Typing Pool

RIP, Amy

2011-07-27T23:38:00.005-04:00

I'm so sad about Amy Winehouse, you guys. All I could think about in the days after she died (aside from the obvious tragedy) is how much I related to her a few years ago.

So, I know this is kind of maudlin, but please crank one of her songs and read the post I wrote about her in 2008.

RIP, honey. I think we all understood you more than you'll ever know.

Anyone? Bueller?

2010-05-10T22:50:00.006-04:00

Hey, guys. So, um, I know I haven't posted here in a year and a half, but I'm curious: Am I still in any of your RSS feeds? Is anyone — anyone at all, even those without RSS feeds — reading this right now? If so, I would absolutely love it if you commented below, even with a "Yeah" or a "Me!" or an "Unfortunately, yes." Or if you'd rather not comment, would you mind shooting me an e-mail at newbietonyc@hotmail.com just to say hey?

As for what prompted this, I'm trying to research this personal essay I'm supposed to write this week for a women's website (I've grown to loathe personal essays, especially mine, believe it or not), so I thought I'd take a spin through my abandoned blog. In doing so, I saw today that Forksplit, one of my favorite blogs, recently had a posting renaissance, and it brought me back to '08. Good times! Good emotionally unstable times!

The Endorsement: Haras Estate Cabernet Sauvignon 2005

2008-10-20T22:31:00.011-04:00

I drink Chilean cabernet because it's cheap and solid. You can walk into your wine store, pay $5.99 for some label you've never heard of, and expect the pours to be spicy and serviceable. In my opinion, the better inexpensive ones are so spicy you feel like you're drinking fresh pepper from the grinder a swank SoHo restaurant. Those hold a special place in my heart.

Tonight, I selected a $9 bottle that I thought would pair nicely with Xanax and my own self-loathing. To my surprise, this Chilean cab blew me away. It's round and not terribly spicy, and it has this fab cedar body that I kept tasting sip after sip, not just on the first swallow.

In true Jane form, I've drunk two-thirds of the bottle tonight, and, like my multiple glasses, the name bears repeating (counting the hed of this post): Haras Estate Maipo Valley Cabernet Sauvignon 2005. The label features a sketch of a horse that supposedly honors Leonardo da Vinci. Between you and me, I chose this particular bottle because the back label shows that the winery is horseshoe-shaped. Apparently the land was first used to raise thoroughbred horses, and you guys know I am a sucker for an earnest theme.

So, yeah, go buy this one. Here.

And by the way, readers...I'm back. For now.

Dissecting Diane

2008-07-01T20:31:00.007-04:00

Yesterday I was early to my therapist appointment (as usual), so I sat in her tiny, humid half-room pawing through a stack of outdated magazines. Faced with choices including 2006 New York Times Magazines and ancient copies of AARP, I settled on a 2007 issue of Marie Claire and flipped to the feature well. I'm not a huge fan of Marie Claire (especially after reading an incredibly confusing story about sex with a paraplegic in this particular issue), but then I stumbled across one of the most fascinatingly counterintuitive pieces I'd read in a long time: this profile on Diane Warren.

Dianne Warren, if you're not familiar, has been honored over and over again at music awards shows as one of the great songwriters of our time. The woman wrote "If I Could Turn Back Time"! (As well as a bunch of classic Michael Bolton and Celine Dion songs, and one of my personal favorites, "Tell It to My Heart," sung by Taylor Dayne. Check out a longer list of her songs on Warren's Wikipedia page.) According to the profile, though, the woman whom we would expect to be home watching Lifetime Original Movies and self-medicating with chocolate is actually a fabulously foul-mouthed, tacky-home-decor-loving, parrot-owning force of nature who -- wait for it -- has never been in love.

Ever.

Warren is single and couldn't care less, even though she had a seven-year live-in relationship with a man in the music biz back in the day that she describes as not "love," but instead "comfortable." She loves her music and her work, but relationships? Not so much. I found this absolutely riveting.

For me, it was especially fascinating because I consider one of her songs a turning point in my early relationship with N. Remember that Aerosmith song "Don't Wanna Miss a Thing"? It was on the soundtrack to that terrible action flick Armageddeon, it was nominated for a Grammy, and it apparently sold like hotcakes. The lyrics are sort of crazy, though: "I don't wanna close my eyes/ I don't wanna fall asleep/ 'Cause I'd miss you, baby/ And I don't want to miss a thing." When I first heard it at age 18, I thought, "What does that even mean? What would Steven Tyler be missing if he fell asleep? This song is nonsensical."

Around Thanksgiving last year, N and I were sleeping in the same bed, and he fell asleep first. He usually falls asleep first. I listened to him breathe, and I ran my eyes over his skin, his hair, and his person, and I realized I was in love with him. I knew it was probably ill-advised, and I think I could sense I was in for a world of hurt, but I loved him then intensely and completely, and I have never since stopped. In that particular tangible moment, just like the lyrics say, a song flooded all of my synapses -- loud, as if I were cranking the radio in my Chevy Nova 10 years ago. It was that damn Aerosmith song: "I don't wanna close my eyes/ I don't want to fall asleep/ 'Cause I'd miss you baby/ And I don't want to miss a thing."

Ten years after the song's release, I finally understood the lyrics.

Toward its end, the Marie Claire story mentions "I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing." As it turns out, not only has Diane Warren never been as in love as the song would have us believe she was, but she also got the inspiration for the song from a quote that James Brolin gave about his love, Barbra Streisand.

I hesitate to say that my mind was blown by the seeming hollowness of the song, because I don't think any of us are under the illusion that everything we hear/see/experience isn't manufactured in some way. Even my love for N, by putting it to a soundtrack, was manufactured at that time, by using someone else's words to describe my feelings rather than using my own. Having just been to a wedding, though, I know that this goes on all the time. People use other people's music to describe their feelings -- the couple I just saw get hitched used "Angel Eyes" by the Jeff Healey Band for their first dance in order to express their love and happiness to their wedding guests. People having trouble in their relationships are compelled buy those pastel cards at drugstores that have long passages about "loving you always" despite "mistakes I have made." Those card authors even get a byline above where the card-giver signs his or her name.

So all of this got me thinking about imagery (bridal veils, hands clasping, a couple walking in the park) and patented words and phrases ("baby," "piece of my heart," "in love with you") that all of us -- at some point -- will either use or buy into or expect at some point. How do imagery and songs and crazy Christian upbringings (I'm sorry, maybe that's just me) affect our expectations?

Because I feel for someone, does that prevent me from feeling for other people at the same time? What makes us want to couple? Biology, arguably, but studies show that men are only romantically in it for nine months, and then they move on to the next woman. People still marry, but for what reasons? If you don't need financial support, is there a compelling argument to pair up? Emotional support? Moral support? Desire for children? But if it's just support, where does sex and attraction fit in? Can you have support and attraction/great sex? Or are they mutually exclusive? Is a little bit of a chase always going to make things hotter? And does a good, strong relationship have to be just a little bit boring in order to feel stable? Is there really such a thing as "the one"? Or are we all biological creatures oozing against each other to fulfill what desires (sexual, emotional, or procreational) we have at the time? And, if so, doesn't that make the concept of "love" a little...impersonal?

Maybe Diane Warren has the right idea.

But you can bet that -- at some point -- most of us will choose to believe her songs anyway. I think that, despite everything, I still want to.

Black

2008-06-27T19:57:00.004-04:00

I got home early today and watched Access Hollywood. I prefer it to Entertainment Tonight, though I'm not sure why. They did a segment on Amy Winehouse, interviewing the journalist who wrote this simple yet searing profile for Rolling Stone on the state of the singer today. I watched the whole show just so I could see the Amy segment, because I loved the article so much when I read it a few days ago.

The journalist, Claire Hoffman, began talking. She looked about my age, and as she spoke about seeing Amy living in filth, depressed, and missing her husband, Blake Fielder-Civil, I began to cry, because, like it or not, I identify with Amy. I don't want to identify with her, but I do. I am obsessed with reading about her lately.

I understand what it's like just to want to stay in the house and do drugs (or escape in some way -- booze, whatever) when the man you love is away, whether he deserves that devotion or not. Amy has made her existence Blake.

Amy wrote Back to Black during one of her breakups with Blake. Listen to it. I'm listening to it now. The lyrics are true and honest.

In the Rolling Stone story, Hoffman says that Amy's "trust is remarkable." Amy is kind to her fans, even talking about her wardrobe with two fans over an intercom. Amy's friend tells her she thinks she may have been in love before, and Amy says, "No, no, if you had, you'd be dead because you weren't together." Oversimplifying and juvenile, okay, but still, to me, there's something tangible to relate to. I relate to all of it.

Lately all I feel are restrictions: self-imposed, mostly. Like tonight: I'm drinking wine alone in my apartment, because I don't want to go to a bar by myself; I know I shouldn't go to a bar myself, because I've done that before, and all it led to was bad decisions, spent money, and self-loathing. I want to eat something else tonight, but I know that if I do I'll gain weight, and one of the only things that makes me feel good about myself lately is how thin I am: the thinnest I've been in years. I want to smoke -- I've smoked four cigarettes in the past two weeks, and I am disappointed in myself for that, but I'm more sad that I don't really care that much -- but I don't want to leave my apartment, and I don't want to make my bed smell like smoke. I want to call N -- he's on vacation in California -- but I shouldn't because I don't want to bother him, I don't want to be That Girl, and my therapist says he's supposed to chase me. I have people I could go out with, friends that I could call (someone from my past just called me to come hang out downtown; I pushed "mute" on the ringer), but if I did I'd have to spend money (which I don't have much of right now) and make pleasant conversation and feign concern about others and their feelings through my boozy haze, and I am less and less willing to do that as the years wear on.

In the article, you can tell Amy doesn't care much about working anymore, though you can see she's still passionate about singing and has new musical ideas. Music was her base. But that was then, and this is now, during and after Blake, which I'm speculating is the only thing she's felt passionate about in a long time.

I feel that way.

I feel that way about my work, which was always my first priority. I sometimes do read things that I love and get excited about the prospect of writing something that I love or others will love, but I have no follow-through. My feelings of failure about the disintegration of the romantic life that I tried so hard to create have eclipsed a lot of things. I try to get excited about movies or TV shows -- those normal things that normal people look forward to and talk about around the water cooler. I told myself that when I got home I was going to watch a DVD, but I didn't. I never do. I talk a great big game, about how I want to stay true to myself and be positive and make things work for me and not sell myself out. I think my friends and my therapist believe me.

But...the truth?

I've gotten everything I've ever wanted. Every. Single. Thing. The job, the city, the apartment, the friends, the (sometime) boy. I feel...done. Everything else feels like filler. Other accomplishments as addendums to what I already wanted long ago seem unrealistic, and just I don't have the energy anymore to get water from a stone, the way I did in my ambitious days. The hours crawl by. I count hours and minutes until I can go home for the day.

That's why I prefer to sit here, drinking $7.99 malbec and watching as the empty identical wine bottles, in a span of a couple of days, take their place in line next to one another on my kitchen countertop.

People want Amy to get better -- kick the habit, get back to the music, dump Blake, not to die. But, aside from standard concern for your fellow human beings, I wonder why they want that for someone they don't know. So she'll make us another record that we can dance to at retarded, overpriced dance clubs and sing karaoke to upstairs at Japanese sushi bars? Maybe just let her be. Maybe she just wants to be left alone.

Sometimes the demons don't leave.

Better Halves

2008-06-25T22:34:00.006-04:00

"ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT N?!" a coworker of mine asked today as I stood at Sunny's cubicle. Well, it wasn't so much "asking" as "accusing," and her tone was more "threatening" than "inquiring." I don't know what she overheard. I don't blame her for asking, as she was one of a sea of people who e-mailed me thought-out pep-talk paragraphs and launched into you-break-up-with-him-girl speeches when N was being a jerk.

"No..." I said. "I was talking about his friend, Six-Two." (This was true, actually.) As an afterthought, I added, "I'm not dating Six-Two." (Also true.)

I don't remember what I was saying about Six-Two -- maybe I was just telling Sunny a story or making some sort of soft comparison. But as I walked back to my desk, I had a thought: When did N go from being my cute, rogue-ish Nicky Arnstein to my detrimental bad habit -- my Blake Fielder-Civil? My Raffaello Follieri? My Pete Doherty? I suddenly find myself reading news stories about Amy Winehouse and Anne Hathaway and their blind love for their shady men and feeling some sort of kinship with them. Okay, so N has never been in jail (that I know of) or swindled people out of thousands, but where is the line between love and bad decision-making?

I'm afraid to mention N to much of anyone, because I don't want to hear the criticism. I know it all, in my head, already, so even if I feel that N is genuinely trying now -- really working to communicate with me, be present, and be nice to my friends and me -- everyone else is still going to hear what I said before, when he was making me miserable.

The question is, Will he be able to sustain this? And will I ever be able to trust him again?

Fleeting

2008-06-19T20:44:00.003-04:00

I dreamed last night that structures were crumbling. Old billboards were collapsing on themselves and falling down as dust. Green-leaved trees were singeing internally and burning to the ground. I was trying to find my grandmothers. Everyone outside was milling around, not really panicking, but awestruck. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness, and I kept looking up at the destruction and repeating, "It's fleeting. It's fleeting."

I woke up from the dream with a start in N's bed. I panicked, my heart fluttering and my chest ever so slightly in pain. I don't remember this, but N said I was crying in my sleep, and then suddenly I sat up and looked at him and said, "I didn't know where I was."

When N is happy, he is wonderful, and I feel wonderful. He tells jokes and does funny impressions of people we know. He makes up sarcastic, hypothetical stories and relates them in movie-like dialogue, and I laugh out loud. He kisses me and holds my hand and tells me about books I'd like or news stories I should read. His eyes are clear and large, and he tells me how he feels about me. I smile, and my concerns dissipate. I feel like the woman I always wanted to be: pretty and happy and confident and metropolitan, with the man she loves next to her.

But I can feel when N turns. His eyes go dark, and his forehead creases. He doesn't talk as much, and I find myself trying to fill the space between us with stupid anecdotes or subway observations or updates on a subject we talked about days before. It's when I can feel him closing that I want to reach out for him and scream, "No! Come back! I love you! Please don't leave!"

But it is always too late.

"I Give Myself Very Good Advice, But I Very Seldom Follow It"

2008-06-16T23:24:00.008-04:00

"You know, you're the worst person to give advice to," Middle Sister said to me.

"Really?" I asked. I usually think of myself as an almost tragically impressionable person.

"Yeah," she said, not really looking at me as she packed up her things in our hotel room at the end of this past weekend. "Because you just don't want to hear it." She launched into a somewhat unflattering impression of me that included the words "I know, okay? I fucking know. Shut up." (Apparently I'm fond of the cursin' and the belligerence when I've combined Bud Light and Jack Daniel's. As anyone would be.)

For me, though, patented, copyrighted, reprinted "advice" in any situation (career, relationships, life, apartment, friendships, financial decisions) rings hollow. I don't like platitudes and cliches. Even if you're quoting Lincoln, I'm kind of not hearing it, because it's all been said before. Easy phrases and psycho-babble passages are like the "Hang in there!" kitten-clutching-a-tree-branch posters of the emotional world. What I identify with are other people's stories.

I got a good one recently.

I was relaxing on the Upper West with Six-Two (yes, the friend of N's from January), and he launched into a short story about a woman he was dating over in L.A. a while ago. Slouched in his seat, he rolled his eyes almost as soon as he started telling me about her:

"She said, 'Oh, you're wearing flip-flops. We're not going to get into Area' -- or whatever club -- 'tonight.' "

Six-Two paused for effect.

"And for a second I cared," he said.

His eyes bored into mine, and I could tell we were dancing around the pink elephant in the room. We were communicating through analogies and stories, because that's how information has been passed down for ages and ages.

For that moment, I looked at him and deciphered the code. Mmm. Exactly.

Now here's my allegory: In my late 20s, I once dated a man who, through emotional withdrawals and non-communication, pigeonholed me emotionally to the point that I molded myself into his theoretical ideal. I was an animatronic girlfriend. I didn't have problems, I didn't have boundaries, I didn't have needs, and I didn't have wants. All of my future plans could be counterprogrammed into something that he wanted, his vision of his upcoming life: Stepford girlfriend, batteries included. I always did my hair, I never called him to talk about my bad day, and I never bothered him when I knew he was out doing God knows what with whomever he wanted.

When he stopped wanting Animatronic Jane, as whittled down as I had become, for a second I cared.

Ass-Kicking

2008-06-12T23:59:00.003-04:00

I'm going to be away this weekend, but I wanted to leave y'all with something. I've recently made a new friend, and he sent me something great a couple of weeks ago. I don't know how many of you guys are going through breakups or just remember how it was, but I found my friend's e-mail incredibly inspiring at the time (just FYI, the "failskirt" in this refers to a skirt that I ordered online and had to take scissors to in order to make the stuck zipper go all the way down):

"The rules are simple: You got sat on your ass? So what? Somebody doesn't realize why you're great? To hell with them. They'll learn or they won't, but you're not a teacher; you're an ass-kicker. You don't have the time to teach. The next time you drink, you're turning a failskirt into a WINskirt and you're working it hardcore. This isn't quantum physics, this is life. Time you spend crying is time you spend dying."

Love. That.

Laugh with Me

2008-06-11T23:34:00.002-04:00

Okay, I think we need some breakup humor after all of this heavy emotional lifting.

Saw this yesterday and died laughing. I heart "Flight of the Conchords."

The C-Word

2008-06-11T08:21:00.004-04:00

Trying to trust anyone now feels like ripping off my skin -- exposing the pink muscle tissue -- and standing in the summer air during an acid rain.

"Jane, you're so sexy."

"Mmmm-hmmm."

"Jane, I want you so much. And I think you want me."

"Of course you do."

"Jane, what is wrong? Do you want to sit down? Talk about your problems? Here, let's sit."

"No, that's okay."

"Jane, what did your ex do to you?"

[Silence.]

"Jane, whatever he did, I'm not him. Look at me. I'm not going to make false promises. You and me -- this isn't random. We have a connection."

Aaaaand, scene.

The C-word, "connection," is the most bullshit word in the English language as far as I'm concerned right now. In dating/relationships/hookups, there is no such California new-age thing as a "connection." There is attraction, and then there is work to make a relationship grow. "Connection" does not exist. N loved to use the word "connection," and I bristled like a porcupine every time he said it. It should go unsaid that N was and is an emotional infant.

Attraction is fleeting. Love is something you work on. It's easy to have the former. The latter is the tough part, and I am fucking great at the tough part. Unfortunately, men aren't. Or maybe not-so-unfortunately... I am far happier being by myself than being in purgatory with someone who can't step up.

Exiting

2008-06-08T15:55:00.005-04:00

I watched Hillary Clinton's exit speech on CNN yesterday. The words "grace," "dignity," and "strength" are just a few generic terms that came to mind when I heard her speak. Imagine how much she put into her campaign: a brave face in the wake of total public humiliation, stoicism in order to be taken seriously, time, money, patience, grit. Now imagine how it must feel to have all of it be totally over, due to factors that weren't her fault (bad campaign manager, general public sentiment, sexism...you pick).

It's a stretch to compare all of that to my breakup, but I was incredibly inspired by this portion of her speech:

"So I want to say to my supporters, when you hear people saying – or think to yourself – "if only" or "what if," I say, "please don't go there." Every moment wasted looking back keeps us from moving forward. Life is too short, time is too precious, and the stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been. We have to work together for what still can be."

I loved this. "The stakes are too high to dwell on what might have been" is my new mantra for getting over being so completely burned and hurt by someone selfish and deceitful, and moving on to feeling secure with myself: an honest, loving person who only wanted good things for everyone involved.

