The Year in Review

Okay, I did it last year, so here we go...

January: Started with a bang down in D.C. with The Sputz and The Honorary Sputz but I was miserable at my job and utterly unhappy commuting. Confused as all hell about my love life.

February: Totally did the best mock-phone-call of my life (ask for details), still confused, growing more miserable at work. Also, spent Valentine's Day with Dr. Athanasian, my hand specialist, because I had broken my wrist and the 14th was the first available appointment he had. Stupid wrist breaking. And yes, I did say that I have my own hand specialist. What? You don't? You're clearly not all the klutz you can be.

March: I got my first phone interview with a real publisher! Finally quit my job, visited The Thespian for the first time with The Dancer in Virginia, highlighted my hair with 3 different shades.

April: Started to freak out about not having a job, writing uncontrollably, went to visit the Bingers for my bday!

May: Signed up for a temp agency position and was convinced that no one was going to hire me ever and that I was destined to live in my room in my parents' house until I turned 30 or until my father could pay a man to marry me. Or give him a cow. Whatever it is those desperate Jewish fathers do.

June: I got a job that I love! The Dancer graduated and I was in a car accident on the way to her ceremony, then she was in the Miss Sparta pageant. I stripped the dye out of my hair (hello, grays!) and sat down and made a bunch of career goals for myself.

July: Crappy ass month. Nothing good happened here. Oh, well, The Thespian turned 21 so I could stop sneaking him sips of alcohol when he was home, but other than that, NOTHING good happened. Spent a lot of time at various doctor appointments and at work.

August: Continued crappiness, but began picking up a bit. Went to a Mets game with the whole family for the first time since before I could drive. Also, somehow ended up in the same restaurant my grandfather always took us to, even though the place had new owners and was made over and renamed. Crrrreeeepy!

September: Began assisting classes at work. This will also be the month forever nicknamed "the month of the bad date." It started mid-month though, so it carried over into October. And oh, it was bad. Funny as hell, but bad.

October: The Baker/Painter got married! Angy Squirrel and I snuck out of the office to witness! I reconnected with The Hippie after, like, 10 years. I went down to D.C. again and got in another car accident on my way down there. And I dressed up as Maid Marion for Halloween and handed out stuff to kiddies trick-or-treating by the theatre. Also, talked to The Chameleon for the first time in almost 3 months.

November: The theatre's season officially opened and there was much drinking at the pub. The Baker/Painter moved away with The Canadian and we were all sad. I had the most ridiculously huge Thanksgiving in the history of Thanksgiving. I slept on The Dancer's floor.

December: The first semester of classes came to a close and I was really glad since I am utterly exhausted. Waiting to get my car fixed so I'm driving around with what I will call a "dimple" on the front bumper. OOOOOH! AND I moved out! I am now an official adult living on my own. Sort of. I'll post pictures of the new place when I can find my camera.

I'm a bad girl

No, not a dirty girl who needs to be punished, you perv. I mean I'm actually bad at being female. It's like every other girl took this course in being a girl and I somehow got my transcripts all messed up and I ended up taking something incredibly not useful like Perpetually Distracted and Somewhat Disoriented 101. It's not that I'm good at being male either, so I'm just sort of in this obnoxious in-between genders place. Omni-gendered if you will. I'd say androgynous but that's not quite right either.

Part of it is that I'm just not comfortable being the damsel in distress a lot of the time. It takes a lot for me to open up to people so being that vulnerable and needing someone else's help in a big way is scarier than the thing causing the need for help. So, instead of just asking for help or letting people do things for me, I tend to go out of my way to NOT let people do things for me. For example, when I twisted my knee horribly out of whack and was walking around in a hip-to-ankle brace, I wouldn't let Sputz make me dinner because I was frustrated with myself for not being physically able to do normal things.

The other part of it is that I was always somewhat of a tomboy so being treated uber girly isn't quite comfortable for me. I mean, neither is being treated like I'm the guy in the relationship. I guess that's part of why I'm so pro-equalness, especially because I don't want to be stuck in one positon or another.

I'm sure my dating history plays a major part in it as well. It's funny because I had a very long and strange conversation with my ex whom I will fondly refer to as The Moron (he knows why and has agreed to let me refer to him as such...and by "agreed" I mean that the alternative name he gave me to use was Mr. Big Boy and I refuse to use that) and he was saying that the person I am now isn't the person I was at all when we dated. It was actually really good because it sort of reminded me of who I want to become again because I know I've lost some innocence and have become very cynical over the years. The thing that struck me the most was that he said that I hadn't lost my silliness or child-like wonder for some things. In fact, here were his exact words (yay aim): "It's funny because no matter how old you get, you still look at life the same way you always did, like at first it just amazes you and then you slowly disect it and understand it and by the time you're done you can fully analyze it better than most. I guess that's why you're a poet."

It was also good to talk to him because, when I dated him, a lot of life hadn't happened yet and it was interesting to see what his perspective of me was then and what it is now.

It's been a good month for other people's perspective of me, really. I mean, I've sort of had the opportunity to see myself through other people's eyes more in recent times than ever before. In fact, Dr. V. made me a WeeMee, thus, according to her, if I were a cartoon, this is what I would look like:

Probably pretty accurate, especially the wearing black combined with long bangs falling in my eyes. At least I'm consistent, I suppose. Although now I am considering a dramatic haircut. Maybe something a bit more punky? Not in a Punky Brewster way, just a punk way. I don't want to dye it because I finally got all of the hair dye of the past 7 years out of my hair. Maybe I'll just get a piercing.

The Great Mall Adventure

As a Jersey girl, I find it necessary to visit every mall in the state. It's one of our common goals as girls in Jersey. That and simultaneously spraying enough hairspray in our already sprayed hair to cause the ozone layer to thin out over Atlantic City for the duration of said spray...while navigating a jughandle on our way to a Bon Jovi concert.

Ok, obviously I'm being sarcastic. If you didn't catch that you should start here and work your way forward. And if you're still not picking up on it, you don't know me at all, in which case, hi, welcome, there are cookies on the table in the corner and welcome to a crash course in Hesper.

Anyway, here is the gist of the adventure. After work on Wednesday, Zombie Leftovers, her boyfriend (who I do not know well enought to give a real nickname to so I will call him Mr. Bob), and I decided to take a mini-trip to the Bergen Mall to visit The Pirate. Now, this seems seemingly simple. Get on a highway, drive, arrive, yayness. I assure you that simple, this was not.

First of all, I woke up at 5:15 for no real reason except that my body is clearly rebelling against me for trying to be an adult and getting back at me using reverse-psychology. Instead of trying to sleep in, it keeps trying to wake me up earlier just because it can. Then I went to work all day, culminating with working with 5-6 year olds on Annie, which was super fun, but tiring. Sooo...when Zombie Leftovers claimed that the Bergen Mall was 25 minutes away (or so) I figured it was no big deal. What she didn't tell me was that she didn't take traffic or her extreme lack of directions into account.

The traffic was the usual rush-hour traffic, so no one can be held responsible for that. Since no one who reads this will be familiar with the roads I'll be referencing, I'll just put it in super layman's terms. We got off the major interstate highway, turned onto a local highway (going the wrong direction as per Zombie Leftovers' directions) and were in downtown crazy Jersey town. I don't even know which town it was at that point, all I do know is that after 10-15 minutes going the wrong direction, we pulled over to a gas station where every attendant gave us different directions. And suggested that instead of the Bergen Mall, we go to the Garden State Plaza. Finally a nice business suit guy gave us decent directions. Now, by "us" I mean "Zombie Leftovers" because she's the one who got out of the car to ask.

We turn around, head back in the right direction, and Zombie Leftovers announces that she knew that we went the wrong way, declares herself "right" and decides to get adventurous yet again and tells us to take a random right-hand turn onto a road that "may be right...or something." For some reason, I listen to her. Now we're in some ridiculous residential area with no sign of anything that remotely resembles a mall. We turn around. Zombie Leftovers announces that she knew it was wrong and that she was right. Again.

Now we're back on the local highway and we go past the ramp from which we entered in the first place. Zombie Leftovers announces that she's right. We finally find the right place to be and pull into the parking lot. Zombie Leftovers declares that she's right.

