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.

NEXT!

It's been almost a week since my last entry. Did you miss me? I just got home from a quick jaunt to Boston. It's the second time I've lugged a suitcase with two-weeks worth of business attire only to have the story fall through at the eleventh hour.

Never satisfied with just part of my life sucking, I've opted to take the drama up a notch by adding a few blind dates to the mix of boredom and pointless travel. For weeks, months, what am I saying? YEARS. For years my parents have been trying to get me married off. They act as if the weight of my dowry is killing them. In truth, having an old maid as a daughter reflects poorly on their matchmaking skills. And last night was more evidence why.

This guy is an IT architect. "What's that?" you ask. I don't fucking know even though I asked him twice. But every time he would start to talk about his job, my mind would go to a happy place I like to call, the mall. As he droned on about authoring software for business solutions, I recalled a cashmere cardigan I saw when I had just ducked into Anthropologie to apply mascara before my blind date. We had decided to meet on Newbury Street in Boston as that's where he lives and I wanted an excuse to flee Danvers for the night. I don't know if the trade-off was worth it.

He was a nice guy. Well-dressed, TALL,straight teeth although he could probably use a dose of brite smile. But, God love him, he was so boring. I was charming as usual and grateful that he insisted on picking up the tab because paying for a bad date only makes you feel worse about it. Tonight I met up with Yale. Yale was a foreseeable mistake. Upon seeing his picture, my roommate declared that he was a serial killer. But I was pulled in by his British accent. He told me before he met that he looked just like Allan Cummings and I should do an image search if I wanted to see more pics of him. Cummings is gay. I suspect this guy is, too. It wasn't just the way he gesticulated but his long-winded explanation about the dietary restrictions imposed by his recently acquired acid reflux that really sealed the deal. As in NO DEAL. Then he insisted on walking me home. I relented and he asked if there was a gym in my building. I proudly answered in the affirmative and he informed me that this was good because he needed to pee. Shit. "It's closed," I said. He did something strange that resembled a bad dance move and told me he would hold it until he got home. I was nice and suggested he use my bathroom.

Thank God my roommate was home although I could see she was having difficulty maintaining her composure upon seeing Yale. He, like his predecessors, had lied about his height and I was taller than him in my 3" heels. He introduced himself and quickly disappeared into my bathroom. TEN MINUTES LATER, he emerges red-faced. "Umm, your toilet is backed up. I had a Seinfeld moment in there," he confessed.

Poor chap. I called building maintenance but an hour later they're still en route. As is my date, no doubt headed back to Queens still in search of his own Queen.

Lipstick Lesbians and Other RANDOM thoughts

I wrote the most entertaining post but a gremlin or poltergeist attacked my computer in midstream. Seriously, the screen started flashing and there was all this frenetic activity as the blogger page danced all over the screen while my laptop groaned in agony. Very scary. So I opted to stop writing about the incompetent jackasses who suggested I use a garbage bag after my Duane Reade shopping spree as they had run out of shopping bags. It was a VERY funny story...now. Then, it was incendiary. Now, amusing. Moving on...

Yesterday was one of the top 40 most boring days of my life. I choose 40 because I know there have been many and it was up there but not worthy of top ten. Top 10 would probably include visiting distant relatives in the homeland with no access to TV, AC or any other acronyms describing modern amenities. But I digress. The purpose of this post is to immortalize HPG yet again. In an email exchange, I lamented my bad luck with men and he had the surprising insight that I was in fact the rejector. It was refreshing for him to actually volunteer information that portrayed me in a more positive light as opposed to a more pathetic one. I was touched. But he also told me something that in a screenplay would be called "foreshadowing."

As I lay paralyzed by boredom on my bed where my laptop was tethered to the fucking modem because Time Warner's techs- all three of the geniuses who had held me hostage on three separate days as I waited for their "expertise"- had still failed to establish a wireless connection in my apartment which is on the 10th floor. Hello? We're not searching for a signal in a cave. Anyhoo, I was feeling very unproductive and complained to anyone who was online. HPG suggested I blog about it. I said that, too, was boring for both me and the reader. Then he said I should write not about my boredom but lesbians. I dismissed him.

Fast forward to my spin class later that evening. I finally found a spin studio (indoor cycling) in Manhattan. Surprisingly, there were NONE until this one opened in my neighborhood. The studio makes you wear these shoes designed specifically for the stationary bikes that lock you into the pedal. Then they light some candles, turn off the lights and start this whole visualization technique that results in an intense cardio workout. The only reason I participate is because you burn more calories in 45 minutes than any other form of exercise... that I know of. So I'm minding my own business, sort of, and the instructor has us do push-ups while we're in a downhill slope. And I'm looking at her thinking, "She's a lesbian. Definitely gay. Nice arms. I want arms like that." Harmless thoughts. Then out of nowhere it occurs to me that if I were to be with a woman, I would choose this spin instructor. Two reasons. One- she's not a lipstick lesbian and not a dyke either. She's self-assured and even keel. Then, I'm alarmed at even considering such random, disassociated thoughts and start cursing HPG for poisoning my mind. As I attempt to clear my head, she says, "Be careful what you think in here because you never know who's listening." Cue twilight zone music. Right now, I'm thinking, I've shared too much. Yeah, definitely TMI. But I'm not changing teams. I'll convert to Catholicism and get thee to a nunnery before that happens.

Out of Line!

Good. God. I'm home for one last night before I head back to New York. Bored out of my mind. My roommate said boredom is evil in disguise. Clearly. I have literally checked my online dating profile no less than ten times today and been dismayed at every suitor who has had the courage to contact me. Somebody kill me.

To make matters worse, my pathetic existence has been tortured further with the most unseemly of discoveries. Before I explain, allow me this one disclaimer: I'm nosy. It's why I'm a reporter. If anything catches my eye or piques my interest, I'm in like Flynn, reading, opening, scavenging, you get the picture. And speaking of picture, let's talk about the ones I just found due to my curiosity.

I saw a folder on the desktop of the computer in our family's study. And my little brother, who is 22 and has unrealistic aspirations to be the next Jay Z had been visiting just last week. Now the file is labeled "pr." I see it and think, "What are they doing that's PR-related?" So I open it. Lord have mercy if it wasn't nude pictures of skanky ho's my brother found on the internet. Fine. He's young and eww.. But why, WHY does he think it's kosher to save them onto our family's computer?! The one my poor mother uses everyday to check email, forward me online profiles and play solitaire.

I was so disturbed, I stormed into my parent's room while they were watching a man from India offer 2007 horoscopes in a really thick accent. ("Follow your family tradition. Don't go wild way.")
ME: What is wrong with your son?!
Mom: Shhh, your horoscope is next.
TV: "Be miserly when it come to home decoration.."
ME: I just found porn on the desktop
Mom: Who's desk?
ME: The COMPUTER!!
Mom: Delete it.
Dad: He's sick.
ME: I did delete it but why does he think it's OK to save it in a file?
Mom: You're so nosy, if you hadn't gone snooping into files that weren't you--
ME: Oh my God. You're blaming me? I can't even talk to you right now. The file was marked "PR", hello? Freelance media consultant.
Mom: He didn't think anyone would see it.

Are you seeing this? Is it obvious that my mother has more issues when it comes to denial than Bush? And speaking of bush, don't need to know what my baby brother is into these days. Gross. I need a shower. (Btw, the picture posted here is the tamest one of them all.)

