Froggy's Kitchen

I should probably be working on my NaNo Novel right now (Wordcount: 16,284, hope to be at 20k by the end of the day) but instead I thought I'd fulfill your requests for recipes and other foodie goodness!

The Kaiser Rolls

First, a disclaimer on bread baking in general. I've been doing this for awhile. Bread-baking has been a hobby of mine for years, and in the last year or so I've started doing it quite often. It's not too terribly difficult, but it is time-consuming, and does take some practice. You may want to start out with a more basic loaf before diving into things like rolls and bagels. Let me know if you're looking for recipes!

Right, on to the rolls.

I found the recipe here, which has recently become my go-to resource for bread recipes--these people know their stuff! I'm not going to cut and paste the recipe, as the linked post is quite detailed with lots of helpful pictures, so you can check it out there!

That being said, I think I did alter the recipe to use a poolish, which is basically a small portion of the dough that is made the night before and left out to proof at room temperature. It gives the dough a richer flavour.

Shaping these was a little tricky, but I did a bit of research and gave it my best go. The rolls puffed up a bit more than Kaisers are supposed to, but the end result tasted great, so for a first attempt I was pleased.


Bagels

These were tricky, and some of them came out better than others. Once again, I found the recipe on The Fresh Loaf. This recipe came from a book which is totally going on my Christmas list, The Bread Baker's Apprentice, and as such I stopped into Barnes and Noble and read over the book's version of the recipe before embarking on this particular mission. The shaping instructions in the book were a bit clearer, which helped.

Based on information I found on another website (I think I'm going to try this recipe next time), I boiled the bagels longer than indicated in the BBA recipe--2 minutes per side--and also added malt syrup to the water rather than baking soda. Unfortunately, I over-baked a few of them afterwards. Definitely a timing issue that needs to be worked on!

Oh, and my "Everything Bagel" topping consisted of: coarse sea salt, fresh ground pepper, poppy seeds, toasted sesame seeds, dried minced onion, and dried minced garlic. Tasty!!


Pizza

Oh, the neverending search for the perfect, NY style pizza dough! It is a long and arduous task, and one that has resulted in many a pizza dinner, some better than others.

I'm not sure which recipe I pictured in the last post, but the most recent candidate was found here. While the consistency of this dough was not exactly what I had in mind, it has the best flavour of any recipe I have tried so far. However, the consistency problem could be chalked up to two factors.

1.) This recipe gives a baking time that is WAAAAAYYYY TOO LONG! I pulled it out at exactly 20 minutes and my cheese was about 2 seconds away from being burnt. Of course, it's technically my fault for not checking on the pizza sooner, so next time I'll be more careful.

2.) The yeast. This recipe differs from every other pizza dough recipe (and nearly every bread recipe) I have tried in that, rather than dissolving the yeast in the water as the first step, all of the other ingredients are mixed together and then the yeast is sprinkled over the dough and kneaded in. Being that I used Active Dry rather than Instant yeast (I just learned the difference a few days ago, oops!), the yeast might not have activated properly. I'll have to get a different type and try again.

Another key to good pizza is a pizza stone. They're a bit on the pricey side (or so I'm told, mine was a gift), but I hear that unglazed/untreated quarry tiles work just as well. Learning to get a pizza onto a pizza stone without launching the toppings across the back of the oven takes some time--I'm still learning myself. Though this last attempt was the most fruitful to date.


Herbed Chicken with Roasted Savory Sweet Potatoes

This meal was insanely easy to throw together.

First, the chicken.

Preheat oven to 350.

Take a large chicken breast--or more sections of bone-in chicken if you're feeding multiple people--and trim off any excess fat or skin, but leave most of the skin on. Rinse, and pat dry with a paper towel.

One side at a time, sprinkle liberally with salt, fresh ground pepper, sage, thyme, and paprika. Use your fingers to lightly rub in the spices.

Place chicken in a large baking dish, uncovered, and bake for one hour.


Now, the sweet potatoes.

Peel and dice as many potatoes as necessary, based on the number of people you are feeding. Place diced potatoes in a large bowl and drizzle lightly with olive oil. Add salt, pepper, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, and thyme (if I'd had any rosemary, I would have added that too). Toss for a minute to evenly coat potatoes with oil and spices.

Spread potatoes on a large baking sheet and place in oven on lower rack. Bake for approximately 30 minutes, turning once about halfway through baking time.

Voila! Serve with a chopped salad or other veggie and you are good to go! I like Annie's Naturals Organic Ketchup for dipping the potatoes. Tastes better than Heinz AND no high fructose corn syrup! I've tried making my own ketchup several times, but it always comes out tasting like tomato sauce. Now that I've found Annie's, I stopped.


Pumpkin Ravioli

I found this recipe here, an excellent resource for user submitted and reviewed recipes. If you make an account, you can save recipes to your recipe box and have them on hand anywhere that you've got an internet connection! (Side note, my BFF turned me on to this one which is totally rockin' and adored by anyone I've ever made it for!)

The only significant change I made to this recipe was adding some freshly ground pepper to the filling to give it a bit more bite. Otherwise I made everything as-is.

Rolling the dough was a bit tricky. In the end, I went to my fabric stash and found some muslin, which I cut into a rectangle and attached to my giant butcher's block cutting board with duct tape. I then liberally floured the muslin and rolled the dough out on that. The dough tried to stick to my rolling pin, but if you keep some flour on hand you should be fine. They do make cloth sleeves for rolling pins (my mom has one) for rolling out sticker dough, but alas I do not have one. Hey, work with what you've got, right?

My chief warning is: Do Not Overfill Your Ravioli! I did, and it made it a pain in the arse to seal them up. Fortunately, none of them exploded while boiling, but I thought they would.

Now, I served them with a Garlic Pumpkin Cream Sauce that I sort of made up as I went along. The sauce itself was decent, but was a bad combination with the ravioli for two reasons: first, the sauce was too rich and overpowered the flavour of the ravioli itself; and second, the sauce was a yellowish-orange colour, which clashed horribly with the reddish-orange of the pasta. Read: it did not look pretty, and in case you hadn't noticed from the photos, I like my food to be pretty.

That being said, I would recommend serving these simply with butter or oil and salt. Save the rich sauces for a simpler pasta.


And there you have it! Notes from Froggy's Kitchen! Tonight I will be making a chicken using this, which is super-easy and makes a fabulous bird!

Photos will be forthcoming, I am sure.

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!

Bits 'n' Bobs

Wow, food porn sure brings the lurkers out the woodwork! Welcome, new friends, make yourselves comfortable :)

I will absolutely honor the requests for recipes and the like, but not today, as I have a wedding to attend and lots of stuff to get done before I leave--like writing 1700 words for NaNoWriMo (current wordcount: 13,133... over 1/4 of the way there!), since lord knows I'll be too drunk to do it when I get home.

So, on to the randomness:

I think John Stewart has a bit of a man-crush on Paul Rudd (who could blame him?), but that's okay, as I think I've got a bit of a girl-crush on Rachel Maddow.

Grilled salami & pepper jack on homemade Italian bread = possibly the awesomest sandwich ever. I recommend you go make one right now! Provided, of course, that you know how to bake bread...

I wrote to Cute Conference Guy last night, and got a response this morning. While the response was prompt and friendly, it didn't quite seem like an "oh, I remember thinking you were hot and hope this is an entryway into further communication" type email, so.... I don't know. I will write back and see what comes of it, but I'm not holding my breath.

The wedding I'm attending tonight is one that I've been looking forward to all year. I've known this couple since I first moved to NYC, and they might just be my favourite couple ever. Also, they manage to throw fabulous parties in tiny Brooklyn apartments, so I have high hopes for this evening. Let's just hope my phantom, here-one-minute-gone-the-next cold stays away for the evening.

And the new shoes I got to wear? Beyond fabulous! The red is a little darker than the picture, but paired with my vintage 1950s royal blue velvet party dress? They're going to look killer. (And if they don't, I've got plenty of plain black pumps to fall back on.)

Also wedding-related, I am currently attempting to recreate this look, which I have managed twice before with minimal difficulty... but right now my hopes are not high. Fingers crossed that it works, or I will be doing an emergency wash-under-the-faucet-and-flat-iron before leaving the house.

In case you couldn't tell, I like getting dressed up for other people's weddings. Perhaps because it's doubtful I'll ever have one of my own (nor do I want one, for that matter), but mostly because it's an excellent excuse to get all decked out and remind myself (and everyone else) just how nicely I clean up when I put my mind to it.

