Infinity Loop

"We should totally blog about each other while we're sitting here blogging," says Kid. 

Ok.

I'm blogging about Kid blogging about me and we are bloggers blogging in a cafe. IT'S SO 2002! Except we're not at Starbucks.

Actually,, I'm sitting in one of my favorite venues in Baltimore City to write (and no, I'm not gonna give up it's super secret location because it serves a splendid tea AS WELL AS a badass champagne sangria, and I don't want it overrun - totes kidding, it's Teavolve), and here I am supposed to write things and stuff.

Ugh. Writing is hard.

So, the Writing Challenge I took on with Lee was a total bust. The first week was awesome - five days, 40 minutes a day. Done and done, no sweat, and I think I even maybe did more than 40 minutes some nights. 

But the second week...ugh. I came home from work late a couple'a times, and then one night I decided that all I needed to do to still be a human being was watch four Netflixed episodes of Mad Men. 

It was not my finest showing.

At least some things got done. I wrote some words and put some nice punctuation between the sentences.

The Gentleman says that if I'm going to continue to write my book piecemeal, he will continue with acquiring my puppy piecemeal. Which is really gross. And kind of a horrible thing to say to me. 

I digress.

Oh wait - did I fail to mention that The Gentleman promised me a puppy if I write a book? HE DID. IT IS SET IN STONE BECAUSE I POSTED IT AS A FACEBOOK STATUS.

In reality, the conversation went something like this:

ME: I want a puppy.

THE GENTLEMAN: No puppy. You already have two cats. It would be a zoo.

ME: I WANT A PUPPY.

THE GENTLEMAN: You can have a puppy if you write a book.

ME: Are you saying that if I write a book, you will get me a puppy.

THE GENTLEMAN: (totally not realizing that I was 100% serious and he was, like, 34% serious) Yes, sure. If you write a book, you can have a puppy.

DONE AND DONE, GOOD SIR.

Anyhoodle, so this whole book-writing thing is turning out to be hard. Writing takes so much time. And then there are my excellent powers of procrastination.

I was asking my friend over at I Think I'll Make It if she keeps a workout log, because she's a trainer and totally buff. And she said, "No, that's not my hobby. Writing is my hobby."

Ah, crap.

I have many hobbies.

Writing, running, reading, crocheting, cooking, drinking, book clubbing, among others.

But do we really have to choose just one?

After the wedding last weekend in San Fran and after attending a Happy Hour this week put together by co-workers of one of my roommates, I found myself answering this same question over and over and over again: What do you do? As in - professionally. This is the single most defining question people tend to ask, but I don't believe it's necessarily because we are so defined by our professions. I think that it's the most socially-acceptable question people feel they can ask upon first meeting someone.

But the truth is - we do a lot of things. Or, at least, I do.

Now, I totally get that I have a huge problem with discipline and focus. If I'm going to call myself a writer, I damn well need to get on that whole writing thing. But I'm reaching a point where I realize that I will never be just one thing.

What do I do? I work in administration for a nonprofit organization in Baltimore City that provides social services to some of the most marginalized popoulations. I run. I write. I read things. I love. I cook. I travel. I take pictures. I collage. I cuddle with my cats. I museum. I ride my bike.

And when I finally do finish writing my book, I will still do and be all of these things.

But, for now, I'm blogging in a cafe and sitting across from a friend who is blogging about me blogging about him. Times infinity.

The Challenge(s)

Olympic-mania has set in, and we can all watch hours of footage ogling the most fascinating human machines on the planet doing the thing they do best - compete. Something about it is so gosh darn inspiring. Want proof? Watch some coverage while on a treadmill at the gym, and see if you don't start working harder. 

In the spirit of the Olympics, and also to fight off the blah that is August and navigating the first month without The Gentleman here, I roped two of my friends into doing The Cardio Challenge. It's totally simple - two weeks, five days per week, forty minutes a day of cardio.  You can run, bike, swim, whatever you want to do. You can even change it up - twenty minutes on the treadmill, and another twenty on the elliptical. 

There were three intentions here:

1. To get my ass back into a regular gym-going habit. Since the batshit crazy of summer descended, I was making to the gym sporadically. Which, for me, is about three times a week. Save your breath. I AM AN ACTIVE PERSON. But also, I needed to get back into the 5-a-week habit because this week begins training for the Baltimore Half Marathon, which I dutifully signed up for even though all of my running buddies had to bail on me this year. For various reasons, which are all mostly bullshit, like "total debilitating injury" or "moving to the Middle East." Wow, thanks a lot, slackers. You guys suck. Kidding! Smooches.

2. To set a goal that might offset my funk that has me sighing deeply at regular intervals and staring out of windows. It'll pass. 

