Making rules instead of making choices

Okay, so here's my first go in the new digs. Again, please pardon the look of it all...it's a work in progress for sure.

I've been doing some mental preparatory work because I feel like I'm emerging from this goal-oriented mindset with new ideas about who I want to be. To get a little more specific, I am a rule maker. I get an idea about the way a certain thing should be, and then suddenly 'should' becomes 'must.' Moreover, the rules develop consequences as the idea takes hold in my mind. A few examples:

I must live without a roommate or else I am not successful.

I must be completely guarded and skeptical of anyone I date or else I will get hurt.

I must date someone or else I am not beautiful.

I must work in film production or else I will have failed myself.

My social calendar must be jam packed with events or else I will never be happy.

Those are some very big musts for a girl who's only been here six months! I put an awful lot of pressure on myself to be a certain person who, frankly, is a little beyond my means.

Profound PDF by candlelight

PDF never stops surprising me. He has this bizarre, kind of unheathy attitude toward life, but his reasons for it are actually quite impressive. He has this flippant, casual attitude about his own life history, and he doesn't like to talk about it with anyone. "What's past is past," he says, "I prefer to look forward instead of back." I think he and I are a true case of opposites attracting; we have a lot to learn from one another. I cannot fathom ignoring my past--in fact I can barely stop talking about it. I have this idea in my head that a person is the product of his or her combined experiences, and that without knowing all of those experiences, you can't get a sense of who that person really is. Also in my infinite idealism, I tend to assume that everyone is interested in knowing who other people really are. I think though that the reality is that we all need a little mystery (or at least the semblance of it) to keep things entertaining.

We went out Thursday night to this cute restraubar on the Upper West Side and had the most delicious white sangria ever, along with a tangy fresh mojito and some marvelous mussels. The conversation, as it always is with us two, was good and silly and fun, and then about an hour in, as it always does, the light banter shifted to a deeper discussion. There came an appropriate moment to bring up a question that's been stewing in my mind for a while: "PDF, how come you keep secrets from Boyfriend?"

"Uuuhh oh. Like what?" he asked, an uncomfortable impatience permeating his tone.

"Like getting arrested in college? Like your entire relationship with [ex-boyfriend A]?"

At first he was a little indignant that I had brought up the subject, but after I assured him that my inquiry was made out of curiosity and not judgment he smoothed his ruffled feathers and spoke matter-of-factly. Much like me--and, I suspect, everyone--there are things in his past that are embarassing and a little shameful, things that he'd prefer to forget. Basically his take on these things is that nobody needs to know everything about you (I get that). Everyone does stupid things, so we can assume that everyone around us has a few skeletons in their closet that they'd like to forget (yep, still with ya). But PDF believes that there is no reason to acknowledge the existence of his skeletons (huh?) and he sees no cause to share them with Boyfriend, even though they are part of who he is (uh... I don't get that at all).

Then--get this!--then he says the most profound and awesome thing: He feels like Who He Is ought to speak for itself with no need for excuses or explanations.

Whoa! Talk about something I can learn from! It's exactly this kind of thing that illustrates why I love people with ideas and sensibilities that are different from mine. His blatant disregard for the past notwithstanding (he even goes so far as to block certain things out of his own memory), PDF is on to something here. Granted, he takes the concept to an extreme, but I think somewhere in between my open-book and his lock-and-key diary there is a middle ground that would be better for both of us.

So here's a truth for me (and you) to think about: Who I am may be colored by my past, but there is totally no need to show off the paint when I display the artwork, so to speak. It's a much richer experience to wait until someone else gets interested enough to start asking about the techniques and tools that created me.

It's a very basic concept, but one I often forget. To my old friends the fact that I am a walking personal tragedy is funny and endearing because they know that I am strong and positive enough that my lemons always turn into lemonade. New friends might need a little time to warm up to me before I open up so much. I am being hasty in my search for really great friends and my search for a romantic interest (much as I hate to admit that I am searching for one....but I am). I had such great friends in New Orleans, and such great friends in Ohio...they were like chosen families. I am heartsick for my chosen families, and impatient to begin one here. I'm going to take PDF's advice though, and back off a little from the search... Instead, as he says, as I know, I ought to focus wholeheartedly on my career and trust that the rest will come.

With a smile and a wink he said something else to me too: "You know, honey, you've only been here five months. I'm really getting sick of your unwillingness to accept a life that is anything less than your ideal. It's making the rest of us New Yorkers look bad."

Ha! HAHAHA!

In which the Staten Island Ferry and Miss A have a moment together

There, under the dark and moonless sky, with the wind whipping strands of hair into my face and the motor churning steadily beneath my feet, I began to cry.

I remembered when I was eight or nine or ten, that summer that I had my first ever taste of New York. I rode the Staten Island ferry and stood in that very same spot. It was daytime then, and I was so excited to see the Statue of Liberty and to watch tiny Manhattan turn into towering Manhattan. It was the first time I'd ever been on a ferry boat too. I remember loving that boat and that ride and that vacation, but feeling very much that something was missing.

I had a wonderful day today, traveled through four of the five boroughs with fluffy skirts, tassel belts, a giant suitcase, and a video camera. In Greenpoint, Brooklyn I visited the Chief Squirrel's apartment and met her crazy jumping bean of a dog. In Flushing, Queens, I saw (and recorded for posterity) some really amazing belly dancers, including most of the Squirrel Girls. In Staten Island I visited Banghra Squirrel's house (which is large and sprawling), ate what is purported to be the best pizza in New York, then accompanied the Squirrel Girls to a gig at a weird hippie bookstore. Then all except Banghra climbed onto the ferry for a ride into Manhattan, every one of us exhausted from a long, pleasant day.

The crying started when I saw the Statue. I thought suddenly about that family vacation and how something was missing. I realized that it was my dad. My dad wasn't there with us, climbing up the spiral stairs through that green copper oven in the intense July heat. He wasn't there on the observation deck of the World Trade Center to point out the cool stuff you could see. He wasn't there to ask if I wanted to go to Yankee Stadium too (my sister got to go with my cousins, but I was left behind). He wasn't there to pull me out of the salty undertow when we went swimming on the Jersey Shore. He wasn't there when I had my first taxicab ride or to hold my hand to keep me from getting lost in the crowds in Midtown.

