I’ve been keeping secrets from you, Internet. And it’s time to come clean, not only because I need some sort of excuse to explain my neglect of you, but also because it will ultimately provide lots and lots of good blog-fodder and (hard to believe, but true) there really are only so many entries a girl can dedicate to how delicious her baby nephew smells and ZOMG my sister dressed him up in tiny golf clothes. I know. Death from cuteness.  Anyway, I’m seeing someone. There. It’s out. And the thing is, we don’t really get tired of each other, so there’s not a whole lot of minutes in the day where I find myself choosing to sit in front of my computer rather than say, invent new ways to call him a geek (to date, giving him the title of The Dork Lord is probably my go-to favorite). So you can see how I’ve had a few more demands on my time, and it doesn’t mean I don’t love you, it just means that I’m going to learn to adjust my priorities and blah blah… Whatever. I don’t have to explain why I like kissing better than blogging. I just do!

Because there is almost nothing my mother likes better than feeding the masses, I invited a couple of holiday orphans to join us for Thanksgiving dinner this year. Now, since Sara and her fiance Jaime are new-to-me friends, I worried just a little beforehand that there might be a few awkward moments during the evening. I mean, what would they find to talk about with my mom and StepBob? Oh, what wouldn’t they find talk about! My worry was totally in vain. By the time we left that evening, I was pretty certain that my mom was looking into the legal processes involved in trading me in for Jaime. And he’s got her on speed dial in case he encounters a cheesecake emergency. For when it comes to crises of that nature, my mom is ON IT. Likewise, Sara and StepBob found common ground and suddenly there was high-fiving across the table over the shared love of… dumpster diving. I just sat back and watched the formation of two new Mutual Admiration Societies, while stealing bits of graham cracker crust from the serving plate. Which was about all the energy I could muster anyway, cracked out as I was on cold medicine and red wine. I know you’re not really supposed to mix the two (the verbiage on the box of medicine was very adamant on that point, in fact), but I figured, eh, why not? It was a holiday and the Universe seemed to be in a damn fine mood.

Yesterday at our team Thanksgiving lunch, my coworkers went around the table naming the things they are grateful for. Having been forewarned by the boss that kissing up would not be tolerated, we kept to mostly non job-related items – health, friendship and family (as an aside, there was something overwhelmingly tender in hearing a young father say,”First of all, I am grateful for my children”). But there wasn’t a single one of us who couldn’t easily have put our work situation near the top of the list. Times are hard. I know that had I been hired even a single day later than I was (and this is no exaggeration; there are spreadsheets documenting it), I would not have had enough money to continue to live on my own for another month. Me, I am thankful that things work out. And yet, this is so much more than a paycheck. I have a job where my boss cares about my success – not simply as it relates to the company we work for, but as it relates to my personal development. My coworkers are kind, complex, good people. And the view from my desk is pretty stellar. I am thankful that when things work out, they really work out.

I am thankful for my family. They are weird and frustrating and funny and some of them cook really, really well. I am thankful for my friends. For a (mostly) healthy body, a sound mind, and really good hair. Oh, come on. I kid. A little. I’m thankful for my obnoxious cat. My new nephew, who, although falls under the category of family, is still new and squishy enough to merit his own line item. I’m thankful for molten chocolate cake. And… well, the list is pretty endless and I have some deviled eggs to make for our feast. But you get the idea.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

My three-week-old nephew is a grunter. In fact, he sounds just like Mama Fratelli when she’s in hot pursuit of the Goonies and One Eyed Willie’s treasure. Unh. Unh. Unh. Unh. As soon my sister pointed out the symphonic similarities, I realized that yes, it was true and also that it had been a real long time since I’d seen that fine film. So that’s what we did with our Saturday night. Watched The Goonies and ate Oreo cookies. It was pretty magic.

