Ghost(ing) the Musical

As technology continues to develop, I find myself in a very, very, very intense love/hate relationship with the various channels of communication including but not limited to text messages, Facebook, email, even Instagram. They’re great ways to keep in touch and I use all of the above on a regular basis. I could publish a very entertaining coffee table book of snippets of threads between me and my close friends. Samples from said book featured below. 
Who else will accept you unconditionally?
Who else will be at the ready with a friendly reminder of where you’re at in life?

Who else will stand by you and help you be the person you want to be?

Anyone interested in offering me a book deal yet?

Basically, it takes maybe all of 10 seconds to send someone a text/snap/life update of some sort.



Enter: Ghosting.

According to me and my vast experience in this area, I have come up with following definition of ghosting.
1. The act of not responding to a message from a person thereby driving said person into a state of mania, paranoia, depression, rage, and/or binge eating. 
Not to be confused with:
First of all, let’s examine who is guilty of ghosting. 
1. Assorted friends from various walks of life, never. Honestly, I have all of my group threads on “Do Not Disturb” because once a conversation gets going I cannot deal with my phone vibrating nonstop for the next half an hour.
2. Roommates, never. If I don’t get a response within an hour or two depending on the time of day we’re dealing with I assume one of the following:
     a) They’re actually doing their job.
     b) They’re on a fabulous date.
     c) They’re having an adult sleepover following the fabulous date.
     d) They’re dead and I should notify the authorities immediately.
3. Family, never. My mother always responds promptly when I have an urgent question like am I vaccinated against every known alphabetical variation of hepatitis.
Let’s be real, we all know it’s usually, always, 100% of the time someone that we are sleeping with. 

Nope, not kidding, sorry girl, this is not a drill.

So now that we’ve established the guilty ones, we now move on to the next.

It is my belief that these men do not fully realize the effect that ghosting has on a rational human being. I will attempt to explain.

Before ghosting.

During ghosting.

Emotional yo-yoing is exhausting and by the end of the cycle, we’ve convinced ourselves that he’s just not that into you ala the 2009 movie that I saw on Valentine’s Day with my boyfriend at the time. It didn’t last much longer. Go figure.

And who is to blame? Is it our fault for letting our emotionally stability hinge on one man’s response time or is it his fault for keeping us in purgatory indefinitely?

Is it you or me?

Because here’s the thing- I’m perfect. 
Just kidding. 

The reality of the situation is we cannot control who we become emotionally invested in.

And if someone is worth it, you will work through the ghosting because life is compromise. My best advice here is to keep an open dialogue regarding communicative expectations and pray to Jesus for a miracle.

 You can also take a Xanax and calm the fuck down if you don’t get an immediate response. Unfortunately, not all of us keep prescription anti-anxiety meds on demand so I leave you with this: 
When you don’t hear back from that guy, just bitch/cry/eat/drink about it – hell, maybe even blog about it – because someday, somehow if he’s actually into you (which he probably is because you’re fabulous remember?) he’ll get the idea and eventually hit you up again.
Of course, there’s always the option to drop that asshole and move on. 

But who are we kidding? Masochism is the new black so see you suckers there.

Nvm he just texted back.

Ignore everything I just said.

Reality Checks

We all have those moments where we feel like we are winning at life- on top of the world. All the odds seem to be in your favor and in that instant, if you were a tribute in the hunger games, you would kill that shit. 

You are the queen bee.
However, there is always a moment following that rains on the parade and brings you back to planet Earth. In reality, most of us would die in the hunger games and we are not royalty but in fact, plebeians. 
See examples below.
EXAMPLE 1: You just got an awesome blowout and you are flipping your hair at every opportune (and inopportune) moment so as to get the most out of your $30. You’re having trouble hearing over the volume of your hair.
REALITY CHECK: You have to shower at some point. Bye, bye blowout. Hello, disaster.
EXAMPLE 2: You and your squad are out on the town. You all look fabulous and this happens as frequently as a supermoon (411.8 days according to Google) therefore, a photo must be taken to prove it actually happened and invoke F.O.M.O (fear of missing out) upon the masses. So, you throw your iPhone at some innocent bystander, everyone hits their angle (we all know you know your angle) and the moment is documented digitally for all of eternity. What could possibly go wrong?
REALITY CHECK: Everyone bombards the photographer to see the picture and once again, disaster strikes. There is not enough FaceTune in the world to fix what just happened. That photo will never see the light of day and in an instant you’re reminded why you haven’t had a boyfriend since 2013.
EXAMPLE 3: You’re feeling fancy and especially adult-like so you order a bottle of wine at dinner. You navigate the entire process like a professional. You nod, you swirl, you sniff, you aerate, you swish, you swallow, you nod again and when asked if you’d like another bottle you nod yet again. Let the good times roll.
REALITY CHECK: You wake up the next morning.
You check your credit card statement.
And yet despite how painful reality checks can be, I am rather fond of these instances as they are generally hysterical when you take a step back to evaluate and remind us that life is too short to take too seriously.

