Pretty Witty And...

Iceland 2011, An extended layover

2011-09-01T10:44:00.001-04:00

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London in June!

2011-09-01T10:36:00.002-04:00

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Just a Bill...Who Wants to Marry a Tom

2011-06-17T12:05:00.006-04:00

Hello Friends,

As many of you know, I'm not a huge fan of the body politic. For the most part, I believe that if they're doing a good job, we hardly know they're there--this can be difficult when one examines their paycheck and sees the aggressive taxes we pay to be a part of (what I believe is) the greatest principality in all the world. That said, I would pay in pints of my own blood to live here in New York because it is only place on earth where I feel free to be myself. New York is the only place where I feel free to say what I want to say--as loud as I want to say it; it's a place where I feel safe kissing my love on a street corner, holding her hand across a table in any restaurant, or walking arm in arm through a park after a long day at work. These are things I am grateful for, every time. They are part of what makes New York such a comfortable place to live for people like us. These things are slowly, incrementally improving elsewhere, but New York is a trail-blazer. And the same way fashion, music, theater, finance, and literary movements start here, so too should political movements that grant equality and justice for all our citizens.

We have a chance to make a difference today. I've never called a senator in my life--and frankly, I was terrified when a real person picked up the phone. I thought for certain I could talk to a machine, press 1 for my right to marry the woman I love in the state where I live & pay taxes, and go on about my merry way. I thought maybe I could tweet my way through this monumental political decision. I even thought perhaps having a pretty picture of myself with some duct tape over my mouth and the words No H8 on my cheek would really have an impact. But today I did a grown-up thing, I called a senator's office, spoke to one of his aids, gave my name and zip code, and was counted among those in favor of obtaining the right to marry the one I love. It was simple but powerful. I called and said "Hi, I'm calling on behalf of the marriage equality act. I'd like to be counted among those in favor of my right to marry whomever I choose." Then spelled my name and gave my zipcode and she said "Thank you, I'll tell the Senator you called." It took 30 seconds.

And so, I invite you to do the same. If you're so inclined, just give your name and zipcode to one of these Senators (this is the list of those on the fence), and be counted. It's a little scarier than texting an American Idol vote, but it's a bit more empowering. Give one of these offices a ring if you have 30 seconds today--it would honestly take longer to tweet something...well, if you're as verbose as I am...

Sen. Dean Skelos, Republican Leader of Senate, (518) 455-3171

Sen. Greg Ball (Putnam County) (518) 455-3111

Sen. Joe Griffo (Utica) (518) 455-3334

Sen. Mark Grisanti (Buffalo, Grand Island, Niagara Falls) (518) 455-3240

Sen. Andrew Lanza (Staten Island) (518) 455-3215

Sen. Jack Martins (Nassau County/Garden City) 518-455-3265

Sen. John Flanagan 518-455-2071 (Long Island)

Sen. Stephen Saland 518-455-2411 (Poughkeepsie)

Sen. Kemp Hannon 518.455.2200 (Long Island)

Thanks guys and have a good one,

Arti-choked Up

2010-12-16T18:17:00.004-05:00

I was having a crummy day. One of the old, cranky guys at work got snappy with me that morning and I lost it. I started crying right in his office. Of course, being an old Italian man, he softened instantly and made every attempt to be nicer for the rest of our time together. But still, I couldn't cheer up. There seems to be something wrong with me in that, once I've cried, in the course of the day, the door to my tear-ducts remains open and the tears seem to be lined up, like tiny soldiers, ready to dive out of their hiding place. It's all I can do to pull it together and remain calm for the rest of the day. I returned to my own office only to be bombarded with emails, phone calls, and hard sighs from those dissatisfied. It's the end of the year and we're all a little edgy. I try to keep a low-profile in these last few days before Christmas, but it's an awful way to work.

I had to disappoint someone today, I had to let them know that I couldn't show up for them in the way I had wanted to. It's hard to find time for everyone and everything in your life, and I try to be as good a friend to as many people as possible, but sometimes it seems unrealistic. Am I better off being a bad friend? Or no friend at all? But this was just the tipping point in an already stressful day.

I decided to take a walk. I thought about just running out to grab some lunch, just going somewhere close and bringing the food back to my desk, but I needed to clear my head. I set out in search of something to cheer me up in under an hour. I thought about walking over to my sister-in-law's office, asking for a hug in the middle of the day (she works a few blocks from me, in an emergency, I could always go there for some love); but even the thought of familial warmth on this icy, grey day made the little soldiers behind my eyes head for the door. I couldn't afford to get messy before a long afternoon back at work.

I wandered onto my old college campus. I strolled down a little street where I used to know all the shops. There was a fondue shop called the Bourgeoisie Pig where I celebrated my 20th birthday--now a head shop. A Chinese restaurant called Wok&Roll around the corner was where I felt my first pang of love--it's a sushi bar now. The place where my art teacher used to take me for coffee is still there. It's a funny little place, terribly uncomfortable, but inviting nonetheless. I ponder this a moment and just before the grey feeling of nostalgia began to envelope me, a new pizza shop caught my eye. Here in New York, there must be 3 pizza shops per block, and they all look the same. Their red and green awnings cover an all-glass front where one can peer in and take sight of 10 or more pies, all stacked half on top of each other: veggie pie, meat pie, plain pie, Sicilian--and there's usually a big Coca-Cola sign in the background, a bright red light glowing, and more often than not, a jumble of Italian words and accordion notes are humming along over the loud-speakers. But this one had none of those things. I stopped in my tracks. I looked up, "Artichoke Pizza" the sign said, with an ugly picture of an Artichoke in the center.

As I opened the door and felt the warm wave of heat from the ovens, I noticed something strange: There were only 3 pies.

"Can I help you?" A skinny guy with crooked teeth and a crooked nose smiled at me and turned his hat around backward.

"I don't know what I want," I said, somewhat helplessly.

"This your first time?" He asked, his Brooklyn accent thickened and an anticipatory smile widened.

"Yes," I admitted, blushing. I knew instantly that I should know this place. He could tell I belonged there.

"Then you gotta have the artichoke," he replied. He took the slice off the baking sheet and tossed in the oven.

"Ok," I said. I was somewhat relieved that someone had made a decision for me today. That should be a service provided to busy working people--so that they have one less thing to make a decision on in their day. It's the service my fiance provides to me most nights of the week. Bless her.

I'm not a huge fan of artichokes. I've had them a number of different ways and enjoyed them a fine amount, but I never get excited about them. I would never order an artichoke dip, I would never make a roasted artichoke in the oven, and I never add them to my salad at the open salad bar. All that said, I was excited to try the namesake--and such an odd one--of this odd little spot.

As he passed me the slice over the counter, a wave of cold air came in from the door and cooled my pie just perfectly for me. It was as if the pizza gods blew the kiss of a mild, creamy garlic bite into my nostrils and I marveled at this creation. I took the first bite, closed my eyes, and held it on my tongue in utter shock and joy. The warm waves of the ovens washed over me as my cheeks flushed and my muscles relaxed. In that moment, I was transported--off of that bar stool, out of that weather, out of that terrible day--and into a time where calories meant nothing, and the sheer joy of taste thrilled my virginal buds. The creamy Alfredo taste atop the soft, pillowy bread somehow infused with herbs (parsley? rosemary? I don't even know. I couldn't take notes any more I could simply sigh with relief.) The pizza man laughed aloud and gave me a nod, "You look like a little kid," he said. I felt like one.

His co-worker stepped up behind him and said, "Yeah, you could tell she likes it cuz she closes her eyes after every bite." They both nodded to me as though they approved of me as a member of their fan club.

"This has definitely made my day, I said; then continued reveling in my slice. Bite after bite, the soft cheese, the crunchy bottom to the crust, each gentle flavor woven together like the soft notes of a savory song. I finished.

The guys were in the back as I stood up and tossed my plate out. As I reached for the door I heard one of them call up to me, "We'll see you again, yeah?"

I nodded and took a sip of my ice-cold soda as the ice-cold wind blew in from behind me. "Thank you," I said, "that was really something special." And it was.

As I headed back to the office, I thought about the love, the passion, the magic in that slice, and it moved me. One, tiny soldier lept up out of my tear-duct and ran down my cheek--I think he was headed for one last morsel at the corner of my mouth.

Parisian Games

2010-08-29T22:25:00.002-04:00

Growing up, my parents played a lot of really bizarre mind-games with my brother and I. There was a game where they made up passwords for any time someone would come pick us up from daycare (a friend, a relative, anyone outside the 2 of them) so that kidnappers (who perhaps looked like another relative?) couldn’t snatch us. There was something called the “what-if” game wherein they would pop quiz us at unsuspecting moments in case we were faced with a snap decision of critical importance. “What if a stranger pulls up to the bus-stop and demands you get in his car?” “What if someone comes to the door in the afternoon when you’re home alone?” “What if someone tells you we’ve been hurt and they have been sent to pick you up from school?” In retrospect, I realize that my parents were made completely paranoid by their own guilt for working too many hours when my brother and I were too little to fend for ourselves. The resulting neuroses have made us both wonderful writers, however extremely suspicious, and instinctively mistrustful. On the upside, we’re both shrewd decision-makers, critical thinkers, and slightly paranoid, guilty grown-ups. Children learn by example.

There was one game, however, that my dad has always played with me, that has made me a more open student of the world. I’m extremely appreciative of the nuanced differences in each experience I have as a result of this game. We’ll call it, “The Post-Mortem.” Each time I have an experience, one we haven’t shared, he asks the following questions upon my return:

1. What did you notice was different?
2. What was similar?
3. What did you learn?
4. What was better/neater/made more sense to you?
5. What did you not like?

Having just returned from Paris for the first time, an experience I have always dreamt of, I thought I’d play the game with the loyal readers of PWA. Forgive me my lack of culture, this was my first trip abroad except for one 10-day period in the UK as a teenager, most of which is blurred by the influence of my first taste of booze. Here’s one fresh pair of American eyes on a gorgeous, delicious place.

1. The first thing I noticed in Paris was that the coffee is delicious. There are no sugar-substitutes, there are no cream substitutes, and everything is espresso. Tiny, delicious portions—this would be a reoccurring theme in my Parisian dining. The second thing I noticed was that no one walks and drinks, no one walks and eats; people take their time, sit in cafes and enjoy their consumption. Here in NY, we all run from place to place with a Starbucks in one hand and a cell-phone in another. I didn’t notice anyone on a phone either. Granted, I was there for 3 days, and did mostly touristy things, but I was only offended by obnoxious cell-phone use once on my trip…and that was at an airport…stateside. And finally, speaking only a few French phrases is really enough to extend good will. If you’re patient, smiling, and attempting to communicate effectively, most of the Parisians were sweet and jovial. The aggressive English-speakers certainly offended the locals, but patience on both sides of the pond was easily obtained with smiles and nods.
2. Probably 50% of the movie posters were straight from Hollywood. Tom Cruise is (unfortunately) as big in France as he is here. And probably 50% of the music we heard was from the States. Every Light FM station world-wide loves Maroon 5.
3. I learned that the Parisians are extremely polite. They are not, however, gregarious. Rebecca tried to ask for a birthday candle in my breakfast one morning. The waiter stared at her blankly, blinking, until he repeated back to her, in a monotone: “In ze breakfast food.” Blink blink. Blink Blink. He just didn’t understand why anyone would want a candle in an omelet. At a Marriott here in the city, they’d probably charge you fifty bucks, but they’d sing and dance and put sparklers in your oatmeal if you wanted it. The French aren’t rude, they’re subdued…blink, blink. Blink Blink. Sigh.
4. All the bathrooms I used were unisex. There were no giant halls full of stalls. There were private rooms to be used by either sex. The sinks were communal outside of these rooms. This seemed painfully logical to me.
5. I did not like that taxi cabs had a six-euro minimum. I also didn’t love the abundance of smoking so close to food—all outdoor cafes are still smoke-friendly, too many folks smoking, clustered together is always unappetizing.

My trip was incredible, beautiful, one of the greatest trips I have ever taken. Being in the city of love with the one you love is beyond compare. And for all of their worried, crazy games, my folks did a great job. I am proud to say that I can give myself over completely to the weekend, to the adventure, and of course, to the one I love—all things foreign and wonderful. Paris, like Rebecca was once a complete stranger to me and is now one of my most delicious treasures.

Beautiful, powerful, brilliant.

Thanks baby.

Consider it Done.

2010-08-08T10:21:00.004-04:00

I was cranky last Saturday morning. It was hot, I was hung-over, and after a grueling week at work, I felt weak with exhaustion. I didn’t want to go out. Didn’t want to sit still, so off to the Home Depot I went. My charming, adorable girlfriend was fresh as a daisy. Well-rested and beautiful, she threw on a summer-dress and appeased me as she often does by allowing me a few minutes among the hardware supplies.

“We should paint the living room today,” I said in a harsh tone. “I’m tired of brown, I want white! I say we lock ourselves in the house, put on a movie, and crank the A/C while we paint away!”

“Babe,” she said, “I don’t feel good about that. I need time to mentally prepare for something like that. Maybe next weekend?"

I glanced over at my lady love and smiled. She was in a cotton, black and white checked skirt and a tight black top. I shuffled on in my flip flops and ripped jeans and sighed.

“Maybe you’re right. Looking at all the supplies we’ll need to carry back is actually making me tired. Let’s just go home and sleep the day away.”

I felt as though I was dragging my own skin behind me in the wet summer heat. We got to the house and crashed. After an hour of sitting in front of the air-conditioning watching the Food Network, she rolled over and smiled at me, “Let’s have the best day ever.”

I actually laughed at her bright little eyes. How could anyone be so cheerful on such a dreadfully hot day. Even the idea of it made me tired.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to lunch! If you could go anywhere for lunch, where would it be?”

“I don’t know; the diner is close.”

She smiled half-heartedly and agreed to accompany me to the diner where I picked at my food and tried to match her level of optimism.

“Hey,” she said after our food had gone. “I wanna give you your birthday present a bit early so that you can prepare.”

“Ok…” I said suspiciously. I tried to lift my spirits.

She slid a long thin box across the table and asked me to open it. I did, only to find a photo-shopped version of my passport with a funny picture of me on page one. On page two, she had a beautiful picture of old France, and the glaring words “I’m taking you to Paris.” On the next page was a picture of a luxury airline and the words “Business Class,” and on the final page a picture of our hotel.

I didn’t know what to say. There have been very few times in my life where my precious words have failed me, and this was most definitely one. I stood up and hugged her. “I thought you might want a few weeks to get ready—I didn’t plan anything but the flights and the hotel. We can plan our trip together!”

“This IS the best day ever!” I said. “We have to go to Barnes & Noble to get some books on Paris!" I realize a normal person would have rushed home in a fit of passion, but my mind went instantly to books. Oh writers.

“I thought you might say that!” She squealed!

And off we went to B& N.

When we arrived in the travel section, she tapped me on the shoulder. “What book is that?” She asked, and I turned around to find one lonesome copy of a book, nestled on an almost empty shelf.

I reached for it as though it were a mirage and chuckled. It was my book, my title, my name on the cover:

“What did you do, my love? How many dreams can you make come true in one day?”

“I don’t know,” she said grinning, “read the back.”

On the back she had printed:

“For Anne: the most talented, intelligent, creative, and beautiful woman in the world. Thank you for teaching me so many meanings to the word ‘happy’ Will you marry me?”

I gasped. I remember looking down, seeing her on one knee, in her black and white skirt, holding a tiny, velvet nut (yes, that's right, a nut). Her big smiled widened further as she said, "I'm nuts about you, will you marry me?"

I whisperered the word “Yes.” Into her ear. And looked down to find the most perfect ring on my finger.

We stood there, in the travel section of Barnes & Noble, hugging quietly for a long time.

I bought a few books on Paris (none on lesbian clubs—if anyone out there has a recommendation, I’d love to hear it!). And as we exited out into Union Square, a group of hipster kids holding guitars & tambourines shouted from across the street: “Hey Anne! Congratulations!” And they began playing the song I say always reminds me of Bec (Postal Service: Such Great Heights). As we walked toward them, they whipped out a dozen orange roses and congratulated us. We walked home—or maybe we sailed. I can’t be too sure.

That night, we were all set to grab sushi at the restaurant below our apartment with friends, but yet again, my socks were knocked off when we walked through the door to huge screams of "SUPRISE!" and a wave of warmth from my entire family and many of our friends. And my most honest friends said to me, "This was an incredible undertaking on the part of your fiance--how ever will you compete???"
And I said, "Consider it done."

Stay tuned for a future entry wherein I attempt to top this magical experience.

Foodie Cutie!!!!

2010-06-29T19:52:00.005-04:00

Happy 4th!!!!!

Recipe:
2 cups granulated sugar
5 large beaten eggs
2 cups milk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3 cups cubed bread (any kind will do), allow to stale overnight in a bowl or cube & toast it up!
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter, softened
1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts

Beat eggs, sugar, vanilla, & milk in a bowl
Add Bread & nuts & stir
Use softened butter to grease muffin large cups
pack mixture into muffin tins slightly below level.

Bake at 350 for 45 mins.

Sauce:
Melt vanilla ice cream & call it creme anglaise -- pour over top.

Add Whipped Cream & berries.

DIG IN!

An Entry for Sean: The Best Worst Weekend.

2010-06-06T22:50:00.005-04:00

I had dinner with my friend Sean last weekend who said, “What is up with you lately? You’re not updating your facebook to any acceptable standard, you tweet once a week, and your blog still says you’ve got a cold! You’ve been ‘home sick’ for the past 3 months! I thought you were dead!” Oh my dear friend, I am more than alive. I’ve got a hot, hilarious girlfriend, a challenging new job, an adorable new niece, and a life full of adventure. My girlfriend and I, both, are committed to ridding our life of boredom. When we’re relaxing, we’re committed to relaxation; but any other time, we’re going for an experience--and sometimes when we're after relaxation, we get an adventure. Last weekend was the perfect example.

Friday night we ventured uptown to a neighborhood we don’t frequent to a restaurant we’d never tried. Rosa Mexicano had the culinary complexity of a ChiChi’s (perhaps I date myself with this now defunct restaurant chain reference, but it serves so well), but the price-tag of real NY gem. And despite the guilt trip of my techno-starved bestie; we managed to have a good time drinking cocktails across the street at Aja.

Saturday, my darling girlfriend looked into getting us pool-passes at the Gansevort Hotel—one of only two hotels in the whole city with a rooftop pool. However, these bad-boys were priced at $250 per person, per day; so we decided to stay the night, enjoy all of their amenities & accommodations for the same price as a quick trip to the pool. For $500 we booked a one-night stay including free cupcakes, lunch boxes, champagne, and a Nintendo Wii in the room! It seemed as though our venue would not only accommodate but practically facilitate our peaceful weekend of fun! So, we packed up our swimsuits, grabbed the travel scrabble, got a few books, and headed over to the hotel—a mere 5 blocks from our apartment. We were determined to max and relax, sit idly by the pool and enjoy a staycation free from all the annoyance that comes with traveling on a holiday weekend.

Check-in was at 3:00. We arrived at 4:15. As we strolled through the front doors, the cool air-conditioning blessing our cheeks, relieving our heads of the heat and we approached the desk. After stating the reservation name and handing over the credit card, this dark-haired, disenchanted hipster peered over his dark-rimmed glasses and said, “You’re rooms not ready—you can wait at the bar.” He then pushed the receipt toward us and pointed to the elevators. We should have left.

But we didn’t. Instead my lady signed for the room and made him promise to call us as soon as we could get in; after all, we needed to change for the pool in order to execute our perfectly planned stay. Determined to have a lovely time despite this lack of hospitality, we headed upstairs to the bar where we were sandwiched between several out-of-town couples here for a “Real life Sex & the City Experience!” The movie premiered two nights earlier and the city was hot with suburban wannabes—boobs out & bottoms up! As the afternoon wore on, our patience wore thin. The whole point of our trip was to sit by the pool and sip drinks in our swim-suits. Instead we found ourselves in the crowded bar surrounded by the over-cologned and under-educated…harrumph! What's more, the quiet, civilized landscape of NYC's Soho House was merely a stone's throw away, mocking us with the quiet class of it's under-utilized lounge-chairs. We vowed to become members before next year.

At about 5:30, we headed back downstairs to the lobby where we pressed the reservations manager for a refund. We tried to return home; our afternoon soiled, our sunlight lost. Instead, she offered us a discount on the room and convinced us to stay. The bell-hop came from around the desk and handed us our suitcases which we carried...ourselves...to the room. Still, we shouldered on. Tossing our bags on our backs, we got back in the elevator and made our way up. No lunch, no cupcakes, no Wii—and soon-to-be no daylight. We hustled to throw on our swimsuits and get back to the rooftop pool-bar where we had just been; only this time we would cross that expensive threshold into the pool area. A teenage girl asked what room we were in as we walked through the gates to the pool. 515, my girlfriend responded, waiting for some wrist-band, some request for ID, some secret handshake, SOMETHING! Honestly, security is tighter at the bus station—where tickets are only about $30. But we found two seats in the fading sun and ordered a couple of mojitos to toast our efforts. Just as we began to breath a small sigh of relief: a bachelor party. No less than 20 drunken Irishmen burst through the pool gates, one fine specimen carrying a guitar. Then two smaller bachelorette parties follow. In a pool the size of a studio apartment, upwards of 40 messy heteros are now singing Billy Joel tunes at the top of their lungs. Our afternoon concluded.

As we raced back to our room (literally, raced like 2nd graders), my lady took a tumble—nay—a flying leap! Tripping over her own platform flip-flops, she flopped, NAY—skipped down the hall like a smooth stone across placid water. Weeping, she stood, hunched like a willow with wounds that leaked down her legs. No-joke, my speed-racer had bright red racing stripes down her slick white legs. Wearing nothing but a bikini, her skin rubbed raw, she called it a night and collapsed into bed. We awoke around 1:00. The noise from the street below crept into our room. There was a line around the block to get up to that Godforsaken bar we had crawled out of just a few hours before and the noise was deafening. Our room stunk of something awful, and there were a pair of bleeding legs in the bed. My lady moaned. “My legs!” I cried back “My nose! What the hell is that stench?!” “Oh no!” She said. “I packed us a cheese plate—in my suitcase!”

Yes, there was now one solid lump of cheese at the bottom of her bag, stinking up the room, offending our senses. The night was complete. Angered, I called down to reception requesting our cupcakes and opened our bottle of champagne. The travel scrabble stunk so bad we had to throw it out and with it, we trashed our notion of a nice relaxing weekend. We toasted our own demise, her strawberry burns and stinky cheese, my distaste for all things Meat-packing & hetero multiplied.

Sunday rolled around and we checked out and headed to GLEE Live! The concert was amazing…however…my girlfriend and I were the ONLY people in costume…people looked at my pregnant Quinn with a mixture of horror and amusement. Most folks just thought I was a dork. It should be noted that we caught the matinee—where mostly Mothers brought large groups of school-aged children in home-made Gleek T-shirts. Well, I guess we know who the real Gleeks are…

On Monday I tried a new hairdresser. I climbed the steps to her 5th floor walk-up only to get a dry-cut with homemade product (hair-gel & handlotion) to the tune of $120. I left looking like Pat Benetar and feeling defeated. When Monday night rolled around and our long weekend concluded, I covered my lady in Neosporin & wrapped her legs in cling-wrap. We would have to rely on the work-week to do the healing. Still, we had a great time. Our life is a fascinating, exhilarating, ridiculous and hilarious adventure—I feel so fortunate to have it, I don’t want to waste a moment on the outside, observing, when I could be right in the middle of it, enjoying.

So to my dear friend who finally reached out to have dinner with me instead of waiting for a written cyber-update, thanks for keeping up. In exchange for your company, a token of my affection.

I like lists #3: The Sick List

2010-03-25T14:29:00.007-04:00

When I’m under the weather, being under the covers puts me over the moon—sleeping tight, through the night til morning light and then some. Honestly, if I could fall asleep at the first hint that I may be coming down with something, I wouldn’t get up until it was over. (Is it alright to do this many prepositions so soon? Eh, give me a break, I’m sick.). Inspired by this week’s bout with Strep throat, I thought I might make a list of my favorite things that bring me comfort and joy through the miserable time of cold and flu. Sleep is, bar none, my number one—however, I’m going to try to keep the list to consumables. Enjoy.

1. “Magic Potion”—No, this isn’t something I lifted out of a Half-Blood Prince cookbook, this is a concoction I discovered sometime about a year ago whence last I battled with ye old cold season. It consists of the following ingredients (boil these):
• 2 cups water
• 4 chunks fresh ginger
• 2 cinnamon sticks
• 4 tablespoons of honey
• ½ fresh lemon
• 6 cloves

If you boil the ginger for a while first and then throw the other stuff in as you turn off the heat, it probably works best. Then strain and serve. It melts the mucous, soothes the sore throat and makes me feel warm all over—a shot of whiskey thrown in there helps too.

2. Jersey Sheets—Maybe it’s because I grew up there, maybe it’s because I’m a t-shirt & jeans gal at heart, or maybe it’s because the big baby in me just wants to be wrapped in something super-soft and comforting in my pathetic time of need. In any case, nothing beats these sheets when you need to be held by something that won’t catch your illness and make you feel guilty a week from now.

3. Zicam Rapid Melts—I’m not even sure what these things do, but they’re organgie goodness melts on your tongue and somehow convinces you that you’re shortening the lifespan of your cold.

4. Duane Reade—for those who don’t live in Manhattan, my sincerest condolences. This is the most magical place on earth as far as I’m concerned. The new, souped-up DR’s have everything from a make-up counter to a grocery store. In fact, the new one on 17th Street has—wait for it: A DOCTOR’S OFFICE. That’s right, I popped in yesterday and got a strep test. In 10 minutes I was in and out with my prescription in hand. I love one-stop shopping. Thank you Duane, thank you Reade. Thank you for coming together to create the greatest store for all my sickly needs.

5. Love—Okay, I know I said I would stick to consumables, but I’m a needy bitch when I’m sick. I need hugs and kisses and I need someone to comfort me, play with my hair, and just veg with me when I’m not feelin’ so hot. Being sick when you live alone is quite awful; but I have to say, my first bout of sickness with my live-in nursemaid is turning out to be rather pleasant…for me at least.

Poppin' and Shushin'

2010-02-28T17:19:00.007-05:00

I’ve never taken myself seriously. No matter the formality, solemnity, or severity of a situation, I remain committed to my love of levity. I don't need a reason to smile, I just do; I don't need a reason to laugh, it's my pleasure to do so--and I'll do just about anything to bring others up with me.

Now, for as much notice as we had and for all the preparation my lady did, this shoot sort of snuck up on me. All of a sudden it was the morning-of, and our dear friend David was at the door with his bag of magical make-up. It’s thanks to David that my face even resembles that of a lady. After a long week of work and a late Friday night, I was not in my tippy-top form. Still Mr. Make-up worked his miracle and managed to fix my face. In the fast transition from bed to beauty, from home to hotel suite (where the shoot was taking place), I somehow lost my mind. If pressed, I'll plead my innocence by simply saying I was distracted by this beauty by my side:

I, on the other hand, forgot to remove those two grey band-aids from my fingers, which make it look like I got married and/or slap-happy with the duct-tape in the midst of my mouth-covering…nobody caught this at the time. Also, I somehow ended up poppin' and shushin'—the affectionate name I gave this pose after the laughter died down when I first saw the photo.

Bright lights, flashy gays, and Christian Siriano waiting in the wings for his turn in front of the camera contributed to my temporary loss of my sense of sanity/humor/self in this moment. I’m not sure I’ve ever appeared this threatening in my real life. Even when it comes to serious matters such as my marital rights, I always have my humor at hand. And while at this particular moment in time, it appears as though both of my hands are busy poppin my collar and shushin the camera, I assure you, it was all in good fun. In truth, I felt like Tyra Banks under the spotlights that day. I recalled every episode of America’s Next Top Model that I have ever seen and tried my darnedest to put my fiercest face forward, I popped my gosh-darn collar with all the coolness I could muster and I shushed the good people with all of my might! Yet, somehow, the result was not exactly as edgy as I pictured. As a reasonable solution, I’ve decided to work the “Pop-and-shush” into my regular greetings. I’m gonna try to make it my “thing”—then perhaps this picture will look less silly to me…or at least I’ll reach this level of serious in my every day.

*I must have been mad that she let me out of the house without doing my hair—which would explain why I’m glaring at her in our pairs portrait. Also, I appear to be confused as to the effect of the duct tape. I’m pretty sure we couldn’t talk at the time, and yet, I seem very concerned with our volume levels. In such a "glamourous" setting, I find the truth of my goofiness all the more glaring. I promise to never take myself this seriously. Sheesh…I mean Shhhhhhh.

A Thousand Words...

