Ignore-ance

I am doing it. I am running away. I am quitting my job, I am going to Africa, I am going to have surgery on my vocal chords one last time, I am going to have no money and no job and I am going to go back to school to learn how to help other people. I feel I can do it all. All of a sudden.

When I told my mother that I was definitely having surgery and that this time I would take my recovery seriously, I assured her I would. And I got boiling mad. Inside of course. I did not let her know. There is no point. My mother quivers in fear when it comes to life she does not know. She is always questioning my decisions unless they are in line with hers. Ignorance I call it. And I am ignoring it.

I also know that she is not wrong. I have picked things up, talked worlds about them and then dropped them. I have done this. The last time I had surgery on my vocal cords, I was back at it again in no time. Drinking, smoking, treating my health and body badly.

This time it feels different. I feel like I am changing my life, my life style, my life choices and I am ready to recover. I am ready to do the things I am afraid to do. The things I am afraid to be good at. And I firmly believe that there is no reason to not be as good as you are.

Just because something does not happen overnight, does not mean it will never happen at all.

Maybe I am being Ignorant.

But I am going to ignore that possibility for now.

wanna hear something funny...

After all this, I miss my voice and myself. I am applying to grad schools in social work. My friend Scott said, wow, that is so not you. He is right. I told him the truth is, I want to pursue my voice again. I want to do what it takes to make it sing musicals again, the way it used to. I want to act and sing again. I have been sabotaging myself since I injured my cords the first time and I am spent. I have wasted 6 years treating myself like shit. I want it back. I am 28 and I want it back. I am told, 28, is not so old. Why will I spend my day tomorrow applying to school. Because I want to keep my life logical. I want to appease my parents and I am incredibly interested in human beings and the psychosocial dynamic. that is actually the truth. But what do I want. I want to sing. I want my voice to be the easiest part of me again. I want to achieve what I have convinced myself is the impossible, cause its not. I want.

9:19 am

It was 8 years ago at this minute that my mother called my cell, woke me up on my only late class day of the week and told me to get out of my dorm room twin sized bed and look out my over sized window. There they were, running for their lives. The television went on, the footage repeated the actions that had happened less then an hour ago. The world changed, Manhattan changed and it felt like my surroundings turned in circles for days following. My thoughts are with those who lost loved ones, those who volunteered their hands, time and lives on that day and even to those who were too shocked to figure out how.

Please forgive....

I forgive you. Is that weird, because I mean it. I mean it because I feel happy for you. I mean it because forgiving you means happiness for me. Relief. I want to listen to music again. I want to wake up early again. I want to be close to new people. I want to run into you. To smile in your direction and say hello.

I don't know where it stems from other then the idea that maybe people who hurt one another are not to blame, but to be understood as an experience to be had, towards your own truth, something to hold onto and then just let go of, something to appreciate for whatever the experience brought to you, good or bad.

I am not angry anymore and I don't feel bad about it either, none of it, just that we lowered ourselves to the level we did and lost our friendship along the way. My only regret. Don't think we can ever get it back, but at least would hope that the next time I see you, with her, we can tip our hats to one another, and say remember when...only the good parts, of course.

I am having a very hard time concentrating today. I am not sure that Friday should even exist as a day wherein which we should be expected to concentrate. But then I wonder if Thursday would take Friday's place.

The speakers on my computer have been broken since December. And for some reason it has not been a top priority of mine to get them fixed. My computer has no more memory on it, so I have never been able to sync my iphone to my computer and that means my iphone does not have any music on it. I got my iphone in December. Since December, essentially, I have been relegated to Pandora. On my computer at work and on my iphone. I have not listened to the music that makes me happy since December. I work in music. Music is supposedly my passion.

Supposedly.

But here I am again, watching my passion for something slowly wane. And I think it really is indicative of the fact that it is time for a change in my life.

Change has always scared me. Taking care of myself has scared me a bit too. I like to glide along, uninterrupted. My lifestyle indicates that I appreciate challenge and some adventure, but the truth is I have not moved much in my life.

Or maybe I have and not paid attention. That is my fear, that I have spent my formative years, my adult formative years, that is, not really paying much attention to my changes, to my growth and to the process. And here I am at the end of this era. I have had many experiences but not much to show for it, except for lists of outlandish experiences. Sometimes my friends tell me my life is like a movie, that they wish they would take a minute to write it all down. Mostly because I am impulsive, I do what I want when I want to do it without thinking of much consequence, at least within the confines of the tri state area.

I know a million people, I am popular, people know who I am when I walk into a room. People think I can help them, they think I am important. I must have succeeded in a way then. But is it really what is important? And why do I always want to run away from what ever it is I have found.

Like now.

I am ready to change again, but this time for good. I am going to go back to school. I want to be a Doctor now. I want to be a psychologist. And when I make the move, I make it for good. It is not a profession you can do and try and do everything else you want to do at the same time. The pattern I have created for myself up until now. It is also something you don't just up and walk away from.

Do I get upset about it? Leaving part of me behind? Does this change who I am inherently. I know, intellectually, that the answer is, no. It does not. But it feels a bit like it will. Like I am graduating from a period of my life. Should that be shocking? That is how we spend the early part of our lives, graduating from one era to the next. I see people from eras gone by and can not remember their names. I am also infamous for carrying eras over into the new ones. Will I do this this time around? Or will I walk around in 6 years forgetting the names of people who were integral in a moment of my life.

I mean that is what it is. A moment. Of my life. You have one life full of lots of moments, experiences, coincidences and because I continue to live it on my own, I can really jump in and out of different ones.

My father feels bad for me when I tell people that I used to be a singer. USED to be, I say, now I am something else. Maybe he is right to writhe when I say that. Maybe it is wrong to suggest that one moment can not carry into the next. I will always feel like I never really succeeded though. Like I did not achieve what it is I thought about when I was a little girl, fingers and toes crossed, eyes pinched shut dreaming, daytime and night time. That was one part of me I did not think would have its era, opening and closing. That should have lasted forever. But it didn't, just like nothing else does.

