The Talk, The Date, and the Wardrobe

I am relieved; the "talk" has been had.

It went surprisingly well, much more so than I anticipated. The beginning did not bode well; he walked in and said that two of his friends were over at the apartment hanging out and would only be there for half an hour and did I want to go over and hang out with them and then we'd have time to ourselves afterwards? I believe the expression on my face was something along the lines of looking at a 3 headed baby eating alien monster. I replied that no, I did not at all want to go hang out with his friends because I had some things I wanted to talk to him about. He was fine with that, as well he should have been considering we had plans and his friends dropping by played no part in the equation as far as I was concerned.

I launched in with the entrance that the relationship was not growing and had in fact been regressing as of late.
"I've kind of been feeling that way too."
Huh? Wow, that was ummm, unexpected. It set the tone for the oddest conversation of this type I've ever had; he agreed with positively everything I said. He said it was a "fair and reasonable description of his behavior". He apologized, gave some excuses but ultimately acknowledged that they were excuses and that he was still responsible for his own behavior. It was like having coffee with a stranger - at least it definitely was not the man who's been causing me so much strife and frustration as of late. Whoever this guy was, he'd drunk some pretty heavy face-the-music syrum in his coffee or something. He agreed that his behavior was shitty, attributed it to his "autism", said he was working on it with a professional, and agreed that stepping back was a good idea. He seemed relieved that I wasn't ending it,totally, and appeared to be contrite and ready to make more effort, even discussing ways of ensuring that this behavior doesn't continue (ie he evidently needs to be reminded of plans, like a child, and will be putting post-it notes on his computer to remind him of things...ummm, okay, whatever). The whole damn conversation was quite short and sweet, and I was left feeling quite bizarre, really. I stated my case, and the defense merely agreed continually with the charges. And yes, it was sincere!

So where we left things is that we're still seeing eachother, giving this a chance at growth, but in the meantime opening it up to seeing other people and taking one giant step back from a relationship that was too quickly entered into.

So, ummm...(she blushes)...I already have a date tonight.

It wasn't my fault! It happened by accident!

After the somewhat satisfying albeit weird as hell conversation, I went in search of My Little Vidipookikins, my partner in wine. As she was nowhere to be found (except in a movie theatre, as I later found out), I headed uptown to my own neighborhood and to the comforting arms of The Lone Star Talent. While the thought of continually screaming icing and parncing about to cheesy 80's music was tempting, I decided that I actually wanted to be out and about, so I headed over to my local neighborhood bar with instructions for LST to do the same. I found my Hood Haunt to be quite lively, with a gaggle of men (mostly gay) all interacting with eachother. I proceeded to down Cosmos as if I had been wandering the desert for 40 years and this was my first oasis I'd found. Luckily, they were paid for by a very friendly and interesting corporate attorney who said I was special because I could do something he could never do (act) and not to lose track of how extraordinary that made me. Uh, hello? Isn't this New York? That talent isn't exactly a rarity here ya know. But I had a lovely time, got completely bombed, and although I don't remember it, I evidently gave this man my phone number.

This morning, there was a voice mail message from him. It said "Umm, hi...this is [drunk guy from bar]. I know I said I'd call you tomorrow, but I just realized it is tomorrow! So, umm, I don't know if in the sober light of day you'll be at all interested or not, but I will be at Hood Haunt between 7 and 8pm if you would like to join me. If you don't that's totally okay, I understand we were pretty drunk and all and you may not be interested...I'll leave you alone and won't bother you again. But if you are interested, please come meet me at Hood Haunt tonight."

So I'm going. I mean, why the hell not, right? Its only a drink or two, he was very kind and paid all of our bar tab last night, and well, I am free to see other people, why not excercise that right? If I remember correctly (and that may just be giving myself a little too much credit there) he was very intelligent, very well spoken, and interesting.

So I'm going.

As soon as I post this.

Its already 7:25.

Maybe I shouldn't go.

I'm ridiculous.

I'm going.

Bye.

The O'Reilly Who Stole the Consti-Who-tion

The Whos down in Who-ville
Were a tolerant lot:
Who Christians, Who Muslims -- a Who melting pot.
Who Hindus! Who atheists! Who Buddhists, Who Jews!
Who Confucians, Who pagans,
And even Who Druse!
The Who First Amendment's Establishment Clause
Said, "No crèches in courts," and the Whos loved their laws.
Because somehow ... they worked. The Whos rarely fought,
Mostly, each Who did just what he ought.
Every Who down in Who-ville
Loved the Consti-Who-tion a lot.
But the O'Reilly, who lived up in Fox-ville,
Did NOT!
The O'Reilly DETESTED the Who Consti-Who-tion,
He thought it was some sort of liberal pollution.
Now, please don't ask why, for I really don't know.
Perhaps it had something to do with his show.I
t could be that his head wasn't screwed on quite right.
Or it could be, perhaps, that his shoes were too tight.
But I think that the most likely reason of all
May have been that his RATINGS
Were two sizes too small.W
ell, whatever it was, bad ratings or tight shoes,
He stood there one Christmas, just hating the Whos.
"They're so multicultural," he sneered, "and wherever they're from,
They lack the good sense to just launch a pogrom!
There's no Who ethnic cleansing, no Who Inquisition,
If this PEACE can't be stopped, I may lose my position.
Those sensitive, tolerant Whos! It's quite grating.
I must think of something to fix my show's ratings!
"Then he said with a smirk, "I know just what to do
To destroy all the joy in the land of the Who!
I think I can end that PC Who peace.
This year, not one Who will enjoy his Roast Beast!
"Here's just how I'll do it:I'll tell each Who Christian
That the liberal Whos have devised a new mission
To take away Christmas!
To mock and destroy
Till no little Who Christian is left with a toy!
And when secular Whos -- most likely Who Jews --
Attempt to deny it? Why,
I'll just SPIN THE NEWS!
"I'll bluff and I'll lie; I'll sow seeds of mistrust.
Soon they'll form battle lines into
Who 'THEM' and Who 'US,'
Based on which Whos prefer
To sing out, 'Merry Christmas'
And which Whos say, 'Kwanzaa!'
Or 'None of your business!'
"They'll get so confused and so MAD, MAD, MAD, MAD
That they won't even notice the way
They've been HAD!
They'll be so busy squabbling
They won't notice the war!
They won't care if Who rich
Start to trample Who poor!
"Forget torture, and terror, and taxes and health!
They'll waste all their time on some red-hatted elf.
"And the Who Consti-Who-tion?
They'll stretch it or burn it!
If it came as a gift, they would try to return it!
"The Who Christians will think that they fight the good fight,
They won't know that they're puppets of the Fox-ville Far Right.
They'll forget all that DRIVEL about faith, hope and LOVE
And say 'Merry Christmas' with a sneer and a shove.
"But I? I will prosper! My ratings will soar,
And maybe at last they'll forget I'm a BOOR.
Then for every Who Christmas tree
A most fitting adornament:
My O'Reilly MUG on the tackiest ornament!"
... And what happened then?
Well, the rest's up to you.
But I know what I'd like this holiday season:
A little less NOISE and a little more reason.
So Who Christians! Who Buddhists! Who Muslims! Who Jews!
WHOever you are, just say NO to Fox "News"!
If you don't want to lose the whole Who Consti-Who-tion
It's time to reject the Far Right Revolution.
So turn off O'Reilly and everyone shrill,
Let's have some peaceAnd old-fashioned GOODWILL.

