On Wednesday, Jen and I booked our December vacation – the second in our series of Not So Brave Girls Doing Brave(ish) Things.

It all started in the fall of 2004 with a drunk idea that turned into stuffing our backpacks full of the essentials (walking shoes, headscarves, Imodium) and, after a day of lollygagging in Southern Spain, boarding a ferry for Morocco.

It was Stupid and Fancy meets Foreign and Scary.

Tangiers was beyond terrifying. Having lived abroad, I was hardly naïve about other cultures, but that place was alien (and thankfully unlike any of our other Moroccan experiences). The rest of the trip was real adventure. We slept on trains, squatted over bottomless holes to do our business, and got very, very sick from eating apricots in the open market. One of us, anyway. The other bravely wandered a foreign city at dawn, to the music of the Ramadan minarets, in search of an open pharmacy. God love the other one.

Costa Rica will be much less of all of that – especially the almost dying thing. It will be more bungalows and spa services and tropical drinks while soaking in hot springs. Some horseback riding, beach lounging and souvenir shopping. There will also be some canopy tours and zip lines and hours of driving a rented 4x4 on washed out roads. We figured we’d throw that in to keep things a little edgy.

Once the trip was booked, and our deposits deposited, Jen emailed me a P.S.

Jen: Can we call this trip our honeymoon?

Heather: Um… YES.

Jen: I doubt any real honeymoon I ever may or may not have will beat it. SO ROMANTIC.

Heather: I was just thinking that I might never get a real one, and so why shouldn't this be my honeymoon? I mean, sure, lots, LOTS less sex but all sorts of mutual admiration and romantic settings.

Jen: Does that mean we get presents? A party?

Heather: Oh, dude. Let’s REGISTER!

Jen: It will weed out who our real friends are.

Heather: If we don’t get a KitchenAid mixer, we get new friends.

Jen: If they don't support me in my decisions, I don't need them in my life.

God, I can't wait for December.

Hey, anyone know if there’s a way to download language courses for my iPod? While the language barrier will be less of an issue this time (though, seriously to our French teachers’ credit, we succeeded in getting everything we needed in Morocco), I should do a little brushing up on my Spanish. If it’s possible to estudiar my espanol on the subway? I’d so be down.

UPDATE: I graduated with a degree in Spanish, and so at one point (some five or six years ago) I was fluent. What I'm looking for is a refresher... maybe something a little higher level than what's on iTunes.

Provo, Utah. 1998. If you read yesterday's post, I mentioned a conversation I had in the bookstore where I worked during college. This is that totally bizarre conversation.

"Aren’t you jealous?"

I looked up from the Harry Potter galley I was reading and there was the Bird Man. That wasn’t his name because we liked to make fun of him. It was from the large, expensive ornithology books he’d special order from Dave or Walter. No one knew his real name. He was one of those customers who came in often but never cared to make friends with any of the staff. And he stood out. It was obvious that he was at least, mildly mentally handicapped. Large and clumsy, he always wore what looked like safety goggles. I’d wondered if that said something about exactly how clumsy he was, or if he simply needed an extra strength prescription and security against losing his glasses.

“Aren’t you jealous?” he asked again.

Reluctant to start a conversation with him, I had tried to ignore what he’d said. Pass it off as not meant for me. What would I have to be jealous of – that he would know about anyway? I looked him over. His teal t-shirt was stained and haphazardly shoved below a canvas belt into loose khakis, goggles pushed back on his nose revealing a deep dent in the bridge. He was clutching a large volume (a bird book, without a doubt).

“Jealous of what?”

“That they stole your Star Wars idea.”

I raised my eyebrows and choked on a laugh. Even the Birdman was not immune to the current media hype. I swallowed the laugh back down, not wanting to be unkind to him. He was harmless and I did not want to embarrass him.

“It was your idea and they took it from you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But what can I do about it now?”

“You should sue George Lucas for 90 million dollars.”

“But I don’t really need that much money.” I watched his face as he considered my answer. He was obviously convinced that I’d been cheated.

“You’re on the board of directors and they keep stealing your ideas.”

“Yeah, well…”

I was starting to feel a little awkward. There was no script on my end, though he seemed to know exactly what was going on. But I didn’t need to say one word more. Suddenly, as though he’d become aware of reality and his diversion from it, he straightened up, jabbed a meaty finger at his goggles and walked off down the aisle.

