Post Labor Day, I blogged every day this week! So far I greatly enjoy it, though this week I had a good amount of time on my hands. When I get back into the NYC swing of things, it may be a different story.
How about you? Were you overwhelmed by content? Unable to read it all? Feel like you’ll never catch up? Writing everyday is a good exercise for me, however, I may have to change the way I blog every day. Perhaps more pictures, shorter posts at least some of the time. What do you think?
I also completely re-did the design of the site! Do you like it? It feels more organized, easier to follow, more professional. Which might all mean more boring, less personal. So far, I think I like it, but I’d love to hear your opinions!
Enough shop, here are pictures of lots of animals from the state fair!
Baby bunnies! Always a crowd pleaser, always cute. Apparently I missed the time of day where you could take them out and pet them.
Llamas have so much attitude. These guys just look too cool for state fairs. No wonder their cousin Joe Camel was used to sell cigarettes to kids.
Bah, sheep! They look like best friends, wise to make the best situation out of such close quarters.
They put the sheep in these little cover-ups after they’ve been shorn! Maybe to stay clean? No way was it to stay warm, no in the 80 degree New York weather.
Pigs! The family dynamics of these twelve piglets were so fun to watch. Who was the runt, who was the strongest, who needed Mama Pigthe most.
There was a Calf Birthing Center at this fair where you could literally sit and watch a cow give birth. Maybe that sounds cool to some of you, it sounded awful to me. But the end product is this little, born yesterday calf. He’s cute now, though I imagine who looks disgusting just the day before.
Chickens are just so funny. But these colorful chicks were the most ridiculous. Is this what happens when you dye fertilized Easter eggs accidentally?
Your cliché rooster.
Standard looking hen.
Something about the expressions of chickens is just funny. That and their jerky movements.
Haha! Even funnier when they appear to have “hair-dos!”
Would you even guess this was a chicken? Nice feathers, toots.
Eating a whole pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Treating yourself to chocolate eclairs, chocolate anything really. Getting pizza delivered and the next thing you know the entire pie is gone. This is the cliché diet of the heartbroken. Yours truly had her heart broken and ten days later went to work at the New York State Fair. This was a literal recipe for disaster.
The State Fair is notorious, some would say renown, for its food. Ice cream is every where, as diary is one of the state’s most prominent products. There is the novelty of deep-frying things one would never imagine could be deep-fried: oreos, Snickers, Reeses’, pop tarts. As if that weren’t enough, they take it to a mind-boggling (and mouth-watering/stomach-wrenching depending on perspective) level of indulgence with chocolate-covered bacon and donut burgers.
Eating at a State Fair
So did I eat ice cream, fried food, and chocolate for two weeks straight? Am I to return to New York weighing 20 extra pounds? Is the inevitable run-in with the ex going to result in him thinking, “Oh wow, she is clearly handling this by eating her emotions. Yikes.”
The last words he ever spoke to me, in fact, were on this subject. “Have fun at the State Fair,” he said, “Don’t eat the food.” It was said with humor, but since these literally were his last words to me, they hammered in my brain. Don’t tell me what to do! was my initial response. My spiteful side wanted to say, “Fuck you! You have no affect on my life now! I’ll eat it all if I want!” This resolve would be followed by gorging myself in a sad, sad action of In fact, I’m gonna do the opposite of what you told me to! Ha! You can take your command and shove it up your ass! Of course, my ass is what would’ve been affected. By “affected” I mean expanded, ballooned, billowed.
A woman’s brain when hopped up on rejection and heartache verges on crazy. Fortunately, my brain takes crazy to the absolute extreme. After resolving to eat everything I saw at the fair simply to spite my ex, I had another thought. This is a man who knows me well. Who knows that I respond poorly to commands. Who has in fact witnessed me responding to a command in a contrary fashion, the action of “Don’t tell me what to do” speaking louder than words.
This is how I saved myself from bingeing on nutritionally void food. My crazy mind was able to convince myself that this was his hope all along. A reverse psychology master plan: telling me not to eat fair food so I would do the opposite, gain 50 pounds and spend the rest of my life fat, oily, and alone! He’d never regret dumping me, friends would no longer think him a fool for letting me go. That’s the logic of crazy-lady-brain working in overdrive.
Whatever works, right? Avoiding the food was easy the first couple of days. I was still hurting, the heartache still acute, my brain abuzz with crazy-lady thoughts. At the mid-way point I conceded to one sampling of maple ice cream. Made with real maple syrup, it was fantastic. By the time the fair was wrapping up, my heart was well on the way to recovery. The bat-shit thoughts dwindling to few and far between. My resolve no longer fueled by scorn, my taste buds begged me to make up for lost time.
