The Brink

There are moments when one teeters on the edge. The edge of reason, the edge of madness, or simply the incomprehensible inclination towards masochism. That's where I'm currently residing. It's familiar territory. This visit was triggered by a horrible bout of PMS that has yet to subside. My physician friend suggested a hot bath and aromatherapy. Perhaps.

Were it not for the general malaise I'm experiencing, I could laugh at how this latest exploration in self-induced sadness has derailed my grandiose plans of falling madly, deeply in love with myself. This morning my boss suggested I go back to my network field producing job if I was going to continue to undermine the philosophy behind "The Secret." She was kidding, of course, but it only added to my depression. This morning, I forced myself to smile as I looked in the mirror and thought, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." It helped momentarily until I noticed a gray hair in my eyebrow. Not getting any younger, that's for damn sure.

I talked to Boston last night. He's back on the East Coast for a couple of weeks. We haven't seen each other since our ill-fated romance shriveled in the light of reality. And I've been pretty shallow and self-absorbed when it comes to salvaging any sort of friendship with him. He's actually a really nice guy and I shouldn't resent him just because he didn't measure up to the man I wanted/expected/felt entitled to. But, he's smart. For one thing, he doesn't read this blog. That's probably wise given my frenetic impulses to wax poetic about compatibility one week and lament the end of yet another get-rich quick love scheme the next.

And finally, allow me to bring you up to speed on DSG. There have been some inquiries. As you know, he resisted the idea of dating. There were a multitude of explanations given for his reluctance and I listened intently to all of them hoping to hear something, anything that made me feel better about any of it. In the end, his knee-jerk decision coupled with his sporadic but mostly consistent tendency to be incredibly insensitive pushed me away. Imagine that. Someone succeeding in pushing me away. It's usually the other way around. I hope that in time my ego will recover from the beating it suffered when repeatedly reminded that I wasn't girlfriend material. Then, I'll be able to be a real friend to DSG as opposed to the sad little girl constantly vying for his attention or worse, listening for any verbal cues that may indicate a change of heart on his part. Pathetic.

I think about the men who have expressed interest in me. They're still waiting in the wings. I'm so quick to dismiss them for a myriad of reasons: he's not my type (yes, hobbits with abandonment issues only, please); I'm not attracted to him (because he's not playing hard to get); or he's trying too hard (he's consistent). And, yet, this commitment phobic behavior belies my quest for a meaningful relationship. DSG says I invent drama when there isn't any to consume me. I don't think that's true. If that were the case, I'd continue to engage in this self-deprecating friendship. The kind where I'm instructed to Man up and be his friend one moment but be true to myself the next. (deep self-indulgent sigh) So this Friday I'm going on a date. No time like the present to change course. Onwards and upwards!

The Peanut Gallery

People are having conversations in the comment section of my blog. I think that's weird. It's not a forum. I don't necessarily object to the discourse. After all, I am the moderator and can choose to reject the comments entirely but it's still strange. Especially since Brooklyn is home to Junior's which is famous for its cheesecake. So then why is that so clever and witty?

I'm in a really foul mood today. My day started with an email on my blackberry from a stupid client before I even got into work. That triggered a downward spiral that culminated in a burst of tears this evening. Yes, I'm having my period but it doesn't negate the fact that people are assholes. Why did I say that? The law of attraction will now mandate that more negativity clouds my universe. Shit.

My baby cousin, who's only 21 years old had a baby today. He's really cute even for a newborn. I find most newborns to be soft and cuddly but not always cute. After a week or so, once they've recovered from being pushed out, their face takes shape but at the hospital, I focus on their hands and feet. I've been fortunate that all the babies of my close relatives have been cute enough not to warrant that awkward moment immortalized on Seinfeld. But this birth underscored both my old age (I changed the mom's diapers!) and the increasingly deafening ticking of my own biological clock. Tomorrow I'm going to see The Vertical Hour on Broadway and I'm pretty excited about that. Tomorrow will be a good day. How's that for manifesting positive energy?

Brooklyn Dodgers

Calm down, HPG. I know you're a huge baseball fan but I'm referring to those of us who avoid the outer boroughs of Manhattan like the plague. I am a Brooklyn dodger. I have a handful of friends who reside in this lovely part of New York just a stone's throw away from the East Village and yet, I've only ventured out when I've either had to edit in a Brooklyn studio or the half a dozen times I committed to the commute for a friend's party.

Tonight my good friend John, who witnessed no less than three nervous breakdowns I had in the throes of Malaria during my African adventure, had his going away party. To me going away parties are sacred, I mean the person is leaving the vicinity for Pete's sake, do them the honor. However, I must really love this man because getting out to Crooklyn SUCKED.

First of all, I was exhausted because I had to show up at the UN this morning and wait in the freezing cold while the other film festival judges decided to mosey over for our security clearance. Then I was locked in a room for 8 hours while we watched countless documentaries. I get that it's an honor to be a judge but it felt like a chore. And even though we were asked to keep in mind limited budgets that may be reflected in the quality of the films, it was still aggravating to see 10 minutes of b-roll of NGO workers in a board meeting. You don't need a big budget to know that that shit is like watching paint dry.

I finally got home around 7 p.m. only to shower and change so I could meet my friend for sushi before he accompanied me on my trek to Ft. Greene in Brooklyn. It's a damn good thing I figured out that John lived in Ft. Greene and not Ft. Lee as I had originally advertised. No one bit and then when someone asked me why I kept promoting parties in New Jersey, it occurred to me that he lived in Brooklyn. Even with my new dark do, I'm still suffering from blond moments.

