Age ain't nothin' but a number...

This afternoon I got hit on by an 8th grader.

Twice.

Let me back up a bit... This morning I had the joy of trekking all the way out to South Ozone Park, which is, how you say? FAR. AWAY. I often forget how large New York City really is, until I am called upon to traverse its byways to the far edges of the boroughs, which is precisely where SOP lies. Let's just call it the ass-edge of Queens.

Today marked the first performance of the semester for my outreach program, and so the 12 of us made our way out to PS ### to perform a one-hour version of "The Tempest" for a bunch of 7th and 8th graders.

After each of these performances we give a "talk-back," giving the kids a chance to ask questions about the play, the process, the actors, etc. We began this morning's talk-back by going down the line and introducing ourselves, and after I said my name I heard a "Hey Froggy..." echo back from the audience in a very "How YOU doin'?", Joey Tribiani kinda way.

I located the perpetrator, a very self-assured (and not unattractive) young man sitting near the front.

I laughed.

After we finished and the kids were leaving I was talking with one of the faculty members when I heard it again.

"Hey Froggy!"

I looked down and the same kid, surrounded by his buddies, was smiling and waving at me.

So I waved back. His friends promptly began laughing and shoving him around, and then some girl started yelling at him, so it seems that perhaps a bit of jealousy was inspired by yours truly.

Needless to say, I was amused.

I turned back to the faculty member to laugh about what had just happened and she says "Yeah, he's kinda the bad boy of the school..."

So it seems that my jackass magnet is still functioning in full force, even when the boy in question is quite literally half my age.

But I can't lie, I was still kinda flattered :)

And that was probably the highlight of my day. This afternoon I spent nearly 2 hours in line at the Social Security office (because unlike the rest of America, those of us residing in Brooklyn, Queens, Phoenix, and Las Vegas are not allowed to apply for a replacement Social Security card by mail). And then, after all that waiting, I find out that they will MAIL ME THE CARD. Seriously, what the fuck?? You people don't have a printer? There has *got* to be a better system.

So to calm myself down I came home and made a lovely dinner. Since I know nothing brings people out of the woodwork like pictures of food, I shall indulge you :)



Clockwise from top: Peeled, diced Roma tomatoes; Sliced green and black olives; Diced onion; Chopped garlic; Capers (rinsed).




Sensing a theme here? Clearly I enjoy making sauces. Also, thanks to the wonder that is Photoshop, I was able to make my stove look a whole lot cleaner than it is! Score!!




I really should eat like this more often. Also, I solved the too-dark photo issue. Hoorah!


After dinner I also baked cookies, but alas there are no pictures. I'll have to take them to my rehearsal tomorrow, as I really don't need 40 oatmeal/coconut/butterscotch/currant cookies in my house.

And that... is all she wrote. I need to go plan for my rehearsal tomorrow, as it has been quite some time since I wore the directorial cap, and I need to figure out my game plan.

Enjoy the weekend kids! Any big plans?

And then in dreams methought...

Last night I dreamt I was getting married.

Contrary to what one might expect, I did not awake feeling all warm and fuzzy, nor did I awake feeling gloomy or depressed that it wasn't "real."

Instead, I awoke to an overall sensation of, "well... that was... interesting."

I was in a craft store, surrounded by ribbon and flowers and manic brides trying to create the perfect pew bow/flower arrangement/etc., and all I wanted were some new buttons for my favourite coat.

Then I was having margaritas with some friends (dream friends, of the variety that do not exist outside my subconscious), who all seeemed quite concerned that I was going to be late for my own wedding. I, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered.

Now that I think about it, if they were my friends, I wonder why they weren't invited?

Finally, after a panicked phone call from my mother, I left my friends and began to get ready. There was a vague nagging sensation that I was not in possesion of "something blue," which I chose to ignore.

The ceremony was being held at a private school in my hometown where my dance school used to rent rooms for class.

The groom in question was my childhood best friend, but in the dream scenario he was my cousin, and the marriage had been arranged by our parents.

Sadly I didn't make it to the ceremony--my alarm went off as the groom, myself, another couple, and some random family members were being served a salad in a cramped hallway backstage at the school.

I wonder what Freud would make of all of this...

Actually, it shows a marked improvement over the last wedding dream I had, which took place in what could only be described as a hybrid of a Duane Reade (that's a pharmacy for you non New Yorkers), a Greek temple, and a fountain. There was no groom.

In the end I think that, for once, my subconscious and my conscious minds are in agreement. I don't want a wedding. Ever.

Not that I wouldn't want to get married, but the public ceremony with a dress and flowers and guest lists and seating charts and a DJ and bridesmaids and pew bows and centerpieces and... and... and...

No. That's just not for me.

I do realize that, considering my practically-permanent single status, I may be getting a bit ahead of myself.

Yet somehow, knowing what I do (or in this case, do not) want? Is a relief.

Judgment??!?!

I am irritated.

Last week in a fit of unprecedented optimism (mixed with the requisite dash of boredom and catalyzed by excessive free time at work) I started poking around the personal ads on Craigslist.

I know, I know...

But I figured it can't hurt to look, right? And at least it's free.

Besides, if it all goes downhill, at least it will give me something to blog about.

Right. So after some heavy photo consultations with DS, I threw out responses to a few ads. At first I was only responding to ads with photos, but then I decided to throw caution to the wind and popped off a few to guys without photos as well. Why not? If I'm gonna do it, might as well go for broke.

First, I would just like to say... Guys? Be realistic! Don't say you are a "dead ringer" for Colin Firth if you are not. That's just not nice.

And then...

And then there's this guy.

Cute, right?

So I shot him an email and the following conversation ensued:


From: B------ (xxxxxxx@hotmail.com)
To: Froggy
Subject: RE: Craigslist is definitely a little weird.
Sent: Sat 2/23/08 4:17 PM


i'll be at virgin megastore monday after 5 for a while, writing.

--------------------

From: Froggy
To: xxxxxxx@hotmail.com
Subject: RE: Craigslist is definitely a little weird.
Date: Mon, 25 Feb 2008 08:48:23 -0500


I would have written sooner, but it was a rough weekend. Sadly I am already otherwise engaged this afternoon. Another time perhaps?



[Ed Note: I'm getting a haircut.]
--------------------

From: xxxxxxx@hotmail.com
To: Froggy
Subject: RE: Craigslist is definitely a little weird.
Date: Mon, 25 Feb 2008 11:11:26 -0500


I browsed your myspace page and threw up a little bit in my mouth. Healthy means "spends a measurable amount of time OUTside of bars"



[Ed Note: See? This is what I get for using my real email address, which I never do... damned optimism! And wait, what the hell is in my MySpace profile anyway? I made that when I was... what? 24? Oh, under interests it says "beer, jamesons, pool, loud music, dive bars, dirty martinis, trying to avoid people who suck." Clearly I am an alcoholic as opposed to, oh, not taking MySpace seriously.]
--------------------

From: Froggy
To: xxxxxxx@hotmail.com
Sent: Mon 2/25/08 11:55 AM


Hmmm, nice. I don't think I've updated any of that (tongue-in-cheek) info since I created that profile, um, 3 years ago? 4?

However, I really dig on being judged by people who don't even know me. Wanna get married?

Later,
Froggy
--------------------

From: xxxxxxx@hotmail.com
To: Froggy
Subject: RE: Craigslist is definitely a little weird.‏
Sent: Mon 2/25/08 12:04 PM

Don't you have any pride or dignity? (stupid question) STOP writing me

--------------------

And so I did.

Don't get me wrong, I was (and still am) sorely tempted to fire off one more bitchy message before adding him to my blocked senders list and thereby getting the final word.

But I decided to take the high road.

And blog about it instead.

And while he's just one jackass (one in a sea of thousands, to be certain, but just one), he does illustrate what I've often felt to be the underlying theme of all personal ads: If he's that cute, there's got to be a reason he's still single!

In this case, it's that he's a judgmental jackass.

But really? He's judging me?? He posted a personal ad on fucking CRAIGSLIST!

(And I answered it. Shit.)

Still... methinks this doesn't bode well for the remainder of this endeavor.

The next time I'm feeling optimistic, I'll just buy a lottery ticket.

Invitation Only

No, not this post. My boss's funeral.

No, he's not dead, but apparently when he is, his funeral will be strictly Invitation Only.

Why did he share this?

No freaking idea.

