Friday, February 24, 2012

Novel Sampler: The Vehicle

I'm working on my Young Adult Novel. Here's a sneak peak, let me know what you think (the short story with all the sex and the f-bombs is taking longer for me to get to you than I'd hoped)..

When Charlie and I come up on The Institute, I am heaving and nearly out of breath. It was longer than I thought it would be getting here, and tougher going. Three miles at least, and all uphill. I’m used to riding my bike everywhere, even in winter. But I’m used to riding alone. Keeping pace with someone else is tricky. I can hold my own with Henry, but I don’t know Charlie as much. When he hops off his beaten bike and makes his way up the stony driveway, I let him know.

“On the way back, I’m leading,” I say. He turns and gives me half a nod. Whether he means it or not, I don’t know. He’s the one with the power, he’s the one who can let us into The Institute. He’s the one who can get us into his dad’s files, and my mom’s. But I will be the one to lead us out of here, whether he likes it or not.

The Institute looks like The White House. It is big, looming, white. There are columns and big windows that you can’t see into. There are long trimmed hedges on each side so that in the summer during exhibits, kids and their parents can line up. Today, those hedges look scraggly, and there are bits of trash clinging to the bare branches. The Institute is closed for the season, and probably even for the workers since its Sunday.

I think, there is nothing good about Sundays in winter. Nothing at all.

We’ve grown up knowing The Institute as the most important building—well, the most important thing of all—about our small town. There’s nothing else here. It’s a museum, it’s a research center, and it’s what we are famous for. Some old rich guy started it something like a hundred years ago, and to me, that might as well be the beginning of time. I have never been in The Institute without a tour group, and even when we go in and see the biological exhibits with the dead stuffed cougars and birds, or the anthropological ones where the weird plastic models of cavemen are frozen in the act of throwing a spear, I have never been to the back half, where the curators and the scientists and the researchers sit in silence and do their work. This was where my mom went almost every day before her assignment to Pompeii. Charlie can get us in, and I need to see the file of her mission there.

I walk to the front door but Charlie darts fast to the side of the building, and when I start to protest he hushes me fast. I shut my big mouth. I don’t do that often.
His black hair looks nearly blue in the bald winter light. His face is red and he puts his finger to his lips. I run up next to him so fast I bump into him hard and feel the scratch of his wool jacket against my hands.

“Sorry,” I mumble. And he hushes me again.

On the side of The Institute is a less grand entrance. A brown door, scratched and small, with a key pad where you punch in numbers to a code. Charlie works his fingers on the code quickly.

“Why don’t you tell me what it is? I should know, if we come back.”

Charlie looks at me gravely. “We’re not coming back, Kate.”

We push through the door, almost together because I shove myself along with Charlie’s movements. It’s dark, and it takes a while for me to see what we are looking at. Then, Charlie flips on a spotty florescent light that buzzes like that wasp’s nest Henry and I knocked down last summer. He had told me not to hit it, but I did it anyway. When it happened, he yelled at me to run, and I did. He ran faster, and I almost made it. One wasp caught up with me and stung me once in my right knee and as I fell, on my left cheek. I remember picking myself up, tears streaming from my face as I swelled up, and then when I saw Henry, stopping immediately. He saw I was red and asked if I was okay. And I put my hand to my face like he had been the one to point it out, and faked a laugh. Oh, did I get stung, I said. I didn’t notice. Henry gave me his portion of ice cream that night. He never called me out on it, he never ratted on me. I have been avoiding losing Mom for nearly a year. But if I lose Henry too, my heart will break for good. I sniff once and don’t think about Henry again. I think about defeating The Vehicle. Once I do that, I can think about saving everyone else. Even me.

What I see when the light is on is miles. Miles and miles of filing cabinets, stacked high and in many long rows. They are not marked. Not by date, not by project or name. I start walking anyway. I figure I will have to walk up and down each aisle, and look at the top file and the bottom file in the row to figure out the pattern of what is categorized and why. I pull open the first one in our aisle. I scan it quickly. It’s about the history about the domestication of grain. The bottom one is about computer chips. I soldier on, pulling papers out, reading them quick, and then laying them back in very carefully. This goes on for a good half hour. Finally, I look up at Charlie, who is leaned up against the wall and looking very amused at my frantic reading.

“What we need is in my dad’s office.”

“Stop playing games, Charlie.”

“I’m not, I just knew you wouldn’t go there without looking at this first.”

“How do you know what I would and wouldn’t do?” I slam a cabinet shut. “You don’t know anything about me.” Immediately, I am sorry for saying this. I am often sorry for saying every little thing that comes into my mind. But Charlie is still smiling. He’s not offended at all.

“No Filter Kate, that’s what I’m going to call you from now on.”

“Dead Man Charlie, that’s what you'll be if you don’t cut the crap.”

Charlie stops smiling and sighs. “This way.”

We wind through several more aisles of several more beige filing cabinets. It could be a library, it could be a morgue. There is nothing special about anything here, except for what could lie inside.

At the far end of the room, Charlie takes a sharp right, again to another door. I think about asking him how much time he has spent here, alone and learning all the ins and outs. Maybe it’s as much time as I have spent with Henry in the woods, or alone in the woods. Or at The Site. Charlie is moving through everything as if his eyes are closed, just like I can do in those other places. Meanwhile I bump into corners and fall into him again at the next door. He punches in another code, and when we walk through, we find another world.

It is bright white, a laboratory, and cluttered as if we are in the middle of a big crowd. There are desks overflowing with file folders and papers, corkboards with pushpins of swatches of colors, glass containers of different colored powders—some look like glittering gems, others like dirt—and random piles of the most glorious materials I have ever seen. There are bones, tusks, skulls of monkeys and birds. I want to touch them, but I can’t disturb them. There are tattered rugs with patterns that I recognize as Navaho, broken pieces of carvings that I can tell are Incan, papery scrolls with cryptic and beautiful writing that I know is Egyptian, big fat cubes of rock that have cave paintings—monoliths, they are called—with running buffalo. There are vials of water, or what looks like water. Vials of what looks like blood. Amber chunks of resin with trapped mosquitos. Charlie had been holding my hand as we walked through to here but I drop quietly and I stare. This sight is what my Site should have been. Could have been. Suddenly, The Site seems so childish. For kids. And I’m not a kid. Even if I was when this began, I’ll never be a kid again. The treasures here are too many to count, and they are unguarded, and I know that the answer to the Curse of Pompeii, and the curse that The Vehicle is now bringing upon us is here. If only we can find it.

