The Virginity Monologues

Let me give a peek into my seemingly glamorous life, but is really, not so much at all.

I was upset last night, for reasons that I will not divulge because I have a new personal rule of no more wallowing and feeling sorry for myself. I'm good enough, dammit! So, after work, I went to Barnes and Noble where I drowned my sorrows in a chai latte and a lemon raspberry square which was delicious. I, then, picked up another Chuck Palahniuk novel, having finished Choke and loved it and am now obsessed, with dear, sweet, psychotic Chuck.

Then, I went home, because I remembered that I had recently rented Half Nelson and have to actually watch it and return it before my status at Blockbuster matches my status at the The New York Public Library, where I am no longer welcome because I have lost about 6 books. Because I am an idiot.

My darling friend and roommate, Shannon, was home when I got there, so I suggested we watch Half Nelson together, since I knew that she had been wanting to watch it. The clincher is that we can't make our TV (Karen's TV) work with our cable box and our DVD player, because, well, I won't get into it. So, all DVD's have to watched in my bedroom, on my tiny TV and DVD player, which since I've had in my room have meant to buy something dirty so I can watch it in the privacy of my own room, but haven't gotten around to it yet.

So, Shannon and I pop some popcorn and are getting ready to get all cozy on my bed, when Karen arrives home. She joins our little party.

We all watch the movie together, constantly playing footsie, making jokes about who farted, and me complaining about how this is all the action that my bed is going to see for a long time, and during a sex scene, worrying out loud that I may break my vibrator before this fucking hiatus is over.

After the movie ends, we are lounging around in my bed trying to decide if the constant presence of candy in the movie has any significance, when Shannon finds one of my rather sizeable bra's tossed at the foot of the bed.

She picks it up and puts it on her head.

Karen and I laugh so hard that I'm sure that in recompense, this is the reason our neighbors played their dastardly mariachi music until 2 am, when I pounded my fist on the wall, to please, for the love of all that is holy, make it stop.

We're no Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.

But damn, if we're not having a good time.

Today's Title from: La, La, La by Jay-Z

I am an animal person. As is my sister and two brothers. My sister has the tiniest dog imaginable- she is half rat terrier and half yorkie terrier. When my dad first met Katy the Dog, he immediately claimed that she belonged in The Ugliest Dog Hall of Fame. I covered her ears to protect her delicate sensibilities, lest she up her efforts in covering my sister's entire house in dog poop. I found her adorable, and spent as much time as possible with her curled up in my lap, or licking my face. My two brothers also have dogs. All within the lab family, mixed with other adorable dogs.

We all have a voice that we talk to dogs in. A Dog-Talking Voice.

On Saturday, I settled myself into the subway for what would end up being the longest and most painful subway ride of my life, as I ventured out to East New York to volunteer at an animal shelter, where I would spend my day walking dogs.

My first dog was an enormous pit bull, complete with enough drool to give me a shower every time he shook his head. And he was having some digestive issues. Within 100 feet of the door of the shelter, he had diarrhea twice. And in New York, you gotta pick that shit up. It was.... unpleasant. He was sweet though, and absolutely starved for affection. If I had let him, he would have licked me to death, I think. I ran him around the designated route once, and then walked him two more times. And he still had enough energy to be fighting so hard against the leash that he was practically choking himself.

When my arm couldn't handle being pulled out of it's socket anymore, I went in and held the kittens, wishing I could take every single one of them home.

These are the moments when my self-esteem will be repaired.

Today's Title from: Nothing Left to Lose by Mat Kearney

It was a good weekend. A great weekend even.

I stayed busy all weekend. Almost no down time at all. Movies, volunteering, dinner, parties, brunch (more about this below), shopping and Oscars.

I have everything I could want. I couldn't ask for more. Really.

I have really, really, really great friends. I feel so lucky, every day, to have the friends that I have. I can tell them things, the things that I've hidden about myself my whole life. And they get it. They understand. They don't think I'm dirty or nasty or any of the above. It's..... liberating.

I love my life. I love my apartment. I love my job. I love my city.

And yet.

Somewhere inside of me is an echoing void.

That I am no longer partially filling in with the likes of half-assed men.

And the yawning silence terrifies me.

No Cam.

No Scott.

No Marc.

I have the life I've always dreamed of. So, why am I not dancing with joy at all times? Why do I need a dick to feel complete?

