shoe disorder

It is no secret to me nor anyone who knows me that I have a certain fondness for cute shoes. Usually this is a source of various jokes and knowing looks, or at other times of laughter and squeals of "show me what you got this time!" So you can imagine that recently, when I had to shop for a dress for my father's wedding, I was thrilled for the excuse it offered me to buy yet even MORE shoes.

Before I had actually picked out a dress, I was looking for new shoes. Some of you might say I tend to work "backwards," starting with the shoes and planning an outfit--or formal dress--around them. But I showed great resolve, and bought only two pairs of shoes that I would not wear with the dress. I see this as an improvement.

However, when I arrived home that day, dressless but with two new boxes of foot fashion, I walked into my apartment and realized the horror of my disease. My shoe disorder spawned its own shoe disorder, amounting to, as far as I can count, a minimum of ten recently worn pairs of shoes in the middle of my kitchen floor:



In an effort to self-discipline, I insisted I put away all my current shoes before any new shoes were broken out of their boxes. So I went to my closet, and found a catastrophic mess of empty shoeboxes and lids tossed carelessly about:



(Note: Yes I keep the boxes. Shoes store and stack much easier that way, now leave me alone!)

So, I started putting the shoes away, appropriately coordinating boxes to shoes, and placing the shoes heel-to-toe beside each other in the boxes. In doing so, I learned that I not only have 21 pairs of shoes in boxes in my closet (excluding the various freebees like flip-flops and sneakers that are just loose in a pile beneath the boxes), but I also have--and I'm a little embarrassed to admit this publicly--5 pairs of pink shoes. Five. That's SICK.

So I'm actually very relieved that the new shoes I bought were yellow (my only yellow shoes) and black (my only black open-toed beaded strappy sandal with ankle fastener shoes), and not pink. And I'm both hopeful and confident that, with the right attitude and a little self-discipline, my shoes will stay in their boxes in the closet when not in use.

I know, I know. I have issues. I am completely aware that I need some sort of shoe-addicts 12-step program. But even if it exists, it begs the question....

Which shoes would I wear to the meetings?

the Big Dig strikes again.

First, let me say sorry. I'm sorry it's been almost 2 weeks since I blogged. That's simply...unforgivable. But I was busy being a psychotically bitchy stress ball, which I also see as "gathering material" for my blog.

Second, forgive this actual account for being very Boston-centric (and long). But, well, it was. Also note that names of characters have been changed to protect their identity, except "Dad," who is actually my Dad.

Without further ado, I present my next-day retelling of the airport trip...

the Big Dig strikes again.

“So,” you are asking yourself. “I wonder how Stephanie’s trip back to Boston was.”

Take a seat. I’ll tell you.

My flight from New York couldn’t have been better. We took off on time, landed 30 minutes early, my suitcase beat me to the baggage claim, and Andrea, my ride, pulled up to the curb moments later. We had a lovely dinner with Kelly, my cousin Erin met up with us to drive me back to her house (where I am staying), and everything was right on track.

11:20pm: Jessica calls from the airport. She has two voicemails from our father who was due to pick her up. One says he’s on his way but running late, the other says he’s lost. She decides to head to baggage claim, and Erin and I decide to continue home (an hour away).

11:40: Jessica calls again. “Stephanie, HELP ME. Dad called, and he’s TOTALLY lost somewhere in Boston and I can’t help him. PLEASE call him.”

11:43: I call my father. He has no idea of his whereabouts and says he got this way because the Big Dig has shut down the Mass Pike, his only known route to the airport. He can’t tell me even whether he’s in Boston or Cambridge, but he suspects Cambridge (even though that seems geographically impossible from the Pike), and will call me back when he figures it out. Erin and I continue home.

11:50: I call Jessica back with the advice to grab a seat somewhere, Dad’s lost, he’s not asking anyone for directions, and he’ll figure it out eventually.

12:07: Jessica calls back, concerned Dad still doesn’t know where he is, and asks me to try to help again. Despite being only 20 minutes from our destination, I tell Jessica that if Dad isn’t there by 12:30, Erin and I will turn around and go pick them up.

12:30: Dad is so very lost, but at least knows he is in Cambridge. He gets back on Route 2, somehow back on to the Mass Pike, and back in the same shut-down detour as last time. He’s been dumped back above ground somewhere near the Prudential building, and not having any knowledge of the City, he’s completely screwed up. I coach him in whatever way I can, back down Route 9, down Brookline Ave, over to Comm Ave and Storrow Drive. I say, “I KNOW you can to the airport from Storrow Drive.”

12:50: Erin, on her phone with a increasingly cranky Jessica, tells her Dad’s on his way, he’s on Storrow Drive, he’ll take 93 and be there in no time.

1:15: Dad calls. Storrow Drive is closed and dumping him on some other shitty detour. Now that I’m at Erin’s house, and in front of a computer, I look at a map while he tells me where he’s going. Until I usddently hear… “Shit. I’m about to run out of gas. SHIT. I am. GOD DAMMIT. I have to go.” Click. Silence. I look at Erin, she looks at me. “We have a gas can,” she says. I nod. We both put our shoes back on.

1:30: We are back in the car, this time my aunt’s SUV (with room for 5!), my dying cell phone with no car charger, my father stuck on an overpass “somewhere near Chinatown,” Jessica pissed off at the airport (but at least not alone – Charles was with her), and Erin and I are traversing back the way we just came with no idea how we’re going to find my father. The best map of Boston my aunt has is from 1986, so worn that many letters just don’t show up.

2:30: My father calls to see where we are. He has walked to a gas station and may be able to get a can and some gas. I tell him we are almost there, and not to bother. (Besides, we drove all this way, dammit! Why didn't he check an hour ago?) He says he asked some construction guys and he’s on Albany and Kneeland Streets. I have never heard of either, and the map only shows one. We get on Storrow Drive, get pushed off, try to repeat my father’s errors and find ourselves on Albany with no sign of my father.

2:45: By dumb luck (and several illegal u-turns), we end up on Kneeland, and follow it to Albany, and find my father standing on the corner. We follow him to his car, park behind it, fill him up, and follow him to the gas station which, for the record, is less than a half mile away and DOWN A HILL. If he’d made it 50 more feet, he could have coasted on fumes.

2:50: Super Cranky Jessica wants to know what the HELL is going on. I tell her we’ve found dad, we’re at the gas station, and are trying to figure out how to proceed with the airport trip. Do we send Dad home and have me and Erin go? Do we send Dad, and Erin and I go home? We decide we should ALL go to the airport, in two cars, to make sure EVERYONE gets there, and EVERYONE gets home. I tell Jess we’re 10 minutes away. She says "I'm gonna hold you to that." I say "Oh yeah? How?"

2:52: We easily find “93 North” except…it’s closed. The Big Dig Unmarked Detour leads us over various city streets, which I guide Erin through using what little rusty knowledge I have left of the city. I say repeatedly “the Callahan tunnel. We need the tunnel. Where’s the TUNNEL??” We never see it. It’s not there. So we fall back to our final resort, Plan G: Take Route 1 North.

