The New Phase

I like it cause it's hard.

2010-01-25T09:01:00.000-08:00

Teamwork

2009-09-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

So today I was at Barnes & Noble in Union square looking to pick up some books for the away shoot that I will be on for the next five weeks. I decided to casually browse around for an hour even though I knew that I was eventually just going to pick up some more Eggers or Didion. By the time I got to the third floor I had worked up an appetite. I noticed the cafe with all of its delectable little pastries, and I thought that I would just quickly browse around and then head over to get a sweet treat.

I then noticed that I had stumbled into: THE CRAZY DIET BOOK SECTION!

1. I saw a diet book that swore by maple syrup and lemon water...hello Lindsey, Nichole, Mary Kate and Ashley. Your secret is out!

2. I was no longer hungry but felt guilty for wanting to eat amongst all these "thinner, leaner, lighter, the only way you will find a mate is if you almost look like your starving" books.

3. Who was the moron that put the diet book section right outside the cafe?

For real? Does Barnes & Noble actually want to sell any of its sweet treats? Cause they should really consider putting the diet books in the basement. Then I got to thinking...

Who designed the layout...cause I would put money on it that it was a man.

Let me just preface this by saying: I am not a man-hater.

I gots to thinkin' about teamwork. I bet it wasn't just one man who decided to put the diet books next to the cafe, I bet it was a team of men. It's not there fault that they don't think like women. They can't. It's impossible! But for real lay-out-designery-type-peeps, put a woman on the team! Or put two, I guarantee that if we different sexes can work together we won't have a diet book/cafe adjacent issue again. And then I will be able to enjoy a damn cookie without feeling like a Heffer cow.

Teamwork.

This is why I'm single

2009-09-03T21:40:00.001-07:00

Dear boy missing BVD's,

Thank you for depositing your darling underwear in my building hallway. You have a really small butt! I think your underwear is the same size as the underwear that I used to wear circa 1992. I guess that I'm not the best bar of comparison however. But really I bet you are hungry, we do live in Bushwick where all the hungry artists live. Here's some advice; don't skip lunch tomorrow to buy paint. Instead skip lunch to buy some new undies!

Also thank you for reminding me why I am single, because as disgusting as your underwear is in my hallway I might be more traumatized by seeing you in it!

Much love your gladly single, hispter-man-less neighbor in 307.

The New Alternative to Plastic Surgery

2009-08-26T08:06:00.000-07:00

Actually I think it just makes you lighter? Less change in the wallet = less LBS.

Nice try West Village coffee shop...you almost had me.

Faaav Graffito of the Week.

2009-08-23T16:43:00.000-07:00

These guys have appeared all over the hood lately, and there is a humongous one outside our windows that I just love to death. They make me wax nostalgic about the Sesame Street space aliens that Kermit would interview in his cute khaki "News Caster Kermie" outfit.

"Yup yup yup yup yupyupyupyup...No no no nonono nopenopenopenope nope."

The Living Room

2009-08-22T10:46:00.000-07:00

While I was strolling around Union Square on my day off I found myself sauntering up to two adorable old men.

Picture 80-something grandfather types. They had their suspenders, and their dandy Easter Sunday looking straw hats with piped ribbon just above the brim. Their shirts were tucked into their adorable Docker shorts that were pulled far too high. Each of them carried their own lawn chair as they waddled slowly down University towards 14th street.

Besides their adorably un-dapper attire I couldn't help but listen to their rich Long Island accents as these two old fogies strolled into New York's Living room, Union Square.

Taller Old Man: "So you'll never believe this."

Short Old Man: "Whaaaaaaauuuuuttttt?"

T.O.M.: " It was only fouuuuurrrrteeeeen ninety fiiiiiIIIIIvvvvveeee for a year long subscription."

S.O.M.: "You're kidden me! Only fouurrrrrtttteeeennnnn ninety fiiiiIIIIIvvvveee?"

T.O.M.:"Yeah, who knew?"

S.O.M.:"A whole year?(in total disbelief.) Wow! A year subscription to Playboy for only fooouuurrrteeeeen nintey FiiiiIIIIvvvveeeee!"

T.O.M.: " It must be from all the advertisements."

S.O.M.: " Wow. A whole year. I can't imagine."

They strolled on into the park. I smiled, looked around and hoped that someone else had heard this. But I was alone in the moment. Just me and the Grandpa's, talking about Playboy in the living room.

I love New York.

Hey Hey Hey Hey! Guess What?

2009-08-17T15:54:00.000-07:00

I'm starting a new site- this (The New Phase) will stay and be all my little New York stories and anecdotes- but I think it's time to launch the new one that I have been mulling over for a while-

Vidjablog!!!!

I am going to put all my film theory and production knowledge to use! I am going to be writin' all about movies - new and old- and I want all the great and awful film suggestions I can get! Throw them at me- and yeah- get pumped- I am- I need to get my analytical mind refreshed and re-edjucated!

RO-SHAM-SPAWKLE?

2009-08-01T20:47:00.001-07:00

Lala dropped her new ring on the train tracks yesterday. It's a ring carved from an Agate, it sparkles lots and I love the sparkles.

We were so hungover when she dropped it, and the train was too close to jump down and get it and I was way too fucking scared to get it. I might be the man in our friendship, but I am not that crazy brave to jump down into an electrified death cavern covered in rat urine and trash. Plus, I hear the third rail is a doozey, and which is one is the third rail? Are we talking starboard or port side rail here? I mean God it's so confusing. ( I am very troubled.)

It was sure to be smashed. The little rock that was hatched from volcanic combustion thousands of years ago would be crushed by our modern travel device.

We got on the train and headed into the city. Sad. No more sparkle ring.

When we got home later that night Lauren had a brilliant plan. She is very creative when it comes to DIY innovation.

Lauren's Plan:

1. Get a stick (we used our painting pole since there are no trees in Bushwick.)
2.Put clear plastic J-lar tape sticky side out on the end.
3. Lower WOODEN stick into electrified cavern of train track death.
4. Try and resurrect pieces of sparkle rock ring.
5. Have burial/ceremony for ring carcass.

When we got to the tracks with our tape pole and sad faces we created quite the scene at the train plat form. Everyone wanted to know what we were poking at. One man offered to jump down and retrieve the ring, but when he looked in the direction of the train the lights were already visible in the tunnel as it approached us. He proclaimed loudly:

Loud Man: "The train is too close."

Me in my head: "Um, you are really sweet to offer to jump down and get the ring, and thank you for your help. Did you realize that your statement was awkwardly loud? Were you trying to let every woman on the platform know that you would be hero, but the train is too close? Now I have an uncomfortable expression on my face as I try and hold back my laughter at his ridiculously obvious statement. I just want to be polite...must hold back incredible desire to laugh."

The train came and the loud man got on.

Before the train doors closed another loud man poked his head out at us and said,

Loud Man II: "Do you need to get on the train?"

Me in my head:"Um, really? Did he just ask us that? Ahhhh....Confusion! Had my faces that I made to repress my laughter made me look disoriented? I did a mental bodily functionality check. 1. Are Lauren and I breathing? YES. 2. Do Lauren and I appear to have any physical ailments that would prevent us from getting on the train? NO. 3. Do Lauren and I appear to have any mental handicaps that would prevent us from understanding that when the train is in the station and the doors are open we should get on? Lauren, NO. Me, I don't think so...? "

(Pause)
(Process)

Conclusion: "There are a lot of people making really obvious statements. It's making me feel funny."

The train doors close and it pulls away and Lauren and I laugh and continue to poke the tracks with our tape stick, AKA our STAPE.

A close talking man then comes up to us, assess the situation and then looming over me about half an inch from my face says,

Close Talker Man: "Just when you get really frustrated and you are about to give up. That's when you take a little break, and go back again and that's when it will work."

Me in my head: "Okay that was good advice, really applicable to NEW YORK in EVERY WAY! Thank you, but why you gotta get so freaky close to my face?"

The train came and he got on. We poked around with the Stape. Suddenly, we grabbed it! The PWETTY SPAWKLE WRING! IN ONE PIECE! We jumped up and down hysterically on the platform.

Conclusion:

Thousands of year old sparkle rock could not be crushed by modern man made machine. Thousands of years of evolution show very little improvement of cave man. Thousands of years of evolution show improvement in women who have access to innovative tools like tape and stick. Evolutionary Ro-Sham-Bo winner?

Man beats sparkle rock with invention of machine. Woman beats man plan with invention of Stape. BUT, sparkle rock defies man's machine.

Sparkle rock wins.

Me in my head: " I should learn how to be like the sparkle rock and defy the man."

The Overs

2009-07-12T09:37:00.001-07:00

I am over wanting commitment.

It is not longer something that I want, but something that I NEED.

It's like I am racing towards being forty years old so I can have other forty year old friends who will actually commit to doing fun things.

I am in the process of trying to start a writing group, so that we can all help workshop each others work and perhaps make our movies together.

No one can commit.

I know all too well it is not about having time, but making time. So people make some time if you want to really invest,create and direct your future...come on people!

So now I am trying to pick a restaurant from the New York Mag website, so that I can break up with my boyfriend, who can't seem to make time for me, in a place that I won't ever want to go back to.

How does one choose a restaurant they never want to go back to? A place where they can plan to create bad memories?

Knowing my luck I will end up on set there in a few weeks shooting a break-up scene for 14 hours in the restaurant that I really broke up in.

Maybe this is all a product of my own hyper-planning issues. I plan creativity and I am in the process of actively planning my break up.

Does everyone do this? OR do I need to put my "life by the hour" excel spreadsheets away?

I am over no commitment. I am over "no time." I want to be over my planning insanity.
Just really fucking over it.

What would the world be like if I stopped planning my life...and trying to plan everyone else's?

Fire Time Stories

2009-07-09T19:17:00.000-07:00

" Few shared my place of origin or the events of my life, but many, it seems, shared my experience. Listening to their stories, I came to understand how women can be isolated by circumstances as well as by distance, and how our experiences, though geographically distinct, often translated into the same feelings. Away from the physical presence of my past, I found it easy to argue that what mattered most was the story, the truth of what we tell ourselves, the versions we pass along to our daughters."

-Judy Blunt excerpt from Breaking Clean

I went to Boston for two hours yesterday. One of my closest childhood friends came home from a year and half long voyage on a tall ship. She sailed the entire Atlantic Ocean. She saw the west coast of Europe and Africa. She saw South America and the Caribbean. I saw her last a year and a half ago right before she left. We never spoke ONCE the entire time that she was away.

In the train station, the T red line, on my way to see her, a man was playing one of our favorite songs.

John Denver, Country Roads.

I had a hard time finding her stupid boat. And she wouldn't answer her stupid Blackberry. Which is really stupid when there are one thousand big boats in Boston and lots of water and lots of harbor. I found her. Her boat was parked on Warren Street.

I should have guessed.

We grew up at summer camp together. Just like our fathers did a generation before us.

It was called Camp Warren.

I was less mad about how hard it was to find her, and realized it was my stupid fault for not looking up her pier on the internet before I made the four hour trek to Boston.

I would have stayed longer than two hours, but I had to work at 5am the next day.

Work trumps time to connect...

We still connected. After a year and a half of zero communication Sarah and I sat on a giant anchor on the corner of Warren and Constitution, smoked cigarettes, and relished the time that we had.

We come from the same story, Sarah and I. It's easy for us to connect. Sarah's mom was always sick growing up. She had a body sickness, MS, that made her unable to walk for as long as I can remember. Eventually it made her unable to move at all, but her mind was always alive. Right until the very end.

