Monday, January 31, 2005


One of the reasons that I decided to move to New York when I did was that I felt I was ready to have some responsibility in my life. I partied my way through my twenties, and loved every moment, but was eager to have a regular schedule - to be able to go out any night of the week, have nice dinners, evenings at the bars without necessarily closing them.

New York, I imagined, offered the best of both worlds. The most variety in nine to five gigs, with the most choices in how to spend your evenings and weekends. I imagined how professional and together my new job would be. I mean, it probably is the corporate center of the world, isn't it? Only the most professional and together individuals could make it there.

After all, it's not personal, it's business.

Yeah, one week into my new corporate job shattered that illusion. People are people, and they are the same everywhere. They come with flaws and insecurities, and if you want to succeed you have to figure out how to work with them. I started my life in NYC working for a bitter overbearing control freak and a paranoid delegate everything wanna be mother figure. Balancing the two extremes was almost more than I could bear.

In life I pretty much tend to get along with everyone. I can genuinely say that 99% of people, after they meet me, say, "Wow, she is really great!" or "Rockstar is so much fun!" I really enjoy making people laugh and feel good about themselves, and they appreciate this.

I have met and worked with people who are the epitome of evil. They can be two faced liars who cannot wait to stab you in the back, and she have actually already tried to do so to me once or twice.

Strong words, I know. How can I enjoy knowing so many people but then meet one that completely turns me off? Simply because he or she knows my secret and how to use it against me.

Everything is personal.

Fortunately I believe in karma, and therefore will always take the high road. As boring as that may be. My liver can use the good vibes, it will need all the help it can get in the near future.

I just hope when the karma comes around it’s a nice banana cream pie and I am a witness. Not too much to ask, is it?

Sunday, January 30, 2005


It took me two days to recover from this past week. Madness, I tell you.

What exactly did I do to recover from? This is the disturbing part - not all that much! I went to the gym Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. I played volleyball Wednesday night, and I went to the bar Thursday and Friday nights.

Okay, now maybe that I'm typing this it seems like a little more, but really Monday thru Thursday I was home by 10:30 at the latest. And it really took me all day yesterday AND today to get over it. I did nothing, literally nothing. I slept today until 3:00 pm!

How do other people do it? I read blogs of people who go out almost every night, and still get up early every morning to go for a run or a workout before heading to their respective jobs. I live a disciplined, adult life for five days and I go into meltdown.

Could you imagine if I was dating someone on top of all this? I would have to buy stock in Red Bull.

Saturday, January 29, 2005


Every now and then I am lulled into thinking my life is perfectly normal. I mean, really. I wake up, go to work, go to the gym, and occasionally hang out with friends. The picture of regular living, right?

Maybe soap opera storylines are closer to nonfiction than fiction?

Last night I had a friend's birthday party to attend in the evening. It was set to start after 9:00 pm, so I had some time to kill after work. I came home, rested, went to the gym, then back home to clean up. I had taken a long leisurely shower, and had just finished doing my hair and makeup when I started to hear a commotion.

This commotion consisted of heavy footsteps treading in my hall, and some noise outside on the street.

"Huh” I thought.

Then across my airshaft the windows were being broken. Not a floor down or in the back of the building, but ten feet from my bedroom window.

"Err,” I utter.

I want to look out of my bedroom window, but my uncle the retired nyc cop told me long ago if you hear trouble go the other way. That way you do not get injured as an innocent bystander. I guess one of my second cousins got kicked by a police horse once because he did not follow this advice.

But I digress.

I'm a little nervous, and only in my underwear. I look out my front window, and there is a fire ladder across the view.

That would be a good hint it is time to get dressed. No alarms, no one coming to my door saying it would be good to get out of the apt. Just a fire ladder outside of the window of a half naked girl.

I get dressed very hurriedly and get my ass outside. I live on the fifth floor of a brownstone that is flanked on both sides by two more brownstones. The apartment directly next to mine in the next building is on fire. Two little brick walls are all that separate me from losing all of my worldly goods.

Thanks to our fabulous NYC fire dept, the fire was out within 15 minutes, and I ran back upstairs to check out my place. In my absence the firemen had to go into my apartment and poke a hole about one foot in diameter in my ceiling to make sure the fire had not spread to my building via the roof. They were exceptionally apologetic and nice about the mess. Which was nice, but I'm actually really thankful that they check that kind of thing. I like having a place to sleep. I think being homeless could really suck.

The firemen left, I looked around, and I got my booty to the party. Girlfriend really needed a drink to still her nerves.

