At the corner of 51st and Madison, a very tall, thin black man and I were waiting for the light to change. The only two people on the curb, we did what everyone does out of curiosity and compulsion. I turned to glance at him and he turned to look at me, as though to say, “I acknowledge your presence here on this street corner.”

But the moment he turned to look at me, something in my brain said, “You know this guy.” And before I could do a crosscheck, my mouth had gone off.

“Oh! Hi!”

The second it was out of my mouth I wanted a do-over. I slapped a mental hand to my forehead and contemplated shoving my head into my oversized handbag. Oh god. I am so uncool. If there was ever any question about it, I went and cleared it up right there.

Obviously not nearly as excited as I was at our serendipitous meeting, Morgan Freeman simply nodded politely, and then the light changed and we crossed the street.

On a totally unrelated note: I would be so much more comfortable with Jessica Simpson’s new song if I thought she actually knew what “carte blanche” means.

Watching my favorite childhood television show as an adult is an eye-opening experience. Years later, I’m still in love with Little House on the Prairie, but for reasons that would have totally and completely eluded me as a kid.

Like in the very first episode of Season One, Pa breaks his ribs falling from a tree. Good old Doc Baker comes out to Plum Creek to tend to him, and while he’s wrapping Pa’s bare torso in long strips of cloth, it occurred to me:

Holy shit. Charles Ingalls is freaking hot.

Long hours of driving a team of oxen and working at the mill made Pa one cut, burly guy. But it’s not just the working man’s chiseled chest and well-defined arms that make him so rarrr. Oh, no.

Pa is also a total sap. But not in a momma’s boy kind of way, of course. He knows when to play the hardass, but he also knows when to get warm and fuzzy. I can’t help but get a bit choked up when he goes all weepy over a lost wheat crop, or when he’s overcome with pride for Half Pint and Mary. This is a man who’s in touch with his feelings.

Pa loves his wife. He flirts and flatters and grabs her by the bonnet to plant big, prairie kisses on her. And when Ma gets upset, he can’t help but crack a smile. It’s as though it no-so-secretly delights him to see her give up that small measure of control that it requires to get her flustered. Which might be exasperating if it weren’t totally charming.

“Time spent being angry with you is such as waste,” Ma says to Pa one night in bed. But I can’t help but get the feeling that they both enjoy it. Just a little bit.

Pa is a man who knows how to do things. From fiddle playin’ to plowing a field and shingling a roof, Charles Ingalls is a guy with practical skills. It’s the same kind of competence that makes me so giddy over MacGyver and Thomas Magnum. There is nothing sexier than know-how.

And when it’s combined with a fine physique and emotional availability? Well, I’m suddenly a girl with some serious Pa issues.

Late one September night, as they stood together on a subway platform waiting for uptown trains, a man said to a woman,

“You know, I entertain the idea of us getting married.”

A passerby wouldn’t have overheard her reply, for the sound of rattling subway cars and the hush in her voice. She might not have said anything more than, Hmmm. Really. She might have wanted to believe him. But he was drunk and when he was drunk, he said things. The same way he said things over breakfast – with fleeting conviction and a boyish sincerity meant only for the moment.

“You’re such a beautiful girl,” he’d say over omelets and juice. Then in the evening, fill her with lies about where he’d lost his wallet or why he didn’t call. Breakfast was easily forgotten.

Only an hour earlier, in a bar some blocks away, he’d stuck a camera up her short black skirt, in front of an audience of friends. The shutter had clicked and she’d clawed to press the delete button – but not before he’d eyed it and grinned.

“How could you?” She had cringed. Humiliation was a digital image of her bare thighs, imperfect and blazing white with the camera’s flash.

“What? I wouldn’t show it to anyone. It’s only for me.”

Later they stood in the heat, him wearing a ratty sweatband on his wrist and her, a vacant pout of an expression. If she was angry, she did not say as much, only withdrew into herself, half-listening as he talked. The man let his eyes rest on her chest, his thumb and forefinger lightly squeezing the top button of her shirt.

“Which train are you going to get on?”

He meant, would she be sharing his bed that night.

“The AC is on. But not because I assumed you’d be staying…” he smiled when he said this.

Just then a train roared into the station, a brightly lit number two shining on its sides. The woman kissed the man on the cheek and said,

“Your train is here.”

A few weeks later, they’d be surprised to learn that a girl they knew was in the family way. His family way. The woman would listen as the man, in his breakfast sincerity, explained his obligation to marry the mother of the child. To do right by the unborn. They would raise their voices and point fingers and spill drinks and he would say that he was sorry.

And she would want to believe him. But he would be drunk, and when he was drunk, he said things.

It’s too hot to eat, too hot to wear real clothes (or at least, underclothes) and far too hot, apparently, to act like human beings. By the time I got to work I was lightheaded from subway heat, sticky and irritated. But the sweat pooling in my cleavage was the least of my irritations.

Heather: Dude, come home now. New York needs one decent man or it’s going to get swallowed into the sea. It’s prophecy. Don’t wait for the three-hour disaster movie staring one of the Gyllenhaals. Just come home.

Biscuit: I’m TRYING, believe me. Dare I ask what happened?

Heather: Every man I have encountered this morning has been rude and manner-less and dressed really badly. It’s got to be the heat. But really, what kind of man physically pushes a woman out of his way to get iced coffee first? And who won’t stand up on a train for a pregnant lady? I wanted to weep for chivalry. And then I almost decided to sleep with women.

Biscuit: !!! Seriously, I leave and the whole place falls apart! I mean, honestly, I know it’s a bit of a skill to dress well in shorts, but oh yes, it can be done. And I don’t know what I’d do if you decided to go all girls. You think we have drama now.

