I’ve got my Teen Girl Squad t-shirt on and I’m all psyched up to be morally supportive. It’s The Kate Moves to Brooklyn Day and my job does not involve lifting boxes so much as it does lifting spirits. From what I understand, that involves ordering take-out and saying things like, “No, it didn’t sound broken.”

I am so all over that job.

By the way, who is this girl that hasn’t blogged in days? I dunno. But I’ll be back Monday to tell you all about losing my office, loving the Huckabees and being called bony.

Tired and achey, last night I bailed on certain plans, opting instead for comfy yoga pants and a totally hilarious film with my totally hilarious neighbor.

I had a brief moment of slacker’s remorse just now when I got New Office Boy’s email:

“You missed out. Not to sound like a total jerk, but doesn’t that mean you’re getting old when you say you are too tired to go out at 6pm? I think you should change that… I walked right by Sarah Jessica Parker sitting outside at this little cafe. I could have spit in her drink if I wanted to.”

Nooooooo! Sarah Jessica! I missed Sarah Jessica? That’s almost as bad as the time I left a party five minutes before Molly Ringwald showed up.

Only, my neighbor fed me barbequed ribs and stuffing. And chocolate. And I got to cuddle with her new puppy. I have my bets Sarah Jessica wouldn’t have done jack shit for me in that regard. Slacker’s remorse totally rescinded.

Mademoiselle Minor did not like me. Now that I think about it, disdain is probably a better word than dislike in this case. Mademoiselle Minor disdained me.

My pronunciation was above reproach, my understanding of the plus que parfait and other innumerable verb tenses was ahead of the class. But I was never to be her protégé. I was much more interested in passing notes with a small handed boy named Jason than I was Mina-birding conversational exercises. Mon Dieu, how many times did we have to practice ordering a cheese sandwich?

I’d given up any desire for protégé status in junior high. Monsieur Jeffries had noted my language skills on the first day of our eighth grade class. He asked where I’d picked up so much French.

Ma mere, Monsieur.

And my mother’s Nana Mouskouri records. But I didn’t tell him that. It didn’t matter; by the end of that first semester, I was the teacher’s pet. Girls who wore Unit Belts and had names like Natalie and Tiffany would make fun of me within earshot, and snatch my test papers when they were returned. I soon found I was less ashamed of my Payless shoes than I was of my perfect grades.

We moved soon after and I landed in Mme Minor’s fourth period French II.

My test scores were still high. But I was new, and I needed to be liked more than I needed to be smart. That did not included being liked by the teacher. I took her disdain with not the smallest bit of smug satisfaction and passed notes with cute soccer players, and chirped, “Je prends un sandwich du fromage” when it was my turn.

Years later, while away at college where I’d abandoned my journalism studies to major in Spanish, Grandma Marcel asked me to help her in the kitchen. I sautéed yellow squash while she prepared coque Saint Jacques. She gave directions in French, I answered in English.

“You do not speak French anymore?” The French have a delightful way of singing their sentences.

I smiled.

“Oui, mais comme une vache espagnole.”
(Yes, but like a Spanish cow.)

I remember that she laughed and pushed a box of Godiva chocolate across the counter to me.

I can still order a cheese sandwich in French — or anything else I might find appetizing — but it’s with no small amount of regret that, when planning for our Moroccan vacation, I am scarcely able to read through websites without a certain degree of difficulty. It’s especially sad, when I consider that I have no idea what became of that soccer player — or any of the other schmoes I was so bent on impressing.

In the grand scheme of things, learning to flirt may have been just as valuable as learning another language. But I’ll let you know for sure when we get to Tangiers.

I’m big on dreaming.

My dreams are always vivid, cockamamie storylines involving people from my day to day life. I remember them when I wake up for the most part, too. If I tell you I’ve had a dream about you, it does not mean I want to marry you and have your babies; it just means I met you once and ate pickles or too many Oreos before bed.

I’ve had dreams about lunching with Princess Di, being unable to halt my own ill-fated wedding, catching my best good work friend having sex with the boss (promotions don’t come easy, you know) and even about narrowly escaping mummies and such nonsense.

