Because I work for a school now, I get magical privileges like, Christmas break. I haven’t had a real Christmas break since… wow, since I was 19. Working my way through college meant day-after Christmas sales at the campus bookstore. Not seven entire business days without a single obligation.

I hardly know what to do with myself!

This morning, I slept in ’til nine whole thirty. ‘Look at me,’ I thought, ‘still in bed after nine on a Tuesday!’ When laying there basking became boring, I got up, made tea, went grocery shopping, had the bathroom sink fixed, cleaned out the fridge, and did some yoga while I waited for the DHL man to come.

And all before noon! I was a very busy girl.

Then after noon, there was laundry, the gym, some baking, and well, the list goes on. This Christmas break thing is nothing like I remember it: all that sleeping in and watching reruns of Growing Pains. Clearly, this is not your teenager’s time off.

I mean, I’ve been out of my pajamas for nearly twelve hours. And it’s nowhere near time to get back in them.

So, with all this Christmas Break reformation business, what I want to know is, when the hell did I become a grown up? I mean, a real grown up. One of those people that finds getting things done way more satisfying than sitting around in my pj’s all day. When did that happen?

You know what? Now that I think about it, maybe this happily busy thing is just a symptom of grown-upness to come. I can’t be an actual grown up yet. I don’t do other old lady things like, say… own monogrammed stationery or consistently have more than a couple of bucks in my savings account. Nope. I’d be really worried if I started planning for my retirement or *gasp* questioning the meaning of life and caring if I got an answer. That is grown up.

I think I’ll leave that little crisis right there. No sense in getting all worried over nothing. I am still youthful and I got my Christmas break to prove it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shopping list to make and a guided meditation to get to before bed.

Hmmm. Slippery slope, ain’t it?

“You know how I know I’m a grown up?”
“How?” Ari turned away from the pre-movie quiz to face me.
“Because my Christmas gift from my brother arrived this afternoon and I didn’t opened it.”
“Wow. You are grown up!”

I nodded, proud of myself. Yup, I was a grown up…for the next hour or so, anyway. I regressed as soon as we got back to my apartment. Growing up is so overrated.

I’m spending Christmas alone this year. I guess it should bother me a little – I know it has in years past – but it doesn’t. I’m so damn cheerful lately I can hardly stand myself, and I suppose that alone makes a solo Christmas much more tolerable. Vicious cycle, that happiness thing. I miss my family, of course, but there will be phone calls to bridge the distance and silly traditions to keep us all tied together.

Tonight, Rachel, Goldy and I had a Hanukkah/ Christmas Eve dinner (or Jew-le tide celebration, according to Goldner). When you’re thousands of miles from your nearest relative, friends are your family, and mine is just the best.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and anything else you’re celebratin’, from all of us at my apartment (um, you know, me and Sir Hal). Have the happiest!

And keep those red bows. Never know when you’re gonna find a suggestive and inappropriate use for them.

Joy to you and me. Heh.

I was tucked safely beneath three layers of goose down when the alarm went off and the radio informed me that yes, Virginia, there is a transit strike. And that it was twenty-two degrees.

Coaxing Sir Hal under the covers, I slapped the snooze button and hunkered back down. Oh, man. Twenty-two degrees? Twenty-two is pretty cold when you’re waiting for the bus. But when you’re walking to work? Brrrrrrr! I grumbled and groused a bit and then did what I often do in times of hardship and inconvenience. I asked myself, ‘What would Laura Ingalls do?”

She’d make Almanzo hitch up the team and take her to the schoolhouse, that’s what she’d do. But pre-Manny days, she’d layer up, grab a lunch pail and forge ahead, like a good little pioneer girl.

First on the list of things to do: a warm, healthy breakfast. Since this house doesn’t do porridge, I made an egg white omelet and tea. I packed my lunch pail (Gristede’s bag) and then I raided the closets and drawers for layerable clothing. Tights, knee high socks, jeans, thermal undershirt, sweater. And finally, as practical as it is absolutely adorable – the Half Pint ‘do. I plaited my long hair into two braids and pulled on a knitted cap, marveling at how snugly and neatly it fit. Bundling up in my coat, gloves and scarf, I grabbed my lunch and headed out for a trek across the big woods. Er, the big city.

And by block thirty, I was sweating my ta-tas off.

Ahem. So perhaps it was a bit of overkill, all those layers. But the principle stands. When in the face of adversity, ask yourself, ‘What Would Laura Ingalls Do?’ and you’ll be a-okay. And if your childhood education was lacking in the Little House books, you can find the television version of her prairie wisdom on DVD*, courtesy of PBS.

That shit’s better than the Boy Scout handbook.

* Which I have hastened to add to my Amazon wish list. How have I been living without it?

One of the nicest things about life right now, is that when anyone asks, ‘How are you?” I get to say, “Good. Really, really good.”

I almost feel like I shouldn’t elaborate. Like, I could jinx myself and wake up back where I was a few months ago, sleeping through entire weekends, hiding from life. But here I go anyway. Now, I know that angsty posts about how hard life can be tend to be more fun to read, but right now, I’m not feeling too angsty. I’m feeling really grateful.

Work is great – what a change from the environment I came from. To have meeting where the word “feelings” is used, and to constantly hear, ‘Great job! I love it!’ To really like where I spent my day – that in and of itself has been the ultimate catalyst for my attitude shift.

My family is in a relatively good spot these days, too which is also something of a relief. When I called my father this afternoon and asked how he was, he said, “Good.” Not, “Oh, I guess I’m doin’ alright.” or the standard, “I’m real damned depressed.” Good.

My apartment is supremely tidy, there’s food in the fridge and clean clothes in the closet. If cleanliness really is next to godliness, then holy shit, look at me. Insert chorus of angels here.

I have worries, of course. Money is uncomfortably tight these days. My jeans even tighter. But I’m slowly getting a better handle on both of those things. And overall, life is very peaceful. You know what’s bound to happen, don’t you? Some boy is going to come along and screw it all up – wreak havoc on my tranquil little world.

