I've started a little online business. It's something I've been working on for the past couple week and finally I'm ready to go live. It's a little virtual bakeshop (with very real, non-virtual cakes) on Etsy.com.

Labels: Administrative, career, cooking, food, life decisions, Nerdiness, New York

Labels: life decisions

Yesterday morning, for the first time since college, I woke up in my own bed. My own, real, actual bed--as opposed to the mattress and boxspring combination I've been using in the interim. A bed made of wood and iron that I picked out, paid for, and eagerly anticipated throughout six weeks of backorder until it finally arrived in two boxes and even more pieces courtesy of the super who had actually received it several days earlier (but who had neglected to inform me).

"What is that?" My cousin asked, walking out of the bathroom wrapped in a navy towel and dripping water all over the floor. She was visiting for the weekend and was a little surprised to find me contemplating giant boxes when I should have been getting ready to go out.

"It's my bed," I replied. "I ordered it forever ago and it just arrived." With the help of a paring knife, I sliced into the first box to show her the gold-brushed iron scrolling of the headboard

"It's beautiful!" She agreed, but she looked doubtful. "Is your dad coming to help you put it together?"

I laughed. My dad is the least handy man I know. His version of “fixing something” involves taking the day off to oversee while Jose, the housekeeper’s husband, paints, installs or repairs whatever current project my dad has decided needs paint or installation or repair. On the rare occasions when something must be done right away, it’s usually either my mom or I who does it. It's been this way for as long as I can remember—the earliest example being that Christmas morning when an impatient seven-year-old me pulled a fresh-out-of-the-box NES away from my puzzled dad and quickly figured out which wire went where.

"No," I replied, pushing the boxes through the living room into my library. "I can do it."

The next day, my parents drove into the city to join us for lunch, after which we returned to my apartment.

"Look," I told my dad excitedly, pulling him into the library. "It's my new bed!"

I'd taken the pieces out of the box to get a better look and they now lay on the floor in a bed of Styrofoam chunks and cellophane. My dad admired the ironwork, noting the way that it matched my dining set and the accents on my dresser.

"Are you going to ask Looney to build it?" He asked me, referring to my friend Looney's upcoming visit.

"No," I said. "I'm going to do it alone." My dad sighed and made that face he sometimes makes, "O-kay, if you insist..."

"I insist," I replied with a smile.

After they left, I poured myself a glass of water and sat down on the floor to gauge the task at hand. The instructions were a bit blurry, but they looked easy enough. A screw here. A bolt there. Tighten, et voila! I got to work on the headboard, which I managed to put together. It was fairly straightforward, but took a little bit longer than I expected.

One piece complete, I, in true Alejandra fashion, decided to take a break and stretched out on the couch to watch Brokedown Palace on Oxygen. Two hours later, moved to tears by the film, I went back into the library for phase two of the bed assembly.

As I tightened and sobbed, I wondered whether or not I would be self-less enough to accept life imprisonment in a Bangkok jail so that one of my best friends could go free. The question made my stomach turn a bit so, upon completion of the footboard, I decided to distract myself with something a bit more amusing. Two episodes of Hotel Babylon later (fabulous BBC America show available On Demand), I realized that the sun had set and that I really needed to get a move-on with this bed situation. With only a modicum of difficulty, I next carried the two completed pieces into my bedroom and stripped the mattress of the layers of down and pillows I nestle into each night. I worked the mattress and box spring up onto their sides and then used my pink measuring tape to determine where the bed should be placed.

Now came the hard part, attaching the rails to the bed resulted in multiple bruises and one nasty scratch where an ill-conceived plan to balance the rail on my thigh went awry. Once I got the first rail done, I decided to make myself some dinner while watching yet another episode of Hotel Babylon (I’m telling you, it’s fantastic!).

It was another hour or so before I finished and got everything back into place, but once it was done, the feeling of accomplishment that seemed to flow over me was great. I giggled and jumped up onto my perfectly made bed, reveling in the delicious feeling of having completed it all by myself.

I called my dad and shared the news. “I just finished my bed!” I told him proudly.

He laughed, “really? Alone? Are you sure it’s...safe?”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing.

I looked around the apartment—the painted walls, the restuffed couch, the furniture that I’ve been slowly collecting and purchasing. Everything has bits of me in it. I realized recently that it was right around this time last year that I made the decision to move here. It was a difficult time for me—losing my job, leaving my apartment, saying good-bye to the people that I loved. I felt uncertain and untethered and really rather unhappy with just about everything. But there was one thing that I was sure of, and that was that coming to NY was the right decision.

It’s been one year, two cities, two jobs, and two moves later, but I know that for the first time in a VERY long time, I am exactly where I need to be.

That bed took me hours to build and it wasn’t anywhere near as easy as I thought it would be. I got knocked around a little and distracted a few times (ok, maybe more than a few times). And yes, there are still little bits of Styrofoam floating around the apartment that I have to clean up.

But I did it. And it was all worth it.