3:10: Atop the Tobin Bridge (in the middle lane of course, because Erin and I are both terrified of bridges), I shout “I SEE THE AIRPORT!!!!” But…Route 1, which I have never taken to the airport before, decides to take us on the scenic route.

3:30: Jessica calls. “You said TEN MINUTES.” I assure her we are trying our best, and I now see first-hand why Dad got so lost in the first place. I tell her we really are close now, and as we are talking, we finally, FINALLY, four hours after her flight landed, enter the airport.

3:35: We enter the brand new Terminal A to find Jessica and Charles shivering in an enclosed bus stop shelter. We park our two cars, and laugh, and hug, and put them into my father’s car. I tell my father “To get home, take 93 North, 95 South, to Route 2.”

3:40: We pay the toll and enter the reduced-lane, leaky-ass, multi-million dollar tunnel. Signs for 93 North indicate we can’t fucking go that way, which is actually ok, because Storrow Drive is open and MUCH faster. I call my father and inform him of the change in plans.

3:45: We are successfully driving on Storrow Drive with no signs of problems, and two full tanks of gas. Three, actually. The gas can in the back seat is so pungent that we are driving with the windows open despite the 40° weather, and trying to ignore the sting in our respiratory passages.

4:35: As the sky lightens with the prospect of sunrise, Erin and I pull into the garage. We lug ourselves into the house, and drop almost instantly into comas. My quick 40 minute plane ride had become an 8-hour journey from hell.

shunned.

The other day, in spite of myself...or...to spite myself, I decided to check out that website that promises to match you up to your soul mate based on 29 characteristics of total nonsense and bullshit. It was free, so I figured, why do my final semester project when I can seek a soul mate?

I started filling out the questionnaires, clicking in these little circles indicating on a 7-point scale my degree of happiness, sanity, fondness of animals, like of cupcakes, and eye color. It went on and on and on. After 20 minutes the little ticker thing said I was 32% complete. After 40 minutes I rolled my eyes and thought "is this worth it?" and a little overly smiling promotional face on the screen said "It IS worth it! 40 minutes now means a lifetime of happiness in the future."

So I keep going, thinking the whole time that all this is going to prove is how picky and unrealistic I am. My personality report was going to come back saying "Honey, get a life, you fucking snob. The man you seek does not exist, and even if he did, he wouldn't be with YOU."

But yet I pushed onward, to 64%, 78%, 83%....until finally...I closed in on the elusive final screen, where I clicked for my personality profile and a list of my matches. I was a little irritated that I couldn't select the age range, or height, or grammatical capability of my soul mate and future spouse, but I figured it would make it more fun to narrow down my suitors.

I clicked for my matches. While the little progress bar churned, my personality profile segmented across the screen with key words, such as "loser" and "snob" and "living in a fantasy." I thought I even saw "spinster" appear, but tech support strongly denies this.

Finally...after a series of clicking noises...my match list was ready. CLICK HERE! It said. YOUR SOUL MATE AWAITS! I clicked and....

"You have zero matches."

"Not one?" I pleaded. "Not a single one? In all of New York? This MUST be a mistake." I clicked to refresh the matches, assuming this was a one-time glitch and I was mere moments away from happiness.

"You still have zero matches, loser."

Broken, crushed, and destroyed, I stared numbly at the electronic betrayal in front of me. Even withOUT choosing my soul mate's age and height and grammatical capability, even withOUT overly limiting myself, I had ZERO FUCKING MATCHES!

So I went to www.HotSpermDonorsForLoserWomen.com. I ordered the genetic material of LL Cool J. Results pending. (You didn't really click that, did you?)

Okay, but seriously...28-33 years, taller than me (5' 8"), preferably even in heels (5' 11"), and basic knowledge of punctuation required.

the man of my dreams.

This morning I woke up (very, very late) and realized that I'd been having a very interesting dream.

I was in a house. My new home. It was old and charming but quite run down. I walked through it with various family members ranging from my deceased grandfather (whistling, of course) to a brother that I don't have. Upstairs, past the gorgeous dining room with the soggy floor, there was some sort of plank of wood that crossed over into another, newly built house. They were both mine, these houses, and I knew it and was very excited.

As my family crossed over into the new house, I turned around to the man behind me. Apparently, he was also mine. He seemed like my husband, but I'm not sure if we were married. He was a big guy. As in, strapping. I couldn't get my arms around him. He was a like a tree trunk. But he was so happy that I was happy, that he waited until the last person walked across the plank, then took the plank away, and threw me to the floor for a romp, which was great and hot and steamy until I stopped him, screaming "Oh my god! My brother! My brother!" who had somehow made it back into the room and was watching us.

Now, there are several reasons why this whole thing makes me scratch my head and ponder.

1) Who was this man, my husband? At first I thought he had the body of John Cena. Then when I thought more about his face, I realized he looked like Travis from "Son In Law." I was talking about the former on Sunday, and I mentioned the latter movie yesterday, but didn't mention Travis at all. I was just singing "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" and picturing Pauly Shore driving a big tractor.

2) Why the hell did I have a little brother, roughly age 9? I only have a sister, and she's 22. I'm guessing that this one has a little more to do with the very realistic fact that in about 3 weeks I'm about to inherit 4 stepbrothers. But none of them are that young. So all I can say is: Dad, please. No more.

3) Why were my non-existent family members walking a plank in the first place? Are we pirates? Did I have striped stockings and a patch on one eye? No. So...what the hell.

4) Why did I have two houses? Why do I vaguely recall that one of them was partially submerged in water? How did we get to the house when it was surrounded by water? Won't there be a lot of mold and mosquitos?

Dreams are weird, no doubt about it. Sometimes they scare me. But this time, I'm silently hoping that this Travis Cena creation really exists and I'll meet him soon. Especially if there's a throw-me-to-the-floor-and-take-me-now romp involved.

how many errors are in a "comedy"?

Maybe I'm just particularly cranky. Maybe it's the other PMS: Post Menstrual Syndrome (That's right fellas, we're hormonally evil ALL the time!). Or maybe people just really need to stop pissing me off. But regardless, I'm in a bad ass freaking mood today.

Let's go back, shall we, to yesterday afternoon. As my afternoon at work came to a close, I realized I had a LOT more work to do. I was sure it was only 2:00 or so, but suddenly it was 4:30, and I was screwed. No matter how fast I worked, I wasn't going fast enough. I don't like that, especially when paired with some moderate panic about being unprepared for school that was coming in less than 2 hours, and having to make sure I stopped first to get a sandwich so I wouldn't pass out from hunger when I met my personal trainer at 9:30pm AFTER work, AFTER class, and BEFORE collapsing from exhaustion.

So, I stress but I manage to find a stopping point in my work, run out the door to the ATM so I can buy a dinner slightly more elaborate than a big soft pretzel from a vendor on the street, which I then bolt up to the classroom and inhale as class begins, hoping the smell of my egg sandwich isn't permeating the nostrils of my undeserving classmates.

