“Aw, are you drinking alone?”

“I’m half-way through a bottle of wine and watching Snakes on a Plane,” I told Goldner as he made his way into the living room. “It’s not like I’m drinking alone and watching The Notebook.”

“True. Here,” he said, handing me a package. A Sponge Bob Square Pants wrapped package.

If I wasn’t confused by his late-evening surprise visit, I was definitely baffled by the present. Until I opened it.

“You read my post?”

“No! What post?”

“I just wrote about this!” I attacked the air-tight plastic container with a pair of scissors, then grinned as I fished out the trademark red Swiss Army Knife key-chain.

Goldner sat down at my laptop and read the entry, saying he’d felt bad that it took him so long after Tuesday night’s dinner to respond to my sob story. I didn’t know whether to hug him or kick him in the pants.

“Sorry? I hope you’re kidding.”

There’s never any sense in telling G, “You didn’t have to do this.” But I did it anyway, and squeezed him in his crinkly winter coat.

And then I made a Your Momma joke. Because, really, all this touchy-feely stuff can’t be good for my Grinchy little heart.

On my way back to New York last week, the security goons at DFW confiscated my Swiss Army Knife key-chain. Obviously afraid I might file through the cabin door or tweeze one of the flight attendants to death before the Air Marshall could tackle me to the floor, the screener, without a word, took the little red gadget off its loop and tossed it.

“But… but I’ve been flying with that for years!”

I had been. The itty bitty key-chain, which was a gift and not without a significant amount of sentimental value, had passed every screener between the US and Morocco over the last seven years.

“You’re welcome to speak to my supervisor,” the raspy-voiced screener barked, when I stood there looking confused. I nodded lamely and she called out, “Bud! Bud, come over here and talk to this lady.”

Bud explained that my options were, check the offensive item in my luggage (not really an option as it was way too close to flight time), or give it to someone out there (indicating the area outside of security).

“But I don’t have anyone out there.”

Bud just shrugged his meaty shoulders. Suddenly, on top of feeling frustrated with Bud and his summer-toothed, chain-smoking sidekick, I felt abandoned and alone. Which, even then, I knew was absolutely ridiculous. But all the same, I was without comfort, shoeless in security, clutching three naked brass keys and wondering, How will I get myself out of a sticky situation at the ATM deposit without my handy little Swiss Army pen?

I turned the corner, sat on the nearest bench, and cried into my lap. Big, pathetic alligator tears.

“This is a new low,” I typed to a friend on my also-handy PDA, aware of the absurdity of crying in front of strangers. At the airport. Over a key-chain.

But absurd or not, I couldn’t turn it off. I don’t cry easily, except when I’m frustrated, or when life feels horribly unfair, or when someone dies on Grey’s Anatomy. And two of the three were going down right then. I mean, thank god I didn’t know about Meredith’s mom yet, or jeez louise I’d have been a mess. I dabbed at my eyes until boarding was announced, then told myself to suck it up, and got in line.

In the week that has passed, you’d think I’d have gotten over it – forgiven Bud and his snaggle-toothed friend. But last night, when I reached my front gate and dug around in my coat pocket for my keys, I felt the lightness of the naked key ring, and a knot formed in my stomach. I cursed Bud out loud, and because there was no sense in fighting it, went upstairs to watch some old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy.

Lest it appear that only men earn the label of Emotional Cripple Extraordinaire, I have, to my own shame, committed a few of my own dumbass dating stunts.

A few years ago, when I first moved to the city, I went on a blind date. It went about as perfectly as a blind date can go, and I remember coming home tipsy and giddy with possibility. But being embroiled in what would become a three-year disastrous, ultimately regrettable relationship, I was in precisely the wrong place to be having giddily-perfect dates. So I did everything wrong. I got nervous and edgy and stopped responding to his emails.

Worse yet, I made him think it was his fault.

The kicker was, I actually liked the guy, but, in a state of emotional cripplehood, I handled the liking (and my fear of it) very poorly. But because I’m wired the way I am, my bad behavior pricked at my conscience. And pricked. And pricked. Until one day, unable to ignore it anymore, I sat down and wrote the following email.

Jason,

A few months ago, I gave an interview for some paper here in the city, and one of the questions the reporter asked me was, “Have you ever gone out with one of your readers?” My answer was, “Once.” At least, that’s the part that appeared in the article. The part the reporter was kind enough to leave out was where I said, “And I was a complete asshole to him.” I’ve been thinking about ever it since. Anyway, listen, I don’t even know how it’s going to seem getting this email almost a year later. Even right now, I’m heavily debating about whether I’ll actually press send. But I just wanted to say, I know I was a complete asshole. And I’m sorry.

I hope all is well.

Heather

Writing the email served as a much-needed catharsis. So much so, that after a few days had passed, I forgot about it entirely. The surprise of seeing his response in my inbox a week later made my stomach knot. What if he gave me the cold shoulder I deserved? I clicked on the message, with my breath caught in my throat.

Heather,

It’s really kind of you to go out of your way to apologize like that. It’s touching, really. I can think of a couple of people I should have written similar letters to, but never worked up the gumption to do it. However, you really shouldn’t think twice about it. Meeting people and dating is messy business. I think by the time you’re our age, you build up a thick skin to protect yourself from the bumps and bruises you’ll get along the way.

In any case, I’m still happy with the fact we got one pretty good date in before all of the rest of it happened.

I hope you are doing well also.

