zzzzuh! -noun

1. When a man, who is neither conventionally good looking, nor what you would ordinarily define as your “type,” walks into the room, and the moment your eyes lock, something in your brain screams, “Yes! I want to have your babies!”

That, my friends is the zzzzuh!, and there is no mistaking it.

This is going to be awesome.

Before working out of a ramshackle school in East Harlem, there were a lot of things about office life that I took for granted. Things like, functional equipment, bathrooms that did not impose fear of incurable, communicable diseases and proximity to non-fried foods.

I spent the first day at my new job yesterday ducking in and out of meetings and brainstorming sessions, making work plans and – get this – writing my own job description. I have been working in a professional environment in some capacity for the last, oh, thirteen years or so. Why have I not had to do this before? It’s brilliant. I know exactly what I’m going to do (on the downside, I now have no excuse for being ignorant of any job responsibilities) and some idea of how to accomplish it. This is a very good thing.

Know what else is a very good thing? My chair. Not only is it not broken, it is extremely comfortable in that ever-so-tricky lumbar region.

Oh, and the Charmin Ultra in the bathroom is good, too. By now you should know how I feel about high quality paper products. Especially those which touch my, um, products. Institutional toilet paper should only ever be forced upon prisoners and middle schoolers – people who, by their own behaviors, do not deserve any better. If you work in an office, you pay taxes. If you pay taxes, your heiny deserves better than one-ply. Simple as that.

Toilet paper tangent over.

I am going to tell you about the microdermabrasion, but later. I feel like I jumped the gun last time, talking about the glycolic peel before I’d seen the full effect. For instance, the day of and day after the peel were great. But you missed out on the fact that the next day was not so great. I got a little bit reptilian. The day after, more reptile. Then the next day, back to great. Ten days of great, actually. So I think if I wait a bit, I’ll be more informative and those of you playing along at home will know better what to expect. Look at me being so socially responsible!

Also, I have a new toy I’ll tell you about later, too. Yeah, it vibrates.

This morning, I left my freshly-cleaned apartment for my first day at a brand new job. Excitement! And this evening, I am going leave here and head uptown for even more of that good, clean-slate feeling. Microdermabrasion!

Tonight I’ll be all pink-faced and full of stories. But for now, I’m busy as all get-out. So in the meantime, why don’t you go ahead and list all the things you hate about your friends’ grammar mistakes?

What? Oh, you already did? Well, I’m sure you can come up with a few more.

Viva la picky!

***UPDATE***
Whoa! Okay, guys. I was being a little sarcastic there. Fine. More than a little. I didn't mean to encourage any more griping. Let's turn this around, shall we? Today is about starting new things. Go with it.

I make plenty of errors in grammar. Most of them are in punctuation, because I would rather a sentence be read the way it sounds in my head, as opposed to the correct way. Also, I mess up usage of which and that all the damn time. So being imperfect, and truly, not much of a grammar snob, I know I’m not sitting in a pretty place to judge. But there is one grammar error that is so (perhaps irrationally) irritating; it does nasty things to my temper.

Mostly because it’s so simple. (See? Look at that sentence fragment! Guilty!)

People tend to think, probably because of being repeatedly corrected as children, that when it comes to using I or me, I is the more proper – the grammatically correct choice. This is so very, very wrong. And it makes me nuts to see it in writing – especially when done by bright, educated folk.

Let’s get this straight right now. I is a subject; me is… well, everything else – like objects of prepositions, indirect objects, whatever. If you’re not the doer in the sentence, you’re the receiver. And that makes you a me. I shall demonstrate.

Example 1: Labeling a picture
So, you have a nice shot of you and Pickles. And you’re gonna upload it to Flickr. How do you label it? Pickles and I? Or is it, Pickles and Me? Pickles and I is only correct if you and pickles are doing something in the photo. Like waterskiing. Pickles and I are waterskiing. But if it’s just a nice shot of you and your poorly named friend/pet, it’s Pickles and Me. There is an implied, This is a picture of… that makes both you and Pickles objects. Not subjects.

Example 2: Receiving a gift
Dad gave Shelly and I a pony for Christmas. No, he really didn’t. Dad gave Shelly and me a pony for Christmas. Think of it in terms of “we” and “us” if you must. If you can substitute “us” for the names in the predicate, then you should be using, me. Because Daddy didn’t give we a pony. He gave it to us. Or, as suggested by grammar cops Sarah and Biscuit, simply omit the other person from the sentence and see how that strikes ya. By the way, the same goes for the usage of "he" vs "him" and so on and so forth.

