daze in the life

Life is so fucking heartbreaking sometimes.

I just had dinner with my friend Roo. Roo is your typical investment banker type. I might even say yuppie, shh, don’t tell him. Went to a private school, got a college degree from a decent institution, worked at a respected New York investment banking firm, the whole nine yards. But of course, if that were the whole nine yards, I wouldn’t be friends with him. Because he also used to go to Amsterdam for the weekend, has partied in Morocco, and is not white. Which makes him somewhat interesting. He’s the type of guy you can bullshit with. You might never talk about anything, but you always have something to say. Well, he does, at least. But he’s so unexpectedly interesting that I don’t mind letting him entertain me.

I met Roo at work. I don’t even remember how. Did he introduce himself? I think we got to chatting one time when he was smoking outside. Anyway, we had our ‘love of surfing’ in common, so we always had some bullshit to chat about (you know how surfers can talk for hours about a single wave. I like to think that’s one part of surfing I can do pretty well). He used to come hide in my cube when his boss was looking for him, shit like that. We started going surfing together on weekends.

And everything was fine until I had a disastrous realization: I am not attracted to this guy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great thing when you can have that perfectly platonic friendship. I achieved it once before. And everything is zipping along just fine until I realize it. And then I start thinking about it. And wondering. Why does he like me? Does he not find me hot? Why am I not attracted to him? Is he really that bad looking? (And invariably, he’s not.) Not that I want to be attracted to him. These are just things that idly cross my mind when I have nothing better to do than destroy platonic relationships that are by all counts pretty dandy.

Directly after this thought occurred to me, I had a dream that I hooked up with him. Which was rather horrifying, of course. Why am I such a sicko? Why do I have to insert my insecure, romantic yearnings into every goddamn relationship? It’s kind of like dreaming that you hooked up with your father (which I did, by the way, last night. I am not on speaking terms with my subconscious right now). I think I don’t know how to interact with men as friends because when I get to know them they’ve only ever been objects of desire.

Anyway, so he mentions getting a drink. I, good girlfriend that I am, ignore the offer. But a couple of days later, despite (or perhaps to spite) myself, I’m like so, how ‘bout that drink. Why do I do this? I make the “right” decision, not getting myself into a sketchy situation, and then I feel bad for being such an egotist to think he must like me that I invite him myself even though I am extremely uncomfortable with the situation for reasons I will later kick myself for not paying more attention to. It is not the first time this has happened. So he’s like, I’d rather just get some beers and chill at my place. But, you know, if you want to go to a bar, that’s cool too.

Do they realize how sketchy that sounds? I opt for the bar for two reasons. One, how could I possibly explain to my boyfriend why I was platonically over at some guy’s house drinking beer late at night? Even if the dude thinks I’m the ugliest ho on the planet, it’s still an unnecessary risk. The second reason is that I have learned to trust my better, if shamelessly egotistical judgment.

The ostensible reason we go to the bar is so that Roo can tell me how he got his heart ripped out by some ruthless woman. That’s a pretty clear indication that it’s not me he’s fretting about, right? (Or am I hopelessly naïve and it’s a cover to put me off my guard while convincing me that he’s a sensitive and sought-after man – WHAT?? I am going crazy. I Must stop thinking about how I am Not Attracted to this guy. Since when did I become so cynical? Honestly, all he wants is a friend to talk to. And he does know I have a boyfriend, right? And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t date him. Because I am Not Attracted to him.)

So we get to the bar. Chit chat about this and that. He’s hilarious. It’s weird, because he doesn’t look like a hilarious guy. He’s so…nondescript. He looks like someone who would be boring, but in fact he’s not! So he entertains me with stories of his past exploits in Marrakech and work and other bullshit. And finally I ask him, so, tell me why all women are heartless bitches.

And he tells me this story. Of this girl. Whom he was really close to. How at first she used to come into his office just to chat, and he was like whatever. She used to come in all the time for no reason at all. And then one day, his officemate was like dude, you’re so clueless, aren’t you? She likes you. Don’t you see the way she looks at you? So he starts to notice her, to pay attention to her, to talk to her. And he realizes that she is really cool. Not just really cool, really fucking cool. And he starts to like her. And he tells her, look, I’m really starting to like you, really, as more than a friend. And she comes back with, well, you know, I’m not really into dating right now… because I dated all through college and I felt like I was always looking for something serious, and now I just want to chill out and have fun.

