Any Last Requests?

Traditionally, Cupid is depicted as a cute little cherub wielding a bow and arrow, but in February, I begin to feel that a semi-automatic rifle would be more appropriate.

In case you've missed the flood of Zales, Kay Jewelers, and 1-800-Flowers ads that have been inundating your regularly scheduled programming; or you haven't seen Couples Week on Wheel of Fortune; or--like all three contestants--you missed the painfully easy Final Jeopardy question last night... the most dreaded day of the year for millions of Americans is fast approaching.

Valentine's Day.

(If I knew how to make that font drip with blood, I would.)

My attitude toward V-Day has varied greatly over the years.

In Elementary School, it brought the excitement of any other holiday. The night before was spent painstakingly selecting the appropriate conversation hearts to enclose with each Thundercats or Gummi Bears themed valentine--"Be Mine" for the secret crush, "My Pal" for the smelly kid. The day itself was spent in eager anticipation of that one hour at the end of the day when educational pursuits would be abandoned and we would bite the ends off of generic twizzlers and use them as straws to suck up sugary fruit punch while feverishly tearing open tiny envelope after tiny envelope, quietly attempting to decode our crush's intentions from Optimus Prime declaring "You're MINE, Valentine!"

In Middle School, the stakes became higher. No longer were we required to give a valentine to every member of our class--500 cards per person would put far too great a strain on the selection at the local CVS--yet my friends and I still took joy in passing what were now deemed "kiddie" cards among one another. Yet a new and unprecedented danger was lurking beneath the surface of this previously loved day. Lurking, to be specific, just inside the doors to the cafeteria.

The Annual Carnation Sale.

White for friendship, Pink for "like," and Red for (gulp) Love, lunch time was transformed from the break between Social Studies and Chorus to a veritable battleground for adolescent girls. In 7th grade, I feigned joy as my friends arrived to our table one by one, bearing the tokens of their admirers. My hands and locker remained painfully empty, yet I persevered, feigning disinterest and supressing the urge to simply buy one for myself so that, to the outside eye, it would appear as though somebody thought I was worthy of a $1 flower.

Come 8th grade, however, the tide had shifted. I had a boyfriend! And not just any boyfriend, but a first love. After all, this was the boy who had left a painstakingly drawn Sonic the Hedgehog bearing a giant red balloon and proclaiming "I LOVE YOU" in my locker, on a normal day! Surely on Valentine's Day, of all days, he would come through!

I dashed to my locker between every class, feverishly checking to see if he'd been there, risking being late for class for the simple opportunity of walking through that door bearing a carnation and letting the whole world see that, at last, I was loved.

Toward the end of the day, it happened. There they were. Three white carnations. Refusing to succumb to panic because white meant "friendship," I simply assumed that white had been all that was left. Besides, I had flowers! Who cared about a stupid colour?

Giddy with the heady rush of finally being someone's Valentine, I caught up with him at the end of the day and breathlessly thanked him for the flowers.

"Oh yeah," he replied nonchalantly. "Some girl gave them to me and I didn't want them, so I gave them to you."

Excuse me?

Here my friends are getting engraved ID bracelets (oh, my 8th grade dream!) and mix CDs and I get fucking second-hand flowers?!?!?

Needless to say, my attitude toward the holiday shifted a bit after that.

Enter High School. Single once more, I took to wearing black and openly announcing my detestation of the holiday, decrying the rampant commercialization that it had come to symbolize and self-righteously announcing that I, for one, did not need some special day to tell me to appreciate the ones I loved.

When I started dating High School Boyfriend it worked out well, as he too was a rabid decryer of the day--though I'm fairly certain his attitude had less to do with commercialization and more to do with it being the day he'd lost his virginity to his ex--and we banded together to pretend it didn't even exist. Though, of course, we always spent it together, finding solidarity through mutual disdain.

Eventually, of course, I realized we were being silly, and once we had gone our separate ways I decided that, while still overly commercialized, perhaps Valentine's Day wasn't entirely evil. Granted I was always single, and during the year I lived abroad my friend and I began a tradition of gathering single girls to go sex toy shopping on Valentine's Day.

My senior year of college I was once again a member of the coupled class on Valentine's Day. Not wanting to make a huge deal of it, I offered to cook The Guitarist dinner at my apartment, my roommate having taken some girl out for a fancy dinner in Washington DC. We hadn't been dating long and I wasn't expecting, well, anything, so when he showed up at my apartment bearing a single long-stemmed rose that he had purchased from a guy on the corner on the way over, well, I was genuinely touched. For all of his faults--and believe me, he had plenty--he was always great with the little things, like buying me Cadbury eggs when he found them out of season, just because he knew I loved them. Those are the sorts of caring gestures that really get me, and which so few men seem to understand.

That was the last time that I was coupled on Valentine's Day. In the years that followed my attitude has varied, but if I'm being honest, generally lingered on the bitter end of the spectrum.

Last year I decided to change that, and simply STOP being "Bitter Single Girl." I bought myself chocolate and flowers, wished everyone I saw a Happy Valentine's Day, and just generally enjoyed the hell out of the day. And it felt good.

And now here we are, with yet another Valentine's Day looming on the horizon, and I find myself stuck in yet another conundrum.

The Contender.

We haven't been dating long--even less than I'd been dating The Guitarist--and everything is, thus far, very mellow and undefined in nature. So... am I allowed to ask him to make plans on Valentine's Day? Should I wait and see if he brings it up? Perhaps more importantly, is he a Valentine's Day lover or hater? If he's a hater, and I bring it up, does that make me look like needy girl who expects dozens of roses and caviar and jewelry and string quartets and and and...

