Crimes of the Heart

It occurred to me this afternoon, as I was feeling all bouncy and clear-headed after 90 minutes of sweating my arse off at Bikram yoga, that for all the bitching and moaning I do about the men who've treated me badly--and lord knows there've been a few--bemoaning my fate and wondering what, precisely, I'd done to deserve such treatment, well... Perhaps, just perhaps, I myself have not always done right by the opposite sex. Which brings me to my first blog entry in ages:

Open Apologies to Guys I've Treated Poorly.

* * *

I cheated on a guy. Once. In the 9th grade. I only started dating him at my friends' encouragement. It was a chilly night at a football game, high school hormones were running high, and, in all honesty, I liked the idea of having a boyfriend better than the idea of not having one. Never mind that, aside from the passing notion that he was kind of cute, I had no interest in this guy. Or that I was already set to go to Homecoming with a guy I actually did like, and who obviously liked me or he wouldn't have asked me. But I was still theoretically "single," and so gratified that somebody, anybody wanted me to be his girlfriend, that when he asked, it only took a minimal amount of encouragement from my gathered girlfriends to say "yes."

When I think about it, this is probably worse than the fact that, less than a month later, I made out with another guy. I did try to break up with my nominal-boyfriend first, but he wasn't home when I called. Also not an excuse.

True, I do believe I got my comeuppance a thousandfold when, little more than a year later, the guy who took my virginity cheated on me by sleeping with his ex less than a week after said virginity was lost. Ouch. But this example of karmic retribution in no way excuses my behavior.

So, to the guy I only dated to boost my own self-esteem and then proceeded to cheat on--which you found out about via the rumor mill that decided we'd apparently had sex on his kitchen counter (not true), I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.

* * *

Though I was unaware of it at the time, I used to be completely and utterly terrified of commitment, likely because the last person to whom I'd been truly committed had used my devotion to wreak havoc on my general well-being. (See virginity story, above. I stayed with him for 3 years after that. Yeeeeah... I know.)

When I first moved to NYC I worked with a guy who was my age, a year or two older at most, and had a son. I respected his taking responsibility for a child that had been the result of a one night stand with an ex. More than taking responsibility, he was a doting father. He was, put simply, a good guy, and I told him as much during a few drunken evenings after work.

We flirted, kissed chastely a few times, and essentially brought the situation to a point where he was very clearly interested in me, and I had shown myself to be interested in him. And then...

... I fucking panicked.

This guy had a kid! I was only 22, and in no way ready to be a mom! What the hell was I doing? I didn't want to get locked into a relationship that came with that sort of drama, etc, etc...

Worse than my panic, however, was my complete and total inability to go to this guy and say "Look, you're great, but I don't think we should date..." Instead, I avoided his phone calls and suggestions that we hang out until my best friend, who also worked with us, got sick of the whole thing and told him I wasn't interested.

Ouch.

So, to the nice guy I couldn't let down easy: Sorry you had to hear it from someone else. That was really shitty.

And to the best friend who unwillingly did my dirty work for me: Sorry. You were right to be pissed at me. Sometimes, I kinda suck.

* * *

At the same place I worked with another guy on whom I had an ENORMOUS crush. He was a sweet rasta boy who used to sing to me while we broke down at the end of the night, and gave me a GIANT teddy bear for Valentine's Day.

When he finally asked me out, I, like a moron, said No. After the behavior outlined above, I was convinced that this nice, sweet guy was too good for me, and that I would only hurt him. I told him as much, and, like the sweet guy he was, he let it go.

To you, sweet, sexy, rastafarian boy, I'm sorry. This one is definitely my loss.

* * *

Several years ago I knew a guy. We hung out in the same bar, I always thought he was cute and had a bit of a crush on him, and one day, I'm not sure how, we ended up on a date.

Theoretically the date went well, but I couldn't stop focusing on little things that were turning me off. Dark spots on a few of his teeth were all I can now remember. Then I got stoned and made out with him anyway.

The situation descended rapidly into awkwardness as I couldn't find a way to reconcile my behavior (making out with him in my kitchen), with my complete lack of desire to date him (dark spots! dark spots!). It seems that once I had what I thought I wanted, I didn't want it anymore... so I fell back into bad habits and just hoped that if I ignored the situation, it would go away.

And it did, but not without my feeling like a total bitch.

