“I just wrote the ‘C as in cat,’” I said, staring at the yellow post-it note in total bemusement.
“No you didn’t.”
“Yes. I did. You said, ‘Apartment 5C, as in cat.’ And that is what I wrote down.”

Benjamin had called me at work where I function in, Everything is Literal mode, and where very often, the difference between being right and being fired lies in the accuracy of my note-taking skills. They’re clearly very polished.

Ditz.

Later, after leaving his apartment where very little furniture got arranged (two very different people and one very big problem being decisive), I popped in to Gristedes for some sorbet. I asked for cash back, punched in my pin number, took my receipt, my sorbet and headed home. Up the elevator and inside my apartment, I straightened the kitchen, ordered Italian and… realized, I’d no cash to pay for it. Mmm hmm. I didn’t actually take any of that ‘cash back’ I’d paid for. So back across the street I went. Luckily, they believed my tale and coughed up the cash.

Ditz.

I’m not altogether sure it’s safe to get out of the apartment today. Thankfully, my Boston girlfriends are due in shortly and they can act as safety buffers to the big mean world. They’re chock full of common sense. Which is great — I seemed to have spent mine on cab fare.

J called me this morning. I was walking to work and answered the phone with a “what’s up?” that was as brisk as my pace.

“Why do I always feel like I’m bothering you when I call?”
“Aw, I’m sorry. Maybe that’s just what New York does to you — always in a rush. But no, you’re never a bother.”
“That’s right girl. And don’t you forget it!”

I had to laugh. For a guy whose need for acceptance is greater than his need for say, sleep or oxygen, he puts on a good show. It was always the Great Paradox with him. Cocky Bastard layer on the outside, you-like-my-new-shoes-right? layer on the inside. He’s a self-admitted affirmation junkie.

This morning, he was calling to firm up plans for next weekend. J and his girlfriend are taking my apartment for the first few days of my trip. A cheap vacation for them, a Sir Hal sitter for me. God, I’m brilliant. On top of that, J offered to drive in early to take me and my lovely travel companion to the airport. Even in the midst of all the drama, he was always that generous. I had a bad day at work? He’d make (did you hear me? MAKE) apple pie and drop it by my house. With ice cream. Do gooder!

Speaking of ice cream, I left a pint of vanilla bean over at Ari’s house last night. Too full of pizza and pirouettes and too busy picking on her brother, we didn’t exactly get around to it before I had to call it a night. Guess that means I’ll have to go back for a rematch. How’s 7:30?

The bed of dreams is everything she claimed, by the way, and makes me want to invest in some new, grown-up bedroom furniture. I sunk a couple grand into the living room last year and haven’t felt the nesting instinct quite as strongly since. But seeing that bed… Sigh.

I’m using this weekend to catch up with some friends, and catch up on some writing. I have sixty pages of the novel to turn in on November 15. Take away eight days in Morocco and you have… well, kiddies, just no time at all. I wrote the ending, though, which is a fan-fucking-tastic feeling. Filling in all the guts is painstaking and, well considering the topic and close-to-me nature of the characters, it’s fairly depressing. Thank god it all worked out in real life, or I’d have had to invent a happy ending to save my own sanity.

(Joyce? Stina? You kids rock my face off.)

Oh, and the anger has passed. Like it always does. And I do apologize for being so enigmatic. Yesterday, my desk phone rang,

“I have time, you know. To listen to why you’re angry.”
“Ha! I can’t talk about it here.”

(Two new execs now share what was my office and I, am out in non-privacy land where conversations about the esoteric nature of my rage are somewhat inappropriate.)

“You can’t do that!”
“Oh, yes I can.”
“First that Red Sox bullshit and now this? If all of your readers had your work number, they’d be calling you too.”

I laughed. Snorted, actually. Benjamin spent the better part of the next ten minutes egging me on. The more I laughed, the more heads turned. Man, I miss my office.

“Subtlety is an art,” I think and shake my head. “But that’s okay; you can’t be good at everything.”

We’re not friends, so I could actually say this to her if I wanted to, without severing any cherished ties. Instead, I just sigh and move on to another blog.

***

I woke up angry this morning. So angry that I feel it like something heavy sitting on my chest, and my heart, somehow condensed and hardened, is rattling around under my breastbone. And there’s nothing more uncomfortable than an ill-fitting heart.