Class ends, and I bolt off to the subway to get to the gym by 9:30. I get there around 9:25, springtdownstairs and get changed, and bolt back up to the pre-arranged meeting area to wait for my trainer. And I waited...and waited....and waited...for 23 minutes, at which time I fended off tears of frustration and went to the elliptical trainer to move my legs very fast. The trainer never surfaced, and I decided if he did, I was most likely going to slap him and walk out the door anyway. So after I "ran" for about 20 minutes, I went to stretch, but instead started to cry for no apparent (or was it PMS) reason, and while I took shallow choppy breaths to suppress my giant sob, I ran back to the lockerroom and got all my stuff.

I walked home resembling some sort of sherpa or pack mule, trying to talk myself through some happy thoughts, but could only think about my dog having her malignant tumor removed in surgey the next morning (today) which truly worsened the situation. I went through the series of self-deprecating inner thoughts, such as "I'm too fat" and "my life is a mess" and "why am I so tired?" and "my underwear is really far up my ass." Finally I just found myself looking forward to a nice hot shower that I could cry in, then bed.

I got home and dropped all my bags at the door. I stepped out of my shoes and went straight into the bathroom and turned on the shower. I took my clothes off and waited the standard amount of time before sticking my hand back in the shower--except something was very, VERY wrong. The water was ICE COLD.

You need to understand--my apartment's remarkable contribution to my life so far has been cold-off-a-glacier water that runs in my bathroom. Not the kitchen--just the bathroom. So when I am thirsty for a refreshing glass of of water that will give me a brain freeze, I fill up from the bathroom sink. This is wonderful EXCEPT when I am trying to take a shower and there isn't even ONE molecule of warm water mixed in, as was the case as my depressed, sweaty, naked ass sat in the bathroom last night.

So naturally, I just cried. I cried as I turned off the shower and washed my face with a towel. I cried as I went into the livingroom and closed the window against the suddenly arctic air outside. I cried as I put on whatever clothes were on top of the pile on my bed, and cried when I laid down on top of the pile on top of my bed.

And that is where I woke up this morning, in exactly the same mood, and an hour late. Now I'm at work, lamenting my own existence, and while I am seemingly past the point of tears, I already feel very sorry for the first person to piss me off today. (The tall bitch with ugly shoes that I knocked down in the subway was almost the first, but I didn't actually exchange words so she doesn't count.)

from jose to juan: fine beverages of south america

Today is the second day in a row that I have needed--physically, emotionally needed--a cup of coffee to stay functional. To most of you, this is a normal, everyday realization. But for me, it's abnormal. I don't drink coffee.

Typically I save my emergency coffee rations for days after strong doses of tequila, when I drag my lifeless body slothlike into the office, and become nothing more than a useless and dormant pile of tissue that barely generates thought. On those days, coffee provides an essential kick in the pants to get me on a more passable, functioning level.

But other than that, I'm not a coffee girl. I never drank it in high school or college. I wake up with orange juice and a hot shower. I stay awake with Coca-cola. If I'm cold AND tired, I'll have hot tea. Coffee just doesn't click with me. In order for me to like the taste, I have to get it with a cow and 5-lb sack of sugar so I don't taste the bitterness.

Well, let me say that lately, I AM a coffee girl. Apparently, the nearly mortal combination of laboriously boring work and graduate school make coffee vital to my daily activity. It also causes me to speak rather breathlessly at a rapid pace for several minutes at a time. But it DOES make me alert, awake, and effective. I'm less slumped in my chair, and less glossed-over expressions grace my face.

I do, however, have three concerns:

1) The potential for addiction. I don't think I have an addictive personality (but I don't know how you judge these things, so maybe I do), but the effects are simply undeniable. I can see how day after day my need would increase, and I'd get antsy for a hit, rummaging through the trash for a Starbucks cup with a few drops in it. Or, worse, taking up what little space is available on my new york studio apartment postage-stamp-sized countertop by purchasing a coffee pot, with a timer, so I can wake up every day to the bubbly percolation and aromatic scent of a fresh pot. I won't let it go that far.

2) Coffee breath. To me, there is no worse personal odor offense than coffee breath. (This category excludes other odor offenses, like microwaving fish.) I have deep, elaborate, and insane theories on the kind of people who have coffee breath, and I refuse--REFUSE--to be one of them. These are people who, for one thing, often have chapped, pale lips, most likely from all the sipping, licking, and wiping of coffee in the mouth area. I can tell a coffee-breather from a mile away just based on the quality and color of their lips. Also, coffee-breathers tend to be close-talkers--or perhaps the converse. If you HAVE coffee breath, don't get CLOSE enough to me for me to smell it. GROSS. I cannot become one of these people.

3) Poop factor. I know that coffee makes people poop. My friend Jill, who will not be embarrassed by this because she thinks poop is very funny, and in fact is actually nicknamed by me as "Poop," insists that simply smelling coffee generates that deep-bowel rumble that sends her excitedly trotting off to the can before a drop of java ever touches her lips. I'm already not a big fan of at-office pooping, and I'm afraid drinking too much coffee will throw me off my mark and give me no other choice than to fly down the hallway in one of those urgent, desperate, hopeful dashes to the bowl where I pray that no one else is in or within proximity of the bathroom (a sentiment usually reserved for EDF attacks).

So there you have it. I am dumping out the rest of this sugary cup o' joe, grabbing a piece of gum, and will retain control over my intestines. I will not become addicted. I will not become addicted. I will not...

finally, a challenging assignment at work.

It's no big secret that I don't love my job. I mean really, who does? Well I particularly don't. It's boring as hell, and even though I'm capable of doing the work, it essentially puts me to sleep. So I'm always trying to stay awake by finding more interesting things to do, like read the news or my horoscope or get a root canal.

Well today someone gave me a puzzle from the newspaper. It's kinda like a crossword for digits. It's called "Su Doku," which is either Japanese, or wannabe Japanese. The New York Post published one of these puzzles, and got such an overwhelming response, that today they printed two of them: one easy, and one hard. All it took was the slightest tease. a subtle taunt, by my boss's boss. After a quick trip to the copy machine, I was off and running with my little Su Doku.

I did the easy puzzle to warm up. It took 5 minutes. Then I stretched and went after the harder one. I figured it would be a nice "break" for me while I finished my lunch. (See, how sad that actually thinking critically is a welcomed change of pace during my breaks.)

An hour later, I had made so many scribble and erasure marks that I'd lost track of everything. I brought it to boss-squared, and indicated my obsession. He said he'd given up, and I said "I'm not giving up until I finish this thing. I'll have nightmares about being attacked by a giant number 2 if I don't." Then I scrambled for a fresh sheet of paper to start clean, and went back to my desk.

Boss-squared couldn't resist the challenge, and he too lobbied for a fresh start. I used all my skill and logic to process the rows and columns of digits, eliminating figures and drafting new ones. I moved this time with swift ease and calm, and felt smart and happy like the day I outscored MathBoy by 4 points on the BC Calculus Final Exam in 1997 (clearly a moment never to be forgotten). And as I wound down filling in the last few boxes, my heart pounded in my chest. I'm....almost....done....and....

