Thursday, February 16, 2006

A Woman’s Femininity

My mother got her wig last week.

First she loses her breasts, and now her hair.

Were there ever two physical attributes more intrinsically tied to being a woman?

It had me wondering, how do I define my femininity?

Is it in the plunging neck line? … the delicate jewelry .. the low slung jeans and knee high boots?

Is it in the hair extensions? … the trendy hand bag? … the colors that run across my eyelids?

Or is it that I remember all the special moments? ...send birthday cards ...plan girls days?

Is it in the way I listen? …the instinct to put my arm around her when her voice gets shakey? …the soothing voice? …just when to present the Kleenex and let her cry?

Or is it that when she cries, I cry too?

And that is okay. We are allowed.

We are women.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Happy Valentines Day!


Hope you are doing well. I am fine, I am out here in Dutch Harbor about to leave again to go out for another 2 weeks or so. I hope you have a wonderful Valentines day.

I just wanted to check in and remind you that I love you dearly and I hope life is going well for you, also... I am alive, well and apparently a perfect match for your perfect guy blog... except for the extra stuff. You are high rolling with that home in Rome angle.

To my Valentine of many years, my beautiful, wonderful, loving sister. God bless and where are my Diesel Pants?

Love you.

Your brother,

Friday, February 10, 2006

I hate Valentines Day Party

TO: Dark Hearts and Valentine Haters... tonight is your night!

Love is dead. Please join me at my apartment for a wake.

Take-out menus from all over the city will be provided, as will board games and raucous girly activities..

Remember that I only invited special friends that don't have boyfriends. So if you have since acquired one-you are no longer invited!!

If you think you might want to come for a little bit before you have to run off for a date... DON'T BOTHER!! WE DON'T NEED YOU!! WE HATE VALENTINES DAY!!!!!!!

Please exercise discretion when telling your friends that you are joining a party of exquisite and fashionable New York women to order take-out and play board games. Others will be jealous. Perhaps you should say you are going home to your empty apartment, three cats and almost burned down Christmas candles.

RULES: No hearts... No love... No Boyfriends... No pink (except Janice P.)... No red... No chocolate (except Kelli)... No kissing (unless it's me and you are really hot) ... no mention of the V word...



About Him

These are the basics:
  • Single
  • Available
  • Educated
  • Taller than me

These are the adjectives:

  • Creative
  • Ambitious
  • Hilarious
  • Adventurous
  • Healthy Inside
  • Genuine
  • Optimistic

If you have the following, let's just save us both some time:

  • Herpes
  • Crabs
  • Gonorrhea
  • Untreated Alcoholism
  • A pony keg for a coffee table
  • Your mom for a ‘roomie’
  • An 'ex' that remains your best friend
  • A same sex friend that you shower with on occasion
  • An unemployment check every week
  • An imaginary friend
  • A perpetually runny nose
  • Funky mastication habits
  • The inability to spell
  • A cat

If you have any or all of the following then hurry up and email me before someone else snatches me up!:

  • A second home in Rome
  • Backstage Passes to SNL
  • Hillary Clinton on your speed dial
  • Recognized Culinary Skills
  • Over twenty used Lonely Planet Guides
  • A passport that has been filled
  • A job with Rick Steves
  • Photo’s you took yourself, framed on your walls
  • A Pulitzer prize
  • A Grammy
  • An Oscar
  • An alphabetized spice rack

Saturday, February 04, 2006


Living in the city of Manhattan means watching others reach for, work for and achieve their life ambitions. Like stopping in the center of a busy New York side walk, others are pushing anxiously by me to get somewhere important quickly and I’m left wondering, "where am I going?"

“Am I doing what I am supposed to be doing with my life? What is my passion? When will I know? Is it too late to find it?"

Some use others passionate pursuits for success as an inspiration to achieve their own glory. Others put the up-and-comers down so that they can feel better about their own situation. Me, I just beat myself up on a daily basis for not knowing my passions, not having a plan towards achieving success, not being strong enough to reach for happiness and being fat.

After drowning sorrowfully in my own self-pity, I eat some cake.

My fears are simple… “I’m too old. It’s too late. I will blow it. I will only ever be mediocre. I'm lazy. I can't do it. I change my mind too often. I will never be the best at anything. It’s too late.”

The fear first paralyzes me into inaction and gets me stuck in a job and a place that is not right for me. And then, after months of painfully standing still doing nothing to change or better my situation, instead of thinking through options and carefully making strategic choices, I jump on the next thing that comes my direction. I don't even pause long enough for a conscious thought, focus or reflection about whether or not this will make me closer or further from becoming my best person. I try on the next career like a party dress on Friday night. After a few spins in the mirror and a glance at my ass-I decide it will never work and toss it into a growing heap on the floor of my closet.

“I want to be a scholar. If I have a PhD that will prove I'm smart.” –One BA, one MA, one Certificate in Negotiation/Mediation and a lifetime of college loan debt later, I have given up on this idea. Not only is it not glorifying and not glamorous, but the amount of pretzels I eat while procrastinating a simple term paper threatens to find me at 300 lbs by my 35th birthday with four cats and a crane to get me out of the house. But with a very good library.