I should have woken up feeling completely different. In my head last night, I’d composed a clever post (its title adapted from my favorite childhood book) about a small contingent of The People Who Sleep With Men descending on my apartment for dinner, dirty talk, and baseball. But then I lay down in bed, and my mind jerked awake, snagged on some prickly part of the night’s conversation, and I began stewing.

They say you shouldn’t let the sun go down on your anger. But if you let the sun go down enough times, you begin to forget about your anger, or at least convert it into some other emotion. Perhaps a less productive one like self pity. Or resentment. Tricky though, how evolution yields revolution, and there you are weeks later, come full circle, steeped in anger, screaming at your ceiling two a.m. on a Wednesday night.

***

In the event that this requires clarification: I am not angry at The People Who Sleep with Men. They are nuclear to me, like family. I cherish them in a way that is reciprocal and validating. And solid.

As Jen’s fingers worked through the knots in my stressed shoulders last night, she said loudly, “There’s not a single bit of fat on your back!”

“There’s not a single bit anywhere,” Shiv said, rolling her eyes.

“Oh yes there is,” Kate countered from my mocha-colored club chair. “It’s just all in her ass.”

We roared with wine-fueled laughter. Just like family. Nuclear. Validating. Solid.

“You have us,” someone said once. Was it Biscuit? Or Kate? It doesn’t matter. They’re right. I have them, and not in the sitcomy, NBC Friends way. One of us may have a Chandler job, a Rachel shopping habit, Monica’s OCD way with cleaning. But we don’t wrap up neatly after thirty minutes. We don’t have a coffee shop; we have a pub on a Thursday. And baseball on a Wednesday. And an emergency Stupid and Fancy lunch whenever its needed.

I love them more than breathing.

I’d been waiting all day to say this…

Go Sox!

Real post tomorrow. Pinky swear.

I have just learned that my very first freelance piece has been accepted and is going to run some time next month…

in the NEW YORK TIMES!

Details to follow.

I think I need to go lie down.

I was in bed before 9:30 last night. You’d think I’d be rested.

After her emails had sighed between lines, ‘I need a drink and some friendly company,” I’d met Kate for dinner and a drink at Cedar. It’s a dark and unremarkable bar, but over the last few months, it’s become a retreat of sorts for a handful of us. There’s a table near the front where some patrons lifted Jen into the air on one of the old, wooden chairs. There’s a table dead center of the main aisle, toward the back, where I sat nursing bleeding feet and crying into a borrowed tissue. And a bit to the left, one where Kate and I sat talking about parts and wholes and nervous stomachs.

Like I said, I was in bed before 9:30 last night. But I woke up several times before my alarm annoyed me out of bed at 7:15. I woke once at 10:30, when Sir Hal had (quite loudly) gotten himself stuck in the hall closet. Once at 12:something from frustrating dreams about work. And then again at 3:30, when the pipes began clanging signaling a working boiler. I was awake enough then to make hot chocolate, email my father and read for a bit. Then back to sleep until trip to the bathroom at 5:15 and one a little after 6:30.

This morning, I am bone-tired, shaking my fist at the sky (or fluorescent light covered ceiling), wondering, What’s a girl gotta do to get some real rest?

I totally need to invest in a sensory deprivation chamber.

Braving the chill of my apartment (no, the boiler is still not working), I crawled out of bed earlier than usual this morning. I blinked at my puffy-eyed reflection and asked Sir Hal, who sat yawning in the bathroom sink, “Why am I up this early?”

“Rowwwrrr” he yawned again.
“Oh, yes. You’re right. To get a jump on things at the office before my meeting.”

His Excellency snoozed on the bathmat as I showered, taking advantage of the only warm room in the place. There was no time for tea, so I microwaved oatmeal and made lusty bedroom eyes at my downy bed. Getting a jump on things, or jump back under the comforters?

I traded my big white robe for a red dress and heels. And seam-up-the-back pantyhose. I wrapped up in my warm stripey scarf, tossed some yogurt in my satchel and kissed my furry, yawning friend on the head. It was 7:43. Unprecedented preparedness! I was feeling proud and saucy. I scurried to work, watching glances and thinking, “Oh yes, those seams go ALL the way up.”

At 8:05, making mental notes for my 8:45 meeting, I breezed out of Grand Central Station. At the corner of Vanderbilt and 44th, I ran into my very distracted boss. He looked up from fiddling with his PDA.