So, to you, guy who probably has NO idea what happened there, I'm sorry. Hope you've found yourself someone less shallow than I, apparently, can be.

* * *

And there you have it. I'm not sure what I meant to accomplish by this post. Certainly not to paint myself as a horrible person, I don't think that, at least, not often... but we all make mistakes. Some little, some big, we all make them, and we all occassionally hurt people while navigating the unpredictable waters of interpersonal relationships.

There are likely people I've forgotten in writing these little notes, and likely still more people that I've hurt without even realizing it. So, to all of you who've been hurt by something I've done, I'm sorry.

And to those who've hurt me? Well, I'm not going to say that you're all forgiven, because many of you damned well aren't... but at the very least I can say that I understand. Nobody's perfect.

Certainly not me.

Running in Circles / Standing Still

I'm back to wondering why I even bother.

I forced myself to give up and let go of Mr. I. I realized that, no matter how electric our chemistry, strong our connection, or great that one day we spent together might have been, he was never going to give me what I need. So I let go, gave up the ghost, packed it in, and called it a day. It sucks, sure, but there it is.

I cleansed my palate, took some deep breaths, put a huge chunk of Rose Quartz by my bed which is supposed to draw love into your life (and is disgustingly new-agey of me, I know). Then I met another guy, by all reports less of a douchebag when it comes to women. We got drunk, we fooled around, I sent him a message asking if he wanted to see if our getting along extended to sober and fully clothed activities, and after waiting for a slightly-longer-than-reasonable amount of time for a response, I get the same goddamned answer: I have baggage/Bad timing/Oh yeah, you're great, and if it were another time, sure, I'd love to, but not right now...

What the fuck?

I have a question for the men of the world, particularly single men (okay, and women) in their late 20s/early 30s: Who among us doesn't have baggage? Who among us is whole, healthy, fully emotionally functional and ready, at this very moment, right fucking now to embark on a relationship?

Answer? Not a single fucking one of us. Myself included.

We all have wounds to heal, walls to deconstruct, and things to learn about being in stable, healthy relationships; because if all those things were taken care of already, we would all be in stable, healthy relationships! Clearly, at this point, we're all a little bit damaged, so rather than shutting each other out, why don't we attempt to learn and heal together?

Granted, I've also come to realize that my view of dating and relationships in general is fairly warped. You see, all these men who can't date me because they "don't want a relationship," are clearly optimists. They automatically assume that dating will lead to a relationship. That things will, god forbid, work out... and for whatever unknown reason that is apparently a bad thing, so they run and hide.

I, on the other hand, feel from my own experiences that it is statistically highly unlikely that things will work out, that dating will in no way lead to an actual relationship, and so really, what's the harm in trying?

Pretty fucked up, huh?

Of course, my own, fucked-up outlook doesn't mean dick, considering that no man I meet will agree to date me anyway.

Oh, except for Hot Guy From Yale, who seemed to think he could fix me by pointing out and harping on all my flaws on our first (and only) date.

Or DM, who disappeared so thoroughly and without explanation that I considered googling his name plus "obituary" to see if he'd died.

Right. Clearly the bile is rising in my throat today. I really don't mean to be bitter, I don't want to be bitter, but it's awfully difficult when I feel that I'm spending my life running in circles, wasting my time and energy, when I could get the exact same results by simply standing still.

Happy Trails...

Yes, yes, I'm still alive.

More importantly, I am currently sitting in the JetBlue terminal of JFK (which, as far as airport terminals go, is pretty freakin' nice... especially the free WiFi!) waiting to board a plane for Los Angeles.

Hooray for vacation.

As much as I deny my adulthood at every opportunity, I have been looking forward to this two week vacation like a whale looks forward to that next trip to the surface for air. In other words: necessary for survival.

I need to get the hell out of Dodge for a few weeks, clear my head, see people I love, not see people that I shouldn't love, and just generally get away from it all.

And so, it's off to Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, and, last but not least, Hometown, PA for a 30th birthday celebration with my beloved girls.

It's a real, grown-up vacation... and I am fucking excited.

And boarding!! Gotta jet!

Thought for the night: I'm used to doing things alone. I like doing things alone. But I'd like to get used to doing things with someone else...

I'm sure you can guess the someone I mean.

