I’m working on your answers. But in the meantime, check out today’s Daily News.

Today’s news, tomorrow’s trash can liners, I know. But it’s still fun.

I’m tired. Exhausted. I’m on my third consecutive week of waking up in the wee hours, sheet twisted, hair sweaty and mind racing with post-weird-dream delirium. Like this morning when at 2AM when I woke up babbling in German. I blame my little gift of tongues moments on the opera I saw last night with Frankenstein (thanks Paul!).

God grant me Ambien.

Anyhow, remember when we did this? I think we should do it again. It’s amusing and just about all I have energy for at the moment. Shoot me your questions via email or just leave a comment. I’ll answer.

Please be aware that because I am over-tired (read: superhellawickedhypersensitive) and because this is my turf, mean or snide comments will not only not be tolerated, but I will send my Super Secret Ninja Squad to cut you.

Fire at will.

Mr. Lucas was the type of guy who had a story for everything.

“Well now, that reminds of the time…”

Nearly every one of those stories began the same and ended, invariably, with some kind of nonsense that had you shaking your head, wondering what, exactly, the point had been. I was fifteen when Mr. Lucas and his brood of six came to stay with us, and inclined to not only shake my head, but to sigh loudly and roll my eyes at his backward ways.

He — out of either some bizarre grace or total ignorance — paid no heed to my public displays of annoyance.

“Miss Heath-uh, why don’t you get out th’old chess board and let me show you a few things. Mmm hmm. That’s right. I’m gonna put the quay-ee-tus on ya.”

The quay-ee-tus?

Mr. Lucas slicked his hair back in a greasy swirl, wore shiny Air Force issue black shoes and invented ridiculous words. And night after night, he schooled me in chess. Or, as he said, put the quay-ee-tus on me.

“What does that mean, Mr. Lucas? It’s not even a word.”
“Sure it is. If it ain’t a word, how come you fall for it every time?”
“You want me to get the dictionary again?”

It would go on this way until his wife intervened.

“Paul?” Mrs. Lucas would sit quietly in one of my mother’s blue, high-backed chairs, reading while her awkward mate levied his check-mate. Though patient and lovingly accepting of her husband’s quirks, she was decidedly more timid — and also less comfortable than he about their situation. Temporarily homeless and relying on the hospitality of strangers, the Lucas Six added to the Hunter Seven in a chaos that strained the very seams of our house. Mrs. Lucas, calm and even-toned, did her best to lessen the effects.

“Why don’t you put that away for now? The kids have homework.”

For years after, we would imitate Mr. Lucas and his hokey accent. “I’m a-gonna put the quay-ee-tus on ya” we’d threaten over Trivial Pursuit or sprints for shotgun. The mocking was gentle. Mr. Lucas could drive you crazy, but also somehow endear himself to you — a weirdo with a brilliant chess game and a stockpile of made-up words.

A few months ago, I was nearing the end of The Moviegoer when I stopped mid-sentence and stared. “No way,” I said. “No effing way.” I opened my web browser and picked up my cell phone. My brother answered after two rings.

“It’s a real word, Jas.”
“What?”
“Quay-ee-tus. He pronounced it wrong, but it’s for real.”
“You’re kidding. I always wondered where he got that. What does it mean?”
When I told him, my brother laughed. “You mean, Ol’ Lucas even used it correctly?”
“Mmm hmmm.
“I’ll be damned. He really did put the quietus on us.”

Word of the day: qui•e•tus
n. Something that serves to suppress, check, or eliminate.

“It’s a shame. A girl like you, not having a good night.”
“I think maybe I started a fight I cannot win.”

Cab drivers, midnight Manhattan counselors, sometimes turn down their radios and let you sit in peace. I watched First Avenue fly by in shadows. He said nothing in reply, but glanced at me from time to time in his rearview mirror. Maybe he heard a sniffle. It was that quiet.

Later, he would wait as I fumbled with my key outside the apartment gate. What’s more, as I did, he would actually get out of the car and say,

“Tomorrow, I promise. This will not seem so bad.”

He’d probably be right. After all, this is his forte. He knows.

I’d stop with my key, thank him. I’d not meet Ben and Chris at 92nd Street, and instead, stand in my elevator, not selecting a floor (I’m done with choices for the evening), thinking,

You are the stupidest girl alive.

Tonight I may have run into someone very interesting from my past. He may have warranted a very funny story. But he, and his enormous hair, will wait. So will the owner of an LES restaurant who sent wine to our table. And Ben, in his This Fish t-shirt on stage – making me feel like an M&M in a closed hand. A kiss from Tanya. A chance encounter.

And then, a night blown, because I can’t keep my yapper shut.

I am, of course, the stupidest girl alive. And he’s right: it really is a shame, a girl like me, not having a good night.

Ignorance and bliss. Like gin and tonic, only, less of a hangover.

Last night, I had another wild and crazy time working til midnight. I’m wiped. But tonight, I will pour some caffeine down my throat, throw on some foot-tappin shoes and head down to Alphabet Lounge for another night of Benjamin tunes.

If you’re around, please join us.