“My dad’s desk is back here,” Charlie says, and walks away, though I can barely follow him as I take in more bounty. Pinned butterflies, more beautiful and in unbroken glass, unlike the only one I have. Beaded jewelry from tribes long gone. Rocks of all kinds—sedimentary, metamorphic, and the most important of all, igneous. The Bravery was once a tongue, but now it is petrified not unlike an igneous rock. Of course it would be igneous. It was transformed in the volcano of Mount Vesuvius. It was supposed to protect whoever had it. And now, it has transformed The Vehicle into a monster, and I don’t know why.

Right before Charlie’s dad’s desk, I stop. Here is the most amazing thing of all: a full-grown lioness, stuffed and mounted. She is incredible, and I am sad that the only way I can get this close to her is because she is long dead. I look at her yellow eyes, the way the fur becomes whitish around her plasticized nose, her fangs out and the position she has been wrangled into—as if she is running, as if she is about to charge, as if she could get away.

“Kate, hurry!”

I take a moment to look deep into her glass eyes and feel as though I can see her even though she will never see me. And then I look at the rest of her. What I see is terrible, her fur is worn and ragged. Faded. She looks so old on part of her and so young on the rest. It’s as if part of her has been in the light, and part of her has been in the dark and she has aged horribly because of it. Though I don’t know which it is.

“What is this? Why is she like this?” I ask Charlie.

“It’s nothing, they have to restore it. Under the lights of the display case, the animals fade to nearly nothing. It’s being painted, it’s being repaired, more of its natural body is being torn away and they’re painting the fur. It’s the price of being able to look at it, I guess.”

“But she’s barely real at all any more.” I say this and it comes out with great sadness.

Friday, February 17, 2012

My Blog, My Self

Is there anybody out there? I honestly forgot this blog existed. Did you? Remember when I was good to you? I am still good, I hope. But it is not to you at the moment, Almost Literary. I am in school and writing two novels (this I would recommend to no one, do as I say and not as I do, friends) and I have two full time jobs and I am writing a short story, which is full of bad words, namely the word "fuck," and sex, which I am so uncomfortable writing about but very comfortable having (tell no one) and though I say or do something all the time, to write it is different, so very different. How strange that my writing is more intimate than my actual life.

Because my writing is what is inside. The best. The worst. What I am and what I do can be forgotten after a few glasses of champagne or months away, but what I write, that is here for good. It will be here after I'm dead. If anyone cares, that is another point entirely. If I write something good enough, it will mean more than my life ever could. So silly, I am. I love art. I lack the talent to be an artist without working so hard and trying and sweating and screaming. I want, so bad. I have almost enough talent. But I do not have enough. I never will. And the worst part? I will not stop, because what I have plenty of is ambition. I am stubborn, a mule. I will not, I can not. This is the only thing that I can't stop doing. Tell me to never eat ice cream again? No problem. Tell me that yoga causes lymphoma? I shall stop. But writing, it is the thing that will kill me, because it is what I love, and it does not love me back, and yet I still come after it. I won't stop. It will be the end of me, and I'm glad that I know how I will go. It brings me peace. Until then, it's just fury at the computer, at the page. Not yet, it's not yet. What is in my mind is so much better than my output. And still, and still.

It is only with volume that I can ever get close to where I need to be. Buried under documents, clutching my macbook and with labored breathing go, just go.

When this short story is done, I will post it for you in the next week or so. It says "fuck." Be forewarned.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

5 Months Late And What Do You Get?

Now that I've been gone for months and months, and have likely lost all readership, this is going back to my grassroots little musings. So here's what I've been doing.

-Joined a kickball league full of nice people and even nice hipsters. Drank beer. Slid into base. Got a lot of bruises.

-Went to London to see my old friend and ended up spending time with an old flame whom I love.

-Went to Mexico with my new best friend and was asked to be her maid of honor.

-Was dropped by my old best friend with no explanation after being her maid of honor (was it my speech?). No idea what happened but I miss her.

- Got back together with my ex boyfriend as horrible friends with benefits and cried my eyes out. Shut. The. Door. On. That. Detox talking to him for 60 days at the very least.

- Am weeks away from finally finishing the first book. Only took me five years but here we are.

- Went to a crazy, crazy Montreal woods festival and caused a national scandal when a singer and I decided we wanted to hang out...a lot. There was also a haunted summer camp.

- Am still working my butt off as a journalist even though I am only a fiction writer, learned how to modern dance, made some amazing new girlfriends.

- Working on a crazy magazine event that has ruined my life for the past three months. Will be over by Monday. Send massages, flowers and klonapin my way.

- Went to the beach. Danced on the boardwalk a lot. There were tacos. Went to some dance block parties. Went to some dance backyard parties. Am a little tired of dancing but I can't stop doing it.

- Got tan.

- Lost tan

- Shaved #swag and then BLING into the side of my head. It looked cool but not pretty. Will try to be pretty from now on.

- Started to plan my annual cupcake and champagne all-girls birthday party.

- Got nominated for a writing award but won't know until December.

- Submitted the novel to a new agent. Won't know for 6 weeks.

- Got some new eyeliner.

- Debated moving to San Francisco, again. Would like a new start even though I have nothing to run from.

- Mourned the loss of my dog.

- Did a lot of yoga.

- Slept in my bed and on my couch.

- Never stopped dreaming.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

I'm Doing A Cleanse

Having some perspective...nearly four weeks without talking to the ex, seeing the end of the book, wondering what to do when the lease ends, thinking about taking a 2 month jaunt to Southeast Asia before I turn 30, and all that...I went and did something stupid.

I'm always doing something stupid. It's part of being an enthusiast.

This time the dumb idea is I'm doing a juice cleans. Juice, no food, no alcohol, no caffeine, no anything for three-five days, vegan leading up and vegan leading out. I've been going to yoga a lot more now, and I'm starting to buy into some of this yoga-ness. Eating vegan was a change that made things interesting, and it's cool to see my discipline as other people are eating delicious things in front of me, like cookies and lobster sandwiches.

Apparently you reach spiritual clarity by day three. I think that you are delirious from not eating by then and start to think the meaning of life is moon beams. That will certainly be the fun part.

I'm at 3 PM on day two, and I'm feeling neutral. People have headaches and irritability and runny noses on this, but I don't at all...except I just feel a little bored. I didn't realize how many of my weekend plans were around food and drink consumption. Brunch plans, coffee plans, drink plans. It's been an interesting and mildly boring weekend all at once. I didn't want to cleanse during the week and be confused at work, and then exhausted when I worked out, so I figured the weekend was good.

Turns out any time for a cleanse blows.

