... but she plays one on TV

Retired.

2011-02-18T14:16:00.003-05:00

Life is, well, let's just say different. So, new blog!

QueensBoyBrooklynGirl.blogspot.com

Goodbye, PlaysOne. Be well.

Soundtrack Edition (7)

2010-10-27T13:48:00.004-04:00

Been awhile, eh? In the meantime, here's a idea of "life" right now... And if you're not already listening to B&S, you clearly should be.

(Track 7) Belle & Sebastian, "I Want the World to Stop"

Here comes the sun

2010-09-20T06:34:00.002-04:00

Last week, one of my closest friends in New York abandoned me. Can you believe that? He just up and moved to that other coast. Freaking Los Angeles! Except that he's going to do something amazing -- something that a lot of people, especially here, and especially me -- can only fantasize about. Yes, that's right, he's off to Hollywood to make porn.

Kidding.

Really.

He left me to write. He's going to be incredible. He IS incredible.

But enough about him. This blog is about ME, remember?

At his second going away party (dude knows how to make an exit), I met one of his college roommates for the first time. This guy had just flown into NY because his play is about to be produced. His. Play. Produced. Incredible. We got to talking about writing and the writer's struggle to make time to do what you love to do while still working 100 hours a week in a job that can actually pay your rent. Or close enough.

Early in the conversation he asked me what time I wake up in the morning. A complicated question for me because, well, it varies wildly. But without going into my running schedule, or my work schedule, or lack thereof, I said eight. He replied, "get up at five." I pretended not to really hear him. But then he made his case. And it was similar advice to what the books and the blogs and lions, tigers and bears suggest - you just have to train yourself to make the time. But, unlike the books, etc. this guy had literally just flown in because rehearsals were starting on HIS play the next day. So he did it. Why would I not take the sage advice of someone sitting in front of me saying this is what you have to do to do what you want.

I woke up at 5am this morning. I had my alarm set for six, except that I wasn't really sleeping much anyway -- too nervous that on my first day of doing this I would crap out. So I showered, ate a delicious bagel, and have been sitting here staring at my computer for at least the last hour. Daylight is beginning to fill the living room window. I accomplished this blog post. Which, well, is something. Rome wasn't built in a day, you know. And my writing is equal to or greater than that of Roman scholars. I mean, obviously. Have you not read this always-riveting blog?

So I hear you're depressed...?

2010-09-10T14:32:00.003-04:00

One of the really great things about the internet is that it lends itself to a very open exchange of one's feelings. A subject that I would write about in my journal when I was fifteen, I now have the option of allowing others to read those thoughts via a blog. Sharing my journal with someone at fifteen would have been taboo. Now it's what people do, and I love that. And if I'm not comfortable enough with someone reading it, I won't write it. At least not here.

Obviously, I've written quite a bit about my episodes with depression, and I'm grateful to have had a place to go to feel heard when I needed to. But sometimes I don't want to be heard. Sometimes I want to disappear into the background. Sometimes I even want to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. As someone who has experience long and short episodes of deep depression, I know my triggers and can now recognize them before they take me out back and beat me over the head with a blunt object. Oh, and they can hit like a sonsofbitches.

BUT! Today my therapist gave me a nice piece of advice to combat one bad day's feelings before they become a monster.. Write down the things that you like about your life/job/relationship etc. on an index card and put it in your wallet/desk/etc. Then look at it when you're feeling less than good. Simple. Love.

Snapshot

2010-09-05T17:27:00.002-04:00

A brief insight into my only interests, as evidenced by my purchases yesterday at the Housing Works used bookstore:

Is it a girlcott for me?

2010-08-20T11:48:00.002-04:00

Rachel was the first one to inform me of the anti-gay scandal of misappropriated Target funds and the subsequent boycott. I'm not exactly sure how it flew under the radar for me, as I generally pride myself on being pretty well informed. In a strange way, my reaction to this news was visceral. A store that I love, that I respect, has, in essence, betrayed me.

I actually have a deep love for Target. It has, for a very long time, been one of my favorite stores. Not just for their low prices and quality. Target has often been a safe-haven of shopping for me. Over the last several years, when I was feeling especially down, I often found myself there for the bright lights, human contact and discounted make-up. I always spend an inordinate amount of money there, but I am rarely remorseful. From what I knew, Target treated their employees well and still managed to remain very competitively priced. And sometimes you just don't want to spend $9 on hand soap. Target always had a fairly nice representation of eco-friendly products, and that was just more for me to love.

Once before, I had a similar reaction to a brand I enjoyed utilizing their resources to "invest" in something I disapproved of -- Snapple. I used to drink Snapple Apple like it was my job. And not just any job, but a job that I enjoyed. Then, a few years ago, my then-boyfriend's mother told me that the upper management at the company supported the anti-abortionist movement. And I was done. I had one last ceremonial Snapple Apple, and said goodbye.

I fully believe in individuals supporting - with their time or funds - a cause that they find worthwhile. I accept that sometimes those are not the same causes that I find worthwhile. Not everyone is an Earth-hugging, bleeding heart lefty. I mean, sometimes I don't know why they're not, but they aren't. But in the cases of Snapple and Target, at least for me, I cannot support those efforts when they so strongly disagree with my own opinions. I am in love with and live with someone of the same sex. I support gay marriage, even if I'm not actively pursuing it for myself. But I also support all marriage. I've never had an abortion, but I strongly believe in a woman's right to choose. If I had a car, I would also not purchase gas from BP. It's my choice to do so, just as its the company's choice to support platforms that I find appalling.

I feel hurt by the decision of Target's masterminds to contribute to a campaign that is so outwardly anti-gay. I wish I could overlook it, especially since I do love the store, but I can't.

I'll be accepting suggestions on new places to shop for hand soap that costs less than $9.

Older is so much better

2010-08-18T12:03:00.002-04:00

Ive mentioned to a few friends lately that I am anxious to turn 29 in a few months. I've often gotten a puzzled look. Yes, 29, not 30. I am so ready for 30. Bring 30 on with a big ol' party and lots of cake and champagne. Twenty-nine, less so.

The anxiety that I feel about 29 is a lot like the anxiety I felt at 17 and 20. Something big is coming, but you still have a whole year to wait out. I'd rather just be there already. Perhaps, in some way, because most of my friends have already hit it and I'm one of the younger ones. I'm envious. I don't like lagging behind. Why didn't my parents just have sex just a year earlier? I mean, really, they clearly weren't thinking about me then. How their only child would one day feel ready to turn the big 3-0 but still have a year and four months to go. Rude.

Overheard in NY

2010-07-22T17:54:00.001-04:00

Overheard today at Starbucks: "So I just don't wanna talk about any of this money financial shit today, okay?"

Random Dude, I hear ya.

Oh, the places you'll go!

2010-07-21T22:58:00.002-04:00

I've been freelancing/writing full-time (er, unemployed?) for about six weeks now, and I've more traveling since than I think I ever have. No place to be at 9am?! I can go to IKEA! Or get a delicious bagel across the street! See the sights! Like, you know, Court Street! Jog along the promenade! Look at me, I work from home!

Much to my mother's delight, I also went "home" to Pennsylvania for a week and a half. The last time I was home for that long? My junior year of college. Really. It felt a little strange to plan the trip, knowing that only a few weeks before I thought I would be moving back there for good. I looked for jobs and apartments and contemplated which local bank I would use, and how far I could feasible be from a Sheetz. But my life is a little wackadoo sometimes and that didn't happen the way I thought it would. Because, ya know, I was going to be a real WRITER and make it here in New York, finally.

Ahem.

Hershey and the surrounding area is never the same as I left them. When my hometown got its own Dairy Queen, I was like, WHOA. This time I came back and heard about a WEGMANS. I was concerned... that I'd died and gone to HEAVEN! I didn't get to visit the Wegmans, but it was reassuring to know that it was there.

Next week I will venture even further and travel to Florida via one of those airplane things I've heard so much about. I hear it's sunny there. And there's more air conditioning! Weeee!

Life in the time of air conditioning

2010-07-15T23:10:00.005-04:00

My "new life," as I like to call it, improved significantly when we had a professional install our industrial-sized air conditioner last Friday. It's 15,000 BTUs of goodness. And I didn't even have to fake a pregnancy to get it. One of the nights last week when it was 976 degrees at 10pm, Rachel and I were talking about how our grandparents didn't have air conditioners and they just toughed it out. They sweat and were miserable bitches to one another. That's the way things were. My grandparents were better people than me, obviously, because I was freaking hot.

This week has been nothing but humidity-free bliss when indoors. I occasionally venture outside, though. To do silly things like run. I took up running. Yes, me. "My middle name is 'exercise is stupid.'" Yep.

I run on the promenade, two blocks from the new apartment. It's pretty. I see the Brooklyn Bridge. I try desperately not to compare myself to the scads of late upper middle class thirty-something mothers running with their strollers. They have hot bods, and my goal to look like Kim Kardashian seems eons away. Each morning that I run, there's a contingency of elderly Asian women walking and stretching alongside me. I do my best to keep up with them. It's challenging enough for now.

Then I come inside to the air conditioning, collapse on the floor in front of it, and all is right with the world again.

Soundtrack Edition (5, 6)

2010-07-03T22:13:00.003-04:00

One of my all-time favorites... Morrissey, you are my idol.

(Track 5) The Smiths, "This Charming Man"

And this, too, because it was just freaking ridic!

(Track 6) Alex Wong and Twitch Hip Hop, So You Think You Can Dance

Familiar

2010-06-30T21:37:00.000-04:00

Recently in therapy I recognized a pattern in my behavior - - every three or four years, I basically uproot my life and start again. Chaos ensues. Three years after college ended, I left my boyfriend, moved out of our apartment and quit my job. Then I started dating women. ANOTHER three years later (also known as last month), I quit my job, decided to freelance and "make a go of it" as a writer. Of note, also, I moved again (with little" although some, of the same drama and gravitas of the last time).

It’s no wonder to me that I prefer the smaller aspects of my life to remain familiar and comfortable. Although I attempt to keep up with current music and TV, etc. my favorite band will likely always be The New Pornographers and favorite series to be Buffy. Other things come and go, but I have a few constants. Addiction to coffee. Gap jeans. A slight Dutch accent when I say "radiator."

Today I spent the day in Philadelphia with one of my closest friends from college. We've kept in touch over the six years since we sat together at Newhouse graduation, but have yet to end up back in the same city.

We planned my visit the last time he was in New York - a fun cheesesteak-filled date in the city of Brotherly Love. Today we connected as well, if not better than we had in college. We ate, drank and laughed about the acronym for his family's restaurant being HOBAG. We talked about careers and marriage and families because that’s what old friends so when they're rapidly approaching 30.

He wooed me with Philly's best coffee and cupcakes. He knows me. I know him. I realized this August we will have been friends for ten years. I love sharing that longevity and familiarity with someone. If I’m not knocked up by 35, he's my guy.

Making up is hard to do

2010-06-26T17:01:00.003-04:00

My brother and I got into kind of a big fight. We didn't speak for a week. A week. That's the longest my brother and I have ever gone without speaking. We're freakishly close.

It all started because I had a tad bit of an overreaction. For several weeks now, I've been planning a trip back home for a week - my longest in quite some time. Last week, my brother informed me that while I would be in town - the entire time I would be in town - he'd be helping a coworker's daughter's best friend's sister (or something) move across the country to California. He'd be gone nine days, and I'd be home for five. No overlap.

More than angry, I was disappointed, although I didn't express it that way. So, he got huffy, I got huffy. Some Yeiser blood a-raging. Then, THEN! my brother came to town for one night for a Yankees-Phillies game last week. The game was a gift to him from his best friend (a Yankees fan who grew up just an hour from Philadelphia... traitor), so I only expected to see the boys for dinner and then they'd be off to the game drinking illegal brewskis and yelling at pitchers. Except we didn't get a chance to have dinner. I saw them for no more than ten minutes. Again, disappointing.

My brother called after the game to ask me to meet up with them before their bus. I was already in bed, reading. There was a misunderstanding - a gigantic one - and a continuation of the previous knock-down drag-out brawl ensued via text that night and the following morning.

Then we didn't speak. For a week.

After the full week had gone by, I text-raised the white flag, "so, can we be done with this whole not talking thing?" He said okay, and then we were.

Fighting with my brother is especially difficult for me because I am extremely protective over the kid. And by the kid, I mean the almost 21-year-old who could totally kick my ass in a minute flat. But he's my little brother. I used to watch Barney and Power Rangers with him, so I deserve some cred for being a superior sis.

At least we're good now.

Soundtrack Edition (4)

2010-06-07T16:29:00.001-04:00

Kickin' it old school to say goodbye to Bender.

(Track 4) Boyz II Men, "End of the Road"

Two weeks

2010-05-28T15:28:00.004-04:00

My last day at my office is officially June 9th. June 9th is less than two weeks away. That's, like, really soon.

I've worked some crazy hours in this place. It's caused me migraines. And anxiety attacks. I've been the bitchy one and the funny one. I've had outbursts and have sobbed quietly in the bathroom.

For all intents and purposes, this was my second job out of college. The third on my resume, but my second real career experience. I had no idea how a PR firm functioned when I started here. I got a job as an "Account Executive," and honestly didn't know what I would be doing day-to-day. I just knew that I was ready to leave my previous job, after much angst. Being 28 and only having had two real jobs feels a little strange. Like I missed something.

As my last day gets closer, I'm having a hard time imagining how the office will be without me. I know that sounds completely narcissistic, and it is. But the office will be a little different without me. I will be a little different without it. My thoughts are still coming together on this whole leaving thing.

Someone else is going to have to cut the ice cream cakes in the conference room. I wonder if my boss will re-hire me as a freelance cake-cutter?

I believe in duct tape, too, Miles...

2010-05-25T17:44:00.003-04:00

I will be vacating the death trap of an apartment in a mere three weeks. I can hardly believe I made it a year. Nothing worked for most of that time. For instance, here's my father fixing the wall when it started to crumble because I hung a curtain rod. A curtain rod was too heavy for a load-bearing wall. I strongly suspect that the place is largely held together by tape.

Problems with the building from memory. I am probably blocking things out...
1. lack of hot water in showers
2. balconies leaked into apartments below causing water damage
3. broken intercom (for nine months)
4. heat routinely needing to be "rebooted"
5. warped floors (likely a symptom of #2)
6. management company neglects to pay ConEd bill for common areas of building
7. cracking walls
8. terribly insulated windows / walls
10. overall contempt for everyone associated with the building

Over the past week, at least two of our neighbors have moved out on our floor. And, from the looks of it so far, there are no new tenants. Perhaps the management company wasn't able to get three times the market value on our crappy ass apartments like they originally thought.

My new brick-and-mortar apartment, however, can be vouched for. It's actually a historical building, constructed in the 1800-something-or-others. I'd have to look on the sign on the outside of the building.

Soundtrack Edition (3)

2010-05-22T17:07:00.001-04:00

(Track 3) Mates of State, "Like U Crazy"

I quit. And other life-changing things I've done lately.

2010-05-21T16:46:00.003-04:00

Hey, guess what? I quit my job!

Now that that's out of the way...

I've been wanting to blog about my decision to leave my job basically since I decided to leave my job. A few weeks ago I walked into my boss' office, told him that I was thinking about moving, and that I would be leaving the company. And just like that I quit my job. In reality, it was quite possibly the least dramatic scene I played out in my head. My boss was supportive, albeit sad to be losing such a stellar employee. Naturally. And I'm sad, too. I've been at my agency for nearly three and a half years, and some of the people I've met here are very high on my favorite people ever list. My work isn't always pleasant - I interact with a lot of crazy people - but the people here are incredible. They're energetic and entertaining and engaging. I'd take a bullet for most of them.

There was no storming out in a tizzy. I had a rational conversation which resulted in my resignation. It was surprisingly easy. In the meantime, though, I'm working just as hard as I ever did here. I care about the people I'm leaving behind, so I want to leave my position in the best possible condition for them.

When the announcement was made in a staff meeting, a number of people asked where I was going. I'm not going anywhere (at least not yet). I've decided to take the summer and write. I hope people will pay me for it, but I don't know if they will. I don't know much right now, and I am anxious much of the time. In my head there are lovely visions of me getting up in the morning at a reasonable hour, walking to the YMCA for a swim, and then taking my laptop to the promenade to edit my novel and work on freelance projects to pay the bills. There's also a part where I watch Lost from beginning to end again. It's really very pleasant there in my head. I'm leaving reality for it.

What will happen? What will become of me? I see a Starbucks apron in my future. Which, honestly, is totally cool with me for the time being. I'm going through my pre-30th birthday change of life, and I will drink a lot of coffee while figuring out my next move. It may be across the country (what's up, Portland?), or down the street.

As an exceptionally anxious person, though, these last few weeks have been an extraordinarily difficult exercise in making a decision, and more importantly, making peace with it. If it turns out that this is a big fat life fail, then at least I know. I have plenty of blankets that I can cover my head and hide under.

Keep the car running

2010-05-17T18:23:00.002-04:00

Across the street and about a half-block down from my apartment there is a 24-hour tire shop. As one might imagine, it's a bit noisy. It doesn't help that my apartment has floor to ceiling windows that are about as thick as a sheet of paper. Often, if a truck is passing by on 4th Avenue, it sounds as though its actually coming through my bedroom. On Saturday I was talking to my mother on the phone when 12-or-something- or other-wheeler went past the building, and my mom asked "where the hell ARE YOU?" She thought maybe I was hanging out on the freeway. Nope, I'm in my bedroom SIX FLOORS UP. And it still sounds like I'm standing in traffic.

I'm not even sure why Park Slope needs a 24-hour tire shop. Yes, people have cars -- cars are everywhere even though I'm pretty sure 85% of them aren't actually needed for anything. If you need baby formula in the middle of the night there's a bodega open somewhere within a few block radius. That's one of the great things about New York, of course. Get your Ben & Jerry's and lottery scratch-off fix anytime, anywhere.

The shop is just tires, too. If you're in the neighborhood at 3am on a Tuesday morning and feel the urge to buy yourself some snow tires? Come on down to 4th Avenue. I'll hear you. I won't be sleeping, don't worry.

Soundtrack Edition (2)

2010-05-06T15:48:00.002-04:00

This refers to my tumultuous relationship with New York, not Rachel. Now please enjoy this delightfully campy (HA!) video.

(Track 2) A Camp, "Love Has Left the Room"

Soundtrack Edition (1)

2010-04-28T10:28:00.002-04:00

Writing this blog is an enormous release for me... usually. Sometimes, though, it's also an exercise in self-censorship and self-restraint. That said, if I can't always articulate about how I feel, a song can express it for me.

So, without further ado, this week's soundtrack is courtesy of the lovely indie goddess Nicole Atkins.

(Track 1) Nicole Atkins, "Neptune City"

Or, as we called it in the newsroom, "Sucky University"

2010-04-22T13:42:00.005-04:00

I became interested in mommy blogs because of my job. It was important for me to read these blogs in to order understand how to pitch them, why to pitch them and more importantly, which ones not to pitch. I keep reading them, though (okay, FINE, I am completely addicted to half a dozen of them), because I want to know more about these women's experiences in toddler-raising. I'm fascinated by motherhood; I'm in awe of motherhood. I want to BE a mother. And that's not to discount that many of these blogs are exceptionally well-written.

One of the blogs, or more accurately vlogs, that I follow is Momversation. Some of my coworkers make fun of me. Well, its on the list of things that they mock me for. I think it's interesting, so there. The topics really don't hold any relevance to my daily life, but neither do a lot of things I read.

The topic today is saving for your kids' college years, and it reminded me of one of the reasons that I'm in so much debt -- my parents didn't pay my college. And boy, has that effed me over.