2009-12-31T12:57:00.007-05:00

We all know those lesbian couples who look like sisters…twins…or at least escapees from the same fashion-cult. They share a wardrobe, cut each others’ hair, and perhaps use the very same tube of heavy black eye-liner. They may be strikingly thin Shane-alikes, tiny Tegans and sister-Saras, preppie-Patties, leather-Lauras, or even twin granola-girls. I’ve known one or two American Eagle-ettes to pair up in a pair of coordinating plaid pants. Needless to say, when taken to extremes, this phenomenon can be quite disconcerting.

However, the flipside to this is also dangerous. When two parties are distinctly dissimilar, the dangerous inclination to divide them into a hierarchical dualism (that’s fancy talk for: one good one bad, one dark one light, one butch one fem. Etc.) lurks around every corner. In an age where we find ourselves in rebellion of the hetero-focused gender roles, those ancient rules of the patriarchy: one of us must be a strong, protective provider (with short hair); one must be a soft, feminine, nurturer (with long hair), we take on the unwieldy task of defining our own roles within the relationship. Herein the danger lies! Aside from the simple stuff, the nuts and bolts of who Swiffers and who sweeps, which one warms the leftovers and which one wipes the plates—we are further obliged to define our Selves: our manners of presentation, levels of sarcasm, affection, and even enthusiasm, to in order to understand the balance of the relationship.

I have an aesthetic. I have a style of dress, a love of decorating, and a passion for plates well-composed of beautiful foods. My partner, the professional designer, has a very different look—and equally strong opinions. The inclination here would be to push them in opposite directions—since they are superficially divergent to begin with. Mine is seemingly more conservative, but push me in that direction and I lose that tiny edge which makes my look fun. Hers is bright & poppy, but push it a step further and it’s equally boring. I try very hard not to minimize the complexity of her taste. I admire the subtle details in her bright, bold choices. And I cling to the happy detours off of my seemingly predictable path. No matter how it looks to the outside, I know my style, my taste, my limits—and she, in turn, hers. One style is not better than the other, one is not more womanly than the other, one is not more fashionable than the other. The two styles are just different. Very different. Sometimes I find it challenging to adjust my level of dress to coordinate with hers—not in a matchy-matchy ‘Same-sies--The Musical’ kind of way, but in ‘yes, she’s with me and we’re headed to the same place’ kind of way. I just feel better when we’re somewhat coordinated.

I suppose I feel obligated to communicate to the world that we are a couple—to say that she’s not my sister, she’s not my friend, she’s my lady. I think this is why it’s so important to me to make visual sense. As my first relationship where both parties are out of the closet, I want to shout it from the roof-tops that I’m in love with this woman and that she loves me too. I want the world to understand this kind of female-female relationship and treat us with the same respect they would a hetero couple. I want to do my part to spread love and understanding until hopefully we are seen as equals, and enjoy the same equal rights all over this great country of ours. And the way I see it, I could either walk around in a never-ending diatribe of the specific feelings I have for my girlfriend, or I could save myself a thousand words and do it visually...

Happy Holidays,
AN

"My Cat is a Person"

2009-12-21T13:18:00.001-05:00

My girlfriend is funny, seriously...or perhaps seriously funny. She has a Siamese "daughter" whom I have now "adopted" as part of our living arrangement. This is a video the two of us made, asking for help, trying to solve a domestic dispute over whether or not her cat is indeed a person--we were trying to work it out before we moved in together (so this video is not exactly new, but the disagreement remains fresh...every damn day.) I asked if I could turn it over to the readers at PWA... to see if there are any other "mothers" out there who feel this way about their six-pound, furry kin.

Care to weigh in?

ADDICTionary

2009-12-15T16:59:00.004-05:00

I may have an addictive personality.

Addiction (n.) --the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming to such an extent that its cessation causes severe trauma.

Cleaning, cooking, laughing, writing, thinking, drinking, talking, caffeinating, over-debating, hyphenating, and great-dating are all PASSIONS of mine. Recently, I painted my entire apartment in 4 days, after work, by myself. 7 different kinds of paint, 15 walls, 1 ladder, and one crazy-pants writer made for a colorful, beautiful space where I could finally settle back into new/old New York life. Could I have stretched the move-in process out over a few weeks? Sure. Could I have consulted a decorator, hired a painter, and waited for a final product? Of course. But would I have had the crazy rush that comes with obsessing over a project, that getting addicted to a new venture—filling my every moment, my every thought with one solitary goal? Probs not. Hmmm. Maybe it’s not addictive so much as obsessive…

Obsess (v.)--to dominate or preoccupy the thoughts, feelings, or desires of (a person); beset, trouble, or haunt persistently or abnormally.

I’ve been known to write obsessively. When I've gone on a creative bender, I've needed my laptop with me at all times. I’ve written on the subway, in parks, on my coffee-break, every day, every hour, every moment. I can cook in the same fashion. There have been weekends when I don’t leave the house except for one big trip to the grocery store. I’ll make meal after meal and put them into the freezer for weeks to come. I’ll make pots of soup and freeze them in individual sized-baggies. It's as if I'm readying myself for hibernation, perhaps in preparation for a writing binge. I have been in exercise-phases of my life where I'd leave work after a long day, gone for runs in Central Park for an hour, then walked the 5 miles from my office to my home, only to change clothes and head out to a yoga class. Maybe I’m just crazy.

Crazy: mentally deranged; demented; insane; senseless; impractical; totally unsound: a crazy scheme; Informal. intensely enthusiastic; passionately excited

I’m prone to over-indulgence in almost any arena I enjoy. There are days when I think I’m an alcoholic, an overeater, an over-spender, an over-thinker. Sometimes a simple thought (like one I recently heard about the tornado of germs that explodes into your breathing space if you flush BEFORE you put the toilet seat down) will fester in my head for days at a time until it becomes a part of me like a new, unwanted limb and I force myself to amputate it and leave it by the side of the road. Literally, I’ll come to a street corner and I’ll think to myself, I should leave that thought here, otherwise, I’ll carry it the rest of my life. Maybe I’m addicted to obsessive, crazy thoughts. Or perhaps the diagnonsense is merely PASSION. I am, if nothing else, a passionate individual.

Passion (n.)--powerful or compelling emotion or feeling; a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for anything; strong sexual desire; lust

Now, speaking of PASSION--brace yourself kiddies, this next part is for grown-ups --something I like, a lot, is sex. But, and you can call me crazy (again, obviously I will own it), I hold sex apart from things like alcohol, drugs, etc. I keep hearing the term “sex addiction” in the media. I don’t see sex as a vice. I think sex is awesome. I think people should have tons of it! Be safe, be honest, and if you want to have multiple partners, be single!

Of course there may be a few out there who have a serious psychological issue, but by and large, I think most of these people headed into sex-rehab are addicted to being a-holes. Unfortunately, there’s no a-hole rehab (yet). So these idiots are blaming sex. I’d like to apologize to sex and say some of us love and respect you very much. Thanks for all the good times, keep ‘em comin!

sex-positive (or, alternately sex-affirmative) societal view of sexual expression as essentially good and healthy

Keepin' It Clean

2009-12-08T21:52:00.005-05:00

My mom worked full time, over-time, all the time, from the time I was about 3 weeks old until I was 14 when she retired. As a result, my formative years were spent under the guidance and tutelage of many mothers. My friends’ moms, the neighbor ladies, the women my mother worked with—I called them my ‘fairy godmothers.’ Many of these wonderful wonderful women were…how we say…obsessive-compulsive, anal-retentive clean-freaks. I once saw a friend berated for leaving her shoes on the ground next to the closet door instead of tucking them inside the closet itself. “This place is a mess!” Her mother said as she entered the room. My eyes scanned the space to discover a perfectly made bed, neat drawers, closed, their contents concealed, and a desk where each paper was filed in folders placed perfectly at the top right corner. Finally, my eyes followed her mom’s to the carpeted floor where the two perfect squeaky-white sneakers awaited their final resting place in the closet. Huzzah.

I grew up in a mostly Italian neighborhood in South Jersey, where plastic furniture covers were not uncommon. As kids, we were often instructed not to “decorate the floor” with our toys and clothes. Before I even entered school, I could tell the difference between the fancy towels, and the towels I was allowed to dry my hands on. And God forbid a crumb found its way out of a kitchen. Many of us were not allowed to eat outside the kitchen. There were tons of rules about where and what was allowed to be consumed—not to mention by whom. For instance my dad was allowed to eat coffee-cake standing over the sink but my brother and I had to get a paper towel and sit at the counter. Popcorn was allowed in the living room but only on movie night, Sunday (and only because the cleaning lady came on Monday).

In the first years on my own I discovered that I’m a messy cook. I’ll confess I don’t always hang up my clothes right away. And some of my things land on the ground when I toss them at my hamper. But eventually, I always get around to cleaning…and cleaning…and cleaning… And herein the portal to crazytown lies. Recently, I’ve noticed an escalation in my obsessive behavior. I don’t know if it’s the recent move to cohabitate with my girlfriend, the nice new digs, or a severe case of creative deprivation (I’m going through an incredibly uninspired, uninspiring period right now)—but I have been obsessing. Crumbs give me rage. My own hair on the bathroom floor brings me to my knees with a Swiffer in hand. I’ve started emptying trash cans compulsively, re-washing ‘clean’ dishes, and Windexing EVERYTHING. I Windexed the floor last night. I washed base-boards last week. I scrubbed the tops of my cabinets with bleach and a scrub brush. And it never ends. Every single day, I track more and more dirt into the apartment. I cook all the time, so the stove is always in need of a wiping. And my lovely girlfriend came with a lovely cat—who, though lovely, sheds worse than I do. And so I clean.

Truthfully, the apartment looks fantastic. Every surface shines. The dishes sparkle. It smells like a little slice of citrus heaven. I should really take a chill pill and relax. I should direct this energy to something more productive, like my writing. And mellow out about the mess. This cool, calm point of view occurred to me recently, when I realized how serious my problem is. What awakened me from my phase of cleaning fury? Sheets. I put clean sheets on the bed. I’d rather not discuss what happened, or rather, what didn’t happen after that. And after 6 months of a long-distance relationship and only one month of cohabitating with my girlfriend, there’s no way my obsession with cleanliness should override my obsession with…well...dirtiness. Since then, I have of course made up for this horrible mix-up of priority, and I have of course been forgiven by my lady.

I have not yet forgiven myself though, for turning into a suburban, hetero, mother of 4 from the greater Cherry Hill area—all before I’ve seen my prime. I used to obsess over the minutia of my blogs. I used to pour over sentence structure for hours upon hours. Seriously, go back, take a look at some of the earlier work, it wreaks of OCD. My apartment, in those days, was a mess. Again, I think my priorities have skewed. I need to clean up my own act, and get my creative life in order. Maybe then I won’t feel the need to clean up my physical space so compulsively. Maybe I should teach all my fairy godmothers how to blog. I’d bet their husbands would thank me.

Zombie Love

2009-10-30T12:12:00.006-04:00

I’ve never had much enthusiasm for the Halloween season. Frankly, I’m a big weenie. The last ‘scary’ movie I saw was Men in Black—and I couldn’t sleep for a week. Granted, I grew up in a household where I was mocked and tortured for this lack of courage, and when things got intense on any given Rosanne Halloween special, Casper rerun, or Scooby Doo episode, I’d politely excuse myself from Family TV time and cower in the bathroom. On one special occasion, I opened the door after what I deemed a reasonable period of time only to find that all the lights in the house had been turned off, in addition to the big screen TV, and my family was missing.

“Guys?” I said tentatively as I edged my way out into the hall. I kept one foot on the bathroom tile and my hand firmly stuck to the on-switched light in the room behind me. Gulp. “Guys???”

For the next ninety seconds, I screamed as each family member jumped out from behind a piece of furniture with flashlights under their faces.

Laughing hysterically, they turned on the main lights and proceeded to high-five each other as I tried some creative breathing techniques in order to reduce my sky-high blood-pressure at the ripe young age of 12.

This, among other horrifying experiences involving puppets, long hikes in the moonlit woods, and a family with a sick sense of humor have groomed me for disdain in this difficult time of year I must endure until the happy time of Turkeys and Santa rounds the calendar.

What could possibly change this? Love. Of course, sweet sadistic love.

A friend recently told this tale of her darling 2 year-old daughter. “On our way to the zoo the other day, my little one says to me ‘I’m so excited for Halloween…But I’m a little scared of Christmas…’” --This, I imagine, is the exact sentiment my girlfriend probably exhibited at a preschool age.

And because I expect we’ll be decking the halls and trimming the trees come December (when, I hope, my lady will return to NYC)—I am head to Chicago tonight to spook her properly when she arrives home from a business trip tomorrow. (She’s on a 22 hour flight right now, so this post won’t give it away).

After a week-long trip, and an epic flight, my lady friend will return home quite exhausted only to find a homicidal note taped to her door. The door will be slightly ajar, and furniture will be over-tuned. When she gets to the bedroom, my bloody ‘corpse’ will be waiting for her in a state of disarray. She will swoon.

Ah sweet zombie love--makin my family proud!

Happy Halloween friends!!!

Coming Clean

2009-10-27T14:36:00.005-04:00

I have a confession to make, dear reader. I have been avoiding you. As I said to a friend recently, “I can’t lie to you. So, as long as I’m lying to myself, I have to avoid you.” I feel similarly about my dear sweet readers. I cannot lie to you. I want each entry to be filled with truths and tales of fun and fabulous places, big and brilliant ideas, and one wild, wonderful woman—all from a connected, inspired point of view.

There’s just one problem: I can do NONE of these things in Chicago.

Even my wild, wonderful woman is not herself in this frigid, Midwestern town. The sidewalks are as dead as the heart of this city. The people are as frigid as the temperature. The shops, the restaurants, the activities there are so lackluster, it makes one wonder how comedic geniuses like Alec Baldwin, Kathy Griffin, or Michael Ian Black came from such a place! But one must realize…they all left. I suppose if I had been raised anywhere close to the middle, Chicago might seem like a big fancy city to me…but I wasn’t. I grew up 15 minutes outside Philadelphia and then moved to New York City at age 19. Chicago was a hearty let-down after experiencing the best of the East coast.

I could spend the rest of this blog recounting the number of times my girlfriend and I were harassed for walking down the street holding hands (once you step out of the 4 block radiuses of Boystown/Andersonville it becomes apparent that these “big city” Mid-Westerners seem to have the tolerance of another “Middle” in our modern time—the Middle East). I could explain how we got yelled at by a cab driver at the airport for greeting each other with a kiss after a month apart. I could explain how a group of teenagers in a Borders Books on Michigan Avenue screamed “GROSS!!” when my girlfriend put her arm around my waist. I could explain how I spent more time staring down aggressive housewives with Kate Gosslin hair-cuts than I ever cared to—I could explain these things, but I won’t. Bottom line: Chicago has shown me its true self, and I have ended things. I mean honestly, if this couple is so alternative, so offensive that the average Chicagoan can’t stomach the sight of our held-hands, I have to retreat…

After tensions of my pending move mounted to an unbearable climax, I dropped everything to spend a week with my lady to try and smooth things over, try and set things right, and the result was quite a shock. I found the week-days even more depressing than the weekends out there. I took to drink by 3pm each afternoon and roamed around the apartment like Karen Walker, chain-smoking and arguing with the cat. I became unrecognizable to myself and to my girlfriend—it bled me dry. Is this an over-dramatic, overly-intense, over-reaction to a city that doesn’t suit my tastes? OF COURSE! It’s a NEW YORKER’S reaction!

So, after some rather intense discussions regarding my priorities—in no particular order: sanity, career, love, togetherness, family, friends, sanity, climate, restaurants, shopping, tolerance, sanity…I decided there was no possible way for me to find balance/happiness/SANITY in Chicago. I think my lady realized the same thing—and long-term, we know we’ll be living together in New York. It was a painful, awkward, embarrassing experience—the one week I lasted in the mid-west. I hope never to do it again…except for this weekend…my last trip to Chi-town…probably ever.

Looks like I won’t be needing to change the banner on this here website. Looks like I’ll be stickin’ around—feels good to get it all out there in the open. Thank God for the truth. And thank God for New York.

Pie Face

2009-10-22T11:13:00.008-04:00

As far as I'm concerned, there are only 3 places to get a slice in Manhattan. I am no expert on the outer-boroughs, and there are definitely some neighborhoods on the island that are unfamiliar to me. But my search for THE slice ceased once my feet found their way into these fine establishments:

1.) Stromboli--As the dance of apartments in NYC often finds one unpaired, I spent a summer on a dear friend's futon. Though this was a long, hot couple of months filled with back-aches and a post-college sense of enveloping doom, the most glorious discovery lifted my spirits. The pizza-shop underneath our apartment on St. Mark's & 1st Ave provided evidence of God in an otherwise Godless world. Just one plain slice and an ice-cold coke was enough to lift my spirits out of that East Village malaise. Major Plus: it's super-cheap & open til 5:00am. Major Minus: there's only one table--grab a slice and hit the street!

2.) L'Asso--My first year as a full-time grown-up in NYC found me and my roomate living catty-corner to the most magical hidden treasure in all of lower-Manhattan. On the corner of Mott St. & Kenmare, down in the heart of Nolita, L'Asso pizzeria hides covertly on the corner. At night, you're likely to miss the subtle signage on the dimly lit street. One block up, NYC's oldest pizzeria, the local landmark Lombardi's stands over a hundred years old. There's always a line, and the pie is nothing short of lame, tasteless, and over-priced. Pie-makers are not marathon-runners; just because you're first, doesn't mean your best. It always shocked (and pleased) me that the masses didn't find their way a hop and a skip down the block where L'Asso's imaginative toppings, delicious salads, and fantastic service outshine the dinasaur across the street. The embiance in L'Asso is nothing special, but the pie is transcendental. The Tartufo is nothing short of sexy, the Patata will make you weep, and the Arugala salad is the perfect prelude to an otherwise sinful experience. Please enjoy. Upside: Best Fancy-Pie ever. Downside: uncomfortable and loud. For your enjoyment: Go on the early-side, or take out and RUN home before it cools. In this case: ALL like it hot.

3.) Rigoletto-- When I finally got my big-girl apartment all by myself on the Upper West side, I found my way over to Rigoletto Pizza on 69th and Columbus Ave. Here, the crust is always crispy, the sauce is always rich, and there are a miriad of gourmet, fresh vegetable toppings to choose from. The whole wheat crust is exceptional, and I highly recommend the tomato pie. Again, the atmosphere is nothing special, just a few tables and some wooden chairs. But for a stop on a stray Sunday or a quick slice on your lunch-hour--nothing beats Rigoletto. Downside: Cash-only. Upside: right next door to Magnolia Bakery. Pizza and Cupcakes? What could be better?

The Center of Time

2009-09-23T12:57:00.005-04:00

Seventy-seven stories in height, a full city-block in length, and an immeasurable amount of joy in depth—New York’s Time Warner Center has been my lunch-hour haven since I started working on the Upper West Side. Whether for visual therapy at Williams & Sonoma, or book browsing at Borders, I find great peace in this vast expanse of retail and restaurants.

The Shops at Columbus Circle include J. Crew, Hugo Boss, Stewart Weitzman, and about fifty others. If you can get past mouth-watering scents that waft from the Bouchon Bakery (their Cashew-butter and jelly sandwich is crazy-delicious), you’ll find yourself at uber-casual power-lunch spot (Yes! That’s possible.), Landmarc. Everything from their sirloin salad to the moules frites here is positively exquisite. But the real treat here is desert—whimsical choices like cotton candy make even the most serious of meetings end on a light and fluffy note.

With Per Se all the way upstairs and Whole Foods in the basement, it’s a good thing Equinox Fitness club is right around the corner. But beware, you must pass through Elixir juice bar in order to enter the club! Try an Acai smoothie here and head directly to Pilates. Of course the world famous Mandarin Oriental hotel takes up a good portion of the North tower, so don’t miss out on their spa or dining attractions—but buyer be ware, you’re looking at a pricey night at the Mandarin as cocktails generally start around $15 each and a room for the night can be as much as $4,000.

Nothing about TWC is cheap, in fact, many boutiques are incredibly pricey. But the overall experience is one of an attainable aspiration. While Tourneau may turn you off, everyone can afford a tiny piece of decadence from the Godiva chocolate shop. Just being in this grandiose space makes me feel indulgent. And when the daily grind gets too much, it’s a welcome retreat; when the rest of my fellow workers go to lunch, I go to the Center of Time and lose myself for one hour every day.

Kitchen Clubbin!

2009-09-21T14:30:00.004-04:00

It’s the best secret in all of Manhattan.

Perhaps secret isn’t the best way to describe Marja Samson’s Nolita establishment—she has received glowing reviews from the Village Voice, The New York Times, and everyone in between. But it is my secret place. It feels like the inside of my mind is on the walls of this eclectic, upbeat restaurant—and the inside of my soul on the plate. Known widely as the Dumpling Diva, Marja is as much of an attraction as the exquisite cuisine at The Kitchen Club. From the first time I wandered inside (some time around November 2004), to the last time I brought my girlfriend (just two short weeks ago), Marja has made me feel like family. She gushes over her guests like a close relative and cares for you with her warm hospitality the way a new lover would—bringing a glass of champagne with a wink and a smile, giving her intense energy and magnificent smile to you as you reciprocate with a word of thanks.

I came upon The Kitchen Club serendipitously one afternoon as I lost myself in an unfamiliar neighborhood (a favorite NY pastime of mine in my first few years here). I used to put on my headphones and go out for a walk, hoping to discover some treasure I wouldn’t otherwise encounter. On this particular brisk afternoon, I found myself at the intersection of Prince & Mott Streets by the Old St. Patrick’s Church, and looked at the notes in the window beside me. Thank You notes from grateful patrons bled into reviews from New York Magazine, Black Book, and the like. I was impressed.

Later that month, I had plans to break-up with a friend of mine. Due to an overdose of dyke drama and an overwhelming amount of angst, I decided to terminate a toxic friendship and thought that doing it gently, doing it with dumplings, might be the perfect way. I was wrong. Marja doted on the two of us like a pair of young lovers, bringing wine and cheese, insisting on course after course, and nudging us closer together with her witty charm. It was futile. After one magical evening at the Kitchen Club, our friendship was sealed (at least until another round of drama put the nail in that rotting coffin of a relationship…).

Following this, I brought friend after friend, date after date, professor after relative—I brought EVERYONE. Anyone in need of a pick-me-up got a trip to the Kitchen Club. Much-needed alone time with a dear friend brought about the perfect reason for a KC night. The awkwardness of several first-dates was mitigated by Marja’s place. It’s fancy and casual, exciting and relaxing, it’s hilarious and romantic—this place has it all. Marja is from Holland and, as one of our first dates, I brought my love to an afternoon cooking class at TKC. She and Marja hit it off right away (my dearest darling speaks Dutch) and I somehow managed to woo her even more.

I cannot say enough good things about The Kitchen Club, Marja Samson, or the magical roles they have played in my New York Experience. Whether it’s a first date or a girls’ night out, whether you’re a super-foodie or just a fan of a good steak, this is my top recommendation for NYC restaurant. If New York were my lover, The Kitchen Club would be one of her quirky ways, one of those subtle details that made me love her even more.

Happy Clubbin!

The Winds of Change

2009-09-16T17:07:00.005-04:00

I really like windy days. Something about a strong wind gives me confidence, something about it assures me that things will change. Not in a mythical way, not for any belief or teaching I’ve been exposed to; but because the wind physically changes things, because it moves the trees, because it exposes the flexibility of even the most staid buildings, it reminds me that it is possible for things to bend--for them to bend my way.

On a blustery day in New York, I considered this as I walked down Columbus Ave, trying to appreciate my last few grey days in this great grey city. Funny that I'm moving to the 'Windy City,' I thought, and a smile found my face. I’m sure I'll have many bursts of confidence, many moments of change in that new town of mine. And even the fact that this misunderstood moniker, The Windy City, has transformed from the once accusatory to the now atmospheric meaning--I believe the term was first used to describe Chicago’s long-winded politicians; but because of the sharp winds off Lake Michigan, it has evolved to mean something else entirely--somehow comforts me that change is beneficent there.

In truth, I'm scared out of my mind. Other than my girlfriend and a few select acquaintances, I know no one in Chicago. I'm taking the biggest leap of my life, leaving behind friends, family, and fall in New York. I'm putting my faith in love and starting fresh. I'm hoping the winds of change will bring with it new inspiration and that I will find new things to write about. As an homage to my first great love, Miss New York City, I'll spend the next few weeks shouting out all the places and things that made this place special for me. And then, for the second time this year, the banner and tagline here at PWA will change. How apropos.

In Transit

2009-09-03T13:01:00.007-04:00

Since I made the decision to relocate to Chicago, I have been in an awkward transition. From selling furniture to selling myself in a series of interviews, I feel like my life has been in the spin-cycle for the past few months. Hoping to make a clean break in a speedy timeline, I have put the pedal to the metal—focusing my efforts on making myself as portable as possible so that, when I do get an offer, the transition has already been made and my new life in a new city is comfortable and familiar (and the only really “new” part is the job). I’ve moved most of my belongings into the new place, I’ve gotten to know the new neighborhood, hung out with new friends, and set myself up so that as soon as I get a job-offer, I can give notice and get there in a flash. For the past 40 days or so, I’ve been aggressively optimistic, over-prepared, and uber-enthusiastic. But my energy fuel tank is starting to run a little low.

The past month has been a grueling, commuting one wherein, after selling my stuff and moving out of my apartment, I find myself in a constant state of transit. Whether I’m crashing with my parents outside the city, or staying with friends close by—if I’m flying out to Chicago for the weekend, or meeting my girlfriend at an alternate destination for a mini vacation; trying to build my life in Chicago while I’m still working in New York has proven more grueling than getting through Times Square gridlock.

For all the time I spend on wheels or in the air, I feel as though my feet barely touch the ground in each location. No matter what city I’m in, the first thought I have when I open my eyes each morning is: “Where am I?” I’m relieved and grateful when I roll over to find I’m in Chicago, next to my love. I’m frustrated and exhausted when I find myself in my childhood bed in New Jersey, mostly because I know it means there’s a 2 and a half hour commute ahead of me that morning. And I’m usually in some kind of pain when I wake up on a friend’s couch—I’m getting too old for this. I felt it was an optimistic move to rid myself of my apartment and homey comforts; it was a way to save some extra money in the last few weeks before a job came through and it would enable me to move quickly once the opportunity arose.

Since the beginning of summer, I’ve been commuting on weekends, back and forth to the Midwest. I thought that was tough. The daily grind of travel and readjustment has been far more trying. I used to live a few city blocks from my office; my commute was a gorgeous walk down the tree-lined streets of the Upper West Side. Now, it usually involves a crowded bus ride and the passage through one of the vilest places in the world: New York City’s Port Authority. If the portal to Hell exists on God’s green earth, I assure you, it exists on Eighth Avenue between 40th and 42nd Streets. Instead of the sounds of children playing and the scents from the Levain Bakery on 74th Street greeting me each morning, I awake on a Greyhound, my senses filled with the stench of urine and the angry crush of commuters fighting their way into the subway.

On the upside, I have new respect for anyone managing a long-distance relationship. This is, most definitely, one of my great achievements thus far. It kills me that my girlfriend is alone from Monday to Friday. I hate that she has to take out the trash, cook herself breakfast, calm herself down from a nightmare. When she cuts herself in the kitchen, I wish I was right there with the band-aid. When the sheets need changing, I want to stand on the other side of the bed, helping her fold perfect hospital corners. I want to hand her the box of tissues when the movie gets sad. I want to be there, all the time. And I know it’s coming, but each week seems to get harder. We write each other post-cards, send gifts, flowers etc. But nothing replaces her hand in mine. The fact that we've continued to grow closer and more in love over this period amazes me every day. She's my best friend, and, I truly believe, my soul mate.

Relationships aren’t meant to be long distance. It’s unnatural. We are meant to express emotion with touch, not with text. There is no primal instinct to Skype a mate. There is no animal equivalent to an email. These things are awkward and unsatisfying. It’s terrifying when something needs to be smoothed out over the phone. When you need a reassuring glance, a hint of a smile, a hug in the middle of a difficult conversation and you’re 800 miles apart, it’s nearly impossible to replace those with the right tone or choice of words--no matter how animated or verbose we may be.

I have faith that this part of our relationship will come to an end soon. I trust that the wise, benificent hand of the universe guiding my car down the highway of life has caused this pause for a logical reason: perhaps the pending arrival of my soon-to-be niece—(hooray for auntiehood!), perhaps the perfect professional position is making itself ready for me as we speak, or perhaps this period of struggle is merely here to remind me, when the time comes, that I am to appreciate every day, every evening, every slumber with my partner. I know I’ll never take a moment with her for granted. I’ll appreciate the soft rumble of her snore, the little puddle of drool on my shoulder each morning, the warm smile that wakes me. I'll appreciate the fresh scents of the fresh Chicago air, the beauty of their clean streets, and the gracious greetings of its friendly inhabitants. I look forward to waking up there, every day. Soon I’ll have my life and heart in one place, and if all my prayers are answered, the job of my dreams. Until then, I'll honk my horn and ask that kind, omnipresent hand of the universe to hurry the f*ck up...after all, I'm still a New Yorker for now.

