This Fish Needs A Bicycle

this fish has no clothes

Brought to you by the letters R and J and by the number 3.

Immediately after making plans with Rachel on Tuesday for the following night, the thought occurred to me: I have no clean clothes.

No play-clothes, any way. All jeans that did not fall into the Fat Clothes and You’ll Never Be This Skinny Again categories, or those which were purchased after 1994 (I have a hard time letting go) were lying in a pile next to my closet. Next to the linens. Next to the lights. On top of the darks. So it had been a while since I’d spent any quality time at the laundromat? I’m a busy girl!

Realizing I wasn’t going to be unbusy anytime soon, I caved. Gathering everything up, and squishing clothing into separate bags with appropriate labels (do not dry & bleach, please) I carted all thirty-seven pounds to the wash-n-fold downstairs. Task completed. They’d be ready by the next afternoon.

Closed due to an emergency.

That’s what the sign said when I went to reclaim my 37 pounds the next afternoon. Closed. I stood there in my work clothes, listening to thunder break around me and considered my options. That took all of thirty seconds. There were no options. You know, unless this was a pajama party we were going to. A quick phone call to Rachel confirmed that no, it was not one of those lingerie events I’ve been dying to go attend. It was your standard, come dressed in clothes you purchased in this millennium, regular party. And I was shit out of luck.

And on day three, I’m sitting at my desk in jeans normally reserved for house-cleaning, wondering if “emergency” really means “out-of-business” and if I will ever see my clothes again. A new sign promises they’ll be open this afternoon. I have my doubts.

Eventually, I’m going to have to go out into decent society again and I suspect the Lady Godiva thing might not go over so well. I do have the hair for it, though. Hmmm...

sing a happy song

The Smurfs’ theme song has words, you know. Not many of them. But after the catchy Tra la la-la-la la – if I remember correctly – it follows, sing a happy song. Oh, those peppy little Smurfs. And oh, that I'd had their breezy little anthem playing on my iPod this morning.

Instead, I did what I now know I should never do on a gloomy day: I played the musical lottery and let shuffle choose my tunes for me. Now, the nastier the weather, the tighter the subway cars are packed, leaving no room to wriggle a misguided iPod from its hiding spot, deep, deep in a raincoat pocket. So, ten seconds into the first song, I knew I was in trouble. And by the time Superstar hit its climactic, “don’t you remember you told me you loved me, baby…” I was in agony. Like that scene from Tommy Boy.

Hee. Tommy Boy.

Does this tie make me look fat?
No, your head does.

Anyway, I digress. A smarter woman would probably have yanked those earphones right out when, at 59th street, Colin Hay came on. And then Damien Rice’s Older Chests. But I was sleepy, and entranced and frankly, I don’t like listening to real life sounds on my morning commute. I’d much rather be in my iPod bubble – no matter how depressing—than be too aware of other folks before 9AM.

At the office, the coat closet smelled… well, like a community coat closet smells on a rainy morning. My voicemail light was blinking and the To Do list next to my keyboard was longer than I remembered it being the day before. My tasks had babies. Multiplied overnight. (I’m tempted to liken it to Gremlins, but I never actually saw that movie, so I wouldn’t know what I was talking about.)

My day was starting off to a tune in the key of ick.

But a funny thing happened when I sat down to turn on my computer. Apropos of absolutely nothing (and most likely the result of some off-kilter brain synapses), I started humming the Smurf song. Tra la la-la-la-la sing a happy song. And I haven’t been able to get it out of my brain since.

It’s cute. It’s peppy. And it’s annoying as hell. I’m two Tra-las away from smacking my head into a wall. Fuck you and your smurfin’ good time! Fuck your happy song!

I’m obviously a girl who’s never satisfied.

the mind was willing

“Are we still doing this?” I asked his voicemail as I slid on some jeans a bit too early on a Sunday morning.