And today I am getting renter's insurance. Oh yeah.

Friday, January 28, 2005


I was listening to NPR earlier, and Leonard Lopate was interviewing John Turturro. They were discussing how sometimes directors will play music during filming to help with mood when Mr. Turturro mentioned that Johnny Depp regularly hires a DJ to play music into an earpiece while he is being filmed.

Life with your own personal soundtrack. That is the coolest thing ever.

I wonder if the DJ ever wields his power in negative ways, by playing music to create a detrimental effect to Johnny's mood.

You would think that Johnny Depp would just get an ipod and hook it up with a play list or two. The whole scenario is reminiscent of monty python's "The Holy Grail", when the knights would pretend to ride the horse, and always had someone following with coconut shells to make the sound of horses' hooves.

I guess the whole point really is to rely on someone else to have a wider knowledge of music than you and who also has the ability to read timing and moods.

I'm officially taking job applications for my own personal DJ. The pay is low, the hours horrific, but if you love watching a girl walk down the street and shake her booty the rewards are endless.

stephen hawking is hot

My heart is broken. I happened to mention my current fantasy obsession with Vin Diesel to a friend, and her reply was "You know he's really dumb, don't you?"

First of all dear reader, you must understand the depth and quality of my fantasy life. Vin Diesel has been the leading man ever since my discovery of the Riddick movies. Please don't misunderstand me, these are not purely sexual scenarios, just stories and adventures I imagine myself in.

Needless to say, the concepts of my leading man being a little light on the intellectual side kind of makes the whole thing go splat. My friend informed me that a mutual friend of ours got invited back to Vin's loft after the premier of "XXX", and discovered that he was "dumb as a brick."

I read recently on another blog that there was a survey given to people about the level of intelligence they would prefer in the person they date. It basically discussed the fact that women would prefer to date men smarter than themselves, and men would prefer to date women who were less intelligent then they are.

Great. Didn't I have to deal with this in fifth grade?

Compound this with the fact that I looked into speed dating yesterday. You would think I am the type, with this blog and all, who would be into online dating, but for me chemistry is everything. I do well enough meeting people in the bar, but also am intrigued by given a rapid succession of men to select from. Oh, and no worries about having to reject someone directly to their face. Avoid confrontation? Score one for speed dating.

So I go and check out the local event list for hurry date, and discover the functions are split off by age. Kind of makes sense - until I try and see where I fit.

There is a group for men and women ages 25-35, then there is a group for women from 30-40 matched with men from 35-45.

I'm 33 in three weeks. So either I date men who are most likely younger than me, or most definitely older, potentially over ten years older. Crap! Double Crap!

So do I risk dating a potentially younger man who may be intimidated by my stunning intellect, or take a chance on an older man and hope he drinks enough coffee to keep up with me? No, 45 is not OLD, but I get mistaken to be younger all the time for a reason.

Or maybe I'll go to both sessions and see if some stereotypes can be blown down. Consider this a science experiment with potential for sex. Sounds like fun!

Thursday, January 27, 2005


Rockstar is a very very tired girl. On my new training regimen, I decided that I could not skip a day at the gym simply to go and play volleyball instead. I have a big bar night to attend tomorrow. That wins for night off. I have priorities. So here I am, having done the full workout and then played three very long games of volleyball.

My team sucks, we lost all three sets. On the bright side we played better than normal and had a LOT of volleys. The games were about five times as intense as normal and ten times as long. I got a lot of good dives and saves in. I own kneepads, and they are well worn, as I love to go down. (Insert lewd comment of choice here.)

Which leaves me, as a result, a complete limp puddle of goo. I have nothing of substance to offer you tonight, dear reader, but my favorite joke.

Prepare yourself.

You think you are ready?


What did the fish say when it swam into the wall?



Ah ha ha ha ha ha.

Gets me every time.

You got a better one? Post it. The only criteria is that when I tell it, people will groan. That is how you know a joke is truly worthy.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

she really liked coffee

Day three after Johnny Carson passed away, and the segments continue.

I'm not going to go on a diatribe about how soft and sensationalistic the media is. Jon Stewart did a good enough job of that on Crossfire. We all know why this kind of thing happens. Johnny was sick, so in their free time media types had put all kinds of specials together waiting for the inevitable. Nothing is easier than editing together a bunch of old footage that will most definitely get good ratings. Why do you think VH1 keeps pumping out more and more of the "I love the (blank)" shows? Production costs nil.

You know that there are more segments waiting for Dick Clark to bite it.

