Jeffrey is revising some of his writing when a complete non sequitur strikes him. As usual, I am too amused to be annoyed.

Jeffrey: What's the difference between a Christian and a Catholic?

Me: Christians believe in Jesus and God. Catholics are one type of Christian.

Jeffrey: My mom said that Catholics believe in the Father, the Son, and something else.

Me: The Holy Ghost.

Jeffrey: Huh?!

Me: Catholics believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Jeffrey: Holy Ghost... That sounds creepy.

Today:
1) I turned in a piece of writing that's my ticket to promotion land.
2) The fruit man made me a fruit salad I had to turn down. Damn those cursed citrus fruits on my poor, irritable bladder.
3) TBID and I saw "Spring Awakening." I found it completely overhyped.

Tomorrow:
1) I'm tutoring for the first time in almost a week. It felt like a much-needed vacation.
2) Time Warner will be getting their cable box and modem back, because I've got too much of a life (and am too cheap) to pay for 40 unwatched channels. I will, however, miss watching sleazy E! True Hollywood Story episodes.
3) I will possibly be making a large sign that says, "Hey Usher, 'You Make Me Wanna...'"

Friday:
1) I will possibly be on Good Morning America waving a sign that says, "Hey Usher, 'You Make Me Wanna...'"
2) My efforts will be scattered as a dandelion in a strong gust of wind.
3) Life Coach wants me to find a bootlegged version of Sex and the City, as he doesn't want to deal with all the yentas that are going to be in the theatre.

I like this photo of my cousin Jessica.

That pout is hereditary.

*I wrote this at the beginning of the month, but forgot to publish it. I think most of it still holds true.

Today's been a long day. Somehow, I propelled myself out of bed early enough to eat a bowl of cereal, which is usually a night time meal for me. I dressed smartly. Jim, my co-worker who rides his bike over the Brooklyn Bridge each morning to get to work at 8:30, asked if something was wrong. Nine's my normal arrival time, you see, and I didn't look sleepy. It was something I may have to attempt more often.

I worked to get through a large document I'd been looking at for a workday and a half. My co-workers, etc. instant messaged me throughout, rushing and pushing for responses. There are people I talk to more online than in person at this point, which hasn't been the case since I was 14 or so. Everyday, I consult Life Coach for something. I also get to know TBID better.

There are limits to this means of communication. You can't establish a tone or read the subtext unless you really know someone. This is how I know that when Life Coach tells me I'm crazy, he really means, "I admire your spirit, young one! I emulate it in the privacy of my home."

Email is also tricky. I'm infinitely grateful I don't live my life with a delete key around. Shift isn't bad, though. And whoa, don't make me unleash the caps lock.

Speaking of emphatic uppercase words, I haven't used them in a while. Except to express such things as glee and excitement. And yeah, it's really me blogging here in my work clothes with my feet tucked under me. There is this weird tranquility I'm experiencing in this deluge of tasks.

But even the most placid body can be disturbed, and was I ever when TBID sent me this email after I wrote to him that I don't know why he's so nice to me:

"You seem to think you are Lawry's, and maybe to some, you are. To me, however, you are Domino's."

"Lawry's" refers to the popular brand of seasoned salt. In Kanye West's "The Good Life" haters are described as "giving me salty looks - Lawry's." TBID and I have spent more than one occasion cruising around Manhattan and listening to music, so I understood this reference. But Domino's? He equated me with a bland pizza chain? One that doesn't even have a decent hand-tossed crust?

I went to work and asked some co-workers what it meant if hypothetically, someone said someone else was not Lawry's. Rather, she - this totally hypothetical she - was like Domino's. "He's just not that into you," I thought. "Even if you come with a 555 deal." One co-worker suggested it could be interpreted positively. "I like Domino's," he insisted. "My family orders it in every few weeks. It's cheap."

Fabulous comparison, that one. Plus, I know TBID tends to eat food with elaborate sauces and bizarre names off of small plates. The boy doesn't know what a McGriddle is, but neither do the people who serve it. There's a consolation.

Then I asked Jim. His face melted into a smile, "Awww, what a sweet thing to say! You've gotta tell me about the other stuff he writes to you."

"Huh?"

"Domino's. The sugar. He thinks you're really sweet," Jim explained.

Hours later, I confirmed for myself that TBID should have compared me to Domino, not Domino's. He does think I'm sweet. To preserve this opinion, I didn't tell him the metaphor I intended to make about him after I thought he compared me to pizza, which is never okay.

Unless he'd explained that he meant the thin and crispy variety. That I could stomach.