Will love be the same for me. Just eras running into one another, nothing long lasting? Nothing consistent?

I don't know. I can not predict it. I don't even know what will happen to me 5 minutes from now. But I do know no matter what in 5 minutes I won't be exactly the same as I am right now, so I don't know why change really stares me in the face,, full of fear.

The one that got away that keeps coming back....

Maybe if I write about it, I will be less afraid of it. I spend a lot of my empty thought time trying to figure out what went wrong for us. I have these perplexing, Homer Simpson style, "doh!" moments, literally smacking my forehead in disbelief. We've been friends for so long, family friends, friends of friends, "beneficial" friends-as the story goes. When I am with you I feel at ease, when I think about you I get a stomach ache. Yet I have broken your heart and truthfully you have been one of the many to put a dent in mine. Though years have passed. Sometimes I sit at my desk, look at my computer screen and wonder why the hell I don't jump the next train to DC. Sometimes the only thing stopping me is Charley (my puppy). Then I get lost in my life and forget about it all, lost in my circle of friends who mean nothing to me, lost in my doubts that our life together would be 100% perfect. Not that anything is ever 100% perfect.

I want to let you know that when we tried last time to put our selves together I freaked out. I just did. It felt manipulated, it felt fake. It was not that I did not feel for you, I just felt like we were trying too hard. I am afraid to be loved like that. I am afraid to let someone be nice to me. I am also afraid to try and start our relationship from scratch, because it's not scratch, it is 20 years long. Childhood into adult childhood.

My first image of you is your boxer short clad figure, dancing across your sisters room singing the Lion Kings version of "In the Jungle." You mooned me when I was in the sixth grade, cornered me in your parents bedroom while your sister begged you to stop. I blushed and I still do as I retell. I remember high school, your long hair, how beautiful you thought your high school female best friend was, how much you liked her, but you never got her, how jealous it made me, even then. Our trips out west with our parents and siblings, to Israel. The trip our families took to Africa, the last trip where our friendship maintained innocence and allure, the last time I could look at you, love you from afar, keep it close to me and to nobody else, flirt with you, watch you, wonder about you.

The next summer you took me, we took each other, right in our parents houses, a house to house escapade that lasted quite a while. One of the hottest, most exciting, most dangerous things I had done, I was 19 and you were 22, over ten years into our journey. And it sealed it for me. I wanted you. But you lived in California, you were young and you had your dreams at arms reach, you were busy and you were far away. I did not think you saw me like that, maybe you did and maybe you did not, but it seemed unrealistic, so we went about our lives. You visited often and a lot of the time you stayed with me. Our friends, our siblings, they knew, it made them uncomfortable, it made one of them envious and I got drunk enough to sleep with him too, hoping to make you jealous. It didn't work. We persisted, started and stopped and started again. You would catch me when I fell, every time, without fail. You gave me the strength to leave my first serious relationship, then you moved to NY and fell into one of your own. I dated your friend instead. And tug of war continued. You filled up my mind, I think I filled up yours.

Then I found Adam and Kyle and eventually Dean. And I loved these men and forgot about you. Or buried you. After Kyle you came around, you thought it made sense, so we should try it and it felt unnatural to me and I walked away without an explanation. Even explaining it to you felt too vulnerable. It has never been the same. Not since then. So many moments through the tumult that was Dean I looked at you and wondered why I did not fall your way. I still wonder.

I think I am scared that we have a future. That it could be real, that it could be ridden with happiness and sadness alike, that we are able to spend real time together, that life might get hard and ruin us. Our life's passions have ignited and burned out, they have singed us each and we don't know where we are headed, professionally, but we'd have each other. It scares me to be with someone who does not seem happy in their pursuits, it scares me because it reflects me. I am afraid to sleep with you again, I am afraid it will be bad and more afraid it will be great. I am uncomfortable with the comfort. Pain is simpler then ease for me. It has been for a long time.

And this consumes me. Every day, the wonder. But I have no one to talk to about it, its been talked about. Our families, our friends have all been witness and if we were to do it all again, it would have to be just us in it this time. Alone together. And that scares me too. It will have to come from me this time, I know that for sure, you have given up, but I can see it when you look at me and feel it when you touch me. And I fear I am racing against time.

And I hate losing.

As far as you can throw

I know that you think about it too, about us, about why you did not take to me, about how it would have been better if you did. I want to help you, I care about you, I care about your happiness. I am here, I am listening, I always have. I can't help but tell you the truth abut how I think things should be. I wish you could see what I see, what other people see. I wish you could see me. Why is love always uneven, why is it a different experience for everyone, why are people only happy when they are unsatisfied, why is satisfaction so frightening to people. When does it feel right, when do you give in, when do you settle for what you thought was not for you?

boy and girl

Someone please explain this phenomenon to me. Boy digs girl, boy watches girl from afar, boy comes on to girl, girl responds with positive feedback, boy and girl kiss, girl makes effort with boy who she otherwise would not have noticed, boy freaks out. Girl wonders why. Boy tells girl that he never thought girl would like boy back. Boy walks away from it. Girl is left wondering. Had boy never opened the can to begin with, girl would not feel so bad. Girl kicks herself for falling for the attention and not the boy, because then girl would not feel so bad and boy would not be so freaked out.