I was this close to making a meal out of the contents of a pastry case. But before I could follow through, I came across something while walking through the streets of the fair:
Just in case you can’t comprehend the picture, that my friends, is a man with a dread. A single dread. Strikes dread into your heart doesn’t it? This sight completely took away my appetite for anything. Ever. I’m amazed I’ve eaten since. Those times I’m feeling low, where in the past I would have reached to food for comfort? Now I just look at this picture and any desire for food vanishes.
Are you trying to lose weight? It can work for you too! The Dread Diet, perhaps the next fad, available to you for a limited time for the single price of reading my blog!
The minute my summer theatre gig ended, all I wanted to do was go back to New York City. Having just been dumped, I was in desperate need of a cuddle with my kitty, a Wine & Whine Girls’ Night, and a good night’s sleep in my own bed. Unfortunately, all these things were out of reach. The girl subletting my room was staying in the apartment for two more weeks. When a job opportunity came up to work at the New York State Fair, where the timing was absolutely perfect and they agreed to put me up in hotel for the duration, I snatched it.
The New York State Fair is a very strange place to be when every bone in your body wants to be in Manhattan. It was Purgatory: I had escaped the Hell of living and working with the man who had just broken my heart but the pearly skyscrapers of heavenly Manhattan were still out of reach. So I counted down the 10-hour work days, day dreaming of the fresh start to come and marveling at the strangeness of upstate New York.
In New York there are massive holiday parades that close down all of 5th Avenue for hours. Every day of the 12 day fair, there was a parade at 6PM. It featured high school marching bands, baton twirlers, Sparky the Fire Dog, and slew of tractor trailers.
Who am I to judge what is parade worthy and what isn’t? I’m sure if I saw a tractor in NYC I’d think it was amazing.
In New York City for fun we dance, drink, attend events and openings. Upstate, they build sculptures out of canned food.
If this was a gallery in Chelsea, we’d call it an art instillation, an homage to Warhol.
New Yorkers are so driven to achieve success- a Broadway role, a published novel, a corner office, a penthouse with river views- that we have little time for anything else. Upstaters consider winning a ribbon for a prize flower a success.
If the whole island of Manhattan took up gardening, I guarantee the number of people in therapy would plummet.
Maybe I don’t need theater, movies, comedy shows, and museums to entertain me. Maybe I just need a card-board cut out of corn to make me laugh.
I tried to appreciate my time at the fair and enjoy the moment. But I just couldn’t stop thinking of my home and all its culture-snobbery-elusive glory.
This notorious “culture-snobbery” makes it hard to look at things like this: It’s an sculpture made entirely of butter. No, I’m not kidding! There is no irony, no statement. It is literally created to celebrate the diary industry. It blows the New York mind. There’s a cow Statue of Liberty! Try as I might, I can’t honestly see this and think anything but “gross”!
Sensibilities vary by location? There’s no place like home? We’ll go with that.
Really, I’ll be back before I know it. For now I’m making money and learning about non-city New York life!
What would be your own personal Hell? One created with all the specifications to maximize your suffering for all eternity? Have a snake phobia? Then they are slithering all around you, always. Fear failure? Every half hour the hope of something truly wonderful blossoms and then comes crashing all around you. Afraid of dying alone? Expect to every day, only to be reborn and do it all over. It’s Hell, so no, you can’t at least have a cat.
What about a subway station where the air reeks of garbage at a stifling 98°. A street musician plays an out of tune banjo accompanying the din with an incoherent, high-pitched wail. Beaver-sized rats scuttle around the tracks, occasionally jumping up to the platform. Every bench is crammed with derelict men staring at you, hands shoved down their pants, noticeably masturbating. The train takes 50 minutes to arrive and when it finally does, a lovely looking woman (who acutely reminds you of your sister), throws herself in front of it. The train never stops. When it passes, all that remains of the woman is a streak of blood stained on the tracks. This is the New York cliché version of Hell.
Until recently, I may have considered the above description sufficient to describe my personal Hell. That was before I survived 10 days living in the same 20 acres as the man who broke my heart. This, I discovered, is my true personal Hell.
I couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere I turned. Everywhere. I’d round a corner and there he was wearing naught but a towel, on his way to the communal showers. I’d walk into the kitchen, hear his voice, and immediately lose my appetite. One night as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I became aware of a muffled sound in the otherwise silence. The moment I identified it as the faint noise of a coughing fit, I sat bolt upright, shaking. It was his cough, of course. With this came the knowledge of exactly where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing: top three on my DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT list.
