City Wendy

The Alarm that Would Not Quit

Last night was supposed to be a perfect evening of couch surfing for Drew and me. We had two episodes of Jeopardy DVR'd, and Brokeback Mountain from earlier in the day, and Project Runway was on at 10. Feeling like really going all out, we even picked up a couple cheeseburgers from Island Burgers and Shakes around the corner and a large order of fries from the fast food joint across the street because, strangely, Island doesn't do fries and how can you have a burger without them--and hey, I'd run 3.5 miles that morning and done a half hour of strength training, so I earned those fries!!

So there we were--all cozied up on the couch with our enormous burgers and mountain of greesy fries and matching G&T's all queued up for an entire evening in front of the TV when suddenly a car alarm went off outside. No big deal, though, right? I mean, sadly, this happens all the time. We live in a busy neighborhood--Broadway is less than two blocks away and there's a parking lot right across the street from us. For $20, people from all over the tri-sate area and beyond drop off their cars for the night as they take in Jersey Boys and Hairspray just down the street, and so, inevitably, there are a few car alarms that go off every. Goddamn. Night. But, you know, you get used to it. You pause the TV if you must and wait it out--they usually turn off after 30 seconds or so, and then you resume whatever it was you were doing. But last night was different. Last night there was an alarm that went off for over TWO HOURS and wreaked total havoc on my mental well-being.

Now, you know how Britney Spears is totally insane and Heath Ledger died last week and Nicole Richie is already 17 pounds again even though she just gave birth, like, two weeks ago? And everyone blames the pressures of celebrity life and the constant glare of the media and having their every move documented for public consumption? Well, after last night, I'm convinced it's not celebrity life at all that makes famous people so loony--it's all the car alarms I'm sure they've been forced to listen to in their lives.

After just 20 minutes in the presence of the Car Alarm That Wouldn't Quit last night, I'd already shaved me head, lost 50 pounds, attacked a group of papparazzi, and got addicted to heroin. Forty minutes in, I'd adopted 5 children from Malawi, and checked into--and quickly checked out of--rehab, and after one hour of the alarm, I'd legally changed my name to Ann Curry. So Drew had no choice but to call the cops.

"Should I call 9-11?" he asked, picking up the phone.
"No," I answered, suddenly remembering now on The View earlier that morning when I was still sane and running my miles at the gym Joy Behar said she calls 3-11 whenever she sees bad drivers on the road, "Call 3-11!!"

So Drew called 3-11, but they put him in touch with 9-11 anyway and when they asked what the emergency was, he said: "There's a car alarm going off outside our window and my girlfriend just shaved her head and lost 50 pounds and adopted 5 kids from Malawi--come quick!!"

Twenty minutes later when the cops still had not arrived and the Car Alarm That Would Not Quit was still going, I called 9-11 myself and declared a state of absolute emergency. "We already have the incident on record, Ma'am," the dispatcher calmly said, "And the police are on their way."
"Tell them to hurry!" I shouted, "I'm seconds away from slicing off my nose and naming my new Malawiian children, 'Prince,' 'Prince,' and 'Blanket!'"

Five minutes later, the alarm finally stopped. Oh, sweet, sweet silence.

"It stopped! It stopped! Drew exclaimed, jumping from the couch and running to the window. "And the cops are here!" he yelled, peering outside.

"Yay!!" I yelled, "They really made it!"

Sure enough, the NYPD arrived on the scene, popped the hood of the car, opened the doors, did a flashlight search, and TURNED OFF THE FUCKING ALARM, AND RESTORED ORDER ON OUR STREET, AND IN OUR HOME, AND IN MY HEAD, AND OH MY GOD, I LOVE THE POLICE!!! I was so tempted to open the window and scream my thanks to the men in blue, but Drew insisted we needed to "keep cool."
"Oh, right," I said, suddenly aware of just how far I'd falled off the edge of reality over the last two hours, "keep cool, keep cool."

And this, my friends, is just one example of how well things can go when you call 9-11, instead of, oh I don't know, Mary-Kate's private security team.

