island that EB took me to for 11 days as my 25th birthday present.  That's fine though.  I mean, I hadn't thought about him in...what? 30 hours??  Awesome. 

It wasn't only an overview of our vacation destination though, it highlighted -- in detail-- every single thing we did on our trip as "suggested activities".  It even made jokes about the same stuff we made jokes about and reminded me of things we did that I hadn't thought about in over a year.  Clearly it was thoroughly researched.

Then, I got a phone call out of the blue saying that cookies I had volunteered to bake for a charity event tomorrow (and thankfully did last night instead of tonight because I needed a distraction) were due at the volunteer base by 8PM this evening.  So, I basically got home, grabbed the cookies, and spent the next 45 minutes walking to and from the event space in 17 degree weather.

When I finally got home and went through the mail that someone had left for me, I saw an official-looking letter from the NY City government.  Ah yes, I'm being summoned for Jury Duty my first day back to work after Christmas break.  This'll go over real well after missing a week for Swine Flu, cutting out early tomorrow for the nonprofit holiday party, and taking a half-day Friday for the viewing.

I think today I was down, kicked, spit on, poked in the eye, and stabbed with a shiv.  Wherever my trusty travel site tells me to visit tomorrow, I'm booking a one-way ticket and not looking back.

See ya, suckas.

Confessions and Reflections

My addictions and obsessions change by the day, the hour, the minute.

For example, last night I thought I could go for a salad with grilled shrimp.  I thought about it while I fell asleep.  I looked forward to eating one later while I drank my morning coffee.  I thought about it as I waited to see what was for lunch at our meeting at work today.  I thought about it on my way to dinner.  It was my singular thought for the better part of 18 hours until I found it on the menu, ordered it, and inhaled it.  Once I was sated, I moved on. 

From 4:00-5:30PM today, I was obsessed with a boy (man?) that I very loosely work with.  He has a totally hot voice and a pretty good body to boot.  He's also in grad school at an Ivy League University-- not too shabby.  But at 4 o'clock today, I noticed his lips.  My GOD his lips.  They were my solitary study for the entire rest of my day.  (Good thing I didn't see him at 11AM.)  I even volunteered (volunteered! me!! at work!!!) to take care of a pain-in-the-ass task so he'd have to come to my office.  (OK, this sounds creepy but I swear I'm not sitting there in a van giving out candy, luring the six men in my building to get in and go for a ride.)  His lips were all over my mind, and in turn all over my...Anyway, I had to leave for the day before he swung by and my thoughts quickly returned to a salad with grilled shrimp.  I passed him on my way out the door and melted for a split-second, then kept on keepin' on.

After dinner, I swung into my favorite stores to see if they had anything for me to wear to a wine-tasting party Saturday night.  It's semi-formal, so naturally none of the 36 little black dresses I have can cut it.  As soon as I walked in, I saw it.  It had modest front coverage but still showed good cleave.  It had an open cut-out back, but I could wear a bra with my crazy extension band thing from Vicky's.  I didn't buy it because I was in a rush and wanted to hold out in case I saw something I like better, but that is doubtful.  I tried it on and it fit like a glove.  I'm in l-o-v-e.  I can't get it off of my mind.  I even have it open in another window right now and am flipping back and forth between droning on here and fantasizing there.  Once I get this feeling, I know I can't be stopped.  This dress will be my salad with grilled shrimp.  I will inhale it.

Through all of this though, I have one main mentation: my aunt is dying.  She had a massive stroke and they don't think she'll live through the night.  That isn't what I'm really fixated on though.  What I can't stop my mind from wandering back to is the image of this ring she wears-- a letter K with a diamond in it.  When I was around nine years old, she told me that she would give it to me when she dies because I'm her only relative with a "K" name. The ring the ring the ring.  For some reason I'm having trouble seeing it clearly and it's driving me mad. The ring the ring.  It was taking over me most of this evening.  I felt selfish-- how could I be thinking about something so shallow, so material and meaningless right now?  Who cares if I get it!  What kind of a person am I?  And then I realized that I am not thinking about the ring, I am thinking about everything it means.

When I was nine, that deathbed-style promise seemed so far off.  I thought I'd be old-- a grown-up, I'd have children of my own.  I also thought she would be old.  I remember telling my mom what she said and her responding that I was ridiculous, what if she had grandchildren with a K initial?  She's only my aunt by marriage.  What a silly promise, she said, and laughed it off.  But I remembered, and she won't live to see any grandchildren with K initials.  I'm it.  I'm as far as she got and all she knows.  It's a weighty responsibility, being the end of a line.

I think to me, this ring was almost a symbol for my life.  For a generation slowly moving to the background and a new generation, my generation, taking the stage.  I'm not ready yet though.  I don't want the spotlight, keep the curtain down.  I don't feel grown up.  I just saw a Disney movie in the theater for chrissake.  My parents still pay for my cell phone.  When I go home I take groceries from them for my apartment.  My mother reimburses me the cost of my train ticket.  This isn't grown up.  What am I?  Where am I?  Don't leave yet. 

I think this ring also represents my relationship with her.  Without the ring, what will I have?  A photograph?  That isn't a symbol of love, of shared holidays and barbecues, of backyard pool parties and her questionable cooking, of stories told, of sleepovers and weekends there, of traditions and funny songs.  I need something tangible, proof of her existence, proof that I didn't just imagine the last 26 years.  How will I remember these things?  How will I carry them with me?  How will I tell them to my children?  Who will be my K?

And who will wear the ring now?  Once that small thing-- that tiny gold circle-- changes hands and finds a new home, my life will invariably be changed forever.  The chapter will be closed.  It will go on to represent something new, and it-- that small symbol for my aunt that in my mind loomed so large, that in my mind was inextricably intertwined on one level or another with everything she was and everything we shared-- might cease to exist.  I think that will be death I mourn the most.  

Sleepless in New York

I like to pretend that everyone who reads this blog is exactly like me: single, drunk, and easy.

I'm kidding I'm kidding.  I'm not always single.  Anyway, I pretend I'm writing to an audience of myself because as you all know, the world revolves around me, so it's just easier.  In assuming this though, I also assume that When Harry Met Sally is your favoritest movie ever and you can quote the entire thing back to front and front to back without missing a beat, just like myself.  (If you can't, start practicing.  I believe in pop quizzes.)  So to you, fellow WHMS fans, I pose the following query: why don't we give Sleepless in Seattle more credit for being one of the All-time Greatest Breakup Recovery Movies of All Time? (I know I said "all time" twice, that's how good the movie is.)

(American Dodgeball Association of America)

We've all been in both of the main characters' shoes.  Meg Ryan/Annie is in this great relationship that she really wants to work because all the pieces are there, but they just don't fit right.  She forces it to death.  Tom Hanks/Sam is getting over his wife's death, who was the absolute love of his life.  He's trying to pick up the pieces and move forward.  And then...somewhere in the middle there...Sam and Annie fall in love.  We're all struggling for this middle!  

Sam: Well, I'm gonna get out of bed every morning... breath in and out all day long. Then, after a while I won't have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breath in and out... and, then after a while, I won't have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.