We walk into one store, only to find out that it is not, in fact, connected to the rest of the mall. We head upstairs and attempt to find an entrance to the actual mall. By the time we finally do see The Pirate, it's nearly 6:30 and we left at about 5. 25 minutes my ass. Oh, and Zombie Leftovers relayed the story to The Pirate, frequently expressing that she was right and she knew we were going the wrong way. Thankfully, Mr. Bob and I cleared up any misconceptions The Pirate may have fairly quickly.

Long story short, the next time we take a random road trip, Zombie Leftovers will not be the navigator, I don't care how correct she is.

It's a blog about nothing!

I'm feeling incredibly random so this post will be incredibly random. Deal. Yes, I just ordered you.

So, I'm moving. Sorry to sort of blurt it out in the first sentence, but I figured it would be the best way to take care of it...put it out there and be done with it.

So far, the announcement of my moving has produced a wide range of emotions from my family and friends. My sister, for example, burt into tears until I pointed out that I would need help shopping for new bedding and towels. My brother was less emotional and asked if I got into one too many fights with my father. My parents have been supportive. I know this because they are doing everything in their power to remind me why I want to move out in the first place. These small reminders have been helpful, really, because for a split second after it was official, I did freak out and think "oh, but wait...maybe I don't want to?" but then my father immediately asked me if I had checked the weather report because he didn't think the jacket I was wearing was conducive to the cold weather and I should really watch the weather channel more often. Also, my car needs an oil change and do I know how to take care of that?

Aside from the jacket thing, here is a list of question that they have asked me this week alone:
- Is there enough gas in my car to get me to work?
- Have I done my laundry recently?
- Do I really want to go out and get a drink on a weeknight? I have work tomorrow.
- Have I checked my bank statements recently?
- When is my cell phone bill due? I should really make sure not to forget to pay it.
- Did I make myself lunch for tomorrow?
- Am I awake? Do I know what time it is? Shouldn't I be getting ready for work?

Mind you, this is all stuff I not only took care of on my own when I was in college, but stuff that hasn't been an issue for the past, oh, year and half after college. Suddenly I'm completley inept and cannot possibly understand what it takes to live on my own without adult supervision. And when I point out that I am an adult and that there are plenty of things I can do without supervision (and many things I would *ahem* prefer to do without parental supervision), they tell me that even though they logically know I'm an adult they still think of me as a child.

My dad's reaction in particular has reminded me of "Father of the Bride"...specifically where Steve Martin has a flashback and pictures a 5 year old in pigtails sitting at the dining room table saying "I went to Paris and met a man and we're getting married, Daddy." I didn't really expect anything less, especially because I am the oldest, but fact of the matter is, I do not need to be spoonfed everything.

Ok, vent done. Sorry about that.

Now funny stuff.

So, the new office we are in is quirky. Quirkier than I am, which is difficult to beat. First of all, there are 5 of us sharing a single DSL line, which wouldn't be a big deal except that 2 are dealing with ginormous graphic-infused files that take up a lot of bandwidth. Basically, for those of you who do not want to try to follow my geekiness, the line to our office that gives us the internet is like a clogged artery waiting to cause a heart attack. So, when I'm trying to place an order or plan a field trip, the system will clog, causing my internet to cripple and my computer to freeze...much like an old woman who has had a stroke and is now paralyzed on the left side of her body. Yeah yeah, I mixed medical analogies. Either way it's bad and requires hospitalization.

One of the possible solutions is to move The Perfectionist (formerly known as The New Girl) and The Boss Man to the old offices and The Tool, The Photographer, The Giggler and I will share a space. This is not good. I will cry. A lot. First of all, without The Boss Man around, The Tool will be a full-fledged wood shop of badness, Peter-Pan-Posing with his half-zipper all around the place. The Photographer is just a little cheesy which isn't that hard to deal with, but he's also an aspiring actor so he's a little dramatic. Allow me to give you an example:

The Tool: *cough cough cough choke choke cough cough cough*
The Boss Man: You ok?
The Tool: Yeah, my twizzler went down the wrong pipe.
Me: Twizzler? That IS a pipe.
The Photographer: *spits soda out, dramatically hold hands on knees, laughs until face is red* That's hysterical!

Um, no. It wasn't a good joke. While I will admit that every now and then I have some good one-liners, this was not one of them. I know this, The Tool knows this, The Boss Man knows this. You wanted an excuse to spit your soda out.

The other funny thing our office does is ring. We have a doorbell so that we can let people into what I call The Crime Scene (the carpeting seriously looks just...gross) but it is actually a storage room that is not currently in use. We do have windows so it's not horribly depressing. But yeah, so the doorbell will ring when people aren't there. And I don't mean someone is pranking us...I mean that literally no one will be in the hallway and the doorbell will ring as if to say "Hi, just letting you know I still work and I'm a little bored because people didn't visit me today. So, um, HI!" Other times, when people ARE there, it won't ring. We have a bi-polar doorbell. Or the office is haunted. Either one, really.

One of these days I'll take a picture of the office to show you just how insane the setup really is.

I'm That Crazy Fish Woman!

I am the crazy fish lady.

I had one fish. One. His name was Chrono and he was an awesome fish. And yeah, I know that fish don't generally have a lot of personality, but he seriously did. He knew when I was about to feed him and would sort of swim to the surface and pounce on his little granules of food.

And then he died this past spring. He was old for a fish so it was understandable, but still very upsetting because, as it turns out, I don't deal well with death. I buried him outside in a great quiet place because I couldn't bring myself to flush him. In case you were wondering, his name was Chrono because he was blue with red tipped fins. Chrono, the character from Chrono Trigger, had red hair and wore blue. It all makes sense. Shuttup, I'm just as dorky as you are.

So, my brother, as I mentioned before, got me Voldemort (whose saga can be found here). Voldemort is an awesome fish, but I am pretty sure he is slightly evil. I know this because he swims upside down and STALKS his granules. Yes, stalks. He hides in his plants and slowly ventures towards the surface where he then POUNCES. It makes me glad that I am bigger than he is.

Why am I the fish lady, you ask? Well, okay, here goes. You may want to take a bathroom break before reading this- it may be a while.

The Baker Painter went off and got married. By went off and got married, I mean that she and The Canadian were engaged for a long time and then decided to do it somewhat last minute. Angry Squirrel and I were witnesses at the courthouse. And then The Beer Connoisseur and The New Girl (who isn't so much the new girl anymore...hmmm...) took them out to lunch to celebrate. As it turns out, The Baker Painter and The Canadian are now all kind of adventurous and are moving far away just because they can. They cannot, however, easily take their two beta fish with them. So, now I am babysitting them indefinitely, although The Baker Painter promised me that if one or both of them passes away and heads out to the great fish bowl in the sky, she will not be upset.

Now I have Stan, Yet-Wah, and Voldemort living in my room. All in different bowls because betas will kill each other if they are in the same bowl.

Part of me wants to dump them all in the same bowl and video tape the giant fish-style gladiator event, but I cannot emotionally stand there and watch them kill each other. I mean, I did actually cry when Chrono died so there is no way I'd let them kill each other.

Speaking of death and killing each other, is it weird that the primary ingredient in these beta granules is "fish meal" immediately followed by "fish oil?" Mmmmmm...Cannibal the Musical better watch out- I may have to write Beta Fish, the Musical Melodrama.

Man Jewelry

Let's discuss Man Jewelry, shall we? Now, I don't mind the occassional piercing or necklace or watch, but there is a point wherein it becomes...utterly obnoxious.

The Tool, for example, wears what I will refer to as a "mass produced Pacific Sun Wear hippie necklace." Every day. With his work clothes. For some reason, seeing said necklace peaking out amoung the weird fuzzy, curly chest hair that reaches to his neck, really bothers me. Maybe it's that he's a large man who looks much older than he is. Maybe it's the carpet of chest hair that is ALWAYS showing from under his collared shirt. Maybe it's the fact that he wears it as though it is a badge to his true self and this office persona he puts on is a facade he must work under because he is in the corporate world. I'm not sure, but I do know that it makes him that much more of a Tool.

The Gopher is also one for the Man Jewelry. In his case, he has each cartilege pierced in the same place with the same gold hoop. And nothing else. In the right light, it resembles pot holders and it makes me want to pick him up by the piercings. As of late, he has also taken to wearing a pinkey ring. That's right. A pinkey ring. A fashion statement generally representative of WWII Vets and Mob Bosses, I have to say that it is my favorite of the non-smooth manaccessories.

