Had originally put one of these on IG, but I pulled it because I feel like kind of an asshole who's been all OH HAI LOOKIT MY PIC KTHX NOW IMMA DISPEAR AND NOT SEE URS HA HA BYEEEE lately. So I'm banning myself from posting until I've been a better team player for a while. Sorry you guys. I've been a bit, erm, distracted.

However! Last night was sort of milestone-y, and I want to remember it.


ego check

Friends: checking my ego since time immemorial. 


Sunday night. I'm at The Vaccines show downtown. I've taken a cab and I'm by myself, sore-footed and nervous about the crowd, but determined to stand my ground. I've been waiting months for this, and have grown fairly obsessed with the band since seeing them at Bonnaroo. The second opener has finished, but the set up for the main act is taking what feels like forever - they won't go on until almost 11.

I've been making small talk with the young couple next to me, who want to know why I'm here alone. I explain that I do this a lot. That it doesn't bother me, and that I only go to concerts where the music is all that matters to me, anyway. The guy presses, presumably in an effort to set me up with the stag friend who stands nearby, clearly listening but pretending not to. "You don't have a date?"

"My would-be date had another show to go to tonight, or he would have come." I'm smiling because I know this is true, and because the fact of it makes me stupidly happy. But the expression I get in return is exaggeratedly skeptical.

"Better than The Vaccines?"  Serious fans, apparently. 

Like magic, my phone lights up with a short video text. I share it with my concert buddies. The three of us watch a six second clip of the red carpet outside the Nokia Theater just a few blocks from where we are. A flash of ball gowns, tuxes, and then a dark-haired man in sunglasses, helpfully narrating "Red carpet!" before hitting the stop button. The man is said would-be date, fulfilling my request for video from his event. As soon as The Vaccines take the stage, I'll fulfill his request for video from mine.

- Gah, can't hear it, but you look so cute. Still waiting, think they're about to go on. First opener was pretty decent, second was horrific.

- I miss you! You are in for the Fox afterparty btw. It's near 7th and Fig if you wanna come after. ...My dad just flirted with Paula Abdul like crazy. He made me take their photo.

- LOL that second text is like the best thing ever. ...Miss you too. My concert buddies are this really cute couple who adopted me since I'm alone.

- Awww want me to come by?

- No no, stay and party with celebs! I'll text you when I get out of here. They STILL haven't gone on.

A minute later:

- Celebrities, free food and drinks, and I'm still bored. Guess I must like you or somethin. =)

- Okay well that made my night.

- Just helped the kid from Modern Family get some pizza. #foxafterparty #emmys

- LOL was that supposed to be a tweet?

- Tried it on you first. ;)

After the show (which is the funnest I've been to in LA, despite my desperately aching appendage), he and I wage independent battles in an effort to communicate and coordinate plans: me, with my painfully throbbing foot, as I hobble away from the theater; him, with a dying iPhone battery. He ends up using his father's cell to send me info about the party, which is ending in twenty minutes. There's no way I can get to it in time with my limp, even as close as it is. And anyway, I'm in ripped jeans and a tank top. Hardly awards show appropriate.

- Hey, just got out. Already 12:11 and I'm slooooow without crutches, so I'm gonna try and catch a cab home.

- Ok I think it might go later cuz lotsa people still here. Or meet you at your place?

- No no! Dude, stay! Emmy after party, are you kidding?? Mingle!

- Haha, thanks but I'm done here. And I wanna see yooouuu.

- Okay well if you're sure, then yeah of course.

- Aaah ok best part of my night. And I talked with Joey from friends so there you go.

- Yessss!

I'm sitting on my kitchen island, mangling a kiwi, when he gets to my place. He knocks before slowly opening the door and peering around at me, a huge, drunken grin on his face. I haven't seen him in just under a day. In the interim, he's gotten a hair cut. Gone are the wispy curls at his neck that I've been playing with for two+ weeks, but the new look is even sexier. Clean and modern, still with enough length to keep him looking boyish. His hair combined with the gorgeous suit he's wearing are too much. I don't even bother with compliments. I just shake my head, shooing an excited Chaucer away from his immaculate clothing.

He joins me. Kisses me. Wraps his arms around me. "Hello, beautiful." He's hammered, I'm stone cold sober, but we're both over the moon. We're both high from the respective fun of our evenings apart, and now giddy to see one another again. We swap stories from our nights. Laughing and talking and kissing and more laughing. I'm mentally pinching myself nonstop.

