“See, I told you that it’s all out with the old.”

“It is not! I bought new sheets. I didn’t even throw out the old ones.”

“You will. You’ll get rid of everything and start over.”

“Everything but you.”

“Shut up. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. It makes my stomach hurt.”

So we didn’t talk about it over shellfish antipasto or later over warm pudding cake and vanilla ice cream. Or in the car on the way back to Boston from the South Shore. Or at least, I tried not to.

“Look, there’s gonna be a Target there.”

“Awesome.”

“Shut up. You don’t even care because you’re not going to BE here!”

“Can we go back to the part where you’re sad that I’m leaving and not so… mean?”

“No. I’m going to be mean to you until you move.”

“Fair enough.”

I haven’t not worked since I was 17 years old, so I’m relishing this.

My first day not contributing to the Gross National Product began with a very long shower, a facial and fresh strawberries — my totally organic experience.

I’ve since turned into the Mad Packer and tackled the hall closet, living room and bathroom. Dear god, I have so much stuff. Useless stuff. For instance, I don’t use hair products, yet there under the bathroom sink is a plethora (yes, you may say I have a plethora) of mousse and gel-ish products. And velcro rollers. All reminders of my ultra high maintenance phase. We won’t even touch the big drawer o’ forgotten cosmetics.

I’m getting pretty giddy about the whole moving thing. New job, new apartment. I’m also pretty nervous about next Monday, if you must know. I haven’t been the new kid in years. I had the Monkey Firm all broken in and I imagine that half the shit I pulled there just won’t fly on Fifth Avenue. I suppose I’ll simply have to reinvent my shit. In fact, this whole move seems something of a reinvention.

Wonder who I’ll pretend to be this time.

It was Pretty People day at Stop n’ Shop today.

It seemed as though Ken and Barbie were everywhere. And me with my hangover. I barely managed to make it down the aisles, much less do it in style. When throwing ‘em back last night turned into throwing ‘em up this morning, I was proud of myself for even getting out of the house in the first place.

Sigh. What can ya do?

From what I understand, J dedicated his set to me last night. I dont’ know first hand, because I didn’t stick around long enough to actually hear the band play. Too many J ex-girlfriends in one bar for my liking.

Gah. You know what? I’m going to stop right here. My head still hurts and my tummy is burning and I’m having a terrible time putting together a decent post. Let’s regroup and meet back here tomorrow. Mmm kay?

In an hour or so, I’m going to have to trade in my overalls for something a little less Beverly Hillbillies so that I can join the party already in progress. I have some mixed feelings about seeing the Fireman again. It’s just really a shame to spoil hot memories of a summer fling with… reality. But so be it.

I’m not shaving my legs. Okay, maybe I will but I am not cleaning my room.

Yesterday’s going away party has had me feeling a bit low. The party itself was great. My Intern Extraordinairre put together a soundtrack that played along with images of New York City projected on the lobby walls. There was NY style Cheesecake and Billy Joel singing Uptown Girl. There were good stories and lots of laughs.

And then the good-byes started happening. I hadn’t been watching the clock. They just sort of snuck up on me.

David and I haven’t really had much to do with each other since we broke up in my office two years ago. But when he hugged me and kissed me good-bye with a sort of familiarity that made the room stop, he said, “You know, if they don’t treat ya right, you can always come back.”

I had my fifth glass of wine and the left the building with my two best work gals. We stood on the sidewalk, dressed alike (oh, yes, we’d gotten the memo) and reminisced until the wind sent us scurrying. And when I got home, mascara streaked face, drunk and sad, Roommate was graceful enough to let me slip into my room for the rest of the evening. You’d think I’d have been thrilled to leave the Monkey Firm. Instead, I felt like I should have been asking them all to sign my yearbook.

Stay cool. Don’t change.

But I’m awfully glad I have.

My first Friday at the Monkey Firm, I sucked helium from a balloon and sang Annie’s Song.