Who among us hasn't had that heart-crushing, sleep-destroying, overpowering, all-consuming break-up?  (None of us, we're talking about me for chrissake.  Keep up.)  When you wake up in the morning and ...remember...and die a little inside.  When you go to bed at night and lie there awake, or graciously realize that you're too exhausted to go over every detail of the relationship and can just fall asleep.  When you fantasize about running into him or getting back together or telling him off.  And once you survive it, you know you can survive everything.  You know you had it great and perfect for a while, but thankfully memories fade, and the pain of the break-up can't last forever.  


Annie Reed: Now that was when people KNEW how to be in love. They knew it! Time, distance... nothing could separate them because they knew. It was right. It was real. It was...
Becky: A movie! That's your problem! You don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie. 

Becky's so right.  I doooo want to be in love in a movie!  Popular culture is single-handedly responsible for every unhappy relationship I've ever had.  The main problem with movies and books though is that most of them are written BY women FOR women. We're making up our own ideal world to show off to other women and make them feel bad about their reality.  (Why bitches always gotta be hatin' on otha bitches?) Oh, that and THEY'RE FICTION.   I have a hard time remembering this.  I even saw The Princess and The Frog this weekend and got annoyed with the Frog/Prince.  He was juuuuust like every man I've dated in New York-- cocky, a little sexist, a little patronizing, totally in love with himself.  And yes this was a Disney cartoon and yes it's based on a fairy tale, but it still just really hit home and I wanted to smoosh the little amphibian under a rock.  But then, THEN (sigh), when he changed for her, became what she needed AND made her a princess, I was jealous.  I'm 26 years old and was jealous of a pretend two-dimensional woman who had spent the last hour as a frog.   

Sam Baldwin: Didn't you see Fatal Attraction?
Jonah Baldwin: You wouldn't let me!
Sam: Well I saw it and it scared the shit out of me. It scared the shit out of every man in America. 

Sometimes though, I'm afraid the reverse is true for men.  Do the same movies that inspire us (and I'm not saying Fatal Attraction is our inspiration here)  intimidate them?  Are we watching PS I Love You and thinking how romantic it is and that's exactly what we want our man to be and they're sitting next to us watching and thinking how ridiculous and unrealistic it is and how they'll never ever do that?  I mean, in a perfect world my gorgeous Irish husband doesn't die of mysterious "cancer" (brain cancer? Do they ever say?) before the age of 35, but a girl can dream can't she? 

Co-Worker: It's easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40! 
Annie: That statistic is not true! 
Becky: That's right it's not true, but it feels true. 

Is this why it's so hard to meet good men though?  Because what we consider "good men" and what men and reality consider "good men" are two totally different concepts.  We want a guy that looks like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall, charms us like George Clooney in Oceans Eleven/Twelve/Fort-Five, makes us laugh like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, loves us like Gerard Butler in PS I Love You, dances suggestively with us like Channing Tatum in Step Up, sings to us like Zac Efron in Hairspray, has the testosterone of Bruce Willis in...everything he does, drinks with us like Seth Rogen in Knocked Up, seduces us like Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful, showers us with gifts like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman...I mean how hard could this be?  He's gooootta live in New York!  There's like four million men around.  My criteria aren't outrageous.  Just a run-of-the-mill "good guy".

I can't settle though.  I won't.  We're going to keep our chins high and march on!  Because, I mean, even Walter gets it (and he doesn't get Annie in the end):

Walter: Marriage is hard enough without bringing such low expectations into it.

Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

I feel like the weekend is a sprint, not a marathon. You have 48 hours to let off all the steam you've built up over the previous five days, catch up on all the sleep you've missed, see all the friends you've been away from since 4AM the previous Sunday, do your all laundry/grocery shopping/dry cleaning/pharmacy runs, and just generally feel like a human being for a tiny slice of time.

Unfortunately, I experienced none of those this weekend (well, except for the laundry-- lucky me).

I guess I can't really complain though.  Sleeping 12+ hours a night for a week negates needing to "catch up" on sleep, and having the Swine Flu really cuts down on the number of people willing to pay you a social call.  I'm actually looking forward to going to work tomorrow and getting out of my apartment and farther away than the Duane Reade pharmacy on the corner of my block.  Leaving my "comfort zone" however, will put me at risk for running into EB (introduced here, months ago), who, after communicating with me today for the first time in over six months, I am sure to run into.

The last time we spoke was on my birthday, back in June.  He texted AND called, so when his birthday came around today, I spent the 48 hours (alright, you caught me...weeks) beforehand turning over and over in my head how best to wish him a "happy birthday" without actually meaning it.  I even sat on my couch Saturday and wrote out practice text messages.  Among some of the edited versions were "happy birthday." and just plain "birthday".  I felt like an exclamation point conveyed some sort of enthusiasm for the date which I couldn't muster, and saying "happy" in front of "birthday" wished EB something that I did not.  I merely felt it necessary to note the date and move on, thus "Birthday." was my favorite message.  Ultimately, a friend told me that I really could only say "Happy Birthday!" or nothing at all, and in my mind nothing at all was a symbol of weakness, so I went with the standard "Happy Birthday!"-- being sure not to use his name or nickname or anything intimate that could possibly open up the lines of communication.

He responded however, thanking me for the well wishes (fool!) and saying he was going to email me later today with an amusing/amazing article from the recent news (no! exactly what I didn't want to happen!).  Damn him!

When the email came through this evening, he thanked me for remembering his birthday and sent me two links-- the first to a video of Paula Dean getting hit in the face with a ham a few weeks ago that he figured I'd already seen since I love the Food Network (I used to make him watch it) and the second to a gossip column article (and he knows I love me some celebrity trash) about the Tiger scandal with a picture of one of his mistresses asking me if I recognized the woman.  I responded that I had no idea who she was, but obviously should.  He wrote back, telling me that she's one of his friends and described the night that I met her and what I was wearing (he remembers what I wore? Oh good grief, like I already didn't have enough to over-analyze after this).  I said "You run with a classy crowd, EB."  And you see, what I saaaaid was "You run with a classy crowd" but what I meeeeant was "of fucking course you know one of Tiger's side-whores.  You WOULD know one of them and then you WOULD think it was cool, you sonofamotherburnin...I just cannot deal with you and this situation.  Did you sleep with her???"

(fast-forward to about 1:00, watch for 25 +/- seconds, then forgive me for linking Dane Cook)

He wrote back and said he likes to keep things exciting, he'd really like to catch up sometime soon and it'd be so nice, have a good night, xo EB.  Now, I have no desire to see him or talk to him.  Things were pretty horrible between us at the very end there.  We spoke two or three times after that last night and blow-out fight and were cordial.  When we talked on my birthday actually, it was a pleasant conversation and I was surprised at just how OK I was with everything when we hung up the phone (granted my life was going amazingly and his was in the gutter, so that helped.  "The best revenge is living well" -my mother, "The best revenge is living well and shoving it in someone's face" -me).  I wish EB no ill will-- on the contrary, I actually can rest easier knowing he's doing great and is successful and enjoying life.  However, I'd much rather know those things through some old-fashioned Google stalking and hearsay than straight from the horse's mouth.  Anyway, I said yes, you too, enjoy the last few hours of your (age) birthday, night, xx (me). 