This is really happening.


Leaning over me, I'm on my back, staring up at his perfect face. One of the moments that's coming fast and furious and fucking awesome. And he says it. It slips out, but not really. It's deliberate. He backs away from it immediately, though, knowing he has to - but without losing the smile on his face.

I'm smiling too, but I shake my head. I tuck a piece of hair behind his ear and look at him, amazed. Really? This is real? "You don't, yet. You don't know me well enough to know that. And I don't know you well enough yet, either." He nods. "But you're in love with what's happening," I continue, tasting the magic of the word, so long forgotten, on my tongue. "And so am I. We can say that."

And so we devise a plan. "You're right," he says. "We'll just put it on the shelf for now."

"Exactly," I say. "A jar on a shelf. And every time you think it or feel it, mentally throw it into the jar." The next part I illustrate with my hands. "And when we're ready, we'll take it down, open it up, and pour it all over us." I unscrew an invisible vessel and spill its contents onto my body. "Okay?"

The way he's looking at me squeezes my heart so hard it threatens to stop beating. "That's beautiful," he says, and kisses me.

And now instead, for the time being - as a placeholder - we're saying "jar." Jar or JAAAARRRR or Fuck yeah jar. We say it because we need to say something, when that uncontainable feeling of excitement and joy, that we can't call anything else yet - not yet - takes all the other words away.

Today in response to a silly thing I sent him, to make him laugh, he simply texted me back a picture of a jar. I just stared at it for a minute, imagining it filling up with tiny slips of paper, saying the thing we are not saying yet.

It's really happening.


He's in Hollywood, stumbles upon a Paul McCartney sound check for a Jimmy Kimmel taping later that day. Texts me to tell me about it, sends video. Such a rad LA life moment, I say.

And you, you are a part of my rad LA moment. =)

That is what he says back to me. That is a real thing, that is said to me, by a real man, who really likes me, for some crazy reason. Really.

Because this is really happening.


So why is this happening? I'll tell you. I'm happy to. God, I am so happy to.

It's happening because finally, and maybe for the first time in my life, I have found someone been found by someone who is one hundred percent open and ready to love and be loved. Someone who is in touch with himself, whose emotional IQ is off the fucking charts, and who shows me care and consideration in word and deed, whether he's by my side or on the other side of town.

He listens to me when I speak. He puts his phone off and away and focuses completely on being present, so we can talk and laugh and be intimate without distraction. Last night he walked across my apartment to take me in his arms and just look me in the eye for a moment, because I happened to have said something random about my father, and he caught the slightest vibration of melancholy in my voice. This is the kind of person he is.

If in texting we have a moment of confusion or miscommunication, he picks up the phone to call me. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe my sense of what is right and good has been completely skewed over the last several years, but I find this to be totally amazing and remarkable. As in, here I am remarking upon it. The guy I'm dating picks up the fucking phone to call me.

He is spilling over with empathy and kindness and joy. I've never met someone so infectious of spirit, and I can't get enough of that spirit. He is unafraid to be silly and goofy, and he'll laugh at himself quicker than at anyone else. The hardest I've seen him laugh was just last night, because I was teasing him about something he fixed us for dinner. And watching him double over with laughter in my kitchen, unable to even press the buttons on the microwave until he caught his breath - that may be the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

And I have been to French Fucking Polynesia.

It is a really dumb thing to say, to just say Oh gosh, we laugh a lot. Because show us Ellie. Tell us what's so funny. But I can't. I can't possibly recreate every ridiculous conversation we've had that has absolutely reduced me to tears, because I am laughing so hard. In the grocery store last night, screwing around on my scooter and making a scene. So much fun. I feel like I'm in high school. We play off of one another's sense of humor in the most perfect way, and I can't wait to see what he's going to do or say next. We had an entire text conversation today that consisted of memes we made up based on inside jokes we've already piled up - and a .gif-off. One of his meme pics to me was the Confession Bear, and do you know what the confession was? It was "You are making me the happiest I've been in a long long time."

That is a real thing that was said to me, yesterday.

I am trying to remember to breathe.