Sir Hal and I went on an expedition this weekend to the dark under-regions of my bed. I suspect that His Excellency went along mostly for the stray pillow feathers and dust bunnies, but I was on a real mission. Eventually, he gave up hunting entirely to curl up into impossibly tiny spaces in my storage bins while I raised my eyebrows and asked questions like, "You can't really be comfortable, can you?" And "If you see anything labeled Emotional Wreckage from High School, let me know, okay?"

I was searching for Cringe material. I've been promising Sarah that I'd get up and bare my post-adolescent soul for a while now. Unfortunately, it seems I didn't really get a proper grasp on journal drama until after college (and by then, it was called blogging), so nothing I had in the under-bed territory was even remotely Cringe-worthy. Even the poems to ex boyfriends seemed a little too poignant to be funny. I could just picture the audience shifting uncomfortably in their chairs as I read, and then, as the show got out, remarking to their companions, "Well, no wonder she's like she is. My god."

I don't need to be that understood. Ever.

What I did find, was a pile of spiral notebook papers torn from my college journal, a folder labeled PERSONAL! from my first real job in Boston and a pile of photographs from ages I seem to have forgotten I'd ever been.

A week or so ago, while in the park with Torrie and her husband, I told them a story about the Bird Man -- an autistic savant who used to buy these enormously expensive ornithology volumes at the bookstore where I worked. I couldn't remember the exact wording of our exchange, and so as funny as it was, I felt like something got lost in the translation. Well, lo and behold, I was just as nutty then about writing down conversations as I am now. It's good enough to be it's own post, though, so look for it tomorrow.

In the PERSONAL! folder was every quarterly review I'd received while working for the architecture/monkey firm over three and a half years. Reading those was certainly cringe-worthy. For the first two years, each review said basically the same thing. Smart, but not aggressive or assertive. Good worker, but not fully accepted in the department. I remember those years. Of course I wasn't aggressive. It was a job and I didn't care about being anything more than a marketing assistant ...ever so long as my bills were paid, my feet clad in cute shoes and my freezer properly stocked with Ben & Jerry. And no, I wasn't fully accepted in the department. The politics of that place didn't interest me. So I stayed an outsider.

Then something happened. I got a bit of ambition. I got a promotion, a raise and a new smart black suit. The reviews changed. Suddenly I was the most under-utilized talent at the firm! A star! A creative genius! Well, all but one changed. The president of the company (by virtue of a recent coup d'etat) had written a comment that sent me rocketing back to 2003, right smack dab into the fury and frustration that accompanied every single interaction I had with him.

Lacks follow-through.

The details of the story (he was referring to a specific incident with a fax) are not worth the finger energy to type them. But I was reminded of exactly the kind of person I never want to work for again. And of the kind of corporate hell to which I will never enslave myself again. Seriously, if I saw that guy on the street, I'd push him in front of traffic. And never feel bad for one second.

Okay, maybe right before I died. But only for a heartbeat and only because all dying people are just a little bit afraid of jesus.

Thank you for volunteering!

Right now, I'm busy making a spreadsheet (nerd!) of names and email addresses and as soon as I can get all that done, I'll be sending out details -- and getting back to blogging.

Just a few more hours, I promise.

I found some sparkling gems during my under-bed treasure hunt this weekend. But before I get to those, I have a few items of miscellanea I want to get out there. Don't worry; I'll keep this short.

On-line Marketing person needed. Badly! Know a whole buncha shit about on-line business development? Want a job outside of corporate hell? Go here. Read. Apply. If, you know, it applies.

Guinea pigs needed. Just as badly! Are you single? Want to help me with a project I'm working on and win my undying devotion (That comes with a certificate, by the way -- signed and sealed.)? Leave a comment (with your email address in the URL box) or drop me an email (fish at thisfish dot com) with Guinea Pig in the subject line.

P.S. Thanks for all the Tshirt responses! I'm going to keep the lines open until the middle of the week and then, for everyone who's expressed interest, send out the details. This is going to be even awesomer than last time.

*** UPDATE ***
Wow! Thanks! I have so many volunteers, I'll be busy til spring! Thanks guys. I'm turning comments off now, or my head will start spinning.

Remember the This Fish tshirts? I've been thinking about bringing them back. Only, this time, with a twist or two.

