Funny how losing one post-it note makes your whole career flash before your eyes.

I am officially fucked.

*** updated ***

post-it found. nothin’ like a good over-reactin’ to get the morning going on a good note.

I did something last night that I have not done in a long time.

I played the straight man.

Sitting with our fingers and toes under the fans and UV lights, Ari and I passed our manicure downtime in snarky gossip. Men, bad writers, mothers. At a rather high point in the conversation, Ari said something so spot-on clever that I didn’t laugh so much as I snorted. And then, as she attempted to describe someone as smart and funny…

“… so smun and farty…”
“Wait, did you just say… farty??”

A titter went up around the nail parlor. And from that point, we were the entertainment. A conversation for two had turned into a comedy act with an audience of… what, half a dozen?

“How’s your mom?”
“Better. I swear, Neiman Marcus is probably sending out a search party… flashlights in the windows of my parents’ house. ‘Where are you? Why aren’t you spending money?’”

The woman across the table stifled a laugh. Ari was on. Everything that came out of her mouth was riotously funny. Me? I didn’t do much but laugh, and set ‘em up so Ari could hit them out of the park.

After a while, a manicure finished up and a well-dressed, middle-aged woman came to dry her nails.

“Girls,” she said. “I just couldn’t help overhear you. You’re just so smutty… er, I mean, smart and funny.” She winked.

“We’re smutty, too!”
”Yes, but don’t tell our mothers.”

We let our nails dry longer than necessary; it would have been a shame to leave before we were out of good material.

And as we walked down First Ave, my cheeks hurting from laughing, I realized that as much as I love to be the one in the spotlight (who, me?), playing Ethel to a really good Lucy is just as amusing. Or maybe more so, because it requires less energy.

There are a few things in life upon which you can count. Death, taxes, and having a rough time of it in junior high.

Krissa and I sat on the Great Lawn yesterday afternoon, ignoring the New York Times that was spread out around us in the grass, talking about, among other things, love (which looks so good on her), and awkward stages (which look good on no one).

There were the junior high years with their nicknames. We shared ours. Mine, started by my brother and Brian Petersen (who used the word ‘reckon’ with astonishing frequency), had enough variations to keep the boys amused on many levels. Heather sounded like heifer… you see where I’m going with this. And thus passed seventh grade. At dances, I was the dancing cow. In French class, after culture day turned them on to the phrase, la vache qui rie, I was the cow who laughed.

In the eighth grade, when Brian slipped a note onto my desk asking me to the Halloween dance, I returned it signed, Moo, and went to the dance with Randy Seely.

My hang-ups about junior high ended with junior high. For Krissa, it was the same. Over salty pretzels and lukewarm bottled water, we admitted our insecurities, our tendencies to be hypercritical, and that the pursuit of physical perfection, while a fair enough hobby, just sorta distracts a girl from what’s really important.

And whereas, in the past, I may have wasted plenty of time being jealous of Krissa’s skin tone, or the multi-lingual compliments she got from strangers about her legs, decked out in tiny gingham shorts, I really had to admire our differences. And two things were agreed upon there, the both of us, propped up on elbows, bare toes flicking against the sun:

What we are attracted to in others may be the same thing that we consider a flaw in ourselves. And criticism is a waste of time. Self-criticism or otherwise.

Not that I’ll ever be able to give it up completely. I just think it’s a nice change, to be able to sit back with a truly fabulous friend, and think that you’re not so bad yourself.

Truly.

It is unbearably hot in my apartment.

If you have a Slip n’ Slide at your place, please invite me over.

If you don’t have a Slip n’ Slide, but do have popsicles and squirt guns, that would be okay, too.

I’m home… and just in time.

I pranced out the door this evening in all white, and now, thunder, lightning and a down pour. That’s one wet t-shirt contest I wouldn’t have meant to enter.

I got up this morning, intent on spending the day outdoors. A quick pedicure, and an ice coffee later, I was on the Great Lawn catching the first sunburn of the season.

I was asked to play wiffle ball, but, sadly, as I told the cute invitees, the most movement I planned to do all afternoon was flip front to back.

