I’ve got a few things cookin’, but in the meantime, let’s play one of our favorite games! You know, the one where you ask questions (many of them awkward and uncomfortable) and I answer. Or, I tap-dance around and appear as though I am answering, but much like your parents in your impressionable, formative years, I practice avoidance.

I just may tell you to go ask your mother. Or look it up.

But who knows. Let’s give it a shot. You Q; I’ll A. Go!

*** Please note! ***
As much as I would love to help you, if you are seeking advice, you’ve come to the wrong place. I do not give advice any better than I take it. So let’s stick to questions I most probably know the answer to.

I just played duet of “Heart & Soul” with a world renowned classical pianist. I think that goes right to the top of the Wackiest Shit I’ve Done at My Job list.

You know, right after ‘used a tampon to stop a bloody nose.’

Twenty-two years ago, I chased Jared B. around the playground at Larsen School. When I caught him, I pushed him down. Then I wrote him a poem rhyming the words dove and love and gave it to him during silent reading.

Because I loved him and that’s how love goes when you are six.

Twelve years ago, I called Ryan R. every fifteen minutes for hours on end. And hung up every time. Incidentally, Ryan introduced me to the concept of Caller ID.

Love at fifteen is horrifying. That’s all there is to it.

Over the years, maturity (and necessity) have led me to refine my tactics. I stopped pushing boys around (except where appropriate), stalking and poem writing. I figured there were better ways at getting what I wanted.

So, in college I developed The Quiz. It wasn’t much more than an updated version of a note that you’d pass to your elementary school love. Only, there weren’t boxes for yes or no below the question regarding whether the object of your affection affectionately objectified you in return.

A sample letter could go something like this:

Dear David,

Do you want to go to Homecoming with me? Check one:

Yes!
Hell yes!
Other (please explain)

Love,
Heather

There would be no box next to other. I was not stupid.

I’d forgotten about The Quiz until a few days ago when my kid sister sent it to a boy. A boy who she likes beyond reason. And the boy, it turns out, must like her beyond reason as well, because he answered Hell yes! to every single question. There will soon be a date and, if my imagination has anything to do with it, kisses and rings and babies and gold anniversaries.

I think my work here is done.

I haven’t been on a field trip in at least fifteen years. And that, my friends, is approximately how long it is going to take to convince me to go on another one.

“You are done bothering her. And you are turning around.”

“Stop kicking his chair.”

“Keep your hands to yourself. And your fingers! Nicodemus, get your fingers out of his ears!”

“Why are you still talking?”

“You just went. What, are they handing out PlayStations in the bathroom? Sit down.”

I was only in charge of ten or so kids. But lord baby jesus amen hallelujah did I have my hands full.

Some kind and generous soul had paid to rent out an entire theater so that our students could see Akeelah and the Bee. In the middle of the day. On a Monday. I know, right? I am constantly in awe of people and their generosity to our kids. I am also constantly in awe of how quickly those kids can drive a girl to the belief that they do not deserve such generosity and get your fingers out of his ears or I will turn this bus right back around!

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Miss, I can’t sit here.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have to. Everyone needs to stay in their assigned seats.”

“But! I will get in trouble if I sit here.”

“Seems like something you’re in control of, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I hate him!”

“There are much nicer ways of saying that, I think.”

“Fine. Sorry. I do not get along with him because he is really annoying.”

“Hmm. Better. But you’re not moving.”

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

From the time we sat down in the theater, it took the movie seventeen minutes to start. It took me about nine of those to understand why god gives you children in baby form. If he left you with an eleven-year-old, you’d be asking him for the gift receipt.

“Miss?”

“No.”

relax. this post is spoiler free.

We knew the movie was going to be a bit silly; every review out there mocks it to one degree or another. But Sarah and I were curious. And well-prepared as we took our seats at Loews 34th Street.

Tucked away in my purse were six little bottles of rum, to be added to our over-priced theater fountain drinks. And tucked away in our brains was a list of rules… for Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game.

The rules are very simple.

Every time Tom Hanks hair strikes you as funny, drink.
Every time a monk speaks Latin into a cell phone, drink.
Every time Ian McKellen is being fabulous, drink.
Every time something absolutely ludicrous happens, you must pour more booze into your soda. And drink.
Every time there’s onscreen chemistry between Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou, you have to let the stranger seated next to you drink out of your cup*. Every time there isn’t, drink.

Random flashback?
Finding an albino Paul Bettany strangely hot?
Line so corny you snort?

Drink, drink, drink.