Here's the hardest part: that vacation is the best family vacation I can remember...because I cannot remember a single vacation with my dad.

I closed my eyes to try and squeeze away the tears that wouldn't stop silently streaming down my face. And I felt the wind and listened to the ferry churning beneath me. My mind flickered over to New Orleans, where I used to ride the ferry across the Mississippi River with JH. And how I taught myself to knit on that ferry. And how much I loved riding that ferry into the French Quarter to look for a job and then later to go to a job and then, after I moved to the East bank, just for fun. I missed New Orleans. I missed JH and how he loved that ferry too, and for the same reasons that I did. And then I started crying again for the loss of his friendship, and a little because I was angry at myself for missing him.

When I opened my eyes Manhattan was monolithic, looming ahead. It pressed closer and closer, like New York City was about to swallow me up, ferry and all. The tears did not stop streaming because it made me think about how I used to feel about New York before I got here. I used to think of New York as a doorway to a life of excitement and fulfillment. I used to think that New York would answer all my prayers and let me achieve all my dreams. I used to think New York was where I would really come into my own as a person.

I cried harder. Because all of those things are sort of true...but I never realized that those things could be true and that I could still feel so small and alone.

Hey, that's not me in the pool...that's some kind of weird robot or something.

I've been going a little overboard on the social stuff lately. Too much drinking, too much dating, too much eating out, too much worrying about what other people think, too much caring about things and people that are not myself.

This is classic Feminine Mystique behavior.

If you know me in the real world and we have spoken in the last month, you probably noticed how I seemed vapid and surface-y, and it might have annoyed you a little bit, because you know I'm better than that. In fact, I could read the irritation in some of your voices. Believe me, I'm with you! Reading over some of my blogs from the last month, I'm a little annoyed with myself. I mean, I'm very excited and lucky to have lots of really nice, creative, amazing friends and all, but I've busied myself showing off my wildly fabulous surface cool so much that I lost my normal, even-keel substance-y cool.

At work, I've been flighty, pestering Original Data Guy and 2.0 constantly with my chattiness and my antics. Granted, they're chatty too and they don't seem to mind, but I know they have more important things to do. Meanwhile I feel like all I've been doing is blogging all day and maybe chatting a bit on facebook. Nobody seems unimpressed with my performance, and I know I've really whipped a lot of the division's admin stuff into shape during my short time there, but I just don't feel like I'm doing anything particularly necessary, or at least not much. Mostly due to a lack of interest in nonprofit administration, my work has used up very few of my intellectual or creative resources. And quite frankly I can work at a mindless job, but I need to be kept pretty busy to ward off the daydreams and to keep me focused.

In other words, I was bored as hell with my day to day grind, so I started focusing on other people to stay excited about life.

I know what you're thinking. "Hey, wait a minute, that's not the brave, enthusiastic, mildly narcissistic Miss Adventurous we know!" And you're right. Under the shroud of the Mystique, I have not been myself. This living in the moment stuff has been bullshit. I've been living in moments, sure, but really only with other people. And that ain't me.

Now this is me: This week I'm starting a new job and hopefully continuing on my personal Yellow Brick Road toward dream fulfillment. I'm going to be tested with menial tasks, often exhausted, and occasionally needing some support. I promise though, that I will do my absolute best to truly live in the moment and to keep sight of who I am along the way, and that includes appreciating all of you and living my own life on my terms.

Just let your Soooooooul Glo!

At one low point or another in the mopey lonely growing pains of the last few months, Salty explained to me that things were going to suck and suck and suck and then suddenly it would click.

Well here I am, mid-click! Thanks to good advice from great people (most particularly Aunt J, Salty, and my favorite data guru, 2.0), I've shed my high-strung, gotta-stay-afloat, me-against-the-world attitude and I'm relaxing into things more. I'm breathing better, and instead of looking for a life I'm living one. Of course there have been lots of people who have helped that process, and I'm super grateful to them all. But I'm most proud of me.

Yesterday I got a verbal offer for a permanant position at the women's health advocacy nonprofit. Sure, it's not a super cool amazing creative job, but it's something I believe in. And I'll have health insurance, which is definitely a step up. I'd love to go to the dentist. I had my last cleaning right before I left my insurance-ful job in New Orleans, and it's been about six months now, so I'm due. I love clean teeth! I love not having to pay the dentist a bucket of cash for my clean teeth even better! As a bonus, the position that I was offered is NOT an administrative assistant position. It's better! I would be more like a division coordinator, with lackeys to whom I can delegate stuff.

Also, I am officially looking for a new apartment. Park Slope, Prospect Heights, Williamsburg/Greenpoint, all are good; I just want to live in a relatively fun neighborhood and pay $1000 or less per month. So far I'm loving Brooklyn, but I'm considering my options - at the $1000 price point a LOT more is open to me. I might consider a roommate, but really only if I find the perfect setup. Having the cats now, I don't feel so alone at home. In fact, I get to wake up and snuggle with someone special every morning!

Since so many of you have been nice and asked, Penelope and Lu are settling in very well. They have a strange preoccupation with the bathtub - I think they believe that I hid "the rest" of the apartment back there somewhere, because they climb into the tub and sniff at the wall like they're looking for a secret door. They sleep on the chairs that are tucked under my kitchen table all day and wake me up with little purring, whiskery kisses in the morning. I can't ever resist scooping Penny up in my arms for a quick cuddle! I'd forgotten how much I loved those two and how big their personalities are!

Okay, so no pretty moments, no witty commentary on social services, no bratty reactions to the concerns of those who care about me, but it's what's going on with me. This weekend I'm booked up like crazy: outings with two different groups of friends tonight, brunch in the morning, dinner with Aunt K and drinks with Cousin Jeannie and her brother tomorrow night, then running, belly dance, and probably more mimosas on Sunday. Whew! We'll see if it all actually goes down that way, but I hope it does because it sure sounds fun!

Thoughts of a girl in a bed

I love how my cheek feels when it's all smooshed against a warm, white cotton t-shirt. I love the sound of torrential rain. I love lazy moments when nothing exists but what is within arm's length. I needed this. I needed a little time for quiet and unobtrusive joy. There are lots of questions about what happens next and what do I want, but now, in this moment, none of that stuff matters. I'm here and I'm content.