And fairly frequently, I dream about rooms. They’re typically newly discovered spaces in houses I’ve already been in a thousand times — my grandparents’ house, my apartment. You get the idea. But the rooms themselves are not familiar, and they’re lovely and covetable. Big airy spaces with floor to ceiling windows, secret closets, nooks for chairs, private baths. The trick is, once I leave them, I can’t get back. I spend the rest of the dream wandering, frustrated and feeling like I’ve lost something valuable and precious. And when I wake up, though these places never existed, I still feel a loss.

I didn’t dream about rooms last night, though. I dreamt about work. It’s been the theme lately – epic work nightmares that translate into the waking feeling that I’m going to get fired. I can’t shake it and it’s totally unfounded. I’ve never had a single bit of negative feedback about my work here. I get high fives, even been told I “pulled a rabbit out of a hat” on a last-minute presentation, but yet a couple of bad dreams and I’m forming conspiracy theories. This is not good.

I’d like to go back to dreaming about featherbeds I’ll never own, or catching some weird larva skin disease from one of my girlfriends (yeah, that one was freaky). At least with those, I don’t feel compelled to polish up my resume.

Sometimes, being content is better than being thrilled. Which is not to say I mind a nice thrill every now and again, but contentment seems to last longer and produce better results.

Excitement is good for flushed cheeks and weight loss and writing. But, as the Universe seeks balance, with every up there comes a most certain down. Downs are not entirely a waste of time – they are good for cathartic cries and introspection and of course, writing.

Then there’s Even Keel. It’s a bit of a plateau. It’s neither Cloud Nine nor the Valley of the Shadow of Death, but all the same, it’s not a completely unremarkable place to be.

At Even Keel, a girl can listen to all the Carpenters CDs she wants and still remain relatively unaffected by melancholy. She can go shoe shopping and make level-headed decisions. There, she’ll find really no need for chocolate binges or crash diets. At Even Keel, a girl can stand naked in front of her full length mirror and say, ‘it is what it is’ — Love Handle of Shame, included. There are as many things to appreciate as there are to complain about there and when asked, she may quite truthfully answer, “I’m fine. How are you?”

Life at Even Keel is content, if not, admittedly, a little vanilla.

I’ve spent a bit of time in Even Keel, and I like it there. I have also always liked vanilla. I don’t find it boring. Maybe because I know that inevitably, the steadiness is going to be punctuated by ups and downs, and it’s all just a part of being. Still, I do get antsy when I see days and days of truly uninspired entries here and I start to wish that Even Keel had a muse of its own. I realize it does, it’s just not heartache and therefore, not the kind of muse I’m used to having visit me.

Yesterday, after we’d spent the day doing absolutely nothing noteworthy, Sarah laughed and said, “Good old today!”

“You just got yourself a blog title,” I said, at the time mostly joking.

But on pain of sounding ridiculously sappy, Sarah got it right on. Good old today. Drama-free and tickled pink to be so, I’m going to settle in for as long as I can.

And if I need excitement, I can always put on my fishnets.

I just dug out my tall boots, fishnets and miniskirts. Tell me it’s almost time to wear them?

Yeah, I get that today was 75 degrees. But it’s nearly October. And damn, do I love fishnet stockings.

It was strange trying to fall asleep last night — the apartment was so quiet. For the last several days, as soon as I’d switched off the lamp, a steady traffic of “Remember that time when,” and sleepy giggles passed between my bedroom and the living room. Not surprising, their absence has made it hard to fall asleep — harder than, say my sister’s Wookie impressions or her random insistence that we list all of our college roommates before we could go to sleep. The last names gave us trouble.

“Stone.”
“Yeah, I already got Renee’s. Go to sleep.”
“But we haven’t figured out Niki’s.” My sister sounded wide awake, but the clock was telling me that should not be the case.
“Go to sleep.”
“Her middle name was J….”
“Janelle. Dude, I have to go to work in four hours.”
“Fine. G’nite.”

An hour later….

