A Thought...

Maybe it's the two French Martinis talking, but...

For all the bitching and moaning about the shit that's gone wrong, things that have happened or haven't, where I wish I was and where I'm not, the shitty job, my farce of a love life, the money spent on a degree that I'm glad I have but isn't getting me anywhere...

A minute ago I was hanging out the living room window of my fifth floor walk-up smoking a cigarette (which, yes, I really shouldn't be doing), listening to guys on the street shout at each other in Spanish, and I realized...

I really fucking love my life.

Funny how it just hits you sometimes.

Down the Rabbit Hole...

A word of advice: Exchanging thinly veiled sexual text messages with the guy you want but cannot have is likely not a good idea.

So.

I'll give you three guesses what I spent an hour or so doing earlier this evening.

Just call me Alice...

How It All Went Down

So, we talked.

I met him at the diner down the street from the theatre an hour or so before our cast was going to see the show in our sister theatre.

For the first half hour or so we drank coffee, and chatted, and I laughed hysterically when he managed to launch the contents of a ketchup bottle all over himself (and the neighboring table).

And then, we talked.

Did I get what I wanted? Perhaps not so much. But he said a lot of nice things, the sort of things every girl who's ever been jerked around by a guy wishes he had said at the beginning; and while this isn't exactly the beginning, it's as close as I'm going to get without a time machine, so I'll take it. He said that I deserve a level of emotional investment that he can't give me right now, which frankly might be the nicest thing any man has ever said to me.

I, in turn, apologized for ambushing him (and myself) the other night, explained what sparked off my inner crazy and caused me to do so (and the fact that he simply thanked me for telling him rather than judging me definitely raised him in my estimation), and, in general, was far more open and honest with him about my own intentions and desires, and how I've acted on those in the past, than I've ever been with any man, ever. I don't know how he's done it, but I've let my guard down around him and even though it's hurt me a bit, it's still down. And I'm okay with that.

Am I disappointed? Of course. Am I sad? Yeah, a little. Does it make me feel both warm and fuzzy and a little bit like dying when we just sit there in silence and he looks at me like I've always wanted a man to look at me? Oh, you betcha. But despite all of that, I'm in a better place with this than I was before we talked, so... I'm counting my blessings, I guess.

Is there still a little spark of hope that maybe, somewhere down the line when he gets his act together, this crazy chemistry that we have together will come to something more? I'd be lying if I said there wasn't, but for now I'm reigning that hope in, exercising some self control, and letting go of the expectations I tried to convince both him and myself that I didn't have.

In other words, I'm behaving like an adult.

How the fuck did that happen?

Funny that this is the most mature relationship I've ever had, and it isn't a relationship at all.

Contradictions

I am both anticipating and dreading seeing Mr. I this afternoon.

Dreading, because I'm fairly certain I'm not going to hear what I want to hear.

Anticipating, because, damnit, I still fucking like the guy, and I just plain want to see him.

My daily horoscope ended with the following: "In your sentimental life, your every desire will be fulfilled with lots of love and availability."

Yeah... Universe? You can stop fucking with me any time now, 'kay?

Cheers.

Well, That Was Awkward...

Sunday was both more and less painful than I expected.

I managed to get myself together and, after flipping through all the usual suspects, I finally found an album on my MP3 player to get myself into the necessary mindset to survive the evening. (Amy Winehouse, "Back to Black," in case you were wondering. "Tears Dry on Their Own" is officially my new theme song.)

Mr. I arrived at the theatre, and, with the exception of a few loaded moments, I was doing okay...

...until he came up to me backstage in the middle of Act 2 with this mean little smile on his face and said, "So, you want to talk now?"

I flipped him off--more playfully than he deserved--called him an ass, and walked away. Needless to say my head was not in the game for the rest of that show.

Dick.

So now we have a date an appointment to meet for coffee tomorrow afternoon and talk this thing through while we're both sober. Let me tell you, making a date to receive bad news is quite a mindfuck. As much as I'd like to maintain a little hope that perhaps, given a few days (and a few more functioning braincells) to think about it, he'll rethink his position, I'm not banking on it. We all see where hope has already gotten me, and I'm not sure I can cope with being any further up this particular creek than I've already ventured.

Still, I'm giving him a chance... a chance to prove that he's not a complete twat. Because, despite the pyrotechnics of Saturday night, I still like him. And I'm a sucker. And clearly, my sense of self-preservation is on holiday somewhere, stranded by that damned volcano and not coming back any time soon.

In the mean time you can bet your ass I'll be looking good tomorrow afternoon. Hey, a gal's gotta use what she's got.

Cracked

I cannot believe I am saying this... but it has happened again.

I allowed myself to get my hopes up that there could be something there between me and Mr. I, the guy who told me that he liked me, that he wanted to get to know me better, who looked at me in a way that made me smile from head to toe...