So he doesn’t talk to her for like two months. He avoids her. He ignores her e-mails. He runs the other way when he smells her perfume. Because he likes her that much. But they start talking again, inevitably. He tells her he’s quitting. She freaks out, rushes to plan a goodbye luncheon, goodbye happy hour. And she asks, who do you want to come to lunch, and he says, you. Just you. So they go to lunch. He tells her he’s going to cook the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. That weekend she’s over at his place for dinner. He can tell she’s nervous, wondering what he’s going to pull. So he thinks you know what, this is a young girl, a really intelligent, but naïve young girl, and you know what, I am not going to try anything. So he doesn’t. He cooks her the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. And then the best lobster with risotto. And soon she’s coming over every weekend, getting drunk, hanging out. If they spent any more time together they would be living together. And he really starts to like her.

There’s only one problem: he’s not attracted to her. I have to say, I’ve seen this girl. And she is definitely Not not attractive. But Roo has this thing with lower backs. He thinks it’s the most unattractive part on a woman’s body. And one day, when he was picking her up at the airport, she leaned over to pick up her bags and he thought he’d just take a look and – no no no, just not attractive. But in every other way, she’s perfect. I could have married this girl, he tells me. She made me feel…whole, you know?

– Is my smooth-talking investment banker friend really saying this? –

FUck you – fuck you and your condescending smile (he sees the look on my face). But I can’t help it. It is so unbearably wonderful to hear a man say something like this about a woman, to hear him unabashedly admit to reinventing the cliché of love into something that has meaning in his world. You don’t hear that much, ever, except in movies, which only makes you want to hunker down and prepare for the worst.

So they hang out. They eat together. They talk about everything. They talk about their children together. She says she’s never met anyone like him. Anyone can see that they just have this ‘connection.’ He takes her to his Christmas party and people are asking how long they’ve been married. And she plays along. And then she goes to Florida for New Years and stops calling him when she gets back.

Now she’s hanging out with different people, asking other people to do stuff, avoiding him. Weeks later she wants to hang out. He says no. No way. Not even to the Crab Shack? Well, ok. Fine. But only because I’ve missed you like crazy and I can’t live without you. (He thought.)

They’re in the car on the way to the restaurant. And she mentions, like, casually, oh yeah, I was dating this guy for the time we weren’t talking. I mean, nothing happened, we just went to dinner a couple times. Really, it was nothing.

And Roo’s looking out the window. Wishing he were anywhere but in that car going to some stupid fucking restaurant with a girl he’s in love with and whom he has been working like crazy just to get the time of day from, and she’s “not looking for anything serious,” so she goes and hooks up with this total dork, this total tool – it’s just indescribable, inexplicable, inexcusable. Somehow he gets through the miserable night. And the next day he e-mails her and says he never wants to talk to her again.

Maybe it’s because she’s 22, he’s 30, I tell him. You have to accept that about her, that’s who she is at this age. Even if you have this great connection, she’s not ready to settle down, she doesn’t know what she’s about, she doesn’t know enough to know she’s being completely irresponsible with your heart.

Although, from my perspective, I have to say the signals were clear. If a woman says she doesn’t want to ruin the friendship, that’s Signal Number One that she wants to be Friends. And if she’s saying she doesn’t want to date seriously right now, it probably means she doesn’t want to date you. And it probably means she’ll wait for some asshole to come along that she can’t say no to, and break your heart. I know. I’ve done it. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

But still, they were talking about their kids, for chrissake. If that isn’t a mixed signal I don’t know what is.

He keeps going over the events, again and again. And when he talks about her, his face lights up. I’ve never met someone who completed me so well, he says. Who grounded me, made me feel like I had a place to stay wherever she was.

And it strikes me – he is in love with her. When have I last spoken with someone who is really, truly in love? It’s like this mystical, rarely sighted phenomenon, in whose presence you feel humbled, and against which all other, lesser forms of love seem unnecessary, foolish.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he was fooling himself. After all, it’s different once you actually get into the relationship. Who knows? I mean, he wasn’t even attracted to her. They never even kissed. But that was the thing – he didn’t want to. It wasn’t necessary. He just loved being around her – can I believe in the possibility of that?

