Detective work

I'm reading the archives of Nina's blog, both to catch up on what I missed, and to try to track back exactly when I gave up on the blogs that used to be both a voice and a community for me. It looks like I stopped commenting, so probably also stopped reading, in July 2009. Which coincides quite nicely with when Nina stopped posting as frequently, so there's that.

But I also notice that I only posted 15 times in all of 2009, and only four times since April of that year. What happened then to cause the decline? I didn't get on Fakebook until summer of 2010, so that didn't replace the blog in my affections.

Could it be when the Billionaire broke my heart, that decimated my writerly efforts? Or was it just that everyone stopped blogging fora while there? Were there other significant shifts or losses to my personality, my identity, around that time?

More study is needed.

Some things you just can't Twitter about

...even if what you want to say is perfectly expressed in under 140 characters:

"At bedtime, the still-rumpled sheets were a sweet reminder of the afternoon's indiscretion."

Oh, Captain, my Captain!

So first off, I've begun to think descriptively, to capture moments, in Twitter bites. This is sad, and really bad for my writing muscles. For example, the post above is a pale shadow of what I thought of last night, but refrained from Tweeting (thank God I still have a little bit of decorum left, and have not gone full-on We Live In Public quite yet). I can't remember the good structure that floated through my head last night, and my writing is just too rusty to come up with something equivalent or better.

Next oddness, when I decided to blog this instead of Tweet it, I autopilot logged on to Twitter anyway. Twitter has infiltrated my brain way more insidiously than I'd realized.

Thirdly, in the time I've been away, Blogger has gotten really hard to log onto! Annoying (though they do have a new "Monetize" tab that I might want to check out...)

You know what else is annoying? A clearly dominant personality who claims he wants to be dominated, but could never let go. And there's something else I'm rusty at, as well; I've totally lost the skills and was unable to keep him in line. Sigh, I've got a lot of work to do to get back on track.

PS: that link above talks about way more than just the "We Live In Public" project, so I don't want to give it short shrift. The end of empathy is something I've felt, ironically but most noticeably, since 9/11. Almost as if true feeling and connection has been replaced by the Cliff Notes version. Maybe this is another aspect of my Twitter-ready mind right now, and something else I'd like to work on more. But I think that will deserve a post all on its own. For now, let me just say that I agree with pretty much everything Jason said up there...

Radio Free Maggie

These song lyrics used to make me weep every time I heard them:

Cath, she stands with a well intentioned-man
But she can’t relax with his hand on the small of her back
And as the flashbulbs burst she holds a smile
Like someone would hold a crying child

And soon everybody will ask what became of you
When your heart was dying fast and you didn’t know what to do

Cath, it seems that you live in someone else’s dream
In a hand-me-down wedding dress with the things that could've been all repressed
But you said your vows and you closed the door
On so many men who would’ve loved you more

And soon everybody will ask what became of you
When your heart was dying fast and you didn’t know what to do
The whispers that it won’t last roll up and down the pews
But if their hearts were dying that fast they’d have done the same as you
And I’ve done the same as you

But I heard it recently on the radio, and not a single tear. I was actually able to enjoy the song!

It made me realize just how miserable I was when I was dating B. I was so terrified that the above would be my fate -- to marry someone I didn't love enough, just because it was expected and I thought I didn't have any better options. And now I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest.

Can PTSD be a good thing? I'm definitely having weird feelings and reactions as I sort out what had been happening, but I don't think they are bad reactions or feelings. It's sort of like being Rolfed, or untying a big tangled knot.

So for any of you beloved folks who have wanted to hate him on my behalf, please don't. He did me a huge favor, and got me out of a bad situation that I refused to leave on my own. (Though I love you dearly for having my back, of course!)

Shades of Bridget Jones

On Saturday, I felt a bit like dear Bridget when the neighborhood women and I gathered to ooh and ahh over the newest baby on the street. Cameron's mom got married in her late 30s after a marathon of internet dating, and then needed fertility intervention to have her two kids. The other women, moms all, got married very young and had less than no trouble getting pregnant (more like trouble preventing their pregnancies).

