In case you didn't know, I left New York 2.5 weeks ago. I'm now in Boise trying to freelance and just get by.

I have a new dating blog:
http://www.boiseweekly.com/gyrobase/Section?oid=oid%3A16951

I love and miss all of my New York buddies. And all of the rest of you crazies who read this that I've met over the years :-)

Signing off.
Brooke

Since I work in Times Square, I am always trying to distinguish myself as a New Yorker and not a tourist... and I was thinking about the signs that someone lives/works here instead of just visiting. I think these are some things that distinguish us:

- Reading a book on the subway (or in my case, walking down the street): New Yorker.

- Chaperoning a large school group on the subway: Tourist.

- Wearing a suit: New Yorker

- Wearing the same color (pastel) top and bottom: Tourist. (or wearing sweatpants if you aren't immediately entering or leaving the gym)

- Carrying a blackberry: New Yorker.

- Carrying a camera: Tourist (unless you are Zack taking a picture of fat people. or homeless people...)

- Ignoring traffic signals, and not getting hit: New Yorker.

- Ignoring traffic signals, and nearly losing a foot: Tourist.

- Waiting in line at a deli: New Yorker.

- Waiting in line at Hard Rock/Planet Hollywood/Applebees/TGIFriday's: Tourist.

- Entering an office building: New Yorker.

- Entering the Empire State Building: Tourist.

That was an anticlimactic list. Whatever.

So I was talking to someone the other day and they said, "so you want to be a writer?" and I said, "No. I AM a writer." And now it's true.

Naomi Wolf said that as long as you are writing and working toward publication you can consider yourself a writer. And I did, kind of. But I feel like being published, actually I know that being published, lends credibility to that claim. I am a writer, a published writer, and no one can ever take that away from me. If I decide I never want to write again, I will still have been published.

But as bad as I wanted it, I feel a little disappointed by the fact that I'm not that excited about it. Sure, it's great. Yes, it's money! But really, other than the people who I send the links to, no one looks at bylines. No one will notice that I'm published. And I still have to explain the publication. I wonder if I will feel overjoyed when I get published in Glamour or the Times or the New Yorker... but I imagine it too will be a little surreal and just another thing to add to the list.

Here are the links in case you missed them:
Educational Goals for Girls Remain Unmet
http://www.womensenews.com/article.cfm/dyn/aid/2281

Women's Colleges in Co-ed Pressure Cooker
http://www.womensenews.com/article.cfm/dyn/aid/2299

I was standing outside of the Chiropractor's office yesterday talking to Charlie on my cell when she walked by. And I just couldn't take my eyes off of her. I stared in shock, in disbelief. It wasn't the turquoise sweater that caught my attention (because honestly, every woman looks good in turquoise)... It was that she was wearing that sweater with turquoise pants.

Had she not had the sweater on, I may still have commented... bright turquoise pants. Come on. This is New York. But to pair those god awful pants with a sweater of the same color (but wasn't even the same shade, ugh), it's just shameful.

Then this morning, I was standing in Starbucks behind a woman in bright pink pants. (You know it has got to be bad when I start picking on anything pink!.) And of course, she paired it with... a pink sweater.

I attribute this utter lack of style and fashion to the fact that both of these sightings were near work in Times Square and not on the Upper East Side... must be tourists doing their best to look New York chic. (Hint... black is NY chic.)

I love Spring. 65 degree weather, a little breezy, strolling through the park. It's terrific. But these women are ruining it. It's not paradise. It's pastel hell. [and the devil would be shamed.]

I'm sure you've all heard by now (since I'm not one to keep a secret) that I did it... I dyed my hair BLONDE! Yep. 4 hours of dying, stripping, and highlighting, and I now have converted to the world o blonde. And as soon as I was done and headed over to Lia's, I called her in the middle of what I believed to be her block. "Lia, you live on 84th, right?" "yes." "I'm on 84th and don't see it." "between 1st and 2nd?" "oh. shit." I think it's all the chemicals... it must be.

Everyone keeps asking "do blondes have more fun" usually in context with men, which leads me to believe this question is actually "do you get hit on more now that you are blonde?" I've yet to conduct any scientific experiments... actually, this will be hard because I didn't keep track as a red-head... but, I think it's probably going to work out in my favor. We do have to control for the comments made between 96th and 100th street though, as those are made without regard to hair color.

