Adventures in Absurdity

2011-12-31T11:33:00.000-08:00

2011: I can't say i'll think of you fondly

1. What did you do in 2011 that you’d never done before?

Went to South Dakota.

I would not recommend it.

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I don't think I made any last year. This year: get over it.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

I don't think so... but it seems that a bunch of friends are incubating

fetuses at the moment. 2012 will be the year of babies and weddings.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

No.

5. What countries did you visit?

I'll count SD as a separate country. I did not recognize the moon there.

6. What would you like to have in 2012 that you lacked in 2011?

$$. peace.

7. What dates from 2011 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

August 17.

September 11.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Taking 14 credits, 3 jobs, dealing with heartbreak, and making

out at the end of the semester alive, with straight A's.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I had to ask for two extensions. One after I realized my ex dumped

me for a 24 year old, and the other when I just basically collapsed,

physically and mentally. I still got A's on those assignments, eventually,

so I guess it's fine.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

Not really. I think i had the beginnings of a stress fracture prior

to the half marathon, and my back hurts to the point that friends have

flinched while merely touching it. I won't be overly maudlin and count

heartbreak as an actual physical break. i suppose there are worse things.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

My fox t-shirt. It's rad. And has a story about a fox that stole cheese on

the inside. As though the shirt was made simply for me.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

My friends. All of them. Sue, who travelled cross-country to visit me

for a weekend. And all those who held my sanity when i was not able.

And my parents who never liked him anyway. Mom, "I wasn't going

to say it if you were really in love with him, but I thought you could

do better. And, you know what i didn't like about him? That he was

homeschooled." My mom is SO RAD.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

RB. Never been so hurt in my life. Undermined my definition of

love that somebody could so easily treat me like that.

14. Where did most of your money go?

Grad school. booze.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

kittens. weddings to come.

16. What song will always remind you of 2011?

"Gypsy Faded" - Joseph Arthur

"Colder Weather" - Zak Brown Band

"Things Change" - Caitlin Rose

"Mama's Broken Heart" - MIranda Lambert

"Payne's Bay" - Beirut

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? sadder
b) thinner or fatter? I think i was fatter last year around this time, but probably about the same. lost a bunch of weight earlier in the semester, but replenished it with booze.
c) richer or poorer? Poorer, despite the three jobs. Tuition's a bitch.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

sleep. spin.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

driving. crying.

20. How did you spend Christmas?

At Beth's family's place. I rode a horse in the snow!!! Rocky Mountain

Christmas and surrounded by warmth. win.

21. Did you fall in love in 2011?

Yeah.

22. What was your favorite TV program?

Parks & Rec? Maybe.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

RB. And, sadly and pathetically, a girl I've never met.

24. What was the best book you read?

Bluets - Maggie Nelson (blew my fucking mind)

Schizophrene - Bhanu Kapil

-probably the first time ever that my "best books" are all from classes

taken

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I'm pretty into Lykke Li at the moment. Not really a discovery, though.

26. What did you want and get?

Good question.

27. What did you want and not get?

Home for Christmas. Security of a relationship.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?

The Future - Miranda July

Also, The Beginners

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

Oh, shit. 30 was good. I celebrated first in Boston with my amazing

friends. Then, in Snowmass with my amazing parents. Then Fort Collins

with my amazing friends.

30. What is one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Not having my heart broken.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2011?

Pick an outfit and go with it. Until a scruffy Alaskan who owns two t-shirts starts

to critique your style. Then you know it's time to change.

32. What kept you sane?

Friends. Wine.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

cliche, but Ryan Gosling

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

Environmental issues. Really, though, watching the news made me

cry a lot this year.

35. Who did you miss?

I miss a lot. There's a lot of missing in me.

36. Who was the best new person you met?

Not that I met her this year, but Lauren's become so much closer

and held my sanity with Herculean strength. And the laughing, oh

the laughing.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2011.

It goes on.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

"you broke my heart" - Lavender Diamond

"you found you another love. she's gone and given up her hand,

the one you call the one. guess it was a long time coming.... i am

still the fool." - caitlin rose

"that's what this turmoil has been about. that and the rumors of

who you been screwing.... but darlin you were definitely the last

one of us standing when you gypsy faded on us. I needed to say goodbye

but you gypsy faded on us." - Joseph Arthur

Excerpts from My Fourth Grade Journal (1)

2010-04-13T19:29:00.000-07:00

"My family went to Hunter over the weekend. I missed soccer night again. My sister and I made a fort. We didn't finish it though. The mice went to the bathroom in the bathroom. We found a dead mouse in the garbage can. It was gross. Liz and I got pumpkins."

"Yesterday my mom bought me a new jacket. It is white. On the sleeves it is hot pink. It is really cool! My mom said my other jacket is old and raggy. I don't think so but I didn't say that."

"My mom bought me a book. It is a Baby-Sitters Club book.... My mom isn't even letting me read it untill [sic] we get to Florida."

"Today is Sara's party. I got her a shirt with cats on it. I wanted it."

(oh good lord.)

"Saturday was my mom's birthday. She was forty-six. I got her a pair of earings. They were very dangly. I bought them myself because they were only $5.00. Even though I bought them they were from Liz and me."

(Bitch owes me $2.50)

I'm Easily Annoyed

2010-01-21T19:06:00.000-08:00

Well, hey, it's Girl Talk Thursday!

PET PEEVES

Texting while you’re talking to me/having a drink with me/having dinner with me/hanging out with me

No, it’s cool. Go ahead; I’m sure that it must be pertinent for you to answer your mysterious unnamed friend RIGHT NOW. It doesn’t make me feel boring, or like you would rather be somewhere else than in my company, or like I am not sufficiently entertaining for you. No, no, it doesn’t make me regress into my high school self, ostracized and dorky. Oh wait, I am still dorky. Oh shit.

Seriously. I hate when people text in social situations.

Talking to me in the public bathroom, while you are in your stall, especially if I am in my stall.

Bathroom time is ME time, where I would like to forget that there are other people in my office, let alone my bathroom space. And, yeah, I’m peeing. Let’s not make conversation, ok?

I seriously think a coworker [who shall go unnamed] would prefer to schedule all her meetings to take place in the bathroom. I’ve reverted into adolescent behavior to try and “train” her out of the habit of talking and making impromptu status meetings WHILE she is peeing with the silent treatment. I do not answer her questions in the bathroom, especially if I am in a stall. For the most part, it has worked. But, really? Peeing? I sort of don’t want to talk about due dates and authors.

