lots of rain will do that to a lawn. los angeles has endured a steady stream of mother nature's piss this past month, with the grass seed and compost in my backyard sucking up the rain, the runoff and then some to become an overgrown mess -- a veritable green afro of grass.
i don't mind because i love love love the rain. it gives the semblance of a season in this too temperate town known for perfect sunshine and year-round tans. it cleans the smoggy air and washes my car. and it provides the perfect backdrop for an evening of warm socks, a hot cup of mint tea and a rented DVD that i watch while juice sleeps beside me, her snoring head burrowed in my lap.
unfortunately, that scene has been difficult to reproduce since daytimes find me sitting in the titanium tower downtown while gazing out the window and wishing i were at home. then comes the evening commute, slippery and slow when wet. at least the view the next day is breathtaking.
april came out of nowhere, didn't it? this year seems to be zooming by, and i'm reluctant to catch up to it. what a cognitive leap to accept that the year is almost half over and i haven't done shit. again, i'm not sure what i expected to have done by now, but i'm sure i haven't done it. blame the rain.
my betta fish died and that saddened me. i never thought i gave a shit about that fucker until he went belly up (har har). but every morning, i would sleepwalk into my kitchen and sprinkle a few flakes into his bowl, tapping on the glass to beckon him to breakfast. "what are you going to do today, Fifi?" i would mock while preparing my coffee. "let me guess -- nothing!" i would cackle when he didn't answer me. he'd just swim away in silence and poop in his bowl.
my mom gave me Fifi two years ago and i almost flushed him down the toilet then, convinced as i was that fish weren't real pets. they were more like dinner -- salmon and halibut and orange roughy. juice was all the pet i really needed. then he died (of natural causes) and i realized how much i missed abusing him. it had become part of my morning ritual. so off to Petco i went and got myself a new betta for $3.95. in keeping with the west hollywood fetish theme, i named this one Butch. he's fiery red with blue speckles on his tail.
i also got a new bed. a queen on a queen finally! having slept on it for over two weeks already, i cannot believe i ever slept on that crappy full mattress i had before. flipside is that it's making getting out of bed each morning even more difficult. blame the rain. so that's a new and bigger bed and mattress -- and new pillows and sheets and comforter and duvet cover. i'm broke but sleeping like a rockefeller. a fresh coat of paint on the bedroom walls will soon follow, as will a new dresser and bookcase.
i can't believe how bourgie i've gotten. i went from being a goth in high school, when i wore doc martins and crushed velvet clothing to Cure concerts; then came college with its hippie-esque foray into corduroy and hallucinogenics; post-college style found me rummaging through san francisco's myriad thrift stores; and the move back to LA had me decked out in Hollywood hipster gear.
i'm quite concerned about the fashion sense i'll exhibit during my thirties. i find myself gravitating toward collared blouses and pants with pleats. i don't think i own a single concert T-shirt anymore. i also don't recall ever using the word "blouse" before starting my corporate job -- it had always been just a "shirt."
my new evening look has become "the sexy executive" where i throw one of my business jackets over a slutty top. but perhaps i should lay off the slutty tops? i don't want to be the past-her-prime girl out at the clubs looking ridiculous while trying to seem young. i'm thinking a more sophisticated look is in order. something more fitting with my new demographic. i suppose i should embrace it and become the bourgeois princess i likely have always been. but if i move to the suburbs or begin voting republican, please shoot me.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Honk! In the Name of Love
i know that if i saw this shit online somewhere, i would roll my eyes and do that finger-in-throat vomit gesture, but on my blog it’s kinda sweet.
love, in fact, is very sweet, in case you don’t already know. it’s what the world needs now. love, sweet love. it’s the only thing that there’s too little of. that shit that lights you up from the inside. that special person who wants to do you despite your gangly tooth and bunions. the giddiness of approaching a closed door that holds your boo on the other side. it’s so singular, and worth the messy breakups and tear-stained pillows that accompany it.
i’d like to say that i never knew love before now, but that’s unfair and inaccurate. truth is that i’ve had lengthy, healthy relationships with wonderful men who’ve made me a better girlfriend. through them, i learned the delicate art of compromise and communication and how to be more giving and less prideful. tough stuff for a chick like me.
and Mo’s also had some luck in that arena, particularly with the ultra-feminist ex-girlfriend who made him spend six months reading only books written by women. that did much to advance his knowledge of the female psyche, making him more attuned and understanding, a sensitive – but not pansy – man capable of embracing emotion. i’d like to send her a thank-you card.
exes always make us better for our next relationship. they teach us about ourselves and help us grow into our skin, providing a backdrop for behavioral trial and error, where we can work out our unconscious intimacy issues. those childhood slights that set us up for a lifetime of love drama. (as self-indulgent as psychoanalysis is, freud knew some stuff.)
i cringe when i think back to my first love and how clingy and unreasonable i was with him. but at that time, it seemed like the most natural way to be. just as it was most natural for him to be noncommittal at such a young age. and today, that amounts to nothing more than an anecdote highlighting youthful inexperience. first loves are overrated that way. they are quaint, but trivial – kind of like losing your virginity.
failure is meaningful. disappointment raises consciousness. and as much as i couldn’t see its value at the time, retrospect allows me to throw some gratitude toward it. what a joke love at 20 was. what a joke love at 30 will be when i reflect upon it at 40.
i probably don’t know as much about love as i think i do, but in my nearly 15 years of serial monogamy and occasional sluttiness, i have settled on a few maxims. (feel free to add your own in the comments.)
• timing really is everything: perhaps more apt: maturity is everything, though that’s a package deal with time. and failure. and disappointment. and eventual recovery.
• don’t push it: relationships take time to flower and their evolution should be organic. don’t badger anyone into marriage or force an emotion. rely on nature instead.
• every girl has daddy issues: mine aren’t too bad since my daddy hasn’t failed me much, but it’s no strange coincidence that i gravitate toward tall, commanding, dark-haired, handsome men with facial hair, when my pops is just that.
• never go for the cock block: a little jealousy is healthy, to be sure, but if someone wants to cheat, they will cheat and it’s better to just let them cheat and get that shit over with and exposed so you can move on from it.
• you know it when you see it: love doesn’t need to be ambiguous or complicated. it pretty much is or isn’t there, and you either feel it or you don’t. instincts help with this one.
• men are literal: unlike women, there is no need to read between the lines and no reason not to be direct. taking that a step further is my mama, who once told me: Men are simple creatures with a few basic drives – if he’s not horny, give him a sandwich.
