For months he'd been saying it was inevitable. We were going to hook up.

"No way," I'd said. "Our friendship would implode." There were illustrative hand-gestures and sound effects.

"Not necessarily."

"Yes, necessarily."

We'd go round and round and then, finally, he'd concede that I was right. If we hooked up, he couldn't tell me the sordid details of all his other hook-ups. And those were some of our best conversations.

One night, the tequila shots came out, and so did the old hooking-up discussion. He went over the same material as before - how he'd miss being able to tell me all his scandalous stories, how he liked our friendship. Only, this time, he was standing behind me, with his nose mere inches from my hair. If we were going to be just friends, he said, it wasn't fair that I smelled so good. Standard tequila conversation.

"That first kiss would be really awkward, though," he said, almost to himself.

Enough! I thought. And without saying a word, I turned around and kissed him. Just like that.

Huh," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "Wasn't awkward for me."

And by the dazed half-smile on his face, I could tell that awkward wasn't the word he was thinking of either.

Dear You,

I didn't even realize you were on my mind until my phone lit up with your name. I smiled, and said to my empty living room, "Oh, hello you!"

I like how it's almost impossible for me to keep my hands at ten and two while you're telling a story. I want to throw my hands in the air; one to cover my mouth and the other held out in front of me as if to say, Stop! You can't be serious! I like that you're embarrassed to say "sex" in front of me.

"I'm not delicate," I say.

"It's graphic..."

"Tell it out the window!"

I like how I don't have to worry -- or wonder, for that matter -- what you think about me. You tell me. No one does that. You're proud of me; you're happy to introduce me to your friends; you like my pink dress and my hair worn down.

I like how when we're drunk, we can say ridiculous things and not be embarrassed. I like that I get to act like I'm living in a movie and you just hand me another drink. I like that you know the answers I don't. That you let me bust your chops. That we grew up, and now we get to be friends.

I think maybe that's what I like best.

Like,

Me

Ari: Does the Internet know about your first time? Because I'm realizing I do not.

Heather: Yeah, I think they do.

Ari: No, no. We don't!

Heather: Oh, come on. It's very uninteresting and anticlimactic... but I'll tell the story, just for you.

Ari: Oooh, yay!

As firsts go, I'm not kidding when I say mine was uninteresting and anticlimactic. It was, because I planned it to be that way. The story goes a little something like this:

I'd just gotten out of a several month long, high drama relationship with an older man. He was 11 years my senior and a highly experienced control freak. He didn't want to do the actual deed if I wasn't on birth control. I had grown a little tired of his charmless ultimatums and Guinness fueled temper, so I said no and settled for everything but. By the time I got out of that mess, I'd come to the conclusion (which, I suspect, will be unpopular with this crowd) that I wanted to do it and I wanted to have no lingering emotional attachment to the experience. I'd had emotional and wasn't cut out for it. One night, my roommate and I were at a party. I'd had a few to drink, and from the cab made a drunk dial to a friend. "Hey, I'm drunk. Wanna make out?" I knew what his answer would be, and I knew how the evening would unravel. His reputation as a ladies' man, and the fact that we'd found ourselves tipsy and making out on street corners on several occasions, made it a sure thing.

And that was that.

I walked home the next morning, laughing. It's a memory I hold with absolutely no regret. And regret, I know. I regret the night that J carried me up my front steps, not because I was drunk, but because I was crying too hard to walk. When nine months into us, he said he was so sorry, but he couldn't love me. He couldn't stand the thought of being without me, but he couldn't love me. That, I'd rather not have experienced. Or the time, when after a night of wildish sexcapades, the man I'd been involved with for over a year made fun of something I'd done in bed. In front of his friends. He mocked my voice, my facial expressions, and I stood there betrayed and humiliated. I'd love to make that one go away. It affected me so profoundly - broke my trust mechanism, perhaps beyond complete repair. Every once in a while, I think about retaliating -- exposing him as the Oedipal mess that he is and revealing to the world his confessions about mother-lust. But then I think, that would be mean. And exceptionally satisfying.

At any rate, I understand that there's great value in the sex/love connection. But I also know the value of sex without love. Or hate. Or embarrassment. Or envy. Or guilt. Sex without anything but warm, naked flesh and twisted sheets. I know it's not something to build a lifetime of love on, but for me, it can be a lot more palatable than mornings spent sobbing in the shower over lopsided love affairs and good things gone bad.