I am so sick of this place. The Food Issues are back in full-force today, complete with imitations of another co-worker including pig noises. It makes my skin crawl.

Blargh.


In other news, I have a full 16 hours of class this weekend which I am less than thrilled about, but then... rejoice! After this weekend it's over and I get my weekends back! Which is a damned good thing because I am positively drowning under all the reading I currently have to finish. This semester is royally kicking my ass.

I need a distraction. Preferably of the single, attractive, employed, and male variety.

Anybody know where I can find one of those?

We Have a Winner!

(Oh dear god, I wonder what kind of searches will pick this up??)



Yes, that's a vibrator sitting in my dish drainer.

See... shit like this is why living alone freaking rocks. No sneaking to the bathroom with it hidden behind my back whenever it needs a cleaning.

It's a good thing my parents live in a different state. My mother already found my vibrator once in college... I can't imagine the fracas that would ensue if she (or, god forbid, my father) were to encounter one occupying the same space as the dishes I grew up with (visible in the background, the one with the pattern than simply screams 1970s).

As you can see, I have broken my heretofore strict "No masturbating with animals" policy [Oh god the searches... -Ed.]. It seems that these days it's either a bunny, or a dolphin, or an elephant, or a butterfly, or... right. Who says bestiality isn't socially acceptable? [Christ I'm really asking for it. -Ed.] At least this particular bunny will be tickling my clitoris with his hands rather than his ears. Somehow that seems less... pervy.

To answer Jess's question, No. I did not go to Toys in Babeland (which is down in SoHo, on Rivington I believe). TiB, while "nice," is, in fact, ridiculously overpriced and their selection is appallingly small.

And I really don't go in for that whole "classy sex shop" atmosphere. It's like buying a dildo at Crate and Barrel.

I went to a place on 7th Ave that my friends and I randomly encountered after a birthday brunch last summer. It's got a much larger selection, better prices, and the staff is friendly and helpful without being creepy or pushy. The girl there (who can't have been more than 20) actually recommended today's purchase. I'll let you know how her advice pans out.

(Yes, of course that picture was taken pre-test-drive... what kind of perv do you think I am? Sheeze...)

Oh, and a word to the wise: If you ever find yourself purchasing a toy that runs on these...



STOCK UP!! They are absolutely freaking impossible to find. They're, like, the Abominable Snowman of batteries. However, the store came through for me today (they didn't have them before) and now the beloved purple bullet is back in action! Hoorah!

Clearly, there is gonna be a par-tay up in heah.

Or something.

Okay, I think I've aired my closet enough for one evening.

Whatcha got in yours?

Pffzzt!

Bullet points y'all... it's that kinda day.

• I really kinda hate my job.



• I have, like, 10 million things to do between work and my 6:45 class this evening, most of which are spread out over a 15-20 block radius... which doesn't sound all that bad except that there is no logical way to navigate this trek via mass transit which means lots of walking. And it's cold.



• These myriad errands include, but are not limited to: pick up a book I reserved at Barnes & Noble because I now have even MORE reading to do (location: Union Square); run down to campus and pick up my signed registration form for summer study abroad (location: Washington Square Park area); take said form to Office of Special Programs and give them a check for $100 (location: same building, thank goodness); go vibrator shopping (location: 7th Ave)



• That's right, I said vibrator shopping. This seems to be a recurring theme in blogland lately so I figured that since I am clearly not getting laid any time soon, it was time to restock my solo-sex collection. All previous members of this illusive club either run on batteries that are impossible to find or were, um, broken.



• Yes, you can break them. Don't ask.



• I think my kitty has a UTI and I feel bad that there's nothing I can do for her. When I got to work today I started googling "cat health questions," but much like WebMD this only provided me with horrible worst-case-scenario information that made me feel even guiltier for being here at work instead of home spoon-feeding her tuna or something.



• Or, you know, taking her to the vet like a responsible, non-broke pet mommy.



• Before I get nasty emails from pet-owners, I would like to make my case for being anti-veterinarian except for dire situations (ie- Cat has been hit by a car, stops eating, is clearly in excessive pain, etc.). First of all, I have had cats for my entire life, we have only ever taken them to the vet in case of emergency, and they have all lived exceedingly long, happy, and healthy lives. The record to date is 18 years and the current furball looks to pass that with nary a backward glance (**knock wood**). Second of all, it seems that vets prey on the type of people who take their pets in for every. little. burp. Case in point: Crazy Ex Boss, who was conned into buying all sorts of fancy food and meds and other nonsense because she really believed this would make her aboslutely ancient cat live forever or some shit.



• Despite all the above I am still totally paranoid that something is seriously wrong with her. Is this was having kids is like?



• I realized on the way to the subway this morning that, Ooops! I had totally blanked on the fact that I have a reahearsal tonight after my class and therefore will not be getting home until sometime after 11pm. Which, well, sucks.



• It also makes working out an eating schedule a pain in the ass. I can't eat right before class because the class is really physical and I don't feel like puking in front of the cute boy I rolled around on the floor with last week. And there is no time to eat after class as I'll be hightailing it to rehearsal. Hmmm... well, I am playing an ill-treated monster. Perhaps a grumbling stomach will get me into character.



• Looking for a Fall internship is proving to be a royal pain in the arse. I hope I can find something or I am sca-roo-hooed. (That was "screwed" said in a cheesy fake-cowboy voice, in case you were wondering.)



• Damnit, my carefully crafted eating-schedule is falling all to pieces. I'm not supposed to want lunch for another hour but here I am, all hungry and shit. Motherf*cker.



• Oh well... at least I'm going vibrator shopping tonight...

Karmic Musings

I...

did not get laid last night.

For you see, despite having spent Valentine's Day having dinner with estranged relatives, it seems that the Ex in question (aka- The One Who Got Away) does, in fact, have a girlfriend.

Typical.

What is it with Irish-descended vegetarians from a certain Not-So-Southern Southern State and their tendency to not mention the existence of girlfriends until I've had time to develop expecations, be they sexual or otherwise?

*grumble*

Yeah, so perhaps I noticed some eerie similarities between B and TOWGA. Speaking of which, TOWGA needs a new nickname. This current name bespeaks a certain level of optimism that perhaps, one day, he won't get away... and really I need to stop kidding myself. Looking for a future in my past has never done me any good; I need a new strategy. Henceforth TOWGA shall be known as Cambodia, because that is where he and his girlfriend are apparently moving in the Fall.

Right.

Despite the lack of naked gymnastics or, you know, orgasms, we did pass a pleasant few hours over $3 pints of Guiness, leaving me a bit too tipsy to actually do any homework when I got home--but not too tipsy to read Pablo Neruda love poetry over the shoulder of a cute guy on the G train. Apon arriving at my apartment alone, I promptly inhaled a frozen pizza and, being that I was too buzzed to actually concentrate and was feeling sleepy anyway, went to bed at 9pm.

However, this morning on the way to work, I think I finally figured out my inability to locate and/or attract an attractive, single gentlemen for carnal amusement or otherwise. Karma, it seems, has a different plan for me.

She keeps sending me homeless men.

Yesterday, for example, I had a homeless guy throw a newspaper at me.

I was stopping off at my bank to grab cash before meeting Cambodia, and when I entered the ATM vestibule an employee was in the process of removing a sleeping homeless man from the radiator. Upon climbing down he immediately stumbled directly into the nearest ATM with a resounding thud, and I therefore scurried away around a corner to remove myself from his trajectory.

(Note: If you look up "innocent bystander" in the dictionary, you'll find my picture. I have good reason to be cautious!)

The man was expelled from the premises and I got my money from the ATM. As I was heading out the door I noticed him walking back, and assumed he was just going to come right back in.

But no.

He mumbles something incoherent, chucks his newspaper at me, and stumbles off as I shout "Gee thanks buddy! That was awfully nice of you!" over my shoulder.

Perhaps I should have bought him a drink? After all, he had technically just attacked me with his pillow... perhaps he was only trying to instigate a friendly pillow fight? Or inviting me to come take a nap with him? He did resemble Charles Manson on a particularly bad acid trip, but he could potentially clean up well.

Then this morning there was another homeless (or possibly just crazy) man on my block collecting bottles from the garbage and loading them into a baby stroller, talking to himself all the while. As I passed he turned and shouted something that sounded like:

"Ah-oo nah la poo-tah hey no?"

Which for all I know could have meant "Pardon me Miss, but I would love to escort you to the ballet some evening," or "Microsoft will cap at 350."