Thanks again,
Jason

I closed the email without replying, realizing that all that needed to be said, had been, and got on with life. The lesson had been learned months before, but the – dare I say – closure only came with forgiveness. It is not in my character to be cruel, or even careless with people, but I slip. Because I’m human and totally, wretchedly flawed. But it’s nice to know that when I do, my own ugly lack of grace won’t necessarily be mirrored back at me.

John wasn’t my perfect guy — not by a stretch. He was sort of doughy-looking, talked too much about money, and had a juvenile attachment to Ryan Reynolds films and pot. But he was funny. And he remembered everything I ever said (you’d be surprised how flattering that can be). So after meeting him one vodka-drenched night in midtown bar, I decided, what the hell – maybe he’d grow on me. Our first date was pretty forgettable (minus the part where he showed up late; that part I remember). He definitely wasn’t the kind of guy that had me plucking petals off daisies or running out to buy risqué lingerie. But one Tuesday night, I was home alone and bored. And feeling a little … like playing.

“Hope your apartment is clean,” I said, when he answered the phone. “I’m coming over.”

He didn’t object (duh) and I spent a thirty-block cab ride indulging in a few fantasy scenarios. He’d open the door and … well, I wasn’t wearing all that much under my winter coat.

But John didn’t open the door. The response to my quick knock was, “It’s open!” There went my opening surprise. Clearly, he did not know how the I’m Coming Over Game worked. And his apartment was a disaster. The living room was littered with clothes in various states of filthy, in the middle of which stood John, wearing gym shorts and what looked like the rag I use to clean behind my toilet — a freebie t-shirt with the sleeves torn off.

Never, in the history of ever, has a man done so little to earn nookie. But that night, it was all about me.

One glimpse of bare thigh under my wool coat and John finally clued into the I’m Coming Over Game. Grabbing a handful of hair (yes, please), he scooped me out of my shoes, went in for that first kiss and … What is that? Is that your tongue or a garden spade? I felt assaulted. I pulled back, surprised and a bit disgusted. And then there were John’s hands. I felt like I was getting jabbed with bratwurst or those gross little hot dogs that meatheads eat during the Super Bowl. Blunt, nasty, greasy, graceless little objects. This was not what I’d had in mind. John, however, was really enjoying himself. He began leading us toward the couch. And I was having none of it.

“Hmm, you know,” I said, breaking free and scrambling for a stray black shoe. “I have to get up pretty early tomorrow.” I didn’t care if it sounded like the hollow excuse that it was, and I didn’t care if I was rude, or if he was embarrassed. A 32 year old man with absolutely no game? He should be embarrassed!

A few months later, I was dashing off to a wedding, all silk and (borrowed) diamonds, when I passed him on the sidewalk outside my apartment. John ducked his head, looking sheepish, and I pranced by, feigning total ignorance. Well that was awkward, I thought, relieved when he was out of sight. Then I saw him again, not even a week later, and again, and again, until it dawned on me… that the object of my bad behavior was now living across the street. Of all the corners in all of Manhattan. Every time I see him, I’m just the smallest bit embarassed for having been so cold. But also, I want to holler,

“Fine! I admit it; I was a bitch! But you’re a terrible kisser… so n-yuh!”

In my head that comes with a hand gesture (thumb to the nose, fingers waving) I picked up on the playground as a kid. But instead, we just pass each other, eyes averted, pretending we never met, and I keep my hands in my pockets where they belong. Fingers waving away in secret.

The band had just finished playing when she walked into the back room of the bar, dressed like somebody’s senile grandmother: shapeless crocheted shawl, ill-fitting navy pedal pushers and gold lamé shoes. An angular girl, she was all jutting collar bones, elbows, and jaw. In the half dozen times I’d seen her, I hadn’t been able to decide if I thought she was attractive or just unusual looking. What she was, was young. Barely twenty-two.

But that’s not exactly where the story starts. I should back up.

Dinner had been my idea. I chose the restaurant (a quaint, charming little French place on Hudson), tweaked my budget to allow for quaint and charming, and made reservations for that Saturday night. We had plans to stop by a birthday party that evening anyway, and I thought dinner would be a good time to actually talk – not just run through our days in the instant messenger short-speak we’d become accustomed to.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” he’d joked, when I suggested dinner, my treat.

“We’ll see,” I’d said. He’d been distant for a while; I wanted him to know I’d noticed.

I was fastening the clasp on my earring when an IM window popped up. I shouldn’t call him, it said. Just take a cab to his place and we’d go to dinner from there. He lost his phone.

“I’m so sorry about your phone.” We were heading downtown in a cab, the rain soaked west side whizzing by outside. “Didn’t you only get it last week?”

“Yeah, but, uh, you know, I probably just left it at my brother’s place when I was helping him move.”

“Do you want to call him and ask?” I dug my phone of my purse and offered it to him.

“No. I’ll just go over and get itâ€_ later.”

After dinner, he kissed me goodbye and slipped me some money for the cab. Sunday was an early morning race, band practice and then a show at Pete’s Candy Store. And since he’d be out of touch all day, he’d meet me in Brooklyn.

And now we’re back where we began.

The band had just finished playing when she walked into the back room of the bar, dressed like somebody’s senile grandmother. She made a beeline for him as he left the stage, and by the time she crossed the room, she already had it thrust out in front of her.

“Here!” she chirped. “You left this!”

