Got ten minutes?

At the start-up that I’m working for, we’re building the world’s best dating site. And right now, and our tech guys need your help – even if you’re not single! They’ve built a pretty kick-ass matching engine – and now we need people to help us test it! We need profiles from real – or imaginary – people so we can run tests and find what works and what needs improvement.

Just go to this special site and fill out our profile form!

You can give it real or fake information — doesn’t matter as long as we flood our system with data to see how it handles itself. It’s pretty unsophisticated, there are no pretty pictures, no dazzling interface. All that good stuff will come later. Right now, it’s all about words and check boxes.

There is a box at the end so you can tell us anything you liked or hated about the questions — feel free to fill it up!

Anyway, would you please? I swear, if it takes more than ten minutes of your time, I will buy you a car. Or at least a cup of coffee or something good.

***UPDATE***
I know some of you are having technical problems, and I’ve passed it along to the Tech dudes. Thanks so much for all the feedback. You guys are great!

Work today was – for the first time ever – frustrating. Horribly frustrating. So much so that I had to leave the office and go for a run, just to blow off some steam. It was at least thirty minutes into the run before my jaw unclenched.

Post run, things did not get much better. Frustration may have left for the day around 3PM, but it was too late. I felt like crying, and for no other reason than today was just not my day. It had started so well – with a new black blazer and a bright pink scarf and Whitney Houston on my iPod. Then, suddenly, it just wasn’t. From the moment the elastic went in one of my knee-high socks, the day was one huge disappointment after another.

And then, I got hit by a car.

I kid you not. A black Honda minivan (what is that, an Odyssey?). It wasn’t going fast enough to do anything but send me smack! onto my tush, scrape my hand and embarrass the hell out of me, but it also wasn’t how I was hoping to round out the day. The short of it is, Minivan Mom was making a right and thought she could squeeeeze by before I got to the middle of the crosswalk. But she thought wrong and… well, thus the smack, the scrape and the embarrassment.

I couldn’t decide if I should laugh (Because, I mean, really, of all things!) or just cry like a little girl.

Walking home (No, no. Really. I’m fine.), I started to feel very homesick for my old roommate Corey, who would have sat on my feet to keep them warm while he watched Sports Center and said things like, “It’s rough, kid.” and then wrapped up in blankets and sat with me on the sun porch, drinking gin and smoking cigarettes until our throats hurt.

But coming home to Sir Hal (who cannot hold his gin) after my craptastic day was not going to satisfy. I was stewing in frustration and some good old fashioned self-pity. So I dialed my sister. And spent the next 20 minutes punctuating our conversation with,

“And then! I got hit by a car!”

“I’m sorry,” she’d say.

And then she’d laugh. Because, I mean, really.

I emptied the hall closet and the bottom drawer of my dresser, tossing miscellaneous items of clothing onto the bed. Ball gown. Barbie pink stilettos. Elbow-length satin gloves. Leather corset. White pleather go-go boots.

And then, I stared at them all for a good long time. If I had a fairy godmother, this would be a cinch. My pile of clothes, a few mice, some fancy wand-wavin’ and not only would I have one kick-ass Halloween costume, I’d probably have myself a prince and a sweet little summer place on the French Riviera.

Yeah, yeah. Skip the song, lady and get to the good part.

When inspiration failed to strike (and the chubby lady with the wand failed to show), I turned to the only other magic I had available. The innernet. A few minutes after I logged on to scour costume sites, a google chat window chirped at me.

Stan: I kind of just made a costume. Tell me how much it sucks.

Me: Okay. I’m trying to figure out one right now. Suggestions?

Stan: It’s made out of cardboard. And well, essentially it’s a kissing booth.

Me: Ha! I love it.

Stan: I’m out of ideas now.

Me: Aw, come on! I can’t think of a costume, and I can’t go without one. Ooooh, the quandary.

Stan: I was also thinking of going as “slutty myself.”

Me: Hee! I was just thinking I should attempt “slutty pirate” or “slutty pirate zombie.”

Stan: Add a nurse. And a cat.

Me: Man, this is not easy. How do pirates wear their hair?

Stan: Well first of all, there are no girl pirates.

Me: There are now. Listen, I own a leather corset, and I’m trying to make do.

Stan: Here’s an idea: leather corset… and no other clothes. DONE AND DONE!

Me: Awesome, Stan. You’ve been very helpful.

Stan: Yeah, I’m good with ideas for girls’ costumes.

When I was in Dallas for my high school reunion, Mom and I spent Saturday morning digging through her storage unit. We were after some pretty specific gems (reading material for Cringe), but hell if I didn’t get sidetracked and eventually compelled by nostalgia into bringing back much more than my high school diary.

Among the pile, my journalism class string book (nerd!), trinkets from my great-grandmother, clippings from my high school paper, and a box marked, FRAGILE! DO NOT DESTROY! I wish I hadn’t left my camera in Dallas, because you’ve just got to see this box. And how dead serious it is about not being fucked with.

It all makes sense, of course, once you know that it holds every single note that The Boy ever wrote me in high school.