And so, Madame Karma, I get it. This is your little way of telling me that I'm too fucking picky.

Fair enough.

But really, asking for a man who's showered in the past month and has some form of steady employment really isn't too much to ask... is it?

Letters

Dear Coworkers,

I'm not even sure where to begin.

Wait, that's a lie. Let's begin with the fact that it's bad (insulting, demoralizing) enough that your salary is more than twice mine and yet you are incapable of penning a coherent sentence; but when compounded with the fact that at least FOUR of you have emailed me to ask for "another copy" of that document because the copy I sent "is showing all those notes," you, in effect, make me want to rip out my hair/rip out your hair/generally perform acts of unpleasantness that would result in my either being fired or arrested.

Now, let me see if I can explain this in a way that will penetrate through that layer of cement that serves as your skull.

You see that oval-shaped plastic thing next to your keyboard (the type-y thing)? The one with the two buttons and the cord coming out of the top? That's a mouse.

Wha-- NO! Come back here! Get down off your chair! It's not a real mouse, sheeze...

Okay, now, place your hand lightly atop the M... the clicky thing. Move it around a little bit. See how that arrow on your screen moves when the clicky thing moves? Good!

Now move that arrow up to the upper-lefthand corner of the screen where you see the words "Final Showing Markup" (if you've made it this far, I assume you can read). Click on the little downward-pointing arrow next to the words.

Put the little arrow over the word "Final." No, not the "Final" in "Final Showing Markup," the "Final" allll by itself. Right.

Now click on it.

Just once.

There. Now that wasn't so terribly difficult, was it?

Oh, and in the future, before you tell me that neither you nor your neighbor are "savvy enough" to figure this out on your own, tell your neighbor to CHECK HIS FUCKING EMAIL because I sent him instructions, with pictures, first thing this morning.

Thank you,
FP

-----------------------------

Dear Academic Writers of the World,

First off I would just like to say "thank you." I'm sure you feel underappreciated at times and really, I want to let you know that I do indeed appreciate the hours and hours you have dedicated to publishing the tomes that make my education possible.

However, there are a few matters which I would like to discuss with you. Let's call them matters of style.

No, your shirt is fine. Stripes suit you.

I am referring here to writing style, and I would like to propose a few new rules for the style guide that would make both your and my lives easier.

RULE #1
Making me feel stupid does not, thereby, make you smarter.

RULE #2
Sentences containing more than 20 words are subject to review by a panel of experts. Sentences containing more than 30 words are hereby prohibited. Sentences containing upwards of 50 words will result in a monetary fine and possible flogging.

RULE #3
Any given sentence may contain no more than two pentasyllabic words. Please note that the presence of a single hexa-, septa-, or octosyllabic word immediately exhausts said quota.

RULE #4
If you can say it in 10 words... SAY IT IN 10 WORDS.

If we can all agree to the terms outlined above, I believe that we can look forward to many years of fruitful and far less stressful interaction.

Cheerio,
Froggy

-----------------------------

Dear Smokin' Hot Ex,

Please be aware that while I truly am interested in catching up and hearing what you have been up to for the past several months, I am equally (if not more) interested in getting you naked.

Your compliance in this matter is most greatly appreciated. See you at 5.

All the Best,
F

On Happy Endings...

No, not that kind of happy ending! Get your mind out of the gutter... sheeze!

So last night I had not one, but two different sets of plans fall through, the end result of which being my spending the evening home alone on my couch with half a bottle of wine and some Netflix movies to keep me company.

Needless to say, I was feeling a bit crabby.

I felt myself falling into a funk, as often happens when I am bored, and as such I decided to watch "The Pursuit of Happyness." I figured that a heartwarming movie with an old-fashioned feel-good ending was just what the doctor ordered.

Then, about halfway through the movie, as I watch the protagonist deal with what seemed like a never-ending run of bad luck, I started to panic.

Oh my god... what if this movie ends badly?

My brain started manufacturing false half-memories of my grandmother having seen the film and saying "and then after all that, he doesn't get the job!" Did that really happen? Or am I making it up? And holy shit if I go through this level of emotional battery and don't get my happy ending I am really gonna be a in a bad mood....!!!

Yikes.

Fortunately, that was not the case. I got my Hollywood-style happy ending and went to bed slightly drunk with a nice warm, fuzzy feeling that wasn't only the work of the wine.

But it got me thinking.

About real happy endings.

Because deep down, under all the cynicism and sarcasm and jadedness, underneath the thick-skinned exterior, way down under all of the artifice of this modern life... I genuinely believe in happy endings.

I know that somehow, someday, mine is going to arrive.

Which is possibly why I am meeting my smokin' hot ex for drinks tomorrow. No, wait, that's the other kind of happy ending.

Then again, there is no expiration date on happy endings. So while I'm waiting for one, is there really any harm in enjoying the other?

I think not.

Saturday, in (more) pictures

Well I've just read several dozen pages of Queer Theory and really? My brain hurts. It's a good thing someone told me I'm supposed to be conflicted about my gender, or I could have gone on for years thinking everything was fine!

Phew, dodged a bullet on that one, eh?

[/sarcasm]

Right then. Well, since several of you asked how the cooking went (and we all know what happens when I'm left alone with food and a digital camera) I thought I'd round out the evening with a little pictorial.

Ahem....

(This was actually lunch.)

Let it be known henceforth that I absolutely loathe mayonaise, and was therefore distraught that it is a prime ingredient in deviled eggs because they always look so darned tasty! So this was my experiment in mayo-free deviled eggs. It wasn't bad, but the recipe still needs some tweaking.

I've named them Fairy Eggs. Because, you know, Angel Eggs seemed far too silly.

For the record, those multi-sized green prep bowls = possibly my best kitchen investment EVER... even though they were ridiculously overpriced for 5 pieces of plastic.

Clockwise from top: Whole-wheat olive bread, made from scratch and almost entirely organic (excellent suggestion DS!); sliced fresh basil; garlic; minced italian flat-leaf parsley; freshly roasted red pepper (which is a pain in the ass to do when your broiler shuts off every 3 minutes for unknown reasons); and skinned vine tomatoes. The little one in the middle that looks empty is lemon juice, fresh squeezed of course.

This enormous enameled cast iron skillet weighs a ton and every time I dry it I'm worried that I'll drop it on my foot and cause extensive damage. However, I absolutely love cooking in it, so I suppose it all balances out.

Oh, and that's a hand-turned wooden spatula, courtesy of my father. It's okay to be jealous.

There was absolutely no reason to put it in a bowl other than that I wanted to see it looking pretty. Yes, I dirtied a dish for a photo op.

Voila! An almost-entirely from scratch (I don't have a pasta maker... yet), almost entirely organic (the juice of half a non-organic lemon and some non-organic olive oil--thanks to the accident--in the salad dressing), thoroughly tasty dinner!

The stemless wine tumbler was a Christmas gift from my boss--and is totally awesome.

(Try as I might, I couldn't un-darken this photo without totally screwing up the resolution. Any Photoshop savvy-er individuals wanna offer up some advice?)


And now I'm off for another glass of wine and then bed. Six hours of class tomorrow, lucky me!

Happy Weekend!

Just call me Grace...

After waking up at the ungodly (for a Saturday) hour of 6:45am and hauling my arse to a rehearsal in Manhattan, I was rewarded by doing very little actual rehearsing and being released at 11am.

As planned, I trekked up to Union Square--finding a new pair of $5 sidewalk sunglasses on the way, hoorah!--to pay a visit to my friends, Wholefoods and Greenmarket. The expedition proved a success and I struck out for home; however, the simplest of tasks are never completed without incident. At least, not in my world.

So I tripped up the steps while exiting the subway.

It should be noted that I fall up the stairs far more often than I fall down them. I'm special like that.

Unfortunately, there were casualties. Namely, an eight-dollar bottle of organic olive oil.




It should be noted that the three-dollar bottle of vinegar remained intact, if a bit greasy.




Thanks to some quick thinking--and my penchant for saving empty salsa jars--the incident was not a total loss...



In the end, I managed to preserve approximately 1/8th of my overpriced olive oil. I'm just grateful I decided against splurging on the $15 bottle. Now that would have pissed me off.

The only question that remains is... how much olive oil do I need to complete my cooking plans for the day?

Keep your fingers crossed.

The Power of Positive Thinking

Yes, seriously.

Yesterday was a good day.

