Health Nut

Today I have consumed the following (in more or less chronological order):

3 candy-corn pumpkins
1 1/2 Lattes (one with sugar, one without)
1 Mont Blanc (vanilla gelato, chestnut cream, whipped cream, & toasted almonds)
1 very small bite cinnamon ice cream with caramel sauce
Some french fries
A crappy panini
1 Maraschino cherry
1 small slice of baguette with some goat cheese
2 Arnold Palmers
2 Profiteroles, each containing: 1 raspberry, some strawberry sauce, and whipped cream
1/4 glass of (very good) red wine from a bottle that someone's table didn't finish
6 crackers topped with cheddar cheese and half a green olive, microwaved into melty submission
4 green olives
6 black olives
2 chunks cheddar cheese
3 slices Genoa salami
4 slices Pepperoni
A Partridge in a Pear Tree

Okay, so maybe the last one is a lie, but had it been presented to me shortly after midnight when the woman next to me on the subway was scarfing a bag of Doritos, the intoxicating scent of which was seductively entreating me to bludgeon her with my newly-purchased, hardback edition of "The Indispensable Calvin and Hobbes," rip the glistening bag from her undeserving hands, and either consume the contents as a lion would a gazelle, or else bathe in them, well... I probably wouldn't have turned it down.

The above, combined with the theme song from The Smurfs inexplicably taking up residence in my head and refusing to vacate--despite repeated requests by the regular tenant, "Single Ladies," to do so--serves as a pretty fair indicator that I am on the verge of losing it.

Thank heavens I've got the next two days off.

History

Out of curiosity, and to kill time during commercials while watching the Grey's Anatomy season premiere, I hauled out an old journal to do a little fact checking. Namely, to check the duration of the few "significant" relationships I've had since ending things with High School Boyfriend when I was 19.

The winner, English Ex, clocked in at just shy of two months--five weeks of which we spent on opposite sides of a little body of water commonly known as the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed longer, perhaps, due to the fact that we were friends for awhile before we made out after watching Labyrinth, but facts are facts.

I am 29 years old, and in the past decade, I have not had a "relationship" (I feel I must use the term loosely) that lasted even 2 months.

Can that possibly be normal?

ARGH

Well kids, time to add another entry to the ever-expanding list entitled Jobs Froggy Did Not Get, Despite Having A $100k Masters Degree and Feeling Great After The Interview.

On one hand, this should motivate me even more to get cracking on those PhD applications.

On the other, all of this rejection--boys, employers--is getting to be a bit much. If the bread I've currently got in the oven doesn't come out looking pretty and edible, I may weep.

Susan Miller was right. September SUCKS.

So, About Last Night...

It seems that alcohol-fueled emotional breakdowns make for maudlin blog posts.

This morning, however, the self-pity has been thoroughly purged from my bloodstream, along with the last of the Amstel Light and Crown Royal.

Time to buy a card, find a cobbler to polish up my pink shoes, straighten my hair, and hit the road.

It's Wedding Time!

Tonight: Again

Tonight I have to get it out.

This sadness, for myself.

Because tomorrow it is all about my friend. This friend that I have known longer than all the others. Longer even than the girl that I call my best friend, even though she does not hold that word for me.

Tomorrow it is all about my friend, and the absolute, genuine joy that I feel for her, as she embarks on this next step in the journey of her life...

But tonight...

Tonight it is about me.

And the sorrow I feel for myself... as I am left behind.

I'm not certain that such sorrow and such absolute love can exist together without dire consequence. So tomorrow I abandon myself in love for my friend.

But tonight, in a few moments of absolute self-indulgence, before I fall asleep... it is about me.

And I am lonely.

I am sorry for that.

But not ashamed.

Limits

On the eve of the wedding that officially marks me as the LAST single girl among my childhood friends, I have the following to offer:

As my friend marries her partner of seven years, I offer nothing but joy and hope for a long life of happiness between the two of them.


As I watch all my married friends celebrate this new union, I wish nothing less for each and every one of them.


As I spend every dance on my own, I accept the very real possibility that I will spend the rest of my life in just such a fashion--alone.


As I accept this moment, without fear or regret, I still feel sad and wonder... at this moment, what does the rest of the world see in me?


I do not wish the rest of the world to judge me by standards up to which I cannot live... yet I cannot seem to stop holding myself to those exact same standards... and coming up short.

