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Remember those excuse notes that parents have to write when their kids are out of school? "Please excuse Sally's absence. She was running a fever," etc. I hardly remember the ones my mom composed, only that they were to the point enough that details weren't needed.

If I'm a parent someday and the excuse note still exists (maybe by then it will an excuse email or text message), I'm certain that I will have enough adjectives and verbs in there to tell a disgusting short story. That teacher will be so glad my sickening spawn missed a day of class, that I might get nominated to lead the P.T.A.

Here's my own blogging excuse note to cover the last few days. See if you can figure out the rest, mad-libs style:

To Whom It May Concern:

Please excuse Amanda for not blogging in recent days. She has been sick with ________, ________, and a ________. On Tuesday, she ________ everything she consumed, including ________ and Haruki Murakami novels. She even ________ in a cab and got yelled at. Being unable to eat anything, she ________ in her darkened bedroom for hours at a time until she thought she was ________. Turns out, she made it through and can finally eat solid ________. Still, she's ________ sore and groggy and still ________. Be nice to her.

Word bank:
vomiting, vomited, slept, dead, vomited, very, dehydration, water, headache, dehydrated, food

I think that about clears everything up. Here are some pictures from previous days, bile not included.

I encourage all Americans 18 and up to exercise their right to order a Vote Shake. Us liberals also support Tutti-Frutti.

I hate being a jerk and taking pictures of strangers, but I could not hold back on this guy. He has the worst tattoos ever! Maybe worse than this. The crooked eyes on the back of his head are creepy and faded, which is more than I can say for his jorts and the same sleeveless shirt I wore to Disney World in fifth grade. And that wrinkle looks like a mouth. I pray this tattoo was inflicted upon him, instead of being a choice he made.

And there's more! Check out what appears to be a mating cow and bull, cleverly located on his calf.

I played Scrabble for the first time since January. Not only did I win, but I beat the high score from my previous scoresheets. Alas, "squid" was not my word.

Questionable Ann Taylor fashions. Yeah. That's not very funny to me, either.

To get his mind off of plane crashes, I start asking Jeffrey what it's like to fly across the country all by himself. He quickly starts to sell the experience to me.

Jeffrey: It's so much fun. All I do is sit there. I don't get scared at all.

Me: What about the flight attendants? Do they check up on you a lot?

Jeffrey: No, I'm fine by myself. But they do give me extra snacks.

Me: Really?

Jeffrey: Yeah. Lots of drinks. And last time I got four bags of the purple chips!

Me: You mean blue corn chips?

Jeffrey: Ewww. They're corn chips? Yuck! I like potato chips.

Me: Corn chips are good. Doritos are corn chips.

Jeffrey: They are?

Me: Doritos are tortilla chips, which are made out of corn-

Jeffrey: Which is made out of potatoes!

Me: Uh, no.

Jeffrey's flying to Los Angeles next week to spend a week with his dad. He's nervous about the flight and looking for reassurance.

Jeffrey: There aren't a lot of plane crashes, right?

Me: Right. Hardly any. There are more car crashes than plane crashes.

Jeffrey: Oh. So when was the last plane crash?

Me: Uh... Yesterday. There was one in Madrid.

I start to giggle.

Jeffrey: Why are you laughing?

Me: Because it sounds like I'm lying to you about how rare plane crashes are, but really, they seldom occur. You will probably not die in a plane crash.

Jeffrey: Probably?!

I caught these varmints when I walked up Central Park North tonight.

I've been running into them for over two years, and now there's proof. Success is mine!

My lunch generally consists of a small fruit salad from the fruit stand. I eat a few nuts or dried cranberries at my desk during the day, too, but that's it. This routine keeps me from going hungry while avoiding a food coma, which I used to get when I ate a heavier midday meal.

Sometimes, though, fruit alone doesn't cut it. Today my lunch partner, Mike, brown-bagged ravioli from home. Then Jim brought in some pad tai. I was craving something salty and well, junky. So I ate my fruit in the park and then bought a bag of Doritos to eat at my desk.

There was a nice long stretch when I didn't eat Doritos for a while. I call that period "Pre-Enlightenment". Now I'm past it. When I want to reward myself with artificial colors and flavors, I reach for the 99 cent bag.

Because I'm a pre-teen caught in a cranky 25-year-old body, I spend my days sitting in my Herman Miller chair in a variety of positions, like a less fun, fully clothed workplace Kama Sutra. I keep my feet on the ground when I first get to the office, but I've got my legs crossed underneath me before noon.