It takes two to tango. I've always seen life as me and the world in a delicate dance... I can do anything, can be anything, but only to the extent that the world will let me. I thought that's what it meant to be realistic. Today though, I have a quiet and unobtrusive nature, and I figured out that reality is malleable, and that I have built a reality of endless possibility. It's funny how a fortune cookie with a terrible excuse for a fortune can make you think about such a thing.

It's funny too how I always seem to get what I want, provided I believe in the possibility. I used to get so annoyed with people who tout all that new-age bullshit. I guess I still would, if anyone were touting it to me now... I don't believe in any of that stuff really, but I do think it's nice to believe in possibility, and I do notice and appreciate the correlation between belief and positive results.

I'm not a rich woman, but I am a happy woman. I spend my days working for positive change in the lives of other people, dreaming about my own possibilities and writing. And sometimes--lately more often than not--I get to bask in the glow of someone else being happy too. It feels nice, like being little shiny candle flames in the big, dark, endless-possibility Universe.

I was so quiet the other day, and at the time it made me a little nervous that I wasn't good company. I'm not worried about it anymore though. I feel lucky to have a friend so shiny that I can just shut up for once and passively enjoy the time spent together. Living in the moment doesn't usually come easy to me. It's rare that I let my guard down with others. Although it's easy to say in retrospect, knowing that no harm came from doing so, I'm glad I let go of my boundaries for a little while. It was surprising and I was worried about causing anxiety, but really, it's okay. I'm okay. I just let the wall down...maybe a bit too far.

I'm not dancing with the world today. I'm creating it with an autonomy I never knew I had before...and basking in my own little glow.

I think my brain needs a 12 hour turnaround rule.

I am insane.

I have been rearranging the furniture in my apartment for a week and a half. Insane.

Okay, the roach thing? Completely insane, albeit kind of hysterical.

I have, as a general rule, stopped eating unless I go out somewhere and eat, or unless I'm at work having lunch. Painfully insane.

I am purchasing plane tickets for two cats. Somehow I expect these two cats to live with me in my <300 sq. foot apartment, with all their food and water and litter, and for us to all coexist in this tiny room in total harmony. What am I thinking?

I am all wishy washy about getting a job with my current temp employer (the women's rights nonprofit) because I have what can only be described as a masochistic desire to work in film production. Draw your own conclusion.

I met up in person yesterday with someone I met online (insane?) and after one very long conversation with this person I suddenly feel like I have a total handle on my JH situation in addition to a renewed idealism regarding my career goals. He happens to have experience in production, and now he's a producer for TV cartoons. And he definitely gave me a lot of food for thought about the things I like to do and how I can apply them to other careers in the entertainment industry, and how by limiting myself to production I am limiting my potential for self actualization within the scope of my career (which, we all know, is the main goal here). Needless to say, he's a very smart fella, and I'm beginning to think a little more broadly about my options.

The other day on the phone, Aunt J said, with no small amount of exasperation in her voice, "[Miss A], I don't know why you want to be an AD." She later quantified that by saying that yes, she does know....but the message still came through loud and clear. No matter how much I love being on set and managing others etc. etc., it's going to suck. I mean, I know all this. From the very get-go, from my very first research in high school about working in film, I learned that it sucks. Everyone tells you it sucks because they want to prevent you from being shocked by how completely unglamorous it is and by how non-creative it can be. And the career track for which I have set my cap is like the flagship of gray-hair-inducing unglamorousness. I know this. I do.

I also know that I can hack it, if given a shot. I can put up with 5 am calls and seventeen hour days and I still do a good job and keep focused and get things done quickly. I know that, in spite of the long hours and the nasty working conditions, it is really fun and exciting to be a part of the machine.

I am nervous about things like health insurance and income stability and budgeting. I am curious about other parts of the machine. And now I'm taking a step back and thinking very actively about all that.

Full Disclosure

The reason I started my Legend of Miss Adventurous series is that I am not always 100% truthful with myself about the events of my life. In fact, I'm not always truthful with other people either. Sometime during my childhood I developed a nasty and self-destructive habit of casually omitting certain facts about things to people, even the people I care about the most. And in fact I outright lied about many many many things up until I was about 18. Lied straight to the faces of people I loved and respected, and even lied so much about some things that I started to believe the lies. I've gotten much better about it over the years, but I do still compulsively lie about weird details, particularly to hairstylists and chatty people on airplanes. I really let my hair down with those types of people. I used to make up alter egos in bars, too.

I got on the subway with AIG and Data Guy. The car was nearly empty; they sat down, and I stood in front of them to facilitate conversation. Data Guy asks, "Is that a normal thing for you? Not sitting on the subway when there's a seat available?" Without any forethought I said, "Sure, sometimes. I sit all day, so it's actually kind of nice to stand." The truth? More like this: "No, actually I really look forward to the DeKalb stop every morning, because that's usually when I can get a seat. I'm actually a little exhausted right now from wearing heels all day, but I feel like if I stand here I can talk to you guys easier, and then maybe I'll make a real human connection."

I know that one's not that bad, but here's one for the books! When I was seventeen, I drove my car to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. After the mall, I decided to stop at Old Navy for some completely unknown reason, since I kind of hate Old Navy. While I pulled into my parking space, I completely misjudged the angles, and I hit a truck. Just bumped the corner of its back bumper with the side of my car door. No big, right? Wrong. I KEPT GOING. Like an idiot. I kept going! There was scratching and screeching! I pulled all the way into the space! Afterward, someone GOT OUT OF THE TRUCK. Mortified. I was mortified. There was a massive dent in my car door (that remained there for the duration of the car's lifetime). Luckily, no damage was done to the truck. Embarrassed as hell, I drove home and concocted a tall tale. I burst in the back door with tears streaming down my face and cried to my mom and stepfather: "Someone hit my car and then drove off!"

No joke. I even maintained the truth of that statement as recently as two years ago. I don't know if they still believe it, but they never told me if they don't. That is probably the most extreme case of lying, and I think it may even have been the point when I realized I needed to tone it down a bit.

Really and truly, there is nobody, not my ex-fiance, not my best friend, not even my sister, who knows everything about me. That is fine with me. In fact, I doubt there is anyone who wants to know it all.