It’s late and we’re getting in our cups. I just need a chic, Right Now, he says. I just need someone, someone who I can fuck around with and not care about. Someone who is hot. Great, I’ll be sure to introduce you to all my single friends, I promise him. Helga is a definite candidate, he says. “Helga” is the interloper who came surfing with us last weekend. I do not like Helga. As evidenced by her pseudonym. And here I was worrying he was going to hit on me? Apparently I’m last on his list. I don’t want to be on his list, of course – not if I’m last – and because I am Not Attracted to him. Besides. It must be because he respects me so much and knows that I have a boyfriend that he’s not hitting on me. Not because I’m not hot. Note to self: just because a guy doesn’t want to fuck you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t think you’re a cool girl. Which is cool. Because I am a cool girl. And I’m definitely not not hot. I see how men look at me, I note smugly as I’m walking back from the bathroom. I am definitely not not hot.

And what does Roo have to say about it? I can’t believe you called me a secretary in front of Helga – what kind of wingman are you?



As my dad and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. say, and so it goes.

Since when did having a satisfying relationship come to mean being the first person to say you have to go?

I had one goal in my conversation with my boyfriend tonight: to hang up first. It’s not as easy as it sounds. It takes extraordinary courage. I almost had it last night. I was just thinking how tired I was, and that maybe now would be a good time to say goodnight, when – baby, I’m have a bunch of stuff to do, I gotta go.

Damn I was so close.

It’s that one thing that always trips me up. I’m too nice. I think way too hard about how my actions affect others. Because the reason I hesitated and missed my golden opportunity to Win The Conversation is because I started thinking, well, gosh, I wouldn’t want him to think I didn’t want to talk to him. And what if he takes it personally? What if he sits up til four in the morning worrying over our relationship only to hear me deny any recollection of said conversation the next day? (Ok, he was drunk.) But if there are two things I must aim to root out of my personality, it is my capacity for empathy and my politeness. At least when dealing with boyfriends.

Tonight I managed to miss his call. Score 1, R. I also managed to be doing something else while I was talking to him. Score 2. And I kept the conversation clipping along at a rapid pace, ready to be terminated at the moment I felt the least whim to devote my attention to something more worthy of my fabulous self when – baby, I gotta go.

And so, I didn’t win the conversation. But all was not lost. I got in a semi-victory by being disconcertingly eager to let him get back to his work. Score!

But either way I’m dissatisfied. Our relationship can’t work with two of him. There has to be a him and a me: one person to be oblivious and the other one to complain about it. Is there any other way? If I don’t care as much as he appears not to won’t I end up weaning myself off our relationship? God forbid I become an emotionally self-sufficient, independent woman. I’m not ready to grow up yet.

Speaking of grown-ups, and twitty little mini-adults, yesterday, a corporate colleague who shall remain anonymous brought her daughter to the office to sell Girl Scout cookies. I was almost jealous of her on behalf of her fellow Brownies, because you know she’s the girl who always wins the trip to Disney World because she sells them at her mom’s office to a market of captive officeworkers who have nothing better to do than sit on their asses and fantasize about the next meal. Like fat office cows, waiting to be milked.

So I hated her already when she showed up, the spoiled brat. But then I thought (in my chronic niceness), well, gosh, she’s just a nice little girl. I should try to be friendly with her.

“How’s it going? Have you sold a lot of cookies?” I say this very sweetly.

“Yeah,” she leans into my cube with dramatic exhaustion. “I’ve been walking around the office for like hours now. You guys are the last ones. I’m like, get me out of here right now.”

“…Oh yeah, long day huh? Well, which ones do you think are the best?”

“Um… Tagalongs are good. And those lemon ones too, they’re new. …Honestly, I like don’t even care right now. I’m like, so tired.” She stares at me, pointedly. Like, are you done yet?

“Ok, I’ll just fill out this form then…Ok, do I need to fill out the addr–”

“No.”

“And the–”

“Sixteen dollars.”

“Alrighty then, I guess I’m all…” set then, I say to the fading squeak of her sneakers.