I multi-tasked after lunch, munching on the tasty triangles while researching some companies I'd like to interview. I was so into it, I nearly choked at one point. Wouldn't that be the worst - requiring the Heimlich or worse, CPR, when you've got nacho cheese breath?

Once I finished the bag, I got down to business without distractions. When I got up momentarily and returned to my seat, I felt a sudden stabbing pain at the back of my thigh, at the part where the cellulite will appear someday whether I stop eating chips or not.

Instinctively, I jumped up and felt for the wound.

There was a bump under my jeans. The dagger was in my clothes, in a pair of my tighter jeans. My apologies - that's not intended to sound like a Penthouse Forum letter.

As modestly as possible, I started to shimmy to work the sharp object away from my bare skin.

That's when the Dorito fell out of my pants.

I don't know how it got in there. I certainly wasn't saving it for later.

Then another slid out.

I'm thinking I'll stick to fruit for awhile.

I saw this sign when I walked by a Burger King on my lunch break. Ugh.

Here's an alternative to this new dessert being marketed: an apple. They grow on trees! They're affordable! They don't require cartons or sauce!

Saturday marked a turning point in my time with TBID - our first sausage fest. He and I met up with three of his guy friends for a day of boating. The weather was beautiful, and we loaded up plenty of libations and snacks for some salty speeding.

TBID has a fast boat. I'm not sure what it's technically called, but it's fast. The first time he took me for a spin, I fell out of my seat. He apologized profusely. Now I hang on like my life depends on it while trying to look carefree.

The boys loved bouncing in the turbulent wake left by other boats. By the end of our first time out, we were all covered in salt. My eyebrows had white tracks I had to scratch out, and my hair was matted and coarse. I felt like something Columbus may have once eaten.

We went out again around sunset. Everyone got soaked even more and TBID insisted we all try driving. Believe it or not, I haven't driven so much as a bumper car in a few years. And this was a boat with parts I couldn't name on top of water I could barely tread. I was a bit nervous, but I'm glad I did it. Only one person went overboard, and he did that when TBID was behind the wheel getting ready to dock.

The boys then prepared the food. TBID and one of the guys eventually went out in the rowboat in the pitch black. While getting in, one of the guys nearly fell in, Blackberry and all. I cackled for a good five minutes. Once they paddled away, I started worrying I'd never see them again. Surely, one would make a sudden move causing the boat to capsize, trapping the other in the water where he'd flail in vain.

Then the two other guys and I would be stuck with the hammock and a lot of sorbet to eat all by ourselves.

Well, it could be worse.

TBID returned and then went out again with another guy. Eventually, everyone reunited and started to pack up. Before the train home arrived, one guy jumped down on the tracks to retrieve the swim trunks of yet another guy. Then the train arrived. Some of us were still conscious at this point, and I kind of wanted to draw lip gloss faces on the sleepers. I thought guys were into that sort of thing. We got back to the city in the wee hours.

Unfortunately, I have little photographic evidence of the boating excursion, because my camera died in the first ten minutes of the adventure. I tried to compensate on Sunday by lugging around my fancy camera, something that makes TBID extremely nervous. He and I planned to see Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings at Summerstage that day, but it didn't work out. Two thousand other people got in the way.

Instead, we sat and walked and sat and walked. All in Central Park, the so-called "City's Backyard" that really is my back yard. There's no excuse for my not spending more time there. I've documented some things one can do in Central Park on a Sunday afternoon. Some of them I'd like to do more often from now on. And by "more often" I mean "ever."

Things You Can Do In Central Park When Everyone Else Beats You To The Free Soul/Funk Concert Or Whatever:

Leave the American Elm the hell alone.

Have one of the these guys haul you around. Bonus points if your conscience doesn't feel any twinge of guilt.

Sit on a rock with someone you love. Try not to fall off it.

Look for fun cloud formations.

Three words: extreme gazebo action!

Flag down a Clydesdale. They smell better than many subway stations.

Go to Victorian Park. This isn't that fun if you've graduated from underpants with cartoon characters, but there's cotton candy.

Bask in the sun with some turtles. Backpack optional, of course.

It was endless, childish chatter and we put our faces together as we talked. I think Iris was accustomed only to talking properly, as it were: considering, pausing, modifying, weighing her words. To talk like a philosopher and a teacher. Now she babbled like a child... She seemed to be giving way to some deep need of which she had been wholly unconscious: the need to throw away not only the maneuvers and rivalries of intellect but also the emotional fears and fascinations, the power struggles and surrenders of adult loving.