Luckily I've got magazines, movies, errands, and lots of texting. Drinking water when at bars. Watching hours of Top Chef and wondering what everything tastes like. Googling pictures of bacon. No biggie.

It's too cold to do what I want that doesn't relate to food, which is walk to Greenpoint to the bike store and see if that Surly is still there. Or even drop by the coffee shop and order water and sit there and read my Southeast Asia On A Budget Book and flirt with the barista with the neck tattoo.

So I'm stuck in my apartment, and food's on my brain.

Like I'm missing the act of chewing. Even thinking about it now is getting me riled up. Chewing! When has that excited anyone?

I don't want to write, I don't want to clean.

I want to go have a hamburger with a friend. No, actually, scratch the friend. If I ate in front of them the way that I want to eat right now, they would no longer want to be my friend.

Vegan in, vegan out. Spiritual clarity. Delirium.

Peace and love to all mankind.

And bacon to those who wait.

Friday, February 18, 2011

What The Psychic Said...

Today we had a half day at work, and instead of catching up on my homework, I went to a psychic. Here's what she said:

I will live a long and healthy life.

The last two years have been difficult and I am entering a pattern of change. (Indeed, the breakup.)

I am very creative, and I work in music. (WHAT! How'd she know this?)

Many men love me but I don't love any of them as I am unsettled. (Tee hee. Really?)

My friends are talking about me behind my back. (Yikes.)

I will be married once. I will have to decide between two new men soon. (What? New ones?)

I will do a lot of traveling soon. (Hooray!)

I will always have success in work, but I need to zero in on what I need and just do it when it comes to work. (The book?)

Though money will come, and money will go, I will always be financially sound. (Stealing?)

I need to focus on work and success to get it, and then I will, I need to do nothing about my love life or work at that, it's in the bag. (Wish this were the opposite way.)

I should definitely not move to California, there are too many opportunities here. (Say what?)

There you have it. Kind of interesting. How did she know this stuff!

Sunday, February 06, 2011

Recovery Sunday

Here's the recipe to recover from a very tough week:

1. Sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, pad into the kitchen to get ice water, and then go back to sleep. Make sure the velvet curtains are closed but the bedroom door is open so sunlight comes in but never touches the pillow. Feel free to drool and to sleep, smack-middle in the bed and kick the covers to and fro.

2. After waking properly, open the windows to let in the chilly pre-Superbowl air, and turn up the heat so it all co-mingles while you...

3. Scrub the bathroom and then take a long, hot shower. Slather on three different lotions and put on a soft new nightshirt and slippers. Dance around a little and then turn off the heat and close the windows. Consider donning a robe.

4. Put on trashy television on low (thank the God of small things for Law & Order SVU marathons and Bravo) and stack up earmarked magazines and local papers with shops, restaurants, films, dance performances and concerts for the week you'd like to pounce upon. Put the writing theory books within sight so that technically, you aren't ignoring them. Position a fleecy blanket close.

5. Re-water the wildflower arrangement that holds fragrant sweet pea, royal purple poppies, egg-yolk orange and white daffodils, strange antique rust roses, and bursts of hardened small berries, stalks tied together and thrust into a mason jar. Call the senders to say thank you for being great friends. Position them on the crystal stands on top of the coffee table that doubles as a fountain because your parents are just as crazy and full of too many ideas as you are.

6. Light four different fat candles and put those on the stands, too. Even better if they are Jo Malone and Archipelago, white and cream colored, smelling of linen and lemon and deep spice.

7. Microwave three mini-cinnamon rolls until they're gooey and have to be eaten with a spoon. Smash together with said spoon until the texture resembles mashed potatoes. Amazing, sweet, sticky, dessert mashed potatoes. Serve with a glass of red wine and more ice water.

8. Brush hair for a half-minute before deciding it can't be tamed today. Make lists of to-do for the week, allocate time to writing, sleeping, talking, walking, texting, cooking. Clean up kitchen. Put wine back in the fridge because the TV doesn't count as another person to socially drink with. Not yet, anyhow.

9. Blog. Take vitamins. Finish that wine anyhow (it was only a third of a bottle and someone is coming over soon anyway, say this aloud to make yourself feel better). Make the bed. Decide to buy more candles.

10. Answer the door when Annabella arrives, bearing gifts. Consider Superbowl picks and two different pools in the office and then realize you haven't even planned to watch the bowl at all. If Annabella doesn't say anything about changing Law & Order, then blame it on her when you both miss it because you're too busy gossiping.

Sundays are for rest, aren't they? No one can ever accuse me of not knowing how to rest...that's for sure.

Hope you are having a wonderful Sunday too.

Wednesday, February 02, 2011

You're The One That I Want

Pizza for lunch instead of coffee

A shoulder-rub after dance class

Structure work for both novels to be done

A movie marathon this Saturday in an apartment lit by Restoration Hardware fake candles

The heat to equalize

A clean desk, or just a desk with a working lamp

An extra thousand bucks a month without having to write for it

New books, new pens, new journals, five new playlists for the iPod that someone else curates

Another website to frequent during breaks that isn't gossip, news or music

A day without ice and wind

The guy with the neck tattoos at the coffeeshop who held both my hands as he gave me change and winked to be there every time I buy tea

A ride to Connecticut that isn't MTA Metro North

Pajamas, proper pajamas

The MFA program in San Francisco to give me more time to decide if I want to move there than March 4

A cheap plane ticket to LA, Barcelona, and France

More vegetables, and more Gatorade

To win my Superbowl pools, and to finally get around to making Superbowl plans

A fast and speedy recovery for anything

To keep dreaming, I like where this is going...

Tuesday, February 01, 2011

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Girlfriend Getaway

We had an article in the magazine about Girlfriend Getaways. We made fun of it loudly and then found ourselves furtively stealing glances.

Girlfriend Getaway...a vacation just for girls. No boys. No couples allowed. Sun and drinks and dinner and massages and flirting with bartenders...

The more we said it, the better it sounded. So we picked up, and we went. Sunsets, cliff dives, oxtail stew.

Netting on the bed, the villa overlooking water that glittered a hundred shades of blue.

The hot sun beating down on us, in January no less. Pineapple drinks. Rum, rum, rum.

Bikinis and wet sundresses. Extra fries, rice and peas. The white-sand beach, the waves crashing on the bluffs. Flowers on the bed.

The shower? Outside.

Bare feet. Fashion photographers who asked us to party, waitstaff who asked us to dance. We said no and kept on in our pack, headed to the next piece of fruit, wave, snack and magazine. We laughed until we cried. We have a new nickname for everyone we know.