Blind Dating

I've been going on a lot of blind dates since moving to NYC. They aren't romantic in nature, but the awkwardness, jitters, and anxiety over making an ass of myself--or worse yet, being stuck with someone boring all evening--is all still there. Actually, I'd go so far as to say the kind of blind dates I go on might even be more nerve-wracking than your regular ol' run-of-the-mill checking-for-romantic-sparks blind dates. The kind of blind dates I go on are with fellow bloggers and sometimes I haven't so much as exchanged an email with the people I meet.

Last night was one of those times. I had a dinner date with 6 other blogger chicks, only one of whom I'd exchanged emails with (well, actually two, though the exchange with the other blogger had been over a year ago). And this was truly a blind date as I didn't know what any of them looked like. So when I showed up at the restaurant and told the host I was there to meet a party of 7 for a 7:30 reservation and he said my party was sitting at the bar and I turned to the bar where there were no less than 4 groups of women (single guys, you might want to check out Rosa Mexicana in Union Square on Monday nights), I contemplated just turning on my heels and going home. If I got a move on, I'd be back in time to catch the tail end of Wife Swap. But then I remembered I was trying to "get out there," in that same way a single woman might join a bar trivia league to meet like-minded single guys who also enjoy boozing and showing off knowledge of 1980's child sitcom stars (Question: What former 'child star of an '80s sitcom went on to portray porn star, Linda Lovelace, in a 2004 stage show? Answer: Tina Yothers.). So I stayed. And I scanned the groups of women for the most blogger-like qualities among them and finally settled on the group holding pink margaritas and talking about running schedules and an upcoming half-marathon. "These are my people," I thought as I approached them and asked if anyone there went by the name "Drunk Brunch." "Are you Wendy?" one of them asked, and I breathed a sigh or relief.

Luckily, any jitters or awkwardness one might feel at this sort of thing isn't anything a little tequila and guacamole can't cure, and we were all getting along like old drinking buddies in no time. One of my favorite parts of the evening was when, in an effort to get to know each other a little better, someone suggested going around and saying one thing no one else at the table would know about you: "Like your last name," she quipped.
I guess it's an odd thing--the culture of bloggers...the way we open up about our personal lives from the comfort--and safety--of our keyboards and then manage to break that protective "fourth wall" by meeting up in person. But I've been doing just that for several years now and I have to say, if you ever want to meet good people--people who'll have your back, and pass around your resume when you're looking for a job, and invite you to parties when you're new in town, and tell you the best bars to go to--and the ones to avoid, and where to get a good dye job for cheap, and the best temp agencies that won't suck your soul, get yourself to a blogger get-together. Just don't forget the tequila.

Running in Place

I surprised myself this weekend. Drew and I got last-minute tickets to the Knicks game Friday night and I went and actually had fun--like real fun, not just acting like I think sporting events are my idea of a good time so my boyfriend thinks I'm cool, because frankly, I'm way passed hoping Drew thinks I'm cool. He's seen me get stressed out watching Deal or No Deal too many times to ever think I'm cool anymore. So my fun at the Knicks game was 100% real, without even so much as a single beer to boost my mood. I think it helped that we had court-side seats and the excitement of sitting just around the corner from living legend, Robert Plant, who was wearing some pretty kick-ass cowboy boots. I actually enjoyed the game so much that when Drew turned to a Knicks game on TV yesterday, instead of covering my ears or running to the other room as I usually do when I hear sports sounds, I actually watched...intently, no less. I hardly know myself anymore.

Surprising myself even further, I've managed to stick with my half-marathon training schedule for two whole weeks now, hitting an important 5-mile run on Saturday. It's been at least 2 years since I ran 5 miles all at once...like without stopping for a burger and beer and a 3 hour nap in the middle of it, so I was kind of proud of myself. I'm not gonna lie--it really kind of kicked my ass and when I think about increasing my long run to 6 miles next week--something I've only accomplished once or twice in my life--I think I'd rather spend time having the marrow from my hip bone sucked out, but I'm gonna give it a whirl anyway. I'm still not convinced I'll ever actually have enough endurance to run a half-marathon (no one has ever accused me of having too much faith in myself), but I will say that I've felt more accomplished in the last couple of weeks than I have in the last few months and that can't be such a bad thing. All I know is that as the weeks and months between what felt like a pretty normal life and what I have now drag on, running is at least one way that I can keep moving forward, which is kind of ironic since I run in place on a treadmill and never end up any farther than where I started. It's really kind of an unintentional metaphor, now that I think about it. Hmm...maybe it's time I just bundled up and headed outside...

