Payback for Bad Karma

I didn't think I would blog about this. It was simply too harrowing to relive even in memory. But my ill-fated trip to Chicago got worse after I made the pact to leave it in the rear view mirror. So now, even though I have about five hours to sleep, even though I've endured a chain of events so traumatic they're comical, I must chronicle this evening or risk losing the details to sleep deprivation and PTSD.

Let me start by agreeing that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Today, I opted to stay calm and maintain an air of dignified graciousness even though the universe conspired to bring me to my knees and beg for mercy. My wonderful boss whom I adore really wanted me to work as long as I could before leaving for a shoot in Chicago. Because my shoot was 7:30am on Friday, I was flying out the night before. I booked my flight for 5:30pm out of JFK. "Good," she said, "so you can leave by 4:00 pm?" This was a rhetorical question. And who am I to argue, I'm perpetually late. People don't recognize me when I'm on time. Anyhoo.

3:45 pm the Chinese car service picks me up. At 4:15, we're still stuck in traffic. I don't panic, I don't quiz the driver about his chosen route or ask him how long. I am the picture of Zen. At 4:45pm he tells me, "Five more minutes. What time your flight?" 5:30 I say. It's gridlock. At 5:00 pm we pull into the Delta Terminal which resembles a zoo in full-blown mutiny. The gate agent literally laughs in my face when I ask if I can still proceed towards boarding. Our company's travel agent tells me all flights to Chicago both tonight and tomorrow morning are sold out. But he's a moron so I inform my office. My other boss, boss junior if you will, who I will refrain from naming "BJ" because I like her, too, frantically starts searching for alternate routes on the Internet.

Meanwhile, another gate agent tells me she'll put me on stand-by for the 7:20 flight. This is going to get really detailed if I take you through it play by play. I'll try not to be so self-indulgent. Bottom line, Boss Jr. says take the "known quantity" which is a confirmed seat on a JetBlue flight leaving at 8pm. But when I inquire about my return ticket, the Delta rep. tells me to roll the dice and see if I can get on their flight. Sometimes, I just don't know how to cut my losses.

Now I've moved from the surly gate agent to the security screening. What happened next was clear evidence that I must have raped and pillaged a village of innocents in another lifetime and today was the day of reckoning.

I travel about once a week for work so I know the security drill. Laptops out in separate bin, ziplock bag with liquids less than 3 oz., shoes off, etc. As I attempt to pass through the metal detector, someone bum rushes it from the adjacent line and it beeps. The TSA agent tells me to remove my earrings. But I didn't make it go off and I travel with these earrings on all the time. I start to tell her but she cuts me off, "OFF!" Nobody likes getting yelled at but it triggers the transformation of moi into the Incredible Hulk.

I start to take off an earring and the back falls off so I start looking for it creating a pile-up of passengers anxious to put their clothes back on and resume what dignity TSA has allowed them to maintain. "Go stand over there," the agent demands pointing at a glass cage in the middle of the security checkpoint. Why? I want to know. She yells at me again. "Don't YELL at me!" I yell.

Now I'm the center of every one's attention except for TSA. They act as if I'm invisible and I'm wishing I was as people stream past me and stare. A few minutes pass by and I ask her if someone's going to screen me. She ignores me. I ask again. Again, no response. Then I yell, "Is someone going to fucking screen me?!" She turns and looks, "Can't you see I'm busy?" she asks. "Well, I'm sorry to disturb but I do have a flight to catch.. on second thought, why don't you just let me take my stuff and leave? I'd prefer to go home than deal with this," I say. This surprises her. She clicks her tongue and calls for her supervisor. He is a huge black man who ends up being more callous and unprofessional, adding to my growing suspicion that every person who works at the airport hates me. Why are you yelling, he wants to know. I explain that my "indoor voice" wasn't getting me anywhere and I'd like to leave the terminal. I'm thinking, I've got a confirmed ticket on another airline and don't need to put up with anymore bullshit for the sake of standing by for a flight I'm unlikely to make. "You will stand here until we're good and ready," he says. "But I'm not flying," I protest. "I'm leaving the terminal, I don't want to be a passenger." He shakes his head. "I don't give a damn what you want. You're not going anywhere until you've been screened," he says and starts to roll away. "You can't detain me if I'm not even flying!" He doesn't care.

They make me stand in the glass cage while everyone stares at the crazy lady. Another woman is asked to come in for additional screening and is quickly screened and sent on her way. I wait. And I wait. Then I start to cry, hot angry tears of humiliation. Sometimes when I get really mad and I can't scream, my fury melts into tears. And now I'm mad at myself for crying. I finally get screened and the guy who goes through my stuff asks where the nail file is. What nail file? I tug at my earring and tell him this was the reason for my detainment. His expression registers surprise. Meanwhile the supervisor sees my CNN bag and gets nervous. When I ask someone else for his name he waves me over and asks for my boarding card. "If you're going to write a little story about me, I'm going to write one about you," he says glaring at my tear-stained face. I make a silent prayer that he dies a painful and humiliating death, perhaps of the Mama Cass nature, choking on a tuna sandwich while watching Jerry Springer at home alone.

I call boss junior and give her the full story and she's stunned. Instead of finding the airtrain, I ask permission to jump in a cab to go to the Jetblue terminal, too shell shocked to suffer through the stares of anymore passengers who wonder why the girl with the CNN bag is crying. I get to the JetBlue terminal and go to security again. As I take my laptop out of my bag and remove my shoes, I see a 20-something girl waiting patiently behind with only a purse. "You can go ahead of me," I offer and she smiles and thanks me. Behind her, a disheveled woman with three kids announces, "I'm going around you, too." And she does, throwing their backpacks on the conveyor belt before my stuff. I'm speechless. "I didn't say you," I say. "Whatever. I'll be quick," she says pushing her children past me. I'm beyond pissed. I tell the security agent who tells her she can't cut but her stuff's already moving through the x-ray machine. Then there's a problem and the belt pauses, "Yeah, you're whizzing right through," I say. "You're all class," I add without a hint of irony. She turns and yells, "That's enough out of you!" As if I'm one of her unfortunate kids. When I finally get through, the TSA agent apologizes for any inconvenience and a hot guy a few people in line behind me offers, "I'm glad you told her off. I would have said something too," he smiles. I'm feeling better. I decide that I deserve to indulge in a carb craving and head to Dunkin Doughnuts. They're out of everything except creme-filled and cake doughnuts. Not my day. I opt for the cake doughnut which is as hard as a rock. Par for the course.

When I board my delayed flight I know I have a middle seat and it's the last one that was available. I see a friendly face in the row but as I approach it I see that it's attached to a morbidly obese woman and she's in my seat...and hers. I don't know what to say so I put some of my things down and go to the lavatory. I tell the flight attendant who nods sympathetically and says she saw it coming and has alerted a gate agent. I feel terrible because I know they're going to make her get off the plane, or worse.. me. I call my boss who starts laughing hysterically at my unbelievably bad luck. I laugh, too, but I'm kind of freaking out because I have a 7 am call time and it's the last flight to Chicago.