Cry baby

Adele sang here at Canal Room on Wednesday night. Then I went over to Rockwood Music Hall and hosted the monthly series I do there for Rebel Spirit Music, my friend Greg Holden played- he is wonderful. Then I went home and watched American Idol eliminations. What an array of musical experiences. And the one that made me most emotional was, ironically, the last one. It is strange, I am not really THAT into American Idol, I think it is a bit cheesy, no matter how I try I can not help but see the artists as sell outs, skipping the road dog days for instant success, selling their dreams of originality for money and fame and so on. I watch it to keep up with how low the standards have reached in our dying industry. But this season, this girl, this young thing, Alison Iraheta, she could sing and she had this innocence about her that was addictive, her voice just did not seem to match her naivete, her youth. And it was special. When she was voted off, not that being 4th place on American Idol is a sad spot to be in, she cried, but she cried for joy, maybe that was it, as though she could appreciate the moment for just what it was, the experience for just what it meant and all that had led up to this for her. It is only the beginning, of course, but I envied her. Not for what lies ahead, not for singing a pretty rough cover of Janis Joplin's "Cry Baby," certainly not for the poorly died red hair she has, but for her ability to enjoy the moment.

I don't think I ever do that. I am not sure I ever did that. I always wanted to know what was next. I never appreciated my time, never thought it was good enough, I guess. I just wanted to be bigger. I feel bad about that. Because I am turning 28, I have had fabulous experiences and I have not valued them enough to even carry a camera around and save snap shots. Have always waited to get doubles from friends, tags on facebook, snapfish album invites from others. It is like a lack of commitment. The ability to commit is enviable and it's also vulnerable. Which makes it scary.

The only thing I stick to shooting is my cute dog. She is the farthest thing from scary, and she certainly won't ever turn away, so maybe that makes it easier to stick to it.

text sex

never done it. The lady sitting next to me sure has, or is having it. Or is having text foreplay of some sort. All I know is her text ring is rihanna and the "texts" she's having is good. I've been text foreplaying with my latest victim who is out on the road in Cali somewhere playin his drums. Another non prospect. But at least he calls me beautiful in text and in person. And I can tell the foreplay will be worth it.

I'm mobile!

I have managed enough free time on my hands to figure out this whole blog on the go phenom! And now I can kill time on my busride home to new jersey! Woo hoo! I just switched my seat. I was next to a woman who would not stop fanning herself! And I do not need to be fanned. Her 50+ years indicated her hot flash might mean otherwise. Or she was just trying to get rid of me. Either way it worked and here I am!

Have I mentioned yet that I'm thinking of heading to Malawi for two months this winter. Well I have not told many folks. It sounds a lot luke something I say I'll do bet never end up doing. Only I appear to Be following the steps. I have the cause, the organization and a meeting with my potential partner volunteer!

I can't imagine letting canal room know. I feel as though they will feel betrayed and I don't know how to follow through. I also have no idea where I'll go when I return? I do know at this point I feel a touch worthless, as though my job provides nothing to not grateful people (aka selfish, struggling artists). I'd like to do more. Who knows if self or selfless reward I'm searching for. But I know I want more.

Helpless

Songs attach themselves to the people you spent them with. It's fact. Very few people listen to music for the tonal inflections and for the drum quality, for example. I mean they do, but there is always more. Like sense of smell, sense of hearing reminds you of the moment attached to it. And songs take up space in your life at different times, so while there might be a song you attached to goodness one time, it may turn to a song you attach to badness at another time, depending of course on how life panned out.

Neil Young sings with ease, his sweet tenor quivers and his lyrics are indicative of his youth spent toiling for his craft, far from home and fearless, at that. My father used to play Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young on our car trips. He always had great taste in music and was not shy about singing along. It was my introduction to the music of songwriters I would later in life continue to appreciate and at a much deeper level try to emulate, in craft and in lifestyle.

I had never seen the Last Waltz, I had no idea who Robbie Robertson, though I knew The Band, I had no idea they accompanied Bob Dylan at a time, nor did I know they gathered musicians together to create a show that would go down in history. A show chock full of artists known all over the world, timeless and attached. No one ever told me about Joni Mitchell's many lovers or about Patti Boyd and George Harrison and then Eric Clapton. I knew the songs, but not the stories.

When I met Dean I could hold my own at least in terms of our musical tastes, but he knew so much more about these songs, these stories, he knew the facts. And he shared them, compulsively of course. Books, talks, records, movies all about this generation of music.

When I hear the song Helpless by Neil Young, or any song from that genre, I am forced to remember and admit, that most of what I know now, like where the Big Pink is and who the Kinks are and why Rod Stewart is more then his hair and the song "Forever Young," is thanks to Dean. He doesn't remember the good times. Maybe he does. Most of the time I don't. At the end, when we hated, he always, over and over, let me know we never listened to music enough. He was wrong or he was lying, normal for him. He knew as well as I that music was what we shared, it WAS our relationship, it was our love.

Regardless, he has left me helpless, I hardly listen to music anymore, unless my boss spins tunes on Pandora, unless I am at a show I feel like I have to be at. It bothers me. I am a musician, I am a music person and I grew up with it in my ears, in my car, in my home. I don't know if its part of the mourning process or what is indicated in the fact that when I do listen to music now its off a list on my itunes that Dean actually created for me.

What am I holding on to? It is not really him. He is worthless, he is not who I loved, but he did represent what I wanted to love and then what I slowly started to hate. Maybe my stopping to sing, to listen to music is directly related to the loss of my voice, directly in conjunction with the rise and fall of Dean and I. Maybe that is it, maybe it's not.

I guess I will have to recondition myself with music. It is likely the same for love. Maybe my music gravitation will return when I figure out how to gravitate towards love. When I am willing to lie helpless in someone else's world, not just their music world, but their lives, my life, there arms and my arms. Maybe then I will listen to James Taylor's "Carolina in my mind," with a smile and without fear. Maybe then.

Never gonna give you up

It is odd as women how we put the angst we have towards our exes on the new women they date. Like somehow it is the new girls fault that the ex boyfriend is such an asshole. In my case, I feel this to the extreme, because, I feel everything to the extreme.

But in my case, I am right, because, I am always right.

Ok, enough of that.