Ten new inside jokes, three new playlists, and hundreds of future plans now.

We did it. We went to Jamaica. It was phenomenal. Pics are a-coming, and I'm going to ice down my sunburn so it will turn into a tan.

Friday, January 07, 2011

What Will You Be Doing With This Snowstorm?

It's snowtime in New York again, and I'm looking at the flakes falling fat, through the four-inch glass windows at work.

I had lots of fun things planned this weekend: a listening party with some music kids tonight, a weekend playdate with two different sets of friends that I never, ever get to see, and some sort of sitting around my fake fire snorefest with someone else. It was packed. It would have been fabulous.

Because of some freak circumstances, I suffered a terrific accident last night and my face looks like I was in a car accident. Fat lip, cuts all over the inside of my mouth, crazy bruising and lesions on my mouth and cheek. I look insane, and I feel even worse.

So, no fun things for me this weekend. Staying in, ordering tea, and watching a hundred movies in a row it is. I'm the girl without a face and I should not be seen by anyone unless it's a dramatic theater-less interpretation of The Phantom Of The Opera.


Let this be a lesson to all of you, be safe out there! In your cars, public transport and beyond. When I come back, I hope to be on the mend. Because next weekend is Annabella's wedding, and then I go to Jamaica, and looking like bruised hell is apparently not allowed at either.

Tuesday, January 04, 2011

Dear Ex Boyfriends,

If you're reading this blog and you know who I am, you are likely an ex-boyfriend of mine.

Welcome! Pull up a chair. Can I get you a drink? If I'm not mistaken, you like (insert your favorite drink). Yeah, I remembered. How? Cause I was the best thang you evah dated, that's how.

I kid.

Long time, no talk. Surely. Because if we are exes, we don't talk, not really. Maybe we have had errant texts here and there. Maybe you have been asking for a kiss, a date, a drink, me to die, or sharing pictures of your recent camping adventures. Whatever it's been, I wanted to acknowledge it. You and me. It happened. It was awesome. Now it's awful, because when relationships end, it is the worst. Plagues are better. Breakups are to sunshine and puppy dogs as chainsaws are to sunshine and puppy dogs. You, me, it is sooo over. It was my fault, I know that you think so.

How does that make you feel?

If you're anything like me (and if we dated, you are), it's going to make you feel weird. Conflicted and weird. Should we have broken up? Should we some day get back together? Are we actually friends now or fake friends? Will you email me that I wrote this and it was obnoxious? I wonder these things. Other things I wonder: how you are, what makes you laugh, if I can still also make you laugh, and if you heard this recent song that I heard, because it makes me think of you, and I still think of you. Of course I do. I still laugh at the things we laughed at. It's funny how the bad stuff expires but the good stuff never does.

That thing you said. I remember. That thing that you did. I wish I could see you doing it now. My heart? Never whole again. Cause of you. You have that power over me. You probably always will.

Even if I act like I don't, as I said today, that's just my avatar. I use her to get to the next planet. I remember. Of course I do. I'm not a monster, as much as that would make this easier for you.

I've been thinking. I've been missing some things.

Do you miss me? If so, you should tell me. There needs to be more love in this world. we can share love without it being weird, can't we? I mean, we shared everything else. Even if we can't remember. Also I am very vain. If we dated, you already knew this, but I think it bears repeating. I am really vain. And I like to feel special. Don't you? If you say something nice to me, I will say something nice back to you. You deserve it. You are something. You own a piece of me, and that is amazing. I can say that, I can always say that. I will never keep from you the things that made me fall in love with you. No matter who either of us are with, no matter how either of us feel, I will tell you. Just ask.

Will you ask? Or will you be angry? Will you pretend that we are buddies when we aren't. Will you ask me one thing and then change it in the next breath? Will you stay away for months and then call me out of the blue? Will you wish that I will go to hell and stay there? Will you ever wish for me to be happy?

I hope you do. I wish that for you. I wish a lot of things for you. All good. Even if I hate you. Which I do. We're exes after all. Aren't we?

Well whoever you are, and whoever you are with, I hope you're doing well. And I don't expect us to talk, or be normal. I never was very normal to begin with. I hope when we talk it will be civil. I hope it will be kind. I hope you can say something nice to me because I will say something nice to you. I hope we can talk about that thing we laughed about for hours, in your (insert car), at the (insert place we went to), when the sky was (blue/gray/littered with stars). I hope that I don't inspire you to light many fires and I sincerely hope that you will not kill me. That would be very uncool (Brian, I am looking at you, you sick bastard. Ah, I'm kidding again. I never dated a Brian. Did I?).

Also exes, I'm single again. So be gentle if you are. And be very, very gentle if you are not. Cause ruminating on you today is kind of making me dizzy. For what it's worth. Which is, you know, nothing I suppose. Not worth the paper I printed this on, or something along those lines.


Sunday, January 02, 2011

Joyeuex Nouvel An

Happy New Year!

I am ringing it in with jetlag and new blankets, faux fur pillows and apple struesel snack bars, bottled water and good lighting, a to-do list I've only crossed one item off of, a bitter cold day half-slept away and many hours of TV I've missed.

I got in last night and haven't left my apartment since. I have lots of unpacking to do, reading to do, emails to catch up on, and working out to do. But it didn't happen today. Luckily I have tomorrow off and have an article to write by 10 AM, coffee with Annabella, a drive to Morningside Heights, a lofty plan to stop by a design store to buy more suede blankets (can't stop buying these), cash checks, read the rest of that awful Lincoln historical fiction novel for class, sign up at the gym finally, reschedule a dance class, and go to a music meeting. So, I feel okay that I got nothing done today. Busy people get things done, and tomorrow I'm busy.

Today, I'm listening to the wind and lighting the candles and sleeping as I watch or read.