The Magic of Love

2009-07-27T13:53:00.004-04:00

I love being in love. It definitely comes with its challenges (mostly of the long distance sort—travel arrangements, scheduling, vacation time etc.); but being in love, and sharing my life with someone I care deeply about has been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life to date. One of the things I love most, though, one of the most surprising things, has been re-experiencing the things I love, exposing my girlfriend to them for the first time, and falling in love with these things, and her, over and over again.

One of these things, is a divine series of books dedicated to Mister Harry Potter. I love the books; I love the movies; I love the costumes and the creatures, the morals and lessons; I love to nerd-out and steal the secret language that only Potter fans know. I fear this blog may be lost on those of you who still maintain your muggle status.

A few months ago, I asked my darling girlfriend if she’d accompany me to the midnight show of Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince coming up in July. She scoffed and said she’d do it because she loved me, not because she loved the Potter. But, as a testament to her devotion, she dedicated the next few weeks of free time to preparing for this momentous occasion, watching each movie, and even reading the 6th book! Much to her delight, the charming young witches and wizards of Hogwarts won her over, hour after hour, spell by spell. She is now a full-on fan--complete with wand of her own and Slytherine necktie (she's a tiny blonde who looks like a long-lost Malfoy). As an interesting side-note, she thinks the early movies depicting a young Daniel Radcliffe speak to my narcissism—as, she is certain he could be my offspring or missing twin.

***early birthday present***

It has been so wonderful, sharing these things I love and, in turn, expanding my own horizons, experiencing the things that enrich her life:
• I had no idea uncomfortable underthings could be so much fun. The wearing of, and the watching of these garments being worn can be really quite enjoyable. Who knew?
• The Forever 21, where the kids shop, is actually an acceptable resource for fun, affordable fashions. I’m still getting acclimated to the stylings there, but I can see what she enjoys about it.
• The Alchemist is one of the loveliest books I’ve ever read. It is, at once, inspiring and intriguing, entertaining and illuminating. I highly recommend it.
•There's plenty more, but I'll save something for future posts.

Most of all, my girlfriend has taught me to do the things I enjoy, and to enjoy the things I do. She has taught me that being happy is the most important thing, always; that every decision I make, should be a decision to bring more happiness; any move, a move toward joy; that everything I do, I should do with enthusiasm. Of course, this takes a little work—to spin each conversation in a happier direction, to make plans which delight and engage my passions, to stay in the light and focus on the good things—but I assure you, it is totally worth it. My life is so much richer since I met her. I feel saner, happier, lighter. I hope everyone in the world gets to experience this feeling a hundred times over; it is truly magical.

Granted, I haven’t been posting here as regularly as I’d like to, but I’m always writing somewhere—check out Gracethespot.com, Ourscenetv.com, or the Nouveaubutch.wordpress.com for more of my work. Thanks for sticking with me.

Another Video?

2009-06-23T09:52:00.002-04:00

I couldn't help but share this. I love Regina Spektor--running out to buy her new album today!

Your Moment of Zen

2009-06-22T14:40:00.003-04:00

I have no words to describe the feeling of joy this gives me...

Dare to Dream

2009-06-16T22:12:00.009-04:00

In June of 1995, my mother was one of the 29 finalists for Entrepreneur of the Year in the Philadelphia region. I remember entering the banquet with her and my father, smelling food wafting from the kitchen doors, hearing the classy tunes played over the din of the crowd, feeling my itchy tights required by an outfit I surely did not approve of (I was 12). And while my mom was ushered away by her PR people, answering questions and posing for photographs with the other nominees, my dad leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Do you know what this piece of music is?” I shook my head, “It’s from Yanni’s album ‘Dare to Dream.’” He smiled at me and gave a look as if to say: This is what happens when you do…

I’ve been proud of my mother on many occasions: when she lost a hundred pounds after retiring at the age of 41, when she aced me in tennis for the first time, and just about every time she successfully cracks a joke (rare though that may be). She is an incredible woman and I feel so honored to know her, to love her, and to be respected by her. Often, we don’t look at our parents with an objective lens. We see the people who held us back from our potentially dangerous teenage adventures, the people who pushed us to study harder and miss out on all the fun, or the people who ignored our feelings for the sake of what was “good” for us. When our lives are so closely entwined with another’s, sometimes it’s hard to take the broad view of their person, to step back and appreciate their lives for all they are worth. Personally, I find my feelings of love for my mom and dad so intense that when I try to absorb the enormity of their accomplishments and all their value—independent even, of my own life, I find myself overwhelmed. But most of all, I find myself so incredibly empowered by their support, so comforted by their encouragement, and so loved by each of them.

Presently, my life is in a state of upheaval; things are at a bit of a crossroads for me. Just instinctually, I know it’s time to make a major change and I’m gearing up for a big step. I believe I have met the love of my life. We’re so well-matched in every way. She gives me a sense of strength and stability, she inspires and appreciates me every day, and she fits so perfectly into my close circle of friends and family—it’s impossible to deny our connection. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted in a mate, everything I ever dreamed of— with one prayer so accurately answered, I’ve become hyper-aware of my wishes for the future. Be careful what you wish for, you will get it.

For some reason, the good Lord granted me the gift of this love, and then whisked it away to Chicago. My darling transferred there for work a few months ago, and has shown me a whole new world in a beautiful new city. Once upon a time, New York was my heart, my home; but now it seems to have moved—and so must I. This city has lost its luster for me, not permanently I hope; but right now, I find it to be a lonely place. Even more so than in my single years, I think the city is empty for me now because the possibility that I will find love here no longer exists. I always felt, even in my most solitary hour, that New York held infinite possibilities for the most amazing fulfillment, (on all fronts); and any struggle that I might feel was just part of the work, earning my way toward contentment, toward a comfortable life filled with all kinds of successes. But this is no longer the case. Now, when I picture my next big achievements, my celebrations, my bliss—I don’t see them here.

There’s a fortune I get periodically from my Chinese-food treats at the end of these meals, and that is this: “Where your heart lies, there your treasure will be also.” And my heart, up until recently, has always been in New York. So it seemed only logical that I would live and work here. But my heart lies elsewhere now; and so, I surmise, must my fortune. I must venture into uncharted territory—that unknown land called the Mid-West. And as I dare to dream of a life more satisfying, one where I’m as excited to go to work each morning as I am to return to my loving home each night, I find myself energized, excited, exhilarated to make this move. I’m conducting my job-search in Chicago right now. I know my next career move will be a big one, one that satisfies my dreams, that answers my prayers in the same way that my romantic needs were met—and I’m thrilled at this new development.

I downloaded that Yanni album tonight. I researched one track I found particularly engaging: “Felitsa.” This is a woman’s name meaning: “with good luck, fortune, happiness.” As it turns out, Yanni composed and named this piece for his mother. My mother’s name is Felicia. Coincidence? I think not.

INSPIRATION:

2009-05-28T15:18:00.002-04:00

Obviously, I haven't been as dedicated to my writing in the past few months as in previous times. I continue to search for new inspiration, to try and find a way to peacefully coexist with my own creative spirit and not to lose my sense of humor. I'd love to share this tidbit a friend sent me. This is Elizabeth Gilbert giving one of the "Ted Talks." Enjoy!

Cali at Fault

2009-05-27T20:44:00.005-04:00

And right now, California itself looks like a giant zit on the face of America.

I cannot. Do it. Again.

I cannot muster the energy to tell California what an a-hole it is again. I can however, hope that New York steps up soon and puts that left-coast loser in its place. My sincerest apologies to all of the wonderful gays and good people who do reside in the "Golden" state; but I'm exhausted from the beating our people are taking in your political arenas.

Like a volcanic explosion, this issue seems to be inspiring vomitus vitriol, hot poisonous ideas from the dregs of the earth erupting and spreading their slow, steaming, sludge all over the beautiful shiny society--proving once again that the old ways will rule when they see fit.

Basically, from what I can gather, it went down like this: in 2008, the Cali supreme court said gay marriage would be legal in the state. Then the homophobes and crazy religious types pushed Prop 8 onto the ballet in November. The A-holes voted to make gay marriage illegal. Then this was appealed, once again to the Cali supreme court, and yesterday they ruled that marriage is defined narrowly--between a man and a woman only. However, the 18,000 gay couples who got married in that short window of time are still legally married. WHAT. THE. FUCK. I'm sorry, I never curse here on PWA, but this issue has me hot and bothered. It's inconceivable to me that some people's marriages are legal and others aren't--but to further extend this charade and say now that some GAY marriages are legal--Because the courts made a booboo? Because they know this is total nonsense? Because they really don't care about justice, equal rights, liberty for ALL?--makes them look asinine.

The only thought giving me any consolation at the moment is one I came upon in the fourth grade. When thinking of this faulty state and it's faulty logic, and it's faulty faults running through that fault-lined hunk of land, I like to think this thought: One day, California will blast itself off the side of America and the Pacific Ocean will swallow it whole. Now, if only we could get all the good people in New York that weekend. Hmmm....maybe they'll do a Rent revival somewhere around that time.

Ellen DeGeneres

2009-05-22T12:28:00.003-04:00

I'm not sure how to introduce this without melting into a mushy sap. I love this woman, I'm so proud to have common ground with such an incredible person.

Enjoy this:

I'm So Gay

2009-05-18T12:11:00.002-04:00

Hello Friends!

Last week I had a fantastic time with Ken & Becca of "This Show is So Gay" on WVEW 107.7 FM (Vermont) chatting about comedy, careers, and general craziness. They're a great pair and their podcast/radio show is tons of fun to listen to. I'm always obliged to share my musical tastes, and Ken asked me for four of my favorite songs. I was in a party mood when I made the list, so I went with these:

Black & Gold (Sam Sparrow)
Sisters are Doin It For Themselves (Eurythmics)
I'm a Lady (Santogold)
Do You Love Me (Amanda Jenson)

However, at the moment, I can't stop listening to this one on repeat. Enjoy:
Erotica/You Thrill Me (Madonna on the "Confessions Tour")

Not sure if it's the catchy familiarity of it all, or if it's just the hotness of the Madonna factor...probs the latter. I'm so gay.

Jokes 10 Looks 3

2009-05-09T21:57:00.009-04:00

For three and a half years, I’ve been haunting the basements of NYC comedy clubs, of corners bars, and backrooms all across town. I’ve given time, money, and an immeasurable amount of energy to this thing, this craft, this entity. And what has it returned? I feel like I’m in an abusive relationship with yet another withholding woman. (*As a side-note, my actual relationship is lovely and to be involved with someone so generous, so positive, so beautiful—the darker parts of my life are starting to stick out as unsatisfactory elements.) Finally, a light at the end of the tunnel, all my hard work is paying off! The big audition! This isn’t for an explicitly gay network, show, or even part—though I could still be myself, and intended to do so. I could be the gay person on a regular show, on a regular network (a BIG show, in fact--on a BIG network). I was being called in to audition for exactly what I am: a funny lady, a comedian—someone who understands news, politics, and comedy (yes, it’s that show). I put into practice every lesson I learned in drama school, every moment of training, every ounce of preparation I could squeeze in, I did. I worked my ass off—I went over my lines repeatedly, rehearsed with all of my friends, my girlfriend, my co-workers. My week looked like the expository montage from Akeelah and The Bee (the incredibly realistic one where the drug dealers on the corner are quizzing her with flash-cards to help her win a spelling bee).

I never got a call-back.

Last week, I had dinner with a friend of mine who happens to work in my field. She was aware of the show and the part they were casting. In the gentlest, most compassionate way, she asked if I wanted to know why I didn’t get the call. I did. “They just wanted that totally hot, fuckable girl who could deliver some political punch-lines. You're just the wrong type.” She then went on to encourage me to keep doing stand-up, explaining that careers take a long time to develop and that my heroes: Rosie, Ellen, and Oprah are all around 50 years old. If they quit at age 25, they’d never be where they are now. “Trust me,” she said, “you don’t want to be on a television now. I mean do you really want to walk into some producer’s office and have them tell you to loose 50 pounds? ‘Cause they would. Look what they did to Margaret Cho.” I know she’s right. I hate that she’s right, but I’ve worked in television long enough to understand how these things work. “It may be terrible, but it’s true. The number of conversations we have a day about the talent we’re working with and how they look is not a few. You wanna be on TV? Lose 50 pounds. That’s what it takes to be on TV. I’m asking you not to give up because you’re talented. You’re funny. You’ve got what it takes. But careers take a long time to develop and if you bale out now, you’ll never have the chance to see how far you can make it. You have the ability to win people over. I bring you to a party and you manage to impress everyone without even trying. That’s what it takes to be an entertainer. You’ve got ‘it.’ No amount of training or producing can make that. Focus on the other part of your career for now if you need to, stick with the advertising stuff, but don’t quit. You’re too good, you’re too passionate; you love it.”

“I love it,” I mumbled. “I hate it. I hate that I love it.” I watched the rain-drops land in the rutty puddles on Avenue C. The moist, cold air wrapped around my head and somehow comforted me. I guess I know what I have to do.

There was a time where stand-up was my main focus. I’d be out six nights a week, pounding the pavement, doing open mic after open mic—cultivating material, trying new jokes, and writing, always writing. But I started to notice how depressed I was becoming. Lot’s of comics are naturally dour, but I felt as though I was losing my true nature of optimism to the empty pit of negativity I had immersed myself in. So I backed out a bit. I redirected my career, started doing more radio/audio podcasting and more writing. To the extent that I didn’t have to dwell in the dark cellars at night, I could gain some forward momentum in my daylight career working as an Advertising Editor for a television network and spending my after-hours doing the talking head stuff and the blogging (oh the blogging).

For the past year or so, I kept one hand in the stand-up; but now I can’t figure out why—what good is this bringing me? It seems an incredibly ineffective way of advertising myself, I’m only reaching a few people per month; whereas, blogging, I’m reaching a few thousand (and at least the opportunity exists for reaching millions). Also, between taxi-cabs, drinks, and other random expenses, stand-up has become a money-draining hobby instead of a source of income (financial, spiritual, or even egotistical).

When I graduated from drama school, it was apparent to me that I was not particularly cast-able. I’m too sharp to be an ingénue, too young to be the old wench, and too thick to be the leading lady. Fine, I thought, I’ll do comedy. Rosanne, Paula Poundstone, Phillys Diller—these people didn’t need a Hollywood look to make it big, stand up must be the place for those who are talented, but not traditionally attractive (Jokes 10, looks 3).

…But that was long ago…welcome to the new look of comedy:

Tina Fey lost something like 70lbs before she took over weekend update, Amy Poehler makes Mary Kate Olsen look like an average-size girl, and Sara Silverman has posed in Maxim magazine in her underwear (inner fratboy says: pics are hot). These women are genius, hilarious, and all that jazz—but would they be as famous without their…uh…assets? I don’t know.

If being successful in these media focused times (whether one is on-camera or not) means being funny AND driven AND enthusiastic AND talented AND charismatic AND creative AND well spoken AND sexy…then I guess I’ve got one last thing to work on ;) I’ve lost three pounds since that conversation…forty-seven more to go.

Free Nights & Weekends

2009-05-03T22:30:00.002-04:00

I’m about to have a lot of time on my hands. I’m about to enter an extremely productive, prolific, pro-active phase of life. All of my nights and weekends just freed up… and I’m about to have a ridiculous cell-phone bill.

I spent the last two months happier than I’ve ever been—every gorgeous meal with one gorgeous girl sent me sailing deeper and deeper into the sea of love. But today, all of that changed. Today my darling girl said adieu and embarked on a twelve-month professional move over eight hundred miles away. Given the recession and the irresistible offer her company made her, she knew it was the right decision; and despite our new love, I encouraged her to stick by her choice and do what’s right for her. In the same way I can’t possibly move to Chicago, she couldn’t possibly pass up this opportunity—and so, as of this afternoon, I’ve begun my first long-distance romance.

In many ways, this is my first real relationship. I’ve never let anyone take care of me the way I allow her to—I’ve never trusted anyone like this. I’ve never respected anyone I’ve been with the way I respect her. I’ve never understood anyone this way either. We have a world, a language, and a rhythm of living that all seem complimentary. We have the same sense of humor. Yesterday, her last day in New York City, we sat around my apartment with face-paint and had a party-for-two, finding the most hilarious way to stay entertained/distracted on a humid Saturday in May.

(She’s a cab; I’m a cat.)

We laughed hysterically for two hours, then got washed and dressed and went to dinner in Central Park. Too perfect. When I want to waste a day window shopping in Soho, she’s game. When she wants to dance with the gays on a Thursday, I’m in. When she’s stressed, I rush home and have dinner ready by the time she’s there. When I’m a mess in the morning, she waits it out and carries me to work in a taxi cab. We both work really hard—in our careers, in our individual interests, and in our relationship, definitely. Every day I try to think of new ways to make her smile. And she’s twice the romantic I am—today, after her bestie and I took her to the airport, we came back to Manhattan and had lunch at my favorite restaurant where my magical girlfriend had already called in our reservation and picked up our check—she is beyond stealth.

I know the distance will be a new challenge, but I’m going to make the best of it—like anything in life, we may not be able to choose the exact circumstances in which we find ourselves, but we can certainly choose how to view them. I’m looking at this as an opportunity to write lots of love-letters; send packages in the mail, and pull off big surprises. Fortunately, I’m quite used to the solitary life—you, my fair readers, can all expect more timely posts moving forward in upcoming months. Sorry about the last two weeks. I know lots of people do the long-distance thing, so if there are any suggestions for effective ways of weathering the storm, I’ll certainly welcome them. As I write this, I’m wearing her night-shirt, listening to her favorite album, and (after I finish this blog) will go back to reading her favorite book. Not only will I use the next twelve months to improve myself (hit the gym, succeed in business, write more etc.), I also want to use this time to get to know her from a far away angle—it’s like stalking in reverse. I still want to keep working on my relationship, even though she’s not here with me, I still want to study her, to get to know her even better.

I’m trying to look forward to doing the things I liked doing before my nights and weekends were filled with food and fun. Tonight I’m going to try sleep. I think I remember what that is—wish me luck.

She Ain’t Heavy, She’s My Inner Cheerleader

2009-04-16T13:59:00.004-04:00

I have ‘struggled’ with my weight for a long time. In the past 10 years, I have been a size 4, a size 14, up and down—and everything in between. Just over a year ago I was taking care of myself and feeling pretty good. I was running a few times a week, not drinking, eating healthy and living what I affectionately called: “La Vida Yoga.” But somewhere along the way, I changed my tune to: “Girls Just Wanna Have Lunch.” I chose to eat & drink to my heart’s content and please my pallet instead of my pants. But alas, the tide has turned again, and my priorities seem to be shifting in a healthier direction.

My mother has had severe weight issues throughout her life. At one point, she was morbidly obese, then, when she retired, she lost a cool hundy (100lbs). From the late nineties until now, she has been everything from a size 24 to a size 4—I don’t blame my mother in any way for my personal issues with consumption. I’m a grown-up, I have all the facts, and I choose what to put in my body each day, each meal, each moment. But I tell her story to say that we have criss-crossed and sometimes overlapped in our weight-loss/gain/loss/gain journeys.

My mom and I are about as close as two people can be—as close as any mother/daughter combo—and now that I’m older, we sometimes feel more like peers...sometimes. We share our thoughts on a plethora of issues, we consult each other on major decisions, and we confide in one another our most sincere feelings in times of extreme vulnerability. I don’t know if other people have this with siblings or mothers etc—but for a long time, I thought we were the same person. I assumed I’d grow up and be just like her. We’re so similar in so many ways, I always thought she was just the older version of me. Even still, I think sometimes she sees me as a younger version of herself. But we’re not the same person. She is my mother, and one of my best friends. That said, we are all familiar with the saying: “You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.” I would like to add an original piece of Wisdomania in this spirit: “You can insult your own ass, but insulting someone else’s will make you one.”

Last night, in the course of berating herself for re-finding some of her lost weight, my mother referred to the two of us as the “Tons of Fun Twins.” And though she didn’t mean to insult me, she lumped me into her own fit of self-loathing and really hurt my feelings. This is one of those times where she has confused us as being the same, and simply hurt me with the same weapon she used to inflict pain on herself. Not wanting to make her feel any worse, I let the comment go. But what started as an off-handed, introspective insult in her mind has turned into a torturous mantra in mine. Perhaps it will motivate me further at this next leg of the weight-loss race, but they say there is no happy ending to an unhappy journey. Every insult we pay ourselves, every time we give ourselves a hard time, sell ourselves out, or put ourselves down—and every time we let someone else do these things to us—we incur a penalty, something like an emotional pound gained. And that weight will slow our progress in every endeavor we undertake.

I have learned not to take these kinds of comments personally; my mom has a system of “Ready, Fire, Aim” that seems to result in a few shots in her own foot at times—this of course leads to said foot being put in mouth to lick the wound caused by her own haste. And I understand her psychological patterns well enough to know she was just lashing out at herself in an attempt to get fired up about weight-loss and accidentally shot me in the process. I forgive her and send her nothing but the best vibes in the world. So, ‘Tons of Fun’ aside, I acknowledge that I’m not currently at my best and so I am choosing a better relationship with my body.

I’m going to stop framing this as a ‘struggle.’ I’m not morbidly obese, I’m sure as hell not skinny, but I’m happy. I like myself. I like my body. I know I’ll feel better when I drop a few pounds, but it’s the same body big as it is small—it’s still my body and I still like it. It seems so peculiar to me that I could have hated my own flesh—what wasted energy! I can’t escape it. And even if I shrink it, beef it up, soften it, tighten it—it’s the same body! Last week, when I saw the “Talking About” video, I realized I don’t quite look comfortable in my own skin. This was a signal to me that it’s probably time to lose some of that skin. And as I start making adjustments, I’m going to be gentle with myself, be nice to myself. I’ll invoke the sweet voice in my head that roots for my success, my inner-cheerleader (she’s probably the girlfriend of my inner-fratboy). I’m going to approach this the way I’d approach any other decision. Would I rather have this or that? Would I rather wear the clothes on the right side of my closet or the left? I can’t have my cake and eat yours too. Or, I can, but I have to be cool with the big pants—and I’m not at the moment. So, as the tide seems to be turning in my own mind, I’ll have to adjust my behavior and go back to the healthier eating habits.

Catty insults, when thrown at one’s own ass, or someone else’s, are the emotional equivalent of an Outback Bloomin’ Onion—these things provide no nourishment, they leave you feeling stinky, and they totally weigh you down. Hating your hips, resenting your rear-end, and abhorring your abdominals are totally unproductive actions. Loving your legs and getting them moving will be a much more effective. So, lets go easy on ourselves! Lighten up! Yay Inner-Cheerleader!

Whatchoo Talkin 'Bout Willis?

2009-04-07T13:26:00.005-04:00

I had the pleasure of joining my good friend JC Alvarez on his QPAT Show "Talking About" not too long ago. Turns out I like my TV shows the way I like my women: fast & funny.

Sprung

2009-03-29T23:28:00.005-04:00

***Again, there have been some surface changes here at PWA, I’ve done a little spring cleaning, tightened up my list of friends, re-thought the recommended blogs, and yes, even done a little sprucing color-wise. It’s a work in progress. I’ll continue to improve as I see fit. Thanks for rolling with the changes.***

There has been another major change in my life over the past few weeks.

Her name is Rebecca. She is a 26 year old wunderkind, a lingerie designer for one of the world’s most recognized brands. She is gentle and kind, strong and sexy. She loves her family, old movies, and Pinkberry. She believes in a friendly universe, one where good things come to those who expect them, and she works hard to maintain her sunny disposition despite the challenges of daily life that we all encounter. She wakes up every morning before I do, to get out of bed and make omelets for us both. She writes me love notes and sneaks them into my briefcase. She picks great date spots and spoils me rotten. In short, this tiny femme has me topped! I’m completely invigorated by her energy, I’m charged by her electricity. I’m compelled to be better at everything. I want to jump higher, run faster, eat healthier—to take care of myself in a way that’s comparable to the way she takes care of me.

When someone else values you greatly, you have two choices: 1. Reject it, either by discouraging their affection, abusing yourself, or simply backing away. Or 2. Be the person they see. Live up to their vision of you—exceed it even.

I have done the “Aw shucks, I’m not that sexy, not that smart, not that cool” thing. In essence, I have told women in the past that their assessment of me was incorrect. Because of some feckless notion that every compliment should be counter-acted with some words of self-deprecation, I (ostensibly) insulted the intelligence/judgment of previous admirers. In order to satiate some tired ideal of modesty, I deflected the positive energy that was thrown my way. These shields came in many forms. Sometimes it was something small, like making fun of my own appearance. Sometimes it was something much larger like going on week-long party-stints and waking up next to said partners looking and feeling my absolute worst. It was an act of hostility caused by nothing more than self-loathing. “Oh, you think I’m great, do ya? Well, I’ll show you how not-great I can be!” I think this is something lots of people go through. My low self-esteem was very much tied into my delayed adolescence—by not dealing with myself as a sexual being until I was 20 years old, my latent lesbianism pushed me to the brink of destruction. I spent three years spazzing out, one year in self-imposed celibacy & sobriety, and then (finally, at 24) I spent year settling into my own skin.

As for the second option, this is something new to me. Because I felt great about myself when I met my girlfriend, I was able to accept her affection for me. I was (and still am) enjoying my life as an individual. I’m working hard, doing good comedy, writing a lot, and really enjoying my fantastic friends. When we met, I thought she’d just be another one of those fantastic friends. Even as a friend, I felt energized by her. She is one of those strong personalities, someone who knows who she is, and what she wants. She has an unwavering faith in herself, in her skills and strengths and she shares this faith with those she believes in—I happened to be one so lucky. She had been to a few comedy shows, read some of my work, and just believed in the very best parts of me. Because I was already working on a healthy self-image, I appreciated her confidence in me.

Obviously, our friendly mutual admiration turned to attraction. I brought her home to meet my family and they approved. We met each others’ friends and all of their requirements for our potential mates. Then I met her family—again, passed with flying colors. There were no awkward silences, no pregnant pauses. In each of these situations, it was like we’d been together all along. This left me with no other choice: I’ll continue to be the woman she sees in me, the one I know I am but have maybe been too afraid to be, fully. And the best part is, she sees things the same way. It’s too hard to be with someone who doesn’t love herself as much as you love her. It’s completely insulting when you say: “You’re fantastic! I love you!” and that person tells you your wrong. It’s hell to have someone reject your affection because they’re insecure. It may feel heroic to push away warmth, to brave the cold alone. But it takes real strength to welcome love and fulfill your potential. Love can’t spring you from the prison of autophobia; but, from the inhibitions and limitations of modesty, one can certainly find themselves sprung by love.

I’ll leave you with my favorite quote of all time. Marianne Williamson says it best:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,  but that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us most.  We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,  gorgeous, talented fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?  You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking  so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.  It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone.
And, as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give  other people permission to do the same.  

As we are liberated from our fear,  our presence automatically liberates others.

From—“A Return to Love”

Big Pimpin

2009-03-13T17:46:00.004-04:00

Hello Friends!

I am beyond excited for one of my nearest & dearests: Erin Foley. Her 'Comedy Central Presents' half-hour special is currently running; and it is not to be missed. Set your Tivo/DVR/VCR/whathaveyou this week and catch her genius (hopefully it's contagious). Foley has been like a big gay comedy sister to me for almost four years now. She's super-funny, super-smart, and super-dreamy. I'm constantly impressed with her, and always so proud.

Here's a bit from her CCP:

Jokes.com

Erin Foley - Depressing Books

Joke of the Day
Stand-Up Comedy

Free Online Games
More Funny Videos

In case you're now completely addicted and obsessed, I'll suggest her website, her myspace, or you can even hear an interview I did with her on Girls On Girls.

Aces. All of it.

As Requested

2009-03-09T12:39:00.006-04:00

***I received a request from a reader for a preview of one of my books, something to chew on while I search for the perfect agent/publisher situation. I don't want to give too much away, but I'll offer this little bit. This is an early part of my first book wherein our heroine (Morgan, a "straight," strict, uptight girl) has not quite yet accepted her sexuality, but is clearly taken with a sexy NY lesbian, Gabby. The feeling is mutual; but there are complications and lots of hesitation. Our leading lady has just introduced said lesbian to her two best friends (a sharp, NY gay man: Marcus; and a hippie straight girl, Blondie). Things have been getting intense with the NY lesbian, Gabby and Morgan needs some help. I can't offer more context than that, but please enjoy the following snippet:

*************************************************************************************
Like a good drunk, I’m alternating each beer with a shot of tequila. Gabby drinks Johnny Walker Black, again—still sexy. We're giggling happily in the far end of our booth until she leaves to go to the bathroom. I get up and walk over to Blondie and Marc expecting them to say how cute we are. They don’t. They’re angry.