The Young Moms swooned over the baby. Then they started joking about how their ovaries hurt, and speculating on the baby boom that Cameron's arrival would trigger in the neighborhood. Because, you see, everyone can have babies, right? Why, certainly, no one in that very room has had trouble getting pregnant, right? Definitely not half the women in the room at that very moment, RIGHT?!?!

On the verge of tears, I got up to leave. Cameron's mom saw the look on my face and quickly tried to change the subject to something more encouraging and less... insensitive.

"Maggie, I meant to tell you! Remember my friend Camille, the one who had her son by insemination? She's engaged!"

Apparently this friend of hers, who had a child on her own three years ago when she was 39, has been swept up in a whirlwind romance with a 35-year-old she met through work. He loves her, he loves her son, the son is already calling him "Dad," and they're getting married in May.

At which point the traditionally more cluelessly insulting (truly, I don't think she means to be hurtful, I think she's just an idiot) Young Mom chimed in:
"Ooh, it's like some urban myth from Sex and the City; you always hear about women who get married in their 30s but you know they don't really exist. But now you actually know one, so maybe there is hope after all!"

I left. Cam's mom left with me, and let me have a good cry on the sidewalk before I went home. Seriously, it's like a scene from Bridget Jones, where the Smug Marrieds treat us like a different species or something.

Maybe I need more "Sex and the City" after all, and less Bridget. Certainly New York Magazine thinks this is a fine time for Singletons in New York.

Hmm, and George wants to see a movie tonight, how interesting....

(Also, the Captain checked in on me last night, but that has nothing whatsoever to do with marriage and babies, in any order.)

Raptors on Hoverboards

Oh, yeah, that's my hometown, baybee. I don't get the reference, but it just seems to make sense anyway.

I know a lot of you have been worried about me because there's been radio silence on this here board for several weeks. And I won't lie to you, it's been a shitty time. My ex turned out to be a Jekyll and Hyde asshole, who had been lying to me for the better part of 2008. And G doesn't exactly want to marry me quite as much as I do him. Happy Holidays, indeed.

But in rough times, your true friends are there for you, being awesome. And I have to say, I've been blessed with some very very supportive folks who have taken excellent care of me -- lending an ear as I go on and on, taking me out to entertain and distract me, giving me a port in the storm to escape to, or just rocking out. Big hugs and love to Jay, Trilby, Lynn, Tussy, Andrew, Jane, Denise, Josh, Jess, Jonathan, Margaret, Michael, Jason, Kendra, Ellie, Rodger, Isabel, Amanda, Brian, Ian, Zanne, Ron, Carlos, Pierrette, David, Simona, and my folks. I don't know how I would have kept my head above water without you all. But I do know that would never even be something to worry about, because I'll always have you close to my heart.

I'm off to New Haven this week, to ring in a well-deserved new year with old friends, in fine fashion and with many bubbles. I wish you all the best, and I look forward to catching up more soon.

My latest internet crush

I love Aberjona's blog, even if often I don't understand it (what is for this Tumblr?). A few of my fave posts of his recently:

On the benefits of siblings
On how I usually feel in relationships, including the last one, and possibly also the current one
On the awesomeness of Bjork, and also Spike Jonze
On the universal truth
On a hard lesson learned
On the new world order
On the hotness of Olivia Wilde
On how I know I should live my life, and wish I did, and try to do
On rendering me speechless in jaw-dropped awe
On my old pal Zeke
On disturbing poultry
On the Loonie Bin!

I'm trying to remember if I found him this incredibly charming and clever, and by extension hot, when we were in high school together.

Not all boys are evil

Of course, you knew that. I'm just being a little inflammatory for fun.

Last night, George and I went to the WFNX Heaven or Hell/1988 Prom/Halloween party at the Harp. Total blast, of course. But we're old, so eventually we had to take a break from dancing and sit down.