Dear Amanda,

On Saturday, you will be 25. Just 24 years ago, you blew out frosting-flecked candles while flanked by all your loved ones. Now you will be packing your things from a small apartment in New York City - so small only a few loved ones can fit into such a place at a time, provided that they keep rotating bathroom occupancy - into a truck. You will move to a place with more walls and doors than you dreamed you'd have anytime soon. Even though you long escaped the protective clutches of home, it's the first apartment you ever chose all by yourself with no one else's input. You will have no one else to credit when you finally have space for a couch, no one else to blame when you have to carry it up three flights of stairs.

I'm writing this letter to you - to me - in order to record some thoughts I've been having about this quarter-century mark and what it means for us. Sometimes I try to imagine what the next 25 years will be like, if you are fortunate enough to have them, and who you will be at 50. Honestly, my head spins thinking about two-year leases and waterproof mascara, but I know I need to set some goals and think of what you may need to hear one of these days. Below are some things you might want to consider sometime, from Amanda at almost 25 to Amanda at any age after:

1. Never forget where you came from. You will always be a Texan, you will always be able to affect an accent, and you will always think authentic Mexican food is best served by tattooed ex-convicts. You are the product of two lines of working-class people who have struggled to make ends meet and live day to day. This is not a liability. It is part of who you are.

2. Think of all the help you've received from strangers who owed you nothing - your mentor, Life Coach, and countless educators who have helped you achieve your dreams semesters after you were in their classes. Be one of those people to at least one younger person you meet. Maybe he or she will remind you of when you needed a contact or friend, or maybe the circumstances will be completely different. But do it without wondering what you'll get out of it. Do it because you were lucky to have various people fill that role for you.

3. You will lose the people you love. You'll break up with a lover or a handful of them, because things will change for the worse. The law may have to be involved someday, along with lots of boxes, tears, and paperwork. You will get over it. In a matter of time, you will laugh and it won't be done bitterly at yourself and what you thought you had. You will also probably find someone else with whom to share your laughter.

4. It is certain that people you love will die, and you will never be ready for that. It will scar you forever, and you will struggle to remember their voices. (They're easy enough to forget with people who are still around, people with whom you could still talk if you had the desire or courage). Love while you can and try not to take for granted the good things, the annoyances, the fact that you have been fortunate to have your loved ones as long as you did. Maybe I should say do, for death never breaks the bonds between people, the chains between hearts.

5. As I write this, you are still so young with so much to experience. Will I even be able to recognize you 25 years from now? What about 10? Maybe you'll have kids, a spouse, a book deal, a house. Maybe you'll have none of these things. (I'm not even going into the fact that you will always have a mixture of pleasant and unpleasant circumstances that govern your life). Whatever you do, I wish you every happiness you grow to want. Trust that you can make some things happen. Other things out of your control can be survived.

I was going to close with some silly reminders, like "No mom jeans ever!" and "Take lots of pictures!" and "Make sure your having lived makes the world better, even if in a tiny way." But you know some of what to do and will figure out the rest. Maybe you can tell someone like me all about it someday.

I love you and am very excited to watch you grow.

Love,
Amanda

This Tuesday, I made page four of AM New York. My grinning mug was on the top right hand corner under a headline that read "Less Shopping, More Dating." (For whatever reason, the online article I have linked doesn't use this headline).

Then Betty Friedan rolled over in her grave.

I'm thrilled that I got the chance to be in the paper, because my mom was running out of people to impress with stories of my forays into satellite radio, inspirational storytelling, and hair modeling. But I feel misrepresented more than a little, because one joking comment I made in a conversation full of more substantive soundbites became my story. Emily Dickinson said, "Tell the Truth but tell it slant." Sistergirl's line apparently inspires a slew of journalists.

Also, the article makes me sound anti-Brooklyn, which I am not. The borough has beautiful areas with vibrant communities. I've already asked my friend, Julia, to alert me when she vacates her Park Slope apartment in the next few years. My current fear is that if I relocate, it would be very difficult for me to afford to ever move back to Manhattan on my own, and I love where I live.

Another thing that swayed me: The New York Public Library is my home away from home, and it doesn't serve Brooklyn. I actually went to the Brooklyn Public Library website and tried to search for a series of books and then compared results with the NYPL online catalog before beginning my short-lived apartment search. "Does that make me crazy?" I asked Life Coach. "Kid," he replied wearily,"yes!" Meanwhile, Gnarls Barkley assured me I'm just the consummate bookworm.

