So Long! Farewell!

Well, avid fans (also known as the one or two people who still check this blog from time to time), I have some news. After regurgitating details of my "love" life for the past year, many of which I probably should have just kept to myself, I somehow accomplished my life goal. The telling of these mundane details likely has little to do with achieving said goal, but I like to believe that life is a series of accidents that somehow add up to the current moment, so why not give this collection of ramblings its due?

So, the news: I got a job. Like a real one. The kind I will be going into an office for, where I shall sit at a desk from 9-6. I'm not sure how I did it exactly, but I managed to never get a real job (as in full-time working hours) for the three years and eight months I've been out of college (shit, I'm old) and yet I somehow landed not just any job, but THE job. My dream job. (Also, I annoyingly have a super-hot *and* nice *and* intelligent boyfriend. And I can finally afford my own one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica. Yeah. How's your 2010 going so far, huh? Don't worry, I'm sure something bad will happen to me soon.)

Anyway. Come Monday, I will officially be the Relationships Editor of a new women's lifestyle website (the name of which I cannot tell you because I signed a don't-tell-anyone-yet contract).

In light of this fucking awesome life-development I've decided that my time on here has come to an end so I can fully devote the genius that is my relationship-obsessed mind to this new position, which will pay me much much more than this blog every could. (Especially since Google AdSense canceled my account long ago ... right when I was about to receive my first check. Hmm ...)

Thank you to everyone who read this site--I plan to send out mass emails/Facebook status-thingys when the e-zine I'll be working for goes live and I hope that you'll find me there.

Love you all to pieces. All two of you, that is.

Wishing You a Magical Holiday Season with Rainbows and Wishes and Vomit

There is only one thing I hate about the holidays--other than the creepy jingle "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"--and it is picking out Christmas cards.

I was in Vons this morning sifting through the meager selection of holiday greetings and found myself audibly expressing my disgust over the course of the 30 minutes I spent standing there praying to find something that was somewhat okay. If the cards weren't over-the-top, barf-in-my-mouth sappy ("May the spirit of Christmas and the magical joys of the season burn brightly in your heart"), they were just plain dumb ("Ho-Ho-Hope you have a Merry Christmas!"). Then there were the ones that looked somewhat okay from the outside, then, upon opening, surprised me with some god-awful pun about eggnog, or farts, or both.

Who writes these cards? Who get PAID to write these cards? I would like to know. And I would like to shake these people and ask them what horrific event happened in their lives that must have poisoned their minds in order to write the dumbest shit I have ever read in my life, slap it together with some stereotypical images of fireplaces and snow falling, and stick it on the grocery store shelves so well-intentioned people (like me) want to murder someone because we can't find a Christmas card that isn't completely asinine?

Anyway. I hate them.

One-a Those Days ...

Do you ever have those days where you just want to lay in bed?
And you know you should be doing something, so you kinda troll around on the Internet purposelessly, all the while hating yourself for not actually being productive?
When you know you should be writing but nothing sounds like less fun than actually thinking?
When your friends call and see if you want to hang out but you can't convince yourself to peel back the covers?
And instead you eat left-over pasta feeling like a total fat-ass but you just can't stop eating crap so you fall into the eat, self-loathe, eat-more cycle?
But then you have moment of clarity and think, 'hey I should join a gym'?
And so you check to see if there is a 24-Hour Fitness near you and you discover that there are two, and decide, why not sign up for a whole year without even going in to check the facilities out first?
Because the one nearest you has a steamroom and you really like those?
And then you realize you just spent $250 to go to a place that people have reviewed online as 'disgusting'?
So you have to force yourself out of bed, put on workout clothes and drive over there?
And the first thing you think when you go inside is how you've fallen very far since your Equinox Pasadena days?
But then you justify your hesitation by noticing how nice the guy at the counter is?
Except that he doesn't offer to give you a tour (like the woman at Equinox did ...)?
And when you get into the locker room you almost smack right into a butt-naked woman?
And then you go on the elliptical for 30 minutes and feel like you're going to go into cardiac arrest the entire time?
And you really wanted to use the steamroom but you're too tired to even find it, and too lazy to ask, so you leave feeling like this whole gym idea was a waste of time?
And then you get home, shower, and put yourself right back under those covers?
And then you negate your 30 minute workout by eating Cheetos?
And then you try to write a blog post in second person questions?

