Last Friday, I was tutoring Jing, which means I was deflecting Jing's attempts to talk about anything but grammar.

Jing: Amanda, do you have a boyfriend?

Me: Yes.

Jing: Really?! What's his name?

Me: It's an unusual name.

Jing: Ooh. What is it?

Me: Guess.

Jing: Hmmm... Is it Tiger?

Me: Do you honestly think I'd date someone named Tiger?!

I had this stressful dream Monday night that I was supposed to escort a classroom of surly, spitting teenagers to an auditorium to vote in a mock presidential election. They refused to budge, and paid me little attention. I raised my voice to no avail, eventually resorting to frantic cursing under my breath. The aggravation was so real.

Then I was sitting in a room with an older woman, presumably a students' parent. She was rationalizing her son's behavior - he was one of the students who refused to follow directions. "What you don't understand," she condescended, "is that he was scarred by a recent voting incident. Also, he's uncomfortable that the school isn't more multicultural."

In the dream, I knew the voting incident the woman referred to occurred when her son was very young. It was doubtful that he knew much about it. Why such a far-fetched excuse? I also knew the parent was essentially throwing out the line that so many teachers I worked with faced - "You're not black, so you don't understand my kid. You can't get it."

Usually I disagreed, but other times I wondered. I still don't know what I think about all that, but without a doubt, I'm glad I'm no longer a teacher.

In case you were ever curious...

Over three months ago, Cade and I spent a long weekend in Portland, Maine. I meant to blog about it while the experience was still fresh, but my camera memory was acting up and I got really sick and then I started a new job and five more good excuses. So here's a quick chronicle, minus precise details.

I can't remember how many days I was in Maine now. Three? Four? What I do remember is that the vacation sublet Cade was skeptical about (it was my brilliant idea) turned out to be great. It was a one bedroom unit in a duplex. The other unit housed a doggy daycare. The shrill barks of lapdogs weren't much of an issue, as Cade and I knew we'd be out during the days.

The only issue we had with the accommodations was an incident in which I received an email saying that Cade or I had jacked up the thermostat to 80 degrees. I still doubt it was that hot, and I don't think I'm responsible. Cade argues that it must have been me, intoxicated and shivering, after one of our nights of walking around. That he heard me tinkering with something in the kitchen the first night, hellbent on increasing our subletter's bills. I counter that, no, I was just admiring a kitchen larger than an H&M dressing room. Apartments with real kitchen drawers and separate living/sleeping quarters are neato.

Half of the trip was rainy; 90% of it was chilly. Cade and I spent lots of time walking until numbness set in, and then thawing out in a coffee shop where we observed the locals. I found the people about as fashionable as Bostonians, but much nicer with lots of unkept facial hair to boot. If you and a friend sit at a bar in Maine, you're hanging out with every other person at the bar, too. Everyone is listening and commenting on what everyone else says. It's nice, but I had to adjust.

Cade loved this chowder house we found and insisted on eating there every day. "When in Portland, do as the Portlanders do," I thought, so I tried fishy foods I'd normally eschew. Cade and I ordered lobster one night, shocked that we were expected to tear apart the creature ourselves. I expected pieces that looked like chicken, because everything always looks and tastes like chicken, right? Lesson: You can't pretend it's chicken when its claws and antennae are touching your French fries. Poor dinner - it'd been killed earlier that day and we later found out that it had been expecting. My apologies. Poor little gal. (I made Cade wear the lobster bib the rest of the night as an homage to the lobster family we ate. I'm easily amused).

The waitress urged us to eat the liver and heart, and right before I passed out, Cade agreed I could visit the local thrift store the next day. Ah, something to live for! We'd visited an L.L. Bean store earlier that day and I was jonesing for some Bean Boots. The rubber-leather combination is so cute in a rubber ducky meets lumberjack way. At the store, I couldn't find a pair in my size that had blue rubber toes. At my favorite thrift store chain ever, I found the Bean Boots of my dreams new and unused for $7. I seriously think God or someone speaks to me via secondhand shopping.

Cade wanted to walk along the water the rest of the day. I foolishly decided to wear my new shoes, so I could splash around. My feet took weeks to function normally again. Ouch. The view was great, but I wanted to sit in the marsh and moan.

