Saturday, January 31, 2009

Saturday Miscellany

I feel like ass. I am most definitely coming down with a cold and that is so not allowed to happen because THE STEELERS ARE PLAYING IN THE SUPERBOWL TOMORROW DAMNIT! And I must be able to cheer loudly and drink beer while they do so!!


It seems that the Social Butterfly Effect occurs chiefly in the sinuses. I was in Whole Foods this afternoon and picked up some homeopathic stuff by those guys who make That Stuff That Starts With An "O" That Nobody Can Pronounce. The "O" stuff is good for warding off the flu, so hopefully this sinus stuff does the trick.

In other news, I think I may be allowing myself to become somewhat smitten with The Contender.

Lovely A, I know you're humming the wedding march right now. Please stop it immediately. Thank you.

Anyhoodle, my walls are still a mile high and just as wide, and I'm sure a post will soon be forthcoming about how nice guys scare the bejeezus out of me, but for the time being... well... I was excessively late to his birthday gathering last night [Fucking MTA... -Ed.] to the point where everyone else had left by the time I finally got there sometime around 12:30am, and so we sat on the couch drinking wine and just chatting and, well, there may be just a little bit of smit hitting the fan.

And he is cute as hell.

We shall see.

Friday, January 30, 2009

Social Butterflies Prone to Illness. News at 11.

I'm feeling very "blah" today, and I can't tell if I'm coming down with a cold or if I'm just feeling run down because of all my crazy social engagements this week. I'm not accustomed to having my presence so in-demand... and my bank account is likewise in shock.

Tuesday was the Lovely A's birthday--resulting in a drunken 2am blog post and a hungover Wednesday. Last night was a going-away happy hour (that lasted until nearly midnight) for a pair of friends who are moving to LA.

Tonight I have two birthday parties to attend. My friend K, and The Contender. There's about an hour of travel time between the two, so I'll be hitting The Contender's party second and crashing at his place, rather than making the 1 hour trek back up to my neck of the woods. He called me this afternoon to warn me that an ex girlfriend of his might be there--apparently she's going through a rough time right now--which I thought was sweet. I'm really not the kind of girl to get freaked out about that sort of thing, especially considering that whatever it is that's going on between he and I is completely undefined, but it was still nice of him to give me a heads up.

Tomorrow I will be recovering from the festivities of today, and then Sunday is the SUPERBOWL!! Therefore I am absolutely not allowed to be sick, because my boys are playing in the Superbowl and I have every intention of being in a bar in Chelsea in a private room with several other rabid fans, one of whom is loaning me her extra Terrible Towel. Excellent!

So needless to say, with so much on my calendar, I'm feeling a bit run down today, and as much as I've been enjoying seeing all of my friends, both I and my bank balance are looking forward to going back to my normal hermit-like ways after Sunday.

On a completely unrelated note, the boy from the First Kiss story? Totally Facebook-friended me the day after I posted it. I laughed for a few minutes, then spent a few worrying that he had somehow found my blog and hoped he didn't feel bad about being called "unremarkable," then realized I was being silly and accepted his friend request. Therefore, those of you who are my Facebook buddies can totally go stalk him if you like.

Not that I condone that sort of behavior, or think you're all that rabidly interested in a guy I "dated" for a few weeks in the seventh grade. I just know it's what I would do. Because I have way too much free time on my hands.

There is no logical way to conclude this post. I think I'll go bake something.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Beer Bloggles

Gmail has this cute feature called Beer Goggles, which, when activated, will make you answer a series of math problems in a finite amount of time before you are able to send an email after a pre-designated hour.

In other words, it potentially prevents you from sending drunken emails you may later regret.

When I first heard about this, I thought it was amusing and witty, but not really necessary (my being far more likely to drunkenly text someone something embarrassing than email it).

However, I'm starting to wish that Blogger would implement a similar feature, which would keep me from writing ridiculous drunken posts like the one I wrote last night. I think--and I could be mistaken--that the point I was trying to make was that, on nights when I come home drunk and completely fail at everything I attempt to do (I dropped a bizza bagel face down in the oven, got cheese all over my oven mitts while trying to get it out and burnt my arm in the process, knocked over a vase of flowers, etc), my immediate thought is: I'm too old to still be doing this! (aka getting this drunk on a freakin' Wednesday).

