Today at lunch, I sign the lease for my new apartment. And write a check for a few thousand dollars, but really, ’tis a small price to pay for the opportunity to eek it out in the epicenter of all things grand and garish, right?

Mmm hmm.

Naked ambition. The Naked Cowboy. New York City really does have it all.

Work is going well so far. Lots on my plate, though, as it seems I’ve been brought in to start a revolution. I don’t mind revolutions. But funny thing about them is they tend to piss off people with power. People who don’t yet know how super totally quacktastic I am. We shall tread lightly into this revolution. I mean, a badly timed, “Let them use Quark” and heads start to roll.

Now, see, it may have lost something in the bloggersphere translation, but in my industry, the above pun would have been pretty funny. I do so crack myself up. Marie Antoinette style.

By the way, my inability to write a cohesive post can all be explained by the sleeping pill that I took last night around ten. They can make me a bit loopy the next day. I’ll be better later, I swear.

When your wise host tells you to print out the subway map at work your first day, and you don’t (for whatever reason), you have no one to blame when the Columbus Circle station is closed, forcing you to find an alternate way to work.

The MTA moved my cheese. And I still managed to get to work early. But that’s really more because of the Benjamin Wagner Standard Time Zone where time runs just a wee bit fast. You know, if twenty-five minutes is ‘wee.’ Regardless of the fact that I made it with time to spare, I’m sure I burnt out a few brain cells making my little paradigm shift. Time to print out the subway map. I suppose it will be of tremendous value to know how to get to more places than work, and to work on mornings such as this.

On a nicer note, I so totally got flirted with on the way to work. God bless NYC and the bellhop at that random hotel on 43rd. All he did was say hello at first, and all I did was smile. Then…

“Now that’s worth getting out of bed for!”

I laughed out loud and kept walking, but I thought, “Damn straight!”

While we’re talking of abandoning… my predecessor left behind a shoe. One gnarled, black leather shoe in the bottom drawer of what is now my filing cabinet. Um gross. But not half as gross as the food in the keyboard. Mmm hmm. Why’d they fire you, honey? You were first rate.

There I go, being evil. I don’t mean it.

I can see the Empire State Building from my office window. Okay, so call me easily impressed but man, was that cool. I am less impressed with my totally uncomfortable tall-backed leather chair. Looks sweet, but so do stilettos, but spend a whole day in them, and you’re singin’ a different tune.

I’m all tuckered out, kids. And get this… turns out, I have to go back again tomorrow. What the…

These New York cats are crazy.

I did NOT abandon Kitten!

I haven’t even moved yet, for Pete’s sake. I’m working for a week, going back to Boston and THEN moving to New York.

Dude, we’ve totally been over this before.

I have arrived.

It was funny, in that sort of, why-am-I-acting-like-such-a-doofus way, how hard it was for me to leave my apartment this morning. Roommate and I didn’t say goodbye (we practice avoidance as a household religion), but I sure had a long parting with Kitten. My Girl E had to help things along and talk me into her car.

Just pretend you’re going on vacation, she said.

Then, to get on that train. To have the patience to sit still for three and a half hours (I snoozed through Connecticut). And then to arrive at Penn Station and think, This is it.

I have arrived.

And I have already learned some fundamental New York City lessons. Not the least of which being how many times the little red hand blinks before you’re pushing your luck in the crosswalk.

I start work in something like 10 hours. TEN HOURS. Ten. Sigh. So, in order to avoid a big bitch slap from Brian, I’ll just get to the part where I convince myself that I am invincible.

I have arrived and this is really going to be great.

Let’s touch briefly on this and never mention it again, alright? It’s just hair. I mean, that’s what I’ve been saying to myself for the last twenty-four hours. It’s just hair.

And on we go.

Spa Day was lovely. My one criticism is that it didn’t last long enough. Oh, and I have another, but you’re going to think I’m some sort of pervert. But here it is. I think if it says, Full Body Massage, the massage should be FULL BODY. Remember when Phoebe (yet another Friends reference) bit her client on the tushie? I don’t want mine bitten, of course. But let’s not ignore it completely!