Wait...never mind, I take that back. There is definitely one person who wants to know everything about me, and it is indeed someone with whom I am not always forthcoming with the facts of my life. (I'm talking about myself here, in case you're not following.) I guess I feel like if I write everything down, and if I make the information accessible to other people, then I can't change it. And to tell you the truth (yes, the real truth), I think it would all be a big relief, like I had nothing more to hide. And then I wouldn't ever ever lie again, right? Right?

I wish I had the answer to that. And I wish I could be totally and 100% forthcoming on every single tiny detail. The truth, however, is that I am a proud person, and there are things about my life that I just cannot disclose to anyone with broadband Internet access. Originally I intended for this blog to be completely anonymous, but it just isn't working out that way. Not only is my sister my blog's biggest fan, but I also posted a link on Facebook, where I network with (get this) my family. Seriously, my mom is on Facebook. And so are my sweet little cousins. And other family members. Come to think of it...I just took that link off of Facebook.

Not that it's your fault! Oh no no no, don't think for a minute that you spoiled my shot at self-actualization through my super awesome blog by being friendly and familiar or by commenting or even just knowing who I am...not at all. Quite the contrary; it's great knowing I'm not alone in this big scary city in this big scary world, and that there are nice people who are actually on the level. I love the comments I get, I love that people are actually reading this thing, and I think it helps give me the confidence to continue on in search of the truth about who I really am.

One thing I promise though. I have not lied here, and I will not lie here. In fact, I'm just not going to lie period, not even to a manicurist. The whole point of this New York adventure is to find myself, and the real me is definitely not located within a pack of lies.

I know this is a little heavy. Thank you for reading.

I miss you today. Not the you that used to get drunk and embarrass me, or the you that expected everything to always be taken care of for you (by me, whether you knew it or not), but the other part...maybe a part that isn't even exclusive to you. What I miss is having a lap to snuggle into, and a chest to spill tears on, and arms to hold me, and a mouth to kiss me and tell me things will be okay. I used to believe it with all my heart when you said that.

I saw a man get hurt on the subway stairs a few days ago. I thought I was okay, but today the image flashed back into my mind. There was so much blood everywhere, and he was moaning and convulsing...the sound was horrible, like nothing I have ever seen before, like a cow, maybe. I imagine it would be the noise made by the cow in Apocalypse now, when the natives try to sever its head, but the machete only cuts halfway. I kept thinking I should do something, and all I could remember from your stupid EMT flash cards was "jazzy hands."

My God, there was so much blood. It was spilling out of his crushed skull like a drain pipe. It pooled up around his face and started dripping down the stairs. The sight of the blood paralyzed me--I'm still not sure how I managed to call the station manager on the intercom. I wanted to scream. All those people were just walking over him and I wanted to scream at them. But the blood...I couldn't. My mouth wouldn't open.

Finally, a police officer descended the stairs. I was watching this all through a metal gate, and it was like watching, I don't know, a scene from Twelve Monkeys or something, where the lighting is all dismal and weird and the depth of field is really small. The police officer shouted at the man: "Police! Sir! Police!" like he was accusing him of vagrancy. How dare he lie face down on the pavement like that, with crumpled one dollar bills littered around his limp hand, with a river of blood gushing from around his brain?

I couldn't help thinking about my dad. When he shot himself, did he do it in the face? Did the bullet go through the side of his head? The back? Or was it front and center, like he was executing himself? Did the blood flow like that? Was there a puddle in the car? When they found him, was the blood still wet? Did it drip off his hands like at the end of Gorillas in the Mist? Did he die right away, or did he have time to think about it while it happened? If he thought about it, did he regret it? Did he ever imagine that I would sit in Bryant Park someday sobbing violently and asking these questions to my ex-boyfriend through a notebook? Didn't he ever wonder what would happen to me because of him and his stupid gun? Why didn't he think about that? Why didn't he love us enough to stay? Why did he have to be so selfish and why am I so selfish all the time with my anger and my fear and my time and my money and my things and my love? Why am I always so afraid? Why is it so hard for me to believe that I'm not going to end up just like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that the world isn't forcing me to be like him? Why is it so hard for me to understand that it's okay to be happy?

In a flash I was back on the landing by the 2 train, watching the cop and the man, who was no longer convulsing. I think maybe he was dead. The paramedics were on their way, the cop said. Did anybody see what happened?

Truthfully, I hadn't. I had just heard the noise and then turned around to see him lying there. "I think he fell," I said. My voice was not my own. It was so loud, so sure. How was that voice coming out of me?

"Do you want to wait with him?"

I tried to speak again. I tried to say something that would make the poor man, if he was alive, if he could hear, understand why I was about to do what I was about to do. I opened my mouth, but I just shook my head and walked away. What does that say about me? What does it say that feeling so helpless and alone and vulnerable makes me wish that you were here, even though I know I'd hate it?

I feel selfish. I feel like a person who walks away from things and then seeks validation. I walked away from you and I knew you didn't even understand that I was doing it. I walked away from this man, and I couldn't even say I was doing it. I know it's different; with you the process took six months of planning and you could have talked me out of it, and with this the process took a split second and I didn't really have total control of my motor skills.
Even so, somehow there seems to be a connection.

It seems fitting that I no longer have the option of crawling into your lap and getting a kiss on my hair. It seems fair that nobody is going to tell me it will all be alright. In fact, I think that's why I walked away from the man. I know that if he was dead, I didn't want to know.

Pop goes the whatever

I'm not one of those music people. You know, those people who know every word to every song by the Beatles and who keep up with the new bands and who...you know...care? I certainly like music. In fact, I love an awful lot of music; it's just not hugely important to me.

Oh yeah, and TV? I don't really follow along too much; in fact, I didn't know what Sex and the City was until it was in its last season. It's been easier to keep up with some of the shows I like now that the networks have started showing episodes online (which I love, because it's free). I love binge watching series on Netflix too. But I don't know that much about TV shows, per se... if I had cable I'd probably use it to watch Inside the Actors Studio and CNN and the Weather Channel in the morning....maaaaybe to watch Adult Swim, but anime bores me, so only the comedies. I used to watch Adult Swim a lot, but life happened.

I love-LOVE-movies. But I can't quote them. And I get annoyed when other people do and act like it's some kind of sin when you don't know what character said such-and-such or can't identify the scene. That's not totally true...I can actually quote The Big Lebowski quite a bit, but that's really only because my ex did it all the time. Oh yeah, and I haven't seen some movies. Occasionally I get something like, "You haven't seen Die Hard? What's wrong with you!?" I hate that shit too.