I don't think the point was very eloquently made, last night OR right now, but I'm leaving last night's post up--everyone with a reader will see it anyway--as a reminder of why I just should NOT blog when intoxicated.

Like Nancy says... Just Say No.

Please Sir, Might I Have Some More...

Sometimes, I frikkin' HATE being adult.

You see, there are nights--like tonight--when I come home drunker than I reasonably should be.

Up until around 4:00pm EST, I thought that I was going to have to be in the Bronx at 8:15am tomorrow... an endeavor which would require me to be awake somewhere around 5:30am.

I then received a phone call informing me that, due to inclement weather, the school in question was canceling all programming for tomorrow.

Being that today also happened to be the 30th birthday of the Lovely A, I could hardly complain about this change in plans, and thus scampered off to meet her and a few others for dinner and drinks... which turned into more drinks at a cheaper bar in Brooklyn... which turned into my taking a car service home at 2am and attempting to make a snack upon arrival, which not only resulted in my burning my arm on my frikkin' oven, but also resulted in this sentiment:


I hate that the fact that I lost my balance while removing my second high-heeled boot (not the first), resulting in my tumbling ass-first to the floor.

I hate that I managed to burn my arm while attempting to make a pizza bagel...e FROM A HOMEMADE FUCKING BAGEL, NONE THE LESS!!! WHO THE FUCK ELSE MAKES HOMEMADE GODDAMNED BAGELS, AND STILL I BURN MYSELF?!?!??)

I hate that not only do I care about any of the above, but also feel the need to share it with the world, and...

Is it just me, or are the expectations that we place upon ourselves to be "grown up" completely and utterly ridiculous, on more levels than I care to count?

I hate being disappointed in myself, and failing at a drunken pizza bagel at 2am seems a ridiculous reason to be so, and so I ask... what, when it really fucking matters constitutes "adulthood," and how the hell do we measure it anyway?

Because if the answer is bruises and burn scars, I've been an "adult" since the age of 5, and that really just seems wrong...

Monday, January 26, 2009

Thoroughly Unremarkable

His name was Brad.

I was in the seventh grade, he was in eighth. At the time, I actually had my sights set on someone else--who, more than a decade later, it turns out is gay--but when his friend found me in the lobby of our middle school before musical rehearsal and asked if I would "go out" with him, my stomach did a little flip-flop, and so I said yes.

I may have felt differently at the time if I'd known that I was the third girl to be asked that afternoon--the first two having said No--but I was 13 and damnit, I wanted a boyfriend. So I took that internal somersault of surprise as a sign and agreed to "go out" with a boy toward whom my feelings were lukewarm at best.

We held hands at rehearsal. He left notes in my locker. And one day, as we stood in the lobby after rehearsal, waiting for our parents to pick us up, he asked "Can I kiss you?"

Internally I rolled my eyes.

Really? He felt the need to ask? Just man up and go for it, pal! Sheesh!

But I said yes. And he gave me a quick peck on the lips, after which I beat a hasty exit outside to wait for my dad. I broke up with him a few days later.

Little did I know at the time that years later there would be a boy who would ask "Can I kiss you?" and it would cause my knees to wobble, or that his kiss would leave me so unexpectedly giddy that I would run into a bush on my way into my dorm, like something out of a Sandra Bullock movie.

But there, in the lobby of my middle school, my first kiss was thoroughly unremarkable.

Saturday, January 24, 2009

All By Myself

Sometimes I think I'm the only girl on earth who really hates taking a shower with someone else.

I find it neither sweet, nor intimate, nor sexy; rather I find it irritating, uncomfortable, and annoying.

Unless you have one of those several-thousand-dollar showers with nozzles in all sorts of interesting places, the story is always the same. One person stands to the back, shivering and squinting as shampoo drips into their eyes, while the other is under the water, generally taking their sweet ass time.