Why does a phone with no missed calls and no text messages make my heart plummet?

How will I ever be enough?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Brunch With Spatch

I am early because.... I am always early. It's what I do. I head to Alice's Tea Cup anyway, knowing it will be busy and thinking I can put our name down to alleviate some of the wait time. While I am standing at the counter, waiting to give my name and watching the hostess have a nervous breakdown, I turn around to see Spatch behind me. She is also early, also hoping to put our name down. I am ridiculously pleased to find someone else who shares my penchant for timeliness.

We talk until we are seated. Discuss what we will order. Then eagerly wait for our tea and scones and crepes and eggs benedict. I see a man walk through the door, who looks vaguely familiar. I noticed that he carried a bicycle wheel in his hand and it clicks in my head that this is The Redhead, Spatch's boyfriend, who I have never met, but feel as if I know intimately. We had not planned on him coming, Spatch had invited him, but hadn't heard from him. We were at a table for two, and adding another chair to our tiny table makes us a fire hazard. Before I can even suggest just moving to another table, The Redhead has decided to leave. No bitterness at all, quite friendly about it actually, just a simple acceptance of how things are. The whole exchange was short and not at all unpleasant.

But I can see the disappointment in Spatch's face. When he had appeared at our table, she lit up. Her love for him on her face as clear to me as the sun shining outside. And when he leaned to kiss her as he left, I could see it in her kiss, so much emotion behind such a simple action. I almost had to turn away, almost embarrassed to be witnessing such a soul-baring moment.

"Jealous" isn't quite the right word, but its the first one that comes to mind.

We re-group. And we talk. And talk.

The earl gray tea is delicious, and we litter the table with empty sugar packets before we have to ask for more.

I am content in her presence. I confide in her that behind my sexual bravado is a bevy of insecurities. I tell her my fantasies. She discusses with me the various forms of bondage and how she handles each one.

We discuss our pasts. Frankly. I love the way that when Spatch likes something about you, she will tell you immediately. She has no guile when giving praise or compliments and they flow naturally from her mouth, without an ounce of insincerity. Her honesty and candor is refreshing and endearing.

I find myself telling her about Scott. And the raw emotion that he stirred up in me, and I am practically sobbing as I recount my moments with him. Those moments that were heartbreakingly special at the time, but now seem like such a waste of my affections.

Two pots of tea and an insane amount of sugar consumption later, and we have to leave. She has appointments to keep and I am meeting Karen to help Sephora reap more and more profits every year.

We discuss all the things we want to do together in the future. Sleepovers in Harlem. Restaurants to try. Bars to go to. Parties to attend.

"Ecstatic" isn't quite the right word, but it's the first one that comes to mind.

Today's Title from: Fidelity by Regina Spektor

Labels: Spatch

I've been contemplating something recently.

I think there may be something wrong with me.

I have YET to meet a man than can keep up with me in the bedroom. This is not a lie or an exaggaration. I'm always the one asking for it more than once, and laying there in the bed, wondering if he's going to be offended if I ask him if we can do it again. I often don't ask for it when I want it (this happens a lot) because I'm too afraid of being rejected.

Men who have claimed to be more than I can handle, are hardly that at all.

Cam- never more than once a night. Ever.

Marc- only once.

Scott is the only man that has ever come close, but even he has turned me down at times.

I hate always initiating and I hate feeling like I am begging for sex. Is it really so much to ask for a man who has to have me at least 2-3 times in one night? Is this completely unnatural?

Is the problem me or them?

Today's Title from: Satisfaction by the Rolling Stones

I'm home sick today with some serious tonsil issues and a horrible feeling of malaise. So in lieu of a post about what jerks men are, I present to you, my list of 20 things that any man should know before he dates me.

My 20 Things Manifesto to All Future Boyfriends

1. I will want sex more than you. Chances are high that you will find me more ready and willing than you can handle and you will turn me down more than the reverse. I might get irritable about this.

2. I always sleep on my side, facing the edge of the bed, regardless of which edge it is. I am not turning my back on you. I am just going to sleep.

3. I shave… everything.

4. I will hide my true feelings from you until I feel I have seen enough signs from you that you are ‘safe’. I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of you, and I don’t want you to see me cry, until I am damned good and ready.

5. I have close male friends. They will not be kicked out of my life because of your insecurities. They stay. No matter what.