Separated in the crowd, I sat at a table in the corner and waited for him to find me. From there I could see him come into the back room, look around, not see me ... and then start talking to a young, cute, petite blonde. Officially I'm "not the jealous type" (at least that's what it says on my driver's license), so I watched for a few minutes, but then I got tired of waiting for him and walked over.

As soon as I approached, his face lit up and he put his arm around me as he introduced me to the promo girl handing out leather-bound thumbdrives. They were pretty big and clunky, and the 500 MGs wasn't nearly enough space to make it worth carrying one around. But he'd felt bad because no one would stop for her pitch at a party where everyone wanted Bacardi light-up devil horns.

I know there's been radio silence for a while. And you may have questions about the cast of characters. I'm sorry about that. But I'm trying to keep mum for another month or so, just until things sort themselves out. Until then, just rest assured that everything is fine (if incredibly busy), and that I'm very happy.

That satchel full of dynamite?

I didn't expect its detonation to involve projectile vomiting.
But now I know that's an actual descriptive term, not just hyperbole.

Daily horoscope annoyance and frustration

Scorpio (10/23-11/21)

Your expectations are growing too lofty right now -- you are aiming so high that you are bound to be disappointed when reality hits. You need to scale back your ambitions and believe that everything is happening the way it needs to happen, in the best time frame. Getting comfortable with having less control over where your life is going right now is easier than you think. All you need to do is open your heart and let someone else make the decisions for now.

Accepting a time frame? Having less control? Sure, that sounds like something I'm comfortable doing.

Though honestly, this is exactly what I needed to hear today, it's very appropriate.

Money well spent

When a rock-climbing 27-year-old hottie hardbody (yes, yes, it’s the Captain) called my breasts “gorgeous” this weekend, in a playing-doctor scene that really should have given my almost 38-year-old self some serious body anxiety . . . well, I have to admit, it made the $10K I spent on that reduction a few years ago totally worth it. I promise, I will never again complain and get all insecure that they’re a teeny bit lopsided.

But what about B, you might ask? Well of course I’m thrilled when he admires me as well. But he’s not objective. And just because I felt validated by the Captain does not mean I don't also appreciate it when it comes from B; it’s just that I was prepared for the young hardbody to be a harsher judge, so it was a very pleasant surprise.

Oh, calm down. It's okay, B knows all about it. He let me play out some lingering distractions as I conquer my long-standing commitment-phobia. This unexpected hook-up with the Captain came after two years of flirtatious IMs and racy text messages that I never thought would ever transcend the typed word.

Sample exchange #1:
Captain: Why are you wearing panties? Why aren’t they around your ankles?
Maggie: Because I’m getting cash from the ATM

Sample exchange #2:
Captain: It’s hot and I’m in bed. Are you naked yet?
Maggie: Nope, playing Scattergories with my roommate.
(Later I fed the cat, too.)

What color is your aura?

The magnificent Nina has posted a color quiz for us all. As my life is very introspective lately, any and all analysis tools are helpful.

Especially when they're pretty spot-on. Check this out!

maggiebex took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Strives for a life rich in activity and experience..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

My Existing Situation
Sensitive; needs esthetic surroundings, or an equally sensitive and understanding partner with whom to share a warm intimacy.

My Stress Sources
Wants to overcome a feeling of emptiness and of separation from others. Believes that life still has far more to offer and that she may miss her share of experiences if she fails to make the best use of every opportunity. She therefore pursues her objectives with a fierce intensity and commits herself deeply and readily. Feels herself to be completely competent in any field in which she engages, and can sometimes be considered by others to be interfering or meddlesome.

My Restrained Characteristics
Feels that she cannot do much about her existing problems and difficulties and that she must make the best of things as they are. Able to achieve satisfaction through sexual activity.

Insists that her goals are realistic and sticks obstinately to them, even though circumstances are forcing her to compromise. Very exacting in the standards she applies to her choice of a partner, and seeking a rather unrealistic perfection in her sex life.