I sorta can’t wait.

The best things in life aren’t free, but they are pretty damn inexpensive.

When my mother wanted to buy me a printer/scanner/copier for Christmas one year, I asked if I could instead have a white terrycloth robe. Her reaction? “Um, sure….” She was puzzled and I was delighted. I’d wanted the hulking shroud for years but for whatever reason, had never been able to bring myself to drop the dough to buy it. A whopping fifty bucks. I’d had zero problem buying living room furniture ( a financial sacrifice that had me eating Campbell’s soup two meals a day two months). But when it came to the relatively smaller purchase, it seemed more of a splurge.

Or, maybe the wanting gave me a reason to live. This Fish needs an obsession?

Until recently, my desire unfulfilled was The Immaculate Collection. The first music video I ever saw on MTV (I’d been sheltered from its pervasive evilness until an accidental encounter with hotel cable when I was 11) was Papa Don’t Preach, launching a two-decade love affair with Madonna. But, again loving to love from afar, I never managed to buy my favorite album.

Out of the blue one day, Shawn asked if I had an Amazon wish-list. I did. Sorta. I’d started it out of boredom and never quite got around to doing any wishing. My list had three items on it. Princess Bride on DVD, The Kite Runner and The Immaculate Collection. She sent me all three. I didn’t know people did that. Just made other people’s decades like that. I hopped around my office all afternoon chanting, I gottta prresssent. I haaave Madonna! I was absolutely thrilled.

But when Shawn bought for me what had long remained the leader on the Things I Want Above All Other Things list, number two got promoted. I am now suffering an intense crush on the Senseo Coffee Maker. I burn, I pine, I perish. I get that all too familiar yearning feeling (once reserved for tall boys with glasses). There are strange heart palpitations involved.

Having lovingly stared at its internet visage for the last several minutes, I’m in debates about buying it and ending this silliness. I have a nice little holiday bonus – why shouldn’t I buy myself the gift of beauty and caffeine? Well, maybe because, the wanting gives me a reason to live. Or at least a reason to walk up and down the same aisle at Target every month.

And if that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

When I got up this morning weather.com was so kind to offer that it ‘feels like 4 degrees.’ Yes, of course it does. Why not? And when I went to take a shower and the water stayed ice cold after ten minutes, I thought, how very fitting.

Winter in New York City is one high-maintenance little bitch.

She’s like that girl you’re friends with, but you’re not sure why, because not only does she require just way too much attention, she takes three hours to get ready to do anything. See, Summer… now, she’s more my type. Wet hair, flip flops and some lip gloss and she’s good to go. Summer sleeps with one leg out of the covers and doesn’t mind too much if there’s no hot water for her shower.

Not winter. Winter still sleeps with one leg out of the covers, but that one leg is wearing wool socks, and lathered in smelly lotions so her skin doesn’t crack. Winter requires blow dryers and lip products and special weather protecting creams. Winter spends way more time dressing – she doesn’t leave the house with less than three layers. Five, probably, when it feels like four degrees. She requires accessories and particular shoes and coffee and hearty foods. She’ll crack your lip just for smiling at her, too. Insecure little ice princess that she is.

I for one am done. I’m sitting in bed (leaving soon, I swear) in knee-high socks and a heavy bathrobe trying to summon the energy to face winter today. I’d so much rather be off with her red-headed step brother, Caribbean Vacation.

God, was he good.

I just learned a new word that I’d like to share with you. But first, let me give you a bit of context.

I’m sitting in bar with a friend we’ll call… Matt, when in walks his roommate who we’ll call… Chris. Yeah, that works. So, we’re sitting there, watchin’ the Bears and the Steelers, when in walks Chris and with him is this girl who we’ll call…Sarah*.

“Wait.” I turned to Matt and lowered my voice. “Isn’t that the girl who came to visit from San Francisco with your friend a few months ago?”

“Yep. And now she’s back for a fuckation.”

Fuckation: n destination travel purely for the purpose of getting laid.

I guess I shouldn’t really be too surprised. But then again. Do people really fly all the way across the country just for sex? Okay, I took a train to Connecticut once. But I’m not talking bi-costal relationship here. I mean, fuckation hardly says, ‘blossoming romance’ to me.

And sure, things may be looking sort of bleak on the nookie front lately, but so long as JetBlue doesn’t have to intercede, I think I’m doing alright.

Though, in all honesty, it’s not actually that far off from one of my our (I’m looking at you, Biscuit) original Bahamas vacation goals. I won’t lie: the whole point of the all-inclusive resort was the possibility of getting tipsy and accidentally making out with strangers. But in the end, when I realized that sort of thing would have required me to get out of my hammock, I nixed it from the day’s list of activities (along with 9AM SCUBA lessons).

And even with all five of us in the same bed, my Caribbean holiday was one good, old-fashioned celibation.

You know, once Kate and I had completely dismissed the idea of prostituting ourselves for a suite at the Atlantis. Don’t judge me. Everybody has their price and mine just happens to be the daily rate of the Bridge Suite — a cool twenty-five thousand dollars.

No kissing on the mouth, though.

*Name changed because I can’t remember what it really was. Started with an S for sure, though. Also, thank you, ‘Matt’ for the new vocabulary word.

Coming home from the Bahamas was a complete shock to the system. Forget the sniffles I’m developing from recycled plane air and sudden plunge into below-freezing temperatures. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to lead a normal life without a self-serve ice cream machine!

I have seen paradise and I just may never be the same.

Our Paradise Island vacation went off without a single hitch. When I tell you it was perfect, you might need to see that far off look in my eyes to believe me. I came home well-rested and relaxed and spent the entire day today in a state of shock.

Where was my wodka tonish ? Why am I wearing seven layers of clothing? And when, dear god, is it going to be hammock time again?

