I’ve basically been laying flat on my back since 5:30 AM, getting up only to take more pain killers or refill ice bags.

While, yes, I am still in pain, I have a bit more mobility. My right leg is no longer numb, but I can’t turn my head to the right. My right shoulder? KILLING me. I would sell my unborn children for a massage.

And because desperation also has a funny side, I’d like to share it. You know, to alleviate this tension.

In my desperation, I actually reached out for my G2 Mini Massager, aka my um… vibrator. I turned it on and put it on my swollen, sore shoulder. What? There is no one to give me a massage! What do you want me to do? I already tried petting the cat into a purring frenzy and then draping him across my back. That worked for heat as well, but he’s not as patient as The Pocket Rocket.

Anyway, there you have it. I hope that made you laugh. I’m going to go lie down again and wish I was married, thus eliminating one use for the aforementioned device. Cause when you’re married, someone’s totally obligated to pick your ass up off the bathroom floor and massage your sore spots till you fall asleep.

I have been awake all night long.

It happened sometime around 11:00 last night while I was brushing my teeth. I lifted my arm to do whatever one does while brushing one’s teeth, and felt a strange buzzy feeling in my shoulder. The buzzy feeling radiated down the right side of my back and up my neck until the next thing I was really aware of, I was lying in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. Absolutely unable to move.

Now, in time of crisis such as this, a girl with no health insurance must ask herself one question. What do I do?

Almost six hours later, after various stages of distress, I managed to get off the floor and into bed.

I had a headache last night. Not just any headache… the debilitating type of headache which sends a girl to bed early on a Saturday night, and leaves her overnight guest to spend the rest of the night in self-amusement. Which in this apartment, that means the internet… and Kitten II.

Getting ready this morning, I was making kissy faces at the bathroom mirror making sure my lip gloss was sufficiently glossy, when I heard,

“I am going to miss you so much!”

And I knew it wasn’t meant for me. Kitten II’s charm had won over yet another defenseless soul.

He’s not much to look at. Beyond being quite tiny for his age (seven months today), and missing his eyebrows on one side (an unfortunate close call with a heating pipe), he’s really quite ordinary. But once you are across my threshold, he will develop such an enormous crush on you, lavishing you with such great attention as though to say, “you are the only person in the world worthy of my love.” And you will believe him. Then you will try to smuggle him out of my apartment in your purse, under your jacket or disguised as a new fur stole.

He’s just that good.

And when he yawns and stretches and pats your face with his little white paw as you bend down to say your goodbyes, you can almost hear him say it…

Y’all come back now, ya hear?

And you totally will.

Today I went un-shopping.

Not familiar?

Un-shopping is when you (you, who have spent simply WAY too much money in the last few weeks) return items that are still living in their bags, attached to price tags, and taking up room on your already too small bedroom floor.

Maybe it was the shock of writing the rent check, but I had a heart-to-heart with myself over the matter and decided that no girl should buy things she doesn’t really even want, just as means of retail therapy. It’s an idea I’m going to try out for a while.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

I was tickled pink just to be invited to the events surrounding the release of the book, but when its editor, Daniel Jones told me that he thinks thisfish.com is “just the best-written thing,” I could have tripped with giddiness. Okay, I did trip. But that was when I ran back to tell my friends about the compliment.

The best-written thing? Do go on!

With the amazing Biscuit and New Work Friend at my side, I followed Daniel and his entourage (including his wife, Cathi, who is most exceptionally charming) to the release party at Fez. Wine and beer were on the house, but of course being me, I went straight for the hard stuff.

During the reading at the Astor Place Barnes & Noble, I had something of an evil moment. Or two. I tend to lose count. Anyway, one of the contributors (a rather self-assured, perpetual bachelor type) read an excerpt of his essay, which he prefaced with the warning that it would be misogynistic. And by the end, I leaned over to my companion and declared, “This makes me want to date him, and destroy him.” But, the night passed without my having made his acquaintance, thus rendering him safely out of harm’s way.

At home, I introduced New Work Friend to the world of This Fish, and once I was alone, read a bit more of the book. Flipping through each section to check out the other epigrams, I almost choked on my swiss and tomato omelet.