An Illusion Died With Him

I can't stop thinking about Heath Ledger. Ever since I heard the news about his death on Tuesday afternoon, I've been sort of obsessed with learning as much about his final hours and the days and months that led up to it.  And while I gather details, like the 3 calls his massuese placed to Mary Kate Olsen before calling 9-11, and the insomnia and anxiety Heath had been suffering in recent months, I'm trying to figure out exactly why I care so much. I didn't know him, of course, and I wasn't really obsessed with him before Tuesday. And plenty of people have died in much more tragic and horrific ways this week alone and I'm not scouring the Internet for information on them. So what is it about Heath Ledger that's shaken me up so much?

"Celebrities sort of connect us to each other," Drew said over dinner last night as I pondered the root of my latest obsession.

"I guess you're right," I said, nodding, "I mean, they're the people we measure degrees of separation from."

"Right," Drew replied.

When I was a kid I used to fantasize, as I'm sure lots of kids did, of growing up to be rich and famous. I'd be on the cover of my mother's latest People Magazine. I'd be a movie star. I'd live in a mansion. I'd wear fabulous clothes and travel the world and sit at the best tables in restaurants and my life would be perfect. Even now, grown up and with a better perspective on celebrity life, I can't help feeling envious from time to time of what often seems like the Good Life--the one I'll never live. And yet, I know the life of a celebrity must be sort of terrible and soul-crushing a lot of the time. I get that being famous doesn't eliminate problems--it just exchanges them for other ones...often even bigger ones. I know I'd hate living in the kind of fish bowl celebrities swim in. I'd hate the constant attention, and crticism and endless speculation over the state of my personal life and mental well-being and whether I'm pregnant or just ate too many hamburgers this week. I'd hate it.

But some celebrities seem to handle it pretty well--they manage to live fairly under the radar, enjoying the comfort and luxury their big salaries afford them while keeping out of the glare of the spotlight and the pages of the tabloids. They seem to genuinely enjoy their work, they choose roles that stretch and challenge them, they embody Hollywood Glamour on every red carpet, and their personal lives, if not perfect, at least resemble something like the happiness and balance most of us yearn for.

Heath Ledger--at least while he was with Michelle Williams--was one of those celebrities for me. Together he and Michelle represented the kind of famous couple I'd want to be part of if I'd followed my childhood fantasy of becoming a star. Low-key and unassuming, with an adorable little girl, they were the picture of domestic bliss in their 4-story townhouse in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood. And with their youthful glow, dorky hipster sunglasses, and unstyled hair, they looked like people I might easily be friends with.

So when I'd heard they'd broken up several months ago, I was sort of sad about it. If they couldn't make it work with everything they had going for them--skyrocketing careers, gorgeous looks, amazing talent, lots of money--how was I going to? And so I held out hope they'd reunite--that a few months apart would indeed make their hearts grow fonder and they'd discover that no one else quite held the allure they had for each other. Heath would move back into their Brooklyn home, they'd be spotted walking little Matilda around the neighborhood in those silly Raybans they always wore, Michelle's hair would slowly grow out...and all would be right again.

But now they'll never get back together. Heath is dead and his daughter will never know her father and Michelle will be thrust right into the deep middle of the fish bowl she and Heath always tried to stay in the shallow ends of.

And as I learn more about the person Heath was and the issues that plagued him--his anxiety and insomnia, for example, my illusion of his perfect life is shattered. I have anxiety and insomnia. I've had weeks go by where I only sleep 2 hours each night. I hate interviews and talking about myself to strangers and aswering questions that betray my self-confidence. And I guess I'm reminded as I struggle through a particularly challenging time right now, how good it is to be anonymous, to be a nobody, to not get the best table in the restaurant. It means I get to struggle in private, make my mistakes in private, fall apart and get back together again without the lens of a thousand cameras capturing my every move. I guess it's not such a bad thing being just ordinary after all.

