Remember the This Fish tshirts? I’ve been thinking about bringing them back. Only, this time, with a twist or two.

Twist in the first: All the proceeds go to charity. Last time, we ordered a couple hundred and sold out in a matter of days. I bought running shoes. It was awesome. But like Cher said, “Tis a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people.” So that’s what we’re doing. Stuff for other people.

Twist in the second: I’d like one of you to design them. We’ll have a contest. And the winner will get half of the proceeds donated to his/her charity. Now, don’t you want to use your popularity for a good cause? The shirts would, of course, have the website logo on them. Just to be clear.

Twist in the third: Real shirts for real folks. Those baby t’s last time were sort of a joke for anyone who actually eats more than twice a week. And me, I eat at least eight days a week, so I’m down with shirts that fit. Maybe even long sleeves this time, for the upcoming season.

Okay, three twists. But how’s that for an idea?

If you could be interested in ordering a shirt (no, I know you haven’t seen them yet; this is all just very hypothetical), leave a comment so I can get a rough idea. If you are interested in designing the shirt and getting a chunk o’ change for charity, please email fish at thisfish dot com with the word Tshirt in the subject line. The subject line part is extra important. I get a lot of spam, so if the subject line isn’t there, I will probably miss it.

Ready… go!

(A Fish Shirt in Paris (above) by La Cquette. Last year’s tshirt also seen here modeled by Brandon at One Child Left Behind.)

Sarah Brown’s rules of vestment: No sweaters before October and no tights and boots before the day’s high temperature is in the 60′s.

Well, when I woke up this morning and weather.com told me it was only fifty-something degrees (with no intentions of reaching beyond seventy-nothing), I looked at Sir Hal, lounging in his sunny windowsill and said,

“Ooh, buddy! It is on!”

Then I scurried to the front closet where I dragged out a pair of knee-high boots. Then opaque tights from the top drawer, a wee black skirt from its plastic hanger and a crisp raspberry button-down still wrapped in department store tissue paper.

Hellooooo autumn!.

I love a turn in the seasons. Spring and fall have to be my favorites, mostly because of the implied mildness of them. Summer says sunburns and atrocious electricity bills. Winter says tight, dry skin and hunchbacked runs from shelter to shelter. Fall says so many things – all of them whimsically, nonchalantly and punctuated by things caught up in sudden, skirt-lifting breezes.

Because the whimsy of fall is so short-lived, I think I’m going to go for a walk. Right now. Work will be here when I get back. It always is. It will still be here waiting when winter arrives, its steamer trunk packed full for a long stay, when working seems the pleasing alternative to a six block walk in the elements. When any breeze that lifts your skirt is a cruel one.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

P.S.
As soon as I wrote the title of this post, I got this funny image in my head of hippies sitting cross-legged in a hazy, dark VW van. And it amused me. Not at all what I meant, but just as good. Or better. And now I find myself a little jealous that I never got to experience that kind of high in the sixties. What a love fest.

“This is going to sound cheesy,” she said. Then she narrowed her eyes, shifted her weight to one hip and gave me this look that said she was sizing me up. For ability to get cheesy. I must have passed the Get Test because she continued. “But when I take a person’s portrait, what I’m really trying to do is show them the beauty I see in them. The beauty they don’t see.”

And this – precisely this – is why I asked Torrie to shoot my photo in Central Park on Sunday.

I know what you’re thinking. Oh the vanity! But nothing doing. This is far, far more calculated than vanity.

For Christmas last year, my mother asked for a nice picture of me. It was all she wanted – pictures of her children to line her mantle. I sent her nothing that Christmas. Why? Well, for one, I felt ugly. Just back from winter vacation with friends, their cameras had recorded an image of me that I couldn’t even begin to reconcile. It wasn’t what I saw in my head, what I associated with the name, Heather. There were plenty of reasons for that.

If you become unhappy enough, it is possible to dissolve into a version of yourself, an iteration entirely unrecognizable. Grotesque, even.

Secondly (and very closely related to the first), it seems that lately, every time I look at a picture of myself, I see the same thing. A strained thinness to my top lip, a flatness in my eyebrows. A smile that isn’t really. It’s tension. And it’s evidence. Of just how uneasy I am about what’s happening in that little digital box. And about where that picture is going to end up.

Flickr comments terrify me. They just do. Probably because imperfection terrifies me.

Torrie has a remarkable series of self portraits (a few of which have shown up in places like the New York Times) that I got to browsing one day. They range from funny to stark and unsettling to emotional and moving. As I was clicking through her flickr page, it occurred to me. I would ask Torrie to take my picture. She is amazing behind a camera. And what’s more, she is a woman and knows women (and their insecurities). But most of all, she really understands faces. And light. And beauty.

I was thrilled when she agreed. And I was grateful because she understood right away what this project meant to me – not only in terms of the actual pictures, but in what I needed to get from the experience. Wear dark colors and meet her at the 79th Street entrance to Central Park at 4PM on Sunday. Those were here instructions. She didn’t tell me to smile, how to hold my head or where to look. She moved a few stray hairs and told me I made her job easy. And for once, I did not have to tell myself to relax.

When the woman with the camera tells you you’re pretty, it’s one thing. When you actually believe it, that is quite another. Because then, it shows.