Heather: Okay, fine. It’s true. I could never date a woman. But men behaving badly are really killing my libido.

If I have not melted into a puddle on the sidewalk by the end of the day (or been pushed onto the tracks by some late-for-his-train Neanderthal in madras shorts), here is what I’m up to tonight. Consider this an invitation to join me.

Book Signing: Straight up and Dirty
7:00 PM
Borders, 10 Columbus Circle
People magazine gave Stephanie’s book three and a half out of four stars. And if that doesn’t sell you, even Lindsay said she didn’t hate it, calling it “entertaining.” And that’s a girl who does not go throwing around the compliments.

Cringe (tonight on ABC Nightline!)
8:30 PM
Freddy’s, Dean Street & 6th Ave, Brooklyn
Okay, so it’ll be miraculous if I actually make it to Brooklyn in time for this, but seriously, if you’ve never experienced Cringe, it is some funny shit. Join Sarah and the Bride of Cringe tonight and you might get to be on TV in all your sweaty glory.

“So, tell me what we’re seeing.”

I had rendezvoused with Jen in front of Bleeker Street’s Culture Project for a Sunday matinee. She promised a free theater ticket in an air-conditioned theater. It was last minute, but hell if I was turning her down.

“It’s the stories of five people in South Africa during Apartheid.”

“Oh, whoa. Light subject matter, huh?”

“Yeah, sorry. I guess I should have told you it was going to be depressing.”

Amajuba was a little depressing – but it was also really powerful and captivating. I think the performances would have had even the biggest badass I know on the verge of tears. At the end of the play, as the characters sing lines about ashes and dust, bright red-orange dirt is thrown by the shovelful onto the stage. Then the five actors each wash at a basin, splashing around, adding water to the mix. By the end, the is air thick with this dust, hanging in spotlights and crowding your nostrils, and the floor is a wash of crayola-colored mud.

Crossing the stage corner to leave the theater, Jen commented about the mess.

“Can you imagine having to clean that up after every performance?”

“No. And I can’t help but think that it’s no mistake when you leave, you take a part of the show away with you. I mean it’s all over my feet.” We lifted up our sandals to see gritty orange soles.

“And our lungs.”

“And hair.”

In junior high, I had a wee obsession with all things South Africa. (On vacation in Spain years later, I had a wee thing with a South African, but that’s another story.) My seventh grade geography teacher showed us The Power of One, and after three days in a dark classroom I felt two things very strongly:

a) Why had NO ONE told me about this?
b) PK is sooo hot.

I made my family watch the movie, I rented other movies about Apartheid and I even did an extra credit report about what I had learned. Nerd! Anyway, I’m sure it wasn’t long before I saw another sad movie and moved onto another cause, but stories about that time still really get to me. The play was no exception. It was amazing. If you live in New York and have a chance, I highly recommend seeing it.

And if you are ever in the south of Spain and you have a chance to make out with a South African in the common room of your hostel, I totally recommend doing that, too.

Rarr.

I woke up this morning in a smear of mascara and perspiration. I groaned, blinked a sticky eye at the cat and then rolled over to slap the snooze button. Before I made another move, I needed a quick self-assessment.

Hung-over or still drunk?

My stomach churned as I sat up in bed. Ah, yes. Hung-over. Hung-over like Lindsay Lohan’s “exhausted and dehydrated.” I was sweating vodka.

I hovered over the toilet for a few minutes debating, to puke or not to puke?, finally deciding I didn’t have time for any of that nonsense. I would have to suck it up. Or down, rather.

I have a pretty strict rule about never calling in for a hangover. It just seems wrong to skip work for something I did to myself. Willingly. With lime, please. An exception has been made on the day following my birthday when Jason introduced me to hard lemonade. Oh, hello whiskey!

Last night wasn’t any real occasion other than some flimsy “post birthday drinks” we invented as an excuse for goofing off on a school night. And we did some serious goofing off. As I stood brushing my teeth this morning, little pieces of the night started floating back. Like confetti at the Bayside Homecoming dance.

Drawing dirty junior high pictures on bar napkins (pictured is Newman’s Naked Lady/Moose). Cootie catchers and him choosing a girl at the bar to “take home with us.” Ill-advised confessions about cell phone porn*.

Soon, I was laughing so hard I was choking and foaming blue at the mouth. A minty-fresh rabies case. I actually had to stop brushing so I could pull myself together and finish the job. Ah, women and hysteria.

The rest of the day was not nearly as funny. Work never is when you’re begging for a mercy killing or a long nap in a meat cooler. But the best thing is, I will probably repeat my mistake. I love that about me. I got a fortune cookie once that said I was “foolish and prone to flights of fancy.” What kind of fortune is that? I was pissed.

But, the truth hurts, I guess. You know, sorta like a hangover.

*This may or may not mean what you think it means. If you are my mother, it absolutely doesn’t mean that. I swear.

I’ve been a busy girl!

When a blog post I was working on got way, way too long, I decided I had to ditch it (trimming was not an option) or find another forum. So I pitched it to iVillage and they scooped it right up.

Saying Good-Bye to Ephedra: It’s just another few hundred words of how getting fat makes me want to cry.

And later, when I got an invite from a “speed-dating” company to try out the scene, I gave it a whirl… dragging Ari/Annie along for moral support.

“I Tried it!” Speed Dating: It’s like the real thing, but without the awkward, one-armed hug at the end of the night.

We were midway through the pasta course when he popped the question.

Grant and I had only been dating six weeks or so and yet, there we were, nibbling at the fresh pea ravioli, and having the big talk. Already my mind was racing with wardrobe details. New dress! New shoes! While his lingered on more practical things. Like logistics.

“I figure we could go out early and make a long weekend out of it.”

