The American Work Ethic

I have the world’s least important and most obsolete job.

I do advertising sales for a local newspaper. It is a weekly paper. It is a job that will suck your soul dry of any and all cheer that it may once have possessed. You will leave at the end of the day with your eyes dry and tired, your brain mush and your mood utterly sour. Your friends will hate to see you within an hour of leaving work. They will not ask you anything about work. They do not want to know, it’s too depressing.

So, with so much to do and such important things at that, I am here in the office on New Year’s Eve. I was supposed to work Christmas Eve as well but I called out “sick” (I was simply heartbroken, but that’s sick enough for me). I worked the day after Christmas and I will be here January 2nd. Our deadline for this week’s paper was this morning at 10am. Anyone who called before then (a grand total of 4 people) could get his/her ad in. All the other people will have to wait ‘til next week. I have spent today saying, “Sorry it won’t be in until next week.” Or hearing the voice on the other end say, “Oh! I didn’t actually think anyone would be there…why are they making you work?”

I wonder that same thing; why are they making us work? We are currently the only department still here (and only one of us is out today…otherwise it’s the full department). Everyone else left before noon. They will have time to nap and relax before having plenty of time to primp and ready themselves to go out and celebrate the year that will be. I have been here since 8:30 this morning. I am supposed to stay until 5pm. I have decided to forego lunch and leave at 4pm. They will likely have an issue with this, though I can’t really figure out why.

I have spent the majority of the day thus far (it is now 1:25pm) playing “Oregon Trail” on Facebook; people keep getting bitten by snakes or suffering from cholera or dysentery. Silly people, they’re slowing down my progress! But I digress. I am disgruntled, as are my fellow coworkers. The fact that we are the only department here is punctuated by the fact that we are the only part of the building with lights on. We are not performing any valuable service; if people had to wait another 24-48 hours to put their ad in for the following week I don’t think they’d be any worse off. They cannot get in for this week so technically they have until 4:30pm next Tuesday. And yet, I am still here.

My boss has been trolling about, checking to see whether the phones are ringing. There are two calls every 30-45 minutes. 1.5 of those calls inevitably hangs up saying if they have until next Tuesday at 4:30 they’ll just call back later in the week.

So here I sit, caulking my wagon and floating it across the river; stealing from Rob’s wagon, hunting buffalo, geese, rabbit, and deer; making my wagon rest so that Rachel won’t be annoyed with me anymore, and B can heal from her many snakebites (she often gets lost too). There is nothing much I can do for Madeleine who is constantly hankering for a cigar.

I have also spent a short bit of time dreading my New Year’s Eve plans. I will be going to a nightclub. Why? I’m not entirely sure. It was something to do and lord knows I need to get out and stop wallowing in my week + self pity fest. I dragged Mo into this with me so hopefully we’ll enjoy ourselves. Madeleine is throwing an upscale party with the Frenchman. My Italian is in Paris (bastard). B will likely do something with R. Gabe is going to bed early. This concludes my list of friends. Even my parents had a party to go to. Lame.

Ah well, onward and upward my friends. I have an Oregon Trail to finish!

Happy New Year!

So It Was

I've never been the type to sit back and really reflect on the year that has passed. I'm not sure if it's because I'll be frustrated at how little I feel I've accomplished (usually my perception of these things is way off), feel sad over the inevitable losses that have occurred (friendships, relationships, innocence), or because I'll feel pressured to really do something with the up-coming year. This year the latter won't bother me as much as I want to look forward and think about what I can do to improve upon my years past, to better my life and myself.

Plan the first: get out there. When I went to therapy as a sad, angry, obnoxious teenager in high school, my therapist would often give me assignments that centered around "getting out and being social." I'm not an extremely social person; I prefer to spend time with my small group of good friends whom I love and trust with all my heart. I have a bit of a rough time with first impressions, especially with men (the theory is I frighten/intimidate them). But this year it's time to actually be more social whether that means accepting more invitations for evenings out, simply wandering about in public instead of holing up on my couch with a good book (always the most tempting thing for me). I will meet people!

Plan the second: explore my creativity. I write and I like writing so it's time to really work at it, maybe get something published? I've been told my whole life what a great actress I am/would be. The biggest obstacle to my actually doing anything about it is the overwhelming self-consciousness I experience when in front of people. Yet I believe I would be a force to behold on stage (I love the cathartic aspect of being someone else. I could pretend to be the horrible bitchy woman, the man-eater, the demure housewife, the scared child, the aloof seductress, the flighty "artist" and any number of other characters...oh what fun!).

Plan the third: find a good job. I'm tired of being that person who hates their job. It's time to do something that is actually stimulating and that I can walk away from feeling good instead of dropping onto my girl friends' couch at the end of the day and rolling my eyes about what a waste of time my days are.