On Sunday morning, I woke up early (as is my habit), decided I was still drunk and went back to bed. Until 2PM.

The Stephanie Klein/Suitor wedding on Saturday night was perfect. Simultaneously laidback and exquisite in every detail (not to mention heavy on the food and drink), it was everything I’d have expected from my favorite redheaded blogstress. I had the absolute best time. The food and wine pairings were so unbelievable that by the time we got to the dessert, I was certain I’d been translated to the glorious hereafter. Ooh, look! There’s the baby jesusâ€_ over there on the cheese plate!

Drinks, eats andâ€_ music. I didn’t dance a single dance, but I sure-as-shit belted out a few selections from Moulin Rouge along with the rest of Table 9. Take that, table 8! And we have choreography! Awesomest idea ever – having the talent from Brandy’s Piano Bar as your entertainment for the evening.

The bride, of course, looked amazing. And while the twins may have been tucked beneath layers of satin, they were still present – making several mentions is the ceremony as well as the speeches. It was so touching and sweet. I think every bride should be pregnant at her wedding – it just adds a whole new reason to cry happy tears.

I can’t wait for the pictures. Unfortunately, the bag that matched my shoes was way too small to fit a camera in it.

Or rather, fortunately. Because by the end of the night I’d dumped a glass of port on the whole thing and I’ve yet to meet a single electronic gadget that’s totally wine-proof.

Every once in a while, a fashion trend will completely mystify, and frankly, offend me. Teva sandals (though my mother will make a pretty persuasive argument for their comfort), plastic man clogs (Dooce has been waging a really entertaining war against her husband’s unfortunate fashion choice in this category), and super low rise anything (seriously, say no to crack).

The Skinny Jean is the newest offender. They aren’t, by nature, exactly evil. But the skinny jean, contrary to seemingly popular opinion, was not meant to be worn universally. Unless you are actually skinny – and I’m talking pre-puberty or heroin chic – you should know that the skinny jean was not made for you. And vice versa. The bootleg jean – now that was made to be worn by women of, well, womanly shape.

Wandering the aisles at Target one night, Sarah and I began a rant about this new fashion evil. When a fellow shopper, who was by most definitions quite thin, turned to tell us that ohmygod, she could not agree more, we realized that we were not alone in our hatred. So we put on our God hats and made a list of figures (public and private), who may and may not wear skinny jeans. Our decision is final.

Nicole Richie may wear skinny jeans. Because she might as well. What is offensive about Nicole is her horrifying gauntness and she’s gonna look that way in whatever she wears.
That one Olsen Twin may wear skinny jeans. See above.
Kate Moss may wear skinny jeans. See comment about heroin chic.
Twelve year old girls may wear skinny jeans.
Twelve year old boys may wear them, as well. In fact, many males of any age could pull off the skinny jean. They must, however, do so only for the purposes of irony or entertainment. Drag queens fall into this category. Jared Leto does not.
Your friends may not wear skinny jeans. And you must not let them. Do not lie to save their feelings. Unless you are friends with Kate Moss or Nicole Richie, of course. Now, allowing that some of you may have friends with unfortunate eating disorders, you must still not let them wear skinny jeans. This will only encourage improper eating.

I hope this clears things up. We’ll talk about leggings later. I feel a little dizzy. Also, when I get over the dizziness, we will address the HORROR that is Gap using Audrey Hepuburn’s lovely likeness to sell the skinny jean sub-atrocity: the skinny black pant. Unthinkable.

FYI: After giving up my afternoon coffee yesterday, I suffered a mild but annoying headache around 4PM and was blissfully out cold by 9:30. I think this is something I can work with.

“This lady, she drink too much coffee!”

I didn’t have to look up from where I was stirring Equal into my cup to know she was talking about me. It was my third cup. And it was only 11:45. When I did finally turn back to the counter, all three cashiers were smiling at me. I was the new girl in the neighborhood and we were getting acquainted real fast.

When I was sick last week, all I had to do was stand at the counter and smile. The smile was answered with hollering.

“Largeicedcoffeeskimmilktwoequal!”

Et voila. Caffeination. Little did I know, but I was being judged the whole time.

“The lady at the deli thinks I drink too much coffee.”

“She’s probably right,” my coworker Max said, gesturing at the waste basket near my desk.

“Pfft! Meanwhile, I’m going out. Want some?”

“No, thanks. I’m trying to end my relationship with caffeine.”

“What? God, I could never. We’re moving in together. Coffee and I are getting married. I’ll send you an invitation.”

But then last night, as I lay in bed watching the clock burn away the late night – and then very early morning – hours, I thought maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe it’s time coffee and I took a break. You know, started seeing other people. I mean, they don’t have the same edge, but I guess have met a few herbal teas that were sort of sweet.

God, this is not going to be easy.

Illustration by Alina Chau. Used with permission.

Posing for the photo op, Gloria rested her hand on my knee for balance.

Gloria Steinem. Touching my knee. I was certain that she had to be transmitting some marvelous wisdom through her touch and that when I left, I would be imbued with knowledge and enlightenment and a sense of overriding purpose.

Sadly, I’m just as clueless today as I was before the GreenStone Media launch, but ecstatic in my cluelessness for having met and talked to one of the greatest smart asses of our time. She’s funny, that one. And so sincere. And at 72, really smoking hot. I mean it.

