Not A Good 30 Countdown

In 30 days, I have to be living somewhere else.

And I am a wreck about it.

Moving is the worst. We've all been there. But moving with little time, and whole lot of uncertainty, is the most torturous moving hell there is.

Every night for nearly a week now I've been waking up in a panic at 4am, unable to get back to sleep. It's always something. I need to find a good place! Where? How much? Is it near transportation? Is it safe? How will I get my stuff there? My stomach hurts. How much will that cost? Is it loud? Are there bugs? How will my work commute be affected? I should get all my financial paperwork together. Oh, God my finances are solid, but by no means impressive. I can't breathe. Do they want to see my taxes? Where the fuck are my tax papers? I should get a letter of employment. I guess I'm spending the weekend at Kinkos. Why is this happening? This fucking sucks! And so on and so on, until it's around 5:30pm and I've worn myself out, and I think I could fall back asleep, but then it's 6:15am and I have to wake up for work (because I have new, early hours to cover for the group that got laid off last week). Needless to say, several colleagues have felt the need to point out how exhausted I look. Thank you co-workers. I know I'm tired. And thanks to your godlike powers of observation, I am glad to know I also look like death. Your words are anything but comforting.

Yesterday the dam kind of broke. I spent the entire day at work emailing, texting and calling realtors, Craigslist weirdos, and anyone who might have a place for me to live March 1st. Apartments were already gone. Apartments were obviously scams. Realtors said it was too early and I needed to do this in about two weeks - which I understand logistically, but the idea of ABSOLUTELY MUST finding a good new home in such a short period of time shatters my nerves. Also it's the fact that I work full time and getting to see these places takes time I don't have. At all.

After work I rushed to see an apartment that fit in my price range and is in one of the neighborhoods I'm considering. It. Was. Terrible. It was about 20 minute walk from the nearest train with a charming view of....the expressway. 5th floor walk up. Shitty hallways. The place itself was basically a tiny bedroom, a stove and a toilet. Doors hung off hinges. The walls reeked of Axe body spray. I politely said "Oh hell to the no" and ran away. I know I can't afford much, but I work hard and I'd prefer not to spend my off time living in squalor. I walked the slow, sad slog back to the train, and felt so overwhelmed, so totally fucked, and so hopeless that I just sobbed all the way home. In under a week two huge pillars of my personal stability - work and home - have undergone drastic and unpleasant changes. I don't know if they'll bounce back, to be honest. I guess we'll just have to see.

The Anxietyville Horror

Between this past Wednesday and Friday, my day-to-day world took a serious rocking, the fallout of which has been some persistent anxiety issues. Nobody is dead. The world is not over. It's just exceptionally unpleasant, and has caused enough worry and freak outs that I have yet to sleep through the night without drugs, or properly digest a meal. My stomach is a swirling, acid sailor's knot, and my back feels like a minefield of small explosions. My face? Let's not even start (bridge troll).

All I want to do is this:

And stay there. Under the blanket.

So what happened? To make two very long stories short:
1.) A huge round of layoffs at my work. With apparently more to come. Really good people lost their jobs, and as Office Bro said "Of course you're sad, J. You have a soul." Also that means EVERYONE is on edge and now I work much earlier hours to cover the guy who trained me. He was with the company for around 12 years. I obviously don't want to leave/lose my job right now, but I've got to say that sure as hell doesn't inspire much confidence in building a career here.

2.) I HAVE TO MOVE. Unexpectedly. Heart-breakingly. I'm still numb from the news. So the whole stress of finding a place (huge) coupled with the logistics of the actual move (rent a truck? plead with friends?) has me absolutely bricking it. I just....don't know when the hell I'm going to be able to find the time to deal with this, you know? When the phrase "What am I going to do?" plays through your head non-stop on a demonic, sing-songy loop, the idea of a blanket and a cage looks more and more appealing.

Several people have been like "Just leave New York" but honestly, it's so much more complicated than that. I get it. I do want to leave at some point in the next 1-2 years. I talk about it often, I know. I'll be ready to go soon enough. But for now, I need to be here. Today at least, I have a job that I verbally committed at least a year to. And I still see the potential to grow here. I'm scared as fuck, but I'm pretty damn smart. An income that keeps me afloat. I can get back to my parents in under an hour by plane if there's an emergency. I'm hoping to have a play up later this year. There's a lot of stuff I have committed to, and want to see through to the natural conclusion.

