What's wrong with today is that nothing is actually wrong.

Nothing is exactly right, either and that's why I feel this way. Tired, sad, and three seconds or one sideways glance away from crying.

Part of this feeling is merely residue – physical exhaustion left over from Saturday night's migraine. I'm still wobbly and slow. So slow that I know at work they must think I'm on drugs. Or possibly that I should be on drugs.

The prescription kind.

Incidentally, a century or two ago, I’d probably have been diagnosed as having ‘spells’ or as being ‘of delicate constitution.' People would have walked on eggshells around me – lest I get vexed, have one of my spells and collapse in a heap of rags on a fainting couch in front of a cold cast-iron stove before dying tragically of consumption.

But the world doesn’t cut a girl that kind of slack these days.

So I had a bad day. I’m that goddamn James Blunt song on repeat at my own pity party. I’m sad and I want someone to buy me flowers and pet my hair. I want someone to trick me into feeling happy about something when, deep down, all I really feel is miserable and disappointed with the world. Disappointed with myself. I find that’s the thing I like least about growing up – being honest enough with myself that I have to admit, “You know, you really could be a lot better. A lot more.”

When I was younger, I was always enough.

Once, years ago now, when I was feeling disappointed, heartbroken and small, I sent Jonathan an email SOS.

If you care about me at all, you will bring the rest of that ice cream and apple pie over to my house tonight.

He brought the rest of the pie… and then headed off for his band’s practice space to get high and bang his drums. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

Tonight, Sarah coaxed me downtown after work for coffee and Sephora browsing, a visit to the bird room at PetSmart and a loud, twenty-minute conversation about penises in the middle of Union Square – while half the city walked by deaf to our impropriety.

I would bring you the rest of a pie, she’d written earlier that afternoon.

It wasn’t pie, so much as a rice krispie treats and mocha frappuchino. It wasn’t pie at all. But then, obviously, that was never really what I’d wanted. When I feel small and hurt and a little bit lost, it’s not the rest of the pie that I need. It’s all of someone’s attention.

And if it comes with the repeated use of the word penis in public? So much the better.

Sir Hal has a collection of real-looking mouse toys that I like to call his 'babies.' Hal, go find your baby. and off he'll scamper like a puppy to find one. Me, I find them in my purse or my sneakers from time to time, but most often, soaking in his water dish. At any given point, there are at least half a dozen of these things lying around the apartment. This morning, I came out of my bedroom and was a little amused to find five little ‘babies’ drenched and floating in his water dish.

“Aw,” I said, bending down to retrieve his drowning victims. “My own little Andrea Yates.”

***

His Excellency is not easily spooked. I mean, we play stalking games where I chase him around the apartment and he acts dutifully on-edge, and we both know, this is just to humor me. He has nothing to be truly edgy about. He knows the only danger he’s in is if he gets too close to the heat pipe with his whiskers again. But today, when I came home from work and took my belt off with one long swoop! , he went flying. Claws scraping on the hardwood floor, he made a beeline for the bathroom. I stood there, belt in hand, completely surprised.

“Jeez. You act like you knew my dad during the 80’s.”

To: Heather
From: Sister
Subject: A woman of seven and twenty...

I am reading Sense and Sensibility today. Marianne said this:

"A woman of seven and twenty can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife."

So there you have it. It is too late for you. You may as well become a nurse.

I am sorry to have to tell you this.

end message

Oh god. I knew it. I knew there was a reason I wasn't dreading the big three-oh. It's because all hope is really lost by twenty-seven!

Considering the fact that my stint in the medical profession lasted only until I saw my first GSW (gun shot wound, for you laypeople) and I face planted in the emergency room, even the nursing thing isn't going to give my life some. But never fear. All is not lost. Things are not quite so limited as they used to be and there are plenty more useful professions an old maid like myself can pursue.

I've started compiling a list.

Schoolmarm. Not really a stretch from my current profession. And recently, within the span of twenty-four hours, both my friend, Matt and this guy were prescient enough to saddle me with this label. Both instances also resulted in dinner/drinks. Pity date/charity case? Maybe. But I’m OLD and dried up! Pride is not a luxury a twenty-seven year old spinster can afford!

Missionary. Who needs monogamy when you can have the father, son and holy ghost? Mother Theresa, you little minx.

