The Not-So-Secret Diary of a Bad Luck Girl

Ah, it seems like just yesterday that MB and I were having our first date at the Museum of Sex. How many people can say they met their significant others while watching porn with a roomful of strangers and squeezing fake boobs? Not many, that’s for sure.

A lot has changed this past year, from starting library school, to moving, to switching jobs. It’s kind of weird how for two years everything was pretty static, and then all of a sudden, a million things. I don’t know if it has to do with the fact that it’s the year of the rat, and I’m a rat? Who knows. It could be I was just finally ready for all of those changes, and unconsciously moved them along. A bit of luck doesn’t hurt either.

I’ve also tried to be more introspective these past several months, being aware of behaviors that come out because of past relationships, understanding why I’m acting in certain ways, and how to get past it. For instance, being jealous. Even when there’s no reason to be suspicious, I get jealous of random people. I try to remind myself that this is based on fear – fear of not being good enough, for of not measuring up, and ultimately fear of abandonment.

Then this leads to the whole self-esteem issue. For me it’s more than just telling myself, “You’re great!” but also to stop comparing myself to other people. I didn’t realize I did that constantly, which is understandable since I grew up that way, my mother constantly comparing me to the children of her various friends.

That leads to the unconditional love thing. I think it’s rare to find someone who grew up with parents who loved them unconditionally. For me, at least with my mother, I was either in favor or out of favor – if I behaved “correctly,” then I received affection. If I behaved “incorrectly” – ie, was impatient, had an “attitude,” talked back, was disobedient – I got alternately yelled at and the cold shoulder.

So I’ve tried to behave “correctly” in my relationships, and beat myself up when I don’t, and when I feel I’ve been behaving the right way and am either accused (my read, sometimes they’re just asking) of being annoyed or not doing the right thing, I flip out, feeling incredibly wronged. Sometimes this was substantiated, but sometimes it’s nothing, and I have difficulty distinguishing the two.

Luckily MB is very open and we talk about this stuff pretty regularly. In fact our talks help me crystallize my thoughts. Most recently it helped me realize that MB loves me unconditionally, and that it’s human for me to freak out once in a while, but that he doesn’t have to take it and is always sure to ask me what’s really going on.

Of course loving unconditionally doesn’t mean being a doormat, like the following from this article says:

You might also be worried that loving unconditionally would turn you into a doormat, to be used by everyone around you. But loving people unconditionally does not mean you have the responsibility to give them everything they want. That would just be indulgent and irresponsible. When we love people unconditionally, we accept them as they are and contribute to their happiness as wisely as we can. That does not imply that we respond to their every demand.

The article also mentions that unconditional love involves asking, How does this person feel? rather than, How does he/she make me feel? So she’s freaking out – do I think, Well fuck her, I’ve been nice, or should I think, Why is she freaking out? What’s going on? and then asking about it. It’s not, Oh, it’s okay, she can freak out and lash out at me for no reason, because I love her. Or as the article puts it, “Real Love is ‘I care how you feel.’ Conditional love is ‘I like how you make me feel.’”

Loving unconditionally also means loving yourself that way, forgiving yourself for small mistakes and listening to your own needs.

This thinking has begun to spill into other parts of my life as well. For instance, the other night I was climbing up the very packed subway stairs. It was rush hour and there’s just one staircase at my stop. So we were very slowly squeezing on. This woman was behind me, and as we got to the stairs, she was suddenly next to me, and trying to push in front. I thought, Either I can let her go and be annoyed, or I can stand my ground. I stood my ground, easing my way in front of her to block her way.

“What are you doing?” she suddenly barked. “I was next to you and you’re pushing me.”

“No,” I said. “You were trying to push in front of me.”

Now that she was behind me, she took the opportunity to hit me in the leg with her briefcase (which I didn’t realize till later). “Bitch,” she snarled.

And surprisingly the word just bounced right off. I glanced back at her with a half smile. “Whatever!” I said, which probably annoyed her more.

