Flowers

I've received flowers at work a total of two times.

The first time: A vile coworker of mine was dating a man who for some incomprehensible reason found himself smitten with her to the point that he sent flowers all the time. Elaborate bouquets. Dozens upon dozens of fancy roses. She didn't know where to put them, there were so many! The receptionist kept some in the lobby, because they were so fancy that they looked like corporate-sanctioned lobby flowers.

I was admittedly jealous, and often complained "How come she gets flowers all the time? I never get flowers! I've never gotten flowers at work!" My coworkers explained that the frequency of flowers was an almost guarantee that their relationship wouldn't last (it didn't, despite the blingiest ring you ever did see), that it meant nothing, that I shouldn't compare myself to her, etc. I shouldn't compare myself to anyone, but flowers are pretty! Who wouldn't want flowers?

When my birthday rolled around that year, flowers appeared! I was so very excited. I couldn't contain myself! Who could they be from? Who even knew my work address?

And of course... they were from my crazy coworkers, who signed it "Your crazy coworkers." Delightful.

The second time: Seated anxiously by the phone all day awaiting news, I finally got a phone call and jumped a mile high, my heard pounding. I looked at the phone and saw a weird extension. "Hello?" I asked, timid. "There's a delivery for you down here. Can you get away for a moment to sign for it?"

I was confused, as I'd never received a phone call for a delivery. Normally the packages appear, and I sign for them then. I said I'd be down, and on my way down realized I wasn't even sure where to go to pick up a package.

When I got downstairs, the receptionist smiled at me. I walked to her desk and grabbed a styrofoam container that clearly housed something that had to be frozen immediately. "Not that one," she said as she glanced at the foam, and pointed me instead the direction of... flowers!

I couldn't contain myself. Who could they be from?

I walked upstairs and was the envy of all women. "Is it your birthday?" someone asked.

R saw me and said "Oh my god, is it a marriage proposal? Open the card! OPEN THE CARD!"

"I don't think so..." I said.

LN said "Oooohhhhh.... who are the from?"

When I opened the card, I nearly cried. "It's from my friends," I said.

"Why?" said MM.

"Because they love me."

"Wow, you have nice friends" said SP.

"I know," I said. "I'm very lucky."

LN said "I thought it was from D, and figured you guys had had a big fight."

"Or that you were getting married," SP giggled.

We all giggled.

No marriage proposal, no fight, no drama. Just good friends.

And that's all I need right now.

I am so very lucky.

My Mundane Life In Song Survey

On our way back from MA this weekend, D and I stopped in Mystic, CT for lunch (the original plan was to stop in Mystic and then find a beach, which is something D can do because he doesn't require a plan or desination, but which ended up being futile because there aren't, apparently, any good beaches near Mystic).

There was a sign in a restaurant window that said "No shirt, no shoes, no service" or whatever that sign is.

D said "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to go into that restaurant without pants."

I laughed.

"No, but seriously, why is that? Why can't you go into a restaurant without a shirt or shoes?"

I immediately said "Because its unsanitary," but then thought better of that response, because really, if they're worried about sanitation then they should require people to wear gloves.

I thought about it some more, and I said "I bet its aesthetics. How could you eat while being forced to look at feet, or worse, an obese man spilling his spaghetti all over the folds of his naked stomach?"

I actually don't know the answer to this question.

Anyone? Anyone?

It's A Heat Wave...

... and a man was adorably whistling "Sleigh Ride" this morning on Vandam Street, which somehow made it bearable.

I'm Out of Love with Trader Joe's

I've been away from blogging. I've been away from sane thought in general. Everything was fine at 5:30 and life changed irreversibly at 6:00. I wish the phone call was something different. You can never be prepared for this sort of thing.

I'm getting better. I can think about other things. For two weeks I couldn't, but I'm starting to think about other things.

And hence can I blog, or at least attempt to. My mind's overexerted so no one thing I say or try to communicate can really make sense, because each thought is clouded by 12 million other thoughts that also make sense, because there's too many of them and I am unprepared for any of them. But I will try.

***

I went back to MA this weekend, as per Sister's suggestion. She thought it might help, to see things, to experience things, to stop imagining and force myself to face how things actually are.

Rather than face things for the entire time, I decided to take an extra day off to spend with Sister, to talk face-to-face, to cry if necessary with one of the two people who understand this.

Sister wanted to cook an elaborate dinner. I agreed, as cooking dinner is cost effective and fun. We scoured three vegetarian cookbooks and decided on a honey-pear salad followed by asparagus/ricotta/mint risotto. We decided not to be overambitious and agreed to purchase a fancy dessert.

Sister said "OK, here's the thing. Trader Joe's is awesome but may not have ingredients, but is closest. Star Market is far away but will have ingredients, except for awesome desserts. Whole Foods is in the middle and will definitely have everything and awesome desserts BUT it's wicked expensive."

We decided on risky Trader Joe's, because Trader Joe's is awesome and because I wanted to buy some fabulous snacks to bring back to NYC, as D and I had rented a car for our return as freaking Amtrak is now freaking $93 one-way. Bastards. We also decided on Trader Joe's because it was closest, and because we are tired all the time and can't really be expected to function, the world would have been asking too much of us if it demanded we walk all the way to The Stah (which is now Shaws, right?).

Anyway.

I hate Trader Joe's. I know that Trader Joe's is not a supermarket, but seriously, how could they not have anything we needed?

They did not have pears. Or asparagus. Or a reasonable amount of honey. Or a reasonable amout of mayonnaise. Or ricotta. Seriously. They did not have ricotta!

We revamped the dinner plans, and there were no ingredients for the new menu either.

We came up with idea after idea, found half the ingredients, realized that they didn't have the other half of what we needed, put everything away, started over...

Insanity.

Our minds were not up for this. I kept saying "We can just buy a pizza and heat it up! This is madness!" but we did not want to be defeated.

I know Trader Joe's is not a real supermarket. And I know that they do not really need to have ingredients since they have the best pre-made food selection in the universe. I have limited patience for anything right now, and oh how I need something in my life to be straightforward and easy.

We ended up buying pre-made gnocchi and pre-made pesto, because I couldn't remember the recipe for pesto. We made a goat cheese salad with candied pecans and raspberries. We bought mochi (oh, mochi, yes!) and I tried to buy a bottle of wine because we Lars really need to be drinking as much as possible right now. I didn't buy any snacks to bring back because I was on the verge of a meltdown, because these days anything might spark a meltdown.

The plan was that I would put the groceries on my credit card and that Sister would pay me back eventually.

Except that I didn't have my ID because I hadn't brought my wallet (because why would I bring my wallet on what was supposed to be a two second trip to Trader Joe's that turned out to be two hours?).

Ah, New York, I've gotten used to your cardless ways.

The cashier asked for my ID and I didn't have it, so Sister gave him hers.

Sister offered to put the groceries on her card.

The cashier, however, wouldn't let her buy the wine because I didn't have my ID! He said "You can't buy it because you're buying it for her."

"But... but..."

And that's when I started yelling, for the entire store to hear, "BUT I'M 30 YEARS OLD! SHE IS MY YOUNGER SISTER! BY ALMOST 7 YEARS! I'M 30 YEARS OLD! I'M 30! I CAN BUY ALCOHOL!" I wanted to add "And listen, buddy, you don't know HOW MUCH WE NEED THAT WINE THIS INSTANT!"

And we left without alcohol.

I wanted to cry, or throw a fit, and I think I did both.

My only consolation was that the cashier thought that I looked very young.

Later on that weekend I was relaying this story at PetCo, where Sister was buying guinea pig supplies. The eavesdropping PetCo cashier said "Oh, my partner works at Trader Joe's. They have to card everyone, even if they're 105 years old. If they don't, they could go to (whispering) jail."

So I guess it wasn't my youthful appearance that denied me the wine. It was the Trader Joe's cashier's ability to do a good job and avoid jail. Good for him, bad for me.

D, my hero, went out and bought Sister and I a bottle of wine, which we inhaled and which resulted in the ultimate regression, with Kid Fears and The Beatles (Beatles' songs are so sad when you're sad, even the happy sounding ones) and oh my god Stone Temple Pilots.

I think people do this sort of thing because it reminds them of a time when things were less complicated. Our singalong was the last uncomplicated portion of the weekend, and when I think back on this weekend I will wish that there was more time for singing.

Vancouver

I've been away from blogging.

Well, this isn't true. My other blog has been officially pronounced dead, and this one has been subject to lengthy entries that will never be published and will just remind me and only me of how I felt about serious level-10 things during the week after my stressful vacation.

It's been a stressful week. My doctor diagnosed me as "freaking out" and gave me a lovely sleep-aid that seems to have set things a bit straighter. I'm feeling less desperate and less obsessed and less likely to dramatically quit my job and pack my things and volunteer for a science-y boat expedition for which I'd work for free and meet new people and forget everything and realize that life doesn't have to be like this.

She said "Please do not go back to work today. I'm afraid you might quit your job. And please do not be alone for a few days. And hide your credit card. And don't make any big decisions. Please."

That was good advice, because yesterday I was prepared to pack two large suitcases with cameras and outfits and notebooks and leave a note, in pursuit of a log cabin in which I might study for the GRE and Figure. Things. Out. Even though I knew that wasn't what I wanted, I felt like it was the only option.

Because Boston isn't an option, even if someone pays you twice what you make now.

And New York City isn't an option, because you've outgrown it even though its the biggest thing imagineable.

And Boulder isn't an option, because you're not sure you feel about the middle.