My mom had a mind sickness, Manic Depression, that made it hard for her to be level. She was happy, fun, exciting and really crazy. Or she was alone, quiet, sad and vacant. She always meant well. She still does, but the doctors and the pills and the alcohol took some of her away. Even still, she is not who I remember playing ponies with when I was 5.

For a long time I thought that Sarah was the only person who shared this with me.

The "mother sickness."

Sarah talked about sailing, and the politics of the boat. She talked about wanting to quit. She mentioned wanting to leave the boat after three months.She talked about the beauty of morning dips in the Caribbean. She talked about the cut-throat competition from one mate to the next. How hard it is to work together and against each other at the same time. In one moment to feel like a teammate and the enemy.

I talked about "the business." How lucky I had been. How hard it has been. How much of a fight against my peers and friends it has been and still is. How much pressure there is. I talked about the politics and the men. I talked about how working on set feels like being the only woman in a 1940's WWII platoon. I talked about how my femininity is worshiped and resented in the same moment.

In a week Sarah and I will be both be back at camp. We will be at Warren, at home. Where the community works together. Where all competition ends in a "Camp Warren Tie." Where gender is just apart of who you are. We will be back with our self made family. The place that we both went every summer for nearly 18 years, after nine months of coping with childhood, or adolescence or our sick mothers. It is where we would both go after not speaking for nine months to instantly reconnect.

Even though the distance between us was sometimes so great, and the Minnesota winter had been frigid and isolating. The first night at camp we would sit around a fire and tell the stories that we were ready to tell. Sometimes we would tell the stories we never thought we would be able to tell, and sometimes we told stories that we never even knew were in us.

To Sarah, and the other exceptional half dozen people that are in my life.

No matter what port you come from. No matter what mid-western city or northern hide-away you walk out of, or metropolis, or foreign nation you or I come out of next week, I cannot wait to sit around the fire and share stories.

It is your stories that you have passed along to me that have made my life connected, and devoid of a separation from love.

I am so glad that I will be able to share you and our stories with our daughters...

someday.

Witness Protection Program Failure

2009-06-25T13:06:00.000-07:00

Last November I decided that I was going into hiding. I was unable to reveal this secret to anyone. It would have defeated the purpose of my clandestine plan. A plan so elaborate and well constructed that it was kept even from my own consciousness until very recently. Now that the plan has unraveled only now can I share it.

I had to start small, and activate the plan slowly. I had to be precise and discreet. No one could know what I was doing and why. So I made things up, things that appeared logical to me and the outside world.

First I needed to blend in. I took a note from Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the Enemy and I devised a more natural look so that I could easily fall into the darker back drop of New York City.

Phase one of Operation Witness Protection Plan was underway. No one would notice me now that I had shed all my dashing blond locks. I looked just like another Jewish/Italian/not Scandinavian New York/New Jersey/bridge and tunnel transplant girl.

When everyone asked why I colored my hair I came up with a variety of "non crazy sounding" reasons.

1." I am going to Italy and I don't want to be hounded." This in fact did prove to be beneficial for my trip. My other blond friend was hounded, and I was left alone, in hiding. Just like I had planned.

2. "Men don't like to hire women who look like Britney Spears." I took on the whole "Nanny Theory." The theory being that one should never go to a baby sitting interview looking more attractive than a 30-something recent mother might look. No woman in her right mind would hire someone who might be capable of running off with her husband. In the same vein, why would any man hire a woman who is more attractive than his wife? Being on set with a more attractive woman for 18 hours does not a healthy marriage make.

Looking ugly is in right now anyway, the American Apparel adds tell me so. Gaunt, underage, and weird hair are the trend. So I can deal with looking a little more like Sarah Plain and Tall at least I don't look like the weirdos in my hood.

Next I realized that everyone knew where I lived. An apartment in such a central location of hipness, in the heart of mega-hot Williamsburg, complete with a private garden could not be hidden for long. Everyone I knew/know/and will know someday has practically already been there. My secret layer, even though it was off the street and separated from the outside world by a cavernous little causeway, and sometimes protected by rabid squirrels who had gotten caught in the narrow space has/had/and would be discovered by...well by "the invader." I had to get out. My bodyguard,who shall remain nameless, but she is small, spry and from Minnesota. Don't even attempt to find me or she will have to take action, NOT IN YOUR BEST INTEREST.

Anyway, my bodyguard and I found a new secret abode, higher up and with much better surveillance options so that we can always see who is/what is/or what will be lurking just outside our layer.

The final step was selective community enhancement. I had to maintain only the most exceptional people in my life and casually delete the remainder.

I changed my phone number. Now the phone worked one way in my favor. I had everyone's number and no one had mine!

With a Westchester area code, a Brooklyn zip code and dirty Jersey hair I would never be found.

Or so I thought...

I am not sure that I have the privilege/right/or patience to harp on this any longer. But he found me in the matter of two weeks.

Personal Witness Protection Plan Failure!

In one visit from Los Angles to New York he was able to: work for my biggest client, have dinner with my current boyfriend, party with my best friend, meet up with my bodyguard for drinks, and throw a party with all of "our" friends, "our" old community, "our" old life together.

Rumor has it that he was still the same. Minus the chain smoking.

He is frenetic. Lost. He lives with people and closes the door on them every night . His family is a wreck. He ignored everyone at the party that he threw for all "our" friends and engaged only in business talk with a potential client. I was asked about at the party, my current life events were exchanged like a scrolling ticker tape from one friend to the next. Like Palo's life events have been whispered to me in telephone game format over the last few weeks. I ask. It is my fault. I want to know how he is/has been/will be.

Last messages received from Palo via mutual friend telephone game transfer:

"He would kill to see you."

"His family is a wreck, but we didn't really get into it."

It still breaks my heart. To hear that he is such an island makes me hurt. For him. For me. For anyone else who knows and loves him like I do. It just breaks me up.

I have to find a way to put that into my Personal Witness Protection Plan:

Must find safeguard for previous/current/and future heartbreaks.

Must find way to delete past/present/future

The Children vs. Mad Nik

2009-03-25T16:36:00.000-07:00

Why is it all so scary all the time?

Over the last three weeks I have launched myself into actually dating someone.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I AM DOING.

I am doing 120 in a school zone on a motorcycle. WTF? What about the children? The poor innocent children?

Oh- fuck the children- if they get in the way its their own fault.

The Children vs. Mad Nik

For all practical purposes of this blog entry let's just say that the children are the more rational, down to earth and sensible side of my brain. My little kid voices in my head are the ones that tell me to share with others. They tell me to listen carefully; to feel compassion for animals. They tell me to always include everyone. They don't let me worry about tomorrow, or next week or next year. They only let me worry about what I will have for snack, and if there will be some sort of nightgame-like activity at dusk. My innocent little voices in my head are harmonious. Play time is all they are really concerned about.

The innocent voices in my head are also the most cautious and concious side of myself as well. They tell me to love people but don't let them get too close. Too close = too scary. My little voices tell me to be afraid. To take caution, and if I get too scared to sleep with the light on.

The biggest of the tiny voices have been telling me for the last two years to stay away from boys. They tell me that they are gross, slimy and they are only interested in wrestling me to the ground to kiss me and nothing else.

I think the biggest of the tiny voices chant: MEN ARE BULLSHIT in high pitched, airy, whimsicle voices while I sleep at night. It is the only time of day that they can get away with such profanity, in my subconcious REM sleep state.

The tiny voices are fighting Mad Nik.

Mad Nik is still blond.
Mad Nik wears a black cat suit.
Mad Nik rides a motorcycle. BMW- Black-Vintage-Lots-o-Trouble.
Mad Nik doesn't really care what the sweet little voices in her head tell her. She doesn't really care about men, she just wants to love 'em and leave 'em. She doesn't let them get too close. At least she thinks that she never gets attached when really deep down there is a small iota of Mad Nik that knows shehas been loved, been in love and wants to love. But it is easier for her to get on her bike and ride away FAST. Mad Nik is all about the party, and the scene and the people. Mad Nik has been dormant for years but I can here her beating on my doors. She never really went away. She is the lingerie in my underwear drawer. She is the hot pink glitter in my make-up bag. She is Britney Spears in my music collection. She is here, she never left, she went on hiatus when I started dating Palo in 2003.

I feel like my mind is in the middle of a holy war. Both sides of myself are so different, but both seem to agree that men are a bad idea. Like two religious groups that both believe a piece of land is sacred but for different reasons.

The Children believe men are scary.
Mad Nik believes men are material.

Where is the real me? The one who once let herself fall so madly in love that she let it consume ever corner of her life.

I am just a scardy cat to go back there. To be cosumed by emotion.

WHAT ABOUT NATE?
What are his motivations? What is he looking for? He just moved to New York. What kind of clairty can he have? He doesn't even know how to get to W4th Street. He is graduating from college in May. Palo had a massive meltdown when he graduated. It was the beginning of the end for us. Will Nate have a meltdown? Will he soon see that he has way too much going on in his own life to possibly be apart of someone else's? Maybe he is just the biggest liar ever? His kind words are blasphemus...? I am just another conquest for him? He must have some hidden agenda...? What's in it for him? Maybe my parents are paying him?

For now, Nate is safe. I love to be around him. Everything about him makes my skin shiver. I just have to stay on the road. I have to let the real nicole take the wheel, slow down, drive the limit, and wave to the kiddies as I ride through their school zone while simultaneaously turning up the radio to drown out the "MEN ARE BULLSHIT" chant coming from the childen's cherubic faces.

'Cause I am the one that is full of shit. I can do this. Nate is great.

(take deep breath here)

Orbit?

2009-03-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

So as I mentioned early I have seriously put life on a rocket ship- or a belnder- or in a black hole and I am not really sure which analogy best exemplifies what they hell has happened in the last couple weeks but I will try to explain- as I sort through the variety of things that have occurred since Feb 27th.

Feb. 27th: Spent 14 hours in transit on my way to Steamboat Colorado. First encounter with the dreaded Mr. Bj since I almost set him on fire on NYC last July. He tried to put some moves on- I shut that down. I think he was a little disapointed. I later learned that he has been with sveral of his "girlfriends" lately. Some things never change.

Feb 28- March 2: Skied blue sky days at Steamboat with the ladies. Much needed time with the gang.

March 3: One commercial gig phone call, and 30 ROCK call to finish the season on their camera team. Quit my job at CSC Arriflex.

March 6: Last day at Arri. Cried and partied really hard. Took a cab home with Jammer- he almost puked in the cab- hysterical situation- had to pull over- really embarassing.

March 7: Lala's sister and her fiance came over with a short bus to help us move all our stuff to our new loft in Bushwick. We did it in four trips. They my hero's. Our lives in the new place are still a total disaster. But the space will be amazing when we finish it.

March 9: Started new job at 30 ROCK. Got my ass handed to me. I have never made so many mistakes in one day. I learned that I almost always do things wrong the first time and will do them right the second time, after I have been repremanded.

March 13: Had drinks with Jammer and Nate after wrap. Needed to see my Arri boys after a long week without them. Nate walked me home, we held hands. I have had a crush on him for a few months now.

March 14: Man team came over to the apt to help us with some projects. Nate spent the night.

March 17: Wrapped 30 ROCK. On this day one year ago I started my job at Arri. Strange.

March 18 to the present: Building walls, installing kitchens, tearing up carpet, lots of painting and good times with Lala and gettting to know Nate better. Lala and I are starting a Vlog. Stayed tuned for Vlog info.

I am in total outer space- and survival mode- and a state of bliss that I have not experienced in YEARS. All such great changes all at once, maybe I finally worked off all of my bad karma from cheating on all those boyfriends of mine. I learned my lesson.