Plan the fourth: get happy. It sounds odd but the cloud of negativity that has descended upon me is just awful. I must fight it off and finally, finally get happy. How will I do this? Who knows, but when I really want something I always find a way to have it (well, almost always, unless it involves the will of another...then it's a different story).

Plan the fifth: get back to Europe. Savings account: watch out! I shall raid you and go gallivant in European cities for [hopefully] extended periods of time hence forth! I shall love the people, culture, and food of these foreign lands. Where to go first? Do I go to France, the country I've longed to experience for almost 12 years (that's about half my life)? Do I go to Prague, the fabulous city of literary giants? How about Spain? I mean, why not? I've never been to Canada, our friendly neighbors to the north. Puerto Rico? I could try to convince someone to come with my there I'm sure. Switzerland is supposedly lovely. I would like to get back to Italy, see the places I didn't get to (the north and, of course, the Amalfi coast, maybe a couple of places in the south...oh I just want to eat that country). Scotland, Scotland would be fun...so many places, so little time.

Plan the sixth: find a travel buddy. Whether this is a girl friend whose company doesn't cause me to rip my hair out after 4 days or a boyfriend with an equal sense of "adventure" I really care not (though lovers are a bit more fun...).

Here's to hoping for the best in the coming year (I'm raising my mental glass of Champagne)! Rock on '08, rock on...

The Interview

A week or so ago I was driving home from work, listening to NPR. Bill Cosby and some psychologist with whom he'd written a book were on the show. I got kind of excited as the intro to the show posed this question: "Many young African Americans today are told that they 'act white.' Bill Cosby has asked what, exactly, is acting 'black?'" I really wanted to know the answer to this question as I find it odd that one would demean someone for speaking proper English, doing well in school, ensuring that he will be able to lead a comfortable life and provide for a family should he so choose (this is what people have told me 'acting white' is). So I listened on.

Bill Cosby (whom Temple loves) is a terribly incoherent man. Any time he was asked a question he would simply go off on some tangent about pregnant 13 year olds regardless of what was asked. It was all very confusing. But I continued to try to listen, hoping he might eventually answer the question that roped me into this program in the first place. The host finally asked some question about something and the ever eloquent Cosby started on another unrelated diatribe about dating. I found myself laughing out loud when he described how women date these days.

"It's like a job interview," Cosby quipped. "They want to know where you went to school and what degrees you have, if you have a job, how much you earn, whether you live in an apartment or house, if you own or pay rent, if you still live with your mom and dad, if you have a car, if you have a criminal background. Now, this all starts to make sense when you look at the fact that these girls are walking around with children. Children whose father's don't have a job, probably haven't finished school, live with mom and dad, and have no means to help out these girls with children. So now when these girls meet anyone the first thing they need to know is that they could support children."

I don't have children. I'd like to some day, 2 or 4, but for now none of my past relationships have produced offspring. I have a job, though I do live with mom and dad, and I have a college degree. When I go on dates I do want to know whether or not they've finished college (I really take issue with someone of my generation not having at least a bachelor's degree), have a job, the ability to drive (I spent three years of my life chauffeuring my ex-boyfriend around because he didn't have a driver's license despite the fact that multiple people offered to help him pay for it, etc.) and I like to make sure that they have some sort of future ambitions. I had never thought about these inquiries as an interview, but, quite frankly, they are! I want to make sure that you are up to challenges that are sure to arise should I decide to take you on for the position of "my boyfriend" (I have been single for over 2 years now...seems there are not many who are able to meet my requirements).

I recently read an article from Times Online (a UK site) sent to me by someone I've been seeing. He said that the way the author wrote was extremely reminiscent of my own writing. He was right! In the article the author, Tad Safron, talks about the difference between British and American women's emphasis on physical upkeep. At one point he relates a story about being set up on a date with a woman he had known 15 years prior. Apparently in those 15 years she had "let herself go," so to speak. He was most insulted, however, when the couple who had set them up (friends of his) started trying to sell him to her. I like the idea of having to "sell" yourself or another to someone in order to pique their interest. It sounds like we're chattel or an outdated or unknown electronics brand.

Alas, we do sell ourselves when it comes to dating. We do it when we try to get jobs or get into graduate school. We do it to simply win arguments, sometimes. The trick seems to be to simply amass a great quantity of supposedly desirable qualities that others may not have been able to obtain (and if they were, you just have to ensure that yours is better!). I, for example, will always be jealous when my friend, Gabe, is able to tell people he's just finishing his degree at Yale. This is a quality I will never be able to put on my resume (personal or professional). I, however, can boast that I taught Pilates. He cannot. This is why he's attractive to the cute Yale boys [and girls] and I'm not. It seems that I need to continue to to bolster my outstanding qualities so I can compete with the Gabe's of the world.