We exchanged notes and letters for six years. Our college correspondence has followed me from apartment to apartment, pages of letters signed, Always tucked into plastic sheets and catalogued by date. (As an aside: Strangely, and although I know they existed, I can’t find a single note or letter from the year his mother died. Which is probably for the best. We were far too young to have handled that with much grace.) But for years now, this box has been the missing piece.

This afternoon, in preparation for opening the box (I figured I could ignore the Do Not Open warning, as it was written in my own handwriting), I, clicked on iTunes for something properly nostalgic. I threw together an awe-inspiring mix of The Cranberries, Sarah McLaughlin and Candlebox and sat in the middle of my living room floor with a cup of coffee, wishing I still had a flannel shirt or a pair of Doc Martens.

Then I dug in.

I’d unfolded the first note, read the only the first few lines and was suddenly overtaken with the feeling that I should look away – that I was invading someone’s privacy. I almost closed the box and left it to marinate for another thirteen years. But I’ve never been one to leave well enough alone so I read on.

Maybe it’s that they were written many years before either of us learned to be scared of sincerity – before we discovered that in order to be desirable we had to be coy and mysterious and aloof – but his notes are so unsophisticated and boyish and charming. I know I was young, but I realized that thirteen years ago, I really did love that boy. I would have had to.

I also realized that no one writes to me like this anymore.

We’re all so guarded as grown ups, worried about how we’ll be received, peppering our messages with emoticons and backtalk so that if ever questioned, we can say, “Oh, no, I didn’t really mean that. See, I put in a cute little winky face!â€ù

I know I do it all the damn time — much safer in my sarcasm.

There wasn’t a whole lot to being fifteen that was safe or comfortable – which is why it surprises me that we were so at ease with scribbling our teenage hearts onto cheap notebook paper, shoving them into the pockets of letterman jackets to give to his friend to give to your friendâ€_

It really is amazing that we didn’t employ emoticons a whole lot sooner. Because, what’s more fragile than a teenage ego?

Several months ago, my friend Josh and I got drunk and decided we should date. Each other.

Some of my friends are now probably looking at their monitors and thinking, “Surely she doesn’t mean that Josh.” Oh, but I do. And it lasted about five whole minutes. Which is why you’re not hearing about it until now.

One minute we were drawing dirty pictures on bar napkins, telling the bartender what enormous pains-in-the-asses we’d always been to each other and the next, making plans to go on a real, actual date that Saturday night.

I spent the next day sitting in my office laughing into styrofoam coffee cups, viciously hungover and utterly bemused. What the hell were we thinking? It was crazy, alright, but so crazy it might work? I wasn’t sure.

Now, over time, I’ve become pretty convinced that if anything is ever going to work out for me, it’s going to have to be a least a little bit zany. You people have seen me try normal – I spent all spring trying normal - and you know exactly how well that turned out. Moonlit walks in the park, mid-afternoon phone calls to see how my day was going, compliments and invitations to meet the family.

Josh and I, on the other hand, have always been like flint and steel (Josh, obviously being the abrasive, irritating one. Ahem.). It’s as though we were conceived with the purpose of meeting one day and provoking the hell out of each other. And I think the closest he ever came to paying me a compliment was to say that I laughed like a lunatic. Oh, and that he would be the first to tell me if I ever got fat.

Aw, how sweet. But still, when Josh kissed me, I nearly fell off my bar stool. So, there was that.

Anyway, there are some pretty funny stories to be told about the few real, actual dates we went on – and then the week of emails that, in the end, never said much more than “This is either an excellent or terrible idea.” But the short version is, terrible won out, earrings were returned and we went back to our normal routines. Smart ass emails. Lots of eye-rolling.

Then two days ago, Josh stopped by my office to help out with a project I’m working on. And while we’d seen each other a few times since the Dating Incident of 2006, it suddenly seemed really, really funny – in an uncomfortable, circusy, man-that-was-a-close-call kinda way.

And of course, I still absolutely love/hate Josh (where would steel be without flint?), but as I walked him out of the office, kissed him on the cheek and as he disappeared out the door onto the sidewalk, I couldn’t help but think,

My god, am I glad he never saw me naked.

Infomerical.
Japanese Anime.
Something about baby camels.
Nickleback.
Infomercial.

“Oh, wait. That was Nickleback.”

“Are you seriously asking me to go back?”

“Um, no.”

At 3AM my sarcasm sensors weren’t fully functional and there was nothing on TV. I had the remote, but with no input from the boys, I was at a loss.

“Okay,” I said, giving up. “Let’s watch a movie.”

“Fine. Pick one.” Tim pointed to a wall unit full of DVDs and I scanned the shelves for familiar titles.

“If I pick one, it’s going to be a girl movie.”

“I like girl movies.”

“Uh huh.”

“I do. We just got The Notebook. We could watch that.”

“What?” Ryan piped up from the recliner. “What’s The Notebook?”

“Shhh.” I said. “You’ll like it. There are lots of explosions and stuff.”

