Saturday, November 27, 2010

I'm Sorry, Lizzy

I was just reading an article that brought back some old, less than savory memories. A college freshman who had accused a Notre Dame football player of sexually assaulting her has killed herself. She told her friends that she wasn't raped; the attack had been interrupted by a knock at the door ( It seems she suffered from depression and this event may have pushed her over the edge.

My freshman year of college I attended a large school known more for its partying and football team than its educational merits. I was a wide-eyed freshman girl who wasn't used to the attention I got from the opposite sex there. I mean, it's not like I didn't date before then. But freshman girls got labeled "fresh meat" and boy, did the boys treat us that way. I was also too insecure to know the difference between good attention and the dangerous kind. One night at a frat party my friend and I went upstairs with a couple of the brothers to see their room and have (more) to drink. I got separated from my friend - I can't remember how, but do remember that separating from her hadn't been my plan. Yet there I suddenly was, alone with this upper-classman in his barely-lit bedroom. He was sitting on his computer chair and I was standing a couple of feet away from him. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor - he had literally leapt out of the chair and lunged at my waist, wrapping his arms around me as we landed on the floor. His hands and mouth were instantly all over me. I remember feeling like I couldn't protest because after all, he was older and what did I know? Wouldn't it be really uncool for me to tell him I didn't like what he had just done, and was doing? Wouldn't I seem like a baby if I disagreed with anything he said (or did)? God, the dangerousness of those insecurities...

Then an angel appeared. Or as it appeared at the time, came a knock at the door. One of the other frat brothers opened the door, saw us and said "Oh, sorry. I thought no one was in here." As he started to back out of the room I said "NO, no, you didn't interrupt anything. I was just leaving." And with that, I swiftly picked myself up and stumbled drunkenly out the door. I found my friend and told her we had to leave and I was going to be sick.

That night I was was endlessly thankful for the clean toilet bowl in my dorm bathroom. Tonight as I read about Lizzy Seeberg, I am endlessly thankful to God for the near-miss of my own those many years ago. College guys in groups like sports teams and fraternities can lose all sense of individual responsibility and in some cases make the wrong choices based on false entitlement.

I wonder if that asshole in the frat house ever thinks about that night. I doubt it.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Where Is the Life That Late I Lead

My brain is fried, my eyes are heavy and my breathing is slow and steady. I already almost fell asleep once tonight, at the kitchen table. Now I'm happily in bed and fighting off the moment when my lids start shutting on their own and I lose the battle to fatigue. Welcome to "Life, 2010 Edition." A Fall that showed promise of so many good things has turned into one over-committed exhausting week after another. I barely see my friends anymore and I haven't had eight straight hours of sleep in longer than I can recall. I don't like this... my life has run away without me. I see it ahead of me somewhere, probably about a half mile down the road. I'm running as fast as I can to catch up with it. But it keeps running.

I miss my life. I'm going to figure out how to get it back, starting now.

Starting tomorrow morning. My eye lids just won the fight.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Just in Time for Carnival

I am happy to report that relations between the US and Brazil are positive and all signs point to continued diplomatic exchanges. The State Department has even passed a resolution requiring that all Ambassadors in Brazil enroll immediately in samba school.

This week coming holds much promise, little of it sleep. I am booked, double booked, and waiting to hear when I will be booked for more. In the last few months I've made some shifts in my professional life with the intent of moving upward and consequently have ceased working on set full-time so I can have the freedom to nurture my career as needed. I found a new day job that has flexibility... fell into an additional job that really appealed to me, though it is very part-time... enrolled in a class joined a drama group started up again with my choir ohmygodwheredidthetime go??? Suddenly my season of building my career has turned into juggling day jobs and sleeping very little and that socializing thing that I like to do sometimes? That went out the window. And don't get me started on the political crap I now deal with working in a very small office consisting of me and three other women. That is another post entirely.

So now I'm working on paring down some of the less important things that I have going on; pruning my tree of life, if you will. I will let you know how it goes. As of now I have 3 scratches and one mystery bruise from racing past that tree of life and getting tangled in the branches. Well, the scratches are from that. The bruise may be from rolling around on the forest floor. OK, I may have been doing the samba. Horizontally. Whatever.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Tall and Tan and Dark and Lovely


What does one normally associate with Brazilian men? Something about a beach and very little clothing. And I am happy to report that this generalization holds true. This evening I find myself at the apartment of a very sweet and very lovely [Editor's note: "lovely" has been substituted for a vulgar word deemed inappropriate given January's very recent return to the blogosphere] Brazilian guy, someone I met through a mutual friend some time ago. He's an actor, not the least bit shy about his body, and has readily shown me pictures and footage of himself in various states of undress. He helped me with some video editing today and our conversation has rolled quite comfortably all afternoon. I find myself so comfortable, in fact, that I showed him this blog. And after reading many of my posts he promptly challenged me to write another one right now. This despite my recent extended absence. So does this mean, per the post directly preceding this one, that I'm now feeling inspired?