P.S. Cosby never did answer the question as to what "acting black" is. Thus, I suppose, I'm left to scratch my head and simply observe the loud women on Septa each day. Maybe I should ask them myself...No, no, that would certainly result in a beating. *Sigh* I'll never know. Damn you Cosby!

Giddy as a Schoolgirl

My mother and I recently had a conversation about my unshakable inferiority complexes. Though I'm relatively smart, well-spoken, and sort of pretty, I've never felt those things (well, fleeting moments in the arms of a lover or friend...but do those really count?). My mother said she just couldn't understand how I never signed up for activities: not in high school, not in college, not now. How was it that I was so shy? So self-doubting? She shared that in high school (and beyond) you couldn't stop her from signing up for things. She even tried out for the high school musical (my mother lacks any ability to carry a tune and has no sense of rhythm). "Faye, I was on stage, in front of everyone, singing and dancing. Me, singing and dancing in front of people." Still, I did not inherit that lack of inhibition. I'm a wallflower, one who stays on the sidelines.

Mom speculated that my brother had done me in. He's always been incredibly smart and well-spoken. He can make anyone feel like they're the smallest person in the world. I always looked up to him and did whatever he wanted me to do (I used to bring him pop tarts and juice on Saturday mornings while feeling privileged that he'd let me sit in the family room and watch cartoons of his choosing. Sometimes he even let me speak!). I followed quietly, shyly in his footsteps, hoping that someday he might tell me I'm smart too.

I never wanted to participate in sports or contests because I don't like competition. Or so I say. Really I just don't want to lose and feel even more inadequate. I'm competitive at heart, I'm just afraid of doing poorly. Even though I was a straight A student for the majority of my life (I got one C in high school and one C in college; high school it was geometry, college it was physics...I just can't conceptualize in that way) I've never felt particularly intelligent (until I meet someone who is clearly not). But then I got to thinking; when I play board games I'm on fire.

My friend, Gabe, introduced me to Settlers of Catan, a fantastic game where you have to build roads, settlements, and cities, collecting points along the way and screwing over your opponents. While playing it one night a friend, John, exclaimed, "Faye, I've never seen you so competitive! I like this side of you!" And it's true; when it comes to board games I'm off the wall competitive.

Saturday night was my highly anticipated game night with my girls, B and Mo. We pulled out the table, agreed on a game and got set up. Rummikube was the first game of choice. It's very similar to Rummy the card game, only there are plastic tiles instead of cards. Mo and I used to play this game when we'd stay in, indulge ourselves, and watch TV. B never really played with us because she was actually social. But all of us started to get into it (after arguing a bit about whether or not we had actually explained the game correctly to B) and B eventually won. I'm pretty used to losing this game so I didn't get too upset over the whole thing.

As the night wore on we all became increasingly tired and silly. Jenga was the next game at which we decided we needed to try our hands. Being a former surgeon wanna-be, I take a bit of pride in my steady hand; this game was going to get competitive. Slowly we each took our turn finding a non-weight baring Jenga block, steadily removing it and carefully placing it atop the evermore unsteady tower. It kept getting later and the paranoia and giggles became increasingly worse. When it would be my turn I would shake my head and worry over making the tower fall. Once I had the piece dislodged and in my hand I would take another minute or so to put it on top of the damn thing. Mo was similarly nervous with each of her turns. B told me that Jenga was not a game I should play as I am way too high strung. Mo ended up toppling the tower, but not before we got it to about 32 "stories" high.

This morning Mom sent me an email with a description of my astrological sign:

"ARIES - The Daredevil Energetic. Adventurous and spontaneous. Confident and enthusiastic. Fun. Loves a challenge. EXTREMELY impatient. Sometimes selfish. Short fuse (easily angered.) Lively, passionate, and sharp wit. Outgoing. Lose interest quickly - easily bored. Egotistical. Courageous and assertive. Tends to be physical and athletic."

Well, I suppose I fit the "enthusiastic, fun, loves a challenge, impatient, selfish, short fused, passionate, easily bored, egotistical, and assertive," but the rest of it is pure baloney. As evidenced by the above verbal meanderings, I am not physical or athletic; I lack confidence, don't believe I have a sharp wit (I don't think a sharp tongue is quite the same thing), I'm not outgoing, nor am I particularly courageous. Am I fun? Well, I certainly think so, but maybe some would say my love of Jenga is actually boring. Silly horoscope...

