I realize that the last time I wrote on the blog was shortly before my New York Post date; something I deliberately chose not to write about on here, not because it wasn’t hilarious (oh, it was; you wish I emailed/called/texted/ranted to you afterwards because it was a thing), but to spare a perfectly nice guy’s feelings with whom unfortunately, I had nothing in common.  And he had the sex appeal of a hobbit (my one zinger; done).

Since that post (and my birfday), my overzealous dating life slowly fizzled due in part to my poor time management skills, the exhaustion that comes with being “on” all the time, or, to be blunt, lack of interest. But I was startled when one of these guys, with whom I had gone out three times and he always had fun cool stuff to do sent me a text message two days after my Post date was released:

Okay, to be fair to this guy, I did only offer him Sunday nights because I was dating several other people, usually left weekends open for my friends, had to bail a couple of times because I’d get a last minute audition, The Charlies had some late-night gigs, and at the time, had a Spank submission deadline to make (nailed it. And it was a phenomenally awesome show). There was also the fact that I didn’t really want to do anything other than make out with him because I don’t think he smelled very good, he had bad teeth, and constantly baffled me with his personality, which he seemed to get from a wooden robot. This was confusing given the cool shit we went out to do. My dad reassured me that this was just not being Jewish, but I know plenty of you people, and many of you are a hoot.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a position before where I was considered too busy for someone. It’s true that I’ve maybe spent a cumulative 30 hours at my parents’ house since Thanksgiving – a house that is 100 miles from my own (and their dog has probably gained, like, 15 pounds) – or that when my grandparents came to town for five days, I only got to see them for one meal; but for someone whose calendar looks like a mid-level Tetris game, I sure do spend a lot of time dicking around.

We’ve all used the excuse “I’m too busy” to properly reply to an email, or to get out of hanging out with someone super annoying. But here is where I am suddenly struggling:

I don’t know who put this out there, but there is a thesis statement that floats around the dating world, If you really like someone, you will make the time for them.

But is this true or false?

Since the NY Post article, (this could also be me turning 26 and acting out) I sort of backslid from being a lady who dated and kissed on the door step, to being a not-even-that-drunk post-grad who sleeps with guys the first time I hang out with them. I’m not saying this is a good thing or a bad thing; it’s just a thing. Also, if you’re a guy and you’re reading this, and you suddenly want to hang out, don’t get any ideas  – the sexual tension was months long and overwhelmingly palpable, Like, Nick-and-Jess palpable, and I probably don’t have that with you, unless you’re significantly taller than I am and have dark hair and a perfect stubble. Also the gchat recaps my friends endured were gross, and actually, archived, I think…

But the point is this: instead of dipping a toe in the water and then stringing it out with interesting dates, I jumped in, and wham: I like you. But then, these effing schedules happen. Sure, I’m busy, but I’ll look at my watch, and damn; I don’t have to be anywhere til 3pm on Wednesday. Tuesday night, I’m free after 10:30. Does that work for you? Oh…it doesn’t?   So now I feel myself flipping through my schedule, finding pockets and windows that really are totally open, and the other end is a flat line.

Is this really being busy? Or is this being an asshole?

And what’s crazy is, I genuinely don’t know the answer. Texts aren’t evasive, but it’s not like there’s a perpetual check-in. Being in person isn’t awkward, if anything, I’m the awkward one.

The only thing I can say with confidence, as someone who seems to be backsliding to where I was when I first moved here – a very stupid 22-year-old obsessed with a 26-year-year old college-drop-out-bartender who lived in a confusing outer borough – is this: NEVER, under any circumstances, will I text the following to another dude:

Also, if you’re annoying, I really am, like, super busy.

Up until literally a month ago, I was under the impression that dating multiple guys at once meant you went on a string of very average first dates, then you went home and complained about it while eating something gross you found in your freezer and watching whatever you DVRed that night since you couldn’t watch it in real time; something that has become a momentous sacrifice (Sometimes I’m pretty confident that my declarative statements at the top of my blog posts make me sound like I live under a rock. Maybe I do).

These kinds of dates over the years have taken me everywhere from waiting 15 minutes on a vague street corner and realizing I’d seriously left my wallet on my bed, so this guy actually had to follow through on the whole paying thing, to receiving a graduate school rejection email literally three minutes before meeting a guy who *did* take me to a cool bar, but *did not* do or say anything cool, at all. There was the Seth Rogen-type who took me to a street fair, but we ran into an old boss of mine, and their shared interests trumped our own. Also, he had dirty fingernails. I think the worst one was going to a musical – I won’t say which one, and to make me sound less bratty, he was gifted these tickets so he didn’t spend anything on this date – and he straight up booed. Next to an actress.

