What happened here in apartment 4D early this afternoon was, for lack of a better word, bizarre.

I’d woken up early and plunked myself down in front of the computer to do some trip research. Jen and I are going to Morocco — it’s all but impossible to contain our excitement.

So one minute I’m fantasizing about head scarves and adventures (what happens in Morocco, stays in Morocco), and the next, I find myself bawling in the shower. It was a short burst of crying, followed by waves of anxiety that had me climbing the walls of my suddenly asphyxiating, small apartment.

I’d let myself think about going to work tomorrow. Big mistake.

Hoping for relief, I took myself down to the park on the river and stayed until I burned. I’ve never so badly in my life wanted to stop a complete stranger and say “Tell me that moving to New York wasn’t one really big, awful mistake.”

I retreated back to my apartment, crawled on the couch and willed myself to get ready and go to Brooklyn. I had plans. But I couldn’t make myself get up, conceal those nasty eye circles, put on clothes that matched. Instead, I ate comfort food. I took a nap. I talked to Elle on the phone. Someone had to bring me back to rational. Someone who understood and wouldn’t tell me to suck it up.

She didn’t tell me I hadn’t made one really big awful mistake moving to New York. But she did remind me why I came in the first place. That call, and a nap later and I’m much closer to feeling like myself again.

Many heartfelt sorries to my dearest, whose play I missed this afternoon. I hear you were wonderful.

Overheard at the office:

Employee #1: You have a gigantic hickey on your neck.
Employee #2: It’s not a hickey… It’s a bite mark.
Employee #1: Is there a difference?

Is there a difference? Shame for even asking! Yes, there’s a difference. And I’ll explain and enlighten since, you know, I’ve got nothing real to write about today.

Hickeys suck:

There are several ways to get a hickey. Anything that sucks will do the trick. A vacuum hose, even a coffee mug that you’ve sucked to your chin will leave such a mark. Though, clearly the preferred method is suction from another person’s mouth. A visible hickey is, like acne, an adolescent marker. To quote an experienced friend, it is “a concerted effort to brand one another” and is for teenagers fumbling around in back seats of their parent’s cars. Hickeys are soggy and require something of a time investment — quite a bit of sucking goes into a decently sized neck marker.

Bite me!

Precursor to a kiss, a little nip in the heat of passion may leave the same tell-tale bruising as the aforementioned hickey, but bite marks are a different beast entirely. Biting is not kids’ stuff. It’s sweaty, heady, a little pain-with-your-pleasure, I-want-to-devour-you stuff. It’s quick and surprising and very worth the investment of a good, all-purpose silk scarf if concealment becomes necessary. Besides, the same scarf may come in handy for other things. Like wrists.

And with that, I’m going to go take a nice, long walk and think pure thoughts.

It couldn’t rightly be called Girl’s Night out, what with Biscuit being on the invite list and all. And so it was that The People Who Sleep with Men took Brooklyn by storm (and stiletto) last night. We started off at Buttermilk where we got glittered and added The Kate’s number to our cell phones. Then the seven of us tottered off to catch the Smith Family show at the Royale bar.

In the red glow of Royale’s harem-like setting, we quickly shifted into Rockabilly mode. We slapped our knees, tapped our feet, yee-hawed and took pictures. Lots of pictures. And that’s when Biscuit and I got engaged. If it somehow ends up that photographing well together does not amount to a good reason to get married, we’ll call it off. But until then, we remain giddy over the prospect of seeing our announcement in the New York Times.

I suppose I would learn my lesson about staying out until 3AM on a school night if it didn’t always turn out to be so darn fun.

Adrian is going to Ibiza.
Benjamin is going to Australia.
C is going to Hilton Head.

And I? I’m just going crazy. Stir crazy.

My ‘maybe in the spring’ plans with Elle to go to Italy are not making it any easier to deal with the fact that I haven’t had a real vacation is a very, very long time. Maybe in the spring? Spring is ages away and I’m already about three stops away from Crazytown on the express train!

I become eligible for parole vacation sometime this fall. At which point, my recent windfall (currently slotted for a savings account) will be plunked down, my suitcase filled up and I’ll be off like a pair of pink flip flops on a white sand beach.

That being decided, I’m not likely to get a lot of work done today. Daydreaming tends to take up most of my brain power.