No, I did not meet the love of my life, as Susan Miller predicted. I did get to roll around on the floor with a cute boy, but that was just for class. (God I love my program.)

Yesterday was, in case you missed it, Valentine's Day. And this year, I made a decision. I was absolutely, 100%, not going to be miserable.

And you know what?

It worked.

I totally caved and bought myself a pair of red Emu boots, which arrived first thing in the morning from Endless.com with a free box of Godiva chocolates reading "Be Our Valentine." Awesome.

I said "Awwww..." and grinned when my podmate got a dozen roses.

I wished everyone a Happy Valentine's Day.

I smiled. All. Day.

And it felt freaking great.

After class (yes, the one where I got to roll around with the cute boy) I was talking to another girl about Valentine's Day. She loves the holiday because growing up her mother always made it a special day for her and her siblings. I thought it was sweet. I told her that this was the year I decided to stop being Bitter Single Girl...

HER: So what are you now? Happy Coupled-Up Girl?

ME: (laughs) No, just Non-Bitter, Cheerful Single Girl.

HER: Oh. I always thought you and B were a couple.

ME: (rolls eyes) Yeah, you and everyone else in the department. He's got a girlfriend, he just never talks about her so nobody knows she exists...

And even that conversation did not dampen my spirits.

Nor did screaming people and some guy getting arrested on the subway.

The mind, my friends, is clearly a powerful thing.

Oh, and my inner radiance must have translated outwardly as well, because I totally got hit on by some guy outside a bar on my way to the subway.

We made eye contact as I was passing and he got this really surprised look on his face.

HIM: Wow, hey! What's up??

ME: (smiling, still walking) Hey there.

HIM: Oh! Nice eyes!

ME: (laughing) Thanks.

HIM: (as I walk away) So can I take you to dinner??

And I grinned the whole way home.

Shit. Maybe that was who Susan Miller was talking about!

...you think I should have said Yes?

Wow. I'm published over at Indie Bloggers today. That's an awfully nice Valentine. I think that's actually better than the red Emu boots that just arrived in my cubicle--and cheaper!

And I was totally surprised when I got the email telling me this morning.

Like, floored.

Because, you see, for all the sass and brass and Damn-Right-I'm-Hot-ness that I espouse, the bottom line is that I've always been insecure about my talents.

Which segues so nicely into today's post...


Now, I know that I'm good at what I do. I just know, the same way that any other artist knows. And yet... and yet.

And yet we all need validation. Without it, we begin to doubt. After all, I've seen many, many individuals who are completely convinced they are outstanding actors when, in fact, they are simply god-awful.

Could I be equally deluded in my convictions? Perhaps. The possibility is always lurking at the back of my mind.

I blame High School.

As anyone who has ever participated in High School Theatre (or, say, seen "High School Musical") is aware, it is treacherous territory indeed. Teachers will have their favourites, no matter how much they feign impartiality, and if you don't happen to be one, well, you are pretty much shit out of luck.

I, as it happens, was not.

I was liked, but not loved. I refused to play The Game and suck up relentlessly to the directors--I wanted to be judged on talent and talent alone. Talent which I was absolutely certain I possessed.

Unfortunately, High School Theatre follows a somewhat different agenda. Which brings me to The Vamp.

The Vamp has been so-named because she could play sexy better than pretty much anyone I knew--ironic, considering her relative inexperience. I, on the other hand, considered feigning "sexy" to be beneath me. It must be noted that I took myself far too seriously as a teenager... but I was also disgusted by watching girls who played every character like a harlot, particularly because it worked. Like. A. Charm.

And so The Vamp, who was younger than I was, consistently beat me out of nearly every role I auditioned for. It was disheartening to say the least.

So I went away to college and continued pursuing the theatre--with, it must be noted, far greater success.

And now, a bit of exposition:

Every year the Kennedy Center for the Arts hosts the American College Theatre Festival, a symposium of the best and brightest American college theatre programs. Any college wishing to be considered can invite a judge to attend one (or more) of their productions. Not only do these judges consider the shows themselves for inclusion in the Festival, they also nominate 2 actors--one male, one female--to compete for the Irene Ryan acting scholarship.

My senior year, I earned a nomination. And so it was off to the regional finals, where several hundred college drama students took over a large hotel in Pittsburgh--and yes, meyhem certainly ensued.

We were each to prepare a monologue and a two person scene, and so we all brought a scene partner (a non-nominee) with us.

The morning of the first round of auditions arrived and I, of course, was lurking in the hallway awaiting my turn, doing my best not to betray the seething knot of nerves that had taken up residence in my abdomen. As I go over my monologue for the umpteenth time, I look up and who should be standing five feet away from me but The Vamp?

I hadn't seen her in four years. I waved and she came over and we chatted.

"So," I asked, "are you here for Irene Ryan?"

"Uh huh."

"So you were nominated too?"

"Oh, no, I'm just here as [some guy]'s scene partner..."

It was with some difficulty that I managed to surpress the enormous grin that threatened to burst across my face.


I didn't make it past that first round, nor did I expect to. While I had stopped taking myself quite so seriously, I still held fast to my No-Game-Playing rule. So instead of Shakespeare I did Sartre.

Each audition room had two judges and two "panelists" who had no say in the outcome, but would provide feedback to the auditioners. My panelists loved me. It seems that my judges did not.

And that is absolutely fine.

Because there, in that hallway, I finally got the validation I'd been seeking all those years.

Funny, I never thought I'd find it in Pittsburgh.



----------------------
For other tales of personal achievement, check out this thread on 20Something Bloggers! Happy Valentine's Day!

When Worlds Collide

The blog world and the real world, that is.

The idea for this post occured to me this morning as I did my best to rise above the fact that my shower downright refused to maintain a consistent water temperature for more than 60 seconds. In the end, however, I decided that, Nah... it's been done... so I wouldn't bother.

Five minutes ago, I changed my mind.

But first, let's back up to where my alternately scalded and frozen head was this morning.

Last night I was having dinner with some friends. These friends happen to be my only "real world" friends who are aware that I have this blog. One of them, in fact, has been reading daily (hi W!). When I'm with them I can say something like "oh, that's on my blog" or "dude, you've got to check out this other blog I read..." Anything I post on here they're likely to hear from me anyway, and I know they'll keep my little secret so everything's kosher.

Except somehow I always sort of feel like a dork when the words "my blog" come out of my mouth in front of non-bloggers. It's like this little community we've created, with so many of us invested in our anonymity, is its own little universe, ne'er to be discussed in the open.

For example, I didn't tell them that I kept thinking about Deutlich all evening because my friend made German food and it was sooooooo good that now I'm fantasizing about going to Germany just for the cuisine. Granted, they know that now, because they're reading this, but at the time I kept mum.

The first rule of blogging is... you don't talk about blogging.

Or something like that.

So what was it that drove me to post this? Like any efficient Executive Assistant I have fuck-all to do at my job (in case you hadn't already figured that out on your own), and so I was poking around the forums on 20Something Bloggers, looking for entertainment. I stumbled across the goldmine that is the "Best of 2007" thread and started clicking away.

And I clicked on a blog.

And read for a few seconds.

And thought "Wait a minute... I think I know this guy..."

I began scanning the links and subject headings with steadily increasing speed as pieces of the puzzle slowly clicked into place.

Remember how I said I was thinking of going to Florida to visit an old friend I called FuturePhD?

Turns out he has a blog. Many of you, my regular readers, are on his blogroll.

And suddenly I became paralyzed... Do I come clean? Admit my identity? Widen the slowly growing circle of people who actually know who I am in the Real World?

The jury is still out.

And if it was so very easy for me to recognize him in a matter of seconds, would it be the same for anyone who stumbled across my blog? Are there secretly hordes of people out there reading this who know who I am? Is that why they lurk but never comment? Is my carefully guarded anonymity actually completely transparent? After all, it only took DS a matter of days to figure me out, and at the time we barely knew one another...

This path of thinking could easily lead to a full-fledged panic attack, and so I choose to abandon it for the time being.

Denial... it's not just a river in... you know.

So I've formulated a plan. If you happen to be reading this, FuturePhD, stand forth. A simple anecdote involving a golf cart will serve for purposes of identification. Do that, and I'll switch your moniker and add you to my blogroll.

Until then I'll stay over here in the shadows, clutching my anonymity with white-knuckled dread.

Who knows? Perhaps you're clutching yours as well...