And speaking of confessions. I confessed to him, the day after I'd stalked the hell out of his acting portfolio, how impressed by him I was. How excited for him I am, to see someone doing what they love, and do it well and happily. And he confessed back to me that he'd read my writing, and that he thinks I am brilliant. That was the word he used, to describe the work I've done, that he took the initiative to seek out on his own. He confessed he'd shared my writing with others, too, though I didn't ask who, because I am shy and I don't want to be any more self-conscious than I already am. Hello, strangers who I hope will be friends. I'm Ellie, and I'm crazy about the guy who pointed you at this weird little world of mine.

He is grateful and appreciative of the time we spend together - he even said those words. "I'm grateful for this," he said.

He said this to me, as he held me and looked in my eyes. And I believe it. Because he returns all of the affection and attention I give him. He mirrors it and makes me feel - down to the cells in my body - that he doesn't take it for granted, that every bit of it is being soaked up, happily. His heart is on his sleeve in the most breathtaking and beautiful way. God it is so beautiful. And the best part is that in being like that, he gives me permission to wear mine there, too. To just put myself out there as someone who is happiest when she has someone to love and be loved by.

Someone who, after all the grief and trauma of her past few years, is finally, truly ready for it.

So that is why all of this is happening, and happening so quickly. I got luckier than maybe I have ever been, and happened to be in the right place at the right time, to connect with someone who has love to give, and is ready to receive love back. Never mind how ridiculously, comically handsome he is, because that? That isn't even what matters. That is just a bonus so huge all I can do is laugh about it, because good grief, how lucky can one girl get? What matters is what I know so far of what's on the inside of this man. And what I am seeing is blowing my mind more every minute.

I've shared a lot of extremely personal stuff here, right now, and while it gives me pause to do so, I've made the decision to go ahead and post it, because it is a gorgeous thing that has been happening to me and I want to celebrate it and remember it, always, no matter what happens tomorrow or the next day. Because life. And because you never know.

And I'm sharing it because you guys have been with me on this sometimes crazy, sometimes stupid, sometimes thrilling, sometimes embarrassing, sometimes heartbreaking journey I've been on for years now. Years. And you've watched me ride the roller coaster of romance and go up-up-up and then come tumbling down, hard, and stay down for months and months at a time.

And because so many of you have been so loving and kind and warm to me, have reached out with your support and friendship, I feel okay - even good - about sharing these intensely personal moments with you, because my god, you've been there for me, and I'm grateful. I'm okay with sharing these things at first, because it is this whirlwind that is happening and if my instincts count for anything, it's only just barely starting and there will be so, so much more for he and I to have just for ourselves, to keep special and private. And I will pull the curtain shut now, I know I will, because that is what's right. That's how it should be.

But right now, tonight, I was too damn happy to keep it all to myself, at least these first little bits. Because I wanted you to know. I wanted you guys to know. This is where I share my life, and this is my life.

It's really happening.

c'est si bon

I almost blew off our first date. He doesn't know this, but it's true. I almost didn't go, because I was sure he was too young. I had him at ten years my junior, easily. Maybe I didn't look at him closely enough when we met. Maybe I was so self-conscious about being on my goofy knee scooter, feeling too awkward and shy to really take a good look at him, when he handed me his card. I don't know though, because even now when I stare (yes, stare) at him, I still marvel that he'll be thirty-six in a matter of days. He is the most boyish looking guy I've ever had the pleasure to mutually, sheepishly grin at, for minutes at a time.

It's probably the dimple.

There's just the one, hiding to the right of his smile, which itself doesn't hide for more than a few moments before reappearing to light up his face. And my face. And whatever room he's in. (Yep, it's going to be that sort of post. Sorry, you guys.)

Anyway, it almost didn't happen. I almost canceled at the last minute, because after the last unsuccessful foray into younger dudes, I had sworn to myself I wasn't going to go there again, so help me god. And I was 100% convinced he was in that camp - the younger-dude-who-initially-mistakes-Ellie-as-a-younger-chick camp (the number of displaced refugees at this camp truly constitutes a humanitarian disaster).

And the first three minutes of the date were terrible. I was a hot, cranky mess (nothing like being on crutches in a heat wave!). I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, clumsily hobbling out of the heavy lobby door to where he waited outside for me, smiling sympathetically and looking so intimidatingly polished and hip and cute and fucking tall. As he walked slowly beside me, ticking off boxes on the standard list of first date questions, I sweated and inwardly groused, flustered and annoyed at myself for not having bowed out and stayed at home, off my dumb and useless foot.