Twist in the first: All the proceeds go to charity. Last time, we ordered a couple hundred and sold out in a matter of days. I bought running shoes. It was awesome. But like Cher said, "Tis a far, far better thing doing stuff for other people." So that's what we're doing. Stuff for other people.

Twist in the second: I'd like one of you to design them. We'll have a contest. And the winner will get half of the proceeds donated to his/her charity. Now, don't you want to use your popularity for a good cause? The shirts would, of course, have the website logo on them. Just to be clear.

Twist in the third: Real shirts for real folks. Those baby t's last time were sort of a joke for anyone who actually eats more than twice a week. And me, I eat at least eight days a week, so I'm down with shirts that fit. Maybe even long sleeves this time, for the upcoming season.

Okay, three twists. But how's that for an idea?

If you could be interested in ordering a shirt (no, I know you haven't seen them yet; this is all just very hypothetical), leave a comment so I can get a rough idea. If you are interested in designing the shirt and getting a chunk o' change for charity, please email fish at thisfish dot com with the word Tshirt in the subject line. The subject line part is extra important. I get a lot of spam, so if the subject line isn't there, I will probably miss it.

Ready... go!

(A Fish Shirt in Paris (above) by La Cquette. Last year's tshirt also seen here modeled by Brandon at One Child Left Behind.)

Sarah Brown's rules of vestment: No sweaters before October and no tights and boots before the day’s high temperature is in the 60's.

Well, when I woke up this morning and weather.com told me it was only fifty-something degrees (with no intentions of reaching beyond seventy-nothing), I looked at Sir Hal, lounging in his sunny windowsill and said,

“Ooh, buddy! It is on!”

Then I scurried to the front closet where I dragged out a pair of knee-high boots. Then opaque tights from the top drawer, a wee black skirt from its plastic hanger and a crisp raspberry button-down still wrapped in department store tissue paper.

Hellooooo autumn!.

I love a turn in the seasons. Spring and fall have to be my favorites, mostly because of the implied mildness of them. Summer says sunburns and atrocious electricity bills. Winter says tight, dry skin and hunchbacked runs from shelter to shelter. Fall says so many things – all of them whimsically, nonchalantly and punctuated by things caught up in sudden, skirt-lifting breezes.

Because the whimsy of fall is so short-lived, I think I’m going to go for a walk. Right now. Work will be here when I get back. It always is. It will still be here waiting when winter arrives, its steamer trunk packed full for a long stay, when working seems the pleasing alternative to a six block walk in the elements. When any breeze that lifts your skirt is a cruel one.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

P.S.
As soon as I wrote the title of this post, I got this funny image in my head of hippies sitting cross-legged in a hazy, dark VW van. And it amused me. Not at all what I meant, but just as good. Or better. And now I find myself a little jealous that I never got to experience that kind of high in the sixties. What a love fest.

“This is going to sound cheesy,” she said. Then she narrowed her eyes, shifted her weight to one hip and gave me this look that said she was sizing me up. For ability to get cheesy. I must have passed the Get Test because she continued. “But when I take a person’s portrait, what I’m really trying to do is show them the beauty I see in them. The beauty they don’t see.”

And this – precisely this – is why I asked Torrie to shoot my photo in Central Park on Sunday.

I know what you’re thinking. Oh the vanity! But nothing doing. This is far, far more calculated than vanity.

For Christmas last year, my mother asked for a nice picture of me. It was all she wanted – pictures of her children to line her mantle. I sent her nothing that Christmas. Why? Well, for one, I felt ugly. Just back from winter vacation with friends, their cameras had recorded an image of me that I couldn’t even begin to reconcile. It wasn’t what I saw in my head, what I associated with the name, Heather. There were plenty of reasons for that.

If you become unhappy enough, it is possible to dissolve into a version of yourself, an iteration entirely unrecognizable. Grotesque, even.

Secondly (and very closely related to the first), it seems that lately, every time I look at a picture of myself, I see the same thing. A strained thinness to my top lip, a flatness in my eyebrows. A smile that isn’t really. It’s tension. And it’s evidence. Of just how uneasy I am about what’s happening in that little digital box. And about where that picture is going to end up.

Flickr comments terrify me. They just do. Probably because imperfection terrifies me.