Cheating = really fucking bad Karma for 3 years.

When I mentioned landing in the last blog blurb- of course my wise friend Em says:

"Maybe you don't want to land"

I think that she is right. Maybe my little self space station is finally ready for real inter-galaxy exploration. I think that I am trying to go way more self sustainable than ever before. For now it seems to be working- I am going to take her advice and try to stay in orbit. And maybe I will even leave the orbit of my comfort zone is this galaxy for a little while and see what else the universe has in store for me.

I put my life on a rocket ship...

2009-03-15T16:39:00.000-07:00

NEW PHASE like WHOA in the last two weeks of my life. I went to Steamboat, came back, quit my job, moved into a 1,000 sq foot loft, started working on 30 ROCK and making out with a new man...

I feel like I put my life on a rocket ship...and I have no idea where the hell I am going to land.

Glass Filters and Heavy Things

2009-02-14T19:45:00.001-08:00

Spaceship Mayday, Focus System Threat

2009-02-14T16:22:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to my friend MHR.

At my place of work we have hundreds of blue buckets. We use them to sort out camera gear upon return from a shoot. In one bucket go the focus systems and anything with a screw and a joint. In another bucket go the glass filters. In the last bucket go the heavy things.

My friend Mike once told me that some professor's or great minds of the world view the human brain like a bucket. The mind begins empty, waiting to fulfill its purpose. It waits to be stuffed full of junk. It is vast and endless, like a sink hole that holds bits of knowledge, fun facts and best of all (according to Mike) history. If Mike is right, and my mind is like a blue bin, what are my focus systems and anything with a screw and a joint, my glass filters, and my heavy things?

What does my history bucket look like?

Focus system and anything with a screw or a joint in it:

Most mornings I walk out my front door and board the 7:15am L train feeling like I am getting on a NASA space ship. Myself and the rest of the early morning crew are shuttled off to work like being carted out to the runway to prepare for take off. As I breeze through the doubled paned glass doors at work I get this overwhelming feeling of uncertainty. I am groggy, a little disgruntled, and tired of the tedium. Then suddenly my boss hands me a job that reads like a film nerds technical catastrophe. I feel like I have just been named captain of the space shuttle by some glitch in the system. Taking off in T-minus one hour.

Shit.
I
barely
got
through
the
rocket
science
instruction
manual
on
the
way
to
the
office.
Shit.

My life is like a rocket. Not really like rocket science. How in the hell am I supposed to stay focused? Maybe if I just press the big green button that says 'GO' the take off will be smooth? I kinda did hit that when I moved to New York. I hit the big green 'GO' button back in the summer of 2007 launching myself from Boulder, Colorado into a whole new level of the atmosphere. Needless to say the take off still commences, it is really turbulent, and at least once a day I have to use my left hand to hold my right hand back from hitting the red 'EJECT' button. I am so tousled from all the turbulence that the two halves of my body and hemispheres of my brain are fighting each other.

Over lunch with Mike this week he told me about the brain. He says, and I know he is quoting some smart person's work that I cannot remember, none the less, he says:

"The brain is one entity, but each half operates independently from the other. Different activities satisfy separate parts of the brain. "

He is a historian, and a raft guide. He is most happy when he is using his body to propel a raft down the river, while also dishing out fun facts about the canyons that surround himself and his group. He is using both halves of his brain, and appeasing each side by doing very different things. He is full, he is whole, he is utilizing the best of both hemispheres. He feels complete in those moments.

Meanwhile I am still stuck in an unknown layer of the atmosphere, on a spaceship to somewhere while trying to get both of my hemispheres to work together. Lost much?

FOCUS?

I am trying to focus on my betterment. On my health and well being. On doing what is best for me at this moment. But really I am just feeling jiggly. My head it jiggly wondering if I will ever actually get to freelance full time? Will anyone ever call me to work on a movie? Will the economy ever make a comeback so that people can afford to see movies? Will I ever get to make another movie of my own? Will I ever be able to afford a gym membership so that my ass will be less jiggly? If my ass is jiggly will I ever find a man that will love me even if I have a jiggly ass? NO MORE JIGGLE! I want to throw on a straight jacket and duck tape my ass to the space shuttle cockpit seat so that at least I can be in sync with the jiggle.

Maybe that is what life is all about. Not fighting the turbulence, but rather riding the rhythm. Like riding a horse bareback, if I fight the motion I will fall off, but if I connect and make myself one with the horse we will fly.

I must stop fighting my emotions. I can only take off, and focus, if I let go of hiding from how I really feel. It's hard to get back on the horse again after I have been off the openly emotional wagon since I quit summer camp.

My life is not perfect.
That is okay.
My life is not always happy.
That is okay.
I am not always happy.
It is okay.
I cannot only talk to my blog about how I feel.
Voice on voice action is okay.

maybe i will have to start with a whisper. but i really should start. or else i may not be able to keep myself screwed and jointed together, in which case i will end up in the red bucket at work.

RED BUCKET: IRREPARABLE INVENTORY, PLEASE NOTE: MAKE, MODEL AND SERIAL NUMBER. SEND TO ARRIFLEX CAMERA HEADQUARTERS FOR REPLACEMENT.

just focus on letting it out. and let it go.

thank you for being at lunch mhr, for listening, and being in the right place when I needed it most, you always have great bits of emotional wisdom for my bucket. i am hoping to squeeze out a tear soon for no reason at all accept that i think i need to.

38 Things Technology Has Shown Me

2009-02-04T19:15:00.001-08:00

Technology is a really magnificent creation. I recently joined the droves of the technologically plugged in by purchasing my first iPhone. I now live a life of ease. Text messaging has become simple, no more frustrating T9 word to deal with. I can check my email at any moment, and my phone sounds an adorable little ding when I have received a new little note. Best of all I have total access to Facebook.

Technology sucks. Remember when break ups were simple and uncomplicated? That is at least they were somewhat easy to get away from. It used to be so much simpler to cut ties. Remember before the cell phone age when it was pretty damn difficult to get a hold of someone? Before the internet the only way to get a status update was if the ex left a voice message on the old fashioned magnetic tape answering machine. Even back then there was the occasional message that I saved from some guy I would never see again. Back in the day it was always easy for me to delete ex-messages from my answering machine; that may also be because I was 18 the last time that I owned one an answering machine. I don’t think that I had actually fallen in love yet either.

Now with Facebook and Twitter there is a constant feed.

“Palo is moving to Califonia.”

“Palo is working on some great commercial”

“Palo is now friends with some hot ass twenty year old blonde fetus girl who posts videos of him on her Facebook page.”

Okay so maybe I have done a little hunting around since Palo and I were never Facebook friends. (That should have been a red flag after four years). I have established my insanity in previous entries so I take no issue admitting that I am totally nuts. It is complete S&M to secretly check on him.

Last week my boss told me that I need to let go…

I have successfully blocked Palo from the following:

My Gmail
My iPhone
My iChat
My iCal

But I cannot seem to take the next step and block him from my Facebook. And upon my latest search I noticed on the left hand side of the screen a connection that I cannot block:

“You and Palo have 38 friends in common”

iWant my life back.

Yes, as the ultimate includer, sharer and team player I think that I just experience the ultimate torture: Death by 1,000 cuts…or rather 38 common stabs. I managed to suture Palo so deeply into my life and for what? Some bogus learning experience?

iLearned that it is dangerous to get involved.
iLearned that it is hard to share everything with someone.
iLearned that people change.

iWant to ride the train in the morning and not have something remind me of him.
iWant to go to a concert and not pretend that he is standing behind me.
iWant him to come home and lay with me.
iWant it to be like this again:

Email from Palo Summer 2006:

Amor...

Tonight for some reason I've got the urge to be, in your words,
"Lame". I don't do it very often, but now that I've had some time
away from you for the first time in a while certain thoughts have come
to mind that I think maybe I'll share...

I'm a very lucky guy...today on the way home I thought of all of our
little arguments, misunderstandings, all of the 'beef' and
frustrations between us...I thought about the idea of not being with
you, of losing what I've got with you...and well, I really didn't like
it.
You are one of a kind, you're so important to me, and I hope you know
inside in spite of all those times in which you think I don't give a
shit about you, or that youre "not important" to me because I might
not vocalize things enough, that you my dear are the greatest, truly a
fantastic find - "Me gusta"...and that though this time apart is
probably very good, I kinda wish we could put it on hold sometimes for
little bits at a time, like bedtime for instance on a night like this.
A snap of the fingers. CLICK. Oh here you are! (wouldn't that be
nice)...

So there you go, that was my dose of "lameness". I dont' think I can
handle any more than that and well I'm sure you can't either - I hope
I didn't make you "puke in your mouth a little bit". GROSS. Can't we
just say nice things sometimes? I think so, right? No puking. No
lame. Just a little honest and nicely communicated bit of truth.

-ANYWAY -

Consider this a 'check' to see if your e-mail works or not at camp, so
that if it does you might respond promptly and we can continue our
lovely e-memo's throughout the coming weeks.
A couple of reminders:
a) I need your address at camp.
b) You should send me the key to your house when you get a chance.
c) Enjoy yourself at camp, relax, and please for fucks sake be safe
ok...don't do anything stupid, don't go and get yourself struck by
lighting beneath a canoe or some shit or else you'll have serious
consequences on my behalf...oh and say hi to ally and dave for me, and
then also Ben if you see him.

love you much,

-PB

iNever thought it would come to this:

Email from Palo Spring 2007:

PS here are your concert tickets. Forget about the part that said hold one for me, i once wanted to go with you but you should actually do whatever the hell you want with them they’re yours.

Fwd: Your IMOGEN HEAP tickets are attached

iKnew he would be a heart breaker

iHad no idea it would be this hard or take this long to forget him.

Last encounter with Palo was November 2008. Union square subway station.

Next encounter with Palo, tomorrow morning when I wake up, and think about him on the train.

iLove what we were. iWish it could have held steady. iAm glad that we no longer have each other in common, and iHope we stay at 38 things in common. Maybe someday I will find someone who has 100 things in common with me. It might be a better fit.

My Strike, My Divorce and Dirty Jersey. Chunky Pam Saves!

2008-12-17T18:13:00.001-08:00

It has arrived. The wonderfully chaotic, often disappointing, stressful, dismal, and chalked full of disgusting nostalgia Holiday season. If I sound less than excited it may be because I am currently trapped in the holiday Bermuda triangle. THE AIRPORT.

What is it about the Holiday season that makes people want to couple up? Maybe I mean to ask, what is it about the holiday season that makes couples so much more noticeable? I have spent the last hour watching the most disgustingly cute couples fondle each other as if they are the only people at the airport. When in reality the airport more closely resembles my rush hour-India like-L train rides home after a 14 hour work day. It is standing room only, someone’s armpit is ripe, uncovered and a fraction of an inch from my face. And it is hard to decipher if the overwhelming smell of urine is coming from the bum four people down or the small child licking the subway pole just below me. Welcome to my reality.

Did I mention that I really do love New York?

It baffles me to think that we endure all of this insanity in the name of Jesus Christ.

Praise be to Jesus.

I don’t think that God had this kind of a travel circus in mind when he/she/it decided to have a son that was supposed to suffer for all our sins…I am pretty sure that I am suffering for my own sins in this very moment.

Throughout this Holiday season I have felt like a slightly over weight, single, somewhat undesirable twenty five year old divorcee. Sadly I have seen more action from my intimate encounters with my esthetician during Brazilian waxes in the last few months than I have with any man in the last seven months.