Each of the four sections begins with a quote (mine being at Section III. “Bicycles for Fish”).

The others epigrams were by:

Richard M. Nixon
Steve Martin

And…

God. (Genesis, I believe)

Any book that puts my wisdom on par with those guys is fine by me. Or, maybe there’s really no one with any sort of real clout who would say anything half as snarky as I on the subject.

Who cares? I’m an epigram!

My level of thrilled-ness went up a few more notches, which, considering I’d thought it reached its apex at being introduced as a “contributor,” made me feel as though I had to go lie down. Or, maybe it was the hour.

It was way past my bed time.

Kitten II defrosted the freezer again today.

I was just in from the night’s book-related festivities (which I’ll talk about in the morning), and taken my sore feet across the road to pick up some non-liquid vanilla ice cream and suddenly, my very empty stomach had a very distinct craving.

And that is how I ended up in Gracie’s Diner, waiting for a Swiss cheese and tomato omelet — to go.

The man on the other side of the Formica counter top called me sweetheart in a way that was neither suggestive nor condescending. Merely… perfunctory.

“Something to drink while you wait, sweetheart? Juice? Water?”

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee?”

I’m sure I sighed audibly. “Oh, yes. Coffee. Please. Decaf?”

“Of course, my dear.”

He filled the tiny pitcher with fresh cream and slid the sugar over. I wrapped my unmanicured fingers around the white ceramic and took a deep breath. Go, go, go had suddenly become full stop. For me anyway. The frenzy of activity continued around me, the short order cook, the manager and the delivery staff shouting back and forth to one another.

It was hard not to notice that for a place called Gracie’s, it was surprisingly… male. I imagined that Gracie herself had already put in a full day and was at home, reading a good book. In a hot bath.

My food was ready and my cup drained, so I left a tip for the coffee and made my way to the register to pay.

“That’s a very nice necklace. You look very pretty.”

Again, innocuous. Harmless. Complimentary.

“Thank you.” I smiled. “Have a good night.”

“You too, dear. You sleep well. Enjoy your food.”

I thanked the nice man again and flip-flopped my way across the street.

Yesterday, I went to Bloomingdale’s.

You read: Yesterday, she went to Bloomingdale’s and spent even more money like the vapid, fiscally irresponsible tart that she is.

I mean: Yesterday, I went to Bloomingdale’s and overcame one big ass grudge.

In November of 2002, on one of many weekend trips to the Big Apple, someone lifted my debit card and emptied my checking account at Bloomingdale’s. Emptied my checking account… which rolled over into my savings account… and all in all, after a stop at Bvlgari, the treacherous wench had taken me for a three and a half thousand dollar ride.

The fine folks at — count them — six of their cash registers failed to check signatures or ID. Thus, I swore I’d never give them my business. That’ll teach ‘em, right?

Well, yesterday, I finally let bygones be bygones, and took my patronage to Bloomies. It had been a year and a half, after all. I realized that the whole swearing grudges thing really was pretty juvenile.

Besides, um… I needed sunglasses and it’s on my way home.

Now, mind you, previous to the whole grudge-forming incident, I had never been in Bloomingdale’s. I’d seen the bags with their understated smugness, the billboards, the store front and the shiny glass doors that let you in from the 59th street subway stop. But until yesterday, never had I seen inside.

I was completely unprepared.

Some time around 6:30 (Eastern Standard Time) my sequined flip flops hit the tile on the other side of those shiny glass doors. They rode up those escalators, and…

Why didn’t anyone tell me about that place? I mean, really tell me? It was like finally forsaking the Sugar Busters Diet at a dinner party hosted by Willy Wonka!

I’ve got a golden ticket!

Two pair of sunglasses later (along with a few other pretty little baubles), I had to escort myself right back through those shiny doors and into the dingy subway. I’d seen what happened to Violet. And Veruca. And that Augustus Gloop kid. I, for one, was getting out of there before I got sucked up into some big pipe never to be heard from again.

Because, after all, I needed to live — unencumbered by gallons of chocolate milk — to tell the world a tale of sweet, sweet forgiveness and unparalleled shopping bliss.

