Too Many Endings

I told everyone that stood still long enough to listen. And followed some people that didn't. I was so excited about this potential relationship, got so far ahead of myself, that it actually ended before it even began.

I've gone through a breakup without having the relationship. And yes, it makes me feel absolutely psychotic to say that.

In a nutshell, things for the past couple of months have been in sort of a flirty state of bliss. The potential for something was there, and although I tried not to think about it being more than it really was, it became clear that he was something special, and that this just might happen.

But a few days ago, something changed. Something that I can't put my finger on because I am too busy feeling crazy for putting as much emotional effort into something that wasn't even really there.

I know I put too much into things. I know I run full force at situations when really all they need is some gentle coercing. But now, after all this time alone, I feel desperate, like I'm running out of time.

Then the rational voice kicks in, and I realize that out of this situation, I have a really great new friendship. He, in all likelihood, has little to no idea how my head is spinning about this. And the funny part is, it's really not even about him.

It's about how I am missing the comfort of a partner so much that I am forcing puzzle pieces together that don't quite fit. I am trying to be someone that I'm not so desperately that I am forgetting what I really am. I am anwering questions with the answers I think he would want, instead of the answers that I feel.

If I must think of a purpose for this latest blip in my almost-dating life, he came into my life at the exact right time. I started considering this guy as the ex's engagement was still an open wound. But now that's closed, and somehow I feel like my options went with it.

If my altered state tells me anything, it's that this would have been really bad if it had dragged on longer, and we had an actual full-blown relationship. The akward walk into the office, the akward train home, the occasional akward co-worker get-together. But it's just not much comfort now.

And what's making me feel worse is that I know that my life, despite the haze, is still the one that I was so grateful just a few months ago. I'm feeling guilty for harping on the small details in my life when people around me are suffering with actual problems. And I'm feeling even more guilty for not being grateful enough for the people that have reached out to help.
But I can't seem to get things together.

The Lonely Season

I am finally done with all my holiday shopping stories. Work is done, for the day at least, and tomorrow is a day to be spent with family. Only my family isn't here.
They will be celebrating Thanksgiving together while I am here in the city wishing I was with them. Wishing I could get a break from all the noise, and the crowds, and my life for only a minute.
I am filled with an overwhelming lack of confidence at work.
I am starting to realize that the crush is not going to be anything more than that.
I am not with my family on Thanksgiving, and I likely won't be able to see many of them for Christmas, either.

I haven't been able to think clearly for a while now. Somehow, everything got muddled again.

Cleaning in Cowboy Boots

I know, after so long, what's really the point? I'm getting to it, dude.

Written July 31, 2007
I spent an hour or so after work today cleaning my room, with ratty shorts and a t-shirt, my nano tucked into my sports bra, and cowboy boots.
I am a flip-flop girl. In fact, I hate wearing shoes, and take them off anytime I'm given the chance. But the cowboy boots had a purpose today - I am breaking them in for a trip in two weeks to a dude ranch in Wyoming. City Slickers Style.
While I've been planning for months with my friend Kate, who I 've known for about a year and a half now, it seems like it all crept up so fast on me. First, the trip was a very bad idea. It was the idea blurted out after a night of too much red wine, the first night I met Kate. She had been friends with the ex and he introduced us, although originally all I had to talk to her about him, about regrets, and about lost time.
There are too many things that I feel like I can't talk to her about, and sometimes I feel as if I befriended someone that spies for the enemy. I sometimes wonder if that feeling will ever go away.

But, right now, I'm busy breaking in the cowboy boots for a trip that will make me the person I always say I want to be: the adventurous one, the traveler, the dreamer. That, in a nutshell, has been this year for me. Through all the crap, all the heartache, all the mistakes I made over and over again, I did something right. I did something right to deserve the job that gives me chills. And I did something right to feel like I could continue this relationship, no matter how it began.

More Pictures!

Some more pictures from the amazing trip out West...

A Spacer, If You Will

Ok, I promise to get going on this whole blog thing again soon.

I'll tell you about the trip, and how great it was, despite the company. And I'll tell you about the job, which is still amazing even through all the anxiety. And I'll tell you about the office crush, which sometimes makes like feel like I'm in 8th grade again, but sometimes makes a day feel worth it.

But for now, this is for you, John.

The Beginning

The Bitter End

Last week was spent at an amazing ranch in Wyoming, where I rode horses, drove cattle, and played cowboy.
But I'll begin at the end of the trip, because that's what is making my hands shake and stomach sick.

After getting home after a late flight and a long and windy ride with a confused cabbie, I ran to check my e-mail. I hadn't touched a computer since before the trip, and I was chomping at the bit for some kind of 21st century communication.