But then, as we were mere feet from the bar entrance, he mentioned having been on the French version of a TV show that instantly gave him away as older than I'd previously thought. I stopped dead in my tracks. "Wait, how old are you?" I asked, looking at him in surprise. And when he told me, and I realized Holy shit, he's actually age-appropriate and someone I could take seriously, my level of fluster rose to a catastrophic degree. It was all I could do to limp to a barstool, catch my breath, and take the two minutes he spent inside fetching us drinks to recalibrate my expectations for the evening.

I was a bundle of nerves by the time he returned with cocktails. He was too good-looking, I was too unnerved by my limited physicality and by the shock of being so wrong about his age, and having gone into the date with such a fuck it attitude. Also, it was so goddamn hot. I practically shot my Negroni in an effort to relax a little bit.

We talked and talked and drank and talked, and I unwound enough to open up. I confessed to him how hard on me, emotionally, my accident had been, and that I was scared my foot wouldn't heal correctly. He gave me the broad strokes on his upbringing, his education, his interests. Tipsy, I took a shot at speaking a bit of French with him, but quickly gave up when I misunderstood his pronunciation of Serge Gainsbourg. I eased into the date, unsure of how into me he was.

And then he kissed me.

He did it when I stood up to go to the bathroom. He stood up, too, to hold me steady while I gathered my crutches. And he just went for it. And it was awesome. And he smiled at me with his enormous eyes and something inside of me went warm, and I felt strangely...safe.

And that was sixteen days ago.

And in the sixteen days since, we have been spending time together, in the limited ways and places that we can, since I am still not back to walking.

And it has been great.

He is expressive and open-hearted and emotionally available in a way that I'd cynically and only half-jokingly come to the conclusion wasn't on the menu. He's incredibly sweet and empathetic. He's into self-examination and personal growth, which impresses and inspires me. He's sensual and playful, and I about die when he whispers to me in French. I. Just. About. Die. He's vulnerable and communicative and extremely demonstrative and affectionate. He's been unafraid to let me know that he's into me, and in fact that openness has left me sort of breathless at times, and had the weird effect of blocking me, creatively. Because I don't want to jinx it, and I don't want to taint it, and when I talk about it - and him - I want to do so in a way that does justice to what I'm experiencing, which is this really nice feeling of anticipation and excitement, but also a dash of nervousness, because who wants to get hurt?

No one. No one wants to get hurt.

We have mostly passed our time having meals and drinks downtown, and hanging out in my apartment, listening to music and talking for hours at a stretch. We've had a couple of marathon, spill-over-into-the-next-afternoon type dates. We laugh a lot at silly things, because we seem to have the same cornball sense of humor that occasionally dips into cleverness, but is mostly just us cracking up at some dumb thing we know is dumb but can't help finding funny anyway. A few nights ago he blessed a kiwi before I put it back into the fridge, and we couldn't stay upright, because we found this so hysterical.

We were completely sober.

I went to dinner with he and his (visiting) father a couple nights ago, and making him giggle with comments under my breath was the most fun I've had with a guy in ages. When he played some of his recorded music for me, I was rolling around in the bed, biting the pillow lest I shriek with delight - not just because he is so creative and the songs are so fun, but because I can't help but be secretly ecstatic that I'm dating a singer/songwriter who, if I saw on stage, I'd probably crush on instantly.

Maybe you've noticed I'm into music?

Just a few days ago, I watched him act. That was something I'd sort of subconsciously pushed aside, for various, complicated reasons. But I finally went through and watched some of the short projects he's done, and it made me so, so excited for him, because he is truly talented and so damn watchable, in my opinion. I am excited for him because I think he should be performing, because he is undeniably magnetic and fun to watch.

I told him a few days ago that this post was going to be difficult for me, whenever it finally came. The one where I "announced" or "revealed" or whatever dumb, self-absorbed sounding word I have to put on it because I am a blogger, to say that I'm seeing someone new.

And I explained that since I blog, even though my readership is tiny, connecting to me through social media will necessarily open him up to being in a spotlight of sorts. I explained that my readers are the coolest fucking people ever, but that I cannot control everything and everyone, and there might be some awkwardness or even unwanted attention if he interacts with me in the same spaces that I do with my internet friends. I let him make the decision as to how he wanted to handle it. I expressed particular concern over Instagram, because sometimes I talk about my blog there. But I have a feeling that if things continue as they have been, we're going to press ahead and have fun together on social media, because it's something we both enjoy.