I think there's a direct correlation between the amount of cheesy man jewelry and the level of toolness in this office. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of acceptable pieces for guys to wear. In fact, a lot of my close guy friends have some really nice everyday wear that I think are great. Watches are fine. Piercings (so long as you're actually a piercing person and not trying hard to pretend to be a piercing person) are fine...this is generally silver and not gold though. Even a necklace or ring is fine. But when you pile it on to look like Mr. T. or an original cast member of Hair or a one-man display case for PacSun, we have issues.

Ok, mini-rant done.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday afternoons...

S&M. Stages and mothers. Two things that should never ever be combined because once they are fused, they create a tight, powerful bond similar to that of gorilla glue and wood. The mother cannot be separated from the stage.

Having had too much contact with these mothers as of late, I have divided them into four groups:
the overprotective, worrywart mom
the competitive mom
the "I take everything seriously when it comes to my child" mom
and, of course, the "my child is living the dream I could never live myself" mom

Now, of course there is some overlap. You can have a competitive, living the dream mom or a worrywart taking it serious mom or any other combination. The point is that for the most part, if you are a stage mom, you will fall into one of these categories.

The overprotective, worrywart moms are the ones who come into the administrative offices to sign their children up for theater classes, even though they can mail in their forms just as easily. They do this so that they may not only meet with someone to discuss the school and see who the teacher is, but also to ensure that the teacher is aware that their child is shy/quiet/often sick/prone to asthma attacks/allergic to bees/sensitive about his big ears and to see what the male to female ratio of the class is. Logically, the male to female ratio of a musical theater class for 7-8 year olds is, oh, 1:16. IF that. These mothers will sit in the front of the office for an hour and a half and hem and haw about the fact that little Timmy is the only boy signed up so far and that makes him uncomfortable. They will then ask that you go through everyone else's registration forms in the class and tell them what towns all the other children attending are from. This is necessary when coordinating soccer practices of other siblings. Once classes start, they do not leave the classroom until they are sure that little Timmy is not going to burst into tears. Timmy will not burst into tears. Timmy will start screaming and yelling and go into general disrespect mode. Timmy is a brat.

The competitive mother calls up for registration and immediately tells you that her daughter, we'll go with Sue, is amazing and should be in the 9-12 year old class even though she is just now 6 years old, because she is that talented. She is better than every other 6 year old because she has more experience and it just isn't fair that the other children should hold her back. This registration, which should take all of about 10 minutes, is a 45 minute ordeal complete with you having no choice but to say "Oh, wow" as enthusiastically as you can push yourself to be, when in actuality, you don't care that Sue is on Sesame Street, Martha Stewart, Jerry Springer, Oprah, or Conan O'Brian. Sue, meanwhile, is screaming in the background the entire time about how she wants to go play at some other kid's house and why isn't mommy paying attention to her? Can she have a cookie yet? Once class starts, she will start talking to any other parent sitting out there and immediately ask them about their child. This isn't actual interest; it's summarizing the competition and giving her an opportunity to brag about her child. A typical conversation goes like this:

Mother 1: Which child is yours?
Mother 2: The one in the pink in the front.
Mother 1: Oh, she's cute. How long has she been doing this?
Mother 2: Thanks. This is actually her first acting class.
Mother 1: I see. My Sue's been doing this since she was 6 months old. Someone told me she should be a Gerber baby, so I got her an agent.
Mother 2: Oh, really?
Mother 1: Yes. She's been in countless commercials, she's doing Sesame Street, and next month she's going to be making an appearance on Ellen as a little star singer. She's been taking voice lessons since she was three.
Mother 2: Wow. Are voice lessons necessary at this age?
Mother 1: Oh, definately. If you're serious about it and they know they want to be a star one day, you have to start them as young as you can. You want to give your children every advantage so that when they're 7 or 8 and can start to audition for Young Cosette in Les Miserables, they have a fighting chance.

This is a method mothers use to intimidate one another and make the other mothers think that they aren't doing all they could be to push their children to make it. I mean, if by 5 years old, a child doesn't have an agent and has no idea how to act, then maybe she won't be on Broadway. Maybe she missed her chance to be truly great. Maybe she'll be stuck working in a dog food factory manning the production lines because her mother didn't think that voice lessons were necessary in kindergarten. This, of course, also plays on the fears mothers have that one day their child will need therapy and everything will be their fault.

The "I take everything seriously when it comes to my child" mom acts more like an agent than a mother. She will call up for registration and ask if she needs to bring a resume and headshots to the first day of class. No, she is not kidding. She will then go on for about 10 minutes about how wonderful her precious Nate is. And yes, her child's name is something douchy that will look good on the cover of Teen Beat in 10 years when he is the heartthrob she is grooming him to be. Like Nate or Corey or Ashton or Everett. He will, of course, drop his last name and go by his middle name, equally as douchy, so you end up with Nate Benjamin, Corey Lawrence, Ashton Scott, and Everett Michael. No Goldstein has ever been the next Leo. On the first day of classes, mom will seek out the director of the school, bypassing teachers and assistants, to discuss little Nate's potential directly. She has no regard for time and will literally talk to the director, regardless of classes starting or other parents, as long as she feels is necessary. This undetermined amout of time is genarally about 20 minutes per parent, which is great when the class is an hour long.

And finally, the "my child is living the dream I never could" mom will call to register her child and spend hours on the phone with you discussing how she has always loved theater. Her favorite role was Dolly in Hello Dolly and she really got a great number of compliments on her interpretation of the text, but unfortunately, a career as an actress wasn't in the cards for her. But little Emma (a name made popular thanks to the Friends phenomenon) is very excited to start her musical theater career and would really like to follow in her mother's footsteps. When you ask for an emergency contact number, instead of giving us her cell phone, she'll recommend contacting Stanley Lieberman, Emma's agent. While Emma is in class, this mom will insist on talking to you about the time she played Catherine in Pippin or Sandy in Grease and discuss all the things she knows and can help out with. She'll offer herself as a voice coach for the class or as an accompaniest, or a choreographer. She'll then want to know if you're planning on offering adult classes any time soon because, if not, she'd be more than willing to teach them. She did play Adalaide in Guys and Dolls before she got pregnant and had to give up the auditioning.

And these women, my friends, are the reasons why I will never ever, under any circumstances, be a stage mom. And also why I have taken to keeping a flask with me Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.

New Paltz and weekend update...not really all that sarcastic.

I'm exhausted but I'm going to post a blog anyway.

I went up to visit my sister in New Paltz with Miss Yankee today. Overall, I have to say it was quite the adventure. My father went to New Paltz back in the day, so we used to take all kinds of trips up there in the fall for apples and hiking and general day trip goodness so I'm fairly familiar with the area, but my father likes to give directions like "You'll see M&T Bank on your right and then you'll turn left" which is fine, until you realize that the point at which you would see the bank, you'd have to already be making the turn. He likes landmarkes like that. In any case, we got there fine and found my sister fine and decided to sort of lull about town a little bit.

For me, New Paltz has always sort of been the quintessential college town. It has all of these great restaurants and shops and the town feels like it never updated itself after 1968. Plus, it's a small town up in the mountains, which is ideal.

We found our family's usual apple place where we bought 2 large mums for my mom, a ton of apples and a bunch of cider and then took a drive up the huge mountain to our family's usual scenic place/hiking trails. Now, this sounds like it would be easy, but I assure you it is not. I forgot to ask my dad where we usually park and which site we usually go to, and by the time I realized this, we were halfway up the large mountain with no cell service to speak of. So I'm doing all of this from memory and the last time I was up there was probably six years ago. We drive past it. No worries, though, because I made a 4 disck soundtrack fo mp3's (about 1,000 songs) for this trip entitled the S&M Adventure. S&M being myself and Miss Yankee. And no, we do not dress in leather outfits or whip one another. Thanks for asking. Anyway, the soundtrack has all kinds of cheesy songs on it, so the three of us spent the day singing and being stupid. All the while, my poor sister sat in the back with the mums randomly attacking her and making my car smell vaguely like the woods after a really bad rainstorm. Except that the mums were really potent and making everyone in the car get various headaches and stomachaches.

