Insomnia Part II

The worst thing about not being able to sleep at night (and subsequently not sleeping) is that in general, on a normal evening, I like to enjoy a glass of wine before bed, usually sipping it while getting my nightly fix of Sex and the City - the TV show.

Which makes it suck when you're going to bed at 7 in the morning. Or at least trying to. Even if there were a wine store open at this hour, that would be TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR.

The Bachelor - Sorry, Skip It if You Can't Stand It

Well I didn't start this right when the show started, so here goes... by the way I am not a Travis fan; I just think he's a little boring and shallow.

My initial observations mostly focused on the realization that not only do Travis’ MOM and SISTER have the same horrendous blonde hair dye job, which was evidently done immediately before they hopped the jet to Paris (note to self: if ever in Nashville, avoid that salon at all costs), BUT, oh my God, the DAD does, too. Um, that was a scary point when the parents were sitting together with their matching shades of blonde.

And that if the 5-year old children DIDN'T like Sarah, then she must be really sucky at her job. I mean, she's a kindergarten teacher.

Now we’re on Moana meeting the parents. I think Travis wants to find depth and that’s why he likes Moana. Otherwise his boring shallow ass is going to be stuck in Nashville with boring Sarah his whole life.

Moving along to the present. Moana at dinner. She’s sort of acting like a bitch - I mean, I don’t want her to be the kiss-ass that Sarah is, but - say something, lady!!! Lovely editorial dramatization of the silent pauses. Someone should force them all to drink that wine instead of just staring at it.

The more time I have to look at Sarah on the screen, the more I just want to put tape around her mouth and tell her to be quiet. As for the tennis game, what do you think her thought process was leading up to it: hmm, what would a 'doctor’s wife’ be expected to do – oh, I know, play tennis! Let’s play tennis for our date! I bet she thought about that long and hard while writing in her journal.

Moana still needs to talk more but I think she gets the connection thing… that's the thing to get, lady.

Ew. I can't watch the end. Yes, a couple of little tears fell down my cheeks while Moana was speaking in the limo. She's real.

Sarah - DRESSES IN ALL SEQUINS HAVE NOT BEEN APPROPRIATE TO WEAR SINCE 1988.

The End. Yes, they are perfect for one another - perfectly boring.

Insomnia

I haven't had caffeine since 3:00 this afternoon and I still can't sleep. I have tried everything, I think, and have even tackled some of those not-so-fun aspects of what I have to do for school (read: the boring stuff) in the hopes that something in my brain will shift and that I'll realize that sleep is actually preferable to, well, outlining a math chapter about number theory. But every time I put my head on the pillow it starts spinning again with worries that I shouldn't be thinking about and problems that I can't solve anyway (not math problems) and certainly not at 5:00 in the morning.

What is wrong with me?

And the question becomes when the clock strikes 5:00 am do I just pull through the next day with the knowledge that I'll certainly sleep well tomorrow night (tonight)? I have nothing that requires one hundred percent functioning tomorrow (I don't think the finale of The Bachelor: Paris counts).

I wish I could just write down a list of all of my worries and they would magically disappear. But life gets so complicated that they're not even concrete anymore. I'm worried that I was so tipsy I left the bar party last night without saying goodnight to anyone and that I upset my best friend. I'm worried that this group project for one of my classes has fallen so squarely on my shoulders that I won't be able to pull it off. I'm worried that I'm keeping a secret from my mom. I'm worried that next year I won't be able to find another place to live and that I'll have to go through the horrendous process of moving again because I won't be able to stay here because of the noise next door. I'm worried that I haven't paid my bills recently and the stack of them plus the random tax paperwork sitting on my table scares the shit out of me. I'm worried that I haven't rented the car yet for my vacation in march. I'm worried that march is coming too soon. I'm worried that my ex-boyfriend is hurting a lot and that I can't do a thing to help him. I'm worried that I won't figure out anything that is the right thing to do this summer and I'll end up unemployed. I'm worried that I'm never going to stop worrying.

That's just the tip of the scroll of worries that run, run, run through my mind. Those ramblings took me all of one minute to write down. And writing them down didn't help one bit. There goes that theory. But it was worth a try.

Memo To Self: I Am Not A 25 Year Old Boy

Every time I drink with my brothers, who are somewhere around 25 years old (I could do the math here, but I’m in a bit of a hurry as I will be out the door in exactly ten minutes), I inevitably wake up the next morning – ah, afternoon – and stumble to the nearest sink to pour myself a desperately-needed glass of water so I can choke down an even more desperately needed bottle of Advil, all the while mumbling to myself: I am not a 25-year old boy. So I should not try drink like one.