I hope the weather holds out. It's fairly grim and grey right now, but I think it's supposed to brighten up later.

Hmmm... it appears that most of this randomness was wedding-related. Guess I had a theme after all!

Right, off to be productive.

Happy Friday!

More Reasons Men Should Be Lining Up At My Door...

As we all muddle our way through the day, dealing with post-election depression (it's sort of like post-partum depression, only without being responsible for an infant), I thought I would provide you all with a little fluff to brighten your day (and whet your appetite).

Behold!  Further evidence that my continuing singleness is absolutely criminal.

Exhibit A
Homemade Kaiser Rolls.



Not bad considering they were my first attempt.

Exhibit B
Homemade Bagels


Proof that I actually did it myself.



Um, hello?  Who wouldn't want to wake up to fresh bagels on a Sunday without having to leave the house?

Exhibit C
Homemade Pizza



I've been making pizza at least once a week, sometimes more, as I continue my search for the ultimate crust recipe.

Exhibit D
Herbed Chicken with Roasted Savory Sweet Potatoes

 

A.) Sweet potatoes are a million times better when made with herbs and spices vs. sugar and marshmallows; and

B.) It's moderately depressing eating a rockin' meal like this alone while watching Bones on your DVR.

Exhibit E
Pumpkin Ravioli... FROM SCRATCH!!

Seriously. From.  SCRATCH.

Does this one even require further justification as an illustration of my awesomeness?  No?  Good.

Exhibit F
Behold... My Halloween costume:



Okay, okay, so it's not food... but only, like, 3 people actually got to see my costume on Halloween, so I felt the need to share. Especially considering that if I keep eating all of this fabulous food by myself, I'll never fit into that costume again!

I'm the smiley face :)

And so here I sit, basking in the smell of the two ginormous loaves of Italian bread currently baking in my oven, and contemplating what I will do with the leftovers after cooking an entire chicken just for myself.

Expect another installment in this series before the week is out.

Jubilation

11:05pm.

I checked the time on my cell phone as I exited the subway, cursing the G train for having taken so long, and NYU for making us attend class rather than stay home glued to MSNBC.

I reached the top of the stairs and stepped onto the sidewalk. A few muffled shouts echoed down the street, but that's not unusual for Brooklyn.

It was as I turned the corner onto my block that the car horns started. Blaring down the street with a rhythm saying something other than the usual "Hey you! Get out of my way!" More cheers filtered into the general cacophony and I quickened my pace toward home.

It was like a ripple effect. One by one, apartments on my block erupted into raucous cheers. Through the windows, shadows bounced as people jumped and danced in celebration.

And I knew.

As a smile broke across my face and my stoop came into view, a voice from a neighboring window echoed the thought that was circling through my head.

"It's just like World War II ending!"

Tonight Brooklyn, and America, celebrates.

Yay, Participatory Democracy!

 

Alas, my polling station did not have stickers, thus I am forced to make due with this digital version.

At any rate, today I voted! Hooray! And I hope all of you able to do so did the same.

This is an exciting election for me, not only because for the first time since I've been able to vote, it looks like my candidate of choice will actually win, but also because this is the first election where I've actually been able to vote in person.

When I turned 18 it was not a presidential election year, and I could not justify missing two days of college in November to trek back to PA and vote for the state senate.

In the 2000 Bush v. Gore election, I was living abroad and voted by Absentee, then sat in the kitchen of my grotty student flat with my other American flatmate, staring at election coverage on British television, chain smoking and bemoaning the fact that we were 6 hours ahead and would not be able to get the results until the next morning... or, as it turns out, until several days later.

In the 2004 Bush v. Kerry election, I was living in NYC but still registered in PA, voting once again by absentee.

Thus, it was with genuine excitement that I got dressed and prepared to head up the street to my polling station (only about 6 blocks away) and cast my vote in what is possibly the most important election of my lifetime so far.

I made my way to the polling station, which was somewhat chaotic having something like 10 precincts voting in the same room, and only one booth for each, but the lines weren't all that long and, amazingly, nobody seemed to mind.

There was a palpable sense of excitement and even joy in the air, humming with the clicking and clanking of the ancient voting booths. As I signed in and took my place in line, a girl emerged from the voting booth and did a little dance, giving a whoop of joy. A few minutes later, her boyfriend followed suit. The people in line made idle, friendly chit chat with each other as we moved slowly forward. Another woman came tumbling out of the booth and came up to her friend in line.

"Those words were so small! I couldn't see anything! I was just like, show me where Obama at, I don't care about them other names, just show me Obama!"

Much as I may have wanted to, I could hardly fault her for her disinterest in the other offices holding elections. I had no idea who these men and women running for Brooklyn Court Justices were either.

As I took my place at the head of the line, I watched as the gentleman in front of me had serious trouble with the booth--the giant red lever appeared to be stuck. I stood, frozen, thinking: Well wouldn't it just figure if the freaking booth broke right before I get to vote!. Fortunately, the volunteers set things to rights and I was able to enter and cast my vote without any difficulty, smiling as the red lever slid smoothly back to neutral.

As I left the polling place, I got the distinct feeling that this election has pulled voters out of the woodwork who would not normally be bothered, and that excites me--that people in this country are finally taking an interest in how it is being run. Sure, it took an expensive, seemingly-neverending war and a serious financial meltdown to wake them up, but now that they are awake, perhaps we can finally do something.

It's time to remind the rest of the world that, while we have been behaving like the bully on the playground for the last decade or so, there is still some good left in this nation. A lot of good. We just need to start acting like it.

As I was walking back to my apartment, a guy headed in the opposite direction stopped me in the middle of an intersection.

"Did you just come from voting?"

"Yes, I did."

"How is it over there?"

"It's not bad, not bad at all."

I wondered, how could he tell? What made him ask me? Perhaps it was because I was the only person on the street who appeared gainfully employed, but I like to think it was the smile on my face.

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.

P.S. - What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

50,000 : The word count goal for midnight on November 30th.

1,930 : Words so far.

30 : Minutes spent trying to log onto massively overloaded website to update my word count.

1 : Rooms cleaned before writing commenced (because my apartment has reached such a disaster level as requires cleaning rooms one at a time)

2 : Other massive writing projects to be completed (or nearly completed) during the month of November (a play, and, oh yeah! A freaking THESIS which is going to have to be completely re-planned due to fuckery of the University's review board.)

3 : Days since cold symptoms first appeared, which seem to be neither increasing nor diminishing

240 : milligrams of sudafed consumed in the last 24 hours.

11ish : Number of times I stood up and immediately got a headache/felt dizzy/both.

0 : Number of directions I can move my neck without feeling stiffness and/or pain.

2 : Stores visited in search of candy corn, all for naught!

4 : Episodes of first season of the original Beverly Hills 90210 watched.

6 : Times wondered in which season David Silver's annoying little friend accidentally shoots himself.

2 : Incorrect actress identifications (Hot Math Teacher's Wife ≠ Erica Hahn on Greys, and Cindy Walsh ≠ the mother from "Son in Law," I blame the sudafed).

3 : Times I've almost ended this post, the come up with something else to add to the list.

29 : Minutes since I should have gone to bed. 36 after edits.

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.

The Curse

Apparently there are forces at work against me in this universe. Specifically, these forces seem to take issue with my owning a vertically striped scarf, procured in a spanish-speaking country, with colours of a reddish variety.

I had one a few years ago. My cousin bought it for me as a gift from Spain. I wore it to my local bar one night and left it draped over the back of my stool--under my leather jacket. At the end of the night the jacket remained, but the scarf had vanished, never to be seen again.

This summer, I bought another one in Peru. Not identical, mind, but similar. I wore it today--with the same leather jacket--to the second day of my conference. I took it off in my last breakout session, as we were jumping around and I was getting hot. I remember being on the opposite side of the room and seeing it sitting on top of a pile of leftover green fabric, and thinking to myself "I musn't forget to grab my scarf on the way out..."

So guess what I did?

An hour after the session ended, when we had eaten cheese, had a raffle, and listened to a retirement tribute to a woman most of us didn't know, I was getting ready to leave and realized... shit! My scarf!

I ran back down to the room where I had left it, but it was already set up for another event, and when I asked the people there if they had seen it, they told me they had been banished from the room during setup.