I got my answer when he called back moments later, post Central Park run and just way too chipper. He’d bought us breakfast and was on his way over. I yawned, frowned in the mirror and patted at my puffy face. It was 9 AM and Ben and I were going on an IKEA adventure.

We went for pillows. We came back with furniture. You know how it goes. Forget that neither of us has much restraint when it comes to shopping, but who leaves IKEA without using one of those huge carts? Not us, boy howdy.

And then ten hours later, full of dumplings and imported beer, we finally called it a day. Cart races at Ikea, reorganizing of Ben’s big boy apartment, beer and wings at the Dead Poet, tipsy but not breaking anything at Fishs Eddy, a quick trip ‘round the farmer’s market, and a last stop for more drinking and the dim sum sampler at Ruby Foo’s.

Ben went home to be productive, and I cabbed it across town to be…out cold by 9pm. The mind was willing, but the flesh? Oh so very drunk.

(photo by benjamin wagner)

a helluva lot of answers

Whew! Finally!
Note: If I didn't answer your quesiton, I either got too tired, it was too much like a previous question, or I just didn't want to.

Q&A

C. says she wouldn't [go naked] at a nude beach. Would you? – Linus
I would, and I have. Thrice.
What was the last movie that made you cry? What was the last movie that made you cry and earned the tears, if different? – Also Linus
Indochine made me cry. But I don’t think it should have – I was just feeling emotional and all the regret and loss just got to me. The last movie that really earned my tears was Steel Magnolias. I watch that at least once a month and bawl and bawl and bawl. God, I love me a good cry.

Who are your all time favorite Good Mood bands/artists? (aka what do you listen to when you want to go from mope-y to dance-y?) – Kate
The Bangles. Specifically, In Your Room. I put that on for lots of bummer moments. It even makes doing the dishes tolerable.

Do you have any regrets about sharing your personal life on the Internet? – Lea
Yes, to some extent. But for every misgiving I have about doing it, there’s an email saying “I understand” or “thanks, I went through the same thing.” That’s satisfying, in a way. Sharing is caring, man.

What does it feel like when you write? Is it an oasis? Second nature? Something you feel you "should" do? and ...I want to know, if you really have to think about your posts when you write. Does it just come naturally, in a 20 minute sit down and a click of the publish button? Or does it entail more of a process? - Jasika
I don’t really allow myself more than a half hour to do a post. There have been very few exceptions. Sometimes, when I sit down to write, and it feels difficult, I know it’s not meant to be written then and I hit the little x and say do not save. The posts that I have slaved over have been agonizing to read later. Most times, I’ll have a thought on the subway or in the shower and then put it down later. I’m no good with process. I lack discipline. Ask my mother about piano lessons.

You're being sent to a deserted island. You can bring 10 cd's. What will they be? – The Duck
Aretha Franklin’s 30 Greatest Hits (that’s a 2CD set). The Essential Bangles. Shakira – Donde Estan Los Ladrones. Garth Brooks – In Pieces. Madonna – The Immaculate Collection. Indigo Girls’ 1200 Curfew (another 2 CD set). Dashboard Confessional – Swiss Army Romance. The Carpenters’ Love Songs. The Best of Peter Paul and Mary. I do believe that’s 10.

If you didn't have to work in order to eat and survive, what would you do on a daily basis to keep yourself busy, content, and fulfilled? – Raz Dreams
I’d get a big old house with a big old kitchen and a room upstairs that gets great light and cross-breezes. I’d cook, paint, read, write, have a baby and maybe even a dog. Oh, and I’d learn to play the violin. Also, can all of my friends be unemployed and self-sustained, too? As much as I love my alone time, and I’d love to write, paint, read and sit very, very still and listen to nothing but wind or crickets, that would get old without company.

