December 13, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

One wintry Tuesday twenty-eight years ago, I came into this world, kicking and screaming and determined to do things My Way. (Unfortunately for my mother, I was facing the wrong direction. Eventually they straightened me out, though not without considerable effort.)

Turns out not much has changed since then.

The original title for this post was going to be “Anti-Climactic,” as my birthday this year, as in many years, was subsumed by holiday festivities. There is no birthday party planned, there was no birthday lunch with co-workers, there will be no birthday happy hour. Today was the annual company holiday party, so there was plenty of merry-making, though not directed at me. This is just part of the territory, when it comes to having a December birthday.

Also, most of my friends are older than me and everyone who’s “my age” (really, my grade in school) have long since turned 28, some of them having moved on to 29 or even 30 already, and somewhere around September of each year I start thinking of myself as whatever the upcoming birthday number is, so by the time the day actually rolls around, I’ve already mentally adjusted to being that age. (In fact, I have more than once recently characterized myself as “pushing thirty,” irrespective of the fact that 30 was more than two years away.) This was all fine, as I didn’t need to make a big deal out of this particular birthday, so, whatever.

At this point, I would pay good money to lock in “Anti-Climactic” for the rest of my life, because what I got instead was, “Happy Fucking Birthday, please have an identity crisis while you watch your career plans unravel into a giant pile of yarn at your feet, compliments of the Universe, two bosses and one god-damned ex-boyfriend.”

I didn’t even get cake with it.

So, today was an awful lot like that original Tuesday, December 12, with kicking and screaming and perhaps a bit of staunch determination on my part that would benefit from a little turning around, but I’m not ready to admit defeat yet. Tomorrow is another day and it can only be better than today, right? It’ll be hard to top my champagne dinner, (and unlike a “champagne brunch” where you have champagne with brunch, a “champagne dinner” is one where you’re consuming only champagne, at dinner-time) but at least I know there are some lovely chocolates waiting for me in California.

December 7, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Here we are, another Christmas season in California and I cannot wrap my puny little mind around that fact. The grass outside is lush and green, there are still trees with plenty of leaves (red and gold leaves, yes, but full of leaves nonetheless) and not a snowflake in sight. The only way I know it’s almost Christmas is because the CD that plays on endless loop at Banana Republic tells me so.

(Is it wrong that this is, quite possibly, my favorite Christmas song? For sure it’s in the top five, along with this one, which I think captures my every Christmas need quite perfectly. But hey, no need to wait until Christmas — you can get a jump on the list and start sending them for my birthday.)

So, it’s a wee bit difficult to get motivated to do festive things like decorate the house or send cards or drink a whole bowl of eggnog by myself. I crafted my plan of attack for writing Christmas cards, finishing up my shopping, and getting all of it in the mail and safely to their destinations in plenty of time. But, you know what they say about best laid plans…(please tell me you do, because I don’t. Something about mice and men and the Dust Bowl, maybe?)

Riiiiiight.

Today work decided that, rather than complete my holiday tasks in some sort of orderly, low-stress fashion, I should instead hop a plane and spend next week in DC.

I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good thing and I’m long overdue, but my To Do list just got a lot longer and the time in which to do it all got a lot shorter. Screw wrapping any presents, I’m just going to toss it all in a box and deal with it when I get to Wisconsin. And for the second year a row, I can do my Christmas cards at the airport. Heartfelt thoughts abound there, you know? But at least I get to spread glitter all over the place and somebody else is stuck cleaning it up! (Just like last year. Sorry, M.)

The good news is, I have many presents already purchased, mostly for my mom. (Dad and I have an arrangement: I shop, he writes me a check. In all fairness to him, I only shop for the clothes, he picks out the other stuff.)

Shopping for my mother is an interesting challenge. She doesn’t spend a ton of money on clothes (actually, she doesn’t spend a ton of money, period) and would probably curl up in the fetal position and cry if she ever saw some of my receipts. However, she actually likes nice stuff.

Mom: I really like that blue sweater you got me last year.
Me: The cardigan?
Mom: Yeah. It’s so warm and soft!
Me: Mom, it’s cashmere. It should be warm and soft.
Mom: Ohhh, that explains it.

So I have to balance my desire to buy something nice with her worry that we’ll buy her something nice but outrageously priced. Which is how I ended up at J.C.Penney. Yes, really. I walked into the ladies clothing department and nearly spontaneously combusted, so surrounded by synthetic materials was I. But, I perservered and hopefully found something worth my efforts: a pair of jeans, which are non-mom-jeans enough for my taste and, I believe, comfortable enough for her taste. (All the clothes out there are for you young, skinny people. I can’t wear those!) Now they just have to fit. And I will have to convince her that the wash doesn’t highlight her non-existent ass. (Oh, won’t Christmas morning be fun!)