I, for one, exist firmly in a grey area. I'm not against the idea of Valentine's Day, but I do think it is overly commercial and puts a ridiculous amount of pressure on both the coupled and un-coupled alike.

I'm not one of those girls who expects the world to be laid at her feet every February 14th--I learned the hard way at age 14 that such hopes can only lead to painful disappointments--but by the same token I wouldn't mind spending it with a guy whose company I enjoy. Especially considering that, for the first time in ages, I actually have one on hand.

But, after only a few weeks of dating, am I allowed to ask for that? Or is it too much? I personally don't think so, but as a culture we've laid such weight on what should be such a simple day, that I worry...

And so I labor beneath the sensation that I'm standing before a firing squad, blindfold and cigarette in place, wondering just what the hell I should do.

Do I stand passively against the wall and hope it will be over with quickly? Or do I rush in, guns blazing, knowing that, at the very least, I tried?

I, for one, haven't got a clue.

And so it continues...

Happy Valentine's Day.

A Perk of Gentrification

When I first moved into my apartment a year and a half ago, I was one of perhaps three white people living on my block. Since that time, the number has grown exponentially and at a highly visible rate. Modern apartment buildings are slowly springing up between the Brownstones. The incongruously cute coffee shop on the corner is packed from open to close. But the most significant change I've noticed? Is at the grocery store.

It started slowly, with a small section of withered-looking "organic" produce nestled between the okra and jicama. Then, in recent weeks, something bigger has been thrown into motion. Aisles have been stacked with boxes. Workmen squeeze through the narrow spaces to build the shelves up higher.

And then, last week, there it was, atop a shelf in the dairy case like a shining beacon from beyond the void of low-quality imitation cheese...

My brand of pickles.

I nearly wept with joy as I scooped this entirely unnecessary luxury item into my basket and practically skipped to the register.

Today, it was even more apparent.

Previously the selection of "organic" or "high end" packaged foods had been limited to approximately 4 square feet of shelf space. But now? Half an aisle! Of fancy things I will never buy but am so gratified to have available withing three blocks of my house. No more going to Manhattan for Traditional Medicinals tea or Annie's Naturals Organic Ketchup! (Which, FYI, is even better than Heinz and contains no high fructose corn syrup.) And look! Over there! The obscure flavor of Campbell's soup that is my hangover cure-all!

And then... I saw it. The one item I cannot live without, that previously I've had to walk a mile and a half or else travel into Manhattan to procure. Sitting in the aisle, case upon case, just waiting to be stacked in the cooler...

The original, milk-flavoured Coffee Mate.

And it was even fat free.

There, beside the dairy case, I succumbed to a full on joy-gasm.

While the process of gentrification may be negative on many, many levels, I've got to confess...

I absolutely love what it's done to my grocery store.

Undefined

Fielding relationship questions from drunk people, particularly when you're not certain of the answers yourself, is always awkward.

Last night I went with The Contender to a birthday party for a friend of his. It was at a big, noisy bar on the LES, and I get the feeling that on a week night I would probably love it. Kick ass jukebox playing lots of old punk and grunge rock, decent beers on tap at reasonable--for Manhattan anyway--prices, and a pool table.

And I must say... my pool table mojo has been seriously lacking lately, but last night? I was on frikkin' fire. And it was awesome.

But, back to the awkwardness.

It started with a guy that we'll call Bad Pool Player, or BPP. BPP showed up shortly after we did, while we were playing pool to kill time waiting for the birthday boy to arrive. BPP was also there for the party and so we started playing doubles. A few beers in and BPP starts quizzing me.

BPP: So, how long have you two been dating?
Me: Oh, um, a couple of weeks.
BPP: A couple of weeks... couple of weeks... okay. He seems like a nice guy.
Me: Um, yes. He is.
BPP: Okay, okay, so how'd you meet?
Me: Er, online.
My Internal Monologue: Fuck! Fuck! Why didn't you just lie, dumbass??
BPP: (knowingly) Ah... Which one?
Me: (weakly) Match...

Fortunately the Contender returned to my side at that moment and saved me. It was my turn to shoot and I think BPP was giving him the same third-degree he'd just given me, and all I could wonder was... Why does this guy even care?? Seriously, we met 10 minutes ago, give it a rest...

Later we were talking to another party guest and the Contender had stepped away to shoot. The girl was introducing me to her boyfriend and then pointed out the Contender saying "And this is Froggy's... boyfriend? Is he your boyfriend?"

ACK! The dreaded B-Word!

Avoiding my committment-phobic instinct to shout "NO!!," since he was a few feet away from me, I gave her the "er, sorta, maybe, okay, no, not really, but maybe eventually" wiggling hand gesture... and quickly changed the subject.

Awk-ward.

I should clarify that I'm not against the idea of a (gulp) boyfriend, or even the possibility of the Contender eventually holding that title... but once such words have entered the picture, any going-of-separate-ways automatically becomes a "break up" rather than an "oh, it just didn't work out," and I'm not quite ready to contend with that possibility.

Shortly after this last awkwardness, the bar began getting painfully crowded. The placement of the pool table showed VERY poor planning on the part of the bar's owners, being set back in an alcove that also housed the floor's only bathroom AND the entrance to the basement where bands were playing, and hence the line to pay the cover charge to get into the basement... and every single 19-year-old-with-a-fake-ID in that line? Completely fucking OBLIVIOUS to the fact that people were trying to play pool.

Now, I am a non-violent person by nature, and firmly believe that violence never solves anything... yet when I've got a pool cue in my hand and people start pissing me off? I have to stifle the urge to get medieval. Seriously. So I made a rule... if I ask you to move three times and you remain oblivious? It's your own damned fault if I hit you with the cue.