Umm, there is a hot Brazilian man lying on a bed not four feet away from me. What do you think?

Hi, Old Friend

Hi. It's been a while. As someone suggested to me, perhaps I should explain my occasional extended periods of absence with "I needed some time off to find new inspiration."

Yeah. What he said.

Monday, July 26, 2010



Purely in the interest of research I have joined a dating website which I've made reference to in the title of this blog, and the current state of things is, well... see said title.

Initially I joined for free; they're having a free trial period right now and I figured, hey. Why not? Free to check out the merchandise, so to speak. The caveats are that you can't view their picture and you can't go past a certain point in the process - just when you're ready to email directly with them, you are required to join. eDisharmony gets a big big YOU SUCK for this. So I searched online for a discount code and found one eventually that would enable me to continue my pleasant exchange with a couple of guys. I paid and headed straight for their profiles...

What the heck? Am I really that much better looking than any guy my age??! Why do men only a couple of years older than me look like Harley Davidson's ad campaign for the AARP? It's difficult for me to see much older looking men and realize this is my dating pool. Women have been driven to convents over less.

The most disappointing one dresses like the grandfather on Everybody Loves Raymond. His tube socks were up to his waist.

The 48 hours of photograph-less ignorance was indeed bliss... it was a time of endless possibilities. Intelligent, attractive, faithful men! Spiritually matched! Equally yoked! Funny, sporty and smooth in their skin.


Maybe I should have reconsidered those offers I got in the mail to join AARP. They're cheaper than the dating site I joined and I hear there are a lot of single guys in that pool. So what if the pool's in the Physical Therapy wing of Happy Sunsets Retirement Village.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

35 Special

My back's been pretty jacked up the last few days. One month my bed felt amazing, the next month it felt like a 15 year old replica of a medieval torture device. Memory Foam Mattress Topper Spiked With Nails or something like that. So this afternoon I did something almost entirely unprecedented; I got myself a massage. I can count on one hand how many times in my life I've had a professional massage and I don't remember the last time I did. It falls under the category of personal extravagance to me (oh, how I wish it rested under holistic health maintenance instead) so I rarely do it. That'll tell you how bad my back feels.

Granted, a chiropractor might be the more successful treatment route, but I can't afford to see one. I have driven by the sign for "$35 Hour Thai Massage (early bird special)" several times and went for it. For that price, it was worth trying.

Did you know Thai massage means they're going to walk on your back? I didn't. My first tip on this was when I walked into the private massage area and the mattress was on the floor. The parallel bars suspended from high on near and far walls confirmed it. Fortunately my masseuse, Wendy (or was it Windy? It was impossible to tell!) was a rather petite Thai woman.

I got pushed, poked, prodded, rolled, stretched and yes, stepped all over. I have yet to receive a professional massage that didn't hurt at some point, and I've come to learn that it's always worth it in the end. Today though, I'm not sure... My back is still killing me in the same spot. And once I did wince as she poked God knows what pressure point on the bottom of my foot. Windy Wendy had me wondering why it weally, weally hurt. Later she did something I'm certain a more skittish person who happened to peek at just the right moment would have screamed from; she had me on my back, legs folded in a fetal position, and I'm pretty sure she was straddling me, pressing down on my hamstrings with her body. I can't be certain as I refused to open my eyes.

A sign on the wall in the massage area said "None Sexual".

I really hope Wendy meant her and not me. Me, I hold out hope.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

Not Wast[ed]

Oh dear God thank heavens I drink Coors Light. Were it anything stronger I'd already be passed out in bed instead of propped up on it enjoying the end of a PBS special. The words on the screen look less fuzzy than earlier but the ringing in my ears hasn't yet stopped...

This afternoon was great. One should always step out of one's comfort zone, preferably on a daily basis! I had a few beers (um, and a ridiculously good shot of something in the Jaggermeister family. Don't try this at home), I did some writing and I met new people. And the day absolutely flew by! I was in a particularly gregarious mood, as evidenced by my sharing of this blog with several people at the bar. Let me repeat this 'cause I'm not sure I believe it... I shared my blog with several people at the bar. YIKES! Yeah, I did. Fortunately most of them were illiterate and/or disinterested. One was not only interested, I have fair reason to believe he memorized my blog name likely so he could check it out later to see what I wrote about before. And here I am - writing about him, a man I met at the bar, read and showed my blog to, and also let feel me up.