It’s been a good year.

And lounging with the morning off.

First off, I wasn’t home for more than an hour last night before I got two mosquito bites. Wtf? Where do they come from? Don’t the buggers realize it’s fall?

Last week I tried returning the too-small, too-funeral-y dress to the little boutique on Avenue B. I knew there was a chance they’d only do store credit, but that was fine by me. What I wasn’t expecting was that they only did exchanges, and I’d pretty much have to pick the new item right then and there.

Of course I wanted to get something of the same value, preferably two on sale items. But there was nothing I loved. The owner of the store was there and she helped me again with choices. I was trying on a couple of things when she called out, “How about that gray sweater dress on the mannequin?” I’ve never worn a sweater dress and was hesitant, but said sure why not.

It was totally adorable, very soft and warm. “It’s cashmere,” the owner said, and she the other girl there agreed that it looked cute on me (they were not vocal about the other things I had tried on).

I agreed. The only problem? It was another $100.

Who goes to return a $190 dress to come back with a $300 dress? Me, that’s who.

I didn’t feel any buyer’s remorse, funnily enough, I guess because I really love the dress and can picture myself wearing it often.

We left for DC Saturday afternoon, and it was pretty much a comedy of errors. We rushed out right before to go to the post office, and when we came back, I was dripping with sweat and changed my whole outfit. Okay, already exhausted. It was raining and disgusting out, but we managed to snag a cab, but as we were walking into the station, MB held up his hands and said, “Oh no!”

“What?” I said.

“My suit!” he cried. He had managed to remember all the musical stuff he wanted to practice – travel guitar, recorder, books – but forgot his suit for the wedding.

We went into Border’s to find me a place to wait with our stuff while he’d race back downtown. Unfortunately the cafe was full so I said let’s just go into the station, but as we were going back down on the escalator, I saw an empty bench.

“Let’s go back up,” MB said.

Now. In the movies and TV, people go back up going-down escalators all the time. They seem to do it with little trouble. Well, lemme tell you: it’s HARD. Of course as you’re walking up, the escalator is moving down at the same or faster pace, so you’re basically staying in one place. So genius me figures, “Oh I just need to go faster, even with this heavy backpack!” And what do you think happens when you try to race up a descending escalator with a heavy backpack? You trip and fall.

I thought I was fine, just banged my knee, but then my knee started bleeding through my pants. “I’m so sorry,” MB kept saying over and over. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I didn’t know what I was thinking, convinced that I’d be able to go up a down escalator.

In the end it wasn’t a big deal. I was able to change my pants and slap on a bandage (luckily I was stocked up), and while we missed our train, we hopped on the next one for just $30 more each, and with MB’s suit in tow.

We got in around 7:30. Our hotel was very nice, but I didn’t pick such a good location. When I was first planning this trip, I thought we’d have time to tool around the city, and heard this hotel was good because it was nice and also near the metro. True on both counts, but we didn’t have time to do any sightseeing and so it was pointless to be at a place not close to either Union Station or the wedding site. Ah well. At least it was a reasonable price and there were tons of restaurants nearby.

We ate a good but overpriced Italian dinner, took a little walk, then were in for the evening. MB needed to practice and study, and I was just pooped and looking forward to lots of TV.

And also a nice cup of tea. (I know: I sound 80.) The hotel website said all the rooms had coffee makers. Ours did not. We looked and looked, and couldn’t find one. I went down to see if I could get tea to go from the bar, but they wouldn’t sell it to me. “We don’t want people walking around holding hot beverages,” the bartender told me, not unkindly.

So I mentioned the missing coffee maker to the concierge. He said it should be under the TV. Looked again. No coffee maker. I called housekeeping.

“It should be under the TV,” she said.

“I looked,” I said calmly. “It’s not.”

“I’ll send one right up.”

Tick tick tick. Forty five minutes. I called housekeeping again.

“It should be under the TV,” I was told once again.