Also, even if I’m just washing my hands, I really do not think it is appropriate (or comfortable) to make small talk over the undeniable sounds of urination. Like, take it outside if you want to chat.

Bad Drivers

THERE IS NO REASON FOR YOU TO BREAK! KEEP GOING! I can see your break lights…. seriously?

I’m a good driver… to the extent that I make reckless mistakes because I’m so confident. Whatever. I drive stick and judge others who cannot drive stick. I blame/credit my dad for imbuing with me driving audacity. Also, I really think that driving stick has forced me to understand and pay attention to the terrain and traffic a bit more. I have a sense of the rhythm of traffic, when to break, when to down-shift, when to accelerate, etc**. For me, it’s almost inherent, and I lack the grace to understand why others cannot do this.

** this is not to say that I do not (often) make driving mistakes. One of my favorite quotes from my bff (who used to terrorize my parents with careening around the corners of our childhood street while dropping me off in her vintage red pickup truck) is “I know you’re going to break… I just don’t know when.”

Also? Eating noises. R.E.P.U.L.S.E. me.

Short, Stumpy, and Strong (TWSS)

2010-01-14T19:47:00.000-08:00

Girl Talk Thursday

Your Favorite Body Part

[I’ve read Girl Talk Thursday from afar for a while, and pined away, not thinking myself worthy of contributing. But, I like the topics, and yeah, I have stuff to say.]

It’s not secret that I’ve had my share of body-hatred issues. Hey, I’m a girl, and therefore a professional in the expostulation genre of, “Gah! I hate my ____.” (nose, face, gut, ass, etc etc)

But my legs.

My legs, are they feminine? No. Do I often covet those blessed with thighs the size of my ankles? Daily. Would I trade my tree trunks for a less efficient, but longer and lither model? Absolutely not.

My legs are strong. I am blessed/cursed with the genetics that add muscle to my thighs if I, you know, walk downstairs. or sneeze. But my legs get me places. At a certain history in my life, in the 50+ miles per week time, I could not fit boots over my calves. I chose strength over fashion. In my injury-ridden life, I mourned my beefy calves.

When I was 14, I remember my ski coach yelling from the side of the training race course, “Use those big legs of yours!” It didn’t traumatize me. I went skiing last weekend, and my legs carried me through the day, through an activity that I love.

Yeah, they’re short and stocky. And I love em.

Won't You Be My Neighbor? Please?

2010-01-06T10:46:00.000-08:00

My apartment is on, what you might call (if you aspire to live in Love Actually. As I do.) the dodgy side of town. For a while, when asked, I geographically fudged the boundaries of Union Square to say that I live there (about a 15 min walk away), but through the years, I’ve grown to love and be proud of my Winter Hill affiliation. Hey, if it’s good enough for Obama and stable-themed bars replete with toothless old men (I know this from experience), it’s good enough for me! Yeah, I take the bus and the Orange line, and damnit I’m proud of it! (note: I live on THE street that served as the headquarters for the Winter Hill Gang. Again, pride abounds.)

My actual apartment building comes complete with a white picket fence, and my street is innocuous enough. Lots of people hanging out on stoops, mostly Portuguese and Italian families, or recluses such as myself. Suits me fine. For practical description, my building is mirror imaged, split in two, composed of two two-room studio first floor apartments, one two bedroom apt on the second floor and my odd little attic one-bedroom. Repeat on the mirrored side, with a shared basement and parking lot in back.

For the past couple years, there have been a steady rotation of downstairs neighbors in the 2-room apartment below me. First were “the boys.” They were nice enough, if young, and, well, guys. They played a lot of video games. I only ever heard them during football when they liked to yell. Then, were “the girls” who qualify as the worst neighbors I’ve had. They got evicted after using the basement (think Blaire Witch Project-eque basement with a washing machine) for a party. And then there was the incident when one of their acquaintances threw a brick into one of the girl’s car. I had to complain to them about noise a couple times (like, hi! Some of us actually wake up in the morning, so loud parties at 3:00 am on a Weds isn’t cool), but I could live with it. My 1st floor neighbor HATED them, understandably because he lived beneath their parties and the sound of their hooker-boots a clacking.

Which brings us to my current neighbor.

I'm pretty sure he is possessed. Or part of a religion that requires LOUD, indistinguishable chanting at odd hours. I noticed first evidence of this was when walking past his door on a Sunday morning and heard what I can only describe as really fast monotonous chanting. Since then, I've noticed that this usually occurs around 5:00 in the morning, around the time my alarm goes off and I go to the bathroom, which is where I can most hear it. The other morning I made note to try and determine what he was saying/yelling. It sounds something like:

Gagagaga! GA GA GA! JESUS! JESUS! GAGAGAGGA!

But, I’m not sure if it's really "Jesus" or just sort of sounds like it through the muffled walls. Sometimes it sounds more like really really fast chanting. It is starting to freak the shit out of me. Also, my walls/floors are obviously paper thin. So, given my experience in the world of liturgical pedagogy, I’ve narrowed it down to: demonic, Holy Roller, is talking in tongues, or part of some undetermined religion that requires chanting regularly at odd hours...

This Saturday night, (because, yes, I went to bed at 10:30), I could hear him yelling/wining, "Stop it! Stop it! I'm too tired! Let go, stop it!" Pretty sure his girlfriend was raping him. Or else, the demons had him again and he was attempting to fight them off. Monday morning, the gf drove into the parking lot as I was walking out around 6 am. Also very bizarre.

Also, one of the 1st floor neighbors has a pretty constant stream of Indian pop music playing. I would like to imagine that his apartment is a perpetual set for a Bollywood movie, but he’s only ever glared at me, and I have yet to glimpse any disco lights or stray beads from an elaborate sari escaping from underneath the door.

Of course, on self-reflection, I am the crazy woman in the attic who laughs sporadically nothing (I crack myself up), and yells “No! Lily! Stop it!” to "nothing" (because I am technically not allowed to have a cat… yeah…). So, I guess those in cardboard walls shouldn’t cast stones, or something like that.

2009 Can Suck It!

2010-01-03T11:49:00.001-08:00

(totally stole this from Molly. Also, this is my lazy way of making it back to this blog.)

1. What did you do in 2009 that you’d never done before?

Took spin! Became obsessed with spin! Annoyed my friends with my obsession with spin!