Just kidding on the feel me up part.

I think. I was buzzed. Does his hands on my waist and hips meet the definition of being felt up? Hard to say. In my day being felt up meant second base. Don't get me started there...

Now I'm home and drinking water (lots!) and getting ready for bed. Hey, it's 10:30. There are people in Peoria snoring by now.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow... is a new day, not to be wasted.

Make Haste

The pressure to type out a witty but deep, insightful yet light and entertaining entry is mounting rapidly. My brain cells are falling asleep as I write this. The stimuli around me - "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" by Zeppelin piping through the speakers, miscellaneous chatter from several different conversations and the break of balls on a pool table - are all vying for my attention. I must be expeditious.

I'm getting drunk.

I came home this afternoon after being out and about and realized that I would be yet again passing an afternoon at my kitchen table surfing on Bella, toute seule. It is a gorgeous day out, and a Saturday no less! So I decided to do something both slightly outside my comfort zone and also right in the crossfires of long time thought and desire: I've come to my corner bar to have a drink and enjoy free WiFi. I'm proud of myself, actually. I sometimes succumb to the voices in my head that say I won't fit in by myself in public. As in, going to a bar/movie/restaurant solo means you're a loser. However, upon closer inspection, one realizes that these voices come from fear... and this year being a No Fear kind of year, I chose to ignore them. Silence, impudent maggots!

Um, as I mentioned, I'm getting drunk. As in, I'm already buzzed.

But I digress, surely I digress. Either that or I simply don't remember what the hell I was saying in the first place. I may as well start anew; new topics are always fun.

Have chatted a bit with the friendly bartender who was here the very first day I came in. I didn't know she was working today but perhaps I manifested her since I did picture her behind bar when I envisioned myself sitting here, typing away on Bella over a Coors Light.

And on the topic of Coors Light, pure piss. Diet soda with a kick. Nothing much good about it except it doesn't give me gas (hello, Bud Light) or love handles (goodbye, Blue Moon).

This morning I went to a screening of my favorite TV show. I will leave out its name and that of its star, the featured speaker after said screening. What I will say though, after how brilliant Glee is, is that Matthew Morrison is very much the stereotypical actor: charming, witty, talented, starving for attention, actually insecure, and so, so dedicated to his craft.

Oh crap, I've gone and named both the show and the star. Fiddlesticks.

I must end this now. Clearly I'm too inebriated to be writing in a public forum. And the bartender just brought me another drink - my second. Look out public, I'm drinking up!

Friday, June 4, 2010

Bellis Perennis

Without further ado...

Meet Bella, as she is known around the house. No, she's not named for some vampire novel heroine. She is formally known by Bellis Perennis (see here for a picture of her namesake:

Ain't she a beaut?

Thursday, June 3, 2010

One Double Mocha Fudge Chocolate Chip, Please

People always say that the best relationships develop out of friendships. But what happens if your friend turns into a lover and all the heat between you just - POOF - vanishes??

What if you like your friend so much that you keep him around because you adore him but in the wee small hours of the night when you should be having hot oh-my-god-is-this-a-dream-or-am-I-awake sex you're instead tucking your teddy bear under your arm because, oh yeah, said friend doesn't sleep well with someone in the bed so he didn't stay over?

Doesn't it suck when you think someone likely has a Chocolate streak the size of Fudge Swirl in him but it turns out he is Vanilla - not French Vanilla - just plain old 99 Cent Store brand Vanilla made with artificial flavoring?

*Sigh.* January has some thinking to do.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Rise and Shine!

Brace yourself. I know this is going to seem implausible. But it's finally happened: I've reached the end of the internet. How could this happen, you might say? Isn't there an endless stream of new websites being created and set live everyday? Well perhaps there is. But this morning after starting in Hotmail, checking in with CNN and Google News, reading up on peoples' morning on Facebook and surfing for laptop bags on Overstock and Amazon, I hit the end. There was nothing of interest to me on the screen. Nothing. I found myself staring at my laptop wishing miniature Mickey Mouses would creep out of my keyboard and start to do their very own re-envisioned pas de deux homage to Steamboat Willie. 'Dance, little mouse, dance', I'd say. But no one climbed out from between the keys and I'm left thinking that only a drug induced hallucination (or perhaps an overdose of multi-vitamins, at this hour) would bring about my dancing Mickeys. And the internet, so often my friend and confidante, just didn't do it for me anymore.

I think it's time to get out of bed. Maybe later in the day the internet will have something new.