Long story short, they have to remove the arm rests so she and I can both fit. She's so huge that neither one of us can lower our tray tables and she's still taking up at least a third of my seat, sweating, and making me sweat. The guy sitting next to me who's unaffected by this is pretty nice. He tells me I'm nice, too, for not being bitchy. Ironic, I know. When I finally get off the plane and am waiting for my ride, he approaches me and says, "You're not going to believe this." Try me, I say. He tells me that as he was deplaning, a flight attendant stopped him and gave him a $25 voucher for his trouble. "YOUR trouble?!" I explode, "I'm the one who was sat on!!" It really wasn't my day.

Too Much Information?

If you were married and your spouse died, does a stranger have the right to that information? What if you were married and it simply didn't work out? I think these are pretty personal details but if you check "widowed" or "divorced" on your online profile, that information is made instantly available to anyone who sees it.

There's something not quite right about that. It's intrusive. It doesn't put you on a level playing field with the rest of the world. I mean I've had makeup that lasted longer than my marriage. When everything started to unravel, one of my girlfriends remarked that my impending divorce was more like a casual break-up with lots of paper work rather than the demise of a significant union. She was right. But why does a bored man on the internet surfing for prospects get to know that right off the bat? I mean how many people are serial daters? Girlfriend, break-up, rebound relationship, break-up, girlfriend,you get the picture. But they check "single" and all those skeletons are neatly tucked away. The poor sap who lost his wife after three years of marriage to cancer is put in a category where he seems tragic at best, pathetic at worst.

So tonight I changed one of my profiles to say "single." I mean, technically that's what I am. And the only reason I can't check the "never married" box on my next marriage license, should that fateful day ever come... again, is because my ex-husband wouldn't let me put impotency as grounds for an anullment. Why should I be stigmatized by judgmental people who think I'm attractive but wonder why I'm divorced?

On the other hand, there are a lot of crazy women out there who have remarked, "At least you were married. Someone wanted to marry you." There's an inherent irony there that I'm loathe to point out because of its obvious nature. But some men who have the nerve to ask, "So how is it possible that you've never been married?" are appeased to learn that I was. I guess that means someone thought I was marriage material even if they eventually came to their senses. Anyway, personal details about my past relationships are just that- personal. Yes, I'm aware they're being chronicled on a public blog, however, it's an anonymous blog, remember?

Birthday Celebrations

My roommate took me out to dinner tonight for my birthday. She even had the waiter bring a candle on my caramelized apple tart. As I was leaving work tonight, my friend Steve asked if I had any plans. "My roommate's taking me out to dinner for my birthday," I said. He was shocked that I didn't mention it earlier. He said as much. "I don't like making a big deal out of my birthday," I said. "But I would have gotten you a card or.. something," he said clearly dismayed at this oversight. He looked so sad that I didn't have time to continue the charade. "My birthday was last year. It's a seriously overdue gift," I confessed. But I did enjoy being that girl for at least five minutes. No, not the one who lies, the one who is indifferent about turning another year older or at the very least unaffected by the hoopla that often surrounds the annual marker.

But I'm not. My birthday celebration typically spans more than one day. It's usually more than one dinner, a brunch and lots of cards from friends around the country too frightened to forget the day God graced the earth with my presence. How's that for self love? Truthfully, it's an unabashed quest for the attention I feel deprived of the rest of the year. But you already knew that.

And so does everyone else who knows me. In fact, when we were throwing my friend a surprise birthday party a week after my actual birthday, we told him it was a continuation of MY celebration and he never doubted the ruse for a second even though he came to the first party. In my defense, I make a big deal out of other people's birthdays, too. It's not like I breaak out into song when my doorman tells me it's his birthday but if I like you, you'll be the victim of a random act of kindness. I'm also big on sending flowers to my close friends. Now I sound like I'm making a case for how nice I am. But you already knew that.

The Namesake

This book had such a profound impact on me that I didn't want to diminish its value by seeing a movie that many claimed didn't do it justice. Before I delve into that, let me briefly elaborate on the book and why it resonated with me.

I was reading this book during my trip to Niger and Mali in West Africa. I was suffering from Malaria, staying in places without air conditioning where I slept under a mosquito net. The heat was stifling, the symptoms of my malaria coupled with my foreign surroundings conspired to create an altered state of reality. But every night, I would lose myself in this book. When I read of Moushimi's affair, I was angry at her. How could she? But envisioning the interaction she had with her husband Gogol, the frustration that's born when familiarity breeds contempt.. all of that reminded me of Mo. I had given him a bit of an ultimatum before my African adventure- marry me or set me free.

But as I read of her angst and the appeal of another lover who excited her in ways her perfect on paper husband was no longer capable of doing, I realized that my anger against her stemmed more from the recognition of something in myself than any self-righteous quest for fairness. As someone who had already married once for the wrong reasons to the wrong person, I saw myself headed for a partnership in complacency and I was suddenly aware of my capitulation. Even in that fog of malaria, I remember that moment of clarity. I prayed Mo wouldn't propose.
He didn't. Not then anyway. And when he did it was more out of a quiet desperation for something he coveted than anything really authentic. We looked so good on paper but were a match made for mayhem.

When I saw this movie today, I was unprepared for the effect it would have on me. Friends had said they were underwhelmed by Kal Penn's performance and the director focused less on the first generation characters than the book. But I was so moved by the parents' journey. This is something I doubt anyone who isn't the child of immigrants can understand.
I can't imagine moving to a new country, oceans away from the family and friends I knew. Worlds away from anything familiar where even the term "melting pot" was a foreign concept. But that's what my parents did. My mom has told me the stories of carrying groceries while pushing a stroller through the snow in Jamaica, Queens during the dead of winter but I never pictured it until I saw this movie. I remember the jubilation when literally dozens of relatives would greet us at the airport during summer vacations and how my mom cried almost nonstop during the long journey back to the States. We went every other year because making the trip annually wasn't financially feasible.

The parallels between my mom and Gogol's mother were so poignant and accurately depicted that I wept for the plight I never understood or cared enough to examine. Many first generation Americans often lament the difficulty of reconciling two cultures, of assimilating without forgetting their roots. But at least those two worlds are familiar to us. For all their missteps, I have a new found appreciation for the pioneers who were my parents.

Take it Easy

My previous post drew some gasps and insinuations that perhaps my candor was reckless. But I don't have genital herpes. I had hoped that the description of my cold sore which is technically a form of the herpes simplex virus would alleviate any misconceptions about its source.

According to webmd.com, a common type of this virus is most seen in children ages 1 to 3. Last time I checked, toddlers weren't prone to risky behaviors, i.e. unprotected sex. So while I'm taking care of this outbreak on my face, I'm going to need you to take a chill pill on the panic. Geez.