(Rosa Brooks, an associate professor at the University of Virginia School of Law, wrote this for the Los Angeles Times.)

The City Smells Like Soggy Garbage

The city smells like soggy garbage today. I'm certain there's a metaphor in there somewhere, but not entirely sure I really wish to explore it, so we'll just leave it at that.

Though stylistically uncharacteristic, this post will be a hodge podge mix-n'-match chloroform choose your own adventure type thing, due to both time constraints and inexplicable lethargy on my part. Please deposit any and all expectations here.
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The Lone Star Talent and I spent a lovely night last night swilling wine amidst random shouts of "Icing!! ICING!!" ringing through the air at piercing volume and frightening intensity. We also dyed my hair a lovely new shade of reddish golden brown, chosen by her gloriousness, the girly queen of roomates, who also helped wash the spilled dye off of my naked back and shoulders while laughing about what a wet dream for many men the whole scenario was. This is why I love having a female roomate again after so much time living with men. This hilariously empowering fun-fest only further confirmed the oft repeated mantra of the evening.

"ICING!!!"
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I receieved a phone call from the director of HR shortly after arriving somewhere in the neighborhood of noon today. "Can you come to my office?" Oh shit! Either a reprimand for the very short length of my skirt or my slackness as of late was forthcoming. I paraded in with my very short skirt and very bright hot pick lace fishnets layered over black tights entering a full 2 minutes preceeding me.

"Can you shut the door please?" Oh god! That just confirmed it...shutting the door is never a good sign. Well, I'd been here before, and learned then that of course I am a highly marketable highly intelligent human being with no need to freak out.

So of course my innards were plummeting to the depth of self-esteem hell.

But no, the universe was merely fucking with me, providing a grand joke at the expense of my fragile digestive system; I was being offerred a full time job...again. Not only just any full time job, but a highly coveted one as the administrative assistant to the big man on campus. This was huge! This was extraordinary! Not only had my self-perceived slackness not been noticed, but I was being paid the highest of compliments for my work ethic and performance!

But wait...accepting the job meant no more flexibility. Granted it also meant being able to pay my bills and not have to pay rent on the credit card, as I am forced to do for January yet again, but no flexibility whatsoever.

Chains and shakles, chains and shackles......rent! rent!....chains and shackles, chains and shackles.....

"I'm sorry, if it means compromising my flexibility, I'm going to have to respectfully decline."
"I knew it! I told Dr. Big Man on Campus that you wouldn't take it, that you had your own thing going on and that SDJ Company wasn't your life. I just won the bet and got a free lunch!"
"Umm, glad I could come through and get you a free lunch?"
"Seriously, I respect your decision and respect your commitment to the whole acting thing. But I did want you to know you were absolutely the first choice and that you're highly thought of here."
"Wow, that really makes my day! Especially considering I thought you were calling me in here to tell me that you were getting rid of all the temps again."
"Actually we are, tomorrow. All except you, of course."
"Umm, okay. Whew, guess I'm lucky, huh? Well, thanks again for the offer, and I'll be more than happy to take on any administrative work [editor's note: IDIOT!!! YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!!] in the interim before someone is hired. I'm always happy to be given problem solving tasks to conquer."
"Great! Then I'll definitely take you up on that myself, as I'm often in need of administrative support."
[Editor's note: PLEA TEMPORARY INSANITY!!]
"Umm, great. More than happy to help out."
"Thanks, Synge. You're very highly thought of here, just wanted to make you aware of that. Oh, and this conversation stays between us, okay?"
"Of course it does. Absolutely."

Us and anyone stumbling onto this blog, which hopefully will not be the instrument of my downfall.
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Naturally, after being paid such a high compliment, I then proceeded to spend the rest of the day emailing back and forth with SL2000 and Mr. Artsy Hotpants entrenched in the hopeless task of actually making a decision as to New Year's Eve plans. After a record breaking low of 25646843 emails, a consensus was finally reached! The evening will commence with cooking dinner and drinking wine at MAH's; sharp wit and fabulous commentary complimentary. This will be followed by a party at a friend of MAH's where there will be more food, more alcohol, and did I mention food and alcohol (probably great witty commentary there as well, though I can't vouch for it personally). The evening will be rounded off with a (surely drunken, by this point) jaunt down to the West Village to ring in the New Year in great style surrounded by many fabulous queens belting out show tunes, just to ensure no possibility whatsoever of a New Year's kiss. I am very happy with this plan, and very happy with the wonderful friends that I'll be ringing in the New Year with. Perhaps one of the fabulous belting queens will take pity on me and kiss me on the cheek for luck.
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And last but certainly not anywhere near least, tonight is the night in which I have the talk with Doc Harley. I spent whatever portion of the day leftover from making New Year's plans fortifying my resolve, finding my strength, and freaking out about what the hell I'm going to say and how the hell I'm going to say it. I emailed back and forth with a wonderful co-worker of mine, who gave such beautiful and unexpetced tidbits of wisdom that really sent the message home, ending with, "You have strength, my sweet. Let's just bulk up your arms."

My fear is that my resolve will be lost amidst excuses and my tendencies towards sympathy and giving too many chances. But as trite as any and all "new beginnings" themes are, I do want to begin the new year with a fresh start and a renewed commitment to myself. Bowing to someone else's needs is not doing that. I must gather my forces and plunge forward, no matter how blind and inexperienced I may feel in this arena.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

I'll be the one sipping wine, wearing superwomyn underoos and smelling like soggy garbage.

I Am a Whole Cake, Not a Doughnut!

I was going to write a very funny post relating all of my Chanukah adventures, replete with a collapse leading to a Christmas Eve trip to the ER (not me), a horrific and bloody cell phone hit and run leading to the untimely and quite smooshy demise of my beloved ever-present crutch, and a text message from my father to Doc Harley leading to who the hell knows what.

But I'm not writing that post.

I'm not writing that post because as I sit here at the sdj trying desperately to prop up a body that is slouching further and further downward as the day progresses, it strikes me that there is something else that I'm much more compelled to write about - the newly discovered territory of me.

I have been spending much time in hibernation, holed up with my yarn and crochet hook in the remote recesses of my consciousness, and I like what the excavating has yielded thus far. Yes, you heard right, I am liking being with myself. It only took me almost 30 years to even get an inkling of what that feels like; 30 years of frantically avoiding and running from it. Furthermore, I am discovering and fully owning the wholly joyous epiphany that I do not need men; I am a complete and whole entity in and of my own right. A damn funny, interesting, intelligent, and creative entity at that (and I certainly do enjoy sex with myself as well). Men are supposed to be icing on the cake of self, not the flour, sugar and eggs. I hadn't looked in the cupboard in a long time; I was shocked to find the ingredients were indeed all there (the flour was hidden underneath some spilled nuts that I had neglected to clean up until now).