What are your feelings on J. at this moment of your life? – J2
I never met an ex I didn’t like. No, seriously, J is still one of my favorite people in the history of… ever. When the Bed Goons fucked up my new bed, the first person I called was J. And had he been less than four hours away, he’d have come over straight over to fix it. No one gets me as well as he does, nor knows when to treat me with kid gloves or tell me to buck up.
Have you ever been a waitress? – also J2
No! Anyone who knows me in real life would tell you that I’d be terrible at it. I simply haven’t the patience or the ability to be nice to folks who annoy me.

Who is the one person (living/dead, famous/infamous, real/not real) that you would like to spend 1 hour with and why. - Mitch
Maybe me. Later on in life. I guess I wanna know just how bad I fucked up, and how much I got right. And El Guapo.

Do you think it is odd that many feminists (ahem) are now taking up domestic hobbies, like knitting? Would you ever consider learning how to bake bread or sew your own clothes? – African Kelli
Oh god. Don’t make me answer for the feminists. But here’s how I see it. If feminism is about being independent… what’s more independent than being self-reliant and making your own clothes? And, I was a Girl Scout. I can bake bread, sew, and quilt. Hell, I can even start a fire with a bow. But that’s another story for another time.

Do you have any advice for people new to blogging? Especially regarding annonymity? Is it harder now that people know you know in the real world are reading your blog? - Finy
There’s no way to maintain anonymity. Talking with Paul the other night, we were grousing about some of the negative things that have come with this year’s publicity. He pointed out that the greatest irony was that I fought (and I mean, went to some pretty great lengths) to stay hidden. It simply didn’t work. And yes, yes it is. But I just skip the really personal stuff these days. Compromise. Truth be told, the reason I tell so many stories now is there’s too much personal stuff going on that I choose not to write about.

Marriage. An expensive party to end a good relationship, or a delicious dream? - Lisa
Marriage scares the shit out of me. It used to be such a dreamy little notion, but my parents had a train-wreck of a union, and frankly, I can’t imagine I’d pull it off any better. I’m certainly not so cynical as to say it’s the end of a relationship, though. Krissa & Stuart, while admittedly their marriage is so very young, are such a gorgeous example of how scary it doesn’t have to be. I love that they fight and bicker, totally secure in the knowledge that the other person loves them to itty bitty pieces and will stick around long after even the most brutal bout. But man, they sure are sappy as hell sometimes.

If you were a Supreme Court Justice for a day, what's the first thing you'd change/fix? – Ms Oktober
I wouldn’t make any more damn laws, that’s for sure. Too many already.

When are you coming to Texas? - Jazzy
Uh, probably never? I don’t have any reason to, really. That places makes me feel 15, overweight, and like I need to spend some serious time in a tanning bed.

Who is your Daddy, and what does he do? - Arnold
Funny. But if you really want to know… my daddy is a retired forest fire fighter and currently, he watches a nest of baby Bald Eaglets.

An urgent question - how do you get over crushes? - MC
Xanax.

Are you a jealous person? – Kristine
No. I’m an insecure person. It’s different.

After t-shirts, what's the next step in your plan for world domination? – Jack
Can I interest you in a bumper sticker? Heh.

Are you as quick witted and eloquent in everyday conversation, or do you prefer expressing yourself in writing? – PLD
Hmm. I dunno about eloquent. But most people who know me will tell you I write exactly the same way I talk. I’m a bit more sarcastic in person, maybe even caustic, but that’s just a defense mechanism. God, look at me, I’m naked.

What are your most played songs on your ipod (sorry if you still haven't gotten new ear buds!)? – McAuliflower
See the question regarding the deserted island.

Do you have one of those "the one who got away" boys? How often do you still think about him?
Nope, can’t say that I do. Everything wears off eventually, even monster crushes.
Felicity: Ben or Noel.
Noel. Oh, Noel, I love you. I can even overlook that whole Jennifer Garner thing.
What’s the most embarrassing thing you spend money on? Patricia Danielle
Cat litter. I hate buying it at the store. Mostly because I can’t stand the idea of being any sort of stereotype, especially the single girl with cat stereotype.

Who took the picture on the sidebar, of the fish? - Anon
Anna Harriman.