As I watched him take his phone from her, I felt the blood leave my face. Almost instantly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Let’s go. Right now, my girlfriend said. Good idea, the other agreed. Let’s get out of here. But I was hot. In seconds I was on my feet and headed for the door.

He’d already made his way out to the sidewalk and stood waiting, one hand in his jacket pocket, shoulders shrugged. He looked embarrassed.

“What was that? You left this! What happened to losing your phone?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What exactly are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for being dishonest.”

“Holy hell! Did you just talk to me like I’mâ€_ your mother?”

It wasn’t what I thought, he said. He had gone over there to end things. To tell her it was over. Over? When was it on? I felt like I’d been punched in the face.

“And your phone fell out of your pocket and onto her nightstand? Jesus!”

That’s when he tried to hug me. But I wanted anything other than to smell his sweater pressing into my cheek or hear him ooze more lies. With my arms tight against my sides, and the words, Do not touch me, stuck boiling on my tongue, I pushed back and threw my forehead into his chest. It landed with a crack.

He stepped back, stunned. And I spun on my heels and stalked off toward the subway.

But that’s not exactly where the story ends, either.

(Fall, 2004)

The squeal of the subway ripped through my ears and sent a shiver down my spine. I pushed my earphones in deeper and turned the music up, but it was no use; the city wouldn’t be drowned out. With the crush of foot traffic I plunged into the subway car, tearing at my striped scarf as a quick, burning panic spread up my chest and across my face.

Flying into New York the night before, the sight of the city below, blinking and sequined against the dark, had taken my breath away. And only ten hours later I found myself feeling breathless again, only this time, desperate to get out.

Four days of sharing my immediate space with no one I didn’t choose to, of getting where I was going at my own pace, of the sounds of morning traffic outside my window being replaced by birds and the flutter of wind playing against the blinds – I felt like I’d been cured of something I didn’t know I was suffering from.

“It’s so quiet here,” I’d said, almost reverently, before giving in to my Saturday morning stupor.

Maybe I’ve stopped thriving on chaos as much as I did when I first moved here, because in the last six months or so, returning to New York has felt as much of a burden as a relief. I’m constantly aware of the noise and the filth and other people touching me. Elevators, subway cars, the line at the deli. There are some moments when I love the pulsing energy of city madness – moments when I can’t imagine not loving it. But days like today, when the noise is confounding, and the constant brush of a stranger’s bag against my leg as the train rocks down the tracks makes me clench my fists in my coat pockets, I feel caged and weary.

There’s a lease renewal form on my desk that I have to sign soon. I’ll sign it, of course, because not signing it would mean so many things I can’t even grasp. So, I’ll sign. Because, after all, even when it’s most unbearable, the devil I know is a far sight more accommodating than the one I don’t.

Heather: Which circle of hell do you think the airport after an ice storm would be?

Neil: Are we using Dante or Milton?

Heather: Dante, please. Much cheerier.

Neil: Third. Definitely third.

Every thirty minutes or so over a space of five hours, my phone buzzed with an update from the airline. Surprise! Your flight has been delayed! Again. On Thursday night, the American Airlines terminal was a mess of frustrated travelers, all suffering to some degree from close quarters and unpalatable, heat-lamped dinners. Seating had run out hours before I arrived, so I lowered myself down onto a water-stained patch of industrial carpeting and waited and watched.

For a while, I amused myself with an older gentlemen doing speed-walking laps around the terminal, pausing each time at gate 10 to check the time on his black wristwatch. Clearly, a seasoned mall-walker. I followed a herd of hopeful standby passengers as they moved from desk to desk, heeding the call of gate changes. He was trying to make his brother’s wedding in Austin, she was trying to make a job interview in Nashville, and he was on his way to Dallas to propose. Without tickets in their hands, they eyed the ticket agent with looks that seemed to beg and threaten at the same time.

Then there were the outright threats.

We were milling around, waiting for boarding to begin when I heard a loud voice.

“If we don’t get on this plane, I’m gonna kill everyone here!”

No one had any fear he actually meant it, but I’m pretty sure most of us were hoping he’d get tasered just the same. Who wants to get stuck next to that guy on a plane? There was no telling how long he’d been drinking. But as the kid (he was maybe twenty-two) approached me, a beer sloshing around in each hand, yammering about how he and his military friends were trying to get to Dallas, I could smell the hours spent in the company of Sam Adams. He asked my name, and when I didn’t answer, he leaned closer. As he did, I put two fingers in the middle of his chest.

“You’re drunk, and I have no desire to wear your beer, ” I said, pushing gently. “Take five steps back.”

Dander up and pride hurt, he launched into another series of threats, aimed mostly at me. Threats which were overheard by the ticket agent. I lost track of him as we began to board. Knowing full well that military personnel are given preference in standby situations, I smiled smugly from seat 17A as I watched his two buddies inch their way down the aisle of the plane, followed by the fellow on his way to the Austin wedding.

God, I love justice.

“Sweet mother of Bob!”

In a blind panic, I raced into the restroom. I quickly locked the door and ripped off my sweater, searching my reflection in the mirror for proof of the flesh eating virus that was devouring my skin. I found none. From shin to chin, I was on fire. I dragged my short nails across my chest, leaving tracks of my desperation. I knew full well that scratching the itch would only make it worse, but I didn’t care. Damned winter skin. The thick layer of cocoa butter I’d covered myself in earlier that morning was no match for weeks of consecutive twenty-degree weather and the wind. My god, that wind.

