Yeah…

I changed some stuff around here, appearance-wise.

Looks good, eh?

The new header image is part of the Boston skyline from the Cambridge side of the Charles. Today was absolutely gorgeous. I love this city.

Mental Detour.

Wow…I was just rereading that last post from December…I am one depressing fucker!!

OK, hiatus OVER! Here’s some new shit. For the 4 of you who keep up with this site, this is an example of a typical hour inside my brain:

——————————————————————–

I have a lot to say. So perhaps a list will be the most effective means to conveying all this pent-up emotional information:

1) I’m warm – too warm – and would like to take my fleece off. However, I am still wearing my neon green work shirt and am unsure how I feel about rocking that outside of the Garden. [pause] I can’t take it – the fleece must be removed.

1a) Much better.

2) This caramel coffee latte is fantastic and just what I wanted.

However, this thought is a diversion from what I intended to be #2 on my list.

3) Walking down Congress Street, words started swirling in my head – letters, sounds, forming themselves into spontaneous thoughts, describing sensations, feelings, my view on the world.

4) These words overpowered me, clogged my mental processes like cholesterol in an artery. So much so, that the only thing I could do is rid my brain of these thoughts – via a pen in my hand.

5) Having no paper (or scrap of anything, save a receipt, which I knew would not be big enough to accommodate the amount of words swirling in my ead), I decided to buy a new journal. I saw a bookstore. Jackpot.

6) There were many options – spiral-bound, colorful ones with designs, big ones, small ones, leather ones. At three dollars, I picked the cheapest one. Pliable brown leather – pleather?

7) The one I wanted was hot pink and only six dollars, which I thought was very reasonable. It, too, had a soft, pliable pleather cover. But it also had the word “LOVE” embossed in silver on the front. I picked it up, and immediately set it back down. Instead of being a word of hope, I knew it would only (and consistently) remind me of what my life was lacking. No dice.

8) Why is it that, out of all the wonderful things about my life, I constantly focus on the one thing that is “missing”?

8a) “Missing” is in quotes. It does exist – love, that is – for me, in my life. It just takes a different shape than what I expect. Different form than I am used to.

8b) I must remind myself of this.

9) Why do I feel that the fact that I was wearing a fleece and wanted to take it off is worth writing about?

10) I think I have sufficiently set the scene and waded through the current state of affairs (coffee; location – bookstore; purpose – new journal; activity – writing, thinking) to get to those pesky little words that originally brought me here…emotionally and physically.

10a) Wow, what a detour.

10b) Hmm….now I am concerned that the next thought will not be worth all these mental detours…

10c) Another distraction: phone. Texts. I turned the volume off – no vibrate – and set it face down on the table.

10d) Better yet…

10e) …it’s back in my bag.

11) Original thought [FINALLY!]:

(Error Message: Reconstruction of though failed. Need hard drive reboot.)

[pause]

Twenty-eight degrees and snowing doesn’t bother me any more. A light breeze doesn’t, either. Strong gusts of freezing cold wind that cuts through gloves and stings the delicate skin underneath pants – you never get used to that. But a little light, flaky snow and sub-freezing temperatures – well, I’m used to it now. Each person is different. Sure, it would be nice to wear flip-flops and skirts, but that time will come. Soon enough. It’s worth waiting for. And on those days of heat waves in July, the people of Boston will complain, and be irritated, and wish for snow. And standing thigh-deep in the snow in February, the people of Boston wish for a heat wave.

We should just be happy with today.

And I was. Walking around Faneuil Hall, a light dusting of powdery precipitation on the sidewalks, the sky a steel grey, casting a dimness on the world, I was actually…enjoying it. It was quiet. Quieter than my own mind has been in recent weeks. It’s Sunday afternoon. The streets are not crowded with cars or pedestrians.

I’m deep in my own head now. I picture it like a set of hands, poking and prodding the cerebral cortex – peeling it away to find the structures underneath – the thalamus, the amygdala, the cerebellum. Poking it. My hand twitches. Squeezing the amygdala. I become afraid. Flicking the hippocampus. I can’t remember my name.

When I’m in my head, no one else is allowed in. And I don’t want to talk to you. No offense – it’s just the way things are. The effect of the mood down swing. Later, when the pendulum brings me back up, I’ll look up and wonder where everyone went. They left while I was busy, distracted by my own grey matter.

Then it’s all gone, and I feel used up.

Kind of like I do right now.

Whatever neurons were firing, whatever synapses were in action…they’re quiet. Like it is outside. Finally.

