I stood on the Lexington Express this morning gripping the cold metal pole and pleading with whoever is in charge of such things, not to let me faint.

I’d had my breakfast. I’d taken my vitamins. It’s just that this illness, whatever it is, has finally left my throat and now made a permanent settlement in my chest. And this morning, it began stealing the air supply from my brain.

Girl you’re every woman in the world to me…

No, not that Air Supply. I mean the one in charge of keeping me capable of cognitive reasoning and maintaining basic life functions. Like remaining vertical on a downtown train.

Ordinarily I would just buy myself something and I’d be all cured. But this seems a wee bit heartier of an illness. It’s got staying power. I mean, I’ll still try going to Bloomingdale’s at lunch to buy a much-needed pair of sunglasses, but I’m without much hope that it’s going to cure me.

My skin is flushed, my heart is racing, and not in a good way either. Have I mentioned my health insurance doesn’t kick in for another two full months?

Gah.

Okay, it’s finally here for real now, kids. It’s… Book Day!

The Bastard on the Couch hits shelves today (and the e-shelves at Amazon).

It’s alive!

Congrats to its fine editor, Daniel Jones and many wishes that it follows its predecessor to Best Seller-ness.

As this may be the closest I ever come to being published (aside from gracing the pages of Columbia University’s Journal of Law & Arts — thank you, Paul), you had better get your collective ass out there and pick up a copy. Or at least go look at it.

I’m on page 131.

I take the same approach to life that many type-A personalities take to driving. Impatient, frustrated… that’s really only the beginning. There’s the break-tapping and the swerving and the obscene gestures out the window.

Outta their way! They want to get there already!

I have gripped the ‘oh shit’ handle in the passenger seat of my mother’s Saturn wishing to god that woman would just relax. I mean, we’ll get there when we get there. No sense in dying in a fiery inferno just to be the next in line to get the Old Navy item of the week, right?

In much the same way, my friends must have been sitting by, watching me careen through the last few months thinking, “Shit woman, can’t you just relax?”

The answer, of course, being no. No I can’t. Not in the grand scheme of things anyway.

When life takes a new direction, I want to get there, and I want to get there now.

You know, wherever ‘there’ is.

In 1980-something, when the summers saw me shuttling between my house and her Bear Valley condo, my grandmother bought me a red Care Bear suitcase that, next to smiling bears with iconic tummies, bore the words, “Getting there is half the fun.” And I remember thinking even then that, no, getting there was not half the fun. Getting there is a whole lot of waiting.

And I hate waiting.

Take picking up and moving to New York, for example. I was completely mystified, when after day two or three, I wasn’t fully established in my new life. It was a full out assault to my pride — an insult to my life-coping skills — that I was still emotionally (and very often physically) lost.

(Stupid R train.)

At any rate, it occurred to me just now, sitting with Kitten the Second curled up in my lap, that I will never quite agree with those smug, portly bears with sunshines and rainbows on their bellies, and that had I ever really been the sort to just relax, I may never have made it this far at all.

Being compulsive, neurotic and having irrationally high expectations for myself works for me. So put that in your Care Bear Stare and uh…

smoke it?

Living in New York City, it takes very little time to come to some very important realizations:

You need new shoes. Lots of new shoes. Stepping down 5th Avenue to whichever lunchtime errand destination, it will occur to you that your almost-new Steve Madden sling-backs are already horribly passé. So, you must replace them. With three other pair. And you must not keep the receipts.

You drink too much. Even if you don’t really, you must because how on earth did you spend $75 in Brooklyn on a Friday night?

You’re not so concerned with modesty as you used to be. Missing shades on the kitchen window? Not such a big deal. Who cares that your balding, gawking neighbor sees you wandering to the bathroom in nothing but thong underwear. It’s probably good for his heart, and it’s not like you’ll ever meet him.

You spend too much money. While completely out of line with realization number one, savings can be scrimped from other areas such as… groceries. Which leads us to the next realization.

You are too fat. Even if you’re not, you simply are. You will have nightmares about double chins. You will constantly think your ankles are too thick. Why? Because you’re comparing yourself to a whole new brand of female now. The fur coat wearin’, finely coiffed New York City Socialite Bitch. She’s everywhere and she lives for no other reason than to make you feel ugly.