6. My girlfriends are incredibly important to me. I will not ditch them for you. And depending on their level of importance in my life, they might come before you. Deal with it.

7. I will buy you things. Little things that make me think of you. Massage oils. Maybe your favorite candy. A shirt. I love to buy things for people.

8. I love to buy and wear lingerie.

9. I am a phenomenal cook. You will be well fed.

10. I am outgoing and vivacious. I enjoy being the center of attention.

11. I get irrationally angry about lateness. I am extremely punctual. Lateness implies to me that you don’t think that my time is valuable. It pisses me off.

12. I like to learn about the things that you are passionate about.

13. Teasing is my way of showing affection.

14. I’m loud. I grew up with two loud older brothers. I’m not programmed to always use my inside voice. Don’t tease me about this, it’s one of the things I am most sensitive about. I know it doesn’t make sense. I’m a woman and I reserve the right to be irrational.

15. I like to give head. I appreciate reciprocation.

16. In bed, I will give you my all. I will try almost anything and I am more than willing to fulfill your fantasies. I’ve got a few of my own.

17. I have a dirty mind and I make dirty jokes. This does not mean that I am not a lady and that I should not be treated with respect.

18. I’m intelligent. I probably scored higher than you on the SAT. I might throw this in your face a few times. I generally don’t like it if it turns out that you are smarter than me.

19. I do not have a good relationship with my father. The aftermath of his destruction rears its ugly head in the form of insecurities with me. I will struggle to believe that I am good enough for you. I struggle to believe that I am good enough for anyone.

20. Underneath my New York Bitch exterior, I’m all mushy inside. I cry easily at movies. I love/crave affection. I get lost easily in the little things, like you holding my hand.

Today's Title from: Warning by Green Day

So, I briefly touched yesterday on The Great Shoe Find of the weekend at Nordstrom Rack. Let me see if I can recreate the scenario for you, so you can fully appreciate how Karma finally managed to send me some good.

Karen and I had gone into Nordstrom Rack for the sole purpose of finding shoes for Karen. I already have too many shoes (really, is that possible?) and just browsed through my size, only looking half-heartedly. I had told Karen before we even went in, that I had a rule for new shoes- they had to be either a Mary Jane or T-strap, as these are two styles that I don't currently own, but have been wanting. Also, throughout the day, I had mentioned over and over again how much I love the peep-toe look.

Karen found herself a pair of beautiful boots. At Nordstrom Rack- only one shoe of a pair is on the racks, and you have to go get the match from the nice employees after waiting in a very long line. With boots, it's necessary to try both on. So, once Karen had gotten the match to her boot, we sat down again while she tried them on. As we were sitting right by the 8's (my size), I let my eyes rove over the shoes, giving them one last cursory glance, when I saw them.

The details:
Black
4 inch
Suede
Mary Jane strap
Peep-toe
KATE SPADE

Dear mother of all that is holy. I carefully pulled the shoe out, disbelieving that such a perfect shoe could even exist. I flipped it over, heart racing, to check the price. $79.60! It was too much for me to bear. I had to rationally talk myself down. 'Kate Spade shoes tend to run narrow,' I told myself, 'and you have very wide feet. Don't get too excited about this...'

I slipped the shoe on. It fit like a glove.

Karen and I were speechless. The woman next to me told me how nice they looked.

Another wait in the long line for the match.

And they were mine. All mine.

Today's Title from: Can't Take My Eyes Off of You by Frankie Valli

I didn't write on Friday, because something happened on Thursday night that I wasn't ready to talk about yet.

I still don't know if I'm ready to talk about it.

Marc must have sensed that I was maligning him and calling him a pussy and decided to finally step up to the plate and be a man.

Thursday night around 12 am, I got a text. A request to come over.

1:05 am, I walked up the stairs to his front door.

2:00 am, over a year's worth of anticipation and build-up FINALLY, finally was satisfied.

It was weird. And I was nervous. Really nervous. There's not a chance in hell that my skills in bed were fully displayed, as my mind was going about 100 miles an hour and I couldn't so much as moan without thinking about it first. And the thing that makes me really great in bed, is my ability to get totally lost in the moment. This did not happen.

Lines were drawn. Very clearly drawn. This was a booty call. I got that LOUD and CLEAR.

