“What the hell am I doing?”

Last night as I was laying in bed, begging myself to fall asleep, moving stress finally caught up with me. Big time.

What the hell am I doing? Which, incidentally, is not the same questions as, “Why am I doing it?” Because that answer to that one hasn’t changed. Money, space, family. It’s just that the logistics are starting to take their toll and the little things have been getting to me.

Like the cardboard box wasteland that used to be my living room. Or the thought of being without my creature comforts for weeks while my furniture is in transit. Twenty-one business days! What is that?! Or what kind of havoc it’s going to wreak on Hal when I trap him in a cat carrier and drag him onto a plane. I mean, he’s already pissed at me because he sees the suitcases laid out in my bedroom and thinks I’m running off again. Just wait til he hears he’s going along.

That worry bothers me the most; cats are not known for their adaptability.

Do they actually make you take your pet out of the carrier at security? I can’t imagine Sir Hal is going to be cool with that. At all. I’m hoping that’s sort of… optional. If you have experience with pet travel, I’d love to hear about it. Just… no horror stories, please. I’m strung out and hopped up on pain killers. There’s no telling what I might do.

Let’s talk about dry socket.

Once upon a last fall, I had kidney stones (and before that, appendicitis!), and people told me that I’d gone through some of the most excruciating of human experiences. You know, save child birth. Well, those people lied. Or they omitted the truth when they didn’t mention that my collective pain history — every minor ache and major trauma — could be trumped by one small hole in the back of my mouth when I sneezed the day after surgery.

One sneeze. Days and days of pain.

When I went to the dentist yesterday morning, I had tears in my eyes. They’d been there since Saturday night, when I sat like a lump on Ari’s couch trying not to cry through our Law & Order Marathon. I spent the next few days puking, either from pain, or from the levels of Vicodin my doctor was telling me to dump down my gullet. Two Vicodin and two Advil every four hours. Sweet god! There are tweakers and junkies hopped up on less!

But even on vomit-inducing amounts of drugs, I was still in agony. Walking became pretty much out of the question, as did sleeping, talking, or typing. So I sat, very still, with an ice pack glued to my face.

Then yesterday, the doc snipped open my stitches, pried apart the socket (eew), and shoved some strange smelling gauze in there. Clove oil and… what, Balm of Gilead? Because last night, I slept for more than two hours consecutively. Today, I walked, and rode the subway, and ate! Macaroni and cheese!

Behold, a mighty miracle has been worked!

The good news is, it looks like I’ve been spared any residual numbness. But in the spirit of good science, I’m not calling off the experiment. You know, in case it’s just too early to tell and all.

It’s a little after midnight on Sunday night when it starts started raining in the bedroom. I hear the initial plop, plop and look from the dark spots on my comforter to the ceiling where a seam has bulged and split, letting in the storm.

“Oh crap!” I say, launching myself from the bed, startling a sleeping Hal. He dodges my clumsy feet as I lunge for the laundry hamper, scattering the dirty clothes in a hurry to catch the fountain of rainwater. I yank cords from the outlet, sending both the lamp and the alarm clock into darkness.

“Crap, crap, crap.”

The bathroom skylight has been pouring rusty water for hours.

Were I a mother, I think I would turn the leaky roof into an adventure. Throw sheets over the furniture and create a camping trip out of leaky ceilings and interrrupted sleep. Fake cheeriness as I tuck children into sleeping bags in the living room, and make thunder into God’s estate furniture company liquidation. Everything must go! Fall asleep with a flashlight lodged under my ribs.

But I’m not a mother. I don’t have frightened kids – just a cranky cat equally unimpressed by the night’s upheaval. I am tired and my bed is wet.

“This f**king sucks,” I tell the cat, and crawl onto the sofa. And as I lay there an hour later, pissed and sleepless, it occurs to me the fake camping adventure might have been a better idea, kids or no.

“We need to talk.”

Uh oh.

Yesterday, I went in to have a wisdom tooth extracted. Yeah, yeah, we already went through that whole non-ordeal, but for whatever reason, the insurance goons wouldn’t let me have the lower one done because it wasn’t through the gums yet. And recently, it has been. Through the gums and making life pretty effing intolerable. And now that I have no dental insurance at all, well, I just love a good case of some really bad timing.

Last time, I made a big deal about it (as is my way) and then felt silly when Stephanie came to pick me up at the dental surgeon’s office and I was totally fine. Ah, well. One can never be too prepared. But the way the surgeon said, “We need to talk” as he plopped my x-ray onto the lightboard, made me think that this time, things were not totally fine.

He explained that due to the location of the nerve canal, making two quick lines with a blue pen on my x-rays, and the location of the tooth, tapping on my number 17 molar, the extraction could cause some nerve compression.

“Which means you might experience temporary to permanent loss of feeling in your lips or part of your face.”

“What exactly do you mean by might,” I asked, shifting uncomfortably in the dentist chair.

“You have more of a chance of it happening than not.”

“Oh.”

“What we’re talking about here are things like, you won’t be able to put lipstick on without looking in a mirror, or be able to tell if you have a bit of food on your lip…”

Pfft! I thought. I’m not much of a lipstick girl, and the food thing – that’s what friends are for.

“…and most patients report a change or loss of sensation in kissing.”

No! Oh, no, no, no! Who likes, nay who loves kissing more than I do? Nobody, that’s who! I would do it professionally if there were a legitimate occupation to be had doing it. There’s nothing better than a good kiss, and no crime greater than a bad one; how would I know the difference anymore? Nooooooo!

I nodded to show I understood, then lay back in the chair and gave god, what in the seventh grade we’d have called, a major crusty.