This was what I thought dating was. Unless I immediately clicked with someone super awesome, started having grown up sleepovers way too early, got emotionally invested and ceased contact with any other potential lame-date-back-ups, and was ultimately crushed when an ex-girlfriend came back into the picture, or they weren’t ready to take it to a more legitimate level, or they fell off the face of the planet only to resurface a year later in a Facebook official relationship with my doppelgänger (I wish I was kidding….that one sucked, big time).

So about a month ago, something changed. Actually, first for context: in late December, I was completely frazzled and freezing and hopped into a cab. I was then completely blind sighted by Ibrahim, the matchmaker cabbie. After hearing his story, he was ready to set me up.
“How old are you? Jewish?”
“25, and yes.”
“25 is too young, I do not take girls into my service until they are 27. Go have fun, I’m not worried about you.”

With that, he was gone (…and I got home, like, I paid him and he drove away; it’d be cool if he was a Bagger Vance type but he was an actual person).

Cut to a month later, when I decided that my last immediate-click-turned-devastation seemed too emotionally taxing to even try to repeat again, then, I was so fed up by my flu-induced quarantine, I knew I had to get the fuck out.

What Would Ibrahim Do?

It was time to be completely honest with myself, yet totally emotionally unavailable.

Suddenly, dating multiple people means that I’m on a second date seven hours after a grown-up sleepover (it’s cool, I showered and dry shampooed because my hair looked awesome); or confirming a fourth date on my way to a first. I keep feeling like I’m doing something wrong, but even my most sophisticated and together friends seem to be in support of this sudden “playing the field,” as they say. And all the while I’m thinking “making out is harmless; love is dead and I have no feelings and I am drunk but this is fucking fun!”

Then shit got real crazy. I was approached to be a bachelorette in the New York Post’s “Meet Market.” Obviously I accepted – it’ll be a great story and I get to go out and expense it to the column. This process began with a shoot at the Post’s office and some release forms ….and a lengthy questionnaire that made me dig back into that thing I once considered a soul.

The more I answered these absurdly in depth questions about myself, the more I remembered who I was, and, interestingly enough, who the guy that I’m looking for is. Because at of the day, all of my friends are in real relationships, and it kind of sucks to be the 7th chair at the dinner table, even though everyone there thinks I’m like, crazy charming and totally wants to sit next to me.  It really can’t just be any guy who gets to be appointed that Chair 8. Because I’ve seen that happen to people, and it is an elephant in the living room. Like, I’ll just bring my brother.

I got to physically* and characteristically** describe Him….I also got to “dress” Him, and figure out how He should balance me out***.

“Hmmm…this sounds deceptively realistic,” I thought. So what the hell have I been doing?

This isn’t to say that this new-found meaning of “dating around” isn’t great or that I’m not enjoying myself – Ibrahim did give me another year and two weeks twelve days – but according to my questionnaire, none of these guys who are currently in the picture are my “ideal” guy.

So on Friday at 8:30 p.m. I will be meeting Sean. His name is literally the only thing that I know about him. But if he hits any of the asterisks below… well, I’m definitely in for a very interesting story.

(* According to my questionnaire: Physically: 6’1-6’4. Dark hair – and no sign of balding. Not too much body hair. In decent shape – they don’t have to be like, perfect in a bathing suit, and a little something extra is okay, but they should take care of themselves. J.Crew gone hipster (clean cut with an edge). [Not in the questionnaire: Not cologne -y, but should smell amazing. Also not in the questionnaire: My mom thinks that should be a tall Mark Ruffalo]

**Personality, According to the questionnaire: easy going, driven, funny, smart, up for anything, someone who takes initiative, able to talk to anyone. An appreciation for the arts. Well-read. Up to date on current events. Kind (I hate the word “nice”). Jewish would be something that would make my parents very happy, but it’s not a deal breaker. At least Jew-y in personality (I actually wrote that).

*** Balance, according to the questionnaire: He should be more laid back than I am, but have a structure to his day-to-day life (with auditions and script writing, I spend days in my underpants. There shouldn’t be two of us). I think a problem-solver would be a good thing because I don’t always do well when I’m stressed and get overwhelmed.)

On December 31^st, 2012, my alarm went off at about 8:45 am. I had the natural impulse to snooze the fucker until, oh, forever – it was my first day back in New York after 10 days in paradise – but instead, I threw on a tastefully flattering lululemon ensemble (incidently, I was in just a neon sports’ bra about an hour later), made myself some coffee, and headed out in the freezing cold to the Upper West Side. I had agreed to meet a guy I had hung out with by the pool off and on for 5 days and his friend I’d heard of in passing for my very first “ReSOULution,” Soul Cycle’s New Years’ take on the “Soul Challenge” (90 minutes on the bike instead of the traditional 45), which was taught by Madison, someone this guy “swore by.”