I don't know how, if at all, this will affect my blogging and gramming, though maybe at first it'll make me a bit self-conscious and protective? I guess I'll see.

And now you know what's been happening, here behind the scenes at Elliequent, with me and someone fun and sweet and definitely special.

And it's good.

C'est si bon.


What does one do in such an instance? Unlike? Apologize? I feel so dumb. :/

t-minus two months

Just got home from seeing the orthopedist. Have never been so relieved in my life. The doctor says I'm perfectly fine, the break healed straight, and my foot looks strong based on my last X-ray. He cleared me to start slowly putting weight back on it, and says I should ditch the crutches completely within two weeks. And the best part? He says I should be fine to start running again in another six weeks after that.

Yes, that's still two more months of no running. But compared to the doomsday scenarios I've been crafting my head, that's the best news possible. I've tried to put up as positive a front as possible about this whole thing, but the truth is this past week I was really starting to get scared. There's still tenderness on the inside of my foot (which he says is normal), and I'd convinced myself that they'd mixed up my X-rays or something, and that things were much worse than I'd been told.

I'd gone online and read all kinds of horror stories and absolutely worked myself up to a fever pitch of worry, since the doc I'd originally seen wasn't an ortho, and I was starting to think she didn't know what she was talking about. Had a complete meltdown the other day, in fact. But as Mason (who fielded the meltdown call) pointed out, no one ever goes online to post things like "Yeah, minor break, healed great, no sweat, was back running in a few months."

Oh my god. I can seriously feel so much tension loosening in my body, now that I know I'm going to be just fine. I'm going for a few sessions of PT starting next week, just to get over my fear of walking again and make sure I have full range of movement and flexibility back in that flipper. But after that I should be back to 100%. YAY!

Anyway, I know I've been bleating about this dumb injury here and there and everywhere, so I wanted to update. So, so, so happy. Have a great weekend, you guys. :)


Empathy is my emotional miracle drug. Correctly applied, it can resolve almost any external conflict I find myself in, and many internal ones as well (most of which, if I think about it, have their genesis in some external source, anyway).

It's the ultimate injection of fresh perspective. Slip out of your own shoes and into another's, and suddenly it's a lot harder to be angry with them.

Sometimes it takes imagination. It can be difficult to generate compassion for someone that I don't like, or whom I feel has hurt me. But if I make the effort to truly understand what life is probably like for that person, based on what I know of his or her daily challenges, I find my own negativity toward them suddenly feels cheap, ugly, and unfair. And once I'm forced to face that, I've essentially shamed myself out of my right to those negative emotions. Take it easy on so-and-so, Ellie. It's probably a lot harder to be him/her than you realize. 

Then poof! Gone are the negative vibes, clearing a space in my head for, well, anything better.

It's a pretty handy little trick. I just wish I remembered to use it more often.

black mark

"Would you live in New York, if you could?"

He was leaning back in his chair, his body angled sharply away from me and his legs crossed. The noises of the busy cafe had already set my nerves on end - the tinny crashing of porcelain saucers against marble tabletops; the heavy din of caffeinated conversation bouncing off unadorned walls. I was exhausted. It was exhausting trying to figure this person out. What he wanted from me. What he was willing to give back in return. 

"Would I live in New York?" I echoed, surprised. Of the few personal questions he'd asked me, this one was especially unexpected. It was apropos of nothing, as best I could tell, and it felt accusatory. I felt my mind limbering up to do the mental gymnastics required to win one of his smiles. 

"Yeah," he said. Then, after a pause: "You just seem like the kind of person who'd live in New York."

And that's when I knew. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even a trap. It was simply another nail in a coffin he'd been constructing for weeks. He already knew the answer, and he already didn't like it. Which is precisely why he'd asked it. It was one more shovel full of dirt to throw on what he saw as a dead end. I was just making it that much easier for him, by being exactly who he knew I was.

His disapproval settled on my skin like ash while I struggled to answer honestly. The truth was I would, of course I would. But I wouldn't want to stay there. Not forever. That would be too much. But as I cobbled together my reply, I saw in his eyes that he'd already checked out of the conversation. 

It was the last black mark I'd be given a chance to earn. Later I'd think back and tally the others, clues to my inadequacy delivered via small, cutting remarks and condescending cracks that went unregistered by my crush-consumed brain.

