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May 30, 2007
Notes on an Early Morning Commute
My trip to New York required an early morning departure from DC. VERY early, dear reader. And since I was still on Vancouver time, I didn't exactly get a lot of sleep the night before. So working on 45 minutes of shut-eye, let me present you with my observations:
-- There are virtually no women taking the subway into DC at 5:12 a.m. The subway car itself was surprisingly full, but I was definitely one of the few, the proud, the XX chromosomed. Normally, it seems to me like there is a pretty good mix of men and women, and I'm not sure exactly why it's different so early in the morning...perhaps this is a question for the social scientists in the audience?
-- There are NO attractive people on the subway at 5:12 a.m. After noticing the overall lack of women, my next observation was the, ahem, lack of beauty surrounding me. I was BY FAR the best-looking person on my subway car (which was more than half full), and let me remind you that I was working on less than an hour of sleep and hadn't put a lot of time into the "dolling up" phase of my daily routine.
-- A venti soy latte is a terrible way to compensate for a lack of sleep. While it might help as a pick-me-up, a heavy dose of caffeine on an empty stomach is a big mistake. First my hands started shaking, then my head started hurting, and then my stomach started rumbling. The results were not pleasant.
-- Depending on the context, the things said to you by men standing in the street can either be extraordinarily shocking or a bit flattering. You want to put WHAT, WHERE? You'd like to see me do WHAT? Well, sir, I don't quite know how to respond, but I'm going to take it as a compliment and continue down the street with a spring in my step.
Thankfully, I've caught up on my sleep, had an incredible massage, and even been in close proximity to A-list celebrities. And now it's time to go home.
Posted by madchen at 09:59 PM | Comments (0)May 29, 2007
Hand In My Pocket
I was throwing some last-minute things in a suitcase tonight (I'm back from Vancouver and off again to yet another exotic destination) and I decided that I needed a jacket. I ran downstairs and rummaged through my vast collection of outerwear, looking for one that was right for the weather expected in New York City (mid-sixties in the evenings). After discarding all the other options, I came across a jacket that fit the bill.
I got this jacket in Austria, on a 2-week trip back in 2005 (that picture is me wearing the jacket in Graz--click the photo to see more pictures from that adventure) with my friend Mandy. It was such a fun vacation, and we met a bunch of super fun people from Sweden and Germany. And I just adore Graz.
I haven't worn that jacket much in the last year—maybe once or twice. Mostly it's just been in the back of my closet, with so many other oft-neglected pieces of clothing. So imagine my surprise to plunge my hands in the pockets and come up with the following: a stick of chewing gum, chapstick, and a condom.
Yes, dear readers, apparently there was a time when I found it necessary to keep birth control options ready at a moment's notice. I can't remember putting the condom in that jacket pocket, but I'm sure I thought "hmm, better safe that sorry" and went about my business. You can see how useful it turned out to be.
It's possible I was inspired by Mr. FWB, who kept a condom within arm's reach where ever he went (strange, but useful). On the other hand, I've never come across an opportunity where I needed such immediate assurance of non-fertilization, so perhaps my Girl Scout preparedness training is a bit oversensitive.
The expiration date on the condom is March 2009, so I left it in the pocket. Having recently read several articles about The Secret (you get what you believe is coming to you), I thought I might as well cast my lot with the good sex crowd.
Posted by madchen at 02:23 AM | Comments (1)May 28, 2007
When God Closes a Door...
…he has your newly-single ex-boyfriend move to the neighborhood.
Of course, God has a sense of irony, since the old High School Boyfriend (Mr. HSBF?) dropped by only 10 minutes after I arrived home from a cross-country flight and was not looking my best. He, on the other hand, looked just like I remember him (from 10 years ago), only with a new haircut and more muscles.
Why don't women improve with time that way?
May 26, 2007
Homebound
I've been in Vancouver for almost a week now, and the work part of my trip is over. I'm in a new, less-swanky hotel, surrounded by my Robson Street purchases ("like Rodeo Drive, with mountains in the background"), and with grand evening plans for a bath and bad television.
My project went really well, and it looks like I'll be back out here in Vancouver twice in the next month. I'll probably be speaking Canadian by July, ay. But for right now, I just want to be home, snug in my own room with the cats vying for space on my tiny bed. Don't get me wrong, the good life is GOOD, but it's lonely and I'm tired of eating by myself--even if the sushi here is dee-licious.
May 25, 2007
Getting the Ugly Out
Last night I had a dream so terrible, so absolutely frightening, that I would have immediately called up a therapist (or possibly checked myself into a mental hospital) had I not already been late for a meeting. It was like a horror movie in my head, but so much worse because it contained variations and revulsions I had never seen or heard of before. Although completely repulsive from every angle, the most horrifying aspect of this dream was that it all came from inside my own head. I had no idea I was capable of producing such atrocities.
I really did almost have to do something drastic, but there were obligations to be fulfilled and tasks to be completed, and so I went about my day with a dirty feeling inside. And as much as my attention was captured by the work in front of me, I just couldn't shake the nasty impression that I was aberrant in some way, that something ugly was prepared to jump out at any moment.
It wasn't the greatest day. And so I coped the only was I knew how, with obscenely expensive spa treatments. The spa attached to this hotel is like a paradise—people proffer fresh glasses of champagne at every turn, the steam room is specially prepared to be piping hot just at the time you're ready to step inside, the ladies room is awash with gentle lighting, enormous terrycloth robes, complimentary beauty products, and an overwhelming feeling of peace and calm.
Along with a treatment comes complimentary use of the sauna and steam room, an opportunity to sit in the lounge and watch the sunset, snack on some dried fruit, sip some champagne, and read a magazine. The treatments themselves are fabulous, and even though a facial and massage totaled more than half a month's mortgage payment, they were worth every Canadian penny. Because if I can't address the ugly lurking on the inside, I might as well be pretty on the outside.