“Anderson!” I sat up in bed, proud of my memory (and having not been able to sleep until it came to me).
“Hrmmmph?”
“Never mind. Go to sleep.”

This morning, after my first uninterrupted night’s slumber, I went around the apartment tidying up. I stowed the Aero Bed in the hall closet, pulled the extra towel off the back of the bathroom door and added it to the pile of laundry. I collected strewn movie stubs, receipts and a 7-day unlimited use metro card and tossed them in the waste basket. I woke up thinking it would be nice to do a quick clean up, grab coffee and spend some much needed quiet time in the park. But, somehow, post sister visit cleaning segued into The Great Fall Overhaul and before I knew it, I’d emptied all the closets, moved and cleaned behind all the furniture and done seven loads of laundry.

There’s more to do, but I’m tired and I’m going to try getting to bed early. I may have to dial a certain 707 number to get a bit of “Remember that time when…” You know, just for good measure. There’s something really brillant about falling asleep laughing.

I stopped by the office this morning. Having taken most of the week off for Sister Time, I was a bit nervous to check my voicemail and to see what insanity had taken over my inbox. But when I arrived, I found the message light on my desk phone was not lit. My inbox was undisturbed. As the Twilight Zone theme began to play in my sleepy head, I headed for the Boss’s office to see if maybe I’d been fired and someone forgot to tell me.

Not fired. Instead, he asked how my week with the sister has been. He’s been eerily kind lately. I won’t say that doesn’t make me nervous.

I told him that Sister Time has been wonderful. Which it has.

Chocolate hangovers from Serendipity, Indian food in the East Village, slices at a street fair in Little Italy, cupcakes at Magnolia, the Recession Special at Gray’s Papaya – we’ve effectively eaten our way through Manhattan. The American Museum of Natural History, a large portion of Central Park, St. Mark’s, Bleeker St. and Fifth Ave – we’ve also walked our way through Manhattan.

By last night, we were ready for a bit of rest and decided to head for the movie theater. Sky Captain whatever whatever was phenomenal. Now, I’ve never had much of Jude Law fascination. But after renting Cold Mountain last week, and nearly swooning over His Brutal Handsomeness in last night’s flick, I’m something of a believer. Hom-in-a.

Sister Time ends this afternoon and I’m not the least bit happy about it. I’m going to miss her guts out. And so will Sir Hal.

“You bitch!”

I was back from lunch not ten minutes when Justine, the saucy receptionist, barged in and planted herself in a chair in my office to grill me. An un-opened email from one of the secretaries sat in my inbox, undoubtedly expressing the same sentiment. I’d been seen leaving with New Boy. And the office rumor mill was grinding at full speed.

“Girl, he’s so hot.”
“He’s nice,” I said. “And young.”
“Every girl needs a boy toy.”
“He’s not my boy toy! He just asked me to lunch.”
“You’re so gonna tap that. And if you’re not, send him my way.”
“Justine!”

My own experience with the company ink is still fresh enough in my mind to prevent any such… tapping. David. Architect. Six months of hot elevator rides and one very messy break-up later, I was done with office romance. Forever. Sure, there was a bit of a scandal later with the Indy Rock Boy, but we kept it strictly to after-work drinking and frenzied cab rides. After he quit.

When Justine left, tsking under her breath, I clicked on my Outlook. Sure enough, there was an email telling me that New Boy not only “looks like a Baldwin” but is office-rated as very kissable. I had to agree. There was also an email from New Boy himself, whose smart-assedness was decidedly flirtatious.

I had to grin a bit out of self-satisfaction.

While I’ll admit, the idea is intriguing, I’d like to think I’m a girl who’s learned a lesson or two from her mistakes. One awkward coffee room moment and suddenly no amount of frisky elevator interlude is worth it. This I know. Thankfully, this office is not a social one and there are very few occasions where we all go out and get liquored up. Because, well, under the influence, I tend to rationalize. And get a little frisky.

Bloggers are terrible secret-keepers.

