J has been in Miami for the last week and a half. He’s missed a lot.

We’ve made plans for tonight. Dinner, a movie, drinks. I feel quite certain, though he’s not said as much, that New Girlfriend will be joining us. So I’ve invited my Valentine (to whom I owe a bit of face time anyway) to buffer the awkward, So You Don’t Know This Inside Joke moments. And I wouldn’t be the one feeling awkward. J and I have this way of talking, of never completing sentences or speaking solely in movie quotes, that tends to be somewhat exclusive. And we tend to be more than somewhat oblivious.

J’s lucky. He’s catching me on the calm side of the storm.

This morning, I got confirmation that someone is going to take over my lease (after last night’s affair with Craig’s List that lasted into the wee hours of the morning). Has it only been a week since I gave notice at the Monkey Firm? I surprise myself at how quickly this is all happening. I mean, for being such a planner. And, well, the irony of this situation does not escape me. And what irony is that? Let me share.

About a month ago, I decided to shift my focus. Back to Boston. No more frivolous spending and heading off to New York City two, three times a month. I needed to spend more time focused on my job, the friends I’d felt I’d been neglecting, and my health (which, at the time, needed a bit of attention).

I have to laugh at the Universe for so openly mocking my resolve. Que sera sera. It’s not just a superbly written weblog, kids.

What will be, will be.

So, don’t try pushing off your agenda on the universe. You’re not it charge around here.

For someone who’s written maybe once a month since shipping off to Cuba, the Fireman has been Mr. Communicative lately. Four, sometimes more emails a week for the past few weeks. And mind you, we never had that much to say to each other.

Silly, silly transparent boy. He’s hedging his bets!

He’ll be on leave here next week and is trying to secure a little somethin’-somethin’ in advance. I just laugh and shake my head. Because what’s most amusing is how not tempted I feel about it. Yeah, he’s cute alright, and will probably come back all tanned from the tropical sun. And two weeks ago it sounded like a fine time. Getting sent off with a bang. Or two. Or three. You get the idea.

But now it just seems sorta pointless and something of a hassle.

Is that the moving stress talking?

I’d like to send out a big What the Fuck to Blue Cross Blue Shield of Massachusetts and my local CVS pharmacy.

I called this afternoon to refill my birth control prescription by phone. “No, I’m sorry,” says the cheery CVS pharmicist. “We can’t refill that until March 29th. Your insurance company won’t allow it.”

Um, okay. Right-o. Two major problems with that.

1. I will be in New York.
2. I will be out of birth control by March 20th.

What kind of system is this? I mean, I don’t have an absurdly active sex life that requires some emergency intervention. But you can’t just stop and start again a week late because Blue Cross Blue Shield has a preset date for your refill. What are they using anyway? The Mayan calendar?

I’m wacky enough with out a not-needed hormone imbalance.

I’d also like to send out a Dude, You’re Really Super Cool to my doctor who said he would resolve the issue and to check back in the morning.

I hope he karate chops them in the throat.

“Swedish Fish.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Noooo. I need them.”

We’ve been at Target for a little over a half hour and I’ve had semi-psychotic episodes in two different aisles in housewares, and one in home furnishings. He had witnessed each episode and seemed bemused, if not charmed, at watching me come unglued.

“I’ve seen what shower curtain hooks did to you. I’ll find you some fish.”

He had stopped the shower curtain episode by placing his hands on my shoulders firmly and saying, “Listen, if you don’t end up liking it, I’ll drive all the way to New York and replace it for you myself. Okay?”

“Yeah? And will you carry my couch up four flights of stairs?”

“Absolutely.”

I just nodded.

He leaves me with the carriage. I’m a few aisles away when I hear the rustle of a bag and I have to smile knowing that I will go to sleep tonight completely cracked out on Swedish Fish. He tosses the bag on top of the piles I’ve made.

“I was going to use you as a backboard, but you’re not very playful tonight.”

“I’m playful, god damn it! It’s just easily confused with combative and strung out. But I’m playful.”

“Uh huh. A bucket of monkeys.”

“Barrel. It’s ‘barrel of monkeys’ Big Guy.”

“Someone just earned herself a nice, long walk home from Target! Smart ass.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“I know. I try not to think about it.”

And suddenly, we’re having an earnest moment. I suppose it makes sense that we’re standing near the card aisle, surrounded by Hallmark greetings. But I’m not prepared for earnest. Good-byes will come later, and I’ll be ready for those.

“Bucket of monkeys,” I say and shake my head.

I think he understands, because as I dodge sentiment and push the cart away toward the check-out, he simply follows a few steps behind. He doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. Just why I’m not wearing any socks. And that, I can work with.

Maybe a gal should actually read her offer letter when she gets it.

I just printed out the letter, signed it and tucked it in an envelope to mail to the powers that be at the New Job. As I was doing so, I noticed the start date. A WHOLE WEEK LATER than was previously discussed. Oh, sweet mercy!

As Ari put it, I should really buy a lottery ticket while I’m at it, because this luck can’t last long.

My mother says I wake up like a cat.

I yawn, stretch in the sort of exaggerated fashion belonging mostly to felines (and early film starlets), make a weak attempt at getting out of bed and then curl right back up before the sheets have lost their warmth. Snooze and repeat. I wake up in stages. Sometimes it takes me a good 40 minutes to actually climb out of bed once I’m awake. Seems a waste of time, to my mother (Why not just get up?).

Because not getting up is one of my favorite parts of the day.