It’s like exercising your body. It makes you stronger, better able to do physical tasks, in better shape, and it wears you out.

Sifting through this mental junk, it’s like mental exercise. It makes my mind stronger. It makes me better equipped to do mental tasks – like dealing with the fact that I am in this body and this mind all the time. And can’t get out.

———————————————————————

Mental Detour

Caught a glimpse of a woman who is exceedingly unfortunate-looking. And she is with a man – the ring on her hand makes me assume he is her husband. And she’s pregnant – again, assuming – though she could just be fat. Her companion is far more attractive. Makes me curious.

But also…it gives me a little hope. If she can land a man with that face…there is hope for me yet!

 ———————————————————————

Maybe I’m done now. Finally.

Maybe I can rest.

Maybe the words will cease forming and swirling…at least for a little while…

Maybe…

On This Side Of The Wall

The wall is still very much in progress. Thanks for asking.

So I’ll give a brief news update of what’s going on on this side of the wall [copying the news headline format frequently used by my friend C]:

• Human male stupidity/douchebaggery has caused me to cease dating altogether. I have even married myself. Sort of. I wear a band of Italian silver, purchased, I believe, when I was 16 and visiting Italy for the first time. I found it in my jewelry box, and since it is much less ostentatious than my huge 4-carat aquamarine birthstone ring I was wearing, decided to put it on and not take it off for a while. It is a constant reminder of my commitment to myself, and warning not to get suckered into falling for bullshit again. As dorky as that seems. But who the fuck are you to judge? Hmm?? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
• The weekend in Vermont with The Wife [AKA my very best good friend Sarah, with whom I spend many nights at bars, drinking, and getting hit on by old, divorcing men]. Though the trees were a little past peak, it was absolutely gorgeous, and she and I made plans to host a ski party weekend sometime in January. Ideally, it would be Sarah, me, and eight to ten extremely hot guys, of whom we could have our pick. I, of course, would have at least three. At once. This weekend, her grandparents were there, and so was my mom. So it was a nice, family fun weekend. However, January, I’m hoping, will be nothing short of a drunken debacle of orgy proportions. With no grandparents. Though Sarah’s grandma is a little saucy…I think she might dig it.
• I’m training for a 5K — the Jolly Jaunt to benefit the Special Olympics. The race is December 6. It’s given me a renewed appreciation for treadmills, knee braces and my sadly underused Nikes. I ran 1.25 miles today. Last week I only ran 1 mile. So already an improvement! My friend C from school and I are training together. We leg-pressed, calf-raised, crunched, hip-adducted and abducted ourselves silly this afternoon. And it felt great. My training regiment says to take tomorrow off, or just walk or cross-train. Maybe I’ll go for a bike ride after school. Or maybe I’ll pop some Tylenol and beg my roommate for a back massage. A swim would be nice, but I am not getting my jiggly, white ass into a bathing suit any time soon.
• This Boston weather has necessitated the busting out of my fantastic space heater, and my electric blanket. I am so looking forward to a toasty warm bed tonight. Yep. Just me and the cat. All alone. No, no, I’m fine about it, really! It’s great. More room to…you know…lie there. Allll those covers to myself…yeah.
• PS–I’m so not bitter about it all. I might look bitter, but it’s just the words that are appearing that way. I’m good. I’m great, even. So there.
• Thinking about all this dating bullshit, I recently realized that I am unsure if anyone can love me as much as I love myself. I am fucking awesome and I know it, and anyone who disagrees is not someone I need to spend too much time with. Coincidentally, a parting jab at my ex in the form of a MySpace/Facebook blog was this final line: “I hope someday you can find someone who loves you as much as you love you.” Seems strangely reminiscent of what I’ve been thinking lately about myself…
• Either way, I’m still a fucking catch. Once you look past the bits of neuroticism and ignore the self-confidence that borders on self-centeredness…
• My cat has been really precious all day. She’s curled up right beside me right now, and has followed me all over the house. It’s a nice change from her usual sassy demeanor of biting me.
• Oh God…now I’m turning into a crazy cat lady. Well, maybe I’ll be fine as long as I don’t start knitting sweaters with embroidered cats and shit.
• Note to self: cancel tomorrow’s cat-embroidered sweater knitting lesson.
• Oh, I almost forgot [and this is probably the best news as of late]: I’m going to the World Series this weekend. Eat your heart out, baseball fans. Sox or no Sox [and unfortunately, in this case, it's the latter], I’m going to see two of the big games — Phillies vs. Tampa Bay Fucking Rays. GO PHILLIES!! Send that shitty expansion team back to where they belong. Although I can’t hate too much — Tampa Bay does farm from the good ol’ Durham Bulls, the Triple-A team from my hometown. Sad the Sox didn’t make it, but if they always won, it wouldn’t be fun anymore, right? Right?? Sigh.
• And…that’s all I got.