...but apparently not.

Last night did not end well.

We had two shows, an 8pm and 11pm performance, so by 1:30am when we were all walking to the bar for a drink (or three), everyone was already a bit loopy. Mr. I was walking a (female) friend who'd come to see the show to the subway before joining us, and two of the others looked back and made a comment that it looked like they were making out... and my stomach just about crashed through the sidewalk. I was instantly kicked in the chest with memories of a night years ago when I was sitting at the bar in my old restaurant waiting for the chef (who I was secretly dating) to get off work, and some girl called on the phone and identified herself as his girlfriend. Turns out he was fucking half of Manhattan while were ostensibly "dating."

Or B, who flirted with me for months to such an extent that everyone who knew us assumed we were dating... until the words "my girlfriend" fell from his lips one fateful afternoon.

Even though I didn't want to be thinking it, I couldn't help wondering: could it really be happening again? I was completely distracted until he came into the bar 15 minutes later.

So I did something stupid.

When we were both drunk and outside smoking a cigarette, I called out Mr. Inscrutable on his inscrutability... and I did not hear what I wanted to hear.

It would seem that dating is apparently a distraction, and he can't focus on getting his life on track if he's dating someone. That smacked so much of the Guitarist who dumped me using ADD and poor time management skills as his excuse that I wondered for a moment if I'd suddenly time-warped back to 2002.

History repeated itself an awful lot last night.

He has a lot of preconceived notions of how I would behave if we were to start dating, and how it would go wrong--I'm guessing based on his last relationship which he says was not good. He says that he does like me and could see a relationship between us, but not now. Which is all well and good, but I'm not going to wait around for him to straighten his shit out. Not intentionally, at least, but the way my life goes the chances of my finding another man I'm actually interested in dating anytime soon is roughly that of a snowball's chance during a drought in Hell.

Much more was said, but I can't rehash it all right now. It was a long conversation and I don't think it's nearly finished, but we reached his stop on the train and his parting shot was so unfair that it still gets my hackles up just thinking about it. "And now here, through no fault of my own, I'm hurting someone..." and then he left.

And that is just such bullshit.

If he'd known all this from the beginning, that he wasn't in a place to date and didn't want to start something... well, he shouldn't have started something.

I was drunk and I kissed him. It could have ended there, I would have been mildly embarrassed for a week or two, and then it would have been over.

We started talking. It became clear that we were interested in one another. Instead of saying that he wanted to get to know me better, he could have said "I think you're cool, but I'm not in a place to be dating anyone right now." It would have sucked, but again, without having had time and impetus to kindle that little ember of hope, I could have gotten over it fairly painlessly.

But he didn't do either of these things. He flirted with me. We made out for several hours. He mentioned people in his life and modified their names with "who you'll probably meet." The flirtation was escalating, becoming less clandestine. For fuck sake, I went and filled a (very expensive) birth control prescription because I genuinely thought that, within the next month or so, I might be needing it. Now not only is my ego sorely bruised, but I'm out $150 that I really couldn't afford, and the package will just sit there in my medicine cabinet mocking me with the fact that, even if a guy actually does like me, that's apparently still not enough... all because I let myself hope.

He thinks he knows what I want from him, that I'll be demanding and whiny, and hold it against him if he has things in his life other than me, all of which is bullshit.

All I want is to be enough. For one person to think I'm worth the effort of getting to know. I'm fucking lonely and I'm sick of it and I just want someone to care.

Apparently that's asking an awful lot.

I'm being dramatic now, I know. These wounds are still fresh. We were both drunk and probably a bit unfair when this conversation took place, I blindsided both of us when I started it, and perhaps when we continue it at a later date the situation will appear differently, but I've got a sinking feeling that he's already made up his mind. Right now, I need to focus on today. I've got to be at the theatre and see him in three hours and right now I look very much like I've been crying all night (which I haven't... just part of it). I need to pull myself together, put on my big girl panties, and not let my inner turmoil affect anyone else, or the show.

I've got to be enough for myself. Good thing I've had a lot of practice.

So, Uh...

...either the universe is being particularly attentive to my needs, or Mr. I reads my blog.

We're gonna go with option A for the time being, because option B is just a little bit too frightening to contemplate. Though if he knows I'm completely crazy and is still interested, he could well be my soul mate. If, you know, I believed in that sort of thing.

And no, I haven't received any grand communique of just what the hell is going on in his head, but today the weirdness seems to have abated enough to strengthen my fragile grasp on sanity. We'll see if my luck holds.

Oh, and wegrit? Every guy I date is emotionally retarded. Apparently, that's my thing.

Venting...

I am frustrated.

Very, VERY frustrated.