Yes, my crush is over. And clearly nothing came of it. He was a bridge and tunnel Jersey boy. Jersey is a long way away. He was not only physically too far away- but emotionally even further from being interested. I would always prefer a great distance between my lover, and myself but maybe Jersey wasn’t far enough? I am more like a big puddle or south of the border kind of girl. Translation: I am looking for someone who is Euro sensitive and Latin hot all in one. Everyone tells me to get rid of the list, but let’s call this a fantasy. I can live with fantasy since I have built my life around totally impractical goals. Such as an Oscar nomination and at least four houses on other continents. However, I think that I have officially decided to stop searching for the fantasy man. I am just going to roll over, lay down and count myself out of the man game for a while. At least by choice instead of by default. The strike is on.

NOTE: This blog may get very boring while the strike ensues. Read at your own risk!

I figure that if I choose to strike from dating and well frankly from men all together than I will not feel nearly as depressed about my personal affairs…or rather a lack there of.

After pouring four years into a failed relationship that I was under the impression might actually lead me down the path to marriage, which for some reason is coveted by so many women. ...? For me marriage bares a greater resemblance to a life sentence in prison, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I was pretty thrilled about meeting someone that I could see as a life long companion. The actual ceremony and declaration of matrimony is not really on my list of things to do.

List of things to do:
1. Get nominated for Oscar.
2. Buy four houses on different continents.
3. Go to sperm bank.
4. Have babies.
5. Hire hot gay Manny to take care of children while on location.

Too bad Palo ended up sucking at life. He may have enjoyed partaking in the above list as my sperm bank donor. Instead he morphed his attitude in the last year and a half of our relationship. Transforming himself into a totally self involved vagabond, while in conjunction returning to alcoholism. That pretty much would rule anyone off the sperm donor list. I have enough alcoholism in my family to begin with, I don’t think I need to add all of his poor genetics into the equation(wow that little rant was a border line psychotic episode, I think I will leave it in the entry and not edit it out. Disclaimer: I am not a nut case).

Does anyone know someone that may be willing to donate some sperm to a healthy and bound to be nominated for an Oscar Yo-Pro 6-10 years from now? Mr. Bridge and Tunnel recently said that he would have made this his dating personal add:

“Call me, Mr. Bridge and Tunnel, for beautiful healthy babies.”

Anyone who can match or top this please write me immediately.

But only if you’re serious.

Pfffffffff….Ha. I AM A LITTLE BIT OF A NUT CASE.

Returning to my thoughts on the strike. I am so tired of working at relationships with men. I already work for the man. In fact I work with about FIFTY men, and FOR all of them. There is no need to work for another. In the spirit of Christmas I should be celebrating the birth of some man-god immaculate conception creation. But since I am on strike I think that is entirely against my religion. That is why I have gone out and found myself a new savior this winter.

She is so un-classy its classy, she is so gluttonous it’s almost slimming just to watch her mow the Ho-Ho’s. Her lyrics are painfully beautiful. Best of all she objectifies men in her music videos, her dancers are reminiscent of In Living Color flygirls, but they are men. And they are the the best thing to hit Youtube gyrating and shaking since the latest Single Ladies Beyonce video. I love to watch the flyboys as they twirl around in their penguin suits complete with glossy pink cummerbunds while my savior spanks them. She even makes them wear Don Jaun Demarco masks, which I love. Because frankly, dancing dudes, I don’t want to see your face, I don’t really care what you look like I just want to watch you shake it. I think that was her whole point, and I like it…

A LOT!

My Jesus Christ this holiday season is CHUNKY PAM. (please see video side bar)

More reasons to take Chunky Pam as your Holiday Savior:

She loves her voluptuous body.
She eats everything she wants. LOTS OF TWINKIES
She has some pretty bad ass lyrics
She is so hot right now.
Her track suits kick ass.
She objectifies men. Did I already mention that?
She is disenchanted with love.
She owns her trashy bridge and tunnel self.
She has gold teeth,and a sparkly pink drumstick ice cream treat.
She is not a he, and does not work for the man. Chunky Pam is Chunky Pam.

I would love to see the MTV Celebrity Death Match of Chunky Pam vs. Jesus Christ. Jesus in his lame robe with a little rope, and Chunky Pam in a pink leopard print track suit chomping her gum with her gold teeth and sparkly glossy pink lip gloss that reminds me of the kind grandmas who live in Florida wear. Seriously who would you put your money on?

I am pretty sure that Chunky Pam could sit on Christ’s face and it would be all over. That is one more good reason to put Chunky Pam on the list of real saviors to celebrate this Holiday Season.

Perhaps this entry sounds a little dark, and lacks hope, and I have harped on optimism and hope for so long I guess there is still an iota of my being that wishes for the impossible. I want to find someone who can be my real life savior, and who I can be a savior to in return. It hit me the other day while strolling down fifth avenue and procrastination shopping for the birth of Christ day that I am searching for something Christ like. As I lip-synced my way through one of my all time favorite love songs I caught myself passionately synching:

“I know love has always scared you. Like the things under your bed. Maybe we can walk on water…”

There it was coming out of my mouth. I was lyrically conjuring the iconography that I have been denying.

I guess secretly I am a believer. At least I want to believe that I can feel weightless again. I want that effervescent, euphoric, inexplicable nearly drunken, and Dionysian emotional exchange from one person to another. I want to believe that no matter how scared I am, and no matter how difficult I find love, to believe that someone will take my hand and be able to guide me over the water to shore again. I want to be able to do that for him as well. I want to walk on water.

Whoever he is. Where ever he may be, since I clearly have no clue where to meet men or how to even interact with them anymore. Four years of dating the same man and trying to walk on water with him totally drowned all game that I once had.

Oh gosh! What would Jesus do?

Or better yet- What would Chunky Pam do?

She would probably go get some prime rib and call it a night- maybe she would call up one of her fly-boys.

I wish everyone the best Holiday season possible. Go find your savior, I found Chunky Pam, maybe you could find someone new that you never expected to be your Christ. I never expected to identify with Chunky Pam- but when I needed her most- there she was big- bad-ass and beautiful and making me laugh when I just wanted to dive into another box of peanut butter Ritz Bits. She is all that I can identify with right now…

Big Bad-Ass and Beautiful.

Go be triple B this season. Happy New Year etc…

Severance Package Settled, Divorce Finalized

2008-12-13T10:33:00.000-08:00

I have the Cutco knives and his music collection. He has the Alpaca hat I bought in Mexico and the Beethoven and Bach photo prints.

He is gone. He finally left. He doesn't live here anymore. He gave me the city. Palo gave me New York. I won the settlement. I lost him. He lost me.

Welcome to LOST. My life in LOST, which is becoming increasingly more like the TV show. Exhibit A: I live on an island, I am surrounded by men, and things on my island are so complicated that I no longer understand what is going on.

Do you see the similarities? If you are not a LOST watcher this may seem obtuse, but I promise to elaborate, which may be ineffable, but I will try. Stay tuned.

more later...

Better than bad is not good.

2008-12-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

Dating in New York reminds me of a really big pool. A really big shallow pool. Imagine trying to swim in a really shallow pool. There is a whole lot of surface, and not a lot of depth. Like so many of the men that I have encountered in New York. The whole time I am just dragging my ass across the bottom of the stucco pool looking for some deeper, more interesting waters. After a whole day of searching, or a lifetime rather, all I end up with is a chapped ass and scraped knees.

I am on strike.

To be continued...

This is drugs. This is your brain on...

2008-11-30T18:07:00.001-08:00

"This is drugs. This is your brain on drugs."

I have noticed lately that I have had trouble remembering things. I forgot my cell phone at home twice last week. I forgot to file an entire contract at work. I have been waking up at four in the morning like clockwork for a week no matter what time I go to bed. Yesterday I was making a BLT and I forgot the T.

What the hell is going on here?

It is not out of character for me to be flaky, but this is a high point of FLAKE-DOM for me. It's like I took my face, put it in a large helium inflated latex glove and inhaled my own recycled carbon dioxide and helium for a week. I have been floating around in this alternate, out-of-body, state of mind trying to figure out if I have brain cancer...or...well... a certain something that is far worse.

"This is crush. This is your brain on crush."

Yes, how frustrating. I have a mother-fucking crush. Crushes are like a life time of sexual tension and teen angst all rolled into one. That is how I feel when I'm not in the same room as him. When I am in the same room as him it's like that scene from India Jones and the Temple of Doom when that guy gets his heart ripped out of his chest by another man's bare hands and then they throw him down a huge fire pit. Yeah...it's like that. Pretty intense.

Let's examine some fun attributes of crushing:
1. He usually has no idea I exist. Especially in New York since I often develop a crush on a mysterious man in my subway car in a nano-second. Subway's...what a hot bed of sexual tension!

2. Or we can know each other very well, in fact we are often great friends. We are often so close that he never sees me as an option

3. In my experience extreme crushes are usually only on the MOST UNAVAILABLE MEN ON THE PLANET. It sucks that it often makes a man more appealing...? Why is the chase the best part?

4. Even if a crush is realized any kind of dating or involvement usually ends quickly. It is short, sweet and to the point. The fantasy is over and in most cases I quickly realize..."That ain't it."

Then it is back to the drawing board, only to be faced with the fact that another crush lies in the not so distant future. I have to go through all that agonizing, helium sucking, heart tearing dizziness all over again just to be left with no direction, no make-out session, and no hope for achieveing intimacy. I guess that is why it is called a crush...there is nothing pleasant sounding about the actual idea of being physically crushed.

As I mentioned I have been feeling a little...or a LOT dizzy from this whole thing. It really came out of nowhere, and he has all of the above nasty crush attributes: we're great friends, he's clueless, most likely more afraid of commitment than me, and has a certain too good to be true quality. I have been feeling a little mentally ill from the whole thing. I have been doing the typical insane female thing by perpetually slinging loaded questions at my psyche. If I had to put it into text it would look something like this:

My brain on crush:

"Hewaitsformeafterworktowalkmehome.Hemustlikeme.
Youdon'twaitunlessyoulikesomeone.
Butheissuperwholesome.Thatiswhatwholesomeguysdo.
Theywaitfortheirfriends.
Hewenttoamoviewithmeafterwork.
Butwearefriendsandthatiswhatfriendsdo.
Hefindsexcusestotalktome.Healwayscomestomewithquestions.
MaybehejustthinksIamsmart.
Hesmilesatmelikehelikesme.Maybeheisafraidtomakeamove?
Maybeheisafraidbecasueweworktogether?
ButIwillbegoneinthreemonths.
Nothingcouldgothatwronginthreemonths?
Igetit.He'sjustnotthatintome. Itisfine.Wecanbefriends.
Maybewecoulddate.
Ifeellikeweshouldatleasttry.
ButIreallyjustwanttomakeoutwithhim.
Ibethislipsaresoft.
Theylookreallysoft..."

Welcome to my insanity. In a total New York moment yesterday I had a huge epiphany. I was at the bar with my friend Dean spinning my crush possibilites in my head for the one-millionth time. I got up to use the ladies room and just inside the gummy dive bar swinging stall doors was the answer to all my problems. All I had to do was read the writing on the wall. Quite literally the graffito on the women's stall door staring right back at me as I hovered over the urine covered seat read:

"Mental illness is Freadom."

I give the author even more credit for their tactful spelling error. It is totally okay to be a little crazy. Infact, most people are really kinda crazy, and the ones who conceal the crazy the best are the MOST crazy. If my crush is going to make me act a little crazy, and push me to have fantasy's about making out in the elevator at work then so be it! As my mother would say, "Can't change it. Can't control it. Gotta learn to live with it."