“I want to be an international aid worker.” –Four international missions to third world countries, two near death experiences, ten cases of Dysentery and I decided it’s too unpredictable. The people are dysfunctional. It’s too hard to build a career. It’s too isolating.

“I want to be a Diplomat.” –Passing the Foreign Service Written and Oral exams on the first try convinced me it was meant to be. But as I sat idly on a list of eligible candidates waiting for my name to be called and my orders issued, I became discouraged. After a year of waiting and checking the mail, I was forced to deal with the reality that I would have to take the test again to up my score. I decided it was too hard. I didn't want to wait anymore. By the time I succeeded in gaining entry, I would be too old. Besides, the State Department is too bureaucratic. Do I want to be working in fluorescent lit rooms with no windows for the rest of my life?

“I want to be in the fashion industry.” -Buying designer men’s clothing for an internet site wasn’t nearly as glamorous and interesting as I thought it would be. A lot of fucked up thankless retail people, a lot of humility, and the promise of an uber slow ride to the top. It wasn’t my calling.

“I want to be a Wall Street Mogul, make money, be powerful, and wear a business suit to work every day.” -A move to New York, a credit card at J.Crew and Banana, and a mid-level entry job into a corporate firm… and my individuality and creativity have been snatched from me like a virgins innocence on the morning after prom night when she wakes up in a field with no shoes, no bra and no idea what she did the night before. The corporate world is boring. I'm never going to make it to the exciting part.

Somewhere along the road, my own vanity, negativity, propensity for boredom, impatience and fear of fluorescent lighting have left me with nothing. Nothing but a resume that looks like I took a hundred varieties of pasta and threw them up against a wall to see which would stick.

I realize that nothing happens instantly. No matter what the job, it takes work to rise to the top. And you have to love what you do to work passionately enough to pull yourself from the bottom.

My ego wants to be famous and noticed for being something spectacular, my soul just wants to know that I’m doing what I was intended to do. My head just wants to quell the screams of a thousand unrealized dreams swimming in my chest and pushing violently against my heart to get out and be heard.

In the end, I just want to walk with purpose through the crowd.

Thursday, February 02, 2006


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It starts about the same time every day.

The lonely, self-pity hour that brings a flood of memories and fantasies about "him". The now, ex.

The man who was never really available and thus destined to haunt me for the duration of the next year.

The year of the dog.

I met him over the summer. R isn’t conventionally attractive, but he posesses the most beautiful gray-green eyes. One look could melt me from my toes to the tips of my eye lashes.

The first night we met he squeezed in close to me on the red stool at Pravda. After ordering a twenty dollar martini, he explained that he was in town for a brief amount of time assisting a Hollywood Icon with the creation of an epic film. His world was most definitely more glamorous than mine.

I ran into him whenever I met up with my friend C in the East Village. He bobbed and weaved, avoiding my radar until the first chill of the autumn air in New York. After saving me from a blind date gone terribly wrong at a haunted house on the LES, I saw him with new eyes. Once registered, he crept into my thoughts with his daily phone calls.

In the beginning I tried to play it cool. Seemingly unaffected by the new distraction, I propelled myself into the illusion of a busy party girl. My date book became bloated with girls nights out, bar hopping, Christmas parties, family visits, weddings, and weekend trips out of town. I filled my life with time commitments that I thought would save me from the option to sit at home and obsess.

"Is he going to call? When is he going to call? Why hasn't he called? Does he think I'm fat?"

I would rather sit by the phone and obsess over his next phone call then think about the unsettled and unhappy state of my own unrealized destiny. He was the hope.

But he never delivered.

Interesting life, but sadly-not interesting. R didn't want to be bothered talking about life, the world, morality, or spirituality. He made fun of me for dwelling on these topics and fed my secret assumption that without having to prove it-we were just smarter and better than most others. Filming a movie in the final weeks of shooting meant that he was always busy, couldn’t make plans in advance, could only talk for three minutes and could speak of nothing but set news and gossip. While we had a few dinners in fancy restaurants and a handful of trips to artsy films, he claimed his busy schedule left few other more creative options than dinner and a movie.

Perhaps had he been more into me—the dates would have been extraordinary and creative, the conversation deeper, and the sex more about me. But they weren't.

And he wasn't.

Despite these clear relationship inadequacies, with disturbing momentum I whipped myself up into a frenzy of possibility. And isn’t that what we really miss when they are gone? The possibility of what we could have been.

I would have rather focused on anyone but myself.

I was unhappy in my career and feeling like a glorified and thrice humbled admin assistant. I wondered if I was doing the right thing with my life. I missed creativity. With friend and family visits I had no time to sit still and certainly no time to think about the course of my life. I was just crossing off items on a long list of obligations to get through the months.

And my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

For our last week together, I accompanied R to the Dominican Republic for shooting. A microcosm of our relationship, he was rarely around, discouraged me from coming to set, rarely checked in on me without being prompted, and when he was around was so tired that he could barely keep his eyes open. I had a great time, and made more than the best of it. I met movie stars, made new friends, explored a beautiful country and slept next to his warmth every night. But as I kissed him goodbye for what would be our last kiss, I realized that we had made it through the week without ever having a real conversation.

Despite all of this, I miss the fucker. What would you say is wrong with me, that at 4:00 PM every afternoon I am overcome with longing and sadness?

What is it that I miss?


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