I talked to Mr. Emotionally Unavailable on the phone tonight for quite a long time. It was wonderful to hear his voice, wonderful to laugh with him over familiar things, and yes, I am definitely still in love with him - that might never go away. But I don't need him, and I don't want to get back together with him - not with what obscene disparity there is between what I am ever learning I want and what he is prepared to give. It didn't hurt when he said "I like you", it merely felt nice to know that someone likes me. I like him too. But I don't need him, and I love saying and owning that. I loved that I hung up the phone feeling good about myself, and the conversation and this man that I care deeply about. Without disappointment; unqualified. When he told me that Doc Harley was a fool because he didn't know what a catch he was letting go of, I didn't think "Why did you let go of it?" or "Why is DH doing this?"; I thought "That's right. I am a catch, and they are fools." And I meant it.

Things with Doc Harley have pretty much ended already, the conversation is just a mere formality. We most certainly have not been behaving as a couple for a little while now; a healthy couple does not go a whole week without speaking to eachother at all and then pretend like nothing's strange about that. The more time that goes by in this limbo-land, the more I am leaning towards ending the relationship completely rather than opening it up to seeing other people. I am also realizing that perhaps I was more in love with the idea of him than the actuality. Whatever the case, I certainly do not love the reality that is this man right now.

Even after last Wednesday's text message in which I believe I was very clear about how I did not care to text message anymore, his response still arrived via text...and not until Sunday night. He wrote that he was coming back into the city the next day and hopefully we could talk live in person on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. My father composed and sent a reply back to him, which said "God forbid you should lose a couple of fingers. You'd be mute. Happy Chanukah, Synge's Dad." While this might not have been the best course of action, it certainly provided us with endless hours of laughter and turned what was a frustrating and hurtful situation into a lovely family joke. I do believe that's the way things like this should be handled; I am tired of being disappointed, angry, hurt, and the like...I much prefer the laughter and empowerment route, hiccup inducing though it can sometimes be.

If he ever responded to the message, I have no idea of knowing, seeing as how my cell phone is in various flattened components resembling more a bizarre Rorschach test than a once functioning tool of torture..er, I mean comunication. But the fact remains that he is only making a half assed effort, and that's just not good enough for me. I don't need that kind of treatment, and I don't need someone for whom I am an afterthought when its convenient for him.

Because I am a whole entity. I am a delicious homemade cake, not a processed crappy doughnut awaiting my filling.

(even if I may be a fruitcake)

I Want a Free Trip to Italy!

I had a great audition today.

Wait, that felt so good to write, I'm going to say it again...maybe even in all caps with lots of exclamation points...

I HAD A GREAT AUDITION TODAY!!!!!

Its about fucking time, too.

I accredit it all to my wonderfully centering and confidence boosting weekend in Chicago, not to mention Orphannie's friend, Madame Luscious Long Room, who told me repeatedly to just fucking go for it, that this was my time to shine. She was one of those everyday angels who tell you exactly what you need to hear in that precise moment - then again, I tend to think stepping on a crack may indeed break my poor mother's back and that a lightbulb burning out is a sign.

But whatever the reason may be, the fact remains that I had a great audition; I was confident (but not cocky), prepared (but not over rehearsed) and I just went in and did my thing. This audition was for an indie film that's shooting in New York and Italy...ummm, hello! Free trip to Italy? You betcha I'm all over it!

I had submitted my headshot and resume some time ago, and had of course totally forgotten about it, when one day I am surprised by an email asking me to come in for a four minute interview to see if they then wanted me to audition. In a stroke of planning genius, the interview happened to be just after my plane landed from the trip to Chicago (thank god the strike wasn't on or I never would have made it), and after approximately an hour of less-than-sound sleep amidst a birthday party. To make matters worse, Orphannie's printer decided that it would really prefer to print only the last 2/3 of the screenplay, which I was to have read for the interview.

Despite the many strikes against me, I somehow managed to speak coherently enough about the character and my view of her (amazing considering I barely knew my own name at that point) that I was offered an audition slot there on the spot. I evidently used my four whole minutes well.

Due to a miscalculation in time (omission of the grapefruit sized ankle factor), I arrived at the audition one minute late. While this is not a big deal, and no one seemed to notice really, it meant that I had no time to focus and get my bearings. Great. That's usually a bad omen. However, I walked in, with my head high, ready to just play and see what happened. I shook hands, made some sort of comment about hoping they were getting around okay with the strike and all, got introduced to my reader, and boom! We were off and running.

The scene took place in a car; specifically, with me driving said car. Of course the props were 4 chairs, and the "sunhat" (a jacket hood) placed in the "backseat" where it was supposed to be out of reach. The director began by telling me that he really wanted to see me driving the car; he wanted to see the whole strife arising from not only the conversation, but the stress of doing two things at once. Great. Umm, see, I'm an actor, not a fucking mime. I hate having to mime crap at auditions, I think it totally takes away from what's going on between the two people. Then again, that was his point. So I said "sure! absolutely!" and other such "look how easy I am to work with!" statements, and plunged in.

The Chanukah miracle of the year is not oil lasting for 8 days and 8 nights, but the fact that I somehow did not get totally thrown off whatsoever by the whole simulated driving thing - in fact, I did exactly what I'm supposed to do, and used it to my advantage.

After the first take, the director seemed quite pleased and remarked on how interesting and compelling the moments were when I was doing "nothing" (assumedly meaning no dialogue, as let's not forget, I was "driving" after all). He was also impressed that I remembered from an early scene in the screenplay that the car was a stick shift; evidently he did not catch the fact that I kept shifting from neutral to 2nd gear only...or maybe 4th gear came into play once or twice. He gave me feedback for a mere 2 little moments, but generally liked what I was giving him. I did the second take, incorporating his direction, and that was it. Audition finito. He remarked again that I was very compelling to watch when I was just "driving" and on my transitions between moments and overall he seemed quite pleased. I shook hands with everyone in the room again, my reader apologized for messing up my hair and I made some sort of joke about her having actually improved the look, and I was on my way.

I felt good about what I did. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't fraught with self awareness and self criticism. I just went in, did my best in that moment, and left. That was all. No drama, no tripping myself up, just doing what I do best, and having fun doing so.

I think this is a huge lesson to me in what auditions should be.

I walked out of that room knowing that if I do not get this, it will have nothing whatsoever to do with my audition. That's a wonderful feeling. I must try this again.

MTA, Must You Ruin Everything?