And science isn't an option, because when your boss mentions a new project you want to run away and hide because you have so little interest and so little energy and want so badly to be pat on the back and not punched in the face.

I go through this every now and then, and devise schemes involving New Hampshire or floral design or the study of museums. This sort of freak out has been successful four and only four times, and I think its probably happened like 12 times since I was 20 years old.

1. Didn't go to grad school
2. Recorded the mini-album
3. Started the music blog
4. Moved to NYC

What next?

I know I want to be with D, and it scares me that my hormones and/or neurotransmitters can convince me that I don't need him. I know I want to be with him and I want us to be happy, and I know that we can't be happy here forever. Part of me wants us to move somewhere quiet where we can just exist, live slowly, live with substance and not volume. Somewhere where we can sit on a porch and watch kids riding their bikes. Somewhere where days aren't stressful, where employment is simple, where people have conversations under the stars and life feels like vacation.

Can you go to a small town from the big city?

What does he want? What do I want?

I don't know the answer to either of these questions.

I know that I am unsatisfied with the letter of complaint I wrote to the airline. It got really dramatic (surprise!) because I was reminded again of the absurdity of it all and it's one thing after another and it is a saga even in text. Reliving stress is pointless unless they give you the $900 you are demanding.

I know that I want to see 'Superman' tonight.

I know that I want to try the all macaroni-and-cheese restaurant on the Lower East Side.

I know that I want to get up enough motivation to call my NYC friends and see them like I keep saying I will. "I'm not feeling well," I say, as usual, which means "I keep crying for no reason and devising escape plans." I've been introverted. I've been alone. I've been enjoying it because I can't concentrate when I feel like this, and I am terrible company because when I feel like crying I want to cry and not pretend to be happy.

This weekend I want to go see 'Superman,' have mac-n-cheese with J tomorrow night, go to LT's birthday party tomorrow night and hopefully see R because not hanging out with him hasn't been awshummmmm and he's a spazz and causes happiness even when he himself is unhappy, brunch with S on Sunday and hopefully learn how all is hopeless from my eternally beloved Al Gore, and see E who is a masochist and needs advice from someone he doesn't realize is even less healthy. And dinner next week with LL on Monady and T on Tuesday and MF later in the week hopefully but she is nuts too. I will socialize and smile for real and figure things out.

And edit photos, because people keep asking, and there's a lot. Like 100 photos of Stonehenge alone!

Until next week...

Personal Day

The Boss sent me home yesterday, forbade me from staying at work any longer. He demanded that I go home after purchasing citrus-y fruits where I would eat the fruits and then sleep.

The combination of jet lag and my monthly vile visitor and the cold/cough/bronchitis whatever from Europe and the humidity and the headache and the poor eating and I think a week's worth of Sudafed and Nyquil and Imitrex destroyed me yesterday.

I am going to call in sick today, but I am going to use a personal day, because I have two of those and two sick days and you just never know when you're going to be really sick.

I think I may just be having insulin issues. That's sort of what it feels like, but I can't really tell because of the jet lag and the headache and the girl things and everything else.

Work has this ridiculous policy wherein you have to call your boss and the front desk when you're going to be out, so that the front desk can you put you on the "absent roster" for the day. This is a good policy, except that nobody is at the desk until like 8:30 or 9:00, so if you wake up at your normal time and realize "Whoa, I'm sick, I'm not going to work today" and then because you are so sick you would like to go back to sleep and sleep for the rest of the day, you can't because you have to wake up again at 8:30 and then possibly again at 9:00 to call in sick.

Hence the blogging.

This will be a good day. I hope to finish "Fortress of Solitude" which *is* an amazing book despite its being so dense. Well worth the time investment, but I recommend finding a paperback because carrying the hardcover throughout Europe wasn't the best idea. I will also catch up on the vacation blogging, and will hopefully add photos to the entries, although that's going to be an insane project. Maybe I'll at least get through Spain. I'll let you know when the photos are there.

I'm thinking about how I wish I had an older sibling. I confronted D last night about the cocaine issue. I said "Look, I don't think that it's responsible for people with small children to be (a) doing cocaine and (b) getting into cars with people who have been drinking too much and also doing cocaine." I wanted to make sure that he didn't think that this was acceptable behavior, not for others, but for himself as a parent. I knew that he thought it was acceptable behavior for US to get in the car (which I did not) but did he think it was acceptable behavior for parents of cute, little nieces? He couldn't believe that I was judging his brother and that they are GOOD, GOOD parents, and how dare I? but he also understood, and said that no, he would never do that if he had kids. I said "Do you think its good that your brother smokes pot in front of your little nieces?" He insisted that his brother is a good parent, which he is in many ways. I said "If your brother smokes pot in front of our 13 year old someday will you tell him not to?" He said his brother would never do such a thing, but yes, he would tell him not to. I guess I wanted to make sure that D knows that he's marrying McGruff and that I have a firm opinion about this sort of thing, and that I won't budge. I realize that kids will experiment and that there's no way to avoid it, but I don't want to set the example that it's ok. And I don't want to be irresponsible about drunk driving etc. when there are little people who are depending on only me.

Phew. It went well.

But it got me to thinking how I wish that I had an older sibling sometimes.

Someone to look up to, to believe in, a model who in your eyes can do no wrong.

Someone to emulate.

I think that when you're the oldest you end up emulating your parents, and you end up being over-resposible and cautious and neurotic and grow up too fast. You study too much and worry about things. You worry about your younger siblings. You have nobody to idolize, and nobdy to learn from. You don't have the opportunity to learn that if you mess up things will still turn out ok. You don't get to learn that doing cocaine doesn't affect your life in any way and that you'll still have a beautiful wife and children. You don't have someone who is infallible in your eyes.

And then you end up making huge mistakes as an adult (you rebel, hard) because you played it too safe as a kid.

I never rebelled in the classic ways. I've never done cocaine. I tried some lesser things with Sister but they had no effect. I drank all the time when I graduated from college. I was in very risky relationships. I destroyed my heart and damaged myself probably forever. I gave up on grad school because I was burnt out and here I am, happy anyway and most likely happier.

But I can't let go of that feeling that I am too conservative and/or lame, that I don't understand how the world is because I worry about things like drugs and helmetless biking in the city.

And I am lame because when I travel I come back and ask all of these questions because travelling gives you the distance you need to reevaluate your entire life.

And you wonder, when you land, why being home is the last place you want to be.

But NR is moving here, so all will soon be right.

Ham

You see, the thing is that I think I may be over NYC.

D suggested that we go to this pirate ship ham celebration on Chelsea Pier tonight.

I looked at him like he had three heads when he asked if I as interested.

"I have no interest," I said.

"Really?"

"It's a celebration of ham," said I.

"But pirates!" he said.

"Yes, but ham."

What I really meant was "There's nothing I want to do more than go grocery shopping, go home, cook something, eat something healthy finally, look at the photos from the trip since I didn't get to yet because we went to the movies last night, sleep, get over the jet lag, get rid of the cough, nurse the headache, get my voice back, and just be at home, because I haven't been at home in forever."

Things have changed. I am trying to figure out if I would be thrilled by the idea of people dressed like pirates on a Tuesday night and socializing with these strangers were I not sick/jet lagged/malnourished.

I think I'm over it.

I might be over it because I've been away, away from those who believe themselves to be ultra-hip, instead around people who "enjoy life" and are happy just being happy, wearing whatever they'd like and doing whatever they'd like with their time, not concerning themselves with hipster playgrounds and not cramming every minute of their lives with transient nonsense.

And therefore I am praying to The Dolphin (I wondered this morning at 6 am if God might be a dolphin) that I get laid off tomorrow.

Vacation Deluge - Edition 1 - Day 1: To London!

And now let the deluge of vacation-related stories begin.

Feel free not to read these, but you should, because there are stories. Lots of them.

This one's going to be a mess because I have mad jet lag right now - got in at like 6:00 last night and woke up at about 4:30 this morning. Awesome.

And so it begins...

We were worried that our flight out would involve some sort of mayhem, because (a) NJ was flooded and we were flying out of Newark and (b) an SUV ran down five pedestrians on a sidewalk on the corner of 47th and 10th! Right by my apartment! I'd never have known had I not been watching the news in order to get information about flight delays out of Newark. Crazy. I ran and looked out the window and yes! Ambulances! News crews! Right on the corner of my block!

The flight was fine despite the floods and bad omen, and we departed without incident from Newark at 10:00 pm.

The flight began with our conversing with this pompous guy from England who claimed to know everything there was to know about everything possible. He was returning from a 5-week long trip through Canada's Inside Passage and told us everything about it. He's a writer/filmmaker who found himself fascinating. He was in desperate need of someone to talk at. I hated him instantly, and he found a captive audience in D. When we told him we were scientists he told us everything he knew about science. He also told us not to go to Bath. "Why would you want to go there?" he asked, cross with us. "Because... of The Baths," I said. "No, no, go to Oxford instead," he said, and promised D the oldest museum in the world that houses the private collection of an eccentric who travelled the world and gathered bizarre objects like shrunken heads. I must admit I was enthused about the shrunken heads, but I had my heart set on Bath. It became apparent, however, that D was more into the idea of Oxford. D talked to this guy (which was awkard given that I was seated between them) for what seemed like eternity.

Luckily he stopped talking when we took off and instead started to whistle.

I'm not kidding. He whistled on the plane.