As it turned out, every single review we’d read had been spot on. And you can guess where that got us. Giggly and racing for the bathroom at the end of the movie.

Now, this is where it gets good. This is the part where Nicole Kidman also has to go to the bathroom after the movie (she and Keith Urban totally must have been playing Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game, too). The ladies’ room was atwitter. And as we stood outside the theater, texting everyone we’ve ever known about our latest encounter with fame and botox, I turned to Sarah and hiccupped,

“Aw, it’s like our own little Miracle on 34th Street.”

Every time a celebrity encounter makes you act like a twelve year old girl, drink.

*No actual sharing with strangers took place during the watching of this film. It is that bad.

I am broken hearted.

You think it’s going to be different this time – that you know how it’s all going to work out.

It’s the classic story. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy. They share cute, intimate moments over board games and secrets whispered as they lie in bed. Boy asks girl to marry him. Girl says yes.

Then boy fucking dies! And girl quits her job as a surgical intern at Seattle Grace Hospital! And every thing – every damn thing you hoped for – is gone.

You held hope after girl nearly killed boy with that stunt before the heart transplant. Because you believed in television love! And what did it get you? Nothing but a recycled speech from My Father the Hero (“What about me?“) and a dead guy with really pretty white teeth.

I shake my fist at you, Grey’s Anatomy. You. Broke. My. Heart.

All I have to say is that it had better be poor little Addison who finds Meredith’s panties next season or we’re really through.

Oh. And that shit with the dog? Cheap. Really cheap.

“Why I am so awesome. I know. That’s a long one and you don’t want to be typing all night.â€ù

I laugh into the phone.

Ari is on the other end of the line, offering semi-helpful advice in an attempt to breathe some life into this week’s ailing blog. So far, none of her topics is striking a chord. But then, I did call her for advice, so who am I to scoff at her ideas? She suggests lists I can make. Contents of my handbag. Celebrities I’ve met. I give them some thought. The serious ones, anyway.

The one about someone’s naked body parts? I am ignoring entirely. Entirely.

It’s not as though nothing is going on. Things go on! Oh, yes. Like, my brother getting engaged. That’s something. And me, seeing a new boy. That is also something! There’s been a night on the town in Hoboken with Tanya – which probably could produce a story for every drink. And I had quite a few. There was a night in with Sarah during which she declared, “I would totally have sex with you. Your bed looks so comfortable!â€ù Of course, no sex was had; we watched Parent Trap.

So, things are going on. But for some reason, I can’t seem to get a single one of them out there in story form. Why? I think, for no other reason that sometimesâ€_. hormones make me stupid. I’m already blaming them for this thing on my forehead and the migraine I had early this morning. Why not blame them for my writer’s block?

“Alright,â€ù she says finally, giving up. “I’m around. So if you need any more useless ideas, give me a call. I’ll make a list.â€ù

I thanked her, hung up the phone and wondered how soon was too soon to call her back. I mean, maybe the naked body parts thing wasn’t such a bad idea.

“I cannot do today.”

I yawned, blinked away the sleep and pushed my feet to the floor. Hal stared at me from the ottoman. He was thinking breakfast. I was thinking sick day. I’d woken up this morning on the couch, in the same awkward position I’d fallen asleep only two hours earlier, cranky and puffy eyed. Last night was one of those nights

I’d tossed and turned and worried and looked at the clock so many times that my retinas were burned with those tiny digital numbers – edging all the more near to the hour my alarm would go off. I finally abandoned my bed for the couch sometime after 4AM. A change of scenery seemed to do the trick.

When I was a kid, the cool side of the pillow or the other end of the bed was enough to shake things up, shut off the inside noise (fear of reciting the multiplication tables, new school nerves, etc.). And in college, there was upside-down land.

Yeah, you heard me. Upside-down land.

In those days, my roommate’s boyfriend and I used to lay face-up across the bed, heads hanging off, laughing and talking until our faces were beet red and pounding with blood pressure. We’d started it one day on the living room sofa when Mac, tired of my sour finals face, grabbed my feet and spun me around. Then he climbed onto the couch next to me and rested his feet on the wall.

“It’s so much better this way, I think.â€ù Mac said, and then sang some goofy song from our primary school days about turning frowns upside down.

“Only, you don’t actually have to smileâ€_â€ù

“Just go to upside-down land.â€ù

My roommate snapped a photo of the moment – Mac’s goofy smile making a frown and my frown, well, looking not so crabby.