That "Christmas" Feeling

It started in late October; it always seems to be the retail outlets that spearhead the trend, but the radio stations aren’t too far behind. B and I had taken the elevator at Saks up to the 3rd floor. When the heavy wooden doors slid silently open we were staring directly into the face of a mannequin. Behind her were racks of Diane Von Furstenberg’s colorful patterned dresses. With a little squeal, I stepped off the elevator and lunged for one of her signature wrap dresses (sorry, I’m a girl, I love clothes). Then I turned to my right and there it was: a giant Christmas display in the middle of the floor.

“It’s October!” I shrieked at B, utterly indignant. “Oct-o-ber! This is no time for Christmas! It’s not even Halloween!”

B didn’t really care, as we were on a mission and both of us were exhausted. I put down the D.V.F. and followed B to the lingerie section where we perused the racks for a strapless bra for the dress she had to wear to a wedding. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Christmas display, though. I was so disturbed by the reindeer and green and red bows, balls, and whatnots. I did chuckle a bit to myself, though, that the display was relegated to the 3rd floor and there were no such decorations on the 1st (where they stock pile the shoes and bags…I like to call it “heaven”). This gave me hope that Saks maybe had an inkling that is was wrong.

Nearly a month passed, and soon I was preparing for Thanksgiving (taking off a couple of days at work, packing for the trip down to Grandma’s, collecting books for the plane ride, etc.). Thanksgiving, for me, is the gateway to Christmas. When I was little we would drive down to my Grandparent’s farm and cut down our Christmas tree from their “Christmas Tree Farm” up on the mountainside behind their house. We would traipse through mud and broken branches, making my dad stand next to various trees to judge whether they were tall enough. Then Dad and my uncles would set to work sawing at the chosen one’s base.

After Thanksgiving dinner we would sit around the kitchen table and start singing Christmas carols (by “we” I mean the women and children. Then men always seem to be occupied with sports). My aunt Beth and I are about the only ones who can carry a tune and so we were always told to start the song and sing louder than the rest. Once I got home from Thanksgiving my family would set up the tree in the living room and decorate on the weekend. Then I’d sneak in to stare at it, dance around it, play with the train track we had running beneath it (yes, it is a very “Leave it to Beaver” little life I’ve had).

But that was then. Now my mother has purchased an artificial tree, the train track had some “water damage” and stays up in the attic, it’s difficult to get the whole family (all four of us) in the same place on any given weekend, and my days of dancing have, well, changed a bit. So this year at Thanksgiving there were no Christmas carols to be sung. Some did still venture up the mountainside to get Grandma and Grandpa their tree, but as we now fly to Grandma’s (and have an artificial tree awaiting us in our basement), there is no tree for me to go search for.

Thanksgiving was early this year and when I returned to work there was still a week left in November. My coworker, C, is the only one with a radio. Normally she’ll have it on a classical station, classic rock if opera suddenly makes an appearance. Upon my return, however, it was Christmas music, all day, every day. I was ok with it at first, humming along to a few of the tunes I like best, but then Celine Dion came on, warbling her way through “Oh Holy Night” and the likes. My hair stood on end, my muscles tensed, I lost focus on my work (not really a big deal; anything with opposable thumbs could do my job). Another coworker of mine, Eva, not so subtly said, “This Christmas music! My God! I can’t stand it!” C didn’t take the hint and thus the droning music has continued. I nearly lost it when the dogs barking “Jingle Bells” was played. Whoever thought that was a good idea, or funny, is an idiot and ought to be locked in a room, tied to a chair, and forced to listen to that song for 72 hours straight, pumped in at rock concert decibels. Stupid, stupid song…

I have officially purchased a gift for one person on my list. I have yet to even figure out what to get my father. My mother’s gift will require a trip to a department store, which I’m dreading. B’s gift should be easy but I have to get off my ass and get it. Mo’s gift is pretty simple too, but I think I might actually have to go to (eek!) the mall to get it. People are already offering “last minute” deals on certain items. Last minute? It’s December 12th! Since when has the middle of December been last minute when it comes to Christmas? A couple of years ago I bought my mother’s and my [then] boyfriend’s gift on Christmas Eve. That’s last minute, baby (both gifts were extremely well received, by the by; I’m just queen of gift-giving).

Christmas used to be my favorite holiday. It meant time off from school, friends, family, movies, and gifts. Now Christmas is being shoved in my face earlier and earlier each year. All around me people and advertisers are screaming at me to get impersonal, but expensive, gifts for “that special someone” (I was at a store this past weekend, waiting in line at the register and noticed that they had a sign saying, “Forget that special someone? ____ gift card is the perfect gift! Available at the register and around the store!” If you’ve forgotten them, they’re probably not that special, or so I would reason).