Construction and the bullshit weekend schedule made the already long ride from the Upper West Side even longer. I had relied on a website I recently discovered called hopstop.com for directions. It used to be my favorite because you type in your start and end locations and voila, it tells you what subway line is the most efficient. Note the past tense. Tonight hopstop was hopped up on dipshit directions. My friend appeared to be in good spirits about everything until I started bitching about how cold it was. "Let me tell you one thing only," he advised in his mock Indian accent. "This is your friend's party and you'll shut it up right now."

When we finally arrived at the party, alcohol was flowing freely and the drunks were in full bloom. I know he'll never see it but I want to send some good vibes in the direction of the white man on the dance floor. His moves straight from the Elaine Benes School of Choreography brought me unbridled joy and amusement. But when I've been drinking (in this case, I had sake at dinner and a ginger ale spiked with vodka at the party) I have a tendency to laugh freely as in, in people's faces. My friend figured this out the hard way.

A really cute girl introduced herself and began talking to us about our respective careers. I was full of questions for her as well as I thought I was being a good wing woman. Almost abruptly, the girl says, "I should introduce you to my boyfriend," and walks away. I looked at my friend who just shrugged, resigned to his fate of going home alone without any digits. But what she returns with is perplexing to say the least. This Indian guy who looked like he was a once normal sized man who had inexplicably survived being flattened by a steamroller. His body frame was oddly angular with thin shoulders, a noticeable flat torso that looked to be only a few inches thick in width. He was wearing a black turtleneck with chinos that had defied their wrinkle-free characteristic. I know this is mean but I just started laughing and I couldn't stop. And she was all giddy because apparently this cartoonish man, who we later learned she met online, was someone she really liked. "This is Amrit..or," she looked at him and giggled,"Dr.Amrit?" He smiled, embarrassed that his girlfriend would emphasize his Ph.D. in economics. Meanwhile my friend is staring at me in disbelief because I can't keep my shit together. Fortunately, the man who deserves to be cast as the lead in "White Men Can't Dance" started to strut his stuff to Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" so I was able to blame my laughter on the other freakshow in the room.

And speaking of Indian guys, may I take a moment to shamelessly plug the amazing blog of one of my favorite South Asian males? Yes? You're too kind. It's a fantastic website for any neophyte (myself included) who wishes to broaden their cultural horizons. I hate the name of the site but all the losers who can't write their way out of a wet paper bag had taken the better ones. Anyway, it's really well-written and you may like it even if you're an ethnocentric a-hole who doesn't care about enlightening yourself. http://www.desimusic4ever.blogspot.com/

Returning to My Roots

I'm being literal. I have literally gone back to my roots, as in my natural hair color. My natural hair color looks fake because it's so freaking dark. I feel like Samara from "The Ring" or, possibly worse, Wednesday Addams. Why did I do it? I guess it was prompted by DSG asking about my highlights. As in, why do you have blond in your hair? I explained that on-air, my thick, dark hair resembles a hair helmet and the highlights give my hair some "texture" on camera. But it's more expensive to get foil put in my hair and who am I kidding with the natural highlights? There's no such thing as a woman of my ethnicity having warm shades of caramel and honey in their hair. Then the other day Larry noted how many colors were in my hair. But my colorist was booked so I opted to go to another salon on the Upper West Side.

The Filipino woman assigned my hair didn't exactly instill a surge of confidence in me. In broken English she demanded that I "Sit here!" and asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted a single process, dark- like my roots. I warned her that my gray was stubborn and she nodded barely concealing her disdain at the split ends and rainbow of brassy highlights I had allowed to deteriorate with neglect. Two hours later, as she blow dried my hair the end result was revealed. I couldn't believe it. Elvira minus the obscene cleavage and vamp make-up. Christ. "It's dark," I remarked. "Yes, it's very dark. I don't like but you say natural color," she said. Whore.

But there are worse things than looking incredibly unimaginative and Goth-like with your hair color. For instance, you could have a cellular bill that exceeds $600! I was wandering midtown west in search of good eats with Larry today when I got the email from Verizon. Your automatic payment of $605 is scheduled for March 1, 2007. "Holy shit!" I yelled and everyone in line at Wendy's turned and looked at me. "Language," Larry said. "My fucking phone bill is $605!" I exclaimed loud enough for people to turn again. This public disclosure preceded a hasty exit, whatever the line was way too long for fucking Wendy's. Once outside I warned Larry that if I called Verizon and they stood by this invoice, he was going to witness a meltdown. Larry's eyes lit up in anticipation of this promising exhibition of consumer outrage. When I finally called, the customer service rep. patiently went through my whole bill and explained that my new blackberry, its charges, my texting (NO MORE TEXTS!) and my new broadband card together with various taxes and activation fees amounted to the price of new Jimmy Choo heels. Where the fuck are my priorities?!

The Bain of Her Existence

Not mine. My therapist's. Not me, the fucking Secret. Yesterday, I went to see her and as I started telling her about the latest Oprah-backed social phenomenon, I heard an exasperated sigh. "It's bullshit, right?" I said, lifting my head off the couch and turning to look at her. "You're the third one today," she said. Apparently, psychotherapists are being bombarded with queries from patients who want to know if they can actually will goodness into their lives simply by believing. "It's unrealistic to think people can banish all their negative thoughts all the time," she noted.