Right.

So at any rate, when we had both reached our breaking point with the dumbasses crowding the table, we grabbed our coats from the coat check, I bummed us a couple of cigarettes from one of the 19-year-olds-with-a-fake-ID, and we hopped a cab back to Brooklyn.

All in all, I'd say it was a good night. Fleeting awkwardness at the hands of strangers aside, I'm a little wary of how easily this appears to be going, and keep waiting for the axe to drop.

What can I say? Old habits die hard.

Pushing Through

It's rough out there.

In the current economic climate, I know there are many bloggers out there who are unemployed, and many more who are worried about becoming unemployed. As someone who has been in that state for nearly a year, I've been thinking about some of the changes that come with long-term unemployment.

First, Motivation. It disappears. Quickly. While I've never been prone to bouts of technical or clinical "depression," as it were, there are definitely days when I simply can't be bothered to do ANYTHING. This includes but is not limited to: cooking, showering, writing, leaving the house, or even getting off the couch. And if, like me, you are not a morning person? You can forget getting out of bed at a reasonable hour. I mean, why should you? If there is no pressing reason to get up before 10am (or, lately, 11am), the snooze alarm looks awfully inviting.

Or perhaps I should say feels awfully inviting, since I rarely actually open my eyes before hitting it.

Granted, this week both my Physical and Intellectual biorhythms are completely bottomed out, so the chances of getting myself going are pretty slim until my energy levels kick back up, but still... I feel guilty about being so lazy.

Housework also takes a serious hit. Right now? My apartment is a disaster area and in desperate need of a cleaning. Can I be bothered to do it? Nope. Not that I've ever been much of one for cleaning, but if the place is actually dirty enough to bother me? That's pretty bad. Unless, of course, spending excessive amounts of time at home has actually decreased my dirt tolerance... the high level of which was cause for many arguments between myself and the Evil Ex Roommate, who just couldn't grasp the fact that the minute level of mess that bothered her didn't even register on my radar...

Lately I've developed the habit of leaving the day's dishes to pile in the sink and then doing them the next morning when I'm still brain dead and therefore don't notice the tediousness of the task. I haven't done laundry in well over a month, which actually isn't all that unusual, but laundry involves a.) leaving the house, and b.) scrounging up money to pay for the laundromat.

Unemployment, which first seemed like a blessing--allowing me time to complete a grueling semester of grad school without losing my mind--has gradually morphed into a curse, a curse that is turning me into a female Al Bundy who never leaves the couch and can't be bothered to do, well, anything.

In short: it sucks.

I did not intend this post to be so Woe-Is-Me when I started it... I mean, in many respects, I'm quite lucky. Unemployment Insurance, plus the remnants of my student loans, have allowed me to remain comfortably in my apartment. Add on my tax return and, barring any calamities, I will be able to stay here until approximately June 15th. That's more than many people can say and I do realize that.

But it doesn't change the fact that I am sick of being unemployed, unmotivated, and seemingly unable to do anything about it.

My final complaint, before I put an end to my whining, is entirely unrelated...

Fucking Fresh Direct sent me Kirby Cucumbers instead of Endives! Hardly interchangeable, and now I can't try the new recipe I was going to make tonight.

Seriously, dumbasses, how can you mistake this:



for THIS???



Barring the fact that they're not even the same colour, one is a squash, and the other is a leafy green! GAH!!

Okay. Seriously. /whining

In other news, I noticed that my Google Reader subscription is up to 71 people... and I definitely don't know who all of you are! Please, say hello!

Also, I do have an award to pass out that the lovely Sequined gave to me... I'll get to that in the next few days! Stay tuned!

In Defense of "Juno" [Spoilers!!]

WARNING: If you haven't seen the movie and you intend to, you might want to skip this one.

So, during one of my many hangovers last week (just another perk of my temporary "Social Butterfly" status) I was looking for something amuse me while I lay on the couch in a stupor, and I stumbled across Juno on HBO On Demand.

Now, everyone I know who has seen the movie had had one of two reactions: Absolute Adoration, or Complete and Utter Loathing... with Loathing holding a commanding lead. Never being one to form an opinion without personal experience, I decided that it was high time I checked it out for myself.

So I watched it.

And...

I liked it.

Liked.

Not Loved Beyond All Limit of What Else in the World*; but also not Hated With the Fire of a Thousand Suns**.

The soundtrack was painfully and pretentiously Indie, but being that it fit in with the overall feel of the movie, I was willing to let it slide (even if my teeth did grind a bit every time a new song began).

I watched with an open mind, trying not to mentally catalog "Things That Annoy Me" (other than the soundtrack), which is what I felt most of the Loathers had done. When it ended, I was left undecided, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that, for the most part, I had really enjoyed it.

And then I started thinking about the complaints that I'd heard from the Loathing camp, and there are a few that I would like to address.

First, and potentially most absurd, was the idea that the character of Sue Chin was racist. Yes, racist.

Please...

Sterotypical, okay, yes. Not all Asian Americans speak poor English... but some do; and from what I know of Diablo Cody, she hardly strikes me as a racist. I'm guessing that this particular character and incident were based on some sort of personal experience, or a person she's known in the real world. Whatever the source, she clearly had a reason for writing the character as she did; and the director kept the character as written, and I highly doubt that "make Asian people look stupid" was either of their modus operandi.

And honestly, that scene? Going to get an abortion and having one lone protestor outside the clinic? And having it be someone you know? AMAZING! For both of them... because, in that situation... what do you do?