The Wrong Order

2008-06-07T10:05:00.003-04:00

I ran a few quick errands today and stopped at my corner deli for breakfast. I glanced at the specials menu, and before I even knew what I was saying, I ordered N's favorite breakfast sandwich, in the exact control-freak way he always demanded it. I became angry with myself. Why the fuck am I still ordering N's food, still in N's head?

It was too late to call my order back. It was habit, I guess -- rote memory of all of those dumb little things you love about someone when you're in a relationship with them. If you could even call N's and my connection-free coupling a relationship. I barely do.

I carried my shame sandwich in a brown paper bag back to my apartment, so intensely mad at myself for picking something I wasn't even sure that I really wanted.

I unfolded the foil and looked inside: The deli guys got the order wrong. Instead of a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich (crispy bacon, egg soft-scrambled), I was the proud owner of a ham-egg-and-cheese sandwich (grilled ham, egg fried).

I smiled. Even the deli guys know it's time for me to move on.

Land of the Manchildren

2008-06-06T23:19:00.003-04:00

I went out tonight with one of my favorite friends, Platonic Married Guy (PMG, for short). PMG and I were former coworkers, and we have a lot in common, including our religious upbringings and the Midwest as our true heartland. I adore Platonic Married Guy, because not only is he insightful on all things work- or relationship-related, he has never once insinuated that our relationship is anything but friendly. That, my friends, is nice. And rare.

I met PMG and a few of his buddies out for drinks tonight. It was unintentionally fantastic: me at a table with four other dudes. I wasn't expecting that. One of them was cute and looked about my age. We made eyes at each other, and I listened to him: Midwest-born. Artist. Eloquent. Smart. Funny. Ummmm...hello!

Later I made all of the boys fess up their ages. Cute friend was 43. Good God. I already upped my limit for N, but 43 is ridiculous. I tried to pay for my drinks, of course they insisted I didn't, and I went to the ladies' room.

I came back to the table to grab my purse and my jacket, and PMG's cute friend was showing off the shirts he bought at an outlet mall to the rest of the guys. I had an unpleasant flashback:

Shopping. Old but looks young. Fancies himself an "artist." Lives in Brooklyn.

No. Not again.

New York City is the official Land of the Manchildren. If your genes are right, you can coast for 20 years with no commitments, no rings, no children, and no spine.

I. Can't.

Buh-bye.

Attention, Please

2008-06-05T23:41:00.005-04:00

"He liked your attention, Jane."

"So he never loved me, he just loved my attention."

"I never met the guy."

"That's a terrible thing to say. That's a horrible thing to say."

"Well...?"

"That's awful. Awful."

"How many times did he offer to come over to your apartment just to watch you pack?"

"Well... I'm sure... In the beginning..."

"Listen: You didn't do anything wrong here. You tried. And you really fell for this guy. It's what you do next that's the really key decision. You did nothing wrong. It's just...if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out."

(Editor's note: Right! Again, that whole "We had a good run! Thanks for the warmth and the sex! Take care now!")

"I just...I don't know if you know how much I hate myself right now. How much I hate myself for falling for this guy who doesn't want me. [Crying] I just... I just..."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't cheat on him. You didn't break into his apartment and steal anything. You didn't do anything wrong. [Pause.] I don't think you believe me, but you didn't. How could you hate yourself? You hate yourself when you rear-end someone somebody when you're drunk behind the wheel. You didn't do anything wrong. I don't think you fell for a bad guy. You just might have fallen for the wrong one."

"Again."

Barely There

2008-06-04T23:30:00.005-04:00

I went to work today with my glasses on and a bare face. That is to say, I didn't wear any makeup. I don't know how many of y'all know the Midwest, but we Midwestern women like our makeup. That's not to say we necessarily apply it well or pick shades that are right for our us or our current decade, but we know the value of a good lipstick -- especially when we're trying, even if we're just putting our best foot forward at church on Sunday morning.

I don't remember the last time I went out to see people I know without makeup on. But there was something about this morning (aside from my pills-and-booze minihangover) that made me not want to try. I wasn't giving up, per se, but I was giving in -- to the temptation of sadness, maybe. All week I've been swooshing and jangling about in bright outfits and touseled blond hair and megajewelry to put my pain on mute. Today, I wore black and the small diamond studs that the Boyf gave me two and a half years ago.

Maybe it was the giving in that caused me to e-mail N.

After writing and deleting a billion potential works of prose, I sent him three short sentences succinctly expressing the fact that it was possible that I was going crazy. I hadn't contacted him since I ended things. He was nice about my e-mail. Says he wants to be there for me. Says he has "regrets" about how everything unfolded. Yes. Yes. Don't we all? Don't ALL of us -- every single person reading this -- have regrets about our failed relationships?

I'm coming to the conclusion that N tried. My black-and-white version of the story was always, "I tried. He didn't. The end." Truth be told, in his own barely visible way, he tried. But, as Sunny said today (sorry, Sunny, I'm lifting from you for this post), "He gave 100 percent, and that was 60 percent of what you wanted." It just. Wasn't. Enough.

I love big. I expect big in return. Emotions drip out of me like I'm a saturated kitchen sponge -- every time someone touches me, I gush. When N touches me, I pour rivers. I still do. I still love that man more than any man I've ever loved in my natural born life, but he and I are (to quote my friend P) "wired differently." N is dry, even when he tries to be wet. I wish so much that he weren't.

I think about my apartment now -- how haphazard everything is, how neglected it all looks. The good news is that I'm puzzling out how to change that. I fantasize about wiping off my windowsill and hanging the (awesome) framed poster I just received in the mail. My apartment isn't all I think about, but I do think about it sometimes. Maybe this weekend I will get the impetus to organize it and then I will try.

Sick

2008-06-03T20:50:00.006-04:00

There are rules to a breakup, and I break every single one, every single day, and people hate me for it. They're all disappointed that I am not made of steel, that I can't see whatever is apparently so obvious to everyone else. People shout at me -- they yell at me:

"E-mail him; don't e-mail him. Break up with him; don't break up with him. It's okay to be sad; put on a brave face, and don't cry over him. Don't cry on the subway. Don't cry on the street. Think fondly of him; think of the bad things. He's a douchebag, he's a liar; he tried his best. He did what he could; he could never be good enough. Look for someone else; don't look for anyone else. Don't blog about this; your blog is fine. Move on; reflect. Stay with your therapist; dump her, because she's N's ex-girlfriend's therapist."

My fucking therapist is N's ex-girlfriend's therapist. He recommended her. The person I'm supposed to open up to knows more about N than I do.

I have never felt so defeated as I do now. Not a day goes by that I don't think of his hair, his face, how his skin felt, how his lips felt against mine, and how thrilled I was to wake up next to him every single morning. How I smiled whenever I woke up and found his arms around me in the middle of the night. How I found his snoring cute. How I found all of his bad habits cute. How I loved watching him work, hearing about his work. How I encouraged him, how he encouraged me. How it felt to hug him. How happy I was that he was the first boy to send me flowers at work -- not just about the flowers, but about the fact that it was him doing it. How happy I was doing anything with him -- walking down the street, seeing a movie, just being together -- and how much fun all of it was. How excited I was to have found someone who matched me -- my tastes, my ambition, my appreciation for words, my sleeping habits, my alcoholism, my sex drive.

And I also think of the coldness and the humiliation and my failure to capture his attention and his failed emotional "connection" to me and the silence and the half-lies and the hesitation and the broken promises and the lack of phone calls and how much I endured in the name of love. Love. Love is such a lie.

I have so much love to give, and it has fucked me every time. I'm insane: I wrote a batshit insane e-mail to N's best friend today. I don't know why I did it. It was easier to press "send" on that one than it was to all the e-mails I've started to N and then deleted.

I feel so incredibly empty. My apartment feels silly; it's a mess, and I do nothing about it. I glaze over everything. I'm on Vicodin and red wine right now; I've cried all over the fucking city tonight. I might as well live in a hovel, that's how much time I've dedicated to this place.

I worked for 28 years to get here, and I'm blowing my deadlines. My attitude is horrible. I'm alienating people; I'm lying to people. I'm blowing my money on bright-colored dresses. I cry at work. I check Facebook and Sitemeter every 15 seconds. I e-mail people I shouldn't -- I open up to people I should keep at an arm's length. The wolves are coming back -- they somehow "know," even when I haven't said anything. Men are coming out of the woodwork -- everyone wants a piece of the fallout. Everyone wants to feel better about themselves in the wake of my demise. Everyone wants to revel in the fact that they were right.

All I wanted is love. That is all I wanted. I feel humiliated. I've led my life by the rules, by the books. I didn't sleep with N for five months after we met. I did everything right. I played by all the rules. I was willing to throw every rule out for him -- every single rule. We were going to move in together; I was going to ruin my relationship with my conservative family for him. I was going to move boroughs for him. I was prepared to give up any possibility of having children for him. All I wanted was to love him. All I wanted was to be with him. And at the end, he couldn't even promise me he wouldn't fuck other women on his business trip to L.A. That's what I was given, after everything I gave him. A "Baby, I just want to have fun."

And now. 28. "You have so much time!" I love that one. I love, love, love that one. I have two years-long relationships under my belt, plus an abundance of one- to two-month assholes, and then this strange, fucked thing with N that I have been absolutely broken, again and again, by. Everyone wants to kiss me. Everyone wants to take me to dinner. Everyone wants to buy me drinks. Everyone wants to sleep with me. And no one wants to deal with the mess afterward. That's why I played by the rules.

The thought of firing up the ol' online dating profile makes me want to vomit. The thought of calling the kind, sweet Brit, like I should be doing now, makes me want to vomit. I try to put on dresses and earrings and dance down the street to stupid songs on my iPod. I try to buy pink things and look at the positive. I try to remember the bad about N. It is all an act. Every last thing is an act -- it's what I know I should be doing.

I listen to everyone yell at me, over and over again, about how I deserve better. It's all yelling, it's all loud noises. I say, "Yes, I know" and, "You're right, absolutely." I smile, and I promise I will do what I'm told -- whatever they're telling me. And what they're thinking is, "She is so fucking dumb. She fell for this textbook New York asshole, and she's too stupid to pull herself out of it."

I don't know why my heart is like this. I think that I am dumb. I must have no self-respect or self-esteem. I let myself be lured, and I let myself fall for someone I wanted to save and help and comfort and be with. I didn't even like him at first -- did you guys know that? I didn't. I didn't even think he was attractive when I first saw him. After we met, he chased me for an entire summer before I went out with him again. He wanted what he couldn't have -- all men do. I was wooed. I was stupid. Judge Judy would be appalled.

And now what?

Now nothing. Now hurt. Now seeing pictures of my high-school friends' babies on Facebook. Now pretending to be excited about my friends' dates, my coworkers' engagment rings. Now freelancing my ass off and doing a terrible, late job on everything. Now making bullshit plans with my friends that I don't even want to keep, because my ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend's therapist says I need to be out of the house, because "that's when you meet people."

Oh, yes! Please! Can I please meet someone else now? Can I please go through this exact same thing again? Can I please give my heart away (cautiously! studiously!) and then have it handed back, broken, when another N is tired of fucking me? Except maybe at two years older? At 30? Then at 35? At 40? At 45? At 50? Over and over and over again, until nothing is left of me? Because that's how I feel now. Broken and spent and like it was all for absolutely nothing.

And it was. I wasted a year of my life on hope.

Once I told N that I had a Brooklyn fantasy, but I didn't tell him what it was. I suspected he knew what I was going to say already and didn't really want to hear it. My fantasy was to live with him in Brooklyn, in an apartment with an outdoor area. He'd grill (this is a fantasy -- N would never grill something himself), and we'd have my friends and his friends over, and he'd be equally nice and chatty to everyone. I'd be running around getting drinks -- high-end cocktails in matching glasses -- for everyone, taking everyone's orders. N and I would have a fabulously decorated apartment -- we'd have picked everything out together and agreed on most of it, save for maybe a few photographs on the wall that we compromised on. He and I would be writers. Or we'd have our day jobs and write on the side. Maybe I'd be successful, published, and he'd still have his day job. I don't know. We'd have this barbecue, with all of our friends there, and I'd have this rock on my finger. I see myself with a scarf in my hair, even though I have never worn a scarf in my hair in my entire life. Maybe we'd been talking about having one child, because he loved me so much that that love made him want to have one with me. Or maybe not. The Brooklyn fantasy wasn't contingent on the hypothetical baby. The Brooklyn fantasy was contingent on love.

Some people say love stories can be novellas -- that they don't have to last a lifetime to be important. That's what Blogstein said, when we were out the other night: "Take it for what it was." That's bullshit. I won't take it for what it was. How am I supposed to believe he meant what he said when he was all too willing to throw it away in the end? How can you believe that someone loves you when they seem excited and relieved to let you go? To make you leave their apartment? To get your shit out of there? To shut you out? To not talk to you again?

I have trouble eating and sleeping, even though I take Xanax to knock me out every single night. I can't sleep for more than five hours a night. I wake up, and I'm warm, and everything feels humid and dusty and quiet. The fucked-up thing about all of it is that I'm half-glad that I can't eat or sleep. Because I know that both things will make me thin. And the best compliments come when my emotional life seems so far into the gutter that I'm not sure it will ever climb out. It's sick. The whole thing is so sick.

I am sick. I am crazy. This post is crazy. THIS is my crazy. I have been crying for two and a half hours.

A Blustery Day

2008-06-03T00:32:00.005-04:00

I went to my college boyfriend's home, in the rural Midwest, for Christmas one year. The gifts that his family gave to each other were relatively modest. For College Boyfriend's gift, one of his aunts gave him a homemade carrot cake with buttercream frosting, wrapped in aluminum foil. It was College Boyfriend's favorite dessert. Later, he explained to me, "Her family doesn't have much money right now, so she made me a cake." The word "touched" doesn't even begin to describe what I felt that day.

The proceeding story can't hold a candle to what College Boyfriend's aunt's family was going through at that time, but I do understand desperation under certain circumstances. When I felt scared or sad or in terrifying, all-consuming love with N, I would always write him. Paper letters handwritten in black ink, well-crafted e-mails, poignant text messages... Writing was the last thing I had to give him. It was my swan song.

I write him all the time now; I write to him in my head. I write to him in unsent e-mails. I write to him in make-believe letters. I write to him in draft-saved text messages. It is the last thing I have to give him. But at this point, it's just bluster. It's noise and action to save something that can never be saved. That could never be saved, no matter how strongly anyone, on either end, feels. That is to say, me.

But what I feel for N is not not healthy. It is not good. I love him, but what I miss most is the memory of him when he was good for me. I am breaking out of the underworld; I am not Persephone:

"There is more to bitter sacrifice than this."

Convex

2008-06-01T23:08:00.007-04:00

It breathes, doesn't it?

Life filters and strains and becomes oxygen again, no matter how toxic you can feel one morning, one day, one week.

It's exhilarating to remember that, especially in New York, there is always a second chance. There's a second bar around the corner, or a second restaurant to try, or a second friend you can make, or a second movie you can see to alter your perspective.

Nothing is perfect -- I don't even think that needs to be said -- but there is beauty where you least expect to find it: an obligation you didn't want to honor, or a deadline you didn't want to meet. Then, suddenly, you're observing jellyfish that look like pulsing buttons through the plate glass of a trendy spot; a nice cab driver who's almost too patient; a kinder-than-thou person who notices when you have a small injury on your elbow.

The process of going through the motions is sometimes useful in itself, but that serendipity that happens when you'd rather be lying in bed is worth it all...the whole lot of it.

Musically Intertwined

2008-05-31T10:05:00.004-04:00

I love music and singing and karaoke, so sometimes I think in song. At the risk of sounding like a junior high school girl, here are some lyric snippets that I've found myself subconsciously singing over and over again in my head -- or out loud. At work. Yeah -- my coworkers love me.

From "Take a Bow," by Rhianna:
"And the award for the best liar goes to you / For making me believe / That you could be / Faithful to me / Let's hear your speech. / How bout a round of applause? / Standing ovation... /But you put on quite a show / You really had me goin' / But now it's time to go / Curtains finally closing / That was quite a show / Very entertaining / But it's over now / Go on and take a bow / But it's over now..."

From "Brainy," by The National:
"I’ve been dragging around from the end of your coat for two weeks, ah ah. / Everywhere you go is swirling, everything you say has water under it, ah ah. / You know I keep your fingerprints in a pink folder in the middle of my table / You’re the tall kingdom I surround / think I better follow you around / You might need me more than you think you will"

From "Fuck and Run," by Liz Phair:
"And whatever happened to a boyfriend / The kind of guy who tries to win you over? / And whatever happened to a boyfriend / The kind of guy who makes love 'cause he's in it? / And I want a boyfriend / I want a boyfriend / I want all that boring old shit like letters and sodas / Letters and sodas / You got up out of bed / You said you had a lot of work to do /But I heard the rest in your head / And almost immediately I felt sorry / 'Cause I didn't think this would happen again / No matter what I could do or say / Just that I didn't think this would happen again / With or without my best intentions"

From "Take Me or Leave Me," by Jonathan Larson:
"Take me for what I am / Who I was meant to be / And if you give a damn / Take me baby, or leave me / Guess I'm leaving; I'm gone!"

From "Hey Jupiter," by Tori Amos:
"Sometimes I breathe you in /And I know you know / And sometimes you take a swim / Found your writing on my wall / If my heart's soaking wet / Boy your boots can leave a mess.... / Guess it's clear he's gone / And this little masochist / Is lifting up her dress"

From "Rush Hour ," by Ani DiFranco:
"I expected he would be there in the morning / I awoke to the alarm / He was still in arm's reach / But his body had wandered off long ago / You could see it in his eyes / Love isn't over when the sheets are stained / In my head there remains / So much left to be said / Make me laugh / Make me cry / Enrage me / Just don't try to disengage me. "

No More Fakes

2008-05-29T22:16:00.014-04:00

I'm sharing this with you guys because you deserve it. You've earned it, coming back here time and again to see what shenanigans I've gotten myself into this time, or to see if I'm happy. You guys care -- at least to some degree. N doesn't. N never did. I sent him this today:

N.

This: I can't. Your behavior and attitude are not acceptable to me. I'm exhausted from spilling so much love onto the pavement. I can't stand the superficial nature of all of this, all of you. I deserve to be treated so much better than this. And I will be.

Enjoy your summer. Enjoy bingeing in L.A. while it lasts. I need my life back.

-Jane

I am not an "animal person" naturally. I've never had a pet, and I have no fucking clue how to play with a dog for more than 15 seconds. I do imagine, however, that puppies develop a certain kind of Stockholm Syndrome regarding their owners. They get used to poor treatment, to being ignored, to occasional shots of love. But there's only so much a puppy can take...at least I hope so. You can choose to only interact with the puppy occasionally, you can shut the puppy out, you can pet it only when you feel like it, and the puppy will still like you back. But if you make the puppy feel that there are other puppies out there that you own/owned, that the puppy is not special, the puppy will become despondent, and hopefully the puppy will stray. Hopefully.

It's over. I am done. I am done being done.

I walked home partway from the 50s today, and I felt something move deep inside. I wanted to lick the tiles in an interior-design window display. I wanted to rip my clothes off and press my body against plate glass. I could smell the seafood from a specialty grocery store. The Drakkar Noir emanating from a quick young frat boy hit my nose like a concrete block.

I hopped the bus eventually, answering texts all the way, and afterward I walked by an UES restaurant I've always wanted to try. There was a late-30s-looking couple inside -- her in a bad floral dress -- and they were holding hands across the table. I audibly snorted, feeling sorry for them. I can't anymore. Let her parse out what touches are real and which are practiced. Let her deduce which sex sessions are intimate and which are more about talking too much about fantasy girls in Catholic school uniforms, for the sake of both of them getting off. Let her weigh whether she should feel secure or she should feel duped. Let her put a glob of neat plastic in one hand and a glob of messy flesh in the other and let her figure out which she should choose.

