“Who is it?”

The buzzer had scared Sir Hal half to death. It’d scared me nearly as much; it hadn’t been working for weeks. I pushed the button and let the visitor in and then waited by the door until I heard the elevator open.

“Kinda late for you, isn’t it?”

“Nah. We have to come when we can catch you guys at home.”

At half past seven, the UPS man slid a large box across my threshold and handed me a pen for my electronic signature. I wondered out loud about what could be in such a big box. I’d already gotten my mom’s disgusting* care package a couple days before.

“Whatever it is, enjoy!”

“Thanks. And happy New year!”

The UPS man disappeared back into the elevator and I fetched the scissors. No sooner had I slit the tape and read the packing slip than I was at my desk writing a thank-you note. The gift was still in its box, tucked in yards of bubble wrap.

Ten minutes before, Ari and I had been making a movie-date. A late movie date. While we were on the phone, she’d put coffee on (yawn suppressant) and I thought about the cup sitting on my counter.

“I guess I’ll reheat the one I got at Barnes & Noble this afternoon.”

It had tasted burnt and disappointing, but it was better than falling asleep in a movie I paid way too much to see.

Ten minutes later, I am sitting in my club chair, a warm and yummy cup of coffee in my hands, deliriously excited about the new, beautiful Senseo coffee maker on my kitchen counter. I am filled with glee (and caffeine)! All thanks to Stephanie for the wonderful surprise.

Now, if I fall asleep in the movie, it will be because of Kevin Costner’s lack of talent, and not for my lack of energy.

Yee!

* And by disgusting, I mean, I could eat myself into one hell of a disgusting food coma with the goodies that blessed woman sent. Cookie mix, popcorn, cocoa mix, chocolates, nuts, candy canes. Gift certificates for books, coffee and pajamas. Try to pry me off my couch. I dare you.

Because I work for a school now, I get magical privileges like, Christmas break. I haven't had a real Christmas break since... wow, since I was 19. Working my way through college meant day-after Christmas sales at the campus bookstore. Not seven entire business days without a single obligation.

I hardly know what to do with myself!

This morning, I slept in ‘til nine whole thirty. ‘Look at me,’ I thought, ‘still in bed after nine on a Tuesday!’ When laying there basking became boring, I got up, made tea, went grocery shopping, had the bathroom sink fixed, cleaned out the fridge, and did some yoga while I waited for the DHL man to come.

And all before noon! I was a very busy girl.

Then after noon, there was laundry, the gym, some baking, and well, the list goes on. This Christmas break thing is nothing like I remember it: all that sleeping in and watching reruns of Growing Pains. Clearly, this is not your teenager’s time off.

I mean, I’ve been out of my pajamas for nearly twelve hours. And it’s nowhere near time to get back in them.

So, with all this Christmas Break reformation business, what I want to know is, when the hell did I become a grown up? I mean, a real grown up. One of those people that finds getting things done way more satisfying than sitting around in my pj’s all day. When did that happen?

You know what? Now that I think about it, maybe this happily busy thing is just a symptom of grown-upness to come. I can’t be an actual grown up yet. I don’t do other old lady things like, say… own monogrammed stationery or consistently have more than a couple of bucks in my savings account. Nope. I’d be really worried if I started planning for my retirement or *gasp* questioning the meaning of life and caring if I got an answer. That is grown up.

I think I’ll leave that little crisis right there. No sense in getting all worried over nothing. I am still youthful and I got my Christmas break to prove it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a shopping list to make and a guided meditation to get to before bed.

Hmmm. Slippery slope, ain’t it?

“You know how I know I’m a grown up?”
“How?” Ari turned away from the pre-movie quiz to face me.
“Because my Christmas gift from my brother arrived this afternoon and I didn’t opened it.”
“Wow. You are grown up!”

I nodded, proud of myself. Yup, I was a grown up…for the next hour or so, anyway. I regressed as soon as we got back to my apartment. Growing up is so overrated.

I’m spending Christmas alone this year. I guess it should bother me a little – I know it has in years past – but it doesn’t. I’m so damn cheerful lately I can hardly stand myself, and I suppose that alone makes a solo Christmas much more tolerable. Vicious cycle, that happiness thing. I miss my family, of course, but there will be phone calls to bridge the distance and silly traditions to keep us all tied together.