Consumerism and commercialism has always been a point that is bemoaned by Americans around this time. What I’m saying is nothing new. But if there are so many of us who are so annoyed with it all, why do consumer outlets and marketing agencies keep pushing it on us? Why don’t we boycott? I assume it probably has something to do with being considered a “Scrooge,” but I’ve been called worse. Still, I will go to the (ugh) mall and department store. I will probably pick up at least one gift card (some people are impossible to buy for). I will participate in this holiday that has become more and more loathsome every year (and I’ll probably enjoy doing it). Happy Holidays!

Nonverbals

When I go out on dates I can immediately tell whether or not I’m interested (usually I’m not, it seems). I try to give subtle clues that, while I’m not a bitch and will thus still have a pleasant time with you, I would really prefer if we kept with platonic; my dates never, never notice. Why are nonverbals so difficult for some people? I understand that some are too subtle and won’t be picked up on unless one is really looking for them. But the majority of nonverbals are universal and tend to be obvious. My friends always know what I’m thinking because my facial expressions betray me. I’m not subtle. When it comes to dates, however, they seem incapable of picking up on anything.

My first bad date story goes a little something like this:

I got coerced into agreeing to go out on a night I was planning on simply staying in and relaxing. It was suggested that we go see “American Gangster” and as I have wanted to see this film I found it hard to resist. I meet Jake down in the city and he decides we should first go to dinner. This was his first bad choice. I am in no way, shape, or form interested in him. He is out of shape, has a south Philly accent, and just clearly lacks what I would call, class. He takes me to some little chain place (hence I say this was a bad choice. I am a snob. I warn people of this. They tend not to heed my warning and thus pay for it later). I decide on a salad, as does he (why do men do this?) and I attempt to make small talk. He whips out his Blackberry and starts checking the weather over and over. He then looks up and says, “Wow. You have really good posture. Really good posture.” This is a point he then proceeds to fixate on for the rest of dinner.

Thankfully, dinner finally ends. He decides it would fun to bring beer to the movie. I remind him that both of us will need to drive later. “That’s ok,” he says, “I’m still good to drive after a few beers.” I tell him I’m not much of a beer drinker and those that I do drink tend to be Guinness or ones from microbreweries (again, I’m a snob). He buys Budweiser. We proceed to the theater and are there a bit early. We play some Pac Man (or actually, he plays while I stand, holding my Guinness bag full of Budweiser, watching some dude I have no interest in being there with, play Pac Man), and then go to just sit in the theater. We’re the only two in there at first and I begin my usual berating of the choice of music. He joins in and I’m glad because I feel less like an asshole. Then he grabs me knee (my legs were crossed and I was turned slightly away from him) to try to “tickle” me. I just glare at him. “Not ticklish,” he asks? I tell him that I am, in fact, not ticklish unless, for some reason, the mood strikes me. Instead of taking that as “stop trying,” he decides I’m telling him to not only continue to grab at my knee but to also grab at other areas of my body. He now starts squeezing my upper-mid thigh (too high for comfort), then my side, then my neck. “Really not ticklish,” he repeats. I once again tell him no and move even further away. He grabs my hand and starts playing with my palm. My hand is limp; I’m staring at the screen, willing the movie to start.

He finally gives up on whatever it was he was trying to do to my palm and starts babbling about how he wishes we had seats in the back row. I ask why and he responds, “Well, I guess it would be easier if you had on a skirt.” A look of shock and disgust crosses my face as I raise my eyebrows and say that my seat is perfect. I am then offered a beer, which I refuse, once again saying that I have to drive. “Are you really that much of a lightweight,” he asks? I say, “I’m little. I can handle my liquor but I’d rather not chance it.” He looks me up and down and then says, “You’re not that thin.” Excuse me? I wear a size 0, 2 on a bad day. Sure I’m not a stick, I have muscle because I run and, oh right, eat, but I am thin. F*cking a**hole. Now he begins to repeat that he wishes the lights would dim. I ignore most of this. The lights finally do dim and he says, “Ok, here we go,” as he reaches behind my neck and starts to move in for the kiss. I have just enough time to put my hand up and say thanks, but not happening, sorry.

He moves away and starts texting on his Blackberry. I thoroughly enjoy the movie (it really was awesome…those types of movies just, mmm, so sexy), and am somewhat sad when it’s over. We walk out to his car. He peels out like a maniac, drives like a complete a**hole, and barely slows down to let me out at my car. What a gentleman.

My second bad date was completely unexpected. I had been talking with this guy for a couple of weeks and he was fine over the phone, maybe a little too eager, but whatever. We meet in Old City on Saturday for some drinks. He is unfamiliar with Philly (Jersey boy, should have been a clue) and thus calls me 4 times to figure out where he's going. I urge him to try to find street parking or, if that is truly impossible, go to the Bourse garage on 4th and Ranstead. I tell him I’ll call when I get into the city and see where I should meet him.