I was determined to sleep on the plane as we wanted to take in a bit of London that day. I reclined in my seat, and within a few seconds it shot back up. I tried again, and again it happened. I decided to wait a few minutes and then try again. I tried again, and when it shot back up I realized that someone was actually pushing me. I knew there was a child seated behind me, so I decided to turn around and beg the parents to stop their child from pushing my seat. When I turned around, I was shocked to learn that it was an adult who was pushing me.

I thought "What would LBF do?" LBF is assertive. I tried my best to channel LBF.

"Excuse me, what are you doing?"

She played dumb.

"Excuse me, are you pushing my seat?"

"Yes."

"Why are you pushing my seat?"

"Because we are eating dinner."

"No we're not."

"No, see, you can't lean back because of dinner."

"Right, yes, except that we're not eating dinner."

Silence.

"Are you eating dinner?"

"What?"

"Are you actually eating dinner right now?"

"No... but...."

I turned around, because for the love of god what is wrong with people!??!?! I had to turn around because I was about to cry. And then I cried for a bit, because of the whistling and the woman and because I was so tired and wanted so badly to sleep. I rehearsed in my mind what I would say should she push me again post-dinner, and got up the nerve to conjure up the necessary drama. Luckily she didn't push me again, and I was able to get a good three hours of sleep on the flight.

We arrived in London again without incident. We took the Gatwick Express to London. I slept the entire time. Allegedly it took an hour to get to London (it is supposed to take 35 minutes) but it didn't matter to me because more sleep! We transferred to the tube and headed to D's cousin's office to pick up the keys to her apartment.

D didn't remember where it was. We walked around aimlessly, looking for number 88. I let this go on for about five minutes and finally said "Um, D, do you think it might be 33?" I knew it was number 33, because I'd seen it written down earlier that day. D is the kind of guy who likes to know where he is and not have his sense of direction challenged, especially by a girl. I'd hoped he'd just figure it out on his own, but I had limited patience after so much transportation. Once we found the address, we had no idea how to get in. Again, there was some mention of a complicated entrance to her office but he couldn't remember what she'd said. And he didn't know what company she worked for. We walked around, down alleys, without any idea of what to do. Finally we asked a man wearing a suit if we could borrow his phone.

We found D's cousin and she put us in a cab to her apartment.

We dropped off our bags and went to lunch. It was delicious.

We went back to her apartment. We broke one of her toilets instantly. How? No idea. The flushing mechanism just disconnected. And can you fix it? No! Because in London, all flushing-related articles are BEHIND THE WALL for the purposes of aesthetics. We tried to access it through the closet, through the hallway, but no luck!

We took showers and napped for too long.

Then I felt sick. I think that my lunch may have been laced with meat. With only one functioning toilet which we were both afraid to use as we feared breaking it, I just had to suffer.

When D's cousin returned from work, we walked along the river and soaked up the sights. D drank outside because it is allowed there and he was like a kid in a candy store. I took pictures (coming soon).

We ate a gross dinner in Covent Garden. We drank Pimm's (I don't see the big deal). My stomach rebelled, still angry from earlier that day. We walked around a bit more. We didn't get run over but it was difficult to adjust to traffic coming from the wrong direction. London reminded me of Boston, which made me homesick.

We returned to D's cousin's amazing flat and watched some bizarre made-for-TV-esque prequel to Romy and Michelle against which we were powerless.

We tried to sleep on the tall air mattress that caved into the middle when there are two people on it, as though it were a giant piece of memory foam!

And that was Day 1.

Jet Lag

I just love getting back from a decent but not great vacation and learning that I skipped jury duty in MA and that I'm being threatened with a fine. The supreme irony of all of this is that I am the only person on the planet who is thrilled by the idea of serving jury duty. I'd volunteer if I could, but I never get called, except in places where I don't live.

Oh how it sucks to be back.

It All Fits In A BackPack

Alternate Title: Why I hope to have boys because the world is a cruel, cruel place for women when it comes to packing.

Readers of My Mundane Life In Song know that the bane of my existence is packing. I was quite pleased with myself last night as I packed, proud of how little I am bringing on my 11 day trip to Europe.

Until, of course, I found out what D is bringing, and then I wanted to cry. D can fit everything in an average sized backpack. Everything!

This is what D packed:

1. 10 pairs of socks
2. 10 boxers
3. 5 t-shirts (am trying to convince him to bring one nice shirt in case we go out, which we will, because we'll be on vacation)
4. two pairs of shorts
5. one bathing suit
6. one pair of pants
7. sunglasses
8. dop kit
9. eyeglasses
10. two books
11. magazine
12. flip flops
13. passport
14. guide books

This is what I packed:

1. 11 pairs of socks
2. 11 pairs of underwear
3. 5 short-sleeved shirts (down from 7 short-sleeved shirts)
4. 3 long-sleeved shirts (down from 4 long-sleeved shirts)
5. 5 tank tops
6. 1 hoodie (down from 2 hoodies)
7. one pair of shorts
8. two skirts
9. two dresses
10. two bathing suits
11. two dresses to wear over bathing suits
12. shorts/tank tops for the beach
13. bag to put stuff in at the beach
14. one pair corduroys
15. two pairs jeans
16. sunglasses
17. collection of toiletries - which, of course, is vast compared to a boy's and contains things like hair products, facial cleanser (because I don't want to break out while on vacation!), tampons, and, well, other girl things
18. two pairs extra eyeglasses
19. three books
20. sandals for beach
21. saucony's (for when feet hurt)
22. chucks (for when feet don't hurt)
23. cute purple ballet slipper-like shoes for dresses and night's out
24. hair dryer
25. hair straightener
26. IPod
27. IPod charger
28. fabulous new Le Sportsac bag for transporting cameras etc.
29. Canon camera bag
30. Canon camera
31. zoom lens
32. battery charger
33. Olympus camera bag
34. Olympus camera
35. battery charger
36. makeup, makeup, makeup
37. hair accessories - headbands, elastics, barrettes to deal with unpredictable new haircut
38. Advils, Peptos, other goodies in case of kidney stones
39. passport
40. phone numbers, paperwork for flights, paperwork for hotels, restaurant listings, etc.

Is that it? Yes, I think so. D said "Can you make it so you don't have to check in any luggage?" A girl cannot pack a small carry-on suitcase for 11 days. It is impossible.

And with that, folks, I'm off to LondonandValencia! My Mundane Life In Song will be on hiatus until July 10th.

Until then...

And Oh How Prepared I Was For A Fight

My heart was practically jumping out of my chest as I rounded the corner. In my head I practiced my potential responses, and then whispered "May I please speak with your manager? Please let me speak with your manager. Is your manager here? I would like to speak to him/her. I want to speak with your manager right now. Or else. This dress is ruined and you are responsible. I am very upset. I am livid. I am very, very, very upset." Etc.

I hoped that the dress would be fine. I prepared myself for it to be destroyed.

When I walked in, in combat pose, I was relieved to see that it was a different girl behind the counter. She looked nice.

I presented my ticket to her.

It took her a while to find the dress. I practiced the new speech, which went something like "First you destroy my dress and then you lose it. I demand the cost of the dress, right now! Or else!"

She found the dress and handed it to me. I removed the wrapper and explained "I just need to investigate this because this is the second time I'm having it cleaned because it was ruined the first time."

And.... drum roll.... the dress was fine (well, not completely fine - there are still ashy marks but less so and unnoticeable to the casual observer).

Now. My predicted response was one of relief and thrill. My dress back! Money saved! No drama with the laundromat! Yes!

But no. I was pissed.

I was ready for a fight, and had so much residual anger from the first time that now had no outlet.

I became even more upset with the original girl, because how dare she insist that the dress was damaged when I originally left it when all they had to do was finish cleaning it? It was totally their fault, and not even an accident. They just didn't finish (so it seems), and she blamed me! Rage, folks.

And how dare they? They just ruin or fail to finish cleaning clothes and expect people to just pay for them? What a scam!

I calmly took the dress and wanted to tell the woman behind the counter about the saga, and have her say "I can't believe I work at a place that would do such a thing."

I left and skipped home, thrilled about not having to spend another $100 but upset at not having had the opportunity to shove the now-clean dress in the original girl's face.

But it's over, and I have a mostly clean dress for only $6 instead of another $100. My new dress is sewn, the memory cards are cleared, the batteries are charged, the clothes are in piles, the laundry is not done, the suitcases are not packed, but who cares? London soon! Woo!

Could've Been

Oh my. The Tiffany version of I Think We're Alone Now is on the radio right now.

This makes me strangely happy. I think I would sell my soul to be 7 years old again, but would I go back to middle school? When I hear I Think We're Alone Now I think that maybe, just maybe, I would.

Anxiously Awaiting the Meltdown

Ah, folks, another Monday, another atrocious mood. I'm not sure where this one has come from. It could be for a variety of reasons, which I shall now present in list form as I am a lover of lists and as I have been very unsucessful at attacking lists as of late.

