Knots

My sister lately has been pressuring me to join an online dating service — namely, JDate, "the premier Jewish singles community online". Morbid curiosity, a touch of loneliness, and the looming number 30 on the near horizon took me there tonight, just to see what I could see.

Turns out that before you can search the site, you need to set yourself up with a profile. Seems simple enough to start: give your gender (female), your religious status (culturally Jewish, but not practicing), marital status (single). But now I'm sitting on the page where I write a brief description of my life and my personality, and suddenly I'm stuck. It's making me slightly ill, suddenly making me realize that I am here, doing the thing I secretly see as hitting a lowest of points: asking for third-party help with my dating life.

I am well aware that I am a half without a whole. I know quite well that it's been nearly two years since my last real date with someone (an embarrassing affair that made me altogether too happy to scuttle back into singlehood). But doing something like this makes me feel pathetically dirty. It begs the question: What's so wrong with me that I can't find someone normal and wonderful on my own, someone who actually wants me with my virtues and my flaws as much as I want him?

The past six months have been something of an experimental phase — leaving the graveyard shift, becoming a part of the normal human race again. The result: crushing failure. The only guys who talk or anything-close-to-flirt with me all end up taken, or gay, or happily married. Obviously, I can't do this on my own. And it's time to stop dawdling, to stop crying at night because I'm lonely, and to stop feeling painted in a corner with my options.

So. We come full circle.

In more positive news: I had my friend Angela, from my company's Nashville office, visiting for the past week. We hardly saw each other, since she was working the graveyard shift and I, of course, am working days, but we both took the last day of the week off, and spent two days hanging out and running around town. I miss her now, but good times were had, money was spent, pictures were taken. I'm sure some of them will be up on my Flickr at some point. But most important of those pictures are the ones Angela took of my ceramic monsters. It's the first time they've been anything like professionally photographed, and it's inspired me to think about actually setting up a website or something like that to display them. I love my monsters, and these pictures actually make me feel like they're works of art, as opposed to clumsy ways to idle away my Monday nights.

Other positive, exciting news: at the behest of Friend Geof I've signed up for a short story contest. First round starts this coming Friday, and I'm looking forward to it. If nothing else, it will start me writing again. And that is definitely a positive thing.

I should get to work. I hate writing about myself (present blog excepted), so it'll take some concentration to get over this mountain and say something intelligent and non self-deprecating.

I Must Be Tired ...

... Because everything seems more depressing when you're wiped out. Also, I tend to be less coherent as a writer. Case in point:

New year, new session of ceramics class, a lot of the same people from the previous session. We were sitting around a table, working on our projects, and the topic of New Year's resolutions came up. Which, I suppose, is normal for January 4.

One of the girls who's been taking the classes as long as I have (so we've become friends if only by default of having spent so many hours together over the last three years) announced that her one resolution for 2010 was to start living more for herself. She's recently gotten out of a long-term relationship, single for the first time in years, and I think finally getting the chance to figure herself out as a whole instead of a half, so I guess it's a resolution that makes sense for her (she's also amazing and a good friend to have, so it's about time).

I haven't really thought about resolutions for this year (slight lie), but my friend's struck me as amusing, because for the past few months I've been trying to live more for others instead of myself. I joke that if I had a deadly sin, it would be envy ... but that's not far from the truth. I have trouble being happy for others if they gain something I want for myself. I get jealous. And it always bites me in the butt, never gets me what I want. I don't like how it makes me feel ... though I don't know how to stop feeling it, either. Maybe it's time to learn.

That's resolution number one.

I'm about to turn 30, this coming March, and while I feel like something of a success in some parts of my life, in others I feel painfully empty and behind. Thirty will be my year to try and fill out those segments of my life, stabilize, settle into the path I want for the rest of my life.

That's resolution number two.

And finally, of course, there's the resolution I make every year: to be healthier in some (or many) aspects of my life: finances, body, mentality. Wrapping them all up into one: budget better, eat well, workout more. Life shouldn't be about sitting in my apartment, fat and poor, eating junk. It should be more than that. Even sitting in my apartment, there should be no poverty, and there should be no bloat.

So that's resolution number three.

2010, I guess I'm as ready for you as I'll ever be. Let's go for it.