There are dozens of photographs of us from that summer — looking like giddy lovers in a rowboat in Sevilla, fighting over a drippy candle on a night tour of Salamanca, prancing like fools in a fountain at the palace in Córdoba.

We argued playfully in that spicy foreign tongue – flirtation’s flimsy guise.
“¡Que no!”
“¡Que si, mujer!”
“Cuídate, guapeton. ¡Te doy!”

He left gifts for me in my shoulder bag, wrapped in sheets of Madrid’s daily newspaper – a local artist’s CD, pressed poppies, a lizard. The lizard turned out to be a stowaway from Altamira, but I gave Sean credit. And he gave me a piggy back ride when my sandals hurt. Who climbs a mountain in heels, mujer?

In a packed bull arena one scalding night in late June, Ricky Martin stopped mid-song and called out to us from the stage. In a sea of pulsing bodies, tall, conspicuously-American Sean wouldn’t dance.

“Why aren’t you dancing? Everyone else is Dancing.”
“Me falta el ritmo.” I lack rhythm.
“I feel sorry for your compañera. But we’ll give you another chance. I’m going to try this again, and perhaps she can help you find your rhythm?”

The crowd cheered and the song (and Ricky’s gyrating hips) began again. I moved up closer, and from behind, placed one hand on his left hip, the other on his chest. “Así, cuñado.”

Cuñado. Translated literally, it means brother-in-law, but it functions as a term of endearment — a fond, yet sterile one. But to no one’s surprise that night, the electricity between my hand and his chest contradicted my language as well as our chummy kinship.

The following afternoon, we moved quietly through our weekly art seminar in the Prado, the two of us eventually ducking out of another long lecture on Velázquez to one of the cooler, less crowded exhibits on the floor below. We stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Goya’s Black Paintings making small talk.

“You’re invited to cena on Saturday.” My host mother was in love with Sean and he was a regular dinner guest.

He turned, touched my elbow and I remember electric shocks ran down my fingers.

“Mandona,” he said (mandona, the bossy one) “Me encantas.”
You enchant me.
“Igual.”
Ditto. I answered without looking at him.

He shouldered my bag as he always did, and we left through the museum’s rear entrance, disappearing into the botanical gardens. We stayed for the better part of the afternoon.

There are no pictures of what happened next.

On the way home from last night’s Tribal activities in Brooklyn, I stopped at Gristede’s for something frozen. I was melting.

While nothing screams, SINGLE like a late night Hagen Daas purchase, I don’t usually mind. I do single like Michael Jackson does crazy — with gusto. So I flounced down the aisle in my sweater set and summer skirt (having a new appreciation for my calves, which Krissa has deemed nice and curvy), snagged some cookie-dough ice cream, and headed toward the register.

That’s when I saw him.

My last thought, after he looked up and smiled at me and just before I lost all cognitive abilities was, “Holy shit, I forgot they made them like that.”

Tall, tan, sparkly blue eyes, wavy brown hair and damn if that white t-shirt didn’t fit like a dream. I undizzied myself for the forty-five seconds it took to pay for my ice cream. He’d finished paying, too. Our brief encounter at the automatic door produced nothing more than his “Have a good night” to which I responded…

Absolutely nothing.

He smelled like sunscreen and clean laundry, two scents which shall now register on my list of aphrodisiacs (right up there with regular Trident and warm vanilla). I smiled, which may have seemed coy (one can only hope), but the truth was, I was speechless – all butterflies and libido. Seconds later when we’d left the store, he went left and I froggered my way across the street — the two of us headed in separate directions supposed to happen in these kinds of encounters.

As I fumbled with my key in the gate, I thought again, “Holy shit, I forgot they made them like that.”

It was a fucking fantastic reminder that they do.

I try to avoid making sweeping generalizations when it comes to gender, and I don’t often rant about dating here. Sure, I’ve cried about broken hearts and fussed about the crimes of specific men (I’m sure I toyed with the idea of bludgeoning J with his drum sticks at least half a dozen times), but I have never made the statement, “I hate men.”

Because, first of all, it’s not true. I love men. I adore them. And even if I didn’t, I’d be foolish to say so here. Like Lindsay Lohan, I’m no fool. Why alienate half your fan base?