Anyway, so I won't deny that I made the dating or shopping comments. However, I made many more other suggestions as to how young New Yorkers can deal with the recession. Never mind that I think I was the only young person featured in the series. Everyone else was pictured looking downtrodden about the price of basic grocery items, and there I was, beaming, as if imagining my next date. "Let's do Pastis tonight, shall we?! Mmmm."

Amanda's Other Tips for Surviving the Recession:

1. Stop using your credit card. The interest rates are nasty, no doubt about it. So stop using them unless you can pay off the balance each month. I actually think credit cards should only be used for emergencies. My dad always told me, "If you can eat it, drink it, or wear it, it's not an emergency." I'm proud to say - after slowly unearthing myself from a mountain of debt from college and the move to New York - that I don't even carry my credit cards anymore...and I have lived!

2. Also, try to put the kibosh on debit card usage. I find that I spend a lot more money if I merely swipe a card than if I give a cashier a bill and see how much (or how little) I get back after a purchase. It's helped me curb ridiculous habits, like using my debit card to pay for a three dollar ice-cream sundae. If I don't have the cash or change for something like that, I don't buy it. If I have a large bill, I often don't want to break it on such a needless purchase.

3. Keep in mind that NYC studio and one-bedroom apartments aren't going to go down in price. Real estate, in general, won't suffer a recession here the way it will in other parts of the country. Many New Yorkers are downgrading, though, so apartments with more bedrooms are likely to go down in price. It's a good time for roommates, if you're into that sort of thing.

4. Avoid areas that trigger massive spending. Unfortunately for many, this means, "DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT LEAVING YOUR APARTMENT!" For me, it means avoiding Soho on beautiful afternoons when all the street vendors are out.

5. Work to make yourself layoff-proof. Many industries are going to be downsizing, so now's the time to shake what your mama - or education - gave ya. Think about skills you have that haven't been utilized at work, and how you can sell them. Consider skills to build, like computer software you can learn. Definitely pull up the resume and make sure it's updated.

Report: Nation's Gentrified Neighborhoods Threatened by Aristocratization. This article from The Onion resonates with any city dweller. Excerpts below:

WASHINGTON—According to a report released Tuesday by the Brookings Institution, a Washington-based think tank, the recent influx of exceedingly affluent powder-wigged aristocrats into the nation's gentrified urban areas is pushing out young white professionals, some of whom have lived in these neighborhoods for as many as seven years.

"When you have a bejeweled, buckle-shoed duke willing to pay 11 or 12 times the asking price for a block of renovated brownstones—and usually up front with satchels of solid gold guineas—hardworking white-collar people who only make a few hundred thousand dollars a year simply cannot compete," Kennedy said. "If this trend continues, these exclusive, vibrant communities with their sidewalk cafés and faux dive bars will soon be a thing of the past."

I've been getting a lot of emails lately from people asking me to advertise products and services on this blog. It's especially nice when these products and services don't require enlarging a penis, because I don't have a penis. And some of you readers out there do, but I like to think that you aren't so self-conscious about it.

I got a personalized message a few days ago from someone who really wanted to seem in touch with my blog content, but I can't figure out the last part of the first sentence. Maybe one of you can help:

Hi Amanda-

I found your blog on NYCbloggers.com. First off, congrats on your AM New York coverage and sorry to hear about your breakup...tasting food is overrated anyway.

As a fellow marketer, NYC transplant and someone that will soon hit the big 2-5 (cheers to a quarter century!), I thought you and your readers would be interested in a new free service in NYC...

Last week, I read Mountain Man Dance Moves: The McSweeney's Book of Lists. It wasn't unceasingly hilarious, but it had its comic moments. At times, I found myself wondering if TBID is a McSweeney's contributor who writes under a pseudonym, because he could have randomly said any of these excerpts in normal conversation and I'd have laughed and then we would've given each other that look.

Oh, and it's his birthday today!

Happy birthday to sweet, funny TBID!

Lesser-Known Movie Prequels
by: Sarah Garb

Borderline-Inappropriate Dancing

Four Bachelorette Parties and a Friend in the Hospital

Joseph and the Nondescript Monochrome Sportcoat

There Are Plenty of Mohicans

*

Pickup Lines: The First Drafts
by: Mark Vanderhoff

"Are your legs tired? Oh, well, I'm not surprised; your thighs are almost comically muscular."

"Your father must have been a thief. I don't know, you just have the look of someone raised by criminals."

*

Pickup Lines Used By Mario
by: Christopher Doody

"Are you a magic mushroom? Because you are making me grow."

"If Princess Toadstool looked like you, I would have killed Bowser years ago."

"If you were a warp tube, I'd be in you all day."