Like all things, this too shall pass. But for this moment, allow me to feel just the tiniest bit sorry for myself before I move on.

Food Porn

Howdy y'all!

Still getting back into the swing of things here in NYC, and that includes... cooking!

The light in my apartment has been sort of crappy for photos--stupid grey, cloudy skies--but that will hopefully not detract from the fact that these? Are both *fabulous*!

Huevos Rancheros
These were made using the super-simple recipe at smitten kitchen (which I have only just discovered, incidentally, and will now be visiting on a regular basis). I found it via this site, with which I am also, officially, in luuurve.

Deb's photos are far better than mine, but still... behold the yumminess. I'm about to make them again for a late breakfast.

I followed Deb's instructions almost to the letter, with only a few modifications to the salsa fresca, which I made as follows:

• 2 plum tomatoes, diced
• Sweet, spanish onion - a chunk thereof, diced
• Almost 1 fresh jalapeno, minced
• 1 sm clove garlic, pressed
• Cilantro - um, use some. Chopped.
• Juice of 1 whole lime
• Teensy splash of olive oil
• Salt
• Fresh ground pepper

And may I just say... it was divine. Can't wait to use the leftovers and see how the flavours have mingled and gotten to know each other as they huddled together in the fridge overnight. As it was, I made the salsa first, covered it with plastic wrap, and let it sit on the counter while I made the huevos--which, as Deb predicted, were incredibly messy.

Speaking of the mess, anyone have any tips for getting carmelized oil off of a stainless steel pan without scrubbing until your arm aches?

While you ponder that, we'll move on to...

Zucchini Bread
It's been years since I made this and for some reason I never saved the recipe I used the last time, so it was back to the drawing board (aka, the internet) to come up with a new one. Eventually I settled on Zucchini Bread II from Allrecipes.com, mainly because I already had everything I needed in the house, and it got good reviews.

It was a good choice.

 

Me being me, of course, I had to fool around with the recipe just a little bit, and so instead of a full three teaspoons of Cinnamon (which seemed like an awful lot, even for 2 loaves), I used two slightly heaping teaspoons (so maybe closer to 2 1/2), then added some generous shakings of Cardamom, Corriander, and freshly grated Nutmeg.

I was not dissappointed with the results.

I plan to take the second loaf to work today. I'm willing to bet it will be demolished before family meal is over. The remainder of my own loaf will be climbing aboard a train with me tomorrow as I head off to PA for a wedding, where not only will I be seeing one of my beautiful ladies get married to her partner of 7 years, but also will be making Lamb & Feta Stuffed Peppers for my parents. Perhaps I can even get my dad to take photos with his snazzy DSLR camera.

But then again, I wouldn't want to spoil you.

Happy (early) weekend!

I was back at Rep Company today for the first time since I left for Maine. It was a dreadfully quiet Sunday, being only myself, the owner, and a rather eccentric gentleman who always forgets that we've met before hanging around in the reception area with most of the lights off.

At one point as we are both eating lunch he tells me that I am very pretty, and will therefore fall in love very easily.

Given the events of the past few weeks, it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.

Instead I thanked him, informed him that that was decidedly not the case, and finished my bagel in peace.

The bagel was fantastic.

Out With the Old...

You know, contrary to what you might think, a night of excessive alcohol consumption can actually do wonders to clear one's head.

Yes, I did say clear.

Perhaps not at the particular moment in time when one decides it is an excellent idea to smoke yet another cigarette, or patronize a bar which uses actual padlocks to secure the bathrooms from non-paying visitors; but a bit further down the line, when the worst of the hangover has abated and one is left only with a gnawing hunger and the vague sensation that, while the previous evening's activities may not have been exactly wise, they were perhaps not quite as foolish as one was wont to believe when the alarm went off at 8am.

Confused? Let's break it down.

On Thursday night, I? Was Pissed. Off. Mainly at DM for being such a douchebag and disappearing on me in such a cowardly and disrespectful manner. I slogged through the most pathetic lunch shift in the history of lunch shifts (My share of the day's take? $33. How am I going to pay my rent? No fucking clue.), jumping every time my phone vibrated in my pocket, and scurrying off to the bathroom shortly thereafter because this time, surely, it would be a text explaining that his house had burnt down/he'd been arrested on suspicion of terrorism/a dinosaur had eaten his phone, and that's why he had so rudely failed to respond to any of my numerous attempts to make contact over the preceding week.