2. Did you keep your new year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I always have the same general self-improvement “goals” in rotation. This year, on the professional, financial, personal, romantic, health, and superficial front, I probably met absolutely none of them. In fact, my goals were met with universal futility, which inspired me to set smaller goals. Like: brush teeth twice a day. And: Go to the doctor (for the first time since the pediatrician) this year.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

No, thank god. Babies freak me out. Especially when people my age have them come out of their bodies.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Norman. He was my best friend. Yes, I know he was a cat.

5. What countries did you visit?

Um, does Colorado count? That was an awesome trip.

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?

Money, a sense of purpose, some inclination of what to do with my life.

7. What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?

Oct 3^rd: Des and Ricky’s wedding. Made me love love. And Maine. Also, come to think of it, Labor Friends-Day-Weekend made me love Maine.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Adopting Lily and nursing her to health, despite the trepidations voiced by my dad and corroborated by our vet.

9. What was your biggest failure?

Grad school, and my body failed me pretty regularly (hip, foot, foot bone).

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

I still had my pubic bone stress fracture at this time last year, plus metatarsalgia around May?, plus metatarsal stress fracture from August through September. Fun times, fun times…

11. What was the best thing you bought?

A trip to Telluride for myself. Does Lily count? I technically had to pay vet bills to get her.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

My friends have been pretty celebratory-worthy. Idk? Chuck Bass? He was most improved, I think.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

The characters on The Jersey Shore (although I cannot stop watching it!)

14. Where did most of your money go?

Doctor’s visits, xrays, MRIs, and probably (ok, definitely) alcohol. Lots of it.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?

Des and Ricky’s wedding!!! Carolyn and Mike’s engagement! Lauren and Kyle’s engagement! This year made me love love. And look forward to spending my savings on celebrating love in 2010. And I say that without any hint of resentment.

16. What song will always remind you of 2009?

MILEY CYRUS --- Party in the USA! OMG. Just OMG.

TAYLOR SWIFT --- Love Song!!

(I promise you I listen to real music. I do.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

a) happier or sadder? decidedly happier. I was probably depressed for a good portion of 2009. Especially around the holidays. I did a fair amount of laughing in the latter part of 2009.

b) thinner or fatter? faaaaatttter (hey, I broke my hip, ok?)

c) richer or poorer? I consciously took a personal “financial vacation” this year as I dumped all my money into doctors visits and feeling sorry for myself.

18. What do you wish you’d done more of?

Made out with random dudes. there. I said it.
Also, ran. Poor me.

19. What do you wish you’d done less of?

Dealing with my family. Crying. Working. Feeling sorry for myself.

20. How did you spend Christmas?

Christmas Eve: Dinner out with parents and their ski friends. LOVELY. Reignited my long-standing romance with Upstate New York and wilderness starry nights, and fireplaces, and Christmas lights on snow, and buffets with crab legs.

Christmas Day: Skiing with parents, followed by a 5 mile run. Followed by hot-tubbing and drinking and eating with parents and friends. BEST!

21. Did you fall in love in 2009?

meh.

Does my orthopedist count?

22. What was your favorite TV program?

How I Met Your Mother. I love me some NPH.

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?

I like to hate, so probably. I’ve been known to do the “Ugh! I HATE him!” thing whenever a relationship doesn’t work.

24. What was the best book you read?

Fiction: The Housekeeper and the Professor (sob)

Nonfiction: Born to Run!

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?

I’m sort of obsessed with “The Longest Day” by Megafaun. I also spent a lot of quality time with The Low Anthem.

26. What did you want and get?

Lily. She is my joy.

27. What did you want and not get?

Grad school. That pretty much destroyed me in a way I still cannot coherently explain.

28. What was your favorite film of this year?

Where the Wild Things Are. I cried. Craig and Lindsay made fun of my crying.

29. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I have amazing friends. I cannot say this enough. On my 28th bday, I in no way wanted to celebrate. My friends organized a pre-party at their apartment, baked, served me copious amounts of alcohol, and then we went out to my favorite bar. I apparently had several conversations I do not recall, but I’d like to think I was charming. The night ended weird, in the living room of Running Man’s best friend and bf's awkward roommate, with my life-partner-wingman, on whom Awkward Roommate has an undeniable and uncomfortable-to-watch crush. She is a good friend, no doubt.

30. What is one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Getting into grad school. Losing 15 pounds.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2009?

Flip flops.

32. What kept you sane?

my friends. kittens. wine. email.

seriously, though, I could not have gotten through this year without my friends. and wine.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

Andrew Bird. Skinny, tall, plays the violin and whistles, and uses the most erudite lyrics i've heard in indy hipster music.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?

Gay Marriage.

35. Who did you miss?

Norman.

36. Who was the best new person you met?

Well, I didn’t technically meet Lindsay this year, but I love that we got into so many more shenanigans this year together, to help solidify our friendship. She instigated our stalking Man Man (Honis Honis) at a concert this summer. She got her boobs signed. We both got massive hangovers. Incidentally, she likes to blame me for her hangovers, and the subject of her last email to may or may not have been “FUCK YOU!!!!!!.” That’s love, folks.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.

so it goes.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

“I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me.” – Mountain Goats

To Answer Any Questions...

2009-10-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

Why, yes, I am really good at alienating people at social events.

Yes, it is 3:00 in the afternoon in this picture.

No, no I am not entirely sober.

Yes, that is RED white in my hand.

Shoes actually were totally optional.

The Trader Joe’s Check-Out Guy Thinks My Food is Hot

2009-09-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

Check-Out Guy: Wait…. is this all yours?

Me: Yup

Check-Out Guy: White wine and hot sauce?

Me: Gotta have my hot sauce.

Check-Out Guy: Oh, yeah, totally. Siratcha is the best though…

[Awkward pause:] …

Check-Out Guy: Oh! And beef jerky too?!

Me: That’s how I roll.

….

Check-Out Guy: And dark chocolate too!

*Keep in mind, one of my paranoid anxieties is that people judge me by my grocery store purchases. Which is why I usually stick to the self-checkout lanes whenever available.

Wardrobe Malfunctions

2009-09-18T10:06:00.000-07:00

I have become a pro at my morning routine. I stumble through my apartment, pack a gym bag without the benefit of my contacts or glasses, in less than 20 seconds. This is mainly due to the fact that I have so often in the past forgotten key components that the list:

· towel
· underwear
· bra
· seasonally appropriate outerwear: tank top, sweater, jeans, etc etc
· shoes, etc etc

is almost ingrained in my subconscious. I mutter it to myself as I wander around my apartment picking up stray pieces, to the tune of, “Ok. socks. What else do I need? bra. Ok. ok. let’s go. Let’s go jo. cardigan? Yes, there it is….” Yes, I am the crazy woman in the attic. Luckily I live alone. Unluckily for my downstairs neighbor, the walls are paper thin.