“Hey, morning. CEO and I have meetings… so we won’t be around this morning.”

My eyes glossed over. Somewhere in my brain, an Indiana Jones & the Last Crusade voice droned, “You chose poorly.” My face didn’t melt off, but I did have a sudden, very intense longing for those lost fifty-five minutes of warm communion with my bed.

Oh cruel fates. It’s 8:52 now, and the only thing I’ve gotten a jump on is the nasty office coffee and “how was your weekend” gossip. Ah, well. The morning’s not been complete loss. Those seams still go all the way up.

Rowwwwrrr.

Removing pasties is like ripping off a Band-Aid. Only, lots bigger and on really sensitive spots. I am writing this post to avoid that very activity.

Any thoughts I had of returning the Dress flew from my little head the moment Biscuit took his first “oh my god,” inhale, and sadly, reentered it the moment I spilled choclate wedding cake all down the front of yards of designer red whatever-this-is material.

I’m drunk.

And just in from Krissa and Stuart’s wedding party. I cried, I drank sangria, I ate (and ate some more), drank a bit more sangria and finally tottered out the door and home to my cold pizza, warm bed and the prospect of ripping off these pasties. I can’t fucking do it. My vote is for sleeping in them and hoping the shower can steam them off.

On a strange side note: There’s a scar on my left breast from two consecutive biopsies last year. It showed in the Dress. It’s a little difficult not being embarrassed by it even after three or four glasses of sangria — it being significanty pinker now against my post-tan season skin. But you know what? Fuck that noise. It’s my badge of honor. A battle wound. At the very least, somethin’s gotta draw attention to my less-than-ample cleavage, right?

Of course, right.

I’m going to bed. Rock the fuck on.

And blah blah happy forever after blah. I love you kids!

“Alright, squeaky wheel! Turn around.”

I’d complained just enough for Bear to put down his beer and dig his thumbs into the sore spot between my right shoulder blade and my spine. Like any fine massage, it hurt like a Friday morning hangover. But y’know, the good kind of pain. I’m already carrying my shoulder bag on the opposite side, sitting in my ergonomic chair with both feet planted, and avoiding any style of shoe with the word “heel” in it. And yet, we’re on day three of a Zoolander-esque, “I can’t turn left” disability. You know you’re getting old when sleeping wrong turns you into an invalid.

But this wheel is done squeaking.

Last night, if by “I’ll stay for just one” I meant, “I’ll stay for a few glasses of wine, a coupe of cigarettes and just one enormous baked potato” then I am the model of resolve. Sweet baby jesus, I love my friends. We get a little twitchy if we go too long without seeing each other and when we finally reunite, it’s a big old pile of schmoopie.

“No, I missed YOU more.”

You get the picture. Try not to throw up in your throats.

Tomorrow night is the Krissa/Stuart We’re Getting Married Party, at which I intend to officially begin calling the groom by his real name — as opposed to Blah Blah Stuart Blah. While the moniker has a nice comedic ring, it doesn’t seem quite as appropriate to say to his face. It’s like the Russian gal in our office that people refer to as “The Big Girl.” She’s not fat, mind you. Just big. Tall. Sturdy. Formidable in four-inch heels. Anyway, I digress. I am quite excited to meet Krissa’s boyfriend-for-life.

Okay, a bit of housekeeping:

It’s that time again. I need to update my links. If you’re missing from the link list on the right, fire away. I’m totally dedicated to the proposition of getting that list up-to-date. By the way? We’ll be undergoing a slight site re-design soon – in anticipation of some exciting news. So, stay tuned my friends!

I had a horrible nightmare about being in a wheelchair at Planned Parenthood.

And I blame last night’s Presidential debates entirely. Or, at least, the ensuing conversations about the debates. Partial birth abortion, morning after pills and the state of health care for women — put four Thai-food filled girls in front of the TV and listen to the tangents fly. Bush made a joke that we only caught the very end of (“never mind”) because we were busy roaring over the DMA. Perhaps it would have been more interesting if we didn’t all agree on the issues, but probably a little more violent too. I’m all for stopping the violence.

Anyway, back to my dream.