The second complaint I've heard is that the movie is pretentious. At first, I thought so too, but the more I watched, the more I realized that it's not the film itself, per se, but the characters in the film. Follow me?

Juno is a perfect example of a "cooler than thou" hipster youth. Jason Bateman's character is a classic "I'm too cool for this life" adult with a Peter Pan complex. Michael Cera is... okay, Michael Cera. Seriously, that kid is so sweet and sincere it gives me a toothache. Is he capable of playing any other type of character? Could he please try?

Sorry, I got sidetracked. The bottom line on this one is that, at the heart of this movie are several characters who need to grow up... if there was no room for character growth, why the hell would we watch?

And finally, the complaint I find most ludicrous, is that the movie makes teen pregnancy look like a good thing, or that it's not enough of a cautionary tale.

Um, hi. Not meant to be a cautionary tale! (Though the line about kids at school calling her "The Cautionary Whale" was easily the best one-liner in the entire script). Juno is not a "message movie," nor is it an After School Special, or a Lifetime Movie of the Week. It does not exist to preach the morality (or immorality) of teen pregnancy, or make a statement about what one should or should not do in such a situation.

It is a story. It is fiction. It exists, in its entirety, to tell that story in an engaging and entertaining manner. Making choices and forming opinions are the job of the audience, not the storyteller. The film does not exist to tell us what to do.

Keeping all of that in mind, what I liked best about this film is that at its core, it felt honest and genuine.

Not every girl's parents will throw a fit and/or kick her out of the house if she gets knocked up. (We've already got "Quinceanera" for that, which, btw, is a kick-ass movie). I liked that this movie showed supportive parents doing their best to help their kid through a rough situation. And the moment when Allison Janney chews out the sonogram technician? AH-mazing!

Sure, Juno seems awfully blase about being pregnant, but she's a freaking teenager! Of course she's acting like she's got it all under control! That's what we do! And she thinks she's found the perfect solution: give the kid away to a seemingly "perfect," family. Young, wealthy, attractive... what could go wrong?

But when it does go wrong? That's when she makes the most mature decision of the entire film. She sees that her "perfect" plan was perhaps not so perfect after all; that, in effect, nothing is ever as perfect as we want it to be... and, stripped of her fairy tale, she makes a real decision... and it is not easy.

I feel like the course of this movie is less about Juno being pregnant, and more about her learning how to "get over herself," so to speak. And how some of us (Jason Bateman), never do.


I have no idea if I made my point here, nor do I know why I felt driven to defend this movie so vehemently. I guess that, in my eyes, the haters just sort of missed the point.

I'm sure there are many out there who could rebut every point I've made here, and may feel free to do so if that's what makes them happy. I just feel like Juno got a bad rap that I don't feel it deserved.

That's just my $.02.

_________
* Catch that Shakespeare reference?
** Look! Another one!

Close Encounters

Sunday I was on the subway, headed into Manhattan to watch the Superbowl (OHMYGOD THE SUPERBOWL!! My Celebratory blog theme will be staying up for awhile... ahem...) and my ears pricked up when I heard the couple across from me discussing this blog.

At first I was just patting myself on the back because the reference that caught my ear ("Really? Sugar Ray?") was totally random, but then I began thinking... if they read that blog, perhaps they read other blogs.... Oh shit! What if they read my blog? Wait, so what? It's not like they could recognize me. Hmmm... I wonder if they have blogs that I read...

At this point some seats opened up further down the car and they moved so I could no longer hear their conversation, but I kept getting the feeling that the guy was staring at me.

Which may or may not be because I kept accidentally staring at him while trying to surreptitiously check out the girl and see if she might be one of the NYC bloggers that I read.

Pathetic, right?

So, NYC freaders, if you were on the A train on Sunday afternoon, across from a girl in a bright yellow coat who was knitting something blue... we may have had a Close Encounter... of the Bloggish Kind.

Oh my god that was a lame attempt at a joke. I'm sorry. Truly, truly sorry.

I think I'll go hide now.

Saturday Miscellany

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

*sigh*

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

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

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

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

And he is cute as hell.

We shall see.

Social Butterflies Prone to Illness. News at 11.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beer Bloggles

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

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

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

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

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

Like Nancy says... Just Say No.

Please Sir, Might I Have Some More...

Sometimes, I frikkin' HATE being adult.

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

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

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

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

I FUCKING HATE GETTING OLDER!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoroughly Unremarkable

His name was Brad.

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

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

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

Internally I rolled my eyes.

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

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

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

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

All By Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not to mention he's gainfully employed.

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

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

The Contender.

Hmmm.

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

Smiling

So I have a confession to make.

Last night I had a date.

A really good date.

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

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

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

It's about damned time!

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

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

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

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

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

For once, I am glad to be wrong.

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

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...

Clarification

For the record: I DON'T EVEN OWN A FUCKING SCALE!!

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

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

Ugh.

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

Cravings

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm still going with the potato.

Pathetic, isn't it?

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

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

WTF?

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

So what gives?

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

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

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


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

Playing Catch-Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See? Isn't it pretty?

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

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

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

Like I said, all over the place.

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

Yeah.

Older

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

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

NYC Driver's Ed Manual - Lesson One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The other driver will scream that YOU WERE TRYING TO DRIVE OFF! And DIDN'T YOU SEE HER?? SHE WAS ON THE PHONE!! AND HER KID IS IN THE CAR!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then... you will blog.

Discuss.

Are You for REAL?

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

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

Unfuckingbelievable.

Ugh.

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

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

Turning Into My Mother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some things are just inescapable.

Snack Time / Procrastination...