I checked at the Operations office. No luck, nor could they locate the cleaning lady.

I checked the coat room for the conference, but to no avail.

I found the people who had facilitated the workshop where I'd lost it and asked if they'd seen anything. Apparently they recalled someone picking it up and asking "Is this yours?" but the memory ends there. (Though one of them did ask for my phone number... and I think he was only half joking. Too bad it wasn't the guy from yesterday.)

I asked the conference coordinator. She said a red scarf had been handed in, but when we went to find it, it was gone. "It must have been someone else's," she said.

I went back to Operations and waited... and waited... and still they couldn't find it. A lady took my name and number.

I talked to the cleaning crew when I went to make a final check upstairs. They were adamant that they'd found nothing.

So my question is: who the fuck would steal a scarf from a freaking CONFERENCE? A conference of Arts Educators, no less? I mean, I know we're all poor, but is this really what it's come to? Stealing from one another?

And more importantly: why doesn't the universe want me to have a red scarf? Particularly one of sentimental value?

If I weren't such a damned cynic, I'd think it was a metaphor for something larger... like my inability to hold onto love, or some shit.

Really, though, I think it's just the universe fucking with me.

I wish it would stop.


__________________

UPDATE: I just received an email from the guy running the workshop (whom I emailed last night in desperation) and my scarf has been found! It got mixed up with their loose fabric and ended up in their suitcase. HOORAY!!!

Somewhere Between Here and There...

My brain feels a little mushy today.

Yesterday was entirely lost to a hangover of such magnitude as I have not experienced in a very long time. I attempted to rouse myself twice before nightfall, failing miserably when overcome by nausea within 20 minutes of becoming vertical, forced to flee to the heavenly feather-filled nest that is my bed until well after sundown. Apparently, hangovers can turn you in a vampire.

It was nearly 7pm by the time I was able to successfully consume solid food--at which point I decided to go for broke and order a pizza. My neighbors were having a party which left my bedroom smelling like smoke from the smokers on the stoop, and I finally fell back asleep somewhere around midnight.

I spent all of today at a conference, to which I will be returning tomorrow, and which has left me in need of some advice.

You see, one of the presenters in my first breakout session this morning was pretty damned cute (to my geek-lovin' eyes anyway), and I stuck around to talk to him for a few minutes after the session ended, but then I needed to head downstairs and find coffee before the keynote address, and he was leaving. I couldn't quite muster a reasonable excuse to give him my card, but he did say "Well, you can always reach me through [Company] if you want to talk about Shakespeare or... anything."

His email address is in the conference materials. Do I email him? If I do so, do I need to come up with a reasonable conference-related excuse for doing so, so I'm not blatantly hitting on him? Having never found a conference presenter attractive before, I am unclear on the etiquette in these situations.

What are your thoughts?

Adventures in Red Hook

So…

Today I decided that it was finally time to bite the bullet and wash my non-tumble-dry-able sofa slipcover because it was, in a word, disgusting.

I removed it, found some sheets with which to cover my now naked couch, applied stain stick to the more profound spots of grime, double-checked the washing instructions online, went searching for quarters, realized I was out of laundry detergent, went out to buy more, came home, lugged everything to the Laundromat, and washed the slipcover.

When I pulled it out of the washing machine half an hour later, it looked worse than when it had gone in. One of the back cushion covers was now an interesting shade of yellow, none of the afore-mentioned grime appeared to have gone anywhere, and in fact some of it appeared to have spread. I pointed this out to the man working at the Laundromat, who said it was my fault for not using bleach. When I explained that the washing instructions specifically stated not to use bleach, he mumbled something else and wandered away.

Perfect.

So I loaded the still-filthy mass of formerly white fabric into my laundry bag and lugged it home. However, before attempting to find some way of air drying the sodden monstrosity, I decided to check IKEA’s website to see how much a new slipcover would cost.

Lo and behold! Since I am apparently one of the only people crazy enough to actually have a white couch, the white slipcover was on sale for $49! I figured it would cost me at least that much to attempt to dry-clean the current cover back into some semblance of decency (if it didn't succumb to mildew during the drying process), I decided it was time to take a trip down to the new IKEA that was recently built in Brooklyn—in Red Hook, to be exact.

One train and one bus later, there I was… and let me tell you, I have been a customer in several IKEA locations, and am used to their labyrinthine floor plans, but good grief!

After finding out where to get my slipcover, getting lost in a maze of closets, picking up a few other items along the way (who? me?!), and getting acquainted with the backs of the heads of the other customers in the TWO open check-out lanes, my mission was a success!

My couch looks brand new… and I have a wok, an apron, some new oven mitts, a lifetime supply of tea-light candles, and two new glasses… one of which I just discovered is cracked.

Guess I’ll have to go back to IKEA.

Snippets

Can I blog and watch "The Colbert Report" at the same time? Time to find out!

There was a whole bunch of crap in here, and I just deleted it. For some inane reason, I was convinced that I needed to write a post prior to midnight, so that it would show up as "today" (Monday) as opposed to "tomorrow" (Tuesday). What the hell is wrong with me?

Why is it okay to say "jag-off" on TV, but not "jerk-off"? They mean the same thing, and neither one is technically obscene.

Colin Powell has endorsed Obama! I would too, if the NYS Department of Elections would send me the damned voter registration card I requested 2 weeks ago that was supposed to have been mailed within 3 days--or so I was told by the pre-recorded voice that asked me to state my name and address after the beep. Seriously, the fact that it is impossible to get a human being on the phone, EVER, at any government agency these days makes me wonder: Where the hell has all the government's money gone, anyway? It's certainly not paying for receptionists.

The idea of NaNoWriMo is still niggling at the back of my mind... Anyone else indulging in this particular breed of madness?

Speaking of madness, I've got about 24 hours in which to come to my senses and cancel my Match.com account without having to pay any money. I mean, seriously... do I really want to pay $24 a month to reinforce the fact that I can't find a date?

Why am I asking so many questions tonight?

Wynton Marsalis is so cute.

Two-minutes to midnight... Inane Mission Accomplished! G'night y'all!

Am I Insane?

My craptastic attitude has been put on the backburner for the weekend to marvelous effect. That may have something to do with the fact that I spent most of yesterday sleeping off an Out-Till-4am-With-The-Lovely-Miss-A-Hangover, and I was therefore too braindead to really feel anything one way or another :)

Last night I had the joy of attending a Jazz concert at Carnegie Hall. I'd never been before, and got to sit in the Executive Box, no less! (I have a friend who works there). Good music and great seats, not a bad way to wind up a crazy hungover day.

So, on to my potential insanity. A friend from high school just Facebooked me with an invitation to join NaNoWriMo... and I'm almost considering it. There are several reasons why this idea is pure lunacy:

1. November is already going to be the month from hell. Why on earth would I add on another, totally voluntary, stressor?

2. I'm already neglecting the hell out of my blog. What on earth makes me think I can write a freaking novel?

3. See Reason 1. Rinse. Repeat.


And yet... it's oh-so-very-tempting.

These masochistic tendencies always get me into trouble.

Oh Good Grief...

After months of threatening, I finally did it.

I put a profile up on Match.

I'm chalking it up to temporary insanity... but I've got 7 free days in which to come to my senses and cancel before being charged whatever ridiculous sum of money for the membership.

I was surprised to see how many genuinely attractive men currently have profiles posted. It makes me wonder what their fatal flaws are that leave them single.

Then again, I am also single, and by my own logic I am therefore also fatally flawed. I suppose the goal then becomes to find someone whose flaws off-set my own.

Either way... should make for some interesting blogging. One can only hope.

Am I Depressed?

After calling and hounding my doctor for my blood test results, yesterday I received the following email.

"Your lab results were essentially normal."

Essentially? What the fuck does that mean?!?!

Way to inspire confidence pal. I love the fact that I practically had to hunt you down with a spear to get this little nugget of information.

When I wrote back and asked if he had any advice considering the problem hadn't gone away, he told me to make another appointment so he could determine if I needed further tests or a referral.

You know, because he was so helpful the first time.

This is one of the many reasons I hate being poor. I hate having to go to Student Health Centers or, when I was on Medicaid, hospital clinics. The doctors there do such a piss-poor job of pretending to care, and an excellent job of relaying that you are totally wasting their time with your petty complaints.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the whole Being A Doctor thing about helping people? So could you maybe brush that chip off your shoulder and actually take me seriously? Thanks.