The weekend was full of good things. A trip to DC with Karen to visit my sister who was in town for the weekend, boys at a rental car office who liked us so much they upgraded us all the way to a Jeep, a shopping expedition which resulted in My Greatest Find Ever- a pair of black, suede, peep-toe, mary-jane strap, 4-inch Kate Spade heels for $80 and cheesecake in a hotel with the best friend I've ever had- but my mind was always only half on the events at hand. The other half was always lost.

Lost in his hands- roving all over while I was on top, his mouth- whispering dirty things in my ear from behind, and his eyes- locking on mine, in the moment where we changed everything forever.

Then I remember how we fell asleep as far apart on the bed as people can, even though he'd asked me to stay. And the next morning, how as I'd left, I'd woken him up to ask him if he needed the alarm reset and he'd barely even acknowledged me.

And how, as I rode home in a cab, all I felt was relief, and disappointment.

My night of 1000 fantasies was anything but.

Today's Title from: Say Goodbye by Dave Matthews Band

Labels: Marc

Last night was potentially one of my best Valentine's Days- ever. Truth to be told, it was an interesting day altogether.

The reason it was so great, was because I made dinner for my roommates and we spent the evening together- happy just to be with each other.

Dinner consisted of:
Parmesan crusted chicken- with lemon mustard sauce
Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Fresh Green Beans

And the grand finale- Molten Chocolate Cakes.

I am officially a GODDESS in the kitchen.

I hadn't expected to hear from any of the miscreants who call themselves men in my life at all yesterday. I figured if there's any day of the year when men avoid women they aren't interested in committing to and treating with respect, that Valentine's Day would be that day. Not so, in my unfortunate case.

I got an email from Cam. Telling me that he had called me the night before, wanting to say hi, and that he missed me. I never saw the missed call (I was in the subway for an extended length of time though, after drinks with Spatch) and the fucker didn't leave a message. So, whatever. If that's his idea of fighting for me, then it's probably best that this relationship is over.

I got a comment on my myspace page from Scott- just telling me Happy Valentine's Day. Way to put your back into it, champ!

Then, I got a text from Marc- around 4ish. It read 'Happy Valentine's Day'. I figured it was a mass text to a bunch of women in his phone book and didn't respond. At 8ish, I got another one, it said the same thing. As if to say, 'Hello?! I'm wishing you a Happy Valentine's Day! Respond, bitch!'

Here's the rundown of text-messaging that followed:
Marc: Happy Valentine's Day!
Me: Did you mean to send that to me twice.
Marc: Some people need more love than others.
Me: What are you up to? I'm making a huge dinner for me the girls, you're welcome to come over if you want.
Marc: Awwww. Thanks for the invite. But I just came home from the gym. I'm in for the night.
Me: You're missing out. Dessert is chocolate molten cakes.
Marc: Sounds good.

Pause in texting while we eat our insanely delicious dinner.

Me: Karen and my taste buds just had an orgasm.
Marc: I should have been there to have a taste bud orgy!
Me: You were invited.... We're going to start shedding clothes here soon....
Marc: Yeah right. Come shed over here. We have the whole house to run rampant. Everybody is gone!!!
Me: Please. You're all talk.
Marc: If you say so... My sex buds are hungry.
Me: You could have gotten fed over here.... My mouth is just as good as my hands.
Marc: LOL. Chicken.
Me: Don't push me. You won't know what to do when I call your bluff.
Marc: Yeah, yeah.
Me: If you really want me to come over, all you have to do is ask. (I only said this because I knew there was absolutely no follow-through in him).

Pause.

Me: That's what I thought. You can't ever call me a tease again.....

End text messaging.

Is it just me, or is he a TOTAL pussy.

Today's Title from: Only in Dreams by Weezer

Labels: Cam, Marc, Scott, Spatch

We're having an ice storm here in New York City today. It's miserable as fuck.

I met up with Spatch for drinks again last night. The first time was not a fluke, as it turns out! She really is great and wonderful and all the nice things that I could possibly say about another person. She touched again on a subject that came up the first time we met, how surprised she was to find out how attractive I am (her words, not mine). Apparently, I give off the impression that I might not be so attractive, and apparently this is a misrepresentation. After acknowledging that I could probably consider myself cute, maybe girl-next-door cute, she admitted to having described me as 'Midwest Cute'. Which caused me to laugh uproariously at the aptness of the description, even if I am more from The West, than The Midwest.

