“Is that… a music class?”

“Yeah.” My coworker pointed toward the back of the office. “The music room is on the other side of that door. Cute, right?”

“Extra cute.”

I’m not used to hearing tambourines and a chorus of fifth grade voices in the middle of my work day, or passing through a Capoeria class (!) on my way to the bathroom. But those are just some of the nifty little quirks of my new gig. I’m particularly tickled by the classical music that signals the end of every class, fire drills and getting called into the principal’s office.

Fortunately, he wanted to introduce himself, not give me detention for the length of my skirt. Phew.

There are so many little oddities to get used to outside of the cubicle life. Like, this afternoon, when the Phys Ed. teacher introduced herself in front of her students as Mrs. F, I had to stifle a quick giggle. I knew that had we been back in the main office, I’d have known her as Ann or Megan, but I’d forgotten that when in front of a room full of sixth graders, teachers don’t have first names.

Or, god forbid, lives outside of the classroom. If they only knew!

One of the nicer perks about my new job (on top of the fucking excellent health insurance) is that, unlike first days of new schools when I was a kid, I already have a friend at this one. To see the same friendly face at Sunday afternoon football and Monday morning coffee is really very nice. As is the head’s up of decent places to grab lunch. Invaluable information.

What is also nice is having a boss show so much confidence and enthusiasm in my skills. My calendar is filling up with meetings and new tasks and challenges. It’s exhausting, but in a good way. And speaking of, I should really get some rest.

Tomorrow is Parent/Teacher Conference day.

When I went to bed last night, I left a light on in the kitchen.

You know, to go with the one I’d turned on in the living room. And the one over the sink in the bathroom. I checked the closets a good half dozen times and then stood in the hallway deciding what to do with the bathroom door: Which is less scary – open or closed?

I decided closed.

On Law and Order when the cops go door to door after someone’s been killed, the neighbors act blasé about the whole thing – sometimes even annoyed at the disruption. Again? Is it too much to ask that folks refrain from being victimized while Letterman is on? I felt anything but blasé. Though, once I shut my door, I did eventually go back to my movie. But only after making sure the blinds were closed so tightly that not a sliver of light would peek through.

My windows overlook the apartment where it happened. Which is why I heard what I heard. And why I can’t seem to go near them without my hands shaking.

I thought for sure I would have nightmares last night. But since it turns out that you actually have to fall asleep to have nightmares… Well, in a way, I got off easy. Even if today was hard. First days at work are rough enough on a good night’s sleep and I remember all but forty or so minutes of last night.

My brain says that I shouldn’t be scared. There are cops on the roof and pooping in and out of every floor and a gaggle of reports just outside the front door. What’s going to happen? Nothing. But my heart leaps every time there’s a noise in the hallway or a squeak of the floorboards as Sir Hal goes about his nightly wanderings. My imagination takes the images that the media has constructed, the look I saw on the detective’s face, the sound of yelling and the shrillness of dogs barking and plays upon every detail until I can quite literally see my heart beating through my tank top.

Reporters on the sidewalk wanted to know if having someone murdered in my building makes me feel unsafe. Something in me needed to take her notebook and fling it into the street and yell, Shame on you! Shame on you for exploiting people’s fear! You’re a woman; do you live alone?

Instead I ducked behind the policeman and said I had a bus to catch.

The part of my personality that hates a drama queen has been refusing all the kind offers from friends offering couches or even entire vacated apartments, knowing that it’s really not necessary. But the part of me that cries at scary movies, the part that doesn’t so much mind the drama queen, well, she declines with a greater hesitation.

She’s also the one who just chased a Tylenol PM with a shot of bourbon… after checking the hall closet one more time.

A policeman just came to my door to tell me that my neighbor was murdered.

With the exception of food delivery guys, I don’t get visitors at this time of night. So when there was a knock at the door, I was surprised – surprised enough to go to the door and swing back the peephole cover. The man in a suit on the other side of the door heard the floorboards squeak.

“Police!”

I stood there in my pajamas mute and stupid with disbelief as he told me that my neighbor had been killed. Did I know her?

“I’m sorry – I don’t know many of my neighbors by name.”

But when he told me the apartment number, it was another story. My mouth went dry. She and I had been in the elevator together yesterday afternoon. The detective asked if I’d heard anything strange tonight.

“Yes. I did. Yelling and a dog going crazy. About an hour ago. I only know because I was making dinner and the stove is right by the window.”