You need coffee. Need. It’s now one of the ingredients in your blood. Oxygen, Hemoglobin, Colombian Supremo…

You love take-out.

Your new job is your life. Stop whining. Get used to it. Get to like it even.

And when you wake up one morning and find yourself just a little bit altered, you’d better like that, too. ‘Cause that’s who you are now.

I bought a box of Popsicles yesterday afternoon, and by the same hour today, they were gone. In contrast, my sore throat was not.

I’d already been feeling a bit under the weather when I traipsed out to Brooklyn in the rain to see the oh-so-very talented Shiv perform at Boudoir Bar. A couple glasses of wine into the night, and I felt all but cured. So imagine my surprise and dismay when yesterday morning, I woke up sans voice and sporting a bit of a fever.

Now, in the past, I’ve been fooled by alcohol into thinking I was more attractive than I was. Funnier. More charming. But never more healthy. It’s usually quite the opposite. Nothing convinces me half as completely that I’m two steps from death’s door than one too many sips of a badly mixed vodka tonic.

The only solid food I’ve had today was a fortune cookie bearing the phrase, “You find beauty in ordinary things.” Fat lot of good that does me at the moment. I’m clean out of Popsicles and I’ve finished my book. Couldn’t it have said something like,

“A brutally handsome man will drop by your apartment with Popsicles and an advanced copy of Season III of Coupling. At 8:30.”

That would be lots more useful.

PS. For those who must know, Tim the Australian Tourist called yesterday to say that he was off on yet another leg of his journey (London, I believe) and so, I will have to find something else to pique your curiosities. And meanwhile, if there are any London gals in need of a good… apartment christening… you know where to leave a message.

I stand on Houston Street, the rain pulling at my wool-blend blazer.

He watches me catch the heel of my pale pink stiletto in a sewer grate and begins to raise his window. I let out a sigh of relief. This cabby does not care where I am going. He feels sorry enough for me, standing in the drizzle, that I’m willing to bet he’d drive me to the gas station on the next block if that’s what I wanted.

We’re equally lucky, though, I think as I tell him the address. It’s far, and I’m a very generous tipper.

The cab driver seems to put the car into auto-pilot as we make our way to the Upper East side. “It’s so early,” he says. “Your night is already over?”

“I’m tired,” I say. “And my feet hurt.”

“It is those shoes!” His accent is as thick as the fog around my brain. How many glasses of wine did I have?

I laugh. You’re damn straight, it’s the shoes.

I begin to have graphic fantasies about going home and taking off the offending articles. And once safely inside my apartment, I do just that. I start with the shoes and make my way up, dropping pieces of clothing as I make my way to the bedroom. A brief detour in the bathroom leaves my jeans draped over the shower curtain rod. I actually hang my bra on the coat rack in my tiny hallway.

So tired. So tipsy.

A pajama search would require too much effort, so I grab some lingerie from the inside of the closet door. I dress as I head to the living room to write about my evening. But the thoughts I’d had about sorority and femininity are all beginning to taste like sweet Riesling and I realize I am so very tired.

It will have to wait.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable.

Like my bed.

This is one of those days that makes a gal wish with all her might that she had a hammock in her office. Or, that she were a FemBot and had smoke coming out of her jumblies.

You know, to break up the monotony.

So much wishing, so few results.

In New York City, Hyenas wear dark suits, cobalt blue shirts and ties of varying hues. They hover around watering holes, instinctively draining over-priced cocktails and imported beer, and though huddled in groups, each is aware that it is every man for himself as they keep close tabs on the prey they stalk from behind designer eye wear.

The Serengeti of Bryant Park’s outdoor café is abuzz at dusk, teeming with double-breasted, double-vented Hyenas and their respective prey, carefully balanced on over-priced heels and toting imported handbags. The prey saunter up to the watering hole, the Hyenas leave their packs, and the circle of life is yet again completed.