When I finally decided that I’d had enough of the wheelchair, I began flying. That part was not scary. Ordinarily, when I fly in dreams, it’s like swimming. You know, lots of arm motion required. This time, all I had to do was point in the direction I wanted to go, and off I went, sort of floating. It was all very graceful. But the kicker of the Planned Parenthood saga was when I finally got in to see a doctor, she called all my friends into the exam room. I was a bit confused and concerned – I mean, was she at least going to draw the curtain at least before doing her, ahem, doctorly stuff? Turns out, she just wanted to talk — to tell my friends I’d had a rough six months and that I WAS DYING.

Come again? Baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Dying?! Mmm hmmm. At this point, I commanded myself to wake up. And I obeyed.

I woke up at 5 AM, did a quick diagnostic, determined that I was not, indeed, dying. Then, I went to the kitchen and ate some strawberry ice cream. Just in case I was. You know what they say about life being uncertain – eat dessert constantly.

On a dessert-related note, the other night, a well-meaning Benjamin told me I looked bony (I love that men have this way of picking the wrong words – it reminded me very much of an Everybody Loves Raymond episode). I’d just downed a hefty portion of lobster ravioli and chocolate mousse. I’m pretty sure I gave him the “What you talkin’ bout Willis” look in return. So last night, when Jen told me I looked skinny, I had to ask, “In a bad way?” “No,“ she assured me. Sometimes I actually worry that my own body image issues keep me from seeing the correct reflection. But this morning, when I wriggled into my black pants, I sighed. They were snug in the trunk, and a definitely-not-waify size 8. Everything is as it should be.

“…going to be seventy degrees. And last night, the Yankees defeated…”

Snooze!

God bless the snooze button. It’s like the control-alt-delete to my sleepy morning. I’ve already piled a second goose down comforter on my bed (the third will be added sometime in December) and it’s been serving as a nasty motivation killer. Get out of bed? Fuggedaboutit! Face the day or cuddle up in my personal serenity chamber? It took me about forty-five minutes to make the right choice this morning.

I had a quick cuddle with His Excellency, put the kettle on to boil and threw some Dashboard in the shower CD player. Ease into today. Blow dry, big sweater, warm stripey socks, multi-vitamin and extra zinc. I absolutely refuse to go gently into this season’s monster cold. Half the office is sniffling and I’m fairly certain that sleeping with all the windows open last night didn’t help my case.

Speaking of….

The oil/gas problem has been fixed – by shutting off the boiler. Half-assed and temporary until the repairman comes. When I got home yesterday, I sniffed my way up the staircase. The lobby smelled a bit like feet – pretty normal. The second floor like brownies (I have got to make friends with Little Old Lady with Fluffy White Dog). The third, garlicy dinner goodness. And my floor… well, it still smelled a bit like rotten eggs and the oily manifold of our old Chevy. So, while in the dinner process, I put a small pot of water on the stove, threw in whole cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon. From old Chevy to Christmas village, watch me go.

I’m nothing if not resourceful.

Unlike Waiting for Guffman, Waiting to Exhale or even Waiting for Godot, waiting for Con Ed is not the least bit entertaining.

I woke up briefly at 5:40 this morning fighting nausea. I woke up an hour later, reeling. It took me a good three or four minutes to realize that I’d been woken up not by a turning stomach, but by the smell that caused it. Acrid, I think is the appropriate word. Alarmed into awakeness, I tumbled out of bed, threw on sweats and started following my sniffer. Stove? Nope. I’d have to actually use it, I think, to jostle anything loose and cause a gas leak. After opening all the windows, I wandered out into the hall, then did a quick pass around the entire apartment building. By the time I’d climbed the stairs back from the lobby, other sleepy folks were coming out of their apartments.

Skinny Married Guy with Big Dog (Like I know my neighbors’ names — this isn’t Kansas) followed me back to my apartment. He took one step over the threshold and stopped, “God! I thought it was bad in our place. Are you alright?” I shrugged and suggested we wake the Super. He didn’t answer his phone. So we went across the hall and knocked. His wife did answer the door — sporting a hospital bracelet and proof of an IV in her left arm. Turns out, she’d been hospitalized the night before for severe headaches.

Uh, yeah.

The Super’s wife called the management company, I called Con Ed and then we waited. And waited. I got ready for the day with my front door thrown wide, the windows open and ceiling fans going. Sir Hal’s ears were like little Popsicles, but the alternative wasn’t at all appealing.

