“Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, kiddo.”

“How are you?”

“Well, your sister is here. She just told me.”

“Oh. Oh god.”

I sit up in bed, rub my right hand over my eyes and think of what to say next.

“I have bad timing. I’m so sorry.”

He’s just learned that my mom is getting married in three weeks. I know he’s probably wondering why no one told him, even though the truth is, we’ve only known for a few days. I only took my silk dress to have it cleaned just yesterday. Travel arrangements barely made, and mom’s emailed list of Wedding FAQs still in my inbox. It’s new to everyone.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

When my dad cries, it does something to my guts. Twists them up so they don’t fit right. I get nervous and frightened and unsure about which of us is the parent and which is the child. He’s delicate in the way children can be – easily hurt, happiest with his delusions. He’s always hoped she’d change her mind.

“I wouldn’t think you were human if you were okay,” I say and then let him go, asking him to call when he’s ready to talk.

He calls back while I’m typing. I tell him I’m sorry. He tells me he should have seen it coming.

“Doesn’t make it hurt any less.” I give him permission to be sad.

I’ve been excited about the wedding – about my mom’s new happiness and about being back in Texas after so many years. But I’ve been worried, too, about this.

He wonders aloud why he still loves her, after all this time and after all the ways they weren’t good for each other. I think about the last time I loved wrong. About how I still feel victimized by it from time to time.

“Funny how that works, isn’t it? Love never has made a whole lot of sense.”

Sometimes, I think my iPod knows things.

For instance, it seems that no matter where I am in the shuffle of 700-something songs, it knows that I need to hear Madonna at the gym. The pink box of joy never fails to deliver. Vogue often saves the day where daydreaming cannot (Not even a reallygood crush can save a workout when you're bored, tired and sore. It's just not possible.).

My iPod also apparently knows when to go on the fritz.

There I was, elipictaling along to Jay-Z’s Give it to Me when the music stopped. Gah! And it was almost at my favorite part! You know, the part where I sing along and don’t even try to be quiet about it. That part. I hadn’t even noticed that the battery was low, but click as I might, the iPod was unresponsive and I was left Jay-Z-less.

I’m not used to hearing things going on around me at the gym. When my gym was in midtown (it’s now in Harlem), I once lowered the volume long enough to hear two women bitching about their insurance plans, only confirming my suspicions that there is nothing worth hearing at the gym.

Turns out, I was wrong. Or maybe, it turns out, there just wasn’t anything worth hearing in midtown.

Without my music, I could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation going on next to me. Two women in their mid to late twenties, side by side on elliptical trainers, were talking about their financial problems.

“And you know, it ain’t like I’m getting any child support.”

“And why not? Ronny got a job, don’t he?”

“No he don’t! That n-gga went and got his-self shot! He ain’t payin’ nobody nothin’.”

I choked back a startled laugh. Not because it’s funny that somebody got shot, but because it was a surprising little reminder that I wasn’t in midtown anymore. And that shit was a hell of a lot better than listening to people bitching about insurance premiums and towel service.

You can bet nobody on 45th street was getting shot. Unless it was by fertility drugs.

Having a good, old-fashioned crush can make life a little more exciting. It can also make you remember why you stopped having good, old-fashioned crushes a long time ago.

Holy cow, are they ever pointless!

Sure, a nice infatuation will give you something to daydream about during your forty minute imprisonment on the treadmill every evening, but beyond that, where’s the value? For me, a crush means a lot of over-thinking and a lot of under-doing. It means a whole lot of chickening out (even after having been double-dog dared to ask him out for coffee). My favorite tactic, you see, is to be in the same room the object of my liking and speak to everybody but him. Genius, right? I shake my head at myself.

Whenever I develop a crush on a new boy, I tell three people right away.

One, I tell Biscuit. I tell Biscuit because he will “Eeeee! You’re going to have such cute babies!” and make this crush seem like the most fated thing that ever was*. And also, because he will encourage me to make out with the new boy immediately. No sense in wasting time. (He is the double-dog darer, incidentally.)