Monday, May 31, 2010

La Vida Perfecta

This morning my friend JoJo dropped me a text asking if I'd like to drive up to Malibu and relax for a bit. I replied quickly and immediately started rubbing on the suntan lotion. JoJo's got a convertible and today's a gorgeous day. Me, JoJo and her two little dogs were on our way before high noon and as we wound our way through Las Virgenes canyon, all felt right with the world.

As I mentioned, I was careful to slather on suntan lotion before leaving the house. My fair complexion ensures a lot of freckling and burning if I'm not too careful in the sun. Little Dog #2 found my sun lotion rather appealing though, and licked off a fair amount of it before we even got out of the car. Sad to say she licked me more than anyone has in months (ahem, Mr. John Chambers!). Little Dog #1 made herself at home behind the driver's seat (see picture). They are adorable indeed.

We parked and spent an hour or so relaxing at the side of the sea, enjoying the sound of the surf crashing onto the shore. Then we headed back down the Pacific Coast Highway and stopped at a divey little place where JoJo assured me we'd get great seafood. We headed inside to order to go and I was amazed by the quality of people watching! This was such a slice of America, so many different kinds of people. There were a lot of bikers there. The PCH is understandably a big destination on such a gorgeous day off. Standing in line to order, I was impressed with the volume of diverse beverages in their coolers. Sort of reminded me of an old house party when everyone brought something to drink and you ended up with buckets of drinks to choose from. As I searched for my drink of choice, I started chatting with the guy next to me about those days. All the drinks you could want. Someone else would drive you home. No work the next day. Ah, ignorance was so bliss. This guy evidently was a biker but of the Latin persuasion. He was dressed in something out of a movie - neatly pressed khakis, a thermal long sleeve shirt under an ironed black Harley tee shirt, and a bandanna folded just so and wrapped around his forehead like he was covering a precisely inflicted head wound. He had sideburns but was clean shaven. He spoke with a slight Latino twang, and I was touched by the living embodiment of someone I'd only ever seen on screen. As we neared the end of the line he introduced himself and when I said it was nice meeting him he said it was really nice meeting me. He chatted with me several more times as we waited for our food and even later when JoJo and I were sitting in the car finishing our lunch (we didn't want the dogs to be alone, and they couldn't come in the restaurant) he came by again and chatted a bit. After he left, JoJo teased me that he liiiiiked me uh-huh uh-huh and I thought.... my very first chulo. I'm not sure what that means but I'm pretty sure I am now a bad ass, or at least could have been, had our exchange progressed to an invitation to go out.

We pulled out of the parking lot and headed south on the PCH, slowly winding our way back to LA and I fantasized that the Harleys coming up behind us were Fidel and his friends, maybe to say hello and smile one more time before heading back down to the LBC (that's Long Beach for all my fellow non-urban types). Ahh, the first day of summer, this Memorial Day. I shall remember it for all the possibility it contained, from licked toes to attractive chulos. Some days are too perfect to repeat.

Sunday, May 30, 2010

In the Nick of... What Time is It?

I had a hot date last night. My Mac and I reclined in bed and caught up on all the Glee episodes we'd missed. How I love that show!!! Never thought of 'bluffing with my muffin' as something a mother would sing caressingly to her daughter, but it worked. Brilliant. I could go on and on about the genius of this show but I won't. The real interesting part of last evening was what happened after Glee, when I was still up playing with my Mac. I have yet to get a full night's sleep since the Mac arrived... that should tell you something. [Editor's note: January is on warning for Mac Overuse. If she goes further with her addictive behaviors she will be forced to attend Mac Rehab, a dark and crowded in-patient rehabilitation facility where patients are required to sit at a PC all day creating charts in Excel.] Anywho, just after midnight a text arrived on my phone. Who should be texting me at that hour? Nick. Mr. "I'm Not in the Place to Be in a Relationship Right Now". He started with an innocuous inquiry as to my well-being and over numerous texts progressed the conversation to the timeless and too-cliché-to-be-bad "what are you wearing?" Now, by this point, I was drifting in and out of consciousness, having already turned off the light and closed my eyes for the night. But I couldn't resist engaging him. I mean, it's been almost two months. I'm curious. Wouldn't you be? Here's the rest of the exchange:

Nick: "what are u wearing?"
January: "nightie. u?"
Nick: "nakey"
January: "home already or just keeping things interesting at the bar?"
Nick: "home. let's trade undies"
January: "that's random. and i'm in bed sans undies so ur SOL."
Nick: "apparently"
January: "nightie nite."

Two months with no word from this cat and last night he came prowling... It felt nice to be thought of, to be desired. I won't lie! But really, given the way things went last time, Mr. Nick stands a snowball's chance in hell of 1) coming over for a booty call and/or 2) me going over there for a booty call. So booty calls are out. See my recent post on this topic.