“Okay. Sure. Great. Wait, whose wedding is it, exactly?

“My best buddy from high school.”

Like it mattered. I’d just been extended The Out of Town Wedding Invitation. On the Relationship Progression Chart, I think it fits somewhere after meeting his family and right before giving him his own drawer in your bureau. It’s no small thing.

The next day, I shared the news with my mother.

“Oooh!” she said. “I just saw an article about the big deal of inviting someone to a wedding!”

“It is sort of a big deal. I know I should be excited. But, I’m just… not. I think I’m still waiting on the zzzzuh! thing.”

It’s something we’d talked about before. Despite Grant being practically perfect in every way, I just wasn’t feeling it. And this bothered me. A lot. And the Out of Town Wedding Invitation only was only making me feel more uneasy.

How was I supposed to get all excited over being Grant’s ‘plus one,’ when I just couldn’t picture him ever being The One?

***

For the next few days, I fretted over the decision to call it off. And not because I was overly worried about hurting his feelings (he was a big boy, after all), but also because I was pretty sure that if I ended it, I’d be giving up what would possibly be my last chance at a healthy relationship with a non-crazy. Who was I to be breaking things off with tall, dark, handsome, funny and smart? A girl who’s had the zzzzuh! before and knew what she was missing, that’s who.

Also the girl who clearly wanted to die alone with her cat.

Desperate to hear I wasn’t making a big mistake, I called an ex boyfriend.

“How long have you known him?” he asked, after I’d explained the mysterious lack of zzzzuh! and my fear that I was over-thinking myself right into spinsterhood.

“About three months, I guess.”

“And how long have you known you?”

“Good point.”

“You have to make yourself happy, ’cause you’re always going to have to live with you. You’re a passionate person. You should be with someone who makes you feel like that.”

And it was settled. Feeling safe and secure can be a nice thing – a really nice thing. But a seatbelt makes you feel safe and secure, for crying out loud. I needed the zzzzuh!

And probably a new 8-pack of AA batteries.

***

Grant and I had made tentative plans and said we would speak the next afternoon. But when the next afternoon came, I was stuck shuttling fifth graders around the New York Post. So when I finally got home from field trip hell, exhausted and once again pretty sure I would never procreate, I sat down and dialed Grant’s number.

And the phone tag began.

Once I’d hung up on his voicemail, I panicked. Was I going to do this over the phone? Was that worse than making him drive into the city to do it? Either way, what was I going to say? I mean, you can’t just tell someone the truth in that kind of situation. Or can you?

So I wrote notes on the back of a ConEd bill. Oh yes, I did. I had to! I’m horrible at extemporaneous speaking. I’m even exponentially worse at confrontational extemporaneous speaking. I didn’t want to leave anything out. Like how I really enjoyed spending time with him. And how I didn’t want to waste his time. Girls are notorious for being fickle time-wasters. And I did not want to be that girl. This time, anyway.

The phone rang and I reached for my notes.

“Hi,” I said, probably sounding as sick and nervous as I felt.

“So why am I on your Pay Me No Mind list?”

“Um, what?” Wait, my what list? Wow. I was not expecting the attitude.

“You said you would call.”

“I know, but I couldn’t because…” I stumbled over the words, field trip and stopped. He’d come ready for a fight and I was shocked out of words. Even my notes weren’t going to be of any help. Mr. Practically Perfect was quickly becoming anything but.

I dove in head first. In the kindest and least patronizing way possible, I explained how I’d appreciated our time together but that I didn’t think it was going to go anywhere and didn’t want to waste his time. Neat and tidy.

And then when I was all done (and feeling slightly relieved) I heard a funny electronic stutter. His phone had cut out.

“What?” He sounded annoyed.

“You mean you didn’t hear any of that?” If I had to say it again, I would be absolutely sure that the Almighty was still finding ways to punish me for stealing gum from Texaco station in the third grade.

“No. What did you say?”

Ugh. I shot a middle finger toward the ceiling (Take that, god!) and took a deep breath. Here we go again. Strangely, it wasn’t any easier the second time around. But this time, at least, there was no electronic hiccup. Only a strange silence.

“Well, you know WHAT?” he said finally, raising his voice. “I was feeling the same way, too.”

“Uh, okay. Well, good. I guess.”

“But not calling me back is pretty fucked up.”

“Wait. I did! I just…”

“Anyway. Enjoy.”

Click!

And that was that. I suddenly felt very silly for having put in so much time worrying about his feelings. And the notes on the back of the ConEd bill? Totally unnecessary. I may as well have told him that his chest hair clogs my drain and that he repeats the same phrases over and over and that guess what? I really do hate Neil Young’s whiny voice; I was only trying to be agreeable!

At least then I’d have felt like I earned the hang-up. Sheesh.

Despite everything I’d always believed, breaking up is actually really easy to do. It’s the preparation that causes all the agony.

Oh, Internet, how I’ve missed you!

I have come to think of internet access as something people just have in their households. Like toilet paper. But as it turned out, this is not the case. And in my sisters’ new house, I discovered to my great disappointment I could sit and yell, “Norrrrrraaaa, we’re out of internet!” all I wanted and no one came running with a spare wireless router.

It was positively primeval. Luckily, Mr. Edwards stopped by and Pa got out his fiddle…

Anyway.

Being without twenty-four hour access to the mind-numbing faux socialization of email, blogs and myspace, my family was forced by circumstances to actually interact with each other. I know. The horror! Obviously, I kid, because my siblings (and sister-in-law-to-be, included) are some of the most entertaining people I know. They’re full of laughs. Like on Birthday Dinner Night when during food preparations, my brother sliced his finger open and we got to spend the next few hours in the ER. Man, that was hilarious!