If I waited, and left the tooth where it was, we could fight the flare-ups with antibiotics and painkillers, but the tooth would eventually have to come out. And the older I get, the less and less chance I have of regaining that lost sensation.

“Okay,” I told the doc, who’d been chatting with me about travel and family for the past twenty minutes (he seemed totally disinclined to rush me into any sort of decision — the mark of a good man and a good surgeon, in my book). “Let’s do this.”

Out came the IVs and monitors and suddenly, I wished I’d dragged Ari with me for this joyful experience. But the moment the sedative hit my veins (doc said I’d feel really, really drunk, really, really quickly and he wasn’t joking), I lost all track of that thought and went to Italy. No kidding, the entire surgery, I dreamed that I was vacationing in Italy. Which, if you’ll allow a tangent, is better than the dream I had last night where I got lost trying to find my apartment with Suzanne Sommers in tow, and got made fun of for it by Sarah Jessica Parker. End tangent.

Well, the good news is, the Novocaine wore off and although some parts of my face feel strange and tight, my lips feel mostly normal (I take back that major crusty, god). But the bad news is, the Novocaine wore off, and holy hell, does my jaw hurt.

Now, I guess the only way to tell if and when I regain full feeling in my lips is to take a scientific approach. Therefore, I propose to be kissed once a day for the next several months, and record my findings in a journal. Now accepting applications for a volunteer medical study. Compensation will be generous.

New York and I are taking a break.

After months of being at each other’s throats like quarreling lovers, I’ve decided that if we’re ever going to have a lasting, loving relationship, this city and I need a little time apart.

Like most of the really big decisions in my life, I made this one on a whim. On Friday, I arrived in Dallas, wound too tightly and, as always, half-broke. By the middle of last week, I’d put a deposit on an apartment, off-loaded my UES apartment, and booked the movers. Then I emailed my loved ones.

Dear The People I Love, it went. I’m moving to Dallas. In two weeks.

The most common response has been, WHAT? Which I can understand. It is rather out of the blue. But what can I say? I’m impulsive; it’s just the way I’m wired. Besides, it’s only temporary.

I like that word, temporary; it feels nice and commitment-free. Which is pretty much all I can handle at the moment. Temporary will be long enough to write my book (oh, yes, it’s in the works!), save some money, and do a bit of traveling (Prague! Florence! Mykonos!). It’s going to be temporarily kick-ass.

Once upon a time, New York and I were truly, madly, deeply in love and I want it to be that way again. I figure a few months of Metroplex traffic, not having the world’s best coffee five steps from my front door, and missing some of the people I love best in the whole world will set me straight. And when I’m good and rested, forlorn for my friends, and carrying around a lot less debt, I’ll appreciate New York again. Instead of wanting to stab it in the eye.

There’s nothing I like more than a good, exciting adventure, and hopefully, my temporary stay in Dallas will be just that. Besides, I like to think of it as a whole new population of men to misunderstand. And what about that isn’t exciting?

Being a single gal of modest income in a stupidly expensive city, nothing chaps me more than not getting my money’s worth. You know, like shoes that break on the second wearing. Or meals that cost a fortune and still send you running for the fridge the minute you get home. Or the last several Sandra Bullock movies.

But the greatest offender on the list of Things That Waste My Hard Earned Cash? A namby-pamby massage.

In my world, a massage is an extravagance. It’s the kind of treat I only allow myself when I’ve been so on my game just I just deserve one (think of it as an oiled up gold star); when I’m starting to develop a Quasimodo humpback from too many hours in front of my computer with off-the-charts stress levels; or when I’m on vacation in some tropical paradise and my brain has lost all concept of money and suddenly a massage sounds like a very good use of next month’s grocery money. In that case, the decision is usually affected by fruity drinks with little umbrellas in them, and I can hardly be held responsible.

Last Friday, being neither on my game nor on vacation, I found myself on a massage table trying to unwind from the ball of stress I’d become over the past few weeks. Which wasn’t easy. My last massage was so meh that not only was my back still all knotted up, I was also suffering from buyer’s remorse (a brand of guilt I try never to entertain). As I lay there beneath the white sheet, eyes rolling back in my skull, it was all I could do not to anticipate being let down.

“Maybe she’ll be good,” I told myself.

She was good. So good that sometimes, I thought if she pressed any harder, my head was gonna pop! right off. I left the salon half-comatose.

This morning as I was getting out of the shower, I noticed a dark smudge on my reflection in the bathroom mirror. On closer inspection, it turned out to be four dark smudges. Four quarter-sized bruises between my shoulder blades. Ow! I said to the mirror as I pressed the tender black-and-blues. I turned back and forth, taking stock of the beating I’d received on the massage table. Then I smiled the smile of a very satisfied customer and got dressed for work.

I always did like it a little rough.

“You’re not going to write about me, are you?”

“I write about everybody,” I said, laughing. “My life isn’t as interesting without all the characters I run into every day.”

I filled out a couple more lines of paperwork, then promised her I’d change her name if she did anything wacky and I was forced to tell the Interweb about it. Like yesterday at the grocery store.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I was twisting the plastic bag of gala apples and knotting it closed when I looked up to see the grocer – a large, friendly-looking, young-ish guy in in a green apron – smiling at me.

“Sure,” I said, but isn’t it usually the other way around?” I never have picked a good melon without the grocer’s help.

“I was just wondering… did you do those braids yourself?”

“Yep.” I smiled, suddenly self conscious of my Half Pint braids.

“Well, how do you get them so symmetrical? I tried to braid my little sister’s hair like that and they all came out uneven. She wasn’t too happy.”