I felt a little bit evil, but then again, who doesn’t like it? Sure, there are zero explosions. But whatever cheese factor it has is far, far outweighed by the hotness of that one scene. You know which one I mean. Holy cow. The hotness. And the alternate version? It will get you just a little bit pregnant. .

So, in went The Notebook and Ryan promptly fell asleep.

“If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

“What was that?” I turned to look at Tim.

“That’s what he says: If you’re a bird, I’m a bird.”

“I know that’s what he says. But how do you know that? Exactly how many times have you seen this movie, Tim?”

“Um, well, it comes on cable sometimes…”

I laughed and threatened to blog about it, but mostly I was thinking that if I hadn’t already been dead set on kissing that boy, that totally would have swayed me. Not just because it’s ridiculously funny (and funny is the thinking girl’s aphrodisiac). But because, if he had that part memorized, the chances of him having committed other parts to memory?

Holy cow. The hotness.

For a few seconds, I wasn’t exactly sure what to do. Questioning where to put my hands so I didn’t make a mess of things, my brain started to panic. Oh my god, what if I forgot how to do this? It had been a while, after all. A long while.

Then instinct kicked in.

“Oh my god, Toby.â€ù

“I know.â€ù

Toby stood there, grinning his proud, new daddy grin. My left hand cupped a tiny diapered bottom, while my right held onto the back of a soft, sweet smelling head. I had to close my eyes – just for a second – to drink in as much baby boy as I could. I was in awe.

“Oh man,â€ù I said, finally. “I should get me one of these some day. I just need to find a guy to pay for it.â€ù

Toby laughed, considering his role as the guy who pays for the tiny sleeping wonder, then told me about fatherhood. About crying in the delivery room. About the best sleep ever, kicked back in a recliner with your newborn tucked under your chin.

Toby had been one of my closest guy friends until I was a junior in college. In high school, I used to sneak out of the house and over to his to do Jane Eyre homework and watch Disney movies. Our friendship was a big fat middle finger to Harry (of When Harry Met Sally), because in the five years we were friends, if either of us ever liked each other in that way, I was certainly never aware of it. Still, platonic ties have pitfalls of their own and we eventually lost touch.

Standing beside him at the reunion, his five month old sleeping on my chest, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d been left behind. Toby grew up, married the redhead across the way (he’d been head over heels for her when we were 19), got a mortgage, a 401K and a baby and I was stillâ€_ well, not exactly grown up. Still spending half my income on rent, tripping around Manhattan in wobbly heels and even wobblier relationships, I’m trying to make meaning out of travel guides and champagne flutes and steamy cab rides to absolutely nowhere.

There’s something about a high school reunion that makes you consider your relative situation very, very carefully.

Turns out, it really isn’t at all different from a midtown bar at happy hour. Coasting on small talk, I watched as eyes danced quickly from my face to my left ring finger, sizing up the situation. Twice that night, someone actually grabbed my hand, pointing out the conspicuous lack of jewelry. And then, as I was considering taking Toby’s baby and running, I was finger-checked and asked the question again.

“So how come?â€ù

How come? How does a girl answer that? I considered telling the truth.

Well, because! Because I have unrealistic expectations. Because I really, really like myself just exactly this way. Because when I’m single I’m funny and rambunctious and relaxed. Because love makes me anxious and worried about losing things and having been there just too many times, the idea of loving anyone or anything more than my idiot cat absolutely terrifies me. That’s how come!

Instead, I just smiled, handed off the youngster to his mother, and shrugged.

“Oh, you know.â€ù

Winter moved in while I was away.

Three days absent and suddenly Fifth Avenue’s mannequins are bundled up in coats – the season’s ubiquitous red patent leather belts now wound between layers of argyle vests and scratchy wool jackets. I can’t help but feel that it won’t be but three more days before there’s tinsel and mistletoe dangling above all those headless shoulders. It’s only October. I think it’s a shame fall left so quickly, that I missed walking through Central Park, crunching through piles of leaves, half worried about what’s rotting or oozing underneath it. I want to yell at the window-dressers that I’m not done with autumn – bring back the corduroy and the cashmere! The body’s not even cold!

But then I realize mine is cold, tap a mittened palm to my freezing nose and walk faster to the subway.

After-parties. Police breaking up after-parties. Making out with a boy after the after-parties while his best friend snoozes on a recliner two feet away.

I missed out on a lot of extracurricular high school activities when I was actually in high school (because really, if there was one thing I loved more than the baby jesus it was rules). And had I known in advance that my ten year reunion was essentially going to be one big Do-Over, I’d have packed another suitcase and stayed for much longer than three days. Because, what about skipping classes? And puking on your boyfriend’s letter jacket in the Waffle House parking lot? And then having raging, melodramatic fights with your pissed off, puke covered boyfriend?

I mean, I was just getting started! Now I understand what people mean by the glory days.

Seriously, the reunion far exceeded all of my expectations. Any feelings awkwardness or insecurity I’d been dreading were either completely a product of my neurotically wild imagination or just way easier to ignore, what with all the tequila I ingested on the first night of the festivities.