Of course, our first night out, we meet a bachelor party. With a hot Jake, who informs us "I am the only single one. You ladies want to come back and listen to me play Stairway to Heaven?" OK. No, really, I just smiled and secretly pined away. Well maybe I flirted a little. Wait. No, Brooke doesn't do things in moderation. So maybe a lot... but whatever. I'm blonde. I have an excuse.

Apparently, we are all a little psychic!

http://story.news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story&cid=96&ncid=96&e=2&u=/space/20050427/sc_space/scientistssayeveryonecanreadminds

I'm a little psychic.

I know you cynics out there think I am full of shit, but whatever. I am.

It's not the kind of psychic where I can think people's thoughts or can pick lottery numbers. I don't see the future. Like I said, I'm only a little psychic.

But I do know things. Like when my brother ran into a tree with his snowmobile. I knew something was wrong and kept trying to call him. Or later when he had a really bad depressive episode, I called my dad to check on him. And recently I dreamed something about him and it was true.

Or how I knew that JoAnn's brother had lymphoma and tried to bring it up without prying. She couldn't believe that I knew.

Or when I dream things that are going to happen. Sometimes whole days. I just live in a daze of deja vu.

But I hate it. I don't want to know. I don't want to know that something bad is happening but not know what. I don't like feeling like I have no control to change it. And I don't like feeling like I'm not absolutely in charge of my life. But something tells me that being psychic isn't something you can change. If only I could also predict lottery numbers, or sports spreads, or horse races.

I have a lot of things I want to write about... for instance, the new Dasani commercials that try to tell me that spring water is bad for me because it's fresh water... as in salmon spawning fresh. I could continue, but I'll save that. Or I could talk about the spa convention, but really, it's not that interesting a blog topic.

No, we will keep the discussion on guys... since that's all my mind seems to comprehend these days. I had a conversation with Kelli early in the week about her wedding. While I don't think that most people my age are ready to be married, Kelli and Will are an exception in my book. I remember talking to her about their future after they had been dating a few months... I've never doubted it. And I feel a little envious of her for being that in love. I'm not ready to be married. I'm not ready to be in a relationship headed there. But I am ready to be in love.

So, Kelli's advice... stop looking for it.

Ha.

I think I think about sex as much as guys in their early twenties. It's gotta be close. And, every guy I meet, literally, every guy, whether it be at a party, a bar, or on the subway, I size them up for dateableness. (and sex worthiness)

Question 1: Are they tall enough?
Question 2: Are they cute?
Question 3: Are they athletic?
Question 4: Are they well-dressed?
Are they reading? Listening to music?

I don't have to know anything about them. They don't have to say one word, of course it helps, but I know immediately if I could date them. And I'm making these judgments everywhere (and there are a lot of men in NY who I just wouldn't date.)

Of course there are more criteria. Like, am I bored when they talk? do they have anything intelligent to say? but that's not immediately important... especially if I'm only judging on sex worthiness.

And I can't stop thinking about it. My brain is on auto-pilot. I just wish it would pilot me into a guy's arms for a while. Yeah, that'd be nice. Until then, I'm not gonna stop looking. I can't. My brain just doesn't work that way.

I find it interesting that men who say that all the women they've dated have been crazy. Because once I get to know them, it turns out that they are usually the crazy ones. Example: this guy I know told me he dated crazy women. So I thought, well, I'm not crazy, I bet he'd like me. He tells me pretty early that he doesn't want a relationship. Fine, I think. Maybe I don't either. So... we go out and talk and such. But since I know this doesn't really have the potential to go anywhere, I sort of start pursuing other things. I mean, "He's Just Not That Into You" tells me "I don't want a relationship" pretty much means "I don't want a relationship." So, this isn't going anywhere. Then when he finds out that I am not just talking to him, he gets pissed. And calls me a player. And whatever. This is a first for me. A PLAYER?! HA!! I'm just doing my very best to simply play by the rules. So I have felt a compulsive need to make sure he doesn't think I'm a bitch since he took me off his buddy list and told me never to talk to him. So I get an email today and decide to try to talk to him- at least make him see that I'm really a very nice girl and sane. "You're right. I don't want a relationship," he says. So I explain my rationale on that statement and looking for something that may actually go somewhere. "But I liked you," he says. So, what? You like me but don't want a relationship with me. Therefore, I should keep talking to you and not pursue anything else. Well, that's just... crazy.