Spending time with my family is always great, but throwing a new baby into the mix has made it exponentially more wonderful. He’s just so… well, there really aren’t words for the bizarre gravitational pull he possesses. From the moment he arrived, we were all in constant orbit around his Tic Tac sized toes and flailing baby fists. At least one of my sisters looked ready to smuggle him away in her purse at any given time. But while I patently adore that little guy, I was not in any way tempted to take him home. Mostly because of the crying. And I don’t mean because it’s loud or irritating like airplane babies or grocery store babies. Because it’s not. It’s so tiny and pathetic, and when it’s not totally hilarious (i.e. bath time, or the time he peed everywhere like a rotary sprinkler and we were all laughing way too hard to do a dang thing about it) it’s absolutely heartbreaking. Never have I ever heard a call to action more persuasive than my nephew’s cry. He wails, his wee little lip quivers, his chin wobbles, and something inside me is suddenly fully prepared to do whatever it takes to fix it. What? You want a pony with a diamond-encrusted saddle ridden by Buzz Aldrin? It’s yours! I’m not kidding; I’d go back to junior high if that’s what the baby wanted. Which is why I was glad to hand him back to his mom in the end. All of that unconditional love is freaking exhausting. 

If all goes as it should, in twenty-four hours I will be making the delightful acquaintance of my nephew’s nibbly parts. My sister has been hard at work fattening up his cheeks and thighs and other scrumptious edibles because I made it clear I was not flying halfway across the country for a skinny baby. She’s gone all mother of the year, too, because even his toes are getting plump. As it should be.

This week has been kind of an ass-kicking as far as hectic schedules go, so I haven’t exactly packed for my trip. Did I mention my plane leaves at 9 tonight? I’ve decided that if today goes anything like yesterday, and worse comes to worse (i.e. I run out of the house with my suitcase as it is now, containing one BlackBerry charger, a pair of baby socks with monkey faces on them, two sets of decorative baby hangers, a pair of black tights, and a digital camera), I’ll just borrow some clothes from one of my sisters. Or my brother. I’ll be in no position to be selective. In high school, borrowing clothes between the sisters used to come with a one dollar lending fee (totally not kidding). I’m hoping to get that waived due to extenuating circumstances. Like having baby on the brain. Kind of makes it hard to think about anything else. With few notable exceptions, which we will discuss at length soon. Yeah, it’s as good as you think it is.

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. 

I don’t know if they’re planning a sequel (or prequel, I suppose) but should it ever get off the ground, wee Owen will be a shoo-in for the part of Max Goldman in Grumpy Old Men: the Squishy Beginning. That little guy is a dead ringer for the late Walter Matthau! Oh, dear me. Dead ringer. How inappropriate was that? Anyway, getting born must be some seriously hard work because my nephew looks so kissably, snuggably, sneak-him-home-in-my-purse-ably PUT OUT in every single photo I’ve seen. Even the shots of his itty bitty feet send the message that he’s so over it. Which really only confirms that he totally belongs in our family – moreover, that he totally belongs to his mother. God, she was cute. Cute and angry. And now, completely head-over-heels.

My nephew is being born RIGHT NOW!  More after I’ve had my morning coffee…

Whew! What a day! Last night, I didn’t sleep a whole lot after the text message came shortly after midnight announcing contractions. Twenty minutes apart. The next message, at 2:45 AM, was simply, “Laborin’”, but boy did that keep me from falling back into any kind of meaningful sleep. It was like the night before Christmas only instead of Peaches n Cream Barbie, there was going to be an actual, for really real BABY in my stocking. I was twitchy with excitement. The little fella, Owen, finally arrived this morning at 9:12 (Mountain time) and holy cow, he’s a cute one. I can’t wait to meet him in three weeks!  This was how Owen looked last week – I hope to have a more current photo of the little imp for you later!

You’d think all that missed sleep would have wreaked at least a little havoc on the job interview I had today. But, so far as I can tell, it did not. All went swimmingly! If I can keep this energy up through my blind date/friend date tonight, I’m going to feel like a freaking rock star.

Commence nap in three, two… 

Today (insert chorus of trumpets here) is Day 30 of my foray into the sweaty, gut-busting, eye-bleeding world of The 30 Day Shred. I figured, since I’d talked it up so much here, I’d give an accounting.

The program has three levels – I am nowhere near Level 3. Truth: I am nowhere near not wanting to throw up after finishing 20 minutes of Level 2. But I give it all I’ve got every single time and I am happy to say, it’s paying off. I have triceps! And svelte shoulders! And… and a gay dude dressed as a condom at the Big Gay Halloween Party told me I have an amazing ass! And I am not inclined to question the authority of someone parading about as a prophylactic. Safe sex is no joke. The bathroom scale is (freaking) finally on board with my success, too. Thirteen pounds*, it says! And above all, I kind of love how I look in my navy blue polka dot bikini. What? It’s Texas. We lay out in October.