You look just like...

Celebrities I've been told I resemble:

Lauren Ambrose
Shelly Duvall (hmm...not my favorite comparison)
a young Mia Farrow
Michelle Williams (I wish)
Pat Benatar (really??)
Rebecca De Mornay
Alicia Witt
Jessica Alba (wha??)

...which makes sense because they all look so much alike...

Which celebrities are you always compared to?

Out Damn Spot

I made it to and from Boston via the Fung Wah Chinatown bus without too much drama, I'm sure you'll all be happy to learn. In fact, the whole trip went so smoothly, I was completely unprepared for the chaos that awaited me upon my return home. As soon as I walked into the front door, I was confronted by a very sick Drew in sweatpants, tissues strewn all over the place, a sink full of dirty dishes and a faint, but none-the-less distinct, odor I didn't quite place until Drew said those 7 little words every pet owner is loath to hear: "What's that wet spot on the rug?" followed by, "Oh and one of the cats barfed all over the place today!"

So I dropped my bag, threw off my coat and mittens and hat and scarf, crouched down by the wet spot on the rug, took a sniff and verified my fears: it was totally cat piss, and since my cats have NEVER pissed on a rug or bed or piles of clothes or anything other than the litterbox and okay, maybe a plant or two (but who doesn't do that?), I knew something was wrong. So I went to the litterbox, sure I'd discover that Drew failed to empty it even though I gave him specific directions to empty it at least once while I was gone--and really, how hard is it to empty a litterbox? It takes 60 seconds! But to my surprise, the litterbox was completely clean, so that didn't explain this sudden acting out from my cats. I knew they weren't mad at me for being away--I'd been gone for much longer periods of time in the past and the worst that happens is maybe I'm snubbed for all of five minutes until I produce a can of Fancy Feast. Besides, when Mom's away, the cats will play!

And then I saw it: the lid of the litterbox was on backwards and the door to it was against the wall so the poor cats had no way to get inside.

"Drew!" I yelled, "You put the lid on wrong! They couldn't get into the box!!!"

"Oh...." Drew said, smacking his head.

"Fuck!" I exclaimed, "Fuck! Do you know how hard it is to clean up cat piss? And if it they couldn't get into the box all day, there's definitely going to be more cat piss than just this one spot on the rug!!"

"I've been very sick," Drew said weakly, drawing a kleenex to his nose.

"It's impossible to clean up cat piss!" I yelled, grabbing a sponge from beneath the sink.

"I've been delirious with a terrible cold!" Drew moaned.

"Fuck!" I replied.

Drew immediately--and wisely--threw on some clothes, ran to the pet store down the street and came home with some Nature's Miracle, and thankfully, 24-hours later, I'm happy to report that I was wrong: it's not impossible to clean up cat piss, after all. It is, however, impossible to baby your sick boyfriend when you're madder than hell at him. Luckily, 24 hours later, I'm happy to report that has passed too.

*Anyhoo! Thanks to Emily for being such a great hostess in Boston. She's as much of a sweetheart in person as she is on the Internet. I stole this picture from her flickr stream--it's us in Harvard Yard, where my brain cells multiplied by the second. After we left, I totally did a Sudoku puzzle in like 37 seconds!!

Getting on With It

Up at 7, coffee, breakfast, to the gym by 8. Just 30 minutes of cross-training today. Tomorrow is 4 miles...if I can wake up early enough to run and make it to Chinatown for my bus at 11. I'm visiting Emily and the city of Boston for the first time. We're going to eat Indian food and window shop and do our nails and drink coffee and also lots of wine.

But first, today is another job interview. Print out resumes, iron the outfit, double-check for runs in the pantyhose, file my nails, hope my hair sits right. I've decided to grow it out. A year and a half of short hair is long enough--I'm ready for a ponytail again. Too bad I've got to grow past the awkward stages first.

