In college, I moved every year. Sometimes more than once. Come spring term, I'd cram all my junk into a few boxes, toss them into the back of someone's truck and relocate, either to be closer to campus, or to find a better roommate situation (for a while, I had one of those Look at me! I'm amazing! Wait, why are you paying attention to HER when I'M in the room? kind of roommates. She made the scab picking finger licker of the previous semester seem suddenly dreamy by comparison). When I lived in Boston I moved a lot, too. It was the never-ending search for cheaper rent and more space that ended, naturally, in a 280-square-foot, sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment in New York City. Because that is what we call LOGICAL.

What's unfathomable to me now is, I didn't even mind it back then. I actually liked moving. And now, with the movers coming Saturday and my living room a dizzying mess of cardboard and assorted WTF Did I Buy This items, I kind of want to swallow my own tongue.

On Saturday, my mom and I spent the better part of the day cleaning, boxing, and priming walls. Mom did all the bending work (she does not eff around, people. My oven is so clean you could set it to low and keep your baby warm in there. Not that I'm encouraging you to bake your baby - it's just that hygienic) and I inched my way through the apartment with my hand attached to a paint roller. Now, there are blisters. And parts of my body that do not work. I recognize that this is just what comes with getting old(er), but I swear, if today is the day they come around asking for volunteers to be in a Magnum P.I./MacGyver sandwich and I'm not able to raise my hand, I am going to be SO bent out of shape.

The part of this move I do like is the part of moving I have always liked. All the newness. New spaces to decorate, new closets to over stuff. I've also really enjoyed setting up my soon-to-graduate sister with all of my gently used extras. For instance, between the two of us, the Dork Lord and I have upwards of a DOZEN sets of white sheets. And as we're not running a brothel or making any living room forts (yet. Though, frankly, is there any other reason to have children other than living room forts and lying about Santa Claus?), I figured, why not share the wealth. And what do you know, the whole giving thing is actually really affirming. You know, as in, it makes me feel like my massive credit card debt wasn't accumulated in vain.  

Flying monkey weather again today. If this lasts any longer, The Dork Lord is going to come home one evening to find that all the fixtures have been fit out with full spectrum light bulbs - the whole apartment ablaze with light and, me, laid out buck nekkid on the coffee table. Me, I'm a survivor.

On Saturday, the Boy and I have planetarium plans. And I'm disproportionately excited about it. Four dollars, people. That's all it costs here to catch a show on the dome. I remember the last time Sarah and I shared some planetarium magic, I was forced to live on a steady diet of Marshmallow Mateys and (generic) canned chicken noodle soup. For weeks. But I also remember that it was narrated by a yummy-voiced Robert Redford, and that Sarah and I spent the entire show moony-eyed and drooling, "Mmmm. Spaaaace. Sexy."  I'm betting the four buck version doesn't have Robert Redford. Maybe someone a little more low rent like, I don't know, someone from the cast of Charles in Charge. Or Dustin Diamond. Ooh, that would be awkward. But still, four dollars. And I'm poor and therefore far less picky about my voice overs.

Speaking of voice overs: the other evening, the Boy and I were sacked out on the couch watching some naturey program about blue whales having illegitimate babies with finn whales and the moment that show came on, my P.I. radar went off.

"Is that Magnum? Oooh, Tom Selleck wants to tell me about whales. I'm in!"

"That's not Magnum. It's some old guy."

"Click the info button."

"It's not Tom Selleck."

"Hit the button!"

Vindication. Sure, he's sounding a little older (he's sixty something, for heaven's sake), but baby knows her Magnum. I dream of those jogging shorts every night.

Fast forward to last night when my ears perked up during the crazy starfish episode of Planet Earth.

"Is that Ripley?"

"You mean Sigourney Weaver?"  the Boy laughed. I gave him a face that said, you heard me. RIPLEY. After he'd forced me to sit through Aliens, Ripley and I were well acquainted. 

"I'm not sure. But I'm not really in a position to challenge you on voices."

I confirmed my suspicions with the cable guide, laughed and said I liked how this was going. If all goes according to plan, it won't be long before he's not in a position to challenge me on much at all. Total domination! Because that is how all healthy relationships operate.