Alrighty then. I’m so glad I just helped your lovely daughter win a trip to Disney World.

What the hell are they teaching them in Girl Scouts these days?

Further angst:

You know that horrible, leaden feeling you get in the bottom of your stomach when you’ve done something drastically wrong and there’s no way to fix it? And your heart thumps spastically and you wrack your brains for any possible way you can fix the thing you know can’t be fixed? I’m having serious second thoughts about my article. Serious cold feet. It’s almost painful how straight the magazine is. (It was clearly not the thing to pick up just before bed. This will surely help my insomnia.) If they don’t like the article, it will be because it just feels like there’s something missing… And that something missing would be the story. The story of me and hair removal. And my boyfriend has everything to do with the story. He’s one of the main characters, in fact. Definitely the antagonist. But one of those antagonists that makes you learn a lot about yourself in the end, and who really isn’t a bad guy after all (especially since he helped me with my research by showing me www.hairytwats.com). I know it would have been much better if I’d told the real story. That’s what makes those kinds of stories interesting – seeing the emotional honesty of the journey the writer undertook. Against those criteria, my article must feel flat, incomplete. I have to read it again right now.

…

Oh no. It’s just as bad as I feared.

The article would have been ten times more interesting if it were just the tasteful but quirky story of me and pubic hair, and a few interesting facts tacked on as necessary. As it is, it’s just a skeleton.

You know how you feel after you take a test, and you realize you totally fucked up, and you keep going back and thinking about it and you think about it so much that you’re not even sure if you fucked up anymore – but you know you did – and you keep waiting to get the test back, in case maybe, somehow, it came out ok anyway?

God, what was I thinking. I let the article take control of me. I was too unwilling to sacrifice my original vision for what the story had become, too unwilling to sacrifice my words for what the story should say.

Story of my life.

I have become nocturnal. It’s 3 a.m. on a Friday night. Other sensible people are up because they’ve been out partying like normal folk. I, however, am basking in the bluish light of my computer screen, once again, having never once left the apartment since I got home.

Who can say why? It could be jet lag, I suppose. If I were in Fiji right now, I’d probably be frolicking on a white sand beach, working on my tan and gazing into the unbearably beautiful turquoise water. My body must still think I’m there. Nevermind the decidedly unbalmy SoCal weather. I know I shouldn’t complain, I heard it was 74 degrees today. But weather is now a vague, unsubstantiated rumor to me anyway, these days.

It could be that. Or it could be that irrepressible urge to create that always hits in the wee hours of the night. It’s just that it usually doesn’t happen after I’ve fallen asleep. I used to be able to sleep the night through. I’m regressing. Soon I’ll be colicky, and will communicate through an impressive range of coos and gurgles.

Or maybe it’s because I’m thinking about things. Thinking About Things has got to be the number one cause of insomnia. Number two being that if I stay up late enough I’ll definitely have to ditch surfing in favor of sleeping in, and then I can check out that art exhibit, which I’d somehow prefer to sitting in ice-cold water for an hour and getting pummeled by waves other people are catching. Did I mention that I now own three surfboards? I own three surfboards, and I don’t even like surfing. Although I do appreciate it for revealing a heretofore unknown aspect of my personality: god am I one stubborn fuck. Anyone else would have thrown in the moldy beach towel by now, but no, I’m still out there, freezing my ass off and not catching waves for no discernible reason. Another thing I can objectively appreciate about surfing is that it’s one sport where it’s really just about how much fun you had. Unless you’re one of those asshole surfers who likes to run people over rather than miss a rad wave, thanks for the doobie you owe me for finning the nose off my board, you miserable professional surfer in a yellow t-shirt who ran over my board at Frigates Pass in Fiji. I should thank you for making my day, actually. I had a much better time eating cookies and watching you from the boat.

There’s another reason I might be awake right now. It’s because my boyfriend called me, drunkenly happy, after I had, mercifully, fallen asleep. As always, I wrenched myself from the endless arms of sleep, and awake, heart beating out of my chest and hand slapping around for the phone, I was ready and happy to talk! I really do my best not to sound groggy; I’m a very conscientious interlocutor. And so, by the time he is ready to nod off into a drunken stupor, I am completely awake.

