The farmhouse was ancient – Renee’s father, and his father before him, had been born in the room at the top of the stairs. All three floors were heated by a single fireplace and indirectly by the kitchen stove that always seemed to be cooking something — latticed pies, enormous turkeys, mashed potatoes. The best potatoes I’ve ever had — bright white under their skins, they tasted wholly unlike anything found in the produce section of my city supermarket.

At night, we slept under layer upon layer of homemade quilts, torturing our bed partners with a frozen big toe slipped under the hem of their flannel pajamas. The roof was steeped and our giggles bounced off the walls, our breath visible in the moonlit attic room. Renee’s mother would appear in the doorway, bundled in her terrycloth robe, tuck another quilt around my sister (who is always too cold) and say, “Don’t stay up too late, girls.” Then she’d sit on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, laughing, and we knew what she really meant was, “Don’t stay up without me.”

In the morning, we city girls were tossed dusty farm coveralls and given lessons in snowmobile operation. Hours later, we returned to the house, faces red from the wind and reeking of exhaust fumes. We showered and dried our hair in front of the fire, Laura Ingalls style.

I made three trips to the potato cellar that afternoon. Renee’s mother would slice into one, decide its pallor or its smell wasn’t fitting for Christmas dinner and with a “Would you mind dear?” I’d be headed back down the dark, creaking stairs.

We spent the next two days in a stupor, napping in front of the fire, nibbling at a never-ending supply of leftovers. Turkey sandwiches on homemade bread. On one of those lazy afternoons, we took a drive over the mountain road to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. We pressed our noses to the cold windows of the SUV, watching elk cut a path in a snow-covered field, rubbing the glass with our mittens to clear the fog. At the top of the ridge, where we took in miles of rocky, frozen landscape, Renee’s mother said that we were in God’s Country. I couldn’t help but think maybe she was right, and that thankfully, God also made cities, because it was awfully cold in his country.

Fish: I think I have consumption and I’m going to die in a heap of rags — all dramatic like.

G: Well I sincerely do not want you to shuffle off this mortal coil. But I know that if you did, it would totally be the best death ever.

Fish: I intend for there to be PLENTY of weeping and wailing. And maybe string instruments.

G: I will tear my clothes asunder in utter, inconsolable grief.

Fish: Awesome. I’ll put you in the program. I need someone to gnash their teeth, too. Maybe Biscuit?

G: Good thinking. Do you want us to serve red, white, or blush?

“Leprosy? Have you called in with Leprosy?”

When your head fits so perfectly in the crook of someone else’s shoulder, you’ll grasp at any straw, too. I’m inventing illnesses now, just to keep him stroking my hair.

“You go ahead and call in for me.”
“And tell them you’ve been kidnapped?”
“He’ll say, ‘Again??’”

A few minutes later, he’s in uniform and heading out my door. He kisses me, takes a few steps toward the elevator. I look down to step back inside, and suddenly, there are his black boots at my feet. He kisses me again, then leaves — this time in earnest.

I’m beyond tired and there’s a permanent cough lodged in my chest, but I’m smiling. I go inside and pick up my cell phone to order Thai. We never did get around to dinner.

tights
knee-high socks
wool slacks
wife beater
long sleeved t-shirt
turtle neck sweater

I make a rather charming addition to the Stay-Puft Marshmallow family, I think. Sure, it’s awkward wearing two extra layers of clothing, and I do get a little nervous about being mistakenly proton zapped (or whatever the heck it is) by a vigilante Ghostbuster, but it sure beats hypothermia. Or frostbite. Or any of those other nasty winter maladies.

Around 2:00 AM last night, I got a text message from a gleeful Biscuit excited over the first snowfall. I sat up, dragged a third down comforter up from its decorative position at the foot of the bed, hunkered down and cursed the weather gods. I’d have shaken my fist at the sky, but that would have required it to be out of the covers for just way too long.

Can’t we just skip this winter shit this year?

Please understand that usually I don’t mind it all so much (as things like cider and earmuffs make up for the temperature issue) and that my attitude has a lot to do with being sick and simultaneously being out of sick days until the new year and thus forced to work while feeling like death would be vastly preferable to sustaining violent coughing fits while sitting in an office with vents blowing air so cold that my fingers can’t even feel themselves typing horribly long and potentially run-on sentences.

