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.