You SHOULD Be Sorry, Goddammit!!

I really dislike seeing the phrase, or hashtag (for the kids) #sorrynotsorry after a statement.

For example:
"i like taking advantage of people. i hate being sober. #sorrynotsorry"

The above is sadly a real tweet. Besides the fact that the person sounds like a complete and utter idiot (teehee! I'm such a drunk! Young and evil! YOLO! lol) It makes me want to backhand them...hard.

Me, after backhanding some idiots.

Why? Because knowing how to give a real, sincere apology is important, and I'm starting to think people don't know how to do it anymore.

No one is perfect, but it is thoroughly unpleasant to realize that someone can be incapable of admitting they were wrong, or apologizing when they are. Nothing turns me off quite so sharply as opinions being presented as facts, or a refusal to consider that you might be wrong.

We've become a world of  I’m sorry, but . . .which is the most insincere, bullshitty, strings-attached, "but I really AM right" way to apologize. Same goes for I'm sorry you feel that way, which is pretty much saying "it sucks that your feelings are so wrong!" Neither of these are legitimate, genuine apologies. What happened to accepting responsibility for failure as well as success? Or understanding that we're not always going to be right?

I'm trying to make a conscious move towards apologizing more freely, and not being a stubborn jackass, which is something I have the unfortunate tendency to do. This doesn't mean I'm turning into one of those doormat girls who says "sorry" like a knee-jerk reflex (because that doesn't do any good either) but to be more gracious about admitting that I frequently don't know the answer.

So, what's a good apology?
"I'm sorry I was late doing that thing you asked me to do."
The end. Don't punctuate with excuses. Simply admit you didn't do it when you were supposed to. If you really feel the need to say something else, I'd suggest trying something along the lines of "I'm sorry I didn't do that thing you asked me to do. I don't know where my brain has been this week. I'll take care of it right now." That way you acknowledge that you've done wrong, and you'll rectify the situation as soon as possible. Boom. Done.

And if you're not sorry? DON'T SAY YOU ARE if you don't mean it! If you're not sorry, you need to have a discussion as to why not. Just don't be a dick about it. And honestly? It's OK to be wrong. Humility is a very sexy quality that doesn't go unnoticed by good people.

When Your Heart Isn't As Wild As You'd Hoped...

I am an urban desk monkey. And it drives me mad.

This could easily be me.

 

Because that's not who I am. Or at least who I still don't think I am, but now I'm not so sure. Let me explain.

Have you ever heard of the Tennessee Williams play Stairs to the Roof? Not many have. It's not big in the cannon (although I really love some of his more wacky and obscure stuff and I think you should too), and I think the play is more well known for its subtitle which is:

A Prayer for the Wild at Heart That Are Kept in Cages

This subtitle is more than a little dramatic, and sweeping, and has been the subject of many an ill-conceived tattoo...just ask Angelina Jolie. BUT I still really dig it. I'm a sucker. And as someone currently lodged behind a desk in midtown, I feel like I kind of get it. Who doesn't want to escape the menial existence they didn't really plan on, and take off for the horizon? To reclaim your life and your wild heart? I know I sure as hell do. I like fresh air, open skies, and adventure. And jogging around the reservoir in Central Park isn't ticking all the boxes anymore.

Let's hike this.

 

I would also be pleased to be here.

 

I thought I was doing my brutal time as a young mind in a tough city, who would eventually do well enough to live in a place where I can see the stars in the sky at night. But that time hasn't come for me yet, so I have had to find my precious time away in smaller doses. A summer in the woods. A day trip to hike somewhere out of the city. A few days upstate near a farm. And most recently, a weekend at Cape Cod.

Cape Cod is really lovely, a fine example of picturesque New England. I'm all about that shit. Tiny homes and dark, shiny wooden interiors, clean salty air, and paths of every variety (stone, sand, straw) to follow. The best part came from taking the dogs for a nice little jaunt around near the docks, then off into the marshes. It was really beautiful. I was taking breaths so deep you'd think I was a struggling asthmatic - but I was just getting the biggest hits of fresh air I could. Perfect. Happy. 