Stupid San Diego was COLD

I was in San Diego for the last couple of days. I found out about this assignment last week as I was dodging freezing rain in D.C. so needless to say, I was thrilled at the prospect of trading slushy snow for sunshine.

Upon arrival, I was dismayed to discover what locals were calling a "weather anomaly." The driest winter on record was disrupted with thunder and rain followed by cool temperatures. Ironically, New York experienced a reprieve from winter's last brisk breath effectively creating an unlikely scenario where the two cities shared the same highs and lows. Lucky me.

The trip out west was uneventful sans the visitor that took up residence... on my FACE! As I've come to expect, there were no first class upgrades available. Mercifully, sleep was not elusive and I was knocked out the whole 5.5 hour flight. Just before we landed, I woke up and felt a small bump below my bottom lip that tingled slightly. Strange, I thought, I'm past my adult acne phase. The next morning the slight bump had multiplied to FIVE! The only thing working in my favor was that I was scheduled to interview a doctor for a new FDA approval and I could hit him up for free medical advice.

While the doctor was with some PR reps going over "message points" before our interview, the woman I hired to run the teleprompter suggested we go downstairs to the dermatologist she knew. The doctor was busy but her assistant looked at my cluster of crusty bumps and said, "It's herpes." Nice. I felt like a class act. Adding insult to injury was the knowledge that I hadn't even participated in any suspect canoodling that might result in the transmission of such a virus. "Sometimes it's dormant and the virus gets triggered by stress or fatigue." Better. Further evidence that I am not a skank.

When the endocrinologist I was set to interview sat down, I quizzed him about my lip. "No, you don't need Valtrex," he said,"But I'll have my Physician's assistant take a look at it when we're done. It's a cold sore that just needs to run its course," he reassured me.

Fifteen minutes into our interview, the doctor paused and took a swig of water. Then he froze and stared at me in horror. "Was that your water?" he asked. I nodded. "I'm gonna die," he whispered and fled the room. Everyone else from my crew to the PR clients started laughing. Everyone except for me. I, too, was horrified. Then the doctor returned wiping his mouth with an alcohol swab. "That should do it," he said smiling, "I hope you didn't give me something to remember you by." That makes two of us.

The Other Janice

My friend Janice responded to my last blog entry with this inspirational feat of photoshop. It's poetry in motion.

Desperate times...

The opportunity to meet with a professional matchmaker was something myself and the girlfriends I recruited approached with cautious optimism. On one hand, we were excited by the prospect of having a woman so savvy in the dating department give us her precious time. On the other, we found the whole idea tantamount to accepting defeat. By the way, this was NOT my idea. Here's the email that ignited my interest:

Fabulous, single ladies:

Did you happen to catch a segment about Janis Spindel on a recent Nightlight episode? I just had my TV on in the background and stumbled upon it and found it rather intriguing. So, Janis Spindel is a “matchmaker” in NYC who has a niche clientele of smart, attractive, successful women and smart, attractive, successful men (her words, not mine). The way it works is that one of her staff does an initial phone screen screen and then she meets with you one-on-one (and charges $1000 for a 30 minute meeting!!!). She then gets to work and introduces you to possible matches and invites you to “networking” events where you can meet people on your own. HOWEVER, if there is a group of 4-5, she can meet with all of us as a group and waive the charge.

The funny thing is that I went on her website and looked at some event pictures and saw a picture of one of my classmates from business school who is a great catch!!! So, I felt less like a loser and better about exploring this further.

I have to give my girlfriend props for going out on a limb. After all, aren't we all looking at alternative means by which to find a mate? Especially since most of us have exhausted the traditional route (whatever that is)? All of us were intrigued. In fact, so many of my single gal pals were that I had to splinter off into another group altogether to accomodate the demand for a meeting with Janis.

I arrived late, as usual, to her Upper East side apartment. I knocked on the door and could hear her butchering one friend's name. Everyone was dressed impeccably as my girls typically are with their make-up and nails done. I had pulled my hair up into a clip and was just cursing the fact that I needed a manicure. After asking how long I was married, she said abruptly, "Do you always wear your hair up like that? Is your hair long?" I pulled my clip out and laughed self-consciously trying to remember if I made it a point to wear my hair down on dates. "She wears it down," my roommate interjected.

Let's take a moment to talk about the appearance of our dating sensei. Clearly, she was a fan of botox and judging by the way her skin had been pulled taut across her face, I'd venture to say she's had some work done. And she herself was a real piece of work. As my friend Liza pointed out, how could you trust a woman who thought leopard print jersey and lace was a good look? And for a successful spinster slayer, she had one shitty apartment. But what we found most horrifying was how she spoke to her 20 something assistant. I mean here we had schlepped to her place for her to ascertain the viability of our candidacy in a mere 30 minutes and she kept stopping to scream at this poor girl. "Get off that site! That is NOT where you need to be looking. Go to the database. I don't want you to look at those pictures, I want you to focus on the dinner party!" In retrospect, her assistant was kind of dense because apparently she never did do what her slave driver demanded, continuing to draw her ire.

The only thing more annoying than this display of distraction during what had been billed an "important meeting" was the fact that she made us purchase her fucking book: Get Serious About Getting Married: 365 Proven Ways to Find Love in Less Than a Year. She made us pay $25 each for this even though it sells on Amazon for half that price. "Fill out the 25 page questionnaire in my book and get it back to me ASAP! But don't you dare, rip the pages out, make copies then fill them out!" she demanded. Since none of us have a copy machine in our apartments, we quickly did the math and realized we would be carrying this book to our respective offices where someone might see it in our possession. This didn't set well with my friends. When we were finally dismissed, we walked out in somewhat of a daze.

As we compared notes, my friend Liza cut to the chase and declared, "I'm sorry, you guys, but she's a whack job!" I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she was eccentric but maybe that in your face technique is what shook men out of their, "I'm going to marry a model who wants to cook and clean all day then give me a blow job at night" reverie. But this inclination towards her faded once I made the mistake of actually reading parts of her book.

There's a section devoted to cosmetics and outpatient treatments to "look your best." Not to mention, she had the nerve to pontificate on fashion. According to this Bible for Brides-to-be, every woman should own a nice black turtleneck and a pair of "sexy mules" in case their suitor comes over for dinner. The only mules in my future are likely the men I'd meet through this marriage broker. No, you get serious, lady, if we were really on the market for the caliber of men your exquisite tast indicates, we'd hit the Carnegie Club in a pair of Jimmy Choos- slingbacks not mules.

I'm with Lou Dobbs...

Seriously. Fucking bring an end to outsourcing. I just spent fifteen minutes on the phone with the dumbest girl in India. I know she's got some stiff competition but for Pete's sake, she couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel. All I wanted to know is if I could get the late payment fee on my AmEx waived. She kept telling me that I should call back after I had made a payment. "I just made a payment online." She told me to hold then came back and said I had just posted a payment so there would be no additional late fees. Umm, thanks, why don't you go back to surfing Indian matrimonial websites?