So as I’m on my way out tonight, to a celebration for two friends-of-friends turning 25, in which the evite named beer pong and flip cup as two activities (yes! It’s being held in a sports bar! My favorite type of city event, and I’m excited – as someone once said to me, ‘you can take girl out of New England, but you can’t take the New England out of the girl’), I feel like I should use a permanent Sharpie Pen to inscribe “you are not a 25 year old boy” on my hand before I leave.

But I’m already dressed and made up and this would definitely not go with the look.

So we’ll see, we’ll see… (I’ll tell you tomorrow. If I can get out of bed.)

Heart vs. Head = Sox vs. Evil Empire?

My heart is in one place and my head is in an entirely differely place.

The respective positons they - the heart and the head - are taking are antithetical to one another. They hate each other right now. And the rivalry isn't any fun. It's a Sox-Yankees game - and I have adored my Red Sox since I cried in 1986, a little girl lying on the blue rug of her family room watching the Mets series, head in her elbows, each hand keeping one temple covered - and hey, we all know what happened in October 2004 (and what will happen this year, although I'm a little scared of a Blue Jays wild-card coup this season because of their improved pitching as well as other upgrades, but that's another entry for another time). The heart won out.

But I'm an ENFJ, so I, evidently, go with my heart anyway. And I break my own heart sometimes. I trust too much. I love too much. And I love and trust too hard. I would like to write about how I feel about the connection between the heart and the mind but I am so tired so I will do this tomorrow, or maybe the next day, and I will try to keep away from baseball posting for at until - well, at least until Manny has to report to camp.

And for the moment, I'll have to accept my own little rivalry taking place within my very own body.

Responsorial Song, Unsung

You think that you’re the only one who’s afraid?

You say that you’re “terrified” of the time that I will call you and ask you “why didn’t you call me today?” You know what, you’re not terrified of that call; you’re terrified of the reason why you don’t call me that day. You’re terrified of someone else being so close to you that she wants to share the things that you don’t even want to share with yourself. And you’re terrified of sharing those things because you haven’t yet believed that those things are okay for someone else to hear. But guess what, kid, I already know what's going on inside of you, and I love you all the more for it.

I’m “dangerous”? You’re dangerous to me, too, my dear. But I see what’s on the other side of crossing that dangerous line, and it’s fucking beautiful.

“Because you live in New York and I’m moving across the country," you say. That’s why I’m dangerous? Because situations act on you versus your acting on situations? The relevance here is truly lost to me.

You’re “madly in love with me”? Show it. Respect my feelings. Don’t just know my feelings, because I know that you do, but act like you care about them. And don't fucking treat me like I don't know what I'm talking about, because you know that I do.

You have strength in the areas that scare the shit out of me, and I have strength in the areas that scare the shit out of you. Embrace this. It doesn’t happen very often, if ever.

Do you know that I get the way things run through your mind, emotionally, at least? Yes, you do know this, and maybe that's the reason that you’re terrified. Paradoxically, the very way that your mind works is one reason I love you so much.

And fuck you for saying that I don’t love you as much as you love me, but, hey, you’ve always said that – you’ve chosen to say that. And then I've always said - chosen to say - what you want to hear in response to that. But guess what, kid, if you say something enough, eventually you’ll internalize it, you'll believe it. Even though deep down inside you know it's not true. And maybe one day I'll actually believe it too - would that make it easier for you?

And one more thing: the way you “handle me” is really the way you handle yourself.

You Know Your Best Friend and Your Mom Are Right

when, (by the way, while laughing; I'm not sad), on the way to the bathroom to brush your teeth before bed, you speak the following sentence out loud - to yourself - (after sending an email two days ago and leaving a voicemail yesterday for your ex and not hearing anything back)

My stupid asshole son of a bitch slut whore motherfucker of a bastard ex-boyfriend can go to the suckiest level of hell right now 'cause I don't give a flying...

and then you write in your blog about it.

Wow... This Is Me!!

Scary, but true. Since I've directly cut and paste this I think I have to provide the link - I totally don't want to do anything that's like, copyright misconduct. So... here is the link; the text is below. It's frightening in that I think it's totally on point. So, the credit for this analysis goes to http://www.personalitypage.com/ENFJ.html

---
The Giver

As an ENFJ, your primary mode of living is focused externally, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit into your personal value system. Your secondary mode is internal, where you take things in primarily via your intuition.

