Out of the Frying Pan...

Crimes of the Heart

2010-09-08T19:51:00.000-04:00

It occurred to me this afternoon, as I was feeling all bouncy and clear-headed after 90 minutes of sweating my arse off at Bikram yoga, that for all the bitching and moaning I do about the men who've treated me badly--and lord knows there've been a few--bemoaning my fate and wondering what, precisely, I'd done to deserve such treatment, well... Perhaps, just perhaps, I myself have not always done right by the opposite sex. Which brings me to my first blog entry in ages:

Open Apologies to Guys I've Treated Poorly.

* * *

I cheated on a guy. Once. In the 9th grade. I only started dating him at my friends' encouragement. It was a chilly night at a football game, high school hormones were running high, and, in all honesty, I liked the idea of having a boyfriend better than the idea of not having one. Never mind that, aside from the passing notion that he was kind of cute, I had no interest in this guy. Or that I was already set to go to Homecoming with a guy I actually did like, and who obviously liked me or he wouldn't have asked me. But I was still theoretically "single," and so gratified that somebody, anybody wanted me to be his girlfriend, that when he asked, it only took a minimal amount of encouragement from my gathered girlfriends to say "yes."

When I think about it, this is probably worse than the fact that, less than a month later, I made out with another guy. I did try to break up with my nominal-boyfriend first, but he wasn't home when I called. Also not an excuse.

True, I do believe I got my comeuppance a thousandfold when, little more than a year later, the guy who took my virginity cheated on me by sleeping with his ex less than a week after said virginity was lost. Ouch. But this example of karmic retribution in no way excuses my behavior.

So, to the guy I only dated to boost my own self-esteem and then proceeded to cheat on--which you found out about via the rumor mill that decided we'd apparently had sex on his kitchen counter (not true), I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.

* * *

Though I was unaware of it at the time, I used to be completely and utterly terrified of commitment, likely because the last person to whom I'd been truly committed had used my devotion to wreak havoc on my general well-being. (See virginity story, above. I stayed with him for 3 years after that. Yeeeeah... I know.)

When I first moved to NYC I worked with a guy who was my age, a year or two older at most, and had a son. I respected his taking responsibility for a child that had been the result of a one night stand with an ex. More than taking responsibility, he was a doting father. He was, put simply, a good guy, and I told him as much during a few drunken evenings after work.

We flirted, kissed chastely a few times, and essentially brought the situation to a point where he was very clearly interested in me, and I had shown myself to be interested in him. And then...

... I fucking panicked.

This guy had a kid! I was only 22, and in no way ready to be a mom! What the hell was I doing? I didn't want to get locked into a relationship that came with that sort of drama, etc, etc...

Worse than my panic, however, was my complete and total inability to go to this guy and say "Look, you're great, but I don't think we should date..." Instead, I avoided his phone calls and suggestions that we hang out until my best friend, who also worked with us, got sick of the whole thing and told him I wasn't interested.

Ouch.

So, to the nice guy I couldn't let down easy: Sorry you had to hear it from someone else. That was really shitty.

And to the best friend who unwillingly did my dirty work for me: Sorry. You were right to be pissed at me. Sometimes, I kinda suck.

* * *

At the same place I worked with another guy on whom I had an ENORMOUS crush. He was a sweet rasta boy who used to sing to me while we broke down at the end of the night, and gave me a GIANT teddy bear for Valentine's Day.

When he finally asked me out, I, like a moron, said No. After the behavior outlined above, I was convinced that this nice, sweet guy was too good for me, and that I would only hurt him. I told him as much, and, like the sweet guy he was, he let it go.

To you, sweet, sexy, rastafarian boy, I'm sorry. This one is definitely my loss.

* * *

Several years ago I knew a guy. We hung out in the same bar, I always thought he was cute and had a bit of a crush on him, and one day, I'm not sure how, we ended up on a date.

Theoretically the date went well, but I couldn't stop focusing on little things that were turning me off. Dark spots on a few of his teeth were all I can now remember. Then I got stoned and made out with him anyway.

The situation descended rapidly into awkwardness as I couldn't find a way to reconcile my behavior (making out with him in my kitchen), with my complete lack of desire to date him (dark spots! dark spots!). It seems that once I had what I thought I wanted, I didn't want it anymore... so I fell back into bad habits and just hoped that if I ignored the situation, it would go away.

And it did, but not without my feeling like a total bitch.

So, to you, guy who probably has NO idea what happened there, I'm sorry. Hope you've found yourself someone less shallow than I, apparently, can be.

* * *

And there you have it. I'm not sure what I meant to accomplish by this post. Certainly not to paint myself as a horrible person, I don't think that, at least, not often... but we all make mistakes. Some little, some big, we all make them, and we all occassionally hurt people while navigating the unpredictable waters of interpersonal relationships.

There are likely people I've forgotten in writing these little notes, and likely still more people that I've hurt without even realizing it. So, to all of you who've been hurt by something I've done, I'm sorry.

And to those who've hurt me? Well, I'm not going to say that you're all forgiven, because many of you damned well aren't... but at the very least I can say that I understand. Nobody's perfect.

Certainly not me.

Running in Circles / Standing Still

2010-07-17T20:28:00.000-04:00

I'm back to wondering why I even bother.

I forced myself to give up and let go of Mr. I. I realized that, no matter how electric our chemistry, strong our connection, or great that one day we spent together might have been, he was never going to give me what I need. So I let go, gave up the ghost, packed it in, and called it a day. It sucks, sure, but there it is.

I cleansed my palate, took some deep breaths, put a huge chunk of Rose Quartz by my bed which is supposed to draw love into your life (and is disgustingly new-agey of me, I know). Then I met another guy, by all reports less of a douchebag when it comes to women. We got drunk, we fooled around, I sent him a message asking if he wanted to see if our getting along extended to sober and fully clothed activities, and after waiting for a slightly-longer-than-reasonable amount of time for a response, I get the same goddamned answer: I have baggage/Bad timing/Oh yeah, you're great, and if it were another time, sure, I'd love to, but not right now...

What the fuck?

I have a question for the men of the world, particularly single men (okay, and women) in their late 20s/early 30s: Who among us doesn't have baggage? Who among us is whole, healthy, fully emotionally functional and ready, at this very moment, right fucking now to embark on a relationship?

Answer? Not a single fucking one of us. Myself included.

We all have wounds to heal, walls to deconstruct, and things to learn about being in stable, healthy relationships; because if all those things were taken care of already, we would all be in stable, healthy relationships! Clearly, at this point, we're all a little bit damaged, so rather than shutting each other out, why don't we attempt to learn and heal together?

Granted, I've also come to realize that my view of dating and relationships in general is fairly warped. You see, all these men who can't date me because they "don't want a relationship," are clearly optimists. They automatically assume that dating will lead to a relationship. That things will, god forbid, work out... and for whatever unknown reason that is apparently a bad thing, so they run and hide.

I, on the other hand, feel from my own experiences that it is statistically highly unlikely that things will work out, that dating will in no way lead to an actual relationship, and so really, what's the harm in trying?

Pretty fucked up, huh?

Of course, my own, fucked-up outlook doesn't mean dick, considering that no man I meet will agree to date me anyway.

Oh, except for Hot Guy From Yale, who seemed to think he could fix me by pointing out and harping on all my flaws on our first (and only) date.

Or DM, who disappeared so thoroughly and without explanation that I considered googling his name plus "obituary" to see if he'd died.

Right. Clearly the bile is rising in my throat today. I really don't mean to be bitter, I don't want to be bitter, but it's awfully difficult when I feel that I'm spending my life running in circles, wasting my time and energy, when I could get the exact same results by simply standing still.

Happy Trails...

2010-06-15T08:22:00.000-04:00

Yes, yes, I'm still alive.

More importantly, I am currently sitting in the JetBlue terminal of JFK (which, as far as airport terminals go, is pretty freakin' nice... especially the free WiFi!) waiting to board a plane for Los Angeles.

Hooray for vacation.

As much as I deny my adulthood at every opportunity, I have been looking forward to this two week vacation like a whale looks forward to that next trip to the surface for air. In other words: necessary for survival.

I need to get the hell out of Dodge for a few weeks, clear my head, see people I love, not see people that I shouldn't love, and just generally get away from it all.

And so, it's off to Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, and, last but not least, Hometown, PA for a 30th birthday celebration with my beloved girls.

It's a real, grown-up vacation... and I am fucking excited.

And boarding!! Gotta jet!

2010-05-20T03:38:00.000-04:00

Thought for the night: I'm used to doing things alone. I like doing things alone. But I'd like to get used to doing things with someone else...

I'm sure you can guess the someone I mean.

I've started journaling again. For the past few years, this blog has very much been my journal, sharing the thoughts and feelings I used to reserve for myself with the general public--or at least the portion thereof that actually reads this thing. And that's good. It's taken away some of my reserve and, most importantly (for me), shown me that, well, I'm not alone. That what has always seemed to be my own personal form of Crazy is understandable and accessible to the rest of the world. And that's good.

But this situation is... strange. Nothing has really progressed, in the traditional sense, but... I want to approach this one without outside input. Because often, what you feel--what you know--cannot be put into words that will allow an outsider to really get what's going on. There is an interior life that cannot be shared, no matter how much you may really want to do so. And I know what it would sound like, if I were to try to talk about it, and I know what the response would be... And you could say that I just "don't want to hear it," which is true, I suppose, but only because that response would be based on only a part of the story...

I'm being cryptic, and I don't mean to be, it's just that this is different, somehow.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not abandoning the blog (any more than I already have, as it has admittedly fallen by the wayside in the last several months). It's just that, for now, I'm keeping my love life (or lack thereof) to myself.

In the mean time, well... I'll try to come up with something else to interest you.

Hope you stick around :)

2010-05-09T23:48:00.000-04:00

Is it possible to cheat on someone you're not even dating?

Mr. I and I are still at an emotional stalemate, and the other night I chose to compensate for my relative rejection by getting drunk and fooling around with a 23 year old. Again. My reward for this self-destructive behavior is a fucking hickey, and a healthy dose of guilt.

Now, this is silly, right? Mr. I has no claim on me, nor I on him, and thus I am theoretically free to make out with whomever I choose. So why can't I shake the feeling that, in doing so, I've somehow betrayed the man who refuses to date me?

I wish I knew why I do these stupid things, and moreover I wish I could stop feeling guilty when, in theory, I've done absolutely nothing wrong.

Yeah. In theory.

In reality, it's myself that I've betrayed. It's my own feelings I've hurt, not Mr. I's, or those of the boy in question. Granted, should Mr. I ever find out--which, universe willing, he never will--I think he would be upset, but I have no way of knowing. I could just be flattering myself that he would care, and yet... and yet. Emotional deadlock aside, there is still something there between us that remains unnamed and unfathomable.

What saddens me the most, however, is that as I find myself slowly becoming reconciled to this static state of affairs, I find those feelings slipping away. I'm starting to get over him, which one would think would be a good thing, but... as stressful and emotionally frustrating as it's been, I've actually enjoyed feeling this way, being excited to see him, enjoying simply being in the same space with him. I don't want those feelings to go.

So why did I bury them in a corner of my mind while some other guy took my shirt off? Granted, the booze had some part to play in that decision, but in the end it was me who made the choice.

Of course, in a few weeks when I'm back to seeing him every day instead of just once a week, and I'm no longer emotionally and physically exhausted from working crazy hours at work for very little financial reward, it could all come rushing back to me.

Masochist that I am, I hope it does.

Even though I never actually had him, I'm not quite ready to let him slip quietly away.

I don't want to be over him. Not just yet.

A Thought...

2010-04-28T00:49:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's the two French Martinis talking, but...

For all the bitching and moaning about the shit that's gone wrong, things that have happened or haven't, where I wish I was and where I'm not, the shitty job, my farce of a love life, the money spent on a degree that I'm glad I have but isn't getting me anywhere...

A minute ago I was hanging out the living room window of my fifth floor walk-up smoking a cigarette (which, yes, I really shouldn't be doing), listening to guys on the street shout at each other in Spanish, and I realized...

I really fucking love my life.

Funny how it just hits you sometimes.

Down the Rabbit Hole...

2010-04-26T00:21:00.002-04:00

A word of advice: Exchanging thinly veiled sexual text messages with the guy you want but cannot have is likely not a good idea.

So.

I'll give you three guesses what I spent an hour or so doing earlier this evening.

Just call me Alice...

How It All Went Down

2010-04-22T00:12:00.001-04:00

So, we talked.

I met him at the diner down the street from the theatre an hour or so before our cast was going to see the show in our sister theatre.

For the first half hour or so we drank coffee, and chatted, and I laughed hysterically when he managed to launch the contents of a ketchup bottle all over himself (and the neighboring table).

And then, we talked.

Did I get what I wanted? Perhaps not so much. But he said a lot of nice things, the sort of things every girl who's ever been jerked around by a guy wishes he had said at the beginning; and while this isn't exactly the beginning, it's as close as I'm going to get without a time machine, so I'll take it. He said that I deserve a level of emotional investment that he can't give me right now, which frankly might be the nicest thing any man has ever said to me.

I, in turn, apologized for ambushing him (and myself) the other night, explained what sparked off my inner crazy and caused me to do so (and the fact that he simply thanked me for telling him rather than judging me definitely raised him in my estimation), and, in general, was far more open and honest with him about my own intentions and desires, and how I've acted on those in the past, than I've ever been with any man, ever. I don't know how he's done it, but I've let my guard down around him and even though it's hurt me a bit, it's still down. And I'm okay with that.

Am I disappointed? Of course. Am I sad? Yeah, a little. Does it make me feel both warm and fuzzy and a little bit like dying when we just sit there in silence and he looks at me like I've always wanted a man to look at me? Oh, you betcha. But despite all of that, I'm in a better place with this than I was before we talked, so... I'm counting my blessings, I guess.

Is there still a little spark of hope that maybe, somewhere down the line when he gets his act together, this crazy chemistry that we have together will come to something more? I'd be lying if I said there wasn't, but for now I'm reigning that hope in, exercising some self control, and letting go of the expectations I tried to convince both him and myself that I didn't have.

In other words, I'm behaving like an adult.

How the fuck did that happen?

Funny that this is the most mature relationship I've ever had, and it isn't a relationship at all.

Contradictions

2010-04-21T09:13:00.000-04:00

I am both anticipating and dreading seeing Mr. I this afternoon.

Dreading, because I'm fairly certain I'm not going to hear what I want to hear.

Anticipating, because, damnit, I still fucking like the guy, and I just plain want to see him.

My daily horoscope ended with the following: "In your sentimental life, your every desire will be fulfilled with lots of love and availability."

Yeah... Universe? You can stop fucking with me any time now, 'kay?

Cheers.

Well, That Was Awkward...

2010-04-20T14:05:00.000-04:00

Sunday was both more and less painful than I expected.

I managed to get myself together and, after flipping through all the usual suspects, I finally found an album on my MP3 player to get myself into the necessary mindset to survive the evening. (Amy Winehouse, "Back to Black," in case you were wondering. "Tears Dry on Their Own" is officially my new theme song.)

Mr. I arrived at the theatre, and, with the exception of a few loaded moments, I was doing okay...

...until he came up to me backstage in the middle of Act 2 with this mean little smile on his face and said, "So, you want to talk now?"

I flipped him off--more playfully than he deserved--called him an ass, and walked away. Needless to say my head was not in the game for the rest of that show.

Dick.

So now we have ~~a date~~ an appointment to meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon and talk this thing through while we're both sober. Let me tell you, making a date to receive bad news is quite a mindfuck. As much as I'd like to maintain a little hope that perhaps, given a few days (and a few more functioning braincells) to think about it, he'll rethink his position, I'm not banking on it. We all see where hope has already gotten me, and I'm not sure I can cope with being any further up this particular creek than I've already ventured.

Still, I'm giving him a chance... a chance to prove that he's not a complete twat. Because, despite the pyrotechnics of Saturday night, I still like him. And I'm a sucker. And clearly, my sense of self-preservation is on holiday somewhere, stranded by that damned volcano and not coming back any time soon.

In the mean time you can bet your ass I'll be looking good tomorrow afternoon. Hey, a gal's gotta use what she's got.

Cracked

2010-04-18T15:32:00.000-04:00

I cannot believe I am saying this... but it has happened again.

I allowed myself to get my hopes up that there could be something there between me and Mr. I, the guy who told me that he liked me, that he wanted to get to know me better, who looked at me in a way that made me smile from head to toe...

...but apparently not.

Last night did not end well.

We had two shows, an 8pm and 11pm performance, so by 1:30am when we were all walking to the bar for a drink (or three), everyone was already a bit loopy. Mr. I was walking a (female) friend who'd come to see the show to the subway before joining us, and two of the others looked back and made a comment that it looked like they were making out... and my stomach just about crashed through the sidewalk. I was instantly kicked in the chest with memories of a night years ago when I was sitting at the bar in my old restaurant waiting for the chef (who I was secretly dating) to get off work, and some girl called on the phone and identified herself as his girlfriend. Turns out he was fucking half of Manhattan while were ostensibly "dating."

Or B, who flirted with me for months to such an extent that everyone who knew us assumed we were dating... until the words "my girlfriend" fell from his lips one fateful afternoon.

Even though I didn't want to be thinking it, I couldn't help wondering: could it really be happening again? I was completely distracted until he came into the bar 15 minutes later.

So I did something stupid.

When we were both drunk and outside smoking a cigarette, I called out Mr. Inscrutable on his inscrutability... and I did not hear what I wanted to hear.

It would seem that dating is apparently a distraction, and he can't focus on getting his life on track if he's dating someone. That smacked so much of the Guitarist who dumped me using ADD and poor time management skills as his excuse that I wondered for a moment if I'd suddenly time-warped back to 2002.

History repeated itself an awful lot last night.

He has a lot of preconceived notions of how I would behave if we were to start dating, and how it would go wrong--I'm guessing based on his last relationship which he says was not good. He says that he does like me and could see a relationship between us, but not now. Which is all well and good, but I'm not going to wait around for him to straighten his shit out. Not intentionally, at least, but the way my life goes the chances of my finding another man I'm actually interested in dating anytime soon is roughly that of a snowball's chance during a drought in Hell.

Much more was said, but I can't rehash it all right now. It was a long conversation and I don't think it's nearly finished, but we reached his stop on the train and his parting shot was so unfair that it still gets my hackles up just thinking about it. "And now here, through no fault of my own, I'm hurting someone..." and then he left.

And that is just such bullshit.

If he'd known all this from the beginning, that he wasn't in a place to date and didn't want to start something... well, he shouldn't have started something.

I was drunk and I kissed him. It could have ended there, I would have been mildly embarrassed for a week or two, and then it would have been over.

We started talking. It became clear that we were interested in one another. Instead of saying that he wanted to get to know me better, he could have said "I think you're cool, but I'm not in a place to be dating anyone right now." It would have sucked, but again, without having had time and impetus to kindle that little ember of hope, I could have gotten over it fairly painlessly.

But he didn't do either of these things. He flirted with me. We made out for several hours. He mentioned people in his life and modified their names with "who you'll probably meet." The flirtation was escalating, becoming less clandestine. For fuck sake, I went and filled a (very expensive) birth control prescription because I genuinely thought that, within the next month or so, I might be needing it. Now not only is my ego sorely bruised, but I'm out $150 that I really couldn't afford, and the package will just sit there in my medicine cabinet mocking me with the fact that, even if a guy actually does like me, that's apparently still not enough... all because I let myself hope.

He thinks he knows what I want from him, that I'll be demanding and whiny, and hold it against him if he has things in his life other than me, all of which is bullshit.

All I want is to be enough. For one person to think I'm worth the effort of getting to know. I'm fucking lonely and I'm sick of it and I just want someone to care.

Apparently that's asking an awful lot.

I'm being dramatic now, I know. These wounds are still fresh. We were both drunk and probably a bit unfair when this conversation took place, I blindsided both of us when I started it, and perhaps when we continue it at a later date the situation will appear differently, but I've got a sinking feeling that he's already made up his mind. Right now, I need to focus on today. I've got to be at the theatre and see him in three hours and right now I look very much like I've been crying all night (which I haven't... just part of it). I need to pull myself together, put on my big girl panties, and not let my inner turmoil affect anyone else, or the show.

I've got to be enough for myself. Good thing I've had a lot of practice.

So, Uh...

2010-04-11T23:46:00.000-04:00

...either the universe is being particularly attentive to my needs, or Mr. I reads my blog.

We're gonna go with option A for the time being, because option B is just a little bit too frightening to contemplate. Though if he knows I'm completely crazy and is still interested, he could well be my soul mate. If, you know, I believed in that sort of thing.

And no, I haven't received any grand communique of just what the hell is going on in his head, but today the weirdness seems to have abated enough to strengthen my fragile grasp on sanity. We'll see if my luck holds.

Oh, and wegrit? Every guy I date is emotionally retarded. Apparently, that's my thing.

Venting...

2010-04-10T19:45:00.000-04:00

I am frustrated.

Very, VERY frustrated.

And yes, this has everything to do with The Guy, who for the time being is being renamed Mr. Inscrutable, because that is exactly what he is... fucking inscrutable.

My egg donation retrieval was last week--and I'll tell you all about that interesting process and the bitch of a recovery period at a later date--but my hormones are clearly still finding their way back into balance, albeit very, VERY slowly. Exaggerated emotional responses seem to be the order of the day (I thought I was going to kill people at work last night, moreso than usual), which is making this whole situation even tougher to deal with because I keep asking myself: Would I be such a mess if my hormones weren't still out of whack?

Who am I kidding? Of course I would. But for the moment let's just blame the hormones, okay? Thanks.

Anyway, some background.

As I was putting the finishing touches on my somewhat angsty post about the difficulties of dating as an adult, Mr. I and I began a text message conversation (instigated by him) which started out as fluff but lasted--with a few breaks--until about 1:00 in the morning. During the course of that conversation we came to the conclusion that we a.) liked each other, b.) would like to get to know each other better, and c.) would like to make out as soon as possible.

Considering that this was pretty much what I'd asked for in the post I'd just finished writing, I could have danced for joy. If I'd known that I could get what I wanted simply by putting it out there for the universe to hear, I would have been far more vocal in my desire for, oh, a winning lottery ticket, or freedom from student loan debt.

