Etc.

First things first: Sorry, but I've re-enabled verification words for commenting. After "Anonymous" left what appeared to be an advertisement for Cialis on one of the better posts I've written (which, I might add, has exactly NOTHING to do with erectile dysfunction), I've decided it was a necessary precaution.

Not that I've been writing much lately. Then again, I haven't been doing much of anything lately, aside from work, sleep, and studying for the GRE.

My restaurant was written up in the NY Times a few weeks ago, and for two weeks after the place was an absolute zoo. While it was stressful at the time, my wallet was grateful--particularly now that business is slowing down again. It's not as dead as it was before, but doing the math on tips from this week versus the past two weeks shows that the paycheck is about to drop off again. Significantly. Sigh. Oh you far-off dreams of financial solvency... never, it seems, to be reached in this lifetime...

Other than work, grad school applications and GREs--and occassionally catching up on my DVR--consume the remainder of my conscious hours. Such a thrilling life I lead, no?

Thanksgiving is right around the corner and it looks like I'll be stuck working a double on Wednesday AND Friday, though thankfully we're closed on the holiday itself. I'll probably be heading over to the Lovely A's house to hang out with her and her boyfriend--I'm sorry, fiance, *grin*--who seems to be under the impression that he can cook a turkey in a crock pot. I'll be bringing pie. Then I'll head to PA over the weekend for a belated celebration with the parents, who are kind enough to postpone their own festivities to accomodate my crappy work schedule--one of the perks of being an only child.

I take the GRE on December 2nd (less than two weeks away, and my Math score still needs a boost of at *least* 60 points! ACK!!), after which my primary source(s) of stress will be preparing material for my MFA auditions, digging up my writing sample for my PhD applications (which, of course, only exists in hard copy and is buried somewhere in my apartment) and re-typing it, wondering how the hell I'm going to pay for all of these applications, and writing four Personal Statements distinctly tailored to each of the four programs to which I am applying.

So. In case you were wondering why I've been MIA lately, this is why.

Think if I ask Santa for more hours in the day, he'd help me out?

In the mean time, go read the post linked above and reminisce with me about the days when I actually had the time and mental capacity to write something significant. I'll be right there with you.

Boo!

I need a break from reality.  Sadly, the minor respite afforded by one of my favourite holidays did not last long enough to alleviate the current tedium of daily life.

Halloween has come and gone, and while the festivities were significantly tamer than in years past, I still enjoyed myself.

I went to the Halloween Parade for the first time, and despite the heavens' repeated attempts to drench us, it was still pretty rockin'.

It should be noted, however, that arriving obscenely early is crucial if you want to get a decent vantage point from which to observe. We had managed to station ourselves, despite a late arrival, on a high curb that afforded us a decent view over the heads of those in front of us... until the umbrellas went up.

I was, of course, appropriately attired.

Which may explain how, later, I inexplicably found myself walking in the parade as my friends and I struggled to find an open subway entrance.

Shortly (relatively speaking) thereafter, I found myself in the Bronx, where the World Series had significantly overshadowed the holiday at hand--unjustly, in my opinion. I mean, the Series goes on for seven nights, whereas Halloween only gets one! In such an instance of unequal time-sharing, one would think that the holiday at hand would take precedence. However, just try talking rationally to a Yankee fan. Go on, I'll wait here.

...

A fruitless endeavor, no?

Eventually fatigue and baseball overload, not to mention having my mid-section cinched in by a steel-boned corset, took their toll, and after narrowly avoiding smacking the idiot mentioned in my previous post, I took a taxi home and promptly passed the hell out.

Happy Halloween!

Pop Quiz

It's Halloween and you are in a bar, hitting on a girl in an elaborate costume. You ask for her number. She declines. You,

a.) shrug it off and continue making polite conversation, hoping to change her mind with your natural charms;

b.) go find someone less resistant, and more drunk, to hit on;

c.) start talking about how much you hate Halloween, because of the way other bars (not the one you are in) handle the holiday, then get offended when she points out that the problem seems to be yours, and that you shouldn't blame the holiday because you make poor choices of location in which to celebrate, accuse her of being overly sensitive, and warn her that she shouldn't get too excited about some things, or she won't have enough energy left over for other things in her life.


I'll just let you mull that over. Go ahead, take your time. Tune in tomorrow to learn the answer that absolutely will NOT get you in my pants, plus more Halloweeny goodness...

Thoughts, Deep and Otherwise...

As I plodded to the subway after a torturously long and slow double shift yesterday, my exhausted brain managed to crank out some rather important thinking. Here it is:

I need to get over the fact that my life isn't what I want it to be, and instead of being quietly miserable, do something about it.

Again.

