City Wendy

Things I'd Rather Be Doing

Things I'd rather be doing than sitting at my desk in my office on campus pushing paper around, doodling squiggling marks on a yellow post-it note and listening to the mind-numbing Worldview program on NPR:

Finishing the dream I was having this morning involving George Clooney, his home in Italy, and one silk tie.

Speaking of silk: eating a french silk pie.  With whipped cream.

Speaking of whipped cream: George Clooney.

That was stupid.

Whipped Cream and Patrick Dempsey.  That's better.  And obviously not stupid at all.

I wish he'd dump that make-up artist wife of his.

Not that there's anything wrong with make-up artists, mind you.  I'm not an elitist, just in love.  With P. Demp.

Or Clooney, I'm not picky.

Looking at pictures of growing Hollywood pregnancy bumps like: Angelina, Katie what's-her-name (is anyone still interested?), Gwyneth, Gwen, and isn't there someone pregnant with twins or something? 

That would be cool if Angelina had twins, wouldn't it?

But not Katie what's-her-name.  For obvious reasons.

Speaking of obvious, I read somewhere that Scientologists don't have sex during pregnancy, which means that Katie and Tom apparently still haven't done it yet.

Watching moss grow.

Or learning to paint.

I always wanted to do that.

Planning my plot to take over the world.

Or at least my end of the hallway on this floor.

Winning some money in Vegas.  And then buying a new pair of shoes, because I always wanted to say: "Mama needs a new pair of shoes!" while playing craps or something and then winning big and actually buying a new pair of shoes.

I'd probably buy some boots.

Or maybe some new Pumas.

I'd also probably get a coupla cute skirts for Spring.

I wish it were Spring.

I'm tired of being so terribly depressed because it's all dark and the tree branches are ugly and the land is barren.

I read on msn yesterday that something like 80% of seasonal depression sufferers are women.  I wonder if that's because winter is football season and more men like football and therefore are pretty happy this time of year.

Or maybe it's because they don't have raging fucking hormones that make them insane and weepy and they don't have to deal with period cramps or really anything very difficult at all, except maybe being expected to fix stuff all the time.

Then again, maybe MSN was wrong.  They've been wrong before.

Speaking of fixing stuff, I wish someone would fix my clogged sink.

Which brings me back to George Clooney.  Or P. Demp, I'm not picky!!

Happy Birthday, Allie!

Hard to believe you're getting so old.  You look almost as young as I do!

Muscle Regeneration

So in preparation for marathon training, I've been reading a lot of fitness literature (did i just write 'fitness literature'?  I think I did), and while some of the information is brand new, a lot of it's stuff I've known for a long time, like: "a rest period (24-72 hours) between bouts of exercise is necessary for the muscles to actually regenerate and get     stronger."

Any coach or trainer worth his or her salt will tell you to incorporate a couple days of rest into even the most strenuous workout schedule in order for the muscles to properly build.  I don't know exactly what happens when you don't rest, since the idea of not spending at least one or two days sitting around eating bon-bons and reading Marie Claire and Bust Magazine sort of boggles my mind, but I guess what happens is maybe the muscles get jaded and bitter and don't believe they'll ever find someone nice and end up fucking up every potential relationship because they're just too damaged for anything healthy and normal.  Oh, wait, are we still talking about working out?

Come on, were we ever really talking about working out?

People, I'm reading your blogs, I'm listening to you in the bars and on the train, in the streets, and in clothing store dressing rooms, and you're still whining, goddamnit, it's getting on my nerves.  Hey, I used to be a serial monogamist, too, you know, moving from one boyfriend to the next on auto-pilot, never giving my "muscles" a chance to recuperate and regenerate.  As soon as one relationship ended, I was out in that dating pool swimming and sniffing around for the next one.

I think what I was really looking for was a life preserver.

I'm not saying I wouldn't like a relationship again (I mean, have you read my blog?), but in the year or so since my last one, I've recuperated and regenerated, figured out how to be my own life preserver and discovered the joy of swimming for the hell of it, and not for some mission I'm on.  I've also learned to recognize the warning signs of too much wading about: the dizziness and exhaustion, even the jadedness threatening my newfound oh-so-buddhist-like tranquility and inner peace and then I know it's time to get the hell out of the pool for a little while.

It's not so bad on dry land, ya'll!  You can sit around and soak up the sun in a cute little bikini and you never know ... maybe when you least expect it, you'll look up from your magazine and bob-bons and there'll be a hot pool boy standing their with a Pina Colada and a smile just for you.

I mean, try it, that's all I'm saying.