This morning, in the pursuit of clothing, I pulled my leather blazer from the closet where it had been resting since fall. In the inappropriately bulging pocket, I found, to my extreme delight, my sunglasses. This makes me a very happy girl. I was all set to shell out the dough for another pair, but truthfully, it wasn’t really in the budget. There were so many things I needed more – like new earbuds, god damn it.

To add to the delight of lost & found treasure, I got a “good morning, beautiful” and a “wow” from a couple of guys on the street this morning. Normally, I would find this annoying and make grimacy faces at them. But — and I know it’s just so boring to talk about the gym and one’s weight and that any blogger caught in such a grievous offense is heading straight for blogger hell to burn in pyres of bad chick lit forever — having been sweatin’ it at the gym more regularly lately, I was tickled pink to be objectified.

I got reacquainted with my triceps the other day. Also pleasing.

So, right. Join us tonight. If you’re good, I’ll save you a piece of my grilled cheese sandwich. Mmmmmcheese.

I’m crabby today. Really fucking cantankerous, actually. And as soon as I decide whether to sit and have a good cry about it or to unleash a fierce and fiery ball of rage, I’m sure the day will only improve. I’m a girl that needs direction.

Shortly before 1 AM this morning, I stumbled in from work. My lower back was aching from standing for hours in bad shoes and my brain was aching from the knowledge that, as a salaried employee, eight hours of overtime mean jack shit. I fed the cat. Ate a slice of cold pizza. Showered. And unhappily, I set the alarm.

Five hours later, the crank began.

Why I waited to do my Got All My Shit? checklist until I was already out on the street is beyond me. But by the time I was back through the front gate, headed for the subway, this time with my cell phone, I had a bone to pick with the Universe. I was tired. Sore. And in possession of one pair of non-functioning iPod earbuds.

I know, I know. The world’s smallest violin. Screeching in your ear.

But then things really got went south: the train stopped in the tunnel and the air shut off. Sweet Baby J. It wasn’t a matter of inconvenience. It was a matter of the most intensely irrational fear closing in around me, as tends to happen in tight, dark spaces where my mind imagines I’ve just met my doom. I’m slightly claustrophobic. Okay, maybe a little more than slightly.

Tangent time! Initiate memory sequence.

In college, a few of my buddies decided to cure me of my fear of small spaces. They packed me into a truck, drove me out to the middle of nowhere, fitted me with a headlamp and took me spelunking. To this day I am ridiculously proud of the fact that I did not freak the fuck out during our initial Commando Crawl through the tomb’s very narrow entrance. I was the model of composure while inside Nutty Putty Caves, but I came out shaky and pale, and spent the next two days sleeping it off. Needless to say, I was not cured.

End memory sequence.

So, now I’m sitting here at my desk, hurtling into another long day, exhausted and somewhat squished of spirit. I need a fucking hug, damn it. And I’m not beyond engaging in inappropriate office touching to get it.

C’mere you.

I’m here!

First, I wanted to say thanks for all the kind emails. I’m fine, really. My life has just been a bit topsy-turvy. Blame it on things like, spring fever or the fact that my job is a bit frantic lately. I’ve been tagging along to photo shoots, baby sitting photographers (who do not need babysitting) and doing super important things like, choosing flower arrangements for coffee tables. Oh yeah, baby. That’s why they pay me the big bucks. My schedule has simply been off. When I do sit down to blog, everything I write is tangent-filled and garbled. And contrary to the way things usually work ‘round these here parts, it’s not actually representative of my current state of mind. I’m doing alright.

But last night, I realized what a long time it had been when I got an instant message from Ben. It was one line and then he disappeared.

Your turn.

My turn, indeed. So, in light of the fact that I haven’t much time, I’ll give you a quick run-down of one of this weekend’s adventures:

On Friday night, decked out in grubby jeans, sneakers, my favorite weekend sweatshirt, I was all set to go Urban Exploring. Michael Malice (one of the degenerate minds behind OHINY) had called earlier in the week to invite me along on an adventure to the old insane asylum on Roosevelt Island. I was pretty psyched up to get dirty (and maybe even arrested) in pursuit of fun in the city.

Then Malice put his spin on the evening.

A little after 9pm, my buzzer rang. And when I got down to my gate, there he was — all dressed up.

“Those are not getting-muddy shoes, Malice.”
“I know. We’re going out. Go upstairs and get changed.”
“You’re such a prick.”

Because he’d like nothing more than to throw my perfectly ordered world into chaos, Malice did what no boy should ever do. He fucked with my outfit. I had to start over. Jeans, heels, black wrap sweater. Fine. Dressed for going out. And then, because he’s clearly not aware that I could kick him in the eye for such an offense, Malice did the unthinkable. He told me to put on make-up.

The kid has nerve.

An hour or so later, as I was squirming my way under a chain link fence (oh yes, we still went exploring at the old asylum, only I got to do it in three-inch heels), I prayed to the baby jesus for the grace not to tear my favorite jeans, and for the strength not to kill Malice if I did.

A point of satisfaction came, when near the end of the night at some LES club, it was discovered that pants were indeed torn on the adventure. And they weren’t mine.

(Insert evil laugh here)

It’s nice to know that Karma has an instant gratification program. Teach you to fuck with a girl’s outfit. Because, really there’s only so much topsy-turvy one girl can take.