“Sorry to interrupt…”

Alternate titles for this blog:
1) Stumbling Home Uphill
2) Mumbling Something Incoherent
3) The Lost Earring Was On the Bathroom Floor
4) Smart, Confident and Closed

But the title I picked won. Why? We heard that sentence two too many times this evening. Sarah, my endlessly attractive friend, and I went to the Pig again. Mike, the ridiculously hot bouncer, was there. He was guarding the door again, the keeper of the drunks, the controller of the influx of alcoholics. However, we weren’t drunk at all upon arrival. A Magner’s and a half in, we heard it the first time. “Sorry to interrupt your nice evening…” It was a random early-30s out-of-towner with two small children and who was going through a divorce. Ah, my Prince Charming! His friend approached me first. He said his name, then asked if he could eat some of my french fries. I had a plate of food in front of me at the bar. Now, excuse me for sounding like a pig, but hi, I’m sitting here with my friend, drinking a beer, eating some food, and you come up, bother me, and THEN ask to EAT my FOOD? In what society is this acceptable?? The next thing was the clincher for me: Him: “So where you from what do you do?” [Like it's one thought.] Me: “I live in Boston, but I’m from North Carolina.” Him: “Ooh, that’s too bad.”

Umm, what?

“That’s too bad”?! Are you FUCKING kidding me? You ask to eat my food, THEN insult my home state? So I called him on it. Like, really, dude. What are you trying to pull here? So, awkwardly, he apologized, apologized, and backed away as I continued munching on my fries.

Then the men pulled the switch-a-roo.

The divorcing-with-two-kids guy came up to me, and starting talking mostly incoherently. But the things I did pick up were enlightening.

He said, “If I wasn’t going through a divorce and living in Milwaukee, then you know what I’d think about you? I’d think you’re smart, confident, [something incoherent] and closed.”

Closed.

He wasn’t the first person in the past few weeks to say that about me. The other actually said I was “pretty walled up.” Then later, he referred to my “shell.”

This was all hitting me at The Mission, when the bartender referred to me as being “cranky.” i don’t know what weird, parallel universe I am trapped in, but I am extremely friendly, fun and NOT cranky ever. Especially when drinking! Cranky? Closed? Walled up?? Who the fuck are these guys talking about?! Can’t me ME!!

Or can it?

I asked the bartender what it was about me that made me seem cranky, or walled up. He said I “intimidated him” a little bit. But I seemed smart, well-spoken, not crazy, and attractive, so I shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

And I’m not worrying. But I’m not not worrying, either.

I am the common denominator.

Anyway, the funniest part of the night was when Sarah and I were at The Mission, and this random dude came up and said: “Sorry to interrupt, but…[looking at Sarah] can I take you out to dinner sometime?”

Sarah, not missing a beat: “No, I’m good.”

In her defense, the guy was not cute. Not only was he not cute, he was very overweight. And not just not cute, but unattractive. So this fairly ugly, fat guy was interrupting our conversation to hit on my beautiful friend. I can’t blame her for that response. Although I did say that maybe, if she’d been a little more prepared, she could have said, “No thanks, I’m taken.” Even if it’s a lie, it’s a softer blow than, “No, I’m good.”

But it is a step up from, “I’m all set, guy.”

OK, that’s all I got. I’m passing out.

Two Bouncers Named Mike

Both of them were pretty hot. The first, Italian and dark-featured. The second, tattoed and generally hot.

Not that I had a chance with either. But nonetheless, they were very attractive men.

…guarding bars.

…bars that we liked.

…bars that had alcohol. And my, oh my, were we in the mood for drinking.

Story to be continued later.

OK, then. I’m DONE. You hear me?? D-O-N-E.

Alright. That’s it. I am officially done with all this dating bullshit.

Sad thing is, I haven’t even been on a date in a month!

How can you be over dating when you haven’t actually even been dating?!

So I’m over guys. I’m not even joking. I’m fucking OVER IT — all of it.