Because I can't.

I can't anymore. I miss life too much.

Wet Noodles

2008-05-27T21:18:00.004-04:00

Whenever I'm hurtling down the FDR Drive in Manhattan in a cab, I hear a quote from a high-school driver's ed video echo in my head (imagine this with a Midwestern accent, please): "People say, 'Oh, instead of wearing a seatbelt, I'll just put my hands up against the dashboard to protect me if I get into an accident.' Well, when you get into a wreck, your arms become like wet noodles. Are those wet noodles going to protect you when you're about to fly through a windshield?"

Strong words, those. So now, I try to always buckle up if I'm flying at high speeds down New York City streets. Because Lord knows my wet noodles won't protect me.

I spent the weekend with N. At his request, at my request, at both of our naked, sweaty, instinctual requests this past Monday night. That was back when he said he felt something he never had before, and I let my guard down, and all of those infant possibilities that we nurtured this past winter seemed to be coming back to us...in some form, anyway.

I'm trying to be honest with N now, even if that means shooting him an e-mail about something completely random (like snacktime cravings) or telling him I love him 50 billion-trillion-million times. Sometimes it seems to work. Sometimes it doesn't. I call this tactic throwing pasta against the wall -- both flat, saturated, linguine-like sentiments that have the best chance of sticking (declarations of love) or spiky, barbed, farfalle-type jabs that might catch him off guard (half-jokingly calling him names). Either way -- any way -- I decide to hurl words at him, at this relationship, it's all just wet noodles in the end. And as I've learned, wet noodles aren't enough to keep me alive.

I came home tonight and ate a piece of pizza and poured myself a glass of Chilean cabernet. I went through the mail, and I put N's and my used water glasses into the sink. I took a shower. I smell like lavender. I am writing now, and I feel connected. I think, "If there were only some way to integrate N into this world -- into my world, where I feel crucial and effective and strong."

But there's not. Because everything that happens is on his terms, in his world, per his preferences. What I have is wet noodles.

The Disconnect

2008-05-21T23:35:00.005-04:00

In the Carlyle Hotel in New York City, things like embossed cocktail napkins and specialized disposable drink coasters with the hotel's name emblazoned on them exist. In the bathroom, you'll find nice paper towels and real Kleenex should you feel the need to blow your nose in the presence of the marble surfaces and shiny gold fixtures. I always feel grateful when I'm there -- as one should if someone else is buying the drinks.

I looked at myself in the mirror there tonight. I was dressed appropriately, in a pin-tucked black shift from another decade with matching heels. I gave the mirror a Paris Hilton (or maybe, more appropriately, a Julia Allison) -- that half-cocked, cheekbone-in-the-air stare that makes a young woman look like a socialite, if only for a half-second. I stayed there and stared at myself, smoothing down my pencil-skirt silhouette, for a good five minutes straight.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Only an idiot doesn't know that an outside can contradict an inside, but I was the living, breathing example of that tonight. I was present and laughing at contrived jokes but really going into mixed-up reveries as the punchline was delivered. I wondered how beauty and possibilities could seem so at odds with each other. I hope that I was at least polite.

I went home and put on one of N's T-shirts, because it was the first item on top of the laundry hamper. I looked at myself in my hallway's full-length mirror: I looked strangely pinup (or at least, strangely 1980s fantasy), hard nipples pushing through the white cotton fabric.

I look good. I am thin. I am pulled together. I am a mess.

Another cell phone check: My past is giving me the full-court press. My present is stagnant. My future is muddled.

Shhhhh

2008-05-20T22:40:00.004-04:00

I mopped all of the hairballs and food (okay, mostly pizza) particles off of my black-and-white-checkered tile floor yesterday. It needed it. After days (okay, weeks) of neglect, my apartment needed spiffing up. In part because I just read (in Time Out New York, maybe?) that cockroaches love clutter. I have never had bugs at my place, but God forbid....

I concentrated on the soft shhhhh-shhhhh sound of the mop. I was tired but knew I needed to do this, to clean this, to make all of this better and more livable. A few strokes in, I realized that not only was I tired, but my lower back was sore and raw. PMS, no doubt: something I rarely have. Call me lucky.

I listened to the mop, and I listened to my body in the space of my small kitchen and hallway. There was something soothing about hearing from my cells that I was tired, knowing that my body was spent, and accepting those signs of fatigue as a stoplight, that I should slow down.

It's instinct, all of it -- like the way we reach for a lover at night in bed, hands passing each other, accidentally knocking into one another, almost desperately searching for familiar skin, or maybe some answer that isn't coming or presenting itself the way we'd pictured.

There's something real in all of it that's to be embraced and appreciated for what it is (biology? continuity? a furthering of the species?). But it's what we do with that information that gives us personality, gumption, and self-restraint.

The Weight of Nothing

2008-05-17T09:53:00.004-04:00

I went grocery shopping as a single person today. That...was huge.

It's strange, but as I walked into Gristede's to buy a few basics, I realized I'd never been to that particular grocery store without having N in mind. As I strolled the aisles, I felt weightless -- moreso than I ever had there. I immediately remembered all the times I went food shopping in hopes of making N happy -- running around frantically with a plastic basket, tossing in Bisquick and syrup (if he ever wanted pancakes), eggs (to show him I could, in fact, scramble), coffee (for our many mornings together), Coke (I only drink Diet).

I had never bought food just for me, even though I live alone. So, it was with a sense of strength that I lugged home my girly purchases (nonfat yogurt, Lean Cuisine meals, strawberries, bananas...). I opened my refrigerator and looked inside. More than half of the interior was him: leftover homemade salad dressing from when I cooked him dinner, a can of Red Bull just in case he was ever tired before we went out drinking, a half-empty Pepsi can he mixed with Jack Daniel's last weekend, superchocolatey ice cream I picked because I knew he'd like it.

I threw all the leftovers away and replaced them with today's haul. Afterward, my refrigerator looked remarkably normal. And my apartment felt more "me": a emotional coup I don't take lightly.

Hating to Exhale

2008-05-15T22:29:00.002-04:00

The one thing that has most surprised me about this breakup is the sense of calm I feel. I'm not saying that once it hit I suddenly became the Dalai Lama, but in between fits of feeling like an emotional kamikaze, I have been surprisingly zen.

"You're doing really well," my friend P said. And my friend P should know, because he's been my close friend throughout every single breakup I've ever had. I reminded him of that today.

"So I have the collectors box set?" he said in an online message.

"Absolutely!" I typed back. "With the DVD extras, including 'crazy statements' and 'drunk dials.'"

In the past, I couldn't handle a breakup without at least attempting to bed a bartender or drink my weight in Bud Light. So if "centered" is the state of mind now, it's possible that I'm simply getting older, or that it's a reaction to how I felt in N's and my relationship. With N, I felt insane. Crazed. Worried. Stressed. I constantly checked my phone. I don't know what I wanted to find on its screen. All of my crazy vibrated just below the surface of fancy dinners and trips and bars and parties.

Now, I'm noticing the little things: I can still order Ketel One in bars. (Vodka still exists in a post-N world.) I can go to a newsstand and browse the magazines, feeling patient for once. I can talk slowly and pontificate if I want to. I don't have to force a smile and a lilt all the time.

Of course, this is between the emotional retchings (which occur at semisteady intervals).

That said, no scene has summed up my disappointment about the breakup and how lonely I sometimes felt when I was with N like this one does:

I stood, in heels, chin trembling, next to a coworker's cubicle yesterday and said, "I would have given back everything he ever bought for me if he would have texted me every day."

One person's love is not enough to sustain a relationship. Onward.

Typing Pool's Guide to Surviving a Breakup

2008-05-14T01:04:00.002-04:00

1. Cry. A lot. Enough to scare some of your pantywaist male coworkers.

2. E-mail every friend you've had since 11th grade and wax poetic about your breakup. Try not to feel desperate doing so.

3. Sit on a couch in a superior's office. Listen to her tell you that you are far more attractive than what you had.

4. Call an old high-school friend for drinks.

5. End up at a karaoke bar, because said high-school friend knows that that's the only thing that will prevent you from drinking yourself to death.

6. Text everyone in the New York area that you know to come do karaoke with you.

7. Feel content when everyone gets back to you -- your phone starts vibrating off of the bar -- and a cute former coworker shows up to comfort you.

8. Outdrink said cute former coworker.

9. Believe said cute former coworker when he says you could do far, far, far better.

10. Stop mourning over something you never wanted in the first place.

Endo Ecstasy

2008-04-22T20:50:00.004-04:00

After I work out, I experience a brief and glorious burst of endorphins that turns my entire environment into a movie set. (Well, more Breakfast at Tiffany's than, say, Seven, but you get my meaning.)

Post-gym, when my blond hair is slick with sweat, New York suddenly becomes quaint. The air feels crisp, not cold, and every new thing I hear or see seems authentic and creative. Case in point: a bum-slash-comedian yelling, "Ladies on the inside, men on the outside!" at a couple walking together in Midtown. (This actually meshed with an old wives' tale I heard -- that in the days before running water was common, men would walk on the outside of a sidewalk so ladies would be protected by awnings from randomly falling dirty bathwater that people would throw out their windows. I have no idea whether this is actually true.)

Even the subway was a Manhattan motley crew straight out of central casting: hipster youths pushing past me (naturally); a 40-something man in work clothes wearing an honest-to-god construction hat; a guy with short gray hair and Gucci glasses reading a copy of the Wall Street Journal whom I guessed on sight was an architect; and a large, polite man who rested his metallic gold-encrusted Yankees cap on his knee as he sat (for some reason this struck me as fantastically old-fashioned).

As I scanned the crowd and smiled to myself, I had one thought: Why don't I work out more? Amid the booze, the worries, the scheduling, the plans, the good intentions, the reasons why not, and the just-plain-laziness, there is an eye of calm I'd forgotten about.

The way I felt tonight reminded me of a time when I had just moved to the Upper East Side and was driving myself crazy in my new apartment with my circular thinking. I decided to go for a run along the East River, next to the sparkling water, and my eyes filled with happy tears for a split second, as I directed my thoughts toward the beauty of the city and all that it has to offer, rather than the dysfunctional world I tend to create in my head.

Surprise!

2008-03-15T15:38:00.002-04:00

N found this blog, guys. He's read every word, every bitch, every rant, and every vulnerability I've written about him since the beginning of our relationship.

Yet somehow, some way, he's still here. He is still with me. We are still us.

Now everyone say hi to N!

Updates on the fate of this blog to come....

Still Breathing

2008-03-10T23:13:00.003-04:00

Yes, I'm still alive. Totally and completely in love, but alive nonetheless. (If we consider that head-in-the-clouds state of being as "alive," that is.)

N and I are doing quite well, I want all of you to know. Our tropical vacation was nothing less than fairytale: beach, pool, king-size hotel bed, eating, drinking, and just...being. We took lots of pictures, and I uploaded almost all of them (even the embarrassingly narcissistic ones) on to Facebook.

Sometimes I think my best blog posts come out of my own foibles, but there haven't been any to speak of as of late. I should consider myself lucky. I've even become half of one of those hated couples who counsels their single friends about their failed relationships.

"It's hard!" I tell single Sunny. "It's definitely hard. But you should enjoy your singlehood. Meet men! Date around! Enjoy being by yourself while it lasts! Because it will come, probably sooner than you think."

Ummmm, easier said than done much? How many single people reading this are ready to throw a wine glass at their computer screen, thinking, "You try to enjoy being single! Easy for you to say, while you're cuddled up next to N on weekend nights." And that's true. That's absolutely true, and I respect that.

I think what I'm finally realizing about 10 months too late (that dates back to my breakup with the Boyf, for those who haven't been following) is that there's creativity in being alone. Good things crop up when you have hours to yourself, provided you don't fill those hours with booze or distraction, like yours truly has been known to do. I wish I would have enjoyed that self-imposed downtime a little bit more than I let myself. So I'm trying to disseminate this PSA to those single folks who are far stronger than I ever was: Enjoy, and be strong, because s/he (a.k.a. The One) is just around the corner.

City Civility

2008-02-19T23:10:00.004-05:00

Strange thing happened on the downtown 6 train this morning: I was sitting by a gentleman who was about 40 or so, and an attractive 20-something woman boarded the train and stood in front of us, grasping the metal pole directly above our heads. A stop or so later, he jumped up and put his hand out, gesturing toward the seat, offering it to her. She shook her head no, and the gentleman returned to the seat and sat down. I figured she must be getting off at the next stop. But she didn't.

A couple of stops later, the 40-something gentleman got off the train, and the younger woman sat down in the seat he had offered her three stops ago.

Okay.

Here's my thinking: I'm as much of a feminist as the next woman, but to keep chivalry from going totally dead, I think we ladies should take a seat if a gentleman offers it to us. Call it a respect thing. It's the equivalent of letting your date help you with your coat at the end of dinner: antiquated, maybe, but civilized and well-meaning, definitely.

Escape

2008-02-10T19:55:00.001-05:00

I am not, generally, the kind of woman who buys a snake-print string bikini and plans to wear it in public.

However.

N is taking me on a last-minute, whirlwind trip to Miami next weekend, and I when I tried on the swimsuit at N's half-joking urging...well, it looked damn good. I decided that, just for next weekend, and just for fun, I am going to be the kind of woman who wears a snake-print bikini and mugs for the digital camera and French-kisses with gusto and abandon in front of throngs of strangers.

Insurance

2008-02-01T22:16:00.001-05:00

"Relationships," my crazy former therapist used to say, "have no guarantees."

I still have trouble believing that I actually trusted the words that came out of her mouth, considering her office was an absolute disaster -- unexplained plastic children's chairs stacked high with haphazard manila folders and an ancient air conditioner under the window that I always had to shout over -- and she could never seem to keep her tangerine-colored pedicure touched up. But, occasionally, she'd come up with gems like the one above.

Things with N are going so well it's hard to believe this is actually my life. It's not perfect -- nothing ever is; I still get wasted off of Ketel One and tonics and say crazy things, like how much I want to marry him. (Yeah. I know.) And I still get a flicker or two of irrational jealousy from him. (Yes. Seriously.) But for the most part, our bodies curl into each other, and our words intertwine. We are happy with each other.

At least I know I am, with him.

But that's the thing: You can't know. No matter what the other person says or does, it's impossible to know what's really going on in their heads, what's going to happen next month, or even where they are when they're not with you. There are no guarantees. And, as Sunny says, the other person could get hit by a bus tomorrow: Point is, you just never know. I think that's where this little thing called "trust" comes in.

Today, though, I got this little sliver of insurance from N -- a whisper of a promise that I wasn't sure was going to come. He has talked about both taking me somewhere warm this month or next and going to the tropical destination wedding that a high school friend of mine is having in May. Having heard all of those kinds of promises before (see: Christmastime 2007), I was resigned that I'd believe it when the plane tickets were booked.

Today, though, he took the first step: He reserved our rooms for the destination wedding and sent me a picture of the beachside resort we'd be staying in. As far as a guarantee goes, I think that's about as close as I'm going to get, for now. It also means that I'd better get used to the idea of being with him for quite some time...or at least for four more months. Wow. It's a little scary, but it feels just right.

Freeze-Frame

2008-01-27T14:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, life gets good. Really, really good. And then it inexplicably gets better.

My birthday party was a wild success, if I do say so myself. Thirty of my friends and coworkers came out to sing and observe karaoke, one of my favorite pastimes, and drink, another of my favorite pastimes. I wore the scandalous fuschia dress, sang my heart out, and drank eleventy thousand Bud Lights. I switched to Jack and Diet Coke later in the evening, but I somehow didn't get plowed, which was best for everyone involved, I think.

I panicked around 11 p.m., because N still hadn't arrived, even though he texted me at 10, saying he'd be there soon. Of course I panicked, because I'm Jane, and I wouldn't be Jane if there wasn't some form of irrational anxiety involved.

But N came soon after that, with a rather expensive gift for me, and he was by my side the whole night, talking to my friends, buying people drinks, smiling, kissing me, cheering me on. We came back to my place afterward for a nightcap, and we talked about "turning points" in our relationship -- the moments we knew we liked each other. I told him mine -- a moment at a cozy restaurant in mid-October, when he said something that caused me to see his good heart. I asked him what his was. "When we turned the corner at Delancey and Essex," he said. "Wait...when?" I said, confused. He looked at me and said, "Our first date."

N said he saw this night as a turning point as well. I told him I loved him. He told me he loved me, too. I was blown away.

I'm seeing him again tonight. He called me to make the plan.

During the party, my friend D the Williamsburger took journalist-style photos documenting the entire night. One is of me, blond curls spilling down the side of my face, eyes downcast, mouth smiling and coy. It is a picture of a woman in love. When D took the photo, I was talking to N.

Central Casting

2008-01-24T22:51:00.000-05:00

N is occasionally a creative type. His side job/hobby is basically that of a writer (I know, I know -- I swore I'd never date another writer, but that draw is always there) of the film persuasion. He and I have been doing well, I think. We spent the past two evenings together, and, again, whenever I'm with him, my life feels like magic, like I'm living someone else's romantic comedy. We have intelligent, witty banter and good sex, and that combination is damn hard to find.

It's the times between when we're together that I worry. Unnecessarily? Maybe. Is the fact that I'm worrying at all troubling to say the least? Maybe.

What I've been thinking about lately is what roles we play in other people's lives. Say that this is one of N's screenplays. I'm still unsure what archetype N is going to be in my life. Sometimes I think he's going to be the real, sexy, perfect-for-each-other long-term love affair that the movies make us want. But other times I think he's going to be a successful, metropolitan Peter Pan cliche, like Mr. Big, whom I'll look back on once this is all over and laugh and roll my eyes.

What will I be in his life, when all of this is figured out? When we decide to either be with each other for real (a.k.a. boyfriend/girlfriend leading to a live-in/fiance), or split for good a few weeks/months along the road? Will I be...

1. The Woman Who Changes Him?
-Every romance novel has a chaste heroine who tames the somewhat promiscuous, sexy bad boy. I'm not sure chaste fits, in my case, but I think every woman wants to be the exception to the rule: the one who ends up with the ring, the love, and every inch of the fairytale...before real-life fights about generic trash bags versus Hefty set in, that is.

2. The Woman He Thinks He Should Want?
-When a man becomes a certain age, he sometimes thinks he should man up and marry/become involved/get serious with the woman he happens to be with at the time. I don't want to be the faceless female silhouette in a cardboard storybook fantasy.

3. The Woman He Lets Get Away Because He's Not Ready?
-N's friends love me. His family loves me. His boss loves me. Seriously. But sometimes good reviews about your lover from damn near everyone you know just doesn't make up for the fact that you're not feelin' it. At all.

4. The "Intelligent Career Woman" in a High Fidelity-esque Lineup of Girls?
-I don't think he's ever had someone as smart, or as "whole package," as me before. I don't say that because I'm narcissistic (Lord, everyone who reads this blog knows that I'm definitely not that), but I think that I'm not the usual type of woman he goes for. Sometimes he likes style over substance in his life -- from milk containers to clothing -- and maybe I'm his foray into something more than eyeliner and highlights. If this is true, though, the good news is that I won't end up with a manchild a la John Cusack's character.

It's fun to speculate, I guess, but maybe it's more fun to live it. My birthday party is tomorrow, and N is coming. I am so excited. I want so badly for him to fit into my life, and it's been working lately. Like Sara says, sometimes things go well, and, when they do, in hopes of future love I subconsciously hold my breath and "don't look, don't touch, don't do anything, but hope that there is a you."

Smoking Hot

2008-01-21T23:47:00.000-05:00

Someone on the second floor of my building smokes, and I am always jealous of them as I go up the stairs.

