Number Nine

There's something so fantastical about flying on a cloudy afternoon. You sit, dreary wet runway, impatient, to suddenly be lifted up and popped out on the other side, blue skies waiting. A bright sun on top and the most perfectly plump blanket of clouds below. It just makes the world feel... a little softer, I guess, for awhile. Like magic. Magic, fluffy, pillowy mountains. Makes me want to pick the perfect one and spend some of the afternoon making cloud angels.

Girl, You One Fiiiiine Filly.

I'm one of those girls who like sports. Like, actually, genuinely enjoys watching sports.

I was raised an Ohio State Buckeye fan, and have become more and more loyal to and dependent upon them the longer I've been away. It's a wonderful connection to my family, my home, and it's an excuse to drink beer and eat pizza in the middle of most fall Saturday afternoons.
As arranged by my dad and my Chicago-based uncle, I am a Cubs fan. (My cousins were taught from a very early age to line up in a tiny little o-h-i-o tableau, and I reciprocated by embracing the knowledge that Wrigley Field is sacred ground.)
As decided by my current hometown and my ex-boyfriend, I am a Yankees fan and a Giants fan. I get genuinely insulted when ignorantly jealous people make ridiculous statements about buying championships, and although I think San Diego is one of the loveliest places on Earth I will always have a chip on my shoulder for the way they booed Eli during his draft.
So, on all fronts, it's been a great week for me sports-wise.
I got to spend a lovely, sunny Friday afternoon at a parade, celebrating the Yankees winning the World Series. (At some later point I will have to discuss with you my issues of calling this contest the "World" Series, and dubbing its winner "World" Champions, as it is an entirely intra-national competition. But that's not for now.)
I got to spend an even lovelier, somehow sunnier Saturday afternoon watching the Buckeyes pound on Penn State, looking for the first time in a long time like a really excellent team with a leader for a quarterback.
And now it's Sunday - still lovely, still sunny - and I get to watch the Giants host the Chargers.

But none of this is why I'm writing.

If you could care less about sports, if you choose teams by their colors or how cute the QB is, if you have to think twice about what QB means, if you're annoyed at perfectly good weekends being spent in divey sports bars or your significant other's friend's basement -- in other words, if you're a girl -- this one is for you.

Because sometimes, sports are for girls. And this weekend, a girl dominated. No one should be talking about anything other than this beautiful, triumphant, exemplary display of (please pardon the completely apropos cliche) girl power.

Zenyatta, you gorgeous sexy piece of man-stomping, eat-my-dust excellence... this one, my dear, is for you.

The Couch Chronicles: Chapter Two

First, if you'll remember, it was a crabapple. Allegedly.
Yesterday, things got a bit more aggressive. And furrier... things got furrier.
Back on the couch (what? it was raining. i wasn't watching oprah OR nancy drew. i'd already been on set at 7 in the morning, shooting a commercial. that's my work. get off my back.) and typing away furiously at my never-quite-done resume, I heard a thump that made the last thump sound more like a gentle tap. I whipped my head around to the window behind me, but this time there was no goo, no glob, still no beakless pigeon. I climbed up on the couch to peer out and make sure no hapless bird or harmless fruit was laying on the air conditioning unit. And I squealed like a little baby and almost broke my neck flying backward as a squirrel launched himself (or herself, it's tough to tell when they're moving) straight up at the window.
Apparently, the little guy (or girl) wasn't content to be on the back deck of my second floor apartment.
(Wait, speaking of a little guy on the floor, allow me to go back for a second. Just to give you an idea of what kind of PETA nightmare I'm living in these days. Friday morning, I wake up and stumble into the kitchen to find a mouse stuck to about 6 of those glue strip thingies. I think those things should be illegal. They are beyond cruel, completely ineffective, and totally gross. And yet, here they were, mission sort of accomplished, in the middle of my kitchen floor. I don't know how they - or he - got there. I suspect that my roommate saw or heard him in the morning, freaked out, tossed them on the floor, and left. She says he must've gotten stuck to them under the sink. It's a fishy story. Anyway. Long story short, I sobbed all morning watching this poor animal struggle and squirm and literally rip himself apart, completely alive and alert and I'm sure scared out of his little mind and in more pain than I can even conceive of, before finally having to swath him in an entire roll of paper towels like the shroud of fucking Disneyland, scuttle him into the biggest bag I could find, and taking him outside to complete his losing battle in the rain. I have never prayed so hard for my soul. It's been a tough week for the animal kingdom here on First Street.)
Back to the squirrel.
Once I realized he wasn't actually trying to bust through the window but to somehow scale it, it was less scary, still a little upsetting, and actually pretty funny. He was leaping in that spread eagle flying squirrel way that they do from the window sill to... nothing. I don't even know what he had his little buggy eye on. The apartment above us doesn't have a deck or anything, so all I can surmise is that after a short stint eavesdropping on me, he got bored and decided he wanted to check out the action one windowsill up. For all the points I'll give him for pluck, he gets a big fat zero for execution.
Finally I had to open the back door and yell at him till he got annoyed enough to leave. He shimmied his way back down the drainpipe and disappeared from sight.
So sadly, I'm not expecting to be the next "I'd Rather Go Naked" billboard. Which, truthfully, just leaves me even more unmotivated to work out.

I Am Simply Not a Sidewalk-Hogger

It's kind of like when a pregnant lady starts nesting. Or when an old or sick person suddenly feels great and full of energy. Or when you can't stop having sex with the person you've finally figured out you're never going to marry.
When you know things are about to change, there's a heightened sense of awareness. Of connection.
And so goes my ever-changing love/hate relationship with New York City.
I'm trying to decide whether or not to stay. Whether or not I can stay. Whether or not I want to. If I should.
And damn if this city isn't pulling out all the stops to seduce me lately.

It's been gorgeous here for the last few days; that late autumn cool but not cold, amazing blue skies, special something in the colorful air that makes you feel like fall isn't so bad after all. I've been to fall in a lot of places, and New York somehow does it better than anywhere else.

(Yes, I know that soon it'll be fucking freezing and the leisurely walk to the PATH train will become a sprint, made more challenging by the extra 87 pounds I'm carrying in coat and boot and the like. Then I'll have to frantically strip it all off in the station because it'll be so hot down there and all that shit on me will be making me sweat like a whore in church. I know.)
But everyone's smiling at me lately. There's something in the air, the aura, that affects people in the most mysterious, wonderful way. Even the construction workers and homeless guys are friendly and polite; appreciative, let's say.
(Usually they're lewd and vulgar in the way that only evil people can be. And I'm always confused by these guys who have only bothered to learn, like, 6 words in English, and none of them are anything you want hissed out to you while you're stuck waiting for the light to change.)
The Yankees are going to the World Series this week.
(There's no bad side to that.)
My friends are suddenly friendlier, my prospects are suddenly more profitable, my apartment is suddenly cozier.
How could I leave here? For eight and a half years I've said that New York has been wonderful, but that it's never really felt like home. But it is. New York is home. The idea of leaving it behind makes me cry like a baby. It's terrifying. Does that mean it's wrong? Am I supposed to be here? I love this place. I love the life I have here. I feed off of the vibrancy and the activity and the perpetual hopefulness of the people on the streets. Especially the ones who aren't just here for a visit. The people who have chosen this little community as their home, and who graciously invite millions upon millions of slow, sort of stupid, sidewalk-hogging visitors to stand in their way - those are the people I relate to. Not the sidewalk-hoggers.
There are actors and singers and dancers and writers and artists everywhere here. There are a dozen languages being spoken at every restaurant, all the time. There is kindness and mercy and a desire to make the city - and the world - better. There is action beyond talk. Worlds blend here, sometimes violently, but oftentimes seamlessly. The rich and the strikingly poor expect to bump elbows. Different colors and cultures expect to cross the same streets.
I know I'll feel differently when the weather turns, and the unemployment runs out. I've had men in my life I thought I couldn't live without, and I do. I've lost jobs I hated and feared I'd be poor, but I'm not. Things have changed that I didn't want to change, and I think it's almost always been for the better. If I leave New York, I know it'll be the right thing to do. I'll make it so. But the thought of breaking up with her is really, really devastating.