ENFJs are people-focused individuals. They live in the world of people possibilities. More so than any other type, they have excellent people skills. They understand and care about people, and have a special talent for bringing out the best in others. ENFJ's main interest in life is giving love, support, and a good time to other people. They are focused on understanding, supporting, and encouraging others. They make things happen for people, and get their best personal satisfaction from this.

Because ENFJ's people skills are so extraordinary, they have the ability to make people do exactly what they want them to do. They get under people's skins and get the reactions that they are seeking. ENFJ's motives are usually unselfish, but ENFJs who have developed less than ideally have been known to use their power over people to manipulate them.

ENFJ's are so externally focused that it's especially important for them to spend time alone. This can be difficult for some ENFJs, because they have the tendency to be hard on themselves and turn to dark thoughts when alone. Consequently, ENFJs might avoid being alone, and fill their lives with activities involving other people. ENFJs tend to define their life's direction and priorities according to other people's needs, and may not be aware of their own needs. It's natural to their personality type that they will tend to place other people's needs above their own, but they need to stay aware of their own needs so that they don't sacrifice themselves in their drive to help others.

ENFJ's tend to be more reserved about exposing themselves than other extraverted types. Although they may have strongly-felt beliefs, they're likely to refrain from expressing them if doing so would interfere with bringing out the best in others. Because their strongest interest lies in being a catalyst of change in other people, they're likely to interact with others on their own level, in a chameleon-like manner, rather than as individuals.

Which is not to say that the ENFJ does not have opinions. ENFJs have definite values and opinions which they're able to express clearly and succinctly. These beliefs will be expressed as long as they're not too personal. ENFJ is in many ways expressive and open, but is more focused on being responsive and supportive of others. When faced with a conflict between a strongly-held value and serving another person's need, they are highly likely to value the other person's needs.

The ENFJ may feel quite lonely even when surrounded by people. This feeling of aloneness may be exacerbated by the tendency to not reveal their true selves.

People love ENFJs. They are fun to be with, and truly understand and love people. They are typically very straight-forward and honest. Usually ENFJs exude a lot of self-confidence, and have a great amount of ability to do many different things. They are generally bright, full of potential, energetic and fast-paced. They are usually good at anything which captures their interest.

ENFJs like for things to be well-organized, and will work hard at maintaining structure and resolving ambiguity. They have a tendency to be fussy, especially with their home environments.

In the work place, ENFJs do well in positions where they deal with people. They are naturals for the social committee. Their uncanny ability to understand people and say just what needs to be said to make them happy makes them naturals for counseling. They enjoy being the center of attention, and do very well in situations where they can inspire and lead others, such as teaching.

ENFJs do not like dealing with impersonal reasoning. They don't understand or appreciate its merit, and will be unhappy in situations where they're forced to deal with logic and facts without any connection to a human element. Living in the world of people possibilities, they enjoy their plans more than their achievements. They get excited about possibilities for the future, but may become easily bored and restless with the present.

ENFJs have a special gift with people, and are basically happy people when they can use that gift to help others. They get their best satisfaction from serving others. Their genuine interest in Humankind and their exceptional intuitive awareness of people makes them able to draw out even the most reserved individuals.

ENFJs have a strong need for close, intimate relationships, and will put forth a lot of effort in creating and maintaining these relationships. They're very loyal and trustworthy once involved in a relationship.

An ENFJ who has not developed their Feeling side may have difficulty making good decisions, and may rely heavily on other people in decision-making processes. If they have not developed their Intuition, they may not be able to see possibilities, and will judge things too quickly based on established value systems or social rules, without really understanding the current situation. An ENFJ who has not found their place in the world is likely to be extremely sensitive to criticism, and to have the tendency to worry excessively and feel guilty. They are also likely to be very manipulative and controling with others.

In general, ENFJs are charming, warm, gracious, creative and diverse individuals with richly developed insights into what makes other people tick. This special ability to see growth potential in others combined with a genuine drive to help people makes the ENFJ a truly valued individual. As giving and caring as the ENFJ is, they need to remember to value their own needs as well as the needs of others.

Regulars - Oh My!