Secondly, it’s just too easy to fall into that trap — to blame the XYs for romantic misconnects and the inevitable fate of dying alone in a big old house surrounded by cats and your collection of arts & crafts made from recycled containers of Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream.

But the other day, I gave in and unleashed a bit of a rant on Goldner, my MTV-based Instant Messenger sanity saver.

FISH: Conventional dating is really just a waste of time. You go through intense pageant-like auditions, and even if you win, it’s only to discover that the sash is itchy, the crown is heavy and the prize pack sucks SO bad that you wish you’d just stayed home in your PJs.
GOLDNER: That’s not a very romantic thing to say, H.
FISH: Well! Dating is not a romantic sport!
GOLDNER: Maybe you’re thinking of bocce.

Maybe I was thinking of bocce. Or maybe, being a die-hard, mushy romantic and a new convert to realism is a bit trickier than I had thought.

Having been hungover with realism a handful of times, I now get somewhat nervous about romance. See, romance is like charm. Nobody simply is charming, because charm is not a personality trait. It is a behavior. It’s the result of an action that is, to whatever degree, intentional. That doesn’t make it bad, mind you. It just makes it… situational. Charm and romance come with unpredictable permanence. And what they lack in permanence, they make up for in endorphin production.

We do so love a good endorphin rush.

And love? Well, love is different from romance. But we all know that. Love is comforting and sticks around after fights about wet towels on floors and makes inside jokes stay funny far long after their expiration dates. Love doesn’t make me nervous. Getting to love is tricky, though, and for some reason, seems to require this dating pageantry and loads of romantic unpredictability.

Really, all it requires is a bit of faith. But so did religion and we see how well I got along with that.

I told Goldner that this is why god invented Australian tourists. He didn’t think that was very romantic, either.

Last night, I slept with the covers pulled up high around my chin like I did when I was a kid, my head buried in my feather pillows. I left my downy sanctuary only twice – both times to collect a very reluctant Sir Halitosis and drag him back to bed with me. My little mewling security blanket. Say what you will, but the lightning storm that rocked my apartment with sound fury sometime around midnight scared the bejeezus out of me.

Incidentally, when I was a kid, we weren’t allowed to say bejeezus. It sounded too much like Jesus (Oh, the blasphemy!) – who is exactly the one I’m blaming for this current bout of horribly depressing weather. Karma is in charge of my personal relationships, the Universe, my moods and the Baby Jesus is responsible for all things weather-related. I haven’t as yet assigned Buddha a sector, but mostly because he just makes me giggle.

I’m so going to hell. That’s fine, though. I’ve reserved a party room.

My day has reached its apex, and it’s only 9:00 AM.

I came to the office this morning, bearing my contribution to the firm’s disappointing pantry and feeling something like a bizarre bag lady. Hair still wet from a hasty shower, mascara smudged down one cheek and a Gristede’s sack full of plastic flat wear will do that to a girl. As she heard my shoes click-clack past her, my best-good office friend spun around in her chair to say good morning.

“You look skinny!”
“I do?” I looked down, surveying.
“Yes!” she said, “Skinny-winny.”

That’s it, I thought. I should pack it in now. The day is simply not going to deliver anything better than that.

Yesterday was emotionally taxing. Work itself was a breeze, since I had previously decreed that it was no longer allowed to get me worked into a state, fretful or otherwise. But because I had not explicitly stated that family was on that list as well, my father did his best to keep things from becoming too tranquil.

My parents should keep the stress of their divorce to themselves. But should and do being entirely separate matters, I sometimes find my inbox littered with the spoils of that messy war.

I feel betrayed, my father wrote, that I could love someone so much, and that she could brush off twenty-seven years to go find herself… I’m jealous of your mom; it seems life just works for her.

You have to understand that when it comes to my father, whose emotional development is somewhat… arrested, I usually take great pains to be gentler with him than I would with other people. This tactic basically involves never telling him the truth. You can probably see how that lends itself to counter-productivity. And over-consumption of berry flavored Tums.

That being said, yesterday, my patience for such things was at a minimum. We’ve all had days where we feel as though everyone wants a piece. And not in a good way, either. So, eggshells be damned, I sent the following reply.