Four Score--Seasons--or One Year Ago

Since eighth grade, I've kept a diary fairly regularly. After I write down the super-intriguing details of my incredibly exciting existence I often enjoy flipping back to the same day the year before to see what I was up to. Usually, I rediscover how dumb I used to be. Looking back is something I do often, not just in my journal because I like to make myself feel better knowing I'm slightly less idiotic today than I was a year ago, but more due to the occupational hazard that memoir writing depends on my ability to go back to the past and try to make sense of it.

This fall, however, I've been watching the show Flash Forward (by myself, no one else I know tunes in), and I find it fascinating in how the show's main concept reverses my whole "looking back" thing. The basic premise is the world blacks out for a couple minutes, everyone sees where they will be in six months, and some of them freak out because they don't want these futures to come true. And in worrying, the characters change and in effect turn their visions into self-fulfilling prophecies. For example, we see one husband and wife begin to drift apart because of insecurities that develop within their relationship. The wife's vision? She was in bed with another man. Oooh ... drama ...

And, since I attempt to analyze anything and everything with little more than pop-cultural significance, I think it's interesting how the show relates to the principle of manifestation: if you believe you'll do or be something, your thoughts will inevitably influence your actions, putting you on a path toward whatever course your mind has set for you. While I do believe in the power of positive thinking and having a good attitude, catching a specific glimpse of what supposedly will be would totally throw me off. Like, if one year ago someone told me that, today, I would be living by the beach, surrounded by a great group of friends who live either in my apartment (roommate) or mere blocks away, and in love with an amazing guy--who I hadn't even met yet--I'm sure I would've called bullshit. Actually, knowing then that I would be so happy now probably would have terrified me because I'm cool like that.

If I'd been better at regularly journaling one year ago, I would look back to see that, at this time last year, I was supposedly celebrating my anniversary with the ex-boyfriend. I say supposedly because we had been fighting like crazy and deliberating our relationship for weeks--so much so I'd suggested we not make a big deal out of our four-year-milestone. And, had we stayed together, today would have made five. Back then I was so confused about what I wanted--about what I was supposed to want, really--and, frankly, I was miserable. And, true to form, when I look back at who I was 365 days ago, that version of me was sublimely idiotic. (Mainly because I was already infatuated with a new guy and thought embarking on a pseudo-relationship with him would make everything all better. Uh, nope.)

So here's to another lap around the sun, the imminent coming of the year two-thousand-ten. I expect to be much, much cooler by this time next year. (But happier? Not possible.)

The Follow-Up

My ex is dating a cocktail waitress. (Insert smarmy, judgmental, unsuccessfully-stifled laugh here.) O.M.G. Seriously? Seriously. Dude.

I hadn't heard anything about my ex's dating life, or lack-of, since we broke up. Naturally, I worried I would hear news of his next girlfriend or that he was seeing someone and then feel like breaking up was a huge mistake and want him back for the first time since we ended things nearly 11 months ago. So worried was I that I made sure to tell my best friend that, if she were to hear anything through the grapevine of our intertwined connections, she should please keep it away from my so-moving-on self.

Not being in this I-broke-up-with-the-guy-I-once-thought-I'd-marry position before, I figured I should safeguard my fragile little feelings by doing the following: 1) Date someone new as soon as possible. Check, 2) Avoid places he may be likely to go. Check, 3) Think about him only in negative/humiliating lights. Check, and check. And, perhaps the most important act of all ... 4) Resist inquisitions about ex's personal life. Check.

Until today when I got wind of a little gem of information. The cocktail waitress. Dumbfounded, giggly, and a feeling a little sad for my ex, I knew my so-moving-on self had indeed moved on. Yet, a question lingered: a cocktail waitress? That's my follow-up? Really? There is nothing wrong with cocktail waitresses, of course. I have a great deal of respect for these fine purveyors of delicious libations. Especially when I am at a bar and want another margarita. (The humor in all of this also lies in the fact that my ex doesn't--or at least didn't--drink. Never had, in fact. Irony? I think yes.)

Well, if anything I'm glad he's moved on. Maybe she's a cocktail-waitress-slash-actress. Or a cocktail-waitress-slash-scientist. I'm also glad that I am anything but sad. Life, with it's continuous tests...well, I passed this one. Whew.

Ugh. Wedding Pictures. Gross. (Sorry.)