The year between my graduating college and going out into the "real world" (someday I'll explain how I got too much of the real world while safe in the environs of my home town, ironically) I lived in the house where I grew up, then moved a few miles away into an apartment with a roommate, whom I miss so much and wish I could contact, all the while waitressing at a chain restaurant that can be found in any of those "strips" of mainstreet America. Nothing wrong with that.

What got scary was when I got "regulars." Why did they want me? Paul, who would always sit in my section, by himself, and who knew that I knew that he wanted a diet coke with no ice and a salad made in a particular way. The "family," whose last name I won't reveal, who knew I could deal with their children - somehow - satiated with chocolate shakes (a fucking nightmare to make) and some sort of empathy. And the big fat guy who came in with his business lunch cronies and tipped so poorly that his daily order of a bowl of chili with extra cheese turned into my dream of tipping a really hot bowl over his fat bald head.

Now I have "regulars" too. Regular readers. I don't want to dump hot chili over anyone's head; in fact, it's just the opposite. I put forth a small piece of myself during my time at that place (the happy-go-lucky, sure I'd be delighted to get you your 28th refill of soda, piece) and somehow people returned to see me; here, I am also putting forth a piece of myself, but a much larger, more complete and complex piece... and that people are still returning to see the layers underneath the happy-go-lucky me is something that I really do appreciate.

So... thanks!!!

A Random Act of Kindness - Gone Terribly Wrong!

OK, so I had the best night; I met my best friend AB for our annual "Christmas in February" dinner and we ended up both happily full and tipsy enough to not be drunk but just - tipsy, in the happy sense of the word.

Then I went to the train to come back uptown and at the station this kid, probably too young to be that drunk (but I am 28 and a former bartender so I generally have an eye for these things and have definitely been that drunk - but I am a cab whore, so I would have never been on a train that drunk or with any excuse to not take a cab) was staggering - oh so literally - on the steps down to the train, while smoking a cigarette in the station, which is definitely not legal, and something I would not have characterized this total stranger-kid as doing. I really thought he was going to fall down the stairs. And I thought, shit, this kid looks totally geeky, drunk beyond his power, and is carrying a messenger-style bag at his side and, shit again, he's going to fall, if not down the stairs then into trouble.

Eventually the train came and I got on and forgot about what I'd just seen because I see a lot and register it and then promptly forget it.

Except for this kid somehow got on the train, sat in the handicapped seats, and immediately passed out directly across from where I was standing. His iPod on, head lolling between his shoulders, messenger bag randomly flung on the seat beside him.

So when the time came for me to get off the train at the next stop, I thought I'd try one of those "random acts of kindness" that I often feel compelled to do but generally don't feel I have the power nor the boldness to follow through with. So I knocked the kid on his knee with my hand a few times. No response. Then I tried again. Harder. No response, except from the guy who had sat next to him, who asked me, "ma'am, is he okay?" And I said, "I have no idea, he just got on the train at the same stop as me, and he was really drunk (this I said in a whisper), so I thought I'd make sure he didn't miss his stop." Now, the entire car was looking at me (why are things so silent at this hour) and the train had one of its - pauses - in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of two stops - and this scene was strangely the center of attention.

I tried to wake the kid again, and the guy next to him helped me by shifting his shoulders, and the kid opened his eyes, each eye looking in an entirely different direction, and I just blurted out "hey, the train is way uptown now, and I wanted to make sure you were awake."

All of a sudden I felt so public and the train stopped anyway so I got off at my stop. What else could I do? Who knows where this kid ended up; it's not my responsibility, but maybe it is my civic responsibility to try to help someone who is where I have probably been before, when I have probably been helped by countless cab drivers, friends-of-friends, bouncers, strangers, even?

What I know is that I would have wanted someone else to wake me up if I were that drunk on a train, so, hey, I tried.

the little pleasures

So it's two in the morning and I'm still awake. This used to be okay when I would sleep until noon, but... not so much now. The perpetual late-night noise next door has reached an all-time high tonight (I think they brought in a karaoke machine, and I can only wish I was kidding) and hence, I am trying to enjoy what will be an inevitable two more hours awake (and counting) while subsequently ignoring the mess that is my bedroom - cleaning it is not an option, since if I go in there I'll just get aggravated, anyway, because that's the room attached to the noise.