Labels: furniture assembly, life decisions

The chart sits on my screen, a web of measured colored boxes set on a field of grid. An ordered elegance that fills me with pride over the design but also makes my stomach churn by what it represents.

“This is great,” my boss says as he leans over my shoulder and glances down at the dotted lines and boxes meant to illustrate a new organizational structure. “It looks kind of like comic book art.” I highlight the teal blue box where my name would have been and type in an italicized “open.” It blinks at me, a pretty Pantone depiction of the decision I’ve just made.

I left my job this week. Barely five months since I started that position and I’ve already moved on to something new.

“I’m about to resign and I think I might throw up,” I typed to Looney the morning I gave my notice. Our weekly staff meeting had just ended and my boss had run out to grab a bagel and coffee. “Want anything?” She asked me cheerfully from my door. I shook my head and focused on the screen. “She offered to buy me a bagel. I’m about to quit and she’s offering me a bagel,” I added.

“I could go for a bagel,” he replied. “What can I say? It’s not personal; it’s just business.”

“Ugh,” I think and open up a chat box with Sara. “I’m freaking out because I’m about to quit and Looney is quoting The Godfather…”

“Ooohhh,” she types. “I know how you feel. It’s the worst, but you just have to do it.”

My boss walks back in, sipping coffee and unwrapping her bagel.

“You had something you wanted to talk about?” She asks me.

“Um, yes,” I barely squawk out. “Actually, can we talk in private?” We enter an empty office and close the door. Suddenly her demeanor changes and she leans towards me, her voice thick with concern, “Alejandra, are you OK?”

I catch my reflection in the window and realize how I look: jittery, pale, I hadn’t slept much the night before.

“Oh, I’m fine, fine,” I quickly reassure her. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that…”

I take a deep breath and begin to stumble somewhat coherently through the speech that I’d rehearsed over and over again in my head: “Well, it's not easy to say…I’m leaving…at the end of the month…Really wasn’t looking for anything…this just kind of fell into my lap. …I really do love it here…I just can’t pass this up, though…it’s kind of my dream…”

“Oh my gosh! Of course,” she says. “This is so exciting. Of course, we’ll miss you, but this sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you.”

Her support instantly puts me at ease. Together, we tell her boss, the rest of the staff. The anxiety disappears and excitement floods in.

And just like that, I know that I’m ready.

Labels: career, life decisions

The e-mail came in around mid-day. “Just driving thru London and listening to Volcano. Thought of you…”

It was my favorite song while I was with him. We listened to it over and over and again while spending lazy, boozy days in bed. At times, the lyrics felt uncomfortably familiar. Damien Rice's moody voice a constant reminder of the 14 years that separated us. It only bothered me because it bothered him. He’d go back and forth, joking that I was more mature than he, but then noting that in just 4 years he’d be turning 40. “Fourty…” he’d repeat, spitting out the word like a piece of sour candy. I’d stay silent and stroke the back of his head, watching him as he wrapped his mind around that reality.

The irony is that he was such a boy. It’s what pulled me towards him; it’s what made me stay. Tall, clever, bookish, and handsome; ours was part-time relationship built on excess. He was never my boyfriend—he was just the one I thought about at night, the one I spent my weekends with. He was selfish, though. Arrogant too. He talked too much and listened little, but it was the way he looked at me that made it OK. He was fascinated by me. Continuously impressed by the way that I lobbed his clever comments right back at him. One morning, as I stood in the kitchen making breakfast in his t-shirt he looked at me from the bed.

“What?” I asked, noticing the bemused smile on his face. “You’re perfect,” he said, his accent drawing out the syllables. “What are you doing with an old man like me?”

“I’m making you tea,” I said as I poured water into the kettle.

He drank and smoked and partied too much. So much that it was a problem. He was like a volcano waiting to erupt. Slurred phone calls, cancelled dates, days when he went missing. I cried a few times. I hated that I’d let him get to me. And so I put up a wall, and slowly got over him.

He moved back to London. He got help for the drinking. The messages started again, but they were different. Friendly, but stilted. I just wasn’t sure what to make of it. I didn’t really want him as a friend, and I’d already shut down the other part.

“Come to London,” he asked me. “I’ll take care of everything…”

Three times he's offered over the course of the past year or so. Three times I've refused—the most recent being a few days ago.

It’s an offer that few would turn down. A trip abroad, to a city I’ve always loved, with a man I once thought I did. But I can never bring myself to accept.

When I got his message today, I searched for the song in my library and listened to it a few times. Memories and feelings rushed back like a wave. Strange how bad ideas can sometimes seem less so when you feel a little bit lonely, a little bit sad…

“I still love that song,” I finally replied. And then I wondered: and him?


The song.

Labels: life decisions, memories, music

I've been trying to go back and tie up all my loose blog ends by completing and posting those entries that I'd left unfinished and stuck in draft mode. This is one that I started back in the Fall, and have only just now completed.

"Matching Christmas sweaters..."