Today I was tempted to text him something sassy but then I thought how great this is, being on this side of things. The desired versus the desiring. And besides, Mr. Chambers is still very much in the picture. What that picture is is completely and totally unclear to me [insert laughter: here]. But there is still a picture and I respect that.

Plus John is coming over. Speaking of which - I'd better go before I run out of time. Still have to pull myself together a bit. Sweatpants do not a fetching January make ;)

Saturday, May 29, 2010

The Mac Daddy

Ladies and gentlemen, I am happy to announce the arrival of the newest addition to my happy family. Please put your hands together in a show of support for my new... LAPTOP. Even better, take a good look at her. I know she's not pink (yet) but I'm sure you'll find her exceptionally beautiful. [Editor's note: wait 'til you see her in her pink skin/protective case. January will post a picture of her at that time.] I am not too shallow to admit that a pink fashion cover will be arriving shortly (as soon as I can make up my mind which one to buy) but even at this point, my new laptop is beautiful. And guess what? It's almost 2:30 am and I'm typing in bed! Wow, wow, wow.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: my new MacBook. Yahoo!! Who says dreams don't come true?

Friday, May 28, 2010

The Boot in Booty Call

It's 3:45 am. My patience is thin and my eyelids are heavy. I shall leave you with a topic for discussion - talk amongst yourselves...

Let's say you're dating someone. Perhaps his name is John. You may accept his invitation to go over to his place after a long and late day at work, and you may enjoy his company in a very unbiblical way. No, make that in the biblical way. (Ironic, isn't it?) And John might possibly make a comment as you start falling asleep in his bed along the lines of "If you sleep here, would you be offended if I slept on the couch? It's not that I don't want to be with you, but I slept really badly the last time you stayed over" so you naturally answer without hesitation "Yes. Yes I would" and you subsequently rouse yourself, get up, dress and drive home. Would this be considered a booty call? In the strictest sense of the term.

According to, a booty call is "A late night summons -- often made via telephone -- to arrange clandestine sexual liaisons on an ad hoc basis."

Mr. Chambers undeniably successfully got himself a booty call tonight. And I, I got the boot.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

When Everything You Touch Turns to Mush

I’m having such a moment of mush.

I was just talking on the phone with texting my guy and started doing the old “Hmm… January Chambers. John and January Chambers. January and John.” and a smile spread across my face. I can’t believe I made it 12 days before dwelling on that one [insert slow, wide grin: here].

“My guy” you might ask? Well, what does one call someone who’s more than a friend but less than a boyfriend? Who feels like a boyfriend taking root? One you’ve been friends with for a while but suddenly is more? For now, for me, I’ll refer to him as my guy. I do sort of see him progressing to full boyfriend status and honestly… it tickles me on the inside. I imagine this is what it looks like to have a little glow about you… this subtle inner smile, permeating through and peeking out the outside… I like it. I like him.

John’s been my friend for somewhere around a year and a half. I met him on set and over time we took our friendship offline, hanging out several times at my place or his place or going to see a band. Nothing ever happened between us. I figured that’s just the way it was going to be and wasn’t sweating it. I mean, we were once at his apartment at one in the morning, just the two of us, and he didn’t so much as brush his arm against mine. So I resumed my seat in the friend zone and moved ahead. 12 days ago – or nights, to be specific – John and I were hanging out at my place when the topic of the friend zone came up and he finally kissed me. (Why didn’t I kiss him myself, you may be wondering? People, I’m 37 years old. I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two over time… like, let the guy make the first move, if you want to be sure he’s into you. At least, that’s my theory this year. Ask me again in 11 months.)

Being happy doesn’t lend itself to being snarky, but I hope to hold on to that edge for amusement’s sake. Anyway, it’s only been 12 days. We’ve got plans already on days 14 and 15 so things look good into the teens. And why wouldn’t they? As he pointed out, this is the way people say you should do it. Be friends with someone first. Me, I’ve always known quickly if I was attracted to someone and if he was to me too, things usually happened rather fast… see any number of my previous posts. But this way feels strangely nice. Kissing him didn’t feel shocking. And if he doesn’t reply to my text right away, I’m not worried thinking that perhaps I shouldn’t have texted – I just figure he didn’t get it. Best of all, I know he likes me, actually likes me a lot. He’s already been exposed to enough to know I’m more than just a cute piece of ass ;)

Oh, Mr. Heatmiser. Mush feels pretty nice.

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

If Only It Were

"Denial ain't just a river in Egypt."
- Mark Twain

Funny thing about this quote - I remember it as being something Al Franken said as Stuart Smalley on Saturday Night Live. I looked it up online to make sure I got it right and discovered that it actually belongs to Mark Twain. Clever, very clever, this internet of ours. Instantly elevates me from aged pop-culture referencer to Champion of Classics.