 

Until we got home and found a tick on one of the dogs.

 

And I am utterly shamed to say I kind of freaked out. I was like "Check the dogs! Check yo'self! Then check again because Lyme Disease is horrible and I don't want it! Blergh!!"

 

I went from Miss L.L.Bean to Upper Wet Rag in under 60 seconds. And I hate that. Why couldn't I just chill out? Why did I have to get all squirmy when bugs were involved? Argh. Even if they are blood-sucking leeches of disease, I am shamed. The same thing has happened when I've gone surfing. It's all fun and games until someone sees a jellyfish, and by that time I have probably made it back to the car, because I have run the fuck away so damn fast. I can't really be that wild at heart when so many things in nature freak me out, can I? It makes me feel like some spoiled little city dweeb, whose closest "country" experience is some kind of Disney-fied Country Bears hot freaking mess.

 

Then again, I can't deny that I have spent the majority of my life as a city person. Mass transit is my 6th sense. "Bitch, please" is my blood type. To deny this HUGE part of my personality would be to quash the reality of who I am. What's the happy medium? Is it suburban living? If that the case....ok. Obviously I haven't figured it out yet, or I would have gone there a long time ago. Until then, this city girl will continue on, boats against the current, ready to exchange her sexy high heels for hiking boots whenever she possibly can....as long as we can keep the involvement of bugs to a minimum. Ick.

 

 

TGIF is really just "Terrific Gif!"

BOOM. NAILED IT.

This is just a weird day. Any day that begins with waking up at 5:45am because you're having a panic attack about your finances is bound to be a bit wobbly, no? Even when you spend frugally and budget closely, living check to check is pretty stressful. So I freaked out early this morning and couldn't go back to sleep.

I finished packing my bag (I thought it might be relaxing for the long weekend to go somewhere even COLDER), probably with too many pairs of socks and not my glasses, and headed into work, where I've been continuing to obsess over the Manti Te'o story, rather than things that really matter (Algeria, Debt Ceiling etc.) (No, I couldn't give a fuck about Lance Armstrong. I called that guy as a major prick a long time ago. No news there.)

Just a few thoughts about Manti before we get any further:
1.) YOU ARE NOT IN A RELATIONSHIP IF YOU'VE NEVER MET. The end.
2.) Seriously. Do they still seriously make people that stupid?
3.) What's up with Notre Dame rushing to this guy's aid, but ignoring women who claim to have been sexually assaulted by members of the football team? Or the student who was killed because he was told to get up on a cherry-picker in crazy high winds to tape football practice?

I mean, no matter what, Manti doesn't come out of this looking good at all. He's either a manipulative slimeball, a sad closet-case, or the stupidest man on planet earth. I'm going with a combination of all three.

I gave internet dating the old college try (HA! Inside joke for one of my best breakup stories!) It was not for me. Interestingly enough, the last guy I was emailing with might have been a catfish himself. "Dan" was incredibly handsome, interesting, and intelligent. He was also Canadian.... it's like he ALREADY wasn't real! He contacted me, and we swapped messages for about two weeks before he asked for my number and would I like to meet him for drinks etc etc. How these things are supposed to go, right? So he texted me, and made plans. Then cancelled. Then rescheduled. And suddenly had people in town. Finally I said I would be happy to meet up with him whenever his schedule cleared and he should just give me a call. Call never came. And honestly I didn't care. After he "forgot" he had guests coming into town (worst host ever!) I thought "no Canadian would be so thoughtless."

Internet dating is essentially Russian Roulette. Five barrels are loaded with duds and one will kill you. Yes, yes, MANY of my friends have found their love/spouses online and they are not loons. But, that's about as frequent as faking the life and death of a girlfriend just to hide your sexuality and possibly boost your chances of a Heisman. Like, super slim to.....ohhh.

I Read This And It Gave Me Feelings

Do you ever read things and react REALLY strongly to them? I do. All the damn time. I made the mistake the other day of reading a dating blog written by a guy who lives in my home city. Imagine my disappointment to find out the author wasn't this interesting or insightful man, but rather a narcissistic, popped-collar loving, didn't-get-over-parents-divorce, alcoholic date rapist. And apparently it's a super popular blog. Jigga what?