3. Because my two friends also needed a kick in the ass to get back into some healthy habits and routines.

So, in a series of inspiring, insulting, challenging, and bragging text messages and public Facebook posts, the three of us embarked on our challenge. We texted each other pictures of the time clock on the treadmill, harassed one another when someone failed to pull through, and threatened double make-up time for failure to put in the requisite 40 minutes. It was fun, it was inspiring, and it was just enough of a challenge to be helpful but not daunting. 

Which led to this brainful idea: I happened to be Happy Hour Skyping with Lee and Hot Curry, and Lee and I were both bitching poetical about how hard it is to find time to write, and how sometimes just the act of sitting your butt down in the chair can be so daunting. It occurred to me that in my time of training for races, I have often found the schedule grueling or daunting but it has never deterred me from actually slapping on my running shoes and hitting the pavement. And now, in training for my third half-marathon, I wonder why the discipline doesn't translate.

Which led to this: The Writing Challenge. Same basics: forty minutes a day, five days a week. But with writing. 

It seems completely terrifying to me.

And not just writing anything, like this blog entry so does not count. It has to be writing towards this book, for which I have pages and pages of scribbled notes just waiting to be crafted and formed into hilarious narrative. I have the ideas, the basic skill set, and the time - it's just a matter of actually doing it.

Physical challenges, like training for long races, have never seemed as terrifying to me as this. Actually embarking on the act of writing is so scary, I think, because the idea of failure is much bigger. I never claimed to be a runner, so my measure of success was basically, "Just actually run." But I do claim to be a writer, and I claim to want to write a book, and for me the stakes for that kind of goal is so much higher. 

Going into this challenge, I'm really not sure what will come out of it. If it will feel torturous, or bring out the worst self-doubt in me, or if it will unlock something. 

I have no idea what is so utterly scary to me about the act of writing. I squirm around it, I procrastinate, I decide that I can't write because the lighting in my room isn't right and I spend the next two hours relocating all of the lamps. 

Whereas I can set out a 9-week training schedule for a half marathon, and shrug it off as part of my daily routine. Wake up, run 9 miles, go to work, no biggie.

I wonder if part of the manageability of training for something daunting is that it's broken out into a day-by-day process that feels doable, whereas the prospect of writing a book is just so overwhelming that it's a total mental trip. 

Hence, the idea for The Writing Challenge. For me, it's all about discipline and the act of having to show up, every day, for writing with the same mindset as I show up for running. It's building muscles and creating habits, and working on a foundation of strength that will translate into truly great performances over time. I like the analogy, and it's something I can wrap my head around. 

Also, between that and training, it's keeping me busy so I'm not counting the days until October 31 when I can fly to Abu Dhabi to see The Gentleman. That too.

Kid is Back!

My good friend Kid is back on the writing scene. You can find him here.

You're welcome.

The Dinner Party

First dinner party at New House last night. Bittersweet, though, as it's the last dinner party with Lee and Hot Curry before they move to FREAKING UTAH. Homemade black bean dip, Whole Foods-made guacamole and Mediterranean lentil soup, crab quesadillas, a salad from the Polish roommate, wine and beer courtesy Josh, and a freaking incredible cranberry pear crumble from Hot Curry. Great conversations about the biological necessity of nipples on men, Joe Paterno, Justin Bieber, European dialects, Indian phrases, small pox, and a bevy of other titillating subjects. I do so love me a good dinner party. Especially on a Wednesday night.

To say that I will miss Lee and Hot Curry is an understatement. Lee was one of the first friends I made here in Baltimore, he landed me my first freelancing gig, and he helped me navigate that terrible summer when we lost our jobs due to fire and my boyfriend of four years and I called it quits. (Subsequently, Lee's was the shoulder I cried on during the years of terrible break ups, where he had the grace and patience to say soothing things and not, "Good. That guy was a jerk anyway," which would have been well within the realm of fact.)

I brought Lee to a party a couple of years ago with the express purpose of aiding another friend in introducing him to her roommate, Hot Curry, who is now his fiance. And she is one of my favorite gossip girls, and the one who will drink Lee under the table with me.

Thankfully, we have a few weeks left before they depart. During which time we have to hit up the Explorer Bar and Birds of a Feather. More on those later. And then there's the wedding to look forward to, in April.

Still, I can't help but look around me and see how much has changed in the last four years. Friends moving away, getting engaged, getting married, having babies, getting promotions, new careers, new degrees.

It's pretty sweet to be able to watch someone about to head off on the expedition of a lifetime - primarily Salt Lake City, but also, oh you know, MARRIAGE - and say, "I remember when we drank a bottle of Malibu and you ran down the streets of Baltimore barefoot in your pajamas." Because that happened. And it was glorious.

The Last Dinner Party Menu:

Easiest Bean Dip

(This makes a hell of a lot of bean dip. For fewer than 8 people, I'd halve the recipe. Unless you want delicious leftovers - which I have, and am now overjoyed. So maybe be greedy and don't halve it.)