Point of Pride

Wow, three posts in one day! WTF? WTF indeed...

Okay, so it's after midnight, so technically it's the next day, but I haven't gone to bed yet so nyeh!

I may, in fact, be a bit tipsy at the moment, but whatever...

At any rate, the moment that spawned this post occurred a few moments ago as I was sitting in front of the TV looking for something to unwind in front of for a few minutes before climbing into bed. I saw a preview for the new movie "Jumper," and I flashed back to the first time I saw a preview for this film.

Has anyone else seen one? If not, imagine one of those typical sci-fi/action movie previews full of really fast cuts that show tiny bits of the most exciting scenes in the movie, but only give a tiny idea of plot and an even tinier idea of who the actual actors are.

Yet the first time I saw it there was perhaps a 3 second shot of a guy with an Irish accent and I immediately said "Hey! That's the kid from Billy Elliot!", and a quick trip to the IMDb proved that I was, in fact, correct.

And, I gotta say it, I was fucking proud.

Because in my family? We do this All. The. Time.

We'll be watching a movie, or a tv show, or a 30 second commercial for deoderant, and we'll see a familiar face. And it immediately becomes an aural collage of

"Hey! That's that guy from _____ !"

"No it's not, it looks like him, but it's really the guy who played ______ in ______ ... you know, the one who showed up for 2 seconds right before that building blew up? And then he died?"

"No Way!"

"No!!! Really!! I'd wager my first born!!"

"Damnit, I am your first born! And you're wrong!!"

And so on and so forth until someone peels their drunken ass from the couch and goes to the IMDb to verify or deny the claim.

Sometimes someone is right, and earns gloating rights at least until my next visit to The Sticks. Sometimes we're both wrong and it really is some obscure actor who never got another job but will live off those three seconds of fame for the rest of his life.

But those moments when you are right? When you pulled the most obscure movie connection known to man completely out of your ass with a magnifying glass, a pair of forceps, and sheer, blind, faith?

Those moments, my friend, are fucking sweet.

Yes indeed.

Part Two

“You are, without a doubt, the biggest idiot that has ever trod the face of the earth!”

Peter was pacing frantically back and forth on the hot asphalt. How the hell could it be so hot when it was only 9:00am?

“Not only did you run away and join the Circus--the bloody Circus!--which may have seemed like a brilliant idea after several shots of Jaegermeister but was not, in fact, the wisest of career choices; but now, not even one week into this inexplicable venture, you have lost two hippopotami! How in the bloody hell do you lose two animals that weigh more than your truck?!”

He was sweating profusely now, but was clearly on a roll and not to be interrupted.

“Alright, okay, in all fairness they’re not exactly lost. They’re standing right over there having a mid-morning snack. But that doesn’t change the fact that they are out here, in the open, and not, in fact, inside the trailer where they bloody well should be! Ouch! Damnit!”

He extracted his fingernails from his palms and examined the damage.

“And now, to add the crowning jewel to this clusterfuck of a morning, here you are."

"In the parking lot of the Catholic High School.

"Talking to yourself.”

He yanked off his overtly-new baseball cap and chucked it to the pavement in disgust.

The hippos regarded him drolly. Clearly it was everyday fare to see their escort flailing about in a parking lot, shouting to no one in particular.

“I am so fucked.”

He sat down on the median and regarded the iron giants before him. The hippos were nonplussed.

Heaving a sigh, he extracted his cell phone from his pocket and attempted to formulate just precisely how he would explain this predicament to his new boss. His reverie of self-pity was interrupted by the sound of a revving engine as a red compact car blew through a nearby intersection.

“I hear ya,” he mumbled to the unseen driver and returned to formulating his explanation.

Thwack! Tsssss… thubba-thubba-thubba-CRACK!

“What the…?”

The red car had rolled onto the lawn of the High School and come to rest, quite forcefully, against the trunk of an ancient oak tree.

And then he was running, hippos forgotten, irate boss a distant memory, toward the small, blonde figure slumped over the steering wheel…

[to be continued]

Oh Internet Shoe Gods, Why Do You Mock Me?

Melodramatic? Perhaps... But acknowledging that does nothing to decrease my irritation at the email I found waiting for me when I arrived back at my humble abode late last night.

Sorry for any inconvenience but I can't locate this item. It was either lost or listed twice I'm not sure. For that reason I am refunding your payment. I am very sorry for this inconvenience.

This would, in fact, refer to the Naughty Monkey boots that I had been coveting for several months and finally decided to purchase on Sunday, as the cost of the boots was less than the total cost of the other shoes I had returned.

Now, a normal person would consider this to be a sign from the Powers That Be that maybe, just maybe, she already owns enough boots and doesn't need to purchase any more.

Not me.

I'm wondering if it's significant that I dreamt about buying red Uggs the other night, even though I find them to be generally distasteful.

Is there a 12-step program for this?


* * * *

So in a fit of... something... last night, I went and joined Twenty-Something Bloggers because, really, one can never have too many methods of procrastination or wasting time at work. So if I haven't tracked you down already, go ahead and look me up! I need a large friend-list in order to validate my self-worth.

No, wait, that's Myspace. Damnit.

[begin tangent]

Speaking of online networking sites, this morning I was once again struck with the inexplicable urge to internet stalk my 8th grade boyfriend. That is, if he hadn't vanished entirely from the face of the earth. I wish I knew what it was that makes him invade my brain like this every few months. It's starting to irritate me.

[end tangent]

So thanks to 20sb and the lovely "Recommendations" section of Google Reader, several new blogs have found their way onto the blogroll. Check them out! Actually, there are several whose names I see mentioned quite frequently, but had never quite gotten around to investigating, silly me!

Right-o. Back to pretending to work. Happy Tuesday y'all!

Truth in Advertising

The tunic that appeared in the catalog:




The tunic that arrived in the mail:

[Kindly disregard the disaster-area in the background that is my living room. Cheers, Ed.]




Seems to be a slight discrepancy, dontcha think?

Stream of Consciousness

It's Monday and my capacity for coherent thought is virtually nil. Bear with me.

So, you remember the online shoe shopping extravaganza? Well the goods arrived in the office last week and the results were mixed. The brown boots? Are freaking fabulous and I adore them to the ends of the earth. The rest? Not so much. It seems that the company in question must have changed their sizing guidelines because only one pair (the ankle boots) fit, and they were way too pointy toed. I am not a witch. The red shoes had to be re-ordered in blue because a credit card faux pas caused my first order to be cancelled and when I tried to place it again the red shoes were sold out. The blue arrived and in addition to being too small, the strap was silver. Seriously trashy. And finally, the fabulous chunky oxfords were far too small, but adorable, so they've been re-ordered a size up and hopefully will fit. Oh, the perils of online shopping...

And I may or may not have caved last night and ordered a pair of Naughty Monkey boots that I've been eyeing for the past 3 months.

I'm telling you, I've got a serious problem.

In other news, as time wears on I've come to realize with greater and greater clarity why B and I would never have made it as a couple. Aside from the fact that he is young (and has serious commitment issues), I keep coming back to his staunch vegetarianism. First of all, I like meat. A lot. Second of all, yesterday I wore my new (to me) vintage fur coat** (which, by the way, is fabulous) and I got the death stare alllll day. It probably didn't help that I kept rubbing my sleeve on him at every opportunity, but I staunchly maintain that I was provoked.

Now, don't get me wrong, I still trip off on the occassional R-rated day dream in which The Girlfriend doesn't exist, but hey, I'm only human...

**Pre-prepared justification speech for fur-haters: First of all, it's mouton, which is chemically treated lamb, which is a domesticated animal and was therefore likely used for food in addition to its hide. Second, the coat is from the 40s, which means this lamb died before my parents were even born. If it's still keeping people warm 60 years later I say it provided far more than that lamb ever could have in his life span. Thank you. {*steps off soapbox*}

I have no idea what to eat for lunch.

Actually, that's a lie. I really want Chipotle, I just don't know if I can justify the expense.

Or the calories.

I'm still trying to figure out what to do over my Spring Break. I realized the other day that we've got a large group presentation the Monday after and will probably need to rehearse at some point during the break, so my initial idea of traveling somewhere far, far away may not pan out.

I could go visit my friend, we'll call him FuturePhD, in Florida, where I could stay for free and have an old friend to show me around. However if it were just the two of us for more than a day or two, he might start to drive me crazy. The jury is still out.