I have been boy crazy all my life and I can't control it, and I am just going to try and embrace it. I am not really sure what this means for my crush. Most likely I will never do anything about it. I would love to roll into work in the morning and just give him one of those really full bodied, all lips kinda smooches...but you know what...it might be better to keep the fantasy. Relationships are messy. This way we can be friends and I can still have my dreams.

However, I know that if the situation presented itself I would not hesitate to pounce on my crush. After all it is always best to try the shoe on, walk around in it for a little while, see how it fits, and if it doesn't fit there is always another shoe... and another crush.

I feel much more menatally frea now...maybe my crush will ask me out for dinner...?

Pffffffff... I'm crazy.

25, 26, 27, 28...Also Known as "What Not To Do."

2008-10-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

Your mid twenties are about making one big mistake.

My recent adventures in dating, work, and life in general make me feel like I am trapped in some bizarre manage-et-toi Bermuda triangle where everyday is much more like the first day of my Freshamn year of highschool than the supossed beginning of "real adult life."

Remember that first day of Freshman year? You get up really early for the new eight a.m. start. You are all titillated and excited about the new building, new people, new boys, and the new freedoms that come with being 15 like a better allowance for good grades, days off school to cheer on your Varsity team in a state tournament game, and an innocent first crush on your homecoming date. You coif your hair, and put on way too much make-up to try and look older than you are to try and get noticed by an upper-classman, and you run out of your disheveled and magazine icon covered bedroom to join in the magical merry-go-round that you have heard about from your friends and older siblings known as HIGH SCHOOL.

My life is currently not much different. I get up way too early, in fact I have to be at work at 7:30am. I work in customer service so I meet new people everyday, sometimes much to my chagrin. I wear way too much make-up considering that I work with a bunch of dirt covered boys. My bedroom is covered in an over stimulating amount of "afforable art." I also get experiencing the pleasant new freedoms that come with being 25; like six paid vacation days per year, credit cards with high interest rates, and high risk dating. YES! THIS REAL LIFE!

Real life is like High School on 'ROIDS. (that is short for Steroids)

So, what not to do... yes I have gathered a little mental list here over the past few months of what I would like to call "The Quintessential Twenty Something Mistakes." These are eight mistakes that I have made while on my way to turning 30. That magical age when you hope that life gets a little less complicated and more solidified. I have yet to decide what really happens when 30 hits. It makes me a little nautious to think about it since all I picture are white picked fences, maternity dresses and worst of all WEDDING GOWNS!!!!

Gross.

Again the list making is a total cop-out, but I like lists, and I am all about efficiency, and well... lists are efficent.

In no particualr order: WHAT NOT TO DO! Please use my mistakes, and a few that my friends have made as a guide to a better twenty something life.

8. Moving in with your significant other. Relationships are complicated. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to take two peoples issues and stuff them under the roof of one tiny New York rental?

Mistake Classification: ISSUES MISTAKE! Don't live with your lover.

7. Do not open Banana Republic, Gap, Victoria's Secret, Target or any other kind of store credit card for the immeadiate 10% discount. It is an especially bad idea when you make $9.00 an hour and live in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I just finshed paying for my summer wardrobe, and I paid for it not once, but TWICE. I am a moron.

Mistake Classification: FINANCIAL MISTAKE! Don't buy things you can't afford.

6. Do not drink like you are in college...becasue guess what...being really drunk is not beautiful. Even though sometimes I feel a little sexier when I drink I know that I am actually a hot mess.

Mistake Classification: TRASHY MISTAKE! Don't get hammered.

5. Do not drink like you are in college...I just keep getting fatter.
EPIPHANY! Alcohol = Empty Calories.

Mistake Classification: FAT MISTAKE! Don't get hammered.

4. Do not eat like you did when you were in college. I used to finish ski practice and sit down with what my roomates at the time reffered to as my "meal in a bucket." Yes, it was a 12 pound plastic container of Pilsbury Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough. I never gained a pound...perhaps that was becasue I was working out two hours a day and instructing white water kyacking twice a week...yeah I am just a tad bit more sedentary now.

Mistake Classification: CELLULITE MISTAKE! Take care of your body.

3. Before I left for college my freshman year my best friend told me, "The Golden Rule to freshman year is do not hook up with anyone in your building, and especially not on your floor." Well...let me see here. I managed to make-out with the guy down the hall within my first 48hours college. Currently, I have managed to date two men in my industry in the last eight months, both were brief and have caused some discomfort at work.

Mistake Classification: AWKWARD MISTAKE! Don't shit on your home or your work.

2. Don't be the wedding hook up girl. Doing this is the new form of what used to be the "house party hook up" in college. Causal permiscuious affairs were fun in college. But now I am all grown up and have something called self respect. One night stands are not as fun as they used to be.

Mistake Classificaion: WRAPPED UP IN THE MOMENT MISTAKE! Love your body.

1. When you break up with someone try to keep it that way. I have gone back and forth for nearly two years with Palo. Let me tell you it has been a giant waste of time, I feel like a fucking hamster spinning on a wheel to no-where. I would like to believe that I am smarter than a rodent. I feel like I have tried everything to get rid of him. Well I have a new REAL crush (update coming in the "Am I Handicapped" blog entry) and I might be able to shake him, but please take some advice from Paul Simon, "The answer is easy if you take it logically...you need a new plan Stan."

Mistake Classification: 50 WAYS TO LEAVE YOUR LOVER MISTAKE! Love yourself more.

Love yourself more. Own yourself. Love yourself. Own it all...

'cause you don't need to be coy Roy... just listen to me...

or YOU.

An (im)partial review

2008-09-21T17:32:00.000-07:00

This is my forth attempt at writing this entry. Each previous entry I refrained from finishing; or was too moved in a multitude of ways to even impart, in a coherent manner, the last quarter and year of my life. For the lack of a better way to say it:

being in your mid-twenties is fucking hard.

I realize that profanity is the absence of language, but I feel that there are few other words that roll off the page, tongue or anything else like a good FUCK.

The hardest part of this New Phase, is that all that is old must be re-assessed. Much like after purchasing a new fall wardrobe. You have to leaf through the old loved, cherished and much worn sweaters. This always makes me think of the circa 1999 Gap sweaters. Remember those? Remember when it was the hot thing to get the Gap holiday season sweater every year? I had the bright green sparkly one with darker green snow flakes. They came in a variety of colors and I am a little shocked that I did not go for the pink since it resembles my Mattel Barbie like wardrobe. Which currently my closet consists of pink, black, silver, sparkly, or sometimes all of the above at once type ensembles. I am certain I was a drag queen in my previous life.

I digress.

It is time, as the season slowly clicks into fall, and as I move through the New Phase, my New Life and New York that I clean out my closet. As the city pavement finally cools off from the sultry summer heat I find myself still shedding layers from a winter ago. But there are always a few items that I keep around, some special garments that bare more meaning than just fabric; hoping that maybe I will have the perfect place for them in the future.

I celebrated my one year anniversary of living in NYC on the 30th of August. Only a few days before I would complete the first quarter of the New Phase. My friends in Minneapolis seemed rather unimpressed by my feat. Stating " We always knew that you would make it, we had no doubt." I was a little less sure of myself apparently. Glad my support system thinks that I am so tough, I certainly did not feel this way last fall. It seems that in the worst case scenario, I would have returned home to Minnesota at this time last year. And I have total confidence that my little team of supporters would have been able to pep-talk me to death, and I am sure I would be back here in NYC anyway. But perhaps what they could not see, and what I have not been very emotionally explicit about is...

I just completed the most tumultuous year of my life to date. And you know what...

it's really over.

My life in Colorado is over, but I will save one Patagonia fleece from my Colorado life. Just to know that I can go back to the mountains someday and ski. It won't ever feel like it once did. The level of frivolity in that portion of my life is lost, but at least I can say I had it once.

Palo is over. I have had no contact with him since mid-July and have not physically seen him since June. I get an occasional three a.m. text message from him asking, "where u at?"
I hate these messages that he leaves for me. I imagine that he is in some inebriated state of consciousness, lonely, and looking for someone to spend a quick night with. It almost depreciates everything that we once had. When at one point we had so much, and in my closet I will keep all those shear, and hole filled tank tops he loved so much. I used to wear them nearly every night we spent together during the first months of our relationship. He loved their soft texture and their nearly naked appeal. He used to never let me go at night, even when it was ninety degrees. That was the man that I fell in love with, and the man, who for many years, was more crazy about me than me.

My mom is over. I hope that she is over her sickness. I hope that she has the serenity. I hope that she has the courage. I hope that she has the wisdom. It has been a year since I almost lost my mom entirely to alcoholism. Mom, if you read this entry, I never gave up on you, and I can't quit you, as much as I have wanted to walk away from you, I love you so much no matter what kind of hell you have put me through. You gave me all of that hope stuff that I have tucked into all of my passion and my dreams for the future. If I didn't have that I wouldn't be here in my 6 foot by 13 foot bedroom that costs me $1,000.00 a month. My closet bursts with all of the clothing you have afforded me- and my living room is warm and comforting so that I can feel at home after a 14 hour day- and my walls are full of your generosity. The hope that you have given me, that even though people may fall down, and the world may fall apart, it is important to remain hopeful that something somewhere is working in your favor. It usually is... it just might take a while to come around. I love my mom. I hope she is over the sick. She has given me lots and lots. It would have been easier to sit back and hate the world and the hand of cards I have been dealt from time to time without my mom telling me "get that chip off your shoulder, there are people starving somewhere, now let's look at what we can do here, we just have to reassess a little, things are going to work out, you have to believe that things will come together." I will keep all that hope in my closet, forever and ever. I will keep it for a day when she is no longer around to talk me out of my lows.

I want and am working for the left-overs to be over. I pile up all the unwanted garments from my "overs." My little stack of Colorado camping gear. The memories of the dry beautiful climate. The morning mountain runs. The community of nerdy film-goers and aspiring small town artists. The slow fancy free life style of the simple country life is stacked in one corner of my soul. The sound of Palo's laugh. The feeling of his slobbery and overtly affectionate kisses. The way he made me laugh. The way he made me laugh. The way he made me laugh. He comprises a giant heap of memories in my heart. I still catch myself smiling while riding the mo(u)rning train, or during my fifteen minute walk across town about something silly he once did or said. While making love with new love's I still close my eyes in the middle of it all and can remember what it was once felt like to be touched by him. My mom calls this euphoric recall. This is when you remember it being better than it really was. I think she is 80% right but I know that some of it really was spectacular. I am not sure that I can ever really rid my mind or heart of Palo. He is like my favorite little freckle on my arm that is probably going to be deemed cancerous someday and removed. I just don't have the courage to get my freckle removed or looked at cause I love it so much. I just am not ready to let go of it all quite yet. The mound of stuff that I have acquired from my mom, well the good is about even with the bad. A wise friend once told me "you have to love what is loveable about a person and just ignore the rest, cause they are not going to change." I know that all the hard years of craziness that I have endured with my mom have put more lines on my face than any mid-twenty something should have, but I am all the wiser from all the pitfalls and climbs. Therefore I have opted to take the all the bad with the good, and just keep moving forward.

That is what my mom would want me to do...keep moving forward, while pausing at times to try and process all the change and all the "overs." She would want me to put one foot in front of the other, one moment, hour and one day at time.

I got through today. I hope I can get through tomorrow and maybe if I am lucky I can get through this week. I might fall apart, and I might cry, and I might want to kick and scream and that is okay. I just have to keep walking...walking into one moment, one hour, one day, one month, one quarter, one year.

