How Long is the Honeymoon Period, anyway?

31 12 2013

I’m at work, so I guess technically I’m not supposed to be blogging, but a. Nothing is going on except for the occasional phone call and client coming in, b. no one is watching me, and c. it’s New Year’s Eve and I’m bored.

So whatever.

I think I have a cold, which means it’s probably advisable not to get super drunk tonight? Right? Anyone?

Nah. Totally drinking anyway. Also possibly getting cake. ‘Cause it wasn’t just my birthday or anything and I didn’t eat…about half the cake? No, it wasn’t half the cake. I mean, Magpie (my boyfriend, so nicknamed because of his propensity to spot and pick up shiny things on the ground) had some, Mom had some, and two others had some, so…maybe I ate a third of the cake over…four days? (Guess what my New Year’s Resolution is? Back on Weight Watchers!)

Cake cake cake cake cake. Seriously, if anyone’s ever in New York City- (Is this the first time I’ve actually mentioned where I am? No one come look for me! Tee hee. Actually, if I ever met anyone who read this blog I’d probably be all OMG let’s be friends and want to swap e-mails.)

Anyway, if anyone’s in New York City, go to Sal’s and…is it Dino?’s Crap, I don’t remember and I can’t check Yelp on my-oh, never mind, I can. (I’ve been surfing the net for the last fifteen minutes or so. I am easily distracted. Especially by Cake Wrecks.) Anyway, it’s Sal’s and Dom’s. Best red velvet cake I’ve had. So. Good. OMG. It’s in the Bronx and around the holidays it’s a madhouse but OMG CAKE. EAT IT.

Ahem. I love cake. That is all.

I really do have to work out more, my stamina is crap. It probably doesn’t help that I stopped working out after I got the stomach flu, which wiped me out even after I stopped throwing up. Nausea plus dizziness plus exhaustion equals J.J. curled up in front of Netflix and eating sour candies and drinking ginger ale and not moving.

I have really started baking. For the holidays I made gingerbread cookies, brownies for Magpie’s parents, sugar cookies for a holiday party, and now I want to learn to make bread, so I’m doing what I always do and going online to read tutorials. …I supposed I will have to buy a loaf pan. I mean, I think I have one, but a. I have no idea where it is or what shape it’s in, b. I really don’t feel like ransacking my entire kitchen to find it, and c. I seem to end up needing two for this recipe I found. So two new loaf pans it is.

I also need to practice piping icing, ’cause holy hell it is harder than it looks. You think you just squeeze the bag, the icing comes out in a neat little line, and you paint smiles on your gingerbread people/decorations on your cake. No! You have to squeeze the bag with both hands, and keep it steady or it looks like you’re trying to make dashes instead of lines, and the icing has to be fresh and if you squeeze too hard you just make a mess and if you squeeze too lightly nothing happens or the icing comes out in these dots that look like white bunny poop. Man, this sudden desire to be Betty Crocker is difficult.

It’s so quiet. I think I’ll play some music. *goes to Pandora* Ooh, Rent. Light My Candle is pretty depressing, really. ‘Hey, my girlfriend died/I do drugs and I’m a S&M dancer/I think I like you/Me too/Our lives aren’t that great.’

Oh, I got my first rejection! A few weeks ago, from the student literary magazine. I was almost expecting it, because I rushed my submission, but I still hoped. But no. I was apparently trying to be Lolita, cliché, and lacking editing skills. Ouch. I guess I’d better step it up, or get into a new gig, no? It’s a little humbling, when I thought I could just go on in, but I guess writing really is like everything else, in which you have to practice.

Holy cheese, 700 words and I just now get to the topic mentioned in the title of the post.

How long is the honeymoon period? After lengthy research (by which I mean whatever sites I could get to from Google that aren’t blocked at work), it seems to be anywhere from a few months to two years after marriage. So, what, I’m going to be happy to see Magpie for…well, I don’t think we’re getting married anytime soon, but we’ve survived my mood swings, my stomach flu, his issues, my issues, small arguments, and the fact that we both live with our parents, and it’s only been six months-ish. So, is our honeymoon period over? How are you supposed to know? And I’ve seen people together twenty years who act like they’re still mad about each other and people who break up a few months in, so how does that work?

