A Big Glass of Water

I received an e-mail this morning from an old friend of mine in Texas. It was a forwarded e-mail, but I really think it was something I needed to hear at this moment. It said that when you hold a glass of water, it doesn't seem too heavy. When you hold it for an hour, your arm starts to hurt. When you hold it for days, it becomes a burden and the pain becomes impossible to bear.

The e-mail then went on to compare the glass of water to our work lives. It may not seem like much, but bringing home all of your burdens from work will eventually become impossible to bear. We are NOT our jobs. We are more than that. I think that's what I realized this week. Even though I have a fairly easy job, the constant task of going and going and going finally took its toll.

Today marks my one year anniversary of living in New York. It's been a whirlwind, a constant push to make ends meet, a constant questioning. I've learned a lot about myself since being here. Things I could have never known if I would have never taken the risk and jumped on that flight and said, "Let's try it out for a year."

Some of the things I've learned:

1. I''m just like my father. I have strong sense of self that I usually don't share with many people.
2. I'm just like my mother. I have learned to say "fuck it" when I need to.
3. I'm just like my brother. I can be a chamelion and take on other people's personalities when I'm around them.
4. I can commute from one tip of Manhattan to the other and find my way around.
5. I will always bounce back spiritually. No matter how "off" I get, I will always find the meaning and lesson in everything.
6. I kind of know Microsoft Excel.
7. I understand office politics more. Don't gossip.
8. There are no accidents or "random" meetings. Every person in this city meets who they need to meet, at exactly the right moment.
9. Honesty really is the best policy. In a city of lying liars, it's refreshing to be yourself and take the pressure off.
10. I need my family. Always. They are the constant rock in my life. They are on this journey with me, inside my heart.

It's impossible not to have a job here in the city. I've been going non-stop since day one here and consciously or subconsciously, I have to say, I am very very tired. It feels like I am on this merry-go-round with the same stuff regurgitating itself over and over, every day. I am ready for a change. I'm not sure what that change will entail, but I think am ready.

Who knows where I'll be in the next few months. Maybe I'll still be at my same job, doing the same things. But, I think something in me has changed. I still have a twinkle in my eye and I still see the good in people. I might be a little crazier than when I left Texas, but, I think crazier can be good thing.

I think I'm going to set that glass of water down now.

Love Forecast: Chilly But Clear

So, I've been perusing through HotEnough.org. It Sucks with a capital S. When I go to the search menu and type in "Men, ages 25-45, within 25 miles of New York, NY, FOUR men show up. That's right, FOUR men. In a city of 8 million, FOUR men stare back at me from the computer screen. One of the four doesn't even count because he lives in Parsippany, New Jersey. Parsippany? Parsippany? Who makes up these names?

Maybe they have some more tweaking to do on the site. Or, maybe more people need to sign the fuck up. Such an illusion! Such a gimmick! My inbox is at 0.

I got a call last night from one of my potential men on my other "dating" site. Before I listened to the message, I said a lil' prayer:

"Dear God, if you exist, and I know you do because I'll be off of work for the third day in a row, please, please, don't let this guy's voice be high pitched. Please don't let him have a lisp. Please make him sound normal. Please let him leave a witty message that would make me want to call him back."

I played the message:

"That's really funny...Hey (name retracted), this is (name retracted) from Yahoo....It's not quite as beautiful out as it was yesterday, but hey it could be worse. Just callin' to say hey...give me a call when you get a chance."

First of all, WHAT was really funny? And, why was he talking about the weather? The last time I had a guy leave a message about the weather on my voicemail, I ended up in a three month relationship with him and he turned out to be a hedge fund cokehead:

"Hey (name retracted) it's (name retracted) from Match.com. Oh God. The weather is so amazing, so beautiful. I'm driving out of the city now with my top down...and...oh....it's incredible! Give me a call when you get a chance."

I mean, who really cares about the weather? Do you sit around thinking about the weather? Do you leave messages with your friends talking about the slight breeze in the air or how the temperature dropped from 62 to 58?