Someone Come Get Me

Whoa, boy. It's not working.
You guys, I'm watching Oprah again. (Addiction. I see the irony.)
Only this time, there's Phish food. Straight from the carton.
Someone come get me.

Blog of Shame

I am staging my own intervention.
It’s 4:30 on Monday afternoon. In and of itself, that’s not a particularly scandalous declaration. Except that I haven’t done anything today. Anything.
Nothing.
I got up after 11. I sat on the couch and ate. I’m watching Oprah. More specifically, I’m watching some Bollywood people on Oprah. And a polo player named Nacho. And dammit, I had stuff I wanted to do today. More stuff than watching House Bunny and trying to decide how difficult it would be to make a Vito-shaped voodoo doll, which are the only two tasks I've completed today.
I am my own worst enemy.
Remember when I climbed right up on my furlough high horse and said stuff about making to-do lists and getting exercise and NOT watching Oprah? That same horse has bucked me off, presumably because I haven’t showered all day and am still in the clothes I slept in and don’t smell good, and trotted off without me.
The most exciting thing that happened today was when I was watching Nancy Drew - I shit you not, Nancy Drew - and something forcefully hit the window right behind my head. I shrieked like a little girl, then sat frozen on the couch for the rest of the movie before peeking outside to see if there was a maimed, beakless pigeon on my deck. There wasn’t. But now there is something foreign and globby laying on the air conditioning unit and I can’t tell if it used to be alive before it flew into the window, or if it was never alive and someone launched it into the window. I would make a horrible pre-teen sleuther. Now I have to wait for Megan to get home from a long day at work and solve my crime for me.
So… yeah.
I need some major accountability. You’ve heard of people keeping food diaries to help them lose weight? I am now turning this very blog into an activity diary of sorts, because if I spend another day like this I will be very ashamed. I’m hoping that if I have to fess up to my comings and goings, I will be less inclined to host my own one-person Minesweeper smackdowns.
I promise to be better.

UPDATE: Megan’s opinion -- it was a crabapple. Looks like I have a mystery to work on for tomorrow after all, as I can’t imagine why someone would chuck a crabapple at my window on a rainy Monday morning. It’s also Megan’s opinion that it was probably God telling me to get the fuck off the couch.

Anticipation

Hi all. Can you believe it's the last day of summer? Mixed emotions, certainly. It's a stunning end to my favorite season, to be sure - I'm broadcasting live right now from my back deck, squinting at the screen and wishing desperately it could stay like this till spring.
It's been an interesting summer. Usually right about this time I start to get a little depressed, or anxious maybe is a better way to describe it. I love fall, I love football and sweaters and all that, but the thought of impending winter gives me heart palpitations. But this year things feel a little different. Scary, but different. Sort of exciting. The air doesn't feel stagnant like it usually does - it feels like stuff is happening. And not just in my own little life but in general. It's making me some kind of restless, impatient little girl.
I haven't written much lately, the weird result of some kind of reverse writer's block. I've got so much on my mind that it's been tough to sift through and put into words. I can't tell you all how many times I've sat down to write to you and quickly given up in frustration, because I don't know where to begin.
I keep saying it's good that the weather will turn soon, because it'll make me crack down and get to work. I am full of shit. It is not good. And it just means that I will have to find evermore creative ways to procrastinate, and I'll have to do it while fighting off bouts of cabin fever.
But at the end of this winter, my ninth - ninth! - in New York, everything is going to look different. I'm at the end of a very, very long wait.

A Blog About a Movie About a Book About a Blog

So I don't generally comment on many books I read or movies I see. I don't know why. I love books and I love movies. Even the bad ones. And being my generally narcissistic self, nearly every movie I watch I wish I was in, and nearly every book I read I wish I had written.
But I went to see Julie & Julia recently, and I feel compelled.
It was a cute film. Fine really. Not the most spectacular thing I've seen in eons, but I don't think it was aiming to be and it was perfectly charming and lovely, which I do think it was aiming to be. I am usually loath to see a movie before I have read its accompanying book. Books are, by default and to a naturally-inclined reader, always better. There's simply more detail, more information, more insight into what is happening internally to and with the characters. But I'd only just been given the book by my friend Abby (thank you Abby) on my birthday, and was in the middle of another book (American Wife, also thank you Abby) when her birthday (Abby's, that is) came up, and I offered to reciprocate the gift by taking her to see the movie. (I think just typing the title of this post committed me to as many long-winded and confusing sentences as possible.)
So, having not yet read the book, off we went to see the adaptation. I think this is one of the rare exceptions to my book-first rule; Abby didn't love the film because it veered quite a bit from the book (she loved the somewhat snarky, clever writing of Julie Powell, and felt the film turned her a bit whiny. We decided that this was probably a decision made on behalf of Julia Child's, and in turn Meryl Streep's, powerful personality. One can only take so much, really, right?) But I could enjoy the movie for what it was, and still enjoy the completely different experience being described to me in the book, which I've meanwhile finished. I've only just now started to read through the actual blog posts from several years ago that started this whole snowball in motion.
None of this is my actual point.
My actual point is this, as is my actual conundrum: in this instance, which do I wish for? The book, or the movie? Or, whoa there curveball, the blog itself?
Admittedly, It's the blog I'm most envious of at this very moment. Sure, if someone wants to offer me a part opposite Meryl, I'd take it - even if it's a part where we never actually meet in the making of the movie because we share no scenes, because we're basically filming two different movies that editors will brilliantly weave together to make one.
And if someone catches on to the catchiness of my blog and wants to offer me a book deal, I would take that as well.
But, as it stands, that's not going to happen.
Not because I can't write. I love Julie's tone, her loving irreverence, her chosen voice for expressing herself, unapologetically, to whomever wants to tune in. I think it's similar to what I've got going here. She's a little verbose, just like me. She's a little... shrill, just like me. She's surrounded by lovingly supportive and equally crazy friends and family members, who go a step beyond support into encouragement with her wacky endeavor.
Here's where Julie has a decided leg up on me.
Julie has a point.
Julie has a purpose.
I have neither of these. Just a keyboard and a lot of time on my hands.
So I'm thinking I need a theme. But not just any theme - one that's as brilliantly unique and original as Julie's decision to cook her way through MtAoFC.
I don't cook, so I'm lucky that's out.
I don't have a job, so that's less luckily out.
The whole New York single girl writer with awesome friends and hilarious stories of debauchery and heartbreak has been pretty well covered.
So? What do you guys suggest? What should my theme be?

Dressed for Stress

It's September first today. (Okay, technically, it's 12:33, so it's September 2nd. But I haven't gone to bed yet, which means really it's the same day as before. Right? Anyway, as I was saying...)

And you know what that means. It's just about time for The Panic to set in. Fall is in the air and soon, everything changes. You can't stop it; you can't control it.