My Desired Objective
Strives for a life rich in activity and experience, and for a close bond offering sexual and emotional fulfillment.

My Actual Problem
The fear that she might be prevented from achieving the things she wants leads her to play her part with an urgent and hectic intensity.

Fights against restriction or limitation, and insists on developing freely as a result of her own efforts.

Sure, YMMV, but I enjoyed it. If you take the quiz, please let me know how well you feel it got you.

Speaking of my life and what I want to achieve with it -- please continue to send whatever positive vibes or wishes or karmic juju or whatever your magic of choice in my direction for a desirable outcome. After all, you know how I "pursue my objectives with a fierce intensity and commit myself deeply and readily"!

PS: And then I could not stop myself from taking it again. Diff results, some overlap, still pretty good:

maggiebex took the free ColorQuiz.com personality test! "Longs for a tender and sympathetic bond and for a ..." Click here to read the rest of the results.

Love in the Stars

Scorpio Horoscope: Daily Love horoscope:
"Your deepest fantasies are a little closer to reality today, and that could mean that you're about to make a big breakthrough! Your great energy is perfect for making big changes in your life."

Excellent.

Also, I might be going to the Hamptons this weekend!

Non-compete clause

Believe this or not, as you wish, but I'm not competitive.

True, I want my credit when it's due, but I don't need to win over someone else. I usually figure that my god-given smarts, charm, grace, Amazing Rack^TM -- what have you -- should be recognized and appreciated on their own merits. If I have to self-promote, then what's the point? The game's already lost.

I also have an aversion to trying too hard that is so strong, I will sometimes overcompensate by not trying at all. For example, my writing? Please! I can't write a pitch letter to save my life, and if through some miracle I actually get an assignment despite myself, I almost never follow through and write it. Wouldn't writing something with my name splashed all over it be... overeager self-promotion? And it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Yes, I know this is ridiculous and self-defeating (and totally contradictory to my chosen profession). And yes, I am aware that I only act this way when I'm thinking about it. If you can get me out of my head -- acting or reacting on instinct -- I do just fine, thanks.

The corollary of this means that I have absolutely no game. Call upon me to flirt on demand, and I'll probably retreat to a corner with my knitting. Ask me to close the deal, and I'll leave for home on my own. Certainly, I'm a naturally gifted flirt and I've had (more than?) my share of hook-ups, but I can't choose to do it.

So it was with great interest that I watched a friend of mine work her game tonight. She shot the lights out!
Perhaps this requires further anthropological study . . .

Addendum: While looking for just the right hoops expression to extend my already tired metaphor, I was given the following suggestions from the guys in my office:

• move well without the ball
  
• getting some good, open looks
  
• bury the three-point shot.
  
• really dish the rock
  
• instant offense
  
• taking it to the hole
  
• great at no-look passes
  
• great with dribble penetration
  
• had the hot hand
  
• good in the clutch
  
• really score in transition ...
  
• pounding the ball inside
  (at which point we really began to notice how many hoops cliches are so double-entendre-y)
  
• dominated in the paint
  
• playing above the rim
  
• raining threes
  
• hit the money shot
  
• pulled it out in overtime
  
• a come-from-behind win
  
• nailed the buzzer beater
  
• "pulled out a come-from-behind win" = triple entendre
  
• "nailed a buzzer beater to seal a come-from-behind win" = quardruple entendre

Got more for me? Comment away, baybee!

Ko-thario and me -- more banter

He replied! Funny, charming, lots in common, cute. Looks like a tall dark Jewish Michael Cera.
Even though he's made this whole quest public, I'm not going to post his e-mail here without his consent. But I did write back again:

...67 replies -- behold the power of Grub Street! I'm glad you didn't stop counting at 69, too cliché and puerile. That said... the last time I went to a Trivia Night, our team name was "We're Not Gynecologists, But We'll Take a Look." So of course our final, losing, score was 69. The trivia master was at a loss for words.