I woke up this morning, and for once, I didn't turn on the TV. I set my alarm for 10 so I would enjoy the beautiful day. And it was. I strapped on my rollerblades and headed off to the park... with a little trepidation, but it was good. I joined the runners, bikers, wheelchair racers, walkers, talkers, and fellow bladers on the road inside the park, first up to 110th street, down to 59th and back up to 96th. Hills make me nervous, and having not been on blades in a while, I was a little scared of the cracks in the road. But the pavement is surprisingly smooth. It was gorgeous weather, pleasant people, and I didn't have to go thirsty because of the vendors. It's the most I've explored of the park in 7 months, and I am absolutely in love with it. I didn't know there were several lakes or rocks or tennis courts or frisbee games. There were kids everywhere. I could do this. I could live here. But, regardless, I am officially in love with New York.

I know, I know... I'm slacking.

It's been a rough week. I worked at the law firm Monday and Tuesday. And finally a job offer this morning. I start on the 18th. I'm moving up in the world... secretarial duties, here I come. It's all good. It gives me time to write and pays me well.

I've started writing obsessively in my journal (the real one), which may explain why there is less up here. Some things are definitely too private to be shared.

I hung out with Zack and Lia a couple times this week. It's good to be around them. It makes me appreciate the stability of relationships and how good they can actually be.

I also started my journalism class this week at MediaBistro. good times. One guy in a class of 9. So much for finding my match there :-)

Low-key Friday.

It seems as though everyone is dying this week. Terri Schiavo, the Pope, and others who are more closely tied to me. It has been nearly a year since my own grandfather died, the first of my immediate family members to do so. But yesterday, we also got more good news that my dad's cancer is still gone. (no, he is not in remission.) And while this was the expected report from the doctor, it is nothing short of a miracle every time he leaves the UVA hospital.

It has been almost four years since my dad was diagnosed with system-wide stage IV non-hodgkin's lymphoma. And while he is ok now, I think that my friends (and even some of my family) forget the gravity of that diagnosis, how the doctors were reluctant to tell us that he would live out the year. While I understand that relatives of friends and friends of friends have been diagnosed, and some have died, in the years since, my father's continual existence should not minimize the pain that I have endured, and that my family has endured, to get him here. I have given up time, friends, school, and jobs to be there for him. I go through emotional stress every time he goes to the doctor. I live in a constant, understated, sense of fear that today, or tomorrow, or this week, or this month, will be the one where I am called back on duty, where I am once again asked to sacrifice for the life of my father. And the sooner that happens, the less likely it is that my father will live.

But every time I talk to my father, I am reminded of what a blessing his cancer has been for us. It is amazing that death forced forgiveness. My grandmother and grandfather spoke for the first time since their bitter divorce. My step-family rejoined our family, if only as friends rather than relatives. My brother and I were able to develop a relationship that has also saved his life. My family was able to realize the break-down in our system. And I was able to come to a moment of true forgiveness for the life my father had created for us and for himself. I am blessed that cancer, that the possibility of impending death, have given me those gifts. My hope is that death, regardless of who it is, gives us all the opportunities to recreate our lives and that we take joy in those moments, even when they are the most tragic.

I hope that Terry Schiavo finds peace today. I pray that her family is able to breathe, to laugh, to forgive. I hope that this will be a time to remember a woman's life cut short by an eating disorder (which really is when her life was fatally altered) and not a bitter dispute over her right to die. I hope that the autopsy reports justify the course that was taken, for an autopsy that shows anything else will surely divide a nation already so divided on this issue.

But, I also want to pose a question, which has been raised by other people (though I claim it as an original thought because it came with no prompting from them!!). I thought that religion preached that God was in charge, that human interference with life is trying to play God. So, did the feeding tube not play God for the last 15 years? Did the machines that restarted her heart when it stopped not play God?

It's hypocritical to stand up and say let God be the judge but never let God be involved. We could all prolong our lives on feeding tubes and machines. But what kind of life would that be? Where would that leave us?

Why do those who believe that the afterlife is paradise, who seem to talk about nothing but being in the arms of God, fear death so much? It seems to me that they are the most afraid of what comes next.

[Disclaimer: I am religious in my own non-religion way. I don't believe there is a person in the clouds so this is all rheotoric. I believe in medicine and drugs and personal choice in everything. I just think that there is a lot of hypocrisy by the religious right (and fundamentalist christians) involved in this whole debate. I am at peace now that it is over... I hope it is over.]