And to show off my new pink Ralph Lauren shades, of course.

Come with me
and you’ll be
In a world of pure imagination

I stood on the Lexington Express this morning gripping the cold metal pole and pleading with whoever is in charge of such things, not to let me faint.

I’d had my breakfast. I’d taken my vitamins. It’s just that this illness, whatever it is, has finally left my throat and now made a permanent settlement in my chest. And this morning, it began stealing the air supply from my brain.

Girl you’re every woman in the world to me…

No, not that Air Supply. I mean the one in charge of keeping me capable of cognitive reasoning and maintaining basic life functions. Like remaining vertical on a downtown train.

Ordinarily I would just buy myself something and I’d be all cured. But this seems a wee bit heartier of an illness. It’s got staying power. I mean, I’ll still try going to Bloomingdale’s at lunch to buy a much-needed pair of sunglasses, but I’m without much hope that it’s going to cure me.

My skin is flushed, my heart is racing, and not in a good way either. Have I mentioned my health insurance doesn’t kick in for another two full months?

Gah.

Okay, it’s finally here for real now, kids. It’s… Book Day!

The Bastard on the Couch hits shelves today (and the e-shelves at Amazon).

It’s alive!

Congrats to its fine editor, Daniel Jones and many wishes that it follows its predecessor to Best Seller-ness.

As this may be the closest I ever come to being published (aside from gracing the pages of Columbia University’s Journal of Law & Arts — thank you, Paul), you had better get your collective ass out there and pick up a copy. Or at least go look at it.

I’m on page 131.

I take the same approach to life that many type-A personalities take to driving. Impatient, frustrated… that’s really only the beginning. There’s the break-tapping and the swerving and the obscene gestures out the window.

Outta their way! They want to get there already!

I have gripped the ‘oh shit’ handle in the passenger seat of my mother’s Saturn wishing to god that woman would just relax. I mean, we’ll get there when we get there. No sense in dying in a fiery inferno just to be the next in line to get the Old Navy item of the week, right?

In much the same way, my friends must have been sitting by, watching me careen through the last few months thinking, “Shit woman, can’t you just relax?”

The answer, of course, being no. No I can’t. Not in the grand scheme of things anyway.

When life takes a new direction, I want to get there, and I want to get there now.

You know, wherever ‘there’ is.

In 1980-something, when the summers saw me shuttling between my house and her Bear Valley condo, my grandmother bought me a red Care Bear suitcase that, next to smiling bears with iconic tummies, bore the words, “Getting there is half the fun.” And I remember thinking even then that, no, getting there was not half the fun. Getting there is a whole lot of waiting.

And I hate waiting.

Take picking up and moving to New York, for example. I was completely mystified, when after day two or three, I wasn’t fully established in my new life. It was a full out assault to my pride — an insult to my life-coping skills — that I was still emotionally (and very often physically) lost.

(Stupid R train.)

At any rate, it occurred to me just now, sitting with Kitten the Second curled up in my lap, that I will never quite agree with those smug, portly bears with sunshines and rainbows on their bellies, and that had I ever really been the sort to just relax, I may never have made it this far at all.

Being compulsive, neurotic and having irrationally high expectations for myself works for me. So put that in your Care Bear Stare and uh…

smoke it?

Living in New York City, it takes very little time to come to some very important realizations:

You need new shoes. Lots of new shoes. Stepping down 5th Avenue to whichever lunchtime errand destination, it will occur to you that your almost-new Steve Madden sling-backs are already horribly passé. So, you must replace them. With three other pair. And you must not keep the receipts.

You drink too much. Even if you don’t really, you must because how on earth did you spend $75 in Brooklyn on a Friday night?

You’re not so concerned with modesty as you used to be. Missing shades on the kitchen window? Not such a big deal. Who cares that your balding, gawking neighbor sees you wandering to the bathroom in nothing but thong underwear. It’s probably good for his heart, and it’s not like you’ll ever meet him.

You spend too much money. While completely out of line with realization number one, savings can be scrimped from other areas such as… groceries. Which leads us to the next realization.