In New York City, the well-educated and well-paid corporate ladder climbers lean against the facades of their Madison Avenue office buildings, taking hasty drags of their cigarettes (there’s no time for lunch), and leer at women. They appraise each feature without any measure of subtlety, loudly voicing their appreciation for that which appeals to them. “And she’s got the legs, too” one calls out in a thick Brooklyn accent. Instantly, my mind’s eye replaces his expensive, nicely-tailored charcoal suit with a brown velour jogging suit and gold chains. He could be called David, or Alexander for all I know. But now, he is a Joe Jr., or a Lou.

Lou calls me sweetheart as I pass, and I shake my head. While his fancy costume belies the cheap, classless undercarriage of a being whose only real purpose in life is to chase tail, my apparently sweet face, glossy black coat and trendy shoes hide the soul of a girl who has absolutely no problem removing his genitalia and sucking it through a straw.

Don’t call me sweetheart.

Tim the Australian Tourist is getting personal messages on this site. (see comments from this entry)

One night here and he’s getting comments? That’s brilliant!

It never occurred to me that I’d hear from the Tourist after Sunday morning (or was it afternoon?), much less that I’d be getting message FOR him.

What was once a one-woman show is now an international message service.

Before I put another notch in my lipstick case
You better make sure you put me in my place

I fully admit that on many levels, I am a walking contradiction.

Tidy to the point that, save for actual diagnosis, I could very well print the letters OCD after my name, the way some follow with Jr. or Esq. But to throw a spoke in the wheels of true cleanliness, it takes me months to get around to doing my laundry. Months. I don’t know anyone who owns three clothes hampers. I don’t really think I know anyone else who needs three clothes hampers. It’s just that, the same voice urging me to clean my kitchen stove with a Q-tip fails to say anything in regard to the amassing pile of worn-once clothing.

Contradiction.

And as I stood on the 4 Express this morning, rocking out to Pat Benetar, I took stock of my contradictory behaviors and philosophies on the love front as well. Now, here is where I start laughing at myself. You know, for using the word ‘love’ with regard to my associations with men.

See, I totally have a thing for men who treat me carelessly. I dig them. But, not on a conscious level, of course, because I’m the first to go on endless rants about insensitive pricks.

Send me a man who understands right off that there’s definitely more to this girl than meets the eye and suddenly, I’m a frigid bitch. But throw me a fella who can’t possibly appreciate me, and I’ll work harder than a piano mover to keep him on the line.

Why?

Because if I don’t have to work for it, it can’t possibly be worth anything. Duh.

Leave me flowers on my doorstep, and I’ll forget to return your calls. But make everything a priority over me and my heart is yours. Besides, the nice ones don’t fight back, which really takes the sport out of the whole thing anyway.

It’s so very Aiden versus Mr. Big, I know. But at least I can admit it. And it does give me something to do when I’m not cleaning the stove with Q-tips.

This Fish. It’s like Sex and the City, only with far inferior footwear.

I could really use a good, strong drink right about now. Or ice cream. And a hug. And a new, black linen suit.

But I’d totally settle for the hug.

I’d like to send a formal “welcome back” to my waistline, now that I’m seeing signs of its return from wherever it had been spending its winter holiday. After work, I will force myself to stop by the gym to take care of the necessary membership transfer. You know, to adios these, shall we say, substantial thighs and backside. Not that I really have anything against their Rubenesque proportions, but with the return of the thinner waistline, I’m beginning to get Cease and Desist orders from J-Lo’s people.

(Too many cooks in the kitchen, as it were. Some girls just can’t deal with a little healthy competition.)

Monday night being Manicure Night, I tidied up the kitchen and headed to the salon down the street for perhaps the worst French manicure in the history of the art. Here I was thinking the very purpose of a French manicure was to appear somewhat natural, while at the same time preserving that, “I’m sorta high maintenance look,” and I came outta that place with hands that would make Tammy Faye Baker look subtle. And when the thick, gloppy mess hadn’t dried an hour later, off it came. If I wanted cheap, prostitute hands, I’d have given myself a manicure. For free.

Oh, aren’t we touching on the real meaty subjects today? I’d like to, really, but I’m practicing avoidance.

