When I finally crawled into bed on Friday night, it was actually Saturday morning and I’d been awake for exactly 24 hours and 8 minutes. When the last time I stayed out until 5:00 in the morning was, I can’t tell you (it probably had something to do with vodka, Sarah Brown, and a very expensive cab ride from Brooklyn, but that’s just a guess) because I parted with my rock star ways many moons ago. At some point during the evening on Friday, though - somewhere between Total Scrabble Domination and breaking out the third bottle of wine – I decided to stop fixating on a reasonable bed time and the increasingly diminished likelihood of making an early morning run, and just go all in. Meaning, I stopped looking at my watch. I stopped rearranging my mental day planner. Cold turkey. And people, I don’t know if you’re aware, but I can be a little bit…Type A. That’s the warm and fuzzy sociological way of saying I’m totes uptight. I’m always mentally making and remaking plans, compiling to do lists, schedules and whatnot because I simply cannot help it. Blame my mother. Sure, it means I am in bed every night by 9:30 like a good little nun, but boy do I get stuff done. I earn gold stars. And I really like gold stars.

But Friday, the fire was going and I found myself merrily knocking over (another) glass of water onto the hardwood floor and realizing I didn’t so much care that Saturday was going to be a wasted day without a single accomplishment, and yes, I WOULD like another glass of wine, please. And the next thing you know, someone announces that it’s half past four and I laughed and gave myself three gold stars. Because it turns out, when I go all in, I go all in.

And shortly thereafter, I am reminded of what a hangover feels like.

Ari:  All of my shoe/feet complaints have taught you nothing?! Did they at least have the decency to look great?

Heather: Have we MET? Of course they did. I got them at Target.

Ari: That’s my girl!

My feet are killing me. Obviously a lot has been going on and I have tons to dish about, but right now the only thing I can concentrate on is the throbbing pain in my poor tootsies. My new position is very… social – an aspect of the job which delights me exceedingly; it just happens to mean less time sitting at my desk admiring my new shoes and more time actually piloting around in them.  I know. Hard knock life. Two days in and I’m looking into getting a one of those senior citizen scooters. You know, like a Rascal. Because in two more days, the damage just might be permanent. Bright side: if both of my big toes fall off, I’ll get to buy smaller shoes. Closed-toed, naturally, but think of all the options!

This morning, my high school Spanish teacher and Facebook friend Phoebe (Gracious! I’m an alliterative genius!) determined that I need “a big hunka man” in my life – specifically, in my bed. Because I’m 30 years old and afraid of thunder. Judge away, I don’t care, because that shit scares me senseless. And according to Phoebe, a big hunka man lying next to me in bed would go a long, long way to easing my terror. Seeing as calling for the cat and hiding under my pillow doesn’t seem to work, I’m totally on board with The Big Hunka.  Especially if when not on thunderstorm duty, he was ammenable to rubbin’ some feet. In return, I’d pay handsomely in baked goods and kissin’.

Time, it has gotten away from me! Yesterday, I grabbed a hoodie, set off for a walk and by the time I got back, there was a flurry of phone calls and silly errands and before I knew it I was about to be late for my movie date with Laura (credit card rewards points for free movie tickets = best thing that ever happened to unemployment. Next to Gilmore Girls reruns, I mean).  I was worn out and asleep by 8:30.

Before I put it off any longer, let me sum up the Blind Date/Friend Date for you: the Date was personable, funny, and attractive in the way which I prefer above all others – nothing lacking, nothing overwhelming. Real. Solid. The Friend, she was pretty much AWESOME and along with her fiance and the Date, we gabbed our faces off for about 5 1/2 hours before realizing hey, staying out til 1:30 on a school night is sort of asking for an ass kicking, and wrapped it up. Now, the Date is either playing it really (really) cool, or was not all that interested after hearing my tale of Kevin the Five-Year-Old Who Thought He Was a Tyranosaurus Rex (I snort a LOT when I tell that one), because I haven’t hear a peep.  And the Friend, well, we still spend a good five hours a week gabbing our fingers off over email, so that was a solid win.