Dean was an inherently bad person, he is an inherently bad person, but I continued to go back and forth, probably because it kept my otherwise boring life, unboring. I think a lot of people do that, stick with the people they are dating because loneliness is just sheer boredom. I know this, because I am living this way now. I am bored. And perhaps that is why I fill my empty thought space with mean thoughts about Dean's new girlfriend Cara (who he already cheated on with me 4 weeks ago, but I suppose that is non essential).

Instead of living in disbelief that Dean could be such an asshole to keep dating this chick after trying desperately to get back together with me, sending me 25 e mails straight of pictures of us together when we were happy, telling me that this Cara dirt bag slut (SEE THERE IS THE ANGST) was boring and bad in bed, who knows why I listened to that, instead of hating Dean for that I live in disbelief that he has chosen this girl. For some reason I just hate her.

She is not a bad person, but she is young, and she has a bad nose job, apparently 3 times over, her hair is pixie short, none of these qualities make a bad person, of course, I can be reasonable, but its the way she walks into a room with him, like she won some kind of prize. The way she flirts, friendly flirts, but flirts, with every man in the room and brings along only uglier then her so she can feel better about herself. Anyway, I hate her. She also INSISTS on engaging me in one way or another and I ignore her, my new philosophy is to ignore people I do not want to talk to. No more fake! Then instead of taking the hint, that I find her abhorrent, she tries to talk to me, without fail and the other day she tapped my shoulder to get my attention. EWW.

I almost turned around and looked at her and said, please refrain from touching me, you have a really bad nose job and your boyfriend has already cheated on you with me only to return to you when I rejected his advances to try and get back together.

Instead I just said "oh, hi, how are you." And turned around. I was with two friends from London who were visiting and thought it the polite way to be.

Then I proceeded to chat with Dean in front of her to show her who was boss here. And the thing of it is, that I do not find him attractive, I am not in love with him, I am just still so angry at him and making her uncomfortable made him uncomfortable and it made me really, really happy!

It is a little sick. The thing of it is, that I actually just hate her because she is still in the dark about Dean. She still thinks he is good. She still hears his words and takes them as truth. She gets to think he is just the Cat's Pajamas. Which he is not.

Living in the dark, even living in denial is more comforting then admitting reality or being faced with reality head on. I don't know why I can't give it up though. Why do I care? Why do I keep holding on?

It ignites the fiercest anger in me and the fiercest resent. Two of my least favorite feelings.

update

Charlotte home from vet, 10:27 am, Vitamin K in hand along with two other expensive medications, making my morning a $413 morning! Woo hoo. She looks to be fine and has pooped not once, but twice today! Fast asleep on the couch, surely still reveling in her victory!

And the irony....

Just as we were leaving the vet a quite normal looking woman walked in with a carrying case full of her rat, who had just eaten licorice. If only my dog had eaten a licorice.

Motherhood.

A dog of a different story

I adopted a pit bull almost 4 months ago. It was an impulsive decision, as all of my decisions are. It was the right decision for me. It was fate, at a time when fate was not working out as intended, not that one can intend fate. Charlie was 8 pounds when I found her, she was beautiful, small, vulnerable with a permanently furrowed brow and she was all one color, her coat, her eyes and her nose are a reddish, light brown. She had an intense gaze, I picked her up in my arms, she licked my face and I looked at the shelter owner, Robert, and said "I really don't have the right lifestyle for a puppy." He looked at me flat in the face and said, "come on, do it, dogs are not that much work." He was dead wrong, but he was right too, he knew, like cupid knows when a lover has met his match, that I had met my fate. This dog was meant for me.

...I started this post about an hour ago and since then my dog has ingested a dead rat. This was going to be a loving ode to the being that changed my life, instead I sit here deliberating, do I shell out $500 to get a vet to make my dog throw up, do I give her bydrogen peroxide to make her throw up, do I cross my fingers and assume the paper thin, flattened out, 5 days dead rat probably died by car and not by poison? An hour later it probably makes no sense for me to make her throw up, spend $500 for someone else to make her throw up. All I have left to do is wait it out. And so I will wait it out.

Let me tell you what NEVER to do in this situation, google. Google leads to severe paranoia and will inevitably be the reason for my sleepless night. That and the fact that I own a dog who would likely eat shit and find it a delicacy. I have no idea. Am I bad mother for allowing this to sit for 24 hours? Should I run to the vet with her in my arms? She is a pit afterall and not that small either. I assume she should be fine.

My parents never got worried when I got sick. The reality of being a doctors daughter is that nothing is ever really that bad if its not brain surgery related. And I wonder if I get my lax attitude from them. My mom never carried tissues in her pocket, my father never thought it was worth skipping school due to sickness. I called him on the phone just now and told him that my dog swallowed a rat whole and he said, eh- wait it out, the chances it was poisonous are slim to none. Just like that. And then suggested that I keep rats out of her diet for the next few days.

I love my dog. It scares me that I have this responsibility, but in a way, that was the point. I wanted to give myself something to love more then myself, that I would have to commit to and follow through on, unlike so much else in my life....and here we are today, on my couch, she is snoozing and I am wondering at which part of her digestive tract does this rat lay, and I mean tail and all.

And of course, what does this entire experience highlight. The fact that I am alone. I am all alone. Are you supposed to take care of a dog alone? I always envisioned this kind of project one I would do with a partner and accepting this on my own was this understated, or overstated as the case may be, submission to the thought that perhaps there would be no partner for me in the end. That perhaps, something like this, would be something I would have to do on my own.

Thinking back I should have just stuck my hand in there and pulled that rat out, i just could NOT handle the thought of touching it. I am so worried about this.

another day

I am drunk and I thought I would write in the moment. I cant believe that Heidi even would put Spencer in therapy, can a therapist really change a man who is just all wrong? I remember when Dean suggested we go to therapy, and we were already in trouble because he was already pathologically cheating on me. Therapy, what does it really do. I met a boy on Saturday night, I am sure it was nothing, but he was awfully nice to my brothers and I have a photo of him looking at me like he meant it. I don't know. He is hot.