I've been quit (love that gramatically incorrect terminology) since January 1, 2006, and I am still proud of myself that I haven't lit up. Because, Lord knows, there have been days.

I remember finding a near-empty pack of Parliament Lights (my No. 2 brand, after Marlboro Lights) in a cab when I was incredibly wasted after drinking with my coworkers last year. Instead of smoking the last three cigs, I threw them out. I don't know that that was the absolute closest I've come to picking up the habit again, but something about clear skin and a clear conscience keeps me from doing myself in.

It's quiet tonight on the Upper East Side. I've had company all weekend, so I've had to follow through with a lot of forced outings -- forced eating, forced drinking. I think I'm gaining weight again, which is not good considering the lycra/spandex fuschia dress I'm planning to wear at my birthday celebration this Friday. Whatever. I'll figure out how to suck it all in before then, and at 128 pounds (my thinnest since 2002) and 5-foot-4, I think I'm doing all right.

My company is still here tomorrow, and I'm a little disappointed I still have to babysit when all I really want to do is see N. The longing for him, however, has worn a little thin for me. Aside from my obvious psychological wear and tear that has resulted from me having nothing better to do than watch HBO and worry, he texted out of the blue today; he's bringing me back a present. He has been thinking of me.

Smoking. Drinking. Carousing. It's all more glamorous if you're in NYC. If you're in Greenville, Mississippi? Somehow less so, unless you're Lucinda Williams. Though I would trade a weekend in my studio apartment for a weekend there every now and again.

So. No smoking, anymore, unfortunately. Less drinking, or so I hope. And carousing only in the best sense possible, when it's with old friends or new lovers or in the best places in the best city on earth, with the best intentions.

Questioning

2008-01-20T00:31:00.000-05:00

I don't think he loves me.

I watched a terrible movie today: My Super Ex-Girlfriend, starring Uma Thurman and Luke Wilson. It was worse than the previews. It was anti-feminist, anti-woman, and everything in between. The plot was awful. The acting (aside from Thurman) was pitiful. It was an hour and 45 minutes wasted, which is why I'm embarrassed to admit that it had some impact on my thoughts about N and me.

At the end of the movie (I'm not spoiling it for you guys -- puh-LEASE do not rent and/or OnDemand this film) Luke Wilson looks at Uma Thurman and says something like, "We had some great times together, but it wasn't love. There, behind that curtain (or whatever) is a man who loves you." And some terribly middle-aged, short, goateed guy who had adored Uma since high school comes forward, and she looks excited, and they kiss, and we're expected to believe they live happily ever after.

I came away from that movie more depressed about my love life than I've been in some time. N is away this weekend, as I mentioned, and he texted me most of the day yesterday about what he was doing, etc., but he didn't ask me much about myself or my activities. Or anything related to me, actually. And he sent me one text this morning, in response to something I had sent him earlier, but I haven't heard anything from him otherwise.

After watching that sub-par film, I realized the following: I think about N all the time. I don't NEED to hear from him all the time, but he is with me constantly. I root for him. I wonder about him. I think about his skin. I reach for him in my dreams. I love him -- every inch of his body, every crazy thought that he has, and every silly thing that he does.

I kind of don't think he thinks the same thing about me. Will he get there? Maybe. I don't know. But the fact is that as busy with work as I'm sure he is, he's not calling. He's not texting. He is not in love with me.

I guess I'm destined for the middle-aged, goateed guy who's had a shrine to me since high school. And if that's the alternative to love, the alternative to N, I'll gladly take my spinster plaque and nail it to my wall in my rent-stabilized studio.

Your Turn

2008-01-17T22:14:00.001-05:00

I say things to N that I should probably keep to myself. I think, though, that it's a sign of intimacy or affection or prospective closeness that all of those stories that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, I want to tell N. He tells me he likes it when I talk. And, guys, I'm grateful for that. Seriously.

We met some of my co-workers out last night on the Lower East Side, and I had a chat with an old boss of mine halfway through the night. During our conversation, before N arrived, N texted me, and my face must have lit up, because my former boss said, "Oh, you are so into him. It's obvious."

Should I have saved that story for myself, to remember later, in private? Yes. But I told N anyway.

"Why do I keep telling you things like this?" I said, grabbing my forehead and closing my eyes hard, late on Wednesday night. "That's the opposite of what I should be doing! Okay, well, now you have to tell me something."

N paused for a long time. I like when he does that. He's thoughtful and calculating, and I know he won't reveal anything to me unless he genuinely means it.

"I miss you during the day," he said.

It was simple, and I loved it. My heart loved it. My heart loves him. He makes my heart happy.

Odds Are...

2008-01-15T18:36:00.001-05:00

I had a funny thought this evening: All of the men that I have slept with have Facebook profiles. But I'm not "Facebook friends" with all of them -- only 80 percent of them. I don't know why that's significant. It seemed sort of young or post-modern or Orwellian -- that proof of your existence (sexual or otherwise) can be distilled down to a pixelated web page. So is blogging, though, I suppose.

N and I are still together, though we haven't defined what "together" means. Again, I'm letting him drive, and I actually told him that on Saturday. He took me to one of the most beautful dinners of my life that night, and I met some of his friends out at a birthday party afterward. We ended up in an Irish dive bar on the Upper East in our cocktail getups. It was fantastically contrary, and I was happy that I was experiencing it with him. Afterward we had sex and talked in bed about the distant future until the sun came up.

He's going away for work this weekend, and I will miss him. But it's funny -- I don't have that wobbly, nauseated feeling in the pit of my stomach that he won't miss me or that he'll hook up with some skank or that I won't be okay if he doesn't call me. I feel more relaxed about everything, maybe because I feel he's coming around, or maybe because I'm just tired of worrying about this pseudo-relationship all the damn time.

Statistically, it's unlikely that N and I will work out forever. But it is statistically likely that he'll make me happy for some period of time -- some either short- or long-lived space of this life that I'll look back on (mostly) fondly. That's not a bad thing to be holding in my heart right now.

Keeping It Light

2008-01-08T00:09:00.000-05:00

I always forget this, but it never fails: When a woman feels strong and confident and like she's finally okay on her own, the men come running. I felt that way this weekend. I put together a six-foot-tall bookshelf all by myself wearing jeans and a black wifebeater and wielding a screwdriver as if it were a weapon.

That same day, I waited patiently for my double-date with N and his friend, whom I'll call Six-Two from now on because he's tall and cute. When the meeting time approached, I shimmied into my new fuschia dress and heels. I wore black tights and too much perfume. We met the boys out after my girlfriend S and I had a delightful Mediterranean dinner. We talked about New Year's resolutions (or, in my case, anti-resolutions), trips we might take together, and New York, with all of its good and bad qualities and the push and the pull required to make city living work. We bonded as intelligent metropolitan women who are too smart to settle for anything less than all-consuming yet challenging.

When we finally sat down with the boys at a lounge on the Upper East Side. I employed time-tested techniques from The Game: I relaxed my body language. I gave full attention to Six-Two as he was speaking rather than gaze at N adoringly the whole time. I laughed and smiled through my slick lip gloss and told jokes and acted like I double-dated in inappropriately tight dresses all the time. Six-Two and S got along well, and N and I, of course, had chemistry that sometimes belies words. We ended up gazing into each other's eyes. We held hands. We whispered in each other's ears. Politely, of course. We didn't want to unnerve the other couple.

We all went our separate ways after a few drinks. I was confused by that, especially since we were so close to my apartment, but I've learned never to expect N to give me the full-court press. The next day, though, was a different story. He texted me. He called me. Sure enough, Six-Two had sung my praises in the cab ride home. I had known that he would.

N invited me over to his place last night for takeout and a movie, and I agreed. I like going to another borough to meet someone who is something like "my man." It was one of the most fun, romantic, and meaningful nights of my life. They usually are with N, because I am, unfortunately, in love with him. He was fawning over me. Giving me compliments. Holding me. Kissing me. Telling me he would do whatever I wanted -- be it movies, a trip to the zoo, sex.... We talked for hours. We smiled at each other. We kissed deeply.

That was typical N. He's hot, and then he's cold.

We texted and e-mailed lightly today, but "lightly" is the key word here. If I am to snag N, which is sort of not even my goal anymore -- my goal is to become a self-fulfilled single woman in this city who gets more excited about furnishing her own place than some lame text message from some lame boy -- I have to let him drive. And that, my friends, is the hardest thing for your dear Jane to do.

N is unsure of what he wants. He is a boy at heart, but I think he is special inside. He's also a tad crazy, which I fucking love. All of that combined means that I have to let him take the reins. I have to stop trying to orchestrate events that will guarantee our couplehood. 'Cause that just ain't the way life works. I have to enjoy him while I have him and then continue to be unsurprised when he doesn't deliver. But I do think -- on some crazy, insane, hippocampal level -- that he is trying. And now is the time for me to be quiet. Which, again, is not my strong suit.

A cab driver brought me home from work late tonight. He asked me what my goals were for 2008. I was not in the mood for chit-chat, as I had just worked a 13-hour day. I didn't answer, really.

"Will you get married?" he said.

I couldn't contain my laughter, and I guffawed a huge, loud, unladylike snort/laugh.

"Why?" he said. "Why not?"

I figured, Fuck it. I'll never see this dude again.

"Because the man I love doesn't want me," I said.

And I was in for it now, I tell you, because no one likes to talk about love more than drivers in New York City.

"Here is my advice," he said, in his thick Jamaican accent. "Play dumb. I see the kind of person you are -- the kind that doesn't take any crap. Let him have his freedom. Pretend you forget about him. Pretend you forget all about him. He'll say, 'Oh, you never call me no more...." but you play dumb. Play dumb for a year. Once you get married, then you take control."

The advice was entirely convoluted and unequivocally anti-feminist, but there is something to be said for the evil genius that is making men feel as though they are in charge.

It would be a bad idea to marry N. A severely bad idea. But for now, N is the person I want to laugh with at bad jokes and crappy movies. I want to smell his hair and taste his sweat. I want to hear his batshit insane theories about "power animals" and this frighteningly solid career advice for how I can move up at my job. He's the person I want to buy trashy lingerie for and go out and drink gimlets with for hours. I want to talk at him about nothing -- about my family and the Midwest and what I'm scared of and why sometimes I feel powerless and paralyzed to move my life ahead.

There's an element of self-destruction here of which I'm completely aware. I know that I could find a man who is solid and boring if I simply stepped onto York Avenue and announced my availability to whichever males happened to be on the street, buried deep into their iPods, at the time. There are a lot of single men in this city. I'm formulating a new theory, though: It's entirely possible that I'm choosing men who are fundamentally unavailable so I can avoid hitching my wagon to anyone at all and instead come home after work at midnight on a Monday, pour myself a glass of sipping rum, pop a Xanax, and type. Just type.

N provides fodder for that. Sometimes immersion journalism unearths the most authentic results.

Anti-Resolutions

2008-01-04T22:09:00.000-05:00

I don't do resolutions anymore. I stopped that a couple of years ago. I change my mind weekly as to what I want, and sometimes I suspect that only my subconscious REALLY knows what I'm pining after.

But this is something I can do: say no. Voice an emphatic "no."

Things I'm Not Going to Do Anymore:

1. Qualify my musical tastes by selling out my gender.
Example: "Her songs are really girly, but she's very talented...." That goes for my current favorites, especially, but not limited to: Sara Bareilles, The Blow, and The Pierces. If it's chick music, FANTASTIC. Better, in fact, than most music. Being a woman is not a negative.

2. Continue to tell my boss about my love life.
She's one of my best friends, but my big mouth is asking for trouble, even when I share the tiniest thing about N. I'm beginning to think that she thinks I make bad decisions. It was one thing when I was with the Boyf, because we could both bitch about our LTRs (long-term relationships), but there's no way she can identify with what young single women go through in this city, whether I'm being good or, um, NOT being good.

3. Apologize for my feelings.
I will no longer say, "I'm sorry, but I want to be with you" or "I'm sorry that I've pushed too hard for exclusivity." No. If I fucking want to be with you, you should be grateful. No apologies necessary.

4. Keep feeling like I should be married or at least engaged.
Do I really want that? Do I really, honestly, want to be married and have to check in with someone nightly, like I did with the Boyf? Do I really want to have to justify my movie choices, my Sunday afternoon rituals, my drinking, my strength, to some dude? No. Plus: At least one of my high-school acquaintances is mommy-blogging. Mommy-blogging! I can't imagine anything I'd want to do less. I can't imagine a life I'd want less.

5. Be judgmental of myself and others.
If I accidentally get blasted, say, and hook up with, say, a Screenwriter who respects (or at least respectED) me, and I realize in the morning I'm over it and over him? Drunk-text N in a moment of weakness? Make out with a stranger in a dive bar? I'm moving on. No Scarlet Letter-esque emotional flogging, because it's a waste of time. I'm accepting it was Bad Idea Jeans for me at the time, and I'm saying, "Next!" Someone I know did blow at some party? Their choice. Their decision. Their body. If it doesn't involve me, it's none of my business. Next.

6. Accept freelance assignments that I hate.
Unless all the furniture I've randomly bought REALLY puts me into a financial hole, I'm going to value my limited free time above the fact that I can say I'm writing for this or that publication. Because, frankly, who cares? Only. Me. The rest of my friends would rather grab an afternoon beer with me than hear about my busy fucking schedule.

Happy 2008.

Breakfast in My Borough

2008-01-03T22:52:00.000-05:00

Woooooow. Sometimes it takes humor to make a gal realize just how little she might be settling for. (Yes, I'm talking about N here.) This is hilarious, especially considering how much I love "The Pick-Up Artist": http://www.mydamnchannel.com/channel.aspx?episode=351

And now for your daily N update: I'm seeing him on Saturday at a bar on the Upper East. We're setting up two of our friends on a blind date. I find this whole endeavor entirely ironic, since N's and my non-relationship is such a train wreck.

We e-mailed today -- probably 10 e-mails apiece, back and forth. It was all cute, witty banter and good writing and confirmation of our Saturday plans. "But what does it MEAN??" my friends asked me on the phone.

My answer? "Hell if I know." And I don't. No one can, especially with him. My reaction right now is to anticipate my new furniture, drink good wine (I'm sipping a decent malbec right now), work hard, and appreciate my friends.

Okay, so I did buy a new dress for Saturday, but it was on sale and wildly short, and I look amazing in it. I used to want to be a New York Holly Golightly (minus the whole prostitution thing, of course), and I had this thought as I walked home in the cold today carrying my new purchase and a couple of bottles of red from my local liquor store: Of course Holly Golightly would buy a new dress for a date with a silly premise. She'd absolutely fritter away some coin on party dresses, wine, and 400-thread-count sheets and go out with the kind of guy who would give her $50 for the powder room.

I remember this about Breakfast at Tiffany's, though: Holly wins in the end. I don't need a manwhore/writer to rescue me (wow, even though N is exactly that), but I will win this -- of my own volition, in my own apartment, in the city that I've earned.

Tales from the Crazy

2008-01-03T00:53:00.000-05:00

The Screenwriter was a bad idea. Or maybe I'm just a bad idea in general -- for anyone. The phrase "shame spiral" doesn't even adequately describe what I went through all day on the 31st. I worked on my freelance projects. I cleaned my home with actual cleaning products. I tried not to think about N, and I tried not to think about my behavior with the Screenwriter the previous night and that morning, when I put on my best Lauren Bacall voice in the early sunlight and pretended everything was fine.

What I realized that evening was that I didn't want to be freezing my ass off over sandwiches and flasks somewhere deep in Central Park, watching fireworks with someone I felt nothing for -- someone with whom I'd had quick and fleeting intimacy, and someone with whom it might have worked out if this were another time. If he didn't live in L.A. If he were older and less arrogant. If I wasn't in love with N.

I texted Sunny around 7 p.m. to tell her definitively that I was going to go out with her for the night (whether she liked it or not). I sent the Screenwriter a lame text message, cancelling. I haven't heard from him since. I drank a bottle of barbera d'asti before going out on New Year's Eve. That's pretty much the norm for New Year's where I'm concerned; the wine wasn't even the problem that night. The problem was my mind. The problem always HAS been my mind, and it's just now that I'm starting to realize that and beginning not to blame the boys with their distance and their nonexistant or half-hearted attempts at love for my depression and anxiety.

We ended up in Greenpoint at a bar whose name I wish I could remember, because it was so fun. I looked pretty, with red lipstick and curled blond hair and black patent-leather Mary Jane heels. I smiled and laughed and danced on banquettes and asked for shots of Jack Daniel's to go with my Bud Lights. I never remember this when my mental state is not right, but Jack is rarely to never a good idea for me.

As we left, I put a half-full Bud Light bottle in my coat, as if I were in college, and I drank it in the taxi ride to the next venue: a beautiful loft in Williamsburg -- a huge space with a large cream-colored couch, high ceilings, and a full kitchen.

I don't remember much more about the loft, but I remember text-messaging while perched on the couch's arm. I remember telling Sunny I was hammered, that I was leaving, and I remember sinking down and sitting outside the door, in the building's hallway, my legs, in those beautiful Mary Janes, straight out in front of me, and leaving N a voice mail-message.

I woke up alone in my own bed at 9:30 a.m. the next day, thank God. New Year's was a poor showing; I'd gotten irreparably drunk in three hours, which is pitiful for an alcoholic like me. I looked through my text-message inbox: a benign "Happy New Year!!" from N, a nice check-in from Sunny, a sweet message from a stoner I used to date for distraction. That's when I started to cry and didn't stop for an hour or maybe more. I bought $400 worth of furniture and bedding at an UES home decor place that always calms me on a whim, clutching the plastic-wrapped packages, yanking them off the shelves, and pulling them toward my chest to hear the noise and feel the tactile pressure. I didn't shower that day.

Wild-eyed and desperate, I somehow ended up at N's later on the 1st, teary and sad and a bit drunk. He held me and fed me chicken and Xanax. He did what he could to the best of his ability. I convinced him to let me stay over, even though I could tell he didn't want me there. I asked him if he hated me. (He said no.) I asked him if he still liked me. (He said yes.) I asked him if he still wanted to hang out with me, after all of this -- after I had scared him and after he had seen my true crazy. (He said yes.)

I can imagine how this sounds.

I don't even like how this sounds. Being self-destructive is sexy if you're rich, but if you're not...? God help you.

I went to work today showered (I came all the way back to the Upper East from N's place) and feeling motivated to change. I called psychotherapists (only Ph.D's -- no social workers, please) for new appointments. I bought hundreds of dollars' worth of more furniture online. I checked items off of my to-do list. I worked as hard as I felt was necessary. I e-mailed lightly with N. He thoughtfully suggested a therapist for me that one of his friends likes. I loved that. I finished some more freelance work. I worked late and hard and tried my best.

This will pass. N will pass. I know that. The key is -- until then -- keeping my head above water and my mind wrapped around my work, my bills, my finances, and my psychological well-being until it/he does pass. The problems start when all the other stuff falls by the wayside, and I am still -- STILL -- too smart for that, despite my staggering romantic ineptitude.

The Substitution Method

2007-12-31T14:20:00.000-05:00

N is a fancy lad. He makes a good amount of coin, so yesterday I tagged along with him as he scoured Madison Avenue looking for the perfect pair of black loafers. For the first time in my life, I entered Gucci. I entered Tod's. I entered Prada. I followed N around Barney's and sat with him and tried to look nonchalant as he tried on $375 leather shoes.

During our shopping trip, I could feel him pulling back. As usual.

When I get that vibe from him, I try to fade back myself. It's hard, though, because all I want to do is wrap him up in my arms and kiss his soft right cheek and make sure he's not cold.

After our foray into luxury retail goods, he left me in the rain at the 59th Street subway stop so I could catch an uptown train.