I've started journaling again. For the past few years, this blog has very much been my journal, sharing the thoughts and feelings I used to reserve for myself with the general public--or at least the portion thereof that actually reads this thing. And that's good. It's taken away some of my reserve and, most importantly (for me), shown me that, well, I'm not alone. That what has always seemed to be my own personal form of Crazy is understandable and accessible to the rest of the world. And that's good.

But this situation is... strange. Nothing has really progressed, in the traditional sense, but... I want to approach this one without outside input. Because often, what you feel--what you know--cannot be put into words that will allow an outsider to really get what's going on. There is an interior life that cannot be shared, no matter how much you may really want to do so. And I know what it would sound like, if I were to try to talk about it, and I know what the response would be... And you could say that I just "don't want to hear it," which is true, I suppose, but only because that response would be based on only a part of the story...

I'm being cryptic, and I don't mean to be, it's just that this is different, somehow.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not abandoning the blog (any more than I already have, as it has admittedly fallen by the wayside in the last several months). It's just that, for now, I'm keeping my love life (or lack thereof) to myself.

In the mean time, well... I'll try to come up with something else to interest you.

Hope you stick around :)

Is it possible to cheat on someone you're not even dating?

Mr. I and I are still at an emotional stalemate, and the other night I chose to compensate for my relative rejection by getting drunk and fooling around with a 23 year old. Again. My reward for this self-destructive behavior is a fucking hickey, and a healthy dose of guilt.

Now, this is silly, right? Mr. I has no claim on me, nor I on him, and thus I am theoretically free to make out with whomever I choose. So why can't I shake the feeling that, in doing so, I've somehow betrayed the man who refuses to date me?

I wish I knew why I do these stupid things, and moreover I wish I could stop feeling guilty when, in theory, I've done absolutely nothing wrong.

Yeah. In theory.

In reality, it's myself that I've betrayed. It's my own feelings I've hurt, not Mr. I's, or those of the boy in question. Granted, should Mr. I ever find out--which, universe willing, he never will--I think he would be upset, but I have no way of knowing. I could just be flattering myself that he would care, and yet... and yet. Emotional deadlock aside, there is still something there between us that remains unnamed and unfathomable.

What saddens me the most, however, is that as I find myself slowly becoming reconciled to this static state of affairs, I find those feelings slipping away. I'm starting to get over him, which one would think would be a good thing, but... as stressful and emotionally frustrating as it's been, I've actually enjoyed feeling this way, being excited to see him, enjoying simply being in the same space with him. I don't want those feelings to go.

So why did I bury them in a corner of my mind while some other guy took my shirt off? Granted, the booze had some part to play in that decision, but in the end it was me who made the choice.

Of course, in a few weeks when I'm back to seeing him every day instead of just once a week, and I'm no longer emotionally and physically exhausted from working crazy hours at work for very little financial reward, it could all come rushing back to me.

Masochist that I am, I hope it does.

Even though I never actually had him, I'm not quite ready to let him slip quietly away.

I don't want to be over him. Not just yet.

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.

Pieces

I overthink things.

We all know this. It is easily one of my defining (and I hope, to some, endearing) personality traits.

It is also a fucking curse.

After the night we met, the Hot Guy from Yale (who I will now dub "The Model," because, well, he's a model) sort of dropped off my radar... but not completely. He friended me on Facebook the very night we met (something that DM and I never did in the 2+ months we knew each other), and magically called me (which I missed, resulting in a voicemail) within a few days.

However, when I mentioned I was free for a particular stretch of time in my busy schedule--and subsequently informed him that that was, in fact, a none-too-subtle hint--I heard nothing.

And more nothing.

Then, this morning, I was poking around on the internet before heading off to work and he popped up on Facebook Chat. A paraphrase of his message follows:

I think you should know that I've thought about you every day since we met.

Not like an hour a day.

Maybe cumulatively 75 seconds.

But what I mean to say is that I miss you.

He then proceeded to tell me to call him later and he would take me out this weekend.

I called on my break from work and got his voicemail, leaving him one of my signature rambling messages.

I heard nothing.

When I left work I sent him a text (it was late) to let him know that, should he still desire my company, I am free on Saturday but in rehearsal all day on Sunday.

I've still heard nothing.

It feels like such a fucking tease.