So now what?  Do I lie in wait for the next three months-- every time my phone chimes with a text, rings with a call, or I get a new email, wondering if it's him, come to collect on the "catching up"??  Because, if you read my email closely, I agreed to nothing.  "Yes, you too" doesn't even MEAN anything and really directly responds to absolutely nothing in his email.  I was trying so hard to be "light'n'lively/easybreezy" that I forgot to make sense.  For some reason, the threat of this looming in my future has lit a fire under my ass to go to happy hours this week, meet men and get dates, and not see yesterday's wax (yes, I caved, finances be damned) go to waste. 

Also, this has made up my mind to absolutely NOT text LE on his birthday, later this week.  I'm sure he'll manage without my fake wishes...he has this far.

Home(ward) Bound

So the bad thing about being stuck in bed all week is that I can't get away from myself.

(Who is this girl I see? Staring straight back at me...)

I mean, I'm good company, but you get sick of anyone after a while.

You know, like in your normal, every-day lives, when your thoughts are getting to be too much, you can walk to someone else's office and say hello, distract yourself.  You can turn up the radio and return some text messages.  The only problem is, stuck in bed, if I were listening to the radio, I couldn't watch TV.  I'd be sitting in my room like a brooding 14 year-old, loosing myself in "music".  And I would return text messages if they were from anyone I felt like responding to.

Of course, the Man isn't getting a hint.  (Maybe I should just send him a link to this blog...) And Buffalo Bill is a great guy, I just wish I had feelings there.  Trying to conjure up some of those "feelings", I wandered over to his Facebook page this evening.  Um, nothing kills feeling anything faster for me than seeing a guy with a "funny mullet" (because there is no such thing as a mullet funny enough to get you into my bed), standing in inclement weather at multiple football games (because I'll most likely never want to do that with you), and wearing a silly Halloween costume (you in pink pants and/or a shiny shirt and/or a fake mustache and/or [insert any number of things here] makes my lady parts want to shrivel up and die).  Though, his one redeeming quality was that he had an entire album dedicated to pictures of food he's eaten all over the world that he's loved.  I don't know, that just really struck a chord with me.  Maybe because I too love food oh-so-much?  The world will never know.  (No, I have not forgotten "lolcats".) 

Now, without my consent, someone new that I don't like has been thrown into my mix of Men I'm Avoiding.  (Maybe this flu came at just the right time, come to think of it.)  When someone goes on my MIA list, it's a far cry from "Missing In Action".

Last week, as I was heading out one night, my roommate stopped me and asked what I thought of a friend of his, Downstairs Boy.   I had no idea who he was talking about.  He was like "remember-- he was over such-and-such night?  Lives in apartment 5R, right below us? Works for [obscenely well-known and profitable international company]?..." After about the eleventieth clue, I kinda-sorta recalled the guy he was talking about.  I asked why and he said because DB had mentioned thinking I was attractive.  I said that while DB seemed like a great guy, I just wasn't interested.  My roommate said not to worry, he hadn't said anything more than thinking I was pretty and he wouldn't mention our conversation.  "Thanks," I told him, "I appreciate you not just telling him out of the blue that I don't like him." 

Sunday afternoon, right before my run-in with HG, my cell phone rang.  I never answer numbers I don't know, but this one had a local exchange and I figured what the hell.  When I answered, the gentleman introduced himself as Downstairs Boy.  "Who?" I asked.  And he proceeded to give me the same 30 prompts as my roommate did when first mentioning him before I had any idea who he was...again.  As soon as it clicked though, I was caught off-guard.  "Uh, how the hell did he get my number?" was all I could think while he invited me to a concert that night.  I lied my way out of it and got off the phone.

When I got home-- still reeling from the HG arm punch-- I casually sauntered up to my roommate.  So, Downstairs Boy called me today, I said. "Oh, did he? That's nice." Yeah.  Imagine my surprise though, because I didn't give him my number, nor did anyone ask if it was OK to pass it along.  Now where could he have gotten it from? "Well, I guess from my phone," roommate said.  Really? He just went in and took it?? "OK, no," roommate reluctantly admitted, "I gave it to him.  But he's a great guy! I wouldn't give your number to someone who wasn't."  Yeah?  Because I think you shouldn't give out my number Period.  Espeeeecially after I distinctly told you I was NOT interested in this guy. "You're right, I'm totally sorry, it'll never happen again." Well, in the meantime, this is a needlessly awkward situation you've created.  "You're right.  I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."  This dialogue was followed by him clutching my hand like a drowning man and looking up at me from the couch, genuine apology all over his face.  I sighed and forgave him.

Tonight, my phone rang again.  This time I recognized the number and didn't answer the call.  Sonofa...I listened to the message.  In it, DB slipped in that I missed a really great show on Sunday but let's grab a drink sometime.  Ugh! I'm sick.  I'm in a shit mood.  I don't have the energy for this crap this week.  And yes, I know my biggest problem, aside from falling victim to one of the largest pandemics to strike the globe since SARS, is that nice men want to take me on dates and buy me drinks.  I get it.  World's smallest violin's striking up a tune right now.  But, whatever, everyone's problems are relative to them.  I sat on the message for a while and thought about how best to nip this in the bud.  1- I could ignore him (but that's cruel).  2- I could tell him I'm not interested/seeing someone/a lesbian (but I hate lying.  Dating Karma, remember?).  3- I could make this roommate's problem and HE could tell his his friend whatever the hell he wanted (as long as it included the phrase "delete her number from your phone." This may or may not be done to my standards, roommate could get mad at me [yes, even though he has no right], and the whole situation could drag out.)  What to do what to do.  What. To. Do.

Finally, I texted Downstairs Boy and said that I was sorry I missed his call, I've been sick with the flu all week, thanks for the drink invite but I'm seeing someone, maybe another time in the future.  Next, I emailed roommate to tell him that his friend called AGAIN, I told him I was seeing someone, and he needs to make this situation up to me.

Looks like I'll get my free drinks after all.

Sick-o

I'm still sick.

And now, I'm also sick of being sick.  This roughly means that I'm even less nice than I usually am.  (For those of you who don't know me well, my baseline of "nice" is already a little below average).

I'm going completely stir-crazy.  I haven't been out of my bed for longer than ten minutes at a time since Sunday night.  I can hardly stand long enough to take a shower, let alone get into a conversation in the kitchen while I refill my glass with something delicious like lukewarm tap water that won't hurt my sore throat.  I'm beginning to feel like those enormously obese people they do 20/20 specials on and episodes of Nip/Tuck about (and other shows that use "/" in their titles).  You know the ones where the person hasn't left their bed/couch in years and they're surrounded by empty fast food containers and their overweight but semi-functional children beg them to come out and eventually the fire department is called in to saw off a wall of their house so they can be lifted out by a crane?  Yeah, you know it.     

(This guy is married to a fairly decent looking (but albeit unarguably nuts) woman 

and I can't even find a boyfriend.  Really, God??)

Luckily though, my recent encounters with men I've dated since LE and I broke up have softened this blow of isolation.  I kind of don't mind having an excuse to not go out with people/respond to messages/or just generally pretend to be sociable.