"I want to go home with you," I told him between goodbye kisses.

"I...," he said when his mouth wasn't on mine. "No...I have so much to do."

"I'm a good muse," I said. Another kiss.

"I won't get anything done," he said.

We parted, and I felt lost.

As if on cue, Sunny called my cell within roughly two minutes of when I stepped into the subway turnstile and interrupted my emotional paralysis. I went over to her place for red wine and mac and cheese.

Sunny and I ended up going downtown ostensibly to see a band with our friends but actually to get out of our respective love funks. I invited along a cute 23-year-old screenwriting student from L.A. that I met on Christmas Eve and had instant chemistry with, mostly to forget about N and have some fun for once.

Roughly four Bud Lights later, I was in tucked into one of the bar's red leather booths, deep into conversation with the Screenwriter. We had seen the same movie recently, we both love Mad Men, we both have the same favorite stand-up routines, and then the Screenwriter's fingers were interlaced with mine and he was looking into my eyes and kissing me hard.... Before I knew it, I was hurtling uptown with him, in a cab bound for the Upper East Side. It all happened so quickly.

The Screenwriter and I are hanging out again tonight -- packing a picnic and watching the fireworks in Central Park. I don't really want to go. I already miss N terribly and feel guilty about the Screenwriter, and, if we're being honest, I'd rather take a Xanax tonight and zone out alone, cradling a bottle of red and watching HBO OnDemand.

But I know I have to get over N. I have to at least fill my life with non-N things so the entirety of my thoughts don't become N, with all of his hangups and half-promises and glimmers of hope and letdowns and mood swings.

I wish we could choose whom we love.

Janey Drama

2007-12-29T19:06:00.000-05:00

I think I'm in a pseudo-relationship with a crazy person. I have a hunch that N is mentally unstable, but in a socially acceptable way. I know y'all know people like that.

Six days after confessing that he wanted to be with me more than anything else, promising me trips to various beach towns, and changing his flight home to New York so he could see me sooner, N gave me his patented speech over the phone: "I don't know what I want right now" "I don't want a big commitment" and "I'm just trying to go with my feelings." (That last one is my personal favorite.)

Like clockwork, though, after a day of my crying all over the streets and subways of New York Friday morning, we met up again and connected again. I'm going out to meet him tonight at a fancy sushi place we had gone to back in October, and then we're going to a movie.

I'm not sure that this non-relationship is ever going to be normal, and I'm not sure it's going to last until 2008, quite frankly. It's telling, however, that I'm still in this. Any sane woman -- any woman who was more interested in self-preservation than self-destruction -- would have ended this long ago. I haven't. So what does that say about me? That I'm desperate? (Not likely -- I don't have much of a problem filling my dance card.) That I'm crazy? (Maybe.) That I'm self-destructive? (Definitely...?)

Normalcy has never been my bag, but when it it time to put away the selfish, mental, sexy, male nutcases and pick someone stable and good, if not a little boring? Age 30? Thirty-five? As soon as the biological clock starts ticking? When I've had enough?

Don't Rain On My Parade

2007-12-22T16:23:00.000-05:00

N is the Nicky Arnstein to my Fanny Brice.

Whenever I watch Funny Girl, I think to myself, "Wow, I know he's cute and charming, Fanny, but honestly. He's a gambler! A con artist! Run! Run away!"

That's similar to what my friends say about N. They know I'm head over heels for him, but they know he's probably not the kind of person I should be with, because he might be incapable of giving me what I need.

Did Fanny Brice listen to her friends, though? Nope. And neither will I, because I still believe in love. N is back in my life right now, and he now says he's ready to do this. So, here it goes. Again. I won't expect a safety net this time.

Coccooning

2007-12-16T00:13:00.000-05:00

Saw the movie Juno today at the cute one-screen movie theater around the corner from my apartment, and it was fantastic and witty. What's even cooler is that a chick who's about my age wrote it, and the dialogue is brilliant. What's cooler than that is that the female lead is such a breath of fresh air and completely nails her loveable, cool-girl character, the likes of which I haven't seen in quite some time. It's female role models like that and the unwavering encouragement that I've received from every single one of my friends that are keeping me going right now.

My friend Sunny and I blew off no fewer than three parties tonight and coccooned up here on the Upper East while the wintry mix descended. Staying in was necessary. It feels strange but good. (Insert "that's what she said" joke here.)

Laughing about Crying

2007-12-11T12:40:00.001-05:00

One of the great things about living in Manhattan is that going about your everyday business takes on a certain glamour to outsiders simply because you're living in New York City. Like, you could be getting Chinese takeout, but it's takeout...from Midtown. Or you could be going running, but you're running...in Central Park. It just sounds cooler.

I thought about that when I was crying like a baby over N in the Oyster Bar restaurant last night. I mean, yes, I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin while my friend A tried to console me, but I was drinking a Miller Lite and sobbing into a cocktail napkin...in Grand Central Station. That's when I started thinking about all the places I've cried in the city, usually over boys -- N, the Boyf, Evil... Yeah, pretty much just those guys. Here's a list of the ones I can think of off the top of my head:

Grand Central Station's Oyster Bar (N)
The 6 train (N)
The L train (N)
The corner of Grand and Metropolitan in Williamsburg (N)
The elevator of a high-rise in Williamsburg (N)
The lobby of a high-rise in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
The Macy's shoe department (the Boyf)
Rodeo Bar (N)
The Bar that Shall Not Be Named (N, the Boyf)
My workplace in Midtown (N, the Boyf)
My former workplace in Midtown (Evil)
Madison Square Park (the Boyf)
A hardware store in Murray Hill (the Boyf)
Union Pool in Williamsburg (the Boyf)
A bus to Weehawken, New Jersey (Evil)
Various taxis (N, the Boyf, Evil)
A foyer in Nolita (Evil)
The basement of Lolita (the Boyf)
Tavaru (Evil)
Eighth Avenue in the 40s (the Boyf)
The R train (Evil)
Some Naked Lunch-esque bar in the East Village (N)
A good portion of the Upper East Side (N)

I'm sure there are more. So now I will get back to enjoying my ultraglamorous (yet unceremonious) dumping.

That's About Right

2007-12-10T01:02:00.000-05:00

N dumped me today.

When I say that it was out of nowhere, I mean that. I am a lot of things, but I am not delusional.

He took me to drinks and dinner in Brooklyn last night and met two of my college friends out at a local bar, where he tried to get in good with them and impress them. He took me to brunch this morning, then to a bookstore, and then to an art gallery he "wanted to take (me) to," holding my hand and engaging in light conversation the whole time. He then said he was cold and wanted to go back home. Once inside, he kissed me multiple times and took off my coat. I could tell by his face that something was wrong, and I said, "What's on your mind?" He led me to his couch, sat us both down, and went silent. I said, "I'm not going to push you, but know that you can tell me anything."

That's when he said that he didn't "see this turning into a relationship." Ever. He said he "had fun" when we went out together but that he felt "disconnected" from me when we weren't together, and that he also felt disconnected from "everything." He said that he felt that two people should feel connected to each other at all times, and that he had been trying to force that with me. He said that he didn't want me to think that he didn't like me, because he did. And that he didn't necessarily want to stop seeing me, but that he didn't want to "disappoint" me by not giving me what I wanted. I said that I didn't want to push him into a commitment that he didn't want and that we could keep things casual. He said, "Would you be okay with that?" And I said, "Well, would you see other people?" He said, "I don't know." That was the nail in the coffin. That was an "Oh, hell, no." I was taken aback, and I was sad. I told him that he should work out whatever issues he was dealing with. He continued to kiss me and hug me. That made it difficult to leave, even though I knew I needed to leave immediately. I needed an exit strategy.

"Want to fuck one last time before I go?" I said.

"Is that what you want?" he said.

"Yes," I said.

It was a power-play move. The sex from my end was strong, dominant, forceful. He took forever to come. I stared up at the ceiling afterward and then, with a half-smile, collected my things, refusing to cuddle next to him, even though he was inching closer to me.

I put my sweaty hair into a ponytail and shrugged my coat on -- he always used to help me put on my coat, which always used to make me smile. I looked at him and said, "I had fun. Good luck working your issues out. I know it can be hard." He kissed me, and I left, avoiding eye contact. He doesn't have to know that I cried in the elevator, and on the subway, and all through the streets of the Upper East Side.

I've been broken up with twice in the cream-colored turtleneck I was wearing today. I'm throwing it away tomorrow, maybe with unnecessary flourish into a streetside trash can.

I always used to pity women I met who said seriously that they're "not dating" or are "over" dating or can't deal with the scene. I found them sad. I thought that they harbored no hope. I understand them today. I know that I'll be over N's and my short-lived non-relationship in about three days flat, but I cannot go through this again. I will choose not to go through this again.

They say that nice guys finish last, but it's nice girls who get the short end of the stick, because we care first and think later. That is a recipe for hurt.

The Endorsement: Strawberry

2007-12-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

I shacked at N's house last night on the spur of the moment, and because he and I live a good distance apart (we're talking boroughs here), I decided there was no way I was going to make it to the Upper East Side to change/shower/primp before work this morning.

On a tip from Sunny, I decided instead to stop by Strawberry, the poor woman's H&M, before work this morning to find myself something fabulous yet inconspicous that...wasn't my outfit from the day before. I hadn't been in a Strawberry since, oh, 2003, because, well, we all outgrow sequins sometime, but I have to say it: I love Strawberry. Not only did I find myself an adorable gray babydoll dress and inexpensive black tights for roughly $20 altogether, there was absolutely zero judgment from the gray-haired 50-something cashier as I politely asked her if she could please remove the tags and the security sensor from the dress as I was wearing it.

I received at least eight compliments from my co-workers on my attire today, all of which managed to detract from any residual feelings about my harlothood that my religious upbringing instilled.

So, New York ladies, if you're feeling slutty in the a.m., a trip to Strawberry is practically a visit to confession. A guilt-free trip to confession (financially, anyway).

Back in Action

2007-11-29T22:18:00.000-05:00

I'm back! Kudos to all of you who kept visiting, even when it seemed like I abandoned this blog forever. My cable and internet is now officially hooked up, so I'm free to commune with the world again.

I moved. I can't believe I'm actually saying this, because I'm so thrilled, but I live in my own apartment now. It has black and white tiles in the hallway and a huge picture window that I can spy on my neighbors though. It is my New York dream, and I don't say that lightly.

It is a gift to be able to come home and be myself. Right now, that means drinking a glass (okay, this is my second glass) of a decent discount Malbec I found at a great wine shop around the corner and marveling at the genius invention that is HBO On Demand.

My happiness meter is off the charts right now. I wanted all of you to know that, especially after the Void of Hopelessness that was this past beer-and-bartenders summer.

As if this apartment wasn't enough to make me sublimely happy, I am still dating N. I took him out last night, for celebratory drinks after a big work coup he scored. We drank good vodka and kissed in a dark booth in an upscale underground bar/restaurant, and I talked to him, at him, with him. The funny thing about N is that he listens. He remembers things I say weeks after I say them, and that endears him to me. I blame the Russian vodka for the sweet things that tumbled out of my mouth last night (I'm still trying to be a Rules girl, let's not forget), but I'm owning that free speech now. I worried out loud about my loose tongue to my work friend Sunny today, and she said, "But who wants to be boring?" The answer is: not me.

I have always been honest, always been up-front, always been exactly what I said I was, even here, in this blog. No pretenses, no coyness, no posturing. I owned that part of my personality with N last night. He can take it or leave it. But if he leaves it? Well...it's going to be all right. I'm swaddled in this apartment and my self-sufficiency, and I've already noticed that men on the Upper East Side aren't afraid to look me in the eye as I pass. That's a good omen -- one that's very "me."

I'm going to do better here, with my writing. I'll bring you stories -- good ones, honest ones, that don't begin and end with alcohol. Okay, who are we kidding, there's going to be drinking, but not the sad kind. The drinking in my stories now is going to be celebratory, warranted, and appropriate. With a little impropriety as a mixer.

Give Me a Kutch

2007-11-13T02:43:00.000-05:00

"Awwww, give me a kutch!" the Welsh woman in the red shirt said as she enveloped me in a huge hug -- one that lasted so long that it was almost uncomfortable.

A "kutch," as I learned at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named tonight, is a hug -- a cuddle, of sorts -- that comes from the heart, especially when something has been lost. When I asked her to spell it, she looked taken aback. "Well," she said, frowning. "I've never written it before."

For me, something has been lost. My grandfather died on Saturday evening, in his sleep. It wasn't a huge shock -- his health had undergone a serious deterioration since the last time I saw him, in June. I had been told that he could no longer be alone -- he had to use a walker and an oxygen tank that helped his "forgetful" spells.

I have pushed it aside for the most part, because I got the news at N's apartment, early on during a Sunday afternoon. I felt selfish, standing there in a man's T-shirt, on my cell phone, in an unfamiliar place. My grandfather was not the kind of person that I am. He was the kind of person who served on boards and distributed scholarship money and worked in the church and for his family.

Today was hard. Real-estate drama with my move (an apartment that's half-finished and coated in a fine layer of construction dust, yet they assure me I'll be able to move in by Thursday). Heart drama with N (I so wish that he would have called me today, but I have to play the Game and wait for his move, since I've asked HIM out these past two times.... I hate that.). Drama with my willing shelving of the news of my grandfather's death. And drama with the fact that I hate my roommate, who gets less and less bearable as the days until my move tick by.

So, of course, I went to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named tonight for some form of distraction. No Brazilian bartender. No Clooney-esque bar manager, who is always trying to convince me his motives are pure. It was me and this friendly, enviable, so-in-love middle-aged Welsh couple and a highly unattractive, portly, gay Irish bartender. We drank in rounds, and it's way too late now, and I had sworn that I wasn't going to drink tonight, but...here it is. Denial coupled with too many Miller Lites that produces some form of drunken prose that I always expect to sing. This is it tonight. This is how I feel. I hope that you respect that and my state.

Point Taken

2007-11-12T20:54:00.000-05:00

I'm a little ashamed to admit I've watched several episodes of MTV's "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila." If you're not familiar, the show's basic premise is this: Tila Tequila is a bisexual internet celebrity, and this is a dating show in which both attractive men and attractive women vie for her affection. In order to win "dates" with Tila, contestants on the show must complete tasks, including, for example, washing a dirty SUV with their asses while wearing tight, spongy bikini bottoms. In between competitions, the guys and gals drink heavily and start verbal and physical fights with each other.

It is by far the trashiest show on television right now.

All caught up? Good.

I had to give props to the producers, though, for leaving a sole butch-looking lesbian, Dani, on the show long enough to be in the final five. The rest of the women look like Victoria's Secret models.

But, on a recent episode I watched, I took all my kudos back. When Dani sweetly kissed Tila, the Indigo Girls song "Galileo" played in the background. Honestly, was it REALLY necessary to play an identifiably lesbian song while two lesbians (one of them butch) kiss? I don't think I needed that point hammered home for me. Just play something normal. Alicia Keys. Fiona Apple. Prince. Whatever.

Changes

2007-11-03T23:22:00.000-04:00

Whenever I type that word, "changes," my mind involuntarily starts humming the opening bars to that Bruce Hornsby song "That's Just the Way It Is," which was sampled in that posthumous Tupac video/song tribute. Eh, that's not too bad of a thing. Eighties music has its place.

Without seeming exceedingly self-indulgent (um, too late...?), it never ceases to amaze me how life can turn on a dime -- how everything that seemed one way can suddenly look different.

I'm moving. I'm stripping myself of my oft-bitchy roommate and her social rules, and I'm moving to a hella expensive place of my own uptown. I'm so sad to be leaving the convenience of my Midtown neighborhood, but moving is key to my self-preservation. The less stressed I get about the apartment transaction, the more excited I get about everything else: the solitude, the space to write, the space to be totally naked in my living room whenever I want. My life is moving onward.

I think that when life starts pushing to break its self-imposed, temporary mold (my current apartment situation, for example), it forces a lot of other things out, too: The N thing is going well -- too well, I'd even venture to say, which leads to me waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to get tired of me. For me to say something extremely stupid. For this all to go up in a puff of fairytale-cloud, sparkly smoke. But it hasn't yet, and that's something to be grateful for.

I have to divorce The Bar that Shall Not Be Named. I haven't been there in a while (see other life changes, above, which have prevented me from putting "getting soused" at the top of my to-do list), but I went tonight, because I felt I owed it to my present self and my future self to remind all of my selves of what went on there -- the regressing and the desperation and all of that fun stuff that no one likes to talk about. I had a few beers and waited for the locals to show up, but they didn't. The Bar that Shall Not Be Named has a new laminated, professionally printed menu, though, and near the top of the specialty cocktails list was the Brazilian bartender's caiphrinha. I laughed out loud when I saw that. It reminded me of what he made for me the first night I met him and fell for him despite my best (sober) intentions. I thought about telling the bar manager, "Um, if you WANT people to get hammered off of one beverage that's essentially rum and crushed ice, go ahead!" The Brazilian bartender never made good drinks. But he did have a way about him.

What was great about seeing that menu was that it was all full-circle: I'm leaving. The Brazilian bartender is staying. I'm pushing on with my New York life. Everyone else there is stagnant, for now, until they receive their gusts of wind from the cosmos. I'm already more positive. I'm already writing more. I'm already hoping for things I didn't believe existed six months ago. It is progress. Progress is something everyone can at least appreciate from afar, even if it isn't happening to them.

Someone Great

2007-10-28T23:50:00.000-04:00

I'm couching this post in terms of an LCD Soundsystem song, because I'm unsure of how to categorize all of this.

N is the man that I'm dating. It's weird to say that, because I have been -- and sort of am -- dating several men. I won't stop handing out my card unless I'm exhorted to. I won't stop playing these boys until I'm explicitly instructed not to.

But there's something about N that makes me talk frankly and forget all of my practiced lines and my perceived coolness and all of the Rules bullshit that I've played for these past six months.

I asked N out impromptu today, flouting the Rules, and he dropped everything and came. That was nice. He likes me. I like him. We sat at a banquette at a Thai place in my neighborhood that I wasn't sure still existed, and I heard the background music clearly.

"This is the song my parents danced to for the first time," I said, sipping from my glass of very decent Cotes du Rhone.

"That's weird," he said.

"Oh. Is it?" I said.

"It's a good omen," he said.

And he kissed me.

Swoon.

It's strange to fall for someone again.

Click and Listen

2007-10-22T23:15:00.000-04:00

Listen to Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour Tuesday at 9 p.m. EST to hear Dr. Blogstein and me bicker with each other in between interviewing fabulous and erudite guests, such as this week's -- the author of the new book The Art of Cheating as well as novelist Vince Flynn. Who is, um, kind of hot. Question: Why are all the hot guys named Vinnie?

Vinnie Flynn:

Vinnie Kartheiser:

Haaaaave mercy.

The Fantasy is Better than the Reality

2007-10-21T19:54:00.000-04:00

Somewhat ironically, I was drinking with my coworkers at a bar in Midtown when an ad for the season finale of Mad Men appeared on the bar's TV screen. One of the higher-ups lightly slapped me on the shoulder and said, "Look! It's our show!" We gazed, transfixed, at the television, even though we couldn't hear any dialogue. When Pete Campbell, Vincent Kartheiser's character, appeared, I said, steadily, "I'm going to marry him." "I thought you were going to marry Zac Efron," my boss said. "Well, him too," I said, "if he's not gay."

Tonight, I watched said season finale of Mad Men and...wow. Just wow. I won't ruin it for those who haven't seen it, but even though I think the writers sort of phoned it in with a couple of plot twists, I am still hooked. And my obsession with Vincent Kartheiser somehow continues, despite his character Pete being the ultimate smarmy silver-spoon weasel he is.