Well, I thought, as I watched him float away from me, at least now I can quit with the gymnastics

One injury per summer is plenty. 


I wake up to missed texts from Wally (a pic of some shopping find), Mason (OMG last night's Colbert. I'm in fucking tears.), my neighbor (wanting me to let her dog out), and Ben (Ellie! We need your body!). I spend the next few minutes feeding Chaucer, making coffee, and sending replies.

I explain to Ben that I've gotten myself on an ass-backwards schedule. I was asleep all day, I say. I'm estivating. 


LOL, it's the opposite of hibernating. Sleeping through summer. 

He says he'll be working super late, and asks me to come by to try on a dress. Okay, I say, even though I don't particularly feel like squeezing into whatever skintight leather number he's working on, in my current sedentary state. I text with Wally while I sit on my kitchen island and drink coffee. He sends a pic of a poster soliciting participants for a diarrhea study. The copy describes the sought-after symptoms in graphic terms.

- That is hanging over a urinal.

- Jesus.

- I am so glad my job does not involve working on a diarrhea study. Even the most glamorous related job would suck. You could be the doctor who cures it, but it would still suck. "So..what do you do?" ...."Uh..."

- I have no jokes to contribute to this yet. I just woke up and my head feels like cotton candy.

- Wow, I feel bad for hitting you with a prolonged conversation about the squirts right when you woke up.

After a quick shower, I grab Chaucer, his leash, and my wallet, and we scoot the six blocks to the shop where Ben works. The door is locked, and as I'm knocking, a man walking by asks if I'm going in to buy my dog a harness. "That's what they sell in there, you know," he says, turning to face me as he walks backwards. "Leather stuff." Before I can answer, Ben appears and lets me into the store.

The dress he needs to fit is comically short and tight - strapless, structured black leather with zipper trim and lines that remind me of a superhero costume. It'll be worn in a show in New York next week to preview the shop's new line. As he tugs at the fabric, stepping back to scrutinize the cut, I remind him that my boobs are higher and bigger than those of most models. He twists his lip and considers, and a second designer comes out to confer. Meanwhile, Chaucer makes himself at home, the shop familiar to him from Ben's dog sitting stints.

Satisfied with the styling, he takes a few pictures of me wearing the dress, a pair of pumps that I nearly break my neck trying to balance in one-legged, and a funky decorative leather strap that buckles behind my knee and under the heel of the shoe. The whole ensemble is more fashion-forward and editorial and sexy than anything I could ever pull off, and as always, I feel like a badass for having a tiny part in the design process.

Ben still has some sewing still to do, so I run to the market around the corner and get us a bottle of wine. We order a pizza, and I hang out in the workroom while he cuts, measures, and stitches. We eat, drink, and catch up, swapping anecdotes from our dating lives the past few months. He's recently gotten a raise, which will allow him to rent a villa when he returns to Bali for work in a few weeks. I promise for the fiftieth time that I'll try and visit, and ask for the hundredth time about the (legal) mushroom shakes sold there. He photographs a dress form outfitted with pieces for the show, and when he's finished, walks Chaucer and I back home before catching the train.

As always, I feel totally charged from hanging out with him. A thought occurs to me, and I pull up my blog to check something. Yep. I realize it's the weather - balmy, lush, and decadent - that triggered my suspicion that it was right around this time last year that we went to Silver Lake. A rush of gratitude for my friendship hits me, and I decide to write a post to remember tonight, because even though it wasn't anything wild or exciting, I'm still left with the awesome, uplifted feeling I get from being in my friend's company. Back room of a clothing store or the crowded dance floor of a hipster bar - same net effect.

Also: I really need to try one of those mushroom shakes.

jones break

Last night I was looking for information online about my foot fracture, because that is what you do when you're uninsured: you consult Dr. Google. (His bedside manner sucks but at least he accepts walk-ins.) Dr. G taught me that my particular fracture - the 5th metatarsal - is called a "Jones break." Cut to me searching under those terms and bringing up a page full of results...about the recent separation of Catherine Zeta and Michael Douglas. LOL.

Rather than ignore this useless information and refine my search to include the word "foot", I spent the next ten minutes laying in bed, bemusedly fleshing out a scenario in my head where the opposing bits of my broken bone are a fiery but beautiful Zeta Jones-type and an equally passionate (but noticeably more wizened) Douglas-type. But, like, bones instead of people.