When I was working in the Jerz, the gym was across the street from our office, and the gaggle of ladies who crowded the dressing area pre-work called our mishaps “Marshall’s runs.” Yes, I have a stash of cheapo underwear from Marshalls that I keep in reserve in my gym bag.

This week I had not one, but two serious bra mishaps. I feel like a novice.

Monday:

I forgot my bra. This article is an unfortunate necessity as my life. Support is needed. Also? On Monday I chose to wear a rather revealing tank top and had left my cardigan at my desk at work. So, no cover at all. Sag-tastic.

Keep in mind that in order to leave my gym, I have to walk past the front desk where the woman always, without fail, even when she is on the phone or talking to a new prospective member or entrenched in a conversation with a coworker says, “Have a great day Joanna.” I have no idea what her name is. Then, I walk down the stairs where groups of students at the Lincoln Tech are congregating in groups of 25-30 at the exact time when I leave the gym. It’s sort of like entering a high school cafeteria and being subjected to walk through a crowd of the popular kids. Suffice it to say, my departure does not go without obstacles of human eyes. My orthopedist’s office is also on the first floor of the same building and while I have never run into my ortho en route to or from the gym I may have fantasized about that. (Don’t judge me.)

Also? On Monday, as I was attempting to slip unnoticed through the obstacle course of bodies in between me, my car, and my bra in my apartment, the woman at the desk said, “Nice shirt Joanna.” I’m pretty sure there was a stifled chuckle. She has never before complimented my clothing, and I have worn that tank top roughly 80 million times this summer. And it’s really not a nice tank top. Sweet.

Tuesday:

You would have thought I had learned my lesson. Oh, I did in fact make sure to pack my bra. Top priority. However, in clothing myself, I realized that the fit was… off. I was unevenly distributed. Turns out an underwire had fallen out…. somewhere. And, as I was running late(r than normal), I made the brilliant decision to not return to my apartment and search for the underwire amidst my gargantuan pile of laundry. Luckily, I was wearing a rather billowy top, but I did spend the day in utter paranoia that everyone was judging my lopsided boobs.

I am hoping to learn to properly clothe myself soon.

Devastating

2009-09-12T15:54:00.000-07:00

I promised myself I would not blog anymore about my orthopedist. (Let's be honest; I'm bordering on an unhealthy/single white female obsession.) But. At my last appointment he broke up with me. For good this time. He's leaving me for a new job across the country. And, you know, to have a baby. Whatever. I may or may not have cried. Ok, I cried. I feel abandoned. This may be the worst thing that has happened to me this year (in a year of full on craptastic events that have provided a steady shitstorm).

Also, I may or may not have bought his soon-to-be-baby a gift to give him at our next (and last EVER) appointment:

(He's a skier; he's excited about moving to a place that is accessible to the Lake Tahoe area slopes. The baby is a girl.)

Is this weird? And by weird, I mean creepy.

The thing is, I've seen my orthopedist more often than I have my own parents this year. Through a series of unfortunate injuries, he's become a part of my life. And he's cool. And I trust him. And he's helped me get over my doctor-related anxieties. And he's not hard on the eyes. (too far?)

On Pain

2009-08-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

(to the tune of Carly Simon’s “Haven’t Got Time for the Pain”…)

So, for all of the two of you who read this, you know me in “real” life and it’s utterly redundant to mention that last October I was sidelined by a stress fracture to my pubic bone, and forced to take 5 months off of running.

Running had been something that, in my professionally meandering and romance-devoid post-collegiate life, I focused on. It was my solitary pursuit, my attempt at self-definition, and it made me feel solid, self-confident in a corporeal way that, that given my history of skinny obsessions, I had not felt in a long time. I was good at it, in a time when I wasn’t really good at much else. Pain even made me feel stronger, proof that I was impervious to the aches and minor obstacles. I was a runner, and damn it, I was shamelessly proud.

Initially, I self-diagnosed the pain as ITB problems (oh! such a distinctively runner’s affliction!) and, when it became completely debilitating, a groin pull.

Ironically, the thing that made me feel solid eventually tore a gaping crack into my pubic bone.

And then, all at once, injury made me feel less whole, and I could no longer ignore it.

In the physical day-to-day, in the grand scheme of human mobility, I was ok. I could walk around, could mask a minor limp, and often, the pain was relatively minor. Sure, in the beginning, I was doubled over more than once, angrily cursing the motorists who courteously stopped so that I could cross the street. (Didn’t they know I could barely make it to the other side without feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of me?!? Why did they insist on being unwelcome voyeurs to my private handicap?!) But, in general, the pain itself was manageable. It was the anxiety about the pain that was the problem.

I obsessed and constantly visualized the thin line of absent bone in my abdomen [thank you radiology, for that oh-so-clear image] as if it was an explosive devise that would activate at any time. I was mentally pregnant with it and there was no escape. When I was walking, I feared that with each stride, shards of bone were protruding into my stomach, tearing up my insides, and potentially collapsing me at any moment. Yes, this was illogical, but I had also been admonished by my orthopedist, affronted by online stories of woe, and threatened with words like “surgery,” “wheelchair,” and “crutches.” [Yes, I think my ortho was playing the “tough love” role in scaring me into taking it easy, but still. I'm prone to anxiety!]

When I was still, I dreaded movement. Even rolling over in bed reminded me of my injury and waking up became more difficult. Each day held the potential to be DAY 1! of my requisite six-week purgatory of pain-free life before I could return to running, and I absolutely dreaded the moment when I would have to try to raise my body (turns out your abdomen’s sort of fundamental to sitting up) and feel the pang. I procrastinating getting up, getting my day started, even when I could not sleep. The problem was, I had proven to myself that I was impervious to pain, and now I was forced to focus on it on it constantly.

There was the Ohmygod-I-cannot-run-away-from-danger-feeling-of-insecurity. Like, I physically could not run. I tried once, for the bus, and I COULD NOT DO IT. This freaked the shit out of me. I was vulnerable.