I clearly need a nap… and to refrain from blogging while on cough medicine with codeine.

Friday got away from me in a whirlwind of deadlines and last minute details. There were CEOs to pacify, out of town guests to welcome and rock ‘n roll shows to attend. And when, at ten o’clock that night I was heading home to bed with a fever, I was almost grateful for the forced rest that would come with catching the latest strain of the Office Plague.

Almost.

When I sent Jessica and Goldner off to Krissa’s holiday party and stayed behind to cough up what was left of my lungs, I had a wee pity party of my own. As I was hiding under piles of down comforter, my cell phone rang.

“Baby, what’s wroooooong?”

It was the People Who Sleep With Men calling. I croaked my hoarse sorries first to Biscuit, then Kate and then Krissa who told me to stop talking, I was making her sad. I hung up the phone and went back to my book, strangely comforted knowing that I was missed — and that if I died in snotty heap on my bedroom floor, someone would eventually come looking for me. Man, I love my friends.

On that subject….

We had a moment this week (the PWSWM, I mean), that left not a single one of us untouched. It never fails to amaze me, and to impress upon me the crucial role of people like this in my life, when time after time a need arises and they rally — motivated by nothing more than love for their friends — to fix what is broken, calm what is rattled and fill in where something is missing. I am awed by their examples, buoyed by their loyalty and convinced that it’s only a matter of fashion that keeps these superheroes from running around in capes. That, and the short one would probably trip on hers.

To the People Who Sleep with Men: You rock my face off.

Open savings account
Have a “Nooner”
Pick up laundry
Buy new shower curtain rod
Teach cat not to climb shower curtain

While the accomplishment of item number two on the list was all very worthwhile, it made the rest of my day somewhat less productive. I could have just let the sleeping cop lie, but lord, a girl does need her diversions. Even more than she needs her clean towels.

The accomplishment of the first item was also pretty noteworthy. When I moved to New York, I emptied my savings account. I also took out a loan and maxed out my nearly paid off Visa card and since then, it’s been a paycheck-to-paycheck existence. But yesterday, when a holiday bonus magically appeared in my checking account, I resisted all those urges I had to finally buy an iPod, and instead opened a new savings account.

My mother would be so proud.

It was completely unintentional. But I did it nonetheless. As the conversation shifted, I breathed a sigh of relief and it occurred to me,

I have just levied the Henry Kissinger Test.

An acquaintance once remarked that though he and his then significant other did not have much in common, it was the fact that she didn’t know who Henry Kissinger was that threw him over the top. They broke up very soon after.

The other night while pretzled on the sofa watching Team America, I made a joke about the election. What followed was a brief, snarky talk about politics, in which I mentioned Mr. Kissinger.

“Too bad he’s foreign-born. You think they’ll ever change the laws about presidency?”
“You just want Arnold to be president,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“So?”

And there it was. The results of an unconsciously levied exam.

He refers to our differences with a bit of dramatic flair. Two kids from opposite sides of the tracks. But tracks, schmacks, I say. I’m really not concerned. He passed the Henry Kissinger Test. And that other important one. You know, the Puts the Toilet Seat Down Test. He nailed that one on the first try, too.

“Good afternoon, this is Heather.”

“Hi, Heather this is {name unintelligible}.”

“Hi. What can I do for you?” I recognized neither the accent nor the name.

“We met a few nights ago at the Waldorf. Do you remember?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Who??

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Well, I’m in town on business for a few days and I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a drink.”

Fuck! Not only do I not remember meeting anyone, but I’m fairly certain I didn’t flirt with anyone!

“I….um….” I dug through the business cards on my desk. “Wait! Who did you say this was?”

“It’s {mumbles name}”

“Who is this really?”

The voice on the other end dissolved into laughter.

“Joe! You bastard! You had me sweating!”

Since it’s far too late to avert the jinxing, I think I’m allowed to say that I like when he prank calls me at work, too.

Oh yes, the jinxing has occurred. I knew better! And yet, I prattled on like I was immune to the cruel fates.

As I was stepping out of the shower last night, my cell phone rang. I was expecting his call.