You see, the ex is a smoker. Over the summer I began to fully understand his level of devotion to a certain Mary Jane and began to suspect he was more committed to MJ than to me. This became a point of contention. Here’s the funny thing: despite the frequency, every inhale he takes sends him into a fit of coughing. That is why I knew exactly what was going on. That is why this was Hell. I sat in bed, tempted to jump up and scream out my window, “I CAN HEAR YOU COUGHING AS I LIE IN BED. I NEED SLEEP, I’M MENDING A BROKEN HEART HERE. THIS IS THE LAST THING I NEED RIGHT NOW. SHUT THE FUCK UP.” Instead I took some meditative breaths, put in head phones, and let Belle and Sebastian lull me to sleep.
I would honestly prefer the cliché fire and brimstone.
I made it through, made it through Hell. My amazing friends kept me from having an emotional break down. Professionally, I was a rock star. My personal life blown to Hell, being able to escape for hours into the life of a character was incredibly freeing. A perk of being a professional actor. I threw myself into each performance with everything I had. The result was some of the best work I’ve ever done. No one would have guessed, not in a million years, the heartache I was hiding. I gotta admit, I’m pretty proud of this.
On the last day we had the “Closure Talk”. It didn’t exactly make me feel better, but do they ever? I left knowing what I’ve always known, never doubted: I am strong, I will get through this. “His loss,” as so many say. I survived Hell.
A well-known New York cliché: No one wants to be in the city on Labor Day Weekend. I am among the masses who have gotten away.
However, I will be laboring like crazy- working 11 hours days promoting a car company at the New York State Fair. At least it’s an all American car company which makes me feel a bit more celebratory. I hope y’all are spending the weekend at the beach, getting a final weekend out of your summer home, camping, cooking-out, and spending time with your family. While taking ad nauseum about cars, I’ll be dreaming of a beautiful hike I recently did in Ithaca, NY. They say Ithaca is gorgeous, is a nice play on words as Ithaca is known for its gorges. It really is. See for yourself!
Climbed narrow stairs with a steep incline to get this view. Gorges!In back of the falls! It took a long time to get here, almost got lost a couple times, but we made it and here is photographic proof!Back down the stairs to the base of the falls.The falls! Yes, my hiking outfit includes rainbow tube socks.
Gorgeous day.
Have a great Labor Day! What are your plans for this weekend?
Of course the minute I get used to having a boyfriend is the minute my relationship falls apart. That’s my life, why do I expect otherwise? I am Carrie Bradshaw (with smaller boobs): strutting down Park Avenue, feeling fabulous, when a crosstown bus hits a puddle. A plume of the city’s dirtiest water splashes my outfit turning gorgeous to gross.
Suddenly, I’m single again. And you know what? I’m freaking awesome single. Arguably more so than when attached at least to someone who doesn’t deserve me. Not only that, I love being single. Really, I do. It’s comfortable, it’s what I’m accustomed to. Which is a little boring, but I sure learned some valuable lessons in my coupled stint (yep, totally calling it that). So look out NYC, I’m back on the prowl: a little wiser, a little more sexy, a little smarter. Damn, what a stellar combination if you’ll pardon the horn tooting.
What am I looking forward to most about being single?
1. High heels It’s still warm enough to get good mileage out of my pairs of 4 inch strappy sandals. The poor little darlings have been sitting in my closet all summer, hidden away because I didn’t want to tower over a boyfriend who is actually 5’9 but thinks he is 5’11. Lame, I know. Now I’m going to get a pedicure, pair them with my skinny jeans, and strut down the city streets. I figure I’ll have about 30 minutes before a bus hits me or I fall flat on my face. So worth it, I can’t wait.
2. My next kiss I don’t know when it will be, I don’t know who it’s coming from. I don’t know if it will be swoon worthy or make me want to unlock lips faster than I can say “bleh”. I don’t know if it’ll be a peck or a full on teenage-level make-out sesh. I don’t know if I’ll ever kiss the person again. I don’t know if I’ll be drunk or sober (though my money is on the former). Also, I love the moments before a first kiss. Anticipation, butterflies, wondering if he’s actually going to go for it, hopefully hoping he does. There’s no other feeling like it and I’ve missed it for months. The possibilities are endless, save one: there is no chance my next kiss will end in beard-burn from a disappointing I-don’t-give-a-shit beard! That’s over!
3. Going out dancing with my girls
It’s either dancing or Ben and Jerry’s and I choose dancing! For the first time in the history of us living together, my roommates and I will all be single at the same time. It’s now shameful we have never been out dancing together. SHAMEFUL. So I am pulling the “I just got dumped” card and demanding we all go out. Clubbing, the works: aforementioned 4 inch heels, questionably short dresses, and we’re not leaving the house until 10PM. Will.I.Am’s “Scream & Shout” our theme song, boys will buy us drinks, we’ll dance until our makeup sweats off. Birds better be chirping as we stumble walk home.