"Why does it always seem longer going back?"

"Because we're tired?"

Jamie and I were on our return trip on the Katy Trail - it's part of our on-going attempt at not being lazy - and the last two miles were really dragging. But I wasn't really feeling tired. Sweaty, yes. But not tired.

"Oh! I know why," I said. "I spent the first forty-five bitching. The miles just flew by!"

Jamie laughed, but it was one of those laughs that said, "It's funny 'cause it's true." It might have even been laced with a hint of "It's a good thing you have such nice hair, or that might have strained our friendship beyond repair."

Boy, is she a trooper. I may suck at a few things, but that is one thing I do really well - choose friends. Really great amazing friends who put up with my antics. These days I'm a real treat. Either I'm staring off into space making mental To Do lists or going on stress-fueled tirades about the bathroom scale or incompetent customer service reps. Seriously, how hard can it be to find a grounded plug adapter that works in Italy? Huh, Dell guy? Huh?!

Anyway, I told Jamie I was going home to search my brain for something to blog about. Something that had nothing to do with travel or hostels, because the internet, as great as it is, makes it impossible for me to use my feminine wiles (and luscious locks) to trick you people into sticking around. Unfortunately.

I'm not so sure this post counts. But! Since you all have been so helpful these last couple days, let me try to return the favor. My piece of advice: Do not spend money to see Good Luck Chuck. See Superbad twice and you'll be ahead of the game. Way ahead. Trust me. I do love a good raunchy comedy, but Chuck was just lots of naked boobs without any context. Even Jessica Alba (totes adorbs!) couldn't save this movie from how unfunny that bad-skinned, so-called comedian guy is.

You know what? See Superbad twice anyway. That shit's just funny.

I got home from Phoenix around 11:30 last night, then twelve hours later, hopped in my car to drive down to Austin for ACL (Austin City Limits Music Festival). I made excellent time and decided to catch a catnap at my sister's apartment before heading out to Zilker park. I woke up drooling on my arm an hour and a half later. Some catnap.

Hoping to get in a a little time with Stephanie and Family, I texted her husband Phil to see what they were up to.

Heather: I'm in town for ACLfest
Phil: Adding "fest" to any word makes it fun.
Heather:You should start referring to the kids as "twinfest"
Phil: Start? You mean continue!
Heather: Diaperfest! Teethingfest!
Phil: Yeehaw.

Heather: So what are you jokers doing for dinner?
Phil: Stephanie's writing.... some would call it "writing fest."

And a new, ready to run into the ground, inside joke was formed. I live for that stuff. It's probably genetic. There are so many jokes in my family that have survived years of overuse. Jokes that I will someday program into my kids, jokes these unwitting children will on the playground and get blank stares and probably even a few beatings.

God, I can't wait to be a parent.

Team Samesies was rocking Tuesday night trivia. Between the six of us, we had seemingly limitless knowledge of ulnar nerves, The Wonder Years and James Joyce. Curious about Superbowls past? We had that covered, too. Still, when the MC announced our first place position, we were the tiniest bit surprised. We'd blown that question about Wonder Woman's costume. And the one about four presidents who'd kicked the bucket in office (unassisted by assassins). But first we were, and as we geared up for the final! sixteen point! question! totally, absolutely certain we'd stay there.

But then... well, damn you Meryl Streep. Damn you for making so many movies! We'd never even seen Heartburn, much less been able to decide if it came before Out of Africa and after Sophie's Choice or... well, screw.

We agreed that it felt nice to be in first place, even if it didn't last, or get our bar tab paid. We also agreed that we were coming back next week to set things straight. Team Samesies is going to bone up on totally useless, trivial information and take back the night. Trivia Tuesday is ours. I'm going to surf IMDB and watch lots of television to smarten myself up.

Speaking of, I have to go now. Shania Twain is on my TV and I should be paying attention. I mean, really, is there anybody more trivial than that woman?

My friend Mike has an opinion on just about everything. He's always had an opinion on just about everything, which is why we needed about ten years of healing between screaming at each other in Ms. Minor's French III class, and meeting for happy hour the other night. Though, even with healing, we were still at our old games.

"Heather always thought she was smarter than everyone else," Mike told his buddy as we shook hands.

"Not true," I said, lowering my voice. "I just knew I was smarter than you."