Confession: I bought the program for $5 and watched it online. Yes, this was after I ranted about it here. But, as a journalist, I thought it would behoove me to fully investigate the DVD before poo-pooing it. On some level it did resonate with me. The whole law of attraction theory is grounded in some truth. But after the spell wore off, I was struck by really irrational, idealistic, and Stepford-esque components to the best-selling panacea.

The various "experts" in the "movie" ranged from medical doctors to quantum physicists and self-proclaimed philosophers. A few of them used the inoculation theory to undermine skeptics. One example was a fruity life coach, originally from Houston to my dismay, who said that many people question how everyone can have everything they want. Won't the overwhelming demand of humanity's desires deplete the supply of the universe? No, he said condescendingly, because the universe is abundant and not everyone wants a BMW. The latter part of the phrase was illustrated with images of impoverished people in Africa. Yeah, they don't know what a fucking BMW is, they just want clean drinking water, asshole.

Another annoying soothsayer suggested that people who spend their time and effort fighting injustice, disease or rallying against war are in fact perpetuating those things. "You should have a pro-peace rally instead of an anti-war rally." Is this a life strategy or simply semantics? I strongly disagree with the law of attraction regarding this. Case in point would be the filmmaker I partnered with in Africa when we were covering the famine. He had spent a few years of his life chronicling the efforts of people all over the world who defied monster governments and powerful corporations simply by demonstrating against them. This was evidenced in Venezuela, South Africa, Palestine and even at the WTO meeting in Seattle. That inspiring documentary is available on DVD, by the way, and it's called "The Fourth World War" (www.bignoisefilms.org).

The above notwithstanding, it should be noted that I am willing to curb the negativity that pervades my existence. My therapist asked me not to refer to myself as an idiot or a moron, at least for a while. She agreed that it sounded more interesting to simply declare that I was a loser rather than take the time to explain, "I don't think I made the wisest decision at that moment in time and now I have some regret about my actions." But by putting that out there, I was in fact empowering others to do the same. Enter DSG. This man has been the source of amusement and self-doubt from the get go. I don't like it. I'm moving on. We're still friends though so it's all good. And, I've decided that I'm going to take the advice of friends and blog-readers and finally fucking write a book. In fact, I just signed up for a class on how to write a book proposal. The original plan was that my blog would be leaked to a senior editor at a top publishing house and they would come looking for me. But that pipe dream is about as realistic as my longstanding fantasy to strike oil at the altar (read: not gonna happen).

The Secret

Some of you may have heard about a new self-help DVD that Oprah recently featured on her show called "The Secret." It resonated with me especially since DSG had just alluded to one of the principles the other night when he was berating me for my blog. "Your blog is called 'Confessions of a Love Pariah' don't you think putting that out there has something to do with the fact that you're single?" I was indignant and told him where he could put his psycho-babble. He was referring to the Law of Attraction. And it means that everything that happens to you, good or bad, is of your own making. Sure, I'll buy that. But if its your sub-conscious that's placing unconscious orders and fucking up your life, how the hell do you stop the cycle? This is what I find maddening. The negative energy I exude propels more in my direction?! Granted, I'm my own worst enemy but it's not in my nature to walk around happy-go-lucky all the time.

And letting go of fear? Fear of rejection? Fear of failure? I work in TELEVISION. How I look and sound has often dictated what jobs I did and didn't get. Such experiences can breed insecurity and self-doubt. Yet I've managed to navigate that minefield and create my own professional space in a highly saturated industry. A friend of mine recently gave me a book on fear but I found it to be esoteric and dry. So there's that and then there's this:

Nothing good can come into your life unless you're grateful for what you have.
I'm grateful. I don't wallow in self-pity for long. I make light of my failures and missteps. Still, I've been accused of playing the victim card more than once. So I can probably be more thankful for the fact that I live in a great apartment with a great roommate in a fabulous city where I can afford to do the things I enjoy.

And finally, there's the whole theory of negative self-talk. When I first moved to New York and discovered that my "happily ever after" was in fact doomed for divorce, I immediately sought a therapist. The first one I went to was a thirty-something woman who acted more like a girlfriend than a professional. Often she would exclaim, "Oh my God! You're kidding me," during our sessions. After two visits, I broke up with her but not before she suggested a daily mental exercise. She said that I should repeat this mantra whenever my mind was idling: I love and accept myself exactly as I am. I thought this was pointless but according to the purveyors of The Secret, it's the key to self-love.

Love yourself and love will find you. FUCK OFF. I'm sorry, do I sound angry? This cliche has haunted me my entire adult life and despite countless hours of self-analysis I have yet to fully comprehend how the concept works. If loving yourself means teaching others how you want to be treated, I do that. In fact, my expectations often exceed what people find reasonable. But I keep the bar high and am very clear about what I will and will not tolerate. I also engage in retail therapy which is completely selfish. If Gucci and Prada aren't evidence of self-love, what is? Don't answer that.

Anyway, were I to employ the lessons of "The Secret," there would be no blog. Because the candor and self-deprecating humor you find so entertaining would cease to exist. Instead, there would be declarations of how much I love myself and who wants to read Stuart Smalley's blog?

Reality Check

So last night I was disturbed to receive this comment on my blog by someone with the alias of "Clare":
clare has left a new comment on your post "The Rain Hurts":

I have been reading your blog and have never written to you. But now I fel that I must. Something about this seems untrue to me. People don't hang out with othr people who insult them, at leas thtye dont for very long. What are you getting out of being his friend, you are either a massochist or you understand something about the interaction that you are not sharing with us. When he says you're not funny, or you're boring. What do you say to him in return? I had this kind of flirtatious dynamic with a man once.when he says these things, do you insult him back? I bet you do, and if you do, does he laugh? and if he laughs then I think it's love....or at least a lot of like. I think you like the ineraction you have with him because as i have read before from others its nice to have a man pull your pig tails for once insteasd of telling you how pretty you are all the time. I think he poses a challenge and he excites you, just admit it.