So is there something wrong with me? Is there something wrong with not knowing a lot about pop culture? Is there something wrong with not caring that I don't know a lot about pop culture?

I am a pretty smart person, which isn't a statement of vanity, it's a statement of fact. I have a lot of information that hangs out inside my brain, and I'm able to thoroughly process that information and draw complex conclusions from it. I can recall it fairly quickly, and in large quantities. I can spell and solve math problems and comprehend ideas.

I can't quote Ace Ventura: Pet Detective (in fact, I've never seen it), and I don't know any of the lyrics to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" other than...well...Lucy in the sky with diamonds. I also don't know who sings that Umbrella song that I'm not too fond of. No, I did not watch American Idol. And I'm not going to either

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There are lots of things I can do. I can write in meter, should I choose to do so. I can speak front of a group. I can speak in French, and cook, and fit unprecedented amounts of stuff into a closet by organizing it just so. I can't sing that great, but I do know the science behind it. I discovered yesterday that I can do a three-quarter shimmy backwards. I can design graphic layouts very well. I can cut and splice film, in a very literal sense, and I can also do it well--you don't find a lot of folks my age who can do that. I can also edit the footage with some skill. I can recall phone numbers like it's my job. I can lead groups of people with authority and confidence. I can manage them in a task and keep in mind all of their individual needs as well as the need of the group. I can take a good story and make it great. I can make amazingly complex spreadsheets that organize data in ways you never knew it could be organized. I can knit, and sculpt, and build things out of legos. I can see every situation from at least three different vantage points. I can recognize problems as they occur, and dig my way out of them if necessary. I can be a real bitch if I put my mind to it, and I can also be very pleasant and sweet. I can systematically make someone feel beneath me, although I don't like to. I can crack a fairly decent one-liner. I can see the silly side of everything. I can wink both of my eyes without moving the opposite eye. I can appreciate the marvel of science. I can learn anything and learn it quickly. I can drive a sixteen-foot moving van 1200 miles with a trailer on it and a small sedan on top of the trailer. I can find my way around back-woods Louisiana and Texas and Illinois and Mississippi and Alabama without getting (too) lost. I can figure out the basics of nearly any computer program in fifteen minutes. I can calm down a stressed-out cat. I can even make cupcakes.

Whew, that's a lot of stuff! It felt good to think about it and write it down. Someone the other day made a big hairy deal out of how I must be uncool or something because I didn't recognize the song he was singing. It was a Beatles song. He was singing it off-key. It's stupid, I know, but it gave the this same feeling I've had in the past, like maybe I should pay more attention in if only to have something in common with people.

Or maybe I should try to hang out with people with whom I have more in common.

The Legend of Miss A, Part 3 - In which Miss A emerges from Fantasy Land

As I said in Part 2, a lot of my memories are really fuzzy for a few years after my dad died. I never thought about it before I wrote Part 2 either, but I'm sure that it is a psychological coping mechanism. Really, I spent much of that time in a fantasy world. I had this friend, Cari, who was going through some serious trauma too (although I didn't really know that at the time). The two of us loved to read, and we would make up stories and play them out on the playground, and eventually we started writing our own stories. At home I watched cartoons and sitcoms almost constantly. I read books. I played out stories with my My Little Ponies. I lived in fantasy 95% of the time. I was enabled by adults who praised and rewarded me for my uniqueness and chalked it all up to creativity.

My fantasy world came crashing down when I was eleven and Cari moved away...I think she grounded me in that world, and when she left it was like being shaken out of a deep sleep. I realized how isolated I was from the other kids at school. They all seemed comfortable in the real world. They were having their little first boyfriends and girlfriends and being social with each other and none of them watched cartoons or played with My Little Ponies anymore. I started writing short stories, most of them involving young adults in their late teens/early 20's. They were generally cheesy love stories. I remember one in particular was about a girl who rode horses in the circus who tried to run away with an acrobat. Her father, who spoke with a thick Mediterranean accent, saved her from making a huge mistake. I also remember knowing that the exposition was thin and the dialogue cheesy.

My mom got married when I was 13. We moved and I changed schools. Having spent the last six years in fantasy land, I had no idea how to make friends or function socially. I didn't know how to act around all the strangers at my new school, so I did nothing. I didn't talk to people, I didn't look at them. I tried to become invisible. Trouble was, I had been working far ahead of these kids at my old school and I loved learning; it was hard to be invisible and active in class at the same time. The other kids, apparently, thought I was a snob for not talking to them and they started teasing. It was merciless, and it came to a point where I was crying in my room every day. I thought it was their fault. I thought they were mean. I didn't know what I could possibly do to make things better for myself. I was thirteen and miserable.

When my mom caught wind of the whole bad situation she took mercy on me and enrolled me in the local Catholic school, which had one classroom for each grade. There were 16 kids in my entire grade! I still didn't talk much, and I still got teased, but at least they were actually on my intelligence level. There was a really great element of academic competition, and I was in the top three, battling it out against the coolest kid in the class (Matt someoneorother) and the bitchiest girl I have ever met to this day. I was discovering a little bit of who I was at school with this whole competition thing, and learning about the kind of person I could be in reality.

It was also about this time that I developed a near-desperate need to become closer with my dad's family, his six living brothers and sisters and my grandparents. This could have been a reaction to my mom's remarriage. It also could have been a reaction to learning--and for the first time, fully understanding the implications of--how he died. I began understanding that I wasn't the only person who was affected by his death, and that it wasn't my fault. It was probably around this time that my four aunts (including Aunt J) started meaning what they have come to mean to me.

I remember a particular Thanksgiving (I was fourteen, maybe?), sitting around the table at my grandparents' condo with the Aunts and Salty, and it was the first time I ever talked openly about my dad and what had happened to him. I remember the realization growing inside me that they too had experienced his death and my uncle's death, but that they hadn't stopped living. They were having relationships and families and careers and happiness and self-discovery. I no longer saw them as extensions of my dad, and instead they became my aunts, independent of him, and four strong, smart women who live their lives on their terms as much as possible. I think that might have been the first time I understood that my life wasn't ruined.

That night was a real turning point for me. Instead of pretending in my mind to be someone else, I started having ideas about who I could be and how I would get there. I started thinking about my future and goals and ideals...and I started running.