So, um, I decided to do some research on Mr. Kartheiser. In an effort to learn more about my second future ex-husband I went to a cute VK (in the parlance of the Web) fansite, The Ultimate Charm. (Ultimate charm, indeed!)

And now I know why I stopped reading anything superfan-related after my obsession with New Kids on the Block and Kirk Cameron ended. Facts ruin the illusion.

Five facts about Vincent Kartheiser that totally make me want to break our fake fantasy engagement:

-He dated Rachael Leigh Cook. Something about that is just so...late-'90s and ew to me.

-He failed the ninth grade. *UPDATE: But graduated from UCLA with a history degree! Let's not forget that! (See comments.)

-This was an actual quote he gave an actual publication: ''I think learning is such a great thing. I just want to learn and really just want to go out see the world.'' Totally, man.

-He is a big fan of the band Phish. (Though I might be able to overlook this, because he also likes Tool.)

-He smokes. Normally this would not be a dealbreaker for my fake boyfriends, but I quit almost two years ago, and I ain't never going back. *UPDATE: Apparently, I stand corrected on this point. My sources (and by "sources" I mean "a commenter") tell me that he quit right before the pilot of Mad Men, which in my opinion seems like the opposite way to go, considering how much they all smoke in the show. Wish I worked on the show -- then I'd have an excuse to start smoking again. Mmmm...smoking.... Ahem. But, seriously, who really knows if he's quit or not?

So, forget it, Vincent! No matter how much you beg, there's no way we're going to get married and move to the suburbs now. You blew it. No-- no crying. No pleading. Get off your knees and just accept it.

Uh, but if you happen to be in New York for, say, a night...for business...or, you know, pleasure...let's talk. I'll wear my best pencil skirt and take you to the Flatiron Lounge. And I'll let you call me Peggy.

You Can't Have It All

2007-10-19T01:14:00.001-04:00

I was with one of my amazingly glamorous and talented friends tonight -- we ate dinner and drank wine down in the West Village. (I had an amazing veal-and-risotto dish. This is why I'm fat in New York City.) Over several glasses of an amazing red, we dished and bitched as only single New York City women can: We talked about our recent dates that went badly, the sex that wasn't all we thought our partners promised, our ex-boyfriends who are clearly either clueless or assholes, and our careers that are not quite what we want them to be. Yet.

That all might be true (or it might be a bit of embellishment), but in the middle of all of it, I noticed her newly glossy brunette hair and heard her speak about her latest projects, and I looked down at my middle-of-the-road designer bag and remembered the somewhat prestigious place that I work, and I thought, "You know what? Being able to afford to bitch and be fabulous over dinner in the West Village every month or so ain't half bad." Because I remember a time that I couldn't afford a stale cookie in a deli window, let alone dinner, and I will appreciate that now. Even though I'm in my late 20s and nowhere near as hot as I used to be, I'll take it, lovehandles and earned wisdom and all. New York skews your sane-person perspective somehow. Bearing that in mind, I wouldn't trade tonight and my fabulous girlfriend for anything offered to me. I walked up the stairs to my apartment happy.

Videos for Your Amusement

2007-10-17T22:29:00.000-04:00

Awesome.

Awesomer:

Dear Sara, I love you. Love, Jane

2007-10-16T23:10:00.001-04:00

Never before have I wanted so badly to have a lesbian love affair with one of my favorite singers until right now:

Sara Bareilles's "Love Song" video

Drinking Stories

2007-10-10T23:16:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I wonder why the only pop-culture stories about drinking that I can relate to are those told by men.

Here's what I relate to when I drink (um, not that I've done these things, but they seem most authentic):

Vince Vaughn at the end of Swingers. In a diner standing up on the table booth, swinging his sportcoat around, and saying, "So I'm the asshole?! I'm the asshole!" We've all been the asshole at one time or another.

Adam Davies's character "Harry" in the book The Frog King. Harry has only three or four dollars left, to his name -- money he won from a bet on the dictionary meaning of words with one of his mentors -- and the female bartender has to pry it out of his hands as payment for the PBRs that he owes her.

Paul Giamatti in Sideways. The scene where he drinks and stares at the pay phone and drinks more and goes to the "dark side" and calls his ex. In my opinion, this is the best representation of real-life drinking and dialing and desperation...ever.

Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas. Screaming nonsense (or non-nonsense?) -- "I am his father!" -- in a bar. I hear that Nic Cage was actually drunk when he did this scene.

Augusten Burroughs in the book Dry. Aside from myriad other serious problems, in one of the first scenes of the book, he somehow ends up in a karaoke bar in Manhattan in the wee morning hours, belting out tunes he never would have sung in "real" life. Been there, done that. Sometimes without the alcohol.

I think that the women in pop culture who are portrayed as drunks are also portrayed as sluts -- and I don't feel that's the case in real life. Here's why I don't relate to the women drunks in pop culture:

Sandra Bullock in the movie 28 Days. I'm not going to lie -- I've watched this movie at least five times. My favorite line is "I'm a journalist. I drink." Nice. But there are too many come-to-Jesus, sincere moments, and not enough resistance on her part. There's no way a hard-boiled journalist would have taken this program seriously, especially after only 28 days.

Judith Light in some horrible Oxygen movie that I can't remember. She played a physically abusive wife to Peter Sellers or some similar actor, and she'd drink white wine (seriously? just white wine?) and begin to beat him as he slept, beginning with the phrase, "You were never theeere for meeee!" Um, yeah, no.

Marcia Cross in Desperate Housewives. Does anyone honestly believe Bree is an alcoholic? Even her blackouts look fake. And off of white wine? Thank you. Case closed.

Tara Reid in Taradise. I'd slam her, but I'm a little afraid I'll end up like her, tanked off my ass at Sea World. Okay, maybe I wouldn't do that, exactly but she's a minor tragic figure no one wants to be compared to.

Helen Hunt in Pay It Forward. I don't think anyone would believe Helen Hunt as a drunk.

But here are the women drunks I can get behind:

Meg Ryan in When a Man Loves a Woman. I like the honest smoking. I like the honest drinking. I like the, "I'm worried I'm not going to be fun anymore." Good line. Also: Love Meg yelling out the window, three sheets to the wind, at her neighbors, "Some people are trying to have sex in here!" And also, to her rakish costar, Andy Garcia, "Ask me how much I want to drink right now."

Parker Posey in Broken English, a performance that I'd mandate win an Oscar if I were two-thirds of the academy. She's a single New York woman -- thin, drinking bottles of wine alone, smoking (God, I miss smoking), and hoping for someone who will see her good heart.

Please add your own thoughts in the comments, if you feel so inclined.

Tune in Tonight...

2007-10-09T08:53:00.000-04:00

Switch on your newfangled internet radios TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST to hear the Doc and I rock it out on Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour -- and play the infamous "would you rather" game with the author of The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook. Also: Check out the live online forums so you can dish during the live show. Be there or be square.

Happy Hour

2007-10-04T01:21:00.001-04:00

I went to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named last night after work in order to down a couple of Miller Lite drafts and promptly fall into my bed. It's tricky, though, going to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named by myself, namely because I tend to attract lonely, well-meaning old-timers.

I had a beer all on my own, in blissful silence, and then a well-dressed, silver-haired man carrying a glass of Chardonnay stepped into the bar from the patio, stumbling, drunk, into the doorjamb as he crossed the threshold.

I immediately said to myself, "This is going to be my drinking buddy for the night." And, sure enough, he sat down right next to me, and before I knew it, we were deep into a discussion about 20th-century novelists. I like to think that under my neuroses, there's something calm about me that makes older men gravitate to barstools near me. Or, you know, maybe they just aren't that picky and are attracted to my shiny blond hair. But I prefer the former explanation.

His name was Tom. He said he was 55, but I would have pegged him for 62. It felt very Mad Men, our smooth cameraderie and talk about work and careers and goals. (If this were the show, and not a dive bar in Midtown, I would have been Joan, easy.) Our conversation veered toward relationships, because all conversations had at a bar past 11 p.m. veer toward relationships. He filed for divorce from his wife after 29 years together, he said. They had a happy 11 years, and then they had kids. Eighteen years later, they looked at each other and said, "Who the hell are you?" (His words.)

Maybe I looked like a deer in headlights, frightened of this thing that could easily happen to any couple, or maybe I just nodded at him to go on, but this is the next thing he said to me: "Here's my advice for keeping a marriage together: Have sex all the time. Fuck the kids." It was a poor choice of words on his part, but I got the point. He continued. "Not just sex, but movies, walks. You forget those things when you're raising kids."

We talked more, but that was the salient part of the conversation: the urgency he felt in telling me -- telling anyone -- how to avoid what had happened to him.

He then told me about his German girlfriend, 15 years his junior. He told me he buys her things -- jewelry, clothes, dinners, whatever she wants. I was suspicious of that -- his watch didn't look expensive enough. But he said the one thing she won't do is have sex in their car, in the parking garage, after he buys her jewelry. Should I have been offended? Maybe. But I got the sense that this genuinely bothered him. And, after all, it was sort of a quid pro quo: I buy you a $12,000 necklace, and you give me...what? So I took him seriously. Maybe I shouldn't have. But here's what I told him:

If you want a woman to do something for you, make her think she's working for it. Over dinner, tell her, "There's something I've been wanting to do and -- no, I'm sorry. I can't tell you." She'll then try and pry it out of you. Resist as long as possible. Use the bread basket as distraction. Refuse to tell her, and act embarrassed if she presses. Then, finally, after a good half-hour, hour, or half-day, relent. After you tell her your fantasy, say, "And the strange part is, I've only thought about doing this with you. The thought didn't cross my mind until we were together." Sold. Close the deal. She's yours. Aaaaand you're welcome.

Tom paid for all of my drinks, even the ones I had had before he got there; he also made a drunken yet valiant attempt to pick up the cute 23-year-old British bartender for me (no thanks, Tom -- been there and done that at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named); and then, before I left, he slurred, "So, do you want to fuck?" Again, I know that most women would have been offended. Maybe I should have been. But part of me knew that for this guy, it was most likely something he felt he should do -- something old-school that's required of you when you buy dames drinks. I declined. Of course I did. He knew I would, and he seemed relieved when I laughed and said no. We hugged goodbye.

After I left, I thought, "This is what bars can be in New York. Two strangers from opposite ends of the social/financial spectrum, sharing drinks and good -- if not slightly racy -- conversation instead of sitting in their apartments alone."

Obsession without Pity

2007-10-02T23:36:00.000-04:00

I enjoy rediscovering Television Without Pity when I get obsessed with a new TV show. If I recall, the only shows that have inspired me to scour the well-written and funny TWOP recaps and near-obsessive message boards are Lost and Mad Men.

And, oh, do I love me some Mad Men. That's what I spent my downtime at work doing today: Reading the TWOP recap and message boards of my favorite episode: "The Hobo Code." The opening scene is the hottest sex scene I've seen on television, um, ever...especially since watching the characters of Pete and Peggy interact is occasionally so relatable it's creepy. (Slimy ad exec Pete bears not a passing resemblance to a certain ex of mine, both in looks and disposition.)

Mad Men was created by brilliant Sopranos writer/executive producer Matthew Weiner, and one of the things I most appreciate about the show is its attention to detail -- how a cigarette dispenser can take on an almost lifelike quality (there was a good Times article about this) or how a certain hairdo or dress on a character can reveal so much about her. They even mentioned one of my favorite books (and the indirect source of my photo up top), The Best of Everything, in one episode. You can find a bunch of fun trivia about the show and the inspiration for some of the locations, furniture, clothing, etc. on AMC's website. And that the storyline and characters are nuanced and well-thought-out goes without saying. When this season ends, I am going to feel the void.

I like to joke, sometimes, that the show is taking over my life: I recently ordered my very first dirty martini, because I was inspired by a restaurant scene in the show; I'm ogling this vintage-feel J. Crew dress; and up next in my Netflix queue is the classic flick The Apartment, which was just mentioned on a recent MM episode. As Ace Ventura said, "Obsess much?" Eh, maybe. But when a show's this good, sometimes you have to let yourself get swept away.

We Can't Know

2007-10-02T01:00:00.001-04:00

As I was leaving my workplace at 12:30 a.m. tonight, my fried brain could only muster one thought as I walked out of the building and past a nearby record store:

Why is Matchbox Twenty still making albums?

In unrelated news, while I'm working to put food on the table, be sure to tune in TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST to Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour. The inimitable and wildly talented Dangerous Lee will doing the co-host thing in my place, and the lineup looks as entertaining as usual: a comedian, rappers, and maybe an (American) footballer. Enjoy, and I'll be back next week.

Cheese TV

2007-09-30T15:01:00.000-04:00

I just discovered the Lifetime Movie Network today. It's an entire channel that plays nothing but Lifetime Original Movies. I am officially never getting anything productive done again.

Just today, I'm managed to get sucked into both An Unexpected Love (a recent divorcee falls in love with her female boss -- gasp!) and Those She Left Behind (an '80s-tastic drama starring Joanna Kerns, of "Growing Pains" fame, about a man whose wife dies in childbirth and is left with a baby daughter). Between the soaring instrumental melodies, the bad acting, and the feel-good endings, it's impossible not to fall head over heels for the cheesy earnestness of these movies. And they sure manage to make a lazy Sunday even lazier.

God bless you, Lifetime.

Superscripted

2007-09-25T22:31:00.000-04:00

I really shouldn't be surprised by this sort of thing anymore, but it turns out that the two finalists on VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist" are professionals. They're not socially awkward Average Frustrated Chumps at all. Kosmo is an actor, and my formerly beloved Brady is a model. Thanks to the PUA (helloooo, abbreviation for "pick-up artist") blog A Player's Guide for the info.

Suddenly, the pieces are all fitting together: It was no coincidence that the final two happened to be the most attractive guys. And Brady seemed so shy and sweet because he's a MALE MODEL. Anyone who's ever seen the movie Zoolander knows what that means: He's not mysterious; he's just dumb.

I take all of my hypothetical affection back, Brady. And, VH1? Shame on you. I knew this shyte was scripted, but not to this freaking level.

Okay, one last look at Brady: Blue Steel! No, Magnum! No -- Le Tigre! There we go.

Pick-Up Schticks

2007-09-24T22:55:00.000-04:00

And, just as quickly as it appeared, VH1's "The Pick-Up Artist" is gone. Tonight, "Kosmo" (Alvaro's chosen pseudonym) was crowned "The Pick-Up Artist" by crazy Mystery and his somewhat silly-looking partners in crime, J-Dog and Matador.

I've stated my preference for Brady (the second runner-up) before, and I don't feel that Brady was robbed of the victory. If anything, I'm glad he's not going on "tour" -- skank-hunting and picking up STDs around the globe with Mystery and his sycophants. Whiiiiiiiich makes Brady all the more available to come to New York and date me. (Brady: Call me. *making phone signal with my right hand*)

As happy as I am for these guys that they finally have self-confidence -- it was nice to see everyone smiling big, genuine guy-smiles simultaneously during the final minutes, as opposed to their clearly practiced scowls -- I'm a little worried about Kosmo. He really seems to have drunk the Kool-Aid that Mystery's been mixing up: "I love you guys," he said to Mystery, J-Dog, and Matador. But who knows? Maybe he really does love them in that weird fratboy "I love you, man" way.

No, the thing that worries me most is that Kosmo left us with a soundbite at the end of the show that sounded something like this: "I'm not a pimp, and I'm not a player. I'm pick-up artist. And there's a big difference."

Here was my reaction to that, as I sat in my living room:

*crickets chirping*

Okay, if there is a difference, what would that difference be? As a "pick-up artist," you tell women fictional stories (a.k.a. lies, like a player might make up) to attract them. You put them down (like a pimp might, perhaps) to hook them. You weave a web of escalating psychological hot-buttons in order to "close" with a woman (or "girl," as they say on the show) -- be it closing her phone number, closing a kiss, or opening her...um...you get what I mean.

Don't get me wrong: I want to admit up front that I love the show, and I watched every single episode. And maybe if the women are dumb enough to fall for these schticks, then they deserve the predators they eventually fall into bed with. Plus, I would gladly welcome a tutorial from Mystery to learn a few tricks of the pick-up artists' trade to use on men. (We ladies need all the help we can get in the New York dating minefield.)

But, come now: "I'm not a player"? Playa, please. Kosmo, if you'd read Neil Strauss's The Game, you'd better understand what you've signed yourself up for. Get ready to observe some seriously low standards, a few existential/psychological crises, and rampant sexual debauchery. And be glad your "tour" won't be filmed, so your mama won't have to watch you disrespect women the world over.

Keyed Up

2007-09-23T23:50:00.000-04:00

I don't have a lot in common with the Westchester baby-track set, but I do like to bake. There's something comforting to me about knowing that if I put a set few ingredients together in exactly the right measurements and combination, I will get something delicious as a result. It's quite calming, actually.

So, today, inspired by my recent weekend trip to Miami, I clicked on a little Food Network for background noise and set about making a Key lime pie. I found the recipe on the adorable blog Laura Rebecca's Kitchen, and she got the recipe from a place in Key West called Pepe's. You can't get much more authentic than that.

I honestly couldn't remember the last time I made a pie, but I had a glass pie plate in my cupboard and everything, and that alone made me happy. Turns out, baking a Key lime pie is not as hard as one would think. Preparing the graham cracker crust is easy (and eventually delicious), and making the filling is equally easy, especially if you have this weird sex-toy-looking device for juicing limes called a citrus reamer that my coworker lent me.

Even though I managed to use every bowl I own in order to properly prepare everything that needed to be mixed, combined, separated, and juiced, the whole process took maybe an hour and a half tops. That's reasonable for a homemade dessert. (Hint: To better simulate the flavor of Key limes, I juiced two regular limes and half of one lemon. Made the whole thing a little more tart.)

The finished product:

Ahhhhh, sweet success. Not quite as good as the pie I had at Grillfish restaurant in Miami, but not bad coming from a tiny kitchen in Manhattan:

I'm In Brady's Bunch

2007-09-17T21:48:00.000-04:00

I am obsessed with the how-to-pick-up-women reality show "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH1. So obsessed that I'm currently reading the book that inspired it: The Game, by Neil Strauss.

Say what you want about the premise of the show: Mystery's a psychotic, self-aggrandizing, charismatic woman-hater; the concept is mysogynistic; etc. But when I watch, I feel empathy for the nerdy guys and merely want them to succeed so that they'll feel better about themselves or at the very least move out of their parents' basements. Usually, the show stays pretty benign, covering subjects such as how to talk to a woman (or "girl," as they say on the show) or how to take a woman they've just met on an "instant date." Those innocuous topics tend to make VH1 viewers forget that the point of Mystery's "game" is to screw as many women as possible with as little accompanying commitment as possible. That, for the most part, is kept out of the show in the name of quasi-wholesomeness.

Tonight's episode, though, went darker. The guys were assigned to pick up an exotic dancer from a strip club, and when the challenge was announced, I don't know what the guys thought. I wasn't sure if any of them had even seen a woman naked before. In particular, I'm a little enamored of Brady, the adorable 25-year-old blond photographer (nice!) who's hot and quiet and shy. So shy, in fact, that he'd never previously been to a strip club.

Being the best-looking of the crew, he of course immediately picked up a pudgy hairstylist/stripper wearing a Catholic schoolgirl uniform and took her back to the show's limo. Once they were both seated, the stripper started drinking...something that looked like a can of Miller Lite, and Brady had inched so far away from her that he was practically sitting on the outside of the car. He then began a stream-of-consciousness speech that went something like, "I just want to find a nice girl...a sweet girl..." Finally, there was an AUDIBLE "I don't caaaare" exhale from Brady, and he bit the bullet and started making out with her. Because that was, essentially, the challenge. Um, yikes, anyone?