"GOT IT!" I yelled over the beige cubicle wall. Like a child who scribbled their name for the first time with a crayon on lined paper, I proudly bolted over to the Holder of the Answer for approval, even though I KNEW I'd done it right. Over her shoulder I compared numbers with her, row after row after row. When we reached the end, she smiled and said "Yup, you got it!"

I jumped, I danced, I smiled. I pleaded for a sticker and an A+, or at least a check+, on my silly Su Doku test. But in the end, I just got back my paper, and with it the gratification of knowing I'd done it right.

I then wondered if there was a job somewhere where I could do this for a living and get paid for it, instead of sitting here contemplating whether I should slowly gouge out my eyeballs with chopsticks, because even THAT is more interesting than what I get paid to do.

Anyhow, I finished the puzzle, and fully intend to take it home and hang it on my fridge to remind myself that I am--or was at one time--actually fairly intelligent and mathematical and useful to the greater world. Or maybe I should put it in my portfolio, next to my Final Exam from 1997, complete with the teacher's giant smiley face and "Great Job!"

Nah, definitely the fridge.

office ass politics

So, I'm sitting at work and this new guy, who we'll call Bob, walks by my desk on the way to his own desk. As he passes, I notice that Bob has a very bright piece of pink thread stuck to his ass. Because he is wearing dark brown pants, the pink thread really stands out.

Several minutes later, Bob walks by again, and the bright pink thread is still there. I feel a little bad for Bob, because I know that nobody is going to tell him that thread is there--including me. Why won't I tell him? Well, for one thing, he's fairly new and I don't know him so well. And for another, it would probably be quite embarrassing for him. Plus, there's the fact that in telling him, I am acknowledging that in some manner I have been looking at his ass, even though the reality is that the contrast of bright pink on brown has everything to do with it.

But when I thought about other people having bright pink ass thread, and whether or not I'd tell them and/or assist them in getting the thread off, my answers surprised me. For example:

• Female co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, yes I'd assist.
• Male co-workers with whom I've consumed many margaritas: yes I'd tell, maybe I'd assist (depending on attractiveness of said ass).
• Co-workers with whom I have friendly office conversation but no out-of-office contact: no and no.
• My boss: Definitely no. (Due to laughability/humiliation factor)

So I ran an informal survey of one person (margin of error: 100%) to see what other people think of the thread-on-the-ass scenario. And it sounds like the real issue is comfort with the wearer of the ass thread and/or a desire for their laughability or humiliation. My respondent said he would not tell Bob either, but if it was me, he would tell me, because I'm "not new."

The point is, it's been almost 2 hours, and Bob is still walking around with bright pink thread on his ass. This is a good opportunity to reflect, and think about whose ass you'd want to save from a pink thread, and who would save yours. Also, you should consider lint rollers, because the ass you save could be your own.

a drunk guy named evan.

Last night after a particularly heinous Financial Analysis class which required me to give and listen to several 40-minute presentations on returns on investment and P/E ratios (SNOOZE!), my friend and I decided to get a drink.

As we strolled down 2nd ave at 9:30 on a wednesday, surveying our options for booze, we encountered a drunk guy smoking out on the street whose opening line to us, now forgotten, prompted a series of shouts to our back to the tune of "girls, you're dirty! you're nasty! nasty! nasty girls!" The Janet Jackson tribute was completely unwarranted, of course, but at least he didn't feel the need to show us his penis, like many other drunks would.

As his cheers faded behind us, we turned into this one bar and grabbed a seat. It was uncrowded, despite the yankees/sox game on all tvs. We sat at the end of the bar, pulled our lagging asses onto stools, and ordered drinks.

"Nasty girls!!"

Oh no.

In came the staggering, tobacco-stenched, bald white guy from the street. He beelined right for me, came about 8 inches from my face, and said "Hhhhi. I'm Evan." I backed away slightly from the last breath of smoke he just exhaled into my face, and smiled. "Hi Evan."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Stephanie."

"And you?" he said to my friend. She answered him.

"What's my name?" I asked Evan. He grinned at me.

"I don't remember. I'm kinda really drunk right now."

Tina, the bartendress, said "Evan, leave her alone," and then to me said "He's a close talker, but harmless."

"I am NOT a close talker!" Evan screamed. Then he looked at me. "Am I a close talker? I'm not a closer talker. THIS--" he moved 5 inches closer "--is a close talker. But I am HERE--" he backed up again "--and that's NOT a close talker. Right?"

"Actually," I told him, pushing him back further, "I think there's like a...12 inch radius and anything INSIDE it is a close talker. So...yes. You are."

"Am I? AM I?" Evan panicked. "Aww. I meant no offense ladies. No harm here. I didn't know I was a close talker. I'm sorta wasted." Evan backed onto his stool unsteadily. "Nasty girls!"

Evan then proceed to ask everyone in the bar--everyone except us--to go to a party with him in a few minutes, and told them all they sucked when they said no. I wondered how we'd get out without the invitation.

We turned back to our drinks, then our long-awaited burgers with tasty bar fries, and feasted on our 10:45pm dinner. For several minutes, we didn't speak, we just devoured our food. The baseball game ended, the music was on, and Evan released his inner DJ by repeatedly reaching over the bar to change the song.

"Evan, knock it off!" Tina warned from the other end of the bar. Evan didn't like the next song either, so he reached back over, essentially lying on the bar on his belly, feet flailing behind him, and changed it again.

"Evan, I'm warning you!" But he was undaunted, and reached again, this time with far more effort, and landed on the bar with a moan.

"I just crushed my cock," he said, mostly to himself. He stood up and winced, slumping back onto his stool like a little kid. "I hurt my cock." I turned away and laughed hysterically, trying not to choke on bar fries or spew ketchup out my nose. Evan was quiet after that.

Upon completion of our meal, and payment of the bill, and seeing Evan distracted by a bar buddy, my friend and I picked up our bags and bolted. But Evan noticed...

"Nasty girls! Wait! How was that burger??"

"Delicious!" I shouted as I walked away.

"Gonna burp now? Come on, let's hear a BIG BURP! Burp nasty girl!"

And then, despite my desire to blast a floor-shaking, foghorn-style, make-yo-daddy-proud type belch in his face--which I am VERY capable of doing on command--I simply adjusted my skirt and my little blue shoes and walked out the door.

And that is the story of a drunk guy named Evan.

for the love of god, nobody move.

Let's just get right to it.

On the subway this morning, I was thrilled to have the good fortune to get a seat. I forced myself, new yorker style, between two people who were enjoying their personal space but inhibiting my chance to park it. We made one stop, picking up a ton of people, then another. We were quite a full train. But at the second stop, everything went wrong.

Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." (pause) Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! (pause) Ding!

Generally, you can expect 2-3 of these computerized warnings before the doors lock shut and the train begins to move. On less fortunate days, when some idiot is holding a door open, you may get 4 or 5 before the conductor, like yesterday, screams over the intercom "Sir! I can see you holding the door. Let GO of the door! And you wonder why you're late to your destination? Let GO of the DOOR sir!"