For starters, I ran into Hamptons Guy on Sunday.  Luckily I had been out and about with some friends during the day before heading back to their place to hang out and not juuust bumming around their apartment in sweats, so I definitely looked WAY better than he did.  Anyway, as I was heading out of their building to go home, I heard a man call my name.  I ignored it and kept walking and he called again.  Finally, I stopped and turned around to see who it was but since I didn't have my contacts in, I was blind.  Peering in the direction of where the shout may or may not have originated, I saw a male-ish figure waving and heard him calling out to me again.  "Oh," I thought to myself, "it must be X (a friend), stopping over to see my friend's fiance, Y."  I smiled and walked towards him.  As I got closer though, I remembered that Y was out of town for the weekend and X moved to Colorado several months ago.  "Shit," I thought, "who the hell is this??"  Oh lucky me.  Hamptons Guy.  I haven't seen you since I kicked you out of my apartment that morning and deleted you from my Blackberry Messenger contact list.  He gave me a big hug and asked what I'd been up to.  As I started to respond, he interrupted me saying sorry, but the Giants game was starting in one minute, punched my arm, and headed off.  He. Punched. My. Arm.  HG?  We are not buds.  There is no arm punching...espeeeeecially after you've had sex with someone.  (Much in the same way there is no crying in baseball.) I clearly didn't see you.  CLEARLY.  If you felt awkward and didn't really want to say hi, you were already in the clear.  Flagging me down and then blowing me off sorta sends a mixed signal.  Either way, I believe mine was loud and clear: still not interested.*

The Man won't leave me be.  I've been lightly blowing him off for about two weeks now, but he's not picking up on it.  This weekend, he called while I was entertaining people on Friday night.  Um, you called me on a Friday night.  Obviously I won't be getting back to you right quick.  I didn't even have a chance to return his call on Saturday afternoon before he contacted me again with a "How r u doin?" text.  I mean really? Are you paying by the letter? I think not.  You're an adult, text me a complete goddamn sentence.  I was over at friend three's apartment lovingly "packing" her ex's things when the text came through though, and again didn't have an opportunity to respond.  Then the Man emailed me through Facebook Monday morning, asking why doesn't he "ever get a response from [me] anymore".  Now instead of being honest and saying that I'm totally uninterested in him and not even a little bit attracted, I took the gift that was presented to me and said that I was in bed with Swine Flu and felt terrible, in about 16 words or less.  He emails back saying "that sucks" and then proceeds to give me a rundown of the past week of his life: worked 80 hours last week, attended his alma mater's basketball game on Saturday afternoon, went to a black tie charity event Saturday night, laid around and watched football on Sunday.  Um, did you miss the part where I told you I have Swine Flu and imagine the part where I asked how you were? Say something sympathetic or don't say anything at all.  I could give a shit what you've been up to the past 8 days.  (If I did, you would've heard from me.)

Surprisingly, the guy to come out far-and-away ahead of everyone in this situation ("this situation" being me, sick and grumpy) is Buffalo Bill.  While the "lolcats" are still touching a raw nerve, he has emailed a looot to see how I'm doing and attempts to entertain me with old SNL clips.  Yes, of course we have opposite senses of humor in what is a funny old SNL sketch, but goddamnit the man is trying!  And I've been shut in my room like some kind of ....shut-in for so long that I'll take what I can get.  If it's some of Lorne Michaels's b-list comedy, I'll take it.  Thank you, Buffalo. You might've earned date three.  (And that's usually a preeeetty good date.)

*My bad, not clear enough.  When I just signed into Facebook, I saw that HG had instant-messaged me.  Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Letters From A Foxhole

Dear World,

Things are bad here.  The enemy is strong, and slowly but surely taking me down.

Communication cut out today.  I woke up with a sore throat that shows no signs of improvement.  It hurts to talk, and my cough only exacerbates the situation. 

Supplies are running low.  I drank the end of my codeine last night.  I have some oxycodone, but have been informed it can cause respiratory troubles when you have a flu.  Tylenol can take some of the edge off, but in general, the troops here are getting desperate.

The weather is...well actually I have no idea what the weather is.  Last time I looked outside, it was night.  Then I slept all day today, so it appears to be night again.  I am living in a world of eternal darkness.

There is a lot of waiting around, a lot of boredom.  It would make me antsy if I wasn't so worn out.  Watching romance movies on Netflix online tires me, but it kills the time.  Eventually, I hope to be awake for an entire feature.

Do keep me in your thoughts, as you are often in mine.  I send my best.

Goose and Bull

Homesick

I think I only have a five minute window today where I'm feeling semi-coherent, so I thought I'd use it to jot something down on the blog.

I'm pretty sure that on any given day, I can look back over the past 365 days of my life and think, "it's been a hell of a year."  Depending on the day, I could be referring to anything-- from the "ups" in life like falling in love, having amazing friends, spending time with my family, or just generally feeling fortunate, to the "downs" like heart breaks, work stress, or monetary woes.  Today though, my main focus is on my health.

Yes, first let me say that thank God I am, for the most part, a healthy and happy woman.  However...it's been a hell of a year.  This time last year, I was just recovering from a crazy case of the mumps (and in the interest of full medical disclosure, six months earlier I had an emergency appendectomy).  For those of you who have never haaaad the mumps, consider yourselves fortunate.  My face and neck became so swollen, I looked like I was in a 300lb fat suit from the shoulders up.  I was so disfigured that when I saw myself in the mirror, I started crying that "what if I never look normal again?"  I have only one picture of myself during this time, and no one will ever see it.

A year later, I am in bed with Swine Flu. 

(this is me...minus the plant, Brady Bunch furniture, and penis)

Despite the WHO and CDC calling this a "pandemic", I haven't ever actually met anyone who's had H1N1, so imagine my surprise when my doctor suggested it this morning.  I am also outside of the age-range for those most likely/susceptible for coming down with Swine Flu, but I guess working at a university is akin to working in an infectious disease laboratory without a face mask.  I also guess that taking the subway to and from said job is akin to licking the inside of those red Medical Waste containers. It is a risky life I do lead.

My mother, however, blames my illness more on my lifestyle.  When I called her earlier today after returning home with my diagnosis, I expected her to fuss over me into the phone and tell me how sorry she was that I wasn't feeling well.  Instead, I got a two-minute rant about how I "burn the candle at both ends" all of the time and don't take care of myself and she doesn't care how young I am, people aren't meant to be out drinking until 5AM.  Ugh!  I mean, she's totally right, but come on woman!  Give a girl a break.  Feel free to yell at me after I'm better.  You know that today it's totally ineffectual as I'm even less in the mood for being lectured than normal and I obviously just put the phone down and walked away.

I think my saving grace will be the oxycodone bottle I found in with my stuff from the appendicitis I mentioned earlier.  It may be a little old and at less than 100% efficacy, but I'm fairly certain it'll do the trick once I run out of codeine.  I anticipate this being a long week of feeling like shit.  

And trust me-- nothing makes you want to get better faster than drinking pedialyte and watching SNL reruns all day.    

The End of an Error

There's something in the air this time of year.

No, not Swine Flu.  (Though I am sitting here getting sicker by the minute after one of the longest weekends of my life.  Oh great, and I can't even take a full dose of my Cough with Codeine medicine because LE drank it all.)  No, not the smell of pumpkin pie or evergreens either.  (However, that could be contributing to my illness-- evergreen allergies run in my family and it's possible I've developed one in the 15 years it's been since I had a live tree).  It's something bigger.  Something poisonous.