4. Planning no dates I am great at planning dates. I like planning dates. But holy hell I am so sick of planning them! Harry was crap at planning, never creative about it, and really didn’t try very hard. The excuse that you’re new to NYC doesn’t last long. I am so looking forward to planning nothing but what outfit to wear for my next date. I will orchestrate awesome outings with my friends. Dates, the ball is in your court. Be a man and come up with something better than dinner and a movie.
5. Focusing on my career No, this was not one of the break-up clichés he used. Thank god, this one is almost as bad as “It’s not you it’s me.” I planned to do this, even when I thought I’d be in relationship (because I believe it’s totally possible to be in a relationship and focus on other things too. Whoa, I know). Now, I get to take advantage of Rejection Motivation. Call it a perk of getting dumped; it kicks you in the pants, motivates you out of complacency, forces you to reevaluate. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life and do it like I never have before. Balls to the wall, foot on the floor, full speed ahead, go big or go home!
6. Blogging Surprise: struggling with a relationship that is starting to make you miserable is not conducive to self-motivated creativity. I found it difficult to blog once a week this summer. More often than not, writing wasn’t fun, rather something I had to do. Now it’s a different world. My mind is bursting with creative energy! I have so much I want to say, perhaps because I no longer have that one person I tell everything. I like to think it’s more I want to become a better writer, share my experiences, and really explore the potential of this blog. Potential is there, I know it is. Back-to-school time feels like the perfect time for such a focus. After Labor Day expect more posts, maybe some new ideas, maybe some new design. Let’s see where I take it!
Join me by subscribing- it’s super easy to get posts (and no other email ever) sent right to your inbox. I am also planning to utilize Facebook and Twitter more, so follow me there too! Check that all out on the right sidebar. Lastly, a great thanks for all the comments regarding my previous break-up post. You readers are the best. ♥
That’s how it begins. That’s how it always begins, isn’t it? The gold standard of break up cliché openers.
These four little words send me into an unprecedented daze. I prepare myself for a shit storm: battening down my tear duct hatches, barricading my emotional threshold, taking deep breaths while my head spins.
Is this really happening? NOW?
We sit side by side together, as we have so many times. Not holding hands, not touching, this felt so comfortable and ordinary yesterday. Sitting on this bench alone, silent, I can already feel something come between us. No one passes by, no one sees us. If they did, they’d see a couple having a private moment. But I feel anything but alone. Between us, smooshed like turtles on a log in Central Park, I feel and can almost see anthropomorphic embodiments of Fear, Pain, and Sadness. Simultaneously nebulous and monstrous, with silly looking arms and legs that jut out of their blob-like bodies. There they sit, smashed between Harry and I. Eyes bulging, they stare at us with vapid expression.
They say that love makes you crazy? Yes, yes it does.
In my mind, they look kinda like the Blue Meanies. Except different colors: Fear is purple, Pain is scarlet, and Sadness is mustard yellow.
Harry opens his mouth and the words begin to fall. Not the shit storm I anticipated, no. Instead, my ears get soaked by a shower of clichés.
“You deserve better.”
“You’re a wonderful woman.”
“I can’t give you what you need.”
“I need to be alone, figure some things out for myself.”
Anger and hurt course through my drenched mind. Pain and Sadness no longer sit between us. The little bastards are scaling the front of my shirt, eagerly looking at my throat, “Can we choke her with our bony fingers?” Everything Harry says reeks of the five little goddamn words. A statement so painfully cliché, no man would dare speak them by wrote: “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Could I have at least gotten a pretty (pretty funny) necklace to go with being dumped? Dude never did get me a birthday present. UGH.
It’s Not You, It’s Me: The Mother of All Break Up Clichés
Can a break up ever feel bereft of bullshit? Maybe that’s impossible when love is involved. I can’t help but wonder, why isn’t “You’re just not the girl for me” a break up cliché? WHY? That’s all it ever is, right? Ok, of course it’s more complicated than that. Of course. Still, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, doesn’t it boil down to, “You’re not the right person for me”? Why can’t you just say so?
Are you worried I’ll cry because it’s too harsh? You know that’s bullshit. You know I’m tough. Besides, this wouldn’t make me roll my eyes and gag the way, “You’re a wonderful woman” did.
So what is it?
Is it too final? Are you too cowardly to end things with such conviction? Do you want me to sit here and wonder, “Maybe we’ll get back together someday, after you figure your shit out?”
“If you love something, set it free; if it comes backs it’s yours, if it doesn’t, it never was.” – Richard Bach
I can’t know the answers to these questions. The one thing I can know with absolutely certainty is this: When the man I love- the first man I ever gave my heart to, the first one I ever truly trusted- when this man tells me, “You deserve better than me,” I’d be a fool not to believe him.
Note: None of the photos in this post are mine. Click image for credit.