I noticed an e-mail from the ex. I wasn't expecting this:

"I hope your trip is going well or went well depending on when you get this

I want to let you know that over the weekend 8/10 I got engaged its not a
joke and I'm sure it quite a surprise still is for me also

I wanted to tell you myself and not have you find out from Kate or another
source which would be a rather lousy way to find out"

For a split second, I wanted to give all the career success away, and just have someone to be happy with. I didn't cry. I had a laugh with my roommates about it all, and poked some fun at the girl I know nothing about. But it stayed with me through the night, and sleep proved impossible. The iPod this morning spent half the commute this morning jolting me awake from the jet-lagged haze and the other half creating tears that welled up in my eyes.

The worst part about it is that for once, he was honest. He told me upfront and directly about something significant - something he never did while we were dating. He's the person I always wanted him to be, only now he is with someone else.

I don't want him anymore. I haven't wanted him for a long time. But all of a sudden, I am back to square one.

Dysfunctional

I have ten drafts wating to post. All ten are three-quarters of the way done. Kind of like everything else in my life lately-not quite complete.
I have become one of those people that I hate - those people that say they never have 'time'. I hope there is a day when my job won't feel so overwhelming, and a day when I stop obsessing over insignificant details to the point of exhaustion.
But I'm just so tired. And I feel like maybe I wasn't that far off when I said in a previous post that I think the stability is killing my creativity.
Have I really become one of those people that needs something to go wrong to feel a rush of creative energy?

Better Late Than Never

Ok, a brief disclaimer: This was written exactly two months ago, when I was still fresh and new at the AP (you know, the time before you feel like you're allowed to check your personal e-mail?) Anyway, I felt the need to share. Enjoy.

April 27, 2007
I went to a going away party for one of the business editors tonight. A going away party for a person I hadn't talked to, except for when we were introduced.

"This is Samantha, she comes to us from a fashion publication," my trainer said to him on my first day at the AP, with the inflection of a gate monitor at the Magic Kingdom.

His eyes rolled off to the side with what I thought was judgment.

Fashion. Why did she have to tell people? Of anything, anywhere, is there anything that could make these people take me less seriously than that?

Of course, after she said it to every one of those 40 people in my division, I wanted to crawl in a cave and die, or at least wave a white flag. I can't handle this. It's too much, too big, too intense. The confidence I had was gone now, hidden behind a nervous smile as I asked:

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

But the days have gone by, and through every 8 hours more questions arise, and more instructions roll through my head about how I am supposed to act. I am laughing more though. And smiling more. Feeling like myself again.

These people, my co-workers, are ridiculously nice. Coming over to my desk, one hand gently on my back, the other guiding the mouse where it is supposed to go. Instant messages blink on my computer screen from editors "just making sure I'm ok."

"Just a note to say you are doing great. It will get better and easier eventually, I promise. Take a deep breath. Hope you are having a good day."

"Samantha, how are you? I want to assign you this mover (a story about a significant stock move) -- have you done this before? Wanna take a crack at it?"

The most dramatic time in my short lived career at the AP happened when the editor I was assigned to called me over for some personal instruction. That day had been a tough one - I was on my own for the first time, with computer programs I barely knew and numbers of which I did not know the relevance.
He called me over like you would call a dog to jump in the car to go to the vet. His body stiff, I knew I was in for something. And whatever it was, it didn't seem good. Not good at all.

I lined up behind him like a child waiting to be punished. He put his fingertips together and then lifted his hands to his face. Deep breaths in and out; I watched as he contemplated his next move. I let my own eyes close gently as I let the breath out of my lungs; the calm before the inevitable storm.

His silence made me even more afraid of what he would think of this first big centerpiece story. But as I was leaning in to hear if he had any edits for me, he threw his head back and slammed his hands on the desk.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he shouts. Uh-oh. What did I do?
He says is again. I am terrified. Not only am I going to get yelled at but it's going to be loud.

"Samantha, this is great. Really great. Jesus, when you write your first book, can I have a free copy?"

Note to self: Confidence helps ease the fears of being killed by my boss.

Wait'a'ya hear this!

In a move of unparalleled conceit, today I set up a Google Alert: for myself.

Summer in the City

It's summer in New York today- the sun is bright and parties have spilled out onto the streets. My block is bursting with Latin sounds and the smell of grilling meat and the smoke of firecrackers.

I can't help but think that this is a new beginning for me...as the new job is starting to feel like routine and my life is opening up with new possibilities. Some things have stayed the same, although I have a fear that with every thing new and exciting comes something from my old life being pushed out.

