I'm getting a new sister!

She'll be born at the end of May.

*My friend, April, wrote this. It's right on, and she's an awesome gal.


To my unborn male child:

I know I am damning you to an adolescence filled with ridicule from your male contemporaries - that is unless gender relations change drastically within the next ten years (I am not exactly hopeful in that regard).

I am apologizing to you now, little egg.

I know your childhood will be difficult because your mother instructed you to be sensitive and thoughtful of emotions - whether they be anger, aggression, sadness or helplessness; aware of your actions on others; aware of others' actions upon you.

It will be difficult because your mother will teach to value every human life, be it male or female, gay or straight or something in between, white, yellow, red, black, or brown.

I write this now, knowing my thoughts might not be as lucid twenty years from now.

I will keep it close to my heart when I reassure you that the other little boys are simply afraid of their own inadequacies - even if they pushed YOU to your knees and called you a fag.

I will offer you my journal when you call me from college, accusing me of raising you too nice - she left you for the boy who bashes peoples' heads on scholarship.

Just remember, after the boys who pushed you have long grown bald and resigned to selling used cars in their hometowns, you will be teaching your own daughters how to be strong, irrepressible women.

What I Want To Say...

To You:

A $75 deductible?! To tell me my teeth are fine?! I think I'll go scour the Craigslist apartment listings abroad or watch Sicko now.

And To You:

When we lock eyes at work, it grosses me out. But not as much as when you make business calls in that Valley girl voice while massaging your temples.

YOU!

Each week that I see you, I am more proud of the young woman you are becoming. The empathy and insight you bring to what you're reading blow me away. Watching you grow up is a privilege.

And You:

I shouldn't have, but I felt bad. Did you cry when you saw it? Did you feel remorseful? Did you know any reaction you had was pointless and probably never to be shared?

Believe it or not, You:

You can't remember the last time you had a compliment. Remember this: You are one of the nicest, most genuine people I've met here. That doesn't mean you aren't a curmudgeon, because you definitely are (and you're proud of it). Still, you listen better than most anyone I know and throw out one-liners like a lasso. Your good side casts a great shadow and draws people to you. You didn't think it was the free magazines, did you?

Let's not forget You:

I'm sorry I've seemingly been ignoring you. I just don't know what to say. I never wanted to hurt your feelings.

And lastly YOU:

Have you noticed that the walls you thankfully, haven't tried too hard to scale are coming down little by little? I'm happy I met you.

Yesterday, exactly one month before my next, quarter century-turning birthday, was beautiful. I'd been editing and such at work for a few hours when I got an offer for especially lucrative freelance work from my mentor. It'll require very quick turnaround next week, but that's all the better to enjoy an unburdened (next) weekend with, my dear.

Then I went to lunch in this park area near my workplace. I was moisturizing some desiccated nostril skin - damn Kleenex and those office sneezies - when this man came up to me. He asked if he could ask me something. "Yes, you already are," I thought. He continued, "You're Amanda, right?"

It was the first time a blog reader stopped me in public. You know, one that doesn't know my phone number already and occasionally pinch my butt. I love getting emails from all you beautiful people, but an in-person greeting is much more exciting - and embarrassing, if you happen to be moisturizing your nose at the time.

So I met Bryan/Brian, and we chatted for a bit about the life blogged, shameless publicity stunts, and recycling. The whole experience was more sunlight than limelight. I've hung out with a few people who know me from my blog. It's cool and immediately comfortable, but a mite disconcerting when a near-stranger tells me how hilarious Jing is. Anyway, I would be up for more contact from whoever reads this. And no, that is not an invite for you to call me right this second, Daddy.

After work, I went to the Kate Nash concert. I'd anticipated a bevy of conservatively dressed cuties in primary colors, but most of the audience wore flowy dresses, earth tones, and tanktops. An alarming numbers of girls did have red hair, though. I was among the Nashiest in a floral, jumpery looking thing loosely inspired by the photo below. Also, stirrup leggings. Somehow I pulled it off without looking like someone from the cover of a Babysitter's Club Book.