The Edge of Reason

In the Bridget Jones sequel, The Edge of Reason, Bridget bad mouths her ex Mark Darcy to fellow inmates in a prison in Thailand and then experiences an epiphany.
He treat you bad?

Yeah, actually, he did.

My boyfriend treat me bad too.

- Me too.
- [girl] Mine as well.

[girl] Me too.

Then you know all about it.
You think you've found the right man, but then there's so much wrong with him and he finds there's so much wrong with you and it all just falls apart.

Don't tell me. My boyfriend, he seem really nice. Then he start to hit me.
Make me work on street.

My boyfriend, he say he love me.
But he do no work,
and make me work hour a day.

Then he make me take heroin drug.
What about you, Bijjit?
What your bad boyfriend do?

Well, er,......he really didn't stick up for me
at this lawyers' supper,...

and, um, then he would fold his...
[chuckles]

Oh, same sort of thing, really.
Hitting me and making me take drugs.
Stealing all my money and stuff.

[Bridget] Oh, God.
I've been the world's biggest fool.

As Have I. Pining away for men who, if they yielded, would quickly be transformed from the object of my affection to the bane of my existence. Yesterday, I had a serious meltdown at work. After an acerbic email exchange, I went to the bathroom and sobbed. The red eyes and puffy cheeks were blamed on allergies which my coworkers believed because I'm usually pretty open with what's happening in my life. In this case, I was so perplexed by the waterworks, I couldn't explain it to myself much less others. I pulled it together just in time to go visit the Yenta from Hell.

That's in the next post. Yet another thread pulled in the sweater of my existence.

Nice legs and other Memories...

The married fly boy is still emailing me. I’m on the train back to New York from D.C. A University of Richmond lacrosse player is sitting next to me. She’s blond and beautiful. And she’s really nice. Whore.

I’m kidding; she’s lovely, as I once was at the ripe old age of 20. I had killer legs my senior year in college. Seriously. I had just come out of my first relationship, broken up with my first boyfriend, my first love, my first everything. I think that relationship set a terrible precedent. I did everything wrong and still got the guy. The guy I would often lock eyes with across a crowded room and my knees would get weak.

Here’s what I did that should have gotten me kicked to the curb but instead resulted in a two year relationship. The first night we hooked up, I had 25 Jell-O shots. I shit you not. I was hungry. And stupid. This story is what urban legends are made of. The buck oh five girl who took 25 Jell-O shots in less than an hour. In the spirit of accuracy, the shots were made in those paper cups you fill with ketchup at McDonald’s. But still, that’s a lot of Everclear.

This feat of reckless indulgence started at a pre-party in his apartment. Then we went to a bar on Sixth Street called El Chino’s. This wasn’t a fusion restaurant. Rather one that took pride in serving both Chinese and Mexican food as well as alcohol to underage college kids. There, we drank more and were approached by a sailor who started complimenting my girlfriend on how attractive she was. She was from India, had a dark complexion, with a sparkling smile and unbelievable cheek bones. My soon to be boyfriend was in love with her and we all knew it. For some reason, people always wanted to compare us. Maybe because we were always together.

“Are you girls from India?” the sailor asked. I explained that I was actually from a neighboring country. “I’ve been to India and it’s beautiful,” he remarked, “as are you.” This was directed to my friend who politely thanked him. Then for reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, the asshole looked at me and said, “I mean you’re pretty, but she’s beautiful!” What the fuck?! This happens enough for me to wonder if I have a sign on my forehead that says: I’m better looking. I don’t. In fact, some would successfully argue that I don’t think enough of myself.

You can imagine the tailspin this remark triggered. My future boyfriend thought this would be a good time to buy me another amaretto sour. This was my choice drink sophomore year in college. (I graduated to Jagermeister and Goldschlager my senior year.) “I know she’s prettier,” I slurred. There, there, he said stroking my hair. “Both of you are pretty girls.” We ended up making out. Then, even though he was in active pursuit of my girlfriend, I gave chase. My girlfriend had complicated feelings for him. She had so many vying for her attention that she wasn’t inclined to give him the time of day. But I was. Boy, was I ever. We would hook up. He would come back and tell me he was physically attracted to me but emotionally attracted to her. I never backed off and she kept telling me she had zero interest in him. I didn’t play it cool. I was open about how I felt. I was sincere for the love of God!

Finally, something happened where he had to choose between being her friend and being my boyfriend. The details are fuzzy. But in the end, he and I became exclusive driving a wedge in my friendship with her. Before you judge me for picking a boy over a girlfriend, let me add that after he decided to date me she called him and told him she was “confused” about her feelings for him. This was after she had endorsed my pursuit. So when our coupling became a foregone conclusion, she threatened to derail everything to satisfy her own ego. I don’t blame her completely. Back then, he was all that. Today, he’s a balding, Buddha-belly-having, drug-abusing doctor. But back then, he was a hottie.

The point of this drawn-out story is that the only man I have ever really loved, I ended up with by not playing a single fucking game. And I know he’s never been in love like that either. I say that with the utmost confidence. I know how he was with me and I’m actually friendly with the girls who dated him after we broke up. They’ve told me things. He changed after us. That’s kind of sad.

So this stroll down memory lane was prompted by a reference to my killer legs. After we broke up, I was a mess. I lost so much weight that my size 0 jeans were baggy. My journalism professor pulled me aside with tears in his eyes and told me to get help or at least start eating. “A break-up in college can be as agonizing as a divorce,” he said. And having been through both, I agree with him whole-heartedly. My ex was mean and bitter. I broke up with him and once he got over it, he moved on- fast. I saw him on campus with his new girlfriend and something clicked.

The Stairmaster became the one constant in my life. I was transformed from a waif to a babe. One day well into my workout regimen, a cameraman at the TV station where I interned told me I had “nice legs.” No one had ever told me that before. If you saw them today, you’d be puzzled. On the few occasions I have worn a mini-skirt, I’ve resembled an umbrella with two handles causing more than one male coworker to ask, “What’d you do with the rest of the chicken?”

Kinky Kong

If my friend John follows through on his intent to read this blog when he's bored, he's in for a rude awakening. He begged me not to blog about this but you can't retroactively make something off the record. As the communication director of an NGO, this is something he should already know or learn the hard way.

Last night, we were watching The Daily Show and all of a sudden a message popped up on the bottom left hand corner of the screen. "Cancun Sexcapade will begin recording now, would you like to switch to that channel?" I looked at John. He laughed, attempting to appear bewildered, "What the hell?" Whatever, John, perv. One hour later, another reminder: Kinky Kong will begin recording now... "JOHN!" I yelled. His face flushed bright red. "What?" he asked sheepishly. All I could do is laugh. Silly boys.