Glancing up from where I was reading table graffiti, my eyes flicked over the guy standing to my left. I took in his ratty Chuck Taylors and kilt, grinned and thought, this is going to be a good night.

I settled in with some new friends as half a dozen or so readers took the stage at Freddy’s last night to share entries from their junior high diaries. Among them, the incomparable Sarah Brown, whose “Thank GOD I curled my hair” sent me rocketing back to the Colin Creek Mall food court and my own hasty prayers for good hair as we did horribly conspicuous fly-bys of the desired Boy. Blaise only validated my phobia of being a parent when she interrupted her reading to say, “My poor father.” Poor father, indeed. She, at least from the impression her yesteryear’s diary left, was a handful.

The cringe-factor was high — as it was meant to be. Some of it was painfully familiar, while other readings left me shocked that twelve-year-olds can be so serious and dark. I’m pretty sure that at twelve, I was still playing dress-up in homemade Mermaid costumes with my little sisters. And at fifteen, I was not making out with cab drivers — the idea would never have even occurred to me. I bet if I were to yank my old diaries out of their dusty hideout in McKinney, Texas, the standard entry for 1993 would hold nothing more than scotch-taped movie stubs and tickets to football games and articles from the school paper.

I was so boring.

In college, I used to watch re-runs of My So Called Life and think, This is fun and all, but no one was that dramatic in high school. Oh, how wrong I was. They were dramatic and deep and tortured. And so very entertaining.

I’ve always been a little bit in love with MacGyver.

Not Richard Dean Anderson, mind you, but MacGyver. Brilliant-under-pressure, always saves the day Angus MacGyver. I know. It should be impossible to love someone named Angus. But what that man can do with a strip of duct tape and a Bick pen makes me hot in ways even the queerest of names could not cool. It’s the same sort of rowrrr that makes up for a name like Meriwether.

Last night, Rachel and I went to see a screening of Sahara. Adventure, intrigue, biceps, green eyes and the whitest smile you have ever seen on a rogue treasure-hunter who solves impossible problems right in the nick of time all the while rocking out to Sweet Home Alabama. A side kick, a love interest and an Admiral with a cigar.

It was Indiana Jones meets The A-Team set to the Forest Gump soundtrack.

And it should have been hot. But it wasn’t. It was silly. (Okay, a little hot. But Matthew McConaughey could make basement-dwelling D&D playing hot). Here was my biggest problem with the film: Aside from the fact that Penelope Cruz makes the least convincing ass-kicking heroine since…well, ever, every time our heroes got in a fix, they then got out of that fix magically. Not cleverly or practically. Just magically. One minute, they’re stranded on a sand dune and the next, sailing across the desert on the carcass of an old plane wreck. I nearly (and only nearly) let Matthew’s drool-inspiring biceps distract me from realizing that the whole thing made no sense. I mean, even MacGyver pulled a flaky save every now and again, but at least he went to the effort of convincing us that there was some measure of probability.

What was even more amusing, was that this guy sat next to us taking notes. Notes? I mean, I know he’s probably got to draft up a review or something, but what kind of notes could he have been taking?

Who does McConaughey’s teeth? Make appointment.

Aside from being completely ridiculous, Sahara was fun and worth sitting still for two hours. I’m serious about the teeth. They were like those glow-sticks at DisneyLand.

“Your friend doesn’t know how to take a compliment”
“She sure doesn’t,” Sarah said, spinning a straw in her cocktail. Sex on the beach, it was. She’d wanted something sweet.

I sat there, still blushing. I hadn’t meant to blush; he’d only said I was cute. But he stood there, with a hand on my back, leaning over the bar, smiling in a way that does things to a girl’s stomach. It didn’t hurt that he was movie-star handsome. Will Smith but Hitch or I Robot Will Smith. Not Fresh Prince.

I offered to move so that he could collect the half-dozen cocktails he’d ordered. No, thanks. He’d rather lean over me. It was his way of flirting — innocuous flirting. I smiled when he said innocuous.

“Good word.”
“You like that?” His hat tapped against my forehead as he made a final pass for drinks. He leaned close, a free hand sliding down my back. “I like smart girls.”

He disappeared into the crowd and Sarah, Caryn and I went back to our drinks and chatter. Ripple had been nearly empty when we arrived, but now it was pulsing and grinding with music and bodies, and we were glad to have seats. Later, as I made my way to the bathroom, a woman bobbed through the crowd wearing the familiar tan derby.

“Hi. Again.”

There he was, behind me in line, bareheaded.

“Someone’s got your hat.”
“That would be my girlfriend.”
“I assumed.”

The line shifted and we stepped forward. Introductions were made. Rob. Heather.

“She’s actually pretty into girls.”
“What?”
“Listen, you’re intelligent, curvy — just what she likes. What we like.”

I laughed. A dry, Bette Davis kind of laugh. His hand went to my lower back.

“I’m tempted to push you in there right now,” he said, motioning to the now empty bathroom. “But she’d feel left out.” He pulled me close, quickly.

It one of those kisses that curls your toes and flutters something very low in your stomach. My mind was blank, paused, as he lingered on my bottom lip. “Think about it,“ he said. And with a quick slap to my ass, he moved back into the crowd.