Why won't you play "iPod shuffle?" – Plantation
Have you ever seen me post a meme? I didn’t think so. Nevermind that I will be doing one for Ari. But that's different. She shares her ice cream.

In a parallel universe where would you find yourself? - Leah
Aruba.

Plain or peanut? – Steph
Peanut!

What is the biggest/worst lie that you've told? Were you caught in it? Do you regret telling it? - Things Said
I was 12 or so, and I told my mom I hated her. Of course I didn’t hate her. And sure, every kid says that at some point, or something just as heinous. But that’s the kind of lie that hurts a mom for a long time.

Sweet or unsweet? – Justin
Duh.

Is there a blog out there that you HAVE to obsessively read on a daily basis, lest you die??? – The Merry Widow
Dooce.com

Did J ever see this website? - Elise
Yes. One night not too long ago, J called asking for help making a personal website. He’d read my article in the Times, but never took the bait and went looking for my blog. I offered it up and asked him, if it was all the same, could he just not indulge in reading my archives.

“Did you write about me?”
“Yep.”
“You know what? I won’t read anything if it makes you feel more free to write what you really want.”

And that was that. He did read this entry, however, and his response was, “I love your big nose.” You really gotta love that guy.

If your fish could ride a bicycle, what type of bicycle would it be? Do you ever get homesick? – Meg
I don’t even know anymore. I thought I had a good idea, but I was wrong. And no, I never do.

Would you, could you, eat green eggs and ham? - The cat
If Biscuit cooked them, yes.

Would you ever diss anyone on the internet...or did you mama teach you better than that?
Aside from dissing my mother, which was more a product of some unaddressed angst, no, I don’t think I’ve ever trash-talked anyone directly. Except for hipsters.

Prim and proper Sandy like at the beginning, or biker chic like at the end? – Gopi
Prim and proper. Love me some sweater sets and a poodle skirt.

What is your favorite novel? – Kenton
I can’t really pick one. But I read A Tale of Two Cities and Like Water for Chocolate once a year.

What do you think about the other 3 blogs mentioned in the NY Daily News article; Jason Mulgrew, Michael Malice & Stephanie Klein? – El Presidente
The blogs, or the bloggers who blog them? Malice is evil and there’s probably no one I’d rather have pointless arguments with. Stephanie is one of the most sincere and genuine people I know (to know her is to love her, I don’t care what you think of chicklit blogging). As for Jason Mulgrew, can’t say I have any idea!

I gotta ask the one I really actually want to know...Are you still in love with Ben? – Whirlygurly
Dude, I answered that question to your face and you didn’t like what you heard. No, I’m not. Being in love with Ben was Dramapalouza ’04. These days, we’re ice cream and cookies kind of love. Not afternoon nookie kinda love. And that’s the way I like it, ‘cause we’re really good at it.

How did you figure out what you wanted to be when you grew up? What type of work do you do and do you like it? - Vicki
I don’t talk about work here, because I still want to have one in the morning. But no, I actually don’t like it.

I would like to know how tall you are. :) – Red
Just shy of 5’7”.

I'd like to know how your recent set of medical tests turned out. I've read and read and read your site every day hoping you'd tell us all was well and you are well and things are well, well, well. – Less of the Furry
We’ll talk about this in June, okay? I do appreciate the concern.

in the news

I'm working on your answers. But in the meantime, check out today's Daily News.

Today's news, tomorrow's trash can liners, I know. But it's still fun.

whatchoo wanna know?

I’m tired. Exhausted. I’m on my third consecutive week of waking up in the wee hours, sheet twisted, hair sweaty and mind racing with post-weird-dream delirium. Like this morning when at 2AM when I woke up babbling in German. I blame my little gift of tongues moments on the opera I saw last night with Frankenstein (thanks Paul!).

God grant me Ambien.

Anyhow, remember when we did this? I think we should do it again. It’s amusing and just about all I have energy for at the moment. Shoot me your questions via email or just leave a comment. I’ll answer.