Oh my god. Okay, I’m stopping now. My blood pressure is up and I’m sure you’re all ready to kick me in the face.

My sophomore year of college, I lived with another Heather.

There are two things I will always remember about Heather Jones. One, she was the first Monica Geller I’d ever met in real life. Damn, that girl loved clean. She loved it so much that before she would allow her brothers to move any of her belongings in, she and her mother bleached the kitchen floor. Scrubbed it with tiny little brushes, on their hands and knees. And then they tackled the bathroom. When I moved in two days later, the apartment smelled of Clorox and apple cinnamon potpourri. It smelled that way for an entire year.

Heather was also the first person I ever met with a Mirror Face.

Every morning, she would go about the routine of taming her long curly hair, applying her make-up just so, and when she was all done, she’d stand back, look into the mirror and make the most unnatural expression I’d ever seen.

It was her Mirror Face. And it looked a little something like Blue Steel – only with her head tilted about forty-five degrees to the right. Now, Heather was (and I’m sure still is) a very pretty girl. But this face, the one she made every single time she wanted to assess her visage, was… well, a little bit not. It was facial contortionism and it didn’t look a thing like her.

It was downright odd. But, as it turns out, not totally uncommon.

My old boss had a Mirror Face. Anson’s mother has a Mirror Face. And they, just like my old roommate, are totally oblivious to it. Heather looked at us like we were delirious when her fiancé and I told her that no, she didn’t actually look like that in real life. Ever. Except when she checked herself out.

I started to get afraid that I might have Mirror Face and be completely unaware. And so the other day, when I was attempting a self portrait in my bathroom, I decided to find out for sure. With the camera poised at my chest, I leaned in to the mirror, made like I’d applied some mascara, stepped back and click!

Contortion free!

I was only partially satisfied, though. It wasn’t exactly a perfect sampling. So, please. I’m begging you. The next time we’re getting ready to go out (I’m looking at you) or touching up our lip gloss after karaoke (ahem), take a really good look. If you see any Le Tigre going on, put a stop to it right there. You owe it to me as a friend.

Mirror Face. It’s like, Visible Panty Line above the neck. *Shudder*

Call me totally unevolved, but when it comes to certain traits, I think a woman should be a woman and a man should be a man.

Now, I don’t mean socially important things like, equal pay for equal work and who stays home with the kids. I mean, obvious stuff. Areas where masculine and feminine should not overlap. Like, facial Hair? Man. Tendency to cry when drunk? Woman. Yeah, I said it. I buy into gender stereotypes – especially in my romantic relationships.

Experience has taught me that I’m much more comfortable if the man I’m dating and I do not have any of the following things in common:

Dolphins
Yeah, I loved them, too. On my Lisa Frank Trapper Keeper. In the sixth grade. But you must not love them enough to tattoo them on your body. Ever. Anywhere. Even and especially on your thigh. It makes me heavily suspicious that I’m your beard.

Skintimates Glistening Pear shave gel
I prayed that it was left over from your last girlfriend. But the stubble on your chest (and the burn it left on mine) cleared that right up. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for manscaping. I once dated a man who, when shirtless, looked like he was wearing a sports bra made of fur. So I hear you on your need to keep things tidy. In fact, I applaud it. But do it with shaving cream, for the love of god! The manly kind! The kind that smells just a little bit like a hospital waiting room and bleaches the bathmat if you spill it. Nothing says virile man like Barbasol.

Making Love
Please don’t say that. Call it sex. Call it knocking boots, riding the bull, doin’ it, or getting your freak on, if you want. Any one of those is preferable to you morphing into a sweater set and labeling a sweaty, whiskey-drunk bathroom sexcapade, “making love.” Eeew. And technically, this is something we’d never have in common anyway. I would never, ever. Lord knows I prefer the pleasantly-neutral, “sleeping together.” You know, as though anyone actually does any sleeping.

There are a few more, including a couple items found in grocery carts, demonstrations of girly vanity (owning or even saying the word, “product”) and facial expressions like, The Pout. The Pout, along with back-seamed silk pantyhose, was invented by full-lipped French women, for god’s sake. And, along with those silk hose, a distinctly feminine thing you should refrain from wearing.

Though you’d think that would go without saying, wouldn’t you? You’d be so surprised.

If something really terrible (baby jesus forbid) were to happen to me today, it would take my family a week to find out.