“Oh-leeve oil. Ick-stra veergin,” Natasha advised, hovering over my eyebrows with her hot wax.

“Olive oil? Really?”

“Jes. You read zee Bible, it tell you all about healing powers of oh-leeve oil.” She tapped a finger on my windburned, peeling nose. Demons, out!

Not one to argue with the good book (ahem), I went home and made a beeline for the kitchen. Leaving a trail of clothes down the hallway, I disappeared into the bathroom with a tall glass bottle of green liquid. I emerged ten minutes later, glistening, smelling faintly of an Italian kitchen, and totally blissed out. A mighty miracle had been worked! The Interweb even told me that olive oil won’t clog pores, and when I read that, I cleared a space in the bathroom cabinet for my new best friend.

Two days later, my elbows are girly soft again and I’m not sitting at my desk, frantically tearing at my bra like a crazy person. Clearly, this is why Rachael Ray is so keen on the e.v.o.o.

Now if only I could reach that spot right between my shoulder blades.

I have started and trashed at least eight posts in the last four days. I think the cold weather has freezer-burned my brain, because lately, it’s just not firing right. Most evenings, I find myself staring at the computer screen and thinking very deep thoughts like, I should order some soup.Mmmmm, split pea.

See? Split pea! Obviously things are not as they should be. Anyway, in lieu of posts about my adventures with a gorgeous divorcee, my magical evening in Hoboken , or my upcoming trip to Dallas, I’m gonna make a list. Because lists don’t require verbs or punctuation or story arcs or any of those other things that might take away from thoughts about soup.

So, via Ari, Things I’m a Sucker For:

Coffee from the deli downstairs (If the good lord himself made coffee, it couldn’t taste any better.)
The cold side of the pillow
Kissing dreams
Kissing, in general
Q-Tips
Making Ari laugh
Making Sarah B involuntarily exclaim, “I love you!”
Belching (I know. I hope you still like me.)
Coconut shrimp
Out-of-town guests
Red toenails
Laying in the bath with my hair all fanned out and pretending I’m the Little Mermaid
Weird Al
Being teased
Little black dresses
Pretty underwear
Chivalry
Expensive sheets
My sister-in-law
All those blood relations, too
Scrabble
Charles Ingalls
Boys with nice hands
Having things to look forward to
Text messages, email, mail and phone calls (Really, communication of any kind)
The phrase, “Like, color of wheat…” and anyone who gets it
Much Ado About Nothing (Okay, mostly Benedict. I’d hit that.)
Funny people
Dirty jokes
Compliments
Girl Scout cookies
Pillow talk
Stuff

“If love doesn’t suck, you’re not doing it right.”

“I’m going to quote you on that,” said my sister, laughing into the phone.

“Go ahead,” I replied. “But I’m serious. Really real love is all about inconvenience.”

Not that I know a whole lot about really real love, but I’m a shrewd observer. I know what I see. And if my sister’s boyfriend loves her, not only will he drive thirty minutes out of his way to run her errands or take her to church, he will do it in a blizzard, on bald tires, and with a choice swear word or two on his tongue. Because that’s what love is: irritatingly inconvenient.

I know StepBob loves my mom, because every time her four chaos-loving girls descend on their home, stripping him of his privacy, peace, and quiet, he thanks us for coming and invites us back again. Love is all about losing your sanity, bit by ever-loving bit.

I know I love Hal because just about everything he does has the potential to be annoying (Yeah, see that scar on my leg? Sneak attack!), but somehow, it’s totally adorable. Like when he insists on sleeping across my shins. Love is about sleeping in uncomfortable positions because the object of your affection looks too damn cozy to disturb.

I know my friend Angie loves me, because when I asked, “Is our friendship strong enough to ask you to help me with my corset?” she didn’t even flinch. Love is about seeing folks naked and being real nice about it.

Ari cooks me mom food for dinner. Sarah keeps her hopes up for me. Torrie has given me part ownership in her baby (having my own scares the shit out of me). Because love is about seeing someone’s shortcomings and picking up the slack. Goldner lets me choose the dessert (molten chocolate cake!) and always lets me have the last bite. Because love is about not always getting what you want, and pretending you didn’t want it anyway.

See? When you’re doing it right, love really does suck. Which is probably why we can never get enough of it.

So, how ’bout them astronauts?

NASA folk. To my knowledge, there’s nobody smarter. I’ve seen Apollo 13 and Space Camp at least eight times, so I know astronauts. They’ve got to be some of the most logical, rational-thinking minds our country has to offer.

And so the next time I find myself doing something questionably sane over a man, I’m going to take a step back and ask myself, “What would an astronaut do?”

And if my chosen course of action is any less crazy than say, driving across the country wearing a diaper to pepper spray my romantic rival, I will be all set.

(Weekend recap coming up soon. Work’s been crazy busy.)

…I were Darth Vader’s kid, and I had inherited the Force — and thus possessed the ability to crush people’s throats with my mind — I’d have done an awful lot of throat crushing today.

I would rather talk to you than anyone else I know.

You and I are not on speaking terms, despite what you may think. I do not think of you often, and when I do, it is not to wish you well.

I’m sorry I was so horrible to you when we were kids. I didn’t understand.

I can’t fix everything, but for you, I will always try. Even when it makes me crazy.

I love you for your brain. I mean, really love you.

Just freaking cut your hair, damn it. You look like a degenerate.