There was the I-cannot-put-on-my-pants feeling of pathetic-ness. Yeah, for about 5 months, I could not stand on my left leg, bend over, and raise my right leg. It was a pretty brilliant moment of accomplishment when I could finally put on my pants without feeling geriatric. Also, I couldn’t lift my leg into my car. I had to sit, manually lift it with my arm and place it in my car. Weird.

Eventually, I healed. Took about 5 months, but I did heal.

There were positives I drew from being injured: I learned how to cross-train, I learned how to gain weight without freaking out too much, I learned how to focus on health rather than trying to be thin. I, you know, fell in love with my orthopedist (sigh). And, when I got my SECOND stress fracture this year in my foot, I knew when to stop and not aggravate the injury. Which doesn’t mean that I don’t occasionally tear up at the sight of a running magazine or salivate with jealousy while being passed on the street by a runner. This time, I know that running will come back to me; I will just have to be patient. This time I can deal. Doesn’t mean I won’t bitch about it, though.

How's YOUR summer going?

2009-08-18T19:19:00.001-07:00

Priorities. Home. Peace.

2009-08-11T10:04:00.000-07:00

It is easy, living in a city, to get preoccupied with that city-centric life, to place undue importance on the weekend events and social gatherings.

I find this to be especially true for me – I hate my job, love my friends, and often find that weekends are the only time to truly indulge in the friend-aspect. Weeknights hold the prescient anxieties of the next day’s regimented schedule and it is often marred by that foreboding feeling. In my old age, sleep is important. Even more important than happy hour.

So, once in the cycle of weeknight dread and weekend fun, it is sometimes difficult for me to extract myself and take a weekend to do alternative activities, even those I feel are intrinsic to me. I forget the feeling of rejoining my infinite past selves and memories at home and the outdoors. The comfort. I am not a city person.

This weekend we escaped.

It was nice. And nice to introduce my friends to a place that is so dear to me. To introduce new memories to my home.

I forget that the sound of running streams calms me and that I used to sit for childhood eternities on a rock, watching a stream. I forget the feeling of the stars. And then the sadness at knowing I will have to dislocate my head from stars. And the comfort in that sadness. Because a place cannot be home if you are not sad to leave it behind.

I’m going back next weekend. Somerville will wait for me. In fact, I don’t think it will notice at all.

Today's Quotes from the Cubicle

2009-07-29T12:10:00.000-07:00

“It’s never lonely in the garden.” – Ronald, whilst cuddling and stroking a ginormous zucchini. En route to somewhere.

“Where did he get a gourd?!?”* – Young Wooding

*I never ask these questions in reference to Ronald. Some things are better left unanswered.

Album Review: Megafaun's Gather, Form & Fly

2009-07-27T14:26:00.001-07:00

“Megafaun's songs change shape constantly-- a thrillingly mercurial quality that makes Gather, Form & Fly a headily absorbing, occasionally unsettling listen. Despite their musical wanderlust, the trio remain firmly rooted in the Appalachian foothills, enamored with folk traditions and pastoral airs.” (Pitchfork)

Pitchfork rating: 8.1
My (therefore the correct) rating: 6.5

Sorry, Pitchfork, I have to disagree.

I am admittedly a Pitchfork lemming. While I know to take their ratings scale with a grain of salt (the range of rankings 7 through 8 really need to be exploded times 10 to make them remotely accurate), I am the first to jump off the iTunes purchasing cliff when Pitchfork rates an album over 8.0. Throw a banjo into the mix, and I'm practically salivating.

The first track is an instrumentally solid bluegrass-based intro to start the album with promise. I am a sucker for double-stops played on a fiddle; they say bluegrass integrity to me. Interest level totally peaked.

The second track. Is. Boring. Not necessarily bad, but it sounds like a cross-section between Crosby, Stills, & Nash with Jackson Browne.

The third track. Is. Boring. The Jayhawks played it better. Seriously, it really sounds like the Jayhawks.

Unfortunately, it is exactly the cacophonous digressions lauded by Pitchfork that irk me. Maybe I am getting to be a persnickety crotchety old fogy, waving my fists in exasperation at “Kids these days!”, preferring to listen to Bob Dylan and Phish than explore beyond the expanse of comfortable listening, but I find no listening pleasure in the electronic dissonance (yes, Wilco, I’m talking to you). I mean, I don’t think I’m alone in finding a erhu to create a disharmonious, nails-on-a-chalkboard-esque sound, or electronic backfeed to be grating. (Walking through Park Street Station at rush hour has induced and exacerbated many a headache, thanks to Mr. Erhu Player.) I can retrospectively give great reverence to my childhood violin teacher for being able to withstand the heavy-bowed shrieks emitted in my unskilled youth. So, when these sounds erupt from a perfectly good folk song, my hand instinctively hovers over the “next” button on my iPod. For example, Columns, a pretty solid track, devolves inexplicably towards the end into an other-worldly soundtrack to an alien movie from the 70’s. Why?! These digressions serve to provide extraneous noise rather than enrich and solidify the album.

The tracks that do adhere to the roots base are fantastic, and I find myself playing them on repeat. There is variation, musical tangents to the straightforward bluegrass style that avoid monotony and satisfy the need for diversity. Solid Ground forays into the gritty crowd-riling blues rock (I think it sounds somewhat reminiscent of Man Man, but you can disagree. Either way, it’s a fun track), while other tracks explore the string-instrumentals of classic bluegrass. And if you want musical experimentation that plays within the genre of a cappella harmonization, there’s some of that too.

The Longest Day makes the entire album worthwhile. Listen to it. Love it. It makes me want to live in a land of fields and banjos and longing. In the 1920’s.

Shameless Confession of the Week

2009-07-27T10:43:00.000-07:00

The highlight of my week last week was receiving a personal voicemail from my orthopedist. From him. Not the secretaries sending automated appointment reminders, but from him directly.

I’d be happy to play you the voicemail. Because of course I saved it. We can totally analyze his word choices (“…and see how you’re coming along...”) and decide whether the true intention of his call was really to coerce me to take my bone density test or whether that was just a pretense he used to get to see me again. Yeah. He totally misses me.

(I may need to work on getting a realistic crush one of these days.)

Ill Advised Email Subject Line

2009-07-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

Dear Trusted Freelancer,

While I hate to squelch creativity in your choice of email wording, I would advise against using this phrase again as your subject line:

"We're bust but can absorb even more if you need it"

I almost did not open it for fear of viruses and the proliferation of porn sites.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. It probably does not help that your last name is a well known euphemism for alcohol.