-John Bayley in Elegy for Iris

I went out to dinner with a friend last night and got in late, hence this unusual morning blog entry. We talked about a lot of things, eventually moving to the topic of dating. She said, "You seem to easily find these people you can connect to."

While I corrected her by citing some examples, it made me think about the fact that a surprising number of people have put up with me over the years when I was pretty much just being myself.

No one I've dated has gone through as much tumult as TBID, though. I've been so adamant since meeting him that I don't want a label or a sense of obligation, ixnay on the oyfriendbay. From now on, I don't want a relationship that reminds me too much of others I'd had or most of the ones I've seen.

TBID didn't holler out, "Boo ya!" when we spent Sunday evening together talking and watching a movie and eating sandwiches at my place like a boyfriend and girlfriend might do. (It was only the second time we ever ate in). And he doesn't use my words against me when I bat my eyes and ask for help with technical stuff or manual labor. (If you wanna get the really heavy stuff moved, you often have to hire or date someone).

Now things just are. I don't care so much about the potential of getting hurt again. This very moment is wonderful, and I'll take that. I'm not sure how TBID mustered the tenacity and strength to scale my walls, but I'm glad he did.

I had a good weekend. Now I don't want to go to sleep only to wake up and realize it's over. Blast!

Johnson & Johnson Introduces 'Nothing But Tears' Shampoo To Toughen Up Newborns:

NEW BRUNSWICK, NJ—After decades of coddling young children, Johnson & Johnson unveiled its new "Nothing But Tears" shampoo this week, an aggressive bath-time product the company says will help to prepare meek and fragile newborns for the real world.

A radical departure for the health goods manufacturer, the new shampoo features an all-alcohol-based formula, has never once been approved by leading dermatologists, and is as gentle on a baby's skin as "having to grow up and fend for your goddamn self."

1) Remember my birthday wishlist?

I finally decided to acknowledge my turning 25 by commissioning this artpiece for the living room in blue and yellow. You'd better believe it will be viewable from the couch and in close proximity to my ceramide eye gel.

2) I want a pet, but I can't get a dog under my current lease and don't want to deal with a fickle cat. Lately, I've been toying with the idea of fulfilling a lifelong dream and getting an African spur-thighed tortoise.

I already have a name picked out. This reptile is going to be named after one of my favorite male historical figures, even if it's a girl. You know, like a Hollywood baby.

The rest isn't so easy. I don't know what the heat situation will be like in this apartment once it gets cold - I imagine the hallway and kitchen will be chilly, due to their lack of proximity to the radiators. My apartment will definitely be big enough for a tortoise until he's like, eight or so.

Also, I need to make sure I have someone to take care of him when I go on vacation and die. Not die on vacation! You know what I mean. This is one pet I won't have to bury, as long as I keep him away from my juicer.

3) Writing about my couch hunt was fun. I really enjoy interior design, despite my limited budget and even more limited space. In the coming weeks, I'd like to do some blogging about how I've set up my apartment. Personally, I love scoping out the backgrounds of people's pictures to try and figure out what their dwellings say about them. (I think mine = "Hi. I'm cheap and pretty much just sleep here, plus I like jewel tones).

New York City apartments, as a species, have weird layouts and old fixtures. Not to mention how small and expensive they are. So I want to offer this experience to the many, many people who have commented or mailed that they want to move here. Not with me, I mean New York City, thought I did tell you I'm cheap and could use a split rent.

Another reason I want to blog my apartment? My mom wants to see if she approves of how I arranged my furniture.

I saw Jeffrey, the youngest kid I tutor, tonight. Since summer began, we've been meeting every two weeks instead of every Thursday. It's nice having some nights off tutoring, yet I have to retrain him a bit when I see him. You wouldn't believe how calm I am around kids. After seeing some crazy stuff in my two years as a Harlem schoolteacher, I just can't lose my cool when a kid fidgets. This is Jeffrey's problem.

A sense of humor and some good-natured sarcasm go a long way. All I have to is raise my eyebrows at Jeffrey, and he shapes up. If only teaching entire classes had been so easy. Today I told him he needed to keep his feet on the floor or cross-legged like mine. No other options, especially not kicking back and forth like a Rockette performance.

"Close your eyes and picture a calm body," I told him. "Now get that calm body." I chuckled when I wondered how he will remember me years from now when he's older and it's been years and years since our last session.