It's really over.

To drink, or not to drink the cult Kool Aid...

2008-08-01T16:09:00.000-07:00

I realize that in the past few weeks I fallen off the "blog wagon." I can tell you right now it is not because I have met some fabulous man and run off with him. Quite the contrary in fact.

This summer has blown by, as I can see it quickly drawing to a close in the next few weeks. The end of August is approaching and what have I really accomplished in the first quarter of the new phase?

Well I passed my Local 600 Cinematographers guild exam. I guess that was not directly on the list of things to do, but it kinda was at the same time. So it is official, for all of the starving artist friends that I have in my life, I am sorry, but I joined the so called"block-buster" film making union. My only hope is that by joining this union it will bring in more funds. Allowing me to create fresh projects of my own on the side. This opportunity, like that of my job at Arriflex, has thrown me down the rabbit hole of my career even farther. The deeper I get the closer I get to the success I am looking for...I hope.

And down I tumble...chasing something I am not sure I understand. Something that may end up to be a figment of my imagination. I wonder if Alice really knew what she was chasing after?

I have reached a moment in life that is all too surreal. I am hungry but always full. I am partying but sleeping. I am light but heavy. I am in love but not at all. I am lonely but fulfilled.

I am indifferent. I need to shake up my life again. I am going out and not meeting anyone interesting. I am going out and not meeting anyone funny. I am going out and not meeting anyone...PERIOD.

I purposely and shamefully did not blog about my most recent interactions with Palo. Thank god he is living in Los Angeles currently. We were still speaking on the phone until recently.

BAD!

After our last conversation which ended in my usual embarrassing statement, "I just don't understand why you don't want to be together?" Then his usual unclear response, "It's just not the right time." Whatever the fuck that means? I can't really believe that I wait around for him. On a daily basis I let my female delusional mind get a hold of me. On my way home from work I still turn the corner to my house close my eyes, slowly open them and hope that he is standing there outside my house with flowers, or a cake or a fucking pony...something that is totally ridiculous in order to WOO me back to him. All I really want is to have that big Jerry Maguire moment " you complete me" style interaction. Yeah...I am nuts. He is not that into me, and I should review that fantastic little book to remind me that if he were he would be on my doorstep waiting to make passionate love, early morning meeting or not.

D-E-L-U-S-I-O-N-A-L ...it's like setting myself up for failure at the end of ever work day.

Instead I saw that I was already on this path to selling out, with my decision to join the Cinematographers Guild and well, I told Palo to let me go and...

I JOINED MATCH.COM

I figured that I might as well jump on the band wagon and really chug that cult kool aid. it seems like everyone these days is participating in some dating fad like Match or Speed Dating or God forbid Craigslist Missed Connections. I just need the dating experience at this point since my man-confidence has been widdled down to the size of a tooth pick. A girl can only take so much rejection.

I know that Alice weighed her options carefully, "If you take this you will grow smaller, but if you take this one you will grow bigger."

My options were similar, " You can drink the red Kool Aid and wait around for the wrong guy and grow less, or you can drink the blue Kool Aid and look for a new guy, go on a lot of bad dates, but grow lots and lots...and if you are lucky you might meet someone interesting."

I guess not entirely the same as Alice, but you get the gist.

And at this point I am not just drinking or chugging the blue Kool Aid. I am swimming in it. My goal is to go on as many dates as I can in the next month. I need to get my dating confidence back on track and ditch that dead beat Palo who never really knew what he threw away. (Every heartbroken girl says that I realize, but we all know it is actually true this time. He was nothing without me. HA!)

So here we go Alice, it is you, me and the Kool Aid- the guild plus Match.com...looks like I am actually drinking a lot of the forbidden juices, or we shall see.

Someone get a fire extinguisher...

2008-07-15T19:45:00.000-07:00

Just a quick entry about my weekend. I was hoping for back to back dates/hook-ups with a few men that I have been chasing around, one of them BJ I have been chasing for the last thirteen years.

Let me just quickly say that BJ and I did finally consummate our love (without the sleeping together part) last March when I went to visit him out west.

Last weekend I was expecting the same...but instead:

BJ took me to his sister's private party on a fabulous roof top bar in Manhattan. I looked amazing, he looked amazing we were having a good time...I invited him to come back to my place, and well here is the killer...

he said no thanks....

When I told all the men at work this during our lunch break, they dropped their sandwiches and in perfect unison said " WHAT????"

Yes...this is true the men at work seem to have a bigger libido than my friend BJ.

I did not see BJ the rest of the weekend...he basically found every way possible to dodge me. WOW, this was definitely the "Welcome back to the dating scene" confidence booster I needed.

Well, excuse the language but fuck that and fuck him.

By the end of the weekend I literally wanted to set him on fire( I am not a real psycho I mean this with total sarcasm).

And well I still kinda do want to set him on fire...

I guess he is just another man who I will have to let go of, and twenty years from now when I am accepting my Oscar and he is watching me on television with his beer belly, and his homely wife and his 65 wretched children all he will be able to say is...

"I hooked up with her once...and then she never spoke to me again."

And he still won't get it...

and clearly he never did and never will.

3. The Edward Lewis Syndrome

2008-06-23T19:00:00.000-07:00

Why is it not as simple as Roy Orbison so beautifully sings it in his song Pretty Woman? Or as simple and magical as Richard Gere and Julia Roberts act it out to be? I am not very romantically inclined and Movies like Pretty Woman generally make me want to have a few of those tidy little airplane barf bags on hand.

Although lately I find myself not-so-secretly hoping that I will hear the blaring horn of a stretch limo coming down the street, I will run to the fire escape and popping through the sun roof will be my crush of the week.

Gross. What is wrong with me?

I am not really sure why improbable, unrealistic, garbage-like thoughts have entered my man desires lately. I could blame it on Hollywood like some of the female population, or I could blame it on men being total morons like the remaining women who do not believe the former, but really where does this desire come from and is this epidemic possibly the worst of them all? Has Edward Lewis(Richard Gere) ruined it for us by creating unrealistic expectations or should we be holding out for this kind of a man?

I had a friend say to me lately that she thinks men feel less inclined to "work at it" in reference to landing a lady because casual sex has reached such a high acceptance rate. If a man can go out to the bar and take virtually any woman home with him upon knowing her for five minutes I guess there is no reason to wine and dine anymore? Casual sex is like Visa, it's so widely accepted... it's everywhere you want to be...? Right?

I wish that I could just go out, and well for lack of a better reference, swipe my Visa away and not worry about any of the emotional or physical consequences. Unfortunately, myself, my roommate, my friend Jeanne and many other women out there have been infected with the Edward Lewis syndrome. We are the ladies, who more often than not, go out to the bar with the ladies and leave with no mans cause our standards have reached astronomically high levels. We want the romance, the intimacy, the connection...not a lustful night of hot sex followed by a hung over morning, a sore crotch and a phone number you are too embarrassed to call due to the alcohol induced coital dirty talk.

Although there are a few of those illusive women whom manage to let it all go without loosing their emotional cool.

My friend Mary, the virgin saint...yeah right, is an anomaly among women. This girl has a thicker and more coveted black book than most of the A-list women in NYC. Mary pretty much runs the Wall Street Man-Market.

As the U.S. economy continues to dive there is one market investment that I would put all $552.86 of my savings into... Mary bringing home an investment banker on a Saturday night. She pretty much holds all the shares in the financial district, the bar-tenders on Water street know her, and want her. She is a Ulysses Pub regular. For those of you unfamiliar with the city Ulysses is like the Stock Exchange after party, but these brokers aren't looking to exchange stock after the market closes, they are looking for a very special exchange with our very special Miss Mary. Even after doing laps for an entire night at the bar with no luck, and it looks as though the "Mary Market" might crash for a night, she will step outside for a smoke, and meet a man on the street. ON THE FUCKING STREET! How do things like this transpire??? Suddenly her S&P 500 is on the rise again (that is her Sex and Pleasure 500). My favorite part is that like the real world market there is a strict curfew to how long the "Mary Market" is open. She pretty much has them out the door before the condom comes off. It is impressive.

Whereas, if I have a mild flirtation with a man I am in love with him for the next week. I make no attempt to contact him or see him and just play the fantasy away in my head. I imagine kissing him, sleeping with him, and even what our many many houses in various exotic locations might look like. The falling in love everyday factor does comply with my New Phase goals, but for real, my Edward Lewis syndrome and search for true love totally inhibits any chance that I may have to even casually date someone. Where is the happy medium between Edward Lewis and the escapades of my socialite friend Mary?

I feel as though I have identified many illnesses in the past three segments and still come up with few cures. I wish there was a simple prescription I could write. I would think that I would have to be on a pretty high dosage of ANTI- W.W.V.-BIOTICS seeing that I tried to call Palo a few days ago. Thank God the call wouldn't go through. I think Jesus s trying to tell me something...

I would like to take the easy way out and say that finding love will at least bring light to how to conquer these diseases if not cure them entirely. Realistically I think love can, but the love affair can't be with a man...it has to be more unexpected and more versatile than a relationship with any man. I know right now that I love the following, and for now that will have to help me stay healthy...and away from the Wayne's World Virus and other related illnesses and syndrome's...and maybe after all of this Richard Gere will come riding up my block...or maybe not but I will always have a love for:

1. Brooklyn
2. The Polish bread I buy
3. Arri
4. Building cameras
5. Watching the subway roar into the station
6. The city
7. Cape Cod
8. Camp
9. Minnesota
10. Skiing
11. The wilderness
12. Costa Rica
13. SAS

And I have a feeling this kinda love might last forever...who needs a man...?

2. Shock and Awe, Hypo-man-cemia

2008-06-23T18:19:00.000-07:00

My girl Chastity just broke up with her million dollar, future politician boy friend, who still maintained his good looks and mid-western values amidst all of his early success. She had been seeing him for the past three years and their relationship came to an end this spring when they seemed to just fall out of love. She packed up her things and moved to NYC and let me just say that she has hit the dating scene with a post 9/11 "Bushism" quality. Let me make it a multiple choice analogy for you...SAT style.

If Chastity is to a Post 9/11 fighter pilot, than a New York City single male is to:

A. North Korea
B. Europe
C. Afghanistan
D. Antarctica

If you guessed Afghanistan than you are correct. Chastity came to New York and has literally blown up the dating scene. She has been on more dates in the last three weeks, since her arrival, than I have in the last year. (Maybe that doesn't say a whole lot for my dating skills, but it's pretty intense.)

For those of you who chose one of the other options it may suggest the following:

1. My question was a little misleading
2. If you chose North Korea than you may be like me and see the New York City single male as one who is clearly harboring tons of nuclear explosives just lurking in the darkness. He waiting for the right time to strike and blow up all the hope that you once had. Yes, it is a sad state of affairs...I am beginning to think that they are all evil.
3. If you chose Europe you see the New York City single male as one who, like Tony Blair, will roll over and support the worst ideas ever...like supporting the war in iraq...or well perhaps anal sex. (That would be one of the worst ideas ever in my mind, but I know that there are ladies out there who feel otherwise.)
4. If you chose Antarctica you see the New York City single male as a lonely and desolate frozen place that barely gets any sunlight and you would rather overdoes on barbiturates than spend anytime with such a secluded and cold man.