2 cans black beans

4 TBS chopped cilantro

2 cups hot salsa

cumin to taste

salt and pepper to taste

4 TBS lime juice

Throw it all in a blender or food processor. Transfer to bowl. Or don't and just eat it out of the blender. It's delicious either way.

Goodbye Maryland Crab Quesadillas (via Eating Well)

This feeds 4 people. I doubled it for 6, and all that was left at the end were two lonely tiny triangles that Lee and Hot Curry took home.

• 1 cup shredded reduced-fat Cheddar cheese (I used regular full-fat, because it melts better)
• 2 ounces reduced-fat cream cheese, softened
• 4 scallions, chopped
• 1/2 medium red bell pepper, finely chopped
• 1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro
• 2 tablespoons chopped pickled jalapenos, (optional)
• 1 teaspoon freshly grated orange zest
• 1 tablespoon orange juice
• 8 ounces pasteurized crabmeat, drained if necessary
• 4 8-inch whole-wheat tortillas
• 2 teaspoons canola oil, divided (I used olive oil)

Combine Cheddar, cream cheese, scallions, bell pepper, cilantro, jalapenos (if using), orange zest and juice in a medium bowl. Gently stir in crab. Lay tortillas out on a work surface. Spread one-fourth of the filling on half of each tortilla. Fold tortillas in half, pressing gently to flatten.

Heat 1 teaspoon oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Place 2 quesadillas in the pan and cook, turning once, until golden on both sides, 3 to 4 minutes total. Transfer to a cutting board and tent with foil to keep warm. Repeat with the remaining 1 teaspoon oil and quesadillas. Cut each quesadilla into 4 wedges.

When Hot Curry sends me the recipe for her incredible cranberry pear crumble, I shall post.

Apologies for the lack of food pictures - I meant to photograph everything and the night got away with me. It could have been all the wine.

The Cat Might Lose Another Life....

See, Mom?

See how diligent I am being in my posts?!

My mother (the queen of noticing unmade beds, finding crusts of sandwiches hidden under plate rims, and gazing steely-eyed through flimsy statements like, "Of course I am not going to ride around in that Mustang with that boy with the long hair without your explicit permission!") is one of my biggest fans. I get friendly little reminders that she's bored of the content of my blog when I don't update enough. And I listen to her. Because the fans shall have what they want! And, you know, she's my mom. Trump card.

I digress.

So, last night was typical Book Club. 7 pitchers of sangrias, probably thirty plates of tapas, three different desserts. Over the years, we have graduated from the $5 wine tasting to spectacular dinners where we always have to leave exorbitant tips because we (a) are loud, (b) drink so fast the wait staff can't keep up, and (c) due to said drinking, have a tendency to become loud about inappropriate topics.

Yes, we discussed the book last night.

I even made a list of questions prior.

Book Club has SOME structure; a free-for-all it is not.

I digress.

Day Three of training, which meant I was up at 5:45am to go to a weights class at my gym taught by a fabulous fellow writer/bartender/fitness enthusiast. This was especially rough given the aforementioned Book Club Dinner which lasted until about 10pm and throughout which wine flowed freely. But I made it through. My body will most likely revolt tomorrow when I go to strap on Ye Olde Running Shoes and discover I have lost the ability to run. Or, you know, move.

In other news, the cat and I are going to have words. I don't understand his insistence on puking. For years, we coexisted peacefully on this subject with a simple understanding: he puked only on hardwood floors, and only where I could easily locate said puke for ready cleaning. Now, all of the sudden, it seems he wants to puke in secret locations, i.e., wherever my poor roommate Jaunt wishes to set her foot.

This has caused her to become very upset when she's already running late for work and has to wash cat puke off of her foot.

This is not bearing well on her already tentative relationship with the cat, who thinks he is incredibly cute and can do disgusting things willy-nilly and expect no repercussions. He and I have had harsh words before regarding his complete inability to think about others. He will usually behave for a day or two, and then, WHAM, puddle of puke on the table by the front door, or WHAM, hairball on the mail.

I have tried to make excuses for the cat. It's spring, he is shedding his winter coat, this causes him to puke more. He dislikes the new food I bought. He is having mental distress due to the federal deficit. I am running out of explanations.

Soon, I'll have to tell him: Jaunt grew up on a farm where animals were not pets; they were working, contributing members of a whole. If he doesn't get his act together, there will be consequences.

That sounds like Jaunt is going to sell and/or consume the cat. I know she would do neither. There is, however, a risk that she might sell and/or consume me, and I am not risking this for the damn cat.

Straighten up and fly right, cat, or we're both going to suffer the consequences. Maybe no more tuna juice for you, hmmm? Or butt slaps. (Show me a cat who doesn't live for a good slap on the butt, and I'll show you a dead one. Seriously. They love it.)