May 24, 2007
Who Doesn't Love Sit-Ups with Sausages?
I'm in Vancouver this week with a Big Idea client, one of whose employees just happens to be a classmate of mine from Sweden. She's entered a contest for free entry into the UXC TransAlps Race, which is a 600km Mountain Bike Stage Race that goes from Germany into Austria, Switzerland and finishes in Italy over 8 days of riding.
Part of this contest included her and a friend submitting a video to Race Face (the sponsoring company). The top 5 videos were chosen (hers among them) and now it's up to website voters. The team with the MOST votes will be sent to the Alps, all expenses paid, a prize package worth $20,000.
Based on the videos, the girls are a sure thing, but you know how these website contests work! So if you love me (or if you just like to see hot girls in lederhosen), please check out the following video and vote for the Bavarian Bettys!
Here is how to VOTE for the BAVARIAN BETTY'S:
Go to www.raceface.com
Click on the "VOTING IS NOW OPEN FOR THE TRANS ALPS".
Enter your email address and password.
Raceface will then send you a confirmation email to your entered email address.
Click on the confirmation email in your email box.
Watch the videos, then VOTE for the BAVARIAN BETTY'S.
***Please note you must view all videos (only takes a few minutes).
May 23, 2007
Vancouver, BC
This week I'm in Vancouver for a Big Idea project (and a little vacation). The work is going splendidly, and the city is beautiful. It's been ten years since I was here on an ill-fated spring vacation with my college boyfriend (our intent was to go backcountry camping on Victoria Island--he just didn't think about the 3 feet of snow at the trail head or the hurricane coming in--I insisted that we stay at a hotel in downtown Vancouver). In the intervening years, the city has changed dramatically, some better and some not-so great. But it's still once of the nicest cities in North Amerca, and here's why:
#1 - You might run into a tiger.
Vancouver has this strange problem with tigers running about. Not tigers from the zoo so much as from people's homes and/or private ranches. I know--isn't it crazy? And it's not like it's just happened once or twice:
September 22, 2006. An escaped tiger has been caught by police and conservation officials. The tiger was being transported in a vehicle when there was a collision with a truck on the Alaska Highway.
May 11, 2007. 32-year-old Tanya Dumstrey-Soos was standing near the tiger's cage in a private zoo-like ranch owned by her fiance when the animal clawed her. She bled to death despite the efforts to save her.
May 22, 2007. A Siberian tiger cub was on the loose in the Vancouver Island community of Cowichan Lake. Police were called out to handle the 90-kilogram tiger, which was eventually captured by its owner.
How crazy is that??
#2 - Super swanky hotels.
I'm currently staying at the Pan Pacific Hotel, where at this very moment I'm lolling on a chaise lounge chair and staring at the harbor view from my 17th floor window. The room itself is plush and delightful (complete with $4 cans of diet coke in the mini bar), with a fabulous room service menu (mmm, west coast cobb salad with crab instead of chicken...) and a giant bathtub.
I might never leave, except for the hip coffee shops on every corner, the trendy boutiques lining every boulevard (I've made an executive decision to skip the Chanel store across the street), and the gorgeous weather that just begs you to sit in a cushioned chair on the balcony overlooking the water and take in the sights.
#3 - Friendly west coast people.
In the years since I've left the west coast, I had forgotten how nice people are here. Seriously, I walked back to the hotel last night and passed the police addressing a homeless person for some infraction and they could have been sharing a beer for all the cameraderie. Everyone smiles. All the time. I tried it, but my cheeks started to hurt after a couple minutes so I stopped. I have to maintain my east-coast mystique, you know. And get prepared for my trip to NYC next week, where random smiling will get you kicked in a New York minute.
Also fun - The delights of international travel (since when has Canada required traversing to the "international departures" line at the airport?), the rainforest exhibit at the Vancouver airport, and televisions in the taxis.
Posted by madchen at 10:18 AM | Comments (1)May 20, 2007
At This Point...
Picture it, dear reader. I've just walked downstairs and am about to get in the car and run downtown for a meeting. Janie is playing with Play-doh in the kitchen. My mom is doing something in the dining room.
Mom: Jen, I've found a guy for you!
Janie: A guy for what Aunt Jen?
Me: What?
Mom: I've found a guy for you.
Me: Where?
Janie: A guy for WHAT Aunt Jen?!?
Mom: Well, actually Lisa found him. I can't even remember how it came up.
Me: [Doubtfully] Really.
Janie: AUNT JEN, A GUY FOR WHAT?!?
Mom: Aunt Jen is always complaining that I don't help her to meet boys, and so now I've found one.
Janie: Oh. [Goes back to playing with the Play-doh.]
Me: Who is this guy and where did you find him?
Mom: I don't actually know anything about him. I think he's 30 or 32.
Me: Hmmm.
Mom: Actually, Lisa said he was 28 at first. But you don't mind, right? I mean at this point...
Me: [raised eyebrow] At "this point"?
Mom: Well, um, you know what I mean...once you're almost thirty...
Me: [two raised eyebrows]
Mom: I don't mean...I just meant...now that...it's not like you're just out of college...
Me: Just move on, immediately. What else do you know about him?
Mom: Well, Lisa said that she might invite him to the next ball. Apparently, he likes to get dressed up and go to fancy things.
Me: Oh.
Mom: Does that make him a little gay?
Me. Maybe, but you know, at this point...
Janie: Yeah, Aunt Jen, at this point you are getting OLD!!
Posted by madchen at 10:30 PM | Comments (0)OFIIDIM Hits a Snag
My birthday has come and gone, and I feel much the same, dear reader. Turns out that twenty-nine isn't some great turning point upon which everything changes. Nope, it's the same old, same old.