I did. I thought about it as I giggled with Sarah and Caryn. It was really a shame that I don’t share well with others. That’s the kind of experience that collectors, like myself, would have stick-pinned to Styrofoam with great pleasure.

I thought about it again, later as we moved through the bar, heading for the door.

“It was nice to meet you, Rob.” I stuck out a hand.
“Heather, this is Joy.”

Joy was exotic. Gorgeous. But we were on our way out. And I had never really learned to share.

(See follow up here!)

When my sister Audrey was born, I was there in the delivery room.

At seven years old, having been taught the fundamentals of birds, bees and birth by my parents and PBS, I was allowed to skip school and watch her come into the world. I stood by my mother’s head, expectant and – strangely enough – not one bit afraid. And when the baby came out, wriggling, squawking, and covered stem to stern in white greasy film, I fell in love. In helpless, complete and utterly fixated love.

I walked home from school during recess the next day to be near her. I wanted to hold, touch, smell and protect her. I thought, as you do when you first encounter love, that I would never feel that way about another person as long as I lived.

I was wrong.

Fifteen months later, Joyce was born. I loved her as fiercely as I did her older sister. My parents were under a great deal of stress in those years (my father’s disease, my mother working and going to school full time) and so, even as young as I was, care-giving duties often fell to me. I changed diapers, mixed formula, taught nursery rhymes and made child-size choo-choo trains of discarded appliance boxes. I band-aided, potty trained and lullabyed. And loved. So much so that sometimes, it was as if a fist were wrapped around my insides – around my heart – and that their unhappiness, or their delight could cause the fist to squeeze.

I felt how much I loved them.

They grew up as different as two people can. One went off to Future Leaders of the World Camp at Yale; the other, to a rehabilitation facility in Dallas after she’d dragged razor blades through her own flesh. One had very little need for my protection, and with her being away at college, our conversations were limited to short bursts over the phone (she was always on her way out) and brief email exchanges about classes and boys. For the other, however, I would leave my cell phone on at night and remain in near-constant Instant Messenger contact. One night, a message I sent to her was answered by her friend, Anne who informed me that my baby sister was unconscious and bleeding. It took my instructions and Anne’s compact mirror to tell if she was even breathing.

Breath will fog glass. Waiting for glass to fog will stop time.

There are kinds of love that are freeing, and there are loves that are frightening. This, uniquely, is both. I cannot imagine what it must be like to be a parent. The thought of ever feeling this heavy, unbreakable love for another person is tremendous. But every time I feel my heart get squeezed, I am grateful that it has been. I am more alive and more real as a result. And so I imagine, that should the time come when I have a wriggling, squawking absolutely mystifying creature of my own, I will gladly enter into complete and utterly fixated love all over again.

I will band-aid and potty train and make choo-choo trains. I will lullaby. And I will lock her in her room until she is twenty-three.

Justine and I pushed through the glass doors and waited for the elevator, tapping umbrellas on the charcoal marbled floors.

“I didn’t do anything today. Not a thing.”
“I tried not to,” I said, stabbing at the down button, silently chanting home, home home. I stabbed until I heard the ding.

“Oooh, is that vintage?”

Justine was eyeing my umbrella, a designer number I’d inherited somewhere. Burnt sienna – that would have to be the color, if I remember my crayons right – with a caramel colored leaf pattern. I’ve never been particularly fond of it, preferring my raingear to have more of a Mary Poppins theme, but there it sits in my office ready for days like today.

“God no,” I said.
“Looks like it. So pretty!”

I looked at Justine in her grass-green tweed, then at the umbrella in my hands. “Wanna trade?” Frankly, I’m surprised she believed me, with all the bullshitting that goes on between us, but she did.

“Yeah! Clashes with your scarf anyway.”

She handed over her sturdy black one. Very Mary.

At the corner, before she headed one block uptown to catch her State Island-bound bus, we exchanged the usual see-you-tomorrows.

“I’m surprised you did that.”
“Me, too. I’m usually way too uptight for that shit.”
”No kidding. But black matches you better anyway.”
“True. I prefer non-descript. And that felt so very… playground.”

I swapped trinkets with a pale haired girl in the third grade, and immediately regretted it. The trade was undone the next morning by the teeter-totter. As it turned out, I’d liked my own jewel-bellied whatchamacallit better all along.

Justine headed north and I plunged into the MetLife building, rolling my wrist to get a better look at my new accessory. We will not be undoing this trade. Justine is such a sucker. This Mary Poppins has one of those buttons that makes it open automatically. My froo-froo designer number did not.

For the record, I delcare no takebacks.

A year ago today, I took a cab from Penn Station and climbed four flights to Ben’s apartment. The sign on the door, held in place by a Statue of Liberty postage stamp, said, Welcome Home.

The next day, I walked from Times Square station and took an elevator eleven flights to my new office. There was no welcome sign there, only a strange new feeling of being out of place and in way, way over my head.

In the smallest, most inconsequential ways, I am a completely different person than I was a year ago. I don’t dress the same. I drink coffee and eat sushi. I have cultivated a whole new set of relationships. Neighbors, friends, coworkers and (ex)lovers.

Fundamentally, though, nothing’s changed. A year later, the same things still delight me. The same things still make me insecure. I want and need and give exactly as I have before. Of course, nothing ever really does change, you realize. Even in a different city, or a different pair of shoes, the only thing that ever changes is perspective.