And yes, this has everything to do with The Guy, who for the time being is being renamed Mr. Inscrutable, because that is exactly what he is... fucking inscrutable.

My egg donation retrieval was last week--and I'll tell you all about that interesting process and the bitch of a recovery period at a later date--but my hormones are clearly still finding their way back into balance, albeit very, VERY slowly. Exaggerated emotional responses seem to be the order of the day (I thought I was going to kill people at work last night, moreso than usual), which is making this whole situation even tougher to deal with because I keep asking myself: Would I be such a mess if my hormones weren't still out of whack?

Who am I kidding? Of course I would. But for the moment let's just blame the hormones, okay? Thanks.

Anyway, some background.

As I was putting the finishing touches on my somewhat angsty post about the difficulties of dating as an adult, Mr. I and I began a text message conversation (instigated by him) which started out as fluff but lasted--with a few breaks--until about 1:00 in the morning. During the course of that conversation we came to the conclusion that we a.) liked each other, b.) would like to get to know each other better, and c.) would like to make out as soon as possible.

Considering that this was pretty much what I'd asked for in the post I'd just finished writing, I could have danced for joy. If I'd known that I could get what I wanted simply by putting it out there for the universe to hear, I would have been far more vocal in my desire for, oh, a winning lottery ticket, or freedom from student loan debt.

In lieu of those things, however, I now put this to the universe: I want to know what the fuck is going on in his head! NOW! Even if it's not what I want to hear--though that would be really great, of course--I just want to fucking KNOW. Because I can't read him. At all. And it's driving me bonkers.

A few days after that text message conversation, we went to his place after a rehearsal, ostensibly to watch a movie, but really we engaged in some thoroughly PG (bordering on PG-13, but still pretty damned chaste) activities, and just generally snuggled and enjoyed one another's company.

It was lovely.

It was also over a week ago, with no sign of it ever being repeated.

I tried to get him to see me last weekend, but failed. Since then I'm not even sure how to broach the subject because I'm not sure if it's welcome. I can't even figure out if I'm allowed to casually text him when I'm bored, like I want to do. I only see him at rehearsal under the watchful (or, at the very least, observant) eyes of the rest of the cast and other various and sundry people, and he's... distant. He doesn't flirt like he used to. Today I actually managed to ride the subway with him without anyone else present, but it still seemed... weird.

The chemistry is still undeniably there, even if it only comes out when we're on stage together.

Now, he made a comment, on that fateful evening, about how he tried not to date people he was working with, and so we'd "have to wait." I half jokingly responded "And until then we're just... what? Fooling around?" His response, after a pause, was "What are we doing?" which, admittedly, threw me for a loop as well, being that it was only the first time we'd been alone together. After a moment I said, "I think it's a little early to be having a 'state of the union' conversation, don't you?" He agreed, we both relaxed, and the moment passed...

But it begs the question: Is that what is going on? Is this "waiting"? Now, it seems to me that the moment for waiting passed somewhere in the several hours I spent in his lap (PG people! PG!!), but still... if that's the case, okay. Fine. I can be patient (stop laughing) if I know what I'm waiting for. It's the not knowing that's killing me. I thought I had a sense of where we were, and now I am... lost.

Now, I am not a member of this particular theatre company, and he is. I get the feeling that the rumor-mill operates at lightening speed and perhaps he's just keeping his distance around the theatre to avoid being the subject of gossip. Fair enough. I just want to KNOW.

Or maybe he's just a jerk.

But he'd have to be a pretty stupid jerk to put so much effort into wooing a girl who'd already thrown herself at him if all he was after was a roll in the hay, so I'm inclined to believe that his attentions were genuine. Just call me an optimist.

Add into the mix the fact that, as my hormones take the long way back to normal, the horniness has returned a thousandfold (did I mention I've seem him in spandex that left very little to the imagination?), and all emotional turmoil aside, I would like to get him alone and naked at the earliest available opportunity, well...

Phew.

Sorry, what was I talking about? I was still thinking about the spandex.

Damnit.

My head is a fucking mess.

The show opens in a few days. As of this moment I am going to see him every. fucking. day. for quite some time. I would prefer for that to be something to look forward to, as opposed to a source of emotional and sexual frustration.

So, there. I'm putting it out there. I just hope the universe is paying attention.

In Brief (because I'm tired)

1. It would appear that The Guy likes me too. Yes, I am certain.

2. Tomorrow is the retrieval day for my egg donation. Trying not to be nervous as I'll be unconscious the whole time anyway. I hope the check clears quickly so I can go to IKEA on Friday and buy a new bed. I realize that's mercenary, but I have a feeling that it's going to be a little while before my ovaries go back to normal and my abdomen stops feeling like it's filled with highly sensitive Dazzle Dirt (tm), so I'm focusing on the immediate benefits.