Write more tomorrow.

28 Years ago

I always know when it has set in. Food starts to taste different. I can't swallow it. My head is heavy and it takes my hand an extra long time to grab the receiver of the phone and my mouth falls behind my voice in mouthing the words, "hello?" I can feel my heart beating. I smoke cigarettes, I lose weight, I sit on my couch a lot, I stop talking to my friends, I can't finish anything I start. I start watching movies constantly, so I can pretend I am somebody else. I'm depressed, I guess. Usually precedes a big change or follows a traumatic experience. Or is just the day after I run into Dean. Or I work a job I really don't want to. Or I realize I have been in the same place for too long. Or I hear another musician that just is not good enough and wonder how the world will turn out altogether. Nothing is really how it was. Nothing is really how it is going to be. Nothing is kind of uncomfortable.

1981 is about to turn into 28 years ago.

UGH.

?!#$%

All we can remember is what tore us both us apart
Instead of what's forgotten at the bottom of our hearts
Smiles filled the silences and laughter filled the sound
And everyday was more important when you were around.

Citizens of Humanity

Red Out Loud had a nightmare about being fat last night. She dreamed that being between a size 4 and 6 was just not acceptable. She dreamed that this number defined her. She dreamed this and woke up depressed feeling unloved, minus her puppy that she was comfortably spooning.

Why do you think size, weight, looks, so often define the way a woman feels about herself? I mean, should we not, by now, in our later 20's, recognize that it is what is on the inside that counts? It is funny for me, my weight fluctuates frequently, generally with my mood. Because I take certain things to heart, my body reacts, nerves make me nauseaus, sadness makes me crave, anger makes me stop. My weight never fluctuates because I think I should look a certain way. It is always just a natural reaction to something that is happening to me.

Right now in my life, I can admit, I am uneasy, however nothing is happening to me and my weight, after losing so much of myself in Dean, has reached its normal number. And somehow it is the only thing on my mind. I feel fat, but I know I am not and if I was, I know there would be nothing wrong with it. Regardless. I am a size 2. I am 5'3. I am tiny. I have never been called otherwise. Yet, its on my mind.

And as I obsess about it, what to eat that day, what not to eat, as I stare at my body, unclothed, in the mirror, I think, this must be about something else. I must be worrying about something else, or many things, it can not literally be my appearance.

I hope I put my finger on it soon, actually, I hope I squash whatever it is with my whole palm. I never want to have a dream about my weight again. It is a waste of my quietest hours, dreams should fill with my greatest ideas, hopes, desires, even my fears. Not some issue that really is just the top of a casket full of the heart of the matter.

How do you grow from a nightmare about your jean size?

The O of the XOXO

I have this strange ability to love the person I am with in the moment I am with them. And then the moment they are gone, the connection is gone and I can find another moment with another person just as easily. But I could swear in those moments, the feelings are real. And I mean, this is actually impossible, because many of those moments, seeing as I have experienced many, many moments, are with people I really hardly share words with. Perhaps its just my mistaking sexual intimacy with something emotional.

This guy I barely know slept over on Friday night. We have shared maybe 10 sentences tops between one another, but he is very hot and somehow his quiet demeanor extends a sense of intimacy to those he actually pays attention to. He is a drummer. Go figure. I hardly know anything about him, all I know is there is an intensity to him and after a bunch of grey goose on the rocks/splash sodas/two limes I suppose I felt comfortable eough exploring that. So we drank. We did not talk much, he followed me home to meet my dog and then he got in my bed and slept over. Body to body, feet to feet. And he wrapped his arms around me. A more intimate action then perhaps putting himself inside of me. I mean, wrapped arms around a body indicate protection, knowing, familiarity, there is no orgasm at the end, its literally an innately comforting and close feeling. So there we were, holding one another. No sex, just closeness. He stayed the morning as well. There was some fumbling, nothing major, just a body next to a body. Heating up my bed, making me feel warm.

And then he left. Hardly a goodbye and hardly a regret.

And it worked. My stress subsided just for a moment, because I got my fill. But I was held again later that day by Andrew, my neighbor/lover/locksmith/bug killer. And we have more to share, of course, we have been dancing in circles for 5 months now, but still, when it comes down to it, we hold each other. And that is it.

So my real question lies in the odd sense that people, in this city, have an impossible time figuring out how to hold one another in the figurative sense. We can jump from bed to bed feeling the intimacy of an embrace, however, we lack consistency and emotional outpour. It all lies in this open ended body locking, warm and gushy, temporary embrace.

I wonder if I was cuddled too much as a baby, or something.

Today, I walked Charlotte past her best buds Nico and Titan. Titan jumped on his hind legs to embrace me and Charlotte quickly nipped him away. I suppose not EVERY being is ok sharing his or her embrace-er. If anyone should want me all to themselves it should at least be my puppy.

Touch Me.

I wonder how many people's skin has touched mine. When you are born, right from the birth canal, you are caught, rubber glove to skin and then your mother holds you, skin to skin and the barrier is broken. You've been touched. Then for the rest of your life it is your prerogative to decide who, when, why someone touches you. Or is it? And when it stops being your prerogative does the novelty of touch just die?

There are all kinds of touch, the kind that feels comfortable, the kind that feels exciting, the kind that hurts, the kind that is dangerous.

I wonder what kind of touch has changed me more.

Lost and Lost again.

Lee thinks I should make a new record. He says I am better then all the other girls singing written songs out there. I am trying to hear him, but it bounces of my eardrum right back to him. Like a light my passion turned off. Sometimes I close my eyes real tight and inside the blackness I see the yellow walls of my childhood bedroom and I hear the karaoke stereo blaring and my stomach drops the way it did when I would sing the high notes, the low notes and the notes in between. My cheekbones tingle a little. And as if my mind reverts its not the sound that I hear but the dreams I remember having. The restless nights of sleep with my kicky legs in action thinking to myself, when will it be my turn? I gotta get out of here.