Today I interviewed a couple of attorneys who work for the American Immigration Lawyers Assoc. It felt good to be part of a project where people are trying to rectify the injustices imposed under the Patriot Act. But throughout the interview, I was a dripping faucet, this cold is kicking my ass. In between interviews, I checked my blackberry and had received a message from DSG that said: "You should do a story on this" with a link. As my crew adjusted the lighting for our next subject, I tapped back, "In the middle of a shoot, need details." He responded with: "these imams that got kicked off a plane because they were praying.... do it. i can only make fun of it, but you can pitch a real story." I was intrigued. After the interview wrapped, I clicked on the link.

Indeed, this was a disturbing occurrence. I mean take a look at the lead: Six imams were removed from a commercial airline flight in Minnesota for what they said was nothing more than trying to say evening prayers. I couldn't believe this wasn't being covered and was just about to send an email to CNN when I glanced at the dateline. No fucking wonder. It happened on November 6, 2006. I updated DSG who was surprised then amused I almost pitched a six month old story. Yeah, how funny would it have been for me to commit professionally suicide at CNN? Not funny, not at all. I'm gonna need DSG to stick to acting and leave the reporting to me.

Creating Negative Energy

So I'm in D.C. on a shoot for a client tomorrow on the Hill. I opted to come in tonight instead of taking the early train. Plus, my friend John just bought a house here and I wanted to see his new digs.

He picked me up at Union Station and we went to a hole in the wall noodle hut in Chinatown. Over dinner I shared a recent epiphany: I do hate myself. Faced with this allegation from a series of men I had pushed away or turned off, I was reluctant to accept this reality. But I cornered my therapist into confirming this theory and was feeling pretty shitty about it. John was surprised, citing my assertive nature and confidence I exude professionally. But I told him that personally, I was a mess. Frankly, I wondered how someone who had seen me unravel in Africa when Murphy's Law manifested itself at every juncture, would question how I might be a bit "off." Still, he was skeptical until we got into the cab.

A few days of glorious Spring like weather was simply a tease before a fucking Nor'easter reminded us that we lived on the East Coast. Temperatures plummeted and as the cold rain fell, we scrambled for a cab and found one. In D.C., cab drivers typically pick up various unrelated passengers and so when one stopped with a guy already in the back, I hopped in the front and John sat next to the stranger. As we made our way to his new house in Northeast section of the city, John asked if I had done any on-air work. I relayed the story of the murder-suicide I had covered in New Jersey where a mom had used a hatchet to kill her daughter then jumped in a creek and offed herself. "It was in Somerset County, John, million dollar homes- no crime," I said. The cab driver who was black and possibly Nigerian looked at me and asked, "Are you saying that rich people aren't crazy?" Here we go. "No, I'm just saying that it's surprising when it happens in a wealthy community because those people, if they're crazy, have access to psychiatric care." John murmured in agreement saying something about affording therapy. But the cabbie was poised for a debate. "Rich people are just as crazy as poor people. Crazy is crazy," he insisted. I said that yes but it wasn't as shocking when crime happened in an impoverished area due to the fact that drugs and consequently crime was more common there. He countered again and I cut him off. "Do you want to argue with me because I've had a really long day?" That was the end of that. Until we got out of the cab.

John, who is very mild-mannered blew a gasket. "Why did you go off on him like that? He was just asking you a question!" I said no, clearly his tone and the nature of his question implied he was challenging me and baiting me into an argument. "No, he wasn't and even if he was, you don't have to be such a bitch. You create negative energy that way," he concluded. This is true. I was trying to avoid an argument but in the process flippantly dismissed the opinion of a cab driver. That's not a capital crime (no pun intended) but there's something to creating negative energy. I fear I'm going to have to completely disassemble my personality and rewire my way of thinking. Why don't you just ask me to find a cure for cancer, that's probably easier.

Dirty Whore-tini's and Other Discoveries

Someone came out of the closet last night. Remember Clare, my nemesis who was leaving unsympathetic comments on my blog? Yes, she was a he. I promised I wouldn't disclose who it was but he confessed his ruse that drew my unexpected ire. So there's no Clare which makes me feel a lot better about my gender and our ability to be compassionate. It's also nice to know that I didn't really lose any fans by admonishing the rogue readers. And here's where I'm like my dad.

My dad gets all riled up about stupid shit. Once a friend called the house and my dad, who has zero phone etiquette, simply said, "No" when asked, "May I speak to LP?" Confused, my friend queried further and my dad exploded, "It's none of your business!" I think he may have used profanity, too, but I've tried to block the humiliating episode from my memory. In contrast, when something happens that warrants a meltdown, he's eerily calm. Like the time I totalled his Lexus because I was talking on my cell phone. "At least I wrecked the old car," I offered as he sadly surveyed the damage. "The new one has comprehensive insurance. This one has none," he said through gritted teeth. So when confronted with the knowledge of this unscrupulous transgression, posing as various commentators, I was more impressed and surprised than angry. Go figure.

The other night, I got an unexpected email from a Navy jet pilot I had a brief fling with several years ago.
FlyBoy: Hey you, I can't believe I found you on the internet! Hope all is well.
Me: Omg! That's insanity! (Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry after two too many martinis)
FlyBoy: Where are you, seems like yesterday...what happened to your hair?
You've changed, man...
I responded last night after I had recovered from my hangover. I asked him where he was, what he was doing, was he married and whether he had any kids. The response makes me grateful for being single:
FlyBoy: I googled you out of memory. Yes married with 3 boys (4,2, and 5 mo.). Very fertile, good thing we were careful
Me: Stop flirting with strange women on the Internet.
I mean his wife just gave birth to his third son less than six months ago! Is this the marital bliss I've been pining for?

Initially I was excited to get his random email. To think that ten years after our tryst he would choose to google me was a bit flattering. And the haze of alcohol that night probably added to my delight. Oh yeah, that. Some people have noted my propensity for drinking lately. I'm hardly on the same road fun Bobby once took but the hangover I had on Tuesday has definitely given me pause.

It started with a happy hour that I had organized for a group of journalists at a midtown bar. One of them emailed me before the gathering requesting ten minutes to garner interest for an Indian man in New Jersey who was being detained by INS without justification. I explained that a networking event was not the forum. Then he sent me a few more emails, each one doing its part to further expose the author's dementia. One was a blatant rant against Jews and the accumulation then abuse of power they weilded. Despite my firm refusal to give him a platform, he showed up anyway. He was annoying and cornered every colleague of mine who unwittingly made even fleeting eye contact. Every single person subjected to his rant walked away from the conversation ready for another drink. I was well on my way to numbing my senses.