“Hey you. How are ya?”
“Doin’ better now.”
“Charmer! You’re rolling your eyes aren’t you?”
“Better believe it. Listen, I have to work tonight.”
”Aw. Alright. It’s all good.”
“Not it’s not. It sucks! I won’t have a night off until Christmas.”

One of New York’s Finest, Joe works nights. Which, in and of itself can present schedule conflicts. But when he’d already agreed to take on extra shifts and now can’t wiggle out of them? Gah! We spent the rest of the phone call arranging evenings – the few hours our work/sleeping schedules do not overlap – and a weekend day or two between now and Christmas.

A few minutes after we’d hung up, I had a look at my desk calendar and sent him a text message (yeah, yeah. I know. Me. Texting).

H: Just had a look at my calendar — 12 days is a LONG time!
J: Captain Obvious strikes again.
H: Bastard.

Thank goodness my neighbor and friends have already begun filling my pre-Christmas calendar, because I’m gonna need to be kept busy. You know, something to fill up the hours I’m not leaving obscene messages on his voicemail.

Biscuit does not believing in jinxing. Specifically, he does not believe that if he prods me into gushing about a new relationship, it won’t vanish in a puff of cologne-scented smoke directly following. Me? I’m not so unbelieving. Chalk it up to past not-so good experiences, but over the years I’ve grown decidedly more hesitant to show unbridled enthusiasm before it’s a done deal. You know, like, before he’s signed an affidavit or notarized a love letter. That sort of thing.

New relationships always seem to leave a lot of room for uncomfortable speculation. Is he? Does he? For me, the legal tender of romance has become insecurity. We trade our insecurities like Garbage Pail Kid cards on the playground at recess – giving up some of our favorites (does my ass look big in this skirt?) for more coveted items like, chin burn.

I do like chin burn. And that be brushes his teeth in the shower. And rests his hand on my knee while he drives. And that he teases me until I pout and then kisses it better.

But that’s all you’re getting! Because if I reveal more, the moment he doesn’t immediately return a text message I’m going to have to automatically assume I’ve jinxed it.

And it’ll be all your fault.

“Where are you going?”

He’d hailed a cab for me and held the door open while I gingerly stepped in. My feet were burning from dancing friction.

“Take care of this lady. Make sure she gets home safe,” he told the cabby. “This is my fiancée.”

I laughed as he kissed me on the cheek and winked. “It was nice to meet you. You’re a great girl.”

The place had been packed and everyone I met seemed to be a larger-than-life character. Cheaters, cops, wanna-be actors, ex-girlfriends. I bounced happily between friends and new acquaintances, sipping vodka and cranberry, paying no heed to the hour. It was three o’clock when I finally left the club’s coat check and headed out into the rain. At 3:30, I was text messaging. And at four, ending a good-night phone call and clicking off the bedside lamp.

This morning, I decided to test out Sarah’s theory that everyone looks better wet and I went straight from the shower to work. What with wet hair and all, the umbrella I had in my bag was a moot point, so I left it where it was for my commute. When I got to work and looked in the mirror, I had the startling revelation that Sarah Brown is full of shit. I clearly did not look better wet. Her theory needs a substantial overhaul, or at least the qualifier that one must be well-rested and wet. Whatever. I’m just saying it’s got a lot of holes.

Also, I realized that at one point during my four a.m. phone call, I agreed to go out tonight. That’s cool, as long as “out” means in my living room with take-out and Blockbuster.

I ate some questionable yogurt this morning and now my tummy feels funny.

On top of having had nothing but a glass of wine for dinner, my choice of potentially-spoiled breakfast food was probably not among the wisest of the week. The date on the lid was November 13. Today is well, decidedly past November anything.

This is yet another fine example of why I should be appointed a legal guardian. I mean, sure, I can basically take care of myself, but someone has got to oversee this operation. Take tonight: I am going out. Left to my own impulse-driven devices, I’ll most likely drink too much, crawl home at dawn and spend the next day suffering for my sins. Now, if I had a guardian, I’m sure I’d be home at a decent hour with a respectable blood alcohol level.

Listen, I’m being glib. I know this. The last couple entries have been comprised of nothing more than tongue-in-cheek babble and the channeling of two-decade old pop culture. Oh, and let’s not forget whining. I’ve been down with the whining lately. I think I’m being included in some experiment of the effects of fatigue on the ability to communicate. Thus far, I’ve been reduced to likes, y’knows and guttural noises.

