Apparently I'm feeling domestic and productive. This afternoon, I went and bought knitting needles I need to finish this project I'm working on now, a black shrug to wear with my awesome red dress. In the process, I
- befriended the store cat
- worked on my bargaining skills (saving $0.50!)
- discovered a huge trove of my favorite needles for below-retail prices (abusing loss leaders = one of my favorite activities)

Then I made the perfect fluffy baked potato -- scrubbed, oiled, salted, and baked for an hour at 400F. It was so good it deserved butter.

This evening I spent awhile just working on my shrug chatting with my roommate (and, I admit, watching a new episode of Jon & Kate Plus Eight). One sleeve is totally done, and I'm almost finished with the other one, then there's just the ribbing to do. But it already looks sweater-ish and I can try it on, which is very exciting. For me. Ssh.

***

Tomorrow:
- scheduling that commercial/pinup/whatever-it-is-now shoot (or at least scheduling a meetup about the concept)
- working something out with wannabe sugar daddy
- ice skating (if it's nice out) or gym
- salmon and whole green beans for dinner
- late-night donut run with my roommate

Wednesday oh who am I kidding, also Tuesday:
- I'll allow myself to e-mail Antonio the PUA suggesting weekend plans (eee!)

I'm still kind of processing this weekend, which I know sounds bizarre, but whatever. So you wore eye makeup differently -- do you really have to spend two days dwelling on it? Apparently, if you're me.

When I go out like that, I'm used to getting some attention (aka more than my fair share), but I'm not quite used to literally turning heads on the street or having guys look dumbstruck when we make eye contact or being complimented by everyone who talks to me. And the thing is, I think it's not even about how the makeup made me look, it's about the makeup itself.

In general, people rely, a whole lot, on symbols to determine attractiveness. Take any random girl who's reasonably proportionate, give her a red dress and a tiara or some flowers, and put her on the top of a staircase, and everyone will swear she's stunning. It doesn't matter at all what she actually looks like. It doesn't even have to be that complicated -- I have a friend who's 6' and blonde. Her face isn't exactly conventionally attractive, but put her in boots and let her swish her hair around, and men will cross the street in (vain) hopes of introducing themselves. Get what I mean? In these examples, it's not about the girls' actual looks, it's about the "this girl has the trappings of attractiveness!" signals that certain details broadcast.

It's just really bizarre and frustrating to me. The attention might be entertaining, but it's pretty meaningless; the guys who wouldn't come up to me if I didn't look like that aren't the kind of guys I want. Even if it were about looks rather than signals, looks don't mean much -- they can be useful, sure, you can capitalize on them, but they aren't an intrinsic part of your self. I mean, I have roughly five more years before the expiration date on whatever I've got, so why would you rely on them now when you know you'll have to adapt so soon?

***

Okay, that concludes the Thinking portion of this entry. Shallow time! Some guy compared me to Kat Foster. I had to look her up, obviously, but coincidences aside (she also went to NYU), what do you think?



I have ISSUES with homegirl's eyebrows, so ignore that part . . . and you may only be able to play along if you've seen me in person lately. I need to get more decent, recent pictures of me online.

***

Drunk Italian guy from Saturday night told me I had a "sharp smile, like the Joker, not the Jack Nicholson Joker." It was intended as a compliment -- he fell all over himself groveling when I teased him pretending to be offended -- but I sort of like it. Although I may forget the entire Joker part, "sharp smile" may be a pretty accurate description coming from a guy who doesn't know me and doesn't really speak the language.

(Okay, so probably he was just daydreaming about getting me to bite him. Be quiet and let me pretend otherwise.)

***

Yesterday I had a pretty poor date. It's unfortunate, because if he'd been worth writing about he would've had a perfect nickname: the Musketeer. But since when do guys know how to deploy myspace angles? Not cool.

Also not cool: being 45 minutes late. I'd planned to get coffee with him, then do an errand* next door, but when he texted me "running 30 minutes behind," I just did my errand first, then headed out. I actually got his "omg where are you did I miss you?!?" phone call as I was literally heading down the subway steps. He would've had to do a lot to pull it out at that point, but instead it crashed and burned in a cordial, decorous way.

*Buying knitting needles. I went to Brooklyn -- Williamsburg, no less -- to buy knitting needles. They were my favorite brand at a good price and oh man I just realized how lame it is to have a favorite brand of knitting needles. STFU plz kthx.

It's inevitable: on Sunday morning, I'll look at my social calendar for the coming week and notice it's totally blank . . . and by Sunday evening, it will be totally full. I like it; it gets me out of the house, which is always nice for the freelancing/unemployed, but more importantly it gets me doing things that wouldn't have occurred to me otherwise. And, of course, it means I'm always meeting cool new people.

( plans! )

***

I'm having issues with my eating again . . . surprise! It doesn't seem like I can pull it off in a mentally healthy way, at least not for any length of time. Either I'm in Pac-Man mode -- eat as much as you can, and you only lose if somebody calls you on it -- or it's orthorexia/OCD/whatever. Weighing every scrap you eat, calorie restricting, and constantly figuring out macronutrient ratios is not exactly mentally healthy, but since that doesn't seem to be a viable option either way, for now I'm going with the physically healthier choice. I'm preparing to go Pac-Man over Christmas, though.