I think this is typical me. ‘I’m happy with something. WHAT’S GOING TO GO WRONG?’

You know what? I’m just going to go with it. I’m happy. I’m not going to try to dissect it for once. If our biggest issue that he doesn’t like that I eat pork (he doesn’t on the grounds that pigs are smart and that chicken and fish are stupid and therefore okay to eat) and I get annoyed that he tries to do high kicks on the subway platform and people stare, I think we’re fine.  (I’m considering maybe giving up pork. Maybe. I like pork. If he promises not to do high kicks on the subway ’cause it’s embarrassing and I worry that he’ll accidentally kick someone and then we become the people who get into a fight on the subway.)

I think I might buy him some pants next paycheck. He needs new pants that don’t look like they’re made to do construction in. He doesn’t really dress up ever ’cause he’s that type. But he looks so good in a button down! /stupid girlfriend whining

I try not to be the ‘omg change your clothes fix your hair what are those shoes’ girlfriend, I really do, but it’s like, ‘Babe, you dress like you’re in high school, stop it.’ Oh well, it doesn’t seem to bother him much. He’s pretty unflappable. Unless I make him watch Project Runway, which he doesn’t like. Probably because it’s about drama and clothes, two things he doesn’t care about. But he says I’m a good girlfriend, so I will try to stay that way. Also we have excellent cuddles and he’s emotionally supportive and- *stops before she goes on and on about how awesome the BF is*

Quick really shameful shallow note: I sometimes wish he were hotter. I mean, I’m attracted to him, and he’s not ugly by any means. But I think my urge to dress him up is a shallow need to have other people think he’s attractive and think that I have an ugly boyfriend. But that’s treating him like a status symbol, and he’s a person, and a good person at that, so I’m trying to get over it. I’m no model anyway. (I’m pretty, but that’s totally different.) Well, actually, a lot of models aren’t that pretty, if we’re talking about conventionally pretty. They’re too tall and angular and such. Whatever. My point is that I love him, but I am apparently shallow enough to wish that he would not dress and cut his hair like a high schooler! I’m going to get stopped one day by a cop who thinks I’ve got a boy-toy!

Okay, this post is getting long, so I’m going to stop now. Happy New Year, everyone!

Sincerely yours,



In Barnes and Noble

5 04 2013

I’m writing this post from a table at Barnes and Noble. I’ve been here about an hour; it’s a good place to write-people watch, yada yada. Most of the people here, myself included, at least buy a drink before hogging a table for ages. There are at least three people who haven’t, which annoys the crap out of me. Then people who actually have drinks have nowhere to sit. And two out of the three are these sketchy white guys who are either developmentally disabled or serial killers. One has one of the most pointless comb overs that I’ve ever seen, it’s like he threaded his head.

This week is almost over, thank goodness, because for some reason I have been snacking like a fiend and I have five weekly points left. Out of forty-nine. But today hasn’t been so bad. I had a Healthy Choice meal (the Top Chef ones are pretty good) and a salad, a large iced mocha (skim milk and sugar free syrup!), and two clementines. I have no idea what I’m going to do for dinner. I’m not going to be hungry for a while, so I’ve got a bit to figure it out. God, sometimes eating is a pain.

Okay, Comb Over has been reading the same page for about five minutes. Either he’s slow, or he’s not actually reading. He probably has body parts in his freezer. And Fat Pretentious Pubes Beard keeps picking at himself. Gross gross gross.

Oh, I almost forgot. This is my other blog. My writing blog. It’s just about as random as this one, but I still think it’s pretty awesome. Please check it out and read my writing! I’d love some feedback!

Oh, and I came across this the other day–>

And what did this make me think of? The image for Lolita.


This is nuts. Victoria’s Secret really shouldn’t be marketing sexual underwear to underage girls. According this blog post, they’re trying to sell underwear to these girls that say things like ‘Feeling Lucky’ on them.

Like we haven’t sexualized women and girls enough? Do you have to sell them underwear that invites sexual advances, that makes them seem themselves sexually?

It’s creepy. I’m not even a mother yet, and probably won’t be for a while, and I’m already worried about my potential daughters being seen as sex objects.  Ugh.