Maybe he'll think my calm body comments were hippie dippie. Will he remember how I read that passage to him from The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, but took out the profanities? Or that I gave him the colored gel pen for editing his work and told him he was abusing exclamation points and the word "very"?

I hope he remembers one thing I definitely will - the way he tried to get out of doing writing work by asking if anything interesting happened to me since we last spoke. He was procrastinating for sure, but genuinely curious. I like to tell my students funny PG-rated things that happen in my life, and they do the same.

"Hmmm..." I thought. "Nothing comes to mind this week." Except for right then, I meant.

I took this at Good Stuff Diner last Sunday. I think the stuff that was good wasn't the pancakes so much as the cool light fixtures.

The aggressor ain't just that pushy guy on the dance floor who doesn't seem to realize he's unattractive.

After I wiped the barf off my mouth with a sleeve, I punched this shirt really hard while quoting Gloria Steinem.

I went out with TBID and others last weekend to this NYU hangout. The place had a lot of guys shooting pool and drinking beer. Somehow, TBID and I convinced everyone in our party to play this hand clap game from my childhood. The guys were so competitive.

The 1 train platform at 168th Street looks different from most. Look how deep underground it is! It's so quiet down there and every noise is amplified. It felt extra cozy tonight when I walked in from the pouring rain.

On my lunch break, tourist parents walk dejectedly into the deli with their chubby little boy in tow. His sulk becomes a smile once he spots the hot and cold bar equipped with everything from Jello to bacon-wrapped shrimp. He starts racing around to peer at each offering.

Little boy: Look! It's a buffet! I already know what I want for dessert!

The dad spies a sign on the side.

Dad: This isn't a buffet. It's $6.99 per pound.

Mom: $6.99 PER POUND?! IT'S $6.99 PER POUND?!

Native diners collectively shrug.

My couch blog entry was linked by The New York Times yesterday. I'm tagging this with Everyday, but it was super cool extraordinary.

I went to a website's launch party a few weeks ago at this bar-cum-gallery. The invite had advertised an open bar. There wasn't one. The invite had advertised hundreds of interesting attendees. There weren't any that I could find in the clusters of people talking amongst themselves in various languages I don't speak. (The company is based in Europe).

The coolest thing about the entire event was this one piece of art hidden near the restroom. It was comprised of three panels of wood painted with the quote, "Be funny, be profound, or be quiet." A companion offered to stealthily apprehend it for me, but there's no way I could allow that. It's not the same as taking a bunch of extra napkins from a deli.

The reason I liked the artwork was that it's exactly how I feel. Each time I go to one of these events, I end up standing in a corner by myself - no one else from my company ever goes to these things - and wondering what everyone else could possibly be talking about. I hate to schmooze, especially with grown men wearing backpacks.

Just my luck, these are the very people who descend upon me, fluttering their business cards as if they were mate-attracting plumage. They want to know what I do and where and act so fascinated by it all. Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "Yep, I have a job just like you. How about that? I feel a real connection."

At my first press event, I quickly made friends with the bartender. I like talking to people frankly about their jobs. So I asked what was the weirdest event he'd bartended at that hotel. Does he judge people by the drinks they order? He told me that all the cheapskates drink soda at these events, because they can't get cut off. Then he pointed out a guy he'd caught trying to take a bottle of vodka.

"Pardon me," I cooed, fluttering my eyelids. "I've got to network now." He laughed and said I'd know where to find him.

I went table to table and met people representing various companies behind various products. One girl showed me this cool computer security device that scans fingerprints before opening password-protected applications and documents. It's perfect for paranoid geeks like my dad. Upon sharing this, she whispered, "You can keep it." Bada bing! Belated Father's Day gift.

There were cupcakes at another table for something no one cared about. Instant traffic. Suddenly everyone was swarming the least popular company there with small talk and a big sweet tooth.

I found myself perched in a corner with a swag bag, the canvas bag I always carry, a cocktail, and an overfrosted dessert. A man with the matted hair most often seen on Petfinder ads for animal shelters approached me with a big smile.

"I think we have the same hairdresser," he winked.

It was like he asked if anyone had ever told me I am the spitting image of Paula Jones. Not cool. And I'd just had a haircut!

I stared at him. "Who's your hairdresser?" the guy asked.

"Bumble and Bumble," I replied, barely making eye contact. "Yours?"

"God."