“Morning, Heather”
“Gmmmaaa.”
“What?”
“I said good morning.”
“No you didn’t.”
“I tried!”
“You need a nap.”

The thing is, aside from the busy factor, I’m actually quite happy. I simply wish things would slow down so I’d have a chance to saturate in it. When you’re miserable, there seems to be plenty of time to brood and obsess — why not when things are going well? A bit unfair, if you ask me.

I’m staring at my desk calendar in total disbelief. Today is Wednesday. What the hell happened to Tuesday? Or Monday for that matter!

Yesterday was kind of a blur. I didn’t leave my desk. I didn’t eat. I didn’t answer personal emails, or blog or even check for a new picture of Dooce’s totally edible kid. Crazy, I tell you. I can actually hear the Universe screaming, “I don’t even know you anymore!”

For the last two weeks or so, I feel like all I’ve been doing is chasing folks around, pedaling as fast as my little bike will go, in pursuit of that elusive two dollars. A minute of someone’s time. A signature or a password. I want my couple of bucks and all I’m getting is worn out. I’m tired from all work-week in a day, from not sleeping in my own bed (we have, ahem, given Joe another shot.), and I want my two dollars!

Is that so much to ask?!

There are a lot of people who take a great deal of pride in being busy. Their worth is somehow contingent upon a lengthy to-do list and the accomplishment of that checking off that list. Me, I resent being busy. I resent time being measured in fifteen minute increments and having very few of those increments to do absolutely nothing. I love tea and warm socks and a glass of red wine and bootleg movies and turning off my cell phone.

Tonight, then, is reserved for a load of laundry, an even bigger load of sitting on my ass, and perhaps visiting my neighbor (Who is probably married and has babies by now, it’s been just that long since I’ve ventured across the street).

There’s a half a bottle of Riesling in my fridge. And I plan on drinking it straight out of the bottle. It’ll make the meltdown look more official.

We’d made it successfully through the aisles of the Atlantic Center Target without having picked up anything not on our lists of necessities. We were equally as restrained at shoe-buying earlier in the day. But the racks of $9.94 DVDs stopped us cold.

Sarah and I must have picked up and set down at least half a dozen titles apiece before reining in our desires and settling on Romeo + Juliet and So I Married an Axe Murderer, respectively. We couldn’t leave without something – on the list or no! It’s really no short of a miracle that I made it out of there without a copy of Steel Magnolias (Drum, eat shit and die!) or any number of Drew Barrymore flicks (what collection is complete without Never Been Kissed or Ever After, I ask you?). But, it turns out, in the face of impulse buying, all I need is a little help from my friend, and Sarah and I were safely on our way with only a minor dent in our budgets.

Later, snacking on rice krispy treats and wincing over the gauntness of DiCaprio’s Romeo, Sarah said, “Man, this almost makes me want to be 19 and believe in love again.”

“Not me.”
“Well, I said almost.”

We decided we did not want to be 19 again for anything, even it did mean a refreshed view on romance. We also decided that Romeo was the original Emo boy. All he was missing were some dramatic glasses and blue Manic Panic hair color.

Sarah and I belied our romantically disaffected states by both shouting, “No! Don’t do it!” as Romeo popped the top on this vial of poison (which, incidentally, looked an awful lot like a sample of CK One. I’m just sayin’.).

Why does it always have to end that way?!

I mean, it’s a tale of woe and all, but jeez! Couldn’t Juliet have gotten knocked up and the Star Crossed Lovers gotten forced to live in that Mantua trailer in poverty, fighting over Romeo’s new Direct TV dish and how he never whispers sweet nothings in Iambic Pentameter anymore… like real people? There’s some woe for ya! Come on! There’s nothing more tragic than a 16 year old baby daddy who writes really affected poetry. No one’s got to die!

My walk home was significantly more somber than the rest of my afternoon. Thank goodness I’d picked up a Mike Meyers flick. It saved what would have otherwise been a solemn evening spent obsessing, If only that letter had gotten there in time!

I grew up believing in the absolute right. Cleanliness was next to godliness. Moderation in all things. Do unto others — that sort of thing. As a kid, the absolute right wasn’t all that difficult. The notion of being ‘good’ ranked somewhere on the cool scale with Kmart jeans, but the idea that you had God on your side, well…who needs to be cool when you can be pious?