I came across that picture a few weeks ago, and thought about it again this morning as I eyed the cat and he eyed me. He was still thinking breakfast. And I was thinking how there was no way in hell I could get away with a sick day. I realized that I could probably have used a bit of upside-down time today – a shift in my attitude, a change in perspective – but I was late as it was. So I got up and got ready for work

Besides, grown-ups do not have upside-down land. They have coffee.

Over the last two weeks, as part of a project I’m involved in at work, I’ve had to interview a couple of celebrities. Because the interviews I’m doing are for a good cause, the subjects tend to be more than happy to make themselves available to chat. And to hand out their cell phone numbers.

On Tuesday, I had a really nice conversation with one of Law & Order’s former A.D.As (now star of a new law drama). I wrapped up the interview and thanked her for her time. She responded graciously.

“Well, you have my cell phone number, so if you have any other questions, please feel free to call me any time.”

I thanked her again, hung up the phone and immediately went about making a quick list. You know, of those other questions I have.

1. What are you doing on Saturday? Do you want to have lunch? I bet you know lots of great places. I bet your husband owns a few (wink, wink). We can go there.
2. Once we’re BFF – you know, after lunch – will you be writing me into your script? It doesn’t have to be a big part. Just one where I get to perhaps faint and kiss someone very hot and a little bit psychotic.
3. I want to marry Elliot Stabler. I know this is not so much a question as the thesis statement from my Five Year Plan, but I thought I’d save us some time by letting you make suggestions as to how to go about the whole thing.

I stopped at three and put down my pen. That seemed to be enough to get us going. I mean, if we got through those, I could always come up with more and call her back. But then, I might be too busy living out my Five Year Plan as Mrs. Detective Stabler already.

I’ll call you. We’ll do lunch.

The helicopter on display in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum is not the helicopter from Magnum, P.I.

And that’s just one of the many important facts I picked up on our trip to Washington D.C. this weekend. It’s a very informative city! Informative and awesome. I do not think there is any way the experience could have been more perfect. From a free hotel upgrade to the tastiest food (thanks for the recommendations!) to the sunny (and sunburny) weather, the weekend met and exceeded all my expectations. And most importantly, while visiting some of the most top-notch museums and national treasures, I gained a great deal of wisdom. And not just about helicopters.

Here are some more very important facts:

Teenagers suck. They are horrible and they ruin things. Cleverly, they can be ranked in horror and suckage by the color of their t-shirts – Pink Group being the most annoying, and tapering off in suckage with Green Group, who mostly minded their manners, but still spoke in registers only dogs can hear.

Mango margaritas were obviously on god’s creation to-do list right after ‘heavens and earth.’ And he saw that they were good. Very good.

Teenagers ruin the International Spy Museum.

Julia Child was a spy.

There are approximatelyâ€_ a whole lotta steps up to the Lincoln Memorial.

The Hope Diamond is not nearly as big as you think it is. But that will not stop you from scanning the room for security cameras. Jewel heist!

Teenagers ruin the Natural History Museum.

Sarah Brown ruined the Constitution.

We’d started out thinking Disneyworld. But when, after a quick internet search, it became clear that Walt’s wonderland was just a teensy bit out of our budgets, we settled on something a little closer, but every bit as exciting.

This weekend, Sarah and I are paying a visit to our nation’s capital.

Both Washington DC virgins, we’ve been talking about this trip for weeks now. In the middle of a sea of crapass workdays and personal drama, Washington DC has been our life raft. A girl has to have something to look forward to! And in looking forward, we’ve exchanged literally hundreds of emails making plans, train and hotel reservations, and drafting itineraries of the most alluring of the city’s attractions: The Spy Museum (!), Capitol Hill, and of course, the Lincoln Memorial.

“I am seriously so excited about this trip. It’s all that’s keeping me going.”

“It’s going to be so great. Even if it rains. It’ll be like, a wet t-shirt contest with Lincoln as the judge.”

“Well, and then there was that… the best sentence ever invented.”

Nobody loves Honest Abe more than Sarah does. Nobody. And I decided early on that if I have to get arrested so that she can have a memorable moment with him, well, then so be it.

“If want to curl up and take a nap in the Lincoln Memorial’s lap, will you distract the guards?”

“And here I thought you’d try to molest him. But either way, yes, I got your back.”

“I knew I could count on you. Oh, and I just looked; we have perfect weather all weekend!”

“Great! I mean, Abe is going to be a little disappointed, but he’ll get over it. I mean, he’s been shot for god’s sake. Missing a wet t-shirt contest won’t kill him.”

Mamas, lock up your assassinated ex-presidents!

Er, um, something like that. And if you don’t hear from us on Monday? Send legal assistance.