“What are you doing?” Marcus says, crossing his lanky limbs.

“Crazy girl!” Adds Blondie.

“What? I’m not doing anything.” The Mexican Pepper-lights behind Blondie's head give her drunken face an angry red glow.

Marcus goes on the offensive. “How many times have you stopped her from kissing you tonight?”

“I don’t know.” I look down at my fingers, drunk. Six, I need to find a six. “Six times.” Damnit, I held up seven. “Seven.”

“Why sweetheart?” Blondie is begging now.

“I told you. She's not over her ex-girlfriend. I’m not a bad person. I wouldn’t do that.”

Marcus is about to launch into a fit. “Morgan, she doesn't have a girlfriend. And that's not why you're avoiding this.”

Blondie tries to balance out the rage. “Crazy,” that’s how she addresses me now, “what do you want?”

I start to blush. “You know what I want…I want her.”

Marc jumps in, “Then go get her.”

“What do you want me to do, go downstairs to the bathroom and kiss her?” I ask sarcastically.

“YES!” In unison, they shout.

“Morgan, if you don’t go right now we’re going to take you outside and beat you like your mother never did.” Marcus can be so dramatic.

“You want me to go right now?”

“Go!” Blondie shouts.

“Go?” The room is spinning at the speed of my thoughts.

“Morgan, I’m about to jump over this table and kill you.” Marcus glares at me.

“Okay,” I say softly, sighing with a bit of relief. I clearly have no choice. I feel like I’ve just been given permission to break the rules. I feel like someone has just relieved me of this burden I’ve been carrying for a month now. It’s probably the booze…and my two very best friends. I wobble down the stairs. I pass the kitchen door. I see the door to the first bathroom. She’s in there, I know it. I knock on the door.

“Just a second.” It’s her. I go in. “There are no paper towels in here.”

“Come on,” I say casually, “there should be some in the other one.” I take her by the hand and lead her the next six steps past the payphone and all the bags of flour sitting in the dingy basement of this place. She pushes open the heavy wooden door to the second bathroom. There’s an orange light bulb hanging from a wire on the ceiling. It’s dim. The warped oval mirror hangs delicately on the porcelain walls of black and white diamond-shaped tiles that repeat persistently. She turns away from me. I can smell her. She gets a paper towel to dry her hands. I lock the door. We turn around. There’s no hint of hesitation.

When we kiss it’s like gravity. I feel an explosion in my chest and the sparks and cinders run out through my arms and down my back. She tastes like sex and whiskey. My hair is on fire. Her cool hands clutch my face. I think I just wet my pants... Gross, awesome, amazing—oh God, she’s backing up. She stares at me in awe. She can’t believe it actually happened, maybe she regrets it, maybe she misses her ex-girlfriend, maybe she wants to leave. She grabs me by the shirt and pulls me toward her so quickly I almost lose my balance. I stop myself from falling by leaning on the wall behind her. The kiss is so deep I’m sure I’ll faint. I can’t separate from her; I have her, finally, she’s here, where she belongs, on my lips. God, I love her. She puts her hand on my breast tentatively. I lean in closer to show her I don’t mind. I don’t. I like it. Someone is knocking on the bathroom door. We separate in an instant and leave like nothing happened. At the bottom of the stairs she turns around back towards me. I take a step backwards and she kisses me again, this time in public. She drinks me in and I feel a bit of my soul leave when she pulls away. Half way up the stairs, again. I’m drunk.

If there’s an exact moment in which one turns gay, this might be mine. In the instant we kiss, I realize: this is the most real, honest thing I’ve ever felt. This is the best night of my life. This is the best kiss I’ve ever had and maybe the best one I ever will. I’m awake. I’m alive. I want so much more. I arrive back at the table.

“Well?” Marcus says when I get up the stairs. I pull Blondie and him up to the front of the bar and I tell them everything. I tell them about the cinders and the Johnny Walker and the paper towels and I just, I just can’t possibly contain the amount of joy in my body right now. Gabby must have gone and done the same thing because she comes walking up to the three of us while her friend sits at the bar laughing. I hug her in a new way and then she kisses me, right there in the bar, in front of Marcus and God and all of these people drinking on a Wednesday at 'El Cantinero.' What if people think I’m gay? Wait, am I? Did I just turn Gay? I'm not gay. I just like her. I'm not gay, I'm just drunk. That's okey. Right? She leans in and brushes my neck with her nose. Oh man, who cares. Kiss me again, please. Ah.

Whoa Nelly!

2009-03-02T10:15:00.006-05:00

I’m sweating. There’s a tight feeling in my chest. My head is in some kind of pressure-cooker. I’m dizzy. My stomach turns. I start to get shakey…

What is this?

This physical reaction comes over me every time I get up on stage before a big show. It happened when I walked through the doors of one of the biggest corporations in the world and asked for a job. It happened when I first found myself attracted to a girl.

Fear

I read a study recently, which documented the following physiological responses to fear: “…increased heart rate, breathing, and muscle tension; (this) allows the individual to escape from danger or defend itself against a predator.” We all know this as the old “fight or flight” response. Heart pounding? Heavy breathing? Muscle tension? Hmmm, where else have I experienced these things? Ah yes! Sweet love!

When one encounters a predator, one’s physical/emotional reaction is likely to be similar to an encounter with a lover. For the longest time, when I would come across an attractive female who inspired this reaction, I would conclude that I, in fact, loved her. (This perhaps explains why I have dated so many predators.) I would find myself saying things like, “She makes me so nervous.” Nervousness, as it turns out, feels a lot like excitement—and a lot like “love.” This can be quite confusing.

“Anne, honey, you don’t fall in love, you have anxiety attacks. Sort it out.” --My mentor.

Love

The first time I fell in love, I was completely and utterly overwhelmed with anxiety. She was a girl. And I was a girl. This is bad, I thought. Every time I saw her, my heart seized and palms sweated—flight! My body told me to run, but my heart demanded that I stand and face her, experience this thing, “embrace the suck,” as they say in the army. When faced with a terrifying situation, the only way to grow/learn from it is to place one’s head in the mouth of the metaphorical lion, and either feel the pain of losing one’s head or experience the unique excitement of the encounter. In that instance, I experienced both of those things (though, in reverse order). I later discovered that she was indeed a predator, out to eat me alive (and not in the good way). From this point on, I equated panic with attraction, and expected the same end-result from all romantic encounters. It’s only recently that I have been able to discern between the two, and realized that not all things must meet a gruesome end.

I have gone on a few dates recently. I get some butterflies when I first catch her eyes from the door of the bar; and yes, sometimes when she holds my hand it gets a little sweaty. But this doesn’t feel like anxiety. It feels natural, comfortable even—happy in a sane way. I feel as though both feet are planted firmly on the ground and I’m enjoying this experience from a clear-headed headspace. Instead of stumbling around in a fog of opaque emotions, I feel as though I’m seeing everything more clearly. I’m trying to remind myself what it’s like to trust implicitly, to eliminate doubt from my vocabulary—these things, I think, are essential to obtain the warm, enveloping feelings of Love.

There are some people you meet and have an instant rapport with, women you feel like you’ve known your whole life. And there are some who mirror you so closely, it’s like you met them somewhere inside your own heart, like they’ve been with you all along, learning as you learned, experiencing the world in a very similar way, resulting in an analogous paradigm. If you’re used to the old-fashioned tortured-lesbian motif, this can be quite unsettling. I was used to something quite different from this keen, salient certainty—this level of confidence in another person. I appreciate her as an individual, completely separate from my own selfish desires and personal motives. I think, after being alone for so long, I’ve learned to keep myself distinct from a potential lover. My feelings, my life, my thoughts are personal. Hers are as well. Previously, I have used this as a defense mechanism, to guard against getting too close to certain disasters; but somehow, I feel like I accidentally trained myself to be a whole person, a completely self-sustaining individual—which, in turn, will serve me in a relationship! What luck!

“Relationships are not necessarily two people, the world at their backs, facing one another. The right kind will be two people, standing side-by-side, the whole world before you.” –Another genius mentor of mine

I have been fortunate enough to make a lot of mistakes in my comparatively short life. I have taken each one as a lesson, and sometimes repeated those same faux pas again and again in order to secure said lesson. I think I’m ready to try doing something different. I think I’m ready to try…love? Wow, tie me up and call me Nelly, I think I’m about to be a one-saddle pony. I’ll still have an exhilarating career to fill my nervous requirement. But I’m not scared of being happy any more. I’m excited.

I LIKE LISTS #2

2009-02-24T11:41:00.014-05:00

It's that time again! I'm feeling organized and engaged!I thought I'd share with you a number of arbitrary things that make me happy and then, perhaps, something a bit more substantive. Enjoy!

1. Tea's Tea: Jasmine

2. Sirius Dark Chocolate

3. Jewelry or Charms with a story and or accompanying witicism

I know this image is unclear,it's actually a tiny Oil Drill Bit. If you have a story regarding an oil strike, or you love Green Acres, this is for you. If you don't, we'll offer this cocktail conversation:

Q: What is that on your necklace?

A: A little bit.

Q: A little bit of what?
***This conversation can now go any way you want it to. You're welcome.**

Something Slightly More Substantive:

The following are some beautiful boys singing beautiful tunes about other beautiful boys. As a progressive, gay-boy loving lesbian, I can't get enough of this stuff.

Jay Brannan wants to be a "Housewife." There's nothing wrong with being a housewife, darling boy. Sing it.

Gotye: "Such a quiet joy; knowing that I'm your pick-up fix, you're my favorite boy."
**I'm not sure this was intended as a gay love song. Still, it's the best one I've ever heard.**

George Michael: Okay, so he's not singing about loving boys so much as hating this girl; but a great song nonetheless.

I know my allegience is comletely un-secret, but I just wanted to share the love once again and thank Sean Penn & Lance Black for their amazing acceptance speaches.

**In addition to writing an amazing movie, he wrote perhaps the best Oscar acceptance speach of all time. If you only watch one video on this page, watch this one.**

Let Go

2009-02-16T23:10:00.003-05:00

I was in a troubled relationship a while back. It had long since passed its expiration date and in true lesbian fashion, we continued to hold on—not because there were any hopes of fixing what was wrong, but more out of fear and laziness. One morning, she couldn’t find her cell phone in the apartment, so I called it. The caller-ID ring-tone she set for my name began and she blanched.

“What song is that?” I asked.

“Let go,” she mumbled without making eye-contact.

Neither one of us said a word next. We carried on in silence as we gathered our things getting ready for work.

It was obvious to us back then that we no longer belonged together; but we continued our entanglement for years to come. What we had was comfortable. We knew we would never “make it,” so there was almost no reason to try. This lead to an unhealthy affair wherein she hurt my feelings repeatedly and I fought back with more warmth and affection than was warranted, wanted, or even authentic. Because I liked playing the martyr and she provided me with anecdotes like this one, we fit like hand in glove.

They say the only romantic love is unrequited, and I am nothing if not romantic. I suffered “nobly” for a long time. I understood our dynamic and flaunted it as my cross to bare. Somehow I thought it made me more heroic, more valiant, more. Like an emotional hair-shirt, she was the tool I used to torture myself. A soldier in the war of love, I was earning my purple heart.

I held onto this notion of what love entails (withholding, suffering, martyrdom) for too long. I think I was afraid to be happy because previous ups had been met in equal turn by devastating downs. As a result, I stopped looking to leap. After taking enough major falls, I’ve stayed low to the ground, scrounging around for whatever scraps of affection I could scavenge. I thought this would make me strong. I thought I needed toughening up. I was very wrong. Hiding in the underworld of the under-loved, fighting for every measly bit of emotional sustenance I could consume has been hardening me. I know this because when something wonderful crosses my path, my instincts tell me to run away. No longer brave in the face of an opportunity, I’m terrified. I now find myself filled with fear and doubt. After too much time in my cave, seeing only the occasional spark of my flint, I’ve almost forgotten what the light looks like—I almost don’t believe in it. And when the rock covering the entrance gets pushed a little to the side, the light hurts my eyes and I can no longer hide—it’s terrifying. At the same time, instinctually, I’m drawn to the light; I know it’s where I belong. I feel like I’m starting to wake up, starting to wonder what the world outside looks like and my curiosity is trumping my fear.

It’s time I climbed out and rejoined the ranks of the living, and take my seat near the ones who perch atop the peaks and get carried away by the winds of love. It’s time to fly. Even as I write this, I feel a tightening in my chest, a fear in the pit of my stomach that screams “NOOOOO!!! Hide out in the cave a while longer! Don’t get swept away! Cling to the safety of the lower levels!” But I think, maybe it’s time I let go…

RE-MATCH!

2009-02-08T10:52:00.006-05:00

Okay, so clearly last week my inner frat-boy lost miserably to my inner feminist. This week, he’d like a rematch.

Translation: Hide your women & tie up the horses! Hurricane Annie is blowin’ into town! (Or perhaps you’d like to hide your horses & tie up your women…either way, I’m good.)

Occasionally, the sleazier side of me slips out through the cracks of my proper façade. It’s not that my normal M.O. is one of pretense; but corporate America, a well-respected reputation, and 25 years of good breeding have created something of a pressure cooker—the perfect environment for a creature like the inner frat-boy to grow. He’s always in there, perfectly content in his cage most of the time, but when someone leaves the door open, he slides out and makes his mark. The good news is he’s such a self-congratulatory entity that the inner feminist always has time to take over while he’s doing his victory dance. She does the damage control, apologizes for his behavior, and then places him back under the heavy weight of the super-ego.

The IFB (Inner Frat Boy) can appear at any time. I was in a wedding a while back. Three-inch black paten-leather heals and a string of pearls could not contain the IFB.

I think he even got a little excited about his new disguise. No one would suspect a meat-head in such an elegant dressing. (I’m going to refrain from making a tacky joke about “stuffing” here, but only because I’m not dressed appropriately. Being skeazy while wearing a camo t-shirt & plaid pajama pants just feels like too much.) The IFB was excited and alive in this get-up, though. And he did what any good frat-boy does at a wedding, he hit on the hot blonde bridesmaid in a completely obnoxious way:

“Oh, you’re an actress? Y’know if you decide to move to New York, I can get you an audition for the part of my girlfriend—I think you’re just right for it.”

Later, when we were dancing (the IFB may be skeazy, but he’s affective), she took off her sash and used it to pull me in closer. Incurable control-freak that I am, I took hold of the sash and we continued dancing close. When we got to the bar, she looked down and realized it was tied properly around her empire waist.

“How did that happen?” She asked, confused.

“Oh,” I said, “I have a habit of dressing beautiful women—wait, scratch that—reverse it.” And then I probably winked at her.

The shocking part of this story (other than the fact that I was completely sober) is that she went for it. This ostensibly straight bridesmaid was completely sold on my brazen charms and ironically packaged inner frat-boy. It has been noted (by the IFB) that his effectiveness is quadrupled when dressed like a lady. Has this effected my manner of dress in every day circumstances? Certainly not. Has it affected my behavior when I find myself forced into formal wear? You betcha. A girl’s gotta make her own fun.

Now, you may be asking yourself: Does the inner frat-boy have any other function? Are there any other dimensions? Of course! All alternative personalities are multi-dimensional. Some aren’t yet fully formed (for instance my inner-Buddhist, calm/collected spirit needs work); but they all have some depth. Anyway, back to the IFB—my older brother was an actual frat-boy (AFB), so I got to see the positive sides up close. He and his friends have gone out on limbs for one another continually, for the past ten years. They have hooked each other up with great jobs, passed on fabulous apartments, and introduced one another to future wives. They really are a fraternity of friends—all drinking games and gross boy-pranks aside.

Yesterday, I went for a walk with a dear friend, another lesbian comedian (the closest thing I have to a frat brother—the gay comedy community is pretty tight here in NYC). She has been involved with a woman who lives on the other side of the world, and they haven’t seen each other in over a year. “I’m nervous,” she confided in me. “What if I don’t remember how to have sex? Like seriously, what if it’s awkward and uncomfortable? I’m so out of practice.”

“Dude,” I said (or rather, my IFB did). “Don’t even worry about it. You don’t forget these things. It’s like riding a dyke...” I glanced at her over-top my sunglasses and flashed a stupid grin.

“You’re a ridiculous individual,” she said, shaking her head. “But you’re funny.” She chuckled despite herself and retreated back into her head, “…riding a dyke,” she muttered, “ridiculous.”

Ridiculous or not, the IFB is capable of calming a friend’s nerves—of comforting her and making her laugh all at once. She’s a good girl to have around.

As part of the development process for my inner-Buddhist calm/collected spirit, I’m trying to embrace all of my alter-egos equally. I’m trying to value them all for their own positive qualities and even accept their flaws. My big brother in the fraternity of gay comedy said to me recently: “You can’t change until you become who you are.” So here’s to embracing the IFB and the inner-feminist equally. Let’s hug it out bitches.

The Big Game

2009-02-02T01:27:00.015-05:00

There was more than one major match-up this Superbowl Sunday evening. For starters, let me congratulate the Yellow team on beating the Red team a few hours ago—good job guys. Now, on to the main event: The Inner Frat Boy vs The Inner Feminist.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Let me try to explain.

Danica Patrick
Occupation: Race Car Driver.
She is the only female to win an Indy Car race—ever. And she’s wicked hot. She made $5 million in endorsements the year BEFORE she won the Indy Japan 300. It’s no secret that pretty faces sell stuff (hot bods don’t hurt either); and part of me wants to congratulate her for finding a way to bring in some cash while she’s not winning races. But part of me cringes when I see pictures like this one:

This makes me uncomfortable. I feel like she’s being subjected to this. It’s obvious that she is not a model, that she’s uncomfortable with her clothes off, and that she’s JUST doing this for the money. This, to me, seems like a case of photographic rape—only at the end she’ll get a fat paycheck and hopefully a few more fans. Not only am I turned off by the image, but my inner feminist begins to growl at the site of someone so determined, so powerful and so smart (Every Indy Car driver is basically a physicist. They have to understand things like down force, wing-configurations, and drafting—and apply all of this knowledge at 200mph), forced to make her mark by whoring for the camera.

What ever happened to turning the world on with your smile?

Now believe you, me—I love a lady in her skivvies! At the beach:

Or even in bed:

But that was then. This is what we’re dealing with now:

I watch the Rachel Ray Show every single day. She has amazing recipes, great guests, and spectacular segments that target her audience with laser-beam relevance. Love it. What I don’t love, is brilliant women wearing high-heels and underwear holding twenty-pound turkeys. This is ridiculous! Rachel is one of my favorite media moguls. Her cross-platform marketing strategies will go down in business text books. Her products are all of outstanding quality, her meals are practical and delicious, her website is easy to navigate, and her image is so friendly and accessible—I could go on and on; but sufficed to say: I adore her, for many reasons. This particular photo-shoot, however, is not one of them. When I view it, I feel guilty that I’ve put her in such a position. It makes me uncomfortable to see photos like this because we, as a society have pushed women into this corner. On the one hand it was obviously her choice. But it makes me sad that she felt doing this was important to advance her career. Hindsight is 20/20; but I guess, more than anything, it’s just disappointing.

Here’s our girl looking totally sexy, fully clothed. She’s hotter here because she’s comfortable, poised, and there’s a little something left to the imagination. My inner frat-boy has no problem objectifying her in this photo—I could even go for a little more leg.

Perhaps I’m old fashioned. Maybe I’m naïve about the business of being a woman in the public eye. Or maybe it’s late, and my inner-feminist has been in a cage all afternoon while the frat boy got to drink some beers & root for the Yellow team. He’s tired; she’s cranky; and so I’m going to take them both to bed…. Ah shit, we woke him up with the thought of getting in bed with two women—wait, did I just get excited about the idea of taking me and my theoretical selves to bed? Good Lord I’m tired. I guess I’ll leave you with one more pic of a beautiful, adequately clad lady. I’m so glad we had this time together…

Face Value

2009-01-25T19:12:00.010-05:00

I must have one of those faces. People I’ve never met, people I have no connection to whatsoever, seem to trust me, immediately, implicitly. My friends complain that I am “flypaper for freaks;” but I always appreciate that perfect strangers are inspired to include me in their conversations, trust me with secrets, or ask for my opinions. This includes fellow subway riders, coffee-shop dwellers, movie-goers, K-mart shoppers, elevator riders, social smokers, construction workers, waiters, waitresses, bar-patrons, and just generally anyone in my immediate vicinity. I once had a woman insist I share her umbrella at a stoplight one rainy evening and within sixty seconds, I learned that she was 53 years old, twice divorced, and an organic food fanatic. She then shared with me that she was carrying a gun. She reached in her purse to offer me a breath-mint, but I quickly declined and then faked a phone call with a friend. This story is exceptional. Usually the things people share are unremarkable; but they’re almost always personal and incredibly interesting...to me at least.

This week, I found myself in a ladies locker room at an uptown spa after indulging in the world’s most fantastic massage (being hunched over a laptop twenty-four/seven isn’t exactly great for the musculature). I hit the steam room and then showered off, taking my sweet time, enjoying every moment of my visit. I lingered at the beauty counter, blow-drying my hair to avoid catching a chill. After a few moments of blissful solitude, an attractive older woman entered my area. Her tight, fit body was wrapped in tight, black spandex from shoulder to shoe, and I would have guessed she came from the pilates class, except that her hair and make-up were virtually flawless. She stood right beside me, scrutinizing her skin, tugging and tucking at the few wrinkles she did have. I continued to primp, remaining respectful of our public solitude—unabashed vanity is sometimes considered embarrassing—until she glanced over at me and decided I had an agreeable aura.

She sighed heavily and dropped her hands. “I hate being a woman,” she said, reaching begrudgingly for her lip-liner. I caught sight of her ice-blue eyes in the mirror and smiled. If I had to guess her age, I would have said forty, but it was clear she had a great face-lift at some point, so who really knows. She was in impeccable physical shape, and seemed quite comfortable in her alabaster skin. “I mean the bras, the make-up, the judgment....” She waited to see if I would respond.

I chuckled a little and said only enough to encourage her to continue: “Yeah, I guess we did get the bum end of that deal.” I tried to wax positive by adding, “But at least we’re not gay men. No one gets judged more than a gay man.”

She paused for a moment and considered. Then, returning to her lipstick, she shook her head. “No, somehow I think we’ve even got it worse than they do.”

“Well,” I said, “they don’t have to deal with under-wire…or pantyhose…mostly…”

Her train of thought never even paused at my station. She continued nodding and shifting her facial features, as if carrying on a much more elaborate version of this conversation in her mind. “And then, the worst part is, we die after them too! I mean, we work so hard, fixing ourselves, making ourselves perfect, and then they die first—the men, I mean.” She stopped, turned from the mirror and faced me, clearly looking for some kind of answer.

I’m not sure why I didn’t offer the obvious answer (lesbianism) to her troubles. I don’t know why I didn’t come out at that moment. Maybe because we were in a locker-room, or maybe because she was entrusting me with her momentary life-crisis and I didn’t want to break the bond of camaraderie by pointing out our obvious differences. She seemed genuinely comforted by my acceptance of her dilemma and willingness to share the struggle of sorting it out. I could have said, "Well, I'm not gonna have that issue. I date women roughly in my age-range, and I'm looking forward to growing old and wrinkly right along side a woman going through the exact same thing." One of the perks of being gay is that we don't feel so isolated when it comes to these body-issues. We both get cramps, we both have fat-days, and we'll both start to sag at the same time. But I’m glad I didn’t say this. Instead I shut off the hair-dryer, and searched for a solution: "Date--younger--men?" I offered.

I think this broke her trance because her smile broadened and she stepped forward to tap me on the shoulder. “You're funny,” she said. Then, she reached into her black duffel bag and pulled out her mascara. “My better half is only five years older than me, thankfully." She returned to the mirror and the negative thoughts seemed to find her again. "But still—it just doesn’t seem fair.”

I caught her eyes again and smiled empathetically. “I suppose it doesn’t,” I said and returned to my hair dryer.

She finished touching up her make-up and shook off her pensive state. Again, breaking her own gaze from the mirror seemed to lift her mood. “Sorry to be so morbid,” she said, zipping up her bag. “I don’t know why I dragged you into this. Have a good weekend.” She touched me on the shoulder again this time with gratitude. Then she picked her towel up off the bench and disappeared.

This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I don’t mind; in fact, I kind of like it. I feel like a vigilante psychiatrist, a freelance friend. The obvious observation to make is that so many people are so lonely, or so afraid to confront these issues in their lives, that their deepest thoughts leak out at inopportune times, in the company of any arbitrary listener. Most listeners, I suppose, would just shut down, or shy away; but I’m actually interested to hear what other people are thinking. I’m always so appreciative of their sharing. I never know if these interactions are memorable to the folks who approach me, but I'm always grateful for the lessons learned, happy to have a better understanding of that individual, people in general, or sometimes even myself. I’ll never really understand why people pick me, though; I must have one of those faces.

Change is Good.

2009-01-23T10:17:00.002-05:00

Kudos if you noticed the change in the header. I've adjusted my title from "struggling single" to "swinging single." I've been blogging faithfully for a year, I decided to give myself a promotion. Also, I'm trying to be more positive about my love-life this year. I've got exactly the situation I have created/wanted/manifested (whatever)--now I'm going to try to manifest/create/want something more substantial. Enough with the disaster dating. It was hilarious for a while, but the joke has grown a little old. Time for a change.
I think a change, will do me good.

Strange, But Great.

2009-01-19T00:22:00.005-05:00

I had the strangest Thursday this week.

Occasionally, I hop on a plane and head down South for the weekend {NO THIS IS NOT A METAPHOR, MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER, LADIES}. When I want to get a reprieve from the chaos of the city and spend quality time in a space larger than my apartment, I head South of the Mason Dixon line to find that slower pace of life. My parents split their time between my home-state of NJ and their semi-retirement locale, so I have an open invitation to join them in the warmer climate. At the thought of another record-cold MLK weekend in NY, I decided to extend my mini-winter break by leaving early Thursday morning and breathing easy for five days straight.

Scheduled to fly out at 7:45am on Thursday, I was, of course delayed by the snowstorm. Instead, I would fly out at 2:45pm. Usually, I fly US Air from LaGuardia to Charlotte and then take a connecting flight to my final destination. But this time, I found a direct flight from LGA to Savannah—lucky me!

No, seriously, lucky me.

When I landed in Savannah International, the man next to me turned on his Blackberry and furrowed his brow. “A plane crashed in the Hudson River,” he said, “while we were up in the air.” He read further, “It left about twenty minutes after we did, out of LaGuardia…it was headed for Charlotte.”

“Wow,” I said. Right away, I hopped up to grab my cell-phone. Though my Mom had my itinerary, I was sure she’d be worried. With all of the canceled flights and rescheduled plans, I could have conceivably ended up on that plane. I turned on my phone and texted her: I’m here. In the next ten minutes, from the moment I stepped off the plane until I reached her at the gate, my phone erupted with panicked texts and worried voicemails. When I finally found my mom at the security entrance, she looked rattled, to put it nicely—to put it accurately, she looked about ten years older than the last time I saw her, two weeks ago. I smiled and waved from the bottom of the ramp, and made my way up to hug her. She broke down crying as she squeezed me in front of the gift shop.

Later, I spoke with several of my other family members (Dad never worried, he knew my flight information and isn’t one to ‘borrow trouble’—more wisdomania), and a few of my dear friends. Many of them had a treacherous afternoon, fretting and worrying. Each of them heard about the emergency landing the way I had—in scattered fragments. This led them to a state of panic and consequently inspired the most heartfelt voicemails. Just about everyone who knew I was in the air texted/called/emailed me, gravely concerned with my whereabouts and well-being.

In some strange way, I feel as if I attended my own funeral. Thankfully, I’m not dead! THANKFULLY, the only lives cut short by that unfortunate event were those of some pesky Canadian geese. But on a personal note, I was so moved by the depth of emotion felt by my friends when they thought I was at risk. And the best part is, I didn’t have to get sick or die to experience this! We never really know what we mean to other people. It was a strange gift from the ten or so folks who sent me messages, to hear the concern in their voices. Strange, but great!

I LIKE LISTS #1

2009-01-11T23:25:00.008-05:00

In honor of a new year, I’m starting a new tradition here at PWA… Once in a while, I’ll post a list. “A list of what?” You ask. Well, a list of things I like, of course. I’ll narrow the scope for each entry individually. We’ll start with an arbitrary list of things that please me a great deal, and then something more substantive.