A couple of years ago I was on a cemetery kick. If I wasn't pressed for times and was passing a cemetery, I would stop in. I loved looking at gravestones, especially really old ones or really unique ones.

My favorite unique headstone was a family set. The family marker was made out of concrete, in the form of a life sized tree trunk, about seven foot tall but with all the branches cut off just past the main fork. Like when you cut off the ends of a stalk of broccoli. The family headstones were also concrete, in the fashion of wood chopped from the tree. Bark indentations and all.

My favorite epitaph was from a woman named Elizabeth Parker, who died in 1927. It simply read, "She did the best she could." How ambiguous. Is it hopeful? Is it tragic? It all depends on how good her best was, I suppose.

When people consider the ends of their lives, I think they tend to think about what will happen up to the last moment as opposed to what will happen after. I, on the other hand, want to make sure that my last party leaves a lasting impression.

Some of my friends feel the same way. One friend in particular has requested a Viking funeral - being sent off in a burning boat. I have promised to fulfill her wishes, but am vaguely concerned with how many laws I will have to break. Hopefully I'll be very old and can get off by claiming senility.

There are some things I know will happen when I go. There will be drinking at my wake, and a lot of toasts. They will have a gospel choir, and they will sing the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want." (What can I say; I loved "The Big Chill") People will laugh and tell the stories they heard me tell a thousand times. They will say I was fun, that I was neat and stuff. And that I really really liked drinking coffee.

With that, I am content that I have made the world a better place. No need to splice together my clips. Just spill some of your next Starbucks - you know, one for your homies.

Monday, January 24, 2005

Why are you single?

I swear to god the most annoying combination of four words ever.

More annoying than if the entire metropolis of New York City got up and collectively scraped their fingernails down blackboards across the entire city.

More annoying than if you were to just barely miss the train for the rest of your entire life.

More annoying than if a million people were to start blogs, stealing all the great domain names, only to post three entries. Ever.

I must say I am asked this question - or a near relative of - at least once a month, if not more. Yes, I am aware that the person uttering the enquiry is trying in some sick, twisted way to be complimentary.

Let me set the record straight.

1) The men who tend to ask the question always are men that I would never date, for myriads of reasons. This one really just puts the nail in the coffin.

2) Asking this question in some way insinuates there is something wrong with being single. I happen to really like being unattached, probably one of the reasons I'm not in such a rush to change my situation.

3) This query also implies in some manner that I have little less than a choice in the matter. That for some reason a man has not been crafty enough to snatch me up, as obviously being single I am like a puppy in the pound, helpless and in need of someone to come in and take me home with them.

4) Sometimes this subject is even a not-so-delicate probe to discover what insane habit or mental state I must be hiding to scare all of the good men off.

5) Finally, that something as complex, beautiful, and thrilling as my life can be defined by a simple answer to a completely irrelevant question insults me.

I balk at giving the simple "I just haven't found the right guy yet" answer. I have found a few, actually, and have enjoyed them all and committed to none. For many reasons that are now immaterial.

A blank stare, a mumbled "yeah..." and then a quick change of subject have worked for me in the past, just so I can get away from the offender as fast as possible.

But I have decided I need something with oomph. Something that will stop them in their interrogatory tracks. Don't get me wrong; I'm not going to be insulting or rude. This person is obviously working with more than one handicap; I don't need to add to their load. It’s bad for karma.

This is how it will go from now on.

Poor misguided soul asks me: "Why are you still single?"

I shrug, and say, "I think my second job tends to put guys off."

Now he is curious. "What is your second job?"

I look carefully, slowly from left to right. I beckon for him to come closer; this is something I have to say softly.

"I am an assassin." I say in an undertone. "For some reason guys get queasy about blood. And sometimes they don't feel so comfortable knowing I sleep with an ice pick under my pillow."

It will get a good laugh; leave plenty of opportunities for other jokes. If I have any luck I'll be able to throw in what I did to the last guy who asked me the evil question.

In preparation for this scenario, I am practicing my eye twitch.

Just to keep 'em on edge - you know.

collateral damage

If you have been reading loyally, you know that I recently got a promotion. My department has merged with another, and my job got expanded to cover their area as well as my old one.

I am the first person not in charge of both depts to do blanket both divisions. Last week I made the first move to fulfill this duty, and sent out information to this other area. And got attacked.

Turns out my new job is to be whipping boy. Lucky me.

Everyone in the other half of this dept is angry, distrustful, and paranoid. They fear for their jobs and thier way of life, it is understandable.

So, I was just instructed that yes, they are going to continue reacting to me, and yes, I'm going to have to eat it.