Crazy Cat Lady. Who has more mystery than the possibly dangerous, certainly off her rocker bat who lives in the big corner house and hands out kittens at Halloween, eeking out a meager income on blog ads? And if you can’t have sex appeal, you may as well have mystery (and catch scratch fever). Okay, yeah. I admit that one's kind of a stretch, but it beats inserting catheters any day.

I know, I know. Spinsterhood never sounded so good, right?

Also? That bit about not inspiring affection? Begging Ms. Austen’s pardon, but even at the advanced age of twenty-seven, my breasts are still quite perky, thank you very much.

And if its not affection they inspire... well, then it's something else just as good.

When it comes to casual dating, I am pretty low maintenance.

I don't own a copy of The Rules. I don't make ridiculous, impossible checklists for things like height, education or profession. And I don't have unreasonable expectations for perfection or mind-reading capabilities.

This is real life, not a Cameron Crowe flick.

I do, however, make a few basic assumptions when I decide to go out with a guy. I assume that by his late twenties, a man should know three things: how to dress, how to kiss, and how treat me like a girl.

Notice I didn't say "treat me like lady." Because the obvious is that a man should always be respectful of his date. But what may be less obvious is that he should also be aware of the distinct differences between his date... and one of his buddies.

Allow me to illustrate.

Example 1: The A-Game

Sometime late last summer, I went on a couple of dates with an attractive, well-spoken, and charming entrepreneur we’ll call Drew. Drew tended to ask me out for Thursday evenings, and yet, still be a little miffed when I wanted to be home by midnight. Not to be my mother, but it’s a school night! After a full day in the office, a full evening on the town can be a lot of effort.

For what would have been our third date, and as an invitation to meet his friends, Drew left me a voicemail one afternoon.

“… Thursday night, if you can bring your A-game. Peace out.”

Peace out? Were we on the same paintball team? It wasn’t even the goofy signoff that got me. I remember being most taken aback by the bit about bringing my A-game. I have never been accused of being a bad time or bringing down the group fun quotient. Was insulting me really meant to woo me? Maybe. At the very least it was thoughtless and ultimately, a deal breaker.

Example 2: U just don’t get it

More recently, I started seeing Mark, a wise-cracking, Peter Pan type. After exactly two dates, I received the following text message, late one Friday night (incidentally, the same Friday night we didn’t make plans because he was busy):

Can I reserve u for a make-out session tonite?

Reserve me? What am I, a library book? I replied, no, and with a click!, closed my phone and the window on that potential relationship. Had we been dating for a few months, a message like that might have been not only acceptable, but probably even funny and cute. But in the early stages of dating, it’s cringe-worthy. It’s icky and it’s lazy. I honestly appreciate when men at least go to the pretense of making a date if they’re after some nookie. And frankly, if he can’t be bothered to make a proper drunk dial (or fucking spell out the word y-o-u), he’s likely to be lazy about a whole bunch of other stuff.

If you catch my drift.

Perhaps I’m being fussy. But I’m a sucker for some finesse and a little bit of sweet talk. I mean, is it really so much to ask to be treated like a girl? To be handled with just a little more care than say, the guys in his Fantasy Football league?

God, I hope not.

And to the guy who says, “I didn’t clean up my apartment because I didn’t want to put up a front and make you think I was cleaner than I am.” I say, put up a front! Be cleaner, be nicer! Allow me at least a few good months of ignorant bliss.

Because by then, you’ll probably be farting in bed and a little mess will be the least of my grumbles.

Mom: I liked it, but it wasn't better than Crash. The scenery was spectacular, and Heath did a good job... but the story suffered from being very superficial. They didn't LOVE each other; they had an affair that was a step outside of life, not life itself. They never had a chance to turn it into love, true, but it's still just fantasy. I mean, who wouldn't you fall in love with in those mountains?

Heather: Meatloaf.

Mom: All in the Family Meatloaf?

Heather: No, the singer.

Mom: Oh, I don't know him. Ok, or Tiny Tim.

Heather: Or Jared the Subway guy. He’s just annoying.

Mom: Okay. Point made.

"Can you maybe do for me a favor?"

"Excuse me?"

"Can you maybe do for me a favor?"

He said it more loudly this time, barely turning around. Could I do for him a favor? He spoke with a thick, Eastern European accent. Russian, maybe.