The grumpy happy person who is a little bashful, often sleepy, and occasionally very very dopey

My Mom called and asked how I was. She just got back from a week in Florida with my grandparents. It was lovely. Did she see manatees? Yes, but they just looked like submerged fuzzy blobs (my mom has MS, and she can't see very well). The dolphins were much more interesting; they jumped out of the water and she could hear them chattering.

So how was I? You're dying to know, aren't you.

I told her I was crappy. I was feeling cantankerous because I didn't get a chance to blog at work today. And Adorable IT Guy (heretofore known as AIG) was out today. Then I got caught up in my book on the subway and missed my stop. And when I got off the subway I had a voice message from JH. Grr.

My mom, having spent thirty years peeling ill-tempered veneers off Salty and I, somehow knew that I'm not really in a bad mood, I'm actually quite well. See, I do this weird thing to my demeanor that involves acting the opposite of how I really feel. If I taunt you incessantly and criticize you, it's means I love you and admire you very much. If I chatter incessantly, it's because I'm nervous and I don't want to do anything stupid. If I don't talk to you it's because I want to know absolutely everything there is to know about you and more. If I complain, I'm in a generally pleasant mood. If I'm acting bitchy and superior, I feel fragile and I'm probably about to cry. The more confident I look, the less confident I am.

(If I say something nice though, I'm genuinely being nice. I don't play that game.)

There's something wrong with all that. It's not okay with me that I act opposite of my feelings, and in fact, it has been a driving force behind many serious conflicts with others. It does, however, ensure that my friends are really good friends who have taken the time to learn about this, my heroic flaw, and who know how to operate within my system. It's kind of like switching to a Mac; it's a little uncomfortable at first, but once you get used to me and learn about all the great things I have to offer I grow on you in spite of the inability to right-click.

Anyway, since I am actually a pretty good-natured person, I'd like to lose the sour puss and start acting in line with my feelings. Trouble is, I'm not really sure how to do it...maybe I'll actively think about it this week and try to just let it flow.

But what if I have to talk to AIG?? Actually, I know I have to talk to AIG tomorrow, he's supposed to help me with a networky thing. Acting how I feel is one thing, but flirting is just way out of my league! Yesterday I asked him to help me with something for my boss and he said I looked like I was irritated with him. Thinking about it now makes me laugh a little, since at the time I sort of had no idea how I could look irritated when my brain kept flashing AIG and me in trashy romance novel cover poses. Thinking about it now though it all makes sense! I was acting irritated, opposite my cheesy, goofy, girly feelings.

I didn't tell Mom about AIG. I told her about speed dating instead.

A Blog for LM, or, What I Learned from The Feminine Mystique

When I was working on leaving JH, I stumbled somewhere upon an article about Betty Friedan and her book, The Feminine Mystique. I had heard the title passed around before that article, but I always thought the term referred to a woman's sexual appeal. I'd never really thought about it or looked into it. From that article though, I learned that The Feminine Mystique is a book that reshaped the way women operated within American society.  I picked up the book around Christmas and I positively devoured it.

The term itself is used to lend words to what Friedan calls "the problem that has no name." The problem, in essence, was the general unrest being experienced by women in the early 60's that was often marked by alcoholism, extramarital affairs, and use of Mother's little helpers. The gist is that these were a new kind of women: college-educated, but expected to do nothing with their brains besides endless housework, bridge games, and perhaps the occasional PTA event. The general message from every point in society at that time, from the Dick Van Dyke Show, from Redbook, from Margaret Mead and even from their own psychoanalysts was that a woman should be complete and whole and happy being a wife and mother. If she tried her own career, she was placing undue burden on her husband and children by not fitting into her "role." And if she wasn't happy, well then there must be something wrong with her.  In the book, Friedan dissects all the backstory behind that message, why it's wrong, and what we can do to change it.

Here in the 21st century, you 20- or 30-something women may think this doesn't apply to you. Newsflash though, I see this crap from my friends all the time. In fact, it applied directly to me. Play along and you'll see what I mean.

For a long time, my MySpace page said something like "I define myself through other people." Truer words were never spoken. In fact, I think the whole reason I got myself into that wake-up-one-day-and-hate-my-life predicament was that I was defining myself through other people. I was never one of those girls that plan their weddings when they're twelve or anything, but there really was an amorphous, abstract part of my brain that thought I would be happy once I was married to JH. In fact, there was an amorphous, abstract part of my brain that made me believe there was something wrong with me because our relationship didn't leave me feeling complete and whole and happy. Hmmm... I put my dreams and goals on hold to help advance him toward his career goals, so that he might someday become a doctor and support me, and then I would work on my goals and dreams. Then I'd be happy. Hmmm....

I won't get into a saucy bitchfest over why I decided he couldn't be a part of my completeness equation, I'll just say that somewhere along the way I dissected a sentence:

I am happy.

The first word? I. Who is that? This I? What am I? If I strip away my mom, I am no longer N's daughter. If I strip away my dad, I am no longer a girl whose dad killed himself. If I strip away my sister, I have nobody to copycat. If I strip away JH, I am nobody's girlfriend. If I strip away my friends, my job, my cats, my hobbies, my red hair dye, my wardrobe, even my skin... Who am I? How do I know I am happy if I don't even know who I am?

(I know that's a circular line of questioning. Just play along, please. You know what I'm driving at.)

I read this other book, called Smart Women Finish Rich, which is a pretty good read if you're a self-help book junkie like me, or if money baffles you. Anyway, in that book, there's this exercise in which you write down your values. How do you know what your values are? "If you had all the time and the money in the world, what would you do?" It's the same question. Take it all away. Everything. What do you do? How do you define yourself? Give yourself everything you ever thought you could want, and then nothing else matters but who you are. What do you do? How do you define yourself then?

The answer, of course, is different for everyone, and it's not always as easy as you might think to come up with that answer. I'm still working on mine, of course; that's one of the reasons I blog. That and towels. But I think I'm getting somewhere. Living alone for the first time...that definitely helps.

Living in a place like New York? Perfect! You're automatically stripped. Nobody knows who you are or where you came from, and they're too busy to care. You can be anybody you want to be, and define yourself however you want. There's no such thing as a preconceived notion of a stranger in a city with 2 million people. Sure, we make them up, but that doesn't mean we're surprised when we find out we were wrong.