It's going to be a good year.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

South of France Listsicle of Love

Things to sit beside: the ancient fireplace, the whitewashed stonework, the wraparound leather couch, flannel sheets, heated ceramic floors, stacks of wood, pages of other people's novels that once I read for homework I throw into the fire

Plans each day that are the townie equivalent of a socialite's calendar: Christmas champagne here, chocolate there, painting crafts with the girls in the bookstore, walking the tiny dog on cobbled streets as people prepare their dinners and the aromas waft out the shutters and into the ether, Boxing Day lunch on a lazy suzan, thirteen people for a place setting for caramelized chicken studded with sesames, pots of crispy potatoes loaded with ham and cream, strong and dark coffee and neverending wine

Things to watch: low-hanging sunsets, the fleeting green and white expanses of the fields, farmers and their families piling the pruned grapevines to burn, my parents at the center of this circle with loads and loads of stylish friends and making jokes that even my brother and I find funny (are we getting old? are the children of all the townspeople and expats who set up little shops and bookstores who have retired from a life of fashion magazines and film careers ever going to rival their parents?), that tiny dog again running through the snow on his tiny paws and sigh to yourself though you said you would never, ever love a little dog, and now you kind of do

Things to do: be happily dragged from place to place, eat, drink, and be merry, watch movies good and bad, check email just once a day, stare at your darkened phone that will never work here (no Droids in France), walk that tiny dog and stop at every child who wants to pet him, heat up pizzas in the stove, pour Orangina over ice, dress for formal parties, dress for informal parties, try to use the tiny hairdryer (not as cute as the tiny dog), run out of clothes to dress in and start wearing flannels to lunch, etch cardboard squares with Japanese cartoons and magenta swirls, have long talks with everyone, read without writing, make French friends, Dutch friends, and several Brits, jokingly flirt with engaged men (they started it), and hey, flirt with the old men too (they appreciate it the most), wonder how I'll ever date someone for real again because I have turned into a massive flirt and all my old boyfriends always hated how I flirted before, which was already alot, let's face it.

Things to want: more days, and nothing more

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Planes, Trains and Automobiles

I left for France on Tuesday.

I did not arrive at my destination until late Thursday.

Don't. Ever. Travel. During. Holidays.

Also not with my brother. What a doofus. He brought 4 enormous suitcases. Which we had to get on the first plane, haul through customs and pick up after, run through the airport with them to the next connection, throw them all on an airport shuttle, then when we missed our connection because of said enormous bags, take all with us to the ticketing office. When we were told there were no flights at all until the following day whilst at Orly in Paris, we then dragged them back on the bus to the train station, pulled them over to the ticketing office there, and after waiting for an hour to speak with someone were told that the trains were all booked up, I took a moment to wipe a tear of frustration out of my eye and to buy cigarettes and coffee to wake me up, we waited for 30 minutes in the freezing rain to go BACK TO THE AIRPORT. There I got us on a shuttle for a hotel. once there, we split up because i was about to lunge at my brother, who while we were on the bus, whined "You'll have to carry everything now. I'm not sure I can do this any more. I think I have to stay on the bus for a while cause I need to sit."


I was the one talking in broken French with everyone. I was the one figuring everything out and I was the one carrying half his shit plus mine while he whined and moaned and got in the way and stood there with his mouth open, complaining that he hadn't had any sleep and he was tired. Indeed, I felt all these things too. But could I feel any of them? Being in charge of us both and all that stuff? Could I just give up because my credit card was not working and I had no money? Or that our phones were all screwy? Or that the airlines didn't want to even book us on anything and asked us to repay because of a problem in the system?

My brother swears Satan himself flew up from my throat and came out of my mouth in a cloud of black smoke. Because I didn't yell, I didn't swear, but I absolutely hissed in a Walt Disney-worthy villan's baritone:

"Give me a reason to leave you behind."

So we checked into (the) Paris Hilton. As I joked, it's about as clean as you'd expect but there were a surprising amount of Albanians in there. Zing! Zang!

Anyway, we are at the hotel and bro immediately goes to sleep. The moment I do, the phone rings. Our flight the next day has been cancelled too. All flights have. Seems a snow storm was coming. All the trains were booked as well.

My mother finally secured us a reservation on a different train at a very far away station. I stayed awake the entire night because there was so much to do the next day. I had been away for 42 hours. I had slept maybe a total of three hours. This will bring madness. Don't try it. I may never be the same again.

So we get to the train station by 4:30. There was no way in hell I was going to miss this train. We camped out in front of the ticket office for the next two hours until it opened. Like they were Superbowl tickets or something. Well, they were. When I got to the woman, who could not understand my sleepy, strung-out, awful, awful French and did not have our reservation and finally, after seeing me pull out my greatest asset, my ability to look like a third world child who is about to die, let us buy the last tickets on the train, I nearly leaped over the partition and squeezed her in my arms. J'taime mademoiselle! J'taime!

Six more hours on a train. The inevitable transfer and running up and down stairs and squeezing on to the new train with all those bags. Another few hours. Still no sleep. And we finally arrived in Cahoors, about an hour away from Bordeaux.

My dad met us. I haven't been so excited to see my dad since I was four years old and picked up at the babysitter's house (it smelled like the inside of a pumpkin and they had no good games).

Everything since being here has been fabulous: snow and chapel, Boxing day lunch, bookstore champagne parties, glittering blue Christmas lights, roast potatoes and the puppy and a beautiful bed. My bedroom here has shutters which give it total darkness. I have never slept so hard in my life. Each night I have been sleeping with a vengance. The fireplaces are always burning and Orangina is always close at hand. I was even invited by some incredibly stylish English girls all wearing over-the-knee Chanel boots, to spend the afternoon with them letterpressing stationary or whatever the big trend is here in Europe. I am also apparently, supposed to discuss my ideas for a magazine that is only available in application form--no print, no website, just an app, with a Dutchman who may or may not think that I am much smarter than I am.

I shall keep you in the loop on how that goes.

In the meantime it is the day after Christmas and everyone is in bed, even the dog, and I am left on the leather couch with all the suede pillows and the sinfully plush cashmere blankets (whether the couch is meant to be styled like it is in Versailles remains to be seen: I suspect Mom bought a bunch of luxe add-ons after hearing Satan leap out of my throat and into the phone after our seventh or so missed plane and train.)

So I'm left to the fire and the films, which are piled up next to the television as we have no channels yet. Planes, Trains and Automobiles is one of our family's favorite movies to watch during the holidays. Steve Martin. John Candy. They can't get home for the holidays. Everything goes wrong. They practically die about four times. Their planes, trains and automobiles fail them at every turn. It's usually hilarious.

Well, it was. Now, I can't bring myself to watch it. I'd sooner put escargots up my nose. I may never watch the movie again. Or travel again. But then, it is so nice here. Quiet and twinkling and lovely. I will enjoy it for a while before I have to venture back on the 2nd. Let's not think about that for now.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Off To The South

On Tuesday I'm leaving for southern France. My parents--looney birds, elders, and inspirations to us all--have bought a house there. The bro and I are heading over to join them for the holiday. I'm taking off of work early, I'm letting my friend and her fiance stay in my apartment (and cleaning insanely beforehand), and I'm packing up the presents, a million papers, my computer, other reading materials and the work I have to continue to do for my jobs while I'm gone. It's a lot of work to get there but nothing else could be worth it, I think.