Wait, before I go any further I should probably just clarify that we’re all on the same page. I’m sure it’s obvious, but let’s confirm we’re talking about the same anxiety.

I’m talking about that late-in-the-season predicament where you suddenly remember every single cute summer outfit you haven’t worn once yet, and subsequently scramble to figure out how many times a day you’ll have to change wardrobes between now and the imminent post-labor-day (no white), rainy (no flip flops or open-toed sandals), chill-in-the-air (no tank tops, sundresses, or breezy linens) onset of autumn, if you want to cover all the adorably lightweight, brightly colored pieces you've neglected for your one over-worn beach coverup and a ratty pair of old cut off Levi's.

Not that I don't love fall. Clothingwise. I love soft cardigans over long sleeve tissue tees and I LOVE my jeans, and who doesn't look like the epitome of cozy chic in a great pair of boots?

But all that merino and cashmere aside, I am not a winter person. I am not a cold weather person of any kind. And so, while the charm of September is undeniable, aided by kickoffs and halftimes and Script Ohios, it really just means winter is right around the corner.

I'm not ready for winter. At all. I have a Boy Meets Girl tee and a fantastically green cotton dress and a pair of J. Crew peeptoes that have hardly cracked the surface of my closet.

I am simply not ready.

What? Well what did you think I was panicked about?

I Am a Cause

Is it strange that the concept -- or not really the concept, but the actual word -- "loyalty" almost has a negative connotation? I mean, obviously loyalty, in and of itself, is a completely positive thing. But to say, "she's so loyal" sounds almost... submissive? Or like one must've done something bad in order for people to decide to be loyal in spite of it?
I have the most loyal friends. (And I can promise you from plenty of firsthand cajoling, not a one of 'em is submissive.)
And that doesn't even mean "best" friends or "oldest" friends or "closest" friends. It's just this collection of people in my life who are loyal. Consistent. My best friends, my oldest friends, and my closest friends - a wide assortment, actually - are all a variety of wonderful characteristics combined to make them worth holding on to. Not the least of which is their ability and willingness to embrace my borderline idiocy; they stick to me like glue. But it's their loyalty that makes me love them the most -- their "faithfulness to a cause" -- because I know exactly what to expect from each of them, and that gives me such a sense of safeness, of complete cared-for-ness.
The funny thing is, this whole line of thinking stems from spending the weekend with a few friends that I haven't known my whole life, whom I don't live anywhere near, and yet - there's an easiness that comes when they're around, even if it's only once or twice every couple of years.
I'm appreciating that more and more as I get older. I cling to it. It makes me question the relationships in my life - some going on a decade, some more - that don't have that comfortable contentedness to them. Not everything has to be work. And the people you most want in your life, on any level, really, are the ones who make you feel safe, and cared for. It especially helps if they are hysterically fun and funny, which oddly enough all of my friends are, but that's really a bonus if you ask me. (Which no one ever does.)

Life Isn't Like the Movies, Except When It Is

A humble attempt at describing a quietly grand feeling.
I’m home now, in the late afternoon half darkness, with a wine glass full of cheap Cava because it’s the only thing I have to drink except Diet Coke, and I only allow myself one Diet Coke a day and I’ve already had it. Luckily there's no limit on Cava in place yet. And there’s a Lean Cuisine pizza beeping that it’s heated in the microwave behind me. This sounds like product placement but it’s not, it’s just what is surrounding me now and I want you to have a picture.
I went to the movies this afternoon, with one of my dearest, most special girlfriends. A lovely, melancholy, pleasant one. The movie, not the girlfriend. Although… she is truly lovely, and understands my melancholy, and makes everything pleasant. But the movie is what I mean; the movie, one of those big studio indies, quite popular in the theaters right now.
Movies affect me. Largely because I get filled with a kind of envy for wanting to be part of the movie making process. Any movie, really, makes me feel like that. I sit and watch the previews -- I wouldn’t mind a whole movie of previews, honestly -- and I wish like a child wishes that I could’ve been there participating in its creation. I’ve had just enough taste of it to know what a delicious thing it is to be part of something purposeful and imaginative and artistic and I am always, always hungry for more, more, more.
I know I’m not unique in that; lots of people wish they made movies. Music, too, I think, has that affect on certain types of people. Fantasy type people. “Creatives,” as we’re coming to be known.
I know life isn’t like the movies. Except for some moments of some days, when it is. There’s a line in Sleepless in Seattle where Rosie O’Donnell tells an adorably pre-Restylane'ed Meg Ryan, “You don’t want to be in love. You want to be in love in the movies.” That, that is brilliance. I want to be in love in the movies. I want to be anything in the movies. I want my life to be a movie, with a soundtrack of haunting, touching powerful music.
When I left the movie theater, it was raining. It’s summer, so it wasn’t cold, and it wasn’t raining very hard, so I walked the three avenues back to the train. Not really because I’m trying to save every penny (if I was, as I should be, I don’t suppose I would’ve gone to the movie in the first place) but more because sometimes walking in the rain in New York can make you feel like you’re in a movie.
That might be true in other cities as well; I don’t know. In every other city I’ve been in while it’s raining, I’ve always just run to get out of it.
But in New York, you can stop in the middle of a Union Square intersection, with people hustling all around you with umbrellas and without, and you can put on your iPod, which is the closest thing to a life soundtrack most of us will get.
When I’m feeling movie-ish and want something movie-like to happen, I always say a little prayer before I put the first song on. The first song will either kill the moment or cement it.
Today, in the rain, in an intersection in Union Square, it was a live version of “Break Your Heart” by Barenaked Ladies. Cement.
I walked down 14th Street exactly the way I would’ve walked down it had a famous director just said to me, “Okay, for this shot, we need emotion. But under the surface. We need to feel what she’s feeling, more than we need to see it. She’s hurt, but not broken. She’s vulnerable, but our audience knows she’s very, very strong. Stronger perhaps than she realizes herself at this point in the script. Now… walk.” Obviously I would be a terrible, terrible director. But I’m a good actor, and I think every extra on that sidewalk with me, as they parted just in time to let me pass without breaking my stride, could feel what I was trying so hard, and yet not trying at all, to convey.
I pushed pause at the end of the song because I was getting close to the train and I didn’t want the kill to come, and because if it was another cement song I wanted to wait till I was back off the train and could walk some more in the rain.
Eight minute train ride and I never broke character.
Climb the stairs, still raining, push play.
“A Beautiful Mess” by Jason Mraz. Beautiful. Another walk.
The problem is, now I’m just in my dark apartment, wet, with a bottle of bad bubbly that I’ll have to finish myself because you can’t recork Cava, and a microwaved lunch, trying to figure out how to both make that “I’m in a movie” feeling last for myself and transfer some of its magic to you at the same time.
This is the part they never put in the movie. I wish I was indie and fear I’m mostly just… Midwestern. I wish I was deep and complex and worry I’m more or less neurotic. I wish I was content and know that whenever I actually am I ruin it quickly in the name of drama. I wish I couldn’t cry on demand and that I didn’t run to a mirror every time I cried, because I am anxious that it makes my tears less earnest.
But even movie tears come from someplace earnest. Even in the rain. Even in the fake movies.

One Girl's (somewhat im)Practical Guide to Surviving a Dry Spell*^

*I'm talking about work here. Not that I couldn't write an incredibly detailed blog by the same title on a slightly more... intimate topic, but I'll spare myself the humiliation.

It's been just about a month since The Furlough began, and I think I have learned quite a lot of important stuff, if I do say so myself. Being an eager contributor to the betterment of the community and a general sharer, I will now help any of you who may be experiencing a similar drought by ffering up some of my pearls of wisdom.