Sleep Deprivation Breeds Stupidity

I still can't sleep. Except in the morning. Then I sleep like the dead. In the absence of any external prodding, I could sleep all day if I'm dreaming. My dreams are fascinating. Imagine Tom Clancy meets Sidney Sheldon with an all-star cast in a Hollywood Blockbuster. The plot is always engrossing minus one blatantly obvious absurdity that throws any desire to pen a screenplay out the window. This morning it was something about the paparazzi chasing a family in the mountains. They were so focused on the target ahead they didn't bother to see the spaceship hovering above. Morons! I think the mountains were a byproduct of just having seen Brokeback Mountain on HBO, and the paparazzi? Either my trip to LA or the back to back episodes of Dirt I watched the other night. In any case, I was riveted until I realized that the fleeing family had absolutely no claim to fame and the whole crescendo was me helping the dad buy back to school clothes at Goodwill. That last part may have been because I watched an old episode of The Simple Life when Paris and Nicole go to Goodwill to buy a mattress for some kid who slept on the floor. Paris should have just given him the one on her back. OH! SNAP!

Clearly, the sleep deprivation is taking its toll. Today was my mom's birthday. I gave her a Gucci bag. She always gives me grief on "wasting my money" on obscenely "overpriced" bags but it was interesting to see her change her tune. I heard her brag to my cousin that "It has a certificate and everything" in reference to the inventory control card. Then my older brother had to one up me by giving her a Rolex. My brother is rich. We lead very separate lives. One example may be the fact that his idea of traveling with friends is going abroad with Presidential hopeful John Edwards while mine is going to the outlet mall in Woodsbury. Or his idea of a bargain: "I bought a plane."
ME: WHAT?! Why? Was it on sale??
His answer, "Yes, it was a good deal."

He's a year older than me and has his own law firm. But here's where the scales tip in my favor: his wife is a bitch. She is the laziest, nastiest, most pretentious, cold-hearted, I could go on but it just makes me look bad. Anyway, I think I've made my point. Unfortunately I have to suffer through her company in order to see my adorable nephews. But her presence is taxing as proven by my inability to employ a filter when having a conversation with my 4-year-old nephew.

Nephew: Want to watch Bambi?
ME: Have you seen it?
Nephew: Yes, have you?
ME: Yeah. So you know what happens...
Nephew: To Bambi?
ME: No, his mom.
Nephew: She gets stuck in a trap.
ME: No, she DIES.
I know. I'm not always the sharpest tool in the shed. In my defense, I'll say he's so smart, I forget he's four. Here's the part that really makes me a bad aunt. At first I thought maybe someone had shielded him from that part of the movie but as it turns out, he hasn't seen the original. He was referring to the sequel. There's a fucking sequel?! Apparently, Bambi reunites with his dad and it's a forest version of The Pursuit of Happyness. His little brows furrowed while he pondered the plot twist I had just introduced but I think I salvaged the damage by adding, "Oh, I was talking about a different Bambi. Sorry, I don't know what I'm talking about." He seemed to accept that explanation with certainty which doesn't really say a lot about his opinion of me.

Sleep Is Playing Hard To Get

It's bad enough the parade of vertically-challenged, emotionally-stunted men in my life suddenly become elusive when I express an interest in a relationship but now my best friend, SLEEP, is playing hard to get!

Last night should have been an exception because my flight from New York to Houston was really delayed and I was all riled up about the inconsiderate asshole sitting next to me. May I? One flight had been canceled, another oversold and consequently, my flight was packed with pissed-off business travelers. When they called for the Elite and First Class passengers, everyone bum rushed the line. "Suddenly, I don't feel elite anymore," one guy remarked when it was evident that 75 percent of the flight consisted of frequent fliers. Needless to say, I wasn't getting a first class upgrade.

Mercifully, I had a window seat in an exit row. So this guy gets on and he's probably in his mid to late twenties, average build. He plops down and as he's getting situated, he elbows me pretty hard but not hard enough for me to say ouch. However, the absence of an apology makes me stare at him incredulously. He rolls his eyes in an exasperated manner as if my presence is to blame for the collision. Then he commandeers the whole row. You may wonder how. I'll tell you. It's clear that he feels constricted in the middle seat so I give him the armrest even though it's mine. He's still unsatisfied. He takes his big fat cumbersome overcoat and drapes it over himself as a fucking BLANKET. But the sleeves, the big, wool (maybe cashmere) sleeve is on yours truly. Then he leans back pressing his left arm against me, pinning my shoulder. Hi, remember me? I'm halfway buried underneath his self-absorbed comfort zone. I wiggle out, turn to him and say, "Do you mind?"
"There's not a lot of space!" he huffs.
"Look, I gave you my armrest. All I ask is you respect my space," I suggest. He takes his sleeve off of me and five minutes later, readjusts his coat and we're back to square one. I lean forward and glare at him. "Do you have a problem?" he asks. I'm so annoyed, I'm having trouble formulating words much less conveying them.
"I mean, if you have a problem, you could politely ask me to move," he says.
Here she blows.
"I know the person who slammed into me and didn't apologize is NOT giving me a lesson in manners!" I yelled. He looks at me warily. This is before the fucking plane even took off. I felt like I was on a long road trip with my older brother who used to play that stupid, my side, your side game. The whole four hour flight, he kept leaning on me. Not because he was fat. Because he was selfish. Jackass.

So once I finally got in, I was tired but too wired to sleep. I ended up watching this infomercial about a new workout gimmick called Fluidity. It's a collapsible ballet bar that is supposed to give you a "dancer's body." I was intrigued. The ballerinas who used it swore by it. Never mind that they were getting paid, the proof is in the pudding or in this case the hot bodies. It was only $40 and I was seriously thinking about picking up the phone until I was reminded about cheat containers dot com. My housekeeper had stacked them for me and I boasted to my roommate that it was the concept not the craftsmanship I had purchased. She went to my closet and pulled out a box at the bottom of the stack. "See? It slides in and out," I beamed on the phone during my delayed flight as she inspected the sucker-magnet. But she just laughed her stupid, self-righteous laugh and told me the whole stack had collapsed.

Now that I've finally reached a point where I can update you on why I'm still awake a second night in a row, I'm suddenly too tired. I'm thinking you probably are, too. Go to sleep, my sweet, there's always tomorrow to read about my meaningless trials and tribulations.

Buyer Beware

Today I got the shoe boxes from neatcontainers.com. Before I tell you what I found, let me explain their significance. These clear, plastic shoe boxes were a manifestation of my New Year's Resolution. I thought by organizing my closet, I would be able to enjoy my life in an unprecedented way. Surely, the panic that ensued when I was trying to find those cute Miu Miu sling backs to wear with my black pull-over would be a thing of the past. By banishing chaos, I was embracing the new feng shui that would lead to a more peaceful existence, at least in my bedroom.

As usual, my grandiose plans for personal happiness were thwarted by reality. My roommate put the tall rectangular box next to my door and asked with a puzzled look, "What the hell is that?"
"Something that will change my life," I gushed. She rolled her eyes at me clearly unconvinced that in this cardboard box was the key to my happiness. I'm leaving for Houston tomorrow so I thought I would surprise our housekeeper by organizing my shoes. I anxiously opened the box and instantly knew I had been had. These so-called shoe boxes are in fact the equivalent of take-out containers. I shit you not. They are clear and fold closed like the Styrofoam boxes you get at some restaurants. Only they're in the shape of a shoebox. On the website they're billed as "stackable containers." My roommate laughed so hard at me, she cried. I want to shed some tears, too. Not because it's funny. Because I'm a sucker who just spent $60 on empty take-out boxes.

Mistaken Identity

You'd think someone who bragged about star sightings would know who the hell they were stalking. Think again! After sending some of my LA pics to my friends, one of them alerted me to the fact that my Peter Krause (below) sighting was a fraudulent one. It was actually some guy name Geoff Stults (above) of Seventh Heaven. I never watched that show but with his beard it was a relatively easy error. No one else who claimed to be a fan of his and saw the pics in my camera corrected me either. Nonetheless, it's embarrassing.