As some of you know (and I give a nod toward the gang up in Boston), my father makes threats of suicide from time to time — this being one of those times, what with the one-year anniversary of The Great Divorce approaching. So, between the Sibling Defense League, emails fly, cell phone minutes get used up (as do greater amounts of over-the-counter sleep aids), and my stalwart brother has to traipse over to relieve my NRA-loving father of his firearm. At least this time, he has not disappeared.

So, dear reader, as I do my utmost to deal with my situation in the way I deem most appropriate (*cough cough* ignore it and maybe it will go away *cough*), you’ll simply be subject to my dissertations on the weighty matters of life, like, lip gloss and leg lifts.

Tomorrow’s topic? The Brazilian Wax. (I need a new aesthetician. Any recomendations?)

There seemed to be this phenomenon that once you abandoned the living room (your coffee in tow) and joined the brunch table, you became part of a collective, brilliantly dirty mind. The more of Krissa’s fabulous quiche and potatoes you ingested, the less inclined you were to make conversation not steeped in innuendo. I’m fairly certain that somewhere, going about her Sunday activities in her sensible shoes, my mother was blanching with maternal shame. Where did her daughter get such a mouth?

The collective mind, full of food and bloody marys (juice for me, as I still had the previous night’s alcohol playing games with my head), retired to the living room for some quality time with the Sunday paper. I am now fully convinced that the New York Times crossword puzzle was meant to be a group effort. And the group couldn’t have been any better equipped. Krissa’s entourage was all I’d expected and more. Shiv, who is perhaps the most luminous of beings I’ve met in a very long time, Biscuit, whose mother probably didn’t name him that, and Bill, whose train of thought is ever-so-amusingly easily derailed, provided hours of very charming entertainment.

When Shiv asked at some point in our revelries, “Can we keep you?” I was so delighted I nearly had to ask for a moment to myself. “Oh, do please! I’d love to be kept!” And when Biscuit announced that he liked me, I think I actually blushed.

But the high point for this silly girl came on the subway ride home, when the most charming man ever to be named after an English cookie, told me that I had lovely canine teeth. I spent the remainder of the ride giggling with my hand over my mouth, completely absorbed in my own dentia. And why didn’t I have a mirror in my purse to check those puppies out for myself? Lovely canine teeth. Lovely canine teeth. I have lovely canine teeth.

I am so very unstoppable.

Being “brunched” is a very, very good thing.

When we have time to sit down over coffee and dish, I am totally going to tell you the story about last night.

I won’t skip any of the good details about Tim, the charming Australian tourist, his friends, Tim II, Big Haired Guy and Ollie, and a string of bars in the East Village at 3AM. I’ll tell you about the American girl in the red coat who took us to what can only loosely be called “after-hours,” at some entertainment lawyer’s seriously swank apartment on 14th Street. You may doubt my story momentarily when I describe this apartment to you, and I get to the part about the sauna and the patio and the cocaine and the host’s ceaseless offers of alcohol and sex.

I’ll make sure you know that I had nothing to do with cocaine, because, even as well as we know one another, you’ll need that sort of reassurance. Now, the Australian Tourist, that’s another matter. But as far as I know, the dangers inherent with large doses of Aussies are far less than with high-end illegal substances.

I could be wrong.

Cats are, by their very nature, pains in the ass.

Unlike dogs, they do not care if they please you. They do not care if you like them. And they do not care if walking across your keyboard for the umpteenth time sends the message, “ddddfffffffwwwwwwwi” to your instant message partner.

Kitten the Second, being no exception, is a pain in the ass. But a very charming one. Last night, when I got under the covers, so did Kitten the Second. Under the sheets he went and then he stuck his little paws and nose out from under the comforter and went to sleep. I stared at him for a second, said outloud to my television audience, “You have got to be kidding,” put down my book and went to sleep.

Weirdo.

Good friends from Boston came in this afternoon for a visit, and after I spent an ugodly amount of money at Banana Republic this morning, I met them at Grand Central Station. After Indian food and an not-so nap in Central Park with them and the Original Big City Galpal, home I went for a nap with KII.

And now, I’m rallying for a night on the town. Supposedly, we’re leaving in thirty minutes, but unless there’s some bippity boppity boo shit about to happen, that doesn’t seem likely.