Then I lost my voice and did not try too hard to get it back. So it's gone. TTYL.

Today my friend told me that her friend had to have her uterus removed. And selfishly, the first thing I thought about was what I would say if I was her friend. And I could just picture myself looking up and saying, "I am losing my womanhood and am not even able to sing about it."

Loss is uncontrolled and that is what makes it so aggressively painful.

No Way Jose

You helped to take away the innocence of a love I lost and I am supposed to rejoice in the new love you found.

I don't think so.

A Nightmare

With the surface of the water far above my head and the strength of the tide getting stronger, I pull and grasp, but to no avail. The weighted rope tied to my ankle gets heavier and it pulls me down. My dress flows aimlessly around me and bits are lit by the sun that peaks through the glass top of this enclosed sea. I can't reach it, though. I keep pushing and pulling and reaching and screaming silently, to no avail. Until my hands can't reach any more, they drop to my sides and I float aimlessly. Wishing. He would just let me go.

Ouch

My stomach hurts again. But I am ignoring it. It's the damn wings of those bloody butterflies. Flapping. Smacking my stomach, the tips of my toes, the top of my head. Clouding my vision, cramping my brain, ringing my ears. I can't think.
So I'll slap my hands together and pray. Butterfly wings please wrap yourselves around and form the cocoon from whence you came, open up and let the caterpillar slink away quietly. Go backwards in time. I am afraid if I move forward you will all just flutter until you fly away and I don't think my body could take another departure.

Is there a problem with....

Chatting on line with your new beau while your ex beau sends you e mail after e mail of pictures of the two of you from days gone by?

There must be some sort of problem with this...

What is he thinking?!

Either of them....

It's not always about you

Tali worries that Maya doesn't ask how she is doing, Maya worries Tali does not ask why she is not doing. Both of them wonder the same selfish thing about each other. Tali flies high, she has met a man, and of course, she lifts. Because it is all about what happens TO you that lifts you, not what happens inside of you, or around you that makes you happy, but what happens to you and oh, so often, it has to do with a man.

Why is that? Why do they carry this power.

Not just men. Career, success, if you have it you are defined, if you don't you are not. No one just sits still and sees themselves from the inside out. Outside factors always make a person who they are.

Maybe that is the problem. If we were ultimately defined by what we thought of ourselves and not what everyone around us though, man, boss, fan, we would all be giving each other what we really want and need.

Karma

All of my friends are falling in love around me. The good ones and the bad ones. The ones who deserve it and the ones who don't. And I am still standing here. Closed for business. Do you think its because I keep him around? Maybe if I dropped it all with him, even the e mails back and forth, maybe I'd move on. And maybe my energy would shift, or something cheesy like that?

Who knows, I don't know, I don't get it. It's not as though I am not happy for everyone around me. I am just wondering why I don't deserve it too. How passive does that sound!

I'm too extreme. I'm in for one day, out the next, I rotate men like I wash my hair. Every two days and there is another one in the mix (bed). I thought Charlotte would warm me up, apparently it's not enough.

Is this lack of integrity bringing me bad energy? If I treated myself with just smallest degree of respect, would things turn right? I don't know. I don't know if I care. I don't know if I just find this way easier. No falls, good or bad, no need to be picked up, good or bad. None of it.

All I know, is I must be missing a step or two.

Danger

...feels so good.

Evidently my addiction has not subsided. He remains present. And I should be seeing him this week.

I have no soul it seems.

No soul or self control.

Laundry

Today I did my laundry at the laundromat down the street from my apartment. There was a tall beautiful woman with her jet black hair in a short bob. She folded laundry silently next to her shorter then hr husband. He folded her thong underwear, she matched their kids socks. They did not look at each other, they did not talk to each other, they completed their weekend chore and left. In silence.

Is that how it all ends up?

I am probably lying to you

Today I hailed a cab and as I hopped in I noticed a man walking down Avenue A with a t shirt on (yes, it was 20 degrees today) that read "I'm Probably Lying to You." Fateful spotting really.

Last night, date two, 38 year old, israeli fashion designer, drummer, guitar player extraordinaire. My most dangerous territory, as far as dating goes. He hails from the NYC music scene, the scene I have been trying to avoid. He knows them all and they have all let him that they know me.

Rumors spread like wildfire amongst people who don't seem to have other, more inspiring pursuits, or perhaps rumors just spread like wildfire period. People love to talk. I am one of them. Sometimes, hell, I am the president of them! And so, Gil and I have known each other for some time. I won't pretend I ever saw him like that. He is significantly older, he makes a very funny face when he plays the drums and he is Israeli. And as a Jewish girl, insisting on marrying a Jewish guy, I have a strange aversion to dating Israeli men. Perhaps its that they are too forward for even me.

In any case, he showed up two weeks ago to the Margarita club, the big party where Dean and I made our first treads towards actual friendship. despite our loving look, my drunken "I need you text messages" and so on.He is lovely, he is aggressive, he is vocal an he is forward, everything about a man I generally like. It should work. it just should, in spite of and despite the age difference.

He reads me. We drink margaritas, end up at max fish, drink more, end up at the hummus place (yes thats what its called), eat dinner, make out like we know each other and talk about things of great importance to me. A few drinks and my eyes deepen, my soul widens and I let loose. He listened and told me...

I needed to leard how to receive.


And not in a sex way...

In the sense that I needed to let others do things for me.

How could this man see this in me. He told me he has been watching me for a long time. That he asked about me always, that he found me quite sexy and that others had things to say about me, positive or negative.

It felt good to know him. It felt good to hear him, but I just did not believe him. And all of my trust issues just laid there at the surface of whatever it was we were. Like he was lying to me.

Of course, a day later I find out that Nicole and Dean have shared some, um, intimate time together....and my trust in general is curbed. For anything at all....