I realized I was dealing with someone who really needed to get kicked in the balls, but would probably enjoy it.

"That cupcake looks good. I'm Steve. I'm a photographer for _________ Magazine," he said.

I hadn't heard of his employer. I daresay the rest of humanity hasn't either.

Eventually Steve started asking me the typical dull questions that are innocuous enough if a stranger is normal. I felt I had to answer. This was a work function. Maybe I was getting Punk'd.

He asked where I'm from, and then said, "What a coincidence! I've been to Colorado!" That was his schtick - saying "What a coincidence!" and then following up with a detail that didn't match my answer.

He told me I had a European vibe, which translates to, "You look at me like you don't understand what I'm saying and would rather be submitting to a battery of government-provided medical tests right now."

Furball got one thing right.

If I had a scanner, I'd show all of you Steve's business card. It's actually a piece of photo paper adorned with pictures of him with celebrities, including Diddy, Paris Hilton, and Nicole Kidman. But wait, they look awfully shiny. I think they're wax figures.

However, I could be wrong. All the celebrities look really sullen standing next to Steve. These pictures could be the real deal!

Oh, and the name on the card is Shaggy Steve.

After I declined to give Steve one of my cards, I went to another table. That's when I met John, a guy who seemed nice enough. He was older. We swapped cards. I ran into him later, and we talked briefly.

He told me he has connections to other technology and business press events. I actually looked forward to an email about this breakfast series he told me about, which he later invited me to.

But since that breakfast, John has proven he wants to be more than a mentor. He has asked me out to lunch and dinner and even just dessert, despite the fact that I have mentioned I am dating someone. He'll ask what I did the previous weekend, and I'll casually say, "I went to the shooting range with the guy I'm dating who is 6'2" and has big, muscular arms." It's not entirely a lie.

Last week, John called with an extra ticket for a preview of the new Star Wars movie. I told him I had other plans. My geeky co-workers eavesdropped on the conversation and mouthed, "No! No! Just say yes!"

I've decided to tone down the bubbliness at these events, which is like saying, "I've decided to make Beavis and Butthead less cerebral." I was never looking for these people. Seriously, I only show my teeth to people with free Post-its.

That artpiece has inspired my new networking approach: to be so profoundly quiet it isn't funny.

There are a few reasons why I wanted to move in the first place. I was committed to being a better version of me, one with enough counter space to pour a bowl of cereal. Also, the old apartment was small and dim - the most magical interior design could not save the space. As a few hundred square feet are wont to do, it held a lot of memories, too.

I didn't want memories. I wanted a one-bedroom apartment I could afford, which is like wanting a unicorn. Prospects didn't look so good. I was pretty caught up in changing my life, though, which sometimes starts with lowering my standards. "Maybe I could move to Washington Heights," I pondered. "Maybe I could move to Inwood." Maybe I wouldn't mind living in the middle of nowhere, by NYC standards. (No offense to uptown denizens. I tutor in Washington Heights and know it's not the worst. Still, it feels extremely isolated from the rest of Manhattan).

Then I saw a too good to be true apartment listing on Craigslist one Friday. I met with the broker a few hours later and walked through with a flashlight, as the electricity had been turned off. I scrutinized every nook and cranny so as not to appear naive, but my heart nearly sprung out of my chest.

"This could be mine!" I thought. "I could sleep in this room, which is not the same one where I could put my desk! I could pour a bowl of cereal here and...this is where I'd put a couch!"

I was the only one to see the apartment. By Monday, it was mine.

So I spent my entire birthday moving in. If that doesn't make someone feel old, what does? The pieces of my life began to settle in new rooms on another side of Central Park. I stopped wandering around aimlessly in this foreign place with all of my stuff and none of my history. But there was plenty of the previous tenant's. He left canisters of St. John's Wort and a flask.

When my dad visited, we put up some decorative items that made the apartment me-er. Almost every picture from the old apartment is now in my bedroom. The rest of the walls wait to be told whom they house.

The last thing I shed from my past life was the round chair salvaged from the trash a long time ago, back when Cade and I were giddy and newly dating. In the thrill of the find, I never realized how uncomfortable the thing was. Reupholstering it wouldn't change the fact that it made anyone who sat in it feel like an ergonomic P.O.W.

Still, TBID said I should wait to throw it out until I bought another chair. What if someone came over and didn't want to sit on the yoga mat or office chair? I couldn't imagine such a situation, but I complied. Then I decided what my apartment really needed was a Poang chair. It's as ubiquitous as it is springy - a bajillion Ikea shoppers couldn't be wrong.