I've been sitting here stewing over Dvora Meyers' article on Slate "My Mom Was Too Old" for nearly an hour now. It makes me wish I could sit down and have coffee with Dvora. Mostly because I think it would be good for us both, but also because Dunkin Donuts gave me somebody else's coffee this morning when I straight up ordered tea. Sigh. Anyway, the article made me think and feel a lot of things, and I commented (under yet another one of my non-clever pseudonyms) publicly, but spent so much time editing and re-editing my response that I've come to realize I had FAR too much to say about the article for a mere comment. So I'm going to walk through it, and let some shit out.

(I will put the excerpts from Ms. Meyers in italics to make it easier to distinguish. Just to start off the article, her mother gave birth to her at 42 years old.)

I always imagined myself in my late 30s, married with a family. I saw my mother as an attentive grandmother. But then it happened before I was ready.
I get this is a pretty standard vision for "life in your 30s" BUT I don't think your mother's age/depression derailed it. Also, no one is ever "ready" for the mortal decline of parents.

I was 27 at the time.
26. I feel you.

I was happy that the parents were able to experience the joy of parenthood but also upset that the writer (of a NY Times article on older parents) did not pay quite enough attention to how this phenomenon might affect the children.  But that doesn’t cover what those years before their deaths might be like, what it will be like for those twentysomething children to care for aging parents (or at the very least, manage their affairs) while trying to establish their own careers, relationships, and families.
Sure. It can be super hard. But do we love our parents any less? I sure as hell don't. In fact, I'm even MORE proud of my mother for having me later in life. Her devotion to both her career and family utterly inspires me. And the fact is, she's still in very good health. A parent can die at any time, I'm sad to say. You can have a kid at 25 and still get sick. I don't think "shaming" older parents into thinking they'll fuck up their kids lives in their 20s accomplishes a goddamn thing.

Here is what it was like for me: At the start of my mother’s aging issues, I was still trying to make it as a writer, working as many gigs as I could cram into the day, never quite sure where my next paycheck would come from. It had been years since I had found myself in anything resembling a relationship.

I hear you again. Same same for me. BUT it's not my dad's fault I couldn't figure out a better career path, or to stop dating emotionally unavailable alcoholics. That one's all me. And honestly? Dad's illness made me grow up. I hated it. Would I have liked a little more leeway to get shit together on my own clock? Of course. It was a nightmare. But it was time.

“You have to move in with your mother and take care of her,” my aunt informed me.

“What happened?”

“She takes too many medications and walks around like a zombie,” my aunt exclaimed. “I don’t know what to do,” she cried out, exasperated.

“I don’t know what to do either,” I said, trying to remain hushed on the packed holiday express.

“You have to move in with her,” she repeated as though I hadn’t heard her the first time.

“Why me? What about Lisa?” I asked my aunt, referring to my sister.

“She’s married and has kids. “You have to do it,” she said firmly. For her, it was non-negotiable.

“But I’m still in my 20s,” I choked out.

Your aunt fucking SUCKS. What the fuck? That is MESSED UP. Anybody who abandons their own sibling in the time of need and sloughs complete responsibility off onto their child is a righteous sonofabitch who deserves to be lobotomized with a rusty hoe. BOOM. Said it. Meant it.

Also, having kids is not some get-out-of-parents free card. Kids require a lot of their own care, I understand. But it doesn't mean you get to wash your hands of any other complex situation that might come your way.

But how do you avoid this fate? As I near my 30^th birthday, still single and working as a freelance writer, I feel guilty for my personal and professional choices. I haven’t exactly created a life that is conducive to caretaking. Maybe I should’ve sat for the LSATs I registered for after college instead of moving cross-country on a whim. Perhaps I should’ve followed through on one of the thousand times I asserted that I would get a real job. Maybe I should’ve kept dating that guy who worked in finance. I’ve passed up hundreds of opportunities to settle down in some capacity. Which maybe puts me on the same path my mother followed, having a child in my 40s, hoping to make it, God willing, to their college graduation, with or without walker.

