Reasons

In case it isn't already glaringly obvious, I really suck at dating.

I don't suck at getting laid--that, I am quite skilled at when I want to be--nor do I suck at finding a guy who will stay interested in me for a few days, weeks, maybe even a month if I'm really on my game, before heading off for greener pastures. But in the last 10 years, the longest I've dated any man (oh who am I kidding? boy) has been... three months, maybe? Even that might be a stretch. Long enough to be called a "boyfriend" but not long enough to fall in love or establish any level of lasting trust or commitment

Except maybe The English Ex, who managed to break my heart in a remarkably short period of time, but that was a fluke. Do not date your best friend. Ever. But that's a tale for another day (which I've already told, actually, and would have linked, but couldn't find it in my archives. Sorry.).

So anyway, here I am, trying my hand at this whole insane process once more... and I have absolutely no fucking idea what's going on.

I know you all want to know more about The Contender--or, at least, some of you do--so I'm sorry if it seems like I'm purposely keeping you in suspense or something. I promise that I'm not. But I realized last night as I was trying to fall asleep that I have my reasons for not really talking about him, so, as a sort of consolation prize, I thought I'd talk about those.

First and foremost is the fact that, honestly, there's not all that much to tell. I could tell you what he does for a living, or what colour his eyes are, or that, despite an otherwise clean-cut exterior, he seems to have a predilection for ripped jeans, but how much does that really say about a person?

I see him about once a week, our activities have involved playing pool and watching a movie on my couch, and yes, we've slept together.

The other reason I don't really talk about it is that, to me, talking about it means that I expect it to go somewhere, and in the past, expectations have always led to disappointment. So I try not to have any. Or if I do, I keep them to myself, so at least my disappointment isn't made public.

Call it a self-preservation instinct.

And honestly, I don't know where it's going, or even where I want it to go.

On one hand, he's sweet, attractive, gainfully employed, and does all the things I've wished guys in the past would have done. You know, like return phone calls. I enjoy spending time with him, and appreciate the fact that, like myself, he loves olives and garlic.

I like him. I do. But I'm not infatuated with him. You know, that feeling when you get all warm and fuzzy just thinking about a person? I don't get that. At least, not often. Maybe once a week if I'm feeling particularly sentimental--which, if you've spent any amount of time reading this blog, you will know is not common.

And maybe that's good. Because in the past that sort of blind infatuation has led me to overlook all sorts of glaringly obvious faults with the object of my affection (having a girlfriend, being an alcoholic, having no ambition in his mid 30s), which leads to forming expectations, which, as I already said, leads to disappointment.

And if there's one thing I'm completely and utterly sick of--besides unemployment, the failing economy, and being stressed out about money--it's disappointment.

But by the same token, I miss that excited, fluttery feeling. Good for me in the long run or not, I like it. Is that something that can develop with time? Or if it's not there immediately, will it never be there? And if it's not there, does that mean it isn't right? Am I supposed to feel that way, or is that just the road to a quick burnout and more baggage than I already (clearly) carry?

I don't know.

So I don't talk about it.

Even though by not talking about I've more or less talked about it, still... I'm not talking about it.

At least, not until I know just what the hell it is that I'm talking about.

Crabby

I'm feeling very crabby today.

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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


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

Joy.

In Pictures...

So all of my preparations are done, and now I'm just waiting for The Contender to get here, which will probably be another hour, so I thought I'd share some photos from my food prep.

The Menu
Beef Stew, Mom's Recipe
Salad (Blend from a bag that I fell in love with last week, my only cheat!)
Tomato, Basil & Garlic Bread

Dessert
French Chocolate Cake with Raspberry Port Reduction and Fresh Whipped Cream.

Go ahead, wipe the drool from your chin. I'll wait.

Done? Okay, so...

My snazzy place setting. How freaking fantastic are those bowls? They were on sale at Fish's Eddy and I simply HAD to have them!

Tomatoes, waiting to be oven-dried.

Carmelized Garlic and Oven-Dried Tomatoes, ready to go into the bread dough.

The Bread. There are 2 more loaves in the freezer.

Phase one of Raspberry Port Reduction, which I made up on the spot and is soooooo good! Recipe below.

Raspberry Port Reduction
1 small carton raspberries
1/8 c. port wine
1 tbsp. sugar
Pinch Cream of Tartar

Reserve 5 or 6 raspberries for garnishing if desired and add rest to small sauce pan with port and sugar. Simmer until berries just start to come apart. Transfer mixture to a blender and puree (be careful! The steam will make the lid want to fly off!). Once blended, force mixture through a strainer to remove seeds (this will take longer than you think). Return mixture to sauce pan and bring back to a simmer. Add a small pinch of Cream of Tartar (optional) and stir constantly with a spatula until the bottom of the pan stays clear for a moment before the mixture closes back in. Transfer to glass bowl to cool.

