Every Monday morning, I print out my Outlook calendar.

I know. Who’s all but defeating the purpose of technology? That’d be me. Whatever. I have my reasons. One of them being that I find electronic calendars way too abstract and I need to write down my appointments to remember them.

I also still need that little song to remember how many days hath September. But nobody’s perfect.

Anyway, the first thing I do (even before I ever figure out where I need to be for which meeting or who I’ve got to call and for what reason) is ink-in the week’s social events in red at the top of every day. You know, because a girl has got to have something to look forward to, lest she stab herself to death with a number two pencil during one of those aforementioned meetings. So this morning, I got out my red pen and started markin’ away. And now I’m tired.

I’m tired and I haven’t even gone out yet.

I’m tired and I haven’t gone out straight from work, had too many cocktails, stumbled home drunk, filled the cat’s water dish with science diet, fallen asleep face down in my pillow, awakened in a smudge of drool and mascara and hit the snooze button seven times. Yet.

But that’s what’s in store for me.

Sarah says this means I am the most popular girl in school. With four exclamation points. But I think what it really means is that, like me, all of my friends are solar powered. A change of the season, a tilt of the earth on its axis and suddenly we all can’t wait to stay out too late on a school night drinking, making plans we may very well never keep and inside jokes that were probably never funny, and not regretting it one bit the next morning.

I am so there.

Except on Thursday. Because I’m already like, totally double booked.

I’m so frustrated today.

I’m so frustrated and pissed off and AARGH! about life that I want to make a list of people to karate chop in the throat, exact my revenge in a throat-punching spree, and then get back to my regularly scheduled programming. But I won’t.

Mostly because I can’t.

Today, I am mad at my computer, or the server, or whatever is causing this problem with my school’s website that I can’t seem to fix even with Biscuit’s expert help. Also, I’m mad at me, for various reasons, and karate chopping myself in the throat doesn’t sound like a good idea at all.

So I sit here and pound out emails with too many exclamation points (My mother does this, too. It’s genetic.), with eyes narrowed and my face all scrunched up so that my eyebrows nearly touch each other in unibrow solidarity. Like Frida Kahlo. Or Bert.

And I will keep my eyes glued to the computer screen. Othewise, they will get me in trouble.

Newman told me once that it didn’t matter what came out of my mouth because I did all my talking “from here on up.â€ù When he said “here,â€ù he flattened his hand and made a sawing motion across the bridge of his nose.

“So, what you’re saying is I’m a terrible liar?â€ù

He nodded. I drank. And I considered how many times I’d been given away and not even known it.

Like that time my (ex)boss said, “You’re angry with me.â€ù And I said, “No, of course not,â€ù in a tone that was as even and as pleasant as a Gerber baby’s ass cheek. But of course I was angry. Furious, even. And my eyes said everything.

Boss: You’re angry with me.

Heather: No, of course not.

Heather’s Eyes: Oh, yes she is. She’s consumed with anger. And if she could do that Darth Vader thing and crush your throat with her mind, she wouldn’t hesitate. That shit doesn’t leave prints! But as she is currently without The Force (and hates the thought of unemployment), she’s going to have to settle for thinking mean thoughts and pounding out emails with excessive punctuation. Oh, and those shoes? Really horrible.

So as I sit here and smolder and silently scream “Why, god, why!â€ù I give a thankful pause that no one has invented laser beam contact lenses. ‘Cause after a day like today, I’d have a lot of death and destruction to make up for.

I know this will shock you. But I have not always been the paragon of kindness and grace that you see before you. No, I know it’s hard to believe. But it’s true.

When I was a kid, I used to lean over and spit on my sister from the top bunk. Nightly. I’d taunt her for a while, spitting a long, gooey stream, sucking it back in, giving her a false sense of safety and finally, let it go. I aimed for the pillow. And when she got moved to the nursery? I’d leave salt in her sheets.

I teased my brother for being fat. I rolled my eyes at my mother and made fun of her purple wind suit. I stole gum from the Texaco. I refused to participate in family discussions of any kind where feelings were shared (unless maybe there were cookies involved). I slapped my best friend Angie in the face. I drew dirty pictures (and got caught). I lied. A lot.

Even in high school and college, I had a pretty sharp edge. “Sarcastic to a fault.” That was the reason Jon gave for breaking up with me my senior year of college. My wit was biting, my tolerance for weakness, nil and I was perpetually annoyed.

