blabber mouth

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

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

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

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

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

Coping with Emotional Distress: Lesson One

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

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.