Well, That Was Awkward...

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.

Stuff and Foolishness

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...

ARGH

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.

*grumble*

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.

Battered

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.

Mental Chiropractics

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.

Wit's End

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.

Lock Your Doors, I'm Going on a Rampage...

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.

Warning: It's another one of *those* posts...

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?

f*ck

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.

Rejection

No matter how you slice it, rejection sucks.

To be honest, I kinda saw it coming. Over the years my radar has been fine-tuned to a point of sensing the end long before the beginning is even in sight. I try to chalk it up to a deeply ingrained sense of cynicism, but the numbers keep proving otherwise.

Anyway, despite my doubts about the Contender, I've been trying... because you never know unless you try, right? But for the past few weeks (during which I haven't seen him--he's been sick) I was pretty sure his interest was fading.

Today I emailed him to see if he wanted to try to get together this weekend, and a few minutes ago he called to let me know that "it wasn't working out," and "he thought he was feeling it, but he wasn't, sorry."

So I (far too perkily) said "Okay" and thanked him for calling and not just vanishing into the stratosphere... then we basically wished each other a nice life and hung up.

And there you have it. On top of everything else stressing me out this week, the threat of dying alone once again looms large on the horizon.

Even though I wasn't really feeling it either, and even though I had a strong suspicion that this wasn't going anywhere... being rejected still sucks.

Even if I didn't want him, was it too much to want him to want me?

Apparently.

I guess I'll just have to take solace in the fact that the sex was mediocre at best... here's hoping a better Contender is lurking somewhere ahead.

Crabby

I'm feeling very crabby today.

While I technically have enough money to stay in my current apartment until roughly June 15th, logic dictates that it makes much more sense to move before I run out of money, and, as my father said on the phone yesterday, "putting it off won't make it suck any less." Thus, I have started apartment hunting.

For the record, the economic downturn does not appear to be affecting the housing market in NYC, which means that finding a cheaper apartment will most certainly result in either a drastic reduction in size of living space, or (the horror!) a roommate.

Or, you know, New Jersey. But really, we don't want to think like that.

And then there's my continuing unemployment. The bottom line is: I really need a job. Really. And it's biting me in the ass because the entire reason that I went to grad school in the first place is so that I wouldn't have to take another unfulfilling and mindless job just for the sake of having a job, and now it looks like that's exactly what I'm going to have to do.

Fuck.

So. Yes. The realities of life have got me feeling pretty pissy today, so here's a few pictures of things that make me happy.

The cake from Valentine's Day. It was every bit as awesome as it looks.

I would eat pizza every day if it wouldn't make me a total fat ass. However, when you make it yourself, it's actually not that bad for you, and thus I am on a seemingly never-ending mission to find the perfect NY style pizza crust recipe. This is last night's attempt, which was pretty damned good (and exactly what my hangover required).

I've started knitting my first ever pair of socks, and since I'm incapable of doing things the easy way, they are split-toed ninja socks! As in, I'm going to try to create a chart so I can knit a little ninja on the side. They're going to be awesome.


There. I feel marginally better. Time to eat leftover pizza and scour Craigslist for a decent apartment that's not a scam from someone claiming to live in Europe who needs me to pay $200 for her to send me the keys.

Joy.

Grargh...

That's my new way of saying "Argh"...

So anyway, I don't think I blogged about this, but back in January I set up an audition/interview to direct a play at a middle school. The job would have lasted a few months and been at least one source of income, as well as adding some much needed post-grad-school experience to my resume.

Originally I was going to take the first available interview date, but once the guy told me that I would also have to "audition" by teaching a 45 minute lesson on "whatever I wanted," I opted for a later date to give myself time to prepare.

Two days before my audition, I see that I have a missed call on my phone. I check my voicemail and there is a message from someone at the school saying "We found someone we liked and offered them the job, better luck next time," or words to that effect. Like they couldn't have waited TWO FREAKING DAYS to see if I was better?!?