In a box under my bed, where I keep the things that matter, are a copy of my renewed lease and a slightly torn Welcome Home sign. Documentation of another year and change.

We used to go on our Target Dates on Saturday afternoons. But when we started feeling an irrational and overpowering hatred for our fellow man and his offspring, Sarah and I decided it’d be best to do our discount department store bonding on weeknights.

While the lines were still long enough to catch up on pages and pages of glossy tabloid bile (I was, quite honestly, pretty damn curious as to why Charlie and Denise Richards split up), it seemed that the number of screeching children was down. Mostly.

There was still the kid throwing a tantrum because his mother wouldn’t let him ride under the shopping cart. (The mean-spirited part of me says she shoulda let him; experience is a good teaching tool.) And the little imp whose piercing cries sounded something like a Velociraptor’s right before it ripped someone’s flesh off. (One of our Executive Vice Presidents makes that noise. I shouldn’t have to hear it outside of work. Ever.)

Thankfully, though, for every obnoxious rug rat that made government subsidized birth control seem like a really good idea, Sarah and I encountered as least as many squishy-cheeked, giggly, pink-moccasin-wearing absolutely delicious babies. Oh my god, the cheeks. And the cuteness.

At one point Sarah stopped in the middle of the aisle, scrunched up her face and said,

“I just want to eat them!”

I had to laugh. It was so true. Not that either of us actually wanted to consume babies, but there really is no better way to describe that impulsive, genetic baby-love feeling. You do just want to eat them. It’s pretty overwhelming. But then so is the urge to give them right back to their mothers when all that Johnson’s Baby smell wears off and there’s diapers to be dealt with.

I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment.

Back then, it wasn’t ‘sittin’ bitch.’

Years before we ever called “shotgun” we were vying for a spot on the hump. The middle seat in our old silver Buick was coveted not only because you got to plant your tush on the folding armrest (best view for those normally unable to see over the dashboard), but if so positioned, you got to play with the radio.

Three little kids in the front seat (people weren’t so vigilant then), the littlest on the hump, itching to turn the volume knob. The older two shared a seatbelt in the passenger seat. Dad drummed the steering wheel, one arm crooked in the open window, thick fingers tapping on the peeling door frame. In those years, he wasn’t bearded, sporting only a mustache and a perm that matched my own in frizziness. He drove fast, sang loud and pelted other drivers with a blizzard of customized cuss words. Jesus’ middle initial was H. And we were not to tell our mother he said that.

My mother was a mellow Carol King album with a worn-out, split-seamed cover that opened more like sandwich bread than a record sleeve. My father was gravelly, anything-but-mellow grassroots rock. He was a cassette tape plunged into the dashboard player, anti-war, pro-experimentation and meant for singing along.

“One, two, three…”

“What are we fighting for!” That was our part. Dad growled out the next line and we readied with, “Next stop is Viet-nam!”

It wasn’t always so black armband. Sometimes, the kid on the hump got to pick and the elephants-in-the-yard song was a most-requested.

“Doo doo doo, lookin’ out my back door!”

This morning, on a cramped downtown 6 train, my iPod shuffled over to that song. All elbows and attitudes, the people around me pushed in, but I was already somewhere else. Silver Buicks, bad (bad!) perms and cheeks hurting from smiling into truck wind. Look at all the happy creatures dancin’ on the lawn. I bit my lip. I tried. But when my train lumbered into Grand Central and the headphone cranked, Wontcha take a ride on a flying spoon? My heels snapped out onto the concrete and I sang along.

“Doo do doo!”

No heads turned. It Crazy Central Station, why would they? When the song finished, I clicked over to Tapestry and hit play. It seemed like the thing to do; give my mom some air time. I sang along to that, too, but quiet and under my breath. It’s a different kind of album and a different kind of memory.

Salmon is magic food.

At least that’s what Ben had said a few minutes before our magic food set off the fire alarm in his apartment. He raced up the stairs, I jerked open a window – it was comic relief.

Earlier in the day, I’d come home from Procedure the Second (the results of the first biopsy having been inconclusive, or at least, unconvincing to my doctor and her colleague), tired and woozy. I called in sick and did an obligatory fly-by of my work email. And there, in my inbox, adding insult to cervical injury was a one-line ‘dear john’ email from the guy I’d been seeing. What timing. What irony. What… cajones to do such a thing over email.

But I digress.

Ben offered dinner, and I gladly accepted. As much as I needed rest, I did not need to be alone with my own head for too long. So I trekked across the park, and he made magic food and we watched the 80’s movie genius, She’s Having a Baby. I’d never seen it, oddly enough, and I had to be told (probably because of the look of panic on my face), that it was going to end just fine. Of course it was; it was a John Hughes film.

Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

Though no fitness magazine has declared it so, I am also pretty convinced that S’mores are magic food. Rachel, Goldner, Mike and I met at DTUT on Saturday where they gave us our very own fire (such a risk with that gang), pointy sticks (again, questionable judgment on their part) and we sat, marshmallows flaming, perfecting our technique.