I am nothing if not glamorous.

It is true. And in light of our fab-obsessed culture, I have decided to illustrate for you just how the glam-mer half lives – by making a list of the super-fabulous things I did before noon today alone that qualify me for my own reality TV program, narrated by Robin Leach (or some other classy sounding British dude).

My Glamorous Morning

7:12 a.m. Stepped in cat vomit.
7:14 a.m. Cleaned up cat vomit. While bending over cleaning, got cat vomit in my glamorously long hair. Swish! Gasp! Puke!
8:16 a.m. Retrieved favorite black sweater from laundry basket (having been way too glamorous to do laundry this weekend). Shook it out. Wore it. For like, the ninth time. Glam alert!
9:31 a.m. Sniffed milk, decided it was questionable. Poured it into coffee.
10:50 a.m. Found an unwrapped piece of gum in the bottom of my purse. And ate it.

I should really stop there. I don’t want you all thinking I’m unapproachable, or that my lifestyle is unattainable to the common man. It’s not! Even I had years of training – and from the most unlikely of sources. My own baby sister used to eat dried worms off the sidewalk.

“No way.”

“What?”

“I’d say, ‘don’t be obvious’,’ but she deserves it. Look to your left.”

And one by one, my brother, his girlfriend, my sisters and my father turned to have a look for themselves. As the waiter served her dessert, a well-dressed, middle aged woman at the next table had yanked out a yard of string and sat flossing her teeth. We stared in horror as she sucked at her front teeth and flossed away as though there nothing more appropriate for her to be doing in a nice restaurant than going about her dental hygiene routine.

When I say nice, I mean, it wasn’t swanky, but there were linen napkins and a fairly large bill – things which usually keep public flossers and nosepickers at home. It was the kind of place where you wear nice clothes, bring your tables manners… and leave your floss behind. Or at least in your purse until you’re in the privacy of the bathroom.

I was bewildered. Even more bewildered that no one else in the restaurant seemed to notice or care.

“Isn’t there something you can do about this?â€ù

My brother laughed, and shook his head indicating that no, he couldn’t arrest her for having atrocious manners. I stared at the woman some more and frowned. This was criminal! Fat lot of good having a cop in the family was doing me, though. I could only hope her car registration had expired. Boy, then she’d be sorry.

As we drove home from the restaurant, a nervous flutter leapt into my stomach as we made a right at a red light without so much as a pause. Another reminder that I was far, far from New York. I got yet another reminder later that week as my sister and I walked through the campus bookstore. We browed and talked and laughed and more than once, I found myself the object of a turned head and a sideways glance.

In Utah, you can make a right on red. You can floss your teeth in public and not turn a single head. But you had better bite your tongue. And under no circumstances, when surrounded by the righteous, can you ever suggest that the Almighty’s middle name is the f-word.

They really hate that shit.

I know. I didn’t even tell you I was leaving. But last Friday, I hopped a plane bound for exotic Utah to spend spring break with my brother and sisters. We ate, laughed, Scrabbled. I slept all bundled up in an attic bed, took cold showers and for the first time inâ€_ well, ever, I was not anxious to get back to New York.

I didn’t even miss my computer.

I did write a nice long post on the flight home, but since the red eye always seems to be a much better idea than it actually is, that post is going to have to wait til I get some real sleep.

I’m such a blog tease.

“Are you waiting for me?”

“Excuse me?” I dug the earbud out of one ear.

“Are you waiting for me?”

I glanced to either side of me. No one else on the busy Union Square sidewalk seemed to be paying any attention to the stocky, bareheaded man in front of me. Inwardly, I grimaced. I knew I should have waited inside, but the weather had lured me out – out where the weird, confrontational stranger was waiting.

“Am I waiting for you? No.”

“I wish,” he said. And then his eyes made like an elevator. Up, down.

Eeew.

I smiled that polite half-smile that says, ‘I humor you so you won’t kill me’ and tucked the earpiece back where it belonged. Ah, beautiful iPod, ender of awkward conversations. I watched as the stranger had taken a step forward, but I turned my right shoulder to him (clue one), cranked up the volume on my Carpenters Love Songs (clue two) and began answering a text on my cell phone (the final clue in this round of Who Wants to Avoid a Weirdo?). Officially, this conversation was over.

“So. You don’t like talking to strangers?”

Or not.

To Guillermo (who is an artist and sometimes just gets so caught up in his work that a whole day goes by, and let’s go over to Cosi so he can buy me a coffee or hot chocolate or glass of wine, my friend will probably not show up anyway), our chit-chat was just getting going. After he’d ignored all of my obvious signals, the smart/rude thing would have been to continue ignoring him. But feeling neither smart nor rude, I just shook my head. No, I do not like talking to strangers.