Stop. Smoking. The idea of going to your funeral one day makes me feel queasy.

You have always been easy to love. It was liking you that sometimes took effort.

I hate that you’re the cute one. There. I said it.

Sometimes, you smother me.

It bothers me that I always have to ask other people how you are. Just call, already.

I feel unintelligent around you; you think I’m shy, but I’m afraid of being judged.

You’re a total douchebag and I call bullshit! on that story about your dead grandfather’s hat.

I’m still just the tiniest bit mad that you let me think I lost that ring.

Seriously? Best. Ever.

More to come. Once I feel satisfied with this list, I’m buying a ticket to Prague. May sounds like a nice month.

In the last week or so, conversation in my family has taken a rather morbid turn.

My mother is in the process of rewriting her will, leaving the siblings to call dibs on sundry pieces of Hunter Family Memorabilia. The sewing machine! The hope chest! Mom’s totally kick-ass 1976 homemade wedding dress! My sister Audrey (smart girl) asked for the family books, while my brother asked for the Winnebago. We don’t have a Winnebago, but just the same, he’d like it fully equipped, with a big kitchen, water bed, AM-FM, CD, and a microwave.

Not to be shown up, I asked for world peace. And one-two-three-not-it! on being the executor of the will.

It’s not really the writing of the will and the vulturing of family heirlooms that I find morbid. It’s actually kind of fun. But I can’t get over the way my mother talks about her death as though it were a soon-to-be certainty, whereas I refuse to consider it a possibility. Ever.

“Today I am composing a list of things I would do if I did find out I had a limited amount of time to live.â€ù

“Jeez. Someone’s having a fatalist Thursday! What a horrible thing to think about!â€ù

“Not really. Think about it,â€ù she said, “If you would do something completely different from what you are doing now, if you knew you only had a short time to live, don’t you think you ought to look at that list, and try to do at least some of those things now? Within reason.â€ù

“Visit Prague. Tell people things. Eat,â€ù I replied, quickly.

My list was easy to rattle off. Only the night before, I’d been lying on my living room sofa, swaddled in my bathrobe, blinking back an eye-burning fever. Feeling a little bit lonely, and a whole lot sorry for myself, I’d looked at Sir Hal, and without thinking, said,

“I wantâ€_â€ù

Hal stopped licking his paw and stared at me as though to say, “Well?â€ù so I went on.

“I want to lie on my bed and have someone pet my hair. I want to visit Prague. I want to tell people things I’m too chicken to say. And I want to eat. Molten chocolate cake, mostly.â€ù

I didn’t mention the hair petting to my mother; it seemed silly and hard to knock off a to-do list. The cake thing, too, was really just a craving that passed with the fever.

But Prague has been on my list for what, two years now? I’m going to feel really stupid if tomorrow, I step off a curb and Bam! get hit by an MTA bus, having not made it to Prague. It’s not such a far-out-there, unreasonable goal. It wouldn’t take much more than a plane ticket and a Lonely Planet Guide.

And it would be an even bigger shame if Honk! went the bus and Squish! went Heather, and I’d left a whole bunch of things unsaid, to people who deserve to hear them. We all have our secrets – secret loves, secret fears and heartaches and regrets – and the older I get, the more I wonder what they’re actually worth if I keep them tucked away.

Not that all that wondering made much of a difference. Bus accidents are unlikely and I’m still a chicken shit. Maybe someday soon, though, I’ll get brave, write some of those unsaid things down, safety pin them to my underwear, and get on a flight bound for the Czech Republic. Just to tempt fate.

(The bit about the Winnebago and world peace? Yeah, that comes from a movie. Because in our family, we try not to say anything originally funny. If you can name the movie, maybe, just maybe there’s a prize in it for ya!)

Last night, I had a dream that Bill Murray and I were in love. Like, big, BIG, star-crossed lovers, love. Me and Bill Murray.

It all started when he nearly hit me (or did – the details are somewhat fuzzy) with his bright yellow Hummer. I don’t know what Bill Murray was doing driving a Hummer down the residential streets of McKinney, Texas (it was springtime. Dogwoods were blooming), but just like that, BAM! we were in love.

Actually, at first, only Bill Murray was in love. He made the most moving overtures and showered me with gifts (including an iPhone I didn’t know what to do with and repeatedly turned down), but I was holding back. Wasn’t he old enough to be my father? And what if this feeling wasn’t real, and it didn’t last? The idea of another failed romance scared the shit out of me. And this hurt Bill Murray’s feelings. Eventually, we talked it out and I overcame my fears, because we spent the rest of the dream in a lovely romantic haze. I even took him to meet my grandmother.

The subconscious is a funny thing. It obviously had some lingering attachment to a conversation I had with Todd last week about the nature of our… relationship. You know, wherein ‘relationship’ means friendship + making out in cabs.

Todd: Your choice of cabs: red cab, yellow cab, checkered cab…

Heather: What about those little guys on bikes?

Todd: Or rickshaw? Or horse ride? Wait, that’s too romantic.

Heather: Yeah, I stayed clear of that one; didn’t wanna freak you out. You know how boys are.

Todd: It’s better if it’s scandalous and not romantic. Just my personal opinion.

Heather: Oh, hell yes. Romance gets way too complicated. Someone always cries – usually the girl someone – and I’m just not up for that.