Anyhow, I think it's time to bite the bullet and go see a counselor.

Once again, this will be a Health Center counselor, which may just leave me wanting to rip my hair out even more than I already do, but here are the facts:

I have a hard time falling asleep.
Once I do fall asleep, I have a hard time waking up.
I am easily irritated. By everything.
I have a hard time motivating myself to do just about anything.
I am convinced that at least one of my friends is trying to friend-dump me.
I am totally stressed out over such facts as: the crumbling economy is going to seriously deplete grant-based jobs, so how the hell am I going to find work to utilize and pay for this insanely expensive Masters degree; and will I even be able to FINISH that degree considering I still don't have board approval for my thesis project and I have less than 2 months until I need to hand it in... AIGH!

So is that depression? I don't know. I don't have those mysterious aches and pains that those medication commercials talk about. I don't want to kill myself. And when something good happens, or I get distracted from my malaise, I will cheer up and feel like myself.

The rest of the time I feel like I'm trapped in my own skin, but have no idea where else I'd prefer to be.

So what the fuck is that?

Is Jon Stewart reading my blog?

I was watching The Daily Show this evening, and I couldn't help but notice that Jon Stewart stole my joke!

Okay, okay, so the leap from Joe Six-Pack to Jane Boxed Wine (or Wine Box) wasn't exactly all that difficult, but still... I thought of it first. (*pouts*)

Other than not receiving royalties for joke thievery, it's been a fairly chill weekend. Met up with some friends on Saturday eve and had a few (okay, okay, several) beers. Sunday I saw Equus with a friend of mine who was in town from the UK--that makes the third UK friend I've seen this year! Pairing that with a naked Harry Potter made for quite an enjoyable afternoon :)

Actually, I was fairly impressed with Mr. Radcliffe, I must say. Impressed with his acting. Get your mind out of the gutter. The beginning of the show was a bit rough, but by the end I had bought in completely. And if you've ever seen Equus, the second half--and particularly the end--is what really matters. All in all, I think he turned in a decent performance. Kudos to you, Harry!

Oh, and to the Set, Lighting, Costume, and Sound Designers? Very large karmic hugs are being sent to you my friends, because the technical aspects of the show made up for any performance shortcomings (there was one actress that I did not like at all, I must admit).

And that... is about it really. Tomorrow I need to call the University health center and ask if I am EVER going to get the results of my bloodwork. I still have no idea what's wrong with me and if nothing shows up in the bloodwork then I might have to suck it up and go see a shrink for the first time in my life. I mean, I've gone through phases like this before--trouble sleeping and waking up, general sense of malaise when left to my own devices without any specific task to accomplish--but usually it only lasts for a day or two. This has been going on for a month now, and frankly? It's getting old.

Unlike Christian Slater, who appears to have ceased aging. Watched the premiere of his new TV show tonight. Not bad.

Right. I am clearly talking about nothing. Time for bed.

Wish me luck!

Over It

I am so freaking done with smoking.

For real this time, I'm actually ready.

Until last night, the last time I'd had a cigarette was three weeks ago.  I was headed home after Evil Ex Roommate's baby shower and really wanted one--and was within my self-imposed "knock it off already" deadline of the end of September--so I bought a pack.  I smoked one, and the remainder of that pack lolled in my freezer for the following three weeks.

Last night I was meeting some friends for drinks and thought "well hell, I paid $10 for these things, I ought to smoke them!" so I took the pack with me.

I didn't smoke like a chimney as I would have in the past.  I think I had about five (though several beers in, it's difficult to keep track).

This morning I woke up with a scratchy throat and a mouth tasting like an ash tray.

I am officially over it.

I threw the rest of the pack in the trash.

Potty Training

Howdy Folks!  My slacker-blogger ass is over at the lovely Ashley's place today, where, wonder of wonders, I actually managed to write something of substance!  I know... shocker, right?  I think it's because she gave us a prompt.  Granted the prompt was "travel" and I wrote about "toilets," but you'll just have to head over there and check it out to see how the two are totally related.

Anyhow, I know that I've been neglecting my own blog as well as all of yours (I swear, I'll get caught up again eventually.. really I will!), but lately I  have fallen into an excessively boring rut... so unless you want to hear about my thoughts on the latest posts on D-Listed, how many laps I swam at the pool, or how depressing it is when everyone else I know seems to have a life (a job, a relationship, maybe even both!) while all I do is sit around watching TV and, well, reading D-Listed... I got nothing.

So help me out folks.  I need writing prompts.  Something, anything, a word, a colour, a bad joke.

Who knows... maybe if I can pull my blog out of this funk, the rest of my life will follow.

Joe Six-Pack, Meet Jane Boxed-Chardonnay

Well now that my fit of self-loathing has passed--which may or may not have something to do with the fact that the bathing suit looked far less wretched at home than it did in the dressing room, and I've now been swimming twice--I need to redirect that loathing elsewhere... and where better than the field of politics?

There is much I could say about the Vice-Presidential debate--like the fact that the next time either John McCain or Sarah Palin uses the word "Maverick" my ears are going to start bleeding, or Oh, she says "Hockey Moms" instead of "Soccer Moms" because she's from Alaska. Isn't that cute? (christ I can't believe people really fall for that shit)--but I think Tina Fey covered most of that on Saturday Night Live.

However, there is one buzzword from the current election--which I have only heard from the Republican side--which I find particularly disturbing, and that's "Joe Six-Pack."

Is is just me, or is it completely fucked up that the middle-class American male is apparently defined by his ability to drink?

The women, at least, get to be Hockey/Soccer/Whatever Moms. Granted, this assumes that every middle-class female has children, and that those children live in her home, and that she regularly ferries them to some sort of athletic activity which she enthusiastically supports... but that's a far sight more flattering than the assumption that every middle-class male likes to booze it up on a regular basis--with beer, none of that sissy wine shit. Then again, with the current state of the economy, it won't be long before the middle class can't afford wine, let alone hard liquor.... Viva la Schlitz! But I digress.

The point is: if we're calling the men Joe Six-Pack, it only seems equitable to called the women something like Jane Boxed-Chardonnay.

But Froggy, you're saying, what if I don't like Chardonnay? Too damned bad. I'm willing to bet there are some men out there who don't like beer. Hell, I'm sure there are plenty of recovering alcoholics among our middle-class who are just thrilled to be equated with a six-pack on a Friday night.

So my biggest question is... is this shit actually working? Are there men out there (other than Palin's immediate family and dubious soon-to-be-son-in-law) who hear "Joe Six-Pack" and feel... proud?

What frightens me the most is... I have a feeling the answer is "yes."


---------
P.S. - Sorry to those of you with readers who received numerous reposts. Blogger/Firefox is fucking with me. (I swear, I did NOT type "Socker.")

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.

I Think the Universe is Trying to Tell Me Something...

...or else my body is just falling apart.

Last week I made it through Week 1 of Operation: Get Froggy Jogging with my legs (and soul) intact.  Granted, I was slightly worried that I was going to puke by the end of the last day's cardio... but I didn't.  So all was well.  Even my aching muscles were far less achy by the end of the week.

I took Monday off, and yesterday I did some simple strength training at home.  Today I hauled my ass out of bed with the idea of getting to the gym and back before the Fresh Direct guy was scheduled to arrive.  As I hustled my yawning self into the city to go to the gym and attack the first cardio session of Week 2, I noticed that my right hamstring felt a little tight.  Nothing major, just a little muscle tension.  I figured that my warm-up would work that tension right out and I'd be good to go.

Well I made it through 5 minutes of moderate walking with no trouble, and the first 2 minute power-walk was also problem free.  But the minute my right leg hit the ground after bumping the treadmill up to jogging pace, I felt a sharp pain in my hamstring.

Not oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-die-I-can't-walk-watch-me-crumple-and-get-dragged-under-the-treadmill pain, mind you... but still not pleasant.  I continued for about 5 more seconds, waiting to see if the stabbing sensation would subside, and it did not. So a mere 7 minutes into my workout I had to call it quits and head over to the mats to give a light stretch to my aching leg before changing back into my street clothes and exiting the premises no more than 20 minutes after I had entered.

The positive end of this incident is that I now had time to run the few errands I wanted to run in the city and still make it home in time to greet my Fresh Direct delivery.