Dear MTA,

Can you please, puleeze just give the Transit Worker's Union Local 100 their fucking pensions at age 55 and get this whole thing over with? You had a giant unexplainable surplus this year, which you stupidly chose to give away with bullshit riders discounts which really only benefitted tourists and pissed of New Yorkers anyway; that was a really stupid move, but okay, we're over it. Now you're holding out on the pension issue, and we're walking. In the fucking cold! Hi, MTA, have ya been outside lately? It ain't exactly summer ya know. The Red Cross is out there at the Brooklyn Bridge taking care of feezing commuters! The Red Cross! Last time I checked, this wasn't a war zone with refugees streaming to and fro, but these days it sure does look like it.

You know, MTA, if you just learned to manage your money a little better this wouldn't even be an issue. How many times have your father and I told you that holiday fare discounts are just not a smart way to spend your money? Sure, you win the hearts of the tourists, temporarily, but wouldn't a nice investment in your workers' pensions be even more gratifying in the long run? If you managed to have a surplus of several million dollars this year, you can do it next year and the year after that. Doesn't that sound nice, MTA? Hmmm? That way everyone wins out?

MTA, its not that I'm lazy and mind walking, because I don't. I would (and am currently doing so) gladly freeze for TWU Local 100, because I think they should get their fucking pensions at 55, after all, they put up with us assholes on a regular basis. But I have now twisted the same ankle a sum total of 16 times (and that's no exaggerration) and at this moment it is the size of a grapefruit. This is very painful to walk on, and even more painful to walk 30 fucking blocks on. I will now be forced to hobble into my film audition tomorrow, if I am even able to make it there at all, looking like a total freak.

I think my ankle is clearly contemplating a sympathy strike with the TWU, the slowdown has already begun.

MTA, this just isn't funny anymore. You may get as many publicity shots of Bloomberg walking across the Brooklyn Bridge as you like; you may sick Elliot Spitzer on the union leaders threatening jailtime (which will only increase the length of the strike you dipshits); and you may spin doctor this to villify the union, but they are holding to their cause so can you stop this pissing contest already and admit you were wrong? Come on, MTA, no one will think less of you for it, I promise.

Please? Before my leg has to be amputated already?

Sincerely (and painfully),
Synge

Text Messaging It Like It Is

After not having spoken in a week, I called Doc Harley when I returned from my surprise trip to Chicago for Orphannie's 30th birthday (which wasn't exactly a surprise, but an amazing fabulous weekend nonethless...but that's for another post). I called just to make sure he was feeling okay; I was doggedly dragging along after one hour of sleep peppered with partygoers coming in to retrieve their coats (which had been moved to the living room) and was barely able to hold myself erect, much less carry on anything remotely resembling a conversation so it was quite short and sweet. Before hanging up, he said "I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll be up around 10, give me a call.", to which I responded, "No, why don't you call me.", and he agreed to do just that. He actually said the words "Okay, I'll call you.". I heard them with my own two ears.

Of course he didn't call.

But he did text message me this morning, inane drivel about the hellishness of Penn Station amidst the strike and how the world had gone mad. He was at JFK, about to board a flight to L.A. for the weekend.

In that moment, something inside me just snapped for the final time. That's it, no more text messaging, no more easy way out. Its a cop-out and I'm tired of this bullshit. I'm just plain tired.

So I wrote back, because he was already on the flight by that time (the message was sent before I woke up), and said, "Txting has lost its novelty - its 4 people who don't wanna talk. Ring me sometime when u decide 2 have a conversation. Enjoy yor escape from the world gone mad."

If he ever calls, and I'm not holding my breath that it will be bofore he gets back from L.A....in fact I'm willing to bet on that.....I will tell him that I am not at all happy with the way things are and that we can certainly work to improve them, but in the meantime I want to see other people.

But no more text messaging!

The Great Houdini

First of all, all of you who commented both on the blog and via email have given me a lot to think about. My particular modus operendi has always been to let things simmer and stew on their own, and eventually the answer becomes so pungent that it cannot be ignored. You have all given me many ingredients for my personal stew, and thus my plan is to pull a magical disappearring act this weekend in order to let the flavors mix and see what comes of it.

I still have not spoken to Doc Harley since the last conversation I wrote of; I have not contacted him and he has not contacted me. Part of me thinks this is a good thing, as I'm not yet certain of what it is I want to say, and part of me thinks it is a bad tactical move on both our parts. But I need distance right now, in order to adequately evaluate. Perhaps I should inform him of this, rather than just being a missing persons, but at the same time he hasn't afforded me such respect in the past. Juvenile, I know.

Its funny, New York is truly a place in which you can disappear quite easily if you choose to do so - you can become a walking talking invisible ghost. I think I've already begun retreating into myself this week, as I tend to do when feeling particularly fragile; living in the world of my head and sometimes my imagination. Its like a vacation without the travel part. And sometimes, you just need to get away. I've always felt like distance provides perspective that you cannot otherwise achieve in the midst of the tumultuous day to day scramble.

...Stepping back, I suppose.

I'm amazingly even keeled, though, in a weird and completely surprising way. I'm not necessarily depressed and definitely not joyous either, but not exactly numb. I feel like I'm trusting myself to make the right decision when the time comes. Wow, this is new! Kind of exciting, really. Hmmm...trusting myself...it sits well on the tongue and on the gut.

I'm trusting myself.

I like that. I think its a keeper.

Let's hope I can hold onto it.

One Step Forward Two Steps Back?

I'm taking a step back. In everything. Cocooning, if you will, cloaked in a comforting blanket of my ipod and my crocheting (which is an extremely addictive habbit).

This hibernation was first inspired by the need to step back from my relationship with Doc Harley, as evidenced by Saturday night's pitiful crying in the snow episode. Things with DH had been going rather well after our wonderfully productive and mutually supportive discussion (which this slacker monkey never quite got around to translating into a blog entry - sorry). I wasn't freaking out, I wasn't overly sensitive, and I wasn't bringing past experiences into the present; I was more confident in our ability to work things out and inspired by the fact that he wanted to...he wanted to fight for this to work.

Last Thursday night, he met me and two of my friends (including my lovely stage manager, Potato Person, from the out of town show I did a little over a year ago) to go out for Thai food. He was positively charming over dinner and a lovely time was had by all. Afterwards, I was going to walk my two friends to the subway, and I assumed I would meet him back at his place. While we were walking briefly in the same direction, he asked me what my plans for the evening were, and whether I wanted to go to his place or go home. The truth was, of course, that I wanted to (and totally expected to) go to his place, but being the overly proud idiot who is slightly incapable of voicing her wants that I am, I said "Its entirely up to you; I can go either way. What do you want to do?" Ummm, hello, wrong answer! He responded that he was tired and wanted to go home, meaning alone. Naturally, I was wounded, but by my own sword. He mentioned getting together on Friday, but I told him that I already had plans, and that on Saturday I was going to Not-So-Sneaky-Eliza's party. He looked slightly disappointed, so I reminded him that I had already invited him to the party and he had said he'd go, and he said "Oh, well then I'll see you Saturday then. We'll go to the party."