I stood for four hours and danced with half my body. The concert ended with "Merry Happy" which includes the lyrics, "I can be alone, yeah. I can watch the sunset on my own. I can be alone." It's not Emily Dickinson or anything, but it was the perfect way to end the 24th day and maybe even year.

Jing is always up for digressions and fortunately, they often lead to teachable moments. Except when I don't do the best job of explaining something.

Jing: What's an oxymoron?

Me: It's when a description of something contradicts itself, like... Well, like dull roar or tidy mess.

Jing: Or pretty ugly?

Me: Kind of, but "pretty" is being used more like an adverb there.

Jing: Or smart homeless person?

Me: Ummm, NO. And that's not necessarily a contradiction.

Jing: Homeless person who smells good?

Me: JING! That's not appropriate. What's with you?

Jing: Alright. Britney Spears with hair?

Me: No, no, no. That's not an oxymoron. And she has hair now.

Ending a long-term relationship is one of the hardest things I've done this year. It doesn't matter that there were numerous points of contention throughout, that sometimes I pondered how true I was being to myself to date someone who could be so antagonistic toward some of the things I value. Things were wonderful sometimes, often stimulating, and so very comfortable.

When Abby died so soon after I told Cade it was over, I wanted to take everything back. I tried to. Can't we rewind this, can't we say we'll learn from this, can't we forget some stuff happened, can't we...?

We couldn't. But not because I didn't want to. He didn't think it was a good idea, and I can't tell you how grateful I am for that. I nursed the grief as long as I could, listening to the saddest songs about abandonment and love soured. Sometimes love nonexistent.

Then I got mad. First at myself. I enjoy my own company, so why was I having such a hard time being alone with various emotional burdens? What kind of feminist was I to have stayed so long in a relationship with clear toxicity that all the pictures and trips and laughter couldn't hide? The hurt was never something an X-ray could have picked up, but anyone could have read it on my face at times. Still, I pushed a lot of bad feelings in as far back as I could. Every splinter, however, will eventually work its way out.

The anger shifted something thoughtful and ugly. Who was he to make insensitive comments about my appearance and weight? It led to fights or silence, equally vitriolic. Why didn't he take my recommendations seriously or try out the things I love, especially after I watched so many hours of horrible, mind-numbingly stupid movies with him? Why did he have to be so affected about things sometimes? Why did he end up making me feel so unlovable? Sometimes I don't consider him my "ex" so much as I do my "why".

He called a few weeks ago wanting to see me. Well, he wouldn't say that. Instead, he said, "Remember how you said you'd want to see me again? I want you to want to see me again." He still couldn't be open. I remembered how the blame used to circulate back and forth inescapably, our mouths like fans.

The storyline starts to fray there. I have no idea why he wanted to see me, beside the fact that what you used to have always looks pretty good when it's gone. Even more so when you know someone else will have it someday. I told him I didn't think either of us is ready, that nothing positive could come from it. He replied that I was probably just busy with a rebound, that he hoped I was upgrading. I didn't deliver the bitchy email he was asking for, because I was mature that day, and hey, he's one of my people. I made mistakes, too. But breaking up with him wasn't one of them.

I keep my tears out of the bathwater these days and avoid most love songs, -lorn or otherwise. It has never felt better to wake up and not wonder how he's doing or what might have been. But sometimes I still do...

And then I put on some Kate Nash, whom I will be seeing tomorrow night for some live therapy and general rocking - or maybe just bouncing - out.

The bras hanging from the ceiling vibrated to the heartbeat of bass and the staccato cracks of the bartender's bullhorn. "Redneck Woman" blared from the speaker where I sat, drinking a rum and coke and watching the bachelorette party girls shimmy.

I was thinking I was probably the only person there who has ever really identified with Jeff Foxworthy's schtick. I mean, I do have an uncle with a pet raccoon. At one time, I was related (by marriage) to a grown man everyone called Rascal.

TBID was very uncomfortable. He pronounces "Barry" and "berry" differently, poor thing. There were no tables or chairs - just a dirty, crowded floor and splintery walls. He stood by like an outsider, ears nearly bleeding from the nasal twang. By the time "Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)" came on and the wannabe hicks tried to fake a Cotton-Eye Joe, TBID had reached his limit.