Vanessa and I were sharing plates of homemade pasta at a little Italian restaurant near her office. She was temping and I had yet to start my job, so we took our time--dipping bread in peppery olive oil, sipping Chianti. The place was a rare find among the generic Lexington Avenue sandwich shops and make-your-own salad places. It's the kind of NY Italian you miss when you're far from home: checkered tablecloths, yellowing photographs of Sofia Loren, and the Best of Dean Martin swelling out over the loudspeakers.

We had been talking about our impressions regarding marriage. Neither one of us is ready to "go there" just yet; we each have a list of things that we'd like to accomplish first, and an idea of who we'd like to be as women before we're ready. Unlike those who rush about like the White Rabbit, afraid that they'll miss something, we're willing to take our time. This does not, however, preclude our willingness to talk about it. I was about to be a bridesmaid for the first time, and we were trying to figure out what exactly that thing is that makes two people say: "Yeah, it's you. It will always be you."

"I'm telling you...matching Christmas sweaters," Vanessa repeated. "That's what I think of when I think of marriage. Fuzzy yarn reindeer with little pom-pom noses. Ugh."

I laughed. "You guys will never wear matching Christmas sweaters. You know that... For me, it's more like always having someone to eat breakfast with on Sundays. You know, lingering over coffee and swapping sections of The New York Times."

Her face brightened and she nodded, "yeah, I do love Sunday breakfast with him."

The conversation drifted elsewhere, but later that afternoon I started thinking about what we'd said. I realized that the things we had each described had absolutely nothing to do with marriage itself. In fact, they were little more than decontextualized images symbolizing our respective fears and desires when it comes to relationships in general.

For Vanessa, it's the loss of individuality; her fear of one day not being able to recognize a self apart from her relationship. For me, it's the yearning for constancy; a desire to finally have the opportunity to build and grow a connection with one person. We both know and understand that marriage is much more than just the wedding, and certainly more than Sunday papers and--God forbid--matching Christmas sweaters, but it's still difficult to separate these ideas from the reality we both understand lies beneath.




*Come on now...what's the quote from?

Labels: conversations, friends, life decisions

My favorite cousin Beri is getting married. I found out—of all ways—through a cryptic MySpace comment, which she left on my wall early this morning. I wasn’t sure I’d understood it correctly, so I asked her.

“Yup,” she confirmed with a laugh. “Crazy, huh?”

In his most recent post, my blog friend Matt from Deglazed described a feeling of acute incredulity in a way that was so perfect it’s not even worth improving. He wrote:

"What I was seeing made so little sense to me that I just couldn’t comprehend it at first. Imagine if one day you woke up, and your best friend was over at your house, and he was hovering 6 inches off the floor, acting as if it were a totally normal phenomenon. Surely for a second you would be flabbergasted. I mean, this is just plain NOT POSSIBLE… right?"

This is exactly how I felt when I heard her news.

Only a year and three days older than me, Beri is probably the family member (outside of my immediate family) with whom I am closest. Even though she has lived in Puerto Rico her whole life, we’ve always managed to keep in touch through long e-mails, occasional postcards, and fairly regular phone calls. I usually visit the island about once or twice a year, during which we two are inseparable, spending days lounging by the pool and dancing late into the night.

In the fall of '05, she came to visit me in DC for a few days. She fell in love with the city and the life I led—I was the only one in my entire family that had moved away from home and into her own apartment. She decided that she would like to move to DC also, and so together we started making plans. The calls dwindled down though, and by Christmas I knew something was up.

“I met someone,” she told me, barely able to contain her giggles.

I shared her excitement, but inside I knew what that meant. I’d been losing friends to relationships at an alarming rate and so I quietly accepted the change that was about to come.

That spring, when I traveled to San Juan for a week, the difference was palpable. I spent most of my vacation reading by the pool in my hotel or walking along the beach with the company of my iPod. She and her boyfriend took me to dinner one evening, and as they drove me back to my hotel, she turned to me and said, “the bar in your hotel is really cool…you should go.” I asked her if she’d like to join, but she replied with an apologetic look: “I think we’re just going to bed…” I checked out the bar, which did, in fact, look “really cool,” but I’ve never been the type to go to a bar alone and ended up going back to my room where I spent the night smoking and writing on my balcony.

The night before I returned to DC, we gathered at an older cousin’s house. With the exception of my little brother, who was in Kuwait at the time, the entire family was there. It was then that I noticed the way that time had seemingly fast-forwarded since my last visit. All around me, my now-married cousins huddled with their spouses, bouncing babies on their laps or discussing mortgages and investment properties. Beri, who’d once been my partner in crime in these situations, was now—with serious boyfriend in tow—officially welcome at the married table. I hovered uncomfortably, not quite sure where I fit in. Much too old to play with the children, but not quite at the level of the “married ones,” I settled near the bar, sipping wine from my cousin’s collection and chatting with all who asked about my “exciting” life in the city. I felt like a novelty: I was the "independent career girl," the “cousin from New York.”