Dessert! I have been dying to try this cake recipe for years, and no, that is not an exaggeration. I bought "The Chocolate Cookbook" when I was studying abroad in 2000. This is the first time I've had an excuse to make a whole cake!


And thus concludes the photos so far. The stew is in a pot on the stove and, if we're being honest, stew is not all that photogenic... but it tastes fabulous!

Hope everyone is having a lovely Valentine's Day!

Grargh...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or at the very least, just as good.

Grargh.

Notes. Mostly About Boys

I should be in bed right now.

A few minutes ago I was digging around in my underwear/lingerie drawer looking for a nightgown and accidentally grabbed a little number from Frederick's of Hollywood that I'd completely forgotten I owned, so of course I tried it on. This led to giving myself a private fashion show of all the sexy little things in my drawer and let me tell you, there are a lot of them... roughly 90% of which (maybe more) have never been seen by anyone's eyes but mine.

I'm hoping to change that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I absolutely adore Frederick's for fun, sexy, inexpensive lingerie (and everyday cotton undies that are far cuter than Fruit of the Loom), but I hate the fact that once you order from them, you are put on the mailing list for every purveyor of slutty clothing known to man.

My landlords are the only ones with keys to the mailbox, so they bring in and sort the mail.

I worry they think I'm a stripper.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

No, The Bad Date doesn't think we've been dating all this time. That weird email was a combination of his not-so-humorous sense of humor, and a passive-aggressive dig at me for ignoring him.

Oh yeah, clearly, I'm missing out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Russian Who Never Called seems to genuinely feel bad about being a Non-Caller. Looks like this was a case of a sheep in jerk's clothing. Or something. Whatever, I'm not losing sleep over it (not that I ever did).

Besides, he had bad teeth and the early signs of a bald spot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The English Ex has split up with his fiancee, poor guy. Granted, he's a bit of a fuckwit and considered leaving her last year when he developed a crush on some other girl, but he got over it. I can only imagine how much it must suck to be on the receiving end of a blow you nearly dealt yourself.

Interestingly, in the past this also would have excited some little piece of my brain that would think "Hey! He might be on another continent, but he's available again! There's a chance that..." But not this time. I'm not sure whether it's the cumulative effect of years of being his relationship counselor via MSN and seeing that he's kindof an emotional fuckwit with ALL girls--not just me--or the fact that I am slightly less single than usual.

Perhaps it's a combination of the two.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere around this time yesterday (my sleep patterns are all sorts of screwed up right now, yet another side effect of unemployment) I bit the bullet and emailed The Contender to see if he wanted to come over for dinner on Valentine's day. This morning he wrote back saying that I'd beaten him to the punch and he was going to suggest more or less the same thing, only him cooking for me. (Insert collective "Awww" here. Go on. I'll wait.)

So, I'm making him dinner on Saturday and I need suggestions! Dessert is already covered, as there's something I've been looking for an excuse to try for ages (and I can take the remainder to the Lovely A's birthday party the following day), but I'm trying to figure out what to make for the actual meal.

There are several things I am particularly good at, some of which (a whole chicken, a roast beef) are perhaps a bit extravagant. However, Lasagna (or anything Italian, really), some sort of stuffed chicken breast or pork chop, or comfort food like meat loaf and homemade mac n cheese, I am also pretty damned good with.

So the question: Comfort food, or culinary prowess? Which skill do I flaunt?

Cast your vote in the comments. I'm off to attempt sleep. Wish me luck!

Oh for the love of...

Email from The Bad Date (whom I haven't spoken to since):

is it okay if we start seeing other people?


Jackass.

Are You for REAL? - Part 2

Facebook message from The Russian Who Never Called (and who sent a second friend request earlier today):

Subject: [name] the douche
so it's been eating at me ever since you left this past summer, but i'm a total douchebag for not keeping in touch and i hope youre doing alright and was wondering how you've been. i understand if you don't feel like replying


My Response:

Well, since you brought it up, it's not so much the not calling, because let's face it, I'm a big girl and it wouldn't be the first time, and I did leave the country a month later. The *true* douchebaggery lies in the fact that I get all of your promotional emails and text blasts.

I'll stop holding it against you since you more or less called yourself out, but seriously dude? Tasteless.

That being said I'm doing fine and all is well, thanks for asking.

Take care,
-F-


So he apologized (without actually using the word "sorry," but I suppose "douchebag" will suffice), but still... Fucking men...

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 :)