I will read. I will sleep. I will eat cheese. I will try to do some situps. I will blog most days in detail about the cold, the view, the food, the dog yipping at my feet, the absence of television. I will try not to check my email too much. I will attend a Christmas eve party where I am the only one born in the 80s (or 90s for that matter), because only old villagers and my family will be there. I hope to write a good deal. I'm not sure of the internet situation. I hope not too bad, I do need to use the computer...I didn't take a leave from my music writing job. We aren't really allowed...but I do hope I can duck out for a day or two here and there.

I'm leaving behind my ex, who doesn't know I'm leaving and it doesn't seem right to call him to tell him. It will be his 30th birthday tomorrow or the next day I think. I can't remember. He wanted to go out for it. I said okay, he never followed up. He tried again, I said okay, he never followed up. Texting keeps relationships going that should have gone a long time ago. Still, I miss having a boyfriend and I miss having a best friend. I know I will have another one that encompasses both eventually. But I do wish I'd hurry up and have it already.

A holiday is for family and friends. This year I've only got family, but I'm certainly glad to have one. Excited to see where they've decided to spend their time. Excited for an overnight plane ride (I actually kind of like these). Excited to let my voicemail pile up. Excited to be unavailable for real. It's kind of thrilling to do. And I'm always available.

Putting many, many books on the Kindle that I'm giving my mom and hope to sneakily read them all first before I get over there. Doing laundry. Wishing to be missed and hoping not to miss anyone too much.

Thinking that sadly (or testament to how funny the other stuff could be?), Liz Lemon is now the unfunniest thing about 30 Rock. What's with the constant psycho-sexual stuff? It's getting old. More Lutz, more Jenna, more Jack. Less Liz, less Colleen (she's strangely far too old and annoying), less Avery.

Thinking that I haven't actually been outside today except when I hung out on my terrace.

Resolutions that I can enact starting now: stop having incredibly inactive days on weekends and far too active nights. Work out less crazily, but more regularly. Stop eating things that come in boxes and start eating things that will spoil after a few days. Stop reading things on computer screens. Sleep longer. Sleep less. More popsicles, less emotion. More calls, less text. Fewer dates, more important hang outs. Less talking, more listening. Go away to France and have a good time, turn on the out of office and let it go.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Winter List

- Eat pie for breakfast for four days after Thanksgiving
- Turn up the heat in the apartment to eighty degrees and keep 'er there
- When in doubt for writing, do structure work, because writing seems easy by comparison
- Borrow someone else's dog for a walk
- Blast a lot of dutty rap to turn dusting into dancing
- Buy a new coat instead of fixing the tear and lost buttons on the old one
- Arrange every date/meeting/edit catch-up so hot chocolate is involved
- Spend Saturdays in bed with flannel sheets
- Go out to synthpop concerts on Mondays and drink red wine on Sundays
- Overbook, constantly and apologize immensely
- Wear many, many pairs of tights, scarves, and sweaters without sleeves
- Mass text for plans/saying hello/and telling everyone you just painted a mantle all by yourself
- Try to use the following words every day: electric, blango, blast, soar, cheers, and most of all, yes
- Budget, make lists, and book a trip to Jamaica anyway
- Pick up the phone every time someone calls, but call no one
- Have good lighting that you never use
- Smile at everyone who walks by, even if they don't deserve it
- Get all your exercise by jumping
- Wear snowboots when there is no chance of snow, because you're an optimist

If that's the checklist, I'm doing pretty good so far...

Monday, November 15, 2010

Slow Justice Is No Justice

This was on a movie poster I saw in the subway. Yes, it was referring to Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, but it's apt.

So a week ago I declared that I was in love with someone and not telling that someone was enough for now. Don't. Be. Remiss.

Caring for someone, anyone, is the worst. I don't know why we do it, I don't know why we have no control over it, but I hate love. I have been in it at least half a dozen times and it has done nothing good for me. People have loved me, and I haven't loved them back. That was horrible for everyone involved. And I was on the good end. I would rather never date anyone again than be on the other end.

We saw each other. It was great. Too great. Why couldn't it have sucked more? Then I could go on thinking that I could handle this. Soooo...we are not together. I haven't asked for us to be. I try to keep that to myself. Because if this is a game of chicken, I'm going to win. Texting should be banned between the sexes. He read something in my texts to him on Saturday night that weren't there. He said I was being "weird." He asked to come over at 2:30 in the morning, I was asleep. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm lying, that I was out with musicians again. I'm never out with guys in bands! Why is he obsessed with me shacking up with a dude with a guitar just because I work in music? And so I'm getting punished for someone else's assumption. By him pretending he's too busy to talk to me. And by the way? He hadn't contacted me in days before we had this total, utter misunderstanding. So what if I had been with anyone?

There is a reason people break up.

Why why why can't I just not like boys. This one or any of them? They are so annoying! They are so confusing! They say one thing and then act like another. They change their minds all the time. I can't tell you how many have said the following, in this order: they love me, will I be with them forever, they can't be around me because I make them insane, never talk to them again, and please, please, talk to them now, visit them, pick up the phone, they miss me. There needs to be a law against saying all those things to the same person. After the "I love you" mark, you shouldn't be able to change your mind. It would be better, biologically, if we worked that way. I'd love to get a shot that stabilized my emotions for a year, that acted as an immunization against falling for people. A flu shot. Fast and quick and lasts a few months.

Much better than this slow burn. This slow justice for him to torture me because he thinks I tortured him, didn't take care enough of him, relied too much on him, brought him into my world and left him there alone. How many times can a person say sorry? How many times can a person keep trying to rebuild something out of sand?

Well, here's the thing. I've been running from this thing for months on months. I'll never outrun the forces pulling us together, I've got to lay down, out of its sight, and just let it pass.

I'm doing that with these feelings. It will. Just so another feeling about another person can come along. Bah. I'm not contacting him. But you know if he calls, I won't have the heart not to pick up. Will he? Who even cares. It's the same either way, we keep doing this junk until one of us has the means to leave this nonsense and go, love...someone else.

You know what's good today? At least? I think I'm changing the pacing of my book. I'm going to start in the middle and run two storylines together in different times of the book. I know it sounds a little gimmicky, but I'm sure this will fix the problem I have with the book being boring for the first 70 pages. This way, I can cut them.

Coming up with a maybe solution for a 4 year book problem? If that's the result from keeping my phone off all day and not reaching out to him, then maybe this is the right thing after all...

Sunday, November 07, 2010

How To Be In Love?