Things that please me a great deal:
1. Cotes du Rhone

2. Aquaphor

3. Distressed Wing Tips

Something More Substantive:
Books that Changed my life (in the order that I read them):

Dan Millman: The Way of the Peaceful Warrior—I think I read this in middle school. At the time it seemed like fantasy, but the story never left me, and it may have been my first insight into how the body affects the mind. Being in good physical shape improves ones mental state—crazy, I know.

Annie Leibovitz & Susan Sontag: Women—I got this book before I ever realized I was a lesbian. I barely understood the concept at the time. But I knew I loved this book. The images range from victims of domestic abuse to Margaret Thatcher; from society ladies to coal miners. It taught me that women can do anything, be anything, and be beautiful—whatever that means.

Orson Scott Card: Ender’s Game—pre Harry Potter, this book inspired me to save the world. It made me feel like I was capable of doing great things; in fact, it made me believe that doing so was essential to the preservation of humankind.

Don Miguel Ruiz: The Mastery of Love—This is the most generous, pragmatic approach to loving that I have come across. One never runs out of love. Love comes from within. It’s all on you. You get to decide how much of it you have/feel etc. You don't receive love, you make it. Beautiful. Simple. Takes all the pressure off of relationships.

Ayn Rand: The Fountainhead—From the moment I opened this book, I knew it would change my life. It confirmed everything I already believed about marching to the beat of my own drum—but was too afraid to admit, even to myself. It strengthened my resolve to be my own person and pursue my own dreams. The ideas in this book are huge. Thank goodness they were wrapped up in complex characters living fascinating lives--like a spoonful of sugar to help the philosophical medicine go down.

Timothy Brantley: The Cure—Originally, I bought this as a diet book. Instead, it ended up inspiring me to make amends with my body. After putting on the freshmen five, the sophomore ten, the junior fifteen and then becoming a senior-year smoker, I wasn't quite at my peak-fitness. This book scared the crap out of me; and that fear pushed me all the way to the produce section. The long and short of it is: Vegetables save lives.

Don Miguel Ruiz: The Four Agreements—Brief and brilliant, this book gave me a logical, spiritual approach to life. I'm a better person for having read it. The four agreements are this: Be impeccable with your word (speak with integrity); don't take anything personally (most of what comes from others has little to do with you), don't make assumptions (find the courage to ask questions and communicate clearly), and always do your best (duh).

Pema Chodron: Start Where You Are—still reading this one, just got it. Already beautiful. She acknowledges that kindness/mindfulness/peace feel a lot like sadness—not depression, but there’s a natural sadness that comes with compassion. It’s already changing the way I deal with my own emotions.

**I would be remiss if I did not stop to acknowledge Ms. J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series. These books helped inspire me to write, to dream, and yes, to fight the dark forces of the world. In honor, I’ll post this video of her 2008 Harvard commencement speech. She is elegant as she is beautiful and inspiring as she is humble. Her story, her life, inspired me as much as her books.

Once Upon a Dream

2009-01-05T00:53:00.006-05:00

In many ways, I feel like this stage of my life is meant for dreaming; so like a good Disney princess, I’m sitting at my window, gazing out onto the starlit night, singing a melody to be reprised throughout the rest of this story. Afterwards, I’m going to put my head down on my pillow and whisper to no one in particular that I will realize my ’09 dreams, no matter what…then I’ll drift…quietly…into sleep…

For the past 3 years I have been writing. My favorite projects are a series of novels I’ve been working on (two are complete but unpublished, and I’m still working on the third). It became apparent to me, as I began combing the lesbian landscape, that there are not enough stories of hope, enough tales of love, enough books of girl-girl romance. When I open a book, I want to get in someone else’s head. I want to know them inside and out. I want to feel what they feel, love who they love, struggle when they struggle and get inspired. This is doubly fun when I have something in common with the protagonist—like oh, say, sexual orientation/romantic tendencies. I want to be titillated, dilated, exhilarated, annihilated. I want to read a book that destroys some sense of my preconceived notions about the way things are and rearranges them, or at least opens the window to a place where I can see a whole new world, a dazzling place I never knew…. I want to ride the magic carpet… I’m going to stop myself here in the spirit of staying classy.

When I started to accept that my life was going to look different than I thought it would: no picket fence, no husband, no heteronormativity (and apparently, no concern for actual English words…), I wanted to fill my head with new images of an ideal life. And, I began perusing the shelves of my local lesbian bookstore—to no avail. I wanted to read the lesbian version of The Fountainhead. I wanted to read the Bridges of Lesbian County. I wanted the lesbian Bridget Jones. Alas, I found nothing. Well, not NOTHING; there was a lot of erotica, but that didn’t seem to satisfy my heart. I found plenty of tragic stories (Rubyfruit Jungle; All She Wanted; etc), and lots of instructional manuals (The Whole Lesbian Sex Book, Box Lunch, Same Sex in the City…)—but none of these things inspired me. None of them showed me how to love.

Then came the L-word. I was forced by my lesbian welcoming committee to catch up on past seasons of this show and to attend the weekly screening of Showtime shenanigans for the following 14 weeks. Here I learned a lot about our “culture,” and I began to see frighteningly familiar social patterns. I enjoyed the camaraderie of the clan, gathering each week, despite our differences, to celebrate our community’s first “real” representation on a major television network. But I began to feel like a malcontent. This wasn’t doing it for me either. Where was the love? Where was the sincerity? Where the heck was the humor? My friends are hilarious! The thing I found hardest to believe about The L Word was not the absence of soft bodies and quirky smiles, but the glaring (and I mean GLARING) lack of wit. I was crestfallen.

I watched a few lesbo films too. “But I’m a Cheerleader” was the only one I came across that actually made me laugh out loud. “Another Gay Movie” attempted to be a comedy, but fell short (in my opinion)—and landed somewhere between offensive and boring. “Go Fish” should have been called “Scared Straight.” Holy hell. If I had seen this film before I had come out, I would have stayed in—if this were the only representation of lesbian life I had to go on, I probably would have joined the convent. Sheesh. There’s not a laugh to be had in this film—nor a sincere emotion for that matter. I dug “Desert Hearts,” “When Night Is Falling,” and “Imagine Me & You,” but again, my complaint was with a lack of humor. I could have done without “Lost & Delirious,” “My Summer of Love,” “Better Than Chocolate,” “The Incredibly True Story of 2 Girls in Love”—and I could probably name ten more. “Wild Side” & “Bound” were good for about 5 minutes each. The sex scenes are worth watching, but seriously, I fast-forwarded through the rest. If I were interested in a life as a con-artist, perhaps I would have identified with these characters; but, alas, I went to college, grew up playing soccer, had friends & family…not exactly the makings of a criminal. Where were the depictions of warm witty women like the ones I was coming to love?

I’m being negative.

The point here is not to criticize every piece of lesbian work that has come before—I am grateful that they produced something and allowed me to feed on some kind of gay media. Truly, I am thankful. The women who came before us really brought the wrecking crew—they knocked down walls and torched barriers left and right. It’s because of them that I’m able to do what I’m doing right this very moment. But, like Ariel under the sea, I want more! I want to be where the people are! So, I started writing the kinds of stories I wanted to read, to see. I wanted to produce something that showed lesbians the way I saw us: like regular real people.

The point in all of this, looking forward, is to ensure that I get these books published. If there were a posse of mice working for me, seven dwarves, a genie, a singing crustacean, or a team of household products who are inhabited by the spirits of my former servants somehow cursed by my own vanity and short-sightedness desperately trying to convince a brunette beauty to fall in love with me before the last petal falls off my magic rose…this is what they’d be working on—but I don’t have such tools. Instead I’ll be using good old fashioned ingenuity and perseverance. I’m going to get these books into the hands of every single girl who needs a laugh, who needs another option, who’s struggling to figure it out, who doesn’t know what she wants, or just wants to try a different kind of love.

This is my promise to myself and to you, faithful reader. This is the year that I will find my agent and get the books published. I think it’s time. And I hope that someday, some punk dyke sits up in the middle of the night, writing on her laptop, critiquing something it took me years to accomplish with a few swift taps of her keys. Dreaming of her own future success, enlisting the help of a Fairy God Mother, Mufasa, Zeus, Mulan, Tarzan, Mary Poppins, and every other power in the cosmos.

Happy 2009, everyone. Here’s to hopeful resolutions and big dreams.

Totes Retro

2008-12-28T00:14:00.005-05:00

This past January, I vowed to post a blog once a week, for an entire year. I’m fairly certain this is the only New Year’s Resolution I’ve ever kept, and absolutely positive it is the only one I will carry on strong through the following year. In my first month, I had 101 visitors; this past month, I had 1,025. Thanks for coming back, passing on the good word, and sticking with me.

In the spirit of retrospectives, I thought I’d give you a tight re-cap of ’08 here at Pretty Witty And…

1. I tried to work out…it didn’t work out.

2. St. Anthony screwed me by not providing a good girl to, well, screw me.

3. I realized I’m probably intense/overwhelming and decided that an emotional safety word would probably be the best way to combat this issue in a relationship.

4. My dad and I talked about space-aliens.

5. I emphasized the importance of entrance lines.

6. I started talking to my ex and thought: This probably isn’t a good idea.

7. I confirmed that talking to my ex wasn’t a good idea.

8. I compared women to lottery tickets.

9. I told some jokes.

10. I “hooked up” meaningless dating definitions to meaningless labels.

11. I judged couples.

12. I joined a gay dodge-ball league and decided that anyone who voluntarily plays gay dodge-ball must have a sense of humor.

13. I got set up…and knocked down. (But I got up again, never gonna keep me down…)

14. I promised Mother Nature that if she heated up, I’d get hot for her.

15. I confessed to being neurotic...

16. I explained why lesbians have short nails.

17. I examined the importance of a text-life.

18. I Started Podcasting with Jackie Primrose Monahan.

19. I proclaimed my love for the lesbian margin and explained what a pigeon hole actually is.

20. I bled at the AIDS Walk.

21. I went to a sexy lesbian art gallery opening and got inspired (read: awkward).

22. I got depressed because of my continued involvement with the ex from #6.

23. My mom gave words of wisdom.

24. I revealed my love of light FM.

25. I pointed out that Pride month makes the queers crazy.

26. I declared that being gay is inspirational.

27. I relayed some strictly Jerz sayings.

28. I had a freak-out about my sexual health because of my continued involvement with #6.

29. I got really frustrated with myself for having inconvenient taste in women.

30. I realized that I had shitty taste in women and I promised to wake up and smell the roses…and by roses, I meant shit.

31. I realized that the shitty relationships had indeed given me something to write about. But I vowed not to dwell on them and find better sources.

32. I gave thanks on my birthday for all the folks reading. (Thanks again!)

33. I tried to discuss the importance of communication with my bestie. Hilarity ensued.

34. I noted that lots of people are medicating themselves with relationships.

35. I joked about kissing…sincerely.

36. I professed my undying love for one special lady.

37. I got drunk for the first time in almost 2 years and hooked up with a stranger. She thought I was intense/overwhelming.

38. I got fed up with politics.

39. I realized that I never really got into shape (see #14) and tried to figure out why.

40. I celebrated both my corny sense of humor and my tendency towards dominance.

41. I decided that it’s okay to gamble with a little bit of your heart.

42. I lamented the poor timing of a meeting and decided it probably wasn’t just poor timing.

43. I revealed my ultimate sex fantasy.

44. I bitched about Prop 8.

45. I told some jokes on Here TV’s Hot Gay Comics!

46. I bitched about Prop 8 again…it really did suck.

47. I talked about passion, art, and attractiveness.

48. I talked about last words. Mine (hopefully): “I promised myself I wasn’t gonna die!”

49. I reviewed the movie “Milk.” A+

50. I shared some holiday cheer.

51. I explained that I’m not gonna settle for a less than perfect relationship and how this will greatly serve my readers.

52. I recapped the first 51 weeks of the year.

The Long and Whiney Road

2008-12-20T17:27:00.008-05:00

We have all been trained to view single-dom as a state of failure. Well, maybe we haven’t ALL been trained this way, but it does seem as though the cards are often stacked in favor of those paired. Even in this magical city where we’re all (de facto) involved in some grandiose game of every-man-for-himself dating hide-and-seek, I sometimes find myself envious of those who have coupled off. As the weather gets colder and colder, going out feels a bit more like a chore, and snuggling in sounds awfully appealing. With all this in mind, I look back on this past year of meetings and partings and wonder why I haven’t found someone suitable to hibernate with? Hmmm…

I know so many people who tumble into relationships for the comfort of companionship, the service of sex, and the reason of reliability. Having someone you can count on is not to be underestimated. Friends sometimes have to cancel, families aren’t always close, and there’s only so much comforting that can be done via video chat when you’re really in a bad way. Having a partner (in crime, in bed, or in life)—having that one person to touch base with at the end of each day can be really nice. But I have to wonder: is this enough reason for a relationship?

This may come as a shock (ahem) but I’m a bit of an idealist/romantic/dreamer. I’ve always held on to the notion that I should be in a relationship because I am crazy for this other this other woman, that I can’t imagine not having her as close to me as humanly possible—for whatever amount of time that feeling lasts. But the longer I linger in my solitude, I begin to wonder if I am wrong. I’m in the buffet line of New York City’s lesbian scene, there are sweet treats surrounding me constantly, and I’m refraining from indulging until I come across the most delicious dish. Should she be under the hot-lamp at the next carving station, I don’t want to arrive with a full plate. Or, worse: I certainly don’t want to get food poisoning from some funky chicken and be too love-sick to appreciate the grade-A top-choice meat…wow...I’m hungry. But I think, ideally, that’s how I want to be when the right thing presents itself.

In discussing these philosophies with my mother (as I often do), I proposed perhaps settling for something slightly satiating to tide me over until I arrive at my gourmet meal. I often come across women who suit me in some way. A is intellectually stimulating but somewhat emotionally underdeveloped. B is dumb as rocks but totally hot. C is warm and soft, but grossly lacking that animal edge. D has no social graces, but the most electric smile I have ever laid eyes on—what’s a girl to do?

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Anne Elizabeth, if you were going to settle for someone who was simply intellectually stimulating, wouldn’t you just be straight?”

“No…because I’m not really attracted to men…I thought we’ve been through this.”

“Right, but somehow you’d consider settling for a girl your not attracted to? That makes no sense at all. Isn’t the point of being gay to be with someone who you’re attracted to? I mean you know plenty of men with whom you share some connection, right?”

“Yes.”

“But you would never consider dating them because you want someone who not only gets you mentally, but engages you emotionally, AND curls your toes. You wouldn’t settle for a man, but you’d settle for a woman who didn’t really do that for you? Now that just makes no sense at all Annie Beth.”

“Damn.”

She’s right, as usual. {Without the proper understanding of our relationship, this might seem like one of those circular discussions where a mother tries to twist the information to talk the daughter out of her homosexuality (as if that could be done); but I’m certain of my mother’s intent here: to encourage me to find happiness, true happiness, three dimensional happiness.} When I decided I wanted to play tennis, my mom bought me tennis shoes, signed me up for lessons, and encouraged me to practice ever single day. If I was going to be a tennis-player, than dag-gummit, I was going to be the best tennis player I could be. When I decided I wanted to go into the arts, my mom encouraged my creativity, supported me through drama school, and even put up with my stint as a professional waitress in New York (I thought this was part of the job requirement of being an entertainer—it’s not.). Here again, she’s pushing/supporting/encouraging me to be the best possible homosexual. “If you’re gonna be a lesbian, then dag-gummit, you’re gonna be the best darn lesbian in all the land!” Truthfully, the word “settling” gives me the idiot-chills. It’s not something that sits well with my composition (probably because of how I was raised). I want the relationship that brings me happiness in all arenas. So there will be no settling for the sweet snuggling partner this nippy winter, no noshing on noodles while I wait to see what the banquet brings, and certainly no time for self-pity. Perseverance and uncompromising, patient progress are again my prescription from Doctor Mom.

“But what if it doesn’t work like that Mom? What if relationships are different?”

“You played varsity tennis your first year on the team and went to the best drama school in the country, how about you trust me this one more time?”

“Is your answer always going to be hard work and patience?”

“Until it stops working, Punkin.”

So, the easy obvious answer is (once again) my electrical blanket…and my keyboard. Looks like we’re gonna have a nice long winter of blogging ahead!

Holy Holidays Batman!

2008-12-15T21:13:00.003-05:00

Alright, I admit it, I’m a huge sucker for the holidays—and one holiday in particular: Christmas. I love the night lights, I like the cookies, on the disco ra-ah! Oh yeah! I’m allowed to be this corny for the next two weeks. I’m part elf—this is technically true—my great grandmother was one of the head bakers for Keebler back in the day, so I own my elfishness with great pride. (Shout out to Great Mum Lorelli wherever you are, hope you’re still bakin up a storm—even if you did always call me Rosemarie instead of my real name. Think the dead can access the internets?)

Truthfully, I’m this big a nerd all year long, but in the month of December, I make no attempt to hide or conceal my feelings of goodwill towards mankind (and womynkind for those of you out there willing to butcher the English language in the name of politics. I tip my hat to you in equal turn during this cold month of warm feelings.) I raise a glass of eggnog to all who cross my path, cheers!

Anywho, in the spirit of giving, in the spirit of Oprah and Santa and all things good in this world, I’m offering you some of my favorite things as an early holiday gift. I’m going to go eat some latkes, light the Kinara candles, and write my letter to Mr. Clause. Happy Chanukah, Happy Kwanza, and the Merriest of Christmases to you all!

This is a snippet from my favorite Christmas movie (and quite possibly my favorite movie of all time): A Muppet Christmas Carol. Only the Muppets could take the dark Dickensian world and turn it into the most hilarious musical of all time. This is the ghost of Christmas present meeting Scrooge for the first time.

My favorite Christmas song, mostly because it’s ridiculous:

Wouldn’t be Christmas without this musical number either (sing along if you know it):

My favorite cookie recipe (This should look familiar to everyone who had an adequate childhood. If you did not, please notify me, I’ll send my mother to your home at once.):

Ingredients:
0. 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
0. 1 teaspoon baking soda
0. 1 teaspoon salt
0. 1 cup (2 sticks) butter, softened
0. 3/4 cup granulated sugar
0. 3/4 cup packed brown sugar
0. 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
0. 2 large eggs
0. 2 cups (12-oz. pkg.) NESTLÉ® TOLL HOUSE® Semi-Sweet Chocolate Morsels
0. 1 cup chopped nuts

Directions: PREHEAT oven to 375° F.  COMBINE flour, baking soda and salt in small bowl. Beat butter, granulated sugar, brown sugar and vanilla extract in large mixer bowl until creamy. Add eggs, one at a time, beating well after each addition. Gradually beat in flour mixture. Stir in morsels and nuts. Drop by rounded tablespoon onto ungreased baking sheets.   BAKE for 9 to 11 minutes or until golden brown. Cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes; remove to wire racks to cool completely.

And here’s a naughty photo of the man with the bag:

Ho Ho Ho and a bottle of rum often leads to something embarrassing. Drink responsibly and keep your cameras at home.

"Milk"

2008-12-08T14:25:00.013-05:00

This movie is inspiring, the way a movie should be. They say comedy shows human beings as much worse than they are, dramas show us much better—more valiant, more honest, more brilliant, more. I like to think that the drama shows us how we could be. Heroes do exist, certainly in more than two dimensions, and I feel that this film so acutely provided me with the inspiration to be heroic, and showed me that doing so is indeed possible, if not imperative.

The cinematography was simply gorgeous, but it never pulled focus from the plot. The costumes were perfect, but I hardly took note of them. The direction, the beautifully edited historic footage and newly created scenes were positively seamless; but I didn’t appreciate these elements independently. There was a line in the film where Harvey says something like “I’m not the candidate, the issues are the candidate, I’m just their representative.” Gus Van Sant did the same thing with his film; the issues took center stage and everything else supported them. Sean Penn, James Franco, and the rest of the cast did an INCREDIBLE job (seriously, there is not one bad performance in this film); they directed my attention to the story and the actual people whom they were portraying.

As a former drama student and an acting nerd, I like nothing better than dissecting performances—I found that impossible yesterday. I completely forgot I was watching Sean Penn because his portrayal was something akin to possession. He did what every actor aspires to, he removed himself from the role and allowed the character to inhabit his body. “Milk” and everyone who helped to create it, deserve all of the accolades in the world and (even more so) all of the gratitude we can muster. Thank you for telling this story.

I left the theater saying to myself: I need to be doing more with my life. In only eight years, Harvey Milk accomplished more than most politicians do in a lifetime. He moved more people than most artists do over the course of their entire career. He brought people together more effectively than most preachers. He told individuals that they were not perverse, they were not wrong, they were not sick. He told them that they were entitled to human treatment and equal protection under the law. These are words that still need to be heard.

Once upon a time, America was a refuge for freaks. We were the weird table in the back of the high school lunchroom. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Lady Liberty was basically begging for the dregs of society, the losers--send them on over! They’re more than welcome here! But something happened, somewhere along the way, because we were so welcoming and hospitable, we became the popular table. Ironically, our taste for popularity grew and changed us from outcasts to ass-holes. Instead of keeping that same sense of compassion and hospitality we once had, we started acting like the jerks who made us sit back here in the first place. Now we shut out the new freaks and forbid them to get in the lunch line like everyone else. We bully them in the bathrooms and give them swirlies.

As Harvey said in the movie: All we need to do is look to the declaration of Independence “ALL men are created equal” and that we, as Americans, are entitled to “unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

It’s all right there. No one is denying that we are American citizens. So why do we have a different set of rights?

It seems so funny to see the footage of Anita Bryant espousing this arcane, homophobic rhetoric; but the same type of people are saying those same types of things today. When people use God (and Jesus especially) as a weapon to hurt or oppress others, I find myself personally offended and infinitely frustrated. Jesus, much like Lady Liberty, was all about the huddled masses. He hung out with hookers, drank with the diseased, kicked it on the periphery of Biblical society, and spoke about acceptance, forgiveness, and love. Right? I’ve read the Good Book. It’s all in there. Here again, a group who used to be ostracized (followers of Christ) have turned into the popular kids, the mean bullies (the Christian Right).

I’ve been in a big fight with Jesus for a while—partially because I don’t like anyone who plays the martyr better than me—but partially because I’m so pissed that people have taken his name and used it to make others feel bad. How can he let that happen? Couldn’t he have his dad smite these folks, or at least have a little chat with them burning-bush style? Because short of someone being struck down on the road to Damascus, converted to a more enlightened way of thinking, and then convinced to preach it up hard-core, I’m not sure what else would reach these people.

"Milk" was more than a movie. And Harvey himself was more than a politician. He was a true American. He didn’t go into politics, politics came into him. He was moved by his own needs and those of the people around him. He gave a voice to a group that lay silent. This is what the structure of American politics was founded on—and it’s still the best possible means for protecting and serving a group as vast and diverse as us. His story gave me hope. I hope everyone goes to see “Milk,” and hope it inspires and enlightens you as it has me.

The Last Word

2008-11-30T18:41:00.008-05:00

Upon his assassination in 1923, Poncho Villa uttered the words, “Don’t let it end like this. Tell them I said something.”

Now, I’m not here to judge the dead—I sometimes choke on awkward goodbyes when in an enclosed space (like a taxi cab or a public restroom), but I feel like last words should be somewhat premeditated. After all, this is your closing statement, your parting gift to the world as you take your graceful (or perhaps disgraceful) leave of this life.

There’s nothing quite like being caught with your oratory pants down like the Lady Nancy Astor who woke briefly from her last illness to find herself surrounded by her entire family and asked, “Am I dying or is it my birthday?” before slipping safely into the hands of the unknown.

Del Close and Oscar Wilde left us with “I’m tired of being the funniest person in the room,” and “Either the wallpaper goes, or I do,” respectively. Clearly, these gentlemen had their “wits” about them when they met their ends.

I recently found myself reflecting on my grandmother’s last moments, and while she didn’t have the power of speech, she said volumes with only a look. This woman, for whom I am named, had a wicked sense of humor, and no patience for the mundane. Amidst the chaos of an Italian family wailing around her, my mom, sobbing over her shoulder, whispered “Go with God, Mom; go with God.” Thankfully blinded by tears, I’m fairly certain mom missed the mocking stare and the quick eye-roll my grandmother flashed before relenting and letting go of her last breath. If I could write the words that went with that last glance, I’m fairly certain she would have said, “What, do you have reservations later? Trying to catch the eight o'clock movie? I'll go when I'm damn well ready.” I like to think of this as our last inside joke before we parted ways.

Not to be morbid, but I hope that when I go, I have the wherewithal to either come up with something genius off the cuff, or release my long-planned: “I promised myself I wasn’t gonna die!” Because, unlike this world of e-mails, f-book chats, g-chats, i-chats and any other one-letter abbreviated convos, the last line of one’s life really counts. I fear we're headed for an age where last words will be sent via mass-text message. In that case, I'm going with this cat's idea.

Attracted to Tchaikovsky?

2008-11-23T21:06:00.004-05:00

This weekend I saw a concert at Carnegie Hall. I’m not much for classical music; the emotional quality seems to escape me. What’s the purpose of art if not to inspire feelings? Brahms is so dreadfully heavy it gives me emotional amnesia. Mozart seems mathematical, mechanical even. Beethoven is all hot and bothered about something that alludes me altogether. And Tchaikovsky never spoke to me before, but somehow this Saturday’s performance was different. The featured artist of the evening was a 16-year-old violin virtuoso who, in addition to gaining international acclaim for his musical skills, has raised over 1.4 million dollars to support MS research; and he, himself, works in a lab at Stonybrook College helping to find a cure for this neurological disease… Yeah, aside from feeling horribly inadequate and under-accomplished in the presence of this young man, everything about his performance was attractive. How on earth did he hold my attention to something for which I have no affection? The sheer novelty and shock of his resume accounted for maybe ten minutes, but his performance lasted close to ninety, and every one was riveting.

I once dated a woman who came to life at her laptop. Of course, she was beautiful, smart, eccentric, etc. outside the confines of her writing routine; but she was at her most attractive when she got to work. Her brows would furrow, eyes would squint through her adorable glasses, and all of her attention focused forward. It was magic to watch her write. She would reach for things around her without glancing away from her screen. She could open a soda-bottle and drink from it without missing one beat while proofreading. She could light a cigarette and smoke the whole thing without losing her train of thought. The rhythm of her hands on the keys, the intensity of her stare, everything about her was engaging. It was as though the pressure of her deadlines brought all of her beauty right to the surface. It was captivating to watch.

Focus & discipline are sexy. Confidence, commitment, and uncompromising integrity are undeniably attractive. PASSION, PASSION is what draws people in; those who are passionate—be it about physics, comics, chapstick or slapstick—are attractive. Passion is passion. If someone can get concentrated & controlled, excited and ecstatic all at once, they can take anyone’s interest. It’s that combination of enthusiasm and direction that pulls attention like the current of a massive, moving body of water. It’s immutably entrancing.

Maybe I’m impatient, maybe I’m weird—maybe I’m even a little bit emotionally masochistic, but guarded people bore me. Give me raw. Give me exposed. Give me naked intensity, every day. I want someone who listens intently. I want someone who treats a conversation like a tennis match, like a tight-rope walk, something to be done with great care and attention. But of course that’s not all. This person should touch me like I’m a book that she wrote, like she owns the rights. When someone listens to our words, we feel respected. When that same person listens to our bodies, we feel real. There’s something about a physical connection with another person that gives a sense of location—like a confirmation that we are sentient, corporal beings with discernable, definite positions in space.

There have been weeks in my life where I have gone without a hug. There have been months without a kiss in them. And certainly, there have been years without sex. It’s at these times that I feel myself floating adrift in space, alone in the world—or at least inside my own head—and it’s not until I feel the pull of someone else’s grasp, of that attraction to another human being, that I begin to get my bearings once again. If I am not fortunate enough to be scooped up, to be reined in by another person, my only other cure for this nomadic, transient state of mind is: work. If I can ground myself in work, devote myself to some craft, give in to some project or endeavor, I can remain on earth. My passion for said project can then either be witnessed by others—thus making me appear attractive (and hopefully finding the cure twofold); or, I can transfer the enthusiasm for this project to any object affecting my attention. But the key is to do so somehow by accident, or at least by happenstance.

When there is a sense of self-awareness, when there is a self-conscious element to any performance, to any exhibition of behavior, the attractive quality is dead. Any sort of indicated passion, any performance of integrity, is repulsive. We sense the falsity, we are repelled by the insult to our instincts. Instead of feeling the tide pull us into its flow, we see still waters moved merely by a lazy breeze, and we are unconvinced to dive in—after all, if we are at the mercy of the wind, we don’t know which direction our vessels will take.

This boy held my attention because he was focused, his direction was clear, and he played the music with enthusiasm, with passion. It was his pure, raw spirit that drew me in, turns out passion can make anything exciting...even Tchaikovsky.