I'm an omnivore / recipe anthologist / windowbox gardener / online journalist. I have a Master's in Journalism, but beat reporting isn't really my style. It also pays about as well as abstract expressionism, I suspect. So now I run the online events calendar for a major newspaper, as well as all the new-fangled mobile action. If you absolutely need to check the baseball score while we're out to dinner and you have a cell phone handy, I'm your girl.

I also used to edit a magazine for NYU, and my dad was a physics professor, so I still have a soft spot in my heart for academia.

Is there really that much demand for abstract expressionist porn music? Do you have sexy librarian glasses you toss aside just before breaking into a pole dance?

--Maggie

PS: I like your smile.I hope it's not really *that* rare.

And then I saw the latest update on Grub Street. I was one of only five people he wrote back to! (though I was also one of nine people who mentioned Brazilian waxes, alas.)

Grub Street posted the update at 4:15, and I didn't send off my reply until 5 -- I had it open on my desktop since this morning, but it's been a hectic day at work. If I'd finished up a little sooner, I might have more interesting gossip for you.

Stay tuned!

With uni you get two

Grub Street tells of a funny foodie mensch who's looking for a Ko-date on Craigslist. B insisted that I reply (if this works out, he will have only himself to blame...):

Hello, you hysterically funny foodie!

I'm not a Brazilian porn star, but I have gotten an occasional brazilian, and I always find rock star parking. Haven't played Rock Band yet, but my 11-year-old niece got me hooked on Guitar Hero. But I digress...

Baggage -- does my Samsonite wheelie bag count? Because, seriously, it's amazing. Ten years old, travels with me about every other weekend on average, it's been as far as Japan and the Caribbean, doubles as a cat bed whenever I forget to put it away, and it's still going strong. Also, it may have saved my life, as I was dropping it off for repairs instead of commuting down to the WTC on the morning of September 11.

I speak five languages. Unfortunately, Dutch is not one of them. That said, if you're "romantically forking foie gras into [my] mug," I'll let you cop a feel. Left or right breast, your choice -- each is magnificent. Feed me uni too, and you can touch both.

You want a link? Here.
You want a picture? There's one in this post.

Ko ho,
Maggie

Hmm, I might have to make an OK Cupid profile out of that.

For the record, I heart Dana Vachon

I don't care what you think.

Alas, while reading the Gawkers as they mock my darling, I gained a new insight:

"A Field Guide to Wall Street Men.

'Pink Shirt Guy' is from Connecticut or Westchester. Secretly wants to sleep with his mother. Went to some prep school you've never heard of and is in banking because of his insecurities.

'Blue Shirt Guy' is from Long Island or New Jersey. Secretly wants to sleep with his sister. Went to public school and is in banking because of his insecurities.

Both are total douchebags."

I never realized before that the suburban New York class wars are oriented on a North-South versus East-West axis. Me being from New England, I am honorary North, pink-shirt team. Excellent!

More female trouble

A bit of stream of consciousness about something that's been making me feel creepy all day. Summarized from an IM with my darling bf:

Last St. Patrick's day, we were all at the bar, and the Lumberjack was there with his new undergrad girlfriend, who he'd met at a party in January. And I was sad, cried later, because it was the nail in the coffin that nothing was ever going to happen with us.

But it wasn't just that. There was something else that night that made me sad.
The Storm.

Storm had been friends with the Usual Suspects before I'd moved back home and met all these hooligans. Also, the Lumberjack used to cheat on his last girlfriend with her, but as far as I ever heard, they'd never actually dated for real. Since then, there had been some kind of falling out between Storm and the U.S., but she was still friends with 'Jack. But because of the circumstances, everything was hazy and unspoken by the time I started meeting these people.

I met Storm because 'Jack started bringing her to PubNight. Again, no one was talking, really, neither 'Jack nor the U.S., but as I understood it, 'Jack wasn't taking part in the falling out/shunning, so he brought his friend out, with no apologies nor explanations.