*

Little-Known Song Titles that Answer Questions Posed in Better-Known Songs
By: Jacob Sager Weinstein

"Love Has Everything to Do with It, If by 'It,' You Mean Romantic Relationships but Significantly Less If You Were Talking About Auto Repair."

*

Discarded Titles For George Orwell's 1984
By: Jez Burrows

O Brother, Where Art Thou? Oh Right, Everywhere

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Faceless Omnipotent Oppressors

Two Guys, a Girl, and a Chilling Dystopian Landscape

*

Gender-Neutral Grocery Items
By: Tracy Moller

Grandparent Smith apples

Humandarin oranges

Chef Childardee ravioli

Older relative Jemima syrup

*

Things That You Apparently Can't Say In An Office Environment
By: Dan Kennedy

"I may be in late tomorrow; I've been doing this thing in the morning where I just stand in the shower and try to figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. Just stand there for an hour going, "Why am I even living in New York?"

Despite my feeling like I'm living in elapsed time, the last few weeks have gone by as smoothly as an unperturbed sliding closet door. So I went and did what comes naturally to me - I put a bunch of paper clips and small, flexible footwear in the metaphorical closet track. You know, to keep things interesting.

I decided to move.

The dreaded letter from my apartment management company came a few months ago. I learned that as of July, my rent would be increased, or "jacked up astronomically," to the cost of your average kidney transplant. I started thinking about whether or not I could afford it, and then whether or not I even wanted to.

My friend, Julia, has a great place in Brooklyn. My interior design paradigm shifted when I saw it, as did my borough snobbery. Then I got back to Manhattan and remembered, "I never dreamed of moving to Brooklyn when I made the informed decision to move here at 13." (I also thought Ryder Strong was hot stuff then, too, so this thought is completely invalid. Brooklyn's great).

And moving is a bitch. I'm currently on the first floor of my apartment building, so that's one obstacle out of the way. But I have stuff, lots of it. You move into a place and you need stuff. And then stuff for your stuff. Before you know it, you've acquired a complex lineage of office supplies and back issues of magazines. All that stuff has to get moved out - whether you're facing a six-step stoop or a three flights. That's my exact burden from the current to the new place, respectively.

Moving is also expensive, and you don't even get to accidentally tear shit up for free. You've got a security deposit you'll want back next time you move. Because you will move again. Probably to a smaller space or a bigger one with more structural woes. My landlord goes by the name Murphy, I think.

Some people are lucky. They have relatives who are wealthy and often senile. Others just stumble across great finds, like the urban legend involving an NYU student and free accommodations, provided that she Swiffer once a fortnight in her skivvies. How does one get that gig? I perform the same service for my neighbors pro bono.

I thought all these things through and resolved to stay put, especially after I told one person I was considering relocation to Brooklyn and she needed to be hospitalized. I have a studio on Central Park West, one of the most coveted addresses around. Never mind that cockroaches cruise in on lowriders in the summer and the closest grocery store sells fresh fruit for $5.25 a pound. That's how it be on the West Side, boyeeeee!

Last Friday creaked by - still smooth as sliding closet doors and all, but slow. I checked some apartment listings and found it: a one-bedroom apartment in my area for less than what I'll be paying under my new lease.

A one-bedroom! In Manhattan right by Central Park! That I can afford! Maybe I am one of the lucky ones. I certainly have a Swiffer and some skivvies.

I toured the apartment Friday afternoon, sopping wet with a broken umbrella. The broker took the weekend off, so this morning, before any other hopefuls got a chance to look for reasons why the place is so below market value (infestation, sex trafficking set-up, shared quarters with angry spirits, or just plain lies), I snatched it up. It's mine. And so is all this stuff. Shit!

At the time I am blogging this, I have already experienced 3.4 meltdowns triggered by the impending move. I've considered donating everything I own to charity and checking myself into an institution. Sadly, I can't afford either of those options.

But really, I think I'm going to do this, and I will try not to cry and beat my head against a park bench while dressed only in bubble wrap. This time.

Another gem from The New Yorker. This story by Woody Allen is called "Above The Law, Below The Box Springs":

On a gray Tuesday morning in June, Comfort Tobias, the Washburns' housekeeper, entered the Washburn home, as she has done every day for the past seventeen years. The fact that she was fired nine years ago has not stopped her from coming to clean, and the Washburns value her more than ever since terminating her wages. Before working for the Washburns, Tobias was a horse whisperer at a ranch in Texas, but she suffered a nervous breakdown when a horse whispered back.

"What stunned me most," she recalls, "was that he knew my Social Security number."