I was not exactly a nice girl.

But something happened, and somewhere along the line, I turned into a complete chump.

I cry when I read the news. I can’t stand the thought of anyone getting their feelings hurt. Or being alone or scared. Even Iraqi dictators. I looooove talking about feelings and I call my sister four or more times a week to do so. I have not spit on anyone in years. Years, I tell you.

I am a changed woman. A nice girl.

Okay, fine. I still lie. But at least now I have the heart to feel guilty about it.

Sometimes.

A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was pregnant. Which is totally not unusual – I have them all the time. I freak out for a few minutes and then not only do I get used to the idea, but because my subconscious (under the heavy influence of biological imperative) is in charge, but I often wake up disappointed that I’m not really in the family way. And so it goes. Only, this time, the dream was disconcerting – at best. In this week’s So You’re Knocked Up, Do You Have Any Idea Who the Father Is? dream, the blessed discovery came when I was five months pregnant. Five months. Five months of margaritas and random cigarettes and the occasional puff-puff-pass. I was beside myself.

“I ruined the baby!”

Dream had turned nightmare. Low birth weight! Fetal alcohol syndrome! Extra limbs! Waking up to the realization that I was still barren – and that I had not indeed ruined the baby – was such a relief. Guilt and shame had defeated biology! Though, I’m sure there will be a rematch.

Fast forward to Wednesday night when Biscuit organized an outing to see An Inconvenient Truth. It’s no secret that I’m not exactly environmentally conscious. I recycle only because it’s the law. I love (love!) paper towels. And I used enough Aqua Net in the 80′s to cause those Ozone Layer guys a substantial setback. But I didn’t have any conflicting plans and I wanted to see my friends, so I went.

And Al Gore scared the ever-loving shit out of me.

“I’ve ruined the planet!”

Okay, not me exactly. I mean, it turns out that my carbon dioxide emissions are way, way below average (even with my love for paper products). Yes, thank you. I try. But in general, we’ve done some pretty destructive stuff and polar bears are drowning. Sure, all that other stuff sunk in, too. Worse things are happening, but it’s the polar bears I can’t seem to get over. Al Gore, you clever marketing beast, you.

It’s all I can think about. The polar bears and the ocean swallowing up millions of people when Antarctica melts because American car companies are lazy and selfish and those beetles destroying forests because we haven’t had a proper freeze. The worst part is, this isn’t something I get to wake up from and say, “Phew! I haven’t ruined the baby! Pour me another.” And I find this very upsetting.

The truth is that I try to avoid caring about anything that I can’t fix all by myself, right this second. Emotionally, I’m just not cut out for having a cause. I guess I lack the practicality to see the small things I can do to impact the larger problem and I get overwhelmed. You know, that whole, think globally, act locally thing. But who says I can’t change? So here’s my first attempt: I am going to switch my energy supplier to a green source and I am going to say, Go see this movie.

Do it for the polar bears.

I’ve got a few things cookin’, but in the meantime, let’s play one of our favorite games! You know, the one where you ask questions (many of them awkward and uncomfortable) and I answer. Or, I tap-dance around and appear as though I am answering, but much like your parents in your impressionable, formative years, I practice avoidance.

I just may tell you to go ask your mother. Or look it up.

But who knows. Let’s give it a shot. You Q; I’ll A. Go!

*** Please note! ***
As much as I would love to help you, if you are seeking advice, you’ve come to the wrong place. I do not give advice any better than I take it. So let’s stick to questions I most probably know the answer to.

I just played duet of “Heart & Soul” with a world renowned classical pianist. I think that goes right to the top of the Wackiest Shit I’ve Done at My Job list.

You know, right after ‘used a tampon to stop a bloody nose.’

Twenty-two years ago, I chased Jared B. around the playground at Larsen School. When I caught him, I pushed him down. Then I wrote him a poem rhyming the words dove and love and gave it to him during silent reading.

Because I loved him and that’s how love goes when you are six.

Twelve years ago, I called Ryan R. every fifteen minutes for hours on end. And hung up every time. Incidentally, Ryan introduced me to the concept of Caller ID.

Love at fifteen is horrifying. That’s all there is to it.

Over the years, maturity (and necessity) have led me to refine my tactics. I stopped pushing boys around (except where appropriate), stalking and poem writing. I figured there were better ways at getting what I wanted.