Take for example, my new life plan tentatively entitled Operation Fuck It, I'll Do It Myself (OFIIDIM)--a grand roadmap for empowered living, a way to take back my dreary existence and perhaps even accomplish some of my 50 things (which has been woefully neglected as of late).
It's a superb plan. On paper. What I didn't count on what a small child getting in the way. When OFIIDIM meets Janie, it's not so much a contest of wills as a slaughter.
It started when Jessica called me on Thursday and asked if I could babysit Janie on Friday. I said yes, if Janie would agree to go hiking with me. That was my ONE birthday plan, and OFIIDIM demanded that it be fulfilled. Janie agreed, and even showed up at our house with hiking clothes (sneakers, rather than the usual dress up Cinderella shoes) and a backpack.
Friday dawned gray and threatening, and before I was awake for 20 minutes Janie was beggining me not to go hiking. Instead, she claimed that we would have a much better time watching Disney Channel and playing with barbies. She even offered to do my hair.
Side note: dear reader, if a 6-year old ever offers to do your hair, take my advice and run for the hills. Immediately.
In the end, I gave up the hiking idea and convinced her to go to lunch. Sushi is my favorite food, and I thought that at least if I could have sushi for lunch, that would still sort of be like I was taking charge of my own life. OFIIDIM might somehow be saved.
Janie insisted that she only ate sushi on the fourth Friday of every month. Was this the fourth Friday of the month? No? Then she was very sorry, but she just couldn't do it. Even if it was my birthday.
We ended up at Cosi, where I ate a very-poor-substitute-for-sushi salad and Janie ate half of a kid's pepperoni pizza. We spent the next 90 minutes down the street in a paint-your-own-pottery class where we painted perhaps the most expensive plant holders I've ever encountered. (Since you have to wait for a week for the pieces to be kilned, you'll have to wait until next weekend to see pictures, at which time I think you will agree that no one in our family is destined to be the next Renoir.)
After that great adventure, we went back to Cosi for what Janie termed "a birthday dessert": s'mores. OFIIDIM took another step backwards, since I HATE s'mores. But after six quality hours with Janie, my will had been sapped and I simply led her lead me around by the hand as she assured me that this time I would like them.
I didn't, but at least we were mercifully approaching the time when I could drive her back home, relinquish her to the vagaries of cable television, and take a nap. But before I could do that, I had to appease the tiny voice that was whispering deep in my soul. Yes, dear reader, it turned out that OFIIDIM wasn't dead, just maimed, and it would not go peacefully.
In a last ditch effort to exert some control over my life, I called my mom to confirm that she hadn't purchased my gift yet, and then I decided to take matters into my own hands. I dragged Janie to the Apple Store where I purchsed a shiny new iPod Shuffle in record time.
I marched back to the car and drove us home with a feeling of pride. I had fought a battle of wills with Janie and I had not been demolished! I had wanted an iPod Shuffle and dammit, I went out and got one. There couldn't be a more perfect example of OFIIDIM in action.
Although...when I woke up from my nap that afternoon, I looked over and groggily realized that I have never intended to get a PINK iPod Shuffle. Apparently, Janie had made a very compelling case during the purchasing process that pink was really the only way to go.
Posted by madchen at 11:24 AM | Comments (2)May 17, 2007
OFIIDIM Is A Go
The last couple of weeks have been unpleasant. My dreams have been unpleasant, my companionship has been unpleasant, and…well…basically, I have been unpleasant. Now, with my birthday mere hours away, I have decided that a new state of affairs is in order. And because I simply adore Ms. NYC Rouge and her witty ways, I have decided to give this endeavor a catchy name:
Operation Fuck It, I'll Do It Myself
Ok, so it doesn't exactly have a catchy acronym (OFIIDIM), but it works. Take these examples:
No one wants to go on vacation with me? Fuck it, I'll do it myself.
No one wants to bring me flowers? Fuck it, I'll do it myself.
No one wants to go hiking on my birthday? Fuck it, I'll do it myself.
No one wants to bring me to climax? Fuck it, I'll do it…well, you get the general idea.
I kicked off OFIIDIM today with a trip to the parlor. The tattoo and piercing parlor, to be precise, where a very nice young man was happy to stick a gigantic needle in me.
I've wanted to get a nose piercing for years, and I decided that this was the day it was going to happen. To be fair, I suppose OFIIDIM would require that I stuck the needle in my own nose, but I'm retaking the reigns of my life, dear reader, not giving up my last vestiges of sanity.
Janie was wow-ed. My dad was appalled. My mom just sighed and asked how I was planning on cleaning it. In case you're wondering, a mild combination of antibiotic soap and water does the trick.
Posted by madchen at 10:09 PM | Comments (5)May 16, 2007
Books I Read In Transition
New Total: 121
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle: A Novel
by Haruki Murakami
Publishers Weekly: Haruki Murakami is a master of subtly disturbing prose. Mundane events throb with menace, while the bizarre is accepted without comment. Meaning always seems to be just out of reach, for the reader as well as for the characters, yet one is drawn inexorably into a mystery that may have no solution. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is an extended meditation on themes that appear throughout Murakami's earlier work. The tropes of popular culture, movies, music, detective stories, combine to create a work that explores both the surface and the hidden depths of Japanese society at the end of the 20th century.
My Review: I am SO sad to be missing this month's book club meeting (I'll be in NYC), because this book was chock full of things to talk about. I love the Japanese take on magical realism, I love how things are left unexplained, and I love how the ending is just as it should be. I've now read two of Murakami's work, and I look forward to reading the others.
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Salt: A World History
by Mark Kurlansky
Los Angeles Times: Kurlansky continues to prove himself remarkably adept at taking a most unlikely candidate and telling its tale with epic grandeur.
My Review: Epic grandeur, huh? Reading this book made me feel like a cultured person, someone who might pick up The Economist and make it through a whole article without stopping to stare into space (or slump over for a quick nap). The facts were certainly interesting, and presented with aplomb...and yet, it wasn't quite like I was eager to pick up the book each night for another go-round.