Then again, when I look in a Victoria’s Secret, the models are always posed provocatively. Now, as I am attracted to women, you might think that I like that. But it’s meant to appeal to men (really, the catalog is pretty much Playboy without genitals)  and the objectification of the women is more disturbing to me than it is attractive. It reminds me that women are still often seen as sex objects.

What does everyone else think? Am I being too sensitive? Men and women and whatever else you identify as, let me know in the comments!

Sincerely yours,


Everyone On Glee Tonight Was A Tool, and My Uterus Hates Me

14 03 2013

The thing I liked the most about Glee tonight:

Santana doing a Paula Abdul song that I’ve never heard before with many sexy female dancers. You know, sometimes I forget I’m bi. Then I see stuff like that and I remember. Partly because Naya Rivera is

The rest of the hour…yeah. Let’s see, Sue was being Nicki Minaj, who irritates me beyond belief merely by existing. Jane Lynch made it funny, but god that was annoying. The new Glee kids basically went from ‘Roar, we are angry and nonsensical’  to ‘Yay, we’re friends again! And still nonsensical!’ Finn and Will were immature dicks the entire episode. And there’s the Brody situation.

Okay, fine. Brody is a male prostitute. That sleeps with women, just to be clear. He has not told Rachel this, which is a dick move, and Santana is right to try and out him on that point. But Finn, apparently, thinks it’s okay to try and beat him up and tell him to ‘stay away from [his] future wife.’

Boys and girls, that’s not romantic. That’s creepy/possessive/psycho. Brody needs to admit his job to Rachel, Rachel needs to manage her own crap instead of letting Santana run around doing whatever she wants, and Finn needs to get a life. I know this show rarely makes sense, but the way they present Finn and Rachel’s relationship is just unhealthy. And creepy.

And finally, the only people who didn’t irritate me in this episode were Brittney (who was nowhere to be seen for no reason that I remember), and Kurt, who was onscreen for about twenty seconds. Can we get Kurt a story line, please? It’d be more interesting than Ryder’s online romance or Finn’s life searching BS. Anyways. The other thing I was excited about? The preview for next week. Most of it, I don’t remember, but I do seem to remember Blaine asking Sam if he has feelings for him. If they actually make Sam bisexual, that would rock my world. A bisexual character who is sweet, doesn’t sleep with everything that moves, and doesn’t seem likely to suddenly find out that they’re actually gay, a la Santana? Sign me up! I’m sorry, as a bisexual, I would be very happy for bisexuality to be represented by a character that doesn’t turn out to be a. crazy, b. promiscuous, c. dead, or d. all of the above. So, fingers crossed for next week!


Now, onto my uterus! Or really, my biological clock. There was a Gerber commerical, and I said, out loud, “I wanna be a mommy!” Cue record screech hold the phone break a glass full stop.

No. No. No. No. I am losing my goddamn mind. I am so far away from where I would want to be in relation to becoming a mother that it’s not even funny. Apparently my biological clock is calling on my lack of fulfillment and both are now trying to get me to become someone’s baby mama.

My response to this: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. I have too many things to do and enough to fit my head around without trying to survive pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood. I should probably go back on the pill as soon as I can pay for it, just to be on the safe side. I have to remember how much I like not being a mother. I have to remember that. I have to.


And, to round out the post, a bit about American Idol, which I keep encountering because my mother is watching it. The judges are too nice and say the same crap over and over, but that’s not the worst part. Can anyone guess what I think the worst part is? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? (Sorry. Had to.)

That’s right, Nicki Minaj. Oh god she’s so terrible. She makes no sense, she’s weird in an obnoxious way, and really, I would pay real money to have Mariah Carey (and why is her name pronounced Ma-rai-ah? English makes no sense) punch her in the throat and be all ‘I am so much more than you’ and then they can compare their vocal ranges without a laser light show and Techno Lights can go away.

…okay, done now.

Now, I have work to do on my novel. Well, more work on my novel. Tee hee.

Sincerely yours,


A Working Experience

4 03 2012

I had a gig yesterday, which made me feel all productive and everything. Granted , it wasn’t the most intellectually stimulating work (filling out forms and making out guest lists and online forms and credit card numbers) but I can’t complain too much. Except I can, because geez Louise.