Okay, on we go again.

My best girls are throwing me a party tonight. And remember the yellow ball gown that was getting donated? Well, it’s having one last night out. I laughed when she suggested it, but as soon as she said, “I dare you” there was no way I could just throw on jeans and a sweater. So, I’m going to my party princess style. There had so better be a tiara there.

And tomorrow, I’m off to New York. Nervous? Me? HA! Well, yeah, if you must know. But I can’t think about it or I’m going to undo all the hard work my nice massage therapist did this morning.

I’m
done
packing.

Well, mostly done. But we’re going to call it “done” because, well, I’m tired of it and my back is sore. And it is not merely a happy coincidence that tomorrow is Spa Day. Manicures and massages. Mmmm… massage.

And now I leave you. But not without the IM Exchange of the Day, courtesy of Mr. Paul Gutman.

Paul: will you be my friend when you come to new york?
H: Hell yes! Especially if you were handy and could hang my new coat hanger level on my wall.
Paul: ooh…I wouldn’t bet on it
H: Hrmmm. You’re replaceable then.
Paul: I was joking. I was joking! Please keep me.
H: Ok. But on a trial basis for now.

So this is what they call anxiety.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose. This sudden panic that’s gripped me. I can actually feel that my heart rate is accelerated and, oh my God, is this really shortness of breath?

You’ll think I’m being ridiculous. Or maybe you’ll understand.

I lay in bed this morning, totally unable to make myself get out of bed. Her Highness, Kitten of the Universe, was taking up half my pillow, purring calmly beside me. And I… was panic stricken.

What if I chose the wrong apartment? What if I hate living there? What if my clothes don’t fit in the closet? What if the couch won’t fit through the door? I know I measured it, but what if? Huh? What if? And, what if my friends all divorce me for making them carry boxes and furniture up four flights of stairs?

I made myself get up and take a shower. I noticed that anxiety attacks are really bad for your complexion. So I made myself take a vitamin and extra zinc.

What if I made a really bad decision?

Not about the zinc. It’s good for your immune system.

When he called this afternoon, it felt as though the Gods of Limbo were really getting their rocks off. I was standing in my kitchen, waist high boxes on all sides, talking to my New Boss in NYC.

And I felt neither here, nor there.

New Boss asked how packing was going. “Haven’t changed your mind or anything, have you?”

I laughed. “No, no. Though if I have to pack one more box…”

“Making the big move this weekend?”

“No, actually, not until the 3rd. I’m staying with a friend in the mean time. Oh, I did want to ask what time things got going on Monday morning…”

“We get started pretty early around here. Meeting starts at 8:30 and it’d be great if you could be there. “

I thought about my 7:30 Mondays at the Monkey Firm and smiled. “Perfect.”

“We’re looking forward to seeing you Monday morning then. And please, if you have any questions, don’t be bashful.”

I thanked him for calling, hung up and made my way through the cardboard maze. I hung up my garment bag on the closet door and threw in work clothes that looked as though they’d travel well. Then, went to my computer and bought a train ticket.

I’m starting to feel more there than here. And it’s really fucking bizarre.

I decided to walk in to Cambridge this morning to run a few errands and have lunch with my Adorable Intern. It’s funny how attached to her I got in just three months. But I knew when I met her (and I remember telling a friend this), that she was someone I would really like. Someone I would really get.

We sat at a rickety table in a dark pub between Harvard and Central Squares. She told me she quit the Monkey Firm that morning; I told her I wasn’t surprised. How fun could that place be without me?

By the end of our roasted potatoes, the subject had somehow turned to marriage. I shook my head thinking about the conversation I’d just had with my sister that morning about the current status of my own parental figures. (I’ll let my family keep a wee bit of their dignity and spare you all the Jerry Springer-like details.)

“I don’t know if I believe in all of that anymore.”

“Sure you do,” she said. “Just not their version of it.”

When did they start making 21 year olds so wise?

“See, I told you that it’s all out with the old.”