I'm learning that the weather is THE topic for New Yorkers. EVERY conversation at work or with friends starts out with:

"It's nice out today," or "Oh God, it's cold! Freezing!" or "You know, it's supposed to rain next Thursday?" or "Did you go out this weekend? The weather was perfect."

I'm from Texas, so, to me, the topic of weather is the LAST thing you talk about with someone. It usually happens as an afterthought because you've run out of things to talk about and you realize you don't have anything in common with this person.

Do New Yorkers have an obsession with the weather because the weather here is so shitty? Like, it's a miracle when the sun comes out, or everyone is holed up in their cubicles for such long periods of time that when they see the sun or smell fresh air they freak out? Or, the dark, jagged concrete buildings hide the sky and when New Yorkers actually look up they have an impulse to comment on the clouds or the storm headed our way?

Do you think when someone steps out of their villa in Bermuda they say "Wow. Great Weather." Isn't it sort of implied that it's great weather? Is there a need to discuss it?

Everyone at work has the local forecast at the top of their favorites on their computers. Are people just that boring that the weather is the ONLY thing to discuss? Will talking about the weather change the weather? Will analyzing the weather change the weather?

People are also obsessed with the weather forecasters here on the news. The meteorologists here are superstars. Royalty. Like THEY are responsible for the changes in the weather and they can part the Red Sea. They are GODS.

Since I'm coming out of my shell a little more this Spring, I'm convinced I might have that thing called Seasonal Affective Disorder. You know, where you're sad when it's cold and happy when it's warm. But, have I developed it because I live in New York? And, really, who the hell is happy in subzero weather? Let me go frolick in the black disgusting sludge piled up on the streets.

Maybe I'm too picky with men? Maybe I should call him back?

Maybe I'll meet him for a drink next week if the weather is nice.

Innocent Until Proven Guilty...I Guess.

I feel so guilty because I've taken off of work. I also feel guilty because I didn't get to meet Donny Deutsch today. There goes my destiny, fluttering away saying "Catch Me if You Can!"

In the year that I've been with this company, I've never taken any sick days. Yes, I've had the mornings where I was so hung over that the acid vomiting sensation would make it halfway up my throat. I've also had the days where I could still taste the Crown Royale bubbling, gurgling in my espophogus begging me to throw it up. Throw it ALL up. Then, I've had the days where my ovaries felt like they were twisted and I was bleeding so much that I would imagine myself dead on the subway platform in a heaping pool of blood. The headline in the Post would have read:

"THE BLOODY RED LINE - Woman Bleeds to Death While Waiting for the 1 Train. Why Millions of New York Women Experience Her Symptoms Every Day But Too Afraid to Act. What YOU Need to Know."

Oh, I've also had days where the blinding rage of no sleep turns me into an evil treacherous monster and I feel like murdering the next homeless person on the subway who says he's a "veteran" and he's "different."

But, through all of this, I've always managed to make it to work. I've endured. Now, this sprained ankle thing has really left me stumped. I can't control things any more.

I read an article about "blogging in the office" yesterday and apparently, it's supposed to be good for company morale. It said that the average person is only productive two hours out of any given work day. So taking breaks to write about the latest douchebag or Sorority queen kiss ass new employee is actually beneficial. A release if you will. I'm still worried my bosses will somehow see this and fire me because of my split personality disorder. "SHE WROTE WHAT? ABOUT WHAT?"

Having this ankle thing happen has really made me appreciate the people I work with. I've realized that I'm really not alone in this supposedly big, bad city. Maybe I made too big of a deal about my little accident and somehow subconsciously wanted the attention? Fuck if I know. I still feel guilty.

But, I think sometimes these things happen to make us realize and stop and really examine our lives. Is there ever enough time to really examine our lives though? Tomorrow will be my third day off and the profound epiphany that I've been expecting still hasn't hit me.

It all stems back to that experiment with the fishes and the glass partition. These scientists put a glass partition in the middle of a fish tank and placed three fish on the left side. After three weeks, the scientists removed the glass partition and the fishes wouldn't move from the left side. They thought the partition was still there.