It's silent and deadly.  You don't even see it coming and then it tears your whole world apart.  It slips into your life so quickly and then leaves before you've even comprehended what happened.  The WORST part is that it appears to be contagious.  It's been rampant in the northeastern states for the better part of two months.  I'm pretty sure Obama was going to declare it a National Disaster before he realized that they'd have to send in FEMA to pick up the pieces and they couldn't afford any more casualties.  What am I talking about?  The "Surprise Breakup".

The first reported case of the Surprise Breakup was in the first week of October.  An attractive, sweet, intelligent, accomplished woman that I work with came into my office and was very distraught about work.  She bemoaned the situation she'd found herself in and was begging me to help dig her out of her hole.  Unfortunately, the problems weren't ones that I could fix, but I told her to let me know if there was any other way I could help.  Apparently, what she really needed was someone to listen.  Two days earlier she had come home to find her live-in boyfriend of five years all packed up to go.  He was leaving her, just like that.  She didn't see it coming and was devastated.

(Are you telling me Mr. Zero knew before you did?)

Two weeks later, my college friends and I were at a wedding.  Reading Friend and her boyfriend, with whom she'd dated and lived with for the better part of two years, were discussing the different aspects of the reception and what they wanted to do similarly at their wedding.  Her boyfriend was saying how much he couldn't wait until it was THEIR day.  It was a great night.  Tuesday, Reading Friend came home from work and her boyfriend was in a bad mood.  When she asked him what was wrong, he told her he was breaking up with her and moving out...of the house they'd just purchased together two months earlier.  He'd be leaving her and the two dogs he aaaaalso just begged her to purchase with him to go stay at his office until he found a new place.  And that was that.

Two weeks later?  My turn.

(LE, in the taxi in-between Halloween parties, with his bong)

Two weeks after that, one of my best friends and her boyfriend were away for the weekend.  She was taking him on a short trip to thank him for the 10-day European vacation they'd taken earlier this fall.  They ate and drank and danced and went sightseeing.  As they were lying in bed the last night, my inebriated friend began fishing for compliments.  "Actually," said her boyfriend, "I've been meaning to talk to you."  The conversation snowballed into a bigger discussion, followed by "taking a couple of days to think about things".  They were broken up two days later.

And yes-- you guessed it!-- this weekend makes it another Two Weeks Later.  Friend three was fast asleep, enjoying stretching out in the bed she shared with her live-in boyfriend while he was visiting his parents' house for the night.  Her phone rang, waking her up, and the Caller ID read his name.  When she answered, however, he was not on the other end...his "girlfriend" was.  The two-timing Tiger Woods piece of shit had been seeing her for months, telling her how unhappy he was with the girlfriend that he lived with.  After he fell asleep that night, she went through his phone and found a plethora of text messages to my friend that sounded to the contrary; "I miss yous" and "I love yous" in his outbox.  While "girlfriend" knew all about my friend and filled her in on herrrr relationship, my friend sat there sleepy and stunned.  The next morning she and I tossed his clothes into trash bags (taking extra care to mix his shoes in with his clothes-- he'll have to dry-clean footprints off of everything he owns before he can wear anything again), threw out his favorite stuff, and changed the locks to their apartment.  It was a great way for her to spend their one year anniversary. 

As she and I sat there waiting for him to come get his things, she looked at me and said "this is your fault."  What?  "Everyone you know is breaking up.  You started this."  Oh good grief.  What if it IS me?  If you're in a happy relationship, steer clear of me for the next two weeks.  (If you're in an unhappy relationship, no worries.  They tend to drag on forever.)  I need to break this cycle.

Because of course, it's always about me.

Please Accept Our Apologies

Oh good god.

I am huuuuuuuuuungover.

It's a shame too, because I have a busy schedule planned for work today: let my eyes glaze over and read Perez for a while, take an hour-long walk since it's nice out, eat some pizza for lunch, catch up on Glee on Hulu.  Oh, and to top it all off, I have to re-write this blog.  How ever shall I get this all done now?  I mean, I'd been planning to get out of here by 4PM.

Ah yes, REwrite.  I wrote something last night when I stumbled home in a state that puts even the drunkest bum to shame.  If any of you managed to read it for the four hours it was up while I was passed the eff out, forgive me.  For those of you who missed it, consider yourselves lucky.  In short, I hyperlinked to the new John Mayer song five times (yes, five. I was "five times John Mayer drunk"-- a new level of drunk that did not exist anywhere in the world before my adventures last night) and said something along the lines of Tiger Woods's wife deserving to kick his butt, but in much dirtier language.  Nice.  Luckily I woke up this morning with that OH SHIT! feeling, jumped out of bed, and deleted the post ASAP.  To quote friend three again, that would've been the ultimate drunk text.

In lieu of that post though, I'll just fill you in on what I'm up to:

Firstly, I hurt my neck.  Yesterday I sneezed and I don't know what I did, but it's killing me.  Can that even happen?  I mean, I was dead-drunk last night and STILL kept waking up to shift positions because I was in so much pain.  Anyway, just wanted to bitch about that for a minute.

Secondly, I'm sure you're wondering hoooow I got so trashed.  Well, I had a second date with Buffalo Bill.  I swear I would've written about it sooner but it was a last-minute thing-- I promise!  He thought he was going to have to work late, then decided he didn't really want to and took me out instead.  When he had emailed me after our last date to say that he had a good time and wanted to go out again after Thanksgiving, I called him out on not seeming at all interested in me.  He said that was absolutely not the case and I decided to give him another chance to really shower me with affection and compliments.  Also, I knew our mutual friend had given him a talking-to and I was curious to see the results.

BB pulled through on the first count, however compliments were a little lacking for my taste.  I mean, woo me for chrissake!  Telling me I'm beautiful might not get you into my pants, but it certainly won't keep you out.  Anyway, we had dinner and then went to a bar, and as we were heading to another bar he pulled me towards him under the umbrella and kissed me.  I'm sure that this seems so romantical-- kissing in the rain in New York after sharing a bottle of wine (and the better part of eight beers at second bar), but in my head it was panic-inducing.  The first thought to come through was, "oh great.  Now I'll have to go out with him one more time."  Don't get me wrong, last night was the first date that should've been.  I had just also been thinking it should've been our last date.  The second thought to come to mind was "noooooooo!"  I forgot how weird it is to kiss someone new.  And I know what you're thinking, what about the Man and Hamptons Guy?  Well, technically I'd made out with Hamptons Guy before and I already knew the Man.  It was weird kissing him too, don't get me wrong, it just didn't ever have any potential to beeee anything due to various geographical constraints and what have you, so it didn't hit home quite like kissing Buffalo did.  However he was a good kisser so it's not like it was painful.

Overall the date went well.  He spared no expense, which I like.  It's important to me to date a man who has no trouble spending his money because if we get married, I won't have any trouble spending it either.  Marriage is about teamwork, and it's good to know we're on the same team finance-wise right from the beginning.  The conversation was pleasant and fun and I'm sure I enjoyed myself, just...something was missing.  I'm fairly certain it was his sense of humor.  By all means he's funny and fun, but I just don't think he was quite on my level.  I'm not comedic genius, but there's nothing worse than saying a joke and having someone look at you slightly uncomprehending for about three seconds and then change the subject.  All I can think is what could you possibly like about me if you clearly don't get me?  I don't know, I'm baffled.  The biggest humor issue though is that he thinks "lolcats" are funny.  I don't, and I will harshly judge you if you do.  Based on this alone, Buffalo Bill's odds at a third date are really dwindling.  I'd have my money on this not making it to date five if I was you.