Ok, clearly I am queen of the tangent. Anyway, we turn around and head back and I take the turn that I think could possibly be the place we want to go, but at this point, the park closes at 7 and it's around 5:30 so we may as well take the turn. Luckily, it's the right one. And I found the house I want to live in:
How perfect is that? Lost up in the woods, overlooking a great mountain. I'm sure it's hellish in the winter, but if everything goes to plan, I won't have to leave to go to work because Random House will realize that I am an amazing writer who should really get paid just to breathe the air and I can work from home. I'm fairly certain that the house is not for sale. In fact, I'm fairly certain that it is a landmark and is part of the state park. Bla bla bla, details.

So just as we're taking in the beauty and really starting to enjoy the weather, despite the light mist and humidity that was going on, we are attached by a ton of gnats. Gnats are the worst because you'll suck them right up your nose if you're not careful. And then, you feel like they're crawling in your hair for the rest of the night. So, we're standing on the edge of the cliff and we sort of scream about the gnats. And our screams our answered. Now, we weren't obnoxious "omg, we're so girly!" screaming. We, well I, was doing the noise of exasperation as yet another bug made my ears tickle. I hate ear tickling. Our screams are being answered. And yes, I'm sure you're now saying "right, because of the echo." Nope. I'm pretty sure that my scream would not be answered by a lower, deeper, testosterone filled voice. And my voice sounds like a little kid's, not a man's. Miss Yankee and my sister take turns screaming back at this testosterone-filled stranger. I roll my eyes. This continues for a few minutes until finally, Mr. Mystery screams, "SHUTTUP! I'M TRYING TO SLEEP!" Right, because we started it. Oh, and it makes sense that you're trying to sleep at 5:30 in the afternoon on a Saturday. So we take off. Miss Yankee points out that it's ridiculous that we were flirting with boys while getting attacked by gnats, standing on the edge of a cliff. I point out that I don't think it counts as flirting if at the end of it, one of the boys tells us to shut up. Unless we're back in 4th grade.

All in all, I have to say that it was some serious good times and much needed mini-vacationing. I should really take more day trips to different places. Also, even though she will be mad at me for posting this incredibly flattering picture of her, I think my sister was glad to see me. At least I think she was. Then again, I'm at the tired point where my perception of things is way off, which I know because I thought about getting a drink of water and talked myself out of it becaus the kitchen is too far away. It's time for bed.

AARRRRRRRRRRR (not like a pirate)

Ok, I seriously need to get something off my chest. If I am at work and you feel the need to make fun of me because I am young and then hug me to make me feel better about myself, you may get a heavy, hard kick in the balls...and I wear pointy heals. I say this as fair warning so that when it happens you cannot say that I didn't warn you. Yes, I was in 7th grade when Clueless came out. Yes, I was wearing diapers when Culture Club first shocked the planet. And yes, ten years ago I was just getting out of my awkward phase consisting of plaid, bad bangs, and a deep love of Kurt Cobain. This does not mean that I am not qualified to do my job just because I am not a fat, prematurely balding tool. In fact, I think it makes me that much more qualified. Especially because 10 years ago, you were the same person you are now, but with more hair on your head.

I feel better now. Yes, the Tool is the same guy who thought I was engaged. And the same guy who decided to go over and bug our better half...I don't know how old he really is, but my guess is 30, going on 55 looks-wise and going on 20 emotionally. I'm not usually this harsh about someone's looks. In fact, so long as I'm not supposed to be judging them for something based on their looks (like when watching America's Next Top Model, The Biggest Loser, or Access Hollywood...for the record, I don't watch any of these, but you get my point), I rarely care about people's looks. But this guy...THIS GUY pisses me off.

Like today, when I was on the phone, he screams at me from his office (that has a door...I just have a cubicle) about something stupid and completely unimportant. AND THEN because I didn't answer him (because I was on the phone) he came into my cubicle and tapped me on the shoulder. Right. Because I'm going to say to the person, "Oh, hold on, my colleague wants me to pop my jaw out again so I can show him how I can lock it out of joint." Mind you, the only reason he knows I can pop my jaw out in the first place is because The Angry Squirrel and I went on a joint-popping spree at lunch today.

He just...doesn't get it. It's like he has no decorum for working in an office. And I understand that he's fairly new and proving himself, but The New Girl is totally cool. She's not loud and obnoxious and completely in everyone's face all the time.

And, on an unrelated related note, if you are gay and you are out, congratulations. If you are in the closet, I completely understand and I hope that one day you will have the courage to be out. If you are in the closet and are going to try to convince everyone that you are straight and you make up a girlfriend in order to do so, don't pretend to be dating a financial planner in the bank of a local branch that many local people use. Eventually it will come out that she does not know your name. At least say she's in Nebraska or someplace similar that no one in the office will visit and no one will accidentally bring you up on conversation.

Ok...so now that I've vented, I feel much better. It's been a really long week. Something like a gazillion hours long and next weekend is completely shot because I have to be at various street fairs. The Sunday one, the Morristown Fall Festival, is going to have puppets. I may be one of the costumed folk scaring, er, entertaining small children. We'll see how that all goes.

She's BAAAAAAAAAACK!

That's right, ladies and gentlemen, she's back and she's crazier than ever. Who is this "she" you may ask?


MERRIANNA!

Critical Acclaim for Merrianna*:

"Just as dark and outrageous as [her] previous work....H[er] voice is so distinctive that [s]he exists as a genre unto h[er]self." -The Washington Post

"[Kowalsky's] language is urgent and tense, touched with psychopathic brilliance, h[er] images dead-on accurate...[S]he is an author who makes full use of the alchemical powers of fiction to synthesize a universe that mirrors our own fiction as a way of illuminating the world without obliterating its complexity." - LA Weekly

"Puts a bleakly humorous spin on self-help, addiction recovery, and childhood trauma...[Merrianna's] funny, mantra-like prose plows toward the mayhem it portends from the get-go." - The Village Voice

"Oddly, defiantly, happily addictive." - Daily News

"[Merrianna] shines a flashlight into America's dark corners...As darkly comic and starkly terrifying as your high school yearbook photo." - GQ



*The critical acclaim is actually for Chuck Palahnuik's Choke. Although small edits have been made, we feel the sentiments are what critics would have said if they had the opportunity to read Merrianna.



Anyway, here they are, Chapters 1-3. That's right, I added another chapter, biotch.



Chapter One

Merianna awoke suddenly from the storm. The wind had pushed at her window and had blown her white nightclothes off her bed, leaving her distractingly exquisite and barely clothed form exposed to the elements of the harsh Binghamton cold. When she had considered moving to Binghamton, it had seemed like a place full of romance and adventure, but now, the prospect of venturing out into the cold left Marianna feeling...wanting. Longing, even. Wanting and longing is, indeed, what she felt. And she needed some release from said wanting and longing.

With a groan, Merianna tore herself from her bed and moved swiftly across her carpeted room to her closet. Sifting through her extensive collection of French, silk bathrobes and negligees, she finally pulled out her favorite item of all: her purple lace bra and panty set with matching thigh highs and garter belt. Yes, despte her awakening, Merianna was going to make this a good day. She headed to the apartment's kitchen for some succulent melons for her breakfast (which of course, she would throw up later).

"Hey, there, sleepyhead." Merrianna stopped with a start! It was Frederico, her long-lost boyfriend who had ventrured off into Endicott in search of adventure and fulfillment, only to go missing for nearly three months. Merrianna had since moved on, taking many lovers in his long absense, because she could not bear the wrath of the cold, desolate reality of being alone.

"Frederico," she finally breathed, her breasts bouncing with her every word.

"Merrianna." Frederico rose from his chair at the table and floated towards her, sure to breathe in the scent of her skin.

"Frederico," she breathed again.

"Marianna." The intensity between them was still there, as was evident by their words of lust and love to each other. Without another word, Frederico took Merrianna by the waist and pulled her in close to his broad, hairless, needlessly exposed chest. Then, because the intensity was simply too intense for him, he kissed her, the kiss of a lover three months missing in Endicott.