“It is not! I bought new sheets. I didn’t even throw out the old ones.”

“You will. You’ll get rid of everything and start over.”

“Everything but you.”

“Shut up. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. It makes my stomach hurt.”

So we didn’t talk about it over shellfish antipasto or later over warm pudding cake and vanilla ice cream. Or in the car on the way back to Boston from the South Shore. Or at least, I tried not to.

“Look, there’s gonna be a Target there.”

“Awesome.”

“Shut up. You don’t even care because you’re not going to BE here!”

“Can we go back to the part where you’re sad that I’m leaving and not so… mean?”

“No. I’m going to be mean to you until you move.”

“Fair enough.”

I haven’t not worked since I was 17 years old, so I’m relishing this.

My first day not contributing to the Gross National Product began with a very long shower, a facial and fresh strawberries — my totally organic experience.

I’ve since turned into the Mad Packer and tackled the hall closet, living room and bathroom. Dear god, I have so much stuff. Useless stuff. For instance, I don’t use hair products, yet there under the bathroom sink is a plethora (yes, you may say I have a plethora) of mousse and gel-ish products. And velcro rollers. All reminders of my ultra high maintenance phase. We won’t even touch the big drawer o’ forgotten cosmetics.

I’m getting pretty giddy about the whole moving thing. New job, new apartment. I’m also pretty nervous about next Monday, if you must know. I haven’t been the new kid in years. I had the Monkey Firm all broken in and I imagine that half the shit I pulled there just won’t fly on Fifth Avenue. I suppose I’ll simply have to reinvent my shit. In fact, this whole move seems something of a reinvention.

Wonder who I’ll pretend to be this time.

It was Pretty People day at Stop n’ Shop today.

It seemed as though Ken and Barbie were everywhere. And me with my hangover. I barely managed to make it down the aisles, much less do it in style. When throwing ‘em back last night turned into throwing ‘em up this morning, I was proud of myself for even getting out of the house in the first place.

Sigh. What can ya do?

From what I understand, J dedicated his set to me last night. I dont’ know first hand, because I didn’t stick around long enough to actually hear the band play. Too many J ex-girlfriends in one bar for my liking.

Gah. You know what? I’m going to stop right here. My head still hurts and my tummy is burning and I’m having a terrible time putting together a decent post. Let’s regroup and meet back here tomorrow. Mmm kay?

In an hour or so, I’m going to have to trade in my overalls for something a little less Beverly Hillbillies so that I can join the party already in progress. I have some mixed feelings about seeing the Fireman again. It’s just really a shame to spoil hot memories of a summer fling with… reality. But so be it.

I’m not shaving my legs. Okay, maybe I will but I am not cleaning my room.

Yesterday’s going away party has had me feeling a bit low. The party itself was great. My Intern Extraordinairre put together a soundtrack that played along with images of New York City projected on the lobby walls. There was NY style Cheesecake and Billy Joel singing Uptown Girl. There were good stories and lots of laughs.

And then the good-byes started happening. I hadn’t been watching the clock. They just sort of snuck up on me.

David and I haven’t really had much to do with each other since we broke up in my office two years ago. But when he hugged me and kissed me good-bye with a sort of familiarity that made the room stop, he said, “You know, if they don’t treat ya right, you can always come back.”

I had my fifth glass of wine and the left the building with my two best work gals. We stood on the sidewalk, dressed alike (oh, yes, we’d gotten the memo) and reminisced until the wind sent us scurrying. And when I got home, mascara streaked face, drunk and sad, Roommate was graceful enough to let me slip into my room for the rest of the evening. You’d think I’d have been thrilled to leave the Monkey Firm. Instead, I felt like I should have been asking them all to sign my yearbook.

Stay cool. Don’t change.

But I’m awfully glad I have.

My first Friday at the Monkey Firm, I sucked helium from a balloon and sang Annie’s Song.

My last Friday will be very different. I’ve grown up in the last few years. At this social, I’ll be sucking on a martini and singing New York, New York. I don’t think there will be any balloons.