The reason this comment is getting an entry is because I accidentally hit "reject" instead of publish. I read the comment on my blackberry last night right after I got off the phone with DSG. I was livid. I called him and read it to him. "I can't believe I'm being judged by someone I don't know!" He noted the naivity of my remark given the blatantly obvious nature of a blog. Then he told me that she was right and there's nothing wrong with that. Then he sang a dumb version of "Who let the dogs out"- no relevance- and I laughed so hard I snorted. Nice. So let's call a spade a spade (even though I've been recently informed that that's a phrase rooted in racism). I don't think I have been disingenuous about DSG. I said in my last post that I loved talking to him and hanging out with him. Our dynamic is a bit like "When Harry Met Sally" minus the initial disdain. This blog was never intended for public consumption and I've never felt compelled to explain myself because those privy to its contents know that if someone cuts me down, I hand it right back. A shrinking violet the love pariah is not. As for his constant commentary on my unfunniness, he frequently laughs out loud when we're talking so I know its a way of needling me. And I have admitted that he's a challenge who excites me. Isn't that obvious?!

Where do things stand now? Status quo as in I remain planted in the friend zone. He was supposed to head back to LA on Monday but instead was one of the cursed passengers trapped aboard a JetBlue flight for 11 hours. Unfuckingbelievable. When we saw all the coverage of the 8 hour ordeal of Aruba-bound passengers, both of us bristled at how easy they had it compared to DSG's doomed flight. He challenged my media savvy asking why I couldn't report on their tarmac torture. I saw the gauntlet and vowed to get his and his friend's story broadcast. I sent an email to my contacts and ABC bit. After confirming it was not a Daily Show hoax she passed the information to the assignment desk. But here's the best part. DSG wanted the media attention, he thrives on it but World News Tonight opted to circumvent him and instead interviewed his friend who's name I had passed on as well. Last night, she was on network news as the survivor of the flight from hell. Once he's recovered from this slight, we'll hang out again and the battle of the wits will commence yet again. But it's fun and I would rather be involved at this level sans sex than in perpetual angst over a mental midget.

The Rain Hurts

Because it's frozen and feels like tiny clumps of cold cement hitting my face. The snow that fell overnight has already turned to brown slush but more is on the way. And, as is the case in New York whenever anything falls from the sky, be it rain, sleet or snow, the city is thrown into commuter chaos. My trek was relatively painless compared to my colleagues who complained of being stuck on the bus for more than two hours this morning. No one is in a good mood today. Today sucks. OH! What a coincidence, it's Valentine's Day.

I'm not going to go off on how much I despise this Hallmark-sponsored holiday because there's nothing I can add to the legions of haters who have already established why it's a conspiracy by the retail industry to suck money from us in an otherwise slow sales period. That and the marrieds who want to make us singletons feel bad the one day of the year they're having more fun (or pretending to). I guess I did just kind of pop off. Sorry.

No, I'm not expending any energy on V.D. My boss came in and asked us to guess how many layers of clothing she was wearing. I sprang up out of my cubicle and ran over to her office, intrigued by the idea of a guessing game first thing in the morning. Larry noted how peculiar my excitement was. "I think she's thinking about switching teams," he told my boss. By the way, she was wearing five layers including her coat which wasn't nearly as impressive as I had hoped.

Speaking of deflated expectations, let's talk about DSG. We are quickly becoming "buds"! Yay! I always wanted an intellectually challenging man to scoop me up and plant me firmly in the friend zone. No, but seriously, I love hanging out with him and talking to him. The only part that bothers me.. actually there are a couple of things that bother me. One is that fact that he's always reminding me that my jokes are dumb. This would be more offensive if it wasn't true. For instance, I get immeasurable joy from following the lead of one of my equally-corny cameramen who likes to write a tip on the part of the credit card receipt marked "tip." Last night when I met DSG and a few of his friends out for dinner, I took the customer copy of his receipt and next to tip wrote: don't eat yellow snow. He was in mid-conversation and when he glanced down at it, he rolled his eyes clearly put off by my insistence that this was in fact funny. "Would you stop? It's dumb."

Exhibit B: telling me I'm boring. I know I'm not boring even though my last entry was called that. And he wouldn't be calling if I was as boring as he claims. Why am I even composing a defense for this ludicrous accusation? Anyway, the crush has morphed into mutual fondness, no sparks. I told him we should explore the chemistry and he resisted telling me that it doesn't matter how hot I or he thinks I am, it's really the chemical reaction between two people that dictates the direction any relationship is bound to take. In our case, no combustion unless you count the bickering that pervades every encounter we have. In any case, I have definitely accomplished my goal of securing Daily Show Tickets. A date- not so much but tickets- score!