And what really gets me is, that day we met and spent a 2 hour train ride together, he completely called me out on my defenses. I can't say he saw right through them, but he saw that they were there. Now, those defenses have taken a lifetime to build and are absolutely not going to come tumbling down at a moment's notice simply because a charming and attractive man has asked nicely... but I can't say I wasn't affected by his frankness in calling me out in the first place.

But then there's this game of cat-and-mouse that we seem to be playing that I absolutely do not want to play, and which, incidentally, is the reason I have fucking defenses in the first place!

Perhaps it's not a game. Perhaps we're just two busy individuals. But I am not going to go chasing his ass across Manhattan in the hopes that maybe he'll finally, actually, ask me out on a proper date. You may be thinking that, hey, this is the 21st Century, and really, if I want to see him I should just ask him out myself. But this I patently refuse to do, for the simple reason that one of the few requirements on a my fairly short list is that any man I date actually be interested enough in spending time with me that he be willing to make some fucking plans. I have been the pursuer far too often and it generally ends in my being rejected and/or embarrassed, neither of which is an experience that I am anxiously seeking to repeat.

Any man who can't man up and ask me out is clearly not a man I want to be dating in the first place. And no matter how much you try to convince me that you're not every other man I've ever dated, you'll never be the first one to say the things you're saying... and here I am. Still single.

Of course I do realize that the one common factor in my frustrating history is, of course, me...

This evening I was watching the most recent episode of Grey's Anatomy--which, I admit, has been floundering a bit for the past few seasons--when a particular moment hit me square in the chest with how solidly it reflected my own life. Sandra Oh's character, Christina, was talking about a previous relationship in which she had let a man slowly and quietly take away small pieces of her until she was no longer herself; and now, with a new man, now that she was finally herself again, she wanted to be damned sure she never let pieces be taken away from her again.

I had that too. It was a long time ago, and I was young, but the effects have stayed with me for more than 10 years. I let myself be changed and warped from the independent, self-confident young woman that I was into a needy, dependent, self-loathing... nothing. It's taken years and lots of bad decisions, but I feel like I finally have myself back. Perhaps not the same self, but a self that I like, love even, and I am reluctant to let anybody into my life who might try to chip away at the life and the self I've built.

It speaks to my own damaged psyche that I automatically expect every man I meet to want a piece (or more) of me like that first one did... and I'm working on it. But any man who doesn't have the patience, or doesn't see enough in me, to gradually overcome my defenses, isn't a man who should be in my life in the first place.

Which begs the question... how long will it take me to determine if The Model can be trusted... and will he give me an opportunity to find out?

The Aftermath

So, my MFA auditions were last weekend.

On the plus side, I now know for certain that rejection can't kill me.

First up was NYU, and from the moment I entered the waiting area, I was fairly certain that this was not the place I wanted to be. It was essentially the foyer of a small office, crammed with two dozen folding chairs, each of which contained a bundle of nerves that once upon a time had been a person. I was feeling fairly calm when I arrived, but that level of tension is highly contagious and I was soon feeling the effects. To top it all off, while the person ahead of you is in the audition room, they stick you in a tiny little room by yourself, ostensibly to warm up... but mostly it just gives you a solid four minutes to walk around in a circle and wonder what the hell you've gotten yourself into.

My audition was okay. I fumbled in a few places, but nothing atrocious. I did not receive a preliminary callback at the end of the hour, but based on the vibes I was receiving from everyone else in the holding pen, these were not people with whom I had any desire to spend the next 3 years, so I chalked it up to experience and moved on.

The next day was Yale, which was the day to NYU's night. People were relaxed. The holding areas were warm-up rooms where you could move around and get focused, and--gasp!--people were actually talking to one another! Aside from the fact that the building was absolutely FREEZING, prompting me to wear my wool scarf like a toga in an effort to get my core temperature back into the normal range, the environment was ideal.

My audition went, I thought, as well as it possibly could have. I corrected the mistakes I had made the previous day, and even elicited a chuckle from the auditor at the end of my comedic piece. Alas, once again I did not receive a preliminary callback. Indeed, of the 17 people in my group, only four received callbacks, and they were all men. I guess the quota of women for the day had already been filled.

So... it looks like my hopes of heading to New Haven next Fall have been quite decidedly dashed. Now I look to my PhD programs, and potentially to some MFA programs overseas, which have much later application deadlines. Indeed, I was doing a little research last night and the school in England that I attended for a year of Undergrad, and whose PhD program I adore, also has a 2 year MFA that has decidedly piqued my interest, which means I will have to choose with path I would prefer to pursue there. Decisions, decisions...