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/01/opinion/01fri1.html?hp&oref=login (you need to have access to the Times, but a very well written commentary)

I am perhaps the most indecisive person I know... except for when I'm not. I tend to make rash decisions- I think I'll get a cat, I'm moving to San Francisco, I'm moving to New York- you get the picture. And because of that, I seem like I am decisive, but really, it's all because I'm not. (actually, I am really good at MAKING decisions, it's sticking with them that I don't do so well). So I just change my mind every three days. I'm majoring in government, no international relations, no public health, no pre-med, no government, no journalism (oh wait, I don't have time for that!). I want to be an editor, I want to be a writer, I want to be in PR, I want to be a writer (I really do).

I don't know why I tell you this... perhaps you know how to make me more decisive. Perhaps I should do what I was always meant to do and stop fighting it. Perhaps this means that I really can't stay in New York for 5 years. I don't know... perhaps I have to make a decision (and stick with it).

Sigh.

I have an "other" category on my Buddy List. It's not for stalking... well, not in the anti-social, abnormal kind of way. It's more to let me keep tabs on people I don't talk to, who aren't really friends, who may be exes. They certainly don't qualify as friends... or family... or GW... or ADPi (all of my other categories!) They're simply other.

The thing is, I don't really want to know what these people are up to, who they're dating (or marrying), where they are hanging out, or whether I might see them (or hide in an alley away from them) any time soon. But I can't let go, delete them, erase them permanently from my life. So they are there, hidden (usually), and I check in every so often.

I also have some of them on my linked buddy list because some of my others have blocked me. I don't really understand blocking people especially when we all have multiple screen names, but whatever.

Recently, I find myself adding to the other category rather frequently. It's most certainly an indication of the people I've been meeting recently. And I'm pretty quick to move them from friends to other. They probably weren't ever really friends... even if Friendster tells me so.

Since not all of you are on Friendster... and I can't write you a testimonial about why I love you... I'll post it here.

Why I love my friends (in no particular order):

Amy: I can't imagine a classier woman. She is loyal to the nth... even when sometimes she shouldn't be ;-) Whether it's a late night run to Sonic for a REAL fruit smoothie or dinner of cheese enchiladas with a big ass margarita, Amy (and Libby) always comes through. Amy is the one who taught me that there's always "Something in the Sheetz!"

Kelli: Despite our lives taking different paths, Kelli will always remain one of my truest friends. She carries herself with grace, and I will always admire her persistence and tenacity. Kelli knows that when friends work together, no one has to get shot in the head.

Leila: If there is one person I wish I was more like, it is definitely Leila. It's our polar opposites that make us so compatible. Her free-spirit and non-chalant attitude inspire a touch of jealousy. Leila's just great... if only she were around more.

Kasi: Not only did Kasi save my ass from Heidi hell, she made my summer a total blast! From penny drinks to club Soul to watching Clare bust out the cheeto's lip balm, Kasi kept me sane. I can't imagine a better person to share a 5 square foot brick alley/room with!

Clare: Her obsession with cheese led to Chedd's the greatest restaurant in Denver. Super, super nice (sometimes too much so ;-))... Clare made sitting next to Beth at least amusing. The ultimate person to go drinking with, cuz if you're not taking care of her, she's putting your ass into a cab! And she is a good twin-bed sharer :-)

Becca: I miss you. And think you are super fabulous.

Tina: She kept me sane at POS job. I think you are going to do great in medicine. Tina has such a good heart.

Laree: What about, what about, what about that color shout? I am so glad we both live in New York and that you let me hang out with you and all of your cool music-ness.

Zack: New York wouldn't be the same without you. You've created an Arkanoid addict and definitely kept me sane through all of my dating experiences. Thank you for being so unique and for being such a good friend.

Lia: My soul mate! I've never met someone whose thoughts so echo my own. Definitely a good judge of character and discerning in all the right ways :-) I knew immediately that we would be friends, and my life is the richer for it.

I love everyone else too... but I'm out of writing energy!

I got a 3-month old kitten. Her name is Oreo (she is black and white). Basically I can now run around singing the OREO song. She is a timid little girl though... but desperately wants Mo to like her. She loves cats, just not people!