Self-Sufficiency is Overrated

I've had a busy morning. First damage control with the client who couldn't understand why I renamed MS. I had to explain how this "discrepancy" occurred without letting on that it was in fact apathy that was to blame. Then I wrote another script for another client and finally had an overcooked chicken sandwich delivered for lunch. The security guard who told me a couple of weeks ago that he has a crush on me also had a case of the Monday blues. I can't ever remember his name but he's a big black man from Alabama with huge arms and a warm smile. But today he wasn't smiling. "You kept him waiting for a while," he noted as I paid the delivery guy. "I didn't know I was supposed to come downstairs. I thought he would bring it up to me," I said. He rolled his eyes. "You're in a bad mood aren't you?" Yes, he nodded. "Because it's Monday?" I asked. Again, nodding in the affirmative. See? It's not just me.

I scrambled to make deadline on several scripts and now have a reprieve from the mind-numbing press releases I've whored myself out to compose. I don't think I'm PMS-ing but I am in a foul mood. Part of it is this stupid IM exchange I had with some guy in Pakistan. His screen name was "creatureworld2003." WTF? Larry stood over my shoulder and laughed as I humored him in this inane exchange.

creatureworld2003: assalam-o-alekum
creatureworld2003: how are you?
ME: who is this?
creatureworld2003: this is ahmad
creatureworld2003: and i think you have forgotten me
ME: that's a safe bet
creatureworld2003: ok well i was in england and you were asking for your husband to get visa for him
ME: nope that wasn't me
creatureworld2003: then
creatureworld2003: r u in pakistan or not
ME: no
ME: how did you get this email?
creatureworld2003: i guess we have chatted quite many times
creatureworld2003: my real name is Naveed
ME: loser
ME: what a dumb screen name you have
creatureworld2003: your email id is added in my messanger
ME: wait.
ME: Naveed who?
creatureworld2003: Naveed Mahmood
ME: oh, sorry
ME: I thought you were someone else
ME: I actually have no idea who you are
creatureworld2003: what did you think
ME: I thought you were my friend Naveed
creatureworld2003: ohhh God
creatureworld2003: its mean you are the right person
ME: what?
ME: anyway, as much as I would like to continue this cryptic exchange, I have work to do.
ME: bye
creatureworld2003: bye

I don't know what world this creature crawled out of into mine but that conversation is soo 2003. OK. See that? That's dumb. Not clever or sharp or witty. Just dumb. Dumb like the songs DSG likes to bust out with at the slightest provocation. When I asked him why he kept looking at the girl at the table next to us, "Jealousy..," he sang. Then yesterday when I called him a jackass as we were crossing the street, "Our friendship is so sweet.." But when he does something corny or tired, he calls it "slumming." As in, visiting my brand of humor that apparently resides in the ghetto of the comedy world. He, on the other hand, lives in the upscale neighborhood of intelligent humor comprised of biting sarcasm and inspired folly only the comic geniuses of our time have been granted access into. Yes, these are the kinds of analogies that make me swoon.

But, seriously. I am so fucking tired. I am so tired of not meeting Mr.Right or Mr.RightNow. And a large part of me doesn't even want to meet anyone because it's so pointless and exhausting. It's usually my current state of mind that precedes an unexpected encounter. Or, I become so ambivalent about it all that I begin throwing myself at attractive men in the hopes of at least getting laid. Exhibit A: I was at a board meeting on Saturday and as the IT guy comes in to assist in wifi issues, I notice that he's pretty freaking hot. This is unusual for an IT guy. I stepped out to make a phone call and when I came back in he was occupying the seat next to mine at the conference table. He was telling someone how to log in when I leaned over and asked, "So do you make house calls?" This was bold even for me. He smiled and said yes. I was so thrown by my own Paris Hilton-esque behavior that I started babbling about my broadband card. Then the meeting was called back to order and he left only to return in the middle of an agenda item and hand me his business card. My fellow board members snickered. Some stared in awe because they had just heard me ask, "What's his story?" and didn't witness the ballsy exchange I had initiated. But that, too, will lead nowhere. At this point, I really just need. Well, you know what I need. I'm tired of being the master of my domain.

Mondays SUCK!

I fucking hate Mondays. And what a coincidence that when your day seems to start and end on a pissy note, it just happens to be a Monday. Case in point: not only did my alarm clock betray me once again by failing to physically yank me from my bed but I had to contend with every inconsiderate asshole who lives within a one mile radius of my home/work. The first offending party would be the I-banker and his bulldog. Actually, I shouldn't blame his dog. It's not his fault that his owner is a self-absorbed wanker.

I'm walking to the subway and it's pretty damn cold so I'm moving relatively fast. This guy's walking his dog at a leisurely pace. Something DSG said to me yesterday sprang to mind, "If you're gonna walk that slow, don't live in New York." Especially during rush hour! So I-banker is engrossed in his blackberry and decides that his dog is finished answering nature's call even though the poor thing appears to be in mid-stream. So he crosses the sidewalk effectively cutting me off and his dog stays put, determined to finish his business. But jackass is too preoccupied to notice that they're blocking the sidewalk with the leash. I'm not exactly steady in my stiletto Prada boots and this idiot wants me to play jump rope?!

I'm late and the local train actually arrives just as I descend the subway stairs but it's packed as usual. The door I'm standing by opens and about half a dozen straphangers pour out. Good. There's room. But everyone gets on and congregates at the door. Nobody fucking moves in preventing a lot of hardworking New Yorkers from getting on. This really pisses me off. I mean why the fuck would you rather stand packed like sardines by the subway doors when you can simply walk a few steps in and create commuter harmony? Ever the loyal follower of the Golden Rule (do unto others.. yada yada), I opt to move in.. if they'll let me. "Excuse me," "Coming through..", "Christ, people, could you move IN?!" I get a few wary looks and know I'm being billed the bitch but I don't care. I move in to the middle of the car and grab hold of the pole. And encounter yet another I-banker. How do I know? Because he's wearing his Banana Republic striped shirt and Kenneth Cole tie- hallmarks of the conformist capitalist. He gets on and leans against the poll, pressing into my hand. "Excuse me?" He turns and smiles. What? You're not cute enough to smile like that at me at this hour. "Do you mind not leaning on my hand?"
"Oh! I'm so sorry," he says. Whatever. Like you didn't feel that you were crushing my hand. Tosser.