Irony

My friend, Matt, called me up yesterday and asked if I wanted to go see a hockey game with him sometime. 
"Hockey?" I asked, confused.  I'm not exactly the girl people think of when they have sports on their minds.
"Yeah, I think my boss can get me tickets to a Blackhawks game and I'd ask Ryan to go, but he hates sports."
Uhh, right.

Even stranger than his invitiation, was my reply:
"Oh, sure, that sounds like a of fun."

After I hung up the phone, I turned to my cat, Simone, and said, "Hockey's the one with ice, right?"

Cool Shit

Don't forget to keep checking Oh My That's Awesome! for Valentine's Day gift suggestions and other cool shit.  Sarah even made a new banner and everything, so go ahead: bookmark it.

Exasperated

Okay, forget Dating Rules, there ought to be some rules that apply when you run into someone you've seen half-naked (Or maybe more! Just saying.) whom you've had no contact with for months who maybe totally blew you off and left you wondering what in the world was so wrong with you when, in fact, he had back hair long enough to french braid. 

If you're me, and you happen to see him sitting at the bar as you order a gin and tonic, you smile and wave your fingers a little, and then act as if you are busy looking for the correct change in your purse, thereby acknowledging him and not being an ass, but letting him know he is in no way obligated to talk to you.  At all.

If you're the guy, apparently, you act really nervous, and say to your friends loudly enough for me to hear, "So, are you guys ready to go?"  And then you take off immediately.  Before I...before I what?  What could I possible do or say that would make it so fucking scary to be in the same room with me?  And you know what?  If you've been enough of a jerk that you can't handle being in the same room with a girl you went out with a few times and then blew off with no explanation at all, after you acted like you were so interested and did all the pursuing and everything, perhaps it's time for you to change your ways and start behaving like a gentleman. 

Suddenly, it seems like I've dated about a quarter of the eligible bachelors in this city and while, thankfully, very few of them behave as inappropriately as this one, there are a few out there I know I'd feel a little awkward about running into.  Not because I can't hold my own, because I can.  I more than can.  But, because, when a guy has been an asshole, as many, many have, they absolutely cannot handle being reminded of the fact.  And so, rather than take the opportunity to behave politely and atone their jerky ways, when they see a girl they've treated badly, more often than not, they'll affirm her ill-feelings towards him and act as if she is something they cannot bear to be in the same room with.

Get over yourselves, you big jerks!  After you behave badly, we move on! And  if we have the misfortune of seeing your faces in public again, the last thing we want is a reminder of our terrible judgment in the past.  So, the best thing you can do?  Carry on as normal.  No reason to rush out, no reason to make conversation with us.  Just return our smiles, nod in our direction, and continue your play on the cute girl with the glasses.  We won't do anything to ruin your great game.  Promise.  And we certainly won't mention to the whole world wide web your hairiness factor.  Unless, of course, you're a jerk to us all over again.  You big jerk!

Banish Those Stupid Catchphrases

Everyone must read Zulkey's blog today, and then please, please, for the love of God, please stop saying such stupid things all the time.  It's exhausting me.

And just in case you need a head's up on other irritating words and phrases that bug the hell out of me:

"Woot"  What?  I don't get it.

"Asshat"  What IS that?  Seriously, can we all just say "asshole" like normal fucking people?

"Wasted" as in "I was so wasted."  Really?  Look, 20-year-olds get wasted.  Adults get drunk.  That's it -- just drunk.  Okay?

"Shit-faced."  See above.

"Capiche?"  Ugh!!!  Just stop.  Even if you're Italian, there's no excuse.

"Diarrhea of the mouth."  Oh please, don't even get me started on that one.

Oh, those stupid shirts that say "Kiss me, I'm {Irish} or {Italian} or {Chinese} or {A Redhead} or whatever.  God, no, I won't kiss you!  I don't care what you are -- unless you're cute and charming and funny and smart, or unless I am "shitfaced," I am NOT going to kiss you, so quit.

"Best," as a sign-off in emails.  Best what?!

And, in grad school, I fucking can't stand it when people say, "Enter the conversation."  God, how pretentious.

I just can't win

So, last night I was getting a fabulous night sleep, which, for an insomniac like me, is a precious, wonderful thing, when suddenly, terribly, I was awakened by Madonna -- pulsating, throbbing Madonna "dance" tracks blaring from the apartment above.  It was 4 am, so I felt certain it was all just a crazy mistake and the horrible music would be turned off instantly.  It was not.  I waited.  And waited.  And tossed and turned.

Time goes by so slowly -slowly, time goes by so slowly-slowly.

You know, Madonna, it really does. Especially, at FUCKING 4 AM WHEN YOU ARE WAILING AND PULSATING THROUGH MY GODDAMN CEILING, AND YOUR MUSIC ISN'T EVEN CATCHY!

