Sir Hal has a collection of real-looking mouse toys that I like to call his ‘babies.’ Hal, go find your baby. and off he’ll scamper like a puppy to find one. Me, I find them in my purse or my sneakers from time to time, but most often, soaking in his water dish. At any given point, there are at least half a dozen of these things lying around the apartment. This morning, I came out of my bedroom and was a little amused to find five little ‘babies’ drenched and floating in his water dish.

“Aw,” I said, bending down to retrieve his drowning victims. “My own little Andrea Yates.”

***

His Excellency is not easily spooked. I mean, we play stalking games where I chase him around the apartment and he acts dutifully on-edge, and we both know, this is just to humor me. He has nothing to be truly edgy about. He knows the only danger he’s in is if he gets too close to the heat pipe with his whiskers again. But today, when I came home from work and took my belt off with one long swoop! , he went flying. Claws scraping on the hardwood floor, he made a beeline for the bathroom. I stood there, belt in hand, completely surprised.

“Jeez. You act like you knew my dad during the 80′s.”

To: Heather
From: Sister
Subject: A woman of seven and twenty…

I am reading Sense and Sensibility today. Marianne said this:

“A woman of seven and twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife.”

So there you have it. It is too late for you. You may as well become a nurse.

I am sorry to have to tell you this.

end message

Oh god. I knew it. I knew there was a reason I wasn’t dreading the big three-oh. It’s because all hope is really lost by twenty-seven!

Considering the fact that my stint in the medical profession lasted only until I saw my first GSW (gun shot wound, for you laypeople) and I face planted in the emergency room, even the nursing thing isn’t going to give my life some. But never fear. All is not lost. Things are not quite so limited as they used to be and there are plenty more useful professions an old maid like myself can pursue.

I’ve started compiling a list.

Schoolmarm. Not really a stretch from my current profession. And recently, within the span of twenty-four hours, both my friend, Matt and this guy were prescient enough to saddle me with this label. Both instances also resulted in dinner/drinks. Pity date/charity case? Maybe. But I’m OLD and dried up! Pride is not a luxury a twenty-seven year old spinster can afford!

Missionary. Who needs monogamy when you can have the father, son and holy ghost? Mother Theresa, you little minx.

Crazy Cat Lady. Who has more mystery than the possibly dangerous, certainly off her rocker bat who lives in the big corner house and hands out kittens at Halloween, eeking out a meager income on blog ads? And if you can’t have sex appeal, you may as well have mystery (and catch scratch fever). Okay, yeah. I admit that one’s kind of a stretch, but it beats inserting catheters any day.

I know, I know. Spinsterhood never sounded so good, right?

Also? That bit about not inspiring affection? Begging Ms. Austen’s pardon, but even at the advanced age of twenty-seven, my breasts are still quite perky, thank you very much.

And if its not affection they inspire… well, then it’s something else just as good.

When it comes to casual dating, I am pretty low maintenance.

I don’t own a copy of The Rules. I don’t make ridiculous, impossible checklists for things like height, education or profession. And I don’t have unreasonable expectations for perfection or mind-reading capabilities.

This is real life, not a Cameron Crowe flick.

I do, however, make a few basic assumptions when I decide to go out with a guy. I assume that by his late twenties, a man should know three things: how to dress, how to kiss, and how treat me like a girl.

Notice I didn’t say “treat me like lady.” Because the obvious is that a man should always be respectful of his date. But what may be less obvious is that he should also be aware of the distinct differences between his date… and one of his buddies.

Allow me to illustrate.

Example 1: The A-Game

Sometime late last summer, I went on a couple of dates with an attractive, well-spoken, and charming entrepreneur we’ll call Drew. Drew tended to ask me out for Thursday evenings, and yet, still be a little miffed when I wanted to be home by midnight. Not to be my mother, but it’s a school night! After a full day in the office, a full evening on the town can be a lot of effort.

For what would have been our third date, and as an invitation to meet his friends, Drew left me a voicemail one afternoon.

“… Thursday night, if you can bring your A-game. Peace out.”

Peace out? Were we on the same paintball team? It wasn’t even the goofy signoff that got me. I remember being most taken aback by the bit about bringing my A-game. I have never been accused of being a bad time or bringing down the group fun quotient. Was insulting me really meant to woo me? Maybe. At the very least it was thoughtless and ultimately, a deal breaker.

Example 2: U just don’t get it

More recently, I started seeing Mark, a wise-cracking, Peter Pan type. After exactly two dates, I received the following text message, late one Friday night (incidentally, the same Friday night we didn’t make plans because he was busy):

Can I reserve u for a make-out session tonite?

Reserve me? What am I, a library book? I replied, no, and with a click!, closed my phone and the window on that potential relationship. Had we been dating for a few months, a message like that might have been not only acceptable, but probably even funny and cute. But in the early stages of dating, it’s cringe-worthy. It’s icky and it’s lazy. I honestly appreciate when men at least go to the pretense of making a date if they’re after some nookie. And frankly, if he can’t be bothered to make a proper drunk dial (or fucking spell out the word y-o-u), he’s likely to be lazy about a whole bunch of other stuff.