This is a terrible thing to say but some people's wedding photos on Facebook make me want to vomit. I know, I know, maybe I shouldn't look at them if I'm going to be a total bitch and say terrible things like that. Unfortunately Facebook wedding albums are inexplicably fascinating to me and therefore, I cannot help but gawk and let the inevitable nausea seep in.

Confession. I used to be horrifically jealous upon seeing such photos. You know, when I was with the ex and miserable and I thought that marrying the guy would surely cure our relationship's blatant demons. I'd wish that it were me donning the pearl-encrusted up-do, smushing cake into my boyfriend's--no, husband's--face, reveling in the congratulatory aura reflected off my ginormous diamond ring. I wanted my relationship to have the sparkle of fiance, the security of husband. Because, when you're unhappy, wanting to get married is of course totally rational. I was an idiot, what can I say?

To anyone who actually reads this blog and is married and posted their photos on Facebook, I apologize if I'm about to offend you. But, while I love Facebook--the site is the crack-cocaine of the perpetually calculating, and I its faithful junkie--I don't like your wedding photos. (Julie and Rocio, you are exempt from this over-generalization. Probably because I actually like you.) And maybe it's not the wedding photos themsevles, but the fact that people post them the day after their weddings or while they are supposedly on their honeymoons. I get that people (not me) want to see your photos, but come on.

Or maybe I'm just terribly bitter. Perhaps I've heard too many girls substitute "I just want to get married" for "I'm so in love with my boyfriend." Maybe I've heard too many guys talk about girlfriends' ultimatums, about Tiffany catalogues with rings circled left on night-stands for them to find.

Don't get me wrong--I am all for marriage. I'm not, however, for the circus that weddings have become or the fact that things--Tiffany rings for one--have come to symbolize something they are not: love and commitment. Yeah, remember those things? You don't need a $20,000 ring to prove a guy's feelings for you. And if you do you're stupid. Maybe the real problem I have with these wedding photos is the sheer amount of stuff in them: six-tiered cakes, silver place-card holders, hundreds of roses placed in the middle of linened tables. I'm getting a little self-righteous here but I can't imagine wanting that. Anymore.

Yes, I was the girl who imagined myself in a poufy dress, maybe even a tiara, surrounded by 500 of my closest friends (Facebook would help with this), family members, and people I'd invited just to make them jealous. (And yes, this was back when I was miserable and planning a wedding to a guy I knew I couldn't marry became a form of sick escapism.)

My mom would disagree with this plan, with me being the only daughter and all, but, listen: get me a ring under $500 (I'm guessing that's as cheap as they get), let's go to city hall, or the beach, or another place that's basically free, say some vows that we actually mean, and forget all the other crap. Because, really, while I'm sure it's nice to have a big party with fancy stuff, the most valuable part of a wedding is not the things that you buy to make it look pretty, but the love you have for the person you're marrying. (Cheeseball!)

Seriously though. If I have to see another father/daughter first-dance or garter-toss pic in my News Feed, Facebook is going to have to add a "Barf" button.

Celebratory Self-Promotion

So...another one of my posts made it up on Media Bistro. While I am pretty sure just about anyone can post on there, I am still excited. To read a re-vamped version of me not being able to open my manuscript, click here.

"Editing"

I cracked open my manuscript. Finally.

Not sure what kind of reaction I would have to reading my thesis/book (yes, we're back to calling it that, as opposed to just "book"), I was surprised when, part-way through, I kinda felt like crying. And not just because my prose was getting self-righteous and full of itself and down-right clunky in some place.

So I get that I probably haven't changed all that much since I "finished" writing the thing in July. (Ugh. I hate myself, by the way, for using air-quotes--twice now--but I can't figure out another way to convey my "sarcasm".) Still, as I read about my life from even just a four-months-ago perceptive, I couldn't believe how naive and stupid I've been. I mean, I could believe it, but I was saddened by the realization anyway.

Am I being too vague? I think so. Maybe this will help: Do you ever look back at people you've "loved" and realize that you couldn't possibly have really loved them? Because your perception of a certain person has completely changed and you realized he was a huge asshole to you and others? And then you feel, on the one hand, deceived by your own past feelings for that person, yet, on the other, immeasurably grateful for the life you have now (in which that person has no part)?

Well that's kinda like what reading my manuscript was like, to put it dramatically. I'm not trying to feel sorry for myself nor am I steeping in regret--I swear--I was just surprised at my reaction. And now, onto reading the second half...