In lieu of those things, however, I now put this to the universe: I want to know what the fuck is going on in his head! NOW! Even if it's not what I want to hear--though that would be really great, of course--I just want to fucking KNOW. Because I can't read him. At all. And it's driving me bonkers.

A few days after that text message conversation, we went to his place after a rehearsal, ostensibly to watch a movie, but really we engaged in some thoroughly PG (bordering on PG-13, but still pretty damned chaste) activities, and just generally snuggled and enjoyed one another's company.

It was lovely.

It was also over a week ago, with no sign of it ever being repeated.

I tried to get him to see me last weekend, but failed. Since then I'm not even sure how to broach the subject because I'm not sure if it's welcome. I can't even figure out if I'm allowed to casually text him when I'm bored, like I want to do. I only see him at rehearsal under the watchful (or, at the very least, observant) eyes of the rest of the cast and other various and sundry people, and he's... distant. He doesn't flirt like he used to. Today I actually managed to ride the subway with him without anyone else present, but it still seemed... weird.

The chemistry is still undeniably there, even if it only comes out when we're on stage together.

Now, he made a comment, on that fateful evening, about how he tried not to date people he was working with, and so we'd "have to wait." I ~~half~~ jokingly responded "And until then we're just... what? Fooling around?" His response, after a pause, was "What are we doing?" which, admittedly, threw me for a loop as well, being that it was only the first time we'd been alone together. After a moment I said, "I think it's a little early to be having a 'state of the union' conversation, don't you?" He agreed, we both relaxed, and the moment passed...

But it begs the question: Is that what is going on? Is this "waiting"? Now, it seems to me that the moment for waiting passed somewhere in the several hours I spent in his lap (PG people! PG!!), but still... if that's the case, okay. Fine. I can be patient (stop laughing) if I know what I'm waiting for. It's the not knowing that's killing me. I thought I had a sense of where we were, and now I am... lost.

Now, I am not a member of this particular theatre company, and he is. I get the feeling that the rumor-mill operates at lightening speed and perhaps he's just keeping his distance around the theatre to avoid being the subject of gossip. Fair enough. I just want to KNOW.

Or maybe he's just a jerk.

But he'd have to be a pretty stupid jerk to put so much effort into wooing a girl who'd already thrown herself at him if all he was after was a roll in the hay, so I'm inclined to believe that his attentions were genuine. Just call me an optimist.

Add into the mix the fact that, as my hormones take the long way back to normal, the horniness has returned a thousandfold (did I mention I've seem him in spandex that left very little to the imagination?), and all emotional turmoil aside, I would like to get him alone and naked at the earliest available opportunity, well...

Phew.

Sorry, what was I talking about? I was still thinking about the spandex.

Damnit.

My head is a fucking mess.

The show opens in a few days. As of this moment I am going to see him every. fucking. day. for quite some time. I would prefer for that to be something to look forward to, as opposed to a source of emotional and sexual frustration.

So, there. I'm putting it out there. I just hope the universe is paying attention.

In Brief (because I'm tired)

2010-03-31T23:22:00.000-04:00

1. It would appear that The Guy likes me too. Yes, I am certain.

2. Tomorrow is the retrieval day for my egg donation. Trying not to be nervous as I'll be unconscious the whole time anyway. I hope the check clears quickly so I can go to IKEA on Friday and buy a new bed. I realize that's mercenary, but I have a feeling that it's going to be a little while before my ovaries go back to normal and my abdomen stops feeling like it's filled with highly sensitive Dazzle Dirt (tm), so I'm focusing on the immediate benefits.

3. I was rejected by my final grad school today, likely because my second letter of recommendation never freaking arrived. This entire application process was so fraught with stress and roadblocks, perhaps the universe was telling me that this just isn't the right time for me to be going back to school. At least, that's the line I'm taking...

4. Did I mention about The Guy? I did? Good. Just checking. :)

30 Going on 13

2010-03-29T16:19:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, many moons ago, a girl sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, cradling a cordless phone in her lap and trying very hard to work up the nerve to dial. Finally, with a deep breath, she steeled her resolve and punched in the number.

Girl: Hello, [Boy]?
Boy: Yeah?
Girl: Hey, it's [Girl]. (Pause.) You know who I am, right?
Boy: Yeah, of course I do.
Girl: Um, Okay, So... I was just wondering... Wouldyougooutwithme?
Boy: Yes.
Girl: (Pause.) Really?
Boy: Yes, really.
Girl: Cool. (Pause.) So, ummm... watcha up to?

The hard part over, they talked for hours. They talked about music, TV, books, school. They had no classes together but made plans to meet at the library during study halls when school was back in session. She learned that the boy had actually asked her out (via a friend, naturally) months before, but she'd said no, because she'd had him confused with someone else.

It was Christmas Eve, 1993, and later that night the girl wrote giddily in her diary that she'd already given herself the best Christmas present she could ask for--a boyfriend.

They had declared themselves, they were a couple. Only then did they go about the task of getting to know each other. As it turns out, they were well-suited, and young love blossomed. It was four months before they even kissed. Five months before their first fight, break-up, and reunion. By Middle School standards, their 7 month relationship was practically a marriage; and when it ended (with no shortage of drama, as young relationships invariably do), she licked her wounds for a little while, then brushed herself off and moved on. The thing had run its course.

* * *
It's a simple story, I know, but when I look back on it that's what strikes me the most: simplicity.

The other day I was talking to The English Ex about our respective dating difficulties and he asked "Was it always this hard?" To which I could only reply, "No. It wasn't."

I miss the simplicity of being able to say, "Hey, I like you. If you like me too we should be a couple. Wanna try?" and saving all the worry over whether or not it's a good idea for a later date. Unfortunately, as a woman now officially in her 30s, saying that to any guy before even going on a single date would surely send him screaming in the opposite direction faster than you can say "Wedding Registry."

But that doesn't mean I don't want to do it.

Of course, I'm thinking about The Guy here, but I'm thinking about that Boy too. We barely knew each other. Hell, I didn't even realized he'd already asked me out, because I had his last name confused with someone else's! All I knew is that I thought he was cute and I got all jittery when I ran into him in the nurse's office one day (I had poison ivy, he was icing a sprained ankle)... and we were together for practically an eternity, from an adolescent standpoint. So how did we know? How did we know that we would actually get along, be good for each other, have anything in common? Was it some sort of crazy, relationship sixth sense? Or just blind luck?

I wish I knew, because I get the same feeling around The Guy... only magnified, and muddled by years of experience, of both the positive and negative variety.

I barely know him, though I do actually know his last name. I just know that I like him, I feel good when he's around, and when he's in the same space I want to be close to him.

So why can't I make that leap? Why can't I gather the nerve to simply say "Hey, let's go out sometime. Like now, for instance?" Why was my 13 year old self so much braver than my 30 year old self?

Perhaps it's because my 13 year old self had yet to feel the sting of real rejection. Rejection is like a poison ivy allergy--something else with which I am acutely familiar. Over time, the body's allergic reaction to poison ivy intensifies rather than diminishes, so that each subsequent exposure causes a more violent reaction until you're like me, and a simple brush with those three leaves from Hell means a trip to the doctor and lots of steroids. I think I react to rejection the same way. As time goes on and I experience it more and more, even the little rejections feel like earthquakes in my psyche.

Like I said, I barely know The Guy... but I have a feeling that if he shot me down, I would take it hard. Very hard. And doing a show together means I'll be seeing him fairly regularly for the next month or so, making it very difficult for me to lick my wounds and move on, as my 13 year old self would have done.

Granted I feel that I already made my intentions perfectly clear when I kissed him, but he is a guy, he could have just chalked that up to my being drunk. A kiss doesn't carry the same weight at 30 as it did at 13, which is a pity really, as it's still an infinitely enjoyable way to pass the time. Or maybe he's having the same, ridiculous inner monologue that I am, and we should both just get the hell over it and see what happens.

I have no way of knowing what he's thinking, what will happen, or what I will eventually do. For the moment I'm still stuck on my bedroom floor, staring at the wall and searching for the courage to dial.

Good Karma... and Money

2010-03-28T21:30:00.000-04:00

Have you ever had one of those hangovers where it feels like your brain is suspended in jello, and every time you move your head, it bumps painfully into your skull?

Yes?

Well after six days of hormones, that's how my reproductive organs feel. Or maybe like someone removed them all together and replaced them with a brick. A brick with lots of nerve endings. Similes aside, it is not exactly what you would call pleasant. Though on the plus side, my overwhelming horniness has abated for the time being, as the thought of anyone actually touching the lower half of my body makes me cringe.

Tomorrow morning's sonogram is going to be just a barrel of fun.

Now, at least, I'm starting to understand why the compensation for this process is so high. I don't mean to sound mercenary, and I know that I am giving someone a great gift... but in my present state of discomfort, cold hard cash is a far more tangible reward than good karma.

I've also developed a new-found respect for diabetics, or anyone else who has to administer subcutaneous medication while in a public place. I've had to inject myself twice while at work, and let me tell you... perching on the edge of a toilet seat with my tights around my knees and my skirt hiked up around my waist, preparing to stick a needle in my thigh while shouting "Occupied!" as one or more persons rattle the door trying to gain entry to the restroom is not a position in which I ever expected to find myself.

The subsiding of my sex drive, however, has not decreased my interest in The Guy in the slightest--leading me to believe that my attraction to him is not just the hormones and that, for better or for worse, I do actually like him. We had a late night text message conversation last night, and the fact that I've read over it a few times and can't help grinning while I do so also points in that direction.

Yep. I think I'm in trouble.

Stalemate

2010-03-25T18:53:00.000-04:00

Day Three of Self-Injected Hormones: Still horny, though perhaps not as blindingly as before. Plagued by insomnia--again, not unusual for me, but definitely intensified. Maybe a tiny bit crampy from time to time, but nothing unbearable. Giving myself injections has turned out to be far less traumatic than I thought it would be. I was given the option of taking them in the thigh, and I quite literally can't even feel it. Definite WIN.

As to my personal life, I've seen The Guy (No, I really couldn't come up with a better nickname than that. I tried.) twice since the evening that I mauled him. Both times we were at rehearsal, and both times he has been cut before I was, thus thwarting my schemes to get him alone somewhere off theatre property--be it only the subway--in order to more objectively evaluate the situation. I have tried, and apparently failed, to indicate that I would enjoy doing just that. My subtler hints have gone unnoticed, and the one whopping LARGE hint--namely kissing him in a not-at-all-subtle fashion, right after saying something akin to "I'm far more attracted to you than I should be"--has not since been addressed.

It feels like the level of flirtation has escalated, but it's difficult for me to say when all of it is taking place in front of the rest of the cast--one of whom is aware of the events of the previous evening, having been in my inebriated company immediately thereafter. (If you think I have no filter in my blog, you should see me when I'm drunk.) The one significant change I can note is that, when he is supposed to kiss me on stage, he actually does so now, whereas before he'd been faking it. That may, or may not, be something.

In other words... I haven't got a frakking clue what is going on, and short of dragging him into the dressing room, locking the door, and having my way with him (or what way I can have under current restrictions), I'm not sure if or when I'll ever figure it out.

Not that I'm not enjoying myself along the way mind you. Flirting is fun. Cute boys are fun. Feeling slightly jittery around someone new is fun.

But by now you've all become at least mildly acquainted with my Crazy, and these hormones are not making her any easier to keep under control.

Right now, The Happy, Sane Froggy Who Just Enjoys the Moment is at a stalemate with the Crazy... but when that Stalemate becomes a Checkmate, well... I just don't know who's going to win.

Stuff and Foolishness

2010-03-22T11:52:00.001-04:00

There is simultaneously a lot and very little going on in my life these days.

I've started rehearsing for another show, which is taking up the majority of my free time, and much to my delight it is shaping up to be really great. I think I'll actually enjoy the curtain call this time around, unlike the last show where I just wanted to escape the stage, and my scene partner, as quickly as possible. Also unlike the last show, this time around I actually find the men I'm sharing the stage with--gasp!--attractive... one of them more than is probably good for me, but more on that in a minute.

The other news is that, after more than a year of waiting, I have finally begun my egg donation cycle! I took the stop-you-from-ovulating hormone shot a few weeks ago, and tomorrow I start the daily produce-lots-of-eggs hormones (giving myself shots--fun!). Thus far the only side effect I think I've noticed is being, well, exceptionally horny.

Now, granted, this isn't exactly an unusual state of affairs for me, so I'm not sure I can blame it entirely on the hormones, and I'm thinking the effect has been intensified by the fact that at the present moment, my lust actually has an object on which to fixate.

Which brings us back to the guy in my show. I say it's not good for me to be so attracted to him, mainly because he's a bit of a stoner and a bit of a flake (the two so often go hand in hand) and while stoner-ness doesn't bother me, one thing I absolutely cannot abide is flakiness. On the other hand, he's also cute, funny, and has a ridiculously sexy voice... and when he's in the vicinity I have a very hard time keeping myself from just pouncing on him and ripping his clothes off.

Indeed, the other night--after an inordinate amount of Yeungling--I entirely failed to control my lustful urges and stuck my tongue down his throat. He didn't seem to mind.

I can't help finding it ironic that I actually meet someone I want to have sex with right when I begin a process which will prohibit me from having sex for a month.

Unless, you know, I want to have a zillion babies. Which, clearly, I do not.

Fucking figures.

And absolutely none of the above prevented me from spending an entire 60 minute commute this morning indulging in daydreams about which, for the sake of decency, I will not go into detail. If there were any telepaths on the A train this morning, I highly doubt they were bored.

Now, I know what you're thinking, because I've thought it too. Maybe it's a good thing that I can't just jump into bed with him. Maybe this means I'll actually have to get to know him before sex becomes part of the equation. And you're right. Or you would be, if I was positive I wanted to date him. I'm not.

I try to take gossip with a grain of salt, but I was told he's got a reputation as a bit of a man-whore. There's the whole I-hate-flakiness thing, which I can tolerate in someone I'm only having sex with, but can't handle in an actual relationship. There's the fact that my judgment is currently so clouded by hormone-induced lust that I can't stop thinking about taking his shirt off long enough to determine exactly how much I like him. And finally there's the nagging fear that I do really like him, which, for all the reasons listed above, might turn out to be more of a curse than a blessing.

It seems that neither the course of true love NOR true lust ever doth run smooth...

Love In My Tummy

2010-02-23T18:31:00.000-05:00

I owe you people a food post. Seriously. My hard drive is overflowing with photographic documentation of culinary fabulosity, and I simply haven't had the time to share it with you.

And I certainly haven't got time to share it all now, so today will be a tribute to my new favourite food blog: Our Best Bites.

I found these lovely ladies the other day after following a link to their fabulously inventive Single Serving Pie in a Jar, which you can bet your arse I'll be trying as soon as I have time, and the funds to buy the jars.

In the mean time, I've been salivating over every recipe in their archive, and in the last two days I've tried two of them.

First up... Chicken Pot Pie
(Follow links for the recipes)

Since I am only feeding one person, I decided to make individual serving pies instead of one large pie. I halved the recipe, which still made enough filling for one slightly larger pie in my new (and utterly beloved) Williams Sonoma soup bowls, and three smaller pies in disposable mini pie tins, perfect for the freezer!

I shredded up a half rotisserie chicken from my grocery store (a bargain at $2.99!) and thawed some frozen mixed veggies by dumping them into a ziplock bag and floating it in hot water in my bathroom sink. I made Homemade Cream of Chicken Soup, which was admittedly bland when I followed the recipe. It tasted more like flour than anything else, but that may have been the cheap chicken broth stocked by my grocery store. I added about another half cup of broth and a ton of extra seasonings (probably about doubled the amount in the recipe, as well as added some sage and thyme) and that made it better. Will definitely try a different broth next time.

My only deviation from the recipe as written was to add a few cloves of minced garlic when I sauteed the onions in butter. In my world, garlic would be its own food group.

I threw everything into a bowl (including the diced and boiled red potatoes that I didn't take photos of previously because, hey, they're potatoes), topped with the soup, and mixed it all up. Easy peasy.

Now, I was going to give a little tutorial on making pie crusts in here, but a.) I'm not exactly a master crust maker, and b.) my camera battery was dying so I had to snap photos quickly and they all came out blurry. So. No pie crust tutorial. I'll just note that I use the trusty recipe from Better Homes and Gardens, substituting butter for half of the shortening. Works great.

Right. Onward.

I filled the incredibly-awesome-handled-soup-bowl and the three mini pie tins with the pot pie mixture, then topped them each with pie crust.

That's "P," for "Pie."

What can I say? I like to have fun with my vents :) These three were each wrapped in plastic wrap, then in foil, and stuck in the freezer for future consumption.

While the "P" pie was in the oven, baking at 400 degrees for approx 45 minutes, I took the little bit of leftover pie crust and performed a little bit of magic that is a Froggy Family Tradition.

Roll out the leftover crust dough, dot with butter, and douse in cinnamon and sugar.

Squeeze together at center and roll up ends. Sorry about the blurry photo, it was the only one I got of this step.

Bake for 15-20 minutes until you have a sweet-centered, flaky treat!

Now, back to the pie...

Beautiful! (Seriously, how awesome is that bowl??!)

Nice and golden. Bon Apetite!

So, you ask... how was it?

Pretty darned good. It suffered a little from the blandness of the Cream of Chicken soup, but for the most part it was very tasty and hit the spot. I can't wait to see how the three in the freezer cook up!

And now, the second recipe, which is mercifully (for both of us) not nearly so photo-heavy, as I didn't take any prep photos.

Thai Peanut Noodles

We can add this to the list of Foods I Love That Would Kill My Mother (who is crazy allergic to peanuts, and almost every other legume on the planet). These are mentioned repeatedly throughout posts on the blog, so I thought they had to be worth checking out. They are also fairly cheap (unless your grocery store gouges you on the cost of Udon noodles like mine does) and quick to make.

They are also freaking divinely delicious. I am going to be making these a lot. I can tell.

(There's that bowl again!)

I cannot wait to see what the leftovers taste like cold later tonight. And I wonder why I'm still single.

And there you have it. My show is over and I've been off work for the past three days. Aside from watching almost two complete seasons of Doctor Who (oh David Tennant, I want to marry you), this is how I've spent my time.

On a scale of 1 to Productive... I'd say that counts as an 8.

On Loss

2010-02-19T02:20:00.002-05:00

If I were to venture a guess, I would say that Bruce has been a fixture in my life for about 15 years. Not the chandelier that dominates the entryway and catches your attention each time you pass. More like the simple vase that sits unobtrusively in the corner; present, but never drawing attention to itself.

He was my grandmother's second husband, filling the gap in her life left after she and my grandfather separated. They reconnected at their 50th high school reunion, fell in love, and got married. I see him once a year, when the family gathers for Christmas; the man who gives ridiculous yet oddly practical Christmas gifts (lint brushes and fried-egg-shapers and rechargeable LED tea lights) and tells stories that for all intents and purposes should be interesting, but are somehow rendered inert by the placidity of his demeanor.

This evening, as I was getting ready for my show, my mother called to let me know that he had passed away.

He was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year, but in one of the ironic twists life likes to throw at us, it was a heart attack that took him.

I was conflicted when I heard the news because in a sense I was... relieved. I knew from the tone of my mother's voice that someone was gone, and of anyone it could have been, this was the one to cause me, personally, the least amount of grief.

I realized this evening that, for everything he was to my grandmother, my relationship with Bruce never amounted to love. More like a friendly acquaintance. I never thought of him as a grandfather--though considering my relationship to the man he replaced, that moniker would have been more of an insult than an expression of respect--he was simply my grandmother's husband.

My greatest sorrow is for her loss, the man she loved and with whom she shared a home, a life, and a family for the past 15 or more years. He was a good man, he took care of her and loved her, he was good to our family and gave my grandmother the love and stability she absolutely deserved after life had dealt her a bitter hand with her first husband, my grandfather. I am, of course, sad that he is gone--but my grief is not what one feels at the loss of a family member... and I am not entirely certain how to deal with that.

I mean no disrespect to the man himself, and I worry that somehow my lack of personal grief does just that. It is only that, when it comes right down to it, I never really knew him. I know his stories of serving with the Red Cross in occupied Germany after WWII. I know his restless energy that, even as his body began to fail him, drove him to stand instead of sit, to shovel the driveway even when younger men were ready and willing, and to keep a part time job for years after his supposed retirement, because idleness would have driven him crazy. But on the interpersonal level, our relationship amounted to a few scattered conversations among the mayhem of the family holiday gathering, once a year.

Tomorrow I will call my grandmother and attempt to convey my sympathy for her loss, though in truth I haven't the faintest idea of what to say. I know that in situations such as these there is really nothing one can say, but I'd feel a little better if I could at least think of something. I hope that what I have to offer--an "I love you, and my thoughts are with you"--will suffice.

I have no finite ideas of what, if anything, happens after this life, if indeed anything does. But I would like to say this to Bruce: Thank you for making my grandmother happy, for being a solid presence in her life, and giving her the love and the happiness that she deserved. For what it is worth, and in what way I can offer it, you will be missed.

Indeed...

2010-02-16T14:14:00.000-05:00

I've concluded that I am pretty much over The Model.

I came to this conclusion when he texted to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day... on Saturday.

On Sunday (you know, when it was actually Valentine's Day) I decided to be gracious and write back to say Thank You (since, you know, I'm sure that's what I was supposed to do). A few text messages followed, and he told me to call him after my show. I said that I was probably going out with the cast afterwards, and he said "okay, get drunk and then call me."

I didn't get drunk. I went home, made some popcorn, put on my pajamas, and watched TV.

And had no desire to call him.

So I didn't.

Whatever spark there was when we first met has clearly been extinguished, at least on my end. I'm pretty sure we'll both survive. I know I will. The bottom line is that I think he is intrigued by me because I am unlike the other girls he's dated... yet he still wants/needs/expects me to behave like those other girls, which I am neither capable nor desirous of doing.

Which is precisely what I'll tell him if he calls me out on the fact that I am making no effort to get in contact with him; but I won't be initiating any sort of heart-to-heart on the subject. After all of one date, I don't think I exactly owe him any grand explanations... do you?

While we're on the subject, I did briefly meet another gentleman who sparked my interest, despite his sporting an ever-so-slightly-rodent-like mustache. He's got a bit of an Alessandro Nivola vibe going on, which can't possibly be a bad thing. Granted, I don't know if I'll ever see the guy again, but I certainly hope so. He's doing something (not sure what) at the theatre where my show is performing, so the possibility is definitely there.