As for you, LM, I know that New Orleans is a much smaller town and that you don't have the luxury of anonymity like I do, but that's really not necessary. All you have to do is strip the other stuff away...what are you then? What do you want? What are your dreams? What would you do if you had already done it all? Moving out of your house, that's on the right track, for sure. Moving to another city? I highly recommend it, if only for the experience (grad school in New York!), but it's important to do what you think is right for you. And as for the boys, fuggedaboudit! You gotta be you, whoever the hell that is, and you gotta let them be them. The rest will come.

And as for the rest of you...  Go figure it out!

Sundays are my favorite.

Okay, this isn't really the third post today; the other two were started last week and never finished. Sorry to shatter your belief in my perfect ability to churn out blogs willy nilly. Or whatever. I've been busy speed dating and ogling the IT guy at work. And also work is actually keeping me busy, unlike the last temp assignment...you know, the one where I never ever blogged (no never)....

Sunday is fast becoming my absolute favorite day of the week, and here's why:

I start by waking up at 8:00 (an hour late!). I put on my running clothes, pack some cash in my little shorts pocket and walk 1.5 blocks to Prospect Park, where I run with some serious abandon. My cheap Target stopwatch has died after surviving three years with me, through a summer in France, through Katrina, through the bad times with JH, through my move. That stopwatch did me some serious good, but now that it's gone I can't really bring myself to replace it yet. So I go to the park and run, watchless and with abandon.

After my run, I stroll merrily to K-Dog, turning heads as I go because I'm wearing running shorts and a long sleeve t-shirt in 25 degree weather. In the coffee shop, my glasses fog up and I make a little joke to the lady behind the counter. I order a large coffee with extra soy milk, my favorite. Then I wander a block away, pick up my laundry from the people who washed, dried, and folded it for me (this is one of my favorite things about New York), and head home. I get in the shower, and today it's a long, languid shower...the kind where you take enough time to shave your legs, but don't actually shave them. Then I towel up. I love lounging around in my towel, freshly showered. After a quick email check I put on my favorite outfit: a v-neck t-shirt that has been hemmed to just under the bust, a hoodie on top, and stretchy boot-cut dance pants. I put my hair up into a messy bun-thing, stuff a hip scarf, zils, and a bottle of water into my bag and head out the door.

I feel like Snow White walking through the forest on my way to the subway. My ipod is playing upbeat Motown, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and, oh shit! Someone just tried to run me over while I was crossing Flatbush! Oh well...shrug it off and keep on going. Magically, the train appears just after I arrive on the platform. I sit down for my Sunday morning read. This week it's JD Salinger's Nine Stories. As the Q train crosses the bridge, Manhattan looks resplendent in the morning sunlight. The Statue of Liberty waves hello.

After a brisk walk from 14th street to Astor Place, I arrive at the dance studio. I'm late, but never mind. Just glad to be here. From the front of the room, Mimi says hello, and I feel a little bit like she's saying "nice of you to join us, Miss A. Please take your place." I hurry with my hip scarf and funky heel-less sandals and then fall in line to body wave along with the rest of the class. For two hours I learn about my body, where this joint can bend, where that limb can extend, how to make it all move the way my brain thinks it should. I actively discover what I am, the muscle and tissue, and even the stuff that jiggles a little too much when I shimmy.

Afterward I chat a little with Mimi and with the other girls from class. This is good, that's hard, can we try this next time. One of the other girls, D, mentions coffee. I perk up. More coffee sounds great. Breakfast sounds great--I forgot to eat. It's 3:30.

More chatting, some laughing, then strolling with D and H around the Village, looking for that place I went before. Couldn't find it, so we wound up at Dunkin' Donuts! I indulged in an egg and cheese sandwich, one of my favorite favorite things. There is lots of chatting. Lots of laughing. A cute little old guy sits down next to us and tells us about a Three Stooges movie. It's great. Walking to the subway, D tells about a chance she has to put together a line (she designs lingerie) and a show and stuff, but mutters something quickly about no money and no time blah blah. And so I say this (it's paraphrased):

"You have an opportunity that may not come again. TAKE the opportunity and run with it! The money will come! The time will come...you will make them come, but only if you force yourself to do so. I know what it's like to be an artist, and to be frustrated by your needs... You need to eat. You need to pay rent. But you will, you just have to trust yourself."

(I could have cried then and there, because it was the first moment that I realized I believe that. I believe that! I believe it! I do! I have already come such a long way from that awful place I used to be!)

After that I come home and sink into my comfy, comfy bed. I snuggle down and surf the net. I watch the Simpsons. I forget to eat again, so I have a banana and a granola bar and some raw veggies. I've started to love chilled bananas.

I always knew I identified with Peppermint Patty for a reason.

Continuing to read some other blogs about New York twentysomething life, I have realized that I am disappointed with my own experience so far. It seems like I keep sabotaging myself somehow and setting myself up for that disappointment. Like every time I try to hit one of my goals I miss by a quarter inch. And then I get surly. And then it makes things even worse.

I am disappointed that I live in Prospect Lefferts Gardens. It takes me about 40 minutes to get to midtown from where I live. Late nights on the subway it has taken me over two hours to get home, with crazy transfers and a Q train that recently decided not to go through at Atlantic (instead they make you transfer from the D line, which is one of the most obnoxious transfers I have had to make). The annoying building I live in wouldn't be nearly so bad if it were, say, the first stop in Brooklyn or, say, in Manhattan somewhere. I don't feel safe in my neighborhood late at night. I don't feel like I can walk the ten blocks to the closest Duane Reade if I need to. It's not New York. Not really.

I live in PLG because I was desperate for an apartment. I took the first thing I could get--300 square feet with lots of closet space, a full-but-small kitchen, and a full bath for $900 a month. For $900 a month I should have looked in Washington Heights more.

I was desperate for an apartment because I didn't make an acceptable long term living arrangement that would allow me to sleep on someone's couch for three months...everyone seemed to need their couch for something else once every couple of weeks. My best friend Alecia lives three hours upstate, an hour north of the last stop on the Hudson line of the Metro North Railroad. Her house was the closest place I had to park my boxes and rest my head until I found that apartment I so desperately wanted. I hit a deer with my car during my three hour commute that first month.