Suddenly the window looks more like an exit than a perk.

Friday, January 21, 2005

may you get what you wish for

I just finished watching the movie Abre los Ojos, which is the Spanish film that the more recent film Vanilla Sky is based on. At least, that is what I was told when the Tom Cruise version came out.

Who knew they were completely different movies? Of course Abre los Ojos (Open Your Eyes) was a million times better. Vanilla Sky was a weak suspense thriller. Open Your Eyes was a beautiful existential discussion.

First of all, it does a terrific job of questioning the meaning of reality. Mind you, this movie came out in 1997, two years before the box office blowing mind bend of The Matrix. I would not be surprised at all if the creators of the Keanu Reeves action flick got their inspiration from this film. I mean, what do we have to perceive this world around us but our five senses, which all feed to that one cerebral cortex. We understand all sensations, can feel the typing in our fingertips, taste the wine on our tongue, but really it all only exists in the brain. I once read that the reason you have tactile memories in dreams is because the sensation sensors in your brain really are firing, it is just when you dream the action sensors are disabled, keeping you from reacting. Sleepwalkers have breakdown in that area, obviously.

Secondly, this film masterfully depicts the human impulse to go to what you believe. Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy or cognitive dissonance, I see this repeated over and over again in life.

It amazes me when I watch a film, a story that only lasts two hours, and come out realizing it has captured so much of existence. That the ability of choosing how to view yourself and your life can shape not only your everyday existence, but also your entire fate.

Oh, and if that isn't enough to convince you to see this movie, there is plenty of airtime with a topless Penelope Cruz to peak your interest.

A little something for everyone, you might say.

Thursday, January 20, 2005


Over this past holiday I was blown away by the improvements in the efficiency of the security at LaGuardia Airport. From the moment I walked into the terminal to the time I sat down at my gate it took me a whole of fifteen minutes. On December 23rd, mad holiday travel time. That is impressive.

The main reason the check in went so smoothly was this new system Spirit Airlines had set up. Self check in terminals that allow you to check your luggage. Spirit also has an employee roaming the units to ensure efficient and error free service.

I was dumfounded. Expedience with friendly service at an airport??? Amazing.

It went like this: I walked in, bringing in tow my two bags I plan to check, my rolling luggage and a backpack. I resolutely shuffled into the queue when the roaming service man pointed out I could self-check in.

"Oh, thank you,” I replied, "but I have two bags I need to check."

He smiled back at me, "That's fine, you can check in here even with the bags. Just slide in a credit card for identification purposes."

Shock and amazement wiped over my face as I approached the terminal. The gentleman continued to pace the area, watching over his flock.

I finished punching all the keys necessary, and my boarding pass printed out. I turned to the eager face and inquired, "How do I check my luggage now?"

He said, "Wait here, I’ll get the strips and be right back"

He returned with the luggage check stickers, put the first set on my rolling bag and then picked up my backpack.

"Your backpack is vibrating." He said.

I frowned, and took the appropriately stickered backpack from him. I didn't feel anything. I thought about the contents. It’s a small backpack and I am a high maintenance woman, so it mostly is full of my lotions, sprays, and various beauty items.

Nope, nothing should be in there to cause a ruckus. Maybe he has low blood sugar or something.

I drop the bags off with national security and go through the wonderfully efficient security check in record time. I walk to the gate, take my seat.

Then I remember - My electric toothbrush in my toiletries bag. Drat, it must have gotten bumped and turned on. Oh well, the security guys are going most likely have to take a look.

Another memory pops in. What else was I able to fit in the bag with my vanities? Oh yeah, all my dirty underwear. I was planning to save a buck or two by doing laundry at my parent’s house.

So security had to rifle through all of my gently used panties to get to my vibrating toothbrush. When they were sifting through my dirty thongs looking for a vibrating item, what do you think they were thinking?

I don't think these people get paid enough. Course, I didn't take a count of my underwear when I got back...

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

IQ test

I was at the gym earlier, training for the 2006 NYC marathon, and was assaulted by the media.

Basically that means that there are TV’s planted in front of all the cardio equipment, so try as I could my eyes always wandered back to the pretty colors.

Something that caught more than my eye was the commercial for the new episode of "The Apprentice". Seems the tag line this season is "Street Smart vs. Book Smart." I have to give kudos to the producers; this concept is very appealing to me. Even more so for the thoughts it provokes.

What is intelligence, anyway? Does the fact that you have the Pythagorean Theorem memorized or know the capitals of all the states make you a genius? IQ tests them selves have been theorized as culturally biased and flawed for years.