He nodded. “That would have been the right time. That was their dog. Her boyfriend found her and called 911.”

When he had no more questions, the detective asked my name and jotted it down in his notepad. He lingered for a bit. I think he could tell I wasn’t exactly alright.

“You know, we’ll see. The boyfriend’s down at the precinct right now. Just keep your door locked, okay miss?”

I nodded and mumbled something about how horrifying this was and the look on his face told me he thought so too. I can’t help but wonder how gruesome things are in that apartment.

The courtyard below my window is a buzz of activity – people shouting back and forth to each other, thick flashlight beams bouncing off the bricks. There’s heavy footfall on the roof above my bed. I feel like I’m stuck in an episode of Law and Order and it’s chilling. The voices outside my door are now discussing basement access and, did Pete have a look at the incinerator?

I feel like throwing up.

1. A new job. For the last several months, anytime I was asked, “So, what do you do?” I changed the subject. When my avoidance was mistaken for modesty (like I’ve ever been legitimately accused of that), I resorted to being blunt. “I really hate my job, so let’s talk about something else.” Tres graceful, right? Now I can’t shut up about it, and I haven’t even started. I wonder if my mouth will get tired of forming the words, “I’m so excited!” I hope not.

2. A dysfunctional family. They may be a huge mess, but they are my huge mess and I wouldn’t replace a single one of them.

3. An absence of drama. Dysfunctional family aside, this year has been calm – maybe eerily so. Last November marked the height of bad relationship mêlée (I can still hear the sound that six bottles of Heineken make shattering on the cement) and I thought things would never go back to normal. Well, in a way I was right. They didn’t. For that I’m thankful.

4. Sir Halitosis Maximus, the Duke of Bad Breath. On pain of sounding like the Crazy Cat Lady, that little shit is four-footed, fur-covered joy. I love that he plays fetch at four a.m., that I have to wake him up and drag him out of the sink before I can do dishes, and that he stalks me when I’m in the shower. I love that when I come home from work, I’m required to hug him for a good five minutes before he’s over being abandoned for the day and can get back to playing with hair elastics. I even love that the idea that something bad could happen to him makes me horribly sad.

5. My friends. My friends are better than your friends. They just are. I don’t know that I’ve done anything to deserve such generous, intelligent and otherwise amazing people in my life, but there they are. I do this thing, you see, where I’ll accept invitations to parties and then, out of anxiety, not show up. I don’t mean to, and it’s something I’m working on. But for all my shenanigans, there are people who keep on inviting me because they genuinely care whether or not I am there. There are people who do small and incredible things like, buy my movie tickets because she “read about the broccoli!” or hold my hair back while I puked my guts out for two days on the floor of a hotel in a foreign country.

6. Everything else. Pink flannel pajamas, strangers on buses, waffles with strawberries, Stevie Wonder on my iPod. Unplanned vacations, fugging, arguments that end well, new people, old movies and finding money in pockets of last year’s winter coat. Among other things.

I met Rich at a party a little under a year ago, and the attraction was immediate. He was nice-looking and funny and after our initial flirtation-filled conversation… all but mute. And every single time we run into each other, it’s the same story.

“He’s so cute and he never talks -- which is like KRYPTONITE for me. I just want to molest him!”

Sarah and I were having a late afternoon dish session, and boys are on our top ten list of things to talk about (somewhere after wine and risotto and before favorite Little House on the Prairie episodes).

“Ooooh, I love him already!”

“He's all mysterious and broody, “I said, thinking about the last time I’d bumped into him at an East Village bar. “He'll ask me a question and then once I answer, just nod and go back to concentrating on his beer. What is that? That’s not conversation!”

“How old is he? What's he like? Details!”

“I dunno. Twenty-seven, twenty-eightish?”

I don’t know what she was expecting. How am I supposed to know anything about the guy if we don’t talk? Beyond seeing that he enjoys awkward silences and pale ales, I was at a loss.

“Ooh, but you know, come to think of it, he talks to other people. Just not to me.” I frowned, on the verge of a pout. “Why is that? I’m nice!”

“Well, duh!”

“What? Are you suggesting this is modern pigtail pulling? No way. Not at this age. We talk to the folks we like!”

“Heather, as much as we would like to pretend we're all mature now, that's a big fat joke. I would guess that he likes you and is nervous!”

“HA! Good. I don't talk to him either. Because He makes me nervous.”

Maybe I should just push him down on the playground and kick him in the ribs a few times. Seems like it’d be just as productive. And maybe I’d get my hair pulled in return.