Good thing he’d already finished making the cake. It would have been a lot harder to frost with all that bandaging in the way.

On Tuesday, I had a truly legitimate need for the internet. I had an article due that afternoon. So I had no other choice than to invade a campus computer lab, log in as my gospel-abiding sister and use a previously innocent keyboard to type words that were inarguably not BYU approved. If I’d ever had a compulsion to suddenly develop Tourette’s Syndrome, it was never stronger. But I behaved myself very well, thank you very much. And I only took the Lord’s name in vain once while on that hallowed ground.

And only then because I really couldn’t help it. I mean, holy baby jesus in heaven it was hot there.

Which brings me to another amenity missing from my sisters’ house.

Oh, Air Conditioning, how I’ve missed you!

I’d like to take a moment to thank my ancestors for getting the job done before I arrived. Because, I hate to say it, but I’m pretty sure I’d have made a really lousy pioneer. And I so would not have been one of those that sang as they walked, and walked and walked. Unless, you know, the song was, Holy Baby Jesus in Heaven, it’s Hot Here.

‘Cause I got that one down pat.

“Don’t you think everyone should have a camera?”

“Yes,” my mother replied. “Why?”

“Because I don’t have one.”

She laughed. And then she offered to ‘take care of that little problem’ for my birthday.

“Whee!”

Let it be known that I am not in habit of asking for expensive gifts. I may have an overdeveloped sense of entitlement when it comes to things like love and respect and adoration and all that, but not for things. When pressed, I ask for bathrobes and DVDs – items of minor luxury that I can’t seem to get around to buying for myself.

But it’s been at least five years since I owned a camera. My old Kodak jobby got lost in one move or another and well, I’d been thinking it was about time to start recording my own little history. And not just in blog entries.

So, my mother got to work. She consulted with my brother who knows such things and today, just in time for my trip, the new baby arrived. If you think I got a little crazy about a new winter coat… well, I think I delighted (and/or frightened) the mailman when I yeehawed his presence at my door this morning.

I’d only been reading the manual for a few minutes when I discovered instructions for the Pet setting. That’s right. PET SETTING. You know, for capturing your beloved animal at his very best. Say no more! I spied Sir Hal, unaware of my new toy and its amazing capabilities, hiding in my suitcase. He does this before every trip . It’s his little forget-me-not. I may not be with you, but my hair sure will be.

I popped in the batteries, climbed onto the floor, scrolled to the correct setting and click!

He is nothing if not photogenic.

Thanks, Momma.

Birthdays were never a huge to-do in my family when I was growing up, and I always a bit jealous of those kids whose parents went to absurd lengths (and expense) to say, “Hey, we’re glad the condom broke!” or “You’re our favorite tax deduction!”

Which is not to say that my parents didn’t love us exceedingly. But as it was, with five children and a single income, we were too poor for things like Chuck E Cheese, backyard trampoline cages, scary clowns and face painting. For years, I even had to share a birthday party and a cake with my less-than-a-year older brother. Incidentally, out of resentment, the day between our birthdays has since been black-marked and neither of us acknowledges its existence. July 20th is dead to us.

I’m not sure who it was that turned me onto the idea of the birthday week, but having been deprived of balloon animals and skee-ball in my youth, I am all over this. A whole week to rejoice over me.

And the celebration begins today.

For Day One of birthday week… I am going to work. Because that is what grown ups do. But my ridiculously cute, almost sister-in-law is going to feed my need for speed to celebrate. That’s right, kiddies. I’m getting Top Gun for my birthday! It’s an important part of my life that’s been missing for some time now.

I haven’t even decided what to do for Day Two. Clean out my closet? Balance my checkbook? I could blow up a few balloons and put some a party mix on my iPod to make it more festive. Maybe sing Happy Birthday while I fold laundry?

Clearly, I am off to an iffy start. But by day four, I promise I’ll start doing things up right. I’m heading out West to spend the next whole week with family, doing things like sleeping in and hiking and fishing and eating my brother’s gourmet cooking. And playing Scrabble. Lots of Scrabble.

Except on Thursday. When we will don sackcloth and ashes. Because that day is dead to us.

In the meantime, if you want to shower me with roses as I walk by, I’ll be in Grand Central Station at 9:25 AM and 5:40 PM daily. What? You say you want to buy me a present? Noooo. I couldn’t possibly accept. But if you insist…

I know I should be appalled by Zinedine Zidane’s World Cup outburst (now known as the Headbutt Heard ‘Round the World). I should be disgusted and worry what this will say to children who look up to athlete role models. I should be disappointed. And I totally plan to be.

You know, just as soon as I stop being so damn turned on by it.

I missed the violence in real-time. I’d been distracted by the croque monsieur and madeleines. But hearing the living room take a collective gasp, I turned back to the TV just in time to catch the immediate aftermath. A man’s eyes were on fire and everything in his face screamed, “Merde! I am one angry Frenchman!”

And that’s when I fell a in love.

The announcers started jabbering, as I waited for a recap. And then they showed it again. I sat in stunned silence. And by the third time… well, holy moly, I think I became pregnant by an instant replay.

Both Krissa and Jen were horrified.

“He could have been a hero!”

“Is this how he wants to be remembered?”

“I kinda want to tear his clothes off.”

Which was perhaps the wrong thing to say. Everyone looked a bit confused. I felt that I should apologize for whatever twisted bit of my nature made me think that was the single sexiest display ever, but I couldn’t. All I could offer was, “I thought it was pretty hot.”

I’m still a little bit drooly.

I feel a sort of internal struggle going on – my righteous Christian upbringing fighting the good fight over my evil primal instincts. It may take a bit of time to sort out. Meanwhile, I’ll be in my room. Practicing signing Mme. Heather Zidane in cursive on the inside cover of my geometry textbook.