I’m sorry that you’re having such a hard time. But you have to realize that life does not “just work” for Mom. Or anyone else for that matter. But this is something I think you should discuss with her. I’m not equipped to deal.

That was that.

And today, I bask in the glow of email silence and the fact that these pants seem to make my ass look fairly fantastic.

Last night, I decided that I’ve had it up to here (insert appropriate gesticulation) with being upset about my job. So, I’m just not going to be. Instead, I shall let other things upset me like, Trim Spa ads and the fact that Hilary Duff has no neck.

Last night, I also decided to watch The Secret Window. Now, I know full well that I am not allowed to watch scary movies**, especially by myself. But I figured, I talk to Sir Halitosis enough that he is sort of like a person, and he has the necessary cuddling capabilities for those extra terrifying moments. He was, however, insufficient as a scary movie buffer.

I didn’t sleep so well.

At some point, I was half tempted to high-tail it to the restaurant Elle and I had dinner at on Saturday evening, to find the waiter and beg him to reissue the complimentary Grappa I had previously declined to drink. Knock me out!

Later, during my post-scary-movie nocturnal wanderings, I got startled by Sir Hal, who I then startled with my (over)reaction. I spent the better part of the next thirty minutes coaxing him out from under the couch. Henceforth, there shall be no more scary movies played at my apartment. Or, for that matter, movies featuring Kirsten Dunst. She’s really a terrible actress.

And she has freakishly tiny teeth.

** Scary movies: movies which do not expressly fall into the category of romance and/or comedy and whose descriptions contain the word thrill, psychological, or spine-tingling.

“Excuse me? Are you of Irish and German descent?”

If that was a pick-up line, it was a weird one. And coming from the fifty-something, bad-breathed man who’d accosted me in the Met yesterday afternoon, it was creepy. Really creepy.

Because it only got creepier.

When, “No, I’m neither German nor Irish” wasn’t enough to make him wander away, I was asked my name, where I had gone to school, what I did for a living and where I lived. I danced artfully around his questions, refraining from direct answers.

How many times do you have to say, “Well, have a nice time” and turn away before someone will actually leave you alone? Three. And then you cease all politeness and walk away from him.

Something about him was very predatory, and my friend and I spent the remainder of our stay in the museum trying to figure out exactly what his angle was. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t going to tell the creepy bastard where I lived, and I certainly wasn’t going to be polite enough to belie just how threatened I felt by him.

I certainly did feel threatened. His body language — the imposing way he angled me off from my friend, his telling me things about himself so I’d feel like we had some kinship.

“He didn’t look at me once,” Elle said.
“I sure did,” I said as we ducked behind a display of amethyst jewels. “I kept hoping you’d say, Listen, Scary Man, we have to go.”

We talked about the experience all the way through an Art Deco exhibit, and then Greek and Roman sculpture. And then outside on the steps while we decided on what to do for dinner, our shudders only momentarily interrupted by a Super Model siting.

I, for one, had been glad the guard in European Decorative Arts had repeatedly flirted with us. You know, so there’d be someone to offer the “Last Seen At” if case we disappeared from the museum and ended up held prisoner in Creepy Man’s cellar.

What do you do when you need to know what the last two H’s in 4-H stand for? You call Camp Pendleton. Marines know these things.

Oh, the wonders I’d have missed had I stuck to my original plan. I had intended to drop by The Smith Family show at Hank’s Saloon, get a wee bit countrified, then zip back home to be in bed at a reasonable hour. But when I left The Gate yesterday evening with two friends in tow, my plan underwent a slight revision. And the new plan involved getting in bed at a much less reasonable hour.

The Reverend Nick predicted that Benjamin and I would rush to our respective homes and write about how late we all stayed out, and while it is worth mentioning that I finally crawled into bed around 3:30 AM, that certainly wasn’t the highlight.

Here are a few:

Jen. Changing clothes. In the middle of the bar.
Finding myself on the phone with Gene the Marine after insisting to Kevin that we needed to know what all four H’s stood for. Uh, why?
Getting lectured by a tourist on correct whiskey consumption.
Declaring that this guy needs a man bag, only to discover he carries his entire life around in the biggest man bag ever. EVER. He had a razor. And cold medicine.
Blah blah blah Stuart blah
Adrian promptly handing over a ten pound note when Krissa suggested, “I bet if we girls started making out we could get ten bucks from every guy in the bar.”
Making the night clerk laugh when I announced that Hooked on Phonics couldn’t help us find the ATM machine, and that beer is bad.
A fanfuckingtastic Smith Family ho-down.