I’ve already cried twice this morning. As much as I hate the monkey firm, I do work with some really great monkeys.

I sing in the shower.

Okay, I sing fairly loudly in the shower, and yet it took me months to realize that Roommate was audience to my early morning routines. Once, after belting out a relatively decent rendition of LeAnn Rimes’ Blue (completely oblivious to the fact that I was being heard), I threw on a robe and headed toward the kitchen where my country-lovin’ roommate was making coffee.

“Damn, girl!”
“Ha! Okay, don’t go recording that and trying to exploit my raw, untapped talent, ya hear?”

Then somehow, we were singing a Roommate duet of What the World Needs Now. And doin’ it way better than those American Idol punks. Truly a magical moment.

But this morning, inspired by Kitten’s very early, pre-alarm jungle cat pounce, the song of choice was The Lion Sleeps Tonight. You know, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle…” and when I emerged all drippy haired from the bathroom still singing my wee-e-e-e we-ah mum-a-ways,

“Now, if there were such a thing as America’s Funniest Home Audio, I’d be a very rich man.”

“Whatever, Pumpkin.”

“Fuck you.”

The U-haul has been reserved. A boy to drive the U-haul has also been reserved.

It is T minus 2 days, 1 hour and 48 minutes until I leave the Monkey Firm forever. There’s a box in my office packed with shoes (who has six pair of black shoes under their desk at work?), photographs and sundry items. And my Intern Extraordinaire is making a New York soundtrack for my going away party on Friday.

I’m going away.

It hits me from time to time that it’s not just some silly scheme I’ve concocted, and that I’m actually, at the drop of a hat, changing everything and going away. Yeah, yeah, you’re tired of hearing about it, I know. But I still amaze myself and that’s really all that matters.

We grew up in a rural community that did not lock its doors at night — crime was smashing mailboxes and stealing gum from the Texaco station. If Mom wasn’t watching, and we were feeling brave enough to shimmy up the telephone pole a few feet, we could see the tree line of the next county.

We drank water straight from the hose. We caught fireflies. The sounds that kept us up at night were crickets or coyotes, depending on the season.

On early summer mornings We Three, hair unbrushed, noses already freckled from the June sun, would drag the red wagon from beside the garage, climb in and wait. Dad would come out of the house soon after. He’d have a yellow Roman Meal bread bag, closed with a twist tie – peanut butter and honey sandwiches for us, and maybe some extra bread for the ducks, if we were headed toward Curly Slide Park. But if he came down the cement porch steps with three small green fish nets, we were going the opposite way down the gravel road, to Pollywog Hill.

Topped by a tree whose apples never quite ripened each year, and behind a thick wall of pussy willow reeds, the embankment we called Pollywog Hill rose sharply from a narrow, dusty road. When we were very small, Dad would have to give us a start, a hand under each of our backsides. The littlest would ride on his shoulders. At the top, the oldest and I would wait (We’d been scared into the idea that the irrigation canals weren’t somewhere to be without an adult) until Dad’s plaid shirt was in view among the overgrown weeds.

Some years, we were too late and our adventure would end in a picnic under the sour apple tree. But when we were on time, there’d be pools of them, darting black specs, in the shallower, shadier spots along the ditch. Some would have already started to form stubby legs, their tails shrinking to form smooth frog bottoms. We’d crouch, watching them until Dad would produce three, lidded baby food containers and the three green fish nets. Then he’d lie back on the bank, a hat shading his face from the sun and say “Have at it.”

Later, sandwiches eaten (by We Three, uninvited ants and scavenger Starlings), Dad would collect a graceful bouquet of pussy willows for Mom and we’d head home to introduce our frogs-in-progress to their new, pyrex home on the kitchen counter. Perhaps one or two would survive, growing into slippery, wriggling frogs that if hardy, would be sent to live in the back yard Irises to croak night music with the crickets that summer.

And twenty years later, when I randomly emailed my big brother to ask, “Do you remember Pollywog Hill?” he replied, “Yes, do you remember pussy willows?”