Back home, I showered, switched outfits, and went out for late afternoon of shopping and then over to the UWS for UN-fucking-Believeable Mexican food and margaritas. I bailed early, which brings us to now.

The storm is magnificent. Unless you’re Sir Halitosis, who is decidedly anti-thunder storm. He has gone from lazily napping in a flip-flop (yet another strange habit) to racing about the house from one hiding spot to the next.

Me? I’m hanging out in my underwear, watching the storm. Too damn hot to wear much more, and too damn good at being lazy to do much more.

I have been Friendstered by a minister and there was hot coffee on my desk when I walked in this morning. These things make me smile.

Last night, Carol and I were supposed to have cocktails at the Guggenheim. We did not make it. We did, however, make it out to Brooklyn. We traded getting too dressed up drinking cocktails on ramps, schmoozing with work folk for getting too liquored up on cheap beer, singing along to good, old, fiercely fun country music, schmoozing with folks inclined to wear trucker hats.

I forced Kevin to take my business card, though. You know, for good measure.

The Smith Family was fine, fine entertainment. Carol and I both developed some pretty serious platonic crushes on the drummer, who is just flat out A-dorable. I talked too much, drank too much, smoked too much and sang too loudly. My stomach lining is eating away at itself, being empty of everything but Corona and coffee. I am disheveled, under-rested and sportin’ a Bride of Frankenstein ‘do.

Stayin’ out too late on a school night never looked so good.

Yee-haw!

friday morning, coming down.

check back later.
busy replacing beer with coffee.

The communal box of Band-Aids is on the top shelf in the office kitchen. The result of a three-block walk in new-ish shoes is in two places on my left foot. There are two Band-Aid brand bandages in the box. I took one.

I needed two, but I took one. See, what happens if there’s a freak accident with a stapler, someone gets a paper cut, or New Work Friend gets a wound from her totally cute but not so comfy shoes? I don’t need bad Band-Aid karma.

Or any more caffeine. I’m trading in my (mumbles number) cups of coffee a day for plain ole good for you water. Contrary to popular opinion, twitchy and agitated is not the new black.

On a sorta-related note, I feel the need to celebrate. I woke up this morning one hundred percent pain free and I can’t stop grinning like a silly fool. Guess that means I’ll have to buckle down at work again, now that I’ve no legitimate excuse for being a space case.

That’s really all I’ve got. That and another strange tale from the My Cat is Just Not Normal files.

Halitosis Maximus wakes me up at quarter after five, because that is when he thinks breakfast should begin. Nevermind he already has a bowl full of dry cat food. Stinky Breath wants the nasty stuff. So, up I get, try not to breathe as I plop the still-shaped-like-the-can mess into his bowl and head back to bed.

Ten minutes later I hear him digging in his dry cat food. And he’s not quiet about it. Dig, dig, dig. What the…?? Up I get again, this time out of curiosity. Chef Boy-Ar-Kitty has taken dry cat food and mixed it in with the nasty wet stuff. And done it without making a bit of a mess.

Dude, who taught him that? Weirdo.

Have I mentioned that he sleeps next to me… on his back? Yeah, I’m thinking of renting him out for parties. The amusement never ends.

Donning appropriate-for-walking-lots-and-lots-of-blocks shoes, I left work yesterday and headed down to the Hammerstein Ballroom for C’s art show. The humidity, the heat, the hour of the evening mingled, and one (one!) glass of wine later, I was rocked.

Jabbering like a madwoman, I made totally irrelevant conversation with C’s parents, friends, and even complete strangers. Brilliant.

Dzu (my new friend, by virtue of his not seeming at all put off by my animated chattering) and I had toured the art show floor, both in love with the shoes-as-art.

“Imagine being a cobbler?” Dzu asked as I admired a pair of evening shoes made entirely out of ribbon.
“It would be handy”
“I mean, say one night you’re going out, you have a fan-tastic outfit and all it’s missing is the right pair of shoes. And so you make them. Seriously, good talent to have.”

We wandered some more.

“Or a haberdasher,” he said. “They make hats.”
“I’m going to stick with cobbler. Hats are sort of faddish. Shoes are forever.”
“True.”