And with that, I’m going to go in search of a sushi menu. It’s pissing down rain and I’m going to be cruel and make someone deliver my lunch. But I’ll over-tip. To make up for the sogginess.

I was named after a porn star.

Okay, not named after so much as my parents, in their alliterative glee, gave me a name which also happens to be that of a fairly prolific and (in certain circles) well-known adult entertainment diva.

I saw my name in lights on the wrong side of Dallas at age 17. I thought it was funny.

I applied for this job and my new employer googled my name only to find porn sites. I still thought it was funny.

I got a phone call from a rather famous architect/educator at work and he immediately asked if I was the HH. I thought it was awkward.

“Good afternoon, this is H.”
“(laughter) What’s your last name?”
“H.”
“Certainly not the same HH who dated Michael Jordan.”
“I think I’d remember that. Who is this?”
“Famous Architect. Yes, I do believe she was a girlfriend of Magic Johnson’s wife…..”
“I’m not going to ask how you know so much about her…”

So, google away my friends… but not at work. I mean, the other HH is not hot enough to risk losing your job.

I have the hiccups and they taste like whiskey.

When I woke up at 5:30 this morning and rushed to the bathroom to wretch my ever living guts out, I knew that, at least for my part, the birthday celebration had been a success. One I’m still paying for.

I had to cancel dinner plans with Blind Date Boy tonight seeing as I have not quite yet returned to eating solid food without overwhelming nausea. And well, I look like ass. I don’t feel like a second date is the proper time to release the This Is Me Hungover look on someone. And while I think he felt like he was getting the runaround, I was really acting in his best interest. He’ll thank me for it later.

Now I’m nibbling at some boysenberry sorbet, still hiccupping whiskey and noticing a slight tremor in my hands. Which totally beat the more than slight tremor I experienced this morning trying to get down several flights of stairs. Ah, the demon liquor.

Many thanks to the great group of friends who made last night’s indoor picnic the excellent time it was, and especially to B for making it possible.

I feel dirty.

It’s so very wrong, but contrary to all my proper intuitions and pre-dispositions on the matter, I actually liked the Ashlee Simpson album. I did. And it shames me.

Yes, Ashleeeeeee “Spell it with EEs” Simpson. I even started singing along which frightened me and forced me to close the web browser streaming her I’m Not Jessica, Angry Girl Rock into my living room.

What’s next in this madness? A newly developed appreciation for Hello Kitty? Will I go out and buy one of those tiny little butt ruffle skirts? Who knows, I might even learn to text message.

I worry about me sometimes.

Sometime around 10:00, the receptionist called to say I had a box at the front desk. Justine and I both jokingly decided that the box (which had been sent next day air) was too heavy to be any thing really good. You know, like, plane tickets to Cabo San Lucas or a check for a million dollars. That sort of thing.

Curious, I opened the box right there in reception. Underneath a substantial layer of crumpled newspaper, I found what is to date the silliest mother present ever.

Ever.

Barbie paper plates. Barbie napkins. Barbie paper cups. Barbie party hats and noise makers. Pink candles. Balloons. Completely non-edible icing cake toppers (also Barbie). Two disposable round baking pans. A cake mix. And pink frosting with sprinkles.

“Now, I have a real present on its way, but it’s been delayed,” my mother said when I called to thank her for the Box of Never-Ending Pink. “I just thought this had to get there on the right day.”

I can’t tell you what a fight I had with myself to refrain from opening the frosting right there in my office. And even despite Goldner’s insistence that frosting was a legitimate food group (TWO legitimate food groups if it has accompanying sprinkles), I held off. Until now. The cake is baked and frosted (albeit not entirely attractive, as I don’t have the patience for the whole two-layer-round-cake bit) and I’m about to help myself to a piece. Or two. I may even light a candle and sing, though that seems rather sad.

Tomorrow night, the actual birthday festivities get underway with some indoor, on the floor dining at Benjamin’s place. It promises to be conspicuously lacking in barroom antics with the scales tipping in favor of good food, good company and a very subtle, Barbie theme.