• the self-evident: in a healthy relationship, it’s important to have trust, respect, integrity, honesty, open communication, a solid friendship, common interests, shared values, etc, etc. the shit you’ve heard elsewhere.
• touch each other: affection and good sex enable intimacy, and both should be kept in great supply. orgasms induce happiness and make people much more agreeable in love and in life. after all, the physical is what distinguishes a romantic relationship from a friendship. my happily married parents still greet each other with a kiss and hold hands in public. that affection kept them glued to one another for over 35 years, both literally and figuratively.
• throw out the moldy bread: i know i’ve been guilty of hanging onto a relationship far past its expiration date, mostly out of fear that nothing better will come along, despite all the viable men walking the earth beside me.
• do the work: once you’ve settled on a piece of bread, don’t allow it to get moldy. butter it, toast it, smear honey on it – do whatever it takes to keep it nourishing.
lately for me, love has been a paradise. and my boyfriend Mo has been my favorite person. he seems to have procured a rare copy of “my manual” with its “special handling instructions” that call for the perfect mix of intimacy and independence. he’s an impressive, commanding character, and i am thoroughly enchanted. it’s the love notes and beyond. he lights me up from the inside.
and i am so thankful for the past, with all its bad and good lessons learned, for giving me the tools and know-how for dealing with my terrific now.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Nickels & Dimes
if i had a nickel for every time someone told me to exercise caution in what i post here because it might catch up with me at my day job, i could cobble together about thirty cents. yeah, i think i’ve heard that advice about six times. i refuse to heed it and heel to it, however, cus i’m a wild and crazy nonconformist. with a day job. working in finance. corporate as it comes.
i know some work peeps have found this thing and commented to me about it. for all i know, more could be reading -- perhaps during work hours! -- and i could not care less. this is the internet. it’s the most public of spheres, and i’m well aware that anyone can see this. so don’t go telling me to be careful about sharing racy details about my life when i’ve never once mentioned the name of the company i work for nor have i discussed work matters here. keeping this thing going for three years has already required plenty of self-censorship and has turned me into a person with very little shame. and who the hell wants to read a sanitized version of history, with all its wars and famines and struggles omitted? yeah, yeah. i’m all about keeping it real. word to your mother.
march 14 makes one year that i’ve been with my current job and to commemorate the occasion, my boss kindly sat me down and gave me my annual review. seems just like yesterday i was asking the world to congratulate me on my hiring. i definitely made the right choice by taking this job. it’s done much in this past year to get me situated and stable. and, more importantly, it’s allowed me to splurge on new couches, cookware, an iBook, lots of clothes and other assorted goodies.
i love the expression, “work like you don’t need the money.” what bullshit! because if i didn’t need the money, i might stroll in at noon and put my feet up while i used my office line to make long distance phone calls. that’s “working” like you don’t need the money. i work like i need to pay my rent. i work because i prefer lobster to canned tuna. a girl’s gotta eat, and when she’s a single mother of a dog with bad hips, she works because she has to, not because she wants to. with that in mind, i don’t LOVE my job, but i do LIKE it, and that’s enough to keep me there indefinitely.
but back to the review... i was expecting the worst because i’ve spent years conditioning myself to be fatalistic. i walked in a bit nervous and jittery, eager to get to the “merit increase” portion of the program. my boss started by thanking me for the great contribution i’ve made to the company in the past year. i perked up and smiled. he then went on with more thanks and gratitude, talking about my great reputation as someone people like working with because i’m reliable and organized (what? me, organized?!), and that i’ve proved myself to be a quick learner and general badass adored by fans worldwide. then the lights dimmed and he broke into an oddly groovy rendition of m.c. hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” while i bopped my head approvingly to the beat. even his corporate slacks expanded into parachute pants for the moment.
ok, i’m embellishing that last part, but it had that same feel-good vibe going on. and the feeling good didn’t stop as he told me lots of nice things other people said about me before he announced the smile-inducing percentage that described my merit increase, which is reflected in my next paycheck. the only disappointing part in the litany of lovely adjectives he used to describe me as an employee -- dedicated, hard-working, dependable, diplomatic, good listener -- is that neither he nor anyone else thought i was “funny” or had a “great sense of humor.” i mean, what the fuck?
then we get to the tricky “areas for improvement” portion of the program and i thought to myself, “here it comes.” but that still turned out well, with general suggestions for learning the industry better and becoming a resource to others. and here i was expecting the “we’ve noticed that you don’t ask others about how their weekends went” and “you seem to arrive 10 minutes late every day but still leave at five on the dot.” but nope, only the good stuff.
by the end of it, i’m sure a blush had crossed my face. compliments embarrass me, despite how badly i want to hear them. he ended it by saying, “you fit in so well here. you’re really one of us.” come again? have i joined a corporate circus? how can i be one of them when i’m supposed to be a racy nonconformist? i have my nose pierced, for god’s sake. i was taken aback, but still managed to utter “thank you” through a gritted smile as i left his office.
then it hit me: i’ve morphed into a good employee, the corporate schlub i feared turning into. one step closer to becoming my parents. i have a retirement account with my name on it. i have weekly work meetings i must attend and “action items” i must complete. sometimes the monotony of my days underwhelms me to the point where i feel like stowing myself in the stern of a ship and sailing into a new existence. other times the predictability pleases me immensely.
i don’t mind the real world so much, but the responsibilities of adulthood can be suffocating. turning 30 in june only compounds the matter. oy, these growing pains. a vestige of my once carefree youth would be welcome right about now. on second thought, i think i’d rather have a new car.
i know some work peeps have found this thing and commented to me about it. for all i know, more could be reading -- perhaps during work hours! -- and i could not care less. this is the internet. it’s the most public of spheres, and i’m well aware that anyone can see this. so don’t go telling me to be careful about sharing racy details about my life when i’ve never once mentioned the name of the company i work for nor have i discussed work matters here. keeping this thing going for three years has already required plenty of self-censorship and has turned me into a person with very little shame. and who the hell wants to read a sanitized version of history, with all its wars and famines and struggles omitted? yeah, yeah. i’m all about keeping it real. word to your mother.
march 14 makes one year that i’ve been with my current job and to commemorate the occasion, my boss kindly sat me down and gave me my annual review. seems just like yesterday i was asking the world to congratulate me on my hiring. i definitely made the right choice by taking this job. it’s done much in this past year to get me situated and stable. and, more importantly, it’s allowed me to splurge on new couches, cookware, an iBook, lots of clothes and other assorted goodies.