Honey Do
Make yourself a To-Do list for every day. I recommend writing it out (yes, write it out, with old fashioned pen and paper) the night before, so it's already there for you when you get up. Don't worry about making it a list of life-changing events. Mundane and survival-essential are just as important. Bottom line, it can be easy to feel a little useless when you're idle. And there's a psychological sense of accomplishment that comes from crossing something off a list as completed, even if it's just laundry.

Avoid the Siren Call
"Like sands through the hourglass... these are the days of our lives." It's like verbal crack. And if you're not careful, the days of your life will disappear in a haze of self-help and catty chat, if you don't step away from the TV. I have a horrible habit of trying to do something with the TV on (you know, just in the background) and then waking up from a trance half an hour later only to realize I'm naked, and wet, and haven't moved. And I don't even like TV that much. And I certainly don't need to hear a Today Show segment on Back-to-School or anything Martha Stewart has to say. But damned if it doesn't pull me in every time. But if this place was just silent and creepy I'd go crazy (or more likely I'd sleep) so I have found that the best thing for me is music. I prefer today's best country provided on my local cable company's digital music channel, but it's completely up to you. As long as it keeps you moving. And if the worst thing that happens is you stop every so often to shake your booty to a catchy tune, all the better - you'll burn calories. Which leads me to my next tip.

Work It Baby
Exercise. I know this is a novel concept, but it's my opposite-of-expert opinion that exercise is good for you. Plus, since you really shouldn't be spending any extra money on stuff like food, this is a prime opportunity to get some extra weight off. Just put those work out clothes on as soon as you get up, and hopefully you'll guilt yourself into getting them sweaty by the end of the day.

Is There a Bracelet on Your Ankle? No? Then You're Not on House Arrest.
Get outside, for the love of God. There's a whole big world out there, and it probably smells better than your apartment. Fresh air is good for you. Clear the cobwebs. Take a walk. Run some errands. Feel like you're still part of society.

Do What You Do
For me, it's writing. And if you want to be a writer, you have to write. Even if it's a ridiculous blog post. But it's my much-needed creative outlet, and it lets the six of you who read it know I'm still here. And it keeps me on track to pursuing a goal. So whatever you were doing before, or whatever you wanted to be doing then when you were doing something else before, do it. Paint. Act. Add numbers. (Not everyone who reads this can possibly be an artist, right? Surely there's an accountant out there somewhere who gets a kick out of me.)

Black and Blue are So Last Year
So don't beat yourself up. If you don't do any of these things on a given day, it's okay. If you sleep in, then watch movies for a whole afternoon and never shower because it's too hot outside to move, it's okay. It doesn't mean you're hopeless. Don't be too easy on yourself, of course, but don't make yourself feel worse about a shitty situation. Find some zen. For me, for example, it's yoga. It's worth spending precious, hard to come by money on a yoga class or two a week because it sets me up mentally for a good week. And it makes me feel stretchy, which I like.

^You are warned that doing as this particular girl says, rather than as she does, is probably the safest bet. I'm off now. Oprah's about to start.

If Home Is Where the Heart Is, Wouldn't We All Live in San Francisco?

I'm home.
From home.
Any of you like me -- stuck in this limbo of living someplace (home) that doesn't really feel like it?
Home, the very fundamental idea of it, is so important to me. I just have no idea what it means right now.
I just got to spend two glorious, interesting, busy, relaxing weeks in Ohio, with my family. I'd originally intended to go for a long weekend, celebrating the wedding of my step-sister. (I don't think I've added the "step" for the 25 or so years she's been in my life, but she was kind of a little shit last week and I'm still a little peeved at her, and am choosing not to claim her directly for the time being.) But given recent events, and with a little unforeseen extra time on my hands, I rented a car (I loooooove to drive and I never get to do it anymore, stupid New York City) and made a stay out of it.
It was wonderful. And I'm confused. It's always hard to readjust to being back in Jersey (shut it...) but this time it seems to be particularly unsettling. My main reason for being here is on furlough. So do I stay? Or do I go? And, should I choose the latter, where do I go?
I love home. I love that my entire immediate family is somewhere within 20 miles of each other at any given moment. (This will pop up later in the "con" list as well.) I love my friends that are still there, raising children that I don't know as well as I wish I did, and living lives I don't know enough about. But... it's Dayton. Ohio. Rough in the best of landlocked times, but things are palpably bleak around there these days. Add to that the fact that should I pursue this fledgling writer's life that I'm after, my biggest competition in town would be my dad. Awkward.
Next up would probably be Raleigh. I was there for several years before New York, and it still holds a place in my heart that New York hasn't quite been able to claim. Odd, because my time there was, overall, really painful. But it was a great little town and I feel like I grew up a lot there. To the detriment of both myself and a few key people around me, but hopefully no permanent damage done. But... can you ever really go back again? If I were to pack up and move down there, with no real support system in place there anymore, would it be tarnished? Would I spend the whole time thinking it wasn't quite the same as last time? Hmm.
Then there's the thought of packing up and moving my paltry remaining belongings to Annapolis. But that's just because I'm spitefully stubborn and willfully unwilling to let go. Probably better as a plot than it would actually be in execution.
Key West... Austin... San Diego... So many amazing places to go, to spend time, to grow into the next chapter of this little life story. So many great cities, so much appeal. So much potential.
But which one is mine?

Lifetime, Real-Sized.

Now, before you go getting all smug and holier than thou and assuming that I've returned to my slacking, blog-lazy ways, again, let me just tell you I have been a very, very, VERY busy girl.
I have been working. Oh yes, you read that right. Working. The charming genius that is Allison Hemming has already got me busting tail on copywrighting gigs. I took a meeting with the three amazing minds behind Charitybuzz, who are looking for someone to come in and roll out a strategy plan for their marketing. (I explained to them that I'm not the strategy person they need to put the plan on paper, but I sure would love to be the content person that puts the plan into action. Check them out - they are doing some truly inspired, exciting stuff.) I've been meeting with Ally, putting our two cute heads together on ways to make my creative brilliance and exceptional talent both profitable and available to the world. I've exercised lots. I've lunched. I've movied. I spent three days in the Hamptons with Scott, toasting our misfortunes and plotting all sorts of wonderful schemes for our bright, bright futures. And I've been packing for a long, much needed trip home. Okay, so a lot of that doesn't actually sound like work, but you'll have to take my word for it.
And I've been challenged to get my ass writing. Writing, writing, writing. I explained to Ally that it took me three or four years into my acting career before I actually had the nerve - and pride - to call myself an actor. I don't want it to take me that many years to call myself a writer. I've also been warned to knock off the sickening level of self-deprication... but that'll take awhile, and a therapist I'm afraid. (Hence the references to my creative brillance and exceptional talent. Just trying to see how the other half lives. The self-appreciating half.)
So I'll need you all to keep kicking my ass - you're excellent at it, by the way, you bullies - and I promise to keep off it. My ass, that is. Something good is going to come of all this, and it's right here on the horizon. That's some scary stuff, but so exciting! It's like a life-sized, real-time choose your own adventure!