This type of thinking is what landed me in Grad School the last time, and while I was certainly enriched by the experience, I must reluctantly admit that, just maybe, I didn't choose the right course of study to get where I want to be--teaching college. So, it's ime to make an appointment to take the GRE, thus forcing myself to study for it, get those PhD applications in order, and...

...get over the insecurity and fear of rejection that has kept me from entering any academic program that requires an audition. The worst that can happen is that they say No. It will suck, but it won't kill me. Thus, I am applying to Yale's MFA Program. Because if I'm going to kick my fear in the ass, why not do it on the grandest scale possible? An MFA will also qualify me to teach college, fulfilling the "Get my life on the right track" course of action that I am determined to, once again, undertake, with the added bonus of offering the kind of experiential learning that is lacking from the more academically-oriented doctoral programs.

In other words, I'm just going to keep trying until I get it right. Or until the Federal Government refuses to give me any more Education Loans. (Though in my defense, I am only applying to programs that offer the sort of financial aid that will cover all or most of my expenses, thus adding comparatively little to my already massive debts.)


And, on the not so deep scale, I need to decide if it's really worth flirting with a guy I work with, no matter how attractive he may be. True, he's just working in the kitchen for a few months and is therefore technically not my superior (because I am NOT repeating the "Alcoholic Coke-Head Chef Incident," or any variations thereof, EVER AGAIN)... but he is the owner's younger brother, and therefore exists on a sort of plane unto himself.

He's also young.

Which I'm willing to overlook.

Because he's hot.

He'd been around for awhile, but I wasn't attracted to him until yesterday when I actually talked to him for awhile. Not gonna lie, it may have more to do with his British accent than his chewable lower lip, but a little spark kicked off in the back of my brain. It could also be that it's PMS week and my hormones are firing off like mad. I have a sneaking suspicion that, were I to just go for it, I could probably reel him in with little difficulty, but the thought of doing so under the gaze of the entirely female floor staff makes my skin crawl. I'd feel like some sort of exhibit at the Mean Girls Zoo.

There is a downside to having an all female staff. For the most part, I stay out of the drama, but overtly flirting with the boss's hot brother would decidedly land me in the middle of it.

Probably best just to covertly flirt with him to pass the time, and not worry about it.

Because clearly, I have enough to think about already.

Of Noodles, Ingenuity, and Following Instructions

I know. I know. I keep promising to stop being such a terrible blogger, and then I go right ahead and fail to post for an entire two weeks, which--barring the time I spent out of the country--is pretty much a record.

So this time, instead of handing you more empty promises to stop sucking, I have decided to accept the fact that, for the time being anyway, I am a crappy blogger. Not that I haven't crafted a dozen posts in my head while far, far away from my computer. I have. Scores of them. I just never seem to get around to sitting down and typing them up when I get home.

Massive blogger FAIL.

Besides, you really don't want to hear me whining about how I feel like a failure for being a waitress with a Masters Degree, which is what largely occupies my thoughts as of late. I'm sure you'd much rather see what I got up to in my kitchen on my day off yesterday, right?

That's what I thought.

Speaking of my kitchen, here it is, in all it's teeny-tiny glory.

See that little splash of colour in the bottom left corner? That's a pillow on my couch. My apartment? Is tiny. And this little closet of a kitchen is where the magic happens, with the help of a rolling island that lives in my livingroom and spends two-thirds of its time covered in junk mail and other assorted detritus, shown here in a rare moment of functionality:

Just thought I'd give you an idea of what it is I have to work with.

Anyhow...

Yesterday I found Heaven, and it is called Fairway, aka the most fabulously awesome grocery store EVER.

What makes it so awesome? Well for starters nestled on its shelves I found Blackcurrant Red Wine Vinegar. What am I going to do with that? No idea. But it was ONLY FOUR DOLLARS! Combine that with a selection of every. single. product. milled by Bob's Red Mill, and I? Am one happy freaking frog.

Especially since my pregnant Latvian co-worker has been missing the food of her homeland, affording me the perfect opportunity to try my hand at smitten kitchen's black bread recipe, and it's staggeringly complex list of ingredients.

Once the shopping trip was over--I admittedly went a little nutso in the Fairway and decided to treat myself to a cab ride home, thus entrusting myself to the care of THE WORST CAB DRIVER EVER. Seriously. We were on 125th. I told him we were going to 199th. He tried to go South. Then he tried to turn into the Sanitation Department, thinking it was a street--I lugged my treasures up five flights of stairs and dove into bread-making land.

True to Deb's word, the bread itself is remarkably easy to make once the ingredients are assembled, and the results? Are just lovely.

The round loaf is for the afore mentioned co-worker, and the loaf? That's for me.