Thing is, either I started off with a serious muscle deficit (totally possible – I couldn’t do a single girl-style push up. Don’t judge. I’m the brains – not the brawn – of this operation!) or 30 days is not nearly long enough to complete the program. Looks like I’m gonna need at least another couple weeks of Jillian Michaels telling me, “I want you guys to feel like you’re GOING TO DIE” (um, mission accomplished, lady). I have every intention of mini-puking my way all the way through Level 3. Because I love the pain. And the abs. But mostly the abs.

If you’re still playing along at home, I want to hear about it! And if you have compliments to offer on my ass, I want to hear about that, too. Still needy, people. Still needy.

* Probably not all to do with the Shred. I try to jog 2-4 miles a day and pretty carefully watch what I eat. That cholesterol test next month? Yeah, oat bran and I are going to kick its ass.   

On Wednesday, they told me I was perfect! Everything they were looking for!  But on Thursday morning, it turned to sorry, they had to go with the internal candidate. I don’t have to tell you how well that went over. It was the only job opening currently listed in my field in all of Dallas/Fort Worth. In fact, the same company would have a spot for me if I wanted to move to Chicago, Columbus or Boston. Just not here.

“That sucks. What’s your plan of attack?” My brother, he is very practical.

Plan of attack? My head was spinning, my chest was tight and despite it being 70 degrees in the apartment, I felt hot and panicky. I stripped off my sweatshirt and took a deep breath. Okay, what was my plan of attack?

“I’m going to vacuum. Then I’m going to go for a run. Then I’m going to send out five resumes to places that don’t really match my job, but what the hell. Then I am going to call another temp agency. Then, I am going to take a nap because all of this is just way too much.”

I don’t know how in as little as seven months, I could have forgotten how exhausting and terrifying this whole process is. I guess last time I had the cushion of unemployment, so there’s that.

Anyway, enough about pauperdom. I’m tired of talking about it; you’re tired of reading about it. Let’s move on to the Three Things That Make Me Smile.

• Thing Number One: Krissa will be here tomorrow. The only way I could be happier about this is if a) she was staying more than one night and b) she was bringing everyone else I miss right along with her. You know who you are.
• Thing Number Two: I have a blind date/new friend date combo coming up on Tuesday. The odds here, they are good. See, even if the fella and I experience no sparking action, the gal and I are sure to fall wildly, platonically in love – because that is how the Interweb works.
• Thing Number Three: The Nephetus will be my nephew in a matter of days! And in four weeks, I am going to snuggle him, and sniff him (baby smell!), and tell him stories about how I used to do the very same thing with his mom. He’s young, so I will use small words. 

Don’t get your hopes up or anything, but I have a job interview today. Okay, you know what? Do. Do go right ahead and get your hopes up if you’re so inclined, and wish and hope and pray (if that is something you do) that I knock their argyle socks right the hell off (for some reason, I like to imagine that men in positions of power wear argyle. And elbow patches on their sports coats. Like my dad did to church when I was a kid). Baby needs this job.

For extra added Wow Power, my ex-boss wrote me a stellar letter of recommendation, and I have a few on file from previous jobs. But because I am who I am, I’ve been fighting the temptation to take Brandon up on his very kind offer to vouch for my… awesomeness,

“If you ever need a spectacular – albeit fake – reference, I am willing to sign my name to the document attesting to your prowess as Vice President of Brings Awesome to the Table.”

Pretty sure I’d be hired on the spot with an additional week of vacation. And a company car.

I like the weekend. It levels the playing field. For all intents and purposes, nobody else has a job on Sunday either -  no reason to get up early, trade in their p.j.’s before noon, or wash their hair. In that, I have a good two day head start on all the other folks, but it’s hard to say if that’s a bit of depression at work or me taking advantage of the opportunity to embrace my… natural state. Hey, I still showered! And over-processed hair is dry and brittle! Do not make me get defensive.

Remembering how bad it got last time I was laid off, when the reasons for living (forget washing my hair) grew harder and harder to come by, I’ve been, shall we say, aggressive about keeping a schedule and setting goals and glorying in every single tiny accomplishment possible. For instance,

Added a half mile to my morning jog? High five! You don’t need employment to prove you’re successful because you just busted your ass on that hill! You won’t see it on your paycheck, but one day the bathroom scale is going to reward your efforts. Promise.