At one point, I lay down on the floor next to His Excellency. Those science teachers knew their shit when they talked about volume and mass and stuff rising. Funny that. While Hal played in my wet hair, I breathed chilly fresh air. It’s not weird at all that I felt significantly better just knowing my cat was toxin free, right? Whatever. Weird is the new interesting and cool.

Google told me that if it was a gas leak, I was not to play with electricity. What was off must remain off. What was on, should stay on, lest the flipping of a switch cause a spark. I don’t need to tell you that wet hair does not dry very quickly at 50 degrees. But I will anyway ‘cause I’m feeling a little bit complainy. I’m tired and wobbly. My tummy hurts and my head feels like it’s made of granite. And I’m sorta worried about Sir Hal. After waiting a few hours, I eventually had to turn over my keys to the Super’s wife and ask her to call me if His Excellency was in any danger. Then I headed to work.

If the Smell of Doom is not gone by the time I get back this evening, I’m packing Sir Hal up and finding a kitten-friendly location to crash. I can’t take the headache. In my best Arnold voice, I’ll joke that it’s “not a tumor” but if I spend much more time in toxic fumes, it just very well may be.

*** update ***

It’s the boiler. And that’s all I know.

You can tell a lot about a man by the way he moves in traffic, by how he talks about his mother and by how he takes criticism and manages success. You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she moves in a dress and heels, by how she talks about her friends and by how she takes a compliment and manages disappointment.

I believe in grace. I don’t mean the religious kind (I never did feel that God could make up his mind. Are you an angry God? Or are we doing the grace thing today?). I mean, social grace. Superficially, that includes things like using the correct fork, knowing who should exit an elevator first. Saying, “I’m well” rather than, “I’m good.” (Their meanings differing starkly.) Social grace means making other people comfortable — knowing when to leave a room, when to bite your tongue or when to offer praise. Being a good loser and a humble winner (except at Scrabble and/or Trivial Pursuit. Humility not included). Knowing how to listen.

I’m not saying I’m a paragon of virtue and grace. Let’s be real. But rules of behavior (some call it propriety) do become the default setting when all else fails. Well, not always. Sometimes emotion can run industrial strength and the result is what we call ‘a scene.’ But for the most part, even when I’m feeling awkward, out of place or entirely debased, social programming kicks in. But even then, it’s like wearing clear Band-Aids. The hurt gets covered up, but you’re not really fooling anyone who looks closely.

Incidentally, it’s when I lose my grace — when I trip and stumble over life — that I learn about my limits as a person. I’ve actually discovered I have fewer than I thought. Who knew?

If my state of mind were a weather forecast, it’d be fairly consistent. Neurotic with a chance of sane. Over one of our Stupid and Fancy™ lunches last week at Blue Water Grill, Jen and I talked about that very thing. She told me that I wear all my sane on the outside. You’d never know about the insanity clause unless you read my blog. Or got me really drunk. For that, I have to thank (blame?) all that social programming.

Even when you get me really drunk, I’ll still use the correct fork, but I will give up a bit of propriety and let you in on the hurt under the Band-Aid. I mean, you already knew it was there anyway.

I’ve got yoga pants and a wife-beater on my bod, Aretha Franklin’s “Think” on the stereo and I’m gettin’ down with a broom and dustpan.

It is day two of Get it Together Heather, and I’m closing in on clean n’ tidy.

Yesterday, I got up early, sorted and dropped off thirty-six pounds of laundry downstairs at the cleaners. Grace (the girl behind the counter) laughed at me. I shrugged. It was necessary. Towels, duvet covers, summer paraphernalia to get ready for storage.

Ready for some relaxation after moving furniture all morning, I met Kate in the afternoon for coffee (x2), shopping and some un-shopping. I finally returned an errant shoe purchase and contemplated returning the Dress to Bloomingdale’s. It remains hanging on my closet door. I just couldn’t part with it. Back home with my Target purchase (Hanes wife-beaters, which the label insists on calling A Shirts), I finally succeeded in dragging Goldner out to Shaun of the Dead. Belly full of sushi and Twizzlers, I laughed and gagged myself through one fucking hilarious zombie movie. Warning: there are plenty of un-funny parts to that flick, too. I was not totally prepared to be saddened by the killing of the undead.

Aretha’s onto Eleanor Rigby by now… I gotta scoot. I’m meeting Kate and Mike for some park time. And maybe some more un-shopping. Sigh. I’ve got to get a handle on this sporadic buying thing.