Please be aware that because I am over-tired (read: superhellawickedhypersensitive) and because this is my turf, mean or snide comments will not only not be tolerated, but I will send my Super Secret Ninja Squad to cut you.

Fire at will.

vocabulary lessons

Mr. Lucas was the type of guy who had a story for everything.

“Well now, that reminds of the time…”

Nearly every one of those stories began the same and ended, invariably, with some kind of nonsense that had you shaking your head, wondering what, exactly, the point had been. I was fifteen when Mr. Lucas and his brood of six came to stay with us, and inclined to not only shake my head, but to sigh loudly and roll my eyes at his backward ways.

He -- out of either some bizarre grace or total ignorance -- paid no heed to my public displays of annoyance.

“Miss Heath-uh, why don’t you get out th’old chess board and let me show you a few things. Mmm hmm. That’s right. I’m gonna put the quay-ee-tus on ya.”

The quay-ee-tus?

Mr. Lucas slicked his hair back in a greasy swirl, wore shiny Air Force issue black shoes and invented ridiculous words. And night after night, he schooled me in chess. Or, as he said, put the quay-ee-tus on me.

“What does that mean, Mr. Lucas? It’s not even a word.”
“Sure it is. If it ain’t a word, how come you fall for it every time?”
“You want me to get the dictionary again?”

It would go on this way until his wife intervened.

“Joe?” Mrs. Lucas would sit quietly in one of my mother’s blue, high-backed chairs, reading while her awkward mate levied his check-mate. Though patient and lovingly accepting of her husband’s quirks, she was decidedly more timid -- and also less comfortable than he about their situation. Temporarily homeless and relying on the hospitality of strangers, the Lucas Six added to the Hunter Seven in a chaos that strained the very seams of our house. Mrs. Lucas, calm and even-toned, did her best to lessen the effects.

“Why don’t you put that away for now? The kids have homework.”

For years after, we would imitate Mr. Lucas and his hokey accent. “I’m a-gonna put the quay-ee-tus on ya” we’d threaten over Trivial Pursuit or sprints for shotgun. The mocking was gentle. Mr. Lucas could drive you crazy, but also somehow endear himself to you -- a weirdo with a brilliant chess game and a stockpile of made-up words.

A few months ago, I was nearing the end of The Moviegoer when I stopped mid-sentence and stared. “No way,” I said. “No fucking way.” I opened my web browser and picked up my cell phone. My brother answered after two rings.

“It’s a real word, Jas.”
“What?”
“Quay-ee-tus. He pronounced it wrong, but it’s for real.”
“You’re kidding. I always wondered where he got that. What does it mean?”
When I told him, my brother laughed. “You mean, Ol’ Lucas even used it correctly?”
“Mmm hmmm.
“I’ll be damned. He really did put the quietus on us.”

Word of the day: qui•e•tus
n. Something that serves to suppress, check, or eliminate.

the stupidest girl alive takes a taxi

“It’s a shame. A girl like you, not having a good night.”
“I think maybe I started a fight I cannot win.”

Cab drivers, midnight Manhattan counselors, sometimes turn down their radios and let you sit in peace. I watched First Avenue fly by in shadows. He said nothing in reply, but glanced at me from time to time in his rearview mirror. Maybe he heard a sniffle. It was that quiet.

Later, he would wait as I fumbled with my key outside the apartment gate. What’s more, as I did, he would actually get out of the car and say,

“Tomorrow, I promise. This will not seem so bad.”

He’d probably be right. After all, this is his forte. He knows.

I’d stop with my key, thank him. I’d not meet Ben and Chris at 92nd Street, and instead, stand in my elevator, not selecting a floor (I’m done with choices for the evening), thinking,

You are the stupidest girl alive.