There are friends I haven't talked to in ages that I wonder about. My best friend is getting married in a few short months and yet phone calls to her have gone unreturned. I haven't talked to her since she announced the engagement, and I miss the sound of her voice.
I no longer have the security of the ex's voice on the phone, although gruff and unemotional most of the time, was still a way I pushed through the loneliness.
I haven't talked to my sister since I came back to the city from a visit over a month and a half ago. I am partly to blame--I think the sadness I felt at the old job was more serious than I knew at the time. A depression, possibly, although I don't want to admit it. I feel a bit of a cloud over my life now even though everything at work is what I imagined it to be, and my social life is starting to pick up again.

Everything is how I have planned it for so long, but my head is spinning. I can't slow down the days enough to get my breath and I feel I am leaving some very important pieces of myself behind.

Insider Trading Tip of the Day

Sell your shares in Microsoft. Bill Gates did. See my story:

http://biz.yahoo.com/ap/070510/microsoft_insider_transactions.html?.v=1

* Note and disclaimer: I actually know nothing about finance.

Long-Awaited Milestone

It hit me on Saturday very unexpectedly: I think I am over "The Relationship."

He is back in the town where we went to college; I am here. We have plenty of miles between us, and plenty of reasons to move on, but somehow I thought it would never happen.

We both held on like we were nothing without the other, even if things between us had changed beyond recognition. He met someone a week after I moved out. He moved in with her four months later. Every part of that, even though he never spoke of her directly to me, crushed what little bit of hope I had for a reconciliation.

But I still held on, for some reason: fear of not finding someone better, fear of moving to an overwhelming and unfamiliar place, and fear of losing the one person with whom I shared a huge piece of history.

After more time passed, and after hearing from other friends about how how his new relationship was getting more serious, I tried to pull away. I stopped initiating conversations, I stopped finding reasons to send a text message or e-mail. But he kept calling, and I kept picking up.

That about sums up the last two years. Whether he realized it or not, he was pulling the strings. And I let him for a million different reasons. That relationship, the one after me, ending in cheating. The day after he moved in with her, I later found out, he read her diary and found out she had slept with a married man. Any sympathy I could possibly offer was completely overshadowed by the feeling that this situation was the best kind of karma - I felt like he fell in love with a girl that dished back everything he ever did to me. But the satisfaction came way too late.

Everyone that knows the two of us, and how long it has been since we were happy together, would undoubtedly roll their eyes at my admission that I now feel "over it." Should have made a clean break. Should have never given him so many chances. Should have never continued a friendship. Should have left it alone, and moved on. Should have never taken this much time to get over it.

So now I have finally caught up to everyone else who was begging me to leave it alone. I am even pushing to finish this blog even though I just got an e-mail from him:

"i was cleaning up my computer and found some of these pics from your rowing banquet - not sure if you had them or not

hope things at the new job are going well

I head home on friday for jenas graduation..."

And just like that, its done.
Of course my mom snapped last night when I said this, and rightly so. Its far from 'just like that' - it has taken so much out of us, it has taken me to a place where I thought I would never trust again, and I still am in a place where I am terrified of being alone.

But this correspondence feels enough like the final ties being cut that I am thinking, sigh, its finally over.

The Lesson

I have been away for a while. A long while. I blame the new job- I think the stability is stifling my creativity.

Seriously though, the past three weeks have spelled so many changes for my life and the way I perceive the future. After all, it was not that long ago that I sat at my desk at the fashion magazine and thought I would never get back to doing what I wanted for a living.

I took advantage of my life here, in this incredible city, but not in a good way - I let it fly by because I thought I deserved better than I had. Well, the thing is, everyone does. I was no different. There are countless people who are miserable in their jobs. And countless more that are miserable in their lives. And I let these wonderful places, people and opportunities get away because I let my life overcome who I really am.

Of course clarity is easy to come by now that I have the career I've always wanted. These people, my co-workers, are simply amazing journalists who I am honored to be around. The third day I was here, someone about 10 desks away won the Pulitzer Prize. These reporters provide copy for The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and countless other major newspapers and websites, yet they are some of the most humble people I have ever met.¶
That is not to say that this place is void of the normal complaints about computer functions or office politics. That is here too. I just can't hear the noise through my own head, clambering with the joy of being here, and with people who appreciate the integrity and drama of what real journalism is.

It took a friend going through an overwhelming personal struggle to visit to first give me the proverbial slap in the face. His constant smile and optimism made me realize all that I was missing here, all around me. His appreciation for every little event throughout the day, every place we went, made me want to do more here and stop blaming a long-ago boyfriend for my social anxiety and fear of commitment.

Of course, as the days pass, the speed by which they go seems to increase. I am trying to get back in the social game. I am trying to go to some museum openings and photography expositions, and even some parties. I don't feel completely different, but I do feel more free. A recent spat over rent with a roommate would have sent me over the edge if I were in my old job. I still feel overwhelmed, but I am trying to remember that in the end, its all relative.