I’ve done a lot of sleeping, a lot of comfort food eating (frosted miniwheats) and a lot of communing with Netflix this weekend. Listen, I know I worry (lab results on Wednesday), but I’m not going to say I still don’t bank on things turning out okay, that I’m not hoping for a happy ending. I know it’s never going to be like the movies, but if I can laugh through the hard parts, a belly full of magic food, I don’t necessarily need it to be.

An overanxious waiter hovered nearby – was everything alright? How was the salmon? He’d winked at me earlier. My mother had been shocked and then seemingly, slightly offended. Then she grew animated. Backlit in hazy blue by the restaurant’s aquarium, hands flitting in exaggerated gestures, she told Jen stories about my childhood. The time we stole next door when the neighbors weren’t home and made toast. The time they found us, covered head to toe in a dusting of Hershey’s chocolate milk mix, mouths ringed in a sweet grainy mud. Jen laughed.

You’d do it again, wouldn’t you?
Yes. Yes, I would.

Neither mischief nor the love of chocolate has faded in twenty-five years. I suppose there’s something genetic to it, like a hitchhiker’s thumb or the ability to roll your tongue. I don’t have either of those. But I am wily and I do love chocolate. Just like my father.

We ordered the pineapple macadamia nut tart. We reminisced some more, perhaps exposing Jen to more unedited family stories than she’d have liked. Embarrassing moments. Dingy, if not dirty laundry aired. Somehow, even my piano lessons came up. I’d hated them.

Of course you did. Because you hated being told what to do.
That’s so true.

Perhaps it’s also genetic — passed from mother to daughter, through the umbilical cord along with the coding for our eyes and our hands — I hate being corrected and I hate being told what to do. It is not difficult to tell which other qualities are my mother’s. The long nail beds. The brow furrow. The overwhelming compulsion to sing along to Richie Valenz. We were in a bar by then, waiting for the band to stop puttering around.

It grew late. The Irish were just getting rowdy as we spilled out of Doc Watson’s, lusting for bed. We yelped at the cold, pulling scarves tighter. Mom and Jen were headed downtown. We hugged and kissed and I tottered off on sore feet in the other direction. It had been a night of none-too-subtle lessons. It had been agreed to over dinner that qualities which are most compelling in people can also be their greatest drawback. Equal and opposite.

Passion. Hubris. Even tenderness.

I know what these qualities are in those I love – the way she entertains and overpowers me with her feist; his insecurities, simultaneously endearing and frustrating; how she can be defensive and so loyally quick to defend.

There are times when I feel I am doing more repelling than compelling. Times that I do not know why anyone loves me, being fairly certain I haven’t earned it. Dinner with a newer friend and my oldest fan is something of a buoy – because I suspect that someone sees — and accepts — my equal and my opposite. My charms and my faults.

Learning to let yourself just be loved is no meager task. But that the potential even exists can be enough to keep you warm on your ten-block walk home on a cold March night.

Today I am worried and sad. I was feeling it yesterday, but overnight, it seems to have seeped into every part of me. My hands are heavy, my chest hurts and I couldn’t unwrinkle that space between my brows, even if I decided to try.

I had porn hair.

Glancing at my reflection in his mirrored closet doors, I remember thinking, “I have porn hair.” There was really no other way to describe it. I also remember wincing; knowing just what kind of pain and effort was going to be involved in undoing that mess. Friction had not been my friend. I rolled over.

Joe, I have porn hair.
You have porn lots of things.
Flattering.

We lay there, naked as newborn rabbits, staring at the ceiling, my cold foot against his warm calf, his hand resting on my ribcage. Candles flickered against the walls. The recessed lighting he’d installed glowed dimly against chrome hardware. In the ceiling. I looked closer.

That’s some pretty serious hardware for hanging plants.
Mmmmm… not for plants.
You don’t! You have a sex swing?

His hand slid off my stomach. He crawled to the edge of the bed and hung over, dragging a box from its hiding place. He did indeed have a sex swing.

You’re a bad Sex and the City episode!
C’mon! I haven’t even used the thing yet. I just thought it would be fun.
Jesus.

Suddenly, I felt like the prude in wolf’s clothing. Porn hair I could do. But a sex swing? I was not dating a man with a sex swing! And I wasn’t really, because the man who owns a sex swing is not the kind who dates. He is the kind to say, after a month or so, “I’m not ready for a relationship.” I knew it then at that moment. He got up to dress.

Standing in front of the closet, mirrors pushed to one side, his white boxer briefs glowed in stark contrast with his dark skin. On went the uniform. There he stood, a wolf in another sort of clothing altogether. I considered the swing.

My month wasn’t up yet. So I pushed aside the prude and I took him right back out of his uniform. There was no sense in wasting porn hair.

If laughter is any sort of medicine, I should rightly be spending this week in rehab.

On Friday evening, Rachel, Enormous G and I saw Be Cool. I was fresh from the doctor’s office, the painkillers and muscle relaxers no longer at all making an impact on my system and I was in need of some distraction. And boy howdy, did I get it. Be Cool wasn’t a brilliant film, by any stretch of the imagination. Uma? Luminous but otherwise unimpressive. John Travolta? Eh. Just eh. But the supporting cast? Hi-fucking-larious. The Rock – whom I have loved with an unhealthy sort of passion since college when, from time to time, I’d come home to voicemail asking if I could “smell what the Rock is cookin” – had me in fits of giggles over his role as the gay bodyguard. He’s fantastic. And the eyebrow. Oh, the eyebrow. Andre Benjamin and Vince Vaughn had their moments, too. I was still laughing as I walked home, eager to get in touch with some Vicodin and my pillow.