It's one thing to talk to chicks and get their numbers, but it's another to be "challenged" to make out with an exotic dancer in the back of a corporate limousine. Especially since Brady seems to just want to meet ONE nice girl, not swap bodily fluids with all the pole dancers at the local Spanky's.

But, um, maybe I feel this way because I'm starting to crush on Brady just a little bit? The fact that he had never been at a strip club at the age of 25 and the way he doesn't seem to understand quite how good-looking he is endears him to me even more. All the guys, in fact, were a little more attractive to me before they underwent their Mystery transformation and started realizing that a little psychological manipulation goes a long way.

So, Brady? Forget Jillian. If you win the game, don't join Mystery and his cult of douchebaggery and tour the country being a wannabe gigolo. Come to New York. I'll smile at you and listen to all your lame pickup lines, buy you drinks, and whisk you off into the sunset. Bonus: I am a nice girl. Most of the time.

The Endorsement: E-A-R Classic Earplugs

2007-09-16T17:53:00.000-04:00

I usually don't shill for products unless I find something truly amazing. (Or unless I'm trying to get free beer. Kidding. Sort of.) That said, I was pleasantly surprised when I returned today from a girls' weekend in Miami to find something truly wonderful:

E-A-R Classic Earplugs

The minute my traveling companion and I found our row, we knew the flight wouldn't be an easy one. The airline had seated us the middle of a group of eight or so young twentysomethings whom I thought must be drama students, a theory that I formed after hearing both the sheer volume of their conversations and the numerous times they yelled nonsensical things like, "Holla at your boyeeeeee!" and "Choco-choco-chip!"

The funny thing about drama students is they're self-aware without being self-aware. I heard them several times say things like, "Everyone is going to HATE US! They're going to be like, 'SHUT UP!' They're going to kick us off the plane!" But did they shut up? Um, no. That would be un-drama-student-like. My traveling companion, who is tiny and sweet and Asian, clutched her morning coffee, gave me a sidelong glance, and said, "I ahm going to KEEEL them." I hear you, sister.

By the time we took off, two thing had happened: First, I ascertained that they must all be on their way to perform in some cruise-line show. Again, I was able to reach this conclusion after I heard them yell, "I can't wait to get on that ship!" about five times. Second, I remembered I had earplugs. Really, really good earplugs. The foam kind that you roll up and stick in your ears and wait for them to unravel, like the toy foam capsules of sponge animals I used to stick in water as a kid.

Reader, I slept through the flight. If these babies can drown out cackling drama students, I'm sure they can muffle the sounds of crying kids, construction, and the awkwardness of your roommate having sex. Now go buy some.

Girl Crush

2007-09-11T22:21:00.001-04:00

I think I might be a little bit in love with Jillian Michaels, the psychotic drill-sergeant personal trainer on The Biggest Loser. I'm a huge fan of the show, and I was more than a little bummed when they replaced red-faced, screaming, bitchy Jillian with homespun, blond, former-cheerleader-type Kim in Season 3. But! NBC brought Jillian BACK this season, and the premiere episode of Season 4 most certainly did not disappoint:

Not only did they bring kick-ass Jillian back, but they put her on a black motorcycle with black boots and a black helmet, and she rode into the desert on that hog to put together the Black Team, which may as well be called the Force of Evil team, because Jillian is breeding them to be unfeeling titanium-muscled cyborgs, or so it seemed in the first episode. If they don't beat the crap out of the other teams, I might cry. Or put a fist through some drywall -- Jillian probably wouldn't have it any other way.

Honestly, though? Jillian can totally make me into the Terminator (or just plain Linda Hamilton) anytime she freaking wants. I found myself getting so excited watching her whip her new outcast team into shape that I actually clapped with glee. Clapped.

What I like most about Jillian is that she's everything a woman isn't supposed to be, and she succeeds that way. She's loud, she's mean, she never smiles, and she's ripped. (Or at least NBC is editing the show and/or paying her more money this season to make it seem like she's tough as nails.) But I can live with that possibly fictitious character development. She's a total brunette goddess whom I'd like to take a boot camp class from. Or, you know, a one on one training session with.... Maybe we could lift together. Or push-ups. Crunches... Hot, sweaty...um...where the hell was I going with this?

After tonight's show, I cruised on over to her Wikipedia page (memo to NBC: The Biggest Loser web page is horrendously video-heavy and hard to navigate). Wikipedia doesn't say a lot about her, other than she lives with her brother (that's somewhat suspicious) in L.A.

So, Jillian, if you're out there, know this: If you come to New York, you can totally hang with me in my apartment, and we'll go to the gym together and talk about protein shakes and lick low-fat ice cream cones while walking through the fall foliage in Madison Square Park. I'll even let you bully me, if you'd like. Ma'am.

Nice...Um...

2007-09-11T19:54:00.001-04:00

I had lunch with a former coworker of mine today. We were talking about relationships and marriage, and he, a happily married man, related this story to me:

He was at a wedding not long ago, and a young twentysomething woman came up to him and said, "Nice tie."

"I realized," he told me, "that she was hitting on me. I mean, honestly, a woman saying to a man, 'Nice tie,' can't be anything but a pickup line. It's like saying 'Nice ass' or 'Nice package.'"

After I stopped laughing loudly at that nugget of wisdom, I mentally jotted this down in my imaginary self-help book, Jane's Guide to Picking Up Dudes:

#78: Tell him, "Nice tie."

That, coupled with a slight smile, oughta do it.

Friday Quiz

2007-08-31T09:24:00.001-04:00

This is great fun: What Alcoholic Drink Are You?

Here's what I scored:

You Are Whiskey

You're a tough drinker, and you take it like a man
That means no girly drinks for you - even if you are a girl
You prefer a cold, hard drink at the end of the day
Every day, in fact. And make that a few.

Is anyone surprised by my score? Didn't think so.

A Mini-Rant about Dating

2007-08-31T01:02:00.000-04:00

I used to really love dating. I loved the getting-ready process of translucent-powder clouds and curling irons, loved the expensive drinks, loved the restaurant food, loved the awkward getting-to-know-you conversation. I especially loved when the 22-year-olds I'd go out with would wear too much cologne and order things I'd never tried, like scallops, and this would impress me a great deal. After my most recent breakup, I was excited to get back into the dating scene, especially since my palate has expanded beyond those mysterious scallops and now includes things like beef carpaccio and montepulciano. Yeah, I know what those food items are now. I know a bit about the world now. And do y'all know what that means? It means that dating sucks.

I'm in my late 20s now, and my bullshit meter has, unfortunately, been near-fully developed. I know when a guy's feeding me a line, I know when a guy is dumber than concrete, and I know when it's obvious that there's going to be no connection beyond the identical cocktails we've ordered. That makes dating this weird game of Plinko (God bless Bob Barker, may his legend live on). If the guy-chip falls in a slot that's not a zero, but it's not exactly the $10,000 spot on the board, do you keep going? Or do you stop, tell Bob you're done, and walk away with whatever lame La-Z-Boy (or two glasses of sangria) you've managed to score before you even started playing?

The problem with dating is things are never as cut and dried as they are on The Price is Right. Maybe you need an ego boost because you just found out your ex is happier without you. Or maybe it's been a while since anyone has touched your arm meaningfully while referencing a band/book/city you love. Or maybe you're afraid of the future -- either the success that being single might bring to your career or the irrational threat of being one of those New York cat ladies who run the risk of not being found by anyone until three days after they've already died. It's cliche, but that'll strike fear in the heart of pretty much any red-blooded New York woman (or man?), whether she (he?) wants to admit it or not.

I wonder, sometimes, if a true connection is what we're all looking for, or if convenience and timing meld together to make a "good enough" that flies. Maybe it's a little of both?

Gawker mocked this Metafilter post today, but I liked its honesty. As a newly single gal, I wanna know how to pick up guys, too, and I think most chicks do. It would be a lot easier to do so if society didn't mandate that I feel some sort of connection with a dude before asking him back to my boudoir. (Um, not that I would do that anyway, you hear me, male readers? Okay.)

I don't feel hopeless. I also know that I'm not dating Justin-Bobby or any of his ilk, thank God. I Those boys are not for dating; they're just for fun -- I learned that back in '03. But that knowledge doesn't make this romance mystery easier. If anything, it makes it more of a game than dating already is. It's when the non-Justin-Bobbys disappoint that can feel especially unfortunate.

Links You'll Hate to Laugh At

2007-08-27T23:47:00.001-04:00

Bad.

Worse.

Switch-Hitting

2007-08-26T22:13:00.000-04:00

I went to Vermont this weekend on a last-minute getaway with a girlfriend of mine. I went mountain biking for the first time (I didn't even wipe out -- not once!), drank a lot of local beer, and became one with various types of cheese. We drove through back through the hills of Vermont, mountain wind blowing our hair in all directions, good indie music on the stereo, and the city still far, far away.

The blessing of the weekend was not being anywhere near my cell phone or my computer, so I couldn't obsessively check my voice mail, my text messages, my e-mail, my online dating profile, or CNN.com. Of course, as soon as I returned home (relaxed, refreshed, and feeling generally great), I turned my computer on.

Now, I know I'm not supposed to stalk people via MySpace, but morons who don't set their profiles to "private" make it so easy. I decided to take a spin over to the Brazilian bartender's profile just to see what was up -- what inane comments his theater buddies have made on his page or whether he's back with his tiny actress girlfriend. Maybe some hot goss about the Bar that Shall Not Be Named. I was expecting any of that.

But I was not expecting to see that he changed his sexual orientation from "straight" to "no answer."

The Brazilian bartender is gay.

The last time Dr. Blogstein and I were out boozing it up (as we're known to do), I was whining about my love life, and he said, "You show me the guy who doesn't like you, and I will show you his boyfriend."

As much as I hate to admit it, Blogstein was right.

Jane, welcome back to New York: a city where the cutest boys are gay and Blogstein is all-knowing. Maybe I should see about moving to Vermont....

Pet Peeve

2007-08-21T22:40:00.000-04:00

If there's one thing that irks me more than someone calling Barnes & Noble bookstore "Barnes and Nobles," it's when people speak to each other in a foreign language right in front of me. Now, don't get me wrong: It's one thing if you're a family shopping for groceries in Costco and speaking to each other in a foreign language, but it's quite another when I'm trying to rent an apartment in New York in my early twenties in 2004 at a ridiculously overpriced firm, and my broker and his assistant are speaking to each other about the transaction (and, ostensibly, me) behind the desk as I sit there like an idiot, realizing they're probably calling me a sucker to my face.

Roomie is now eating dinner in the kitchen with a relatively attractive and polite-seeming Italian man, whom I did not know would be coming over until this evening. Like an understanding roommate, I've shut myself in my room most of the evening to give her her privacy. When my bladder would hold out no longer from the three to four glasses of chianti I've poured into it tonight, I walked outside of my room to use the restroom. Yeah, I probably wasn't as lucid as I could have been, but I managed to do introductions without falling down or slurring, so, for me, that qualifies as a well-behaved evening. As I was in the restroom, I heard them speaking to one another in Italian. This is what I imagined them saying:

Roomie: Don't mind her. She's a bit of a drunk. Well-meaning girl, though. Pays the rent on time and buys toilet paper when I ask her to. She goes to bars a lot...and I mean a LOT. But as long as she keeps her undesirable men out of this apartment, I'm fine with it. Lovely pasta, by the way.

Italian guy: I had a roommate in Italy who liked the drink. He peed in my expensive leather satchel in the middle of the night.

Roomie: Hahahahaha! You Italians are so witty and charming. May I have some more wine?

When I go to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named, my Brazilian bartender/actor speaks Portuguese behind the bar to his shady, womanizing Brazilian friend. This is what I imagine them saying:

Brazilian bartender/actor: Jane's back again.

Womanizing friend: You should ask her back with you. She clearly wants you. Or give her...TO ME.

Brazilian bartender/actor: But she's had 13 Miller Lites tonight, and, frankly, she's a bit of old news around this joint, yes? And I'm more interested in the girl who taught my self-reflection class today at the academy. Maybe she'd like to take a ride on my motor scooter.

Womanizing friend: Maybe you can use Jane to get to her roommate.

Reinventing the Girl

2007-08-19T20:35:00.000-04:00

I'm drawn to bartenders and actors like a fly is drawn to honey, so it didn't surprise me when I found myself having a nice chat with a young British actor boy at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named on Saturday night. Despite the fact that I think I insulted him when I predicted that his career trajectory would be akin to a Baldwin brother's (if he got that lucky), he was nice to me.

"What's the matter?" he said after a while, as my gaze boozily drifted off into space.

I paused. Then I abruptly swiveled around in my stool to face him dead-on.

"Okay. You want to know what the matter is?" I said. "I've met all of the goals I had for myself as a little girl, and now I don't know what to do next."

This is usually the line that sends guys scrambling for the door -- or at least the next blonde over. But this British boy was different, for some reason. He asked my Brazilian bartender of yore for a scrap of paper from the cash register tape and set about to scribbling with a blue pen. Then he handed the note to me. Here is what it said:

"REINVENT YOURSELF" Program

STEP 1:

Homework:
-Google & read "Desiderata"
-Get & read "The Law of Attraction"

See you next week!!

His "plan" was so incredibly sweet and young and optimistic and well-meaning that I had to keep the piece of paper, and I had to at least do some Googling to find out what the hell he was talking about. There's no way I'm going to spend my money on Law of Attraction, because I refuse to suspend my disbelief long enough to buy into notions like "good energy" and "bad energy" and "vibrations," etc. I think books like that (see: The Secret) are bullshit money-making schemes -- peddling half-baked psychological ideas to the weak and stupid who are willing to slap a credit card on the counter in exchange for a glimmer of hope. But I did find "Desiderata" online, and I liked it. It was enough to make me think and make me smile for two seconds today, so I'm posting it here for you guys to read. I hope you enjoy it for at least as long as I did:

Desiderata
by Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Literary Life

2007-08-16T00:51:00.001-04:00

I went to Rob the Bouncer's reading tonight at the Chelsea Barnes & Noble. I adore his blog, Clublife, so I wanted to go and support him as he makes his way into the literary world with his new book. He was completely adorable and sincere, and I wish him the best of luck in all his future writing endeavors.

But you know what the best/worst part of the evening was? Halfway through the reading/Q&A session, this douchebag that I've mentioned before on this blog (he also goes to my gym) sits down RIGHT NEXT TO ME, wearing the official jerk uniform of a blue shirt and flaming pink tie and crossing his left leg over his right in a manner that causes me to not only move all of my possessions one foot to the left, but also scrunch up in my seat as if I did not exist.

Then, the d-bag predictably asked two insanely dumb questions after missing the whole first half of Rob's presentation. The first had been asked already. (Of course.) For the second, he attempted to mock the "guidos" that Rob often speaks about by asking his question in a dumb-guido-like way: "Yo, so, what's the weirdest thing you ever did for money? Yo." Rob looked appropriately mystified. "Um, listen to that question?" he said. Perrrrrr-fect. That made me adore Rob even more. What made me hate the d-bag even more was his clarification of his question: "So, if I wanted to take a girl into the bathroom and have you look the other way, what would that cost?"

Y'all.

I am a New York woman. I've been propositioned, talked dirty to, insulted, harrassed. But this? This was vulgar. My eyes wide as saucers, I listened as Rob gave a somewhat intelligent answer to this horrid, horrid question.

The worst part? The d-bag recognizes me now. He actually nodded at me as he sat down. We've seen each other a total of three times (four, if you count when I saw him on the reality TV show). Out of allllllll the men in the city -- the hotties I can't muster the courage to talk to, the sweet-looking young boys on the train I occasionally make eyes at -- this is the guy the universe gives me to run into time and time again until he knows who I am? What did I do to deserve this?

Off the Wagon

2007-08-13T23:16:00.001-04:00

Here in the city, there's actually a bar named Off the Wagon, so maybe I should have gone there for my inaugural drink last weekend. Instead, I celebrated seven days of sobriety at a new Irish pub in my 'hood (not my usual hangout, the Bar that Shall Not Be Named) that has karaoke on Sundays. I sipped my Bud Light draft(s), chatted up some interesting fellows at the bar, including a fabulously good-looking chef, and sang the following songs:

"Black Velvet," by Alannah Myles
"My Favorite Mistake," by Sheryl Crow
"Why," by Annie Lennox (kind of a downer, but the crowd was sweet and attentive nonetheless)
"Don't Stop Believin'," by Journey

I felt my night was a rousing success and a fantastic entree back into the world of booze. It's my goal to respect the drink -- to harness its power and keep the abuse to a minimum. In the week that I've returned to drinking, I've only done a couple of dumb things -- namely frequenting the Bar that Shall Not Be Named a couple of times and sending some ill-advised text messages to a certain Brazilian bartender who's not having any of it.

But I'm working at getting past this awkward life stage.

I am trying -- as hard as possible, after this breakup and during this new life that I'm carving out for myself -- to be normal, which, for me, Jane, is sometimes hard. Much like the drink, I'm learning to respect my individuality and my quirkiness -- to understand when it works for me and cut it off when I go into overdrive. It's exciting, being single: I have new interests and new likes that I'm not sure would have been possible had life not been stripped down to its barest: just me.

So (because I'm such a huge fan of lists) here is what I'm digging right now -- what I've discovered now that I'm on my own and learning to get along with that:

New favorite bar: the Russian Vodka Room
- Stepping inside is like transporting yourself into the 1940s -- or the 1950s, at the very latest. They have a piano player who sings songs in Russian and a sweet veteran female bartender who will bring you a new drink, no questions asked, if you accidentally spill yours. (Not that I would know this firsthand.)

New favorite musician: Feist
- Check her out on iTunes. I'm listening to her newest album for the first time as I type this, and it's fantastic.

Old favorite musician who's going to blow up huge in no time flat: Sara Bareilles
- I saw her at the Bowery Ballroom a couple of weeks ago, and she's rapidly developing a fanbase that will preclude her from appearing at any more small venues for the rest of her career. I'm happy for her, but I'm sad that she's not my obscure little piano gal anymore. She's opening for Maroon 5 this summer, and I consider that a nail in the indie coffin.

New favorite vacation destination: Miami
- Can't remember the last time I took a vacation that didn't involve going to see relatives. A girlfriend from work and I are buying our tickets tomorrow for a trip to a place I've only fantasized about going. And the hotel looks beautiful and inviting.

New favorite TV show: Mad Men
- There are so many amazing things about this show that I can't enumerate them all here. This is AMC's original series about Madison Avenue ad execs in 1960, and it leaves nothing untouched, including the rampant sexism and racism of the period. Love the costumes, love the actors, love everything about it. It reminds me a little of one of my favorite books, The Best of Everything.

What fun things are you guys obsessed with right now? Do share if you feel so inclined.

And, of course, listen to Blogstein and me keep on rockin' in the free world Tuesday night at 9 on Blog Talk Radio. We'll be expecting you, so show up on time, pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes.

Songs to Drink To

2007-08-04T15:34:00.001-04:00

Okay, so we already did breakup songs. Check and double-check on that one. But now, since I've been (sort of) happily sober for five-plus days now, I think we need a list of drinkin' songs. Here's what I've got so far. What am I missing?

1. "Sober," by Tool (Dear Lord, I love this song.)

2. "Rehab," by Amy Winehouse

3. "One Bourbon, One Scotch, and One Beer," by John Lee Hooker

4. "Spill the Wine," by War

5. "I Drink Alone," by George Thorogood and the Destroyers

6. "I'm Drunk Again," by Hank Williams Sr. (though I prefer the Hank Williams III version)

7. "Family Tradition," by Hank Williams Jr.

8. "Gin and Juice," by Snoop Doggy Dogg

On the Wagon

2007-08-02T22:52:00.000-04:00

So, um, some of you who read this blog on a semi-regular to regular basis may have noticed that I enjoy the drinking. And by "enjoy" I mean "love." In a good way, of course. A genial way. A totally not trashy-and-yelling-at-bartenders way. Really.