I had done “Soul Doubles” before, but I was usually too scared to stack them together. Instead, I’d do an earlier am ride, go about my day, and treat the second bike ride as my happy hour before heading off to do whatever comedic obligations I had that night.  But I was so driven to maintain this gaggle of new friends that I had made on vacation, it seemed like a great opportunity to not only follow up, even though we’d literally split a cab home from JFK the night before, but to physically test myself.

Admittedly, December had been somewhat of an odd month for me. There was real estate drama (everything is fine, but woof; New York, am I right?) without any time or people to help process it. I felt largely unfulfilled intellectually, and the entertainment industry is freakin’ hard, man. Any time a friend booked something and I remained professionally immobile, I felt simultaneous joy for them and pain in myself – but mostly my pain, and not their joy. The Charlies found out we would not be returning to Chicago, after a very slow fall-to-winter, creatively. Worse still, the guy I had been dating made it explicitly clear he didn’t want to be in a relationship but slept over anyway, sending mixed signals for another month and a half. I felt unlovable and unhirable, unfunny, and very ready for a beach vacation so I could instead be simply, unreachable.

After ten days of recharging, this test felt like a mandatory reset.  As expected, I felt physically dead around the 50-minute mark (this shit should be DONE, guys…I don’t want more water, I want a handshake and some mother-fuckin’ eggs), but ten minutes later, I had so much excess energy, it was like I was given this beautiful gift of an extra half-hour to reach down into myself, and, as they say, “turn it up.” I got to thinking about what specifically I wanted to get out of myself over the next year. How do I want my relationships to grow and change? How can I be more generous? What will make me more proactive? What am I going to do to pull myself out of this rut?

Madison talked about her own successes and triumphs in the last year, and for the first time in a long time, I felt her joy without my pain.  Making serious changes for myself felt eminent.

In the 53 days since my first ReSOULution (and yes, I’ve been back), I’ve set boundaries with people I didn’t know I had the strength to do. I’ve gone out with a handful of pretty awesome guys, who have treated me well, and have excellent communication skills. I took control of the real estate. I dropped two jean sizes.  I’ve taken vitamins and omega-3’s…I don’t actually know what those do, but my eye doctor always says I should take them. I can run longer distances than I’ve ever been able to, at a faster pace.  I’ve hung out with each of my vacation friends twice.  I’m closer and more honest with my best girl friends than I’ve ever been.  And suddenly, just with that, acting mentors are responding  – raising the bar on my work, and giving me opportunities I hadn’t had before.

I don’t want to be dramatic and say that one final 90-minute push for myself at the end of the year was a major game-changer, but in taking care of myself  30-45 minutes a day (sometimes I run…I’m not totally willing to spend ~28 dollars a day to find my inner light, I’d join a Friends’ Meeting House), I’ve found something completely freeing.  And that’s a pretty good start.

I’m fairly certain that almost everyone is familiar with the film I Love You, Man. There is a scene in which Peter Claven (Paul Rudd), accidentally hears Zooey (Rashida Jones) talking to her girlfriends about how she’s convinced Peter only hangs out with his mom. After awkwardly walking into the room with special pirouette-accessorized drinks and exiting as quickly as possible, he takes a good look at himself and says, “I gotta get some fucking friends.”

Roughly nine months ago, there was an article in the Times about how difficult it is to make friends in your 30’s. This explains the plight of poor Peter Claven, at least to a degree.

Fortunately, I am not in my 30’s.

Unfortunately, as we near that point-of-no-return where none of us are considered “post-grads” anymore, everyone’s lives have catapulted forward in various ways, be it big promotions or complete career changes, engagements, babies (gross), or buying a home (which makes the city of choice a far more permanent one). As the people in your life have their own lives progress, it’s hard not to look at yourself from time to time and think “I gotta get some fucking friends.”

Admittedly, I tend to wig out a little in February. First, I am reminded by a certain holiday mid-month that I am alone, while all of my current friends are celebrating 5, 6, and 7 year anniversaries. I am also almost always dumped around this time of year, usually passive aggressively. The good news in that department is I don’t have anyone to dump me this year.  Second,  after I marathon a tv show from bed instead of interacting with other humans on a certain mid-month holiday, I am then three weeks away from remembering that I’ll be turning the age that my mother was when she gave birth to me, which means I have to stop eating so that I can at least offer the world the fact that at 26, I am like, super skinny (I did recently drop two jeans sizes #humblebrag).

This time, February’s crazy feels a little different. As we grow up and our jobs, loves, and interests continue to evolve, sometimes our longtime lifelines give off a busy signal.  It’s no one’s fault, of course, but you just think, “damn. I really don’t want to see Zero Dark Thirty by myself because I used to be a fainter in the fifth grade and it’s definitely something I’d want to talk about and process afterwards; and I really wanted to go to that party in Bushwick I’m on that listserve for. Why are my people at the office on a Saturday, or celebrating a significant other’s birthday, or worse, running a marathon?” Suddenly you go from being alone and super comfortable with it, to realizing that *sometimes* you’re also lonely.

