My sister has always been self-conscious about her stomach.

I’ve always thought she was gorgeous and pish-poshed away her hyper-criticisms of photos (Do you see my gut?!). I thought she was crazy, but at the same time, I understood. If it were possible to suck in my hips, I’d have done so. All the time. Because, although genetic products of the same parents, the two of us were clearly built by opposing craftsmen. Pear and apple. My weight settles into my hips and tush and she’s got a tummy she’s often trying to hide. At the beach, I hid behind a sarong. And she refused to wear a bikini, lest the world see her less than perfect tummy.

She was just as modest around the house.

The evening that J and I ended for the first time (there were at least a half a dozen times after), I tossed my cell phone onto the living room futon, sat down on the floor and cried. My sister looked stunned. I had never been an outwardly emotional pear and in twenty-something years, I bet she’d only seen me cry a handful of times. Immediately, she went into crisis mode.

She offered ice cream. I declined and cried some more.

“Alright,” she said. “You asked for it.”

Up went the blue tank top she was wearing. She grabbed either side of her stomach, squeezed them together, pursing them into what resembled a toothless mouth. The mouth began talking.

“It’s okay, Heather” the Stomach Mouth said. It had a voice like Fezzik, deep and dopey. “Come on, don’t cry. Boys are dumb.”

It doesn’t matter what it said after that. I stopped crying. Granted, I exactly didn’t laugh right away, just stared in disbelief as the Stomach Mouth kept right on talking, trying to cheer me up. Then I laughed, and let it talk me into taking a walk for frozen yogurt.

I knew right at that moment that my sister loved me. I mean, she was my sister – of course she loved me. But I got a sense that this was more than the obligatory love that runs through familial veins. She loved me, she liked me and she was willing to abandon her own comfort to show it.

That’s the part about love that’s always been hard for me – stepping outside of my own security, to take a chance at humiliation to show I care. But I’m learning as I get older that it’s not about me. It’s about dropping defenses (or lifting up tank tops, as the case may be), exposing previously hidden faults and letting people hear me say, “this is how you know I love you.”

For a solid week that winter, I survived on nothing but gin and cigarettes. I’d never been a smoker and gin wasn’t even my liquor of choice, but what the hell? I wasn’t sleeping and food certainly held no temptation. I had to do something.

I carted home the bottle of Sapphire I’d expensed for a work function earlier in the day, stopping at the corner store to buy tonic and limes. I dragged my bounty out to the sun porch, where I sat, wrapped in a thick winter quilt, drinking hastily mixed cocktails and chain smoking.

I’d bought my first pack of cigarettes in the liquor store that afternoon. My shocked coworker offered her lighter as we stepped outside, peeling off the mittens of our right hands. Three cigarettes were gone and my fingers numb when we finally went back to work.

I was upset, in the way that only someone you care about can make you. Mindless and furious. I couldn’t eat, only smoke until my hands shook and my fingers smelled permanently toxic.

Today at lunch, per usual, Justine pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up and set the pack with the rest of her belongings on the grass. Then she picked it back up.

“You want one?”
“Actually, yes I do.”
“I figured if I offered, this would be the time you’d want one.”

I lit my cigarette with hers. Angry cigarettes, the only kind I ever smoke (aside from the occasional drunk cigarette) have usually been Camel Lights. Nothing about a menthol cigarette tastes angry. And Justine smokes Newport Lights. I filled my mouth with cool, minty smoke, leaned back on the wet grass and exhaled.

“I hate to see you upset,” she said and patted my shoulder.
“Eh.” I took another slow drag. “I think I’m just tired now.”

We smoked and watched children chase each other in circles on the lawn at Bryant Park, while the sun popped in and out of the light gray cloud cover.

I had just one and then went back to work.

I have never been one for picking up strangers — in bars or anywhere else. But lately, it seems I can’t walk away from a night out without the phone number or business card of some new interest. Last week it was Elisa and Ingrid at Ben’s roof deck party. Last night, Penny at a charity function at Cipriani. Laughs were had, cards exchanged and plans made to get together “very soon.”

That’s right. I’m pickin’ up chicks. It’s Girl Dating, and right now, it’s giving the real thing a run for its money.

Girl Dating is everything I grew up thinking dating dating would be (you know, minus the heavy petting. Rarrr!). It’s breezy! It’s fun! It’s compliments and coincidences. I loooove your skirt, and Get out! I used to go there when I was a kid!

It’s laughing and eating and talking – about real life, the things that matter. Small talk gets abandoned even before brunch plans are made, and promises of, I’ll call you next week for drinks are meant and kept.

There’s even flirting. Women do that with each other, you know. It’s all for a different purpose, of course, but we still display our charms like peacock feathers, meant for enticing the other to like us even more.

As if that’s even necessary.

These are smart, strong, gorgeous women. They have ambition, common sense and unbelievable flair. Were I meeting men of this caliber, I’d be head over heels, humming wedding marches and plucking the petals off of daisies in the classic, he loves me, he loves me not fashion.

So, where are the men that match these women in status, intelligence and looks? Oddly enough, I do not care. The big white wall calendar behind my desk is filled with hastily scratched notes: Drinks with Stephanie. Brunch with Penny. Elisa CD Release.

Who has time for real dating, when I’m spending my evenings in complete social comfort with people I already know I like? Don’t misunderstand me. I love men. LOVE them. They’re just so… complicated. And I will get back to that racket one of these days. Because if not… well… I mean, I can just see my future unfolding before me.

I’ll end up a spinster, dying alone with my cat… and more girlfriends than The Fonz.

Heeeeeey!

Lately, my father spends his days watching a nest of newly hatched osprey. He writes his children emails about fuzzy-headed chicks straining their scrawny, pencil necks, craning for food, their mouths open wide – almost too wide to in relation to the size of their tiny heads. He worries that the neighbors will think he’s a pervert. But the binoculars are for the chicks – the feathery kind.

My father has always loved birds. When we were young, he spent hours in the aviary he’d built onto the garage, rotating eggs in the incubator, making mash for young cockatiels and quail. And that he’s taken an interest in these young ospreys relieves me. It has been a very long time since he’s expressed an interest in anything.

Over the last couple of years, I have felt my father become a much different person. The divorce altered him, hip replacement surgery nearly defeated him, and there were times he’d call only to choke a sob into my voicemail and hang up. I worried.

I worry. Present tense.

When I was younger, it was a physical handicap that set my father apart from everyone else’s. No longer the breadwinner after spinal arthritis ended his career as a forest fire fighter, he played Mr. Mom to the five Hunter children. Laundry duties, carpool and dinner on the table at six. It’s complicated what that will do to a man – the way changing his role so completely can change the way he sees himself. And while his self-image suffered considerably from fate and circumstance, he still says that those years of fathering were the only thing he’s ever really done right.

Were it the only thing, it would be enough.