I was working for my aunt and one of her friends, but there were other people present. My aunt happens to be blind, but she’s more capable than some people who aren’t handicapped, and only asks for help if she really needs it, or if it is openly offered. Her guests however, are not, and seem content to stay that way, which I don’t understand.  Being dependent, for me, is beyond frustrating. Being able to do things for myself excites me, simply because my depression and anxiety makes it so hard for me. And these women, who are physically disabled, seem…almost content with the idea that someone else has to do things for them, and that someone else will do things for them. Rather than ask for a cup of coffee, they simply proclaim ‘I want coffee’, and then express how they would like it, simply expecting the coffee to appear to their satisfaction. It seems a little…presumptuous to me. Naturally, I don’t expect blind or very handicapped people to do something that would be very difficult for them, not when it would be easier and more efficient for someone else to do. However, that doesn’t make it all right for them to just take advantage of that fact, and a demand does that. My aunt, when asking for something, has always been polite, no matter who she was asking something of.

I wonder if this distaste I have for these presumptuous women has something to do with my distaste for myself, or well, the old me. The one who never did very much on her own, relied on others to read her mind or do the things she found difficult, who shied away for her own responsibilities and difficulties. I think that would make sense; I’m so hard on myself, I think that if I recognized something that I found unacceptable in myself, I would certainly look down or at least disapprove of the trait or behavior in someone else. It might be unfair, because they could be just as frustrated with their own limitations as I am, but all I have to judge them on is their behavior, which I don’t like.

I didn’t exercise today because A. I was tired, and B. I think I messed up my stupid bad ankle. Either that or it’s going to get colder. Or rain. Either one. Or both, it doesn’t matter. My ankle doesn’t like any change in weather. I’m still having a hard time with motivation, too. I mean, if I’m already out, then I’m like, ‘Oh, I guess I can go to the gym.’ But if I’m at home, cozy? I might as well be under house arrest, because I just huddle under the blankets or putter around the apartment because I can’t get up and go! It’s like there’s more than one me, but the one who wants to go keeps getting shut down. Like this:

Enthusiastic!Me: Oh, look, we’re awake! Let’s get up!

Drowsy!Me: …eh. Sleepy. ::proceeds to roll over::

Enthusiastic!Me: …come on, get up get up get up get UP!

Pessimistic!Me: There’s no point in doing anything. Let’s go get some ice cream from the freezer.

Drowsy!Me: Don’t wanna get up. Sleepy.

Enthusiastic!Me: …come on you guys, let’s go, we’ll feel better!

Pessimistic!Me: There’s no point. Nothing will make us feel better.

Drowsy!Me: I’m trying to sleep. Be. Quiet.

Enthusiastic!Me: Oh, I give up, you guys are impossible.

Me: ::doesn’t get out of bed::

And so on it goes. Tomorrow I have to get up, because I have a gig and I’ve already gotten paid for it. (Need to go to bed on time, self!) But the day after? I don’t have to be up until it’s time for therapy. But maybe if I don’t look at it as an obligation, but as a fun thing, maybe I can go? In any case, it’s on my schedule. In the meantime, I’ll try to control my sweet tooth. …Oooh, I’ll buy hummus with tahini. That is super yummy. And not hugely fattening. …I think I should be cooking dinner, but there isn’t anything defrosted. I should make a supper plan too. Hah. Supper. Who says supper anymore? Well, apparently I do, but still.


I started a piece with A as the inspiration. It’s good, I think. It’s a little racy too. Not too surprising, considering the source material. I mean, we were so sexual. Not that’s all we were, but it was a sexually charged relationship, when we weren’t pondering on the universe and all that. I mean, I don’t think I believed half of what was coming out of his mouth, but it was interesting. I think he was always gauging my reactions. I think he saw me as something of a student, someone who would think of him as worldly, that he could teach. Which is one of the things that I didn’t like as much, because it made me feel inferior, as much as it drew me in. Like I said, it was interesting. But as for what I think is becoming a short story, it’s not a direct telling of us, my stories never mimic life exactly, but he is the spark that started this little fire. So we’ll feel what happens, once I get to the end of it. Speaking of which, I’m going to go write and release more emotions! Yay for emotional catharsis!

Sincerely yours,