As an adult (or an aspiring one, at least), the gray area is much broader, the idea of what is “wrong” much foggier and the absolute right, absolutely more questionable. Cleanliness may very well be next to godliness, but if God had to walk two avenues, he’d let the laundry pile up, too. We’ll not touch on moderation — I’ve got a spoon resting in a pint of Godiva ice cream at present. And as for ‘do unto others,’ well that one spans an area that’s arguably the grayest among them. (And potentially, the most hazardous to put stock in.)

See, the thing with believing in an absolute right, is that in kind, you have to believe in an absolute wrong. That’s the part that I never was very good at. I’m all about making concessions. Backing down, re-drawing the line when the situation calls for it. It’s relative morality and Young Me would probably be very disappointed with my acceptance of it.

I’m awfully thinky for a Saturday night. And why? Because I just found myself at home, watching some chick flick wherein the main character was trying to do the “right” thing (as in, right by three orphaned children), and I’m screaming, “But what about YOU? You had this great job!” I’m fairly certain than on the morality scale, selfish doesn’t fall into any gray area. It’s pretty much wrong.

Right, wrong… who’s got time to figure it all out when we spend so much time just maintaining? Answer me that!

Life, if you think too much about it, can become one looming existential crisis after another. But if you don’t put enough thought into it, life can be nothing more than a road trip, with you dozing in the passenger seat. And I so don’t want to wake up in the middle of South Dakota wondering where the fuck I am.

So I’ll take my Saturday night mini-crisis for what it is, learn a little something about myself, and hope I get it together… and soon. I mean, better now than when I’m stuck with three orphans and John Corbett’s on his way over with champagne.

ThisFish.com was nominated for a 2004 Weblog Award for Best Blog Design. Now, while I did an award-winning amount of nagging, the design credit goes to Mr. Paul Frankenstein and to Mr. Ken Goldstein for the logo.

Give ‘em some love. Go vote!

My siblings are all very capable people. Like my father, they possess some genetic gift that allows them to save the day by doing insanely creative things like, temporarily replacing a broken freezer part with a Lego. Voila! The ice-maker cometh!

I did not get this gift. While I know a lot of stuff (I remember everything I read, or hear, or see on television) and make a mean Trivial Pursuit adversary, putting that knowledge to use has always been somewhat… problematic. It’s a flawed system. Take car maintenance, for instance. In college, my sister and I drove a sad, sad excuse for an automobile we named Mahana, You Ugly. One night, when Mahana wouldn’t start, and it was determined the battery was to blame, my Wheel of Knowledge started spinning.

“Could be because of the corrosion on the terminals,” I offered. “We need Coke and a toothbrush.”

The soda and toothbrush were retrieved from our apartment. My sister propped the hood up on the thingy (see? Thingy. This is how it works with me.) and stood back, implying I was to go ahead with the procedure.

“Dude, I don’t know what to do.”
“But you said…”
“Yeah, I said, but that’s only cause that’s what I read somewhere.”
“You’re a tard.”
“Shut up and clean the terminals.”
“Do you even know what a terminal is?”
“Probably that part right there with all the gunk on it.”

The part with the gunk was cleaned, and the car started.

I’m a creative girl. An idea person. I can’t be expected to do it all. My brother, the handiest among us, is coming to stay with me over the Christmas holiday. What lies in store for him is a big old to-do list of clever ideas that need implementing.

• Fix the shower (that according to the Super doesn’t leak enough to warrant fixing)
• Caulk the tub (again, not the Super’s priority)
• Install folding shutters between the bedroom and living room.
• Reinstall improperly installed light fixture in the bedroom (I couldn’t reach!)

He’s currently under the impression that our holiday activity list includes things like a Knicks game and ‘learning to speak Brooklyn.’ Wait until he hears my plan. He’s gonna be so excited.

“You gonna be ready?”

What my coworker really meant by his question was:

“How in the name of holy haute couture are you going to be ready for tonight’s black tie, when your current look is a little more like, I dunno… Black Plague?”