If you catch my drift.

Perhaps I’m being fussy. But I’m a sucker for some finesse and a little bit of sweet talk. I mean, is it really so much to ask to be treated like a girl? To be handled with just a little more care than say, the guys in his Fantasy Football league?

God, I hope not.

And to the guy who says, “I didn’t clean up my apartment because I didn’t want to put up a front and make you think I was cleaner than I am.” I say, put up a front! Be cleaner, be nicer! Allow me at least a few good months of ignorant bliss.

Because by then, you’ll probably be farting in bed and a little mess will be the least of my grumbles.

Mom: I liked it, but it wasn’t better than Crash. The scenery was spectacular, and Heath did a good job… but the story suffered from being very superficial. They didn’t LOVE each other; they had an affair that was a step outside of life, not life itself. They never had a chance to turn it into love, true, but it’s still just fantasy. I mean, who wouldn’t you fall in love with in those mountains?

Heather: Meatloaf.

Mom: All in the Family Meatloaf?

Heather: No, the singer.

Mom: Oh, I don’t know him. Ok, or Tiny Tim.

Heather: Or Jared the Subway guy. He’s just annoying.

Mom: Okay. Point made.

“Can you maybe do for me a favor?”

“Excuse me?”

“Can you maybe do for me a favor?”

He said it more loudly this time, barely turning around. Could I do for him a favor? He spoke with a thick, Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe.

I’d had my pick of cabs outside the Duane Reade on 86th Street. Eeny meeny miny… had I just moed my way into a thirty block ride in total discomfort? I shifted in my seat. Oh well. At the very least, it would make for a good story.

“Um. Well, what kind of favor?”

The cab driver turned half-way around in the front seat.

“You know how to do the text message?”

He gestured with his phone, flipped it open and made typing motions on the keys.

“I get the free text message, but I cannot drive and push the buttons. Will you do it?”

He pronounced ‘it’ like ‘eeet,’

I laughed and said sure. This was the kind of favor I could do. And once he’d handed the phone between the slit in the fiberglass window and I figured out the menu, I got my typing fingers ready.

“What do you want to say?”

“Oh yes. Here ees the message,” he said, pushing a piece of notebook paper through the window.

There were no fewer than twelve lines of handwritten text. Something about an early reservation, and T always as in Tara and please to have lovely day. I thought for a moment it might encoded government secrets and then I remembered that we’ve been friends with the Russians for years now and well, my life is not secret government code exciting. It’s very rarely Golden Girls exciting.

So I got to typing.

When I realized the extent of the message, I told him I didn’t think I would get done – we were already flying down Second Avenue – but I that I would try.

“For you, now, I would do any favor. If you want, we stop and I buy for you flowers!”

“No, that’s really alright.” I laughed. Thought it was sort of tempting. Who gets flowers from their cabbie?

As expected, when we arrived at my destination, I hadn’t finished. I pressed save and made a mark on the paper where I’d gotten to. I handed him back his phone.

“Now I do for you a favor!” he said. “You do not pay for cab ride.”

Ah, the barter system. I am a fan. When I got out of the cab, I was laughing to myself, picturing some other bewildered passenger finishing up my work on their way across town, and secretly hoping that I’d just passed on some secret government shit.

You never know.

(*like Veggie Tales, only with 98% less Jesus)

“I’m Tim.”

I looked up from my text message only long enough to say hello.

“Hi, Tim.”

That was not enough attention for Tim, apparently, because the next thing I knew, he was gripping my bare arm with a cold, clammy hand.

“I think we need to go outside and have a talk and a block,” he slurred.

“We need to have a block? Is that secret code talk, Tim?â€ù

I shook his hand off my arm. He was clearly speaking drunk, and I didn’t have my pocket translator.

“A walk, I said. We need to take a walk.â€ù

He grabbed my arm again, this time more tightly, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I mean, I read the news. I know what happens when nice girls, not wanting to hurt any feelings, let Tims take them on blocks or walks or whatever they’re calling the countdown to rape and murder these days.

Fortunately, it turns out I’m not really all that nice.

I jerked my arm away again and kicked the shin to my right. I hadn’t really known the guy attached to the shin for more than a few minutes, but I had no other options. Not a single one of my friends was in sight.

“Save me,â€ù I said, not caring if my hanger-on overheard.

I don’t remember what we talked about, only that Tim backed off. Sure, sure. You have shit going on. I see. I was relived when he vacated the chair next to me, but while the brush-off may have worked temporarily, Tim could be seen hovering at the perimeter of our group for the rest of the evening.