Of course, it never was, and thus my anger grew... and festered... and otherwise caused the bonfire of unpleasantness smoldering in my brain to grow rapidly to a monstrous inferno.

So I took matters in my own hands--or liver, as it were--and determined that the only means by which said flame could be extinguished was by drowning it... in beer.

Enter a Knight in Shining Armor: a friend who perpetually greets me with "Hey Gorgeous," and insists on paying for my drinks when we go out. He promptly agrees to get me roaring drunk, in an establishment showing the Steelers season opener, no less!, and we were off.

Innumerable beers, a subway ride, and a non-English-speaking bar later, we hauled ourselves up the 5 flights of stairs to my apartment (which miraculously actually seem shorter when one is hammered), and promptly passed out after a few minutes of more-or-less platonic cuddling, and not nearly enough water.

I say more or less because we have slept together in the past, but on this particular occasion did not. It is a testament to our friendship that we can behave in this manner from time to time without any ensuing weirdness. He is, without a doubt, good people.

Through the fog of my hangover the next day, as I brushed away the debris of the Great Fire (not to mention the Great Flood) from my mind, I realized... it was okay. I was over it.

Not one-hundred-percent, of course. Some illusions take longer to dispel than others. But the raging inferno of anger had subsided, leaving only a few embers of wounded pride and "what the fuck?" smoldering away in sheltered corners; and those too will extinguish themselves in due course, if left unfanned.

In short, there is nothing like an evening of debauched camaraderie to put things in perspective, to help you let go of the things you don't have, and to take pleasure in the things that you do.

So long DM. It was, and always will be... your freakin' loss.

Ass.

Fucking History...

...repeating itself. All over the carpet.

Thanks History. Thanks a lot. It's going to take forever to get those stains out.

It's been a week now since I've heard a peep out of DM. In the entire time I've known him, I've never gone more than a day without hearing from him in some form or another, even if it was just a two word text message, but now... Texts and voicemails, including the last which stated "You are clearly avoiding me and I'd like to know why. Call me." have gone unanswered. Short of his being, oh, let's say, dead, I cannot come up with an explanation for this fuckery that would not leave me pissed off.

And no, I don't wish he was dead.

My self-esteem might, just a little, but the rest of me would much rather he remain attached to this mortal coil... even if he is a total fuckwit.

So here I sit, kicking myself for genuinely, honestly expecting this one to turn out differently than all the rest, and wondering if he'll ever surface again and attempt to win back my affection with some sort of explanation, half-assed or otherwise... or if he'll just join the ranks of all those before him, who stuck around just long enough to get my hopes up, and then vanished into the stratosphere with nary a backward glance.

Fuckers.

It's Ba-ack...

After nearly two months without a sighting, my own personal Crazy is back in town and appears to be setting up camp for an extended visit.

Fuck me.

So, in an attempt to purge the Crazy from my system (by letting it loose on the internet, naturally), here is what's bugging me:

While it was good to see DM again last week, there was a brief moment when he was acting a little weird. He seems to be having the same Early 30s Crisis that I've watched some of my other friends go through, wondering what he's doing with his life, etc. Then he made a comment about how we don't know each other all that well (true, but that's what dating is for, right?), and how if I like him, I clearly don't know him at all. I told him that was bullshit and the moment passed... but it was enough to sew a seed of doubt in my previously untroubled mind.

Yet the next day when we said goodbye at the subway, he made a comment about how it was going to be a bitch to get out of my neighborhood on the weekends--indicating that he planned to be up here again in the future, perhaps even regularly.

Then he went away for the holiday weekend. I didn't see him again before he left. We spoke briefly on the phone on Thursday night, and I have not heard a peep from him since. I sent a single text while he was gone, which went unanswered. I called last night when he should have been back, and left a voicemail which has gone unacknowledged. I sent another text about an hour and a half ago, about something trivial, and have heard bupkus.

This is odd for him, he has always been a prompt responder. It's one of the things I like about him, because I never for a second doubted that he was into me. It was a comforting change of pace from days past when I was constantly left wondering.

You know... like I am right now.

Because this is me. The girl from whom men flee, as one would a burning building, on a fairly regular basis.

So my question to you, to the universe, and most specifically to him, is why would a man who was always eager and excited to talk to me back in July, and who maintained contact via postcards and text flirting for the five weeks I was out of town, suddenly up and shut down all lines of communication?