Possible causes of bad mood:

1. Still reeling from subway incident from Friday.
2. Still reeling from dress issue from Thursday and dreading picking up the dress tonight and scene that might ensue.
3. Being charged for something that the menu indicated came with my meal.
4. Being hit in the head with umbrella a zillion times on Canal Street on Saturday.
5. Nothing fitting on Saturday.
6. The rain.
7. Not trying items on because of a plan that never happened and then having to return said items on Sunday.
8. The rain, oh, the rain.
9. The smallest size being a 6 everywhere.
10. People who do not call when they say they're going to.
11. People who do not have their phones on/with them when they haven't called and you are trying to call them to find out wtf is going on.
12. People who just fall asleep instead of calling you when they're supposed to.
13. People who don't have their phones nearby when they are sleeping when they are supposed to be meeting you.
14. People who have no remorse for not calling you, for not meeting you, and for causing you to carry home all the groceries yourself in torrential downpours.
15. Freezing to death in the rain while carrying soaked groceries.
16. Someone not calling you again as scheduled, this time forcing you to wander around Macy's in the freezing cold air conditioning for over two hours because you don't really know if you should do something else because you're not sure when they're going to call you because they won't answer their phone.
17. Someone saying the cute coat that you've picked out for yourself "looks dirty" and then saying "but don't let me discourage you from buying it..."
18. Someone not liking anything you've picked out.
19. The flights being way less frequent or nonexistent and the tickets being way more expensive than anticipated, most likely because of waiting until the last minute.
20. Not being able to have keys made which means coordinating and more coordinating and dragging around luggage for hours and not being able to be free while on vacation.
21. Being sick before going on vacation.
22. Dreading being sick while on vacation.
23. Being unable to take time to go to the doctor.
24. Coming to terms with getting up insanely early while sick to go to the doctor and then the doctor won't call you back.
25. Putting a hole in the new dress you bought for London.
26. Not having thread (or the know-how) to sew it.
27. Trying to find someone to sew it last minute.
28. Looking for a bag during lunch, knowing that they won't have the one you want.
29. Being tired after a weekend.
30. Being stressed about vacation.
31. Only being able to eat 1/4 cup cooked risotto.
32. Being stressed and wanting nothing more than a cookie.
33. Wanting to cry but not being able to because you will be judged.
34. NYC in general.
35. My bedroom is too hot.
36. Not sleeping together because of A/C and temperature issues.
37. Nobody sleeping well at all because of A/C and temperature issues and the cushions are not comfortable enough and "This apartment is ridiculous because we cannot open windows!" and wanting to make the living room the bedroom but that makes no sense.
38. Nobody sleeping well and therefore being in bad moods on Monday morning.
39. Planning a night of crying and laundry and thinking that this will actually be fun.
40. Parents who want to plan Italy this minute but dear god I haven't even planned the trip I'm going on in two days and really, is there anything to plan this far in advance or really at all? and starting to dread having a conversation with Mother along the lines of "Look, please do not stress me out in Italy and if this means we have to be separate during the days you have to respect that."

Although there are good things:

1. Going on vacation! Soon! Sun! Beach! Stonehenge!
2. NR is moving to NYC and I can't contain my excitement.
3. Being told that you have a happy face.
4. Strangers telling the truth.
5. Warming of former roommate's house.
6. Meeting new people.
7. Reminding someone of someone.
8. Giving dating advice, having something to root for, holding out hope for the nice guy.
9. Snuggling on rainy days.
10. Avocado.
11. $600 shoes for $60!
13. Potential good news this week.
14. Great data.
15. Good stress at work, but stress nonetheless.
16. Finally reading a magazine from April.
17. Val Kilmer in Kiss Kiss Bang Bang.
18. Getting out of the city, soon, and then getting out again in August.
19. And maybe once and for all in less than a year.
20. And maybe a new bag in a few minutes.
21. And laundry tonight.
22. And hopefully sleep tonight.
23. And tomorrow.
24. And hopefully antibiotics.
25. And no jet lag.
26. And no rain.
27. Toys!
28. Buying a ViewMaster and Play Dough restaurant (for kids who have never seen Play Dough!) and being way too excited about playing with them.
29. Asking "Can we please have a baby soon?" if only to buy it a tube o' dinosaurs or pink miniature mermaid sets.
30. Mary Poppins, and you better believe I am going to be singing "Portobello Road," Bedknobs-style, NONSTOP.

If You See Something, Say Something

Speaking of passing on bad vibes from person to person in the city...

Maybe something like this happened to the girl in the laundromat before I walked in and got upset about my dress being ruined...

A strange man got on the train this morning at 42nd Street. I noticed him immediately because of the way he was walking. There was just something weird about him. I don't usually notice people in the city. D always says "Did you see that guy with the *insert weird accessory or behavior here*?" and I will have no idea what he's talking about. But this guy creeped me out from the moment I saw him. There was just something... off. He was carrying a duffle bag and then three department store bags (the big plastic ones with the nice handles) full of clothes and sneakers. On his right forearm was a giant tatoo of the grim reaper that read "El Muerte."

He seemed discombobulated. Unable to deal with his many bags, he deposited three of them near the train door from which he entered. People looked at the bags, but nobody did anything. I'm sure everyone was thinking "What if there's a bomb..." but nobody wants to be the dork to say something.

Rather than sit on a seat, he decided to sit on his duffle bag, on the floor, in the middle of the train, right at the base of my feet, facing me.

I didn't have a newspaper (damn you AM New York, for being out only once and on this particular day!), so I was sitting there with my headphones on looking at this guy. I looked away, looked around, but he was right in front of me, just sitting on the train floor.

About thirty seconds later, he started grabbing his face. I don't know what he was doing. My guess is that he was popping his jaw back into place or something, but he was doing it viciously.

Then he started staring at me. Just staring. Intensely. He was kind of smirking, as though he was trying to get my attention. I didn't look at him. I tried not to make eye contact. I looked around and tried to stare at other people on the train. I looked up. I looked at my hands. I tried not to think about the FreakFest that was seated in front of me.

When the man seated next to me got up, FreakFest gathered up his belongings (his duffle bag and the three bags he just left at the door) and sat next to me. He turned around and stared at me again.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was stretching into the neighboring seats. And then I felt it. His hand touched my leg. I didn't respond because I was going to give him the benefit of the doubt. We're always bumping into people, brushing against people, invading people's personal space in this city. He most likely just stretched and accidentally brushed against me and would withdraw his hand as soon as he realized what happened.

He did. And then I felt it again. And again.

I didn't know what to do.

I looked around at the other people on the train and noticed a guy who seemed to sense what was going on. I felt safe, because I was certain this guy would do something. But really, what would he do? What was I going to do?

When the train stopped at 14th Street, I decided to get off, as FreakFest didn't seem to be getting off at that stop. I decided to wait for as long as possible to get out of my seat, on the off chance that we would try to follow me. Not that he was going to follow me. I paused, and then quickly got up.

FreakFest didn't motion to leave until he realized that I was getting off. He then quickly and chaotically gathered his many bags and got off the train with me. I didn't know what to do. I hadn't expected him to do that. He didn't seem to be getting off at that stop!

My original plan was to just wait for the next train but I didn't want to be on the platform with him. I considered running up to the L train, but what if he followed me? And what would I have done on the L, anyway?

I decided, instead, to run up to another car and squeeze myself into it as the doors were closing.

My heart was about to come out of my chest. I didn't know where he was, I didn't know if he would make his way through the train, I didn't know if he was on the train, I didn't know if he could see me from another train.

I didn't see him again. Phew.

At work I tried to concentrate but couldn't. I was spooked.

I encountered JG in the lunchroom and told him the story, because I knew I could count on him to be horrified on my behalf.

I didn't call D for about three hours. I wanted to calm down a bit, stop shaking, and get through my morning experiments before I talked to him. I was afraid that he would not respond and that I would explode if I didn't give myself time to process what had happened, and, well, order my dress, because I knew that would make me feel better.

I called him and said "Guess what happened to me this morning!"

"You were groped?"

I paused. "Um... well... yes, sort of, I guess, yes, I was."

Not funny. It just wasn't funny. It wouldn't have been funny under any circumstances. I guess he said it because he'd read an article discussing how the police have been cracking down on subway gropers and have been apprehending record numbers of them. What kind of world do we live in?

I told him the story and he was sympathetic, but not in the protective I-Want-To-Kick-That-Guy's-Ass sort of way I wanted him to be. I expected as much. I expected rational. He said "Did he seem crazy? Did he seem insane? How old was he? Was he homeless?" and I explained what the guy was wearing and how I was freaking out and how I was glad to see that there were cops at Spring Street (specifically the Vandam exit) because there have never been cops before.

Of course I wanted to explain how disgusting it is to be touched on your leg by a complete stranger and how violated you feel and how scary it is to be followed and how awful this stupid city is. But I guess I don't want to have to explain these things at all, because some things should go without saying.

I hate men. Who does this guy on the train think he is!? There's an entire website devoted to exposing street harassers called Holla Back New York City, which is awesome except why do we have to live in a world where people are harrassed?

This reminds me of the time when someone at a former job kissed me on the job. I was, of course, horrified, and I called my boyfriend at the time and he was all "Why would he do that? Do you think he meant it? He must be crazy. Did you do anything to make him think it was ok? There must be something wrong with him," etc., and I so wanted him to say "That motherfucker! If I ever see that douchebag I will destroy him."

I think that men don't get it. Because they are men and because they are in a position of physical power, they don't see these sorts of acts against us as distressing. They don't see how a woman could have a response to a stranger's hand on her leg, or a coworker's lips on her face. I was amazed that my former boyfriend could make excuses for my coworker.

I guess men really don't react to anything. I guess men aren't capable of saying "Oh my god HOW DARE HE!?"

And men are capable of inflicting their physical presence on complete strangers, because for some reason they think that this is acceptable.

Ugh.

Happy Friday.

So Remember How My Dress Caught on Fire?

It didn't leave a terrible mess. Maybe a few ashen streaks, but because the stress is striped the streaks were not terribly noticeable. I could have worn the dress without anyone knowing that it had ever been on fire, but I would obsess over the dark streaks.

I decided to have it dry cleaned, just in case the ashen marks could be removed by some heavy duty cleaning process.

