Crimes of the Heart

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.

Muffled

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.

Getting Ahead of Ourselves...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time and Distance

Last night, for the first time since it was purchased for me, I finally removed the Eye of Horus pendant that Violet bought for me in London (to protect me on my travels) and exchanged it for another pendant that I had purchased in Peru.

As I donned this new adornment, a lovely silverwork and stone llama purchased in Aguas Calientes, I thought back to the man from whom it was purchased.  I was on my way down from the hot springs, in no particular hurry as there were still several hours to kill before my train departed, and I happened to glance into a jewelry shop near the top of the hill, just past the hawkers renting towels and bathing suits.

It looked like any other jewelry store in town, though perhaps in a slightly more low-rent location, but something caught my attention about it.  In retrospect, I believe it was the proprietor.  He was of native descent (though they do still use the word "Indian" there, so I can say it without the PC Car Alarm going off in my head), and something about him was magnetic.  I can only describe it as a sense of supreme spiritual stillness.

I browsed his jewlery and found the llama pendant--which was not just a llama, but a green llama, and therefore clearly meant to be in my possession.  As I inquired as to the cost and decided to buy it, we began to talk (in Spanish, of course).  He asked my name, and when I told him he looked taken-aback for a moment--almost reverent.  It turns out that my name (with a very slight--and common--spelling variation) is a very important word in Quechua, the native Inca language.

He asked if I believed in spirits, and I told him that I did.

"Come here," he said.  "I want to show you something.  Just you."  He indicated a few other browsers wandering on the fringes of the shop.

He took me to a small photograph pinned to the wall behind his work table.  It was the back of a man--I think it was him--standing in front of a waterfall.  He pointed to an area of plant-covered rock beside the waterfall and asked "What do you see here?"

I looked for a moment, and then gasped.

"Oh wow!  It's a face!" I whispered.

He smiled.

"Yes, and here?"  He pointed again, and there was another.  He pointed out several more, all innocuously hiding in the rock face, like those old photos from the 70s where people claim to have seen faeries.  He went on to tell me that in that place there are many other figures in the rocks as well, including figures of Pumas, which are a sacred animal to the Inca culture.

He wanted me to go there.  Unfortunately, I was headed back down the mountain that night, and back to Cusco the following day. 

Then the power went out in the upper half of the town.  In the dark, he kissed me on both cheeks and we said goodbye.

If, as I hope to, I ever make it back that way, I will find him, and find that place.

I don't know what made him choose me over the others in the store.  I don't know what drew me into the store in the first place.  But last night as I put on this necklace it all came flooding back to me and it seemed so long ago, as if it had happened in another life.

Then I thought about it and realized that, actually, it had only been 16 days ago.

Time is nothing if not subjective.  Just as a sound or a smell can bring the distant past crashing back into your brain as though it were yesterday, a distance of a thousand miles can send yesterday reeling to the recesses of your mind, like a childhood toy discarded for bigger and better things.

What is it about distance that stretches time in such a distorted fashion?  Why is it that something that occurred only a few days ago somewhere far away, seems as though it actually happened and year ago?  Or a lifetime?

How can we hold onto something that happened in another world, once we've returned to this one?

We're in the Money..

Try as I might, it seems that I am entirely incapable of coaxing intelligent thought from my brain today.

And so, I give you...

Things I Would Do If I Won The Lottery
(One of the really big ones)

Of course, there is the obvious stuff:

• Pay off my student loans.


• Buy a house. Or, more specifically, buy a Brownstone in Brooklyn Heights.


• INVEST! You'd have to be an idiot to think lotto winnings--even huge ones--could last forever.


• TRAVEL! Antarctica here I come!

Then the less obvious, but still standard fare:

• Pay off my parents' mortgage. They've earned it.


• Send my parents to Europe, with or without me. Again, they've earned it.


• Buy random but heartfelt gifts for friends and family, even my Evil Ex Roommate (who is marginally less evil these days), because years ago I promised I would. Also it might piss her off a little, and what's the point of being filthy rich if you can't be just the tiniest bit petty?