"How about 'Save a Metrocard (Ride a New York Jew)'?" he suggested.

It made me laugh. I said, "Alright. We can go."

We went somewhere with couches and chichi cocktails and a chocolate chip cookie cake. But I still couldn't get that song out of my head.

I told my co-workers about it yesterday and printed out poems for everyone.

Me: Tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Phil: Ewww. Do I even wanna know what that's about?

Me: April is National Poetry Month. So tomorrow is Poem in Your Pocket Day.

Phil: Oh! I thought you said Palm in Your Pocket.

*

This morning, I picked one poem for each co-worker. Phil came into work today and found "The Owl and the Pussycat" on his desk.

Phil: Hmmm... Is this one as good as "Stopping by Woods on an Overrated Evening"?

*

Later, the boy I'm dating (TBID) shared some poetry he'd stumbled upon in his in-box.

TBID: Spam subject line: "Bomb her womb from your huge cannon!"

Me: Ewww. But I gotta admire the figurative language.

TBID: Yeah, I know. That's great. Is there any word for words that look like they rhyme on paper, but don't rhyme in actual speech? Like bomb/womb?

Me: Eye rhymes, but I think there's a more technical term.

*

Happy Poem in Your Pocket Day!

My sister, Megan, mentioned it only a few years late. "Your blog? It's kind of funny sometimes." Now she reads it everyday.

And my mom and dad check in now and again. I never know until I get a frantic call like the one a weeks back. My mom played an alarmist Jiminy Cricket, insisting I return the book I accidentally shoplifted before I get caught, arrested, and imprisoned and live a life of destitution, prostitution, and various other -utions, all very bad.

But most people who hang out with me regularly don't read the blog. Honestly, I suspect my girlfriends don't like my writing or maybe they know me enough already. They've heard most of the interesting stories and anecdotes, so why get online and rehash them in a much more polished format?

I've never been one of those people who advertises the blog to co-workers, random acquaintances, and the like. When people come into the fold, I'll mention the blog. I'll send the url once and that's it. However, I yearn for a readership like a flat-chested twelve-year-old yearns for a real bra. I guess I just want people to come to my blog honestly.

But there's an exception to that, or was one: I used to tell guys I went out with about it right away in this very Super Mario Brothers world's-last-level kind of way: "I'm sorry, but the princess isn't here! But there's this thing on the Internet full of a bunch of random stuff about her that may help you on your mission."

It really got to me that one time a guy didn't care to potentially read about himself online. How does one turn down such a thrilling prospect? It kind of hurt. But maybe he was on to something. People blog with motives and subjectivity and poetic license. Reading about oneself can be hurtful. And it's a pain for me to handle the questions that can come from posts. "Were you talking about me? Are you trying to be passive-aggressive? Why do you portray me as an idiot?" Answers: Maybe. Nah. It's funny.

It really wasn't a big issue when Cade and I were together - the blog was more of a uniter than a divider. Honestly, I had an image and relationship to maintain, so I definitely delivered the expurgated version. I question doing this. Maybe I shouldn't have, but is anyone totally raw on the Internet? I think not. Everything should be written at some point, but not necessarily by me.

And then there are other things I really want to blog that someone else puts the kibosh on. Like that time _________________________________. That was so very bloggable. My family members have prefaced entire conversations with, "Don't even think about blogging this," and I have promised silence. Sometimes begrudgingly.

So I've been going out with this guy who is so nice and fun and Jewish, which you know I love. He hasn't read the blog at this point, because it was time to switch things up. I didn't want to have the last few blogged years of my life at his feet like pulp from a dropped watermelon, sticky and pink, while I was still slowly getting to know him. Worrying about pacing and googoo eyes in real time occupies enough romantic energy, so why also deal with the nagging worry that he'll read too much - or not enough - into something?

But I'm doing it. Things are going well enough. I know enough about him that I won't feel overexposed, or at least, he knows enough about me not be shocked. I think. I'm not ready to out him on the blog by any means, but he just might deserve a reasonably pleasant post.