Now, I’m seriously wondering about those couples who say they met in a bar one night. They’ve got to be pulling my leg. How do you decipher the norms from the scaries in a bar full of strangers — let alone decide to date one? From my experience, the Tim factor is just way too high.

It’s like internet dating, without the luxury of Google.

This weekend, I spent time recharging my batteries with a good friend from Boston. Elle was only in town for twenty-something hours, but we made the most of our time by eating things made mostly of chocolate or pasta and catching up on what we’ve missed in each other’s lives since we’d last gotten together.

“I’m a bad friend.” I said, after realizing I knew almost nothing that had happened over the last several months.

“No. You’re not.”

I shook my head and thought back to the time Justine stood up on the other side of the cubicle wall and accused me of being a ‘flat leaver.’

“I am not!”

The fact was, it was first time I’d ever heard the phrase and I had no idea what it meant. So in my ignorance and secret desire to be European, I assumed it had something to do with apartments. And who the hell was she to judge me and… my apartment?

Turns out, it meant that I was the kind of person who left my friends the moment I found something better.

“I am not!”

Justine then presented some hard evidence. She named names. Or a name, rather. I countered that I was just bad at multitasking, that I am easily distracted by shiny things, and that the friend in question was dangerously stupid and had to be unfriended for everyone’s health and safety. She reluctantly agreed. Fine, you are not a flat leaver.

(Good thing she didn’t bring up God. ‘Cause when I left the Almighty for a life of sin, well, I was guilty of flat-leaving for sure.)

So on Saturday afternoon, over multilayered chocolate desserts, I asked Elle if she felt I’d abandoned our friendship when I blitzed out of Boston and headed to New York.

“No. I don’t think that at all.”

I believed her. I was relieved and determined. So, with a mouthful of mousse, declared my resolve that I would be a better friend (which came out more like, beh-wah fwend because of the mousse). I would email! I would call! I would send real, in the mail birthday cards!

Because not only do I want my friends to feel valued, I have enough god damn complexes and neuroses, I really don’t need to tack on another one.

As a side note: I would never flat leave Justine, either. I fear love her too much.

The Oscars bore me.

They probably bore me for the same reasons that magazines bore me: I’m only there to ooh over the pretty dresses and make fun of the uglies — I don’t want to suffer through all the blah-blah-blah to do it. And this year, what with people.com and some red carpet fugging, I didn’t even have to watch the five hour snooze fest to get all of that satisfaction.

(I know I’m not the first to say it, but, Charlize Theron? She looked like a living Barbie doll. My Barbie had really disproportioned accessories too. And a dress that I made out of my red ruffled umbrella. So, you know, who takes their fashion cues from an 11 inch doll?)

Anyway, I gave up on the Oscars early last night, and instead, settled in with my watched-so-many-times-it-needs-tracking copy of The Beautician and the Beast. God, I love Fran Drescher. So much. I love her nasally laugh and her tacky clothes and her humongous hair. I want to “friend” her on myspace.com where I will leave her cheesy comments in sparkly writing; I want to go shopping with her and spend hours complaining about our mothers over high calorie desserts.

I know that my devotion to the Nanny will be about as popular as this next statement: I actually liked Crash, and I was glad it won Best Picture. There. I said it. So it was a heavy-handed lecture in racism. I liked it and I paid to see it TWICE.

I guess it’s like my grandmother always says, “There’s just no accounting for some people’s tastes.”

And somewhat along those lines: he asked me out on a second date. Details to follow.

Sir Hal has learned to flush the toilet.

If he were my child, and I’d been waiting and waiting for him to learn this ever-so-useful life skill after months of toilet training, his having learned it would be something to celebrate. But waking up at 2AM to repeated guuusssssh sounds coming from the bathroom, I was not in the mood for celebration.

In fact, I was nearly convinced a burglar was taking a potty break, in between relieving me of my TV and laptop. And my McGyver collection. The horror!

When the guuusssshing continued, I climbed out of bed to investigate. There, sitting on the toilet seat, one white paw on the handle, was His Excellency tapping away. Every once in a while, he’d tap hard enough and…

Well, you know. Guuussssh!

I was stunned. And annoyed. Sure, it’s cute to watch – the curiosity that should have killed the cat is just making him extra hygienic. But it’s loud and it’s wasting water.

And here I thought that was some crazy stunt in Meet the Parents. Well, screw you, Jinx the Cat for being a bad role model to society’s impressionable young felines.

Late, late, late!

I’m in a semi-panic, horribly late (despite having gotten up a half hour early), and having the hardest time leaving my apartment. Oops! Unplug the coffee maker! Fill Hal’s water dish. Did I remember to put on deodorant?

When I’m in a rush, I never can get that feeling out of my system – the feeling that I’ve forgotten something very important that will either save me from mortification or from having my apartment burn to ashes in my absence.