• Buy a vintage Mustang. 1964 1/2 Convertible, Rangoon Red... hell-o cargasm!! (And of course, my Brownstone would have a garage in which to keep it.)

Then the much-more-personal:

• Spend a month in an Ashram, to keep my rich ass grounded. Ironic, really, that becoming filthy stinkin' rich is the only way I could afford to spend a month living a life of utter simplicity... because some other chick already had the bright idea to write a book about it).


• Become a Slow Foodie. Or a Slow-ish Foodie. I wouldn't stop eating out or occasionally ordering a pizza, but I would have a vegetable garden (and probably have to hire a gardener to keep me from killing it), grow my own herbs, bake my own bread, make my own condiments (I heart homemade ketchup), learn how to make tortilla chips, buy large quantities of meat direct from the farmers and keep it in my sub-zero freezer, etc...


• Build a pottery studio in my basement. I really miss spinning pottery, even if I was never particularly good at it.


• Keep working. I would still want to get my PhD and teach college. I would find an arts organization I love (or start my own!) and work for them for a pittance. Sure, I'd work part-time and take time off to travel and whatnot, but I would definitely still work.


• Take trapeze lessons. I worked at a Summer Camp many years ago, and it had a circus unit. One day when all the campers were on a field trip the head of Circus let all the counselors have a go on Fly and oh-my-lord... I have never been so terrified-yet-exhilarated in my life! Freaking awesome.


• Adopt one of those kids that Sally Struthers is always talking about. Not in the Angelina Jolie way, no no no! In the pay-for-the-kid-to-eat-and-have-clothes-and-get-an-education way. Then I can stop feeling that little pang of guilt in my gut whenever I see one of those commercials. Also, it would be a good thing to do.


• Buy small studio flats in cities I love, like Rome. And probably London. Sublet them to students at low prices when I'm not around--which will be most of the time.


• Buy a horse. I'd probably have to board it in Jersey because even though I've won the lottery I can only imagine how obscenely expensive it must be to board a horse within NYC. But that's totally alright... I can just drive my '64 1/2 Mustang on over the Hudson whenever I want to ride. Sun shining, top down, wind in my hair... what? Oh, sorry, got distracted.

Hmmm... that's all I can think of at the moment. (Feel free to take that "all" with a grain of salt.) It's funny, because if I were to win the "small" lottery, it's those items in the last section of the list that would most likely come to fruition.

I guess that means I'm the type of girl who would rather have trapeze lessons and a pottery studio than a house and a debt-free credit report.

I'm totally cool with that.

Also you don't have to pay real-estate taxes on trapeze lessons.

So what about you? What's your off-the-beaten-path lotto dream?

Emergence

"Oooooh! You have..."

Her voice trailed off, brown eyes sparkling as a small finger reached out to touch the back of my hand, where a recent run-in with a toaster oven had me sporting a Hello Kitty band-aid.

"...Hello Kitty!" She finished. "We have Hello Kitty too, but they're smaller, not big like that."

"Well there are lots of different kinds of Hello Kitty band-aids, I'm sure." I responded, smiling.

"What did you do?" Still running her finger over the band-aid.

"Well, I burnt my hand on a toaster oven and so now I'm wearing a band-aid."

"No no no! Tell me slowly! So first, you were trying to make toast...."

She settled back into her seat as if to concentrate as the train hurtled underground towards Brooklyn.

"And then you tried to stick your hand in the toaster..."

"No, it was a toaster oven."

"What's that?" A crinkled nose punctuating her confusion.

"It's like a little mini oven that sits on top of your counter."

"Ohhhh... and you were making toast?"

"I was making pizza. And it was very hot. And I burned myself."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"What did your mom say?"

I couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, I didn't actually tell her."

"Where does she live?"

"Pennsylvania."

"Where's that?" Nose crinkling once more.

"Wellll.... do you know where New Jersey is?"

A cautious nod.

"Well it's on the other side of New Jersey."