So instead I lit the new candle I bought this afternoon (bamboo) and sat my little butt down on my comfy papison chair that everyone said was too big for my apartment but I insisted on keeping (and in doing so was forced to forego other, perhaps more practical, items of furniture, but... it's a Manhattan apartment, and these are choices we make!) and whipped out one of my not-so-guilty pleasures - the sunday new york times crossword - and maybe it was an easy one this week, but I am oh-so-close to finishing it, closer than I ever have been in my life working on it all by myself. No mom to consult, no googling answers that would be so easy to find, and were it not for the bottom right-hand corner, it would be done. On my own. And by the way, if anyone knows the 78 across/73/74 down responses, or the 101/102/103 down answers, then it will be done.

Content. So content that I may just curl up on the papison instead of in my bed and sleep here tonight, because I have a schedule to keep tomorrow, and I really would like to wake up early and excited and feeling as content as I feel right now.

Contradictory Me

It’s fucking cold in New York City tonight. Having just returned from my sojourn to New England, where I spent an inexplicably (wait, but isn’t that what I’m trying to do, explain things in words) amazing time with my grandmother and learned – really learned – about aspects of my family history that shocked me in a good way, that made me realize the beauty and the strength of my family (‘ancestors’ sounds like too much of a weird word for me; family is true), dating back to my great-great-grandparents, (some of the strength and beauty has had to filter down to me, I hope), that helped explain the mass of contradictory emotions I feel so often, and the feelings and subsequent actions I take based upon those feelings, I am back in New York.

So regarding contradictions, I talked to my ex-boyfriend last night. Really talked. Both of us were sober, and in my sobriety, I ironically am less guarded about my feelings and although he might not know it, I think he is, too. I can hear the intentions behind the words and I can – with all of my perceptive ability unclouded – stop myself from falling into the pattern that I used to allow myself to fall into with him. I know this is the opposite of how the drunk/sober dichotomy is “supposed” to be, but speaking and really listening with untainted clarity, I heard the “him” I knew he was. Is. That word in and of itself says a lot.

And therein lies the contradiction. I thought I had turned the corner. Maybe I would have kept on walking, if I just would have just continued to push it all away. But I don’t know what good – for me – pushing everything away is. Maybe my icky childhood habit of scratching my bugbites has transformed into a mental habit of picking those scars you’re not supposed to pick because the bleeding will begin again. And I’m scared of hell of that, of the bleeding. But one person I do believe in is myself and my intuition and my intuition about who he is. Present tense. Intended.

Everything I have said before is true. This is key: before I could ever trust him again, I need to know that he recognizes that he hurt me and how much he hurt me and why. But I’m putting the proverbial cart before the horse here (hey, I think too much) – we’re just becoming friends again. Perhaps.

And even within these lines I can read myself slipping, slipping back into the possibility of falling in love again, and therefore slipping back into the possibility of getting so unbelievably hurt that I can’t imagine how a human being can push herself through that pain – although I have before, I would not wish it upon myself nor upon anyone else, ever.

Are there any guarantees? No…

The Week "End" Cleanup

Well, in the life of a graduate student, it’s possible that my weekend begins at 9 pm on Thursday night after four hours of headache-inducing classes. Of course, this also means that my Saturday and Sunday afternoons are generally spent reading, writing and working, so it all evens out – sort of.

Regardless, tonight marks the end of a long string of projects meriting red penned circles on this week’s calendar, and what that means is that my apartment is a complete disaster filled with vestiges of my late-night endeavors: the stuff for the project due Monday is an a haphazard mess on one side of the room, the stuff for the project due Tuesday is on the other side of the room, and, for lack of a third half of a room, the kitchen is the site of all the stuff for the project that was due tonight – Thursday. And the papers that went into researching each of the projects and the subsequent drafts spat out by my printer are randomly strewn about, everywhere, oh, they're everywhere.

So tonight I’ve got to do a hell of a lot of sorting and organizing for a gal who is exhausted and just wants to go… home. Ah, yes, I’m going home this weekend. I need my old bedroom, I need my old jogging route, I need to remember how it feels to be behind the wheel of a car and let the music blare as loud as I want to and sing along without worrying about what the neighbor next door will think. And yes, I can say it – I so need to see my mother.

Therefore, I’m immediately Movie-On-Demanding Wedding Crashers, the most brainless flick on Channel 1000’s index, opening up a bottle of wine, and preparing to dig through the intellectual and creative remnants of what was, I believe, a very productive week.

XOXO to the weekend. Can’t wait to guiltlessly pick up copies of US Weekly, In Touch, and Life & Style and get on that ole Amtrak train tomorrow.

Liberation

The morning after my first date with my ex, my often-psychic and very intuitive former roommate asked me how things went.