Washed all the dishes after each meal AND made the bed well before 9AM? Hold out your hand lady, it’s gold stars for you! Sure, making the bed was mostly to keep yourself from climbing back in it to whimper on the cool side of the pillow, but it was also about order and organization – two of your very strong selling points. Use it in a cover letter.

Finished Level 2 of the 30 Day Shred and did not vomit on your carpet? Ordinarily you’d be tempted to reward yourself with a pair of slimmer fitting jeans. But seeing as you aren’t exactly a contributing member of society, your reward is the PROMISE of slimmer fitting jeans. And two gold stars and a nap. You’re going to want that nap once you stop hyperventilating.

Mostly, I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing to keep myself from really freaking out like I want to. Thanks to all of you for your kindness and support – it’s been a pretty good reason to get out of bed, if not, you know, to wash my hair. While Brandon was in town this week, he asked me what my go-to coping mechanism was. I thought about it long and hard. It’s not booze, comfort food or sleep these days – the three old friends that would normally get me by on those days when I want to cry myself into a snotty heap on the floor. So I decided it’s either exercise (oh, Jillian, the wind beneath my quivering wings) or blogging. Maybe it’s a combination of both. Which, overall, seems like an okay way to be.

Look, I am fully prepared to silver-lining the hell out of this situation, but let’s get this out of the way first: I liked my job. I loved (LOVED) the people I worked with. And I know some folks subscribe to the notion that this is all part of some bigger plan, and that something “better” is in store, but I’m pretty convinced  that if you are happy, there is no “better” and that the current economic downturn is responsible for me losing my job. And it sucks. But, if anyone knows how to be unemployed, boy howdy, I sure do.

Right now I’m camped out at my fellow laid-off friend’s apartment, on hold with the Texas Workforce Commission trying to apply for unemployment benefits. I’d do it online like all the normal kids, but with my rather complicated work history of the last 18 months, I’m just not like all the normal kids. Enter the 35 minute telephone wait set to very groovy tunes heavily accented by electronic piano. I’m working out the corresponding choreography. Pelvic thrusting will be involved.

One of the stinkier things about this situation has been that since 9:06 yesterday morning, all I’ve wanted to do is call my mom. I know that she’d coddle me for about six seconds and then unleash a steady stream of infuriatingly practical advice and right before I threw a gigantic hissy fit, she would invite me for Sunday dinner. Which, let’s be honest, I’d have to turn down because I couldn’t afford the gas, but the invitation alone would be enough. None of this has been possible, though, since mom and StepBob embarked Sunday morning on a two-week Mediterranean cruise. So I called my brother, who was supremely sweet and sorry, but not at all infuriating, so, you know, it was a mixed bag.

Um, screw. Turns out, I might definitely do not qualify for unemployment benefits in Texas. Hold please, while I find the silver lining for THAT.

A dozen or so of us lost our jobs today. I can’t seem to catch my breath. Or swallow.

Yesterday morning my car broke. Electrical issues (in other words, Stuff I Do Not Understand). It’s all probably under warranty, but you try telling that to whichever part of my brain is in charge of stress. Hoo boy. When the dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree with DANGER, VW DRIVER! EXPLOSIONS, DEATH & CARNAGE! warnings, so did the stress spot in my cranium. And the beauty of yesterday was, it didn’t stop there. Oh, no! Because last night when my BlackBerry stopped working, I rolled my eyes way back into my head, took a deep breath and said, “Oh, Universe. You’re such a kidder.”

Full disclosure: I unleashed a string of expletives, too – most of them beginning with F and ending with six exclamation points. But as this is a family show, we’ll stick to golly, gosh and gee willikers. Keepin’ it G-rated.

On the brighter, shinier side, I bought a plane ticket to Utah so I can meet my nephew when he arrives next month. That I never got an email confirmation or that my credit card hasn’t actually been charged (despite the Ticketed – October 8, 2008 message on the American Airlines website), I attribute to the general punishment that was yesterday. When whatever planet is in retrograde decides to snap out of it, I expect all to be righted. In other words, I cannot freaking worry about one more thing right now.

Which is why I’ve wisely (snicker) decided it’s probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that’s a lot of walking ’round and ’round). If you’ll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work, if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I’m STILL taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus).  Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That’s pretty much all you need to know.