3. I was rejected by my final grad school today, likely because my second letter of recommendation never freaking arrived. This entire application process was so fraught with stress and roadblocks, perhaps the universe was telling me that this just isn't the right time for me to be going back to school. At least, that's the line I'm taking...

4. Did I mention about The Guy? I did? Good. Just checking. :)

30 Going on 13

Once upon a time, many moons ago, a girl sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor, cradling a cordless phone in her lap and trying very hard to work up the nerve to dial. Finally, with a deep breath, she steeled her resolve and punched in the number.

Girl: Hello, [Boy]?
Boy: Yeah?
Girl: Hey, it's [Girl]. (Pause.) You know who I am, right?
Boy: Yeah, of course I do.
Girl: Um, Okay, So... I was just wondering... Wouldyougooutwithme?
Boy: Yes.
Girl: (Pause.) Really?
Boy: Yes, really.
Girl: Cool. (Pause.) So, ummm... watcha up to?

The hard part over, they talked for hours. They talked about music, TV, books, school. They had no classes together but made plans to meet at the library during study halls when school was back in session. She learned that the boy had actually asked her out (via a friend, naturally) months before, but she'd said no, because she'd had him confused with someone else.

It was Christmas Eve, 1993, and later that night the girl wrote giddily in her diary that she'd already given herself the best Christmas present she could ask for--a boyfriend.

They had declared themselves, they were a couple. Only then did they go about the task of getting to know each other. As it turns out, they were well-suited, and young love blossomed. It was four months before they even kissed. Five months before their first fight, break-up, and reunion. By Middle School standards, their 7 month relationship was practically a marriage; and when it ended (with no shortage of drama, as young relationships invariably do), she licked her wounds for a little while, then brushed herself off and moved on. The thing had run its course.

* * *
It's a simple story, I know, but when I look back on it that's what strikes me the most: simplicity.

The other day I was talking to The English Ex about our respective dating difficulties and he asked "Was it always this hard?" To which I could only reply, "No. It wasn't."

I miss the simplicity of being able to say, "Hey, I like you. If you like me too we should be a couple. Wanna try?" and saving all the worry over whether or not it's a good idea for a later date. Unfortunately, as a woman now officially in her 30s, saying that to any guy before even going on a single date would surely send him screaming in the opposite direction faster than you can say "Wedding Registry."

But that doesn't mean I don't want to do it.

Of course, I'm thinking about The Guy here, but I'm thinking about that Boy too. We barely knew each other. Hell, I didn't even realized he'd already asked me out, because I had his last name confused with someone else's! All I knew is that I thought he was cute and I got all jittery when I ran into him in the nurse's office one day (I had poison ivy, he was icing a sprained ankle)... and we were together for practically an eternity, from an adolescent standpoint. So how did we know? How did we know that we would actually get along, be good for each other, have anything in common? Was it some sort of crazy, relationship sixth sense? Or just blind luck?

I wish I knew, because I get the same feeling around The Guy... only magnified, and muddled by years of experience, of both the positive and negative variety.

I barely know him, though I do actually know his last name. I just know that I like him, I feel good when he's around, and when he's in the same space I want to be close to him.

So why can't I make that leap? Why can't I gather the nerve to simply say "Hey, let's go out sometime. Like now, for instance?" Why was my 13 year old self so much braver than my 30 year old self?

Perhaps it's because my 13 year old self had yet to feel the sting of real rejection. Rejection is like a poison ivy allergy--something else with which I am acutely familiar. Over time, the body's allergic reaction to poison ivy intensifies rather than diminishes, so that each subsequent exposure causes a more violent reaction until you're like me, and a simple brush with those three leaves from Hell means a trip to the doctor and lots of steroids. I think I react to rejection the same way. As time goes on and I experience it more and more, even the little rejections feel like earthquakes in my psyche.

Like I said, I barely know The Guy... but I have a feeling that if he shot me down, I would take it hard. Very hard. And doing a show together means I'll be seeing him fairly regularly for the next month or so, making it very difficult for me to lick my wounds and move on, as my 13 year old self would have done.

Granted I feel that I already made my intentions perfectly clear when I kissed him, but he is a guy, he could have just chalked that up to my being drunk. A kiss doesn't carry the same weight at 30 as it did at 13, which is a pity really, as it's still an infinitely enjoyable way to pass the time. Or maybe he's having the same, ridiculous inner monologue that I am, and we should both just get the hell over it and see what happens.

I have no way of knowing what he's thinking, what will happen, or what I will eventually do. For the moment I'm still stuck on my bedroom floor, staring at the wall and searching for the courage to dial.

Good Karma... and Money

Have you ever had one of those hangovers where it feels like your brain is suspended in jello, and every time you move your head, it bumps painfully into your skull?