So, in college I developed The Quiz. It wasn’t much more than an updated version of a note that you’d pass to your elementary school love. Only, there weren’t boxes for yes or no below the question regarding whether the object of your affection affectionately objectified you in return.

A sample letter could go something like this:

Dear David,

Do you want to go to Homecoming with me? Check one:

Yes!
Hell yes!
Other (please explain)

Love,
Heather

There would be no box next to other. I was not stupid.

I’d forgotten about The Quiz until a few days ago when my kid sister sent it to a boy. A boy who she likes beyond reason. And the boy, it turns out, must like her beyond reason as well, because he answered Hell yes! to every single question. There will soon be a date and, if my imagination has anything to do with it, kisses and rings and babies and gold anniversaries.

I think my work here is done.

I haven’t been on a field trip in at least fifteen years. And that, my friends, is approximately how long it is going to take to convince me to go on another one.

“You are done bothering her. And you are turning around.”

“Stop kicking his chair.”

“Keep your hands to yourself. And your fingers! Nicodemus, get your fingers out of his ears!”

“Why are you still talking?”

“You just went. What, are they handing out PlayStations in the bathroom? Sit down.”

I was only in charge of ten or so kids. But lord baby jesus amen hallelujah did I have my hands full.

Some kind and generous soul had paid to rent out an entire theater so that our students could see Akeelah and the Bee. In the middle of the day. On a Monday. I know, right? I am constantly in awe of people and their generosity to our kids. I am also constantly in awe of how quickly those kids can drive a girl to the belief that they do not deserve such generosity and get your fingers out of his ears or I will turn this bus right back around!

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Miss, I can’t sit here.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have to. Everyone needs to stay in their assigned seats.”

“But! I will get in trouble if I sit here.”

“Seems like something you’re in control of, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I hate him!”

“There are much nicer ways of saying that, I think.”

“Fine. Sorry. I do not get along with him because he is really annoying.”

“Hmm. Better. But you’re not moving.”

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

From the time we sat down in the theater, it took the movie seventeen minutes to start. It took me about nine of those to understand why god gives you children in baby form. If he left you with an eleven-year-old, you’d be asking him for the gift receipt.

“Miss?”

“No.”

relax. this post is spoiler free.

We knew the movie was going to be a bit silly; every review out there mocks it to one degree or another. But Sarah and I were curious. And well-prepared as we took our seats at Loews 34th Street.

Tucked away in my purse were six little bottles of rum, to be added to our over-priced theater fountain drinks. And tucked away in our brains was a list of rules… for Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game.

The rules are very simple.

Every time Tom Hanks hair strikes you as funny, drink.
Every time a monk speaks Latin into a cell phone, drink.
Every time Ian McKellen is being fabulous, drink.
Every time something absolutely ludicrous happens, you must pour more booze into your soda. And drink.
Every time there’s onscreen chemistry between Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou, you have to let the stranger seated next to you drink out of your cup*. Every time there isn’t, drink.

Random flashback?
Finding an albino Paul Bettany strangely hot?
Line so corny you snort?

Drink, drink, drink.

As it turned out, every single review we’d read had been spot on. And you can guess where that got us. Giggly and racing for the bathroom at the end of the movie.

Now, this is where it gets good. This is the part where Nicole Kidman also has to go to the bathroom after the movie (she and Keith Urban totally must have been playing Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game, too). The ladies’ room was atwitter. And as we stood outside the theater, texting everyone we’ve ever known about our latest encounter with fame and botox, I turned to Sarah and hiccupped,

“Aw, it’s like our own little Miracle on 34th Street.”

Every time a celebrity encounter makes you act like a twelve year old girl, drink.

*No actual sharing with strangers took place during the watching of this film. It is that bad.

I am broken hearted.

You think it’s going to be different this time – that you know how it’s all going to work out.

It’s the classic story. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy. They share cute, intimate moments over board games and secrets whispered as they lie in bed. Boy asks girl to marry him. Girl says yes.

Then boy fucking dies! And girl quits her job as a surgical intern at Seattle Grace Hospital! And every thing – every damn thing you hoped for – is gone.

You held hope after girl nearly killed boy with that stunt before the heart transplant. Because you believed in television love! And what did it get you? Nothing but a recycled speech from My Father the Hero (“What about me?“) and a dead guy with really pretty white teeth.

I shake my fist at you, Grey’s Anatomy. You. Broke. My. Heart.

All I have to say is that it had better be poor little Addison who finds Meredith’s panties next season or we’re really through.