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The Secret Lives of People in Love
by Simon Van Booy
Publishers Weekly: A breadth of experience and setting distinguishes this somber first collection of 18 very short stories by New York-based Van Booy...Van Booy's characters are shipwrecked by fate and memory but tarry on, like the narrator of "Distant Ships," a lifelong Royal Mail loader who stopped speaking after the death of his son 20 years earlier, or the homeless man chased by ghosts in "The Shepherd on the Rock," who aims to "live out the last of my life" at John F. Kennedy International Airport. These tales have at once the solemnity of myth and the offhandedness of happenstance.
My Review: I bought this book the night that Mr. Pilot and I broke up, and so my reading of these stories was colored by my own inner turmoil. That said, I loved the stories. They made me ache, and I marked the book with little post-it notes for all the sentences of profound truth that jumped out at me from the page.
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The Art of the Start
by Guy Kawasaki
Publishers Weekly: Kawasaki (Rules for Revolutionaries) draws upon his dual background as an evangelist for Apple's Macintosh computer and as a Silicon Valley venture capitalist in this how-to for launching any type of business project. Each chapter begins with "GIST" ("great ideas for starting things"), covering a variety of facets to consider, from identifying your customer base and writing a business plan to establishing partnerships and building brand identity. Minichapters zero in on particular jobs that will need doing, while FAQ sections address the questions readers are most likely to have: Kawasaki covers the basics in an effectively casual tone. Much of the advice, however, consists of generic banalities—start your company's name with a letter that comes early in the alphabet, use big type in presentation slides for older businessmen with declining eyesight, and avoid writing e-mails in all capital letters—that can be found in any mediocre guide. Fortunately, Kawasaki does rise to the occasion here and there. He goes into great detail when it comes to raising capital and offers effective methods for sorting through the nonsense associated with interviewing prospective employees.
My Review: I'm continuing to plow through a list of books that are supposed to help me make the Big Idea a success. This was one of them. It wasn't brilliant, it wasn't terrible. I got some good ideas, but since I'm now past the "start" of the Big Idea, mostly I just congratulated myself where I had succeeded and realized where I went wrong in the early stages of the project.
Posted by madchen at 09:30 PM | Comments (0)May 15, 2007
Game, Set, Match
Today, I stepped into the 21st century and discovered the joys of Craig's List. It was amazing--post an ad, get some replies, set up a meeting, and--poof!--instant gratification. One tiny ad for woman, one great leap for womankind.
Relax, dear reader, it wasn't THAT kind of ad.
Actually, I posted an ad under the "activity partners" section and within a couple of hours I had a tennis partner for the afternoon. It's really quite amazing--he was exactly my age, exactly in my vicinity, and even attractive to boot! Of course, he was WAY better (at tennis) than I was, but even so it was a good time for both of us.
Now I'm nicely tanned (it was a scorcher) and feeling quite content to sit on the couch and watch TIVO'd episodes of the Robin Hood--a truly horrendous (and yet very entertaining, perhaps even addictive) show.
As an added bonus, I've been invited to join a women's tennis league that meets every Sunday for round-robin matches. I'm going to try it out this weekend and see if I fit in with the other girls. And if the weather holds, I even have another tennis match (appointment? meeting?) tomorrow afternoon--assuming that the blister on my thumb subsides overnight. It's a hard life, I tell you.
Also, just so you know, I've decided that this space will now be a heartbreak-free zone. For one thing, I'm beginning to bore myself with all the sadness--two weeks of describing every meltdown is a little much even for me, and you KNOW how I like the drama. Besides, it's too weird to know that Mr. Pilot reads this blog--I feel like everything I write is somehow a secret missive in his direction. So no more.
Game on.
Posted by madchen at 11:10 PM | Comments (2)Bound Up in Knots
Nope, it's not another sad entry, full of explanations about why I'm crying again, or why no one loves me. Instead, I will delve into my recent past, back to a time when I was happy, carefree, and on my way to a fetish club.
I went with Mr. Bad Apologies and three of his friends. I was distraught that my "fetish attire" (ordered off the internet) had not arrived, but was pleasantly surprised to find that the other girls in the party had brought along some extra pieces that they were happy to share.
The club itself was an amusing mix of German death metal, nerds who should have been home playing D&D, the occasional hard core dominatrix, and even a 50-year old man dressed as a French maid (who managed to be accompanied by a girl in combat boots and a thong).
We sampled the bondage equipment around the room, the owner kindly demonstrated to the crowd how to use the leather whip-thing on me (while I was cuffed to some sort of scaffolding), and I was later invited to give a topless woman a spanking while her boyfriend looked on (I obliged, of course, since when in Rome...).
Good times were had by all, except perhaps by Mr. Bad Apologies, who got drunk off of vodka and cranberry juice and had to be taken home early, leaving the three other girls to grab a taxi in the wilds of Southwest DC wearing clothing that a hooker would have raised an eyebrow at.
Yes, dear readers, it was quite an evening. I'd share other pictures, but I don't have permission from the girls, and well, their "girls" are prominently displayed.
Posted by madchen at 12:11 AM | Comments (3)May 14, 2007
Step Forward Please
Well, it turns out that I can really only be angry for about 4 hours before it all fades and I go back to being mopey. This evening I thought I had turned a corner with the first softball game of the season (and an after-game beer with some of the guys from the team), but lo and behold on the drive back home, the tears started again. I'm beginning to tire of this whole saga--being miserable sucks. Time for a radical change, I think.
On another topic, I was watching The Break-Up yesterday, which is actually not a terrible movie (I'm not nominating it for an Oscar either, so relax) and it got me thinking about how relationships are affected by timing. At the end, when Vince Vaughn finally comes to his senses and realizes that he loves Jennifer Aniston, it's too late. It's not that she doesn't love him anymore, it's just that she "doesn't have anything left to give".