Say, if I were hit by a bus, fell into an abandoned mine shaft, or came down with Ebola. They wouldn’t even know until Sunday. Those jerks have all high-tailed it up to the mountains for some good, clean family fun – without me. It's just wrong. I mean, who’s gonna ID the body? Probably Ari. And she’d be pissed about it, too.

I know, I know. Morbid. But I’m just a little bit bitter about the situation. Not that it’s their fault I couldn’t make this summer’s backpacking trip. Blame bosses who said, “two weeks vacation in the summer,” who actually meant, “two weeks vacation in the summer on any days except the following…”

“The following” included this week. Who knew back then that I was gonna quit? Not me. And here I am, sitting this one out.

Backpacking has been a family thing since before any of us kids existed. Because despite her fragile appearance, my mom is something of a mountain woman. And in our family, once you turned eight years old, you got to strap on a backpack and spend a week with Mom in the mountains every summer. As kids, we learned to cha-cha and waltz around a campfire, suffered through reconstituted dinners (freeze dried stroganoff: as gross as it sounds) and froze our tushies off at night in the cold, Uintah mountain air.

It was as awesome as it sounds.

My first backpacking trip was… well, not the smoothest of adventures. We chose Baker Lake. A mountain spot somewhere in the middle of Nevada near some famous caves. Lehman, I think. Anyway, the map said three miles – I was a god damn Brownie Scout! I could do three miles – but when we got there, the trailhead said eight. Eight miles. With forty pounds on my back.

In a family photo album, there’s a picture of me taken somewhere along the trail, backpack on my back, crying my little eight year old eyes out.

Yeah, I’m a trooper.

Really, the bitterness and jealousy I’m suffering at the moment has nothing to do with the actual backpack part of the trip. I’m not so tough. It’s the fires and the jokes and the songs (Valerie! Valera! Valera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!) and my mother being surprised that, for the umpteenth time that she has stubbed her big toe and must limp around camp for the next four days.

This is so unfair.

Though, to be honest, it seems a whole lot less so when I lay down at night and there are no rocks under my bed.

I think I might be breaking up with my hairdresser*.

A while back, when I decided to quit pretending to be a blonde, I asked for recommendations for a good colorist. And because if there is anything as beautiful as her perfect glowing skin, it’s her hair, I jumped when Rachel recommended her hairdresser, Ann Marie.

It was love at first single process.

The last time I saw Ann Marie, we got a little ballsy and dyed my dark honey hair a deep chestnut. I’ve always been a fan of the fair skin/dark hair look and so I was immediately taken with it. I thought we both felt that way. But turns out, I was wrong.

On Saturday, after the dye was rinsed off, Ann Marie began blowing my hair dry. As she ran her fingers through my hair, I saw her make a face in the mirror.

“It’s a lot darker.”

“Same as last time, I think,” I answered, already feeling a bit defensive.

“And you like it better this way, huh?”

Um, what? Her tone was such that I almost felt as though I should apologize for the dye job she just did.

“Yeah, I do.”

“I guess it’s pretty in its own way.”

She may as well have said, To each his own. I was stunned stupid. I mean, I know your hairdresser is supposed to guide you toward better hair, but she’s supposed to do it tactfully, and in the end, support your decisions. The way a friend would – only, a friend who gets a hundred dollars an hour to do so. Instead of the supportive friend vibe, I was getting jealous high school rival.

And then as if it wasn’t bad enough, Ann Marie went for the throat.

Words like dry and heavily damaged and under-conditioned seeped out as she finished trimming and shaping. Was I sure I didn’t want more than a trim? Yes, I was sure.

“Well, you’ll cut it off when you’re ready.”

Now, if there’s one thing I have always been confident in, it’s the condition of my hair. I was sporting shiny locks long before Pro-V was a twinkle in Pantene’s eye. I may get fat just by looking at ice cream, I may have problem skin, but out of mercy, the sweet baby jesus rained down his blessings and gave me one nice head o’ hair (Except for the entirety of the 80’s. Screw you Olgivie home perms.). But after a few of Ann Marie’s choice comments, I was no longer so certain. She even went so far as to hand me a pamphlet titled, It’s not your hair that’s the problem, it’s how you treat it.

I was on the verge of a vanity breakdown. I could hear Amy March gasping, “Your one true beauty!” as she surveyed the wreck of my once-lovely hair. I left the salon ready to burst into tears. “I have substandard haaaaair!”