I might have started to feel bad about being caught in this afternoon’s downpour if I had not just caught the Lewis & Clark feature at the Imax Theater. Even with my arms loaded under the weight of unbridled Bed Bath & Beyonding, I felt I was obliged to take a vow of non-complaint for at least the next forty-eight hours. You know, in respect for Lewis and What’s His Face.

Ah, Meriwether Lewis. I’m sure that in real life he wasn’t nearly as attractive as he was on the big screen at the Natural History Museum. But I’m also quite sure I don’t care. Rugged. Brave. And from his journals, a really swell, sensitive guy. If only I’d lived in 1804. First of all, I’d probably have kept his adventurous spirit a hell of a lot closer than 4,000 miles away.

Enough fantasizing.

I needed this weekend to get my shit together and do some writing. And while I got painful little writing done, my shit is, blissfully, together. Swept, mopped, dusted, eight loads of laundry, shower liner replaced, dishes washed, bed made, closets organized and, did I mention… eight loads of laundry done? I’m feeling like a new woman. Now, if only this new woman didn’t have to go back to work tomorrow. Can’t have everything, I suppose. Though it never stopped me from trying.

It’s my birthday tomorrow. I’ll be twenty-six. I know you all think it’s Tuesday, but that’s all a big trick. And I may as well mention now, that if you’re in any way tempted to send me silly little gifts or flowers or throw confetti on me as I walk down the street… by all means, indulge.

Yesterday’s really hard day came complete with lunch hour not taken and dinner skipped in favor of a shower and some gussying for a certain birthday celebration. A vodka tonic there and two (or was it three?) glasses of wine at Sin-e, and I had adequately fitted myself for quite a nice debilitating hangover.

I have thus spent the day eating things that come in cardboard containers (Anna Maria’s pizza, Ben & Jerry’s strawberry), emptying the contents of my Brita and answering the phone with, “I have a headache.” Somewhere in there, I sorted laundry and made a brave attempt at grocery shopping but found that sunlight was playing mad, mad games with my currently too-small-for-my-brain cranium.

Everything considered, it was well worth it and a vastly improved end to a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (thank you, Judith Viorst).

I donned a pair of pink satin shoes for the evening (what doesn’t go with vintage jeans, I ask you?), and glowing their rosy frivolity, really almost nearly forgot about the fact that I may have made an egregious error moving to New York for The Job That Eats My Soul. You didn’t know it was that bad, did you? Well, it is. And that’s all we’ll say about that.

Anyway, back to the shoes.

They were magic. So much so that they gave me some sort of super powers that allowed me to do something quite un-me like. I went out by myself. I know. Shocking. In all the ways I am fully independent, it has never been something I could do easily . Move to a new city by myself? Sure. Not a problem. But go to a bar, a restaurant or a rock-n-roll show unescorted? That approaches levels of anxiety before unknown to mankind.

But I did it. And I will surely do it again. Maybe even without magical pink shoes. And probably better to do it with a bit of something in my stomach.

If you need me, I’ll be on the couch watching Coupling, Season III.

I’m having a really hard day.

That is all.

It’s ever so nice to see the sky not looking quite so bruised as it has been for the last few days.

Standing in the shower this morning, I looked up at my skylight and was a little surprised to see a bit of blue. Hopeful, I propelled my towel-clad self into the living room too look at weather.com for signs that things were improving. Alas, they are not. Come Tuesday, which should have been my champagne and giggles Birthday Pic-a-nic in Central Park, it will still have been raining for

three
straight
days

The Birthday Pic-a-nic idea is thus ruined. And frankly, this makes me pouty. Blind Date Boy (who really does need a better moniker) has suggested wedding tents rather than ditch the idea completely. But that does present a bit of a funding problem and so now I’m looking for suggestions as to alternative locations. Here are my requirements:

Alcohol
Lounginess (If we must be indoors, let us be comfortable)
Manhattan (It’s my birthday. I’m not schlepping)

Okay, maybe that’s it. The birthday Pic-a-nic started as a rather intimate affair – a couple dozen folks, some blankets, champagne and Shiv’s tastily reputed potato salad – mostly because I was going to be providing the booze. Moving the event indoors certainly does open up the birthday extravaganza to more debauchery. Being the plus side of the whole catastrophe.