“It’s not,” I said, through gritted teeth.

“I’ll send one right up.”

“Well, I called 45 minutes ago.”

“I just got here, ma’am.”

How is that my problem?

At this point, MB said screw it and ordered a tea tray plus fruit via room service, which actually turned out to be very nice. A whole slew of gourmet teas, beautiful fruit with tasty walnut cake. Luckily he did, because when they finally brought the damned coffee maker, that was all they brought.

Coffee maker. No coffee, no cups, no tea.

Am I crazy or don’t hotel rooms come with the whole shebang when there’s a coffee maker? Coffee filters, cups, cream and sugar, tea?

Lame asses.

Anyway, the wedding was very nice. The ceremony was in a lovely, simple chapel. You could tell that it was quite old. The reception was at a hotel/college campus nearby, and I realized we should have just stayed there. But someone I talked to said it was sort of noisy with rowdy college kids. We all had a great time dancing and SG’s son is just adorable. I kept wanting to squeeze his cheeks.

Afterwards we ended up back at Union Station hours before our train at 8:45. So we decided to hop on an earlier one, the 6:20. Waiting to get on the train, there seemed to be a million people, but once we were seated, it was pretty relaxing. I actually fell asleep.

Today I’m glad to have just half a day at work. Last week was insanely quiet. My boss just got promoted to a different position – I’m happy for him but sad to be losing him as a boss. He was really great. But it will be a few to several months before someone new comes in.

For the past few weeks, I’ve been a dress quest for SG’s wedding, which is this weekend.

Usually I get my dresses at the Loft or Lord & Taylor or Macy’s, but this time I wanted to try something different. I wanted something unique and old-fashioned. Think Audrey Hepburn with a dash of Doris Day.

I started at the old standby, Lord & Taylor. The usual stuff, though some of it was pretty, but not what I was imagining. Next was Sak’s. Nada, except pushy sales ladies who offered to put my dresses in a dressing room, which I then couldn’t find. Ditto for Bloomingdale’s and Barney’s.

Ideally I wanted a little boutique with one-of-a-kind items. You’d think you wouldn’t be able to swing a dead cat without hitting one in my area, but of course when you’re actually looking for something, you can’t find it.

Finally, this weekend MB and I just happened past the cutest little boutique on Avenue B. I popped in to do reconaissance and the stuff was ADORABLE. So finally Monday night, with faithful and patient boyfriend in tow, I returned to try things on.

And try things on I did. The saleswoman was great, almost like a personal shopper. I told her what I was looking for and for what occasion, and she pulled a million things. Most of them were really nice, but quickly I came to realize that reality and my fantasy dress did not mesh.

There was an old-fashioned Lucille Ball type dress. A beautiful blue. It fit really well, but I just couldn’t pull it off. Several dresses I could barely even get ON. I kept looking for extra zippers to unzip. There was a silver one that was beautiful, but maybe too formal for a day wedding, and also almost $400(!).

Still that was a contender, along with a very simple short black dress that looked really cute. The only problem? The waist was TINY. The rest of the dress fit perfectly, but I could barely breathe even standing up. Still, it was very pretty and on sale for $188 down from $350, and I was sort of desperate so I bought it.

Then got buyer’s remorse pretty much immediately.

At home I tried on the dress again. It was no more comfortable, and I started to think I looked like I was going to a funeral. I put on black heels and pearls, and then looked like the director of a funeral parlor.

So what did I do the next day? Head over to the Loft. And what did I find? A lovely, comfortable dress for fifty bucks, marked down from $79.

*Sigh* That’s the last time I try to be a fashionista.

I just hope I can return that black dress. Or at least get store credit.

I started a couple of posts last week, and for some reason just couldn’t finish them. I think part of it was that I was under the weather with a cold (still fighting the remnants) and we had a two-day meeting. The presentations were somewhat informative, but I was really falling asleep at some points.