Is that like our lives? When we are finally away from our so called day jobs, would we recreate the same shit, the same barriers, the same problems all over again?

Shit if I know. But I do know that if I would have met the Deutschster today, I wouldn't need a day job.

I Am Hot Enough With Beer and Crutches

Last night, I decided to wear a pair of high, platform heels. Bad idea considering you have a swelling bunion and no food in your stomach except half a glass of beer. Not tipsiness, just deliriousness, let's say. I was at this cool comedy club in Chelsea and I really had to pee. The bathroom at the club was practically in a cave downstairs. The stairs leading down to the bathroom were red, plush furry velvet and impossibly steep. Must I really continue with this story? If I must...

As my friend and I approached the last stair on the seemingly endless staircase, my foot slipped, I heard a snapping sound and I fell straight, yet, in a twisted motion onto my face. It was one of those surreal moments in life where you can't believe something like this is really happening, could be happening...it happened.

So embarassed, yet relieved that no one was behind me to witness this gruesome, hideous slip, I crouched up slowly with the help of my friend. I was so flustered, frustrated, angry at myself for wearing 4 inch wobbly shoes and having some beer with no food. I forced myself to endure the numb, throbbing pain shooting from the inside of my ankle (is their really an inside?) until late into the night, hobbling home like a retarded person (no offense to retarded people) from the subway.

At two in the morning I abruptly woke up to a jolting pain radiating from my ankle, and realized I had to pee again. But, I quickly realized I couldn't stand up. I couldn't... mother...fucking...stand...up.

"How can I not stand-up?" How come I can't stand-up? WHY can't I stand up? Why THE FUCKITY FUCK FUCK can I NOT stand up?" I kept yelling at myself, willing the mind boggling pain electrocuting my ankle to go away. I fell to the floor and crouched on my knees, crawled myself to the bathroom like a baby, sobbing stinging, salty tears. I was afraid the pee would begin to trickle down my leg because I had to go sooo bad. I managed to prop myself up on the toilet.

I started to hyperventilate, my head started to swim and I felt like I was going to pass out. I felt so helpless and completely, utterly alone. How the fuck was I supposed to operate if I couldn't walk? A lot of things entail walking. For example, FUCKING life.

I called my Mom. She started Googling every possible remedy for the excruciating pain. Elevate it, ice it. Elevate it, ice it. Elevate it, ice it. A big task considering I had to get ice from the kitchen which was all the way down my infinite hallway. And, did I even have any ice? And, how the hell was I going to reach the freezer?

By the time I dragged myself on my knees to the kitchen, (mind you, I'm still on the phone with my mom so I had to hold the cell phone in one hand and use my other hand to sort of "hop" my way down the hall like one of those malformed gimps) I was so exhausted that I just buried my head through my shoulders and began to weep uncontrollably.

I've only had two or three other moments like this in my so-called short lifetime. You know, those moments where you are literally forced to examine your life and question who you are and why you are here and why the fuck are you killing yourself trying to make it in New York and who the hell gives a shit anyway and just call in sick to work don't tell them you fell down a goddamn flight of stairs because you were too stupid and "maybe" drunk and couldn't see the last step and and and and... I was shaking uncontrollably.

My Mom, who can read people's auras and who really, truly has unexplained incredible psychic abilities, told me to take a deep breath. I listened. It was the first time I really felt what she was saying.

She's always had unbelievable Shaman healer instincts, like a wise sage, telling me what it's really all about.

"You know, you're ankle represents your ability to RECEIVE pleasure. Do you think you deserve to RECEIVE pleasure in your life? Are you trying to punish yourself for something? All of life should be a pleasure." At that moment, I realized that the whole time I've been in New York, I haven't allowed myself to receive pleasure. It's always been a fight, a struggle, a daily 9 to 5 grind thinking I had to PUSH my way through to make it.

I then held my hand straight up and grabbed on to the handle of the freezer from the floor. I pulled as hard as I could and thrusted myself onto my feet. The pain was so blinding. My Mom kept telling me "You're not a body. You're not a body. You're more than that. You're more than that."