That he’s taken to signing emails to his children, Love, SmeagleDad says a lot about his state of mind. It says a lot about the way he chooses to address the mental illness that now separates him from others – and even from his former self. And were that sort of levity constant, I might worry less. But it is not. Geography has kept him out of sight for the better part of the last eight years, and selfishness (mine) makes me wish that sometimes, it would keep him a little more out of mind. Only because knowing that I cannot do anything to combat his depression, much less truly understand the newer evidences of paranoid schizophrenia, is heartbreaking.

As a child, I went fishing with my father a number of times. We’d sit, a cooler of grape soda and ding-dongs between us, on the seats of his beat up tin lizzy, or on the bank of a stream too cold for swimming, and wait quietly for red and white bobbers to jerk below the water. I remember it being very still and peaceful.

I like to imagine that he still finds that sometimes. I hope that in those quiet moments, with a pair binoculars pressed to his face, keeping watch over that nest of babies, he finds the parts of him that he’s been so afraid he lost in all the chaos.

Armed with plastic forks, wet wipes and our appetites, the four of us launched into a three hour tour of epicurean heaven. We tasted everything. Well, everything but the pig snoots.

“The snoot is pretty intense,” Ron said before we’d even begun. I looked at Goldner and then at Rachel. There weren’t any objections to skipping the snoot.

I met Ben’s friend, Ron Lieber at the release of 2 Do Before I Die, an inspiring collection of essays about, in simplest terms, making the most out of life. While chatting at the party on Ben’s roof deck on Wednesday night, we got on the subject of the Big Apple Barbecue. Ron, who is something of a barbecue expert, was going to be speaking on one of the event’s panels (going head-to-head with the infamously temperamental food editor from Vogue, no less) and would I like to be his guest?

Would I!

Sunday afternoon, I rounded up my two partners in BBQ love and we headed down to Madison Square Park. Ron’s panel was sold out, so the three of us stood outside waiting, trying to ignore the smoky siren song. I practically needed a leash for Goldner. And when Ron emerged from 11 Madison Park, it was game on.

Spare ribs, pork shoulder, beef brisket and sausage, baby back ribs and beans, beans, beans. And when there shouldn’t have been space for anymore, there was strawberry rhubarb cobbler.

Drool.

When I got home, I made myself hike the stairs up to my apartment (penance, you see), where I promptly collapsed into a food coma. Eight hours later, I haven’t really budged. Or eaten. I imagine it’ll be a while before I feel at all hungry again. Unless you’re talking about strawberry rhubarb cobbler, because I seem to have some appetite left for some more of that.

Mmmmmcobbler.

When summer time comes to New York, the city reminds me an awful lot of the Texas State Fair. Bunches of rural folk in matching t-shirts, shuffling around, gaping and saying things like, “Sure is big, huh Ma?” Minus Big Tex and turkey legs, it’s roughly the same experience.

I’m sure I’ve just offended someone with the above, but I don’t care. I’m from rural Texas; I know of which I speak. And if you are from rural anywhere and you’re reading this blog, the above statement probably doesn’t apply to you. Unless you take family vacations in matching t-shirts that proclaim your hometown and/or family name, then you have problems way beyond being offended by my generalizations.

Tourists are equally frustrating as they are fascinating. They take up far too much room on the sidewalk and move far, far too slowly, but I could watch them for hours. And in places like Rockefeller Center, where I met an old coworker for lunch, that is possible. I sit, watch, take in the details, listen to conversations (it’s the glorious stuff that OHINY is made of), and sure, pass a judgment or two.

Baking in the sun today during lunch, my friend and I were surrounded by good material. A family of nine – every single one of them with cornsilk hair and wearing grass green shirts emblazoned with Johnson Family New York 2005! – stood close by snapping tourist photos. You could almost smell the alfalfa.

“You sound terrible, you want some cold medicine?” My friend was sniffly and having just recovered from The Cold myself, I was carrying an arsenal of relief.

“Nah. I’ll take some Zyrtec when I get back to the office,” she said. “Sure, I’ll have web-footed babies, but it works.”

It seems that one of the blonde Johnsons happened to be watching and listening just then, because she scrunched up her face and I distinctly overheard her share with her sibling, “…web footed babies.”

They did not think this was funny. This was made obvious by the I’m-fifteen-and-thus-find-everything-lame look of disgust on her face.

I wanted to throw my gum in her hair! I wanted to yell, Stop judging me! Look what you’re wearing you… you….you who probably hang out at the carwash or the Dairy Queen for fun! What do you know of web-footed babies?!

You’d think that herein would lie the moral of the story and that I would feel really bad for being so judgmental. Nope. Tourists are not people. They want to be made fun of or they would learn to walk single file and not wear socks with their sandals. So I returned to my office, still hating blonde Johnson and hoping that her visit to New York left her with blistered feet and just enough pollutants to have her own web-footed babies one day.

That’ll learn ‘er.

The sharp snap of a heel on concrete will turn a man’s head.

Snap! Turn.

Bells ringing, dogs salivating.

When he says, “I like your dress” what he really means is – well, he doesn’t know what he really means, except that the swish of a skirt and the curve of her calf have made him feel… different. Different from before she came in the room and different from her entirely.

It’s Me Tarzan, you Jane – simple and inarticulate – her femininity as mysterious and compelling for him as the breadth of his shoulders is for her. Or the uncompromised way he uses space.

She touches her neck, maybe her earlobe. His hand rests on his jaw. I know that I’m watching what amounts to a bar room dance.

Snap! Turn.

Science has exposed this choreography, dragged it out into the light and explained it by measuring the width of his pupils, the number of times she tosses her hair — almost ruining it.

But only almost.

The smooth, shallow dip of her collarbones. The density of his limbs. I also know that very best mysteries transcend their explanations.

Snap! Turn.

The question was written in familiar handwriting on a yellow post-it note and stuck to my very own copy of MacGyver, the Complete Second Season. Who loves me indeed! When the package arrived at my office Thursday morning, I’m pretty sure I squealed and did one of those one-legged, hoppy cheerleading moves.

Wheee duct tape!

My affection for Angus MacGyver is paramount. He is challenged only by Thomas Magnum in the fight for the title of Manliest Man Ever, and I’m convinced that any woman who will swear that those fellas don’t make her weak in the knees has to be dead inside. I mean, when MacGyver cracks that top secret military base by constructing a telescope out of the sports page and a watch crystal, even the uptight military scientist lady was all over that.

Swoon.

“I’m pretty handy with a paperclip and bubble gum, myself,” Ben said when I thanked him for the gift to end all gifts.

I laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

My tone may have hinted ever so slightly at mocking, but that doesn’t mean Ben isn’t useful — just perhaps not in the same way. When a girl needs help in an elevator shaft, she’d have to go with Angus, for sure. But when it comes to business advice, or cookies and company on a Saturday night, that’s where my TV stud falls decidedly short.