There is, however, one decided up-side to my not getting a callback at Yale, which is that the ridiculously attractive guy that I met while waiting to be seen didn't get one either, which allowed us to go out and get a drink, and ride the Metro North back to the city together.

Now, as a rule I generally don't date actors, as often the only thing they are capable of talking about is theatre, and their own triumphs and failures therein. As one of my fellow cast members so aptly put it: "Sex, religion, and theatre. That's about all we're good for."

Likewise, I generally don't date men who are prettier than I am. It gives me a bit of a complex.

That being said... for an actor who's also been through law school, and possesses a sixpack and cheekbones that could cut glass? I just might be prepared to make an exception...

Stay tuned.

The Opposite.

The grad school apps are all in, minus one hard-copy letter of recommendation which may or may not be on its way to me as we speak, and which I'd prefer not to discuss any further lest my head explode;

I've chosen my pieces for my auditions, and have them memorized;

I've submitted my limited-due-to-rehearsal availability to my boss, and she hasn't killed me;

And, oh yeah, I turned 30 last Friday.

So anyway...

I am having a serious actor's dilemma right now, and I'm going to vent to you about it. I know you all aren't actors (or, at least, those of you that I know aren't--lurking thespians, now would be an excellent time to come out of the closet, so to speak), but I'm sure there is some way this situation could compare to one that occurs off-stage, so hear me out.

We've started rehearsing for the show I'm doing in February, and for the most part I am delighted with this particular cast. They're funny, they're friendly, and best of all, they are fucking talented. It's awesome.

With one small problem.

There is a TON--I mean scads, loads, heaps, pailfuls--of sexual subtext in this play.

That's not the problem.

The problem, is that the man toward whom all of my closeted Victorian lust is supposed to be directed... is one to whom I am not in the least bit attracted. At all. Even slightly.

More to the point: he actually creeps me out a little.

He's nearly twice my age--due to my being cast in a role that even my aged 30-year-old-self is a bit too young for--and for whatever inexplicable reason, my body just wants to... recoil... whenever he comes near.

Now yes, I am aware that this is why it's called "Acting," but dear god! How am I supposed to drum up even a semblance of lust when my instincts are screaming at me to run the other way?!

I feel a little guilty even talking about it, even though none of you know who he is--very few of you even know who *I* am--as he is, I'm sure, a very nice man, and I don't mean this to be a diatribe against him as an individual, it's just...

Sometimes there's chemistry... and sometimes... there's the opposite.

This is most definitely the opposite.

I am so fucked.

First Lesson of the New Year:

Champagne and Vodka don't mix.

Actually, I already knew this, but apparently I forgot... leading to some extreme drunkenness on my part, the first UDI of the New Year, and the sneaking suspicion that my co-workers are going to make fun of me at work tomorrow.

On the plus side of life, I've submitted my application to Columbia! The downside of this is that I'm still short one letter of recommendation, even though my professor agreed to write it back in OCTOBER and I've reminded him at least a dozen times since then. Meanwhile the professor that I didn't ask until the middle of December managed to get hers in on time, so unless he's dead or in a coma, there is no reasonable excuse for his not having done it. Also, it makes me look bad.

Now I just need to finish up my CUNY application, select/memorize/rehearse my monologues for my MFA auditions... and rehearse for a play.

No, I'm not busy. Not busy at all...

New Decade, Same Frog

Greetings and Salutations Campers, and welcome to the New Year!

In true Froggy fashion, I kicked off 2010 by getting naked with a guy I'd just met. It seemed the only logical thing to do, really, being that I'm fairly certain we were the only two straight guests at the party. I do, however, wish that I could remember his name... I think I do, but I'm not certain. Not that it matters if I don't, because he lives on the opposite side of the country and my chances of ever seeing him again are slim to none.

The drama-free nature of the year's first indiscretion fully makes up for the debacle of New Year's Eve several years ago, when all of my friends knew that the guy I was flirting with was crazy, and for some reason opted not to warn me, thus leading to THE most painfully uncomfortable morning-after EVER. They did, however, tease me ruthlessly for some time afterward. Nice of them, really.

My only regret is that I smoked a few cigarettes, which I haven't done in months, and I can feel it this morning. Lungs = not happy.