Airline security was insane on the way back. I was searched and forced through security twice after an airline security person noticed the pepper spray on my keychain, which I've carried onto planes to and from New York for the last six years. I felt so persecuted. Minutes away from a full cavity search, I was released. Turns out, the Portland airport checked in and boarded some of the 9/11 hijackers. Now they overcompensate for the error.

Portland, in my experience, was really pretty and kind of like Austin without the self-consciousness and mild temperatures. My Bean Boots are broken in now, and I've nixed the pepper spray. I guess I'm ready for another trip.

These last few days haven't been very eventful. I've felt blah the entire week, but managed to finish up my pilates class card and schlep my printed and framed photograph to the art gallery. Life Coach was nice enough to drive me to Westchester to do the latter. Somehow the Google Maps directions I printed were wrong, thus ensued a misguided adventure Kerouac would have approved.

We saw deer! And strip malls! And finally, the NYC skyline! Phew. That was a close one.
This is my photograph for the exhibition, which opens next Saturday. I won't be attending, as I'll be in Manhattan walking to the places where I need to be (as opposed to riding to them). Incidentally, Manhattan also has wine, cheese, and small talk.
If the photograph doesn't sell, I'll have to go back to Westchester and pick it up. Argh! Life Coach has already wished me luck and purposely lost his car keys.

Jessica, my second youngest cousin, turned four on Tuesday. This picture of her makes me giggle. My dad's the pool boy.

As I hinted earlier, the long weekend in D.C. was not that great. 1) It was freezing, rendering some of the cuter clothes I packed useless. 2) It was monotonous, as the people I hung out with were pretty much just watching movies or eating. Or watching movies and eating. 3) My back still has 47.2 kinks from sleeping on an air mattress and freezing each night.

On Tuesday, I was exhausted, but sartorially ambitious. I wanted to finally wear some bright blue tights I bought over Christmas break and start breaking in a skirt I bought Monday morning. This is what I decided to don:

Now that my hair is darker, I think I can wear yellow without looking malarial. Correct me nicely, if I'm wrong. And if indeed I am then I'll probably still wear this sweater. It's got adorable owls on it, which perfectly match my Smurfy tights! What color blue are these, anyway? Teal?

I looked over a year for the perfect denim pencil skirt and finally found it at Zara in D.C. Just as "every cloud has a silver lining," I suppose every bad holiday has its treasures. Mine is a size small.

On the front of the sweater, the owls are wide awake. This is the nocturnal side of the sweater, boys and girls. Notice the star and heart buttons. They're merely decorative, but such a cute touch. The silver and sea glass earrings were designed by my high school art teacher. Hi, Mrs. Gafford!

On the back of the sweater, the owls are dozing. It must be daytime. I'm looking forward to wearing this ensemble without a coat to see how observant my co-workers are. (It somehow took half a day for a guy I share an office with to notice the tights, and he and I are both editors. Nice eye for details, dude).

I'm leaving Au Bon Pain at the end of my lunch break, mind atwitter. What is that elevator music tune playing over the din of soup ladling, muffin selecting, and low-carb wrap ordering? I'm extraordinarily good at figuring out what wordless songs are playing, because I either have a special talent or just really good knowledge of music in general.

As I'm walking out the door, it comes to me. "My Boo," Usher and Alicia Keys, and wait, that came out when I was in college! Am I getting old or is the conversion of the song to what is essentially a midi file premature?

Having spent the long weekend in D.C., I am so glad to be back in New York. No offense if you live in that area - I reunited with a college friend who does and she is definitely cool by me.

But D.C. is just too clean for me, with way too many cars and not enough attitude. Also, you have to swipe in and out of the Metro, on which no one travels while eating fried chicken, drinking a beer, or performing in a mariachi band.

HORNS UP:


*One of my photos was selected for the love-themed gallery exhibition. I personally wouldn't have chosen this photograph out of the others I submitted, but what can I do? I just hope it sells.

*Two of my kids canceled tutoring this week, due to the state ELA test. The extra money from tutoring is wonderful, but running from one job way downtown to another way uptown is hectic. I've used my days off to take extra pilates classes.

*I've known about Pandora Radio for awhile, but never used it until my current job. I sit at a computer all day and it keeps me energetic. Thanks to headphones, no one knows how much I like rocking out to Ne-Yo. Until Pandora, I didn't know this either. Let's keep this between us, okay?

*I wore a tie to work yesterday, and it was all I thought it could be.