Where are my dancing shoes?

Two very wonderous things arrived at my apartment today.

1. The book, that on page 133 features a quote by yours truly. I’d say I couldn’t be more excited, but truthfully, its arrival has been a wee bit overshadowed by the arrival of

2. Kitten the Second, who is sleeping in my lap at this very moment. Chosen for features completely opposite of Kitten’s but still posessing ridiculous amounts adorableness, I was smitten from glance one. Even Crazy Passive Aggressive Lady at the ASPCA couldn’t talk me out of Kitten the Second. For some reason, CPAL wanted me to take home an octogenarian cat that practically wore a sign that said, “Will die as soon as you get me home.” Kitten the Second, on the other hand, is only six months old and wears a sign that says, “Please do not stop holding me because I like to chew on your hair.” Which is fine by me. Also fine by me is that Kitten II (you know, like a Pharoah, only with more hair), is equally as taken with my ASPCA partner, Ari. Meaning, he has good taste.

So, there you have it. I’m going to peel myself away from my new velcro kitten and make myself a Boca Burger. Then Kitten II (who is now sleeping in one of my pink Old Navy flip flops) and I are going to read.

Incidentally (there it is again!) the book features my real, full name. Get it while it’s hot kitties! Kiddies? Whatever.

If a boy thinks a girl is pretty, his pupils will expand when he sees her. It’s simple science.

And if a boy likes a girl, he may go all the way across town to return her umbrella. And if he is trying to impress her, he may leave that umbrella at her front door. With flowers.

And if a boy is really trying to confuse a girl, the umbrella may turn out not to be her cheap, only semi-functional umbrella, but a new, better one entirely.

You know, in theory.

Yesterday I came home from work in the rain with a knot of worry filling up my stomach. After spending the day over-caffeinated and trying to mesh piles of work with what I am certain is Adult Onset ADD, I felt absolutely sure that today’s meeting with the Pres would go a little something like this:

President: You sure oversold yourself.
H: But… but!
President: Yeah, you know, I hope that bathtub gig is a sure thing because you’re really not worth our cash.
H: *sigh* Can I at least have another cup of coffee before I go?

But instead, it went a little something like this:

President: Okay, I know it’s a lot, but I’m on a plane to Italy in… two hours… and the following things have to go out tonight. (Insert very long list here)
H: Okay.
President: You sure you’re going to remember all that?
H: *laugh* Have you seen the lists I keep?
President: True. Things going okay?
H: Uh, yeah.
President: You’re doing great work.

Hear that? I’m doing great work! That’s news to me, kids. I mean, it’s no secret that I have a skewed body image. But I usually have a pretty good grasp on just how smart I am (or am not). And while I have only been there two and a half weeks, I have been feeling like I should have a better grasp on things at the New Job. You know, be the model of efficiency. Know everything about everything. Like I did at the Monkey Firm.

I keep trying to tell myself I’ll get there eventually. All in good time. But, well, I’m a rather impatient woman and ‘eventually’ is really not one of my favorite words. ( Not like incidentally.)

And today, at long last, was pay day. I didn’t get to take time for lunch today, but I sure as hell took five minutes to deposit my paycheck (direct deposit hasn’t kicked in) at the Fleet down the block. I, personally, have never seen a paycheck that big. And perhaps that’s one of the reasons I feel insecure about my work performance. The check was twice what I was making a year ago, but I don’t feel like I’m twice as smart or doing work twice the caliber. So, minus an explanation, I chose to feel like a complete waste of corner office space.

So, anyway, now that the stomach knot has decided to shrink a bit, there seems to be room in there for some chocolate chip cookies. And I’m feeling adventurous. Let’s see what it’s like to bake in the Smallest Kitchen God Ever Made.

I had a very hard time concentrating at work yesterday, when it was, without question, the day I should have been on top of my game. It’s fine, though. Because if I get fired, I’ve been offered a bathtub to sleep in back in Boston.

Meanwhile, the Cable God did his magical thing last night and in less than five minutes, I was back in high speed heaven. Pure happiness in less than five minutes and it didn’t require AA batteries.