I am a full day behind in everything. Like, today is my little sister's birthday. I thought it was tomorrow. YESTERDAY was a freelance deadline. I thought it was today. You can see how that might make life just a little bit messy. I'm going to spend the morning playing catch up and trying very, very hard not to short out my last remaining neurons, but first! First, I am going to share with you the shortlist of Things that are Bugging Me Right Now:

In April, I filed an extension for my 2007 New York State taxes. Which makes them due in... oh, 20 days or so. Have I thought about them since April? Nooooo. I've been whiling away the summer like a damn grasshopper when I should have been playing the ant. Sorry, Aesop. My reading comprehension isn't the best.

Shooties.  Really, fashion? REALLY?

Polar bears have resorted to cannibalism. I can't even read the news story because the headline gives me a stomach ache.

People I know and love are proudly Facebooking their support to "Protect Marriage." Protecting marriage from what, exactly? The gays? You are not protecting marriage, people. You are protecting bigotry. This upsets me. A lot.

People who cough all over their hands and then press a zillion buttons on the copy machine. Thanks, dude.

I think maybe I need a hug and some cheese and a couple hours on the couch with Season 2 of Magnum PI. And maybe two more hugs.
 

This morning, I had very serious thoughts about wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer. The official reason I will give for not wearing my new Magnum PI t-shirt (with detachable faux fur mustache) to work under a pinstripe blazer is that at 7:40 AM it was already 87 degrees outside, and that's a whole lot of clothing to be wearing on such a ferociously hot day. But because we're close, I'm going to level with you. It's cold in my office. Damn cold. But even sucking in, I couldn't get that blazer to button.

Baby needs to do some sit ups. So, what's new?

If I thought turning thirty was going to flip some cosmic switch and alter my life in some enchanted, mystical way, this weekend's remarkable and not-so-remarkable moments set me straight. My brother and sister-in-law (the givers of such a fine piece of mustachioed clothing) were in town for a few days, and as part of our hangings out, we saw the new Batman flick. It was long. Really long. Turns out, at thirty years old, I am still as impatient and cinematically-ADD as I was at twenty-nine. Go figure.

Waking up on Sunday morning, eyes swollen and sore from the previous night's cry, I also realized that turning thirty did not magically toughen me up. I won't go into what happened (give it three months, eh?) because I believe if you tell someone you forgive them, you should make every effort not to rub their noses in the incident which caused them to need forgiving in the first place. I do wonder, though, when it is I'll finally throw on an idiot-proof vest and stop melting into a snotty heap every time someone hurts my feelings. Probably never. Actually, probably around the same time that I start caring enough about sit-ups to fit back into my pinstripe blazer.

I'm thinking thirty-six sounds like a good goal. 

Someone out there understands me. Someone who makes purses. With fur mustache appliqué. I'm pretty much beside myself.  I imagine this is akin to what it would feel like were I to find out there's a support group for people with unreasonable attachments to Q-tips. I am not alone.

And I need this.



What could be more calming, in times of stress, than stroking Magnum's mustache which happens to be handily attached to your purse? Nothing, that's what.

Okay, I hear ya. When this happened to Monica on Friends, everything turned out a-okay, because she got Chandler! And twins!

Am I really the only one who saw it as a sick, sick joke that Monica had to give up MAGNUM PI and that her consolation prize was a big, obnoxious doofus with zero relationship savvy? And that then, to top it all off, wasn't even able to have her own children and was forced to adopt the spawn of some lead paint eatin' HALF WIT they met on the Internet?

Really? I'm the only one who doesn't find that at all comforting? Huh.

If life imitates art (or sitcoms), then um, one-two-three not it.

I came home last night a smidge away from drunk and feeling snacky. So I sat down and ate half a box of cereal. Super good-for-your-heart, high fiber cereal. You can imagine how awesome I feel right about now. Even better, I'm taking off to Austin in an hour to help my little sister move apartments (I know! I deserve medals!). I can only imagine what an excellent car ride that is going to be. Can you die of too much fiber? I mean, it seems entirely possible at this juncture.