But today...we had many--way too many--of the Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." People looked up from their books and newspapers, over their shoulders to see what was going on. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding! We looked at each other, confirming our fears in each others eyes. Ding! "Stand clear of the closing doors please." Ding! Ding!

Then silence...

We waited for the inevitable announcement. "Ladies and gentlemen, we need to dispatch this train. This is the final stop. Please exit the train, there is another train outside the station waiting to pick you up." The community groan spread like a wave. People jumped up and made for the doors, but I thought I'd outsmart them all and get off last so I'd be in the best position to get on the next train first. Brilliant right?

Wrong. The platform was actually not big enough to hold ALL the passengers from the train, plus the people who had already been waiting there. There were about 15 people left on my car (5 at each door) when we all realized we were screwed. "GET OFF THE TRAIN!" the conductor yelled, failing to see our predicament. We looked at each other in panic, then at the sympathetic but territorial people already jammed on the platform. I tenderly stepped out, getting one foot on the utmost edge of the platform, but still couldn't turn around nor plant my second foot. People started yelling "Step back people! Let them off!" and the conductor continued to scream at us over the intercom.

With a little maneuvering, we all managed to get off the train, but I was NOT feeling good about it. The train doors closed, and it sat idle while the staff made a pass through to ensure all passengers had exited. I looked down, saw my shoulder bag touching the train, and realized how scary this was about to get. I couldn't see my feet because of my bag, but I knew I was much to close to the edge to be safe.

The train pulled away slowly, but even so my sense of balance was off from the blur of metal moving 5 inches from my face. I looked at the guy next to me, and said "Yah, this feels safe." He said "Nobody push." That was all I needed to hear to realize my time might be best spent not realizing that I'm about to die, but rather rehearsing what to do when I fell into the tracks. I decided that, assuming my ankles aren't broken from jumping 5 feet down in heels, and that I don't crack my head open, and don't land on the electric third rail, I would scramble to my feet and NOT try to climb back out. Instead, I would hop over the electric third rail while people screamed "HERE COMES THE TRAIN!" and victoriously wedge myself in the narrow "safe zone" between the two trains, let the train leave, then clamour out to where my concerned fellow passengers (all big strong hot men) would hoist me up to safety then fight for my hand in marriage.

My heart was pounding, my legs trembling. I was teetering on the edge, literally, afraid to shift weight to my other foot, or adjust my bag. I couldn't even tell if the train was coming, but I did my best to hold my bag as close to me as possible. I saw the light of the train on the tracks, and held my breath.

It FLEW into the over-crowded station, causing me to all but shit my pants. (Just for the record, I don't like fast-moving trains up-close to begin with. Talk about confronting your fears.) Car after car after car sped past, and every second I thought a) WHY is this driver going SO FAST when people are already dangling off the edge? and b) soon the train would snag my bag and send me flying down the platform, knocking other people into its path. But it started slowing...and slowing...and finally stopped, leaving a door right in front of my weak knees.

I got on, which was more than I can say for a lot of people. But there was no where to sit and I could barely hold myself up. My friend from the platform smiled at me in that "phew. we survived!" sort of way. I smiled back, and grabbed onto the handrail.

But is that the end? No. It gets better. Consider this your bonus chapter.

At the next station, a ton of people shoved on. I had comfortable but minimal space on both sides. Then suddenly the middle-aged man next to me was in full, unnecessary, arm-to-arm contact. I looked over, perplexed, to see he had PLENTY of room on the other side of him, so why was he crammed up against me? When I looked in the window reflection and saw the familiar but disgusting bulge of his erection, I knew why. Now, on top of all this, I'm being molested on the subway. AGAIN.

Granted, he was a passive molester, unlike my active molester buddy from last summer. But still, I felt bad for the women seated in front of him, who were so lucky to be asleep so they wouldn't get poked in the eye.

woman of the streets.

Yesterday I had a big PMS craving for a cheesesteak (provolone and onions), so I took a walk to go get one. The place is a hole in the wall joint about 2 blocks away, and it was a lovely day for a stroll.

I absent-mindedly walked the 2 blocks downhill (yes, new york has hills), darting across streets as lights turned green, and grinning slightly at the cat-calls I kept getting from the bruthas. (I credit my darling pink shoes.)

When I went into the cheesesteak place, I had one of those moments that, in the movie of my life, has the sound effect of a record player coming to a screeching stop while every head in the room turns to look at me. The place was FULL of men. I was the only female in a room of 15 men...and we all knew it. Undaunted and filled with the delicious aroma of cheesey goodness, I stepped up to the counter in my pink shoes and gave my order.

While waiting, I sang along to the blaring Stone Temple Pilots on the radio and watched the silent tennis match unfolding on the silent TV. I eventually got my sandwich, all wrapped up, steaming hot, and smelling delicious, and walked out the door.

This is where the trouble started. See, I had you thinking this blog was about a cheesesteak just to keep my male audience, but really its about the every day struggle of walking the sidewalks and streets of new york city in heels. It is NOT easy.

For starters, sidewalks, when not covered with dog shit, are usually not level and often have giant cracks. Some businesses fill the cracks in front of their buildings with this rubbery goo, which is fantastic for people like me whose heels often fall IN to the cracks. Rubbery goo means I just bounce right back out, never missing a stride. UNFILLED cracks mean if you hit the crack wrong and it swallows your heel, you may take your next step minus one shoe, OR try to take your next step and go crashing to the ground minus one shoe. Either way it's a bit embarrassing.

Then there's grates. As if storm drains and steaming manhole covers aren't hard enough, there's giant subway grates all over the city, stretching 8 or 10 feet long. Women all over the city scurry to the 6 inches of concrete alongside the grates, performing some sort of a balance-beam-in-training act so as not to fall in and damage their limbs, ankles, reputations, and SHOES.

Next, there's stairs. Just this morning on my way up from the subway, the woman in front of me misplaced her balance and came leaning back at me. I envisioned a whole domino affect of pissed off commuters tumbling down the stairs, so I put my hands up and sorta shoved her back into place. But I knew immediately her error: NEVER put any weight on your heels when going up stairs. TOES people. TOES! Never lean back.

However, the most risk, and the one that nearly broke me in half yesterday, was the surprise chunks of missing pavement on the streets. ESPECIALLY at the end of winter after the plows have destroyed any stability the streets once had. Yesterday, I stumbled stepping off the sidewalk into the street. I wobbled a bit but hoped no one saw. About 10 steps later, I looked up for a second and nailed a giant hole, doing that whole airborne-clumsy-chick-in-heels dance where one ankle all but snaps off my leg, I flail my arms to regain balance, then have the obligatory laugh-at-self episode followed by the walk-it-off moment, ending with me fighting back a yelp of pain from my now mangled, swollen ankle. But the real kicker (pun intended) is when it happens ONE more time before safely across the street. At this point, you KNOW people are laughing, thinking you don't know how to walk in heels or maybe are a little drunk, and you just want to yell out "IT'S THE POT HOLE DAMMIT!" to clear your name, but it's not worth it.