We left the event and made our way toward Grand Central; it was nice out and a walk was just the sobering-up I needed. As we were exiting the theater, Dzu stopped and spun around.

“This is where all the hot guys are. Out smoking!”
“You don’t want one of those, honey. They die young and get all leathery.”
“That’s why you lather them in cream. Besides, I consider every smoker a fixer-upper. They all want to quit.”

We walked to the subway, went our separate ways, and when I exited the 86th Street station, it was raining. I kept my umbrella stowed in my bag and walked four avenues in the rain. At home, I peeled off damp layers, grabbed a good book and Kitten II (Sir Halitosis Maximus) for a snuggle, and thought,

This city just keeps getting better.

I have the attention span of a fruit fly.

Not as a personality trait, mind you, but as a current state of affairs. And it’s mostly related to a nasty little thing I like to call, The Pain That Will Never End. When people ask, “How’s your back?” I have to say, “It’s so much better, thank you.” Because, well, it is — vastly improved in the last eight days. And because, if the conversation goes any further, it will require my concentration, which has vastly deteriorated in the same time span.

My mind just seems to flit from one thing to the next, while I physically shift to find the next comfortable position. You know, in order to temporarily alleviate The Pain That Will Never End.

Flit!

I’ve also become edgy, irritable and defensive. I say things I don’t mean. I feel resentful. I want to trample slow movers in the subway and yell at people who wear really bad clothes. This morning in the muggy-beyond-all-reason 86th Street station, I nearly French-kissed a man for the last sip of his iced coffee.

Flit!

It’s only been eight days. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I were living with constant pain as a way of life. My pops does. His disease is genetic, and we don’t talk about that. Because living with pain and guilt just doesn’t seem fair, right?

Flit!

At 11:00 I will have a headache. Like some magical pumpkin-coach spell, the dull ache that is in my shoulder at this moment will Bippity-Boppity-Boo right up to my temples. That’s when the saying things I don’t mean bit starts. I should walk around wearing Chanel Allure and an apology.

Now, normally, this is where I wrap it all up with something clever. Ha! Forget it! I’m like Phoebe Buffet on Ephedra.

Only less focused.

Last night, while I was in the middle of not concentrating on a movie I’d rented, my sister the elephant trainer called. No, it’s not a wacky metaphor. She’s actually an elephant trainer in San Francisco.

We talked about our parents, psychotic cats and boys.

“Whatever happened with that doctor?”
“Seriously, you’d think that after 30 there’d be a little growing up.”
“You would think. And that’s where you’d be wrong.”

And traffic.

“You’re lucky not to need a car. They’re such a pain.”
“I miss driving. Running over pedestrians just isn’t as fun when you’re doing it on foot.”
“Remember that time you got pulled over…?”
“Shh! No. No I don’t.”

And careers.

“We got a new whale at work last week.”
“Yeah, so? We um, got new stationery.”
“Oh, come on, you know I’d trade my man-hands for a manicure in a heartbeat.”

She does have roughed-up hands, a serious farmer’s tan and some pretty impressive triceps. I’ve got paper cuts, pinched piggy toes and a pretty impressive fear of varicose veins.

Job hazards.

The time difference was noteworthy. She was just getting home from the evening feeding; I was yawning, headed for bed.

“Have fun shoveling shit tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you, too.”

I went to sleep secure in the knowledge that the shit I’d have to shovel at work would smell a whole lot better.

And that my little sister could totally kick my ass on Survivor.

In tribute to spring cleaning, I’ve decided to clean up my links. And instead of wading through referrer logs, I’m gonna do it this way:

If you’re linked to me, and would like to see that reciprocated (which I’m ever so happy to do) drop me an email or leave a comment here with your URL and preferred name.

If you’d like to be un-linked (meaning you don’t like me anymore but somehow I’ve still got it in my head that you’re linked to me), you can also drop and email or leave a comment. But you know, screw you just the same.

Thanks,

The Management

Any plans I had of getting out and about before the nasty stormy weather hits have been put on hold by Kitten II who… get this… just poked me in the eye. You know, very Three Stooges like, jabbed me in the eye. Claws were involved. And now I’m sitting around the apartment, a Manhattan Weeping Madonna, giving Kitten II the evil eye with the one that still works.