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

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

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

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

You know, little stuff.

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

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

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

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

---

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

I'm guessing not.

Flying Busses?

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Five Princessy Questions!

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

So here they are...

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Happy New Year!

Susan Miller Lied to Me...

2008 was supposed to be the best year of my life. Or at least, that's what Susan Miller said.

Now, I'm not saying that it wasn't nice. I...

Finished my Masters.

Traveled to three different continents.

Saw Macchu Pichu.

Starred in a short film.

However, only one of these--travel--was part of my prediction.

I did not find true (or any sort of) love, or form a business partnership. I bought neither a house, nor any other form of real estate. The only significant purchase of any kind was my tuition, which was hefty indeed.

So, while 2008 was certainly not terrible, and, in fact, could even be described as good, it was certainly not the banner year I was promised, and definitely not the best year of my life.

I'm not so big on New Year's Resolutions, but this year I think I'll make just one: I don't think I'll read my horoscope this year. It's much easier not to miss the things you didn't know you were supposed to have.

-----

P.S. - On second reading, the above came out far more melancholy than intended. Sorry 'bout that!

Happy New Year, Campers! Come midnight, I'll be raising a glass to you all!

In Case You Didn't Believe Me About the Bed...

 

My cousin saw this photo on my camera and asked... "Is that a monastery?". I can't believe two kids used to share this bedroom. (I'm standing in the furthest corner to take this photo.)

Anyhoodle... I'm headed back to NYC on an 11:30am train today. It's been good being home but I'm definitely ready to be back in Brooklyn, with my own space and my own bed.

And, of course, my kitty.

Hope everyone had a lovely holiday!

Family Time

The annual pilgrimage to Ohio on the day after Christmas to visit my Mother's extended family is always a double-edged sword.

A grandmother, a step-grandfather, eight aunts and uncles, one estranged (and emotionally disturbed) woman of unknown relation who never remembers who I am, eight cousins, three significant others of cousins, and one infant make for a crowded house indeed... particularly when 10 of those 23 people are staying in the cramped 3 bedroom, one-story house in question.

I love my family, I do... but 23 people in such a small space--or the even smaller space that is my aunt's house where we traditionally have dinner on Day 2--can easily work on the nerves, not to mention the ear drums.

It gets tougher as we get older, with my older cousin married with a child and the cousin directly below me finally introducing her live-in boyfriend to the family fracas. My second-youngest cousin is now in his freshman year of college, and while my entire family wants to congratulate me on finishing grad school, that invariably leads to the question "So what are you going to do now?" to which, thanks to our fractured and therefore artist-fucking economy, I have no answer. Top that off with my married cousin asking me good-naturedly, but in mixed company, "So, when was the last time you had a boyfriend?"--a question which I was completely unable to answer, but after several minutes of deliberation made a wild guess and said 2004--and the world's tiniest bed on which I was sleeping, and the last few days have been a bit strenuous.

I love my family.

I do.

Sometimes I just wish I could love them in smaller doses.

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree...

 

Merry Christmas!!

For those of you using a reader, I deleted last night's drunken post this morning when I read it and it made very little sense.  If it's still in your reader, well... I apologize.  Too much Christmas Cheer and blogging are a bad combination :)

Progress...

Shhhh! Do you hear that? It's coming from behind the computer...

 

Be careful... I think we're being watched...

Happy Christmas Eve Eve, from me and the Stalking Stego :)

Yarn is My Life

Once I finish this cup of coffee and this blog post, I will be hopping in the shower, then packing myself up and heading off to the gynecologist (yay), and then to Penn Station to catch my train home for the holidays, where I swear, at some point, I will catch up with all of your lives. My reader is still below 100. Totally manageable.

In the mean time, I thought I'd give you a little insight into the mistress to who has recently claimed all (and I do mean all) of my free time.

Behold...

3 half-finished Stegosauri, and 4 half-finished Penguins

 

Actually, they're a little more than half-finished.  Maybe three-quarters.  They just need to be stitched up and stuffed, and two of the penguins are getting little Santa hats--those will be going to my parents bearing IOU's.  The other two penguins go to children of friends, the three stegosauri go to other children of friends (and one child-of-cousin).  Once those are finished, I just need to knit an elephant (already on the needles) for BFF's daughter, and a brain slug for my cousin, and then... then...

Then I can knit these for myself :) This has pretty much nothing to do with the "Twilight" phenomenon and everything to do with beautiful, snuggly, warm mittens that will keep wrists as well as fingers warm (and look smashing with my fur coat!). I haven't seen the movie, and thus far I've only read the first book, but I totally fell in love with these when I saw them and simply must have them.

So as you can see, yarn has completely taken over my life.  This happens every now and then, usually somewhere around Christmas when I realize I am broke and therefore choose to wow my friends and family with thoughtful handmade gifts that are low in cost but crazy in time-commitment.  But I'm coming up the home stretch, and once I've finished this lunatic binge of production-oriented knitting, I'll be back to curling up with the needles while I watch TV, and will have plenty of time to blog and be blogged.  Or something like that.

Until then... bear with me.  And leave questions in the comments section!  So far only Hope has asked anything.  I know I'm an open book and all, but seriously, there's got to be something you want to know.

Come on.  There's very little I won't answer, so feel free to be creative.

Until then... Happy Holidays!  And safe travels to all of you who are off to visit family!

Confessions of a Procrastinating Blogger at Christmas Time

'Tis the season... for me to run around like a chicken with its head cut off making last-minute gifts that surpass my poverty with their thrift and thoughtfulness... and hence fall way behind in both blog reading, and blog writing.