I get down to Old City and miraculously find free on street parking on 2nd right after Walnut (around the Sheraton at Society Hill). I’m pumped; this is going well so far! I give him a call and tell him to meet me on the corner of 2nd and Chestnut. I see him walking up and immediately know that this isn’t happening. I was wearing 2.5” heels, short heels in my book, and I was as tall, if not a smidge taller, than he. Oh well, I figured we seem to be able to talk, so it should still be a pretty decent evening. I suggest we try Eulogy for our first bar. We walk in and, of course, it’s packed. I checked out the upstairs bar but it, too, was packed. So we wander around, popping in and out of bars, each one getting rejected by him because they are too crowded. We end up at Rotten Ralph’s solely because there are seats.

I order a vodka tonic and he gets a vodka cran. I slowly sip mine, enjoying the smooth taste of Grey Goose. I tend to leave my lime to the side when I drink a good vodka tonic. If I simply get the house vodka then the lime is necessary; otherwise I like to actually taste my liquor…I like vodka. He squeezes my lime into my drink, telling me I don’t know how to drink a vodka tonic. I explain I purposely left the lime off and, thank you, that’s the way I like it. I look over and he has completely downed his drink already. I’m a bit taken aback and make some sort of comment on it, hopefully in a nonjudgmental manner (fat chance). He laughs and says he can handle his liquor.

The conversation starts out well enough, talking about work, a little bit of philosophy, interests, etc. Then he asks me if I’m dating anyone else. I tell him, truthfully, that there is someone I’ve been seeing but that he and I are not serious and I decided to get back out into the world of dating. He seems to accept this answer, asks how we met, and then asks if we still sleep together. I was a bit surprised with the question, but answered honestly. “Tell me about it,” he implores. Wha?! I refuse and he gets annoyed. “Come on! Is it good? Just tell me a little something. Anything. What was the first time like?” This line of questioning continues regardless of my refusal. “I’m a bit of a voyeurist,” he informs me. Too bad! I need not explain my intimate life to some random guy who is far too interested in it.

This was when I started to get uncomfortable but decided to see if I could just change the subject. I did and we continued to just talk and drink. I had a big glass of water, which I also took my time with; he had four more vodka crans. After spending over two hours with him I said that it was time for me to go. “Can I walk you to your car,” he asked? I agreed and we set out. I was walking on his left with trees and parking meters on my left. He was rubbed up against my right. I stepped a little further left; he followed suit. Eventually I was taking great pains to not walk right into the trees and parking meters wishing he would just give me a little room!

“So I’ll sit in your car and we’ll talk for a bit,” he says as we’re about two blocks from what I thought would be my freedom.

“Talk? About what? Have you something more that you’ve not had the opportunity to say while we’ve been talking for the past two and half hours?” I think this a rather reasonable question.

“I just want to…talk,” he says, giving me nothing.

“I don’t understand.” I really didn’t.

“Well, I wanted to give you a kiss, but I didn’t want to have to tell you. Now I feel like an a**hole.”

“Don’t feel like an a**hole. That’s sweet, but really not nec…” He cuts me off.

“I’ll just sit in your car for a bit, we’ll talk.” I’m starting to get annoyed at this point. Get it through your head, buddy, I’m not looking forward to this.

“You’ve effectively just invited yourself into my car,” I say, pointing out what I think is rude.

“What do you mean?” Now it’s his turn to be confused. We get to my car and I unlock the doors and open the driver’s side. I turn to say goodnight but he’s not there. I look over to my right and he’s gotten in my passenger seat. Mother***ker! I slide in, pull out iPod and plug it in, put my phone within easy reach, and turn to him.

“Can you put on the heat? It’s freezing,” he asks. I start the engine and turn on the heat. I look over and ask him what he feels he has left to say. He moves in for the kill and I turn my cheek. Apparently to him this is an invitation to make out with my neck. I pry him off my neck and just looked at him.

“Hu…I guess we just ‘don’t have a connection,’” he huffily remarks before proceeding to pull out his Blackberry and start texting (what is with this? This is not socially acceptable! It is rude!). “Um, drive me to my car?” This is not really a question but more of a demand. I apologized for having possibly misled led him and he cut me off saying, “Could you drive me to my car? It’s cold out.”

“Well, um, where are you parked?” I ask, a bit confused.

“Front, a little past Chestnut,” he says. I roll my eyes. I’m on 2nd. If you know Philly, you know it is a grid of one-way streets. I would have to loop around and then sit in Saturday night Old City gridlock to get there. It is also in the opposite direction from where I need to be going.