Lastly, my roommate just informed me that she found me sitting on my bed last night listening to John Mayer on repeat, talking about LE, eyes glazed over with alcohol.  THAT explains why I feel like death right now.

Black Friday, Cyber Monday, and Teddy Tuesday

It is December and Christmas is officially upon us.

I know this because of tonight's specially-scheduled TV programming.  Ah yes, nothing rings in the holidays quite like the Victoria's Secret fashion show.  Tis the season!

Now personally, I am not a fan of this particular runway.  I manage to feel bad enough about myself after eating a giant plate of pasta for dinner in my sweatpants; I have absolutely no need to see three dozen women both older and younger than myself with the best bodies on the face of the planet strutting their stuff in g-strings.  However, my roommates had it on so I sat down and watched.

Honestly, I think the main thing to pique my interest here was The Blackeyed Peas.  I mean, is anyone aaaactually a fan of theirs?  I confess, some of their songs are OK so I don't immediately change the radio station, but overall they just leave much to be desired.  Fergie looked good and she can carry a tune, but I'm just kind of underwhelmed by her entire presence.  And is it just me, or does she have an old face?  Also, can anyone else not get the image of her wetting herself on stage out of their head every time they see her?  Anyway though, she is by far the best-looking and most relatable member of that crew.  Seriously.  One of the guys was performing in what can only be described as a fashion-forward twist on what the bad guys in the Karate Kid movies wore.  Was his earlier gig at a Cobra Kai reunion?  Another guy played an instrument that looks like a keyboard, but is on a tiny guitar.  I didn't think anyone else could pull off that thing besides my Ken doll during his Barbie and the Rockers days.  The third member of the posse was almost normal-looking, but he had the beard of a black man and the bone structure of an asian man.  Unfortunately, his sunglasses covered half his face so his identitify remains unconfirmed.  Tell us third male member, what mystery lies behind those eyes?  

(And did your wife chase you here yielding a golf club as a weapon?)

Today was a day full of lingerie though.  This afternoon, I received an automated email from one of the many websites I subscribe to in order to find out new things going on in the city.  This particular communique was informing me of a new lingerie/sex shop (ye olde house of smut?) to open not too far from my apartment...and directly across the street from EB's place.  (Now for those of you who've come to this blog lately, or those of you who just plain forget all of my nicknames, LE is my most recent exboyfriend-- Latest Ex, if you will-- and EB, one of the true loves of my life thus far, is Ex Boyfriend-- the man I was with before LE.)  This news bothered me greatly.

Why?  Because I'm completely insane.  When I step outside of myself and try and think like a normal, rational human being, I know that maaaaybe he'll go to the store once and poke around.  It's also quite likely he'll never go in ever.  I mean, he wasn't exactly leading the parade up 5th Ave for the sexually adventurous.  To be fair he wasn't fire marshalling the sidelines either, but that's a topic for another post.  Anyway, inside of my head he's at the store everyday-- it's his Cheers.  He knows everything about everything, take tons of ladies there and buys them things, signs up for the lessons they're going to be giving in the velvet cordoned-off backroom...basically he's going to be the best man at sex and all things sexually-related on the face of the planet.  Women from all four corners of the globe will flock to his door to partake in his expertise.  However, *sigh*, I know this probably won't happen.  

Yes, just "probably", I can't be certain.  

As I lamented this to my friends, I got several different responses.  Mainly, everyone agreed I was nuts.  Some friends humored me more than others though.  The first friend admitted that she too would be bothered by this, but as an outsider, just absolutely did not understand.  My second friend offered to go shopping there with me.  Thanks pal, but not helpful.  My third friend said, upon hearing I was upset, "I would be too.  He's never supposed to have sex again, let alone have a store full of it open up across the street."  Exactly right, friend three!  Exactly right.  

I think the whole situation just makes me a little nervous that EB somehow didn't see Article II, Section IV, Paragraph XII of my relationship contract, where it clearly stipulates that, should things not work out between us in the long-run, he is never allowed to fornicate with anyone else again ever.  

He'll probably have already sufficiently screwed me over.

Everybody's Workin' For The Weekend

I'm thinking about finding a part time job to help pad my grossly bloated budget and overblown spending habits.  Craigslist seemed to be just the place to find one.

Seemed.

(I'm gonna have to say the start of my problems is probably that 

this is Craig's List and not mine. My list would be way better.)

The first position to catch my eye was Nude Female Art Model.  It's art-- it's gotta be tasteful!  I don't have a boyfriend to be uncomfortable with it or hold me back, it's practically go-time.  Unfortunately though, it only pays $12/hr.  Considering my financial hardship has cut into my waxing budget, it might take a little more than that to get me naked.  Also, my crippling self-image might throw a wrench in the whole "sitting naked in front of a stranger without moving for three to four hours at a time" thing.

Something I could do with more clothes on-- a LOT more clothes-- is part time Urine Specimen Collector.  I kid you not, this is an actual advertisement on Craigslist right now.  It's "as needed", so that fits very well into my schedule of not really wanting to work even one job.  Also, the only requirements are that I speak English and have access to a computer.  If you're reading my blog, you already know that I'm qualified.  Though, I waaaas thinking more along the lines of handling alcohol than handling bodily fluids...

While I'm using my computer and speaking English though, I could apply for the Writer/Editor at the United Nations.  I'm professional (I show up here every day, don't I?), I'm self-motivated (I'm pretty sure I'm the only person reading this blog), I like totally think we should get rid of global poverty (read like Cher from Clueless), I have knowledge of HTML (if by "knowledge of HTML" they mean lifting pictures from Google Images and pasting them elsewhere)-- I'm clearly the total package!  Now do I send them the post I wrote about getting shitfaced at a jazz club with the Man (I'm cultural!), the one where I say how I hate Brooklyn and rarely, if ever, go there (I'm well-traveled!), or the article about taking shots with the bartender on the awful date where I end the night taking sexual-advantage of the guy who hates half-Jews (I'm tolerant!)?  So many to choose from...

What about the part time Piano Teacher?  I took lessons...15 years ago.  You only need to know more than the students though, right?  I don't have be an "expert".  I'd try out to be a Wine Enthusiast if it wasn't in Queens.  Remember how much I dislike the BK?  I've never even BEEN to Queens outside of an airport.  Math Tutor?  I have a calculator!  Selling a stress management guide?  Hm, might be more believable if my blood pressure didn't shoot up 65 points since yesterday afternoon's mail run...Handy Man?  I painted my bedroom.  My old roommate had a hammer.  I could fake it probably.  Part time Microbiologist?  Actually, no.  I could not fake that.

Oh lordy.  This might be harder than I thought.

If I started charging admission to this site, would anyone come?

Kidding!  I know you wouldn't.  But by all means...continue to feast your minds on the fruits of my labor while my wallet atrophies in my overpriced handbag.

I Wanna Be Rich

I've written about my monetary woes before, but boy oh boy, lemme tell ya-- I didn't KNOW woe.