Looking at our rather rocky beginning, it would seem very unlikely that Ben and I would end up as we are. It’s something we acknowledge (though not without the smallest twinge of regret at past errors) and appreciate. I count our friendship among the more worthwhile and important that I have.

And in the end, to be asked the question, Who loves ya? and to know that the answer is, You do! is really something. Something I’ll gladly take over the uncertainty of romance and the headiness of tawdry afternoon affairs. Not that those were a bad way to spend time (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). But it all just seemed so precarious and temporary. We’re stable and reliable and comfortable. And ever the more likely to be around for the Complete Third Season of MacGyver… and of us.

Who loves ya? I do, dude.

* The author apologizes for the extra high sap quotient of this post, but it is very late and she has just seen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

Mood music provided by Bon Jovi swells in the background. A handful of burly men suit up in rubbers. And everybody’s ready to get crabs.

Opilio crabs, specifically.

In the last few days, I’ve found myself getting sucked into the most unlikely of television shows. Alright, I suppose it’s not that unlikely. I did spend an entire Saturday sacked out on my living room floor watching the Frontier House marathon. Twice. And now it’s The Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch that has me hooked. (pun bizarrely unintentional)

And boy do I get into it.

“Oh man! Only sixty-four crabs in that pot! They’re never going to catch up to the Northwestern.”

The Northwestern is a crab fishing vessel. As is the Retriever and the Lady Alaska, whose ultra Christian captain will most likely not appreciate my clever little innuendo involving his crew. They, and several others, are out in the Bering Sea in the middle of winter, their crews working day and night without sleep, hauling in cages of the stuff your crabcakes are made of. It’s no easy task and I can’t help but get frustrated when one of those poor bastards pulls up an empty pot.

“Well, yeah. Of course it’s the salmon. Everyone else is using cod and they’re catching crab. So much for divine inspiration, dude.”

Goldner is absolutely thrilled by my affinity for the object of his TIVO’s desire. He may have been less thrilled that I ate all of his jujubes in that tense moment where it looked like maybe, just maybe, the Maverick would not make it to port in time to unload their catch forcing them to wait until morning, and possibly causing them miss more than twelve fishing hours when the season could end any minute. But they made it! They did! And I ate all the red jujubes.

Reality thriller. I swear. I haven’t been this worked up over reality TV since that afternoon Ben and I weren’t sure if Brittny Gastineau was ever going to land a spot in a runway show during Fashion Week — which is like, the biggest thing ever for models and like, it’s totally her dream to make lots of money as a model.

What with crab fishing in the Bering Sea being somewhat more dangerous than modeling, I’m even more compelled and anxious. I’ve even dreamt about it. So next Tuesday night, you know where I’ll be. Camped out on Goldner’s couch, watching intently with high hopes that a bunch of rowdy fishermen get lucky and catch crabs.

As a single girl in New York, I knew that I was allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about Fleet Week. And at first, seeing those starched white uniforms bobbing en masse down Fifth Avenue on my way home from work the other night, I did indeed feel those feelings. A little bit of intrigue, a healthy bit of lust for a broad-shouldered, square-jawed man in uniform.

Then I met a few, and all that changed. It wasn’t even the arrogant, Tom Cruise circa 1986 testing the weight limits of the bathroom counter, busting to show you his, errr… government secrets type. That’s not what I’m talking about.

“I’m George,” he said, offering a hand. “And this is Bud.”
“Hi fellas. Having a nice time?”

At three AM, The Gansevoort was packed. The drunk who’d forced my awkward introduction to the Marines had already disappeared back into the crowd (presumably to assault others with his too tan skin, too white teeth and shirt unbuttoned just two too many buttons). But in contrast to Shirt Guy, George and Bud were good humored, well-buttoned and completely inoffensive. Eyes flitted occasionally to my chest, but for the most part, they were gracious and gentlemanly. I was relieved to find myself in safe conversation.

We talked about Texas, my date to the junior prom (who Bud had known at the Naval Academy) and even a little about Iraq. A baby-faced sailor joined us and Marine/Navy ribbing ensued – a one-two-three-not-it sibling rivalry over being the military’s red headed stepchild. It was then that I felt it. Maybe it was the combination of the hour and the number of cocktails I’d drained, but in a matter of moments, all lusty inclinations to de-uniform had been replaced with pure, unadulterated sap.

I still wanted to my patriotic duty, alright. But I didn’t want to tear their clothes off. I wanted to make a big pan of lasagna!

“They’re just babies,” I told Stephanie in the cab on the way home. We were finishing up an unusual night of adventuring, and I was overcome with the usual near dawn drunken sincerity. Not only had I been moved by the overtures of Shirt Guy et al (“Thanks for serving, man. Can I get you a drink?”) but my own maternal instinct had kicked into overdrive. I will probably never look at another service man again without wondering if he’s written his mother.

Fleet Week has officially been ruined. But as a single girl in New York, I’m still allowed – expected even – to have certain feelings about men in uniforms. Thank God there’s NYPD.

One night over dinner, talk turned to personality quirks. He had an almost obsessive-compulsive need to keep his house stocked with extra toothpaste and toilet paper. Dozens extra. I had time zones in my apartment. The only clock that was set to real time was the computer. The microwave clock had a five minute late cushion, and the bedroom was set an absurd 44 minutes ahead, so I could snooze freely in the morning.

“I’m never really fooled, but it still helps.”
“That’s stupid.” He sounded annoyed and I didn’t like the way he was looking at me.
“What?” I asked not because I han’t heard him but to give him a chance to recant, or at least change his tone. He did neither.
“That’s really stupid. You should set it to the right time.”
“It’s not stupid…”

I said nothing more, and instead turned my attention my plate, pushing pink salmon flakes around with my fork, while warning bells went off in my head. I’d only been dating John a few weeks, so I didn’t know him well. But Control Freak certainly wasn’t one of the labels I’d picked out for him. He’d been a perfect gentleman, lauding me with compliments, calling when he said he would. Sending flowers.

He was thoughtful and… obviously ridiculously uptight.

And so, a couple weeks later, when he broke things off and blamed an entry about an ex in my blog that he didn’t particularly like, I was none too surprised. Or upset. The man had called me stupid! If he wanted to know why I’d begun to act… cagey after that, it might have occurred to him that calling your date stupid wasn’t too smooth of a move. And maybe (just maybe) I’d written that post to test his mettle. You never know. Passive-aggressive is the new straight up. He’d said he wasn’t reading it – you know, to give me my privacy and freedom to write. But I’d had my suspicions that maybe (just maybe) a man that hung up on the numbers on my alarm clock would have a few other issues with my freedom of expression.

I won’t go so far as to say this man is going to die alone with an enormous collection of personal hygiene products. He had plenty of nice qualities. But he did break it off over email and refuse to discuss it when I phoned him. Which, amusing as that is, kinda makes a girl want to say (ever so civilly of course),

“This is why you’re forty and single.”