I found it interesting to discover that the situation is the same in reverse. I already had a good solid idea of her appearance before I met her, as she posts pictures, but upon meeting her discovered that her attractiveness is even more heightened by her effervescent personality. After only 2 evenings, I can already see what a wonderful and giving individual she is, incredibly beautiful on the inside and out.

And she doesn't see it either.

Why are we all so blind to our own beauty?

I've been mentally coming up with rules for Operation Hiatus. Actually, most of these rules should be applied to my life completely and not just for a limited time.

1. I must volunteer for New York Cares at least once a month. Currently I am signed up to walk dogs for an animal shelter next weekend.

2. I must go to the gym at least once a week.

3. I will read more. Books of substance. Something worthwhile. Last night I picked up Choke by Chuck Palahniuk and I am a third of the way through and am completely in love with it.

4. I must try a new restaurant at least once a month.

5. I will get our apartment painted. This will require the help of someone much taller than me, but it will get done.

6. I will cook more. I will try a new recipe once a week.

7. I will not wallow. No wallowing allowed!!!!

Today's Title from: Brain Stew by Green Day

Labels: Spatch

Thanks for all your helpful advice on the Marc situation yesterday, peeps. Greatly appreciated. Yes, that is sarcasm.

It doesn't matter anyway. Today I'm starting The New Phase of My Life.

Hiatus: A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break

Operation Hiatus.

I'm taking 3 months. Three months of NO dating, NO nookie, NO flirty text messaging. Everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE gets the boot.

I won't get into the details, mainly because another rule is that I'm not allowed to even talk about Scott or Cam anymore, but yesterday was eye-opening and hurtful. Seriously hurtful. Someone I love implied that I'm a whore. Marc was nothing but a disappointment, again. And Scott reached a new low, even for him.

My self-esteem is shot. Big time.

I'm in NO position to attempt even the most casual of relationships. So I must remove the possibilities from the equation, until I can find some self-worth again.

All close friends have been given permission to police me. To yell at me when necessary. To protect me from my own terrible decision making. To stop me from making the same ridiculous mistakes again.

Today's Title from: Dream On by Aerosmith

I just had one of the best weekends, ever.

Friday night, after a movie with Karen and some quality time in the ER for her mushed up finger, I met up with Scott and we went back to his place and had great sex. And I do mean great sex. He does this thing now, where he puts a pillow under my hips and it creates the perfect angle, for both of us. ROWR. I dig it.

The next morning, I was running late to meet Email Boy for brunch, because Scott was trying to make me multi-orgasmic. Luckily, he's a lazy slob and postponed brunch by an hour. Then we we finally met up, all he did was yell at me for fucking Scott again. But he's just jealous, because he's on a self-imposed 3 month hiatus and he hasn't had good sex in a long, long time. I still love him though.

After brunch, still wearing the same clothes I had worn to work the previous day because I hadn't had time to go home and change, I went down to Chelsea for a hair cut. A fabulous, fabulous hair cut. No one has really noticed, because not a lot of the length is gone, but now I have beautiful, shiny layers that make me dance with joy. Plus, after stuffing myself with yummy brunch food, then getting a fabulous head massage by the Hair Washer Guy, I felt as if I had actually reached Nirvana.

After the haircut, I finally went home to change my clothes. And once I got there, I realized that there would be no party for me that night. We were all unreasonably tired. So Karen, Shannon and I went to dinner, then picked up some junk food and a movie, then hied ourselves home and crashed. And I do mean- crashed. 20 minutes into the movie and I was OUT.

Right before I went to bed, I checked my phone. Text message from Marc. Interesting. Here's how it went.

Marc: Where's the party at?
Me: Don't know, I kept it pretty chill tonight. (Like I'm going to admit that I had just fallen asleep in front of the TV on a Saturday night)
Marc: Oh really! How's the new roomies.
Me: Fantastic. Although I got a fabulous new haircut today, so they're suffering from Hair Envy.
Marc: LOL! Send me a picture when you get a chance, I'm curious.
Me: Well, it looks bad right now, so you're going to have to wait on that one.
Marc: Cool. Well have a goodnight!

Seriously. WHAT THE FUCK?

If he was looking to booty call me- why didn't he just come out and say it? Is anyone else completely confused by this man's behavior? What did he want? Did our whole entire conversation about gettin jiggy from earlier last week completely escape his memory?