Bizarre things happen all the time, and for a second, I wondered what would happen if I didn’t tell this man the secret to precisely even pigtail braids. Would he follow me to my car and hack them off with a cleaver he stole from the meat counter? I looked him over and decided he didn’t look like the hacking kind at all, that his sister was probably a very nice girl (one who deserved symmetry, damn it!), and that weird as the conversation may be, I was in no danger.

“You can’t look,” I said. “If you do it all by feel, they turn out perfect every time. Well, almost every time.” I smiled, and figeted with my apples.

“Ah, I’ll have to try that next time.”

He thanked me and I set my apples in the cart and wandered off down the aisle, trying to imagine this man braiding someone’s hair. I couldn’t.

On Saturday, I drove down to Austin to see my sister, and to drop in on Stephanie, Phil and the twins (though, seriously, since I hadn’t seen those little guppies since they each weighed less than three pounds and were living in baby aquariums in the NICU, I’m tempted to give them top billing).

Baby time is just ridiculously magical. I got to kiss baby cheeks, and rub baby tummies, and give a grunting little Lucas his bottle – it was all I could do not to nibble him to death. And when I climbed into bed after the 4 hour drive back to Dallas, I rolled over and could still smell sweet little baby head on my skin. I sighed, and some deep, dark part of my brain, obviously the part affected by hormones and baby smells, whispered, “Man. I have got to get knocked up.”

Then I reminded that dark part of my brain about the poop story Stephanie had told me that afternoon. And suddenly, there was no more talk of getting knocked up.

I’m supposed to be in Dallas right now. But Dallas decided to have some inclement weather, and my flight last night got canceled. I did all the adjusting and phone calling to get on a new flight (now connecting through exotic St. Louis), and headed out to the taxi stand.

Most people in line were in the same predicament as I was, so we chatted and commiserated and compared notes about the flights we’d been reassigned to.

“I suppose I’d rather fly into Lovefield anyway,” a short, blonde woman said, as she hung up with her travel agent.

“I couldn’t get on a direct flight,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “Or even any flight before early evening tomorrow.”

“That’s because you have no status,” the man in front of me said, as he fidgeted with his blue tooth cyborg ear-piece.

I laughed, but then saw the bored, superior look on his face, and thought, “Eew! You actually meant that!” The woman behind me raised her eyebrows at him.

“It’s all about exec platinum,” he continued, smugly. “That’s the only thing that counts.”

I considered it for a second, but only a second, because my mouth raced far ahead of any thinking.

“One day, I hope, you’ll be embarrassed you said that.”

He just pulled his navy blazer around his bugling stomach, and moved forward in line. I continued talking to the lady behind me and hoped, for everyone’s sake, that the cyborg man didn’t have any children.

My coworker Brian is an environmentally friendly kinda guy. He saves the foil from his falafel sandwich, rinses it, and recycles it. In fact, he’s a big recycler/re-user in general. Paper bags, plastic cups, cans.

Knowing that Brian would find it interesting, I asked him if he’d heard about a New York family who had committed to a zero-impact year. The experiment includes composting, not using toilet paper and many other things which I could never, ever do (see his blog, No Impact Man, for the skinny).

“Yeah, I read about that, ” Brian said. “The only thing I couldn’t do is the toilet paper.”

“You know,” I said, thinking back to my own childhood. “We lived without making much of an impact when I was a kid. I mean, because we were super poor. But still. We grew our own produce, only had one car, rode our bikes everywhere. And then there were the rabbits…”

People, we raised rabbits. And we ate them. For me, there’s a bit of trauma associated with the eating of the bunnies – and not because I had pet affection for all of them (my bunny, Honey, was a breeder, and thus never dinner). But because of The Slaughter. You think Clarice was carrying around some residual anguish from the screaming sheep? I got that beat.

I was seven – maybe younger (trying to pin down a memory to a specific year of my childhood is like trying to dissect summer vacation on the first day of school. It’s all kind of sunny and blurry and barefoot.) In search of my father, I headed for the backyard to find him. My mother, I think, had tried to keep me in the house, but stubbornness not being one of those late-onset traits, I went out anyway. And sure enough, I found my father. Skinning rabbits.Furless, bloody rabbits dangling from the frame of our swing-set.

Ree ree ree! The horror!

My father (incidentally, a butcher by training) yelled at me to go back in the house. Obviously, no dad wants to scar his kid for life with that kind of imagery, but on top of being horrified, I thought I was in trouble. I had a bit of a breakdown.

Seriously, right now, I have a tight feeling in my chest and even a bit of that nausea-associated mouth sweat just thinking about it. Pretty sure I never ate rabbit again, even if it was the only thing for dinner. And these days if you were to suggest rabbit as an entree at dinner? You’d get a horrified, wide-eyed stare from my direction, and it would be all I could do not to start wiping my tongue with my napkin. Like a seven year old. I just don’t do rabbit. Delicacy or no.

I don’t do duck, either. But because ducks are our friends. But that’s a memory sequence for another day.

I’ve been feeling sort of blah lately. This not-so-chipper feeling is a result of the non spring compliant weather, work issues, and a small but annoying sports injury. And the last one is responsible for more than 78.4% of my crankiness. It’s kept me from going to the gym (which, in turn, keeps me from performing random acts of sidewalk violence), walking like a normal person, and wearing shoes that do not fall into the category of quasi-orthopedic. Seriously, I feel like I should be reeking of Ben Gay as I gab about my grandchildren over a game of bridge. Or mahjong. I’m probably more of a mahjong granny.

Anyway, in the middle of my Crank last week, Goldner sent me an email asking if I’d be interested in a screening of Blades of Glory. Because I live in the Land of No TV, I had no idea what he was talking about, but my mind filled with images of Rambo dudes and ninjas and exploding helicopters. I sent Goldy a “hold, please” email and clicked over to IMDB.