The bad news is... well... my fucking leg hurts!  And until this situation rectifies itself--which could be a few days, or a few weeks--my workout plan has been put on hold.  And since this is an incremental plan, if I take too much time off, I'll have to start all the way back at the beginning!

So is the Universe telling me that training to jog is simply a bad idea?  Or is this just an extension of my body's latent desire to completely fail me?

I've been running on empty for weeks now.  I have a hard time getting out of bed in the mornings and I spend most of the day in a daze--I only manage to really rouse myself when I go to my internship and the gym, otherwise I am mentally and physically wiped out.  Yet at the same time, my insomnia is worse than ever and I find it increasingly difficult to fall asleep.

I went to the doctor on Monday, and his initial diagnosis was... ready?  "A sleeping problem."  No shit Sherlock, tell me something I don't know!  They're running some blood tests to see if it's anemia (my guess) or thyroid (my mom had it) or some other treatable issue that's leaving me so drained.

Until I know more, the score currently stand at: Body - 2, Froggy - 0.
 

Goodbye Paul

It is a sad, sad day for your humble frog, and for many others out there as well.

Paul Newman--talented actor, dedicated philanthropist, and quite frankly the sexiest man to ever walk the face of the earth--has passed away.  We were lucky to have him with us as long as we did.

We've all gone through phases where this actor or that celebrity gets our motor running and gets us all giggly because of his chiseled jaw line or fantastic smile.  But from the first time I saw Paul Newman I knew... that, right there, was the perfect man.  Or as perfect as a man could be and still be human.  And not only for his good looks, but for who he was.

Judging from the heartfelt statements that have been flooding the airwaves in the past several hours, I am not alone.

Long have I envied Joanne Woodward for being the luckiest woman on earth.  I was going to say that tonight I do not envy her as she and her daughters deal with their loss--and yet I still do.  I envy her life with a man who not only could pierce your soul with his eyes, but also continued to make her laugh after 50 years, as she is often quoted as saying.

So thank you, Paul, for all that you gave us.  Your talent, your charity, your charm... and of course those amazing blue eyes, and the way you could smile around a cigar that made me tingle from head to foot.

You will be missed.

 

 

A Dear John Letter *

Dear Senator John McCain,

I got home late this evening and am still in the middle of watching this evening's debate on my trusty DVR, but there are a few pieces of advice that I simply cannot hold back any longer.

First, stop trying to make the former editor of the Harvard Law Review look stupid. It's not working, and it just makes you look petty. It would behoove you to remove the words "I don't think Senator Obama understands..." from your vocabulary. You look like a twit.

That goes double for the word "Maverick," and triple for repeatedly mentioning that you "didn't win Miss Congeniality" in the Senate. Just. Stop.

Now, I know that the self-satisfied smirk is the trademark expression of the Republican party, and it may have worked extremely well for George W. Bush in the last two elections; however, after 8 years it's gotten a little old, so how about wiping that grin off your overly-botoxed face and comporting yourself like an adult rather than a petulant child. You're, what? 72 years old? Fucking act like it.

Next, stop lying. Or, if you can't quit cold-turkey, perhaps stop purposely misinterpreting the facts. You know Obama is just going to call you out and once again you come off looking like a twit.

Particularly if you follow up with "I don't think Senator Obama understands..."

Cut spending to everything except the war and veteran's benefits? Don't even get me started on everything that's wrong with that idea.

And finally, I just have to ask... Ronald Reagan is the person you admire most in the world? Ronald Fucking Reagan?!?! The man was bat-shit crazy. You'd might as well have said Tom Cruise.

Well, the debate just ended, and so has my advice to you. I know I barely mentioned your thoughts on policy, so let me sum up my opinion on that front: THHHPPPPTT!!!!

Oh, and that tie? Hideous.

There, I think that about does it.

Regards,
The Frog Princess

--------------------
* Sooooo original, I know. I wonder how many other blog posts went up with that title today.

Ouch

My body... hurts.

Yesterday I went back to the gym for the first time since my travels. I've started a new one-month training regimen with the goal of being able to jog for 30 minutes by the end.

That may not sound like much, but I should explain that I? Do not run. Ever. Unless being chased by a sociopath with a chainsaw, and even then I would probably try reasoning with him first.

Running and I do not get along. Have never gotten along. I ran a mile once, in 8th grade, and nearly passed out when it was over. There was one freak incident in my aerobics class Senior year of high school where I managed to get on a treadmill and run for 20 minutes without passing out, but said experiment has never been replicated and therefore I can only conclude that the results were a fluke. A statistical outlier, if you will.

The workout program comes from Self Magazine. It was first published in 2006, but back then I belonged to a gym that I could only visit during peak hours, at which time you signed up for a strictly enforced half-hour time slot on all cardio equipment--and in the 2nd and 3rd week of this program there are a few workouts that go over that limit.

Now, however, I attend the gym during the slow daytime hours when normal people are at work or in school, and I can hog a treadmill for 45 minutes if necessary. So I figured... what the hell? Fortunately the program was still listed on their website.

Also when I finish my degree in December and no longer have access to the University gym (at least, not without paying for a membership), I may need a method of exercise that doesn't require equipment. And I'd feel like a loser power-walking around Bed Stuy.

Actually, if we're being honest, I'll feel like a loser jogging around Bed Stuy as well, but at least I'll be moving quickly so people will have less time to mock me.

And that... was a very long-winded explanation of why everything hurts. And I've only done the first cardio workout and one day of strength training.

I feel bad, a friend of mine that I haven't seen since Brazil just called to see if I want to go out tonight, and while I'd love to see her... all I really want to do is make dinner and curl up on my couch with the Sex and the City DVD, and Disc 1 of the first season of the original 90210, which both arrived from Netflix yesterday.

Which is precisely what I'm going to do.

Before I do that, however, I wanted to invite anyone out there who's feeling particularly squishy, or who--like me--exercises better when someone tells them what to do, but can't afford a personal trainer, to JOIN ME in this ridiculous quest! Come on... Misery not only loves company, it thrives on it!


The program is located here. I've only just started, and technically you can count your "week" starting on whatever day you damn well please. It's like birth control. So dig those dusty old running shoes out of the closet and come play!

It looks deceptively easy. We'll see if I'm singing the same tune come Week 4.

The Hardest Part

The first half of my day was disarmingly quiet.

I pulled my lazy ass out of bed before 10am, which is a vast improvement over recent days, especially considering that I was sleeping with Prince Ambien to help curb the relentless insomnia that's been plaguing me as of late. Spent some time on the phone with my phone company, figuring out my ridiculous bill, only to discover that I was being charged $15/month for the past 3 months for a service I never asked for--with the resultant refund dropping my current cell phone bill to 68-cents. I should have asked for a framed copy, it will never be that low again.

Spent some time tackling the massive task that is catching up on all of your blogs--some of you will notice an enormous slew of comments as I read everything from September. Sadly most of the Summer will have to rest in the archives, waiting for a rainy day--I simply don't have enough time! To those who have not yet received the comment influx, don't feel bad... it's coming! And my selection of which blogs to read is entirely arbitrary and has nothing to do with... well... anything. I'll get to everyone in due course.

Something that I've seen several of you mention, however, is some sort of Bloggy Bridal Shower for the lovely Jess, which my out-of-the-loop self knew nothing about... so Congratulations Jess!! My shower gift will be to make your blog next on my to-read list. I know it's not much, but I do it with love :)

The day picked up this afternoon, which marked my first venture into my new internship... and I looooved it! Working with high school kids on Shakespeare is already proving to be a fabulous experience and I can't wait to continue. I do have to laugh because the girl who is playing the role I played in this show in high school was annoying me at times... and then I realized that what was annoying me was absolutely something I would have done at her age. So I had to suck it up and face my own demons, so to speak.

Which isn't to say that I didn't tell her to knock it off... but I said it much more nicely than I might have otherwise :)

I returned home this evening and putzed about, trying not to freak myself out before the Skype interview I was having (had) at 10:00... with Japan.

I've been in the process of applying for a job teaching in Japan, using Drama to improve the English language skills of elementary school children. Or so I thought. What became clear during the interview was that my perception of what this position entailed was not correct. I had thought it would be in a day school setting, working in conjunction with an English teacher and teaching Drama classes to enhance what was being learned in the English class. That is, apparently, not the case.

The school is actually an afternoon/evening school that is just for English. And I would be the only teacher. Head Teacher, if you will.