I don’t know what’s going on with us lately. Either I miss him terribly or I despise him. I can’t decide which. Well, it’s definitely his fault for introducing surfing, the difficultest sport in the entire world, into my life. And it’s also his fault for not being here. It’s really not fair to leave the impression of your body on the bed and then to leave. Especially when spooning him has become the only position in which it is possible for me to fall asleep. Kind of like sucking one’s thumb. It’s just calming, appropriate. Or sucking a towel.

Ah, Towel. How my adult self could benefit from your reassuring taste of cotton and spit, working you around my gums, chewing carefully. Was there ever anything more comforting? And you would certainly never live in Arizona, would you.

I think we fought about something tonight, I’m not really sure. I was still half-asleep at that point. I think he convinced me that having strangers buy him drinks all night was morally above ending up in a stranger’s apartment where your friend had disappeared with its resident while you lounged on the couch with a Christian freak who belatedly thought to put a hand on your lower back, which you patiently ignored because it was easier than being a bitch. And telling him to get his fucking hand off you, asshole.

Lately I’m lacking in epithets to describe sucky people. I honestly sat here for five minutes before I came up with “asshole.” Or maybe it’s the surfeit of sucky pee-holes in my life, whom I clearly lack the depth and variety of adjectives to describe in all their unique suckiness.

I just read my feminist mag again, can you tell? It made me realize that there are a thousand chicks out there who are way cooler than me and who have done lots of wacky shit I will never in my life have the balls to try. Oops, pussy. What was I thinking, leaving my dorky, naïve little baby on their doorstep. I’ll be lucky if they forget my name. You know what really pisses me off though? This is the real bummer, it totally talks about guys. Flirts with them, interviews them, fucks them. Ain't no thang. And here I was worrying my article was too straight – hah.

You know what the most depressing thought is though? That I’m supposed to submit my baby to like 25 places before I might get a “maybe.” Can’t I just get lucky on my first shot? C’mon. Yeah? Because it seems like 25 places means 25 rewrites in which I entirely reshape the tone and direction of the article, 25 agonizing cover letters and probably 25 rejection letters. Meanwhile, unless they pay me five figures I can’t possibly have made more than half a cent an hour on it. Slave labor, I tell you! Not that I’m in it for the money. God of Stupid People, I call on you once again to reward me for my laziness and lack of resourcefulness. Cash, checks, heaps of praise accepted.

I am not tired yet.

I knew it was too good to be true.

This morning as I was driving out of my parking lot, I thought to myself, gosh, our driveway is really narrow, and I always end up turning into the other lane when I go out, and that’s kind of dangerous. I think I’ll take the corner really tight today just to be a little safer. So I swing out and make the right-hand turn. Wow, I took it pretty close, I’m thinking. It’s amazing how you think you’re getting really close to the wall when actually – CRUNCH – ohmigod. OH-migod. I check in my rearview mirror to make sure the back half of my car is still there. Looks alright. At least there are no weird parts sticking out where they shouldn’t. Maybe it’s not that bad. Sometimes, it sounds really bad? You know? And then it’s not?

My car is a zebra now. It has a patch of excema. It got bitch-slapped. And all because I tried to do a good deed and drive more safely! That is the last time I consider a random stranger’s safety over the cosmetic perfection of my driving machine. But you know what? I’m ok with this. Because, thank god, at least I ran into a wall and not the person in the crosswalk last night, right? Now all I have to do is get some really big glasses and a hat so no one associates me with the car that has had a chunk taken out of the wheel well for the past year.

THANK YOU LORD for proving to me that Human Goodness Truly Does Exist in the World. I am so delirious at this moment that I absolutely must get it completely out of my system before I explode, and I shall be thoroughly depressed thereafter. I was so obliviously happy today even before the thing that proved to me that Human Goodness Truly Does Exist that I almost ran someone over as I was driving to meet my dad for dinner. But I didn’t! And that is reason number one (1) why today was a super day.

Here are the good things that happened to me today, in no particular order:

(2) I received a hundred dollars – cash – from Sydney, Australia in the mail today. One hundred dollars cash that I cleverly hid under a mattress in a hotel in Sydney, Australia the day before New Years and then completely forgot about until two days later in Newcastle, Australia, by which time it would have been cheaper to forget about the money than to go back and get it.