For the time being, however, I've got more than enough on my plate to keep me occupied. It would take a lot to grab and maintain my attention in the midst of everything else that's going on--and on that count The Model, it seems, has failed to deliver.

I know...

2010-02-15T13:49:00.002-05:00

... that it's perfectly ridiculous to be jealous that a man who lives 4,000 miles away has a crush on some other girl.

Which doesn't change the fact that I absolutely am.

Lord I have issues...

Muffled

2010-02-11T13:59:00.000-05:00

Sure, it plays hell with transportation, after a day or so it turns disgusting and grey, and the black ice is positively brutal, but still... in those first few hours, I have to admit...

That I absolutely love New York City in the snow.

(The camera on my new phone, it must be said, is also deserving of a little love.)

No cars on Broadway? In the middle of the day?! "Snowmageddon" indeed!

This could, theoretically, be a euphemism for the city as a whole.

The temptation to run in and make a snow angel almost got the better of me... until I remembered that neither my coat, nor my jeans, were waterproof.

It's like the entrance to an underground ice fortress...

Those are going to be positively DEADLY when they are frozen solid. Must remember to tread carefully today.

I'm not sure how much snow fell in total, but it was enough to keep the opening night audience for my show to a minimum, which--considering that it was the first time that we'd actually done the show without stopping, with all light and sound cues, and a (still not quite) finished set--wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It went better than expected, but felt more like an invited dress rehearsal than an opening night. Here's hoping tonight kicks it up a notch.

As to The Model, I haven't heard anything from him since our date, and I realize that, aside from disinterestedly wondering if he'll ever call me again, I don't really think about him all that much. Sure he's attractive, and there is some chemistry, but something just seems a little... off. He puts me on the defensive in a way that I can't quite name, and seems to want or expect me to behave in a way that, well, just isn't me.

Case in point, according to him, my response of "Well I'm free as a bird on Saturday" to his saying he'd missed me was "demanding," and the "proper response" would have been "thank you, I missed you too." Ummmm... hi, I'd met you once. I find it difficult to "miss" someone that I don't actually know. Also, I'm not a parrot. If someone says something nice to me, I don't automatically repeat it back to him, and expecting me to do so seems decidedly self-serving.

So... I don't know. I suppose I haven't entirely written him off. A rocky start is not grounds for immediate dismissal. But by the same token, I am not sitting by the phone anxiously wondering when/if I'll hear from him again, nor do I feel particularly compelled to pursue him myself.

My enthusiasm, like the city under this blanket of snow, has gradually been muffled.

Just to Let You Know...

2010-02-06T23:40:00.000-05:00

The Model eventually responded to my text with a reply that I did not find at all satisfying, so I chose to ignore him and take a nap instead.

Then he called, so I answered, and he asked me to go on a "proper date," so I agreed--with the stipulation that I have a big day tomorrow and couldn't be out late. We went out and had a glass of wine and a (ridiculously good) cheese plate. I enjoyed his company. When communicating face to face, versus via electronic media, he does not appear to be playing games, so.... we'll see.

I don't know what, if anything, will come of this. But I'm willing to stick it out a little longer and see.

The Plot Thickens... No, Thins... No-- Oh F*** It.

2010-02-06T15:23:00.000-05:00

My phone was on vibrate this morning, so I did not hear it ring. I received the following paraphrased voicemail from The Model.

Hey, I just figured out that this was your number. If I'd known it was you, I would have called you back. I was just looking at these texts from last week and thinking "Who is this random girl demanding dinner?"

Ummm...

A. I demanded nothing. That was probably meant to sound cute, but missed the mark by a foot or more.

B. He has called me, and actually responded to the first text I sent last week by saying he'd been "missing me"... Does he respond that way to every text he gets from an apparently unknown number?

I sent him a text from rehearsal this morning to ask how he'd managed to lose my number after the above incidents, but--shockingly!--did not get a response. I called him later when I got back to my neighborhood after rehearsal and got his voicemail.

Methinks I smell one hell of a game being played here.

The jury is still out at the moment, because, yes, he is good-looking enough for me to consider giving him a shot at redemption if he ever actually fucking calls me... but I have a feeling that, thanks to those good looks, he's used to not having to work too hard (or at all) to maintain a girl's attention, and that sort of shit absolutely will not fly in my house.

One thing is for certain... if he's looking to lower my defenses, he's certainly going about it the wrong way.

Pieces

2010-02-06T02:36:00.000-05:00

I overthink things.

We all know this. It is easily one of my defining (and I hope, to some, endearing) personality traits.

It is also a fucking curse.

After the night we met, the Hot Guy from Yale (who I will now dub "The Model," because, well, he's a model) sort of dropped off my radar... but not completely. He friended me on Facebook the very night we met (something that DM and I never did in the 2+ months we knew each other), and magically called me (which I missed, resulting in a voicemail) within a few days.

However, when I mentioned I was free for a particular stretch of time in my busy schedule--and subsequently informed him that that was, in fact, a none-too-subtle hint--I heard nothing.

And more nothing.

Then, this morning, I was poking around on the internet before heading off to work and he popped up on Facebook Chat. A paraphrase of his message follows:

I think you should know that I've thought about you every day since we met.

Not like an hour a day.

Maybe cumulatively 75 seconds.

But what I mean to say is that I miss you.

He then proceeded to tell me to call him later and he would take me out this weekend.

I called on my break from work and got his voicemail, leaving him one of my signature rambling messages.

I heard nothing.

When I left work I sent him a text (it was late) to let him know that, should he still desire my company, I am free on Saturday but in rehearsal all day on Sunday.

I've still heard nothing.

It feels like such a fucking tease.

And what really gets me is, that day we met and spent a 2 hour train ride together, he completely called me out on my defenses. I can't say he saw right through them, but he saw that they were there. Now, those defenses have taken a lifetime to build and are absolutely not going to come tumbling down at a moment's notice simply because a charming and attractive man has asked nicely... but I can't say I wasn't affected by his frankness in calling me out in the first place.

But then there's this game of cat-and-mouse that we seem to be playing that I absolutely do not want to play, and which, incidentally, is the reason I have fucking defenses in the first place!

Perhaps it's not a game. Perhaps we're just two busy individuals. But I am not going to go chasing his ass across Manhattan in the hopes that maybe he'll finally, actually, ask me out on a proper date. You may be thinking that, hey, this is the 21st Century, and really, if I want to see him I should just ask him out myself. But this I patently refuse to do, for the simple reason that one of the few requirements on a my fairly short list is that any man I date actually be interested enough in spending time with me that he be willing to make some fucking plans. I have been the pursuer far too often and it generally ends in my being rejected and/or embarrassed, neither of which is an experience that I am anxiously seeking to repeat.

Any man who can't man up and ask me out is clearly not a man I want to be dating in the first place. And no matter how much you try to convince me that you're not every other man I've ever dated, you'll never be the first one to say the things you're saying... and here I am. Still single.

Of course I do realize that the one common factor in my frustrating history is, of course, me...

This evening I was watching the most recent episode of Grey's Anatomy--which, I admit, has been floundering a bit for the past few seasons--when a particular moment hit me square in the chest with how solidly it reflected my own life. Sandra Oh's character, Christina, was talking about a previous relationship in which she had let a man slowly and quietly take away small pieces of her until she was no longer herself; and now, with a new man, now that she was finally herself again, she wanted to be damned sure she never let pieces be taken away from her again.

I had that too. It was a long time ago, and I was young, but the effects have stayed with me for more than 10 years. I let myself be changed and warped from the independent, self-confident young woman that I was into a needy, dependent, self-loathing... nothing. It's taken years and lots of bad decisions, but I feel like I finally have myself back. Perhaps not the same self, but a self that I like, love even, and I am reluctant to let anybody into my life who might try to chip away at the life and the self I've built.

It speaks to my own damaged psyche that I automatically expect every man I meet to want a piece (or more) of me like that first one did... and I'm working on it. But any man who doesn't have the patience, or doesn't see enough in me, to gradually overcome my defenses, isn't a man who should be in my life in the first place.

Which begs the question... how long will it take me to determine if The Model can be trusted... and will he give me an opportunity to find out?

The Aftermath

2010-01-29T12:41:00.000-05:00

So, my MFA auditions were last weekend.

On the plus side, I now know for certain that rejection can't kill me.

First up was NYU, and from the moment I entered the waiting area, I was fairly certain that this was not the place I wanted to be. It was essentially the foyer of a small office, crammed with two dozen folding chairs, each of which contained a bundle of nerves that once upon a time had been a person. I was feeling fairly calm when I arrived, but that level of tension is highly contagious and I was soon feeling the effects. To top it all off, while the person ahead of you is in the audition room, they stick you in a tiny little room by yourself, ostensibly to warm up... but mostly it just gives you a solid four minutes to walk around in a circle and wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into.

My audition was okay. I fumbled in a few places, but nothing atrocious. I did not receive a preliminary callback at the end of the hour, but based on the vibes I was receiving from everyone else in the holding pen, these were not people with whom I had any desire to spend the next 3 years, so I chalked it up to experience and moved on.

The next day was Yale, which was the day to NYU's night. People were relaxed. The holding areas were warm-up rooms where you could move around and get focused, and--gasp!--people were actually talking to one another! Aside from the fact that the building was absolutely FREEZING, prompting me to wear my wool scarf like a toga in an effort to get my core temperature back into the normal range, the environment was ideal.

My audition went, I thought, as well as it possibly could have. I corrected the mistakes I had made the previous day, and even elicited a chuckle from the auditor at the end of my comedic piece. Alas, once again I did not receive a preliminary callback. Indeed, of the 17 people in my group, only four received callbacks, and they were all men. I guess the quota of women for the day had already been filled.

So... it looks like my hopes of heading to New Haven next Fall have been quite decidedly dashed. Now I look to my PhD programs, and potentially to some MFA programs overseas, which have much later application deadlines. Indeed, I was doing a little research last night and the school in England that I attended for a year of Undergrad, and whose PhD program I adore, also has a 2 year MFA that has decidedly piqued my interest, which means I will have to choose with path I would prefer to pursue there. Decisions, decisions...

There is, however, one decided up-side to my not getting a callback at Yale, which is that the ridiculously attractive guy that I met while waiting to be seen didn't get one either, which allowed us to go out and get a drink, and ride the Metro North back to the city together.

Now, as a rule I generally don't date actors, as often the only thing they are capable of talking about is theatre, and their own triumphs and failures therein. As one of my fellow cast members so aptly put it: "Sex, religion, and theatre. That's about all we're good for."

Likewise, I generally don't date men who are prettier than I am. It gives me a bit of a complex.

That being said... for an actor who's also been through law school, and possesses a sixpack and cheekbones that could cut glass? I just might be prepared to make an exception...

Stay tuned.

The Opposite.

2010-01-13T21:48:00.001-05:00

The grad school apps are all in, minus one hard-copy letter of recommendation which may or may not be on its way to me as we speak, and which I'd prefer not to discuss any further lest my head explode;

I've chosen my pieces for my auditions, and have them memorized;

I've submitted my limited-due-to-rehearsal availability to my boss, and she hasn't killed me;

And, oh yeah, I turned 30 last Friday.

So anyway...

I am having a serious actor's dilemma right now, and I'm going to vent to you about it. I know you all aren't actors (or, at least, those of you that I know aren't--lurking thespians, now would be an excellent time to come out of the closet, so to speak), but I'm sure there is some way this situation could compare to one that occurs off-stage, so hear me out.

We've started rehearsing for the show I'm doing in February, and for the most part I am delighted with this particular cast. They're funny, they're friendly, and best of all, they are fucking talented. It's awesome.

With one small problem.

There is a TON--I mean scads, loads, heaps, pailfuls--of sexual subtext in this play.

That's not the problem.

The problem, is that the man toward whom all of my closeted Victorian lust is supposed to be directed... is one to whom I am not in the least bit attracted. At all. Even slightly.

More to the point: he actually creeps me out a little.

He's nearly twice my age--due to my being cast in a role that even my aged 30-year-old-self is a bit too young for--and for whatever inexplicable reason, my body just wants to... recoil... whenever he comes near.

Now yes, I am aware that this is why it's called "Acting," but dear god! How am I supposed to drum up even a semblance of lust when my instincts are screaming at me to run the other way?!

I feel a little guilty even talking about it, even though none of you know who he is--very few of you even know who *I* am--as he is, I'm sure, a very nice man, and I don't mean this to be a diatribe against him as an individual, it's just...

Sometimes there's chemistry... and sometimes... there's the opposite.

This is most definitely the opposite.

I am so fucked.

First Lesson of the New Year:

2010-01-03T19:02:00.002-05:00

Champagne and Vodka don't mix.

Actually, I already knew this, but apparently I forgot... leading to some extreme drunkenness on my part, the first UDI of the New Year, and the sneaking suspicion that my co-workers are going to make fun of me at work tomorrow.

On the plus side of life, I've submitted my application to Columbia! The downside of this is that I'm still short one letter of recommendation, even though my professor agreed to write it back in OCTOBER and I've reminded him at least a dozen times since then. Meanwhile the professor that I didn't ask until the middle of December managed to get hers in on time, so unless he's dead or in a coma, there is no reasonable excuse for his not having done it. Also, it makes me look bad.

Now I just need to finish up my CUNY application, select/memorize/rehearse my monologues for my MFA auditions... and rehearse for a play.

No, I'm not busy. Not busy at all...

New Decade, Same Frog

2010-01-01T13:58:00.000-05:00

Greetings and Salutations Campers, and welcome to the New Year!

In true Froggy fashion, I kicked off 2010 by getting naked with a guy I'd just met. It seemed the only logical thing to do, really, being that I'm fairly certain we were the only two straight guests at the party. I do, however, wish that I could remember his name... I think I do, but I'm not certain. Not that it matters if I don't, because he lives on the opposite side of the country and my chances of ever seeing him again are slim to none.

The drama-free nature of the year's first indiscretion fully makes up for the debacle of New Year's Eve several years ago, when all of my friends knew that the guy I was flirting with was crazy, and for some reason opted not to warn me, thus leading to THE most painfully uncomfortable morning-after EVER. They did, however, tease me ruthlessly for some time afterward. Nice of them, really.

My only regret is that I smoked a few cigarettes, which I haven't done in months, and I can feel it this morning. Lungs = not happy.

So, while I don't necessarily believe that what happens on New Year's Eve sets the tone for the whole year, at least I've started off on good footing. What can I say? I do learn from my mistakes... I just choose to repeat the fun ones :)

Happy New Year y'all! What sort of trouble did you get into?

Jiggity Jig

2009-12-29T00:33:00.000-05:00

Is it wrong that I want to have lunch at Panera tomorrow for the sole purpose of scoping out my ex boyfriend, and potentially making him very uncomfortable?

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the sole reason... I am rather fond of their bread bowls.

I just got back from the Best Friend's house, where I watched the Sex and the City movie with her and her remarkably acquiescent husband (who had his ACL replaced today and was therefore doped up on percoset). In the course of providing me with all the local gossip, she mentioned that my First Love served her coffee at Panera yesterday, where he is the manager, and skeezily hits on all the teenaged girls who work there.

It seems that my stellar taste in men stretches all the way back to the tender age of 13. Hooray for me!

Doesn't stop me from wanting to go check him out. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

The holiday has been lovely, if a bit of a whirlwind. It seems as if I've spent more time in transit than I have in any one place, and tomorrow evening it's back to the big city to work a double on Wed, and then I'm off again through January 3rd. I'm hoping that on at least one of those days, I get to sleep in.

Two of my four grad school applications have been submitted and my MFA auditions are scheduled. I've finally unearthed my writing sample for the PhD applications, which needs to be re-typed, as well as another contender that needs a little work, but if I have time, I may spruce it up and submit it instead. I'm also waiting on two letters of recommendation, which has me more than a little edgy as the deadlines are fast approaching and I can only send so many reminder emails before my head explodes. Contemplating combing the Baltimore newspapers to see if one of my recommenders has died or is in a coma or something, which are the only reasonable excuses I can think of for agreeing to write a letter back in September, and not yet having done so.

At least I survived the GRE and my scores, it has to be said, are stellar. 740 Verbal, 730 Math, and a 5 in Analytical Writing (which, okay, could have been better, but I'll live), just in case you were wondering...

I've also been cast in a play which will be rehearsing throughout January, in addition to getting ready for my MFA auditions, and figuring out how to rearrange my work schedule around all of the above so that I can still make enough money to pay my rent. I will hopefully be worked into an egg donation cycle early in the month, which will take care of my financial concerns, but seeing as I've been waiting since September, that can hardly be counted on...

In other words, life is about to get intensely crazy... but at least it will be interesting.

Happy Holidays y'all!

Eleven

2009-12-01T01:22:00.000-05:00

I am playing a very dangerous game. Or, if not dangerous, just very, very foolish. I've been spending far too much time thinking about someone whom I certainly should not be thinking about, especially considering that said someone is 4000 miles away and likely to stay there.

Confused?

Me too.

The English Ex and I have been talking a lot lately, or IM'ing rather, and amid the usual sexual banter that colours our conversations--I did invite him to come visit me for New Years for the sole purpose of getting laid--there is an undercurrent of... something.

It's trying to figure out that something that is getting me into trouble.

Because that something is probably nothing, or else just very little. Two lonely people who once fancied each other feeding each other's bruised egos via the internet. On the other hand, it feels strangely familiar, like an echo of those days many years ago when he and I were both trying to figure out how we felt about each other, without letting on that there was anything to figure out. The main difference being that, all those years ago, we were on the same bloody continent.

But how many times can a man jokingly ask "Why aren't we married?" without there being just the tiniest thread of a something lurking beneath the surface?

You see, I can live with a tiny thread of something. Sure, in the end a tiny thread will come to nothing, just as all of this will, most likely, come to nothing. But a tiny thread would at least mean that it's not all of my own invention. That the something really is something, as opposed to wishful thinking.

I hope you're not annoyed with my egregious use of the word "something," but really, I have no other word for it.

Gah. What good can ever come of flirting continuously with an Ex who lives on the other side of an ocean? And even though I know the answer to this question is "none," why can't I seem to stop?

The other day I asked the folks on Twitter, "On a scale of 1-10, just how stupid is it to invite an Ex to travel 4000 miles for a dirty weekend? And will that stop me?"

Although I received not a single response, I can answer without a doubt...

Eleven.

And not a chance.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried...

2009-11-26T01:28:00.000-05:00

Last night as I returned home around 12:30am (my usual arrival time after work--I am rapidly becoming completely nocturnal) I was understandably surprised to discover that the entire sidewalk in front of my building was blanketed with broken glass. Much more than could come from a busted car window, or even a busted store window. It was as if a glass factory had exploded overhead, and its shattered entrails were now crunching beneath my feet as I made my way warily toward the entrance. The path leading to the front door was similarly strewn with glittering detritus, though here it had been swept up against the walls, like so many leaves in a gutter.

The door to the building was open. I entered, checking my mail as if all of this were a completely pedestrian state in which to find my home, then turned to discover that the floor, and the stairs leading up to my side of the building, were soaking wet.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to scrape broken glass from the bottom of my boots and glanced up at two men standing outside the first apartment.

"So, er... what happened?" I asked casually.

"Fire, on the third floor."

"Um... what?"

I made my way up the stairs, sloshing in water and wondering what I would find on the third floor.

Not much, as it turned out, other than the Super talking to another man, and a smell much like a recently doused camp fire.

I made my way up another flight and on the fourth floor I found what I was looking for: Information, courtesy of the posse of fellow tenants gathered there.

Apparently, there was a 2 alarm blaze on the east side of the third floor, at least three fire chiefs had been through to check it out, and the entire building was without running water because the firemen had hit a pipe somewhere.

Peachy.

After chatting over the drama with the people who'd actually been in the building, I made my way up to my own apartment... to find my front door missing a considerable chunk of paint where it had been pried open--for whatever reason I could not then say--and held slightly ajar by a crappy old umbrella that had fallen from its perch inside and lodged there.

Fearfully, I opened the door, but nothing appeared out of place (or any more out of place than it had previously been, my apartment being a bit of a wreck at the moment) and my cat was, thank goodness, still inside.

I closed the door, checked the level in my Brita pitcher, and got ready for bed. Then it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to check and make sure I could still lock my door, rather than discover a broken lock in the morning when I tried to leave for work.

This was, I must say, the best idea I've had in a long time, because lo and behold when I went to open the door to test the lock... nothing happened.

And by nothing I mean... NOTHING. The knob would not budge. I was, effectively, locked in my apartment.

I immediately called the Super, who assured me that "a guy was going around checking all the doors" and would help me.

Two hours later I gave up, emailed my boss with a heads up that I would most likely be late for work, and went to bed amidst the sounds of hammering and shattering glass coming from below, where god knows who was doing god knows what in the wake of the inferno.

This morning I woke up and called the Super once again.

"Hi, It's Froggy in [Apt Number] again. I'm still locked inside. I need to go to work. Could someone please help me?"

"Oh, oh, yeah. You're locked out?"

"No. I'm locked in."

"You need me to bring you a key?"

"No. No. A key will not help. The fire department broke my door and I am stuck INSIDE my apartment. As in, I cannot get out. I am trapped."

"Oh. Oh! Okay, I'll be right there."

Shortly thereafter he arrived and managed to break my door open, whereupon he disassembled the entire knob/lock mechanism and proceeded to fuck around with it while the increasingly potent smell of day-after-fire wafted through the open doorway and into my apartment, saturating everything, while I amused myself with an entirely-inappropriate-for-reproduction IM conversation with The English Ex (which was, without a doubt, the highlight of my fucking day).

The knob was only half attached and not even remotely functional when an electrician arrived downstairs and the Super left, promising he'd be back soon.

Forty-five minutes later (and already half an hour late for work, nevermind the 45 minute travel time and the fact that I still had no running water and would therefore have to wash my face and apply make-up once I got there), I called him again to remind him that I was still without a functional front door, at which time he finally returned, with another man in tow, and between the two of them they managed to rig my door so that I can at least lock it behind me, but the result is that the entire assembly still needs to be replaced.