In other words... What the fuck, DM?

What the fuck, indeed.

I can only hope he's lost his fucking phone. Right about now, that's the only explanation I can think of that doesn't piss me off.

*grumble*

Sorry, just need to get this one off my chest:

I just received an email forward from a very Republican friend of mine that contained a link to some congressman bashing healthcare reform, likening it to "punishing" those Americans who have "earned" healthcare from their jobs in order to insure those who have not.

Now, first of all, there's the very simple argument that not every job out there offers healthcare, period. So if you want to be able to go out to a restaurant, see a movie, get your nails done, go shoe shopping, buy groceries, or even simply wash your car, well... those industries are all, ALL, staffed by people who, according to this fellow, don't deserve healthcare because they haven't "earned" it.

But all that is, believe it or not, beside the point.

What really gets me is that the woman who sent this email to me has never spent a single second of her life uninsured. She has absolutely NO frame of reference for what it's like to cross your fingers that your cold is just a cold and not bronchitis, because you sure as hell can't afford antibiotics.

First, she was covered by her parents. Then, she got married and is covered by her husband's medical insurance, which--because he is in the Air Force--is pretty freaking fantastic.

She never went to college and has held perhaps one job in her life, but when she needed to have major surgery at 25? The US Government ponied up 100% of the cost. Which is totally okay, apparently, because her "job" is being married to a serviceman.

I, on the other hand, have a Bachelor's and a Master's degree, and have been employed by numerous employers, a few of which provided health insurance, but the majority of which did not. I pay my own rent, pay my own bills, and have an exorbitant amount of student loan debt to qualify me to work in a field where, thanks to the complete and utter fuckwittedness of our last (Republican) president, there are currently very, very few jobs. So here I am, waiting tables and praying nothing bad happens to me, while I keep on looking for a job that will allow me to bring a little educational diversity into the classrooms of under-served New York City students, which, while rewarding to me and invaluable to the students, STILL won't provide health insurance.

So... you tell me: which one of us has fucking earned a little healthcare coverage?


Thank you. I feel ever so slightly better now.

The End.

Head First

I am diving back into Real Life.

Or trying to, anyway. You know, in the moments I can tear myself away from looking at other people's camp photos on Facebook.

DM came over on Monday night and I made dinner. Aside from my elation at eating something that did not originate from a can, seeing him again was great. All the chemistry is still there. We had a bit of a stilted heart-to-heart in which I discovered (somewhat to my relief) that he is not perfect--that he in fact shares many of the same flaws inherent in pretty much every guy I date--but it's early days... we'll see if those flaws turn out to be of the emotionally crippling variety. Fingers crossed that they do not, as (though I am loathe to admit it for fear of jinxing myself) I am actually excited about this one. It's been awhile since that has happened, and it would be a pleasant change of pace if that excitement didn't blow up in my face.

You hear that Universe? Just sayin'...

After a greasy diner breakfast-for-lunch the following day, I bid him adieu at the subway (he kissed me on the sidewalk and I didn't squirm! This is progress people!), then decided to plunge feet first (head first would be a bit painful) into my Avon Walk training (go here! give me money!! only $440 left to raise!!) by taking 10 mile walk down the Hudson River Greenway, which--barring a slightly smelly stretch under the highway around 135th St--is just beautiful! I fully plan on making this a regular route. This time I just walked to 135th and back (about 8 miles total) and then hiked up and around Fort Tryon Park. Next time I might take the subway down to Battery Park and then walk the 11 miles back. I am excited!!

After my walk I stopped on my favourite lawn in the Park for a stretch, with the result that I'm not as stiff as I thought I'd be today. Still, I'm heading out to Bikram Yoga in a few for some deep stretching and a whole lot of sweat. Again... excited!!

I've updated my resume and am once again on the hunt for teaching work. I start back at the restaurant next week, but would love to be able to stop waiting tables entirely. I also need to get in gear and start studying for the GRE as I only have 3 months to compile my PhD applications, and if I hope to get into Ivy League School That Only Accepts Two Applicants Per Year, I had best get my arse in gear!

Like I said. Head First.

It's the only way to go.

"Guys...? Do you think it would be dangerous if i taped my nostrils shut?" *

* Uttered by one of my campers after lights out. Miss her already.

Hello there beautiful people. Have you missed me?