Which is, of course, nuts. It’s the same hair I had three days ago, hair that I had been perfectly content with. And ordinarily, I’m more than content with Ann Marie. Ordinarily I’m singing her praises. Maybe it was just an off day and I should give her another shot. Or maybe, we’ve just grown apart. But if that’s true, I think I’d have preferred to hear, “We just don’t want the same things anymore.” You know, as opposed to, “You have bad hair.”

Even Queen Latifah wouldn’t have pulled that shit.

*Do we even still call them that? In the South, we sure do. I can’t help feeling that this is like the stewardess/flight attendant thing and I’ve just set myself up to get a rash of hate mail from angsty hair care professionals.

*** Update ***

Here. Here is a picture of my totally offensive hair (and my second attempt EVER at a self-portrait). And because we have a loving, trusting relationship, I braved the make-up free look. Let's keep that warm, caring feeling, okay? As always, click for a bigger pic.

We were making steady progress on a bottle of rosé when Biscuit looked up from our Luna Park table and said in a dreamy sort of voice,

"This is just the kind of summer night you want to bottle up and keep forever."

It was a bit Oliver Twist, but totally sincere and totally on the mark. Last night was perfect. The sky was a shade of blue Crayola has yet to master, a breeze danced our napkins across our laps and kept the temperature just right, and the company was superb. Biscuit had been away so long I’d almost forgotten things. Like how he can make you feel like you’re six years old again, playing in the sprinklers on the front lawn. Or that he always remembers every single thing you’ve ever told him. This makes our conversations trot along at Morse Code-like pace, staccatos of whos and whats – talk that if overheard, would make little sense at all.

“Dating?”

“Negatory.”

“La-ame.”

“Totes.”

After dinner, I babbled while he smoked, leaning against a park monument. I was debating the merits of heading home to do some work when we heard our names being called. Union Square is a big place, but in that big place, two of my very favorite people appeared out of nowhere. And then we were four.

What kismet!

We spent the rest of the evening drinking al fresco and planning winter vacations – Costa Rica, maybe Thailand – spending bonuses we haven’t made yet. Because when the weather turns evil again, I suspect that, no matter how lovely, even our night-in-a-bottle won’t be able to save us.

I’ve never had the greatest skin. I won’t get all woe is me about it because I know there are people who have it so much worse. But it has been bad enough, and my self esteem just fragile enough that once, I actually called in sick because I was too embarrassed to face people.

I’m always one break-out away from self-imposed exile.

A fairly hefty portion of my life (never mind the money wasted on the newest zit zapping regimen*,) has been squandered in front of the bathroom mirror whimpering about blemishes and the state of my complexion. Remember Daria? I could have committed cartoon murder to have Quinn’s cute pores.

Last night, willing to try anything (within reason) to get skin that doesn’t require a good shellacking of make-up to be suitable for public viewing, I went here to try something new.

Glycolic peel, my friends.

I know, it sounds a little scary. You want to rub acid…where? But the whole experience was excellent. It was quick, mostly painless (there was a bit of a tingle) and now…. Now I want everyone I see to touch my face. Well, not really everyone, because eeew. But it’s so smooth! Like a baby’s bottom smooth. And aside from the appearance of two small very small blemishes, completely untraumatized by the process.

I’m impressed. And did I mention smooth?

From what I understand, it’s only going to get better. Next time? Microdermabraison. You’re witnessing the making of a dermatology addict. But don’t worry. It’d take one hell of a mid-life crisis to drive me to Botox.

* P.S. Money not wasted: Murad. I swear by it. And no, they aren't paying me a dime to say that. Though, they totally should.

*** UPDATE ***
Aren't you NYC gals lucky? Turns out, if you mention ThisFish, Silk Skin will give you a 10% discount. Bonus! For More information visit them at www.SilkSkinLaser.com.

The big news from last week feels like it should be I finally got a New York phone number! because of all the kafuffle that went down getting a new phone and trying to remember my own digits. But the actual headliner is, I just quit my job.

Just like that. Up and quit.

I wasn’t looking for new employment. I wasn’t exactly happy – a trip to our school’s newest location left me so depressed that I experienced what I can only describe as a mild anxiety attack – but job hunting is a downer all of its own.

Fortunately, new employment was looking for me.

On Sunday, it emailed me, Tuesday, took me to lunch and on Friday, it made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Creativity, flexibility and hard work. I know, I know, think of the children! Will I miss them? Yes, possibly. Feeling altruistic about my job was a nice perk (and it almost made up for the lack o’ paycheck), but the job itself had changed so much over the course of the last few months that I no longer sure what I was doing or for whom. It certainly wasn’t what I’d signed on for.