Each morning, I read select articles from back issues of The New Yorker that one of my neighbors left behind in the hallway.

Today I read a piece by Nancy Franklin about the drivel that is Lifetime "Television for Women." Now just because you might enjoy the occasional delve into made-for-TV movies doesn't mean you aren't a good person. I know I've walked in on my dad watching such gems as She Cried No and Catching My Uncle's Killer With Mr. Right.

This is exactly why Lifetime makes me cringe (and laugh):

On Lifetime, the channel that branded itself "television for women," danger and looming death seem to be the unifying concept of the programming. In any given few days, you'll see shows such as those which were described in my on-screen TV guide last week: "After his daughter kills his wife, a California con man weds his wife's sister"; "A deranged gunman kidnaps two teenage girls"; "Orphaned siblings fall victim to a mentally unstable woman and her husband"; "An assistant district attorney hounds an Oregon woman he suspects has shot her three children"; and "An attorney faces charges of murdering his ex-lover." What you learn from watching Lifetime is: Don't go in the house; don't leave the house; don't let your daughter leave the house; and whatever you do, don't let that man in the house. There is often more to the shows and movies on Lifetime than you might guess from the descriptions, but for many people the channel is still a puzzlement at best; its slogan might as well be "Television for women who aren't like any women you've met in your life."

This week so far I have:
-completed two freelance projects
-been offered a promotion to a new position made just for me
-been published in an NYC weekly newspaper on stands now
-eaten bacon-wrapped dates

I am tuckered out like...someone very tuckered out. I can't do the whole figurative language thing tonight.

Someone get Daniel Day-Lewis, for tomorrow There Will Be Blog.

It's the little things that get you after a break-up. The tweezers that you rushed out to buy, telling yourself, "Finally, you can do this. You denied yourself for so long because of him, and now you don't have to." And it really makes no sense. It's almost certain he didn't have anything against your grooming aspirations.

Then putting yourself first - from the prickliest peek of hair below the arch to the bed in which you make Egyptian cotton snow angels as you sleep - gets a little old. You're ready to care again for someone who will live in comparison until your memory can't recover all the inside jokes that you used to have with him. The new ones with someone else will mostly take the place of the old, with and without your help.

Still, I ate the soup that he always wanted to try. It'd been on the shelf, untouched since the last night we saw each other. I nearly gave it to him, but then took it back. "You won't make this anyway," I explained. He nodded. No pots and pans without me. He wouldn't have a spoon if the previous tenant had moved to Brooklyn, instead of California.

I threw the soup out, plastic bowl and all. Two spoonfuls in, I realized it tasted like dog food. He probably would have agreed, but would likely have finished it. Some people can't let go. I'm getting better at it.

The new kid I tutor, Jeffrey, is the most outspoken fourth-grader I've ever met.

Jeffrey: What kind of girl are you? The kind that just stands around and talks, or do you run around and get loud?

Me: During recess, you mean?

Jeffrey: Yeah.

Me: Well, I don't have a recess. I haven't for a long time.

His eyes widen, and he nods sympathetically.

Me: But when I did, I guess I'd do both. Sometimes I'd talk; other times I'd race some of the boys.

Jeffrey: You can run fast?

Me: I used to.

He sighs.

Jeffrey: My mom says the same thing. "I used to run fast." I tell her, "Mom, you're not paralyzed now!"

I started this blog in 2005 anticipating a handful of visitors, most of whom would come from the same gene pool as me. But over the years, it's grown to have some faithful readers who can and can't spell, do and don't email. On Monday, a reporter from AM New York (hi, David!), NYC's widely-read free daily newspaper, emailed me. He said he enjoys the blog and wanted to know if I'd talk to him about the recession, specifically, how it's affecting my life as a young New Yorker.

I did what any attention-seeking blogger would do: I said something along the lines of, "Yes, I'd love to talk about the recession! I know so much about the recession! Let's talk about the recession! Oh, that damn recession!"

Today, an AM New York photographer (hi, Dennis!) met up with me outside my office and proceeded to make me feel like a rockstar, the low-key kind with shoes from Old Navy. We had a lot of fun traipsing around and trying to rationalize why I was posing at a deli with a styrofoam container and tongs of lukewarm spaghetti for an article about the economy. Answer: In desperate times, lunch at Au Bon Pain is but a fading memory.

In the coming weeks, I'm going to be making some changes to this blog that are long overdue. You'll see what they are. But thank you to everyone who has read up to this point. It's so nice to hear from any of you, even from the person who says I'm smug and unoriginal. No one's called me that before, err in the last month.