This, in effect, terrifies me. Which is not to say that I've been offered the job. I haven't. But I am now seriously questioning whether or not I am actually qualified for it. The school seems to think I am, obviously, or they wouldn't have interviewed me. But I still worry.

There is also the whole idea of moving--for a year--to a country where I do not speak the language. The woman interviewing me even told me that they've had teachers in the past--particularly the women--who got intensely lonely and/or homesick and left after 3 months. I understand she's just covering her bases by telling me this but it's not exactly comforting.

All of my friends whom I've spoken to about it are so wonderful and encouraging. They all say "if anyone can do it, it's you!" Sometimes, however, I find it difficult to maintain the faith in myself that others find so easily. It's amusing, in a way, that others carry such conviction about an aspect of myself I often doubt--namely, my independence.

I shouldn't get myself so worked up over a job I haven't even been offered. I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. But as Tom Petty says... The waiting is the hardest part.

Some Thoughts on the Emmys

Since insomnia is doing its best to devour my soul these days, I thought I would postpone the tossing and turning for a few more minutes by sharing my thoughts about tonight's Emmy broadcast, in the order that I scribbled two-word reminders on the pad of post-it notes next to the couch...

Ahem...

• Josh Groban is adorable, and his Cartman impression isn't half bad, but he should never, ever, EVER be allowed to rap again. And why did they show the Cheers sign and not sing the song? It's only, like, the most iconic TV Theme song of my childhood!


• David Boreanaz looks really bored. Perhaps he's just pissed off that he has to share the stage with Lauren Conrad.


• Martin Sheen's "Go Out And Vote!" speech has to be the least annoying one I've ever heard. Thanks West Wing!


• What the fuck is "Bernard and Doris"? It was nominated for all these awards, Susan Sarandon looked hot, and still I've never heard of it...


• Loved the tribute to "Dragnet"! I used to watch it on Nick At Nite all the time when I was a kid. You know, before Nick At Nite started showing the shows that were on primetime when I was a kid. Right. But with all the other shows, they panned down to actual actors who were on the show... so why'd we get stuck with the dudes from CSI?


• Oh... wait... I just checked IMDb. They're all dead. I guess that explains it.


• Ohmygod I LOVE Don Rickles... and Kathy Griffin for ordering the audience to stand up. But not for anything else she's done. Just to clarify. Except maybe "Suddenly Susan."


• When did they make a mini series out of "Andromeda Strain," and why did I not watch it?


• Ohmygod I really REALLY LOVE DON RICKLES. Best acceptance speech ever. Except perhaps for Tommy Smothers, but I forgot to write a note about him, so unfortunately he gets left out--though I used to watch his show on Nick At Nite too.


• Glenn Close looks damned good for her age.


• YAY! Malcolm's Dad won an Emmy! For some show I've never heard of! Go Malcolm's Dad!


• I can't believe they finally created an Emmy for Reality TV Host and didn't give it to Ryan Seacrest. He's probably at home plotting the murder of that guy from "Survivor" as we speak.


• I was about to say that Mary Tyler Moore is also looking fabulous... then I saw her arms. They are terrifying. It also makes me wonder how many pounds of make-up were airbrushed onto her face.


• Betty White's red pant-suit on the other hand? Ah-freaking-mazing! She looks like she just stepped off of the set of a Golden Girls Reunion Show. Except there would be no Estelle. Oh, Estelle... :(


• Is that blonde from Mad Men wearing underwear as outerwear? Why yes... yes she is. Someone get that woman a jacket.

That's it for my hastily scrawled notes. I was so glad to see Tina Fey up there so many times tonight, and her acceptance speech is also high on my list. And why wasn't Goldie Hawn up there with the other folks from Laugh In? (Another staple from the Nick At Nite of yore).

Finally, a big A+ for technology! I love watching Award Shows on the DVR (I paused in the middle for half an hour to go make food), because in addition to skipping the commercials, you can also fast-forward through the acceptance speeches for the boring people thanking a bunch of other people we've never heard of. Phew!

So, what were your highlights/lowlights/time-to-go-get-a-drink-of-water-lights?

Nocturnal Emissions

Two nights in a row, I have dreamt about my Ex.

This is not an Ex that I want back in any shape or form.  In fact, this is the Ex who taught me what, precisely, I absolutely will NOT put up with in another partner ever again.  So what gives?

The night before last, I dreamt that I was out drinking with him and his wife--whom I have never met, and who had a different name in my dream, probably because it took me a day to remember what her real name is.  That dream was peopled by a large number of random faces from the past--an old friend, Jeff (my Brit friend Violet's fiance), a couple of twins I went to high school with... and Amy Winehouse, just to make it absolutely certain that this dream did not wander out of the realm of the totally freaking bizarre.  So seeing the Ex in this whacked-out context really didn't phase me.  My dreams like to fuck with me.  I'm used to it.

But two nights in a row?  What's up with that?

Last night's dream was decidedly more unsettling.  We were, for whatever insane reason my sleeping brain was able to concoct, back together (nearly 10 years after we broke up... and in the real world he is, in fact, married).  We were going to bed and next thing I know I wake up and he's sleeping on the couch rather than the bed, pouting because I wasn't paying attention to him (duh, I was sleeping).  This is not a stretch.  This exact argument most likely happened at some point in our relationship--much like the time he woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me he'd just thrown up, and then freaked out on me when I didn't make a big deal out of it (because apparently I was his mother as well as his girlfriend... and HI!  We'd been drinking all night jackass!.... *deep breath*... Whatever, that's a rant for another day...) 

Anyhoodle, in the dream we began arguing (duh), I said something about it being "the same old shit," and next thing I know we're having sex. 

This, also, is not a stretch.  Particularly considering that there was no foreplay, it wasn't all that great, did nothing for me--a fact which he most likely did not notice and made no attempt to rectify--and he got off and I didn't.

Fortunately my dream then veered off in another bizarre-o direction as he went off to take a shower (and pouted that I did not want to accompany him... there was always a lot of pouting) and my surroundings transformed into somewhere else entirely.

But still... what the fuck?  What spurred this intrusion of my past into my dreams?

This morning my horoscope said "In Love, your inner self is going through a phase of crisis; everything around you is not right and you want to renew and regenerate yourself."  So perhaps these weird dreams are just a manifestation of whatever crisis I'm supposedly in--though what could have triggered it, I have no idea.  I haven't even called Hot Bartender since flirting with him a few weeks ago (though I'm still considering it, purely for booty call purposes... I'll keep you posted).

In conclusion, I would just like to send a little cosmic message to the Universe (and my warped psyche):  keep my Ex out of my freaking dreams!  They (and I) are fucked up enough as it is...

Randomness, It's What I Got...

As much as I would love to sit down and write a coherent post, it just does not appear to be happening.  So here are the thoughts that floated through my head as I ran errands in Manhattan this afternoon.

Jesus Christ!  Could you have found a worse place to stop!?  People who stop dead in the middle of busy sidewalks deserve to be fucking kicked.

Attention:  If your skirt is shorter than your shirt... it doesn't count.  Put on some damned pants.

You know... I'm really glad that people can't hear what I'm thinking 90% of the time... but ever since I started watching "True Blood" I find myself considering it as a possibility.  I need to watch less television.  Or stop reading DListed.

And there it is... perhaps not my best material, but it was a bit of an off day.  For starters, I'm fairly certain that my uterus is trying to take over the world.  Or at the very least, Brooklyn.  Anybody watch "Fringe" last night?  Because I feel like the girl in the opening scene.  That's enough to make anyone crabby.

Also the chick who spawned the first mental outburst stopped dead, two inches in front of me, in the only moving lane of foot traffic on a crowded sidewalk under a construction awning (read: no escape).  She's lucky she made it out with her shins intact.

For reasons I cannot quite fathom, I am considering buying a Nintendo DS.  If I buy it, there's a very strong chance that I will never use it, but there's a genetic anomoly in my family that causes us to compulsively purchase electronics.  I was on the Circuit City website and saw that they only cost $130 and I practically started salivating.  If I didn't need it for necessities like groceries and Pinkberry, I would totally stick my debit card in a ziplock full of water and stick it in the freezer to save me from myself.

I'm not kidding.  I actually did that with a credit card in college.  My debit card wasn't a risk at that point, as my bank account was empty.