I really want a burrito.

It's official, I am going to Ireland and Brazil this summer! For school, once again, so it won't be all fun and games, but I am still super-excited. I'm also trying to work it out that I can head to the UK a week early and visit with my friends in London--including the English Ex, who may again be single and who, it must be said, is a fantastic shag. Hey, like I said, only human...

Also hoping to tag my dream trip to Peru onto the end. Macchu Pichu here I come!

These trip extenders are currently completely in the realm of fantasy, but I'm really hoping to make them a reality.

I need a nap.

New York is fucking COLD right now! The temperature drop between yesterday morning and yesterday evening was staggering, and say what he will about my fur coat, I was a far-sight warmer than B on the way to the subway after class!

I am supposed to meet up with The One That Got Away for coffee and to catch up sometime this week. He's been out of town, so we'll see if he actually follows through on his promise to call me and make plans, or if I have to track him down myself.

The One Who Got Away is also a fantastic shag.

Just sayin'.

There was some other bit of randomness that I wanted to mention, but I've completely forgotten what it was.

Oh, glad you all like the header! To answer Stephanie's question (How did you do that?), in brief, Google Image Search, followed by cut & paste, magic wand selection tool, and the clone stamp. It probably would have taken someone actually trained in Photoshop about 10 minutes, whereas it took me a little over an hour, but I'm proud of my self-taught-ness.

My boss has serious food issues. He left a box of chocolates in the kitchen and keeps going back to check and see if they've all been eaten, ostensibly so he can gloat inwardly (or perhaps outwardly) over his own willpower and superior dietary discretion. I ate one, but did so furtively before returning to my desk so he couldn't chide me for it. Now I feel foolish. I don't want his issues rubbing off on me.


So, what randomness is floating through your mind on this arctic Monday?

[Addendum: I remembered the other bit of randomness! Last night I tuned in to "Brothers and Sisters" for the first time in ages and was highly amused to see Eric Winter, who used to play Rex on "Days of Our Lives" back when I still watched it, playing Rob Lowe's gay brother. I always said he was too pretty to be straight! :) ]

From the Mailbox...

Hey folks, new layout! Check out my crazy photoshop skills...

Anyhow, the following arrived in my inbox on Thursday, and I thought I'd share it with y'all. Ahem...


Hello!

Well, it's February again. A month for either thanking your lucky stars for your special someone or wondering which unlucky star you were born under to find yourself ordering take out, coffee table for one.

I'm the author of a new novel, [TITLE REMOVED, I am not an advertising service] (called fresh, fun, quirky, and hilarious!), a book I know your readers will be interested in—I’d be happy to send you a review copy if you like. And if you ever accept guest bloggers or conduct Q & As with authors, I'd love to offer some of my insight on love, life, and why you should never leave your love life in the hands of a ‘psychic.’

Have you ever wondered why if you visit a psychic for answers about your love life they always predict an attractive stranger in your future and never that they see you sitting home alone watching re-runs of the Amazing Race? My novel, [Damnit, I told you... NOT an advertising service!], just might have the answers.

It tells the story of Sophie, a girl who will do *anything* to have another chance with her ex-boyfriend. When she hears his new girlfriend loves the supernatural, she learns to fake psychic skills in order to give them a reading she knows will break them up. Romantic Times said in a review, “it’s destined to climb to the top of the best seller lists!”

To learn more, please check out my website at [hell no, I'm not listing your website on my blog!] for more information. Thanks for your time-hope to hear from you soon.

Eileen ______


Interesting, no? Since Eileen is clearly such a fan of my blog, I thought I'd take a moment to respond to her here. So...


Dear Eileen,

Hello! Yes, it is February indeed, and therefore I am spending every waking minute crying about the dreadful fact that I am... oh I can hardly say it... Single. That is, of course, when I'm not eating chocolate, watching The Notebook over and over and over, or hanging out in bars far beyond my price range trying to entangle a drunken stock broker in desperate hopes that he'll be THE ONE... how did you know?

I'm sure you are as fresh, fun, quirky, and hilarious as your book... according to whoever happens to be calling it that. I don't generally perform Q&A with Authors, nor do I invite people I've never met to write guest blogs and share their insights on love and life (which must be fascinating, considering your opinion of single women). However in your case, Eileen, I thought I'd make an exception. So here goes!

First off, how do you like my blog? I assume you've read it, since you seem to have such a keen grasp of what my readers would and would not be interested in. Incidentally you may be a bit off the mark with a plot that sounds like it was taken directly from the early days of 90210. Didn't Brenda do something similar to Dillon's new girlfriend? I can't quite recall. Regardless, I'd love to know what such an avid reader of my blog thinks of the place, being that you've never bothered to leave a comment or anything...

Or is it possible you just spammed every blogger on Blogspot with this email in a desperate hope that someone would actually take you up on your offer? And assuming someone did do such a thing, would you really want to market your book to the readers of such a--for lack of a better word--moronic individual? Of course you would, because clearly you are desperate for a few bucks or you wouldn't be doing this in the first place, would you?

Well Eileen, I think that's enough questions for one day. In closing, since you seem so keen to offer advice yourself, let me return the favor: It's your publisher's job to promote your book. Not mine. So go bitch to your agent and stay the hell out of my inbox.

Lovely chatting with you!

All the Best,
Froggy

T-G-I-List-Day... I mean Friday...

It's Friday night and I've got homework to do, so here are some bullet points to amuse you...

• Office "parties" are so awkward. They remind me of high school. This afternoon we had a surprise birthday party for my boss. I was one of the last to arrive in the conference room so the seats with the "cool kids" were all taken and I sat down at the end (for some strange reason everyone was sitting along the walls) next to this odd guy who works in my office but I have no idea what he does. Something with research. Out of the blue he says "You like to sew, right? I'm from the garment industry, I sew too. One year, I made my mom a jacket for Christmas..." Ummmm, okay guy, thanks for the history lesson. Next World's Most Annoying Coworker sits down next to me and begins his usual oh-I'm-so-interested-in-your-life-really-I-am barrage of questions that I don't feel like answering. School is fine. I'm really busy. Please leave me alone and GET THE HELL OUT OF MY PERSONAL BUBBLE! Oh, yes, did I mention he's a close talker? Needless to say I scarfed down my low fat muffin and fresh fruit (the birthday boy hates junk food) and hightailed it out of there.
  
  
• Tonight at my subway stop some preppy-looking white guy was getting arrested. I thought he was just getting a ticket, then I saw the handcuffs. Not exactly the type of arrest you expect to see going down in BedStuy... I am insanely curious as to just what this guy did...
  
  
• I am so proud of the outfit I put together this morning. I looked damned snazzy.
  
  
• I posted the half-assed beginning of a short story on my blog today. I will be posting further installments whenever I get around to writing them. I have no idea what possessed me to do this.
  
  
• Brookem, hi! Welcome! My favourite pair of shoes? That's like picking a favourite child! Hmmmm... okay, I'll go with the first pair of super-skinny (ie-stiletto) heels I ever bought. They're from Aldo, they're a green/brown tweed fabric with a big ole fabric flower on the front, but off-center. They're super-high and make my feet look tiny! Favourite cocktail is easy: Bombay Saphire martini, dirty, with extra olives. Yum!
  
  
• Two words: Homemade Pesto
  
  
• Ana asks, What'd you rather be? Chocolate or Vanilla? This is a deceptively difficult question. At first I thought, Vanilla! It's simple and goes with everything! But the more I thought about it, I realized that I'm more like Chocolate. Rich, complex, and doesn't mix with everything, but goes better with some things than you'd expect... so I'll stay true to myself and say Chocolate! Plus chocolate stimulates the same chemicals in the brain as an orgasm, and who wouldn't want to do that? :)
  
  
• I have a ton of reading to do tonight, and I don't wanna.
  
  
• OC asks, Which would you rather give up for a week - the internet or your cell phone? That's easy, definitely my cell phone. Nobody ever calls me anyway! :) Although ditching the cell phone would mean I'd need to find a watch. And an alarm clock. But I could still live without it much more easily than I could without the internet.
  
  
• I desperately need a new blog layout. I've been searching and searching but thus far nothing has struck my fancy. If I actually finish my insane amount of reading tonight, I'm going to screw around with attempting to make one myself... so if you show up here and it looks a disaster, sorry!
  
  
• I actually don't have class tomorrow! Hoorah! However, I have a huge amount of homework to catch up on, in addition to needing to clean the house and do laundry.
  