I thanked them, raced out the door to work, my bag laden with toiletries, and finally made it through the door 1 1/2 hours late, and 5 minutes before we opened.

Good. Freakin'. Grief.

Oh, and did I mention that, throughout the entire morning ordeal, the lack of water ALSO meant a complete lack of what might be an even more vital necessity? I am referring, of course, to COFFEE.

Now, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am incredibly thankful that it was not my apartment that caught fire, that aside from a pervasive scent of doused camp fire, my belongings are not damaged, and that my cat did not escape during the ensuing mayhem during which I was not present, but still, I can't help but ask...

Seriously Universe? SERIOUSLY??

I think I need a vacation from my life.

Etc.

2009-11-21T14:40:00.000-05:00

First things first: Sorry, but I've re-enabled verification words for commenting. After "Anonymous" left what appeared to be an advertisement for Cialis on one of the better posts I've written (which, I might add, has exactly NOTHING to do with erectile dysfunction), I've decided it was a necessary precaution.

Not that I've been writing much lately. Then again, I haven't been doing much of anything lately, aside from work, sleep, and studying for the GRE.

My restaurant was written up in the NY Times a few weeks ago, and for two weeks after the place was an absolute zoo. While it was stressful at the time, my wallet was grateful--particularly now that business is slowing down again. It's not as dead as it was before, but doing the math on tips from this week versus the past two weeks shows that the paycheck is about to drop off again. Significantly. Sigh. Oh you far-off dreams of financial solvency... never, it seems, to be reached in this lifetime...

Other than work, grad school applications and GREs--and occassionally catching up on my DVR--consume the remainder of my conscious hours. Such a thrilling life I lead, no?

Thanksgiving is right around the corner and it looks like I'll be stuck working a double on Wednesday AND Friday, though thankfully we're closed on the holiday itself. I'll probably be heading over to the Lovely A's house to hang out with her and her boyfriend--I'm sorry, fiance, *grin*--who seems to be under the impression that he can cook a turkey in a crock pot. I'll be bringing pie. Then I'll head to PA over the weekend for a belated celebration with the parents, who are kind enough to postpone their own festivities to accomodate my crappy work schedule--one of the perks of being an only child.

I take the GRE on December 2nd (less than two weeks away, and my Math score still needs a boost of at *least* 60 points! ACK!!), after which my primary source(s) of stress will be preparing material for my MFA auditions, digging up my writing sample for my PhD applications (which, of course, only exists in hard copy and is buried somewhere in my apartment) and re-typing it, wondering how the hell I'm going to pay for all of these applications, and writing four Personal Statements distinctly tailored to each of the four programs to which I am applying.

So. In case you were wondering why I've been MIA lately, this is why.

Think if I ask Santa for more hours in the day, he'd help me out?

In the mean time, go read the post linked above and reminisce with me about the days when I actually had the time and mental capacity to write something significant. I'll be right there with you.

Boo!

2009-11-03T11:47:00.000-05:00

I need a break from reality. Sadly, the minor respite afforded by one of my favourite holidays did not last long enough to alleviate the current tedium of daily life.

Halloween has come and gone, and while the festivities were significantly tamer than in years past, I still enjoyed myself.

I went to the Halloween Parade for the first time, and despite the heavens' repeated attempts to drench us, it was still pretty rockin'.

It should be noted, however, that arriving obscenely early is crucial if you want to get a decent vantage point from which to observe. We had managed to station ourselves, despite a late arrival, on a high curb that afforded us a decent view over the heads of those in front of us... until the umbrellas went up.

I was, of course, appropriately attired.

Which may explain how, later, I inexplicably found myself walking in the parade as my friends and I struggled to find an open subway entrance.

Shortly (relatively speaking) thereafter, I found myself in the Bronx, where the World Series had significantly overshadowed the holiday at hand--unjustly, in my opinion. I mean, the Series goes on for seven nights, whereas Halloween only gets one! In such an instance of unequal time-sharing, one would think that the holiday at hand would take precedence. However, just try talking rationally to a Yankee fan. Go on, I'll wait here.

...

A fruitless endeavor, no?

Eventually fatigue and baseball overload, not to mention having my mid-section cinched in by a steel-boned corset, took their toll, and after narrowly avoiding smacking the idiot mentioned in my previous post, I took a taxi home and promptly passed the hell out.

Happy Halloween!

Pop Quiz

2009-11-01T01:43:00.000-05:00

It's Halloween and you are in a bar, hitting on a girl in an elaborate costume. You ask for her number. She declines. You,

a.) shrug it off and continue making polite conversation, hoping to change her mind with your natural charms;

b.) go find someone less resistant, and more drunk, to hit on;

c.) start talking about how much you hate Halloween, because of the way other bars (not the one you are in) handle the holiday, then get offended when she points out that the problem seems to be yours, and that you shouldn't blame the holiday because you make poor choices of location in which to celebrate, accuse her of being overly sensitive, and warn her that she shouldn't get too excited about some things, or she won't have enough energy left over for other things in her life.

I'll just let you mull that over. Go ahead, take your time. Tune in tomorrow to learn the answer that absolutely will NOT get you in my pants, plus more Halloweeny goodness...

Thoughts, Deep and Otherwise...

2009-10-17T12:49:00.000-04:00

As I plodded to the subway after a torturously long and slow double shift yesterday, my exhausted brain managed to crank out some rather important thinking. Here it is:

I need to get over the fact that my life isn't what I want it to be, and instead of being quietly miserable, do something about it.

Again.

This type of thinking is what landed me in Grad School the last time, and while I was certainly enriched by the experience, I must reluctantly admit that, just maybe, I didn't choose the right course of study to get where I want to be--teaching college. So, it's ime to make an appointment to take the GRE, thus forcing myself to study for it, get those PhD applications in order, and...

...get over the insecurity and fear of rejection that has kept me from entering any academic program that requires an audition. The worst that can happen is that they say No. It will suck, but it won't kill me. Thus, I am applying to Yale's MFA Program. Because if I'm going to kick my fear in the ass, why not do it on the grandest scale possible? An MFA will also qualify me to teach college, fulfilling the "Get my life on the right track" course of action that I am determined to, once again, undertake, with the added bonus of offering the kind of experiential learning that is lacking from the more academically-oriented doctoral programs.

In other words, I'm just going to keep trying until I get it right. Or until the Federal Government refuses to give me any more Education Loans. (Though in my defense, I am only applying to programs that offer the sort of financial aid that will cover all or most of my expenses, thus adding comparatively little to my already massive debts.)

And, on the not so deep scale, I need to decide if it's really worth flirting with a guy I work with, no matter how attractive he may be. True, he's just working in the kitchen for a few months and is therefore technically not my superior (because I am NOT repeating the "Alcoholic Coke-Head Chef Incident," or any variations thereof, EVER AGAIN)... but he is the owner's younger brother, and therefore exists on a sort of plane unto himself.

He's also young.

Which I'm willing to overlook.

Because he's hot.

He'd been around for awhile, but I wasn't attracted to him until yesterday when I actually talked to him for awhile. Not gonna lie, it may have more to do with his British accent than his chewable lower lip, but a little spark kicked off in the back of my brain. It could also be that it's PMS week and my hormones are firing off like mad. I have a sneaking suspicion that, were I to just go for it, I could probably reel him in with little difficulty, but the thought of doing so under the gaze of the entirely female floor staff makes my skin crawl. I'd feel like some sort of exhibit at the Mean Girls Zoo.

There is a downside to having an all female staff. For the most part, I stay out of the drama, but overtly flirting with the boss's hot brother would decidedly land me in the middle of it.

Probably best just to covertly flirt with him to pass the time, and not worry about it.

Because clearly, I have enough to think about already.

Of Noodles, Ingenuity, and Following Instructions

2009-10-15T12:58:00.001-04:00

I know. I know. I keep promising to stop being such a terrible blogger, and then I go right ahead and fail to post for an entire two weeks, which--barring the time I spent out of the country--is pretty much a record.

So this time, instead of handing you more empty promises to stop sucking, I have decided to accept the fact that, for the time being anyway, I am a crappy blogger. Not that I haven't crafted a dozen posts in my head while far, far away from my computer. I have. Scores of them. I just never seem to get around to sitting down and typing them up when I get home.

Massive blogger FAIL.

Besides, you really don't want to hear me whining about how I feel like a failure for being a waitress with a Masters Degree, which is what largely occupies my thoughts as of late. I'm sure you'd much rather see what I got up to in my kitchen on my day off yesterday, right?

That's what I thought.

Speaking of my kitchen, here it is, in all it's teeny-tiny glory.

See that little splash of colour in the bottom left corner? That's a pillow on my couch. My apartment? Is tiny. And this little closet of a kitchen is where the magic happens, with the help of a rolling island that lives in my livingroom and spends two-thirds of its time covered in junk mail and other assorted detritus, shown here in a rare moment of functionality:

Just thought I'd give you an idea of what it is I have to work with.

Anyhow...

Yesterday I found Heaven, and it is called Fairway, aka the most fabulously awesome grocery store EVER.

What makes it so awesome? Well for starters nestled on its shelves I found Blackcurrant Red Wine Vinegar. What am I going to do with that? No idea. But it was ONLY FOUR DOLLARS! Combine that with a selection of every. single. product. milled by Bob's Red Mill, and I? Am one happy freaking frog.

Especially since my pregnant Latvian co-worker has been missing the food of her homeland, affording me the perfect opportunity to try my hand at smitten kitchen's black bread recipe, and it's staggeringly complex list of ingredients.

Once the shopping trip was over--I admittedly went a little nutso in the Fairway and decided to treat myself to a cab ride home, thus entrusting myself to the care of THE WORST CAB DRIVER EVER. Seriously. We were on 125th. I told him we were going to 199th. He tried to go South. Then he tried to turn into the Sanitation Department, thinking it was a street--I lugged my treasures up five flights of stairs and dove into bread-making land.

True to Deb's word, the bread itself is remarkably easy to make once the ingredients are assembled, and the results? Are just lovely.

The round loaf is for the afore mentioned co-worker, and the loaf? That's for me.

If we're being honest, I think this loaf has just a little too much caraway for me, and when I make it again (because trust me, I most definitely will) I will probably cut the amount in half, and perhaps add some more shallots, but on the whole? This bread is absolutely lovely, has a really great texture, and I'm betting it will be fabulous toasted and topped with cream cheese.

While the bread was on its first rise, I set about making my dinner: Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, from Ted Allen's "The Food You Want to Eat", which I had pulled off the shelf on a whim earlier that day.

I don't have any prep photos from this dish, mostly because I was on the phone with Therapeutic Ramblings (whom I've known since the first day of Freshman Orientation at Undergrad College, many moons ago) while I was cooking, and two tasks at once is about my limit, at least where hot stoves and spitting fat are concerned.

A note here on following instructions:

The recipe stated to brown the short ribs for 12-15 minutes on med-high and turn down the heat if the bottom of the pan started to burn. Well, I started out on more of a medium heat to begin with, as my crappy electric stove (probably the only one in NYC--I HATE ELECTRIC STOVES!!) tends to cook hotter than gas. So, when the pan started to burn around 7 minutes, and the ribs appeared brown, I decided that was good enough and moved on to the next step.

I shouldn't have.

See, the browning process not only serves to sear the juices into the meat, but also to render the fat from what is a very fatty cut. Because I only browned the meat for half of the allotted time, a few of the pieces retained a large amount of fat, resulting in a fattier broth, and a few pieces of meat that were largely inedible.

That being said, since I was only feeding myself, there was still plenty of edible meat left to feed me and leave leftovers, so it was not a fatal error. Just an irritating one.

Right, back to the timeline...

When the ribs were set to braising on a rear burner I took a moment to shape my bread loaves and set them to the second rise, and then set about my final preparation for the evening: Homemade egg noodles.

The recipe for these darlings, which I halved, is super simple:

Egg Noodles
2 1/2 c. flour
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 c. milk, warmed
1 Tbsp. butter, melted
Pinch salt.

Combine ingredients in a large bowl. Knead until smooth, approx 5 minutes. Let rest covered in plastic wrap for 10 minutes. Roll out and cut. Allow to dry before cooking in lightly salted boiling water.

See? Told you it was easy.

The original recipe called to roll out the dough with a rolling pin to either 1/4 or 1/8 inch and then cut, but since K bequeathed me a snazzy pasta maker--and I like my noodles thin--I rolled out the dough to the #6 setting and then cut wide noodles with a pizza cutter... which is probably how I ended up with a whole lot more than the 2 servings the recipe claimed it would make.

What's that you say? What is that snazzy device on which my noodles are drying? Well...

...it's a clothes-drying rack, set up in the middle of my livingroom. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or so I'm told. Please, ignore the mess in the background.

About halfway through the noodle-cutting process, the bread loaves went into the oven to bake for approx 45 minutes. The lid came off the braising pot to allow the sauce to thicken, and then, finally, the noodles went into the pot.

Here they are, looking all buttery and fabulous.

Et viola! Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, served over Fresh, Buttered Egg Noodles.

And despite my failure to follow instructions, they were still delicious, eaten at my coffee table while watching Glee and drinking the half bottle of wine left over from the recipe.

So there you have it: I can cook a feast in a closet, knit a sweater, and I'm hot. Yet I'm still single. How does this equation add up? Well, my friends, that's a blog post for another day...

Health Nut

2009-09-30T01:17:00.000-04:00

Today I have consumed the following (in more or less chronological order):

3 candy-corn pumpkins
1 1/2 Lattes (one with sugar, one without)
1 Mont Blanc (vanilla gelato, chestnut cream, whipped cream, & toasted almonds)
1 very small bite cinnamon ice cream with caramel sauce
Some french fries
A crappy panini
1 Maraschino cherry
1 small slice of baguette with some goat cheese
2 Arnold Palmers
2 Profiteroles, each containing: 1 raspberry, some strawberry sauce, and whipped cream
1/4 glass of (very good) red wine from a bottle that someone's table didn't finish
6 crackers topped with cheddar cheese and half a green olive, microwaved into melty submission
4 green olives
6 black olives
2 chunks cheddar cheese
3 slices Genoa salami
4 slices Pepperoni
A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Okay, so maybe the last one is a lie, but had it been presented to me shortly after midnight when the woman next to me on the subway was scarfing a bag of Doritos, the intoxicating scent of which was seductively entreating me to bludgeon her with my newly-purchased, hardback edition of "The Indispensable Calvin and Hobbes," rip the glistening bag from her undeserving hands, and either consume the contents as a lion would a gazelle, or else bathe in them, well... I probably wouldn't have turned it down.

The above, combined with the theme song from The Smurfs inexplicably taking up residence in my head and refusing to vacate--despite repeated requests by the regular tenant, "Single Ladies," to do so--serves as a pretty fair indicator that I am on the verge of losing it.

Thank heavens I've got the next two days off.

History

2009-09-24T23:14:00.000-04:00

Out of curiosity, and to kill time during commercials while watching the Grey's Anatomy season premiere, I hauled out an old journal to do a little fact checking. Namely, to check the duration of the few "significant" relationships I've had since ending things with High School Boyfriend when I was 19.

The winner, English Ex, clocked in at just shy of two months--five weeks of which we spent on opposite sides of a little body of water commonly known as the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed longer, perhaps, due to the fact that we were friends for awhile before we made out after watching Labyrinth, but facts are facts.

I am 29 years old, and in the past decade, I have not had a "relationship" (I feel I must use the term loosely) that lasted even 2 months.

Can that possibly be normal?

ARGH

2009-09-22T13:28:00.000-04:00

Well kids, time to add another entry to the ever-expanding list entitled Jobs Froggy Did Not Get, Despite Having A $100k Masters Degree and Feeling Great After The Interview.

On one hand, this should motivate me even more to get cracking on those PhD applications.

On the other, all of this rejection--boys, employers--is getting to be a bit much. If the bread I've currently got in the oven doesn't come out looking pretty and edible, I may weep.

Susan Miller was right. September SUCKS.

So, About Last Night...

2009-09-19T10:44:00.000-04:00

It seems that alcohol-fueled emotional breakdowns make for maudlin blog posts.

This morning, however, the self-pity has been thoroughly purged from my bloodstream, along with the last of the Amstel Light and Crown Royal.

Time to buy a card, find a cobbler to polish up my pink shoes, straighten my hair, and hit the road.

It's Wedding Time!

Tonight: Again

2009-09-19T00:48:00.000-04:00

Tonight I have to get it out.

This sadness, for myself.

Because tomorrow it is all about my friend. This friend that I have known longer than all the others. Longer even than the girl that I call my best friend, even though she does not hold that word for me.

Tomorrow it is all about my friend, and the absolute, genuine joy that I feel for her, as she embarks on this next step in the journey of her life...

But tonight...

Tonight it is about me.

And the sorrow I feel for myself... as I am left behind.

I'm not certain that such sorrow and such absolute love can exist together without dire consequence. So tomorrow I abandon myself in love for my friend.

But tonight, in a few moments of absolute self-indulgence, before I fall asleep... it is about me.

And I am lonely.

I am sorry for that.

But not ashamed.

Limits

2009-09-19T00:30:00.000-04:00

On the eve of the wedding that officially marks me as the LAST single girl among my childhood friends, I have the following to offer:

As my friend marries her partner of seven years, I offer nothing but joy and hope for a long life of happiness between the two of them.

As I watch all my married friends celebrate this new union, I wish nothing less for each and every one of them.

As I spend every dance on my own, I accept the very real possibility that I will spend the rest of my life in just such a fashion--alone.

As I accept this moment, without fear or regret, I still feel sad and wonder... at this moment, what does the rest of the world see in me?

I do not wish the rest of the world to judge me by standards up to which I cannot live... yet I cannot seem to stop holding myself to those exact same standards... and coming up short.

Like all things, this too shall pass. But for this moment, allow me to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for myself before I move on.

Food Porn

2009-09-17T10:45:00.000-04:00

Howdy y'all!

Still getting back into the swing of things here in NYC, and that includes... cooking!

The light in my apartment has been sort of crappy for photos--stupid grey, cloudy skies--but that will hopefully not detract from the fact that these? Are both *fabulous*!

Huevos Rancheros
These were made using the super-simple recipe at smitten kitchen (which I have only just discovered, incidentally, and will now be visiting on a regular basis). I found it via this site, with which I am also, officially, in luuurve.

Deb's photos are far better than mine, but still... behold the yumminess. I'm about to make them again for a late breakfast.

I followed Deb's instructions almost to the letter, with only a few modifications to the salsa fresca, which I made as follows:

2 plum tomatoes, diced
Sweet, spanish onion - a chunk thereof, diced
Almost 1 fresh jalapeno, minced
1 sm clove garlic, pressed
Cilantro - um, use some. Chopped.
Juice of 1 whole lime
Teensy splash of olive oil
Salt
Fresh ground pepper

And may I just say... it was divine. Can't wait to use the leftovers and see how the flavours have mingled and gotten to know each other as they huddled together in the fridge overnight. As it was, I made the salsa first, covered it with plastic wrap, and let it sit on the counter while I made the huevos--which, as Deb predicted, were incredibly messy.

Speaking of the mess, anyone have any tips for getting carmelized oil off of a stainless steel pan without scrubbing until your arm aches?

While you ponder that, we'll move on to...

Zucchini Bread
It's been years since I made this and for some reason I never saved the recipe I used the last time, so it was back to the drawing board (aka, the internet) to come up with a new one. Eventually I settled on Zucchini Bread II from Allrecipes.com, mainly because I already had everything I needed in the house, and it got good reviews.

It was a good choice.

Me being me, of course, I had to fool around with the recipe just a little bit, and so instead of a full three teaspoons of Cinnamon (which seemed like an awful lot, even for 2 loaves), I used two slightly heaping teaspoons (so maybe closer to 2 1/2), then added some generous shakings of Cardamom, Corriander, and freshly grated Nutmeg.

I was not dissappointed with the results.

I plan to take the second loaf to work today. I'm willing to bet it will be demolished before family meal is over. The remainder of my own loaf will be climbing aboard a train with me tomorrow as I head off to PA for a wedding, where not only will I be seeing one of my beautiful ladies get married to her partner of 7 years, but also will be making Lamb & Feta Stuffed Peppers for my parents. Perhaps I can even get my dad to take photos with his snazzy DSLR camera.

But then again, I wouldn't want to spoil you.

Happy (early) weekend!

2009-09-13T16:16:00.000-04:00

I was back at Rep Company today for the first time since I left for Maine. It was a dreadfully quiet Sunday, being only myself, the owner, and a rather eccentric gentleman who always forgets that we've met before hanging around in the reception area with most of the lights off.

At one point as we are both eating lunch he tells me that I am very pretty, and will therefore fall in love very easily.

Given the events of the past few weeks, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Instead I thanked him, informed him that that was decidedly not the case, and finished my bagel in peace.

The bagel was fantastic.

Out With the Old...

2009-09-12T12:01:00.000-04:00

You know, contrary to what you might think, a night of excessive alcohol consumption can actually do wonders to clear one's head.

Yes, I did say clear.

Perhaps not at the particular moment in time when one decides it is an excellent idea to smoke yet another cigarette, or patronize a bar which uses actual padlocks to secure the bathrooms from non-paying visitors; but a bit further down the line, when the worst of the hangover has abated and one is left only with a gnawing hunger and the vague sensation that, while the previous evening's activities may not have been exactly wise, they were perhaps not quite as foolish as one was wont to believe when the alarm went off at 8am.

Confused? Let's break it down.

On Thursday night, I? Was Pissed. Off. Mainly at DM for being such a douchebag and disappearing on me in such a cowardly and disrespectful manner. I slogged through the most pathetic lunch shift in the history of lunch shifts (My share of the day's take? $33. How am I going to pay my rent? No fucking clue.), jumping every time my phone vibrated in my pocket, and scurrying off to the bathroom shortly thereafter because this time, surely, it would be a text explaining that his house had burnt down/he'd been arrested on suspicion of terrorism/a dinosaur had eaten his phone, and that's why he had so rudely failed to respond to any of my numerous attempts to make contact over the preceding week.

Of course, it never was, and thus my anger grew... and festered... and otherwise caused the bonfire of unpleasantness smoldering in my brain to grow rapidly to a monstrous inferno.

So I took matters in my own hands--or liver, as it were--and determined that the only means by which said flame could be extinguished was by drowning it... in beer.