Chapter Two

When he pulled away from the kiss, Frederico smiled, then shook his head, as though engulfed in a terrible conflict of will and desire. He pulled away slightly, then said, "Lo siento mucho, mi amor querido, pero nuestra relacion no puede seguir/continuar mas. He encontrado un nuevo amante en Endicott y ella me ama mas de lo que tu jamas podrias." Frederico spoke no English except for the phrase "hey there, sleepyhead" and, due to a horrible mix up in the public school he attended, only learned Spanish off of http://babelfish.altavista.com/tr and was therefore, very bad at speaking any language that did not involve his penis, which actually worked out well for him since his character is the stereotypical "Latin Lover." Unfortunately, one of the problems in their relationship had been that Merrianna didn't understand a word of Spanish, so she simply replied, "I missed you, too," as she began to unzip his jeans.

Frederico took her hands and peered into her eyes and said, " No puedo acostarme contigo porque seria deshonesto y causaria una maldicion sobre mi nueva relacion. Pero estoy seguro que sobarmela no es encontra de las reglas. My pene temblante espera el calor de tu boca, pero se en mi corazon que esto no es correcto. My corazon no te pertenece y te veo ahora simplemente como a una puta.."

Again, not knowing what in the world Frederico meant, but knowing that she awoke in a position to be, ahem, royally screwed, Merrianna seductively sat on the table, legs spread, and pulled Frederico to her, all the while using her right hand to manipulate his jeans so that she may better feel his quivering member, long lost for those three long, hard, lonely, months in which she had slept with nearly 30 other men.

Frederico bent over her, his mouth inches away from hers, their hearts beating in tune with one another's, neither aware of the world around them. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity of flowery description, she reached up and kissed him. Their passion and heat grew, heating their passion and passionately instensifying their heat. No, there had never been such heat, passion, or intensity in Binghamton before. Merrianna was left breathless after their intenset, passionate, heated kissing.

Suddenly, the lovers heard a door open and Frederico quickly jumped off of Merrianna, who tried to cover herself with her hands.

"Merrianna?" It was Lillianna, Kristianna, Orianna, and Liz, Merrianna's apartmentmates, who somehow managed to speak in unison. Upon seeing the compromising position their apartmentmate was in, it was Lillianna who spoke first, blurting out, "But it was my turn to sleep with Frederico!"

Kristianna gasped and gawked at Lillianna, screaming, "No, you slept with him just before he left for Endicott, it was my turn to sleep with him!"

"No it was mine!'' Because Orianna's name sucked the most, she was often shafted when it came to sexual pleasure. Also, people often mistook her for brand name of some sort.

"Jesus! Forget Frederico," chimed in Liz. "Merrianna, it's your turn to buy toilet paper and we're getting low, so if you could please run to Wal-mart, that'd be-"

"How can you think of something as vulgar as TOILET PAPER at a time like this?!?" Merrianna had no idea that Frederico was sleeping with the others, despite a very obvious schedule that had been posted on the refridgerator, next to Liz's notes about toilet paper, paper towels, and sponges. "The four of you disgust me and I will never be able to be friends with you ever again!"

"Oh, Merrianna, no! It's not what it seems! It's just some harmless sex! Please be our friend, we love you more than we love him!" The three other "-anna's" all pleaded with her. Their ample bosoms heaved with every plea, causing Frederico, who did not speak English, to grow more and more aroused at the sight.

"Oh lord," sighed Liz. "Why don't you ALL just sleep with Frederico? This is what I get for transferring. A bunch of whorish sorority girls with the brains of cockroaches." She turned from the kitchen and went to her room, slamming her door behind her. Within seconds, loud, angry girl music could be heard.

"That's not a bad idea," said Merrianna, as she again reached for Frederico's zipper.

Frederico, who still had no idea what was going on, realized that he was about to have sex with four women, none of whom were his fair love he had mentioned earlier in Spanish. Suddenly, he realized that he did not love any of them and therefore, he could not push his red, hot rod in between their fleshy, wet lips only to pull out and repeat several times, gradually increasing speed until finally reaching a dire moment of sheer unadulterated pleasure from which he would later come down from and rest easily against whichever of them he finished with and pulled sheets up around them to go to sleep (becaue the only rational thing to do after having sex is to go to sleep...there is never any clean up involved...at all). The devil in Frederico's mind said, "Que haces pibe? Te quieren! Te desean! Andale! " but the angel could only think of his love, so Frederico zipped up his pants and said, "Lo lamento pero debo irme. Estoy seguro que hay muchos hombres que te cojerian ya que vives en un campus de universidad y cualquiera que no sea terriblemente desfigurado pueden tener sexo. Adios.."

And as he closed the door behind him, Merrrianna burst into tears. "He was the only man I ever loved ................................................................................................................. so far ................................................................today!
The other three quickly rushed to her side to comfort her.

"Don't worry, I'm sure another man will walk into your life," said Kristianna. "They always do in this type of book. No girl is ever single for more than a page or two."

"That's right," Lillianna agreed. "If we order a pizza, one is bound to show up."

"Mmmmm...pizza..." interjected Orianna. "What? My name prevents me from having any kind of real relationship that goes below the waist, so I can fantasize about whatever it is that gets me off. Today, that thing is pizza."

"Ew," shuddered Merrianna.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Later that day, Merrianna thought about what the others had said about a man walking into her life. Could such a man really do so? If so, could he take the place of Frederico? And if he could, would that mean a serious relationship for Merrianna? One that lasted more than a couple of hours? And if that was also so, was she ready for such a commitment? Could she remember his last name?

Absentmindedly, Merrianna decided she would order a pizza, whether it was because the girls had earlier suggested it or whether she hoped that the delivery person was attractive enough to tip with sexual favors was irrelevant because all she knew at this point was that she wanted pizza, possibly with more desire than Orianna. And Orianna was not a thin girl. Nor was she an average-sized girl. Nor was she even fat. She was really just ugly and liked to eat a lot.

The voice on the other end of the phone was husky, sending shivers down Merrianna's still scantily clad body. "Adriano's," it said, the sounds of sex dripping off of every syllable.

"Yes, hi, I'd like to order a large cheese pizza," Merriann flirted back. She figured that she may as well find out if this pizza boy theory would lead somewhere fun.

"Is that all?" Oh, that voice, touching her in the most remote of remote places, so remote that they were probably left out of most anatomy books.

"Yes." Merrrianna could barely stand the tension between them.

"Delivery or pick up?" Merrianna gave a sigh; his words reached out to her, beckoning for her to go with him to naughty places of the night.

"Delivery," Merrianna whispered seductively.

"What?" The voice was doing it on purpose, teasing her until she begged for release.

"Delivery," she breathed again. "Campus delivery."

"Ok, it'll be ready in about 45 minutes."

"I can hardly wait." As she hung up the phone, Merrianna decided she would change again, slipping into something more seductive than her purple lace bra and matching panty set that you all may remember from the last chapter. Again, she searched her closet, hoping to find something, anything, that would match her mood. Finally she found it.

"My naked outfit!" she cried. She quickly removed the purple outfit and disgarded it on the floor in front of her mirror. Then, without missing a beat, she pulled on her naked outfit, careful that the air fit nicely around her curves. Yes, being a nudist was definately the way to catch a delivery boy's attention.

Before long, the doorbell rang and Merrianna raced to get it before her apartmentmates could pounce on her new love.

"Hi, that'll be, er...uh....oh god." The delivery person adverted his eyes to the ground, then to the sky, getting a quick glimpse of Merrianna's body in between, then back to the ground again. "Um, it's on the house...HERE." He pushed the pizza into her arms.

"Would you like to come in for a minute?"

"Um, that's actually against the restaurant's policy. I really have other deliveries to--" Merrianna pulled him in by his insulated pizza box bag.

"I've been waiting for you for nearly an hour," she purred. "I think you owe me something."

"Look, lady, I already gave you the pizza for free, what else do you want?" She grabbed his crotch, sure to make her message clear. "Uh, please let go of that. I have to go."

"You're not going anywhere." Merrianna pulled him into her room, locking the door behind her and placing the pizza on her desk. Then, she pushed him down on the bed and climbed on top of him. "This is going to be one delivery you're never going to forget." She clawed at his shirt, pulling off buttons that stood in her way. Then, when his bare chest was revealed (because there is no such thing as chest hair, apparently) she took his hand and let it to her breast, which was aching from lack of attention. His pizza-making hands immediately went to work, kneeding and flattening, pushing her breast into a large flat circle. She moaned in pleasure, knowing that finally she had found a lover whose skills would be useful. She leaned down and kissed him, hard and pure, because she deserved a man who could withstand a good kiss and he was just the man to ...deliver.