Yes?

Well after six days of hormones, that's how my reproductive organs feel. Or maybe like someone removed them all together and replaced them with a brick. A brick with lots of nerve endings. Similes aside, it is not exactly what you would call pleasant. Though on the plus side, my overwhelming horniness has abated for the time being, as the thought of anyone actually touching the lower half of my body makes me cringe.

Tomorrow morning's sonogram is going to be just a barrel of fun.

Now, at least, I'm starting to understand why the compensation for this process is so high. I don't mean to sound mercenary, and I know that I am giving someone a great gift... but in my present state of discomfort, cold hard cash is a far more tangible reward than good karma.

I've also developed a new-found respect for diabetics, or anyone else who has to administer subcutaneous medication while in a public place. I've had to inject myself twice while at work, and let me tell you... perching on the edge of a toilet seat with my tights around my knees and my skirt hiked up around my waist, preparing to stick a needle in my thigh while shouting "Occupied!" as one or more persons rattle the door trying to gain entry to the restroom is not a position in which I ever expected to find myself.

The subsiding of my sex drive, however, has not decreased my interest in The Guy in the slightest--leading me to believe that my attraction to him is not just the hormones and that, for better or for worse, I do actually like him. We had a late night text message conversation last night, and the fact that I've read over it a few times and can't help grinning while I do so also points in that direction.

Yep. I think I'm in trouble.

Stalemate

Day Three of Self-Injected Hormones: Still horny, though perhaps not as blindingly as before. Plagued by insomnia--again, not unusual for me, but definitely intensified. Maybe a tiny bit crampy from time to time, but nothing unbearable. Giving myself injections has turned out to be far less traumatic than I thought it would be. I was given the option of taking them in the thigh, and I quite literally can't even feel it. Definite WIN.

As to my personal life, I've seen The Guy (No, I really couldn't come up with a better nickname than that. I tried.) twice since the evening that I mauled him. Both times we were at rehearsal, and both times he has been cut before I was, thus thwarting my schemes to get him alone somewhere off theatre property--be it only the subway--in order to more objectively evaluate the situation. I have tried, and apparently failed, to indicate that I would enjoy doing just that. My subtler hints have gone unnoticed, and the one whopping LARGE hint--namely kissing him in a not-at-all-subtle fashion, right after saying something akin to "I'm far more attracted to you than I should be"--has not since been addressed.

It feels like the level of flirtation has escalated, but it's difficult for me to say when all of it is taking place in front of the rest of the cast--one of whom is aware of the events of the previous evening, having been in my inebriated company immediately thereafter. (If you think I have no filter in my blog, you should see me when I'm drunk.) The one significant change I can note is that, when he is supposed to kiss me on stage, he actually does so now, whereas before he'd been faking it. That may, or may not, be something.

In other words... I haven't got a frakking clue what is going on, and short of dragging him into the dressing room, locking the door, and having my way with him (or what way I can have under current restrictions), I'm not sure if or when I'll ever figure it out.

Not that I'm not enjoying myself along the way mind you. Flirting is fun. Cute boys are fun. Feeling slightly jittery around someone new is fun.

But by now you've all become at least mildly acquainted with my Crazy, and these hormones are not making her any easier to keep under control.

Right now, The Happy, Sane Froggy Who Just Enjoys the Moment is at a stalemate with the Crazy... but when that Stalemate becomes a Checkmate, well... I just don't know who's going to win.

Stuff and Foolishness

There is simultaneously a lot and very little going on in my life these days.

I've started rehearsing for another show, which is taking up the majority of my free time, and much to my delight it is shaping up to be really great. I think I'll actually enjoy the curtain call this time around, unlike the last show where I just wanted to escape the stage, and my scene partner, as quickly as possible. Also unlike the last show, this time around I actually find the men I'm sharing the stage with--gasp!--attractive... one of them more than is probably good for me, but more on that in a minute.

The other news is that, after more than a year of waiting, I have finally begun my egg donation cycle! I took the stop-you-from-ovulating hormone shot a few weeks ago, and tomorrow I start the daily produce-lots-of-eggs hormones (giving myself shots--fun!). Thus far the only side effect I think I've noticed is being, well, exceptionally horny.

Now, granted, this isn't exactly an unusual state of affairs for me, so I'm not sure I can blame it entirely on the hormones, and I'm thinking the effect has been intensified by the fact that at the present moment, my lust actually has an object on which to fixate.

Which brings us back to the guy in my show. I say it's not good for me to be so attracted to him, mainly because he's a bit of a stoner and a bit of a flake (the two so often go hand in hand) and while stoner-ness doesn't bother me, one thing I absolutely cannot abide is flakiness. On the other hand, he's also cute, funny, and has a ridiculously sexy voice... and when he's in the vicinity I have a very hard time keeping myself from just pouncing on him and ripping his clothes off.