“Because, you know, we are not strangers. We are just friends in the process of meeting.”

Where do they come up with this shit? The Children’s Television Workshop? Later, when he thrusts me a ‘business’ card that he’s pulled out of a Sesame Street card holder, I think, Ah, yes, it all makes sense.

“What is your name?”

“Heather.” And… it’s the gym weirdo situation all over again. I never learn anything.

“You have beautiful eyes. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Now, there is a difference between friendly and creepy. And within seconds, Guillermo left friendly far, far behind. After I politely declined his repeated invitation (“I’m waiting for a friend.”), he grabbed my elbow and tried to physically propel me around the corner toward coffee and/or certain death.

“No, no. Your friend is probably not coming.”

But then she did come. At that exact moment. When Sarah appeared, I hugged her tightly. Turn and go, Sarah. Turn and go.

I’m often surprised at other people’s limits… or more appropriately, their lack of them. No matter how many I encounter, the Tims and Guillermos of the world shock the shit right out of me. Who acts like that? Are they serial killers or just socially inept? People don’t come with warning labels or handling instructions, so how am I supposed to know? I’m not. So after yesterday, I have decided: no more suffering awkwardness, even for the sake of politeness. I am done.

My mother always told me not to talk to strangers, anyway. And I’m in the habit of listening to my mother. You know, when it’s convenient.

Heather: I had a really horrible dream the other night. I woke up in bed with a guy I didn’t want to sleep with (I have a foggy notion that it was Mark). I was panicked. We must have been drunk, because I couldn’t remember any of it happening and I didn’t know if we’d used a condom. It was terrifying.

Sarah: Oh no! I hate realistic bad dreams. They throw off your mood all day long.

Heather: Right? I woke up and sincerely thought I had to go find a morning after pill!

Sarah: Shudder. Imaginary bullet dodged.

Heather: I know. God. Can you imagine? Mark’s love child? Is there anything i want less?

Sarah: Hmmm…

Heather: Herpes maybe. Or huaraches.

Sarah: I would vote for huaraches.

Heather: The Rosemary’s Baby of footwear.

The anticipation is making me antsy.

Is that the buzzer? No? Damn. I’m finding little chores for myself around the apartment, just to keep from running to the peep hole every time I hear a sound in the hallway. Is it here? It feels like Christmas Eve, waiting up for Santa Claus. I mean, you know, if Santa Claus were made of food.

My very first Fresh Direct delivery should be here any minute!

With a grocery store being no more than a stone’s throw out my front door, you might think that ordering my groceries online is the epitome of lazy. And you’d be wrong. Mostly wrong anyway. Sure, being spared the often less-than-delightful experience of Gross-tedes was a plus factor when I finally took the Fresh Direct leap, but it wasn’t the selling point. Yogurt was.

Ever since my doctor laid down the law about calcium, I’ve developed a pretty serious, two yogurt a day habit. I know. I’m a maniac. And at the grocery store across the street, that habit was costing upwards of fifteen dollars a week. Now, fast-forward to the moment I clicked Fresh Direct’s dairy link and discovered the same yogurt forâ€_

“Sixty-three cents? You gotta be fucking kidding me!â€ù

“I know, right? Who knew it’d be cheaper to be lazy?â€ù

Ari and I, being about as big of weirdoes as you can possibly be, were online grocery shopping together. Over the phone. On a Friday night. We’d talked produce, ready-to-cook meals (you know, the kind that make you look like a Martha Stewart when you’re really more of a Roseanne), and pet food andâ€_

“You can order cases of Diet Coke.â€ù

“I saw that.â€ù

“I can’t believe it. This is a quality of life issue! We’ve been half-dead and we didn’t even know it.â€ù

So, now, I bide my time in my two hour window; I’m kicked back, blogging, waiting for the (deeply discounted) yogurt to come to me. Ahh, yeah. Knowledge is power, my friends.

It’s like that time I discovered my baby sister would do just about anything for two shiny pennies.

When I came to, there were tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Heather?”

I stared at the face saying my name. She had to be a nurse, but I hadn’t seen her before. I blinked hard at her and other faces swam into view. The doctor. Goldner’s mom. I’d been dreaming something. But what?

“How long have I been out?”

“Seconds, only. Are you alright, sweetie?”

“I’m so hot…” and before the word hot was out of my mouth, there was a cup of cold water in my right hand. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Honey, don’t apologize.”