"Ohhh, and you live there too?"

"No, I live in Brooklyn."

"Why don't you live with your mom?"

"Because I'm old, and when you get old you don't live with your mom anymore. So I live by myself. When you get old you won't want to live with your mom anymore either."

"Shanti is the baby," changing subjects with the lightening speed that only small children can accomplish without appearing crazy, "she can't talk or walk or anything yet."

"Well then she definitely needs to live with her mom."

I smiled at my own cleverness.

She looked at me as though I were nuts.

"She lives with my auntie."

A pause.

"Do you know my auntie? Her name is Monique, but I call her Auntie Mo..."

"No, I don't think I know her."

"She's my mama's sister, and her mama is my mama's mama so she's my grandma and I'm her grandchild..." and she was off on a series of observations that I could not reproduce if I tried.

I smiled and answered her questions as her small body leaned into me and she once again began to run her finger over the band-aid.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"Can I see it?"

"No, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Let me see it!"

"No, I need to keep it clean."

She leaned in farther and as I felt her press against me I wondered, when was the last time I could trust a stranger like that? When the world, big as it may be, still seemed so safe? So secure?

The train began rolling into my station.

"This is my stop."

"No it's not!" she said with a smile, as though I were only joking.

"Yes, it is. It was very nice talking to you. You be good for the rest of the ride, okay?"

"Okay! Byeeeee..."

As I stood up, shouldered my ridiculously heavy bag, and wandered across the platform to wait for my connecting train, I realized...

I was still smiling.

And just like that, the black cloud that had been hanging over me all week began to lift.

Who knew my salvation would come in the form of a five year old girl?

Grocery List

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

Permanently single.

Terminally single.

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

Eventually.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be reasonably attractive.

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

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

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

Shower and brush your teeth regularly. Shaving is optional.

Know how to tell a joke.

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

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

I like sex. A lot. You should too.

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

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

Unless she does it first.

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


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

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


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


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

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

I like sex. A lot.

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

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

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

I like sex. A LOT.

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

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

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

I'll try almost anything once.

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

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

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

I can walk a mile in 4" heels.

I love football (and understand the rules!).

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

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

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

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

Routine

Gah! That's it! I simply cannot be insightful today. I have, in fact, done something I never do: I've saved a post to the Drafts folder because, right now? I don't have the mental capacity to translate those thoughts into coherent sentences. And they are thoughts that deserve to be coherent. So they shall wait.

This is a problem I've been having quite a lot since I returned. I was blaming the jet-lag, but really? I think that a large part of my brain is still subconsciously processing the past few weeks. Sort of like when your computer is running diagnostics in the background and all your programs run just the tiiiiiniest bit slower... that is what's happening in my head.

And I need to snap out of it. I'm back at work, the new semester has started, and I've got a million-and-one things on my plate all begging for my immediate attention. My brain has taken an unmarked detour and now I need to locate the on-ramp to reenter my routine.

So I'm blogging about nonsense. That's pretty routine.

Last night I had the first class of the new semester. It came highly recommended from everyone who has taken it, and I can already tell that these were not exaggerations. It is definitely going to be a good class and I am excited to see what the semester brings.

There is also at least one very attractive man--who is in my program but I had not previously encountered--taking the class as well. There are, in fact, several attractive men in this class, but one in particular stood out to me yesterday. Perhaps a new crush in the making...

Oh, don't look at me like that! Eye candy makes even the dullest of classes more enjoyable--in a good class it's just an added bonus!

Speaking of crushes, I invited B to the joint birthday celebration I am having with some friends this weekend--and told him that The Girlfriend was welcome as well. How's *that* for progress?

Pardon me while I pat myself on the back.

Last night I dreamt I was riding a motorcycle backwards, and my companion couldn't figure out why I was having such a hard time steering. Let it be known that anti-malarial medication causes some crazy nocturnal musings.

I have been eating salads non-stop since I returned to the States. You never realize how much you'll miss lettuce until you can't have it for several weeks.