I found a package of moldy frozen beef patties and put it under my armpit. I fell back down to the floor on my knees and crawled back into my bedroom and pushed myself onto the bed as the moldy beef patties fell onto the floor. I curved my body and reached for them, barely grasping the corner edge of the package...

I pressed the patties firmly onto my ankle and realized they were beginning to smell really bad.

And...I realized I had to pee again.

I think I'm slowly learning here in the city that high heels and staircases and beers with no food don't mesh so well. So,
I took the day off because I still can't walk. I was forced to. No work is definitely a real pleasure. I am RECEIVING it now.

But, If my ankle doesn't get any better by tomorrow, I'm heading to the doctor. Well, maybe after I check my inbox on HotEnough.org. Surprisingly, I was accepted onto their site last night, and well, what can I say...

Pour me a beer!

I'll run on my crutches to meet a hot guy.

I Might Be Hot...Enough

On the way to the 1 train this morning, I tasted the first glimpse of warm weather. I broke out in a sweat on the cramped, smelly elevator, and I started to feel like I was on fire, burning from the inside, sticky, gooey, runny, gross. Aaahhh, the fresh smell of body odor and ripe, unadulterated sweat in the City makes me anticipate the long, hot days ahead.

On the subject of hotness, I received an e-mail from the Hot Enough people last night. Apparently, I was approved in the first round of their so called process. Now, in order to get on the site, I have to get an average of 8 or above after 25 votes. Last time I checked, I had 12 votes and I was at a 7.9. Wouldn't that be shitty if my final score was a 7.9? I missed the Hot Enough opportunity by 1/10 of a point? Makes me think of all those tests in school where I got an 89. Just one point shy of an A. Just enough to fuck up my GPA.

At first, I was excited and a bit giddy to have made it to the next step in this seemingly selective process. But then, it was anticlimactic. Like, winning some contest that everyone wanted to win, but realizing you really didn't give a shit about it anyway in the first place.

Some of the women on the website look like tranny hooker ho's with ginormous, inflatable, hard-as-rock breasts. Do I really want to be associated with that? If I do make it onto the site, which I'm still unsure of at this point, will I be thrown into that pile of women skanks with fried bleached-to-death blonde hair, orange skin and long, claw-like, fake plastic fingernails who would fuck a light pole?

Dirrrty. Trashy. Disgusting. What about the men? Some of the men look like those Chip-N-Dales nightclub go-go dancers who flash those "come hither," corny Zoolander male model poses. They look totally eaten up with themselves with fluorescent oily skin and fang blinding white teeth. And they're probably gay.

Living in a City that places so much importance on Botox, Juvederm and Restylane can be confusing and frustrating. It's hard not to feel like a tiny dot, a small grain of sand on a beach that stretches for millions and millions of miles...

If I just flash my pearly whites, which are a little less white from the nicotine, would I, could I be accepted into the elite groups of Manhattan and a website based on beauty? If I am accepted, would the grain of sand that I am somehow turn into a sparkling jewel, and stand out from the billions of other screaming grains?

I get philosophical. Maybe the heat triggers such gushes of emotion.

If so, then maybe... it's not hot enough. Since I'm not Botoxed up, I can show my emotions.

New Boss, More Liquor

I am a completely different person at work than I am in real life. Different, meaning, well, a bit quiet, a bit reserved. Outside of work, I'm rather gregarious, sociable, a bit of a party queen depending on the day of the week. I feel like I sort of lead separate lives.

Today our new office manager/boss started. Our old boss, who will be "training" our new boss for the next few weeks, has been here for like 20 years. Our old boss is a 60-something-Jewish-pilled-up-alcoholic who is pretty cool, but sometimes a little too paranoid about our office procedures. I think she feels guilty about the hard boozing so she over-compensates at work. She always loves it when people have doctor's appointments because she loves to go to the doctor. (Everyone here also loves to talk about their ailments, headaches and latest surgeries. We're a pharma ad agency. Enough said).