I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. As I set the water down, I could feel the heat rise up into my face, perspiration forming on my temple. Sweat ran down my back.

Everything went black again.

Later, both the doctor and Mrs. G would tell me they’d never seen anything like it. Fainting dead away, eyes open, arms pinned to my body, seized up tight. Twice.

I’d gone in to the doctor’s office early that afternoon. Nothing serious – just a sore throat and a mild fever – but the way things go at work, I can’t afford to let it get much worse.
I emailed G after lunch and within ten minutes, Mrs. Goldner, who so conveniently works in an internist’s office in my neighborhood, had worked a little magic and squeezed me in.

No one could have predicted the fainting.

No one can really explain it, either. I’d eaten a good lunch. My fever was down. None of the subsequent blood tests revealed anything off. Though, oddly, minutes before I passed out, the doctor asked me my age and I didn’t know. Twenty-eight? No, wait… twenty-seven? Inwardly, I was upset at being so confused. But we made a few jokes about early signs of senility and went on. One minute I’m sitting, talking to the nurse and the next, I’m waking up bawling.

I couldn’t see, I could hear properly, and I was scared. And after that wore off… really, really embarrassed.

When I came around the second time, it was even harder to push back the blackness. I was fighting to stay conscious. I can’t see. Nurses fanned at me with folders and stroked my arm. Shhh. You’re okay. I blinked several more times and as the faces became more clear, I asked to lie down.

“Ah, look. Your color’s coming back. For a while, you were the same shade as your pretty white teeth.”

Water, tea, a cookie and a forty minute rest later, I was feeling a little more like myself. Confused and shaken, but otherwise fine. And now, a few hours after the whole ordeal, I’m still not really sure what happened.

Whatever that was, it sure makes a girl think twice about cracking off-handed fainting couch jokes, I tell you.

Where’ve I been?

Well, I’ve been here, mostly. Camped out on my sofa, nursing a bit of a sore throat (if I’m lucky, it’s the mumps) and making some April vacation plans.

This weekend, though, I did get out a bit. On Sunday, I took full advantage of the sunshine. And then later, of a few bucks from my tax return to go shopping with Sarah. But even shopping, I wasn’t, shall we say, bringing my A-game. *Shudder*. I started out in fine shape, eyeing a pair of sex-in-red-leather Calvin Klein sandals, but ended bringing home a new bathrobe, a dvd and the third installment of the Traveling Pants series.

What? I’m fine.

It just seems that when I get the blues, I get the director’s cut. Way too long and drawn out. I’m sure I’ll be feeling red leather again in no time. But right now? I’m pale pink terrycloth.

Incidentally, while I was having a quickie with those shoes, Sarah made a horrifying discovery: They still make huarache sandals. If they’re still making them, that means people (other than my mother) are still wearing them. On purpose.

I know. I’m as upset as you are.

Before I go seek solace with my book, I want to say thanks to Alyce from New Mexico for the most excellent surprise. I don’t even remember adding it to my wish list, but it’s the most perfect pick-me-up gift. And so well-timed in it Jane Austen-y-ness. Thank you.

What’s wrong with today is that nothing is actually wrong.

Nothing is exactly right, either and that’s why I feel this way. Tired, sad, and three seconds or one sideways glance away from crying.

Part of this feeling is merely residue – physical exhaustion left over from Saturday night’s migraine. I’m still wobbly and slow. So slow that I know at work they must think I’m on drugs. Or possibly that I should be on drugs.

The prescription kind.

Incidentally, a century or two ago, I’d probably have been diagnosed as having ‘spells’ or as being ‘of delicate constitution.’ People would have walked on eggshells around me – lest I get vexed, have one of my spells and collapse in a heap of rags on a fainting couch in front of a cold cast-iron stove before dying tragically of consumption.

But the world doesn’t cut a girl that kind of slack these days.

So I had a bad day. I’m that goddamn James Blunt song on repeat at my own pity party. I’m sad and I want someone to buy me flowers and pet my hair. I want someone to trick me into feeling happy about something when, deep down, all I really feel is miserable and disappointed with the world. Disappointed with myself. I find that’s the thing I like least about growing up – being honest enough with myself that I have to admit, “You know, you really could be a lot better. A lot more.â€ù

When I was younger, I was always enough.

Once, years ago now, when I was feeling disappointed, heartbroken and small, I sent Jonathan an email SOS.

If you care about me at all, you will bring the rest of that ice cream and apple pie over to my house tonight.