Today is no different. I’m due uptown in fifteen minutes. In a near sprint, I grab the bags lined up by the front door and scurry out to the elevator, feeling all the while that there’s something I’ve forgotten. But what? My cell phone is in my coat pocket; I can feel it there, next to my iPod. I have my lunch, my gym bag, my work folder. I even managed to get my rent check and Netflix into my purse.

I’ve nearly given up figuring it out when the elevator arrives. As my eyes travel down toward the doorknob, the “Aha!” light goes on and I understand.

Ah, yes. That’s what I forgot.

I return to my apartment and duck inside quickly, paranoid that an early rising neighbor will see me. Without dropping my bags, I hurry into the bathroom, remove the toothbrush from my mouth, rinse and spit.

Oh yes. I did.

“What if you have to choose between true love and your cat?”

“It’s not true love.”

“But what if it is?”

Jen’s eyes were wide with concern. I couldn’t help but laugh at her; she just seemed so serious.

“What if it is true love and you have to choose between him and Hal?”

“Well, I choose Hal. Because it’s not true love. It’s just drinks.”

On Thursday, I’m having drinks with this guy. Remember him? Well, I hadn’t given him much thought either, until a few weeks ago when he IMed me out of the blue. The short version: He was an out-of-town friend of a friend. We drank, we danced, we… well, anyway, he turned out to be allergic to my cat. It hardly mattered, though. I was living in Boston and he was at grad school in a far off place called Pennsylvania.

And now?

Well, now, it turns out he’s finished his MBA and is living a mere thirty blocks away (bet you didn’t see that one coming!). Over IMs during the last two weeks, we’ve determined that not too much has changed in two years (other than I’ve apparently become a bit too much of a grown up). We still like the same movies. He still can’t spell.

And he is also still allergic to cats.

My dad likes to tell me that it is just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man. He means well. Ever the poor man, he just wants save me from the heartache he and my mom went through back in the day. I suppose now he’d join Jen in her concern and tell me it’s just as easy to fall in love with a man who’s… not allergic to may cat. And you know, save me some heartache. Which is exactly why I have no plans to fall in love.

It’s not true love. It’s just drinks.

If I knew the answer to that (or ever got over my fear of marriage) I might actually be a wife! But iVillage asked me to weigh in as part of their Love Council anyway.

Check it out!

My answer is the last one…in the spot usually reserved for Dr. Ruth. Dudes. I think this means I’m qualified by association. Shh, yes it does. Let’s not argue. And please, don’t be shy about calling on me for my wisdom.

The doctor is in.

Snort!

At six AM, the line already wound, several layers deep, around the American Airlines terminal. I was just one of hundreds of folks stranded from the previous evening’s cancelled flights. I took a deep breath, summoning whatever rest I’d gotten in my five short hours at the Comfort Suites, and yanked at my suitcase handle.

“I can do this.”

An hour or so later I would be sprinting through the terminal, my name echoing over the PA system, to board a plane that would never take off. I would be crestfallen. But it would not be the last plane that I’d make a dash for that would never leave the runway.

By noon on Saturday, I’d have been in marooned in Chicago for fifteen hours, having left New York City at 6pm the day before. I’d have broken down into quiet tears twice and into actual sobbing once — just long enough for an agent to take pity on me and book me into someone else’s seat on a Dallas-bound flight.

(Sorry, Someone Else.)

I’d have eaten three meals at unbelievably overpriced chain restaurants (a fine dining experience not covered by this month’s skimpy budget), finished eleven crossword puzzles (not the New York Times, natch), and read most of one Mary Higgins Clark novel (my favorite travel indulgence). I would be miles and hours away from Dallas and under the impression that my mother’s wedding was on Saturday evening.

The wedding would actually be scheduled to take place on Sunday.

That last little bit of information might have eliminated the one sobbing fit. Might. But by tears time, I would be working on four and half hours of sleep, the knowledge that my sisters were eating brownies baked for me and a whole host of other miscellaneous injustices.

I would be weak.

But at six AM, I was still full of hope. Or maybe that was just the coffee.

“There’s room for one more!”

It had started with Barry White, over the computer speakers in the spare room. When I Can’t Get Enough of Your Love came on, the four of us started dancing. Silly, exaggerated disco, hands forming pistols at our hips. Mom came in from the kitchen to join in. When The Hustle came on, we did that, too.

By the time Three Dog Night started, the five of us were bouncing around, doing the pony and singing along.

“Aaaall the boys and girls!â€ù

Just then, Mom’s fiancé appeared in the hallway, back from running errands. I couldn’t see him well from where I was wearing out a spot in the carpet, but I could guess that he looked pretty amused. I was fairly sure he’d had no idea that making a playlist for the wedding would turn the second bedroom into American Bandstand.

I wondered for a second what Bob thought of it all. The sudden chaos. I also wondered if he’d just shake his head at us and then retreat to the quiet of his bedroom. Most men would have. It was Nora who waved him in.