Instead of camouflage and copters, I was presented with Will Ferrell. On ice skates.

Oh HELL yes.

Actually, it turned out to be a sex-addicted Will Ferrell on ice skates throwing up inside his ice capades costume. It was predictably stupid, over the top, and exactly what I needed. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether I was embarrassed, amused – or embarrassed that I was so amused. But, I haven’t laughed like that in… well, a long time. I first fell head-over-funnybone in love with Will Ferrell when he played Mugatu in Zoolander (I feel like I’m taking crazy pills!), and minus that ill-advised humorless deviation, Bewitched, my love for him as only grown deeper and sicker. What can I say? Twisted humor makes me hot.

It doesn’t, unfortunately, completely cure my Crank. But it’s a damn good start.

I rode the subway this morning sitting next to a well-known Law & Order cast member. Only, I didn’t know it was him until I got up to leave. I only knew I was sharing space with some older-ish gentleman in a really nice coat, taking up way more than his fair share of the bench. I should have noticed people staring at him, but I was busy being sleepy. When I got off at 14th Street, I did a double take. On quick inspection, he was much more silver up top than he appears on the tube (though those trademark eyebrows are pretty damn dark), and very nicely polished.

As soon as the coffee caught up to my brain, I told Brooke about my morning commute celeb sighting. He wasn’t all that impressed.

“You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“…”

“That I’m one step closer to achieving my ultimate goal!”

“Which is?”

“Becoming Mrs. Detective Elliot Stabler!”

Just saying the name made my heart start a-thumpin’ with SVU passion, but a cloud passed over Brooke’s face.

“Chris Meloni, dude.”

“Oh. For a girl who doesn’t like TV, you sure know a whole lot about it.”

“No. I know Detective Stabler.”

Brooke went back to his computer and I went back to my daydreaming. Please. What has non-ownership of a television to do with the fulfillment of my Five Year Plan? This is destiny we’re talking about. MFEO, people. MFEO.

“I can’t wait to read about this.”

Ari and I were tucked into our seats, waiting for Premonition to start when she plopped down in front of us. I sighed and rolled my eyes as deeply into my skull as they’d go.

I knew who she was. I heard her come in several minutes earlier, sit down a row or two behind me, have an argument with someone and then make a big, big issue of changing seats. Seeing her sort of brought everything together in one neat, spazzy little package.

“She’s a party planner,” Ari said. “Part time. Just to have something to do.”

“When she’s not on the treadmill or in therapy with her tiny, yappy dog.”

Here are the things you could tell just by looking at her: she spent too much time in a tanning bed and not enough time eating. And she was much, much older than she wanted to be. The lines around her pursed mouth and eyes suggested late thirties, early forties. But by the ponytail braid (it was something to behold), and the baby voice she used, she was clinging to her glory days with an iron will and a grappling hook. You could practically hear her inner Tri-Delt screaming, Look! I’m young! And cute!

And she was neither of these things. She was insane and irritating. Perhaps that was the reason for the Smurfette act. If she appears young! and cute! her horrifying behavior won’t seem so bad. Gosh, it must be nice to be delusional.

Her husband/boyfriend/irritated male companion, was clearly used to her ridiculous antics. He didn’t even turn his head when she stormed off, up the aisle, to find another seat. Again. Five minutes later, she was back, sulking in her chair, knees pulled up to her chest (See? on top of young! and cute! I’m little! I take up practically no space!) chewing on a straw. I mean, really gnawing at that thing. I wanted to distract her and replace it with a Slim Jim or, at the very least, a stick of licorice. Some kind of nourishment.

Anyway, back in her seat and determined to have another go with the irritated male companion, she recommenced nagging. The man didn’t take his eyes off the screen for a second. Which didn’t help us one bit, because the more he ignored her, the louder she got.

So Ari started mimicking her.

This is the part in our story where I nearly wet myself – from the hilarity and simultaneous fear that the forty-year-old cheerleader was going to leap over her seat and jab my eyes out with her mangled straw. Thank the lord for well-timed previews. Once the screen flickered to life, Smurfette put a sock in it, and Ari and I spent the rest of the next two hours listening to the folks behind us rub each other vigorously, and comment on the fatness of America between chomps of popcorn. You know, standard movie theater stuff.

(Regarding Premonition: they should hand out samples of the drugs they were taking when they made this movie. You know, so that we could all be on the same wacky page. Otherwise, you leave the theater without understanding much more than crows blood is seriously icky, people actually still use answering machines, and Sandra Bullock has real pretty hair, and wishing that you’d spent your $11.50 of ticket money on whatever she uses for such well-defined waves. Wait for the DVD.)

It’s been a long winter. And by the piles of books laying around my apartment, it’s clearly been a long, reclusive winter. Between Netflix and my reading habit, I’ve spent hours and hours indoors, sequestered away from the depressing gloom of the last few months. And loved it. So, for all you fellow bookworms out there, I’ve put together an almost complete list (I just know I’m missing three or four) of my cold weather companions.

In no particular order:

Memories of My Melancholy Whores (Gabriel Garcia Marquez): If I were the type to underline passages in red pencil, this whole book woulda been one crimson blur. Marquez is a dirty old man, and I adore him for it. This book was a feast, and I loved it so much that I read it twice in the same weekend.

Brooklyn Follies (Paul Auster): The writing was so rich, I hardly noticed that it took him over 100 pages to introduce a plot. I actually miss some of the characters.

Lucky (Alice Sebold): A quick read, and not a masterpiece by any means (nowhere close to Lovely Bones, either), but it was eye-opening.