Last night I bought a Dress. Dress with a capital D. You know what I’m talking about, ladies.

The sales woman wasn’t sure it was on sale, but I asked her to scan it. The only one on the rack, it was a scarlet beacon in a sea of black and I’d tried on the Dress, had my coworker tie the halter, and stepped back into the four way mirrors. It turned out to be the kind of Dress that makes a girlfriend say, “You have to buy it.”

I didn’t exactly have the money to buy it. But I did anyway.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever have anywhere to wear it. Krissa’s Getting Married Party? It’s the kind of Dress that, were I Krissa, I’d be chanting “Something old, something new. Something borrowed, something RED and really fucking hot.” Were I Jen, I’d make Kevin take me somewhere fabulous and spin me around and show me off. Were I Shiv, I’d wear it with Don’t Fuck With Me boots and let Dom keep me home all evening (rarr). I have nowhere near the décolletage of any of those ladies, but I’m still wearing it. Somewhere. Anywhere. I’ll dress it down with my favorite grey hoodie and sneakers if I have to. But I’m wearing the Dress.

Or taking it back and spending the money on groceries. Which is not nearly as hot.

Gene the Marine has been wounded. I don’t actually know Gene – I spoke to him once when he was at Camp Pendleton awaiting redeployment to Iraq – but when I heard that he’d been hurt, it upset me. When I asked what I could do, Monica said,

“Gene wants to hear from the ladies.”

Fair enough! So ladies, wanna help me make a wounded marine’s day? Start sending the love! A quick note would be lovely. A picture? Worth a thousand words. I hear nothing heals a shrapnel wound like some good old American beauty.

Project Gene the Marine: Supporting our troops by filling their in-boxes.

The long ride back from Brooklyn is magically shortened by caring company. I close my eyes, sigh, and suppose that this is the sort of pause I had been seeking. Or is it fast-forward? It is suspension of some kind.

I have trouble with Time lately. Time spent. Time wasted and lost. Even Time as money. This reminds me.

“I have another late fee at Blockbuster,” I confess with shame.
“But it’s just across the street!”
“I know. In nine days, I can’t cross the damn street to return a DVD. I can’t even get that right.”
“Awwww…”

I sound pathetic. The train rocks and I close my eyes again. My glasses dig into the bridge of my nose — I’d take them off , but I’m supposed to wear them when my eyes feel tired. After a long Tuesday, they are tired. I won’t admit to anyone that even when I am wearing them, I don’t look through them. Over, under. Never through.

“Well, even if you can’t get your life together, at least you get to be pretty.”

At this, I laugh. One of those Bette Davis laughs that sounds icy, if not a little bit cruel.

Ice melts and puddles as my hair is petted, stroked along with tonight’s unusually fragile ego. I love touch. I read an article once in the Reader’s Digest about orphan babies, who, though fed and sheltered, when deprived of human affection, turned their faces to the wall and died. In my classic sensitivity towards such issues, I cried for hours after I’d read it — and every time after that I thought about it. Like my friend Sarah does on the subject of elephants.

When the slow train from Brooklyn finally jolts into the station, we say our good-byes. We exchange “I love you”s as we head to meet our separate train connections. I also love “I love you”. No one says it enough. We get afraid of its potential to mean too much, forgetting how much hearing it (much less saying it) matters.

An “I love you” and a kiss – it’s like getting tucked in for the night, right there on the subway’s Uptown platform. Like closing a prayer with ‘amen,’ it seems a wholly appropriate way to close a day.

I wish the world stop for just a minute. I need a pause button. Or maybe even TIVO for real life. I don’t have a television, much less TIVO, but I’m told that’s how it works. From what I understand, you can pause real time broadcasts if you get distracted, and when you’re ready, you can go back to where you left off. I’d say something here about space time continuum, but I understand even less about that.

What I understand least of all, right now, is my own microcosm.

I don’t recall eating yesterday. But I’m sure I must have, because I don’t feel hungry. I don’t recall putting on deodorant or brushing my teeth this morning. I guess I did, though. Routine is good for the times when you’re not up to thinking.

I didn’t pick up the mail. That I know. I put the Brita back empty –two days ago. My towel is on the bathroom floor. The light bulb over the couch is burnt out. I only fed the cat because he won’t let me get away with forgetting. Maybe I need TIVO for the cat.

