I’m emotionally unavailable!” he announced – nay – cried to the bar.

Only a few people let the emphatic exclamation interrupt their drinking and revelry.  I was one of them.  In the following moments, as I feigned a general preoccupation with the ice cubes in my glass, I considered everything that statement did and did not mean to me.

a)  Many people are emotionally unavailable.  Most of them are aware of that fact.  Very few of them, however, willingly fess up to it.

b)  Probably only one of those few who do openly admit to that will do so as a proclamation to a group of relative strangers and a girl who, a long time ago, perhaps evoked some of those unavailable emotions.  Lucky me: I found him.

c)  Often times, emotionally unavailable folk fall into two categories:  those for whom the availability issue is a subconscious, involuntary result of some former pain or vulnerability, and those for whom it is a very deliberate decision, deployed to protect themselves from some anticipated but usually false threat of attachment.  I can say this because for most of my life, I fell into the latter category while pretending that I was in the former.  Given that, it certainly seemed to me that my vociferous friend at the bar also fell into the second category, which, it certainly seemed to me, meant that his unavailability was a choice he made, and rather happily clung to.  Without trying to demean any previous heartache the poor guy may have suffered, I was disappointed that he was taking a rather wussy way out.

d)  “Well, then,” I thought to myself, as I turned my attention to the stirrer that was doing laps around my gin and tonic.  “That’s that.  Pack up and go home, there’s nothing for you here.”  I sighed the sigh of another firmly chapter closed, until – wait just a second!  ¡#%$&@!!!  I was never really interested in this guy’s emotions!  From the get-go, if there was one thing present between us at all, emotions was not that thing.  As far as I was concerned, his emotions could stay hidden under years and years worth of buried treasure.  This is what made the whole affair newsworthy, and oh-so-not me.  He could take out a billboard over the BQE declaring his emotional inaccessibility and nothing would change.  My interest in him had nothing to do with whatever emotions he was or was not putting out; it simply had to do with, well, putting out.  Ha-HA, I said to his outburst; you mean nothing to me.

I couldn’t help but smile.  Who can say for whose ears his comment was truly intended, or how many years of therapy it might take this hapless soul to recover his emotions.  The chapter is certainly still closed, but bookmarked.  His enthusiastic random interjection has been logged, an entertaining footnote to an already lengthy epilogue.  But why stop now? I thought.  I ordered another round.


For a while now, I’ve been registered with a handful of temp agencies throughout the city.  At best, they have seemed enthusiastic to get me placement, but none have yet found me a cent worth’s of work.

On Wednesday, I received a call from the temp agency who, when I initially registered and tested, practically spun cartwheels that I was proficient on a computer and could type 90wpm.  If I was free Thursday morning, they sang over the phone, an opportunity awaited me.  Oh!  How longed to hear those words.  Fate would have it, I was indeed free Thursday morning!

I then received the assignment:

An ad company in Soho was having an important meeting and needed bodies to sit at the desks in their office and look busy.

As an expert on appearing busy in an office, I readily accepted the assignment, and showed up Thursday morning to be placed in front of a large-screen Mac, where I proceeded to be paid an hourly wage to check my email and write this blog.

Times are tough, but at least they keep us laughing.

Coming soon to the book-jacket of a best-seller near you, just in time for mindless summer reading:

After spending nearly ten years cutting her teeth in the fast-paced, unapologetic world of the indie film scene, a passionate and motivated woman in her late-20s is hit hard by the crumbling economy.  Trying to get by on short freelance stints here and there hardly quells her creative hunger or balances the checkbook.  Desperate for money and activity, she lands a job at a quaint bakery in her charming Brooklyn neighborhood, serving cookies, cakes and coffee to her neighbors with dispensable incomes.  One day, the jangle of the bell on the door brings in a dashing, sympathetic man with more than just sweet-tooth.  Ultimately, working at the bakery teaches her that there’s more to life than Hollywood, there’s more to living than expense accounts, and there’s more to love than romantic comedies.

My life has recently taken a turn for the flighty and frivolous world of fructose (although I’m still waiting for the dashing sweet-toothed stranger).  Not high drama, I’ll give you that, but I’m fairly sure that I can sell the rights to the Lifetime Movie Network.  I’ll call it Sugar, or maybe Cookie, and it will be light and predictable and charming and flowery and filled with a few unconvincing passionate kisses here and there. Kind of the exact opposite of real life.

I was enjoying the Spring sunshine while walking down Clinton Street yesterday, trying to sweep the ickiness of a bad day out of my head. I had my camera in tow and was snapping away at whatever struck my Brooklyn-style fancy.

I happened upon a brownstone’s tiered stoop, on which rested a dusty old turntable.

I promptly picked it up and was suddenly enormously happy to be bringing it home.

my new toy

I still haven’t tested it to know if it works, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.