Forever in Blue: The Fourth Summer of the Sisterhood (Ann Brashares): I bumped into the first Traveling Pants book at a smallish bookstore in Harvard Square. There were only two copies of the hardback book on the shelf. Now you can’t even step foot in a Barnes & Noble without knocking into a display of the latest installment. I love these girls. But I gotta say, they spend just a little too much time out of their pants these days (if you know what I’m sayin’). I know they’re 18 and all, but sheesh! Still, charming as hell, though.

The Lost Continent (Bill Bryson): Hee! I’d like to invite Bryson and Dave Barry over for dinner, and then listen to them one-up each other. Just plain funny.

The Sweet Potato Queens’ Field Guide to Men (Jill Connor Browne): I’d invite Jill Connor Browne to that dinner, too. Just to watch her show them up. I’ve embarassed myself more than once laughing (and snorting!) out loud on the train while reading a Sweet Potato Queens book.

Outlander (Diana Gabaldon): A gift from my darling Angie, it was eight hundred and fifty pages of romance novel disguised as historical fiction. I ate it up. Also, I’m no longer curious about what’s under a Scotsman’s kilt. Rarr.

The Madonas of Leningrad (Debra Dean): Meh. That is all.

Their Eyes Were Watching God (Zora Neale Hurston): Why had I not picked up this one before? A damn good read. It took me ages to get through the first 20 pages, simply because Hurston writes a good portion of the book in the vernacular. So short of reading out loud, going slowly over each word and sounding it out in my head was the only way to go. Slow and steady, but worth the effort. The story was captivating and powerful.

Tender is the Night (F. Scott Fitzgerald): Slow going, but I’m enjoying myself. Perhaps because his work is so respected, I find that I’m deconstructing Fitzgerald’s writing as I go (Why that comma there? What was his purpose in arranging that sentence like that?). It’s like homework. But, god knows, I always secretly liked homework.

The patter of “wintry mix” on my window pane at this very moment tells me that winter has no intentions of giving up any time soon. So, looks like I’ll be in need of more reading material. Got recommendations? I’d love to hear them!

I pushed open the door to the deli and stepped inside. My shoe landed crunch! in the middle of the mess the shop owner had been sweeping. I hopped quickly to the side.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry.”

“No problem, mi amor.”

I smiled as he ducked behind the counter to get my coffee. Aw, I’m someone’s love! I don’t even care that I’m the deli man’s love – I just like the sentiment. Being flirted with, especially first thing in the morning, is simply divine.

My waiter at the diner across the street sometimes offers me whipped cream for my waffle – with a wink. As though there were something just the tiniest bit scandalous about it. I love this. It makes me feel like the keeper of a secret, or the participant in some delicious mystery. “Oh, you!” I want to say. But instead, I smile and say, “No thanks, just strawberries.”

The man who runs the wine store down the street once begged me to tell him that the pink champagne I was buying wasn’t for my bridal shower. He’s coquettish about helping me choose wine for dinner parties (and nights home alone in front of my TV watching silly movies, but it’s best that he think it’s all parties and social butterflies. Keeps the love alive.). The doormen in Ari’s building are all flirts. The guy behind the counter at the dry cleaner’s, the mailman, and the owner of flower shop on the corner – I could flirt my way from Lexington to First Avenue, if I was so inclined. And let’s face it, most days, I am.

Oh, who are the flirts in your neighborhood?

My coworker Brooke once said that the mark of a really excellent subway ride is having a mentally unstable member of society personally dedicated to making your commute miserable. Well, today must be my lucky, lucky day. This morning on the 4 train, I had my own personal crazy.

From the get-go, the train was all elbows and handbags (for most of the ride, I wasn’t sure which of the two was jabbing me in the ass). My Personal Crazy saw that this was the case, that there was absolutely no room for her, but damn if she wasn’t eager for the early morning challenge. As the doors were bouncing off her shoulders, she screeched that she was getting on this mother-effing train, and I had better move. Who wouldn’t be persuaded by that kind of charm? I tightened my grip on the cold metal pole and didn’t budge. Taste my pain, bitch!

But she was a wily one and managed to squeeze in while loudly declaring herself “a worm! An old school worm!”

Boring a hole into my forehead with her beady little eyes, my Personal Crazy spent the next twenty-something blocks hollering about how she was “old school” and lecturing me on respecting my “elderlies.” She was maybe fifty-five. Maybe. There was nothing elderly about her. And in my opinion, anyone throwing around the term ‘old school’ is a least a few years short of aged and infirm. I’m just sayin’. But one does not speak back to tough, old school worms from the Bronx. They will cut you.

When the train emptied at Grand Central, I edged further into the car and sank down into one of the vacant seats, pulling my gym bag into my lap. My Personal Crazy followed.

“You not gonna let me sit?”

I looked to my left, where the rest of the bench was empty, except for a crumpled copy of the Post and a blow-pop wrapper. Oh, so this is the game we’re playing. I gave her a blank stare.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to let me sit! I really need to sit!”

“You all worn out from yelling?” I asked, motioning with my hand to the spaces to my left, knowing full-well she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had my seat.

“You need to respect your elderlies!”

I made a show of turning up my iPod and wedging the earphones deeper into my ears. I was done playing nutty; it was just too early and I hadn’t had my coffee. She continued raving until an older Indian woman gestured her toward her own seat, and she sat, finally content. As I was getting off the train at Union Square, I heard my Personal Crazy declare that this train had better hurry up. She was on her way to jury duty.

“Of course you are,” I thought, and then my heart filled with pity for eleven strangers, and a defendant who didn’t stand a chance. She was their personal crazy now.