Better Late Than Never

Ok, a brief disclaimer: This was written exactly two months ago, when I was still fresh and new at the AP (you know, the time before you feel like your allowed to check your personal e-mail?) Anyway, I felt the need to share. Enjoy.

April 27, 2007
I went to a going away party for one of the business editors tonight. A going away party for a person I hadn't talked to, except for when we were introduced.

"This is Samantha, she comes to us from a fashion publication," my trainer said to him on my first day at the AP, with the inflection of a gate monitor at the Magic Kingdom.

His eyes rolled off to the side with what I thought was judgment.

Fashion. Why did she have to tell people? Of anything, anywhere, is there anything that could make these people take me less seriously than that?

Of course, after she said it to every one of those 40 people in my division, I wanted to crawl in a cave and die, or at least wave a white flag. I can't handle this. It's too much, too big, to intense. The confidence I had was gone now, hidden behind a nervous smile as I asked:

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

But the days have gone by, and through every 8 hours more questions arise, and more instructions roll through my head about how I am supposed to act. I am laughing more though. And smiling more. Feeling like myself again.

These people, my co-workers, are ridiculously nice. Coming over to my desk, one hand gently on my back, the other guiding the mouse where it is supposed to go. Instant messages blink on my computer screen from editors "just making sure I'm ok."

"Just a note to say you are doing great. It will get better and easier eventually, I promise. Take a deep breath. Hope you are having a good day."

"Samantha, how are you? I want to assign you this mover (a story about a significant stock move) -- have you done this before? Wanna take a crack at it?"

The most dramatic time in my short lived career at the AP happened when the editor I was assigned to called me over for some personal instruction. That day had been a tough one - I was on my own for the first time, with computer programs I barely knew and numbers of which I did not know the relevance.
He called me over like you would call a dog to jump in the car to go to the vet. His body stiff, I knew I was in for something. And whatever it was, it didn't seem good. Not good at all.

I lined up behind him like a child waiting to be punished. He put his fingertips together and then lifted his hands to his face. Deep breaths in and out; I watched as he contemplated his next move. I let my own eyes close gently as I let the breath out of my lungs; the calm before the inevitable storm.

His silence made me even more afraid of what he would think of this first big centerpiece story. But as I was leaning in to hear if he had any edits for me, he threw his head back and slammed his hands on the desk.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he shouts. Uh-oh. What did I do?
He says is again. I am terrified. Not only am I going to get yelled at but it's going to be loud.

"Samantha, this is great. Really great. Jesus, when you write your first book, can I have a free copy?"

Note to self: Confidence helps ease the fears of being killed by my boss.

Back in the Khakis Again

written Monday, March 26

Well, I did it. And it feels sweeter than I ever could have imagined.
Last Thursday I received the call that I could only dream would ever come. I received an offer for a financial reporting position for The Associated Press.
For the two weeks that have passed since the interview, I have spent a lot of time in my own head. A lot of time trying to visualize something this wonderful happening. A lot of time praying for it, and trying to think of reasons why I deserved it (that has been the hardest part.)
For the four days that have passed since the offer, I have spent a lot of time in my own head, too. A lot of time thinking that this could not possibly have happened to me. A lot of time replaying the conversation, trying to confirm that I, in fact, heard him right. "Congratulations," the editor said, almost bashfully, before he went into a slew of information about salary, benefits, and other things that I don't remember.
I don't remember because I was distracted with wiping the tears from my face, and feeling weak in the knees.

I know that there are a lot of things that can happen in a span of a lifetime that have a lot more weight than this. I know that there are people, lots of them in fact, that are going through the most difficult of times and yet have been there to support me every step of the way. But right now, I'm taking this in for all its worth.

Reading Between the Lines

Disclaimer: Scout realizes that she has absolutely no business posting this blog; in fact she thinks it may be seriously damaging to her career karma. But it’s just too damn funny to keep to herself. (And when did she begin referring to herself in the third person? Scout is worried.)

People have been dropping like flies in the office lately, either getting fired or finding jobs where the phones work, ceilings don’t leak, and deadlines exist for the well-being of all the cute little editorial drones.

So part of my responsibilities now include sifting through the electronic pile of crap, A.K.A. the 500 resumes we have received for a single job posting. The whole experience has made me realize exactly how competitive publishing is in this city, and how lucky I was to make to the top of at least one of these piles. But I digress.

As I sifted, one of these resumes stood out, but not for the reasons you want to stick out to a potential employer.

Of course, his name has been changed to protect him from the laughing and pointing that would surely commence when people found out what he put on his resume.

Ok, Frank, here we go.


OBJECTIVE: To obtain a position in the field of mass media.

Me: Mmm Kay.

EDUCATION: BA in Broadcasting, Telecommunications, and Mass Media. (Cum Laude)

Me: Ohh, he’s smart. This guy has potential.