Sunday was a seriously alcohol filled brunch at my good friend, George's apartment. Then I spent the rest of the day back at my apartment just lounging around with my roommates, making our place more and more of a home everyday.

Today's Title from: Mama Said Knock You Out, by LL Cool J

Labels: Marc, Scott

Since I just pulled a hair out of my head, where the end had split at least 6 times, I would wager that the haircut that I'm getting tomorrow is LONG overdue. I'm very excited/nervous. I'm going to someone new (which all women understand is a BIG deal) and I'm considering cutting some of the length off. It's very long now. The longest it's ever been in my whole life. To-my-bra-strap long. I love it. But it's hard to deal with, and on the days that I don't wash it, there's a ZERO percent chance that it will look good, and I have limits on how many days a week I can pull it back into a bun at the nape of my neck.

After a veritable FLURRY of texting on Tuesday, where I was under the impression that we had FINALLY made a solid decision to stop being pussies and have sex already, I haven't heard another word from Marc. Par for the course I suppose. I hate having to teach myself to stop expecting things from people. It's not any fun becoming disillusioned. I guess my Great Regret will just have to remain that way. Sigh.

The weekend holds promise. Two brunches that I am very much looking forward, The Haircut, and a possible outing with my new friend, Spatch. I'd write about how I'm super excited at the possibility of hanging out with her again, but then she'd know that I have a little bit of a Girl Crush on her and all my credibility would be ruined. :)

Today's Title from: Ghetto Pop Life by Danger Mouse and Jemini

Labels: Marc, Spatch

I could write about how Cam asked me to reconsider. How he wanted more time. In almost the same breath where he told me that he can't give me 100%. I said no. And I haven't spoken to him since.

I could write about how on Tuesday, Marc propositioned me with a 'Friends with Benefits' type of relationship. I'm not ready to talk about it yet. And since I haven't heard from him since Tuesday, I'm guessing that he doesn't have the cojones to go through with it anyway.

I could write about the break that I want to go on. How I feel absolutely no desire whatsoever for maybe the first time in my life to not date at all. I don't want to expect. I don't want to hope. I don't want butterflies. I just don't want to hurt.

Mostly, I want to write about Spatch. Her and I met for drinks at the most fabulous wine bar last night. She ordered the Tapas and I enjoyed it immensely. We both worried that it might be weird- two bloggers meeting for the first time after reading all of the details of each others lives has that potential. It was definitely NOT weird. It was more as if I had known her for years. She was everything I expected her to be and more. She understands the concept of doing something stupid, something you know is wrong for you- but you can't stop yourself from doing it just the same. 2 hours of great conversation, food and wine went by and I can't wait until we hang out again.

You should all be so lucky.

Labels: Cam, Marc, Spatch

Sweet fancy Moses. I am going to need some serious recovery time after the weekend that I just had.

Friday night: I went out with my long-lost stepsister. My dad married her mom (a.k.a. The Dragon Lady or The Wicked Witch of the West) when I was 5. They got divorced when I was 18. In the 13 year interim of family togetherness, Allison and I had a serious love/hate relationship. At times she was my best friend. Other times, my bitterest enemy. After our parents divorced, we just let the relationship die, tainted as we both were by the animosity between our parents.

10 years later, that animosity has faded, she found me on MySpace and her and her boyfriend came out to New York for the weekend and I spent a lot of time with them.

We started out at a fantastic wine bar in SoHo, followed by dinner at Lombardi's- the oldest/best pizza joint in New York, then I took them to my favorite Irish pub in the West Village and we ended the night with hot fudge sundae's at Serendipity.

I had a surprisingly really good time. We laughed a lot at the memories of our ridiculously stupid antics as children and told the story of Allison getting so drunk at 14 that she fell in the bathtub and poured Mr. Bubble all over her head so many times that her boyfriend nearly strangled us. It was surprisingly easy and comfortable after a 10 year hiatus and the competitiveness that had plagued us as children seemed completely gone. Praise allah for maturity, I suppose.

Saturday I spent all day with Karen and Shannon- moving them out of their apartment and into mine. I had anticipated a horribly long and arduous day where we would all be ready to kill each other at the end of it. For a move out of a 3rd story walkup, the pain was relatively minimal. By 4 pm, we had returned the U-haul, devoured a meal at Popeye's and turned in the keys to their landlord.