So starting in January, I stopped saying “no” to things. Then I got the flu. Then I rallied again. I started walking into parties by myself, or having dinner with someone completely random because damn it, I met those two once in a memorably odd way and it was super fun – maybe they like Bushwick or haven’t seen Zero Dark Thirty.

But then what happens if it dips into sucktitude? Say you find out you have nothing in common. Or worse, they still think you have something in common. Suddenly you are platonically polyamorous but feel no sense of responsibility or obligation towards any of them, but your phone won’t stop blowing up. And you want nothing more than to start saying “no” again.

Then it’s like, I don’t even live in San Francisco: holy shit, have I gone down the road of “activity partners?”  Am I actually going to start going to the lululemon running club outside of the Union Square store on Wednesdays and drink, like, green tea and mochi candies afterwards as we sweat gracefully in our wonderfully designed Canadian work out gear? Then these fuckers have to come to my birthday party so that I don’t feel exclusive even though I love being exclusive (nice girl in the 90′s backfire), where I will be super skinny and, way more importantly, surrounded by my actual friends? Also, this would instantly cue the final scene, Peter Claven’s wedding, where his thoroughly eclectic groomsmen entourage slo-mo walk in looking completely badass. Unfortunately, life doesn’t have a slo-mo button.

Let’s start here: who hasn’t seen Zero Dark Thirty? Are you going to be cool about it? Eh. Unless you’re my Jason Segal, or my very awesome mom, fuck you. I’ll see it by myself. In broad daylight.

Though I’m super grateful for the outstanding ratings I have received for my own self-deprecation, I thought I’d end 2012 on a positive note. So here is a list of my personal favorite pop culture moments this year.  This is admittedly weighted more towards the second half of the year, because my short term memory is crap.

1. Fox News on election night.

Okay, much of the campaign, both primaries and presidential was a big fat pop culture moment. Binders full of women? Newt Gingrich, in general? Clint Eastwood, and chair? The sudden demand for re-defining the meaning of the word “rape?” But I’ll be damned if not every one of you changed the channel from your respective news sources as the polls concluded that Obama had taken Romney in Ohio to the strange meta-episode of The Office and Carl Rove’s version of  shaving his head at a tattoo parlor at 2 am in front of the paparazzi, causing him to lose custody of his kids to a fat back up dancer.

2. Clare Danes’ Emmy acceptance speech.

Mandy Patinkin: holla. Only someone that talented and that pretty can go on live television at a black tie affair and in that same 2 minute span call her husband her baby daddy.

3. Kristen Wiig’s SNL send off.

Kristen Wiig was a polarizing lead actress on a 38-year-old show with fluctuating relevance. I still love it, and most of the time, I love her – and many of us do – but you would have to have a heart of pure coal to not have gotten choked up when Lorne Michaels came out during the transition of “She’s a Rainbow” to “Ruby Tuesday” to dance his girl off into the sunset.

4. Beyonce’s Instagram.

BLUE. IVY. CARTER. Where the hell are you, gir’? I want your Marc Jacobs shoes.

5. Ryan Lochte’s body.

I almost decided not to comment on it, and call me crazy, but his 30 Rock cameo was actually pretty funny.

6. Robsten break up, freak out teenagers everywhere, promote separate movies, then get back together.

But it was fun and adorable to watch Jon Stewart give Robert sassy advice while they ate very melted Ben and Jerry’s.

7. Black Dennis.

Because of course Dennis Duffy would adopt a black baby, only save up for one year of college – he’s obviously going to be an athlete – and name his black baby Black Dennis, catapulting Liz Lemon into her happily ever after with mister Criss Cross.

8. Bradley Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook

About half an hour, forty five minutes into the movie, a bipolar Cooper finishes A Farewell to Arms at 4 am, stares at it, screams “What the fuck!” and chucks it out the window. I AGREE, BIPOLAR BRADLEY COOPER! I AGREE!

9. Jennifer Lawrence in everything she did this year.

Girlfriend is talented, beautiful, and can play 16 and 29 in literally a 6 month span. And don’t get me started on her magazine shoots and her talk show cameos! Or her boobs.

10. Girls.

I was a total hater, until Lena Dunham found out she had HPV, tweeted about it, and danced to Robyn. Then a week later, David Mamet’s daughter smoked crack and took her clothes off at the same warehouse party in Bushwick I used to go to! Plus I have now worked out at Soul cycle with Lena Dunham, and basically, I won.

11. Veep.

Julia Louis-Dreyfuss calling her miscarriage a giant period. Enough said.