(I also didn't--and don't-- know Bo)

I had a lovely 10 days at my parents' house over Thanksgiving, only to come back to 500 letters (OK, maybe not 500, but definitely enough so that my roommates who were so fortunate as to get the mail probably think I'm some kind of financial outlaw) from my different grad school loan outlets, demanding I begin to repay them.  Alright, and maybe "demanding" is an exaggeration too.  They didn't send some guy from Little Italy to break my legs, they just all happened to mail me actual pieces of paper within the same week letting me know that-- congratulations!-- I can start repaying the thousands and thousands of dollars I borrowed to advance my education.

The ironic thing is that when I was borrowing these inordinate sums of money they a) didn't seem like that much (because I'm beginning to realize I have very little respect for the value of a dollar...though it seems like the rest of the world's economy agrees with me there) and b) were borrowed with the mindset that they were an "investment".  As in "going to graduate school is going to make me a more competitive applicant on the job market, and paying double for ivy league graduate schools should make me quadruply as attractive" (2 grad schools x 2 times the price = me graduating and making $500,000 a year in fantasy land).  Because that's the thing about "investments"...you are supposed to get back more than you put out.  However, I must've gone to the Madoff of grad schools and borrowed from the Madoff of financial institutions because I ain't seen nothing yet.  

(Bbbbbaby I just ain't seen nothin' yet)

So, to quote one of my favorite books, Shopaholic, I either need to "CB or MMM"-- Cut Back or Make More Money.  Obviously, I am not a "CB" kinda girl.  However, in this horrific job market, MMM doesn't seem to be an immediate option.  I have spent all afternoon and evening thinking about all of the different things I'm going to have to cut out of my life:

-I canceled my internet plan for my Blackberry.  Since I have a computer with unrestricted internet all day at work and a laptop at home, it really was a luxury.  Especially considering that I commute via subway-- meaning that the only time I'd actually NEED internet on my phone (traveling between my home and office), I don't have service anyway.  But boy will I miss feeling cool.

-Goose and Bulls.  Goodbye my almost lover, goodbye my hopeless dream.  I'm trying not to think about you, can you just let me be?  It'll be Monster Energy Drinks (vomit) and well vodka from here on out.

-Waxing.  Fine, fine.  I can tweeze my own eyebrows like a common prostitute, but I do NOT know how I'll give up bikini waxes.  My only saving grace is that I'm not in a relationship right now, so I'm free to be..."me" until it's time to sleep with someone.  Also, maybe this can help me slow dooooown the amount of time I spend before dragging someone into my bed.  Though, if you know me, you know it's never stopped me before.  Damnit!  This will be a tough one.  My only luxury from here on out though is food.  Hm.  Maybe I'll just have to learn to live on Ramen so I can feel like a lady.   

-Taxi cab confessions.  I love taking cabs!  They're so convenient.  They're comfortable.  They're raping my wallet.  I guess I shoooould try and get some use out of the unlimited metro card I pay close to $100 for a month anyway...sigh.

-Adios, convenient gym membership.  Guess I'll be shlepping my sneaks up to the office with me every day to work out in their facilities.  Don't get me wrong, it's an awesome gym and I have no problem ogling the 19 year old hockey players lifting weights, I am just lazy and already carry so much with me to and from work that my purse puts Mary Poppins to shame.  Ha, I mean a lamp?  Is that the best you can do, Mary??


-Ordering in food.  I just found a receipt under a piece of furniture for $25 at Dominos.  Really, self?  Why didn't you save the money and the time eating and just slather the calories RIGHT on your ass?

-Ciao, pedicures.  Sigh.  But they make my feet look so purdy.  Good thing I bought a PedEgg.  Guess I'm about to get my money's worth of that bad boy.

OK, I have to stop now.  I'm getting all ferklempt.  PedEggs?  Public transportation?  Just...put me out of my misery.  But, to quote my aunt when my uncle cracked down on her shopping budget after finding out she owns 65 pairs of boots (not shooooes, BOOTS alone), "I had a good run."

I also think it is no coincidence that as a child, one of my favorite songs was Calloway's "I Wanna Be Rich":
 

And you might be interested to know that my "rich" fantasy is equally as dated.

Waiting Room

I can't remember the last time I've waited by the phone.  This is just physically and mentally draining.  Physically draining because picking up my phone every 10 seconds to see if there's a new message is giving me a hand cramp;  mentally draining because willing someone to call is really quite taxing. 

(I hate animals, but cats in particular.  I don't care about them and I don't think they're cute.  

The fastest way to fall from my good graces is to send me pictures of your pets.)

I can't even remember the last time I've WANTED someone to call this badly.  And yes, yes, I know there are "rules"--  I've even written about them before.  I even know that, ironically, if I waaaaas hearing from him, I'd be less interested than I am now not hearing from him.  (Case in point: Between the Man and Buffalo Bill, my phone is ringing off the hook.  This is, so far, only serving to annoy me and NOT, as they would assume, decreasing the amount of time they will spend outside of my pants.)  Or at least that's what I'll tell myself while I wait to hear from him. 

...So do we think a Friday night meet gets a Tuesday call?  Wednesday?? Damnitall! 

Anyway, let's start over.

Last night, I met up with my cousin and a friend to go to out in Philly.  We grabbed dinner and then decided to check out a new bar I'd heard of recently that has a great sister place in New York.  It was a speakeasy and true to form, ridiculously hard to locate.  We walked past three or four times before we finally found it-- something that never seems to happen to Chuck Bass when he's galavanting around at all of his hush-hush places (that are, for some reason, always overrun with half-naked women).  After freezing outside for a few minutes, we were shown to a table for three right next to a table of three guys.  As we walked by, one of the gentlemen caught my eye, and upon confirmation from my dates, was deemed quite a cutie. 

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, the three of us could not have been less smooth in checking him out and he and his two friends quickly conferenced on how to best handle the situation.  Friend closest to us introduced himself and his two companions, Friend B and Cutie.  Lucky for the three of ussss, what we lack in game, we make up for in conversational skills.  Cutie slid around their table to sit closer to us and we all began to talk, with eventually Cutie and I slipping into our own discussion.

Cutie was great.  He was funny and good-looking (again, confirmed by everyone when he stood up to go to the bathroom and we got to take him all in), ivy league educated, successful, just enough older than me to be settled but not enough to be a perpetual bachelor, the list goes on.  After he had a few drinks he even said something cheesy about feeling like he was at the point in life where he was tired of being single (ka-ching, confirmation of dating status) and referenced being ready to move forward in life (double ka-ching, hopefully isn't interested in playing games or wasting time [though all men do those things even when it isn't their intention, so I need to remember to not read too much into this]).  Things flowed fairly smoothly until I noticed my cousin and friend getting ready to leave (but waiting patiently to see how it played out between us).  I was caught off-guard and so abruptly interrupted my conversation with Cutie that we were both a little thrown off.  Several awkward pauses and a big group-on-group wave goodbye later, we were off.

As we walked down the block, I lamented the fact that he didn't ask for my number the entire time we talked.  "Do you want to go back in and give it to him?" they asked me.  No, that's too big of a move on my end.  But man, now I'm so sad.  "I'd rather regret doing than not doing," my cousin said.  Hm.  Shouuuld I go back?  "Make up your mind, woman!  It's freezing!" my cousin pressed.  So, before I lost my nerve, we turned around and walked the block back to the bar.  I told the bouncer I'd left something inside and he let me right in.