From the criminally low price we paid for our all-inclusive hotel package, I was expecting some pretty humble accommodations. I was delighted to be totally and completely wrong. The grounds were beautiful, the staff was outstanding (the fire limbo dancer, Action Jackson, and I married at a small ceremony at lunch on Tuesday), and the beds didn’t even come close to collapsing when all five of us piled on playing ‘spoon drawer.’

Now that’s quality.

For five days Biscuit, Neff, Kate, Stan and I ran around shoeless, made difficult decisions like, pina colada or daiquiri? or one shot of rum or two? and threw back rum and juice cocktails while playing cutthroat games of Spades and Egyptian Rat Screw. Basically, we spent five days doing absolutely nothing.

It was heaven. And I want to go back!

Not that freezing-ass cold New York City is hell exactly, but I could sure go for a warm wind, a strawberry daiquiri and all five of us piled in my bed giggling about silly and slightly creepy inside jokes about filling our rum holes. You know, paradise.

Photo by Biscuit. More photos coming soon.

*Not quite vodka and not quite tonic. But after drinking strawberry daiquiris all day, you don’t much care.

There’s nothing half as nice as the idea of a sunburn in December.

In twelve hours, I will be boarding a plane with eight of my friends and heading off for five days in the Bahamas. Five days of sun, sand, and self-serve frozen margaritas. Self serve! Five days of living with words like ‘all inclusive,’ and ’82 degrees and mostly sunny.’

Five days without internet, cell phone or the New York Post.

Normally, I’d have spent the last two, or maybe even three days shirking work, too occupied with beachy keen daydreams to be very productive. But because the universe is a wacky, wacky place, I’ve actually been too productive to daydream.

I know. It’s unnatural.

But the new job has been busy – the good kind of busy, but also fairly exhausting. It hasn’t let me with much energy for anything other than crawling into my bed at night. So tonight, I came home from work, grabbed a suitcase out of the closet and got to work. Without the foresight of a packing list, I spent a good hour, running around, semi-frantically filling my suitcase with clothing of questionable cleanliness.

It’s been a rough week. Laundry was way down on the list.

But a couple of minutes ago, I just gave up. I gave up agonizing over what to take. I figured, if I have a bathing suit and a passport, what more could I need? I also gave up worrying about whether or not the apartment was tidy. The only person who will see the sad state of my house is Ari when she comes to Sir Hal sit. And I’m pretty sure she will love me even if there’s a ring around the bathtub.

So, with frenzy behind me, and a bag sorta packed and ready to go, I ordered a pizza and thought about painting my toenails. Let the vacation begin!

Now, if only my apartment had self serve frozen drinks.

I want to thank you all for your kindness during the last week. For the concerned emails and generous offers of couches, apartments and mini-breaks in New Jersey – a thousand times thank you.

“Is that… a music class?”

“Yeah.” My coworker pointed toward the back of the office. “The music room is on the other side of that door. Cute, right?”

“Extra cute.”

I’m not used to hearing tambourines and a chorus of fifth grade voices in the middle of my work day, or passing through a Capoeria class (!) on my way to the bathroom. But those are just some of the nifty little quirks of my new gig. I’m particularly tickled by the classical music that signals the end of every class, fire drills and getting called into the principal’s office.

Fortunately, he wanted to introduce himself, not give me detention for the length of my skirt. Phew.

There are so many little oddities to get used to outside of the cubicle life. Like, this afternoon, when the Phys Ed. teacher introduced herself in front of her students as Mrs. F, I had to stifle a quick giggle. I knew that had we been back in the main office, I’d have known her as Ann or Megan, but I’d forgotten that when in front of a room full of sixth graders, teachers don’t have first names.

Or, god forbid, lives outside of the classroom. If they only knew!

One of the nicer perks about my new job (on top of the fucking excellent health insurance) is that, unlike first days of new schools when I was a kid, I already have a friend at this one. To see the same friendly face at Sunday afternoon football and Monday morning coffee is really very nice. As is the head’s up of decent places to grab lunch. Invaluable information.

What is also nice is having a boss show so much confidence and enthusiasm in my skills. My calendar is filling up with meetings and new tasks and challenges. It’s exhausting, but in a good way. And speaking of, I should really get some rest.

Tomorrow is Parent/Teacher Conference day.

When I went to bed last night, I left a light on in the kitchen.

You know, to go with the one I’d turned on in the living room. And the one over the sink in the bathroom. I checked the closets a good half dozen times and then stood in the hallway deciding what to do with the bathroom door: Which is less scary – open or closed?

I decided closed.

On Law and Order when the cops go door to door after someone’s been killed, the neighbors act blasé about the whole thing – sometimes even annoyed at the disruption. Again? Is it too much to ask that folks refrain from being victimized while Letterman is on? I felt anything but blasé. Though, once I shut my door, I did eventually go back to my movie. But only after making sure the blinds were closed so tightly that not a sliver of light would peek through.

My windows overlook the apartment where it happened. Which is why I heard what I heard. And why I can’t seem to go near them without my hands shaking.

I thought for sure I would have nightmares last night. But since it turns out that you actually have to fall asleep to have nightmares… Well, in a way, I got off easy. Even if today was hard. First days at work are rough enough on a good night’s sleep and I remember all but forty or so minutes of last night.

My brain says that I shouldn’t be scared. There are cops on the roof and pooping in and out of every floor and a gaggle of reports just outside the front door. What’s going to happen? Nothing. But my heart leaps every time there’s a noise in the hallway or a squeak of the floorboards as Sir Hal goes about his nightly wanderings. My imagination takes the images that the media has constructed, the look I saw on the detective’s face, the sound of yelling and the shrillness of dogs barking and plays upon every detail until I can quite literally see my heart beating through my tank top.

Reporters on the sidewalk wanted to know if having someone murdered in my building makes me feel unsafe. Something in me needed to take her notebook and fling it into the street and yell, Shame on you! Shame on you for exploiting people’s fear! You’re a woman; do you live alone?