My last Friday will be very different. I’ve grown up in the last few years. At this social, I’ll be sucking on a martini and singing New York, New York. I don’t think there will be any balloons.

I’ve already cried twice this morning. As much as I hate the monkey firm, I do work with some really great monkeys.

I sing in the shower.

Okay, I sing fairly loudly in the shower, and yet it took me months to realize that Roommate was audience to my early morning routines. Once, after belting out a relatively decent rendition of LeAnn Rimes’ Blue (completely oblivious to the fact that I was being heard), I threw on a robe and headed toward the kitchen where my country-lovin’ roommate was making coffee.

“Damn, girl!”
“Ha! Okay, don’t go recording that and trying to exploit my raw, untapped talent, ya hear?”

Then somehow, we were singing a Roommate duet of What the World Needs Now. And doin’ it way better than those American Idol punks. Truly a magical moment.

But this morning, inspired by Kitten’s very early, pre-alarm jungle cat pounce, the song of choice was The Lion Sleeps Tonight. You know, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle…” and when I emerged all drippy haired from the bathroom still singing my wee-e-e-e we-ah mum-a-ways,

“Now, if there were such a thing as America’s Funniest Home Audio, I’d be a very rich man.”

“Whatever, Pumpkin.”

“Fuck you.”

The U-haul has been reserved. A boy to drive the U-haul has also been reserved.

It is T minus 2 days, 1 hour and 48 minutes until I leave the Monkey Firm forever. There’s a box in my office packed with shoes (who has six pair of black shoes under their desk at work?), photographs and sundry items. And my Intern Extraordinaire is making a New York soundtrack for my going away party on Friday.

I’m going away.

It hits me from time to time that it’s not just some silly scheme I’ve concocted, and that I’m actually, at the drop of a hat, changing everything and going away. Yeah, yeah, you’re tired of hearing about it, I know. But I still amaze myself and that’s really all that matters.

We grew up in a rural community that did not lock its doors at night — crime was smashing mailboxes and stealing gum from the Texaco station. If Mom wasn’t watching, and we were feeling brave enough to shimmy up the telephone pole a few feet, we could see the tree line of the next county.

We drank water straight from the hose. We caught fireflies. The sounds that kept us up at night were crickets or coyotes, depending on the season.

On early summer mornings We Three, hair unbrushed, noses already freckled from the June sun, would drag the red wagon from beside the garage, climb in and wait. Dad would come out of the house soon after. He’d have a yellow Roman Meal bread bag, closed with a twist tie – peanut butter and honey sandwiches for us, and maybe some extra bread for the ducks, if we were headed toward Curly Slide Park. But if he came down the cement porch steps with three small green fish nets, we were going the opposite way down the gravel road, to Pollywog Hill.

Topped by a tree whose apples never quite ripened each year, and behind a thick wall of pussy willow reeds, the embankment we called Pollywog Hill rose sharply from a narrow, dusty road. When we were very small, Dad would have to give us a start, a hand under each of our backsides. The littlest would ride on his shoulders. At the top, the oldest and I would wait (We’d been scared into the idea that the irrigation canals weren’t somewhere to be without an adult) until Dad’s plaid shirt was in view among the overgrown weeds.

Some years, we were too late and our adventure would end in a picnic under the sour apple tree. But when we were on time, there’d be pools of them, darting black specs, in the shallower, shadier spots along the ditch. Some would have already started to form stubby legs, their tails shrinking to form smooth frog bottoms. We’d crouch, watching them until Dad would produce three, lidded baby food containers and the three green fish nets. Then he’d lie back on the bank, a hat shading his face from the sun and say “Have at it.”

Later, sandwiches eaten (by We Three, uninvited ants and scavenger Starlings), Dad would collect a graceful bouquet of pussy willows for Mom and we’d head home to introduce our frogs-in-progress to their new, pyrex home on the kitchen counter. Perhaps one or two would survive, growing into slippery, wriggling frogs that if hardy, would be sent to live in the back yard Irises to croak night music with the crickets that summer.