SKILLS:

Me: You know, numb chuck skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills….

OK, good. Wait…what the hell???

Just then I saw the reason I wouldn’t be calling poor Frank for an interview. Under a sub-head of “Transferable Skills,” This Cum Laude had listed the following:

Servant-like attitude. Concerned for the good of the workplace and the audience.

Servant-like attitude? What does that even mean? And why are you putting it on YOUR RESUME??????

Poor Frank went on to list:

Proactive, Motivated, Innovative. Works Overnights and Weekends. Ready to Learn.

He deemed the following so important he gave them separate bullet points an increased the font size to about 50.

Functions Well Under Pressure.

My head is feeling pressure.

Willing to Relocate.

Scout really hopes she doesn’t get sued for this, or she'll have to relocate. I hear South America is nice this time of year.

W.W.M.D.?

I woke up on Saturday to find no one home. With three roommates, it just doesn’t happen that often. Someone is almost always passing by, or on her way out or in.

So, to celebrate having my beloved-yet-cramped New York apartment all to myself, I left my bed head the way it was and I dragged myself out of my room to the kitchen where I made pancakes and ate very quietly as to enjoy the full depth of the experience.

I sank deeper into the sofa; I listened to the birds chirping (well actually they were pigeons, and I think they were making so much noise because they had gotten stuck in the air shaft, but this is inconsequential to the end of this blog.)

I could do anything I wanted — as long as I didn’t leave the apartment. I had staked my claim on the place, and for a few hours, I was determined it was going to be mine, and mine alone.

Should I do yoga, or clean my room? Watch a movie, or lie around and read for hours? The possibilities were running through my head as I walked into the bathroom, slammed the door, and like one of those slow-motion movie scenes, went straight for the door handle and realized I was stuck. In the bathroom. With no one home.

Not only has our bathroom door been painted and repainted so many times that it sticks shut, but last week the inside knob somehow became disconnected to the whole apparatus, and it was locking my roommates in like prisoners in solitary.

While we waited for the super to fix it, the temporary solution was to leave the door ajar while we were, ehem, in there. But this time I found myself stuck, and completely alone.

The heat in that tiny room made it feel as if the walls were closing in. So I opened the window and sat on the handy chair provided for me, complete with the frilly seat cover.

I began to think: What Would MacGyver Do?

I grabbed a hairpin out of the medicine cabinet and began to pick the lock. Nothing. Right about now I was kicking myself for not paying more attention to the MacGyver episodes my ex used to watch.

I pounded the door with frustration. Not only was I stuck, but my few precious hours of alone time were ruined.

I thought about climbing out the tiny window. But I live on the fifth floor, and concluded the chance of hurling to the ground was too great to plot escape.

I started to pick at the lock again with a decorative seashell. Still nothing.

After almost an hour, I decided the only thing that was going to get me out was either to scream like a little girl or kick the door until it broke. I did both.

The screaming got a concerned neighbor to come to the front door, only to realize she didn’t have a spare key to our apartment. So while she stood there, helpless in the hallway, I kicked the door until it split clean down the middle.

Soon after that my roommates came home. I went to my room and took a nap.

Richard Dean Anderson, I salute you.

The Religous Experience

I went to church last night. I sat there, trying to enjoy the huge, silent cathedral in the heart of Manhattan, but my mind was racing. It was then I realized I don’t do this enough. I don’t sit alone in the quiet, because sometime in the past two years quiet has become uncomfortable. The noise is deafening outside the church, and the glare of Rockefeller center, the women in the Coach store buying expensive purses with their iPods blaring.
This is the atmosphere I am accustomed to now — the constant clambering, pounding, screeching.

My roommate, who is very religious, asked me if I had gone to church yet when I told her about the big interview. I explained that it felt strange to be asking for something after I had spent so much time away, so much time avoiding the silence. She encouraged me, and I wanted to go – in the past I have gone in for mass, or to light a candle, or just to sit for a few minutes before returning to the noise.

But a conversation with a close friend this weekend put the idea back in my head, as I counted up the times I have been to church, or even stopped to take a deep breath and say thank you for the life I am living, which, right now, feels like the one I have always asked for.

Of course religion for me, like it does for many people, brings feelings of guilt along with any feelings of relief it provides. I remember going to mass once or twice when I was a kid, (we were Holiday Catholics to the extreme) and never knew the reason why I was not permitted to go up to the front of the church and receive communion. Maybe I wasn’t old enough, maybe I wasn’t (fill in the blank) enough, but we never went to mass frequently so it wasn’t something I felt I needed to ask my mother about. It was only when I was an adult that I finally put all the pieces together.