Now,
1. I liked her, she made a good first impression
2. I like 'Jack, and as such wanted to be friends with his friends, and know what's going on in his life. So I talked to her, we hit it off. And I want to make my own judgment about this new person I've met.

But she lives far away, and only seems to come to the area with him. So I'm beginning to notice that indeed, she is a little fucked up; the U.S aren't totally off-base. But still, I want to judge on my own.

Turns out Storm is still hung up on the Lumberjack. But she also has this boyfriend up where she lives. So she's been sublimating her romantic feelings into a friendship, like you do.

ANYway...
St. Pat's day, at the bar. Most of the Usual Suspects are there, as are 'Jack and his undergrad, and Storm and her guy, and me. The Undergrad is stuck to 'Jack like glue, and taking every opportunity to point out that he is HERS. While 'Jack pulls her aside to tell her to Chill, Storm asks me who the hell that is. I explain that she's 'Jack's new teeniebopper girlfriend, and Storm FLIPS OUT.

This is a woman with a boyfriend.

So part of the reason I was so sad after St. Paddy's was that I looked at Storm, who was the "other woman" for this guy with no honest and public relationship coming of it, and who now had a boyfriend and was still hung up on him. And I said to myself, "I do not want to be this woman. I tried, it didn't work, I need to move on. I deserve better."

And I mourned a little, but I did move on.

I also found out that night that Storm was moving back to the area -- in fact, right around the corner from me! So we'd exchanged phone numbers, and said we were going to hang out. She was supposed to move April 1.

The first week in April, she calls me, says "sorry I haven't checked in yet, turns out I'm moving April 15, everything's a mess."
I'm all, that's cool; let me know when you're settled in.
And then, she starts grilling me on 'Jack and the undergrad.
She's bullshit; starts in all -- APPARENTLY he's not her friend anymore, APPARENTLY he doesn't value her, if he's keeping these secrets from her. She says she HAS a boyfriend, she doesn't NEED 'Jack, et cetera.

I try to calm her, try to dissociate, get off the phone. She says she'll call me after she moves and settles in, and I don't here from her ever again.
That was almost exactly a year ago.

Since then, Storm always comes up when I run the Friend Finder on Facebook, but I never friend her, because she's not my friend. Today, when I ran it, though, something caught my eye.

Storm's new profile pic is a picture of her in a hospital bed, wearing a hospital gown...
with last year's boyfriend next to her....
and she's holding a newborn.

Yup, they had a baby a month ago.

So basically, she gave up on the Lumberjack, and got knocked up in short order.

Way to move on!

Honestly, this is great for her, she looks happy, and moving on was clearly the right thing to do. And she's engaged to the baby's father.

But I can't help it, the timing of it just makes me go ew ew ew.

Am I right? B says that's a fucked up story, full of fucked up people and fucked up decisions and fucked up emotions, and yes, ew.

I've been creeped out all day, so just wanted to share. (though I know this is not the breeding story I have been promising you, sorry...)

Thrown for a loop

Warning --stream of consciousness ahead. I'm rushing between meetings and if I have to take time to write this nicely, it will never get posted.

Remember the J. Crew Catalog? And the lovely pics of my uterus? You may have noticed a dearth of news about this lately. Sorry about that. But here's the thing -- every time I try to choose a donor, or do anything else to move towards the goal, I start to hyperventilate. My lovely red-headed step-intern (actually now a fully fledged coworker who ROCKS) gave me a copy of Choosing Single Motherhood, and every time I try to read it I start to cry and have to put it down. Sometimes I look at the donors and no one is good enough, other times I like them all and want to take them all home. I even started a last-ditch effort of asking a new round of friends if they wanted to help out, with no takers.

And then there's the Boyfriend, who sometimes would love to help out, and sometimes is totally freaked about the whole thing. With him on the fence about babies and me on the fence about our long-term future, I keep deciding that it's not a good idea. And yet, I keep deciding that, as in, the decision is never final, we keep rethinking.