Torrie has a remarkable series of self portraits (a few of which have shown up in places like the New York Times) that I got to browsing one day. They range from funny to stark and unsettling to emotional and moving. As I was clicking through her flickr page, it occurred to me. I would ask Torrie to take my picture. She is amazing behind a camera. And what’s more, she is a woman and knows women (and their insecurities). But most of all, she really understands faces. And light. And beauty.

I was thrilled when she agreed. And I was grateful because she understood right away what this project meant to me – not only in terms of the actual pictures, but in what I needed to get from the experience. Wear dark colors and meet her at the 79th Street entrance to Central Park at 4PM on Sunday. Those were here instructions. She didn’t tell me to smile, how to hold my head or where to look. She moved a few stray hairs and told me I made her job easy. And for once, I did not have to tell myself to relax.

When the woman with the camera tells you you’re pretty, it’s one thing. When you actually believe it, that is quite another. Because then, it shows.

On Sunday morning, I woke up early (as is my habit), decided I was still drunk and went back to bed. Until 2PM.

The Stephanie Klein/Suitor wedding on Saturday night was perfect. Simultaneously laidback and exquisite in every detail (not to mention heavy on the food and drink), it was everything I’d have expected from my favorite redheaded blogstress. I had the absolute best time. The food and wine pairings were so unbelievable that by the time we got to the dessert, I was certain I’d been translated to the glorious hereafter. Ooh, look! There’s the baby jesus… over there on the cheese plate!

Drinks, eats and… music. I didn’t dance a single dance, but I sure-as-shit belted out a few selections from Moulin Rouge along with the rest of Table 9. Take that, table 8! And we have choreography! Awesomest idea ever – having the talent from Brandy’s Piano Bar as your entertainment for the evening.

The bride, of course, looked amazing. And while the twins may have been tucked beneath layers of satin, they were still present – making several mentions is the ceremony as well as the speeches. It was so touching and sweet. I think every bride should be pregnant at her wedding – it just adds a whole new reason to cry happy tears.

I can’t wait for the pictures. Unfortunately, the bag that matched my shoes was way too small to fit a camera in it.

Or rather, fortunately. Because by the end of the night I’d dumped a glass of port on the whole thing and I’ve yet to meet a single electronic gadget that’s totally wine-proof.

Every once in a while, a fashion trend will completely mystify, and frankly, offend me. Teva sandals (though my mother will make a pretty persuasive argument for their comfort), plastic man clogs (Dooce has been waging a really entertaining war against her husband’s unfortunate fashion choice in this category), and super low rise anything (seriously, say no to crack).

The Skinny Jean is the newest offender. They aren’t, by nature, exactly evil. But the skinny jean, contrary to seemingly popular opinion, was not meant to be worn universally. Unless you are actually skinny – and I’m talking pre-puberty or heroin chic – you should know that the skinny jean was not made for you. And vice versa. The bootleg jean – now that was made to be worn by women of, well, womanly shape.

Wandering the aisles at Target one night, Sarah and I began a rant about this new fashion evil. When a fellow shopper, who was by most definitions quite thin, turned to tell us that ohmygod, she could not agree more, we realized that we were not alone in our hatred. So we put on our God hats and made a list of figures (public and private), who may and may not wear skinny jeans. Our decision is final.

Nicole Richie may wear skinny jeans. Because she might as well. What is offensive about Nicole is her horrifying gauntness and she’s gonna look that way in whatever she wears.
That one Olsen Twin may wear skinny jeans. See above.
Kate Moss may wear skinny jeans. See comment about heroin chic.
Twelve year old girls may wear skinny jeans.
Twelve year old boys may wear them, as well. In fact, many males of any age could pull off the skinny jean. They must, however, do so only for the purposes of irony or entertainment. Drag queens fall into this category. Jared Leto does not.
Your friends may not wear skinny jeans. And you must not let them. Do not lie to save their feelings. Unless you are friends with Kate Moss or Nicole Richie, of course. Now, allowing that some of you may have friends with unfortunate eating disorders, you must still not let them wear skinny jeans. This will only encourage improper eating.

I hope this clears things up. We'll talk about leggings later. I feel a little dizzy. Also, when I get over the dizziness, we will address the HORROR that is Gap using Audrey Hepuburn's lovely likeness to sell the skinny jean sub-atrocity: the skinny black pant. Unthinkable.

FYI: After giving up my afternoon coffee yesterday, I suffered a mild but annoying headache around 4PM and was blissfully out cold by 9:30. I think this is something I can work with.