Two, I tell Ari, because she will help me to dismantle the boy**. Which, being in crush-mode, I am incapable of doing. She will also ask good, eyebrow raising questions about the boy that make me question everything from his sexuality to his taste in coffee. It’s important to be thorough.

Third, I tell Sarah. Sarah will do practical things like ask why exactly I like the boy. If I give good answers, she gives me her blessing***. And then she will periodically check in on the progress. Which, since we’re talking about me means, recounting the number of occasions in which I failed to say something clever to him. Or anything at all really. See the genius part in paragraph 2.

You know, now that I think about it, if all a crush accomplishes (aside from producing awkward moments and unanswered emails) is help pass the time on the treadmill, isn’t that reason enough to have one constantly? Right then. Carry on.

I’m off to bed to think of ways not to interact with my crush, while simultaneously planning our Las Vegas elopement. Genius, right?

*He will wait a solid year before telling you that the same guy was a total tool. Because he is a good friend. And he’s a sucker for love, just like you are.
**She will tell you that he is a tool right away. Also, because she is a good friend. And she is much smarter than you will ever be.
***She will never use the word tool, but nod and laugh when you get drunk and call him other much, much worse names. Because she’s a good friend and she’s really, really nice.

On my way back to Manhattan this afternoon, I found myself on the 6 train sandwiched between two guys in winter coats and... their underwear. "Ahhh, yes," I thought. "I read about this."

Pants Free Day on the subway.

Because I am stubborn like that and absolutely hate giving people the attention they’re after, I acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary. I always ride home from brunch next to dudes in Hawaiian print boxer shorts. Except on Thursdays when it’s Shirt Free Day and then it’s nipples, nipples, everywhere you look nipples.

But today, it was everywhere you looked bare legs.

Men, women. In trench coats and less. Sitting with legs crossed strategically or boldly baring it all for the commuting public. They were amusing, I’ll admit. But the best part of the ride came when a voice piped up from one end of the train.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please excuse the interruption. My name is David* and I am selling pants today for my high school basketball team, and to keep myself out of trouble. They are only one dollar. I have many varieties including denim, corduroy…”

Snort! I forced the smile off my face (do not encourage him!) as I watched him walk through the car selling pants to the pantless. So damn clever, these exhibitionists.

I don’t exactly get why you’d want to ride the 6 train from Brooklyn without your trousers. But really, who cares why? It’s just another one of the millions of itty bitty things that makes New York New York. And just another one of the reasons that, though I get exhausted by the to and fro and consider retreating to quiet of somewhere middle America-ish, I will actually never do it.

It’s just not the same when folks commute pantless down I-75 in the privacy of their own cars. Unless, you know, you’re driving an SUV.

It's 9:04 PM and I have just finished work for the day.

It's been like this all week. I blink sleep out of my eyes around six every morning, log in to work email (when the internet is being cooperative) and by 7:00, I'm on an uptown bus with my sack lunch and my first dose of caffeine. When I crawl home at the end of the day (sometime around the eight o'clock hour), I hit the shower and fantasize about dinner. Often something straight from the freezer to the microwave.

This is where it gets extra glamorous. A couple hours later, not remembering having sat down in the first place, I wake up drooling on myself, swaddled in my bathrobe on the living room couch.

She works hard for the money, I tell you.

When I was kid and I’d have one of those irrational crying fits, my parents would say, “Oh, she’s just tired.” It used to absolutely infuriate me. No, I’m not tired! I’m experiencing legitimate, gut-wrenching drama and you need to recognize!

Tonight on the bus home, after a short and half-hearted workout, I leaned my head against the window and felt my eyes start to fill with tears. I inhaled deeply and brushed them away. “I’m just tired,” I told myself. I may have I even said it out loud.

It felt necessary to recognize that I was not unhappy. I was just worn out. The truth is, I am remarkably happy. One night last week, as I zoned out in my post gym shower, I had a very conscious thought. Today was a good day.

I wear happiness like well-tailored clothing or a pair of new shoes. I want to show it off, take a spin in front of a three-way mirror, or prance around in it at a fancy party. Look at my new happiness! Doesn’t it make my pores look tiny? I want to revel in it. What I don’t want is to forget about it because I’m distracted by a few temporary frustrations. So, tonight after hanging up with my boss, having worked out one of two of the days residual issues, I said out loud to no one in particular, “Today was a good day.”