Ready… go!

See how I did that? Told you I’d be blogging but really I was having a nutso day and then running off to the Ranch for the long weekend? I know. Sometimes, I can be such a flake.

On Sunday evening as we were packing up the behemoth SUV to head back to the city, I stopped to watch a pair of hawks riding the air currents over the main house in big, swooping, lazy loops. I wanted to stay. One more day. Maybe five. I’d spent the last three glorious days napping, reading, jogging, shifting between sunny spots and the shade of the back patio – making the same sorts of lazy circuits as the birds. And now that we were leaving, I found myself wishing that I’d done more. More napping? More lazy?

More time out to just be, I guess.

If you live in the city long enough, after a while, you start to think you belong there. That you’re meant to breathe car exhaust and to learn to walk just so as to not catch the heel of your shoe in a sidewalkgrate, and to call fastidiously planned parks “nature.” To drink four dollar coffee out of a bendy straw in a crowded subway car and pay too much for a haircut. But then it happens that you go for a morning run in the clean air, or fall asleep to the sound of crickets, or take a walk with a borrowed dog just as the sun is coming up over acres and acres of green and you think, “Scratch that!” (or more likely, something far less ladylike). And you start fixating on how great it would be to sleep to crickets every night and really need thatshower you take right before bed. You’d have to take up a new trade, obviously. Cattle ranching? Ooh, or horse training! You could really get behind that! So maybe you haven’t been on a horse since you were fifteen and they make you a little nervous. You’re nothing if not adaptable.

There I go again, saying you when I mean me. Le sigh.

An item of business: Some of you asked questions in comment sections of the previous two posts about The 30 Day Shred, I swear I will answer them. Just give a girl a few (um, like 12) hours to get her head together.

You’ll get a real post later, but I just wanted to share that Jillian Michaels (my new favorite love/hate relationship) will be at the iVillage offices on Monday answering questions and making everyone do push-ups. Okay, maybe she won’t make them do push-ups, but that’s what I imagine her doing. Regardless, this is awesome.

If you want to submit a question for the no-nonsense shredding trainer, go here. I’m going to have put some serious thought into mine, because I don’t suppose, “Will you come live at my house and make me freakin’ hot?” counts as a reasonable question.

If you’re lookin’ for an update, I’m on Day 8, and really digging it. I’ve dropped that extra pound, lost three more and my shoulders are starting to look like they used to before I fell in love with Lazy McTelevision. Sayonara, Lazy. I was way too good for you, anyway.

All it took was one little photo Krissa posted to her flickr with the caption that read, “Oh look, I survived again!” And a week later and I’m drinking the same Kool Aid.  The same aching shoulder, can’t walk downstairs, breathless, sweaty Kool Aid.

And I love it.

“Did I tell you I’ve been doing the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred workout?” Jamie and I were waiting for the lights to go down at a Sunday matinee showing of The Duchess, and my thighs were still a little twitchy from my earlier 20-mintue ass-kicking.

“How funny! I just got mine today! I kept reading about it on all these Twitters…”

So. This thing. It is popular. Sort of like the snap bracelet craze that went around my junior high school. But if the soreness of my mucles is any indication, this fad will actually get me more than some useless accessories and an after school detention. What? I dare you to ignore that snappy zebra print beauty during a supremely dry lecture on the color wheel. Yeah, yeah. Red and green make brown. I GET it.

At any rate, I’m on day five, and I’m proud to report that I can make it ALL the way through the push-ups without bleeding from my eyes and ears. People, before Wednesday, I did not know I was incapable of doing push-ups. But Jillian Michaels, she made me confront that ugly truth and a few more like it. And she made me gain a pound. Which I’m hoping that’s a temporary glitch, because one does not bleed from the eyes and not expect her bathroom scale to reward her handsomely.

Are you playing along at home? If you are, I want to know what day you are on and how awesomely hot this program has made you. Because I’m staring down day six having already run four miles at the ungodly hour of 5:45, and been told in bold, black digital numbers that none of this effort is doing jack. And I want jack! Tell me I’ll get jack!

Yeah, yeah. I’m needy. I get that, too.