In other news, tomorrow is the Really Big Shoe. I’m off in the morning to San Antonio for a final interview and I have every hope that the love will be mutual and I’ll be back in the workforce lickedy split. Perhaps I didn’t realize how much I need to work in order to feel…normal and happy, because as hard as I’ve tried to maintain a schedule, be productive, set goals and whatnot, I have missed working tremendously. Yeah, the house is clean, the laundry’s done, but it just doesn’t kick out the same kind of satisfaction I get from doing a job I’m really, really good at. And this particular job, well, the idea of going to work every day with the people I have met makes me pretty excited. So, here’s to hopin’. Actually, here’s to a little more than hope, because I already canceled the other interview I had this week. Balls to the wall, people.

*** UPDATE ***
New nephew, new president, new job. This is about as good as it gets. I start Monday! P.S. the job is not in San Antonio – that’s just where the final interview was held.

You know me. When it comes to politics, I tend to stay pretty mum. But I will say this much: as Obama was Sir Hal’s candidate, there was quite a bit of excitement going on in this apartment last night. What was that Hal? Yes, yes we did. Don’t get him started on Proposition 8, though. He’s still got his hackles up about that one.

I was just about to start in on The Blind Date Thing, but lo, the apartment folks are here to do a property inspection and I feel a little weird about sitting around, sans proper foundation garment (ahem) while they study baseboards and window sills. So, as the kids say, BRB. I’m gonna take a walk. The tale of excitement continues upon my return.

I was sitting by the pool pretending to read a book about Jewish boys and baseball when my phone buzzed to announce a new email message had arrived. Today was the day I had decided to step away from the computer and try to enjoy retirement – er, unemployment -  because, while almost three weeks of pounding the F5  key has not brought me any nearer to a job, it has brought me much closer to a nervous breakdown. If I can’t sleep past 7AM and I can’t fall asleep before 11PM, that’s a whole lot of hours filled with refreshing monster.com and freaking out. It was time I forced myself away from it. So, poolside, a new email and I very nearly ignored it on principle until I thought, “What do you love more than email?”

Almost nothing.

So. The message was from my old co-worker/ranchin’ buddy, and the subject line, “Too long…” made my heart grow at least a half dozen sizes from the kind of love that only comes with the sure knowledge that someone misses you. Terribly. Large hearted, I clicked it open to read:

Chuck roast
Chuck roast
We want a
Blog post!

I choked on a laugh (or was it my heart shrinking back to its normal size? So hard to tell) and decided that yes, four days IS too long between blog posts when it’s not like I have a job or anything to distract me. So, here it goes.

One thing is for certain: I am not an alcoholic. I haven’t had a drink in what, months now? But last night, after updating the Unemployed Again spreadsheet with the coming week’s expenditures and watching my savings deplete further, I found myself standing in front of the open freezer, spoon plunged into a carton of vanilla ice cream, the phone smooshed uncomfortably between my ear and shoulder. I was out of control.

“I’m eating my feelings,” I told Ari, on support stand-by in New York. “I’m going through my fridge and I’m eating everything in sight.”

“Knowing you, it’s not even anything good.”

I nodded into the phone. No sugar added ice cream. Baby carrots. Low fat string cheese. It was going to take hours to eat away all of my inadequacies. Damn. Knowing I was beat, I tossed the spoon into the sink and slammed the freezer.

“Lady, I have got to go to bed before I eat myself out of house and home and the jeans that have only just started fitting again.”

We exchanged laughs and I-love-you’s and I bolted to the bathroom to brush my teeth before any of those foody feelings came back. See, if all goes well, there should be something resembling a job offer coming my way on Friday. If all goes well. Typing those words makes my stomach cramp. I am trying so hard not to want it – to need it – as badly as I do, telling myself that if it doesn’t come, well then, we will figure out what to do next. I’m not an exceptionally perky person (had I crossed the line into annoying perki-dom, Ari would have ditched me ages ago), so it’s a fine, difficult balance I’m striking between being hopeful and being realistic.

But you know, suddenly, I’m thinking much less about that crazy business than I am about how I can get my hands on some freakin’ roast, so perhaps today’s Day Away was a success after all.