“Oh, man, remember how we hated each other?â€ù

“Yes! But now, now I have a margarita and you’re so much more likeable!â€ù

It was unbelievably comforting to see that some people had not changed a bit in ten years. I mean, beyond a few laugh lines, some new facial hair or a wife and baby. And every new old face was a flood of memories – of French class dialogs about cheese sandwiches, of getting caught sort-of cheating in AP English, and of sneaking out of the house on a school night toâ€_ watch Aladdin.

Clearly I needed this Do-Over – to finally form a handful of less, um, Polly Anna-like high school memories.

And really, I tried. But sometime after the after-party, when I’d finished making everyone French toast and coffee, and we were sitting around watching The Notebook at someone’s parents’ house, I realized that you can hand a girl a Do-Over, but you can’t make her use it.

Stories and pictures to come.

When I was a little kid, the worst – absolute worst – chore in the whole wide eight-year-old world was doing the dinner dishes. A family of seven produces an awful lot of plates, cups, flatware. I dreaded the night it was my turn.

Strangely, as a grown up, I might put off the chore, but I actually like doing dishes, when it comes down to it. I like that I can see immediate progress (Oh, look how much I’m accomplishing! All those shiny forks!) and the hot sudsy water is sort of relaxing. Like a productive manicure. Except, you know, with bright yellow gloves.

And when I was very small, the logistics of dish-washing made doing the job all the more heinous. Too small to reach the kitchen sink, I had to stand on The Stool (a carpet covered step my father made out on his workbench one day to facilitate all this child labor), and to avoid getting drenched in Dawny water, I wore one of my mother’s aprons.

To keep it from falling off, I wore it folded over at the waist, with its strings crisscrossed and wrapped around my body twice.

On Saturday, I took on the task of winterizing my apartment. Out came the second goose down comforter, the pumpkin spice candles and the humidifier -which needed cleaning. Knowing I’d need vinegar for the heating coil and bleach for the water tank, I grabbed an apron (my gift from Gloria Steinem) off its hook in the kitchen. Looping it over my head, I reached for the strings, wrapped them around my waist, crossed them in back and brought them back around to the front…where they wouldn’t tie in a bow.

I stared at my hands hovering at my waist, confused. How come?

Then I laughed. And wondered just how many other twenty-year old habits I have lurking in me. Quite a few, I imagine. Like, how every once in a while, when I’m stressed out or frightened, I catch myself whispering a prayer – to a god I don’t really believe in – just because it’s habit.

Grabbing the apron strings, I sucked in my stomach, tied a tight little knot (which I’d later have to undo by prying at it with a fork tine), and headed to the sink. Because I am stubborn. And that shit’s twenty-something years old, too.

Sometime last week, I thought it would be a good idea to take on another freelance project. Ooh, work! I know. But the proceeds would cover the rest of my Costa Rica vacation, and so when December came, I’d be free to zip! down the mountains under the lush rainforest canopy without giving a single thought to evil things like interest rates or credit card debt.

Come 1:30 last night, though, I couldn’t have given a rat’s ass about any of those things. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Between the new project, the two iVillage articles I’d had in the cooker, my real job and this blog – which seriously, has been sadly lacking in story content for days now – I’m stretched just a leeeetle bit thin. I’ve found myself planning tasks and errands and even phone calls to family down to the half hour just so I can get them all done before… oh yeah, before I leave for my high school reunion on Thursday.

Which brings me to YOU, husband of Marcy.

You who, as rumor has it, told the high school reunioners that I had a blog. I don’t know who you are, or the lovely Marcy, for that matter, but you’re so grounded. Now how am I supposed to share amusing anecdotes about them when I get home? Or rant about the mean girl who wrote that heinous note our senior year, and then contacted me all friendly-like on myspace and I wanted to crawl through the internet and choke the living shit out of her? Huh? And what if I get drunk and busy with some dude from the Class of ’96 in the bathroom of the Old Cottonmill? There’s no way I can write about it now! There. You see. You’ve gone and ruined it for everyone!

Oh, who am I kidding? I have no shame. Stories, reunion and otherwise, forthcoming…

(The actual, word-for-word email I sent to Fresh Direct’s customer service department on Sunday afternoon.)

Holy cow, I am so frustrated.

My delivery was supposed to arrive this afternoon between 11 and 1pm. Now, I don’t consider myself an especially *important* person, but I picked that time because I had stuff going on. You know, plans. Meeting people, getting to the laundromat (I’m traveling this week, so clean underwear is a plus), etc.

So, 1:00 comes, and no food. Meanwhile, my fridge is empty and I was hoping that by lunch time, I’d be fed. No such luck. I call, only to be told that deliveries are running an hour and a half late. Fine. 2:30, 3:00, 3:30. No food. I call again and am PROMISED they’d be here by 4:00. Silly me, I believed! My food showed up at 5:38 PM.

Four hours and thirty-eight minutes late.

I love Fresh Direct. I tell people about it all the time. But I have to tell you, the basis for its appeal (besides how pretty the produce looks) is the reliability. For busy people, it’s ideal. But arriving almost five hours late? That’ll make me rethink my love for your service. And please, I know you’re trying to be nice, but refunding my $4.50 delivery charge is not going to make me forget waiting in my apartment, with a cart full of dirty laundry, and knowing that the movie ticket I bought online is not getting used.