I’m a few steps away from trading him in for a pet rock.

Friday, May 7th

Dear Valued Customer:

Today the hard drive of the SM5 Site Meter server, where your account
is located, failed. When we attempted to restart the server, the hard
drive in it would not boot.

We have setup a new server and are currently working to recover the
files from the old server and will have it back up as soon as possible.

Thank you for your patience during this process.

We appreciate your business.

Sweet baby jesus! Not my sitemeter! How am I supposed to accurately gague my self-worth without knowing my average number of site visits?

And I’ll go ahead and pretend I’m kidding, as long as you pretend to believe me.

Deal?

This morning, I pushed the snooze button for an hour and forty-five minutes.

I nearly didn’t get up at all. And when I did, I didn’t bother with a shower. I just tugged my long hair into a ponytail, changed my clothes and left the apartment.

Maybe I’ve just been in pain for too many days in a row. Or maybe I’m really much more broken up by the series finale of Friends than I let on. Or maybe, just maybe, I’m really legitimately miffed. In which case, I intend to stay that way for a while.

This current state of miffed-ness, having simmered down substantially from last night’s knife-wielding rage (Sorry guys. I swear, I was only going to cut the bread) is really more the bastard stepchild of disappointment than anything else.

And while I still feel like karate chopping someone in the throat — you know, Miss Piggy style — I’m going to settle for being in one pretty considerable funk. Less violent that way.

I am sorta tempted to let the girls do their thing with ninja stars, though.

PS To the nice man from Wee Book Inn: I inadvertently deleted your email. I did intend to respond, so if you’d like to leave your address, that’d be swell.

1. You’re a big, fat stinking liar.

Hmm. That oughta do it. Looks like I didn’t need 10 after all.

Jerk.

We left the book party (Biscuit, New Work Friend & I) a bit early in the night. We left because of sore feet, long days at work and hunger. And boy, did we pay the price.

We missed Molly Ringwald.

The actual, for really real Molly Ringwald. Yeah, turns out she’s the main squeeze of one of the book’s contributors. I relayed the news to Biscuit, who understood the tragedy of the missed connection.

“You’re fucking kidding me. Would we have bumped into her and accidentally spilled drinks and all laughed and then she’d have offered to buy us replacements and then we’d have all been best friends forever more and she’d totally have let you try on the Pretty in Pink dress???”

Oh god, the Pretty in Pink Dress. And a sigh goes out across the internet. Only Biscuit could have created a scenario on par with the one going on in my own brain. You know, the one in which no one spills any drinks, but in which I meet Molly and don’t say anything remotely embarassing and I get to wear the Pretty in Pink Dress? Sigh.

I missed meeting Molly Ringwald.

It’s probably just as well, though. I’d probably have asked her to put on lipstick with her cleavage and been escorted from the party by security.

When Krissa volunteered to come over and brush my hair, I giggled. Silly girl. But when I found it all but impossible to not only brush, but wash my hair this morning, I did much less giggling. Who’s the silly girl now?

I’m sitting here at work – though, perching is probably a better word for it – praying the vicodin doesn’t wear off until after I’ve accomplished the day’s more difficult tasks. Like, opening my desk drawer. Or, hanging up my coat. I just want to know what the space planners here have against keeping all objects at waist level. All this reaching is really such a ridiculous misuse of time. And it hurts.

As does reclaiming my wet towel from the bathroom floor, cleaning up after Kitten II’s adventures in Q-Tips, and eating anything that doesn’t come from the middle shelf in the refrigerator (which basically boils down to sesame rolls, strawberries and hummus).

My apartment is a mess and I’m hungry.

What’s more, the magical massage god has failed to appear. I’ve clicked the heels of my red shoes, appealed to every known deity and made a voodoo doll of myself with a big silly grin on its face. And yet, nothing.

I think I’m going to rent the Bat Signal tonight.

Take off your cape and stay awhile, handsome. Oh, and while you’re up, could you get me some pretzels? They’re on the third shelf.