I’ve never been too wowed into worship of celebrities. I never even had a New Kids on the Block poster. But I went all dumb and doe-eyed the minute she turned her attention on me. And as she and Sarah chatted, I watched and listened hoping to absorb some of her … her whatever it is that makes her such a presence.

She digs the lady bloggers, too. Which, of course, means she knows a good thing when she sees it.

The launch party was a congregation of who’s who in media. We were rubbing elbows with the likes of Jane Fonda, Deborah Norville (extra nice), Rita Cosby (holy shit, the makeup on this woman could have, as my father says, choked a camel), Emme (astoundingly gorgeous in person) and… Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. Yeah, you heard me. And despite making an entrance that said, “I am too cool for school and yes, bitches, I do need my shades indoors,” he was awesome and super patient during our camera malfunctions.

I can’t wait to share the photos!

Leaving the party was something of a downer and a huh?. Or rather, the gift bag was a big huh?. At the launch of a women’s radio network – the concept of which was really lovely and empowering – guests were given any combination of the following items:

A diet book
An apron
A pot holder

Mmm hmm. I met Gloria Steinem and got an apron. Confused, I dug around in the bag but just couldn’t seem to find my instructions on how to get barefoot and pregnant in just four easy steps. I’ll have to look it up on the internet, I guess.

The apron did have a saving grace, though. It was a Sweet Potato Queens apron. And there’s nothing under-empowered about those ladies. God, I love them. And I am committed to using that apron just as they would have me do.

I’m gonna prance around my apartment in it – otherwise completely naked. Except, of course, for my tiara.

My weekend got off to a rather inauspicious start.

An hour or so after takeoff, I excused myself from my window seat in row 5, made a beeline for the lavatory and spent the next several minutes crouched over the toilet, yakking my guts out. It is my habit to avoid using airplane bathrooms. Ever. Even if it means holding it for five hours and politely declining in-flight beverage service. For one, I really don’t like that unholy thick blue water. No siree. Not for me. I’d rather wait to land and use a filthy toilet with naturally filthy colored water. You know. The devil you know and all. I’ve never been a real big fan of the “don’t get too close or you might get sucked out” sound the toilet makes when you flush it, either.

Turns out, the whole experience is exponentially worse when you’ve got your face right up in the whole mess. Like I said. Inauspicious.

Thankfully, things got better.

I will now make every effort not to leave the impression that the shoes I bought on Friday were the highlight of my weekend in Phoenix. Because we all know that The Brother Wedding gets that distinction. Hands down. But I will let you know that never before has anyone been happier to own a pair of wine-colored suede pumps. Ever. They are gorgeous.

And so was the wedding. Nice transition, eh?

The bride looked like Cinderella (which is the highest compliment anyone can be paid, in my opinion) and it would be a huge lie to say that some of us did not spend a great deal of time trying to figure out just how my brother landed that. She’s just lovely. I’d really like to show you the picture I took with the bride and groom, only the groom had grown tired of being photographed and could not be coerced into keeping a straight face. But my sisters, they all sat very nicely for a photo.

And so did these cacti. Not a peep out of ‘em.

And this is my sister, Joyce, right before we laughed ourselves silly dancing the Charleston (or some approximation thereof) in the bathroom of the banquet hall.

The secret of a Mormon wedding, we found, is ordering and consuming the liquor before the believers arrive. Nothing comes closer to righteously joyful than joyfully buzzed.

Plus, it sure makes all those newlywed sex jokes all that much more funny.

When I got up this morning, I was in a pretty sorry state. All mucous (gross, right?) and cough drop wrappers and t-minus ten hours from getting on a five hour plane ride to Phoenix – I figured I had to do something. But short of insurance fraud (don’t think I didn’t seriously consider it), I didn’t have many options.

Turns out, I only needed one.

I may not currently have health insurance (such is the conundrum of getting sick right after starting a new job), but I have a Goldner. And he’s worth every penny of his premiums, I tell you. Goldy hooked me up with his mom and Dr. Dia, who made a call to Duane Reade and presto! I am medicated!

Can I tell you how excited I am at the prospect of actually sleeping tonight? Oh, blessed Codeine. Let’s never be apart again.

Still grossed out about the mucous? Yeah, me too. But get over it. If you only knew the horrific descriptions Ari has had to sit through over the years. Friendship (with me, at least) is not for the squeamish.

So, I’m off to Phoenix now for the wedding – AKA Operation New Sister. I always thought three younger sisters was plenty, but seriously, this girl is so cool, I don’t mind taking on another. On my return I promise a few wedding photos, one or two madcap sibling stories (my brother once wrote the entire Star Wars Trilogy in Haiku. He’s pretty much a guarantee for weirdness.), and an update on the zzzzuh!.

Bet you can’t wait!

I’ll be honest: Microdermabrasion was kind of uncomfortable.

But not like when your dentist tells you, “This is going to be uncomfortable,” and then it hurts so intensely that you want to get all Phillip Seymour Hoffman, MI:III on him and kill his loved ones while he watches. Not at all. Like one commenter suggested, it really did feel like a cat licking my face. But then, that’s why I don’t let my cat lick my face. Because it’s uncomfortable. And not to mention, germy.