Hom-in-a.

I mean, violence is WRONG!

I love new.

New food in the refrigerator, new minty floss in the bathroom cabinet. New Netflix selections in my mailbox. There’s just so much possibility in new that I can’t help but be excited. Really excited. I have been known to lie awake in bed, unable to sleep, crippled with the anticipation of having a new breakfast cereal to try in the morning. True story.

What excites me even more than new cereal, though, is new clothing.

At Christmas one year (I believe I was two), I got my first taste of new clothes, and I liked it. A little too much. According to my mother, I could not contain myself when I opened my first gift to find a new dress. In a flash, off went the nightgown I was wearing and on went the new frock. Just like that. In front of everyone. I repeated this with each new article of clothing I unwrapped. One of my uncles was pretty amused by the baby burlesque and joked with my mother, “This is going to be pretty interesting when she gets older.”

Thankfully, as I grew older, I also grew a bit of modesty. But I won’t lie. That compulsion is still there.

When I got home this afternoon to a brown UPS box on my doorstep, I was overwhelmed with giddiness. So overwhelmed that I actually yelped a little and attempted one of those leprechaun dances. There was even plenty of room in the hallway to click my heels. You know, were I even remotely coordinated.

Jig botched and brown box in hand, I pushed into the apartment already tearing at the packing tape. Before the door had clicked shut, I’d lifted my purchase was out of the box and off its hanger. And in seconds I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror oohing and aahing, admiring my brand new… winter coat.

Yeah, yeah I know it’s July. But July happens so to be the absolute best time to buy a winter coat. A yummy black cashmere trench is about a thousand times yummier when you pay a fraction of what all the other chumps paid for it in November (Bluefly, ladies. Go. Now).

Affordable is so sexy.

Decked out in my affordably sexy coat, I twirled around my apartment, petting myself and telling the cat to Look! See! Pretty new coat! He was unimpressed, but I swear to god were it not eighty-five degrees, I’d still have that sucker on. So pretty.

Only…remember the breakfast cereal? Well, with the promise of this little beauty tucked away in my closet, there is no way I am going to be able to get to sleep. Until at least, when? October? Wait! I think it gets chilly sometimes in September! In Montana.

Sigh.

It’s just no use.

As many times as I click the heels of my flip flops and chant, “There’s no place like Connecticut,” I am still stuck right here in the rainy city.

This weekend, Ari invited me to tag along with her family to their house on Candlewood Lake. Okay, actually, I technically invited myself but lah-dee-dah. Details. Whoever did the inviting, it was amazing. Not only was it gorgeous out there among the trees (and the daddy long leg spiders), but for all my time in the sun, I did not get burned. This is monumental, my friends. Twenty minutes is all it normally takes (no matter what SPF I’m wearing) for the sun to work its nasty mischief. I’ve often wondered if I’m going to be the first of my friends to get skin cancer. I’ve forecasted it for sometime next year.

At the end of our perfect outing, full of barbeque and pseudo-sibling rivalry, we headed back to the city under a sky lit up by fireworks. Ari’s brother pulled out his camera and I…went back to fiddling with my iPod.

Fireworks. Meh.

I can’t remember when I stopped being impressed by fireworks, but it was probably around the time I started realizing my parents didn’t know everything and that saying no to drugs was totally overrated. You know, my early twenties. Hi, total late bloomer. But clearly I’ve just seen too many movies with complex special effects, because my expectations are always bigger than the actual ooh, ahh factor. Either that, or I am just a terrible person.

Because, I mean, who hates fireworks? Terrorists and baby eaters, that’s who.

Dear Beth in Houston,

It used to make me really mad when someone would plagiarize my blog. That someone could change the name of a restaurant, a city, a few friends and pass off what I had written as their own, well, I found it absolutely unfathomable.

It’s still unfathomable. But I’m not angry… so much as confused and really, really sad for you.

Your friends on myspace are really touched by your latest post, Azure and Coincidence. They should be touched. That post came right from the heart. My heart. In 2003. You didn’t even change the title of the post. Ballsy. Anyway, one of your friends was so touched he ratted you out. That guy has class. You should keep him around, spend more time with him and maybe pick up a few things. Like, a moral compass.

Seriously, borrowing a stranger’s emotional experiences and using it as your own is kinda pathetic. And icky. It’s like, wearing someone else’s underwear. Gross and twisted. But hey, I’d really rather send you a few pairs of panties from my laundry basket and feed your sick need that way. Sure beats watching you take credit for my writing.

You know, I guess I am still a little mad. But at least these days, I have fancy lawyers on my side. I knew selling out would come in handy.

Be well (and I mean that),

Heather

P.S. Same to you, Lauren in Tennessee. And Dawn in Belfast. And Mandy in North Carolina. And Juddita in Prague.

“No matter what, in three or four weeks, you have to tell me I’ve lost weight.”

“Okay.” Ari laughed. “Like I would say anything to the opposite.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t. But even if it’s not true, you have to tell me I look skinny and ask if I’ve lost weight. Otherwise, I’ll give up.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know.”

I may be insane, but the countdown has begun.

My brother is getting married in a little less than 11 weeks and there is no way in Jenny Craig hell I’m fitting into any wedding-appropriate dresses in my current state. If my closet weren’t filled with nice dresses and I weren’t on a delicately thin shoe string budget, I’d just buy something new and more forgiving. Like say, a muumuu.

I don’t have a lot of self-discipline. What I do have, though, is the ability to get totally, freakishly obsessed with something. And so, using neurosis usually reserved for boys, I’ve begun channeling this sometimes self-destructive power toward the pursuit of lost rolls and thunderless thighs.