Chapter 3

Merrianna reached down to undo the pizza delivery boy's pants to finally reveal his large, throbbing flesh sword. She could hardly wait to stab herself repeatedly, pumping her hips to a rhythm of desire that would eventually build to a climactic spasm and release, the sword no doubt jabbing the inner recesses of her womanly canal. As she unzipped the zipper, her carnal desire was too hot for words, so instead, Merrianna simply moaned a loud, drowning moan of a maiden trapped under the desire of the sword, the desire of twitching pleasures only her prince could evoke.

"Oh!" Merianna gasped at the size.

"Yeah...um..." The pizza delivery guy was at a loss for words.

"You're a..."

"Girl, yeah..."

"Huh..."

"I thought the breasts would have given that away when you tore off my shirt in Chapter 2, but you seemed like you were on a mission."

"Well, it's been one of those days and I really, really need to get laid. I was actually thinking about how I would exclaim how big you were and I've never seen one quite so large while the author would go on to say how I felt a familiar itch between my legs at the mere glance at your trembling rod, but I guess we can skip that part. I'm Merrianna, by the way."

"Dawn. I'll just get going then."

"WAIT!" Merrianna looked at the pizza delivery girl, licked her lips and said, "I still want that special delivery." With an evil smirk, Merrianna pushed Dawn down to the bed and repositioned herself on top of her. "Let's see what those pizza making hands can do elsewhere." She bent down and kissed Dawn, a kiss that was obviously not that of "just friends" or else this scene would be really boring. Instead, it was the kiss of lovers, lovers with pizza awaiting them for a post-coital snack. It was hungry, veral, and above all, lesbian which made it taboo and somehow hotter. Not quite as taboo as gay men, but it’s up there in terms of things that would make extreme Republicans in the Bible Belt uncomfortable.

As Dawn's toungue intertwined with hers, Merrianna reached down to help her remove her pants, in one not-awkward dance-like movement that is only possible when you are making out with someone in a movie or book. Merrianna ached for Dawn's touch and wished, prayed really, as a last minute appeal to God that maybe, just maybe, she would grow a penis..? Not because Merrianna was against girl on girl action, it was just that she was really hoping for some real penetration rather just external stimulation. Admittedly, she liked that as well, it was just, if you could manage, God, Dawn would be better as a Doug or similar just so that she could really go through with that sword stuff she was looking forward to before.

Dawn pulled away from the kiss and looked deeply into Merrianna’s eyes. Merrianna could scarcely breathe as she waited for Dawn to say something, to pull her in close and treat her like the dirty whore she wanted so badly to be treated like. Dawn placed her hands on Merrianna’s shoulders and whispered, “I should go. I have pizzas waiting in the car and this is a little too weird for me.”

"It wasn’t weird for you a second ago!" style="font-family:georgia;">

“That was before you were praying out loud for me to grow a penis.” She gathered up her clothes and tried her best to close the shirt that Merrianna had ripped. "I think we’re done here."
A gust of wind wooshed through Merrianna’s soul and pulled at her heart. She felt empty and cold. She closed the door to the harsh Binghamton wind and pulled her sheets up around her. This was the second lover to leave her in only two chapters. There was no way around it: she was going to eat the entire pizza by herself and she wasn’t going to care about the calories or the fat content or the carbs.

The more she thought about it, the more the pizza seemed like a good idea, but she needed motivation to push on, to continue her meager existence as the campus slut, to rekindle the massive burning within her loins.

As she munched mindlessly on her slice while flipping even more mindlessly through VH1 Celeb Reality shows and E! True Hollywood Story reruns, she realized what was missing from her life. She craved passion and depth in a world of utter chaos and mundane activities. She needed drama and fire in a world of data entry and mild weather. She needed…to go to class.

Having realized the extreme genius of this epiphany, she quickly jumped up and put on her favorite school-girl uniform and check her class schedule to see if, by any grace of God or the devil, she was supposed to be attending a class at this time. She hadn’t been to one yet this semester, but she knew they were out there. Other people went and came back like tiny hairy messengers with a ring to destroy over mountain ranges through Middle Earth, full of new knowledge and conceptualizations of the “real world” and she would do it, too. Yes, Merrianna was going to attend her very first lecture in Linguistic Anthropology.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

William was pre-med major. He knew that if he could just follow in his father’s exact footsteps that life would work out perfectly for him in every way possible, in every way his pretentious Long Island family dreamed. He would be the forty-fifth generation to study medicine, tracing all the way back to his ancestor Marcus Frius who was a world-renowned alchemist and gynecologist for the Roman Army during its occupation of London before the British were really British. He had the Coat of Arms to prove it.

Not only that, his parents had been talking about him attending medical school and becoming a gynecologist since he was in preschool. In fact, for the first seven years of his life, he was a doctor for Halloween, despite his unending begging to be allowed to dress up as Ray from the Ghost Busters. Even now, as he walked across the snowy campus to his linguistic anthropology class, which is, of course, a complete coincidence, he remembered the agony and the emotional turmoil his mother had caused him.

Maybe he didn’t want to wear a stethoscope and confidently place it on women’s exposed chests, making them jump lightly at the sudden cold, causing their nipples to protrude. Maybe he wanted more from life than slipping his hands into a woman’s flesh box, examining her depths. Maybe he wanted more than health insurance forms and hospital visits and constant births.

William opened the doors to the lecture hall and took his usual place in the back right-hand corner, preparing to take a 90-minute nap. As he fluffed his winter coat into a pillow-like pouch, he noticed a girl, no, an angel walking in what seemed to be slow motion down the stairs, just past his seat. Her long blonde hair, wet with snow flakes, clung to her back, which gave way to her plaid skirt, short enough to reveal her long legs, covered only by what appeared to be thigh-highs held up with a garter belt. He had to sit next to her. This girl could certainly keep him awake through Professor Glick’s incessant speaking in Glickish about form and function.

Merrianna looked around at her new world. There were seats with desks attached on one side, giant screens in the front of the room, and above all else, boys. Everywhere. Just the thought of having her aches taken care of in front of all these other people made her lady jam flow. She knew that she would finally have or orgasmic dreams realized. Oh yes, here she would meet true love.

To be continued...

EDIT: I'd like to thank Flo for helping with the Spanish...what with her speaking it fluently and me not at all. You should really use the link and translate it into English to get the full effect of the story.

Secrets- EXPOSED!

We all have our secrets. In fact, I would go so far as to say that humans, by nature, are secretive creatures. Part of this, I'm sure, is because sometime in second grade we told the "cool" girl something embarrasing about ourselves in an attempt to become closer with her and she told the rest of the class, mocking us for the rest of the year about our teeny tiny crush on a kid named...shoot...what was his name? I want to say Ross, but I'm not completely sure. He had a really cool pencil case though. But anyway, the question is, which came first: the secrets or the pain?

I didn't realize how secretive I had become until a recent conversation with Miss Yankee who pointed out that I don't really let people touch my computer. Or my cell phone. Or my camera. Or anything that would give people any real glimpse into what my life is like. And after a couple of hiding porn jokes and a long stream of teasing, I thought about it. I really don't let people into my mundane, everyday life things. I mean, yeah, part of it is that my business is my business and I don't really want people reading text messages that could easily be taken out of context and thought of being something completely different. And while I don't really have much to hide in my computer's history, I don't want people asking me why I visited a site.

My real secrets, the things that really matter and are really important, are all things that I only trust with those who have proven themselves to me. And also, I have a decent amount of dirt on them as well. But something of dire importance has been bothering me lately. Something that I feel I should really post to get a good grip on reality.

So here it is.

I want a motorcycle.

That's right, you read correctly. I want a motorcycle. And not just that...I want to take a cross-country trip on said motorcycle. Armed only with enough clothing to get me through a very basic week, some basic necessities, a journal and a large novel. And possibly a camera, but that depends on how not-secretive I feel like being on this trip.

So everyone who knows me is probably thinking one of three things:
1) What? HESPER on a motorcycle? Can we say STITCHES?
2) Wow, I didn't expect this of her...it seems so random for Hesper.
3) This is a lousy secret. I kept reading for some real dirt and all I got was a confession about a motorcycle. I'm going to go see if she changed anything on her myspace profile.