"I'll have a dirty martini, extra olives, please," I said. The bartender suggested another drink that had stuffed olives in it. Sure, I was hungry, too. "So one whore-tini?" she confirmed. "That's dirty whore," my roommate, who had shown up for moral support, offered. Three whore-tini's later I'm in another bar, The Carnegie Club, with some other friends. My wing woman is my friend Git. Spunky, smart and sexy, she's quite the spitfire and a shitload of fun. We had been drinking since happy hour, it was getting late and we didn't have dinner. After devouring a plate of cheese and cured meats, Git, a recently corrupted vegetarian who had gone back to her carnivore ways, had an intense carb craving.

"Can I have some crackers?" she asked the waitress. The waitress wearing fake pearls and pumps from Payless looked as if we had just ordered wild boar on a rotisserie. "Umm, we don't just serve.. crackers," she stammered. Git looked at her like the idiot she was and said, "You don't have crackers?" The waitress shook her head no and looked oddly uncomfortable. What's her deal? Git even offered to pay for them but the waitress said they had to be ordered with something. This is not uncommon in New York. Often the wait staff is far more pretentious than any Bergdorff Blond. "Forget it," Git pouted, "I'll just go home." This struck me as very funny and I laughed, a little too much, causing everyone to look at me with that, "She's hammered" glance. I hate that glance. It's so dismissive. It reminds me of people who aren't secure enough to know it's OK to be slap happy and stupid sometimes so they just look at you and say in their boring way, "O-kaaay..."

So I went to bed without water or Advil and my disheveled appearance the next morning caused more than one coworker to observe, "Long night, huh?" Long night indeed.

Home Sweet Home

Sort of. I'm in Tampa visiting my maternal relatives. My mom's here, too, in from Texas. It's 82 degrees which is a nice respite from winter's last gasp in Manhattan. My flight was a bit delayed and the 2 year-old behind me on the plane kept screaming and kicking my seat. At the end of the flight, I heard her dad tell her what a "good girl" she had been. Yeah, positive affirmation for bad behavior, that'll explain her teenage tantrums. Trust me, I know.

I got into Tampa anticipating a nice, home-cooked meal. As usual, even my moderate expectations were too high. "We're going out to dinner," my cousin announced as I tossed my carry-on bag into the SUV at passenger pick-up. We looked like a scene out of "Little Miss Sunshine" as I dove into the moving vehicle. Traffic was horrendous and a cop was yelling at us to keep moving. "Why? Where?" I asked. "Because you're here. We were thinking Chili's." Yeah, that's exactly what I had in mind. Why not go to a white trash watering hole in New Port Richey where they serve frozen food lukewarm? I resisted the urge to be candid. My mom once told me that people should be happy when you arrive and sad when you leave on family visits, not the other way around.

So we went to Chili's for dinner. My mom's brother who's visiting from Karachi nodded in the direction of a Bubba who was about to tear into an onion blossom. What is that? He wanted to know. "It's a big deep friend onion in the shape of a flower," I offered. Then he was appalled to see a menu item called "Baby back ribs." My uncle got his M.B.A. at the University of Houston so I wasn't sure why he was acting like such an alien. "They're pork ribs," I said. "How do you know they're not beef?" he countered. "I just do." But why are they called baby back ribs? Anyone?

Tomorrow we're going to another suburban mecca. The mall. I like to refer to such outings, especially the ones in the South, as anthropological surveys. I'm sure you're anxious for me to share my observations. However, unlike this post, I'll make sure they're either interesting or amusing before I do. Afterwards, we're supposed to see a Bollywood flick and then have dinner at some doctor's house. The dinner, too, is because I'm visiting. I should be flattered but, instead, I'm already bored. I get to be peppered with questions about why I'm not on CNN or married in tandem. Good times.

Unprofessionalism At Its Best

Contrary to the prolific blogging, I'm pretty busy right now. In fact, I have a list of monster scripts I must tackle before I see my therapist at 2:30 today. I just couldn't miss the opportunity to blog about the appalling conversation that transpired near my desk.

One of my coworkers announced that he had to get a hair cut at 12:30. "It's a pubic haircut so it won't take long," he said. I choked on my jam and toast. Encouraged by my reaction, he continued. "Do you think when our generation gets old, you know when we're like Larry's age, we'll still be trimming the bush?" These are the pressing questions that pervade my work environment. By the way, Larry isn't old. Evan just likes referring to him as "the old man" because he has premature gray. And Evan is young and thinks himself a modern Adonis. God's gift to Mankind. (nope, not a typo.)

Fun Bobby

I'm having an ethical dilemma at the present time. If someone who has wronged you, really made you feel like shit about yourself, your choices, and the fact that you're not in a relationship wants to come back into your life when they're feeling incredibly sad and vulnerable, do you let them in?

Fun Bobby has been relentless in his pursuit of a friendship since our most recent falling out in December. I won't get into what he said and did in our last encounter but those who know me, and him, and us together, know that he's proven to be a destructive force. But now, he's at another crossroads in his recovery. We've been here before. For some reason, he's decided that he wants to rekindle our friendship for the umpteenth time. I've resisted. I've been firm about my reasons why. And then I get this:

Hello you.
Just wanted to reach out to you and see how you are.
I seem to be doing ok if you are interested. Doing my step 4 which involves a "fearless moral inventory of myself".
So far I am doing my horrible childhood which makes me very sad.
I still have the adult stuff to come which I imagine will make me extremely ashamed too.
But once I have faced my demons I can move on.
Hope you are well.
Hxx

The thing about Fun Bobby is that he's an amazing man. Tall, handsome, brilliant and funny as hell. Plus, he's British so he's got that accent going for him. And even from across the pond he can tug at my heart strings. But I have to decide if I'm really as forgiving as I claim or simply a glutton for punishment.

Exorcising Eeyore

Could it be colder outside? I'm sorry about always blogging about the weather but I'm turning into a New Yorker and that's what we do. We talk about the weather, a lot. Right now, I'm being very cognizant of bouts of pessimism that possess me almost like a poltergeist. It's as if Eeyore and I swap souls like it's "Freaky Friday." So somewhere in Winnie the Pooh land, there's an edgy sarcastic Eeyore telling Tigger to have a warm glass of shut the hell up.

The Neiman Marcus gown I spent way too much money on for a gala last fall is about to be donned for the third time. Last week at a banquet where I met my idol, and again this Thursday at Tavern on the Green. I'm not so anxious to attend this gathering but I've yet to see this legendary restaurant that I pass whenever I cross Central Park in a cab.

It will definitely produce blog fodder. For one thing, there's a good chance that a woman I used to work for will be there. She fired me. It's the only job I've ever been fired from. I've come close, mind you. It's my propensity to challenge authority when I don't respect it. In this case, I laughed at her when she slammed her fist on her desk and demanded that I "be professional!" No, I didn't show up to work in a tutu, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Her shrill rebuke was prompted by my observation that her latest efforts in damage control with a client required me to abdicate my integrity which I wasn't inclined to do. Anyway, by the end of the day, I was fired. As I was leaving, I put a sticker on her door that said, "Mean People Suck." But that was my ego. It's probably the best thing that happened to me because it sent me straight back to journalism full-time. Until now. Down, Eeyore.