Tuesday night was a rough night. Wednesday was a rough day. And it showed. So since I’d no Fairy Godmother to Bippity Boppity Boo me into a ball gown (to say nothing of stowing my under-eye luggage), I raced home from work with t-minus one hour to be at the Waldorf – glitzed, glammed and cocktail in hand.

Now, I like getting gussied up as much as the next girl. Okay, more. Probably lots more. But… I. Hate. Schmoozing. I have no talent for being nice to folks I don’t like, or pretending someone is interesting when they are not. Forget what comes out of my mouth, my body language alone screams, “You are boring and tragic and deluded into thinking you are otherwise.” That schmoozing is part of my job is just the Universe’s way of saying, “Go on. Embrace your inner bitch.”

To my surprise, however, last night was fun, and my inner bitch remained dormant and docile. I sipped champagne, floated around in yards of black satin as I was propelled from client to client and even genuinely liked most of them. It’s a mad world, I tell you.

Still, despite the bubbles and sparkly baubles, I felt an overwhelming compulsion to make an early exit. Cinderella had a midnight curfew; mine was ten o’clock. My apartment was a wreck and I have company coming tonight. I fled the scene — with both shoes — hailed a cab, and in a blink was in J’s old sweatshirt scrubbing the toilet. Ajax and false eyelashes. Oh the glamour of it all!

Beyond sick is the truth that, when I stood back and looked at the finished product, I was almost as thrilled by the site of gleaming porcelain as I was the Waldorf’s ballroom chandelier. By the way, have you seen that thing?? I discarded any shred of coolness by ooh-ing over it with abandon.

I’m such a schmoe. But I’m a schmoe with really clean fixtures. And I’m out of Q-tips again.

At 2:00 am, I was sitting in the back of a white limo, winding my way through Central Park, listening to an angry Albanian’s rant about white women whoring themselves for “bling” and thinking, “This is why. This is exactly why.”

I’d finally caved and allowed Gracie to introduce me to the man behind one of the many photographs she’d shown me. “He’s like us,” she’d said, touching up her eye makeup in the ladies’ room mirror.

“Like us?”
“Yeah. He’s got… personality.”
“Oh jeez.”

He picked us up in midtown and by the time we arrived for dinner and drinks at a Cuban joint in the East Village, I was wondering why I’d been so hesitant. He was nice. Normal. Funny. We ate, drank and met up with some of their friends to go dancing. I was doing a very convincing Sloth (Heeeeeey you guys!) and he was dishing out the sarcasm. Things were going well.

And then, they weren’t.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when the evening deteriorated. We’d gone uptown so that I could change into club-appropriate attire (what was I thinking? On a school night?). And then back in West Chelsea, we mwah-mwahed our way through the velvet rope into Cane. It was nothing short of a human safari. I grabbed a drink and wandered up to the railing ready for some people-watching. But then somewhere between the vodka and the tonic, my date had squired himself into a corner with some other girl. Then his friend grabbed my ass. And someone spilled scotch down my chest. Enough.

“Say goodnight, Gracie,” I said and reached for my purse.
“You’re going? Where’s Joe?”
“Over there.”
“Oh my god. What’s he doing? I’m so sorry!”
“Honey, it’s no big deal. I got bigger fish to fry… which is why I’m gonna head home.”

Gracie frowned and made stabbing motions in her friend’s direction.

“Goodnight Gracie.”

I hugged and kissed and then ducked out of the smoky club. As I headed for the line of taxis, a man stepped forward and extended his arm toward a white limousine.

“Miss? Where you headed?”
“86th… but, I’ll grab a cab.”
“Please, allow me. I’ve got nothing else to do.”

What’s the harm? I climbed in, was offered champagne (which I declined as I didn’t want to pay any higher a price when I woke up in a few hours) and was only a few blocks up the west side when I realized what exactly the harm was.

“American women are whores,” the driver said angrily. “They see a nice looking, well dressed white man and don’t give a shit. But for the cocaine and the crack, they will spread their legs for a monkey.”

Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

I spent the rest of the ride clinging to my cell phone. “This is why,” I thought. “This is exactly why I’d rather stay home in my pajamas cleaning my stove with q-tips.”

I know yesterday happened. I just can’t remember much of it.