“There’s room for one more!â€ù

My father would have mumbled something about us being crazy, smile the way does when he means to say, “God, I love my girls,â€ù and settle into his chair with a Clive Cussler thriller.

But Bob danced.

The six of us, bellies full from lunch, danced and sang until our tummies won out over our temporary insanity and we went back to making preparations for the wedding. A few hours later, as I sat listening to the minister perform the ceremony, I thought about how skeptical I’d been this man my mother ultimately left my father for. Who wouldn’t be? I mean, theirs wasn’t a particularly graceful start to a relationship. But Bob danced. And for that, I can’t help but like the guy, and be happy that my mom has found someone who really gets her.

There’s nothing like a little last minute packing.

I have to leave for work in forty minutes and I’ve just now dragged my suitcase out of the hall closet. The apartment looks like a department store during a clearance sale. Or a bordello… at basically any time. The shower rod is draped with every single black dress I own and everywhere else – dangling from hooks on backs of doors and bed posts, looped over doorknobs and spilling out of drawers in the hall closet – bras of every kind and color. And not a damn one of them works under the dress I’m meant to wear to the wedding.

Is it inappropriate to go braless to your mother’s wedding?

Of course it is. Propriety even had me digging through drawers of unmentionables for my slip. A slip! Half the time I was searching, I was occupied with wishing I still owned under things made of lycra and wondering how long it’s actually been since anyone but me, or the girls at the gym, have seen me in black lace.

Deep and meaningful thoughts on a Friday morning.

Thirty-six minutes until I have to walk out the door. The closest I’ve come to breakfast is coffee; the closest to packing is tossing the suitcase on the ottoman. It remains there, zipped shut. I’m still in my bathrobe, making mental notes to remember things like, my toothbrush, and my sister’s Christmas gift that somehow, never made it to the post office.

Twenty-nine minutes. All packed. Sort of. I know once I get to Dallas, I will find that I have no… no something that I need. And then we will have to go to Target. This is my favorite punishment for forgetfulness.

Incidentally, my suitcase still smells of its last outing. Of sunscreen and warm air. When I opened it, there was sand still hiding in some of its crevices (thankfully, mine are all clear). I haven’t the heart to tell it that we’re going somewhere much, much less exotic. It just seems cruel.

Twenty-one minutes.

We’d already gone over three different menus to find the perfect Valentine’s Day dinner. Coconut rice, massaman curry and pad thai. My two funny valentines and I knew exactly what we wanted and damn, it, I would press redial over and over until the restaurant answered.

Our minds were made up. It was the day of love and we were having Thai. Along with everyone else on the Upper East Side, apparently.

“She says it’s an hour wait.â€ù

“What? That’s insane!â€ù

“Forget that. We’ll order pizza.â€ù

Okay, so it was the day of love and we were having pizza.

I’d had big expectations about our Valentine’s Day celebration. I know it’s fashionable to snub Valentine’s Day. I don’t care who created it and for what reason, I like it. A lot. And really, what better reason is there to turn what would have been a regular Tuesday night into a tribute to love, excessive caloric intake and Christian Slater?

And so, even with the Thai food let-down, we were still well on our way to proving that even the un-coupled can really love the love day. By seven thirty, candles were flickering around my apartment, Diet Coke was chilling in the fridge. By eight thirty, pizza was on its way. And by ten thirty, the living room was nice and hazy, we’d gotten very giggly and had eaten a helluva lot of chocolate chip cookies.

All in the name of love.

If you’re wondering how Christian Slater fits into the evening, our movie of choice last night was Heathers. What? Not romantic? Suuure it is. You know, in that, My-boyfriend-is-a-psycho-and-still-so-hot kinda way. It was perfect.

And my Valentines Day? It was so very.

As whiny as I can be about things like cold, and wet, and wind and just about anything that is not comfortable and lovely, I was absolutely delighted by Saturday night’s snowstorm.

I was delighted to avoid any contact with it. Hunkered down under my comforter on the couch with some cocoa, Netflix and my stinky-breathed foot warmer, Hal, there was no damn way I was going out. And then my friend Matt called.

“Have you been outside yet?â€ù

“No way. I don’t need to make contact with two feet of snow.â€ù

I forget the words he used to express how wrong I was, but I was unfazed. I was warm and squinting at subtitles. What did I need winter wonderland fun for?

“Come on. Let’s get dinner in your neighborhood.â€ù

“I can’t. I’m broke.â€ù

“I’m not!â€ù

And… I was out of excuses. He even let me pick the restaurant. So with change of clothes and some warm socks, I was off to see the blizzard.

I don’t know what I was expecting. But the moment I was out of the front gate and my feet hit the sidewalk, I felt like my face split wide open and a bunch of goofy-ass happiness rays came pouring out. I couldn’t stop smiling. Even in the 7:00 darkness, everything was bright. Eighty-sixth street had become suddenly charming under 26 inches of snow — all white and clean and dare I say, almost enchanting.