Now that MB is in music school, we’ve been going to hear lots of live music. Wednesday we heard a jazz band. Though I’m not into that kind of music, I can appreciate their skill and talent. But admission was $35, and not really worth it.

Friday night we went to hear a couple of MB’s classmates play in their rock/punk band in Brooklyn. I’m not into that kind of music either, but it was still fun. They are so young! Like 17 and 18. I kept thinking, I’m old enough to be their mom, though a very young mom. Also they are all so puny, but then I realized they all have several years of growing left to do. They were also very nice and looked like they were having fun, being goofy and whatnot, unlike the girl we listened to a couple of weeks ago who seemed to take herself very seriously.

This weekend we also saw the New York premiere of Midnight Meat Train, which played, appropriately, at midnight in a small, arty theater near us. There were a ton of people and we thought we wouldn’t get good seats, but it was no problem. The theater wasn’t even totally full. The movie was good. Not Oscar-worthy, but it was fun and well-done.

Saturday YP and I had our monthly photo outing. The theme this time was Public Restrooms. It was my idea and I don’t know why I came up with it. Funny how a lone toilet or urinal can look like an art installation.

Sunday I had an all day seminar on the “secrets behind selling your first book,” run by one of my former teachers. Her style is to have you read your piece aloud (if it’s short) and then she critiques you right then and there in front of everyone and in a sometimes brutally honest way. But that’s what I need at this point. Still, I was a bit nervous going in.

Right before I left the apartment, I read her email again, and only then did I notice, “Bring your agent letter,” meaning bring the query letter you plan on sending to an agent, which I hadn’t written! Ack! In about 15 minutes I threw something together, then rushed over to Kinko’s to print it out. Whew! Made it.

Overall the session was really good. It was from 2 to 8, and I thought, Holy cow, how will it possibly be 6 hours? But the time flew pretty quickly. Only in the last 90 minutes did I start to feel tired. M teacher talked a lot, giving advice and telling stories, but also critiqued anything that people brought in, which were mostly agent letters and short book descriptions.

I went first somehow, and she basically tore apart my letter, in a nice way of course. Also, she seemed to like the premise of my book as well as the subtitle, though she thought the actual title could be better so I need to think about that. When learning that my book was basically complete and that I had workshopped it in two classes, she said I should contact those teachers – one who she’s good friends with, the other whom she only knows in passing – and ask for advance blurbs for my letter, and after I got them that she’d write me one too because she remembered the piece I wrote in her class and that got published back in 2006. Sweet! And I was the only one out of about 15 she offered to write a blurb for, mostly I think because my book was done and it had been workshopped.

It shouldn’t be a problem getting blurbs from those teachers. One friended me on Facebook so I know she’s open to contact, and the other wrote my MLS recommendation and told me that he uses my book as a good example of structure in his other classes.

She also had an agent and editor come speak, and we had the chance to introduce ourselves and talk about our projects. I was nervous of course, and I’m not sure how they felt about my book. They reacted to the subtitle, so that confirms what my teacher said, but I think with my kind of book it really depends on the quality of the writing.

The only thing I didn’t like about the seminar was that the guy next to me had really bad breath. Every time he yawned it was like a toxic windstorm.

Tonight I must go dress shopping. Suddenly SG’s wedding is this weekend and I still don’t have an outfit! Well, I have a backup but 1) I’m not sure it fits that well anymore, and 2) I’d like something new. I bought the backup dress in 2004. Over the weekend MB and I stumbled upon this very cute boutique on Avenue B. The dresses were what I’ve had in mind, a little old fashioned, a little Audrey Hepburn. Hopefully I’ll make it there tonight.

I was at the Brooklyn Book Festival for just a couple of hours yesterday, so I didn’t hear if David Foster Wallace was mentioned.

According to his obit in the NY Times, Wallace had been severely depressed for months, and had been dealing with depression since his 20s. He never seeemed to write or talk about it, though in his writing there’s an undercurrent of sadness, even in his funny observations, which made his essays even more appearling to me. There wasn’t that arrogance or snarkiness that’s found in a lot of other modern humor writing.