Like me, like my blog.

I recently read about The Museum of Broken Relationships in Croatia. Forget the dreaded process of packing an ex's things up for destruction, donation, or return - you can send them in to be curated. Current museum exhibits include random trinkets, a cellphone, and a wedding dress, all with a story attached.

Though I have the option, I'd never send anything in. I don't understand how people can end relationships and purge every remembrance of the person they once cared about. I wouldn't keep pictures out or sniff a tee shirt that got left behind, but why act like I didn't once love?

Or why vilify the person who used to be your favorite? You'd hope now that you're better off without him or her, but not so long ago, your favorite place was somewhere along that person's jawline or in the crook of an arm. And that's keeping things PG-rated.

But this is what I'd contribute, if I could dare to part with it. The creativity and love behind this would catapult my college boyfriend, Sam, into romantic celebrity. He's getting married this summer to the second girl he dated after me. I consider this book his last hurrah with me, and wow, he went out big.

This is my copy of Your Feminist Guinea Pig. It's actually titled Your First Guinea Pig, but Sam has a knack for font matching and a lot of time on his hands.


Throughout the pages, there are feminist quotes coming out of the guinea pigs' mouths. The pictures and sentiments match up nicely.



On the back, Sam told me he loved me. Years later, this thoughtful gift still tickles me. There are no hard feelings. I wish him well.

Had he been at all handsome, I might describe the way he did it as predator-like, stealthy. But since he wasn't, I'll just tell you that he probably did some calculating before making his move.

I was sitting on the R train downtown, traveling Squares. From Times, where musicans beat out rhythms on dingy, overturned buckets, to Union, where you can buy an organic artichoke or have drying graffiti art customized. I was meeting a friend for dinner.

Instead of reading, I stared ahead. When the skinny guy sat down on the same row of seats as me - two empty seats between us - I didn't think anything of it. We were your typical commuter bookends.

But then he leaned toward me and began to talk. "Nice shoes," he gestured with pencil arms, activating a crackly laugh.

"Thanks," I said, looking down. They're leopard print flats with little braids and buckles across the toe. Not something I'd normally wear, interestingly enough. I bought them for $5.

"They go with your bag," the guy went on. Then he curled his fingers to look like claws and growled, "GRRRRR!" with no irony.

I figured he meant that the jungle feline print of my shoes went with the New York Public Library lions on my canvas tote. I gave him a half-hearted chuckle, if that. Maybe quarter-hearted. It was Sunday evening, and no one on the train was talking except him and sometimes, out of good 'ol Southern upbringing, me. We were the one staticky channel getting reception. Everyone tuned in.

"I guess you planned that, huh?" He would not stop talking to me.

"No, I didn't. It's a coincidence," I replied, not even turning to look at him.

Then he told me all I needed was one of those hats those guys wear, and I'd have a whole look. I thought he meant a fez, since he was so hung up on jungle cats and the circus just passed through town, but he said he meant a straw hat with a drawstring at the chin.

"On a scale of one to ten," he leaned in confidentially, "how has your day been?"

Everyone who hears the story says this is where the axe should have fallen. "It'd be at least a nine if you'd stop talking to me!" the girlfriends have all replied.

I was honest. I said a seven, maybe higher once I had dinner with my friend.

At this point, I started to worry I hadn't boarded a subway, but somehow got duped into riding an Amtrak to the West Coast. Could the seconds drip by any slower?

He asked if I had an email address. I said yes. He asked for it. I asked why.

With a bravado only mustered by the absolutely clueless, he fished a piece of graph paper and a mechanical pencil from his pocket. "So I can email you and ask you out."

Whether or not I have a real boyfriend, if a guy doesn't appeal to me, I'm always taken. Almost engaged, practically married, knocked up.

"But I do admire your courage," I added to the letdown. Because I do. It's hard to approach a stranger and put yourself out there. He's braver than me. And I suspect I'm not the first girl he's tried to woo on public transportation.

He seemed to take it hard. When the train stopped, he ran out of the car suddenly. No goodbyes. Graph paper waving surrender like a flag.