i love the expression, “work like you don’t need the money.” what bullshit! because if i didn’t need the money, i might stroll in at noon and put my feet up while i used my office line to make long distance phone calls. that’s “working” like you don’t need the money. i work like i need to pay my rent. i work because i prefer lobster to canned tuna. a girl’s gotta eat, and when she’s a single mother of a dog with bad hips, she works because she has to, not because she wants to. with that in mind, i don’t LOVE my job, but i do LIKE it, and that’s enough to keep me there indefinitely.
but back to the review... i was expecting the worst because i’ve spent years conditioning myself to be fatalistic. i walked in a bit nervous and jittery, eager to get to the “merit increase” portion of the program. my boss started by thanking me for the great contribution i’ve made to the company in the past year. i perked up and smiled. he then went on with more thanks and gratitude, talking about my great reputation as someone people like working with because i’m reliable and organized (what? me, organized?!), and that i’ve proved myself to be a quick learner and general badass adored by fans worldwide. then the lights dimmed and he broke into an oddly groovy rendition of m.c. hammer’s “U Can’t Touch This” while i bopped my head approvingly to the beat. even his corporate slacks expanded into parachute pants for the moment.
ok, i’m embellishing that last part, but it had that same feel-good vibe going on. and the feeling good didn’t stop as he told me lots of nice things other people said about me before he announced the smile-inducing percentage that described my merit increase, which is reflected in my next paycheck. the only disappointing part in the litany of lovely adjectives he used to describe me as an employee -- dedicated, hard-working, dependable, diplomatic, good listener -- is that neither he nor anyone else thought i was “funny” or had a “great sense of humor.” i mean, what the fuck?
then we get to the tricky “areas for improvement” portion of the program and i thought to myself, “here it comes.” but that still turned out well, with general suggestions for learning the industry better and becoming a resource to others. and here i was expecting the “we’ve noticed that you don’t ask others about how their weekends went” and “you seem to arrive 10 minutes late every day but still leave at five on the dot.” but nope, only the good stuff.
by the end of it, i’m sure a blush had crossed my face. compliments embarrass me, despite how badly i want to hear them. he ended it by saying, “you fit in so well here. you’re really one of us.” come again? have i joined a corporate circus? how can i be one of them when i’m supposed to be a racy nonconformist? i have my nose pierced, for god’s sake. i was taken aback, but still managed to utter “thank you” through a gritted smile as i left his office.
then it hit me: i’ve morphed into a good employee, the corporate schlub i feared turning into. one step closer to becoming my parents. i have a retirement account with my name on it. i have weekly work meetings i must attend and “action items” i must complete. sometimes the monotony of my days underwhelms me to the point where i feel like stowing myself in the stern of a ship and sailing into a new existence. other times the predictability pleases me immensely.
i don’t mind the real world so much, but the responsibilities of adulthood can be suffocating. turning 30 in june only compounds the matter. oy, these growing pains. a vestige of my once carefree youth would be welcome right about now. on second thought, i think i’d rather have a new car.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
To Dust You Shall Return
so it's practically march and i'm wondering where the hell my 2006 has gone and is going. i've made good on a few of my resolutions to travel more, as evidenced by the SF getaway, but this year has been largely lackluster. i don't know what i expected, but it's been disappointing. March is basically a bullshit month where nothing significant happens (at least for me). all it's good for is housing the "first day of spring" on march 20, but spring weather doesn't really surface until mid-april. i do have my first annual review at work, however, in a few weeks so that could be interesting. "beware the ides of march," i think to myself. perhaps that's a popular time for assasinations.
i was thinking that the best way to dull march down even more for me was to go at completely sober. it might be time for a little cleanse to coincide with Lent. i must confess that i feel a bit guilty for not fasting on yom kippur with my jewish brethren for the past few years, so i figure the best way to atone for my religious missteps is to give up alcohol during the 40 loooong days of Lent.
after all, judaism and catholicism are practically the same religion if you take all the messiah stuff out of the equation. we both know guilt and guilt trips, courtesy of our overbearing mothers. there's also the boisterous family gatherings where food is often the focal point. plus, we both know what it's like to be persecuted by christians.
my catholic girlfriends are giving up meat for Lent, so i -- never one to be outdone -- will give up alcohol and all other consciousness-altering substances (except for coffee). i mean, why the hell not? life is good lately, so i have no reason to drink, except that i'm bored, which might mean more reason to drink.
but really, it might be nice to teetotal for a bit. after several years of indulgence, extended sobriety will feel like a brand new drug. it's only 40 days. and if i hate it, i can slip in a shot of vodka on st. patrick's day. and if i love the masochism, i can try fasting on yom kippur this year -- or at least not smoking crack on that day.
i was thinking that the best way to dull march down even more for me was to go at completely sober. it might be time for a little cleanse to coincide with Lent. i must confess that i feel a bit guilty for not fasting on yom kippur with my jewish brethren for the past few years, so i figure the best way to atone for my religious missteps is to give up alcohol during the 40 loooong days of Lent.
after all, judaism and catholicism are practically the same religion if you take all the messiah stuff out of the equation. we both know guilt and guilt trips, courtesy of our overbearing mothers. there's also the boisterous family gatherings where food is often the focal point. plus, we both know what it's like to be persecuted by christians.
my catholic girlfriends are giving up meat for Lent, so i -- never one to be outdone -- will give up alcohol and all other consciousness-altering substances (except for coffee). i mean, why the hell not? life is good lately, so i have no reason to drink, except that i'm bored, which might mean more reason to drink.
but really, it might be nice to teetotal for a bit. after several years of indulgence, extended sobriety will feel like a brand new drug. it's only 40 days. and if i hate it, i can slip in a shot of vodka on st. patrick's day. and if i love the masochism, i can try fasting on yom kippur this year -- or at least not smoking crack on that day.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
SF Getaway
i spent a delightful presidents' day weekend with some good friends in my favorite city by the bay. in short, it was pretty rad and the post-vacay euphoria still hasn't evaporated entirely. i hope to hang onto it until my next trip up there, tentatively scheduled for june. here are some visual souvenirs of my journey -- with some photos being from my last last SF trip, which i took in october 2005 (don't know why i never posted those shots before), so it's a mix of people and events, but it's all san francisco splendor to me.
share-bear: Sharon and I disliked each other the first time we met (about 8 years ago) when we worked together in college. thankfully, we got over ourselves rather quickly and allowed the true love discovery to take place. we've been ridiculously close ever since, separated only by the 400 miles between SF and LA. i'm hoping she'll move back down to LA eventually (or do a better job of convincing me to move up).