“I think I could like him more than anyone, ever, and I think he could hurt me more than anyone, ever.”

Both turned out to be true.

I never had understood the depth of loving someone until I loved him. And at this point, half a year after our relationship ended, I don’t know that I will again. And that's okay.

Our relationship was tumultuous, often, for reasons that in retrospect I know were not my fault – that I don’t think were either of our faults. We were reacting to far out-of-the-ordinary circumstances, and then we were reacting to each others' reactions to the circumstances, and things often spiraled out of control. While in the great times, we clicked; in the awful times, we clashed. Horribly.

My head had told me not to contact him until I really didn’t need to any more, and I held true to that. Then, my heart told me that now was the time – I needed to. And I listened again.

As you know, we talked last week. And we’ve talked since last week, and one conclusion I have arrived at is that he is not the same person he was when we began dating. Some not-so-great things occurred in his life during the last year we were together, but I believe that what makes us really us, as human beings, is not the shit that happens to us, but how we react to the shit that happens to us. Shit happens to everyone. The important question becomes this, then. When “it” hits the fan, how do we treat each other? How do we treat ourselves? How do we treat those closest to us; how do we let it affect our actions towards others?

His actions immediately following his “shit” I could at least justify for a short while. Now, after getting the feeling that these are long-term reactions; essentially changes in the "him" I knew and loved, my view of him has also changed. I can unequivocally say that while I enjoy being on a friendly basis with him, and that I love him (which is different from being "in love" with him, which I am not), I could not be in an a relationship with the person I believe he is now. It doesn’t make me sad; we were over anyway; instead, it gives me - more - closure.

It's liberating. Because I'm not wondering anymore "what if...?"

my Valentine's post (a poem I wrote years ago)

Sunday, November 2, 2003

was that day with you when you woke me up and tried to leave so gently because something was stirring you towards movement and you just could not stay in bed, and ordinarily I would have stayed in bed but when you are near me everything stirs inside of me so instead I stood up and said sure, I’ll come with you to get a coffee.

And inside the coffee shop the three-way conversation made nothing but perfect sense, and the coffee tasted like pumpkin and cinnamon and the November morning was like spring with red-orange leaves, and when we passed through your apartment to change your clothes and standing up you played your guitar, right then I knew I could not stop from falling.

On the 6 train my coffee splashed onto my white shirt, and who of the thousands of marathon spectators lining the sidewalk in baseball caps and t-shirts knew that the girl with the coffee on her shirt was the happiest of them all, moving down First Avenue, holding a Bud Light in a plastic cup, babysitting a stranger’s bike for a moment and kissing you in the middle of the street and not caring who saw.

And a stop at the bar, so hungry and light, then a cab to the grocery store, still hungry and light, and then back to your apartment making guacamole and fajitas and watching football, and afterwards I took a nap on your couch, naked, and later you fell asleep on the same couch watching tv and I looked at you, for the first time in my life knowing this is what it’s all about.

What Year Is This?

For some reason this article really, really annoyed me. Not that it was written, but for what happened to these women. I'm glad the authors brought it to our attention and all, if only that other people might stop and say... seriously... what year is this?

MSN Careers - Are You Too Sexy For Your Job? - Career Advice Article

The Best Part of the Snowy Day

Being that I'm originally a New England girl, I always am slightly enamored with those rare - I can name three, now, in six years in the city - days where you can actually walk on the streets and it doesn't matter; red light, green light, there will be no cars anyway, because so much snow is piled up on the ground that only the occasional plow comes through. And there are more people on the streets than on the sidewalks, which are still uncleared, and everyone is sort of beautifully embracing the quiet that that much snow for some reason engenders.

I also live not so far from Central Park and should have looked into the park itself, but I just haven't felt up to things like that these days. Starbucks on Columbus Avenue did feel a little like ski lodge, however, with people coming in wearing snowpants, goggles, and all types of florescent colors that are only acceptable in such settings. I love ski lodges, because there's a strange type of solidarity that exists there, and I liked the extraordinary feeling I had inside an ordinary Starbucks. And moreover, I hadn't been to that particular Starbucks since December, and the man behind the counter still remembered me, and my order, recognizing me even as bundled up as I was.