Enter a Knight in Shining Armor: a friend who perpetually greets me with "Hey Gorgeous," and insists on paying for my drinks when we go out. He promptly agrees to get me roaring drunk, in an establishment showing the Steelers season opener, no less!, and we were off.

Innumerable beers, a subway ride, and a non-English-speaking bar later, we hauled ourselves up the 5 flights of stairs to my apartment (which miraculously actually seem shorter when one is hammered), and promptly passed out after a few minutes of more-or-less platonic cuddling, and not nearly enough water.

I say more or less because we have slept together in the past, but on this particular occasion did not. It is a testament to our friendship that we can behave in this manner from time to time without any ensuing weirdness. He is, without a doubt, good people.

Through the fog of my hangover the next day, as I brushed away the debris of the Great Fire (not to mention the Great Flood) from my mind, I realized... it was okay. I was over it.

Not one-hundred-percent, of course. Some illusions take longer to dispel than others. But the raging inferno of anger had subsided, leaving only a few embers of wounded pride and "what the fuck?" smoldering away in sheltered corners; and those too will extinguish themselves in due course, if left unfanned.

In short, there is nothing like an evening of debauched camaraderie to put things in perspective, to help you let go of the things you don't have, and to take pleasure in the things that you do.

So long DM. It was, and always will be... your freakin' loss.

Ass.

Fucking History...

2009-09-10T18:07:00.000-04:00

...repeating itself. All over the carpet.

Thanks History. Thanks a lot. It's going to take forever to get those stains out.

It's been a week now since I've heard a peep out of DM. In the entire time I've known him, I've never gone more than a day without hearing from him in some form or another, even if it was just a two word text message, but now... Texts and voicemails, including the last which stated "You are clearly avoiding me and I'd like to know why. Call me." have gone unanswered. Short of his being, oh, let's say, dead, I cannot come up with an explanation for this fuckery that would not leave me pissed off.

And no, I don't wish he was dead.

My self-esteem might, just a little, but the rest of me would much rather he remain attached to this mortal coil... even if he is a total fuckwit.

So here I sit, kicking myself for genuinely, honestly expecting this one to turn out differently than all the rest, and wondering if he'll ever surface again and attempt to win back my affection with some sort of explanation, half-assed or otherwise... or if he'll just join the ranks of all those before him, who stuck around just long enough to get my hopes up, and then vanished into the stratosphere with nary a backward glance.

Fuckers.

It's Ba-ack...

2009-09-08T13:01:00.000-04:00

After nearly two months without a sighting, my own personal Crazy is back in town and appears to be setting up camp for an extended visit.

Fuck me.

So, in an attempt to purge the Crazy from my system (by letting it loose on the internet, naturally), here is what's bugging me:

While it was good to see DM again last week, there was a brief moment when he was acting a little weird. He seems to be having the same Early 30s Crisis that I've watched some of my other friends go through, wondering what he's doing with his life, etc. Then he made a comment about how we don't know each other all that well (true, but that's what dating is for, right?), and how if I like him, I clearly don't know him at all. I told him that was bullshit and the moment passed... but it was enough to sew a seed of doubt in my previously untroubled mind.

Yet the next day when we said goodbye at the subway, he made a comment about how it was going to be a bitch to get out of my neighborhood on the weekends--indicating that he planned to be up here again in the future, perhaps even regularly.

Then he went away for the holiday weekend. I didn't see him again before he left. We spoke briefly on the phone on Thursday night, and I have not heard a peep from him since. I sent a single text while he was gone, which went unanswered. I called last night when he should have been back, and left a voicemail which has gone unacknowledged. I sent another text about an hour and a half ago, about something trivial, and have heard bupkus.

This is odd for him, he has always been a prompt responder. It's one of the things I like about him, because I never for a second doubted that he was into me. It was a comforting change of pace from days past when I was constantly left wondering.

You know... like I am right now.

Because this is me. The girl from whom men flee, as one would a burning building, on a fairly regular basis.

So my question to you, to the universe, and most specifically to him, is why would a man who was always eager and excited to talk to me back in July, and who maintained contact via postcards and text flirting for the five weeks I was out of town, suddenly up and shut down all lines of communication?

In other words... What the fuck, DM?

What the fuck, indeed.

I can only hope he's lost his fucking phone. Right about now, that's the only explanation I can think of that doesn't piss me off.

grumble

2009-09-05T13:14:00.001-04:00

Sorry, just need to get this one off my chest:

I just received an email forward from a very Republican friend of mine that contained a link to some congressman bashing healthcare reform, likening it to "punishing" those Americans who have "earned" healthcare from their jobs in order to insure those who have not.

Now, first of all, there's the very simple argument that not every job out there offers healthcare, period. So if you want to be able to go out to a restaurant, see a movie, get your nails done, go shoe shopping, buy groceries, or even simply wash your car, well... those industries are all, ALL, staffed by people who, according to this fellow, don't deserve healthcare because they haven't "earned" it.

But all that is, believe it or not, beside the point.

What really gets me is that the woman who sent this email to me has never spent a single second of her life uninsured. She has absolutely NO frame of reference for what it's like to cross your fingers that your cold is just a cold and not bronchitis, because you sure as hell can't afford antibiotics.

First, she was covered by her parents. Then, she got married and is covered by her husband's medical insurance, which--because he is in the Air Force--is pretty freaking fantastic.

She never went to college and has held perhaps one job in her life, but when she needed to have major surgery at 25? The US Government ponied up 100% of the cost. Which is totally okay, apparently, because her "job" is being married to a serviceman.

I, on the other hand, have a Bachelor's and a Master's degree, and have been employed by numerous employers, a few of which provided health insurance, but the majority of which did not. I pay my own rent, pay my own bills, and have an exorbitant amount of student loan debt to qualify me to work in a field where, thanks to the complete and utter fuckwittedness of our last (Republican) president, there are currently very, very few jobs. So here I am, waiting tables and praying nothing bad happens to me, while I keep on looking for a job that will allow me to bring a little educational diversity into the classrooms of under-served New York City students, which, while rewarding to me and invaluable to the students, STILL won't provide health insurance.

So... you tell me: which one of us has fucking earned a little healthcare coverage?

Thank you. I feel ever so slightly better now.

The End.

Head First

2009-09-02T10:57:00.000-04:00

I am diving back into Real Life.

Or trying to, anyway. You know, in the moments I can tear myself away from looking at other people's camp photos on Facebook.

DM came over on Monday night and I made dinner. Aside from my elation at eating something that did not originate from a can, seeing him again was great. All the chemistry is still there. We had a bit of a stilted heart-to-heart in which I discovered (somewhat to my relief) that he is not perfect--that he in fact shares many of the same flaws inherent in pretty much every guy I date--but it's early days... we'll see if those flaws turn out to be of the emotionally crippling variety. Fingers crossed that they do not, as (though I am loathe to admit it for fear of jinxing myself) I am actually excited about this one. It's been awhile since that has happened, and it would be a pleasant change of pace if that excitement didn't blow up in my face.

You hear that Universe? Just sayin'...

After a greasy diner breakfast-for-lunch the following day, I bid him adieu at the subway (he kissed me on the sidewalk and I didn't squirm! This is progress people!), then decided to plunge feet first (head first would be a bit painful) into my Avon Walk training (go here! give me money!! only $440 left to raise!!) by taking 10 mile walk down the Hudson River Greenway, which--barring a slightly smelly stretch under the highway around 135th St--is just beautiful! I fully plan on making this a regular route. This time I just walked to 135th and back (about 8 miles total) and then hiked up and around Fort Tryon Park. Next time I might take the subway down to Battery Park and then walk the 11 miles back. I am excited!!

After my walk I stopped on my favourite lawn in the Park for a stretch, with the result that I'm not as stiff as I thought I'd be today. Still, I'm heading out to Bikram Yoga in a few for some deep stretching and a whole lot of sweat. Again... excited!!

I've updated my resume and am once again on the hunt for teaching work. I start back at the restaurant next week, but would love to be able to stop waiting tables entirely. I also need to get in gear and start studying for the GRE as I only have 3 months to compile my PhD applications, and if I hope to get into Ivy League School That Only Accepts Two Applicants Per Year, I had best get my arse in gear!

Like I said. Head First.

It's the only way to go.

"Guys...? Do you think it would be dangerous if i taped my nostrils shut?" *

2009-08-31T10:37:00.001-04:00

* Uttered by one of my campers after lights out. Miss her already.

Hello there beautiful people. Have you missed me?

Well, to be honest, you may be missing me a bit longer. My body is back in the Real World, but much of my brain is still back at Camp. I have a feeling it may stay that way for awhile, much as it did after Uganda, or last Summer's travel bonanza.

In the mean time, what little mental capacity I was able to stow in my somehow-15-lbs-overweight-luggage will be dedicated to:

Training and raising money for the Avon Walk. (Click the link and give me money! Thousands of women will thank you!).
Preparing for an interview/audition for a teaching position so I can do as little waitressing as possible.
Looking for more teaching work, for the same reason.
Convincing my Rep Company to do the original musical that premiered at Camp this summer because I'm in love with it and desperately want to be in it.
Finally unpacking (and finishing painting) my apartment.
Figuring out how on earth I'm going to pay all the bills that are waiting for me.

Oh... and seeing The Boy again. In an attempt at maturity, I've decided to call him DM, which is close enough to his name to not feel like a silly (and therefore distancing) nickname, but still different enough to maintain anonymity.

Clearly, even the smallest part of my brain is prone to overthinking things. Good grief.

[WARNING: Non-Sequitur Ahead]

I wish the sun was out today. I feel that the best way to reconnect with my life here in the city is just to go wandering, but nobody wants to wander when it's grey and gloomy.

[Okay, okay, LOTS of non-sequiturs]

There are not words to express how much I am enjoying my cup of coffee this morning. As wonderful as life at Camp was, the coffee was barely a step above (and perhaps even a step below) dishwater. Dirty dishwater. In other words... it was foul.

Although I had been greatly looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, with no company other than my cat, I also found it extraordinarily difficult to get myself out of bed this morning without twelve noisy girls and the impending threat of a trumpet call to urge me to do so. Even after 10+ hours of sleep.

Apparently, The Granddaddy of All Roaches made a return visit to the apartment while I was gone. Gracie held him at bay while my housesitter first panicked, and then attacked him with Raid. The Great Foe has been vanquished. Fingers crossed that he is not followed by reinforcements.

Yesterday after a morning of bidding farewell to campers, cleaning up, and striking all the lights in the theatre, I frantically (and not very neatly) packed my bags and threw them into the minivan of the counselor driving me to the airport. I was still in my stripy pajama pants, my hair in two messy buns, my glasses slightly askew. I checked in for my flight and made my way through security to my gate... where I was selected for a random pat-down before being allowed to board my flight. When I got to JFK, I discovered that my just-barely-closed luggage had been inspected (and very poorly re-packed) by the TSA. As I stood in the massive taxi queue with a 60 lb pack strapped to my back, a rainbow yoga mat, a woven purse from Peru, and a flowered laundry bag full of all the things that wouldn't fit in my pack dangling from my hand, all I could wonder was... since when does Hippy = Terrorist?

I'll leave you to ponder that while I head off to shower, face the world, and perhaps even straighten my hair for the first time in over a month.

And browse Craigslist for a free hair colour appointment because my roots are appallingly long.

Hey there Real World, long time no see. Do me a favour and take it easy on me, 'kay?

Hello!!

2009-08-17T11:08:00.000-04:00

Howdy my lovelies!

I'll be honest with you, I haven't really got the brain power at the present moment to write a post of any real substance, but just wanted to drop a line and say that, in all honesty, Camp... is...

AWESOME.

As in, I can't believe I'm actually getting paid to be here.

It's that awesome.

We're between sessions right now. First session kids left yesterday, in a chaos of suitcases and tears, and tomorrow the new kids arrive. There are new counselors here too, so there's a whole new ream of names to learn--I had finally learned all 55 campers' names around, oh, 2 days before the end of the session.

The last week of the session was exhausting and I'm still utterly braindead, but I am in awe of the work these kids put together in those three weeks--and will be singing the songs from the musicals for the next, oh, decade or so.

Also, my Facebook friend list is growing rapidly. I am, like, totes popular now.

And since you may or may not be wondering, I've been keeping in touch with the guy I went out with a few times before I left. He's sent me a few postcards and we text when the kiddos aren't around. We'll see where it all stands when I get back, but contact has not been entirely lost.

I suppose that's about it really. Life is good. I am not looking forward to returning to the real world in a few weeks.

Do I hafta?

Catching Up

2009-07-21T13:45:00.000-04:00

I finally took the flattened boxes from my March move-in down to the curb.

I returned my library books (though I didn't pay the fines).

I put my Netflix account on hold and returned the movies I had (only one of which I've actually watched).

I went to Target to buy a flashlight (and ended up buying two when I found the same one I'd purchased at The Sports Authority for less than half the price--yay 90 day return policy!), and replace the bath mat that Kitty Dearest chose to piddle on last night.

I leave for 5 weeks of Camp tomorrow morning and I still need to...

... clean house for my house/cat sitter (no small task, let me tell you!)
... do laundry
... PACK

But...

My dearest wegrit reprimanded me this morning for leaving you all in the lurch for 10 days, and I have no idea how frequently (if at all) I'll be able to blog while at camp, so I thought I'd take a moment before tackling the Herculean tasks outlined above and try to get you all caught up.

With sub-headings.

The Boy
There have been two more dates since last I wrote, the first of which I am not entirely certain counts as a "date," per se, as it consisted predominately of sex. I am pleased to announce that make-out chemistry, for once, translated to naked chemistry. About bloody time.

The second consisted of near disaster as I went to meet him in Park Slope, which took me NEARLY TWO FRAKKIN' HOURS because the R train is, I believe, evil incarnate. I was to call him when I got above ground, which I did, and got his voicemail, several times. I was growing increasingly more and more irritated (flakitude is just about my biggest pet peeve of all time, particularly in masculine form), when he finally appeared from across the street, looking about as harried as I was annoyed, and asked "Did you get my note?"

Er... Note?

Turns out he'd left his phone at work, had been waiting for me outside the station but the whole reason we were in Park Slope was that he was cat sitting for a friend's cat that needed medication so had to leave to take care of the kitty, and therefore bought markers and tape and left a note for me on a mailbox outside the station... which I had missed, because a creepy guy was leaning on said mailbox.

He showed me the note, I laughed, he kissed me a little too intently considering that a couple of girls were standing perhaps a foot from us (gonna have to address the PDA issue--i.e., my complete aversion thereto--sometime in the future, if this thing pans out), and then he bought me dinner.

I also met one of his roommates who, as it turns out, a few years ago ran a fundraiser to help build the dance school that I later worked with in Uganda! Small world!

Oh, and he bought me a book to read while I'm at camp, which was nice.

So, to summarize... I like him, though exactly how much seems to swing like a pendulum at any given time, and I can't figure out if that has anything to do with him, or if it's just my commitment-phobia triggering my flight reflex. So far, other than the forgotten-phone incident, he hasn't put a foot wrong... which seems... creepy. Anyhow, I'm about to take off to Maine for five weeks, so really, there's no use getting myself all worked up about it.

Though I do wonder if I should RSVP to my friend's wedding in September as having a date. Probably not. Counting my chickens and all...

Speaking of which:

Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Festivities
It is now my firm belief that ALL bachelorette parties should take place in a gay bar.

The original plan was to go to Sisters, a lesbian club in Philly (because this wedding has two brides... and no groom), but when we got there we learned that the dance floor was closed on Sundays, so after a few shots and some beer pong with the regulars--and my best friend nearly getting her ass kicked when she asked if the bartender knew how to make a muff diver (the bartender thought she was just being inappropriate)--we made our way down the street to the neighboring gay bar, Woodys, which came complete with a dance floor, DJ, and, er, gay porn being shown on the big screens. I was, it seems, the only one not traumatized by this.

A gay man repeatedly told me I was the most beautiful girl in the club... only to follow up by telling me I looked like his mom. I'm pretty sure he meant that as a compliment, but still...

And cheese steaks at 2am after dancing your ass off for several hours nonstop? Best. Idea. EVER.

So is realizing that you met some of the greatest friends you'll ever have when you were 9-12 years old. I love my girls, and feel incredibly blessed to have such amazing women in my life.

Work
Job still sucks. Hours still suck. Recently learned that they're raping us in the money department even more severely (and potentially illegally) than we were previously aware, and am feeling very ambivalent about potentially coming back in the Fall. If I do, it likely will not be for long.

However... fourth time is the charm, and after I missed him THREE TIMES, everyone's favourite Twilight actor FINALLY came into the restaurant while I was working. I delivered his salad. Yes, he is hot. He was also, however, in a very obvious "please leave me the hell alone" state (hat pulled low, jacket collar up, hunched down in seat) so I suppressed the urge to behave like a slavering fangirl and did just that. So... sorry. No photos.

Miscellaneous
Seeing a woman in a full burka pushing a stroller is a little creepy. It's like the Angel of Death has taken up babysitting to bring in some extra cash.

And that, my darlings... is all I got.

I hope you feel less neglected after this massive update, and as such, I hope you can weather the upcoming semi-hiatus with grace and no ill will. I'll update when I can, should I have anything update-worthy to share, and I hope you all have a lovely summer.

Oh, and I don't even *know* what heights the number in my Google Reader has reached. I am abolishing my self-guilting tendencies and marking all as read when I return in September. Clean slate! Fresh start! Fingers crossed that I can suck a little less on my return.

Lovies!
XOXO
-FP-

De-Brief, In Brief

2009-07-09T01:17:00.000-04:00

Pros:
Cuter, and ever-so-slightly taller, than I remembered.
Chose the scenic walk to the restaurant.
Made me laugh.
Paid for dinner.
Still an excellent kisser.

Cons:
Will be shorter than me if I'm wearing heels.
Poor lighting didn't let me see if he's a good tipper.
Blew his nose in cloth napkin at restaurant.

Verdict:
Although I actually managed to behave myself (for once in my bloody life) and decline the invitation to go home with him, there is definitely some chemistry there that merits exploring before I leave for five weeks. Does it go beyond chemistry? Jury is still out.

Hey, it was a first date. And it wasn't a disaster.

That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment.

Grammar Lesson: Not Only / But Also

2009-07-08T18:34:00.000-04:00

Not only did I meet (and make-out with) a boy on the Fourth of July, but I also gave that boy my number.

Not only did I give that boy my number, but he also utilized it within less than 24 hours.

Not only did he utilize that number, but he also asked me out to dinner.

Not only did he ask me out to dinner, but I also said yes.

And we're going out tonight.

I...

2009-07-05T02:11:00.002-04:00

... had a crazy intense make-out session with a boy on a rooftop this evening.

That was unexpected.

Not that I'm complaining.

Happy Fourth of July y'all!

Oh. My. Holy. Jesus.

2009-06-24T02:07:00.000-04:00

I had just reached that particular point in tiredness when one says "to hell with the second half of that 40 in my fridge, it's time for bed!"

I'd taken off my glasses and gone to use the bathroom and, as I was coming out of the door, I happened to glance up toward the ceiling of the livingroom and I thought to myself, "Hmmm... what is that dark spot up there on my wall?"

I put on my glasses.

This... was a bad idea.

For the dark spot lurking on my wall just below the ceiling... was the biggest motherfucking cockroach I have ever seen.

Black as midnight and larger than some of the mice my cat has slaughtered, I watched, awestruck, as it slowly made its way along the wall to the corner, and then began to descend.

My first instinct was, of course, to grab my camera from the coffee table and attempt to photograph this minion of Satan, lest the world at large think I was exaggerating.

Unfortunately, due to exhaustion (and the first half of that 40 of Budweiser, now happily at rest in my stomach), I failed in this endeavor, and as my unwelcome guest came closer to disappearing behind the cabinet of my secretary desk (and allowing my imagination to relegate it to such locations as, oh, let's just say, my face), I realized that something had to be done.

Go ahead and substitute "thrown" for "done" and you can imagine what happened next.

I searched frantically for a launchable item that could thwart my enemy without damaging my walls or, more importantly, the glass-fronted cabinet of my desk (really, my own foresight in the presence of such menace amazes me). After discarding both a J. Crew flip-flop and a Nike Air-Rift sneaker as being too bulky, I settled on an American Eagle ballet flat (though let it be known that mine was pink), and took aim at my foe.

To my credit, considering that a.) I'm exhausted and tipsy, and b.) my hand-eye coordination, when it comes to projectiles, is lousy, I came remarkably close to exploding that roach with a single act of footwear.

Unfortunately, I was about an inch shy of my target, the shoe now lies atop my cabinet (where it will most likely remain until I move), and the roach has tumbled to god knows where, and at this moment is most likely making himself at home in one of my sneakers.

Rest assured, no shoe will be donned unchecked for a very, very long time.

In the mean time, my day-off plans for tomorrow, which previously included only "loaf on couch like vegetable," and "wash aprons," have now been amended to include "get lazy ass to hardware store and buy screens for damned windows to insure that this ballet of fuckery never happens again."

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to chug the rest of that 40, jump at the tiniest flicker of every shadow, and have nightmares about roaches the size of my face wielding ballet slippers before holding my cat hostage and demanding reparations.

Damnit. I never had this problem in Brooklyn.

Perspective.

2009-06-24T00:56:00.002-04:00

17 YEAR OLD COWORKER

I hope it's not busy tonight.

I hope it is. Me and my bank account need it to be busy.

17 Y/O

Right.

(Beat)

So are you saving for anything in particular? Or just because?

(Pause)
Um... my rent?

17 Y/O

Oh.

My $100,000 in student loans for grad school... my credit card debt...

17 Y/O

Uh huh.

Yeah.

(Pause)

Getting old sucks.

(Beat)

So... you going to college in the Fall?

----
To those using readers, sorry about the blank post. Clearly, I am a wee bit tired.

Really Universe? REALLY??

2009-06-17T13:28:00.000-04:00

I.

Am.

So.

Motherfucking.

ANGRY.

Irate. Upset. Apoplectic.

The word Homicidal comes to mind.

I just got a call from the egg donation clinic. The results of my pap are back and I have motherfucking HPV... again.