Tonight, Rachel, Goldy and I had a Hanukkah/ Christmas Eve dinner (or Jew-le tide celebration, according to Goldner). When you’re thousands of miles from your nearest relative, friends are your family, and mine is just the best.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and anything else you’re celebratin’, from all of us at my apartment (um, you know, me and Sir Hal). Have the happiest!

And keep those red bows. Never know when you’re gonna find a suggestive and inappropriate use for them.

Joy to you and me. Heh.

I was tucked safely beneath three layers of goose down when the alarm went off and the radio informed me that yes, Virginia, there is a transit strike. And that it was twenty-two degrees.

Coaxing Sir Hal under the covers, I slapped the snooze button and hunkered back down. Oh, man. Twenty-two degrees? Twenty-two is pretty cold when you’re waiting for the bus. But when you’re walking to work? Brrrrrrr! I grumbled and groused a bit and then did what I often do in times of hardship and inconvenience. I asked myself, ‘What would Laura Ingalls do?”

She’d make Almanzo hitch up the team and take her to the schoolhouse, that’s what she’d do. But pre-Manny days, she’d layer up, grab a lunch pail and forge ahead, like a good little pioneer girl.

First on the list of things to do: a warm, healthy breakfast. Since this house doesn’t do porridge, I made an egg white omelet and tea. I packed my lunch pail (Gristede’s bag) and then I raided the closets and drawers for layerable clothing. Tights, knee high socks, jeans, thermal undershirt, sweater. And finally, as practical as it is absolutely adorable – the Half Pint ‘do. I plaited my long hair into two braids and pulled on a knitted cap, marveling at how snugly and neatly it fit. Bundling up in my coat, gloves and scarf, I grabbed my lunch and headed out for a trek across the big woods. Er, the big city.

And by block thirty, I was sweating my ta-tas off.

Ahem. So perhaps it was a bit of overkill, all those layers. But the principle stands. When in the face of adversity, ask yourself, ‘What Would Laura Ingalls Do?’ and you’ll be a-okay. And if your childhood education was lacking in the Little House books, you can find the television version of her prairie wisdom on DVD*, courtesy of PBS.

That shit’s better than the Boy Scout handbook.

* Which I have hastened to add to my Amazon wish list. How have I been living without it?

One of the nicest things about life right now, is that when anyone asks, ‘How are you?” I get to say, “Good. Really, really good.”

I almost feel like I shouldn’t elaborate. Like, I could jinx myself and wake up back where I was a few months ago, sleeping through entire weekends, hiding from life. But here I go anyway. Now, I know that angsty posts about how hard life can be tend to be more fun to read, but right now, I’m not feeling too angsty. I’m feeling really grateful.

Work is great – what a change from the environment I came from. To have meeting where the word “feelings” is used, and to constantly hear, ‘Great job! I love it!’ To really like where I spent my day – that in and of itself has been the ultimate catalyst for my attitude shift.

My family is in a relatively good spot these days, too which is also something of a relief. When I called my father this afternoon and asked how he was, he said, “Good.” Not, “Oh, I guess I’m doin’ alright.” or the standard, “I’m real damned depressed.” Good.

My apartment is supremely tidy, there’s food in the fridge and clean clothes in the closet. If cleanliness really is next to godliness, then holy shit, look at me. Insert chorus of angels here.

I have worries, of course. Money is uncomfortably tight these days. My jeans even tighter. But I’m slowly getting a better handle on both of those things. And overall, life is very peaceful. You know what’s bound to happen, don’t you? Some boy is going to come along and screw it all up – wreak havoc on my tranquil little world.

I sorta can’t wait.

The best things in life aren’t free, but they are pretty damn inexpensive.

When my mother wanted to buy me a printer/scanner/copier for Christmas one year, I asked if I could instead have a white terrycloth robe. Her reaction? “Um, sure….” She was puzzled and I was delighted. I’d wanted the hulking shroud for years but for whatever reason, had never been able to bring myself to drop the dough to buy it. A whopping fifty bucks. I’d had zero problem buying living room furniture ( a financial sacrifice that had me eating Campbell’s soup two meals a day two months). But when it came to the relatively smaller purchase, it seemed more of a splurge.