Funny thing is, my computer turns on, the internet starts coursing through it, Instant Message boxes start popping up and know what? I put up an away message and went to read my book. My mother would be so proud.

That’s all I got. Go now.

Just moments ago, as I was standing under my bathroom skylight, I heard the crackle of thunder. It made me tilt my head and listen more closely, wondering why it was the first I’d heard of it all evening. Then I went around my small apartment opening windows and shutting off fans (turned on largely to drown out the intermittent banging of heating pipes) and sat in the dark living room to listen.

At first it was nothing but quiet. Until my ears adjusted, opened and took in all the elements of quiet.

Rain on the skylight, on the plastic of the window air conditioner, on the metal of the fire escape. My first fire escape.

A bit of far off thunder.

A horn honking faintly (probably a taxi), as city sounds wove themselves in with the natural ones.

Wind. Air traffic. The squeaky breaks of the M86.

I leaned my head against the sueded soft arm of my couch, smiled and breathed in the city breeze. My first city breeze.

Or at least the first one I’ve taken time to appreciate.

Detour this morning: The nicest pair of shoulders, appropriately covered with a very dark suit just ahead of me in Grand Central station, took a right where I usually go straight. Without half a thought in my silly little head, I steered right and followed the very nice shoulders through the lobby of a certain financial institution. The shoulders were attached to a nice face, which in turn produced an equally nice voice that “after you”ed me through a set of glass doors. I thanked the nice shoulders and wondered how my hair was holding up in this humidity.

Be stalking you soon.

I had another ‘emergency’ yesterday involving pale pink shoes and matching wallet. In my defense, the wallet was on sale, which totally justifies its purchase, even had it not been the same beautiful shade of pink as the emergency shoes.

My commute each morning involves three blocks pre-train walking, and two blocks post-train walking. In those five blocks, I pass two (2) Nine West stores. It’s a mighty miracle in and of itself that my PMS (Post Move Shopping) hasn’t produced more random clothing/accessory purchases. Incidentally, that white suit in Banana Republic? Next week it will be mine. Yes, my precioussss. It will.

Incidentally. Incidentally. Incidentally. Without question, it’s my favorite word at the moment. I had to restrain myself to use it only once in the above paragraphs. I don’t even look for excuses to say it. It just pops right out… incidentally!

Try using it in a sentence today. You’ll be so glad you did.

I spent last night fully embracing my aloneness. Leftover Chinese take-out, my new favorite sex-omedy, BBC’s Coupling (on loan from the v. generous Ari), half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s (returning a container of ice cream to the freezer unfinished used to provoke “Lightweight!” from Roommate) and in bed with a good book by 11.

And this morning, still foggy from more wacky dreams (thankfully, Richard Dreyfuss has stopped appearing trying to give me some silly jade ring), I nearly confused a bottle of generic Aleve for a bottle of generic Tylenol PM.

Let’s hope that fog lifts, hmmm?

PS. The Cable Gods are coming tonight. Yay Internet!

PPS. If you are at least six feet tall and can hold a paint brush, I need you. NEED. Am willing to bribe. I bake well. And I kiss at least as well as I bake. Just so you know.

Two new least favorite words heard in New York City?

Unavoidable Delays.

In other news, I think I’m totally going to nail my audition for Sibyl II, Return of the Madness. As evidenced by the past few days, I think I’ve really become one with the character. Motivation found. I can’t wait to discuss it on Inside the Actor’s Studio some day.

I’m counting down the days until I get a paycheck. It’s been nearly a month since I’ve seen one of those, what with the week off and things taking their sweet time in accounting. Seriously, it’s not much comfort to walk around this grand city knowing you have exactly $4.64 to your name after UHaul and Ralph the Mover got done with you. Actually, it’s exactly four dollars right now. I bought a York Peppermint Patty. It couldn’t be helped.

Money doesn’t stress me out. But the lack of it sure does a doozy. And I only pull out the credit card for emergencies. Like, how I really needed a manicure yesterday. Really. It was an emergency. A well-timed manicure can be like the Jaws of Life to this really distressed gal.

Plus, getting my nails cut down does everyone a favor. In yesterday’s state of mind, it wasn’t completely out of the question for me to go claws out and really do some damage.