I had it for four years. I had lots and lots of sections of my cervix painfully removed in a process called a colposcopy. It finally went away and I've been clean for the past 2 years. And now, one of the two men I've slept with since my last exam (neither of whom rated above "average" in the sack) has given me the gift that keeps on giving... in the form of painful and expensive testing, and even more delays in the donation process which now pretty much DEFINITELY won't be happening until after camp, even though I really need that fucking money NOW because my job sucks and we're barely scraping out $100 a day in tips after working 14 hour days, and we're not even getting that money until our paychecks which means it will really be about $75 after taxes which is way less than I was making sitting around on my ass on unemployment and REMIND ME WHY THE FUCK I WENT AND GOT A JOB AGAIN BECAUSE REALLY IT'S NOT SEEMING LIKE SUCH A GREAT IDEA RIGHT ABOUT NOW?!??

So now I get to spend tomorrow--my one day off this week that won't be spent in a cloud of exhaustion--going down to the Egg Donation clinic to sign a release for my charts, then going to the sliding scale clinic they recommend and signing up for a card, then going to their gyno department to make an appointment for the colpo (so I can spend another day off getting chunks removed from my cervix as opposed to doing something I'll enjoy).

And since there is no HPV test for men--apparently, we are the only ones who get to suffer--I don't even get the pleasure of calling The Contender and saying "Go get tested, Asshole!"

I would really REALLY like some good news right about now.

Battered

2009-06-13T12:14:00.000-04:00

Holy hell am I tired.

It seems that, lately, the universe has been conspiring to make me a bad blogger. First, there was the whole hospital thing. Now, there is The Job That Ate My Life... to say nothing of my feet, knees, and hips. Ow.

Everything hurts. I've tried three different pairs of shoes, but after walking around on a hard tile floor for 14 hours straight, shoes don't make a lick of difference. My new Earth Shoes left my feet feelings lightly less battered, but the strap happens to rub directly across the spot where I cut my foot open on the bar refrigerator, so until that heals, they are temporarily shelved.

Today I am off, and while mentally I really want to go downtown to meet a friend and her husband at the Big Apple BBQ street fair and gorge myself on assorted sauce-drenched meats, physically I just want to glue myself to the couch, order take-out, pay someone else to do my laundry, and watch CSI: Miami until I go cross-eyed. So which do I appease, body or soul? Considering that the BBQ will involve lots of walking around, not to mention standing in lines, it seems that the desires of the two are mutually exclusive.

I'm off tomorrow as well, but I have to get up mildly early to go do my hours at the Rep Co, which I shifted to an earlier time slot so I can go join my friend at the Ballet in the afternoon. This also means that anything productive (laundry, washing my cat-hair-laden bedding) should probably happen today.

Something's gotta give, and soon. Granted, this job is only temporary until camp--and if I come back to them afterward it will most definitely be on a part-time basis--but can I really stick it out through July 22nd with this brutal four-double-shifts-per-week schedule? If the restaurant keeps getting busier and we start pulling in $300+ per day, I'll be able to convince myself that the financial aspect makes it worth it... but right now, when I'm making more or less the same amount of money as I was getting from unemployment? It makes me want to kick puppies.

If, you know, I could lift my leg.

Working Gal's Blues

2009-06-10T13:21:00.001-04:00

Working for restaurant owners who themselves have never worked in a restaurant is a mind-boggling experience.

They wander aimlessly across the floor, completely oblivious to the fact that, directly behind them in the narrow pathway between tables, is a server with about 30 things to do, who desperately needs to get around them.

They choose the most inconvenient places imaginable to stop and have a conversation with contractors/friends/fellow-owners. In the only doorway to the kitchen, for example. Or directly in front of the service bar.

They'll try to hand a glass bottle of water to one of those friends, reaching across the open doorway, and after three servers burst through the gap between them, laden with trays of food, they still haven't quite figured out that it is not a good place to hang out.

They ask you to get them sodas in the middle of a rush.

They decide to hold your credit card tips until your paycheck, utterly oblivious to the fact that the chief reason anyone gets into this line of work in the first place is money. Caah-in-hand, unseen by the IRS, MONEY.

They spring this information on you unexpectedly a few days into the first week of business, allowing you no time to budget for the fact that you won't see more than a few random dollars for two weeks, because in a neighborhood filled with high-rise office buildings, everybody pays on credit cards.

Chances are, having opened a restaurant for the hell of it, being able to afford to do so, and therefore being entirely unfamiliar with the concept of getting by day to day, paycheck to paycheck, they don't have the slightest idea of the financial crunch this move puts on all of their employees.

The employees without whom, it must be said, their business would be entirely unable to function. Because the idea of these individuals donning an apron and carting around trays of french fries is laughable.

Not to mention working four double-shifts, currently clocking in around 14 hours each, per week.

Then again, at least they're actually paying us, which is more than I can say for the last restaurant by which I was "employed." (Can you call it "employment" if they're not paying you?)

All I can say is: business had better pick up, and the money had better get exponentially better, and SOON. Because now that I've taken a job, I can't go back on unemployment (because restaurants never "downsize"). If this place bombs, I am screwed.

S.C.R.E.W.E.D.

And that's a terrifying thought.

Older and... Wiser?

2009-06-06T12:59:00.000-04:00

I'm not as young as I once was, in more ways than one, and not all of them bad.

I am off work today, thank goodness, after working two VERY long days at the new restaurant for our soft opening--where we have a limited number of "invite only" guests eating free food while we practice not launching french fries at people, and the kitchen tries to get their shit together. Now, a 13+ hour day is long by anybody's standards, but DAMN have I been feeling it... in my muscles, my bones, and especially my feet.

In essence, my body HURTS. And that makes me feel old.

On the other hand, watching some of the young girls (21, 22) that we're working with, I am damned grateful for the maturity that experience and life in general have given me. There are downsides to an all-female floor staff, such as the tendency to gossip and create drama at every opportunity, but what really gets me are the freakin' tears.

One of the women training us is French, so let's call her Elle, and all of these children have decided that she is rude and evil and they bitch about her behind her back every second they can, simply because she doesn't pat them on the head and tell them they're pretty every time she offers some constructive criticism.

Something that became particularly apparent to me during my studies abroad last Summer is that, as a whole, Americans expect to be coddled. We want our hands held and our asses wiped and god forbid you offer us any sort of criticism without softening the blow with a compliment (or twelve).

So when Elle corrects someone's service technique, or tries to show them a more efficient way of doing something... they cry. Or bitch about it and petulantly not do what they were told. Let's forget the fact that she is a.) just doing her job, b.) from an entirely different culture that has an entirely different approach to interpersonal relations, and c.) speaking a language that is not her native tongue. None of that matters in the slightest. She isn't treating me like a delicate flower and therefore she is a bitch.

It's really ridiculous.

Now, don't get me wrong, she rubbed me the wrong way for a day or two as well, but then again, EVERYTHING was rubbing me the wrong way. And in the end? I got over it. And now I think she's lovely. That may have something to do with the fact that she clearly likes me as well--most likely because I'm not incompetent--but that's beside the point. It's a fucking job people. Not high school. Or day care. We're not here to make friends, we are here to get paid. Period.

Fortunately there is another "old hand" on the staff, with whom I instantly bonded, who also takes all of the lunacy in stride. I'm sure a day will come for each of us when we totally lose our shit--because it's the service industry and that's just how it goes--but until that point in time, I'm just going to keep my ass out of the drama... and hope my feet don't fall off.

Nom Nom Nom

2009-05-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

Happy Weekend my lovelies!

Yesterday I spent my afternoon basking in the sun in a park in Brooklyn, picnicking with some absolutely lovely people. I can't think of a better way to spend such a gorgeous, sunny afternoon.

As it happens, several people at the picnic asked for the recipe for the dessert I brought, which, incidentally, looked like this:

Heavenly, right? I know. I'm awesome.

It's a pudding, but in the British sense of the word, which means that under that lovely, crusty top it is a creamy colour and has a consistency somewhere between sponge cake and flan. Difficult to describe if you've never had it, but very, very tasty. And since I just spent a few minutes typing up the recipe to send to one of my fellow picnickers, I thought I'd share it with you all as well!

Lemon Surprise Pudding

Ingredients:
1/2 cup caster (superfine) sugar *
1/2 cup self raising flour **
1/4 cup butter
1 1/4 cups milk
2 eggs, separated
Grated rind and juice of 2 lemons

Directions:
1. Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C, Gas 5). Use a little butter to grease a 5 cup (.5 litre, 2 pint) baking dish.

2. Beat the lemon rind, butter and sugar in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Add the egg yolks and flour and beat together well. Gradually whisk in the lemon juice, then milk (the mixture will curdle, but this is supposed to happen).

3. Fold the egg whites lightly into the lemon mixture using a metal spoon, then pour into the prepared baking dish.

4. Place the dish in a roasting pan and pour in hot water to come halfway up the side of the dish. Bake for 45 minutes until golden. Serve immediately.

NOTES & HINTS:
* Superfine sugar is NOT confectioner sugar, it is granulated sugar that is ground, well, superfinely. I only had a little left so I went halfsies with regular granulated sugar and it didn't pose a problem. If you use regular, just spend a little extra time beating together with the butter & lemon rind.

** If you don't have self-raising flour, you can just add 1/2 tsp baking powder at the same time as the flour.

I used an electric juicer to juice my lemon which gives a LOT of juice, so when it came time to fold in the egg whites my mixture was very liquid and the heavy egg whites weren't blending with the batter. I ended up using the electric mixer on low to beat them in, just for a few seconds. Didn't seem to cause any problems.

Finally, it took my pudding about an hour to bake, versus 45 minutes, which may be because, as I said, the mixture was really liquid. Either way, just go by the colour on top. When it's nice and golden brown, it's ready.

And there you have it! I've got a whole slew of Food Porn on my harddrive just waiting to be shared (chicken & snow peas, several pizzas, and my first attempt at homemade ravioli, just to name a few), but I'll save those for another time.

Perhaps I should just turn this into a food blog and call it a day. But then, where would I go to bitch about stupid people on the subway, or my love life (if, you know, I ever happen to develop one)?

Yup, better to keep it as it is--and much like my diet--a little bit of everything.

Bon Appetit!

Tidbit

2009-05-29T20:17:00.000-04:00

I just received a lengthy mass email from High School Nemesis Who Has Now Found God And Is Therefore, Apparently, No Longer An Asshole. While the first portion of the email was at least an educated and well-written brief (with citations!) on his own religious struggle (he has a Masters in Theology...from Yale, no less), the second half was one of those forwarded-to-death, tug-at-your-heartstrings, isn't-god-great-etc-etc emails.

After the schmaltzy story [insert close-up of single tear], there was this:

"When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go, only 1 of 2 things will happen, either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly!"

Being one to frequently equate organized religion with the behavior of lemmings, I couldn't help but find this ironic.

Rut Rut Rut

2009-05-29T14:03:00.000-04:00

I am in a serious rut.

As non-thrilled as I am at the prospect of waitressing again, at least once the restaurant opens and I start working a regular schedule I'll be doing something.

You see, the chief difficulty that I've found with being unemployed is that, when you have such an extensive amount of free time in which to do things, it becomes exceedingly difficult to do anything at all.

Laundry, for example. If you work 9-5, Monday thru Friday, you either do your laundry at the weekend, or drop it off after work one day and pick it up the next (another bonus of being gainfully employed: the option of paying someone else to do your laundry for you). When unemployed, however, there is no pressure to get your laundry, or anything else, done today, because your schedule for the next day is equally open.

I am running dangerously low on clean underwear.

This constant availability begets a very vicious cycle that winds up with me sitting on my couch in my pajamas, frittering away the day on the internet, bookmarking job postings but never actually getting around to applying for them because, naturally, I can always do that tomorrow. There are two colleges within the five boroughs that are looking to expand their adjunct staff. All I need to do is write a cover letter, double check with my usual references that they don't mind being referenced, and then send off the letter with my CV.

Have I done it yet?

Give a guess.

I seem to fall into ruts like this fairly frequently, and I wish I could figure out how to break the cycle. I am, in general, an active person. When I'm sitting here on my couch ignoring my ever-expanding Google Reader (I promise I still love all of you, really I do) and opting instead to refresh my Facebook home page every 5 minutes to see who's updated their status and whether there are any new quizzes for me to take, there is a part of me that is edgy, restless, and irritated, wishing I was doing something productive with my time.

Which is usually when I get up and bake something. We're not even going to talk about how much weight I've gained in the past few months.

Maybe it's the weather. Last week when it was beautiful all I did was sit in the park for hours at a time and read, which is not technically productive, yet I felt good about it. Felt that I had accomplished something.

Why is it that laziness out of doors promotes a sense of active engagement, whereas laziness on the couch promotes a sense of sloth? Other than Vitamin D intake, what is the actual difference?

I have no conclusion for this post. Bitching about my irritation with myself did not bring me to any startling resolution--not that I thought it would, mind, but it would have been nice.

I'm sick of feeling dissatisfied. I just wish I knew what to do about it.

I Can Hardly Believe It But...

2009-05-27T15:59:00.002-04:00

... I joined Twitter.

http://twitter.com/LovelyLlama

Leave no mental stone unturned.

Gotcha!

2009-05-26T23:44:00.000-04:00

I am convinced that Insomnia is the Universe's way of paying me back for some indiscretion that I have yet to commit--and I can only hope that, when I do, it is fucking worth it.

So, rather than letting the Universe sit smugly by while I get increasingly more irritated at my own inability to achieve a REM state, I will instead relate an entertaining conversation that took place earlier today.

I was at the new job, sitting around with a few other waitresses shooting the shit whilst waiting our turn to practice some special method of scooping ice cream. As often happens when a large number of people are all embarking on a new path of employment, we began swapping tales of previous jobs and the shit we'd had to endure while employed thereby.

The subject, predictably enough, turned to lecherous bosses.

"So I was temping at this hedge fund, right around the corner actually..." I began.

"Oh, which one?" Asked one of the other girls. We've all worked pretty much every job known to man.

"Brentwood Advisors, over on 66th." **

"Oh, okay, go on," she said, and I proceeded to share the story of a going away party that took place when I'd only been working there for a few weeks, where I happened to get far drunker than advisable with some of the younger guys from the firm, and how one of them, when he walked me down to get a taxi when I realized I was tanked, proceeded to stick his tongue down my throat. Twice. Meanwhile he had a girlfriend, who called him, like, 5 times a day, which I knew, because it was my job to answer his damned phones.

"What was his name?" The girl asked.

"Errr... Jason.... something. I don't remember his last name." I finished up my tale, describing the incredibly irate drunken email that I sent (to his work email address) when I got home, and the retracting email I sent the following morning saying that, in light of keeping things professional, perhaps it was best that we just forget the whole thing.

As the tale of awkwardness wound down, the girl who'd been asking all the questions smiled and said,

"I am now going to blow your mind with what a small world this is... His name is Jason Smith, and his girlfriend's name is Stacy. I know, because I worked there too."

Well let me tell you, my head damned near exploded as I struggled to control the surge of laughter that overtook me (not to mention the relief because for a moment I thought she was going to turn out to be either the girlfriend, or a close friend thereof).

As I got myself back under control, she proceeded to tell me that, when she'd first started temping there (a few years after me), she'd been shocked to see him because several years before that she'd answered his Causal Encounters ad on Craigslist (once again while he was with the same girlfriend, to whom he is now, incidentally, married)!

I must own that I was relieved to learn that the guy was simply a sleaze, and that I had done nothing to encourage him to molest my tonsils while I was hammered.

There is, however, a moral to be learned, which is this: Be careful what stories you tell in New York City, because no matter how big you think it is, everybody knows everybody.

It's like high school.

With cocaine.

Scary.

________________
** Names and locations have been changed to protect the guilty. And what passes for my reputation.

Recap

2009-05-26T13:04:00.000-04:00

I was supposed to go to a picnic yesterday, but was deterred by the 90 minute travel time (each way) and the imminent threat of a drum circle. Instead, I opted to loaf around the house for a few hours and then pack up my stuff and hike up the giant hill to hang out in the (much more crowded than usual) park.

As I lay on my back, absorbed in my 80th re-reading of "Pride and Prejudice," I was startled from my reverie of Darcy-lust by a frisbee which winged unexpectedly across my field of vision, knocking the book from my hands and sending it flying across the grass.

Now, had this been a romantic comedy, perhaps starring Amanda Peet as the anything-but-ingenue female lead, the perpetrator of this act--played by a Ryan Reynolds, or perhaps even an on-break-from-Fringe Joshua Jackson--would have loped easily to my side, grinning charmingly. Witty banter would ensue and, before the sun had set, we would be well on our way to purchasing a duplex in New Jersey or, at the very least, have made plans to meet later for dinner/drinks/raunchy sex.

Instead, the man who ran over (whether he was the thrower or failed-catcher, I could not say) was of only average-ish attractiveness, and while he did retrieve my book and inquired after my general well-being, offered only a profuse apology (no banter or other demonstration) before he returned to his game, and I to my book.

My life, clearly, is not a chick flick.

While the remainder of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough, I did discover one down-side to going to the park alone: nobody to watch your things should you need to go in search of the bathroom. (See, again! If this were a movie, the Ryan/Joshua frisbee thrower/misser would have offered to watch my things as repayment for hitting me, and then perhaps left some cute message in my notebook, or programmed his number into my phone, during my absence.) Rather than leave the park--almost immediately upon arrival--I decided instead to hold it... for two hours. And then stop by the grocery store on the way home to pick up a few things for dinner.

Needless to say, by the time I finally mounted the last of the 5 flights of stairs leading to my apartment, I was in a considerable state of discomfort. All in all, however, it was not enough to tarnish the overall pleasantness of the day.

On the whole, my long weekend was relatively uneventful. Went out with friends (and spent far too much money) for a friend's birthday on Saturday night--rolling home around 5am to discover that, when totally schmammered, the 24-HR McDonald's is every bit as irresistible as I'd imagined it would be--and paid for it (though not as dearly as expected, owing, most likely, to the afore-mentioned McDonald's) on Sunday morning. There was a bit of work scattered throughout as well, but really, nobody wants to hear about that.

And there you have it.

Not, perhaps, the plot of a Summer Blockbuster--or even a Lifetime Movie of the Week--but enough to keep me from feeling like a total loser.

Works for me.

Mental Chiropractics

2009-05-21T11:13:00.000-04:00

I need a serious attitude adjustment.

In an hour or so, I'll be heading downtown for my third day of training for Waitressing Job. Today we're learning the Bar, and I'm already annoyed because they've told us we'll be pouring with a jigger. I know how to free-pour properly, and I find jiggers slow, tedious, and messy, particularly if one is in a rush. Thus, I am pissed off before I even get to work, a pattern that has been in effect for, oh, years... particularly when related to the service industry.

It is, in fact, the reason I got out of the industry in the first place.

[tangent]
Holy shit, there is an aeronotical insect ballet taking place in my livingroom. I really need to get screens for my windows. Right, back to the issue at hand.
[/tangent]

I stopped waiting tables 4 years ago because it made me miserable, made me not only see the worst in people, but expect it, which is an attitude that is so very much not in line with my usual outlook on life. So I quit... and went on to be a personal assistant--definitely NOT the way to go when trying to restore one's faith in humanity. But I digress.

The bottom line is: I was skeptical when I took this job, but I need a job. Specifically, a job that pays more than Unemployment, which this one hopefully will. It is an act of necessity, but does necessity dictate that I must be miserable for the next few months?

Yet there I sit in training, the restaurant won't even open for business until the end of next week, and I can practically feel the negativity oozing from every pore.

Is there such a thing as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for New York City waitresses?

This restaurant is very, shall we say, "High Concept." It has an extremely limited menu and a very specific way of doing things. On one hand, this is fabulous. It makes my job that much easier not having to memorize 5,000 appetizers, or worry about swapping out sides and holding the mayo/onions/etc. Yet every time a new piece of information is introduced, I immediately find myself imagining the customer who is going to raise an enormous stink over the fact that we don't have ketchup, and therefore refuse to tip me.

It's very similar to a few years ago when the shit was hitting the fan with The Evil Ex Roommate. She flew off the handle and treated me so horribly at the slightest provocation that no matter what I did or did not do, or before she had knowledge of either, I would imagine and steel myself for the tirade to come.

I took so much abuse--from my roommate, my customers, and even my former employers--that I've come to expect it. Which is, um, bad.

Or perhaps it's less an issue of PWSD (Post Waitressing Stress Disorder), and more the fact that I am essentially bitter that, after spending 4 semesters and nearly $100k on a Masters Degree, I'm right back where I was 4 years ago: waiting tables and struggling to keep financially afloat--which is essentially a gigantic kick in the ass and an indicator that, perhaps, I've been wasting my time (not to mention my credit rating).

Regardless of the cause, what I need to figure out is: is there any way I can turn this attitude around, give the service industry (and myself) a clean slate and start over with, if not exactly a positive, then at least a neutral outlook?

Or have I simply made my bed, as they say? ...And now I have to work in it.

Little Lessons

2009-05-19T16:04:00.000-04:00

I haven't officially begun training for Avon (psssst! Have you donated yet? You totally should! All the cool kids are doing it! Here, check it out!), but since the weather has been fine, and my fat ass* needs to lose some weight, I went on a 2 hour walk both yesterday and today. Yesterday I tackled Fort Tryon Park (even more beautiful now that everything is green!) and Inwood Hill Park (only natural forest left in Manhattan!), and today I walked from 52nd St & Lex to 125th & St. Nicholas via a very circuitous route through Central Park.

Here are a few things I learned along the way.

1. There is NO easy way up the hill into Fort Tryon Park.

2. Even if there was, it would NOT be the stairs.

3. Inwood Hill Park is very aptly named.

4. Black Squirrels! Who knew?

5. Central Park is, in fact, even bigger than it looks on the map.

6. That being said, walking from South-East to North-West corner, it takes about an hour and a half to get across, but you could easily spend a day there and not see everything.

7. If you're walking on the gravel paths in CP, the gravel WILL get into your shoes.

8. The Rambles are paved. Boo.

9. Groundhogs! In Manhattan! Who knew?

10. Googling "fragrant purple flowers" will not help you figure out what those amazing flowers in the Heather Garden are.**

11. It is possible to be out and about in Manhattan and not see another human being for over an hour.

12. If you get deep enough into Inwood Hill Park, you can't hear the cars anymore.

13. When 10 and 11 happen simultaneously, you may or may not start imagining Axe Murderers lurking in the underbrush. I blame over-exposure to Law and Order.