So the chiropractor came in from Chicago this weekend. He flew in Saturday and out on Sunday. I did something I never do. I went to the airport upon his arrival and with him for his departure. The first trip was because I couldn't wait the one hour it would have taken him to arrive at his hotel. The second because he was in town so briefly and I wanted to maximize our time together. I wasn't pleasantly surprised when I met him. It was more of a "Is that you?" kind of thing. And it was awkward. Here, we had forged this bond over the past few weeks, going as far as naming our unborn children and now I was face to face with the man I had prematurely described as "The One!" I mean talk about build-up. One astute observer had reminded me that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions in the hopes of a different outcome. I mean really. If that doesn't describe me to a T, I don't know what does.

So we had a nice time. He is really funny. I know I said that about Boston but this guy really is funny. I'd give some examples but every time I do, there's that awkward pause or fake laugh that signals a "guess you had to be there" response. But I didn't hear from him all day as I did prior to the big reveal. So I was feeling anxious. But rather than going on a texting spree or anything else self-destructive, I did something against my usual instincts. I exercised restraint.

I met up with my friend Dave who is my "scary movie buddy." Dave is a drummer by night, works in corporate America by day and quite charming. A couple of years ago we decided to enter a relationship that consists only of reunions centered around the latest horror flick. This is usually accompanied by dinner. Almost all of our selections have been underwhelming. "Saw" left us scratching our heads, "Lady in the Water" was just annoying and tonight's selection, "Pan's Labyrinth" wasn't even part of the correct genre. But it was a good one.

Afterwards, we ducked into a French restaurant in the East Village. I filled Dave in on the latest in the man department and after listening to the saga of Boston and now the angst rising up with Chicago, he asked, "Are you panicking?" This is usually where I get defensive but with Dave I didn't feel judged. "I'm going to be 35 this year," I said. He said I was a walking contradiction in terms of being professionally grounded and stable but a spastic idiot as a singleton. I had berated Larry when things fell apart with Boston because he told me to stop "looking so hard for a man." I just didn't feel like I was "looking." I mean I didn't troll bars or the internet (well, not like before) and was coming out of a two month dating drought when I happened to meet Boston. But with Dave looking at me earnestly and making an objective assessment of the sense of desperation that had so clearly snuck into my consciousness, I was suddenly aware. I keep saying that letting Mo go is an example of my refusal to settle. If I was really so desperate to get married and have the whole kit and caboodle, would I have walked away from a dentist poised to propose? Yes because scrambling for sanctity of marriage doesn't absolve me from the sins of scintilla, as in recognizing the minute particles, aka "quirks", that make up a person's, well persona. Just because I didn't want mediocrity then doesn't mean I'm not willing to capitulate when presented with a less offensive, tho equally questionable prospect now.

And it's not that there's anything about Chicago that's a deal-breaker. He's witty and smart and I'm attracted to him but I can't seem to get out of fifth gear. The advice Dave offered was twofold. "Chill out" which is in order. And "if you start getting all crazy, get out because that means something's off." OK, that something is most likely me. My roommate concurred and when Chicago finally called tonight and I missed his call, she encouraged me not to play games. But I was irritated that he went from calling me on his way to work in the morning to not calling all day then leaving me a perfunctory message, "I guess I'll talk to you later." What the fuck? I was also feeling a bit sick to my stomach because the perception that a guy is pulling away usually sends me into a neurotic tailspin as evidenced by the recent mayhem that ensued with Boston. I was fighting the urge to be me, to call and lay my cards prematurely on the table with inappropriate comments like, "So are you in or out?" My mom suggested perhaps I not begin my future conversations with disclaimers such as, "This is where I board the crazy train." How about I not get on this time?! Let's see what happens when the Love Pariah actually takes a more traditionally feminine role, i.e., not chasing the male prospect like a hunter his prey. Perhaps allowing the suitor a chance to wear the pants? Hrrmph! OK, I'll try.

Going Ga Ga in La La Land

Taming my demons is a tall order but I think I deserve a pat on the back. On Saturday night, I went to the "it" club in Los Angeles, stood in the midst of countless B-list celebrities and managed to keep my cool. My date was my friend Ursula whose parents prophetically named her after the first Bond girl(Ursula Andress). In other words, she's gorgeous. While other lesser mortals clamor for access to clubs, Ursula gets emails inviting her to grace them with her presence. Needless to say, it can be a humbling experience accompanying her on such outings.

Saturday was once such night and we arrived in Hollywood for the Stuff Magazine party. There was a red carpet and lots of stalkarazzi. We didn't pause in front of the backdrop for pictures (as if..) but were led through the velvet rope while skanky ho's and starlets wondered who the hell we were. Once inside, we downed a couple of shots and started checking the place out. We were intercepted by a guido and would have kept walking were it not for his offer to partake in the bottle service he and his equally greasy friends had purchased in order to get in. (They must have done this fairly early because a group of guys ahead of us in the VIP line were denied after making a similar proposal to the bouncer.)Instantly, he started chatting up my Bond girl as I made myself comfortable on the couch. The big, ugly, hairy one parked himself beside me and so began the assault on my vanity. "You're friend is hot," he observed. Yes, I agreed, she's a pretty girl. "Do you get that a lot?" he asked. At this point, I had seen countless heads turn in her direction as we made our way through the club but was still hopeful that Vinny Barbarino was referring to my looks. "Do I get what a lot?" I unwittingly prompted.
"That your friends are hot," he said ogling. Suddenly, my head was pounding. Was it possible that this exercise in humility had given me an instant migraine? When I shared the contents of our conversation with Ursula, she took me by the arm, told Guido #1 that his friend lacked class and led me to the other side of the establishment.

Here, we were enjoying each other's company when I made the first of my star sightings. Ian Ziering of 90210 fame. Nonplussed, I pointed him out and Ursula nodded, carefully surveying the scene. Then I saw Jon Kelly, the weekend co-host of "Extra!" I felt comfortable approaching him because as a journalist (and I use that term loosely), he was a colleague. I introduced myself and he claimed that I looked familiar. I was doubtful but he was nice. Also, before he sold out to Extra he was a bona fide reporter in Chicago and other respectable local news markets. We quickly established a friend in common and then I introduced him to Ursula and he introduced us to his friend. This friend subsequently informed me that he was an "actor in the adult entertainment industry." Unfazed, I replied, "I thought you looked familiar." He laughed and made a point of telling Jon that I frequented the back of the video store. Just then, I looked behind my girlfriend and saw a swarm, a SWARM of random celebrities. As Ursula would later describe it, I temporarily lost the ability to form coherent sentences which she found more annoying than amusing.

But here is where you can be slightly impressed. Remember my previous accounts of obsequious behavior in the presence of celebrity? No evidence of that here! First I saw Brody Jenner (The Princes of Malibu). We made eye contact and I panicked but quietly reported the sighting. Then Stacy Keibler (Dancing With the Stars) who seemed really sweet but not enough to become my BFF for the evening. Then, Peter Krause (Six Feet Under)and the star who was two feet in front of me, Gina Gershon. Seeing her really got to me because I'm a huge Lenny Kravitz fan and they're really good friends. She was even in one of his videos so I was just thinking, OMG, one degree of separation. That's when my eyes grew wide causing Urs to ask, "What? Who?!" without turning around. "It's, umm, that girl..," I couldn't remember her name. "She's famous," I concluded soliciting an agitated huff and eye roll from Urs. But, I kept it together. Eventually, I consumed enough alcohol to warrant asking a really, really hot soap star to take a picture of me and my new found friends. I told Peter Krause that I was ridiculous but he should oblige anyway by posing with us. He laughed and I reminded him that it was rude to laugh at someone to their face. He agreed and then kept laughing. Then he came over and posed with us for a picture. Ahh, good times.

Currently, I'm in beautiful Dana Point, California. Today it was 88 degrees here while New Yorkers dealt with a pseudo gas leak. The news that threw the cable networks into a flurry of speculation about the root of the stench had most New Yorkers completely... oblivious. Even the live reporters had to concede that the majority of passers-by were "taking it in a stride." Umm, is it any surprise that people who are accustomed to being serenaded by heroin-addicted homeless people on the subway daily remained unaffected by a suspicious smell?