But I'm ALWAYS Somewhat Off-Balance

CHECK ME OUT. This is THREE days in a row. I tend to steer clear of the all caps a good percentage of the time, but sometimes it's just UNAVOIDABLE.
I am like a shining example of commitment to craft. A beacon of self-discipline. I have no idea what that means, but the phrase just popped into my head and seemed too profoundly deep (and funny) to ignore.
For all of you who are counting, you know today is DAY TWO (okay, enough) of The Furlough. (This would all be a lot worse if that wasn't such a fun word to say.)
And I have to say - it's been a weirdly optimistic day. Not that that's a complaint, obviously - I was just prepped for the freak out and I'm still breathing regularly and keeping my food down. Must be all the yoga?
For example, here is the horoscope that was waiting for me when I woke up:
Dear Leo, here is your horoscope for Thursday, July 9:
You may feel somewhat off-balance right now, but as long as you can adapt to your new circumstances, you should be able to keep moving forward. Flexibility is the key to success for you right now.
I mean, right? It's impossible to panic when clearly the universe has your back.
And throughout the day I've been getting hit with love and support. Like, smacked right upside the head with it. Acquaintances are hooking me up with potential freelance gigs. High school friends are hugging me, Facebook-style, left and right. And some of my who-knew well-connected friends are already out wheeling and dealing for me. And whether or not any of that leads to a paycheck in the next couple of days matters very little. My psyche is being well-tended to and that feels even more important. (Author's note: that is subject to change, violently and with much hyper-ventalating, with no warning.)
Plus it's been gorgeous out, and you know it's tough to wish you were sitting in an office instead of out running in the mid-afternoon sunshine.
So I'm keeping on with the business of keeping on. I'm writing. This may just be a silly little blog to you, and that's because it is. It is a silly little blog. But it's me, writing, and keeping the creative juices from congealing. Mmmm.

The Furlough: Day One

Day One of Indefinite Furlough is well underway.
Didn't sleep in, not laying in the sun, no shopping on the agenda, and afraid to eat breakfast because what if I can't afford to eat anymore - basically it's just like a forced vacation, only without any of the fun parts and with ill-placed panic attacks.
So here's what I'm doing with day one: I'm making a good old fashioned Honey Do list. (Sometimes I call myself honey, because it makes me feel better. And sometimes because I'm sort of condescending to myself.)
And here's where you come in: I need some major accountability or I never get anything done. So you keep reading, and you keep calling me out on my shit, and together we're going to make this the most productive, most exciting furlough ever of all time.
Stuff for Jessica To Do:
Write something every day. (Give yourself a break if it's not brilliant, or funny, or awe-inspiring. If you want to be a writer, you have to write.)
Do something active every day.
Pray. A lot.
Network. Ask people how they got their jobs, particularly those of whom are doing something you might like to do.
Don't spend money you don't have to, but don't beat yourself up for buying stuff you need.
Don't beat yourself up, in general.
Enjoy yourself, every second that you can.
Well that's lofty and vague enough for now, right?

I think someone put my security blanket in the dryer.

As my beloved ex, actor-producer-writer-smart-ass extraordinaire James Huffman, once so eloquently put it, I have a tendency to settle into my comfort zones a bit too easily, for a bit too long.
Case in point: The Hired Guns.
I started working on the most part-time of schedules for this group nearly five years ago now. I have steadily increased my time there until about a year and a half ago, when I signed on full time as their events manager and content guru, doing copywriting, editing, and all sort of various things. I got comfortable. I went from affectionately being nicknamed "Girl Friday" to "Overhead." (I'm very good at spending other people's money, particularly on a party. Ask my dad. Or my ex-husband.)
Unfortunately, this isn't the most ideal climate in which to answer to "Overhead."
And I am, indefinitely, out of work.
A scary thing indeed for a girl whose only apparent skill is making her friends laugh in a blog she can only manage to write on a once a month or so basis.
I love this company. I love these people. They are passionate about what they're doing over there - and I believe firmly that in ten years, when The Hired Guns has reached unimaginable status in their field, this time in the company's history will be a huge learning lesson in bearing down and weathering the storm. That's the price that gets paid for being visionary. And I take them at their word that as soon as things turn around, I'm the first person they'll call.
But this afternoon this fish is feeling a little out of water, as evidenced by my inconsistent mixing of metaphors. I mean, sure, it was nice being home to watch the Michael Jackson memorial service uninterrupted by pesky work. And I already have huge plans for cleaning the whole apartment, rearranging my room, losing a lot of weight, and hanging with Scott in the Hamptons while we compete over the hot, wealthy, gainfully employed and emotionally available men that are pining for us, so clearly there's a lot to do. If I knew this "furlough" was just going to last for a couple of months, honestly I'd be ecstatic. Who doesn't want the summer off? Yeah, I'd have to pinch some pennies, maybe bust out a credit card once or twice, but think of the tan! Think of the naps!
But the only way to really enjoy sunbathing and catnaps is with the security of a bi-monthly paycheck.
If you care to help me out, that would be great.
It's been years since I've had to put together a resume, but I reckon it goes something like this:
I like to write. It's really the only talent I have. I'm okay at it on my bad days, and pretty damn good at it on my best.
I would be happiest writing on my laptop, near a beach. I don't care all that much what I write, but if it was about current events, pop culture, stupid shit that no one cares about but everyone reads, all the better.
I can effortlessly plan a mean wine and cheese fete, a lovely sunset boat cruise, or a picnic-themed French bistro cocktail party, with nothing but an unlimited budget and complete control.
I am willing to travel (as long as it's warm), willing to work long hours (as long as they start around noonish), and don't promise not to be lippy.
Hmm... it's a good thing I have an agent as of this morning. I think that's gonna need some work. But you get the gist, yes?
This is always when the interesting stuff happens, isn't it? When life kicks you in the butt and tells you to get a move on?

Don't Hate the Player

Ah, the charade that is "work" the day after a night out.
You should see my office right now -- usually bustling and so loud you want to kill yourself, today it's so quiet in here I can hear Daniella snoring next to me. And, oh by the way, she's wearing a Snuggie. Again.
My dear dear Daniella is getting ready to head to Montreal for law school, and last night was our going away party for her. A good percentage of the Hired Guns crew headed down to the East Village for the first leg of our night out. She's a huge beer lover/snob, so we thought Burp Castle on 7th Street would be perfect. It was not perfect. There were about 15 other people in the tiny spot, and in the ten minutes we were there, we were shushed by the bartender no fewer than 3 times. Shushed. By the bartender. Are you fucking kidding me? So, after flicking off the biatch behind the bar, off we went to DBA, which was perrrrfect. Big table outside in the back. Lots of good beer. Pierogies that mysteriously landed on the table from Veselka. (Scott was hungry, apparently, and it would prove to be a key move later in the evening.) Next stop was Winnie's in Chinatown. For you non-NYCers, Winnie's is one of the city’s most classic karaoke bars. For you non-Jessicaers, I cannot sing for shit. I'll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say, the night had some highlights: everyone (in the bar, not just in our party) wore the snuggie at some point. (Don't worry about why we had a snuggie. Not important.) Hey Mickey, Sweet Child o' Mine, and To All the Girls I've Loved Before were all covered - the last of which was surprisingly accurate considering it was sung by a (mostly) gay man. And everyone I work with drank out of the stiletto I was wearing. (Notice I don't say everyone drank out of MY shoe, because it was not, in fact, my shoe. Again, not important.) A 3AM cab ride home, and back to work as usual today. (Just an hour or two or four later than usual. And that's saying something, because "usual" is already pretty late.)
So here I am, at nearly 5 o'clock, looking at all my bleary-eyed coworkers doing the exact same thing I am doing, which is to pretend to work. Or, more accurately, to focus all possible effort on not letting either 82 pound eyelid close. Nothing productive has been accomplished today, outside of a painfully slow walk up to 23rd Street for dumplings. (Fried. The big order.)
Why are we playing this game? Who are we fooling? Silly, silly professionals.
Okay, time to see if I can't tie my unwashed ponytail to my bra strap, to keep my head from bobbing forward anymore.