Saturday was Miss Goes Down’s birthday extravaganza. We started it off with a trip to our favorite nail joint where, as usual, we snarked up the place. After dinner, we cabbed it to the birthday bar of choice where we met with the rest of the chuckleheads. Some highlights include snapping Ken to himself (dude brought it on himself with that Urban Outfitter shirt, I swear), dancing to Michael Jackson’s ode to pedophilia and witnessing Esther give Ari the “O” face.

I haven’t laughed so hard in…well, I can’t remember how long. And I honestly can’t remember what gave me so much to guffaw about. But when we left the place, I was hoarse. Also, when we left the place, I was pretty well intoxicated. We grabbed a couple slices of pizza (like Ari said, the grease had a lot of work to do) and I hit the hay sometime around 4AM. A rather unfunny moment came when I had to set my alarm. Even less funny when I had to wake up to it, fuzzy headed and reeling with post-drink nausea.

But over coffee, Ben resurrected the mirth when he delivered a line that will surely stay with me for a very long time. While, “I’m the guy who zapped the dot!” will mean nothing to you, I was still giggling as I brushed my teeth this morning. The guy who zapped the dot. Indeed.

I know there’s nothing shabbier blog-wise than a weekend recap. So, what I really want to say is, I’m a lucky girl. If ever there was a cure for what ails me, it’s time spent with friends and a really good belly laugh over nothing in particular. It’s like mainlining joy.

(Photo courtesy of Chris London)

I try to refrain from writing when I am either drunk or crying, which, if you think about it, is precisely when I should. You get more interesting (read: scandalous) entries that way. Back in the day, it seems every other entry was the product of vodka or tears. Give a girl a few months of careless drinking, pair it with a seemingly doomed relationship and you’ve got yourself some ill-advised, but captivating blogging.

I don’t do that anymore. Not exactly. I mean, right now, I’m tipsy. Which is not the same thing as drunk. A million thoughts are going through my head, and if you’ll indulge me, I’ll just drop them here as they come. I do believe it’s called, stream of consciousness, and if HD Thoreau (or whomever), can get away with a whole book of this crap, I can certainly put it in my own blog.

I have to go to the doctor tomorrow. Bi-op-sy. Another one.
I should have told the PWSWM, but I didn’t. I didn’t want them to do the thing they would absolutely, without fail do, and give me a giant’s portion of sympathy.
I have a hard time with sympathy. It makes me feel vulnerable.
I told B. He tried to get me to take off work, get a mani/pedi. His treat.
I almost typed out mani/pedi because I get self-conscious that the trolls – those who read the site with the sole and express purpose of finding something to criticize – would say, “mani/pedi, how chick lit of you.” Well, fuck you. Because, if you really want to see me as simplistic and shallow, go right on ahead. I’m busy having shit carved out of my body.
I’ve made a lot of mistakes. In one year. Loved stupidly. It makes me cagey.
I dated a man who owned a sex swing. A SEX SWING. Jesus.
I’m reading this looking for squiggly lines that mean I’ve misspelled. Tipsy, remember?
I smell my date on my clothes, which is nice. He is nice. Doubtful he owns a sex swing.
I should be sleeping.
Sometimes, I stay up, hoping my sister will call. That’s what I’m doing now.
Sir Hal is making noise in the bathroom and I swear to the God of helpless kittens, if he’s chewing on my toothbrush (again) and I have to go to Duane Reade in the middle of the night to replace it (again) I will shave him bald and set him out on the curb.
I need to take my old bedframe out to the curb. But it’s heavy.
And I need to go to Ikea and buy bedside tables.
I make lists of these things when real-life, important issues are pressing in on my chest and I start to lose perspective. Lists are good for that. Functional. Practical.
I’m surprised, in a good way, that people bought so many shirts. I love it. I want to run into someone wearing one at the gym (if I went to a gym) or in the park and then give them noogies for being so cool.
When Shiv gets married in England this summer, I think I will stay in Europe for a while. I don’t know how long so don’t ask and if you work with me, shut UP and don’t tell my boss.
Italy. I want to go to Italy. Where they LOVE to eat. And relax.
GRE. MFA. NYU. 2006.
I’ve been sad lately for little reasons that add up into one big reason to stay in bed too long.
When I’m sad, I want someone to buy me coffee and not ask too many questions.
I think I’ll talk to my sister tomorrow, because I typed the word bed and suddenly, I just want to be in smooth sheets, under three down comforters (the heat in my apartment is… wonky) and kicking around for the cold spots.
I’m going to be slightly hungover.

Photo courtesy of Brando at One Child Left Behind.

Tshirts have started arriving. Thanks for all the great emails!

If you have any issues with your order (wrong size, wrong color, etc), please email me at tshirt@thisfish.com. I did not handle the distribution, and most likely won’t be able to answer any of your questions, but I can sure forward it to the man that can!