Define "Success"

Today I was invited to speak on a panel about freelancing as a television reporter. It wasn't the first time I was asked to pontificate about my chosen profession in that capacity but it was the first time anyone paid me for it. It's one thing to give up your time, possibly even pass up an assignment, to speak to budding journalists but to be financially compensated for it adds a lot of pressure. Even though I'm often accused of being self-absorbed (hello, I have a blog about myself), it felt so self-aggrandizing to talk about being a "successful freelancer." The dean of the graduate school of journalism where I spoke told me afterwards that the students were "riveted" but I think they were actually staring at my fabulous new Gucci bag sitting next to me.

I felt like a big fraud next to the print journalists who were on the panel. All of them were published authors who wrote for The New Yorker, Vanity Fair and Vogue to name a few. But for some reason they kept deferring questions to me with, "How does it work in the broadcast world?" or "How did you pitch that story to CNN?" Don't get me wrong, I was totally flattered but it was a bit disconcerting to have a Pulitzer-caliber journalist listen earnestly to my musings about broadcast news. At one point a fellow panelist had the following observation, "It's a lot easier to get freelance work after you get your first book published." Everyone nodded in agreement. Everyone except me. I just stared in awe. And if that wasn't strange enough, I was asked if I would be interested in becoming an adjunct professor. Can you imagine me teaching a class? Actually, I can imagine that. I'd have to wear my librarian glasses so that I could appear more intellectual (read: serious journalist).

So things with the Chiropractor are moving along smoothly. Yesterday I didn't hear from him all day and I started to board the crazy train but then he IM'ed me and told me he was on his death bed. We had a short conversation during which I became preoccupied by a story on AC360 about the fallout from Saddam's botched execution. I said as much and he asked me if I thought the U.S. strategy was to "divide and conquer Iraq." This comment didn't set well with me because I thought it was ignorant and reminded me of stupid things Mo used to say. He once told me that the reasons Hindus are cremated is because the earth won't accept them. When I asked his dumb ass where he had picked up that gold nugget of wisdom he conceded that a fundamentalist Muslim told him that.

So when the chiro made the remark, it was like deja vu all over again. "They have no strategy in Iraq. That's the problem," I bristled. He made a joke but I wasn't letting it go. I reminded him that the sectarian violence was responsible for more American troops dying than the initial invasion and asked him how anyone could think that creating a civil war was a neat exit strategy. He tried to defend his premise with the European news reports he had heard but I wasn't buying it. Finally he wrote this:
"Listen..you have to be able to settle with the fact that we both do not have adequate data to make a complete argument...I am just stating what I heard on Canadian and European news..now..If I thought you would want the data I would have taken notes..."
At this point, I felt sorry for him and decided that he wasn't an ignorant dumb ass so I finally gave him a break.

I leave for the left coast on Friday. I haven't even arrived in Southern California and I'm already worried about how fat I'm going to feel around all those plastic people. I find the east coast and its clad-in-black, bohemian chic, or "I commute from Jersey/Long Island/Connecticut and don't-give-a-shit" fashion renegades so much more palatable.

Sluggish Start

Could I be more bored? Yes, I suppose I could. I could be fighting to stay awake in science class but this is almost as excruciating. I haven't worked in about a week. Such is the life of a freelancer with standards. Too bad my personal life can't mirror my professional one.

Today I'm at the broadcast PR firm. I have been sitting on my arse all day. I haven't written a single word for them. So what have I been doing? Looking for a crackberry, glancing at the copy of The Times sitting on my desk and thinking I should probably pick it up and get the latest on Darfur. I did one useful thing. I purchased these clear shoe boxes from a website called neatcontainers.com. Not the most creative name to market their product but at least I'll be able to see all the Prada and Gucci shoes that are still too painful to wear. Why is it that the more you pay for heels, the more they resemble medeival torture devices? Ooh, I should totally go online and buy that book about how to wear high heels... what's it called? "How to Walk in High Heels" me thinks. Must read that.

I had brunch with Thermos last week and his college roommate joined us. The guy's a big shot plastic surgeon. So I may be getting a few things nipped and tucked. I'm going to need you to calm down over there. It's safe, relatively speaking, and there are fat deposits some of us are genetically predisposed to having despite how much we work out. Granted, I could try working out but we live in an age of instant gratification exacerbated by text messaging and video on demand. I'm not sure I have the inclination to sit through hours upon hours of yoga to connect with my chakra's or whatever the hell they're called.

Plus, yoga stresses me out. I went to Bikram's yoga in San Francisco when I lived there. That's where they turn up the heat and you sweat your ass off during poses. I actually liked it but the instructor was Hitler's bastard stepchild. First of all, I hate it when white people try to speak Sanskrit. Please don't say "shaanti," an English translation will suffice. So he was doing that and then when he was trying to get us to relax and focus, he kept saying, "No itchy, no scratchy...no itchy, no scratchy." This was making me giggle and after a while, the power of suggestion resulted in some itching and the desire to "scratchy." But the final straw was when he tried to help me adjust a pose with his sweaty TOE! I hate feet to begin with but to have a virtual stranger extend his toe on my ankle was really too much. I thought my boyfriend was going to collapse in his downward dog pose when he saw the experession of sheer disgust on my face. Needless to say, that was my last yoga class.

I've been talking to the chiropractor. He's actually considering flying out to L.A. from Chicago next week while I'm there. Ironically, Boston will be there, too, but that ship has sailed. This guy is 5'10" and ready to settle down like yesterday. I'm trying to learn from my recent mistakes. Most importantly, to stay grounded and act sane. Note, I said "act sane." We all know the Love Pariah didn't change overnight. My boss has a script for me to write. Yippee- life has meaning.

The Pensive Pariah

Depending on how action-packed tomorrow is, this may be my last blog entry for 2006. Where did the year go?! To hell in a hand basket if you ask me. It started with New Year's Eve in London with Howard who promptly earned the name "fun Bobby" for how engaging his company was sober. Fresh out of rehab, he met me at the Paddington Train station with a surly expression and lethargic demeanor. At midnight, we toasted hot chocolate while watching The London Eye light up with fireworks... on TV. Yes, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean for this. The best part was his magnanimous toast, "To the end of the worst fucking year of my life." Here, here! I'll drink to that. Tosser.

Upon my return from England (don't worry I don't intend to recount the whole year in this one entry, ahem, I have some semblance of a life), Mo picked me up at JFK. Poor sap. He really loved me but he couldn't get past the fact that I had one, been with other men and two, I had a mind of my own. Bless his hairy mole.

In February, I lost one of my childhood friends to breast cancer the same week my second nephew was born- a profound reminder of the circle of life.

In March, I got my dream field producing job and spent most of the rest of the year crisscrossing the U.S. to exciting places such as Greenville, South Carolina and Coeur D'Alene, Idaho. In April, Mo and I tried again. "Is Mo still hanging around like a bad smell?" Howard had asked. And, yes, indeed he was. That proved a miserable exercise in self-flagellation for us both. When he told me he was "ready" to introduce me to his parents (he had already met mine when they were visiting from Texas) who lived as far away as Jersey City, I had a panic attack. In a completely unrehearsed sentence during a maddening debate about something as trivial as where I wanted to go for Labor Day weekend, I blurted out, "You don't stimulate me intellectually or physically!" As my aunt would say, "There was pin drop silence."

I spent the remainder of the summer and the fall becoming smarter about me and men and life. During a long run along the Hudson River around the time of my 34th birthday, I had an epiphany. Why are you waiting for something to happen, something to "fall into place" before you start living your life? The life you have chosen and constructed for yourself. The life that makes you stop in the middle of a busy New York City intersection (while the crosswalk is safe), stare down the stretch of urban splendor and marvel at the fact that you have made it in Manhattan.