I wanted to close this with something cheesy involving the phrase "when you blog upon a star," but I may just eat some Pringles instead. That's how us low-key rockstars roll.

It's that time of year again. My parents and sister are starting to mention, "Someone has a birthday. Who could it be? Why someone in New York. What could she possibly want?" And I have to face that I am now using wrinkle prevention skin care products and will soon be ineligible for The Real World.

In a few weeks, I will be 25 years old. While 24 has been a slick flow from the tongue when someone asks my age, I know this ease cannot last. Because when I was younger - but legally able to drink and pontificate - 25 was old enough to know a lot (not necessarily better), and I'll be the first to admit that I haven't approached meeting my standard. Perhaps I could be given remedial classes in maturity or demoted to one more year of not being a quarter-century old?

Or maybe I could just suck it up and accept that there no timelines for this meandering life, except the ones you can't control. That, and presents are always nice. Here are some that I'd happily unwrap, pull out of a recycled Christmas gift bag, or clip the tags off myself:

1) If anyone ever needs to know another word for some odd adjectives, I could have it covered with this handy bangle. Is that a thesaurus on your wrist, or will you just not shut up? Best pick-up line ever.

2) Another bracelet. My sister bought me a similar sterling silver one years ago. It had an unsturdy clasp, though, and got lost. I have never gotten over it. The first belt bracelet or cut or whatever is the deepest, but I am ready to love again.

3) Most of these gifts are from Etsy, my favorite place to online window shop. These unique pieces are just as lovely to wear as they are for me to display on my jewelry holder. Oui.

4) Fun colors + heathering + pockets + versatility as a minidress or top = my favorite dress today (and the day I receive it as a present).

5) If you can't get Ira Glass to pop out of a cake for my birthay this year, witty segues at the ready, then season 1 of This American Life on Showtime will suffice.

6) Somehow I could fit Junot Diaz's Drown and Dorothy Parker's Elbow: Tattoos on Writers, Writers on Tattoos on my overwhelmed bookshelves. If the Norton Anthology will just suck in its gut a little more... P.S. I have wanted the latter book now since those heady old days before a Republican was in office, and no one has ever given it to me. Not Santa, not the Easter bunny, a Valentine, or any of my birthday gift givers. Can I please read about Dorothy Parker's tattoo before I'm 30? Please?

7) I love the clean simplicity of silhouettes. Coupled with the depiction of a girl on a swingset, my blood pressure lowers a bit and I suddenly feel like planting a tree with a hard of hearing orphan with ADHD.

8) I've been wanting to watch this series since I was younger and could only listen to the rated-R sounds of HBO coming from the living room, as my parents insisted I do more "age-appropriate" things. I think I can handle bad language with the best of them now.

9) Remember these shoes from a post a long time ago? I still don't have them, and I still want them. I can take or leave the yacht.

10) If I don't get one of these for my birthday, I may have to treat myself when I visit Austin this summer. This is one way to wear a ties, nay, various ties, without being compared to Paula Poundstone.

Despite my drying green face masque, I'm currently considering walking to the bodega at the end of the block for a cool beverage.

The phrase "off the deep end" comes to mind.

Against the park rules, we are swinging at a playground near my apartment. I am the oldest; he the tallest. A phosphorescent mass suddenly moves above us. It's magical, but not. I'd wager it's a combination of birds and sunlight.

He isn't so quick to agree. Off the swing, he cranes his neck high and walks around. Thinks about emissions from flying vehicles, maybe feels paranoid. It's New York City on an unsuspecting religious holiday, after all. We are full and sleepy in jackets and long sleeves.

In the end, he concedes it must be birds. We can kind of make out a flap of wings, if we stare long enough at one point in the distance.

"They must be commuting," he murmurs.

"You mean migrating?"

We've been in New York way too long.

I have a number of compulsive projects that are constantly going on, most in the form of lists. I've never thought they were detrimental to anything beyond cool points, but I've actually had this nagging worry in my head recently that horror of horrors, I might not fulfill my goal of reading 52 books this year.

[Cue slowed-down "Nooo!"]

It's a big deal to me, a feat I've pulled off for the last three years. I think it keeps my brain limber. It certainly reduces the creepy amount of staring I do while commuting. What will the world come to if I can't complete my mission?

Every week, I'm chipping away at one book. Now I'm working on two, and finishing the third tonight. Deedee and I are reading Fahrenheit 451 together, because she's now a Ray Bradbury fan. I'm currently reading the delightfully macabre Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. It gets a lot of raised eyebrows, as I read it during my lunch break and rush hour commutes. And I often laugh aloud while doing so. After using some Billy Collins poems in the last few weeks of tutoring, I'm now obsessed with reading his work again. Meanwhile, newspaper sections and the May issue of Real Simple sulk on the chest at the foot of my bed. Also, Life Coach gave me a number of magazines he no longer wanted.