HORNS DOWN:

*I have to get the photo printed, framed, and in Westchester County pronto. All of these tasks will take precious time I barely have. And Westchester? Yuck. I wish I could find a person to drive me over there. I'd pay for gas and a snack at Taco Bell.

*I was explaining the whole Wardrobe Remix thing to a co-worker when another one butted in with, "I don't get it? What's the point?" I explained that fashion is personal expression; fashion is fun and artistic. She smirked dubiously. She has a right to her own opinion, but I sure as hell have never smirked at the fact that oversized tee shirts and ill-fitting carpenter jeans are two of her wardrobe staples. And her ideal first date involves Star Wars and a Renaissance Fair...if you're nasty. Come on! Open your mind.

*In college, I started getting the occasional migraine, but usually, just headaches. I had them at least twice a week. I thought it was normal and just loaded up on Excedrin. I seldom get headaches now, due to different hormone regulation and more water consumption. (That's what I think anyway). But all week I've had persistent headaches that I can't shake for longer than a few hours. I'm forgoing Excedrin, because I don't want to get bruises all over my body. My remedy: sweets and caffeine. Maybe if I develop a sugar crash and/or cavity, it'll take my mind off the hammering in my cranium.

*Last Sunday, NYC got its knickers in a twist getting ready for an impending snowstorm. Auxiliary workers were called in to shovel snow and keep the city running. Snow chains were put on buses, and salt sprinkled upon every horizontal surface. And then it never snowed. Not one flake. I was so ready to break out the L.L. Bean boots and chunk snowballs at Cade, too. Update: It's now snowing.

I've been lucky to stumble upon some highly pleasurable media recently, two being the books I've devoured this week. My daily commute to and from Wall Street from way up yonder on Central Park West enables me to get a lot of reading in. When I bully my way to a seat on the subway, that is, but I'm a public transportation piranha. I'd pretend to be disabled, pregnant, or both to get a seat, but usually, sprinting does the trick. I also have an eye for people who are about to get off. One tip: Look for fellow passengers who are awake. Another: Look for people who keep trying to figure out what stop it is. One more: Telepathy might be fruitful. Stand in front of some seated schmuck, take cleansing breaths, and think, "You are getting off at the next stop. You are getting off at the next stop..."

Okay, so the media. I'm going to make a quick list for you, because I like 'em.

1) Lord of the Flies: Can you believe this was William Golding's first novel?! Sucks to your novel, man! I loved this book, and yes, it was another classic I hadn't read until adulthood. I've speculated as to why it was stupidly excluded from my high school reading list, but I think I appreciate it more after being a teacher. Golding really "shows instead of tells" for the most part and when Piggy met his end, I was sitting on the subway and shaking my head. I knew it was going to happen, but not that way. If only those brutes would've heeded the conch...

2) No Country for Old Men: I adored the film. Turns out, it was a seamless adaptation. I can't imagine anyone but Javier Bardem flipping coins and saying creepy things and looking all spooky-sexy while bleeding in the bathtub. I love the language of the characters. The vernacular and malapropisms are so colorful. Print accommodates my desire to speak like a Cormac McCarthy-created badass. I'm taking notes and studying.

3) I read this a few days ago. Homeboy sticks to his buns, err guns.

4) Cade's mom recommended this "This American Life" episode after hearing all sorts of bad things about my super. My super is not as cool as the ones on the show. Also, he fixed my light and wiring. I'm trying to consider this grounds for a truce, but it still bothers me that he only works on apartment renovations (in the now-vacant apartment next door) on Saturday mornings around 8:00. WHY?!

There are things you learn to do when you get older. For instance, asking yourself, "What's the worst that can happen?" and sliding worries to the back of the queue. I couldn't always do that. But now a nice walk in the rain washes away more than the grit on the sidewalks. I'm highly skeptical of all the things that are out to get me, and if they hunker low, claws out, I usually manage to bat them away or scream until they retreat.

I'll remember the year 2007 as one of upheaval and change and personal growth. But I'll forevermore refer to it less sentimentally as The Year That Numerous Bureaucratic Organizations Tried To Bend Me Over A Barbed Wire Fence And Do Things That Are Still Illegal In The Bible Belt.

Remember when I wrote about how I'd unknowingly been a debit card fraud victim for an embarrassingly long amount of time? That was back when I was careless and free of online banking know-how. I've evolved out of necessity and to be honest, vengeance. Like a belligerent thug looking for someone to start something, I'm ready. Just try to overcharge me for something, fool!