Tonight I may have run into someone very interesting from my past. He may have warranted a very funny story. But he, and his enormous hair, will wait. So will the owner of an LES restaurant who sent wine to our table. And Ben, in his This Fish t-shirt on stage – making me feel like an M&M in a closed hand. A kiss from Tanya. A chance encounter.

And then, a night blown, because I can’t keep my yapper shut.

I am, of course, the stupidest girl alive. And he’s right: it really is a shame, a girl like me, not having a good night.

Ignorance and bliss. Like gin and tonic, only, less of a hangover.

bring a nickel, tap your feet

Last night, I had another wild and crazy time working til midnight. I’m wiped. But tonight, I will pour some caffeine down my throat, throw on some foot-tappin shoes and head down to Alphabet Lounge for another night of Benjamin tunes.

If you’re around, please join us.

This morning, in the pursuit of clothing, I pulled my leather blazer from the closet where it had been resting since fall. In the inappropriately bulging pocket, I found, to my extreme delight, my sunglasses. This makes me a very happy girl. I was all set to shell out the dough for another pair, but truthfully, it wasn’t really in the budget. There were so many things I needed more – like new earbuds, god damn it.

To add to the delight of lost & found treasure, I got a “good morning, beautiful” and a “wow” from a couple of guys on the street this morning. Normally, I would find this annoying and make grimacy faces at them. But -- and I know it’s just so boring to talk about the gym and one’s weight and that any blogger caught in such a grievous offense is heading straight for blogger hell to burn in pyres of bad chick lit forever -- having been sweatin’ it at the gym more regularly lately, I was tickled pink to be objectified.

I got reacquainted with my triceps the other day. Also pleasing.

So, right. Join us tonight. If you’re good, I’ll save you a piece of my grilled cheese sandwich. Mmmmmcheese.

crankover

I’m crabby today. Really fucking cantankerous, actually. And as soon as I decide whether to sit and have a good cry about it or to unleash a fierce and fiery ball of rage, I’m sure the day will only improve. I’m a girl that needs direction.

Shortly before 1 AM this morning, I stumbled in from work. My lower back was aching from standing for hours in bad shoes and my brain was aching from the knowledge that, as a salaried employee, eight hours of overtime mean jack shit. I fed the cat. Ate a slice of cold pizza. Showered. And unhappily, I set the alarm.

Five hours later, the crank began.

Why I waited to do my Got All My Shit? checklist until I was already out on the street is beyond me. But by the time I was back through the front gate, headed for the subway, this time with my cell phone, I had a bone to pick with the Universe. I was tired. Sore. And in possession of one pair of non-functioning iPod earbuds.

I know, I know. The world’s smallest violin. Screeching in your ear.

But then things really got went south: the train stopped in the tunnel and the air shut off. Sweet Baby J. It wasn’t a matter of inconvenience. It was a matter of the most intensely irrational fear closing in around me, as tends to happen in tight, dark spaces where my mind imagines I’ve just met my doom. I’m slightly claustrophobic. Okay, maybe a little more than slightly.

Tangent time! Initiate memory sequence.

In college, a few of my buddies decided to cure me of my fear of small spaces. They packed me into a truck, drove me out to the middle of nowhere, fitted me with a headlamp and took me spelunking. To this day I am ridiculously proud of the fact that I did not freak the fuck out during our initial Commando Crawl through the tomb’s very narrow entrance. I was the model of composure while inside Nutty Putty Caves, but I came out shaky and pale, and spent the next two days sleeping it off. Needless to say, I was not cured.

End memory sequence.

So, now I’m sitting here at my desk, hurtling into another long day, exhausted and somewhat squished of spirit. I need a fucking hug, damn it. And I’m not beyond engaging in inappropriate office touching to get it.

C’mere you.

here and there

I’m here!