i hagged the guy on the left: (from my october trip) Greg, left, pictured with his boyfriend Glen and me. in my fag-hagging heyday, Greg was my gay boyfriend. not to be confused with my actual boyfriend at that time, who was also gay. but that's a story for another time. Greg and Glen kindly met me for brunch one morning.
we ate here: the wonderful Chloe's Cafe in Noe Valley.
more food: for me, one of the most exciting things about visiting SF is the overeating. i generally try a new place or two when dining with my local peeps, but also make it a point to visit some of my old eats as well. Sanraku in downtown SF pretty much has the best sushi on Earth.
gay bay: i'm not so much a fag hag anymore -- i retired several years ago when i realized that straight people are cool, too -- but i still love my homos and any display of homo solidarity, of which SF has much.
divination: the Celtic Cross tarot spread i made for Beanie. luckily for her, the future was bright and the time was right. and yes, i would tell her if it had been bad news.
siamese triplets: this journey saw me traveling with my main bitches Raidis and Ann, whom i've known since junior high school. these are the ladies i have my weekly 'sex and the city' dinners with, where nothing between us goes undiscussed. so beware, if you are/have been/or will be one of our men.
tat for tat: part of this most recent pilgrimage involved getting the ladies their long-desired tattoos. Raidis got a cherub on her ankle and Ann got a flower near her tailbone at the world famous Sacred Rose Tattoo Parlor. i got... nothing. maybe one day, but for now the only ink i can commit to is in my pen.
House of Nanking: where we ate chinese food.
cool storefront: with the city reflected in the background.
note the red eyes: this was from my october trip, which occurred dangerously close to Halloween -- hence, the red eyes on Dan, who dressed up as a devilish priest for a costume party i met him at. Dan was my roommate the last six months i lived in SF. not only was he fairly clean to live with and always interesting to talk to, he was a fantastic chef who brought home leftovers from his restaurant. i must have been the only poor kid on my block eating duck for dinner (or breakfast, as the case often was).
mispucha: that's the hebrew word for “family.”
speaking of family: i need to shout out to my homeboy NegEx whose wife just gave birth to their first child, a healthy baby boy named Judah. Neggy (aka Jeremy) is a great writer, a longtime SF resident, and he gave me my first job out of college. and i'm sure he'll now be an awesome dad. congratos, germ! don't fuck this up.
share-bear: Sharon and I disliked each other the first time we met (about 8 years ago) when we worked together in college. thankfully, we got over ourselves rather quickly and allowed the true love discovery to take place. we've been ridiculously close ever since, separated only by the 400 miles between SF and LA. i'm hoping she'll move back down to LA eventually (or do a better job of convincing me to move up).
i hagged the guy on the left: (from my october trip) Greg, left, pictured with his boyfriend Glen and me. in my fag-hagging heyday, Greg was my gay boyfriend. not to be confused with my actual boyfriend at that time, who was also gay. but that's a story for another time. Greg and Glen kindly met me for brunch one morning.
we ate here: the wonderful Chloe's Cafe in Noe Valley.
more food: for me, one of the most exciting things about visiting SF is the overeating. i generally try a new place or two when dining with my local peeps, but also make it a point to visit some of my old eats as well. Sanraku in downtown SF pretty much has the best sushi on Earth.
gay bay: i'm not so much a fag hag anymore -- i retired several years ago when i realized that straight people are cool, too -- but i still love my homos and any display of homo solidarity, of which SF has much.
divination: the Celtic Cross tarot spread i made for Beanie. luckily for her, the future was bright and the time was right. and yes, i would tell her if it had been bad news.
siamese triplets: this journey saw me traveling with my main bitches Raidis and Ann, whom i've known since junior high school. these are the ladies i have my weekly 'sex and the city' dinners with, where nothing between us goes undiscussed. so beware, if you are/have been/or will be one of our men.
tat for tat: part of this most recent pilgrimage involved getting the ladies their long-desired tattoos. Raidis got a cherub on her ankle and Ann got a flower near her tailbone at the world famous Sacred Rose Tattoo Parlor. i got... nothing. maybe one day, but for now the only ink i can commit to is in my pen.
House of Nanking: where we ate chinese food.
cool storefront: with the city reflected in the background.
note the red eyes: this was from my october trip, which occurred dangerously close to Halloween -- hence, the red eyes on Dan, who dressed up as a devilish priest for a costume party i met him at. Dan was my roommate the last six months i lived in SF. not only was he fairly clean to live with and always interesting to talk to, he was a fantastic chef who brought home leftovers from his restaurant. i must have been the only poor kid on my block eating duck for dinner (or breakfast, as the case often was).
mispucha: that's the hebrew word for “family.”
speaking of family: i need to shout out to my homeboy NegEx whose wife just gave birth to their first child, a healthy baby boy named Judah. Neggy (aka Jeremy) is a great writer, a longtime SF resident, and he gave me my first job out of college. and i'm sure he'll now be an awesome dad. congratos, germ! don't fuck this up.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
VD
valentine's day sucks, man. it's so commercial and contrived, full of fakery that never seems to extend to all the other days of the year. and those little, heart-shaped candies are nauseating and taste like sugary wax. flowers die and chocolates make you fat. pink is the ugliest color. it's the worst day of the year.
at least those were my sentiments when i wrote the following piece two years ago. i was enrolled in a column writing class, which i re-imagined as a seminar for writing personal essays since, you know, that's what i do here. (it's always been all about the blog.) but at that time, it was also all about wretched heartache. i had split from my boyfriend of four years rather unexpectedly, just weeks before the dreaded VD.
that produced much ado, most of which is housed in the archives: internet dating, harems, run-ins with the ex, graduation followed by poverty and eventual employment, and now a new boyfriend i'm really digging. the best of times, the worst of times. here is a sampling from the worst:
Broken Hearts Club
Valentine’s Day. I find myself suddenly single again after four years off the market. It doesn’t bother me much that I’m alone on Valentine’s Day, but it seems to bother other people, who insist I join them for the evening. I tell them I’m too busy unpacking boxes, having just moved into a new place following the sudden split, but Zahra is damn persistent.
“Girl, I got us on the list for the Match.com party in Hollywood,” she says in her Jamaican accent.
“Ah, the coveted Los Angeles list,” I remark.
“Yeah, as in we don’t have to pay $25 at the door.”
It’s Saturday. I’ve been single exactly three weeks, and she’s insisting I dive headfirst into what’s sure to be the largest and saddest meat marketing event of the year.