Instead I ducked behind the policeman and said I had a bus to catch.

The part of my personality that hates a drama queen has been refusing all the kind offers from friends offering couches or even entire vacated apartments, knowing that it’s really not necessary. But the part of me that cries at scary movies, the part that doesn’t so much mind the drama queen, well, she declines with a greater hesitation.

She’s also the one who just chased a Tylenol PM with a shot of bourbon… after checking the hall closet one more time.

A policeman just came to my door to tell me that my neighbor was murdered.

With the exception of food delivery guys, I don’t get visitors at this time of night. So when there was a knock at the door, I was surprised – surprised enough to go to the door and swing back the peephole cover. The man in a suit on the other side of the door heard the floorboards squeak.

“Police!”

I stood there in my pajamas mute and stupid with disbelief as he told me that my neighbor had been killed. Did I know her?

“I’m sorry – I don’t know many of my neighbors by name.”

But when he told me the apartment number, it was another story. My mouth went dry. She and I had been in the elevator together yesterday afternoon. The detective asked if I’d heard anything strange tonight.

“Yes. I did. Yelling and a dog going crazy. About an hour ago. I only know because I was making dinner and the stove is right by the window.”

He nodded. “That would have been the right time. That was their dog. Her boyfriend found her and called 911.”

When he had no more questions, the detective asked my name and jotted it down in his notepad. He lingered for a bit. I think he could tell I wasn’t exactly alright.

“You know, we’ll see. The boyfriend’s down at the precinct right now. Just keep your door locked, okay miss?”

I nodded and mumbled something about how horrifying this was and the look on his face told me he thought so too. I can’t help but wonder how gruesome things are in that apartment.

The courtyard below my window is a buzz of activity – people shouting back and forth to each other, thick flashlight beams bouncing off the bricks. There’s heavy footfall on the roof above my bed. I feel like I’m stuck in an episode of Law and Order and it’s chilling. The voices outside my door are now discussing basement access and, did Pete have a look at the incinerator?

I feel like throwing up.

1. A new job. For the last several months, anytime I was asked, “So, what do you do?” I changed the subject. When my avoidance was mistaken for modesty (like I’ve ever been legitimately accused of that), I resorted to being blunt. “I really hate my job, so let’s talk about something else.” Tres graceful, right? Now I can’t shut up about it, and I haven’t even started. I wonder if my mouth will get tired of forming the words, “I’m so excited!” I hope not.

2. A dysfunctional family. They may be a huge mess, but they are my huge mess and I wouldn’t replace a single one of them.

3. An absence of drama. Dysfunctional family aside, this year has been calm – maybe eerily so. Last November marked the height of bad relationship mêlée (I can still hear the sound that six bottles of Heineken make shattering on the cement) and I thought things would never go back to normal. Well, in a way I was right. They didn’t. For that I’m thankful.

4. Sir Halitosis Maximus, the Duke of Bad Breath. On pain of sounding like the Crazy Cat Lady, that little shit is four-footed, fur-covered joy. I love that he plays fetch at four a.m., that I have to wake him up and drag him out of the sink before I can do dishes, and that he stalks me when I’m in the shower. I love that when I come home from work, I’m required to hug him for a good five minutes before he’s over being abandoned for the day and can get back to playing with hair elastics. I even love that the idea that something bad could happen to him makes me horribly sad.

5. My friends. My friends are better than your friends. They just are. I don’t know that I’ve done anything to deserve such generous, intelligent and otherwise amazing people in my life, but there they are. I do this thing, you see, where I’ll accept invitations to parties and then, out of anxiety, not show up. I don’t mean to, and it’s something I’m working on. But for all my shenanigans, there are people who keep on inviting me because they genuinely care whether or not I am there. There are people who do small and incredible things like, buy my movie tickets because she “read about the broccoli!” or hold my hair back while I puked my guts out for two days on the floor of a hotel in a foreign country.

6. Everything else. Pink flannel pajamas, strangers on buses, waffles with strawberries, Stevie Wonder on my iPod. Unplanned vacations, fugging, arguments that end well, new people, old movies and finding money in pockets of last year’s winter coat. Among other things.

I met Rich at a party a little under a year ago, and the attraction was immediate. He was nice-looking and funny and after our initial flirtation-filled conversation… all but mute. And every single time we run into each other, it’s the same story.

“He’s so cute and he never talks — which is like KRYPTONITE for me. I just want to molest him!”

Sarah and I were having a late afternoon dish session, and boys are on our top ten list of things to talk about (somewhere after wine and risotto and before favorite Little House on the Prairie episodes).

“Ooooh, I love him already!”

“He’s all mysterious and broody, “I said, thinking about the last time I’d bumped into him at an East Village bar. “He’ll ask me a question and then once I answer, just nod and go back to concentrating on his beer. What is that? That’s not conversation!”

“How old is he? What’s he like? Details!”

“I dunno. Twenty-seven, twenty-eightish?”

I don’t know what she was expecting. How am I supposed to know anything about the guy if we don’t talk? Beyond seeing that he enjoys awkward silences and pale ales, I was at a loss.

“Ooh, but you know, come to think of it, he talks to other people. Just not to me.” I frowned, on the verge of a pout. “Why is that? I’m nice!”

“Well, duh!”

“What? Are you suggesting this is modern pigtail pulling? No way. Not at this age. We talk to the folks we like!”

“Heather, as much as we would like to pretend we’re all mature now, that’s a big fat joke. I would guess that he likes you and is nervous!”

“HA! Good. I don’t talk to him either. Because He makes me nervous.”

Maybe I should just push him down on the playground and kick him in the ribs a few times. Seems like it’d be just as productive. And maybe I’d get my hair pulled in return.

Heh.

I had every intention of spending today alone.