Anyway, once I decided I could cut corners on all this Christmas-
related stuff by, oh, just not giving a crap anymore (which, really, I hate. I hate that I don’t have time to lovingly write out lengthy Christmas cards and wrap beautiful presents and make gingerbread houses and whip up batches upon batches of cookies. I hate that these things have to take a back seat to the rest of my crazy life. But, I don’t really have a choice. I can’t make more time.) I remembered that my trip to DC will involve a very festive party that will require me to get all fancy-dressed-up for. [Mental note: pack a dress.] Fine and dandy, until I realized that means I’ll have to do something with my HAIR. And holy crap, if my hair is not the most obstinate thing around when it comes to up-dos. I have made stylists cry with their inability to get my hair to stay in a french twist. How the hell am I supposed to manage this one on my own? And the thought of trying to book a salon appointment only a week in advance? They will LAUGH at me. So, um, ponytail it is! Yee-haw!

I will not freak out. I will not freak out. I will not freak out.

Oh yeah, and in the midst of all this, I have actual real work to do. Which I should probably make a higher priority than frosting snowman cookies, right?

December 5, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

Hola!

I don’t even have a good excuse for not writing, like I’m working on some super-secret project, it’s just that I work. A lot, these days. Besides, if I were busy selling nuclear technology to the Chinese, I couldn’t really tell you about that without seriously compromising my plans for world domination, now could I?

Neal’s in town, which pretty much guarantees I’ll be annihilated at least one night this week. Should be great! I’ll try to bring you some good stories, if not the hangover. Now, onto the meaningless drivel I’m finally getting around to telling you about.

There is a special relationship between a girl and her stylist. That relationship, like any, relies heavily on trust and good communication skills, right? I thought Frank and I had that, I really did. In addition to the trust and open lines of communication, he thinks I’m the hottest thing to walk into his salon (and there are A LOT of attractive clients there), so I get what can only be described as superior service, despite the fact that I’m not the biggest spender. (Note: I tip quite well. I just don’t require expensive treatments, so the base purchase isn’t as spendy as it could be.)

So, this special relationship with Frank is what led me to — oh, god, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud — request bangs the last time I was in there. Bangs. Holy crap, I don’t think I’ve had bangs since sometime in high school. But, you know, all the cool kids are doing it, so…

I told Frank I wanted long, sweepy bangs. Like Audrey Hepburn. I was thinking something like this:

Apparently Frank was thinking something like this:

because I ended up with this:

[Note to self: Next time you're feeling adventurous, maybe try that Vietnamese restaurant down the block, or pick up a bottle of white wine or something. Leave your poor, defenseless hair alone!]

Really, it’s not a bad haircut (believe me when I tell you, I’ve had much, much worse), it’s just, um, not what I had in mind. THOSE ARE BANGS! REAL BANGS! But, if bangs are good enough for Carmindy, they’re good enough for me.

It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get used to the bangs, instead of wondering who that twelve-year old girl in the mirror was. And, I don’t mind them, exactly, I’m just concerned about the youth factor. As in, I really don’t need any more youth right now, thanks. (Want to quintuple the youth factor? Pull the rest of my hair into a ponytail. Yeah. Think, Olympic gymnast. I won’t be documenting that look for you here.)

Of course, such is the joy that is my crazy-fast-growing hair, I discovered today that the bangs might be long enough to do the sweepy thing I intended in the first place. And maybe I’ll add a headband…

December 1, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

You know when someone invites you to dinner, and you’re not sure if it’s a date or not, but you don’t want it to be a date, so you unilaterally decide it’s a non-date? I do that a lot. I’ve always been a pretty solid non-dater, but I find myself non-dating a lot more out here. I know I have a tendency to exaggerate sometimes, but it is not hyperbole when I say that the only guys I know work in my industry or are gay. Seriously. (Ok, a couple of boys at BR are not gay, but they’re like 20 or something, and me dating a 20-year old is actually more inconceivable than me dating a gay man.) The beauty of the non-date is that, typically, after a non-date or two, the would-be dater figures out that this is not what he/she wants, and the relationship, as it were, fizzles.

I, however, am much more talented than that. For the past eighteen months I’ve been going on non-dates with this guy. A couple of guys. Ok, I’ve been juggling a freaking handful of them. Sheesh! You’re so particular with your fancy “math” and all. I’ve maintained a firm non-date stance, by laying out for them, in no uncertain terms, on non-date #1 that we will not be dating, ever, due to my job vis-à-vis their job and the extent to which I NEVER WANT TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH MY BOSS ABOUT WHOSE BED I MAY OR MAY NOT BE SLEEPING IN, AND HOW SUCH INFORMATION MIGHT AFFECT MY WORKLOAD. (Mental note: Do not run for public office. Or, get used to having that conversation. On camera.) Also, I cover half the check. That should kill any romantic intentions being harbored by my non-date, right?

The other night I was out on one of these little non-dates, everything was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, things were less date-y than some previous non-dates we shared. We fought over the check, as always. He walked me to my car, as always. We exchanged goodnight pleasantries, as always. Life was good.

Then I kissed him.

Which, I know. I KNOW! Not necessarily the best idea in the world, but, god, a year and a half and I just HAD TO KNOW.

And thus followed the year’s most awkward conversation. I didn’t have a transcriptionist handy at the time, but I think you’ll get the idea.

Me: [Pulling away] I’m going to go now.
Him: Good.
Me: … [Good? GOOD? I was prepared for "ok" or "no, don't" or "come back to my place," but "good?" WTF?]