However, this didn’t stop me from calling the hotel and harassing them every day for the next two weeks to send me my money. First they said they’d send it to the hostel my friend was staying at in Byron Bay. Problem solved, right? I get to Byron Bay, hop over to the hostel, and am utterly appalled by the fact that my precious hundred dollars US cash might recently have been sitting in the box full of mail next to reception, kind of like a dish of mints with the implicit directive to please help yourself on the way out, compliments of the staff.

I call them back. Have you sent it yet? I ask, heart in my thoat. No, fortunately (fortunately?) they haven’t sent it yet. They’ve been quite busy, what with the New Years hubbub and all. In fact, what was it? Did you have that address again, we seem to have misplaced that paper. And how’re you going, by the way?

Desperately wishing I had another address to give them, I repeat the address for the hostel. Please send it by tomorrow, I tell them. I’m leaving the country in a few days, and I won’t get it if you don’t. Sure sure, no worries, we’ll send it right along.

I hang up and say a prayer for my poor, lost, lonely hundred dollars. Next day I call to make sure it’s been sent. Hi Peter, had a chance to get to the post office yet? Peter, now my good friend, is the witty, rather crusty guy who works at the front desk and promised to send out my package.

Ah, you know the darndest thing, it’s in the safe (at least it’s in a safe, I’m thinking. At least they didn’t start giving free one dollar rebates to all guests staying more than one night), and I don’t have the key. But the manager’s coming in later, call me tomorrow to make sure it got out?

Ok, now we’re getting somewhere.

Next day, Hi, is Peter there?

Peter? No, sorry, he isn’t here just now.

Oh, ok. Well my name is Rachel Globus and he was going to send something to me…

What was it?

Well, um, it, yeah, it was just some money (Yes, it was a HUNDRED DOLLARS CASH that can in no way be traced to its owner, me, who will be halfway across the world in a matter of days and completely powerless to do anything to ensure its safe return).

Ah yes, it’s right here.

So, will Peter be sending it out?

Oh, well, you see, we’re not sure if he’s going to be working here anymore.

Oh great, the one guy I trusted (I’m telling you, we were tight) got fired.

We’ve had a bit of a management takeover, different people working here now.

Wow. Ok. Stay calm. The money is still sitting there on their desk. It has not disappeared into the netherworld of unknown Australian pockets just yet.

Could you possibly send it to the United States? Sure, just take a nip out for shipping. (Yes, please open my pouch of money and fondle it nefariously while you contemplate how much easier it would be to simply…lose it on the way to the post office.)

Staying calm. I will leave this in the hands of fate! If fate wants me to have a hundred dollars I was stupid enough to leave for the taking…then I will truly understand how all the morons in the world get ahead.

I give them my home address. Say another fervent prayer to the God Who Watches Over Stupid People. God of Stupid People, please protect me from bearing the financial burden of my stupidity and especially from learning any valuable and “Expensive Lessons” about how important it is to be careful with my money in foreign countries.

And it was all I could do. I had to say goodbye to it, mentally. It was gone; through my own carelessness I had thrown away the comfort it offered me, and I could never get it back, no matter how much I missed it. I told everyone we had parted ways, I never expected to hear from it again. I was finding my peace with it.

I went to Fiji. Drowned my sorrows in kava and spectacularly gorgeous tropical paradise. And came back. And woke up. And went to work. And ate salad. And told myself to forget about it. And did.

But I was quite melancholy about the whole thing, and I still had this little grain of hope that maybe, possibly? But no, no, there was no way in hell anyone was going to go out of their way to mail a hundred dollars (nevermind – fate, are you listening? – the fact that I would surely perform such a selfless act for any hapless traveler unfortunately struck by the fickle hand of fate), unless they were so lazy it was less trouble than changing it at the bank. And maybe when it came down to it, it was really a matter of which line was longer. But as fate would have it, either the line was mercifully long at the bank and their air conditioning was broken, or, as I prefer to think, there remains just a smidgen of goodness in the world, and I was the lucky recipient of some of that smidgen. Those Aussies sure are good blokes.

(3) The place I went out to dinner with my dad has these really great little chocolate mints, and I grabbed a whole handful on the way out!