And twenty years later, when I randomly emailed my big brother to ask, “Do you remember Pollywog Hill?” he replied, “Yes, do you remember pussy willows?”

There are a few things that people need to understand about me — things that just are, definitively, who and what I am. My closest friends don’t need to be told what these things are (and never did), which is most certainly how they achieved such Close Friendedness® in the first place. But not understanding these things, these Great Truths, can bring an end to potentially fine relationships. So, in favor of preventative measures, let’s get on with the disclosure.

I do not like to be told what to do.
And by ‘not like’ I mean, totally hate. Those who have achieved the aforementioned Close Friendedness® have learned to restrain themselves when it comes to advice-giving. Oh, not on every matter, mind you. Tell me which color ¾ length sleeve shirt to buy when presented with Banana Republic’s oh-so-many choices. Recommend a CD. Suggest a location for my birthday extravaganza. These are all perfectly acceptable. But in more weighty matters (life, love and the pursuit of happiness), it should be assumed that if you’ve thought of it, I have already spent one, if not more, nights awake entertaining (or dismissing) the same idea. It’s called being neurotic. And I do it really well.

I suck at being angry.
I don’t do it well. And no, I don’t want to talk about it because I’m hoping that we can just ignore it and it will go away. See, I get confused by The Angry Feeling, and when I get confused, I don’t know what to say. Confrontation will only increase The Angry Feeling, and thus the confusion and inability to speak. So just back the fuck off, okay?

Ahem.

Ice cream makes me happy.
That’s pretty self-explanatory. Pink Old Navy flip-flops make me happy, too.

I secretly like being made fun of.
If, you know, it’s malicious-free mocking and really only serves to say, “I like you” in that playground sort of way. I reserve the right to pout, but this is only to mask my glee at being liked in the playground way.

And last, but not least

I hate roller coasters.
Drive fast with me in the car. Take me rappelling. Pack me into a cannon at the circus, but do not ask me to get on a roller coaster. Do not say, “You’ll like this one!” Do not tell me it’s safe. Do not tell me you’ll make me walk home from Six Flags New England if I don’t ride Superman with you. I’ll walk. And don’t remind me that I’ll rode every ride at Disney World. Cause, duh, that’s Disney. It doesn’t count.

I was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes when Roommate emerged from his room.

“Hey, Punk.” I said, loaded the dishwasher and snapped it shut. The microwave stopped microwaving and for a second or two, the kitchen was dead silent. Roommate was looking at me with the strangest expression on his face.

“What did you call me?”
“Punk. I said, hey, punk. Why? What did you think I said?”

Roommate just laughed. Hard. He put his hand out to the counter to steady himself. “I thought you said, ‘Hey, Pumpkin.”

“Ha! Okay, no. No, I didn’t. But from now on, you can bet your sweet ass that’s what I’m calling you.”

“You better not!”

Roommate poured some coffee, disappeared into his room. I was getting ready in the bathroom when he passed on his way out the door.

“Okay, I’m going to work.”

“Have a good day, Pumpkin.”

“Fuck you.”

I will not order take-out. I will not order take-out.

I’m in this Simplify Mode and I can’t seem to talk myslef out of it. Why make lunch when I can order ridiculously expensive take-out that neither requires the dirtying of dishes nor the cleaning of them? And laundry? For last night’s party, I could have thrown on a pair of clean jeans. I mean, at least, right? Nah, I’d just have to wash ‘em. So I shook out a pair that were on their third wear, spritzed ‘em with the squirt bottle and left them on the radiator to de-wrinkle.

When did I become a boy?

I ate Swedish Fish for breakfast.

Those who have been along for the whole High Maintenance ride that has been my life have got to be raising some eyebrows.

Gah.