I ignore his phone calls, his e mails, his IMs, he knows Nicole and I want nothing to do with that, he wonders why

Probably because the time we shared as little time but as intimate as it felt, was all a lie, like everything else. I don't think about him when I'm not in front of him.

Or maybe I do, and I don't want to. Maybe the thought of liking someone who's first dining choice is the Chumus Place is scary, because that means we share something, a background we can perpetuate, but that is also so different. It is funny as an American Jew, you do not automatically think you will date, end up with, fall in love with, a sabra Israeli and yet it works. For me. In the sense that I want to feel like I made a change in choosing the man I love, but still stay the same, close to home.

In a way he is the best of both worlds. So maybe lying to him is easier. Maybe the shirt this man on ave a wore was a way of saying, "I'm lying to you, its easier that way- eh? No one gets hurt."

I think I kind of want to hurt again, the kind of hurt that gets fixed with ecstasy by the same person who hurt you, because then, that hurt, is really just mistaken vulnerability and isn't that what we seek in the end anyway?

For me or not for me, that is the question?

My ankle is really sore. I have no idea why, maybe walking around Manhattan with my hard ass cowboy boots on all day on Monday was not the smartest. But I love my cowboy boots. I bought these cowboy boots when I was 22, from Rags a go go on 14th street. I was all my lonesome and in search of the perfect pair. Vintage was cool to me then, as it is now, as it was in college, but I got it, for real around 22, when I was no longer in college, influenced by the people around me, artists or Jews or otherwise. When I was beginning to form my own. And I decided cowboy boots were the way forward. Plus, they matched my newly shaping rock star image. From self proclaimed orthodox Jw to musical theater wiz to aspiring rock and roll star, my images, my personalities, my goals changed like you change your underwear.

But I was 22.

It was all about self discovery then, wasn't it?

So I began my road to definition, I guess ultimately a definition does form, no matter how you fight it, and my goal then was to be the OPPOSITE of defiitio, OPPOSITE of what I had been and from whence I came. It worked. My hair got cut the right way, my clothes improved drastically, my moral values disintegrated and to top it off I lived downtown, throwing massive parties while singing my own music at dirty rock clubs around Manhattan. Living the dream, really.

And here I live, closer to college then ever, closer to where I used to be and where I changed the most, and I am just the same as I was when I changed. And now, being different is what defines me, no matter how far i reached for UNdefinition.

He joked tonight over sushi,"you are an east village hipster, definitely not the typical Jewish girl." I knew he was half kidding, no matter how I have tried, I have never fully escaped my prepster make up to refurbish myself as ultimate hipster, not even close. But I do associate with those often termed as hipsters and so I get lumped into the category, mostly by my Jewish friends, who would not know a hipster from my grandma. And neither would I, because essentially the word hipster means nothing....a hair cut, a jean style, a chosen profession, a very expensive hair cut that looks cheap. I mean really. Why want to be one of those?

Yet oddly, this association for me, this difference between me and the regular Jewish girl, is my selling point when out on a date with certain Jewish guys, like this one, tonight.

Now come on, do not deny it, all girls know, when dating, what her selling point is. Beauty, intellect, talent, hipness. Well since beauty is not my strong suit, not fishing for compliments here, just the truth, I usually hone in on my outspoken intellectual capacity, or at least my ability to formulate somewhat complex sounding sentences about worthy topics and then there is the fact that I am different. Different from the regular Jew girl, different from the regular anyone. It is what has kept me interesting enough to people to keep my friends, date the men I have dated and so on.

So I use it, it sells for the most part. Though now it is feeling a bit trite. Because the truth is my "regular" friends, the not so screamingly different ones are the happy ones and I am still searching. And not only that, my attempt to escape my definition has now become my definition and while I think it is exciting, I am not sure it is becoming on me.

Tonight I did have fun though I know my eccentricity is attractive to this man. And maybe not a bad thing. He is very comfortable, smart, outspoken, thoughtful a tad overanalytical, but that is ok. He is a Jewish boy I met when I went on JDATE after I broke up with Dean when I decided I would just have to pick a Jewish husband, went on about3 dates off that site, this was one, he has been flaky ever since. Maybe it weirds him out that we met on line, when with the amount of friends we have in common, we probably could have met some time in person, yet here we are. He is cool. He is against the grain, I mean, he lives in the East Village, for gosh sake! Rare for a nice Jewish boy, formerly Orthodox who went to Yeshova, just like me. And I am attracted to him. We have the same background and the same desire for escape. He thinks I am different. Cool. Bohemian. I just sure hope he is not misled, because I am thinking normal is what I am going for, normal is what I will find.

We are going to the dog park together this weekend with the love of my life, Charlotte (my pit bull) and we shall see how it all goes, one thing for certain, first date of my new system and its working.

G night!

ROL

Daddy knows best!

My father and mother have been married for over 30 years. They have only been with each other. They have been dating since they turned 17 and they stood under the chupah at 21. My dad bought my mother stationary for her 17th birthday and brought it with him to her 17th birthday party. My mother saw a picture of my dad, his auburn jewfro and thick glasses in the local paper and knew right then that she was in love. It was that simple. And it still is. They STILL flirt with each other, They STILL love each other, in every way (ew), They STILL get it.

I know it is rare. I know about 50% of marriages from that generation end in divorce and the divorce rate is only gaining. But, they have managed to make it work and well.

Yesterday, February 17th, my mother turned 52. She looks fab. Great skin, like 3 wrinkles and body in tact. She is aging gracefully, as expected. My father sat next to her at dinner and I sat across the table, my two brothers have managed to escape our hometown for the time being and generally this is the familial picture. My parents on one side, me on the other. Like a panel of judges and a job candidate. I dream sometimes of what it will be like when I can round out the table with a fourth. A brother in Michigan and another in Beijing, it sure would be nice to bring a man to the table. I mean at least for my father's sake.