It was like Disneyland! Only, you know, colder. And with way fewer dwarfs and princesses.

I don’t have to tell you that today was far less enchanting, what with the lakes of slush at every corner. But last night, I was sort of in denial about what all that pretty snow would mean once sunlight hit and I walked to the restaurant, grinning like an idiot. The Second Avenue drunks were out, throwing themselves into snow banks. And I grinned some more. Aw, look at the publicly intoxicated! Aren’t they charming!

It is a winter wonderland of fun!

You know, this is really all just a testament to how easily amused I am. Maybe it also says a bit about what I’ll do to get a free dinner. But let’s not get into that.

My last thought before I fell asleep used to be the Roman Meal soldier.

For as long as I can remember, I have been falling asleep exactly the same way: one leg out of the covers and one arm crooked over my ear. Ventilation and soundproofing — both absolutely necessary to the construction of sleep.

When I was little, I remember thinking that the rhythm of my pulse sounded like soldiers marching. Left. Left. Left, right, left. There’s not even a good onomatopoeia to describe that sound. I just tried out swoosh and whoosh and neither sounds anything like what I mean.

Go ahead. Try it. Raise your arm up against your ear, close your eyes and listen. When you start to hear the sound of marching instead of your own heartbeat, try to picture the soldier from the label of a bag of Roman Meal bread.

You are getting very sleepyâ€_ right?

Sometimes, when I’m trying to settle down into sleep, and my head is filled with thoughts like, “What’s on my Outlook calendar for tomorrow?â€ù “I hope I locked the front door.â€ù and “Whatever happened to Jonathan Taylor Thomas?â€ù I actually make myself think about some picture I saw once on a bag of sliced bread. It’s a bit silly, I know, but I’m amazed at how well it actually works.

Left. Left. Left, right, left.

*Yawn*

But, no really. Whatever did happen to Jonathan Taylor Thomas?

My father is an expert story-teller. He can spin a yarn so masterfully that you begin to wonder if you’ve actually read it somewhere before. In tenth grade history, maybe?

But beyond that, and where his skill is really priceless, is the bedtime story.

When we were kids, mom would send us off to sleep with a lullaby or two. But my father would settle himself on the end the bed and tell you a tale. The house favorites were about a friendly giant, tall as mountain, who lived in the forest and did wise, kindly, practical deeds with the help of his best friend – a snake named Hognose.

I’d share a Horace story with you now, if I could do it any justice. But, I doubt I could. And frankly, you’re not really the Horace Story target audience: ages three to eight and strategically avoiding sleep.*

Over the years, Horace was joined by an array of characters from our own imaginations. Buffalo Pat, his sidekick Mr. Hat and a few others I have a hard time remembering. One constant, though, was Horace’s nemesis, the evil, horrible Mad Jack.

Mad Jack was everything despicable. He was selfish, deceitful and along with his sidekick, Snake Eyed Pete, broke every rule in the Sunday School handbook. It seemed he existed only to make life more complicated for peace-loving, wood-chopping, day-saving Horace.

We all knew that Horace was actually my father. And that’s why we loved him.

Years later, when we were teenagers, my sisters, brother and I compared notes on Horace. Despite never being given a description of the giant’s face, he had looked the same to each of us. Right down to the auburn beard. Horace also wore my father’s Pendleton plaid shirts, sleeves rolled up at the elbows.

Also, years later, my father told me a story of a very different kind. A story about my mom’s jerk of an ex-fiancé. This wasn’t so much a bedtime story, but it had many of the same themes. Good and evil, honesty and deceit. My mom’s ex had been a cocky bastard who’d wrecked my dad’s beloved VW bug, and my father hated him with a thirty-year-old passion.

The ex’s name was Jack.

*If you are between the ages of three and eight, you are very precocious and should not believe everything you read. So, listen to your parents, do what the Baby Jesus tells you and remember: drugs are bad.

My first thought when the email appeared in my inbox late last week was, “No. She did not.” My second thought was, “Of course she did.”

Who but my mother – the same mother who meticulously planned out each fifteen- minute interval of our family vacations (in ink!) in her Franklin Planner for years – would send out a Wedding FAQ? I should not have been the least bit surprised. But, as familiar as I was with my mom’s ability to…over organize something, I was a little curious as to who was doing all this frequent asking. My sisters? There were only five of us invited to the shindig. How many questions could there be?

Shaking my head, I double-clicked the attachment. What I found when it opened was not a list of appointments and pick-up times, dress codes and who’s who, but MSWord proof that smart-assedness is, at least to some degree, genetic.

From My mother’s list of Wedding FAQ:

1. Do we get new dresses? Only if they’re peach. Just kidding; no, I’m not having bridesmaids and I am not buying new dresses all around. YOU may, of course, buy yourself a new dress whenever you like. Just not peach.