Another reason I should not be purchasing unneccessary electronics is that I am apparently unemployable.  I got turned down for another job this week, and so made the command decision that since I've got my student loans and can suck on the Unemployment teat for at least another 2 months, I would start looking for internships and put my virtually-nonexistent networking skills to use in hopes of alleviating my employment leprosy.  I'm meeting with one possibility tomorrow, and judging from our phone conversation it's pretty much mine... unless I fuck up royally during our meeting.

And this is me we're talking about, possibly the worst interviewee in the world.  This is why I think job interviews should be held in bars.  After a few beers I can make just about anyone love me.  Sadly, that's not an option, so keep your fingers crossed.

I promise I will get back to reading all of your blogs very soon.  I still haven't worked up the courage to open my Google Reader... I may have to hire someone to go in first and test the air.  I need a Google Reader Canary.

Well then... I think I shall quiet my rebellious uterus with some Aleve and an Ambien and head to bed.  One of the many things currently wrong with my PMS-riddled (or is it DMS now? oh whatever) body/brain/life is that I have had absolutely no discernible sleeping pattern since I returned to the States.  Perhaps if I can get myself on some sort of schedule I'll be able to pull my shit together. 

I'm not exactly Brittney Spears, but I must admit that right now?  I'm feeling a bit of a mess.

10 Years...

So yeah, not gonna lie.. I'm a little drunk, but that seems the only appropriate way to blog about this, because... tonight was my 10 year high school reunion.

And, amazingly enough, all the shit you would hope happens at a ten year reunion--i.e. people putting aside all the stupid bullshit and just having a good time--actually happened.

 I saw the two girls I really wanted to bitch-slap in high school... and we maintained civil conversation for 5-10 minutes.

The one guy who I truly never wanted to see again straight-up apologized for being such a cocksucker.  I'd been told he'd found god.  I didn't think that would make him nice.  Apparently I was wrong.

I gave the guy who dumped my answering machine in the 7th grade (and then followed me around high school asking why I didn't love him)--who was wearing a name-tag with his twin brother's name--a whole heaplod of shit.. and he took it gracefully and then dogged me for a good portion of the evening.  It kinda sucked watching him with the girl he's apparently now dating, but whatever... it's been 10 years, I can't expect him to pine forever.

The guy I would have killed to even kiss in the 7th grade, who I just barely worked up the nerve to ask to dance at a Middle School Dance, was practically eating out of my palm by the after-party.  Sure, I eventually discovered that he was married-with-child, but I also knew, without doubt, that had I set my mind to it I could have taken him home without hesitation, and that... really... was ALL I needed to know.

And then I got a ride home from a guy of whom my main memory is him leaping off the floor in terror of my friend's rottweiler, while I sat in the middle of the room and said "hey [dog's name], come and give some love!!"  He pretended to  deny it, but we both know it happened.

So yes, high school reunions are bizarrely mixed bags... but highly entertaining none-the-less.

I'm glad I went.

I Finally Did It

Last night I realized that part of the reason I've been having trouble sleeping since I got back, is that I lay in bed at night thinking of all the things I want to say to CFL and have not yet said.  So this morning I finally buckled down and responded to her email.

And of course, being the frog that I am, I now feel the need to share the correspondance with you.

First, her email...

-------------
Froggy,

I just wanted to send u a quick email in regards to everything in brooklyn. First and foremost i wanted to apologize....I had some severe family issues that occurred recently that kinda sent me into turmoil. I dont know how or why i dealt with everything the way that i did, but i did. We all grieve in different
ways...and while no excuse for my actions or behavior, I guess u could say I was having more than a difficult time dealing with it all. I wont really get into it too much, but it was 1 very serious circumstance after another...my very close cousin just got diagnosed with breast cancer (that has already spread), while my grandfather got dimensia, and my grandmother sent to the hospital. My brother got mugged, and my best friend in the world went off to the military. On top of that, some other personal family issues that u would rather not here aboutl I came back to Florida now so that I could be there with my mother to help take care of things and to be there to give my love and support to my family when they needed it the most.

I am not sending u this email to ask for pity or even empathy, but instead to hope that you can at least
attempt to understand somewhere in your heart of hearts why I kinda went off the deepend for a few weeks. It is not in my nature to handle bad situations the way that i did, but i guess this time, that was the case. I truly apologize from the bottom of my heart for any inconvenience I couldve caused. Being home has brought me back to the level of calm that I have so very much missed. I was only slated to stay a couple months anyways so it was time to go. But I truly hope your trip was beyond amazing and that all
in your life goes beautifully from here on out. Thanks for listening. You do not need to email me back, but I just felt it was important for me to express my situation and for you to know that I genuinely feel
deep remorse. That is all...have a good one.

-CFL
-------------

CFL,

I have been holding off on responding to this email until I was a bit calmer, but there are a few things that I feel need to be said.  Though now that I am attempting to do so, I am not certain I can manage without completely blowing a gasket.  However, I will try.

First of all, I wonder if you truly grasp the repercussions or expanse of your actions.  You were found wandering, half naked and incoherent, on the street--and rescued by my landlord who subsequently missed a day of work.  You were wandering on fire escapes banging on windows while your friends were in my apartment, apparently ignoring you.  You caused a great enough disturbance that the neighbors actually called the police.  The cops have now been in my apartment thanks you to, and according to one of the neighbors, our house is now "famous" on the block because of your behavior.

Everything you said or did while living in my home was a reflection on me in the eyes of this neighborhood, and clearly you did not reflect well.  I still don't know the extent of the damage to my relationship with my landlords thanks to your actions and the disturbance you brought into their lives.

I came home to a house that was filthier than I thought possible.  I couldn't walk barefoot in my own home because I was disgusted by the dirt sticking to the bottoms of my feet--and then my flip-flops stuck to the kitchen floor.  The living room rug was actually grey from dust and dirt.  My comforter had been taken out of storage (in August? why?) and left in a cat-hair-covered heap on the dining room floor.  It had to be thrown away.  The first time I went to take a shower, I discovered that while all of the towels were in the cabinet, they were all dirty, and at least one of them crusted with what looked suspiciously like vomit.  You somehow managed to triple my electric bill for the month of August, raising it by over $100, and the $40 left in the liquor cabinet covers perhaps a third of what was consumed.

As if all of this weren't bad enough... there is the matter of Gracie.  The entire reason I was looking for a subletter in the first place was to take care of my cat.  It was the most detailed clause in the sublet agreement and the main reason I chose you was because you two seemed to connect when you came to see the apartment.  Imagine my shock, then, when I receive an email from the landlords detailing your behavior and stating that she was not being properly taken care of.  My friend who came to feed her once you were gone stated that the litter box apparently had not been cleaned once--which he corroborated with photos before cleaning it himself.  All of the dry food was gone, but over half of the wet food remained, which indicates she was not being fed properly.  And when I returned home, her fur was in such a state, so filthy and so matted, that I had to go out and buy a pair of clippers and shave her.  Yes.  SHAVE MY CAT.  Gracie has been with me for 14 years and never once in that time has her coat even come close to the state that it was in upon my return.  I cannot even imagine the circumstances, the level of neglect, that could cause that to happen.  Your primary responsibility--the reason that I did not charge you the full rent and continued to pay the utilities myself, a priviledge which you abused--was to care for Gracie.  Clearly, this duty was not performed.

The empathetic side of my personality is sorry for your personal troubles.  However, taken as a whole, the above does not indicate to me someone who temporarily made a few bad judgment calls in a moment of crisis.  The facts that my landlords' intial email reported that you had a "serious substance abuse problem" that was causing you to "act out in dangerous and disturbing ways," and according to the neighbors you could be sweet and friendly--the girl that I met--one minute, and completely crazy a few minutes later, all indicate a much larger problem here.  In my experience, it takes a liver with an awful lot of practice to drink oneself to a state where one can behave the way you did without simply falling asleep.  Everything I have heard--and I have not yet received a complete retelling of all that occurred in my absence--indicates a much larger issue at work here.

I believe that you are sorry.  But I do not believe that you understand the extent of the havoc you wreaked on my life, and on the lives of my neighbors, and therefore do not realize all that you have to be sorry for.  You showed no respect for me, my property, or my neighborhood, and least of all for yourself.

Further apology and/or justification is not required.  I just thought you should know.

-F-
-------------

So there it is.  I hope to god she doesn't respond... unless it's to send me a cheque for the freaking electric bill.

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?

Retail Therapy

Victoria's Secret is discriminating against women with small breasts.