I'd had my pick of cabs outside the Duane Reade on 86th Street. Eeny meeny miny… had I just moed my way into a thirty block ride in total discomfort? I shifted in my seat. Oh well. At the very least, it would make for a good story.

“Um. Well, what kind of favor?”

The cab driver turned half-way around in the front seat.

“You know how to do the text message?”

He gestured with his phone, flipped it open and made typing motions on the keys.

“I get the free text message, but I cannot drive and push the buttons. Will you do it?”

He pronounced ‘it’ like ‘eeet,’

I laughed and said sure. This was the kind of favor I could do. And once he’d handed the phone between the slit in the fiberglass window and I figured out the menu, I got my typing fingers ready.

“What do you want to say?”

“Oh yes. Here ees the message,” he said, pushing a piece of notebook paper through the window.

There were no fewer than twelve lines of handwritten text. Something about an early reservation, and T always as in Tara and please to have lovely day. I thought for a moment it might encoded government secrets and then I remembered that we’ve been friends with the Russians for years now and well, my life is not secret government code exciting. It’s very rarely Golden Girls exciting.

So I got to typing.

When I realized the extent of the message, I told him I didn’t think I would get done – we were already flying down Second Avenue – but I that I would try.

“For you, now, I would do any favor. If you want, we stop and I buy for you flowers!”

“No, that’s really alright.” I laughed. Thought it was sort of tempting. Who gets flowers from their cabbie?

As expected, when we arrived at my destination, I hadn’t finished. I pressed save and made a mark on the paper where I’d gotten to. I handed him back his phone.

“Now I do for you a favor!” he said. “You do not pay for cab ride.”

Ah, the barter system. I am a fan. When I got out of the cab, I was laughing to myself, picturing some other bewildered passenger finishing up my work on their way across town, and secretly hoping that I’d just passed on some secret government shit.

You never know.

(*like Veggie Tales, only with 98% less Jesus)

"I'm Tim."

I looked up from my text message only long enough to say hello.

"Hi, Tim."

That was not enough attention for Tim, apparently, because the next thing I knew, he was gripping my bare arm with a cold, clammy hand.

"I think we need to go outside and have a talk and a block," he slurred.

“We need to have a block? Is that secret code talk, Tim?”

I shook his hand off my arm. He was clearly speaking drunk, and I didn’t have my pocket translator.

“A walk, I said. We need to take a walk.”

He grabbed my arm again, this time more tightly, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I mean, I read the news. I know what happens when nice girls, not wanting to hurt any feelings, let Tims take them on blocks or walks or whatever they’re calling the countdown to rape and murder these days.

Fortunately, it turns out I’m not really all that nice.

I jerked my arm away again and kicked the shin to my right. I hadn’t really known the guy attached to the shin for more than a few minutes, but I had no other options. Not a single one of my friends was in sight.

“Save me,” I said, not caring if my hanger-on overheard.

I don’t remember what we talked about, only that Tim backed off. Sure, sure. You have shit going on. I see. I was relived when he vacated the chair next to me, but while the brush-off may have worked temporarily, Tim could be seen hovering at the perimeter of our group for the rest of the evening.

Now, I’m seriously wondering about those couples who say they met in a bar one night. They’ve got to be pulling my leg. How do you decipher the norms from the scaries in a bar full of strangers -- let alone decide to date one? From my experience, the Tim factor is just way too high.

It’s like internet dating, without the luxury of Google.

This weekend, I spent time recharging my batteries with a good friend from Boston. Elle was only in town for twenty-something hours, but we made the most of our time by eating things made mostly of chocolate or pasta and catching up on what we've missed in each other’s lives since we’d last gotten together.

“I’m a bad friend.” I said, after realizing I knew almost nothing that had happened over the last several months.

“No. You’re not.”

I shook my head and thought back to the time Justine stood up on the other side of the cubicle wall and accused me of being a ‘flat leaver.’

“I am not!”

The fact was, it was first time I’d ever heard the phrase and I had no idea what it meant. So in my ignorance and secret desire to be European, I assumed it had something to do with apartments. And who the hell was she to judge me and… my apartment?

Turns out, it meant that I was the kind of person who left my friends the moment I found something better.

“I am not!”

Justine then presented some hard evidence. She named names. Or a name, rather. I countered that I was just bad at multitasking, that I am easily distracted by shiny things, and that the friend in question was dangerously stupid and had to be unfriended for everyone’s health and safety. She reluctantly agreed. Fine, you are not a flat leaver.