Her mom was dropped off by her owners when she was pregnant. And old couple found the Mom and set up a box for her to have her babies. Once the babies were born, the couple kept them outside. Raccoons came. They ate all the babies except for little Oreo. So, I can't blame the kitten for being scared.

I tried to play a game with her yesterday but I scared her. oops. She scratches my couch and want to tell her No but need to build her trust first. Poor baby sleeps under the bed. Mo nipped her this morning so I left her in the bathroom. I wonder how long she's been crying.

I'll have pictures up on the website.

Woodhull teaches and trains women to find and use their voice. I've never had a problem finding it, and I don't usually have a problem using it when I am around people I know: family and friends... or even people I sort of know. Naomi Wolf is different. She is a genius. She can teach me a lot. But, instead of getting that message, I left the workshop this weekend feeling bitter and resentful. Because I felt like she killed my voice and belittled me. For an organization that was created as a supporting environment for women... I felt like that was the opposite of my experience this weekend. And what makes me feel worse about it is that I just wrote an essay for Ruder Finn on how Woodhull was an example of an organization that was an effective communicator and that Naomi was leading by example. Now I feel like that isn't as true, and that is sad.

What I did learn this weekend is that I need to focus my energy on one goal. I may have a lot of options, but I have to make certain choices. Each path will take me somewhere different, but if my goal (the same goal I've had since I was 12) is to get published, then I need to be writing. So, I am going to put out feelers and maybe get an assistant job at the New York Post or some other reputable but not the Times paper.

In the meantime, I need to clear my throat and speak my truth. Woodhull taught me to do that... even when it means confronting a brilliant, amazing, but stubborn woman.

This will be my last day at work. No more lying. No more unethical bartering. No more haggling over a few dollars. No more shit salary and 9-7 days. Nope, Brooke will be putting her paycheck in the bank and peacing out.

Statescape has me telecommuting for a while. Yippee. I'll write legislative summaries anyday! And I'm going to be temping, and the temp agency loves me, so they are calling me first on Monday.

And... and. My first article should be ready to go early next week. There will be links here and mass emails. My clip book is in desperate need of filling up.

Lots of exciting stuff and non-stability. We like non-stability for some sick reason. Ah well.

Laree and I are on a quest for Ben Jawarowski... I think I found his email on a Star Wars site (which is why I think it's him...) But I'm not sure.

So I did it. I mustered the courage and showed up at a Cuddle Party. Unlike most of their other parties, this was a singles only event. I got in the elevator with an average-looking guy and thought it would be ok. When I got off the elevator, however, there were six fairly not-so-attractive people waiting at the doors of the yoga studio. What have I gotten myself into, I wonder.

Fortunately, most of the averager to a little bit better than avg guys were hiding in the bathroom. Five of them, maybe. So we get into the big room and I look around and there are a few people who are contemporaries of my parents. My mom thought it was weird I was going to a 50-year-old friend's birthday party. Cuddling was certainly out of the question. As it gets closer to the start, the guy next to me says, "Every guy's worst nightmare about coming to one of these has just come true." There is a 2 to 1 guy to girl ratio. This sounds like a great thing for me- plenty of options (and since I considered myself to be one of the more attractive girls there... well, even more options). I would come to find out though, that this meant that in order to cuddle with the people I was actually interested in, I would have to reject people that I wasn't.

One guy told me he never thought he would like a girl with eye shadow... have you walked around Manhattan?! But then he told me that mine looked nice. Uh, thanks. You're 5'2". They do a practice exercise of rejection, and some old guy was supposed to say no when I asked him if I could kiss him (which was odd alone), and he goes, "of course you can." Yeah, not gonna happen. Then there was the hippie who is polyamorous (which means having open relationships with multiple partners). At this point, I'm thinking I'm going to cut my losses, take a few more grapes (and maybe a chocolate or two) and head my merry way out. But all of the guys kept approaching me, so I kept trying to say no kindly. There were a couple of guys who I thought I wanted to cuddle with but I reconsidered after about all of 3 seconds. I did have a good conversation about being a Cancer... in fact, people kept asking me if I was one... I don't think I've ever been asked that so many times in one day.

I thought that two hours wouldn't be enough... especially with the 2:1 ratio... but, well, it was enough time, though I will say at the end, I was a little sad the party was over.

After going out to dinner with these folks, I went to a reading with Kristen. I know all these cool authors. Have I said lately how much I love New York. Cuz I do.