I personally believe the most important asset of intelligence is completely overlooked.


The ability to sit down, focus, and work on something is essential to success. The longer the project, the more determined you have to be to accomplish it, the more admirable that person is for sticking with it.

The valedictorian of my high school was not the sharpest tool in the shed, but boy, did she work hard. She honestly spent at least three hours a day doing homework, if not more. In her spare time, to "rest", she would put together puzzles. Always working the brain. For every test she would study, study, and re-study. I swear one full point in my GPA is due to the fact she would have me grill her with her notes before every test. I learned from her study notes!

I suppose the reason I admire discipline so much is that I find it hard to accomplish in myself. I was always one of the kids who barely studied, scraped together just enough homework to get by, but still got good grades in school. As I got older and experienced more of life, I learned that there is no pride in living life that way.

Maybe that is why I pick such lofty goals for myself. After all, it’s not really achieving the goal; it is the journey that counts. This way I don't just work my brain muscle, I work my discipline one as well.

(Fun side note - I always use spell check, and it had to correct the word "intelligence" for me. Yeah.)

Monday, January 17, 2005


This past weekend I watched the Riddick series, Pitch Black and The Chronicles of Riddick. I find Vin Diesel intriguing, so renting one movie shortly was followed by renting the other.

I enjoyed both movies; pretty good plots, great action scenes and effects. The best part is that the hero is a Bad Guy. That makes it more fun to root for him.

While watching the second film, I realized that I am incredibly attracted to the Riddick character. Specifically I am drawn to him the most when he leads others, and he does not lead gently. Rather surprised at my powerful reaction, it occurred to me that I am actually drawn to the strength. Vin Diesel's character is that guy who will always survive, and people inevitably latch on to him with the hope of being able to follow him to safety. He leads, allowing them to ride his coattails, but when they fall by the wayside he barely gives a backwards glance.

Growing up in Detroit I knew that I was a strong person, that I could take a lot. I thought moving to NYC I would find more of this type, but I have not found as many as I had expected. I have met some, and tend to take only more resilient types into my life. Thing is, I have not found a guy to match my strength. At least a single, straight one, that is. I tend to be more forgiving of weakness in my friends than I do my partners, because I can divvy up needs to friends as they can handle it. There can only be one boyfriend.

Just because I realized this characteristic from Riddick, please do not think I mean strength is merely physical brawn or bad guy stereotype. Strength is an inner confidence, a sturdiness and un-shakability in oneself. Not to the point of vanity or over inflated ego, just an assurance that one will succeed.

Then I come back to my distaste of stereotypes. When I find a man who has this characteristic, I am not going to care if he watches sports 24/7, leaves the toilet seat up, or leaves the cap off the toothpaste. I am not going to care if he opens the door for me, pays for dinner, or calls his mother every week. I merely want to trust knows himself well enough to eventually know me.

Saturday, January 15, 2005

broken men

I have heard that men who blog are doing so as an aid in picking up women. At first glance I believe this to be true. I have noticed that guys who blog tend to show their sensitive side. They are creative and introspective.

Unfortunately, once they have been doing it for a couple of months they tend to start looking weak and vain. And then they start to write about The One That Got Away.

The scenario is always the same. They were in college. They were in love. There was a sense of comfort and intimacy that they have not been able to get even close to again. The girl also always has a Cheshire smile that haunts them.

When I read about The One That Got Away, I feel pity for the guys. Not because they are injured souls, but because they are so sad in the fact they can't understand that the big loves of their lives were flawed, thus were meant to end. If they were meant to end then there is something that will be even better out their for them. The inability of them to be able to recognize this is the true tragedy.

I realize that I was and potentially still am The One That Got Away for someone; I suppose it is a natural progression in life. On the rare occasion I feel lonely sometimes I do think of him and what we had. Fortunately for me I have come to the point in my life that when I do so I also know that I only miss the intimacy, not that particular relationship. I am thankful for my experiences for what I have learned, and look forward to what my future holds. And one of the things that I have learned is not to date someone who still dreams of The One That Got Away.

What is the quote? Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Something like that.


I have had the goal for the last three years of running the NYC marathon.

Many times I have started running programs with this goal in mind. Something always came up. First I was stymied by my second job. It's hard to find time when all you do is work and sleep. Then finally last October I was able to quit the second gig. I started to get my booty to the gym, eagerly anticipating working towards my goal. Unfortunately two surgeries and a hernia put the kybosh on that plan.