You are too fat. Even if you’re not, you simply are. You will have nightmares about double chins. You will constantly think your ankles are too thick. Why? Because you’re comparing yourself to a whole new brand of female now. The fur coat wearin’, finely coiffed New York City Socialite Bitch. She’s everywhere and she lives for no other reason than to make you feel ugly.

You need coffee. Need. It’s now one of the ingredients in your blood. Oxygen, Hemoglobin, Colombian Supremo…

You love take-out.

Your new job is your life. Stop whining. Get used to it. Get to like it even.

And when you wake up one morning and find yourself just a little bit altered, you’d better like that, too. ‘Cause that’s who you are now.

I bought a box of Popsicles yesterday afternoon, and by the same hour today, they were gone. In contrast, my sore throat was not.

I’d already been feeling a bit under the weather when I traipsed out to Brooklyn in the rain to see the oh-so-very talented Shiv perform at Boudoir Bar. A couple glasses of wine into the night, and I felt all but cured. So imagine my surprise and dismay when yesterday morning, I woke up sans voice and sporting a bit of a fever.

Now, in the past, I’ve been fooled by alcohol into thinking I was more attractive than I was. Funnier. More charming. But never more healthy. It’s usually quite the opposite. Nothing convinces me half as completely that I’m two steps from death’s door than one too many sips of a badly mixed vodka tonic.

The only solid food I’ve had today was a fortune cookie bearing the phrase, “You find beauty in ordinary things.” Fat lot of good that does me at the moment. I’m clean out of Popsicles and I’ve finished my book. Couldn’t it have said something like,

“A brutally handsome man will drop by your apartment with Popsicles and an advanced copy of Season III of Coupling. At 8:30.”

That would be lots more useful.

PS. For those who must know, Tim the Australian Tourist called yesterday to say that he was off on yet another leg of his journey (London, I believe) and so, I will have to find something else to pique your curiosities. And meanwhile, if there are any London gals in need of a good… apartment christening… you know where to leave a message.

I stand on Houston Street, the rain pulling at my wool-blend blazer.

He watches me catch the heel of my pale pink stiletto in a sewer grate and begins to raise his window. I let out a sigh of relief. This cabby does not care where I am going. He feels sorry enough for me, standing in the drizzle, that I’m willing to bet he’d drive me to the gas station on the next block if that’s what I wanted.

We’re equally lucky, though, I think as I tell him the address. It’s far, and I’m a very generous tipper.

The cab driver seems to put the car into auto-pilot as we make our way to the Upper East side. “It’s so early,” he says. “Your night is already over?”

“I’m tired,” I say. “And my feet hurt.”

“It is those shoes!” His accent is as thick as the fog around my brain. How many glasses of wine did I have?

I laugh. You’re damn straight, it’s the shoes.

I begin to have graphic fantasies about going home and taking off the offending articles. And once safely inside my apartment, I do just that. I start with the shoes and make my way up, dropping pieces of clothing as I make my way to the bedroom. A brief detour in the bathroom leaves my jeans draped over the shower curtain rod. I actually hang my bra on the coat rack in my tiny hallway.

So tired. So tipsy.

A pajama search would require too much effort, so I grab some lingerie from the inside of the closet door. I dress as I head to the living room to write about my evening. But the thoughts I’d had about sorority and femininity are all beginning to taste like sweet Riesling and I realize I am so very tired.

It will have to wait.

If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go slip into something more comfortable.

Like my bed.

This is one of those days that makes a gal wish with all her might that she had a hammock in her office. Or, that she were a FemBot and had smoke coming out of her jumblies.

You know, to break up the monotony.

So much wishing, so few results.

In New York City, Hyenas wear dark suits, cobalt blue shirts and ties of varying hues. They hover around watering holes, instinctively draining over-priced cocktails and imported beer, and though huddled in groups, each is aware that it is every man for himself as they keep close tabs on the prey they stalk from behind designer eye wear.

The Serengeti of Bryant Park’s outdoor café is abuzz at dusk, teeming with double-breasted, double-vented Hyenas and their respective prey, carefully balanced on over-priced heels and toting imported handbags. The prey saunter up to the watering hole, the Hyenas leave their packs, and the circle of life is yet again completed.