Well, to be honest, you may be missing me a bit longer. My body is back in the Real World, but much of my brain is still back at Camp. I have a feeling it may stay that way for awhile, much as it did after Uganda, or last Summer's travel bonanza.

In the mean time, what little mental capacity I was able to stow in my somehow-15-lbs-overweight-luggage will be dedicated to:

• Training and raising money for the Avon Walk. (Click the link and give me money! Thousands of women will thank you!).
• Preparing for an interview/audition for a teaching position so I can do as little waitressing as possible.
• Looking for more teaching work, for the same reason.
• Convincing my Rep Company to do the original musical that premiered at Camp this summer because I'm in love with it and desperately want to be in it.
• Finally unpacking (and finishing painting) my apartment.
• Figuring out how on earth I'm going to pay all the bills that are waiting for me.

Oh... and seeing The Boy again. In an attempt at maturity, I've decided to call him DM, which is close enough to his name to not feel like a silly (and therefore distancing) nickname, but still different enough to maintain anonymity.

Clearly, even the smallest part of my brain is prone to overthinking things. Good grief.

[WARNING: Non-Sequitur Ahead]

I wish the sun was out today. I feel that the best way to reconnect with my life here in the city is just to go wandering, but nobody wants to wander when it's grey and gloomy.

[Okay, okay, LOTS of non-sequiturs]

There are not words to express how much I am enjoying my cup of coffee this morning. As wonderful as life at Camp was, the coffee was barely a step above (and perhaps even a step below) dishwater. Dirty dishwater. In other words... it was foul.

Although I had been greatly looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, with no company other than my cat, I also found it extraordinarily difficult to get myself out of bed this morning without twelve noisy girls and the impending threat of a trumpet call to urge me to do so. Even after 10+ hours of sleep.

Apparently, The Granddaddy of All Roaches made a return visit to the apartment while I was gone. Gracie held him at bay while my housesitter first panicked, and then attacked him with Raid. The Great Foe has been vanquished. Fingers crossed that he is not followed by reinforcements.

Yesterday after a morning of bidding farewell to campers, cleaning up, and striking all the lights in the theatre, I frantically (and not very neatly) packed my bags and threw them into the minivan of the counselor driving me to the airport. I was still in my stripy pajama pants, my hair in two messy buns, my glasses slightly askew. I checked in for my flight and made my way through security to my gate... where I was selected for a random pat-down before being allowed to board my flight. When I got to JFK, I discovered that my just-barely-closed luggage had been inspected (and very poorly re-packed) by the TSA. As I stood in the massive taxi queue with a 60 lb pack strapped to my back, a rainbow yoga mat, a woven purse from Peru, and a flowered laundry bag full of all the things that wouldn't fit in my pack dangling from my hand, all I could wonder was... since when does Hippy = Terrorist?

I'll leave you to ponder that while I head off to shower, face the world, and perhaps even straighten my hair for the first time in over a month.

And browse Craigslist for a free hair colour appointment because my roots are appallingly long.

Hey there Real World, long time no see. Do me a favour and take it easy on me, 'kay?

Hello!!

Howdy my lovelies!

I'll be honest with you, I haven't really got the brain power at the present moment to write a post of any real substance, but just wanted to drop a line and say that, in all honesty, Camp... is...

AWESOME.

As in, I can't believe I'm actually getting paid to be here.

It's that awesome.

We're between sessions right now. First session kids left yesterday, in a chaos of suitcases and tears, and tomorrow the new kids arrive. There are new counselors here too, so there's a whole new ream of names to learn--I had finally learned all 55 campers' names around, oh, 2 days before the end of the session.

The last week of the session was exhausting and I'm still utterly braindead, but I am in awe of the work these kids put together in those three weeks--and will be singing the songs from the musicals for the next, oh, decade or so.

Also, my Facebook friend list is growing rapidly. I am, like, totes popular now.

And since you may or may not be wondering, I've been keeping in touch with the guy I went out with a few times before I left. He's sent me a few postcards and we text when the kiddos aren't around. We'll see where it all stands when I get back, but contact has not been entirely lost.

I suppose that's about it really. Life is good. I am not looking forward to returning to the real world in a few weeks.

Do I hafta?

Catching Up

I finally took the flattened boxes from my March move-in down to the curb.

I returned my library books (though I didn't pay the fines).

I put my Netflix account on hold and returned the movies I had (only one of which I've actually watched).