  
• I'm also hoping to fit a mani-pedi in there somewhere... yikes!
  

Okay campers, I've got to go make dinner (see bullet six), so that's all she wrote!

Hope everyone has a good Friday!

Work in Progress

Gina was having a shitty day, and it did not appear to be improving. Cursing silently she slowed to a halt at the 5th consecutive red light on Marshall Boulevard. She checked her cell phone, still no signal.

“I hate driving through the valley,” she mumbled to noone in particular as the light changed back to green. She slammed on the gas, perhaps a bit too forcefully, and began enumerating everything that had gone wrong since she woke up that morning.

Thanks to a power failure that had occurred approximately 10 minutes before her alarm would have gone off, she had overslept by nearly an hour. There was just enough hot water in her shower so as not to qualify as cold, but not enough to qualify as hot either. There was no milk for her coffee. She stubbed her toe on the rollerblades Mark had left lying in her hallway. She tripped over thin air and spilled just enough coffee on her white blouse to merit a change of shirt, which morphed into a complete change of outfit, which resulted in her being even later than she already had been. Of course, she hadn’t thought to call her boss until she’d already driven into the valley where cell reception is completely impossible. And now these damned red lights… GAH!

“I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried…” she mused grimly to herself as the light in front of her shifted to yellow.

She felt a subtle click deep in her abdomen. Her foot hovered over the break for a fraction of a second, and then she gunned the engine, sailing through the light just before it switched to red.

Her momentary elation was stifled by the prompt arrival of unmitigated panic and she began to scan the surrounding area for cops, cameras, or any other entity with the power to invoke a moving violation. A few moments of frantic searching revealed nothing, and she relaxed. No cops. Not a single witness to her vehicular indiscretion. Just those two hippos in the parking lot of St. Ignatius.

Wait… what?

She looked back. She was not mistaken. There were, in fact, two hippopotami munching grass by the walkway leading to the gym.

She began blinking rapidly, as if the resultant strobe effect would transform the intruding gray masses into something less incongruous. Trash cans, perhaps, or a couple of old Chevy Novas. She shook her head as though her brain were an etch-a-sketch, but to no avail.

The hippos regarded her with a heightened degree of disinterest.

Her car began to shake.

Thwack! Tsssss… thubba-thubba-thubba-CRACK!

(to be continued…)

hobby and the untrained eskimos facebook

What's that you say?

That's a search term.

I have no idea what the person who originally entered that into Google was looking for, but the very first result is my November archive.

Yeah, I don't get it either.

However, poking through my site stats on Google Analytics has provided some interesting information.

First, that posting pictures of hot boys causes a serious leap in site visits.

And second, that I apparently have quite a few lurkers! Hi guys! A few of you have come out of the woodwork recently (and no Ashley, of course I don't think it's weird that you're commenting... comments make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside! really!), but I've got to admit I'm curious as to just who the rest of you are...

I realize that as of late this blog has consisted mainly of crankiness and fluff... and nobody wants a cranky fluffer.

So...

Since I was out of the country for De-Lurking Day, I am instituting my own! Please, de-lurk! Say hi! Ask me something! Give me something to write about other than grad school and my baking exploits... pretty please?

Here, I'll tell you what: Question for a Question.

My question to you: What would you rather be? A penguin or a lemur?

Non-lurkers feel free to jump in here. Because really? If my de-lurking post garners no responses? I'll kinda feel like a loser...

And nobody wants that.

Mental Health Day

Last night I went out for drinks with grad-school-folk, hence the Snippet which appears to be causing some confusion. Allow me to clarify:

Slater is gay.

The "or my bed" was directed to B.

The "oh my god, we have to get out of here..." was his reaction when he realized what he'd just said.

So in summation: we all got a bit drunk, and Slater is the one who ends up hitting on B. Not me.

Classic.

I've got to say, however, that I love getting drunk with other theatre people. Nowhere else could you have a completely serious conversation stemming from the prompt "Okay, so if you had your pick, which of Shakespeare's characters would you fuck?"

(Mercutio or Richard III, in case you're wondering)

At any rate, by the time the last four standing left the bar (Slater took off almost immediately after the "or my bed" incident) it was late and I didn't feel like dealing with the subway so I treated myself to a taxi and hoorah! I actually got a cab driver who knew how to find my neighborhood in Brooklyn! It's a freakin' miracle...

I went to bed having made the decision that if I was hungover when I woke up, I would simply call in sick.


I woke up feeling just fine...

... and called in sick anyway.


Sometimes life just works like that.


So I went back to bed for four more blissful hours. I did my taxes and thanks to the Lifetime Learning Credit I get for being in school (and paying for it myself) I am getting a BIG. FAT. REFUND. As in, I could potentially completely pay off one credit card and half of another with this refund.

Instead I'm going to pay off half of each and put the rest towards actually traveling somewhere on my Spring Break. Any suggestions?

I also baked up a storm. At DS's suggestion I started with chocolate chip cookies, but never being one for moderation I decided that it had been far too long since I last made Cinnamon Raisin Swirl Bread.

Oh, did I not mention that I'm a domestic goddess? Right. 'Cause I am.

However, I am also an idiot and was halfway through the process with the dough rolled out on the counter preparing for the "swirl" bit... when I looked in the cupboard and discovered that the extra jar of cinnamon that I could have sworn was in there apparently doesn't exist.

So I went back to the grocery store, and wouldn't it just figure that the time I go to the store in track pants and a ratty fleece, no bra, unwashed hair, and glasses, I actually encounter a cute guy!

He did smile at me however. Perhaps his eyesight's not so good.

Huh? Where was I? Oh, right...



I should have invited Grocery Store Boy over for breakfast.

Snippet

Slater, B, and I are discussing Slater's end-of-semester-party

Slater (to B): Yeah and even after all the bong hits I think we still went to bed before you got home.

B: Yeah, it did take me a long time to get home.

Slater: You totally could have just stayed over.

Me: Yeah, there was an extra couch.

Slater: Or my bed.

pause...

Slater: Oh my god [Blondie], we need to go home NOW!

To-Do List

Thanks for all the positive comments yesterday, you are all fabulous!

I had a total stress fit at the end of the work day yesterday. This knot of tension had taken root in my chest and was refusing to vacate. However, I walked through Union Square to go buy cat food and noticed the cider sellers, so I got a cup of hot cider and sat in the park with a cigarette until I managed to calm the fuck down.

So yes, I'm feeling a bit better today. I keep reminding myself that I always manage to get things done, no matter how impossible the situation may seem, so if I just take a deep breath and stop worrying, everything will work itself out.

So far I'm buying it. Let's hope it lasts.

* * * * *

On a slightly more interesting note, shortly before waking up this morning I had a very naughty dream about Beck... twice! Only in my dream he was British. Which made him even hotter.

And so I decided that to further repel the cloud of doom that has been hanging over my head (and therefore over my blog), I would follow in the footsteps of so many other bloggers as of late, and give you the top 5 celebrity men that I would not kick out of bed.

I'm also trying not to repeat anyone else's repsonses (which were all fabulous by the way), so this has actually been pretty tough.

So, in no particular order...

Ryan Gosling

Once upon a time, Evil Ex Roommate walked into the room while I was watching "Half Nelson"

EER: Is that Ryan Gosling?
Me: Uh huh
EER: Damn, even the back of his head is hot.



He's sexy, he's talented, and he took his Mom to the Oscars! Does it get much better than that?


Gael Garcia Bernal



I do not have the vocabulary to properly express the things I would do to this man if given the opportunity. Not even in Spanish.


Henry Cavill



Even if it weren't an excellent show, this man would be reason enough to watch The Tudors. Mmmmm....

What? Oh, sorry, got distracted there. Moving along...


Alex O'Loughlin



If Joss Whedon has taught us anything, it's this: Vampires are friggin' sexy! And this man? Oh this man takes the cake.

Also he's an Aussie. Always helps.


Vin Diesel



I must qualify that he is not allowed to speak... but I can't help myself. Somehow the idea that he could crush me between his thighs totally turns me on, and ever since Pitch Black I've been dying to let him do just that.

Bonus if he wears the Riddick outfit.


Honorable Mention: Mike Rowe, Clive Owen, David Anders, Sendhil Ramamurthy, Michael Vartan, Johnny Depp, and the entire cast of 300.


Hello, Jet Blue? I'd like a ticket to LA please... one way.