Or, maybe the wanting gave me a reason to live. This Fish needs an obsession?

Until recently, my desire unfulfilled was The Immaculate Collection. The first music video I ever saw on MTV (I’d been sheltered from its pervasive evilness until an accidental encounter with hotel cable when I was 11) was Papa Don’t Preach, launching a two-decade love affair with Madonna. But, again loving to love from afar, I never managed to buy my favorite album.

Out of the blue one day, Shawn asked if I had an Amazon wish-list. I did. Sorta. I’d started it out of boredom and never quite got around to doing any wishing. My list had three items on it. Princess Bride on DVD, The Kite Runner and The Immaculate Collection. She sent me all three. I didn’t know people did that. Just made other people’s decades like that. I hopped around my office all afternoon chanting, I gottta prresssent. I haaave Madonna! I was absolutely thrilled.

But when Shawn bought for me what had long remained the leader on the Things I Want Above All Other Things list, number two got promoted. I am now suffering an intense crush on the Senseo Coffee Maker. I burn, I pine, I perish. I get that all too familiar yearning feeling (once reserved for tall boys with glasses). There are strange heart palpitations involved.

Having lovingly stared at its internet visage for the last several minutes, I’m in debates about buying it and ending this silliness. I have a nice little holiday bonus – why shouldn’t I buy myself the gift of beauty and caffeine? Well, maybe because, the wanting gives me a reason to live. Or at least a reason to walk up and down the same aisle at Target every month.

And if that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

When I got up this morning weather.com was so kind to offer that it ‘feels like 4 degrees.’ Yes, of course it does. Why not? And when I went to take a shower and the water stayed ice cold after ten minutes, I thought, how very fitting.

Winter in New York City is one high-maintenance little bitch.

She’s like that girl you’re friends with, but you’re not sure why, because not only does she require just way too much attention, she takes three hours to get ready to do anything. See, Summer… now, she’s more my type. Wet hair, flip flops and some lip gloss and she’s good to go. Summer sleeps with one leg out of the covers and doesn’t mind too much if there’s no hot water for her shower.

Not winter. Winter still sleeps with one leg out of the covers, but that one leg is wearing wool socks, and lathered in smelly lotions so her skin doesn’t crack. Winter requires blow dryers and lip products and special weather protecting creams. Winter spends way more time dressing – she doesn’t leave the house with less than three layers. Five, probably, when it feels like four degrees. She requires accessories and particular shoes and coffee and hearty foods. She’ll crack your lip just for smiling at her, too. Insecure little ice princess that she is.

I for one am done. I’m sitting in bed (leaving soon, I swear) in knee-high socks and a heavy bathrobe trying to summon the energy to face winter today. I’d so much rather be off with her red-headed step brother, Caribbean Vacation.

God, was he good.

I just learned a new word that I’d like to share with you. But first, let me give you a bit of context.

I’m sitting in bar with a friend we’ll call… Matt, when in walks his roommate who we’ll call… Chris. Yeah, that works. So, we’re sitting there, watchin’ the Bears and the Steelers, when in walks Chris and with him is this girl who we’ll call…Sarah*.

“Wait.” I turned to Matt and lowered my voice. “Isn’t that the girl who came to visit from San Francisco with your friend a few months ago?”

“Yep. And now she’s back for a fuckation.”

Fuckation: n destination travel purely for the purpose of getting laid.

I guess I shouldn’t really be too surprised. But then again. Do people really fly all the way across the country just for sex? Okay, I took a train to Connecticut once. But I’m not talking bi-costal relationship here. I mean, fuckation hardly says, ‘blossoming romance’ to me.

And sure, things may be looking sort of bleak on the nookie front lately, but so long as JetBlue doesn’t have to intercede, I think I’m doing alright.