“It would probably be faster if you walked, actually. I’d have to circle ‘round and sit at the lights, etc.,” I explain.

“It’s cold.” Well, yeah, but that still doesn’t mean you can invite yourself into my car and then demand I drive you places. I acquiesced. When I got back to, where else, 2nd and Chestnut he says (speaking for the first time since I pried him off my neck), “I’m getting out here.”

I was now stuck in a gridlock going the wrong direction. I was fuming. I picked up my phone and called my friend, Mo, and told her I was coming over. I found my way out of the city and over to her apartment. B, Mo and I then went down to the Greeks, the bar below their apartment, and proceeded to have an amazing time. We recounted stories of our “firsts” (kisses, dates, drinks, etc) and reminisced about how we all met. It was a blast.

Dating is a wretched beast. Seemingly normal people suddenly turn into raging a**holes; signals are misinterpreted at every turn; escapes are made difficult. Thank god, then, for friends. Who else so willingly (and gleefully) listens to our horror stories and triumphs? Who else will happily meet you at midnight to help you forget that terrible evening you just had? In the world of dating, I’d argue, friends are what keep us sane.

Mourning

Apparently I'm one of those "once-a-week" bloggers. In the interim I have attempted to carve a pumpkin with a circular saw (or rather I was the one watching in horror as my mother and her tiny caterer attempted to do this in my garage early Friday morning), played with various helicopters, gone hiking in the gorgeous autumn weather, and worked. And, of course, it is at work where I do some of my best writing.

This little tirade was brought on one morning as I sat sipping my tea, reading the newspaper over breakfast. I saw a picture of P. Diddy and underneath I saw the word "Ciroc." I was instantly curious (as Ciroc is a favorite of mine) and read on. What it told me was disturbing.

In Mourning

I always sensed that I'd love something that would eventually let me down. Actually, I've loved a lot of things that have let me down, but here I refer to vodka. Ah, vodka. I enjoy a fine wine, a good hearty beer (Guinness!), but it's vodka that I love. I've tasted many in my short years (after all I've only just turned 21 about six months ago) from the truly detestable (Skyy, anyone?) to the cheap-so-I'll-drink-it-because-I'm-poor (Absolut) to the once-in-a-lifetime amazing (Bison Grass), but it's Ciroc that I fell for (it has a pretty bottle!).

Ciroc is French vodka made from grapes (of course). It is slightly sweet and goes down smooth without that awful burn that reminds you you're alive and hitting the liquor (I hate gin because, as Ralphie says, it tastes like burning). I can just pour it on the rocks and in minutes feel that little buzz, my eyes starting to swim in my head, the blood rushing to my face (I'm Irish, what?), and the little giggles burbling up into the my throat (I love that!). It is my magic unwind button at the end of a long day/week, my little happy pill.

Ciroc has decided it needs to get on the celebrity endorsement boat. Now, this is bad enough in and of itself: celebrities bother me, though they tend do to make me feel better about myself (so what if I'm an intelligent college grad working an awful job and living with my parents? At least I'm not engulfed custody suits and court ordered drug and alcohol monitoring!). Ciroc, however, has stooped too low. They've decided that P Diddy is the man for them. P freakin' Diddy; Puff Daddy, Sean John (Jean?), Sean Puffy Combs, J Lo's ex boyfriend (she was just Jennifer Lopez then….). To which I say, damn you!

Accordingly, I can no longer consume Ciroc. I simply cannot drink the same vodka as people who like P Diddy. The best thing that man has ever done was bring Biggie Smalls to the public at large and now dudes dead, so what up Diddy? Imagine, if you will, me, sitting at home in my cozy family room, a fire in the woodstove, enjoying my glass of Ciroc on the rocks, maybe watching "Project Runway" or, more likely, "No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain" after a long day at the office. Now picture some punk a** kid wearing an oversized Sean John tee shirt, poorly fitting pants (likely jeans, hopefully in a dark wash, after all, it's not the eighties), and some terrible shoes trying to impress some over made-up blond bimbo (I’m a strawberry blond, so don’t think I’m totally against blonds, just go with me here) by ordering Ciroc, 'cause that be how Diddy do, yo. I cannot be a part of that crowd.