The recent calamity in dating that is my short-lived romance with Boston made me question that self-affirmation. But as the year draws to a close and I see my friends and family or even hear from you guys via a comment on my blog, a quick text or email; I'm reminded of it all again. So thanks for humoring me in this journey of self-discovery, of laughing and cringing at all the right (and wrong) times. Here's to 2007, here's to you.

Lest you think I'm completely self-absorbed, I wanted to post a link to an article by the foreign editor of Scotland's Sunday Herald that I think perfectly encapsulates the "carnage and chaos" that marked 2006.
http://www.sundayherald.com/life/people/display.var.1096725.0.2006_carnage_chaos.php
If you don't care to read, remember Darfur, keep it on your radar or we will bear witness to another Rwanda.

Reversal of Fortune

Well, that title is a bit dramatic but perhaps apropos given the following: I went from mourning Boston or, at the very least the idea of having a Boston in my life, to becoming his boss. Sort of.

OK, in the spirit of accuracy in the media- it does too exist!- let's review the events of the past 48 hours. By now, you know that my life moves at warp speed. Emotions such as obsession, angst, elation and rejection run through me at the speed of light leaving newcomers dumbfounded or awestruck (I prefer the latter) and those who know me exhausted. Which one are you? Am I tedious or fascinating? Well, you're reading so get a life if you find it all so blase'. Sorry, I can be belligerent for no apparent reason. Actually, there are reasons but who has the time to list them all?

So...I am working on a major PR initiative for a bio-tech type firm. It's the first time I've been handed the reins in such a manner. I'm in charge. I can handle it. I actually welcome the challenge of using my media contacts and PR savvy to get shit done for these folks. My top priority will be to tape a corporate video for internal and investor use and re-purpose the b-roll for the media outlets interested in covering the biggest medical story to hit the health care industry since...since, this is why I need to spend less time blogging and more researching! Anyhoo, Boston knew I might be needing a camera crew and had hinted more than once that he could 'help me out' read: give me the work. Since our ill-fated romance imploded in my face, I figured he probably would want to steer clear. Also, because when things fell apart, I decided in my infinite wisdom to allow him to see my blog and what I was writing about him. What? It's "crazy?" Well, if I haven't fucking established that I'm crazy and self-destructive, then really, what blog have you been reading?

So I told him I would be in town and was in the market for a camera crew and editor who could do the work fast, cheap, and professionally. His bid came out lower than other crews who I didn't know from Adam. Plus, he has the credentials. So, he's the guy. He's going to be my cameraman and my editor. But, here's what's weird about it to me. Actually, two things are weird. One is that he's all psyched to be working with me (hello? have we forgotten the texting spree) and two, I'm totally uninterested in rekindling jack. I mean, my brain really should be donated to science for research. I am the ultimate challenge gone, conquest over, commitment-seeking, relationship-endangering, thanks-for-making-men-bitter bitch out there. It's textbook, yeah? Or maybe I'm just romanticizing myself for the purpose of rebuilding my self-esteem after I allowed it to be decimated by a leather-blazer-wearing man. I'm sorry, but men who wear leather blazers are kind of a turn-off. I can't explain why. I'm fine with suede, even velvet, but the whole Wilson Leather-esque thing gives me the heebie jeebies. Maybe I've watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos, it's all a mystery.

There's another noteworthy item. Another prospect has blipped on my radar. He's really funny. Let me share part of his email with you:

Hi,

I;m (not a typo..I really do not know how to use it) glad you enjoyed my last email. Don't think you can distract me with all that 'witchcraft' flattery - you didn't answer a single question that I had posed in my message to you. I've got a little eye of newt that should get you back in line.

First, I think it is only fair that you tell me your real name. Also, I think it is kind of serendipitous that you are an ace reporter and I have always been a Superman fan. I mean a huge Superman fan (I wear glasses and people can't recognize me without my glasses). I think I was the only one who watched the one where there were 2 supermans. Remember that one? Chirstopher Reeve (may he rest in peace) was all dirty and scruffy looking...kind of like David Hasselhoff in Knight Rider. I would hate to start referring to you as 'Lois'.

I will send you some more pics. Here is the excuse, I recently upgraded my computer so I do not have any pics of me on my computer. This is the reason why I used the one from my website. I assure you, my mom's my witness, that this is what I look like. I am not exactly photogenic but I do just fine in the physical attraction department.

Now, I think it is your turn to tell me more about you. I want to read your personality through your email. So, I humbly request (read in an uncle at a desi function voice) that you send me some pics and tell me more about yourself. I'm really curious.


Well, so am I. The love pariah is intrigued by any man who first has the sense to ask a journalist about the use of a semicolon and then the self-deprecating wit- the whole witchcraft reference made me chuckle. Truth be told, I never really "chuckle," it's not me. I guffaw. So perhaps it made me do that. He's a chiropractor. So in my initial approval of his request for contact, I acknowledged the fact that he was a witch doctor and praised his profession. The last chiropractor I went to was this gay guy in the West Village who told me that he wanted to 'cleanse my energy and spirit' in addition to cracking my back and fixing whatever the hell had screwed up my coccyx. Women have a coccyx, too- it's your tailbone, honey (please note the picture on the left, googled for your viewing pleasure). Mine was killing me and this chiro pointed out that it was my soon-to-be ex-husband who was the real pain in my ass. Speaking, figuratively, of course. It wasn't until after I lost my husband that I got any real relief and you can see how cleansed my spirit is these days. Come to think of it, my ass is hurting again...

Corrections

Prolific blogging is bound to result in occasional inaccuracies. I regret the following:
* The home on Broadway and Bleecker was not the former HQ of the Black Panthers but rather their lawyers' offices which explains how they could afford the rent.
* I am not really that big of a loser. If you don't believe me, just tune in to the A&E's series, "Intervention." OR, revisit the blog about Howard aka 'fun Bobby.'
(On second thought, my relationship with Howard only bolsters my initial assessment of myself so strike that.)

I'm SUCH a loser

I know this type of negative self-talk helps no one, least of all me. It certainly doesn't put me on the straight and narrow path to loving myself but it's true. Just when we thought the humiliation I endured after being told to put my self-important nagging ways securely where the sun don't shine, I had a texting accident. If it sounds a tad bit like wetting the bed at 12 (not that I'm familiar with that), then you've grasped the mortifying feeling precisely.

I had just completed a post-mortem with Boston when my teenage cousin asked if we could go to Times Square. Our only outing had been to go see "A Night at the Museum" at the IMAX and he was getting cabin fever. It was cold and drizzling, possibly the worst combination of weather patterns other than rain and ice. OK, not actually even close to the worst but it sucked. We get there and his eyes grow wide at the sight of all the giant, neon signs and billboards. I make him pose for a couple of pictures. "Why don't we ask someone to take one of both of us?" he suggests. "Because I don't feel like getting my camera stolen today," I retorted.

We ended up at Virgil's BBQ although I was hardly in the mood for food. Apparently, my hands and mouth had a different agenda altogether because before I knew it, I had enhaled almost a whole sandwich. My cousin stared in disbelief. "I thought you were sick to your stomach?" As we walked back into the rain, I looked back to see my cousin having a knock-down drag-out fight with his $2 umbrella. Not only was it inverted but every spoke had come apart from the flimsy fabric and was threatening to take one of his eyes out. I couldn't stop laughing much to his irritation.