“Match.com, that online dating service, is throwing a party in Hollywood on Valentine’s Day? It’ll be full of losers—”
“— And us,” she quips.
So we go. It’s my first foray into L.A.’s treacherous bar scene as a solo artist, and I commemorate the event by wearing high heels, a dangerously low-cut top and a push-up bra that thrusts those puppies right below my chin. I feel like a clown, but Zahra says I look good, so it’s OK.
We enter the place, and as expected, find a sausage party in full swing. Sadness Central, we have arrived. Men idly stand around surveying the room while groups of girls huddle together, whispering and pointing.
I suddenly flash back to a junior high-school dance and look down at my feet, just as I did then, but that’s where the similarities end. Today, my feet are covered in sequined high heels, and I’m far less shy, less naïve, less optimistic than before, yet just as uncomfortable as ever.
I begin to survey the scene as well and am stunned by the sea of losers L.A. has to offer me on this lovesick night. On display are ugly guys in suits and red ties, awkward men with no fashion sense or sense of self, and the occasional decent guy who seems to disappear into the crowd as quickly as he appeared, making me wonder if he were just a mirage.
The room stinks to high hell of desperation and disappointment — a veritable lonely hearts club, of which I am now, too, a member. And I wonder if they can smell it on me as well, if I wear my sorrow like a cheap perfume that permeates the room, repelling people and making their noses wrinkle up in disgust.
Meanwhile, Zahra is getting all kinds of attention from all sorts of strangers, some of them decent. Zahra, Miss Jamaica 2001, contender for the Miss Universe crown, sporting her taut pageant body and flawless pageant face, while I stand unnoticed, Miss Siberia 1979, Soviet export unextraordinnaire, wrapped in heartache and baby fat. Note to self: Never go to a singles mixer with a former beauty queen again!
And I begin to wonder why the hell I came, why I wore this top, as goons stare at my chest, why I don’t leave right now.
I know why. It’s for that small hope buried deep within me that I’d catch the eye of a handsome stranger — hopefully one who looked like him — who would offer up a shy smile, a flash of desire registering on his face to make me feel wanted again, make me feel like a woman again after he made me feel so unwanted with his cheating. That’s all I’d need to go home satisfied.
But it won’t happen, not tonight anyway.
“I’m out of here,” I say to Zahra, who grabs my arm when I try to walk away, her eyes imploring me to save her from the goons currently asking her to dinner.
“Let’s at least go to another bar,” I offer.
So we go, and there we stay finishing off our evening and several glasses of wine while exploring the farthest reaches of girl talk before we call it a night and get into our respective cars.
As I rev up the engine for my short drive home, I feel the ghost of Valentines’ past grip me, and I flash to that first Valentine’s Day he and I spent together, just weeks after we met, sitting in my bedroom in San Francisco, eating $5 burritos from the joint down the street, giggling without shame as we fumbled over each other and our new love.
And then the following year, after he moved me into his life and home in Los Angeles, when I came from work to find a surprise candlelight dinner awaiting me. I never knew he could cook, but there on the table were two plates of lemon chicken with new potatoes and the most delicious baby carrots. The trick, he said, was adding a handful of sugar while they boiled. They were so sweet.
And I begin to wonder what he’s up to tonight, whether he has already found someone to pass the time with. Would it be wrong of me to call? Could he be with her, whom he ruined us for, though he says she was nothing? Better she were something, so I could be discarded for something more meaningful than one night with a total stranger. I probably shouldn’t care but I don’t know how to stop.
I think all this and my heart gets heavy again, as it does every time I arrive home and step into my empty apartment.
at least those were my sentiments when i wrote the following piece two years ago. i was enrolled in a column writing class, which i re-imagined as a seminar for writing personal essays since, you know, that's what i do here. (it's always been all about the blog.) but at that time, it was also all about wretched heartache. i had split from my boyfriend of four years rather unexpectedly, just weeks before the dreaded VD.
that produced much ado, most of which is housed in the archives: internet dating, harems, run-ins with the ex, graduation followed by poverty and eventual employment, and now a new boyfriend i'm really digging. the best of times, the worst of times. here is a sampling from the worst:
Broken Hearts Club
Valentine’s Day. I find myself suddenly single again after four years off the market. It doesn’t bother me much that I’m alone on Valentine’s Day, but it seems to bother other people, who insist I join them for the evening. I tell them I’m too busy unpacking boxes, having just moved into a new place following the sudden split, but Zahra is damn persistent.
“Girl, I got us on the list for the Match.com party in Hollywood,” she says in her Jamaican accent.
“Ah, the coveted Los Angeles list,” I remark.
“Yeah, as in we don’t have to pay $25 at the door.”
It’s Saturday. I’ve been single exactly three weeks, and she’s insisting I dive headfirst into what’s sure to be the largest and saddest meat marketing event of the year.
“Match.com, that online dating service, is throwing a party in Hollywood on Valentine’s Day? It’ll be full of losers—”
“— And us,” she quips.
So we go. It’s my first foray into L.A.’s treacherous bar scene as a solo artist, and I commemorate the event by wearing high heels, a dangerously low-cut top and a push-up bra that thrusts those puppies right below my chin. I feel like a clown, but Zahra says I look good, so it’s OK.
We enter the place, and as expected, find a sausage party in full swing. Sadness Central, we have arrived. Men idly stand around surveying the room while groups of girls huddle together, whispering and pointing.
I suddenly flash back to a junior high-school dance and look down at my feet, just as I did then, but that’s where the similarities end. Today, my feet are covered in sequined high heels, and I’m far less shy, less naïve, less optimistic than before, yet just as uncomfortable as ever.
I begin to survey the scene as well and am stunned by the sea of losers L.A. has to offer me on this lovesick night. On display are ugly guys in suits and red ties, awkward men with no fashion sense or sense of self, and the occasional decent guy who seems to disappear into the crowd as quickly as he appeared, making me wonder if he were just a mirage.
The room stinks to high hell of desperation and disappointment — a veritable lonely hearts club, of which I am now, too, a member. And I wonder if they can smell it on me as well, if I wear my sorrow like a cheap perfume that permeates the room, repelling people and making their noses wrinkle up in disgust.
Meanwhile, Zahra is getting all kinds of attention from all sorts of strangers, some of them decent. Zahra, Miss Jamaica 2001, contender for the Miss Universe crown, sporting her taut pageant body and flawless pageant face, while I stand unnoticed, Miss Siberia 1979, Soviet export unextraordinnaire, wrapped in heartache and baby fat. Note to self: Never go to a singles mixer with a former beauty queen again!