The rest of the night was spent cleaning and rearranging.

And it I know it hasn't been apparent yet (I've been busy and tired), and I'm not saying this just cause she reads this (Hi Boo!), I love having Karen there. I love planning what we're going to do with the place, and watching her fix the things that I can't (the TV and the remote). I love her Cuisinart food processor and I don't even mind how she watches TV like a man.

I was sore and exhausted, but when I went to bed on Saturday night, I knew that life was good.

Sunday I woke up so sore in my legs that they have been spasming about once an hour all day yesterday and today. The cure for sore legs? Brunch with bottomless mimosa's! Allison, her boyfriend, my friend Michelle and I met up at our favorite brunch place in the Lower East Side and got tanked on mimosa's. Going to Chinatown for some knock-off handbags (not for me! I don't buy knockoffs) next was probably not in our best interest, but we did it anyway. Allison loved the adventure of the secret back rooms filled with fake couture bags. I had a good time just watching her wide-eyed wonder of it all.

Then a superbowl party, which I didn't enjoy as much as I could/should have, as I was fading fast. My body was exhausted and it just wanted to be home. In bed.

Soon enough the night was over and I was in a cab, thankfully heading home. To Karen!

All weekend, I cried only once very briefly because I was missing Cam.

I got my tax refund this morning! Which adds two more things to the List of Things that I Love Fanatically (#1 on that list is Doritos)
-Turbo Tax Online
-Direct Deposit

There is an episode of Seinfeld where George keeps trying to break up with this girl that he's dating, and she keeps refusing to allow it. (Non-sequitor here: I have a theory that almost every situation in life has a corresponding Seinfeld episode. I'm just sayin'.) It's an absolutely hilarious episode, and I feel like I am currently living it.

Since Cam and I broke up over instant messenger, I know- not exactly smooth, but it's just how it happened, I was glad the for 'One Last Night' because it would give me a chance to say goodbye. To see him and get to be close to him one last time. I know he was aware of the gravity of the situation, as everything was a little different last night. We didn't talk much, and just laid in each other's arms for a long, long time. Even the sex was different. Better. More emotionally charged. A bit of a feeling of desperation to it.

Once we fell asleep, I dreamed about Cam. I dreamed that we were fighting a lot and breaking up. I dreamed about finding him with other women. Then I would wake up, in his arms, and for a minute be reassured that everything was okay. Then I would remember. This was our swan song. I went through this cycle over and over again throughout the night.

This morning. I was the first to get up as he stayed in bed. As I picked up my purse and buttoned my coat, he reached his arms out and pulled me down next to him.

Cam: When am I going to see you again?

Pause....

Me: You're not.
Cam: What? (as if I had just told him that there would never be another Christmas)
Me: Uh, I thought we had agreed....
Cam: We'll talk later.
Me: Uhmmmm (my non-committal-I-think-you-might-be-nuts noise)

I leaned down and kissed him.

Me: Goodbye

I expected to cry the entire cab ride home.

Not a tear.

Instead I felt numb. Drained. Exhausted. Defeated.

Tired.

Today's Title from: This Woman's Work by Kate Bush

Labels: Cam

2 1/2 years ago, I experienced my first real heartbreak. And it rocked me, to the very core of who I was. Enough to make me question all of my personal beliefs that resulted in a major lifestyle change for me. My heart absolutely shattered. And it took months and months of recovery for me to ever feel normal again.

But the truth is, I've never been the same. I picked up the pieces of my broken heart and tried to put everything together again, but in all the wrong ways turning myself into a bit of a pornographic Humpty Dumpty.

I've searched for validation, something to make me feel whole again in the most ridiculous places. I've expected other people to fill in me the things that I lack. I've rationalized terrible behavior from terrible men, because I just want to be back in that place- where I love someone and they love me.

Every break-up gets easier. I cry. I feel awful. I move on. There isn't anybody that I'm still crying about 6 months later. But with each subsequent man that I let into my life that doesn't really deserve me, I chip away at my self-worth. I value myself less and less. And the void gets bigger and bigger.

I want to feel complete without a man.

I want to feel whole, filled with nothing but my own self-worth.

I want to be alone and I want to be okay with it.

Today's Title from: I'm Not That Girl by Idina Menzel in Wicked