In the last week, I received a bill for a medical procedure on my ladyparts from last summer. It warned that if I didn't fork over almost $200 within ten days, a lawyer would be after me. "Hmm," I thought. "Is that so?" I was nonchalant about it for oh, four minutes before doing what any good former honor roll students would do - freaking out. I imagined myself glancing up from the computer at work one day and seeing said lawyer looking like the Grim Reaper and smelling of money. How embarrassing. Maybe they'd garnish my wages or TV. Either way, I'd miss Project Runway, and that is unacceptable.

Calling the healthcare provider/threatener was imperative. It took a few attempts, but I finally reached someone who told me that I should've paid the bill with a check my insurance provider sent. An invisible one. When I asked exactly what procedure was pending payment, the person the other line was clearly distressed. "Uh. The doctor performed the examination on your uh...anatomy." Oh yes, that one! That clears everything up! Once the person in billing stopped blushing, she told me to have a nice day (with my uh, anatomy) and call my insurance provider.

Have you seen Sicko? It confirmed everything I always knew about my despicable insurance provider and the industry in general. My dad has dealt with chronic pain most of my life, and I know how rough he's had it getting adequate, much less affordable, healthcare. Grrr! The issue gets me in a tizzy, but I digress...

I called my insurance provider, which is incestuously linked to another insurance provider. I imagine they pass cases back and forth between one other, absolving themselves of any accountability. I was transferred to the other provider, meaning soon enough, I would have discussed something involving my ladyparts over the phone with three complete strangers. I ought to be charging $.25 a minute for this stuff!

In the end, things turned out alright. The insurance provider conceded that it made a mistake and forgot to pay for my healthcare. Then I called the healthcare provider and explained that GHI was in the dodo bird reading group at school. "Alright," said the fourth stranger with whom I discussed my ladyparts. "Let me just confirm that with GHI. I'll call you back in half an hour." And he did, which I especially appreciated after getting all up in my business. Some guys can't muster up the courtesy.

Now if I can just get the money a publisher owes me...

This afternoon, Cade and I went to a screening of The Business of Being Born, a Ricki Lake-produced, pro-midwifery documentary about the birthing industry. Women's health is right up my alley (PUN!), so I wanted to see it as soon as I read praise from The New York Times, which hates just about everything...just like me.

Cade is selectively squeamish to the point that I can't touch the veins in his wrist, but he has no problem unloading (PUN! wait for it...) biweekly diatribes about his digestive tract. Colorful ones.

The thought of childbirth freaks Cade out. This morning he actually said that maybe when he's ready to be a dad, the human birthing process will have been antiquated. O, modernity! I started ranting about Brave New World, which I read for the first time two weeks ago. Then I think we started talking about Cade's guts again. Then I mentioned all the sacrifices I've made in the name of entertainment for him, like the time I saw Too Fast Too Furious and found it Too Lame Too Stupid. I watched more than half the movie before I stretched across the seats and started daydreaming.

A cool part of the screening today was the chance to attend a Q&A with the director and Ricki Lake. I'm not a fan, but she's Ricki Lake! I used to watch snippets of her show back in the day. The themes were oh so clever. "You Think You're Hot, But You So Are Not!" What originality.

Unfortunately, I didn't see Ricki Lake in person, as she and the director were ill, but she called in and had a brief phone conference with everyone. Other people involved in the film showed up, including the director's son and baby daddy. The film confirmed what I've head about childbirth in America - that it's treated in a ridiculously Victorian fashion, that most C-sections are unnecessary, that it makes no sense for a woman to be delivering on her back, etc.

I'll definitely be rethinking my own birthing options if I ever decide to have a child. Right now, the thought of a human being tearing its way out of my body is enough to make me want to bind my legs. But I recognize the beautiful and transformative significance of this rite. Women are amazing and strong. Watching Ricki Lake and others give birth in various ways today affirmed this. The water births made a particular splash (PUN!).

I just saw this commercial. It doesn't beat the one with Little Richard, but it's pretty groovy.

Not so long ago, I blogged about my sporadic participation in focus groups. Don't remember it? Click the link. Too lazy to click the link? Here's a summary: I have lied in order to gain admission into focus groups to make a quick buck, but sometimes I am paid to discuss something I actually know something about.