I’ve been having a hard time finding the right words.

When I learned that one of my closest friends lost her father very suddenly this weekend, I didn’t call her. I did keep in close contact with those who knew times for the services, names of funeral parlors and addresses where to send flowers, but I didn’t call Elle. Because I knew she wouldn’t want me to.

And what if she had? I’m fairly certain that had my dear friend been the kind to feel comfortable with emotional outpouring, I’d have done a terrible job delivering. Since receiving the news, I’d been over-indulging my own sentimentality – imagining how it must have been to have your loved one simply not wake up one morning. And I could not wrap my brain around that kind of grief. I felt dumbfounded and comfortless. What comfort, then, could I possibly be?

I caught a train from work yesterday afternoon and spent the hour and a half ride to Connecticut worrying that I didn’t know what I would say to Elle when I saw her. My sympathies ran deep, but any which way I tried to express them sounded trite. I walked quickly from the train station to the funeral home dodging puddles and car splashes, feeling mute and uncertain. And then sort of foolish. The moment I walked into that funeral parlor I understood all that worry wasn’t necessary, that the worst thing I could have done would have been to unleash upon her some perfectly constructed, sappy Hallmark sentiment. She didn’t want that sort of attention. Even hugging seemed awkward. What she wanted – and ultimately what she got – was for her friends to sit around on folding chairs giggling and telling stories.

Remember that time we…?

If laughter is inappropriate at a wake, it certainly didn’t seem so. It felt healing and frankly, the exact right thing to do.

Despite all the laughter and comfort of seeing so many beloved faces, I left Stratford feeling like my heart was worn too thin in a few places. I knew I would. So, back in the city, tired and with a headache pounding above my right eye, I left Grand Central and headed uptown. But not toward home. I didn’t feel like being alone where sad could find me too easily without distractions. I flipped open my phone.

“Hi,” I said, “You home?”
“Not yet—I’m about three blocks away. You?”
“About the same.”
“See you in a minute then.”

A few minutes later, we arrived at his front steps simultaneously. I had to smile. That kind of thing only happens in movies and cell-phone commercials. I’d made the right decision not going home. See, a good friend knows when you need to talk, and when you really just need to eat frozen pizza and watch the Gastineau Girls or Robbie Knievel – America’s Greatest Daredevil. A good friend also does not let you get tired and go home before dessert. When I left, I felt better. Less lonely, less overwhelmed. But still tired.

And cold. So I wimped out of waiting for the bus and hopped a cab across the park. A few blocks from home, a distressed cabby realized he’d not set the meter. He shrugged his shoulders and clicked it on. I understand, I said. It’s been a long day. And when we pulled up to my apartment, I dug the cash from my wallet – not the small sum on the meter, but what it usually costs for a ride from Ben’s house to mine, plus tip. The cabby seemed surprised.

“God bless you, dear,” he said as I climbed out.
“Um, okay. You too.”

You too? I shook my head, pushed open the courtyard gate and decided that this was one of those days when doing the right thing would have to count. Because when it came to finding the right words, I really wasn’t doing so hot.

Shhh. Don’t talk. It’s better that way.

Last night, I had a dream that I killed someone.

None of the actual violent killing part was in the dream (I can’t watch violence, let alone create it in my imagination) but my sister — played by Miss Ari — just knew I’d done it and told me so. That kid we’d passed in the subway earlier? Yeah, she knew I’d killed him, but that was okay. She wouldn’t tell.

I proceeded to freak out. I raced along the boardwalk (we were no longer in the city) to find the body. I didn’t want to go to jail, so I had to get rid of it. Then my mind wondered if there really was a god and if I was gonna be in deep shit when I died for having killed someone – a CHILD no less. I had no memory of it, but I was certain it was true. I had murdered a child, hacked up his body and hidden him in a tool box.

I woke up in a cold sweat and decided not to read CNN at work anymore.

I arrive feeling as though I’m going to meet the in-laws for the first time. Acutally, remember that episode of Sesame Street where everyone finally got to meet Snuffy? More like that. Exactly like that.

For the longest time, Ari’s parents have thought I was a figment of her imagination. Her Snuffalupagus. And so, to determine the extent of my ‘realness’, I’d been invited to Sunday brunch.

I show up wearing flip flops and a wilted white corsage that Ben found for me on the sidewalk earlier that morning. My hair is wild from a surprise morning rain shower and the cuffs of my pants, still wet from frolicking in the fountain at the Natural History Museum. Mr. and Mrs. Ari will soon see that I am real alright. A real piece of work.

Though, in the Piece of Work category, it must be said that I am seriously outdone. Ari’s parents are out of control.

Mr. Ari speaks with one of those accents that makes everything he says seem wise. Every story like scripture verse. “When we went to Norway,” he begins, and already my mind is preparing for a meaningful ending, complete with moral. When there is none (it is nothing more than a story about a hotel room television), I still feel wizened, like I’ve brunched on parables.

“This is what an immigrant looks like,” Ari tells me over the mozzarella and fresh basil. “And when they tell you that not all Middle Easterners are terrorists, you now see that is a lie.” She points, swooping a manicured finger up toward her father. “They are all crazy. Lunatics!”

Her mother has gotten herself worked up into a fit of laughter trying to tell me about a book report Ari wrote in the fourth grade. She can’t speak, except to use Ari’s nickname. I have armloads of new ammunition now. Family nicknames that sound like poodles or deranged hobbits. Stories about pool tables and porn.

Mrs. Ari paces a bit while we watch the baseball game. She pauses behind the chair where I sit and begins to play with my hair. I lean forward to let her have at all of it. The Yankees take the lead while she idling combs her fingers through my now-dry hair. I have been adopted for the afternoon.

We hug and cheek-kiss good-bye as Ari promises to remember my model number the next time she calls the Agency (I am no longer imaginary, but a rent-a-friend) and we foolishly decline her father’s offer of an umbrella. Half an hour later, rainsoaked and sniffling (I’ve pulled off the corsage – it made me headachey) we’re home at our common coordinates.

I love knowing where people come from. Prior to brunch, it was my ‘realness’ that was in question. But having passed the afternoon with her parents, it was Ari who somehow became even more real to me. At least in the sense that should I feel inclined to blackmail her, I’ve got a hell of a lot more to work with.

Twenty-five minutes ago, I was supposed to be meeting Stephanie for drinks, some fifty blocks from here. She’s without her phone, so the best I can do is shout across the Internet, “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I’m just way too phlegmy to come out tonight!”

My right eye is weepy, my nose is Kleenexed raw and I just woke up in a puddle of my own drool. If that ain’t glamorous, I don’t know what is. I have ordered a big bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup and shall be surprised if the delivery boy does not fall head over heels. Some beauty is quite simply, irresistible.

Sniff.

