It's been a while...

I'm not going to try to make excuses for my lack of writing.  It's been eight months and I haven't bothered to post anything here.  What a loser.

Since March, I've given up dating, taken it up again, wanted to quit my job, kept my job, quit my job, kept my job, physically left my job, kept my job (off-site), quit my lease, moved, moved again (sort-of), applied for several other jobs, got rejected, got interviews, got rejected, got called back, didn't get called back, crossed my fingers, lost hope, moved on, traveled.

Which is where I find myself today.  On another coast far away from wherever "home" is assumed to be, surprisingly unaffected by the lack of employment in my life.  Wandering, staying with friends, family, strangers; distracting myself from the call-backs that I was promised that just aren't materializing.

Oh well.

I don't mind so much, it's sunny and I'm free.  Didn't take me long to get used to this kind of feeling.

I did also mention that I'm dating again.  Actually someone from a long time ago, well before this blog started, even before I moved to New York and before had a mental breakdown.  I wouldn't quite call it a relationship, but it is a companionship, and one that I enjoy.  Enough for now, anyway.  Too bad I left him on the opposite coast.

Maybe I'm running away, but it feels right this time.  Last time I tried this, I ran in the wrong direction.  Maybe this time is finally different.

Ab Wheelin'

I'm into my workouts, lately.  So much so that I've set up my matchbox-sized room with a set of hand weights, resistance bands, a jump rope, exercise mat, balance ball and exercise DVDs.  The latest addition?  The Ab Wheel.

Old school, inexpensive, and (I am discovering) effective, the Ab Wheel is my new favorite (old) toy.  Thank goodness for the invention of the bedroom door, to spare my housemates the sight of my new nightly habit of kneeling on the floor, paying homage to my exercise mat via the fluid motion of the dual wheel.

I just had an out loud thought while using the wheel; "I really should be spending more time writing, if I'm really going to go for my MFA"

My roommate replied, through the closed door, "but with what time?  You're always at work, or working out, or just out."

Truth.  I'm always at work.  Or working out.  Or just out.

Excuses.  I'm always at work.  Or working out.  Or just out.

If I can have out loud thoughts while riding the Ab Wheel wave, why can't I record them?

But - ah Ha - "I can!"  She realizes.

Next new favorite (old) toy: the tape recorder.

I love retro technology.

Someone Stop Me

This is my current situation:

Laying crosswise on my bed in a daze, listening to sad 90s emo ballads, eating chocolate frosting straight from the tub.

True Story:

Girl steps onto the elevator in her building.

Guy steps on behind her.

She presses 29.

He presses 2.

Doors close.

He says, "2... yeah, sorry, that's pretty bad"

he says, "Eh, don't worry about it."

He says, "29... how is 29?  You like it up there?"

She says, "Yeah, it's pretty good, I like it."

Elevator stops at 2.

He says, "Can I come see 29?"

Doors open.  

She says, "No, you can't come see 29."

He says, "Do you want to come see 2?"

She says, "No, I don't want to see 2, thanks." 

Doors close.  She presses the "door open" button.  Doors don't open.

Elevator continues ascent to 29.

He says, "Oops... I promise I won't get off at 29."

She says, "Yeah, I wouldn't recommend you follow me home.  I just got back from the gym and need to shower."

He says, "Yeah, you look like you need to shower."

Silence.

He says, "No, really, you look like a million bucks."

Elevator stops at 29.  Doors open.

He says, "Enjoy 29"

She darts past him through the open doors and says over her shoulder, "Enjoy 2; remember to press the button."

...So is it now acceptable for guys to steal lines from their favorite porn films?  Are there girls out there that this would really work on?

Dumb Girl Move

Confession:

I did something today that most will probably say I shouldn't have done.

I sent another text to said guy a few posts back.  If he's going to disappear into the abyss of NYC, I think I at least deserve to know what happened, so that I can attempt to act cool if I ever run into him again in this city of 8.5 million people.

I'm guessing I won't hear anything back, but at least I've closed it out on my end (kind of).  Whatever response I get, whether blunt, cruel or non-existent, I feel better just having the question out of my mind and into his court.  It's up to him whether to play the game or forfeit.  Or at least alert the presses as to why the star player is out for the rest of his career.

...in the meantime, I really need to quit using these awful extended metaphors.

Exhaustion...

...should not be an excuse not to write.  But alas, I am exhausted.  I can't let it stop me, though... I have to submit at least five creative pieces this week (I just decided that), and bid on at least five other freelance pieces (also just decided that).  Time to whip myself into shape.

Speaking of getting in shape, I've signed up for a Tough Mudder.  For those of you who don't know what that is, I suggest Google as a first search point.

Yes, I am crazy, and no, I have not yet quit my day job. (Ha! That'll be the day...)

Also am considering another tattoo.

Thoughts?

Fledgling Secrets

Today was a long day.  So long that by the end of it, I was so tired that I couldn't muster enough strength to flex the muscles of my own willpower.

I've been meaning to keep my MFA plans a secret, but ended up confessing to a coworker after we had left the office.  I'm still not sure whether I subconsciously really wanted to, or if it was just a dumb moment of emotional weakness and mental exhaustion that caused me to spill the beans.