Heh.

I had every intention of spending today alone.

After having been out every single night last week (hyper sociability being one of the side effects of no longer being stressed about my job), my apartment needed a bit of attention and I needed at bit of downtime. At a party last night, I turned down an invitation to chicken wings and Sunday afternoon football in favor of doing laundry and tackling the dishes that had piled up in the sink. But when I got up late this morning, hungover and in no mood to play domestic goddess, I was sorry I had. But no sooner had I rededicated myself to the idea of tidying the apartmen, my phone lit up with a new text message.

Thanks for coming out last night. We’re all watching football if you get done with laundry.

An hour later I was showered and meeting my new friends at an UWS bar catching up on the Bears game and nursing my hangover on diet soda. Now this was downtime. And then, with the game finished and less than an hour of daylight left, we set out to catch Central Park in all of its fall finery. It was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe what I’d nearly missed. We crunched through leaves and fantasized about jumping from trees into the world’s biggest leaf pile. We stopped to watch a small wedding ceremony at the edge of the Turtle Pond, and then when dark set in, we took a turn around the Great Lawn.

“Want to have a look at a planet?”

At the north end of the lawn, a grey bearded man had stopped us, gesturing toward his south-facing telescope. The man was old and wiry and I could smell his breath from three feet away.

“Which planet?” Matt asked, stepping up to the telescope.

“Venus,” I answered. I could see it clearly in the night sky.

We took turns squinting into the eyepiece. Venus was dark on one side, as though it was being eclipsed.

“Now, tell me why we’re looking at her,” the old man asked us. When none of us could provide a satisfactory answer quickly enough, he launched into lessons on Galileo and

“Heliocentricity.”

“Right!” The old man grinned at me. “Galileo had been right all along. Our solar system is heliocentric.”

I cracked a joke about my universe being ego-centric and the old man lit up, becoming even more animated.

“Aha! But see, that’s not a bad thing. When we decided to go the moon or to send up satellites or the Hubble, we had to think of everything in terms of our own planet. We had to get geocentric again.”

Then he did a dance. Hopping on one skinny leg and then the other, our Central Park Professor wrapped up his lesson. “It’s okay to be egocentric so long as you remember both hemispheres.”

We thanked him and walked off in the dark blissed out over our amateur astronomy lesson, swapping stories about our favorite random New York moments. This was certainly going on the list. What a gem. Seconds later, though, it occurred to me to go back, mostly because I’d had absolutely no idea what he meant by hemispheres. But no matter.

I suppose I got the gist of it.

"So, who are you dating?"

"Nobody." I smiled when I said it and swallowed what was left in my glass.

Stephanie poured more wine and looked at me from across the table. She was waiting for an explanation.

"I don't trust my own judgment on the matter these days," I admitted. "So, I took myself out of the game for a bit."

Not like I have to tell you, but I don't exactly have the best track record with men. Worse yet, the ones I have never even written about may just be the saddest feathers in my cap. Among those, the Three-Minute Man and Disappointing David* in particular, left me questioning not only my decision-making skills, but my sanity as well.

"I’m not really one to entertain regret," I told her. "But, I've had to come to terms with my recent man disasters. And I think that it's better if I just don't for a while."

"What about…" She asked about someone I'd met a while back. Her tone suggested that hopefully, he was not one of those disasters.

"Never saw him again,” I said.

“What an asshole.”

I shrugged as though to say, Eh, maybe not.

I have never been one of those girls to adopt any sort of hardcore relationship rules; I was always too afraid of coming off as demanding and naggy or worse, needy. God, that’s such an ugly word. Needy. But the flipside is just as ugly. You get what you pay for, and the less you expect out of a man, well, the less you get.

And as for being ‘understanding’ about shady behavior? That’s really a crock of shit. I wasn’t being understanding; I was being hurt and disappointed and too proud to admit it. But damn if I didn’t appear to be the very model of a modern gal taking advantage of nontraditional relationships.

But when I found that, in the end, I was left with nothing more than a handful of unsatisfying three-month relationships and a couple of one night stands, I had to pull the breaks. I was bored with making the same mistakes and reopening the same old wounds. I was bored with myself.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I said a couple one night stands. I’m a girl with a healthy appetite for and attitude about sex, but I'm no floozy. Maybe I don't sport date because I'm not capable of it (I think my multi-tasking skills shut off when I leave the office). My preferred dating strategy has always been this: meet someone I like, try it out, and if it doesn't work… start all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. I’ll admit that there’s still nothing I'd like more than to meet a nice man who'd come to stay for while.