 Don't beat yourself up and don't be all like "oh my fate" etc. It gets you nowhere. Life has dealt you an extremely rough hand. Life will be forever different. But you can't get a new hand (it isn't five-card stud) AND you made your own life choices before the tragedy too, you know? Time to live with them. All I can tell you Ms. Meyers, being a few months older than you are (and filled with wisdom like a donut is filled with jelly) is that you just have to keep going. Don't let this tragedy define your life, because you will be tempted to let it. It's too easy. Don't let it be why you can't find love, or why you didn't accomplish thus-and-so. Because then you'll just be bitter, and angry. There are a lot of answers. You need good doctors, and probably a lawyer who specializes in end-of-life paperwork. They are great resources. Every now and again I doodle a small life preserver as a reminder that no one is going to save me. I need to be strong, to keep myself and my world afloat. This means growing up and accepting that I have to learn and live with some really unpleasant and tough scenarios. And you know what? I hope you have kids in your 40s. I hope you are to them what my own mother is to me - my greatest joy and inspiration. People die. I really do think it's the time we have together - even and often the hardest times - that matter.

Life Lesson..........................sigh.

It's all fun and games until someone you dated casually for a hot second a long time ago is applying for a job at the company you currently work for.

Disclaimer
*I am not a big slut. I haven't dated the 8% unemployed of America. This is an insane coincidence.
*He has no idea I work here.
*He might not even recognize me. It was only a handful of dates.

Truth
*I was not ready to date when we did and I could've handled it MUCH better than I did. 

Hopes
*It's been a while. Maybe he won't recognize me!

Thoughts
*If he does recognize me, I really owe him an apology. I was an absolute basketcase then.
*I should just keep my mouth shut.
*Maybe I can conveniently be "on break" when he arrives, so I don't have to deal with any of this.
(Running from awkward situations NEVER gets old, and is very frequently the right answer, no matter what your conscience or television may tell you.)

Weird
*I'm 90% certain I saw another guy I dated on the street (on a date, it appeared) this weekend as well. What gives, Universe? Now you're just being mean.

Tactic employed? Avoidance. Because it was a long time ago and obviously amounted to nothing. Sometimes, instead of trying to fix the past, you've just got to let it go and be what it was. Memories are designed to fade.

OR he gets hired, starts working alongside Dr. Lumberjack and my world gets rocked. Eep.

Happy-ish

I had a really insightful conversation with my friend B over the weekend (where I did all sorts of catching up with long distance friends before my phone died).
B is like me - smart, single, and just getting by.

We decided last night that we are "Happy-ish."

Which, roughly translated, means "Things could be a whole lot better, but we're enormously grateful for what we DO have." Which I also think means "disappointed but trying not to be a brat about it" or "struggling to find our place in the world and not end up as blisteringly irritating as an episode of Girls."

Then again, B and I also decided to text each other "dirty" pictures - like dishes in the sink, gum on the sidewalk, mud on our shoes, etc - just for laughs. This is how we are. So now, when guys we date ask us to send them dirty pictures (which has happened to us) we will have a bountiful number of pictures of trash to choose from.

 This is a dirty picture

Suck it fellas. We're LITERAL. Not idiots.

The term Happy-ish is sticking with me though. Because I'm stuck between thinking "there should be more than this" and "it could be (and has been) so much worse." Does that make sense? Am I too much of an apologist? Perhaps. But I'm trying to at least be grateful for what I have while still wanting my life to be better, to be even more. I suppose that is what everyone wants.

Is Happy-ish enough? Should I be satisfied with it?

Argh. I feel stuck again. I'm not sick but I definitely feel the January tireds. My get up and go has yet to reappear after it got up and went. I've been encouraged to make a return venture to daily free writing (basically, verbal spatter for three pages about whatever is in my head) but feel ambivalent about even that. Largely because my head feels empty, but also because it's supposed to be done by hand because it helps with the flow of brain-to-page. However, I'm starting to hate writing with my stupid hands, largely because I have hand pain pretty regularly. My doctor knows. It's pretty common. I remember a few years back, saying to my dad "My hands hurt. I think I might have the beginnings or arthritis or something." And he laughed. And that was that. Granted, when your dad is coming unraveled, he is not the person to take your "hand troubles" to, but I still just kind of chuckle and shake my head. Oh Dad.

Also I did not renew my kickboxing contract upon its expiration. Ever since my favorite Sensei mysteriously up and left, class hasn't been the same. The guy they have teaching it now is a freaking joke. The joy is gone. Now it's just me angrily beating (with lightning sharp speed and skill!) the crap out of a bag for an hour, then hurting for 2 days after. I'll just save up for a bag of my own and do it on the cheap at home. But quitting a kickboxing gym is like leaving Cobra Kai.