This Too Shall Suck

About a week and a half ago, I experienced events/circumstances that affirmed my self-proclaimed theory that my purpose in life is to provide comic relief.

It was a Saturday morning that began like any other morning. Woke up, checked my email, Facebook, Instagram and practically inactive Twitter account then sent a few unnecessary text messages to my inner circle before finally rolling out of bed towards the Keurig. This was around 8:00am and right around this time I started to feel some pain in my stomach/ovaries. I thought nothing of it and went about my very busy day, which consisted mostly of listening to Sara Bareilles, Justin Bieber, and Hamilton on repeat shuffle. The songs from Waitress make me sob, Justin Bieber makes me want to dance with my pants off and Hamilton is just epic.
I had an incredibly successful week, which I will now recap for you so that you may understand my justification of a lazy Saturday morning.
Monday: went to the gym, had an awesome audition for the developmental lab of Monsoon Wedding (an Indian inspired musical!), cooked chicken tiki masala with my culinary wizard of a friend and then went out for drinks and proceeded to get appropriately drunk
Tuesday: went to the gym, went to work
Wednesday: went to the gym, went to work
I never selfie but when I do, I take it very seriously.
Thursday (big day): went to the gym, had lunch with old friends that I don’t see often enough at Room Service (arguably the best lunch special in Manhattan), got a haircut at the Laura Braunstein Salon on the UWS (free cocktail and/or glass of wine with every service, where have you been all my life?), got dolled up and went to the Young Audiences Gala After Party at the Waldorf Astoria where I proceeded to win the lottery for two roundtrip tickets on Southwest Airlines (someday I will make a point to play the actual lottery)
Friday: went to an amazing yoga class with an old friend (and fellow blogger!), followed up my sweat session with an all you can eat pasta special and a bottle of wine (with a friend), went to work 
I was having a great week! And around 1:00pm it all came crashing down.
That little nagging abdominal pain I mentioned earlier had turned into something completely intolerable. It was radiating from my lower right abdominal quadrant, which (because I am my father’s daughter) I know is where the appendix is located. So between my own genius and WebMD I came to the conclusion that my appendix was going to explode. I hobbled down the block to the emergency room and was practically in tears at this point. I was also imaging the worst case scenario, which is a habit I inherited from my dear father, and was actually scaring myself. 
After the following exams/experiments/injections- one round of bloodwork, one CT scan (which involved drinking this nasty contrast shit every 20 minutes for an hour and a half then waiting another hour for it to kick in), and one dose of intravenously injected morphine/anti-nausea medication- the doctors were finally able to tell me what the hell was happening to me.
The diagnosis: a kidney stone
The prognosis: wait for it to pass
At this point, I had been in the emergency room for 7+ hours and the last thing I wanted to hear was that there was nothing to be done about this insane pain I was experiencing. But this is me we’re talking about so naturally, the most ridiculous, random situation had to unfold. They discharged me and I hobbled home to eat my feelings courtesy of Seamless.
It’s been a week and a half and I’m pretty sure Stoney (as my dear friend termed this ailment) is still hanging out in my system. I am in much less pain and I have to pee approximately every half hour. If there’s a line for the bathroom, I’ve resorted to telling people I’m pregnant and it’s emergent. This is where I’m at.
I find myself often thinking of the adage, “This too shall pass”, and then I immediately think about something Pinterest passed along my way while back. 
As if my sudden bout with calcium oxalate stones wasn’t absurdly spontaneous enough, yesterday I got a text from my best friend saying she has pink eye.