In other news, the big debate this week is whether to go to AVAM's Flicks on the Hill tomorrow night or to see Harry Potter. I am excruciatingly divided. I love FOTH, and it's the closest to camping I'm gonna get this summer. But I'm also jonesing to see the final HP. I've read all the books, seen every movie, and must admit that I am looking forward to this with not a slight bit of trepidation only because when those final credits roll...that's it. Then there's nothing to look forward to until Twilight craps out another glittery sensation or Hunger Games finally releases a trailer. (And both, believe me, will be high points for me and my affinity for young-adult-literature-turned-film-sensation.)

In other news, there's a call out for a short story contest for the Boston Review. I'm tempted. We shall see. Earlier attempts at stunted fiction (as I began to see the short story genre) were not so successful. Then again, a contest creates accountability and a deadline. We shall see.

In other news, 35 days until vacation. I totally purchased the Living Social deal ($27 for a limo ride to BWI from the city - WHAT A STEAL) and so have already raised the bar on the expectations for said vacation. After all, if you can't party with class...I don't know where I was headed with that turn of phrase, but WHATEVER, A LIMO IS SUPER CLASSY. And it sure beats bargaining with friends for a ride to the airport. Oh, the promises I've made in exchange for such...

Words and Things

I am currently reading three books. This is not uncommon.

The first is the current Book Club book, which happens to be "Sweet Valley Confidential." Say what you will; those of us who grew up on Francine Pascal's fairytale stories of blonde twins in Southern California were chomping at the bit for this latest incarnation which sees both girls in their late twenties, Jessica already married and divorced, Elizabeth living in New York City and working as an off-Broadway reviewer. The writing is absolutely, undeniably horrible. Jessica prefaces every sentence with "Like," and Pascal seems to have schooled herself in the Harlequin School of Literature when it comes to cliches and descriptions. The story is predictable, the characters laughable. But it's perfect summer reading because it plays on nostalgia and, well, it's completely brainless. The kind of thing you can easily process after a three-martini happy hour.

The second is Junot Diaz's "The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao." And it is utterly fantastic; hands-down one of the best books I've read all year. This book has been following me around for years- literally. I was gifted a paperback copy, and it sat on my nightstand from 2008-2010. I finally donated it in a fit of ridding my life of things that made me feel like a failure: unread literature being chief among them. Almost immediately afterwards, Joel gifted me a second-hand hard copy of the book, and I decided that the Universe really wanted me to read it. It had come highly recommended, but for some reason it was just one of those books (like my copy of "A Moveable Feast" - another potential life failure on my part, unless I get cracking soon) that sat around and never got opened. Eschewed for a new Jane Green or the Book Club book I was supposed to begin three weeks ago.

The third is my lunch break book, "The Happiness Project" by Gretchen Rubin. It's a delightful piece of nonfiction that I nibble away at in thirty-minute increments, when I don't have errands to run or have to work through lunch, that is. I embarked on my own Happiness Project a year or so ago, and now find clean delight in principles I'd come up with on my own that I see reflected in Rubin's research. Reading this book now is a reminder to return to the constant practice of those principals, for which I'm grateful. If I had tried to read this book in the past, I fear it would have struck me as preachy or, worse, unrealistic. But having carved my own path to some steady flow of happiness in my life has opened my mind to other peoples' journeys as well. Sure, I might have thought, Rubin has the resources to go about studying her own happiness: she's not a twenty-something bartender laid off from her freelance job due to the media outlet's pending bankruptcy. She probably even has luxuries like "health insurance" and a retirement plan. What audacious wealth! Those years are, blissfully, part of my past now. It's a little easier to contemplate happiness when you're involved in a job that brings you fulfillment, and living a lifestyle that blends much better with your personality.

I go back and forth on the subject of writing my own book. Part of me wholly believes that I lack the life skills and determination to come out with a solid body of work at this point, and part of me sees this as procrastination. The things I learned in my twenties could certainly fill a book, and a funny one at that, but humor requires a certain amount of distance from life experience. I am just now coming around to the idea that decisions I made at 22, 23, 24 are downright comical in how uninformed and dramatic they seem now. But to parse through all of that and come up with a solid plot line requires a little more tying together of loose ends; something that I'm still dealing with.

I will say, I am no fiction writer. Real life is too rich, too amazing, too eerily coincidental for me to make things up. Certainly, I see a definitive value in dressing up the truth as fiction (because, let's face it, I'm also a consummate over-exaggerator-slash-storyteller), and I have a feeling that at some point whatever work I come up with will be a curious blend of the two, if that's possible. I fiddle around with word choices, with story ideas, but nothing yet has compelled me to sit down and churn out a solid book.

I've been told multiple times to just compile all the emails I write for trivia and turn them into a book, but I fear that my audience would be...two hundred individuals living in or around Baltimore City. Which is nothing to sneeze at, but in terms of royalties...not ideal.