Indeed, the other night--after an inordinate amount of Yeungling--I entirely failed to control my lustful urges and stuck my tongue down his throat. He didn't seem to mind.

I can't help finding it ironic that I actually meet someone I want to have sex with right when I begin a process which will prohibit me from having sex for a month.

Unless, you know, I want to have a zillion babies. Which, clearly, I do not.

Fucking figures.

And absolutely none of the above prevented me from spending an entire 60 minute commute this morning indulging in daydreams about which, for the sake of decency, I will not go into detail. If there were any telepaths on the A train this morning, I highly doubt they were bored.

Now, I know what you're thinking, because I've thought it too. Maybe it's a good thing that I can't just jump into bed with him. Maybe this means I'll actually have to get to know him before sex becomes part of the equation. And you're right. Or you would be, if I was positive I wanted to date him. I'm not.

I try to take gossip with a grain of salt, but I was told he's got a reputation as a bit of a man-whore. There's the whole I-hate-flakiness thing, which I can tolerate in someone I'm only having sex with, but can't handle in an actual relationship. There's the fact that my judgment is currently so clouded by hormone-induced lust that I can't stop thinking about taking his shirt off long enough to determine exactly how much I like him. And finally there's the nagging fear that I do really like him, which, for all the reasons listed above, might turn out to be more of a curse than a blessing.

It seems that neither the course of true love NOR true lust ever doth run smooth...

Love In My Tummy

I owe you people a food post. Seriously. My hard drive is overflowing with photographic documentation of culinary fabulosity, and I simply haven't had the time to share it with you.

And I certainly haven't got time to share it all now, so today will be a tribute to my new favourite food blog: Our Best Bites.

I found these lovely ladies the other day after following a link to their fabulously inventive Single Serving Pie in a Jar, which you can bet your arse I'll be trying as soon as I have time, and the funds to buy the jars.

In the mean time, I've been salivating over every recipe in their archive, and in the last two days I've tried two of them.

First up... Chicken Pot Pie
(Follow links for the recipes)

Since I am only feeding one person, I decided to make individual serving pies instead of one large pie.  I halved the recipe, which still made enough filling for one slightly larger pie in my new (and utterly beloved) Williams Sonoma soup bowls, and three smaller pies in disposable mini pie tins, perfect for the freezer!

I shredded up a half rotisserie chicken from my grocery store (a bargain at $2.99!) and thawed some frozen mixed veggies by dumping them into a ziplock bag and floating it in hot water in my bathroom sink.  I made Homemade Cream of Chicken Soup, which was admittedly bland when I followed the recipe. It tasted more like flour than anything else, but that may have been the cheap chicken broth stocked by my grocery store. I added about another half cup of broth and a ton of extra seasonings (probably about doubled the amount in the recipe, as well as added some sage and thyme) and that made it better. Will definitely try a different broth next time.

My only deviation from the recipe as written was to add a few cloves of minced garlic when I sauteed the onions in butter.  In my world, garlic would be its own food group.

I threw everything into a bowl (including the diced and boiled red potatoes that I didn't take photos of previously because, hey, they're potatoes), topped with the soup, and mixed it all up.  Easy peasy.

Now, I was going to give a little tutorial on making pie crusts in here, but a.) I'm not exactly a master crust maker, and b.) my camera battery was dying so I had to snap photos quickly and they all came out blurry.  So.  No pie crust tutorial.  I'll just note that I use the trusty recipe from Better Homes and Gardens, substituting butter for half of the shortening.  Works great.

Right. Onward.

I filled the incredibly-awesome-handled-soup-bowl and the three mini pie tins with the pot pie mixture, then topped them each with pie crust.

That's "P," for "Pie."

What can I say?  I like to have fun with my vents :)  These three were each wrapped in plastic wrap, then in foil, and stuck in the freezer for future consumption.

While the "P" pie was in the oven, baking at 400 degrees for approx 45 minutes, I took the little bit of leftover pie crust and performed a little bit of magic that is a Froggy Family Tradition.

Roll out the leftover crust dough, dot with butter, and douse in cinnamon and sugar.

Squeeze together at center and roll up ends.  Sorry about the blurry photo, it was the only one I got of this step.

Bake for 15-20 minutes until you have a sweet-centered, flaky treat!

Now, back to the pie...

Beautiful!  (Seriously, how awesome is that bowl??!)

Nice and golden.  Bon Apetite!

So, you ask... how was it?

Pretty darned good.  It suffered a little from the blandness of the Cream of Chicken soup, but for the most part it was very tasty and hit the spot.  I can't wait to see how the three in the freezer cook up!