That made me think about what I have to give. I had dinner with Mr. Bethesda last week and he said something offhand about how he always liked that I was domestic--that I took care of him. I believe there was some reference to an omlette I made him on our second date, and how even months later he often thinks back to that night and appreciates the gesture. Now granted, I think we went on a whole four dates before we decided a relationship was not in the cards, and so the sentiment coming from him was a little absurd.
Even so, there is some truth to his statement. I do secretly enjoy being domestic. When I'm honest with myself, I'd like to be in a relationship where I make dinner for us at night, where I iron clothes in the evenings while we watch The Daily Show, and where occasionally we have a Saturday afternoon picnic. And while he's sitting on that blanket in the backyard in his freshly ironed shirt, I want us to look at each other and be blissfully happy.
AUGH. That is a scary paragraph, because it seems so unlikely to happen. Not impossible, I admit, since when I look back over my dating history there have been PLENTY of guys who would have jumped at the chance to have me iron their clothes, if you know what I mean. It just so happens that I actively loathed most of them. Or pitied, or despised them. As desperate as I am for a meaningful relationship, I have fled from many promising ones because it just didn't click.
All of which makes it particularly hard to give up on that nugget of hope that grew during this last relationship, when I thought things did click. I am reminded of the end of my relationship with Mr. Music where the emotional lines were drawn on opposite corners, and now I feel much more empathy for his confused puppy-dog "why don't you love me" look. I wonder if I called him today if he would "have anything left to give". (Not that I would--that would just be mean, but it would be an interesting experiment.)
I have my own experiment, in the form of a dream I have every year or so, in which the great loves of my life all show up to offer me their undying devotion. In the past, it's always come down to two guys--one who broke my heart, and one who I loved, but whose heart I broke anyway. In the dream, both of them explain that they want to try again--to marry me and have a family and be together forever--I just have to decide. It's an emotionally painful dream, full of long-suppressed baggage and distrust and longing.
Strangely enough, my ultimate decision on which guy to choose has switched back and forth over time--even though it's been almost a decade since I talked to either of them. Sometimes I've even decided to be alone forever.
I wonder, if I had the dream tonight, and all the great loves of my life lined up with love in their eyes, who I would select. On the other hand, given my tenuous hold on reality at the moment, I might not recover from a dream like that. So perhaps it's a good thing that I have at least another 6 months before that one rolls around again.
Posted by madchen at 09:52 PM | Comments (0)Residual Rage
In the words of Sheryl Crow, I can't cry anymore. Literally. It's like my tear ducts have frozen over and nary a drop can escape.* Instead, I have now moved to a place that can best be described as a "whirling dervish of rage into which you and your loved ones may be sucked at any moment, so perhaps you should think about moving to another state for your own protection and peace of mind".
Yup, I'm angry. And not necessarily in a reasonable way.
Angry in a "can you please stop thinking about yourself for TWO SECONDS and realize that maybe the reason I don't want to spend happy family time together is that I'm trying not to have a breakdown EVERY SINGLE SECOND OF EVERY SINGLE DAY?" sort of way.
Angry in a "how dare you pull that passive/aggressive crap and then have the audacity to be outraged at my behavior, you self-righteous asshole…and the fact that I sort of laughed it off in no way mitigates how very, very sorry you should be" sort of way.
Angry in a "no one really understands my pain, and the way that everyone can go about their daily lives without appreciating the sadness and misery exuding from my every pore just goes to show how shallow and self-absorbed people are these days" sort of way.
As you might imagine, all of this rage isn't going a long way in making friends and influencing people. I'm going to seriously have to consider moving to Africa for a decade of feeding the starving children to rectify this situation. Because moving backwards (crying every 10 minutes) just isn't going to work, and moving forward (retail therapy is the next stage in my grieving process) is bound to be very expensive.
* OK, it's not entirely true that I can't cry anymore. It's more like "I can't make myself cry at the drop of a hat anymore". It's now segued into a more "cry at inopportune times and make those around you immensely uncomfortable". But every day there are fewer incidences, thank goodness. Can I get an amen?
Posted by madchen at 04:37 PM | Comments (1)May 12, 2007
Check Your Drawers
Today I joined the ladies in my family for a Mother's Day tea at a historic inn about an hour away from home. The tea was delicious, the bite-sized pastries were divine, and the conversation was hilarious.
My mom had organized this event for the women of her church, and had made little lavender sachets in a way that very cleverly resembled teabags. We had done a similar thing last year, when we hosted a Mother's Day tea, and Janie was excited to see these party favors making another appearance.
We had explained that you put these sachets in your underwear drawer to make your clothes smell nice. Apparently, she was only half listening, because Jessica later heard her tell someone:
"You put them in your panties."
I double-checked as we left to make sure that all of the sachets were safely in my purse, and not stuck down in anyone's nether regions.
Posted by madchen at 11:48 PM | Comments (0)New Man In Town
Part of the Great Purge of 2007 has been eliminating things that remind me of Mr. Pilot. Unfortunately, everything seems to remind me of him (that book I'm only halfway through that once sat in my car while we went on a date, etc.) and so I've been reduced to fixing the obvious things. Like changing our account on The Knot.
As you may recall, dear reader, I had to sign up for a free account with The Knot in order to see one of Jessica's wedding gown options. Before I knew it, they had sucked me into putting in a fiancee name and wedding date. These were NOT optional categories, and so I threw in Mr. Pilot and September 1, 2008 without thinking too much about it. After all, the point was to view the potential wedding dress as quickly as possible, not to start creating a registry of my own.
Obviously, now it seems a little ridiculous to have an account on The Knot with both of our names, and so I've gone back and done what Mr. Pilot suggested when I told him about it: I've changed the groom's name to my Secret Celebrity Husband, Ed Norton. After all, I've loved him for the last ten years, it seems only right to now take it to the next level.