And I begin to wonder why the hell I came, why I wore this top, as goons stare at my chest, why I don’t leave right now.
I know why. It’s for that small hope buried deep within me that I’d catch the eye of a handsome stranger — hopefully one who looked like him — who would offer up a shy smile, a flash of desire registering on his face to make me feel wanted again, make me feel like a woman again after he made me feel so unwanted with his cheating. That’s all I’d need to go home satisfied.
But it won’t happen, not tonight anyway.
“I’m out of here,” I say to Zahra, who grabs my arm when I try to walk away, her eyes imploring me to save her from the goons currently asking her to dinner.
“Let’s at least go to another bar,” I offer.
So we go, and there we stay finishing off our evening and several glasses of wine while exploring the farthest reaches of girl talk before we call it a night and get into our respective cars.
As I rev up the engine for my short drive home, I feel the ghost of Valentines’ past grip me, and I flash to that first Valentine’s Day he and I spent together, just weeks after we met, sitting in my bedroom in San Francisco, eating $5 burritos from the joint down the street, giggling without shame as we fumbled over each other and our new love.
And then the following year, after he moved me into his life and home in Los Angeles, when I came from work to find a surprise candlelight dinner awaiting me. I never knew he could cook, but there on the table were two plates of lemon chicken with new potatoes and the most delicious baby carrots. The trick, he said, was adding a handful of sugar while they boiled. They were so sweet.
And I begin to wonder what he’s up to tonight, whether he has already found someone to pass the time with. Would it be wrong of me to call? Could he be with her, whom he ruined us for, though he says she was nothing? Better she were something, so I could be discarded for something more meaningful than one night with a total stranger. I probably shouldn’t care but I don’t know how to stop.
I think all this and my heart gets heavy again, as it does every time I arrive home and step into my empty apartment.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Sorta Happenings
not all that much to put up here. not all that much going on lately. just putzing around with my usual stockpile of stimuli: the job, the pad, the dog, the Mo, the friends. no notable headlines with any.
in general, my january was a wash and i figured that my 2006 would officially begin in february. now two weeks in, my 2006 will likely begin in march. hell, i'll just wait until i get my tax return before officially kicking off my new year. i'm not sure what i intended to have accomplished by this point, but i'm sure i haven't done it.
the mundanity of work seems to have taken over and i now find myself busy during the workday, and again during the weeknight when i do my freelance editing. strangely, this hasn't improved my financial situation, which is all out of sorts. can't get on top of my bills, and can barely pull myself out of bed in the mornings. yep, feels like a typical february -- with the jolliness of the holiday season finally worn off, leaving a lackluster year ahead and a huge credit card bill borne of too many gift purchases.
best news is that the jasmine bush outside my front door has started to bloom, providing a pleasant little day-brightener. sad news of the week is that my boyfriend Mo is out of town until the weekend, brightside being that i can visit my other boyfriend Gym. other idle time has been spent watching the first season of "Sex and the City," which just sucks when compared with all the seasons that followed it. (the girls look so middle class!)
otherwise, my social calendar has been a bit slim. i'm still partaking in my weekly dinner with girlfriends Ann and Raidis (our own little "Sex and the City"); i also attended a polite dinner party hosted by Juan and Wendy. no shows lately, though the sight of juice terrorizing my neighbor's cat repeatedly has assumed a theatrical quality. i just can't seem to keep those lovebirds apart. i'm thinking of microwaving some popcorn and just sitting on my porch, breathing the jasmine air and watching them do their flirtatious tango. interspecies animal love is divine, and in lieu of other attractions, it will have to do.
(yeah, i know this entry sucks.)
in general, my january was a wash and i figured that my 2006 would officially begin in february. now two weeks in, my 2006 will likely begin in march. hell, i'll just wait until i get my tax return before officially kicking off my new year. i'm not sure what i intended to have accomplished by this point, but i'm sure i haven't done it.
the mundanity of work seems to have taken over and i now find myself busy during the workday, and again during the weeknight when i do my freelance editing. strangely, this hasn't improved my financial situation, which is all out of sorts. can't get on top of my bills, and can barely pull myself out of bed in the mornings. yep, feels like a typical february -- with the jolliness of the holiday season finally worn off, leaving a lackluster year ahead and a huge credit card bill borne of too many gift purchases.
best news is that the jasmine bush outside my front door has started to bloom, providing a pleasant little day-brightener. sad news of the week is that my boyfriend Mo is out of town until the weekend, brightside being that i can visit my other boyfriend Gym. other idle time has been spent watching the first season of "Sex and the City," which just sucks when compared with all the seasons that followed it. (the girls look so middle class!)
otherwise, my social calendar has been a bit slim. i'm still partaking in my weekly dinner with girlfriends Ann and Raidis (our own little "Sex and the City"); i also attended a polite dinner party hosted by Juan and Wendy. no shows lately, though the sight of juice terrorizing my neighbor's cat repeatedly has assumed a theatrical quality. i just can't seem to keep those lovebirds apart. i'm thinking of microwaving some popcorn and just sitting on my porch, breathing the jasmine air and watching them do their flirtatious tango. interspecies animal love is divine, and in lieu of other attractions, it will have to do.
(yeah, i know this entry sucks.)
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Bipolar
been a weird week, one that's had me alternating between these moments of self-satisfaction and irritability. no real reason behind it. none that i can pinpoint, at least. i had this great day midweek when i got home and engaged in some light housework. then i just stood for a minute and looked around. my dishes were done, floors were clean, trash taken out, healthy dog lounging on her bed while gnawing on a biscuit.
it was a calm, quiet moment in the twilight. and i felt pretty damn happy with myself. i made it, damnit. i was an adult, living on her own, taking care of bidness -- very Mary Tyler Moore. i relished in the thought that i had finally taken ownership of my own life. not that it had belonged to others before. i just don't think i had the wherewithal and maturity to realize that it's always belonged to me. that it was mine for the taking and making. one of my more personal resolutions this year is to speak the fuck up. surely, i'm no wilting violet, but even i act demure at times when i shouldn't. now i see that if i'm unhappy about something, it's my own damn fault.
that was followed by the worst day at work. i felt cranky and irritable and had to resist the urge to tell people exactly what i thought of them. i wanted to trip the office micromanager and reply to the needless "how are you doing?" pleasantry with "shitty. not that you really care." the worst thing about mondays is not only that it signifies the start of a workweek, but that you have to deal with the endless barrage of "how was your weekend?" from scores of coworkers you'd never tell the absolute truth to. it's a wasteful exchange. all small talk is, and i've never been good at faking enthusiasm.