So, the fear-of-love thing, I get. It’s relevant. But, Bill Murray? Of all people! I mean, maybe he represents my deep affinity for men who make me laugh. But honestly, there are a thousand other guys I’d put in line before him. And as far as that iPhone goes, well, I woke up thinking Biscuit was going to be so pissed that I got one first.

I also woke up a bit disappointed that I wasn’t really, truly in love with Bill Murray. It felt sorta nice.

I was a bawdy youngster.

At eight years old, I possessed a knowledge of all things baby — specifically, where they came from — and it was a knowledge I was more than willing to illustrate for Mandy Jenkins when we were supposed to be listening to Mrs. Ashby read to us from James and the Giant Peach. I was done with rotting fruit and sketchy, over-grown insects. Self-expression was the order of the day. And what a day it was! After my morning drawing session (Mandy was wide-eyed shocked; I felt superior and very, very important. Knowing really is half the battle!), I booked it out to the playground where glory of all glories, I got a swing! Didn’t even have to wait, or bribe Melissa What’s-her-face with some old Lee Press-on nail I found in the dirt.

Like I said, what a day! I was master of the third grade.

I kicked and pumped until I was so high that the downswing made my stomach lurch. Up and back, I smiled at the men tarring the roof of Larsen School. I smiled at the seagulls circling the cafeteria dumpster (that’s a smell that will never leave my memory), I smiled at the waving teacher who had come out onto the playground. Until I realized it was Mrs. Ashby and she was waving at me. Then I stopped smiling.

In seconds I was off my hard-come swing and in the classroom where Mrs. Ashby presented me with a pencil box. My pencil box, open and revealing the… illustrations I’d done earlier. Mandy was soft. The fear of Jesus had gotten to her, and she’d squealed.

“Those aren’t mine,” I said, as Mrs. Ashby loomed over me, so close that her teacher smell strong was in my nostrils. “I mean, I didn’t draw ‘em.”

“Oh? Then who did?”

“Shannon.”

“Shannon who?”

“I don’t know her last name.”

Well, there were a surprising number of Shannons in the school’s six grades, and damn if we didn’t go into every single classroom and meet every single one. Obviously, none of them were the culprit. I wasn’t going to lie. Not to get someone else in trouble, anyway.

“She goes to the older school.” I said, determined to wiggle out. Just do it, I thought. Just go on over to the middle school and find all the Shannons there!

“Now, that’s not true.” The old bat wasn’t falling for it, and she looked a bit annoyed to realize our Shannon scavenger hunt had been in vain. “If you tell me the truth right now, I won’t call your parents.”

Bingo! Plea bargain extended. I took her up on the deal.

After my confession, Mrs. Ashby led me to a small room next to the main office ( the one they used to test kids’ hearing and check for lice) where she left me alone. I sat for a good long while staring at the speech therapist’s beeping machine. Not being trusted with a pencil and scratch paper, I couldn’t even doodle, just stare and wonder about my fate. Mrs. Ashby finally returned. She had lied when we cut our deal because when she came back to the room, my father was with her. And soon my mother, dragged out of work, arrived to confront this ugly problem (the drawings were stick figures — how dirty could they be?). Only then did fear strike my little heart and I broke down in tears of shame and embarrassment.

Later, in the privacy of our home, my parents laughed as they lectured me on age-appropriate conversations and the things that should be kept private. Perhaps I was growing up too quickly, they said, and asked that I forfeit my only pair of dangly, big girl earrings — the ones with the purple stars on the ends. That was more than I could stand. Mrs. Ashby was a dirty rat. To this day — some twenty years later — I am filled with an eight-year-old’s hate for the woman who pulled a dirty trick on a dumb little kid. A child’s trust — not to mention her favorite earrings — is not something to mess with. I returned to school the next day unable to look at my teacher.

Two weeks later, now nervous about everything school related, I got so worked up over having to recite the multiplication table that I barfed all over Mrs. Ashby’s shoes and had to spend the rest of the morning on a beanbag in the silent reading loft. I’d say it served her right.

Union Square Park was hiding under a thin blanket of last night’s snow when I escaped from the subway this morning at half-past nine. As soon as I saw it, a giddy feeling took hold in my chest and quickly spread to my face. I couldn’t help smiling. A passer-by in a puffy down coat smiled back, obviously on board with my excitement. There’s something very six-years-old about new snow, especially the first snow of the year, that incites cravings for a pair of moon boots and a sled. And some tomato soup. In a thermos, please.

I was also charmed by Rufus Wainwright suddenly pouring out of my iPod at that precise moment. For whatever reason, he makes me want to write up a list of my favorite things — indulgences, people, smells — fill a room with them, and then stay there for a very long time.

What it all comes down to, clearly, is that I’m easily amused and it takes almost nothing to make me happy. At least temporarily.

Truthfully, I’m just as easily disappointed as I am delighted. By even the smallest nuances of daily life. Which, if you’re someone close to me, means that along with my gushings about snow, coffee, and fat-cheeked baby boys in bow ties and argyle sweater vests (seriously, nothing cuter), you have to handle being pelted with a hundred little heartbreaks. Daily. Or bi-weekly, if I’m not feeling chatty. One minute I’m doing emotional cartwheels over a pair of new knee-socks and fresh snow and the next, I’m in a ten-minute pout because the cashier at the deli was cross with me for taking too long with my change. These are not serious highs and lows (I feel I have to say this because some random commenter is bound to express worry over my obvious manic depression and recommend their shrink and/or favorite meds). Nope.