So the idea would basically be to leave with enough money to get me to California and back in terms of gas and food, but I'd have to find temporary odd jobs to find places to sleep. Sort of a test in both my ability to be completely independant and completely on my own with a ton of unknowns and possibilities. And also, I would look amazingly cool on a motorcycle. Clearly, I've given this a lot of thought. I have my cute black leather jacket already picked out.

But in all seriousness, I really would like to do something crazy spontaneous like that. It doesn't have to be a long-drawn out cross-country trip, but maybe just a weekend where I just drive without any plans or directions and just see what happens.

So I guess my real secret is that I'm going to try to be more spontaneous and less anal about everything. Ok, no, that's a lie. I do really want a motorcycle. And not just for the cute jacket.

I am not engaged. It's just my tuna.

Although for half a second at the lunch table at work today, it was almost the rumor going around. Allow me to explain.

A bunch of us often eat lunch at work together. Sometimes outside at a table we borrow from the restaurant next door and sometimes inside at the conference table. Either way, hilarity generally ensues. I mean, anytime you have a bunch of people who have been cooped up in a room in the same seat for more than 4 hours who, while doing their other work, have had too much time to think about things to talk about at lunch it's gonna be an event. Usually it's the Yankees. In fact, there is a very specific line being drawn between the Marketing and the Development departments because Development is all about the Yankees while Marketing hearts the Mets like no other. I am a Mets fan. I am also in the Marketing department. It's all very simple logic.

In any case, there I was eating my tuna sandwhich and talking to Angry Squirrel and The New Girl about how my mother woke up early to make me tuna (she's suffering from empty nest syndrome since my sister left for college). Angry Squirrel thinks that I should relish in the fact that my mom wants to make me lunch because I have the rest of my life to be independent. This is where it gets weird.

No one knows how or why or what lines could have possibly gotten crossed, but somehow The Tool thought he heard that I was engaged. Here is a reproduction of the exact conversation, including my inner thoughts which will help you to recreate the entire situation. Inner thoughts are in parentheses:

Hesper: So yeah, she got up and made me tuna.
Angry Squirrel: Well, you know, it's really nice of her.
The New Girl: Yeah, your mom seems sweet.
Angry Squirrel: I mean, I say let her do it; you have the rest of your life to be independent.
The Tool: Wait, you're engaged? Did that happen this last weekend?
Hesper: Uh, what? (who said engaged?) I'm not engaged (to WHO would I even be engaged???)
The Tool: I thought someone said you were engaged...?
The Gopher: Wait, you got engaged?
Hesper: Whoa, no! (All I need is an office party where I have to explain where I'm not only not engaged, but also not even in a relationship...oh god...there will be cake...)
Angry Squirrel: Who said engaged?
The Tool: I thought someone said engaged, but then I remember that last week she was talking about some relationship thing...
Angry Squirrel: Yeah, we were talking about her tuna.
Hesper: (Oh, what now? And did he seem upset that I was engaged? Maybe The Baker is right and he does have the hots for me...)

So now, of course, I'm blushing because I'm embarassed for The Tool that he would even mistake that so badly. I mean, tuna...? Seriously? No one even mentioned engagement. The only thing I could think of later was that he misheard what we were talking about when Angry Squirrel said something about me being independent.

This is a great example of why I love Angry Squirrel though. I mean, only she would have the guts to smile at him and say, "We were talking about her tuna" in such a way that really said, "Um, I don't know what you think you heard, but you're clearly an idiot."

So the thing about this little lunch table is that people seem eager to jump on the gossip bandwagon. And there isn't really much gossip. We're not a big office. And if I were engaged, I don't think I would be able to leave it on the downlow for almost an entire week. That would be a shrieking Monday morning in Angry Squirrel's office. Not a tuna-based sidenote over the local newspaper's sports coverage while The Giggler and The Gopher discuss who the starting pitcher is for the upcoming game.

So I got a new camera

Technically I got a new camera a couple of months ago for my birthday, but now I'm taking the time to get to know my camera. This has only made me nostalgic for the days when disposable point and shoots were the norm.

So, in true artistic form, I've spent a lot of time on self-portrait. There are a few reasons for this, and none of them good:
1) My myspace picture was outdated. I needed to update it to reflect the new haircut.
2) I couldn't think of anything better to shoot and my dog was not being cooperative.
3) I have an innate fear of photos and I have decided to try to get over it. So, I shot about 30 shots of only me. Not me hiding or making a face. Just me.

And no, you don't get to see most of them. Sorry. I am not a massochist.

Anyway, moving on to juicy things because I'm sure you're all totally excited about my camera. I mean, I know that I am but I don't expect you to be because you most likely will never get to see it in real life. And yes, in case you are wondering, I am lying down in the picture. Mr. Fooseball took that picture when we were watching Family Guy last week. That's the only picture I didn't take myself. Mine are actually somewhat blurry because i have yet to master the whole "hold your camera away from your body and take your picture" thing. In fact, I'm much better at the "oops, I accidentally took a picture of the inside of my pocket" thing.

So, back to the juicy stuff that I have yet to touch on. As I said, I've been thinking a lot about relationships lately, which gets me thinking about past relationships and what went wrong and what went right and what I miss and what I don't miss and what I liked and what I didn't like. And all of that thinking makes me really want to eat a lot of oreos. Oreos are really great things...all that chocolate and fluff...

But yeah, I think everyone hits a point where they don't necessarily miss the relationship itself, but the familiarity of the relationship. It just seems so much easier to just know the person rather than put yourself out there and know that this new person may reject your quirks, your interests, your past. And then you have to get to know the other person. How do they like their coffee? What is their humor style? Are there any habits they have that are downright disgusting, like picking at their toenails? If they do have any disgusting habits, how much of them can you overlook before you turn to the other person one rainy night while watching television and scream, "There's scratching and then there's downright picking and you bypassed picking the moment the tip of your finger disappeared!"

Anyway, I was checking people's away messages, just to see what they were up to without having to have a real conversation with them. Most people refused to post what they were actually up to (which is something I'm definately guilty of) so instead, I was bombarded with song lyrics. The most popular songs as of late? Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" and Snow Patrol's "Chasing Cars." This to me basically tells me who is single and who is in a relationship.

Justin Timberlake's song, while about a couple, is not really about love or romance or anything sweet and cute. In fact, I would go so far to say that, after listening closely to the lyrics (Pretty babe/you see these shackles, baby/I'm your slave/I'll let you whip me if I misbehave/it's just that no one makes me feel this way) it's safe to assume that this is mostly about sex. Kinky sex at that. And while kinky sex would require some sort of trust on every level, it doesn't necessarily require love. This can be proved or disproved with a simple trip to your neighborhood fetish club. I doubt that most of those people even know their...*cough*...friends' real names, let alone dreams and ambitions. This doesn't mean that some of these people who are quoting Justin aren't in loving relationships, but my guess is that most of them really like to go out dancing. And also think that they are so amazing that they alone are "bringing sexy back." Having met some of these people in person, I beg to differ. I wouldn't go so far to say that they are making sexy hide in a man-made tunnel out in the Middle East, one step ahead of Bin Laden, but sexy is definately not in the same timezone.

On the other hand, Snow Patrol's lyrics about washing the world away and lying down with another person has no real hidden meaning in the away messages. They are in a great relationship and would like to lie down and "forget the world." While this is cute in theory, it seems a bit odd to want to completely dissolve the world away so that it is just you and your significant other. I mean, what if you need a doctor and neither one of you has been to medical school? It could be a serious emergency. I think you should really sit back and ask yourself, "Do I trust my partner to give me home-made stitches?" If the answer is no, forgetting the rest of the world is a bad idea.

Carrie Bradshw is not perfect.

I've been thinking about relationships a lot lately (who hasn't) and with all of these Sex and the City episodes buzzing about on tv, I've realized a couple of things. 1) Carrie Bradshaw got some of it very wrong. 2) Whenever emotions are involved, people get hurt. 3) In my next life, I would like to be a male beta.

I'll start with number 3 and work my way backwards here.