And now, the second recipe, which is mercifully (for both of us) not nearly so photo-heavy, as I didn't take any prep photos.


Thai Peanut Noodles

We can add this to the list of Foods I Love That Would Kill My Mother (who is crazy allergic to peanuts, and almost every other legume on the planet). These are mentioned repeatedly throughout posts on the blog, so I thought they had to be worth checking out. They are also fairly cheap (unless your grocery store gouges you on the cost of Udon noodles like mine does) and quick to make.

They are also freaking divinely delicious. I am going to be making these a lot. I can tell.

(There's that bowl again!)

I cannot wait to see what the leftovers taste like cold later tonight. And I wonder why I'm still single.

And there you have it. My show is over and I've been off work for the past three days. Aside from watching almost two complete seasons of Doctor Who (oh David Tennant, I want to marry you), this is how I've spent my time.

On a scale of 1 to Productive... I'd say that counts as an 8.

On Loss

If I were to venture a guess, I would say that Bruce has been a fixture in my life for about 15 years. Not the chandelier that dominates the entryway and catches your attention each time you pass. More like the simple vase that sits unobtrusively in the corner; present, but never drawing attention to itself.

He was my grandmother's second husband, filling the gap in her life left after she and my grandfather separated. They reconnected at their 50th high school reunion, fell in love, and got married. I see him once a year, when the family gathers for Christmas; the man who gives ridiculous yet oddly practical Christmas gifts (lint brushes and fried-egg-shapers and rechargeable LED tea lights) and tells stories that for all intents and purposes should be interesting, but are somehow rendered inert by the placidity of his demeanor.

This evening, as I was getting ready for my show, my mother called to let me know that he had passed away.

He was diagnosed with prostate cancer last year, but in one of the ironic twists life likes to throw at us, it was a heart attack that took him.

I was conflicted when I heard the news because in a sense I was... relieved. I knew from the tone of my mother's voice that someone was gone, and of anyone it could have been, this was the one to cause me, personally, the least amount of grief.

I realized this evening that, for everything he was to my grandmother, my relationship with Bruce never amounted to love. More like a friendly acquaintance. I never thought of him as a grandfather--though considering my relationship to the man he replaced, that moniker would have been more of an insult than an expression of respect--he was simply my grandmother's husband.

My greatest sorrow is for her loss, the man she loved and with whom she shared a home, a life, and a family for the past 15 or more years. He was a good man, he took care of her and loved her, he was good to our family and gave my grandmother the love and stability she absolutely deserved after life had dealt her a bitter hand with her first husband, my grandfather. I am, of course, sad that he is gone--but my grief is not what one feels at the loss of a family member... and I am not entirely certain how to deal with that.

I mean no disrespect to the man himself, and I worry that somehow my lack of personal grief does just that. It is only that, when it comes right down to it, I never really knew him. I know his stories of serving with the Red Cross in occupied Germany after WWII. I know his restless energy that, even as his body began to fail him, drove him to stand instead of sit, to shovel the driveway even when younger men were ready and willing, and to keep a part time job for years after his supposed retirement, because idleness would have driven him crazy. But on the interpersonal level, our relationship amounted to a few scattered conversations among the mayhem of the family holiday gathering, once a year.

Tomorrow I will call my grandmother and attempt to convey my sympathy for her loss, though in truth I haven't the faintest idea of what to say. I know that in situations such as these there is really nothing one can say, but I'd feel a little better if I could at least think of something. I hope that what I have to offer--an "I love you, and my thoughts are with you"--will suffice.

I have no finite ideas of what, if anything, happens after this life, if indeed anything does. But I would like to say this to Bruce: Thank you for making my grandmother happy, for being a solid presence in her life, and giving her the love and the happiness that she deserved. For what it is worth, and in what way I can offer it, you will be missed.

Indeed...

I've concluded that I am pretty much over The Model.

I came to this conclusion when he texted to wish me a Happy Valentine's Day... on Saturday.

On Sunday (you know, when it was actually Valentine's Day) I decided to be gracious and write back to say Thank You (since, you know, I'm sure that's what I was supposed to do). A few text messages followed, and he told me to call him after my show. I said that I was probably going out with the cast afterwards, and he said "okay, get drunk and then call me."

I didn't get drunk. I went home, made some popcorn, put on my pajamas, and watched TV.

And had no desire to call him.

So I didn't.

Whatever spark there was when we first met has clearly been extinguished, at least on my end. I'm pretty sure we'll both survive. I know I will. The bottom line is that I think he is intrigued by me because I am unlike the other girls he's dated... yet he still wants/needs/expects me to behave like those other girls, which I am neither capable nor desirous of doing.