The festival was just okay. That morning I had run the Race for the Cure, just 5K but I was pooped from it. It wasn’t too hot but the sun was strong and it was extremely muggy. Before the race started I wandered around looking for a bathroom (no port-a-potties!) and when I got back, I was already soaked with sweat.

As usual the whole thing took too long to get started with five billion speeches, including Cynthia Nixon (a breast cancer survivor) and, randomly, Stephen Colbert, who was pretty funny. “Who else will be carrying their six year old for the entire race?” Once I got past all the walkers – as per every year, what are you doing in the 9 minute mile portion??? – I had fun running in the Park. My time wasn’t bad, about 30 minutes.

The heat worsened throughout the day. At the book festival as I walked around checking out the tents, I was positively roasting, and when I sat in the shade to listen to a reading – and to get away from the heat – my hair was literally dripping with sweat. In the middle of the next reading, my throat started killing me. I thought it was just because I was thirsty, but it just got worse and now I feel sorta crummy. Hopefully it won’t blow into a full blown cold.

In other news, as you know the press has been all over Sarah Palin lately. What I find interesting is how many people are afraid of her, or use that term, ie, “She scares me,” including yours truly.
Just how many people are scared of the Alaskan wolf?

This guy, whom I LOVE by the way. Supposedly Palin tried to ban his book, Pastor I am Gay. “She scares me,” the author says. “She’s Jerry Falwell with a pretty face.”

Ed Koch, former mayor of New York and possible gay. The Bush supporter now endorses Obama – who knew! Of Palin, he says, “She scares the hell out of me.”

Pink! She told PopCrunch that she thinks Palin “hates women” and “is not a feminist,”that she “is not the woman that’s going to come behind Hillary Clinton and do anything that Hillary Clinton would’ve been capable of … She’s not of this time.” Concluding, “The woman terrifies me.”

Ben Stein.: “I don’t know if she scares Obama, but she scares me.” You’re not alone, Ben.

Matt Damon, saying that her story is “like a really bad Disney movie — the hockey mom…from Alaska, and she’s the president, and it’s like she’s facing down Vladimir Putin and using the folksy stuff she learned at the hockey rink,” and “there was a good chance John McCain would die in his first term in office and the thought of a President Palin is ‘terrifying.’” Not as terrifying as the thought that that movie premise sounds pretty good. (Just kidding. . . or am I?)

Sharon Osbourne. When finding out Palin hunts animals for sport, she said, “I’m scared of that woman with the glasses and gun!”

Palin’s own former campaign manager. “I’m still proud of Sarah,” she added, “but she scares the bejeebers out of me.” My favorite word of the day is officially “bejeebers.”

And lots of bloggers, including one who also loves her hair.

Although Palin frightens me as well, it seems saying so in the press is yet another no-brainer, like the whole pit bull/pig and lipstick thing. And what is it exactly about her that’s so frightening? Cheney and his cohorts are terrifying as well, but I guess they LOOK like it so it’s not as much of an issue. Palin is pretty and feminine, so somehow her extremism and alleged ruthlessness seem extra skerry, like a Stepford wife or little girl ghost.

Anyway, now I’ve been blogging for far too long.

David Foster Wallace died. They say it was a suicide. (I really didn’t want that to rhyme.)

So bummed right now. He was one of my favorite authors. The first time I read his stuff was in Harper’s, “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” an essay about a cruise he takes, and “Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All,” about a midwest state fair. Of course I bought his book of essays, titled after the cruise essay.

I never attempted his novel Infinite Jest but waited on bated breath for every essay he wrote. There was one a couple of years ago in the Times about Roger Federer and tennis, and another book of essays, Consider the Lobster.

He was a really really funny author, and man did he love footnotes.

Tomorrow is the Brooklyn Book Festival. I wonder how that will be.