In New York City, the well-educated and well-paid corporate ladder climbers lean against the facades of their Madison Avenue office buildings, taking hasty drags of their cigarettes (there’s no time for lunch), and leer at women. They appraise each feature without any measure of subtlety, loudly voicing their appreciation for that which appeals to them. “And she’s got the legs, too” one calls out in a thick Brooklyn accent. Instantly, my mind’s eye replaces his expensive, nicely-tailored charcoal suit with a brown velour jogging suit and gold chains. He could be called David, or Alexander for all I know. But now, he is a Joe Jr., or a Lou.

Lou calls me sweetheart as I pass, and I shake my head. While his fancy costume belies the cheap, classless undercarriage of a being whose only real purpose in life is to chase tail, my apparently sweet face, glossy black coat and trendy shoes hide the soul of a girl who has absolutely no problem removing his genitalia and sucking it through a straw.

Don’t call me sweetheart.

Tim the Australian Tourist is getting personal messages on this site. (see comments from this entry)

One night here and he’s getting comments? That’s brilliant!

It never occurred to me that I’d hear from the Tourist after Sunday morning (or was it afternoon?), much less that I’d be getting message FOR him.

What was once a one-woman show is now an international message service.

Before I put another notch in my lipstick case
You better make sure you put me in my place

I fully admit that on many levels, I am a walking contradiction.

Tidy to the point that, save for actual diagnosis, I could very well print the letters OCD after my name, the way some follow with Jr. or Esq. But to throw a spoke in the wheels of true cleanliness, it takes me months to get around to doing my laundry. Months. I don’t know anyone who owns three clothes hampers. I don’t really think I know anyone else who needs three clothes hampers. It’s just that, the same voice urging me to clean my kitchen stove with a Q-tip fails to say anything in regard to the amassing pile of worn-once clothing.

Contradiction.

And as I stood on the 4 Express this morning, rocking out to Pat Benetar, I took stock of my contradictory behaviors and philosophies on the love front as well. Now, here is where I start laughing at myself. You know, for using the word ‘love’ with regard to my associations with men.

See, I totally have a thing for men who treat me carelessly. I dig them. But, not on a conscious level, of course, because I’m the first to go on endless rants about insensitive pricks.

Send me a man who understands right off that there’s definitely more to this girl than meets the eye and suddenly, I’m a frigid bitch. But throw me a fella who can’t possibly appreciate me, and I’ll work harder than a piano mover to keep him on the line.

Why?

Because if I don’t have to work for it, it can’t possibly be worth anything. Duh.

Leave me flowers on my doorstep, and I’ll forget to return your calls. But make everything a priority over me and my heart is yours. Besides, the nice ones don’t fight back, which really takes the sport out of the whole thing anyway.

It’s so very Aiden versus Mr. Big, I know. But at least I can admit it. And it does give me something to do when I’m not cleaning the stove with Q-tips.

This Fish. It’s like Sex and the City, only with far inferior footwear.

I could really use a good, strong drink right about now. Or ice cream. And a hug. And a new, black linen suit.

But I’d totally settle for the hug.

I’d like to send a formal “welcome back” to my waistline, now that I’m seeing signs of its return from wherever it had been spending its winter holiday. After work, I will force myself to stop by the gym to take care of the necessary membership transfer. You know, to adios these, shall we say, substantial thighs and backside. Not that I really have anything against their Rubenesque proportions, but with the return of the thinner waistline, I’m beginning to get Cease and Desist orders from J-Lo’s people.

(Too many cooks in the kitchen, as it were. Some girls just can’t deal with a little healthy competition.)

Monday night being Manicure Night, I tidied up the kitchen and headed to the salon down the street for perhaps the worst French manicure in the history of the art. Here I was thinking the very purpose of a French manicure was to appear somewhat natural, while at the same time preserving that, “I’m sorta high maintenance look,” and I came outta that place with hands that would make Tammy Faye Baker look subtle. And when the thick, gloppy mess hadn’t dried an hour later, off it came. If I wanted cheap, prostitute hands, I’d have given myself a manicure. For free.