12. BEN AND LESLIE GOT ENGAGED!!!

13. Arrested Development is happening.

14. So is Anchor Man 2.

15. Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively got married.

Ugh. Everyone’s kids just got a little uglier. Also, I hate this piece of news.

16. Friends With Kids.

It was really sweet, it featured many of my favorite actors, who put their own money into making the project happen, and proved that a decade after Kissing Jessica Stein, Jennifer Westfeldt is still someone for ladies in entertainment to look up to.

17. Not one, but two seasons of The Voice.

Adam and Blake’s bromance continues to grow. And I would Eiffel Tower with them. And good lord, Xtina is so unintentionally hilarious and uncomfortable all at the same time. Whatever, Dirrty is still the greatest song of the millennium.

18. Fifty Shades of Grey.

Why yes, I did read the full series in under a week. And I have hated myself ever since. But I already cast it in my head, and I am correct in my assessment, that it should be Lyndsy Fonseca and either Ian Somerhalder or Armie Hammer. I know. You’re welcome.

19. Breaking Abbey

As much as I love soap operatic the-cousin-I’m-in-love-with-broke-his-penis-during-the-war-wait!-false-alarm-lack-of-segue-Spanish-influenza! and being told that I need to watch Breaking Bad, it was so awesome seeing some members of the cast of Downton Abbey get regally ghetto as shit on Colbert for some motha fuckin meth.

20. Series two of Spy.

It is on hulu. So funny, so heart-warming. What an idiot savant wouldn’t do to win full custody of his egregiously precocious son. Darren Boyd and Robert Lyndsey are geniuses, and the writing is pretty damn good, my British little twitter friend who sometimes replies to me, Simeon Goulden.

21. Justin and Selena reveal themselves to be in a high school relationship.

Do you have any idea how many *more* times my boyfriend and I would have fake-broken up had twitter existed back then?

22. Miley Cyrus gets engaged, gets super dyke-y haircut.

She just bein’ Miley.

23. Tina Fey was stealthily catty towards Kourtney Kardashian for also naming her daughter Penelope.

Snap!

24. Lucy Punch on Ben and Kate.

GET ON BOARD AND MAKE SURE THIS SHOW DOESN’T GET CANCELLED!

25. Best Friends Forever.

Gone way, way too soon. HERE! Take my bra – quick!

26. Key and Peele.

I’m a late-comer on this one, but they are so damn good.

27. Joe Manganiello.

He was a stripper in Magic Mike. He finally made out with Sookie and it only went okay. He came back to How I Met Your Mother and reminded everyone why he’s so awesome, all the time. Also, if Joe and Ryan Lochte were to battle, my money’s on Joe.

28. Retta’s twitter.

29. The Hunger Games was awesome.

30. Once on Broadway.

A great adaptation of an already great movie. Steve Kazee had big shoes to fill with Glen Hansard being Glen Hansard, and he did a beautiful job.

31. Kimye.

Because of course these two would have sex with each other. She named her dead cat after his single. He wrote a song for her called “Perfect Bitch.” Us Weekly did a beautiful breakdown of why they’re perfect for each other. It involved fur coats n shit.

32. Louis C.K.

This dude just keeps getting better. The anti-fame celebrity has this truly remarkable way of being completely pessimistic, yet have such an appreciation of life. 2012 brought another season of Louie, some Emmy wins, a KILLER stand up show that I am assuming will be his new HBO special, and of course, licked the shit out of Kate McKinnon’s face in the final minutes of SNL after dominating the Seth Meyers-written Louie sketch, Lincoln.

33. The ubiquity of our 16th President.

I literally just mentioned him. He hunts vampires, gets Daniel Day Louis another Oscar, yadda yadda.

34. Jim Rash wins an Oscar and makes fun of Angelina Jolie at the same time.

He also totally earned his Community promotion, and his partner, Nat Faxon plays the lead on Ben and Kate. Please watch that damn show!!!

35. Aly Raisman wins gold to everyone’s favorite Jewish dance number.

And McKayla’s not impressed.

36. Daniel Craig and the Queen do a gag for the Olympic opening ceremony.

Can’t she be the new M instead of Voldemort?

37. Pitch Perfect

A new generation’s Bring It On, written by the fabulous Kay Cannon, Pitch Perfect stars a lot of awesome people, like the dude from Workaholics, Brittany Snow who shares my birthday, and most importantly, Skylar Astin, who I totally have a Jew-crush on, especially after his stint on girls where he leaves poor Shosh half-naked on her bed, rejecting sex with her after telling her he loves going down on girls and people think that’s weird. Ugh, how many times have we heard that?

38. The cast of New Girl keeps getting better

Last season it was all about Schmidt. This season, Nick and Winston have been absurd. I’d consider it too cartoony if I weren’t routinely compared to Jess Day by my sister. Also Deb Morgan. That’s kind of a weird combo. But I’m game.