I debated what to do.  Is it unreasonable for me to ask my neighbor to turn it down?  No! I reasoned, it's 4 am!!

So, I threw on a sweatshirt, marched upstairs and knocked on his door. I asked him nicely to turn down his music, to which he very apologetically turned it off completely.

Settled back in bed, I reveled in my little victory and silently congratulated myself for being assertive in a situation only a year ago I probably would have just suffered through.

And then, just as I started drifting off again to glorious, fabulous sleep, my neighbor's bed started rocking and creaking and banging against the wall.  Then came the moans, and the grunts, and the Oh God's, Oh God's.   So I bolted back upstairs, pounded on the door and yelled, "That Madonna CD you were playing earlier?  Oh my god, SO GOOD!" 

Dating Rules

I've been perusing blogs for awhile now, hanging out in bars longer than I care to admit, and engaging in bitch sessions with my friends as frequently as our long-lost 'Sex and the City' girlfriends used to, and as I peek into the lives of my peers, either voyeuristically, or as a more intimate confidante, one thing has become so glaringly obvious, so intrisically tethered to our self-identities and the way we perceive one another, that I can no longer avoid discussing it here: people don't know how to fucking date. 

Everyone seems to want a significant other and very few know how to land one.  Those who do suddenly find themselves in a relationship often chalk it up to pure dumb luck, or fate, or finally successfully getting someone drunk enough.  People aren't taking credit for their couplings, because doing so might mean they aren't as fucked up as they thought and who in this age of glorified neuroticism wants to admit to being mentally balanced?  I mean, my god, that's so passe.

It's time for an intervention, ya'll. 

And so, I'm going to tell you what a lot of people already know and aren't sharing with the masses: the rules to dating successfully.  What makes me an expert on the subject?  My track record is atrocious, I have worse luck in love than Katie Holmes, I've ruined lots of promising starts to relationships, dragged out lots of painful endings, and I've obsessed compulsively over just about every single guy I've ever gone out with.  Simply put: I've learned the hard way. And I earned every tidbit, every gem, every pearl of wisdom I gained along the way.  And now, because I'm practing paying it forward and all -- and also because I'm sick to death of listening to everyone whine all the time about how cruel and difficult the dating market is, I just want to enjoy a cocktail in peace, my god -- I'm going to tell you everything I know.

The Rules

1. Get a life.  No, seriously, get a life.  Look, we're all the same -- men, women, whatever -- we're all looking for the same thing.  We want someone who's got it going on.  And what's more attractive than a person who has a a great circle of friends, hobbies and interests, and classes, someone who goes on trips, has weekend plans, someone who has stuff happening?  We see someone with a life -- with a real life...with something else -- anything else -- besides work and television, and we want to be a part of that. Maybe you've been in the dating pool for awhile, maybe you're about to dip your toe back in after a bit of a hiatus -- whatever your current status, I implore you, do us all a favor and do not even think about taking the plunge until you have at least three things planned every week outside of work, television, and dating (and this should continue even after you land yourself a significant other!)  Three things.  You can do it. Internet porn does not count.

2. Don't play all your cards.  So, you've landed yourself a date and you're out having a good time and you like her oh so much, she's really cute, and oh my god that smile, and you really want her to like you, and SHUT UP.  The best thing you can do is shut the fuck up.  Please, please, please, for the love of god, resist the urge to tell your date how great you think he/she is.  Limit your compliments to three (two would be better).  And don't go on and on about yourself, either.  I know you want him to like you, but I promise, if he's attracted to you and you can manage to shut the fuck up long enough for him to talk about himself a little, you'll go out again, and if you tell him everything about yourself on the first date, what the hell will you talk about on the second date?  Never ever play all your cards, otherwise the hand is over and the game might as well be, too.

3. Resist the urge to be charming.  This is really, really important.  Don't try to be funny, as there's nothing more transparent and sad.  When you feel like making a witty retort, try a half-smile instead.  The hidden wit and mystery the half-smile conveys -- like you know a secret or a joke you aren't telling -- is way, way sexier than that dorky remark you were going to make, anyway.  That bit about me learning the hard way?  Uh, yeah, you have no idea...

4. Date more than one person.  Okay, so you've gone on a few dates with that irresistable guy you met at on the train a few weeks ago.  You really like him.  He seems to like you.  Things are moving along really well.  Great!  Now, go get yourself a date with someone else.  Anyone else.  Quick!  The very worst thing you can do now is put all your eggs in one basket.  Not this early on, anyway.  Remind yourself you're still desirable, that you're a catch, that you don't have to settle, that this isn't the only fish in the sea.  You never know -- you might actually have more fun with someone else that you do with him, but you got so wrapped in the possibility of finally finding a boyfriend, you didn't give yourself a chance.  Eventually, when you've gotten to know each other better and your connection is based on more than initial attraction and the desire for a relationship, you can decide if you want to be exclusive.  You should be able to articulate to your best friend at least 10 good reasons you want to be exclusive with this person other than physical attributes.  Ten reasons!! 