You awkwardly squeeze past one another to change places, trying not to slip on wet tile or accidentally knock the other person over, sending them flying through the shower curtain and onto the floor, taking the curtain with them. You stand to the rear and pretend that the soap bubbles drying on your skin don't itch like crazy, or stand under the water and try not to feel guilty that you're taking an extra 30 seconds to rinse yourself while your partner's lips are turning blue, all the while trying to ignore the fact that your usual system has been thrown all to hell by the presence of this other body in your personal space.

And watching a man soap up his balls? Not even remotely sexy. While I'm all for good personal hygiene, some things are better done in private.

The worst showering-together experience I can remember was with The Russian Who Never Called. Not only was I excessively uncomfortable because I quite urgently needed to take a shit and had not been able to get into the bathroom alone--and in no way felt comfortable voiding my bowels in front of a guy I had known for just 2 days, and with whom I had spent the previous night having sloppy drunk-sex--but also because he had just moved into the apartment a few days prior and had NO hot water. And here we were, two human popsicles attempting to rinse ourselves in water so cold that it literally felt like needles pounding into our skulls.

I lasted for all of 30 seconds and then gave up, forgoing soap in favor of avoiding hypothermia, and sprinted from the shower wondering WHAT ON THE GREAT GREEN EARTH made him think this was a good idea?!?!?

All of this is why, this morning, when I climbed out of bed to take a shower and the Contender suggested joining me, I politely explained that my shower is not conducive to the presence of more than one body, and went off to shower by myself.

There is such a thing as too much togetherness, and it seems that the shower is where I drawn my personal line.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

I think the two pigeons outside my window are having a contest to see who can hold their breath the longest.

Anyhoo, this afternoon I had lunch with the Contender--which, considering that we've now spent an hour together sober and haven't written one another off, seems as apt a pseudonym as any for the time being.

I went into the city and met him by his office, from whence he took me to a (very busy) hole-in-the-wall Chinese place where, hoorah! I finally got some good Chinese! I hadn't found any since I got back from Africa a year ago, so that, in and of itself, made the entire afternoon worthwhile.

I am pleased to report that he is still both smart and attractive when sober, which is certainly a relief. He quite cutely apologized for being "so drunk" on our date ("so drunk" clearly meaning "the drunken make-out session in the park"), from which apology I'm beginning to get the idea that he is the sweet-and-sensitive type. Granted, this would normally send me screaming for the hills, past experience having taught me that sweet-and-sensitive often mutates into clingy-and-psychotic... but I've decided that, at this juncture in my life (read: I'm almost 30), sweet-and-sensitive is a pleasant diversion from the aloof-and-unavailable douche bags that I'm generally attracted to.

I can deal with a little public hand-holding if it means that the guy actually makes it clear that he's into me, rather than leaving me second and third and twentieth guessing myself/his intentions.

Not to mention he's gainfully employed.

So... he has been dubbed the Contender for the time being. I think he's coming to see my show on Friday--which, incidentally, is the night that the Lovely A, her boyfriend, and W are all coming as well (PLEASE DON'T EMBARRASS ME! YES, THIS MEANS YOU A! No death threats or discussion of my previously pitiable love life. Even if you're drunk. 'Kay? Kay.)

So... we'll see how it goes.

The Contender.


If he sticks around, maybe I'll call him Brando.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


So I have a confession to make.

Last night I had a date.

A really good date.

A really good date that just may have ended with an hour of making out in a snowy park.

After which I may or may not have smiled the entire way home.

And my partner in which I may or may not be having lunch with tomorrow.

It's about damned time!

He does have the same name as my father--and my BFF's hubby--which is what originally spawned my last post, but I am willing to overlook that in lieu of the fact that he is very attractive, entertaining, and able to beat me at pool.

After this disaster, I had pretty much given up on Match entirely--setting my profile to not renew when it expired, and not even bothering to log in or look at the "Top Matches" it insists on sending to my email account every day, even after I changed my preferences.