First, I should explain that I have officially named my fish Voldemort (Voldy for short), for those of you who have been worried about him. He has this little pesky habit of swimming upside down which I'm trying to convince myself makes him amazing and not evil, what with him hanging out on the nightstand next to my head. I'll keep you posted if I should find any random animals coming to pay homage or some sort of weird wands lying about. Chances are, Harry Potter and his little friends won't be visiting but in the even they do, you can be sure that I will post pictures. Moving on to the interesting stuff, male betas (as Voldy has shown me) have incredibly little to worry about when they're not in the wild. In captivity, and in Voldy's case, he has a great bowl that is probably the equivilent to a decent sized studio apartment, plenty of plastic plants, a great gravel color combo (if I do say so myself), and, to top it all off, food arrives once a day around 7pm. This is a great life. Great apartment, great furniture, great color scheme, and no worries about food. That being said, I'm sure he'd love to have a great female beta, but one of them would probably eat the other so that is not going to happen.

On that note, emotions are crazy little things. I have yet to talk to anyone in any kind of relationship who can say, with 100% accuracy, that they were never ever hurt by the other person. Yes, in the beginning of a relationship it is easy to say that you have yet to be burned, but if someone burns you in the beginning, you're just going to break it off with them. And even in the beginning there are things to work out and discussions that must be had and emotions put out there on the cutting board, waiting to either be slaughtered or nurtured.

And finally, as much as I know there may be some backlash from the SATC fans, Carrie Bradshaw is not perfect. How can she be? Her experiences in dating in no way really resemble mine except that they both involved men. I mean, yeah she has some good points, but when it comes to my life, none of her psychosis matches up with mine. Therefore, she may be right for her own situation, not for mine at all.

I know that I am damaged, having somewhat recently ended a 4 year lightswitch relationship. Knowing this and knowing myself fairly well, I decided I would take some time to work on me before jumping into another relationship. As soon as I decided this with my entire being, I met someone.

Now, of course you would think that this is where I get all sentimental about love and relationships and how they can change your life and you never know what is coming next, but as I said, I know I'm damaged. Be prepared for a fresh breath of air in the dark haze of "new happy coupledom."

I met Mr. Fooseball through friends. He seemed nice enough; funny, mature, all of that stuff. So of course, thinking that nothing would come of anything because I was not in a place where it would go anywhere, I made out with him. This is the point at which I was prepared to say "ok, well thanks" and call it a day (night), but he insisted on getting my phone number. And then he insisted he would call me. He also insisted I was pretty and that I was amazing and he had been afraid to start talking to me. Yeah right. Me? Sure there, buddy, I'm certainly intimidating. I know this because many people have told me how much I resemble mobsters, Jack Bauer, and the women of World Wrestling. Needless to say, I am a skeptic. Also, as far as first encounters go, this was a little too good to be true. We made out and that really should have been the end of it, but instead, he was adorable and smirked and said that he would call me.

As a single woman in this century, I took that to mean either he may call me at some point or that he wasn't going to call but felt the need to call because it was the polite thing to do, after having his tongue in my mouth and all (Hallmark really does need to make a card for that occasion...). And then, just because fate likes to prove me wrong, he called. And then we went out.

Now as far as first dates go, I haven't been on many in the last couple of years, but they generally go something like this:
* Awkward meeting
* Silence, following by nervous giggling
* Getting food, eating as neatly as possible so as not to show all of your bad sides in a single evening
* More awkwardness
* Talking about common interests and things that are coincidental
* More awkwardness
* The end of meal "is this is?" phase
* "Ok, well I had a great night/do we kiss? Do we hug? What happens now?" end of date.

This date went more like this:
* Meet up, he gives me flowers
* Casual banter while bowling
* Coffee and casual banter, a lot of laughing
* Walking on the boardwalk and casual banter
* Sweet kissing, dancing under the stars, and casual banter
* Walking back to our cars, goodnight kiss, end of date.

So, while normal people would be talking about how nice and sweet this date was, I took the opportunity to freak out. He was too sweet, it was too nice and he was too intuitive about what was going on with me. Am I just not sure how to be romantic? Am I so used to settling for normalcy that anything above and beyond freaks me out?

Why was I freaked out at all? Well, this I knew the answer to. I am freaked out because beginnings are scary. He's a very intense fooseball player and an even more intense person. Mr. Fooseball does not play by any of the rules I've played before. In fact, he doesn't even play the game. If any of you have ever seen a movie starring John Cusack, you'll know what I'm talking about--the guy just puts whatever he's feeling right out there for the sake of putting it out there. For someone like me, who takes things slow and isn't easily tricked into opening up (I take months to hug well), this is a bit much.

I talked to Sputz about this. Sputz is my best friend and she has a pretty firm grip on where I am and where I'm going and all of that. She thinks I'm nuts. Then again, we recently had a conversation about finding guys that went something like this:

Sputz: There are 3 guys in my MSW program and at least 1 is gay. I'm pretty sure I can turn the gay guy, though. I think it is love.
Hesper: Right. Good luck with that. I know it's always turned out well for anyone else who ever tried it. Always. Like anyone who ever went after Mr. Piano Player. He's very much not gay now.
Sputz: Uh, what? Are you joking?
Hesper: Yes.
Sputz: I was so almost on Facebook.

Now, that conversation wasn't really necessary to the story, but it does illustrate the relationship I have with Sputz.

But I digress, back to my fears of intimacy and my fears of relationships. So, after the amazing first date, we hung out a few more times, each one really great, each one romantic, each one causing me to have an out-of-body experience where I would literally say "Really? Are you serious?" because of the level of cuteness and intensity.

Mr. Fooseball knows this and finds it funny that I would actually have that reaction. Even when I'm completely insulting and horrible he finds me amusing. In fact, he actually called me late at night a few nights ago because I told him I was super cranky and he wanted to hear what I sounded like when I was super cranky. Even as I type that, I think of how corny it is, but the truth of the matter is, it's actually really nice to have a guy find you adorable when you're cranky and whining about how your sheets aren't lining up correctly and how it's pissing you off.

So where do I go from here? Well, I asked him for spme space because it was too much too quickly and I know that where I am right now, I would not be good in a relationship. Just the idea of being responsible for someone else's emotions is causing shaking and double vision, let alone knowing that someone out there would be expecting certain things from me. And it isn't that he isn't amazing...in fact, because he's amazing, I need to take some time. If he were a schmuck, this would be easier.

But instead, he's a nice guy and while he isn't perfect, he's understanding about everything I could possibly need. In fact, I was talking to him about how I was having trouble writing recently, and he's the one who suggested a Sex and the City style blog. Which means that yes, I have his permission to completely expoit him. So, incredibly long and pointless story short, I guess you can look foward to Carrie Bradshaw-esque posts.

The Fishy Problem

I have a fish. I had a fish but he passed away from old age. Now I have a new fish and while he is very pretty, I can't seem to name him for anything. This is only a problem because my mother keeps walking into my room and doing that baby-talk thing she does to the dog and doesn't know what to call him. In absense of a name, she has taken to calling him Mr. Fishy. While I'm sure that at one point I had a fish named Mr. Fishy (at about the same point I had Mr. Big Bear, Mr. Blanket, and Mr. Sand Box), I should be able to come up with real a name for this fish.

I have considered using He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, but I don't want an evil fish who will start using magic as he grows and becomes more powerful, causing me death (or at least a hiddeous forehead scar) in my sleep while he lulls about his plastic plants.

My brother, the thespian, has suggested I look for something out of a play. Like Stanley. Or Eugene. He only really wants this because he gave me the fish for my birthday and because he is a very huge Tennesee Williams and Neil Simon fan. He has other ideas, but they include Dinner, Fillet, or Stick.

In the meantime, my fish is afraid of his food. This makes me want to name him something like Anorexic or Dumbass. If you sprinkle a few granules on the surface of the water, just as the kind people at Nature's Cove Pet Store suggested, he will back away deep down to the gravel and hide behind one of his plants. While the term "fighting fish" may apply to the species as a whole, I'm pretty sure mine is more of a pacifist. He certainly would not have made it in the real world where there are other Bettas out there just waiting to tear him apart feathery, blue fin for feathery, blue fin.

Welcome to Brunch!

Welcome to The Brunch Platter. Why brunch? Well, mostly because it's really a great meal and no one appreciates it the way that they should. What is it? A huge sampling of foods and people you won't ordinarily see together, just like Sunday Brunch. Except this will be more entertaining than the huge fight between Great-Aunt Mildred and Great-Aunt Bea that caused the specially designed seating at Cousin Leah's Bat Mitzvah.