Rewind

There are days, like today, when I wake up, and suddenly realize that I have been living here for four years.

This may not sound like a legendary announcement.

Allow me to explain.

Routine. Alarm, gym, coffee, shower, throwing lunch in a bag, out the door, traffic, parking, rushing, booting, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, reading, answering, calling, meeting, eating, re-booting, reading, reading, reading, answering, answering, calling, meeting, meeting, reading, reading, traffic, parking, snack, cleaning, errands, dinner, reading, bed, STOP. REPEAT. You get caught up in this cycle.

Of course there are breaks. There are dinners, luxurious mornings of sleeping in, long runs, delicious treats, family, friends, boyfriend, cats, breakfasts, lunches, happy hours, films, books, festivals, travel. These are the things you remember the most, however, and the other days just seemed to get sucked into the tornado of routine, if it can be described as such.

The things I remember most are high highs and low lows. The everyday mundane tends to get swept under the rug, and it is moments like these that I am eternally grateful that I keep journals diligently. If not for this compulsion, we would all be devoid of gems such as this:

July 23, 2003
Denmark, Maine
Summer Job - camp counselor
2011 comments in italics

7:56am- Wake up.
8:00am - Breakfast. (Remember the days when you could wake up and be somewhere in four minutes? Like college. Strong prerequisite: not giving a shit what you look like when you roll in somewhere.)
9:00am - Stables, watched K8 (my nickname for one of my British friends, who is still a good friend of mine, and whom I still refer to as K8) ride new horse.
9:30am - Bunk inspections. Hadn't done them in over a week, but higher powers finally caught on and confronted me at breakfast. Foiled.
10:00am- Cleaned our room. Discovered beds are slightly more bearable with only one mattress instead of two. (Ahhhh, camp beds. For an entire summer, we lived on squishy, tissue-thin mattresses on military cots. With no air conditioning.) Got clean sheets for once - am tired of sleeping in own filth. (I went through a Bridget Jones-phase of writing in my journals. This lasted approximately four and a half years, and immensely entertained me.)
10:30am - Nap. Hungover from drinking in the C______ House (a run-down shack further down in the woods where all of the counselors snuck off to after the kids were asleep to drink Natty Lite and listen to music on someone's shitty boombox. Totally the stuff of horror movies.) Must make 34 costumes. Am very stressed. Solution - nap. I miss the cat. (I was in charge of costumes and set design for the camp's theater program. Sushi, who was only about a year old at the time, lived with my parents that summer. I think they still miss him.)

Someday...I shall post more journal entries. There is a statute of limitations in what I feel is appropriate to post, but I will admit that the Bridget Jones years are points of hilarity in a long history of melodramatic journal entries that read like Danielle Steele novels. (My mother once pointed out that my writing - MY EARLIER WRITING, I WOULD LIKE TO CLARIFY - was reminiscent of Danielle Steele. I am still not over this comment. I may need therapy.)

Journalling has been my constant compulsion. I once made Snap promise that, in the event of my untimely death, she was to immediately round up any and all journals in my estate (as if I have anything that would constitute an "estate" beyond a car lacking working shocks and two fairly brain-damaged cats) and lock them away. She - and only she - had full permission to weed through, decide what would be too humiliating for public visage, and post the remaining entries online. If she could find any that aren't too humiliating, that is. I have a tendency to...well...have literary diarrhea in my journals. Probably about that caliber of writing, too.

It's Oh-So-Much-Worse Than Expected

Bristol Palin's memoir, "The Juiciest Bits."

Sumsumsumma Time and Blogging

Are we already upon the eve of Memorial Day weekend?

How did that happen?

Was it not just threatening to snow?

I think I lost a month or two in there due to complete and total crappiness of weather. I mean, really. April showers, ya, ok, no worries, but SERIOUSLY. I wondered if the latitude of Baltimore had shifted slightly to that of...Seattle.

Hand me a mojito and set me up on my rooftop deck with a book, I am READY.

So, in talking with Lee and various other peoples whose opinions I both respect and often desperately want to hear (because they are hilarious and on-point), it has been decided that I have become entirely too lackadaisical about blogging. Gone are the days of juicy gossip and dating stories, behind me are the endless nights of partying and living the young, high life of Baltimore.

OR ARE THEY?

Mostly I stopped writing about that stuff for three primary reasons:
1. I got a real job. Aside from issues of professionalism, I simply don't have time to be trawling about on the Interwebs all day.
2. I re-assessed the content of the blog and decided I was tired of being responsible for representation of my friends, family, and self. It's a lot to bear. If you get it right, you're golden. If you get it wrong, it's a lot of undoing and apologizing and backtracking. In the end, it just wasn't worth it to me to be constantly assessing what is and is not appropriate content for the Internet. It became too much of a hassle, too much of a burden on my sensitive soul.
3. Refer to #1- I started pursuing other things. Running, working, etc. Blogging kind of fell off of my plate when I decided to write only for myself.