I dropped it off on Monday, and they told me it would be ready on Thursday, which was fine given that I need it for next week for LondonandValencia! but not until Tuesday night, when I will be spending three hours packing.

In spite of the three bags of groceries I was carrying and the fact that I kept dropping my hoodie on the ground every three steps, I opted to pick up the dress last night.

I dropped my groceries on the floor and handed the girl my ticket.

She presented the dress, and I looked at the problem area only to find that...

THE DRESS HAD BEEN RUINED.

I maintained my composure. "Um, I'm sorry, but this wasn't here when I dropped the dress off."

The original ashen marks had been replaced by GIANT STAIN MARKS. You know how when you spill water on a piece of clothing the entire area looks darker than the rest of the garment? Yeah, that's what it looked like. Giant splotches of darker-than-the-rest dress, and in a perfect pattern.

"Yes, it was."

"No, actually, it wasn't," I said. I took the dress out and touched the stains. The stains were a bit sticky, as though they had put stain remover on the dress and had forgotten then to wash it.

"It was like that when you brought it in."

"No, it wasn't."

"It was."

"Listen, the dress had small ashen marks... very small... and no stains. This has stains, big ones, and this was $100 dress."

"It was like that when you brought it in."

Now, I can't even be sure that this was the same girl to whom I'd dropped the dress off. And even if she was, like she remembers! And even if she was, the customer is always right!

"No, it wasn't. I'm not paying for this and I'd like you to clean it again."

"But it was like that when you brought it in."

"Listen, the dress was not ruined when I brought it in and now I can't wear it ever again. Please try to clean it again."

She took it back, exasperated, and gave me the evil eye.

I left, fuming.

I am mad for a variety of reasons.

1. I love that dress. Madly. It's probably my favorite dress of all time. It fit, it's comfortable, it's wonderfully summer-y and perfect for my upcoming travels. I have matching shoes that are also comfortable. I love it love love it. It is hard for me to find clothes that fit and that dress fit. It fit perfectly. I love it.

2. They destroyed my perfectly wearable dress.

3. They blamed me and called me a liar.

4. They were unremorseful. Completely and utterly unremorseful. No "Oh, my! We're so sorry! Let us see what we can do to fix it!" Instead "It's your fault, you're insane, you brought it in this way and are blaming us."

5. They didn't make any suggestions. None. They just want my $6 and want to be rid of me. I maintained my composure the whole time but man did I want to slap this girl accross the face. I didn't throw a fit. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't cry when I saw my ruined dress. I calmly explained myself and then asserted myself until they took the dress back.

I walked home, lugging my groceries in the insane heat and tried not to cry. I was so angry, not about the dress but about the way I was treated.

I called MG immediately so that I could hear someone say "How dare they!" and she did.

MG was in traffic and had to get off the phone, so I called Mother. Mother didn't even know that my dress had caught on fire. "That's not the point of this story!" I said and told her about my dress. She empathized, and soon I was wailing about how much New York City sucks and how this city and this intolerable heat make people irritable and insane and how people pass tension on from one person to another. Mother suggested that I call the store or try to buy the dress again, so I did.

I called one of the stores and described my dress. They had none left. This girl, however, was a nice employee and called all of the other stores on my behalf and none of them had the dress. She suggested I order it by phone, and suggested that I could have it shipped overnight. I decided to do this, because the most I would be out (should the dry cleaner salvage the dress) would be the cost of shipping, which would be like $20 since it was from NYC. And, it was worth it to me to buy another dress because I love the dress and that's that. The sad thing was that it was such a deal at $100 in a fancy SoHo shop and I'd also bought the original tax-free. But whatever. I must have the dress.

When D came home, I snapped at him because he bought mayonnaise. We'd had this long conversation earlier in the day during which I said I'd go grocery shopping after work since he was sick, and that he was not to buy anything, including mayonnaise. He walked in, chipper, and said "I got the mayo!" and I was like "BRING IT BACK!" Awful. I apologized moments later for transferring my irritability onto him, and explained the saga.

He empathized and tolerated my swearing and he even hit the wall on my behalf, I think to encourage me to do so. I didn't. I just said "I hate people," and he said "I think it might be time to move."

I gave him a big kiss. "I could move tomorrow and not even look back," he said.

"Let's move in nine months when the lease is up."

"To Boulder?"

"I don't care. Anywhere but here."

I called to order the dress this morning, and the man on the phone was very sweet and helpful and is having the dress shipped today, with the inventory, to the store around the corner from where I work. I can pick it up at 6:00. No shipping. And I can return it to the store for a cash refund. Sweet.

In the meantime, I will pick up the original dress at the laundromat and if it still ruined I will indeed throw a fit and ask to speak to the manager as per MG's suggestion (I am so not a "Can I please speak to your manager" person) and present the receipt for my dress (which I bizarrely still have) and will ask them to reimburse me.

If they do not reimburse me, I will make a bunch of signs that say things like "THIS PLACE RUINS YOUR CLOTHES" AND "DO NOT DROP YOUR DRY CLEANING OFF AT THIS MISERABLE EXCUSE FOR A LAUNDROMAT!" and will plaster them all over the outside of the laundromat. I will also stop people from going in there whenever I am walking by. There has to be some sense of justice.

I am learning, though, that there is no sense of justice in New York, and that is why everyone is antagonistic to everyone else and why people don't care at all that they've ruined people's clothes.

Sympathy Sore Throat

I can't tell if I just have a sympathy (paranoid) sore throat or if I actually have the sickness from which D is currently ailing.

He's at home sick, watching cycling and lamenting not "being productive."

He stayed home yesterday and cleaned the apartment and went to the library to get books about London and CD's from which to learn Italian (bless him). I said "You should be relaxing! You can't stay sick! We are leaving for London in less than a week! You must take naps and drink fluids and do nothing and don't even think about going cycling!"

Today he is taking it easy, allowing the antbiotics to work. I am trying to be a good girlfriend and roommate and bring him things he needs like juices not from concentrate and bread so he doesn't have to just eat cheese rolled around meat. He keeps saying "I'll get it" and I have to be like "STAY IN BED GODDAMIT!"

My glands are swollen, definitely. I think I am starting to get sick but I will not allow it. I will go to bed early and take care of myself, because I am a woman and don't have pride when it comes to being sick. I admit that I am sick and will behave accordingly instead of going about business as usual and therefore ensuring a full-on illness.

Plus, I can't take a sick day. There is too much work to be done, and I literally won't have time to go to the doctor for antibiotics of my very own until Wednesday.

Ugh. I cannot get sick. I will not allow it!

Planning

For some reason I am thinking about Dance Party USA today.

Has anyone been to Stonehenge? Any recommendations for how to get there from London without draining your bank account? Curse the worthless American dollar!

And curse not being prepared for travels. I'm trying to compromise, really, I am. It was a compromise for him to get our tickets two weeks in advance. I appreciate that, I do. Would I have preferred to have gotten them months ago so as to be prepared for our travels? Yes. Would I have preferred to give our various hosts more than one day notice of when we'll be arriving and staying etc.? Surely. But I am a compromising person, and I can be spontaneous. I swear, I can!

But not with this. I really want to see Stonehenge. Ever since I built a to-scale model of Stonehenge out of Play-Doh for a school project, I have been obsessed. This may be my only opportunity, and I don't want to not go because the train schedule doesn't work for us or because it's too expensive or because we didn't book the tour 48 hours in advance as is required.

Otherwise, we have no plans. Because I can compromise! I have no idea what to do in London. We will read a book about London on the plane and will then deliriously discuss things we might like to do.

It's not like I want to compulsively plan the vacation. That's very stressful and leads to agendas and pressure and not enjoying oneself. I would just like to know if we are going to see Stonehenge, and when that might be so I can tell A and B, and what that might entail (such as staying a night in Bath, in which case I might like to look into hotels now to get an idea of whether or not that is feasible monetarily). I don't want to spend precious time in London surfing the internet in order to find a good hotel. No, I will not.

So yes. Advice, please, if you've got any on Stonehenge. Merci!

Dishes

The most bizarre thing happened last night post-dinner party.

D invited his friend S over after they dined together at one of the many many many Thai restaurants in Hell's Kitchen (D didn't want to be around for the "Estrofest") in an attempt to surreptitiously set S up with my friend M. S stayed after The Photography Gals left, and for some reason started to wash the dishes. I didn't stop him, but I kept asking him "Why are you doing the dishes? I didn't even make you dinner!" and he said "I don't know... I just feel like I should be doing something."

There were millions of dishes.

And S washed most of them.

Granted, he washed some of them with hand soap, but who am I to complain?

We had a great time. The Photography Gals loved the apartment. We ate breads and fruits and cheeses. The dinner itself was miraculous. They are now under the false impression that I can cook.

I went against my upbringing and heritage for this dinner party and made the appropriate amount of food, rather than defaulting to Italian and preparing enough food for 40 people when only 4 would be in attendance. I bought enough food for possibly five people so that D could have some. M's sister ended up coming at the last minute so I had to ask D and S to go out for dinner, which worked out well because I got to have quality time with The Gals. I am the worst girlfriend ever, however, as I completely forgot to save him food despite his actually asking.

D always asks what I could possibly be talking about for hours upon hours when I hang out with my girlfriends. He always jokes "Did you talk about your periods? Birth control? Boys?"

We were, of course, talking about birth control methods last night when D and S walked in after their boy dinner. We promptly changed the subject to Dawson's Creek when they appeared, and then went back to the wonders of the patch when they left to drink on the roof.