I'm in love.

Both of us were in love with each other. Both of us fell out. We broke up. Lots of things happened in between. New apartments, other relationships, jobs. Now I am gainfully employed, enrolled in UCLA's Master Class Writing Program, slicing away at my novel, furiously writing the second one, prancing around my new apartment that he doesn't know, reading books, eating trail mix bars and planning my best friend's bachelorette party (molecular gastronomy, pedis and champagne, pole dancing party just the girls, big night out, delicious drunken brunch the next day).

I am busy.

Working extra hours at my magazine job. Working late in my music job. Going to dance classes. Weekends away. Catching up on doctor appointments, picking out recipes for dinner parties, planning concerts, still organizing my newish dwelling and exploring the bars and restaurants of my new hood. Reconnecting with old friends, finding new ones wherever I go. I have stopped dating for sport because I don't have time. Somehow, who knows how, I still get asked out on a semi-regular basis. But I've been saying no and soft-shoeing.

I don't want to date.

My books are my boyfriend. For the first time in my life, I really do not have a man and it feels very exhilarating. I sleep when I want, I go home when I want, I wear dresses and sweatshirts together as I lounge around my apartment, order extra dessert and a glass of wine, work out at odd times, wake up at 8 AM to read, take Sunday naps, have my girlfriends sleep over, talk on the phone all night long, write letters to family, send flowers to my aunt, twist up the comforter and use all the pillows with the space heater firmly pointed towards me and me alone while the window is open letting the wintry chill come blowing in.

And yet, I am in love.

I am in love with my ex and it feels great. I have no idea if we will get back together. There was a time when I thought definitely not. But now, somehow, without my permission, I am in love with him. Maybe it will pass. Maybe it will not. But for now, I get so excited when I see a text from him, think about seeing him, hear his voice. I'm not going to tell him. I couldn't possibly. We didn't end all that well and he has a lot of pain and so do I. Well, I think I've let go of mine. In the meantime, I check my phone and jump up and down like a Jack In The Box when he contacts me. I walk around singing the tunes in my iPod. We don't have plans, we don't have a date, we don't have anything. I'm still absolutely and utterly in love with him.

I'm not really sure how this works. In new, fluttering infatuation and love? With an I-never-care-to-see-you-again-ex? Who I'm not even dating at the moment? All very confusing. Only a crazy person like me would find herself in this position. I figure there's no point in doing anything about it. My life is perfect, just the way it is, without him really being in it too much. If it's meant to be I will just have to have faith. Perhaps he will come to me. Maybe he will be ready to someday. Maybe the shimmer that has come over me is so great, is so powerful, that I can aim it on him from afar and blow it in a big whoosh and have it whip him in the face. And perhaps then he will ask me out again. If he does, I will say yes immediately.

Until then? I don't know how to be in love. It's confusing as all hell. But it feels good, and so, I won't be rocking this (I am totally bananas) boat.

I'll keep you updated should anything change. For now, I'm off to look at old pictures of us while taking up all the room possible in my bed, just the way I like it, which is leaving no room for him in there at all.


Tuesday, November 02, 2010

I'm Having A Dinner Party...

I hosted a cupcake and champagne party that went smashingly. Now I have a real dinner party and the last time I did that I made a crazy amazing bouef bourgignon.

These are the same kids invited this time, I can't make that twice.

I did like how there was a lot of different stuff in one bowl, and it was rich and very winter-friendly. There was a whole bottle of wine poured in and it steeped the meat until it fell away from the fork. You could cut it with a spoon and the carrots were juicy, the potatoes sopped up with rich, buttery, runoff from the meat and vegetables and wine. Oh man, it was gooooood.

I'm thinking beef again (filet? rubbed with butter and salt and pepper and roasted?) or lamb (loin? marinated? crusted?) this time, with lots of stuff--I dunno, olives or sage or tons of garlic and lemon and crispy potatoes. But I'm not sure what I should make, and what would be big, hearty and delicious and not overpower whatever anyone else will bring. But still be the showpiece...

Any suggestions? I would be so excited to hear your crowd-pleasing dinner party mains!

Monday, November 01, 2010

I'd Rather Be Watching Freaks and Geeks

That post below about the break-up? They're back together. Screaming, crying, one obsessed with the other while the other is just obsessed with himself, back together. Le sigh. I did all that I could. I was a good friend. But there is no telling anyone, especially two anyones who have no damn business in the world being together, that they might want to take a break from one another so they can breathe and rest their throats sore from wailing.

I think I have decided that I am not dating right now. It was halfway between the second and third 4-page letter I read for two different sets of 'break-up no wait fake-up' friends. It was between getting a text of "hey baby" and not realizing who it was from, from two different numbers not saved in my phone this weekend. It was between my London crush coming to visit and wanting to hang out with the sole purpose of making out and seeing nothing wrong when I was put-off and then going back to his adorably flirty emails once he was home, between the boy who lives with his girlfriend who begged to have a sleepover with me, the guy who's asked me out four times and I've canceled every time last minute, the date who told me I had a nice "tushie," the date who ended up having a kid, the guy I thought I could love after two dates who then got deported. I don't date online, I don't blind date, I don't get set up. But I meet a lot of good-looking weirdos. And I have a lot of friends who wade through a lot of relationship crap.

I kind of don't want to be around it this winter. I want to eat whoopie pies and go to yoga, I want to lie on the couch drinking pink lemonade all Sunday, I want to shop for boots all Saturday, I want to go out every night and have none of them be a date, I want to pay for my own drink, I want to split an appetizer with three girlfriends, I want to go to a concert and not get hit on, I want to not wear something low-cut, I want to read, I want to write, I want to dance in my underwear in my apartment.

Someday I might do those things with someone else. For now I've got my favorite sweater and my exes sweet messages once in a while and two jobs and school and dance class and a whole lot of Freaks and Geeks on television.

Not bad for a Monday. A non-dating Monday, and without a prospect in sight. It feels kind of amazing. Next up: a cooking class, re-organizing my closet, trapeze lessons, a trip to France, painting, drawing, singing, or anything else...

Sunday, October 03, 2010

The Break-Up

There was a huge fight. Dozens of hours of crying. Awful words exchanged. Now Sunday night, all parties are exhausted. Plans were made and canceled. Doors slammed. Things thrown.

I've cleaned my apartment, done laundry, fluffed pillows, ordered a ton of Thai food and have the mindless television on full blast. The nice, warm lights are on, my comfy sweater is wrapped around me, and I sit on the couch waiting for the phone to buzz.