Alas, it is only three for now. And of course, Jewish parents and a 27.5 year old daughter brings about conversations surrounding job growth, career choices, social life and of course, the future husband prospects. Most of the time we laugh, sometimes we fight, mostly because frustration builds, they just don's seem to get it. And how can they? They have actually, believe it or not, never dated. Not the way adults do, they were married before they became actualized adults, so it just never was a reality for them. And I point that out a lot and it makes them angry. I think they do not like knowing that they may be less experienced at something then I am. WAY less experienced. Or maybe I just assume that. Maybe it bothers them that I seem to follow patterns of dating that are just unsuccessful and they are all knowing, I just never listen. It becomes a frustrating, circular conversation(BLOWOUT FIGHT) and it can be grueling. SO, today begins opposite day. Opposite hour. Opposite life.

I am going to listen to my parents.

Maybe, just MAYBE they know something I don't

Ouch. It hurt to say that.

Last night in particular, no fights arose, but we sat at Hearth on 12th and 1st ave, deep in the East Village, a neighborhood that my parents find hard to digest, but do so willfully (my mother more then my father) and we laughed. I gave in. I fed them story after story about men I am dating, men who e mail facebook messages instead of calling, men who take me out four times and cease to even kiss me, men who flake, come back, flake again. I feed them stories about my girlfriends, one who is moving across the country with a signed financial agreement in hand in case of relationship failure, instead of demanding a ring on her finger, a friend who WON'T move across the country WITHOUT a ring on her finger, one who has been left out to dry after two years of a serious relationship because her white boyfriend (idiot) put his glasses on and found out that she was black and could not handle it (wtf?)

No story ceased to amaze them, one after the other. I suppose it gave them a sense of assurance, "at least its not just our daughter," I am sure they thought. And they laughed and honestly, so did I. My father looked at me and uttered his favorite words of ethereal wisdom with his regular sense of sarcasm, and my father fancies himself wise and hilarious, "all you need is one, can't you just find one?"

I looked at him and said, "no, it no longer works like that."

And I am right. And in my humble & perhaps less wise opinion, this has all to do with technology. Weird connection, you are thinking. Perhaps. I mean think about it. We are a generation of Instant Gratification. We get what we want when we want it, we do not have to step outside to order almost anything in the world and have it appear on our doorstep, in our arms, on our computers, in our Ipods, on our movie screens, our TV's, our fridges. We don't even have to go outside to date anymore. And then when we do, forget dating, we have sex immediately. Like that is normal. We spend all this un-intimate time getting to know one another, on IM, in e mail, through blogs, profiles, dating sites, social networking sites, test message! I can not even remember the last time i picked up my iphone and went to the keypad to call on a friend. The minute we make human connection again we stick it to each other. Social and romantic negligence, all because we have become stunted and spoiled. Instant Gratification Generation.

And there it was, vomited all over the wooden table at hearth, the truth. We have lost all sense of real intimacy and any sense of working towards attaining one thing or another. Love, the forefront and the back end of this theory.

We joked about a friend who moved in with a boyfriend and wondered why after 2 years of living together he had not proposed. My dad said,

"because he has just what he wants. Do you REALLY think men are programmed to want to be married, to commit? No! But if ladies don't give them something to work for, they won't realize it either."

Wham. And I hate to say it, or write it rather, because let's face it, I am not ACTUALLY talking right now, My father is right, correct, on target, ding ding ding.

So. I am playing a game. I am going to let myself date, real, actual candidates for real, actual relationships. And they are going to court me and I will coyly hold back most everything. Fuck Instant Gratification, I am going to make them work, and in turn this will be loads of work on my end as well.

No sex. No "I think you are the one" two weeks into a relationship, no moving in, no I love you. Not for a while. I am going to see what happens.

I am going to tell you ALL about it.

Tonight. Candidate one.

Deena

It hurts, again

I am sitting at work and I am getting nothing done. My heart hurts. My head hurts. I'm having trouble breathing. It's a familiar feeling. And it's a pattern. Doesn't some psychological theory point out that this is now all my fault and no one else, because I let this happen to me? I mean, I am the one who keeps holding on to people who are bad.

My friend told me to keep up with this blog. To write my life down, because my life is full of stories. I always wanted a big life, a life that was full of stories, a life that read like a book, or like a movie. And here I am. I can say the things that have happened to me, the things I have done, the places I have been, the people I have met have all played roles, stories, sets of a million movies.

And all it does is hurt.

All I do is look on facebook at old lovers, old boyfriends, old friends who ended up normal. Who got married at the right time, had children at the right time. Who all seem blissfully happy and in place.

And I call a woman my best friend, but behind my back she sleeps with the man who I loved, who used to push me around, who betrayed me, while she watched. And she found solace with him, instead of for me. And the irony is that she dropped this all on me out of the blue as I was in the process of letting him back in. She had to burst my bubble, because she got jealous. Probably better off.

And now I have spent days ruined over this.

When THIS is not me. These people are not who I am supposed to know and to associate with. When did I land here?

This is getting in the way of my ability to be productive, to move forward into normal relationships, to have fun, enjoy myself, walk my dog, get out of bed, open my eyes.

I wonder, like in sliding doors, that silly Gwyneth Paltrow movie, what the heck would have happened if Nicole and I had just killed the conversation with Dean on April 7th, 2007 before it event started. If we just chalked him up to some drunk English dude, instead of me spending the entire next day with him at brunch, the movies and over sangria. What would have happened then? Would she have found another way to destroy me? Probably. Would he have? Who knows. Who knows if he never would have made this move to New York.

But you can not turn back time. Betrayal sticks and it stays. It seeps in the creases and it oozes out just as the cut begins to scab. Like a reminder of the accident you had, the silly, klutzy moment that you got the cut comes rushing back. And you are back to square 1.

I wonder when I won't have something bad to write.

When my posts will be full of love, romance and wedding plans.

Or great success in other areas.

This is getting just a bit boring.