Blargh

Yes, I made that word up.

It's an onamonapoea, signifying frustration, stress, and a sense of malaise all rolled into one.

Go ahead, try it.

It begins with a slight constriction in the chest as the lungs begin the slow expulsion of stale air. Let it gurgle up in the back of your throat, rumbling ominously as the intensity builds. Feel the back of your tongue flatten and spread as the sound enters your mouth and rolls along the soft palate. Notice how your jaw drops open, heavy and immobile, as the sound bursts forth into the air before you. And just when you begin to really enjoy the feel of the word, feel your throat constrict, strangling it off.

There. Did you try it?

How do you feel now?

Because that, right there? Is how I've been feeling, constantly, for the past 2 weeks. And I cannot for the life of me explain why.

It's like something is constricting my insides and numbing my brain all at the same time. I have a mountain of school work that must be attended to, but whenever I sit down to do it I simply cannot think. I have tried, repeatedly, to write my final reflection paper for the course in Uganda and it comes off as though it were written by gramatically-stunted 5th grader. I am supposed to be journaling my weekend class and so far I haven't written a single word.

I am walking through every day with an intense feeling of frustration, yet I have no idea what on earth I am frustrated about.

Maybe it's just the stress talking. Maybe I should take Slater up on his offer to buy me a massage, though lord knows when I would find the time. Maybe I should take a personal day from work and just hole up in my apartment with a large tub of ice cream and some DVDs.

There are a lot of Maybes. But Maybes won't get my homework done, or loosen the noose around my esophagus.

It's like part of me has taken a vacation and left no forwarding address.

I do hope she comes back soon.

Grocery List

With Valentine's Day--my most hated of holidays--looming just a few weeks away, my head has lately wandered more and more frequently to my single status.

Permanently single.

Terminally single.

These and others are phrases I use regularly to describe myself. Friends laugh it off, say I'm just being melodramatic, and "oh stop it, you'll find someone eventually!"

Eventually.

I wonder what makes them so certain. In life, there are no guaruntees. I think it is perfectly plausible that a person could go through their entire life alone, never finding someone with whom they connect on a deep enough level to stick it out. Never being that person that someone else can connect to.

I find it perfectly plausible that that person could be me.

And I try not to get mopey and depressed about it, because really? If that's the way it's gonna go, that's the way it's gonna go; and no amount of moping and woe-is-me bullshit is going to change that.

Because my problem? Is that I have standards. High ones. I have lived my life under the umbrella of an excellent example of love, and I won't settle for less than that in my own life.

Settling never makes anyone happy--the settler or the settlee.

Then again, my standards? I really don't think they're all that demanding. But I could just be used to them. You know, sort of like you don't notice a smell (good or bad) that you live with every day, but someone else enters your space and notices it immediately?

No?

Well regardless of my poor attempt at simile, perhaps I just need an outside perspective.

So here it is: my grocery list. Here is what I look for--and have yet to find--in a man.

Honesty. Really this should go without saying, but sadly it doesn't. And I don't simply mean honesty in the please-don't-cheat-on-me sense (though of course that certainly applies!). By "honesty," I mean that I want a man to play straight with me. If I'm being ridiculous? Tell me. I might get pissed, but I'll get over it. Be man enough to deal with me being pissy for an hour or so. Just in it for the sex? Put on your big-boy pants and tell me, because guess what... I can handle it. And if you're cute you'll probably still get laid--and if you've made it to the point of needing to tell me, you undoubtedly are. What you won't get are bitchy, passive-aggressive text messages a few weeks later when you stop calling. If you lay it on the line to begin with, I won't expect you to.

And speaking of being a man... damnit, Be one! Man-boys need not apply. I'm not saying you need to have it all figured out, bench 180, and have a 401k. But having goals in life, knowing how to do your own laundry, and occassionally being able to pay for dinner are all good things.

In a similar vein, let me be the weak one every now and then. I'm strong every day of my life, and every now and then? I kind of want to curl up and let someone else take care of me for a few hours. I don't ask for it very often, so when I do? Kindly step up.

Please know how to cook. You don't have to be a gourmet chef, but living off ramen is no longer cool once you've left college. Even if it's just a killer grilled cheese sandwhich, if you know how to cook just one thing well, it means you can feed me every once in awhile (see point above).

I sing. And dance. A lot. If that annoys you, it will never work. So please at least be able to tolerate my silliness. It would be even better if you found it charming, but I don't want to be demanding.

Be reasonably attractive.

Have a brain and, more importantly, use it! Nothing pisses me off more than smart people who act like idiots. Have an opinion. Accept that I may sometimes disagree with it, but have one anyway!

The days of substance abuse should be behind you. Not that you need to be 100% clean, mind you. I drink--sometimes far too much--and smoke cigarettes (though it would be a bonus if you didn't because that would totally help me quit), and still occassionally indulge in the odd illicit substance. But the days of partying until 4am 6 nights a week and doing bong hits while playing Asshole with grain alcohol punch? Those days are gone. Daily tokers, snorters, etc please keep away. However, past stories of drug induced hilarity are always welcome--particularly at family holidays, because that's how we roll.

For the love of god be over 25. Because really? They're all man-boys before 25.

Shower and brush your teeth regularly. Shaving is optional.

Know how to tell a joke.

Own at least one suit. Even if it only comes out for weddings and funerals, even if it's powder blue, the fact that you own one speaks volumes.

Unless it's a leisure suit. Leisure suits do not count.

I like sex. A lot. You should too.

But for the love of god at least have a rudimentary knowledge of the female anatomy. I don't need you to be a porn star--indeed, you'd better not be a porn star because if you cum all over my face and expect me to frolic like a little girl in a chocolate fountain? I might punch you. However, not being able to find the clitoris, even with a road map, is inexcusable in a man over 22. I do not have time for remedial sex education lessons. I don't even have time to do my laundry.

Please accept the fact that at times I can be a bit crass. I promise not to do it around your mother.

Unless she does it first.

Have at least one close female friend. I cannot stress this one enough. If a man has no female friends, this tells me that he has trouble relating to women in general. Also he has nobody who can explain to him precisely how he fucked up when I am angry and he can't figure out why.


So there it is. An honest, reasonably attractive, non-drug-abusing, intelligent MAN, who likes sex, knows something about it, can talk to girls, and knows how to make a grilled cheese sandwich.

If anyone knows of such a superman, please... send him my way!


And in all fairness, before my male readers (reader? I only know of one of you) get all into a tizzy, it's only fair that I outline what I offer in return:


I'm cute. Pretty even. And I've got a fantastic ass.

I'm smart. I have opinions (lots of them!) which I am clearly more than willing to share. I enjoy debating a point just for the hell of it, and if I get too carried away or worked up over an opinion that's not actually mine? See "If I'm being ridiculous" clause above.

I like sex. A lot.

I am also good at it. References provided upon request.

I am a good cook, and I much prefer cooking for other people rather than just myself. I also tend to shower those I like with baked goods.

I am ridiculously busy; meaning, I have my own life. Every minute of my existence will not revolve around you, and therefore I will not expect every minute of yours to revolve around me.

I like sex. A LOT.

I will knit things for you (when I have time). I will also mend your clothes, hem your pants, or take in that vintage suit that you got a great deal on but is just a biiiit too big... because I am a closet domestic goddess.

Who can also re-wire a lamp and operate power tools.

I don't insist that you love my cat. Just tolerate her.

I'll try almost anything once.

I am totally obsessed with llamas. I'm not sure if this is actually a benefit, but it makes me easy to shop for. Pretty much anything llama-related will make me squeal like a 5 year old.

(Provided you stick around long enough) I will never pressure you to get married. If it happens, great--just so long as you don't mind eloping. If not, I'm not going to have a coronary about it.

I love dive bars, and all that comes with them. You will not hear me complain about the state of the bathroom, the unidentifiable sticky substance coating the bar, or the mystery-aroma that occurs when you mix stale beer, smoke, and bodily fluids. I will be too busy schooling your ass on the pool table to notice.

I can walk a mile in 4" heels.

I love football (and understand the rules!).

I will never give you shit about guys' night out, nor do I care if you go to a strip club. Hell, if you take me along I'll buy you a lap dance.

Okay, this needs to stop before my head gets too big for my cube...

So there it is. I think it's a pretty level playing field.

What about you kids? What do you look for in that elusive (or not-so-elusive for some of you) match?