39. Drake’s bar mitzvah.

Featuring Lil Wayne inexplicably wearing a panda mask. L’Chayim!

40. Taylor Swift is kinda slutty, and a little bit of a cradle robber.

At least I Knew You Were Trouble is awesome to run to. Also, her music video is hilarious.

This will probably come as a shock to you guys, but I hate holidays. All of them. The only holidays I like are birthdays, especially my own, and Thanksgiving. But that’s it. Everything else is easier and better if you have a boyfriend, or if  all of your friends, who happen to have boyfriends, had boyfriends who have the same friends as your friends so you all end up in the same place. But this doesn’t happen to me. Ever. And this time around, every speed-dial- single-friend of mine will be at least 2,000 miles away come New Years’ Eve.

I respond to this situation very responsibly: I leave town. I usually am back in the country in time for New Years’, but I lie about it, or fake jet lag, and fall asleep watching Clueless at my parents’ friends’ house whose kids aren’t even there because they have friends.

Oh, and I also undergo the Holiday Downward Spiral. It’s happened pretty consistently since graduating college. It’s pretty straightforward, and only slightly variable. But in conclusion, it proves that I’m a total mess, and my vacation should probably be code for “Promises,” one of the rehabs Britney went to.

I present:

The Holiday Downward Spiral Checklist, 2012:

• Throw up after a holiday party (check).

• Eat something gross (check. I won’t repeat).

• Weird dairy free holiday milk of choice, that I start using in my coffee and cereal out of complacency (check. First it was So Delicious coconut-based pumpkin spice, then I went straight ‘nog. Dairy free, obviously. I don’t hate myself. That is filed under “eat something gross”).

• Make out with someone super random (check).

• Winter induced insomnia (check. And my doctor said no more pills because I fall asleep with the stove on and walk into things. The WORST).

• Strange impulse purchase (hello, two tiny animal shaped vacuum cleaners. Yes. Two of them.).

• Awesome impulse purchase (hello, two rag and bone jackets, 75% off each. Fuck yes. Two of them).

• Offer to throw a New Years’ party (check. Reception was sadz.)

• Live tweet my life hoping the last guy I liked will fall desperately in love with me (ugh. Amiright?)

• Pick up a new TV show (Key and Peele. Get on board).

• Get way too emotionally invested in a reality competition (Cassadee?!?! Seriously?! Amanda obviously should have won, and I would willingly give up a lifetime of men for her because, you know, her face, and her body, but I’d also be totally okay with it if she and Adam got married even though everyone knows Adam Levine is like a brunette personality doppelganger of the last guy I count having sex with, but if she HAD to be eliminated when she was eliminated, at least give it to Terry who is so dead on with his 80′s rock, and was arguably better on “Maybe I’m Amazed” than Sir Paul, and whose duet with Peter Frampton was so beautiful, I cried, it makes me want to go to Smokes and punch Kweder in the face for not ever being enough for me, ever. That last bit of that rant was a little Penn-soteric. Sorry. I HATED KWEDER.)

• Out sleep every alarm, ever (woof).

• Go full days without pants, or stepping outside (I may or may not have taken my trash out in a thong because I forgot. Do I have neighbors?!).

So.

Does anyone want to have a New Years party? I’ll be tan. And possibly more sane. Yeaaaaaa, 2013!!!

When I was 18 years old, my family went to London over Christmas. It was the first time my nuclear family had traveled to Europe as a full unit, due in part to the fact that at the time, my sister was 11 and a huge bitch. Sleeping and eating were a thing.

Anyway, as we waited to go through customs, a short, stout woman, presumably from Eastern Europe and non-English speaking (#profiling), aggressively pushed past us, all the way to the front of the line, and made it out of there in under 30 seconds, as we politely waited the forty-five minutes (we killed time by doing a slow, a cappella break down of “Jesus Walks,” and it was awesome). It was then that my parents taught me a valuable life lesson. There are two types of people: bowling balls and bowling pins. Not only did our physical statures summarize this, but our personalities. We’re polite. We don’t really ask for what we want (except for my sister, who at 5’9 doesn’t ask; she tells). We wait forty five minutes in what was apparently also the wrong customs line, for short fatties to bowl us over and get what they want.

As I start dating again – which always seems to happen as auditions pick up, I swear to god they’re fucking synonymous – the bowling ball: pin situation transcends waiting at an airport.

I accepted my status as a bowling pin for a long time. I still hate saying “no” to people, even if I add a “thank you” at the end. But as I watch friends in entertainment move forward, some of whom are objectively just not that good (some definitely are, and either way I’m thrilled for them), or push through a crowded bar to talk to the cutest guy there  as I stand to the side and let it happen, I’m thinking that perhaps being a tall, pale, bottom heavy with two-stripes-at-the-top-of-the-head-I-can’t-come-up-with-a-physical-attribute-for object isn’t a great place to be.