Shameless Confession of the Week

2009-07-20T10:18:00.000-07:00

The other day, I may have gotten a little (bottle of wine) drunk with the explicit purpose of trying on my bathing suit for the first time this summer. And taken pictures with my laptop camera.

It was not pretty.

Lessons learned: I totally understand beer goggles! Wine + mirror images = okkkk, this could work…. ok, I haven’t gained too much weight.

Morning reality? Uh. Gross. Pictures erased.

Also? A week’s worth of crunches does not a six-pack make.

June (in July) mix

2009-07-13T07:39:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Molly *** organized what has turned into a regular highlight in my life: a monthly mix CD exchange amongst her vast web of friends, some of whom I know, most of whom I do not. I feel honored to be one of the chosen eleven to create a mix CD once a year, and receive a similar gift of a music mix in the mail (the mail!) eleven times a year. Get it?

Ironically, it is not the receiving but the creating and giving aspect of the deal that excites me the most. It allows me to share the of-the-moment personalized soundtrack in my head with strangers and friends (hello narcissism) and force them to listen. As I am perpetually and consistently late in my life (late for meeting people, late for sending out my bills, late for making appointments, late for sending RSVP's) my predictably procrastinating behavior reigned again, and I am sending out my mix in July. Here it is! Let me know if you want a copy!

June in July: What I am Listening to RIGHT NOW (Countrified Hipster)
Track/Artist
1. Too Sick to Pray / Phosphorescent
2. I Sleep Along / Richard Hawley
3. Her Beautiful Ideas / Guggenheim Grotto
4. Inní mér syngur vitleysingur / Sigur Ros
5. Hallelujah the Hills / Hallelujah the Hills
6. It’s That Time Again / The Dodo’s
7. Old Old Fashioned / Frightened Rabbit
8. Van Helsing Boom Box / Man Man
9. Nightswimming / R.E.M.
10. Don’t Just Do Something / Spiritualized
11. Dress Me Up, Dress Me Down / Robinella & The CC String Band
12. Give It Away / George Strait
13. Winter ‘05 / Ra Ra Riot
14. Long Ride Home / Patty Griffin
15. Train Song / Feist and Ben Gibbard
16. Cello Song / The Books + Jose Gonzaléz
17. Hunover / Woods
18. Fitz & Dizzyspells / Andrew Bird
19. See It My Way / Corey Chisel
20. Optimist vs. the Silent Alarm (When the Saints Go Marching In) /Casiotone for the Painfully Alone
21. This Year / The Mountain Goats
22. To The Ghosts Who Write History Books / The Low Anthem

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

***OOh OOh look at me! I finally figured out the html linkymajig!

F'ing Freedom!

2009-07-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

Lessons learned from this Fourth of July weekend:

1. Sunblock would have been a good thing.

2. My friends know how to alienate other patrons in a bar using country music, singing, and swaying. I think this is pretty awesome.

3. You aparently need a permit to have a backyard fire pit. The s'ville police were kind enough to demonstrate this law, and extinguish the fire for us while being complete dicks.

4. I am not too old to go to a dance/house party that is shut down by the cops (yes, two police encounters, one night, same residence).

5. Swimming is the best hangover cure.

6. I love summer (ok, lesson re-learned).

It was a good weekend filled with singing, dancing, boating, swaying, grilling, boozing, swimming.

Maybe I'll have to break the other hip... (or, Fake Crushes)

2009-06-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

I’m coming to realize that my most functional and enduring relationships have been imaginary ones. Wordlessly sharing coffee and reading suggestions with the bearded guy I see every day on the train (he knows I’m cool because of the ipod and book, right?), the tacit camaraderie with the cute fellow morning shift runner-guy at the gym, and, of course, my favorite bartender who I’m pretty sure is in love with me (he just doesn’t know it yet). These are my imaginary boyfriends, and they are the best!

When it comes to real life where it may sometimes be necessary to actually let the other person know they are in a relationship, I will be the first to admit that I am horrible at dating. In fact, I try to avoid it at all costs (ok, maybe I don’t have to try to avoid it….), based on an underlying adherence to my edict: I do not like doing things I am not good at. I will never be the pretty, charming, coy girl who captures a guy’s attention with ease and grace. I am awkward and sarcastic, I have no tact or grace, I love to prove people wrong, and I spill things. These qualities, as it turns out, are not compatible within the architecture of dating. I get incensed with the “rules” of dating that are superimposed on our own natural propensities (Whose turn is it to call? Wait how many days before contact? Who pays? Be on time or late? Blahhh.). As a result, dating to me is torturous, superficial, and constructed. So sue me; I prefer to get drunk and make out with random guys I do not know. Works for me!

I recently broke up with my latest fake crush. The romance just faded after I had no more broken bones for him to heal and the co-pay got too much to handle. But, my orthopedist will always have a warm place in my heart.

Let me preface this by saying that I have had a history of anxiety surrounding doctors. Which prevented me from seeing a doctor for six years. And which prevented me from seeing an orthopedist until I was literally doubled over in pain and unable to walk without a limp and extensive pain. But, Dr. Sexypants won my heart.

Why was Dr. Sexypants a fake crush? Well, there was the business of that suspicious silver band on his left index finger. Also, he regularly touched my pubic bone. Which is just not acceptable before the first date (or unless I’m drunk). Oh, yeah, turns out I had a severe stress fracture in my pubic bone. (I apologize to those of you who I told it was my hip. Somehow throwing out the word “pubic” in casual conversation turns people off. Plus, it’s more dramatic to say that I broke my hip.)

Case Study: Differences Between the Real and Fake Crush
In the recreational/real world: Attractive man enters the room and I immediately get all darty eyed, turn red, bury my face in a book (or a drink [or eight]), and completely ignore said attractive man.
In the doctor’s office: Cute guy with brown eyes that just sparkle in fluorescent doctor’s office light and an upturned smile enters room, I maintain my composure, confidently display my prowess of the google-based diagnosis and pray he does not ask me to take off my pants. I don’t even turn red!

In the months* that followed or “first date” (or appointment. Whatever.), I think our relationship followed a pretty traditional trajectory. Our first fight was instigated by the fact that he banned me from running and any excess walking for next four months. Just like a sensitive real crush, he empathized with me after our disagreement by talking of his struggles with own stress fracture. And how he wanted me to heal. Caring! Emotional support!