 It's hard. But you've got to do it. Moving forward with other fun, personally enriching activities! How does one follow up kickboxing? Trampoline?

Maybe some dancing. Something fun, and lacking in a contract. Commitment issues? Only to a gym.
And, perhaps, a blog.
Possibly going to start scaling back on posts. Lack of direction makes me feel like I'm just posting to meet a quota, rather than having something of interest to say. Even though I know you guys love the gifs. No one can resist a great gif. Amiright?

Ouch.

Don't Let the Door Hit You.....

A few weeks ago I was having dinner with a close friend, talking about our futures. Where we wanted to be living, with whom, if that included children in the next five or so years. I kind of hemmed and hawed about leaving New York, saying what I've been  dealing with for years now...."where the hell else do I go?"
My friend, who loves and knows me so well, looked at me thoughtfully with her pretty golden hazel eyes and asked "Did you give up on London?"

I sighed. "I've been trying for years now. I think it's done. Sometimes you just have to accept that life sucks and most of our dreams don't actually come true."

A moment of silence while this statement landed.

"I tried." I said, suddenly very sad. "I tried so hard."

Which is true. I poured everything I had into finding my way back. It was what I wanted more than anything - to continue the life I was setting up there. Between Dad's illness and the fuckery of the visa office (did I mention? Due to a calculation error of dollars to pounds, I was roughly $8 short of their "minimum finances" in my bank account so I was denied entry. Even explaining that I could easily rectify that mistake and I'd been at home to help out an extremely ill parent. But no. Not good enough for the British government. Nothing says "fuck you" like getting ruined because you were a few quid short.) God forbid a foreigner wants to contribute. I can't even begin to tell you how hard I cried when I realized there really was not going to be any kind of a second chance. The kind of heaving sobs where you end up vomiting because you've been turned inside out - but it carries on for weeks. And you just want to go back, to go home. You want your friends. You want your apartment. And if you can't do that, you want to be left alone. Preferably forever.

So shit happens. Like I said. But thinking about that conversation with my friend, who knew how deeply saddened I still am over the whole thing, I ventured back to the UK Border Agency website after a long absence. What I found there was even more depressing than I had anticipated. Many categories of immigration (8 out of 12) are straight up CLOSED indefinitely. They do not want any more people entering. Unless you are laughable wealthy, and still relatively young, there are very few options.

Immigration is a huge issue in several countries, the United States included. Another dear friend is in a mirror situation to mine - she wants to come to America, but cannot find her way around US Immigration. I just....I hate the fact that it feels like we're stuck where we are born. Options to escape are few and far between.

Short of marriage (to whom??) or becoming the representative of an overseas business (a good dream) I have to once again close the coffin on this thing I have so desperately wanted for so long.
I miss my friends. I miss my other family (MM & Co.) I miss the places and the opportunity and the fact that I felt genuinely like myself.
For now, and possibly forever, it's gone.
This is, I'm sorry to say, growing up.

The Adventures of Dr. Lumberjack and The Handsome Chimney

Any time I see my work crush (who I have re-code-named Dr. Lumberjack for his intelligence and rugged good looks), I get the same feelings as when Cookie Monster is given an enormous cookie, surrounded by lots and lots of regular-sized cookies.

Basically, elated (and a bit googly-eyed).

I've written ad nauseam about this man. And I don't mean to come off as creepy or weird. It's just fun to have a crush, and feel like a kid again, you know? Like this blog is actually some kind of sparkly pink Lisa Frank journal with rainbow unicorns on it. I have no expectations. It's pure, innocent admiration. I like how smart and kind he is. How he always says please and thank you, and holds the door for everyone. How he is well read, but doesn't buy into pop-culture bullshit. Also the fact that he's mind-bogglingly handsome.

And that's all I know.

Trust me, there are a lot of good men out there in world. I happen to know many of them! I just focus on Dr. Lumberjack because he's in my orbit on a daily basis.

Just this afternoon he was going out for his afternoon cigarette break (Nobody's perfect, not even Dr. Lumberjack) with his buddy The Handsome Chimney (who takes roughly 25 smoke breaks a day).