Oh. And that shit with the dog? Cheap. Really cheap.

“Why I am so awesome. I know. That’s a long one and you don’t want to be typing all night.â€ù

I laugh into the phone.

Ari is on the other end of the line, offering semi-helpful advice in an attempt to breathe some life into this week’s ailing blog. So far, none of her topics is striking a chord. But then, I did call her for advice, so who am I to scoff at her ideas? She suggests lists I can make. Contents of my handbag. Celebrities I’ve met. I give them some thought. The serious ones, anyway.

The one about someone’s naked body parts? I am ignoring entirely. Entirely.

It’s not as though nothing is going on. Things go on! Oh, yes. Like, my brother getting engaged. That’s something. And me, seeing a new boy. That is also something! There’s been a night on the town in Hoboken with Tanya – which probably could produce a story for every drink. And I had quite a few. There was a night in with Sarah during which she declared, “I would totally have sex with you. Your bed looks so comfortable!â€ù Of course, no sex was had; we watched Parent Trap.

So, things are going on. But for some reason, I can’t seem to get a single one of them out there in story form. Why? I think, for no other reason that sometimesâ€_. hormones make me stupid. I’m already blaming them for this thing on my forehead and the migraine I had early this morning. Why not blame them for my writer’s block?

“Alright,â€ù she says finally, giving up. “I’m around. So if you need any more useless ideas, give me a call. I’ll make a list.â€ù

I thanked her, hung up the phone and wondered how soon was too soon to call her back. I mean, maybe the naked body parts thing wasn’t such a bad idea.

“I cannot do today.”

I yawned, blinked away the sleep and pushed my feet to the floor. Hal stared at me from the ottoman. He was thinking breakfast. I was thinking sick day. I’d woken up this morning on the couch, in the same awkward position I’d fallen asleep only two hours earlier, cranky and puffy eyed. Last night was one of those nights

I’d tossed and turned and worried and looked at the clock so many times that my retinas were burned with those tiny digital numbers – edging all the more near to the hour my alarm would go off. I finally abandoned my bed for the couch sometime after 4AM. A change of scenery seemed to do the trick.

When I was a kid, the cool side of the pillow or the other end of the bed was enough to shake things up, shut off the inside noise (fear of reciting the multiplication tables, new school nerves, etc.). And in college, there was upside-down land.

Yeah, you heard me. Upside-down land.

In those days, my roommate’s boyfriend and I used to lay face-up across the bed, heads hanging off, laughing and talking until our faces were beet red and pounding with blood pressure. We’d started it one day on the living room sofa when Mac, tired of my sour finals face, grabbed my feet and spun me around. Then he climbed onto the couch next to me and rested his feet on the wall.

“It’s so much better this way, I think.â€ù Mac said, and then sang some goofy song from our primary school days about turning frowns upside down.

“Only, you don’t actually have to smileâ€_â€ù

“Just go to upside-down land.â€ù

My roommate snapped a photo of the moment – Mac’s goofy smile making a frown and my frown, well, looking not so crabby.

I came across that picture a few weeks ago, and thought about it again this morning as I eyed the cat and he eyed me. He was still thinking breakfast. And I was thinking how there was no way in hell I could get away with a sick day. I realized that I could probably have used a bit of upside-down time today – a shift in my attitude, a change in perspective – but I was late as it was. So I got up and got ready for work

Besides, grown-ups do not have upside-down land. They have coffee.

Over the last two weeks, as part of a project I’m involved in at work, I’ve had to interview a couple of celebrities. Because the interviews I’m doing are for a good cause, the subjects tend to be more than happy to make themselves available to chat. And to hand out their cell phone numbers.

On Tuesday, I had a really nice conversation with one of Law & Order’s former A.D.As (now star of a new law drama). I wrapped up the interview and thanked her for her time. She responded graciously.

“Well, you have my cell phone number, so if you have any other questions, please feel free to call me any time.”

I thanked her again, hung up the phone and immediately went about making a quick list. You know, of those other questions I have.

1. What are you doing on Saturday? Do you want to have lunch? I bet you know lots of great places. I bet your husband owns a few (wink, wink). We can go there.
2. Once we’re BFF – you know, after lunch – will you be writing me into your script? It doesn’t have to be a big part. Just one where I get to perhaps faint and kiss someone very hot and a little bit psychotic.
3. I want to marry Elliot Stabler. I know this is not so much a question as the thesis statement from my Five Year Plan, but I thought I’d save us some time by letting you make suggestions as to how to go about the whole thing.