So The Dude That I Liked was still on my mind, even after he stood me up. After a week or so of thinking about him, I decided just to send him a quick note on Friday:

So…you blew me off because you were hungover, and haven’t tried to hang out with me again…[both of which are uncool]…yet you haven’t completely escaped my thoughts. What’s up with that??

PS–You still have my socks.

OK, on second look it seems maybe a little harsh, but I think I was trying to be funny. It was also 1am. No, I wasn’t drunk. I am just a moron. He never emailed me back.

I am a little upset about the socks, too.

That’s situation #1.

Situation #2 just happened…33 minutes ago. This dude at work was wicked flirting with me one day, about 2 weeks ago. He’s cute, seemed interesting, someone I would definitely like to get to know. He went out of his way to be somewhere he knew I would be, chatted with me more then asked for my number. I was like, OK, sweet. This could be cool. It got my mind off of The Dude That I Liked for about a minute. But then Work Guy never called me! So after Dude never emailed me back, I decided to text Guy. Thirty-three minutes ago. Granted, it’s only been 33 minutes. But 1) why didn’t he call me originally, after he was so interested in what I had to say, and even caused my coworkers to be like, “Whaaaa!? He’s flirting with you hardcore!” and 2) why doesn’t he have his phone on him, waiting to text/call me?? I mean, seriously! Doesn’t he realize who I am?? I guess he doesn’t. No one does! Sheesh! I’m starting to think the entire male population of Boston are blind or stupid. I’m a fucking catch. Why don’t they see that??

And…I’m done bitching.

And also…I’m done dating.

The new options are: lesbian or convent.

You know, I’d make that habit look good.

To Ride or Not To Ride: A Look at Biking in Boston

I was pondering while cruising around on my Navigator today…

Notice I said “on” and not “in,” as I don’t mean Lincoln Navigator, the car, but instead refer to my 2002 Trek Navigator mountain bike. Yes, it’s pretty pimp, cherry red, with the usual wear-and-tear of a 6-year old bike that was my main method of commute for several years before I got my Rav-4. It’s actually been a blessing to have it in Boston recently, and though I still have my car and the T is fairly reliable, it takes me only 10 minutes to get to Fenway by bike. Walking takes over 30 minutes, taking the T would be retarded [I am on the E line, the only part of the green line not Fenway-accessible, so I’d have to go downtown and transfer back – oh, it’d be a mess], and driving takes about the same amount of time as biking, but with the added pressure of where to park. There are metered spots all along Brookline and Commonwealth Avenues, but with two-hour meters every day but Sunday, that’s a huge waste of highly-coveted laundry quarters. So that leaves the sensible bike for transportation. With the hot, sunny days we’ve been having, it’s been gorgeous riding to work and home, as well as other destinations – the Public Garden and Boylston Street Starbucks this week so far. It’s been freeing to just go for a ride, enjoy the summer, and just enjoy doing whatever the hell I want. The only sad part is that Boston weather doesn’t permit biking all year, and I’ve only got a good three, maybe four, months of bike-worthy weather before I have to retire it for the winter.

Nothing is prefect, though. I’ll admit, it’s partially exhilarating, but partially frightening. Biking the mean streets of Boston is a gamble – the people drive like maniacs and I’m concerned that one day, cruising down Parker Street I’ll get crushed by one of those huge Escalades that zoom around Mission Hill’s corners and that’ll be the end of me. One morning I was scared shitless – a truck opened its door into my path right as I was rolling by. With my cat-like reflexes, I was able to swerve out of the way, but had traffic been thick I would have been like a smashed bug on a windshield. A scary thought.

So why keep biking if it is so dangerous? Well, I love it. But for seriousness’ sake [ha], here is a list of pros and cons regarding biking in Boston:

PROS

1) Easy to get around and easy to park. Just lock up the bike to a light pole and go!

2) Can ride on streets or sidewalks. There aren’t any signs saying not to. Options = a girl’s best friend.

3) Don’t have to pay for gas. And thereby also help out that whole global warming thingamajigger.

4) Burn up fat from my ass. I already feel less fluffy.

5) Work on my tan while I’m commuting. So it’s a farmer’s tan, whatever. At least it’s color.

6) It’s fun! And I’m sure I look super-cool with my shades and my…bicycle…

CONS

1) Scary. I don’t wear a helmet [although I know I should] and am afraid of possible serious brain injury/maiming/death by accident.

2) Don’t get “holla’d” at enough. I mean, c’mon guys! I’m here, on a bike, in a short khaki cargo skirt! Can you please yell a bit at the cute blonde rolling by?? I even rode by a group of construction guys on their lunch break today. Nothing. Humph.