Sometimes, I mistake the hum of the elevator for the vibration of my cell phone. Just now, as I was drying the dishes, I heard a low buzzing sound and my heart jumped. I wasn’t thinking about the elevator. So I immediately dropped the measuring cup I was wiping, and as it fell with a clatter onto the linoleum counter, I was already sliding across the tile in my stocking feet. Around the corner, I skidded to a halt in front of the ottoman where my phone sat, dark and motionless. And I felt stupidly disappointed. Again.

I went on feeling stupidly disappointed for a good little while until I remembered that I had promised myself I wouldn’t do this again. Ever. So I picked up the phone, scrolled down my contacts, hit delete. Then I shut off the phone and went back to my dishes.

Good sir, you have just been next!ed.

When my friend Angie was visiting several weeks ago, we stopped in at Union Square’s DSW, where Angie bought a pair of boots. The boots came in box (naturally) and that box came home with us. The moment it was emptied of its contents, it was seized for other purposes. By Sir Hal.

It became immediately clear that were I to get rid of the box, I’d be a horrible person and a failure of a cat mother. So I moved it out of the middle of the floor… to the middle of the club chair. You know, where it’s out of the way. Ish.

That box has become Hal’s sanctuary. He sleeps in it (after dragging my winter accessories into for padding), hides in it, plays in it. And when the downstairs buzzer rings, he flees to it for safety.

Oh, clever beast! They’ll never think to look for you there!

While hardly the SNL Classic “Dick in a Box,” I’m still very amused. I know you will be, too. To get your own Cat in a Box, follow these simple instructions.

1: Take your shoes out the box
2: Put your cat in that box
3. Take lots of pictures of your cat in that box

(Can you imagine if I had kids? Lordy!)

We stumbled onto the idea the first time the three of us went out, drank too much wine, and ate food we couldn’t really afford. Word-lovers and storytellers, Biscuit, Derek and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a cold winter evening than getting smashed and playing a game of Made Up Word Scrabble. One week later, we were digging into lavender and honey gelato and discussing the rules.

“Rule one, Derek has to drink more before we start playing.”

“Wait, why?”

“Because you’re all uptight about needing rules in the first place.” I said. “You’re the one who cried, ‘Must! Have! RULES!’ Remember? Drink. Relax.”

“Fine.”

“Two, you may use real words or fake words for which you have a believable and/or funny definition.”

Rules* in place, we laid out the Scrabble board (a gift! thank you!), drew letters and began arranging the little wooden tiles on their stands (which always remind me of church pews, for some reason). The luck of the draw being mine, I scoured my tiles for inspiration. An impish feeling swept over me as I gathered up my letters and plopped them down in front of me.

“So,” I said…

And thus began every single turn that followed. “So,” followed by the most ridiculous nonsense you’ve ever heard.

“So, you know how in the middle ages, witches were really into using newts for their potions? Well some of these newts got religion, and being tired of being abused by the witches, made their escape southward to the Holy Land.” And the word Jewt was born.

“So, you know how there’s the hoi polloi (the common folk) and the hoi oligoi (the rich folk)? Well, there’s the oft-forgot group of folk, rich and poor, who really enjoy their horseback riding.” The Hoi Equimoi.

The nerdiness of it! Some of the entries were so ridiculous, so politically incorrect, that there’s no way our blog relationship would survive the telling. But among the safe to share, some of our favorites include:

Doobs. Dude boobs, duh.
Weffy: A southern favorite, the weffy is a waffle made with Jimmy Dean sausage right in the batter.
Thibrid: What happens when Suzanne Somers gets environmentally conscious? Your workout actually helps to save the environment.

We took a picture of our masterpiece, and as the boys (having neatly finished up two magnums of wine) were bundling up to leave, I turned to Biscuit.

“So, we’re really making weffies someday, right? Because, that sounds really good.”

“Hell yes!”

Satisfied, I shoved them out into the cold and climbed into bed. I may just be able to live the rest of my life without an green exercise gadget or a term for a group of female yeti. But waffles with sausage? Now that I’ve entertained the possibility, I don’t think I can go on without it.

*There was a third rule… something about challenging other players’ words. But that really never came into practice until the last round of the game. And I didn’t really mean it; I was just being persnickety. I’m sorry, Derek. Jewth is a perfectly fine word. Even if it is a cop out.

We had just come home from Doc Watson’s, and tumbled into bed, tipsy and half-frozen from the ten block walk. From the bedroom, I could see the glow of Angie’s cell phone as she and her fella texted back and forth about their wild and crazy nights. She was on her first weekend trip to the Big Apple and he was out with the guys. There were things to say. Then, as it’s wont to do, texting turned to teasing and the glowing came to a sudden halt.

“Uh oh,” came the voice from the living room sofa.

“What?”

“I think I made him mad. He’s not answering.”

“Pfft!,” I said, kneading my pillow into a mound of feathers. “Boys. So sensitive*.”

Radio silence continued for some time until Angie, unnerved by it all, sent another message, apologizing if her sass had been tooâ€_ sassy. A few seconds later, the living room lit up in a blue glow.

Calm down. I’m not mad, I’m playing darts.

And there you have it. Have what, you ask? The difference between men and women summed up in six simple words. I’m not mad, I’m playing darts. You’re agonizing over what you’ve just said on the phone and he’sâ€_ playing darts. You’re worrying that his sudden ‘distance’ means your relationship is headed for certain disaster and he’sâ€_ playing darts. The subtext and the unsaid loom up before you, and you find yourself binge eating Chubby Hubby and crying to your best girlfriends and he’sâ€_ playing darts.

You see?

Obviously I’m not one of those women who think men are simple beasts without a deliberate thought in their Cro-Magnon heads. I simply refuse to believe that they spend nearly as much time deconstructing (if they did, when would they ever find time for darts?).