There are a few things that people need to understand about me — things that just are, definitively, who and what I am. My closest friends don’t need to be told what these things are (and never did), which is most certainly how they achieved such Close Friendedness® in the first place. But not understanding these things, these Great Truths, can bring an end to potentially fine relationships. So, in favor of preventative measures, let’s get on with the disclosure.

I do not like to be told what to do.
And by ‘not like’ I mean, totally hate. Those who have achieved the aforementioned Close Friendedness® have learned to restrain themselves when it comes to advice-giving. Oh, not on every matter, mind you. Tell me which color ¾ length sleeve shirt to buy when presented with Banana Republic’s oh-so-many choices. Recommend a CD. Suggest a location for my birthday extravaganza. These are all perfectly acceptable. But in more weighty matters (life, love and the pursuit of happiness), it should be assumed that if you’ve thought of it, I have already spent one, if not more, nights awake entertaining (or dismissing) the same idea. It’s called being neurotic. And I do it really well.

I suck at being angry.
I don’t do it well. And no, I don’t want to talk about it because I’m hoping that we can just ignore it and it will go away. See, I get confused by The Angry Feeling, and when I get confused, I don’t know what to say. Confrontation will only increase The Angry Feeling, and thus the confusion and inability to speak. So just back the fuck off, okay?

Ahem.

Ice cream makes me happy.
That’s pretty self-explanatory. Pink Old Navy flip-flops make me happy, too.

I secretly like being made fun of.
If, you know, it’s malicious-free mocking and really only serves to say, “I like you” in that playground sort of way. I reserve the right to pout, but this is only to mask my glee at being liked in the playground way.

And last, but not least

I hate roller coasters.
Drive fast with me in the car. Take me rappelling. Pack me into a cannon at the circus, but do not ask me to get on a roller coaster. Do not say, “You’ll like this one!” Do not tell me it’s safe. Do not tell me you’ll make me walk home from Six Flags New England if I don’t ride Superman with you. I’ll walk. And don’t remind me that I’ll rode every ride at Disney World. Cause, duh, that’s Disney. It doesn’t count.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes when Roommate emerged from his room.

“Hey, Punk.” I said, loaded the dishwasher and snapped it shut. The microwave stopped microwaving and for a second or two, the kitchen was dead silent. Roommate was looking at me with the strangest expression on his face.

“What did you call me?”
“Punk. I said, hey, punk. Why? What did you think I said?”

Roommate just laughed. Hard. He put his hand out to the counter to steady himself. “I thought you said, ‘Hey, Pumpkin.”

“Ha! Okay, no. No, I didn’t. But from now on, you can bet your sweet ass that’s what I’m calling you.”

“You better not!”

Roommate poured some coffee, disappeared into his room. I was getting ready in the bathroom when he passed on his way out the door.

“Okay, I’m going to work.”

“Have a good day, Pumpkin.”

“Fuck you.”

I will not order take-out. I will not order take-out.

I’m in this Simplify Mode and I can’t seem to talk myslef out of it. Why make lunch when I can order ridiculously expensive take-out that neither requires the dirtying of dishes nor the cleaning of them? And laundry? For last night’s party, I could have thrown on a pair of clean jeans. I mean, at least, right? Nah, I’d just have to wash ‘em. So I shook out a pair that were on their third wear, spritzed ‘em with the squirt bottle and left them on the radiator to de-wrinkle.

When did I become a boy?

I ate Swedish Fish for breakfast.

Those who have been along for the whole High Maintenance ride that has been my life have got to be raising some eyebrows.

Gah.

Okay, okay. I’m up. I’m going to sort my laundry, DO my laundry, make brownies and apologize to the RSF for bailing on his party (We had a deal, see. I go to his party, he drives the U-haul to New York. And if I don’t want him to pull over somewhere and the highway and declare, “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I’d better DO something.)

And I’m going to make a real lunch.

PB&J anyone?

Due to an impending reduction in closet space (and to the fact that no reasonable human being needs this many clothes), I am spending the morning filling boxes. Destination: Goodwill.

To Keep or not to Keep?