Side Note: If there was a comic book chronicling the adventures of Dr. Lumberjack and The Handsome Chimney, I know you'd read it. We all would. It would be amazing.

I heard Dr. Lumberjack talking to The Handsome Chimney about his recent travels that have apparently left him exhausted. But he doesn't mind, because he loves driving (me too!) and it's fun and adventure and getting out of the city and all that shit. Then they smiled in my direction and got in the elevator and disappeared. Who is the Dr. Lumberjack driving so far to see? Was it for the holidays? I haven't the slightest idea. Family? Girl/Boyfriend? (sob) I don't know. But now I know that like me, he enjoys road trips and getting out of NYC. Subsequently, I like him EVEN MORE as a person.

A person I don't know. But one I like so much!

Isn't that odd? I was talking about it with a new friend at a party last week. The way we sometimes think of celebrities as people we know, almost like having friends in common with the world, simply because we are informed as to what they do, who they date, and what they like. We form opinions (positive or negative) that result in having feelings about these people whom we've never met. For example, I think Jennifer Lawrence and Emily Blunt are fantastic actresses who seem like lovely people in real life. I've gleaned this from enjoying their on-screen work, as well as TV and magazine interviews they've given. Neither of them know me. I wouldn't approach them in the streets, but I think they're cool. I like them. I wish we'd be friends! Isn't it odd, at it's most basic level, to have feelings (whatever kind) for a complete stranger? Wishful thinking, but frequently I think if I could focus the feelings I have for strangers and put more into my EXISTING relationships, I'd be on much more solid footing.

Huh. Just something I was thinking about.

New Year, Same Me

Today, my co-worker was genuinely shocked and surprised when I told him that

1. I hate New Years with the fire-y passion of 1,000 suns.
2. I don't believe in resolutions.

After several years of social misanthropy and grumpy hiding (which looks like this):

I decided to slowly dip my toe back into society for the most hated New Years Eve. Obviously, it is important to walk before I can run, so instead of diving headlong into a fancypants, dress-up affair with lots of people (even though I do love to dress up every once in a while) I was looking to keep it chilled out and easy. Lucky for me, I was invited over to the home (in walking distance! No subway! No bus! No cabs!) of some dear friends, who had invited over three other people for drinks, food and cards. It. Was. Perfect. I couldn't have scripted a more lovely evening. We chatted. We had cocktails. And we played Cards Against Humanity, which is essentially "Apples to Apples" for those of us with charcoal-dark souls with senses of humor to match. It's free here: http://cardsagainsthumanity.com/
(This is NOT a good game to play with parents, grandparents, children under 18, or the sensitive of disposition. Just warning you now.) The next day, at the gorgeous and delicious New Year's brunch hosted by other friends, I was stuffed with the most incredible food AND we played CAH there as well! And let me tell you....to be SUPER full and laugh until you cry....kind of hurts. But it's worth it, right? To laugh til you cry?

Now. Resolutions.
I think setting up what are essentially rules to change yourself (Be thinner! Be nicer!) on a certain date is kind of insane. I get the whole "clean slate" idea (I wrote another entry about it) but I think the obsession with remaking oneself is more detrimental than anything. Maybe it's just me. We are flawed. I'm all about trying to be healthier and kinder, but not to the point of being unhappy or feeling like I've suppressed my real personality. I think it's about finding the balance between how to be the "best version" of yourself and the real one. Like when you start dating someone new, and you have to find the line between liking things that they do (making an effort to connect) and being who you actually are. Do you give a flying fuck about this hip indie band your fella likes? No. Not at all. But you listen because it connects you and is a small thing you can do to make him happy, which is your favorite thing to do. However, when he asks if you'd like an egg sandwich for dinner, you MUST put your foot down and insist that eggs make you sick, you've tried eating them for years in every conceivable form and you still end up puking. Graphic but necessary.

Did that make any sense, or was my train of thought like the one in The Fugitive, where the train hits the overturned bus o' convicts and sends Harrison Ford out on the lam? You know what I'm talking about, right?

Tommy Lee Jones' performance in Lincoln was pretty much the one from The Fugitive but with fewer donuts and improved wigs.

"We want to block the amendment!"

"I don't care!"