After having been out every single night last week (hyper sociability being one of the side effects of no longer being stressed about my job), my apartment needed a bit of attention and I needed at bit of downtime. At a party last night, I turned down an invitation to chicken wings and Sunday afternoon football in favor of doing laundry and tackling the dishes that had piled up in the sink. But when I got up late this morning, hungover and in no mood to play domestic goddess, I was sorry I had. But no sooner had I rededicated myself to the idea of tidying the apartmen, my phone lit up with a new text message.

Thanks for coming out last night. We’re all watching football if you get done with laundry.

An hour later I was showered and meeting my new friends at an UWS bar catching up on the Bears game and nursing my hangover on diet soda. Now this was downtime. And then, with the game finished and less than an hour of daylight left, we set out to catch Central Park in all of its fall finery. It was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe what I’d nearly missed. We crunched through leaves and fantasized about jumping from trees into the world’s biggest leaf pile. We stopped to watch a small wedding ceremony at the edge of the Turtle Pond, and then when dark set in, we took a turn around the Great Lawn.

“Want to have a look at a planet?”

At the north end of the lawn, a grey bearded man had stopped us, gesturing toward his south-facing telescope. The man was old and wiry and I could smell his breath from three feet away.

“Which planet?” Matt asked, stepping up to the telescope.

“Venus,” I answered. I could see it clearly in the night sky.

We took turns squinting into the eyepiece. Venus was dark on one side, as though it was being eclipsed.

“Now, tell me why we’re looking at her,” the old man asked us. When none of us could provide a satisfactory answer quickly enough, he launched into lessons on Galileo and

“Heliocentricity.”

“Right!” The old man grinned at me. “Galileo had been right all along. Our solar system is heliocentric.”

I cracked a joke about my universe being ego-centric and the old man lit up, becoming even more animated.

“Aha! But see, that’s not a bad thing. When we decided to go the moon or to send up satellites or the Hubble, we had to think of everything in terms of our own planet. We had to get geocentric again.”

Then he did a dance. Hopping on one skinny leg and then the other, our Central Park Professor wrapped up his lesson. “It’s okay to be egocentric so long as you remember both hemispheres.”

We thanked him and walked off in the dark blissed out over our amateur astronomy lesson, swapping stories about our favorite random New York moments. This was certainly going on the list. What a gem. Seconds later, though, it occurred to me to go back, mostly because I’d had absolutely no idea what he meant by hemispheres. But no matter.

I suppose I got the gist of it.

“So, who are you dating?”

“Nobody.” I smiled when I said it and swallowed what was left in my glass.

Stephanie poured more wine and looked at me from across the table. She was waiting for an explanation.

“I don’t trust my own judgment on the matter these days,” I admitted. “So, I took myself out of the game for a bit.”

Not like I have to tell you, but I don’t exactly have the best track record with men. Worse yet, the ones I have never even written about may just be the saddest feathers in my cap. Among those, the Three-Minute Man and Disappointing David* in particular, left me questioning not only my decision-making skills, but my sanity as well.

“I’m not really one to entertain regret,” I told her. “But, I’ve had to come to terms with my recent man disasters. And I think that it’s better if I just don’t for a while.”

“What about…” She asked about someone I’d met a while back. Her tone suggested that hopefully, he was not one of those disasters.

“Never saw him again,” I said.

“What an asshole.”

I shrugged as though to say, Eh, maybe not.

I have never been one of those girls to adopt any sort of hardcore relationship rules; I was always too afraid of coming off as demanding and naggy or worse, needy. God, that’s such an ugly word. Needy. But the flipside is just as ugly. You get what you pay for, and the less you expect out of a man, well, the less you get.

And as for being ‘understanding’ about shady behavior? That’s really a crock of shit. I wasn’t being understanding; I was being hurt and disappointed and too proud to admit it. But damn if I didn’t appear to be the very model of a modern gal taking advantage of nontraditional relationships.

But when I found that, in the end, I was left with nothing more than a handful of unsatisfying three-month relationships and a couple of one night stands, I had to pull the breaks. I was bored with making the same mistakes and reopening the same old wounds. I was bored with myself.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I said a couple one night stands. I’m a girl with a healthy appetite for and attitude about sex, but I’m no floozy. Maybe I don’t sport date because I’m not capable of it (I think my multi-tasking skills shut off when I leave the office). My preferred dating strategy has always been this: meet someone I like, try it out, and if it doesn’t work… start all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I’ll admit that there’s still nothing I’d like more than to meet a nice man who’d come to stay for while.

But these days, I’m not open to meeting anyone. Not even the nice ones. I told Stephanie as much.

“I think that’s fine – to focus on other things for a while.” She brought up work and writing and other things that deserve a bit of obsessing over. “Just so long as you’re not closing yourself off.”

“Hmmm.” I considered it for a split second. “Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

* Not only has the name been changed, but just so you know, the moniker has absolutely nothing to do with sex. Ya big pervert.

When I was growing up, we didn’t have much.

In fact, there were times when we didn’t have anything. I have vague recollections of living in a tent at a KOA one summer when we were ‘between homes.’ Even in those times, when money was scarce, my mother had a distinct financial policy – the Rule of Thirds. When it came to windfalls, unexpected or unbudgeted sources of income, the sum, however large (tax refunds) or small (birthday money from grandma) was divided into three parts. One third went to savings, one third toward paying debt, and one third toward fun. Camping at Arches National Park, ice cream at the place that put a plastic figurine on top of your cone – it’s the one third toward fun that make-up some of my best childhood experiences.

My mother says that when given choice, she’d rather buy memories than things.

Maybe that’s what I was thinking when I spent my entire grocery budget on a Metropolitan Opera ticket this month. The cupboard had been well-stocked with things like instant oatmeal, canned soups and boxed pasta – rations enough to last until payday, so I thought, why not? But days later, with $7.35 in my checking account and the opera experience behind me, I don’t have to tell you that the rations got really old, really fast. And this morning, t-minus two days until payday, I’d had all I could take.

Man cannot live by oatmeal alone.