That said, I give it another fifteen minutes before I’m sacked out on the couch drooling.

Brunch at Alice's Tea Cup, Chapter II means dining among little girls wearing brightly colored fairy wings while you sip from delicate porcelain cups - each different from the its neighbors at the table. It means no cell phone ("Off with your head!" I believe is the threat for phones left on). It also means no coffee. Sure, they probably have it available, but it’d be criminal to order a cup of joe in a place like that.

You do not get invited to a tea party to drink coffee.

When I sat down with Rachel and Goldner on Saturday afternoon, I scanned the menu for something that would suit my… finicky taste in tea. Don’t get me wrong. I like tea. It just has to be fruity or otherwise sweet. It helps if it’s pink. I skipped past the black teas, the green teas and finally, among the herbal teas, my eyes stopped at this description:

Raspberry leaf based… blended with chamomile and rosehips.

Not only was it fruity, but it was bound to be pink. Perfect! That was easy enough! Easy until it came time to order, anyway.

Each tea at Alice’s Tea Cup comes with a specific name. Like, Mauritius, the vanilla blended black tea. Or the Drink Me Detox Blend. Or…

“The Mother to Be, please.” I said, not bearing to look at the waiter. “Even though I’m not. A mother to be, I mean.”

I know I must have blushed when I said it. I could envision the waiter scanning my midsection for the tell-tale bump. And worse, thinking he saw evidence of it. Goldner erupted in laughter on the other side of the table offering mazel tovs. I smoothed my shirt against my stomach and glared at him.

“Congratulations.” The waiter grinned.

“No, but I’m not.” It didn’t matter. He was already across the dining room with our orders scratched on a white note pad. And for the girl with the tummy? She’ll have the Mother to Be. Yes, it’s all very exciting.

Of course, it was someone different who brought the tea to our table a few minutes later and I had to go through the, I Swear I’m Not Pregnant routine all over again. No, no, not pregnant. I just like pink tea.

And last night, I had a dream (read: nightmare) that I gave birth. Gee, I wonder why.

The child I birthed, incidentally, had a full set of pointy teeth and could speak. If I had a therapist, I’m sure they’d love to tackle that one.

On my first day of middle school, I accidentally walked into the boys' bathroom. I've never quite recovered from the humiliation.

On Tuesday, as I was walking through the auditorium at the middle school where I now work, I caught the heel of my boot on some barely visible dip in the linoleum and face planted... in front of thirty sixth graders. Before I’d even figured out what had happened, I could hear them laughing. I’d probably have been laughing too, but I was a little bit hurt. The heel of my hand was pretty banged up, my wrist felt wonky and of all injuries, the heel of my boot had broken in the fall.

Also, I was pretty embarrassed. It was the bathroom incident all over again! Fucking middle school.

I stood up, brushed the white smudge off the knee of my black pants and looked around the auditorium. I recognized a few faces among the laughing kids – kids I’d helped out one or twice in my short time at the school. Then it occurred to me…

“Hey!” I pointed at the kids I knew. “It’s not funny. Well, maybe a little funny. But I got hurt. And you can bet I’d never laugh if it had happened to you.”

Then I turned around and marched/limped back to my office. I have my doubts that the laughing stopped. Once in my office, I looked at the desk phone and thought about calling my mom.

“I hate middle school and I want to come home!”

"This has got to be irritating to watch."

I caught myself doing it again -- this time in a meeting with my boss and her assistant. As soon as the meeting was adjourned I raced back to my computer and sent out an email confession to Ari.

To: Goes Down, Ari
From: Fish, This
Subject: Annoying Habit

I just caught myself peeling at my bottom lip again. People must be horrified by this. Do you see me do it and think, “Eeeew! Why am I friends with this lip peeler?”