Oh, aren’t we touching on the real meaty subjects today? I’d like to, really, but I’m practicing avoidance.

As some of you know (and I give a nod toward the gang up in Boston), my father makes threats of suicide from time to time — this being one of those times, what with the one-year anniversary of The Great Divorce approaching. So, between the Sibling Defense League, emails fly, cell phone minutes get used up (as do greater amounts of over-the-counter sleep aids), and my stalwart brother has to traipse over to relieve my NRA-loving father of his firearm. At least this time, he has not disappeared.

So, dear reader, as I do my utmost to deal with my situation in the way I deem most appropriate (*cough cough* ignore it and maybe it will go away *cough*), you’ll simply be subject to my dissertations on the weighty matters of life, like, lip gloss and leg lifts.

Tomorrow’s topic? The Brazilian Wax. (I need a new aesthetician. Any recomendations?)

There seemed to be this phenomenon that once you abandoned the living room (your coffee in tow) and joined the brunch table, you became part of a collective, brilliantly dirty mind. The more of Krissa’s fabulous quiche and potatoes you ingested, the less inclined you were to make conversation not steeped in innuendo. I’m fairly certain that somewhere, going about her Sunday activities in her sensible shoes, my mother was blanching with maternal shame. Where did her daughter get such a mouth?

The collective mind, full of food and bloody marys (juice for me, as I still had the previous night’s alcohol playing games with my head), retired to the living room for some quality time with the Sunday paper. I am now fully convinced that the New York Times crossword puzzle was meant to be a group effort. And the group couldn’t have been any better equipped. Krissa’s entourage was all I’d expected and more. Shiv, who is perhaps the most luminous of beings I’ve met in a very long time, Biscuit, whose mother probably didn’t name him that, and Bill, whose train of thought is ever-so-amusingly easily derailed, provided hours of very charming entertainment.

When Shiv asked at some point in our revelries, “Can we keep you?” I was so delighted I nearly had to ask for a moment to myself. “Oh, do please! I’d love to be kept!” And when Biscuit announced that he liked me, I think I actually blushed.

But the high point for this silly girl came on the subway ride home, when the most charming man ever to be named after an English cookie, told me that I had lovely canine teeth. I spent the remainder of the ride giggling with my hand over my mouth, completely absorbed in my own dentia. And why didn’t I have a mirror in my purse to check those puppies out for myself? Lovely canine teeth. Lovely canine teeth. I have lovely canine teeth.

I am so very unstoppable.

Being “brunched” is a very, very good thing.

When we have time to sit down over coffee and dish, I am totally going to tell you the story about last night.

I won’t skip any of the good details about Tim, the charming Australian tourist, his friends, Tim II, Big Haired Guy and Ollie, and a string of bars in the East Village at 3AM. I’ll tell you about the American girl in the red coat who took us to what can only loosely be called “after-hours,” at some entertainment lawyer’s seriously swank apartment on 14th Street. You may doubt my story momentarily when I describe this apartment to you, and I get to the part about the sauna and the patio and the cocaine and the host’s ceaseless offers of alcohol and sex.

I’ll make sure you know that I had nothing to do with cocaine, because, even as well as we know one another, you’ll need that sort of reassurance. Now, the Australian Tourist, that’s another matter. But as far as I know, the dangers inherent with large doses of Aussies are far less than with high-end illegal substances.

I could be wrong.

Cats are, by their very nature, pains in the ass.

Unlike dogs, they do not care if they please you. They do not care if you like them. And they do not care if walking across your keyboard for the umpteenth time sends the message, “ddddfffffffwwwwwwwi” to your instant message partner.

Kitten the Second, being no exception, is a pain in the ass. But a very charming one. Last night, when I got under the covers, so did Kitten the Second. Under the sheets he went and then he stuck his little paws and nose out from under the comforter and went to sleep. I stared at him for a second, said outloud to my television audience, “You have got to be kidding,” put down my book and went to sleep.

Weirdo.