In fact, I’ve been not getting up for the past hour — bad form considering I should be leaving my apartment for a meeting at 7:30. Perhaps I’m not altogether too inclined to head off to the Monkey Firm to face the anti-climax that will be my last two weeks there. I know how it’s going to be. Not so gradually at all, they will begin (or have already, I think) to phase me out of projects and responsibilities. I have already been not required to attend a handful of meetings and caught only tail ends of conversations that I most certainly should have been privy to. And while I’m perfectly willing to buckle down and work just as hard as ever, it appears that I’ll be leaving in stages.

Seems sort of a waste of time to me. Time that could be much better spent not getting up.

*Yawn*

Boston-bound trains leave Penn Station roughly every half hour. I’ve stopped checking Amtrak schedules and instead just show up, check the board and buy a ticket. If I’m feeling impatient and relatively wealthy, I’ll take the next available train, which always happens to be the Express. But today I waited for the Regional. I was in no hurry.

I’ve logged a fair amount of time at Penn Station in the last, oh, six months or so, reluctantly waiting to shuffle back to Boston. I sit in eateries or Amtrak waiting areas eating, reading, making lists. Men in suits attempt to make polite conversation. I answer in short, close-ended sentences, trying with some amount of grace, to convey that I’d simply rather be left alone. I watch homeless and other afflicted folk stumble in, asking for change, food, help. This afternoon, one man, a cup of change in his hand, stopped briefly only to say, “You’re the prettiest girl of the day” and then wander off again, having asked me for nothing. Though, I’d have given whatever change I had on me. A compliment like that deserves a buck or two.

This afternoon’s train ride marked another (and yet, probably my last) less-than-24-hour stay in New York City. Tuesday morning, I rode back to Boston in Business class, with a new job offer and worries in my head. Today, I came back (this time with an unreserved coach ticket. It’s starting to ad up!) having more or less secured an apartment. I left New York feeling very relaxed and extremely lucky (even more lucky when it turned out that my unreserved coach fare had gotten me a business class seat on an Express train).

In two weeks, I’ll head back to start the New Job and then soon after, move into my new place. I’m positively thrilled. Oh, and did I mention I already know one of my neighbors? Yup. She’s close enough to borrow sugar.

Life is sweet and pleasantly surprising. Kinda like having vanilla ice cream in your coffee.

After Brian called me yesterday morning at work to give me a tele-bitch slap (“Girl, you just need to calm down. Everything will be fine.”), I decided to take some wise advise and give myself a break.

I had just given official notice at the Monkey Firm, which was one of the most liberating moments of my entire life (You know, somewhere up there with getting my driver’s license or my first Pocket Rocket). And realizing that all this Craig’s List mania was just making me… manic, closed out of my interenet explorer, opened a box of Thin Mints and took a much needed deep breath.

And then I went shopping.

Two suits, two sweaters, two pair of kick-ass shoes later, dinner with one of my best gals and I was feeling like myself again. Who was that crazy woman? Yeah, don’t know. But man, was she a freakshow.

Today is looking pretty promising, too, with a lead on a pricey (yipes), but doable apartment, and someone scheduled to come look at mine this weekend. We’re definitely back to registering Excitement! on the Moving to New York Meter.

More excited, less anxious AND I’ve got new shoes?

Someone should totally be playing the Wonder Woman theme song when I walk in the room.

It’s hard for you to explain.

Everyone says, “Oh my god, you must be so excited.”

And you are. Only, you’re so overwhelmed that you stopped really feeling excited sometime between 3 and 10 pm on Monday night when reality slapped you in the face.

Everyone says, “I know you can do it!”

And sure you can! You’ve done hard things before, right? But you can’t really explain to anyone why minor cash flow issues, and a gazillion Craig’s List apartment listings and the date March 22nd have you nearly wretching in the ladies’ room.

So you don’t explain. You say, “Yes, I’m so super excited to move to New York.” Because mostly you are. Your job will be hard as hell. And you will love that. You will feel like you’re really living again.

But when you crawl into bed, and the hours pass, and your brain is so full of the things you feel like you’ll never accomplish in time, and you’re scared (yes, you’re scared, you’ll admit it), you might give in a little to that overwhelming, “What have I done” feeling.

And you’ll cry. Mostly because you don’t know what else to do besides wish there was someone there to hold your hand or pat your head or just say, “I’d probably cry, too.”

But it’s just you and an oblivious cat (who will have to be force-fed Kitty Valium for the move), and a computer. So you write a little, cry a little more, and hope that you’ve worn yourself out enough to sleep.

You’d wish you’d thought of it sooner, but it’s way too late to take Tylenol PM.

Having already given away the punch line yesterday, I won’t bother to regale you with too many interview details. You know, like, details about how the moment I walked through the elevator doors I knew I’d want to work there. And how when the Pres showed me my future, Fifth Avenue corner office, I was even more convinced. And how I have been completely unable to relax since the moment he said, “I’d like to offer you the job…”

I squealed through three (or was it four?) really tasty martinis with Krissa, not stopping to realize that my nervous stomach was also a completely empty stomach. I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day. To our rescue came the uber cute bartender with Chinese delivery. Really good Chinese delivery.

I spent all Monday night not sleeping. And would have spent last night in the same fashion – tossing and turning, my brain focused on the phrase, “You’ve just changed your whole god damn life, you silly girl.” – except for multiple strawberry daiquiris with the RSF over a nice, “Congratulations” dinner. A Tylenol PM later, and I was out like a light.

My list of things to accomplish within the next three weeks is relatively short. Sublet my apartment in Boston. Find an apartment in New York. Move. You know, easy stuff. Totally doable, right?

I start in three weeks.