Of all people, this particular coworker is probably the least dangerous one to tell.  Quite well read and very creative in her own right, she seemed to appreciate my goal, and encouraged me to go for it.  All the while I was flapping my mouth, however, I knew I should stop.

It's not that I think she is going to run through the rows of cubicles shouting the news anytime soon, but there is still something that I feel I lost in letting my plans leak.  They are still in their vulnerable beginning stages and my thoughts are so idealistic that I am not comfortable opening them up to outside criticism yet.  I need more time to construct a timeline, to build confidence based on materials, to solidify in my own impressionable mind that this is, in fact, the true path for me to take, before I can face the world with the necessary conviction to say, "I'm doing it."

I don't like to say I have regrets, so I'll call it a disappointment that I failed to keep my secret secret, but I will say that I am grateful for the bit of advice I'm not even sure my coworker knew she was giving me.  She said, "I hope you're writing all the time, because man, that takes a lot of discipline... you'd better get to work."

Although I like to think I've already gotten to work, she's right.  I need to work harder.  Every day, increasingly.  I need to find my voice in the stark silence of a blank page and make it do more than just speak; I need to make it sing; sing for the world when I am finally ready to admit "I'm doing it."

Eup"her"isms

Alright.  I've had enough.  What is it about men that they never actually live up to the fact that they're adults?  When you're a kid, you know that there are rules to the games you play, but you can get away with not following them.  When you're an adult, the rules (shockingly) actually apply.  That is, if you aren't afraid of getting beaten by your opponent.

So I'm wondering, then, why I haven't heard anything back yet from said person in previous post.  He's well into what most would consider "manhood" but it seems that he isn't able to locate his balls.

Since he still hasn't responded, I pulled a classic crazy girl move and did a little facebook investigation.  I was able to gather from another source that there might be something up with his phone, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and took matters into my own hands.  This morning, via email, I gave him one last chance.

I decided to keep my message minimal, but refused to compromise my main points:
 
"Hey, haven't heard from you in a while.  Is everything ok?
Hope the move is going well... I'd love to see you if you have time this week.
M"

He comes from a literary background and I'm pretty sure he can read between the lines:

Hey, haven't heard from you in a while.
    WTF?
Is everything ok?
    This is your chance to give a viable excuse for your behavior.
Hope the move is going well...
    Yes, I know you're busy, but I don't buy that you're too busy for a ten second text.
I'd love to see you sometime this week if you're free.
    If you come up with a good enough reason as to why you've gone MIA, I might consider seeing you again.

If he doesn't respond, well then we really do know that boys never really grow into men, or at the very least, men never really grow out of acting like boys.

Maybe He's Just Not That Into Me

I remember when that awful book first came out.  My mother told my sisters and I that she was going to go out and buy a copy for each of us.


Thanks, Mom.

Recalling this moment is like cramming salt into an open wound.  In this case, it's an open wound that I've been pretending I haven't noticed for the past few days.

Like I said yesterday, I haven't been so great about actively seeking out a soul mate in this city, but that doesn't mean I haven't been having fun splashing in the kiddie pool with some of the rejects.  I've gotten (and given) a few numbers that were worth a few good dates, but there is one in particular that had a good enough opening scene to earn a few good months.

The full story of how it all began will have to wait until another post, because I'll spoil the sweetness with piss and vinegar if I include it in this one. 

Long story short, I'm mad.  I've effectively been dating someone for three months and within the last week, our communication has gone from plentiful and playful down to sparse and cordial, and down even further to non-existent.  It's certainly not for lack of my own attempts, (and no, I have not been clingy.)  He's had plenty of space, and time (over two days, now) to respond to my most recent text of "Hey, how's your day?"

I'm pretty sure I couldn't be any less threatening or overbearing if I tried (ok, yes, I am trying), so I don't know what's up.  Maybe I'm wrong.  Maybe I've scared him off being that girl that he just can't be bothered to keep around. 


Maybe my mother should have bought me that book once upon a time when it was released.  It would save me the embarrassment of having to purchase it now.  But maybe I should read the sequel, because maybe I'm just not that into him either.  

Maybe.

A Penchant for Words

Recently, I've run into what some are calling a bit of a problem.  Apparently I've caused more than a few raised eyebrows and hushed comments due to my desire to sit and write rather than spend my time seeking Mr. Right.

I was raised to be polite - gracious, even - so I know I should say that I'm grateful for the concern from my family and friends, but I'm not.  I'm about as grateful for their opinion as I am for the zit that sprung into action on my forehead this morning.  Neither one is helping me get any decent dates, and both are only strengthening my urge to hole up in my room and play my tiny violin to a fresh notebookfull of paper.

So that's why I'm here; I'm beginning my Bitching as a tribute to these well-meaning people in my life.  The idea is to write about all of the things that I'm doing (and perhaps also those that I'm not) to find a man in this lonely city and to come clean about the secrets I've been keeping in my writing life.  Maybe there will be a lesson in chronicling my Sass in the City behavior, but I'm not holding out for any miracles.  My priority (and my affections) still lie with my words, my mechanical pencils, and my college-ruled notebook paper.