Send photos to the same address and I’ll post ‘em!

On my way home from work last night, I stopped in at Barnes and Noble. I quickly kicked the snow off my boots and made a beeline for the escalators, not even peeking at the New Fiction table. I was a woman on a mission.

Left. Right. Straight down the aisle and another jag to the right.

I paused only momentarily – the slightest hesitation – before snatching the book from its spot on the bottom shelf. Then, intended purchase in hand, I did an about-face and headed for the cash registers. She scanned. I swiped and PIN-ed. We chatted, brightly and casually, treating the exchange as though the volume I was buying was not, even in some small measure, absolutely key to my future happiness. The farce of it all! Finally, book and receipt were bagged and I headed out into the icy night with my very own copy of The Princeton Review’s study guide to

The GRE.

The GRE? The GRE, you ask. Are you going back to school? When were you planning on telling us? This is the first we’ve heard of it!

I know, I know. Relax. I told Ben. I told my mother. And now I’m telling you. I’m going back to school. Just like I swore I never, ever would.

Which is so like me.

I’ve been thinking about it for some time, mulling over the idea and never requiring myself to make a commitment. It was the perfect non-plan! I messed up though and made the mistake of telling my mom. Now I have to do it. If I don’t, she’ll keep asking about it until I do it. Or change my phone number.

Which is so like her.

Then, there’s the added pressure of having your mother nail (and I mean NAIL) the GRE in the very recent past. If I tank, my five years out of school will be a pitiful excuse in comparison with her twenty five.

Heather: The GRE has math on it. MATH.
Mom: The math is mostly geometry. You’ve gotta know angles. And it’s good to know pi and volumes of spheres. Because that will be so useful to you as a writer.
Heather: I shall title my novel, Pie Are Squared.

Once home last night, I tried to read The Book – and got as far as opening the bag. But all that crazy GRE pressure proved to be too much (math and logic and vocab, oh my!) and I ended up fleeing to Ari’s. We passed the evening cozied up on the couch, eating Peanut M&M’s, and getting freaked out by Martin Short’s guest appearance on Law & Order.

Which is so like how I spent my undergrad years.

Looks like things are right on track.

Some mornings, not even the third train is the charm. You find yourself on the fourth then, packed with an uncomfortable fraction of Manhattan’s uptown population, wedged together like pickled cucumber spears, sloshing about in train juice. Someone’s umbrella is dripping on your black boots. The stiff-jawed man with the pock marked skin is breathing onto your bare neck. There’s an elbow in your lower back, digging through your raincoat and pushing your mental hotbutton marked with too many exclamation points.

@#*%!!!

God, it may even smell like pickles in here. Acidic and salty and foul. This is not the way you remember rainy days smelling.

It is the way you remember your elementary school cafeteria smelling, though. Mr. Prewitt’s bucket and braided mop and Brian Peterson’s retainer on his lunch tray. Coleslaw and the ill-fated sour milk carton.

Foul.

In contrast, rain was iron-rich clay mud on sneakers, fragrant concrete and dusty, dripping window screens with their octagonal perforations like a fly’s eye. A rusty red wagon, water pooling in the dip in the center where it was warped from years of rides on a gravel road. Nightcrawlers. Irises outside your window, spilling their rootbeer float scented runoff into the dirt.

Nothing on charmed train four smells like irises or clean concrete or even worms. You catch a humid whiff of train juice and wish for worms. Neck Breather hasn’t brushed. You’re tempted to smell your own armpits for relief. When you escape the pickle jar express, making a frenzied dash up the stairs for fresh air, you hope that, at the very least, rainbows are they way you remember them.

For someone who thrives on constancy, I’ve been unbelievably random lately.

My usual grocery store pattern (yogurt-canned goods-produce) has been replaced with aimless meandering and uninspired purchases. I either come home empty handed (except for day-old Portuguese bread) or with bags full of things that do not go together. Cereal, no milk. Hamburger buns with nothing to fill them. Frozen peas. I don’t even like peas, for god’s sake.

It’s not just my grocery routine that’s wonky. Everything is a smidge off center. There are dishes in my sink. I got caught staring, glassy-eyed, at the ceiling tiles at work. I haven’t blogged in days. The madness! It’s like I don’t even know me anymore!

I’d be concerned if I were not fairly certain I went through the same sort of personality rebellion last year while waiting for The Springtime that Would Never Come. Everything in my being revolts against winter; there’s really only so much of it I can take. It’s charming in December. By January, I’m lusting over Orbitz.com’s last minute vacation packages. And by February, I’m feeling insanely jealous of those woodland creatures that just miss the whole season entirely.

I don’t know how old I was when I first learned about hibernation — you know, bears and the like eating themselves silly and then sleeping for a few months until it stops being wretchedly cold. All I know is that I was a little resentful that not all mammals got to participate. I’ve probably never really gotten over that resentment. Case in point: I slept all day on Saturday. All day. I didn’t leave my bed until 7pm. And when I did, it was to take one of those confusing, pointless trips to the grocery store.

Upon consideration, it’s probably a good thing I’m not one of the bears. Saltines and OJ would make poor fuel for hibernation.

In any event, I hope this passes. My younger self would bitch-slap me for saying this, but I really do miss being predictable.