As anyone from an “ethnic” background would probably understand, there is something a little uncomfortable about going back to your native land. Even a place like Puerto Rico, which is growing more and more Americanized each day, can still feel like a world away. Their way of life is slower and quieter. The accent lilts like the waves, and though I can pick it up quite easily, it seems as if my slang is always just a little bit off—my pace is just a little bit too fast.

Near the end of the night, Abu (short for Abuela), my 90-year-old grandmother and reigning matriarch of the family stood to say a few words. As she spoke, I watched the great grandchildren playing on the floor and looked around at my uncles and cousins. Everyone had a hand to hold or a body to lean against. They were all neatly divided into twos. As I leaned against the cool stucco wall of my cousin’s house, the space beside me felt noticeably empty. In my heart, I’ve always felt a little bit different than the rest of my family. It’s the product of growing up with a different culture and language. But this night, for the first time, it was more than just a feeling.

The choices that I’ve made set me apart from my cousins. I couldn’t imagine getting married right now. And yet, I can't help but feel a bit of a heart-tug as I watch my cousins and many of my friends start to pair off. Their lives seem tidy and ordered, while I exist in what feels like a state of constant entropy, haphazardly barrelling towards a goal that I've really only half-defined. Growing up, Beri was the cousin that was most like me. I took comfort in that, recognizing bits of myself in this family that could sometimes feel so alien. For a long time we lived separate, but parallel lives, but now she has taken off in a very different direction. I know that in a few years time I will have caught up, but I also realize that those dreams and plans we made with each other are probably not going to happen now.

*****

I should note that despite my personal melodrama, I'm still very excited for her and cannot wait to watch her walk down the aisle. I suspect that I will shed a few tears, drink lots of champagne, and--given the lack of competition--add another notch to my bouquet-catching belt (I was 3 for 3 last year).

Labels: life decisions, My Crazy Family

The last time I felt like this I threw myself into my cooking. I woke up my roommates with thick slices of French toast covered in homemade fruit compotes and fresh muffins still warm from the oven. I skipped class to plan and shop for elaborate dinner parties. I organized the first of our swanky evenings—a classy wine, cheese, and tapas party that took three days of cooking and preparation, and completely redefined our meaning of the term college party. Looney and I were reminiscing about this party last night and he started laughing when I reminded him about it. "Oh yeah," he said. "That was a great party...I hadn't developed a taste for wine yest so spent the whole night drinking whiskey and cheese..."

Happy Homemaker became the default away message on my AIM profile while I spent hours buzzing around the kitchen experimenting with marinades and pie crusts. That was the year of my first Passover chicken, the one that was so tender at the bone that it practically disintegrated before we made it through the four questions. In the spring, armed with a French-English dictionary and a stack of cookbooks from the library, I set about on a month-long quest to bake the perfect Proustian Madeleine. My roommates would come home to tray after tray of fluffy lemon biscuits. "You're making me fat," one of them always used to say as she tried my latest experiment. Provisions Too, the gourmet market on the GW campus became a daily stop. I quickly worked my way through my meal points on ingredients like white truffle butter, porcini mushrooms, and saffron threads.

Looking back at it now, I realize that it was my way of regaining control over a situation that I found overwhelming. It wasn't about the food--I rarely even had a chance to eat the things I made--it was about the process. I’d had my heart broken for the first time and was disillusioned with my course of study. Inside I felt lonely and adrift, but all those feelings melted away once I stepped into the kitchen. Cast iron skillet in hand I could do anything. My power was limited only by my imagination (sort of a culinary Green Lantern). It was the perfect therapy for someone who refused it in its conventional forms. I made decisions in the kitchen: the Madeleines helped me realize that it was literature and not politics that I wanted to pursue, and I opted to take a semester off and attend culinary school in Italy instead of a traditional study abroad program. I set aside my textbooks and devoured food memoirs by Ruth Reichl and Jeffrey Steingarten noting the parallels—I wasn’t the only one who recognized how sadness has a way of dying in the kitchen.

I’ve started again. Only this time, in addition to cooking, I’ve started coding with abandon. I’ve literally spent hours hand-coding a new template for this blog to mark the new chapter in my life. I researched ways to circumvent the strict default templates of MySpace to create a great new profile. I’m also working on a personal page to highlight some of my writing and have been thinking about designs for BFF Vanessa who wants a page to showcase her artwork. Just like in the kitchen, I’m limited only by my imagination. Yes, some things require more technique than I am currently in possession of, but I refuse to let that stop me—I just find a way to teach myself.

I know that this is clearly a control thing. I’m sad and there is no real way for me to change that. I have to live it. If there were a code that would make me happy, I would write it. If there were I recipe, I would follow it. As it is, I have no power over the moments of doubt…the sharp pangs of sadness…the uncertainty of what’s to come. So I focus on what I can. I focus on the things that I can do. And hopefully, while I immerse myself in those things, the rest will work itself out.