Okay, okay. I’m up. I’m going to sort my laundry, DO my laundry, make brownies and apologize to the RSF for bailing on his party (We had a deal, see. I go to his party, he drives the U-haul to New York. And if I don’t want him to pull over somewhere and the highway and declare, “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I’d better DO something.)

And I’m going to make a real lunch.

PB&J anyone?

Due to an impending reduction in closet space (and to the fact that no reasonable human being needs this many clothes), I am spending the morning filling boxes. Destination: Goodwill.

To Keep or not to Keep?

Old boyfriend t-shirts. I could make arguments for both sides. But when it comes down to the fact that they are the most comfortable articles of clothing I own, they go in the To Keep pile. Besides, I gotta have something to wear while I’m cleaning the toilet. Right?

Out-of-date suit? Not to Keep.

Favorite sweatshirt from freshman year of college? Not to Keep.

Assorted formal gowns? This is so tragic. The pale yellow princess dress with embroidered bodice and absolutely no practical use in the Universe? Sadly, Not to Keep. The black one stays. It just does. Sometime, someone is going to take me to something requiring a floor length designer gown with the most stunning plunging neckline ever. I just know it. To Keep.

Twenty-something sweaters that never made it off their shelves this winter? Not to Keep.

And so on. I’m doing relatively well letting go. Which is probably only made easier by the fact that I’m headed up to Kittery this afternoon to go outlet shopping with the girls. Don’t bother with an intervention. I’ll just go back to my old ways the moment I’m alone with my Visa card.

I’m feeling a bit down today.

I’m sitting, Indian-style in my ergonomic Herman Miller chair, wrapped in a black pashmina, with a four-year-old sitting across my desk drawing me a good-bye picture. Olivia is here often enough that my tack-board is equal parts custom made kid art (three years’ worth) and assorted personal effects. She’s drawing, I’m typing my letter of resignation, pausing occasionally to admire her efforts. For the most part, no actual work will be done in this office for a few hours.

The thermostat says it’s 75 degrees in here, but I feel cold.

At lunch, I let it slip that I might be the slightest bit worried about being a complete screw-up at the new job and ending up unemployed on the streets of New York City.

“Zero percent chance,” Stephanie said. She made a big circle with her hands, then rearranged the Thai food on her plate. “Absolutely impossible.”

Michael said, “If you were stock, I’d invest in you.” And then he asked what I wanted for a house warming gift.

The heater is finally kicking in and I’m hoping that I’ll warm up a little.

I’m actually puzzled by this feeling that’s overtaken me today and hope it’s just from being a little tired. Though I am worried about my father again. And that may explain the pounding in my left temple.

But the heavy feeling in my chest, I don’t really know how to explain that one. Well, yes, I can. As a product of many, many moves in adolescence (five schools in six years), I know what this is, really. It’s separation anxiety. And it will pass. Especially since this is what I wanted and I know it’s the right thing to do (if there’s really any right or wrong to it).

Whatever, or whomever, I’m leaving behind will only be lost if I let it be.

Still, I feel so lonely right now, sitting here at my desk, chilled, waiting in limbo. I’ve got nothing to concentrate on other than this filmy melancholy I’ve drifted into. And this letter of resignation.

And this morning, J’s girlfriend broke up with him.

J: Am I so critical that sometimes its impossible to be around me?
H: Sometimes you’re picky about things that don’t/shouldn’t matter. I’ll admit it used to make me self conscious. Like I had to be uber perfect. Why, what’s up?
J: She broke up with me. She said that when I was ready to accept her and love her without having something to pick on, then I can call her. But not until then.
H: Oh my. That took some balls.
J: Yeah, she’s good. And she’s totally right.

Yes, yes she is. While I feel for him, I sat here wishing I’d been that ballsy. Those are the things I wanted to say and never did. Mostly because I knew he never would love me for me.

And it makes me wonder if he’ll actually change.

“Remember throwing ice into that chimney?”

“I was just thinking about that! We met that night.”

After several minutes of “Remember that time we” reminiscing, I’m not surprised when he gets quiet and starts pushing his rice around on the plate. J is the sentimental type.