I was allowed to choose where I went to school, and for that I am grateful. Money didn't really factor into my decision because I was 18 and pretty clueless about what real debt actually meant for my life. My parents always urged me to go to college, but I think they only really did that because I showed such an interest in going very early on. When I was about 9 or 10 I asked my dad for a UCLA sweatshirt from the local reasonably trendy store in the mall. He conceded and I wore it until I wore it out. It was gray and the UCLA was printed in blue-purple-pink plaid fabric letters. Very cool when I was 10.

I started seriously looking for colleges when I was in ninth grade. I like to be ahead of the game. At that point, though, I was planning on going to St. Louis. As if I might fit in in the middle of the country!

I went to Syracuse for three reasons: 1. The campus was pretty (and, along with that I had NO idea how cold it would get). 2. They had/have a great journalism program, and I was going to be Katie Couric (see my yearbook). 3. Boston University rejected me. Rude.

Had I gone to the most economical school to which I was accepted, I would have gone to Drexel. I mulled over University of Hartford, too. But see above.

My dad and I had an agreement that I would be paying for school through scholarships, loans and grants. But, really, I didn't know what that meant. It wasn't until I graduated and started seeing the student loan bills that I really came to terms with the fact that I went to a school that cost a small fortune. Oops.

I wouldn't trade my education at Syracuse for anything. I wouldn't trade my social experiences there either. I fell in love, out of love, made best friends and "swam" in bathtubs after too much alcohol. It was pretty great. I had my problem with it, sure, and complained endlessly about the snow and the cold for four years, yes.

But now that graduation is many years behind me and I am literally paying for choices I made when I was just barely a legal adult, I see why there are commercials on TV that ask parents if their IRA or whatever is prepared to pay for their child's college. Because I'm probably a solid five years away from giving birth and I should have started putting away college money yesterday. I don't really know why my parents didn't, but they didn't. And hey, that's cool. I needed food growing up more than the expectation that I would go on to study at a private university. But I'll always be a little bit (or, you know, a lot) jealous of my peers who had their educations paid for and still went to a good school like I did. But life is unfair that way. I had the food, the education, and now I'm broke. Super.

Someday you may know my wrath (but not really)

2010-04-15T13:31:00.004-04:00

For whatever reason (Mom? Dad? Therapist?), I kind of like to fight. I am combative and argumentative and mean when I want to be. I'm not violent though. I won't kick you in the teeth or pull your hair or punch you in the face. Unless, of course, you're the girl I went to elementary school with who upset me at the roller skating rink and then I DID punch you in the face. Sorry about that. But, ya know, I was 12 and all pre-hormonal or something?

ANYWAY.

Now I don't actually punch people in the face, but I say I will (to someone else). If you didn't know me, and heard the way I talk about people sometimes when I'm angry, you would be shocked. You might even have me committed. Officer, there's this fiery little redhead over there who is talking about burning down someone's house and kicking their puppy. Um, right. Well I just TALK like a psychopath, I swear. Those who I say these awful things to (but about other people) know better than to take me seriously. Because they know that I cry at commercials and would go far, far out of my way to prevent actually hurting someone's feelings. If the FBI is reading this, I swear I could pass the psych eval.

It's only in the really baddest of the bad situations that I'm in that I ever let myself slip and say something horrible to the person I'm actually angry with. Like, say you're breaking up with me and I happen to spit out a line about how mad your departed grandmother would be if she knew what you were doing to me. Ooops. The things you think versus the things you say. I should not have said that. But, to be a little more fair, you shouldn't have been doing the behind-my-backness that you were.

And maybe once or twice I tried to put a curse of sorts on a stepparent. Or I threw water in your face when you insulted my daddy.

This morning, I had a little episode where I wasn't sure if I wanted to tear off someone else's face or my own. See, I don't know if you've noticed how much repulsive pollen is in the air right now, but it has so much pull on me that I actually CAME TO WORK WITHOUT MAKEUP ON TODAY. Yes. My skin is excessively dry and irritated from the amount of medication I have been taking to merely function during this allergy season, and my eyes especially are swollen, red and raw. My eyes and the skin around my eyes. And by extension pretty much my entire face and neck. Yesterday it burned so badly just to sweep some of my ALL-NATURAL makeup over my face that I simply couldn't bear to do it again. Especially because I woke up feeling worse and more irritated than I did then. So, the face-tearing. I am clearly miserable in my skin and people still manage to go about pissing me off. I felt like a monster, but my hands were shaking and my teeth were clenched in anger. I was nervous I was going to turn green, rip off my shirt and grow into the Hulk at any moment. So, naturally, I start pounding on my keyboard and instant message my friend the awful things I do-but-do-NOT want to do to those who have crossed me within the previous hour. And they laugh, because, really, what else can they do when someone sounds like a crazy person?

But I don't have anger management issues and I am perfectly normal girl.

Letter to the Boy that I Adore

2010-04-13T12:50:00.002-04:00

Dear Skidoo,

Last night you texted me, around 10pm as you so often do. But instead of a clever catchphrase for hello, how are you like usual, you said, "I miss ya Ash."

I was sitting by my phone, reading on the couch, and I was filled with warmth and touch of terror. Something had probably happened. Because that's where my mind goes. So I responded that I missed you, too, and was everything okay?

Yes, of course, you responded. You were just telling the girl you're dating (but not a girlfriend, I know) about me, and you wanted to remind me that you missed me. The only boy who still, after more than twenty years, has the capacity to make my heart melt.

You, baby brother, are my best friend for life. I was eight when you was born and as soon as I saw you, I was inhabited by a fierce maternal (sisternal?) instinct to protect this little boy with the almost black hair and tiny adorable feet. I rocked you. I changed your diaper. I adored you.

Now we've lived apart for almost ten years. Can you believe that? And every day, unless you're pissing me off, I miss you. The biggest advantage to packing up and moving back home is that you're there. You think we should either move away together (Las Vegas has come up, really?) or get an apartment just you and me. We would have so much fun. And, I have a feeling, I would be so ridiculously tired keeping up with a nearly 21 year old. Did I have this much energy and capacity for alcohol at 21? I really doubt it. On my twenty first birthday I went to the Olive Garden with a handful of good college friends and had a glass of White Zinfandel. Because, well, that's me.

You could move to New York with me, too. I would teach you the subway system so you wouldn't get too lost. Promise. Think about it.

And I'll keep pondering my next move as well. You're a heavy advantage for Pennsylvania, you know.

Love,
Your sister

"You know I couldn't last... someone please take me home..."

2010-03-29T17:44:00.003-04:00

There's nothing like a good Morrissey lyric when you want to convey internal drama.

Lately I've been constantly reminded of just how far beyond my means I live here. New York bleeding me dry and making me feel like a failure most of the time in this blog profile is no joke. Within the last few weeks that feeling has only increased ten-fold.

As I've written about before, I made a choice to live in New York. And despite any unpleasantness that I've come to associate with the price of living here, it may be the best choice I've ever made for myself. Now, and perhaps for the first time seriously, I'm questioning if I should stay here.

I still love it. I love Brooklyn. I love the shops and restaurants in my neighborhood. I love the walking. I hate that my paycheck can barely cover my bills. I hate that despite my efforts and mad budgeting to get my debt in check, I'm constantly throwing away money on Chase bank fees because I just couldn't quite make the money work again this month. Because, no matter what I do, I find myself in the red.

I know that it probably sounds like a simple solution -- spend less money. And let me tell you that I've done that. I can actually live on an obscenely small amount of money between pay checks, particularly if there's already food in the house. I've eaten boxed macaroni and cheese and locked myself in my apartment on the weekends. I've done almost everything I can think of. But I can't get caught up, let alone ahead. I've borrowed money from my generous father ad nauseum that gets recorded in a little notebook in his desk. He loves that notebook. I want to set it on fire.

I'm older and wiser now, enough to know that this cycle of debt can't go on forever. At some point - possibly in the next few months - I will need to say, okay, New York, you've broken me. I can't do this anymore. If I don't stop myself I don't know what will happen. It may be me in a rubber room. That sounds entirely feasible.

And then, what?, I just suck it up and... go? Just like that? I just move. Away from New York. My home. For as much as I've talked about it, I can't ACTUALLY imagine not living here anymore. This place that I love to hate. Oh, how that phrase resonates in every area of my life.

what today is vs. what today could be

2010-03-26T15:08:00.003-04:00

I think long term. I'm not so much a planner, though, as a wonderer. Planning I kinda suck at. I wonder what my life would be like, could be like, if I go one way as opposed to the other. This is normal, yes?

Six years ago, I made a choice to live in New York. I probably could have gone anywhere else, including back home to Pennsylvania, but at the time New York was the only place I could be. It was more than the only place that I wanted to be, it was just it. Not including my very brief stint considering graduate school for teaching theatre, I didn't even consider living anywhere else. Why would I? My boyfriend was here, and we had decided to move in together, and DUH! it was New York! Everything, and everyone, I wanted was here. And I was very happy. I was going to get a job in Manhattan! Where I would dress smartly and I would have books - oodles of them! - and read New York Magazine.

I did a lot of those things for a while, particularly the being happy part. That may have been my favorite.

Now I'm 28, going on 58 as my brother says, and I've settled into a comforting routine of daily life. I get up, go to work, do work, come home, eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. My life isn't all that different from anyone else's living anywhere else. Last night I was at dinner with Stone Cold Steve Austin (yes and yes) and he asked me what I do here on the weekends. New York isn't that different from any other city. I go to Target. I go to the movies. I occasionally go out to dinner with friends. And I like it that way. Sometimes I indulge in a Broadway show (I was grateful to attend "Last Fall" last Friday with my good friend and it was phenomenal) or shopping in a non-Target store, but I wander around my neighborhood aimlessly or planet myself on the couch to watch DVDs, too.

I have two stepbrothers who are both younger by a few years who own property or on their way to doing so. I cannot compare myself to them in most ways (I want to save the trees while one cuts them down), but I do have this idea in my head that despite being younger, they are more grown up than I because they own things. Cars, homes, dogs. But I don't own these things because I chose to live here, and they chose to be in Pennsylvania. Choosing to live in New York City usually means choosing to put typical adult things like buying a home on hold - either until you make six figures and maintain that, or until you leave.

I used to say that if I moved back home after college or since that I have a good idea who I would marry. It's based on very little evidence, of course. It's not my high school math teacher, sadly, although I probably would have tried to date him when I became a reasonable age to do so. I have this picture in my head of what my life could be, and it seems relatively pleasant from the outside. Then I try to reconcile that life with my current one - which I happen to really like day-to-day - and I just get confused.

I like to think about these alterna-lives, but I don't want them. Like is even a strong word. I am intrigued by them. Owning a home and having a baby and picking out paint colors intrigues me. But if I had all of those things, I wouldn't have had dinner with Steve Austin last night. And that was super.

Apartment rant #476

2010-03-09T13:42:00.004-05:00

Remember that great apartment I introduced you to last June? Well, it's been the bane of my existence pretty much since then (remember the ConEd incident?). We had the wall issue. Then came the hot water issue. And the, "oh, you see that thing that looks like a flaccid penis on my roommate's wall? Yeah, that's water damage that came from the balcony of the apartment upstairs (seriously?) after three plus days of rain" issue. Oh, and our intercom hasn't worked in nine months. How long have we been living there? That's right, NINE MONTHS.

The latest development, a little more than a week ago, was that the building made the decision to cut our 24-hour doorman service effective March 1 (we got the letter on the Friday previous). About 25-30 or so of us tenants met that Sunday morning to discuss what we could do about it. Negotiate an evening-only doorman deal? Slash our rent to compensate for a lost service? All die a bullet-riddled death in our neighborhood and hope our remaining loved ones sue later? Two lawyers in the building spearheaded the efforts and did all of the attorney stuff like look up precedent and other things I completely don't understand. At the end of the meeting (where I talked more than was reasonable considering my complete lack of knowledge on the law), we all signed a letter stating that we feel this is an important safety issue (since we live on the cusp of a less desirable neighborhood where there often police cars and other indications of illegal activity), and part of our rent goes to such amenities as these. Additionally, we all decided to hold off on paying our rent until Friday the 5th to see if our letter held any weight with them.

It did. Sort of. The two attorneys then met with the head of the management company for our building (a man who, despite my many efforts to speak to him on a variety of issues regarding the hell suck that we live in, has never once been "available" to take my calls) who said, essentially, that the recession has really hit them hard. No kidding? That's strange, because we pay more than THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS in rent to you every month, and there are more than 50 units in our building. Eff you. Rae's dad suggested that we write a letter saying that we've also been affected by the recession and are no longer able to pay our rent, and we hope this isn't an inconvenience. I liked that.

However, due to their economic issues aplenty, the manager suggested to lawyer dude that he could offer an early-out option on our leases, should we want to leave. I read this in an email while in a cab and I nearly jumped out of my seat. IT'S A DREAM COME TRUE! The management company believes that all of the tenants received STEEP discounts on our rentals (um, no) and could easily fill the apartments for more than we all pay. So, please, leave. Gladly. And, I might add, you're seriously delusional.

Now, the fam and I discussed this and decided to pursue this option with near-glee. Yesterday I spoke to not-the-manager of the building to ask for this early-out option in writing, as my roommates and I would like to get the eff out of that building. Relatively pleasant, she said that she actually had our lease renewal option in a stack of papers and would remove ours so that she could sign a letter for us stating that we could leave without penalty. Then I skipped away.

This morning, however, we DID receive our lease renewal option paperwork. And they're raising the rent by more than $250, and requesting additional security. Which is HYSTERICAL.

So, to them, I say peace out and I hope you will enjoy my scathing review of your management company and your building when I move out and post it on yelp.com.

pregnancy non-scare

2010-03-01T18:50:00.003-05:00

At some point in the last six years, my life went in an unexpected direction. No, it wasn't when I decided I wanted to date women. It wasn't even when I fell in love with Rachel. Although these things were pretty unexpected. The defining moment of my adulthood, to date, has been the moment I decided I wanted to be a mom. Intensely wanted. Wanted soon. And then, wanted immediately.

Less than an hour ago I found out via Facebook (and, honestly, how do I find out anything any other way? I don't because I am dreadful at keeping in touch with people) that one of my best friends from high school is pregnant with a little girl. I was immediately ecstatic for her and her husband. I'm sure she's more than a little scared, but I know she will be a phenomenal mother. And then, as has been the case so many times before, I look at myself and wonder why it couldn't be me, too. Another one of my close friends from high school recently gave birth to her second child. She has a beautiful family. If I could I would send her baby gifts every week.

When I was in high school, I know that I thought I would be one of the first to be married, to have a child. At that time, 25 seemed elderly and my back would be creaking just chasing the little ones around the backyard.

When I turned 23, I had an irrational fear of becoming pregnant. Every woman on my mother's side of the family had had a child by the age of 23, and I thought I was "doomed" to become a young mother as well. At the time, even though I was in a healthy committed relationship with someone whom I wanted to marry and would have liked to go on and have a child with, a pregnancy felt like it would have been the end of the world. Of my world. I was financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible. I was 23 for goodness sake. I spent a good deal of 2005 abstaining from sex with my boyfriend (much to his dismay) because I was terrified of becoming pregnant. And I like sex.

Five years later, I'm still financially unprepared and emotionally irresponsible (albeit less so), sometimes all I can think about is wanting a baby. My roommate and I will ogle babies on TV and snuggle up against baby blankets and swoon and discuss names. And then remind ourselves that most of our "good eggs" are probably gone and we could very likely just be ogling other people's babies forever. Because like can sort of suck that way when you're 30 (or rapidly approaching it).

And the thing is that I like my life right now. I don't really want to change it in a way that would be conducive to having a baby right this second. I can't seem to strike a balance with what I like about my life right now and what I think my "goals" are. Suffering through an agonizing labor is a goal, right?

When all you want is cookies

2010-02-25T16:15:00.003-05:00

It wasn't a New Years resolution per se, but I've been gearing myself up to get serious (again) about weight loss since the middle or so of January. I have 30 pounds to lose and I am really going to make it happen this time.

Since I've spent six weeks exercising more regularly than I probably ever have, I'm actually beginning to enjoy it more. I could certainly do without the ridiculous amount of sweat pouring off of my body and the bright red face and the tightness of my chest and the... well, you get it. But I've gotten to the point where I feel good after instead of wanting to keel over. And, shockingly, I have even started to feel guilty for making poor eating choices or skipping a few days at the gym because something good is on TV. Sometimes I'd even RATHER go to the gym (or use the Wii Fit or whatever) than watch TV. Mir-a-cle.

I visited home this past weekend and actually asked my brother to kick my ass at the gym. And he did. For an hour and a half. Ouch. I am like a completely new person.

In the last few weeks what I've struggled with the most has been keeping my sweet tooth satisfied almost daily so that I don't break down and eat two cupcakes in one day (oh, like today, perhaps?). The two things I can't live without are ice cream and cookies. I've learned to substitute in 100 calorie packs of chocolate-covered pretzels for a mid-day cookie snack. Tasty and effective. And Rachel and I discovered some delish Weight Watchers ice cream sundaes with cookies or peanut butter cups that, albeit small, are a much more reasonable replacement for a pint of Turkey Hill vanilla/chocolate twice a week. But oh my gawd is that stuff gooooood.

But I've committed to this thing. I'm involved in not one but TWO weight-loss challenges (one involves a cupcake reward if everyone loses for the week!), and really will shed this 30 pounds. I wonder what I will look like 30 pounds lighter? I'm going for Kim Kardashian.

good things come to those who donate

2010-02-05T14:08:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I donated ten and a half inches of my hair to Locks of Love. Technically, it hasn't been donated YET, as it is still hanging out in my bag. Which is certainly a little strange. What if I am on the subway and I am reaching for something in my bag, but a Ziploc bag of auburn hair falls out instead? Um, psycho with some sort of shrine? Cool. I should probably send in the hair today, huh?

I've been wanting to donate my hair for years, but its never worked out until now. First it was a problem because I've been coloring my hair since I was 15, and LoL did not accept color-treated hair for donation. Then, when they did start accepting it, I had to wait more than a year to further grow my hair out. And last night, after anxiously awaiting February 4th, snip snip went the scissors and I teared up when my ponytail was finally detached from my head.

I made the appointment about three weeks ago, and up until yesterday I was very excited to donate my hair. I've had long(er) hair for more than two years (its been three since my last short haircut) and maintaining it to my level of satisfaction was sometimes a challenge. I like to be pretty low maintenance in the morning (compared to say, Rachel*. Although I say that with love, darling), and washing and straightening my hair usually took 35-40 minutes to get under control and then my arm hurt from all that damn pulling. But sometimes it looked super hot and it made it worth it.

Yesterday, though, I was UNREASONABLY sad about cutting it. I was going through some other crazy emotions and the idea of cutting my long hair was the last thing that I was interested in. But I went through with it because I had set the date. It was happening.

So here I am.

I woke up this morning, forgot that I had cut my hair, and when I got to the bathroom I didn't recognize myself.

Shortly after, I got an excited call from my unemployed stepfather to tell me that he is now EMPLOYED! This is HUGE for my family - both financially and emotionally. It alleviates a great deal of pressure on me to continuing caring for them as though I was the parent. Not completely, though, because my family still has a long way to go, but it's a terrific step forward. John is amped to start work and he thanked me several times for my help in getting him to this point. He said that he "knew" I'd help him. And that made me feel good.

A little less than an hour later, I spoke with my mother, and told her how excited I was to get that phone call. She then told me that last night she had a dream that my recently deceased grandfather was standing at the end of her bed, trying to wake her. He told her that everything was going to be okay. He said that he'd started a garden where he was and my aunt (his daughter), although inept at gardening, was helping him. I cried.