5. Be picky.  This is tricky because I just told you to go out with anyone, right?  But that's just when you already have someone you're seeing and are interested in!  If you aren't seeing anyone, haven't had a date in a little while, then oh, for the love of god, be picky!  Desperation smells really, really bad and will no doubt turn off all the prime candidates.  If you start going out with people just to go out with people, you'll quickly inherit that tell-tale stench, the smell that warns prospects that you are hard-up and should be avoided at all costs.  So what to do if you're in a dry spell and you're getting antsy and nervous and maybe you'll never meet anyone again and there's just nothing worse than being single and sitting around, and what are you supposed to do with all this time on your hands, and on and on?  See rule #1.  Get a life, and I promise, the rest will take care of itself.

Now, please, quickly find some fabulous and start following these rules.  The faster we all get over our dating hang-ups, the sooner we can start talking about more pressing issues....like my hair!

Life and Near-Death

My trip to New York was nothing short of spectacular.  Even the flight cancellation and 7-hour delay and near-death commute didn't deter from my happy mood.

Yes, near-death commute!  As in, the plane almost crashed.  As in, we were struck by lightning and the plane took a nose-dive and people were crying, and the the color completely drained from the faces of our flight attendants, and the cute Jewish doctor next to me, who, up until that point was making very pointed moves on me, started hyperventilating and grabbing my arm and telling me that if we didn't make it, he was glad he got to see my smile before we died.

Anyway, obviously we did make it, though we had to circle Philly for an hour while the storms cleared  from New York.  While we hovered, Cute Jewish Doctor and I had a couple glasses of wine and he asked me if he should propose to his girlfriend. 
"Probably not!"  I said.
"Why?"  He asked.
"Well, " I started, "The fact that you're asking a stranger on a plane whom you just said you'd like to kiss doesn't really bode well for your situation."
"Also," I continued, "Unless you can answer 'yes' to these questions, there's is no reason in the world to marry her.  Do you have more fun with her than anyone else?  Is she your favorite person to spend time with?  Does she make you laugh?  Is she the first person you call with exciting news?   Does she support you when you're down?  Is the sex amazing?  And, do you want her to be in your life when you're old?"
"God," he said, burying his head in his hands, "I can't really say 'yes' to any of those.'"
"Dude," I said, "Then, get the fuck out."

When we landed safely and everyone applauded and the color was restored to the faces of our flight attendants and the pilot announced it had been one of his roughest nights ever, Cute Jewish Doctor got out his cell phone and called his girl.  I didn't hear the conversation as I was busy gathering my things and checking my voice mail.  But the last thing he said to me as we exited the plane and he disappeared into the New York night was, "It's all your fault."

Um, is that Hebrew for 'thank you'?  'Cause that's really what he shoulda said.

Anyway!  The rest of the weekend was great, fantastic, wonderful.  Stayed with old college friends, one of whom was my roommate for 3 years and it was a delight to see them again, as well as watch Wendy Ho perform twice.  And, after wandering the streets and eating the best bagels ever with the creamiest cream cheese you can imagine and discovering little hole-in-the-wall restaurants with cheap amazing food and hearing 18 different languages on one city block and meandering through Chinatown and strolling through Little Italy and finding the best ever used-book store in Soho and drinking a glass of wine while perusing the shelves of $3 galleys and listening to Billie Holiday and gazing at beautiful people everywhere and squeezing fruit at the cutest little produce stands and flirting with hot boys on the subway and sitting in bars without suffocating in nasty-ass cigarette smoke and buying 3 adorable sweaters for  50 bucks at this fantastic store called Zara and feeling inspired by flower stands and filmmakers and incredible fashion and boots (!) on everyone and just the mad hungry invigorating energy of it all, I've decided I have no choice, I just have to move there.

So!  If you're in New York and you're someone important who can offer me a job that pays enough to finance the kind of lifestyle I've grown accustomed to and doesn't require me to take off my clothes, or file anything, or answer phones, or be very nice to people, or wear pantyhose, or really actually work that hard, sign me up!!  Also, it would be great if you could provide complimentary tickets to Broadway shows, and maybe a driver,too.  In return, I'll entertain you with funny stories and maybe bake cookies and sing songs sometimes.  Oh, this is gonna be so great.  I can't wait!