Now I come into the office to learn that in my rush to deliver a script to a client, I renamed the disease they're targeting with their new drug to Muscular Sclerosis instead of Multiple Sclerosis. Nice. It's going to be fun explaining why I'm such a fuck up to my boss. Did I mention how much I hate Mondays?

To Blog Or Not To Blog

That is the question. And at least as far as DSG is concerned, here's my answer: not to blog. I'm sorry to leave you guys hanging but I don't think it's healthy to chronicle the progress or lack thereof of any budding romance.

And that's not even what it is. I may have sealed our fate with my inability to "live in the moment", "Go with the flow" or as he put it, "deal with the pain of ambiguity." But at this time, I'm determined not to derail a decent friendship in the process. I almost did that with HPG. Sustained contact and persistence on both our parts finally paved the way to an honest friendship with HPG but it was an uphill journey. What I'm hoping to accomplish at this juncture is not to make myself crazy by trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. It's not a tactic I'm familiar with but commendable nonetheless. Don't you think? Don't worry, there's plenty of other fodder for the blog.

For instance, I'd like to share what I witnessed on the subway this morning. This really hot guy got on with another man and two children. The little girl who appeared to be about 4 years old bared a striking resemblance to the show stealer in "Little Miss Sunshine." The other little boy was just as adorable. And I noticed that she called the hottie "Papa" and the other attractive metrosexual "Daddy." Interesting. During the express trip to Times Square, the little ones twirled around the subway poles. Then a few people said "awww" as the munchkins put their arms around each other. Then the little girl kissed her brother on the cheek, then the mouth, and then... this vision of a 21st century nuclear family redefined suddenly took a sharp turn into what I can only describe as a family reunion in Kentucky. Keep in mind, this is all unfolding right in front of me as I hear the hot Papa kneel down and say to his daughter, "No tongue, we don't kiss with our tongue." But they didn't let up. The two toddlers were french kissing. It went from darling to disturbing in a matter of minutes. Hmmm, that sounds familiar.

Ignorance is Bliss?

I'm gonna say yes and here's why. Until recently, I knew DSG for his work as a pseudo-correspondent. The fact that he got to sit across a desk from Jon Stewart on occasion was impressive enough. This is what ignited my crush. At his prodding, I googled some of his other work and I was mildly impressed.

Then yesterday, I asked him what he was working on. I usually don't ask this question because I feel a bit sheepish, as if I'm fawning or awestruck by his acting career. He told me about the show he was on and registered mild annoyance that I wasn't aware of the reason he was working out of LA until March. This is interesting. Indulge me momentarily as I examine the latest salvo in our battle of the wits.

I have been accused of coming at him like a MACK truck with my crush. Of campaigning to become his romantic interest in an obvious, almost pathetic way. Given these allegations doesn't it behoove me NOT to go searching for other reasons to be interested? He suggested that I log in and watch the TV show and I told him that I didn't want to be starstruck. "It's not about being starstruck, it's about taking an interest in what I'm working on," he said. This makes sense to me because I know I got really upset when close friends I had initially told about my blog weren't reading it. I also get riled up when my story airs and no one cares. But still.

So last night I watched two episodes he was in. He's really a good actor. I can't elaborate because I might leave too many breadcrumbs that will lead you to his identity. But suffice to say, he's got some talent. However, that's no reason for him to feel superior or for me to feel inferior because what he doesn't have is a nice rack. That's all me.

Resurrecting the Crush

Alright, folks, the crush is not dead. But it is on life support. It was brought back to life with some subtle prodding (NOT) on the part of my readers and, dare I say, persistence from one Daily Show correspondent who will continue to remain nameless. (If only because I value my life.)

And since I'm breathing life back into this crush, I should probably be upfront about why. There appears to be some intellectual chemistry which, as you know, I've found lacking in the past. My ex-husband for one, who looked at me quizzically when I asked him if he was watching the "Seinfeld" episode where Jerry gets heckled. My heart sank as it dawned on me that the man I had vowed to love for better or for worse didn't know the meaning of the word heckled. He was an IT genius with a penchant for expensive modern art. When it came to verbal jousting though, he was a novice, choosing to withdraw and sulk instead of challenging me. Fun Bobby a.k.a. Howard the Drunk was the most sarcastic and witty man I had ever met (until now, of course) but the fact that he would rather get drunk than laid was definitely a deal breaker. Enter Mo, the dentist, who liked to inflate his self-worth by introducing himself as a "Doctor" everywhere we went.
New Acquaintance: What do you do?
Mo: I'm a doctor.
New Acquaintance: Oh really? What's your specialty?
Mo: Umm, I'm a dentist.
It might have been easier for me to cut my losses sooner had I realized that Mo was in fact short not for Mohammed but Moron.

And that brings us back to DSG (Daily Show Guy for the Darwin award finalists). I don't really like this acronym but it will have to do because were I to employ any other identifiable trait, he would probably sue me for libel. But this guy is really different (read: maddening). Not only does he not take any of my shit, he gives it back to me twofold which while amusing is very disconcerting. And he insists that it's my tendency to be a control freak and desire to speed up the demise of any budding romance that's really to blame for.. well, the demise of any budding romance.