Today I've seen great good karma come my way from cutting my long locks. Some very much needed positivity. Maybe my hair was cursed?

And maybe I will win my office Superbowl pool!

*it's just her picking out clothes process... but it's 99.9% of mornings.

filling my lungs

2010-01-14T13:12:00.002-05:00

This is a ridiculously lame cliche, but the last few weeks have felt like my lungs are filling. Most of the time, they feel like they're filling with water and I am helpless to stop it (see previous post).

Today, though, after no more than a simple email, I feel some relief and my lungs have again begun to fill up with air. I have a job lead for my stepfather. I want to hold this air in my lungs until it goes stale. It's the most relief I've felt in weeks, and I am terrified that it is only fleeting.

Breathe in.

helpless

2010-01-09T09:17:00.002-05:00

This year has begun for me with an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Which, obviously, means its going to be a banner year. One for the books, for sure.

Since my grandfather died two weeks ago, I have been working especially hard to help my stepfather find employment. Because of the shitty economy, he's been unemployed now for more than a year and a half. Considering what my relationship used to be with this man, I never thought I'd be doing this. I used to hate him. Like, actually hate him. Now, I don't. He was someone who told me I was a useless slut for too many years of my life, I didn't think I could ever like him. I thought I'd never have enough therapy to move past those words and how they affected my self-esteem. Now, he's mellowed significantly in his old(er) age, and I've seen him change. He's not the self-involved verbally abusive man he once was. He took care of his dying father full-time for more than a year, and he is trying hard to provide for his family. I can respect that, regardless of our previous relationship. When I see him now, I can hug him and appreciate him for trying to repair the relationships he'd badly damaged with alcohol years before.

I try to spend at least a half hour everyday looking on Monster.com, etc. for jobs that he can apply to. Since he doesn't have the means or skills to navigate the internet at home, I can help him in this way. I revamped his resume, and I apply for positions on his behalf almost daily. I'm not resentful that I am doing this either. I actually feel as though I am not doing enough. My family is drowning and I feel helpless to save them. Instead, I am here in New York, focused on my own problems which vary from the serious (I can barely pay my own bills) to the insignificant (I pull my own long hair when I put my bag on my shoulder).

Over the last few weeks, I've weighed the pros and cons of how I can be more helpful to my family and their situation. The one thing I keep returning to is moving back to Pennsylvania so that I can help them more actively. The pros of this decision are that I could be more accessible to my family - not just my mom, stepfather and brother, but to my dad and my grandparents. My one remaining grandfather, whom I consider myself close to, has asked me if I plan on moving home every time I see him for the past several years. The first few times I just laughed this off -- I mean, WHY would I leave NEW YORK, to go back to my hometown? It seems ludicrous. Now, more than ever, I see the merits of being closer to my family - my whole family - and I sometimes feel a crippling guilt for not being there when they really need me.

... to be continued...

death and taxes

2009-12-24T14:47:00.002-05:00

The two things that have plagued my life most in 2009 (actually, for the last year and a half)? Death and taxes. The two sure things in life.

It's Christmas Eve, and I know that I am on the verge of losing another grandparent. This time, even though I'm more prepared and have been for longer than I care to admit, it's been especially difficult watching my family struggle with letting go. My grandfather (step-grandfather, technically) has been bed-ridden for many months, and was nearly immobile long before then. He's survived three serious bouts of pneumonia over the last year when no one expected him to make it through the first. He long ago lost his ability to effectively communication, and sometimes getting a simple yes or no out of him is difficult. When I last saw him over Thanksgiving, he looked much worse than I had ever seen him. This is morbid, but he looked as though he was deteriorating in his bed, as though his body had already failed him but he didn't know that yet. When I was there, I spent a little while speaking to the Hospice nurses who care for him regularly, and they were just trying to keep him comfortable.

That was a month ago. When I spoke with my mother last night to check in, funeral arrangements were being made, and he was taking morphine every two hours to manage the pain of his body breaking down. I wonder if he knows he's dying. I wonder why, if he does, doesn't he let go.

My mother told me that two nights ago, he called my stepfather over to his bed. He held out his hand and John went to him. My mother said they sat there holding hands for more than an hour, as my stepfather told him stories and fond memories. John later told my mother that he thought my grandfather was waiting for him to say that it was okay to go now. But he couldn't. It's hard to let your parent leave the world even if you know that its time.

I cry every time I even think about them sitting there together.

When I lost my beloved uncle earlier this year, I was a mess. I thought this time was easier, if only because I was not as close to Pop. If I'm being perfectly honest, Pop was never especially nice to me. When we were kids, Pop clearly favored my brother and they had a very sweet relationship. I suppose I was a little jealous then, but I grew out of that. Pop used to spend every weekend with my family, and when he'd drive from my aunt's house to ours on a Friday afternoon, he would bring homemade pastries and fresh vegetables from the farmer's market that he passed on the way. At least one weekend a month, he would bring me whoopie pies, which were my favorite. I remember Pop also liked the pumpkin cookies I used to make in the fall.

My family has lost too many people over the last year and a half. I hope that changes in 2010.

Less significant than death, but more omnipresent in my daily life has been my struggle this year with my finances. My situation is probably worse than ever, but I've continued, for the most part, to go about my days as though it weren't. I've overdrawn my checking account more than once over the past few months and the more often it accidentally happened, the sense of embarrassment I felt the first time it happened diminishes. By not taking care of money, I am not taking good care of myself, and I know that at 28 years old, I should be there by now. I need to be there. I think that if I had expensive clothes and shoes and went out to eat for every meal, I'd deserve to be in the position that I'm in, but I don't. My monthly bills come just shy of my monthly pay and that will not change. If I worked fewer hours per week I could probably get a part-time job to supplement my income, but unless it was an extremely lucrative one (say, drug dealer?), I could not make enough in my "free" time to make it worth it. There's the taxes to consider. I was lucky enough to get a small bonus from my company for the holidays this year, and 45% of it went to taxes. I did the math.

I know that when I get my income tax refund in February I can kick start my bank account and get back on track, but that feels like its eons away. Even though I say that I really am trying, whatever I'm doing just doesn't work. Maybe I will just hit the lottery in 2010. That might help.

Watch as I punch my landlord in the face

2009-12-16T13:46:00.004-05:00

Just when I was feeling jovial and light and in the spirit of the holiday season, my "family" and I get a notice in the mail from ConEd stating that our management company, which has been tipping towards disaster since we moved in in June, has neglected to pay their bills. The ConEd bill for the common areas of my apartment building (which includes heat in the lobby/hallways, elevator, and all lights in the lobby/halls/stairwell) has not been paid since AUGUST and is totaling over $18,000. EIGHTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS in unpaid bills. If this goes unpaid, as of January 10th, all electric will be shut off to our common areas. This, thankfully, does not affect our individual apartments, as we pay our own ConEd, and ON TIME NO LESS. However, no elevator (we live on the sixth floor) and no lights in the stairwells means, essentially, that we cannot safely get to our apartment (I'm certainly not going to climb six flights in the pitch black darkness), which obvious has a huge impact on us.

This unpaid bill situation has now topped the list of complaints we have about our BRAND NEW APARTMENT, which includes uneven walls, window drafts, a broken intercom, no hot water in our showers... and more. We've been (relatively) patient with the company when asking them to fix things in the apartment but have largely been ignored. Only within the last two weeks did we get hot water in the showers. But this ConEd situation makes me furious. Like, I MAY MURDER THEM, furious. I have been storming around my office all day threatening physical violence on anyone who crosses me today. Beware.

The best possible scenario, at this point, seems to be getting out of our lease and moving elsewhere. Somewhere, perhaps, where the management isn't a troop of irresponsible douchebags. A girl can dream. One of our other options, according to the resources at 311 is to pool together a tenant association (which I am all for) and file a joint complaint with the city. Okay, fine. 311 and others have also suggested that each apartment chip in an equal share to foot the bill, and then deduct that money from our rent. To this, I say ABSOLUTELY NOT. I look at it as a parent paying for the college student's credit card bill. They will not learn that their actions are unacceptable if we simply pay their bills for them. Part of being an adult is paying bills. Part of running a COMPANY is also paying bills, not running off doing hell knows what with our money.

Option 23 is that we pack up and move to Florida. It's warm there, even in December.

And, even if the apartment is falling down and we will be stuck on the sixth floor until June, we at least have a pretty tree to look at:

I wrote a novel in November... what did YOU do?

2009-12-02T18:11:00.005-05:00

As I've written about a bit, I took the month of November to write a novel as part of the NaNoWriMo challenge. 30 days. 50,000 words. And I actually finished.

I originally took on the challenge simply to take one month to do something that I really enjoy doing. And trust me when I say that I really needed to do that for myself. I love to write, and when I'm pushed hard enough (with, say, 50,000 words to write in one month) I am capable of being kind of good at it. I say "kind of" good not to be self-deprecating, but because it's the truth. A Harper Lee or a Dave Eggers, I am not. I am what I am. One thing on the list of things that I am good at happens to be writing. Just ask my colleagues whose press release was called out in an office-wide meeting for being outstanding. Yeah, that was mine. It's hanging on my wall behind me right now. Or who edits probably about half of the press releases that come through this place. See, I'm not self-deprecating, or even humble.

What I discovered over the past month is that I have more to say than I thought I did. I started writing on November 1st with an idea that I had decided on on October 31st, and just wrote. I wrote 50,270 words. For that, I am both pleased and proud. I worked hard a lot of the time, and there were a few days that I did not write at all out of frustration or because of my shoulder injury (ouch). Over the last week and a half, I wrote almost two-thirds of my novel, because I had gotten so behind in the front half of the month. As of Sunday evening, I had more than 11,000 words left to write in 24 hours. I "finished" at 11:43pm on Monday and uploaded my word count to the NaNoWriMo website with just minutes to spare. When I got home after 12:30 that night, my back, shoulders and arms ached from being hunched over my computer. I was as tired as I had ever been before. But it was done and I felt awesome. And now I am wearing my NOVELIST button on my coat.

Last night, on my first novel-free evening, I made cupcakes because I could. They were delicious.

Next Tuesday, I plan to start the editing process on the second draft, and someday soon I may even let someone read my currently untitled work. Rachel has requested an autographed printed copy. On it, I plan to write, "Thank you for your support. Sorry that I ignored you for a month. I'm glad our relationship survived this. Xoxo, Your Literary Highness."

NaNoWriMo: Day 10

2009-11-10T21:34:00.003-05:00

So far, I'm really digging NaNoWriMo. I've written just over 9,500 words of my novel as of last night, and it's coming together. Albeit slowly. I wouldn't go far as to say that I like my work, because it's not my best writing, but it'll get there. I mean, I have plenty of time to improve -- 40,500 words more. Um, cool. My heroine, who is partly autobiographical, is pretty awesome (much like me, right?), and the other characters are significantly less developed at this point but I hope to make them equally awesome. I still need a lovable geek, though.

What I'm loving most about this whole NaNoWriMo experience so far is making time for myself and doing something that I love to do. Thanks to the influence of my mother, I generally like to handle things myself -- I volunteer to do a lot for other people, or I take on a project or chore that someone else could just as easily do and get annoyed if someone else says they will handle it. Because my name is Ashley and I am an overly accommodating person. But, this month, I have an excuse not to volunteer to clean the bathroom and I'm using it. And I'm enjoying it. I'm taking a step back and focusing on something I really care about, something that fulfills me. I'm actually pretty proud of myself.

But, I am writing Chick Lit. Geez.

But, there's still a long way to go -- 20 days left to write 40,500 words (at least), and finish this damn thing. Then, I win! I am a novelist! So leave me encouraging comments!!

Man, I feel like a woman

2009-11-06T18:42:00.003-05:00

I was always wondering when this time would come... the time when I finally stopped feeling like a woman-in-training and started to feel like an actual woman. The answer to my question was, apparently, 27 and 3/4 years old.

While, legally, I've been a woman and not a girl since I was 18-ish, I never felt like one. Not in college. Not when I lost my virginity. Not when I moved into my first apartment. Not when I made my first solo grocery shopping trip. It happened just a few months ago on, like, a Wednesday.

When I bought fall clothes this year, I really thought about what I was buying -- what outfits could I piece together. An outfit? Huh? What's that? I thank mostly Rachel for that influence. Step one into feeling like a woman. I've found a style and I'm sticking with it; its urban chic-ish meets comfort meets flattering for curvy girls? In any case, it feels like me. I'm over buying one or two pieces of clothing each season because its trendy, and then letting them sit in my closet because they're not comfortable nor really me. So, style goes in the win column.

I've also started to notice my womanhood in the way that I walk. I've developed a bit of a hip-booty sway, and I stand a bit taller (even at 5'2"). The best part is that it happened naturally, not like when I had a crush on this girl I used to work with and I tried to emulate her walk. That didn't really last.

Thirdly (but not finally), its in my attitude. I feel more confident in my body and in my mind. I have a strong sense of what I like about me and in others. And, more importantly, I'm working on ridding my life of what isn't positive for me, whether that be a friendship, a DVD or a hobby.

Roar!

NaNoWriMo

2009-10-31T16:39:00.002-04:00

Twice in two days?! Say, whaaa?

Thanks to some encouragement from first Lauren, and then Rachel, I've decided to participate in NaNoWriMo this year. It begins tomorrow and runs through November, and at the end of what is certain to be the longest damn month of my life, I will have a completed first draft of my very first 50,000 word/175-ish page novel. And I will be known as Your Literary Highness and you will bow to me. And there's a button! I get a button! It says NOVELIST on it and I will wear it. It will be a good time for all. You can check up on my progress here.

Aside from not having a plot decision yet, I'm pretty jazzed about this whole thing. Rachel bought me a book/kit called No Plot? No Problem! and I'll be finishing that this evening, with, hopefully, a plot. And, at the end, a book. A book that I've been claiming to want to write for, oh, I don't know, ever? I will make this happen! The Great American Novel will rise from my soul and flow onto the MacBook screen. That's how I envision this next month going.

Ahem.

Sadly, this will probably not be the case, right? Because I will have about 1,667 words to write a day. And there's, you know, the internet and TV and DVDs and finished novels by legitimate writers to distract me.

The biggest obstacle I face in this next month, other than making time to write, is stopping myself from editing as I write. I take that back, my biggest obstacle is finishing. Then self-editing. But they say that's what December is for. That, and my birthday, of course.

Stay tuned!

Baby Talk

2009-10-30T12:14:00.002-04:00

I'm back. There's that.

A few weeks ago, Rachel received the fabulous news that she is soon to be an aunt. I was over the moon for her and her brother and sister-in-law. And for me, too. Because, I don't know if you know this, but I really love babies. They're cute and squishy and you can mold them to like cool music. I want one, too.

Earlier this week, Rachel and I visited the expectant parents in Orlando. Our first vacation together, complete with much MUCH (too much?) discussion of babies. Naturally, of the baby due into her family in April, but also of a now-fictional child born to myself and my girlfriend. Had we discussed a family? Who would carry the baby? Would we adopt? Would we decorate the nursery in green or yellow?

It's certainly not that I hadn't thought about this on my own. I have often. Having and raising a child is high on my list of priorities in the next few years, as it has been for a few now. But talking about it - out loud - with other people - made it real. I may make the choice to have a child with another woman (albeit with some help). Because, for me it would be a choice. I go back and forth between feeling lucky that I do feel like I have a choice and feeling burdened that I can make such a choice. I am also grateful that I am open to exploring what is best for me. I could have gone about my heterosexual life and probably have been happy enough, but I made a choice to look deeper at myself and what I wanted in my life. Or, perhaps more accurately, who I wanted in my life. I'm equally grateful to have a relatively supportive core family who has not judged me for the choices I've made over the last year. I'm not really sure how my extended family feels, though, mostly because I haven't heard from them. Facebook outted me and it seems to have ended there (although, probably not for the questions my mother has to answer).

Anyway... I'm well-into prime baby-making age, and I have a choice. Today, I am in love with a beautiful, smart, caring woman who loves me, too. That's pretty cool. To raise a child with her, could be, I'm almost certain, a wonderful experience. But, it would, by society's standards, the more challenging path for me, and, potentially, for the child.

Wanda Sykes and her wife just had twins, you know.

Funny, but the 'what do I want' has never changed. Five years ago I wanted a family (see Hetero-Ashley), and I still do (see Bi-Ashley). Sometimes I just wish getting there was easier.

Anxious, much?

2009-09-02T17:19:00.002-04:00

I could probably sit for hours, staring blankly at my computer screen, waiting for my heart to stop feeling like it will beat out of my chest. I don't, because there's work to be done. Mom blog product requests to reply to. Fact sheets to write. Journalists to be pitched.

Staring at the same screen, I feel like I can't breathe when I open my budget in Excel. The end is always the same, I know. Red number upon red number. Equals negative balance. Even if the only thing that I actually bought for myself this month was a pair of glasses. You know, so I can SEE. Because without I am almost legally blind. I am beyond zero and I have cut my expenses. It doesn't make sense. Very few things do.

This is all before I contemplate curling up in a ball under my desk because the anxiety about where I am in my life hits me like a truck. I'm much closer to 30 than to 20, and where am I with my goals? Do I HAVE goals?

For weeks I've fallen into this same routine of letting my anxiety take over. I let it consume me, but only for a few minutes. On the subway. At my desk. Before I fall asleep. Then I try to steady my breathing and forget that I feel like I've been punched in the chest. Push it away. I have to move on. I'll get by saying an mocking "vom" after every sentence instead.

I'd like pancakes now, please. And an increase in medication.

Re-Intro to the WW

2009-08-21T22:39:00.002-04:00

Wednesday, August 12, 2009: 3:12pm

I've been on Weight Watchers before. The second time, in early 2008, I lost 25 pounds in just over four months. I was elated. Even more elated that, a year and a half later, I've kept off almost 20 of those pounds.

The first time, we don't talk about. It involved starving myself, while unemployed, and then GAINING a pound the first week. I GAINED WEIGHT BY EATING GRAPES. "Your body is just adjusting to eating less..." Blah, blah, blah. I sobbed on my bed and told my then-boyfriend I was never, ever going back. I did, but it still didn't work for me. Perhaps because I lived down the street from a Coldstone? I don't know.

But now, here I am: still 20 pounds lighter than I was in early 2008, but also still a fat-ass. Contrary to popular belief, once you go les and settle down, you do not have to put on forty pounds eating ice cream in bed while watching chick flicks. I refuse to get too comfortable. Not just for my girlfriend - although I'm certain, even if she wouldn't say it, she would find me sexier minus the gigantic thighs - but for me. I can choose not to be a fat-ass. So I am.

Today marks my second full, no-more-practicing day on the WW. I pee constantly. If you don't want to hear me say things like that, then it's probably best you just pass by this blog. Again, the peeing. So, yes, I spent about one-quarter of my day in the bathroom. And, honestly, our office bathrooms aren't really nice enough to spend so much time there. My rubbermaid water bottle and I will be BFF for the duration of this endeavor.

And, needless to say (but I will anyway), I'm rather hungry. The taco salad I brought for lunch, while only being three points, was filling for about three minutes. Then I moved onto my grapes. Nom nom nom.

About ten minutes ago, I went to the vending machine and bought some pretzels because they seemed like the most reasonable option. And, they probably were. But THREE points?! Gimme a break. I got, like, A pretzel. I know, I know... must plan ahead. Must drink more water (and pee more).

I'd like my gigantic plate of pasta now, please!

It'll take you YEARS to get over this...

2009-07-18T09:57:00.005-04:00

In an email from my father on Thursday, after telling him that I was planning on seeing my college roommate this weekend: "IS LAUREN YOUR LAST ROOM-MATE AT COLLEGE? ISN'T SHE THE ONE THAT STIFF YOU OUT OF MONEY ?"