I stopped at three and put down my pen. That seemed to be enough to get us going. I mean, if we got through those, I could always come up with more and call her back. But then, I might be too busy living out my Five Year Plan as Mrs. Detective Stabler already.

I’ll call you. We’ll do lunch.

The helicopter on display in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum is not the helicopter from Magnum, P.I.

And that’s just one of the many important facts I picked up on our trip to Washington D.C. this weekend. It’s a very informative city! Informative and awesome. I do not think there is any way the experience could have been more perfect. From a free hotel upgrade to the tastiest food (thanks for the recommendations!) to the sunny (and sunburny) weather, the weekend met and exceeded all my expectations. And most importantly, while visiting some of the most top-notch museums and national treasures, I gained a great deal of wisdom. And not just about helicopters.

Here are some more very important facts:

Teenagers suck. They are horrible and they ruin things. Cleverly, they can be ranked in horror and suckage by the color of their t-shirts – Pink Group being the most annoying, and tapering off in suckage with Green Group, who mostly minded their manners, but still spoke in registers only dogs can hear.

Mango margaritas were obviously on god’s creation to-do list right after ‘heavens and earth.’ And he saw that they were good. Very good.

Teenagers ruin the International Spy Museum.

Julia Child was a spy.

There are approximatelyâ€_ a whole lotta steps up to the Lincoln Memorial.

The Hope Diamond is not nearly as big as you think it is. But that will not stop you from scanning the room for security cameras. Jewel heist!

Teenagers ruin the Natural History Museum.

Sarah Brown ruined the Constitution.

We’d started out thinking Disneyworld. But when, after a quick internet search, it became clear that Walt’s wonderland was just a teensy bit out of our budgets, we settled on something a little closer, but every bit as exciting.

This weekend, Sarah and I are paying a visit to our nation’s capital.

Both Washington DC virgins, we’ve been talking about this trip for weeks now. In the middle of a sea of crapass workdays and personal drama, Washington DC has been our life raft. A girl has to have something to look forward to! And in looking forward, we’ve exchanged literally hundreds of emails making plans, train and hotel reservations, and drafting itineraries of the most alluring of the city’s attractions: The Spy Museum (!), Capitol Hill, and of course, the Lincoln Memorial.

“I am seriously so excited about this trip. It’s all that’s keeping me going.”

“It’s going to be so great. Even if it rains. It’ll be like, a wet t-shirt contest with Lincoln as the judge.”

“Well, and then there was that… the best sentence ever invented.”

Nobody loves Honest Abe more than Sarah does. Nobody. And I decided early on that if I have to get arrested so that she can have a memorable moment with him, well, then so be it.

“If want to curl up and take a nap in the Lincoln Memorial’s lap, will you distract the guards?”

“And here I thought you’d try to molest him. But either way, yes, I got your back.”

“I knew I could count on you. Oh, and I just looked; we have perfect weather all weekend!”

“Great! I mean, Abe is going to be a little disappointed, but he’ll get over it. I mean, he’s been shot for god’s sake. Missing a wet t-shirt contest won’t kill him.”

Mamas, lock up your assassinated ex-presidents!

Er, um, something like that. And if you don’t hear from us on Monday? Send legal assistance.

I am nothing if not glamorous.

It is true. And in light of our fab-obsessed culture, I have decided to illustrate for you just how the glam-mer half lives – by making a list of the super-fabulous things I did before noon today alone that qualify me for my own reality TV program, narrated by Robin Leach (or some other classy sounding British dude).

My Glamorous Morning

7:12 a.m. Stepped in cat vomit.
7:14 a.m. Cleaned up cat vomit. While bending over cleaning, got cat vomit in my glamorously long hair. Swish! Gasp! Puke!
8:16 a.m. Retrieved favorite black sweater from laundry basket (having been way too glamorous to do laundry this weekend). Shook it out. Wore it. For like, the ninth time. Glam alert!
9:31 a.m. Sniffed milk, decided it was questionable. Poured it into coffee.
10:50 a.m. Found an unwrapped piece of gum in the bottom of my purse. And ate it.

I should really stop there. I don’t want you all thinking I’m unapproachable, or that my lifestyle is unattainable to the common man. It’s not! Even I had years of training – and from the most unlikely of sources. My own baby sister used to eat dried worms off the sidewalk.

“No way.”

“What?”