Then, less than 48 hours before my account was due to expire, I received a message. It was written in complete, properly punctuated and capitalized sentences, utilized the proper form of "your," and was not at all creepy. I clicked the little "Display images in this message" bar in the gmail window, and lo and behold! He was actually attractive! And not the same age as my parents! I read his profile and was instantly web-smitten (aka, I fell victim to "Perfect on Paper" Syndrome), so I shot him a message with (gasp!) my real email address.

We met for the first time last night and the minute he walked into the bar I breathed a sigh of relief, for he miraculously looked just like his photos, which was a very, very good thing.

More than anything, I'm just relieved to have finally had a good date! It's been so long, I was beginning to think I'd forgotten how, or had somehow been irreparably damaged by all the assholes who troll the streets of this city.

For once, I am glad to be wrong.

Between this and THE STEELERS GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL, this is shaping up to be a very good week.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Getting Ahead of Ourselves...

Lately, I've been thinking about the female mind--particularly how it reacts to the presence of a new and interesting male in the immediate vicinity.

I've come to realize that much of our behavior toward the opposite sex (or same sex, depending on your preference) is the genetic remnant of a distant past, when we all lived in caves and wore the remnants of dead things instead of colourful synthetics or processed plant fiber.

Men were hunters, out to conquer the wild, which, of course, included the female half of the species. They wanted to procreate with as many women as possible in case the first batch of offspring was killed by disease, or eaten by a sabre tooth tiger.

Women, on the other hand, wanted their men to stick around and protect them from those sabre tooth tigers, or at the very least die romantically together of whatever disease was reducing the population that month, rather than hedging their bets with with that floozy down the mountain with the birthing hips and the super-short bear skin.

And that is why, in the present day, we women are genetically predisposed to get ahead of ourselves.

We meet an attractive man, and what's the first thing we do? Before we even know if he's available/straight/not a complete scumbag, we're pairing up his last name against our first to see how it sounds. Even those of us who don't have marriage on the brain are powerless to stop ourselves. Too many vowels? Maybe it would be better as a hyphenate? Oooh! Oooh! Put his name first and your name second, and it would be perfect! I wonder if he'd go for that? Hmmm...

Sparks fly, or perhaps fizzle half-heartedly on the sidewalk, and a first date is arranged. But wait! Oh no! Disaster! He has the same first name as your brother/father/uncle, won't that be awkward at the family reunion?

Before drinks have even been ordered, you're imagining how strange it will be when your aunt calls out "Frank!" and both your boyfriend and your uncle look up! How embarrassing! Well, one of them will just need a nickname. Clearly it will have to be the boyfriend, since the uncle has been around longer. Hmmm... what about Fred? Ugh, no. Well, maybe your aunt has a pet name for your uncle that she wouldn't mind calling him in public, because there is absolutely no way you are calling your boyfriend "Snugglebum" in front of your grandmother...

By the time the check comes, you've got that little snag worked out and are on to wondering how you'll convince him that your less-than-conventional baby names are nowhere near as wretched as "Bronx Mowgli"--and besides, don't they sound just darling with your newly hyphenated last name?--when you step outside and, in addition to the frigid night air, the cold fist of reality hits you straight in the face.

You and this man have nothing in common. The date was a total flop.

That bartender, however, was a total fox. I wonder what his last name is...

Friday, January 16, 2009



I am not starving myself in an attempt to fit into some size 0 dress that wouldn't even have fit me in the 6th grade. I don't care how much weight I do or do not lose over the course of this seven days. I'm just detoxing to recuperate after holiday excess and give myself a clean slate to start with.

And for the record: I ate a fucking steak for breakfast, and will be having another for lunch, and another for dinner. How's *that* for protein?


Sorry, just had to get that out of my system.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Being on any sort of restricted-eating detox diet is always an eye opening experience.

This time around I knew I wouldn't have the stamina for the Master Cleanser (that is strictly a Summer ritual, when it's too hot to eat anything anyway) and opted for something that an old co-worker of mine (also a dancer) recommended: The Cabbage Soup "Diet." (I use the term "diet" very, very loosely.)

The staple of this 7 day regime is a very low calorie homemade cabbage soup, accompanied by an odd assortment of foods on each day, which sounds totally tolerable and you'd think it would be easy... but it's definitely not.