“You’re going to miss this.” He moves the rice and I watch some fall onto the table cloth. “I’m going to miss you.”

And me? I’m somewhat detatched sitting there, looking over J’s shoulder at Fenway thinking about mint green tile and change of address cards. Did I pay my Sprint bill?

New Girlfriend returns from the bathroom, and J pays for the meal. When the credit card receipt comes back he signs, looks across the table and says, “You ready to go?”

I nod and reach for my jacket.

Yes. I am.

J has been in Miami for the last week and a half. He’s missed a lot.

We’ve made plans for tonight. Dinner, a movie, drinks. I feel quite certain, though he’s not said as much, that New Girlfriend will be joining us. So I’ve invited my Valentine (to whom I owe a bit of face time anyway) to buffer the awkward, So You Don’t Know This Inside Joke moments. And I wouldn’t be the one feeling awkward. J and I have this way of talking, of never completing sentences or speaking solely in movie quotes, that tends to be somewhat exclusive. And we tend to be more than somewhat oblivious.

J’s lucky. He’s catching me on the calm side of the storm.

This morning, I got confirmation that someone is going to take over my lease (after last night’s affair with Craig’s List that lasted into the wee hours of the morning). Has it only been a week since I gave notice at the Monkey Firm? I surprise myself at how quickly this is all happening. I mean, for being such a planner. And, well, the irony of this situation does not escape me. And what irony is that? Let me share.

About a month ago, I decided to shift my focus. Back to Boston. No more frivolous spending and heading off to New York City two, three times a month. I needed to spend more time focused on my job, the friends I’d felt I’d been neglecting, and my health (which, at the time, needed a bit of attention).

I have to laugh at the Universe for so openly mocking my resolve. Que sera sera. It’s not just a superbly written weblog, kids.

What will be, will be.

So, don’t try pushing off your agenda on the universe. You’re not it charge around here.

For someone who’s written maybe once a month since shipping off to Cuba, the Fireman has been Mr. Communicative lately. Four, sometimes more emails a week for the past few weeks. And mind you, we never had that much to say to each other.

Silly, silly transparent boy. He’s hedging his bets!

He’ll be on leave here next week and is trying to secure a little somethin’-somethin’ in advance. I just laugh and shake my head. Because what’s most amusing is how not tempted I feel about it. Yeah, he’s cute alright, and will probably come back all tanned from the tropical sun. And two weeks ago it sounded like a fine time. Getting sent off with a bang. Or two. Or three. You get the idea.

But now it just seems sorta pointless and something of a hassle.

Is that the moving stress talking?

I’d like to send out a big What the Fuck to Blue Cross Blue Shield of Massachusetts and my local CVS pharmacy.

I called this afternoon to refill my birth control prescription by phone. “No, I’m sorry,” says the cheery CVS pharmicist. “We can’t refill that until March 29th. Your insurance company won’t allow it.”

Um, okay. Right-o. Two major problems with that.

1. I will be in New York.
2. I will be out of birth control by March 20th.

What kind of system is this? I mean, I don’t have an absurdly active sex life that requires some emergency intervention. But you can’t just stop and start again a week late because Blue Cross Blue Shield has a preset date for your refill. What are they using anyway? The Mayan calendar?

I’m wacky enough with out a not-needed hormone imbalance.

I’d also like to send out a Dude, You’re Really Super Cool to my doctor who said he would resolve the issue and to check back in the morning.

I hope he karate chops them in the throat.

“Swedish Fish.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Noooo. I need them.”

We’ve been at Target for a little over a half hour and I’ve had semi-psychotic episodes in two different aisles in housewares, and one in home furnishings. He had witnessed each episode and seemed bemused, if not charmed, at watching me come unglued.

“I’ve seen what shower curtain hooks did to you. I’ll find you some fish.”