Writing for a living will have its own frustrations, I know. But it’s the carrot on a string and I wanted that damn carrot.

There’s much more to say about the new job and all that comes with it, but I’ll save that for another time. Because, after all, I spent the weekend at Ari's lake house relaxing and it would be a shame to undo all that wine, sun and barbeque just yet.

My bathtub is perpetually clogged. It is also Sir Hal's favorite place to play. I have no doubt the two are connected.

After my shower, I pour the Drano in as usual and escort the cat out with me. We go on with our respective days – Sir Hal, to impotently hunt birds on the other side of the glass window and I, to work. The next thing I know, I look up from my computer and he’s gone.

Oh, shit!

I race into the bathroom and there and he is – sitting in the tub in a slimy trail of Drano residue, peering into the drain, one paw poised to tap at the bubble of green goo.

I quietly freak out.

I'm suddenly terrified. I’m worried he'll lick it off his paws or get it in his eyes and he'll blame me for the rest of his life because he's blind or unable to distinguish salty from sweet and my god I’m a horrible wretch for ruining his delicate palate. Is this wine too oaky? Now he will never know!

I have ruined the cat!

So, I get a washcloth, get it all soapy and wet and then proceed to hunt him down. He’s figured out that I want to do something uncomfortable so as he squirms and writhes, I clutch him to me and scrub his paws and tail and any other kitten part that might have touched the chemicals.

Now, every few minutes, in a fit of paranoia, I have to pick him up and smell his paws just to be sure he won’t have to give up his dreams of becoming a sommelier.

I am an unfit mother.

Working from home can a blessing and a beast.

Some days it means bare feet and home-cooked lunches and Sir Hal taking up as much room on my lap as my computer. Cuddling while working? A sweet blessing. Some days, it means Sunday afternoons spent doing “urgent” tasks for my boss while I should be out wandering Central Park and drinking too much iced coffee. Huge. Gnarly. Beast.

Today, working from home meant looking up from my laptop to see a man outside my window cleaning the fire escapes, realizing that I was wearing nothing more than a camisole and panties and making a frantic dash to the bathroom to find my robe.

Sarah thinks I made his day. I half expect him to file for workman’s comp.

At the corner of 51st and Madison, a very tall, thin black man and I were waiting for the light to change. The only two people on the curb, we did what everyone does out of curiosity and compulsion. I turned to glance at him and he turned to look at me, as though to say, “I acknowledge your presence here on this street corner.”

But the moment he turned to look at me, something in my brain said, “You know this guy.” And before I could do a crosscheck, my mouth had gone off.

“Oh! Hi!”

The second it was out of my mouth I wanted a do-over. I slapped a mental hand to my forehead and contemplated shoving my head into my oversized handbag. Oh god. I am so uncool. If there was ever any question about it, I went and cleared it up right there.

Obviously not nearly as excited as I was at our serendipitous meeting, Morgan Freeman simply nodded politely, and then the light changed and we crossed the street.

On a totally unrelated note: I would be so much more comfortable with Jessica Simpson’s new song if I thought she actually knew what “carte blanche” means.

Watching my favorite childhood television show as an adult is an eye-opening experience. Years later, I’m still in love with Little House on the Prairie, but for reasons that would have totally and completely eluded me as a kid.

Like in the very first episode of Season One, Pa breaks his ribs falling from a tree. Good old Doc Baker comes out to Plum Creek to tend to him, and while he’s wrapping Pa’s bare torso in long strips of cloth, it occurred to me:

Holy shit. Charles Ingalls is freaking hot.

Long hours of driving a team of oxen and working at the mill made Pa one cut, burly guy. But it’s not just the working man’s chiseled chest and well-defined arms that make him so rarrr. Oh, no.

Pa is also a total sap. But not in a momma’s boy kind of way, of course. He knows when to play the hardass, but he also knows when to get warm and fuzzy. I can’t help but get a bit choked up when he goes all weepy over a lost wheat crop, or when he’s overcome with pride for Half Pint and Mary. This is a man who’s in touch with his feelings.

Pa loves his wife. He flirts and flatters and grabs her by the bonnet to plant big, prairie kisses on her. And when Ma gets upset, he can’t help but crack a smile. It’s as though it no-so-secretly delights him to see her give up that small measure of control that it requires to get her flustered. Which might be exasperating if it weren't totally charming.