"This lady, she drink too much coffee!"

I didn't have to look up from where I was stirring Equal into my cup to know she was talking about me. It was my third cup. And it was only 11:45. When I did finally turn back to the counter, all three cashiers were smiling at me. I was the new girl in the neighborhood and we were getting acquainted real fast.

When I was sick last week, all I had to do was stand at the counter and smile. The smile was answered with hollering.

“Largeicedcoffeeskimmilktwoequal!”

Et voila. Caffeination. Little did I know, but I was being judged the whole time.

“The lady at the deli thinks I drink too much coffee.”

“She’s probably right,” my coworker Max said, gesturing at the waste basket near my desk.

“Pfft! Meanwhile, I’m going out. Want some?”

“No, thanks. I’m trying to end my relationship with caffeine.”

“What? God, I could never. We’re moving in together. Coffee and I are getting married. I’ll send you an invitation.”

But then last night, as I lay in bed watching the clock burn away the late night – and then very early morning – hours, I thought maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe it’s time coffee and I took a break. You know, started seeing other people. I mean, they don’t have the same edge, but I guess have met a few herbal teas that were sort of sweet.

God, this is not going to be easy.

Illustration by Alina Chau. Used with permission.

Posing for the photo op, Gloria rested her hand on my knee for balance.

Gloria Steinem. Touching my knee. I was certain that she had to be transmitting some marvelous wisdom through her touch and that when I left, I would be imbued with knowledge and enlightenment and a sense of overriding purpose.

Sadly, I’m just as clueless today as I was before the GreenStone Media launch, but ecstatic in my cluelessness for having met and talked to one of the greatest smart asses of our time. She’s funny, that one. And so sincere. And at 72, really smoking hot. I mean it.

I’ve never been too wowed into worship of celebrities. I never even had a New Kids on the Block poster. But I went all dumb and doe-eyed the minute she turned her attention on me. And as she and Sarah chatted, I watched and listened hoping to absorb some of her … her whatever it is that makes her such a presence.

She digs the lady bloggers, too. Which, of course, means she knows a good thing when she sees it.

The launch party was a congregation of who’s who in media. We were rubbing elbows with the likes of Jane Fonda, Deborah Norville (extra nice), Rita Cosby (holy shit, the makeup on this woman could have, as my father says, choked a camel), Emme (astoundingly gorgeous in person) and… Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. Yeah, you heard me. And despite making an entrance that said, “I am too cool for school and yes, bitches, I do need my shades indoors,” he was awesome and super patient during our camera malfunctions.

I can’t wait to share the photos!

Leaving the party was something of a downer and a huh?. Or rather, the gift bag was a big huh?. At the launch of a women’s radio network – the concept of which was really lovely and empowering – guests were given any combination of the following items:

A diet book
An apron
A pot holder

Mmm hmm. I met Gloria Steinem and got an apron. Confused, I dug around in the bag but just couldn’t seem to find my instructions on how to get barefoot and pregnant in just four easy steps. I'll have to look it up on the internet, I guess.

The apron did have a saving grace, though. It was a Sweet Potato Queens apron. And there’s nothing under-empowered about those ladies. God, I love them. And I am committed to using that apron just as they would have me do.

I’m gonna prance around my apartment in it – otherwise completely naked. Except, of course, for my tiara.

My weekend got off to a rather inauspicious start.

An hour or so after takeoff, I excused myself from my window seat in row 5, made a beeline for the lavatory and spent the next several minutes crouched over the toilet, yakking my guts out. It is my habit to avoid using airplane bathrooms. Ever. Even if it means holding it for five hours and politely declining in-flight beverage service. For one, I really don’t like that unholy thick blue water. No siree. Not for me. I’d rather wait to land and use a filthy toilet with naturally filthy colored water. You know. The devil you know and all. I’ve never been a real big fan of the “don’t get too close or you might get sucked out” sound the toilet makes when you flush it, either.

Turns out, the whole experience is exponentially worse when you’ve got your face right up in the whole mess. Like I said. Inauspicious.

Thankfully, things got better.

I will now make every effort not to leave the impression that the shoes I bought on Friday were the highlight of my weekend in Phoenix. Because we all know that The Brother Wedding gets that distinction. Hands down. But I will let you know that never before has anyone been happier to own a pair of wine-colored suede pumps. Ever. They are gorgeous.