I walk around my car to get in, deliberately not making eye contact. This also means I don’t realize he’s followed me from the sidewalk around to my car door. Whoops. I get in the car, barely noticing him, which he naturally interprets as me ignoring him. Before I close the door…

Him: Are you ok?
Me: Just fine, thanks! [I said, perhaps a bit more brusquely than I needed to but, DUDE, ARE YOU SOME KIND OF GIRL? Do we really need to TALK about this??? I don't WANT to discuss this. I'm following my patented rule for handling slightly awkward male-female situations, and that is WWGD? -- What Would a Guy Do? And the answer generally is, IGNORE THE EVERLOVING HELL OUT OF IT. IT'S NOTHING. NOTHING HAPPENED. MOVE ALONG. Then I shut the door.]
Him: [clearly unhappy with my response] Don’t do that.
Me: Don’t do what? [rolling down my window, since we're apparently going to have an f-ing conversation]
Him: I mean, isn’t it better? This is…[indiscernible]… better … either/or. Right?
Me: [having no earthly idea what was just said] Huh?
Him: [more words strung together that don't sound like they form complete sentences, let alone paragraphs] …and it’s better than not knowing, you know, where things stand, being in-between somewhere.
Me: You mean, like things have been for the last eighteen months? [On purpose! They were this way FOR A REASON! No, NO, NO! No reason to change anything!!!]
Him: Right! And I’ve wondered what was going on, and nearly read you the riot act on several occasions… [Me thinking, which I totally deserved, but was more than happy to avoid.] …and yes, I would like to see you, romantically, but I’m conflicted. And I know you’re even more conflicted.
Me: Yes, I am. [I've realized at this point that my left elbow is leaning on the edge of the rolled-down window, with my hand pretty much covering my mouth, and damn if my body language doesn't tell you everything you need to know right now.]
Him: So, it’s good. Now everything is out on the table.
Me: Okay. [No, everything is NOT out on the table. Primarily, we are missing that part regarding HOW I FEEL, but I will not be sharing that any time soon, so we need to wrap this up here.]

Somehow the conversation ended, on good terms, despite the fact that there was exactly zero resolution to anything.

The thing is, I can envision what a relationship would be like, with plenty of doting attentiveness and fancy dinners and champagne brunches and snowy weekends away in Tahoe and, yeah, a girl could get used to that lifestyle in a hurry. But I have to say no. And OH DEAR GOD, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?????

The aforementioned career concerns (and those are some pretty hefty concerns for someone whose self-worth is comprised of approximately 98% career, 2% other) pretty much dictate that I won’t be dabbling in anything. If you’re the man of my dreams, I MIGHT be able to overcome those concerns. But anything short of that? Not so much.
Which is why I had to kiss him in the first place. Because I had to know. And it’s a tricky thing, because, by kissing someone, of course, they start to think they have more of a chance than they did last week, whereas actually I’m using it as something of a litmus test to determine if they have a chance, period, which pretty much serves to make me a bad person. But, you know, if one could take all of the love and lust and angst that exists among the entire cast of Grey’s Anatomy and somehow translate it into something you can feel, physically, well, then you will have created what a kiss is supposed to feel like. And until I get that, I’ll continue to have a social calendar full of non-dates.

Read other Love Thursday entries here.

November 27, 2006 | Filed under: Uncategorized

I hope you all survived Thanksgiving weekend…no salmonella, no fisticuffs at the mall over the last wool sweater, no crazy relatives with Dick Cheney-like aim and access to firearms.

As for me, I made it through the 10k healthy enough to stuff myself full of Turkey Day goodness. I’m sure you’ve been on pins and needles, waiting to hear all about the race, and far be it from me to keep the people waiting.

The race itself wasn’t very exciting, no good stories to tell, so let’s do it by the numbers, shall we?

[The mildly entertaining moment of race prep came last Friday, when I went to Fleet Feet to register for the race. In the course of conversation, the sales guy and I were discussing appropriate breakfast choices for the morning of the race. At one point he suggested a couple of bagels. I pointed out that was approximately four times as many calories as I usually intake. He then suggested a banana, which I readily agreed to. And a Power Bar. (which puts us back in the 450-500 calorie range) Okay, um, well, thanks for your help!]

Where was I? Oh, right. 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) in 1 hour, 12 minutes, 30.1 seconds. Pace of 11:42/mile. 2169th place.

I felt good, probably could’ve pushed the pace a little bit, but my goal was 12-minute miles, which I obviously did. The funny thing is, I was happy with my time when I finished the race, but when I checked the results page and discovered I was 2169th…well, buncha ignorant sluts I was a smidge less than happy. (Never mind the fact that the winner ran it in less than half an hour, a feat which I not only cannot match, but do not even aspire to.)

Eh, onward and upward, right? Just after my knees finally stopped hurling tiny little daggers at me from the inside out, I started looking for a 10-miler. Which, apparently, no one puts on. Or no one who lists their events on active.com sooooo, I’m left with only one option for increasing my distance: a half marathon. Dammit. Perhaps before that race I won’t find myself negotiating the breakfast menu!