But at Snap's wedding, a lot of stories about the blogging days of yore got tossed around. Those were some crazy years. A lot of them fun, most of them frazzled with that crazy electric energy of being young and directionless and la vie boheme and all of that crap.

My life, I'm sorry to say, is far less exciting now. Thank God. I don't think my sensibilities- or my liver- could handle that level of manic craziness anymore.

Not that I am entirely mellow in my old age of almost-29.

Not that my life still isn't crazy.

Just...different crazy.

So, once again, I'm tasked with finding a balance of writing outlet, drawing in you as an audience, and maintaining professionalism in my work life and enough privacy in my personal life. It's a juggling act, constantly, but maybe one I should pick up again.

I'm thinking that certain statutes of limitations may be up on certain stories, and it might be time to flesh out things from the past that are long gone and dead and buried, but still have immense comedic literary value were I to resurrect them.

Such as...the most awkward date I've ever been on.

I think I might start with that.

Breathing Space

Contrary to evidence here, I've been doing a lot of writing lately.

But it's mostly of the research, policy-minded, quantitative type of writing I thought I'd left back in grad school. Thankfully, because I believe in the causes and (mostly) love what I do, the intensive and sometimes mind-numbing work is ultimately rewarding. So I keep telling myself as I down triple lattes and log miles out on the Baltimore streets after work trying to expel all the contained energy.

In moving, I stumbled across a book of clippings from my freelancing days. While there are things I miss (the illusion of grandeur, mostly) what I've found these days is that the harder I work, and the more I commit myself to what I do, the easier it is for me to breathe.

Everything is just so different now, years later. Stumbling into something that fits seems so accidental and so deliciously gratifying, but is it really some freak alignment or a series of choices that line up and suddenly doors swing open at the right times? After so many years of running against the wind, you finally crash land against the right door and find it unlocked. And open it to find a whole world of doors you didn't know existed. And maybe it's not the door you thought you wanted, or even in a hallway you wanted to go down. But it's there, and it works, and it fits, and suddenly it all just makes sense, somehow.

Ran outside in short-sleeves the other evening. Spring is on its way. And I've got races coming up, final stages of moving into my new place, Vegas in April with Book Club, Snap's wedding in May, and the on-set of kayaking season!

Plus, you know, all that policy that needs writing. That, too.

Life Is What Happens....

I do believe this is the longest I have gone without updating my blog.

Oops. My bad, yo.

Writer's (Un)block

As part of "The Artist's Way," Julia Cameron suggests writing three pages a day- EVERY DAY- to get oneself "unblocked."

This is a dual-edged sword of the most excellent advice I have ever received and the worst.

Excellent because, she's right- you can't show up at a page every single day and write consistently and not start to feel things pouring out of you. Things you didn't know you felt, things you weren't aware existed in your psyche, old problems or funny stories or general bits of flotsam and jetsam floating around in your soul that would never otherwise see the light of day. It's kind of like this blog: some days, I show up here with absolutely no idea of what I'm going to write about. But the cursor is blinking, and there is some connection between some hidden corner of my brain and my fingers on the keys and things just come out. It is truly magic in a way only doing something you love to do can be magic. The creativity exists in you all of the time, as Cameron suggests. Sometimes it's just difficult to access it and learning to do this as a discipline takes finesse and dedication and a deep respect for otherwordly aspects that control your universe without you ever even knowing it. It's frightening, sometimes, what winds up surfacing. Frightening and freeing and ultimately gratifying.

This is the light, beautiful part of it.

Then there's the ugly side.