Another charming quality I've recently been thrilled to discover is how he incorporates his acting talents into this..."friendship." Are you ready? He's often alerted to a new post when we're on the phone, so what he's grown fond of doing is READING MY BLOG ALOUD. This, I must confess, is immensely entertaining. With the exception of today's performance when he went into character as a very effeminate gay man. My missteps in dating sound really gay when they're recited by someone gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So what do I like about him? His biting sarcasm? Nope, that's not it. His unfaltering ability to provide me with a daily dose of humility? Close, but not quite. His ability to see right through me? Yeah, that may be part of it. It's a bit liberating to have someone recognize your crazy and ask if you could wipe your feet and enter without it. But what if your crazy is your safety net? Then what? Then you fall on your face sans the neurotic behavior that has always served as your scapegoat. Kind of scary, just like DSG.

David Letterman is kind of hot.

What? I'm being serious. I went to his show last night. HPG's friend, Sig, a former NASA scientist and baseball expert (for lack of a more identifiable title) had asked me to go out Monday night. But I was exhausted. I had woken up at the crack of dawn to go to a 7am spin class. Sometimes I'm inspired to perform uncharacteristically devoted acts of physical fitness. In subzero temperatures, I trekked the few blocks to the studios and had an exhilarating workout. However, by mid-afternoon I was seriously sluggish and was daydreaming about crawling into bed early. Sig gave me several options but I told him the thought of schlepping downtown for anything short of a million dollars was not enticing in the least. He responded with one final offer: Letterman tickets. "Come on," he implored, "It's David Letterman." He was in luck because my offices were directly across the street from the Ed Sullivan Theater. I looked out the window and my excitement waned. The line was long and everyone looked really cold.

Once you get the call that your ticket request has been approved, the process is a bit like a scavenger hunt. Except instead of random clues, you're sent in random directions and asked stupid questions. I timed my arrival in line just as he was reaching its end. They asked him for the name of his contact and directed inside to another line. After waiting in that line, a young page marked his name off a list and before handing over the tickets asked earnestly, "Are you excited about the show?" I heard the other page ask someone in another line the same question with the same forced enthusiasm. We replied affirmatively and were led to another line, then another and another. Here, they told us the dos and don'ts of being an audience member. Don't worry; I won't bore you with that. Bottom line, the level of perceived excitement dictated where you sat. One look at my lethargic demeanor and Sig knew we were doomed. "They're going to take one look at you and put us in the rafters," he predicted. He was right.

The guest was Rachel Ray. Can someone please explain her celebrity? Why does she have her own freaking talk show? Not that that's a major feat given the list of has-beens that belong to the washed-up-celebrity-hey-let's-give-you-a-show-of-your-own club. But Letterman is in great shape for his age. And the sprightly way he carries himself (not in a gay way, more of a confidence-exuding way) is kind of a turn-on. I'd do him. But I digress. Let's talk about the death of my crush.

The Daily Show guy doesn't think it's dead. But he killed it. He talked it to death. I mean how many conversations can we have about the oppressive nature of a one-sided crush before it becomes, well oppressive? I could almost see my stock rise in his eyes as I shared this latest development. "No it's not," he insisted. "You still like me." I laughed. I mean why wouldn't I? First I'm called on the carpet for creating a climate of expectation for my premature disclosure. Then, when I'm set to dismiss those early tugs of attraction to a more platonic arena, I'm advised that I'm yet again, mistaken. But all of this, all of it, stems from his latest performance. Improvised, if you will, for my listening pleasure. I got to hear him imitate me on the phone and it wasn't pretty. "Why don't you like me? How could you not like me? I'm so hot, I have big boobs," he whined in a voice that didn't even remotely resemble my sultry tone. But he was amused. He couldn't get enough of what he quickly anointed his new favorite impression. Honestly, it was pretty funny but totally baseless and inaccurate. I had no recollection of the tantrum he was supposedly recreating for my mortified ears. Then he reminded me that it was part and parcel of the drunken dialing that had occurred last week. Oh that.

I'm still haunted by flashbacks of this conversation. Bits and pieces assault my psyche when I least expect it. "I just want to know if this is going anywhere so I can cut my losses." CRINGE. In my defense, I didn't want to make a fool out of myself. (Yes, I'm aware of the irony.) I should expound on the comment about my rack. My indiscretion in drinking and dialing resulted in the announcement of my bra size. It's impressive, shocking and alarming all at once. The size that is. He questioned the veracity of my claim. Still drunk, I forwarded him a pic Mo took of me on vacation in, you guessed it, my bikini top. I know. I should live in a trailer park.

To further the whole feeling like a big dumb asshole I was experiencing, he tells me that he's forwarded my blog to one of his girlfriends in an effort to weigh my sanity. So this blog is suddenly a litmus test for whether I'm crazy. I was upset by this. I didn't like the idea of a stranger using my blog to assess my date-ability. "You can't put your thoughts on a blog and not expect people to judge you for them," he pointed out. Fine. But I wanted to know what he had told his friends after he informed them of my crush. I mean surely they must have asked if he felt the same way. And the explanation I got was what I've come to expect from this man- brutal honesty. "I told them I didn't know, that I enjoyed talking to you and your were fun and annoying." Ahem, "annoying"? Needless to say, I didn't take that last part well. He recanted. I should elaborate but Larry's standing over my shoulder and needs his laptop back. And let me leave you with the quote that his been pre-approved for your amusement:

"You're witty and smart, and you have big boobs. You're not annoying." I'm beaming. I mean really, who needs Shakespeare when you can find a man to wax poetic like this?