In the beginning, or honeymoon period, I would dress up for appointments. Seriously. One day this winter it was doing that raining/snowing combination of misery, and I trudged from the T stop sans umbrella to my apartment to grab my “ortho appt” clothes and a pair of dry socks. No time to dry my hair, but I DID manage to apply some mascara. Who am I? I never wear makeup, especially during the week (again, I’m a catch!).

In some ways I feared I presented myself as a caricature much like Jeff Richard’s “the drunk girl” SNL character (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RXCBigLNCGg), delusionally exuding what I thought was sex appeal, when I was, in actuality, a shameless fat man in a dress. Or a drowned rat in mascara. But! It didn't matter! Dr. Sexypants was off limits in so many regards and therefore a “safe” crush.

Therein lies the beauty of my fake crushes. Nothing can come of them, thus allowing the luxury of flirtation without consequences, and finding a comfortable domain in that land of flirtation! I could practice my charming conversational abilities while trading skiing and running stories (of COURSE he was an outdoorsman) and still maintain a safe professional distance.

I’m pretty (delusional) sure the doc covertly participated in our relationship. There was that time, for example, while he was demonstrating the particulars of my injury and runner’s physique to a student doctor, that he held my ass (because apparently my ass in unlike that of a soccer player? which apparently means I would have less more thigh and ass muscle and instead have more lean muscle? I would like to interpret this as he thinks I have a nice ass.) for an unnecessarily long period of time. Not that I’m complaining. I’m just saying… we enjoyed one another’s company. And there was the physical interaction aspect of the relationship!

Fake crushes, innocent flirtation, I think most people have those anonymous or occasional people in their lives who provide flirting fodder. A practice ground. Or just a daily pleasant sight. For example, one of my friends has a fake crush on a 22 year old (she is 28 and this is clearly not an option.). My mom has an inappropriate crush on one of her yoga instructors who is my age. She uses the excuse that she thinks he would be perfect for me. Because a semi-employed yoga instructor who lives three states away would be perfect for me. Although he is nice. I’ve taken his class. Ok, I will put him in the bank of my fake crushes.

And, while I’m not saying that any of the interactions that formed the foundation of clouds on which my fake relationships are based eradicate my awkwardness in “real” dating and flirting situations, they sure are fun. Crushes are fun.

**As it turns out, I had a pretty severe injury, one that required multiple x-rays, MRIs, caused me many tears and near-constant pain (oh, I couldn’t even find google research on it because it was mostly documented in women in the military, and otherwise pretty rare. awesome.)

Bad Poetry? Oh Noetry!

2009-06-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

Things I can never write about

the Charles and other places that are not home
winter in the summer I do not remember cold

Things I will no longer write about

Things you should already know (things without shape) (stars)
waning moon waxing moon my life as a moon the gravitational pull of the moon
you, your eyes, my maudlin muse
my hips

Things I will no longer tell you

in spring, just assume.
a face full of rhododendrons, an open palm tap of creeping flock
for two weeks and then forgetting.
I cannot recall what it was about winter.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

I was not going to write again of stars
or aching with empty swallowed stars or my star- lined houses

or missing hunger where stars used to nest.

The sadness of stars. Everybody knows this, the asymptote: number of stars to sadness.
The sadness of not seeing stars, also.

Hunger walked off,
left me
and bundled my cavalcade of stars into parkas. Left
only five orphans to gauze the space in my broken hip.

But then spring returned. I forgot again about winter. And again in spring
the need to walk off into the woods
search for home
lie face up, open mouthed
conifer-spooned stars

Hello again, stars. You’ve not changed. But you do not smell of moth balls.

-JD 05/09

Employee of the Month, I am!

2009-06-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

In the 1 hour and 47 minutes I have been at work I have*:

checked 8 nutrition blogs to see what they ate for breakfast. While I ate my doughnut.
filled my water bottle halfway, twice
made a “drive-by” of the vendor’s deposit of free weekly baked goods.
Twice
gotten coffee
Twice
checked my email more times than I would like to admit
checked Facebook more times than I would like to admit
gone to the bathroom three times (see: beverages consumed)
played Scamble on Facebook
Twice
researched new music I want to buy
made notes on how I will change my playlist for the June CD exchange
reserved a book and two CDs at the library online
written this post

I’m hoping to get some quality doodling time in at my 3:00.

*Note: 15 minutes late

As her folks drive away her dad yells, "Check the oil!", or The Time My Dad Shot a Squirrel in Our House, or Happy Father’s Day

2009-06-21T16:12:00.000-07:00

It's entirely possible that my proclivity for finding myself in absurd situations is hereditary.

Maybe it’s the combined effects of a nostalgia-inducing fake holiday and the fact that I just recently spent some time with my dad, but my inner daddy’s girl is showing. He may be an ardent Republican, he may suffer from bouts of irrational rage and have rampant OCD (which he will vehemently deny despite the glaring evidence of his photographic knowledge of the order of his tool bench, his perfectly aligned and ordered shirts and ties, and his inability to deal with life events outside his structured control), but he’s my dad and I wouldn’t have any other. In thinking of this Father’s Day, a host of stories rattled through me. I’ll skip the mush and get to the story that I think most personifies my dad: the time he shot a squirrel in our house.

Growing up, our family weekend schedule was the same for the months of December through April: get home from school on Friday, rush to pack, get in the car and drive for two hours to get to our ski house in the Catskills. Sundays were the reverse, and after a weekend of skiing and training, we would return to our suburban abode exhausted.

On this particular Sunday, I walked into my dark room, and screamed at the ceiling that was deposited on my floor. It seemed something had chewed a hole from the attic and spread a mess of drywall and insulation into my room.

For the next week, we saw evidence of a squirrel amongst us, but no actual squirrel. One day, we came home to a mess of skinned grapes strewn all over the kitchen. Occasionally, we would hear something scurrying in another room.

It became my dad’s mission to eradicate this creature. He was consumed. He consulted his hunting friends: “Put planks up to all the toilets. They need water and will drown themselves.” He set up a Have-a-Heart trap to no avail. He cursed my hunting-deficient cat who was actually more tormented by this squirrel than vice versa. Finally the opportunity arose when he saw the squirrel emerge from the basement and dart under the couch one afternoon. Putting me (I think I was the only one home at the time) at a safe distance, he got out one of his pistols and placed a wooden board against the heating vent to safeguard against any potential damage to the house.