Finding a couch proved to be harder. My heart was set on a chaise that wouldn't make my apartment feel like a matchbox. Lost: One needle in haystack. Answers to Scruffy. $20 reward.

As if it weren't hard enough to find a couch that didn't swallow the living room, I also wanted to find a nice used one. I rarely buy anything at full price. My favorite finds are serendipitous discoveries from thrift stores. It was time to visit my friend Craig and try my luck again.

The first couch was a seafoam microsuede dud from Jennifer. It screamed, "Disaster!" You know the ugly stick? This thing had been through an ugly forest fire. Also, it had pen marks on its arms. That's how my brain works: "Not only are you fugly, someone got a little too excited writing the grocery list during Wheel of Fortune!"

Then a beige couch from Crate and Barrel came into my life. The owner couldn't part with it for a month, but I relaxed. I was especially excited about possibly getting this particular couch, as it's the same one Life Coach has. I spent hours sitting on its chaise and wrapping wine glasses in newspaper when I helped him move last fall. I could attest to its comfort.

Things didn't pan out. The guy decided to be benevolent and give it to his sister for free. I lost respect for him then and there. My sister and I barter favors for even the smallest gift. No birthday is without haggling of some sort. I exaggerate a bit, but there's a reason I have given Megan opened cds for Christmas before, cds which I have imported to my iTunes playlist before wrapping.

That's a lie, actually - I don't wrap presents.

I was losing faith that the universe would send a gorgeous, affordable couch my way. I expanded the search and figured getting a chaise was like my childhood dream of being an aerospace engineer. I'm just not that good at math.

One day I found it, an affordable down-filled sofa from ABC Carpet & Home. That place has placemats more luxurious than my bedding. I've been there to roam around, but never thought I might own something from it while still in possession of abundant collagen. My thrifting philosophy is to buy stuff I couldn't afford at full-price. Goodwill is not the place to buy something from the Gap.

I went to check out the couch one night after tutoring. Jason, the photographer who owned it, seemed very familiar somehow. I'd been sitting on the couch for a few minutes when he snatched my iPhone and tried to take a picture of me sitting on it.

It didn't work out, and I wasn't sure the sofa's unattached back cushions would either. Yet I sat and talked to him forever. Before I left, Jason knew more about my life than most blog readers. He also offered to lower the price of the couch and take my portrait.

This sounds creepy, I know, but it wasn't. I truly didn't worry that Jason was about to pin me to the down-filled cushions and start talking about my aperture. Instead, he mused about what our couch encounter could lead to. "And now he's my best friend!" I chimed in, as he began pretending to be me recounting the story for somebody.

I was delirious with hunger when I finally left and fretting about whether the couch was a good fit - I still pined for a chaise. When I got home, I had an email. I'd accidentally left a stamped package, a book I needed to mail to my mentor, at Jason's apartment.

In the romantic comedy or thriller version of my life, I'd have returned to the scene of my absent-mindedness and indecision. In the former scenario, the candle-lit room would be covered in rose petals. In the latter, Jason would welcome me back with a blow to the head or a shiny knife.

Instead, he gained my trust with the chain of emails below:

He wrote:

it was a while before i made it back to my Really Comfortable Luxurious Sofa from ABC Carpet with Three Elegant Unique Pillows on the back which make this sofa So Special. as i put my supper down on the spindle table there was something in the way. a duane reade bag with something inside. i realized it wasn't mine and thought perhaps you'd left me a gift. i didn't want to cross any boundaries, as i wasn't sure, but figured i should look. after all, you could be one of those craigslist users that makes their way into people's apartments only to leave and blow them up after you've left. anyway, obviously the package is not for me and as of this time it hasn't blown up.

i'd offer for you to stop by after work again tomorrow but i won't be around. plus, it seems to be priority. would you like me to drop it in the mail, or what else would you like to do?

I replied:

If you *hint* wanted to take it by the post office and give it to a clerk *hint*, you really would be my new best friend.

He wrote back:

you mean you came all the way over here and pretended to be interested in my Beautiful Luxurious Sofa with the BEST back cushions JUST so i can do your postal work for you?

i really have to sleep on this one.. i Can't Stand those lines either and there's not a post office exactly right next door. how about this, i'll do it IF you buy my couch. But, you'll loose the free portrait on couch offer. no, that's just wrong, like blackmail.. let me see what i can do..