Are you still reading? Then, you're no doubt waiting for the texting accident. I'm getting to it. My friend texts me and at the same time, Boston texts me. I respond to her question about how I am. "I got the big heave ho but I'm OK." A couple of minutes later comes this reply: "What?!" FROM BOSTON. Was it a Freudian slip? If it was, what part of my fucked up psyche wanted to concede brutal rejection to the man who had so kindly cut ME loose?! It gets better. I sent my girlfiend another text defending Boston- she questioned his "cajones" or alleged he had none- that said: "He has cajones. This time it was all me. Btw, he got that last text." Keep in mind, I'm multitasking- guiding my cousin to the subway while texting two people simultaneously. I ended up calling her after I got off the subway because it was raining and I couldn't deal with the typing anymore.

Today, I'm working at the Associated Press for the first time, in the TV News division. Everything is moving along somewhat smoothly when I get a text from Boston that says, "And that one did too.." My blood ran cold. "?" I asked. Then I looked through my phone and saw that I had sent HIM the text about the cajones. It was too much to bear. I called him later to find out if he hated me, "I don't hate you, it's just weird." I should feel good about this: Boston has confirmation that his decision to cut and run was a smart move. Myself on the other hand, I'm hoping that maybe I can go to a hypnotist to keep from contacting him again.

I Believe Conjulations Are In Order

Congratulate me. Or, as my dad would say, "Conjulations." I have without a doubt hung on to my self-proclaimed title of "The Love Pariah." Yes, many of you will breathe a sigh of relief that the saga with Boston has come to a premature yet inevitable end. No one has to ask how this happened, a quick review of the past several entries should suffice as evidence.

Push came to shove, I was doing both, and he finally waved the white flag after seeing so many red ones. "You need to learn how to love yourself before anyone else can." He could seriously give my therapist a run for her money. But all kidding aside, I'm pretty bummed out. I thought Boston could deal with the drama queen. In reality (I hate that place) it's an order so tall, no man could fill it. And, I'm chastened. I take full responsibility for the neurotic behavior that pushed him away. So no more boo-hooing about Boston. No more waiting by the phone for any man to call! I just have to remind myself of how much smarter and together I was without a man in my life. Then I have to figure out why the hell I go from super-independent to super-needy at the drop of a hat and freak men the fuck out. No lectures, please, Boston took care of that. Everyone warned me. I asked for it. I've made my thorn-strewn bed and I will now lie in it. ouch!

Close Encounter

Give and Ye Shall Receive. That's what I experienced today when I dragged my 16 year-old cousin who's visiting New York for the first time to a soup kitchen on Christmas eve. He was loathe to going but, like I said, under duress he capitulated and we ended up at a tiny homeless center near Grand Central Station. My girlfriend who was to meet us there was running late and upon our arrival we discovered that there would just be three other volunteers. And one of them was none other than Glenn Close.

In order to appreciate the level of restraint I exercised, it's necessary to know that I am the biggest jackass when it comes to meeting celebrities. You may recall asking Greg Kinnear what he had done since "Talk Soup" but in addition, I have been guilty of accosting B-list celebs and asking for pictures via my camera phone. Hapless victims have included but are not limited to Tori Spelling, Mischa Barton, and even Molly Ringwald. But, this time, I'm proud to report, I actually played it cool. As we followed Close and her daughter upstairs to lock up our purses, I grabbed my cousin's elbow. "Do you know who that is?" I hissed. He looked at me bewildered. "No," he answered with a mixture of fear and curiosity. I realized I was squeezing his arm a bit too tightly. "That's Glenn Close," I informed. But nothing seemed to register. "Who's that?" he asked. He's 16. But for the love of God and everything holy, it's Glenn Fucking Close! I wanted to implode. Instead, I put back my blase New Yorker hat and marched upstairs. We entered the office and I began peppering the volunteer coordinator with what I thought were intelligent questions. "How many people will come through the line?"; "Does the number of people served depend on how quickly we serve them?" Then Glenn, we can be on a first-name basis after donning hair nets together, turned to me and said, "Hi, I'm Glenn." Then she introduced her lovely 19 year-old daughter.

As you can imagine, having the lady from "Fatal Attraction" serving tuna casserole on Christmas Eve created quite a stir in the shelter. "I love all your movies," one toothless man beamed. She was a bit embarrassed by all the fuss and tried to keep things low-key. At one point someone called her a star and she said under her breath to me, "Star. Such a dumb word," I nodded pretending to understand the plight of an A-level actress trying to maintain a sense of normalcy and realism in her life. I really wanted to tell her how just yesterday I was quoting one of the lines from "Fatal Attraction" when she tells Michael Douglas' brick-shitting character, "I will NOT be ignored," but somehow had the foresight to shut my trap. My girlfriend who had witnessed me make an a-hole out of myself on countless occasions was both relieved and impressed. Maybe I'm becoming a jaded New Yorker who treats actors as people and not immortals worthy of obsequious worship. Yeah, probably not.

FINALLY talked to Boston last night. We had a good talk in which he told me that I had for all intensive purposed freaked him out. Work became intense and I became a needy, annoying pest who couldn't muster the restraint of a gnat in a flood light. I conceded on that point but told him that stone-walling me a happy love pariah does not make. We decided to "start over" but then today some of the angst crept back in when my roommate suggested that I refrain from playing games and just give him a call. I opted to send a text instead. "Hey u :)" and hour later came this: "Hi"
That's not unusual for Boston but given the admonishments from him and everyone else who gives a shit about whether I totally abdicate any sense of dignity, I decided to leave it at that. So I don't know. I'm back to not knowing. However, this time, I'm going to do the opposite of what my instincts suggest. Maybe that way, I can learn how to be "normal", which, incidentally, I think is highly overrated.

Chanel Madness

That's the name of the nail polish color I'm currently sporting. It's a dark chocolate hue that's quite trendy. As my roommate pointed out, it also describes me and my current state of mind.

Everyone's on Boston's side. But let me tell you this- he's a big flake! Case in point- correction: exhibit A-C. Behold:
On Thursday at 1pm EST Boston texted to say, "Mornin. I will be free after 2pm my time. Will call you then." As you know, 5pm rolled around and there was no call.
10pm EST (same day)- on IM Boston said he would call me the next morning. "What time?" I prompted. "9ish, after I've had my coffee." Fine.
Friday- NO CALL ALL DAY.
At 4:15 pm EST, he sends me an EMAIL knowing I don't own a blackberry and says, "Sorry about not calling this morning. Been on the phones all day with potential interviewees for my project. I should be free in an hour or so to call. Hopefully that’s ok with you." It wasn't OK with me and my roommate agreed, "Unacceptable," she said. At this point, perhaps you're hoping that when he did call in an hour or so that I had the presence of mind to once in my pathetic life play it cool. No dice. Do you know why? BECAUSE HE DIDN'T FUCKING CALL!!
I was livid. How does this happen? How do we go from a man in a leather blazer who I'm on the fence about allowing into my life begin to shun me? Fed up, frustrated and reminded by Larry that I had nothing left to lose, I gave in and called him. No answer, mailbox full. MERDE!

Then my roommate and I went to meet a friend in town from Seattle. He insisted on us coming to the place where he was staying on Bleecker and Broadway. We figured these must be some digs if he's being persistent. We arrived at a nondescript building with an unimpressive entrance. Our friend Thermos buzzed us up. We got into an equally sketchy elevator. The door opened into a grimy hallway and through a fire escape door, he waved us in. "Go to your left," he instructed. The place was spacious but dark with a long narrow hallway. As we walked through the kitchen into the living room, we were awestruck. Two huge round windows on two walls overlooked Broadway. They were the kind of windows you'd find at the top of clock tower. Talk about southern exposure. That plus high ceilings and kitschy antiques here and there. Thermos told us that his filmmaker friend had inherited the uber-cool pad while in his teens and that the space used to be the headquarters of the Black Panthers.