Labels: cooking, life decisions, Nerdiness

If you read this blog with any regularity, you probably have noticed that Ive beenfor lack of a better phrasemissing in action for the past month or so. Sure, Ive dropped in with a post here and there, but most of the time I feel like Ive lost my steam. Whereas once I was bursting with ideas and could dash out a post or two on a daily basis, Ive become increasingly blocked. The irony is that I feel like I have more ideas than ever before. I have so many things I want to write about, but theyre all sort of mixed up in my head. At present, I can count about a dozen or so half-written posts that I started, but was not quite able to finish.

The tone of the blog has also evolved significantly. My earliest posts consisted mostly of snarky observations, overheard conversations, and Photoshopped celebrities. As the months have gone by, however, the posts have gotten longer and more introspective. I find myself spending hourssometimes even daysworking and reworking an entry. This method has resulted in better writing, but it also ups the pressure. Im no longer satisfied with those quick little entries. Ive become obsessed with finding the storythe meaning within.

My inability to achieve clarity within my writing is really reflective of the unclear state of my life right now. Things have pretty much been turned upside down and over again. So many things have happened over the course of the past two months: my brother came back from war; one of my best friends got married; I left my job; I turned down a better one; I decided to give up my apartment, leave DC, and move back home to NJ; and most recently, someone very, very important to me moved very, very far away.

Its been 8 weeks of some of the highest highs and lowest lows that Ive ever experiencedand its not over yet. In fact, from where Im sitting, things are still uncomfortably cloudy. There are many things that I still need to figure out and even more things that I need to get done. But I have faith that everything will work itself out eventuallyand I know

Labels: blogging, life decisions

I went to the Nats game last night with my friend and a colleague of his. It was kind of a quiet game, and struck me by how different it felt from the Mets home game I went to just a week ago. The already sparse crowd had thinned out quite a bit and the cheers were pretty weak. It seemed like the handful of Braves fans had significantly more enthusiasm than the hometown crowd. It felt a little bit sad…a little bit boring. I know it's unfair to judge a city by its interest in a young team's Monday night game, but the comparison was inevitable. At one point in the sixth inning, I finally turned to my friend and said, "You know, this could potentially be my very last Nats game." He nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the field for a second. "Mine too," he said.

We're both leaving town soon. He's headed for an island on the other side of the world. I'm heading for an island a little bit closer (and with some of the best baseball fans in the world).

So this is my secret: I've decided to leave DC; I'm going back home.

There are a lot of reasons why and a lot of plans I want to share, but that's for a future post. For now I just want to share this:

The upcoming move has me thinking about firsts and lasts a lot lately. A first is always quick to strike you. It's new and exciting and so very obvious. A couple weeks ago I took a shower for the first time in my friend's apartment. He was standing at the mirror shaving and caught my eye when I passed behind him. He turned a little and gave me an odd smile.

"What?" I asked as I stood in his hallway, wet hair falling past my shoulders.

"Nothing," he said. "I just realized I've never seen you wet before…"

And even though he's one of the people around whom I feel most comfortable and unselfconscious, I remember suddenly feeling more naked and raw than I'd felt in a while. I rewrapped the towel around me and cracked a joke to deflect the attention. But it surprised me how no matter how long you've known someone or how much time you spend with him, the firsts will always have a way of jumping out at you like that. That first kiss that made you so nervous you lost your balance. The antsy excitement of a first day at work. The first time you hear a song you know will become a favorite...

But the lasts are different. The lasts rarely make themselves known. It usually isn't until long after the fact that you realize that what happened will never happen again. Last moments: kisses, dances, conversations, good-byes. They slip by unnoticed until it's too late to go back and remember.

So this time I'm determined to not let that happen. I want to live every moment of this. I know that at times it will be hard, but I really want to do it right. I'm not glossing over anything. I want to say a proper good-bye to the city that I've loved for the past five years. Because even though I'm leaving, I want to always carry it with me [carry it in my heart].

Labels: life decisions

I haven't been able to stop thinking about my conversation with BFF Matt the other night. He was right about a lot of things. I don’t really know what I want to do yet. And the fear comes from the fact that I'm worried I'll make the wrong decision. I want time. I want time to just sit and think and really figure out what I want to do and where I want to live. Right now I feel like I’m caught in a trap. Everything continues to flow around me: decisions need to be made, bills need to be paid, and appointments need to be kept. But all I want to do is raise my arms up in the air and freeze everything. I want stillness. I want silence. I want time to think.

Several months ago I read an amazing book by Nicholson Baker called The Fermata. It’s the story of a man who has the power to slow the world down to the point where it’s almost frozen. In Italian, fermata means “the stillness.” In music, the word refers to the sustaining of a note, chord, or rest for longer than indicated. In the book, the man refers to those moments as “the fold” and uses his power to fulfill many of his sexual fantasies. I, however, would use it differently. I would use it to buy myself the time and space that I need to figure out what I want.

I guess that’s why going home is suddenly so appealing. It would be like stepping into the fold. I’d no longer have to worry about rent or going to work (at least not for a little while). There would be no broken fuses, no utility bills, no dishes to wash. I’d have a housekeeper (and actual one--I don't mean my mom) and free cable. I’d get to plan and make elaborate meals in my parents’ big, clean kitchen, and even better, I’d have someone to talk to while I ate. It would, of course, be a temporary thing. My nature would never allow me to loaf around for longer than a month or two. I’d get frustrated with living in the suburbs and not having access to the city. I’d miss having my own place, making my own rules, living my own life.