I checked the weather today in Chicago and it helped me feel less homesick--8 degrees and blustery...I don't miss that part. Chad says they're going to spend the weekend inside watching movies and eating good food and playing games. I do miss that part. When I get a job--surely it will be soon now--I'll use my first paycheck to send for my things. They're all still sitting in a storage unit in a suburb in Illinois--the antique cherry wood bedroom set I inherited from my grandparents, my great-grandmother's china cabinet, my desk, and coffee table, my bike and TV--among other things. I don't know where it will all go--I'll have to sell some of it, I'm sure.

But I'm ready now, you know. To have my own things again and a job and to get on with it. I'm ready to put my art on the walls in this apartment I share with Drew and to slide my socks into my dresser drawer--the same dresser drawer I slid my socks into 25 years ago when I spent summers at my grandparents' house in St. Louis. I always used the top dresser drawer for my junk--hair bands and plastic rings and happy meal toys from McDonalds and every summer, forgetting what I'd left behind the year before, I'd open that top drawer and be surprised and then I'd spend the summer adding to it. By the time I started college, that top drawer was like a little mini time capsule. It still kind of is.

Anyway, awkward stages or not, I'm ready now. To grow my hair out and put some roots down and to just get on with it. So, Universe, if you're listening...

There's A New Bitch in Town

A few weeks ago I was trying to get some sleep to no avail. Someone from one of the buildings outside our bedroom window was throwing a party and since it was midnight on a Saturday in Manhattan, I mean, what the hell did I expect? So, I popped a Tylenol PM, piled a couple pillows over my head, and tried to relax. Three sleepless hours later, the party was peaking and one of the guests--a woman I'd bet to be a mid-40's, high-ranking retail professional who'd probably polished off two bottles of Chardonnay and a jello shot by then--was shrieking like hyena, something I'm guessing had become a bit of a mating ritual since it worked for her at a frat party in Michigan back in 1982.

She continued her shrieking ritual for another 30 minutes while the dude who lives above our bedroom turned up his video games and fucking Madonna's Greatest Hits to drown her out. Unable to stand another second of all that racket at 3:30 AM--and I don't care if we do live in the middle of the city that never sleeps, that's still too late for hyena shrieks and Papa Don't Preach without some serious hardcore drugs--I opened the window, inhaled deeply and exhaled a blood-curdling scream that easily rivaled Janet Leigh in Pyscho. "Shut the fuck up!" I screamed, unleashing weeks and weeks--nay, years--of pent-up frustration over lousy, loud, inconsiderate neighbors, "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!" I howled at the top of my very impressive set of lungs. And in the seconds that followed, the entire neighborhood went completely silent. Madonna came to a screaching halt upstairs, the drunken shrieking woman shut up for the first time all night, the gay bar across the street halted production, and all the cabs, buses and night walkers on the street stopped in their tracks and waited.

Confident I'd finally appropriately introduced myself to the neighborhood, I calmly shut the window, crawled back into bed and slept for 10 hours straight. And you know what? There hasn't been a peep from our neighbors since. Just sayin'.

It's all Your Fault

I blame you guys. You've convinced me I need to curb my sugar addiction by quitting the cakes and cookies and candy for a little while and loading up on fruits and veggies, so I went shopping this morning and look what I got. I like fruits and vegetables, but I love my cakes and cookies and candy, so this is going to be hard. And don't think I'm going to go two weeks without chocolate. That's just nonsense. I'm going to go a few days. I might even go all the way to this weekend! I know! Craziness!!

In other news, I decided to skip ahead to week two of the half marathon training schedule. Since I've been running 3-4 miles a few times a week and cross-training for awhile, I figured it was ok. Plus, this way I can add an extra mile to my week 12 schedule since the original guide only went as high as a 10-mile long run and it seems strange to go from 10 miles to the 13 mile race a week later, and oh my god, listen to me--less than 24 hours of this no-sweets bullshit and I'm already a total bore--I need some fucking cake.

Drew and I are going to his father's cousin's son's family's house for dinner tonight--an intellectual Jewish family I'm told is a lot like the Royal Tenenbaums. It's been awhile since I saw the movie so I don't  really remember--did the Royal Tenenbaums eat a lot of cookies, by chance? This could be disastrous.

Not What I Was Expecting

I saw There Will Be Blood the other night and I was astounded: I totally thought it was going to be about the history of tampons.