So yeah. I'm a woman of the streets of new york....cheesesteaks and broken ankles baby.

self-assessment

So, I'm sitting here waiting for a ride to Ikea that may come in 5 minutes, 20 minutes, 3 hours, or not at all. While waiting, I decided to do a few productive things--girlie things--such as pluck my eyebrows, put on makeup, fix my hair, paint my toes, peel off my skin...

See, I got sunburned pretty badly about 10 days ago. My skin has been peeling off in stages since about...6 days ago. It started on my forehead, followed by my chest, then stomach, then thighs, shins, upper arms, and now arms below the elbow including tops of hands. It's really disgusting, and I've been trying to disguise it by mixing up my outfits to turtlenecks to cover chest/neck, pants to cover shins, and lace madonna gloves circa 1985 to cover my scaley arms and hands. But I know it's all just "Borderline."

It's peeling off so bad that this morning I had to use a lint roller on my bed sheets before I made the bed. (I know, SO gross right?) I saw no point in changing the sheets until I'm done shedding like some scary sci-fi snake woman. It's bad enough that all day long I'm scratching all over like a 3-year-old with chicken pox. Ew. I'm gross.

So I also dried my hair and decided to send a picture of it (and me) to my grandparents, just for I'm-not-there-for-Easter laughs. And when I did, and uploaded the photo to my computer, I realized I had this hugely disfiguring hump on my arm just below the shoulder. I mean, seriously, I could give Kwaze Moto a run for his humpy money. I keep telling myself that disfigurement is probably just a strange lighting effect that made me look so disproportionate, but now I'm essentially afraid to go into public. Maybe I AM morphing into some sort of reptile. EW!

Then I started editing the picture and trying to shade that bulging upper arm to make it go away. As I trimmed off my hump, I realized this is probably how plastic surgeons get women to jump on that table to be trimmed and tightened. "See miss, this is the shoulder hump you have NOW. But if you elect to clean this up, your shoulder will look like THIS!" If someone had said that to me just now, I would have given myself the anesthesia and handed the good doctor my finest steak knife. Maybe he could laser off some of my dead snake skin while he's at it.

Ew.

(And, for the record, still no ride to Ikea.)

my new souvenir t-shirt.

I'm getting a t-shirt made for myself and the members of my last vacation. They're going to each be personalized variations of: "I went to Key West, got married, robbed, interrogated, sunburned, attacked by stray cats/roosters, endured a monsoon (and a singing transvestite), and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

I live in Manhattan, land of muggings, pickpockets, and public urination. I manage to survive in fucking Manhattan, and within three hours of arriving in Key West for a mini break, I'm robbed. Some asshole broke into our house, went through our bags, came in my BEDROOM, stole some jewelry and cash, and left.

I was actually in Key West because my mother got married. I didn't actually see the wedding...except on video tape, which was thankfully not stolen. I think they married on a Tuesday. It reminds me of the opening line of The Stranger by Camus: "Maman died today. Maybe it was yesterday. I do not know." Except for me....."Mom married today. Maybe it was yesterday, I do not know."

After the robbery, I had my first official mooch off my new step-daddy-o for $5 for a beach chair, in which I laid facing the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States. I fell asleep for, as I'm told, nearly three hours, which when combined with being in the sun on the southernmost beach of the United States makes for a pretty hefty sunburn...the kind that 5 hours later, as you are on your way to watch a transvestite sing Madonna songs in a monsoon, causes blinding headaches and nausea and forces you to run home in the rain without slipping in your wet flip-flops when you stop suddenly to dodge a stray rooster or hurdle a stray cat, both of which are terrifyingly rampant in Key West. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After the burn, before the singing transvestite, there was a police interrogation. While my CSI agent wannabe sister phoned in the results of the fingerprint and DNA tests, Agents Mom, Joanie, and Jeff contributed plot-twisting enhancements, such as following around the police and snapping pictures/videotaping/offering advice from the pool while they collected evidence. (When I say "they" I actually mean "she," as in the sole police lady/detective chick sent to our scene. She said she would have called the real CSI team in if we hadn't totally screwed up the crime scene by touching everything in sight.)

Anyhow, after the interrogation, and during the monsoon, I slept off my third-degree burns while my counterparts watched some tranny man (who looks better in spandex and a pointy Madonna cone bra than I ever could) perform in some sort of Diva cabaret and make some derogatory comments about New Zealand and sheep. I, of course, missed it all, because I was back at the scene of the crime watching WWE Smackdown and reheating goldfish crackers on my bright red, radiating chest.

But don't be fooled--I had a blast. I mean really, it's not every day you wind up in the Key West Police Department files as Victim #3 of case CX-487Z. I went to Key West, and all I got was this lousy case number.

hip hip hooray for the MTA.

Today was one of those days when I should have followed my instincts.

My instinct was to not walk to the subway this morning, because perhaps something was messed up. Perhaps I should just go to the corner of my block and get on the bus that stops practically in front of my door.

But did I do that? No. I walked the two blocks (uphill) to the subway, went down the stairs, grabbed my free daily newspaper, and failed to notice that no one was going through the turnstiles until I myself approached them and saw not green for go, but red for stop. I ripped off my headphones to hear "No trains. NO TRAINS!" Fantastic.

So I banged a yooie (Boston talk for a u-turn), walked back down the hill, and ran for the LIMITED downtown bus. The normal downtown bus stops every 17 feet, but the Limited stops every 20, so it's much much faster. This is especially useful when there are NO trains on the east side whatsoever, and everyone is going for the same Limited bus downtown.

The thing is....the only thing harder than learning to keep your balance on a jerky subway train is learning to keep your balance on a jerkier MTA bus. Trains go forward and back, and may occasionally turn or sway left or right. Buses, however, have many motions: forward, quick stop, kneeling, unkneeling, left, right, sharp left, sharp right, and bump-up, bump-down. Plus, with the fancy caterpillar buses (Kevin, are you LOVING this bus talk? Is it getting you all hot?), there's the tricky pivotal hinge in the middle that a) must be carefully navigated and b) I ALWAYS end up on. So your right foot is stable, your left foot is sliding away on the hingey part, you barely have a grip on the pole for balance, and the busdriver is working the rush-hour traffic the way I used to in a little Honda Civic--inching, gas-brake-gas-brake--which is clearly some sort of busdriver humor used primarily when over 70% of your passengers are standing up and fighting for balance.

Anyhow, I eventually got to my stop. A 20 minute subway ride equates to a 75 minute bus ride--but I DID get there. And then I had to walk three long avenues to work, which initially made me crabby but was okay because I got flowers on the street from John Stamos. He's looking good these days. (Okay, really, it was just these guys who were hired to promote his new show, Jake Sexy City, Jake Single Hot, or something like that, by handing out flowers to women on the street. But I prefer to say the flowers were from John himself. Uncle Jesse's HOT.)