He brought the rest of the pieâ€_ and then headed off for his band’s practice space to get high and bang his drums. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Tonight, Sarah coaxed me downtown after work for coffee and Sephora browsing, a visit to the bird room at PetSmart and a loud, twenty-minute conversation about penises in the middle of Union Square – while half the city walked by deaf to our impropriety.

I would bring you the rest of a pie, she’d written earlier that afternoon.

It wasn’t pie, so much as a rice krispie treats and mocha frappuchino. It wasn’t pie at all. But then, obviously, that was never really what I’d wanted. When I feel small and hurt and a little bit lost, it’s not the rest of the pie that I need. It’s all of someone’s attention.

And if it comes with the repeated use of the word penis in public? So much the better.

Sir Hal has a collection of real-looking mouse toys that I like to call his ‘babies.’ Hal, go find your baby. and off he’ll scamper like a puppy to find one. Me, I find them in my purse or my sneakers from time to time, but most often, soaking in his water dish. At any given point, there are at least half a dozen of these things lying around the apartment. This morning, I came out of my bedroom and was a little amused to find five little ‘babies’ drenched and floating in his water dish.

“Aw,” I said, bending down to retrieve his drowning victims. “My own little Andrea Yates.”

***

His Excellency is not easily spooked. I mean, we play stalking games where I chase him around the apartment and he acts dutifully on-edge, and we both know, this is just to humor me. He has nothing to be truly edgy about. He knows the only danger he’s in is if he gets too close to the heat pipe with his whiskers again. But today, when I came home from work and took my belt off with one long swoop! , he went flying. Claws scraping on the hardwood floor, he made a beeline for the bathroom. I stood there, belt in hand, completely surprised.

“Jeez. You act like you knew my dad during the 80′s.”

To: Heather
From: Sister
Subject: A woman of seven and twenty…

I am reading Sense and Sensibility today. Marianne said this:

“A woman of seven and twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife.”

So there you have it. It is too late for you. You may as well become a nurse.

I am sorry to have to tell you this.

end message

Oh god. I knew it. I knew there was a reason I wasn’t dreading the big three-oh. It’s because all hope is really lost by twenty-seven!

Considering the fact that my stint in the medical profession lasted only until I saw my first GSW (gun shot wound, for you laypeople) and I face planted in the emergency room, even the nursing thing isn’t going to give my life some. But never fear. All is not lost. Things are not quite so limited as they used to be and there are plenty more useful professions an old maid like myself can pursue.

I’ve started compiling a list.

Schoolmarm. Not really a stretch from my current profession. And recently, within the span of twenty-four hours, both my friend, Matt and this guy were prescient enough to saddle me with this label. Both instances also resulted in dinner/drinks. Pity date/charity case? Maybe. But I’m OLD and dried up! Pride is not a luxury a twenty-seven year old spinster can afford!

Missionary. Who needs monogamy when you can have the father, son and holy ghost? Mother Theresa, you little minx.

Crazy Cat Lady. Who has more mystery than the possibly dangerous, certainly off her rocker bat who lives in the big corner house and hands out kittens at Halloween, eeking out a meager income on blog ads? And if you can’t have sex appeal, you may as well have mystery (and catch scratch fever). Okay, yeah. I admit that one’s kind of a stretch, but it beats inserting catheters any day.

I know, I know. Spinsterhood never sounded so good, right?

Also? That bit about not inspiring affection? Begging Ms. Austen’s pardon, but even at the advanced age of twenty-seven, my breasts are still quite perky, thank you very much.

And if its not affection they inspire… well, then it’s something else just as good.

When it comes to casual dating, I am pretty low maintenance.

I don’t own a copy of The Rules. I don’t make ridiculous, impossible checklists for things like height, education or profession. And I don’t have unreasonable expectations for perfection or mind-reading capabilities.

This is real life, not a Cameron Crowe flick.

I do, however, make a few basic assumptions when I decide to go out with a guy. I assume that by his late twenties, a man should know three things: how to dress, how to kiss, and how treat me like a girl.

Notice I didn’t say “treat me like lady.” Because the obvious is that a man should always be respectful of his date. But what may be less obvious is that he should also be aware of the distinct differences between his date… and one of his buddies.

Allow me to illustrate.

Example 1: The A-Game

Sometime late last summer, I went on a couple of dates with an attractive, well-spoken, and charming entrepreneur we’ll call Drew. Drew tended to ask me out for Thursday evenings, and yet, still be a little miffed when I wanted to be home by midnight. Not to be my mother, but it’s a school night! After a full day in the office, a full evening on the town can be a lot of effort.