________________
* Before you all go postal on me, yes, yes, I am aware that my definition of "fat ass" probably varies greatly from some of your definitions... which doesn't change the fact that I've eaten nothing but crap for the last month and my waistline has suffered accordingly. So nyeh.

** I'll give a dollar, or maybe just a cool web badge, to anyone who can re-write that sentence without the dangling preposition and NOT sound like a pompous ass. I tried. It's not easy.

Food Porn

2009-05-17T12:01:00.000-04:00

I don't own a scale, a fact for which I am currently exceptionally grateful, as I'm fairly certain that I've gained about 10 lbs in the past six weeks, due to my erratic eating schedule, the high-calorie count of the take-out food available close to the hospital, and my friend's constant craving for cupcakes.

So what do I do now that she's gone away?

I cook.

A lot.

What can I say? Cooking is like therapy to me... if only my hips and belly felt the same way.

What I really need to do is go on a cleansing fast to rid myself of the desire to eat crap--which is at an all-time high right about now--but at the moment I'm a bit too stressed out to deal with a liquid diet, so until I can find an appropriate week in which to rectify my wretched eating habits, I give you...

Food Porn.

#1 Fresh Pasta
Before setting off on his cross-country move to Texas, my friend K had to deal with the frightening aspect of packing up his, um, shall we say cluttered, apartment.

Which is how I ended up with a pasta maker. Score!

Granted, I had to take the whole thing apart to clean it, which took about 2 hours, and then again after I jammed it up with my first attempt... but once I got the hang of it?

So very worth it!

Exhibit A. Fresh Linguini

Exhibit B. Fresh Spaghetti

Exhibit C. Linguini with Red Sauce

Exhibit D. Spinach Spaghetti with Red Sauce & Olives

There was also some Spinach Spaghetti with Pesto, which was, in fact, excellent... but try as I might I couldn't find a photo that made it appear appetizing.

#2 Back to Bread
Since moving to my new apartment, my devotion to home-made bread has fallen by the way-side. Doing it properly can be a time-consuming process--lots of waiting around for dough to proof--and all I wanted to do when I got home from the hospital was watch a few episodes on the DVR and pass out.

No more! The other night I dove back in to my favourite food-related pass time with a batch of olive-oil dough... only, being out of olive oil, I used avocado oil instead, which made a nice substitute. The results...?

Exhibit A. White Pesto Pizza with Olives, Oven-Dried Tomatoes, and Asparagus

There are not words to express how much I love fresh asparagus! This would have been better had I stretched the dough a bit thinner, but I was hungry and impatient. Bad Frog!

Exhibit B. Oven-Dried Tomato & Pesto Bread

Kindly ignore the detritus in the background (my apartment is seven different shades of disaster right now) and feast your eyes on the gorgeousness of these loaves! The original recipe calls for the tomatoes, whole cloves of carmelized garlic, and fresh basil... but the basil always dried out in the oven so I decided to try Pesto instead. I actually haven't tried it yet, so I'll have to let you know how that experiment turned out!

#3 Cookies!!!
There happens to be a Borders bookstore en route to the hospital where my friend was staying, so I made quite a few visits in the past month and a half. During that time, they had a HUGE selection of cookbooks on super-sale ($3-$6 each), all lined up right next to the check-out, and, well, I couldn't help myself.

One of the first that I bought was "The Cookie and Biscuit Bible." These were on the cover, and I'd been dying to make them ever since I bought the book.

Exhibit A. Honey Crunch Creams

They're supposed to be made with Greek Honey, which I couldn't find anywhere, so I used Orange Blossom instead,and Oh... My... God! Wish I'd made a full recipe instead of just a half. My hips, however, are probably thanking me.

That stuff in the middle? Is Honey Buttercream. Yeah. Heaven.

In addition the all of the above, there was also some freaking fabulous Chicken and Snow Peas from my new stir fry cookbook, but I didn't get any photos. I will next time, I promise!

So there you have it.

Anybody else feeling hungry?

Back from the Abyss

2009-05-14T17:13:00.000-04:00

Well, it's my 400th post, and I'm here to say... Sorry for disappearing on y'all like that, really I am. The past 6 weeks have been exhausting. The days more or less blurred together after awhile, and I figured that simply falling off the grid for a bit was better than filling your readers with a bunch of semi-comatose "Today at the hospital we..." posts.

But as of Tuesday my friend was released, and as I type this she is winging her way towards Idaho with her mother, where she'll spend the next few months rehabbing and getting her strength back. (Baby, if you're well enough to be reading this, you know I love you! Keep up the hard work!!).

And here I am, trying to get my life back to some semblance of normalcy--or whatever it is that passes for normal in these parts. Which means lots of cooking, so one of my trademark Food Porn posts is imminent.

In the mean time, I had an interview for a job I really wanted that I thought went well, but I didn't get the job. I took a job as a waitress that I don't really want but thought it might be nice to get off unemployment... so long as this place takes off. If I end up making LESS than I am on unemployment, well, I'm gonna be pissed. Either way, training starts next week. In about an hour I have to leave for an audition for a show that I'm not entirely sure I want to do after having read the sides the director sent for the audition, but I already signed up so I'd might as well go. I'm hoping the UPS man gets here before I leave because I really want the shoes he's delivering (some kick-ass old school Vans that I got for a ridiculously low price, fingers crossed that they fit!). I'm halfway to my fundraising goal for Avon, so if you haven't donated yet, go do it now!!! Every little bit helps, and a donation of $10 or more enters you into my raffle with sweet, handmade prizes! Come on, who doesn't like prizes? Oh, and Chemistry.com tried to hook me up with a 26 year old World of Warcraft fan who lives with his parents, which pretty much sums up how well *that* little venture is going...

And I think that's pretty much it. My apartment is still not remotely unpacked and completely filthy. The other day I spotted a roach in my dishwasher, which left me less than pleased, and yes, I ran the entire load again.

Bottom line: I am exhausted. I slept late today (miraculously, my cat allowed me to do so!) and still I feel wiped out. I feel like I need to sleep for a week, but unfortunately, I don't think that's in the cards just yet.

So here I am. I am back. In spirit if not in energy. Thanks for waiting :)

Bloggers + Alcohol =

2009-05-03T14:09:00.000-04:00

The night began simply enough, with a stupidly-crowded (or stupidity crowded, depending on your viewpoint) New York City bar, a hastily consumed beer, the requisite attempt to rally 10+ people to migrate to a new location, and the ever-fabulous (and, it must be said, positively smokin' hot) Deutlich.

Somewhere in the middle there was a shot of Yaegermeister, my complete inability to stop staring at Deutlich's fantastic cleavage, and sneaking into the Men's room when the line for the ladies was WAY too long.

And rounding it all out was public urination, rent-a-cops, walking home barefoot through a park, and Rice-a-Roni at 3:00am.

So here I am, remarkably only mildly hungover and seriously considering going to McDonalds with the $20 I have to my name until I get my wallet back from these two, in whose car I managed to leave it after getting us lost in a park.

I must say, this Frog was in need of some serious debauchery, and last night certainly fit the bill.

Can't wait to do it again!

R.I.P.

2009-05-03T02:45:00.000-04:00

Augusto Boal, whom I had the great honor to study with for a short time last Summer, has passed away.

People the world over have benefited from his work, and I am honored to have known him while he was still with us.

Rest in Peace, Augusto. If there is a heaven, I am certain you are there.

My Liver is Already Whimpering...

2009-05-02T19:01:00.002-04:00

Why, you may ask?

Because tonight I FINALLY get to meet the fabulous Deutlich, along with several other DC bloggers that I must abashedly admit I do not read (and about whom I suddenly feel an insane urge to cram so as not to appear anti-bloggy-social), who have road-tripped up to my lovely city for the sole purpose of getting absolutely shitfaced.

Or so I have been lead to believe.

If I'm still alive tomorrow, I'll tell you all about it.

Raffle For A Cure!!

2009-04-29T22:00:00.001-04:00

Yes, it's another Avon post... but this time there's something in it for you!!

I'm almost 1/3 of the way to my goal of raising $1,800 for Breast Cancer research and treatment, but there's still a long way to go!

In order to grease the wheels of generosity, so to speak, I've decided to raffle off handmade prizes to everyone who donates before July 10th. Don't worry if you've already donated, entries are retroactive!

Several prizes will be awarded, based on the time and resources I have with which to make them. My goal is at least five.

Each Prize will include the following:

One (1) hand-knit item of a practical nature (Market Tote)
One (1) hand-knit item of a whimsical--and topical--nature (Boobs!)
One (1) edible treat! Based on the distance the package must travel, this will either be homemade or store-bought. You can only trust the Postal Service with so much!

Today I bought the yarn for the first prize to be crafted: a Market Tote knit from Lion Brand LB Cotton Bamboo, a beautiful, soft, and eco-friendly alternative to plastic bags!

Raffle Entries will be allotted as follows:

$10 - 24.99 : One Entry
$25 - 49.99 : Two Entries
$50 - 74.99 : Three Entries
$75 - 99.99 : Four Entries
$100 + : Five Entries

Winners will be selected via a random number generator on July 11th and notified by email: PLEASE PROVIDE A VALID EMAIL ADDRESS WHEN YOU DONATE IN ORDER TO BE ENTERED INTO THE RAFFLE.

Donations can be made via the internet by simply clicking on the image link at the bottom of this message. If you prefer to donate via check, contact me at dasfroggyatgmaildotcom and I will give you the information you need.

So join in the crusade to fight Breast Cancer, and potentially get your hands on some delightful handmade goodies in the process!

Best of luck, and thanks so much for your support!

Lullabye

2009-04-27T01:50:00.000-04:00

I was walking through the long passage under 14th Street that connects 6th and 7th Avenues, the L and 1 trains. A single refrain kept echoing through my head in time with my footsteps.

"Na na na na-na na na na, Sheets of Egyptian cotton!"

I made my way down the stairs to the 1 train platform and there was an old black man in a threadbare white t-shirt playing the violin, classical melody echoing joyfully on late-night concrete. I smiled as I passed. He smiled back.

I found a bench and sat, attempting to read my nearly-finished book through a faint haze of alcohol, but the melody of the violin kept breaking through. I broke my own cardinal rule and fumbled in my bag to find my wallet--momentarily fearing it lost until it emerged from the depths of debris that is my daily life--and made my way back down the platform to drop a dollar in the violinist's case.

He thanked me and stopped playing, looking down at my feet.

"Those are some beautiful boots!" He said, admiring my beloved white cowboy boots.

"Thanks," I responded, instinctively posing as if to model. "I got them a few years ago."

"Here? In this country?" He had an accent that I could not place.

"Yeah, on ebay. They're Frye," as if the name might hold some significance.

"Here," he said, thrusting his violin in my direction. "You try, just for a minute."

"You mean to play your violin?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I used to play the cello..." Memories of attempting to trade instruments with my friends years ago flitted through my mind as he smiled and continued holding the instrument expectantly toward me.

I took it and placed it gingerly under my chin, tentatively bowing a few notes that were not at all what I'd had in mind. I tried again, and once again failed miserably, but even my poorly squawked notes echoed sweetly through the underground chamber. It was a fine instrument.

I smiled sheepishly, returning the violin.

"I thought I'd play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, but I was never very good at the violin..." As if I genuinely need an excuse for my failure.

"Oh!" He said, unperturbed, "Twinkle, Twinkle, it is like this... One, two... One, two..." He patiently demonstrated the fingering as one would for a child, then handed the instrument to me once more.

After a few abortive attempts I managed to feebly pluck out the melody, and he laughed happily. I returned the instrument, smiling.

"Thank you," I offered, "Have a good night."

"You too. Thank you," he replied, returning the instrument to his shoulder. I turned away and moments later music once again filled the late night air.

I walked back to my seat, a smile blooming across my face as I offered a silent pledge.

This, New York, is why I will never leave you.

Gagged

2009-04-20T23:12:00.002-04:00

Have you ever really wanted to tell somewhat what you think, but known that, no matter how benevolent your intentions, it would most likely be taken badly?

Sucks, doesn't it?

Holy Shit, My Reader is Over 400...

2009-04-19T12:17:00.000-04:00

I'd be lying if I said that life had resumed any semblance of normalcy, but I've come to the decision that it is in my best interests to at least pretend that is has. Look for me soon in a Comments section near you!

Though maybe not today, as I've only got an hour to finish this gigantic burrito, take a shower, and get my shit together before heading downtown to do my volunteer hours at Rep Co #2 and then, of course, head to the hospital.

But I'm trying here kids, I swear. If life takes another turn toward the ridiculous, I'll find some guest bloggers or something.

In the mean time, I leave you with a photo of the giant brain slug that I knit up for my hospital-bound friend (cat is included for scale). The nurses all love it and the other day they had her punching it in physical therapy. It's good to feel useful.

One Foot in Front of the Other

2009-04-15T12:02:00.000-04:00

It's business as usual here at Froggy's Ranch of Crazy. Looking for a job, visiting my friend in the hospital, and wondering what in my new apartment will break next.

However, across the United States, it may not be business as usual for thousands of women. Every three minutes, another woman is diagnosed with Breast Cancer. Join me in my effort to fund research and provide care to the thousands of of under- or un-insured women who are struggling with this disease.

I have pledged to raise $1,800 and walk in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer this October. Please, click the image below to make a donation and help me reach that goal. A dollar, a nickle, a penny. Every little bit helps.

Your donation will make a difference to the women in your community and across the country. They and I both thank you.

PS - The more of you who donate, the fewer of these messages will pepper my blog. I am not above bribery, so go on! Donate!

We will return to your regularly scheduled bitching and moaning tomorrow...

In Brief

2009-04-14T15:23:00.000-04:00

As predicted, my internet crapped out again on Friday and I just got it back today. Remind me to call the cable company and make sure I'm credited for the four days I went without.

While life still generally sucks, I do have one piece of good news: Even though the psychologist thought I was a tramp, I still passed the psych evaluation for egg donation. Next step: Genetic testing. If I find out that I have some weird fatal disease I am totally moving to Fiji and spending the remainder of my days in a hammock drinking mint juleps.

Wit's End

2009-04-09T23:36:00.000-04:00

A list, if you will, of shit that went wrong today:

Early Morning - I am having a strange nightmare in which my parents have disappeared, their house is empty and has been taken over by some sort of automotive chop shop, and I am hiding out in the house across the street, being not-so-subtly propositioned by an aging lesbian with bad plumbing (not a euphemism, just a lot of puddles in the bathroom).

9:00am - I wake up to what I not-so-affectionately term "Bodega Music"--a particularly peppy breed of Latin music most frequently heard in bodegas and non-livery taxis--so loud that it feels as if the speakers are actually in the bed with me (and I'm spooning with the sub-woofer). I wait for a minute, to see if perhaps it is a car driving past, but when it doesn't fade I stumble blindly into the livingroom where it is even louder. I blunder into the hallway where the offending neighbor has got her door wide open and is kneeling down, scrubbing the door jamb. I have to yell "Exucse me!" five times in two different languages before I get her attention and ask her to turn it down. She seems surprised.

9:45am - Never fully able to regain sleep after my rude awakening, I give up and get out of bed. Discover the internet isn't working.

11:25am - Just miss my train. Wait 10 minutes for another.

12:45pm - Having gone to the cable store to exchange my modem, I walk a dozen or so blocks to get to the yarn store I've been trying to make it to for the past three days. I get there. It's closed until Monday.

1:00pm - Go to use the bathroom at Barnes and Noble. It's broken and I have to go up an extra floor.

1:04pm - Stop to get cash at an ATM. It refuses to take my card.

1:09pm - I've decided that only a burrito can save the day. Unfortunately, the line at Chipotle is six miles long and I'm forced to make due with a deli sandwich drenched in enough mustard to feed a family of four.

2:00pm - Arrive at clinic for the Pysch Evaluation phase of the screening to be a potential egg donor. (Yes, I'm considering selling my genetic material for money. No, the idea of other people's kids having my DNA doesn't bother me. Yes, I realize that more of me running around in the world is a frightening prospect.) During the course of the evaluation, the psychologist asks how many sexual partners I've had. I tell her. She says "That's a lot." I wish I'd lied.

4:00pm - Decide to walk the 2 miles to the hospital to visit my friend. Fifth Avenue was a BAD idea. I hate tourists

8:30pm - Arrive home and set up new cable modem. It doesn't work. Half of my remaining taco shells are broken. My DVR failed to record the new episode of Bones as it was programmed to do. I eat my crumbling tacos then spend 50 minutes on the phone with three different techs from the cable company who do everything short of sacrifice a goat, but none of whom can get my modem to work. Just as I'm about to tear into Tech #3 and tell him there's no way I'm paying him for the FIVE DAYS I'll be without internet until they can get a tech to my house, the damned modem starts working as if my magic. I keep my appointment for Tuesday, since it's sure to break again, and the guy gives me a free month of HBO for my trouble. I should have asked for Showtime.

10:40pm - Plug the modem into the router. It can't find the DNS servers. So I have internet, but only when the modem is tethered to my laptop via a fairly short cable. I'm writing this in Notepad and will cut and paste it once I crouch uncomfortably next to the bookcase to plug the network cable in.

11:10pm - My neighbors are clearly disassembling a tank next door. This place seemed so quiet when I first moved in.

In all fairness, there are a few--very few--things that went right today, including: My friend's speech getting clearer, Mister Softee, and my kitchen light turning on with the first try. On the whole, however, I really hope that tomorrow is a little better.

You know, just a little.

Slacker.

2009-04-07T16:03:00.000-04:00

My Google Reader count is up over 200 again. I am a blog slacker.

My friend is still in the hospital. That won't be changing any time soon, but it sort of gives me an excuse for being a blog slacker.

I still don't have a job. Not for lack of effort, but the economy is being a total slacker.

I've had hot water in my shower exactly ONCE since I moved in. I am now a shower slacker (good thing I've nobody to impress).

I really want to leave to go to the hospital but I'm waiting on a phone call and I just know they're going to call as soon as I get on the subway. Damn you, caller, for being such a slacker.

My cat has spent the better part of the day sleeping, and the rest of it whining. Total slacker.

I have no logical or witty end to this post. Which makes total sense, really... because I'm a slacker.

2009-04-04T12:29:00.000-04:00

It's not the sort of phone call you expect to receive. At least, not in your 20s.

"Um, hi, yeah. I don't know much but I wanted to let you know. I'm on my way. [Friend] is in the hospital. She collapsed on the way to work and they're saying she had a stroke."

"WHAT?!??" Admittedly not the most sensitive response, but what would you have said if you'd just been told that your close friend, just turned 30, had a fucking stroke?

"I don't know! I'm on my way now. She's at [Hospital] on [Street] and [Avenue]."

"[Street] and [Avenue]? I'm on my way."

This was Tuesday afternoon. The last four days have been completely surreal as I shuttle back and forth between my not-even-remotely-unpacked apartment and a hospital waiting room that is becoming unpleasantly familiar, trying repeatedly to stop my thoughts from going to the dark place to which they instinctively gravitate.

I've always worried about people dying--even when I have no reason to worry. Any time the phone rings at an odd hour, I immediately panic. And now? When the closest friend I have in this city has had a stroke, has already undergone one risky brain surgery and is going to need another before the problem--which there was no way of finding until something like this happened--is resolved?

I'm just sort of numb.

I haven't cried much. A little on that first day, before we knew anything, sitting in the waiting room with her best friend and her boyfriend. I very nearly lost it Thursday night in Carnegie Hall when the guy holding the concert sang a couple of very sad songs. But mostly I just feel a creeping sense of numbness and disbelief. I run errands, I cook food for the family and friends sitting at the hospital, I send text messages to update other concerned friends, and when I don't feel that I'm taking time away from people who deserve it more than I do, I pop in for a few minutes to see her, talk to her, make jokes and bask in a sense of relief when I realize that my friend is still in there. And through it all I try to think as little as possible.

She'll be okay.

She'll be okay because she has to be okay. There simply is no other option.

So I'm back, in a sense. I have internet access once more, but please forgive me if I'm a bit absent for awhile. I've really only got one thing to think about, but like I said, I'm trying not to think.

Any of you believers out there, send your prayers toward New York City over the next couple of weeks, okay?

Guest Who?

2009-03-31T09:00:00.001-04:00

I'm still without internet in my new apartment, but you can find me guesting for the lovely Princess Pointful over at Umm... Now what? while she's off in Cuba getting a tan and smoking cigars.

Okay, probably not smoking cigars, but that's what I'd be doing if I were in Cuba.

Go check it out! I'll give you three guesses what it's about...

Waking Up

2009-03-28T17:25:00.000-04:00

Today, New York is coming out of its shell.

People and squirrels alike have emerged from their dens, and chase one another--or perhaps a frisbee--across what passes for grass in the wake of a frigid March. Washington Square Park, where a few short months ago my date and I were alone in the snow, is now filled with people enjoying the opportunity to sit outside for longer than a few minutes without turning into a human popsicle. NYU students attempt to play catch while musicians trill away in every corner. Drums, violins, saxophones, cacophonous as their clashing melodies weave between the trunks of still-barren trees, but joyful in the message their presence portends.

Spring is coming. New York is waking up.

In another month, when the jackets come off, it will be nigh impossible to find a seat, but today, as the first hint of Spring whispers on the still chilly air, one can find a space to sit and watch, enjoying the sweet sense of beginning, the anticipation of what's to come.

For the past month I've done little more than complain, relentlessly, about all of the difficulties embroiled in my recent move. But on days like today, I remember why I bother. Why, in the end, it's all worth it.

It's worth it to be here, for this. To feel the muted excitement that sizzles through the air, bouncing from sidewalk to sky like a supersonic superball as New York cautiously slides open her windows and smiles.

Spring is almost here.

Take 2

2009-03-24T08:54:00.000-04:00

Here I am, hoping and praying that the movers actually SHOW UP today.

I may be MIA for awhile as my internet access will be spotty at best. Because getting my possessions across the city isn't the only difficult part of this process, getting cable set up is also proving to be a bit of a clusterfuck.

I'll be dragging my laptop down to campus while I work tech on a show, to take advantage of the WiFi while I can, but I will most likely be absent from the blogosphere until a.) I get this crap straightened out, or b.) I find a net cafe.

Wish me luck!

@#(&$_(&@(*&$!!!