I know, I know. I’m cold and unfeeling.

Anyway, a few minutes before Elizabeth was to start the procedure, I got a little bit nervous. Actually, a lot nervous. Having read and signed the disclaimer, my mind suddenly filled with visions of a red, welty-faced me being asked to sit out of my brother’s wedding photos. The family shame. The Boo Radley of the Hunter clan.

I had a wee panic attack.

“Um, I know the form says that my skin could be red for a few weeks, but how long does it normally last?”

“Not long,” she said, shrugging. “It will probably be gone before you leave here. That is, if it gets red at all.”

I wanted to believe her. So I laid back and let the cat-licking begin. When I got home, I dropped my bags by the front door and headed and straight for the bathroom mirror to check out the damage.

Of which there was none. Not a single blotch.

Over the next few days, I waited for the “worse before its better” phase – like I had experienced with the glycolic peel. And it never came. For the last week now I’ve had clear, glowy skin without the least bit of irritation. So there! And it’s not just how it looks that I’m in love with. It feels amazing, too.

So, either now I am an addict or a believer. I don’t care which as long as it comes with freakin’ awesome skin.

Oh! And while I was at SilkSkin for my microgerbilraisin (I have Biscuit and his friend Rachel to thank for the new word) I also go hooked up with one of these. You know the Sonicare toothbrush? Well, it’s like that. Only for your face. It pulses and spins and cleans your face better, supposedly, than you can. Frankly, I thought she might have been overselling it a bit when she talked about how great it was. It’s a toothbrush for your face. Whoopity do.

Well, whoopity-do, consider me over-sold!

I don’t know if it’s the brush itself or in combination with the microderm, but every morning and night, my skin feels a-mazing. I can’t help but get this nerdy little feeling of excitement when it’s time to wash my face. Like it’s the most thrilling part of my day. Eh, maybe it is. But is that so wrong? The outcome totally justifies the anticipation. Every single time.

How many things can you say that about, ladies? Hmmm?

That’s what I thought.

A: Jessica Simpson, John Mayer and me.

Q: Who has laryngitis?

The sun finally came out of exile this weekend, but I wouldn’t know too much about that. The only time I actually saw it (other than watching it pass by my living room window) was when I trekked across the street to buy popsicles and cough drops.

I’d say that the highlight of my ten minute furlough had to be playing charades with the man at the deli to get a cup of coffee.

Heather: (pointing behind the counter) wheeze, squeak, squeak?
Deli Man: Cigarettes?

Good guess. But no. After a few more squeaks and gestures, I headed home, coffee in hand, to several more hours of Little House on the Prairie, Season II.

My alarm clock was glowing a single digit hour this morning when I woke from crazy, delirious dreams to the happy discovery that my fever had finally broken. I was happy, not only because it meant the end of aching joints and hot flashes, but also because I wanted to go to work in the morning. Imagine that. Wanting to go to work. Satisfied, I stripped, tossing my damp nightgown to the floor, traded my sweat soaked pillow for a cool, dry one, and returned to my delirious dreams.

Turns out, personality and not fever is responsible for this brand of delirium.

Sans fever, I’m still not operating on full batteries. I’m tired as hell and my voice is shot. Everything I say sounds like it has proceeded hours and hours of crying – perhaps over the terribly sad news about the death of beloved Crocodile Hunter (no joke, though, I was really upset by that).

When I spoke to my mother last night her first reaction was,

“Who do I have to kill? Because I will fly to New York and kill whoever has upset you.”

Aw, right? Now that’s a loving mother! Once we’d established that I was sick and not dying of a broken heart, we noted a few holes in her plan.

“Actually, I probably can’t afford to fly out there.”

“Yeah. But I bet there are plenty of people here in this city who’d do it for much less than the cost of a last-minute plane ticket.”

“True. I could always just leave a comment on your blog.”

Good to know she’d be resourceful in a time of crisis. But seriously? In the event that my mom ever does use my comments to advertise for a hit man, I hereby disavow all knowledge.

I have a hard time throwing things out. Used up, worn out, broken or incomplete – it doesn’t matter; I’m gripped with minor anxiety over sending one of my possessions off to its fate at the landfill.

Take, for instance, the case of the black shoes.

I bought them at a small shoe store on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge. Four years ago. I’ve worn them in two cities during the worst winter weather – salted streets, slush puddles and snow banks. The thick sole of the right shoe is split all the way through, the stitching on the left is unraveling. And when I caught one of Ari’s puppies gnawing at it under the coffee table last fall my reaction was, “Meh. Not like it’ll make any difference.” The leather on one of the heels had begun to peel.

Knowing that the shoes were on their last leg, I’d scouted out – and found – a suitable replacement. And yet, when Saturday afternoon found me cleaning out my closets, I couldn’t seem to put them in the trash. What if they could still be useful? Maybe I still needed them. I mean, who throws away a pair of (once)perfectly good shoes?

I did, eventually. Throw them out, I mean. But it wasn’t easy. It’s a function of a greater problem I like to call Beingwrongphobia, a subject I’m sure we’ll get to eventually.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. My mother emailed me a picture of the family backpacking trip, a photo of the group clutching their morning oatmeal, looking hungry and cold. One sister is wearing, by the looks of things, at least three layers of thermal clothing. My other sister is wearing sweats and an expression on her face somewhere between misery and complete misery. And my mother, a maroon and white checkered hand-me-down shirt. That I bought in the eighth grade. Fifteen years ago.