For what would have been our third date, and as an invitation to meet his friends, Drew left me a voicemail one afternoon.

“… Thursday night, if you can bring your A-game. Peace out.”

Peace out? Were we on the same paintball team? It wasn’t even the goofy signoff that got me. I remember being most taken aback by the bit about bringing my A-game. I have never been accused of being a bad time or bringing down the group fun quotient. Was insulting me really meant to woo me? Maybe. At the very least it was thoughtless and ultimately, a deal breaker.

Example 2: U just don’t get it

More recently, I started seeing Mark, a wise-cracking, Peter Pan type. After exactly two dates, I received the following text message, late one Friday night (incidentally, the same Friday night we didn’t make plans because he was busy):

Can I reserve u for a make-out session tonite?

Reserve me? What am I, a library book? I replied, no, and with a click!, closed my phone and the window on that potential relationship. Had we been dating for a few months, a message like that might have been not only acceptable, but probably even funny and cute. But in the early stages of dating, it’s cringe-worthy. It’s icky and it’s lazy. I honestly appreciate when men at least go to the pretense of making a date if they’re after some nookie. And frankly, if he can’t be bothered to make a proper drunk dial (or fucking spell out the word y-o-u), he’s likely to be lazy about a whole bunch of other stuff.

If you catch my drift.

Perhaps I’m being fussy. But I’m a sucker for some finesse and a little bit of sweet talk. I mean, is it really so much to ask to be treated like a girl? To be handled with just a little more care than say, the guys in his Fantasy Football league?

God, I hope not.

And to the guy who says, “I didn’t clean up my apartment because I didn’t want to put up a front and make you think I was cleaner than I am.” I say, put up a front! Be cleaner, be nicer! Allow me at least a few good months of ignorant bliss.

Because by then, you’ll probably be farting in bed and a little mess will be the least of my grumbles.

Mom: I liked it, but it wasn’t better than Crash. The scenery was spectacular, and Heath did a good job… but the story suffered from being very superficial. They didn’t LOVE each other; they had an affair that was a step outside of life, not life itself. They never had a chance to turn it into love, true, but it’s still just fantasy. I mean, who wouldn’t you fall in love with in those mountains?

Heather: Meatloaf.

Mom: All in the Family Meatloaf?

Heather: No, the singer.

Mom: Oh, I don’t know him. Ok, or Tiny Tim.

Heather: Or Jared the Subway guy. He’s just annoying.

Mom: Okay. Point made.

“Can you maybe do for me a favor?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you maybe do for me a favor?”

He said it more loudly this time, barely turning around. Could I do for him a favor? He spoke with a thick, Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe.

I’d had my pick of cabs outside the Duane Reade on 86th Street. Eeny meeny miny… had I just moed my way into a thirty block ride in total discomfort? I shifted in my seat. Oh well. At the very least, it would make for a good story.

“Um. Well, what kind of favor?”

The cab driver turned half-way around in the front seat.

“You know how to do the text message?”

He gestured with his phone, flipped it open and made typing motions on the keys.

“I get the free text message, but I cannot drive and push the buttons. Will you do it?”

He pronounced ‘it’ like ‘eeet,’

I laughed and said sure. This was the kind of favor I could do. And once he’d handed the phone between the slit in the fiberglass window and I figured out the menu, I got my typing fingers ready.

“What do you want to say?”

“Oh yes. Here ees the message,” he said, pushing a piece of notebook paper through the window.

There were no fewer than twelve lines of handwritten text. Something about an early reservation, and T always as in Tara and please to have lovely day. I thought for a moment it might encoded government secrets and then I remembered that we’ve been friends with the Russians for years now and well, my life is not secret government code exciting. It’s very rarely Golden Girls exciting.

So I got to typing.

When I realized the extent of the message, I told him I didn’t think I would get done – we were already flying down Second Avenue – but I that I would try.

“For you, now, I would do any favor. If you want, we stop and I buy for you flowers!”

“No, that’s really alright.” I laughed. Thought it was sort of tempting. Who gets flowers from their cabbie?

As expected, when we arrived at my destination, I hadn’t finished. I pressed save and made a mark on the paper where I’d gotten to. I handed him back his phone.

“Now I do for you a favor!” he said. “You do not pay for cab ride.”

Ah, the barter system. I am a fan. When I got out of the cab, I was laughing to myself, picturing some other bewildered passenger finishing up my work on their way across town, and secretly hoping that I’d just passed on some secret government shit.

You never know.

(*like Veggie Tales, only with 98% less Jesus)