I went to Target to buy a flashlight (and ended up buying two when I found the same one I'd purchased at The Sports Authority for less than half the price--yay 90 day return policy!), and replace the bath mat that Kitty Dearest chose to piddle on last night.

I leave for 5 weeks of Camp tomorrow morning and I still need to...

... clean house for my house/cat sitter (no small task, let me tell you!)
... do laundry
... PACK

But...

My dearest wegrit reprimanded me this morning for leaving you all in the lurch for 10 days, and I have no idea how frequently (if at all) I'll be able to blog while at camp, so I thought I'd take a moment before tackling the Herculean tasks outlined above and try to get you all caught up.

With sub-headings.

The Boy
There have been two more dates since last I wrote, the first of which I am not entirely certain counts as a "date," per se, as it consisted predominately of sex. I am pleased to announce that make-out chemistry, for once, translated to naked chemistry. About bloody time.

The second consisted of near disaster as I went to meet him in Park Slope, which took me NEARLY TWO FRAKKIN' HOURS because the R train is, I believe, evil incarnate. I was to call him when I got above ground, which I did, and got his voicemail, several times. I was growing increasingly more and more irritated (flakitude is just about my biggest pet peeve of all time, particularly in masculine form), when he finally appeared from across the street, looking about as harried as I was annoyed, and asked "Did you get my note?"

Er... Note?

Turns out he'd left his phone at work, had been waiting for me outside the station but the whole reason we were in Park Slope was that he was cat sitting for a friend's cat that needed medication so had to leave to take care of the kitty, and therefore bought markers and tape and left a note for me on a mailbox outside the station... which I had missed, because a creepy guy was leaning on said mailbox.

He showed me the note, I laughed, he kissed me a little too intently considering that a couple of girls were standing perhaps a foot from us (gonna have to address the PDA issue--i.e., my complete aversion thereto--sometime in the future, if this thing pans out), and then he bought me dinner.

I also met one of his roommates who, as it turns out, a few years ago ran a fundraiser to help build the dance school that I later worked with in Uganda! Small world!

Oh, and he bought me a book to read while I'm at camp, which was nice.

So, to summarize... I like him, though exactly how much seems to swing like a pendulum at any given time, and I can't figure out if that has anything to do with him, or if it's just my commitment-phobia triggering my flight reflex. So far, other than the forgotten-phone incident, he hasn't put a foot wrong... which seems... creepy. Anyhow, I'm about to take off to Maine for five weeks, so really, there's no use getting myself all worked up about it.

Though I do wonder if I should RSVP to my friend's wedding in September as having a date. Probably not. Counting my chickens and all...

Speaking of which:

Bridal Shower/Bachelorette Festivities
It is now my firm belief that ALL bachelorette parties should take place in a gay bar.

The original plan was to go to Sisters, a lesbian club in Philly (because this wedding has two brides... and no groom), but when we got there we learned that the dance floor was closed on Sundays, so after a few shots and some beer pong with the regulars--and my best friend nearly getting her ass kicked when she asked if the bartender knew how to make a muff diver (the bartender thought she was just being inappropriate)--we made our way down the street to the neighboring gay bar, Woodys, which came complete with a dance floor, DJ, and, er, gay porn being shown on the big screens. I was, it seems, the only one not traumatized by this.

A gay man repeatedly told me I was the most beautiful girl in the club... only to follow up by telling me I looked like his mom. I'm pretty sure he meant that as a compliment, but still...

And cheese steaks at 2am after dancing your ass off for several hours nonstop? Best. Idea. EVER.

So is realizing that you met some of the greatest friends you'll ever have when you were 9-12 years old. I love my girls, and feel incredibly blessed to have such amazing women in my life.

Work
Job still sucks. Hours still suck. Recently learned that they're raping us in the money department even more severely (and potentially illegally) than we were previously aware, and am feeling very ambivalent about potentially coming back in the Fall. If I do, it likely will not be for long.

However... fourth time is the charm, and after I missed him THREE TIMES, everyone's favourite Twilight actor FINALLY came into the restaurant while I was working. I delivered his salad. Yes, he is hot. He was also, however, in a very obvious "please leave me the hell alone" state (hat pulled low, jacket collar up, hunched down in seat) so I suppressed the urge to behave like a slavering fangirl and did just that. So... sorry. No photos.