Like I said, Holy cow, I’m frustrated. And I have big thoughts about not ordering my food from Fresh Direct anymore.

Thanks for all the pretty apples, though. Seriously.

Heather

Over the years, I’ve adopted a pretty strict policy against blogging about work. An exception can be made for blogging about a place I used to work, in which case, it’s totally safe to tell you that my old, old CEO used to lean over my desk on a regular basis, exposing cocaine-rimmed nostrils. And that his Number One was totally banging a senior designer we called Swoosh! because of the none-too-subtle noise she made when she walked.

Hey, my thighs touch, too, but they don’t come with a soundtrack.

I can also make an exception for my current job. The atmosphere and the people produce far, far fewer gripes and a whole lot of hilarity like wacky brainstorming sessions and silly across-the-office banter. I think my biggest work issue is that my coworkers (though in every other way outstanding) never, ever put the toilet seat down. And as the only female in this company, I feel I have to periodically make an announcement to remind them that I am not a den mother and that, holy shit, I can’t be the only one who knows where the paper towels are so why am I the only one filling the roll?

And then there’s my boss – the things that come out of his mouth!

“I’m your teammate,” he said this morning. “And as your teammate, I support you.”

“Except…”

“Except when you say stupid things.”

I could pretend to be offended (I’ve threatened to sue dozens of times over my threatening work environment), but that would be a waste of everyone’s time – time that could be used for a good pissing match.

“That’s why I’m the CEO and you’re not,” he declared once during one of our… discussions of creative difference.

“But you’re wrong. Being CEO won’t protect you from being wrong.”

“Yeah, but if you fire me, and I fire you, at the end of the day…”

“Which one will stick? Hmm… good point.”

Yesterday’s CEO-ism took the proverbial cake. After making some comment about girls without bangs (which I wasn’t actually paying much attention to), I whipped around in my seat.

“Did you just make fun of my hair?!”

“Are you kidding? Why do you think I hired you?”

“Because I have good hair? Ha! Wow. It’s so refreshing not to be loved for my brains. Too bad I was planning to get it all cut off for Locks of Love…”

“Try it! Just see how long you keep your job.”

What’s craziest about it is, I get actually get paid to sit around writing and being a smart ass. It’s like a dream. And don’t anyone dare pinch me. I’m feisty when provoked.

I’m never going to write about politics because, my god, don’t care. Not even a little. The country is going straight to hell, but I’ve got a bathroom drain that won’t unclog, a best good friend who makes boxed macaroni and cheese somehow very gourmet, a not always sane father to fret over and the world’s most obnoxious, delectable wonderment of a kitten to squelch, and all of that just seems to take up any space which would otherwise be dedicated to politics. Whatever, I still vote. Unless it cuts into kitten time.

I’m never going to write about current events or what’s going on with the media unless it’s exceptionally compelling (and by compelling, I mean salacious). And fashion? Unless it’s something really offensive (oh, yes, Crocs, I’m looking at you), I’ll leave it to the Fug girls. Because they know more about such things (shirring? smocking? So many terms to memorize! And we already covered the fact that my brain is busy with other things) and ultimately, we agree. Especially about formal shorts.

I’m never going to write about literature or science or sports or… what’s the green pie piece for on Trivial Pursuit? Whatever it is, I’m not going to write about that either. Economics, ecology, the environment. No, no, and unless it’s about polar bears drowning, probably not.

And so really, what that leaves me to write about is… me. What it’s like to be a very ordinary person on very ordinary days. What it’s like to know my friends and my family and have my sore nose. To see the things I see and to be possessed with sudden silly thoughts while riding the subway in the morning next to a man who smells like soap and pancakes. I mean, obviously, I should write more about my sisters. Because they are fascinating.

But maybe tomorrow. Mentioning so many things not about me has been thoroughly exhausting. I think I need to lie down.

After Friday, it was clear that I needed to take a bit of a break. You know, slow down. Get in touch with my less… psychotic side.

So I did. Friday night I got in some quality girl time with Sarah (and our sweet little friend, Frozen Mojito), then retreated to my couch where I spent the whole of Saturday with a down comforter and six hours of Gilmore Girls. And aside from the grisly discovery, it was lovely. I ordered in comfort foods and napped with Sir Hal. I read People Magazine and pretended to care about emaciated celebrities. I took two showers and a bath and sipped on a glass of red wine.

Now this is what I call relaxin’!

And you know what all that relaxin’ got me? A nasty ass head cold! I’ve spent my entire day bleary-eyed, making out with a box of Puff’s Plus (it’s the potion that really excites me) and resisting the temptation to wipe my nose on the sleeve of my sweatshirt a la a seven year old boy.

And punctuating all my sentences with sniff!

I know, it’s going around. Everyone’s getting it. I take some measure of comfort in the fact that a cold virus only lives about a week, so this is all just a temporary hell. And not to mention, that what with it going around like it is, people I don’t like very much will get it, too. And if there’s one thing I do love sharing with the miserable sumbitches in my life, it’s suffering.