So give five bloggers six long weeks to keep the same secret, and it was a wonder of wonders that news of the surprise bridal shower didn’t leak out before Saturday. Taking no chances, The People Who Sleep With Men called in the big guns, and Krissa’s mother did not let us down. She was a master of deception. The flabbergasted Bride-to-Be stood agape for a moment, then started shaking and had to have a cigarette.

So five bloggers, having spent six long weeks planning, preparing and scheming felt quite smug about our accomplishments. We bested a bride who’d ‘rather be right than surprised,’ a last minute location change because of actual showers, and our own compulsion to spill the beans. A bubbly toast went up:

“To smug bitches and pink champagne. And to Blah blah Stuart blah!”

Krissa cried. Biscuit cried. The Mother of the Bride told dirty stories. The rest of us laughed and ate, and ate and laughed, and drank far too much champagne. And then we sighed with relief. Keeping secrets takes an awful lot of energy.

But it was worth every bitten tongue.

My sister’s cab is due any minute.

I’m giddy and wiggly. It’s like stockings and cocoa and slipper pajamas and colored lights on a tree. Only better. My present knows all the words to Clueless monologues and that the only acceptable way to eat ice-cream is one pint at a time and was around when I was in high school and still likes me.

Made to order. No gift receipt necessary.

I’d been wrong to assign the symptoms to a hangover.

By the time I realized what I was up against, I was lying on a pile of towels on my bathroom floor weeping. Migraines will do that — curl you up in a ball, have you crying for the Universe to take pity on you and send a bolt of lightning your way to end it. I was gripping the edge of the toilet bowl, and the edge of my sanity. Don’t let me throw up before the medicine dissolves.

When I felt certain I wasn’t going to toss my medicine-y cookies, I stumbled around the apartment turning things off. Ceiling fans, air conditioner. Even the hum of my computer monitor had to be stopped. I banished Sir Hal to the bathroom and climbed into my bed. Or, onto it rather. I crouched, fighting nausea, pressing fists into my ears and begging the world to stop being. Light. Sound. The rotation of the earth. I wanted it all to cease.

If you catch a migraine in time, you can actually take a pill before the rabid nausea sets in. The catch is, though, some prescription migraine medicine will also make you sick to your stomach. Tricky bastards. My migraines seem to schedule themselves only once very six months — in that, I know I’m lucky. And last night, the worst was over after a short four hours. Lucky there, too. In college once, I slept, wrapped in a towel on our bathroom floor (the only room without light) for twelve long hours while roommates quite literally tiptoed around the apartment.

I have very evil feelings for people who squint their eyes, put a hand to their temple and complain, “I have a migraine.” If you’re not pleading for a mercy killing, you don’t have a migraine.

It takes me a good day or two to recover from one of my ‘episodes’ (I like the Victorian sound of that), and so here I am, at home on a Saturday night. Recovering — with the ceiling fans back on and Sir Hal very gratefully released from his bathroom prison. We’re going to watch The Great Muppet Caper and eat Massamum curry. We are SO rock and roll.

Last night, after Gate Night, I ambled down a few blocks to catch the Smith Family gig. I have to confess that the highlight of my experience in Freddy’s Backroom had nothing to do with music. Or drinking. Or hilarious friends in cowboy hats and drag queen appropriate silettos hanging from the ceiling. Not that those weren’t compelling.

But it was finding Sarah’s url scrawled on the bathroom wall that really tickled me. I’m hoping to get the photographic proof when Ben gets in to work goes home tonight.

I fed my unearned hangover the mashed potatoes it demanded and am now feeing nearly normal. I say ‘unearned’ because I drank quite conservatively (a lady-like three glasses of wine all night) and even my bedtime was rather conservative for a Smith Family Night. I’m starting to believe the morning-after coma is just the price of admission. Which I’ll gladly pay. Even wandering around Brooklyn looking for the subway at 1:00 AM (we weren’t lost) is but a small offering to the Gods of mirth.