Ed and I will still be getting married on September 1, 2008 (if you change the groom, it seems only fair to keep the date the same). That doesn't give me much time to meet him, woo him, get engaged, plan a wedding, and execute the event.
But I did find time to take the "what kind of couple are you?" quiz. Turns out that Ed and I are: Happy Hipsters.
You prove that adulthood doesn't have to mean being too serious. Think last-minute road trips, one-pot meals that are somehow to die for, and date nights in. You love to entertain without a lot of pretense or labored preparation -- as long as there's enough food and drink, you trust the rest will fall into place. That relaxed vibe rubs off on your guests, who all feel comfortable in your nest. Registering for multipurpose, sure-to-be used pieces will make your life even cozier.
Whew, I am *glad* I figured that out...perhaps I can mention it during our first encounter, when he finds me in the bushes outside of his home.
Posted by madchen at 01:26 PM | Comments (1)May 11, 2007
Out of Breath
Every night for the last week, I've had the same recurring dream.
I'm in an airport, racing through the hallways with the speed of a marathon runner. I've got to find Mr. Pilot and tell him something of vital importance. I might die if I don't find him, and I spend a good chunk of time dashing back and forth between gates, anxiously scanning the crowds, and pushing people out of the way. Eventually I find him, and when I run up to him I'm so exhausted that I have to bend over for a second to catch my breath. When I stand up, I realize that he is on a moving walkway, slowly receding from view. I can't see his face, and there is a moment of agonizing desperation as I realize he is gone forever and I will never get to whisper that crucial information into his ear.
I have this dream maybe a dozen times a night, and wake up feeling frantic and woeful each time--making my mornings not exactly the most delightful part of my day.
I tell you this, dear reader, not so that you will feel bad for me, or so that you will suggest I put in some more time at the gym to get in better shape for my subconscious moments (because, seriously, I could NOT spend any more time at the gym these days), but to share with you the following twist, which happened this morning just as the sun was rising and I was dozing off after a night of running through the airport:
Lo and behold, I have the dream again, but this time I am 9 months pregnant. I move as slow as a turtle through the imaginary airport hallways, fighting to get my round belly past the crowds and cognizant that I will never find Mr. Pilot at my current speed. It's like moving through jello, and I feel suffocated and smothered and desperate and on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
But this time, instead of the traditional ending where I finally find Mr. Pilot at the moving walkway, this time I burst out of my sleep to find that I'm laying in bed, with my arms and legs tangled in the blankets, and one of the cats lolling squarely on my stomach. Thank god I don't need a psychologist to explain *that* one.
I suppose that still doesn't explain the other strange variation I had a couple of nights ago, where instead of finding Mr. Pilot I was suddenly making out with a 7' tall batik-swathed African woman. Feel free to analyze that one, dear reader, since I'm out of self-reflection minutes for the day.
Posted by madchen at 10:12 PM | Comments (0)May 10, 2007
"Yeah the legs in the air comment was particularly tasteful."
You know when you do something really stupid?
Maybe you've had a little too much to drink and are feeling angry and bitter. Maybe you think that the person to which all that emotion is directed should be made aware of your angst. And so perhaps you decide to leave a nasty comment or two on their blog. Something that you are sure to regret in the clear light of day. Something that you hope is so out of character that it can be forgiven as an immature gesture gone terribly wrong.
For once, dear reader, it's not MY regret we're talking about.
Anyway, I've deleted the comments. To the several dozen people who saw them this morning and sent funny/concerned emails to me, all I can say is this: you read my blog WAY too early in the morning and I can't really be responsible for weeding out the badness before 10 a.m.. And I love you all. And no, I do not need the services of you, you're three best friends, and your bat. But I appreciate the thought.
I would spend the next few minutes sharing intimate details of my life (I have a blister on my toe from shoes that are now in the "purge pile", etc.), but I think I will instead take a walk outside to enjoy a bit of fresh air and the sweet smell of my intact dignity.*
* By "the sweet smell of my intact dignity" I actually mean "the pollen-soaked aura surounding my poor, spore-coverd car". Damn you, Claritin, I shake my fist in your direction!!
Posted by madchen at 04:11 PM | Comments (0)May 09, 2007
Questions I Am Pondering
1. When making eggs for breakfast, why are runny yolks so infinitely superior to thoroughly-cooked ones?
2. Is it wrong to wear night cream during the day? Because if it's wrong, I don't want to be right...
3. When jogging on the track, how might one gently suggest to the maintenance people that they should turn off their giant truck, which has been idling for the last 20 minutes directly on the track path--not only contributing to climate change but also gassing the poor people out for some exercise?
4. Why can't I follow my own advice? Was I not clear that sex during the rebound phase is bound to be disastrous?
Posted by madchen at 09:17 PM | Comments (0)May 07, 2007
If I'm Not Crying Over One Thing...
...I'm crying over another.
This time it happens to be the horrible allergens that have managed to sneak past my hermetically-sealed fortress of solitude. And by fortress I mean the open window right next to my bed. As a result, I've had a bloody nose for the last 18 hours (not like I'm gushing blood, but still) and a runny nose and tearing eyes. I look like an ebola-stricken extra in the movie Outbreak; all I need is a shrieking monkey to complete the picture.
The Great Purge of 2007 continutes today, with multiple trips to the garbage can in the backyard, and even more trips to the minivan, which will wend its way to Goodwill sometime tomorrow. There are going to be some very happy scavengers at that place, I tell you.
Unfortunately, the GPo2007 also means that all of my cool-weather clothes have been packed away, so of course today dawns brisk and windy. I had to scramble to find a pair of (dirty) jeans and a 3/4 sleeve shirt. Even so, my teeth were chattering in my room, so I've relocated to the downstairs living room where at least I can look outside into the gorgeous afternoon sunshine and contemplate my death from hypothermia.