Despite that, due to several drunken...shall we say "incidents" this past weekend, I've decided, dear readers, to put myself on the wagon. For how long? Dunno. I've been dry since Monday. Here's hoping I can make it until Sunday at least.

Here are a few thoughts I've had about being a drunk girl who's trying to stay dry, holding fast to that last little plank of the wooden wagon before a nail gives way and I tumbles onto the red clay:

-When you make a pledge to "not drink," "drinking" becomes one of the only thoughts in your head, even if you've only previously drunk on weekends. Ordering a sandwich at the deli? A beer would go great with this ham on rye. Stressed at work? Lord, I need a shot of Jack. Have a spare 30 minutes in your schedule? Man, the bar would be a great place to kill some time.

-When you're a drinker who makes a temporary sober pledge, it becomes your mission to tell everyone, regardless of whether they care. A coworker of mine asked me if I wanted a beer the other night (we have a pretty laid-back work environment). I could have easily said, "No thanks, man." What I did say -- quite happily and brightly, I might add -- was, "No thanks! I'm on the wagon!" and then I actually skipped away.

-Even if you're holding a nonalcoholic beverage, you shotgun it. I was at a bar with my buddy the other night after a concert, and I was swilling that Diet Coke like it was the lifeblood that would sustain me. He finished his whiskey and soda, and I said, "I'd be happy to get another with you." And another crisp, clean DC with lemon I sure did order, and I downed it within minutes.

-"Sober" can mean "time ticks by like it's molassses." I think to myself, as I'm home and clean at 10 p.m. on a Thursday night, that I would normally be into the wine or into the Bud Light or into a deep, drunken conversation. And then I have another thought: This is where my novel has gone.

Maybe these non-drinkers are onto something...?

Men: Dating Don'ts

2007-07-24T22:37:00.000-04:00

I'm not sure that dating in New York is harder than any other city. It's just that here, there are more people to date, hence more idiosyncrasies, more idiots, more jerks, more morons, and more bad, bad, bad nights that one wishes one could have instead spent watching "30 Rock" on DVR than out and about wearing a too-done hairdo and a bored look on one's face.

So. Men of New York, here are some basic guidelines to follow when attempting to woo a lady in Manhattan (or any of the other boroughs, for that matter, save maybe Staten Island):

-Do not bring up your gastrointestinal issues. If that pizza was too heavy or if that Coke Zero you ordered made you "feel like a volcano" inside, please keep it to yourself. We don't know what to say in return, and you've just grossed us out to the point that we will not be having sex with you that night...if ever.

-Do not tell us, within the first three dates, what age you lost your virginity and attempt to solicit the same information from us. It is creepy, and it brings up high school issues (of the virgin or non-virgin variety) that we'd rather not revisit.

-If you have asked us out on a first date and requested that we go to dinner together rather than drinks, do not split the bill evenly in your head, push the leather receipt-holder toward us, and inform us what our share is. It's tacky and rude, and a storm cloud of resentment will soon appear directly over our forehead when we realize we could have spent that $28 on our very own pepperoni pizza and a six-pack.

-Do not get drunk off of fewer beers than us and then attempt to paw us at the bar. We don't like lightweights.

-If we tell you (for whatever reason) that we will not be having sex with you, do not ask, "Why not?"

-If we are kissing for the first time, do not grab our limbs and constantly reposition them, as if we are made of Gumby-like soft rubber and wire. You may be used to blow-up dolls, but we are also not made of vinyl.

-Do not text us two hours later after we end our fifth date with a peck on the cheek. We obviously don't like you in that way. Also: Do not text us throughout the workday. We have work to do that doesn't involve reading three urgent messages about this funny thing your coworker said.

-Do not attempt to fact-check basic background information we give you on a first date so that it turns into a Lincoln-Douglas-style debate. If we say we're from the fucking Midwest, we're from the fucking Midwest! Our home state is not in the motherfucking Southwest!

-If we are making out with you, do not tell us, "Don't rip my shirt. It's Brooks Brothers." By the time you get out the "s" in "Brothers," we will have left your apartment.

-If you take us to your favorite restaurant and we ask you for a food or drink recommendation, do not say, "Um, I don't know." Just say something. Pick a dish or drink. Any dish or drink. It's your favorite restaurant, and we're trying to make awkward first-date conversation, so go for the assist and help us out here.

Now it's your turn. Comment and either excoriate me or agree vehemently with me. And always, always share your own.

Sad, but True

2007-07-23T20:22:00.000-04:00

I was drinking at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named this past weekend (surprise!), and I found myself in conversation with a gentleman who was asking me too many questions. I'm realizing more and more lately that I don't want to schmooze. I don't want to flirt. I just want to down my beverage, pay, and leave.

"So, what are your goals?" he asked. Please. I was so not in the mood to go there.

"I've met all my goals already," I said. "I'm going to drink myself to death, like Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas."

He looked down at my glass.

"But you're drinking Miller Lite," he said.

The man had a point.

To hear more of my booze-soaked stories as well as my attempt at witty banter with Blogstein, tune in at 9 p.m. EST Tuesday night to Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour. You might want to grab a Miller Lite first.

High/Low

2007-07-15T23:59:00.000-04:00

"High/low," Michelle Pfeiffer said at the dinner table with her fictional family, playing a character in the contrived movie The Story of Us. Each night, the members of her nuclear clan -- Bruce Willis and two children -- would go around the table and say what the best and wost parts of their day were. I loved that. I remember watching the movie on VHS, alone, in my bedroom, in college, and I secretly promised myself then that if I ever had a family, we'd do the same thing.

Having a family someday seems laughable now -- especially here in the city -- but I still like the idea of high/low. I had my high and low right close together yesterday:

The cheapest place to buy beer in New York is Duane Reade. (If someone knows of a cheaper place, please do comment and tell.) So I headed out there on Saturday to buy my usual 18-pack of Bud Light, because I am white trash from the Midwest. The cashier was sweet: "Would you like a bag? Or would you like to carry it like that?" "A bag, please, if you don't mind," I said. I like that I answered her question with quasi-Victorian phrasing. What I should have said was, "A bag, please. I'd rather not the whole island of Manhattan know exactly how trailer I am."

So I waltzed out of the DR, my beer in my bag. Five steps out of the store, the bag broke. Handles ripped clear away. So I stopped, picked up the bag like it was a baby, and began the 10-block journey to my apartment. And then I think I saw Tim Robbins (ha-cha-cha!), but he was unfortunately not around for the bag-breaking incident, because if he had been, he surely would have offered to carry the thing home for me.

I continued walking, Bud Light papoose in my arms, then I realized I smelled beer. That couldn't be good. Then I heard a hissing sound. Again, not good. Then, 10 steps later, I felt it: Beer was leaking into my woefully broken Duane Reade bag, soaking my Wall Street Journal and the box of condoms I had bought in a fit of hope.

I had nine blocks to go. Fuck.

I began a somewhat dainty run/walk through Madison Square Park, streams of Bud Light trickling out of my bag intermittently. I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window once I was clear of the park -- hunched over, carrying this white plastic whale of a bag that was quickly filling with light beer. I wondered what people thought. I know, after this many years in the city, that I shouldn't care about the opinions of passersby, but it's still funny to think about. This girl -- blonde and in black gym clothes -- run-walking a leaking bag of discount beer, a Wall Street Journal, and condoms.

I made it to my apartment, dribbling beer up three flights of stairs, and assessed the damage in the kitchen sink, faucet on: Only two Bud Lights had ruptured. Two were dented. The rest appeared to be fine. Thank God.

High: Seeing Tim Robbins.
Low: Being a white-trash hooker who frets over two lost beers.

Fourth of July

2007-07-04T23:46:00.001-04:00

A and I didn't care about the fireworks. I like that about our friendship: She and I have done the fireworks thing before, in unpoliced parking lots and fields and rooftops in the Midwest. We've heard the stories written in the local papers about the boys who blow their arms off in search of a good time. We preferred to spend the time from roughly 9:30 to 10:30 p.m. today drinking and talking in a dark bar.

We had beers tonight and waxed poetic about what most ailed us: her recent move, my recent transition. It was all authentic. More American than any fireworks display could be. Beer, friendship, and cameraderie ending with a hug.

Buy This Now

2007-07-03T01:36:00.000-04:00

I'm serious: If you spend money on anything other than this today, it will be a waste. Food included.

Please buy Sara Bareilles's Little Voice album from iTunes or the music store or wherever the kids are getting their music fix these days. I adore her, and I think she's one of the most talented musicians I have ever seen live. You'll be thanking me later. So there's my review. Now go out and buy it, dammit.

Also: As always, Blogstein and I are doing our thang tonight at 9 p.m. EST on Blog Talk Radio. You know you want to listen.

Headlines

2007-07-01T16:48:00.001-04:00

Today in What the Fuck?: Man pummels "vampire" peacock

Is ANYONE surprised that this happened on Staten Island?

Finally, Some Truth in Advertising

2007-06-30T16:42:00.001-04:00

A swanky salon near my neighborhood has a chalk-written sign outside advertising the "Laguna Bee-otch Mani/Pedi Special." This amused me.

Calorie Coma

2007-06-26T09:01:00.000-04:00

I finally got jealous enough of all the people eating ice cream cones on the streets of New York that I broke down and bought a pint of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. But this wasn't any regular ice cream -- oh, no. This was a brand-new flavor I'd never even seen before: Creme Brulee. And it tastes exactly like creme brulee. One bite, and I felt like I had just finished a tasty meal of duck and escargots at the neighborhood French bistro. It's also responsible for at least one pound of weight gain, but whatever! This is summer. And this is creme brulee ice cream we're talking about, people.

Listen to Dr. Blogstein and I shake it up on Dr. Blogstein's Radio Happy Hour TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST. Go to Blog Talk Radio, tune in, and instantly become part of the cool crowd. Well, the cool online crowd anyway, but let's not mince words.

Barstool Philosophizin'

2007-06-24T19:04:00.000-04:00

I like talking to old-timers in bars. Some of the most authentic conversations I've ever had in my life are from older men trying to drop some knowledge in the hopes that I'll stay and listen for a while. Loneliness talks.

I was at my neighborhood pub on Saturday, talking to a 60-something Danny DeVito type wearing a red pocket tee and khaki shorts. He's an old-school photographer -- hates the internet and what it's done to good work. Everything is so available, not as special as it used to be, he said. I could hear in his voice that he missed darkrooms.

He asked me what I do, and I told him. And then he asked me what I really wanted to do (because, we creative types, we all have a dream side project). I told him I wanted to write a book (um, join the club, I know), and he asked me why I hadn't started.

"I'm just...I'm afraid it will suck," I said, in my not-so-refined twentysomething parlance. "And then, well, I'll have no dream left."

He took a sip from his highball of Glenlivet 12 and stared straight ahead.

"Even if it 'sucks,'" he said, "it creates a bottom. You'll improve from there."

Wise words from a feller on a barstool.

Oh, It's Possible

2007-06-20T23:13:00.000-04:00

As a single woman in New York, it is possible to really enjoy the title tracks to these records at the exact same time.

Awww, Dad

2007-06-18T23:59:00.000-04:00

I'm pretty much the worst daughter ever, as I neglected to call my dad on Father's Day. I MAY have gone to the Jersey Shore that day with a certain Brazilian bartender, and I MAY have been way too drunk at the end of the day to remember to call my dad. But that is neither here nor there. I did call him on Monday, so I still get brownie points, but not as many as I should have racked up.

The great thing about my dad, though, is his view of relationships. He's a wonderful man -- into gardening, into drinking Miller High Life, into working for the church, into playing cards until the wee hours of the morning -- and I think that he thinks that every boy I date is as well-meaning as him. As. If.

When I was in the Midwest this past week, my dad was making copies of our written family history for me to take back on the plane. As he Xeroxed, I pawed through my closet, looking for my old softball glove and twirling an old baton I used to love, and I talked to him about men.

"[The Boyf] was good-looking," I said absentmindedly, stacking and unstacking some old books in my closet, looking for an old family photograph I had stashed there years ago. "I don't know -- I don't know if I'll ever find someone as handsome. But at least I'm prepared for that."

My dad paused, still making copies.

"You never know," he said with his back to me. "You might break the heel of your shoe on the sidewalk, and someone will be right there. Or maybe you'll be at the grocery store, and you'll meet someone."

I loved this. I loved every word of what he was saying. It was so charming -- the chick-flick version of the New York life he thinks I lead. The "meet cute."

Little does my dad know, though, what actually goes on. No parent should, really. But wouldn't it be funny if he did? Wouldn't his words of advice or reassurance be different? For me, it would go something like this:

"You never know. That bartender you've been scamming on could turn out to be un-sketchy and maybe take you out on a real date. Or that guy from the online personals might not be as bald as he looks in his photo, and then maybe you'll go from awkward beers at a neutral location to a less awkward dinner to wedded bliss. Or? That creepy IT guy from work could turn out to be a real charmer -- once you get past the whole creepy IT guy thing, anyway."

Reality is much less charming.

Listen to Dr. Blogstein and I rock it old-school TONIGHT at 9 p.m. EST on Blog Talk Radio. We promise witty banter...but don't hold us to much else. Though we DO have freaking Dick Van Patten, from "Eight is Enough" and a heck of a lot of other stuff (including "Wonder Woman"! Awesome!) on tonight. I think that means you should set your cell phone timer/Outlook calendar alarm for 9 p.m. and prepare to be entertained.

Bloggers, Bloggers Everywhere

2007-06-14T22:53:00.000-04:00

When I was on vacation in the Midwest -- at the time this happened I was actually drinking Bud Light at an Outback Steakhouse bar and trying not to inhale Middle Sister's cigarette smoke -- the unthinkable happened: I met another blogger. You think you're escaping the vain and self-obsessed masses when you leave New York, but no. The overeducated and opinionated are everywhere.

My new friend's name is Darin, and he so eloquently pens (types?) the blogs Branson Missouri and Branson Edge. Over some serious ass-kicking sessions with the MegaTouch word-search game, we discovered just how much we have in common (blogging). And don't have in common (taste and self-censorship). If you go to the aforementioned sites, you'll see that Darin is a serious journalist, whereas I am -- to date -- not.

So. Dear Darin, thank you for the sip of your bourbon (that was not a euphemism, you dirty-minded hooligan readers) and the quarters we spent displaying our superior vocabularies, and I'm sorry I babbled about my latest male conquest for the better part of our conversation. I swear I'm over him now. XOXO, Jane

Sage Advice from a Midwesterner

2007-06-12T23:12:00.000-04:00

One of my top goals for the vacation to the Midwest I took this past week was to reconnect with my two younger sisters. I tend to still think of them as roughly 11 and 7 years old, respectively, which is wildly inaccurate, as they're young women now. Middle Sister is 24 and quite the boozer, and Youngest Sister is 20 and decidedly pure and uncorruptable. And then there's me, with my, ahem, extremely social drinking and intermittent come-to-Jesus/I'll-never-drink-again moments. It's a wonder all three of us came from the same parents.

Being the near-alcoholics that we are, Middle Sis and I quickly became hell-bent on getting Youngest Sis to drink. And what sort of alcohol, pray tell, does one buy a young college-age woman who doesn't have much drinking experience? Say it with me now: Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill wine. Don't pretend like you don't know what it is.

Going to a liquor store in the Midwest is like going to a candy store for this New Yorker. First of all, everything is so cheap it's practically free, and they have every kind of liquor/beer/wine/glorified lighter fluid you can imagine. So I shouldn't have been surprised when Middle Sis and I strolled into the convenience store (called something like Kountry Kabinet or similar) and found no fewer than four flavors of Boone's chilling in a glass-doored fridge, as if they'd been plucked directly from Mr. Boone's farm especially for us.

"Oooh, they have it!" I literally squealed to Middle Sis. "What do you think? Strawberry Hill, yes?"

And then, out from under the fluorescent lighting of the store, came a hick voice to end all hick voices. Sitting in a plastic booth that could have been a furniture remnant from a McDonald's circa 1987 was a grizzled, portly gentleman with a Budweiser T-shirt and crossed eyes. We had no choice but to listen:

"You giiiiiirls are in luck. They haaaave your flavor," he said.

"I haven't had this in years," I said, trying not to look at him. But he wasn't finished yet. With a sense of urgency that can only come from one boozer to another, our new friend said:

"Well, git you some!"

And git us some, we did. Not only did we follow his advice, but that became the inside-joke catch phrase for the entire trip. And even though Youngest Sis only drank about 1/3 of the bottle before going to bed like the oddly angelic being she is, it was damn worth it to buy a perfectly chilled bottle of Boone's from the Kountry Kabinet deep in Nowheresville, Midwest, on the advice of a drunken stranger.

Taking a Break

2007-06-05T00:43:00.000-04:00

Hi, guys. I want you all to know that I really appreciate you being with me through everything lately. I'm going back to the Midwest on vacation for a week to see my family, and I think it's pretty clear from my recent posts that I need one. That said, I won't be updating this blog for the next week or perhaps longer, but I think everyone will live. ;)

I'm going to stay positive, I'm going to get the old Jane back, and when I return I plan to have better posts for y'all.

Thanks again, and I'll see you guys in a couple of weeks.

Baggage

2007-06-03T03:47:00.000-04:00

Detritus is my word now. I've claimed it. I've staked it.

Detritus is what is left. It's a "product of disintegration," according to the Bible. Detritus, for me, is all of these shopping bags littering my floor. Packed up by him and filled with my clothes, my makeup, my books. I can't open them. I know my two good dresses are in there -- I have to trust that they are -- but I can't open the bags and look inside. I'll only remember where they belonged in his closet.

Distraction is another component: It's cranked-up music (a lot of Tool lately) or conversation or drinks or general loudness or quips. It's the bartender from Friday night. And Saturday night. It's opening a bottle of wine now, at 5 p.m., because I just can't sit with the feelings I'm having.

This Is a Test

2007-06-01T01:36:00.000-04:00

Tell me I can make it go away.

Tell me that I can eradicate this responsibility, this accountability, this intelligence. Right here, on Madison Avenue, tell me -- amid the honking cabs and the catcalls and the losers who have to point it out like obvious idiots -- that I don't have to worry anymore. Tell me that I can be stupid for once. Oblivious for once. Unaware of the consequences of my actions and a certified grown-up, whatever that means anymore.

Tell me that I don't have to think about how he already has my belongings in bags, that I wasted the past few years on hope. That my drinking is normal. That I'll smell your soap on me for the next week at least. That I can forget what drove me away from him in the first place. That I'm younger again.

Tell me that this won't be awkward later, that this is a temporary phase of mine and that I, of course, would never do something this ill-thought-out unless the circumstances dictated it. Which they do. Don't they?

But they don't. This isn't.

And I won't.

This is a toe-dip. This is only a test.

Summer of Sam

2007-05-29T22:56:00.000-04:00

Every summer, I get obsessed with a food product, usually something summer-specific, like peaches. When I'm in a food phase, I prefer foods that incorporate that flavor above all other foods. Peach cobbler. Peach pie. Peach martini. Frozen peaches. Canned peaches. Peach jam. Peach sorbet. Deeeelish.

I'm done with fruit, though. This summer is going to be my Summer of Sam Adams Summer Ale. I'm not trying to shill for the company (though if you're listening, publicists, I could totally use a free case), but I had a draught of it at a bar for the first time on Monday, and then again from the bottle at a rooftop barbecue I went to, and it was nice -- a refreshing blend of wheat and citrus. Though I prefer Boulevard when it comes to my wheat beers, or Hoegaarden if I'm not in the Midwest, I'll take Sam Summer Ale any day of the week. Or every day of the week. Because in the summer, who's counting?