in any case, a bad day followed a good day followed another bad day and good day and onward. i had a great saturday with my mother -- a half-hour massage, then lunch, then mall shopping. then i woke up on sunday with a sore throat and stuffy nose. on one weekday morning, i conducted a little experiment, where i cracked open my front door and trusted juice to walk out and take care of her business unsupervised while i scrambled to get ready for work indoors. she did just that and returned home a few minutes later, just as a cat would. i was proud of her -- and of myself for finding a way to streamline my morning ritual.
the next day i tried it again. but this time, the bitch saw my neighbor's cat and bolted after it like a torpedo. so i bolted after them -- very unlike a torpedo -- and made it to the sidewalk where cat and dog were nowhere to be found. my heart dropped with fear. i didn't know which direction to turn. i knew juice wouldn't run away. she's just not that adventurous. i knew she wouldn't hurt the cat either. she's just not that vicious. she'd only want to sniff its butt. but i did fear the cat would hurt her in a desperate moment and that my dog would return to me with a missing eye.
then, i heard the clang of a collar to my right. a moment later, juice trotted out of a driveway, her eyes intact but wide with apology. the cat must have gotten away. i was livid, but relieved. i dragged her indoors and dropped some mighty discipline. then i felt guilty all day. it was my own damn fault and i knew it. my inclination toward morning laziness was no match for my dog's instincts, nor was it an excuse to jeopardize her safety. so much for having it together and being an adult. i was still a child looking for shortcuts.
and again, i remind myself: this is the year i will turn 30.
it was a calm, quiet moment in the twilight. and i felt pretty damn happy with myself. i made it, damnit. i was an adult, living on her own, taking care of bidness -- very Mary Tyler Moore. i relished in the thought that i had finally taken ownership of my own life. not that it had belonged to others before. i just don't think i had the wherewithal and maturity to realize that it's always belonged to me. that it was mine for the taking and making. one of my more personal resolutions this year is to speak the fuck up. surely, i'm no wilting violet, but even i act demure at times when i shouldn't. now i see that if i'm unhappy about something, it's my own damn fault.
that was followed by the worst day at work. i felt cranky and irritable and had to resist the urge to tell people exactly what i thought of them. i wanted to trip the office micromanager and reply to the needless "how are you doing?" pleasantry with "shitty. not that you really care." the worst thing about mondays is not only that it signifies the start of a workweek, but that you have to deal with the endless barrage of "how was your weekend?" from scores of coworkers you'd never tell the absolute truth to. it's a wasteful exchange. all small talk is, and i've never been good at faking enthusiasm.
in any case, a bad day followed a good day followed another bad day and good day and onward. i had a great saturday with my mother -- a half-hour massage, then lunch, then mall shopping. then i woke up on sunday with a sore throat and stuffy nose. on one weekday morning, i conducted a little experiment, where i cracked open my front door and trusted juice to walk out and take care of her business unsupervised while i scrambled to get ready for work indoors. she did just that and returned home a few minutes later, just as a cat would. i was proud of her -- and of myself for finding a way to streamline my morning ritual.
the next day i tried it again. but this time, the bitch saw my neighbor's cat and bolted after it like a torpedo. so i bolted after them -- very unlike a torpedo -- and made it to the sidewalk where cat and dog were nowhere to be found. my heart dropped with fear. i didn't know which direction to turn. i knew juice wouldn't run away. she's just not that adventurous. i knew she wouldn't hurt the cat either. she's just not that vicious. she'd only want to sniff its butt. but i did fear the cat would hurt her in a desperate moment and that my dog would return to me with a missing eye.
then, i heard the clang of a collar to my right. a moment later, juice trotted out of a driveway, her eyes intact but wide with apology. the cat must have gotten away. i was livid, but relieved. i dragged her indoors and dropped some mighty discipline. then i felt guilty all day. it was my own damn fault and i knew it. my inclination toward morning laziness was no match for my dog's instincts, nor was it an excuse to jeopardize her safety. so much for having it together and being an adult. i was still a child looking for shortcuts.
and again, i remind myself: this is the year i will turn 30.
Monday, January 23, 2006
The Mo
for starters, his real name is Marlin, not Momo, which is just my nickname for him. he's a guy i went to high school with, whom i seriously disliked in high school, regarding him as a "brooding asshole" while he sat across campus regarding me as a "goth bitch." my girlfriends tell me the mere mention of his name would cause my eyes to roll. but we had too many friends in common to avoid each other, both in high school and after, so at weddings, parties and dinners, our paths would intersect.
i'd think nothing of it, still acting like my standoffish self until that one party early last year when i found myself uncontrollably drawn to him. it spooked me, but i brushed it off because i'm cool like dat. i did tell my girlfriends about it at that time and they reminded me of my distaste for him, saying i could never date him because it would be like "recycling" men, something i advocated against. i agreed and we laughed it off, but something about it still unsettled me.
six weeks later came a dinner i knew he'd be at. and when our group was seated at the fancy restaurant, Marlin and I found ourselves sitting directly across from each other. i couldn't even look at him for the first 10 minutes, talking to everyone else around me while secretly wondering why i spent so much damn time primping for this dinner and if i had settled on the right outfit -- after changing it half a dozen times. i was nervous as all fuck.
finally, i turned to face him. he looked damn good. we began speaking. it was electric. but then our conversation took a nasty turn and became an argument. our friends eyeballed each other. i rolled my eyes. it was the same brooding asshole from high school and i must be the same goth bitch. minutes later, we stepped outside for a smoke, where we made peace and continued talking. the electric din buzzed all around us. i wished he would kiss me. but he was talking about architecture while sucking down his cigarette. our friends joined us outside. dinner was over.
another six weeks pass. i thought about him, but the absurdity of the situation prevented me from taking action. i resolved to regard the whole thing as a fluke and to carry on as a polyamorous single chick. then i got the email from Marlin who confessed to masquerading as commentator "Chris Knight" on my blog for the past year. suddenly it all made sense.
days later, we met for dinner, igniting the fiery relationship with its subsequent breakup and eventual reconcile. six months later, it's still fiery. in fact, everything about our interaction -- the bliss, the sex, the arguments -- is imbued with an intensity i have not known before. together, we are a house on fire and i am in love. fuck yeah!