I’ve made a food diary. I’ve volleyed dozens of emails with my mother about protein and fiber and seriously, egg whites may be boring, but boring beats fat. I’ve called my sister to kvetch.

“I’ve stuck to my diet for three whole days!”

“Good for you!”

“Right? But you know what’s weird? I’m still not skinny.”

“What? After three whole days? Are you sure? Look again.”

I looked again. Then laid down on the bed, where gravity does kinder things to tummies and hip bones and looked one more time. Nada.

It’s going to be a long 11 weeks.

Yesterday I had the kind of day that reminds me why there is such a thing as recreational drug use.

I’m not really much of an escapist in that sense. Of course, after a hard day at work, I’ll be the first to say, “God, I could really use a drink.â€ù But it’s rare that I follow up. It’s just not my thing. When I want to escape, I’m more inclined to do it physically. As a kid, when I was fed up with parents and siblings and next door neighbor kids, I used to crawl to the top shelf in my closet, lie down, and listen to the world go on around me. Or sometimes I’d drag a large piece of plywood into the alfalfa field across the street and eat chocolate chip cookies that I’d filched from the kitchen counter. Leave me alone. In a hectic, stressed-out house, sometimes that was a big request.

As an adult, I’m not much different. I still use physical distance to separate myself from emotional difficulty or stress. I’ve stayed in my apartment for entire weekends, putting around, reading, talking to no one but the cat. I’ve moved all the way across the country to keep family issues at arm’s length. Which, really, I’d be kidding myself if I believed that was actually any sort of escape.

Sort of like the drug thing, I suppose.

If I didn’t love my family, the geographical distance between us would solve everything. But as it turns out, I kind of like them. A lot. I love them to frustration, agony and distraction. And when something hard happens, I find myself closing in that distance with telephone lines and “reply to all.â€ù

My dad’s mental illness never fails to shock us kids. Every new departure from reality has us in stunned disbelief. Are you kidding? really means, Please tell me you are because this scares me.

Last night I sat on the phone with my father for a half hour, trying to repair the day’s damage. He’d been hurt again because his version of what is real and true does not match, no matter which way you turn it, with anyone else’s.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened today, Dad. That won’t make either of us feel any better. I just called to tell you that I love you.â€ù

“I love you, too, kiddo. So much.â€ù

I should be used to the breakdowns by now. The crying he’s trying so hard to keep down, to keep from translating over the phone. It’s gotten worse lately. Worse when I think time should have been making it better. He wants so much to please us. But in the world his brain chemistry has made, his efforts only seem to produce frightening, heart-breaking results.

After a half hour, I hung up and made my getaway. I retreated across the street where, had I wanted to, I could have indulged in some herbal escapism. But it wasn’t necessary. By the time I settled onto the couch with a drooling puppy, a wise-ass friend and a baseball game, I was doing alright.

Sometimes being with people who just let you be, is an escape all of its own.

Between Saturday and Wednesday of this week, I didn’t do a whole lot of sleeping.

Which is why I’ve been a bit absent. And cranky and spacey and tired and really, really cranky. And, did I mention cranky?

See, where I work, there is no air conditioning. I know, right? That has to be illegal, but it’s not. Ten hours a day, sweating my ta-tas off, choking down rotting garbage smell just to catch a breeze – if that’s not a testament to how much I love those bratty little kids, I don’t know what is.

The only relief comes when at the end of a hot, sweaty workday, I get to go home to my climate control(ish) apartment. Ish. I mean, it’s a window unit. It has its limitations. And on Saturday, it became apparent that my little window air conditioner’s limit was aboutâ€_ 79 degrees. Once it hit 80, the poor old thing couldn’t keep up. And I couldn’t sleep.

Every night, I camped out on the living room couch, which is closer to the coolest air. With Sir Hal stretched out next to me on his back (dude was desperate to get some relief for that furry belly), I wiggled and fidgeted and sweated myself into a frustrated half-sleep. It went on this way for several nights.

Apparently, in my sleepless delirium one night, I did a little online shopping. I say ‘apparently’ because it was only after I got a Your item has shipped! email from Amazon that I even vaguely remember it happening. Sweet god, am I glad I don’t drink heavily. I’m uncomfortable enough with the idea that I don’t remember buying books. I can’t imagine what torment I’d go through if I couldn’t remember how I got home or who this snoring, hairy-backed dude was sleeping next to me.

So, why not buy a new air conditioner? Well, there’s the cost. Which, frankly, became much less of an issue after a few days on the couch. I missed my bed. I missed it a couple hundred bucks worth, at least. Then there was the issue of getting it home and getting it into the window. Those buggers are heavy! And two things I have very little faith in are my physical strength and my aptitude for things which require common sense and simple mechanics. I’m more of an ideas girl.

But after days and nights of being sweaty and exhaustedâ€_. Well, see this cut on my finger? That’s the battle wound I got installing my brand new, kick-ass AC unit last night. All. By. Myself.

That’s right. I just watched the entire sixth season of MacGyver. There’s nothing I can’t do.

(Except save Pete from Glaucoma. Because even Mac couldn’t do that.)

It’s been hanging on the wall in the guest bathroom for as long as I can remember: a needlepoint picture of a sailboat (made by my grandmother long before I was even an accidental twinkle in my mother’s worried eye) and a silly poem, stitched in bright green floss.

The only difference between men and boys
Is the price of their toys

I’m not even quite sure where I’m going with this, or why exactly I felt compelled to share it, except that ever since my conversation with my father on Sunday evening, the rhyme been going through my mind over and over. The only difference between men and boys…

When I was about six or seven, I asked my mother about poem. What did that mean, the only difference? I could count plenty of differences between my brother and my father. Plenty more than who has more expensive hobbies. Mostly, it was a joke, she’d explained, but even my grandfather was a little boy at heart.