What else? In a fit of devil-may-care spending, I got a pedicure with my mom today. My toes are now a rosy red and scream "I am alone and unloved" to anyone that will listen.
Oh blah dee oh blah dah life goes on oh la la la la life goes on...
Posted by madchen at 04:09 PM | Comments (2)May 06, 2007
The Great Purge of 2007
In the spirit of "out with the old and in with the new" I have begun a major purge. (Not the vomiting kind--that phase of the break-up seems to have passed relatively quickly.) What originally started as a swap of winter sweaters for summer shorts (and the requisite trip to The Container Store for storage supplies) quickly became a heave-to of all things unnecessary in life.
OUT went the Canon Rebel film camera.
OUT went the stereo with the broken CD player and associated (working) speakers.
OUT went every piece of clothing too big, too small, too ratty, or missing a matching partner (random socks, I am looking at you).
OUT went the TV stand/shoe repository.
OUT went the ridiculous number of wire hangers I have collected from the dry cleaners over the last year.
And not one single tear spilled. MARVEL AT THE MIRACLE, dear reader. I attribute this largely to my "sing-a-long" iPod mix, which includes such don't-need-no-man songs as Santa Monica and Another Traveling Song. I dare you to cry during Scooby Snacks. Seriously. There was a dangerous moment when some Natalie Merchant came on, and I had to slow-motion dive (with accompanying NOOOOOO) towards the iPod to advance it to the next song before the lyrics could start.
Of course, while there was no crying, there *was* plenty of sneezing. It appears that the cleaning people have not been doing such a stellar job of the behind-the-furniture dusting. Not that I can blame them, since I apparently failed to sweep behind the dresser for the last 2 years...as I so regretfully discovered a few minutes ago.
Anyway, my point is that with such a purge (which must be completed in the next day or two lest all that hard work simply result in re-organized junk) makes me think that there might be an eensy-weensy ray of hope left in the world. Not that I'm ready to call off the rebound period, mind you. But damn if I won't look nice in my new spring clothes this week, complete with sparkly shoes and a new atitude.
Posted by madchen at 10:55 PM | Comments (0)May 05, 2007
Laughter Through Tears Is The Best Kind
This is from a email I received from my sister...
So the husband of the counselor at Janie's school was killed in a car accident, very tragic, and so the kids all made sympathy cards for her. And that put Janie on a kick of writing sympathy cards, one for Grandad because his dad is blind and one for Grandma because her parents died. I had a hard time explaining that sometimes its not nice to point out other people's misfortunes long after the wound has healed and there's no need to bring it up.
So she asked about you and [Mr. Pilot] a couple days ago and I told her that you weren't boyfriend and girlfriend anymore. I thought this might be a good outlet for the "sympathy-card-frenzy". So I suggested that she might make you a card to make you feel better. Her response: I only make cards for dead people. Is he dead? I told her that he was not dead. She looked away with a "case closed" look on her face. "Then he doesn't get one."
Happy cinco de mayo, dear readers.
Posted by madchen at 11:36 PM | Comments (0)May 04, 2007
How to Recover from a Broken Heart
I base this advice on two episodes of broken-heartedness. They were separated by a space of 8 years, but I remember the symptoms that I am experiencing now and see the logic in acknowledging that there is a cycle. Forewarned is forearmed, if still very unhappy.
Step 1: Cry. A Lot.
The first step in getting over a broken heart is to acknowledge how much it sucks. In my case, my heart broke so quickly that it was over before we knew it was happening. In the space of one day, I went from being totally content and happy to sobbing on the floor as he drove away forever.
Anyway, the problem with a broken heart is that it's loss that is compounded in a million different ways. It's the best friend who's no longer there to listen to your daily tribulations. It's the lover who will no longer touch your face and whisper how much he wants you. It's the intellectual equal that you never thought you'd find in a partner. It's the person who exposes you to new movies, new restaurants, and new gossip websites. It's the person who despairs of your taste in music and secretly hopes you'll learn the finer points of football. It's the person who made you finally open up after 10 years of being an emotional recluse, and the person who—in the end—said you weren't what he was looking for.
Here is where the crying starts.
I advise that you give into the crying as much as possible, at least at the beginning. And when I say cry, I mean really let loose. Let your eyes swell up, your nose run, and above all, be sure to make the terrible noises that accompany a heart shattered into little pieces. Wallow in the misery. Allow yourself to feel just how empty and meaningless your life is without this person, and just how very alone you are.
Why do I recommend this? Well, the more emotional and hysterical the crying is, the more you exhaust yourself. There is something about the human body that simply cannot be hysterically upset for more than 10-15 minutes. Time yourself and see. Really, it works.
I advise that you give yourself an early morning "cry time" and then another one right before bed. I find that a broken heart repeats the same cycle, and we can use that to our benefit. Each morning when you wake up only to remember that you're no longer in a happy relationship, that's a perfect time to muster all your crying abilities and get it out of the way. And going to bed, when you go over your day and lament the absence of someone to share it with—that is also an excellent time to expel all that pent up anguish.
In between, feel free to do some "pretty crying". This involves silent tears running down your face (hopefully camouflaged behind some dark sunglasses), a strange tightening of the mouth, and perhaps a delicate sniff or two. If you've really indulged in the twice-daily mega-cry, then these interludes should be enough to get you through the day. And you can do them anywhere! Today, for example, I've done "pretty crying" in the following places: 1) in the car when listening to the radio, 2) in the parking lot waiting for a shuttle bus, 3) on the airplane during take-off, 4) in the airplane during landing, 5) in the bathtub after I got back from the gym, 6) just a few minutes ago while I was packing my suitcase, and 7) right now.
Long story short, crying is going to happen and you are best off when you can strategically separate the heavy-duty crying jags (complete with hair pulling and moaning) from the unhappy-but-not-totally-embarrassing crying. After all, when the time comes when you are actually required to step into real life (if only for a few minutes), you'll be much happier knowing you've gotten the sobbing out of the way for the next few hours.