“Holy cow, woman!”

“Yeah, sigh, the shirt is getting old. I have worn it every time I have gone camping.”

She described the decay of the shirt – the fraying cuffs, the collar that’s one washing away from coming off – and then added that maybe, just maybe it had one or two good trips left in it.

And suddenly the universe made complete sense. Clearly, I have no control over who I am or what I do. Because my mother’s super-human strength neuroses are woven, wound and super-glued into my double-helixes.

Good thing she was so good with the nurture thing. ‘Cause she really screwed me over when it came to nature.

zzzzuh! -noun

1. When a man, who is neither conventionally good looking, nor what you would ordinarily define as your “type,” walks into the room, and the moment your eyes lock, something in your brain screams, “Yes! I want to have your babies!”

That, my friends is the zzzzuh!, and there is no mistaking it.

This is going to be awesome.

Before working out of a ramshackle school in East Harlem, there were a lot of things about office life that I took for granted. Things like, functional equipment, bathrooms that did not impose fear of incurable, communicable diseases and proximity to non-fried foods.

I spent the first day at my new job yesterday ducking in and out of meetings and brainstorming sessions, making work plans and – get this – writing my own job description. I have been working in a professional environment in some capacity for the last, oh, thirteen years or so. Why have I not had to do this before? It’s brilliant. I know exactly what I’m going to do (on the downside, I now have no excuse for being ignorant of any job responsibilities) and some idea of how to accomplish it. This is a very good thing.

Know what else is a very good thing? My chair. Not only is it not broken, it is extremely comfortable in that ever-so-tricky lumbar region.

Oh, and the Charmin Ultra in the bathroom is good, too. By now you should know how I feel about high quality paper products. Especially those which touch my, um, products. Institutional toilet paper should only ever be forced upon prisoners and middle schoolers – people who, by their own behaviors, do not deserve any better. If you work in an office, you pay taxes. If you pay taxes, your heiny deserves better than one-ply. Simple as that.

Toilet paper tangent over.

I am going to tell you about the microdermabrasion, but later. I feel like I jumped the gun last time, talking about the glycolic peel before I’d seen the full effect. For instance, the day of and day after the peel were great. But you missed out on the fact that the next day was not so great. I got a little bit reptilian. The day after, more reptile. Then the next day, back to great. Ten days of great, actually. So I think if I wait a bit, I’ll be more informative and those of you playing along at home will know better what to expect. Look at me being so socially responsible!

Also, I have a new toy I’ll tell you about later, too. Yeah, it vibrates.

This morning, I left my freshly-cleaned apartment for my first day at a brand new job. Excitement! And this evening, I am going leave here and head uptown for even more of that good, clean-slate feeling. Microdermabrasion!

Tonight I’ll be all pink-faced and full of stories. But for now, I’m busy as all get-out. So in the meantime, why don’t you go ahead and list all the things you hate about your friends’ grammar mistakes?

What? Oh, you already did? Well, I’m sure you can come up with a few more.

Viva la picky!

***UPDATE***
Whoa! Okay, guys. I was being a little sarcastic there. Fine. More than a little. I didn’t mean to encourage any more griping. Let’s turn this around, shall we? Today is about starting new things. Go with it.

I make plenty of errors in grammar. Most of them are in punctuation, because I would rather a sentence be read the way it sounds in my head, as opposed to the correct way. Also, I mess up usage of which and that all the damn time. So being imperfect, and truly, not much of a grammar snob, I know I’m not sitting in a pretty place to judge. But there is one grammar error that is so (perhaps irrationally) irritating; it does nasty things to my temper.

Mostly because it’s so simple. (See? Look at that sentence fragment! Guilty!)

People tend to think, probably because of being repeatedly corrected as children, that when it comes to using I or me, I is the more proper – the grammatically correct choice. This is so very, very wrong. And it makes me nuts to see it in writing – especially when done by bright, educated folk.

Let’s get this straight right now. I is a subject; me is… well, everything else – like objects of prepositions, indirect objects, whatever. If you’re not the doer in the sentence, you’re the receiver. And that makes you a me. I shall demonstrate.

Example 1: Labeling a picture
So, you have a nice shot of you and Pickles. And you’re gonna upload it to Flickr. How do you label it? Pickles and I? Or is it, Pickles and Me? Pickles and I is only correct if you and pickles are doing something in the photo. Like waterskiing. Pickles and I are waterskiing. But if it’s just a nice shot of you and your poorly named friend/pet, it’s Pickles and Me. There is an implied, This is a picture of… that makes both you and Pickles objects. Not subjects.

Example 2: Receiving a gift
Dad gave Shelly and I a pony for Christmas. No, he really didn’t. Dad gave Shelly and me a pony for Christmas. Think of it in terms of “we” and “us” if you must. If you can substitute “us” for the names in the predicate, then you should be using, me. Because Daddy didn’t give we a pony. He gave it to us. Or, as suggested by grammar cops Sarah and Biscuit, simply omit the other person from the sentence and see how that strikes ya. By the way, the same goes for the usage of “he” vs “him” and so on and so forth.