Yes, we had guns in our house. Still do. Yes, I have been target shooting from an illegally young age. I have my dad and his military knowledge and Leave-it-to-Beaver upbringing that involved BB guns and shootin’ stuff in upstate New York to thank for my love of exploding targets and knowledge of how different things (rocks, beer cans, golf balls) react to different types of guns.

My dad is a good shot, but you try crouching under a couch and getting a squirrelly (literally) target. As I watched, he hit the thing on his first shot, but sent it, maimed in the leg and crying (which made me cry in response. Have you ever heard a squirrel cry?), leaving a trail of blood up the stairs and into my room. I happened to have to go to work that night, and so quickly grabbed my ski clothes (I was coaching at the local mountain that year), thankful to leave the house. In my absence, my dad enlisted the help of our family friend who has a vast knowledge of hunting and a kid-like giddiness for challenges. I returned that night to find my bed disassembled, my mom scrubbing blood from the carpet, and my dad and our friend triumphant over their success.

That was the end of that.

For a couple years at least. In my post-college days, I spent a miserable two years living with my parents. During that time, I babysat often for the families on our block. On my first time babysitting for a family of 3 kids, the oldest girl brazenly asked me if she could ask me something about my dad. This family did not know my family at all; they were fairly new to the neighborhood and had probably never interacted with my parents.

“I heard your dad pulled out his gun and shot a squirrel as it ran across the kitchen table at dinner. And then he ate it.” Which is just a great image. My dad: the badass gun-slinger.

I had already known my dad had minor celebrity status on our street as “crazy runner man” (there are two other Crazy Runner Men in our town, actually. A story for another day) and for his exploits in repeatedly accidentally setting the woodpile on fire, but this was something grander, a story that spanned the ages and had survived through the neighborhood children when my sister and I were long removed from the social scene of Oweno Rd. Clearly, I did nothing to diffuse this myth.

I immediately told my dad when I got home from the babysitting job. He just about burst with pride. He has always enjoyed frightening young children.

So, Dad, thank you for my appreciation of the outdoors and cheap whiskey, my tendency to get weepy within hearing range of an Anne Murray or Bob Seger song, my big ass Doxey nose, guns, skiing, and my exercise addiction, drunken happy hours, the t-shirts I continue to steal from you, my over-inflated sense of self worth. Now if we could only work on that Republican thing.

Dating Facebook, TMI, or Anatomy of a Spreadsheet

2009-06-18T08:13:00.000-07:00

Important prefatory facts about me:
This is not so much a confession as a blatant and shameless personal fact: I am an internet stalker. I probably know what you have done in the past 24 hours if you are on Facebook. Your status says you’re tired? Yeah, I know; no need to tell me when I run into you in person. Crazy party you went to this weekend? Saw the pictures. However, despite my general lack of information gathering self-control, in the dating realm, I try to avoid pre-knowledge of a person. Mostly because I am a terrible liar and cannot feign surprise when you tell me about your recent vacation which is represented in photo form on Facebook. Sure, I dabble in the occasional cursory “google” search in the midst of a crush, but limit my voyeurism to generalizing on the search results: work, play, college. I make it a point to NOT Facebook friend anybody who is not genuinely in my life.

Dating Meets the Internet (No, not internet dating):
Now, take this all into consideration when I tell my little story. I had been “dating” a guy for about seven months. He friended me BEFORE the first date. This is generally against my principles, but he knew that I was active on Facebook, and I felt the implications of not accepting the friend request would be my implicit rejection of him, and I did not want to screw up the dating potential so early in the game. That said, I tried to exercise restrain, with moderate success, tried to not look at his tagged photos, his 80 photo albums and compare his ex-girlfriend (gorgeous, skinny) to myself.

As our dating involvement progressed, we actually had “The Talk” to define what we were after a couple months. This was predicated by my finding blatantly suspicious actions on Facebook by another girl. I confronted him, just to maintain face. While most couples become a legitimate couple after The Talk, we were the exception. We would continue to hook up, but were free to see other people. Enter my disintegrating lack of self control and over-analysis of his Facebook activity. Girls in pictures?? What? Is he dating her too? Torturous, the incomplete knowledge that FB brings. But, for the most part, this situation worked.

The BIG Problem (TMI):
Until. He sent me a Google document invite. To view his training schedule, in Excel format. Did I mention he is a pretty serious triathlete? This would be sort of obnoxious if it just included his workouts (sidenote: Guys, it is NEVER attractive to talk about your workouts or diets. We do not care.) But, the spreadsheet is in fact a living documentation of every facet of his life.
Columns range from the boring/innocuous to the socially detail:

Day
Workout
Time
Distance
blah blah blah workout
Sleep Hours
Quality Sleep Hours [!!]
Notes [Here’s where it gets interesting]
Beer [He does not like fun]

I summarily disregarded the columns covering running, biking, and swimming, and directed my attention fully to ridicule the “Sleep Hours” and adjoining “Quality Sleep Hours column as well as the “Beer” column. While I can attest to the fact that details were sometimes sporadic in his recording, the “Notes” column quickly became the source of the most stalking trouble. For example: Let’s take a look at January. Oh! There I am: “Hung out w/Joanna, little late, great dinner though.” Just dinner, Runnerman? Was that the only memorable part of our evening? Scroll down a bit to the next week, “Stayed up w/Kristin watching Beetles movie. Slept til noon.” His Facebook “friend” Kristin was the stimulus for my engaging in our initial talk. Yes, I did cross reference with his Facebook page’s history. Same night, same date I had forced him to admit to during our talk.

The stalker in me had been awakened, in full force. Given our arrangement, withholding these life details would have been preferable and more appropriate. While I was at first amused, my possession of this live document ultimately became torturous. Granted, it did prove that my life was more fun than his (is “power hour” really that notable an occasion in your life to document?), but I began to be suspicious of every excursion he documented, and suspect those he omitted. Enter insecurity. And jealousy. Why was I only mentioned once in the spreadsheet in the past 3 months? Why did he not document his alcohol consumption on my birthday, or even his attendance of my party, while he felt it of worthy note to enter an entire row devoted to dancing at a techno club? My friends, in turn, were immediately incensed, and my feelings gradually escalated to that level. While I don’t think he was consciously disrespectful, his obliviousness visually displayed his ambiguous feelings toward me. With Excel as his platform, he had placed me in equal (or lesser) standing with other women in his life. Clearly, the in-between state would not work for Runnerman and myself. Clearly, we broke up shortly after.

Also, I cannot retain my self respect while dating a man who likes techno music.