A heated argument, neither even remembers how it started. Michael's been hitting the Macallan pretty hard tonight. He's still not over the time she accidentally cried out "Oh, Antonio!" in bed. Words are exchanged. Catherine calls him an anws blewog, and after thirteen years of marriage, you know he's learned that particular bit of Welsh. When Michael tauntingly asks her when the last time she fit in her Entrapment catsuit was, she loses it. She grabs her Louis Vuitton duffel, stuffs a few essentials into it, grabs the keys to the Bentley, and heads out the door...

....and Ellie's foot goes snap.


Got my ticket for The Vaccines show, which is just a couple of weeks away. Hoping against hope I'll be able to walk to it (I still have bruising on the bottom of my foot, so I'm scared to put weight on it yet even though it's been six weeks).

If you haven't heard of them, or if you didn't check them out the last time I banged on about them, seriously do so. Much awesomeness.


I got cold hit on yesterday. By a stupidly good-looking guy. Story time!

Late afternoon, I'm a hot mess. No makeup, unbrushed hair, baggy jeans, t-shirt. I'm taking Chaucer out for a quick potty. As we wheel out of the elevator, peripherally I notice a guy sitting in the lobby. I hear him say something, How ya doing? or something, to which I mumble a reply without looking up, because a) I think he's someone else, specifically a guy from my building and b) I know I look like hell/ridiculous on the scooter.

I let Chauc pee around the corner, and we return to my building.

As we're coming in the door, a very tall and handsome guy and a short blonde woman in glasses are exiting. The way the guy says hello and smiles at me makes me think I must know him from somewhere, and I wrack my brain trying to figure out who he is. Then I realize he was the guy sitting over by the elevators five minutes before, though I still don't understand the grin.

He and the blonde start chatting me up about Chaucer, with her asking most of the questions (Oh, is this your dog? Do you live in the building? He's a mastiff, right? "Chaucer"? Are you from England?), while the guy just sort of stands there watching me. I cannot for the life of me figure out why they're being so solicitous and chatty. Then she tells me she's a dog walker, and I prepare to be handed a business card. But she just introduces herself and her friend, and both of them shake my hand. He then chimes in to say that's why he was sitting by the elevator - he was waiting for her to be finished walking a dog from my building. The way this information is relayed by them - along with the very intent way the guy is looking at me (which, seriously, was starting to make me blush) - makes me realize they're purposefully clarifying their relationship because the guy, for some reason, digs the cut of my jib.

I have no idea what to do or say. I'm obviously done walking my dog, introductions have been made, what am I supposed to do? I maintain eye contact with the guy as directly as I can without it being ridiculous (because I really am blushing at this point), tell them it was nice to meet them, and wheel off towards the elevators. The last lingering look from the guy as they head out the door seals the deal. Yep, totally digging me. I wonder as Chaucer and I head back upstairs if he'll maybe come back by, leave his number at the rental office or something? The thought occurs to me that for the first time in my life there may be a Missed Connections listing on Craigslist in my immediate future. It feels like that kind of encounter.

I unclip Chauc, wipe off his feet, and then roll back out to grab a Starbucks across the street. My regular barista is there and we're yammering away as he's making my drink, so at first I don't notice: the guy and girl I just met are sitting at a table right outside the window.

A second later, they both turn their heads to look in at me. I realize they must have seen me leave my building, cross the street, and come in to order. I make the appropriate Oh! Hey again! face, and we wave at one another. Nervous, I pull out my phone and pretend to be engrossed in Instagram while I wait for my macchiato. I glance back out the window and see the guy slowly stand and sort of stretch while saying something to the girl (who remains seated). He looks at the cup in his hand for a second, then lifts his head to look at me. I have no idea what expression to compose my features into, but I realize I'd better pick one quickly, because now he's coming inside.

He's sweet and very direct about it. The pretense is to get some ice water from the barista, but right smack in front of another customer (and the barista), he looks me square in the eye and says something about not wishing to be weird, but could he give me his phone number?

I'm smiling all over the place despite feeling extremely awkward and ugly and self-conscious (seriously, not a drop of makeup - and I was wearing an absolutely beat-to-hell v-neck that shows my awful sun damaged decolletage), because his manner is really soft-spoken and lovely, and I appreciate the fact that he offered me his number, rather than asking for mine (and thus affording me the choice of whether or not to follow through). A minute later I've got his business card in my hand and he's got my word that I'll use it.