Which is precisely what I'll tell him if he calls me out on the fact that I am making no effort to get in contact with him; but I won't be initiating any sort of heart-to-heart on the subject. After all of one date, I don't think I exactly owe him any grand explanations... do you?

While we're on the subject, I did briefly meet another gentleman who sparked my interest, despite his sporting an ever-so-slightly-rodent-like mustache. He's got a bit of an Alessandro Nivola vibe going on, which can't possibly be a bad thing. Granted, I don't know if I'll ever see the guy again, but I certainly hope so. He's doing something (not sure what) at the theatre where my show is performing, so the possibility is definitely there.

For the time being, however, I've got more than enough on my plate to keep me occupied. It would take a lot to grab and maintain my attention in the midst of everything else that's going on--and on that count The Model, it seems, has failed to deliver.

I know...

... that it's perfectly ridiculous to be jealous that a man who lives 4,000 miles away has a crush on some other girl.

Which doesn't change the fact that I absolutely am.

Lord I have issues...

Muffled

Sure, it plays hell with transportation, after a day or so it turns disgusting and grey, and the black ice is positively brutal, but still... in those first few hours, I have to admit...

That I absolutely love New York City in the snow.

(The camera on my new phone, it must be said, is also deserving of a little love.)

No cars on Broadway? In the middle of the day?! "Snowmageddon" indeed!

This could, theoretically, be a euphemism for the city as a whole.

The temptation to run in and make a snow angel almost got the better of me... until I remembered that neither my coat, nor my jeans, were waterproof.

It's like the entrance to an underground ice fortress...

Those are going to be positively DEADLY when they are frozen solid. Must remember to tread carefully today.


I'm not sure how much snow fell in total, but it was enough to keep the opening night audience for my show to a minimum, which--considering that it was the first time that we'd actually done the show without stopping, with all light and sound cues, and a (still not quite) finished set--wasn't necessarily a bad thing. It went better than expected, but felt more like an invited dress rehearsal than an opening night. Here's hoping tonight kicks it up a notch.

As to The Model, I haven't heard anything from him since our date, and I realize that, aside from disinterestedly wondering if he'll ever call me again, I don't really think about him all that much. Sure he's attractive, and there is some chemistry, but something just seems a little... off. He puts me on the defensive in a way that I can't quite name, and seems to want or expect me to behave in a way that, well, just isn't me.

Case in point, according to him, my response of "Well I'm free as a bird on Saturday" to his saying he'd missed me was "demanding," and the "proper response" would have been "thank you, I missed you too." Ummmm... hi, I'd met you once. I find it difficult to "miss" someone that I don't actually know. Also, I'm not a parrot. If someone says something nice to me, I don't automatically repeat it back to him, and expecting me to do so seems decidedly self-serving.

So... I don't know. I suppose I haven't entirely written him off. A rocky start is not grounds for immediate dismissal. But by the same token, I am not sitting by the phone anxiously wondering when/if I'll hear from him again, nor do I feel particularly compelled to pursue him myself.

My enthusiasm, like the city under this blanket of snow, has gradually been muffled.

Just to Let You Know...

The Model eventually responded to my text with a reply that I did not find at all satisfying, so I chose to ignore him and take a nap instead.

Then he called, so I answered, and he asked me to go on a "proper date," so I agreed--with the stipulation that I have a big day tomorrow and couldn't be out late. We went out and had a glass of wine and a (ridiculously good) cheese plate. I enjoyed his company. When communicating face to face, versus via electronic media, he does not appear to be playing games, so.... we'll see.

I don't know what, if anything, will come of this. But I'm willing to stick it out a little longer and see.

The Plot Thickens... No, Thins... No-- Oh F*** It.

My phone was on vibrate this morning, so I did not hear it ring. I received the following paraphrased voicemail from The Model.

Hey, I just figured out that this was your number. If I'd known it was you, I would have called you back. I was just looking at these texts from last week and thinking "Who is this random girl demanding dinner?"

Ummm...

A. I demanded nothing. That was probably meant to sound cute, but missed the mark by a foot or more.

B. He has called me, and actually responded to the first text I sent last week by saying he'd been "missing me"... Does he respond that way to every text he gets from an apparently unknown number?

I sent him a text from rehearsal this morning to ask how he'd managed to lose my number after the above incidents, but--shockingly!--did not get a response. I called him later when I got back to my neighborhood after rehearsal and got his voicemail.

Methinks I smell one hell of a game being played here.

The jury is still out at the moment, because, yes, he is good-looking enough for me to consider giving him a shot at redemption if he ever actually fucking calls me... but I have a feeling that, thanks to those good looks, he's used to not having to work too hard (or at all) to maintain a girl's attention, and that sort of shit absolutely will not fly in my house.

One thing is for certain... if he's looking to lower my defenses, he's certainly going about it the wrong way.