After seeing I Heart Huckabees, The Kate and I have decided to start hosting Nihilist Sleepovers. The evenings would be spent playing cards, eating bad-for-us snacks and drilling into Nihilist Sleepover participants that there is no God, nothing matters and so if that is true, Oreos cannot be bad for you. Sheer brilliance, if you ask me.

When we told Jen of our plan to bring to life the Nihilist Sleep Over Club, she raised one eyebrow (as I raised my vodka tonic) and asked, “What’s the point?”

My friends are so clever.

The official t-shirt will feature the Nihilist Sleepover Club logo on the front and on the back, our new official slogan, “What’s the point?”

Interestingly enough, I left that movie feeling entertained and, strangely enough, understood. If one chooses to parallel religion with general life philosophy, I’ve had a fairly Huckabee-esque experience myself. I guess it turns out, life is equal amounts meaningful and ridiculous, extraneous and pointless. The Nihilist Sleepover Club is how we intend to deal with the extraneous and pointless. It’s rough being extraneous, and this is just our little way of saying, FTS. You know, Fuck That Shit. And engaging in carbohydrate therapy at the same time.

So, the next time you’re crying yourself to sleep over something that just doesn’t make sense… take heart. There isn’t really any hope, but at least there’s a bunch of us who feel the same way, and can mix a damn fine drink to dull the pain.

The Nihilist Sleepover Club: What’s the Point?

Brought to you in part by, the People Who Sleep with Men, and Nabisco (ding!)

I’ve got my Teen Girl Squad t-shirt on and I’m all psyched up to be morally supportive. It’s The Kate Moves to Brooklyn Day and my job does not involve lifting boxes so much as it does lifting spirits. From what I understand, that involves ordering take-out and saying things like, “No, it didn’t sound broken.”

I am so all over that job.

By the way, who is this girl that hasn’t blogged in days? I dunno. But I’ll be back Monday to tell you all about losing my office, loving the Huckabees and being called bony.

Tired and achey, last night I bailed on certain plans, opting instead for comfy yoga pants and a totally hilarious film with my totally hilarious neighbor.

I had a brief moment of slacker’s remorse just now when I got New Office Boy’s email:

“You missed out. Not to sound like a total jerk, but doesn’t that mean you’re getting old when you say you are too tired to go out at 6pm? I think you should change that… I walked right by Sarah Jessica Parker sitting outside at this little cafe. I could have spit in her drink if I wanted to.”

Nooooooo! Sarah Jessica! I missed Sarah Jessica? That’s almost as bad as the time I left a party five minutes before Molly Ringwald showed up.

Only, my neighbor fed me barbequed ribs and stuffing. And chocolate. And I got to cuddle with her new puppy. I have my bets Sarah Jessica wouldn’t have done jack shit for me in that regard. Slacker’s remorse totally rescinded.

Mademoiselle Minor did not like me. Now that I think about it, disdain is probably a better word than dislike in this case. Mademoiselle Minor disdained me.

My pronunciation was above reproach, my understanding of the plus que parfait and other innumerable verb tenses was ahead of the class. But I was never to be her protégé. I was much more interested in passing notes with a small handed boy named Jason than I was Mina-birding conversational exercises. Mon Dieu, how many times did we have to practice ordering a cheese sandwich?

I’d given up any desire for protégé status in junior high. Monsieur Jeffries had noted my language skills on the first day of our eighth grade class. He asked where I’d picked up so much French.

Ma mere, Monsieur.

And my mother’s Nana Mouskouri records. But I didn’t tell him that. It didn’t matter; by the end of that first semester, I was the teacher’s pet. Girls who wore Unit Belts and had names like Natalie and Tiffany would make fun of me within earshot, and snatch my test papers when they were returned. I soon found I was less ashamed of my Payless shoes than I was of my perfect grades.

We moved soon after and I landed in Mme Minor’s fourth period French II.

My test scores were still high. But I was new, and I needed to be liked more than I needed to be smart. That did not included being liked by the teacher. I took her disdain with not the smallest bit of smug satisfaction and passed notes with cute soccer players, and chirped, “Je prends un sandwich du fromage” when it was my turn.

Years later, while away at college where I’d abandoned my journalism studies to major in Spanish, Grandma Marcel asked me to help her in the kitchen. I sautéed yellow squash while she prepared coque Saint Jacques. She gave directions in French, I answered in English.

“You do not speak French anymore?” The French have a delightful way of singing their sentences.