Anyhow, through a random coincidence I was looking at an acquaintance's Facebook page and realized that she is the one who got the damned job.

So not only am I annoyed because I wasn't even given a chance, I'm also annoyed because, damnit, much as I like the girl, I am better.

Or at the very least, just as good.

Grargh.

Pet Peeve of the Day

People who are surprised when the subway starts moving.

That's what it's THERE FOR!!

Freaking morons.

(And no, at 12pm in the middle of Brooklyn on the most useless train in the entire system--which doesn't even go to Manhattan--they are NOT tourists. They're just idiots.)

*sigh*

It's been a long freaking day.

Cause for Ambien

This afternoon I sent out an invite on Facebook to NYC friends--mostly people in my program--to come see the show I've been working on with the kids for the past two months.

About half-way home on the subway this evening, it occurred to me: I didn't remember adding Slater to the list.

So when I got home, I logged onto Facebook... and he's no longer on my friends list.

I ran a search, and found two accounts with his name. One in Boston, and one with no photo or info. Then, like, an hour later I got a Facebook email from a friend about her birthday... and his name was on the list of people it had been sent to. But unlike all the other names, it wasn't linked so I couldn't click on it to get to a profile.

So... what gives? Is there some strange glitch in the Matrix, or have I officially been de-friended for some transgression of which I am completely unaware?

As if I didn't have enough on my mind already.

Christ, I'm never going to get to sleep tonight.

Irksome

I... am annoyed.

This is actually a significant downgrade from a few hours ago when I was thoroughly pissed-off, composing ranty blog posts in my head on the subway, and just generally in need of a juice box.

Or, you know, a fifth of gin. Whatever.

So clearly I've calmed down a bit, but the bottom line is: I am... displeased.

You see, in the last month I have heard nary a peep out of Slater, other than an invitation to attend his Master's Thesis presentation, which I had promised to attend ages ago, before he fell off the radar and essentially friend-dumped me by failing to return phone calls or text messages, and responding to lengthy emails with emotionless 2 line messages.

But, being the good friend that I am, I said I would go.

And dutifully this evening, I cut short a meeting that really could have stood to last longer and not feel so rushed, to hop in a taxi and race up to campus.

I arrived promptly at 7:00 for an event described in the invite as starting at 7:00ish... and promptly walked in on a class being held in the room I was told to go to.

Oooookay.

I both texted and called Slater, as well as texting another friend who I thought might have been invited. I received no responses. I would have texted others, but I didn't have any phone numbers.

I went back downstairs to the lobby where there are computer terminals and checked all of my email accounts to see if there’d been an email about a change. There hadn't.

I waited around outside to see if I’d run into anyone on their way in. I didn't.

I went back upstairs to see if there was a note on the door to the classroom that I’d missed. There wasn't.

I walked over to the building where most of our department can generally be found lurking in the lounge between classes to see if there was anyone who might know what was going on. There was a meeting in the lounge, and thus, there wasn't.

I went back to the original building and checked the junk mail folders of my email accounts in case an update had accidentally been filtered there. It hadn't.

I waited outside some more where I ran into my professor from the Uganda course who said I could go ask at the 7th floor office and they could tell me what room was being used. I went to the 7th floor and asked, but they could find no reservation including either Slater's name or the topic of his thesis. Help me? They couldn't.

At this point, I had spent half an hour running around, trying my damnedest to attend the thesis presentation of an individual who hadn't even seen fit to return my freaking phone calls for over a month, and I bloody couldn't.

So I sent him a text saying I'd tried and failed and was going home.

When I got home I emailed him a detailed list of my efforts, similar to the above (though of a decidedly more neutral tone).

Shortly after 9:00, I received the following text message:

"We had to relocate for that reason [the class, ed.]. I am so sorry you waited that long, i should have put up a sign but i was so tense i forgot to."

I texted back and asked at what time they had relocated, seeing as I arrived on time myself... and I never got a response. To that, or to my email.