Exercising my Options

After an initial humiliating experience in the Conditioning class at my Krav Maga studio (which, I notice, I failed to mention on my blog at the time in a stirring act of self-censorship), back at the end of September, I was finally convinced to attempt it again by the instructor about a week and a half ago. Thought I'd only be able to make it halfway (the first time I lasted 20 minutes), but the instructor and some of the other regulars in the class talked me through the entire thing, until I found myself at the end of the hour, trying to support myself with my weak, shaky arms through Downward-Facing Dog and the cooldown stretches. Yes, walking (or any movement, really) was difficult for the next four days, but I was so damned proud of myself. You'd think I'd won the New York Marathon or something, instead of just making it through 60 minutes of full-body movement.

I went again this past Thursday, partly to convince myself that the first time wasn't a fluke, and mostly to try and make this into a part of my regular weekly routine. The Cute Guy was there, and he and I finally had a conversation while waiting for the class to start. Found out that he delivers wine for a living (access to wine = big plus!), but we also spent most of the 20-minute conversation discussing his new '07 Toyota Camry (car talk = somewhat of a minus). Not that he'd ever be interested in someone like me — I'm probably lumpier than the type of girls he'd generally go out with — but for some reason talking with him made me feel much more like a regular and a part of the "Krav Krowd". I made that term up, by the way. But if I do somehow become popular at the facility (hahahaha), I'm totally making a FB group called that.

In other news: Today I missed taking the Krav Maga test to move up to Level Two. I think I was ready for it, but I was also supposed to help my grandparents move out of the house they've lived in for almost 60 years into their new apartment at a retirement community. I was kind of torn, since I really feel like I'm ready to move on after about seven months of going pretty religiously, but you know how it is — sometimes you have to put things off in favor of the more immediate need ("family first", yadda yadda).

Except it turned out they didn't need me, so I should have signed up and just taken the test, anyway. Now I have to wait three months until the next one. Not that I'm peeved or anything. No way.

The day turned out to be not so much of a waste. My sisters called up to see if I wanted to hang out, and I drove down to Mountain View for a few hours to do breakf- err, a late lunch at Sizzler and shopping at Cost Plus.



Call me crazy, but any time spent with my nephew just seems to make life better. Does this mean I'm getting old?

The Final Payment (cue the Europe, please)

I promised myself a lot of things this year. I have finally fulfilled one of those promises:



Yes, that is me scheduling the final payment on my credit card. I've had this debt for almost a decade — ever since I got that Discover card, my first real credit card, back in college. My college trip to Europe was on it, and my hotel rooms in New York; I've bought groceries with it, and transferred the debt to a card with a better interest rate, gotten close to paying it off only to put more purchases on there ... and now, finally, it's gone. That doesn't necessarily mean that I've completely learned to live within my means (thank you, Bank of Mom and Dad), but I would like to think it means that I've started down the road to financial stability.

Now if only I could pay off that student loan debt ... that would be a dream and a half. Only $34,000 or so to go on that one.

Waiting for the Melatonin to Kick In

Apparently, I over-slept this weekend. No, I don't mean I slept until I missed my fun and exciting plans for the day. I mean that I slept more than the necessary amount needed to keep my body healthy.

The result: insomnia when I finally have something I'll need to wake up for (work).

I've popped a dose of melatonin, and while I'm waiting for it to do its magic, I'm going to tell you one of the many memories that has been going through my head this evening: the first time my heart got broken.

I was 10 years old, not quite yet blossomed. His name was Marc, and he was 13 when we met. Our fathers had been friends back in the day, and when my family moved to Connecticut, which is where he'd grown up, my dad got back in touch with his and the families made dinner plans to meet up. He and I got along fabulously from the first; we spent the entire evening up in his room talking, playing games, wrestling over my slap bracelet (this was when they were all the rage ... the first time around). He taught me how to play MasterMind, and the strategy behind it (after thrashing me a few times). He was older, and nice, and funny, and I thought he was the coolest person in the universe. And he really seemed to like me. What else could I do but fall for him?

It was my first real crush, and at the beginning things seemed to go well. His family lived in a different part of the state (I think) than we did, so we didn't see each other often. This was before the internet was widespread, of course, but I think we did speak on the phone once or twice. When our families visited with each other I think we spent all the time together that we could.

But then one day, some time around when he turned 14 and before I turned 11, it was just going to be him and his mom, visiting my house for the first time. And my mother, knowing that I had a crush on him and knowing, too, things about teenage boys that I was oblivious to, made me promise to keep my bedroom door open the entire time he was there. I made my promise, and did as I was told. He came over and we immediately went up to my room to hang out and look at my stuff. It was warmish that day, and the window was open in my bedroom, so I spent a lot of that visit catching the door as it blew shut and opening it up again. He told me to leave it alone, but I was nervous (and a good girl) and just kept opening it whenever it closed.