But my favorite moment of the day was none of these - it was during my round-about walk home while I was meandering along one of those side blocks and hearing two pre-teen voices behind me speaking to a lady clearly not outfitted to dig her car out of two feet of snow. "Hey, lady, 10 bucks to help ya out." I looked behind me and saw one African-American and one Latino boy prepped with shovels, real gloves, and a charm I found so irresistible I couldn't stop listening to the interchange. The lady was obviously taken aback by their very presence. She refused, in a tone that almost ruined the beauty of the moment for me, but then the boys continued: ok, 5 bucks, lady. She still refused, saying she didn't have the money (OK, but you keep a car in front of your townhouse, right?) but the boys, undeterred, were already moving on, having spotted a young couple attempting the same task. They crossed the street with their shovels, having had their offer accepted, and as I slowly made my way to the next avenue, I looked back one more time. All four of them were working together, the boys so intently, and all four were chattering and laughing about something I couldn't hear. And I did think to myself: only in New York.

It made my afternoon.

Top Ten Songs that Make Me Cry (and Think)

La Cienega Just Smiled – Ryan Adams
The Blower’s Daughter – Damien Rice
When It Don’t Come Easy – Patty Griffin
P.S. You Rock My World – Eels
Songbird - Fleetwood Mac
Diamonds and Rust – Joan Baez
Cocoon - Jack Johnson
February – Dar Williams
Cooling (Live) – Tori Amos
All I Want – Susie Suh
Goodbye My Lover – James Blunt
My Skin - Natalie Merchant

Ooh, that's more than ten, and they're definitely in no particular order, and I could put in so many more… but I’m being a total girl and listening to the other ones too. Case in point - my all time favorite… the 5th track on the Natalie Merchant CD Ophelia – My Skin – but I have another whole thought process on that CD because I love it, in its, and for its, wholeness as a CD. But that's because I love Hamlet.

Thank God there are people in this world who can express through music what I cannot.

Another Saturday Night And...

I just finished a heck of a lot of reading for school. The way in which I go about my school assignments is funny – it kind of runs parallel to the fact that, except for the very last hours before something is due and for some reason my apartment looks like Dorothy Gale from Kansas’s tornado came through here – I do all of the “little” things first. So for those few days preceding any major due date, Monica Gellar would even be proud of the condition of my tiny home. Is it procrastination? Or is it the fact that I feel weird when a major project is due and it’s done early because I have to finish up some “minor” things, all the while feeling like I should be perfecting that major thing?

I’ll take what’s behind Door B, thank you.

I had a hard day today. It’s better now, sure, now that I’ve woken up (at 2 pm), had coffee, eaten (a little) and, most importantly, the cramps that had caused me to round my body up into my bed for the past two days have somewhat abated. No, I cannot take too much Advil, because it makes me puke, and more than most people in this world, I hate to puke (that, plus an uncanny inability to black out, have caused some of my more intoxicated evenings to be more painful than they need be – especially in the mornings when I awake not only feeling like my stomach is in the process of eating its own lining but sporadically flashing back to painfully accurate depictions of what I’ve done.)

I am wondering about fate these days. I am wondering about souls touching. I am wondering about catching a little piece of someone else’s soul and then being entirely unable to let it go because it’s touched your own soul and that’s what a soul is, something so light, so airy but so actually who you are that once it’s touched with someone else’s soul they’re connected forever. I am wondering if souls are like the snowflakes falling outside of my New York City window right now, most of them landing on the ground alone in one mass pile that will melt or coagulate or be forced together by morning, on impact, actually, but if there are a few, lucky (or damned) flakes that will meet in midair and no matter what be joined forever, in their life spans, to await whatever fate will befall them once they hit the ground. Together.

Something about Friends that Could Have Been Written By a Third-Grader (except for the drunk part)

So tonight I’m pretty happy. I have recently realized that my image (Libra rising sign, for those of you who know what means) – the image I try to project, also – is one of a happy girl. I meet people pretty quickly, and have no problem letting them right on in a little bit to my life. I actually probably appear like an open book. There is a combination of a façade and truth in that first impression, in that I will give, and am happy to give, freely of myself to new people – because except for a select few, I find a lot of happiness in knowing new people and in the beauty they bring with them into my life. That’s the truth part. The facade part is that I'm not actually always happy, and sometimes feel very, very far from it, as in insanely sad. Now, with the people who remain in my life, who become actual friends, friends that go beyond the common interest or job or activity that has physically brought us together – the process happens much more slowly. There’s usually a click point, or something, and it’s usually when I’m feeling not so great and when I start talking about why (open book), and I sense that the reasons why I’m feeling like that are understood – deeply - and I'm not just meaning the problem itself, but the overarching mood, and the implications of that mood. And conversations, other, more real conversations, spawn from that, and that, to me, is a click point. (Could happen vice versa too, by the way.) Another click point is under the influence of alcohol, and I give a LOT of credit to the people with whom that “click point” has been reached while drunk and who follow up on the realization that yeah, this person could be a real friend. Or, finally, a click point could be when I just say “fuck it” and call someone for an out of work or out of school reason. And I feel VERY lucky in this area, in that I have maintained friendships with people spanning from my best friend in the world, AB, and I think we were two or three years old when we became “best friends,” to people I’m still meeting now, 25 years later.

