I've got a few things cookin', but in the meantime, let's play one of our favorite games! You know, the one where you ask questions (many of them awkward and uncomfortable) and I answer. Or, I tap-dance around and appear as though I am answering, but much like your parents in your impressionable, formative years, I practice avoidance.

I just may tell you to go ask your mother. Or look it up.

But who knows. Let's give it a shot. You Q; I'll A. Go!

*** Please note! ***
As much as I would love to help you, if you are seeking advice, you've come to the wrong place. I do not give advice any better than I take it. So let's stick to questions I most probably know the answer to.

I just played duet of "Heart & Soul" with a world renowned classical pianist. I think that goes right to the top of the Wackiest Shit I’ve Done at My Job list.

You know, right after ‘used a tampon to stop a bloody nose.’

Twenty-two years ago, I chased Jared B. around the playground at Larsen School. When I caught him, I pushed him down. Then I wrote him a poem rhyming the words dove and love and gave it to him during silent reading.

Because I loved him and that’s how love goes when you are six.

Twelve years ago, I called Ryan R. every fifteen minutes for hours on end. And hung up every time. Incidentally, Ryan introduced me to the concept of Caller ID.

Love at fifteen is horrifying. That's all there is to it.

Over the years, maturity (and necessity) have led me to refine my tactics. I stopped pushing boys around (except where appropriate), stalking and poem writing. I figured there were better ways at getting what I wanted.

So, in college I developed The Quiz. It wasn’t much more than an updated version of a note that you’d pass to your elementary school love. Only, there weren’t boxes for yes or no below the question regarding whether the object of your affection affectionately objectified you in return.

A sample letter could go something like this:

Dear David,

Do you want to go to Homecoming with me? Check one:

Yes!
Hell yes!
Other (please explain)

Love,
Heather

There would be no box next to other. I was not stupid.

I’d forgotten about The Quiz until a few days ago when my kid sister sent it to a boy. A boy who she likes beyond reason. And the boy, it turns out, must like her beyond reason as well, because he answered Hell yes! to every single question. There will soon be a date and, if my imagination has anything to do with it, kisses and rings and babies and gold anniversaries.

I think my work here is done.

I haven’t been on a field trip in at least fifteen years. And that, my friends, is approximately how long it is going to take to convince me to go on another one.

“You are done bothering her. And you are turning around.”

“Stop kicking his chair.”

“Keep your hands to yourself. And your fingers! Nicodemus, get your fingers out of his ears!”

“Why are you still talking?”

“You just went. What, are they handing out PlayStations in the bathroom? Sit down.”

I was only in charge of ten or so kids. But lord baby jesus amen hallelujah did I have my hands full.

Some kind and generous soul had paid to rent out an entire theater so that our students could see Akeelah and the Bee. In the middle of the day. On a Monday. I know, right? I am constantly in awe of people and their generosity to our kids. I am also constantly in awe of how quickly those kids can drive a girl to the belief that they do not deserve such generosity and get your fingers out of his ears or I will turn this bus right back around!

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Miss, I can’t sit here.”

“Well, I’m afraid you have to. Everyone needs to stay in their assigned seats.”

“But! I will get in trouble if I sit here.”

“Seems like something you’re in control of, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I hate him!”

“There are much nicer ways of saying that, I think.”

“Fine. Sorry. I do not get along with him because he is really annoying.”

“Hmm. Better. But you’re not moving.”

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go to the bathroom?”

From the time we sat down in the theater, it took the movie seventeen minutes to start. It took me about nine of those to understand why god gives you children in baby form. If he left you with an eleven-year-old, you’d be asking him for the gift receipt.

"Miss?"

"No."

relax. this post is spoiler free.

We knew the movie was going to be a bit silly; every review out there mocks it to one degree or another. But Sarah and I were curious. And well-prepared as we took our seats at Loews 34th Street.

Tucked away in my purse were six little bottles of rum, to be added to our over-priced theater fountain drinks. And tucked away in our brains was a list of rules... for Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game.

The rules are very simple.