Though, in all honesty, it’s not actually that far off from one of my our (I’m looking at you, Biscuit) original Bahamas vacation goals. I won’t lie: the whole point of the all-inclusive resort was the possibility of getting tipsy and accidentally making out with strangers. But in the end, when I realized that sort of thing would have required me to get out of my hammock, I nixed it from the day’s list of activities (along with 9AM SCUBA lessons).

And even with all five of us in the same bed, my Caribbean holiday was one good, old-fashioned celibation.

You know, once Kate and I had completely dismissed the idea of prostituting ourselves for a suite at the Atlantis. Don’t judge me. Everybody has their price and mine just happens to be the daily rate of the Bridge Suite -- a cool twenty-five thousand dollars.

No kissing on the mouth, though.

*Name changed because I can’t remember what it really was. Started with an S for sure, though. Also, thank you, ‘Matt’ for the new vocabulary word.

Coming home from the Bahamas was a complete shock to the system. Forget the sniffles I’m developing from recycled plane air and sudden plunge into below-freezing temperatures. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to lead a normal life without a self-serve ice cream machine!

I have seen paradise and I just may never be the same.

Our Paradise Island vacation went off without a single hitch. When I tell you it was perfect, you might need to see that far off look in my eyes to believe me. I came home well-rested and relaxed and spent the entire day today in a state of shock.

Where was my wodka tonish ? Why am I wearing seven layers of clothing? And when, dear god, is it going to be hammock time again?

From the criminally low price we paid for our all-inclusive hotel package, I was expecting some pretty humble accommodations. I was delighted to be totally and completely wrong. The grounds were beautiful, the staff was outstanding (the fire limbo dancer, Action Jackson, and I married at a small ceremony at lunch on Tuesday), and the beds didn’t even come close to collapsing when all five of us piled on playing ‘spoon drawer.’

Now that’s quality.

For five days Biscuit, Neff, Kate, Stan and I ran around shoeless, made difficult decisions like, pina colada or daiquiri? or one shot of rum or two? and threw back rum and juice cocktails while playing cutthroat games of Spades and Egyptian Rat Screw. Basically, we spent five days doing absolutely nothing.

It was heaven. And I want to go back!

Not that freezing-ass cold New York City is hell exactly, but I could sure go for a warm wind, a strawberry daiquiri and all five of us piled in my bed giggling about silly and slightly creepy inside jokes about filling our rum holes. You know, paradise.

Photo by Biscuit. More photos coming soon.

*Not quite vodka and not quite tonic. But after drinking strawberry daiquiris all day, you don’t much care.

There’s nothing half as nice as the idea of a sunburn in December.

In twelve hours, I will be boarding a plane with eight of my friends and heading off for five days in the Bahamas. Five days of sun, sand, and self-serve frozen margaritas. Self serve! Five days of living with words like ‘all inclusive,’ and ’82 degrees and mostly sunny.’

Five days without internet, cell phone or the New York Post.

Normally, I’d have spent the last two, or maybe even three days shirking work, too occupied with beachy keen daydreams to be very productive. But because the universe is a wacky, wacky place, I’ve actually been too productive to daydream.

I know. It’s unnatural.

But the new job has been busy – the good kind of busy, but also fairly exhausting. It hasn’t let me with much energy for anything other than crawling into my bed at night. So tonight, I came home from work, grabbed a suitcase out of the closet and got to work. Without the foresight of a packing list, I spent a good hour, running around, semi-frantically filling my suitcase with clothing of questionable cleanliness.

It’s been a rough week. Laundry was way down on the list.

But a couple of minutes ago, I just gave up. I gave up agonizing over what to take. I figured, if I have a bathing suit and a passport, what more could I need? I also gave up worrying about whether or not the apartment was tidy. The only person who will see the sad state of my house is Ari when she comes to Sir Hal sit. And I’m pretty sure she will love me even if there’s a ring around the bathtub.

So, with frenzy behind me, and a bag sorta packed and ready to go, I ordered a pizza and thought about painting my toenails. Let the vacation begin!

Now, if only my apartment had self serve frozen drinks.

I want to thank you all for your kindness during the last week. For the concerned emails and generous offers of couches, apartments and mini-breaks in New Jersey – a thousand times thank you.