Remember that sentence folks.

I walked my friends dejectedly to the subway, feeling like a grand asshole lying in the bed of my own making, wondering when the hell I would finally learn to say what I want. I dropped them off at their trains and decided to take a different train home, to walk in the direction of his apartment and allow him time to get home so that I could call and tell him that I did indeed want to come over. I was being proactive! I was being strong! And by the 7th unanswered call I was being pathetic once again! By the 8th call, he had turned off his phone, or for some reason it went straight to voicemail. I left a message saying that I did in fact want to go over there, and that I didn't feel like making the long trek across and uptown. The message was just a fruitless formality, really, as I was almost at the subway and his ringer was off. While changing trains on a subway platform that allows enough signal to text message, I sent him a text message saying "I did want to come over, but I wasn't sure u wanted me there."

By the time I arrived home the whole thing had snowballed to epic proportions in my mind. I knew, however, that I was being silly, and that he had just spent several hours having dinner with my friends so clearly his wanting to go home and sleep was not a rejection of me. I miraculously did not end up sobbing on my roomate's breast, and instead went to sleep with the understanding that I would see this all differently in the morning. I did.

Friday night, I was out with one of my lovely Vagina Warriors, whom I had not seen in months. We were splitting a bottle of wine and talking about everything under the sun, including Doc Harley, when lo and behold a text message arrives saying that he was going to the Russian baths for a steam and then wanted to go get sushi at 10 and asking me if I was around. So I quickly composed a message back saying that I was with the Kissable Kiwi (I had to go for the alliteration there...too tempting not to) and to call when he got out of the steam baths. He replied "Ok". Now perhaps I am being presumptuous here, and perhaps "ok" has a different meaning in his world, but I assumed that it meant he would call. I am clearly not entirely insane, as the Kissable Kiwi took it to mean the same thing and was looking forward to possibly meeting him. When he hadn't called by 10:30, at KK's urging, I sent a text message saying "What time is sushi?" (the definitive no loopholes message). Still no response via text or phone call. We finally left the bar at around 12:30pm or one bottle and 4 glasses of wine later, depending on which unit of measurement you ascribe to. I called and left a voicemail message saying "Clearly you evaporated in the steam, because you never called me." The next voicemail message, left on the way home from the subway after a short ride with my short fuse, said "It really bothers me when you say you're going to call and you don't. It wouldn't bother me if you just didn't call; but when you say you're going to call and don't that hurts my feelings. It's inconsiderate. I hope you enjoyed your sushi." (ever the petulant child, I couldn't resist)

[Editor's note: here would be where I spent a good hour or two composing a brilliant (I can say that because its lost) rest of this post, which was subsequently and frustratingly lost out somewhere in the blogosphere. Perhaps when I learn how to be in a good relationship, I will also learn to write in word and then copy and paste for saving purposes. It is now 3:45am on Thursday morning, and as I can't sleep, I am bound and determined to finish this epic post begun so very long ago. Perhaps then rest will come, but its doubtful...]

Saturday was spent in the arduous and treacherous task of discovering that there was indeed a floor in my room, long ago buried under mountains of clothes and papers and plastic bags filled with clothes and papers and other various and sundry missing objects long ago forgotten but suddenly vitally important enough not to throw away. This grand feat was celebrated by all, especially The Lone Star Talent, who could now enter my room without the usual tripping and falling among the unintentional booby traps. The celebration was , however, slightly marred by the conspicuously and continually silent phone. As the party hour drew closer, I stubbornly refused to break the silence and call DH. He presumably knew we had plans for the evening (considering it was discussed a mere day and a half ago), he presumably knew I was upset that he had not called the night before, and damnit, he still owed me a fucking phone call. I was not going to call him like some nagging parental figure reminding him of our plans and instructing him where and when to meet me only to be disappointed. I prefer my disappointments to be with a side of dignity, thank you.

By 8pm, the appointed hour for the festivities to begin, he still had not called. I phoned Not-So-Sneaky-Eliza, the host, to ask her if she needed me to bring anything. She asked me to bring some beer and then asked, "So are you bringing..?"at which point I interrupted her saying, "No one. Just me, myself and I." Being the phenomenal friend that she is, her reply was "Yay! That's my favorite person anyway!"

Why can't men be like that? You know, magically say just the right thing that makes it all okay?

I had a lovely time at the party, pre-crying in the snow episode at least; I felt social capable, perhaps even slightly attractive and interesting. I usually tend to be slightly shy at parties which comes out in one of two modes: silent human art wall decoration or sarcastic bitch; I'm still not sure which is worse. But Saturday night I was neither, I was actually interacting and flirting a little (having been pimped out, by the host in the know who was trying to help me achieve my goal of a little holiday smooching), having conversations and meeting people. Early on, despite my solemn vows not to, I made the mistake of checking the phone. I had decided that for the evening I was going to pretend like I didn't have a boyfriend, thus preventing disappointment in the behavior of a certain pseudo-non-boyfriend. I broke my own rule, however, and found a text message waiting for me. It read, "Its 9:30pm on Sat. U at ur party?" So he did remember about the party. Wow, even pretending to be single couldn't erase the hurt and disappointment at being knowingly stood up. Mind you, the text message contained no explanation for not being there, no explanation for not calling, and IT WAS A TEXT MESSAGE AND NOT THE FUCKING PHONE CALL I WAS OWED!!

Now, dear reader, can you understand how I might have ended up in that alley crying in the snow?

The Lone Star Talent informed me that when I got home that night I was drunkenly sobbing "I'm defective! I'm defective!", at which point she lifted my shirt and said, "Nope, there's a quality control tag here on your back and its dated 1976. you're most definitely not defective." My brilliant change in tactic was to then start sobbing "I'm faulty then! I'm faulty! Something's wrong with me...it must be me." Yeah, good times in the 'ol apartment o' sobs. Our neighbors must love us. We've decided that we should just make crying noises and shout random self depricating phrases even when we're not upset just to further the illusion that we are the freaky manic depressive sobbing girls. We actually tried this the other evening, but ended up laughing too hard to disguise it as crying.

Sunday I decided that I most definitely needed to pull back and just go about living my own life, as Lady Charon counseled me to do. I decided to pull back, I was going to really and truly pretend like I didn't have a boyfriend; trial singledom, if you will. And it actually worked quite well. I enjoyed time with friends, I shot a trailer for an indie film, I went to a Code Pink protest, and enjoyed a few glasses of wine with SL2000...all without being hurt and disappointed that my non-boyfriend STILL HAD NOT CALLED. Not one word. But I was okay, because I didn't have a boyfriend in whom to be disappointed. Doc who? No, no lack of respect was felt when there was "no one" to feel it from.