Relationships are tough.*

I can make relationships tougher. And I’m not just talking the romantic kind. Through various avoidance tactics and personality quirks (that’s the nice way of saying ‘issues’), I can be a pain in the ass to get to know. I mean, really know. I’ve never been a cold girl, mind you; I can be pretty damn charming. But due to heavy security measures, sometimes, that’s all you get. I don’t say what I want to. I make up excuses. A lot of times, I even flinch when you touch me. Not because I think you have cooties, but because my comfort zone is about *this* big.

Sorta lends new meaning to Artful Dodger.

The reason I bring this up at all (aside from deriving some sick joy out of emotional nudity), is that I’m getting much better at it. Slowly, but surely. A few things have contributed to the forward progression, the least of which being blogging. Friends help a hell of a lot, too.

The folks I dig, the ones whose needs can mean more to me than my own, are some of life’s best instructors. Honesty over pedicures, a heart-to-heart over lunch, an ‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this’ over the phone at work… they’re all small catalysts to tearing down the fences and rolling back the barbed wire.

In an email conversation a while back, I asked a friend – we’ll call her Anne — how she was doing.

“You want the Anne response,” she replied. “Or the Heather response?”

Touché. I wrote back that while I know it’s my preference to avoid the truth in such situations, I am more inclined to honesty over email. As if that means anything. Anyhow, I got the Anne response, and we went forward with the sharing of feelings — something I’ve never been too great at. But Anne’s great at it. And it’s catching on.

A writing project I just finished made me deal with some pretty unattractive feelings. Not only that, it made me admit them to someone close to me – someone I wanted to keep close to me. I was afraid, quite honestly, that it would achieve the opposite result. I was, of course, wrong. Instead, I got a fairly strong dose of support, encouragement and validation. All of which I needed.

Friendship, it seems — the real kind — can be quite a sturdy ice-pick against some pretty solidly-formed fears of rejection. I’m feeling a lot less dodgy these days. And I dig that.

*If that’s news to you, you are hereby invited to dinner. In exchange for being fed, you will be required to explain how you’ve managed it otherwise.

Last weekend, I read East of Eden. I hadn’t read any Steinbeck since the high school assignment that left me inconsolable over George and Lenny, but since I’d read everything else in my apartment (excepting something glossy containing just too many photos of the Olsen Twins), I lugged the 600-pager to the park. I couldn’t put it down (and thankfully encountered no tragic “tell me about the rabbits” moments). What was interesting, though, was that in six hundred pages, I found I’d gotten hung up on a point made within the first five.

“You can boast about anything if it’s all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.”

Ah, Steinbeck. Hits you with it on page four. No sense in burying a good lesson too deeply in an epic tome. I actually closed the book for a minute, took a sip of coffee and gave the idea some thought. And I’ve been thinking about it since.

I see that trend in myself. To boast when I have nothing. I know that when I am at my most vulnerable, that’s when my instinct tells me it’s imperative to convince the blogging world otherwise. Strut. Embellish. Lie. Anything to mask my true insecurity. I also know I’ve gotten better at cutting the crap. I spend my entire workday making things sound and look better than they are. Why do it on my off time?

It’s as though, if we say it, that will make it true — the self-fulfilling prophesies of blogging. I’ve found marketing myself to be a vast and unrewarding waste of time, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t been guilty of it.

But it’s like the nasty email that starts with LOL and ends with ha ha ha, as though the embellishment somehow conceals the intended spite of the message. Seriously, why bother?

Well, because sometimes, the truth isn’t pretty.

Sigh. Too bad the rest of the book was all about making choices. He seemed to have all the answers about that topic, but it doesn’t help me much. I’m still a bit stuck on page four.

This Friday night out on the town cost me more than the usual in drinking and late night dining. Arriving at Whiskey Ward several minutes late and frustrated with my own lack of subway savoir faire, I tipped my cab driver and hurried inside for some well earned sangria.

Dumping my arm load of sundry items (birthday gift, wallet, cell phone, directions to the bar), I noticed I was missing something.

“Noooooooo!” I went from zero to pout in the short second it took for me to realize I’d left my shawl in the cab. The shawl I loved above all other clothing items. Ever. Despite common opinion that I am a spendthrift, it’s hardly the case. And the black silk/cotton wrap had been a planned and long-awaited purchase. While not irreplaceable, on this girl’s budget, it may as well be a one-of-a-kind. I was heart broken.