Sometimes I feel like I live in a sitcom. And not in the good way where my hair always looks fantastic and I get to make out with Magnum P.I.

Mmmmm. Magnum.

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.

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.

The question was written in familiar handwriting on a yellow post-it note and stuck to my very own copy of MacGyver, the Complete Second Season. Who loves me indeed! When the package arrived at my office Thursday morning, I’m pretty sure I squealed and did one of those one-legged, hoppy cheerleading moves.

Wheee duct tape!

My affection for Angus MacGyver is paramount. He is challenged only by Thomas Magnum in the fight for the title of Manliest Man Ever, and I’m convinced that any woman who will swear that those fellas don’t make her weak in the knees has to be dead inside. I mean, when MacGyver cracks that top secret military base by constructing a telescope out of the sports page and a watch crystal, even the uptight military scientist lady was all over that.

Swoon.

“I’m pretty handy with a paperclip and bubble gum, myself,” Ben said when I thanked him for the gift to end all gifts.

I laughed. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”

My tone may have hinted ever so slightly at mocking, but that doesn’t mean Ben isn’t useful -- just perhaps not in the same way. When a girl needs help in an elevator shaft, she’d have to go with Angus, for sure. But when it comes to business advice, or cookies and company on a Saturday night, that’s where my TV stud falls decidedly short.

Looking at our rather rocky beginning, it would seem very unlikely that Ben and I would end up as we are. It’s something we acknowledge (though not without the smallest twinge of regret at past errors) and appreciate. I count our friendship among the more worthwhile and important that I have.

And in the end, to be asked the question, Who loves ya? and to know that the answer is, You do! is really something. Something I’ll gladly take over the uncertainty of romance and the headiness of tawdry afternoon affairs. Not that those were a bad way to spend time (wink, wink, nudge, nudge). But it all just seemed so precarious and temporary. We’re stable and reliable and comfortable. And ever the more likely to be around for the Complete Third Season of MacGyver... and of us.

Who loves ya? I do, dude.

* The author apologizes for the extra high sap quotient of this post, but it is very late and she has just seen Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

“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.

In its never-ending search for balance, The Universe started Monday off at a break-neck pace.

My head is spinning. And I suspect that all of this frantic racing around the office can only be some sort of sick retaliation for my lazy Sunday. I spent the entire day reclined (getting up only for more Frosted Mini Wheats) with a very handsome, mustached private investigator. In Hawaii.

I guess we did dodge a bunch of bullets and go swimming at least twice an episode, but imaginary exercise never counts.

A few weeks ago, Ben gifted me with Season II of Magnum P.I. I don’t think he understood that when I said, “wow, thanks!” I mean, “I’m gonna need some time alone.” I really can’t help getting all hot-n-bothered over that gorgeous, sensitive, gun-carryin’, Ferrari-drivin’ P.I. I love him. So much so, that when I woke yesterday, head screaming from too many cocktails the night before, I decided needed a little TLC from TM P.I.

And by 'a little,' I mean six hours.

Ordinarily, days in which I do not leave my apartment make me feel guilty and like I’m unwittingly suffering from borderline personality disorder. But when I have a goal…say, of watching the entire second season, it’s not a day wasted. It’s a study in culture, damn it. And it’s clearly what the baby jesus meant for his day of rest.

You know, except for the dirty thoughts about Tom Selleck.

One of the lists I keep (I've told you about those lists, right?) is the Things I Love list.

So here it is (an excerpt, anyway), taken from post-it notes I leave to remind myself of the little joys in life:

The Things I Love

Broccoli
Q-tips
My appendix scars
Scruffy faces
The smell of laundry
Nicknames
Earlobes
Sugar free Jell-o
Geese
Lullabies
Babies’ feet
I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter
Barbie
Shoes
Mr. Rochester
Kitten
Mud in my toes
Being needed
Annie’s Song
Bad Reality TV
Apple peels
Target
Attention
Little black dresses
The word “voluptuous”
Gap jeans
Being remembered
Dental floss
Tom Selleck
Wind chimes
Tweezers
Feeling understood
My walk-in closet
Hazelnuts
Kisses
Freckles
Nap time