I AM SITTING DOWN TO WRITE MY THREE PAGES. I'M TIRED. I DON'T WANT TO WRITE. I HATE WRITING. WRITING IS STUPID. I HATE THIS PEN. I ALSO HATE THIS PAPER. I'M COLD. WRITING SUCKS. WRITING IS AWFUL. WHY WOULD ANYONE IN THEIR RIGHT (write?) MIND EVER WANT TO BE A WRITER? THIS IS STUPID. I'M BORED. I WANT TO GO WATCH DVR EPISODES OF 'HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER.' I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE. I'VE ONLY FILLED UP A QUARTER OF A PAGE. I HATE THIS. JULIA CAMERON CAN SHOVE THREE PAGES UP HER ASS. I HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATE WRITING. IF I ADD MORE VOWELS IT TAKES UP MORE SPAAAAAAAAAACE AND THEN I DON'T HAVE TO WRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITE AS MUCH. THIS IS AWFUL. I WILL NEVER BE A GOOD WRITER IF I KEEP WRITING ABOUT HOW MUCH I HATE WRITING. I AM A TOTAL FAILURE. I'LL HAVE TO JUST GIVE UP WRITING AND NEVER WRITE ANYTHING AGAIN AND THEN I'LL BE MISERABLE AND ALONE AND HATE EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING BECAUSE I WILL HAVE NO CREATIVE OUTLET. I'LL BE ALONE WITH MY CATS AND MY NON-WRITING AND EVERYONE WILL HATE ME AND THE WHOLE WORLD WILL FALL APART ALL BECAUSE I HATE WRITING AND I SUCK AT IT. THIS IS NOT HELPING! THIS EXERCISE IS RENDERING ME HIGHLY DEPRESSED! I AM NOW AN ALONE FAILURE WHO CAN'T WRITE AND ALL I WAS AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS EXERCISE WAS COLD AND TIRED! THIS IS AWFUL! I DON'T WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE! OH MY GOD I'VE ONLY FILLED A PAGE???????????????? MAYBE IF I WRITE BIGGER. I COULD WRITE A WHOLE BOOK IN 200 WORDS IF THE PRINT IS REALLY BIG. IT'LL BE GENIUS. THEY'LL CALL ME THE WUNDERKIND OF THE POST-MODERN LITERARY WORLD. THEY WILL REFER TO ME AS A 'BRIGHT YOUNG THING.' MY BOOK RELEASE PARTY IS GONG TO BE SWEET. I'LL DEFINITELY INVITE DAVID SEDARIS AND LAURIE NOTARO. STEPHEN KING WILL BEG FOR AN INVITE BUT I'LL TELL HIM ONLY IF THERE'S A LAST-MINUTE VACANCY AND ONLY IF HE REDACTS HALF OF HIS BOOK 'ON WRITING.' CHELSEA HANDLER WILL SHOW UP WITH KANYE WEST AND FLASH EVERYONE. IT WILL BE THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY. I WONDER IF I CAN GET SAMANTHA RONSON TO DJ. I HOPE THAT MEANS LINDSAY LOHAN WILL SHOW UP LOOKING LIKE A TRAIN WRECK. MY SECOND BOOK WILL BE ONE WORD PER PAGE AND I WILL WIN THE NOBEL PRIZE IN LITERATURE FOR MY CHALLENGING OF STRUCTURE AND STYLE AND UPHOLDING OF CREATIVITY AND OWNERSHIP OF ONE'S ART. JONATHAN FRANZEN WILL WRING HIS HANDS WONDERING WHY HE WASTED SO MANY THOUSANDS OF WORDS AND PAGES WHEN HE COULD HAVE WRITTEN A 200-WORD BOOK AND SPENT THE REST OF THE YEAR ON VACATION. THE NEW YORK TIMES WILL FIRST HATE IT THEN ABSOLUTELY LOVE IT. THE HUFFINGTON POST WILL ASK ME TO WRITE 20-WORD COLUMNS EVERY WEEK ON THE TOPIC OF MY CHOICE. I'LL HAVE AN APARTMENT IN THE VILLAGE, A BEACH HOUSE IN THE HAMPDENS, A STUDIO IN BALTIMORE, AND A SMALL FLAT IN LONDON. THE CATS WILL TRAVEL WITH ME AT ALL TIMES. THE WEEPIES WILL WRITE A SONG ABOUT ME. ME AND MY 200-WORD NOVEL. AMAZING. WOW- THE CREATIVE PROCESS REALLY WORKS! THIS IS ALMOST AS GOOD AS AN OUTLINE!

WEEKEND!

The first weekend in.................................... (insert ? here).........that I don't have plans, and already I have maxed out on plans.

Girls' Night Out tonight (which is slightly redundant, given that pretty much every weekend is Girls' Night Out, especially when Catalano's fiance is out of town), and then tomorrow I am locking myself up somewhere to churn out some writing. I have been terrible about this- and Stupid took me to task for it. I should have the next great American novel manuscript to her by Monday. I kid. I might draft a short story, or at the very least sit and stare at the screen for six hours like any normal tortured writer. And attempting to start The Artist's Way. It's completely intimidating (Write? For an HOUR? A DAY? EVERYDAY?) but I have no more excuses not to be flexing any creative muscle now that the marathon relay is well behind me.

However- if I do manage to make some creative headway, I am to be rewarded by going to see Due Date on Saturday night with Catalano.

Random note: Lee and I had an extensive conversation last weekend about the discouraging growth of one's thighs when training. You lose all this weight, it all becomes muscle, and then in the blink of an eye- you've got thighs like Lance Armstrong or, in my case- one of my biggest fears-a Williams sister. So you're uber healthy and can run crazy mileage and your resting heart rate is at a delightful low, but you've got killer thighs and your pants don't fit properly anymore. The non-fitting of pants ranks up there with Things That Can Utterly Ruin Your Day. Don't believe me? Dig out a pair of pants a size or two too small and see if you don't border on apoplectic throughout the day.