“I’d say, ‘don’t be obvious’,’ but she deserves it. Look to your left.”

And one by one, my brother, his girlfriend, my sisters and my father turned to have a look for themselves. As the waiter served her dessert, a well-dressed, middle aged woman at the next table had yanked out a yard of string and sat flossing her teeth. We stared in horror as she sucked at her front teeth and flossed away as though there nothing more appropriate for her to be doing in a nice restaurant than going about her dental hygiene routine.

When I say nice, I mean, it wasn’t swanky, but there were linen napkins and a fairly large bill – things which usually keep public flossers and nosepickers at home. It was the kind of place where you wear nice clothes, bring your tables manners… and leave your floss behind. Or at least in your purse until you’re in the privacy of the bathroom.

I was bewildered. Even more bewildered that no one else in the restaurant seemed to notice or care.

“Isn’t there something you can do about this?â€ù

My brother laughed, and shook his head indicating that no, he couldn’t arrest her for having atrocious manners. I stared at the woman some more and frowned. This was criminal! Fat lot of good having a cop in the family was doing me, though. I could only hope her car registration had expired. Boy, then she’d be sorry.

As we drove home from the restaurant, a nervous flutter leapt into my stomach as we made a right at a red light without so much as a pause. Another reminder that I was far, far from New York. I got yet another reminder later that week as my sister and I walked through the campus bookstore. We browed and talked and laughed and more than once, I found myself the object of a turned head and a sideways glance.

In Utah, you can make a right on red. You can floss your teeth in public and not turn a single head. But you had better bite your tongue. And under no circumstances, when surrounded by the righteous, can you ever suggest that the Almighty’s middle name is the f-word.

They really hate that shit.

I know. I didn’t even tell you I was leaving. But last Friday, I hopped a plane bound for exotic Utah to spend spring break with my brother and sisters. We ate, laughed, Scrabbled. I slept all bundled up in an attic bed, took cold showers and for the first time inâ€_ well, ever, I was not anxious to get back to New York.

I didn’t even miss my computer.

I did write a nice long post on the flight home, but since the red eye always seems to be a much better idea than it actually is, that post is going to have to wait til I get some real sleep.

I’m such a blog tease.

“Are you waiting for me?”

“Excuse me?” I dug the earbud out of one ear.

“Are you waiting for me?”

I glanced to either side of me. No one else on the busy Union Square sidewalk seemed to be paying any attention to the stocky, bareheaded man in front of me. Inwardly, I grimaced. I knew I should have waited inside, but the weather had lured me out – out where the weird, confrontational stranger was waiting.

“Am I waiting for you? No.”

“I wish,” he said. And then his eyes made like an elevator. Up, down.

Eeew.

I smiled that polite half-smile that says, ‘I humor you so you won’t kill me’ and tucked the earpiece back where it belonged. Ah, beautiful iPod, ender of awkward conversations. I watched as the stranger had taken a step forward, but I turned my right shoulder to him (clue one), cranked up the volume on my Carpenters Love Songs (clue two) and began answering a text on my cell phone (the final clue in this round of Who Wants to Avoid a Weirdo?). Officially, this conversation was over.

“So. You don’t like talking to strangers?”

Or not.

To Guillermo (who is an artist and sometimes just gets so caught up in his work that a whole day goes by, and let’s go over to Cosi so he can buy me a coffee or hot chocolate or glass of wine, my friend will probably not show up anyway), our chit-chat was just getting going. After he’d ignored all of my obvious signals, the smart/rude thing would have been to continue ignoring him. But feeling neither smart nor rude, I just shook my head. No, I do not like talking to strangers.

“Because, you know, we are not strangers. We are just friends in the process of meeting.”

Where do they come up with this shit? The Children’s Television Workshop? Later, when he thrusts me a ‘business’ card that he’s pulled out of a Sesame Street card holder, I think, Ah, yes, it all makes sense.

“What is your name?”

“Heather.” And… it’s the gym weirdo situation all over again. I never learn anything.

“You have beautiful eyes. Did anyone ever tell you that?”

Now, there is a difference between friendly and creepy. And within seconds, Guillermo left friendly far, far behind. After I politely declined his repeated invitation (“I’m waiting for a friend.”), he grabbed my elbow and tried to physically propel me around the corner toward coffee and/or certain death.

“No, no. Your friend is probably not coming.”

But then she did come. At that exact moment. When Sarah appeared, I hugged her tightly. Turn and go, Sarah. Turn and go.