Last time, my focus group concentrated on body wash. I went to a pharmacy hours before and familiarized myself with the market. I even managed to keep the pomegranate-scented exfoliating beads from squirting into my nose. (To this day, I won't buy Herbal Essences products due to an unfortunate accident involving a sniffing spree down the shampoo aisle and overzealous squeezing. Have you ever sneezed out volumizing floral scents? It hurts).

So the last focus group, I sat in a group of moderately to very trashy women and passed around wooden models of body wash bottles. We had to rate them from one to three using that remote control device used from America's Funniest Home Videos. The bottles started out looking innocuously enough like those of every other competing body wash out there.

But as the focus group progressed, a trend started to take effect. The bottles' constitutions were slowly whittling down to another familiar shape. The wooden samples looked like, well, wood. The last samples were so clearly inspired by dildos that they could be marketed as multi-purpose. Certainly there's a niche of consumers who would like washing with the viscous fluids coming out of such contraptions. I'm sworn to secrecy about which brand I did a focus group for, but I will admit that it's not Caress. That would be too fitting.

Next week, I'm participating in another focus group about athletic clothing. Let me assure you that my workout clothing consists of yoga pants and a random tee shirt, whether I'm going to be getting in downward dog or not. Because I have small feet, I buy athletic shoes in the children's section - it saves money and the styles are pretty much the same. I don't know what kinds of questions I'm going to be asked, but I'm sure I can fake out the group pretty easily.

The whole point of this post, actually, was to answer a question left in the comments section: "How do you sign up for focus groups?" Well, here's how I did it. You can look for focus groups on Craigslist in the ETC category or at findfocusgroups.com. At the former, you can sign up for a weekly email with all the latest listings. These sessions fill up very fast, but are worth a shot. The way I've scored focus group seats is by joining a specific market research group. To sign up, you'll fill out a long questionnaire all about your demographic, health, household, education, lifestyle, the products you use, etc. Many surveys have what I call a "vice target," so if you smoke, drink, and/or drive a car (yes, I consider that a vice), you'll be eligible for more sessions that I am. Having a chronic illness and an illegal drug history can also be pluses.

I fibbed to get an invite to a video game focus group, but many require you to prove some kind of eligibility. For example, a session designed to ask bipolar women ages 45-30 about their condiment preferences might actually require medical documentation. And the age thing cannot be avoided. It's not worth trying to lie. Work, however, is totally flubbable. When asked if you work for a marketing firm or within the particular industry on which the focus group is concentrating, or if you share bodily fluids with someone who does, just say no.

Also, a person is supposed to be in one focus group every six months. The research group I'm signed up with, openly ignored this rule with me, saying, "Oh, well don't mention it." So don't even answer "yes" to that question. It has to be asked, but it's not important. They need people who can form opinions and sentences.

You might be wondering if I feel guilty about my focus group activity. I figure that very few people are clueless enough to produce unbiased data. Why pass up free money just because I technically skew results? It's not lying; it's keeping things a bit out of focus. A tiny bit.

I went to Madison Square Garden to the Professional Bull Riders 2008 Versus Invitational last night. That's what the Garden called the event. I referred to it as "the big city rodeo." I'm definitely no shit-kicking Texan - I have never and will never own Wranglers or a belt buckle larger than my pelvis. I really get nothing out of sunburns, b.b. guns, or suede fringe. Heck, I won't even use "real" as an adverb.

But watching someone ride a bucking bovine with one hand in the air is just good, clean fun. And when it's not clean, well, it's more fun. See also: Why I won't turn down a free ticket to a hockey game.

Cade got two tickets in a corporate suite from one of the companies he works with at [Big Corporation]. We shared the suite with a few other corporate people and their guests. The accommodations were wonderful, of course, but made the experience less authentic. What kind of rodeo is it if you can't even smell doody? And you're eating chocolate covered strawberries while a bull gets lassoed? And servants are massaging your shoulders while Jewel sings "The National Anthem"?

Okay. So there weren't really servants, beside the people who kept refreshing the foodstuffs, including nachos, hamburgers, fries, Philly cheesesteak fixings, fresh fruit, hot dogs, and guacamole. Jewel was there, as was Jethro. I did watch the whole thing at a bar and ate a lot of chocolate covered strawberries. The suite also had a fancy bathroom, which I frequented. Lots of free beverages, you see.

It was really fun. The people in the suite were fun and not too shy to cheer when the buzzer indicated a rider had managed to stay aboard (abull?) for eight seconds. The crowd went wild whenever an angry bull finally bucked off a rider and then ran to the opposite side of the arena, as if to stomp to death all the audience members it possibly could. This signaled the lone horseman to lasso the bull, the venue erupting into applause.