The Gals and I talked about assertiveness and drama and the future and career changes and the importance of communication and birth control and Orthodoxy and photography and travels and my dream about Al Gore and another dream I had last week about our photography teacher. Ew.

The Gals left at about 11:15. They weren't in the mood for drinking, for some reason, but I was. M and B each had about half a glass and I had the remainder of the bottle. I was drinking and giggly while S washed dishes. I out on a Method Man / Redman CD and hosted a mini Monday night dance party since S and I have only D and hip hop in common. I am a fan of S's but had never had the opportunity to really spend time with him until last night, so hopefully now we can be friends instead of just friendly.

I went to bed with the spins and woke up with a stomach ache. D brilliantly suggested that we both take preemptive Advils last night before going to bed so things could be much worse. I'm a bit tired but not as much as I should be after having gotten only five hours of drunk sleep.

Tonight I plan to, gasp, exercise and catch up on Netflix and catch up with Father, for whom I had to leave a message on Father's Day. And then I will blissfully go to bed early! Ooo! I can't wait for tonight!

The Reception Was Lovely Except For That Part Where My Dress Was On Fire

Another weekend away, this time in the fields of CT.

We didn't leave until Saturday afternoon. D and I had originally planned an elaborate night at home performing a cooking experiment wherein we would attempt to replicate the caramelized onion / goat cheese tart from Balthazar. While commuting home I decided that staying in would be a waste of my glamorously styled hair. D was easily convinced to go on a date. We ended up dining outside at a cute place with cute waiters on 10th. We ordered too much food and didn't have room for dessert, which was fine with me. We tried to watch Winter Passing when we got home but not even Will Farrell could save it.

I accomplished nothing on Saturday morning despite my lofty plans to clean and work out and read read read. We left at about 1:30 with PW. We picked up the car, had a snack and modern furniture detour, and were completely checked in by 4:10. I was worried about the new haircut and only having twenty minutes to deal with it, but it looked cute and done with only minimal invasiveness.

The reception was charming. It took place under tents in a vast field outside a bed and breakfast. We shared veggie burgers and salads. We drank wine. Most wore flip flops. I took photos and got a wonderful compliment. The speeches were precious and the support of the family was amazing. We square danced and had far more fun promenading than we ever could have imagined. The wedding is a model for the future imaginary wedding that may or may not happen. I've been accumulating so much data and think that I would like to, if it ever happens, celebrate my union casually in a loft or in a field. A big party with little fanfare.

It was lovely to see everyone. It was a reunion for many of us. Sometimes I forget how much I miss people until I see them again. D said that for him its the opposite. I caught up with people I haven't seen in nearly five years. I saw old, familiar faces and became acquainted with new ones.

There were anti-mosquito candles sticking out from the grass at random. Tall ones, about three feet high, that looked almost like fireworks. People were drunk, and weren't necessarily paying attention to this sort of thing. I saved someone from backing into it and lighting her dress on fire as she backed up to pose for a photo.

I was trying desperately to get a decent no-flash exposure of the square dancing. I backed up.

Suddenly I felt the inside of my thigh getting really, really, REALLY HOT.

I looked down and my dress was on fire!

I don't know what happened. I have no idea. Had I been more sober I imagine I would have freaked out more, but I guess I just put it out. I feel like what happened was that I moved the fire, because it was on my dress and then it was on the ground and people were stomping it in the grass.

I was only traumatized, at the time, about the dress. "My dress!" I exclaimed. People ran over to me with water and said "The dress will be fine..." "But it was on fire!" others said. "My dress!!! NO!"

A girl said "No, see? It's coming off... it's just ash."

Ash. My dress, folks, was apparently fire-proof.

Awesome.

It's a little charred but it mostly came off. I dropped it off to be dry cleaned this morning.

I didn't feel much like dancing after that. D said "Do you want to dance some more?" and I employed one of the techniques I am always forgetting and said "This is serious. I'm a bit traumatized and don't feel like dancing all that much."

We called a cab to go home and they said "Ummm... twenty minutes to an hour?"

Ugh.

We ended up getting a ride from AC, who used to live in my room in Somerville.

Our drive to the brunch was lovely as we got to really look at the area, which was rich in colors. There were trees and swans and water and grass and people fishing and yes! I want to go back some time when there is not a wedding reception and do some photography. The colors. Gasp.

Everyone was hung over at brunch because apparently everyone stayed until like 3 am. Kids! I took more photos and said sad good-byes, and "Hopefully I'll see you soon!" but really it was "Hopefully I'll see you ever again," because once something like this has finally happened you know there's no reason to ever see the friends of your friends again. It's one of the casualties of moving away. You lose the people you see because they're there, not because you make an effort to see them.

We drove back to NYC, and returned the car two minutes late in the stagnant and nasty city air. D's cousin was spontaneously in town so we hung out with her for a bit and then excused ourselves to do Sunday projects like cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping for dinner parties. She took us out for an expensed fancy dinner (woo! desserts for all!) and we watched The Producers after I made the beginnings of what will tonight become creamy pesto.

Which reminds me... I should get home so I can make creamy pesto!

Oooh! Monday night party!

Until tomorrow...

Bialyschtockkkk and Blooooommmmeeee.....

Yes, I watched The Producers last night (well, I started watching it) and it was amazing. I have decided that were life in musical form, we'd be far happier as a society.

The potential of My Mundane Life In Song has yet to be realized.

Soon, soon, so soon will I have K's keyboard and then inspiration will be mine again!

An alternative, however, is to soon have Matthew Broderick following me around, failing to age, singing with complete earnesty while providing the soundtrack to my life.

I love the scene where he's at his accounting firm and the accountants are all singing "Unhappy..."

Speaking of which: does anyone know why accountants wore visors?

I am thinking I may want to buy a visor as part of my complete wardrobe overhaul in preparation for my trip to London/Valencia, which is next week. How did that happen? I am unprepared. I have no weather-appropriate clothing, nor have I done any research as to what I might like to do while being in Europe for the first time ever.

The good news is that I am prepared hair-wise, as the new haircut, which is still the talk of the lab (which makes me happy as today it is back to its crazy and unpredictable normalcy), has withstood the weekend and looks good in a ponytail, buns, and down with or without barrettes. Woo hoo! All praise the fancy haircut that would be worth whatever they normally charge were someone to have enough money to pay for a normally charged haircut.

I am having The Photography Gals over for dinner tonight. I am feeling a bit uptight about the during-the-week dinner party. I am trying new things, including a creamy pesto sauce which couldn't possibly be more difficult than normal pesto, right? I am throwing together a salad with mixed greens, goat cheese, honeyed pecans, and pear. I don't see how that could go wrong aside from the dressing, which will be a balsamic vinegar/honey concoction suggested by D's cousin. I had every intention to make homemade ricotta gnocchi as I have been in the mood for a pasta pyramid as of late and miss gnocchi (I miss those stupid overly starchy potatoes in general!), but didn't because it was 12,000 degrees and also because D's cousin was spontaneously in town and expensed a fancy dinner for us last night. We will also be having brie and grapes and crackers and breads and wines and then... cupcakes. Hopefully this will all take place on the roof but the weather is looking bleak.

I dreamt about the dinner party last night, and pasta that wouldn't boil and pesto that wouldn't heat and not having enough seating and there being a zillion flights of stairs to navigate in order for people to get onto the roof which turned not to be a roof at all but a scary attic that everyone loathed, and, most importantly, being extremely anxious about the dinner because Al Gore was invited and was going to show up late and I wanted everyone to be on their best behavior but people would not cooperate nor would they understand that it was very exciting for me that Al Gore was coming to my dinner party!

It's been so long since I've had a dream about Al Gore. The crush apparently persists. I want D and I to go to a taping of Saturday Night Live because why not? We were discussing which guest we'd be most excited about, and I was like "Dude, if we attend an Al Gore episode I am. going. to. DIE."

And now I must eat lunch, a big lunch, to tide me over until tonight when I will have people over for a late dinner that will be delicious. Right? It will be. It will be. Yes, it will be.

Perty

The talk of the lab today is my fabulous new haircut. I decided to go back to S, for whom I was a hair model ages ago at the fancy schmancy salon downstairs and who gave me the best haircut I've ever had.

S cut my hair way back when - maybe in January? I needed to have it cut a few months later (too long), and went to the Aveda Academy and hated the haircut. That's when D "fixed it," thus resulting in my having to grow it out for a few more months (torture) and get another haircut at the Aveda Academy, which I also hated, but I can't really blame anyone because they didn't really have anything to work with but 4 zillion different lengths of hair.

I grew that one out a bit, and went to see S this morning to get a haircut with style. We're talking bangs, folks, which she and her teacher called "fringe."

I came back to work (two and a half hours later, which was good given that last time she cut my hair it took three and a half hours) and everyone was very excited. Even the men!

JG is a kid who used to work in my department. He was sadly re-structured into another department but thankfully still works only three bays away. He's a true New Yorker - born and raised in the hood in Queens, complete with uncle who is his own age. Despite having gone to college at BC, he retains his Queens accent and sensibilities but for some reason digs Phil Collins. JG, who performed karaoke for the first time in honor of my birthday despite being scared to death, is awesome on many levels, but is my new favorite person on the planet.

He said "Did you do something different with your hair?"

"I just got a haircut at the fancy schmancy salon downstairs."

"Oh, it looks pretty."

Pretty!!!

Who says that anymore!?

I think I blushed. I didn't know what to say. I said "Awww... shucks..." and truly meant it.