If we're being honest, I think this loaf has just a little too much caraway for me, and when I make it again (because trust me, I most definitely will) I will probably cut the amount in half, and perhaps add some more shallots, but on the whole? This bread is absolutely lovely, has a really great texture, and I'm betting it will be fabulous toasted and topped with cream cheese.

While the bread was on its first rise, I set about making my dinner: Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, from Ted Allen's "The Food You Want to Eat", which I had pulled off the shelf on a whim earlier that day.

I don't have any prep photos from this dish, mostly because I was on the phone with Therapeutic Ramblings (whom I've known since the first day of Freshman Orientation at Undergrad College, many moons ago) while I was cooking, and two tasks at once is about my limit, at least where hot stoves and spitting fat are concerned.

A note here on following instructions:

The recipe stated to brown the short ribs for 12-15 minutes on med-high and turn down the heat if the bottom of the pan started to burn. Well, I started out on more of a medium heat to begin with, as my crappy electric stove (probably the only one in NYC--I HATE ELECTRIC STOVES!!) tends to cook hotter than gas. So, when the pan started to burn around 7 minutes, and the ribs appeared brown, I decided that was good enough and moved on to the next step.

I shouldn't have.

See, the browning process not only serves to sear the juices into the meat, but also to render the fat from what is a very fatty cut. Because I only browned the meat for half of the allotted time, a few of the pieces retained a large amount of fat, resulting in a fattier broth, and a few pieces of meat that were largely inedible.

That being said, since I was only feeding myself, there was still plenty of edible meat left to feed me and leave leftovers, so it was not a fatal error. Just an irritating one.

Right, back to the timeline...

When the ribs were set to braising on a rear burner I took a moment to shape my bread loaves and set them to the second rise, and then set about my final preparation for the evening: Homemade egg noodles.

The recipe for these darlings, which I halved, is super simple:

Egg Noodles
2 1/2 c. flour
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 c. milk, warmed
1 Tbsp. butter, melted
Pinch salt.

Combine ingredients in a large bowl. Knead until smooth, approx 5 minutes. Let rest covered in plastic wrap for 10 minutes. Roll out and cut. Allow to dry before cooking in lightly salted boiling water.

See? Told you it was easy.

The original recipe called to roll out the dough with a rolling pin to either 1/4 or 1/8 inch and then cut, but since K bequeathed me a snazzy pasta maker--and I like my noodles thin--I rolled out the dough to the #6 setting and then cut wide noodles with a pizza cutter... which is probably how I ended up with a whole lot more than the 2 servings the recipe claimed it would make.

What's that you say? What is that snazzy device on which my noodles are drying? Well...

...it's a clothes-drying rack, set up in the middle of my livingroom. Necessity is the mother of invention. Or so I'm told. Please, ignore the mess in the background.

About halfway through the noodle-cutting process, the bread loaves went into the oven to bake for approx 45 minutes. The lid came off the braising pot to allow the sauce to thicken, and then, finally, the noodles went into the pot.

Here they are, looking all buttery and fabulous.

Et viola! Red Wine Braised Short Ribs, served over Fresh, Buttered Egg Noodles.

And despite my failure to follow instructions, they were still delicious, eaten at my coffee table while watching Glee and drinking the half bottle of wine left over from the recipe.

So there you have it: I can cook a feast in a closet, knit a sweater, and I'm hot. Yet I'm still single. How does this equation add up? Well, my friends, that's a blog post for another day...

Health Nut

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

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

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

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

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

History

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

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

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

Can that possibly be normal?

ARGH

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

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

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

Susan Miller was right. September SUCKS.

So, About Last Night...

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

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

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

It's Wedding Time!

Tonight: Again

Tonight I have to get it out.

This sadness, for myself.

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

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

But tonight...

Tonight it is about me.

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

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

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

And I am lonely.

I am sorry for that.

But not ashamed.

Limits

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

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


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


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


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


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

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

Food Porn

Howdy y'all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a good choice.

 

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

I was not dissappointed with the results.

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

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

Happy (early) weekend!

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

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

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

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

The bagel was fantastic.

Out With the Old...

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

Yes, I did say clear.

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

Confused? Let's break it down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ass.

Fucking History...

...repeating itself. All over the carpet.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuckers.

It's Ba-ack...

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

Fuck me.

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

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

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

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

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

You know... like I am right now.

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

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

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

What the fuck, indeed.

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

*grumble*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Thank you. I feel ever so slightly better now.

The End.

Head First

I am diving back into Real Life.

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

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

You hear that Universe? Just sayin'...

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

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

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

Like I said. Head First.

It's the only way to go.

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

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

Hello there beautiful people. Have you missed me?

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

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

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

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

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

[WARNING: Non-Sequitur Ahead]

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

[Okay, okay, LOTS of non-sequiturs]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello!!

Howdy my lovelies!

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

AWESOME.

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

It's that awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

Do I hafta?