As for Chastity I believe that she suffers from what I like to call Shock and Awe, Hypo-man-cemia. After suffering a traumatic break up the saying "get back in the saddle again" is taken all too literally. It is that sudden shock of being without your male counter part that throws you into a dating tailspin...or feeding frenzy of sorts. The Hypo-man-cemia takes over and you devour...or in Chastity's case, explode on every man that you see. Yes, I have been here too...I think that I spent much of my freshman year of college in this state. I used to get so anxious about being alone that it would nearly make me nauseous. Can you say embarrassing?

Again, I am not entirely sure how to correct this Hypo-man-cemia and Shock and Awe...I guess after a while it is like Afghanistan...soon it will be all blown up. We ladies, will be forced to move on to something else...like Iraq...or Lesbianism.

The Three Epidemics: 1. He looks like a Q-tip Sleeping Sickness. 2. Shock and Awe Hypo-man-cemia 3. The Edward Lewis Syndrome

2008-06-10T15:27:00.000-07:00

As I discussed in my previous entry I have decided that I have a pretty serious epidemic. WWV, which may sound like some new age women's wrestling federation, but it actually stands for Wayne's World Virus. My symptoms have lead to a few lingual run-ins with my ex, Palo, since our break up last October.

Our often tipsy encounters are like a not-so-fantastic game of Monopoly. You know, the times when your opponent holds all the astronomical real-estate and you are desperatly grasping Water Works, Reading Railroad and the rickety hotels that you have on Baltic Avenue and Mediterranean Avenue just to stay in game. You clutch tightly to what you have left by a thread hoping that maybe you will roll an 11 and land on free parking. Then the free parking dream starts to dwindle as you slowly mortgage the four properties you have left...and eventually the real estate tycoon does take it all.

My on-again off again moments with Palo sound a lot prettier when you compare it to a Parker Brothers game...but somehow I ended up being the shack on Baltic Avenue and my Ex the real estate tycoon, and like most shanty neighborhoods today my Ex bull dozed me right over and is planning to find some shiny new girl...or rather, put up some glossy new high rise on the old streets of Baltic avenue.

For fucks sake...why do I go back for more?

Well because I have WWV. However, I am determined not to let this high roller take it all. But I am not going to try and stay in the game due to some lucky roll of the dice for my big free parking break. I am not really sure where to go from here...how do both the heart stealing tycoon and the shack in shanty town create a win win situation?

I started to notice that I was not the only one with a serious post break up illness. In fact I have witnessed and can diagnose three major sicknesses in the last week. Why is it that so many beautiful, powerful and strong women fall ill to this post break up CRAP? Will someone please call the center for disease control we may actually have a Pandemic on our hands! You may think this is a little dramatic, but not only have I witnessed these illnesses in action, but I myself have shown symptoms of the following from time to time. I am just as sick as the ladies who I love and cherish who I mention in the next three sections. (all names have been changed in compliance with new medical privacy laws of New York State, see Section 8 Paragraph XVI of the New York State Law Book).

1. He looks like a Q-Tip Sleeping Sickness

About a month ago my friend Jeanne ended a two and half year relationship nearly over night. Basically if I had to make a simple flow chart of what happened it would look like this:

Jeanne and Marco go to Cosco. Marco has a meltdown and says he never wants to get married or have children.
Jeanne says this would have been nice to know two years ago. Jeane
tells Marco she is leaving. That night Jeanne calls her Mom.

Two days later Jeanne's Mom flies in, they pack up Jeanne's life and move her home, a quarter of the way across the country.

Short. Sweet. Too the point and OVER in the blink of an eye...but not without some kind of a price could she escape her last relationship.

As I have done many a-times after a break up I dust off the little black book and try to get back in the game. After two and a half years- or nearly four in my case- that little black book has dwindled down to, maybe, a few names of fun loving, attractive, and light hearted hook ups that are worth revisiting. Upon Jeanne's return to her hometown she did exactly as I would have and made the usual phone calls. To all the friends and possible networking opportunities in the surrounding area and most importantly to those last flings she had before she met Marco.

This is where the sickness takes over.

Jeanne met for drinks with Peter an available twenty something, endearing and kind hearted, man whom she had shared a few nights of casual and marginal sex with...pre-Marco. Jeanne was excited to see him again and he already texted her a message declaring that is was "hot" that she was back in town.

As I had expected my phone rang later that evening after their post drinks and possibly post coital date. To my surprise the conversation went as follows:

Me: So how was it?

Jeanne: Eh. I mean it was good to see him but...

Me: But what? What's wrong? Is he seeing someone?

Jeanne: No, well he sorta has this one girl but...

Me: But what?

Jeanne: He was so tall, and his hair is so blonde, and he is just kinda pasty...and he kinda looks like a Q-tip...

Now this is where I give Jeanne a lot of credit. Knowing myself, and I would assume other women out there, I would have found some redeeming quality about him(or had enough cocktails to find something redeeming) to try and spend the night with him. The reason behind the sleepover being that after a break up it is weird to stay on "your side of the bed" when no one else is on the other. It becomes easier to bring a guy home- Q-tip looking or not- simply to fill that void in the Queen size bed that you invested in with your last serious leading man.

Thus the name..."He looks like a Q-tip Sleeping Sickness," which is really about keeping that other side of the bed warm while trying to sort out the emotional implosion of your last relationship. Is anyone with me out there?

I managed to curtail this disease slightly during my last break up by getting my roommate to share a bed with me instead of some random fellow I happened to meet on a street corner. (Not to mention that my roommate, Taylor, and I also developed a rat infestation in her bedroom which forced her to be my bedmate as well. I never thought that I would be thankful for having a rodent problem)...?

None the less I commend Jeanne on being able to escape the Sleeping Sickness. She didn't take home a bed warmer...but it may also have been driven by the fact that she moved back in with her parents. The Jury is still out, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt.

How many licks does it take?

2008-06-05T20:20:00.001-07:00

So about the New Phase...that whole “turn over a new leaf” concept that seems to work out really well for born again Christians. Maybe I need to have a word them and their ability to keep the faith since over the last week I have fallen off the "New Phase" wagon. I am struggling to strike the balance between the new life and the old…where exactly does the buck stop? Where do I draw the line in the sand (or concrete jungle of New York) between what works and what doesn’t? How do I bring the “not so good” to a screeching halt when it seems to force its ugly head into my life repeatedly?

It has also occurred to me that old habits are becoming a real issue. We have all reached an age when the past, for the first time, can haunt us. Our lives have become more complex over the past decade. Daily issues no longer involve Barbie’s head falling off. The previous phases of life are actually able to manifest themselves as an emotional epidemic. With this little epidemic comes a whole laundry list of symptoms and ailments that get dragged around from relationship to the next. Does freedom from previous phases diseases only come with an entire shift in routine? If so how does one obtain such a dramatic shift?

The word Routine; it has a comforting ring to it don't you think? It sounds like a guarantee; a guarantee that will certainly bring relaxation and promise. There will be no unexpected and uncomfortable moments. Perhaps not everyone views this as bliss, but in the past(the previous phase) I liked to be able to KNOW what going to happen AT ALL TIMES. Call me a control maniac, but you have to admit sometimes it would be nice to know the following things:

1.Will the train come right away? Or will I wait for a few minutes?
2. Will I make it to work on time?
3.What the Hell is going on in Minnesota right now?
4.Will I ever actually achieve anything at work?
5.Will I ever be able to pay my bills?
6.Which day this week will I get my period?
7.Why does the cute boy at work flirt with me, does that mean: A) He is a flirt. B) He is interested. C) He is a big tease...just like me.
8. Will I ever meet a man in New York that does not have the attention span of a fruit fly?

I think ultimately I am just looking for some kind of an answer. In which case I should just buy a magic eight ball to solve my problems. I would guesstimate the eight ball would predict the following to the previous questions:

1. Signs point to yes.
2. Outlook good.
3. Reply hazy, try again later.
4. Cannot predict now.
5. Don't count on it.
6. Today.
7. C) He is a flirt...and a young boy and he's just not that into you.
8. Incorrect usage of the word “man.” Boy’s are fruit flies. A man is more like a horse fly, bigger, stronger, more impressive and when he does land on you his bite really stings.

(Maybe men should be avoided as well?)

Yes, that is pretty accurate, maybe I shook the proverbial eight ball a little too hard for answer's 6, 7 and 8, but that is what they would be if the eight ball could actually predict the future. I guess if this is so ostensible why should I have so much churning in my mind? What is the need for all the worry and the wanting, wanting, wanting to know what is going to happen?

Since I started this New Phase I have wanted to keep myself on track, doing healthier, and more exciting things. Which for the most part I am accomplishing...BUT...and there is always a “but,” I noticed myself slip into an old nasty habit last weekend.

I kissed my ex.

My nasty habit got me thinking about post relationship epidemics. Those nasty little post-flirtation, post-fling and post relationship routines that come flooding back in a moment of weakness. For a modern, intelligent, strong and beautiful woman how many licks will it take me until I get to the center of the relationship Tootsie Pop? That is why do I keep going back for more when I know I ill never really get what I want?

Upon further examination I noticed that I am not the only woman who falls into cycles. My cycle, or sickness I like to refer to as “The Wayne’s World Virus.” Also known as the “Just because we broke up doesn’t mean we can’t go out” disease.

My quest: To try and cure my virus (yes, this section may bring me back to being a bit of a control maniac, but I think it could be useful.) and also research other possible diseases that strike other strong, confident and beautiful women in hopes that I can save myself and my fellow female comrades from taking too many licks in the future.

Stay tuned for my diagnoses and the further analysis and cure for WWV (“Wayne’s World Virus.”)

Monday June 9th: “He looks like a Q-tip” sleeping sickness A.K.A. “Get back in the Saddle Again, anything will do, just spend the night with me” disease

*It may seem like I have derailed from the New Phase, but really I am trying to prevent all of the following from occurring in hopes that I can achieve some sort of real relationship of any kind in the near future.

Week 1: Sail and Flow into the New Phase

2008-05-28T18:25:00.000-07:00

So I am not sure how many of you Non-east coasters experiencing this blog out there are familiar with a little place called Nantucket that hosts a very big event every Memorial day. I spent the first weekend after the New Phase celebration enwrapped in a sail sleeping on the deck of a 36 foot yatch, with a sailor who I shall refer to as Captain Ron, at a race weekend event called Figawi. I am not really sure that I could ever ask for a better way to start a New Phase…?
This entry is dedicated to lust-love and the Young Dandy Society.

WHERE THE FIGAWI? (a little history)

The first Figawi, or so the story goes, started in 1927 when a group of friends and families decided to have a fun regatta from Hyannis to Nantucket during Memorial Day weekend. Agreeing that it would be a great way to officially kick off the sailing season. In a very grassroots manner a tradition was born. But where did this tradition get it’s weird name you wonder? The next piece of the story proved to be apocryphal this past memorial day and perhaps the story behind the given name is folklore, but in years past it has be know that the sound between the Cape and Nantucket can become quite foggy. In the days before iPhones and GPS fog proved to be quite a nuisance for sailors. Of course that very first regatta proved to be a foggy and blustery one, and the legend has it that mid-race one of the sailors had lost track of their course and in his best Cape Cod accent asked “Where the Figawi?” (if there are any of you that I have to spell it out for; it sounds like; Where the fuck are we?) And a race weekend was born. Now I know for a fact there several people who would disagree with this legend…but it is the best one that I heard the whole time I was there. It’s like summer camp, you pick your favorite tall tail and you run with it.

A CHRONICALIZATION OF THE WEEKEND: (just go with the made up words, because we are not in Kansas anymore.)

Friday 5:30pm Eastern Standard Time:
I had not left New York City in two and a half months. If any of you have ever lived in a concrete jungle you will be able to empathize with my actions as I stepped out of the car; imagine me, walking into my friend Al’s guest house, grabbing a beer and stretching out my arms while spinning in a circle saying: “ space, space, space…” This reoccurred a baker’s dozen more times as the weekend progressed.