I always learn (or perhaps "re-learn" would be more appropriate) a lot during these ventures. In this case--other than the fact that cabbage gives you awful gas, which I do my best to release in unoccupied areas of the room when in mixed company, but would like to apologize to anyone who's had to spend time with me for the past few days--I am learning a lot about my cravings.

I've always known that I crave salt and carbs far more than I crave sugar, and this became exceedingly apparent yesterday, when I was allowed a baked potato for dinner. Let me tell you, I fantasized about it all day, and when the time came... damn... that potato was better than sex.

Granted, it's been an awful long time since I had sex with something that didn't require batteries, so my memory is a bit hazy...

But I'm still going with the potato.

Pathetic, isn't it?

Then again, tomorrow I am allowed to have bananas and skim milk. Now, bananas are one of my favourite fruits and I can always get on board with them, but milk? Especially skim milk? Blech! I have never been a milk drinker, don't think I ever will be a milk drinker.

But at this particular moment? I am looking forward to tomorrow like nobody's business. I WANT that milk. CRAVE it.


So not only does keeping myself to a strict list of foods cause me to crave the things I always crave (pasta, chips and salsa, cheese), it also causes me to crave things I normally wouldn't want... like milk. Or seafood.

So what gives?

This leads me to think that some, but not all, of the time, my cravings have little to do with my actual physical desires, but more to do with the fact that I "can't" have something.

Granted, there are a ton of tortilla chips and a giant jar of salsa in my kitchen at this moment. The only thing stopping me from running in there and stuffing my face, is, well, me. Me and my entirely internal commitment to what is generally thought to be a ridiculous and unscientific "diet" for a span of seven days.

But if I can keep myself from stuffing my face right now, at this instant, who's to say I can't also exercise the same amount of self control when I'm not trying to detox?

Who am I kidding? I probably can't. But still, it's nice to have evidence to the contrary.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Playing Catch-Up

I just logged into Blogger to learn that I've lost a follower. Boo! Am I really that boring? I'm sorry, I'll try to step it up.

Then again, I thought the story about the woman who threatened to kick my ass in the Western Beef parking lot was fairly entertaining, but it seems nobody else did. Maybe I'm losing my touch.

Anyway, it's time for me to play catch up in a number of ways. Time is slipping through my fingers at an alarming rate, and there's just so much to do! Granted, I spent most of last week cleaning and preparing my apartment for a birthday party which, thanks to the lovely NYC winter weather, ended up being much smaller than expected--hence I am still swimming in crab dip and wondering if it would freeze well as I am on Day 1 of a 7 Day detox and I'm fairly certain that crab swimming in cream cheese and sour cream does not fall into the eating plan.

The party, despite the diminished numbers, was still fun. My parents were in town and my mother and the Lovely A proceeded to not-so-surreptitiously talk about my pitiable lack of a love life for a good chunk of the evening. I'll forgive the Lovely A because it was her anniversary, and my mother, well, she just can't help herself.

Oh, and then there's the little matter of A outing me as a blogger to my mother. Ahem. Yes. My mother claims that she knew, but unless I told her one night when I was exceptionally hammered, I don't see how that's possible. Either way, she is never getting the web address. EVER. (Yes, A, I am talking to you. N-E-V-E-R!) My mother does not need to hear about some of the stuff I talk about on here. It was bad enough when she found my vibrator in college. I don't think she needs to know that I've posted photos of it on the internet.

Incidentally, that little friend totally bit the dust last week. Less than a year and it's gone and taken the big dirt nap. Well, landfill nap, if you want to get technical. *sigh* That's just about the longest relationship I've had since I was 19. See kids? No matter what, it all ends in tears...

Christ I'm all over the place this afternoon. I'm blaming the fact that Fresh Direct failed me and had no delivery times available today, so I had to go into the city to get the ingredients for my detox soup... hence I couldn't start cooking it until 2:00ish so all I've eaten today is some fruit and right now it is simmering on my stove smelling absolutely DIVINE and there's not a damned thing I can do about it.

See? Isn't it pretty?