Inspired!... demoralized.

Is it possible to be inspired and demoralized in tandem? Yes, I think it is. I spent my weekend in D.C. at a journalism conference at the NPC. On one of the most riveting panels I've ever witnessed, I listened to veteran journalists who talked about how, through intrepid reporting or pure luck, they stumbled across stories that had historic repercussions. (For the news junkies: Mark Foley scandal, NSA wiretapping expose, and the sale of earmarks by congressmen to lobbyists.) This was inspiring. But that feeling was followed almost immediately by the realization that I had just agreed to take an indefinite hiatus from my network field producing job for a more lucrative and stable stint as a media consultant/prostitute. My colleagues tried to buoy my spirits by reminding me that I wasn't exactly covering momentous stories at my other job and I had chosen to take a "break" in search of saner pastures. Still, I feel a bit like a sell-out and am currently pondering a documentary project that will validate me.

The slew of responses to my last post have run the gamut from just barely stopping short of calling the guy a wanker to applauding his technique. For the record, I wasn't exactly hurt that he was "bored." In fact, I knew that wasn't the case but was nonetheless irked by his one-upsmanship. Anyway, things are moving steadily in no specific direction. This is a foreign concept for me. I've been told by both him and my therapist that I enjoy fast-forwarding to the last act. Now, I'm enjoying the journey that may or may not lead anywhere romantic but at least I'm relieved of the oppressive angst that usually consumes me. In the past, I've been quick to jump headfirst into a questionable enterprise with someone I'm not even sure I like only for them to hit the brakes and leave me reeling from being dumped by a bench warmer. I mean for the love of God, I could at least get kicked to the curb by starters who are commitment phobes versus Beauty and the Geek contestants.

Blog about me, damn it!

By now, you've probably grasped the obvious. I don't learn from my mistakes. If something hasn't worked in the past or, in the spirit of accuracy, blown up in my face, I will gladly step back into the same mine field in the hopes of a different outcome. And now you have the foundation for the madness that may serve to partially explain why I keep telling guys I like about my blog.

The latest casualty of this war on common sense would be The Daily Show correspondent on whom I've had a crush since last fall. We met for a drink in LA during my recent visit and have since been IM-ing and occasionally talking on the phone. Last night, I talked to him after my blind date double-feature (see "Yale" and parental set-up in previous entry). He was a bit amused by it all and then commented on how much he enjoyed hearing about the shortcomings (ahem, pun intended) of other suitors because it made him feel superior. He suggested writing all of it down and I blurted out that I have a blog. Of course he wanted to see it. I stood my ground. Surely, I wasn't about to let the only man who I've had the inclination to play it cool with see how crazy I really was. He insisted and what did I do? I relented. Ten minutes later, I got this email: "who reads your blog? and how many people. cos it just seems like a diary to me, so why not just keep a diary. i couldn't find any reference to myself so i got bored, but nice job."

I was relieved. But if I could take a minor detour.. yes? Thanks. Let's talk about his frequency to declare that he's bored towards the end of our exchanges. We'll be having an IM conversation and without warning, I'll get an "OK, I'm bored. Ciao!" What the fuck? I'm usually left slightly annoyed and kicking myself for not beating him to the punch. Despite repeated warnings about his exit strategy, the offenses continued. So I sent him this:
I thought I could supply you with some alternative terms to your current exit strategy which is to declare: "I'm bored."
For obvious reasons, that's a tad irksome.
How about:
all right, (fruitloop/acereporter/sexy minx), I'm gonna (go/jet/verb of your choosing)
OR
as much as I would like to continue this conversation indefinitely, I must take your leave
OR
Tired of typing, will catch you later

How's that? All good options, even scripted for your ease of use. Now, don't let me hear, I'm bored again!

To which he replied:
lol.... thanks for your suggestions. i only use I'm bored because its provocotive and im a ... ( said with a french accent) "provocoteur"

I could have corrected his spelling above but that's his problem. Anyway, the aforementioned conversations prepared me for his blase reaction to my blog. However, I wasn't prepared for his ego to be bruised because I didn't blog about him enough. "It's like I haven't made an impression at all," he whined. He didn't get why in all my random star sightings, I never mentioned meeting up with him, my favorite Daily Show person. If I were really smart, I might have used this opportunity to strike a deal- my blog entry for an invitation to The Daily Show. Instead, I reacted like someone confronted by an angry acquaintance for not inviting them to a party (read: awkward and defensive).

I tried to explain that this was my attempt at being "normal" but he wasn't having it. "I mean we talked about so many things. You could have written about the exit strategy. Now, that's funny." Yes, perhaps it is. What I was thinking, yes, contrary to what you may have read, I do on occasion think about my actions beforehand. Anyway, I was thinking about how exposed HPG felt when he saw that he had become fodder for my blog. He actually believed that I was engaging him for the purposes of transcribing witty banter for my readers (I wish I was that manipulative and cunning, I'd probably be married to some rich old man and shagging the pool guy instead of peddling stories). But my judicious restraint in the wake of massive mayhem wasn't going to be applauded by this guy. He wanted validation and hence we have the first blog entry by request. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but I'm taking the one less-traveled. It's a dirt road, unpaved and yet, it still seems to lead to the same place.