Jen tried to soothe the situation with a pitcher of sangria (it helped some) and Kevin offered this,

“Every year, I set aside $500 for The ‘Kevin is an Idiot’ Fund. Every time I lose something or break something, I just say, ‘Hey, Kevin, you’re an idiot” and take it out of the fund.”

Oh, that I had such a fund! There’s a great deal of wisdom in being prepared for the fact that inevitably, I’m going to do something stupid. Like leave the most beautiful piece of couture in a cab. I thought that perhaps it was the Universe trying to teach me a lesson about materialism, but even the Universe wouldn’t have been that cruel.

Alas, the Shawl of Happiness was not the only thing I was to lose that night. In my short, tipsy walk from my homebound-cab to my apartment, I mysteriously lost the tiny Swiss Army knife from my key chain. That was a gift, oh mean and nasty Universe!

I think my nest egg ought to be called, The ‘Universe is a Smug Bitch’ Fund.

It’s cool enough tonight that I have put on my favorite pink pajamas. I have lit all twenty-eight candles in my apartment. I have made tea.

I have had an honest conversation that was a long time coming. And now, I’m ready for bed.

“I haven’t the temperment for it anymore,” I said as my cab made its way up First avenue from the Lower East Side.

“Don’t apologize.” Mac sounded cranky again.

“I’m not. I said I’d call, and I did.”

“We can still have a drink next week, though. Can’t we?”

“You’ve already said that you’re only booty call material.”

“You could change my mind… more than I dare allow you to.”

“We’ll see. Goodnight.”

Sometimes I wish I were brave enough to say the things that are really on my mind. But most times, I’m just glad I know when to hang up.

Mac* emailed me sometime in the early afternoon. Over email he seemed much more… mild mannered. In fact, he apologized for having been so grumpy. Honestly, I was a little disappointed to discover that much of his gruffness seems to have been a product of the late hour, the drink, and jet lag (he’d just returned from Germany). I was sort of keen on the idea of him being an unabashed asshole.

Figures.

I declined his request to meet for a drink last night, not because he’s not actually a bastard, but because I already had plans. I swear.

* Names have been changed to protect those who don’t really look like an Edward.

Three girls walk into a bar and the bartender says,

Well, actually, the bartender didn’t say a thing. But it seemed everyone else at the Doc Watson’s last night had come prepared with their contribution for what amounted to one bizarre and tremendously amusing night out.

A drunk couple, alternatively step-dancing and making out, Jen’s stunning tambourine skills, Kate’s “I thought she was a man!” and a bar full of love-hungry Irishmen. Add a bit of whiskey (paid for by the lovely gents at the bar), wind us up and watch us go.

I can’t tell you which of Jen’s two love-hungry suitors I preferred. They both had us laughing into our diner food at 2AM as we tried to piece together our soggy evening. First, there was the young, broody fellow who grabbed violently his crotch in our direction and babbled about his Chakra, and then the older fellow who became so incapacitated by love at first sight that he could only say, “so lovely” and stroke Jen’s long hair. And call her Anne.

By the time the crotch grabbing took place, I’d already had several Jack n’ Cokes (and a shot) and I was feeling brave. So, I told Chakra Boy he was obnoxious, sauntered up to the band (who’d kindly dedicated Hit Me Baby to yours truly) and asked them to “get rid of him.” With him out of the way, Hair Stroker felt much more confident and made his move. I, however, missed most of his wooing action, as I’d found my own unlikely suitor up at the bar.

Too old (38), too gruff and too… well, we were immediately caught up in a conversation that required the constant lift of one eyebrow.

“I’m not really boyfriend material,” he said in his thick Londoner’s accent. “I’m more like, booty-call material.”
“Of course you are.”
“What’s that to mean?”
“Why buy the cow.”

I was coy. He was snide. And within fifteen minutes, he was asking for an email address.