“Time spent being angry with you is such as waste,” Ma says to Pa one night in bed. But I can’t help but get the feeling that they both enjoy it. Just a little bit.

Pa is a man who knows how to do things. From fiddle playin’ to plowing a field and shingling a roof, Charles Ingalls is a guy with practical skills. It’s the same kind of competence that makes me so giddy over MacGyver and Thomas Magnum. There is nothing sexier than know-how.

And when it’s combined with a fine physique and emotional availability? Well, I’m suddenly a girl with some serious Pa issues.

Late one September night, as they stood together on a subway platform waiting for uptown trains, a man said to a woman,

"You know, I entertain the idea of us getting married."

A passerby wouldn’t have overheard her reply, for the sound of rattling subway cars and the hush in her voice. She might not have said anything more than, Hmmm. Really. She might have wanted to believe him. But he was drunk and when he was drunk, he said things. The same way he said things over breakfast – with fleeting conviction and a boyish sincerity meant only for the moment.

“You’re such a beautiful girl,” he’d say over omelets and juice. Then in the evening, fill her with lies about where he’d lost his wallet or why he didn’t call. Breakfast was easily forgotten.

Only an hour earlier, in a bar some blocks away, he’d stuck a camera up her short black skirt, in front of an audience of friends. The shutter had clicked and she’d clawed to press the delete button – but not before he’d eyed it and grinned.

“How could you?” She had cringed. Humiliation was a digital image of her bare thighs, imperfect and blazing white with the camera’s flash.

“What? I wouldn’t show it to anyone. It’s only for me.”

Later they stood in the heat, him wearing a ratty sweatband on his wrist and her, a vacant pout of an expression. If she was angry, she did not say as much, only withdrew into herself, half-listening as he talked. The man let his eyes rest on her chest, his thumb and forefinger lightly squeezing the top button of her shirt.

“Which train are you going to get on?”

He meant, would she be sharing his bed that night.

“The AC is on. But not because I assumed you’d be staying…” he smiled when he said this.

Just then a train roared into the station, a brightly lit number two shining on its sides. The woman kissed the man on the cheek and said,

“Your train is here.”

A few weeks later, they'd be surprised to learn that a girl they knew was in the family way. His family way. The woman would listen as the man, in his breakfast sincerity, explained his obligation to marry the mother of the child. To do right by the unborn. They would raise their voices and point fingers and spill drinks and he would say that he was sorry.

And she would want to believe him. But he would be drunk, and when he was drunk, he said things.

It’s too hot to eat, too hot to wear real clothes (or at least, underclothes) and far too hot, apparently, to act like human beings. By the time I got to work I was lightheaded from subway heat, sticky and irritated. But the sweat pooling in my cleavage was the least of my irritations.

Heather: Dude, come home now. New York needs one decent man or it’s going to get swallowed into the sea. It’s prophecy. Don’t wait for the three-hour disaster movie staring one of the Gyllenhaals. Just come home.

Biscuit: I’m TRYING, believe me. Dare I ask what happened?

Heather: Every man I have encountered this morning has been rude and manner-less and dressed really badly. It’s got to be the heat. But really, what kind of man physically pushes a woman out of his way to get iced coffee first? And who won’t stand up on a train for a pregnant lady? I wanted to weep for chivalry. And then I almost decided to sleep with women.

Biscuit: !!! Seriously, I leave and the whole place falls apart! I mean, honestly, I know it’s a bit of a skill to dress well in shorts, but oh yes, it can be done. And I don’t know what I’d do if you decided to go all girls. You think we have drama now.

Heather: Okay, fine. It’s true. I could never date a woman. But men behaving badly are really killing my libido.

If I have not melted into a puddle on the sidewalk by the end of the day (or been pushed onto the tracks by some late-for-his-train Neanderthal in madras shorts), here is what I’m up to tonight. Consider this an invitation to join me.

Book Signing: Straight up and Dirty
7:00 PM
Borders, 10 Columbus Circle
People magazine gave Stephanie’s book three and a half out of four stars. And if that doesn’t sell you, even Lindsay said she didn’t hate it, calling it “entertaining.” And that’s a girl who does not go throwing around the compliments.

Cringe (tonight on ABC Nightline!)
8:30 PM
Freddy’s, Dean Street & 6th Ave, Brooklyn
Okay, so it’ll be miraculous if I actually make it to Brooklyn in time for this, but seriously, if you’ve never experienced Cringe, it is some funny shit. Join Sarah and the Bride of Cringe tonight and you might get to be on TV in all your sweaty glory.