Oh my god. Okay, I’m stopping now. My blood pressure is up and I’m sure you’re all ready to kick me in the face.

My sophomore year of college, I lived with another Heather.

There are two things I will always remember about Heather Jones. One, she was the first Monica Geller I’d ever met in real life. Damn, that girl loved clean. She loved it so much that before she would allow her brothers to move any of her belongings in, she and her mother bleached the kitchen floor. Scrubbed it with tiny little brushes, on their hands and knees. And then they tackled the bathroom. When I moved in two days later, the apartment smelled of Clorox and apple cinnamon potpourri. It smelled that way for an entire year.

Heather was also the first person I ever met with a Mirror Face.

Every morning, she would go about the routine of taming her long curly hair, applying her make-up just so, and when she was all done, she’d stand back, look into the mirror and make the most unnatural expression I’d ever seen.

It was her Mirror Face. And it looked a little something like Blue Steel – only with her head tilted about forty-five degrees to the right. Now, Heather was (and I’m sure still is) a very pretty girl. But this face, the one she made every single time she wanted to assess her visage, was… well, a little bit not. It was facial contortionism and it didn’t look a thing like her.

It was downright odd. But, as it turns out, not totally uncommon.

My old boss had a Mirror Face. Anson’s mother has a Mirror Face. And they, just like my old roommate, are totally oblivious to it. Heather looked at us like we were delirious when her fiancé and I told her that no, she didn’t actually look like that in real life. Ever. Except when she checked herself out.

I started to get afraid that I might have Mirror Face and be completely unaware. And so the other day, when I was attempting a self portrait in my bathroom, I decided to find out for sure. With the camera poised at my chest, I leaned in to the mirror, made like I’d applied some mascara, stepped back and click!

Contortion free!

I was only partially satisfied, though. It wasn’t exactly a perfect sampling. So, please. I’m begging you. The next time we’re getting ready to go out (I’m looking at you) or touching up our lip gloss after karaoke (ahem), take a really good look. If you see any Le Tigre going on, put a stop to it right there. You owe it to me as a friend.

Mirror Face. It’s like, Visible Panty Line above the neck. *Shudder*

Call me totally unevolved, but when it comes to certain traits, I think a woman should be a woman and a man should be a man.

Now, I don’t mean socially important things like, equal pay for equal work and who stays home with the kids. I mean, obvious stuff. Areas where masculine and feminine should not overlap. Like, facial Hair? Man. Tendency to cry when drunk? Woman. Yeah, I said it. I buy into gender stereotypes – especially in my romantic relationships.

Experience has taught me that I’m much more comfortable if the man I’m dating and I do not have any of the following things in common:

Dolphins
Yeah, I loved them, too. On my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. In the sixth grade. But you must not love them enough to tattoo them on your body. Ever. Anywhere. Even and especially on your thigh. It makes me heavily suspicious that I’m your beard.

Skintimates Glistening Pear shave gel
I prayed that it was left over from your last girlfriend. But the stubble on your chest (and the burn it left on mine) cleared that right up. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for manscaping. I once dated a man who, when shirtless, looked like he was wearing a sports bra made of fur. So I hear you on your need to keep things tidy. In fact, I applaud it. But do it with shaving cream, for the love of god! The manly kind! The kind that smells just a little bit like a hospital waiting room and bleaches the bathmat if you spill it. Nothing says virile man like Barbasol.

Making Love
Please don’t say that. Call it sex. Call it knocking boots, riding the bull, doin’ it, or getting your freak on, if you want. Any one of those is preferable to you morphing into a sweater set and labeling a sweaty, whiskey-drunk bathroom sexcapade, “making love.” Eeew. And technically, this is something we’d never have in common anyway. I would never, ever. Lord knows I prefer the pleasantly-neutral, “sleeping together.” You know, as though anyone actually does any sleeping.

There are a few more, including a couple items found in grocery carts, demonstrations of girly vanity (owning or even saying the word, “product”) and facial expressions like, The Pout. The Pout, along with back-seamed silk pantyhose, was invented by full-lipped French women, for god’s sake. And, along with those silk hose, a distinctly feminine thing you should refrain from wearing.

Though you’d think that would go without saying, wouldn’t you? You’d be so surprised.

If something really terrible (baby jesus forbid) were to happen to me today, it would take my family a week to find out.

Say, if I were hit by a bus, fell into an abandoned mine shaft, or came down with Ebola. They wouldn’t even know until Sunday. Those jerks have all high-tailed it up to the mountains for some good, clean family fun – without me. It’s just wrong. I mean, who’s gonna ID the body? Probably Ari. And she’d be pissed about it, too.

I know, I know. Morbid. But I’m just a little bit bitter about the situation. Not that it’s their fault I couldn’t make this summer’s backpacking trip. Blame bosses who said, “two weeks vacation in the summer,â€ù who actually meant, “two weeks vacation in the summer on any days except the followingâ€_â€ù

“The followingâ€ù included this week. Who knew back then that I was gonna quit? Not me. And here I am, sitting this one out.