Old boyfriend t-shirts. I could make arguments for both sides. But when it comes down to the fact that they are the most comfortable articles of clothing I own, they go in the To Keep pile. Besides, I gotta have something to wear while I’m cleaning the toilet. Right?

Out-of-date suit? Not to Keep.

Favorite sweatshirt from freshman year of college? Not to Keep.

Assorted formal gowns? This is so tragic. The pale yellow princess dress with embroidered bodice and absolutely no practical use in the Universe? Sadly, Not to Keep. The black one stays. It just does. Sometime, someone is going to take me to something requiring a floor length designer gown with the most stunning plunging neckline ever. I just know it. To Keep.

Twenty-something sweaters that never made it off their shelves this winter? Not to Keep.

And so on. I’m doing relatively well letting go. Which is probably only made easier by the fact that I’m headed up to Kittery this afternoon to go outlet shopping with the girls. Don’t bother with an intervention. I’ll just go back to my old ways the moment I’m alone with my Visa card.

I’m feeling a bit down today.

I’m sitting, Indian-style in my ergonomic Herman Miller chair, wrapped in a black pashmina, with a four-year-old sitting across my desk drawing me a good-bye picture. Olivia is here often enough that my tack-board is equal parts custom made kid art (three years’ worth) and assorted personal effects. She’s drawing, I’m typing my letter of resignation, pausing occasionally to admire her efforts. For the most part, no actual work will be done in this office for a few hours.

The thermostat says it’s 75 degrees in here, but I feel cold.

At lunch, I let it slip that I might be the slightest bit worried about being a complete screw-up at the new job and ending up unemployed on the streets of New York City.

“Zero percent chance,” Stephanie said. She made a big circle with her hands, then rearranged the Thai food on her plate. “Absolutely impossible.”

Michael said, “If you were stock, I’d invest in you.” And then he asked what I wanted for a house warming gift.

The heater is finally kicking in and I’m hoping that I’ll warm up a little.

I’m actually puzzled by this feeling that’s overtaken me today and hope it’s just from being a little tired. Though I am worried about my father again. And that may explain the pounding in my left temple.

But the heavy feeling in my chest, I don’t really know how to explain that one. Well, yes, I can. As a product of many, many moves in adolescence (five schools in six years), I know what this is, really. It’s separation anxiety. And it will pass. Especially since this is what I wanted and I know it’s the right thing to do (if there’s really any right or wrong to it).

Whatever, or whomever, I’m leaving behind will only be lost if I let it be.

Still, I feel so lonely right now, sitting here at my desk, chilled, waiting in limbo. I’ve got nothing to concentrate on other than this filmy melancholy I’ve drifted into. And this letter of resignation.

And this morning, J’s girlfriend broke up with him.

J: Am I so critical that sometimes its impossible to be around me?
H: Sometimes you’re picky about things that don’t/shouldn’t matter. I’ll admit it used to make me self conscious. Like I had to be uber perfect. Why, what’s up?
J: She broke up with me. She said that when I was ready to accept her and love her without having something to pick on, then I can call her. But not until then.
H: Oh my. That took some balls.
J: Yeah, she’s good. And she’s totally right.

Yes, yes she is. While I feel for him, I sat here wishing I’d been that ballsy. Those are the things I wanted to say and never did. Mostly because I knew he never would love me for me.

And it makes me wonder if he’ll actually change.

“Remember throwing ice into that chimney?”

“I was just thinking about that! We met that night.”

After several minutes of “Remember that time we” reminiscing, I’m not surprised when he gets quiet and starts pushing his rice around on the plate. J is the sentimental type.

“You’re going to miss this.” He moves the rice and I watch some fall onto the table cloth. “I’m going to miss you.”

And me? I’m somewhat detatched sitting there, looking over J’s shoulder at Fenway thinking about mint green tile and change of address cards. Did I pay my Sprint bill?

New Girlfriend returns from the bathroom, and J pays for the meal. When the credit card receipt comes back he signs, looks across the table and says, “You ready to go?”

I nod and reach for my jacket.

Yes. I am.