but what is love truly? i took a psych(o) class in college, which defined love as something rather selfish, its focus being on the way you feel about yourself when you're with your beloved. and with Mo, i feel pretty extraordinary -- not good or great or adequate, but extraordinary. i still get butterflies when i see his name pop up on my phone. i can't stand next to him without slipping my hand into his. he makes food taste better and the sun shine brighter.
plus, i can't get enough of his conversation. we've seen very few movies together and we rarely watch television. we just don't need to. our most natural state is sitting engrossed in conversation for hours on end, talking about smart shit and stupid shit alike, our mitts entwined, dumb smiles across our faces. (our second most natural state is sleeping soundly while folded up in the most impossible Twister-esque embraces.)
who knew i'd be so much like the brooding asshole from my high school? the one whose tortured artist mystique used to annoy me, but that i now find irresistible. how is it that we share so many sensibilities? how did we both become so opinionated and affectionate and self-righteous and cynical? Mo keeps me on my toes, calling me on my shit, making me laugh until i'm in tears and pissing me off like no one else can. he never ever bores me -- and most men do.
so the Mo is the man. my man. my match. and i'm thrilled.
(check out his blog, on which i am often mentioned as "Pearl Girl.")
i'd think nothing of it, still acting like my standoffish self until that one party early last year when i found myself uncontrollably drawn to him. it spooked me, but i brushed it off because i'm cool like dat. i did tell my girlfriends about it at that time and they reminded me of my distaste for him, saying i could never date him because it would be like "recycling" men, something i advocated against. i agreed and we laughed it off, but something about it still unsettled me.
six weeks later came a dinner i knew he'd be at. and when our group was seated at the fancy restaurant, Marlin and I found ourselves sitting directly across from each other. i couldn't even look at him for the first 10 minutes, talking to everyone else around me while secretly wondering why i spent so much damn time primping for this dinner and if i had settled on the right outfit -- after changing it half a dozen times. i was nervous as all fuck.
finally, i turned to face him. he looked damn good. we began speaking. it was electric. but then our conversation took a nasty turn and became an argument. our friends eyeballed each other. i rolled my eyes. it was the same brooding asshole from high school and i must be the same goth bitch. minutes later, we stepped outside for a smoke, where we made peace and continued talking. the electric din buzzed all around us. i wished he would kiss me. but he was talking about architecture while sucking down his cigarette. our friends joined us outside. dinner was over.
another six weeks pass. i thought about him, but the absurdity of the situation prevented me from taking action. i resolved to regard the whole thing as a fluke and to carry on as a polyamorous single chick. then i got the email from Marlin who confessed to masquerading as commentator "Chris Knight" on my blog for the past year. suddenly it all made sense.
days later, we met for dinner, igniting the fiery relationship with its subsequent breakup and eventual reconcile. six months later, it's still fiery. in fact, everything about our interaction -- the bliss, the sex, the arguments -- is imbued with an intensity i have not known before. together, we are a house on fire and i am in love. fuck yeah!
but what is love truly? i took a psych(o) class in college, which defined love as something rather selfish, its focus being on the way you feel about yourself when you're with your beloved. and with Mo, i feel pretty extraordinary -- not good or great or adequate, but extraordinary. i still get butterflies when i see his name pop up on my phone. i can't stand next to him without slipping my hand into his. he makes food taste better and the sun shine brighter.
plus, i can't get enough of his conversation. we've seen very few movies together and we rarely watch television. we just don't need to. our most natural state is sitting engrossed in conversation for hours on end, talking about smart shit and stupid shit alike, our mitts entwined, dumb smiles across our faces. (our second most natural state is sleeping soundly while folded up in the most impossible Twister-esque embraces.)
who knew i'd be so much like the brooding asshole from my high school? the one whose tortured artist mystique used to annoy me, but that i now find irresistible. how is it that we share so many sensibilities? how did we both become so opinionated and affectionate and self-righteous and cynical? Mo keeps me on my toes, calling me on my shit, making me laugh until i'm in tears and pissing me off like no one else can. he never ever bores me -- and most men do.
so the Mo is the man. my man. my match. and i'm thrilled.
(check out his blog, on which i am often mentioned as "Pearl Girl.")
Saturday, January 14, 2006
So Far
my "To Do in 2006" list keeps growing. i wonder if constantly adding to the list will only set me up for failure. it now includes crazy things like "fix my FICO" and "buy car." hopefully, completing the former will help my ability to complete the latter. and if both are completed successfully this year, perhaps my "To Do in 2007" list will include "buy property."
i hope it does. i'm so ready to become an adult. the thirties truly are the new twenties for my generation. my twenties felt like an extended adolescence -- with only slightly more cash and slightly better judgment than i possessed in my teens. with thirty at my doorstep, however, i'm ready to begin procuring adult stuffs. i even opened a friggin retirement account.
but one thing at a time. my initial baby steps of 2006 did indeed lead me to the gym where every single sweat-inducing machine was occupied. guess i wasn't the only one who resolved to exercise more in the new year. haven't sat down to write yet, but that's on the agenda for this three-day weekend. i've reserved a spot in a culinary skills course, so i'm making good on my promise to learn more. and a stay in SF is (tentatively) planned for presidents day weekend, which means more travel in 2006.
these last few weeks have also seen me at a few live shows, including Sia with Zee, Nick and Chad; and the Dresden Dolls with Mo and Deo. i've been to the dog park with Juice, and even survived a crappy little flu which gripped me the first few days of january. work is busy again and, in general, the year has moved along swimmingly.
and i guess that's about it for now.
i hope it does. i'm so ready to become an adult. the thirties truly are the new twenties for my generation. my twenties felt like an extended adolescence -- with only slightly more cash and slightly better judgment than i possessed in my teens. with thirty at my doorstep, however, i'm ready to begin procuring adult stuffs. i even opened a friggin retirement account.
but one thing at a time. my initial baby steps of 2006 did indeed lead me to the gym where every single sweat-inducing machine was occupied. guess i wasn't the only one who resolved to exercise more in the new year. haven't sat down to write yet, but that's on the agenda for this three-day weekend. i've reserved a spot in a culinary skills course, so i'm making good on my promise to learn more. and a stay in SF is (tentatively) planned for presidents day weekend, which means more travel in 2006.
these last few weeks have also seen me at a few live shows, including Sia with Zee, Nick and Chad; and the Dresden Dolls with Mo and Deo. i've been to the dog park with Juice, and even survived a crappy little flu which gripped me the first few days of january. work is busy again and, in general, the year has moved along swimmingly.
and i guess that's about it for now.
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