Backpacking has been a family thing since before any of us kids existed. Because despite her fragile appearance, my mom is something of a mountain woman. And in our family, once you turned eight years old, you got to strap on a backpack and spend a week with Mom in the mountains every summer. As kids, we learned to cha-cha and waltz around a campfire, suffered through reconstituted dinners (freeze dried stroganoff: as gross as it sounds) and froze our tushies off at night in the cold, Uintah mountain air.

It was as awesome as it sounds.

My first backpacking trip wasâ€_ well, not the smoothest of adventures. We chose Baker Lake. A mountain spot somewhere in the middle of Nevada near some famous caves. Lehman, I think. Anyway, the map said three miles – I was a god damn Brownie Scout! I could do three miles – but when we got there, the trailhead said eight. Eight miles. With forty pounds on my back.

In a family photo album, there’s a picture of me taken somewhere along the trail, backpack on my back, crying my little eight year old eyes out.

Yeah, I’m a trooper.

Really, the bitterness and jealousy I’m suffering at the moment has nothing to do with the actual backpack part of the trip. I’m not so tough. It’s the fires and the jokes and the songs (Valerie! Valera! Valera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!) and my mother being surprised that, for the umpteenth time that she has stubbed her big toe and must limp around camp for the next four days.

This is so unfair.

Though, to be honest, it seems a whole lot less so when I lay down at night and there are no rocks under my bed.

I think I might be breaking up with my hairdresser*.

A while back, when I decided to quit pretending to be a blonde, I asked for recommendations for a good colorist. And because if there is anything as beautiful as her perfect glowing skin, it’s her hair, I jumped when Rachel recommended her hairdresser, Ann Marie.

It was love at first single process.

The last time I saw Ann Marie, we got a little ballsy and dyed my dark honey hair a deep chestnut. I’ve always been a fan of the fair skin/dark hair look and so I was immediately taken with it. I thought we both felt that way. But turns out, I was wrong.

On Saturday, after the dye was rinsed off, Ann Marie began blowing my hair dry. As she ran her fingers through my hair, I saw her make a face in the mirror.

“It’s a lot darker.”

“Same as last time, I think,” I answered, already feeling a bit defensive.

“And you like it better this way, huh?”

Um, what? Her tone was such that I almost felt as though I should apologize for the dye job she just did.

“Yeah, I do.”

“I guess it’s pretty in its own way.”

She may as well have said, To each his own. I was stunned stupid. I mean, I know your hairdresser is supposed to guide you toward better hair, but she’s supposed to do it tactfully, and in the end, support your decisions. The way a friend would – only, a friend who gets a hundred dollars an hour to do so. Instead of the supportive friend vibe, I was getting jealous high school rival.

And then as if it wasn’t bad enough, Ann Marie went for the throat.

Words like dry and heavily damaged and under-conditioned seeped out as she finished trimming and shaping. Was I sure I didn’t want more than a trim? Yes, I was sure.

“Well, you’ll cut it off when you’re ready.”

Now, if there’s one thing I have always been confident in, it’s the condition of my hair. I was sporting shiny locks long before Pro-V was a twinkle in Pantene’s eye. I may get fat just by looking at ice cream, I may have problem skin, but out of mercy, the sweet baby jesus rained down his blessings and gave me one nice head o’ hair (Except for the entirety of the 80′s. Screw you Olgivie home perms.). But after a few of Ann Marie’s choice comments, I was no longer so certain. She even went so far as to hand me a pamphlet titled, It’s not your hair that’s the problem, it’s how you treat it.

I was on the verge of a vanity breakdown. I could hear Amy March gasping, “Your one true beauty!” as she surveyed the wreck of my once-lovely hair. I left the salon ready to burst into tears. “I have substandard haaaaair!”

Which is, of course, nuts. It’s the same hair I had three days ago, hair that I had been perfectly content with. And ordinarily, I’m more than content with Ann Marie. Ordinarily I’m singing her praises. Maybe it was just an off day and I should give her another shot. Or maybe, we’ve just grown apart. But if that’s true, I think I’d have preferred to hear, “We just don’t want the same things anymore.” You know, as opposed to, “You have bad hair.”

Even Queen Latifah wouldn’t have pulled that shit.

*Do we even still call them that? In the South, we sure do. I can’t help feeling that this is like the stewardess/flight attendant thing and I’ve just set myself up to get a rash of hate mail from angsty hair care professionals.

*** Update ***

Here. Here is a picture of my totally offensive hair (and my second attempt EVER at a self-portrait). And because we have a loving, trusting relationship, I braved the make-up free look. Let’s keep that warm, caring feeling, okay? As always, click for a bigger pic.

We were making steady progress on a bottle of rosé when Biscuit looked up from our Luna Park table and said in a dreamy sort of voice,

“This is just the kind of summer night you want to bottle up and keep forever.”

It was a bit Oliver Twist, but totally sincere and totally on the mark. Last night was perfect. The sky was a shade of blue Crayola has yet to master, a breeze danced our napkins across our laps and kept the temperature just right, and the company was superb. Biscuit had been away so long I’d almost forgotten things. Like how he can make you feel like you’re six years old again, playing in the sprinklers on the front lawn. Or that he always remembers every single thing you’ve ever told him. This makes our conversations trot along at Morse Code-like pace, staccatos of whos and whats – talk that if overheard, would make little sense at all.