First, please note that my father always types all in caps. It's very annoying, but I have gotten used to it.

Secondly, no, the unpleasant ending to our four-year friendship had nothing to do with Lauren owing me money. She doesn't.

So the other night, for the first time in more than five years, I had dinner with my college roommate. The one I described on numerous occasions as having "ruined my life." We hugged. We shared a meal. We talked for almost five hours. I had an excellent time.

I had a fair bit of anxiety before we met. Would we have nothing to talk about? Would the previous animosity between us be apparent? I purposely told Rachel very little about our relationship throughout college, in hopes that I would not fall into the same old trap of simply complaining about the last semester of college.

We didn't. We caught up on one another's lives and reminisced a bit about good times in college. It was an amazing experience to see her again and to laugh like we used to.

Where the story ends

2009-07-02T17:31:00.003-04:00

I suppose I should apologize to the scads of people who regularly read this blog for being so light on the content. Steve, please accept my apologies. There, done.

The truth is, my life is ridiculously boring to write about. I was a much more interesting person when I was grossly unhappy. Being content does not agree with my creativity. Also, some of the things I've thought about lately - things that would like cause some much subconsciously desired commotion - will never, ever see the light of my computer screen. Someday, I will learn to not seek out drama. I will grow and learn as an adult person. Someday.

Having said that, I have grown. I've grown in directions I could have never imagined. But I'm conflicted about where/how/if to utilize these experiences to write. This blog is partly responsible for that growth, and now it sort of seems obsolete. I was writing the story of a girl who was miserable in her life and playing the part she thought she should (and knew how to play). I knew how to be miserable at my job, I knew how to stretch the $4.86 in my checking account, I knew how to stay in a relationship where I wasn't wanted, I knew how to sit my fat ass on my couch and wallow in loneliness. Wow, good times. So since I'm not really that person anymore, so does that story end? If I was simply chronicling my life during a few difficult years, does this blog, along with that story, end? I'm inclined to think that it should. Close the book. Start a new one.

On the flip side, should this space that has helped me cope with x, y and z, evolve as I evolve? I certainly hope that I still have more to say as a writer, even if my life has changed dramatically and I am finding little muse in being happy. Happy is awesome. I wish I could do more with it.

I'm not sure what I will decide. Writing is extremely therapeutic for me and I don't plan to give it up now that I have far fewer "problems" than I once did.

I could write about how many people have died in my life over the past few months and how I'm constantly anxious about getting more bad news. But that would be depressing in a much different way than what I used to ramble about.

For now, I will marvel at how I just wrote an entire post about whether or not to discontinue this blog. I really am boring. But, ya know, good boring.

Soon I won't be able to walk around naked...

2009-06-04T22:41:00.002-04:00

Starting one week from tomorrow, I will no longer be able to walk -- post-shower, sans towel -- from the bathroom to my living room to check the weather in the morning. Since I managed to neglect to put up any kind of window dressing for the past year and a half in my kitchen (the room between the bathroom and the living room), my sure my neighbors across the courtyard will not be sad to see me go.

Since the idea of this move came about two weeks ago, I've made mental pro/con lists about my experience living alone for two and a half years. And, honestly, I'm more than a little concerned that I have forgotten how to cohabitate. Like, it may annoy others when I wish to watch TV in my skivvies... And, what do you mean I can't just leave my socks on the floor where I took them off? Or, what does this "sharing the remote" concept mean exactly? Not to mention, people may want to converse with me when I get home from work. Whaaa?

Perhaps my memory is a bit fuzzy, and, um, biased, but I believe I was a pretty courteous roommate and live-in significant other in the past. I once threw out a pair of well-worn red track pants because my significant other couldn't stand to see me wearing them anymore. That's pretty respectful, I think. (I do, however, own a new pair of red lounge pants, and they're really comfortable so I'm hoping Rachel doesn't make me toss them. But if she does hate them, they can go. See, I got nothin' but love!)

On the flip side, I have some very fond memories of living with others. Lauren and I used to sit in our hallway and talk for hours following our girly TV marathons. Those evenings were some of my favorite in all of college. And then I managed not to walk around naked. I can totally do that again.

Cue Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive"

2009-06-01T13:27:00.004-04:00

The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and I am moving in with a beautiful girl! Impulsive, much? We're moving in next Friday. And this is the view from our balcony:

The story goes a little like this... Girl meets girl. Girls fall for one another. Girl's roommate suggests the three of them get a luxury apartment together. One week later they sign the lease and two weeks later they move in. They live happily ever after with their dishwasher, free gym and roof deck.

I'm feeling overjoyed. I'm feeling impulsive. I'm feeling like I'm going to love sharing more of my life with someone who makes me feel so special and loved. I'm feeling like I'm really going to love reading on our balcony.

Yesterday Rae and I chose our very first paint sample together. That, to me, was bigger than actually deciding to move in together. This is the very first paint sample - our very first compromise - of this new chapter, of a new book, in our lives. It was gloriously easy.

Being with her is easy. Being in my head is a little less so. She knows that I sometimes struggle with the fact that my life is not at all turning out how I planned. And I am a planner. I am THE planner. Now my plan is all up in the air. And I'm learning to live in the now. And truly being happy there.

I really am.

On Cohabitation

2009-05-28T22:20:00.001-04:00

Too much stress to blog. Will leave you with this...

Nation's Girlfriends Unveil New Economic Plan: 'Let's Move In Together'

Zero to... that L word... in no time

2009-05-16T18:37:00.004-04:00

Today my dad asked me if Rachel and I were moving in together. Wow, EVERYONE knows about about the crazy gays moving fast, huh? We're not. But the thought certainly has crossed my mind. Because, well, smitten. And who doesn't want to save $600 a month?

Today I also found out that my former babysitter/nanny-like person's daughter is living with her girlfriend. Rock on.

"My Heart You Won't Have It Again" / Postmortem

2009-05-09T18:26:00.002-04:00

I was not unphased by the date of May 6th. The date that would have been Philip's and my six-year anniversary. Six. Years. And now we don't speak.

His presence in my life was profound and, in many ways, positive - give or take March through July of 2008 - and I have been changed. I've written ad nauseum about this. But, when this day will always remind me of the good, allow me just this one more post.

Its possible that no other person has been so influential in my life. But I like who I am much more now than I did last July, or, honestly, at any point last year. In fact, I may even LOVE who I am now. I am me without you. Many parts of me, though, stem from your influence. This Ashley still digs indie music and jazz. This Ashley dragged her girlfriend to see Wolverine opening weekend and is even pysched to see the new Star Trek movie. She's a Buffy fan, albeit a late bloomer.

Aside from a shift in media tastes, I am also a more guarded person - there I learned by example - and do not open my mouth to whine immediately when something is bothering me. I'm bitchier. Or, maybe more direct is the PC way to say it. In any case, its a good development in my personality.

I've learned that it takes a lot of time and effort to make a real relationship work. And even if you sometimes feel its time wasted, its worth it even in the smallest ways. I tried harder to be my best self in that relationship than I ever did at my fulltime job or trying to pass Calculus. And Calculus was seriously tough.

Sometimes I still can't believe that I spend an ounce of my energy analyzing a relationship that was officially over nine months ago (and even longer to one of us). I've mourned signifcantly - perhaps too significantly - the loss of the future I had tried to built, that I thought I wanted. But the process has grown tremendously easier and I've come out of it having learned better who I am, what I can accept and what I need to keep me going.

I Used to Complain, Now I Don't

2009-05-04T17:46:00.003-04:00

I complain a lot about living and working in New York. Some may say more than I should. I know its often looked upon as a privilege to live here, and perhaps, it is. But there's not a lottery to live here or anything. You just go. Make it happen. But, since I never really imagined living anywhere else post-college, I see it as less of a choice, I suppose. It's just where I was always going. Now, of course, I imagine living somewhere else all the freaking time.

So, now that I'm here, I complain. You probably complain about where you live, too. Don't be hatin'.

But sometimes I still really love it. One of those times occurred on Friday evening. I was riding to my apartment on the subway with the lovely Rachel, and, unfortunately, I felt terrible. I was not feeling like myself all day because of some enchanted evening before, my dinner had not settled well, and I was PMSing. I was a disaster and contemplated getting off the train and sleeping in the subway station until I felt better. I felt that bad. Just, you know, BAD. Then, somewhere around 36th Street in Brooklyn -- almost to the promised land where I had a bed! and a bathroom! and Tylenol! -- the woman listening to her ipod across the aisle from me and Rachel offered me a brownie from her 100 calorie pack. She leaned over and said, "Would you like a brownie? Brownies always make me feel better." I nearly cried because, WHO DOES THAT?!? First of all, she's totally right -- brownies DO make everything better. And secondly, it was just the nicest thing, um, ever. Unfortunately I did not take her up on her offer for fear that I would vomit the brownie on her. Not a very polite way to say thank you. But, wow, such a generous thing to do. I mean, she WAS eating a 100 calorie Entemann's so, really, it probably only had two brownies in it. And she offered me one! Because I felt obviously terrible! And that would make me better!

And it was a magical New York subway moment and I loved it. Exclamation points!

* My post title is a very fun song by The White Rabbits, by the way. You should know them. They are from Brooklyn like other cool people.

Go Team!

2009-04-29T12:04:00.003-04:00

Since so much of this blog has been discussing a failed relationship, I'd be amiss if I didn't share about my new and, so far, very successful one. (With permission, of course.)

When I first started dating again, I was both anxious and hesitant to consider a new relationship. But, I am a relationship person. And I knew, for as much anxiety as I had about dating, especially dating in New York, I had to do it again. First, I thought it unlikely that I would find someone I would really like. I would constantly complain to the BFFs that I would NEVER find someone who favors home to a bar on a Friday night, let alone that person plus an adoration of my sparkling wit, desserts and sleeping on the right side of the bed. There was NO WAY that person existed AND didn't live in New Jersey. My friends reassured me that someone I could like did exist, even if the person wasn't exactly who I was anticipating.

The person I happened to find is a she. And she is awesome.

When I first discussed the idea of me dating girls in therapy, my therapist was surprised. Which I thought odd because she knew I had an interest. She claimed she just didn't expect I would try it. Because, apparently, I come off as uber straight? Hmmm... So we discussed; I agonized.

And then I met Rachel. And it became easy.

There are many qualities about her that I admire and adore. But one in particular pairs so well with me. Rachel is, by far, the most supportive person I've ever encountered. And while she will claim that she can be lazy, she's my cheerleader, my friend and support. We say "go team!" to each other as a silly form of support. But I find it motivating. She motivates me. So much so I even left my apartment last Saturday. She's THAT good.

For the first time in a very, very long time, it is blatantly obvious to me that the significant person in my life really cares about me. Even if she never told me, I know that she wants to make me happy and fulfilled. And I, her.

Of course I still have considerable anxiety about dating within the same sex. I am me after all and anxiety is kind of my middle name.

She is my epilogue to what had been a very tumultuous story.

On a hysterical side note: My entire office smells like syrup. Payback for a sickenly sweet post?

All About My Mother

2009-04-24T14:49:00.004-04:00

This morning, on the first day I was permitted to sleep in past 5:30am all week, my stepfather calls and wakes me at 7:55am. To ask me where his and my mother's tax return was. BECAUSE IT WAS SUPPOSED TO ARRIVE TODAY. I HAD TOLD THEM TODAY. APRIL 24TH. THAT'S TODAY! Where the fuck was it? And, naturally, I was the only person who could answer this question. At 8am on the only morning I could sleep in all week.

I did my parents' taxes for them this year. I was able to get them a larger refund than last year, and I felt incredibly accomplished. I know that they are counting on this money to catch up on bills, and, rather than me contributing my own money to help them make ends meet, I was able to help them in another way.

My relationship with my mother and stepfather has changed quite a bit in the last year or so, and I am grateful. I feel more comfortable when I travel back to my hometown to see the family because not only do I witness them all actually trying to make their family work, but I've adjusted my expectations on them as well.

I still don't know where their tax return is, though.

I Walk the Line

2009-04-14T20:24:00.002-04:00

Since being diagnosed with chronic depression, I feel like much of my life is spent walking a fine line. The line between light and dark. This is a line that I’ve straddled for a very long time, but it’s only recently that I had a medical term to associate with it.

Thankfully, because of a medication that works for me and my own efforts to improve my daily life, I’ve been pretty firmly planted on the light side of the line for a few months. I haven’t had even more than a dark day since the new year began. I’m extremely grateful to the people in my life who have supported me during this time. I’m grateful to me, too. To the part of myself that is well enough to recognize when to ask for help in getting through a difficult few hours or difficult few days. I’m not embarrassed to ask for help. I’m not ashamed that I need medication to help my brain cope with life. I know that the stigma of mental illness has lifted considerably in the last few years, but it’s not gone. But, I’d rather be alive with the assistance of medication and talk therapy than having succumbed to my depression without it.

Since I am so open to talking about my experience and my current state of wellness, certain members of my family have judged my decision to accept the help of medication. I often ask if they were diagnosed with a serious illness that required daily doses of chemicals to be well – diabetes, for example – would they refuse it? Probably not. So, in my opinion, why should I suffer because of my brain chemistry?

Walking the line can feel like taking on a balance beam or navigating a wide river. Lately, I can do it with ease most days. Other days, it’s impossible not to feel like I am going to fall at any moment.

Often the hardest part of walking the line is getting out of bed in the morning. I still have nightmares frequently – sometimes several nights per week – that force me to relive some of the experiences and emotions that got me to my lowest point last fall. Those nightmares can be so fresh in the morning that I’m afraid to put my feet on the floor for fear that I will walk back into those months of paralyzing emotional and physical pain. So I have a choice to make – allow the darkness to take hold or fight it off. Some mornings it is as easy of a choice as it seems to be. I have the ability to make the positive, healthy decision to remind myself that it was just a nightmare and that time is over now. Other mornings, though, it does not feel like a choice. As much as the healthy part of me wants to fight it, it can consume me and I live the day as I would have months ago. Scared. Sad. Dejected.

One of the most interesting aspects of coping with walking this line is that, very often, when I am standing on one side of the line, I find it difficult to remember being on the other side. When I’m in the light, I can feel so good, so positive, and so content that my brain will not allow me to remember anything else. The flip side of that, of course, is that when I am in the dark, I am consumed, too. And not being able to remember what its like to feel good can only make the slip into depression last longer.

But now that I have had such a positive experience over the last few months, why would I want to remember feeling the weight of my depression? Sometimes I don’t. But occasionally, I have a strange, overwhelming desire to recall how I completed even the most basic tasks of the day. At this moment, I don’t remember how I got myself up, dressed and to work for much of last summer and fall. I had refused medication and spent nearly all of my non-work hours alone in my apartment crying. I remember the crying. Always with the crying. I also remember watching a lot of House as a method of escape. Hugh Laurie was oddly comforting. But I really don’t know how I physically went to work and completed any assignments. I was on autopilot. More than just wanting to satisfy my own curiosity, I think being able to remember how I accomplished these things could be beneficial to me next time I backslide.

Of course, I had been depressed several times before my most recent episode. And, actually, I think that the reason my last was so severe and last for so long was because I had nothing and no one to focus on but myself. In my case, misery certainly loves company. For three years, I lived with someone—someone who had the capacity to be wonderful, caring and giving—who spent many years very depressed with little to no relief. And instead of me feeling consumed with my own depression during that time, I usually focused on his. I tried to make light of it at times – everything’s always harder for you, isn’t it? – but I usually felt that question to be true. And, for a while, my capacity to put him and his condition first probably saved us both from being committed or worse.

It wasn’t until my father was sent into a war zone and I prayed – I actually prayed even though I didn’t know who or what I was praying to – for him to come home safely that I began to resent his depression usurping mine. Even though our relationship went on for years after my father returned home in relatively good health, hindsight tells me that was my breaking point. I would be able to overlook most of the other girls and the silly arguments and “wanting different things,” but I would always remember how alone and helpless I felt when my father was fighting a war. He was walking a line in one of the most dangerous places in the world, and I was afraid to step outside.

I’ve learned so much about what I need from a partner and a relationship from that experience. I wish, though, I had learned to forgive. That may always hold me back from being vulnerable, particularly when I’m experiencing an episode of depression, to someone I love again.

But I certainly do not underestimate how crucial it is to have supportive people around me when I am in the dark and even just walking the line. Everyone from my closet friends to the person who smiled at me crossing Sixth Avenue to my coworker/friend who was the only one who remembered the day that could have been my darkest. I am standing on the bright side of the line now.

***

Ed. Note: The above post is the first of a series of personal essays about depression that I've been working on. I'd love to hear any and all feedback you have to share. Really! You can even tell me I'm an asshole. Although I'd appreciate something a bit more constructive than that.

Hey, I know YOU!

2009-04-12T22:49:00.002-04:00

Everyone in my biological immediate family now knows that I have a girlfriend.

I told my dad in person yesterday. After picking me up at the train station, he took me to lunch and said, "so what's up?" Funny you should ask... I said that I had something I wanted to discuss with him. He asked if I was pregnant. He's now the fourth person to ask me that. Is there something about me that screams I'm a slut who opposes safe sex? Then he asked if I was engaged? To whom, exactly, I wondered? Then I told him. And he was quiet. He asked if I was happy. I told him I was. After an uncomfortable tangent into "sexual realtions," as he called them, we moved onto discussing the quality of our lunches. Where every good father/daughter conversation should lead. He said he wanted some time to let it sink in.

A few hours later, driving me to my mother's house, he said, "this may sound strange, but I think I knew." I asked what he meant, and he said that it just made sense. I'd always been accepting and open and... he said something else that I can't quite remember now.

And I thanked him for seeing more to me than just what was on the surface. I had thought it would be my mother, but my father never ceases to surprise me. He knows me better than I expect him to. He's always been the parental figure in my life. Necessary. Supportive. Honest. I didn't even think my dad would know what bisexual meant.

Thanks, Dad. I feel much better now.

and the band played on

2009-04-04T22:54:00.003-04:00

No, this is not about babies or depression or my financial black hole.

Here are five albums that have shaped my tastes in music, my most memorable experiences, and, by extension, me. To the six whole people who read this, I'd love your comments, feedback and your own choices.

1. Pet Sounds, The Beach Boys: My father always enjoyed a good Beach Boys song... who doesn't, right? I have early memories of the tracks from Pet Sounds, particularly "Wouldn't It Be Nice;" the music echoing through my father's ugly, ugly green car. I don't recall being exposed to the album as a whole, although I know my dad has it somewhere, until I got to college and acquired good taste in music. The beginning half of Pet Sounds -- carefree and naive -- will always remind me of my very early youth; the back half -- serious and a bit detached -- reminds me of my final year in college.

2. August and Everything After, Counting Crows: This album defined my formative years. My closest friends and I listened to this on repeat throughout high school, and I still often listen to it when I want to feel closer to those people. A road trip, be it to Philadelphia or to Boston, wasn't complete without this record. I adore the sounds, and it feels heavy with happy, safe memories of growing up.

3. Monster, REM: I'm not sure this is my favorite overall REM album, but it certainly did have the biggest influence over my musical preferences from then on. I first heard this record when it was nearly-new, which is a rarity for me, and besides falling hard for Michael Stipe, it sounded what good music was supposed to sound like. Sure, I was still listening to Boyz II Men at the same time, but I knew REM was what legitimately cool people were listening to. I've grown up listening to REM and they will probably always define what a great band is for me. I was fortunate to see them live last summer and they blew me away.

4. You Are The Quarry, Morrissey: "I've been dreaming of a time when the English are sick to death of Labour, and Tories and spit upon the name Oliver Cromwell..." LOVE. THIS. RECORD. Circa 2004/2005, I played the hell out of it. I wasn't in a car going anywhere without this present. Morrissey is the coolest person on earth. Ever. Period. I was once in a focus group and said that and the other girls in the room thought I was deranged. They so weren't cool.