Here I am, ready to kick it off. To ensure entry I merely need to join the New York Road Runners Club by the end of this month, and then run NINE races this year. I do this, and I get automatic entry into the 2006 marathon. Score!

Now, I am not quite in good enough shape to run even a 5K, which would be the shortest race course. So I am going to need a couple of months (ten weeks, to be exact) to work my way up to this. Fortunately there are approximately three races a month, so I can make up the time lost relatively quickly.

As you should with any long-term goal, I started setting some short term ones this week. First race in three months. Run nine races this year; by the end of the year average a 9-minute mile race pace.

One of my favorite mini goals is to run the entire 6 mile loop of central park a couple of times. I love running outside, and I especially love running in central park. I never feel more like I've made it in NYC than I do when I am running around the reservoir.

In my excitement to run the loop, I invited two of my girlfriends who are also runners to join when the time came. We picked out Saturday to eventually be the day of the week, early to avoid heat, say nine am.

My one friend does not believe I am going to do it. She thinks I am going to bail, and jokes about calling me out when I do. She also does not believe that I am going to get the nine races under my belt. I seriously think she believes I am never going to run the marathon!

Not only can I not wait to prove her wrong, I can't wait to beat her best time in one of my races.

She is a good friend and has been there for me in the past, so in a way I really appreciate the motivation she is giving me. Being a runner, she knows how hard I will have to work and has misinterpreted my easygoing manner for a lack of drive and ambition. I can't really hold it against her.

But I will rub her nose in it. :)

Thursday, January 13, 2005

hurry up and wait

I live in NYC, the city where everyone is in a rush. They don't call it a New York Minute for nuthin.

Most of your time in this city is spent racing around to stand still. You walk very fast to get to the subway to wait for a train. Shove people out of your way to get on the car to stand while you are transported. Cut line to get into your building to wait for the elevator.

It is such an amazing dichotomy of urban life. God help you if you get in the way of someone when they are rushing somewhere, you could lose a limb. These same formerly impatient people wait 20 minutes docilely for a train.

I worked an 11-hour day today. Nose to the grindstone, I even had a working lunch. Race against time to get a project out that the CEO wanted yesterday. Literally.

For what? What really is the rush? Why did this question come up and need to be answered immediately? Burying myself in the work, completely immersing myself in analysis, I just blindly lost 11 hours of my life.

Somewhere in the process of analysis I had to break to discuss it with three bigwigs. They were discussing their recent experienced with workers in our UK location. I guess in the UK it is normal and completely acceptable to come into work at 9:30 am and leave by 4:15 pm. Also, they take a lot more holidays. Like a whole month in August and three weeks over Christmas and New Years.

I "joked" that I should move to the UK and work there. One of the VP's laughed and said, "YOU??? Ha, you would hate that! You would go crazy in a week!"

Like I could not stand making my work a small part of my life. I laughed along, pretending to agree with the joke. I work very hard because there is so much that needs to be done, and I feel badly not doing whatever I can. Hells bells, give me a job where I can manage the work in a six-hour workday I'd be more than happy to leave on time every day.

So when I got back to my desk I emailed my UK contact, just in case there were any positions available over there. It's not bad to keep my options open, now is it?

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

which alias character would you sleep with?


Hands down.

Yes, I know Vaghn is cute. Frankly I find Weiss kind of hot too.

But Marshall is the guy that is just so gosh darn smart. And he'll always defrag your computer for you. You won't even have to ask.

I catch Kevin Weisman in NYC, he's all mine.

What can I say, I always love the geeks. ;}

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

what is so great about reality?

I just don't get the mania over reality TV. I once was interested in The Real World, but that love lasted two seasons, ending with Puck in San Francisco. I have never watched The Apprentice, Fear Factor, Mom Swap, or even Survivor.

I love avoiding reality. I am happy and go lucky. Not stupid, just willfully cheerful. You know when I'm the happiest? When I'm in my fantasy world.

No, I'm not on lithium. I just tend to have a movie script building in my head at any point in time, with myself as the star. Like that time I had the fantasy life of meeting Rivers Cuomo from Weezer. It kind of ran like the movie Notting Hill - ordinary person meets star, they fall in love. He whisks me away.

A really good fantasy scenario typically lasts me about a month. I replay all the possible outcomes and conversations like a choose your own adventure book. When I first start working on a story line I get a little obsessed over it, to the point where you may catch me staring off into space and not paying attention at meetings. I’ll just be working on the plot points. Or a fun twist. Over time I wear down all the options, get bored with the story, and abandon it for a new situation.

This ability is exceptionally useful when you have down time at work or are going on long trips. It also comes in handy when there is a doctor's appointment or a trip to the DMV.