Every time Tom Hanks hair strikes you as funny, drink.
Every time a monk speaks Latin into a cell phone, drink.
Every time Ian McKellen is being fabulous, drink.
Every time something absolutely ludicrous happens, you must pour more booze into your soda. And drink.
Every time there's onscreen chemistry between Tom Hanks and Audrey Tautou, you have to let the stranger seated next to you drink out of your cup*. Every time there isn’t, drink.

Random flashback?
Finding an albino Paul Bettany strangely hot?
Line so corny you snort?

Drink, drink, drink.

As it turned out, every single review we’d read had been spot on. And you can guess where that got us. Giggly and racing for the bathroom at the end of the movie.

Now, this is where it gets good. This is the part where Nicole Kidman also has to go to the bathroom after the movie (she and Keith Urban totally must have been playing Da Vinci Code: The Drinking Game, too). The ladies’ room was atwitter. And as we stood outside the theater, texting everyone we’ve ever known about our latest encounter with fame and botox, I turned to Sarah and hiccupped,

“Aw, it’s like our own little Miracle on 34th Street.”

Every time a celebrity encounter makes you act like a twelve year old girl, drink.

*No actual sharing with strangers took place during the watching of this film. It is that bad.

I am broken hearted.

You think it’s going to be different this time – that you know how it’s all going to work out.

It’s the classic story. Boy meets girl. Boy likes girl, girl likes boy. They share cute, intimate moments over board games and secrets whispered as they lie in bed. Boy asks girl to marry him. Girl says yes.

Then boy fucking dies! And girl quits her job as a surgical intern at Seattle Grace Hospital! And every thing – every damn thing you hoped for – is gone.

You held hope after girl nearly killed boy with that stunt before the heart transplant. Because you believed in television love! And what did it get you? Nothing but a recycled speech from My Father the Hero (“What about me?”) and a dead guy with really pretty white teeth.

I shake my fist at you, Grey’s Anatomy. You. Broke. My. Heart.

All I have to say is that it had better be poor little Addison who finds Meredith’s panties next season or we’re really through.

Oh. And that shit with the dog? Cheap. Really cheap.

“Why I am so awesome. I know. That’s a long one and you don’t want to be typing all night.”

I laugh into the phone.

Ari is on the other end of the line, offering semi-helpful advice in an attempt to breathe some life into this week’s ailing blog. So far, none of her topics is striking a chord. But then, I did call her for advice, so who am I to scoff at her ideas? She suggests lists I can make. Contents of my handbag. Celebrities I’ve met. I give them some thought. The serious ones, anyway.

The one about someone’s naked body parts? I am ignoring entirely. Entirely.

It’s not as though nothing is going on. Things go on! Oh, yes. Like, my brother getting engaged. That’s something. And me, seeing a new boy. That is also something! There’s been a night on the town in Hoboken with Tanya – which probably could produce a story for every drink. And I had quite a few. There was a night in with Sarah during which she declared, “I would totally have sex with you. Your bed looks so comfortable!” Of course, no sex was had; we watched Parent Trap.

So, things are going on. But for some reason, I can’t seem to get a single one of them out there in story form. Why? I think, for no other reason that sometimes…. hormones make me stupid. I’m already blaming them for this thing on my forehead and the migraine I had early this morning. Why not blame them for my writer’s block?

“Alright,” she says finally, giving up. “I’m around. So if you need any more useless ideas, give me a call. I’ll make a list.”

I thanked her, hung up the phone and wondered how soon was too soon to call her back. I mean, maybe the naked body parts thing wasn’t such a bad idea.

"I cannot do today."

I yawned, blinked away the sleep and pushed my feet to the floor. Hal stared at me from the ottoman. He was thinking breakfast. I was thinking sick day. I’d woken up this morning on the couch, in the same awkward position I’d fallen asleep only two hours earlier, cranky and puffy eyed. Last night was one of those nights

I’d tossed and turned and worried and looked at the clock so many times that my retinas were burned with those tiny digital numbers – edging all the more near to the hour my alarm would go off. I finally abandoned my bed for the couch sometime after 4AM. A change of scenery seemed to do the trick.