5. Nothing Feels Good, The Promise Ring: My taste in music firmly changed after hearing this record around the time I graduated high school. I only took a handful of CDs with me to college my freshman year (because, hello, there was still Napster for FREE!), and this made the cut. This makes me dance and sing, and yet still breaks my heart.

Honorable mentions go to:
Born on a Pirate Ship, Barenaked Ladies / Rumours, Fleetwood Mac / Whitechocolatespaceegg, Liz Phair / Mass Romantic, The New Pornographers / Surfacing, Sarah McLachlan

Tick, tock...

2009-04-02T19:16:00.003-04:00

My biological clock is a fierce, unrelenting sound that begins in my ears and penetrates my entire body at least four days a week.

Circa 2005/early 2006, I recall feeling the clock like more of a wave, when I was perfectly settled in my then-relationship, thinking I had my life almost figured out. I'd feel it wash over me and I would be calm, content and even happy. Emotionally ready should there be a birth control error and an embryo should take up space in my uterus. It never did. I was pretty careful with the BC (despite that boyfriend's comic stylings that included I had plans to "trap him").

The feeling of the wave ended when that relationship ended, and I was glad at the time. I couldn't fathom wanting a child when I didn't have a partner to have a child with. I mean, that would be insane, right?

My birthday, 2008: It was like I woke up on that Sunday morning and the wave that I once felt crested and the water hit me forcefully as I sat up in my bed. Alone. It sounds bizarre, but it's, sadly, very, very true.

On Christmas night, 2008, I announced to my mother and stepfather in their living room that maybe, but that time next year, I would have a baby. I got blank stares all around. And understandably so.

The water, at times, suffocates me. I feel the clock ticking and it makes me sad. Makes me antsy. Makes me crazy. Makes me wet. But not in a good way.

(I apologize for the lame ocean analogies, by the way.)

Occasionally, I can go an entire day without the desire of wanting a baby. Those days, especially lately, have become pretty infrequent, though. And I see a cute kid on the street? Forget it. It's back with a vengeance.

The book that I'm currently reading, It Sucked and Then I Cried, should cure me of all of my motherly dreams forever. First she talks about how her pregnancy made her miserable. The morning sickness, the acne, the flatulence... it all sounds severely unpleasant. And, me knowing myself pretty well when I have merely a cold, I could be the worst pregnant person ever. I always half-suspected that perhaps this was the underlying reason that my last relationship ended. You really want kids, and I might even want them, too, but ya know what? you with your period is bad enough... No deal. Heather Armstrong, the author, talks about how breastfeeding can be an awful experience because your boobs get clogged and holy sweet heavens that really fucking hurts. First of all, I didn't really know that your boob could get clogged, but now that I do it certainly sounds like a horrifically painful experience. And then, of course, there's the author's predisposition to depression, which landed her in a mental institution for PPD. Um, hellllloooo? my brain is screaming at me that I could very well be the most unstable glutton for punishment on earth considering my tolerance for pain and history of severe depression. A kid? I have so lost it.

But, ya know what? I really, really, really want. And tomorrow's good for me, how about you? Free for my baby shower?

Of course since I am currently on a depression upswing and my meds are working as they should be, I know that having a baby now, let alone anytime in the near future, would be a terrible idea for both me and the baby. Financially, I struggle to take care of myself. Emotionally, I've been taking care of myself well for only a few short months. And, of course, there's the sex of my significant other that would prohibit me from getting knocked up the old-fashioned way. I'm in a good place, overall, right now and a child would only jeopardize that in every way. Thanks for the reminder, logical side of my brain.

But when I am in a place where I can say, annnnd go!, bring the pain and give me that baby!

Fear (but little loathing) in New York

2009-03-21T21:49:00.003-04:00

I've felt scared, like, twice in my five years of living in New York (my 5th anniversary is the end of April! Huzzah!). Both times I was walking through a neighborhood that I didn't know at all, alone, late at night. This combination would probably frighten me anywhere, though. And, more than I felt scared that someone would attack me in some way, I was fearful that I would simply not be able to find my way home easily. But, I'm home now, so all's well that end's well.

Lately, though, I've had several dreams about being attacked while walking alone in New York. Some of these dreams take place at night, and some in broad daylight. I know that they are just dreams/nightmares, but they feel very real and I often wake up sweating. In the morning, my legs are often sore from what I can only imagine is me actually running while in bed (true goodness is any person who sleeps next to me putting up with that). The attacks often vary in the dream -- anything from what I would imagine to be a "standard" mugging, to a rape, to a slit my throat and I die right there on the street corner like an overcharging crack-addicted hooker. These dreams, thankfully, fade pretty quickly after I've woken myself up. But, occasionally they creep into my waking life when I am walking alone at night. Which, if one wants to get around here after 7pm, one just has to do, ya know? That's when I have a mini anxiety attack and try to breathe my way through it while trying not too look too conspicuous. If I were Mikey in The Goonies, I would grab my inhaler and puff it all away. But I haven't had an inhaler since I was 13, and even then it didn't really have the same comedic affect.

In my daily life, I've probably never felt safer living here. I work just off Sixth Avenue, which has never not been busy, and my walk from my office building to the train is exactly two and a half blocks. I inhabit a very well-lit, populated neighborhood, where I live on a main street in a fairly large building. If I screamed, half of 86th Street would certainly hear me. And I know how to scream. Max Hunsicker used my wondrous cheerleader vocal chords in not one, but two high school musical productions. No, not those high school musicals.

But I'm not over-confident, either. Not that nothing could ever happen to me. Of course it could. And if it does, I took a self-defense class in college that could prove to be of some use to me. Or, at the very least, I can knee someone sort of hard.

My last memory of having similar dreams/nightmares to these was like a million years ago (or, um, 6?). If I'm playing college freshman taking psych, I would add that I was also at the beginning of a new relationship then (other than that, I can't think of a single thing that is the same). So that means that subconsciously I feel "attacked" by a new presence in my life? Or do I need to go back to Psych 205 with Lewindowski?

Thoughts? Tricks to make the bad dreams go bye-bye? My dear 7 readers, enlighten me!

Fluidity

2009-03-19T14:18:00.004-04:00

A coworker shared this great piece with me today... from, of all places, Oprah:

Why Women Are Leaving Men for Other Women

"Fluidity represents a capacity to respond erotically in unexpected ways due to particular situations or relationships. It doesn't appear to be something a woman can control."

Not only was I thrilled to see an article like this in a mainstream publication -- particularly one that women actually read -- but I found it (mostly) insightful, particularly in the beginning.

And, although I had read this before, I think Cynthia Nixon's quote nicely sums up the experience of many women, without being patronizing or apologetic: "But when I did, it didn't seem so strange. It didn't change who I am. I'm just a woman who fell in love with a woman."

On This Day in History...

2009-03-14T22:51:00.005-04:00

March 10, 2009:

On the same day that I officially ran out of episodes for The Simpsons Sleep Experiment, I told my mother that I am dating a girl. Coincidence? I think not.

I've considered myself bisexual for a few years now. I don't actually like the term bisexual, as it pertains to labeling myself -- for no other reason than I don't feel like it accurately describes me, where I am, and my sexuality as well as it should/could. I'm sure this is also, at least partially, because I have a ways to go before I am truly comfortable with calling myself anything other than straight. But, I have yet to find anything better to describe why I sometimes am attracted to dudes, and sometimes chicks. And because labels are important for others to understand things in society, I had to go with something. Sure, labels put people in nice, neat little boxes and it doesn't allow to fully describe an individual, but labels are used and, for now, the system works as best it can. Blah, blah, blah...

Aside from labeling myself bisexual, I label myself a lot of other things, too: a writer, a publicist, an environmentalist, a Brooklynite, a Democrat, a reader, a bleeding heart, a Lost fan... the list goes on. All of these things can and should be used to describe who I am at this exact moment in time. Bisexual is just one of many things that fall in that list. I don't foresee myself ever being identifiable by just one label. Even though my sexuality is a much more prevalent part of my life than it was, say, only a year ago, I don't want it to be the only thing I am. Ever. So, even though I fully support the LGBT community (and always have, long before I thought I might fall into one of those letters), I won't be marching in any parades anytime soon.

Being bisexual is only a more outward part of me now because I am dating a girl, which is obviously new in how most people see me. Particularly my mother. She was very surprised. And, in all honesty, I didn't expect her to be. I'm not sure why, though. I suppose, I was just hoping she saw through the person I was, more or less, pretending to be at any given time. I've been "out" to my colleagues and many friends for some time now. My family was the last piece of my little puzzle. Having said that, I have yet to inform my father. But he doesn't even believe I'm a blogger (which was a strange conversation over pizza a few months ago), so this is going to take a while. Hi, Dad!

Since sharing this part of myself with my mother and several others since last week, I've felt immensely more at ease. Not just with that aspect of me, but with me in general. I now find myself bringing up being off-the-charts attracted to Eliza Dushku in regular conversation. Which is something I didn't really hesitate to do before, but I feels less like a joke when I say it now. And, thankfully, the support from friends and coworkers has truly been heartwarming. I think I had been so ready to open myself up - even if it was to criticism and negativity - that I was bursting at the seams.

That's sort of how it came out with my mother. I had been planning a trip home to have a sit down, more formal "coming out," but after the 700th white lie I'd told about my "friend" I'd be spending time with, the "I'm actually dating this person" came out like word-vomit. It was entirely selfish, I know this. And she took it. I wouldn't say she's over the moon, but she listened to what I had to say. And then I had to beg and plead with her for some kind of reaction. This, for better or worse, is my mother -- all but petrified to say something that might in some way alienate anyone, especially one of her children. But I egged her on for the alienation. Not that I wish to experience it, but I just craved something from her. We ended the conversation well, though, and I encouraged her to share any feelings she had about this with me from now until eternity. And, in the absence of feeling comfortable with that, to bounce them off my brother. Who, I might add, has been freaking incredible with this bit of trivia about his elder sister. I love that kid. My therapist, however, commented that she hopes this isn't an excuse for me to put on weight. Ummm...

That's the story. Lame? Circle yes or no.

So, hi, my dear readership of, oh, seven people... I've got a girl in my life. And not only have I grown up tenfold in the last few weeks, but I'm equally as happy about it.

What's that, Confidence? Yes, I've missed you, too...

2009-03-07T22:48:00.006-05:00

I'm almost afraid to post about the occurrences and results of the last two or so weeks for fear that I will negate their importance and spiral back into my previously frustrating life. I will say this: I am happy and things are good, and looking even better.

And because I can't resist, I am showing off the results of my new skin-care regimen (aka "the fresh in the face glow") and three hours in the salon today. The fabulous hair color doesn't show up very well in the photo, but its very Alyson Hannigan. L.O.V.E.

And, yes, I am looking to impress someone with this... but more on that (maybe) later.

In sickness and in... defensiveness

2009-03-02T20:06:00.003-05:00

Dear Me,

Just remember: I love you, but you're soooo not perfect...

Xoxo,
Me

--

One of the interesting/funny/strange things about feeling relatively happy in the present is that you're prone to realizing your own significant flaws. Or, rather, I am. Perhaps because its so easy for me to blame others for my unhappiness. Because things aren't usually MY fault.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

I'm defensive.

I have a difficult time separating criticism from constructive criticism.

I have a victim complex.

There, its been said. People don't often bring these points of my sparkling personality to my attention. Maybe because they know I'd be defensive? They're right; of course I would be.

So, first, a bit of the why I am the way I am: From the ages of 8-18, I constantly had to stand up for myself. If I didn't, I would have spent much more of my life than I did thinking I was stupid, whorish and, overall, useless. So, as a defense, I developed the victim/"I'm perfect and you're wrong" complex.

But this isn't meant to be about excuses.

Maybe its not surprising, but, its the dudes in my life who are usually the ones to point this out to me. (Are girls too polite?) In my last relationship -- maybe because from beginning to end it spanned five years of substantial adult growth -- I learned a lot about who I am and who I am not. I am defensive. But I'm not unwilling to listen and adjust my attitude - particularly if you're not just being an ass and you have a valid point.

But being defensive and reactive are things I just am. It can be especially hard for me to keep it in check at work. Explanations are often out of my mouth before I know how unfounded they sound. But I. Can't. Shut. Up. Someday somebody's going to kick me in the face or fire me. Let's hope that day isn't tomorrow on either count.

What is it that they say? The first step to solving a problem is blogging about it, right?

Portrait of an Economy: Brooklyn, NY / Central Pennsylvania

2009-03-01T22:48:00.003-05:00

The below was inspired by a blog I've been reading, edited by one of my favorite bloggers, Rebecca Woolf.

Read it at: Portraits of an Economy

---

In the grand scheme of this economic crisis, I'm doing okay. I have a relatively stable job. And long before stocks plummeted, I was watching my pennies. I was typing everything from a morning coffee to my student loan payments into an Excel spreadsheet every night. It quickly became my pre-bedtime ritual -- enter the 75 cents I spent on peanut M&Ms for an afternoon pick-me-up into those judgemental little cells; feel defeated as an adult; go to bed embarrassed that I was going to have to sell something on eBay to pay my rent later in the month. I was cognizant of every dollar, every dime. But I had to be, I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world and my rent for a small one-bedroom in Brooklyn is half of my monthly salary. So, in a way, those cells probably saved me from myself. I was able to brave my own taxes this year and got myself a decent refund. I'm actually pretty proud of me for not falling apart yet.

Where I grew up, though, is a different story. My family is struggling. Some of it their own doing, but most of it due to the unstable economic climate. And, as some who always wants to be the problem-solver, I am struggling, too. I talk to my mother, a trade school teacher for almost 30 years, several times per week, and try to stomach it as she tells me that she's not sure when her husband will be able to work again. Or how she's been supporting a family of four on her salary for more than a year. Or how my grandmother's husband, at 70, was just laid-off from his factory job. Or how my uncle's hours were cut at his full-time job to a mere 16 hours a week and his children always seem to be ill. Or how little oil my family has left for the winter. They make all of the news coverage real.

I offer what little I have to give -- as a loan, because I know my mother does not want my money. She knows I don't have much more than she. But she doesn't take it. Instead, she asks me if I have groceries to get through the week. I tell her I do, and that I really don't mind not eating out anymore. She knows I like to eat out and I miss not being able to anymore in a city like New York. She will even send me five or ten dollars every few months with a note telling me to treat myself to some Starbucks. She's in a terrible position and she sends me money to go to Starbucks. Because she's my mother and she's only thinking of the little burst happiness she can give me.

http://portraitsofaneconomy.blogspot.com/2009/03/portrait-brooklyn-new-york-central.html

blabber mouth

2009-02-24T23:25:00.004-05:00

I am probably one of the most open people you will ever meet. I have no trouble sharing stories of my rather unfortunate childhood, or my favorite sexual position or even how the end of my last relationship sent me into a deep depression. I'm the girl who asks her coworkers at a diner if they've ever heard of the no-touch orgasm. I share every aspect of my life with my closest friends, my coworkers or even near-strangers. Or, in many cases, complete strangers via blogging. And I love it. It's a huge part of who I am. I share. I have the capacity to make people uncomfortable. I would probably talk to a wall if there was no one around and I just needed to say something. The need to talk and write and express is always burning in me.

But there's this one thing that I haven't quite been able to say yet. This one thing. I've shared it with only four people. The fourth only being told this evening, and I said it out loud as more of a test to myself than anything.

And, actually, this is something that I really should be talking about. By not feeling comfortable enough with it to talk about, I'm essentially denying its existence. And that's not me. I need to be vocal. I blog because I want to be heard. And, often, when I choose not to blog about something, its more self-censorship than anything -- if by putting something out there I think I may really hurt someone, I won't do it. I am constantly writing entries that never see the world wide web.

But no one would be hurt if I shared this. And I'm still not sure why I can't. I am just... blocked. My intention is not to be all cryptic here, I swear. I just wanted... something.

My high school boyfriend and I used to say that to one another all the time: You should be feeling... something. That became our thing. I miss having things with people.

Wait, I have a thing with two of my closest friends: "But wait... it gets worse!" That's our thing. Great, I feel better now that I remembered having a thing!!

Oh, and my team at work also says "vom" a lot. We're, like, totally Valley Girls. That's kind of a thing, too.

I still have things.

Point? Right. I guess that I just needed to say that here I am priding myself on being an often insanely open person and I have this thing (but now I'm talking about a different kind of thing. Are you even kind of following me?) that I am saying nothing about. I am a giant hypocrite. And apparently I'm awesome at being weird cryptic chick now.

The Voyeur

2009-02-19T21:11:00.002-05:00

Confession: One of my favorite things to do in New York is to look in people's windows. I'm not a freak; I just like to glance into other peoples lives. I look into their living room windows and imagine what their life is like. Do they use warm, neutral tones with tall filled bookshelves highlighting their space? Or maybe a classic ecru on the walls and a chandelier for light? And what does their decor say about their lifestyle?

Those few people who have been in my living room probably thought I just moved in. Not that it doesn't look lived in, per se (my ass print is firmly etched into the couch after all), its just kind of bare. I have a couch, TV, two bookshelves and a coffee table and that's about all. I fantasize about raiding West Elm one day armed with someone else's credit card, but in the meantime, I have what I need and it suits me. There's a lot of green and deep wood tones that I find relaxing.

My favorite windows, though, have been in the Village and Brooklyn Heights. Similar aesthetics, for the most part - clean lines, modern, yet livable - and everything I want. I fall in love via home decor. And, of course, I imagine the couples who live in them never fight, they have cool jobs and plenty of free time to read New York magazine and sip skim lattes. They have Bugaboo strollers for their adorable child and would never dream of putting a sweater on their cocker spaniel. They have been to Buenos Aires to sky dive and enjoy cooking in their stainless steel kitchen. They recycle responsibly, don't have to worry about paying off their student loans and have interesting hobbies like playing bass in a jazz band. And did I mention I want to be them?

I had one such make-believe life via window when I lived in Hoboken. I loved to look in the living room of an apartment on Hudson and 6th Street that had tall windows and packed bookshelves on display. I made a point to look inside everytime I passed. It was beautiful and I imagined I'd move there someday after I got married. I'd look up from my laptop where I was writing my latest award-winning novel and call to my husband from our overstuffed taupe sofa to bring me some ice cream (because I was pregnant and that's what pregnant pretend me wants to eat). And it was magical. That fantasy got me through some rough times. I think I need to go for a walk and a new one.

abandoning the angry elephant

2009-02-15T11:05:00.002-05:00

There's an angry elephant who lives in my apartment building. I hear him at the most random times of day, but at night I think I've learned to sleep through his cries. He's extremely loud - deafening almost - but only cries out for about four seconds at a time. I first heard it a few days after I moved in and I thought it was a foghorn from a ship in New York Bay. But, I quickly realized that with the bay being several long blocks away, those who lived closer would be deaf by now. So it's not a foghorn. It's an angry loud elephant that lives in my building.

I've gotten pretty used to the elephant, as well as my life in New York/Brooklyn. But, at this point in my late twenties, should I be striving for being used to something or being happier?

How does one know when its time to move on? I have a history of making poor decisions in this department -- jobs, romances, moving, all of the above. But I've been contemplating a leaving New York move for a little while now, and I wonder when it will right to act (or not) on it.