On Monday morning, the stress hit me like The Bus that Couldn’t Slow Down*. Money stress. A great deal of money stress. And after all my careful planning (and only buying ONE of the twenty-dollar, ridiculously cute pairs of shoes I fell hopelessly in love with at Target the day before), I felt betrayed. I wanted to stab the Universe in the eye. I made sacrifices! I turned off my AC! I’m trying here, Universe! Doesn’t that count for something?

But you know how it goes. You argue with the Universe and that spot in your shoulder starts to hurt. Then your jaw starts to ache from having it set so tight in defiance. And by the end of the day, you’re scrunched down in your office chair as close to reclined as you can get and still earn a paycheck and you haven’t cried yet but damn it, you’re close.  And by you, I mean me.

So I made an appointment for a massage. Both my mom and my best girl cleverly gifted me with hour-long massages for my birthday (me? stress out easy? pshaw) and I’d been saving them for the right time. Like, the day after the marathon relay. Or, the day when it turns out I have to empty my entire savings account and use the money that I’d been saving for a new mattress that won’t ruin my back for something far, far less gratifying. I’m getting tense again just thinking about it. Serenity now. Okay. I feel better. Let’s continue.

In the “Serenity Room” at the chain massage joint, I was finally feeling a little relaxed and, astoundingly, thinking less about money and more about… falling water. I’ve always felt those miniature waterfall machines were a little cheesy, but that baby got me to stop seeing dollar signs emblazoned in neon green on the insides of my eyelids. I considered getting one for my apartment. And hiding it when company comes.

“Miss Hunter?”

“Mmm hmm?” I answered without opening my eyes. Surely he didn’t need eye contact for whatever transaction we were about to have.

“I see you’ve marked ‘Swedish Massage’ on your form. But your appointment is with Andrew. His specialty is deep tissue.”

I considered this for a second, eyes still closed. Deep tissue would probably be good for me. Detox, and all. So I consented.

“So, full body, firm massage. Great. Andrew will be right with you.”

I mmm hmmmed him again. Moments later, Andrew was right with me and that’s when all serenity ceased. Over the next sixty minutes, Andrew beat the ever-loving crap out of me. I won’t say I didn’t like it. Because I did. I got some perverse pleasure out of having an elbow driven into my upper back and feeling the electrical shocks down in my toes. But I don’t have to tell you that, perverse pleasure aside, the experience was not at all relaxing. The tears in my eyes were not that of sweet release, they were from pain.

The next morning, as I was fumbling my way out of running clothes to hop into the shower, I caught my reflection in the mirror and did a double take. What the hell? It looked like a dime sized mole had sprouted up on my lower back. On closer inspection, I discovered it was a bruise (one of many that would show up over the next couple days), by far darker than any I’d ever seen on my ghostly white flesh. I pressed it. It hurt. I pressed it again, just to be masochistic. And then I thought about how, when I was a kid and I complained of any kind of injury (say on my right knee) my father would offer to punch me in the left. “It’ll make you forget about the other one!”  Which is really all Andrew did. I haven’t worried about money in days because I’ve been too preoccupied counting bruises.

The one on my left thigh is particularly attractive.

* Fact: Any day I get to reference Homer Simpson is a good day.

I am a full day behind in everything. Like, today is my little sister’s birthday. I thought it was tomorrow. YESTERDAY was a freelance deadline. I thought it was today. You can see how that might make life just a little bit messy. I’m going to spend the morning playing catch up and trying very, very hard not to short out my last remaining neurons, but first! First, I am going to share with you the shortlist of Things that are Bugging Me Right Now:

In April, I filed an extension for my 2007 New York State taxes. Which makes them due in… oh, 20 days or so. Have I thought about them since April? Nooooo. I’ve been whiling away the summer like a damn grasshopper when I should have been playing the ant. Sorry, Aesop. My reading comprehension isn’t the best.

Shooties.  Really, fashion? REALLY?

Polar bears have resorted to cannibalism. I can’t even read the news story because the headline gives me a stomach ache.

People I know and love are proudly Facebooking their support to “Protect Marriage.” Protecting marriage from what, exactly? The gays? You are not protecting marriage, people. You are protecting bigotry. This upsets me. A lot.

People who cough all over their hands and then press a zillion buttons on the copy machine. Thanks, dude.

I think maybe I need a hug and some cheese and a couple hours on the couch with Season 2 of Magnum PI. And maybe two more hugs.