Last night, I took my mucous membranes (are you sufficiently grossed out by all of this snot talk yet?) down to the Lakeside Lounge, to watch the Smith Family ride off into the neon sunset. Had it not been their last show, and had my love for every single one of those fellas (and their respective significant others) not been what it is, I’d have been right where I am now. In bed, hiding out in a pile of wadded tissues and cough-drop wrappers.

But I went. Of course I went. This was my Smith Family. I’d been there for the unforgettable first show, and I’d be there for their last stand — hopped up on double doses of Dayquil if need be.

My mind was swimmy from cold meds and an ill-advised shot of SoCo and lime (or two), so when I first heard Jen’s voice, I thought it was a mistake. But there she was, with Krissa, The Kate and Conrad – all out to catch the last shenanigans of the Smith Family. I responded to Jen’s how are you with “so, so, so glad to see you.” Nothing truer. I was surrounded with dear friends, and cheesy as it may sound, it makes it no less true to say that the audience last night felt like a big old family reunion.

The evening was bittersweet. The music, as always, was rockin’ and had the jam-packed lounge stomping and clapping up to (and right on past, if I remember right) the noise ordinance curfew. But if you hung around for a bit, you noticed the hugs got longer, the mood more somber as musicians huddled around, two-fisting Brooklyn Lager vowing, “This isn’t the end. There’ll be a reunion tour, man.”

A handful of us two-stepped in the glow of the jukebox. The band clown-carred themselves into the photobooth. And eventually, one by one, when the clock started to signal the obscene, early hours of the morning, they wandered off to their separate destinations. A few to Queens, one to the Upper West, and one, eventually off to Minneapolis. Kevin Anthony Smith, I will miss your guts out. You, too Miss Monica. And that’s not just the drugs talking.

C’mere you. I got a snotty kiss with your names all over it.

….take to standing outside your building every night serenading you with the melodic stylings of Kenny Logins.

Ari is threatening me with torture if I don’t blog soon (see above), so here’s what I’ve been up to:

I came back from my weekend excursion to Boston with a bit of a fever and a tickle in my throat. By Monday morning, the tickle was a burn and I felt like the kid from the throat-spray commercials.

It’ll hurt if I swallow. It’ll hurt if I swallow. Mommy!

I didn’t call out for mommy, but I did call in sick. I’m pretty sure the entire office thought I was playing hooky, what with the weather being as nice as it was. But glorious weather be damned, I did not move from my bed all day long. I did wake briefly to incoherently answer an email or two, or shift positions so my cough drop would get stuck to another part of my mouth, but then I’d doze off again with Sir Hal beside me.

By early evening, I was all slept out. I was feeling better and beyond happy to leave my coma for a few hours to accept an invitation to share Chinese food and comedy with Ben. We sat on the roof deck and I blah-blahed about my weekend in Boston (the bridal shower and birthday extravaganza, the man I’d met on the train) and got caught up on stories I’d missed from Saturday’s show. Who knew shooting the shit required so much energy? At ten o’clock, I was tapped – exhausted – and heading back home to bed.

There are folks who deal well with sickness. They go to work, buckle down and make it through the day without too much complaint. I am so not one of those people. I whine, I pout. I daydream about bed. I can turn even the most minor of maladies into the Black Lung. Or at least a viable excuse to eat ice cream for lunch.

Which I just did. So I guess it’s not all that bad.

My life, until a certain point, followed a road map created by the Almighty himself.

The Great Cartographer deals only in deep blacks and pristine whites and in twenty something years, I’d never made a mistake, never strayed. It’s actually very hard to make a mistake when there is Right, and there is Wrong, and your fear of God – curiously, not your love for him – kept you far, far away from Wrong.

But as frightened as I was of hell, I was more consumed with the pride of always being right. Piety had always been my safe harbor; armor for the self-righteous. And then, one Sunday I walked down the red brick steps of that church in Cambridge, threw off my armor and embraced a new geography:

I was moving into the Gray Area.

I knew what assumptions people made when I made that move, too. But my leap from faith had little or nothing to do with the strict, sometimes arbitrary commandments of the Mormon religion. In fact, a year or more elapsed before I even had my first drink — an event which was followed in good time with my first co-ed sleepover.

Religion had not necessarily failed me. Certainly, there had been times I’d turned to God, pleaded for some favor which had gone ungranted, but even those instances had been explained acceptably as, ‘Sometimes, the answer is no.’ Religion had sustained me, given me someone to cry to when I hurt and provided me with rules by which to live. Obey the rules, reap the blessings. It was all very simple.

And then, I outgrew simple.

I remember sitting in the congregation, listening to that week’s answer to the world’s problems when the thought struck me quite plainly, Says who? And with that, I began to question everything. Not simply the existence of God (though it must be said that I still haven’t quite reconciled that for myself), but the existence of Right. God’s Law, it seemed to me, was unbending and yet I knew from experience that the world required more compromise.

My piety was a sham. And it was annoying. Furthermore, the idea that God had been getting all the credit for my hard work started to prick at me. The Lord Almighty took all the glory for my success in school, career and for every good decision I had ever made. Years of religious training taught me that credit for what I now call ‘good instinct’ was to be given to the Holy Spirit — a notion that I now consider to be malarkey.

A level head, rational thought and the ability to crank out one hell of a pro/con list had been the reason for many of my successes, not the supernatural. Still, the day I turned my back, headed down those steps with no intention of returning, something in me flinched. What if I was wrong? What if I abandoned a God I wasn’t sure I believed in and my life took a downward turn? What if I actually failed at something?

I felt it keenly then as I do now that I have always sustained me. Additional support came from family and friends, but ultimately, strength came from within myself. I did not need to fear punishment in order to do the right thing. Friends and siblings have wanted to know the ‘why’ behind my lifestyle change and even felt insulted by my dismissal of things previously held dear. The best answer I can give any of them is that it just isn’t for me. I don’t know who this God is, or why I can’t accept “because god said so” as an answer anymore. I know me, though. I do good, I treat people well and I understand the reasons why I should. And none of them have anything to do the expectation of a reward in heaven.

It’s been five years since that day. I’m still waiting for failure and for the Almighty’s retribution. I don’t expect it to come. Though I admit, there are still brief moments when I wonder how it’s all going to turn out.

“Where are you? Have you seen the moon?”

It was sometime around 10 last night. I was in my apartment and had, quite honestly, not given a single thought to the moon. I cradled my cell phone, chatting with Ben as I pulled on a sweatshirt and hastily tied a sarong. I couldn’t very well go to the roof in my knickers.

Unfortunately, the moon was hiding in the only piece of the sky blocked from my view. Ben’s suggestion? Get on the 4/5 to Grand Central, hop the L to Williamsburg and meet him at Laila Lounge. If I couldn’t see the moon, I might as well catch a rock show.

“I am not going to Williamsburg.”

After a long-ass day, I was pajamaed, in bed with Magnum and finally relaxed. I told him as much, wished him a good show and settled in for the night.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. And this time, he said the magic words, “I’ll pay for your cab.”