Good friends from Boston came in this afternoon for a visit, and after I spent an ugodly amount of money at Banana Republic this morning, I met them at Grand Central Station. After Indian food and an not-so nap in Central Park with them and the Original Big City Galpal, home I went for a nap with KII.

And now, I’m rallying for a night on the town. Supposedly, we’re leaving in thirty minutes, but unless there’s some bippity boppity boo shit about to happen, that doesn’t seem likely.

Where are my dancing shoes?

Two very wonderous things arrived at my apartment today.

1. The book, that on page 133 features a quote by yours truly. I’d say I couldn’t be more excited, but truthfully, its arrival has been a wee bit overshadowed by the arrival of

2. Kitten the Second, who is sleeping in my lap at this very moment. Chosen for features completely opposite of Kitten’s but still posessing ridiculous amounts adorableness, I was smitten from glance one. Even Crazy Passive Aggressive Lady at the ASPCA couldn’t talk me out of Kitten the Second. For some reason, CPAL wanted me to take home an octogenarian cat that practically wore a sign that said, “Will die as soon as you get me home.” Kitten the Second, on the other hand, is only six months old and wears a sign that says, “Please do not stop holding me because I like to chew on your hair.” Which is fine by me. Also fine by me is that Kitten II (you know, like a Pharoah, only with more hair), is equally as taken with my ASPCA partner, Ari. Meaning, he has good taste.

So, there you have it. I’m going to peel myself away from my new velcro kitten and make myself a Boca Burger. Then Kitten II (who is now sleeping in one of my pink Old Navy flip flops) and I are going to read.

Incidentally (there it is again!) the book features my real, full name. Get it while it’s hot kitties! Kiddies? Whatever.

If a boy thinks a girl is pretty, his pupils will expand when he sees her. It’s simple science.

And if a boy likes a girl, he may go all the way across town to return her umbrella. And if he is trying to impress her, he may leave that umbrella at her front door. With flowers.

And if a boy is really trying to confuse a girl, the umbrella may turn out not to be her cheap, only semi-functional umbrella, but a new, better one entirely.

You know, in theory.

Yesterday I came home from work in the rain with a knot of worry filling up my stomach. After spending the day over-caffeinated and trying to mesh piles of work with what I am certain is Adult Onset ADD, I felt absolutely sure that today’s meeting with the Pres would go a little something like this:

President: You sure oversold yourself.
H: But… but!
President: Yeah, you know, I hope that bathtub gig is a sure thing because you’re really not worth our cash.
H: *sigh* Can I at least have another cup of coffee before I go?

But instead, it went a little something like this:

President: Okay, I know it’s a lot, but I’m on a plane to Italy in… two hours… and the following things have to go out tonight. (Insert very long list here)
H: Okay.
President: You sure you’re going to remember all that?
H: *laugh* Have you seen the lists I keep?
President: True. Things going okay?
H: Uh, yeah.
President: You’re doing great work.

Hear that? I’m doing great work! That’s news to me, kids. I mean, it’s no secret that I have a skewed body image. But I usually have a pretty good grasp on just how smart I am (or am not). And while I have only been there two and a half weeks, I have been feeling like I should have a better grasp on things at the New Job. You know, be the model of efficiency. Know everything about everything. Like I did at the Monkey Firm.

I keep trying to tell myself I’ll get there eventually. All in good time. But, well, I’m a rather impatient woman and ‘eventually’ is really not one of my favorite words. ( Not like incidentally.)

And today, at long last, was pay day. I didn’t get to take time for lunch today, but I sure as hell took five minutes to deposit my paycheck (direct deposit hasn’t kicked in) at the Fleet down the block. I, personally, have never seen a paycheck that big. And perhaps that’s one of the reasons I feel insecure about my work performance. The check was twice what I was making a year ago, but I don’t feel like I’m twice as smart or doing work twice the caliber. So, minus an explanation, I chose to feel like a complete waste of corner office space.

So, anyway, now that the stomach knot has decided to shrink a bit, there seems to be room in there for some chocolate chip cookies. And I’m feeling adventurous. Let’s see what it’s like to bake in the Smallest Kitchen God Ever Made.