And so was the wedding. Nice transition, eh?

The bride looked like Cinderella (which is the highest compliment anyone can be paid, in my opinion) and it would be a huge lie to say that some of us did not spend a great deal of time trying to figure out just how my brother landed that. She’s just lovely. I’d really like to show you the picture I took with the bride and groom, only the groom had grown tired of being photographed and could not be coerced into keeping a straight face. But my sisters, they all sat very nicely for a photo.

And so did these cacti. Not a peep out of 'em.

And this is my sister, Joyce, right before we laughed ourselves silly dancing the Charleston (or some approximation thereof) in the bathroom of the banquet hall.

The secret of a Mormon wedding, we found, is ordering and consuming the liquor before the believers arrive. Nothing comes closer to righteously joyful than joyfully buzzed.

Plus, it sure makes all those newlywed sex jokes all that much more funny.

When I got up this morning, I was in a pretty sorry state. All mucous (gross, right?) and cough drop wrappers and t-minus ten hours from getting on a five hour plane ride to Phoenix – I figured I had to do something. But short of insurance fraud (don’t think I didn’t seriously consider it), I didn’t have many options.

Turns out, I only needed one.

I may not currently have health insurance (such is the conundrum of getting sick right after starting a new job), but I have a Goldner. And he’s worth every penny of his premiums, I tell you. Goldy hooked me up with his mom and Dr. Dia, who made a call to Duane Reade and presto! I am medicated!

Can I tell you how excited I am at the prospect of actually sleeping tonight? Oh, blessed Codeine. Let’s never be apart again.

Still grossed out about the mucous? Yeah, me too. But get over it. If you only knew the horrific descriptions Ari has had to sit through over the years. Friendship (with me, at least) is not for the squeamish.

So, I’m off to Phoenix now for the wedding – AKA Operation New Sister. I always thought three younger sisters was plenty, but seriously, this girl is so cool, I don’t mind taking on another. On my return I promise a few wedding photos, one or two madcap sibling stories (my brother once wrote the entire Star Wars Trilogy in Haiku. He’s pretty much a guarantee for weirdness.), and an update on the zzzzuh!.

Bet you can't wait!

I’ll be honest: Microdermabrasion was kind of uncomfortable.

But not like when your dentist tells you, “This is going to be uncomfortable,” and then it hurts so intensely that you want to get all Phillip Seymour Hoffman, MI:III on him and kill his loved ones while he watches. Not at all. Like one commenter suggested, it really did feel like a cat licking my face. But then, that’s why I don’t let my cat lick my face. Because it’s uncomfortable. And not to mention, germy.

I know, I know. I’m cold and unfeeling.

Anyway, a few minutes before Elizabeth was to start the procedure, I got a little bit nervous. Actually, a lot nervous. Having read and signed the disclaimer, my mind suddenly filled with visions of a red, welty-faced me being asked to sit out of my brother’s wedding photos. The family shame. The Boo Radley of the Hunter clan.

I had a wee panic attack.

“Um, I know the form says that my skin could be red for a few weeks, but how long does it normally last?”

“Not long,” she said, shrugging. “It will probably be gone before you leave here. That is, if it gets red at all.”

I wanted to believe her. So I laid back and let the cat-licking begin. When I got home, I dropped my bags by the front door and headed and straight for the bathroom mirror to check out the damage.

Of which there was none. Not a single blotch.

Over the next few days, I waited for the “worse before its better” phase – like I had experienced with the glycolic peel. And it never came. For the last week now I’ve had clear, glowy skin without the least bit of irritation. So there! And it’s not just how it looks that I’m in love with. It feels amazing, too.

So, either now I am an addict or a believer. I don’t care which as long as it comes with freakin’ awesome skin.

Oh! And while I was at SilkSkin for my microgerbilraisin (I have Biscuit and his friend Rachel to thank for the new word) I also go hooked up with one of these. You know the Sonicare toothbrush? Well, it’s like that. Only for your face. It pulses and spins and cleans your face better, supposedly, than you can. Frankly, I thought she might have been overselling it a bit when she talked about how great it was. It’s a toothbrush for your face. Whoopity do.

Well, whoopity-do, consider me over-sold!