I've been going to the gym a lot lately, which is nice, but I recognize it's a luxury. $50 -- soon to be $55 -- a month will not always be available, and neither will all this free time. Plus it's so artificial, and of course there's the fact that I hate it. I feel like if I can't find a physical activity I genuinely enjoy, it's never going to last, but it's obviously easier said than done.

I'm not terribly coordinated and I'm not good enough to be competitive, so most sports are out. I thought dance would be right, and I do like the activity, but the scene is all wrong. If I go to ballroom courses, it's a fish-taco-fest, and at over 6' in heels, I'm pressed into the man's role; if I go to informal salsa nights, I'm repeatedly propositioned by 5'4" Latin-Americans. Neither is my idea of a stellar time, since both make me hyperaware of my size.

I did like swimming this summer, but for obvious reasons it's not going to work out so well in New York in February. I do want to get back into ice-skating, so I've asked for skates for Christmas -- the trip tomorrow is to size them -- and I'm hopeful about that. Bryant Park shouldn't even be too tourist-jammed, at least theoretically.

Plus I'd get to wear the snazzy cold-weather gear I've been knitting. I can just envision it now: I'm whizzing around the ice, my scarf falls off, the inexplicably straight guy behind me picks it up to return it, we do a Lady-and-the-Tramp routine with it before adjourning for rosy-cheeked laughter over hot chocolate . . . you be quiet. I am absolutely positive this will happen right after I receive the unicorn that's also on my Christmas list.

***

I realize that all this healthy talk is totally contradicted by the fact that I made pumpkin bread (with roasted pecans and whipped cream!) today. My roommate's ex just indulged in bridge-burning, she's distraught, and I am on cleanup duty. She's watching Snapped, reading bad Twilight fanfiction (no link because I'm pretty sure that comprises half the internet at this point), and eating aforementioned pumpkin bread. This keeps her occupied, so I'm all for it.

I am reading The Godfather (unrelated, I swear) and surprising myself with how much I'm liking it. Other things I've been surprised I enjoy this much: Britney Spears' "Womanizer," Beyonce's "Single Ladies," Li'l Mama's "Lip Gloss." Apparently I am easily assimilated! By pop culture, anyway.

I had a dream about the right man for me. It hurt.

I've never actually dreamed about a good relationship partner before; I thought "dream man" was just a figure of speech. But Alex and Maggie and a few others have been telling me what they think I should look for, and I naturally have a few ideas of my own on the subject, and I guess it all got together subconsciously.

But the thing is, even in my dream it wouldn't have worked. He was a man, and he had the right personality and he was in the right place in his life, emotionally . . . but he was a film/TV writer, a New Yorker, but with a pied à terre in LA in case he suddenly got big. And I could see that that was exactly what would happen, and I would have to stay with book publishing in New York, so that some unknown amount of time into the relationship, it would suddenly rip apart -- leaving me even more broken than I'd been before meeting him.

I need to chill out. I need to meet more people and invest less, and I need not to hope. Hope is not something I've tried to kill before.

***

In vaguely related news, this guy I've had a huge crush on (but haven't felt worthy of) posted a journal entry about how much he dislikes upper arm fat on girls. Usually hope does just fine dying on its own without my help!

so I realize I haven't posted forever, but I promised Chrissy I would, and I will!

...it may just take awhile, since I'm trying to get everything in the update -- but in case you were curious, no, I'm not dead, and I'll be back with way more detail than you ever wanted.

very quick summary: graduated, moved to Harlem for the summer and then (just Monday) to Queens, haven't found a 9-5 yet, doing some freelance editing and a tiny smidge of plus modeling, reading and knitting and going out, still seeing Doug and also occasionally going on dates with other people. nothing's perfect but everything's pretty sweet for the moment.

This week was killer. I can't even tell you how wiped I am right now.

( how I got this way )

***

I talked to Doug today, before I met up with bravecows, and it was good. Not perfect -- he's got rehearsals all weekend (for Edward II! I'm embarrassingly psyched). A evening thing might've been possible, but one of Doug's good friends is one of the five guys in The Seafarer (I know!), and it's closing this weekend, so Doug wants to go party with him (and Ciaran Hinds).

He said next weekend should be good, though; he was saying it'd work out, and I was joking "Oh, I should pencil you in, then?" and he was all "No, no, I know it'll work!" I was still only agreeing to pencil, not ink -- it was all super-teasy and not serious whatsoever, but on some level I think stuff like that registers. I hate, hate playing games, but if I have to do all this crap to pretend to be high-value so he treats me better, I will.

Plus I'm secretly kind of glad that I get to go ice-skating and clubbing this weekend. I mean, don't get me wrong -- I love spending time with Doug -- but this way I get both: ice-skating and clubbing (this weekend), and seeing Doug and not doing anything else all day and making breakfast at 2 PM and cuddling to watch Slings & Arrows (next weekend).