I digress.

Sunday- La Roux at Ram's Head with Nickle. I am so excited I can hardly contain myself, but slightly disparaged at the lack of wearable 80's threads in my closet.

Busy, happy little life of mine.

Space On the Shelf

All of this Mercury retrograde has me returning to writing in full-force, which is fantastic, and I'm romantically reunited with the idea of writing a chick-lit novel.

Stupid and I were gnawing over this discussion point. "I consider us both fairly well-read individuals," she pointed out, with the inference of "but we still love chick lit." It's true. No girl can subsist alone on a steady diet of British gabbery, true, but the genre of "chick lit" is surprisingly broad and currently quite controversial.

It has a stigma of pastel book covers and taking up space in book stores under signs like "BEACH READS" or "50% OFF PAPERBACKS!" But the fact is that women auteurs have cornered a serious market in the literary biz and are giving former heavy hitters (King, Irving, and Grisham to name a few) a run for their collective money and shelf space.

Jennifer Weiner, author of "In Her Shoes" (among other works) has been a vocal activist in the reclaiming of the chick lit titleage and removing the stigma of "fluff" from what is genuinely well-crafted literature. There's an excellent Huffington Post article in which she teams up with Jodi Picoult to discuss this, which has sparked a debate about New York Times' coverage of new literature and its consistent failure to give page space to women writers over men.

The fact is that "romance" has long carried a notorious reputation of corset-ripping, bosom-heaving, lords-n-ladies type of simply constructed novelling that doesn't even try to parade as literature. Writers like Weiner, Jane Green, Candace Bushnell, and Marian Keyes might get trotted out as Ferragamo-wearing sensationalists but the fact remains that they touch upon some heavy human subjects in terms of relationships and modernism. The backlash of feminism (unmarried thirty- or forty-somethings, career-driven women, attempts at balancing the drive for success with the overwhelming pressure of motherhood and how women are consistently asked to choose identities between the two) is an important topic that is given voice in these tomes. Dating in modern society; the shift from traditional to online dating, the frequency of forbidden office romances, and the difficulty of meshing one's cultivated autonomy with that of another are also all issues that modern women tend to face.

And, perhaps more importantly, because there are entire books dedicated to all of these things, women are given an arena in which to battle out the various consequences and demands of each. Just as male writers tend to grapple with modern ideas of masculinity, so do female writers attack and work through these feminist issues in their writing. The fact that it gets dressed up in stylized print and Technicolor covers should not- and, for anyone who frequents the pages therein does not- reduce the quality of the literature or the writing.

To be sure, I am not speaking in generalities. There is some chick-lit that is pure fluff. We know that. And we consume it the same way we do Krispy Kremes- as a treat, mostly in private, and discussed only with others who we know indulge likewise. But when genuinely brilliant writers get lumped into the same category and refused page or shelf space because of it, something real is lost.

Kudos to Weiner and Picoult for speaking out, and for writing in the first place. Their gifts to the literary world are real, and they have paved the way for future advancement for women writers.

Unearth

Mercury retrograde unearthed archived postings on this blog.

1,214 pages, to be exact.

And that's just up until about a year ago, which was the last time I archived the blog.

Oy.

two years ago:


"Is this how this whole thing is supposed to work? This whole dating thing? Because if it is, I'm done. I'm done. This is exhausting and pointless."


Like not everything in your life can fall apart at once, right?

I wound up at a karaoke bar singing 4 Non Blondes and imbibing more sake than a Tokyo wedding.


At which point Snap and I had a discussion: sometimes it’s just not about them. Sometimes, it’s just about art. And ourselves. Mostly ourselves. But sometimes art.


But it's more than that. Ending a relationship is always fraught with difficulty, no doubt, but when someone moves out there is a certain feeling of monumental failure that is pervasive and all-encompassing.



I will say, in retrospect, that the burning down of Metropolitan opened up an entire avenue of events that would not have happened otherwise.

one year ago:

They say the way out of any life crisis; be it when you're twelve, twenty one, twenty seven, or eighty four; is a plan.

In your catalog of losses,
You cannot count yourself as one.

We were only there for one drink before it was last call, and at this point everyone was ready to head home. As we were walking out, I felt a pair of strong arms stop me and pull me back, and I found myself face-to-face with a very unconvincing drag queen."You are so pretty," s/he whispered. "I love your earrings. Wherever did you get them?"

The fact that Jaunt once let "somebody" (i.e. a charismatic male) call her "Jill" for three years is unastonishing.

"You look tired." (Which translates to: you look like a big bag of crap.)

Let me interject here by saying this: I am the most highly-functioning depressed person in the world.

I very strongly believe that when you are open and ready for change in your life, opportunities and ideas present themselves to you in ways you may not have anticipated.

Today:

I simply want to enjoy this happy, busy, interesting life for awhile.