On Monday I recieved a text message at around 4pm which said "Where are you? How you doing?". I did not reply right away, as it was a text message, and just in case I hadn't amde myself painfully repetetively clear in all caps, HE OWED ME A FUCKING PHONE CALL! Instead, I went to yoga, where I found inner peace and stillness of the mind through a series of bodily contortions and an instructor who ranged from what sounded like hebrew chanting at synogogue to drill sargeant. With my newfound inner peace and stillness of the mind, I decided to return DH's text message, as I was feeling quite loving and compassionate. I wrote "Doing ok, and u?", as I wasn't feeling so loving and compassionate as to forget that he still hadn't called, he stood me up, and he never acknowledged any of that. The textation that ensued went as follows:
"ok. I was not feeling well. I think I'm better now...just working..."
"Sorry you were ill-glad yor feeling better."
"Thanks. Doing much better..."

Wow, that was such a productive exchange! I'm so glad I didn't waste valuable thumb energy on that one. The discerning reader will note that there was no reference made to the lack of contact throughout the weekend, nor the thoughtless behavior echibited, nor the standing up of Saturday night's plans. Oh, unless of course that was meant to be covered under the blanket caviat of "not feeling well." Wow, he must have been truly dying, because I know even when I've been incredibly ill myself, I can at least muster enough strength to contact someone I care about to let them know what's going on, even if its by carrier pigeon.

To make a long story slightly less epic (if I am indeed capable of such a thing), as its now 4:30am and I have yet to sleep, I broke the stubborn fast Tuesday when I initiated contact after receiving a rather severe 2nd degree burn to 1/4 of my lower lip (don't ask - I'm incredibly accident prone to say the least) and the ensuing gigantic swollen blister was threatening to take over my entire face. I was frightened by the ever increasing swelling, so I text messaged him (I wasn't frightened enough to actually call, as I still had some stubborness about me) and he was quite sweet and helpful. An hour or so later, miracle of miracles, he actually picked up the phone and spoke into it under the auspices of calling to see how my lip was. We spoke briefly about my lip, his tentative plans to go to LA Chanukah/Christmas weekend, and his not feeling well; no mention was made by either party of the huge white elephant in the room. I cut him off mid-unintelligable-yawn-sentence and told him to go to bed, as he was clearly tired and really, I didn't know what I wanted to say and I wanted to talk to Lady Charon before making any moves to be sure that I wasn't making mountains of molehills or trafficking in the past rather than the present. He seemed quite surprised, having assumed that the burn text contact initation meant he was in the clear. He said, "Ok, I'll talk to you tomorrow?" I replied, "Sure."

Of course, he never called yesterday.

Lady Charon provided a wealth of sage insight, as always, among which was the fact that he is clearly acting out like a little child, running full speed ahead in the opposite direction from my voiced expectations (which include oh-so-burdensome things such as not blowing off previously made plans and calling when you say you're going to call). She also said that there's something funny going on - either another woman on the side (highly unlikely) or some secret he's hiding regarding his emotional life which I'll probably never be privy to considering his withholding patterns (highly likely); she said people don't just disappear like that for several days from someone they care about. She said either way he is deeply wounded, but as he's unwilling to share his wounds, there's little room for growth the way things stand now. She agreed that his behavior was thoughtless and highly unacceptable, and no, I wasn't making mountains of molehills, I was in fact being treated like shit. She did say it was a mistake to contact him about the burn, as it amounted to jumping over the gigantic pile of poop on the living room floor of the apartment that is our relationship (see, she does actually speak in Synge metaphors) and now he thinks its all okay when its not.

I have a few options now. I can sit down with him and say that we are at a plateau in our relationship on which I do not want to set up camp; we either go deeper into the canyon, or agree to see other people and start the hike out, thus beginning the process of disentangling. Or I can just cut my losses and jump ship totally right now. I'm not sure what I want to do, but I know I don't want to leave things as they are.

Its not okay to be sobbing alone in the snow at 2am; that is not the mark of a healthy happy loving relationship.

Its time to shit or get off the pot - I just need to sit on it a little bit longer in hopes of a little clarity. I didn't bring in a magazine or anything, and I don't intend on staying there all day, but I do need a little time before I do whatever I end up doing.

Its Your Party and I'll Cry if I Want To

Nothing says Happy Holidays! quite like getting totally smashed at a good friend's party and then going out in the alley and sobbing so pathetically and endlessly to another good friend on the phone to the point where they have to call the party host to come outside and collect your blubbering remains strewn about the half melted snow. Wow. Yay! Happy Holidays! I'm so festive! A great addition to any holiday gathering! I'll be your genuine 100% gauranteed holiday asshole replete with a total lack of social skills. Invite me now and I'll be sure to appear at your party with my very own pity party of one in tow.

Not-so-sneaky Eliza, I guess you were right and those Peppermint Sticks really do catch up with you. I'm so sorry, I've always been a lyric misquoter but I did indeed know that the song doesn't in fact go "Its your party and I'll cry if I want to...". Mr. Artsy Hotpants, you were an angel once again. Thanks for staying with me on the phone until I got home. Lone Star Talent, are you regretting the bargain of cheap rent for tiny space, killer cat, and roomate who frequently sobs on your shoulder in the middle of the night? I bet you didn't realize how often you'd be pulling snot duty...neither did I. I do count myself quite lucky for it though. And Orphannie, I have no recollection whatsoever of calling you (though I've been known to drunk dial you crying on more than one occasion, so I shouldn't be surprised), but I just got your voice mail and it was so very sweet and wonderful. I saved it to play back to my pathetic little ass ad nauseum.

Perhaps I have now crossed the relationship threshold to the not-so-good point. Perhaps I also have a teeny weensy bit of a melodramatic streak in me. Perhaps I should not drink Peppermint Sticks next year.

I think this totally counts as worse than last year's annual holiday party story of My Little Vidipookikins falling asleep on the subway and getting confused as to how the hell to get to the Upper West Side from Astoria. (besides, I think I fell asleep on the subway that year too, so I can't really make fun.) Can someone else please take the reigns o' shame now? I'm a little over the thrill of being a joke in and of myself.

I also think I'm still drunk, but don't worry, I'm not crying at the moment. I am, however, going back to bed, where I can hide under the covers and pretend I didn't embarass myself quite so thoroughly.

The Chemical Formula for Drama - Part III (of a way too long series)

Our heroine was at a loss as to how to explain to this man exactly how his failure to show and share his emotions affected her; she only knew that it did, and deeply. "It affects me because its a huge part of you that I don't get to see. It affects me because I have no idea what's going on in your head, what you're thinking and feeling and that hurts!" She knew this was not an explanation, but rather a statement of her position, yet this was one of those times where words seemed wholly inadequate and empty amidst the surge of feelings. "But I'm not responsible for your feelings. I may be sorry you feel that way and I may not like it, but I'm not responsible for causing those feelings." "I never said you were." "Yes you did, you just said that this is how you feel and its because of me. I have no power over your emotions. I can neither cause or change how you feel. I'm sorry that you had some idea in your head as to how you wanted me to be after not seeing you for a week and that I failed to live up to your expectations." Whoah, what was this? An acknowledgement of sorts as to what happened that evening, albeit a defensive one."I understand fully and do agree that we are all responsible for and in control of our own emotions, but certain actions have a cause and effect thing that happens as a result. And I'm just saying if you know I'm feeling like you didn't miss me, you may not be able to take away that feeling, but what you can do is tell me that you did miss me. Tell me that I am important to you." "Sure I could do that, but then there will just be something else that comes along."