My current story line involves a real person that I barely know, mr man. My first story lines involved me actually getting to see him before I left Detroit. That didn't happen. So now I'm on to story lines mostly revolving around him coming out to see NYC - and me.

When I'm feeling romantic he just appears at my doorstep one evening. I discover him when I am arriving home from an event that for some unknown reason I had to look absolutely fabulous for. He admits he could not stop thinking about me since the night I met and had to come find me. You know I take him straight upstairs to my apartment in that scenario.

When I'm feeling relationship-y I imagine that we start an email correspondence and we find we are soul mates. We carefully engage in a long distance relationship, and he eventually decides to move out here.

When I'm feeling cynical I just picture really mind-blowing sex.

See, in reality this guy could be a complete jerk. He could be someone that I have absolutely nothing in common with. I could bore him to death, or he could bore me. Worst of all, he could be a Republican. *Gasp!*

The general public can keep their low-budget high confrontation shows. I'll stick with the rose colored looking glass.

Monday, January 10, 2005

time for comic relief

First of all, you must understand this really happened to me. This is not an urban folk legend, and I am not witty enough to make something like this up.

Three years ago I was living in a studio in east midtown. It was very small and very overpriced. The apartment consisted of my desk, a dresser with a TV on top, and my futon in the middle of the room. The kitchen was literally in a closet, with a hotplate for a stove and a dorm room sized refrigerator. There was also a murphy bed that I never used, as it was easier to unfold the futon then it would be to push it out of the way of the bed.

My lease was finally up and I was looking forward to moving to a much more reasonably priced place. The apartment was on the market, and realtors had been showing it all week.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon; I had done pretty much nothing all day. I was getting ready to work that night at my second job waiting tables. As I started to iron my work shirt the intercom rang. It was a broker with a client who wanted to view the apartment, could they come up? Of course.

I scan the apartment to make sure it is presentable. It is neat, everything is in place. They knock at the door. I let them in.

It is a female broker and a female client. They walk in and stop about halfway into the apartment. I was just going to stand by out of the way in order to let them peruse, but they seemed uncomfortable, so I decided to facilitate. I point out the kitchen-closet. I point out the murphy bed. I point out the bathroom. I try to bring up any points that could seem to be of importance. They seem rather uncomfortable, not saying much, not moving at all.

They awkwardly stay for a couple minutes more, then leave. As I close the door I can't help thinking to myself that they were rather strange, and wondered why they were so weird.

And then I turned around and saw it.

My vibrator laying in the dead center of the futon. You know, the lone piece of furniture in the studio.


At least it wasn't on.

what do you want to be when you grow up?

I found out at the beginning of this week that I got a promotion and a raise. That's right, window office, welcome to middle management.

I have worked very very hard for several years to get here. I did not realize how much getting a window office would mean to me until I actually moved in. Let me tell you, it feels wonderful. It's the feather on the cap, that all-important essential step accentuating that I have earned the respect of the executive set.

After basking in the glow of the natural sunlight for a couple of days, another realization hit me. I am going to be making an income that allows me some luxuries. Reader, I am a self-made woman from modest means. I put myself through college, and worked two jobs pretty much for twelve years just to get by. I finally was able to quit my second job last year in October, but have never been able to live off of a budget. We are talking have that extra drink or have lunch tomorrow kind of choices.

The main reason that I have had to work so hard for so long is I keep changing my mind about what I want to be when I grow up. I have always believed I could do whatever I want in life, and also am compelled to experience as much of life as I can. This means I took nine years to graduate with a bachelor degree, and have tried my hat at being an engineer, optician, bartender, waitress, carnie, party system sales person (like tupperware but crystal), flight attendant, and now publishing professional.

I like to joke that I got this job by accident. I was moving to NYC, and this place offered me a job. It really was that simple. I have always been an avid reader, and was very stoked to work for one of the largest publishing companies in the world. It has just worked out that some of my specific talents were needed, and I have been rewarded for applying them.

But this isn't what I want to be when I grow up. Somewhere in all of those years of soul searching I came up with the idea that I would like to teach at the college level. I plan on going to graduate school to receive a PhD.

Back to my promotion. I started to realize that I am going to have money, and decided to create a wish list of future purchases. Everything I have dreamed of buying but have not been able to. I listed furniture, ipod, treo, wardrobe, vacations. I put them in order of importance, which to get first, second, and so on.

I put the list down with a self-satisfied grin and walked away. Two hours later that smile faded when I realized that graduate school was nowhere on that list, it hadn't even crossed my mind.