My favorite moment was when a well-dressed man from ground-level seats suddenly ran into the arena right after the end of a ride. He was so proud of himself with his Banana Republic shirt haphazardly untucked and fresh manure on his loafers. Security was called - they were in pressed jeans and pearl buttoned shirts - and escorted him out. Everyone cheered.

Often, I see the fish out of water dissonance of Southerners in New York, but I dare say this was the opposite. Yee haw!

My friend, Julia, was telling me how she spent the last few months dating a guy, because he could assemble the things she bought for her new apartment. Those diagrams can be tricky and no, I don't think Julia is any less a feminist. She's just really bad with spatial reasoning.

Julia: I just - well, it sounds bad, but... I haven't met anyone I like enough to put his feelings before mine.

Me: But he assembled everything?

Julia: Yeah.

Me: Well, that's something.

Today has been f-f-f-freezing! I needed an outfit for work that would be warm, but not so warm that it was unattractive. It's hard to make bulky layer upon layer look chic, and office buildings and subway cars are often heated to a temperature just below the sun's surface to compensate for the blustery outdoors. The polar climates of a daily commute are taxing to the system. Then you remember that you've been eschewing deodorant on those days you don't work out, since you can't possibly break a sweat looking for grammatical errors in a marketing document. Well, maybe that's just me. But it's uncomfortable, take my word on it.

I've been itching to add a kind of Wardrobe Remix category to the blog. In case you're unfamiliar, Wardrobe Remix is a Flickr album in which any stranger can post pictures of his or her outfits and detail each item down to accessories. I find it inspiring and addictive. It's a great way to watch how people use wardrobe staples (often offbeat) to create myriad looks.

The Wardrobe Remix community is incredibly welcoming, but I haven't contributed yet. One reason is that joining presumes that I have a unique sense of style, which I'm not sure I do. I just like clothes that fit well and look nice, color being a plus. The second reason is that I loathe taking pictures of myself. It's hard to tell if the camera is focused, so I always end up taking a lot of test shots that are equally blurry. My apartment is really dark, too. But despite these hurdles, I drank the Kool-Aid today. It was just too tempting. And watermelon flavored.

So today I anticipated a wind chill below zero, but I wanted to wear something warm that wouldn't be stifling at work. I chose this:


It seems kind of like a sartorial stereotype of a mime or maybe something Hamburglar's girlfriend would wear. But you know what? Hamburglar is hot stuff.

My top half consisted of a lipstick red cashmere sweater my mom gave me for Christmas three years ago over a stiff white shirt. The striped tie is actually a waist tie from a shirt I no longer have.

These earrings were $.50 at H&M's Black Friday sale. I wear them with anything black.

These shoes were $5 at a Washington Heights clothing store I discovered one evening before tutoring. I think they're quirky and fun, but I nearly got frostbite. My subway took a detour this morning, and I had to walk four extra blocks to work. Brrr!

I bought this ring at Forever 21, and it makes me so happy. I keep describing it as nautical, but no one seems to get that.

I'm reconsidering granny panties.

Happy 2008!

I just had my first New Year's Eve in NYC. It wasn't too noteworthy, and that's okay. That's what 2008 is for. Here's what I did:

-I saw Anthony Rapp of Rent fame ducking into a New Year's Eve party on my old block last night and promptly went to my own apartment to drink wine and rock out to "Happy New Year" and "Happy New Year B" from my favorite rock-opera.

-Cade and I caught fireworks at Central Park and walked with the herd to the wreckage of Times Square. I was on the hunt for the weirdest piece of debris I could spot. Cade found some over-the-counter medication; I found the packaging for a South Beach diet microwave dinner. I'm sure the latter was chased down with a forty, because it all balances out. Broadway was completely blocked off and being hosed down and bulldozed by the clean team for the everyday traffic coming in three hours. One of my New Year's resolutions: Be this efficient in accomplishing something, anything.

-Hours before the reveling began, my building super and I may have passed the olive branch. He was nice when he came to change my lightbulb, and then saw that I'm not lying about electrical problems. One bulb flickered, exploded, and rained glass slivers in my direction when he tested it. My super seemed genuinely concerned and promised to replace the fixture and switches this week. Finally. 2008 may be an illuminating year.