I’d taken the red eye from Salt Lake City and arrived in time to grab a shower and dash off to… an engineering conference. The inhumanity! I may as well have laced a pot of chamomile tea with Nytol and drank it in a warm bath while being serenaded by John Tesh, those guys are so boring. I yawned shamelessly through the entire event. And by “yawned shamelessly” I mean, “fell asleep and did that head-nod thing.”

When I finally managed to escape Perdition and got back to the office, I learned that The Guardian had reprinted my NY Times column. Yay! I’ve yet to see it, but I’m anxious to grab a peek to see if there was any sort of accompanying illustration. If there was, I have every hope that it was a bit less…Unabomber than the Times version. They are paying and all, so I can’t really complain. I mean, they could make Ben the spitting image of Grandpa Munster and I’d simply grimace and endorse the check.

It was nothing short of a Thanksgiving miracle: My brother broke his ankle and we got to skip all the lines at Disneyland.

Perhaps the breaking of the ankle wasn’t entirely fortuitous, but not waiting in the 95 minute line for Pirates of the Caribbean was personally very worth the blisters I got from pushing him around in a rented wheelchair all day. I still have the marks on my palms – my wheelchair stigmata.

I also drove my brother across the desert from Los Angeles to Utah Valley. In a blizzard. We traded in the wheelchair for his 4WD truck and made what is normally a nine hour drive in no less than fourteen hours. I have to say the highlight of the journey was when we slid OFF THE ROAD and into a DITCH.

“Jay, we’re going off the road.” I said. I’d felt the wheels grab at nothing and the truck start to take its own course.
“Okay. It’s cool… just turn into it.”

As calmly as all that, I did just turn into it and off we went, like dozens of other cars we’d seen along the snowy highway, into the steep shoulder. But unlike the dozens, we had four wheel drive and a road savvy big brother.

“You handled that very well,” he said when we were back on the road a short time later.
“Oh, you think? Because I felt like crying.”

For the rest of the treacherous drive, we followed closely behind a semi, following in the tracks it left, taking advantage of its size and road wisdom. We also took his license plate number and truck ID to send him a thank you note. You know, for keepin’ us out of harm’s way and on the straight and narrow.

It was kinda like that poem, Footprints. Only, with less Jesus and more tires.

From time to time, my coworker Gracie will bring me pictures of her male friends to review. I usually look at the photo, ask the appropriate questions (How old is he? What doe she do? He’s not always that drunk, right?), shrug and say, “I’m sure he’s very nice.”

“You gotta get me a picture to send him,” she says.
“Okay, I’ll get to it in a minute.”

And I never do.

It’s not that they aren’t perfectly nice-looking guys; the whole process just seems so very… inorganic. Like catalog shopping for prospective dates. You can’t tell anything from a photograph — not the tone of his voice, or how he smells, or if he uses the proper forms of critical homophones. All of which I prefer to know before I agree to an evening of dinner or drinks and awkward pauses. I mean, if he smells good, that in and of itself can make up for two or three lulls in the conversation. But if all I know is that he’s sorta tall, has nice teeth and nice forearms, what good does that do me? There’s no such thing as chemistry insurance for blind dates. You don’t get a payout for the time you could have been spending eating Kraft Mac n’ Cheese and watching Everybody Yells at Raymond reruns with your neighbor, who you already know is good company.

To quote my Irish alcoholic ex-boyfriend, “I just can’t be arsed.”

Yet another fine example of the need for dating insurance.

When I arrived Friday night (late, again) to meet a friend, I was already out of sorts. I’d broken a shoe. But that really had nothing to do with anything. I was just feeling cross. He could tell (I was wearing my foul mood like a gaudy lapel pin) and by the time dinner rolled around, conversation had shifted from careless bar chatter to serious matters. Heavy things passed between us over the table in an LES Eurotrash establishment. I lost my temper. He lost his. We’ve rarely exchanged harsh words with one another, much less said things that needed much apologizing for. But Friday night took sorries over email and then again over the phone, to make sure they were levied thoroughly.

After Friday evening, I left my apartment only once — to have lunch with The Kate at our Union Square rendezvous spot. Had she not insisted, perhaps I’d not have left at all. She knew I needed it. I don’t know why, but I tell Kate things I’m too embarrassed to tell most folks. I cry on the phone to her when I’m drunk and sorry, and I let her buy me lunch when I’ve managed my money poorly and am on the brink of yet another two-week poverty. Kate is never allowed to break up with me. Ever.