He had stopped the shower curtain episode by placing his hands on my shoulders firmly and saying, “Listen, if you don’t end up liking it, I’ll drive all the way to New York and replace it for you myself. Okay?”

“Yeah? And will you carry my couch up four flights of stairs?”

“Absolutely.”

I just nodded.

He leaves me with the carriage. I’m a few aisles away when I hear the rustle of a bag and I have to smile knowing that I will go to sleep tonight completely cracked out on Swedish Fish. He tosses the bag on top of the piles I’ve made.

“I was going to use you as a backboard, but you’re not very playful tonight.”

“I’m playful, god damn it! It’s just easily confused with combative and strung out. But I’m playful.”

“Uh huh. A bucket of monkeys.”

“Barrel. It’s ‘barrel of monkeys’ Big Guy.”

“Someone just earned herself a nice, long walk home from Target! Smart ass.”

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“I know. I try not to think about it.”

And suddenly, we’re having an earnest moment. I suppose it makes sense that we’re standing near the card aisle, surrounded by Hallmark greetings. But I’m not prepared for earnest. Good-byes will come later, and I’ll be ready for those.

“Bucket of monkeys,” I say and shake my head.

I think he understands, because as I dodge sentiment and push the cart away toward the check-out, he simply follows a few steps behind. He doesn’t ask me what I’m thinking. Just why I’m not wearing any socks. And that, I can work with.

Maybe a gal should actually read her offer letter when she gets it.

I just printed out the letter, signed it and tucked it in an envelope to mail to the powers that be at the New Job. As I was doing so, I noticed the start date. A WHOLE WEEK LATER than was previously discussed. Oh, sweet mercy!

As Ari put it, I should really buy a lottery ticket while I’m at it, because this luck can’t last long.

My mother says I wake up like a cat.

I yawn, stretch in the sort of exaggerated fashion belonging mostly to felines (and early film starlets), make a weak attempt at getting out of bed and then curl right back up before the sheets have lost their warmth. Snooze and repeat. I wake up in stages. Sometimes it takes me a good 40 minutes to actually climb out of bed once I’m awake. Seems a waste of time, to my mother (Why not just get up?).

Because not getting up is one of my favorite parts of the day.

In fact, I’ve been not getting up for the past hour — bad form considering I should be leaving my apartment for a meeting at 7:30. Perhaps I’m not altogether too inclined to head off to the Monkey Firm to face the anti-climax that will be my last two weeks there. I know how it’s going to be. Not so gradually at all, they will begin (or have already, I think) to phase me out of projects and responsibilities. I have already been not required to attend a handful of meetings and caught only tail ends of conversations that I most certainly should have been privy to. And while I’m perfectly willing to buckle down and work just as hard as ever, it appears that I’ll be leaving in stages.

Seems sort of a waste of time to me. Time that could be much better spent not getting up.

*Yawn*

Boston-bound trains leave Penn Station roughly every half hour. I’ve stopped checking Amtrak schedules and instead just show up, check the board and buy a ticket. If I’m feeling impatient and relatively wealthy, I’ll take the next available train, which always happens to be the Express. But today I waited for the Regional. I was in no hurry.

I’ve logged a fair amount of time at Penn Station in the last, oh, six months or so, reluctantly waiting to shuffle back to Boston. I sit in eateries or Amtrak waiting areas eating, reading, making lists. Men in suits attempt to make polite conversation. I answer in short, close-ended sentences, trying with some amount of grace, to convey that I’d simply rather be left alone. I watch homeless and other afflicted folk stumble in, asking for change, food, help. This afternoon, one man, a cup of change in his hand, stopped briefly only to say, “You’re the prettiest girl of the day” and then wander off again, having asked me for nothing. Though, I’d have given whatever change I had on me. A compliment like that deserves a buck or two.