It's called a break-up. And for once it's not mine. Anabella is coming over for a sleepover, and a cryfest, and I am here for her in this horrible time. I love her, she loves him, and this is what happens sometimes. I'm the one saying the words of wisdom this time. We will see if when I say it to her it's more helpful than when she said it to me.

Wish us luck...

Friday, September 24, 2010

The Writing Sanctuary

"Today we begin Session One, Class One of our MASTER NOVEL class. This is a writing sanctuary. A safe place to try new things, to make mistakes, to get our hands dirty with revisions, and to cheer each other on. We're here for the supreme and delicious goal of getting your novels into publication shape -- no small thing. And we're up to it.

Here's how I picture our sanctuary -- and feel free to add details and images of your own. Even share them on the board, if you like.
Right now there is a little twisty road in the country. We come to it at night, early on a winter's evening, just as darkness falls. At the end of the road is a cozy almost storybook house with arched doorways, stained glass windows, and a light burning in the study window.

You run up six brick and tile steps, aware, though all you can see are shadows, that you on the grounds of a rather elegant estate. You have a key to the arched front door, and you put your coat on the coat rack in the hallway, and grab up your portfolio of pages, because you hear voices from the study to your left.
This is where we meet. There's a fire going in the hearth, lots of worn leather chairs and love seats where you can curl up. You have a favorite place. Set your papers on your chair, and help yourself to wine, or tea or coffee -- or even a glass of champagne if you can keep your thoughts focused. Curl up in your chair -- there's a small table there for your drink. And now we begin..."

I like UCLA's 9 Month Master Class Program to read...have a wonderful weekend...

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Dessert Party Planning

As my new apartment is shaping up--the chandeliers with dimmer bulbs and industrial steel shelves in the bathrooms to house a collection of pretty perfumes and swirled compacts I never use, a tiny gold statue of Buddha I got in Japan, a vase, Sephora bags and sweet-smelling soaps, the leather seats on the brushed nickel stools, the pump to turn the coffee table into a fountain--I have finally decided how I am going to celebrate my birthday. The second birthday since I've had boyfriends where I have no boyfriend.

I'm having a dessert party, and I mean great desserts. I want red velvet, I want cheesecake, I want double fudge, I want apple pie. I'm going to buy it all--cupcakes, cream frosting, chocolate chips and most of all, champagne. Bottles and bottles of champagne and I'm only inviting girls over. It will be a Friday night and it will be girls and desserts and bubbly and I will light candles and wear a party dress and the world will be right.

Now I just need to figure out where to get all this stuff without breaking the bank. Am I allowed to bake a frozen Sara Lee dessert if I throw away the box?

Monday, September 20, 2010


I did it again. I overextended. I have dance class Mondays (6-8) and Tuesdays (8-10) and my young adult fiction class Thursdays (6:30-10) as well as my two jobs every day (9-6 and then a few hours here and there after work), and I just was re-accepted (I bailed last year) to UCLA's Low Residency Master Class for the novel I now loathe.

It is very expensive and time consuming but I must take it, I think. It's for nine months and it's the closest thing I can have to working and being in school at the same time. Except I am finding that now I can never do anything during the week with anyone. I don't think this is bad as it pushes plans to the weekend which I always like filled and eliminates having too many drinks on a Tuesday, for Wednesday morning at work. But it has begun to be the case that someone will want to get together and my answer all the time is "I can't during the week." Whether it's a friend or a date, I just can't do it. I don't want to. Wednesday is my day to do anything, and I like to just come home and grocery shop and clean (or think of these things while watching T.V. in my underwear, split the difference). I am being kind of selfish with my time, but I suppose you have to be when you're writing two books and trying to stay in shape and trying to save money and trying to do a good job at your jobs.

Now the question. I am truly busy. And there is someone who wants to hang out with me. A set-up actually. I have been set up once before and it was wildly good, we actually ended up dating for five years. I remember looking through our college look book and there were two gentlemen with the name of my to-be date for the formal. There was one who was hot and there was one who wasn't. Somehow luck shined on me and I got the hot one. We started dating that night.

So, the set-up. I have seen his picture and just think "eh." I have seen his texts and they just aren't my style. I want to like him, but I already know this isn't going anywhere. And I actually am busy. Even if there was a guy that I liked I don't think I could slot him in any time that isn't the weekend. And now that I have this schedule, it seems weird to set up weekend plans with someone who I know it won't go any further with. A waste of my time and his. People tell me just to go, but I don't wanna. I don't want a free meal or drink. I don't need to "get back out there." I've had my share of flings since my break up and believe I got that mess out of my system. Now it's fall and I have a new apartment and a million new classes and a crazy schedule and I want to see my friends or take time to breathe on my own. I'm not interested in dating unless it falls in my lap. This set-up was done without me doing anything, and it fell in my lap for sure. But I am not feeling it.

What is the appropriate thing to do in this situation? See him once and then tell him no more? It seems unusually cruel not to at least see him. But I can't see him during the week. And weekend nights are so precious, why should I waste my time and his scheduling a Saturday night dinner when I know (and sometimes you just know, don't you?) that we aren't going to date...

Etiquette question today that needs advice...

Saturday, September 11, 2010

I Just Said Goodbye

I am a person who usually cannot say goodbye to people. I feel too much, I miss too much, I love too much, I believe, deep down, that I have the unspoken power to crush someone with all this emotion, like I am a giant child, grabbing tight and holding long, I can't feel someone beneath me push away until they are gone.

I don't know where I got this from. It takes a long time for someone to get my affection, but when they have it, they pretty much have it forever.

I feel this way about my ex. I love him. I miss him. We are not right for one another, this is clear. But I feel so strongly about him, and he does about me (so he says). But we are who we are. People do not change, not really. We can't get to a new place. We've been officially broken up for nearly six months, but we are still going through it, all the time. It's the longest I've ever been semi-single, and I have enjoyed much of it and been undeniably broken for some of it. We are still texting, still calling, still say that we love one another, still make plans, still break plans, but we are not together, and we are with other people much, much more than we are ever with each other. This, friends, is brutal.

I can't do it any more, it's not me being single properly, it's not me moving forward. It's a new season, a new apartment, and unless he wants to try to fix things and does something remarkably different instead of continuing to prey upon the fact that he knows I love him deeply and simply dip his foot in when he wants to and takes it out when he wants to, I've got to say a real goodbye.

I just sent the email, it was three lines long. It said I loved him too much to keep doing this halfway, so please do not contact me any more. And it said bye. Now I'm going to clean my room and go be in a wedding and not care that I don't have a date.

I'm me, and that will have to be enough this time.