I'm slowly working my way up to cat lady, if not the fulfillment of my reading goal. Pilly sweaters and piles of unread literature hoarded until Friday nights in? Check! Let me tell you about some books I recently enjoyed.

1) Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris

I heard great things about Ferris's first novel, which captures the ins and out of a Chicago advertising agency. In fact, this is the novel I bought on sale the day I accidentally shoplifted at Barnes & Noble. The characters in Then We Came to the End manage to not come across as ones we've seen before in Office Space and The Office, both of which I love. I initially had a hard time remembering characters' names and bizarre backstories, but didn't want to part with any of them after almost 400 pages. There's a cool jolt of perspective at the end and some chuckle-worthy moments. Here's one:

Since becoming employed full-time again, he had grown aware of a phenomenon that seemed to happen only at work, or at least happened with more frequency at work than other places in life, and the phenomenon was this: one person would say something and the person listening would have positively no idea what he or she meant, but not wanting to appear rude, or worse, stupid, or alternatively, not caring to waste any more time, it was easier just to nod or laugh along than it was to pause and inquire what that person really meant... People were indifferent to what was said, or were preoccupied by other things, or had long ago concluded that what passed for speech during the course of a workday was mostly the babble of idiots. "So I thought, Would it make any difference, really? Would it honestly make a difference if instead of replying the way I would normally, I answered everyone with quotes from The Godfather?"

At the conclusion of the morning meeting, during which he had remained perfectly silent, as everyone was packing up their things, Benny had turned to Heidi Savoca and said, "'I spent my whole life trying not to be careless. Women and children can be careless, not men.'" Heidi's expression indicated she didn't know where Benny's comment was coming from, but more pressing than her confusion was her distaste for the remark itself. "That's a very sexist thing to say, Benny," she replied. Later that morning, Seth Keegan stopped by Benny's cube to ask him a question about some revision for a project the two had been working on over the course of the previous two weeks. "Do you have a minute?" Seth asked Benny. Benny swiveled in his chair. "'This one time,'" he said. "'This one time I'll let you ask me about my affairs.'"

2) Class Matters

This collection of New York Times articles covers various topics under the umbrella of class. I'm really interested in reading about experiences of gender, class, and ethnicity, because every instant of our lives is affected by them. No one lives in a vacuum; some of us are just better at denying these factors. The articles in Class Matters cover a gamut of subjects, from the implications of partnering with someone outside your class to how three New Yorkers of different castes handled the same medical emergency.

Talking about what kind of financial and consequently, social, legacy people are born into - and what should be done to make up for the unfairness of this - is touchy. Being college-educated and living in a dichotomous city of gross privilege and poverty, I both sighed and thumped my chest in recognition.

So many people want to shrug and say, "What's a person to do? I happen to have lucked out, but I don't owe the world anything." I just don't buy that.

A paradox lies at the heart of this new American meritocracy. Merit has replaced the old system of inherited privilege, in which parents to the manner born handed down the manor to their children. But merit, it turns out, is at least partly class-based. Parents with money, education, and connections cultivate in their children the habits that the meritocracy rewards. When their children then succeed, their success is seen as earned.

I really related to this one. Also, spot the pun:

Now, at thirty-four, she is back home. But her journey has transformed her so thoroughly that she no longer fits in easily. Her change in status has left Justice a little off balance, seeing the world from two vantage points at the same time: the one she grew up in and the one she occupies now.

3) The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz

I'm proud to say that I was digging this book before Diaz won the Pulitzer Prize a few weeks ago. With multiple narrators, it chronicles the saga of a Dominican immigrant family, including the eponymous "overweight ghetto nerd" Oscar. The verve in its language invoked me to share passages with co-workers, friends, and the kids I tutor. It's been so long since I loved a book, and I loved this book. Oscar WOW! There's so much I'd love to share, but you just need to read it yourself, after you read this snippet:

Maybe he was plain tired after four years of not getting ass, or maybe he'd finally found his zone. Incredibly enough, instead of making an idiot out of himself as one might have expected, given the hard fact that this was the first girl he'd ever had a conversation with, he actually took it a day at a time. He spoke to her plainly and without effort and discovered that his constant self-deprecation pleased her immensely. It was amazing how it was between them; he would say something obvious and uninspired, and she'd say, Oscar, you're really fucking smart. When she said, I love men's hands, he spread both of his across his face and said, faux-casual-like, Oh, really? It cracked her up.