To: Fish, This
From: Goes Down, Ari
Subject: Re: Annoying Habit

I am a HUGE lip biter/peeler/fucker with. If it’s gross, it’s a gross habit we share. You don’t have any annoying habits that I have noticed. I mean, getting up early isn’t an annoying habit per se…

Hmmm. Yes, getting up at an ungodly hour while you’re someone’s houseguest might be a little annoying. I’m an early riser, what can I say? I also insist on buying really expensive paper towels and using them for every little thing. Being environmentally unfriendly/hostile? Also annoying.

But Ari’s probably right about the lip thing. On the Things That Are Gross scale, gnawing at my chapped lips isn’t too high up there. Not like the time I watched a friend of mine – a grown woman – pick at an insect bite and then… stop reading now if you’re easily grossed out… lick the blood from her finger.

I kid you not. I think my face nearly melted off like those guys who saw the Arc of the Covenant in Indiana Jones. Can’t. Survive. The grosssssness!

Of my annoying habits, though, lip chewing seems to be the most compulsive. I don’t bite my nails, I don’t pick my nose, but I sure as hell come out of a good fog to realize that I’m peeling my lips off and that yeah, this is why I’m not allowed to spend good money on things like Chanel lipstick when god knows I can’t even leave ChapStick on long enough to be worth the $1.29 I paid for it. Sigh. I’m a flawed woman.

A flawed woman with very fine paper products and disgustingly productive Saturday mornings.

I'm camped out in the living room, Sir Hal asleep on my feet, Ella Enchanted on the TV, laptop on... well, on my lap... and I’m ready to get back to this blogging business.

But before we get into the requisite New Year’s Resolution post, I’d like to share a couple highlights from my Christmas break:

I overheard two homeless men arguing… about whether I was a boy or a girl. And here I thought only high school and Self Magazine could make me feel bad about myself so effectively. Maybe they were just trying to toughen me up. You know, Hobo Self Image Lessons. Personally, I’d rather suffer through a workshop at the Learning Annex.

On a Harlem-bound bus, and for no other reason than I was the only person available, a pre-teen boy told me to lick his balls. I told him to let me know when they’d dropped. And not a single person was around to hear me being oh so clever. It was one of life’s great disappointing moments.

I hosted a spur-of-the moment coffee party. It made up for the bus disappointment and then some.

And, after three years of TV Free is the Way to Be, I went out and bought a television. You may have noted that in the opening sentence. I have a TV. And thus we arrive at the Resolution portion of tonight’s post.

In short, I discovered that I had been spending way too much time in my bedroom. When it occurred to me that I hadn’t sat on my living room sofa in oh, six months or so, and that I was doing more work in bed than I was doing sleeping, I made a decision. It was time to redefine my space.

When I was a nanny, I knew better than to allow toys in the crib. If I did, Junior would associate his bed with playtime. Similarly, I’d begun associating mine with bill-paying, blogging, email and whatever was in from Netflix. I was not using my bed for rest. Nor was I feeling rested in it.

So, I took the toys out of the crib.

No more movies on my laptop in bed. No more laptop in the bedroom period. The bed is for rest (and uh, other stuff) but it is not for work or subtitle reading. I vamoosed the computer to the living room. I got a TV for movies, a blanket for proper snuggling and left the bedroom void of stimulus. Well, not all stimulus. A girl’s gotta get to sleep somehow.

I don’t know whether to wink or clear my throat.

Anyway.

Honestly, this new Define My Space plan (which is working unbelievably well, by the way) can’t really count toward New Year’s resolutions. I actually started the project weeks ago. See, I make resolutions when things need resolving. When clothes are tight, I diet and get acquainted with gym equipment. When I realize I’ve said the fuck word nine times in a twelve-word sentence, I curtail the cussing. I don’t wait to do it on January 1st. On January 1st, I’m busy sleeping off what havoc I wreaked the night before and that is no time to be setting my mind on anything even remotely serious. It’s just so easy to say, “I’ll start tomorrow.” when your brain is swollen and your liver is still drip drying. On New Year’s Day, the last thing I want to do is be resolute. In fact, the last time I made and kept a New Year’s resolution was seven years ago when I vowed to drink more water. (I was way ahead of those Aquafina ad guys). Yes, indeed. I resolutely get my eight glasses of water every single day.

This Fish: Adequately hydrated since 1999.