P.S. That was a horribly written paragraph that I could have probably used bullet points to explain (or copied a spot from a child development text book entitled “how children make friends,” but it is true.) My 14 year old cousin described her way of making friends to me in a very similar way recently, so maybe it’s like that for everyone. But that’s where this entry started to go, when I was actually going to just write a list about the little things that make me happy (a tidy kitchen, pretty smelling candles, finished school projects, old school CDs, etc.) but instead it transformed into something I could have written in third grade. Not particularly profound, but hey, sometimes what goes through my mind isn't. In any case, thank you, thank you to my friends – and AB I’m particularly shouting you out here – old and new.

Me, Myself, and My Blind "I"

This is not supposed to be a blog about my ex. How awful, how boring, how trite.

But for some reason the things - the thing - I am compelled to write about is the thing I can't talk about. I long ago exhausted all of my "call up at 4 am friends" and you know what, if I were them, I'd tell myself the same thing they tell me: fuggedahboutim. Yeah, I know that's a botched up new-england-ese-psuedo-italian word, but it's three o'clock in the morning and for the first time in six months he called me tonight.

In a fucked up twist, I am entirely responsible for the call. (Just like I was entirely responsible for the abrupt ending of our relationship, for everything that went wrong between us. This said with my tongue so firmly pressed into my cheek that I probably broke blood vessels and my middle finger somewhere imaginarily lodged up in space.) I texted him last night. After his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers won the Superbowl (BTW, I am a Pats fan, big time), I came home drunk and feeling happy about the night I had had out - I had seen old friends; I had "played" (meaning, I had allowed myself shots and such); I had rekindled the child in me who just enjoyed being in a different place with different people and that was great. So I thought I'd text him. The message was simple, perhaps unintentionally so, because the only letters I could make my motion-retarded fingers write were "Congrats!" And so it stood. And I hit send.

He texted me back tonight while I was in class and truth be told when I turned my phone back on on my walk back from the subway there was one little envelope affirming that I had one unread message. It could have been from anyone. And I knew, crossing over the middle of the uptown part of Broadway where you have to stop at the concrete island in between the traffic running downtown and uptown, that it was a message from hiim. It was lengthy, and depending on the million different ways I could interpret it it was either sweet or condescending or apologetic or polite or something written in the various dimensions that exist above and beyond this linear gamut. And I was unemotional about it, surprisingly so; although yes, I did stop on the concrete island and read it, just once but in its entirety, with enough focus that the green light to turned red again and I was stuck there for another minute.

But I didn't feel a god damn thing besides shock and "okay, this is fine." I walked home, began tidying up, positioned myself on the couch to watch the Bachelor (SO not my type, but still, a decent guilty pleasure of a brainless show) and realized that it had been a special two-hour episode that had started at 9 pm. So, at around 10:45 pm, I fell asleep on the couch. And the phone woke me up at promptly 11:59 pm. And before I was awake, I knew the call was from him. I picked it up. And he did not speak. Not one word. So after three "hello's?" from my end, I hung up the phone.

So here I am, three hours later, trying once again to stick my hand inside of my guts and pull out some sort of emotion besides emptiness. But it's either still too soon or - or - I don't know. I love - d - him - or, I still love him and I always will, but that is not saying that I could be with him again. Life is good, I am in a happy place, but truthfully all of the resolve I have had about what I would say to him if he ever called on some predictable date like, say, Christmas, was sucked away from me as soon as I picked up the phone. Because I would not have said any of it. Because I am still blinded by him and how I felt when I was with him, by what I thought I saw when we were together. Because I still do care about him, a lot. I am me, I am so glad to be me, but no matter what, he is a part of me and I wish I could pretend that I didn't feel that way, but that would just be turning that proverbial blind eye.