Every year on February 13, my mother calls me to remind me of the anniversary of my conception. Yes, she has no boundaries, but if I dig any deeper into that, I'll have to start a whole new blog. A few weeks ago, I was looking at my temperature chart/calendar, and I realized that it looked like I would be ovulating on the 13th myself this month!

How exciting! Share the anniversary! Share a birthday with my child! How wacky, how fated, how perfect! But then the waterworks and conflict started, and here we are one the 12th and I have not procured any sperm.

Honestly, I thought it didn't matter. The Jolly German has me peeing on sticks, to more precisely pinpoint ovulation than the temperature chart can, and it looked like I'd gone early this month, over the weekend.

Last night, with the long weekend approaching, I suddenly decided that I really wanted to see the boyfriend, that I couldn't wait until next month when we go on vacation. Also, I really wanted to have the sex with him.
RIGHT.
AWAY.

Don't get me wrong, I adore him. It's just that I can usually deal just fine when we're apart. But last night, if I could have jumped into a plane right then to go be with him, I would have. And that kind of transcontinental urgency? Yes, that is atypical.

I booked a flight for Thursday night (aww, Valentine's Day).

This morning, I peed on another stick. I usually do this for a day or two after ovulation, just to confirm the waning end of the pink stripes.

Holy God.

There resulted the widest, darkest, deepest pink stripe I have yet to see in three months of stick-peeing. There have been months when I couldn't tell a difference at all in a week's worth of stripes. This is definitely NOT one of those months.

I have never seen a clearer sign. I was right, I am ovulating on the 13th. (The sticks give you a day or two heads-up, here, read about it.)

So, now the questions:

• Do I have time to choose a donor?
  
• Will the bank be able to deliver in time?
  
• Will my doctor be able to see me tomorrow?
  
• Can I schedule this around the Big Important Meeting tomorrow?
  OR
  
• Is this all just a sign that I should try with B Thursday night?

Please note that if I don't try this month, then B is my only option for next month, as we will be in the Caribbean during the critical time, away from the Jolly German and any easy way to receive cryogenic deliveries. So if not this month, then it's either B, or wait until April.

AND now I have another meeting...

OMG, Verizon, WTF?!?!

If you're wondering how I scored that sweet simian phone number -- Verizon totally owed me, and they were trying to make good.

With the boyfriend almost 3,000 miles away, clocking double-digit hours on the phone each week, the cell wasn't cutting it anymore. So in early August, after five years of wireless-only, I decided to get a land line again. I went to the Verizon website, they have an order wizard, I crossed all the Ts and dotted the Is, and I was told that I would have service set up by August 13. As part of the process, they even gave me a selection of five (totally ordinary, non-primate-themed) numbers to choose from.

The 13th came and went -- no dial tone. As my phone was about a dozen years old, I figured that was the problem, and borrowed one that my folks weren't using. No dial tone. I ordered a new one from Amazon... no dial tone! So on the 17th, I call for service, and I'm told that my line was turned on, as scheduled, on the 13th, and they'd closed the order. But they can't get through to me; when the woman in the service department calls, she gets a recording that my number is not in service. So she files a repair ticket, and assures me that the line will be working by Monday the 20th.

No dial tone. And when I call again for service, I can't access my account! After about an hour on the phone and many transfers to multiple departments, I discover that they'd changed the phone number on my account, which is why I couldn't access it anymore. They wouldn't even tell me the new number until I got escalated to a manager.

It took three weeks, a service visit to the house, a bucket truck, and several more phone calls to Verizon before I actually got a working dial tone. However, they had no problem sending me a bill, a full two weeks before my phone was actually working. After all that grief, they gave me a free month of service, and the phone number of my choice, to make up for the fiasco. Good work, I say, apology accepted.

And then...