That was when everything was fresh and crispy. It's looking a little more wilty now, but still damned edible. I just hope it tastes as good as it smells! And I hope it cooks quickly because hunger does weird things to my brain. The director of the show I'm working on says that if it affects my comic timing he is force-feeding me a cheeseburger... wish me luck!

Speaking of the show, it goes up in two weeks! It's just a two day run as a fundraiser for the Rep company I'm working with, and most of the cast has performed it over 25 times... there's just a few of us who are "fill-in" actors, learning the whole thing in a very short period of time. Fun, but stressful!

Then, there's the $700 student loan payment bill that showed up yesterday and nearly gave me a heart attack. Thank goodness for unemployment deferment.

Like I said, all over the place.

I should probably quit while I'm ahead, yeah?


Thursday, January 8, 2009


Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday to me,
Happy Birthday dear Frogg-eeeeeeeeee......
Happy Birthday to me!

29. One year left in my 20s. It had better be good to me.

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

NYC Driver's Ed Manual - Lesson One

Scenario: While backing a rental car out of a narrow parking space in a poorly designed parking lot in the rain, you accidentally bump into an unseen vehicle at the bone-jarring speed of approximately 1 mile per hour. The vehicle's horn blares, indicating that it is occupied. After cursing quietly to yourself do you:

A. Immediately leap out of the vehicle, leaving it entirely blocking the aisle and impeding any other potential vehicles from passing, to make certain nobody was killed in the fiery wreck?


B. Calmly straighten out and pull off to the side to clear the way for traffic, before getting out to assess the damages?

In a calm, rational world--and perhaps even in Manhattan--the answer would be B.

In Queens, however, electing Option B will result in the following:

As you are pulling your car to the side, at the reckless speed of 1 or even 2 miles per hour, the driver of the other car will leap out of her vehicle and come running towards you screaming "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING???"

You will stop the car, setting the parking brake, and undo your seatbelt. As you are climbing out (perhaps instinctively leaving the motor running and the door open), you will attempt to explain that you were just pulling over...

Your explanation will fall on deaf ears as you turn to meet the 5 feet and 7 inches of gap-toothed, spandex-clad, ghetto fury barreling toward you.


You will tell her that of course you didn't see her, your voice unintentionally rising in pitch and volume to match her shrieking, while pondering to yourself that it is illegal to talk on the phone while driving in New York City.

She will continue to scream, informing you that YOU'RE LUCKY SHE'S GOT HER KID WITH HER OR SHE WOULD KICK YOUR ASS!!

At some point her mother will chime in with a scathing YOU'RE AN IDIOT AND YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE!

You will ask if everyone is okay. You will ask if the car is okay. The answer to both questions will be yes, but she will continue screaming and threatening violence.

During the course of this tirade, the only words eschewing from your mouth being "I'm sorry," "No, I didn't see you," and "Is everyone/thing okay?" you will notice that the vehicle in question is parked behind the over-sized minivan that you were watching when the impact occurred, and is extended at least 2 feet into the aisle, completely out of your sight line, and almost as if she had been pulling out too...

Realizing that no harm was done, and that the screaming lunatic is coming closer and closer to swinging range, you climb back into your still-running car--unable to stop yourself from saying "Right. Are we done?" on the way in--and close the door. As you are fastening your seatbelt (cautious driver that you are) she will slam her fist down on the trunk of your car, still screaming.

You will drive away, watching the rear view mirror to make sure she hasn't decided to follow you home and kick your ass there.

About two blocks away, the adrenaline will hit you. You will start crying. You will be angry with yourself for doing so, but such is the chemical reaction occurring in your bloodstream that you will be unable to stop.

You will return to your apartment, drop off your groceries, and--even though the incident occurred in Queens and you are now in Brooklyn--you will change out of your distinctive yellow coat before leaving to return the rental car, on the off chance that the psychopath happens to be driving past as you walk home.

You will get your rental back to the lot one minute after the deadline, and pray that you are not slapped with a $50 late fee.

On the walk home, it will occur to you that there may be some leftover cigarettes in the coat you wore on New Year's Eve.