First, I wanted to say thanks for all the kind emails. I’m fine, really. My life has just been a bit topsy-turvy. Blame it on things like, spring fever or the fact that my job is a bit frantic lately. I’ve been tagging along to photo shoots, baby sitting photographers (who do not need babysitting) and doing super important things like, choosing flower arrangements for coffee tables. Oh yeah, baby. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. My schedule has simply been off. When I do sit down to blog, everything I write is tangent-filled and garbled. And contrary to the way things usually work ‘round these here parts, it’s not actually representative of my current state of mind. I’m doing alright.

But last night, I realized what a long time it had been when I got an instant message from Ben. It was one line and then he disappeared.

Your turn.

My turn, indeed. So, in light of the fact that I haven’t much time, I’ll give you a quick run-down of one of this weekend’s adventures:

On Friday night, decked out in grubby jeans, sneakers, my favorite weekend sweatshirt, I was all set to go Urban Exploring. Michael Malice (one of the degenerate minds behind OHINY) had called earlier in the week to invite me along on an adventure to the old insane asylum on Roosevelt Island. I was pretty psyched up to get dirty (and maybe even arrested) in pursuit of fun in the city.

Then Malice put his spin on the evening.

A little after 9pm, my buzzer rang. And when I got down to my gate, there he was -- all dressed up.

“Those are not getting-muddy shoes, Malice.”
“I know. We’re going out. Go upstairs and get changed.”
“You’re such a prick.”

Because he’d like nothing more than to throw my perfectly ordered world into chaos, Malice did what no boy should ever do. He fucked with my outfit. I had to start over. Jeans, heels, black wrap sweater. Fine. Dressed for going out. And then, because he’s clearly not aware that I could kick him in the eye for such an offense, Malice did the unthinkable. He told me to put on make-up.

The kid has nerve.

An hour or so later, as I was squirming my way under a chain link fence (oh yes, we still went exploring at the old asylum, only I got to do it in three-inch heels), I prayed to the baby jesus for the grace not to tear my favorite jeans, and for the strength not to kill Malice if I did.

A point of satisfaction came, when near the end of the night at some LES club, it was discovered that pants were indeed torn on the adventure. And they weren’t mine.

(Insert evil laugh here)

It’s nice to know that Karma has an instant gratification program. Teach you to fuck with a girl’s outfit. Because, really there’s only so much topsy-turvy one girl can take.

cringe!

Glancing up from where I was reading table graffiti, my eyes flicked over the guy standing to my left. I took in his ratty Chuck Taylors and kilt, grinned and thought, this is going to be a good night.

I settled in with some new friends as half a dozen or so readers took the stage at Freddy’s last night to share entries from their junior high diaries. Among them, the incomparable Sarah Brown, whose “Thank GOD I curled my hair” sent me rocketing back to the Colin Creek Mall food court and my own hasty prayers for good hair as we did horribly conspicuous fly-bys of the desired Boy. Blaise only validated my phobia of being a parent when she interrupted her reading to say, “My poor father.” Poor father, indeed. She, at least from the impression her yesteryear’s diary left, was a handful.

The cringe-factor was high -- as it was meant to be. Some of it was painfully familiar, while other readings left me shocked that twelve-year-olds can be so serious and dark. I’m pretty sure that at twelve, I was still playing dress-up in homemade Mermaid costumes with my little sisters. And at fifteen, I was not making out with cab drivers -- the idea would never have even occurred to me. I bet if I were to yank my old diaries out of their dusty hideout in McKinney, Texas, the standard entry for 1993 would hold nothing more than scotch-taped movie stubs and tickets to football games and articles from the school paper.

I was so boring.

In college, I used to watch re-runs of My So Called Life and think, This is fun and all, but no one was that dramatic in high school. Oh, how wrong I was. They were dramatic and deep and tortured. And so very entertaining.

i love it when a plan comes together

I’ve always been a little bit in love with MacGyver.

Not Richard Dean Anderson, mind you, but MacGyver. Brilliant-under-pressure, always saves the day Angus MacGyver. I know. It should be impossible to love someone named Angus. But what that man can do with a strip of duct tape and a Bick pen makes me hot in ways even the queerest of names could not cool. It’s the same sort of rowrrr that makes up for a name like Meriwether.