It's Not Right

2008-11-18T15:00:00.013-05:00

I’m going to apologize for blogging about the same frustrating topic for two weeks straight. Straight. Ha. I can’t get this off my mind. I had the misfortune of watching Sherri Shepherd—perhaps one of the most ignorant, unintelligent, unrefined human beings on the airwaves, fawn over Mike Huckabee, Governor of Arkansas (where gays were recently denied the right to adopt children), this morning. It literally reduced me to tears. To be subjected to this kind of hate-speech, to allow these bigots to have the conversation of what rights gays are entitled to as if we are some irrelevant, immoral sect of society, was beyond upsetting. So here we go again:

I remember, in 2003, when I realized I was gay, I found myself deeply distraught. The way I saw it, I could either be in love, or I could have a family. I either had to eat tofu, hang out in basement bars, and detest mainstream culture, or marry a man, bare children out of a loveless relationship, and have a regular job & life. This was devastating. I realize now that I was still partially in my Catholic coma, and I didn’t believe I deserved to be married, have a family, a career, and a life above ground because of this horrible curse I had incurred. I thought that because this disease had infected my heart, because I couldn’t fight the feelings that overwhelmed me in every way, I deserved to be depressed, fat, poor, and marginalized.

My only hope of having a good life was to become a comedian (which, up until that point, was the only example of open homosexuality that was well-received)—Finding Nemo had just come out, so Ellen was cool again; Margaret Cho had always been a hero of mine; and I started to see more of Judy Gold. CLEARLY, this was the only way to be an acceptable part of American society. The only other obvious place lesbians existed was in Middle School P.E. Class or The Post Office—and I had never enjoyed being in either of these locations. Lucky for me, I always loved comedy. When I realized I was a lesbian, it became obvious that this was the only career option I had, and thus, I began my journey towards this life. But in exchange, I gave up my dream of being a mom, of having the wonderful home, and making my folks proud grandparents, adding to the chaos of our big family holidays with my very own brood. This thought always broke my heart; but I knew I couldn’t ever love a man that way, and this was the price I would have to pay.

Over the course of the next few years, I had a few really rough spells. The dream that lived in my heart all my life had been destroyed by a few wrong ideas in my head. And, as the gay presence in American culture blossomed, so did my realization that there were many different kinds of gays, successful ones, beautiful ones, nice ones, funny ones—many with families. I saw Annie Leibovitz’s photograph of Melissa Etheridge and her kids. I saw Rosie’s documentary on her R-Family Cruise. I began to realize what was possible. It should be noted that I started looking for these things and that I let them open my mind—this was invaluable. I stopped beating myself up for something I thought was wrong. I’ll say it again this week because it bares repeating: Love is not wrong.

I readjusted. New dream: Wife, kids, career, comedy, love, love, love, love. I want it all.

But now, it seems as though the tides are turning against us again. We used to be the coolest kids at school. Everyone wanted to come to OUR house before the dance. Whether it was to do their hair, fix their clothes, tell them about the hot new diet they’d need to fit into their dress, or make them laugh—they couldn’t get enough of us. (People were quoting Tim Gun, saying things like “Smart Trench.” Will & Grace was in syndication, running four times a day. Ellen hosted the Oscars!) All the while, the gays were doing this without the right to have their own dance. We attended theirs as caterers, designers, florists, DJ's...sometimes we even hosted the after-parties; but we were not really allowed to go—well, not as ourselves.

For some strange reason, they have no problem with us coming to their dance incognito. If I want to show up with a guy, I’m welcome. It doesn’t matter that he and I don’t like dancing together. As long as it doesn’t upset their idea of what a couple should be, we’re allowed to come, drink the punch, and do the funky chicken just like all the other kids. Even if I go to the dance with a boy with tattoos on his face, who hates me, hits me, calls my mother names, drives there drunk, rapes my Nana, burns my house down, kicks my puppy, or drowns a whole litter of kittens—I’m invited. The football coach will pat us on the back as we walk through the doors. The teachers will smile at us, and wish us well. They may tell me to be careful, but they'll still allow us to enter the dance. But, if I show up at the Field House with Rachel Maddow, Rhodes Scholar, AIDS researcher, MSNBC Golden Girl--an intelligent, polite, refined, lovely woman—we won’t be admitted entrance. Nope, that’s completely unacceptable. We wouldn’t want the underclassmen getting the wrong idea. If they see us at the dance together, they may light their heads on fire and start punching themselves in the face...or worse: when they grow up, they'll treat everyone with equal respect and won't discriminate against students that are different from them.

All we’re asking for is permission to show up to the same gymnasium as these people, dance to the same songs, and have the same opportunity to be with the ones we love. We’re not asking them to change the format of the dance, we don’t need them to redefine the word “dance,” and we certainly don’t need any help throwing the event. There’s plenty of room in this gym; we’ll pay for our own tickets; and we’ll still help make it grand. We’re not going to change anything about the dance, we just want to come. Why would anyone have a problem with that?

Some people have suggested some variation of the following as a viable solution: New Jersey, Vermont, and New Hampshire are inviting us to the dance, but we have to sneak in the side-door and pretend that we're not actually there for the same reasons that the straight boys and girls are. Maine, Hawaii, Oregon, Washington and Washington D.C are offering us a similar party, but we aren’t allowed to come as couples, we have to come as “peers,” and the Principal has made a bunch of different rules about what we can and can’t do here. Oh, and while we may be permitted to move our bodies rhythmically to the music, we certainly aren’t allowed to “dance.”

I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY! I WANNA FEEL THE HEAT WITH SOMEBODY! YEAH I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY! WITH SOMEBODY WHO LOVES ME!!!!!

Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston are allowed to get married and raise children, but it’s illegal for people like me and Rachel Maddow because that would be disrespectful to the institution of marriage... “It’s not right, but it’s okay. We're gonna make it anyway.”

**Massachusetts and Connecticut, thank you for inviting us, you are gracious and wonderful hosts.

Hot Gay Comics!

2008-11-13T10:55:00.002-05:00

Tomorrow night on Here! TV, I'll be on the premiere series of Hot Gay Comics! Here's a little clip!

American Fag

2008-11-11T23:57:00.005-05:00

I went to NYU; I live in New York City; and I work in the entertainment industry. Because of these things, I often forget that many people in this country believe that being gay is wrong. This is an arcane moral judgment—which completely elude me these days as I live and move in modern, forward-thinking circles. The people around me don’t think being gay is weird; they don’t think it’s gross or immoral—in all likelihood, the straight people I surround myself with don’t think about it much at all. But there are many out there who believe that this lifestyle is “wrong.”

I went to Catholic school, so I understand moral judgment. I understand it intimately. I also understand that there is supposed to be a separation of Church & State, (but that seems laughable at this point given that the Mormon Church has become one of the most powerful political lobbying groups out West). But I digress… Before I understood emotion, before I understood Truth, and before I experienced love (I dare not say that I “understand” love, I have too much respect and awe for its power. I know I’ve felt it; but I’m not sure I’ll ever understand it. I don’t think I want to.), I had many judgments. Mostly, they were born out of ignorance and fear. It’s comparatively easy to judge something you don’t understand. And it’s much easier to hate something you fear than to learn about it. I didn’t want to expend the energy it would have taken to understand the things I feared, and my Church told me it was acceptable to reject them, so I did that instead. Eventually, I had some distance from religion and life forced its lessons upon me, thus expanding my mind (thank God); and I now have compassion and empathy in my heart where I once harbored hatred and fear. It is because of this kind of intellectual laziness, this obstinate ignorance, that we (the gays) find ourselves oppressed. I chuckle even as I write the word oppressed while I sit in my J. Crew jeans, typing on a brand new MacBook, surrounded by Pottery Barn furniture. We are an upwardly mobile people. We are successful, we are creative; we are a gifted lot. And yet, we are somehow still pinned down by archaic ideology.

What’s so strange to me, is that the groups most fervent in their protestations site “family values” as their main platform for objection. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but two people, in love, who want to commit their lives to one another and become a family—this what they’re objecting to? Furthermore, the key players in this crusade are groups that have been very clearly discriminated against. Seventy percent of African Americans supported Prop 8. In 1865 African Americans did not have equal marital rights, they didn’t have rights at all. Even as recently as 1967, interracial marriage was illegal. Just forty-one years ago, it would have been impossible for our beloved President Elect, this beacon of “Change” and “Hope” to exist—or at least to come from a legitimate, recognized, legal marriage. And yet, on the day that America put their faith in him, they voted to take away the rights of others, to move backwards in terms of social change. This is the ugliest of ironies.

Perhaps those opposed to giving us the right to marry have lost touch with the meaning of marriage. Now, I know I can’t legally do it, but let me take a stab at defining it. Let me see if I can articulate what marriage is: It is my understanding that when I marry my love, I am publicly declaring my unwavering, steadfast devotion to this woman. I am uniting my life with hers, my heart with hers, forever. No matter what circumstances the universe may hand us, we are promising to endure, together. To me this is not only necessary, it is guaranteed. When I make this promise, I will keep it. I am fiercely loyal and extremely protective of both my heart and the hearts of those I love. I will do everything necessary to keep my vows to this woman, whomever she may be. Love is not a myth. Marriage is not impossible. And we will gladly show the world that the gays are not only capable of respecting the sanctity of marriage, we will do so with enthusiasm, with grace, and with the utmost reverence for the institution.

I pay taxes, I vote, and I would even go to war if my country called on me to do so. I don’t break the laws, I don’t discriminate against my fellow citizens, and I would never make moves to restrict the rights of others. I am an American citizen. I deserve the same rights as everyone else.

My heart was built to love a woman’s heart. This is not wrong. Love is not wrong. Anyone who impedes the happiness and obstructs the justice of a group of innocent people is wrong. They are wrong and cruel and stupid. I pity anyone so ignorant and embittered that they cannot recognize the true meaning of Family Values: empathy, kindness, guidance, understanding, peace, support, strength, protection, and love. Any couple worth their salt knows this. These are the qualities that make a family. These are the values that make a country, that make this country, America. I am indeed an American Fag.

I'm a Scrabble Strumpet.

2008-11-02T19:51:00.008-05:00

Alternate Title: Whore for Words

I dig chicks with BIG…y’know…vocabularies. I cannot resist a woman with a HUGE set of...words. Loquacious ladies with lengthy lexicons, endless expressions, and tons of terminology TURN ME ON. Call the think-tank over at Victoria’s Secret—I’ve found the answer!

Maybe it’s because I’m a writer, maybe it’s because I’m a lesbian, or maybe it’s because I spent a year and a half in dating retirement, only to replace my love of sex with a profound appreciation for the game of Scrabble (well, actually, only the first twelve months were self-imposed—the last six were a horrible, agonizing, stressful time wherein I tried desperately to get laid, but was ostensibly unsuccessful due to the shallow dating pool of online lesbian singles —I was terrified to hit the bar scene after a year alone, fearful that the sharks would eat me alive…and not in a good way…also I was no longer drinking. Wanna know what the hardest part about being sober is? Sleeping with people you don’t like…yeah…it’s NEARLY impossible…too much info?); all this to say: I find language to be one of the greatest gifts bestowed upon womankind. I love the way words sound when slammed together in a tight-knit sentence. I love orating in any interesting intellectual arena. And most of all, I enjoy learning new words, or even just refreshing my familiarity with old favorites…like strumpet.

I love it when a word is well-utilized, when there’s an economy of language. Being concise shows off competency and confidence better than any pair of pumps could possibly. Women with a facility for language are sexy not only because of their apparent mental masterfulness, but also because of the adroit oral agility advertised when one speaks. Big words bouncing from big mouths bring big smiles to this girl’s face. And though I’m hardly a scrupulous speller, a rousing round of Scrabble will always get me going.

In my ultimate sexy dream fantasy, I’m dressed like Jennifer Beals from Flashdance, I strut out onto the stage (which looks like a giant Scrabble board) and the music begins:

“She’s a brainiac, BRANIAC on the board! And she’s spelling like she’s never spelled before!”

I would dance around like a maniac, flinging my hair every-which-way, then I would get to my chair, pull the giant cord, and hundreds of scrabble tiles would come pouring out all over my sweat-drenched body—naturally, my eyes would be protected by my sturdy reading glasses, not to worry.

I was once on a date with a woman who told me that, dressed in a loosened necktie and wrinkled-up button-down, I looked like a “Prep-school miscreant.” I almost passed out.

A different girl used the words “comport” and “merciless” quite elegantly within the first few days of our acquaintance. Um, swoon?

And, yet a different girl said the following sentence: “The energy in the room is like, really phonetic. ” AH! It’s ok, maybe she just fogot to make the ‘r’ sound? (Typo intended people…it’s a joke.) But later, she made the following faux pas: “I mean, she just like, basically told me I looked fat in those clothes. I got real indigent after that.” STOP EVERYTHING—REWIND!!!!! INDIGENT???? I believe the word she was looking for was “indignant,” meaning “offended.” However, she clearly used the word “indigent,” meaning “poverty-stricken.” The third, and final strike was a semi-racist remark she made about an Asian person whilst we walked to my apartment—in Chinatown. I was hoping she would somehow improperly use the word “indigenous” so that I could indict her for being an insensitive, ignorant, idiot in desperate need of a dictionary. Instead I just said “Goodnight,” and went home alone.

Needless to say, I think smart is sexy. Killer dance moves on a giant Scrabble board wouldn’t hurt either.

Just The Right Time

2008-10-25T20:39:00.009-04:00

As a comedian, I’ve placed great emphasis on the word “timing.” In the worlds of acting, entertaining, and stand-up, this principle is integral to the success of the individual’s performance. To many people, it comes naturally—whether that’s the result of a hilarious family, great exposure to the masters of the craft, or simply a genetic predisposition to hilarity, I’m not sure. But I am certain of this fact: no matter how dry or expressive the delivery, how carefully crafted or sloppily constructed the script, timing can make or break the performance.

There’s a great bit some comedian friends of mine do at parties and it goes something like this:

“Oh man, you are fantastic. You are one of the best comics around. I just love the way you run a room. I mean after every show, all anyone can talk about is the time you spent on stage. I’m really so impressed with you. Can you tell me what is you’re secr—”

“TIMING!”

Sometimes the comedian being addressed cuts off the other party before the first few words are out. Sometimes she’ll repeat it after every sentence. Sometimes, she’ll hold an uncomfortably long pause after the question to finally mutter the punch, but the joke never fails. And for the rest of us, it’s always hilarious—because it’s always true.

So too true is the importance of timing in one’s romantic life. Sometimes we meet someone we deem “crazy” (It has been known to happen, on occasion.); sometimes we meet people whom we label “promiscuous” (or we use harsher words); sometimes we meet people who are emotionally unavailable, obsessed with themselves, introverted, mercurial, distant, angry, clingy, needy and on and on and on. Then, two months later, we turn around and they’re happily entrenched in the most functional, beautiful, easy-going relationship we’ve ever witnessed. How can that be? The truth is, most people are multi-dimensional. We all go through periods in our lives where we’re hurting, confused, or distracted, and these things manifest themselves differently depending on the circumstances and our ability to cope.

The hardest pill, I find, to swallow is meeting the right girl at the wrong time. When you meet someone delightful, someone charming and beautiful, kind and smart—and for one reason or another the two of you can’t be together, it hurts. Sometimes she already has a girlfriend. Maybe the two of you never discuss your attraction, but you look at each other wistfully each time you part ways. Sometimes you’re skipping town, finally moving home to California after too many New York winters. You’ve just met the most magical girl and you have two days until your plane leaves the ground. These potential love affairs often amount to nothing more than eye-sex and almost-kisses (that should be the title of my memoir: “Eye-Sex & Almost-Kisses…The Anne Neczypor Story"). Sometimes you’re just in a bad place. You may try to let the potential relationship pull you out of your depression, but that only works for so long. Relationships that start as life-savers usually end up drowning you in the end.

If you don’t start out strong enough to swim, playing in the deep waters of love can be really dangerous. Eventually you’ll get pulled out by the tide and no amount of affection from the shorelines will be enough to bring you back to the warm, sunny beach—this is assuming your partner is on stable, dry land. If you are both struggling to stay afloat, then panic pulls you out and the undertow of depression will engulf you. Or eventually, the stronger of the two will just swim away.

My grandfather was engaged to his girlfriend when he asked his secretary to dance at the office Christmas party in 1947. Nat King Cole’s version of “The Christmas Song” played on and, after those three minutes and ten seconds concluded, a saucy brunette named Ann had stolen his heart. He and my grandmother, Ann, were married shortly thereafter. The seemingly poor timing of their meeting was not enough to hold back the tidal wave of their love. In fifty-three years, they never spent more than a night apart.

And if someone were to have asked my grandmother what her secret to getting the man of her dreams was, she certainly would not have answered “timing”--she probably would have said “gin and a low-cut dress.” But she would have hit that punch line at just the right time.

FALL in Love...With Caution

2008-10-19T01:49:00.008-04:00

As the autumn leaves turn yellow, orange, red, and brown, they tumble to the ground in giant heaps of beautiful carnage. As the sweetness and warmth of summer come to an end, they are replaced by the chilly winds and bitter flavors of sour green apples and tart cranberries. And, sad as it may seem, love responds in kind. It’s commonly known that most relationships come to an end at the turn of the season, thus breaking the population into fractions in search of their other (and sometimes better) halves. For the past week or more, I have been receiving calls from friends who have been hold-up in their apartments deep in the throws of love since late May (when all the warmth began). Direct from Splitsville, they’re driving around in search of their next love. When it comes to those dear to me, I understand that I am something of a mandatory pit-stop on the relationship super-highway. Only instead of over-priced gasoline, nickel-slots, and Freshens frozen yogurt, I can offer my buddies compassion, words of encouragement, and (occasionally) ruthless judgment.

We all want what’s best for our friends, so when we see them driving full speed towards a dead-end, it’s hard not to reach for the grab-handle, mime stomping the breaks, and cringe in anticipation of the big collision. Some dead ends are obvious (for example, the Girl du Jour already has a girlfriend whom she’s “thinking about leaving”—DEAD END; the GdJ is “on the fence about this whole lesbian thing”—DEAD END; or the GdJ is from the Czech Republic, is only here for the summer, and wanted to have a real New York lesbian experience before she goes home to marry her boyfriend DOUBLE DEAD END…these are actual examples I’ve picked up over the past month of coffee dates), so bracing for the crash is not so much an act of pessimism as it is an one of realism.

I believe that there are times in one's life where one needs to be emotionally reckless. Sometimes the only way to learn why not to make a certain choices, is to go ahead and make them and suffer the subsequent consequences. One can have an academic understanding of a situation without experiencing the heartache. But, to intimately understand what it costs to give oneself to another, one must get, well, intimate. I believe in doing stupid things and learning from experience. I knew with every ounce of my being that my first love would break me. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know when, but I could sense that she was a Lesbian of Mass-Destruction; and I knew I would be destroyed. I got involved anyway. Why? Because I was a 20 year old virgin in drama school, suffocating under years of Catholic repression and guilt. I knew said LMD would lift that burden from me—and this was a trade I was willing to make. Was this decision a conscious one? No. I was a junior in college, so in love, and desperate to be touched. Bring on the bombs.

In retrospect, I wish I had made a clear choice, a sort of barter. "In exchange for the chance to experience love & explore sexuality, I'll give you my reputation, my dignity, my extra-curricular time, my actual class-time, and eventually my soul..." Hindsight is twenty/twenty; but, I can now see that in this VERY clear dead-end, it would have benefited me greatly to leave some emotional currency off the table. I anted up with my heart and then bet my trust, my body, my time, and all of my attention—needless to say, I left the table emotionally bankrupt.

Now that I have some perspective and have safely survived this affair (and a few others), I can chalk it up to experience and thank the gods that I somehow (probably through sheer force of will--read: stubbornness) still have faith in love. But my advice to anyone less resilient would be to gamble with one’s self responsibly. Decide how much you’re willing to risk. What is this girl worth? How much is she asking of you? Does she want your time? Your trust? Your ass? And then decide if you’re willing to gamble with these things. Every time you role the dice, you run the risk of losing. What are you willing to lose? And if you don’t predetermine a limit, you’re likely to bet the whole kit & kaboodle—the rush of endorphins that comes with taking a chance is addictive, just ask a gambler, or a race-car driver, or a lesbian.

In cases that hold some hope (Eg. She’s a single, intelligent, attractive lesbian who has shown moderate interest in you, your life, or your ass; she does not appear to be a sociopath, an asshole, or a lesbian of mass-destruction.), I always advise my friends to proceed with caution. Pay attention to where you’re going, that way you’ll know how to get back to the pit-stop when you need me (I’m always open). And please, pay attention to the road; watch for signs; and don’t speed. Windows down, heater up, and some great music—a slow drive on a crisp fall afternoon sounds great, doesn’t it?

Decision '08: Corny Queer or Stealth Butch

2008-10-13T23:19:00.009-04:00

I have been accused of shamelessly chasing straight women. However, if I look back into my comparatively short history as a lesbian—I'm only 5 in gay years—this is certainly not the case. However, I will admit to this much: I have flirted shamelessly with ALL things skirted and purty…or, at least all persons XX…more often than not they're in pants…and I'm not really sure what would even qualify as "purty."

Straight women provide the perfect practice partners for fun-filled flirtation. For the most part, they’re a safe source of sassy seduction rehearsal. As long as you're clearly not pursuing anything and they’re in no way interested in crossing that line, it’s usually safe to push the flirtation-envelope all the way to the mailbox (just don’t you dare stick it in…). Please note that one should refrain from any sort of touching when engaging in practice flirts (Pflirts…the "p" is silent)—that’s where things could get hairy…I mean sticky…I mean…sorry.

Women are women—and by this, I mean we're all nuts—and by nuts I mean different—and by this, I mean to say that we’re all crazy in our own special way. But flirting with a woman is bound to be better practice than flirting with a man (especially the straight ones, they generally have a hard time with the whole flirting for fun concept—it’s like mental masturbation, and to them, that sounds like a ridiculous refrain in an old Alanis song). But even gay men flirt differently than women, they're often more forward than the average gal; and part of the fun of flirting with the ladies is being ambiguous as to what your true feelings actually are. Leaving the lingering question up in the air gives the game a sense of silliness that can prove pleasurable for all parties involved. Incidentally, this is nothing I would condone if intentions are genuine. Where real feelings are concerned, I’m a hundred-percent for honest expression of emotion. But in the meantime, it’s super-fun to talk all saucy and rev the engine—even if your car is in neutral.

This week I bought one of my straight friends a card that had a picture of a diner and said: "I'll have the special…that'd be you." This was to go along with a few CD's I made her. Inside the card I wrote: "Let this be but a prelude to the sweet music we'll make together." Now, if you can stop puking on your keyboard for a moment, take note: talking like this is fun! {SIDEBAR: Y’know what else is fun? Puns. This weekend, that same friend called someone a “Female Douche Bag.” And I said that I didn’t think that this label needed a qualifier; and because we’re not speaking a romance language, there’s no need to make the adjective gender-specific. However, if we were to do such a thing, we would have to call her a “Douche Baguette”—and then I laughed at my own joke. “I’m on a roll!” I proclaimed…yeah, I have ensured that she’ll never sleep with me.} But here’s the beauty of flirting with your straight girls: you can be as corny as you like. Because you aren’t ACTUALLY trying to get them into bed, you needn’t worry about appearing “cool” or “sexy”—whatever those two words mean.

I was recently knighted with the label “Stealth Butch” by a member of NYC Lez Royalty (if you believe in these things…I’ve conceded that the Lesbian Mafia probably exists in Los Angeles, so I’m claiming our New York Lesbians as the Monarchy of Dykes—MOD for short.). We were in a conversation about Twinks, Silver Foxes, Bears, Otters, etc. and I noted that we, as lesbians, really only get to chose between Butch & Fem—which is a bear of a task—and I want an animal name, damnit! Well, my friend noted that I probably couldn’t qualify as Fem because I have a nasty habit of holding doors and paying for stuff. But, I’m great with a flat-iron and happen to know the best mascara presently on the market (Rimmel London Eye Magnifier)—thus precluding me from the Butch set. It was, at this moment, she coined the term: Stealth Butch.

“Y’know, it’s like one minute we’d be sitting here talking about hair-product or eye-make-up, and I’d be like: ‘Can I borrow your lip-gloss?’ and you’d have it, so then I’d be like: ‘Oh, cool, we’re totally friends.’ But then I’d be like ‘Wait a minute, she’s totally buying my drinks.’ Or like: ‘She totally gave up her seat for me.’ And then the next thing I know, I’d be on my back with my legs in the air.”

If it’s these little things that lead us lesbos to our lengthy, lusty liaisons, perhaps I’m too stealthy for my own good. It’s in my nature to be polite; it’s how I was raised. I was very much a Daddy’s girl and, from him, I learned to be a gentleman. However, I did grow up with a tight group of girly girls, and from them I learned how to take care of my wavy hair and properly apply eyeliner. Now that I have learned that the combination of these attributes is akin to a lesbian super-power, I will use it only for good, when the time is right. I will only switch into stealth-mode when I genuinely desire the damsel (hopefully not in distress). For now though, I’m very happy to be a corny queer making bad puns and dad-jokes, laying the sweet-talk on my purely platonic straight, taken, or gay male friends.

Stuffed & Starved

2008-10-06T22:30:00.003-04:00

I have an insatiable spirit. Whatever there is to experience, I want it. I want to try everything, learn about everything, do a little of everything. I always want my life to be bigger, my experiences broader, my time better—I will never have my fill, I will always want more. Historically, when I felt like I was lacking something, I would eat…and eat and eat—and when that didn’t work, I’d drink and drink and drink—and when that didn’t work, I would hook up with every girl who’d have me. Until one day I realized that my ultimate end-goal was not to be the fattest, drunkest whore in all of New York City. That’s what we Oprah-lovers call a “light-bulb moment.” In the mean-time, I learned a lot of lessons, accumulated a lot of great stories, and still have all my limbs in tact.

I read a poem recently (which is often credited to Maya Angelou, however, I believe the author is Pamela Redmond Satran) and it included the following quote:
“A WOMAN SHOULD HAVE ....  a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to  retelling it in her old age....”

Mission accomplished. But the problem is, I’ve got a lot of time to kill between now and old age. And I’m not sure my liver, nor my nerves can stand to rack up too many more “juicy” tales. Also, if I’m going to get to something that can respectfully be called “old age,” I’d better start growing up.

My goal is to satisfy these appetites with something other than nachos, beer, and sex (insert frustrated groan). Three weeks ago, I went out for Mexican food with a group of friends and we ate so much food, I virtually had to crawl out to the sidewalk where I got in a cab—there was no way I could fathom climbing the subway steps in such a state.

I hit guac-bottom.

Two weeks ago, I hopped off the sobriety band-wagon and woke up in a relationship. (For any lesbians reading, this should require no explanation. For everyone else, I’ll try and summarize… Sometimes we relate to women physically in a drunken evening and wake up feeling as though we should force the intellectual/emotional connection so that we don’t have to admit that we pulled a slutty move. It’s a girl thing. We insist that there was a certain j'nais c'est qua between the two of us in the magic of the night prior and then spend the next few weeks discovering that we have no basis for a relationship. It would be like trying to build a house with a bucket of paint and a few pretty windows. The things that make a house attractive don’t always provide the foundation for a good relationship. The next step is to then try separating amicably and maturely. **Which, yay for us, we were able to do…yesterday.**)

The difficulty comes in replacing the unhealthy habits with better ones and not losing friends. It’s much easier to find ten people heading to the bar than it is to find someone willing to take a yoga class. The same people who will gladly drink half a bottle of Scotch and sing karaoke with you are worried about looking stupid in yoga… I can always find people who want to go fill up on omelets & bacon on a Saturday morning, but when I want to volunteer at the soup kitchen across town, I’m on my own. How does one lead a healthy, fun, fulfilling lifestyle? It turns out my spirit cant be satiated by salsa con queso or sex on the beach (or in the bathroom of a gay bar for that matter).

I need to make my peace with the substances that are distracting me from being a woman of substance. At the end of the day, I’m going home with me, so I better like myself—and it’s hard to tell how I feel about anything when I’m stuffed full of food & booze. This is the first time in years—since I came out—that I’m not in love/obsessed with someone else. I’d really like to take this time to do that with myself. As it turns out, I’m actually starved for my own affection.

My Cuntry Tis of Thee

2008-09-29T01:44:00.002-04:00

This is not a political blog. I’m preachy enough on the subject of love. I don’t need to be Nancy-Know-It-All—besides, I’ll be the first to say I don’t. I have some ideas, some opinions etc, but they’re super personal (unlike sex, relationships, family dynamics, creative philosophy, artistic tastes etc.)…hey, a girl’s gotta have some privacy. And because I’m not registered to a specific party, and I don’t necessarily agree with either party, (and, quite frankly, don’t think the two-party system is beneficial, progressive, or what the founding fathers intended), I hesitate to share my thoughts on any of the issues because I don’t want to be labeled/bullied/lumped in with any large group of angry politicos. I have my beliefs, but the strongest one I hold is the belief in listening. I read arguments from both sides. I watch a few different news networks. I often have reason to walk through Union Square (Left Wing Protest Central) or sit at my parents’ dinner table (Right Wing Propaganda Forum).