Anyway, suggest away. The winning suggestion will get something really super cool.

Note: Yeah, there was a post up there earlier. Yeah, it was ranty and bitchy and it felt really, really, really incredibly good to write. But, um… I’ve never been one to be comfortable being mean, so I took it down. But, I’ll email it to you if you like! Because I still don’t like that girl.
Note in the Second: Thirty-eight email requests in one hour? You kids NEED a good rant. It is therefore re-instated. And my apolgoies for any hurt feelings, but mine were hurt first. So there.

Okay, so onward:

One of the warmest, fuzziest feelings in the world is knowing someone is thinking of you when you’re not around.

Last night, I came home, rained on and angry, to find a package on my doorstep. There was no return address. Curious, I tore it open. Inside were a CD and a note.

Dear H,

I think of you every time I listen to this. Hope you like it!
Happy Birthday, Suckah.

Love,
J

I popped the gifted album into my shower CD player and turned on the water. Mid-shower it crossed my mind (for the millionth time) that for all J’s unique and annoying quirks, he really does know me. Maybe better than anyone.

The music was mellow, and great – some artist whose name I can’t remember now. But I was remembered, and that’s the important part.

“Someone must have really screwed you over!”

The conversation went forward without me for a minute as I sat thinking of approximately thirty-seven ways I could cause the girl bodily harm with a pair of chopsticks.

Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine.

The topic was dating and she was knee-deep in a melodramatic tale that had begun with, “I’m dating two men!” Details aside (which really made me shake my head at this girl’s definition of “dating”), I didn’t quite see the moral dilemma and offered the following:

“There are no rules. Date like a man. I doubt either of those guys would be putting this much worry into it. Especially after ONE date.”

That’s when she, a very near stranger, decided I was wounded and bitter. I was tired. I found her intensity annoying. And I was having a hard time accepting that having been out on one date with each of two men in the last twenty-four hours actually constituted dating. But bitter? Jesus. I thought I was playing at realism. The modern girl’s guide to dating.

Yes, I’ve been screwed over. We’ve all been screwed over. Having a less-than-Disney view of the dating game does not mean I’m a black-hearted she-beast. Cramming chopsticks down some loud girl’s throat? THAT would make me a black-hearted she-beast.

All I have to say is, thank god for Shiv who leapt into Safety Barrier Mode, changed the conversation and saved this unsuspecting girl from a fate worse than the extreme moral perversion of going on two dates in one week.

Seriously, either keep me away from that girl, or keep the utensils off the table.

For the second time in just as many days, I scribbled a strange man’s phone number onto a sticky note and ventured out to meet him for coffee. But this time, it wasn’t a date.

This was academia.

I had nearly let this man’s email fall into the slush pile of my inbox unanswered, but Ari had already met with him, deemed him not a psycho and vouched for the legitimacy of his project. So, I went. I was very curious about what I would have to add to the research of someone from the BlahBlah School of … Economics.

My blog could have less to do with economics, but that would be pretty tricky. I mean, it’s pink, for god’s sake. I only passed Econ by flirting and my checking account zeros out on a regular basis. But fortunately for both of us, his project focused on the sociality of blogging.

Social? I dig social. On with the questions!

For the next hour, I got to talk about… myself (a topic I’m very comfortable with), my blogging friends and neighbors (ditto) and blogging as journalism (something I’ve thought about but never really discussed).

A lot of us in this nerdy little community of web writers either wanted to be journalists or still want to. I know I went to college with that intention, but came out with a degree in Spanish and ended up in a corporate cell. Saying I’m a blogger may be as close as I come to saying, I’m a writer. Maybe I do this so I don’t feel like I gave up writing entirely. Maybe I do it to have a place to bitch about boys. Or to meet people.

Can’t wait to read this guy’s paper to find out the answer to that.

The other night, I made a startling personal discovery.

I like girls.

Actually, Krissa and I discovered that we both like girls. Blogger girls. And so we’ve been scheming. If you’re female, a blogger, and inclined in any way to come sip cosmos and bond with your sisters in the blogosphere, please express interest below. Details will follow.

Pinky swear.