Hungry Hungry Hippy

Okay, there are officially only two reasons to run.
1. Your ass is on fire.
2. Someone is chasing you, with a knife or something else very sharp and scary.
Because otherwise, it just sucks, pointlessly.
Case in point: today, I decided to go running.
This decision stemmed from the crappy afternoon I spent with my iPod, which was stubbornly refusing to acknowledge my existence.
See the problem already?
The only good thing about going running, ever, is that it gives you an excuse to listen to ridiculous music. If I was simply on my way to work in the morning, or wandering the aisles of the grocery store, and someone caught me humming along to "Womanizer" or "Dance -- Too Much Booty in the Pants" I would be embarrassed. But when you're running, they may look at you funny but who cares? Because then you're just gone! (Shout out, Phoebe.)
But here's the thing. When your iPod is ignoring you, and so you decide to go running, you run in silence.
Or rather, you run listening to the sounds of your own wheezing and gasping for precious breath.
And you increase the chances that you'll inhale a bug as you suck wind, which means you then have to listen to yourself hack and make that awful old smoker gutteral noise.
All I really want to do is sit here on the couch, breathing normally, watching Best and Worst Beach Bodies on E!, drinking a glass of wine and complaining about nothing.
All the running in the world is not going to diminish the curviness of hips like these. And I read somewhere that once you get cellulite, you never lose it. (I also read that once you lose your eyelashes they never grow back. Does anyone know if that's true?) So, really, if I'm going to have these big ole hips anyway, doesn't running around just seem... childish?
Anyone?

Abstinence in the Burbs

I'm a bit confused.
I was sure I'd seen every episode of Sex and the City.
You know -- the story of a fabulous young woman with a fabulous job in a fabulous city, a fabulous wardrobe, fabulous friends, and a storybook love life.
I mean, she's not perfect -- obviously -- but not because she can't be; just because it's boring. Every fabulous story needs a few ups and downs, to highlight the actual fabulousness.
Clearly, this is my life.
The only thing is, I can't seem to find tonight's episode.
The one where the fabulous young lady is in her bed, alone, on Friday night, before 10 o'clock, with a glass of wine and the Ghost Whisperer.
Weird, right?
(At least I have the fabulous friends part. Personally, that seems like the most important part.)

Bubbly (Personalities and the Like)

Now do you people see why I haven't had the time to write you lately? This is what the kitchen counter at my office looks like this afternoon. And most of you probably know, I am a complete sucker for a good glass of... anything really.
(Quick background: The lovely and usually tipsy folks from Food & Wine Magazine have taken over about half of our office as they edit and write the 2010 Wine Guide. So for the past several months they've had boxes after boxes after boxes of wine delivered - I'm staring at about 300 bottles right now, conservatively - which they proceed to pop, sip, and then set aside. So of course, it's been up to us to take home a million bottles or so a night of barely touched great wine.)
Tonight will be tough - they're tasting the champagnes which obviously can't be recorked and therefore must be polished off immediately. I hope they pay me overtime.

And in between drinking and more drinking, I've been too busy to be any fun at all. We've had tons of work events lately, and I'm shooting a web series (whoa, acting stuff, I know) that's pretty much filling out the rest of my calendar. In essence, I suck and am -- still -- excruciatingly boring. Just trying to keep my chin up and not be lonely. People are supposed to be in love in the spring in New York, you know? I'm just sneezing and still looking. I'm trying to stay my normal chipper, upbeat, optimistic and not-at-all cynical or sarcastic self, but it's tough. It's tough. (People who love to laugh at my woefully melodramatic dry spell of a love life - and there are a LOT of you assholes - are demanding insight into my latest forays. I'm sure I don't have anything to say that hasn't been said a million times already, but if it'll keep you guys entertained I'll see what I can put together. Assholes.)

Hopefully the web series will turn out looking nice - it's been so long since I've really put anything on camera (other than the commercial that just won't die, of course...) that if feels nice to be working. The producer, Jonathan Betzler, runs Myriad Arts, and they've consistently put out some really interesting, brave, and fun projects over the past few years. (JB and I met a little over six years ago, when we worked on a film together called The Journal. He was an AD, and I was a girl who got felt up. He's definitely moved further up the ranks than me since then.) (I'm using a lot of parentheses today, for no apparent reason, other than editorial laziness.) The project is called Intersection and we're not quite halfway done with shooting, so I'll keep you posted.

Okay, I can't even bullshit around anymore. I have to go have champagne.

Brain Bounces

Don't you guys think it's fascinating that I've had nothing interesting to report since March 19th? It's April 6th today. Huh.
(Insert snide comments about me not having anything all that interesting to report prior to March 19th here.)(Jerks.)
I still don't have anything interesting to report.
So, in no particular order, here are the (very) few things bouncing around in my brain at the moment.

After years and years of getting my parents, boyfriends, and a few strangers on April Fool's Day, I've not only lost my touch -- I got taken for the second time. First was my junior year of college when Taco Bell took out full page ads in every major newspaper advertising that they'd recently purchased the Liberty Bell in Philly, in order to repair the crack. They also mentioned that they'd be renaming it "The Taco Liberty Bell" and still, no alarm bells (pun intended) went off.
Cut ahead to last week, and my normally beloved Daily Candy had me shrieking in disgust with their newest suggestion on exfoliation. Never realized it was a joke until several days later when my co-worker eyed me oddly as I was retelling the story of what I'd read, and she said (a little condescendingly, if you ask me), "Um, you do realize that was an April Fool's Day prank, riiiiiight?"

My bosses are back after a week of vacation.

Taxes suck ASS. And particularly when you live in one state but work in another. Uncle.

I keep trying to Twitter and it just annoys the hell out of me. Even more a sign of my age than the multiple grey hairs that have comfortably settled in to strange little neighborhoods on my scalp.

My six-word memoir of the day: rainy mondays make me kinda melancholy.

It's been too long since I've been home, and I still have almost four months to go. Unacceptable.

I don't have another commitment-free weekend until Memorial Day. Also unacceptable.

I'm just gonna put it out there. This is the week I win the lottery.

I've decided I want to improve my Spanish, and learn French and Italian. Rosetta Stone is insanely expensive. Want to split it with me? Then we could talk to each other in other languages.

And... yep. That's it.

Another Shining Example of When Mean Is Funny

Okay, sometimes, something comes along that's just too remarkably inappropriate NOT to share.
Like this IM, for example.
Backstory: Somehow or another, my favorite co-workers launched into a debate some time ago about which would be better/worse -- a guy with a limp, or a guy with a lisp. It's important work we do here, people.
So, lo and behold, into our trap of an office today walks an unsuspecting lisper.
The following ensued. Names have been omitted, because... well, obviously, because.

[2:16PM] Red: are you sure this poor guy doesn't make you want to rethink the whole lisp vs. limp thing?

[2:17PM] Blue: ok, a little- if i had to choose between a HOT guy with a limp vs. a HOT guy with a lisp- i would still go lisp- i didn't even consider the utter geek factor

[2:17PM] Blue: is it to be assumed that but limpy and lispy are ugly geeks?