I’m often surprised at other people’s limits… or more appropriately, their lack of them. No matter how many I encounter, the Tims and Guillermos of the world shock the shit right out of me. Who acts like that? Are they serial killers or just socially inept? People don’t come with warning labels or handling instructions, so how am I supposed to know? I’m not. So after yesterday, I have decided: no more suffering awkwardness, even for the sake of politeness. I am done.

My mother always told me not to talk to strangers, anyway. And I’m in the habit of listening to my mother. You know, when it’s convenient.

Heather: I had a really horrible dream the other night. I woke up in bed with a guy I didn’t want to sleep with (I have a foggy notion that it was Mark). I was panicked. We must have been drunk, because I couldn’t remember any of it happening and I didn’t know if we’d used a condom. It was terrifying.

Sarah: Oh no! I hate realistic bad dreams. They throw off your mood all day long.

Heather: Right? I woke up and sincerely thought I had to go find a morning after pill!

Sarah: Shudder. Imaginary bullet dodged.

Heather: I know. God. Can you imagine? Mark’s love child? Is there anything i want less?

Sarah: Hmmm…

Heather: Herpes maybe. Or huaraches.

Sarah: I would vote for huaraches.

Heather: The Rosemary’s Baby of footwear.

The anticipation is making me antsy.

Is that the buzzer? No? Damn. I’m finding little chores for myself around the apartment, just to keep from running to the peep hole every time I hear a sound in the hallway. Is it here? It feels like Christmas Eve, waiting up for Santa Claus. I mean, you know, if Santa Claus were made of food.

My very first Fresh Direct delivery should be here any minute!

With a grocery store being no more than a stone’s throw out my front door, you might think that ordering my groceries online is the epitome of lazy. And you’d be wrong. Mostly wrong anyway. Sure, being spared the often less-than-delightful experience of Gross-tedes was a plus factor when I finally took the Fresh Direct leap, but it wasn’t the selling point. Yogurt was.

Ever since my doctor laid down the law about calcium, I’ve developed a pretty serious, two yogurt a day habit. I know. I’m a maniac. And at the grocery store across the street, that habit was costing upwards of fifteen dollars a week. Now, fast-forward to the moment I clicked Fresh Direct’s dairy link and discovered the same yogurt forâ€_

“Sixty-three cents? You gotta be fucking kidding me!â€ù

“I know, right? Who knew it’d be cheaper to be lazy?â€ù

Ari and I, being about as big of weirdoes as you can possibly be, were online grocery shopping together. Over the phone. On a Friday night. We’d talked produce, ready-to-cook meals (you know, the kind that make you look like a Martha Stewart when you’re really more of a Roseanne), and pet food andâ€_

“You can order cases of Diet Coke.â€ù

“I saw that.â€ù

“I can’t believe it. This is a quality of life issue! We’ve been half-dead and we didn’t even know it.â€ù

So, now, I bide my time in my two hour window; I’m kicked back, blogging, waiting for the (deeply discounted) yogurt to come to me. Ahh, yeah. Knowledge is power, my friends.

It’s like that time I discovered my baby sister would do just about anything for two shiny pennies.

When I came to, there were tears streaming down my cheeks.

“Heather?”

I stared at the face saying my name. She had to be a nurse, but I hadn’t seen her before. I blinked hard at her and other faces swam into view. The doctor. Goldner’s mom. I’d been dreaming something. But what?

“How long have I been out?”

“Seconds, only. Are you alright, sweetie?”

“I’m so hot…” and before the word hot was out of my mouth, there was a cup of cold water in my right hand. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Honey, don’t apologize.”

I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. As I set the water down, I could feel the heat rise up into my face, perspiration forming on my temple. Sweat ran down my back.

Everything went black again.

Later, both the doctor and Mrs. G would tell me they’d never seen anything like it. Fainting dead away, eyes open, arms pinned to my body, seized up tight. Twice.

I’d gone in to the doctor’s office early that afternoon. Nothing serious – just a sore throat and a mild fever – but the way things go at work, I can’t afford to let it get much worse.
I emailed G after lunch and within ten minutes, Mrs. Goldner, who so conveniently works in an internist’s office in my neighborhood, had worked a little magic and squeezed me in.

No one could have predicted the fainting.