I’ve been hearing about The Nadas for months. Ben met Jason at Sundance, and has sustained quite the devoted man-crush ever since. Which, after spending last night with them, is not surprising in the least. The music (uploaded to my iPod this morning) is really only the half of it, though. There was a serenade to pizza, a hilarious journey home with Ben playing Tour Guide for our new friends.

“Skate or die, man. Skate or die.”

If you were walking the streets on our route from Williamsburg to Manhattan, the odds were that The Nada’s Mike hollered at you through the car window. Skater, hooker, midnight snacker. All were encouraged to skate or die.

Hours after I planned to be asleep, prepping for another ass kicking at the office, I was back home where I’d started. And despite being something of a control freak, I didn’t really even mind so much. Several really honest, pure performances (Ben’s Shiver was particularly touching) and so much laughing.

It was shortly before three o’clock when I accepted a slap on the wrist from Ben over the state of my apartment (I was not expecting company), munched a bowl of Mini Wheats and finally collapsed into bed.

I never did get to see the moon.

In its never-ending search for balance, The Universe started Monday off at a break-neck pace.

My head is spinning. And I suspect that all of this frantic racing around the office can only be some sort of sick retaliation for my lazy Sunday. I spent the entire day reclined (getting up only for more Frosted Mini Wheats) with a very handsome, mustached private investigator. In Hawaii.

I guess we did dodge a bunch of bullets and go swimming at least twice an episode, but imaginary exercise never counts.

A few weeks ago, Ben gifted me with Season II of Magnum P.I. I don’t think he understood that when I said, “wow, thanks!” I mean, “I’m gonna need some time alone.” I really can’t help getting all hot-n-bothered over that gorgeous, sensitive, gun-carryin’, Ferrari-drivin’ P.I. I love him. So much so, that when I woke yesterday, head screaming from too many cocktails the night before, I decided needed a little TLC from TM P.I.

And by ‘a little,’ I mean six hours.

Ordinarily, days in which I do not leave my apartment make me feel guilty and like I’m unwittingly suffering from borderline personality disorder. But when I have a goal…say, of watching the entire second season, it’s not a day wasted. It’s a study in culture, damn it. And it’s clearly what the baby jesus meant for his day of rest.

You know, except for the dirty thoughts about Tom Selleck.

I stood at the counter, one knee bent, my left toe tapping impatiently on the heel of my right shoe. I’d been waiting just a bit too long and I was feeling sort of irritated. But the angry little man in the dark suit had me trumped. He was yelling, saliva foaming at the corners of his mouth, channeling his inner Napoleon.

“This is the worst god-damned organization ever!”

I couldn’t help but stare at him. A fully grown man in a three-button suit throwing a full-blown temper tantrum at the gym. Beet-red in the face, he screamed a few more obscenities and then, in a bizarre and dumbfounding climax, balled up his towel and threw it in the face of a large, milk-did-his-body-good personal trainer.

My eyes widened as the trainer took a step forward. But just as things were getting good (‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you…’), my wait was over (‘here’s your card, miss’) and I turned to leave.

Two days ago, my gym changed towel services. In a city where massively important things happen with great regularity, you’d think that a simple switch in linen policy would go by without too much to-do.

You’d think. But you’d be wrong. Because all hell broke loose.

Old policy: Swipe your card, receive two medium size (and relatively useless as far as showering goes) towels and toss towels in basket on your way out.

New policy: Hand over your card, receive one small towel (for the machines) and one large bath-size towel (which handily enough, wraps all the way around the body, heavily reducing the chances you will see too much uninvited locker room nakedness), return the towels, get your card back and go on your showered merry way.

Let’s just say that on day one of the new policy, mistakes were made. ID cards were lost. Lines formed. Saliva bubbled.

Women in the locker room were plotting emails to CEOs, passing out fliers with 1-800 numbers. Men screamed and demanded things like refunds and managers. Me? I waited in line for my lost ID card and hoped they’d get the kinks worked out soon. It was a good-on-paper policy, and I had faith the Less Nakedness towels would prevail. While I may be a typically slow-to-anger kind of girl, I am the bitchy sort and would normally grab the opportunity to whine about The Man or The Bad Policy. But about towels?

I don’t know about the rest of those folks, but I have to save my energy for those crazy elliptical machines. I refuse to break a sweat even before I get to the locker room.

Forget that by the time I got home on Friday afternoon the Wash-n-Fold was open. Forget that all 37 pounds of clean clothes had been lugged up four flights of stairs (the elevator was, predictably, out of service again) and put away neatly in closets and drawers. A seed had been planted, and it was time to shop.

My sister had flown in for the weekend and had arrived with no other agenda than to spend quality time with her big sis. Now, that I could arrange. We didn’t see a single museum. Didn’t take the ferry ‘round the Statue of Liberty. Empire State? Nope. Because nothing — and I mean nothing — says quality time like pounding the pavement in search of the perfect summer dress. And shoes. And maybe some new frilly unmentionables.

Over the next three days, we also somehow managed to take in a movie, walk the length of Central Park, scarf some Gray’s Papaya, brunch with the girls in Park Slope and even take Ben up on his invitation to an early Sunday dinner. But that was all just icing on a big, fat shopping cake.

Mmmmmm cake.

I realized on Friday that, in the last five or six years, my sister Audrey and I have probably spent less than a week’s time together. That’s insane. And over the weekend, I grew a new appreciation for her ability to maintain comfortable silences, easy-to-please manner and love for a good long ramble through… the Ramble. She’s Mini-Me. But because of college transience, the years and geographic distance between us, I didn’t even know it. So really, had there been no marathon shopping, had we done nothing more all weekend than plant ourselves on my couch and watch Calendar Girls (yeah, we did that, too), it would have been pretty fucking fantastic.

Brought to you by the letters R and J and by the number 3.

Immediately after making plans with Rachel on Tuesday for the following night, the thought occurred to me: I have no clean clothes.

No play-clothes, any way. All jeans that did not fall into the Fat Clothes and You’ll Never Be This Skinny Again categories, or those which were purchased after 1994 (I have a hard time letting go) were lying in a pile next to my closet. Next to the linens. Next to the lights. On top of the darks. So it had been a while since I’d spent any quality time at the laundromat? I’m a busy girl!

Realizing I wasn’t going to be unbusy anytime soon, I caved. Gathering everything up, and squishing clothing into separate bags with appropriate labels (do not dry & bleach, please) I carted all thirty-seven pounds to the wash-n-fold downstairs. Task completed. They’d be ready by the next afternoon.

Closed due to an emergency.

That’s what the sign said when I went to reclaim my 37 pounds the next afternoon. Closed. I stood there in my work clothes, listening to thunder break around me and considered my options. That took all of thirty seconds. There were no options. You know, unless this was a pajama party we were going to. A quick phone call to Rachel confirmed that no, it was not one of those lingerie events I’ve been dying to go attend. It was your standard, come dressed in clothes you purchased in this millennium, regular party. And I was shit out of luck.