Not to mention, man had run out of things like Q-tips and face wash. So, in desperation, I did what had to be done. I grabbed the change jar off of the desk and made for the Food Emporium, home of my neighborhood Coinstar. As I dumped the coins into the tray and watched the pennies, dimes and nickels tumble through the slot, I made a mental grocery list. I needed milk, yogurt and broccoli. Please, let there be enough. I was hoping for at least eight bucks.

Five minutes later, I walked away from the bright green kiosk with $32.31, feeling like a millionaire.

I haven’t shopped like that since college. Aware of every single penny, it wasn’t my usual whirlwind trip through the grocery store, tossing things into the cart at random. Incidentally, what these people charge for broccoli spears is highway robbery. Only, I’d never stopped to consider it.

Today, I downgraded to the broccoli cuts.

Perhaps out of superstition, I spent only a third of the money on groceries. A third I kept in my wallet, a crisp ten dollar bill to see a movie, and the other third went back to coinage. Quarters for laundry. It’s not savings or paying off a debt, but just as practical.

I can’t help but think this is only a preview of things to come, being reined in to a tighter budget, battling with myself over bagged frozen produce and being appalled at the price of Haagen Dazs. But it’s actually not all that alarming, and in a way, my grocery experience was sort of gratifying. It makes sense, too. I’d learned the concept in principle from a teacher, and in practice, from my mother. When what you’ve given up doesn’t take away from the satisfaction you’ve gained in the deal, you always come out ahead.

I think that’s called opportunity cost.

Brought to you by Coinstar and Ms. Story’s Introduction to Economics.

Today, I quit my job.

I can’t tell you how good it felt just to type that. I quit my job. I feel like maybe there’s a chorus of angels somewhere waiting for me to say it out loud so they can sing back-up.

The offer came in this morning sometime around 10, and by 11, I was behind closed doors, giving my notice. The Man was not pleased. In fact, he was really, really freaked out. And he tried everything in his power to change my mind.

First came the counter offer. Or offers. I had a fifteen thousand dollar raise and a four-day workweek before I made it absolutely clear that it wasn’t about money. I was taking a ten thousand dollar pay cut to take this new job. This new job was about something bigger than money. Next came the parental tactic (I’m so disappointed) and when that didn’t budge me, the Man appealed to my very core. He cut me to the quick.

“Don’t you care anything about shoes? Because, there goes your shoe budget!”

In the end, we were laughing, amid his threats to have me chained to the desk and fed me pizza and Japanese food (on rotation), and I walked out of his office feeling even more convinced that was I doing the right thing.

This was what I needed to get out of my funk – this new reason to get out of bed. In two weeks, I’ll be taking a bus to Harlem to work for a not-for-profit charter school. I’m promised some of the same sorts of tedium I have encountered at my current firm, to be sure, but this growing feeling of excitement over knowing what I’ll be doing makes a difference – a real difference – makes that all seem very secondary. These people are changing lives and I’m thrilled to be a part of it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we have entered the Idealistic Stage.

“Things I can’t wait to do when I go home.” I pushed back in my chair and looked at the Intern. “Top five answers are on the board.”

“Take off my shoes.” She yanked at the zipper of her knee-high boots.

“Put on pajamas.”

“Take a bath.”

Well, there we had it. Game over and the Intern had won. A bath it was.

Today had been long – the kind of long that slaps you hard in the face when you finally look up from your computer to find that it’s dark out, and you don’t remember having had lunch. That kind of long. So when I finally made it home and settled back into a hot bath, a deep sigh escaped up toward the bathroom skylight along with the steam.

Ahhhh.

That sigh was also one of satisfaction. Today, though long, had gone well. Very well. I wore a suit, superlatives were used, and I was carrying around a bit of hope in my back pocket. And I liked how it felt.

Now, in my post-bath stupor, I’m camped out on my bed, wrapped up in a white robe, basking in cozy. The stress of the day has gone out with the bathwater, and I’m feeling like a new girl. It’s amazing what a good soak can do for the attitude. Not unlike having a good secret, or a new pair of shoes, or, say, a plane ticket to the Bahamas.

Though, frankly, I gotta give the Bahamas thing credit for having done the most for my attitude.

Ahhhh….

“This cannot possibly be happening.”

It’s not the first time I’ve said it. It’s not the first time I’ve been absolutely certain that this wasn’t my life, but the follies of an unwitting character in some reality sitcom. Surely, I was being Truman Showed.

“Hey, baby. Looks like you could use some help.”

There I was, limping my way through Harlem, half drunk, and completely unable to remember just when (and how) the night before, I’d managed to snap the heel off my shoe. Limp. Limp. My perfect shoe. They were like sex on four-inch heels, those beautiful black pumps. If, you know, the sex was really painful and consistently rubbed all the skin off the knuckles of your middle toes. So really, aside from the twenty-minute gimp down 125th Street at 9AM on a Sunday morning, I actually a little relieved by the shoe death.

Besides, they went out of this world dancing. I think they’d have liked that.

At least, I assume they did. At 4AM, the house party had turned dance party and six of us were spinning around the living room to Frank Sinatra. Luck be a lady tonight! I’d tried to beg off, being that from my spot on the couch, the room was already spinning.

But the boy was cute and I do so like to be twirled.

So we twirled and drank and come 5AM it was quite clear that some of us were not making it home until we’d had a bit of sobering. I crawled onto the couch, kicked off the sex shoes and settled in. And the, for the very first time since… ever, when the cute boy said, “You know, you’re welcome to crash with me…” I stayed right where I was on the couch. Why? Because apparently, I’ve turned over a new leaf.

“No. Not just a new leaf. No. Apparently, I’ve turned over the Stupid Leaf.”

“No, no. That was actually very smart.” Ari wiped her hands on a dish towel, stirred the pasta and whipped up some consolation.

“How’s that?”

“Okay. What’s the best that could have happened? You have a night of anonymous sex and that’s that. But if you stay on the couch, you have a possibility for future run-ins without having had the awkward anonymous sex and then maybe he calls, you have dinner… and then you get to have all that sex anyway.”