I've been thinking a lot about denial and what changes honesty causes to occur inside me. Self-delusion makes for a messy life. Peel off the lies and you're left with something much simpler. Unfortunately it also is raw upon first being exposed, but new skin always is. I've written before about needing to shed a few pounds but I chose not to write about the bigger issue for me, my eating disorder. Today in the spirit of honesty I've decided to spill it.

I'm a compulsive eater. These days they also call it food addiction and binge eating, but when I first became aware of what my problem was I learned it as that. Food is to me what alcohol is to an alcoholic: friend, mother, lover, confidante, enemy. If I had nothing with me on a desert isle but unlimited supplies of certain foods I could live out my remaining days quite content, albeit well over 400 pounds. So I suppose I wouldn't have too many days to live out. Good thing since I'm not sure I'd have the energy to cut down enough coconuts to cover up a 400 pound body.

The genesis of my disorder doesn't really matter for the purposes of this blog, though I have enough insight to see bits of its birth. I went to a twelve step program (Why do they always say "twelve step program"? Why don't they just call it by name? We already know it's anonymous. Saying its name isn't going to give anything away) the summer after my freshman year of college. In the years since I've seen a few therapists who specialized in eating disorders and have found a great deal of healing. Each one of them brought me to a new level of health. Sadly, I've come to admit that this disease is never fully going away. I have good days/weeks/months and bad ones. On good ones I can eat one cookie and enjoy its taste. I can even keep cookies in the house if I want. But otherwise, it's much better for me not to keep any in my home. I have a weird split personality about food. My first line of defense is usually strong: I won't buy stuff I know I have problems resisting. I know that in a weak state and left alone I won't be able to resist the allure of bliss, sweet bliss as I float away on a cloud of sugar nirvana. It lasts all of 3 minutes or however long until the item is eaten. Make that, 3 minutes minus 15 seconds or so. As I approach the last couple of bites I'm already thinking ahead to what I can next eat. So goes the cycle.

So in this latest round of semi-sobriety, I've come to admit some very hard honesties to myself. One cookie will do nothing for me: I will barely enjoy its taste, and the bliss I seek in eating it won't last long enough to sustain my mood. It will take many cookies for me to experience the physical change, the actual calming of my nerves, the relaxation of my muscles and the slight haze that sets over my brain. You thought I was exaggerating when I compared myself to an alcoholic? To an addict? I'm not. Sugar causes biochemical changes within me; I don't need a medical scan to show me the changes in my brain. I experience them vividly. I know what to eat to give myself that high. And like any addict, the amount required to achieve that high increases with time. So I've admitted to myself now that my method of medicating just doesn't work. As such, I've been avoiding cookies and the like altogether. I've been doing Weight Watchers since January and have successfully dropped about 20 pounds. I know, I know - what happened to the "9 pounds" I was carrying around for months? Ah, yes. Escaping over the holidays and into the new year with all the baked goods I could get my hands on rapidly increased my weight gain. Today I feel and look good, and my clothes are all fitting again. The food plan for WW keeps me constrained so I really don't have the ability to binge, though I still want to every day. EVERY DAY. I am not satisfied on the anxiety front but at least I'm not compounding it on the body-hate front by not fitting into my wardrobe. I imagine my approach these last few months is like an alcoholic sobering up by himself, alone, with no real support. No one who knows exactly what he's going through. No one to lean on when so help him God, that bottle is screaming to be imbibed. What I've done is commendable but highly tentative and not recommended to anyone.

I've already done the hard work, haven't I. Perhaps I should hit a meeting, connect with others battling my same demon. I know it's the right thing to do.

"Always do right - this will gratify some and astonish the rest."
- Mark Twain

Mr. Clemens may be on to something.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Phantom Boyfriend Syndrome

Cassius OUT
Nick IN

This is the state of my brain these days.

Nick kept up his texting all week and we saw each other Saturday night. The encounter was nice, albeit in an inebriated state on my behalf (not really a good idea, right? Right. *sigh*) and here it is, Tuesday... with no word from Nick.

Like an army vet with an amputated right arm who feels the pain of a door catching her missing fingers as it closes, I feel pain where there can be none. My heart is aching with the absence of a boyfriend I don't have. I did once - for a few hours - and then he was gone.

With an actual amputee, the syndrome she's experiencing is well documented. Phantom Limb Syndrome can be painful, last for life, and cause her quite a bit of hurt. Phantom Boyfriend Syndrome is the most annoying of my wacky mental quirks. Why should I care so much if I haven't heard from him? He was, in fact, heading out of town for a few days, and then a good friend of his died unexpectedly. He's got to be busy and probably sad. He has a life independent of mine... why the hell can't I?

