I Went to Venice. And Amsterdam.

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“This trip will change you for the better,” Sheri emailed me the morning of my departure. “I just know it.” Her comforting words were not having the desired effect. My hands still shook as I pulled out the pill bottle from my carry-on and we taxied to the runway at JFK.

My Practice Xanax Session the previous night had gone well. Although, I’d forced my friend Veronica to stay on the phone with me an hour after I’d taken it to make sure I wasn’t having any sort of adverse reaction. This made no sense of course, as she lives in Portland and there wasn’t much she could do if something did occur. But I’d procrastinated until around 10pm my time because I was so scared, so it was too late to call anyone locally.

I had come up with a number of excuses of why I couldn’t make this trip. I was getting sick, The Cat would miss me too much and stop eating, The Fun Committee was hosting their first event without my expertise. But I knew none of these would be accepted by my writing partner. He had spent a lot of money on this trip, we needed to get this work done for the book. I had to go. So after I downed the Xanax, I looked out the window as the tarmac sped by and then fell out from below us, settled into my seat and said to myself, “Let’s do this.”

And then I went to Venice. Continue reading I Went to Venice. And Amsterdam. →

I Have To Go To Venice. Part Two.

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“Ah, Venice,” said Dr. Shay in his slow, measured tone. He moved to retrieve his stethoscope. “Beautiful city.” Dr. Shay is in his early-fifties and has been my doctor for many years. I like him because he never makes me feel rushed in my appointments and lets me spout out my various theories on the roots of health problems without becoming annoyed.

“Yes, I know,” I replied, nodding. “I’ve been there.” That was part of the problem with this whole trip. I was being forced to take vacation time for a location that I’d already been to. It pissed me off.

“You don’t sound too thrilled,” he said as he wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my arm.

“I’m not,” I said. “I couldn’t be less thrilled.”

“And why is that?” Continue reading I Have To Go To Venice. Part Two. →

I Have To Go To Venice. Part One.

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I was a Theater Major in college and reveled in the fierce lifestyle of wearing all black (accented with eccentric hats and scarves), smoking cigarettes at the benches and deconstructing Pedro Calderón de la Barca. But since I was attending U.C.L.A., I also decided to join a sorority. Much to my friends’ and family’s confusion.

I have varied thoughts on the Greek System as a whole, in fact, I even wrote a book about it, but my personal experience was pretty awesome. To this day, if I were to ever meet a girl from my House, no matter what chapter, I would give her our secret handshake and call her ‘My Sister’. It was at my sorority, during our formal Monday night dinner, when events set me on the course to have ‘The White Light’ experience. Continue reading I Have To Go To Venice. Part One. →

If At First You Don’t Succeed, Try, Try…Ugh.

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The Fun Committee had convened in the Cafe, along with our part-time 21-year-old intern from NYU, Tara. The Cafe is an empty office that my company had turned into a hodgepodge lounging space complete with a working cappuccino machine and random scarves and pillows strewn everywhere. There is even a colorful collection of plastic tambourines arranged on the desk. I don’t know why.

I pulled out my notebook as Anna finished up making our coffee drinks. “Guys,” I said. “We have a situation.”

“What is it?” asked Emily. “Did the location for Office Happy Hour fall through?”

“No. Something much, much more serious.” I took a deep breath. “OkCupid is not working out.”

Emily’s expression darkened as she fired up her laptop. Tara straightened up and pulled the pen from her make-shift hair bun. She poised it over an empty notebook page. Anna somberly placed a cappuccino in front of me and put a hand on my shoulder. There would be no talk of Amanda Knox on this day. Continue reading If At First You Don’t Succeed, Try, Try…Ugh. →

Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em.

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“I’m quitting smoking,” my co-worker, Archie, announced as we were taking a cigarette break outside the Duane Reade below our office.

“Wow,” I said, as I took a drag. “What brought this on?”

Archie had always said he loved smoking too much to ever stop. “It’s my only vice!” he’d exclaim. Of course, I knew this not to be true.

He rolled his eyes. “Chad says he won’t pay for my plastic surgery if I don’t quit.”

Chad is Archie’s much older, kind and quite distinguished boyfriend. He lives a very healthy lifestyle and doesn’t smoke or drink but always lets the rest of us run around his penthouse and play Flip Cup on his marble dining-room table. I was pretty sure this plastic surgery nonsense was not Chad’s idea. Continue reading Smoke ‘Em If You Got ‘Em. →

Date One.

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There was something going on with my eye. I don’t know if I got Oil of Olay in it or what. But the right one was totally red and sickly looking. This is the kind of thing that, naturally, only happens when you have a job interview, when you’re at an event where you’ll have your picture taken often – such as a wedding, or if you’re going on a first date.

Which is what I was doing today. Continue reading Date One. →

My Ex Has Been Reading My Blog.

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“Are you sure you aren’t using this as an excuse to contact him?” Veronica asked. We were having our usual Sunday phone chat, where it was early afternoon for her in Portland so she was getting ready for CrossFit and it was late afternoon for me in New York so I was getting ready for the workweek ahead.

“I…,” I had to stop and think about that. “I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” she said warily.

“No,” I said with more assurance, as I filled my Monday through Friday vitamin packets. “I’m not. I have to tell him. If he hears I’m writing about him from someone else, he’ll be really pissed.”

“Well, let me know how it goes,” she said.

“I will.”

In all honesty, he would probably be pissed regardless. My Ex is the most private person I’ve ever known. He doesn’t even post things about himself on Facebook. It’s either about his band or some sort of informed political rant. Meanwhile, I’m like, “Hi everybody! Now I’m chewing blue gum!” Continue reading My Ex Has Been Reading My Blog. →

Zeke Comes to Visit. Part Two.

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Zeke let me cry into his shoulder for awhile on the couch. Then, after I’d wiped my nose on his sleeve, he’d gotten up to find me some Advil. “So, what’s going on Trace?” he asked, as he rifled around in the medicine cabinet.

“He doesn’t love me anymore!” I wailed. I flopped into the couch and buried my face in a pillow.

“Well, yeah,” he replied. “That’s what happens with breakups.”

“You don’t understand,” I said. But he couldn’t really hear me. Continue reading Zeke Comes to Visit. Part Two. →

Zeke Comes to Visit. Part One.

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Zeke showed up in my doorway with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a Starbucks coffee in his hand, after having made the long drive from Boston to NYC. There were many times over the years when Zeke had been on the East Coast for work but had never come to see me. This had caused many of our arguments. But a few days ago he’d announced an impromptu visit for this weekend. I had a sneaking suspicion this decision was not a result of him suddenly wanting to see the sites of New York or even to see me really. I had a feeling this was mostly because he was a little worried about my current state of mind. He knew this was the weekend My Ex had been scheduled to come out from California. That trip had been cancelled, of course. And although I’d told him I was doing FINE, he’d still insisted on coming out. Continue reading Zeke Comes to Visit. Part One. →

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