I had just sat down with a delicious cocktail Thermos had prepared when my roommate blurted out, "Let's see what Thermos thinks." About what? "You know the whole thing with Boston," she said all eager beaver like Thermos would be able to shed new light on the tiny male mind that women frequently over-complicate and therefore, over analyze. Thermos was game. So I did. I told him about the prelude to the Vegas meeting, my doubts following that weekend and the recent shenanigans with the over-texting and absenteeism of my suitor. Just prior to coming out, my roommate had suggested I text Boston and put end the miserable angst that had consumed me. So I sent him a text that said, "Hey can you give me a call?" He wrote back an hour later and said, "About to go on a shoot. Later?" Fuck. I responded with , "Forget it." When I relayed all of this to Thermos, he was momentarily pensive and then explained the four different stages of intimacy and how we had rushed half of them, blah, blah, blah.. and now both of us were feeling vulnerable and wanting to cut and run. After a couple of drinks the three of us decided that we would compose a carefully worded text that would show Boston I could be light-hearted and fun. Here's what the meeting of the minds produced: I'm wearing the top you bought me and I look HOT.
He had insisted on buying me a silk top at French Connection after I had resisted buying it for myself. This was more damage control than restraint because I had just splurged on yet another Gucci bag I didn't need at Caesar's Forum. An hour and a half later he responds with this: " :) "
What the fuck? Thermos thought it was fine. My roommate was appalled. It took him over an hour to send that?! I was just sad. Then I wrote back, "...You're fired." and in record time came this reply: "But...but I am shooting :( "
That was then, this is now. I haven't talked to him in days and granted he's really busy but when there's a will there's a way. I may have killed the will.

Somebody Shoot Me

The last 24 hours have been sheer hell. And all of it, is my fault. I created the drama that served no other purpose than possibly taking off a few extra pounds (the only good thing) and giving me more gray hair. Boston sent a text this afternoon that said: Mornin. Will be free after 2pm my time. Will call u then.
I was having lunch with my friend John and replaying the text spree that consumed me last night. I relayed the message to him and he said, "What the fuck? You don't even like this guy!" I objected, loudly, DO TOO! "The other day you said that you weren't feeling it and were going to cut him loose," he reminded me. That was before he became an absentee suitor. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or does familiarity breed contempt? Or is it both?

I moved about my day and came home expecting a call at 5pm my time- sharp! Nada. Then I met my friend Hyun at Bergdorff Goodman's at the make-up counter. One look at my downtrodden demeanor and she was all compassion and positive energy. "Oh, honey, he's not worth it. You have to learn how to hold things lightly," she advised as a very well-kept European woman stood poised to show her an overpriced skin cleanser. "He said he would call at 2, it's 3pm in LA," I mumbled. Hyun was annoyed. "Oh my God, are you making your roommate crazy, too? He didn't say exactly 2pm, he said after." I tried to busy myself by layering on different Laura Mercier body souffles. After the vanilla and creme brulee versions, I smelled like a bakery and that was giving me a bit of a headache in addition to a carb craving.

As we moved through the maze of shoppers and tourists, actually it was the horrid combination of shopping tourists who think it's OK to stop in mid sidewalk to take pictures of, what? The Fifth Avenue street sign?! Are you fucking kidding me? Unfazed, Hyun guided me through the throngs of people towards a place we could have dinner. We unwittingly landed at a Mexican restaurant in the dining concourse of Grand Central Terminal. We weren't expecting to be wowed and we weren't. But hunger overrode our internal culinary critics. By the end of dinner, she had provided me with a dating strategy that was sure to work. By not calling or communicating until Saturday, I could regain the upper hand! This lasted a whole hour. The following text history is, you know what? I can't even share it. One because it's way too crazy for anyone else to stomach and, two, it's not fair to him to have a personal conversation blogged so blatantly.

But I will say this. OK, I'll share an excerpt:
Crazy: I suck at these games
Crazy: this is why I'm better off alone
Boston: stop
Boston: dont say that
Boston: look i will call u in the morning and we will have a nice talk
Crazy: no, it's OK
Crazy: let's just chalk it up to a nice weekend
Boston: i will call u tomorrow
Crazy: I'm not playing by your rules
Boston: i dont have any rules
Boston: fine
Boston: i am not playing either
Crazy: This is entirely me, I get that.
Boston: all of a sudden it became stressful for me to talk to u
Crazy: yep, that sounds familiar
Crazy: again, all me, I get it
Boston: stop
Boston: look not here
Boston: besides i have to get back to edit
Crazy: Look, it's fine, really. I get that I'm neurotic. I just need to find someone who can deal with it
Boston: are we cool?
Crazy: sure
Boston: hmmmm
Crazy: I stress you out, I stress me out
Boston: i really like u
Crazy: anyway, I've said too much, as usual
Boston: i think you're an awesome person
Boston: you are soo cool
Boston: and smart and hip
Crazy: the text melee
Crazy: wouldn't have transpired if you had just said- I can't talk today
Crazy: I'll call you in the morning
Boston: then i am sorry for not saying that
Boston: ok look i really should go
Crazy: ok
Boston: talk to u tomorrow

There was a bit more but basically, it boils down to the fact that I've been miraculously granted another go at things with Boston. Now I have to decide if I'm going to keep on keeping on the crazy train or get off at the Patience stop. I'll probably have a brief layover at Patience then jump back on Crazy train. No I won't. I've learned my lesson. I hope.

Angst-ridden

THIS is WHY I'm happier without a man in my life!! Tortured by doubts and nagging misgivings about this whole experiment in a "healthy" relationship, I had been wanting to soothe my anxiety by talking to Boston. He seems to have a calming effect on me. But, as fate would have it, he's been locked in a marathon edit for three fucking days!!! And in the absence of the instant gratification of contact, I've been forced back into my henpecking ways. Last night, he sneaked out to give me a quick call and I told him I needed to talk to him. He suggested this morning. "No, I'm at work." Then he suggested we speak in the evening. "Fine," I said while sighing severely. He didn't take the bait.
"OK, have a great day tomorrow," he said and hung up.

I had an enlightening session with my therapist today who pointed out that the fact that I wasn't shopping for a wedding dress wasn't really an indication that this was all wrong. She pointed out that I was actually behaving "normally", a concept completely foreign to me. "It's natural to question something when it's so new, you don't always have to live in extremes." Easier said than done especially when I've been anointed the Drama Queen by more than one friend and have shown virtually no indication of abdicating my throne. So now you have the prelude to the text melee.

3:21 pm EST- R U busy?
3:28- Yes. Hi.
3:30- OK. Fine. (this is where Crazy makes her first appearance.)
no response.
4:19- I don't like u anymore (reverting to third grade)
no response.
4:30- Im kidding. Basically I'm having a conversation with myself...as usual. Let me know if you'd like to participate. (Here I'd like to point out that this is what I do when there's a lull in our IM-ing, but to be honest, this comment has no justification- it's rather pathetic.)
no response.
7:27- What time will you be free?
7:36- In mtg now. Then edit. then free
8:34- what time?
no response

Here's a response for me: STOP BEING PSYCHO! Now I remember how it was possible for me to be dumped by lesser men. It's like watching a train derail itself and head towards destruction... in slow motion. Christ.

Doubter's Prison

I'm in it. Doubter's prison. That's what I'm calling the paralysis by analysis that has gripped me in the wake of a wonderful weekend with Boston. Upon arrival into the city tonight, I was plagued with doubts about what I was doing with this guy. I've already told him that I'm in "sabotage mode" and he's told me that he's willing to deal with some of the crap that comes "within reason." Again, such a relative term. A deal-breaker for some is a deal-maker for others. For instance, I had a guy pull me in for a big bear hug when I told him that I, too, was 420 friendly (this is in the past, ahem, now I don't inhale). And another boyfriend call me a "druggie" for the same reason. Perception is reality.

Here's my perspective at the moment. I may very well be incapable of a healthy, happy relationship. There may be some truth to the allegations that I'm 1.) only happy when it rains, 2.)drawn to emotionally-unavailable men, and 3.)just plain crazy. Some of you may be compelled to rush to my side out of loyalty and the fact that my fears resonate with you and if I'm crazy, you're crazy, too. Others are nodding in agreement. You know who you are.