So, while I don't necessarily believe that what happens on New Year's Eve sets the tone for the whole year, at least I've started off on good footing. What can I say? I do learn from my mistakes... I just choose to repeat the fun ones :)

Happy New Year y'all! What sort of trouble did you get into?

Jiggity Jig

Is it wrong that I want to have lunch at Panera tomorrow for the sole purpose of scoping out my ex boyfriend, and potentially making him very uncomfortable?

Okay, okay, maybe it's not the sole reason... I am rather fond of their bread bowls.

I just got back from the Best Friend's house, where I watched the Sex and the City movie with her and her remarkably acquiescent husband (who had his ACL replaced today and was therefore doped up on percoset). In the course of providing me with all the local gossip, she mentioned that my First Love served her coffee at Panera yesterday, where he is the manager, and skeezily hits on all the teenaged girls who work there.

It seems that my stellar taste in men stretches all the way back to the tender age of 13. Hooray for me!

Doesn't stop me from wanting to go check him out. What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.

The holiday has been lovely, if a bit of a whirlwind. It seems as if I've spent more time in transit than I have in any one place, and tomorrow evening it's back to the big city to work a double on Wed, and then I'm off again through January 3rd. I'm hoping that on at least one of those days, I get to sleep in.

Two of my four grad school applications have been submitted and my MFA auditions are scheduled. I've finally unearthed my writing sample for the PhD applications, which needs to be re-typed, as well as another contender that needs a little work, but if I have time, I may spruce it up and submit it instead. I'm also waiting on two letters of recommendation, which has me more than a little edgy as the deadlines are fast approaching and I can only send so many reminder emails before my head explodes. Contemplating combing the Baltimore newspapers to see if one of my recommenders has died or is in a coma or something, which are the only reasonable excuses I can think of for agreeing to write a letter back in September, and not yet having done so.

At least I survived the GRE and my scores, it has to be said, are stellar. 740 Verbal, 730 Math, and a 5 in Analytical Writing (which, okay, could have been better, but I'll live), just in case you were wondering...

I've also been cast in a play which will be rehearsing throughout January, in addition to getting ready for my MFA auditions, and figuring out how to rearrange my work schedule around all of the above so that I can still make enough money to pay my rent. I will hopefully be worked into an egg donation cycle early in the month, which will take care of my financial concerns, but seeing as I've been waiting since September, that can hardly be counted on...

In other words, life is about to get intensely crazy... but at least it will be interesting.

Happy Holidays y'all!

Eleven

I am playing a very dangerous game. Or, if not dangerous, just very, very foolish. I've been spending far too much time thinking about someone whom I certainly should not be thinking about, especially considering that said someone is 4000 miles away and likely to stay there.

Confused?

Me too.

The English Ex and I have been talking a lot lately, or IM'ing rather, and amid the usual sexual banter that colours our conversations--I did invite him to come visit me for New Years for the sole purpose of getting laid--there is an undercurrent of... something.

It's trying to figure out that something that is getting me into trouble.

Because that something is probably nothing, or else just very little. Two lonely people who once fancied each other feeding each other's bruised egos via the internet. On the other hand, it feels strangely familiar, like an echo of those days many years ago when he and I were both trying to figure out how we felt about each other, without letting on that there was anything to figure out. The main difference being that, all those years ago, we were on the same bloody continent.

But how many times can a man jokingly ask "Why aren't we married?" without there being just the tiniest thread of a something lurking beneath the surface?

You see, I can live with a tiny thread of something. Sure, in the end a tiny thread will come to nothing, just as all of this will, most likely, come to nothing. But a tiny thread would at least mean that it's not all of my own invention. That the something really is something, as opposed to wishful thinking.

I hope you're not annoyed with my egregious use of the word "something," but really, I have no other word for it.

Gah. What good can ever come of flirting continuously with an Ex who lives on the other side of an ocean? And even though I know the answer to this question is "none," why can't I seem to stop?

The other day I asked the folks on Twitter, "On a scale of 1-10, just how stupid is it to invite an Ex to travel 4000 miles for a dirty weekend? And will that stop me?"

Although I received not a single response, I can answer without a doubt...

Eleven.

And not a chance.

I couldn't make this shit up if I tried...