Words like those make the days of 30 year olds with insecurities about their hairstyles and their fading looks. The beauty of this sort of thing is that people like JG don't even know that they're making people's days. They're just honest and cute and unafraid.

Happy, I am.

Pretty! Weeee!

I Think I Need A New Heart (For Real)

I couldn't sleep last night.

I experience phases of insomnia.

This isn't one of them. I couldn't sleep last night because we dined with D's cousins and her friends until midnight. I was a zombie by 11:00, and luckily D's astute cousin realized and was trying to extract for about half an hour before we made our escape.

I was still a zombie when we got home, and by the time my head hit the pillow at about 1:00 am I was, of course, wide awake, having missed my sleep window and also done myself a great injustice by eating post-10:00, which is something I try to avoid as I know I will not sleep.

Last night was particularly vexing as there was nothing I could do to combat the sleeplessness. Normally, when unable to sleep, I sneak out of the bedroom with pillow and alarm clock once D has fallen asleep, and watch TV or read until I pass out on the couch. This was not an option last night as D's cousin was sleeping on the couch. D was dead asleep as well, forcing me to sit with eyes wide open in the dark for an hour trying to figure out what to do.

I contemplated going for a walk, but I'm always afraid that will freak D out. I listened to my Learn Italian Podcast for a bit but have decided that I hate the guy and therefore was only more agitated.

Sometimes when I can't sleep I try to think of sweet, comforting, and relaxing things. My thoughts somehow turned to Former Favorite Ex-Boyfriend last night and I thought about how adorable he used to be when I couldn't sleep, and how he was always available when I was sad or distressed or stressed. I could call him at any hour and he would appear and stay up with me. He would talk to me or just be there or try to distract me until I fell asleep. He also used to squeeze my head when I had headaches until it felt better, and he would do this for eternity if that's what it took to make me feel better. I wasn't ready for him. I was too young and too critical and I didn't appreciate these things and instead focused on the bad.

Of course there were bad things. Really bad things.

I then got to thinking about Most Hated Ex-Boyfriend, and thought of how he always knew just what to say and how he'd call when he knew I was down and how he could cheer me up with a nickname. He would sing a silly song. He'd make up alternate lyrics. He always knew exactly what to say without my having to tell him. He was my biggest fan. I've never had more self esteem in my life than when I was with him and it was at that time that I should have had none.

Of course there were bad things. Really really bad things.

I've been thinking about these two men a lot lately, and I'm not quite sure why. I think in a lot of ways I was spoiled by having men who knew me effortlessly and who adored and satisfied me without my having to make demands. I never had to ask with these men. I've never had to ask anyone until now.

I've experienced extremes. I've been lucky to have been felt the sweetness and devotion and caring of which men are capable, and have been cursed to have experienced the supreme depravity to which they can succomb.

D wants us to just forget past relationships. "None of that matters," he says. "It's us now, and that's all that matters, right?"

I understand where he's coming from. Baggage is bad. I don't want baggage, but I have a ton. Seriously. Tons, even. The hurt still hurts (though not as much) but lately I can't seem to shake thoughts of the lovely things that I wish to still have.

I wanted to wake D up and to say "D, I can't sleep. Will you talk to me about something to take my mind off it?" but I didn't want to wake him. I also didn't want to have to ask, because I didn't use to have to ask. I used to call or look at him and he would know what was going on without my saying a word and know what to do and make me so very happy and make me feel so very loved.

How can I just forget that feeling?

And how do I ask for things? I'm not good at asking for things and I don't know why. Of course he would stay up and hang out with me. I'm sure he would be glad to. Maybe I just want him to want to, and having to ask makes me feel like he doesn't want to.

But that's not really the case, right?

He just needs to be told, and I need to learn how to tell him what I need.

I'm so too old for this.

OK. Off to class, and I don't know where to go for dinner because Pita Pit, my normal pre-class provider of meals, has been closed by the Department of Mental Health and Hygiene. Awesome.

Routine

I have discovered that I don't like to do things that I have to do.

Yesterday I said "How is it that people work out? It's so boring."

D answered "Yes, it is, but once it becomes part of your routine it won't seem boring. It will just be part of the routine."

"But I don't want it to part of the routine! I don't want there to be a routine!" I said.

And I realized then that I don't want a routine.

I don't want anything to be predictable. I don't want anything to be expected. I don't want anything to be required unless, of course, I get paid for it.

I said "Wait! I think I've discovered the source of all my problems in life! I don't want a routine. Maybe this is why I change jobs every couple of years and why I get bored with things after two years! Like in college I wanted to transfer after two years! And I move into different apartments a lot! And I get crazy in relationships after a couple years."

D, sullen.

"Not that I will get bored of us, of course, because you are a source of endless excitement and unpredictability, always enriching my otherwise mundane life!"

D, smiling.

Seriously, though, I think I don't like routine. This is why I don't watch TV shows. This is why I have a hard time taking classes, because I hate having to go to them. I want to go when I want to go, not because I have to. I like flexibility. I like coming and going as I please. I like making plans when I want to and not making them when I feel like doing nothing.

I don't know what any of this means. I'm wondering if I'd be a more satisfied person if my life had some sort of structure or routine. Maybe I need a minor routine - like on Wednesdays I try new recipes for dinner but they will change from week to week and will therefore seem less routine-like. Or perhaps Thursday will be piano night when I will have to write a song. Perhaps I'll feel more accomplished and less aimless.

Or maybe I'll feel all claustrophobic and enslaved to the routine and as though I have no flexibility in my own life.

OK.

I'm insane.

Until tomorrow.

Pants

D and I are going to a party this weekend to celebrate a civil union. The attire will be "smart summer casual," or "no suits" but "not too casual."

D has one suit with pin-striped pants.

He has three pairs of non-jeans that are frayed at the bottom.

And one pair of jeans.

PW said "He could wear his suit pants with a funky shirt and flip flops!"

Ummmm.

D decided that it was time for new pants.

Knowing D, I expected this to be an ordeal - a neverending exercise in particulars. I agreed to meet him at H & M post-work last night at 6:45. We went back and forth for ages trying to agree on a time and place (Macy's? H & M? Gap?) to meet because he didn't bring his phone to work. We decided on H & M on 34th Street because it would be the cheapest and if we found something there, then we wouldn't need to bother with the other more expensive places at all.

I got there early at around 6:40. He'd said something about going inside to look on his own if he got there early, so I went in just to see if he was there. He wasn't, so I went back outside.

The last thing anyone wants to do is to stand on 34th Street, waiting. Two minutes of this will throw anyone into a murderous rage, directed at both tourists and commuters alike.

I stood outside for another five minutes, staring down the Mr. Softee that was on 7th Avenue. I was determined to overcome Softee, but decided that a soft serve cone would really help me survive the waiting process.

While I was eating the ice cream, a woman approached me, nearly drooling, and said "Where did you get that?" I said "Right there..." and pointed to Softee, who was a mere 15 feet from us. I smiled at her. She said nothing and walked away and didn't even stop at the truck. Wtf!? She had super powers. But why ask at all? I have no idea.

I waited until 6:59 and was starting to get cross. Where was he? I had no way to get in touch with him and decided that I would just leave at 7:00, because I think waiting for 15 minutes on 34th Street without the option of cell phone contact is more than enough.

At 7:00 my cell phone rang. It was D, calling from a pay phone.

"Where are you?"

"At H & M."

"Are you here?"

"Yes. Well, wait, where are you? Are you here?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"On the pay phone."

"Yes, but where?"

"Right outside H & M."

"Do you see me?"

"I'm looking for green. Are you wearing green? I thought you were wearing green."

"No, I'm wearing a baby blue hoodie over it, but nevertheless I don't see you. Are you here?"

"Yes, I'm outside."

"Where?"

"On the pay phone! Where are you?"

"Outside! I don't see you!"

"Wait! Are there two H & M's? Are we at the same one?"

"I'm at the one on 34th Street."

"Me too."

"I don't think you're here. Seriously. Do you see me? I've been here for like 20 minutes."

"Me too."

"Well, I don't think you're here."

"I went inside a couple times to look for you."

"Me too. I was looking for you but I didn't see you in there."

"34th and Broadway?"

"Yes... no... wait.... I'm at 34th and 7th."

"Oh."

Oh. So apparently there are two H & M's on 34th Street that are like a block and a half from one another. RIDICULOUS.

So the pants.

He tried on two pairs that didn't quite fit and bought them anyway and that was that.

Amazing.

He kept asking me what I thought and I said things like "They're too short" or "They seem too tight" and he agreed and bought them anyway because he didn't want to shop.

I don't really understand how men's pants are supposed to fit. The things we look for as women don't really apply at all. Men don't seem to have asses while wearing pants and the shape of the leg seems inconsequential. "These ones don't showcase what an awesome ass you have" and "I think you need a looser fit to showcase your shape" but what on earth do I know about men's pants?

We ended up going to Macy's anyway and he bought two more pairs, fashion show with non-non-flattering shirt pending. The lady at Macy's said he needed a "tapered leg" to give him some shape so we had to go to the, ahem, designer section.

We had fun but we were starving to death by the end of it.

I didn't get home until about 9:00 and didn't eat gnocchi with butter/sage/cheese sauce until 9:45. Praise Softee! I think I ate 3x the allowed carbs but whatever. I had to eat that many carbs because SM was supposed to come to dinner tonight and is not, and I had to use the ingredients. I was going to ignore the diet to dine with my rockstar pal who is "just back from australia" and "not touring for june" and breaking plans with old friends because he needs money, which is understandable.