The best thing about Saturday is it's not Friday, and the best thing about Sunday is it's not Monday. And the best thing about this weekend as a whole is that I went outside yesterday and didn't wear a jacket.

I repeat, I didn't wear a jacket. It was so warm, if a bit cloudy, that I didn't need one. It was right to bare arms. My freckles made like jumping beans, melanin flexing in the warmth. I hadn't realized how much I needed spring.

Now the trees are blossoming, and all the tulips, daffodils, and hyacinths yawn into bloom from the custody of city flower beds and pots. There were numerous street fairs along Broadway replete with cheap purses and jewelry, palm readers, music, and deep fried Oreos.

I walked around downtown with this guy I've been dating, taking in all I could. Sometimes it's nice to just look and listen and feel the sunshine on your face like someday you'll be depended on to tell someone what that was like back when the sun used to do that, and jackets weren't necessary.

That person will most likely be me next winter, perhaps in those stubborn, freezing days in March. I wonder who I'll be then. I wonder if I'll feel the waiting, heavy as coins, for weeks, or if I'll just stumble again - in a single day - upon exactly what I needed.

I find it interesting that my knee and foot injuries both occurred on a Wednesday when I tutored Deedee. I'm not normally a superstitious person, but it's fun to speculate and shiver at coincidences. It shifts the blame from my own foolish actions (wearing dangerously cute shoes and taking too much pain medicine), plus I get to call Deedee "The Cursed One" in this spooky voice I stole from The Secret of NIMH. "Go to the LEEEEE of the STOOOOONE!"

My blue-brown foot is the third injury of the last two months. I hadn't mentioned the second one involving Deedee, because it's just now been resolved. It was much more serious than either of mine, and I've spent a lot of time fretting over it and feeling like I should do something.

A few weeks ago, Deedee was late to our session. It struck me as unusual, but I used the time to scarf down my tutoring energy snack and get the materials out. I was reading a book and eating sour straws rich in red-40 and formaldehyde when Deedee rushed in and immediately asked if she could go to the bathroom. I hardly had time to glance at her as she made a beeline for the elevator.

I savored a few more pages of my book. Deedee came back to our table, scraped back a chair, and sat. Book closed, I looked up and greeted her. Something was very wrong. Her lip was split and bleeding. My face must have broken in alarm, because her chin began to quiver.

"What happened?" I asked her.

Her shoulders began to shake, eyes filling with tears. Between gasps, she explained that she'd been running late to tutoring and had to run from her apartment building to our spot. When she'd flung open the swinging main door to get outside, it immediately swung back and hit her in the face. This might seem kind of Three Stooges and funny, but this was a heavy door to an apartment building. Not something you'd want to hit you in the face or on the ass as you make your way out. I'd thought Deedee had been in a fight or something. With Mike Tyson.

"And I broke my tooth," Deedee said. This was clearly the hardest thing for her to say. I swallowed hard to maintain a semblance of calm. The last thing she needed was me freaking out.

"Okay, let me see," I replied. "It's okay."

One of her front teeth was half gone at a diagonal. I couldn't help wincing.

"Have you called your mom yet?" I asked as I got out my cell phone.

Then Deedee really lost it. She didn't want to tell her parents. I think she thought she'd get in trouble for running late and for consequently rushing and injuring herself.

I agreed to call her house. I knew it might be difficult. Her mom doesn't speak much English and might flip out, so I was hoping Deedee wouldn't die of heartbreak in the next few minutes.

When Deedee's mom answered the phone, I explained what happened and that I'd be fine walking Deedee home. It was decided that Deedee's dad would come over and assess the situation. Meanwhile, Deedee and I should explore the nuances of grammar. I spent those long minutes before her dad came over assuring her that she'd be okay, it wasn't her fault, I was really sorry she was hurt, and that I wouldn't ever mind waiting a few minutes for her if she were running late.

Seeing her in distress broke my heart. I wanted to do something, but I had few words. I was really worried about the tooth. It had to hurt, and it looked awful.

"Amanda, is my tooth going to grow back? Please tell me it's going to grow back," Deedee pleaded.