2. What time is the wedding? Oh, 7 pm sounds good.

3. Is it formal or casual? Yes. That is to say, you can wear what you want, but mostly I would describe it as “dressy” but not formal, no, not formal.

4. Do we get new dresses? No.

5. What kind of ceremony is this going to be? Pagan. As Unitarians, we HAD considered marrying under a canopy, then jumping a broom with a Navajo blanket around us, but decided it would be too hard to include every wedding tradition we’ve seen. So we’re going pagan.

6. Does that mean we get new dresses? No.

7. Are you going to take Bob’s name? No, I think he needs to keep it. If I were going to change my name, I would want to change my first name to Rachel. Seriously though, I want to keep the name that links me to my children. Plus, do you KNOW how many places you have to contact once you’ve changed your name???! Just changing my address was a pain in the neck.

8. What do we call Bob after the wedding? Bob.

There are more. There is also a revised edition. Oh yes, there is. And wouldn’t you know it? One of my sisters actually got a new dress out of the deal! After all that! Either it’s all this wedding lunacy or my mom’s just gotten soft in her old age.

Personally, I’m just sorry there’s not going to be any peach at the wedding. Or blush and bashful. I mean, what’s a wedding without really bad bridesmaid dresses?

Answer me that, Ma!

“Hi, Daddy!â€ù

“Hi, kiddo.â€ù

“How are you?â€ù

“Well, your sister is here. She just told me.â€ù

“Oh. Oh god.â€ù

I sit up in bed, rub my right hand over my eyes and think of what to say next.

“I have bad timing. I’m so sorry.â€ù

He’s just learned that my mom is getting married in three weeks. I know he’s probably wondering why no one told him, even though the truth is, we’ve only known for a few days. I only took my silk dress to have it cleaned just yesterday. Travel arrangements barely made, and mom’s emailed list of Wedding FAQs still in my inbox. It’s new to everyone.

“Are you okay?â€ù

“No.â€ù

When my dad cries, it does something to my guts. Twists them up so they don’t fit right. I get nervous and frightened and unsure about which of us is the parent and which is the child. He’s delicate in the way children can be – easily hurt, happiest with his delusions. He’s always hoped she’d change her mind.

“I wouldn’t think you were human if you were okay,â€ù I say and then let him go, asking him to call when he’s ready to talk.

He calls back while I’m typing. I tell him I’m sorry. He tells me he should have seen it coming.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less.â€ù I give him permission to be sad.

I’ve been excited about the wedding – about my mom’s new happiness and about being back in Texas after so many years. But I’ve been worried, too, about this.

He wonders aloud why he still loves her, after all this time and after all the ways they weren’t good for each other. I think about the last time I loved wrong. About how I still feel victimized by it from time to time.

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? Love never has made a whole lot of sense.â€ù

Sometimes, I think my iPod knows things.

For instance, it seems that no matter where I am in the shuffle of 700-something songs, it knows that I need to hear Madonna at the gym. The pink box of joy never fails to deliver. Vogue often saves the day where daydreaming cannot (Not even a reallygood crush can save a workout when you’re bored, tired and sore. It’s just not possible.).

My iPod also apparently knows when to go on the fritz.

There I was, elipictaling along to Jay-Z’s Give it to Me when the music stopped. Gah! And it was almost at my favorite part! You know, the part where I sing along and don’t even try to be quiet about it. That part. I hadn’t even noticed that the battery was low, but click as I might, the iPod was unresponsive and I was left Jay-Z-less.

I’m not used to hearing things going on around me at the gym. When my gym was in midtown (it’s now in Harlem), I once lowered the volume long enough to hear two women bitching about their insurance plans, only confirming my suspicions that there is nothing worth hearing at the gym.

Turns out, I was wrong. Or maybe, it turns out, there just wasn’t anything worth hearing in midtown.

Without my music, I could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation going on next to me. Two women in their mid to late twenties, side by side on elliptical trainers, were talking about their financial problems.

“And you know, it ain’t like I’m getting any child support.”

“And why not? Ronny got a job, don’t he?”

“No he don’t! That n-gga went and got his-self shot! He ain’t payin’ nobody nothin’.”

I choked back a startled laugh. Not because it’s funny that somebody got shot, but because it was a surprising little reminder that I wasn’t in midtown anymore. And that shit was a hell of a lot better than listening to people bitching about insurance premiums and towel service.

You can bet nobody on 45th street was getting shot. Unless it was by fertility drugs.

Having a good, old-fashioned crush can make life a little more exciting. It can also make you remember why you stopped having good, old-fashioned crushes a long time ago.

Holy cow, are they ever pointless!

Sure, a nice infatuation will give you something to daydream about during your forty minute imprisonment on the treadmill every evening, but beyond that, where’s the value? For me, a crush means a lot of over-thinking and a lot of under-doing. It means a whole lot of chickening out (even after having been double-dog dared to ask him out for coffee). My favorite tactic, you see, is to be in the same room the object of my liking and speak to everybody but him. Genius, right? I shake my head at myself.