I realized the other day that the majority of my bras are in what could only be described as deplorable condition, and so as part of this afternoon's retail therapy mission, I decided to head over to good ole' Vicky's and see what I could find.  At the first store I entered, I was disgruntled to find that not a single one of the bras I liked was available in my size--34A--and was more than a little puzzled that many styles didn't even have 34A drawers through which to browse.  I chalked this up to it being a small location and decided to head further uptown to the huge 2-level store in Herald Square.

I arrived and breathed a sigh of relief at the much larger selection and once again began to browse, only to encounter more of the same:  Not a single 34A in sight!  Those that I was able to find all contained about an inch of foam padding, and gone are the days of removable padding, oh no!  All of this stuff was permanently attached.  Finally, I found a saleswoman and asked, somewhat exasperated, where I might find a size 34A, non-padded bra.

There was ONE.  Gee, so much for selection!  At first the salesgirl thought there might be two, but no!  Lo and behold, Body By Victoria no longer comes in A cups.  Neither, for that matter, do well over two-thirds of the styles in the store!  I came home to browse the website and was elated that hooray!  My favourite style--the push-up without padding--had returned!  But... you guessed it.  No A cups.  Foiled again!

So what gives Vicky?  Girls with small tits are no longer allowed to have nice lingerie?  Girls with A cup boobs can't possibly be comfortable in their bodies and therefore we only sell them bras with ridiculous amounts of padding?

I've got to say, Ms. Victoria, I am deeply disappointed.  This is the first time my retail therapy has left me feeling the need to seek therapy!

And PS - one of your security guards stepped on my foot--right on top of my new tattoo!!  Nice to see we are hiring security guards who are vigilant and aware of their surroundings.

Fortunately Vicky's was the only aspect of my retail therapy trek that left me looking for a shrink.  I more or less signed over my firstborn to Sephora, which is not all that unusual.  I attempted to shop at H&M but it appears that two seasons of my adoring everything in the store have dried up my shopping karma--I wasn't tempted to try on a single article of clothing.  Sadly, the only store currently housing anything I would consider wearing is Urban Outfitters, and every time I walk into that store I feel a little piece of my soul shrivel up and die.  Which didn't stop me from spending a bunch of money, which is the only way to actually purchase anything in that overpriced haven of hipster cliches.  Still, I dare anyone to mock me in my rockin' 1920s style hat.  For real.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to eat my dinner and shop for lingerie from Frederick's of Hollywood.  At least they still make bras in my size!

Saturday Night's Alright for...

It was a good night.

First and foremost, I met my darling A for drinks--whom, of course, I haven't seen since I left the country a bit over two months ago.  We caught up, she heard what dirt I had to give on CFL (I promise you all, a transcript of ridiculous apology is coming soon), and then her darling man,whom I also adore, joined us.  Being the stellar literary agent she is, she has sold more books, and one of them has a movie-style trailer which I will be sharing with you all just as soon as I have the link.  The book is fab, I've read it, and I recommend that you all do the same!!  (I'm sure DS will agree, A tells me that she's read it too.)

And, before A arrived--a wee bit late, thanks to the fact that the MTA goes to shit every time something falls from the sky, be it rain or snow or otherwise--I had Hot Bartender to keep me company.  Hot Bartender is a guy I had the hots for for YEARS, whom I dated briefly a few years ago, and then who vanished off the face of my planet but would still give me free drinks when I landed in his bar, most likely out of guilt.  I have a feeling he did the same tonight, as the tab for A, myself, and her man ended up being only $50, which was, considering the time spent and the amount of alcohol consumed, not much.  There was also a good deal more flirting than there has been on previous visits, which ended in my discovering that my number is still in his phone--and I hope his is still in mine, as I texted the only number under his name shortly after returning home--so hopefully we will be seeing each other again sometime soon.  Past experience has taught me not to expect anything, but past experience has also taught me that he's a whole lot of fun while he's around, so I'll play my cards where they lay.

Other than that, it's business as usual.  Had a job audition on Thurs which I hope went well (it's so hard to tell), and a show audition yesterday that I already know I didn't get, but I'm not too distressed as a.) I knew beforehand that I wasn't really right for the show, and b.) in the process I managed to impress the artistic director, who invited me to audition for another show he's doing later this Fall.

So that's where it all stands right now.  I haven't really taken time to assess just how much work I have to do for Ginormous Project--which is probably a good thing, because if I'd really thought about it, I'd probably have had a breakdown already.  I'm just putting that off for a few weeks.  And 10 year HS reunion is next weekend, which I'm sure will breed stories of an epic proportion.  So for now, here I am, slightly tipsy, headed for bed, and really hoping that the individual I just texted was, indeed, Hot Bartender, and not another man of the same name.  Because that would certainly be embarrassing.

Just another Saturday night in Brooklyn.  What can I say?

Tidbits

Somehow, New York City has managed to slow down in my absence.  Every single person I walked behind today was moving at roughly the pace of a physically disabled snail dragging an elephant... uphill.  Seriously people, WAKE THE FUCK UP AND MOVE!!  Some of us have places to be.

I was amazed at the number of women I saw today who simply could not be wearing underwear under their sheer, light-coloured pants/skirts/dresses.  Thank heavens for the absence of unexpected updrafts or I would have seen much more of New York than I cared to this afternoon.

The NFL took over the better part of 59th St (and several blocks south) this afternoon, with the result being that when I arrived in Manhattan a freaking hour early for my job audition (thanks HopStop), I could NOT go kill time in Central Park, even though it was only 6 freaking blocks away!  I would have had to walk halfway across town just to get in.  Thanks NFL.  Thanks a lot.

I am now the proud owner of not one, but two fancy coffee presses.  One 8-cup press, on the off chance I should ever actually have someone in my house in the morning (other than myself) requiring coffee; and one fancy little contraption that you simply hang in your mug!  Amazing!  It's a good thing I'm still waiting for a new debit card and therefore operating on a cash-only system, or I would have gone buck wild in Bed Bath & Beyond this afternoon.  I heart housewares!

And finally, as promised, new ink!!

 

I've been threatening to do this for years--my mom and I are both slightly dyslexic when it comes to Right and Left.  Now I have a permanent reminder!  (So long as I'm wearing open-topped shoes, at any rate).

Looking for a New York Groove

Somebody needs to find my Productivity Switch and flip it to the ON position... pronto!  Because I've got about a million-and-one things to do, and can't seem to get my ass in gear to start on a single one of them.

Well, that's not entirely true.  I did memorize a monologue this evening, but that only ever takes about half an hour anyway.  Hardly a large investment of time.

And I did find time this afternoon to get a mani-pedi and a new tattoo, but in the hierarchy of THINGS THAT MUST BE DONE STAT, those are fairly low on the totem pole.  Except the tattoo.  Those are always urgent.

This is clearly the beginning-of-semester story of my life, is it not?  I'm always losing my shit at this time of year, particularly when I've just returned from traveling.  Go ahead, ask me if I've unpacked yet.  Just ask.

I haven't even looked at my Google Reader since I left the country.  Anyone want to make a guess as to how insanely high that number will be before I begin gratuitously marking-all-as-read?  Come on, leave a guess in the comments and the winner gets a cookie.

(See, I'm surreptitiously engaging you in my procrastination tactics.  I am that good.)

So really, that's it for the time being kids.  Sorry.  I promise a recap of some sort when I eventually get around to answering CFL's lame-ass excuse for an apology.  I am debating whether or not to include photos of my poor, half-shorn kitty in my response.  We'll see how benevolent I'm feeling when I finally get around to writing it.

I have an audition for a job tomorrow afternoon, and an audition for a show (non-paying, new Rep company that someone I know started last year) on Friday.  I need to get my arse in gear and start working on all the red-tape-alleviating paperwork for my ginormous project, as well as creating lesson plans for another job I'm applying for.  And there's always the fact that if I don't get around to unpacking ASAP, I'm going to end up living out of boxes for the rest of the semester.

Phew.

And did I mention my 10 year HS reunion is in 2 weeks?  Yeah, I just hope that it's not too soon to ask the landlord's little brother to cat-sit after the whole CFL debacle.  The afore-mentioned "talk" still has not occurred.

Okay, I'm working myself into a tizzy again and can't think of a witty and/or coherent way to end this little tirade, so I'll simply say "goodnight" and promise pics of the new tattoo once I actually take some.

Goodnight!