And then we watched DeNiro... er... I mean, Godfather 2, and I fell asleep at 11:00. Wooo!

Guilt Over Returns

Two members of my archless family have recommended to me that I purchase arch supports from a convenience store to help my flat-footedness. Father swears by them (after having converted to them from his custom-made ones that were apparently the source of all of his problems) and Brother bought some prior to coming to visit this past weekend to help him endure the seemingly endless walking in NYC.

I went to Duane Reade on Saturday night and decided to buy blue Dr. Scholl's liquid arch support things that looked really really super awesome.

I wore them for about 7 hours on Sunday (including about 3.5 hours of straight walking) and have never, ever experienced such pain in my feet in my entire life. Oh my god I thought I was going to die. I actually had to take a bus a few blocks just to get a rest! And then I had to go home, sit for like an hour, put on my old ones and then go grocery shopping.

I decided that I would try to return them. I don't know what I was worried about. They could always say "no" to my audacity. D said "You can return anything," which is true so why do I feel so guilty?

I went to Duane Reade last night and was all embarrassed and nervous and expecting some sort of ordeal.

I said "Do you take returns?"

"Yes, but I have no idea how."

She called The Manager.

"I'd like to return this," I said to him.

"OK."

And that was that!

The end.

I wanted to point out the broken packaging.

Or the fact that I'd used the product.

Or the fact that I'd used the product, under my feet, for hours upon hours in New York City.

But he just let me return them, no questions asked.

I feel so very guilty, but I have no idea why.

Don Corleone

D saw The Godfather two weeks ago for the first time. He instantly became obsessed and adorably and constantly performed terrible impressions of Marlon Brando that eventually became quite good.

Last night he started watching The Godfather 2. I watched it with him, as The Godfather 2 is amazing and because I've seen it fewer times than The Godfather and still somehow have no idea what's going on.

D kept saying things like "You said The Lars were going to be legitimate in two weeks, and it's been three weeks since you said that! The Lars are ruining this family!" Hilarious.

Anyway, while watching the movie last night, I gasped when DeNiro appeared for the first on film. Seriously. I gasp every time. "Oh my god he's beautiful," I said, hypnotized.

"You really like the flashback scenes."

I think young DeNiro is my ultimate crush. My heart skipped a beat. Hmmmmm.

I Think I Need A New Heart

There is a Magnetic Fields song in a pet food commercial.

Ummmm.

Pop!

Oh how I miss Bench Buddy, as I now have nobody with whom to make fun of whatever pop music is playing in the tissue culture room.

The Pop Channel was just running some contest where they played a "Vintage Clip" and if you knew the artist, you would win tickets to some pop event, I think involving Mary J. Blige.

I thought "Man, that's so easy. That's totally Phil Collins. Whatever."

But it wasn't Phil Collins.

It was Ricky Martin.

I don't know what this means.

I'm pretty sure Ricky Martin sounds absolutely nothing like Phil Collins, though.

So it must mean I'm going insane.

Alone in NYC Makes Me Happy

Ah, yes, an utterly fabulous weekend in NYC.

Shopping date on Friday night - tax free day! Shoes for all!

Met up with Brother for dinner at our favorite restaurant where I subsequently ignored the diet and ate a salad (good), pizza (very bad), and gnutella pizza for dessert (most terrible thing imagineable). Attended a party in Brooklyn where it became the smallest of worlds. I still can't get over it. I'll tell the story later, but it's good. I mostly successfully ignored VB who was drunk and hanging, but she is hard to ignore when her boobs are all over the place. Had nice conversations and made lovely plans that will probably never materialize.

Alone on Saturday morning! Cleaned, read, jumped around. Completed Attempt I of Photo-Project-du-Jour and failed, but it didn't matter because the sun was out and I was looking forward to the day.

Went to alleged "garage sale" on 44th Street that was more of a bizarro flea market.





















I really wanted to buy this for D just to see how horrified he would be.





Yes, I would like your old hair products which you store atop your microwave.





Headed downtown on appropriate train after realizing that my first two strategies would be invalid due to weekend train nonsense. Snapped this photo and was then befriended by a boy who wanted to discuss my giant camera.



He turned out to be a photographer's assistant - coordinating logistics. Fantasy job, folks. I probed for information but soon determined that he was a bit flakey and just wanted company, which was fine with me, as I hadn't spoken yet that day.

Located Foley Square in order to view filming of Spiderman 3. My friend's son's high school marching band was to be featured in the scene, which is how I knew it was happening. I had no idea where Foley Square was, and wondered how ever I would find it, but knew I had found it when I saw this:



No ambiguity regarding what movie set this was, folks! They were staging some sort of pro-Spiderman rally at which people held signs that said things like "Spiderman for Mayor!" and "We love you Spiderman!" Little kids dressed up as Spidermen, adults wearing red hoodies, etc.



And no, I didn't see Tobey. He was there, though. As was loathesome Kirsten Dunst. I couldn't get close. Believe me, I tried. I tried to get in at every corner and was denied each time. I ended up standing on the stairs of The International Center for Trade of some such building.

I was there for about two hours and nothing happened, other than a camera sliding zip-line style between two really tall buildings. I'll recognize the scene in the movie just from the camera shot.

I had to leave. My coworker said that twenty minutes after I left Spiderman swung into the scene. Like 4000 times. Because they had to do 4000 takes. Hmph.

Her son was hanging out with Topher Grace who will be playing Venom. Her son's friend also said "Kirsten Dunst is uglier in person." Heh. Speaking of Kirsten Dunst... I was told this weekend that Jake Gylenhaal is dating Natalie Portman! What is wrong with that boy?

Headed to MoCCA convention from Spidey set to see Brother at his table. Met up with MF, E, PW+M and braved the crowds.



It was mayhem. I bought far more than I'd intended to buy. I can't wait to read everything! Brother tried to get me things for free by trading his book, but sadly he could not strike a deal. He did, however, buy me a book that I really wanted that I didn't have enough cash for. Awwwwww.

Falafel for MF, E, PW+M anf myself post MoCCA insanity. We talked about weddings and cruises and how did everyone know me? I love friends meeting friends.

Headed back uptown. Spent a fortune at Duane Reade (I need to make a return! how bizarre). Looked at dresses but didn't buy any.

Brother came back earlier than expected because the after-party was lame. We talked about relationships and how they are hard work. I am so impressed with the man Brother has become. I want to lock him in a room with D and force him to share his knowledge. He said "Relationships always take work. If you stop working at it, it will get boring, and if you stop wanting to work at it, then something is wrong." We watched Ellie Parker and then went to bed early.

Yoga in bed on Sunday morning. More cleaning, eating, reading, editing photos.

Met up with SK for carrot cake (bad!) outside in the sun where we met regulars and made new friends. "You can play here!" they said of the place, where there is live music at all times. "I don't know..." but they all want the CD. "You should hear so-and-so play!" of so-and-so who was adorable and British and sitting outside with us with his guitar. But then he played, and I thought "My music would destroy his folk!" and then decided not to drop a CD off ever.

Saw La Moustache which was amazing. Go see it immediately. Nothing better than a French mind-fuck movie on a sunny Sunday afternoon. The movie is the type that makes you disoriented in the real world. I picked up some photos at CVS. To decompress after the movie, we sat in Washington Square Park which is always so chill.

I think I am becoming a mentor to SK. She asked if it bothered her. I didn't tell her that I love assuming this role because it reminds me of how far I've come, of how much I do know. I always focus on what is missing or what I don't know yet or what I have yet to achieve, and lose sight of progress and what knowledge I do have, even if it is not as vast as I'd like. SK told me that she appreciates me and enjoys our friendship, and asked if I thought that was weird, and I said "No, because nobody in NY says things like that because so few people here actually realize that there are other people around them." I am so glad to have girlfriends now.

Headed to Whole Foods where I spent too much money but didn't particularly care.

Went home and realized I forgot many things at Whole Foods. Ugh. Put photos in photo albums and wanted to scream because how is it that I have already run out of space in the new albums? If I'd only known! I need to get a couple more as there will be many photos post-London-Valencia-possibly-Ireland-Barcelona-Italy-France.

Laundry. Amish Market to purchase forgotten food items. Fried tofu and broccoli and peppers and brown rice (I loathe brown rice and this will never change) with peanut sauce - not too bad! Tony Awards - neither Harry nor Ralph won, sniff, and I really need to see The Drowsey Chaperone but will now never be able to get tickets.

D came back at around 9:00 and it turned out that I missed him. I was very happy to see him and he was glad I made extra dinner for him just in case he hadn't eaten. He read art magazines while I yelled at Oprah on the Tony's - why must she be everywhere? just leave me alone! - and then we talked until too late about things that didn't get resolved last week and I think, gasp, progress was made. I said "I think the problem is that when we have issues I don't get the feeling that you actually understand what I'm saying. I know you feel differently about pretty much everything and I understand that and can therefore predict how you will feel about things. You are continuously baffled by the way I respond to things because you don't actually understand, because you don't take the time to understand because you just think I'm wrong in my responses to things in my own life" etc. and I think he actually understood.

Woo! We are happy today and I think, yes, that progress was made. I think. I am never to ask "Why did you do/say that?" and am instead to lovingly say "What you did/said just then really hurt my feelings" and then explain myself calmly, even though I think this sort of thing will prove impossible because, well, you know how boys can be and how baffled you become and how disrespected you can feel, even though they don't mean for these things to happen.

And now I am back at work and it's Monday and how much does work suck after such a wonderful weekend? Lots, that's how much.

OK. I should eat lunch.

Until tomorrow...