***

This entry has been Benless, by the way, because the poor guy has the flu. Okay, one quick story: We were texting the other day and he was telling me how miserable he was. I texted something like "Have you tried the brat diet?" He went quiet for a few minutes, then sent something like "Listen, you know I really want to see you, but I'm so sick, it's the flu, I'm afraid it's not going to work out this week...I'm sorry!"

I laughed for about five minutes before I could stop long enough to text back "brat: bananas, rice, applesauce, toast."

I'm home on spring break and chilling out a little (or more than a little). The other day Doug and I left phone-tag messages for each other, and yesterday and today Ben and I were texting, and I'm feeling pretty calm in that department -- like everything's okay, just on hold until I get back in the city.

I don't have that many school assignments, either -- read and summarize a book for Irish Music, get word-perfect on my Acting Medieval Lit monologue -- so I'm pretty chill about those, too. Also, I thought I crashed on the Women Intellectuals midterm (and didn't think I'd been doing that well in the class overall), and somehow my midterm grade is an A-. For the makeup class, where my silicone didn't set at all, I also wound up with an A for my midterm grade. So I feel pretty relaxed about everything in that department, too.

Today I saw a different dermatologist (at the same practice) and he gave me the impression Accutane may not give me the rotten side effects I was expecting. We'll see -- after all, he's the guy trying to sell you the stuff, and I don't trust him as much as I trust my usual dermatologist -- but it would be really nice if I didn't dry up all over (I like my strong fingernails and even my shiny hair [although okay, it could be toned down a little]). Anyway, I got the first blood tests and I'm registered on the iPledge site; on April 18, I get more blood tests, and then I have another appointment to get and fill the prescription on April 21. I'm pretty -- okay, make that really -- psyched.

I have been sleeping a lot, and not paying attention to what I eat, and it's been fabulous. I came home and amazed my family with my muscles, and then I promptly collapsed on the couch. Tonight I had grilled salmon, spinach fettucine, and steamed baby carrots. Amaaaazing.

Tomorrow night we're heading to my grandmother's for Easter -- I guess I'm not going to wind up back in the city midweek (early plans had had me catching the train back to put in a day at work, see Ben, and catch another train to my grandmother's). That's cool, though; I can get behind some uninterrupted chillaxing. Right now I feel a whole lot like my icon.

So today I had a ton of doctors' appointments -- it's spring break; this is my only real chance to be home and play catchup. Most of them were completely uneventful, but, after 4.5 years of trying every other prescription with no effect, my dermatologist is finally willing to put me on Accutane. It's kind of terrifying -- there are a lot of potential side effects that are really bad, and then there are a handful of side effects I will definitely get that aren't great either. My lips will be coming off in chunks, and my hair will probably never be nice and shiny again. But, on the other hand, to have skin that's just scarred to hell and back, not actively breaking out . . . would be really nice. I only wish he'd agreed to it in the beginning, rather than signing me up for four more years' worth of scars.

So guess who I missed a call from an hour ago? That was one voicemail I didn't want to retrieve -- I practically puked first.

Doug was on his way back from the murder mystery, happy, chatty, talking about work and Edward II and St. Patrick's Day. Apparently it never crossed his mind that after disappearing, and refusing to answer three carefully-calculated-to-sound-casual-not-psycho voicemails and one e-mail, we might not be perfectly okay. I swear that guy is on another planet.

I just found out that in October, this guy I vaguely knew in high school ODed on heroin. I wouldn't've guessed. There's not much I can say -- the facebook group, the memorial myspace, are all about as trite as you could imagine. I didn't know him well enough to be able to say anything now -- it was just a tangential acquaintance, through a few friends of drama-group friends but mostly because of my position on the newspaper; I was able to identify him and connect that with what he did (he was an athlete, ridiculously enough, on heroin), but that was all.

God, do I not miss high school.

I'm thinking about going back, though, for a day. The last time I set foot on campus, or spoke to any teachers or anyone but a few close friends from school, was the graduation ceremony.

Now, four years later, graduating from college, I think it may be time to go back and show them -- okay, I'm thinking of one teacher in particular -- who I am now. Earlier today, I was talking to Ben* about the idea, and he was very gung-ho, but I'm just not sure.

It would probably be a surprise -- I've changed a lot, obviously -- but I don't know if it'd be worthwhile. I don't even know if they'd remember me well enough to carry on more than a five-minute conversation ("So, you wound up going to...? Oh, really, NYU?") I don't know -- for one thing, how do you even get and fill out the request-to-visit forms? Especially if you want to surprise the teacher you're coming to see?

I'm not sure I want to cope with all the stress -- plus, by the time school's winding down for them in June, I'll already have graduated and I'll hopefully be working. How could I make it happen then?

In case you couldn't tell, my brain's throwing out excuses trying to stop me from going. Why? Weird. I'm going to have to think about this.

________________
* Who paid me an awesome compliment today, by the way. Actually, there were a slew, but the one I'm talking about is that he said even if it didn't work out between us, long-term (and it's not going to), he would still want to keep seeing me to be friends. It's always BS when you say "let's stay friends" during a breakup, but when you're happy together it seems a bit more genuine. Anyway, that's pretty much my ultimate goal: I need a guy who, if I were a guy, would want to hang out with me.