Especially that unsightly, painful red ring of fire the beast leaves around the nostrils. I wish that one everyone I hate.

If we were playing Never Have I Ever, and it was your turn, and you said,

“Never have I ever…called it quits with a guy and then, months later, heard the very same speech, almost to the word, that he used to justify the calling of quits… while watching an old episode of The Gilmore Girls.”

I would totally have to do a shot.

Well, all I have to say is thank the sweet, sweet Baby J for Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson.

What? Do you mean to telll me you don’t remember pop idols when you say your prayers? You might want to consider it. I mean, without those two and their once-talked-about half time hoo-ha, there might never be a term for the scourge that has made my morning a casserole of four letter words and mini breakdowns.

Ah, the wardrobe malfunction. Silly TV debacle or frantic Friday morning exercise in terror. It’s just so damn versatile!

When I’m tired (and this week has been a doozy), even the smallest obstacle can become…well, big. Really big. That whole mountains and molehills thing mostly works here, but instead of mountains, let’s go with mountain ranges. Like the Himalayas. Example:

The bodice of my dress isn’t falling just so. Molehill.

The bodice of my dress isn’t falling just so, because of the drape of the silk fabric, leaving my left boob over-exposed while the right has apparently been seized with overwhelming stage fright, and no matter how I craftily I wield that itty bitty safety pin, I just can’t seem to fix it and holy mother of bob, why can’t I find a stupidly happy medium between die-alone-with-her-cat schoolmarm and die-alone-with-her-VD street corner hooker?!

Mount freaking Everest.

What’s even better is that all of that went down before I dropped the yogurt container and it shattered, leaving me standing in my kitchen, dumbstruck, covered nose to toes in strawberry goo. And before I put the lid on my cup at the deli and sprayed myself with hot coffee. And before the wind confirmed for a whole sidewalk of people that yes, indeed, my pantyhose do have that handy tummy-slimming panel.

Flirty skirt, my ass. In this weather, it’s a two-bit whore.

And there you have my Himalayan morning. All this malfunctioning has left me half-crazy, which on top of the exhaustion, is really quite the spectacle. Kinda like when I was a kid and couldn’t get my ponytail just so (a lumpy ponytail being the definitive end of my seven year old world), and having stomped and raged and collapsed into a snotty, sobbing heap on the floor, left everyone else in the household bewildered and frightened.

I need a nap, a hug, some warm socks and french fries with melted cheese. Right. Now.

I wake up, blink into the grey morning light, groan and swing my feet onto the wood floor. Craning my neck to one side, I pull back my shoulders and hear a familiar, sharp, but not unpleasant snapping sound. I yawn, stretch and think very seriously about resetting the alarm. Fifteen more minutes?

I decide against it, tempted more by a shower and breakfast. Once on my feet, I wiggle my toes, flex my ankles and frown, feeling a new stiffness in my arches. Up, down, up, down on the balls of my feet, like an awkward, aged ballerina. Sir Hal joins me, dancing in and out of my legs, a furry obstacle underfoot for the short walk to the bathroom. I trip and hop, rubbing absentmindedly at a sore right knee.

The shower is too hot, but I leave it, adjusting the head so that the spray sends its fiery blasts onto my hips. I bend away from the water, fingertips reaching down to the porcelain, curling under my toes. The heat does its work as I settle into what appears to be a strange new shower yoga.

Head, shoulders, knees and toes – all of it aches to some degree. I towel off and quickly consider the reason. I could be puzzled by the aches and pains of my non-old age, or misattribute it to post-gym soreness. Instead, I simply think out loud (as one does in front the bathroom mirror, with a feline audience lounging in the sink),

“Must be the change in the weather.”

And then, as I lean forward to smooth cream under the eyes of my steam-smeared reflection, a second truth erupts and tumbles out of my mouth and into a pair of pointy black ears below,

“My god. I have become my father.â€ù

“Welcome to my pregnancy,” Torrie said, shifting around on the living room sofa, trying to get comfortable.

I smiled. I love being pregnant vicariously. I get to squeal at the first heartbeat, speculate about the baby’s sex, pick out names and obsessively peek at sonogram pictures – and not experience one ounce of discomfort. It’s the very best of arrangements.

While Torrie fidgeted with pre-natal newness and the perpetual almost-belch, her Husband sat back with a glass of wine on the couch next to her, and I scrunched up on the club chair to watch Nip/Tuck.

“Mmmm, I’m craving orange juice.â€ù She annouced a bit later.

“Want me to go get you some?â€ù Husband asked, eager to feed the need.

“No, no. That’s not it at all. Just announcing my craving.â€ù She looked at me. “Like I said, welcome to my pregnancy.â€ù

“You sure?â€ù Husband asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.â€ù

And I believed her. Hers did not sound like one of those put-on sures, where she actually means, Yes, you turd. Because of you I am knocked up and you should be getting me some damn orange juice. Her mouth had merely been working at the same speed as her brain. Husband said okay, sat back in his seat, and then, after a moment looked at me.