“Dating?”

“Negatory.”

“La-ame.”

“Totes.”

After dinner, I babbled while he smoked, leaning against a park monument. I was debating the merits of heading home to do some work when we heard our names being called. Union Square is a big place, but in that big place, two of my very favorite people appeared out of nowhere. And then we were four.

What kismet!

We spent the rest of the evening drinking al fresco and planning winter vacations – Costa Rica, maybe Thailand – spending bonuses we haven’t made yet. Because when the weather turns evil again, I suspect that, no matter how lovely, even our night-in-a-bottle won’t be able to save us.

I’ve never had the greatest skin. I won’t get all woe is me about it because I know there are people who have it so much worse. But it has been bad enough, and my self esteem just fragile enough that once, I actually called in sick because I was too embarrassed to face people.

I’m always one break-out away from self-imposed exile.

A fairly hefty portion of my life (never mind the money wasted on the newest zit zapping regimen*,) has been squandered in front of the bathroom mirror whimpering about blemishes and the state of my complexion. Remember Daria? I could have committed cartoon murder to have Quinn’s cute pores.

Last night, willing to try anything (within reason) to get skin that doesn’t require a good shellacking of make-up to be suitable for public viewing, I went here to try something new.

Glycolic peel, my friends.

I know, it sounds a little scary. You want to rub acid…where? But the whole experience was excellent. It was quick, mostly painless (there was a bit of a tingle) and now…. Now I want everyone I see to touch my face. Well, not really everyone, because eeew. But it’s so smooth! Like a baby’s bottom smooth. And aside from the appearance of two small very small blemishes, completely untraumatized by the process.

I’m impressed. And did I mention smooth?

From what I understand, it’s only going to get better. Next time? Microdermabraison. You’re witnessing the making of a dermatology addict. But don’t worry. It’d take one hell of a mid-life crisis to drive me to Botox.

* P.S. Money not wasted: Murad. I swear by it. And no, they aren’t paying me a dime to say that. Though, they totally should.

*** UPDATE ***
Aren’t you NYC gals lucky? Turns out, if you mention ThisFish, Silk Skin will give you a 10% discount. Bonus! For More information visit them at www.SilkSkinLaser.com.

The big news from last week feels like it should be I finally got a New York phone number! because of all the kafuffle that went down getting a new phone and trying to remember my own digits. But the actual headliner is, I just quit my job.

Just like that. Up and quit.

I wasn’t looking for new employment. I wasn’t exactly happy – a trip to our school’s newest location left me so depressed that I experienced what I can only describe as a mild anxiety attack – but job hunting is a downer all of its own.

Fortunately, new employment was looking for me.

On Sunday, it emailed me, Tuesday, took me to lunch and on Friday, it made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Creativity, flexibility and hard work. I know, I know, think of the children! Will I miss them? Yes, possibly. Feeling altruistic about my job was a nice perk (and it almost made up for the lack o’ paycheck), but the job itself had changed so much over the course of the last few months that I no longer sure what I was doing or for whom. It certainly wasn’t what I’d signed on for.

Writing for a living will have its own frustrations, I know. But it’s the carrot on a string and I wanted that damn carrot.

There’s much more to say about the new job and all that comes with it, but I’ll save that for another time. Because, after all, I spent the weekend at Ari’s lake house relaxing and it would be a shame to undo all that wine, sun and barbeque just yet.

My bathtub is perpetually clogged. It is also Sir Hal’s favorite place to play. I have no doubt the two are connected.

After my shower, I pour the Drano in as usual and escort the cat out with me. We go on with our respective days – Sir Hal, to impotently hunt birds on the other side of the glass window and I, to work. The next thing I know, I look up from my computer and he’s gone.

Oh, shit!

I race into the bathroom and there and he is – sitting in the tub in a slimy trail of Drano residue, peering into the drain, one paw poised to tap at the bubble of green goo.

I quietly freak out.

I’m suddenly terrified. I’m worried he’ll lick it off his paws or get it in his eyes and he’ll blame me for the rest of his life because he’s blind or unable to distinguish salty from sweet and my god I’m a horrible wretch for ruining his delicate palate. Is this wine too oaky? Now he will never know!

I have ruined the cat!

So, I get a washcloth, get it all soapy and wet and then proceed to hunt him down. He’s figured out that I want to do something uncomfortable so as he squirms and writhes, I clutch him to me and scrub his paws and tail and any other kitten part that might have touched the chemicals.

Now, every few minutes, in a fit of paranoia, I have to pick him up and smell his paws just to be sure he won’t have to give up his dreams of becoming a sommelier.

I am an unfit mother.

Working from home can a blessing and a beast.

Some days it means bare feet and home-cooked lunches and Sir Hal taking up as much room on my lap as my computer. Cuddling while working? A sweet blessing. Some days, it means Sunday afternoons spent doing “urgent” tasks for my boss while I should be out wandering Central Park and drinking too much iced coffee. Huge. Gnarly. Beast.

Today, working from home meant looking up from my laptop to see a man outside my window cleaning the fire escapes, realizing that I was wearing nothing more than a camisole and panties and making a frantic dash to the bathroom to find my robe.

Sarah thinks I made his day. I half expect him to file for workman’s comp.