I didn't make an acceptable long term living arrangement because I couldn't ask for one from PDF, who I had barely spoken to in years before my visit last July. I couldn't ask for one from cousin Jeannie because she has so much going on all the time that I just feel in her way when I'm around her. The big one though, is that I couldn't ask for one from Aunt J. I can't ask her for anything. I can barely talk to her without getting nervous and frustrated...

When I actually spend time with her it's so nice! She's really funny and relatively easygoing...relatively because everyone on that side of my family, including me and my sister, is typically very high strung and hard to please. So she's relatively easy gong (for one of my relatives), and it's obvious that she cares about me. Her girlfriend R, as is typical of people who marry into that side of my family, is very warm and sweet and incredibly approachable.

I love hanging out with them. I want to do nothing else! I want to tag along with their entire life! When I rented my apartment, a block and a half away from Prospect Park, I imagined their house, a half a block away from Prospect Park on the other side, in trendy and safe Park Slope. I imagined waking up on a Saturday or Sunday morning and putting on my goofy neon green shorts and my ipod and running out through the park, and all of a sudden I see Aunties J and R throwing the frisbee to their sweet little dog. They wave me over and we all have a nice time running around and frisbeeing. And then we go have brunch in Park Slope. What happens to my running shorts in this particular fantasy, I do not know, because I definitely do not wear them to brunch.

I guess I'm afraid of Aunt J because someday I want to grow up and be just like her, a successful filmmaker, a former Manhattanite who abandoned the noise and the grit for the sunny side of Propsect Park, living in a homey 4th floor brownstone apartment with my pets and my girlfriend or whoever, turning 40 and looking back and feeling like I accomplished something.

There's more than that though. My sister and I often wonder if that side of the family sometimes doesn't want us around because we remind them of him, of my dad. For a long time, particularly during my teenaged years after Mom got remarried, we felt like the Aunties were the only people we could talk to about him...so every chance I had, every time I saw one of them, I would press for more information like a squirrel frantically collecting nuts before winter sets in and all the nuts are gone. It may have made me a little one-dimensional in their eyes.

I guess a little of that goes both ways, like when I see Aunt J it's hard not to think of her in terms of her relationship to my father (his youngest sibling). She was thirteen when I was born, and by the time I could really remember stuff she had gone to college, so I don't remember her much from my childhood. From what I do remember of her, she used to tease me, but in the nice way that grownups tease little kids they love. Like in the same way that my dad was funny, but in a way I didn't understand when I was a little kid. I guess in a lot of ways it feels like every time we look at each other or talk to each other my dad is sitting right there in the middle, and a little bit in the way.

And like a Phoenix, I will rise out of the ashes...

Okay, so when I started this blog a month ago, my intent was to create a funny and introspective documentation of one person's mildly frustrating efforts in relocating to New York City. Funny and introspective, kind of like me. As I go back over all the posts from the last month, I see a little bit of funny and introspective, but I see a lot of pain under the surface too. While the average blog consumer may not see the pain, I can see it conspicuously poking out from behind.

Personally, I don't want to read about someone else's angst, and I don't imagine that anyone else wants to read about mine, so I feel a little guilty and disappointed that my blog is coming dangerously close to turning out to be less funny and introspective and more thrashy and outlet-for-painy. My inclination is to say, "It's silly that I feel guilty and disappointed, but nonetheless, I'm sorry for vomiting angst all over you. I'll start over and be funnier and more introspective." But after reading through it all, I didn't even really vomit angst! Well, maybe just a little... But the pain and the thrashing are all happening inside, and I'm trying to hide them by being funny and introspective (which is really kind of like me).

In her last blog entry, my sister, Salty, referred back to an older post of hers about pain. She's afraid of pain so she has anxiety about dealing with pain, which causes more pain, which gives her anxiety about anxiety, blah blah... As I have mentioned over and over, I'm going through a lot of that same stuff, hence the occasional thrashing. It took Salty a long time to drop the bomb in her blog; the bomb that explains the pain. That's not really my style, but neither is dropping the bomb at the end of a post. So hitch up your skirts, ladies. We're going to wade through some shit.

When I was six years old, my father shot and killed himself. There it is. Now you know.

I don't know a lot about him, or about what happened, because I was six. I was brought up in a working-class Catholic family that didn't know how to deal with that kind of tragedy, other than to ignore it. My sister's feelings were stifled. Mine were coddled with unhealthy and unsatisfying solutions like toys, food (a story for another time), and a spiral perm. No kidding--when my mom agreed to get me a spiral perm in fourth grade (heh), she really justified spending $80 on my nine-year-old head by saying it would make me feel good about myself.

I get really frustrated because I can't squeeze the entire story out of anyone...the closest I can get is my sister, who was eleven at the time and although she has a lot more of the story than I do, she doesn't have the whole thing. In fact, I don't think anyone knows it all...from what I understand there was no real explanation, no note, no witness. He was found in his car with a picture of my sister and I. About a year before it happened, his youngest brother had died in an accident, after which amorphously he said to his oldest sister, "now I know what I have to do." That's the best I've got. My Mom, who was probably closer to him and to his illness than anyone else, doesn't talk about it. As a kid, I felt like that was because she thought it shouldn't be talked about, but as I've grown older, now that we're twenty-one years removed from it (Feb. 7, 1987, I think), I think it's because she didn't have anyone to talk to for a very long time...Nobody else was in her position (trying so hard to understand and help only to have it literally blow up, left with two children to support, abandoned emotionally by family and friends who didn't want to talk about it because they were afraid of pain).

One of the main differences in the way my sister and I are coming to terms with all this is that she can afford therapy (and lovingly shares the wisdom) and I may not make rent (more on that later). So right now I have no outlet...this is it. This is my outlet. So I might thrash about. I might need to talk about it. And I'm not going to apologize. I may feel guilty and disappointed about it, but if I do that's okay and not silly, those are just feelings that come with this territory. And ultimately those feelings are the problem behind all my angst: the inability to properly cope with or confront my pain, and the guilt and disappointment that comes with being unable to do so.

The truth is that nobody teaches you how to deal with your pain, you’re just expected to learn by example. It just so happens that my examples weren’t very good at it, so it’s completely okay that I don’t know. In fact, since I had to unlearn before I could begin teaching myself, I think I’m doing a great job so far.