When it comes to politics, the hostility that exists inside normally mild-mannered individuals never ceases to upset or amaze me. It’s as if people are using these issues as some sort of weird vehicle to release their own, personal anger having nothing to do with said topic. It’s much easier to complain and place blame than to own our mistakes and do our part to fix the problems. I think we Americans are losing our independent spirit, and I think that’s really dangerous. Our nation’s roof is leaking, and we’re just sitting in the puddle waiting for help. We are supposed to be the Home-Depot of countries. All the materials we need are right here—now let’s do it ourselves. There’s no need to jump up and down, scream and cry. Our government should listen to us, and we should listen to each other. Let’s stop pointing fingers, and fix-er up!

There is no way to make progress if the top minds and most passionate voices of our time are tied up in the bullshit and not thoroughly examining the issues or putting their creative talents towards fixing them. The hypocrisy that exists on both sides of the political spectrum is nauseating. So-called Christians who are pro-war and pro-death penalty are somehow anti-abortion. So-called “Liberals” who claim to be pro-civil rights are anti-gay rights. These “civil servants” are far more memorable for the high-priced hookers and their subsequent book-deals than they are for doing their job well (or at all, quite frankly). It’s a devastating time in our country’s history and I don’t know where to turn.

Winston Chuchill said: “If you're not a liberal at twenty you have no heart, if you're not a conservative at forty you have no brain.”

And I am going to rebut this with a quote that is largely credited to Jay Leno (though I’m not certain he wrote it): “Politics is just show-business for ugly people.”

I think that most politicians are solely self-interested. They’re in business to make themselves look good and do little else. The way I see it, I pay taxes, and they get paid. Therefore, they work for me—I’m not really happy with the job they’re doing. Everything is falling down around us. The shoddy policies that have been put in place over the last 16 years are now starting to collapse the economy. Self-righteous attitudes are permeating our society and turning Americans into victims of circumstance.

I have no sympathy for those who bought homes they could not afford. As New Yorkers, we are forced to provide tax records, letters of employment, and guarantors—everything short of a brain scan and a DNA sample—to get into our one-room apartments. We know what we can afford, the market tells us. We make do with what we have. I have known grown men to sleep on air mattresses in basement apartments. I have been to places where the bathtub is in the middle of the kitchen. I have seen bedrooms that will fit nothing more than a twin mattress. And I have known the inhabitants of said spaces to be quite content. What I’m saying is, we can do with a lot less. Everyone is not entitled to own a 5,000 square foot home. I’m sure not. I don’t make enough money, at least not yet. And I damn well won’t buy one until I do. But that’s because I don’t have the sense of entitlement that seems to have hypnotized people into believing that they deserve things they have not earned.

The politicians have sold us the idea that simply being American entitles us to material wealth. This is patently false. The truth is, because we are fortunate enough to be in America, we have the right and the opportunity to EARN wealth. THIS is really the gift. We have a place where self-actualization and true success are possible. Thank goodness. Thank goodness for America.

Politicians are dream-snatchers. They are the anti-artists. Painters, sculptors, actors, writers, dancers, musicians, jugglers, filmmakers, cartoonists, circus folk, comedians, party clowns, photographers, and so on find inspiration and then channel it into form—this is done so that others may share in their experience and benefit from it (emotionally, intellectually, spiritually etc). The great artist will seek to inspire fellow human beings through her work. Politicians tell you to sit back, stop thinking, trust them, and give them your money. Even those claiming they’re for “change” or “hope” or whatever other buzzword the PR monkeys handed them, really only want the change that will serve him or her personally. And they’ll continue to take our dreams and our dollars, only to give us bullshit in return.

Senators are paid by our tax dollars. They work for us essentially (At least, those of us that pay taxes. If you don’t pay taxes, stop reading now. I’m so mad at you I could spit. I believe in paying taxes. We have to pay people to run the country, it’s a valuable job. We need some lube to make the machine work. Yes, I said lube. We’re gonna plow through this, hang on. Yes, I just said lube and then plow. We’re over it.). Now, our employees (the Senators) have spent the last few months collecting a paycheck for the job they have not been doing. The two Senators (or three I suppose, and for those in Alaska, their fair leader…) have spent the past few months parading around the company (our country) banging a drum and demanding a promotion. The noise is deafening. Meanwhile, WE’RE STILL PAYING THEM. They’re not doing their jobs, they’re just marching around the office saying how much better they’ll be at a bigger job, and we’re actually considering hiring them for it!

To succeed in the political arena, one must have an enormous ego, one must say “Yes, me, I have all the answers. I am the answer.” I think it’s ridiculous that we expect that of one person. I’d much rather hear someone say: “This sucks. I know that. Let’s see if we can find a way to fix it. I’ve got some ideas and I want to hear yours. Now, let’s everyone roll up our sleeves and get to work.” But they don’t want our help. They don’t want us to work. They don’t really even want us to know what’s going on, they just want to be popular/powerful/prevalent. And the mainstream media exists only to serve them in this endeavor. I don’t want to see politicians on the cover of Us Weekly. I don’t want to see a story about the economy alongside a picture of P. Diddy stepping in poo (thank you NY Post). If the candidates could stay off of my favorite cooking shows, if they could stop pandering to their respective news networks, and avoid posing for glamour shots to grace the covers of every bleedin magazine, MAYBE they could pay more attention to the states they represent, and maybe they could do a better job making the necessary repairs to our beloved country.

I went to public schools for the first nine years of my American education, so I may be misinformed; but I thought we were living in a democracy. Again, I may not have the story straight, but I thought that in a democracy, the people had some input on how this whole thing goes. I don’t care for the strong arm of government slapping me on the back, telling me it’s all going to be fine. I want them to hand some power over to the people, let the states make more decisions. We are the United STATES of America. Let’s start acting like it.

***I promise, I won’t talk politics again. It’s polarizing, I understand. We can all agree that love is tough. I’m not sure why we can’t apply those same feelings of empathy when it comes to running the country. We all have as much emotional baggage as we do political baggage. Hell, maybe people are willing to scream about their politics because they’re too scared to talk about their personal shit. Or maybe people would rather talk about their rocky relationship than the political climate because at they understand the former far better. It’s alright. America is going to be fine. She’s being a little bit cunty, but that’s because she has been mistreated. We just need to love the shit out of her, show her that we still believe in her, and do our part to make it right. Pay off our credit cards, live within our means, and vote for people who have faith in us. I don’t want the candidates to tell me they have the answers I want them to listen to the people that hired (elected) them and do their jobs. When we, the bosses, see someone doing a great job, we’ll give the promotion. In the mean time, let’s stop biting each others’ heads off, we’re one for all, we’re all for one, we’re all American. (A league of their own? Anyone?)

Jokers Gone Wild

2008-09-23T01:06:00.003-04:00

There’s something undeniably adorable about a child who has misconstrued a phrase, or misperceived something to suit their own illusions. Like the kids who were born on the 4th of July and grew up thinking the fireworks were for them, we were all stars of our own mini-movies and the world was our screening room. My grandparents liked to gamble, and would sometimes use phrases like “hit me” when someone offered them a second meatball (not to perpetuate Italian-American stereotypes of gambling meatball-eaters…but I digress). Obviously, when it was time to join the conversation, to “roll the dice” (so to speak), I always thought the phrase was “Annie Up.” As a kid I thought this meant to be forthcoming, open, to bring it all to the table. You’re not playing if you don’t ante up, and there’s no bluffing in the ante, so you just put your money where your mouth is, and game on!

In the same way that people mistake kindness for weakness, it has become apparent to me that sincerity and genuine intentions are often mistakenly perceived as intensity. I’m not sure I fully understood this until recently, but it seems like, in a town like this one, in the culture I have become absorbed in, integrity is hard to come by; honesty is rare. For the most part, people insulate themselves with pretense, fill their lives with drama, and distract themselves from the truth—through the scene, the swill, or the sex. Thus, when an anomaly comes along, when one encounters a person of substance, of character, she is likely to be misconstrued as severe.

In my younger years, I considered myself to be somewhat cheeky in my response to the every day questions regarding my identity. Are you an academic? A liberal? A homosexual?—I would answer them all the same way “I’m an actor, I can be whatever you want me to be.” What once I considered clever/charming, I now see as rather reprehensible. This answer shows a distinct lack of character. It’s a chicken’s way of avoiding controversy (at best) or a sociopath’s method of bluffing, evading self-definition. And because I am neither a chicken, nor a sociopath, I am somewhat mortified to admit to this pathetic show of “wit,” instead of offering a legitimate answer to anyone who took the time to ask me a legitimate question. And perhaps this will not serve me in my defense of sincerity, but I’m putting this out there to say I understand that not everyone is yet ready to be open, steadfast, and consistently themselves—as true to that form as they presently understand it to be. But I think, in order to find real happiness, one must open up and “show their cards.”

It breaks my heart when sincere emotion is discarded and labeled “drama,” when people with good intentions are cast off for being “intense,” and when fantastic human beings absorb themselves in activities far beneath the level of their potential so that life does not disappoint them. I have a tendency to see people for who they could be and am consistently disappointed when they chose not to address what’s actually going on, to numb themselves to the truth and mistreat real circumstances as “drama.” It’s disillusioning/infuriating depending on whether or not you really cared for this person.

I took a break from being me this weekend. I’d be hard-pressed to tell you who I was, or what the hell I was doing; but I’ll assure you, the “drama” that I experienced, the “intensity” I encountered, did not mitigate the consequences of the old habits in which, I indulged. I won’t bore you with the debaucherous details of Friday night’s college antics, nor will I carry on about the closure I received from a surprising source on Saturday. But I will say that despite the drinks, aside from the action, and humoring the hangover, I learned something valuable: To someone insincere, earnestness is at best adorable, and at worst a fantastic tool for demolition in the hands of the manipulative.

I have handed over my integrity to all the wrong people and, consequently, been beaten over the head with it. I have no interest in being pathetic, but I shudder to think what life would bring if I decided to act out of amusement instead of emotion. The game of love is not to be played without currency. If there’s nothing to win, why bother? So I guess I’ll move on to the next table and Annie up…

Caught between the Moon & NYC

2008-09-16T22:35:00.013-04:00

Full Moon by Robert Beck

Last night there was a full moon. I was walking with my dear friend and his dog, talking about love, women etc.--standard fare for a Monday night. I was explaining to him my latest conundrum, the most recent lady dilema, when his cell-phone buzzed. "Do you believe in the Lord?" He asked me. "Yes?" I replied, skeptical. He held up his newest text for me to view:

ADAM: I HAVE A HOT LESBIAN WHO NEEDS A DATE.

I couldn't make this up if I tried. "I will move heaven and earth to get you this lesbian," my friend said. And I laughed aloud.

The truth is this: There is really only one lady for me. There's only one who’s always there, one lady I crave. People complain that she’s high maintenance, fast, and a little bit dirty. True, she does cost me a pretty penny; and true, after a long day in her presence, I feel the need to rest up and shower off. But she is beautiful. She is winsome. She makes me feel like I can fly. She’s the smartest, funniest, most original lady in all the world—and she makes me feel the same. She makes me feel like I belong; and, since the day she became a part of my life, I have never felt out of place.

Through her I have met the most magical characters. When I was reckless and immature, she comforted me, saw to my safety. She makes me feel like I’ll never be alone. Some of my friends call her rude, harsh, and cold at times. But because I have survived the winters, stomached the brutal truth of her ways, she has ripped me open and shown me what life is. She has this magical way of creating circumstances that force me to grow. She is constantly challenging me with new people and more impossible conditions. She has put me in situations with the most intense women, and seen to it that I fell in love. Later, she tortures me with them, throws them back in my face, and teaches me the lessons over and over. She is ruthless.

Everything I know about art, about theater, about sex, is because of her. She is a constant, demanding teacher. I give her every moment of my every day. I have produced my best work because of her. I have worked insane hours because of her. I have eaten the best food in the world because she has it. I continue to stretch and grow, learn and change, all because of her. She is the one true love of my life. And she will always be. I know I will never leave her. Even if I have to go away at some point, I'm sure I will return. She is my home.

If I’m away from her too long I miss moody, brilliant women who use too many words to say what they mean. I miss the rhythm of her heart beat. I miss her shouting, horn-honking, and loud music. I miss dancing around her, singing and laughing. She is SO funny. I miss spending quiet hours, laying in Central Park, staring at her. I miss the unexpected kind moments, her softer side, her subtlety. I miss her edge, her snark, her power. When I’m away too long I miss attitude, ethnic food, and public transportation. I start to crave cement.

If you haven’t figured it out, my woman is New York.

My sweet girl, love of my life, thank you for always being there, for always puking up the right person at the right time, and then swallowing the wrong ones. Thank you for sharpening the senses, enhancing the experiences, and overall enriching the lives of those of us who dwell in you.

Forever yours,
Hopelessly devoted,
Annie Beth

PS. I’ve been pretty happy recently, and anything I can do to share that, to pass it on, I will. I’m attributing this recent high, in part, to a blurb I read last week about an 89 year old man:

“When in college, a former roommate recalls, Huston would wake up the same way every day: sit bolt upright in bed, stretch out his arms and yell ‘Yes!’”

I have adopted a similar routine—let’s talk about an awesome way to start each day. I’m advising all who read this to give it a shot, at least once, I promise it will rock your morning. If it doesn’t, the next blog is on me.

And if you get caught between the moon and New York City (I know it's crazy, but it's true); if you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do is fall in love.

With Sincerest Kisses...

2008-09-08T00:59:00.005-04:00

***This blog should be read in a Katherine Hepburn voice with faux British accent so as not to be taken seriously.***

I am a former drama student (and a lesbian). This means everyone in my life falls into one of three categories: Acquaintances (people I haven’t made out with), Friends (people I have made out with), and Ex’s (people I don’t make out with any more). Kissing has become as common as a handshake in my circle of friends; and I must lament that this has a tendency to cross wires and (on more than one occasion) has found a few females frazzled with frustration fuming from miscommunication, and faced with icky situations…to say the least.

I once considered kissing to be the ultimate expression of attraction. When we’d run out of things to say, when we found ourselves out of words, our lips would meet, and that would be that. So romantic. I have waited months to kiss some girls. I’ve put in long hours of talking, had great dates, heated debates, and then I’d wait…and wait…and wait. So that finally, when we had exhausted all our options, when we got past all the caution, the kiss would be magic, fantastic, some would even say spastic.

Needless to say, this was a time in my life where not a lot of kissing happened. For every girl who stayed interested after months of delay, there were so many more who would just walk away.

Following my second big heart-break (waiting all that time has a tendency to rev emotions up to seriously dramatic levels), I threw caution to the wind. I started kissing friends at parties. I’d get hammered and make out on street corners. Whatever’s clever Trevor—I was up for anything. Around this time, I started kissing one girl pretty regularly. Because we were the kind of friends who would share details about our escapades, we had no trouble analyzing and dissecting each other as if we were talking about someone else.
“Kissing you,” I said, “is like playing Atari.” She looked at me funny. “—Not like you’re thumbs are tired and you’re seeing blue dots after a long time…It’s simple, fun. It’s like you’re just boppin’ along, playing your little kissing game. It’s cute.”
She looked at me funny again.
“Well,” she retorted, “kissing you is like taking the SAT’s. It’s SO SERIOUS. For real, I feel like I should study up, eat a good breakfast, and come prepared. I feel like it’s some examination of my soul or something.”

Needless to say, we had different styles.

I carried on in these shenanigans for some time and tried to be this free-wheelin’, oft-kissin’, lip-slut. While I won’t discount the entire experience (certainly, some fun was had), my instincts fought against me. Because my initial belief system set me up to be a romantic, I had difficulty embracing this as little more than an extra-curricular activity. And what’s worse, I crossed my own wires a few times and convinced myself that I had feelings for someone when really I just liked kissing her. Hot mess. Never follow a pair of your own drunken lips into a relationship. I blame, in part, those bottles of Johnny Walker I put away over the course of what I now call “The Dark Years;” but more so, I blame my typical Leo attitude of: “I never start anything I don’t plan on finishing.” Similar to that Jersey attitude of “I don’t let my lips write checks my body can’t cash.” Not the original intention behind either of those philosophies.

I remember the first time I put a stop to things before they escalated past kissing in a photo booth (hot, right?). I realized I had turned a corner. Even in my drunken stupor, I knew I had made my first good choice, my first step in a healthy direction; I was so pleased! The girl I happened to be kissing, however, was not. It seems she thought we’d carry on outside the bar and into my apartment across the street. When I recounted the story for a friend of mine, she posed this question: “Well, how did you kiss her?” (If you are reading this and you understand what this means, Brava. I had no idea.) “Did you kiss her like she’s a slut? Did you kiss her like you love her? Did you kiss her like it was going to lead to more? How did you kiss her?” I flashed back to the Atari/SAT discussion of yesteryear. I had no idea how I kissed her. I kissed her the same way I kissed everyone—well, not like my Grandma, don’t get any funny ideas but, y’know, I KISSED her. Hmmm. After a lengthy discussion of the tactics employed in said photo booth, it came to light that my kiss was indeed too deep and the conversation surrounding said photo booth session was rather intense, resulting in an unintentional misleading of a spectacular make-out partner and all-around great gal. Alls well that ends well, and she moved to another continent….

I have since realized that there are appropriate kisses for certain situations.
Some kisses should be hot, some suggestive, some not, some aggressive, some heavy, some persuasive, some with levity. But still to this day, what remains clear, is: this requires no thought if you’re being sincere.

Kiss the ‘em like you mean it…but only if you mean it.

Just Like A Pill

2008-08-31T22:00:00.003-04:00

I have a lot of friends who have been getting on anti-depressants in recent days. Surely, they’ve helped people I know through very tough times, helped them to avoid feeling the deepest pains, the darkest hours. There was a period of time (about 6 months) where I had a headache, every single day, from the moment I woke up until the second I fell asleep. My neurologist put me on anti-depressants. They didn't help my headache, so I stopped after about six weeks. (Turns out, I wasn’t depressed, I was gay. Once I kissed a girl, my headache disappeared—like Sleeping Beauty…if she were a dyke with a headache.) I have friends who take pills every time they get on an airplane, to help them avoid anxiety attacks high in the sky. I know people who take bong hits every evening after work, to help erase the day and ease into their after-work mode. And while I don’t condone escapist tactics for surviving life (I prefer to enjoy the emotional rollercoaster ride—no matter how upsetting it is to those around me.), I understand the desire for relief from the hellish circumstances we sometimes find here on earth. What’s been my drug of choice, you may ask. Women. Obvi.

Some relationships are like drugs. When you first take them, it’s a high like no other. You know they’re bad for you; you know you shouldn’t get involved in them; but something draws you to them. Maybe they change the way you think. Maybe you have some amazing insight while you’re on them… (ehem, excuse me)— under their influence. Maybe they just make you feel good, help you relax, or make you temporarily happy. But in any serious quantity, or with any regular habit, they end up running your life. You find yourself feeling empty and inadequate when they’re not in your system. You get paranoid when you’ve spent too much time away from them. And when you decide enough is enough, you find yourself shaking, crying on the bathroom floor for hours on end, promising yourself it will get better if you can just cut yourself off completely, just get through these next few weeks. The effects are ugly. You’ve lost yourself in them. You cease to exist as the person you once were. As long as you’re in their grasp, you’re not you; you’re a junkie.

Some relationships are like medicine. They take away your pain, help you heal, and cure what ails you when you first start taking them. They nurse you back to health, make you feel better, and kill off the broken-hearted diseases of dysfunction that perhaps previously plagued you. But even medicine can be addictive. And, if taken past their expiration dates, medicine can bring you more discomfort than joy—more suffering than relief. (We’re still talking about women here, remember.) Medicine is important, but shouldn’t be taken frivolously or irresponsibly. It’s important to take it only in the amounts necessary to cure the infection, and only for the length of time prescribed. Medicine is tricky because one day you’re on the right track to health, getting better and better; but this can easily transition into a chemical dependency that is twice as damaging as the original injury. This could leave you worse off than when you started. It’s okay to take medicine to nurse you back to health, but once the wound is healed, it ceases being helpful.

And some relationships are vitamins. There’s no high here, just good old fashion wholesome goodness. These relationships add an imperceptible amount of nutrition to your daily diet of discourse and diversion. Vitamins aren’t exciting, and it’s questionable as to whether or not they’re even necessary. But psychologically, you feel like you’re doing something good for yourself when you take them. You feel like a healthy person and so you keep popping them, day after day, and hope they’re enough to keep you healthy/happy. It should be noted, though, that even vitamins, when taken in unreasonable quantities, cause liver damage, or even stop your heart.

So what’s the answer? A healthy lifestyle and a balanced, substance-free diet? Ah shit.

Drugs are unnecessary. They may bring a certain something to the party that nothing else can; but, by and large, you can get through your life without them and have a reasonably happy, even exciting experience. Usually drugs are taken to escape. If you’re not looking to escape your life, if everything is copasetic as-is, drugs become superfluous at best, and at worst, a hindrance to the real human experience.

Meds are great—if you’re sick. Most of us are so quick to pop a few pills every time we get a headache (instead of drinking a glass of water, closing the computer screen for a few minutes and taking a deep breath). Seriously, I don’t want to sound like a Scientologist, but most of the time, we can cure the little aches and pains with some stretching, a good night’s sleep, and proper hydration. Most of us haven’t been so injured that the emotional equivalent of these things (identifying feelings, expressing them in a healthy way, and reflecting on the experience) would fail to heal us. But it’s much easier to take the Tylenol-equivalent of a girl out for a spin on the dance-floor and try to erase the past with a big sweep of your feet: to quote the Teaches of Peaches: “Fuck the Pain Away.”

And vitamins, let’s face it, are meant to be absorbed via their naturally occurring vehicles. When you pop the pill, you piss out most of the product a mere moment later. But if you ingest the ingredients of nature’s nutrients direct from their ripe resting place on the bins of your farmer’s cold-case. One-by-one, you’ll replenish, repair, and renew each depleted resource your body has been begging for. Tedious? Certainly. But worth it? Theoretically.

So what does this all mean in the matter of relationships? I think it means this: There’s no magical fix one can find to be the cure-all joy-filled one single pill to complete the package. People who are looking for that simple answer would have better luck turning to drugs—at least they’ll provide that illusion for a while. I think, when it comes to people, you’re better served getting your vitamins one at a time from separate sources. If you need witty banter and camaraderie, find a friend who provides it—there are plenty on the web. Then to get your confidence, compliments, and courage, find another person who provides these things happily and willingly—your vitamin “C.” Give these things in exchange. I know I’ll need sex, love, loyalty and friendship from someone whom I’ll call my girlfriend—at some point. I’d be thrilled to find someone who comes with much more than those few nuggets. But I’m using that as a starting point. There’s no one super-food to fulfill your daily requirement of vitamins and minerals, protein and carbohydrates. And there’s no one person who could possibly be your everything. We all need friends. We all need different things from these friends. Let’s take the pressure off of our lovers, away from the pills, and go foraging for fruits in the forest of love—pun intended.

Clothesure.

2008-08-24T11:25:00.011-04:00

When I was in high school, I often found myself accompanying my girl friends to the mall (yeah, Jersey) on Fridays after school to go hunting for cute tops. Now, as a grown-up living and working in New York City, I find myself accompanying my boy friends to the bars on Friday nights in search of cute bottoms. Ah the mating game.

As a sixteen year old girl, your focus is image-obsessed. The right clothes, the right car, the right crowd—these are the things that make you who you are. As a grown gay man, things are quite different… I kid! As a lesbian, we're primarily obsessed with the emotional equivalent of these things: text messages, facebook notes, and maybe a few emails if you're getting serious with someone. I was faced with the striking difference between my gay boy friend and I this past week. My buddy and I were making our weekly pilgrimage to Pinkberry and I nearly got hit by a car whilst texting a lady friend (as per usual).

“What are you constantly texting about?” He said after patiently waiting for my attention to turn back to our conversation.

“What do you mean? I text about everything. It’s a means of communication. Duh. I’m trying to get to know her better. Y’know, to see if we’re going anywhere.”

“Wanna know what gay men’s texts are like?” He asked as we crossed towards the bright green sign of yogurty goodness. “’Are you hard? Yeah, you? Yeah. Come over.’ That’s it! That’s all you need. I don’t know what the lesbian equivalent of hard is…Is your vagina…” He looked to me for answers.

“Wet?” I offered.

“Precisely! That’s all you need to text her! ‘Is your vagina wet?’ End of story.” The elderly woman in front of us tried to be subtle about turning around with curiosity. In her brain I’m sure my buddy and I registered as a straight couple and the words we were exchanging (what few she probably caught given her hearing aid and the street-noise combo) should have been kept to the privacy of our apartment. Why oh why did I leave the Village? No one would bat an eyelash at this conversation South of 14th Street.

“Dude, it’s not like that,” I said. “Sex, for men, is between the legs. For us, it’s between the ears.”

“Are you saying that this lesbian wants to put her vagina in your ear?” He nudged me as the woman in front of us started digging through her purse viciously—hopefully not looking for pepper-spray.

I lowered my voice and turned away from the old lady so as not to get maced. “I’m just saying, I can’t get ‘hard’ until I know what she’s about. Does that make any sense?”

He yawned with exhaustion as my text alert beeped again. The old woman stepped up to the counter and placed her order offering payment in the form of loose change. When we finally did the same, I tipped the patient server with generosity and a wink and showed my buddy the clever text. “Also, she’s not even in the city. I couldn’t let her put her vag in my ear tonight even if I wanted to.” (***Disclaimer: This is not what lesbians do in bed. I don’t want to be held responsible for this ridiculous rumor. It will 1. Ruin my cred with the ladies. 2. Make me a magnet for freaks with an ear fetish. Or 3. Inspire all sorts of weird questions I’m in no way inclined to answer.***)

“What?!” He says as we round to the other side of the counter awaiting our treats. “You mean to tell me you’re wasting your time texting someone who’s not even bodily available to you even if she were to meet your lengthy list of requirements—which clearly includes the patience to text you her life story in 5 witty words or less? This is ridiculous. We need to go out and find you a real life flesh & blood lesbian. Tonight.”

“How many times do I have to explain that I’m not ready for that? I’m still trying to work out my feelings about the whole ex situation. Texting a new girl is about all I can handle right now.”

“I’ve had just about enough of this ex. I’ve never even met her and I’ve had enough. Seriously, we’re moving on. And the only way to get over one girl is to get under another.”

“Un clavo saca otro clavo.” I said reaching for my sweet white swirl. He gave me a quizzical look as they handed him his lychee, blackberry covered Sunday. “One nail removes another,” I translated. “One of my Cuban friends gave me that gem.”

“I don’t know what you lesbians are up to with the texting and the ear sex and now this business about nails. It all seems rather exhausting. I think I’ll just stick to cock, thank you very much.”

I giggled and reached for a bite of his. “Says the man enjoying the lychee…”

“What?”

“Lychee—it feels like vagina on the tongue.” I popped one in my mouth and smiled at him.

He choked and then promptly spooned the rest of his lychees into the trash can. “Well, thank you for ruining that delicious treat.” We see the sign for Banana Republic (irony unintended) and he turned to me, “Oh, that reminds me, I need a new top.”

“You and me both, my friend. You and me both.”

One Fortunate Cookie

2008-08-16T01:31:00.010-04:00

Today is my twenty-fifth birthday. I know, ordinarily, those close to the birthday girl offer up congrats and well-wishes; but, in true fashion, I’d like to do it the opposite way. (No, I’m not asking for hexes, curses, or nasty remarks—so don’t get any ideas…)

I would like to express MY gratitude to you, my friends, my future friends, and anyone who happens upon these words. I am so grateful to be connected with people far and wide through my writing, through my experiences, through myspace... Thank you for sharing your stories and for sharing your lives with me in return through your comments, emails, and messages. Thank you for listening to the podcast, for writing in, and leaving the voice-mails. That we can all share the experience of humor, of frustration, of love, of turds, even—makes each new event (and consequently my life) all the richer. I can’t tell you what it means to me. Well, I can, and am right now... Let's face it, I tell you pretty much what everything means to me, that's kind of the point of all this...

I am so happy to be alive, happy to be 25, and so completely honored to be surrounded by wonderful, intelligent, loving people. Thanks for your warm thoughts, kind words, and encouragement. I’m grateful to be a part of your lives, and to have you as a part of mine.