She never talked about what they were; she only said, Man, I'm glad I got to know you.

And he said, I'm glad I'm me knowing you.

My third grade teacher, Mrs. Stovall, once read the class a book called If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. The point of it was, if you give a single rodent a cookie, it wants milk and so on until the entire mouse population goes extinct from morbid obesity. And what's so bad about that?

Actually, it might not go exactly like that, but that's what I remember.

In sum, inches become miles if you are too generous - with a rodent or otherwise. And if you are that otherwise, you will duly suffer. Often with muscle that becomes flab. That's my story anyway.

Since I can no longer think about doing jumping jacks without spraining something, I haven't been as diligent about attending yoga. My spirit and well-being don't really care about this. They don't need the deep breathing and stretching to function better. Episodes of E! True Hollywood Story will work just fine, thanks. My butt and arms are the ones who need yoga. Without it, they let the stresses of everyday freak them out and then they get depressed. Like, literally. Flattened, toneless dough depressed.

My yoga attendance has been so irregular that I wasn't aware my studio changed its schedule. After talking myself out of a class on Saturday, I tried to attend the 2:00 session on Sunday. As I struggled to extract my stored mat from the stinky, rubbery pile, an instructor came in, bouncing with good vibes and caffeine. "Are we all ready for the headstand class?" he cooed.

Umm, no. I haven't been ready for headstand class for the last 24 years and am pretty sure I'm not going to warm up to that idea without being offered money or being in excellent yogini shape, an idea every fiber in my extremities seems to be against.

I asked if there was a regular class upstairs, the kind that doesn't involve potentially shattering my skull. "Well, no. Not until five." The instructor's blissed out brow furrowed. "Oh, hey! But you can do the podcast in the upstairs studio!"

Now, I have one less than fond memory of doing the yoga podcast at home. It involves me trying not to whack the TV, desk, or bed while getting into downward dog. It involves my boyfriend at the time curiously watching me sweat and groan. (Yoga is one of those things, like the Macarena, that looks really odd if you aren't the person doing it). Then there are the muscles I pulled like taffy. Taffy I'd have preferred to be eating.

The instructor introduced himself as Vag or some such name and led me upstairs. He was really eager to get the podcast started, despite some be-spandexed loiterers from the previous class. They sat on the counters, eating organic yogurt and discussing their chi. I unrolled the yoga mat and tried to bend myself into oblivion. "Don't worry about me, guys," I thought. "Pretend that I'm not here." Which is hard to do when someone's butt is in the air. Harder to say without grimacing when it's your own stretching butt held aloft.

Eventually, the stragglers left to go braid their hair and boycott products tested on animals. I was left in peace, save a girl cleaning the studio. The podcast voice encouraged me to breathe with playfulness as I opened my hip flexors. A Swiffer slicked across the expanse of wooden floor behind me.

I gave up. The going got tough, and the tough - or not so tough - wanted Pinkberry. My thighs were burning in my power lunge, but I had no fellow sufferers to keep me company. It's something I've come to accept. I need to be in an exercise class, because I need to feel competitive. I don't want tight thighs, per se. I want tighter thighs than her.

As I changed back into normal clothes and tried to save face by exaggerating the pain of my foot and knee injuries to the girl cleaning, I kept reminding myself, "Don't forget your mat, don't forget your mat..." Normally, I store it at the studio, but everyone's been ordered to take them home and clean them. Probably someone got scabies, and they're keeping it on the downlow.

Then I couldn't find my socks. The gray ones with bananas. So I got all flustered and the inner monologue became, "Don't forget your mat, those bastards stole your socks, don't forget your mat, those bastards stole your socks..." I shortly freed the missing socks from the bottom of my clothing bag. Relieved, I grabbed my mat and headed out the door.

I was paying at Pinkberry when I realized I'd left my yoga clothes behind in my rush to be a quitter. So there I was outside the building where I do yoga, eating a frozen dessert treat that's been found to be much more unhealthy than previously thought. I couldn't ring the buzzer, because everyone at the studio was indisposed on their heads. There was nothing to do but snack next to the yoga sign while trying to act like I wouldn't deign to practice such a thing, let alone practice and leave early to eat artificial sweeteners.

So if you give a girl a yoga podcast, she'll want some Pinkberry. And if you give a girl some Pinkberry, she'll wait many guilty minutes before being able to retrieve the items she misplaced in her rush to order a small original with blackberries and raspberries.

And not getting caught by the yoga instructor who let her in, she will likely do it again.

The end.