(Good thing she didn’t bring up God. ‘Cause when I left the Almighty for a life of sin, well, I was guilty of flat-leaving for sure.)

So on Saturday afternoon, over multilayered chocolate desserts, I asked Elle if she felt I’d abandoned our friendship when I blitzed out of Boston and headed to New York.

“No. I don’t think that at all.”

I believed her. I was relieved and determined. So, with a mouthful of mousse, declared my resolve that I would be a better friend (which came out more like, beh-wah fwend because of the mousse). I would email! I would call! I would send real, in the mail birthday cards!

Because not only do I want my friends to feel valued, I have enough god damn complexes and neuroses, I really don’t need to tack on another one.

As a side note: I would never flat leave Justine, either. I fear love her too much.

The Oscars bore me.

They probably bore me for the same reasons that magazines bore me: I'm only there to ooh over the pretty dresses and make fun of the uglies -- I don't want to suffer through all the blah-blah-blah to do it. And this year, what with people.com and some red carpet fugging, I didn't even have to watch the five hour snooze fest to get all of that satisfaction.

(I know I'm not the first to say it, but, Charlize Theron? She looked like a living Barbie doll. My Barbie had really disproportioned accessories too. And a dress that I made out of my red ruffled umbrella. So, you know, who takes their fashion cues from an 11 inch doll?)

Anyway, I gave up on the Oscars early last night, and instead, settled in with my watched-so-many-times-it-needs-tracking copy of The Beautician and the Beast. God, I love Fran Drescher. So much. I love her nasally laugh and her tacky clothes and her humongous hair. I want to “friend” her on myspace.com where I will leave her cheesy comments in sparkly writing; I want to go shopping with her and spend hours complaining about our mothers over high calorie desserts.

I know that my devotion to the Nanny will be about as popular as this next statement: I actually liked Crash, and I was glad it won Best Picture. There. I said it. So it was a heavy-handed lecture in racism. I liked it and I paid to see it TWICE.

I guess it’s like my grandmother always says, “There’s just no accounting for some people’s tastes.”

And somewhat along those lines: he asked me out on a second date. Details to follow.

Sir Hal has learned to flush the toilet.

If he were my child, and I'd been waiting and waiting for him to learn this ever-so-useful life skill after months of toilet training, his having learned it would be something to celebrate. But waking up at 2AM to repeated guuusssssh sounds coming from the bathroom, I was not in the mood for celebration.

In fact, I was nearly convinced a burglar was taking a potty break, in between relieving me of my TV and laptop. And my McGyver collection. The horror!

When the guuusssshing continued, I climbed out of bed to investigate. There, sitting on the toilet seat, one white paw on the handle, was His Excellency tapping away. Every once in a while, he’d tap hard enough and…

Well, you know. Guuussssh!

I was stunned. And annoyed. Sure, it’s cute to watch – the curiosity that should have killed the cat is just making him extra hygienic. But it’s loud and it’s wasting water.

And here I thought that was some crazy stunt in Meet the Parents. Well, screw you, Jinx the Cat for being a bad role model to society’s impressionable young felines.

Late, late, late!

I'm in a semi-panic, horribly late (despite having gotten up a half hour early), and having the hardest time leaving my apartment. Oops! Unplug the coffee maker! Fill Hal's water dish. Did I remember to put on deodorant?

When I'm in a rush, I never can get that feeling out of my system – the feeling that I've forgotten something very important that will either save me from mortification or from having my apartment burn to ashes in my absence.

Today is no different. I'm due uptown in fifteen minutes. In a near sprint, I grab the bags lined up by the front door and scurry out to the elevator, feeling all the while that there's something I've forgotten. But what? My cell phone is in my coat pocket; I can feel it there, next to my iPod. I have my lunch, my gym bag, my work folder. I even managed to get my rent check and Netflix into my purse.

I've nearly given up figuring it out when the elevator arrives. As my eyes travel down toward the doorknob, the "Aha!" light goes on and I understand.

Ah, yes. That’s what I forgot.

I return to my apartment and duck inside quickly, paranoid that an early rising neighbor will see me. Without dropping my bags, I hurry into the bathroom, remove the toothbrush from my mouth, rinse and spit.

Oh yes. I did.