It’s more like… playing some cosmic-scale game of He loves me, he loves me not, plucking petals and praying the last one reveals that the universe has a secret crush on me, too.

After a few consecutive days of working at home, I walked into the office this morning and right away, noticed something was wrong. Very wrong.

“David!” I yelled, as my surprised coworker yanked the earbuds from his ears. “Are those… sweets on your desk?”

David is foreign and you have to speak British to him if you want the conversation to go smoothly. Thus, fruit-flavored Mentos are sweets and not candy.

“I, uh, well… Yes, they are,” he finally admitted.

“I turn my head for one second and look what happens!”

I marched over to my desk, threw my gym bag down in a dramatic fit, and then sank down, as though I were just plain exhausted. And then I went for the kill.

“Ohhhh, David.”

If you were even the little tiniest bit of a Coupling fan (BBC version) you’ll remember that when Geoff’s mother scolds him for… dirty deeds, she drones “Ohhh, Geoffrey!” in a tone that absolutely oozes with shame and disappointment. I called on that for inspiration. And I think I was pretty convincing. Now, before you start thinking I’m a horrible person, you should know that David asked me to do this. He said if I ever found him eating crisps, sweets or chocolate (see, there’s that British talk again. Soz! We’re in a bit of a Barney! I’m all apples and pears! Uh, huh, and Americans have ruined the language? Riiiight.) I was to stop him immediately and make him feel bad — very bad — for it.

And you know me. I’m no half-asser. If you ask me to make you feel bad about yourself, I am there for you one hundred percent!

David picked up the Mentos and toyed with the half-empty wrapper.

“Well, that went over well. You look properly shamed,” I said, grinning with an actress’s pride.

“Not shamed enough not to finish them,” he said. Then, as I stood there gawking, he defiantly popped one into his mouth.

Obviously, I’m going to have to work on my delivery.

If someone were to overhear our conversations, they’d think they’d stumbled upon two people with an unhealthy affinity for transportation. Because when Todd and I reminisce, it’s not about the months we spent working at the same design firm in Cambridge. We talk about cab rides.

“I don’t think we shared a cab that timeâ€_â€ù

“Oh, no? Bourbon was involved.â€ù

“Pfft, then who knows. We may have.â€ù

Last month, when Todd announced that he and a few of his friends were heading up to New York to damage their livers and gawk at women (putting the man in Manhattan, he called it), I couldn’t have been more thrilled. It had been far too long.

“I’ve just put you on my calendar!â€ù I said, adding a little blue bar across the third weekend in January. “Do you kids need a place to crash?â€ù

“Nah, we’re gonna get a double room. Might need to split a cab, though.â€ù

Ah, the magic words. Split. A. Cab. Todd (known back in the day as the IRB) and I had both learned the hard way that dating a coworker can be a bad, bad idea. So we didn’t date. Happy hours just stretched later and later until common sense got drowned in a shot of tequila, and then the two of us would end up sharing a cab home. Where we would make out like teenagers.

“How many cabs were there?â€ù

“Three or four, at least,â€ù I said, racking my brain. Tequila leaves a pretty thick film over memory.

“Wow. Go me.â€ù

We shared notes on the cabby that missed my house (we were uh, too busy to notice) and the one who got pulled over. After a while of remember this and remember that, it dawned on me that we might be jinxing his visit.

“Obviously since we’ve just talked about it so much, it’s going to be really awkward.â€ù

“Mmmâ€_â€ù

“Which is clearly why the baby J invented liquor.â€ù

“Amen.â€ù

Which is to say, come Friday, watch out, Yellow cab. It’s on.

More IRB Stories: here, here and here. There are others elsewhere, but I’m not sure that Todd wants the whole world to remember that time he went tanning. Or called me by his ex-girlfriend’s name.

Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I lie very still and silently recite Neruda’s Oda a la Alcochofa. Um, yeah, that’s a poem, in Spanish, about an artichoke.

“Okay, go.”

“What?”

“Start reciting. I wanna hear it.”

“No way. I’ll fall asleep right here on the sidewalk and then we’ll miss the movie.”

As we were leaving dinner the other night, I shared my magic sleep secret with G. And obviously, being that this is just one of the many things about my inner-workings that make me a bit of a weirdo, he wasn’t at all fazed. Just offered me some Ambien and pouted over being forced to go home and google Neruda. Anyway, I can’t really explain it, except to say that it’s got something to do with the meter of the poem and how reciting it makes me breathe differently and listen to the rhythm of blood pumping behind my ears. Which is all very hypnotic and sleep inducing.

Except when it’s not.

Friday night, I got home around 2AM, and having just had my ass handed to me in a three-hour game of Trivial Pursuit, I tumbled into bed, beaten, shamed and exhausted. Then I lay there. Not sleeping. For an hour and forty minutes. I tried Neruda, then that relaxation game where you ask each of your two-thousand parts – starting with the toes – to pretty please, go to sleep. You should know this technique is complete bullshit. It’s like telling a slumber party full of caffeinated seven-year-old girls to quiet down – the attention only makes matters worse.

Eventually, I got so desperate, I decided to play an imagination game with myself. So I laid there, very still, and pictured, detail by detail, all the wacky lyrics from Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I think I got as far as newspaper taxis and I was out cold. It was nothing short of a sleep miracle.

Only, I haven’t had a remotely sensible dream since.