3) Summer heat + exercise by bike = excessive sweat. Hmm, maybe that answers lack of getting “holla’d” at…

4) Having to carry the bike up and down stairs every day. I store it in my apartment, because I don’t want to leave it outside, exposed to the elements and possible theft. One day I fell on it. No, not off it, on it. I was walking down the stairs with it, dropped it, tripped and fell on it, making a huge, nasty bruise on my calf that looked like a weird bite mark. I was questioned about it for weeks.

5) Drunk biking = no-no.

6) Can’t multi-task in the same way. I have had phone conversations while biking, true, but they’re always choppy and I get out of breath pedaling uphill and distracted by jumping curbs and looking out for traffic. Although today I saw two bikers go by me, one was drinking Starbucks coffee and the other had eaten some sort of snack and was holding an empty Tupperware container in his hands. I thought, ‘Hmm. Well, that’s impressive.’

By simple numbers, the pros and cons sides tie. So I guess that means go get a helmet [and thus resign myself to “helmet hair”], a milk crate for the front of the bike, and keep on pedaling.

The Weird People You See While Waiting for the Boston T at Midnight on a Tuesday

Here are a few of the strange or interesting people I saw while waiting for the T tonight:

1. The old lady who looked like a more decrepit version of my ex’s mother. She had a blanket draped over her shoulders [in the heat of July] and her tennis shoes weren’t completely on her feet. She also did that homeless-and-drugged-look-around-the-room thing. I avoided eye contact. I didn’t have any spare change.
2. The cute yet dweeby-looking kid who was reading a book entitled “People Skills.” No comment necessary.
3. The tall, large woman with pink hair and lots of tattoos. She also had on huge shoes.
4. The group of noisy Northeastern students — you can always pick them out by their overt preppy-ness, and the fact that they always travel in packs of 15 or more.
5. The once-potential roommate who looked at my apartment in April. John emailed me about my ad on craigstlist, seemed interested, then a couple days later was no longer interested. Then a week after that, he sent me a facebook message [I guess he searched for me to see my picture?] and was interested again. By that point, I was sufficiently creeped out, but agreed, since I had no other prospects. So we set a day and time. It happened to be the day my ex finished moving out, and I asked him to stay until John got there, as a one last ex-boyfriend duty–you know, just in case John turned out to be a psycho murderer, my ex would be the buffer [and maybe John would spare me]. John arrived, and looked paler and with redder hair than his picture suggested. He seemed nice enough, until he asked me, “So…do you like to party?” My ex and I glanced at each other, not knowing what to say. Then my ex said, “Well, I think she parties just as much as anyone else…” I never heard back from John about the apartment, so I guess that was the wrong answer. Maybe he was hoping I’d say, “Oh yeah, had a rager last night. Just finished getting the hookers and coke cleaned up before you got here.”
6. The kid who got caught in the doors of the T, and his cell phone fell out of his pocket. I’ve never seen that happen before–I wasn’t even sure it could happen [don't they have some kind of safeguard for closing the doors on passengers, like the motion sensors in elevators?]. But it did happen. And I had to contain myself from staring, pointing, and laughing. It was awesome.
7. The girl in a cleavage-bearing top, staring at strangers, smiling to herself, and scribbling furiously in her bright orange notebook. Oh wait. That was me.

Caveat. Warning. Achtung, baby.

PREAMBLE

Sometimes warnings aren’t enough to stop someone from doing something stupid. You can warn people about the hazards of reverse bungee-jumping, but that doesn’t stop them from trying it. You can warn people about the dangers of smoking crack, but that doesn’t stop them from hitting the pipe. You can warn people about putting information from their personal lives on the interwebs, but apparently that doesn’t stop me.

That being said, this is basically a warning to myself. I am writing this blog for several purposes:

1) Catharsis

2) Feedback

3) Practice

4) Record

5) Humor

The last is the most important, I believe. I am fortunate to have an interesting life, and encounter quirky, story-worthy people almost every day, and hope that the idiosyncrasies of my life are interesting to at least one other person than me. Hopefully more, but I won’t jump the gun on that one.

In stories involving others, I may choose to obfuscate identities to protect the innocent (or not and distinguish the guilty). I guess I am prepared to accept the consequences either way, and look forward to writing what I hope to be many humorous stories about life, love, and (mis)adventures in the big city of Boston.

I hope I don’t regret it.

Stay tuned…