No one ever really grows up.

That’s what she should have said.

On Sunday, I’d flopped onto the couch, sweaty and tired. What little energy left unexhausted by the day’s heat and frustration had just been sapped away through the phone lines. Another phone call turned into a painful therapy session. I propped my feet up on the ottoman, and without thinking, sighed, The only difference…

It was Father’s Day.

I felt as though I’d just been talking to a child.

It’s so easy to become frustrated with my father – to get angry as our talk digresses and yet again, I’m forced to avoid, placate and wrangle. To manipulate the conversation and redirect it lest we end up in Crazy Town. Again. It’s a continuous battle between my love for him, for the expectations I have of him and what, in reality, he is capable of.

Why the sailboat and the silly poem?

I don’t have a clue as to why it decided to resurface in response to that phone call.

It’d be one hell of a stretch to try to connect the two and craft a metaphor that wasn’t totally affected and… lame. I mean, toys schmoys. I know that the only real difference between a child and their grown-up self is the complexity of their coping mechanisms. And my father’s been reduced to some pretty juvenile ones. And I know that the emotions are all the same; we’re all still afraid, and excitable and foolish and vain and vulnerable. No one really ever really does grow up in that sense, I guess.

Okay. I’m going to stop before I accidentally make a metaphor. That wasn’t what I was trying to accomplish. I just think it’s interesting, is all.

More stories about my father
Early Mourning
Horace Stories
Delicate
Gently Down the Stream

Note: Do not use the comments box to give advice or diagnoses regarding my father. Just don’t. Because I promise I will crawl through the internet and cut you.

Alternatively titled: The Beginnings of My Prison Hope Chest

Ari: Can we work on my plan to kill the Geezer?

Heather: Yes. But we have to figure out how to do it without getting caught. Jail is dirty and scary.

Ari: Yeah – unless it’s a Lifetime Prison for Women, in which case Tyne Daly will SO have our backs

Heather: True! But then one of us will inevitably get forced into the prison prostitution ring, end up pregnant, black and blue, and a mere shadow of our former Remington Steele selves.

Ari: Connie Selleca’s going to be there too?! Say Kristy McNichol and I’m so there!!

Heather: Not Connie Selleca, silly. Stephanie Zimbalist. Prison of Secrets. Lifetime TV. 1997. But we could totally get Connie and Kristie. I mean, what else would they be doing?

Ari: Crap – so close… yet so far. You are totally right though – they are so free. And for the record I spend an awful lot of time considering my future incarceration.

Heather: Well, obvs. Like how we used to plan for the prom. Or our weddings. Sigh.

East Harlem is foul this morning. A nauseating blend of rotting garbage and diesel fuel burns into my nostrils the moment I step off the bus on 120th street. When my feet hit the pavement, I bluster, forcing the air out of my nostrils and shake my head. I remind myself of a horse.

The air is thick with moisture and stink. The city, jonesing for rain that seems eternally delayed, stands braced and anxious, like a man staring into the sun waiting sneeze that won’t come. I feel claustrophobic in this humidity.

The sidewalk between me and school is dotted with smeared dog droppings and miscellaneous waste. Food wrappers. A plastic hanger. A used condom halfway down the block. The community clinic’s bright green dumpster, in a corner formed by the joint of chain link fences, its lid slightly ajar, sits directly upwind. I breathe into my shirtsleeve and hurry to work.

Large black flies swarm an invisible beacon just inside the building’s heavy outer doors. Something spilled, left unmopped. Enormous flies like bumblebees — but without a bee’s brightness or natural purpose. Flies do not pollinate; they spread filth. A shiver passes through me as I wave off the flies and duck into the lobby. My skin, fresh from the shower only a half hour before, feels coated with imaginary grime. And though I know it’s just errant hairs, I can’t shake the sensation of flies around my face. I shiver again, pull my hair back tighter and settle in at my desk.

The office windows are open to allow for a breeze. I think maybe it won’t be so bad indoors. But then the breeze shifts and I’m again downwind from the green dumpster. A thick-bodied fly darts around the room, an invader.

“This is foul,” I say to no one and then go about my work day.

Every Monday morning, I print out my Outlook calendar.

I know. Who’s all but defeating the purpose of technology? That’d be me. Whatever. I have my reasons. One of them being that I find electronic calendars way too abstract and I need to write down my appointments to remember them.

I also still need that little song to remember how many days hath September. But nobody’s perfect.

Anyway, the first thing I do (even before I ever figure out where I need to be for which meeting or who I’ve got to call and for what reason) is ink-in the week’s social events in red at the top of every day. You know, because a girl has got to have something to look forward to, lest she stab herself to death with a number two pencil during one of those aforementioned meetings. So this morning, I got out my red pen and started markin’ away. And now I’m tired.

I’m tired and I haven’t even gone out yet.

I’m tired and I haven’t gone out straight from work, had too many cocktails, stumbled home drunk, filled the cat’s water dish with science diet, fallen asleep face down in my pillow, awakened in a smudge of drool and mascara and hit the snooze button seven times. Yet.

But that’s what’s in store for me.

Sarah says this means I am the most popular girl in school. With four exclamation points. But I think what it really means is that, like me, all of my friends are solar powered. A change of the season, a tilt of the earth on its axis and suddenly we all can’t wait to stay out too late on a school night drinking, making plans we may very well never keep and inside jokes that were probably never funny, and not regretting it one bit the next morning.

I am so there.

Except on Thursday. Because I’m already like, totally double booked.

I’m so frustrated today.

I’m so frustrated and pissed off and AARGH! about life that I want to make a list of people to karate chop in the throat, exact my revenge in a throat-punching spree, and then get back to my regularly scheduled programming. But I won’t.