Reasons to leave:

Its really f'ing expensive, everything from rent to Duane Reade
I am not able to enjoy what living here offers -- concerts, great dining, a swingin' singles life, etc. -- either because of expensive or because I work too damn much
The ex factor / a fresh start / I would be a much more interesting person elsewhere (?)
I work too damn much (the NY work ethic/hours)
Genuine interest in not spending my whole early adult life in one place

Reasons to stay:

Really good friends who I would miss sharing my life with
Because I won't let it "beat" me
a job / opportunity for advancement in my industry that may not exist in too many other cities
the bursts of happiness, particularly in Brooklyn
Because I know the subway

I wish I knew what the right decision was. To look into the crystal ball and see where I am, where I'm happy (if I'm happy) at 30. Because according to the actual psychic I met, 30 is going to be my year. But, since that's still three years away, where (and how) am I to spend those, counting down to December 7, 2011?

Also, does everyone in their late twenties spend as much time agonizing of the direction of their life as I do? Or does everyone else just not blog about it? Just curious.

(Nearly a) Six and the City

2009-02-07T20:44:00.001-05:00

I'll lay it right on out there: Dating in New York sucks like I couldn't have possibly imagined it would.

So I'm pretty cute. It took me a relatively long time to be able to say that, and more importantly believe that, about myself, but I'm there now. Sure, like most girls I'd feel much more comfortable if I had Heidi Klum's bod, Eva Longoria's hair and Mary-Louise Parker's skin, but in the absence of all of that, I'm me and I'm pretty cute. I'm (nearly) a six. I'm the take me home to meet your mother, girl next door type less than the fantasize about tearing my clothes off when you see me across a crowded room, but, hey, that's cool, too.

Except that, in New York, I'm a (nearly) six in a sea of eights and nines. And these are the normal girls. Sure, I have a lot of other things to offer someone other than a touch of cuteness, but I'm talking pure physical attraction, come over and say hello, here. And being a six in a sea of nines makes for a kind of sad dating life.

Singledom, for me personally, was all but a death sentence. I love to be social with my friends, but getting me "out there" (in bars, clubs, etc.) to meet new people where people typically meet is just never going to happen. I mean, c'mon, I'm at home on a Saturday night and just took a break from watching Buffy to blog. And this is what I planned to do. Do you see my concern for a lifetime of loneliness and high cable bills?

So the meeting people thing happens, at best, in waves. Someone introduces me to someone. Great. I generally make a good first impression when I'm able to be my witty, smiling self. But I have to get that far first. The person of my dreams has to want to meet me and that, at least in the online realm, is based almost exclusively on that one photo. And that perfect candid photo capturing the essence of me eludes, well, me. And without that, I'm just the (nearly) six, if, of course, you willing to look past the 35 eights and nines to get to me.

Because they are everywhere. On the subway. Crossing the street. In the office. On Match.com. They never sweat while working out. Their hair looks as fabulous in a ponytail as it does any other time. Their clothes fit them as if they were custom-made by Cinderella's little mice/fairy friends. And, really, I don't begrudge these girls a life partner. Some of them are probably really great. Greater than me. Smart, witty, charming, beautiful. The whole damn 8/9 package. And well, how fabulous for them.

But, in the interest of me hating them and defending girls everywhere who don't wake up like they just stepped off a runway, I want to say, "you know what? You've got at least a solid two points on me, bitch. Let me go on just ONE date with the George Clooney look-like and let him see my charming self. If he's not wanting a second date, then by all means, he's yours."

To all the boys I've loved before

2009-01-27T21:31:00.006-05:00

As Valentine's Day looms, I (perhaps stupidly) was inspired to write a memo to all of the dudes who I've loved and left or those who broke my heart. Or those many I didn't love, but certainly had an affect on me. I'm 27 now -- ready to get hitched and have myself a kid -- and yet I'm planning a Valentine's Day with ice cream, a bottle of wine and a chick flick to share with myself. Sure, I'm annoyed, but, really, when aren't I, right?

* I know that at least two of you read this. But it's probably nothing I haven't already said to you, so you'll probably get over it pretty easily. And it's not like I used your name, anyway, even if I described you in a completely obvious way.

In no particular order...

The Jock: You were so cute and so cool and so didn't know I was alive for a really long time. But I have volumes upon volumes of diary entries about the way you looked when you shot a free-throw.

The One I Couldn't Have: You reminded me that no matter how secure one feels, there's always someone out there who can still make your heart race. When you kissed me, you took my face in your hands and I melted. There I am, in a puddle on the floor.

The High School Sweetheart: First real love; first real heartbreak. We talked about everything, you remembered my favorite things; I wore your shirts; we talked on the phone, hiding under the covers so our parents wouldn't catch us, until 2am. But then we broke up (wow, I even forget why now) and you asked your ex-girlfriend to the prom. But then we made out on your graduation day.

The One From Chem: You took me on my first real date, even if it was just to the mall. I was utterly infatuated with the idea of someone liking me -- really liking me -- until you threw a basketball at my head. Game over.

The Hipster: Within a month or two of our meeting, I told people I was going to marry you. You both opened me up -- to things I wouldn't have seen, listened to, or thought otherwise -- and closed me off to where there was only you, me and our fictional but possible son in my mind. You made awesome mashed potatoes. I remember first thinking we were actually compatible when we built our first piece of Ikea furniture together and didn't argue. It was what I pictured married life to be with you. But then I left. And came back. And then you left. And didn't.

The Married One: If I was one of upstanding moral code, I would label you The Mistake. But I won't because I am not. No, I just wasn't then. I wouldn't make the same choices now. But back to you... You paid attention to me in a way no one ever has. You made me feel, for lack of a better word, sexy for the first (and maybe last) time in my life. The air was always hot and even pumping gas seemed like a deviant act. I changed after you.

The Tortured Artist: You were smoldering hot and a ridiculously good kisser. I certainly wasn't in love with you, but I could have made out with you, quite happily, for much longer than we did, even if you did like stupid movies.

The Comedian: You changed me, too. For a few moments, with you, I thought I just might end up with everything I wanted. You made it seem so possible. So real. But the scar on my stomach is a reminder that while we will certainly care about one another, love isn't in the plan. You get the one I/we call "Sarah."

The One Who Gave Me Pot: You made me laugh, and I made you cry. You had a warm, inviting smile. You played with my hair. You were the kind of supportive partner that I may never have again -- you were so generous and caring; thoughtful and encouraging. And I broke up with you on Superbowl Sunday for someone who was, ultimately, very wrong for me.

The Type-A: You pushed me to be a better student, and a more articulate person. You let me hit you when you were being a douchebag. I remember some of your little quirks -- the way you'd pull on your hair or the way you said my name -- like they were yesterday. But what sticks out most, now, is your selfishness -- like when you left me at the hospital to go home and write a paper. Douchebag.

Well, that was therapeutic.

Happiness, summed up in one photo

2009-01-21T13:10:00.003-05:00

Coping with Emotional Distress: Lesson One

2009-01-16T21:45:00.006-05:00

What not to do when you've had a horrendous week and you're feeling bitter and alone:

Don't make plans with your married friend who you have a serious crush on
Don't have dinner with a former colleague who has the job that you deserve
Don't write emails to the opposite sex without first consulting someone else of the opposite sex
Don't skip lunch or only eat animal crackers
Don't watch Pretty Woman, The Notebook or Lars and the Real Girl, etc. and/or listen to Nicole Atkins, REM or the like
Don't laugh hysterically instead of cry hysterically
Don't cyber-stalk anyone
Don't accept a loan, no matter how small, from your boss
Don't make and consume a box of macaroni and cheese after 10pm

What to do instead:

Host a slumber party for your two favorite people and drink wine from the bottle

Lesson One complete. Please turn the tape over.

Lessons with DiSaronno

2009-01-08T22:28:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago at my company's holiday party, a colleague told me that I don't enjoy life.

Okay, I'll back up... We all had a good bit to drink -- and even without alcohol I'm a bit of a sharer, but with, obviously, even a bit more. So while catching up said colleague on the rather sad state of my life in the last few months and where I see myself headed (I'd call us friendly, but not exactly friends, I guess), she did the whole nod in sympathy thing and I rambled with my amaretto sour in hand. Then I took my turn to listen. And we had a nice little chat. Then, while heading to our second (or third?) destination a bit later, she said (and I'm paraphrasing here), "Ashley, you need to enjoy life. Go out. Be yourself. People love you. I don't think you enjoy life."

Really? That's what I give off to the world? I don't enjoy life?

When I literally stopped in my tracks, she felt immediately bad and said that that's not what she meant. And she probably didn't. She spent the next hour or so telling me how horrible she felt for what she'd said and tried to explain what she really meant. I don't really remember what that was anymore, though. Along the journey down Park Avenue South another colleague joined us and she and I began talking about our ticking biological clocks (and there I went again with the sharing).

The baby conversation is but a vague memory, but the other comment is still very fresh. What does that even mean? And, what did it mean to me?

Maybe I don't enjoy life like it should be enjoyed. But, if I don't, I don't know what it means to really enjoy life. And then that makes me a little sad. Sure, I have things I enjoy -- reading, eating cookies, good music, great sex, maxing capacity on my TiVo, etc. -- but is enjoying life, experiencing life, about more than just being content? I don't typically enjoy the same things that my peers do. I never really did. I drink and go out occasionally, but the frequency in which I enjoy those things doesn't seem to be enough for most people my age. But does acting a bit older (or, okay, acting a lot older) mean I'm not enjoying my twenties? I never thought so before.

And, this is, of course, not to say that I plan to change my middle-aged Friday nights, but it has made me think a lot more about what an ideally enjoyable life would mean for me. And, no, I'm not living it right now.

I'm not saying that this was a life-altering moment in the middle of the street, but its certainly got me thinking.

Ashley, Now and Then

2009-01-02T22:52:00.008-05:00

Inspired by the hot chick over at Regarding Mary, tonight is an excellent night to list some of things I love about me. Because today, was, let's say just a little difficult. Here goes:

my auburn hair and green eyes
a close relationship with my brother
competent writing skills
the ability to support myself (albeit barely sometimes)
my obnoxiously adorable laugh
the ability to be understanding and, generally, patient
my loyal, supportive, witty friends
my own loyalty, support and witty remarks to those friends
my bookshelf of everything from Cormac McCarthy to Harry Potter
coworkers who think I'm actually funny
a comfortable bed and yoga pants to come home to
the ability to open up to people, even if that's sometimes too much
a slightly better than average kisser (Ed. Note: I'm amending this to above average kisser, I was just being modest before...)
the good sense to usually wear comfortable shoes
enough general knowledge and open-mindedness to discuss politics with (most) others
a sweet tooth (or several)
knowing when to ask for help when I really need it

Better now.

"Sometimes I'm just happy I'm older"

2008-12-31T20:29:00.006-05:00

What a difference a year makes. This time last year I was certainly confused about my life, but I felt I had things under control:

In January, I made some major headway in reducing my debt. In February, both my financial and my giant ass situation improved, but my relationship didn't. Then, the summer, um, sucked. Like, a lot. And then, you know, healing and change.

I spent about a week at "home" during my holiday break from work -- partly out of boredom, but mostly out of genuine interest. I suppose I still put home in quotations because I think I'm still a little resentful about having grown up in a place that had little to offer. Or in a family that wasn't able to keep me as safe as I believed they should. But, amazingly, I don't really feel that way anymore. It was certainly a gradual process -- all 27 years of it -- and I only really started to notice my own appreciation for my home this year. Because of circumstances -- some positive and some negative -- I've been back to Pennsylvania, and my mother's house, five times in the last six months. That's, like, a record. Every year since I left at 18 I've hated going back and avoided it whenever I could.

But, in June, I began to notice a slight shift. Which, oddly enough, I attribute to the price of cereal. I visited home for my first extended period since the middle of college, and while there, I made a trip or two with my mother to Wal-mart. And, while I don't necessarily agree with their business practices and much prefer Target for my bargain-priced groceries and personal care items, Wal-mart is just closer to my mom's house. They sell two things I wanted -- hair color and cereal -- for dollars less than I pay in New York. And, it occurred to me that, maybe, just maybe, there's something to be said for living in Central Pennsylvania, particularly with an economic crisis barreling down on us (hindsight is, of course, 20/20).

I noticed it again at Thanksgiving (Honey Nut Shredded Wheat is $2.50 a box?! Seriously?!), only not directly tied to a trip to Wal-mart. Although I was in a pretty terrible emotional state, I had pleasant conversations with my mother and brother, and gained perspective (and, more accurately perhaps, distance) to their considerably less than perfect living situations. It was not only nice to feel genuinely missed in their daily lives, but missed period. And while their situations are not ones that I wish to be in (and am grateful that I am not anymore), I've come to appreciate the value of staying the hell out of it. I love them, but I don't need to fix them.

And having just returned from another extended stay, I can honestly say that I had a nice time (dance party in Brett's room!). I was asked by numerous people if I have any plans of moving back. And, for once, rather than laughing, I responded with, "well, I wouldn't rule it out someday." And I certainly couldn't have thought that, let alone said it, five years ago when I moved to New York. I have no plans to move back -- or anywhere -- in the immediate future, but unless something (or, more likely, someone) keeps me here, I don't see myself ringing in 2012 in Times Square. The psychic did tell me I was moving in 2009, after all, but I thought she just meant to Park Slope with Michelle.

On the year-end note, though, 2008 wasn't all misery. I thrived on strengthening two of my closest friendships -- Michelle, Mary: I would be at the bottom of the East River without your support and quick-witted insights; and making new ones -- Kim, Marissa, JP: I adore you and look forward to more drama to discuss ahead. And while I may not be more than 12 pages into the book, for those that don't know already, I did lose my publishing virginity this year to a real live magazine (with a circulation of 2.5 million, no less!).

No... I still have no money, I'm still in the same job and my ass is still bigger than I'd like, but, as has become my trademark phrase over the year... I'm doing just fine. Thank you to everyone and everything (Coldstone, Celexa, writing, Yellow Tail Shiraz and reruns of House of USA) who helped me get through 2008. And a preemptive thank you to all who will hear me bitching through 2009!

Adventures in cookie-making

2008-12-17T22:56:00.004-05:00

As most people who know me can attest to, I'm not really what one would call a holiday person. I went through brief periods of loving the holidays -- when I was young and it was all about what Santa brought me ("TWIN CABBAGE PATCH DOLLS AND THE TWIN STROLLER??!?!! For me?!"), then again when my high school sweetheart made me a part of his family's many holiday traditions like the weird card game I can't remember the name of, and again when I first moved to New York and started to make my own (albeit rather short-lived) traditions of visiting Rockefeller Center, adding ornaments to my own tree and celebrating "Fibonacci Hanukkah" in addition to Christmas.

Anyway, not so much into the holiday spirit the last few years. I've come to see December, in general, as a monsterous drain on my financial and emotional resources. Can I spell G-R-I-N-C-H? Yes, yes, I can.

But for the last few days, as I've walked around the city and peeked in people's windows, I've actually regretted not getting a Christmas tree this year. I walked by one this evening that was so colorful and festive and I had to have it. I wanted to sing songs about Santa Claus around it with my non-existent children and drink HoCho by the fire. In the absence of these things, though, I bought some cookie mix and, at 11pm on a Wednesday night, am making Christmas cookies.

However, this Christmas cookie-making isn't going exactly as planned. Well, no, that's inaccurate... it wasn't planned. So then, I guess, technically, it's just not going well?

First of all, my cookie sheet is ever so slightly too large for my oven. (Why do I feel like this is an "only in New York" anecdote? Tiny apartments equal tiny ovens?) So the oven door is ajar during the baking process. Tip number one for unsuccessful cookie baking, let me tell you. Doesn't produce an evenly baked cookie. And, if you want anything in a cookie, you want it evenly baked.

Issue two is less of a logistical one: I live alone. I love cookies. Theoretically, I have all of the cookies to myself. Which, um, is pretty freaking awesome... I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this... Over the last several months I've lost about 15 pounds and I am now in significant danger of putting it back on in one evening by consuming my weight in both unbaked and fully baked cookies. So, a solution? I'm giving at least half to my Secret Santa (I think we're calling it Elfster or something, though?) tomorrow at our holiday party. I hope she likes oatmeal chocolate chip.

Forget what I said about the cookies not baking evenly and this not going well... batch numero dos just came out of the oven and they are bloody amazing! Someone should really just scoop me up right now to bear their child because I make a mean cookie. Kids will be coming from all over the neighborhood, I tell ya.

Observe how they are all perfectly circular and delicious-looking. They are, and I am responsible.

I think I had a third mildly amusing point about Christmas cookie-making when I started this post, but it doesn't matter now, as I am a success! Fa la la la la la la la laaaaaaa!

"When I get money, I'll get funny again"

2008-12-14T20:15:00.002-05:00

I'll return to one of my original themes of this blog: my debt. These last few months have been especially difficult for me financially. Like, retired dad bailout bad. Of course, I'm not alone, with the country being in a recession and all, but having company in my misery doesn't really make me want to do a jig. Financial life sucks for pretty much everyone. I get it. This is just what I have to say about it.

I've been writing down everything I spend like a crazy person for months. Months. I have an Excel spreadsheet where I record all of it from a coffee at Starbucks to my student loan payments. Its truly exhausting to keep such an extensive record of my cash flow. I come home each night with my receipts and type away in those little judgmental cells, until I see what a douche I was and curse myself for allowing myself a $5 footlong from Subway that was actually my lunch and dinner. I tend to send myself into a tailspin when I forget to add in the 75 cents I spent on peanut M&Ms from the office vending machine. And then, suddenly, I'm $20 short for my cable bill and I feel like a complete failure as an adult.

Could I move to a less expensive city and get a job and live happily ever after? Probably. I often wonder why I'm still here when in a more normal place (read: median rent for a one-bedroom apartment less than $2K a month) I could be on my way to owning something. People I know are buying houses. My stepbrother, four years my junior, is house-hunting.

Yesterday my father asked me about the will I was supposed to have made out months ago. I asked him if he thought he should get my laptop, my Oscar de la Renta coat, my book collection or my unfinished novel. Because, sadly, I have nothing else. ("I'll take the novel," he joked.) If I had to moved to, say, Philadelphia, a five years ago instead of the if-I-can-make-it-here... capital of the world, I'd probably at least be able to will my dad a car or something. But I live in (and, unfortunately, still kind of love) New York. And, the city is only partially responsible for my debt problem. A love of eating out (why would I try to cook my own pad thai when someone who knows something about it can?) and an obsession with beauty products did play a small part, too. Having said that pad thai and lipstick are more expensive here than most other places, so, really, F you, New York. City that I love to hate, but won't leave.

The stress of living on a to-the-dollar budget has manifested itself in the form of near-constant pain in my left shoulder. I wish the government was giving bailouts that included free massages.

OMG! It's Xanderrrr!

2008-11-25T10:25:00.002-05:00

OMG, I'm in love. Nicholas Brendon has an AUDIOBLOG! I'll be taking bets on how many hours I can waste...

It's (really) the economy, stupid!

2008-11-18T12:27:00.003-05:00

I hate banks, creditors, George W. Bush, the Treasury Department... F them all.

Because I still believe in love

2008-11-14T12:42:00.003-05:00

Like so many others, I personally think that it is tragic that Prop 8 was passed in California. And that Arizona has passed a constitutional ban on gay couples adopting children. And still after such a momentous Election Day, it amazes me that Americans vote to keep rights away from other Americans. It makes me sad and angry.

It's not about what people do in their bedroom. It's about love, compassion, respect and commitment. Things that everyone deserves to have in their lives. But take a good look at the message that we're sending -- that not all love is important. That, because two people are of the same sex, they should not fall in love with one another and make a commitment to exist together. Or, what's more painful to me personally, is that two people in a committed relationship cannot adopt a child together because they are of the same sex. A child that otherwise may not have a chance at a family's love. By denying some love, we're actually denying it all.

Everyone wants to be loved. Humans are biologically programmed to crave other people. Connection is crucial to survival. No one is meant to be alone.