Friends, if you find that I am inebriated far more than usual in the coming weeks/months, I assure it is not the upcoming holidays (ugh), but rather my quest to replace my beloved friend who has betrayed me in my time of need. I shall have to sample the spectrum of vodkas in an attempt to find that one, that very special one, which I can happily drink straight, on the rocks, or with a splash of tonic. It shall not be an easy mission, mes amis. No, rather, it will be a long, arduous, and drunken trek. If you feel strong enough, please do join me; I could use the moral support (or the physical. It gets a bit difficult to stand after a few drinks). If you don't feel up to the drinking then, by all means, write a letter! Let Ciroc know how disappointed you are that they should stoop so low! Celebrities are never the answer! Or, if you can't physically join me, but love/like to drink, stock up! Purchase some Ciroc, send a message that people are buying it and they (those corporate "big wigs") needn't do anything rash like celebrity endorsement! Maybe, maybe, if enough of us get out there and purchase my beloved drink they will think that maybe, maybe they don't need a spokesperson!

I implore you, cherished friends, save my drink, save my sanity!

**Update**

It took awhile for the commercials and ads to start and, alas, I still drink Ciroc if I'm out and the bar has it, but I no longer purchase it for my home.

My Introduction

This American Life

I hear it constantly, especially from my friends in their early/mid-twenties: "I'm just not a morning person/early riser!" This complaint comes out when discussing everything from getting to the market for fresh produce to exercise to that new job/class they've been offered/have taken up. They bemoan the idea of waking, and rising, before the sun, particularly in the winter when their beds are warm and everything else is icy. I empathize (or at least try to) and then go on to offer advice or words of encouragement to try to tempt them to join the dark side: those of us who bask in the quiet stillness of the pre-sunrise hours.

Maybe I shouldn't encourage them. Maybe I should be selfish and keep those precious moments to myself. When I was little my mother made sure my brother, Matthew, and I were in bed early, even with the knowledge that we would also, inevitably, get up early. I used to go in and snuggle with my half-awake mother in her bed while Matthew would sit on the radiator in the bathroom and talk at my dad while he shaved and got ready for work. I was always full of energy, asking about the game plan for the day: would I be allowed to have a friend over, could we go here, do this, play that? My mother would just sort of roll over and ignore me, trying to soak up a few more minutes of shut-eye.

Now I'm the one who's tempted to hit the snooze button when the alarm goes off. Since graduating college there have been very few days that it sounds before 7:00 am, but even that hour has become somewhat ungodly. I used to be able to roll out and get going at 6:00 every morning. I would throw on my jogging clothes, pop on my headphones, and hit the pavement. The only other people crazy enough to be up at that hour were the baker and the coffee shop employees (and the newspaper delivery man, but I never spoke with him; just darted between the papers he listlessly flung out his window). There was a certain feeling of fraternity between these other early birds and I; though I fear I'm the only one who felt it. I loved walking out my front door to the smell of freshly baked/baking croissants and muffins. As I started my slow jog I'd run past two coffee shops, each emanating a slightly different coffee aroma, wafting out the door to greet me. I loved that smell and referred to it (privately) as my "caffeine kick."

I don't really drink coffee. My run is what wakes me up. Getting a tired body moving is always difficult and when I first started the morning jogs it felt as though I was subjecting myself to abuse. My ankles and knees would scream, my lungs and heart were barely past that state of rest and suddenly I was forcing them to suck in and blow out great quantities of air. My heart was obligated to speed up to get blood to my despondent muscles. Time has made this process easier and now it's as though that same body begs for me to get it in motion, work it hard, and let it feel alive. It is an exceptional way of waking one's self.

My routine, unfortunately, has begun to change over the years. The downfall began the summer I graduated college. I spent two months living in Rome and lost weight just existing there, even though I felt like I ate twice as much. Since I was looking great and feeling good I didn't run every morning. When I did, I got stares as though I'd sprouted two more heads and tail. No matter. The Romans became somewhat accustomed to the blond haired, American freak that whizzed past, panting and sweating in an utterly unfeminine manner. I think I won them over when I started bringing some money with me to purchase a fresh peach or bunch of grapes on the last leg of my jog from the vendors setting up at the open-air market (it was my reward for enduring the stares, catcalls, and shouts of god-knows-what in Italian).

After returning from Italy I had to move back home since I had graduated college and couldn't seem to find a job. I started running my old route and reacquainting myself with the old neighborhood. No longer did I have bakeries, coffee shops, fruit/vegetable/meat/cheese/seafood stalls to keep me company. Instead I now have quiet back streets, trash trucks, dogs, kids walking to school, parents driving other kids to school and sometimes, once in a blue moon, a fellow jogger to keep me company. My mornings have gotten later and more people are out with me now. Jogs have become less of a reflective time and more of an exercise in dodging, ducking, and other general avoidance tactics. I still get catcalls and whistles and obscene things yelled at me, only now I can understand them and when I say something snotty back they get it.

I am slowly losing my early mornings, my favorite time of day. A time that makes me feel like I am the only one who exists. But, really, who wants to crawl out from under those warm covers before the sun has even come up? ;-)