I am supposed to have 3 books read before my weekend class begins tomorrow. I have read approximately 20 pages of the shortest one. Really, sending us this information less than 2 weeks before the class starts (while I am in AFRICA, no less!) is completely unacceptable.

But I will still be reading like a fiend when I get home from work tonight.

And baking cupcakes.

Mmmm... cupcakes.

Resolutions, Schmesolutions

Another year has come and (almost) gone, and we've reached that point where millions of people in quiet desperation say "Next year will be better! Next year I will be better!"

Not me.

The last New Years Resolution I made was so very cliche--to stop smoking--and we all see how well that turned out! (Nevermind that I was talked into it by Evil Ex Roommate who promptly started smoking again less than a month later, qualifying it by saying "oh I never really wanted to quit, just cut back a little... if I can only smoke when I go out, I'm happy with that"... you can imagine just how long *that* lasted.)

But I digress.

To me, New Years Resolutions are of the same ilk as Valentines. Just like choosing one day of the year to actually express your affection for the people you care about, what is the point of choosing one day a year to say NOW I will be a better person? NOW I will do all the things I should have been doing for the last 27 years of my life...?

You can just as easily choose to turn your life around on the 23rd of March. Or, as I did, somewhere in late December when you're temping in a law firm and some lawyer you've just met asks what you're waiting for... why don't you apply to grad school NOW?

Because, you see, 2007 really has been a turning point for me in my life, almost entirely due to going back to school. For the first time in, well, ever really, I feel like my life has some direction.

I'm not entirely sure what that direction is, but I'm headed somewhere. I feel like I've been treading water for the past five years, and while I've had a great time doing so, the feeling of stagnation was starting to overtake me. Now I feel that I'm genuinely moving forward, and that feeling? It's pretty damned good.

So I won't bother with a Grandiose Recap of 2007, mostly because I can't think of anything really significant that happened prior to September. So maybe that's when I should celebrate my own personal New Year. Hmmmm... not a bad idea really.

I've got a good feeling about 2008, and not just because the stars are aligned in my favor. I'm in a good place now. I've got a plan, a trajectory that may shift course slightly, but I know more or less where I'm headed.

2008 will bring travel. First to Uganda (which, dear god, I leave for in a scant 5 days!), and then hopefully to Ireland and Brazil in the Summer. I am also hoping to maybe, for the first time ever, actually travel during my Spring Break--Spain or Amsterdam anyone?

2008 will bring the continuation of school--new classes, new people (like New Guy, who I met at A's party, who is starting my program in January), as well as the return/continuation of old friendships--Slater, and yes, B.

2008 will also bring the completion of my Master's Degree. 'Nuff said.

And, most importantly, 2008 will bring surprises. New discoveries--about myself, about others, about life--new friends, new experiences, new chances.

That is, I suppose, why it's called a "New Year."

So raise a glass, my friends, and toast yourselves. Who you are now. Who you will become.

Resolutions be damned.

I... have no idea what to call this one.

My brain is all over the place today.

This morning I left the apartment (late, as usual), got about halfway down the block, and realized I'd left something important at home.

Crap.

So I walked back down the block, up three flights of stairs, got what I'd forgotten, walked back down three flights of stairs, back down the block, and around the corner.

I got all the way to the subway, through the turnstile, and was about to go down the stairs when I realized... that when I'd gone back to the apartment, I'd left my purse there.

Motherf***er.

So back I go. Calling work on the way to tell them that maybe I'm gonna be a leeeetle bit late. Or later than usual. Whatever.

So yes, I'm a mess today. Thankfully the office holiday party starts in half an hour and I will not be required to use my brain any more for the rest of the day.

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For no discernable reason, I got a record number of hits on Monday! A whopping fourty-two! Now, I know that for all you bloggers who get hits in the hundreds that may not seem like a lot, but for those of us who generally hover in the low to mid 20s? Kindofabigdeal.

*sniffs* You like me... you really like me!