Cutie & Co. looked up as soon as I entered and I tried, stomach-in-throat, to approach them as coolly and calmly as I possibly could.  "Hi," I said, leaning over their table.  "I never do anything like this, and I know this is really bold, but...would you like to call me sometime?" I asked.  As Cutie exclaimed that yes, he really would, Friend A and Friend B immediately chimed in going, "yes! Yes he would!  He was kicking himself when you left.  You're a lifesaver.  Thank you for coming back!"  Friend A slid out of the booth so I could sit down next to Cutie and give him my number.  We smiled at each other and, as casually as I was able to manage, I stood up and walked towards the door (desperately racking my brain for the whole eight feet to the exit trying to remember if the door was a Push or Pull and concentrating on not tripping or walking silly in my five inch heels to avoid disastrous embarrassment). 

I walked back towards my dates, emerging victorious and totally high on life.  I spent the whole drive back to my parents' like any normal, sane woman would: planning our upcoming nuptials.

Spring 2011, I'm thinking.  And you're all invited.   

Really? Really.

There's just something about the holidays that makes you stop and think...and feel pretty bad for yourself.  Nothing makes you ponder every single life choice you've made over the past year like explaining them in detail to all of your family members.  It's like suddenly your job, your love life, your living situation, even your wardrobe choices, are under a microscope.

I love judging though.  The past 24 hours in particular, I've scrutinized my own decisions and then moved on to those of ex-boyfriends...because...why not?  I'd like to share a few of those thoughts with you in the style of the following:

LE.  Really.  Thirty-one and unsure about being in a relationship?  Really?  You tell me you'd never want to screw up what we have and then you leave me in the rain...in the dark...on the street...alone...while you get high?  Really??  I'd possibly classify that as "screwing up" on my relationship barometer.  Then EMAIL me to say you didn't mean to ruin my Halloween by breaking up?  Really? And right when you're about to have a two month break from work and your travel plans fell through with your friends and we were supposed to go away together?  Really?  Then two weeks later you confide in the mutual acquaintance that initially set us up and say you'd like to call and see how I'm doing...so you don't feel guilty.  Really?  Really.  Because THAT wouldn't get back to me.  Really.  Then you're on gchat for the past two hours and don't say Happy Thanksgiving?  Really? Good to hear from you.  Really.  Which is better because I don't know how I would've handled that rationally after a bottle of wine.  Really. But I can see how much you care.  Really.

And EB.  Your birthday's coming up.  Really.  Since you texted AND called on my birthday, now I feel obligated to contact you and wish you a Happy Birthday.  When I don't particularly mean it.  Really.  You tortured me and dragged things out for two months after we broke up.  Really.  I could kinda care less if you have a fantastic day or not.  Really.  I also have next to no desire to talk to you, but feel like NOT contacting you now would be a statement.  Really. 

Onto men I've dated recently.  None of you are picking up on my minimal interest?  Really?  I like going out and I like drinking.  I also don't mind when someone else pays for those two things.  Really.  So when I say "I had a great time, sure let's do this again," I'm referring more to the part where I go out and drink and you pay for it than the part where I actually do it WITH you.  Really.  And my vague responses to your texts?  I'm not being coy, I'm seeing if better plans come along in the meantime.  Really.  Also, what the hell happened to CALLING someone if you liked them?  Really.  A text? Really?  Man, you must be smitten.  Let me rearrange my calendar to have more stilted conversations with you in person because you can't even be bothered to have one with me on the phone first.  Really.

I'm being 80% facetious in this post.  (not) Really.

Taylor Lautner

I just saw the second installment of the Twilight film series, New Moon.  Words cannot describe, so I feel it fitting to devote an entire posting of lip-licking good pictures of Jacob.  

Consider this my early Thanksgiving gift to you.  You're welcome.

 

 

 

Karma Kameleon

There is a fatal flaw in my dating method: I am terrified of "dating karma".

The flaw is that the trick to dating (at least in Manhattan) requires a certain kamikaze-style laissez faire disposition.  You need to be able to throw yourself into the jungle at the bar, slice through the crowd with a machete made of vodka, and find someone that you want to talk to who wants to talk to you.  There is a certain amount of a "take no prisoners" attitude that separates the strong from the weak.  Once you start making small-talk with a guy who's shorter than/not as funny as/more egocentric/has less hair than you would like, you're as good as dead.

And I know what you're thinking (don't I always?)-- that I'm awfully picky about getting a free drink from someone.  To that I say the following: you always pay.  Trust me.  Nothing is free.  Whether the guy turns out to be amazing and you have the best night of your life and marry him and birth his children, the cost will be the rest of your life spent watching him pick his socks up off of the floor with his toes and flick them into his hands.  Whether the guy turns out to be amazing and you have the best night of your life and date him seriously for a while, the cost will be your heart break at the end of the relationship.  Whether the guy turns out to be as horribly boring/awkward/unlikeable as you'd initially thought, the cost will be trying to pull out your own teeth with an olive toothpick and your key ring as some make-shift dentist's tools because even THAT is preferable to having the conversation you are having.  You always pay.  Remember this.

(Hey!  What'd I just say?  There's no such thing as a free lunch)

But back to dating karma.  To me, dating karma is getting back whatever you've put out.  I realized today that I am absolutely frightened of turning down a date with someone because what if, in some crazy universal butterfly effect on my love life, I never meet anyone else?  What if this is the last man to ever ask me out?  What if the only way to keep dates coming in is to keep going out on dates? What if, by turning down a date, I am sending out a message to the universe that I am no longer looking? I know, this is completely absurd.  I've never had trouble meeting mediocre men that want to see me again-- the streets of New York are practically overflowing with them.  However, that is my deep dark dating fear.  I hate saying no.  

You see though, despite knowing these rules and having this completely unfounded phobia, sometimes I still forget.  Sometimes I am snared in my own trap.  This afternoon, for example, a set-up a long time coming finally...came.  A gentleman who is friends with another gentleman who works with myyyy friend (ya follow?) shot me an email suggesting we get a drink after the holiday.  The middle of the email was completely innocuous, but the beginning and end left something to be desired.  I won't divulge too many details, but let's just say something about injuring children and small animals may or may not have been passed off as a joke.  The guy seemed totally nice, but after one 30 second read-through I could just tell that I wouldn't like him.  Hey, I'm the first to say I'm no prize but that doesn't mean beggars can't be choosers.  I judged him so harshly (and I recognize that as crazy) on the email, I just knew it didn't matter how well the drinks went, he'd never bounce back.  I'm mean and rarely forget; he just didn't stand a chance.  I went back and forth for the better part of an hour and a half as to how to respond, whether or not it'd be better to have a drink then call it off, etc., finally deciding that I'd just lie and let him down easily, taking a friend's suggestion of saying I had just started seeing someone else.

I know, I know.  Turning down dates? Lying?  Who did I think I was, Helen of Troy?  But for a moment I forgot my own dating karma and thought I'd beat the system.  I drafted something light and friendly, sent it out, pushed the guilt aside (because he did seem genuinely nice), and felt like maybe I'd been crazy all along and things would turn out OK.  "Ha, dating karma," I thought to myself and laughed.  Then I jumped in my mother's car to head out to meet my cousin at a movie, threw it in reverse, and slammed directly into my brother's car.

Guess I deserved that.