I do, in fact, need to chill, y'all.

I may need to meet more guys. Cassius cling-ed himself out of me having any interest in him (Hello, we've just met! Don't act like you can't live without me!) ...which, er... seems kind of familiar...

This crazy chick is outta here. I may go stand naked in front of a mirror. I hear if you hold your remaining limb in front of a mirror it can cause your brain to reset things and cease the phantom pains. It's a plan!

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Nick and Run

Used to be when a woman met a man he would ask for her phone number, call to ask her out and then court her with dates, flowers and other chivalrous actions. These days the getting to know you phase is cut short thanks to Facebook and other networking sites through which someone feels they can scroll through your profile and instantly know you. Up until now, I haven't hesitated if a guy asked if I'm on Facebook (duh!) in order to friend me. What they do from that point forward though more often than not, sadly, falls under something I refer to as a Hit and Run: they friend me and then drop off the face of the earth, leaving me wondering where they went and if the women are really all that much hotter there. Or maybe just easier. There seem to be two types of Hit and Runs - the ones who never post a hello on my wall yet continue to invite me by group email to their art shows, screening, improv showcases, etc., and the ones like Nick, the guy I met the other night - the ones who lurk... text text text... and then disappear. The Quickie Hit and Run.

Nick is a smart and hottie who owns my new local bar (Hello Alex! I'll take Double Jeopardy for $800 please!) A friend and I went over there to catch up over a drink. At one utterly 2010 moment, she and I were both on our iPhones at the same time when he came over and chastised us for being so unsocial. He promptly sat down and never left. Three beers and two sweet lips later we seemed to have arrived at a mutually attracted place. I decided to quit while I was ahead and said goodnight, exchanging numbers with him. [Editor's note: January requests that we mention how proud she is for this action, as saying goodnight to two sweet lips attached to one hot man is not easily done. We wish to express that this opinion is solely that of the author and we have no way to verify her remark.] So the next day, Nick texted me. Yay! And then texted me some more. And then asked how he could find me on Facebook. I told him how. He friended me. And then -- nothing. Nada. No follow-up text. No message via Facebook saying how cute I look in the baby picture with my mom. Nothing. I was left thinking am I too ____ for him? Square? Lame? Normal? Should I edge-up my Facebook page?? I immediately posted a pic and came up with a catchy title for it. Still, nothing. Maybe I shouldn't have used a pic of St. Xavier that I took recently when visiting an old mission church. Maybe I'm too religious for him? What if he doesn't call?! What if he never gets to know that I'm actually a hot tamale! That I'm pious AND dirty - the perfect Catholic schoolgirl combo! What - and - but - if -

And then I slapped myself and got back to a normal status update. ("Two Words: Nathan Fillion. One Gratuitous Sound Effect: Mmmmm") I felt better immediately, like I'd regained control of the road after being struck by a hit and run driver. He might slam into me, but he hasn't got me down!

By the way, interesting little illustration of a hit and run, don't you think? I found the artist's choice of car positioning rather... arresting. I'll say!

This morning I woke up with a text message waiting on my phone. "I'm at the bar if you want to come by." Nick sent it around midnight, when I was fast asleep. I guess he doesn't count as a Hit and Run guy anymore, then. Just a Nick and Run.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

The Greatest of All Time

Oh, to have my laptop right now and be sitting in bed, comfy and warm, typing away on my travails. And to have internet – I haven’t got an internet connection here. I moved to a new place a few weeks ago and am still sans web. So in fact I am writing this at 12:50 am on 3/28/10 and Lord knows when I will be able to post it. Fingers crossed someone will have an unlocked wifi connection and I’ll be able to hop on for a few to put this up…