[2:17PM] Red: but a HOT guy with a liMp you could just make up a really cool story -- like he used to be a gansta or something

[2:17PM] Red: hot guy with a liSp there's no good story for

[2:18PM] Red: just lazy mouth

[2:18PM] Blue: but a hot guy with a lisp would be sentive and not full of himself

[2:18PM] Blue: i like to be slightly better than the person i'm dating

[2:18PM] Blue: just enough

[2:18PM] Red: you'd have to keep your tongue in his mouth all the time

[2:18PM] Blue: fine with me

[2:18PM] Red: how does --- feel about that?!

[2:18PM] Red: the better than part, not the tongue in mouth part

[2:18PM] Blue: great question

[2:19PM] Blue: he thinks he is really unattractive

[2:19PM] Blue: which he clearly is not

[2:19PM] Red: best if he stays in the dark

[2:19PM] Blue: exactly!

[2:19PM] Red: you have more control that way

[2:19PM] Red: in fact you might want to start making subtle comments

[2:19PM] Blue: now, if he developed a lisp, i would have to leave him

[2:20PM] Red: WHAT? you're swapping sides

[2:20PM] Blue: limp - questionable

[2:20PM] Blue: fair weather fan

[2:20PM] Blue: indeed

[2:20PM] Red: if --- all of a sudden developed a limp, you'd still think he was cute. if he all of a sudden developed a lisp, i'm sorry, i don't care what you say, you'd think he was gay

[2:21PM] Blue: ha

[2:21PM] Blue: would the limp affect his performance in bed?

[2:21PM] Red: in bed, no. in other places, it's a definite possibility.

[2:22PM] Blue: hmm- what about the lisp in bed? that might be more of a problem

[2:22PM] Blue: no talking

[2:22PM] Blue: allowed

[2:22PM] Red: exactly. if you laugh too hard when you're having sex it falls out

[2:22PM] Red: i'm serious

[2:22PM] Red: it pushes

[2:22PM] Blue: and scene

Bottoms Up

The guy across from me on the train this morning was drinking a beer.
Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should point out that I'm not usually coming in to work before the sun is up, or even with that over-eager/-dressed crowd of Financial District folk. But, generally speaking, I do aim for getting to the office before lunch, and, by default, well before any acceptable happy hour.
He wasn't homeless (appearing, anyway), and he wasn't drunk (acting, anyway). There really wasn't anything particularly interesting about him at all, except for the beer.
He clearly wasn't ashamed, as said beer was right on his lap for any straggling commuter to see - not even a paper bag for discretion's sake.
Obviously, for him, a pre-ten-a.m. beer was just how he needed to start the day. Like a good stretch. Or a gulp of orange juice, with a kick and a bit of an aftertaste.
It made me sad.
You're probably waiting for the joke, since I am a sarcastic, kind of mean-spirited person.
But, sincerely, it made me feel sad.
This wasn't a celebratory beer. Last Saturday was the St. Patricks Day festival in Hoboken, and there was a LOT of
mid-morning beer being consumed. That was a little immature, but it wasn't sad. By the end of the night it was grossly immature, but still -- not sad. Annoying, for us of a certain age. Not sad.
Is life so hard right now that the only way to even get moving is to get numb?
It's Tuesday. It's March. That means the toughest day of the week is done for a few more days, and the toughest part of the year is as well.
I thought maybe it was because of the economy... a recession beer. (Because isn't the economy a perfectly convenient scapegoat for every bad attitude and behavior these days.) But then I thought, well that's just silly. Beer is really expensive around here. And this wasn't a Pabst or anything. It wasn't even a can. This was good, bottled stuff. So it's tough to justify by means of financial depression.
I don't know why I'm trying to justify it anyway. He didn't make me drink it. He didn't spill any of it on me. I just tend to be overly concerned with things that aren't any of my business.
Come to think of it, there's not even a point -- or a conclusion, really -- to this story.
I just wish I knew his story. Or, I wish I knew his story was a happy one.

He's Just Not That Into Any of Me

Okay. It's very late. For a school night, anyway. The past few nights I've fallen asleep blissfully doped up on Nyquil, but I have a tiny little addiction problem, so I'm not letting myself take any tonight, and it's not going well so far. Plus I drank it all last night, so... there you go.
Went to see He's Just Not That Into You tonight. I actually loved it. (Actually. Who am I kidding here, actually. Is there actually anyone out there who didn't think this shit was written for a girl like me?) I am completely - and I'm not kidding here, people, completely - PMSing. So it wasn't pretty. The only thing that might get me to sleep tonight is the promise of seeing Bradley Cooper again very soon, and very naked. But that's not really the point here.
I don't know what the point is here. I keep typing and deleting, typing and deleting. So maybe I'm not quite ready to delve into all this.
I keep wanting to share my funny, sad stories from this whole new world of online dating with you, but then I feel bad about it when it really comes time to share. Or maybe I feel vulnerable, because really these guys are just trying to do the same thing I am, so it makes me wonder what that says about me. Or I'm worried about killing any shred of dating karma I might have left if I sacrifice them up as entertainment. (Don't get me wrong. It would probably be worth it. This is some crazy stuff... remind me some other time to tell you about Chester. I'd even post his picture - just to make sure you got the full effect - only I'm pretty sure that's illegal. And, you know, immoral. And kind of mean. Anyway.)
And I don't know what my story is yet. Which makes it hard to tell.
I think I'm all those girls, in some way or another. The one who holds on too long. The one who tries too hard. The one who looks the other way. The one who doesn't want what she's got.
That's a lot of girls all wrapped up in this one. And he's not into any of me, hot mess that I am. So what do I do? Someday I'll let go. And stop trying. And see him for what he is. And want what's right in front of me.
Won't I?
Or, more likely, I'll reread this, realize I sound like a crazed Carrie Bradshaw without the staff of great writers or the killer shoes, switch to Robitussin because it's all that's left in the medicine cabinet, and not keep Bradley waiting any longer.

26-50.

Because who's only got 25 random things to say about themselves, really?
Plus this is three blog entries in a row for me, and that, my friends, is record-setting.

26. I still wish for him on every eyelash.
27. I procrastinate.
28. My name is Jessica Elizabeth. I have a sister named Jessica, and a sister named Elizabeth. (And a brother named Josh, but that's not really thematic. Except that his girlfriend's name is Liz.)
29. I have never used my passport.
30. I have an unhealthy body image.
31. I've been to Wyoming twice, for unrelated weddings.
32. Most of my possessions are split between two basements - my dad's in Ohio and my ex-boyfriend's best friend's in New York.
33. I'm wondering if it'll seem egotistical that I'm writing list number two.
34. I like going to movies by myself.
35. My boss calls me snarky.
36. When I was little I told everyone my favorite movie was "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas."
37. I drink a lot of wine, but never red, even though I know it would be better for me.
38. I've seen two babies be born.
39. I hope I don't live in New Jersey forever, but I have no idea where to go next.
40. I've internet dated. Unsuccessfully, so far, anyway.
41. Sometimes I recite the words to movies along with the actors, even though I know it's annoying.
42. I wish I was more sophisticated.
43. I take a lot of notes.
44. I don't miss acting as much as I thought I would.
45. I miss my family more.
46. I worry that my life looks like this right now because of karma. I laugh at a lot of people.
47. I hate being naked.
48. My grandmothers are the two most amazing, frustrating, awe-inspiring women I know.
49. I'm terrified of getting old.
50. I'm realizing a second list was probably pretty much overkill.

I Am the Most Popular Girl On This Blog

So yesterday's post invoked a flurry of activity and outrage from those fan(s) of mine who either aren't cool enough to be on Facebook, or just aren't cool enough to be my friend on Facebook.
After much* demand, here is MY previously posted list of 25 Random Things.

*much is a relative term.