At this point she is tired and at a total loss as to how to bridge this communication chasm (for it seems much broader than a mere gap). She sits silently for a moment, as the energy, fight, and heightened emotional surge drains completely from her body. He quietly says "I have never treated you badly. I may have a hard time showing my feelings, but I don't treat you badly." She looks into his eyes and sees an expression she has never seen before. It is fleeting, but undeniably there. Hurt? Fear? She does not know how to read the cryptic clues into the murky waters of his carefully hidden emotional territory; she only knows this is something new. "Please don't go home. Please stay. Please go wash your face and brush your teeth and come to bed. Please stay. I want you to stay." The voice is ever so slightly different as well, muted and strained as if poured through an esophegal collander. It is still quick and urgent, but the tone is different. She retreats to the bathroom once more, as it has become a base camp of sorts where she can check in with herself, catalogue her wounds, take stock of her forces and decide what the next move may be.

He clearly and undeniably showed something there at the end of the conversation. He was at least trying to share in some way, this she knows in the very depth of her womanly intuition. He allowed just a moment of vulnerability to creep in and he allowed himself to reveal that he wanted, he needed her to stay. She could not leave at this point, nor did she want to. The conversation was nowhere near its completion; it had barely begun. But the door was open, even if just a crack. She knows they must both sit in this new space that has been created, and figure out where to go from here. But she also knows thaht leaving, at this point, would be a mistake for both of them.

Many years before, when she knew nothing of love and only of sex, power, violation, and self protection her best friend was navigating her way through her first young love and first young love break-up. She remembers so vividly (the best friend was wearing a ribbed burgundy sweater) the best friend telling her that she wanted to be someone worth fighting for. She feels like in this confusing melee of emotion and misperception and defensiveness on all sides, the moment the boyfriend asked her to please please stay, he was saying that she was worth fighting for and that he did not want to let her go. She feels like her decision to stay signals the same on her part. She takes one more look in the mirror, as if to check in with her reflection one last time to make sure she is doing what she truly wants to do and not what she thinks someone else wants her to do (she has been doing a lot of that sort of checking in as of late). The reflection confirms her decision and she turns off the light for the last time that night.

She disrobes rather hastily, trying to avoid his noticing the sexy undergarments that are now an emphatic punctuation of her expectations for the evening, but all of his attention is now focused on her and of course he notices and makes an appropriate fuss which she feels is too little too late. She climbs into the warm bed, where he is waiting with his arms open, and she folds her body into his, finding the familiar nooks and niches where they have learned to fit their bodies together. He wraps his arms around her and says "I did miss you and I am very happy to see you." She can solidly feel that perhaps they are not going to listen to the radio and fall asleep, but she does not want a forced gesture and says "I don't want pity sex. That's insulting." "Its not pity sex at all." "That's what it feels like." "Well its not. I was trying to think of a sincere and sexy way to tell you you are wanted."

Afterwards the couple lay in eachothers arms, still holding on tightly for a very long time. Even after he fell asleep, the boyfriend was holding on tightly to her as he snored and would pull her back and sleep-whimper when she went to pull away. She wondered why he could clearly demonstrate his need in his sleep, but had such difficulty admitting to it in the waking hours. It was as if his muscles could only express in sleep what his mind held in check when awake.

The next morning he left before she did (she being quite sluggish in the morning hours by nature) to go take care of things at the office. She took her time getting ready and taking stock of where she was and resolving to continue the dialogue that was begun but not resolved. She phoned the boyfriend when she was leaving, to let him know that he needed to come home and lock the apartment; he was with a patient and had to put her on hold for a brief moment. When he came back on the line, he asked her how she was doing that morning. "Umm, i'm okay. How are you?" "Are you still mad at me?" Mad? Did he think this was really about anger? "I'm not mad at you...its not about being mad. Its a lot more complicated than that...way more. And...aren't you with a patient right now?" "Yes, but its okay, they're in the other room." "Listen, go deal with your patient, okay?" "Okay, I'll call you later?"

She did not speak with him that evening, despite the text message imploring her to let him know when she arrived at home. She needed to process and sort things out and drink copious amounts of wine with her girlfriends while they bandied about terms and phrases like "bastards!" and "what's wrong with them?" and "they don't get it!" in overly emphatic and high pitched tones. She needed to hear how she was unconditionally right and he was unconditionally wrong. She resolved and unresolved a million times that day to break up with him. Better now than a year and a half later right?

The next day she went to see her therapist, ready to collectively speak indignantly and to proudly display how bravely she stood up for herself. She described the whole scenario in detail and finished with her tale, eyes sparkling defiantly and head cocked proudly to show how she was not a woman who would put up with anything. Her therapist quietly, methodically, and supportively took her down a few notches, pointing out the mistakes she percieved in the handling of the situation. Our heroine was shocked to the core, expecting something entirely different than the lovingly gilded mirror being held up to her face. She was so afraid of reliving past indignities that she was creating them where they weren't. She was re-enacting past relationships with manipulative lovers, brothers, and fathers and dealing with everything but the present. She also was not approaching the discussions with the boyfriend from a point of love, but rather from a point of self protectiveness, and was so eager to stave off impending doom and attack that might never come that she was not approaching things from the point of the two of them could grow from this.

Our heroine still has much to learn about relationships, but had to concede the point that in love, one should approach from a perspective of growth and collective learning. She had to concede that she had never stated her needs up to that point and had been relatively lax in the communication department up until that point. So she called the boyfriend, and they made plans to have a much needed talk.

TO BE CONTINUED IN WHAT WILL BE THE EPILOGUE...

Brief Interlude - Jews Represent!

I just had to share my holiday spirit revenge in all its bad cell phone photo glory. Yes, my desk is a hellish cluttered mess; so is my apartment, and so is my life. But hey - check out that festive blue and silver garland! Wow! Catchy, ain't it? And the slightly deformed star of David...upon entering our section of the sdj office, there's this gaudy oasis of Chanukah amidst the sea of red, green and gold. Tacky, but festive and lovely at the same time.

And the Jews were happy...

The Chemical Formula for Drama - Part II

Our lovely (and modest) heroine stood immobile under those glaring harsh truth lights for quite a long time, tethered firmly in place by the multitudes of conflicting thoughts racing through her mind at a more than dizzying pace. What should she do? Was she blowing things out of proportion, as was her tendency, and would she find in the morning that the deep wounds were merely papercuts in disguise? Yet she ultimately could not bear the idea of lying down in bed next to this man who barely seemed to register her presence, or so she felt, as if everything were normal and okay. Nothing felt normal or okay and she was so mired in the swamp of fruitless expectations that she felt she absolutely needed to leave in order to find clarity and figure out just what was going on.