Of course, there are always exceptions.

I have a guy friend (we’ll call himâ€_ um, Josh) who could find meaning in a pile of mashed potatoes – without having ever been abducted by aliens. He’s just intuitive. Which, frankly, is just a fancy way of saying he’s full of crap and hot air. Simultaneously. And I say this very lovingly.

This week, I found myself on the wrong end of some drawn-out radio silence. Confused (because, really, who doesn’t want to talk to me? I am FUNNY!), I flipped through my Encyclopedia of Reasons Boys Do Things, and scoured the section on Communication Strategies (a whole chapter of one-word sentences. Go figure.) Then Biscuit, in his testosterony wisdom, suggested that, perhaps I was reacting to a situation I had no information on, and like a glowing cell phone in the darkness, those six beautiful words came back to me.

I’m not mad, I’m playing darts.

So back to the shelf went the book (between my well-worn copies of A Cat Lover’s Guide to Spinsterhood and Curious George Goes Courting), and life resumed normalcy. Or, rather, an improved version of normalcy. You can’t imagine how much free time I have now that I’ve given up all that over-thinking. I just may take up a hobby.

* On the subject of boys being unpredictably sensitive: I am reminded of something Ari once said. “I hate how easily scared and freaked out the “stronger” sex gets all the time. Our generation could never have defeated Hitler.â€ù Unless it was at a game of darts, of course.

I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and can’t help but grimace.

“Well, doesn’t that just say it all?” I ask, making conversation with the woman who stares back at me.

I draw my fingers down my face where the pale, freckled skin is pulled tight against my cheekbones, then trace the mud-colored half-moons that have formed under my eyes. They say, You haven’t been sleeping. “No shit,” I think, and pat them with cool water from the tap.

Sarah told me she knows when I’m anxious because I chew my bottom lip. I remember this as I lean in closer to the mirror and slide my tongue across the now rough surface of my lip, feeling for the crack I know is there. The tenderness of the pink flesh says, You’ve been worried.

The still-wet hair hanging against my neck says, You snoozed a few too many times. The threadworn yellow sweater, You really need to do some laundry. The fit of my jeans against my hips says, You’ve been using your gym card to open that locked bathroom door, and not much else.

Deciding I don’t much like the direction this conversation is taking, I smooth the sweater over my stomach, pinch some color into my cheeks, and pull my hair into a mess ponytail. Rolling my eyes, the face in the mirror wears a look that says, We’ll talk about this later.

“Gee. Can’t wait.”

“Aw, are you drinking alone?”

“I’m half-way through a bottle of wine and watching Snakes on a Plane,” I told Goldner as he made his way into the living room. “It’s not like I’m drinking alone and watching The Notebook.”

“True. Here,” he said, handing me a package. A Sponge Bob Square Pants wrapped package.

If I wasn’t confused by his late-evening surprise visit, I was definitely baffled by the present. Until I opened it.

“You read my post?”

“No! What post?”

“I just wrote about this!” I attacked the air-tight plastic container with a pair of scissors, then grinned as I fished out the trademark red Swiss Army Knife key-chain.

Goldner sat down at my laptop and read the entry, saying he’d felt bad that it took him so long after Tuesday night’s dinner to respond to my sob story. I didn’t know whether to hug him or kick him in the pants.

“Sorry? I hope you’re kidding.”

There’s never any sense in telling G, “You didn’t have to do this.” But I did it anyway, and squeezed him in his crinkly winter coat.

And then I made a Your Momma joke. Because, really, all this touchy-feely stuff can’t be good for my Grinchy little heart.

On my way back to New York last week, the security goons at DFW confiscated my Swiss Army Knife key-chain. Obviously afraid I might file through the cabin door or tweeze one of the flight attendants to death before the Air Marshall could tackle me to the floor, the screener, without a word, took the little red gadget off its loop and tossed it.

“But… but I’ve been flying with that for years!”

I had been. The itty bitty key-chain, which was a gift and not without a significant amount of sentimental value, had passed every screener between the US and Morocco over the last seven years.

“You’re welcome to speak to my supervisor,” the raspy-voiced screener barked, when I stood there looking confused. I nodded lamely and she called out, “Bud! Bud, come over here and talk to this lady.”

Bud explained that my options were, check the offensive item in my luggage (not really an option as it was way too close to flight time), or give it to someone out there (indicating the area outside of security).

“But I don’t have anyone out there.”

Bud just shrugged his meaty shoulders. Suddenly, on top of feeling frustrated with Bud and his summer-toothed, chain-smoking sidekick, I felt abandoned and alone. Which, even then, I knew was absolutely ridiculous. But all the same, I was without comfort, shoeless in security, clutching three naked brass keys and wondering, How will I get myself out of a sticky situation at the ATM deposit without my handy little Swiss Army pen?

I turned the corner, sat on the nearest bench, and cried into my lap. Big, pathetic alligator tears.

“This is a new low,” I typed to a friend on my also-handy PDA, aware of the absurdity of crying in front of strangers. At the airport. Over a key-chain.

But absurd or not, I couldn’t turn it off. I don’t cry easily, except when I’m frustrated, or when life feels horribly unfair, or when someone dies on Grey’s Anatomy. And two of the three were going down right then. I mean, thank god I didn’t know about Meredith’s mom yet, or jeez louise I’d have been a mess. I dabbed at my eyes until boarding was announced, then told myself to suck it up, and got in line.

In the week that has passed, you’d think I’d have gotten over it – forgiven Bud and his snaggle-toothed friend. But last night, when I reached my front gate and dug around in my coat pocket for my keys, I felt the lightness of the naked key ring, and a knot formed in my stomach. I cursed Bud out loud, and because there was no sense in fighting it, went upstairs to watch some old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.