Step 2: Stop Crying. Now.
Ok, now quit it. Crying all day isn't going to get you anywhere—and deep down you know that at some point it has to stop. This is why I feel that the planned heavy-duty crying is so helpful. Once I've given myself 15 minutes of writhing agony, I can go about my day (at least for the next few hours) pretty much business as usual.
Unfortunately, crying spurts will sneak up on your when least expect it. This is why I recommend turning off your radio (music is a huge trigger, except maybe for the gym mix on your iPod), avoiding updating your Quicken (where you can relive the last days of your relationship via your spending habits), and being very selective about who you commiserate with (because you are basically guaranteed to start leaking tears whenever a thoughtful friend expresses sympathy—good for solidarity, bad for productivity).
My best piece of advice? Get yourself to the gym. It is physically impossible to cry while on an elliptical machine—I've found that it's the one place that I can think about my misery without resorting to sobbing convulsions. On the track (or a treadmill), you can still do "pretty crying" while walking, but stepping it up to a jog basically nullifies the tear ducts capabilities. Here is where the body's reluctance to multitask works well for the brokenhearted. Plus, you get some nice exercise. And potentially sore legs. (During the first day after my most recent break-up, I spent 4 hours exercising since every time I stopped moving the tears started again and I just couldn’t deal with it any more. By the time that I made my wobbly legs carry me to the shower, I managed only a 5 minute sob session before pulling it together and crawling into bed for a nap.)
Step 3: Distract Yourself.
Whether it's time at the gym, or a complicated work project, or whatever—find someplace or something that requires all of your attention. The benefit is that you give yourself a break. The downside is that moment when the activity ends and the full impact of your misery hits you like a ton of bricks. It's like your heart breaks all over again. But each time, it breaks a little bit less. Small comfort though it is, it is progress and something you will appreciate over time.
Step 4: Stop Talking about It. Immediately.
While at the very beginning of the broken heart recovery process it's good and healthy to talk it through with friends, at some point you need to internalize the unhappiness. For one thing, your friends are going to get tired of it—no matter how much they love you, dealing with someone else's misery on a daily basis eventually makes a person want to run away and hide. And for another thing, constantly reliving the event and its consequences prevents you from moving on.
If you are having trouble with this step and you've exceeded your hiatus (see below), it's time to take a hard look at yourself. Once you've experienced all the loss, all the pain, all the physical absence, all the loneliness—and given yourself time to mourn—why are you not moving on? As much as I hate to quote Dr. Phil, he has a point that when we make ourselves unhappy, we're doing it because we secretly get something out of it. To quote him again, how's that working for you?
Step 5: Put Yourself on Hiatus.
I am a believer in the rebound—a period of time where you are still in heartbreak mode and should be allowed to wallow in misery (within the guidelines set out above), and when you should absolutely NOT be "out there" interacting with the world like nothing has gone wrong. This rebound time ensures that you give yourself enough time to mourn your loss, and that you have an opportunity to work through any residual issues.
How do you calculate the rebound period? Simple—just take one week for every month you were together. I don't know why, but it works. I dated him for 7 months, and that means I'm on hiatus for 7 weeks, at which point I can reenter the world as a competent human being.
Step 6: No Dating. No Sex. Really.
Part of being on hiatus is giving yourself the space to be celibate. Trust me, I've tried the "get back in the saddle" approach and it just does NOT work. So don't make the mistake of mixing the business of broken heart recovery with the dubious pleasure of rebound dating. Make your hiatus a "coi-atus".
The added benefit is that when you forbid yourself from dating, there are no nights spent wondering why no guy has asked you out. When you choose not to hook up just for the sake of having sex, you avoid the ugly surprises that inevitably follow (there are few things as unpleasant as the intersection between sex and a spontaneous crying fit, and I speak from experience here).
Step 7: Realize that While It Gets Better, The Pain Will Never Go Away Completely.
I think one of the biggest mistakes in a breakup is the goal to return to "normal". The death of a relationship is very much like the death of a person. We experience loss, pain, loneliness—and a part of us dies in that process. So even though life goes on and we learn to cope, there's also the truth that we are forever changed. There is no going back to normal life. And that's okay—humans have an amazing ability to adapt.
But while it absolutely sucks to acknowledge that we'll never be the same person, that acceptance it the only way forward. Not that it's much help at the outset, when the biggest lesson we can learn is to have that pair of dark sunglasses available at all times. ALL TIMES. So take it one day at a time--and when that doesn't work, focus on getting through the next 10 minutes.
Posted by madchen at 12:52 AM | Comments (16)May 02, 2007
End of the Chapter
It is over with Mr. Pilot.
It was one of those sad and quiet break-ups where it feels numb and cold and empty -- and also hot and tight and violently sickening, like someone just stuck his arm down your throat, grabbed your fluttering heart, and ripped it from your broken body.
He cried, I cried, we wondered if we were capable of deciding what a "good relationship" entailed, we briefly discussed being friends, and then I told him that I couldn't see him anymore. Ever. He drove away nine hours and three minutes ago.
After 7 months of dating--the longest I've dated someone in nearly a decade--he had become a really good friend and what hurts me the most today is that I don't have his shoulder to cry on and his advice to seek. The last nine hours are full of things I want to share with him, text messages I want to send, IMs I want to write, phone calls I want to make. But I've decided that a quick and agonizing loss is better than a long drawn-out pseudo-friendship in which I'd always be trying to be the girl with the "something" he thinks is missing.
The really shitty part is that since work is so busy these days, I'm going to have to fit my sobbing jags into 8 minute between-meeting increments. Or like now, when my typing skills don't require being able to see the computer screen through blurry tears.
Posted by madchen at 08:55 AM | Comments (3)