I wonder how much rest time I will need before I am able to start over and work very very hard again. In realizing this goal that so many people dream of I lost my own for a second. Luckily it only took me a couple hours to find it again.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Mr Wonderful

So last year my sister gave me this little toy called Mr. Wonderful. When you push his stomach, he says things like:

"The ball game really isn't that important. I'd rather spend more time with you."

"Let's just cuddle tonight"

"Actually, I'm not sure which way to go. I'll turn in here and ask for directions."

"Here, you take the remote. As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we watch."

Sure, I laughed when I got it, its funny. Because it is based on stereotypes. Or, at least, media presented stereotypes. When I took social psych in college, we learned that stereotypes are based on a kernel of truth. Like when you joke about Irish people being drunks, its because the drunk ones are pretty darn obnoxious, they stand out. Or maybe that a few are known to take a drink now and again.

I feel like the stereotypes above are from an outdated time and age. I know women who watch football rabidly, and men who don't even know what month the superbowl is in. I know women who would scoff at a snuggle and prefer a screw, and men who want to wait a month before sleeping with a lady. I know women who will drive around for an hour and men who yell at them to pull over already so they can get some help. I know women who would rather die than give up the remote and miss their OC and men who will watch whatever.

The most recent stereotype to get debugged for me was the stereotype that men automatically love casual sex. It's all over the media, right? Players here, players there. Watch out for men, they just want one thing. They are sex crazy, will lie, cheat, and steal to get it.

Sure, I have met a couple of guys like this. But really, even in this city by and large I meet relationship guys. Same with my friends. We have actually joked about the fact that the guys we think we had a one-night stand with keep calling. Must be some kind of fluke, we keep finding guys who want a relationship!

One of my guy friends really summed it up best for me, in a way that hit home.

Everyone wants to be loved.

Not a bad sentiment, I think.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

magical families

My goodness, isn't Disneyworld the most magical place on earth?

Well let me tell you...

My cousin was getting married last week in Disneyworld, therefore my sister, her boyfriend, and myself flew out the day before to attend. We checked into a Disney resort at eight o'clock pm, and were at the resort bar promptly at nine. We have our priorities.

A few tequila shots, beers, and jack and cokes later, my sister heads up to the bar for another round. At this point the bar is pretty much full with dads steppin' out for a little liquid relief. As I tend to be a rather silly character, I started making funny faces at my sister while she waits in line to get some service at the bar.

I had not noticed that there was a gentleman facing our table - sitting in front of where my sister was standing. He did not hesitate to make funny faces right back at me. My sister's guy and myself quickly and avidly gesticulated to clear the misunderstanding. At this point he starts yelling a phrase in French, saying if any person can translate he'll buy the winner a beer.

As I am a curious individual, I eventually go over to find out what the phrase means. Later on we discovered that it was on the bottom of the menu - Let the good times roll. But ah well.

Introductions are made, brief niceties, then I head back to the table to spend more quality drinking time with my sister and her boyfriend.

Time goes on, and our new friend comes over and invites himself to join our party. We are curious, so are willing. He is married, visiting the park for the whole week with his wife and two children.

Oh, and he has an open marriage. Do I know what that means?

Reader, I was not born yesterday. But I want to know exactly how this works for him, so I say NO.

Why, that means this gentleman and his wife have sex with different people. And boy, do I have questions. Do they tell each other about their exploits? Yes. In what kind of detail? Oh, detail. Do they sleep with the same people all the time or only once with strangers? Used to be the same people but more individuals lately.

This whole time he keeps fondling my leg. Getting a little friendlier, a little touchier. Covering more and more real estate.

Then he asks if I like to watch or be watched. My sister is across the table, no way no how does she need or want to hear about the specifics of my sex life!!

He runs to the bathroom; my sister, her boyfriend and I settle up the check.

On the way out of the bar to our respective rooms, mr open marriage wants to know if he can ask me a personal question. At this point, I figure how bad can it be?

"Are you single?" Interesting that it is such a personal question. Considering the conversation we had earlier.

I tell him no, but that it is against my morals to sleep with a married man, open marriage or not. My sister then fools him into splitting off to a different building in the resort, and we get back to our room in safety.

This is my first night in Disney. Where did he want to do it, in the room with his kids? Or he was hoping for a quickie in my room?

As much as Walt Disney tried to create a beautiful magical happy place, I suppose human nature can't be cleaned up as easily as the chewing gum off the sidewalks.

Welcome to the place where dreams come true!! Except for cheating husbands, that is...