My travails. Oh, how dramatic. What the heck is eating at me? [Sigh] I just came home from a date. Cool guy. Very relaxed, nice, confident, gentlemanly, serious arms from his hobby, boxing… umm, did I mention his arms? And his hot arms. BOTH OF THEM. I’ll call him Cassius. What’s the dilemma? He’s 26. Come on, people!!!! WTF? I specifically decided a few months back that I’m done with dating younger guys. I set a 5 year rule (and that was being generous! Really I’d like to keep them no more than 3 years younger). Last weekend I was out furniture shopping with a friend and this fella and I met, chatting over the furniture store we’d both been perusing. One thing led to another and I gave him my card – and he texted me from the next furniture store – and subsequently asked me out. Smooth operator and very sure of himself. I really wasn’t thinking too much of his age (or lack thereof), kind of figuring I’d play it by ear and could always tell him on the date that he was too young for me, and that’d be the end of it. But not this guy. Oh, no. Cassius likes older women. He told me the last women he dated were between 40 and 47! All I could think was, Cougars!!! But then I realized that would make me in very least, a Puma. So I tried not to think about it. He was so smooth… until his second beer. After that he had to pee three times within 20 minutes (twice during the movie) and was so darn hand-holding cuddly that he rested his head on my shoulder. Again, I ask you: WTF? These little things managed to pull me out of his arms’ gravitational pull long enough that I remembered my rule again and after the movie I was a bit more reserved and less touchy-feely than before. As he walked me to my car I told him the age thing was a problem, not because there’s anything wrong with the years between us but because we’re in different places in our lives. That’s not the same thing, right? He told me I think too much while THEY wrapped around me and his lips settled in on mine. Oh Lord, give me strength. Remind me of what I really want in this life. And extinguish the fire that just lit up down below… oh my, he’s got a great body -

Hey! You, January! Snap out of it!

I am now left with a very persistent young man whose arms knock me out without lifting a fist at my disposal… The question is, will I dispose of him? Or will I go another round??

[Editor's note: January successfully hopped on to some unsuspecting and unsecured neighbor's wireless signal. Editor takes no responsibility for theft of any kind committed by January while in the course of writing this blog.]

Saturday, January 16, 2010

Go Shorty, It's My Birthday

Subject: The Golden Januarys, Sunday January 17

Hello Friends! Hard to believe it, but it's that time of year again - it's time for The Golden Januarys! That's right, the Hollywood Foreign Press Association has decided to hold its Golden Globe Awards on MY BIRTHDAY! What better way to honor Hollywood's tradition of self-aggrandizing than to throw a party for myself. So please come and celebrate me with me. We will be watching the other biggest show in town, of course. Information is as follows:

Date: Sunday, January 17

Time: 4:30 pm (The Golden Globes air live from 5-8:00 PST)

Place: My apartment!

Bring: an appetizer themed appropriately for the event, such as Brad Pitted Dates Wrapped in Kevin Bacon, or Chicken Little Satay. So many of you work in a creative field; now is your time to shine! Have fun with this one. I'll have the drinks and of course the Golden January Cake.

RSVP: by email, text or phone

Should the HFPA decide to properly honor the date and send a limo for me to attend the ceremony (they still haven't returned my calls, I don't know why) I will of course bow out and you can munch on (500) Days of Spinach Dip or whatever goodies abound in my absence. In light of the way this year's Cecil B. DeMille Award recipient Martin Scorcese ran screaming when he saw me in Beverly Hills the other day, I'm guessing I'll probably be viewing from home with you. But one never knows. I love ya, Marty.

xoxo January

Sunday, January 3, 2010

16 Days, 6 States and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

When I booked my trip back in September I used frequent flier miles to make it possible. Normally 25,000 miles would buy a round trip continental flight. Alas, flying during peak times - Christmas and New Year's being as peak as it gets - means there either 1) are no frequent flier seats in existence, or 2) are none left, all of them having been snapped up last January by people who both make their holiday plans ridiculously early and finish their Christmas shopping on December 26. Never mind that the sweater Aunt Joy buys for her nephew Charlie is three sizes too small by the following December. The $3.74 price tag at Target makes it worthwhile. And snagging a cross-country ticket with only 25,000 miles despite the fact that Uncle Steve will be hit by a garbage truck backing up in the end of his driveway in April and won't be around to deck the halls come December doesn't matter at all. The $100 fee per ticket to change plans is an acceptable risk.

So when I booked my ticket, I had no choice but to use 50,000 to get the itinerary I wanted. The downside of that is obvious. The upside is, I get to fly First Class on my return. Yee haw. It's been snowing a lot in the Northeast and my friends wanted to leave plenty of time for our trek to Logan Airport so early we left... and early we arrived. Two full hours early. Checking in and getting through Security took... ten minutes. But by the grace of God and for the paltry sum of an extra 25,000 frequent flier miles, I have a First Class ticket and therefore am sitting right now in the Admiral's Club. But for the rugrats scrambling around me for an open computer (there are three others next to me), this rocks. Free weak coffee and supermarket cookies! I'm living large, baby! Of course, there is a chance this complimentary internet access may expire at any time. I would hate to be in the middle of a grand thought when my posting disappeared. So I'll keep this short and sweet. American Airlines, kindly keep the plane on the runway when we land in LA this evening. I've been hearing you're getting sloppy with that. And maitre'd, refill those cookies. I've got 24,500 miles more worth of them to eat.