Last night as I returned home around 12:30am (my usual arrival time after work--I am rapidly becoming completely nocturnal) I was understandably surprised to discover that the entire sidewalk in front of my building was blanketed with broken glass. Much more than could come from a busted car window, or even a busted store window. It was as if a glass factory had exploded overhead, and its shattered entrails were now crunching beneath my feet as I made my way warily toward the entrance. The path leading to the front door was similarly strewn with glittering detritus, though here it had been swept up against the walls, like so many leaves in a gutter.

The door to the building was open. I entered, checking my mail as if all of this were a completely pedestrian state in which to find my home, then turned to discover that the floor, and the stairs leading up to my side of the building, were soaking wet.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs to scrape broken glass from the bottom of my boots and glanced up at two men standing outside the first apartment.

"So, er... what happened?" I asked casually.

"Fire, on the third floor."

"Um... what?"

I made my way up the stairs, sloshing in water and wondering what I would find on the third floor.

Not much, as it turned out, other than the Super talking to another man, and a smell much like a recently doused camp fire.

I made my way up another flight and on the fourth floor I found what I was looking for: Information, courtesy of the posse of fellow tenants gathered there.

Apparently, there was a 2 alarm blaze on the east side of the third floor, at least three fire chiefs had been through to check it out, and the entire building was without running water because the firemen had hit a pipe somewhere.

Peachy.

After chatting over the drama with the people who'd actually been in the building, I made my way up to my own apartment... to find my front door missing a considerable chunk of paint where it had been pried open--for whatever reason I could not then say--and held slightly ajar by a crappy old umbrella that had fallen from its perch inside and lodged there.

Fearfully, I opened the door, but nothing appeared out of place (or any more out of place than it had previously been, my apartment being a bit of a wreck at the moment) and my cat was, thank goodness, still inside.

I closed the door, checked the level in my Brita pitcher, and got ready for bed. Then it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to check and make sure I could still lock my door, rather than discover a broken lock in the morning when I tried to leave for work.

This was, I must say, the best idea I've had in a long time, because lo and behold when I went to open the door to test the lock... nothing happened.

And by nothing I mean... NOTHING. The knob would not budge. I was, effectively, locked in my apartment.

I immediately called the Super, who assured me that "a guy was going around checking all the doors" and would help me.

Two hours later I gave up, emailed my boss with a heads up that I would most likely be late for work, and went to bed amidst the sounds of hammering and shattering glass coming from below, where god knows who was doing god knows what in the wake of the inferno.

This morning I woke up and called the Super once again.

"Hi, It's Froggy in [Apt Number] again. I'm still locked inside. I need to go to work. Could someone please help me?"

"Oh, oh, yeah. You're locked out?"

"No. I'm locked in."

"You need me to bring you a key?"

"No. No. A key will not help. The fire department broke my door and I am stuck INSIDE my apartment. As in, I cannot get out. I am trapped."

"Oh. Oh! Okay, I'll be right there."

Shortly thereafter he arrived and managed to break my door open, whereupon he disassembled the entire knob/lock mechanism and proceeded to fuck around with it while the increasingly potent smell of day-after-fire wafted through the open doorway and into my apartment, saturating everything, while I amused myself with an entirely-inappropriate-for-reproduction IM conversation with The English Ex (which was, without a doubt, the highlight of my fucking day).

The knob was only half attached and not even remotely functional when an electrician arrived downstairs and the Super left, promising he'd be back soon.

Forty-five minutes later (and already half an hour late for work, nevermind the 45 minute travel time and the fact that I still had no running water and would therefore have to wash my face and apply make-up once I got there), I called him again to remind him that I was still without a functional front door, at which time he finally returned, with another man in tow, and between the two of them they managed to rig my door so that I can at least lock it behind me, but the result is that the entire assembly still needs to be replaced.

I thanked them, raced out the door to work, my bag laden with toiletries, and finally made it through the door 1 1/2 hours late, and 5 minutes before we opened.

Good. Freakin'. Grief.

Oh, and did I mention that, throughout the entire morning ordeal, the lack of water ALSO meant a complete lack of what might be an even more vital necessity? I am referring, of course, to COFFEE.

Now, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, I am incredibly thankful that it was not my apartment that caught fire, that aside from a pervasive scent of doused camp fire, my belongings are not damaged, and that my cat did not escape during the ensuing mayhem during which I was not present, but still, I can't help but ask...

Seriously Universe? SERIOUSLY??

I think I need a vacation from my life.