And on day three, I’m sitting at my desk in jeans normally reserved for house-cleaning, wondering if “emergency” really means “out-of-business” and if I will ever see my clothes again. A new sign promises they’ll be open this afternoon. I have my doubts.

Eventually, I’m going to have to go out into decent society again and I suspect the Lady Godiva thing might not go over so well. I do have the hair for it, though. Hmmm…

The Smurfs’ theme song has words, you know. Not many of them. But after the catchy Tra la la-la-la la – if I remember correctly – it follows, sing a happy song. Oh, those peppy little Smurfs. And oh, that I’d had their breezy little anthem playing on my iPod this morning.

Instead, I did what I now know I should never do on a gloomy day: I played the musical lottery and let shuffle choose my tunes for me. Now, the nastier the weather, the tighter the subway cars are packed, leaving no room to wriggle a misguided iPod from its hiding spot, deep, deep in a raincoat pocket. So, ten seconds into the first song, I knew I was in trouble. And by the time Superstar hit its climactic, “don’t you remember you told me you loved me, baby…” I was in agony. Like that scene from Tommy Boy.

Hee. Tommy Boy.

Does this tie make me look fat?
No, your head does.

Anyway, I digress. A smarter woman would probably have yanked those earphones right out when, at 59th street, Colin Hay came on. And then Damien Rice’s Older Chests. But I was sleepy, and entranced and frankly, I don’t like listening to real life sounds on my morning commute. I’d much rather be in my iPod bubble – no matter how depressing—than be too aware of other folks before 9AM.

At the office, the coat closet smelled… well, like a community coat closet smells on a rainy morning. My voicemail light was blinking and the To Do list next to my keyboard was longer than I remembered it being the day before. My tasks had babies. Multiplied overnight. (I’m tempted to liken it to Gremlins, but I never actually saw that movie, so I wouldn’t know what I was talking about.)

My day was starting off to a tune in the key of ick.

But a funny thing happened when I sat down to turn on my computer. Apropos of absolutely nothing (and most likely the result of some off-kilter brain synapses), I started humming the Smurf song. Tra la la-la-la-la sing a happy song. And I haven’t been able to get it out of my brain since.

It’s cute. It’s peppy. And it’s annoying as hell. I’m two Tra-las away from smacking my head into a wall. Fuck you and your smurfin’ good time! Fuck your happy song!

I’m obviously a girl who’s never satisfied.

“Are we still doing this?” I asked his voicemail as I slid on some jeans a bit too early on a Sunday morning.

I got my answer when he called back moments later, post Central Park run and just way too chipper. He’d bought us breakfast and was on his way over. I yawned, frowned in the mirror and patted at my puffy face. It was 9 AM and Ben and I were going on an IKEA adventure.

We went for pillows. We came back with furniture. You know how it goes. Forget that neither of us has much restraint when it comes to shopping, but who leaves IKEA without using one of those huge carts? Not us, boy howdy.

And then ten hours later, full of dumplings and imported beer, we finally called it a day. Cart races at Ikea, reorganizing of Ben’s big boy apartment, beer and wings at the Dead Poet, tipsy but not breaking anything at Fishs Eddy, a quick trip ‘round the farmer’s market, and a last stop for more drinking and the dim sum sampler at Ruby Foo’s.

Ben went home to be productive, and I cabbed it across town to be…out cold by 9pm. The mind was willing, but the flesh? Oh so very drunk.

(photo by benjamin wagner)

Whew! Finally!
Note: If I didn’t answer your quesiton, I either got too tired, it was too much like a previous question, or I just didn’t want to.

Q&A

C. says she wouldn’t [go naked] at a nude beach. Would you? – Linus
I would, and I have. Thrice.
What was the last movie that made you cry? What was the last movie that made you cry and earned the tears, if different? – Also Linus
Indochine made me cry. But I don’t think it should have – I was just feeling emotional and all the regret and loss just got to me. The last movie that really earned my tears was Steel Magnolias. I watch that at least once a month and bawl and bawl and bawl. God, I love me a good cry.

Who are your all time favorite Good Mood bands/artists? (aka what do you listen to when you want to go from mope-y to dance-y?) – Kate
The Bangles. Specifically, In Your Room. I put that on for lots of bummer moments. It even makes doing the dishes tolerable.

Do you have any regrets about sharing your personal life on the Internet? – Lea
Yes, to some extent. But for every misgiving I have about doing it, there’s an email saying “I understand” or “thanks, I went through the same thing.” That’s satisfying, in a way. Sharing is caring, man.

What does it feel like when you write? Is it an oasis? Second nature? Something you feel you “should” do? and …I want to know, if you really have to think about your posts when you write. Does it just come naturally, in a 20 minute sit down and a click of the publish button? Or does it entail more of a process? – Jasika
I don’t really allow myself more than a half hour to do a post. There have been very few exceptions. Sometimes, when I sit down to write, and it feels difficult, I know it’s not meant to be written then and I hit the little x and say do not save. The posts that I have slaved over have been agonizing to read later. Most times, I’ll have a thought on the subway or in the shower and then put it down later. I’m no good with process. I lack discipline. Ask my mother about piano lessons.

You’re being sent to a deserted island. You can bring 10 cd’s. What will they be? – The Duck
Aretha Franklin’s 30 Greatest Hits (that’s a 2CD set). The Essential Bangles. Shakira – Donde Estan Los Ladrones. Garth Brooks – In Pieces. Madonna – The Immaculate Collection. Indigo Girls’ 1200 Curfew (another 2 CD set). Dashboard Confessional – Swiss Army Romance. The Carpenters’ Love Songs. The Best of Peter Paul and Mary. I do believe that’s 10.

If you didn’t have to work in order to eat and survive, what would you do on a daily basis to keep yourself busy, content, and fulfilled? – Raz Dreams
I’d get a big old house with a big old kitchen and a room upstairs that gets great light and cross-breezes. I’d cook, paint, read, write, have a baby and maybe even a dog. Oh, and I’d learn to play the violin. Also, can all of my friends be unemployed and self-sustained, too? As much as I love my alone time, and I’d love to write, paint, read and sit very, very still and listen to nothing but wind or crickets, that would get old without company.

What are your feelings on J. at this moment of your life? – J2
I never met an ex I didn’t like. No, seriously, J is still one of my favorite people in the history of… ever. When the Bed Goons fucked up my new bed, the first person I called was J. And had he been less than four hours away, he’d have come over straight over to fix it. No one gets me as well as he does, nor knows when to treat me with kid gloves or tell me to buck up.
Have you ever been a waitress? – also J2
No! Anyone who knows me in real life would tell you that I’d be terrible at it. I simply haven’t the patience or the ability to be nice to folks who annoy me.