Our new boss is from the Bronx and used to be an office manager at some rehab hospital. She has flaming short red hair and five ear piercings in each ear. Over coffee and stale bagels, we had to have a chat with our new boss this morning. It felt rather painful, and I felt myself laughing at inappropriate moments, like when the new boss told us about her previous job experience:

New Boss: "Well, people used to throw things at windows all the time. A lot of people were still recovering and it was a rather harsh environment."

Old Boss: "Well it's probably because they went off their meds. Here, well, we're alcoholics, but we're good alcoholics."

Employee: "Yeah, we're fun alcoholics."

My company is the only company in an enormous building that petitioned for a liquor license just so we could drink in the office. I have enough liquor in the kitchen behind me to start my own bootlegging business.

My company also finds any excuse to have a party at least once a month. For St. Patricks day, we had three men in kilts come and do their jig as we downed Irish coffees, which consisted of Irish Whiskey and a dab of coffee. Everyone was toasted by two in the afternoon.

I think dealing with so much scientific data has driven everyone sort of mad here. Having to read magazines like "Infectious Diseases Today", "Cutis", "Opthamology Times," and "The Journal of Urology" would definitely drive me into a raging alcoholic frenzy.

I guess I'm not really myself at work because I feel like I don't really relate to people who have made it their life's work to study up on the latest swelling tumor, or the latest fad in insulin. Apparently, insulin is really the in thing now and can be used in so many different ways.

In a city where one cocktail goes for $20, I really enjoy the free liquor on a regular basis. Hopefully our new boss will be a fun alcoholic too.

Daughter-Girl-Woman

Yes, to the left, here stand perfect feet. The feet I had as a child, everyone had as children, the feet that hadn't been tortured by back-breaking high heels in order to impress a man.

I once bought into this book series called "The Rules". It says that man must always be the pursuer, to never call a man and don't talk too much. What kind of man would this attract? Well, I think it attracts pricks. Pricks that only want what they think they can't have, pricks who are only interested in the chase, not you or who you are as a powerful woman.

My Dad suffered a stroke two years ago. Now, he is more gentle, a little less worried about me and more childlike. But, he said to me last night on the phone: "You're not doing that internet dating shit again are you? I don't want you doing that." I think he knows I'm too kind, too trusting at times, and I'm more than the superficiality and illusions of the internet and...this city.

When I was young my dad had a sparkly t-shirt made for me that said "Sweet Bum." He also had a sweatshirt made with my photo plastered across it that said "Miss America 1998." I used to wear these concoctions with such pride, such frivolity. I knew in my heart that I was Miss America to my Dad and I would always be his Sweet Bum. I didn't make any apologies about my greatness. Was that my True Self? Is she still inside of me?

At the hospital after my dad stroked out, he spoke in jibberish and was barely coherent. When he saw me, he looked at me and smiled and grabbed my hand tightly. He didn't even know my name, but I knew he knew who I was. It was a feeling, an unspoken feeling of knowingness. I knew he was so proud to be my father, and at that moment, I realized how proud I was to be his daughter.

When you think someone could be taken away from you, it's almost like their perception of you could be stripped away too. The Princess that I am through my father's eyes seemed like it was disappearing...

I was being darkly sarcastic on the phone with my dad last night and I said, "Well, they found a couple of cancerous spots on my lung last week, so they'll have to operate in a few days. Nothing serious. Just lung cancer." My dad said: "Really? So it's nothing too serious. That's good. What's the weather like there?"

He didn't understand my macabre joke. It took me by surprise because he always used to play along with my pessimistic humor. Despite his childlike innocence, I somehow know he knows who I am. He has such a quiet strength, a silent stableness to him. He knows a lot, but doesn't express it.

Venturing forth in the dating world and city life can be scary at times. But I think if I imagine myself with my Miss America sweater on, I'll be protected, shielded from all of the insincerity and games (sometimes played by me), and at least I know that although my dad doesn't get my jokes, he is quietly holding my hand, whispering, "You're better than that. You don't need a man. Forget the rules."