The remainder of the weekend was taken up by sorting out the current family drama (it’s a doozy!) and sleeping — dreaming strange, frightening dreams about being sucked into a bottomless lake. I’d say there’s something symbolic to that, but there were aliens involved, and that’s just too X-files to be meaningful. The South Africans we met in Spain made several guest appearances, so I spent this morning emailing to make sure they had not, indeed, been sucked into a lake by alien tubes.

When I got home from Morocco, I swore these feet would remain planted for the foreseeable future. I was exhausted. But last week, Mom insisted I join the family for Thanksgiving (which I have not done since I was 17 ) and so off I go to Los Angeles on Wednesday. I’m fairly sure I’ve never needed Disneyland more than I do now, so I can put up with a bit o’ smog and more plane time for some tide pool adventures with my sibs and a turkey I don’t have to stuff.

Incidentally, going to California always puts Joni Mitchell in my head. And I gotta ask: What is a sunset pig?

I just met the Snorer!

For the eight months or so that I’ve been living in my apartment, I’ve been aware that I was living upstairs from a man with a remarkable snoring capacity. I don’t hear street traffic in my apartment (even with the windows thrown wide), but I hear the Snorer.

He’s typically asleep and sawing away before I go to bed each night, and the moment I lay my head on the pillow, we’re bonded by his night music. Every single night.

At times, I’ve even suspected there was more than one of him, the range and volume has been so incredible. But because he’s so graciously put up with me coming home tipsy and clattering about in stilettos in the wee hours of the morning (not to mention Sir Hal’s late night mishaps), the Snorer and I have lived together in perfect stranger harmony.

In the lobby just now, I held the elevator door as a stout man in a wooly sweater got in. He pushed the button for his floor and made friendly conversation.

Hello, how are you?

Fine, thanks.

Strange weather out.

Mmm hmm. Makes me think of flying monkeys.

When he got out at the floor below mine and I heard his keys in the lock before the elevator doors had even shut, I just knew. I’d just met my downstairs neighbor. I’d just met the Snorer!

Now if only I could make the acquaintance of the Baker of Yummy-Smelling Things on the second floor. That would be a relationship worth pursuing.

His fingernails were a deep green — almost black — and his dirty fingers were wrapped around a coffee cup, the kind you get from a street vendor. He’d gotten on the uptown 6 train and took the vacant seat next to me. When he sat down, I braced myself, expecting him to smell bad, to reek of urine and liquor. But he wasn’t drunk.

“I’m a little bit crazy,” he informed the couple to his left. They looked uneasy, shifted away from him, as though they were afraid they’d catch crazy. The man went back to his coffee. He took a sip, glanced in my direction and offered me some.

“You want to share? I got it for free. Real nice man to give me free coffee.”
“That was nice of him,” I said. “But no, thank you.” The middle aged black woman seated across from me smiled sympathetically and adjusted her camel trench coat.

“I’m a little bit crazy, you know.”

I was vodka tipsy and feeling weary from the evening that had not gone quite right.

“We’re all a little bit crazy.” I said.

He started rambling, and as the train rocked and swayed, I zoned out for a bit. Until his voice got louder, addressing the whole train.

“Happy holidays, everybody. A good Thanksgiving with a big plump turkey. And stuffing. And cranberries. And shrimp salad. And potato salad. And corn on the cob.”

The same woman smiled again and shifted in her seat. Maybe she was amused about the corn on the cob. I was.

“And one more thing!” He said, even louder and more animated. “Apple cider!”

No one was paying attention to him. Well, not no one. The smiling lady and I were.

“Apple cider doesn’t have all those preservatives. It’s more natural than apple juice, right?” He looked toward me for affirmation. I nodded. “I mean, right? Apple juice is from concentrate; like that you buy in the grocery store. But apple cider comes right from the apples.”

The next stop was announced.

“Drop in center! Next stop!” he announced to the train. “Drop in center. Open twenty-four hours. Drop in center! Next stop!” He stood up, sipped his coffee, and when the doors opened, he stepped out onto the platform. I followed; it was my stop, too.

“I’m a little bit crazy,” he told an MTA cop at the 86th Street station. “But I got me some free coffee.”