So really, thank you MTA. Thank you for making my morning a mess. Without you, I wouldn't have met John Stamos on the street, he wouldn't have given me flowers, and we wouldn't be eloping at lunchtime at city hall. (If the trains are running again by then.)

another day, another tequila hangover.

On the second day of my 26th year of life, I woke at 4:30am and looked around. The room was only spinning mildly, and I wasn't terribly thirsty. But a well-timed hiccup prooved that I was indeed still intoxicated from the several large, well-made margaritas I'd had a few hours earlier.

My margarita habit amuses me. When I was in college, I didn't drink much. In high school, I didn't drink at all. But at the ripe age of 15, I knew a margarita was tequila, lime juice, and triple-sec AND I knew how to measure, mix, salt the glass, and pour over rocks.

Now before you run off and call DSS, know this: it's too late. Many years have since passed and I think the statute of limitations has expired. (But if you have any luck, remember to bring up the parentally imposed beer-to-cure-hiccups trend of my youth.)

So anyhow, after years of exposure to margaritas, and not ever daring to try one because who could ever drink anything that smelled like that (tequila), I have taken quite a liking to them. I've also decided that my recent Margaritaism is genetic, and there's nothing I can do about the addiction except dedicate my life to finding the best margaritas in town.

Also, I am dedicating myself to finding the perfect offsetting hangover cure for tequila-based beverages, frozen or otherwise. Generally, that tends to be water. Lots and lots and LOTS of water. And some advil. And Bo says also a bagel. And Mom would say a bloody mary. And Anne Marie would say a mudslide. (Actually, Anne Marie wouldn't be near the tequila in the first place.) But I'm thinking I'll stick with the water. Then soon a Coke. And several more of these chocolate-frosted cupcakes I've got. And maybe some eggs, and cheese. You know what they say, starve a cold, feed a hangover. (Is that right?)

i need to talk to this webster guy.

So, I'm an editor. Many of you know this. However, I pride myself on being "an editor with personality." There are many in my company who are "editors sans personality," and take their job a little too seriously.

As an editor, it is my job to be, as my sister would put it, a "giant geek" when it comes to things like punctuation, verb-subject agreement, and even spelling. (Although, when she has a paper to hand in, who comes looking for the "giant geek"? That's right baby. Come to sister.)

Well, it was just brought to my attention by another editor, the "sans" type that is devoid of personality or sense of humor (and hopefully the type that does not read my blog), that I have misspelled a word in one of my books. I quote:

"In the penultimate paragraph, change 'supercede' to the preferable (according to Webster's) 'supersede.'"

Okay, first...who the hell uses words like "penultimate"??? LOSER. I had to look it up, at friggin' Webster's.

Second, hey Webster...WHO MADE YOU IN CHARGE? I have been using superCede for many years, and it's always been fine. Why, suddenly, am I WRONG?

Alarmingly, this brings back painful memories of a certain wrinkly bitch at my former place of employment whose clearly visually impaired boyfriend supposedly works as a dictionary editor. She was very proud of this, always. Whereas the rest of us just hoped her inappropriate leather pants would come to life as an angry cow and chomp, thrash, and press her into ironic wrinkly bitch pants.

But back to my point: Who, exactly, are these people who decide when words should be added, removed, or changed in a dictionary? And how do they get this authority? I am concerned that it is being abused. As a professional giant geek, it is my job to stay on top of these things--but this superCede business just really irritates me, much like these did:

• "irregardless" is now a word in the dictionary, despite the fact that its common usage is derived from people who don't know it WASN'T a word in the first place.
• "aks" is now an acceptable pronunciation of the word "ask," which apparently is part of the Adopt Improper Pronunciations Instead of Teaching the Right One program.
• "reenter" (or re-enter) no longer requires a hyphen. Ya think? Reenter sounds like something that probes someone's butt in an alien abduction.

So, I would really like to talk to this Webster character, except I can't because he's dead. But I'd really like to know exactly who thinks they can just walk around making these changes for the rest of us. Irregardless, all I'm aksing for is a little authority to supersede these stupid words, and have them reentered properly.

Idiots.

gone fishin'.

Yesterday I decided to get a haircut. I mean, I've wanted one for ages, but didn't know where to go that would be affordable AND do a decent job on the overly dense forest on my head that I call my hair. But I finally bit the bullet, picked a place, and called in for a haircut.

Voice (in vague european accent) : "Amour de Hair."
Me: "Hello, do you take walk-ins?"
Voice: "Yes we do."
Me: "And how much for just a wash and cut?"
Voice: "Twenty-five."
Me: "Okay, great. And, could you tell me...do you have availability this morning?"
Voice: "If I tell you, it's not a walk-in anymore."
Me: "Right you are. I guess I'll take my chances."

Two hours later, I walked into Amour de Hair and was directed to Richard, a middle-aged, presumably gay Japanese man in black leather pants. He spoke with what seemed, against all logic, to be a french accent.

Richard: "Oh, Step'anie, you are so young, so beautiful. Look at those eyes. You MUST have highlights done. You will be more young and more beautiful, and those eyes!"
Me: "Um. Okay."

So Richard did the whole foil-head thing, and the here's-a-magazine thing, and the tell-me-if-the giant-drier-that-is-crisping-your-ear-lobes-is-too-hot thing, and eventually I came out with a wonderful haircut AND highlights! Oooh la la! But I was happiest that the change wasn't drastic. The slightest trim, the subtlest of highlights...I felt great but would still recognize myself in the mirror.

So this morning at work, I waited to see how people reacted. Some didn't notice, others took a while. "Did you...do...something?? Oh your hair, you cut your hair." This one noticed, that one noticed, my boss's boss noticed, but no one saw the color. That is a job well done.

While I was digging through some books in the hallway library, Jose walked by and said "Oh Stephanie, como esta? You are looking so beautiful today, like every day. But today more beautiful. Bonita!" Coming from Jose, I find it sincere. And I realized that people didn't know WHY I looked different, just that I did. (And more tan too, thanks to the illusion of sun-streaked hair.)

However, the one guy in the office who I wanted to show my hair to hadn't surfaced all day. I couldn't wait until tomorrow, because by then I'll have washed it and gotten it to look NOTHING like what gay leather Japafrench Richard did. But I, playing hair-to-get, couldn't go looking for the compliment. I waited, and waited, and waited. Finally, I broke down and sent an instant message.

Me: "it's 3:30. time for you to come over here and tell me my haircut is both noticeable and nice. i'll act surprised."
Him: (little smiley emoticon thing for gasping dude)

When I told my friend Jen what I wrote, she asked "is the compliment still satisfying if you ask for it?"

Before I could answer, he appeared mid-nonsensical-sentence before stopping suddenly and saying "wait a--did you--hey, you cut your hair!" I smiled and act surprised (as promised).

"Oh, and you colored it too! It looks good! Oh and he angled it around your face? Nice! I like it. I do. And he did't cut much either. It looks good."

"Wow!" I said. "I'm impressed! I didn't tell you that all that, you got it on your own!"