Speaking of Eeyore, what about me trudging along waiting for the sky to fall? My friend from New Orleans says she and her husband marvel at my life in the city. "The fun never stops," she said. Really? Because I'm not even sure when it starts. But just looking at a weekly calendar is enough to make me question my plight as a so-called Love Pariah. My date the other night who works for one of the most prestigious baseball clubs in the country is all about me. He's really all about me. It's flattering and disconcerting at once.

When he came over, I was making notes on a rough cut of a fantastic documentary one of my friends just produced. It's about 80+ year-old men who play in amateur hockey leagues. He was all psyched because he loves hockey almost as much as baseball. In fact, he had just been on the ice with Tim Robbins earlier that day. He helped me with some of my production notes and then we went to a kitschy place in Harlem for dinner. It was BYOB and the wait was horrendous. But it was fun because we found a place called the Ding Dong Lounge down the street and I kicked his ass at Ms.PacMan. I love that game, although my successful performance left my hand aching and me wondering if I had arthritis. I know. Eeyore keeps trying to channel through me but I'm resisting. Anyway, we're supposed to go out again when he returns from Spring training. So far, I haven't been required to be up to speed on any MLB facts. This is good. I'm not a fan.

And there's another prospect. He's one of the Iraqi journalists I met last night. He's hot and he's following a path that will lead to increased awareness about injustice in the world. That's sexy. And, he's got this European accent with which to tell war stories. Again. Hot. Stay tuned.

Gaining Perspective

The snow that fell in New York today looked like a whirlwind of dandruff. They weren't quite flurries, just bits of white stuff that dissolved before reaching the ground. And that wind, it was brutal. But enough about the weather.

Earlier in the day, I had asked my boss if I could go home and just work half a day. "Yes but only if it's to do something constructive," was her conditional response. Knowing that I would likely just go back to bed, I simply wasn't ready for Monday especially since I worked on Sunday, I opted to stay and earn my keep. Plus, I had an event at the Overseas Press Club that I knew I'd skip if I didn't stay at work. Three Iraqi Journalists were speaking about their respective experiences covering the war that was ravaging their native country.

Yesterday's local news experience coupled with the lack of any exciting projects on the horizon had put me in a professional lethargy I was loathe to endure. These guys really put things in perspective. This blog pales in comparison to the harrowing accounts of what's happening in Iraq as shown in this blog. The author, a former dentist turned war correspondent and now a prolific blogger pulls no punches in his reporting of the atrocities he's privy to. A warning to the faint of heart. There are very disturbing images and videos on this blog. It's a bit like "Faces of Death" if you're old enough to remember those morbid videos from the 80's.

All three journalists had turned their experiences into a quest to expose the ground realities. And all of them did so at their own peril. A second journalist, a freelancer after my own heart, was once a physician who says he learned early on after the American invasion that he could be of more use to his country illuminating the injustices and inconsistencies of the "liberators" than he ever was attempting to practice medicine without the tools or drugs he required. They spoke of journalism as a noble calling and one that had tangible results.

It was the first time in a long time that I actually felt good about the career path I've chosen. Perhaps I'm currently sidetracked but there are stories out there worth telling and, for better or for worse, I'm destined to help tell them.

-30-

Reporting LIVE...from the newsroom

That's not even a real live shot but it's the only shot I got tonight to get my mug on TV. I dread my local news assignments but they're a necessary evil if I want to continue to wear my TV reporter hat. It had been a few months since I had worked for this local news station and I knew it was going to suck. I know, The Secret mandates that this attitude was prophetic and guess what? It was.

Working nightside has its ups and downs. On one hand, I don't have to report to duty until 1:30pm, however, the pickings are slim and we're typically screwed if there's no breaking news. But I was determined to be resourceful so I managed to line up sources willing to be on camera and meet me on a Sunday. The story wasn't earth shattering but it was newsworthy by even the most conservative standards. FEMA had finally coughed up the money to bail out residents in a flood prone area. Don't yawn, that's rude and plus, it was the first buyout of its kind. Just as I was wrapping up the story, I got a call from my producer. "Vo-Sot this story, we need you to cover a murder-suicide," she said. For those unfamiliar with TV jargon, Vo-Sot stands for voice-over, sound on tape. Aren't you glad I cleared that up?

The story was awful. A 21 year-old girl had been found by her father, she was stabbed to death. It gets worse. The person responsible was her own mother who had later killed herself by drowning in a nearby creek. However, all we had was the police report. This happened in a very affluent neighborhood and I felt like fucking Geraldo Rivera knocking on neighbors' doors in search of a "reaction." "They were quiet, they kept to themselves," said one. "It's a tragedy," said another but of course no one was willing to say it on camera. I get it but what I don't get is why people act surprised when a reporter accompanied by a cameraman and news van wants their quote on camera. So other than feeling like a fucking vulture, I had to subject myself to the condescending answers of a 4'10" County Prosecutor who clearly had a Napoleon complex. "Of course it was shocking," he replied when I asked him to frame the gruesome crime in the context of his 30 year law enforcement career.

We get back to the station at 8 o'clock and I need to have my two stories written, approved, edited and be in full make-up for my newsroom live shot. Oh, and you're my lead story, my producer reminded me. Just then the assignment editor tells me she's found the victim's picture on a MySpace page. But who to confirm that the girl in the profile is the murder victim? I called the prosecutor who didn't have a clue. The CSI guys had seen her butchered body, Christ, the mother had used a hatchet, but they were unavailable. Someone suggested contacting her friends on MySpace so I unwittingly sent an email from my account asking them to confirm her identity by calling the newsroom hotline. An hour later one of them called. It was awkward.
Asshole Reporter: Hi, you got my email.
MySpacer: Yeah.
A.R.: Well, we just wanted to confirm that it was Sara before we used the image on television.
MySpacer: You can't use the picture. Her dad doesn't want you to use it.
A.R.: OK, well it is public domain and we're reporting the story.
MySpacer: You better not fucking use it, bitch!
A.R.: OK, thanks.
A decision was made not to use the picture even though we were well within our legal rights. But then I started getting really hostile messages on MySpace. I replied with, "I'm so sorry for your loss but I was just trying to do my job. We have decided to honor her father's wishes and NOT use the photo." The friend wrote again and basically told me to go fuck myself which wasn't completely uncalled for.

But this is the world of broadcast news. A heinous crime in an affluent community that warrants the media spotlight. Then the lofty task of balancing sensitivity with the pursuit of the elements required for your story. It sucks. It's hard. It's demoralizing and it makes me feel like a slime ball. At least with my broadcast PR firm, there's some integrity because we all admit we're working for the man. We are prostituting ourselves, at least I am, to assist corporate America in brand recognition, etc. No one is pretending to be providing some sort of community service. On a lighter note, HPG watched me on TV and said I looked good. So there you go, positive affirmation from my former crush. I knew I'd find the silver lining... eventually.