Lest it appear that only men earn the label of Emotional Cripple Extraordinaire, I have, to my own shame, committed a few of my own dumbass dating stunts.

A few years ago, when I first moved to the city, I went on a blind date. It went about as perfectly as a blind date can go, and I remember coming home tipsy and giddy with possibility. But being embroiled in what would become a three-year disastrous, ultimately regrettable relationship, I was in precisely the wrong place to be having giddily-perfect dates. So I did everything wrong. I got nervous and edgy and stopped responding to his emails.

Worse yet, I made him think it was his fault.

The kicker was, I actually liked the guy, but, in a state of emotional cripplehood, I handled the liking (and my fear of it) very poorly. But because I’m wired the way I am, my bad behavior pricked at my conscience. And pricked. And pricked. Until one day, unable to ignore it anymore, I sat down and wrote the following email.

Jason,

A few months ago, I gave an interview for some paper here in the city, and one of the questions the reporter asked me was, “Have you ever gone out with one of your readers?” My answer was, “Once.” At least, that’s the part that appeared in the article. The part the reporter was kind enough to leave out was where I said, “And I was a complete asshole to him.” I’ve been thinking about ever it since. Anyway, listen, I don’t even know how it’s going to seem getting this email almost a year later. Even right now, I’m heavily debating about whether I’ll actually press send. But I just wanted to say, I know I was a complete asshole. And I’m sorry.

I hope all is well.

Heather

Writing the email served as a much-needed catharsis. So much so, that after a few days had passed, I forgot about it entirely. The surprise of seeing his response in my inbox a week later made my stomach knot. What if he gave me the cold shoulder I deserved? I clicked on the message, with my breath caught in my throat.

Heather,

It’s really kind of you to go out of your way to apologize like that. It’s touching, really. I can think of a couple of people I should have written similar letters to, but never worked up the gumption to do it. However, you really shouldn’t think twice about it. Meeting people and dating is messy business. I think by the time you’re our age, you build up a thick skin to protect yourself from the bumps and bruises you’ll get along the way.

In any case, I’m still happy with the fact we got one pretty good date in before all of the rest of it happened.

I hope you are doing well also.

Thanks again,
Jason

I closed the email without replying, realizing that all that needed to be said, had been, and got on with life. The lesson had been learned months before, but the – dare I say – closure only came with forgiveness. It is not in my character to be cruel, or even careless with people, but I slip. Because I’m human and totally, wretchedly flawed. But it’s nice to know that when I do, my own ugly lack of grace won’t necessarily be mirrored back at me.

John wasn’t my perfect guy — not by a stretch. He was sort of doughy-looking, talked too much about money, and had a juvenile attachment to Ryan Reynolds films and pot. But he was funny. And he remembered everything I ever said (you’d be surprised how flattering that can be). So after meeting him one vodka-drenched night in midtown bar, I decided, what the hell – maybe he’d grow on me. Our first date was pretty forgettable (minus the part where he showed up late; that part I remember). He definitely wasn’t the kind of guy that had me plucking petals off daisies or running out to buy risqué lingerie. But one Tuesday night, I was home alone and bored. And feeling a little … like playing.

“Hope your apartment is clean,” I said, when he answered the phone. “I’m coming over.”

He didn’t object (duh) and I spent a thirty-block cab ride indulging in a few fantasy scenarios. He’d open the door and … well, I wasn’t wearing all that much under my winter coat.

But John didn’t open the door. The response to my quick knock was, “It’s open!” There went my opening surprise. Clearly, he did not know how the I’m Coming Over Game worked. And his apartment was a disaster. The living room was littered with clothes in various states of filthy, in the middle of which stood John, wearing gym shorts and what looked like the rag I use to clean behind my toilet — a freebie t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.

Never, in the history of ever, has a man done so little to earn nookie. But that night, it was all about me.

One glimpse of bare thigh under my wool coat and John finally clued into the I’m Coming Over Game. Grabbing a handful of hair (yes, please), he scooped me out of my shoes, went in for that first kiss and … What is that? Is that your tongue or a garden spade? I felt assaulted. I pulled back, surprised and a bit disgusted. And then there were John’s hands. I felt like I was getting jabbed with bratwurst or those gross little hot dogs that meatheads eat during the Super Bowl. Blunt, nasty, greasy, graceless little objects. This was not what I’d had in mind. John, however, was really enjoying himself. He began leading us toward the couch. And I was having none of it.

“Hmm, you know,” I said, breaking free and scrambling for a stray black shoe. “I have to get up pretty early tomorrow.” I didn’t care if it sounded like the hollow excuse that it was, and I didn’t care if I was rude, or if he was embarrassed. A 32 year old man with absolutely no game? He should be embarrassed!

A few months later, I was dashing off to a wedding, all silk and (borrowed) diamonds, when I passed him on the sidewalk outside my apartment. John ducked his head, looking sheepish, and I pranced by, feigning total ignorance. Well that was awkward, I thought, relieved when he was out of sight. Then I saw him again, not even a week later, and again, and again, until it dawned on me… that the object of my bad behavior was now living across the street. Of all the corners in all of Manhattan. Every time I see him, I’m just the smallest bit embarassed for having been so cold. But also, I want to holler,

“Fine! I admit it; I was a bitch! But you’re a terrible kisser… so n-yuh!”

In my head that comes with a hand gesture (thumb to the nose, fingers waving) I picked up on the playground as a kid. But instead, we just pass each other, eyes averted, pretending we never met, and I keep my hands in my pockets where they belong. Fingers waving away in secret.