I have, as is my specialty, turned a very not-big-deal ten minute situation into a massive blog post, like a diary writing tween, so I will wrap it up with this: dark floppy hair, massive brown doe eyes, absurdly cute, actor/singer/media manager, huge internet presence that I resisted looking into beyond a quick survey (okay maybe I watched ten seconds of a video of him singing and playing guitar), lives six blocks from me, and is probably, oh hell I don't know, late twenties? But I mean, he saw me in the harsh light of day, and kids, yr blogmistress fully looks her age in the harsh light of day. Fully. So who knows. Maybe he likes the oldur wimminz.

I haven't texted him yet.

my pea-sized brain

Last night I fell in love with a man who pretends to be a pigeon on Twitter. That account is hands down the funniest thing I have read in years. I was absolutely dead of laughter. Crying. Chaucer thought I'd lost it.

Last night I also discovered the exchanges between Ricky Gervais and Boring Tweeter (which are also being made into short YouTube videos). Totally hysterical. I feel like an idiot for not having read them before, because I have been following Ricky Gervais for ages. And the only reason I even discovered these things is I performed a large-scale unfollow, in an attempt to de-clutter things enough to actually SEE the stuff I want to see. For the better part of a year now I've tried to get a handle on Twitter, and have been absolutely mystified and overwhelmed by it. I have no clue how people can follow hundreds or thousands of other users. What the holy hell? What's the point? How can they keep track of what that many people are saying, all day long? Yes, lists. I know about lists. Even still, it seems like a lot of work.

About a hundred people were sacrificed in The Great Unfollowing. If you were one of them, please please please do not take it personally. For one thing, I had no idea who I was even following, because the truth is, I was following so many damn people, I'd given up even using Twitter at all. I almost think someone must have hacked my account and just blindly followed everyone back, because I was even following random spammers. It was very WTF. For another, I feel like a big phony following people with whom I have no interaction. I think in some cases I had automatically followed back users who started following me first, lest I feel guilty about not being egalitarian, or fearful of appearing stuck up or something. And if I unfollowed you, it has nothing to do with you. It's just that holy crap social media is overwhelming and, like, loud. And while I've known that there's good stuff to be found on Twitter, I haven't made the effort to find it or (and I know people hate this word, but it's the best one for it, I think) curate the massive helping I've been brainlessly piling on my plate at the all-you-can-Tweet buffet.

Again, I really want to emphasize that I don't mean to seem like an ungrateful asshole if I unfollowed you. And if I were you I'd probably unfollow me to even the score. I'm just an idiot who feels snowed under by social media in general, and I think my best chance of enjoying it is to keep track of a manageable number of accounts that I find entertaining or educational, plus those of the people I've grown friendly with.

I hope you can forgive me my pea-sized brain. Unfortunately I think it's done growing.


This is what happens when you're trapped in your shoe box of convalescence, in the middle of a heat wave, with nothing to do but browse lost pet websites while you wait for your (car owning and fully ambulatory) neighbor to get home so she can take the stray you took in for a microchip scan.


 - Thank you for calling the Burke Williams appointment line, how may I assist you today?

- Yes, hello. I'd like to schedule a de-algaefication treatment, shell exfoliation, and possibly a facial? I'm experiencing some symptoms of rosacea, though it may just be stress. I recently had to do some unexpected traveling. 

- I'd be happy to set those up for you. Can I get your last name, please?

- Sandwich.

- I'm sorry, would you mind spelling that for me?

- Of course. 'S' as in salmonella, 'A' as in aquarium, 'N' as in nearly, 'D' as in dead, 'W' as in wandering, 'I' as in intrepid, 'C' as cold-blooded, 'H' as in hatch. 

- And Ms. Sandwich, when would you like to come in? 

- I can probably get there by the fifth, if I leave now.

- The fifth of September?

- Yes. Two thousand fourteen.

- Okay, we've got you down for those services. Is there anything else I can help you with?

- Just curious, do you offer a bale discount? A girlfriend of mine is getting married and I'd love to bring the webbing party in for a spa day.

- We do have a fall molting special, but I'm afraid it doesn't apply to snapping turtles.

- Understandable. Alright, I'll keep that in mind. Thanks for your help.

- Thank you for calling Burke Williams! We look forward to seeing you next year.


inspired by blatantly copied from The Onion