Taking a deep breath, she left the comforting solace of the bathroom (finding it incredibly bizarre to find comfort in the cold tile and bright glare) and walked into the bedroom to inform her boyfriend of this decision. She sat on the tiny edge of the bed between his curled up body (they always do become little boys in bed, whether asleep or awake) and the vast expanse of nothingness on the other side of that edge, aware of the metaphorical accuracy of this precarious perch. "Listen honey, I'm going home. I just really need to go home to my apartment right now." He made a sharp movement that can only be described as bolting upright, trite as that phrase may be, in bed, his inner alarm clearly sounding. He turned off the radio immediately (a first in her experience) and said "What's wrong?!" in a very surprised tone of voice, as if he was completely unaware that she would have any cause to be upset. "I just feel like I need to go home. I need to go home and process all of this." "What's wrong?!" This time it was spoken with more urgency and almost panic. While she has always been quite uncomfortable with speaking her mind, especially without the benefit of some reflection time, she decides that these things do need to be addressed now, clumsy though the attempt may be.

"What's wrong is that I feel invisible. I feel totally invisible right now." "What does that mean?" "It means I feel invisible. It means I feel unimportant. It means I feel like I barely exist." The words began to pour out more rapidly now, as if an avalanche of feeling had begun and could no more be halted than the snow hurling down a mountainside and gaining momentum with every inch it traverses. "I mean, here we haven't seen eachother in a whole week and its like its absolutely no big deal to you! First you're out having dinner when we had already made plans the night before..." He opens his mouth to interject but she cuts him off before he can "And I know it was a last minute thing and all but it still hurt my feelings.." And here the boyfriend does interject, raising the stakes while furiously backpedalling, "I had to go. It was something I couldn't get out of. I had to go to this thing." "We've already been through this, I know, but it hurt my feelings, okay? And its not just that, its not just that at all." "What else? What else is upsetting you?" "Well, the fact that I haven't seen you in a week and was dying to have sex and you couldn't seem less interested in it, even after I practically threw myself on you!" What makes you think I'm not interested?" This was just too much for her frantically whirling brain to take in. She takes a microsecond tour of the evening's events, searching for any room for misinterpretation. Finding none, she blurts out "You got in bed to go to sleep with the radio on and everything and just said 'come to bed' that's all," feeling like this does not do her position of the rejected lover the justice it deserves. "I didn't say I didn't want to have sex, I just said come to bed." What? Was this more backpedalling or had she truly misinterpreted? "But you said you were tired!" Yes, and that's true, I am tired. But that doesn't mean I'm not interested in having sex with you."

But he was still missing the point somehow, so she tried to push things further, to make him understand how hurt she was and why. "My point is that you hadn't seen me in a week and didn't seem to even care, didn't seem to miss me at all!" "I don't show my feelings, that's just the way I am." "Yes, I noticed. I'm well aware of that." "What, you think I have no feelings? You think I'm a robot?" She notices the choice of the word robot; a word she has never nor would ever choose to use in that situation. This must be quite a familiar argument to the boyfriend, and she recalls from the deep recesses of her dusty mental attic a conversation long ago on the edge of a pier looking out over the Hudson River, in the days where he was still wooing and she was uncertain of how she felt about him, where he mentioned that his coldness and lack of emotional display had been a problem in past relationships. One of only a handful of insights into his life and past that he has carelessly dropped like a crumb of bread for the starving to lunge at. "Sometimes it certainly seems that way." "I have feelings! I have a lot of feelings!" "Well that's not something I'm let in. You don't share that with me. I don't get to see that." "Well that's just the way I am. I'm weird, in case you hadn't noticed, and you happen to like a lot of my weirdness. This is just one thing you don't like so much." "Okay, but can you see how hard that might possibly be for me? How frustrating and hurtful that could be? Can you see it from my perspective?" "Well, I'm trying to, but I don't think I undertsand why my feelings and whether or not I share them with you affects you."

TO BE CONTINUED....

(sorry, I have a dinner engagement to go have an important conversation with someone regarding a whole hell of a lot of unresolved issues)

Brief Interlude to Bitch About Christmas Being Shoved Down my Little Jewish Throat

Gorwing up as a Jew in the South, I am used to (though not at all okay with) the total ignorance as to any other holiday in the season thanChristmas. Every year I would get bitter and when wished a Merry Christmas for the gazillionth time I would invariably snap back a snotty retort like "Thanks, but its not my holiday!" or "And Happy Chanukah to you!". I understand its confusing - no one knows which of the 50,000 different spellings to use and it falls on a different date every year - but come on, people! I wear a gigantic fucking star of David locket around my neck - and no, its not a Satanic symbol, wrong star!

Since moving to New York, the virtual mecca of the Americas for Jews, my bitterness fell by the wayside with every passing Happy Chanukah greeting and every menorah I saw accompanying the Christmas trees in building lobbies. I was shocked at first, but since then have come to expect this sensitivity I am so proud of from my new home.

Which is why I was so shocked and offended when I came into the sdj today to find a magical winter wonderland had invaded - a Christian winter wonderland blanketing everything in red, green, and gold. Not only was Christmas shoved down my throat on all of the walls, but my own little cubicle space had been invaded as well, drowning me in red and gold tinsel. One of the doctors that I work with and whose sense of humor I adore came over to express her outrage at the state of things; I heartily agreed. I removed the tinsel from my cubicle, without ceremony or kicking up a fuss, to quietly shed light on the offensive error committed. One of my co-workers asked me why I did that, and I simply responded, "It's not my holiday."

There is this mistaken notion that Christmas is a secular holiday. In fact, I have been told countless times upon enlightening people that I do not indeed celebrate Christmas, that Christmas is an American holiday. Wow, I didn't realize that Christ had anything whatsoever to do with the establishment of this democracy! In fact, I thought this country came into being long after his time. How odd, then, that Christmas would be an American holiday. Because it is celebrating the birth of Christ, in addition to celebrating the great consumerist machine.

So the doctor, another co-worker, and myself are all going to retaliate with the largest and most garish Chanukah decorations that we can find. We're debating dressing up like dreidels, and the doctor and I danced the Hora back to our respective cubes.

My supervisor just called to apologize for having decorated my cubicle; she said she forgot I was Jewish (not so easy to do considering the gigantic glaring Jewish star taking up half of my chest, but okay). At least she's aware of her faux pas.

The funny thing is that I'm not even very religious or anything by any stretch of the imagination. Hell, my synongogue growing up was so liberal artsy fartsy we were practically pagan. But its my cultural identity, and as such should be respected. I respect other cultures and religions; I make an effort every year to find out when Winter Solstice, Ramadan, and Kwaanza fall and recognize the importance and validity of these other traditions as opposed to merely my own. I think its solipsistic not to.

And thus is my grand bitch du jour. I'm going to Duane Reade on my next smoke break to buy out anything blue and silver to inundate the office with.