But the thought is tempting. This could allow me the opportunity to pursue my dream of being a full-time freelance writer. Or I could try to find editorial jobs with a magazine or literary agency. I know that I want to write, but that’s a scary thing to want. There are no guarantees and it’s a job that’s based almost entirely on my creativity and ability. I’ll either produce or I won’t. I’ll get rejected at least a couple dozen times before selling a story. And if I fail, I’ll have nobody to blame but myself.

Labels: life decisions

I had leftover chinese food last night with a glass of wine and a few stale cigarettes. Cruel Intentions was on and I sort of half-watched. It’s one of those movies that I really can’t stand, but that I leave on for the soundtrack. There isn’t a single song on it that I don’t love. It reminded me of BFF Matt who always used to talk about how much he loved the movie, so I called him.

“What’s not to love about it? Beautiful people, money, sex, scandal…” he said when I told him what I was watching.

“The complete absence of a believable plot. Unrealistic dialogue. Shallow characterization. And most notably obnoxious…Reese Witherspoon. Ugh.”

“Whatever. So... what’s going on?” he asked. “I know you didn’t just call to talk about the movie.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” I said, my voice already starting to get a bit weepy.

“I know,” he said. “Me too…”

He told me about his day. The discipline problems he’d been having with one of his students. His high for the day had been the hour and fifteen minutes of good behavior that he managed to coax out of this little boy. “I don’t know if they’re learning anything,” he said, “but at least I got that…”

He sounded tired. His voice is different now—deflated, a little sad. It’s not the Matt I used to talk to. We’ll still laugh and joke around, but there is something missing and it hurts me to hear it. Of course, I can only imagine what he feels when he hears me. It was the third phone call in a row where I’d broken down into tears.

I said good-bye to Matt five months ago in what could have been a scene straight out of a movie. He ran with me to catch the last bus out of Gallery Place. It was dark at the bus stop and no one else was around. He hugged me tighter than he ever had. He’d handed me a bag with a gift he’d gotten me and the plant he’d let me adopt. When we stepped away there were tears in our eyes. I remember looking back at him as the bus pulled out, watching him get smaller and smaller, further and further away. He sent me a text from the airport the next morning. I was at work wishing that I’d taken the day off and gone with him. “I miss you already,” it said.

Now I’m getting ready to say good-bye to another friend, and it feels even harder this time. It’s still a few weeks away, but the reality is just starting to hit me. I’m scared, I’m sad, and I have a million questions that I’m afraid to ask. I want to spend every last second that I can with him, but I’m holding back. I know I’m not the only one he’s leaving behind. I know he’s got a life apart from me. But still…it’s hard letting go. And it’s the reason why I needed to hear Matt's voice. He knows what I'm going through and he knows how to calm me down.

Matt cheered me up a bit by talking about my upcoming visit to Vegas. It’s a trip that as of yet exists only in fantasy since he doesn’t really have much time and I don’t really have much money. But we keep talking about it anyway.

“It might be selfish of me,” he said. “But I think I’d rather have you visit me here than in the Bay…it’s boring, but I feel like this way we can spend most of the time together and not waste it sightseeing.”

“It’s not selfish,” I told him. “I totally understand…all I really want is you, a bottle of wine, and time…”

So we daydreamed about cuddling up on the couch and talking about nothing.

“Why is it so hard all of the sudden?” I asked him. “I just don’t want to do it anymore sometimes. I love my freedom and my independence, but there are so many days when all I want is to just pack up, go home, and let my parents take care of me.”

“Me too,” he said. “I think it’s because we’re not really happy. We can’t really afford the life we want. We don’t really know what we want to do yet…”

We talked for a while longer, but he had papers to grade so we said good-night. The movie ended, I finished my wine, and dragged myself over to my bed. But I couldn't really sleep. I had too much in my head...

Labels: BFF Matt, life decisions

“Don’t move,” she says. Her brown eyes darken as she studies the lines of my face. I shift slightly on my side and focus on the shadows behind her head. Portishead vamps softly in the background. Her pencil strokes and scratches along the page.

It’s easy to sit still these days. There’s an old movie reel in my mind, flickering through scene by scene: The click of heels. A remembered kiss. A broken glass. The scent of clean laundry. The back of his neck. Dishes…dishes…must do dishes. How many cigarettes do I have left? Why did I have to say that…?

I can feel my expression change with each thought. Lips part, muscles stretch into a smile, a slight blush, a frown. I think about something and my eyes start to well. I quickly blink it away wondering if she noticed.

My best friend was here for the weekend. She’s leaving in an hour but wanted to sketch me first. This trip was something we both needed—time together where we could just be—sit in silence, understanding each other, no explanations.