Anyway, Mike and his opinions. He may hide them a little farther below the surface is his old age, but they're still there. And the other night, as we were celebrating my unemployedness by watching the spectacle of patrons at an uptown bar, Mike took one look at the pack of drunk females to our left, and declared that he ought to start a finishing school for girls. You know, to save them from themselves.

"All I'd need is a week - maybe ten days..."

Mike went on, and I pictured his finishing school, set up on some store front in a Dallas strip mall. And Mike teaching a bunch of hapless females how to walk in heels with the Oxford dictionary balanced on their heads, and how to properly wear hair accessories.

"So," I said, when he'd finished explaining the ins and outs of Mike J's Finishing School for girls. "How much finishing do I need?"

My eyebrows were raised in expectation of some snide, provoking reply about how some people are just beyond repair, but without hesitation Mike set his beer down on the table and said,

"None. You don't need any finishing."

"You do! I mean, what?"

I was stumped. I thought at first, that Mike had been through some rigorous training of his own. Schooled by the ladies. But then I realized that not only had he left the rules of engagement behind, but in not delivering a smart-ass answer, Mike got me to do something I have never, ever done. I was forced to agree with him.

Tricky bastard.

P.S. I filed for unemployment today. Man did that feel way less awesome than I'd have expected. Who doesn't love the idea of free-ish money? Turns out, I don't.

On Sunday afternoon, while Scott and I were painting his bathroom, I got a little woozy from the ammonia in the primer and had to sit down outside the door. I'd finished all the borders -- the cutting in, as we professional housepainters say -- and Scott was doing the ladder work. Who needs 14 foot ceilings in a bathroom? Mr. Fancy Pants, that's who.

"Dude, I don't think that's a very good idea," I said, watching Scott lean the ladder, precariously, against the far wall, only two of its four feet on the ground.

"Eh, it's fine," he said, climbing up to the second rung. "When I was a kid, I was always doing something stupid, and I'm fine."

Not half a minute later, I watched in horror as the ladder plummeted twelve feet to the floor, and Scott along with it. Before I could move, he pushed himself off the splintered wooden ladder and staggered toward me, a hand pressed to his chest. He was gasping for breath.

"No! No," I said, jumping to my feet. "Lay down! Don't move."

He ignored me and walked into the hallway, where he finally sat down and let me have a look. His legs were bleeding, shins torn up by the splintered ladder. His head, dotted with paint where it had made a path down the freshly painted wall. It was his chest that tookthe brunt of the fall, hitting the commode on the way down.

"Do we need to go to the hospital?" I could feel my head swimming - from the fumes and the shock.

"No, just let me catch my breath."

A few minutes later, when it was clear that Scott was not mortally wounded, I sat down next to him and started laughing. Like a crazy woman. I couldn't help myself. Not that I found the situation at all funny. In fact, my hands were still shaking and my chest hurt from the tension. Maybe it was relief? Maybe it wasthe only way my bizarre little psyche knew how to deal with it was to laugh. And then to force Neosporin and gauze bandages on Scott. And then drag him to my apartment for ice packs, where I could watch him for symptoms of more serious damage. And make him brownies.

Even a crazy woman knows that brownies fix just about anything.

The Scotts and I were on our way to the mall for appropriate Meeting the Parents outfits (I was there on a consulting basis, only; I didn't think Scott's mother was ready to meet his boyfriend and his boyfriend's girlfriend. Not in the same night, anyway). My phone rang and the screen announced it was my very pregnant Torrie calling.

"Are you in labor?" I asked without bothering to say hello. I was only half serious, but all the way hopeful.

"Yes, actually, I am."

I'll do you all a favor and omit the part of the conversation with all the squealing and 'oh. my. god!'s. Suffice it to say, I was just really, really excited. I was about to be a Half Mommy.

Several months ago, when I was Lamaze breathing through kidney stones, I announced to the world that if the pain was anything like the pain of childbirth, I wasn't having anything to do with it. Ever. No siree, no babies for me. Which is really a shame, since babies and I get on very well. Babies, I think, are like dogs. Or cats. If they sense you're a dog/cat/baby person, the dog/cat/baby automatically likes and trusts you. No hoops to jump through, no need to prove yourself capable of a one-handed diaper change, or produce a library of silly, yet soothing lullabies. Baby knows you got that covered, because Baby can smell it on you. Like a pheromone.

Anyway, being in possession of that pheromone, it was sort of a shame to give up on babymaking altogether. But, seriously, the pain!