Last night, it was baskets and baskets full of hungry baby raccoons. Cute, right? Totally. Except some of them had puppy heads. With really big eyes (which, thankfully weren’t kaleidoscope-ish at all). And I woke up worried about bottle feeding varmints.

I’m afraid if this keeps up, I’m going to have to cave to G’s trade demands, suck it up, and recite my little poem for a couple of Ambien.

Alternatively titled: Further proof that this (points to self) is all genetic.

Mom: A whole bunch of birds were found dead on Congress street yesterday morning. Dozens and dozens. Same day as your “weird odor” in Manhattan. And barn owls dying in droves in Idaho. And Stephen Hawking suddenly deciding to go up into space. I think it’s time to get out…

Heather: Yes, but out to where? Space with Hawking?

Mom: Hmmm… You have a point. He is a little strange.

Heather: And can you imagine the conversation we’d have to suffer? I know THIS about space and I know THAT about black holes. Shut UP already, Stephen Hawking! We get it; you’re SMART! Jeez.

Mom: Well, the nice thing about conversations with Mr. Hawking would be, that if we got tired of it, we could unplug him.

Heather: â€_

Mom: I don’t mean his LIFE SUPPORT! Just his talking tube!

Heather: â€_

At 4:46, I struggled from sleep and unwound myself from the tangle of sheets and my bad dream. My pillow was soaked with tears. I rolled over and slid my hand across the cool sheets to wake the sleeper next to me, to say, “I just had the worst nightmare.â€ù But there was no one there. The dream had vanished entirely, and in its place a feeling more heavy and bewildering.

The shock of finding myself alone – despite the other half of my bed having been vacant for fistfuls of months – tore into me, leaving me confused and wounded. Still drunk on slumber, I cried for a minute or two longer, then wiped a bare forearm across my eyes and slid out of bed.

I wanted to call someone. A friend, a sister. To ask them to explain this to me. But calls at five o’clock in the morning are for emergencies, not half-dreamt misunderstandings. So I yanked on some jeans, pulled a sweatshirt over my camisole, and went across the street to the all-night diner.

In a booth, with one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee, I sat listening to the cook bicker with the bus boys for what must have been the better part of an hour. When I blinked back to reality, I was sitting with my right hand on my chest, two fingers pressed lightly over the shallow dent between my collar bones, melting into a spot at the base of my throat where it seemed my heart was lodged. I stayed this way, foggy-eyed and mournful, until my lust for sleep grew larger than my fear of solitude. And then I went home to bed.

One reason god and I aren’t always on speaking terms, is that I like to be in charge. And he tends to think that’s his job.

“Oh my god. Look who it is!”

Elle and I had our toes buried in the sand on a crowded beach in Massachusetts. On that Saturday afternoon in the dead of summer, it seemed the entirety of New England had run away to the same spot of ocean. Including ex-presidents.

“Who is it?” she asked, following my gaze to the red and white striped towel a few yards away.

“Gerald Ford!”

Of course, it wasn’t really Gerald Ford (Betty was nowhere to be seen). But if your friend is the kind of friend you’ll want to have around until you are much older and sillier than you are now, you will know by how well they play along with your pre-senility antics. And Elle, well, she and I will be smacking our gums in the old folks home together, because she turned out to be Gerald Ford silly.

“That guy is totally Secret Service,” she said, pointing to a furry gentleman wearing a blue Speedo.

“And that guy. The bratty kids are just a cover.”

While John and the others watched, and I’m sure, worried (for whatever reason, imagination games just seem less… healthy as one ages), we spent the afternoon inching toward Mr. Ford, walking slowly to the water and back, closer and closer to the oblivious older man, cutting him off from his security detail.

Long, hot days at the beach, despite the relief they provide from the sticky humidity of the city, have the potential to get a little boring. Some people bring books. Elle and I engage in efforts to thwart the Secret Service. We’ve not once been caught, either.

In pirates class last week, the substitute instructor told me I was a natural. Watching myself in the mirror, struggling just to keep my less-than-graceful body in a straight line (hello, spine, work with me!), I wondered if she was new and didn’t know I’d already paid in advance for the next eight classes. Absolutely no buttering up was necessary; I was heavily invested.

“You have great body awareness.â€ù

I swallowed a giggle. My inside voice made a smartass remark to the effect of, Lady, where I come from, we call that self conscious, but my outside voice tried very hard to ignore it and instead said, Thanks.

“What do you do for a living?â€ù

“I’m a writer,â€ù I said, feeling my knees shake beneath me.

“Well, I’d say that if you didn’t know what you wanted to do, you should consider teaching pilates. You seem very disciplined.â€ù

Obviously, my regular instructor does not share notes with his sub. Otherwise, she’d be well aware that the week before, I lost my balance and lay laughing on the mat for a good minute or so. There may have been snorting involved. Okay, there was. Lots of snorting. My instructor, who is not a chatty man, appeared equal parts mystified and put out.

Today, at the end of a very challenging, muscle-quivering hour with my regular, not-into-flattery instructor, I headed for the door.

“See you Thursday,â€ù I said.

“Yeah. Oh, and uh, good job. You managed to hold yourself up today.â€ù

I shut the door behind me and grinned. Ordinarily, I don’t like men who make me work so damn hard for approval, but in this case, it’s the kick in the pants I need. The day that man tells me I should be an instructorâ€_ well, let’s just say, if I didn’t before, I now totally get the allure of that hard to get affirmation.

At least as far as pirates class goes.