And yet, it wasn’t easy. It’s never easy with us. We’ve been living in our heads since we were girls—sitting on the sidelines, crafting ideal lives from things we’d read in novels, seen in movies, heard in songs… We thought—think—of ourselves as artists. It’s our justification for why we’re just a little bit different, a little bit more confused than the rest…

I’ve always thought of her as my other half: a little quieter, a little more practical, a little less impulsive. In high school, she and I used to call each other “IG.” It was short for Ideal Guy, and it came from the idea that we each pictured our ideal mates as male versions of each other. She was my IG and I was hers.

I got mad at her this morning as we walked down the street to get brunch. You see, she met the love of her life four years ago. Sara and I were with her that night, and from the beginning she fought it. For months she pushed him away and questioned her feelings, too scared to admit that this person was really the one for her. Until she realized that he was…I still remember the night she called me and said excitedly, “He’s the IG, Ale…I found him…”

But she’s unsure again. Restless. It’s terrifying meeting the love of your life when you’re only 18. She explains to me that even though she knows she’s going to spend the rest of her life with him, she’s scared. She’s worried that she may have missed out on something. “I never had the chance to be like you…to just be free…you can date anyone you want, do whatever you want. You have so much fun. Your whole life isn’t already decided…”

I felt my face grow warm as she said this. Something ached inside and my voice cracked as I spoke: “What you two have is the one thing that I want more than anything in this world. I would trade all of it—all of it—for just a little bit of that.”

As the words came out, I realized just how true they were. I’ve never had an anniversary. I never had someone to come home to. No one has ever been in love with me. My longest “real” relationship was just under five months and that was nearly four years ago.

“I’m tired,” I told her. “I’m tired of disappointments. It chips away at you… You give a little bit of yourself each time until it just starts to feel like nothing or no one will ever be able to fill that hole. I may have a lot of great stories, but it really doesn’t add up to much in the end.”

She thought for a moment and said, “Yes, but you only say that because you don’t know what it’s like to have always been in a relationship”

“And you say that because you don’t know what it’s like to have never been in one…”

We were silent for a while, each thinking about the other’s situation. Each realizing that we would never fully comprehend. I know she’s in pain. I know she’s scared. But it’s still hard for me to really understand what she is feeling. It felt like we were looking at each other from opposite sides of the mirror.

“I just think that you’re one of the lucky ones,” I said finally. “What you guys have is so rare and so beautiful…I just don’t want you two to risk it for something that I know from experience isn’t worth it…”

We sat in silence for most of the meal. I watched people walk by, sipped my tea, and thought.

“It’ll all work out,” one of us said at one point. We nodded, but a mood had set. We stayed mostly quiet as we paid the bill and walked back up to my apartment.

__________

“Can I see it?” I ask her when she finally puts her pencil down. My neck is stiff from holding the pose for so long. She hands me the sketch book and I study it for a moment. A pair of large dark eyes stare back at me from the paper.

“It doesn’t really look very much like me,” I tell her after a couple seconds.

“Yes it does,” she says. "You just can’t tell because it’s of you.”

I look at the sketch again. I recognize bits and pieces, but as hard as I try, I just can’t see what she sees…

Labels: dating, friends, life decisions

This started out as an e-mail to a new friend (you know who you are) but it gradually turned into something else. I started writing this on Saturday but wanted to wait until all that cat racket blew over before posting…

I’m in New Jersey today sitting at the kitchen table and drinking tea like I’ve done hundreds of times before. It’s weird how something so safe and familiar can at the same time seem so strange and foreign. I visit all the time…almost once a month, but it’s always odd being “home” after not living here for so long. Five years. Five years since I thought of this house and this zip code and this phone number as home. Now it’s my parents’ house. Like hearing a popular song playing in another room—you know the lyrics, you know the melody, but it’s too far away to really enjoy…

Something just seems …off…

I have a brother at war. Actually, I don’t know why I said that like that…like it’s 1942 and I’m the oldest in a family of 12. We’re the only two. Since he left, my house has become an homage to Gab—yellow ribbons, e-mail print outs, pictures everywhere. My mom even keeps a yellow candle burning for him—you know the kind. The tall yellow pillar in a glass holder. You get them in the Goya aisle at the supermarket, or, if you live in a city, at the corner bodega. The mirror in my room—what was once my room—is covered with his face: his high school graduation picture, he and his girlfriend, baby photos. I had to move them aside to check my lipstick. Am I jealous…a little bit. Mostly I just miss him. At church tomorrow they’ll ask about him. “How’s your brother? I’ve been praying for him…” I’ll smile and nod and say that I got a MySpace message from him not too long ago and he’s doing well, looks great (if a bit sandy). I’ll say that his ship left Kuwait last month and that he’ll be home (God willing) in mid-August. Then (as an afterthought) they’ll add “…and how are things in DC? Wonderful, I’m sure. You’re always wonderful.” They smile, answer themselves, and move on. Yup, wonderful. Hunky Dory. (Churches thrive on clichés)

Truth is that things are not wonderful. They’re not even great. I’ve mentioned before that I feel a little lost these days. A little unsure. I feel like the shutdown scene in A Space Odyssey when HAL goes “I can feel it…I’m losing my mind…I’m a…fraid.” It’s not that I’m always sad, because I’m not. I’m still (mostly) the same me—the laugh, the sarcasm, the optimism—it’s all still there, but there’s something different at the core. Something is missing. Something aches.