“I suppose it wouldn’t do at all to tell you that you’re charming.”
“Not after that booty call speech.”
“But I absolutely adore you from the tips of your pink toes to the tip of your brown pony tail.”

I gave him the email address.

Gentlemen in tuxes, ladies in saucy evening wear, Krissa’s party was a sea of black and white. The only real notable exception being the footwear. Petal pink is the new white.

My own handsome escort and I could have easily been headed for the Fish-Goldner wedding, were it not for the fact that I’m already a married woman. I’ve an inlking his parents would never have approved the match anyway.

Actual party stories to follow. I’ve got chocolate cake to wash out of a certain white party dress.

Last night, some time between my first vodka tonic and three girls licking chocolate cake off my collarbones, I noticed a small ache in my right side. I decided I must have lifted something heavy and just not remembered. When I woke this morning and felt glued to the bed by pain, I realized that no, I had not lifted something heavy. I had fallen down the stairs in the subway on Friday night. How I could have forgotten such an event, I don’t know, but it only serves as yet another testament that I should be kept in a padded cell.

More details on last night’s Black & White Birthday Bash will follow (along with pictures), but for now just know that Biscuit’s chocolate cake was well… worthy of being licked off my naked flesh.

Friday night was date night with my girls. The movie was stunning and my first Gray’s Papaya was tasty, but the late hour walk up the West Side was undoubtedly the most pleasant part of my day. Girlfriends can be so healing. Maybe that’s why I’d forgotten the night’s earlier subway stair accident.

This city never ceases to amuse me. I was slurping on pineapple juice, listening to Kate and Krissa chatter about the desirability of West Side real estate when we heard a voice behind us.

“Excuse me.”

We turned around and a wilting peach flower was shoved my direction.

“Would you like a rose?”
“No, thank you.”
“Can I have your phone number?”
“No.”

We laughed and continued up the street. Half way up the block, I toyed with what a great story it had made if I’d actually accepted the flower from the goofy-looking stranger. But, having still not gotten around to telling about Thursday’s adventure in pigeon shit, I figured I had plenty of stories and ought not needlessly risk any awkward stalking moments for entertainment purposes. Between falling in the subway, getting shat on by a grossly overfed bird and raucous tales of last night’s birthday fete, we have enough to keep us going for a while.

Stay tuned.

When I crawled into bed last night, heavy hearted and upset, I tried to steady myself with the thought that it wouldn’t feel that way in the morning. A little distance, a little perspective, a little time for the evening’s rich red wine to evaporate — it would be a new day to do things differently.

But this morning, when I woke from a dream that was not far enough removed from reality, and my perspective was blurred by sleepy tears, I realized that nothing had changed. And my sorrow tasted an awful lot like Merlot.

For breakfast yesterday, I washed down some maple & brown sugar oatmeal with two cups of Columbian Supremo. With lunch, Diet Coke and cappuccino. My dinner was a healthy serving of Starbuck’s mild.

When two a.m. rolled around, it was not surprising that I was still fully caffeinated, twitchy and hours away from sleep. My toes curled and my legs cramped from the dehydration and my mind raced from silly coffee bean delusion. In the end, I slept for maybe three hours, but I had kicked some ass in Round II of the big writing assignment and I feel great. More than great.

Yesterday was actually more than great.

Over a decadent lunch of grilled bass and king shrimp, Jen had wisely said, “Don’t think that you have to feel confused just because other people don’t know what they’re doing.”

Over French manicures and pink pedicures, Ari had said… well, Ari had said lots of things, each quip more funny than the next. I can’t tell you what that kind of clever banter does for my work-dulled brain.

I’ve been feeling the difference that switching pills has made, though no more so than yesterday. No afternoon headache to speak of, no fatigue and no insane desires to consume large vats of ice cream. Or chocolate. Or any of those other craved substances that have contributed to some unwanted weight.

I feel fairly fantastic.

While I’m not always very good at sustaining momentum, I’m hoping this feeling lasts at least until lunch, when I’m counting on The Kate joining me for a Manhattan lunchtime sunshine spectacular. And maybe coffee.

Twitch!