Repeat after me: I am not a harm to myself or others.

Dear Reader: Please Note, After this, there shall be no more uninformed discussion of Kitten on your part.

Things you must understand

1. Kitten was born on the street. The only reason I got her home was because she was too sick to run.

2. There are only two people who have ever held Kitten. Myself and the vet, when Kitten is either bound in a towel or tranquilized.

3. There are maybe three people, besides myself who have ever petted Kitten. And three or four others she’s allowed within a yard or two to play with her.

Kitten is terrified of other people. She is not hanging out with some little old lady drinking cream from a saucer, she has not allowed herself to be seen, much less caught by anyone who would take her to a shelter. She has not turned up back at my old house to eat the food, or crawl into her cat carrier that I left for her in my one moment of hopeless impracticality. The suggestion that she is somewhere waiting for me is unbearable. I am too far away to search every porch she may be hiding under. And the very idea that I should be makes me feel extraordinarily guilty. So can we cut it with all that?

Kitten has become a lump in my throat that I can’t swallow. I wake up wondering where she is. Every. Single. Morning.

I have called for her when I got out of the shower, inexplicably forgetful of the fact that she isn’t there.

So if anyone has feelings of loyalty toward her, be reassured I’ve got ‘em a hundredfold, but I’m also mired in the reality that she is not coming back.

On the way to work this morning, I decided the only thing to do is get a new creature. A kitten, a turtle, a pet rock. I don’t care. Just something, because I can’t stand to talk to my own echo. At least I knew when Kitten was ignoring me, because her little ears would twitch.

Maybe it’s that I need someone to take care of besides myself. I mean, self-maintenance only takes up an hour or so of my day and then there’s… a whole lotta nothing. I’ve had pet boys, but I don’t really want one of those right now. They come with their own set of rules and prerogatives and honestly, I ain’t got the energy for that shit these days. But a kitten? SO very doable.

I was almost convinced, after an afternoon in Central Park, that I should really just jump on the baby bandwagon. You know, procreate if only to have some little peanut-sized bundle to take to the Park in a nine hundred dollar stroller. To deck out in Baby Gap shoes and bedeck with ridiculous nicknames. Yiddle One. Stinky Face. Squeedunk. Monty. Whatever.

But then there’s day care, and strained peas and the actual childbirth, which sorta complicates matters. Not to mention the inescapable widening of already generous hips. Baby got back? And then some.

At any rate, the apartment does lack a certain… well, it lacks many things, the most noticeable of which being something to say, “Stop ruining my sofa!” to. So, maybe a stop at the SPCA this week wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Cause, um, I’m not really in the market for a nine hundred dollar stroller.

I spent yesterday in a fairly low-key manner.

I dropped in at the paint store to pick up a pint of new linen white (eggshell) and to tell Andrew that yes, I’d have coffee with him. Andrew being the fella who works at my friendly nieghborhood paint store, that I’d “maybed” earlier in the week.

I bought groceries. And Gerber daisies.

I took my book to Central Park where I sat in the sun (with intermittent passing local cloud cover) reading for a few hours.

Then I went home and let it get dark on me.

I paced my small apartment, having put on yet another movie I didn’t watch, exchanged a few meaningful phrases with voicemails of friends and family. And waited for none of them to call back. It was saturday night.

I took a hot bath. I made tea.

And then I sat in my bedroom, missing Kitten and Roommate and wondering what the fuck I have just done. Why am I here? Why have I exchanged everything I knew to feel cut off? To be the abandoned and the abandoner all at once?

How many of these wonderfully dark moments am I going to have before this all makes sense? Where nothing is real, except maybe feeling like I’ve made some tragically stupid trade — a handful of beads for the island of Manhattan. Well, last night, I wanted my silly beads back. I haven’t traded up. I’ve just traded. And I wanted to undo it… to undo the move which lost me my little furry pain in the ass Kitten and separated me from all that is familiar and normal.

I should be embarassed to say I cried myself to sleep. But what the fuck. That’s what happened. Because I don’t know what I’ve done. And I want to undo it.

Or maybe that’s just the passing local cloud cover talking.