(4) I bought so many great things today! Thank God for the not-so-cheap thrill of consumerism. Sometimes I love buying things, is that awful? It’s kind of a binge-purge (ok, not so much purge, although my closets could use it) thing. My disgust at looking like crap eventually overcomes my disgust at buying stuff and I go into a shopping frenzy (i.e., buy one or two things). Then I get so grossed out at my slavish idolization of fashion trends that will be way uncool before I can wear the clothes twice that I don’t buy anything for like a month. And then it starts all over again!

(5) I had this really great idea for my own company and the initial fervor of having a Good Idea totally hasn’t given way to reality yet!

I need to stop working for the Man, and start working for the Woman, I’ve decided, and that woman is ME. Anyway, it’s kind of a long-term goal. I think I’d be a really great boss though. I’d let myself take vacation whenever I deserved it.

(6) I love my dad. Isn’t that a wonderful feeling to have? It took me 23 years, but I can finally appreciate him for who he is. I mean, who else would tell me how to say “fucked in the ass” in Latin? My dad is just great.

(6.5) Oh, this is kind of a downer. I had a papaya boba at the Asian market today, and it wasn’t that good. But I did buy some really great chopsticks for my dad!

(7) I also purchased the magazine I sent my article to, even though they haven’t even opened the e-mail I sent them yet, bless their busy souls, and when they do they’ll probably dismiss it after the second line and forget to tell me for like three months. Should I hold it against them? At first I thought yes. Why should I buy their stupid magazine if they won’t buy my really awesome article? But then I thought, you know what, I really like their magazine, and dammit, even if they think they’re too cool for me, I’m not too cool for them. It was kind of a touching moment.

(8-10) My best friend from college is coming out to visit me in March! I can’t wait to revive the good old days of eating cheese dip with a spoon, sprinkled with crumbs from the bottom of the bag of Baked Lays, clearing my palate with frosting and animal crackers when necessary, and playing miniscrabble until four in the morning. It’s going to be fabulous.

All in all, I have to say that today, I have been truly blessed. And tomorrow, I’m going to look exceedingly spiffy.

I’m suffering from post-partum depression. I got up today and everything was the same. Precisely three things have changed since I’ve been gone: I now need a keycard to get onto my floor at work, which everyone neglected to tell me. Don’t worry, I figured it out. Secondly, the supermarkets are still on strike. This counts as something that has changed because I expected it to be over by now. That was the spoonful of sugar with the unsavory thought of going back home, that at least I could buy groceries without crossing a picket line! But it was not to be. Thirdly, they’ve replaced the shower curtains in the yoga studio with see-through ones! Who does that? I’m sure it’s cute in your home where your boyfriend can glimpse your sexy curves through the transparent bubbles rising up the blue plastic all too abundantly, but I do not relish the thought of my fellow yogies watching me scrub out certain unmentionable parts. Honestly. As if sweating until your mascara is running down to your chin and you leave wet butt-prints anywhere you sit down isn’t undignified enough. I’m truly offended.

Other than that, everything else is the same. It’s amazing how easily you can slip on and off the cloak of habit.

Why Vanity Fair asks these questions of famous people instead of me:

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Being able to look myself in the eye and know I’m happy. Perfect happiness isn’t perfect. It’s knowing when to be content.

What is your greatest fear?
Spending too much time worrying about getting fat and old instead of enjoying it.

Which historical figure do you most identify with?
At the moment, Virginia Woolf – the woman expressed through her writing, which brings to bear the loveliness, profundity and chaos of being alive.

Which living person do you most admire?
My aunt, who has tackled life with strength, good humor, and generosity. She has cranberry picking on her resume. She was once held up at gunpoint in a foreign country. And she raised two boys and half their friends, as well as numerous dogs, crickets, birds, lizards and a snapping turtle.

What is your current state of mind?
Unrest. Everyone I know, including myself, is having a quarter-life crisis. Nothing can be depended upon absolutely, and my greatest ambition on a good day is to be middle-aged.

What is the trait that you most deplore in yourself?
Hesitation. A wise French newspaper vendor once told me “Il ne faut pas hesiter” …easier said than done.