“You’re the smartest woman alive.”

Granted, the smartest woman alive had just poured an entire box of pasta onto the linoleum floor, but that is neither here nor there. Clearly her genius is meant for the bedroom and not the kitchen.

And just for the record, I was kidding about the Stupid Leaf. You see, I’m not really a total trollop. I only play one on this blog.

“Why don’t you lose that attitude, Mel?”
“Why don’t you lose that weight?”

Justine laughed, “Oooh, girl!” and high fives were exchanged across the desk. Melanie grinned and looked at me as if to say, Wasn’t that a good one? But I refused to meet her eyes. Mine were stinging from embarrassment. I willed myself not to cry as I walked back to my own desk, hoping my thighs didn’t brush together or that my ass didn’t look especially wide in my pants.

I made for the bathroom where I hid in a stall and cried. At twenty-six, I would not have thought my ego would be so fragile. I won’t lie. If I had been at home, I’d have gone into the bathroom and thrown up my lunch.

March 5, 2005

Friday is Maria’s last day of chemo.

We aren’t celebrating quite yet, though. While Maria’s prognosis is good (excellent, even), there are still five weeks of daily radiation treatments to undergo and side effects to wear off before we’ll all be toasting her health and her healthy rack.

“You know, you’re going to have one drink and be on your ass.” I’m leaning on my elbows, having an end of day chat. Maria won’t be coming to happy hour tonight, for obvious reasons.
“I know it,” she laughs. “Did I tell you? I tried to have a drink of champagne at my girlfriend’s birthday, and it burned. Oh my god how it burned!”

Sensitivity to heat, smells and flavors are just a few of the side effects of this second round of treatments.

“What if you stay like that forever?” My eyes widen with Maria’s at the thought. “What if you can’t drink? You’d be… You’d be Mormon!”

“Oh God!”

“Amen.”

When she was first diagnosed with breast cancer, Maria and I weren’t all that close. She was new and we were… polite. Even then, though, I liked her very much. And while I couldn’t empathize completely, I’d had my own scares and a in a small way, my own experience with her situation. And I knew about the needle.

“Oh my god, isn’t it awful?” Maria had winced when I brought it up and gingerly touched her breast, as though it were still sore at the site.

“By the second biopsy, I was willing to sell my future firstborn to the nurse, or to the devil – I didn’t care – just to avoid the needle.”

There are some relationships that require a great deal of time spent before any real intimacies are shared. And then there are some, like mine and Maria’s, that spring out of those intimacies. In a way, her disease has been a catalyst for our friendship.

Now it’s, “Hey, Ma. Can I borrow your stapler?” It’s a truckload of handmade chocolate suckers on my birthday. It’s me, first thing Monday mornings, starting off with, “You will die when I tell you this.” It’s her, making sure I have an umbrella or a jacket (if the weather requires), and always, always something to eat.

It’s also an, “Oh jeez. Can I punch her?” when I make one too many bad jokes about wiggin’ out. Hers, by the way, is phenomenal.

Maria is an exceptional person. Throughout these last months of her ordeal – the worry, the pain and post-chemo nausea – I have never caught her in a moment of self pity. But she’s not inhuman about her experience either. She’s honest about weeping through a particularly frightening procedure, about what it’s like to feel not at all yourself because of the chemicals in your system. And about being thankful to be one of the lucky ones. One of the lucky ones who worries about permanent scars.

Understand, if you don’t already, that it does not take a vain woman to worry about the scars. Or to go shopping for eyelashes on the internet because hers have all fallen out into the bathroom sink. Or to hold up a ruler and make guesses as to how much hair will grow back after the last chemo treatment.

Maria hopes to have half an inch by New Year’s Day.

I’m reminded of a phrase we have back home. A month of Sundays,. Simply, it means ‘a long time.’ I realize that October, now come and gone, was Breast Cancer Awareness month. But in our little row of dingy grey cubicles, we haven’t needed a month set aside to remember. Because we have shared Maria’s month of Sundays.

My love to Maria, who inspires me. And my heart to those who share any part of her experience.

My walk across town today had two purposes. The first was to simply get out of my apartment. Mingle with humanity. See, you spend too many weekends sleeping in (or, worse, sleeping around the clock) and people start worrying. They start recommending their therapists.

And that gets uncomfortable.

Besides, it was finally a beautiful day. I was beginning to think we’d skipped fall altogether – that we’d traded in the crunchy leaf, brisk afternoon in Central Park autumn for fifty varying shades of grey. But when I got up this morning, the sky was a color of blue it hasn’t been for a long time. I have been trying to decide if Crayola, in that big box of sixty-four, ever made a crayon that color.

I’m going to have to buy a box and see.

Secondly, I’d promised myself a matinee of Shop Girl. It was playing at Lincoln Square and since the weather was crayon perfect, I thought I’d go on foot, via the park. The movie was really well done, which was a huge relief. I haven’t seen a well-done flick in ages. First Elizabethtown (sadly underdeveloped) and then that Viggo Mortensen disaster (a ninety-minute excuse to show Maria Bello’s pubes. Twice. Or was that three times?) had given me ticket-buyer’s remorse.

On the list of things which should always be satisfying: kisses and movies that you pay over ten dollars to see.

The walk itself was also pretty satisfying. A couple of times, I felt like I was in a movie montage – you know, like a whole bunch of clips of New York and all of its excellently eccentric characters. And in forty-something blocks (round-trip) there are an infinite number of characters.

One man caught my attention as he stood in front of me, slightly off center, on a street corner in the upper 70′s. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement, so I refocused. With a deliberate sweeping motion, the man drew out a walking stick – the knobby, straight from nature kind – and tapped it on his shoe before crossing the street. Better than the walking stick was the Alpine yodeler’s hat that he wore. It seemed so odd and out of place that I looked around for cameras.