I knew I wasn’t baptized as my brother and sister had been. I just assumed my mother, a single parent, had stopped going to church over the years, and didn’t think it important to go through this ceremony with me. Through pieces of conversations when I was younger, I learned my brother and sister (10 and 8 years older) were adopted and my mother divorced her high school sweetheart when they were little. It was not until I was a young teenager as my mother tucked me into bed that I said something about her being married twice. She looked away, the Catholic guilt stained her face. She corrected me, saying she was only married once, kissed my forehead gently and walked out of the room.

I lay awake for hours trying to piece her history, and mine, together in my head.

Now that I am older, these conversations with my mother are more clear and linear. I am still afraid to some extent to ask big questions, but she is no longer so hesitant in giving me the answers.

His name, my father, was Stanley Harris. He was a working-class man, an elevator operator. My mother was alone, with two small children when they met. They were together, although my mother perhaps knew she would never love him the way she was supposed to love a man. He was a comfortable place for her to fall, although he was little support when she really needed him. After I was born, they arranged to get married, picked out a suit for my brother, and a flower girl dress for my sister. Her side of the story, the only side I have ever known, says that he was never fully reliable. Always wanting to come and go as he pleased, and never committing to the idea of marriage, or being a father.

So one day, when I was five or so, she told him to leave and never come back. And he never did.

I have told very few people that my parents were never married. I have dealt with it in my own way, but it will never stop being my little secret, I suppose.

So I let the silence engulf me last night. I sat and observed the other visitors, all better Catholics, better people perhaps, than I. I sat in the pew for a half-hour before my head calmed, and I could pray. I asked God for the strength to wait for an answer from the AP. I asked for the result I wanted. I asked for patience. I asked Him to show me the right way to pray. I asked for forgiveness for not being a better Catholic. I lit a candle.

So now my world is spinning again. But I am calmer. The calm is, however, peppered with questions. And I guess, to some extent, those will never stop.

The Fire

In an attempt at clarifying my last post: The truth is I didn't run out of ideas. I just had so many ideas, so many things happening to me, all at once, at what seemed like warp speed, I couldn't even stop to take a breath let alone sit, contemplate, and write about it.

I am still in the job that I don't want in the city that I do, but since I last put hand to keyboard I have been promoted, and taken on so many new responsibilities I can't always remember what happened 20 minutes ago, or where I left my keys so I can go home to sleep for a few precious hours before having to return to the deadline that never seemed to end.

I was flattered by the promotion, and so far I have taken it extremely seriously - working 90-hour weeks and trying to make as many changes as I have the power to. But this magazine, this office, was turning long before I stepped onto the stage. I know for sure that I didn't start this fire, but in the effort to satisfy some personal goal to be a success at this, I have started to put out the flames with my bare hands, which is simply exhausting.

Of course all deadlines end eventually, and my first ended almost as uneventfully as the others. I am avoiding the calls from co-workers, even though they are some of closest friends, because I know that inadvertently the conversation may drift back to talk of "The Office," and my shoulders tense up and begin to tingle with pain. I will see them at work and apologize for not returning their calls next week, I think to myself. Just a few more hours to enjoy the quiet.

But the quiet does not hold me for long, because my brain is racing about tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

In the heart of last week's deadline, I took a short lunch break with a co-worker. We had made a rule that there would be no talk of the office during this much-needed venture outside those four walls, which left us with absolutely nothing to say. We sat, quietly, until my cell phone rang. My shoulders once again began to tense. It's my editor, I thought, there is something she needs, something I haven't done....why can't I even get out for 20 f-ing minutes without a call from that b---

But it wasn't a number I recognized. I picked up. A woman began to speak. She was from Human Resources at The Associated Press, looking to schedule an interview. I got a cramp in my stomach. I made the appointment, trying to remain as calm as I could possibly be after receiving the call I had been waiting for for two years. The call I was beginning to admit, that I thought would never come.

So as I sit here, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, my shoulders are tense again. Not because of deadlines, or angry bosses, or added responsibility. But because my future is going to be decided tomorrow morning, at 11 a.m., when I walk into the offices of The AP.

Sure, if I don't get the job, other things will come along. But for some reason, this time, this interview is different. The stakes are higher, much higher, and I just hope that it's my time to jump out of the fire.

Pondering My Starbucks Cup

I have officially run out original ideas.
So here are someone else's words that I found in the last place I would of thought to look: the side of my morning coffee cup.
They will have to do until I can think of something creative on my own.

"My father said being an artist was the shortest road to the poorhouse, claiming 'real' work is something you don't like. I ignored him through oppositional behavior, later reasoning that only an idiot sets out to find the poorhouse, not to mention devote himself to something he doesn't love. Instead, I discovered an interesting back road to the unknown, and deliberately without a safety net." -Russell Chatham

So There!