But these days, I'm not open to meeting anyone. Not even the nice ones. I told Stephanie as much.

"I think that's fine – to focus on other things for a while.” She brought up work and writing and other things that deserve a bit of obsessing over. “Just so long as you're not closing yourself off."

"Hmmm.” I considered it for a split second. “Well, that's exactly what I'm doing."

* Not only has the name been changed, but just so you know, the moniker has absolutely nothing to do with sex. Ya big pervert.

When I was growing up, we didn’t have much.

In fact, there were times when we didn’t have anything. I have vague recollections of living in a tent at a KOA one summer when we were ‘between homes.’ Even in those times, when money was scarce, my mother had a distinct financial policy – the Rule of Thirds. When it came to windfalls, unexpected or unbudgeted sources of income, the sum, however large (tax refunds) or small (birthday money from grandma) was divided into three parts. One third went to savings, one third toward paying debt, and one third toward fun. Camping at Arches National Park, ice cream at the place that put a plastic figurine on top of your cone – it’s the one third toward fun that make-up some of my best childhood experiences.

My mother says that when given choice, she’d rather buy memories than things.

Maybe that’s what I was thinking when I spent my entire grocery budget on a Metropolitan Opera ticket this month. The cupboard had been well-stocked with things like instant oatmeal, canned soups and boxed pasta – rations enough to last until payday, so I thought, why not? But days later, with $7.35 in my checking account and the opera experience behind me, I don’t have to tell you that the rations got really old, really fast. And this morning, t-minus two days until payday, I’d had all I could take.

Man cannot live by oatmeal alone.

Not to mention, man had run out of things like Q-tips and face wash. So, in desperation, I did what had to be done. I grabbed the change jar off of the desk and made for the Food Emporium, home of my neighborhood Coinstar. As I dumped the coins into the tray and watched the pennies, dimes and nickels tumble through the slot, I made a mental grocery list. I needed milk, yogurt and broccoli. Please, let there be enough. I was hoping for at least eight bucks.

Five minutes later, I walked away from the bright green kiosk with $32.31, feeling like a millionaire.

I haven’t shopped like that since college. Aware of every single penny, it wasn’t my usual whirlwind trip through the grocery store, tossing things into the cart at random. Incidentally, what these people charge for broccoli spears is highway robbery. Only, I’d never stopped to consider it.

Today, I downgraded to the broccoli cuts.

Perhaps out of superstition, I spent only a third of the money on groceries. A third I kept in my wallet, a crisp ten dollar bill to see a movie, and the other third went back to coinage. Quarters for laundry. It’s not savings or paying off a debt, but just as practical.

I can’t help but think this is only a preview of things to come, being reined in to a tighter budget, battling with myself over bagged frozen produce and being appalled at the price of Haagen Dazs. But it’s actually not all that alarming, and in a way, my grocery experience was sort of gratifying. It makes sense, too. I’d learned the concept in principle from a teacher, and in practice, from my mother. When what you’ve given up doesn’t take away from the satisfaction you’ve gained in the deal, you always come out ahead.

I think that’s called opportunity cost.

Brought to you by Coinstar and Ms. Story’s Introduction to Economics.

Today, I quit my job.

I can’t tell you how good it felt just to type that. I quit my job. I feel like maybe there’s a chorus of angels somewhere waiting for me to say it out loud so they can sing back-up.

The offer came in this morning sometime around 10, and by 11, I was behind closed doors, giving my notice. The Man was not pleased. In fact, he was really, really freaked out. And he tried everything in his power to change my mind.

First came the counter offer. Or offers. I had a fifteen thousand dollar raise and a four-day workweek before I made it absolutely clear that it wasn’t about money. I was taking a ten thousand dollar pay cut to take this new job. This new job was about something bigger than money. Next came the parental tactic (I’m so disappointed) and when that didn’t budge me, the Man appealed to my very core. He cut me to the quick.

“Don’t you care anything about shoes? Because, there goes your shoe budget!”

In the end, we were laughing, amid his threats to have me chained to the desk and fed me pizza and Japanese food (on rotation), and I walked out of his office feeling even more convinced that was I doing the right thing.