I smiled.

“Oui, mais comme une vache espagnole.”
(Yes, but like a Spanish cow.)

I remember that she laughed and pushed a box of Godiva chocolate across the counter to me.

I can still order a cheese sandwich in French — or anything else I might find appetizing — but it’s with no small amount of regret that, when planning for our Moroccan vacation, I am scarcely able to read through websites without a certain degree of difficulty. It’s especially sad, when I consider that I have no idea what became of that soccer player — or any of the other schmoes I was so bent on impressing.

In the grand scheme of things, learning to flirt may have been just as valuable as learning another language. But I’ll let you know for sure when we get to Tangiers.

I’m big on dreaming.

My dreams are always vivid, cockamamie storylines involving people from my day to day life. I remember them when I wake up for the most part, too. If I tell you I’ve had a dream about you, it does not mean I want to marry you and have your babies; it just means I met you once and ate pickles or too many Oreos before bed.

I’ve had dreams about lunching with Princess Di, being unable to halt my own ill-fated wedding, catching my best good work friend having sex with the boss (promotions don’t come easy, you know) and even about narrowly escaping mummies and such nonsense.

And fairly frequently, I dream about rooms. They’re typically newly discovered spaces in houses I’ve already been in a thousand times — my grandparents’ house, my apartment. You get the idea. But the rooms themselves are not familiar, and they’re lovely and covetable. Big airy spaces with floor to ceiling windows, secret closets, nooks for chairs, private baths. The trick is, once I leave them, I can’t get back. I spend the rest of the dream wandering, frustrated and feeling like I’ve lost something valuable and precious. And when I wake up, though these places never existed, I still feel a loss.

I didn’t dream about rooms last night, though. I dreamt about work. It’s been the theme lately – epic work nightmares that translate into the waking feeling that I’m going to get fired. I can’t shake it and it’s totally unfounded. I’ve never had a single bit of negative feedback about my work here. I get high fives, even been told I “pulled a rabbit out of a hat” on a last-minute presentation, but yet a couple of bad dreams and I’m forming conspiracy theories. This is not good.

I’d like to go back to dreaming about featherbeds I’ll never own, or catching some weird larva skin disease from one of my girlfriends (yeah, that one was freaky). At least with those, I don’t feel compelled to polish up my resume.

Sometimes, being content is better than being thrilled. Which is not to say I mind a nice thrill every now and again, but contentment seems to last longer and produce better results.

Excitement is good for flushed cheeks and weight loss and writing. But, as the Universe seeks balance, with every up there comes a most certain down. Downs are not entirely a waste of time – they are good for cathartic cries and introspection and of course, writing.

Then there’s Even Keel. It’s a bit of a plateau. It’s neither Cloud Nine nor the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but all the same, it’s not a completely unremarkable place to be.

At Even Keel, a girl can listen to all the Carpenters CDs she wants and still remain relatively unaffected by melancholy. She can go shoe shopping and make level-headed decisions. There, she’ll find really no need for chocolate binges or crash diets. At Even Keel, a girl can stand naked in front of her full length mirror and say, ‘it is what it is’ — Love Handle of Shame, included. There are as many things to appreciate as there are to complain about there and when asked, she may quite truthfully answer, “I’m fine. How are you?”

Life at Even Keel is content, if not, admittedly, a little vanilla.

I’ve spent a bit of time in Even Keel, and I like it there. I have also always liked vanilla. I don’t find it boring. Maybe because I know that inevitably, the steadiness is going to be punctuated by ups and downs, and it’s all just a part of being. Still, I do get antsy when I see days and days of truly uninspired entries here and I start to wish that Even Keel had a muse of its own. I realize it does, it’s just not heartache and therefore, not the kind of muse I’m used to having visit me.

Yesterday, after we’d spent the day doing absolutely nothing noteworthy, Sarah laughed and said, “Good old today!”

“You just got yourself a blog title,” I said, at the time mostly joking.

But on pain of sounding ridiculously sappy, Sarah got it right on. Good old today. Drama-free and tickled pink to be so, I’m going to settle in for as long as I can.

And if I need excitement, I can always put on my fishnets.

I just dug out my tall boots, fishnets and miniskirts. Tell me it’s almost time to wear them?

Yeah, I get that today was 75 degrees. But it’s nearly October. And damn, do I love fishnet stockings.