Sorry about that. I'll be back in your comment sections in full force sometime soon.

I hope.

That being said, the official completion of my Masters Degree (just got my Thesis grade in email today--an A! Woohoo!) has left me with quite a lot of backlog on my plate. This afternoon I did laundry for the second time this week! Now all of my sheets and towels--in addition to the majority of my oversized wardrobe--are clean.

My apartment, on the other hand, is not. I'm saving that for tomorrow... or Saturday... Sunday at the latest, cross my heart!

I decided at the very last possible minute to knit a ton of Christmas presents--especially considering that I will be seeing not one, or two, but THREE recently-turned-one-year-old boys who will be needing gifts. Knit Stegosauri it is. I also have all the parts knitted for 4 stuffed penguins. Two of them will be going to my parents, bearing IOUs for larger knitting projects (I am *not* putting in the considerable amount of time and effort required to knit a sweater for someone if they haven't picked out the pattern and the yarn themselves) and the other two are just-in-cases for all the various and sundry children I will be seeing.

Damnit, I just remembered: BFF's little girl already has a penguin from me! Hmmm... wonder if I can alter the pattern somehow to be a Panda Bear. Will have to look into that. After I knit 3 dinosaurs and sew up a travel jewelry wallet equipped to carry a dozen pairs of earrings for my mom. (DS, you and my mom would totally hit it off in the jewelry department... she takes a dozen pairs of earrings for a 5 day vacation!)

And so, my darlings, all of that... coupled with as many "Sorry I haven't seen you in forever, Happy Holidays!" meet-ups as I can cram into my schedule (like some long-overdue mojitos with the lovely Miss Ashley tomorrow), and all the pre-holiday errands that can no longer be ignored... is why I am, and will most likely continue to be, woefully absent from blog-land for the next few days.

And so I leave you with the following:

1. Curry made with "Lite" coconut milk is never as good, no matter how many calories it saves. Don't do it.

2. I've noticed a lot of new faces popping up in the comments lately. Welcome!! Thanks for stopping by... and for sticking around! Anything you're dying to know about me or the blog? Drop a question in the comments and I'll do a "Froggy Answers Your Questions" post sometime soon. (This offer is open to old readers as well... just taking a page from Hope's book. What can I say? I'm a slacker.)

Merry Whatever-it-is-that-you-choose-to-be-merry-about-in-December!

Are those... Golf Balls?

The sky is currently shedding golf ball sized snowflakes all over Brooklyn, and New Yorkers have *me* to thank for it!

Why?

Because against my better judgment, having seen the weather forecast, I decided that it was time to finally (read: for the first time since October) do my laundry. As such, the snow began to fall just as I finished loading 60-some pounds of laundry into two jumbo washing machines at the laundromat down the street.

If the snow keeps up at this rate, and actually sticks to the sidewalk, I'll be rolling my laundry cart home through at least 2 inches by the time my laundry is finally done.

Why is it that the loveliest things are often the most annoying?

Warm Fuzzies

Tonight I saw a one-night-only production of one of my favourite musicals--You're a Good Man Charlie Brown--as a fundraiser for the Make A Wish Foundation.

In the spirit of the evening, and because this show has always had the ability to make me stupidly cheerful, I will forgo with all the bitching I was going to do about mundane crap that annoyed me today, and instead leave you with some song lyrics that always serve to remind me just how important the little things are.

"Happiness"

Happiness is finding a pencil.
Pizza with sausage.
Telling the time.

Happiness is learning to whistle.
Tying your shoe for the very first time.

Happiness is playing the drum in your own school band.
And happiness is walking hand in hand.

Happiness is two kinds of ice cream.
Knowing a secret.
Climbing a tree.

Happiness is five different crayons.
Catching a firefly.
Setting him free.

Happiness is being alone every now and then.
And happiness is coming home again.

Happiness is morning and evening,
day time and night time too.

For happiness is anyone and anything at all
that's loved by you.

Happiness is having a sister.
Sharing a sandwich.
Getting along.

Happiness is singing together when day is through,
And happiness is those who sing with you.

Happiness is morning and evening,
daytime and nighttime too.

For happiness is anyone and anything at all
that's loved by you.

Crossover

I've noticed it slowly happening over the past several months, but in the last few days it's become increasingly obvious. My body is slipping steadily back into old habits.

Namely, staying awake all night and sleeping late into the day.

On one hand, I suppose it doesn't really matter, being that I don't have a job. On the other, it doesn't bode well for adjusting should I ever find one that requires me to be coherent before noon.

The trouble is, it's a difficult habit to break, particularly when I have absolutely no compelling reason to be out of bed before 11:00am, other than some feeble notion that "normal people" or "adults" get up at a certain time.

Honestly, I wonder where that notion comes from. I mean, in my specific case, it would be my parents. They're both fairly early risers (though I assure you that wasn't always the case) and subtly frown on me when I sleep well into the daylight hours. For the rest of the world--or the U.S. at least--I suppose it comes from the 9-5, the "real" members of the "grown-up" workforce that rise at 6am, eat breakfast, don a suit and tie and head off to the office.

But why should that be the measure of adulthood? Why should I try to deny my body's natural rhythms in answer to the call of a workforce that has never held any interest for me?

The answer to that question is, clearly, that I shouldn't.

Which I suppose makes the real question: why do I feel compelled to do so anyway? Or, at the very least, why do I feel like I should be compelled to do so, and therefore feel guilt that I do not?

I have no answers, and truly, when you get right down to it, it's hardly worth losing sleep over.

I certainly won't.

Done...?