I, like may people, have a fair share of bad habits. One of the biggies is my competitive nature. In fact I nearly killed myself the other day at the gym when I saw a girl on the rowing machine, pulling splits close to what were my best in college.
So after she completed her thirty minute workout, putting me to shame with her perfect complexion glistening with sweat and thighs that could likely crush walnuts, it was my turn.

I drove my legs with more determination than I had in months. I was determined to show her up, concentrating on the big display that showed I was actually beating her splits. I pushed and pushed to beat her.

It was the best four minutes of my entire week.

The Sob Story

I miss being in a relationship. Save a couple “you know it’s going to end before it begins” types of short-lived mistakes, I have not been in a relationship for over two years. And with all the cheating and lying that were woven in to the seven years before that, well, it feels like I have very few points on that hypothetical scoreboard.
The problem is that the longer I go without it, the less I think I deserve it. Or can get it again. I am not necessarily lonely; although the irony of living in a city of eight million is that it can be, in fact, a very lonely place.
I bump into people, get shoved, and touch people all day long. On the subway, on the street, in line for lunch. But it feels as if someone is playing a cruel joke, because I haven't had the kind of touch I need or want in a long time, and I have no idea when it's coming.
Some friends make me the butt of some harmless teasing, but it ends up by not being so harmless. I freeze up with a dare to go talk to that tall, cute guy across the bar. And he is not coming over to talk to me. And then I think that I am not going to meet someone I have anything in common with in a bar anyway, so the next time my friends invite me I don't bother to go. And then I feel bad about myself and just want to stay in all the time.
I am doing better now: working out helps; friends on the weekends seem to lift my spirits-but nothing can fill that void.
I miss being in a relationship. I miss someone loving me not because they have to, but because they choose to. I miss bouncing big ideas off another person that I can completely trust.
Perhaps I'm idealizing "The Relationship"- I know I am, but I want to feel that again and I just don't know what to do to get it.

The Not-So-Simple Wish

Ever have something happen at the exact time you needed it to? A raise when you needed money, a new love when you felt alone, a new job when you felt you couldn’t go on another day at the one you have?

I need that to happen now.

I can feel that I am on the cusp of a major change in my life, and I am hoping it is for the better. I have been applying to jobs in New York, Connecticut, New Jersey – in a nutshell, anything that was train accessible and had the word ‘newspaper’ somewhere in the ad – for one year and three months.

One year and three months seems like forever, although I know its not. I know that the likelihood I will have to work harder, work longer, sell myself better, is extremely great. I know the city can swallow people alive, and yet it has left me whole. I have made it through the growing pains, and the horrible breakup and the doubters that told me I would never make it. I have made it, and made a life for myself here. It’s just that this last step feels so insurmountable. The puzzle is only missing one piece, but it’s a big one – and its jammed between the sofa cushions, and – well, you get the idea.

I came to New York to be the next Carrie Bradshaw and now I want to be the next Bob Woodward. Funny where life takes you. I came looking for a career that would make me the talk at high school reunions, even though I would never go to one. I came looking for the glamour, and now I just want to get back into the khakis again with the notebook in my back pocket, pen on my ear and camera in my hand.

I applied for another one today: Special Sections Editor at amNewYork, a free commuter daily owned by Newsday.

Here’s hoping.

UNME4EVR

I have a very simple rule about my future: No man I will ever marry spells the word "you" with the letter "u."

Text message or not, it's just creepy.

(And yes, I am aware that if there were a land called Anal Retentiva, I would be their Queen.)

Guess How Much I Love You

Sometimes people have strange ways of telling you they are grateful for your presence in their lives.
A simple thank you, a nice pat on the back or a genuine smile are all great. Or there is the sentiment I received in an e-mail last night from my friend Kate:

“You and I are definitely soulmates in such a non-lesbian way.”

I snotted Tropicana out my nose when I read this — how did you react?

A Creepy Realization

I talked with my mom last night, who let me gab on about pointless irritations and generally, a whole lot of nothingness. Then as I apologized for having little to talk about she broke the news: She is moving in with her boyfriend next month.

My 68-year-old mother called to tell me she is moving in with her boyfriend. (Shudder.)

I suddenly felt the same reaction she likely had when I told her the same thing:

“Eww. Oh my God. She’s having SEX.”

After that, I calmed, and then the pictures returned to my head. Nausea ensued.

It’s hard enough to picture your parents having a sex life when they are married. In order to cope, you just go along with the most intellectual notion: that you were hatched from an egg. This just seems a bit strange to rationalize when you are 27.

But really, this relationship has been nothing but good for her. She hasn’t dated since I was in grade school, and has likely never experienced the kind of happiness she feels now.

She is acting like a girl of 65 again.