When I was a kid, the cool side of the pillow or the other end of the bed was enough to shake things up, shut off the inside noise (fear of reciting the multiplication tables, new school nerves, etc.). And in college, there was upside-down land.

Yeah, you heard me. Upside-down land.

In those days, my roommate’s boyfriend and I used to lay face-up across the bed, heads hanging off, laughing and talking until our faces were beet red and pounding with blood pressure. We’d started it one day on the living room sofa when Mac, tired of my sour finals face, grabbed my feet and spun me around. Then he climbed onto the couch next to me and rested his feet on the wall.

“It’s so much better this way, I think.” Mac said, and then sang some goofy song from our primary school days about turning frowns upside down.

“Only, you don’t actually have to smile…”

“Just go to upside-down land.”

My roommate snapped a photo of the moment – Mac’s goofy smile making a frown and my frown, well, looking not so crabby.

I came across that picture a few weeks ago, and thought about it again this morning as I eyed the cat and he eyed me. He was still thinking breakfast. And I was thinking how there was no way in hell I could get away with a sick day. I realized that I could probably have used a bit of upside-down time today – a shift in my attitude, a change in perspective – but I was late as it was. So I got up and got ready for work

Besides, grown-ups do not have upside-down land. They have coffee.

Over the last two weeks, as part of a project I'm involved in at work, I've had to interview a couple of celebrities. Because the interviews I’m doing are for a good cause, the subjects tend to be more than happy to make themselves available to chat. And to hand out their cell phone numbers.

On Tuesday, I had a really nice conversation with one of Law & Order’s former A.D.As (now star of a new law drama). I wrapped up the interview and thanked her for her time. She responded graciously.

“Well, you have my cell phone number, so if you have any other questions, please feel free to call me any time.”

I thanked her again, hung up the phone and immediately went about making a quick list. You know, of those other questions I have.

1. What are you doing on Saturday? Do you want to have lunch? I bet you know lots of great places. I bet your husband owns a few (wink, wink). We can go there.

2. Once we’re BFF – you know, after lunch – will you be writing me into your script? It doesn’t have to be a big part. Just one where I get to perhaps faint and kiss someone very hot and a little bit psychotic.

3. I want to marry Elliot Stabler. I know this is not so much a question as the thesis statement from my Five Year Plan, but I thought I’d save us some time by letting you make suggestions as to how to go about the whole thing.

I stopped at three and put down my pen. That seemed to be enough to get us going. I mean, if we got through those, I could always come up with more and call her back. But then, I might be too busy living out my Five Year Plan as Mrs. Detective Stabler already.

I'll call you. We'll do lunch.

The helicopter on display in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum is not the helicopter from Magnum, P.I.

And that’s just one of the many important facts I picked up on our trip to Washington D.C. this weekend. It’s a very informative city! Informative and awesome. I do not think there is any way the experience could have been more perfect. From a free hotel upgrade to the tastiest food (thanks for the recommendations!) to the sunny (and sunburny) weather, the weekend met and exceeded all my expectations. And most importantly, while visiting some of the most top-notch museums and national treasures, I gained a great deal of wisdom. And not just about helicopters.

Here are some more very important facts:

Teenagers suck. They are horrible and they ruin things. Cleverly, they can be ranked in horror and suckage by the color of their t-shirts – Pink Group being the most annoying, and tapering off in suckage with Green Group, who mostly minded their manners, but still spoke in registers only dogs can hear.

Mango margaritas were obviously on god’s creation to-do list right after ‘heavens and earth.’ And he saw that they were good. Very good.

Teenagers ruin the International Spy Museum.

Julia Child was a spy.

There are approximately… a whole lotta steps up to the Lincoln Memorial.

The Hope Diamond is not nearly as big as you think it is. But that will not stop you from scanning the room for security cameras. Jewel heist!

Teenagers ruin the Natural History Museum.

Sarah Brown ruined the Constitution.