Bowling really is a lot like dating (hear me out here, I swear, there’s a reward at the end). There’s the aggressor and the wait-n-see. The aggressor (or bowling ball) knows exactly what he or she wants and doesn’t hesitate. They want the second or third date. There isn’t any over reading; they just genuinely think that they deserve for it to happen. And so it does. The wait-n-see (or pinhead) has been taught – or conditioned – to be pursued. It’s a more “feminine” energy.

Here’s where it gets tricky: Bowling balls and bowling pins don’t always connect. There can be a nasty-ass aggressor who just keeps coming, and might whizz past a few times, and the pin might sway a little but the pin isn’t digging it. Or the bowling ball might straight gutter because he sucks.

There are strikes (insta-connect), spares (it took a couple of attempts but hey; now I like you), 7′s or 8′s (let’s call it settling),  and then people who flat out suck at bowling (equal opportunists, maybe they like free meals).

So as I continue to near pilot season and New Years Eve (make out central? I don’t know. I avoid holidays), I’m admittedly confused: I’ve spent 25 years as a bowling pin. I’ve politely dated guys I had zero interest in. I also went through a brief pre-pubescent stint as a bowling ball and asked out some mad middle school hotties. I’ve managed to narrowly escape getting bowled over by losers, assholes, or nice-guys who just don’t get it – but I did wobble a little until my friends staged an intervention and snapped me to attention. So what do you do when suddenly, there’s two pinheads who might converge as like, a half-ball? You can’t really throw a pin down the alley, because it doesn’t know how to roll.

But what if this pin knows what it wants, and has been taught – and yelled at – that being a 6 to 8 pound, black, germ-ridden sphere isn’t pretty (germs = STDs)? Is it worth the wait if the alley closes down and no balls come until tomorrow? Is that a proper metaphor for the three-day rule?

Guys, I’ve exhausted this. I sucked at word analogies on the SAT’s. The point is I kind of want to roll. This whole thing was actually about Molly. JK.

Last night I got home from my friend’s birthday dinner a little out of it. Not because I drank too much (I didn’t), or because it was late (it wasn’t), but, I fell victim to the Seasonal Changes’ Head Cold that left me thoroughly incompetent.

After grabbing my mail, I rushed into the elevator that was kindly being held for me and I reached out to press 10, but it was already pushed. This woman – probably around my age – lived on my floor. I knew I was out of it, and I also knew that I’m kind of racist, and there are like, 3 Asian couples who live on my floor, so I’ve probably been in an elevator with her before and didn’t notice, when I wasn’t out of it. I did the only thing I thought I could do without word vomiting: I smiled, stupidly, then walked really slowly out of the elevator so I could figure out where on the floor she lived.

It hit me then, 26 months into living in my building, that you do in fact adopt the habits and manners of the people who raise you. Like my parents, I tend to provide too much information to my waiters. Like my mother, I over prepare how much food I should bring to something. Like my father, I call people when I am in transit, just to kill time and then hang up when I get to my final destination – but I do love the people I call while in transit. Like my mother, I sort of sing my “hello,” when a land line rings. Like my father, I get competitive over how much exercise I’m getting. And like my parents, I am a horrible neighbor.

I grew up on a wonderful block. Every June there was a block party, there were tons of kids around my age, tons of birthday parties. And with the exception of Emily (holla) and her family, and the Gordons (who stole my dog), I can’t remember a single person’s name. And I can tell you the order my first grade class sat in during orientation (Emma, Akeem, Matthew, Zach, Josh, Jordana….). Actually there was also Christopher, my next-door neighbor, who at 7, I realized was a pretty hot 8-year-old. I am still a little pissed at my parents for moving – we totally could have Cory and Topangaed the shit out of life, because like Topanga, I was not a hot 7-year-old.

When my family moved, I definitely had an air of indifference towards my new neighborhood. I didn’t have any cool Emilys or hot Christophers. We did have Joan and Stan, our surrogate grandparents/next-door neighbors. But beyond that, Honey Badger don’t give a shit.

And neither did my parents. The only time I think I’ve ever seen my mom speak to someone was to announce our dog had died, which no one in half of Merion could have missed because he barked at everything, especially Orthodox Jewish families who walked by our house on Saturdays. And I think we sent people fruit baskets for my bat mitzvah because we had a loud rager and no one was invited.

But here I am, two months into my third lease in Tribeca, having already expired FiDi and the East Village and I realize that my unfriendliness in elevators, or when interns knocked on my door at my last two addresses for corkscrews, does not make me a New Yorker. It makes me an asshole.