A Brand New Day (Several Days Late)

2008-11-07T22:10:00.006-05:00

I cried like a little girl when the state of Pennsylvania was called for Obama. And then teared up again when the Democrats surpassed 51 Senate seats. And then really lost any composure that remained when the final projections were in and CNN announced to me and a room packed with Obama supporters that he was to be our next president.

I watched us make history on the big screen.

As many others have said in the days since, I think that by electing Obama, Americans were rejecting fear. Fear of things that have plagued the country since September 2001 -- fear of terrorism, fear of an economy that has shattered beneath us, fear of the unknown. In a time when there is so much to want to hide from, we didn't make the same choices out of fear of change. We started on the path to real change.

I grew up in a family that was, and still is, split politically. My father, a veteran of three wars, is a staunch Republican. My mother, a teacher for more than 25 years, is a passive Democrat. But it was my father that first sparked my interest in politics. He cared about local elections as well as national. He regarded his representation highly, and remains in regular touch with several of his local politicians. He subscribes to the theory that if you don't vote, your right to complain about the outcome is diminished.

As someone who has always been interested in politics, it was remarkable to see so many people -- members of my family, friends, coworkers -- take an active interest in this presidential election. It's a renewed interest for the country that I hope doesn't end before November comes to a close. It's crucial that people remain interested, inspired and ready to embrace change over the next four (and heaven willing, 8) years. I'm incredibly proud that we've taken the first step, but now the work really begins.

As I watched the Democratic Senate seats climb on Tuesday night (I was maybe one of four people who was), I shouted another thing that we could accomplish with each seat secured. Green energy and energy independence. Healthcare for those who need it (mine and so many other uteruses are cheering!). Better education for those that want it. Things I really care about can happen.

Uterus? Check. Now, who to vote for?

2008-10-31T13:05:00.003-04:00

Just in case anyone with a uterus was still on the fence about who to cast their vote for on Tuesday, please read this. It's right in line with McCain's "concerns" about "women's health" he raised at the final debate.

Now get your uteruses (uteri?) out there and vote.

Zydrate comes in a little glass vial...

2008-10-28T21:41:00.004-04:00

Once a year, I actually get to work on something cool.

Check it out in select theatres on November 7th. Cool music, Giles and Joan Jett all in one movie!

And I Don't Think I'll Ever Sleep Again 'til Morning

2008-10-18T18:58:00.003-04:00

One of the biggest problems with a major relationship change -- i.e. a gigantic break-up -- is the sleeping thing. You sleep next to someone for a long time and then you don't. And not just like you went on a short trip and then you're going to come back to your old life. You don't sleep next to that person anymore. Ever. That's weird. And about a hundred other descriptive words.

It takes some getting used to. Yeah, yeah, time heals all wounds. Blah. But coping in the now is difficult. You tell yourself that you may never sleep again! You know that's not true, but maybe you're a little dramatic sometimes. Whatever.

When I was a freshman in college, a friend of a friend of mine had one of these major break-ups. I vividly remember standing with her in the Brockway Dining Hall, talking about how she was doing with it. She mentioned the sleeping thing. She said, more than anything, she missed his ankle intertwined with hers during sleep. She said that some nights she'd wake up, not feeling his ankle, and scream (her roommate vouched for the middle of the night screaming). At the time, because I had never really been in a relationship that I deemed so intense (let alone having spent regular nights with a boy in bed!), I didn't get it. The ankle arrangement didn't sound very conducive to pleasant, restful sleeping anyway.

Well, its been eight years since that encounter in Brockway, and I'm sure she's fine now. Sleeping and such.

My solution to the sleeping thing after my relationship ended, thankfully, came with some comic relief (otherwise I probably wouldn't be sharing, right?). It was The Simpsons. Why? Well, it's two-fold. One, I happen to own multiple seasons of The Simpsons on DVD, so I wasn't locked into getting over the sleeping thing with a series that only went on for two or three seasons. Longevity was on my side. Two, Homer Simpson reminds me a little of my ex-boyfriend. Told you it was comedic. He knows this, so it's no surprise. No, he's not borderline moronic or an alcoholic. It's Homer's endearing qualities that they share. Oh, and Homer sings "la la la la" in his head while Marge talks, too. So the character was oddly comforting without beating me over the head. Not like listening to Elvis Costello's "Still" or Mates of States' "Drop and Anchor" was. (Oh, I'm a girl, of course I purposely tortured myself with sad music and ice cream...)

So I started watching The Simpsons every night to fall asleep. Every night. And it took a week or two, but it started working. I'd sleep alone. It was probably my first little victory, courtesy of Homer, Marge, Chief Wiggum and Comic Book Guy.

Now, though, it's a Pavlovian response. Simpsons - grow tired - sleep. Makes it a little more difficult to stay awake for new episodes on Sunday evening now, but it's certainly been productive for me.

And it's kinda funny that I started to get over my break-up because of Homer Simpson.

go forth and... write?

2008-09-30T22:42:00.005-04:00

So I'm somewhere between an agnostic and an atheist (or maybe just confused?), but there's this religious saying/message/thingy that says that when the higher power judges you at the gates of whatever you believe in, he/she/proper pronoun for greatness (?) will first ask what you did with your time on earth and the talents that you were given. I think that's a good question to ask, regardless of the religious implications.

What the hell are you doing here, just taking up space?

Ashley was a publicist. Fuck, no.

I have a few great loves of this earth: politics, writing, jeans and ice cream (I don't know, there may be one or two more). Note that none were publicity and/or dealing with snarky journalists. At various points in my life I wanted to be a politician or a political correspondent for the Today Show (see my high school yearbook); a novelist (both when I was 11 and, I guess, now); a fashion designer; and, in my most simple/I hate corporate ridiculousness phase, a Cold Stone ice cream tester. If I could not get fat and make over $100K a year, the ice cream tester would win hands-down.

But what am I really here to do? I know, I know... its an existential, no easy answer, its all up to me, oh you're in your late-twenties/approaching 30 and everyone feels this way sort of thing. I get it. But, I don't get IT. The what/who do I want to be.

I have friends encouraging me to write (partially, in fact, because of this blog of whiny complaining... I don't get you people! Don't you want me all bright and shiny?). They are awesome and say nice things about me and my skills/abilities/potential talents. I like them. When I was published for the first time a few months back, they thought I was a rockstar. Some even used the word proud. Again, liking them.

But then I also have me. Not as big of a fan of me. When me sits down to write, she struggles and reminds herself that just because I can string a few words together into a sometimes reasonably witty coherent sentence, it don't mean she's a writer, yo.

I've been trying to write this essay on anger since the date of that damn post. Have I written a word of it since? Nearly, no. Meanwhile I have friends writing jokes for NPH and co-writing the next Broadway hit.

Maybe I should stop reading biographies/autobiographies about/by people who do really great things? Like the Hillary Clinton autobio I just finished. She was a law professor, like, out of the womb. What. Ever.

superhuman strength

2008-09-17T22:14:00.004-04:00

Tonight, I met a superhero. A real-life person who pushes their mind and body to the limit, while also inspiring others.

I "judged" Dean as he literally ran towards the Guinness World Record for the longest distance run on a treadmill in 48 hours. Not only is he attempting to tackle this incredible feat of human endurance, but he's doing with an national audience. He's on webcam constantly, and passersby consistently stop on the street to stare/cheer him on. It must be a ridiculous amount of pressure. I can't possibly imagine staying awake for 48 hours, let alone being active almost the entire time.

And he's determined to finish all 48 hours. When I left this evening, it didn't seem like he was going to break the record, but this man is seriously amazing. He inspired me, and there are few things I hate more than running. He reminded me that sometimes the best possible thing to do is clear your head -- and just go.

blast from the past / something equally cliche regarding nostalgia

2008-09-16T20:16:00.005-04:00

The last week or so has been a strange one over here at Plays One... I had just started writing an essay about me potentially having an anger problem (this is still up for debate, I suppose?), when, that very evening, I was contacted by one of the possible stars of said essay, my college roommate. We hadn't spoken in about four years. And the essay, in part, was about how I've had more than a little trouble letting go of how quickly and sourly our friendship ended during our last year at school. I've even discussed it in therapy at length. In the last four years or so, her name would be mentioned, or something would remind me of her, and I would become angry. I often had dreams where, for one reason or another -- never logical, mind you -- I would have to once again share an apartment with her, and I would wake up livid. It was strange. I had rarely felt such anger before; the only other person I felt that contempt for (another star of my little essay, my stepfather) -- I felt with reasonable cause.

In college (prior to the festering anger), my roommate and I could have definitely been considered friends in love. Not in love romantically, but very much infatuated with our friendship and platonic love for one another. We shared almost everything. We lived for cooking and baking together. We even fell in love at the same time, with boys who were also roommates. We were disgustingly adorable.

And then, well, things unraveled. I've written about that at length, and I don't need to rehash it. It was difficult, and, well, then came the blinding anger.

Fast forward to about a week ago: she contacted me. It was a pleasant message - asking me how I was and saying that she often thought about me - and I responded the next day. I barely thought about not replying, actually. And I didn't reply in a snarky, snotty way (yay for emotional growth!). I asked about her, what she's doing, about her husband (she married her above mentioned roommate), her family, her cat. I felt eerily settled as I drafted my response (which I remember to check pretty thoroughly for grammatical errors because who wants to look dumb to someone who has two post-grad degrees?), and sent it off.

We've written once or twice since then, and its been very friendly and warm. I thanked her for contacting me. I know the condensed version of what she and her husband have been up to. So I suppose I'm through with my long-winded, barely rational rage.

Which is positive, right? Even if I haven't written another word of the essay I started. Damn devilish muse.

Having said all of this, still no response from this past. But I guess I'm not angry. Just disappointed.

The Republicans who Boo

2008-09-04T22:40:00.009-04:00

First thing's first: yesterday my boss called me "more left than Karl Marx." I think I need to tell my dad that one. He'd love it.

I would have liked to watch more of the Republican National Convention than I did, but it has been a very difficult week and a half for me personally and more often than not, I fell asleep before any of the major speeches. I really did try to stay up last night for Sarah Palin's acceptance speech, but I didn't make it. So I caught it on YouTube instead.

Okay, I get the whole Palin "sexy librarian" thing that people are digging, but are you really going to coin VPILF? I'm vomiting.

For a while, while watching Palin's speech, I thought I might punch my computer. But I really love my Mac, so I refrained. When she spoke about looking down on community organizers, I was wondering if she forgot that she started in the PTA...? And I will never understand the modern Republican argument that Dems just want to raise taxes. It's made in every GOP speech, and, especially this time around, just makes no sense.

Overall, though, I suppose she did what she needed to do. She needed to look tough. Maybe too tough - I was thinking almost mean. (Please don't track me down with your moose-hunting gun when I vote Dem.) I don't know that she sold the qualified angle, but she sold the reform angle pretty well, for what it is.

I find her voice pretty annoying, but she does have some cute kids, even if their names are a little, um, Alaskan? Oh, and what does racing snow machines entail, exactly?

Emily's List, what do you have to say?

Since I missed Palin live, I did make a special effort to get home in time (and, more importantly, stay awake) for McCain. In the interest of full disclosure, I, like many democrats, once really liked John McCain. Might have even adored him. After the 2004 election went so horribly wrong, and all of the buzz (like, the next day) was on a McCain/Clinton contest for 2008, I often said that it would be a very difficult choice for me, should the cards fall that way. And I really meant it. McCain always seemed to be keepin' it real. I have a great deal of respect for John McCain - as a politician who routinely crosses party lines to get things done, and for his military service. As a military daughter myself, it is difficult for me to dislike anyone who serves our country, particularly anyone who withstands the torture that he did.

But, the McCain that I loved so in 2004 (and in years prior) is not the one I'm watching accept his nomination for the presidency on CNN. I don't have any new insights on how or why this happened (its obviously been written about in excess), its just become painfully obvious that he has had to (for whatever reason) pander to his party and its leaders - many who are ultra conservative and/or ultra religious. McCain's turn makes me sad. Watching his speech tonight, I didn't expect to feel inspired, and I didn't. The one thing that honestly bothered me tonight was the "boo" responses from the crowd during the middle of McCain's speech. Seriously? Booing? That's so classy, GOP. I don't believe the old McCain would have stood for that kind of response. I don't recall any mass booing at the DNC, and I watched pretty closely.

It was a fine speech, though; he's just not my beloved not so Republican Republican anymore. Boo?

Yes We Can!

2008-09-01T22:46:00.001-04:00

Yes, I did it. I watched about 24 hours of DNC coverage over four days last week... My father, and numerous colleagues, called me a freak. It's a bit belated, but just in case you were waiting with bated breath, here are a few of my thoughts on Days Three and Four of the DNC.

Day Three:
* It's amazing how, when you're watching Bill Clinton speak, you know you're watching one of the great orators of history. He continues to be remarkable and inspire like few others. The Obama/Biden campaign should be thrilled with both Bill's and Hillary's speeches. They rallied the perhaps hesitant troops.
* Oh, Joe! You didn't blow me away, but you were still great.

Day Four:
* Al Gore is right up there with the creators of Coldstone ice cream. Why doesn't everyone want to save the environment?! Not quite sure what to make of the comparison of Barack to Abraham Lincoln. I might have loved it, even if it did seem a little, um, much.
* Obama was, of course, stellar. He was, of course, inspirational. He, of course, laid the framework of his plan to change America. But who on earth decided to close with Brooks & Dunn's "Only in America"?! Seriously? Maybe Journey would have been a better choice? Reach the nostalgic Starbucks crowd and Middle America. Just a thought when it comes to choosing a campaign song. And, as Jon Stewart reminded me, "Only in America" was the same song that was played after Bush's 2004 acceptance speech. C'mon, the DNC must have a researcher somewhere on staff...

All of this talk of public service over the last few days reminded me that I am not doing enough with my life. As a freshman in college, I applied for a summer internship with Emily's List, a Democratic political action network. My favorite TA, Brett, suggested I apply. I would have anyway, but it certainly didn't hurt that I was in love with Brett, too. Unfortunately, I did not get the internship, nor did I get to spend that summer running around the Mall holding a sign that read, "Women Belong in the House... and the Senate!" It's a shame. That internship could have been the start of something beautiful. Not to say that I couldn't toss aside my ultra-posh New York City lifestyle for Washington, DC to get my hands dirty in something that I truly feel passionate about. Complete upheaval, anyone?

Rocky Mountain High

2008-08-26T20:53:00.010-04:00

So maybe this will turn into a politically-oriented blog, after all... For what it's worth, here are my thoughts on days one and two of the DNC (because I have actually watched about 75% of CNN's six hours of daily coverage). I am both lame and love politics.

Day One:
* I'm taking bets on how much weight Howard Dean lost... comment if you want in
* I was not looking to be impressed by Michelle Obama's speech, but I really liked it (and she looked beautiful). It didn't move me to tears or anything (that was Ted Kennedy), but I appreciated the approach of letting the voters know who the Obama family is. I think it is a message that needs to get out. I've heard so many voters say that they voted for W (at least the first time) because they felt like they could sit down and have a beer with him. While I might completely disagree with this philosophy on choosing the leader of the free world, I do see why its important to vote for someone you find accessible. While I have no problem, and in fact prefer, to elect someone who I think is superior to me, I get that most people don't want to feel like they're being talked down to. I'm sure Barry drinks beer, too, not just Starbucks.
* Ted Kennedy is, still, just really freaking great. I cried a little bit. And I LOVED that the band played, "Still the One," as he was exiting the stage.
* I'm annoyed that only 14% of the DNC delegates is under age 36.
* Something about Candy Crowley irritates me. I can't put my finger on it.
* CNN tricked me into going to CNNPolitics.com to see Nancy Pelosi's speech. Very clever...
* Joe Biden says his wife is "hot." After that remark, he also mentioned that she has many advanced degrees. Good save, Joe! But, really, I'd be fine with someone brilliant calling me hot. Or calling me at all, actually... Ha.
* CNN: thanks for reminding me that there are "musical interludes" between speakers. Very effective use of chyron.
* James Carvell is hysterical. He was fiery mad that there wasn't any "red meat" in Day One. He wants some McCain-bashing and he wants some NOW!

Day Two:
* Why is CNN showing the same facts in the chyron tonight as they did last night?
* I love Barbara Boxer, and I love that she loves the environment!
* Rudy Giuliani? WTF? He's got pals at the DNC. Um, alright...
* Is it just me or does Campbell Brown have a bit of a lisp?
* Mark Warner... meh. Pretty bland, with the exception of his "maybe next year we will have an administration that believes in science" comment, which actually made me laugh out loud.
* Montana Governor Brian Schweitzer is fantastic. Enough "red meat" for you, Carvell?
* Who puts Hillary Clinton in these awful, unflattering colors?! Wardrobe aside, I was thrilled with Hillary's speech. I think she did exactly what she needed to do to unite the party and bring her supporters to stand behind Obama/Biden. She was full of energy and really hit her own messages, like universal healthcare, home. And LOVED the Twin Cities joke. Rock on, Hillary, rock on.

stuck between stations on the radio

2008-08-24T21:32:00.003-04:00

Before I started this post, I checked out the Stages of Grief on Wikipedia. The stages are not in the order I thought they were, so my new found knowledge almost makes this post moot. But, when I have let that stop me? So, instead...

I hit Stage Two like nobody's business yesterday. I originally thought that anger was Stage Four, or at least Three... but it's Two. So my theory on me going through the grieving process about the state of my life right now, is not so much linear. I've already done my share (and probably other people's) of Stages One and Three. Not to mention quite bit of Four (with special guest, ice cream). I've also experienced Stage Six -- nonexistent, but otherwise known as extreme bitchiness.

But, yesterday... whoa, Two. I had an explosion of anger in being left all alone to face everything.

(Editor's Note: This post originally went on for four more excruciating paragraphs. I was therapeutic for me to write, but wouldn't be for anyone to read. Suffice it to say that I'm angry, okay?)

In other news, I want to name my first born son Atticus. I mean, he beat out Gandhi, yo.

I don't want a "Yes" Man

2008-08-23T17:52:00.009-04:00

This morning's announcement was the first time I've been actually happy in weeks. Which, is really pretty pathetic, since this news only marginally affects my daily life -- but given what's actually gone down in my daily life these last few weeks, my happiness has to come from somewhere. I'll be taking a happy and hopeful moment where I can get it -- might as well be from the Obama/Biden ticket.

I was so excited, I nearly cried. Okay, fine... I did tear up a little bit. The first thing I did this morning after reading the details on CNN.com, was head to my TiVo and set CNN to record Monday through Thursday, 6pm to midnight. I was probably going to catch as much of the Democratic National Convention as I could anyway, but Biden made me clear my TiVo of all but four episodes of Grey's. That's something.

I don't really have any plans to go all political on this blog, since I don't feel qualified to speak to what isn't much more than a college minor and a strong personal interest in politics in my part (can't get through the week without the Sunday morning shows, though), so I'll keep this relatively brief. I've had a big thing for Joe Biden for years now. My first real memory of liking him was when he was a guest on Meet the Press shortly following the 2004 elections. It was a strange time for any Dem, and I listened to what he had to say. I said aloud, "this guy's really smart. He should be president." And even though he left the race for president early this year, I held out hope for him as a VP pick. I value his experience, his attitude, his opinions. I like that he often meets a question with wit first, and then buckles down and goes for brilliant. I dig him -- actually, I may have never felt so passionately about a politician before -- and I'm truly excited and hopeful that he's on the ticket.

Ted Leo would sing: oh, woe (woe woe)

2008-08-17T20:01:00.008-04:00

Perhaps I should rename this blog "the Complaint Department." It's certainly become a vehicle for me to vent about the injustices that I (think I) encounter. Well, here's another one (actually, several) for the books. If you're already thinking, "whiny bitch..." then you should probably stop reading right about...