Oh, how I wished it would. "It's a permanent tooth, so it's the only one you have," I told her "It can't grow back, but you can get it fixed by a dentist. Do you have a dentist you go to?"

Deedee shrugged; I felt sick. If Deedee's parents couldn't take her to the dentist to get the tooth fixed, I didn't know what to do. Am I in any place to take responsibility for something like that? It seems like something that isn't any of my business, but I want Deedee to be happy and well-adjusted and healthy. And as superficial as it may sound, that wouldn't happen if she had to spend the rest of her foreseeable future with a broken front tooth.

Deedee's dad arrived shortly and decided that she was well enough to finish the tutoring session. I argued politely, explaining it was no problem if she wanted to go home. He insisted, exerting fatherly dominance I couldn't translate.

I spent the rest of the session trying not to look at the tooth and being hyper-positive. I think Deedee saw right through it. She kept her hand over her mouth most of the time, until she got really excited about a Ray Bradbury story and forgot about her self-consciousness.

Deedee had gone to the dentist by the next week I saw her. She'd been told she'd need a root canal. Her tooth had crumbled even more at a diagonal. She was in a lot of pain due to nerve damage.

A week later, Deedee's dad reported that his insurance plan wouldn't cover any of the dental care Deedee needed. She seemed comfortable with her new look, but maybe that was just around me. I spent nights at home wondering how I could suggest paying for Deedee's dental bills in part or total. If I could even afford to do such a thing. How could an insurance provider not cover a root canal? I consulted some people who'd had similar dental procedures perfomed.

Last week, Deedee missed tutoring due to a dentist appointment. I tried to get all the information I could on the phone with her mom, but couldn't tell if she'd been given a permanent crown or what.

I finally saw some sort of resolution yesterday. As I walked in, Deedee waved. She smiled and I saw it - one front tooth that looked exactly like the other. I beamed. It's not a permanent fix, because the dentist wants to wait three months before putting a permanent crown on the stump of tooth left. Something about Deedee's young bones needing to recover. I'm just so happy that Deedee doesn't have to deal with the questions and stares she's probably been getting since the accident.

This whole experience really made me think about how close I am to the kids I tutor. Earlier this week, Borun started to tear up over this newspaper article we read. I was really surprised, as he has been taught to be so thoughtful and stoic. Jing has confessed she's afraid of getting her period, among other very personal anxieties about growing up. My new kid, Jeffrey, and I don't have a deep relationship at this point, but we could get there.

I'm honored to be a part of these kid's lives. In this hazy role, I'm not a parent or a friend, but I'm certainly not just a tutor. It feels so good to have people to care about who aren't family or friends my age or someone with whom I'm romantically involved. The kids I tutor have made my life - and schedule - complicated and unexpectedly richer.

Remember my nasty knee abrading slip weeks ago? The one from which I finally recovered enough to go back to yoga? The one that left me with an unfading pink spot that makes it look like I spend a significant amount of my free time genuflecting?

Now that spot has a little friend.

As I was hurrying up the stairs to leave the subway station and meet Deedee for tutoring tonight, my foot suddenly suffered a stroke or its first hot flash or something.

It became difficult to walk, so I started to limp and drag my right leg like the biggest, baddest O.G. in Washington Heights.

All that headache medicine I've been taking has caught up with my circulatory system. A slight bump during my commute or weird rubbing against my shoe led to a broken blood vessel, which has quickly advanced to a bluish knot on the top of my foot.

Good news: It only hurts when I walk or stand, which I don't do very often. I mean, it's not like I live in New York where I get around day to day on my Chevrolegs or anything.

Bad news: The next few days are going to involve sneakers, thick socks, and flagrant bitching.

I worry about posting such nasty pictures of my lower body in case someone vomits on their computer and then tries to sue me. But I don't want to whet your appetite for some nasty close-ups of my banged-up tootsies and then fail to deliver. I'm a gimp, not a tease.

So here you go. That slightly bluish tiny bit of swelling you see, that's the thing I'm talking about. It really hurts:

Hi, folks.

A few people have pointed out a lack of posting.