As I prepare to move to my next residence (IN NINE MONTHS, SIOBHAN, I KNOW, IN NINE MONTHS), I wonder if I can push reset. Does that involve jello molds? Meet cutes? Providing TMI as though I’m at a restaurant?  Over preparing how much food I should bring? Calling them when I am in transit, just to kill time and then hang up when I get to my final destination? Singing “hello,” to them? Getting competitive over exercise (really, it’s just my fit bit. It’s ruined my life)?

Or how about if everyone I like just moves into my next building, and we’ll hand build a real-life CBS-style sitcom, Chuck Lorre style. I don’t watch Chuck Lorre sitcoms, so I hope that makes sense.

This weekend I had an awakening. Maybe it was after my third sixth glass of wine and my dinner still hadn’t arrived and I found myself riffing on the microphone as I toasted my cousin Jenny and her now husband Billy. Maybe it was when I tucked in my cousin (she will remain nameless), who had passed out on the floor of the hospitality suite, with a table cloth, then posed for pictures next to her with my brother and posted it on facebook, only to have her employers “like” it, so I had to take it down. Maybe it was meeting tons of chivalrous, handsome Mid-western boys, who made it a requirement that I pay for no drinks, even though most of them had girlfriends or fiancees, and it wasn’t weird. Or maybe it was when I found myself get off the hotel shuttle after the reception a stop early, at some bar with a large group of former fraternity brothers and sorority sisters, and my cousin’s cousins, and new cousin-in-law’s cousins, with only one person (very, very blacked out) who I knew prior to the weekend, but said to myself, “fuck it, I’m pretty, let’s do this.”

The point is, I don’t have enough fun. And I live in New York fucking city. I’m so busy watching my career, so I count calories, or need beauty sleep, or watch TV shows so I’m in the pop culture loop, or thinking I want a mellow night with drinks, that I’m not listening to my heart.

My heart wants to dance, and get dressed up for charity events and be surrounded by rich young pretty people as I roll my eyes at them with Missy, my former sorority sister and Most Likely to Be MIA recipient, and sing karaoke, and instead of complaining about guys who don’t even like me because they’re actors, and thus, totally gay, find random guys to buy me drinks and have it not be weird, or go to concerts, and actually wear high heels and use the cute clothes in my closet.

I want to go to Miami or Vegas with my girlfriends, or music festivals so that my instagram pictures are merited, and pretend that I don’t want to smoke weed anymore but make it a treat, or secretly try ecstasy in a hotel room, and then tell everyone.

I do NOT want one night stands, or to throw up and be carried home. I want to have fun, and not compromise my personality and be pretty doing it. I’m not looking for a husband, but I am looking for a way out of the rut I’ve found myself to be in.

Can I get an amen? I said, can I get an amen!

The final day of my twentieth summer in Montana seemed as appropriate a time as any to return to my blog. It marks the remaining days of summer, which is when life seems to cycle forward. Kids move up a grade. My parents will be empty nesters for the first time, and have already bought a new house and now seem to be contemplating getting a dog to make up for it. My regular slumber party buddy and cousin responsible for exposing me to curse words, sex and R-rated movies as a kid will be married in two weeks. Biblically, it almost is a new year, and then we chosens will literally get to cleanse ourselves for it. I’m just kidding. I won’t actually cleanse, unless it’s Blue Print, and then I still eat dinner.

Montana is, in many ways, the antithesis to my now three years, and six summers in Manhattan. I won’t drone on about the contrasts of city and nature, but I’m struck by the amount of life that’s happening around me, and how, for the amount I think I’ve changed since earning a BA, how strikingly constant I am in comparison.

I flew out to witness my youngest cousin become a bat mitzvah. With the watchful eye of Rabbi Mark, she literally went from little girl to Jewish adult in the span of about 30 minutes. Of course, in the moment of reflective silence, a not-to-be-named member of my family farted, quite audibly, which reminded all of us that regardless of an old testament age status, our maturity doesn’t progress much over three generations.

Before my uncle farted, my cousins Andrew, Peter, and my sister Leah faced their final days and months living at home as kids, saying goodbye to significant others, and entering college. Only yards away, my brother Daniel and cousin Emily thought about graduating college next spring. Caroline has one year of high school left. Joe just finished graduate school. Sam will start driving in a couple of months – the list goes on.

I just renewed the lease of my one bedroom for the third year. I still don’t have SAG credits. I don’t have representation. I don’t have a boyfriend; I don’t even have sex.

This isn’t to underplay my own accomplishments since last writing on the blog – or since starting the whole Montana thing in 1993, but for every project I’m developing – some with names #humblebrag – or manager I’m meeting with, studying for a learners’ permit or hoping your Bed Bath and Beyond delivery comes to the right dorm seems so much more palpable, and thrilling.

I don’t think I have a resolution to this. Except that after 20 years in a high altitude, grain-heavy environment, it’s nice to know that farts are still funny.