When you get home, you will find them. You will smoke one on the fire escape.

Then... you will blog.


Monday, January 5, 2009

Are You for REAL?

I swear... if I get one more social networking request from a guy I had sex with and never heard from afterwards, I am going to lose it.

I mean... for real? You fuck me then ignore me, but you want to be my "friend" on fucking Facebook?



Anyway, in case you couldn't tell, I am seven different kinds of stressed out right now and all I really want to do is scream at the top of my lungs until I run out of air, but I worry that my neighbors might call the cops. And my bathroom sink isn't big enough (and my kitchen sink isn't clean enough) for the classic "Underwater Scream" that I developed for just such a purpose back when I still lived with my parents.

What do you do when your nerves are so bunched up that you're not sure whether you want to leap off your fire escape or punch someone? Being that neither of the above seem ultimately productive, I'm open to suggestions.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Turning Into My Mother

I've always thought my mother was a bit off her rocker, needing the house to be perfect before anyone other than myself or my father set foot in it. When I was home for the holidays she insisted on "cleaning up" before one of my oldest friends came by for a quick visit, and for a moment I was horrified with visions of dusting and vacuuming. Fortunately, she only meant cleaning up the Christmas detritus from the living room, which was easily manageable.

But my birthday is coming up next week, and rather than do the same old "let's go to a bar and get drunk" routine, I decided to throw a party at my apartment, mostly because very few people have actually seen it since I moved in over a year ago, and I don't know how much longer I'll be able to afford it so I'd best show it off while I can!

I have no idea how many of the people I've invited will actually show up--I have always been one of those people who worries that they'll throw a party and nobody will show up, leaving them to look like a loser... another reason I haven't thrown one until now--but I suddenly find myself with an intense desire to put my best foot forward.

I have managed to survive just fine for the past year and a half without a toilet paper holder in my bathroom. Yet this afternoon I bought one at Home Depot because god forbid my guests know that, up until this week, the toilet paper has lived on the back of the toilet!

Going a step further, I spent half an hour on my hands and knees with a razor blade scraping globs of errant glue from my linoleum, a remnant of my landlord's horrific home-repair skills. They've always bothered me, making my floor look dirty even when freshly mopped, but it wasn't until faced with the prospect of someone else being bothered by them that I actually got around to doing anything about it.

On one hand, perhaps it's a good thing.

If it gets me to finally unpack the ONE BOX that hasn't been unpacked since I moved in, and maybe even actually hang all the pictures stored within it, well, then, it's definitely a good thing.

But that doesn't change the fact that, in yet another way, I have turned into my mother.

Some things are just inescapable.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

Snack Time / Procrastination...

My reader is empty... for the first time in months! On one hand I'm pleased with myself for finally getting caught up. On the other, I now wonder what I'll use to kill time while I sit here munching on my croque monsieur on homemade pain de mie bread, which, by the way, is my new favourite food.

But Froggy... I hear you asking as you glance back up at the title of this post, You're unemployed... So what, exactly, could you be procrastinating??

Excellent question Campers, and the answer is thus: I have finally begun the dreadful process of editing my NaNo novel. I've made it through about the first 40 pages so far this afternoon, nitpicking a sentence here, altering a word choice there, but there are much larger concerns at hand that I am not feeling equipped to tackle, particularly considering the fact that I've been away from it for over a month now.

The first concern is the abounding plot holes. Like when I realized that I'd made at least three references to a storm brewing, both literally and figuratively, but that neither kind of storm ever actually occurred. Or that I keep alluding to the fact that there is apparently a war going on... yet we never actually see the ramifications of that.

You know, little stuff.

And then there's the final--and perhaps most daunting issue--which is that I'm so close to the damned thing that I honestly can't tell if it's any good or not. I know that I have a tendency to be hyper-critical of myself, but really, I Just. Can't. Tell.

Would anyone other than me ever want to read this thing?

Granted, there's enough dreck spread across the Fantasy shelves of bookstores around the country that I think, yes, there's probably somebody out there who would read it... but I'd still prefer not to write dreck, thankyouverymuch.