“You know what I suddenly got a craving for?â€ù

“Hmmm, what?â€ù Though, I knew full well what he was about to say.

“Orange juice.â€ù

I laughed. And he disappeared out the door, down the elevator to the deli below where he bought orange juice (the kind of orange juice that she just loves) and, in anticipation of future cravings, a Three Musketeers Bar.

I loved every second of that exchange. I loved him being so eager to please her, her being so pleased by it – she sat, in a sort of bashful glow as she waited for him to come back – and being so thankful for him and that gesture. I loved that this was how he participated in the very earliest stages of her pregnancy.

My participation mostly consisted of What Can I Get You’s and a hearty high five when she finally let off that belch.

1. If you emailed me about designing a t-shirt, I’ll be in touch tonight! ‘’ve made some decisions that will make it easier and more choice-iful for everyone. Choice-iful. New word. Try using it in a sentence today. The deadline for designs will be October 15.

2. If you emailed me about being a guinea pig, you will also hear from me tonight. I have your first “assignment.â€ù That’s in quotation marks because it’s not so much work as it is fun. Because, come on, this is me. Way more of a “funâ€ù fan.

3. I tried on a pair of single-digit sized, non-stretchy material pants yesterday. And they looked awesome. No wiggling, so squats, no adjusting. Just zip! like on a hanger. Just thought you should know. It’s basically the highlight of the last few months of not eating ice cream and loads of melted cheese (mmmmcheese) so I’m gonna go ahead and be real proud of it. Rock.

On Wednesday, Jen and I booked our December vacation – the second in our series of Not So Brave Girls Doing Brave(ish) Things.

It all started in the fall of 2004 with a drunk idea that turned into stuffing our backpacks full of the essentials (walking shoes, headscarves, Imodium) and, after a day of lollygagging in Southern Spain, boarding a ferry for Morocco.

It was Stupid and Fancy meets Foreign and Scary.

Tangiers was beyond terrifying. Having lived abroad, I was hardly naïve about other cultures, but that place was alien (and thankfully unlike any of our other Moroccan experiences). The rest of the trip was real adventure. We slept on trains, squatted over bottomless holes to do our business, and got very, very sick from eating apricots in the open market. One of us, anyway. The other bravely wandered a foreign city at dawn, to the music of the Ramadan minarets, in search of an open pharmacy. God love the other one.

Costa Rica will be much less of all of that – especially the almost dying thing. It will be more bungalows and spa services and tropical drinks while soaking in hot springs. Some horseback riding, beach lounging and souvenir shopping. There will also be some canopy tours and zip lines and hours of driving a rented 4×4 on washed out roads. We figured we’d throw that in to keep things a little edgy.

Once the trip was booked, and our deposits deposited, Jen emailed me a P.S.

Jen: Can we call this trip our honeymoon?

Heather: Um… YES.

Jen: I doubt any real honeymoon I ever may or may not have will beat it. SO ROMANTIC.

Heather: I was just thinking that I might never get a real one, and so why shouldn’t this be my honeymoon? I mean, sure, lots, LOTS less sex but all sorts of mutual admiration and romantic settings.

Jen: Does that mean we get presents? A party?

Heather: Oh, dude. Let’s REGISTER!

Jen: It will weed out who our real friends are.

Heather: If we don’t get a KitchenAid mixer, we get new friends.

Jen: If they don’t support me in my decisions, I don’t need them in my life.

God, I can’t wait for December.

Hey, anyone know if there’s a way to download language courses for my iPod? While the language barrier will be less of an issue this time (though, seriously to our French teachers’ credit, we succeeded in getting everything we needed in Morocco), I should do a little brushing up on my Spanish. If it’s possible to estudiar my espanol on the subway? I’d so be down.

UPDATE: I graduated with a degree in Spanish, and so at one point (some five or six years ago) I was fluent. What I’m looking for is a refresher… maybe something a little higher level than what’s on iTunes.

Provo, Utah. 1998. If you read yesterday’s post, I mentioned a conversation I had in the bookstore where I worked during college. This is that totally bizarre conversation.

“Aren’t you jealous?”

I looked up from the Harry Potter galley I was reading and there was the Bird Man. That wasn’t his name because we liked to make fun of him. It was from the large, expensive ornithology books he’d special order from Dave or Walter. No one knew his real name. He was one of those customers who came in often but never cared to make friends with any of the staff. And he stood out. It was obvious that he was at least, mildly mentally handicapped. Large and clumsy, he always wore what looked like safety goggles. I’d wondered if that said something about exactly how clumsy he was, or if he simply needed an extra strength prescription and security against losing his glasses.

“Aren’t you jealous?” he asked again.

Reluctant to start a conversation with him, I had tried to ignore what he’d said. Pass it off as not meant for me. What would I have to be jealous of – that he would know about anyway? I looked him over. His teal t-shirt was stained and haphazardly shoved below a canvas belt into loose khakis, goggles pushed back on his nose revealing a deep dent in the bridge. He was clutching a large volume (a bird book, without a doubt).