Miscellaneous
Seeing a woman in a full burka pushing a stroller is a little creepy. It's like the Angel of Death has taken up babysitting to bring in some extra cash.


And that, my darlings... is all I got.

I hope you feel less neglected after this massive update, and as such, I hope you can weather the upcoming semi-hiatus with grace and no ill will. I'll update when I can, should I have anything update-worthy to share, and I hope you all have a lovely summer.

Oh, and I don't even *know* what heights the number in my Google Reader has reached. I am abolishing my self-guilting tendencies and marking all as read when I return in September. Clean slate! Fresh start! Fingers crossed that I can suck a little less on my return.

Lovies!
XOXO
-FP-

De-Brief, In Brief

Pros:
Cuter, and ever-so-slightly taller, than I remembered.
Chose the scenic walk to the restaurant.
Made me laugh.
Paid for dinner.
Still an excellent kisser.

Cons:
Will be shorter than me if I'm wearing heels.
Poor lighting didn't let me see if he's a good tipper.
Blew his nose in cloth napkin at restaurant.

Verdict:
Although I actually managed to behave myself (for once in my bloody life) and decline the invitation to go home with him, there is definitely some chemistry there that merits exploring before I leave for five weeks. Does it go beyond chemistry? Jury is still out.

Hey, it was a first date. And it wasn't a disaster.

That, in and of itself, is an accomplishment.

Grammar Lesson: Not Only / But Also

Not only did I meet (and make-out with) a boy on the Fourth of July, but I also gave that boy my number.

Not only did I give that boy my number, but he also utilized it within less than 24 hours.

Not only did he utilize that number, but he also asked me out to dinner.

Not only did he ask me out to dinner, but I also said yes.

And we're going out tonight.

I...

... had a crazy intense make-out session with a boy on a rooftop this evening.

That was unexpected.

Not that I'm complaining.

Happy Fourth of July y'all!

Oh. My. Holy. Jesus.

I had just reached that particular point in tiredness when one says "to hell with the second half of that 40 in my fridge, it's time for bed!"

I'd taken off my glasses and gone to use the bathroom and, as I was coming out of the door, I happened to glance up toward the ceiling of the livingroom and I thought to myself, "Hmmm... what is that dark spot up there on my wall?"

I put on my glasses.

This... was a bad idea.

For the dark spot lurking on my wall just below the ceiling... was the biggest motherfucking cockroach I have ever seen.

Black as midnight and larger than some of the mice my cat has slaughtered, I watched, awestruck, as it slowly made its way along the wall to the corner, and then began to descend.

My first instinct was, of course, to grab my camera from the coffee table and attempt to photograph this minion of Satan, lest the world at large think I was exaggerating.

Unfortunately, due to exhaustion (and the first half of that 40 of Budweiser, now happily at rest in my stomach), I failed in this endeavor, and as my unwelcome guest came closer to disappearing behind the cabinet of my secretary desk (and allowing my imagination to relegate it to such locations as, oh, let's just say, my face), I realized that something had to be done.

Go ahead and substitute "thrown" for "done" and you can imagine what happened next.

I searched frantically for a launchable item that could thwart my enemy without damaging my walls or, more importantly, the glass-fronted cabinet of my desk (really, my own foresight in the presence of such menace amazes me). After discarding both a J. Crew flip-flop and a Nike Air-Rift sneaker as being too bulky, I settled on an American Eagle ballet flat (though let it be known that mine was pink), and took aim at my foe.

To my credit, considering that a.) I'm exhausted and tipsy, and b.) my hand-eye coordination, when it comes to projectiles, is lousy, I came remarkably close to exploding that roach with a single act of footwear.

Unfortunately, I was about an inch shy of my target, the shoe now lies atop my cabinet (where it will most likely remain until I move), and the roach has tumbled to god knows where, and at this moment is most likely making himself at home in one of my sneakers.

Rest assured, no shoe will be donned unchecked for a very, very long time.

In the mean time, my day-off plans for tomorrow, which previously included only "loaf on couch like vegetable," and "wash aprons," have now been amended to include "get lazy ass to hardware store and buy screens for damned windows to insure that this ballet of fuckery never happens again."

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to chug the rest of that 40, jump at the tiniest flicker of every shadow, and have nightmares about roaches the size of my face wielding ballet slippers before holding my cat hostage and demanding reparations.

Damnit. I never had this problem in Brooklyn.