This afternoon’s train ride marked another (and yet, probably my last) less-than-24-hour stay in New York City. Tuesday morning, I rode back to Boston in Business class, with a new job offer and worries in my head. Today, I came back (this time with an unreserved coach ticket. It’s starting to ad up!) having more or less secured an apartment. I left New York feeling very relaxed and extremely lucky (even more lucky when it turned out that my unreserved coach fare had gotten me a business class seat on an Express train).

In two weeks, I’ll head back to start the New Job and then soon after, move into my new place. I’m positively thrilled. Oh, and did I mention I already know one of my neighbors? Yup. She’s close enough to borrow sugar.

Life is sweet and pleasantly surprising. Kinda like having vanilla ice cream in your coffee.

After Brian called me yesterday morning at work to give me a tele-bitch slap (“Girl, you just need to calm down. Everything will be fine.”), I decided to take some wise advise and give myself a break.

I had just given official notice at the Monkey Firm, which was one of the most liberating moments of my entire life (You know, somewhere up there with getting my driver’s license or my first Pocket Rocket). And realizing that all this Craig’s List mania was just making me… manic, closed out of my interenet explorer, opened a box of Thin Mints and took a much needed deep breath.

And then I went shopping.

Two suits, two sweaters, two pair of kick-ass shoes later, dinner with one of my best gals and I was feeling like myself again. Who was that crazy woman? Yeah, don’t know. But man, was she a freakshow.

Today is looking pretty promising, too, with a lead on a pricey (yipes), but doable apartment, and someone scheduled to come look at mine this weekend. We’re definitely back to registering Excitement! on the Moving to New York Meter.

More excited, less anxious AND I’ve got new shoes?

Someone should totally be playing the Wonder Woman theme song when I walk in the room.

It’s hard for you to explain.

Everyone says, “Oh my god, you must be so excited.”

And you are. Only, you’re so overwhelmed that you stopped really feeling excited sometime between 3 and 10 pm on Monday night when reality slapped you in the face.

Everyone says, “I know you can do it!”

And sure you can! You’ve done hard things before, right? But you can’t really explain to anyone why minor cash flow issues, and a gazillion Craig’s List apartment listings and the date March 22nd have you nearly wretching in the ladies’ room.

So you don’t explain. You say, “Yes, I’m so super excited to move to New York.” Because mostly you are. Your job will be hard as hell. And you will love that. You will feel like you’re really living again.

But when you crawl into bed, and the hours pass, and your brain is so full of the things you feel like you’ll never accomplish in time, and you’re scared (yes, you’re scared, you’ll admit it), you might give in a little to that overwhelming, “What have I done” feeling.

And you’ll cry. Mostly because you don’t know what else to do besides wish there was someone there to hold your hand or pat your head or just say, “I’d probably cry, too.”

But it’s just you and an oblivious cat (who will have to be force-fed Kitty Valium for the move), and a computer. So you write a little, cry a little more, and hope that you’ve worn yourself out enough to sleep.

You’d wish you’d thought of it sooner, but it’s way too late to take Tylenol PM.

Having already given away the punch line yesterday, I won’t bother to regale you with too many interview details. You know, like, details about how the moment I walked through the elevator doors I knew I’d want to work there. And how when the Pres showed me my future, Fifth Avenue corner office, I was even more convinced. And how I have been completely unable to relax since the moment he said, “I’d like to offer you the job…”

I squealed through three (or was it four?) really tasty martinis with Krissa, not stopping to realize that my nervous stomach was also a completely empty stomach. I hadn’t eaten a single bite all day. To our rescue came the uber cute bartender with Chinese delivery. Really good Chinese delivery.

I spent all Monday night not sleeping. And would have spent last night in the same fashion – tossing and turning, my brain focused on the phrase, “You’ve just changed your whole god damn life, you silly girl.” – except for multiple strawberry daiquiris with the RSF over a nice, “Congratulations” dinner. A Tylenol PM later, and I was out like a light.

My list of things to accomplish within the next three weeks is relatively short. Sublet my apartment in Boston. Find an apartment in New York. Move. You know, easy stuff. Totally doable, right?