8:00pm The calm before the launch…
My dear host and hostess Dex and Al had a small gathering at Dex’s house the night before the race. It was the foreplay before the real party began on Nantucket. I was still naïve to the situation that would bombard me upon boarding the first class Hy-Line ferry the following afternoon. I was about to enter a party that resembled a veritable pupu plater of Marti Gras and MTV Spring Break. Which was also blended(literally due to the gas powered blenders that were churning up frosted drinks in scores) with a touch of class due to the strictly A-list political crowd(namely the Kennedy clan). It occurred to me that after it was over Marti Gras and MTV Spring Break could take some notes from Figawi race weekend. There is nothing wrong with gorgeous sailors in Nantucket Reds and real wind powered yachts, versus the cheesy high-powered cigarette boats of a typical MTV style slosh fest. As the saying goes it was a (hot) drinking team with a sailing problem.

At noon the next day we headed for the ferry…

Anyone for Rum punch?

If a college freshman had a staple drink of choice it would be McCormick’s Vodka or Natty Light. The staple for sailors is Rum, and the staple for Figawi is Rum Punch. The beauty of Rum Punch is that much like many of my Kegs and Eggs college experiences or my Mimosa’s at Sunday brunches in NYC is that it is totally appropriate to have as much Rum Punch at any hour you wish, and especially appropriate at nine in the morning.

I felt privileged to partake in what is known as a “Kooler Down.” This is Dex’s family’s secret Rum Punch concoction, unfortunately he could not reveal the recipe, but it was divine and tasted of cranberry, pineapple, and rum with just a hint of something medicinal. I would not be surprised if it did contain some Dayquil. It is a struggle to keep the party alive after a few days at Figawi, and Dayquil can be a great source of caffeine. (I do not actually condone this).

Dirty Jokes and Old Men…

The day after the first leg of the race all of the Figawi participants gather in a large tent for free Mimosas and dirty joke time. Yes, the mic is open to all, and anything is fair game. I saw man my father’s age recite the following;

“ So this guy goes to the house next door and says to his neighbor, ‘Gee I think my wife is dead.’ And the neighbor says, ‘Really? Why do you think that?’ And the first guy says, ‘Well the sex is the same but the dishes are piling up in the sink.’”

Typically I would find this fairly offensive, but there were several women who came to the mic with far dirtier jokes than I would care to mention here. Feel free to ask me in person, but they are nasty. Plus after everyone has had a few complimentary Mimosas the crowd is pretty loosened up. I am a little embarrassed to admit that it was one of the funniest things I have ever attended.

I was most touched by the song and dance put on by a group know as the “ Band of Angels” who are responsible for the free cocktails and dirty joke session. After two hours of obscene jokes they all gather on stage for a little song and dance that they put on every year. It was the ritual, the closeness and the apparent familial connection that this group had which made me remember the importance of ritual and community. That even though I am often lost among the vast legions of people in New York that my life and relationships here are just starting to reveal themselves. I know that in Minneapolis, where I was born 25 years ago during the previous phase, there is a community of people where the lines between friendship and my blood are hard to draw. Some dirty jokes and a little song and dance was all it took to resuscitate that side of my soul…well…at least the was the beginning of my re-awakening.

Captain Ron
Now as mentioned in the previous entry I broke up with my boyfriend of three years last October. It has been difficult to move forward and I found the winter to be rather stagnant in terms a re-bound dating scene. There was the wonderful and sweet foreign guy #1. Unfortunately, he still lives overseas and after his two weeks in America he had to return to school. I have always been in favor of distance since I like to have my space from my man but the ocean is kind of large a pond for me to bridge for a guy, especially on my budget.
Then there were a few hot dates with foreign guy #2. A beautiful Italian, Alessandro, whose fluency in the language of love made up of for his lack of fluency in English.
Next there was Steffan who had graduated from Yale and attended Columbia for Law school and lived in a fabulous apartment in Chelsea. He was one of those guys who sounds absolutely fabulous and who is incredibly sweet, but he was still running off to Vegas with his brother every other weekend to gamble and drink…and he snorted when he laughed. There were a few too many deal breakers to continue on.
Following that brief dating period there were the dark ages of nothingness in which I proceeded to occasionally meet with my ex for a rendezvous… why do I do things like this? Also during that dark ages I managed to get a little too tipsy and smooch one of my best friends…again…why do I do things like this? Then there was the most recent “shit where you eat” and kiss a co-worker move. I never managed to get too far down the rabbit hole with him and was able to dig my way out…but Jesus it has been a hell of a rebound.

And then there was Captain Ron. I really hate to think that in this age of empowered women that I let a man be part of the reason that I feel so brought back to life, but fuck it…the new phase it about honesty. Right? It’s like Madonna so famously said; “He made me feel shiny and new…” (omit the next line of the song. It would be impossible for any dude to make me feel as nervous as I did the first time i made love.)

BUT- the blonde haired, blue eyed nearly thirty Captain Ron with his dark South Carolina tan, complete with an endearing and adorable hybrid cape-cod and southern comfort accent to his words really made me feel shiny and new. There was nothing particularly romantic about him, which is a plus since I tend to frown on romance. He didn’t really have anything all too earth shattering to say. Which was great since we both knew that for two nights we would be lovers and on Monday go back to being strangers. But he had what every New York man seems to have been lacking for the last nine months. A down to earth, raw, sincere, don’t give a shit about materials just want to have a good time, drink a cold one and enjoy life attitude.

It has occurred to me that THIS kind of a man was all too easy to find in previous realms of my life. They were practically growing on the trees in Colorado. The mid-west is crawling with these “down-to earth and beautifully simple” types. Naturally when I was there I wanted none of that. I often fantasized about my life in New York with some high-powered man who wore- not suits- but beautiful clothing and took me to fabulous new little underground places that were soon to become a New York social scene staple. These men do exist. In abundence. Unfortunately with this kind of New York fantasy man comes a lot of pretension and pretension seems to be the staple of the New York social scene. I don not think that the beautiful-high powered DOWN TO EARTH New York man actually exists. I have uncovered the New York/Mid-western transplant woman's heterosexual holy grail. If there are any New York men reading this I am spoon feeding you the tools you need in order to get laid by us Nordic Scandinavian Mid-western goddesses, ready for this: JUST BE REAL WITH US.

Can you see how Captain Ron felt like a breath of fresh air? He was straightforward, honest and relaxed. I felt at ease…with a man…for the first time in a while. I fell in love with Captain Ron that weekend. (New Phase goal for the week accomplished!) I will spare you the details of our two nights together, but I will say that things got a little hot on his sailboat; which was very accurately named…ready for this… “ Heat ‘Er Up.”

He was a real shot in the arm for my confidence as well, pretty handsome guy if you ask me. I plan to post pictures in the near future.

As the weekend came to a close on Monday with some more Rum Punch back at the Hyannis Yacht Club, I could feel the angst that sailors must experience as they leave the open ocean and head right for the red return buoys towards land. It was time for me to go back to the city and wash the salty ocean from my hair. At four o’clock a little tipsy, and very refreshed I trimmed my sails and went back to New York.

As the sailors say:

Red. Right. Return.

Epitaph: Nicole's Previous Phase

2008-05-20T15:51:00.001-07:00

As of 5:33 a.m. May 17th 2008 Nicole Kristine Cosgrove turned 25 years old.

In the previous 24 years of her life leading up to her twenty-fifth birthday Nicole managed to accomplish the following: swallow a marble at the age of two and bite a hole in her tongue after jumping from a small retaining wall. At four she fell in love with a boy named Nick on the pre-school merry-go-round. At eight she attended Camp, and fell in love again. At twelve Nicole wore blush to school and shaved her legs while sitting on the edge of the bath tub at the house on Cardinal Road. The razor was pink, disposable, and quite dull. It is believed that there was an entire bottle of Colgate shaving foam stolen from her father for use in the first shaving session. Later that year Nicole had her first real kiss with a skateboarder named Mike. It was fall and both of their noses were running from the cold, which created a web of snot between their noses as they pulled away from the smooching session. Nicole's mom saw the whole thing.

In the fall Nicole was sent to Catholic school.

At thirteen Nicole had already met six women who would remain her life long friends. In the fall of 1997 Nicole met Tim, they flirted at the Class A State Soccer Tournament, and they dated for another 6 months. He bought her a bottle of CK1 for Christmas. Nicole and Tim Broke up in the spring and Tim started dating Nicole's best friend.

Junior High was simple. Full of teen angst, like Beverly Hills 90210, but simple.

In 1999 Nicole began her ski career. She melted her ski boot while relaxing by a bonfire between runs at the sectional championships. Things like this happened to Nicole a lot...or rather, Nicole made things like this happen a lot.

Between 2000 and her graduation from High School in 2002 the following happened in Nicole's life:

* She dated a man named Zan
* Back Packed for 36 days straight
*Skied
*Consumed alcohol for the first time
*Dated a man named Kevin
*Smoked Pot
*Dated a man named Leon
*Made love
*Watched her parents struggle with alcoholism
*Left her brother on the side of the road
*Smoked Hookah
*Applied to three Colleges
*Got rejected from one College
*Got into college of her choice
*Became passionate about movie making
*Saw her dad get sober
*Graduated
*Watched her mother go to treatment
*Drove to Colorado
*Started a life out west

The mini-phase:

Colorado was like a mini-phase for Nicole. She helped people make a lot of movies, she made her own movies, she slept ate and breathed anything that had to do with movies...and skiing. She missed her six life long friends who went to college all over the country. She tried to help her mom get better and realized she couldn't. Nicole Graduated, had a mini-meltdown, ran off to Costa Rica for a month, came back, worked on a feature film, sold all her furniture and moved to New York City.

Nicole is survived by her ability to keep on keepin' on, positive attitude, and desire to not make the same mistakes as she has in the past. A service was held for the previous phase at 11:59 p.m. on May 16th 2008 in the courtyard outside of her Brooklyn apartment. There were two individuals in attendance, as well as Nicole. The three smoked a cigarette and said farewell to the last 24 years.

**Dearly beloved, you are all gathered around your computer screens to say farewell to the "Previous Phase." The New Phase is about honesty- so I am going to put it all out there on the internet- and try to move away from hiding. Although I do admit judging by the laundry list above I have some serious ground to cover. I will try to impart my changes in greater detail- but I didn't want to over elaborate on the last 24 years, since that might have been an entire blog's worth of info.

So I ask you all to let go with me...let go of a moment from your day, a time that you regret, or a time that you are looking forward to so much that you cant stay focused on the NOW, and participate in letting go of this Previous Phase, and welcoming the birth of the New Phase...

I have always felt that death should be mourned, and that life should be celebrated. I will always mourn the past, and the past lives that I have lived for the last 25 years, and the relationships and the places that are no longer a part of my daily life but will always be a part of my memories. However, I celebrate having had so much opportunity, love and hardships that have made me who I am. And I celebrate the beginning of something new...something that has been in the works for far longer than I realize...something that is bigger than me or any of us. So stay tuned if you wish as the New Phase unfolds. It is sure to be full of funny and real New Life, New Phase, New York stories...it is all about the NEW.

Here Lies
Previous Phase
May 17th, 1983-May 17th, 2008
May you stay in my memories only, thank you for the good times, this is the new year and things are going to be very different.
R.I.P.

* Stay tuned for the New Phase guidelines. Until then enjoy the New Phase soiree photos.