No one can really explain it, either. I’d eaten a good lunch. My fever was down. None of the subsequent blood tests revealed anything off. Though, oddly, minutes before I passed out, the doctor asked me my age and I didn’t know. Twenty-eight? No, wait… twenty-seven? Inwardly, I was upset at being so confused. But we made a few jokes about early signs of senility and went on. One minute I’m sitting, talking to the nurse and the next, I’m waking up bawling.

I couldn’t see, I could hear properly, and I was scared. And after that wore off… really, really embarrassed.

When I came around the second time, it was even harder to push back the blackness. I was fighting to stay conscious. I can’t see. Nurses fanned at me with folders and stroked my arm. Shhh. You’re okay. I blinked several more times and as the faces became more clear, I asked to lie down.

“Ah, look. Your color’s coming back. For a while, you were the same shade as your pretty white teeth.”

Water, tea, a cookie and a forty minute rest later, I was feeling a little more like myself. Confused and shaken, but otherwise fine. And now, a few hours after the whole ordeal, I’m still not really sure what happened.

Whatever that was, it sure makes a girl think twice about cracking off-handed fainting couch jokes, I tell you.

Where’ve I been?

Well, I’ve been here, mostly. Camped out on my sofa, nursing a bit of a sore throat (if I’m lucky, it’s the mumps) and making some April vacation plans.

This weekend, though, I did get out a bit. On Sunday, I took full advantage of the sunshine. And then later, of a few bucks from my tax return to go shopping with Sarah. But even shopping, I wasn’t, shall we say, bringing my A-game. *Shudder*. I started out in fine shape, eyeing a pair of sex-in-red-leather Calvin Klein sandals, but ended bringing home a new bathrobe, a dvd and the third installment of the Traveling Pants series.

What? I’m fine.

It just seems that when I get the blues, I get the director’s cut. Way too long and drawn out. I’m sure I’ll be feeling red leather again in no time. But right now? I’m pale pink terrycloth.

Incidentally, while I was having a quickie with those shoes, Sarah made a horrifying discovery: They still make huarache sandals. If they’re still making them, that means people (other than my mother) are still wearing them. On purpose.

I know. I’m as upset as you are.

Before I go seek solace with my book, I want to say thanks to Alyce from New Mexico for the most excellent surprise. I don’t even remember adding it to my wish list, but it’s the most perfect pick-me-up gift. And so well-timed in it Jane Austen-y-ness. Thank you.

What’s wrong with today is that nothing is actually wrong.

Nothing is exactly right, either and that’s why I feel this way. Tired, sad, and three seconds or one sideways glance away from crying.

Part of this feeling is merely residue – physical exhaustion left over from Saturday night’s migraine. I’m still wobbly and slow. So slow that I know at work they must think I’m on drugs. Or possibly that I should be on drugs.

The prescription kind.

Incidentally, a century or two ago, I’d probably have been diagnosed as having ‘spells’ or as being ‘of delicate constitution.’ People would have walked on eggshells around me – lest I get vexed, have one of my spells and collapse in a heap of rags on a fainting couch in front of a cold cast-iron stove before dying tragically of consumption.

But the world doesn’t cut a girl that kind of slack these days.

So I had a bad day. I’m that goddamn James Blunt song on repeat at my own pity party. I’m sad and I want someone to buy me flowers and pet my hair. I want someone to trick me into feeling happy about something when, deep down, all I really feel is miserable and disappointed with the world. Disappointed with myself. I find that’s the thing I like least about growing up – being honest enough with myself that I have to admit, “You know, you really could be a lot better. A lot more.â€ù

When I was younger, I was always enough.

Once, years ago now, when I was feeling disappointed, heartbroken and small, I sent Jonathan an email SOS.

If you care about me at all, you will bring the rest of that ice cream and apple pie over to my house tonight.

He brought the rest of the pieâ€_ and then headed off for his band’s practice space to get high and bang his drums. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Tonight, Sarah coaxed me downtown after work for coffee and Sephora browsing, a visit to the bird room at PetSmart and a loud, twenty-minute conversation about penises in the middle of Union Square – while half the city walked by deaf to our impropriety.

I would bring you the rest of a pie, she’d written earlier that afternoon.

It wasn’t pie, so much as a rice krispie treats and mocha frappuchino. It wasn’t pie at all. But then, obviously, that was never really what I’d wanted. When I feel small and hurt and a little bit lost, it’s not the rest of the pie that I need. It’s all of someone’s attention.

And if it comes with the repeated use of the word penis in public? So much the better.