Over a month of radio silence and disbelieving looks when people ask me "How's Slater?" and I tell them I have no idea; half an hour of running around like a lunatic trying to find a way to see his freaking thesis because that's just the kind of friend I am; two texts, a phone call, and an email...

And that's all I got.

A two line text message.

Is it wrong of me to say that it's not enough?

Quickie

About to dash out the door to rehearsal (in the rain, ick!) but just wanted to share:

The Russian Who Never Called just friend requested me on Facebook.

GAH!

Sleep or Breathe?

Fortunately, this is a choice that most normal people never have to make.

I, on the other hand? Am screwed.

You see, unlike everyone else on the planet, who after taking sudafed will immediately either pass out or become a catatonic mess, I will spend an entire night tossing and turning, heart racing, unable to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time, plagued by half-waking dreams involving the insubstantial plot of my NaNoWriMo novel laced with characters from the original 90210.

Right.

So basically, in an effort to not have a clogged up nose, thereby not sleeping with my mouth open all night, thereby not waking up with a sore throat... I ended up not really sleeping at all.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

I hate being sick.

Match.com = Just as Frustrating as the Real World... UGH!

So far my foray into the world of Match.com has yielded incredibly depressing results, which leads me to wonder: why exactly did I think this would be any easier than meeting someone out in the real world? And why did I pay for the opportunity to be disappointed?

Of every man that I have reached out to either by winking or emailing? NONE have responded. Not a single bloody one. The most interesting prospect didn't even view my freaking profile! Wow! I had no idea I was that uninteresting and/or unattractive.

Of all the men who have contacted me? One is somewhat interesting, but I can't seem to get excited enough to actually respond to his emails on a regular basis. And the rest? Are either: far too old, prematurely balding, poorly spoken (which is a deal breaker for me) with wretched grammar (even MORE of a deal breaker), well-spoken but have a profile that reads like a Dungeons and Dragons game-book, or just plain wonky-looking. In other words, not at all interesting to me. Like, even in the slightest.

So I'm beginning to wonder. All those profiles of men that I actually found attractive and/or interesting--and I was surprised to find so many!--that got me to say "oh the hell with it!" and pay for a membership to see what came of it... are they even real? Or does Match just sprinkle them through the website to lure in unsuspecting single girls? Not to be conceited, but I am a fairly attractive girl, which is why I find it just a liiiiiittle bit insulting that NOT A SINGLE FREAKING MAN that I have contacted has returned the favor. I mean, seriously, talk about disheartening...

Yes, I know I'm whining. Mostly I'm just annoyed with myself for shelling out money for this bullshit, as now I feel that I need to keep using it to "get my money's worth" even though all it's doing is pissing me off. Blech.

That being said, I totally need to email that guy from the conference. Just as soon as the decongestants kick in and remove the congestion-induced fog from my brain.

Hating myself...

Or, to be more specific, hating myself for the thoughts that started cycling through my head about an hour ago in the dressing room at Paragon Sports.

After yesterday's abortive attempt to buy a new athletic bathing suit (i.e., not a string bikini), I went back this evening in hopes of finding something that will allow me to swim laps at the gym while I wait for my hamstring to stop its little rebellion. I was standing there in the dressing room, after trying on dozens of suits that, if they fit on the bottom were baggy on the top, and vice versa, looking at the leg seams of the umpteenth bathing suit cutting into the fat on my thighs and ass, and for the first time ever I thought to myself: "Damn, I really want liposuction."

Not in that whiny, half-joking way that we all do from time to time... but in an "I wonder if the end of the semester surplus from my student loans would cover it" kind of way. As in, I really, seriously, 100% meant it.

Me... Little Miss "Love Your Body! Nobody is Perfect! Societal Ideals Are Bullshit!" wants to surgically vaccuum the fat out of her thighs.

And I kinda hate myself for that.

I guess my penance is that I just spent 70 fucking dollars on a bathing suit that looks terrible... because there was no other alternative.

Blech.