I’ve basically been laying flat on my back since 5:30 AM, getting up only to take more pain killers or refill ice bags.

While, yes, I am still in pain, I have a bit more mobility. My right leg is no longer numb, but I can’t turn my head to the right. My right shoulder? KILLING me. I would sell my unborn children for a massage.

And because desperation also has a funny side, I’d like to share it. You know, to alleviate this tension.

In my desperation, I actually reached out for my G2 Mini Massager, aka my um… vibrator. I turned it on and put it on my swollen, sore shoulder. What? There is no one to give me a massage! What do you want me to do? I already tried petting the cat into a purring frenzy and then draping him across my back. That worked for heat as well, but he’s not as patient as The Pocket Rocket.

Anyway, there you have it. I hope that made you laugh. I’m going to go lie down again and wish I was married, thus eliminating one use for the aforementioned device. Cause when you’re married, someone’s totally obligated to pick your ass up off the bathroom floor and massage your sore spots till you fall asleep.

I have been awake all night long.

It happened sometime around 11:00 last night while I was brushing my teeth. I lifted my arm to do whatever one does while brushing one’s teeth, and felt a strange buzzy feeling in my shoulder. The buzzy feeling radiated down the right side of my back and up my neck until the next thing I was really aware of, I was lying in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. Absolutely unable to move.

Now, in time of crisis such as this, a girl with no health insurance must ask herself one question. What do I do?

Almost six hours later, after various stages of distress, I managed to get off the floor and into bed.

I had a headache last night. Not just any headache… the debilitating type of headache which sends a girl to bed early on a Saturday night, and leaves her overnight guest to spend the rest of the night in self-amusement. Which in this apartment, that means the internet… and Kitten II.

Getting ready this morning, I was making kissy faces at the bathroom mirror making sure my lip gloss was sufficiently glossy, when I heard,

“I am going to miss you so much!”

And I knew it wasn’t meant for me. Kitten II’s charm had won over yet another defenseless soul.

He’s not much to look at. Beyond being quite tiny for his age (seven months today), and missing his eyebrows on one side (an unfortunate close call with a heating pipe), he’s really quite ordinary. But once you are across my threshold, he will develop such an enormous crush on you, lavishing you with such great attention as though to say, “you are the only person in the world worthy of my love.” And you will believe him. Then you will try to smuggle him out of my apartment in your purse, under your jacket or disguised as a new fur stole.

He’s just that good.

And when he yawns and stretches and pats your face with his little white paw as you bend down to say your goodbyes, you can almost hear him say it…

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

And you totally will.

Today I went un-shopping.

Not familiar?

Un-shopping is when you (you, who have spent simply WAY too much money in the last few weeks) return items that are still living in their bags, attached to price tags, and taking up room on your already too small bedroom floor.

Maybe it was the shock of writing the rent check, but I had a heart-to-heart with myself over the matter and decided that no girl should buy things she doesn’t really even want, just as means of retail therapy. It’s an idea I’m going to try out for a while.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I was tickled pink just to be invited to the events surrounding the release of the book, but when its editor, Daniel Jones told me that he thinks thisfish.com is “just the best-written thing,” I could have tripped with giddiness. Okay, I did trip. But that was when I ran back to tell my friends about the compliment.

The best-written thing? Do go on!

With the amazing Biscuit and New Work Friend at my side, I followed Daniel and his entourage (including his wife, Cathi, who is most exceptionally charming) to the release party at Fez. Wine and beer were on the house, but of course being me, I went straight for the hard stuff.

During the reading at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble, I had something of an evil moment. Or two. I tend to lose count. Anyway, one of the contributors (a rather self-assured, perpetual bachelor type) read an excerpt of his essay, which he prefaced with the warning that it would be misogynistic. And by the end, I leaned over to my companion and declared, “This makes me want to date him, and destroy him.” But, the night passed without my having made his acquaintance, thus rendering him safely out of harm’s way.

At home, I introduced New Work Friend to the world of This Fish, and once I was alone, read a bit more of the book. Flipping through each section to check out the other epigrams, I almost choked on my swiss and tomato omelet.

Each of the four sections begins with a quote (mine being at Section III. “Bicycles for Fish”).