I still think that's what it was. I think the door-opening reminded him of just how much younger I was than he. The visit didn't end terribly well and, if this hadn't been my first time in this situation, I should have been forewarned.

A few weeks later our families had a barbecue at one of the few public beaches in CT, and I went excited at the prospect of seeing Marc and maybe even holding hands while we walked down the beach — something silly and girlish like that. Instead, he was cold and distant when we talked, didn't want to walk down to the water with me at all, and basically did what he could to avoid me for the duration of the picnic. A couple girls from his class happened to be there while we were, and all I could do was watch helplessly as he flirted with them ... until I couldn't take it anymore and went to go sit on a bench by myself.

I think I remember being too embarrassed to even cry, so I sat there being miserable for a long time until my mom finally found me and sat down next to me. I forget what she said to make me feel better — something along the line of he wasn't ignoring me because he didn't like me, but because he was embarrassed to like someone so much younger. Somehow she convinced me to get through the rest of the day; I ignored him and pretended it didn't matter until we left, though later when I got home I'm sure I cried myself to sleep for a week.

That was the last time I saw him. I sometimes wonder what happened to him, even though — almost 20 years later — thinking of the humiliation and hurt from that afternoon can still make me cry.

Don't know why I was thinking of it tonight. Just one of those things that surface from time to time, I guess.

This Weekend: Mostly All About Food

Almost two weeks after someone smashed a hole into my car and raped her of all the worthless electronics, I've finally got her back from the shop, all fixified and shiny (and me $330 poorer).

The first thing I do once I get my wheels back? Take her to the grocery store and buy a chicken.

Most of today was spent in the dismembering and preparation of that chicken. The breasts and wings got salted, peppered, dry herbed and roasted in the oven with some beets for tonight's dinner and tomorrow's lunch. The thighs and drumsticks are currently marinating for tandoori chicken. And finally, I threw the back and giblets (the chicken came with two hearts ... ah, Foster Farms, I love your craziness) into a stock pot with vegetables to make broth, which is currently jarred and sitting in the fridge, waiting for some future use. Considering the whole bird was about $4, I think I'm getting some good use out of my keen budgeting and kitchen skills here.

Before picking up the car yesterday, I took the bus up to Atelier for some yarn, and ended up finally hitting up The King of Falafel on Divisidero, which I've passed often and never went into. I'm generally not a fan of falafel — something about the sauce, and the balls I've had were just kind of tasteless — and went in there intending on getting something lamb-based, but the girl behind the counter shoved a free sample of the falafel into my hand and I was converted. Now I almost understand all those people who randomly crave this stuff; maybe someday I can even join in the lusting fun. At any rate, if you're looking for decent falafel in the city, try this place and tell me if it's as good as I think it is.

And that's been my weekend. Food, poverty, and more food. No wonder my posts are few and far between — maybe I need a new hobby, like boar hunting. Something that would be fascinating to write about.

On a side note: I know at some point that I'll get sick and tired of spending my Friday and Saturday nights at home alone, but after the fabuloso of my trip to NYC, and considering that next weekend I have been invited to three Halloween-related events, it think it does me good to have a little inside time to myself. Hopefully. I'll let you know if or when the cabin fever starts to set in.

Broken (Into)

Let's start with the positive: I had today off via a shift switch with another coworker, so I convinced my baby nephew to visit (along with his entourage of his mother, my mother and my other sister) for the afternoon. A picture of him sleeping on my bed — innit he cute?



Now the negative: While we were lying around waiting for the entourage to gather energy enough to drive back home, I got a knock on my apartment door — a rare occurrence in this fourplex — that turned out to be my neighbor telling me that my car had been broken into over the weekend.

How lovely.

I went downstairs with my mother to check it out. It's actually almost laughable: they smashed the back triangle (that wee one behind the rear passenger's window) and reached around to unlock the door. Which probably means they at least scraped up their hands and arms a bit to reach to the far side of the main window and get at the back door lock. On top of that, the only things that they took were my CD stereo — and the CD function was broken; my old cell phone — which was completely worthlessly dead and broken; and the small coin purse I kept my bridge toll cash in since my coin drawer had been ripped out by the last person to break into my car — and the coin purse, while not broken, was definitely broke.

So, dickhead that violated the sanctity of my vehicle: was it worth it? Because frankly, there wasn't really anything of value in the car in the first place (lesson learned from the first break-in), and it really peeves me that it'll take more cash to fix that tiny back window than the entire value of everything that you took. I hope the cuts you got end up gangrenous.