I wasn't hit by a bus.

I'm just busy with some other writing work and have been battling a headache for the last 20 hours. (Really. I've medicated and hydrated and nothing's working).

So I may throw myself in front of a bus soon, but I haven't yet.

More tomorrow?

It's after lunch, and somehow the people in my office have started discussing sexually transmitted diseases.

Jim: HPV? What's that one?

Mike: Human papillomavirus.

Jim: Do guys get that, too?

Me: They're pretty much just carriers.

A brief moment of quiet reflection.

Jim: [whining] Why do men gotta carry everything? Why don't you carry my disease for awhile?!



*Learn more about HPV here.

(If you're wondering if I think your son or daughter, niece or nephew, etc. should be vaccinated against HPV, let me assure you that I absolutely do).

My hometown made national news today.

Best response from someone forwarded the breaking news story, someone from a town where stuff actually happens:

"That's so strange and fragrant. An old co-worker from Nowhere, Maine used to show us clippings from the police blotter there. This was not the strange happenings section, it was the actual police blotter and the stuff was 'in' of this world. Like 'Man bought a candy bar and left hastily without even saying goodbye.' Or 'Lost dog found, but the man liked the dog and didn't want to give him back.'"

April calls for some mental spring cleaning. I don't know when it happened, but something's amiss. Dust bunnies have flourished where I used to feel more creative and energetic. This didn't happen in the last week, though I've made the new kid I started tutoring my scapegoat. There I go again, picking on those innocent little fourth-graders.

Maybe it's that the weather gets sunny and warm for a bit. Then it pulls an about-face, forcing out the scarf and tights again. Sometimes this occurs in a single day, morning and night like two different poles. I'm so tired of the flux. Give me freckles and squinty eyes from the sun and a trickle of sweat behind my knees while I wait for the subway. It make me feel more certain of something.

Or maybe it's because I'm between seasons in a different way. At this point, neither of us has talked of what exactly we are doing with each other. There are no titles or too many plans. It's presumptuous to assemble scenes of what could be, even if only next weekend. I'm half-heartedly fighting some clear designation, straddling two different places. This unnamed uncertainty is the only mess to which I'd commit. But I'd prefer to do it in short sleeves.

Certain as the rain that pummeled my dormant air conditioning window unit last night is the fact that I need to change something. This bud needs some sun before it can break. There must be some kind of metaphorical window or I don't know, metaphorical seedpod or something that needs a good wrenching.

But I'll probably just tidy up my apartment.

1) The last time I got a free haircut at my hair modeling gig, I accidentally left the book I'd been reading behind. When I returned the next Monday to pick it up, I was persuaded to go to a model call for free coloring. The experts decided to make me a redhead. My first thought was that I was going to look like Raggedy Ann. My second thought was something along the lines of, "But it's free!" This is not always a healthy thought process.

In the case of my hair, though, frugality has paid off. My hair is red, nurtured, and the newest complication in my life. Since I have to maintain the gratis expensive dye job until my next appointment at the end of June, I'm committing myself to not shampooing it everyday. This is like asking Richard Simmons to stop waxing his body.

Today was the first of many bad hair days to come. I couldn't wait to get home and hop in the shower.

2) At one point, I attended yoga and pilates at least twice a week. Now that I've recovered from my knee injury, my schedule allows about the the same amount of yoga on weekends. In toto, I've spent hours and hours bending, stretching, and deeply breathing amongst strangers.

But who gets to hear a person fart in yoga class first? My sister, the girl who barely attends yoga.

I feel so cheated.

3) I attended a Jhumpa Lahiri reading tonight. It ended in a cattle call signing, in which no one even got to talk to the author. We simply lined up, handed over our books, and then took them once they were signed. I've had more meaningful interactions with the guy at the drugstore who won't make eye contact with me when I buy feminine hygiene products. (I've also previously had the fortune of meeting Jhumpa under better circumstances, so I shouldn't complain).

Alas, the format took the magic out of meeting the person behind some amazing literature. I hear Lahiri's latest book, Unaccustomed Earth, is great and will have to see for myself.