The others epigrams were by:

Richard M. Nixon
Steve Martin

And…

God. (Genesis, I believe)

Any book that puts my wisdom on par with those guys is fine by me. Or, maybe there’s really no one with any sort of real clout who would say anything half as snarky as I on the subject.

Who cares? I’m an epigram!

My level of thrilled-ness went up a few more notches, which, considering I’d thought it reached its apex at being introduced as a “contributor,” made me feel as though I had to go lie down. Or, maybe it was the hour.

It was way past my bed time.

Kitten II defrosted the freezer again today.

I was just in from the night’s book-related festivities (which I’ll talk about in the morning), and taken my sore feet across the road to pick up some non-liquid vanilla ice cream and suddenly, my very empty stomach had a very distinct craving.

And that is how I ended up in Gracie’s Diner, waiting for a Swiss cheese and tomato omelet — to go.

The man on the other side of the Formica counter top called me sweetheart in a way that was neither suggestive nor condescending. Merely… perfunctory.

“Something to drink while you wait, sweetheart? Juice? Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

I’m sure I sighed audibly. “Oh, yes. Coffee. Please. Decaf?”

“Of course, my dear.”

He filled the tiny pitcher with fresh cream and slid the sugar over. I wrapped my unmanicured fingers around the white ceramic and took a deep breath. Go, go, go had suddenly become full stop. For me anyway. The frenzy of activity continued around me, the short order cook, the manager and the delivery staff shouting back and forth to one another.

It was hard not to notice that for a place called Gracie’s, it was surprisingly… male. I imagined that Gracie herself had already put in a full day and was at home, reading a good book. In a hot bath.

My food was ready and my cup drained, so I left a tip for the coffee and made my way to the register to pay.

“That’s a very nice necklace. You look very pretty.”

Again, innocuous. Harmless. Complimentary.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Have a good night.”

“You too, dear. You sleep well. Enjoy your food.”

I thanked the nice man again and flip-flopped my way across the street.

Yesterday, I went to Bloomingdale’s.

You read: Yesterday, she went to Bloomingdale’s and spent even more money like the vapid, fiscally irresponsible tart that she is.

I mean: Yesterday, I went to Bloomingdale’s and overcame one big ass grudge.

In November of 2002, on one of many weekend trips to the Big Apple, someone lifted my debit card and emptied my checking account at Bloomingdale’s. Emptied my checking account… which rolled over into my savings account… and all in all, after a stop at Bvlgari, the treacherous wench had taken me for a three and a half thousand dollar ride.

The fine folks at — count them — six of their cash registers failed to check signatures or ID. Thus, I swore I’d never give them my business. That’ll teach ‘em, right?

Well, yesterday, I finally let bygones be bygones, and took my patronage to Bloomies. It had been a year and a half, after all. I realized that the whole swearing grudges thing really was pretty juvenile.

Besides, um… I needed sunglasses and it’s on my way home.

Now, mind you, previous to the whole grudge-forming incident, I had never been in Bloomingdale’s. I’d seen the bags with their understated smugness, the billboards, the store front and the shiny glass doors that let you in from the 59th street subway stop. But until yesterday, never had I seen inside.

I was completely unprepared.

Some time around 6:30 (Eastern Standard Time) my sequined flip flops hit the tile on the other side of those shiny glass doors. They rode up those escalators, and…

Why didn’t anyone tell me about that place? I mean, really tell me? It was like finally forsaking the Sugar Busters Diet at a dinner party hosted by Willy Wonka!

I’ve got a golden ticket!

Two pair of sunglasses later (along with a few other pretty little baubles), I had to escort myself right back through those shiny doors and into the dingy subway. I’d seen what happened to Violet. And Veruca. And that Augustus Gloop kid. I, for one, was getting out of there before I got sucked up into some big pipe never to be heard from again.

Because, after all, I needed to live — unencumbered by gallons of chocolate milk — to tell the world a tale of sweet, sweet forgiveness and unparalleled shopping bliss.

And to show off my new pink Ralph Lauren shades, of course.

Come with me
and you’ll be
In a world of pure imagination