What do you dislike most about your appearance?
That I look like crap all the time and yet am intellectually opposed to spending gobs of money so I can look like everyone else.

Which living person do you most despise?
I tend to get peeved rather than to despise.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
“Yeah.” I need to agree less, argue more. My New Year’s resolution is to be more belligerent.

What is your greatest regret?
I’m too young to have any great regrets and I hope I never get old enough to have them. Although I do regret not buying more stuff on my travels. And if there’s one mistake I hope to God never to repeat it’s sleeping with a married man. Other than that I think my mistakes were pretty worthwhile.

Who or what is the greatest love of your life?
I haven’t found him/her/it yet.

Which talent would you most like to have?
Unfailing confidence.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
We would all live closer together. Also if bad vision didn’t run on both sides of it that would be cool.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
I would come back as a mirror. I think it would be hilarious and very thought provoking.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Having no possibility of improvement.

Who are your favorite writers?
I love Jonathan Franzen. He speaks to my experience. Virginia Woolf, of course. And I would be remiss if I didn’t include myself. You have to be your own greatest fan, because nobody else is going to be. And what I write definitely speaks to my experience.

What are your favorite names?
When I was little, I used to think I would name my daughter Genevieve. It sounds very grand. It might be a bit pretentious. I’ve also always liked the name Laura. It sounds very fresh and bright. I don’t really think the names are important. Good people make good names.

How would you like to die?
As I would like to live, happy.

What is your motto?
“Suck it up.”

I swear I meant to keep in touch. I had this great episodic rendering of my adventures in Australia and Fiji all planned out. The first episode was going to start like this:

6:15 am Christmas morning found me drunk.

I thought it was a pretty good beginning. Then I was going to talk about how having cramps feels like being stapled to the floor by your intestines. That’s when you arrive in Fiji on Christmas morning slightly buzzed from the complementary champagne and are serenaded by a rich and rhythmic chorus of Fijians, and you get your period while you’re waiting to pass through customs. And your tampons are in checked baggage, on the other side. You start to sweat, feeling the tropical heat and the ten-hour flight settle on your forehead like a lukewarm washcloth, and watch delighted Americans applaud the music. Glance up the line again, you can almost make out the headings. Hope you’re in the right line. Watch for opportunities to cut.

Once you are through customs, tampon safely retrieved and utilized, you realize that you lost Christmas Eve and that no one, least of all the Fijian pharmacists, will be working for at least another week. Making Midol rather difficult to come by. Your fellow traveler offers you some allergy medicine, you down it and lay back down on the bed, groaning every so often, waiting to die.

Finally you feel incredibly lame and drag yourself out of bed, out to the beach, where everything is slow and rustling gently in the soft breeze. Waves are lapping on the shore, one or two people can be seen up and down the endless beach. You take a half-hour walk and three weeks later you still have the tan from the tank-top you were wearing that day. Everything is quiet. People smile as you pass, wave, and say “bula.”

At first I thought it was “hola.” I think I said hola back once. Hopefully it was muddled enough to sound like bula. Bulaaaaah. Even the McDonalds sign has it. The big golden arches, and underneath, Bula.

Christmas is possibly the worst time of year to go traveling. Every damn person is on vacation. And everything is closed til January 5th, as we discovered in Melbourne. My first impression of Australia was that everyone dresses like they shop at Old Navy. And all the girls are big. I mean big. Now that should have made me feel small and cute. But somehow I felt fat by association. Go figure.

The best thing about Melbourne was the coffee. That may even be the best thing about Australia. Being in Australia is like walking on a foot that’s asleep. You feel like you should feel something, some hint of difference, some hidden exoticism, but you don’t. Except for the accents and the koalas, it’s exactly the same as America (shh, don’t tell any Aussies I said that). They have bush, we have Bush. They wear khakis, we wear khakis. They surf, we surf. See? Maybe exactly like Southern California would be more precise. Other than the size of the women and the fact that the men are all yoked. Did I mention that? They all look like they come from Texas and/or Colorado. Muscle-Ts were made for Australian guys. It’s like walking through an Abercrombie catologue! Except it’s for Old Navy. And only the guys are good looking. It reminds me of how I felt when I arrived at Dartmouth! Not too bad, I’m thinking.