And then later:

it's official, we're best friends.

I should've bought the couch from him, right? What a nice guy. He braved the post office for me, and he saves fortune cookie fortunes even when they don't make sense!

But I didn't. Nice guys don't have chaises, and nice guys get their couches bought last.

Instead I chose another. It has blue and cream stripes and back cushions that fit snugly. It's the exact same couch Life Coach has, too, but in a different fabric. It was put on the market after I met Jason's couch. I'd found one possible match, and then another appeared. They both wanted to hold me. Furniture shopping is a lot like dating.

Despite the fact that this one snores and doesn't put the seat (or all its down padding) down, I love it. I think it's best for me, but I really hope Jason and I can be friends.

Maybe it's just me, but I don't feel like life in New York City gets too comfortable. You can cultivate routines all you want, but something is going to smite you. That place where you like to get the inexpensive fruit will shut down unannounced and leave you hungry. Your appointment postponements with be postponed. People will flit in and out of your life, as if in some migratory pattern.

Last week kicked my ass. I was looking forward to it being filled with all this extra stuff I chose to do, instead of the usual stuff I choose to do. Does that make sense? Translation: I went to a concert and work event instead of tutoring. The break was nice, but my plans weren't relaxing in the least. I'd been reeling in that "I need a vacation from my vacation" feeling most of the week. I passed out for hours today, finally making it to third base with the new couch. The one I still haven't blogged about. I'll have to get to that when I'm not having so much __________.

A lot of these pictures were taken as I walked briskly on my way somewhere. Life is the journey, I know, but I wish it wouldn't give me shin splints.

Doesn't describe how I felt about that guy who was flirting with me at the work event.

This insane walk-up reminds me of Barefoot in the Park. Can you imagine how firm the muscles on your nearly lifeless body would be after moving in?

The Kanye West concert last week was my first one at Madison Square Garden. TBID and I had nice seats in the "Long Island boy from the streets" section.

New York grows and changes so quickly. Too many times, I've walked by the neighborhood I've lived in - well, now near - since I moved here. Something will look and feel different, but I can't always figure it out. This building went from being something else to being another Duane Reade most recently, but used to be something else that was something else that was something else...that was once a pet shop.

I think "attitude adjustment hour" does more justice to the interesting effects alcohol can have on a person.

I instant message Life Coach throughout the week. He keeps things in perspective - an interesting perspective.

Me: Get this: He asked if he could rent movies on my Kim's Video account, since I put his name on it when we were dating.

Life Coach: I can't even entertain this anymore. Have you lost your mind? This is why I tell you to cut someone off completely.

Me: I said no, of course.

Life Coach: I think you need to stuff your face with za tonight and not talk to ANYONE.

Me: Did you just abbreviate "pizza"?

Life Coach: Yes.

Me: You're crazy. That word is not even long.

Life Coach: Yeah, I'm the crazy one. Funny how all you broads say that about me, yet you girls are the ones acting a fool.

On the 2 train uptown tonight, I sat between a man reading pages of graphic testimonials about colonic irrigation and a woman reading an encyclopedia of serial killers.

I have an update for you in five sentences, starting...now!

Funny this should happen after I'm complimented on my prolific blogging... I just don't have the energy or desire to type anything. I'm thinking too much right now to put anything into words, plus Blogger's been wonky. It's been a light week calendar-wise, but I'm tired and just feeling really down today. Time to frown my way through a networking event for work in uncomfortable shoes!

This has to be one of the best news leads ever:

"Greyhound has scrapped an ad campaign that extolled the relaxing upside of bus travel after one of its passengers was accused of beheading and cannibalizing another traveler."

Being a daily user of mass transit, this comes as no surprise to me.

I went shopping for a new shower curtain this weekend and found the bedding of my dreams at Gracious Home:

It costs exactly a bazillion dollars, so I'll have to settle for my old glow in the dark Ghostbusters pillowcase, if my mom can find it.

Speaking of Glow in the Dark, I'll be at the Kanye West/N*E*R*D concert tonight. Young men in pink polos await!

My parents were in dire financial straits most of my childhood, and I had no idea. I knew my dad had been suddenly injured in an accident, breaking his neck and acquiring myriad other injuries in the process. My stay-at-home mom entered the workforce. Otherwise, she wouldn't have a degree, much less an advanced one that allows her to prescribe drugs.

I never felt the insecurity that kept my parents awake nights. Sure, a child can't really understand the high rushing water of debt or cliff-edge rubble of the legal system. But a child can go hungry and know that something is wrong or feel emotionally neglected or see parents transform in desperation.