I just emailed Thesis to my professor, a full two and a half days before it was due, just in case he had any final thoughts/suggestions/things he wanted me to clarify. Being that he is quite possibly the most over-extended person I know, I doubt he'll get back to me with anything.

So... I think this means... I'm... done... with my Masters.

Now what?

Asses and Elbows

I was very sorely tempted to post, in its entirety, the IM conversation I just had with the English Ex, but I didn't want your brains to simultaneously explode.

Let's just say that a conversation that begins with your ex boyfriend asking "Do you think my obsession with butt plugs is odd?" can only head in one direction.

My brain feels like mush, and I really need to get on track and work on Thesis. I think I can finish the bulk of it today before Grey's Anatomy if I can just crack down and get some work done, but my brain is just not in the proper gear and I have no idea how to get it there.

Maybe I need to bake something. That seems to be my solution for everything these days.

I am awash in various degrees of panic over various and sundry subjects. Most specifically: Thesis, the deplorable state of the economy, and my accordingly non-existent job prospects.

So far I've got two possibilities: Homeless Person and Lottery Winner, with the latter obviously being the more desirable of the two.

I'm also seriously considering egg donation, if they'll take a chick who used to smoke and did a lot of drugs in the late 90s.

Any other suggestions? My tits aren't big enough to be a stripper...

Where the hell is my motivation??

I have so much work to do and so little motivation to actually do it.

I've designed one more week of the residency that is my Thesis, but I'm starting to loose focus. It's awfully difficult to design a residency for communally writing a play when you have no idea what sort of stuff the students would come up with, and are therefore writing a predictive model based on... what? Pure freaking imagination. And mine appears to be malfunctioning today.

I'll just bake some more bread. Maybe that will help. Carbs solve everything.

I think I'll go make a list of the readings that will be assigned to participants. It's not a lesson plan, but it's something...

One Down, One to Go...

Tonight was the final reading of my work in my Playwriting class. While the play itself isn't finished, the 10 minutes of it that were read tonight were very well received. It was gratifying to know that I'm not the only one who thought a diatribe on the original Star Trek series versus the movies was funny, and that the other students in my class engaged with my characters as much as I did. I'm actually really excited to finish writing it.

After, that is, I spend the next 3-5 days entirely devoted to completing my Thesis. My ultimate goal is to have it complete by the end of the day on Friday so I can email it to my professor and ask if he has any suggestions for me to enact in the final days before it is due. Barring that, however, it's due on Monday.

And then... I will be done with my Masters.

Which, given the current state of the economy,is more scary than it is exciting. I can't quite shake the feeling that I have just spent a painfully large sum of money on a degree, only to go back to waitressing, or worse... temping.

I think I'd rather chew my own leg off.

Think I could pay off my student loans with limbs?

Starting Tuesday on the Right Note

From the award-winning documentary, "Playing For Change: Peace Through Music."

I've always loved this song, and the warm fuzzies here are almost overwhelming. Happy Tuesday!



I realize in retrospect that the subject of this post is a terrible pun... but I kinda like it. Apologies to the pun-sensitive.

The more I think about it...

... the more I realize that it was not a good date.

I should not have to defend the fact that I (gasp!) watch television, or religiously read D-Listed, to someone I've known for less than an hour.

So my question to myself is: Why did I make such an effort to like this guy, when he had very little going for him other than his interest in me? Is it natural to keep looking for the positives when the negatives are so clearly in the majority, or is it just a sign of desperation?

An Epic Romance, It Is Not...

Last night I went to a holiday party and got drunk with a bunch of my favourite people (Hey there W, how are you feeling today?). I came home, decidedly intoxicated and high on good company and lots and lots of carbs, and sent an email to Match Guy basically telling him that he needed to ask me out. How did I operate the keyboard in my completely obliterated state? No idea.

Lo and behold, this morning (nearly afternoon) he began bombarding me with texts--which included mocking me for needing to nap away my hangover, which really wasn't fair. Nobody would have wanted to be around me before that nap, least of all me.

Anyhow, I napped, showered, and headed into the city to meet up with him.

And it was...

Okay.

The jury is still very much out, though I think they are leaning toward "No Go."

I feel like I have to try too hard around him. I mean, I know that I'm smart and witty and entertaining, but it's like there was this constant pressure to be all three at once--which is fucking exhausting, btw--and when I slipped for a moment I felt like I was undergoing the third degree.

As I rode the subway home, I took a moment to step outside myself... and I immediately realized that the look on my face was not that of a girl who had just had a great date.

Furrowed brow and pursed lips ≠ Butterflies and rainbows

However, it wasn't terrible. I didn't make up an excuse about needing to get home before dark so I didn't get raped (yes, I've used that one before). And while he's not a great kisser, when I let him bite my neck (long story) I kinda wanted to rip my clothes off right there.

Considering that I'd love to have sex again before the end of 2008, that might merit a second date for further investigation.

Well Since You Asked...

After simultaneously texting and emailing for a few ridiculous minutes, I just spent an hour on the phone with Match Guy.

And while an hour telephone conversation--particularly with a near stranger--is generally unheard of, the jury is currently out.

First off, it was an hour of what was essentially goofy banter about nothing in general; and while I am certainly a fan of banter, I am also a fan of conversations where actual information and ideas are exchanged. He's silly and made me laugh (and occassionally squirm when an attempted joke did not land), but also appears to have the attention span of a moth and I'm not convinced he's capable of carrying on an actual, serious conversation.

Second, he won't man up and actually ask me out. He's hinted, and kept trying to convince me to come up to Morningside Heights at 12:05am after he finished writing a paper that's due at midnight, but wouldn't just say "Hey, want to get a drink on _______?"