Mostly because I can’t.

Today, I am mad at my computer, or the server, or whatever is causing this problem with my school’s website that I can’t seem to fix even with Biscuit’s expert help. Also, I’m mad at me, for various reasons, and karate chopping myself in the throat doesn’t sound like a good idea at all.

So I sit here and pound out emails with too many exclamation points (My mother does this, too. It’s genetic.), with eyes narrowed and my face all scrunched up so that my eyebrows nearly touch each other in unibrow solidarity. Like Frida Kahlo. Or Bert.

And I will keep my eyes glued to the computer screen. Othewise, they will get me in trouble.

Newman told me once that it didn’t matter what came out of my mouth because I did all my talking “from here on up.â€ù When he said “here,â€ù he flattened his hand and made a sawing motion across the bridge of his nose.

“So, what you’re saying is I’m a terrible liar?â€ù

He nodded. I drank. And I considered how many times I’d been given away and not even known it.

Like that time my (ex)boss said, “You’re angry with me.â€ù And I said, “No, of course not,â€ù in a tone that was as even and as pleasant as a Gerber baby’s ass cheek. But of course I was angry. Furious, even. And my eyes said everything.

Boss: You’re angry with me.

Heather: No, of course not.

Heather’s Eyes: Oh, yes she is. She’s consumed with anger. And if she could do that Darth Vader thing and crush your throat with her mind, she wouldn’t hesitate. That shit doesn’t leave prints! But as she is currently without The Force (and hates the thought of unemployment), she’s going to have to settle for thinking mean thoughts and pounding out emails with excessive punctuation. Oh, and those shoes? Really horrible.

So as I sit here and smolder and silently scream “Why, god, why!â€ù I give a thankful pause that no one has invented laser beam contact lenses. ‘Cause after a day like today, I’d have a lot of death and destruction to make up for.

I know this will shock you. But I have not always been the paragon of kindness and grace that you see before you. No, I know it’s hard to believe. But it’s true.

When I was a kid, I used to lean over and spit on my sister from the top bunk. Nightly. I’d taunt her for a while, spitting a long, gooey stream, sucking it back in, giving her a false sense of safety and finally, let it go. I aimed for the pillow. And when she got moved to the nursery? I’d leave salt in her sheets.

I teased my brother for being fat. I rolled my eyes at my mother and made fun of her purple wind suit. I stole gum from the Texaco. I refused to participate in family discussions of any kind where feelings were shared (unless maybe there were cookies involved). I slapped my best friend Angie in the face. I drew dirty pictures (and got caught). I lied. A lot.

Even in high school and college, I had a pretty sharp edge. “Sarcastic to a fault.” That was the reason Jon gave for breaking up with me my senior year of college. My wit was biting, my tolerance for weakness, nil and I was perpetually annoyed.

I was not exactly a nice girl.

But something happened, and somewhere along the line, I turned into a complete chump.

I cry when I read the news. I can’t stand the thought of anyone getting their feelings hurt. Or being alone or scared. Even Iraqi dictators. I looooove talking about feelings and I call my sister four or more times a week to do so. I have not spit on anyone in years. Years, I tell you.

I am a changed woman. A nice girl.

Okay, fine. I still lie. But at least now I have the heart to feel guilty about it.

Sometimes.

A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was pregnant. Which is totally not unusual – I have them all the time. I freak out for a few minutes and then not only do I get used to the idea, but because my subconscious (under the heavy influence of biological imperative) is in charge, but I often wake up disappointed that I’m not really in the family way. And so it goes. Only, this time, the dream was disconcerting – at best. In this week’s So You’re Knocked Up, Do You Have Any Idea Who the Father Is? dream, the blessed discovery came when I was five months pregnant. Five months. Five months of margaritas and random cigarettes and the occasional puff-puff-pass. I was beside myself.

“I ruined the baby!”

Dream had turned nightmare. Low birth weight! Fetal alcohol syndrome! Extra limbs! Waking up to the realization that I was still barren – and that I had not indeed ruined the baby – was such a relief. Guilt and shame had defeated biology! Though, I’m sure there will be a rematch.

Fast forward to Wednesday night when Biscuit organized an outing to see An Inconvenient Truth. It’s no secret that I’m not exactly environmentally conscious. I recycle only because it’s the law. I love (love!) paper towels. And I used enough Aqua Net in the 80′s to cause those Ozone Layer guys a substantial setback. But I didn’t have any conflicting plans and I wanted to see my friends, so I went.

And Al Gore scared the ever-loving shit out of me.

“I’ve ruined the planet!”

Okay, not me exactly. I mean, it turns out that my carbon dioxide emissions are way, way below average (even with my love for paper products). Yes, thank you. I try. But in general, we’ve done some pretty destructive stuff and polar bears are drowning. Sure, all that other stuff sunk in, too. Worse things are happening, but it’s the polar bears I can’t seem to get over. Al Gore, you clever marketing beast, you.

It’s all I can think about. The polar bears and the ocean swallowing up millions of people when Antarctica melts because American car companies are lazy and selfish and those beetles destroying forests because we haven’t had a proper freeze. The worst part is, this isn’t something I get to wake up from and say, “Phew! I haven’t ruined the baby! Pour me another.” And I find this very upsetting.

The truth is that I try to avoid caring about anything that I can’t fix all by myself, right this second. Emotionally, I’m just not cut out for having a cause. I guess I lack the practicality to see the small things I can do to impact the larger problem and I get overwhelmed. You know, that whole, think globally, act locally thing. But who says I can’t change? So here’s my first attempt: I am going to switch my energy supplier to a green source and I am going to say, Go see this movie.

Do it for the polar bears.