... now: Having no money sucks. And, when I say I have no money, I really mean it. My food budget for this week is $15. If I have to eat one more box of organic macaroni and cheese (I may be broke, but I will spend the extra 20 cents per box in hopes of saving the environment), I am going to hurl myself off the Verrazano Bridge. With my $15 for the week, I purchased two boxes of my organic mac and cheese, a box of Morningstar Farms faux-chicken sandwiches, a half-gallon of skim milk (not organic, because that would have been another $2.50!), the cheapest box of generic (non-organic, again, dammit) cereal that I could find, and some fudge bars (because, well, I can't face my situation without some kind of reduced-fat chocolate product). I have a few odds and ends left in my cabinets, too, from the shopping trip two weeks ago, where I had triple the budget (for $45 I was able to score the organic milk! Woo!), but its so frustrating to only spend money on rent, debts, (some) food and transportation, and have $5 left to show for my 10+ hour days at the office, with another five days left until payday. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it. Right?

Tomorrow at work, while I'm savoring my turkey sandwich and sucking down office-provided popcorn, I will have to make a budget so that I can figure out how to afford these two upcoming weddings with next to nothing. I adore both of the people getting married, so I wish I had the dough (or credit) to splurge and get them something really fabulous for their newlywed lives. It just means I need to get creative!

Annnnd on to rant #2: bugs. My apartment building has a small bug situation. It's been the case since I moved in (which, obviously, I was not privy to before I moved in), but since I'm incredibly clean, I can usually keep them at bay. Well, now that it's summer, that's been a lot more difficult. Don't get me wrong, its manageable and entirely normal in a large, older building, but it's still, um, gross. Just a year ago, I would have freaked and called in a strapping man to kill a bug, if I saw one. Now, well, without the luxury of a man (let alone strapping), I kill them myself. And. I. Am. So. Tired. Of. Killing. Freaking. Bugs. In. My. Freaking. Kitchen. Need to debate the pros and cons of moving again. And that, it seems, is going to (mostly) come down to dollars and cents as well.

My writing: One way to make more money to deal with said issues would be to write something and sell it. Definitely not easy, of course. But even harder when I can't write. I'm just blocked. My brain is mush. All of my ideas -- when I have one -- suck or are giant lame rip-offs of something someone more talented has already done. I want to write. I sit down in hopes of doing so. And then... I'm watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother or checking my email or, sadly, just sitting, waiting for divine intervention. It's pathetic.

And, what's looming over me, when these situations (and work and weight loss and family and...) are stressing me out, I keep thinking, "where's my partner?" I thought I had one to help me through this ridiculousness. I want an escape, albeit temporary.

I feel dangerously close to saying, "all right, New York, you won. You've beaten me. Fuck you for taking away my hopes and my dreams."

"this is so going in my blog!"

2008-08-14T14:49:00.006-04:00

I love my office. I love my office. I love my office. In fact, I love it so much, here I am in it:

No, I don't work with hazardous materials; I work in PR. With a painting mask on. Uh huh... We're all wearing them today. It's the hot new accessory in all of the top toxic offices. We're so trend-setting right now.

ask the sky to fall on me

2008-08-11T22:15:00.003-04:00

Today I just couldn't stop. Stop obsessing. Stop feeling. Stop talking. Stop thinking. Stop freaking. Stop being a freak. I need a re-education. I'm 26 years old and I need to learn how to be a normal, social person all over again.

Earlier this evening, I found a very close college friend of mine on Facebook. In the grand scheme of my life, we were extremely close for about a minute. Hell, even in relation to four years of college, we were only close for a minute. But, in the thick of it, we really connected. We met and we were just friends, in what that word is really supposed to mean. Like, in a nice mix of dot your i's with hearts way and have your kids call her "aunt" even though she's not way. We did everything together for a few months. She was a great friend to me -- she really listened, we exchanged witty banter, we had great fun. She really understood me in a way that I felt few people did. And, even now, I still think she understood me better than most people had or have since. It was a strange connection, but I was incredibly grateful for it. Knowing what I know now about myself, it's occurred to me that maybe I was kind of in love with her -- or the idea of her.

Fast forward a few months and we weren't speaking anymore. I've wondered for years what happened.

Enter Facebook, circa today. I looked her up, and there she was. And I friend requested her. I used up all 255 permitted characters in my greeting trying to explain that I really and truly missed her friendship and I still thought about her often. I sent the message before I could erase those 255 characters, therefore preventing myself from sounding like a complete stalker-freak. And away it went into cyberspace. My 255 character message in all it's freakishness.

I had thought about contacting her again for at least two years, actually. And yet. It felt like it had to be today. I just had to know. Immediately.

Putting out that friend request felt like offering my glass heart for her to smash into a million pieces. I'm doing a lot of that lately. This request for acceptance is a microcosm of my last few months. I'm left questioning. Vulnerable. In all my freakish glory.

2008-08-07T22:08:00.004-04:00

"So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon'tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeof-
glassI'veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme..."

- from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss

I would call it writer's block, if I felt I could call myself a writer...

2008-07-14T22:00:00.003-04:00

I left work at a reasonable hour this evening -- that's pretty unusual for me for a Monday -- and I decided on the train ride home that I was going to sit down in my decadent air-conditioning and write. I mean, really write. So upon walking in my door and killing a bug, I nuked my Lean Cuisine and fired up the MacBook. Oh, sweet glorious love of my life -- my MacBook.

I opened my "novel." And by "novel," I mean the three written pages of nothingness I've spewed out over the last few months. Tonight, I wrote maybe six lines. Six whole lines. And now, more nothingness.

And here's what is holding me back... I think that I hate my idea. The entire event on which said "novel" is based... yep, pretty sure I hate it. I certainly never loved it. I sort of tolerated it for three pages. I briefly flirted with an idea that left a lot of be desired anyway. Now that the flirtation is old-hat, and the mild amusement I felt with my opening line -- about it really fucking hurting when you get hit by a bus -- has faded... and well, I am all-out loathing for my idea. See, the bus thing was a poor metaphor for the style of writing that I was -- at very best -- attempting. And, well, that's just stupid and weak.

I generally write out of my head. I'll sit on the train and write a paragraph or two in my head. Those very rarely see my MacBook or paper, though. I think I arrived at the whole bus thing on the train, actually. I've taken the bus here exactly three times. Don't like it much. Shouldn't write about a bus.

I'm missing my own point. It wasn't about a bus. Nevermind that.

So, since I hate this idea, and it's going nowhere slowly, I need a new one. Send help.

I want to believe I'm this writer trapped in a publicist's career with all of these great ideas that someone will one day want to publish. But not today. Today (and for the foreseeable future) I need help.

show me the money

2008-06-14T00:02:00.002-04:00

During my extended blogging hiatus, my financial situation not only did not improve, it actually worsened. If you can believe it, I am actually $550 overdrawn on my bank account as I type this. Pretty sure that means that my rent check will bounce by Monday. Can we say eviction?

I am overdrawn (mostly) because of my fake pregnancy. What? No, it's not the kind of thing that someone should lie about, but I did. I would probably be going to hell, if I really believed in it. I spent Monday in tears on my living room floor, trying desperately to defy my meekness and install an air conditioner myself. The thermometer in the room read 92 degrees (it was 105 outside in New York), and I after giving up before the early afternoon, I waited and waited and waited and waited and... you get the point... for an air conditioning installer person to rescue me. At promptly, um, midnight, he arrived. He only arrived because I claimed to be pregnant (I guess I'm glad I went off Weight Watchers last month). I just kind of blurted it out. I'm not a terrible person, I was just miserable and could not stand the heat any longer. Don't judge me.

I have air conditioning now and it's currently set at 64 degrees. It cost me approximately 1/3 of my paycheck (I wish I was kidding), and my next electric bill will only tell how much more before October.

I am also in the red because I went home to witness my little brother's high school graduation. Rental cars a expensive, not to mention that whole $4+ for a gallon of gas thing. Enterprise should rent hybrids. While visiting "home", I saw my high school math teacher that I was convinced I was going to marry. He's still single -- not sure how that can be-- and I briefly considered throwing myself at him. Had I been home another day, I might have.

I'm not sure why I can't get this whole grown-up finances shit together yet. Every month I skimp on everything and just a few days after my paycheck has been deposited I am f'ed again and can't buy milk. Twice this week I couldn't afford a cab to the Javits Center (it's about a million and a half long blocks away from everything else in Manhattan), that I would have been reimbursed for. That made me sad (and hot, because it's a loooong walk back to civilization).

So I'm pathetic and selling some things on eBay to try to get back into the black. Since all but two of my designer handbags were sold months ago, I've moved on to my DVD collection. I think the only thing in my entire apartment that has remained untouched in my quest to make quick cash has been my bookshelf. I can't bear to part with anything on it. Even if I don't always read the most challenging literature, having a small collection makes me feel smarter. And I certainly need something to maintain the little bit of self-esteem I have left before the bank takes that, too...

I miss you, Visa!

2008-03-21T21:58:00.004-04:00

I really miss my credit cards. I went shopping after work today to purchase a birthday present. While searching for said gift, I found a few really cute spring-weather tops that I looked pretty cute in, being down TWENTY pounds and all! Woo! So I purchased them. Then, I got home and plugged the numbers into my budget... well, let's say that I am now experiencing some serious buyer's remorse and will make making some returns tomorrow. Not so woo anymore.

they're no Christian Louboutin, but I make it work

2008-03-05T23:15:00.003-05:00

I often talk about how I don't always feel like an adult. This transition from student to hip urban professional feels like an especially slow one. I mean, c'mon! I graduated four years ago! When I was 22 and walking up to the stage to get my diploma I thought I'd probably be married with a kid on the horizon by 26. And, at 26, I'm not ready (at least not for the kid part).

I don't revel in the freedom of adulthood the way that I thought I might. When your parents first drop you off at college for your freshman year, the freedom is incredible. You can drink, smoke, eat cereal from the dining hall for every meal, skip all of your classes and sleep all day if that's what you want. Because no one can say no. And if they try, you can lie about it. The freedom is power, and the power is intense and constant. Yes, I still occasionally find pleasure in having ice cream for dinner after a bad day, but it's a fleeting thing now. My thoughts quickly return to,"but I know better than this." Like my mother (or someone else's mother - maybe not mine who recently encouraged by 18 year old brother to get a fake ID). So even though I'm not ready, I'm someone's mother. I'm mine.

But, on the flip-side, being an adult isn't all self-policing -- it has its perks.

I decided today on the train that my favorite thing about being it is the cute shoes. Sure, my feet have been pretty much the same size since I was 13, but, thinking back on my early shoe collections, I was in a sad state. I'm sure I wore sneakers or hideously clunky shoes throughout high school. I recall a particular pair from early, and I seriously wish I had pictures... they were like little brown faux-leather boats on my size 6 1/2 feet. And I wore them ev-evr-y-where. I think when I went away to college I packed three or four pairs of shoes. That was probably all I had. Now... well, are you kidding? I think I have that many pairs under my desk at work. All adorable, flattering, delicate flats. Even my sneakers are cute. Geez, even my workout sneakers are cute. I wandered into New York in 2004 and finally woke up and said, "oooh! shoes!" like I had never seen a pair before. With a stressful job, too little money, a small apartment, blah, blah, blah, cute shoes are, so far, the highlight of my adulthood. I think of them as a microcosm of what i should be as a fully realized adult.

If you're thinking, "my, isn't she superficial and sad...," then I challenge you: think of your favorite pair of shoes in high school and your favorite pair now. See? You have much better taste now, right?

debt-free and 135 pounds or bust!

2008-02-15T23:38:00.004-05:00

Inspired by my friend and fellow blogger Sarah's last post, I thought I would update on the progress in the world of being debt-free and skinny.

There was an important development in my financial situation this week, as I was promoted at work. The promotion scored me a new title, a good bit of a raise and a new office all to myself (but don't think I don't miss you, Evan!).

I'm especially pleased about the raise, obviously. I crunched the numbers, and assuming 30% to be taken out in taxes (that will go to fund a war that I think sucks and doesn't protect troops like my father who would gladly wear the 50 pound body armor despite the 125 degree heat if it were offered to them), I should see a little less than $200 more in each of my 24 paychecks per year. This should be a big help in my quest to be able to eat AND pay off my creditors. I likely will not see an increase until mid-next month, but I am already anticipating it by making a list of shoes that I wish to purchase from Zappos.com. Sounds counterproductive, right? No, not really. As spring approaches I will need at least a new pair of kicks appropriate for casual days at the office (as if there were any other days at my office) since I destroyed the adorable brown Converse pair from last year. So, Zappos - here I come (soon)!

Besides the shoes (and maybe one fantastic splurge when that first new paycheck clears my account... I totally need a hot spring bag), the plan for the rest of the funds is to: a). increase my food budget by about $50 per month ... b). make one additional, albeit small, payment to my one remaining credit card mid-month so that I can pay down that balance faster ... and c). increase my entertainment budget by 100%, as it is currently at next to nothing. To the movie theatre, I go! Anything left over from the raise will probably take up space in my checking account, which will increase my much needed padding, because living paycheck to paycheck sucks like nobody's business.

As for the scale, I'm down 18 pounds as I am about to begin week 8! The number on the scale is nice, but the best part has been the two incidents this week where people in my office have said, and I quote, "damn, you look great!" One office pal even stopped a nearby conversation to announce my weight loss and had everyone comment on how smokin' hot I look. One of the girls who was brought into the conversation is new to the office, so I was pleased to say, "yeah, you didn't know me when I was a cow." Moo no mo'!

I still have a ways to go on both of these new test-of-my-usually-lacking-willpower adventures, but I am pleased to report that at least two of the things I aimed to change in the new year are going quite well. I'm hoping by the end of summer I will be able to combine my successes with a celebratory vacation on a beach somewhere. Donations (and company) are still welcome, though.

Bob Thompson is always right

2008-02-14T10:39:00.006-05:00

As a television major in college, I took many a television criticism class. And, since I went to the prestigious Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University (which, um, didn't wow employers in the real world like they said it would), I studied under the professors who, at the time, I referred to as "the committee on television as fine art." At the helm of my imaginary committee included Bob Thompson (you've seen him on CNN 10,000 times, even if you don't recall his name). I, like so many others, was a huge fan of Dr. Thompson. So, when I read the list below in one of the entertainment trades, I wanted to drive to Syracuse and hear him lecture on it. Maybe he has a blog...

Mensa's Top Ten Smartest Shows of all Time (in no particular order):

M*A*S*H
Cosmos
CSI
House
West Wing
Boston Legal
All in the Family
Frasier
Mad About You
Jeopardy

*courtesy of FanCast.com

I have to say that I feel especially vindicated that Mad About You made this list. It is one of my favorite television shows of all time, because the writing was always sharp, witty and real. The characters of Paul and Jamie were flawed, as was their relationship, but at their core they really loved one another as partners and friends and navigated coupledom in a very honest (and New York) way. If I could summarize my ideal mate, a little bit of Paul Buchman would be in the mix.

it can't all be wedding cake

2008-02-05T11:05:00.000-05:00

I've always liked the idea of a secret handshake. The sentiment is so warm and romantic. Something to share. It's just for you.

I've spent an exhausting amount of time in the last month analyzing my "romantic" relationship. Most recently, I've been thinking about the things that used to be just for me. I dream about them. I know that a relationship is hard work. It can't all be wedding cake. But sometimes its hard not miss the whirlwind romance of the beginning.The secret handshakes. The question for me - right now - is, how much of that is okay to lose after a few years of daily life? And how much do I need to feel beautiful and special and loved?

If I could pinpoint one thing I've wanted since I was a little girl, it wasn't a job (I wanted to be a fashion designer, a writer and a talk show host at any given time). It was a family of my own. A genuine opportunity to distance myself from my upbringing and do things my way. Is that selfish? I come from a strange and tangled background of divorced parents and bad stepparents, and the one thing that allowed me some comfort during the tumultuous times was the thought that someday I would build a family of my own with someone. I would have a spouse who understood where I came from and where I'm going, and maybe some children followed after I had an opportunity to travel with said spouse - literally face the world together. My partner.

My former roommate used to mock me for loving weddings and for fantasizing about my own. It all seemed very superficial to her. On the surface, it is. But what I wasn't able to articulate at the time was that this dream wedding was the beginning of my new family. This event would put it on paper that I was moving on to construct a new life - as far away as possible from the one that I had known.

We met boys we really liked at the exact same time. The short of it is that she got married first. There was no mistaking that I was jealous. I was still very much involved with the boy that I had met when she met hers (said "romantic" relationship of then and now), and he didn't get it either. You don't want her life, so why be jealous? But her marriage hit me on a very visceral level. She's started. I'm not. We don't speak anymore. She might think its because of this, and I'm almost ashamed that it sort of is. Not entirely, of course, about a thousand other things lead to the demise of our friendship, but I can't lie that her wedding announcement didn't help matters.

I didn't mean for this to be about her. She was a nice person and I hope she's very happy.

I want to be, too. Things like secret screenames and single phrases used to make me very happy. But that was in the beginning. When those things were just for me. Now those things are gone. Shared with others.

I'm not sure what I expected. Whatever it was, it was unrealistic. I left that relationship a while back. It was natural - that opened the door to share what I thought of as mine with others. He could. Turns out that I couldn't. And then I came back and wanted him to tell me that he couldn't either. But he didn't. And we didn't re-enter the honeymoon phase of our relationship. It went straight back into being hard. And I wasn't ready for that.

There's an object that I see occasionally that always shakes me up, even if I'm in the best of moods. Its a stupid little something that I wanted a long time ago that I didn't get - for whatever reason. But now it's there. I can only assume that it was purchased to impress someone else. That object, every time I see it, sends me down a ridiculous spiral of self-hatred. I tell myself I'm not pretty; I'm not witty enough; I'm not intelligent; I'm too fat. It's ridiculous because its a common object, yet it brings out all of these horrible things in me. But it was there before me (or so I once heard). Not during. Then it was after. New and shiny. I want it broken in a million pieces on the floor. So I can maybe have something that is just for me again.

... that's why you will not survive: a week in review

2008-02-01T16:49:00.000-05:00

Sunday: Felt sick all day. Stayed on my couch. Became bored very quickly. Was unable to nap.

Monday: I spent a large portion of my day at the DMV. Should have been a good indication that this week would blooooooooow. Really, though, considering you only go to the DMV every few years, the waiting and waiting and waiting isn't that bad. I guess. And, well, I did move into the city well over a year ago and am only getting around to changing my driver's license now. But, I will make my obligatory complaint about the DMV: what's up with not showing me my photo before its printed? This is the digital age -- one would think it would be pretty darn easy. So in just a few days when I receive my official license in the mail I can find out that one eye is closed and my bra strap is hanging out like a hooker. Neat. Can't wait.

Tuesday: Figured out that I only had $85 until next Thursday. And then realized that I was about to go over the limit on my one and only credit card. So fifty of those dollars went to prevent that.

Wednesday: Colleague called out my picky eating habits in front of a client. And that whole Pop-Up Lost episode wasn't very helpful in solving any of the island's mysteries. Experienced Project Runway withdrawal.

Thursday: Spent my lunch time tracking down five copies of the new Backyardigans CD so that I wouldn't ruin a good relationship with a journalist. Then I blew 6 Weight Watchers points on half of a big cookie from Cosi. I had missed cookies, but I can eat nothing but salads for the rest of the week if I expect to lose any weight before Sunday.

Friday: I am tired and annoyed with most people I work with. Couldn't eat lunch until 4pm, and I had to spend my last $10 on delivery. Jeans I tried on didn't fit.

In retaliation of this week, I am blogging at work and listening to Spoon's "The Underdog" loud enough for most of the office to hear me.