Don't get me wrong, I am in no way writing him off after one phone conversation. Like I said, it's rare indeed for me to spend that much time on the phone with anyone. Just that... I'm trying to dissuade myself from my usual cycle where I get all excited about something that turns out to be nothing at all.

I don't know if I've ever mentioned Mr. Perfect On Paper. I met him online, through something free and utterly shameful (Craigslist, I think). We emailed, had some rather scandalous IM sessions, and talked on the phone for several hours.

Then we met, and... nothing. No chemistry, no spark, nein, nyet, nada. Talk about a let down.

And don't even get me started on Rodent Man.

So, in general, online dating has a tendency to build my hopes only to dash them all to pieces, so I'm trying to keep things in perspective.

I'm also trying to stop myself from being exceedingly picky, like I often can be. I'll wait until I meet him in person before I make any judgment calls. If he ever actually asks me out.*

I hope he does. He's awfully cute.

---------
* Yes, yes, I am fully aware that this is the 21st Century and I could just ask him out myself, but if there's one thing experience has taught me it's that when I do all the pursuing and planning, things end as soon as I stop. I need a man who is capable of taking the initiative and demonstrating that he actually wants to see me. I don't think that's asking too much...

Update

He emailed me.

I am such a fruitcake.

The Lighter Side of Why I Suck At Dating

I feel it's only fair that I tell you all that after my last rant-ish post, I went and gave my Match.com profile a complete overhaul.

Hell, I paid something like $70 for a 3 month membership, and one of those has come and gone with exactly nothing to show for it. Being that the economy is officially in the shitter and as such my job prospects are essentially nil, I figured it was time to start looking for a return on my investment, whether it be an enduring love to take my mind off the fact that I'm about to be broke, a dirty shag to keep me warm when my heat goes off, or a sugar daddy to pay my rent when the loans run out.

So I jumped back into that proverbial pond with a spear and a net, prepared to do a little fishin'... and found a feature on Match's website that's either new, or I just hadn't noticed before: the "Reverse Match."

In a nutshell, instead of running a search for someone whose profile fits all the arbitrary criteria that you deemed either Very or Not Very Important on a scale of 1-5, it shows you a list of people who are looking for someone with your criteria.

Since I am historically terrible at choosing men for myself, I thought I'd give that a whirl and see if any nearby, attractive, non-sociopathic males were looking for a girl like me.

Lo and behold, I found one!

Not only that, but we exchanged hourly goofy emails for the better part of the afternoon.

Now I haven't heard from him in 5 hours and I'm totally convinced that my last email somehow put him off.

Not that, you know, he actually has a life and just hasn't been around a computer.

Because that would be logical.

And when it comes to dating? This frog throws logic right out the proverbial window.

I just hope it doesn't hit a pedestrian. I'd kinda like to get it back.

Must Everything In Life Be a Challenge?

Filtering through my google reader while trying to figure out how to structure my day (do I devote it entirely to school work? run some errands first? bake more bread? do laundry? what should I have for dinner? why the hell can't I make a decision lately??), I noticed a recurring theme among several blogs.

Namely, dating, and the difficulty thereof.

What? A single gal reading the blogs of other Singletons?

Shocking. Truly.

As I look back on the past decade of my life--for it has been 10 years since I uttered the words "I love you," and even then I was inwardly cringing and wondering how long it was going to take me to screw up the courage to finally end a tortured and unhealthy relationship--and I have to ask: Why does it have to be so difficult?

Of the many men I've dated since then end of that particular fiasco, there were a few that I could have fallen in love with, but some wrench would be thrown into the works to bring the whole thing crashing down. We'd be separated by an ocean, say... or his ex-girlfriend. You know, little stuff.

There were plenty that I dated simply because they were there--or perhaps because I drank too much in my early 20s, and my judgment was therefore not entirely sound. They all had some redeeming qualities: a wicked sense of humor, fabulous looks, a sizeable... intellect. But they all also had qualities that wound up being deal breakders: hitting on my best friend, creating drama wherever they went, the inability to place me anywhere on their priority list, let alone in the Top 10. And then there were some who just vanished, faded away into the ether without explanation... which would annoy me for a few weeks, and then I'd get over it and move on to the next eventually-unsuitable-suitor.

So my question is, and has been for some time, why, in a city of millions, is it so difficult to connect with another person on more than a superficial level?

Other than the fact that I have serious trust issues, and fear opening up to anyone lest they a.) find a way to hurt me, or b.) become so emotionally dependent on me (like the afore-mentioned tortured and unhealthy relationship) that I feel like I'm suffocating in a sea of over-zealous and needy affection.

I've never really had a relationship (okay, "relationship") that didn't fall into one of those two categories.

I can't say that I'd even know what to do with one should it come along.

But damnit, that doesn't mean I wouldn't like the opportunity to try.

Argh... Part 5,683

I saw Slater last night.

It was weird.

We're both charter members of the same theatre company, and last night we had an organizational meeting. I had a feeling he'd be there, but hadn't adequately prepared myself for the weirdness of pretending nothing was wrong when clearly EVERYTHING was wrong.

So, so wrong.

And weird.

So weird and wrong that I came home and started baking bread and drinking rum (I never drink rum!) at 9:00pm.

The thing bugging me the most is: NOW what do I do about the Peru gifts? I was all set to just mail them to him, but now that I have an established place and time where I'll see him, doing so feels awkward.

By the same token, so does showing up to a meeting to hand your former-best-friend-who's-taken-to-ignoring-you a scarf and a piece of frikkin' Macchu Pichu.

ARGH.

It feels like I've been saying that a lot lately...