Surely I had walked into the middle of an urban revival of the Sound of Music.

Even the most mundane of the city’s qualities can be fascinating when you’re in montage mode. Like the young boy, a dozen bites into his chocolate ice cream cone, waving at me from the other side of the glass as I walked up First Avenue. I smiled about him for at least three blocks. Or the one sided cell phone conversations you overhear that raise your eyebrows and your suspicions that nobody in this city, but nobody, is actually normal.

There’s a parallel to be drawn here between people and that box of sixty-four crayons, I think. But I’m going to refrain from trying, because, nothing’s ever that tidy.

Not in real life, anyway.

A Quick Prologue:
Frankly, I don’t know how the drug-lovin’ creative types do this. One little narcotic and not only is it hard to spell, but these little black keys start to lose all meaning after a few minutes of staring at them through my Vicodin fog. Next week is going to have to be Red Ribbon Week around here. I’m going to have a hard time remembering things – like, what to do with a fork – if I keep this up.

Acknowledgements:
Thanks to everyone for their thoughtful emails, comments and phone calls. And to my surgeon for being very quick and gentle. And for having a vague idea who the other Heather Hunter is. Always a good ice breaker. And to Stephanie for being the best damn toof recovery sitter ever. Ever.

Chapter 1: The Food
I’d already stocked my fridge with things like pudding and Jell-o and stacked cans of non-chunky Campbell’s soups in preparation for what was sure to be a very food unfriendly mouth. And when Stephanie returned from picking up my prescriptions, bless her heart, she had a Gracie’s Diner survival kit. Hot soup, soft bread, mashed potatoes and… genius of all genius… stuffing. Thanksgiving stuffing.

No one ever suspects the Thanksgiving stuffing, but it is the perfect toof recovery food. Warm, mushy (but we’re not talking Gerber here), and savory. If I could have smiled with more than half a mouth, I woulda. It was heaven.

Chapter 2: The Entertainment
When picking up supplies at Duane Reade (gauze, water bottle with sport top, ice packs), I grabbed a magazine to complement the reading selections by my bed. Also, Netflix had failed to deliver, so I was left to my in-house supply. Here are the picks:

Vanity Fair: Good for pictures, which is the only reason I ever buy magazines. Especially when I’m under the weather, a good Ooooh, pretty! is all I really need.

Lulu Dark Can See Through Walls: The novel by darling Bennett Madison is a young adult mystery with spunk. Think Clueless not Nancy Drew. If you are or ever were a teenage girl or even if you can’t relate at all but enjoy a good snark and a bit of mystery, this book is a gem. Order it online at Barnes & Noble. You don’t even need to have your chompers yanked to do it!

Shrek, Steel Magnolias and Billy Madison: I laughed, I cried, I drifted in and out of sleep. Two groggy thumbs up.

Chapter 3: The Patient
Obviously, I didn’t die. But the Valium didn’t work, and in my wide-awakeness, I did freak out internally just a little bit. But only a little bit. Frozen gauze, ice packs and ibuprofen and I have very little visible swelling. Slightly rounder cheeks make me look younger, if anything. And since when do we complain about that? The drugs have been stellar, and so far, aside from an aching jaw (oh my God was my mouth open wide for the surgery. I didn’t even know it could do that!), there’s been very little pain. I’m pretty sure I’m going to have separation anxiety when I trade in my Vicodin for Ibuprofen to go to work tomorrow. But generally speaking, I survived Tuesday, Toof Day without too much trauma. I am a champ!

Bring on the natural childbirth!

An Even Quicker Epilogue:
No, no. Just kidding. I love drugs. Epidural, please.

“I don’t want to play the ‘natural childbirth’ card here but really, that’s how I know you will be just fine.”

My mother’s words of encouragement didn’t exactly make me feel any better about the situation.

Tuesday is Toof Day. And in preparation for the yanking of the wisdom teeth, I had spent Monday absorbed in the last-minute necessary arrangements. There had been worrying to do, appointments to confirm, and the horrifying discovery to be made that… my insurance does not cover IV sedation. Or even laughing gas.

“No! I can’t handle that. Being awake while they rip teeth from my jaw? I think I might just die.”

“Ask for an oral sedative.” Again, my mother with the practicality. “It will take away the thought of dying – which is the main problem because no, you won’t actually die, but worrying about it could make you very uncomfortable.”

I remained unconvinced. I hollered over the cubicle wall.

“Jus?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you come to my funeral if I die?”
“Of course I will.” Justine didn’t even bother with the ‘you won’t die’ bit. She knew better. It’s best just to play along and hope I get bored with the dramatics.
“Will you sing at my funeral?”
“Nope.”

Damn. I’d pushed my luck.

I do realize that I’m grossly overreacting. People get teeth ripped out of their jaws in total awareness every day and don’t die. But this is me. I freak out at the little things. It’s what I do. And I’ve never even had a cavity for Pete’s sake. I just know I’m going to have a heart attack the minute anything beyond a good tooth cleaning goes on in there. Especially the chiseling.

Oh my god, tell me there isn’t going to be any chiseling!

Melodrama and histrionics aside, I am actually pretty anxious about the whole thing. The horror stories alone from my Monday morning meeting were enough to turn my stomach and make me think that maybe I could live with the headaches for the rest of my life if it meant skipping out on this delightful rite of passage. That thought lasted until the next headache.

Luck and love really are on my side, though. Friends have stepped in where my mother’s pampering cannot reach. Goldner has offered pudding. Sarah, sage advice and her company at the drop of a text. I have every faith that my neighbor Ari would most certainly run over to laugh at my puffy cheeks in a heartbeat. And brave Stephanie has volunteered to come with me to the oral surgeon. Tomorrow, she will be in charge of the unbelievably glamorous task of making sure I get my drooling face into a cab and safely home. If our friendship survives that, I’m going to write her into my will. And if I don’t – survive, that is – maybe she will sing at my funeral.

I’m partial to Cracklin’ Rosie.