But here's the thing. There's always a "thing." In this case, it's this: if both of us are short, who's going to reach for things on the top shelf? Get a step ladder?! Where's the fun in that? But seriously, he's a petite man, sort of. OK, not really but I'm pulling away faster than a frat boy who just felt the transvestite's bulge and realized why it was called "The Crying Game." And I'd chalk it up to me just not feeling it and walk away except for this: I do like him, me thinks. We had a great time in Vegas, went shopping, drank pints at Blondie's. He even made me do a Jagermeister shot which took me straight back to sophomore year in college. The things I drank for a quick buzz. But I digress. I enjoy talking to him, I enjoy hanging out with him, he doesn't say things that make me cringe and is pretty intuitive. And while I was with him, I was fine with the height thing but it's when I look back on it and picture us together that I get all weirded out. Why can't he be TALL?!!

And, finally, here's what makes me see what others who deem me crazy see. I have been dumped by guys shorter than Boston. One was a sportscaster who told me he didn't like to fish from the company pier- the use of the term alone should have disqualified him- then proceeded to shack up with another co-worker. Then there was the guy I met from the U.A.E. He really was a petite man and yet, I didn't bat an eye. But he was in love with his ex who had just married someone else and broke his tiny heart. Maybe it was the challenge factor that blurred the height issue. My point, and I swear I'm getting to it, is that it's not a well-established deal breaker. So why am I freaking out?!

Vertical challenges

For some reason, Boston still likes me. He was unfazed by my shallow google search of Jermaine Dupre's height. He's very clear about how things are. "You're crazy and neurotic and I can deal with that but I can't deal with you being selfish." Selfish. That word is thrown around so liberally. I mean aren't we all selfish? You reading this blog is a form of entertainment (some days more than others) and that's a bit self-indulgent. Being self-indulgent can be construed as selfish.

His warning stemmed from an earlier declaration that I do expect men to pay for dinner on the first date. If, for no other reason, as compensation for the pleasure of my company. Wait, that makes me sound like a prostitute. It started with, "I'll buy you dinner on Saturday," before his arrival. "Of course you will," I replied.

I'm slowly getting past the height issue but remain in sabotage mode. For instance, tonight when he called me after a really long day, I blurted out, "You're not a bullshitter are you?" Freakshow. That's me. I was suddenly overcome with doubt about whether he was an up and coming filmmaker or.. full of shit. "Where is this coming from?" Boston always cuts to the chase. "I was just thinking that I don't know that much about what you do at this production company, I mean we've never talked about it." It sounds dumb now but at the time it sounded dumber. "Then ask THAT," he directed, did I mention he's a director? I concurred that I should be more direct and less shady about my inquiries in the future. I know some of you are rooting for Boston and are disgusted at my overt efforts to derail this love train but I'M TRYING!!! You can't expect me to deconstruct years of programming in one week. I'm used to men being myopic, insincere, and judgmental. Playing on a level field is a bit daunting.

The BIG Reveal

I've gotta make this fast because Boston is in the room. So I'm in Vegas. I finally had the opportunity to put a face and body to the voice on the phone. Let's just say that the events over the last 24 hours have led to a chilling realization: I'm shallow. A couple of years ago I was in a similar situation when a blind date flew to New York from Columbus for the big reveal. When we finally came face to face, I was dismayed to see that he looked like Shrek. That sounds awful, but his oafish mannerisms coupled with the way he carried himself only added to my assessment. And he kept saying things that left the door wide open for me to tell him how I felt, "Wow. You look better than your pictures." Umm, you look just like you did in the movie. But I resisted out of consideration for his feelings. He was relentless. "So what do you THINK?!" he finally demanded. I told him that there was a spark that we lacked and I needed in order to move forward. His response was to call me "vapid, vacuous, and vain." He may have used other entries from the "V" section of Webster's but I forget. Consequently, I am highly skeptical of making a connection over the phone and having it pan out in person. This skepticism has proven almost prophetic. Granted, there are those who may be apt to call it self-fulfilling prophecy. But, in my defense, I have to say that slurping soup straight from your over sized soup bowl and then dunking your sandwich in your date's soup is grounds for dismissal.

That was then. This is now. Yesterday, I was a stress grenade. I arrived in Las Vegas, went to lunch with a friend and his girlfriend and played with my food while they ate. "What's wrong?" I had no appetite, my stomach in knots. "What if he's a petite man?" I asked my friend who himself is 5'5". "Is the height of a guy to a woman what big boobs are to men?" Is it? I would venture to say yes but only if men disqualify women based on their chest size which I haven't heard. Plus, there's a remedy for flat-chested women. I saw an episode on Nip/Tuck about how leg-extension surgery is painful and delivers minimal results. I decided to get a massage to alleviate some of the stress. It helped a little. Around 7:30 Boston finally got in Vegas from L.A. He knocked on my room door. I opened it. He was just as good-looking as his pictures, even sexy. There was a palpable attraction. OK. And, he was probably an inch or two taller than me. A wave of relief washed over me. OK, I can deal with this.

We went out for dinner and drinks and it was fun. But today, I was having serious doubts about this. He's almost my height. Or at least that's what it feels like. But Katie Holmes is cool with Tom Cruise, although I'm sure him showering her with money and jewels combined with the fact that he's Hollywood royalty makes looking down at him easier. Then there's Janet Jackson who seems to have found unprecedented happiness with Jermaine Dupre who's 5'5". It was bothering me, tho, and because I have the emotional maturity of a five year old when it comes to concealing my true feelings, Boston knew something was up. "What's your problem?" he asked today at brunch at Commander's Palace- which is the most amazing brunch I've ever had in my life and that's saying a lot because brunch is my favorite meal of the week. I squirmed. "I'm having some issues with the whole height thing," I confessed. I know you think I'm an asshole but that's why I like Boston because I can be myself- the Love Pariah Unplugged, and he seems to appreciate it. He looked me straight in the eye, took a long sip of his Bloody Mary and replied, "That's your issue, not mine." So I'm trying to deal. But it was fun and maybe, if I'm not the Love Pariah, I'll come to grips with the height issue and realize that --- standby for cliche--- good things come in small packages.

SHIT. Boston just came over and I minimized this window only to end up on what I had just googled. "Jermaine Dupre- HEIGHT?" He asked. Yeah, I answered. "What are you doing?" he wanted to know. "I'm blogging," I answered matter-of-factly. He knows I have a blog but hasn't gone in search of it because, well, because he's smart. Anyway, he asked why I looked up height. What could I say? Now he's pissed. OK, time to turn on the charm or babble incessantly about something unrelated. I'll probably end up doing the latter. Shit.

Backwards Camel Toe?

My sister pointed this ad out to me. At first I couldn't understand why she was directing me to a site that sells outdoor gear and wear and then I saw the picture.
"That's what they look like on a mannequin?!" She asked incredulously. And she was right. Why would anyone buy a pair of pants that looked like they offered the comfort of a backwards camel toe to the lucky wearer?! Yet again, I must point out the language of the ad warning to "act fast 'cuz once they're gone, you're SOL!" And then the description. Don't you want to know?
Stride out in comfort and style when you hit the trails in a pair of Outdoor Research Women's Catalyst Pants. Their stretch-woven fabric ensures maximum comfort when you're high-stepping on rocks, and a DWR coating fights off moisture if it starts to rain. Outdoor Research even gave the Catalyst Pants a low-rise waist for added style when you head into town for a post-trail meal.

OK, don't wear the Catalyst pants unless you're trying to catalyze a fashion emergency. And, if the comfort wins you over, don't you dare trot into town with those sure-to-ride up and make your thong feel permanently embedded pants.

This warning brought to you by the Coalition Against Cruelty to Fashion.