I really can't explain why I feel the compulsion to imitate Sally Field's 1985 Oscar acceptance speech every time the opportunity presents itself. Let's just call it a charming personality quirk and move on, m'kay?

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So anyway, what I actually intended to blog about when I logged on here...

I think I'm over it.

B, that is.

It started on Monday after our final crit. Unbeknownst to me until we emerged from the stairwell, The Girlfriend was meeting him to deliver Christmas presents she'd bought for his family. So I waited patiently (we had come up to smoke and I was in need of his lighter) and somewhat awkwardly while she delinated each and every toy in the doggy stocking. But something sorta clicked in that moment. I can't really explain what it was, but something shifted.

We went out for a drink last night after another school function. Slater was supposed to join us but due to unforseen circumstances had to leave. B and I agreed to a strict "just one drink" policy, as he still had to pack (he left for the holidays today), and I wanted to get back to Brooklyn before my shitty train was replaced by an even shittier shuttle bus for the evening.

So we went to the same bar we went to that first time. No, not the Froggy's-drunken-confessional time, the time before. I am totally in love with that bar and feel the need to go there more often, as does he. Anyway, we sat and had our one beer, and for once I wasn't feeling conflicted or frustrated or like I wanted to jump him right there on the spot.

We walked to the subway, shared a hug (which has only ever happened, like, twice before. Once after the confessional, and once after Slater's party), and went our seperate ways.

I didn't walk away giddy, like I used to. But I also didn't walk away stewing in my own frustration.

I just... walked.

Hey, it's a start.

Strange Days...

I know it's only half over, but it's been a weird week.

I have been cast in two different shows... as a monster, and a Chinese guard in a Tibetan prison (note: I am not even remotely Asian). Neither are roles I would ever have envisioned for myself. Have I been sending out some sort of dark vibe lately?

The doctor's bill issue has been resolved. When nobody had returned my call by 12:00, I called them back. I don't really understand what the woman said, but it concluded with her telling me that the account has been closed and I don't owe them anything. "Then why the hell did you send me a f***ing BILL?!?" I wanted to shout. Then I thought the better of it and politely got off the phone before she could change her mind.

When I went out to get my lunch, I walked through a cloud of clove cigarette smoke. I love, love, LOVE that smell, and it always makes me particularly nostalgic as I smoked cloves like a fiend for my first 3 years in college (even though they were illegal in Maryland, so we had to go across the border to PA to buy them).

I was basking in the happy memories brought on by this scent as I stepped into the elevator... followed promptly by a man who smelled like my grandma's basement. That's a whole 'nother bucket 'o' nostalgia, and I must say I enjoyed the previous one much more.

(Not that there's anything wrong with my grandma. Or her basement. But the latter didn't smell all that great.)

On the giddy-girly end of the spectrum, after my email Maybe Crush did indeed bring the DVD for me, hooray! We also stood around after class smoking (what can I say? stress has a way of bringing back bad habits), and then walked together until I got to my train. It's not exactly a sunset stroll through the park (well, we did walk through a park, but it was already dark), but I can't help thinking that if he didn't want to talk to me, he could have parted ways outside the building. He didn't have to walk with me... right? Right?

Seriously, this crush is going to be the death of me. Please, let me know if y'all are sick of hearing about it. I know I'm a big dork :)

So that's why I was in a good mood when I got home--before the whole doctor's bill incident. To calm myself down I had a beer and watched the DVD. It was freaking awesome, so of course I emailed him about it. There have now been a few emails exchanged on the subject. Is it silly that I take this as a good sign?

Sorry kids, I'm seeking validation here. I haven't been this far in crush in a loooong time. I was despairing that there were any straight, single, attractive men even left in this city... of course I go off the deep end when I finally find one.

Le double sigh.

Am hopefully meeting my friend A for an early drink sometime this evening. I've been so busy between school and work that I haven't seen any of my "old" friends in nearly a month! With the evil paper finally over with, I figured I deserve a night off from school work. All work and no play makes Froggy a very dull girl.

Or at the very least, a cranky one.