2009-03-23T16:46:00.001-04:00

There are no words for the complete and utter clusterfuck that is this day.

Last night, I was packing until around 12:30 when I and my aching body finally threw in the towel, watched a few minutes of CSI, and went to bed.

This morning, I woke up at 7:00, finished the last little bits of packing up, went down the street to get coffee and a bagel, and then sat around waiting for the movers--and my parents, who were driving up from PA to help hang shelves and take back a few things that won't fit in the new place--to show up.

10:00 rolls around... 10:15... around 10:20 my parents call to tell me they're stuck in traffic on the BQE. I tell them the movers haven't arrived yet so not to sweat it.

10:30. I call the moving company to get an ETA, only to learn that they're not. fucking. coming.

Let me repeat that.

THE MOVERS WERE NOT COMING.

When I switched my reservation from Saturday to Monday, the guy on the phone accidentally put it in the computer for Tuesday. In other words: I. Am. Fucked. And my parents had already taken the day off work and driven 3 fucking hours to be here to help me.

I'll give you a minute to imagine my mental state on this one.

It took every amount of willpower I could muster not to start bawling on the phone--I did not, however, rein in my use of the word "Fuck," since I figured he had long ago lost any and all right to politeness as he did not, in all honesty, sound all that sorry about the fact that his error had completely and utterly fucked me over.

With a motherfucking chainsaw.

So I hung up the phone. I screamed. I smoked a cigarette.

My parents came and we ran a few things up to the new place--my plants, my food (since they were supplying the cooler), and the shelving unit that I needed my dad's help to hang. Now I'm sitting here in my apartment, on my legless, half-naked sofa, with cables running across the livingroom so I can connect to the internet since the router is packed and I'm out of tape so I can't close the box if I open it... oh, and my computer? Is being a royal dick today.

Really, aside from being pissed off, inconvenienced, and totally frustrated, I am completely and utterly amazed by the sheer number of things that have gone wrong with this move.

1. Couldn't get movers for Friday, so scheduled Saturday.
2. Find out the building doesn't allow weekend moves. Reschedule to Monday.
3. Learn that the post office, electric company, and cable company have no idea my apartment exists. It may take me up to three weeks to get cable/internet at new place.
4. Try to set appointment to get current cable box picked up, since new apartment has different provider. They say all they have is Wednesday, but I'll be gone. Finally get one for Tuesday, when I'll be here to paint.
5. MOVERS DON'T FUCKING SHOW UP
6. Call cable company to get that Wednesday appointment, no longer available, all they have is Thurs. Say fuck it, I'll figure out how to get the box back to them myself, even though all of their offices are WAY THE FUCK AWAY from where I'll be living.

And just to top it off, due to massive schedule conflicts, I probably won't have time to actually unpack anything until, oh, Friday.

I'm thinking that right about now is the time to buy a lottery ticket because something has got to go my freaking way!!

Walking FAIL

2009-03-22T14:21:00.000-04:00

Yesterday afternoon, my rolly cart got into a fight with the sidewalk...

...and I lost.

FAIL.

The Final Countdown

2009-03-21T10:38:00.000-04:00

(I'm totally going to have that song stuck in my head now.)

Two days till the big move and SO much to do!

I've been trying to be good, I really have. Setting little daily goals for myself... and thoroughly failing to meet them. But now I've only got two days left and my apartment still sort of looks like someone lives here, so the situation must be rectified, pronto.

Today's goals: Drop off donation clothes at Salvation Army, Do Laundry, Pack up all clothes except those needed in next few days, Pack up all bric-a-brac (aka trinkets, souvenirs, artwork, and other miscellany--I have a lot of miscellany), Pack linens, Finish cleaning out and packing bedroom closet, Take end tables, corner shelf, old TV, old VHS tapes, and sundry other items down to the curb to be appropriated by the locals.

Yikes.

Tomorrow's goals: Clean and pack kitchen, Take down the wall that must be removed in order to get the couch out of the house, Complete all of today's goals that I don't get finished.

Eep.

I can't wait for this nightmare to be over. I may be incommunicado for awhile after Monday, unless I can scam free wifi from someone in my new building, since this whole My-Apartment-Doesn't-Officially-Exist thing might keep me from having internet for, oh, THREE WEEKS OR SO...

I am still livid over this one. Seriously, seriously livid.

Anyhow, that's all I've got. Some ole' crap, I know.

I woke up early today (after getting home late, having elected beers with friends over packing) to give an ancient laptop to a guy from Freecycle--it's going to an NGO in Kenya--and now I kinda want to go back to bed for an hour or so, since it's not like I'll be productive before noon anyway.

Also, right before I woke up I was having a weird dream about a clogged toilet and a spider covered in chewing gum weaving a web above my pillow. Somehow that hardly seems like the right note on which to start the day.

Lock Your Doors, I'm Going on a Rampage...

2009-03-20T19:28:00.000-04:00

A few days ago my Facebook status message noted that if one more wrench was thrown into the works of this move, I was going to go postal.

Well, it turns out that, according to, oh, the Electric Company, the Cable Company, and the motherfucking U.S. Postal Service... MY APARTMENT DOES NOT EXIST.

I can't open an electric account. It's going to take me three fucking weeks to get cable--don't ask me how the hell I'm going to find a job without the internet--and changing the address on my bills has been nothing short of a nightmare.

Of course, I discovered the brunt of this around 6:00pm on a Friday, which means that nobody was home at the management company when I called, and I therefore can't do dick about it until Monday--which is when I'm moving!

The apartment has electricity, so I won't be stumbling around by candlelight or anything, and there are no less than four cable jacks protruding from the walls, which means that it's capable of receiving a cable signal. Now, the building itself is Pre-War, but my lease listed the apartment as New Construction, so they must have split an older, larger apartment into two.

But don't you think they maybe should have told somebody??? Work like that requires a permit, so shouldn't somebody, somewhere, have maybe made a note of it?

Un-mother-fucking-believable. Seriously.

So, to keep me from jumping out a window, I need to remember the reasons I'm excited for the move, and thus I bring you...

Things I Will NOT Miss About My Apartment

1. Shittiest. Stairs. Ever.

The second flight of stairs has looked like this since I moved in--at which time the landlord claimed they were going to re-finish them within the next few months. Lies. All lies.

Which segues nicely into...

2. My Landlord's Laughable Attempts At Home Repair

Remember The Bathroom Saga? Well this is the resulting linoleum application after, you know, I finally got my floor back.

The best part? Is that beneath that shoddily applied linoleum is... even more shoddily poured concrete. Yes. Motherfucking CONCRETE. Sure as hell hope they never have to get at those pipes again...

Also post bathroom-repair. I'm willing to bet that that exposed drywall is just seething with mold spores. Seriously dude... why??

Livingroom ceiling has also looked like this since I moved in. What? You thought that hastily applied, greyish spackle would just blend right in with that horrible faux finish?

Which reminds me...

3. The Wretched Popcorn Finish That's Been Applied Everywhere.

The photo is from the kitchen. It has been applied to ceilings throughout the house, over the edges of the crown molding, over the original light fixtures, and all over the kitchen and my bedroom walls. It is ugly and it is sharp. WTF were you thinking??

4. The Song-and-Dance, Special Charms, and Sacrificial Goat required to Get a Reasonable Water Temperature in the Shower, Which Only Last for a Few Minutes Anyway.

Did I mention that the hot and cold taps are reversed, and the water pressure sucks?

5. The Not-Even-Remotely Level Stovetop.

I originally set the level on the floor, but it came out even, so the problem is clearly with the stove itself. Sauteing becomes a real pain in the ass when all the oil pools at one side of the pan.

6. The Fact That This, and a Shoddy Chain Bolt I Installed Myself, is the Only Thing Keeping Murders and Rapists Out of My Apartment.

A single, crappy lock in a hollow door. I've never been particularly comfortable with that.

Fortunately, for the next few days, I'll have enough boxes piled in front of those doors to keep out the 300 Spartans.

If I ever finish packing.

Things I Will Miss About My Apartment

2009-03-16T11:51:00.000-04:00

Moving is always a bittersweet venture.

On one hand, it can be exciting. A new place, a new adventure, a pleasant change of scenery.

On the other, it can be exhausting, and a little sad. Packing, planning, and of course, missing all the little things that made a place feel like home.

There are lots of things I will miss about this place, so before I tear it apart and start putting it all into boxes and trashbags, I thought I'd create a little photo essay of the things that I'm really going to miss when I'm gone.

1. The Space

This place is huge. HUGE. I have a freaking hallway for goodness sake! Not only is this going to make downsizing a headache, as I'm going to have to give up some furniture, but I don't know what Psycho Kitty is going to do when she can't go tearing down the hall like a maniac several times a night.

2. Windows

Particularly this big one in the kitchen, which faces south and keeps the room bright and sunny all day--and aids in ventilation when I cook steaks on the stovetop and fill the house with smoke.

My current place has 6 windows. The new place has 2. I'm going to miss the sun.

And while we're on the kitchen...

3. The Gas Stove

The new place has an electric stove, which totally sucks for cooking. Also, I will no longer have a proper broiler, which means no more London Broil. No more roasted red peppers. I'm making both tonight as a sort of farewell gesture to proper cooking.

4a. This Awesome Built in Cabinet...

4b. ...and the Fact That It Made An AWESOME Liquor Cabinet

First of all, it just looks cool as hell. Second of all... look at all that room! I have no idea where I'm going to keep my booze--or all of those glasses--in the new place.

5. The Paintjob

It may have taken two weeks and an obscene amount of masking tape, but I am still insanely proud of the paintjob I gave this place, particularly the livingroom. A year and a half later and I still smile whenever I look at it, largely due to...

6. Crown Moldings

Any way you slice it, crown moldings are awesome. When I was checking out the new apartment I caught a glimpse into another one as the tenant was heading in, and it still had the old moldings (covered in the requisite 80 layers of paint that every pre-war building in NYC seems to have). Mine has been remodeled which on one hand is great, but I'm sad that the moldings are gone. They just add a lovely touch of Old World elegance.

7. The Funky, Slope-y Ceiling in the Front of the House

When I first took the apartment, I was worried about the low ceilings--rather needlessly, considering I'm all of 5'3"--but once I got settled in I realized that they give the place a nice, cozy feeling.

8. How Great My Great-Grandmother's Painting Looks On This Wall

This painting is one of my most prized possessions, and hanging here on this wall, it just looks like this is the place it was meant to be. I get a warm, fuzzy feeling every time I look at it, and I will genuinely miss that.

Coming up Next (before I wind up sobbing in a ball on the floor)... Things I Won't Miss About My Apartment!

Randomosity

2009-03-15T18:39:00.000-04:00

Russell Brand's teeth are far too nice for an Englishman. Also, I would do lots and lots of exceptionally dirty things to him if given the chance.

You hear that Russell? Call me.

So I found an apartment. I'm signing the lease on Tuesday and (hopefully) moving on Friday. I filled out the "online quote" form for my moving company Friday night so I'm hoping they call me first thing Monday morning and hopinghopinghoping they are available to do the move on Friday, at a time other than the crack of dawn's ass. My dad is driving up to give me a hand with some things like re-hanging my shelves in the new place, and transporting a yowling cat who hates being in her carrier, and since it's a three hour drive to NYC from Hometown, he won't be able to get here until around 10am.

I wonder how much extra the movers are going to charge, considering the new place is a 5th floor walk-up.

It's also in a completely different neighborhood than where I've lived in NYC so far (Ashley will be excited to learn that it is in Manhattan, but just about as far north as you can possibly go without falling into the Harlem River), so it will be interesting to see how I feel about it once I'm settled in.

Tomorrow will begin the Great Pack-Fest of 2009. I reallyreallyreallyreallyREALLY fucking HATE packing. With a passion. Particularly because the new place is much smaller than my current place, and thus I need to do some *major* downsizing. I should probably get drunk first. That always makes getting rid of things easier.

I'm sorry that I have nothing particularly exciting to say. New neighbors are moving in downstairs today and I think they smoke, as I smelled it in my livingroom this afternoon. That makes it a good time for me to move, as I don't like the smell of smoke in my house.

I mailed in my egg donor application last week. I need to call them tomorrow and ask how long it will be until I hear from them as to whether or not I've been accepted to go to Round 2 of screening. I hope so. I need the money.

We've got one potential contender in the land of Chemistry.com. I'm still skeptical, but we'll give it a shot. If I survive the move.

Still need a job. Trying not to think about it.

That about sums it up really. I'm baking bread right now, trying out a new recipe for a simple white loaf. I made 1 loaf and 6 hot dog buns which look totally tasty. I broke my no-factory-made-bread rule last week to buy some buns and couldn't believe how god-awful they were. Ick! So this is the first attempt at homemade. They look a little wonky, but I doubt the hot dog will mind.

Right. I'll stop now. I promise I'll try to be a better blogger once this whole moving thing blows over.

Kisses!

New Email Address

2009-03-13T00:52:00.000-04:00

In preparation for my impending move, I've moved my blog email address to Gmail, since Optimum doesn't serve my new neighborhood.

New address is: dasfroggy at gmail dot com

What's up with Gmail not allowing dashes in email addresses? And who the hell is already using dasfrog and das.frog?? Bastards.

Anyhoo, if you've got me in an address book, you can go ahead and update the address. And if you don't, well, you should. I like email. Email is nice.

(Also, I totally just got excited over the fact that you can sync Gmail accounts with Outlook! WOO! I don't think I'll do it with my "real" account, since I haven't deleted an email since I opened the thing and the sheer volume of messages would probably make my harddrive explode... but I like having my blog comments all nice and neat where I can see them, without having to go type in a password somewhere. It makes me happy. And not much does these days, so I'm taking what I can get!)

Warning: It's another one of those posts...

2009-03-12T18:04:00.001-04:00

I do not deal well with the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly fucked.

Mostly it means that I spend the majority of my time feeling as though I could burst into tears at any moment, and am one broken pencil away from being committed to the looney bin.

This afternoon, I sucked it up and went to a restaurant open call for servers. This, of course, means that the place was packed with dozens of other hopefuls who, like myself, have been scanning Craigslist for any and all possibilities for income.

I arrived 15 minutes after the time listed in the ad, waited 15 minutes while someone went and made more copies of the application, then waited for an hour and a half for an on-the-spot interview, only to be talked down to because I'd forgotten the difference between a scotch and a single malt.

First of all, I'd forgotten how fucking condescending restaurant managers can be.

Second, I waited tables in this city for three fucking years, and no customer has ever asked me that question.

"I HAVE A FUCKING MASTERS DEGREE!!" I wanted to scream. "I AM NOT A MORON!!" Moreover I wanted to look him straight in the eye and say "Look ~~asshole~~, I may have been out of the game for a few years, but it's not like serving skills are something you can forget. I could wait tables in my sleep, ~~and still do, on occasion, when plagued by a particularly wretched nightmare,~~ and if you want me to memorize a bunch of facts about liquor give me a list and I'll come back in 45 minutes with the whole damned thing memorized, so why don't you just give me a fucking job!!"

I have a feeling that all of the above would have been counter-productive, but it's all true.

One would think that three years of NYC waitressing experience, plus three years of professional experience (which involves just as much smiling, multitasking, and ass-kissing as waiting tables), plus a goddamned Masters Degree to prove I'm not stupid, plus the maturity of 29 years of life, seven of them spent surviving in one of the most expensive cities in North America, and oh yeah did I mention the MASTERS DEGREE?? would be enough.

And one would be wrong.

He said they'd call if they "found a place for me," and I wanted to punch him in his smug little mouth.

Instead I smiled, shook his hand, and made my way to the door--being sure to straighten the chair I'd be waiting in on my way out.

How the hell is the service industry managing to stress me out when I'm not even working in it?

More of the Same

2009-03-11T21:12:00.000-04:00

Today I trudged all over Upper Manhattan with a broker (the lovely Miss Ashley's broker, in fact) looking for the impossible: an apartment that I could ~~pretend to~~ afford that was bigger than a shoebox.

We finally found one. And managed to talk the management company down to a monthly rent that is $50 higher than the absolute (and already slightly unattainable) maximum I had set for myself.

I took it.

With my parents as guarantors, because apparently I am 22 again instead of nearly 30.

I should know by the end of the day tomorrow whether or not the application has been accepted. From what I gathered from my last phone call with the broker, it's pretty much a go (it had better be, for the $300 in application/background-check fees I'm paying for them to check out me AND both of my parents)...

So why am I more stressed out than I was before?

Maybe it's because I have to move on the 20th, which is, ummm... a little over a week away.

Maybe it's because this new apartment is half the size of the one I have now, which means some serious downsizing of personal possessions.

Maybe it's because I'm still not entirely sure how I'm going to pay for it, and with my parents as guarantors I can't just run my credit into the ground and squat there if everything goes south, because they'll be responsible.

The universe really needs to throw me a financial bone here, or I'm going to wind up with one hell of an ulcer.

f*ck

2009-03-10T12:58:00.000-04:00

There was another topic I was going to blog about today. I was all prepared to write an insightful post about how people's perspective seems to skew when they have kids.

Then I found out that I didn't get approved for the apartment in Harlem because I'm unemployed--even though it's cheap enough that I could *easily* pay the rent living on unemployment alone, and even though I created a detailed description of likely scenarios for my freelance income.

In other words--I am totally, 100%, utterly, fucked.

I need to find a cheaper apartment, because I'm unemployed.

Nobody wants to give me an apartment, because I'm unemployed.

If I can't even get approved for a fucking low-income apartment, how the hell will I get approved for a normal apartment???

And even though my mother insisted on bringing up the subject right before bed every night that I was home this weekend, I am NOT moving back in with my parents. That would be tantamount to giving up my entire life and everything I've worked (and gone into debt) for, and I just can't do it.

And to top it all off, as I sit here in a spiraling state of panic and despair even worse than the one that sent me scampering off to buy cigarettes last week... I have an audition in 5 hours, and I'm so consumed with being a basket-case over my looming homelessness that I can't even think about it.

f*ck

f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck f*ck

F*CK

That is how I feel today.

I wasted my apartment-karma living in rent control for four years while the economy was healthy, pissing away my money on all those things we piss our money away on in our early 20s. Now that I really need that karma, it's nowhere to be found.

Sorry that the blog has turned into a circus of self-pity lately, but being that that's pretty much all that's going on in my life these days, it's all I've got.

motherfucker.

Avon Walk for Breast Cancer

2009-03-08T12:43:00.000-04:00

This year, on October 10th & 11th, I will be walking 39 miles in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer.

For the past two years I've cheered on a friend of mine as she completed the walk. Last year I walked the last two miles with her after meeting her at the cheering station, and when I got to the end I decided that this year I would do it too.

So I am.

And while I promise not to shamelessly solicit via my blog too often, I do need to raise $1,800 in order to participate, sooooo....

If you feel so inclined, please visit http://www.avonwalk.org/goto/Feet_First to make a donation. Even one dollar will help move me toward my goal, and help provide education and treatment for those who need it most. I'll be putting a link in the side-bar as well, if you need to think about it first.

And, of course, I'm sure I'll be blogging my progress as I train to walk a marathon--especially when I try to work that around the schedule of being a full-time camp counselor for all of August!

Please feel free to pass this along to anyone who you think might want to help this worthy cause. It's not for me, it's for everyone.

* * *

We now return to your regularly scheduled programming...

Small Prayers

2009-03-05T00:13:00.000-05:00

These are the wishes I am sending out into the Universe tonight...

This evening on the train I listened for four stops as some girl complained, practically without breathing, about her restaurant job. Please, please, please, don't make me go back to that...

My application has been submitted and I am sitting on razor's edge, waiting to hear about this apartment. Please let the response be soon, and let it be positive. I don't deal well with this sort of uncertainty, and I fear that my stress level is verging on becoming damaging to my health...

I would really like a job. One that utilizes my talents and intellect, perhaps even my insanely expensive graduate degree, and does not leave me feeling as though my soul has been sucked into a vacuum to be stored for potential (and unlikely) future use...

I hope my audition next Tuesday for [Rep Company] goes well. It may not pay, but it is good people, good cred, good work, and something I would very much like to be a part of. If this aspect of my life were going well, I could totally be more flexible on the whole soul-sucking-employment thing...

It would be stellar if the $50 that I don't really have, but have invested in this whole Chemistry.com experiment, would yield either a good dinner, or a good lay. I won't taunt the benevolence of the Universe by asking for pseudo-science to deliver me a relationship, but I could really, really use a good fuck...

Out of the Frying Pan...

Crimes of the Heart

Running in Circles / Standing Still

Happy Trails...

A Thought...

Down the Rabbit Hole...

How It All Went Down

Contradictions

Well, That Was Awkward...

Cracked

So, Uh...

Venting...

In Brief (because I'm tired)

30 Going on 13

Good Karma... and Money

Stalemate

Stuff and Foolishness

Love In My Tummy

On Loss

Indeed...

I know...

Muffled

Just to Let You Know...

The Plot Thickens... No, Thins... No-- Oh F*** It.

Pieces

The Aftermath

The Opposite.

First Lesson of the New Year:

New Decade, Same Frog

Jiggity Jig

Eleven

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried...

Etc.

Boo!

Pop Quiz

Thoughts, Deep and Otherwise...

Of Noodles, Ingenuity, and Following Instructions

Health Nut

History

ARGH

So, About Last Night...

Tonight: Again

Limits

Food Porn

Out With the Old...

Fucking History...

It's Ba-ack...

*grumble*

Head First

"Guys...? Do you think it would be dangerous if i taped my nostrils shut?" *

Hello!!

Catching Up

De-Brief, In Brief

Grammar Lesson: Not Only / But Also

I...

Oh. My. Holy. Jesus.

Perspective.

Really Universe? REALLY??

Battered

Working Gal's Blues

Older and... Wiser?

Nom Nom Nom

Tidbit

Rut Rut Rut

I Can Hardly Believe It But...

Gotcha!

Recap

Mental Chiropractics

Little Lessons

Food Porn

Back from the Abyss

Bloggers + Alcohol =

R.I.P.

My Liver is Already Whimpering...

Raffle For A Cure!!

Lullabye

Gagged

Holy Shit, My Reader is Over 400...

One Foot in Front of the Other

In Brief

grumble

@#(&$_(&@(*&$!!!

Warning: It's another one of those posts...