I took the train on Friday morning. I rode up with a friend who was also headed home for the weekend. He slept most of the way while I looked at the scenery and listened to Simon & Garfunkel’s America over and over again. It’s my favorite travel song. Even though he was asleep, I was glad he was there…I didn’t want to have to sit next to a stranger. The comfortable silence of a friend is a thousand times better than the chatter of a stranger. The storm in my head started to fade a little as I watched the trees and towns roll by. It was a tangible escape. I felt a little lighter when I got out in New Jersey. I think it was the first time I was actually happy to be in Newark…

Moe picked me up from the train station in her new car. She was a few minutes late so I sat on a plant holder and lit a cigarette while I waited. A man who was missing several teeth came up to me and asked to bum one. I lit it for him. He gave me a toothless smile and asked me if I was a stewardess. “I don’t think they’re called that anymore,” I thought as I shook my head. “My wife was a stewardess,” he continued. “She was pretty like you. Beautiful eyes. Gone 13 years now…” He walked away before I could respond. I don’t know what I would have said if he’d stayed.

Last night around 11 I went outside for a cigarette. My dad was on the air. My mom was on her computer. I stepped out onto the back porch and leaned against the rail. It was pitch black, save for a few fireflies. I realized I’d forgotten what silence sounds like. Living on Connecticut Avenue, I’ve grown accustomed to the cars rolling by, people shouting on the streets, the loud rattle of the window unit. This was different. This was quiet like I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was good to only hear myself for a while.


___________________

I’ve been contemplating leaving Washington. It’s the first time that I’ve really thought about it seriously. In the past it was always an “I’ll eventually end up in NY” kind of thing. But I’m starting to wonder if I’m done with DC. Most of my friends have left. I’m not exactly in love with my job. And there is just something about NY that I miss. Walking along the water in the City on Saturday afternoon I realized that I’d forgotten how amazing it all is—so much bigger than this city will ever be. The buildings are taller. The streets are wider. It’s just so incredible. It made me wonder why I lived here and not there. I was hit with a nagging sense of dissatisfaction. To be fair, however, when my train rolled back into Washington today, the sight of the Monument reminded me that I love this city too.

In the car this morning, my dad, who knows how I've been feeling, said to me, "If there are things that aren't working you just need to try something else." I know I’m not really ready to make any drastic decisions just yet, but the wheels are definitely starting to turn…I have to make some changes. I just haven't decided which yet...

Labels: life decisions, New Jersey

I need advice, readers. I'm thinking of finding a new home for my cat...

I've had Anais for exactly one year this month. I got her last summer in a bit of a whim (caprice is one of my specialties). I was bored and a bit lonely and spent way too much time lurking around Craigslist. I think I saw a movie or something with a cute black cat in it and thought "Oh, I want one!" So get one I did.

I answered an ad from a girl who had a black kitten to give away and a couple weeks later she was mine. I fretted over what to name her for several days. Originally, I wanted a male kitty (cause I like boys so much better) and wanted to name him Giovedi (Thursday in Italian), Gio for short... But since the kitten I got was female I went with Anais, after Anais Nin, one of my favorite writers (she's mostly known for her erotica and diaries...very sexy).

She's a sweet girl (sometimes) and spends most of her time sleeping on a pile of laundry in my closet or hiding in my bathtub. When I have company over she usually disappears, unless said company is male. Like me, she loves boys. But while I tend to rely on my wit and strategically low-cut tops, she opts for a much less subtle brand of seduction involving sluttish writhing and lapdances.

She sounds charming, yes...but I'm tired of her. I'm tired of having to wash everything in my apartment a thousand times because she rolls all over everything with cat hair; I'm tired of the constant sneezing because as it turns out, I'm a little bit allergic; I don't like that my arms are covered in scratches and that my 550 thread count sheets are all totally destroyed from her constant clawing (like me, she enjoys luxury); I don't want to have to worry about who will feed her (although Sara has been wonderful about that) when I take a weekend trip home to NJ or a longer trip to PR. Is it selfish of me? Yes. But I'm 23 and still trying to figure out what I want from life. This is the time for me to be a little selfish... Part of me feels like I'm giving up, but part of me feels like I'm making the right choice.

I guess in my head I've already decided, even though my heart hasn't caught up yet and the thought makes me a little sad...a little wistful. I'm going to miss her warm little body curled up between my legs at night while I sleep or watch tv. I'm going to miss the cute way that she jumps in and out of the grocery bags when I get home from Whole Foods. Or how she howls and jumps excitedly when I take the prosciutto out of the fridge (I told you...she enjoys luxury). She's a sweet, beautiful cat (just look at those eyes!), but I just don't think I'm the best owner for her.

So now I have to find the person who is...

Labels: life decisions