The broken dial tone reminded me that I had no idea how to access my voice mail. It had been weeks since they'd set up my account, they sent me a bill right on schedule, but I have yet to receive some sort of welcome pack with critical info such as what number to dial to pick up my messages.

So I call AGAIN, they apologize AGAIN, and give me the set-up info. This morning, I dial in, I have one message. This message:

Good afternoon, this is Verizon with good news about your recent home voice mail order. You can begin using your home voice mail as soon as you set up your voice mailbox. You'll need your access number, which is [silence, NOT redacted, they just didn't say it]. At your earliest convenience, please call Verizon for important information about how to set up your home voicemail. The toll-free number to call, anytime day or night, is XXX-XXX-XXXX, and at the main menu, press 6.

It is Verizon's goal to provide you with outstanding service. If we can improve our service to you in any way, please call Verizon toll-free during normal business hours [note they don't say when their business ours are] at XXX-XXX-XXXX, where a representative will be happy to help you.

OMG, Verizon, WTF?!?!

Okay, I get that the recording was meant for a person who actually answered the phone, which I had not.

But they're VERIZON, the phone company. You would thing that they could have set up their automated message system to not leave a message on voice mail when calling about setting up voice mail, and instead trigger a command to either:
a. call back later,
or
b. call my alternate (cell phone) number, which they have asked me for multiple times and should have on record with my account.

Regardless, they have given me the best phone number ever, so I guess I'll forgive them this one more time. Sigh.

My last days of disco

Y recently asked me if I'd ever gone to Twilo during my crazy New York club days, before I became an old boring suburban lady. It got me thinking back on those days a bit, which perhaps I never talked about much here.

There was one night that the Cokehead Alcoholic took me to either Twilo or Tunnel, which were near each other on West 27th Street in Chelsea, so I honestly can't remember which one it was. It was fun, but it was also kind of strange for me, because I was more used to the fetish/goth scene of the meatpacking district, which was a much different kind of club scene. The clubs I most often went to, Mother and True were smaller, with a tight community of regular attendees. They definitely did not have a metal detector or pat-down at the door, like Twilo/Tunnel did.

Anyway, the night we went to the T club in Chelsea (whichever one it was) we were dressed in Edwardian fetish/goth attire, having stopped at Hellfire first (an underground sex club in the meatpacking district that was closed down when they built the hotels and gentrified the place). All our velvet and corsetry didn't exactly fit in with the ecstasy-fueled club-kid vibe of the place, so we did get searched upon entry, which was strange. Lots of raver kids, lots of drugs, we didn't stay very long. But I did think that, had I gone with someone else, and were I dressed appropriately and in a different mindset, it would have probably been fun. Sadly, I never made it back to check it out again before it closed.

I'd clubbed in Boston, LA, DC, Spain and Italy before I moved to New York, so I had a pretty good sample for comparison, and I think I caught the New York scene at a perfect moment. Before I got there things were nuts, with Michael Alig killing his drug dealer and club kids appearing on Oprah. By the time I got there, things had mellowed a bit so that it was a nice creative community without too much evil craziness.

To be fair, I didn't just sit on a balcony and watch, I threw myself into it pretty deep, so maybe I had a better experience because of that. I was friends with organizers, I danced in a cage (god I wish I'd saved that picture; they used it for promotion), I worked the door and decided who could and could not come in. I was going out four nights a week, doormen recognized me and I rarely paid to get in. I was fully invested, until I retired from the scene. (And it took a few tries, like Michael Jordan, before I really did retire.)

A few years later, clubs started to fall prey to the triple-whammy of Giuliani's quality-of-life/cabaret law crackdown; the inflated rents of the real estate boom; and the sobering climate of post-9/11 New York. Most of the clubs and parties I went to closed down around 2000-2001, and were replaced by gentrification and high-priced bottle service.

Which is now itself dying, so maybe we're on the edge of another golden age of clubbing. These things do tend to come in cycles. Of course, I'm also pretty old now, so maybe my opinion is for shit.