Focus Factor

It's missing. Call it the X factor but I can't focus. It's maddening. Today I was in an edit and my editor rewinds the tape and plays a soundbite. In the few seconds it took him to perform this minor task, I had moved on to Jamaica. Ocho Rios to be exact where I was plotting my next escape. "Is this the bite you wanted?!" he yelled waking me from my daydream. "Uh, I don't know," I stammered. "Play it again." He turned and gave me a death stare. "Come on, dude, this will move faster if you fucking pay attention." I love Ben. He's the grouchy smurf of the office. Frequently, while editing a self-serving corporate video, he'll casually confess, "I fucking hate my job and I don't care who knows it." This incites glee on my part because I find his candor so refreshing. He likes me but today I was working his last nerve.

I was working my own last nerve. Have you ever gotten on your own nerves? I would start one script, then search for fares on Kayak, then my boss would call and remind me to get crackin'. A high maintenance client kept asking us to remove footage of minority babies for an FDA approval piece I was producing. First it was a suggestion to use another "Caucasian baby" which I found pretty transparent in its racism but obliged. Then today they asked that we remove another black baby because she appeared to be older than 18 months, she was 15. In addition to this minutiae, I was supposed to correct language in the script which I neglected to do accurately because my mind had wandered yet again. It was one thing after another today signalling the necessity for Ritalin.

My propensity for self-medicating has been documented before and I'm headed there again. As yet another deadline loomed and I scrambled for a tape that was literally in front of my dumb face, I told my coworkers that I needed Ritalin. "Try wellbutrin," one of them suggested adding, "it's worked wonders for me. I don't let things get to me, my thoughts aren't racing like they used to." I suppressed a guffaw because I had witnessed him have no less than three minor meltdowns in just the last week. This is why I love this place, all of us are delusional.

Anyway, last night I went to a scholarship banquet for minority journalists and came face to face with my idol, CNN Chief Correspondent Christiane Amanpour. I didn't know if it would happen. I figured she'd have a swarm of obsequious fans clamoring for her attention. But fate intervened and it was as if the crowded parted when I saw her. I walked over and introduced myself. Then I reminded her of when we first met.. sort of. I was an intern at CNN in D.C. when The Washington Post published an article called "The Amanpour Factor." The story was about how her reporting was making such an impact on public opinion around the world that military and political leaders were actually factoring her into their strategy in Bosnia. She smiled remembering the article and our subsequent email exchange. Then we talked about Iran where she's from and I was born. But even though I was having an insightful discussion with my idol in a professional way, I was acutely aware of the magnitude of this moment. This is a woman I've admired for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS! And so my body betrayed my composed facade and I began to sweat profusely. It was embarrassing. Here I was having this amazing conversation and I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Mortified at the thought of them actually trickling down my face (I'm not a sweater, mind you), I opted to wrap things up. "I don't want to monopolize your time," I suggested. "But it's an honor to meet you." She was very gracious and after two pictures ("one for safety"- a TV term) we parted ways.

attribution

In the post titled "Fair and Balanced" I employed a line I heard in a great play DSG recommended called "The Vertical Hour." The line is in the final scene and comes from a disgruntled student who tells Julianne Moore's character that she is in fact pissed off at the world because she just found out her boyfriend has taken up with a girl who "looks like she eats shit with a dirty spoon."

In my entry, I liken a pointless exchange with DSG to: "washing your hands before eating shit with a dirty spoon." I don't equate that with plagiarism but in the interest of honesty, it wasn't entirely my brain child.

An Olive Branch for the Peanut Gallery

I just want to apologize to the folks in the peanut gallery who I admonished. That is, if they're still reading. A friend recently awakened me to the idea that I was being really immature about it all and I have to say I agree.

I'll admit the negative observations can be annoying but they are just that- observations. As a reporter, I'm supposed to cultivate sources so I can gain more insight. It's a bit ironic that I'm so adamantly opposed to feedback when it's directed at me in such a public forum.

So make your comments, take a few jabs here and there. After all, if I didn't want people to judge, I probably should have just stuck with my journal.

Fair and Balanced

What does it say about you when your boss insists you see your therapist? Today I was juggling a few projects after falling behind and I called my boss to tell her that I wouldn't be leaving the office for my afternoon appointment after all. "No," she said, "you should go." My PMS symptoms were beginning to reach water cooler status. And so I went. I was in rare form. I was pissed off.

Beverly noted the intensity of my anger and said as much. "Why the fuck are women such bitches to each other?" I demanded. This was prompted by two readers who after seeing that I was at a low point, decided to kick me while I was down. This is how women differ from the other sex. If a guy blogged about how a woman he had feelings for had rebuffed him enough times to tear at his self-esteem and force him to take a step back, his guy friends would be like, "Fuck her, man." But what do we do? "You are what you eat." "Maybe he resents you." I mean what the fuck is that?

HPG saw my venomous response and responded with, "WHOA!!" telling me I was too harsh and I would turn off my readership. But that only fueled my fury. I'm not vying for readers! It's not like I'm profiting from how many hits this exploration in self-indulgent public whining is getting. So for those of you who don't know the rules of this blogger, allow me to enlighten you. One- tell me what you think. Feel free to call me on my shit. But don't fucking expect me to publish caustic observations made without any basis in fact. Until now, I've published everything because, unlike Fox News, I believe in being fair and balanced which means total transparency. That said, I don't have to publicize your animus towards me, so don't be an asshole. Two.. there's not really another rule. Don't be an asshole just about covers it.

DSG. Dear, wonderfully engaging, maddeningly resistant DSG. He likes the caustic comments. He loves it when my feathers are ruffled. Today we had a lengthy IM exchange in our 115th attempt to clear the air. The whole process is like washing your hands before eating shit with a dirty spoon. Pointless and disingenuous to boot. I can't wrap my head around what may ultimately prove to be my core truth. I'm not in a relationship because I'm the one who is afraid of intimacy. Nah, that's not right. Anyone who really knows me, knows that I'm generous, affectionate and...neurotic and.. needy...and demanding. All within reason, of course.

But if I'm really, really honest about this (deep breath) it boils down to the fact that I've really only been in love once in my life. That's not easy to admit especially when you consider that I've been engaged twice. Not to mention Mo with whom I broke up before he officially proposed. But even my husband, I didn't really love. I loved the idea of him. And my first fiance was an angel who adored me but I remember constantly complaining about being afflicted with S.A.D.D. (sexual attention deficit disorder). That's not an actual condition, at least not one I'm aware of, it's more of a description of my tendency to question if we were out of milk or bread while we were..he was.. well let's not make me break my rule of abstaining from discussing my sex life in detail. My point is that I'm either settling for men who don't stimulate me or am simply afraid of the ones who do. Does that make sense?