But then again, there are those few sentences that pop up every now and then that make me say "Oh! I like that one!"


“It is wise to know the difference.”
“A crime of necessity and a crime of desire. But do not fool yourself, it is still a crime.”


She fell back into the bed and pulled the blankets tight around her, a single tear sliding down her cheek, finding the weight of unsought kindness the most difficult to bear.


The wars that raged through that ancient time had left scars on both the land and the hearts of the people, many of which, even centuries later, still had not healed. She thought she could see those scars in the towering walls, in the angry torsion of ancient metal.


So perhaps it's not all dreck... but are three or four sentences enough to save a novel?

I'm guessing not.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Flying Busses?

So earlier today I was headed down to the post office--aka the Bane of My Existence--to pick up a package that I wasn't home to accept a few days ago, and since the MTA's website had temporarily removed the route map for my bus (I'm fairly certain that it's been "temporarily removed" since I moved into this apartment over a year ago... way to stay on top of things!)I popped onto HopStop to find the closest Limited Stop bus stop for the return trip.

The answer I found was rather confusing, as my return trip is Northbound, and the directions listed a stop that is on a One-Way, Southbound street.

Knowing that the bus isn't supposed to turn North again until Sheepshead Bay (which, for those of you who don't know Brooklyn, is WAY SOUTH from me) I checked the accompanying map*:


Ummm... unless there is a series of subterranean tunnels running under Bed Stuy, or the MTA has very recently developed a fleet of flying buses, I'm fairly certain that the above bus route is... ummm... I'm gonna go out on a limb and say impossible.

Not that it matters, being that, as happens every freaking time I go to the post office, I missed the return bus by a matter of seconds anyway and ended up walking home.

Too bad, a flying bus would have been something to see!

* Forgive the shoddy Photoshopping skills, but removing all the street names from that map got really tedious after awhile... though it was better than the alternative. I very nearly posted what was essentially a direct map to my house! Ooops!

Five Princessy Questions!

Many thanks to the fabulous Princess of the Universe for reminding me that I had some interview questions to answer!

So here they are...

1. Can you knit me a tiara?
Hmmm... that's an interesting proposition, and I'm thinking the answer is.... Maybe? I did a cursory search for patterns and didn't come up with anything, and I'm thinking a crown might be easier, but I will totally give this one some thought. It's a fun idea!

2. Did you figure out how to turn a penguin into a Panda?
No, I did not. I made her a purple elephant instead, which she loved!

3. So you're done your Masters - now what? Are you elated? Freaked out?
Honestly, I don't think it's really sunk in yet that I'm actually finished... Maybe it will by the time my diploma arrives in the mail. So yes, at some point, I'm sure elation will kick in, but right now, considering the state of the economy, it's mostly a "freaking out and trying not to think about it" sort of deal.

4. What happened with not-so-good-date guy? Did you let him down easy? Did he cry?
When he emailed me a few days later I wrote back saying that I was really busy (not a lie! I really *was* busy. Though it did make an excellent excuse), and he wrote back with a suitably immature response that left me secure in my decision to not bother again. He texted a few days later and I ignored it. Case closed. At first I felt sort of bad, but then I thought to myself... "It was one date, prior to which the guy was virtually a stranger!" Does that really merit some sort of lengthy explanation and/or justification of why I'm not interested? Personally, I say No, it does not. What do you all think?

5. Can you tell us about the novel? Can I read it??
Well, the editing process is going to start sometime this week, so it will be interesting to revisit it and see if I like it or if I hate it. It's a fantasy novel, which means that unless I wanted to run down the entire plot for you, it won't make much sense, but the lead character is a woman, she's running from something, she's pregnant (and gives birth about halfway through), and you don't learn her name until the last 100 words or so.

As to whether or not you can read it, well... NOBODY gets to read it until some serious editing has happened. Or at least until I read it again and decide it's not terrible :)

And there you have it! Now it's your turn! If the holidays have left you drained and devoid of blog ideas, just follow the instructions below:

The only rules are that you have to link back to the original post and you have to put these rules in your post:

Want to be part of it? Follow these instructions:
1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Happy New Year!