This was what I needed to get out of my funk – this new reason to get out of bed. In two weeks, I’ll be taking a bus to Harlem to work for a not-for-profit charter school. I’m promised some of the same sorts of tedium I have encountered at my current firm, to be sure, but this growing feeling of excitement over knowing what I’ll be doing makes a difference – a real difference – makes that all seem very secondary. These people are changing lives and I’m thrilled to be a part of it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I do believe we have entered the Idealistic Stage.

“Things I can’t wait to do when I go home.” I pushed back in my chair and looked at the Intern. “Top five answers are on the board.”

“Take off my shoes.” She yanked at the zipper of her knee-high boots.

“Put on pajamas.”

“Take a bath.”

Well, there we had it. Game over and the Intern had won. A bath it was.

Today had been long – the kind of long that slaps you hard in the face when you finally look up from your computer to find that it’s dark out, and you don’t remember having had lunch. That kind of long. So when I finally made it home and settled back into a hot bath, a deep sigh escaped up toward the bathroom skylight along with the steam.

Ahhhh.

That sigh was also one of satisfaction. Today, though long, had gone well. Very well. I wore a suit, superlatives were used, and I was carrying around a bit of hope in my back pocket. And I liked how it felt.

Now, in my post-bath stupor, I’m camped out on my bed, wrapped up in a white robe, basking in cozy. The stress of the day has gone out with the bathwater, and I’m feeling like a new girl. It’s amazing what a good soak can do for the attitude. Not unlike having a good secret, or a new pair of shoes, or, say, a plane ticket to the Bahamas.

Though, frankly, I gotta give the Bahamas thing credit for having done the most for my attitude.

Ahhhh….

“This cannot possibly be happening.”

It’s not the first time I’ve said it. It’s not the first time I’ve been absolutely certain that this wasn’t my life, but the follies of an unwitting character in some reality sitcom. Surely, I was being Truman Showed.

“Hey, baby. Looks like you could use some help.”

There I was, limping my way through Harlem, half drunk, and completely unable to remember just when (and how) the night before, I’d managed to snap the heel off my shoe. Limp. Limp. My perfect shoe. They were like sex on four-inch heels, those beautiful black pumps. If, you know, the sex was really painful and consistently rubbed all the skin off the knuckles of your middle toes. So really, aside from the twenty-minute gimp down 125th Street at 9AM on a Sunday morning, I actually a little relieved by the shoe death.

Besides, they went out of this world dancing. I think they’d have liked that.

At least, I assume they did. At 4AM, the house party had turned dance party and six of us were spinning around the living room to Frank Sinatra. Luck be a lady tonight! I’d tried to beg off, being that from my spot on the couch, the room was already spinning.

But the boy was cute and I do so like to be twirled.

So we twirled and drank and come 5AM it was quite clear that some of us were not making it home until we’d had a bit of sobering. I crawled onto the couch, kicked off the sex shoes and settled in. And the, for the very first time since… ever, when the cute boy said, “You know, you’re welcome to crash with me…” I stayed right where I was on the couch. Why? Because apparently, I’ve turned over a new leaf.

“No. Not just a new leaf. No. Apparently, I’ve turned over the Stupid Leaf.”

“No, no. That was actually very smart.” Ari wiped her hands on a dish towel, stirred the pasta and whipped up some consolation.

“How’s that?”

“Okay. What’s the best that could have happened? You have a night of anonymous sex and that’s that. But if you stay on the couch, you have a possibility for future run-ins without having had the awkward anonymous sex and then maybe he calls, you have dinner… and then you get to have all that sex anyway.”

“You’re the smartest woman alive.”

Granted, the smartest woman alive had just poured an entire box of pasta onto the linoleum floor, but that is neither here nor there. Clearly her genius is meant for the bedroom and not the kitchen.

And just for the record, I was kidding about the Stupid Leaf. You see, I’m not really a total trollop. I only play one on this blog.

“Why don’t you lose that attitude, Mel?”
“Why don’t you lose that weight?”

Justine laughed, “Oooh, girl!” and high fives were exchanged across the desk. Melanie grinned and looked at me as if to say, Wasn’t that a good one? But I refused to meet her eyes. Mine were stinging from embarrassment. I willed myself not to cry as I walked back to my own desk, hoping my thighs didn’t brush together or that my ass didn’t look especially wide in my pants.

I made for the bathroom where I hid in a stall and cried. At twenty-six, I would not have thought my ego would be so fragile. I won’t lie. If I had been at home, I’d have gone into the bathroom and thrown up my lunch.

March 5, 2005