With Warmest Wishes and Deepest Thanks,
Anne Elizabeth Neczypor

not aMUSEd

2008-08-11T00:33:00.010-04:00

I was at a party recently, and a female friend of mine was trying to get the dish on why her guy-friend broke it off with her girl-friend after they had dated for a little while. His response was simply: “She’s a great girl, sometimes these things just don’t work out.”

(Lesbian gasps!!!!) No dyke has ever responded with such simplicity when posed such a question. I should know, I’m the queen of complication.

I have a great memory. This comes in handy when the sun is shining, the roses are in bloom, and love is at its finest. However, when one finds oneself (hypothetically speaking of course) a few paces away from love’s warm glow, the mental file-folder full of fun-facts about an ex becomes burdensome and bemusing. Why on earth would John Frieda’s beach-blonde line of products inspire anger and frustration? Why do Dots candy, hard-boiled eggs, overfilled ash-trays, and reruns of Rosanne all make me want to cry? …Because that same gift that once made me caring, conscientious, & kind now makes me madder than a hatter—and sometimes angry to boot! But before I get wrapped up in this outerwear of emotion, allow me to turn back the clock (thanks to gmail, I still have messages I sent over 3 years ago):

8/18/05 …also, I sort of accidentally made out with [CENSORED] at my birthday party...whammy. I don’t think that's going to be anything. She's totally straight. I'm not into straight girls. I'm not THAT masochistic. Oh, and I've been writing a lot of comedy recently. I really should start rehearsing so that when someone does give me a stage, I'll be prepared.

While I wish I could have pushed my younger self to start performing sooner, my 22 year-old self would punch me in the neck for staying hung up on something I knew wasn’t going anywhere THREE YEARS AGO.

What happened over those three years? I’ll tell you. I became a comedian; and she became my muse.

I listened to everything she said. I took mental notes of the things she liked. I always showed up with diet cokes & packs of smokes. And in return, she supplied me with the most brilliant lines, the quickest retorts, and looks that split me in half. Like Mickey to my Rocky, she trained me well.

Me: (Some amazing show of memory, dates, times, what she was wearing, saying etc.)

Her: You needn't try to impress me, I've seen you color in between those lines before.

Me: My apologies, dear girl. Perhaps I underestimate your memory.

Her: If this were a movie, I'd say: 'or perhaps you overestimate your own' and now you say: 'but isn't it?' This writer thing is fun.
…
Me: Y'know you always accuse me of delivering punch lines, but we both know who's pulling the strings here.

Her: I'm merely an ordinary civilian, I don't think in terms of 'punch lines.'

Me: Oh my dear girl, if you're going to lie to me, tell me you love me.
…
Her: Okay that was good. You're very funny.

Me: Thank God, it takes forever to get you off…my back.

Her: Funny, it's so easy to get you on…YOUR back.

But, to steal the old coach's line "Women weaken legs." So even as she sharpened my wit, inspired me to write comedy, and encouraged me to try it out, my strength was ultimately diminished, and by the end, I could hardly stand up for myself. Naturally, this disgusted her. Which of course brought on harsher comments, challenged me further in my abilities to roll with punches, to survive the fights, to persevere. I acquired this sort-of "Yes Dear" attitude. I loved the domestic bliss of bickering and buying toiletries, fighting and then going home to do chores together. I always brought over light bulbs when one of hers burned out. And then one day, I did.

They say you're entitled to mourn in direct proportion to the love that was lost. I think I did that after the third or fourth time we parted "for good." I think I realized, maybe when I was still in my EARLY twenties, that she was never going to be able to give me the love I needed, and that I wasn't going to be able to pretend I could do without it. But now, in my mid twenties, I'm mourning the loss of her friendship: she knows me very well, certainly cared about me, inspired me; she pushed me to be quicker, smarter, funnier, better. And the ironic part is, what I'll miss most is not the battle of wits. What I'll miss most is just her presence, her essence, her spunk. She's a great girl, sometimes these things just don't work out.

To avoid being redundant and/or boring, I shall dwell on this no more! I shan't let it monopolize my psyche, nor my blog! In fact, this shall be the last blog in which we speaketh of this ex-beloved, recently revisited, but finally finished relationship.

Full Of Sh*t

2008-08-03T14:09:00.004-04:00

As much as I complain about my disastrous romantic endeavors, I’ve been quite grateful for the hands love has dealt me, and how they’ve touched me (Dirty? You decide.). As the old saying goes: “Nothing bad ever happens to a writer.” To those who care about me, this seems to be a cop-out, a reason to be emotionally reckless, to maintain damaging relationships and continue caring about those who do not adequately return the sentiments.

To them, my answer has always been this metaphor:

If every day of your life, someone delivered you a turd in a box, that would seem like a bad thing. But if you learned to make beautiful sculptures out of them, eventually, you’d start to welcome the shit, you may even start ordering bigger and better turds! (Not that I’m calling the women I’ve dated “turds”—that would be rude…) But the point remains, that I have put my bad experiences to good use.

This weekend, I met an older woman. She was intelligent, intuitive, beautiful—with much more life experience and wisdom than I. We’ll call her “McBrilliant.” I offered her this explanation when the topic of a certain someone came up. We were talking about the movie “The Last Mistress” and I said I went to see it alone, after said someone stood me up last weekend. I was inspired by the horrible circumstances in which the leading lady experiences love and grateful that my own situation had not been quite so shitty…

The heroine has it far worse than I do, and I was comforted by the comparison of my own problems to hers. McBrilliant gave me a stern look and bopped me on the head. “You realize,” she said, “that even if your house is filled with these ‘beautiful sculptures,’ it still smells like shit. There are plenty of other materials you could sculpt with. You don’t have to accept the shit-box delivery.”

“I guess,” I replied, “But I’ve come to rely on this shit. I guess I’m just worried that without this, I’ll be empty?”

As a cancer survivor and a much more settled spirit, McB chided me for my childish insecurities. “Life is too short. Why would you waste your time thinking about someone who doesn’t want to be with you?”

Damn. No one ever put it in such clear terms before. I’ve been sitting with the sculptures so long, so focused on the intricacies & details, the shapes & colors, that I forgot what they’re made of—I guess I got used to the smell. This stinks.

Loving someone without any expectation or concern for reciprocity is not noble, it’s stupid. And ultimately, it feels like shit.

Straight from the Closet

2008-07-27T23:50:00.002-04:00

My first girlfriend has been dating men since 2004; when we broke up, she said: “I don’t think I can be with a girl if it’s not you.” Sweet words from a great liar, I took them for what they were worth. (She cheated on me every day we were together…with other women.)

Bachelorette #2 was a bisexual who bounced directly from her construction-worker boyfriend (who supposedly carried a knife) to me, one drunken evening at a party we all attended—not scary or shady at all. She now identifies as a full-blown lesbian who sometimes sleeps with men.

I once dated a girl who was raised by her lesbian aunts, came out as a teenager, and then (shortly after we parted) had a break-down wherein she explained to her aunties that she jumped on the gay wagon too fast and was now deeply in love with a boy. They were devastated.

I started to date an out-and-proud lesbian, only to have her reveal that she had been in a secret relationship with a man for over a year.

What kind of world do we live in where women have to hide the fact they’re sleeping with men?

And, of course, there’s my tEXt girlfriend, who is straight, whom I have been loosely involved with for close to three years. (We kissed for the first time on my 22nd birthday, I’m going to be 25—older, yet not a day wiser. I like to think of it as youthful optimism.)

WHAT THE FUCK.

Are there no real lesbians out there? I mean come on people, what gives?

Given this bizarre, skewed series of encounters that make up my mangled love-life, I started to question homosexuality as a hard-and-fast rule (versus some sort of impractical, impossible social construct): Is Gay something I am being forced into? Because I like some women, have I completely ruled out men and squeezed myself into a corner where no other “lesbian” actually exists?

It seemed as though women were picking labels with no clear connection to the behavior they were exhibiting. And, while this may seem positive and progressive, it completely confused me for a time. Can a “lesbian” have a relationship with a man? Can a “straight” girl sleep with women? And more to the point, is this one of those scenarios where everyone else is cheating on the test and getting good grades while I’m showing up to Spanish class, hoping for the best after going to the same “study group” (ice-cream/gossip session) thus leaving me completely unprepared and in the dark (en la obscuridad)? Meaning, should I be keeping one eye out for a man?

I actually met the man of my dreams a few weeks ago. He’s handsome, successful, sweet, funny, smart, and most of all: really interested in me. Wonderful. Seriously, I couldn’t design a better man if I were stuffing pictures and books into a computer during a thunder storm—a la Weird Science (ciencia del weird). I met him at a friend’s birthday party. We hit it off instantaneously and talked all night. As I was saying goodbye, my new friend pulled me into a big hug and kissed me on the cheek. After a moment, he shifted, and went in for the BIG kiss—Here is where sobriety served me well. Had I been drunk, I probably would have let him kiss me for a few minutes, enjoyed the feeling of being wanted, and spent the entire next day questioning the meaning of said kiss. Thankfully, I stopped drinking about a year and a half ago, thus rendering my instincts wilderness sharp—Like a boxer about to take a hit, I ducked and rolled out of the hug, bouncing to the door waving goodbye and exiting smoothly. As I rode the elevator down to the lobby, I thought: “Wow. I’m fucking gay. Who knew? I’m really, really gay. That was the guy. And I passed him up. I couldn’t have found him more interesting or attractive. He was truly perfect. And he was into me. And I ducked. I had no impulse whatsoever to kiss him.” I felt like coming out all over again. Before, I used to wonder what would happen if the perfect guy came along. Now I know. I would duck & roll…like a boxer…or a big lesbian…or a big lesbian boxer.

As if to solidify this message, I met another guy when I was at the beach. After an attempt at sweet-talk, he invited me to go sailing with him. I politely declined. He made some comment of the certainty of us being together. I chuckled. Later, an older gentleman at the beach bar informed me that this guy’s grandfather was worth $300 million dollars, and he was the heir to some sort of grand law-firm fortune. Still uninterested, I packed up my things and headed home. Again, surprised, I realized I wouldn’t even go straight for a $300 million dollar fortune. Shocking. I can’t be bought. If you had asked me a month ago if I thought I could go straight for that amount of money, I would have guessed yes. I would have guessed wrong! Who knew! I have scruples!

I’ve spoken to a few lesbians in recent days who swear to me they’re not confused or lying about their sexual habits. So I am not alone. Real lesbians do exist. I guess I seem to be picking mine like fresh shirts, straight from the closet. Next time, I’m picking mine off the clothes line, hopefully softer and better-fitting.

Quiero una novia lesbiana. No me gusto las chicas indeciso. Causan mucho dolor.

The Human Paranoia Virus

2008-07-20T17:19:00.001-04:00

I was raised Catholic. I have since become a homosexual. Heaven help me.

It took me a long time to realize I was gay. When I fell in love for the first time, the overwhelming positive emotions that came with The Big L anesthetized me from any inherent Catholic guilt that should have swallowed me up. Perhaps my first girlfriend would argue this point, citing my daily anxiety attacks and tendency to burst into hives when she entered a room as evidence for her case; but I think that had more to do with my fear of being labeled a “lesbian” and lumped in with a group I knew nothing about before I even had a chance to sort out my feelings.

Amazingly, the part of my Catholic education that has stuck with me throughout is that “God is love,” and “Love is good.” Therefore, what I experienced with my first girlfriend was good…and perhaps brought me closer to God? I think that’s right. All I knew was something so pure, so beautiful, was in no way a ticket to hell. I knew that Gay was not wrong because it was my way into Love. And God is love, so maybe Gay was my way into God. Holy Shit!

HOWEVER…

Catholicism still plagues me when it comes to my sex-life. I never bought into the whole “sex only for procreation” thing; but I was totally sold on the whole “sex is the most intimate expression of love one can experience” thing... Um, I HIGLY advise against this way of thinking—unless you’re fortunate enough to fall in love young and stay with that person a very long time. Or maybe it could work if you have a really low sex-drive.

I once loved a woman so much I thought I’d burst. She felt like the grout that held my tile-job together (how’s that for a lezzie simile?). However, we did not connect physically. What’s a Catholic girl to do? Well, fortunately, she was an angry drunk, and one night, she punched me. The love wore off shortly thereafter.

I’ve also found myself in bed with women I don’t love at all. And right now, even in the clear-headed head-space I am writing from, I feel terrible for making that statement. But if I fell in love with every damn girl I was sexually attracted to, my “love” wouldn’t be worth much, now would it? That’s not to say I sleep with every girl I’m attracted to, but, y’know, a few?

Herein lies the main problem.

In my twisted, Catholic, guilt-ridden world of too-much emphasis on sex, what happens when the love and the sex don’t align? What happens when you continue to do something you know isn’t “right?” When you’re not in the Big L, but you continue sleeping with someone? I’ll tell you what’s supposed to happen: STD’s.

I do realize this officially makes me insane, but in my f-ed up psyche, my punishment for carrying on a sexual affair without the love-piece sealing us together, SHOULD be some sort of horrible genital infection. I made myself absolutely nauseous with fear and self-reproach until I finally broke down and went to the doctor.

It would appear as though there is nothing PHYSICALLY wrong with me, but she did recommend a good shrink and a meditation class to help with my issues of anxiety. I told her I didn’t need therapy because I blog weekly and when I really need to talk, I do stand-up. She then wrote something on my chart and walked out of the office. It would appear as though I have HPV—but not THAT kind.

The Human Paranoia Virus: common in recovering Catholics with active sex-drives.
Symptoms: anxiety, guilt, depression, confusion, delirium.
Cure: Expressing one’s anxieties to a friend and/or doctor and having them look at you like you’re bat-shit crazy. Also, maybe a standard blood-test from your OBGYN. And maybe therapy. And maybe blogging.

Irish? Italian? Or Just Plain Jersey?

2008-07-16T00:39:00.001-04:00

I had the writer’s good fortune of spending this past weekend with a bunch of friends from Jersey at the beach with my parents… I’m going to list for you my favorite quotes from this experience:

“What do you think I just came down with the rain-drops? Huh? Is that what you think?”

“This guy could talk a dog off a meat truck.”

“Oh man, watch out, she’s fulla shit & bad manners today.”

“His mouth was writing checks his body could not cash.”

“Yeah, sure. If you believe that, I got some swampland in Florida I could sell ya.”

“Don’t worry about it. Can’t see it from my house, y’know what I’m sayin?”

“We sure got the butter from the duck yesterday.”

“My belly button is puckering and un-puckering as we speak.”

“You know what they say: when love lights on a horse’s ass, all the world’s aglow.”

Translations of my friends’ quotes:

“Came down with the rain-drops” = Born yesterday
(similar to: Do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?)
“Talk a dog off a meat-truck” = Talk you into anything.
(similar to: He could sell ice to the Eskimos.)
“Shit & Bad Manners” = Upset
(similar to: Full of piss & vinegar)
“Mouth writing checks…” = Shooting your mouth off & gonna get hit
(similar to: Cruisin’ for a bruisin’.)
“Swampland in Florida” = You’re an idiot.
(similar to: Did you know gullible is not in the dictionary?)
“Can’t see it from my house” = Not my problem

Mom & Dad:

The bizarre belly-button business came from my Dad. He seems to think it originated from an old episode of M*A*S*H and it means that the person saying it is very excited (often used facetiously). I grew up hearing this, on average, about once a week. I don’t think I realized how unique it was to my family’s vocabulary until very recently. Now I must consider the brain that trapped this one particular quote from a sit-com in the ‘80s and uses it regularly should probably be checked for something: Madness? Genius? It’s a fine line people, a fine line indeed. Daddy Dearest is also responsible for the butter-duck line. Apparently, in some far-far-away land (South Jersey?), a really hard day’s work includes milking the duck and creating butter from THAT milk as the very last task…naturally.

And finally, “You know what they say, when love lights on a horse’s ass…” Who? Who on earth are “they?” Who says this? My mother, of course. And she brought us this one straight from her grandmother who apparently used this phrase to explain the pointlessness of trying to talk someone out of loving a poor choice of mate. Apparently, insane quotations have been passed through generations in my family. And thank God for that.

The tough-guy cool quotes came from my friends and their crazy families. The exceptionally bizarre/nerdy quotes at the end of the list came directly from my family. I have nothing but an abundance of love and appreciation for the crazy phrases they’ve filled my head with for the past (almost) twenty-five years. And, as an attempt at balance and gratitude, I’ll offer a Rudyard Kipling quote in homage to the Wisdomania they continue to bestow on me:

“…the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

Apparently, I’m drawing my strength from duck butter and a horse’s ass. That’s my pack. Wouldn’t trade it for the world. And I’m not sure if it comes from the Irish grandparents or the Italians, but the bottom line is, it all makes sense in Jersey.

Homotivation

2008-07-07T14:44:00.003-04:00

One of my straight friends once asked me, "How can I get inspired to write?"
I replied quite simply: "Fall in love."
"What," she asked, "if I can't find the right boy to fall in love with?"
"Well," I said, "that should give you quite a bit to write about."

I write for the same reason I do stand-up, the same reason I act, for the same reason I like creating any artistic work: I'm a whore for attention. KIDDING. Kind of. No, honestly what motivates me to do these things is a desire to connect with people, lots of people. Certainly my insight, my sense of humor, and my FREE TIME have all benefited a great deal from my failed relationships. Also, having my entire life flipped on its ear when I realized I was gay at age 20 gave me a healthy amount of angst to work out on paper. But the motivation to write does not solely come from a stressful love-life and its over-abundant social/political/religious consequences. What moves me to write is a curiosity about the world, my tendency to over-think and over-explain every experience I have, and the insatiable desire to cheer people up—whether through commiserating about tough times, making light of heavy situations, or simply highlighting the hilarity of every day life.

Charles Bukowski wrote: "now, if you were teaching creative writing, he asked, what would you tell them?"

I'd tell them to have an unhappy love
affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth
and to drink cheap wine,
avoid opera and golf and chess,
to keep switching the head of their
bed from wall to wall
and then I'd tell them to have
another unhappy love affair
and never to use a silk typewriter
ribbon
avoid family picnics
or being photographed in a rose
garden; read Hemingway only once
skip Faulkner
ignore Gogol
stare at photos of Gertrude Stein
and read Sherwood Anderson in bed
while eating Ritz crackers
realize that people who keep
talking about sexual liberation
are more frightened than you are
listen to E.Power Biggs work the
organ on your radio while you're
rolling Bull Durham
in the dark
in a strange town
with one day left on the rent
after having given up
friends, relatives and jobs.
never consider yourself superior and
or fair
and never try to be.
have another unhappy love affair
watch a fly on a summer curtain
never try to succeed
don't shoot pool
be righteously angry when you
find your car has a flat tire
take vitamins but don't lift weights or jog

then after all this
reverse the procedure.
have a good love affair
and the thing
you might learn
is that nobody knows anything—
not the State, nor the mice
the garden hose or the North Star
and if you ever catch me
teaching a creative writing class
and you read this back to me
I'll give you a straight A
right up the pickle
barrel.

While I thoroughly enjoy this poem (from "Love is a Dog from Hell," if you're looking for it) and once thought of it as my writer's credo; I realize now, it's a bit dour. I cannot keep up this worldview whilst I attempt to shed all of the lesbian angst & bitterness I have accumulated in my formative gay years. I'm trying really hard these days to not equate homosexuality with exhausting, circular arguments with sexually confused women; with overwrought emotional tendencies fueled by selfish, power-hungry lesbians; and with daggers thrown from one of the only marginalized communities in the world that spends more time hating itself and judging its members than working towards any productive end-goal. So, in order to not contribute to the canon of negativity, I'm turning my frown upside-down.

Through reading some of his work, I've come to see old Charlie for the wicked, self-indulgent misanthrope he insisted on being all the way up until he died of Leukemia at age 73—-that's a long time to stay angry. And while, on occasion, I'm sure he did enjoy a "good love affair," I'm hoping for something a little more substantial in my own future. I believe he's got some fascinating ideas insofar as how to get inspired (to lose your mind); but I find his point of view inconvenient and impractical.

I think this type of work encourages regular people to linger in their occasional misery and miserable people to stay put in hopes that something brilliant will come about because of their misery. However, I think that inspiration found Bukowski in spite of his awful outlook, not because of it. And maybe if he had lightened up, drank a smoothie, and gone for a walk, he might have left us with some more up-beat poems. He could have coined the term "up-beat poet" …okay, maybe that kind of brilliance is specific to my own sensibilities…but I digress. By all accounts, this guy was a complete ass-hole and the most conceited human being ever to walk in shoe-leather. I think this is pretty obvious from his work—the youtube videos of him kicking & cursing out his fiancé quelled any doubts I had about his misunderstood artistic soul. Bitterness, rage, and hate for mankind fueled this great writer to legendary status. But as for the rest of us? Let's try to find a more cheerful way to live life and stay inspired.

"What now then," you may ask, "would you say to inspire that young writer you referenced at the top of this article?"

Well, if she asked again: "How can I get inspired to write?"
I'd probably respond the same way: "Fall in love."
And if she said again: "What if I can't find the right boy to fall in love with?"
I'd probably answer: "Then find the right girl."

Homotivation, it seems to inspire all of my work...

Proud, Seriously.

2008-06-22T00:19:00.002-04:00

The whole world has gone mad.

Everyone I know is falling in love, getting married, coming out, sleeping with tranies, and (my personal favorite of the week) “getting serious about being bi.” It must be June.

In the last three days, I know of two homos who got engaged, two who came out, one who discovered an FtM, and about eleven billion who “fell in love”— the parade is still a good 7 days away. Oh, and then there’s the girl who declared that she’s “getting serious about being bi.” What does that even mean? This is not something one should choose to get serious about. I wish to hell I wasn’t so serious about my lesbianism. I wish I weren’t so damn serious about everything.

I have just started to accept that straight people my age are getting married. Fine. Whatever. I guess that’s just what straight people do. There’s a lot of pressure on them, especially if they’ve been dating someone for a while, their parents want grandbabies—I get it. But it seems as though the lesbians are catching on. Thanks to the California Supreme Court, there is now a mad dash for the altar as girls who seemingly had their sanity mere moments ago are exchanging jewelry and making sweeping declarations about the rest of their lives. The idea that I’m supposed to make a decision that will last until my dying breath at the age of twenty-four is ABSOLUTELY INSANE to me. But then, as one of these women pointed out to me today: “(I’m) not in love.” Had I been thinking on my toes, I would have responded, “No, I’m not; but when I was, I can say with certainty, I was not thinking clearly. The time to be making life-choices probably shouldn’t coincide with a time in which your brain is paralyzed by a flood of endorphins responding to overwhelming emotional stimuli.” More importantly, I would like to say that these kinds of decisions should not be made in New York City, during the month of June, when your brain is paralyzed by a flood of endorphins responding to the overwhelming visual stimuli—fabulous gays, great girl parties, drink specials, and beautiful women EVERYWHERE.

After being walloped with the news of the engagements, I was informed that a former lesbian is now distraught with the task of redefining herself due to her newfound lover, a transgendered individual whom we’ll call “Travis.” Why? I ask. Why on earth would anyone change her definition of herself based on a relationship? Is “si” (that’s the pronoun s/he prefers) really worth re-outing/inning oneself to ones friends and family? Am I, as a friend, supposed to remember that, for the three weeks she’ll be involved with “Travis,” she is no longer a lesbian? Is this an excuse to skip the dyke march? Is my friend “straight” now? What the hell do straight people even do next weekend? Do they stay home? Evacuate to the Upper East Side? Aren’t they supposed to queer off and get more attention than the 365 homos?

The same way there are “Christmas Catholics,” there are most definitely “Pride Fags,” or as I like to call them “June Bugs”—mostly because they’re the ones spreading the crabs (not really, but that’s a rumor I will fully support the spreading of…I only support the spread of rumors…and jam…I will not partake in the spreading of anything else…except maybe legs in some contexts…alright we took a turn there, not sure what happened, mind-gutter, what was I ranting about? Oh right, June Queers…)

National Coming Out Day is October 11th. The day was founded by Dr. Robert Eichberg and Jean O'Leary in 1988, in celebration of the Second National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights, in which 500,000 people marched on Washington for G&L equality.
Here are several good reasons not to come out in June:
1. It’s hot, people are cranky when it’s hot and generally less tolerant.
2. If it goes badly, you’ll always associate this glorious month of parties and fun with the time you’re mother told you that you’re father is an ass-hole and that not all men are like that and you should really give them a chance because penis is great, except your father’s, his is so broken even Viagra can’t fix it, in fact, maybe he’s a homosexual, Goddamn you people and your commitment to making me miserable!!! --Just sayin…it may not go how you think it’s gonna.
3. People will think you’re trying to be trendy. Being gay is really sexy in June. If you want people to take you seriously, wait until October, when we gays are covered in layers and not exhibiting our hotness all over the cover of the Village Voice. Declaring yourself a homosexual in the month of June is like telling people about your new fitness regime on New Years Day, or that you like the idea of composting on Earth Day, or that you’re going to an AA meeting on March 18th. Wait ‘til October, your words will hold more weight.

Similarly, telling people you’re in love around this time of year sounds about as legit as it did three girlfriends ago on Valentine’s Day. Hang onto your love another month or two. When the crazy heat-waves of August start to melt down your brain cells and your patience, your “love” may evaporate. In order to retain some credibility, you might wanna refrain from singing it out to the world this week.

I would like to dedicate this blog to the individual who wants to “get serious about being bi.” There are way too many of us who are way too serious about our sexual orientation and its social implications. Lighten up toots, bang some chicks this weekend and wear a rainbow flag. But for the love of God, don’t ever get this serious about it.

Seriously.

Sad Songs

2008-06-17T21:19:00.001-04:00

When my old PC died, so did a part of me, this piece of machinery (purchased in late 2003) housed a piece of my heart, a big piece: my music. In June of 2006, I lost over 4,000 songs because my logic board lost all sense of rational and failed, thus rendering my hard-drive inaccessible. Heart breaking. I think I was too devastated at the time to appreciate the humor: my life and computer simultaneously fell apart, they both stopped making sense and both my PC and me were completely useless. I’ll spare you the gory details of my personal issues, but that old box of microchips housed my screen-plays, short stories, and all the music I owned. Most of the things I wrote weren’t worth saving, but the songs were dearly missed.

Last weekend, I was cleaning out some old drawers in my parents’ house and I came across my external hard-drive. At some point, I was responsible enough to back-up some files. And tonight, I uncovered hundreds of songs—not the full library, but a good chunk; and with these tunes come all the memories from those two years, flooding into my ears, and the subsequent waves of emotion are crashing down around me. The Garden State Soundtrack pulls me right back into the summer of 2004. Cat Power and Fiona Apple for the summer of ’05. That same year, I discovered the beauty of Ani DiFranco. I used to listen to her on my walk home from work across town—14th Street, the Garbage swirls like a cyclone, three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m going home… What can I say? I love music. Sweet, sweet music. And so I dedicate this to my former self, a moody bitch who seriously could have benefited from some George Michael and a good ol fashion underpants dance-party. Cheer up younger me!

I don’t care what they think about me and, I don’t care what they do-oo, I don’t care about anything else but caring is creepy. If this is it, please let me know. If this ain’t right, I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more just to be your everything. Open up the heaven in your heart and let me tell it like it is. Don’t be ashamed to let your conscience be your guide. Because this is thriller. Thriller night, I can scare you more than B-b-b-b-benny and the jetsss. Oh but they’re weird and wonderful oh Benny she’s really keen. She’s got electric love, love, love, love crazy love. Wait, they don’t love you like I love you. Wait, they don’t love you like I love you, maps, maps wait—let’s get lost, lost in love and I don’t know much was I thinking about, fell out of touch now I’m back on your side, back on your side baby. It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you. There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do. I bless the rains down in the boondocks. Down in the boondocks. People put me down ‘cause that’s the side of town I was born in. I love her, she loves pissin in a river, watchin it rise; tattoo fingers touch me in the morning. Then just walk away. But I don’t want to lose you now. We’re gonna get through somehow. No more pain, No more pain, no Drama, no more in my life. Take my hand as the sun descends, they can’t hurt you now, can’t hurt you now, can’t hurt you now that I found you, I’m gonna build my whole world around you. So don’t go breakin my heart. I will always love you, will always want you to want me, need you to need a hero. I’m holding out for a hero till the end of the night. You’ve gotta be bad, gotta be bold, gotta be wiser, gotta be hard, gotta be tough, gotta be stronger. You’ve gotta be cool, gotta be calm, gotta stay together. All I know, all I know is love will save the day.

Good times with music. I realize, when I go through my Itunes and have a random sampling of my favorite ones, most of them can be heard on light FM radio. I’m ok with that. God Bless Air Supply. And thank goodness for upbeat music. No wonder my little Japanese computer committed Hara-Kiri (Harry Carey)—it listened to way too many sad songs. And as we know: Sad songs say so much.