He walked away proudly, while I turned back to Jen and said "Apparently, yes." Sometimes even when you have to fish for it, a compliment can still surprise you.

i bleed red and blue.

We knew we would lose Romeo, and probably Charlie.

Then Big 54 fell ill. Already, our hearts ached.

Then we cut Ty Law, and I gasped in horror.

Then we released Roman Phifer, and I stared in shock.

But today when we let go of Troy Brown, I mourned.

I'm afraid the slaughter isn't yet over. I'm afraid of where we will be cut next. I love my Patriots and the joy they have given me, but I tell you--I LOVE these guys. My team will not be MY team without #24, 95, and 80.

To my boys, all I can say is that in my heart, you'll always be Bingo baby. Bingo. You won for us again.

UPDATE: And now David Patten?!? Oh the humanity!!

i always wanted a big brother.

This morning as I was slothfully trudging out the door of my apartment, I delayed my departure by noticing the unopened pile of mail on the table from yesterday. I didn't open it at the time because the apocalypse had arrived outside, and I could neither open the mail with my mittened hands, nor see it through the hail, sleet, snow, and lightning bolts that were striking all around me. So, instead, I fanned through it this morning on my way out the door.

In the pile, an envelope from the Massachusetts Department of Revenue. My immediate reaction was "Weird. They're supposed to direct-deposit my refund. What did they fuck up this time?" Then I opened it. And my second reaction was "Why the FUCK do they want $197 from me!??!?" Having neither the time nor patience to deal with this, I slipped the letter into my bag and went out the door.

Now, hours later, and in a progressively shittier mood than I was hours ago, I decided to revisit the matter. The form states a few key details:

• Notice of Assessment
• February 18, 2005
• $197.01 ($165.32 + $31.69 in interest. INTEREST!)

However, the form also fails to state a few key details:

• Why.
• Why.
• WHY!!!

So after a little research on the web, I got nowhere. The only indication I could find of the existence of this Notice was that they've already docked my current refund the $197.01. (So much for disputing.) I realized my best and only option was to dial the phone number and spend 11 hours on hold until someone hopefully semi-intelligent picked up the phone. I would even settle for a computerized voice telling me I made a math error, or that the tax rate went up. Something, anything, to clarify this damn Notice.

So I dialed. And some machine picked up, and a female voice said "Welcome to the Massachusetts Depahtment of Revenue." (Ah, the sounds of home.) "Please listen cayefully to the following menu." I followed the sequence and was put on hold for the "next available opahratah." To my surprise, my hold time was a mere 6 seconds. A charming, non-disgruntled, helpful woman picked up the phone.

After I gave her my social security number, address, date of birth, a blood sample, a retinal scan, and DNA analysis, she asked "What can I help you with today?"

"I just want to know....WHY?" I asked.
"Oh, well, it says here you failed to report some income in 2001."
"2001?"
"Yes, for the amount of $1567."
"In 2001?"
"Yes."
"If I failed to report it, how do you have it?"
"The federal government sent it to us."
"Oh. From 2001?"
"Yes ma'am."

I dug through the saved online files on my H&R Block profile, to find a 1099 listing for $1567 on my 2001 federal return. Beside it, the description "prize winnings."

Ah, prize winnings. That would be the two Madonna concert tickets, weekend for two in Martha's Vineyard, and his and hers mountain bikes, a prize package totalling--you guessed it--$1567--all of which I won from a radio station. The thing is, I know, I KNOW, that this was a line on the Mass. Telefile book of 2001. I remember putting it in the wrong spot, then moving it... moving it TO the line that specifically asked for WINNINGS. Why would I screw that up??

But it doesn't matter. They already took my money. Now they're taking more. And really, I guess it's still a small price to pay for fulfilling my lifelong dream of seeing Madonna in concert (and with awesome seats, may I add), and for an "expenses paid" trip to the Vineyard on the most beautiful September weekend in 2001 before life as we know it changed, with a room overlooking the glistening ocean full of sailboats AND a fudge store. Plus, I believe I just sold the his and hers mountain bikes when I left Boston. Sold them for...$200. Go figure. I made a $3 profit.

But in the end, I am a little freaked out that, even 4 years later, Big Brother is talking to Semi-Big Brother and keeping an eye on me, followed by vague and cryptic Notices of Assessment, which in turn is already a joke because they just took the money from me anyway. In a way, all this headache was for nothing...I'm just a pawn in their little game.

reality check!

Last night, like other Wednesday nights for the last 6 months, I went to my Accounting class prepared for a dull evening of P/E ratios and earnings reports. I settled into the ridiculously sloping desk/chair apparatus, balanced my scalding hot cup of tea on the ridiculous slope, and dug out a notebook. (Don't worry. No one gets scalded with the tea.)

Twenty minutes later, the professor, some accounting guy named Ed, is full swing into describing capital budgets and net income increasing over five years and blah blah blah, when he says, "Oh, and a bit of a personal question. I know there are two Stephanies in this class. Did one of you go to ---- Academy?"

With a look of concern and befuddlement, I timidly raised my hand. Why does my professor know where I went to high school? Why is he asking me in the middle of capital budgets?

"Oh!" he said. "My son goes there."

"Oh?!" I said. "How bizarre." Around me, my classmates giggled and whispered "small world" to one another.

"What year did you graduate?" Ed asked me.

"Uh...1997."

"Oh, well my son's a senior." Ed nodded and smiled, and I returned the vague gesture, acknowledging a shared moment. And although our chat ended there, and Ed returned to dividend yields, I had the following panic-stricken inner monologue:

1997. 1997. 2005. My god. I'm about to have a 10-year reunion. But I just went to the 5-year. How can it be 10 already? My god. I'll be 28 then. I always thought by 28 and my 10-year reunion I'd be somewhere. I thought I'd show up to the reunion with my husband and kids in tow. But that clearly isn't gonna happen. I mean, it's only 2 years away, and I don't even have boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. I don't have time! It's highly unlikely that I'm going to find someone, like them, fall in love with them, marry them, and bear their children in the next 2 years. I mean, I guess it's possible, especially considering that everyone else in my family is getting married based on an average relationship time of about 17 minutes. So 2 years isn't all that crazy. But god. 2007! 28 years old! Where is the time going? What am I doing?
AUGH!

When I snapped to, Ed had moved on to debt ratios, but I was stuck on some ratios of my own. In a few weeks, I'll be 26, which means I have to round up, so it's the same as 30. I'll spend the next 4 years being 30. In my mind, I'm still 19 or 20, just sort of floundering around trying to get some footing in this world. I just started life over in New York, I'm still broke, I'm back in school, my job blows, and it turns out men in New York also have their thumbs up their asses. I guess some things never change. And I guess that I'm not going to have the luxury apartment with the giant wall of books and charming spiral staircase that I share with my fantastically handsome husband and our brilliant crew of children--not yet. Maybe hoping for all that by 28 was silly. Maybe for my 15-year reunion. Maybe when I'm 33.

My god. I'm practically 40.