"You can share mine," Torrie offered. Torrie is a really good sharer.

And so I began preparing to be a Half Mommy. A silent partner in a baby timeshare. Okay, maybe not so silent. I butted in a bit, gave my opinion about the baby's name, stocked the baby library with my favorite childhood books, supplied Torrie with Three Musketeers bars, and waited.

Nineteen hours after Torrie called, baby Willa Elizabeth was born. I can't tell you how thrilled I was - or how anxious, with Torrie being without Interweb or phone for days after. And now that I've finally seen a picture of the wee bairn? Still thrilled and pretty sure that I'm going to have to get my ass on a New York bound plane before she gets too big to fit in my purse. You know, for an easy getaway.

Ladies and gents, Miss Willa Elizabeth.

Going away parties are an exquisite kind of torture. The exquisite part : (almost) everyone you love is in the same place for a few glorious hours. The torture part: they're there because soon you won't be.

Saturday night, I put aside my stress, put on my red goin' out shoes (the only non-schlubby footwear that hadn't been packed away or shipped express to my mother) and met my friends at a Union Square bar for a last hurrah. Aside from the fact that I nearly broke down in blubbery tears at least a dozen times, the party was a complete success. Actually, I don't think it could have been such a success without all the near-tears.

It was my first night off of narcotics (who never wants to see Vicodin ever again?), and in order not to deprive my system of potentially toxic substances, I got pretty tipsy in short order. What I'm saying is, some of the night is pretty hazy. Just the way I like it.

A few things I do remember:

My drunk and gallant Biscuit disco-spinning me
Sarah's mixed CDs (they're legendarily awesome, people)
Goldner's belly. We saw a lot of it.
So. Many. Hugs.
The post-party drunk texting. I take it back, Stan. You're not extra Degrassi for going home to make out with your pillow.
Evil plotting with Ari and Laura. It's what we do best.
Justine's boob
That there was NO ONE to make out with. Probably better that way.

I woke up Sunday morning hung over and ready to reclaim my stress. And really freaking sad. The leaving, it is hard - lump in the throat hard.

Remember that song you learned in Brownies? Okay, remember that song I learned in Brownies? The one about new friends being silver and the old ones gold? I think, in my case, diamond-encrusted platinum might be a little closer to describing the people I've come to love over the last few years. Even my imaginary friends were never this loyal or imperfectly perfect. I get this heavy feeling in the center of my chest when I think about leaving them. But things change. They just do. And as one friend said, we'll keep in touch over this here typey thing; it'll be like I never left.

Because right now, it's all about kidding myself.

“Where are you? Have you seen the moon?”

It was sometime around 10 last night. I was in my apartment and had, quite honestly, not given a single thought to the moon. I cradled my cell phone, chatting with Ben as I pulled on a sweatshirt and hastily tied a sarong. I couldn’t very well go to the roof in my knickers.

Unfortunately, the moon was hiding in the only piece of the sky blocked from my view. Ben’s suggestion? Get on the 4/5 to Grand Central, hop the L to Williamsburg and meet him at Laila Lounge. If I couldn’t see the moon, I might as well catch a rock show.

“I am not going to Williamsburg.”

After a long-ass day, I was pajamaed, in bed with Magnum and finally relaxed. I told him as much, wished him a good show and settled in for the night.

Ten minutes later, he tried again. And this time, he said the magic words, “I’ll pay for your cab.”

I’ve been hearing about The Nadas for months. Ben met Jason at Sundance, and has sustained quite the devoted man-crush ever since. Which, after spending last night with them, is not surprising in the least. The music (uploaded to my iPod this morning) is really only the half of it, though. There was a serenade to pizza, a hilarious journey home with Ben playing Tour Guide for our new friends.

“Skate or die, man. Skate or die.”

If you were walking the streets on our route from Williamsburg to Manhattan, the odds were that The Nada’s Mike hollered at you through the car window. Skater, hooker, midnight snacker. All were encouraged to skate or die.

Hours after I planned to be asleep, prepping for another ass kicking at the office, I was back home where I’d started. And despite being something of a control freak, I didn’t really even mind so much. Several really honest, pure performances (Ben’s Shiver was particularly touching) and so much laughing.

It was shortly before three o’clock when I accepted a slap on the wrist from Ben over the state of my apartment (I was not expecting company), munched a bowl of Mini Wheats and finally collapsed into bed.

I never did get to see the moon.