Last night, Rachel and I went to see a screening of Sahara. Adventure, intrigue, biceps, green eyes and the whitest smile you have ever seen on a rogue treasure-hunter who solves impossible problems right in the nick of time all the while rocking out to Sweet Home Alabama. A side kick, a love interest and an Admiral with a cigar.

It was Indiana Jones meets The A-Team set to the Forest Gump soundtrack.

And it should have been hot. But it wasn’t. It was silly. (Okay, a little hot. But Matthew McConaughey could make basement-dwelling D&D playing hot). Here was my biggest problem with the film: Aside from the fact that Penelope Cruz makes the least convincing ass-kicking heroine since…well, ever, every time our heroes got in a fix, they then got out of that fix magically. Not cleverly or practically. Just magically. One minute, they’re stranded on a sand dune and the next, sailing across the desert on the carcass of an old plane wreck. I nearly (and only nearly) let Matthew’s drool-inspiring biceps distract me from realizing that the whole thing made no sense. I mean, even MacGyver pulled a flaky save every now and again, but at least he went to the effort of convincing us that there was some measure of probability.

What was even more amusing, was that this guy sat next to us taking notes. Notes? I mean, I know he’s probably got to draft up a review or something, but what kind of notes could he have been taking?

Who does McConaughey’s teeth? Make appointment.

Aside from being completely ridiculous, Sahara was fun and worth sitting still for two hours. I’m serious about the teeth. They were like those glow-sticks at DisneyLand.

three

“Your friend doesn’t know how to take a compliment”
“She sure doesn’t,” Sarah said, spinning a straw in her cocktail. Sex on the beach, it was. She’d wanted something sweet.

I sat there, still blushing. I hadn’t meant to blush; he’d only said I was cute. But he stood there, with a hand on my back, leaning over the bar, smiling in a way that does things to a girl’s stomach. It didn’t hurt that he was movie-star handsome. Will Smith but Hitch or I Robot Will Smith. Not Fresh Prince.

I offered to move so that he could collect the half-dozen cocktails he’d ordered. No, thanks. He’d rather lean over me. It was his way of flirting -- innocuous flirting. I smiled when he said innocuous.

“Good word.”
“You like that?” His hat tapped against my forehead as he made a final pass for drinks. He leaned close, a free hand sliding down my back. “I like smart girls.”

He disappeared into the crowd and Sarah, Caryn and I went back to our drinks and chatter. Ripple had been nearly empty when we arrived, but now it was pulsing and grinding with music and bodies, and we were glad to have seats. Later, as I made my way to the bathroom, a woman bobbed through the crowd wearing the familiar tan derby.

“Hi. Again.”

There he was, behind me in line, bareheaded.

“Someone’s got your hat.”
“That would be my girlfriend.”
“I assumed.”

The line shifted and we stepped forward. Introductions were made. Rob. Heather.

“She’s actually pretty into girls.”
“What?”
“Listen, you’re intelligent, curvy -- just what she likes. What we like.”

I laughed. A dry, Bette Davis kind of laugh. His hand went to my lower back.

“I’m tempted to push you in there right now,” he said, motioning to the now empty bathroom. “But she’d feel left out.” He pulled me close, quickly.

It one of those kisses that curls your toes and flutters something very low in your stomach. My mind was blank, paused, as he lingered on my bottom lip. “Think about it,“ he said. And with a quick slap to my ass, he moved back into the crowd.

I did. I thought about it as I giggled with Sarah and Caryn. It was really a shame that I don’t share well with others. That’s the kind of experience that collectors, like myself, would have stick-pinned to Styrofoam with great pleasure.

I thought about it again, later as we moved through the bar, heading for the door.

“It was nice to meet you, Rob.” I stuck out a hand.
“Heather, this is Joy.”

Joy was exotic. Gorgeous. But we were on our way out. And I had never really learned to share.

(See follow up here!)