I don’t know if it’s the brush itself or in combination with the microderm, but every morning and night, my skin feels a-mazing. I can’t help but get this nerdy little feeling of excitement when it’s time to wash my face. Like it’s the most thrilling part of my day. Eh, maybe it is. But is that so wrong? The outcome totally justifies the anticipation. Every single time.

How many things can you say that about, ladies? Hmmm?

That’s what I thought.

A: Jessica Simpson, John Mayer and me.

Q: Who has laryngitis?

The sun finally came out of exile this weekend, but I wouldn’t know too much about that. The only time I actually saw it (other than watching it pass by my living room window) was when I trekked across the street to buy popsicles and cough drops.

I’d say that the highlight of my ten minute furlough had to be playing charades with the man at the deli to get a cup of coffee.

Heather: (pointing behind the counter) wheeze, squeak, squeak?
Deli Man: Cigarettes?

Good guess. But no. After a few more squeaks and gestures, I headed home, coffee in hand, to several more hours of Little House on the Prairie, Season II.

My alarm clock was glowing a single digit hour this morning when I woke from crazy, delirious dreams to the happy discovery that my fever had finally broken. I was happy, not only because it meant the end of aching joints and hot flashes, but also because I wanted to go to work in the morning. Imagine that. Wanting to go to work. Satisfied, I stripped, tossing my damp nightgown to the floor, traded my sweat soaked pillow for a cool, dry one, and returned to my delirious dreams.

Turns out, personality and not fever is responsible for this brand of delirium.

Sans fever, I’m still not operating on full batteries. I’m tired as hell and my voice is shot. Everything I say sounds like it has proceeded hours and hours of crying – perhaps over the terribly sad news about the death of beloved Crocodile Hunter (no joke, though, I was really upset by that).

When I spoke to my mother last night her first reaction was,

“Who do I have to kill? Because I will fly to New York and kill whoever has upset you.”

Aw, right? Now that’s a loving mother! Once we’d established that I was sick and not dying of a broken heart, we noted a few holes in her plan.

“Actually, I probably can’t afford to fly out there.”

“Yeah. But I bet there are plenty of people here in this city who’d do it for much less than the cost of a last-minute plane ticket.”

“True. I could always just leave a comment on your blog.”

Good to know she’d be resourceful in a time of crisis. But seriously? In the event that my mom ever does use my comments to advertise for a hit man, I hereby disavow all knowledge.

I have a hard time throwing things out. Used up, worn out, broken or incomplete – it doesn’t matter; I’m gripped with minor anxiety over sending one of my possessions off to its fate at the landfill.

Take, for instance, the case of the black shoes.

I bought them at a small shoe store on Mt. Auburn Street in Cambridge. Four years ago. I’ve worn them in two cities during the worst winter weather – salted streets, slush puddles and snow banks. The thick sole of the right shoe is split all the way through, the stitching on the left is unraveling. And when I caught one of Ari’s puppies gnawing at it under the coffee table last fall my reaction was, “Meh. Not like it’ll make any difference.” The leather on one of the heels had begun to peel.

Knowing that the shoes were on their last leg, I’d scouted out – and found – a suitable replacement. And yet, when Saturday afternoon found me cleaning out my closets, I couldn’t seem to put them in the trash. What if they could still be useful? Maybe I still needed them. I mean, who throws away a pair of (once)perfectly good shoes?

I did, eventually. Throw them out, I mean. But it wasn’t easy. It’s a function of a greater problem I like to call Beingwrongphobia, a subject I'm sure we’ll get to eventually.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon. My mother emailed me a picture of the family backpacking trip, a photo of the group clutching their morning oatmeal, looking hungry and cold. One sister is wearing, by the looks of things, at least three layers of thermal clothing. My other sister is wearing sweats and an expression on her face somewhere between misery and complete misery. And my mother, a maroon and white checkered hand-me-down shirt. That I bought in the eighth grade. Fifteen years ago.

“Holy cow, woman!”

“Yeah, sigh, the shirt is getting old. I have worn it every time I have gone camping.”

She described the decay of the shirt – the fraying cuffs, the collar that’s one washing away from coming off – and then added that maybe, just maybe it had one or two good trips left in it.

And suddenly the universe made complete sense. Clearly, I have no control over who I am or what I do. Because my mother’s super-human strength neuroses are woven, wound and super-glued into my double-helixes.

Good thing she was so good with the nurture thing. ‘Cause she really screwed me over when it came to nature.