“Jealous of what?”

“That they stole your Star Wars idea.”

I raised my eyebrows and choked on a laugh. Even the Birdman was not immune to the current media hype. I swallowed the laugh back down, not wanting to be unkind to him. He was harmless and I did not want to embarrass him.

“It was your idea and they took it from you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But what can I do about it now?”

“You should sue George Lucas for 90 million dollars.”

“But I don’t really need that much money.” I watched his face as he considered my answer. He was obviously convinced that I’d been cheated.

“You’re on the board of directors and they keep stealing your ideas.”

“Yeah, well…”

I was starting to feel a little awkward. There was no script on my end, though he seemed to know exactly what was going on. But I didn’t need to say one word more. Suddenly, as though he’d become aware of reality and his diversion from it, he straightened up, jabbed a meaty finger at his goggles and walked off down the aisle.

Sir Hal and I went on an expedition this weekend to the dark under-regions of my bed. I suspect that His Excellency went along mostly for the stray pillow feathers and dust bunnies, but I was on a real mission. Eventually, he gave up hunting entirely to curl up into impossibly tiny spaces in my storage bins while I raised my eyebrows and asked questions like, “You can’t really be comfortable, can you?” And “If you see anything labeled Emotional Wreckage from High School, let me know, okay?”

I was searching for Cringe material. I’ve been promising Sarah that I’d get up and bare my post-adolescent soul for a while now. Unfortunately, it seems I didn’t really get a proper grasp on journal drama until after college (and by then, it was called blogging), so nothing I had in the under-bed territory was even remotely Cringe-worthy. Even the poems to ex boyfriends seemed a little too poignant to be funny. I could just picture the audience shifting uncomfortably in their chairs as I read, and then, as the show got out, remarking to their companions, “Well, no wonder she’s like she is. My god.”

I don’t need to be that understood. Ever.

What I did find, was a pile of spiral notebook papers torn from my college journal, a folder labeled PERSONAL! from my first real job in Boston and a pile of photographs from ages I seem to have forgotten I’d ever been.

A week or so ago, while in the park with Torrie and her husband, I told them a story about the Bird Man — an autistic savant who used to buy these enormously expensive ornithology volumes at the bookstore where I worked. I couldn’t remember the exact wording of our exchange, and so as funny as it was, I felt like something got lost in the translation. Well, lo and behold, I was just as nutty then about writing down conversations as I am now. It’s good enough to be it’s own post, though, so look for it tomorrow.

In the PERSONAL! folder was every quarterly review I’d received while working for the architecture/monkey firm over three and a half years. Reading those was certainly cringe-worthy. For the first two years, each review said basically the same thing. Smart, but not aggressive or assertive. Good worker, but not fully accepted in the department. I remember those years. Of course I wasn’t aggressive. It was a job and I didn’t care about being anything more than a marketing assistant …ever so long as my bills were paid, my feet clad in cute shoes and my freezer properly stocked with Ben & Jerry. And no, I wasn’t fully accepted in the department. The politics of that place didn’t interest me. So I stayed an outsider.

Then something happened. I got a bit of ambition. I got a promotion, a raise and a new smart black suit. The reviews changed. Suddenly I was the most under-utilized talent at the firm! A star! A creative genius! Well, all but one changed. The president of the company (by virtue of a recent coup d’etat) had written a comment that sent me rocketing back to 2003, right smack dab into the fury and frustration that accompanied every single interaction I had with him.

Lacks follow-through.

The details of the story (he was referring to a specific incident with a fax) are not worth the finger energy to type them. But I was reminded of exactly the kind of person I never want to work for again. And of the kind of corporate hell to which I will never enslave myself again. Seriously, if I saw that guy on the street, I’d push him in front of traffic. And never feel bad for one second.

Okay, maybe right before I died. But only for a heartbeat and only because all dying people are just a little bit afraid of jesus.

Thank you for volunteering!

Right now, I’m busy making a spreadsheet (nerd!) of names and email addresses and as soon as I can get all that done, I’ll be sending out details — and getting back to blogging.

Just a few more hours, I promise.

I found some sparkling gems during my under-bed treasure hunt this weekend. But before I get to those, I have a few items of miscellanea I want to get out there. Don’t worry; I’ll keep this short.

On-line Marketing person needed. Badly! Know a whole buncha shit about on-line business development? Want a job outside of corporate hell? Go here. Read. Apply. If, you know, it applies.

Guinea pigs needed. Just as badly! Are you single? Want to help me with a project I’m working on and win my undying devotion (That comes with a certificate, by the way — signed and sealed.)? Leave a comment (with your email address in the URL box) or drop me an email (fish at thisfish dot com) with Guinea Pig in the subject line.

P.S. Thanks for all the Tshirt responses! I’m going to keep the lines open until the middle of the week and then, for everyone who’s expressed interest, send out the details. This is going to be even awesomer than last time.

*** UPDATE ***
Wow! Thanks! I have so many volunteers, I’ll be busy til spring! Thanks guys. I’m turning comments off now, or my head will start spinning.