Who is the one person (living/dead, famous/infamous, real/not real) that you would like to spend 1 hour with and why. – Mitch
Maybe me. Later on in life. I guess I wanna know just how bad I fucked up, and how much I got right. And El Guapo.

Do you think it is odd that many feminists (ahem) are now taking up domestic hobbies, like knitting? Would you ever consider learning how to bake bread or sew your own clothes? – African Kelli
Oh god. Don’t make me answer for the feminists. But here’s how I see it. If feminism is about being independent… what’s more independent than being self-reliant and making your own clothes? And, I was a Girl Scout. I can bake bread, sew, and quilt. Hell, I can even start a fire with a bow. But that’s another story for another time.

Do you have any advice for people new to blogging? Especially regarding annonymity? Is it harder now that people know you know in the real world are reading your blog? – Finy
There’s no way to maintain anonymity. Talking with Paul the other night, we were grousing about some of the negative things that have come with this year’s publicity. He pointed out that the greatest irony was that I fought (and I mean, went to some pretty great lengths) to stay hidden. It simply didn’t work. And yes, yes it is. But I just skip the really personal stuff these days. Compromise. Truth be told, the reason I tell so many stories now is there’s too much personal stuff going on that I choose not to write about.

Marriage. An expensive party to end a good relationship, or a delicious dream? – Lisa
Marriage scares the shit out of me. It used to be such a dreamy little notion, but my parents had a train-wreck of a union, and frankly, I can’t imagine I’d pull it off any better. I’m certainly not so cynical as to say it’s the end of a relationship, though. Krissa & Stuart, while admittedly their marriage is so very young, are such a gorgeous example of how scary it doesn’t have to be. I love that they fight and bicker, totally secure in the knowledge that the other person loves them to itty bitty pieces and will stick around long after even the most brutal bout. But man, they sure are sappy as hell sometimes.

If you were a Supreme Court Justice for a day, what’s the first thing you’d change/fix? – Ms Oktober
I wouldn’t make any more damn laws, that’s for sure. Too many already.

When are you coming to Texas? – Jazzy
Uh, probably never? I don’t have any reason to, really. That places makes me feel 15, overweight, and like I need to spend some serious time in a tanning bed.

Who is your Daddy, and what does he do? – Arnold
Funny. But if you really want to know… my daddy is a retired forest fire fighter and currently, he watches a nest of baby Bald Eaglets.

An urgent question – how do you get over crushes? – MC
Xanax.

Are you a jealous person? – Kristine
No. I’m an insecure person. It’s different.

After t-shirts, what’s the next step in your plan for world domination? – Jack
Can I interest you in a bumper sticker? Heh.

Are you as quick witted and eloquent in everyday conversation, or do you prefer expressing yourself in writing? – PLD
Hmm. I dunno about eloquent. But most people who know me will tell you I write exactly the same way I talk. I’m a bit more sarcastic in person, maybe even caustic, but that’s just a defense mechanism. God, look at me, I’m naked.

What are your most played songs on your ipod (sorry if you still haven’t gotten new ear buds!)? – McAuliflower
See the question regarding the deserted island.

Do you have one of those “the one who got away” boys? How often do you still think about him?
Nope, can’t say that I do. Everything wears off eventually, even monster crushes.
Felicity: Ben or Noel.
Noel. Oh, Noel, I love you. I can even overlook that whole Jennifer Garner thing.
What’s the most embarrassing thing you spend money on? Patricia Danielle
Cat litter. I hate buying it at the store. Mostly because I can’t stand the idea of being any sort of stereotype, especially the single girl with cat stereotype.

Who took the picture on the sidebar, of the fish? – Anon
Anna Harriman.

Why won’t you play “iPod shuffle?” – Plantation
Have you ever seen me post a meme? I didn’t think so. Nevermind that I will be doing one for Ari. But that’s different. She shares her ice cream.

In a parallel universe where would you find yourself? – Leah
Aruba.

Plain or peanut? – Steph
Peanut!

What is the biggest/worst lie that you’ve told? Were you caught in it? Do you regret telling it? – Things Said
I was 12 or so, and I told my mom I hated her. Of course I didn’t hate her. And sure, every kid says that at some point, or something just as heinous. But that’s the kind of lie that hurts a mom for a long time.

Sweet or unsweet? – Justin
Duh.

Is there a blog out there that you HAVE to obsessively read on a daily basis, lest you die??? – The Merry Widow
Dooce.com

Did J ever see this website? – Elise
Yes. One night not too long ago, J called asking for help making a personal website. He’d read my article in the Times, but never took the bait and went looking for my blog. I offered it up and asked him, if it was all the same, could he just not indulge in reading my archives.

“Did you write about me?”
“Yep.”
“You know what? I won’t read anything if it makes you feel more free to write what you really want.”

And that was that. He did read this entry, however, and his response was, “I love your big nose.” You really gotta love that guy.

If your fish could ride a bicycle, what type of bicycle would it be? Do you ever get homesick? – Meg
I don’t even know anymore. I thought I had a good idea, but I was wrong. And no, I never do.

Would you, could you, eat green eggs and ham? – The cat
If Biscuit cooked them, yes.

Would you ever diss anyone on the internet…or did you mama teach you better than that?
Aside from dissing my mother, which was more a product of some unaddressed angst, no, I don’t think I’ve ever trash-talked anyone directly. Except for hipsters.

Prim and proper Sandy like at the beginning, or biker chic like at the end? – Gopi
Prim and proper. Love me some sweater sets and a poodle skirt.

What is your favorite novel? – Kenton
I can’t really pick one. But I read A Tale of Two Cities and Like Water for Chocolate once a year.

What do you think about the other 3 blogs mentioned in the NY Daily News article; Jason Mulgrew, Michael Malice & Stephanie Klein? – El Presidente
The blogs, or the bloggers who blog them? Malice is evil and there’s probably no one I’d rather have pointless arguments with. Stephanie is one of the most sincere and genuine people I know (to know her is to love her, I don’t care what you think of chicklit blogging). As for Jason Mulgrew, can’t say I have any idea!

I gotta ask the one I really actually want to know…Are you still in love with Ben? – Whirlygurly
Dude, I answered that question to your face and you didn’t like what you heard. No, I’m not. Being in love with Ben was Dramapalouza ’04. These days, we’re ice cream and cookies kind of love. Not afternoon nookie kinda love. And that’s the way I like it, ‘cause we’re really good at it.

How did you figure out what you wanted to be when you grew up? What type of work do you do and do you like it? – Vicki
I don’t talk about work here, because I still want to have one in the morning. But no, I actually don’t like it.

I would like to know how tall you are. – Red
Just shy of 5’7”.

I’d like to know how your recent set of medical tests turned out. I’ve read and read and read your site every day hoping you’d tell us all was well and you are well and things are well, well, well. – Less of the Furry
We’ll talk about this in June, okay? I do appreciate the concern.