25. I have a cat named Bunker, who currently lives with his grandparents and kitty cousin.

24. I say 'literally' way more often than is actually appropriate. Or true.

23. I don't take criticism very well, because I'm too sensitive and I take everything really personally.

22. I love to read. Anything. Almost.

21. After eight years in New York City, I love it. But I'm worn out. It will always be a part of me, but I don't think it will ever be home.

20. I have no willpower.

19. I rode a motorcycle once at well over 100 miles an hour, without a helmet. It still makes me sick to my stomach to think about it.

18. If I have daughters I already know what I will name them.

17. I sometimes worry that I haven't made very good use of my life so far.

16. I'm hardly ever attracted to people -- very picky, thanks to some amazing, wonderful exes -- but when I fall in love it's hard and fast.

15. My favorite place in the world (aside from home) is a tiny island off the coast of the Outer Banks.

14. I'm technically an only child, but I have 3 younger siblings. They are all very different. I adore them. I miss them more and more as they become these amazing young adults with families of their own.

13. I wonder if I'll ever make (another) movie, write a book, or marry well (again).

12. I wonder what I'll have for dinner.

11. I've been skydiving.

10. I am a Buckeye, a Yankee, and a wannabe southern belle.

9. I am an unapologetic Parrot Head.

8. I once spent New Years Eve in Times Square… handing out Listerine Pocket Packs.

7. I never cook.

6. I think I'm getting smarter, finally. Or at least more… aware.

5. I try really hard to make people laugh. Sometimes I try too hard and suck, but sometimes I can do it.

4. I am blessed with the most amazing, influential, capable, drop-dead gorgeous, motivating, supportive, hysterically funny, no-bullshit, inspiring group of best girlfriends you could even imagine. Literally.

3. I should be working right now.

2. This has taken me a really ridiculously long time.

1. I will always be daddy's girl.

25 Random Things About Other People

So, as you Facebook friendly folks know, there is a craze just sweeping the site: a tagged note of "25 Random Things" that has proven, for me at least, to be a completely wonderful, entertaining insight into the friends I know really well, and the ones I don't. (Even the Times is getting in on the story.)

I talk a lot about my amazing friends, and how they've sustained me over the years. See for yourself -- 25 poignant little hysterically heartbreaking insights into the people in my life...

12. I love interesting people. Hence, my BFF Libby. She is insane about cleaning. She once came to visit and reorganized my entire closet. I was so thankful to have such a friend! She also informed me that I had 16 pairs of jeans.

10. My husband is laughing at me right now... shouting out ideas for this stupid list.

21. When I was in high school, my family planted a tree in a park in remembrance of my grandfather. In 2002, my now husband took me to a park named after his grandmother. It was the same park.

3. I am STILL hopelessly terrified of the band KISS, the Incredible Hulk and making my parents mad.

3. Being pregnant has made me appreciate my mother more.

17. i don't like taking out the garbage or filling the ice cube tray so i don't do either.

21. I'm really good at getting the job. I'm really bad at keeping it.

20. I stay in touch with all my ex girlfriends... except for one. I adore all of them... except for one.

23. My secret dream in life is to be a writer. My secret fear is that no one would be interested in what I would write.

10. I'm a card-carrying Feminist, but I've always wanted a fairy-tale wedding.

3. I rarely write a FB status because I would rather just read Jessica Stone's.

24. My husband is my best friend and favorite person in the world, but I still couldn't tell you his favorite snack or what he would order at a restaurant.

2. I believe in love at first sight.

19. I like living in Los Angeles, but I'm madly in love with New York City.

6. Twenty FIVE random things? I'm getting a little tired of working on this.

17. i killed my hamster snowball when i was 7. it was an accident. i wanted a dog. my parents wouldn't get me one. so i took snowball for a walk. i tied the rope around his neck a little too tight, and well-- that was it for snowball. terrible. i am still scarred.

10. not an hour goes by that i don't think of my mom.

21. I once attended a “Felicity” series finale viewing party. That’s still the gayest thing I’ve ever done.

24) I spend $2 a week on Lotto.

6) I wish my family lived closer to me, but not that I lived closer to my family. If that makes sense.

11. My husband says that I have a secret boyfriend. He lives in my freezer and he calls him GG. (grey goose) but he's no good to me without olives.

10. I am COMPLETELY different than I was in high school. Thank God.

11) I ran my parents around the world three times over in my childhood, but I think it was good for them.

17. I wonder nearly every day if living where I do is worth all the things I'm sacrificing to be here.

10. I'm strong enough to be alone, I'm just not very good at it.

Big Day, Tiny Heart

Hey y'all. I have no idea why I decided to go the Southern route there - it's just in my blood and bones and sometimes when I'm tired it comes out. So there ya go.
It's been a hell of a day.
I was about to head off to bed, but figured I would be disappointed with myself if I didn't in some way document this day.
We have a new president. But we have so much more than that - we have a whole new outlook. As a lot of you know, I was a fish headed upstream in that I didn't hate George Bush. Pitied, perhaps, in days of late, but I still see a good man there. In the last few months and years I've lost sight, the way I think a lot of America did, in how he got to the top position in the world in the first place, but he got there, nonetheless, same as the 42 men before him. But that's not really what today was about.
You don't hear me say it often, but... every once in awhile I slip, and every once in awhile I fall in love, head over heels, with New York City.
Today, I love New York. I got to experience this day in a way that no one, outside of our capital, got to. I got to stand in a crowded bar in Manhattan, surrounded by strangers, and watch the world change. For the better, no less. I got to feel the common thread that is the tying bind of a city like this. It's a loving city. Oh, I know, you're skeptical. But it is. It's an embracing, inviting, encouraging city. It welcomes change, and uncertainty, and enthusiasm.
So many moments in history have been captured by the iconic image of Americans crowded around a television screen. In bars and restaurants, in homes, around electronics stores on the streets. And so often, we're watching images, crying collectively, because something has happened. It's rarely something good. JFK. Elvis. Reagan. The Challenger. And, it's hard to even type, September 11th, 2001. None of those were good tears. Those are images that people froze to, clung to one another through, and survived to tell the next generation where they were at that moment.
I will tell my kids about watching the Challenger explode in my fourth grade classroom.
And I will tell my kids about the day I truly became a New Yorker. I didn't watch that day on television.
But today... today was different.
It almost looked the same. Crowds huddled in the freezing cold around sets and computers and even PDAs. (That might be a little different than years past...) There were tears. People clung to each other.
And they cheered.
Oh, wow, how they cheered and cried and let their faces fill with hope.
We chattered about an amazing performance, an amazing speech, an amazing moment in fashion. (Way to go, Wu.)
We watched a man do something unprecedented, who didn't forget to say, before the world, before he said anything else, "How gorgeous is my wife?" Done. Won. Love always wins.
It was nothing short of amazing. It was another monumental moment in New York City. And I fell in love, all over again.
It's been a tough week for love. It's been a tough few days of reminding myself that love can win. I had my own plans for dancing to Etta, my own version of "At Last," and I had to let it go. Reluctantly. Unwillingly. Ungracefully and humiliatingly and pridelessly. So, clearly, I don't feel much like a winner in love this week. I feel like a broken hearted, very lonely, very sad girl. I lost this week. Losing is awful, when the stakes are this high. A lot of tears in the past couple of days, and not happy "yes we can" tears. But what can you do.
So today was a good reminder that the world is bigger than I am. There are more important things than my little heart. My little tiny broken heart.
Like a president who just told the band to kick it.
More important stuff, indeed.