Whenever I develop a crush on a new boy, I tell three people right away.

One, I tell Biscuit. I tell Biscuit because he will “Eeeee! You’re going to have such cute babies!” and make this crush seem like the most fated thing that ever was*. And also, because he will encourage me to make out with the new boy immediately. No sense in wasting time. (He is the double-dog darer, incidentally.)

Two, I tell Ari, because she will help me to dismantle the boy**. Which, being in crush-mode, I am incapable of doing. She will also ask good, eyebrow raising questions about the boy that make me question everything from his sexuality to his taste in coffee. It’s important to be thorough.

Third, I tell Sarah. Sarah will do practical things like ask why exactly I like the boy. If I give good answers, she gives me her blessing***. And then she will periodically check in on the progress. Which, since we’re talking about me means, recounting the number of occasions in which I failed to say something clever to him. Or anything at all really. See the genius part in paragraph 2.

You know, now that I think about it, if all a crush accomplishes (aside from producing awkward moments and unanswered emails) is help pass the time on the treadmill, isn’t that reason enough to have one constantly? Right then. Carry on.

I’m off to bed to think of ways not to interact with my crush, while simultaneously planning our Las Vegas elopement. Genius, right?

*He will wait a solid year before telling you that the same guy was a total tool. Because he is a good friend. And he’s a sucker for love, just like you are.
**She will tell you that he is a tool right away. Also, because she is a good friend. And she is much smarter than you will ever be.
***She will never use the word tool, but nod and laugh when you get drunk and call him other much, much worse names. Because she’s a good friend and she’s really, really nice.

On my way back to Manhattan this afternoon, I found myself on the 6 train sandwiched between two guys in winter coats and… their underwear. “Ahhh, yes,” I thought. “I read about this.”

Pants Free Day on the subway.

Because I am stubborn like that and absolutely hate giving people the attention they’re after, I acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary. I always ride home from brunch next to dudes in Hawaiian print boxer shorts. Except on Thursdays when it’s Shirt Free Day and then it’s nipples, nipples, everywhere you look nipples.

But today, it was everywhere you looked bare legs.

Men, women. In trench coats and less. Sitting with legs crossed strategically or boldly baring it all for the commuting public. They were amusing, I’ll admit. But the best part of the ride came when a voice piped up from one end of the train.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse the interruption. My name is David* and I am selling pants today for my high school basketball team, and to keep myself out of trouble. They are only one dollar. I have many varieties including denim, corduroyâ€_â€ù

Snort! I forced the smile off my face (do not encourage him!) as I watched him walk through the car selling pants to the pantless. So damn clever, these exhibitionists.

I don’t exactly get why you’d want to ride the 6 train from Brooklyn without your trousers. But really, who cares why? It’s just another one of the millions of itty bitty things that makes New York New York. And just another one of the reasons that, though I get exhausted by the to and fro and consider retreating to quiet of somewhere middle America-ish, I will actually never do it.

It’s just not the same when folks commute pantless down I-75 in the privacy of their own cars. Unless, you know, you’re driving an SUV.

It’s 9:04 PM and I have just finished work for the day.

It’s been like this all week. I blink sleep out of my eyes around six every morning, log in to work email (when the internet is being cooperative) and by 7:00, I’m on an uptown bus with my sack lunch and my first dose of caffeine. When I crawl home at the end of the day (sometime around the eight o’clock hour), I hit the shower and fantasize about dinner. Often something straight from the freezer to the microwave.

This is where it gets extra glamorous. A couple hours later, not remembering having sat down in the first place, I wake up drooling on myself, swaddled in my bathrobe on the living room couch.

She works hard for the money, I tell you.

When I was kid and I’d have one of those irrational crying fits, my parents would say, “Oh, she’s just tired.â€ù It used to absolutely infuriate me. No, I’m not tired! I’m experiencing legitimate, gut-wrenching drama and you need to recognize!

Tonight on the bus home, after a short and half-hearted workout, I leaned my head against the window and felt my eyes start to fill with tears. I inhaled deeply and brushed them away. “I’m just tired,â€ù I told myself. I may have I even said it out loud.

It felt necessary to recognize that I was not unhappy. I was just worn out. The truth is, I am remarkably happy. One night last week, as I zoned out in my post gym shower, I had a very conscious thought. Today was a good day.

I wear happiness like well-tailored clothing or a pair of new shoes. I want to show it off, take a spin in front of a three-way mirror, or prance around in it at a fancy party. Look at my new happiness! Doesn’t it make my pores look tiny? I want to revel in it. What I don’t want is to forget about it because I’m distracted by a few temporary frustrations. So, tonight after hanging up with my boss, having worked out one of two of the days residual issues, I said out loud to no one in particular, “Today was a good day.â€ù

That said, I give it another fifteen minutes before I’m sacked out on the couch drooling.