Reliving the Nightmare

I spent a good portion of last night and much of the morning and afternoon with two of my greatest friends in the city, who, after seven years together, have decided to separate.
Early this morning, I went with them to the apartment that is only "hers" now, when it used to be "theirs."

As he attempted to quietly exit with the last few boxes of his things, I began to cry. I felt selfish and guilty for shedding tears over someone else's unhappiness, because if anyone deserves those tears, it's the people who are having to live this nightmare first hand.
But I couldn't stop. I cried for them, I cried for other friends that are going through similar situations, and I cried for myself - because it was not so long ago that I was quietly moving out the last few boxes of my things, and moving on to an unfamiliar place.

Separately these friends have both confided in me and told me they want nothing more but to be back with the other. Time, each says, heals all wounds.

I just wish it was that easy.

Something’s Gotta Give

I am working out again after way too much time away. (Pat on back.) I feel better and more fit already. But now I am too tired to spend even an hour each night looking for a job to save me from the one I have.

Life is all about balance, but I feel like I am always running out of time. Well, first I am running out of money, then out of energy, then out of time.

Calgon take me away.

Instant Family, Just Add Water

I came to a strange realization over the holidays: I actually like my family.

Of course, I always loved them. Despite all the dysfunction, all the conflict and all the craziness. All of it. But I was always frustrated over some part of the pie — frustrated about why my mother treats my sister like a black sheep and why she treats my older brother like God on Earth. I always ended up somewhere in the middle, and lucky for me, more often than not I fell towards the Brother end of the scale.
The designation I received began in high school, but I did not begin to notice my mother’s attention until college. It was then I became The Jock, a varsity athlete at a Division I school, and my mother seemed to transform as quickly as I did.
My body grew lean and muscular; my mother grew attentive and loving. My rowing and racing skills improved, while my mother made cakes for my team to celebrate victories.
It was a strange adjustment for me, as my mother had been distant in the past to say the least. Granted she had every reason to hold on to the depression that I believe defined my formative years for her: no partner, no money, and three children who desperately wanted her undivided attention. But nonetheless, this newfound interest in me and my activities was a bit strange and although I feel guilty saying it, it was a bit contrived.
My friends during college loved my mom, while I struggled to discover whether her participation in my life was genuine. Then I felt guilty about not trusting her presence, and questioning her methods. And so, the cycle continued for years.

But now that the youngest (that would be me) is all grown up, the family seems to have started a new phase in our collective life. Somewhere along the road, we have all become adults. At some point, we stopped being a family because we had to and started being one because we wanted to.

Relationships are funny and complicated beasts. But lucky for me, I think this one is working out.

My Best Friend’s Wedding

My best friend called me Sunday night and began to speak with that squeaky, giggly in-between-the-tears voice that could only mean one thing — she had just gotten engaged.
I was generally happy for her. She deserves every bit of this happiness and she has dated what seemed like dozens of Mr. Idiot- or Mr. I Don’t Know How Great She Is-types of guys. It seems insignificant that this particular guy, her fiancé, resembles Anthony Edwards enough that I refer to him as “Goose” as he sends her meals back for her because it does not fit his standards.
Seriously, though, he is a perfectly nice guy, I guess, if anyone must take this role. She seems to have a calm over her that I haven’t seen before, which makes me think that this is the right choice for her and the rest of her life. But I just can’t help the feelings of fear for her and for myself, well, there’s a fair share of frustration, anger, resentment and just plain jealousy.
It was this girl, after all, that was experiencing a so-called “normal college life” when we met and I was deeply involved with my first true love. She was dating, and partying, and a varsity athlete — all while enrolled in an accelerated pre-med program. I was glued to the first man that ever paid me any real attention. I, too, was an athlete and through the years we shared some great memories. But this great divide always remained between us: she seemed to see the plan of her life so clearly and I fumbled over the same mistakes and wondered what the future would bring.
Luckily this friendship turned out to be stronger than any of my petty insecurities. Now she is a doctor and her fiancé is as well. Goose chose emergency medicine, which I find incredibly ironic considering Anthony Edwards starring on E.R.
But I keep the joke to myself.
Now, I am waiting to get back in touch with her so we can discuss what kind of sea foam green, puffy-sleeved frock I will be wearing at the ceremony. The date is already set: October 27.
Ten months to go over wedding plans.
Ten months to discuss travel arrangements.
Ten months before I have to make my life seem thrilling for friends I haven’t seen in years.
Ten months to get a date for my best friend’s wedding.

And the worst part is after titling this blog I have that stupid song from the movie in my head. God damn it’s a bad day.

National Day of Mourning

I had a bad dream last night that Ohio State's football team, who went 12-0 in the regular season, got hammered 41-14 in the National Championship game.

Someone please wake me up.

Is it sad that I am possibly more upset about this than what is actually going wrong in my own life?