As an adult, I can't believe my parents held things together as well as they did. Somehow, I thought my life was normal. I never imagined having a dad who went to work everyday or who wasn't in chronic pain. My mom worked harder than most adults ever will, like a modern Rosie the Riveter who saved the day as Daddy went to war. She was a role model, but not an anomaly. My dad became a Texan Mr. Mom, which you really didn't see much of back then and maybe not even now. (Once my piano teacher asked me, "Is there a mom?" I shot back, "Of course!" I hadn't just wished myself there).

So my parents are good at sticking together and making things seem just fine when they are not even just.

I forgot that somehow when I first heard that there was a lump in my dad's neck, on the inside of the same neck that's been broken, which happens to be the same neck fostering squamous cell skin cancer. My dad said he didn't think it was anything; my mom agreed. She gave me more details, and I wanted to ask those questions that reek of Terms of Endearment:

Is he going to die? Is he not going to see me grow up to be anything beyond what I am now? What will the world be like without him?

Anytime I get anywhere near those thoughts, though, I feel like someone has kicked me in the windpipe. Not to mention the bizarre tapioca of tears and snot that start congealing on my face. Needless to say, I didn't seek any answers.

So my dad visited me in New York and the lump came with him. He mentioned it hurt when he swallowed, a dull reminder of his mortality. He eventually went back home and sold my childhood home, so he wouldn't have to deal with renters anymore. His surgery was postponed.

Meanwhile, my mom occasionally told me the surgery was most likely not a big deal. Her reassurance was a favor I welcomed. It helped me focus on the insignificant crap that I usually think about, like "What time should I set the alarm for?" and "Where do I want to go on Saturday night?" and "When will I have time to explore all this stuff that interests me?"

The answers: Who cares? Doesn't really matter. Maybe you won't. The point is, you're alive and healthy and probably have some time. Shut up already.

Friday was the big day. My parents went to the hospital, like in the days. Maybe not the good old ones, just the days. The surgeon was late. My dad most likely yearned for his peanut butter crackers. I checked my phone constantly, making sure to crank up the ring volume.

My mom called, and I was ready for a prognosis. Nothing. He had just been put under. It occurred to me that I heard something in her I have maybe never heard before - she was scared like she knew she might be indefinitely. Her worry lay thinly veiled by composure, like a blemish under make-up.

That's when it fully clicked that I'd kinda been duped again.

They didn't want me to worry, because there might not be anything worth worrying about. There were two possibilities: 1) My dad had infected lymph nodes that needed removing or 2) skin cancer had begun growing inside him and spreading roots into his muscles.

I'd heard the options, but they skewed so much on the side of the second one that I believed it. My dad would be okay, because he has become extremely good at it.

I waited a bit longer and got another call. My mom still didn't sound normal. "He's okay," she said. "I am so relieved." It was the longest short sentence I've ever heard her say, and we're from the South, ya'll.

We are all feeling much better now. I spoke to my dad the evening of his surgery, and he was chipper. "I'm glad it wasn't cancer. I'd have been a goner!" he shared. As if I needed reminding.

My dad scraped by once again, no pun intended. He looks like Frankenstein with his neck cut open and stapled shut with a plastic tube of bodily fluids poking out. I know, because they sent me pictures that I am considering putting on Facebook. Just kidding.

I don't know what it means that I remained so calm through this. I don't think I'm gullible. I'm just committed to the hope that everything will be fine just like it always has been until one day - one I hope is far, far away when I am wiser and my dad has ear hair upon ear hair - it is not.

I get that from my parents.

From Paul Graham's "How to Do What You Love," one of the most inspiring things I read last week:

How much are you supposed to like what you do? Unless you know that, you don't know when to stop searching. And if, like most people, you underestimate it, you'll tend to stop searching too early. You'll end up doing something chosen for you by your parents, or the desire to make money, or prestige - or sheer inertia.

Here's an upper bound: Do what you love doesn't mean, do what you would like to do most this second. Even Einstein probably had moments when he wanted to have a cup of coffee, but told himself he ought to finish what he was working on first.

It used to perplex me when I read about people who liked what they did so much that there was nothing they'd rather do. There didn't seem to be any sort of work that I liked that much. If I had a choice of (a) spending the next hour working on something or (b) be teleported to Rome and spend the next hour wandering about, was there any sort of work I'd prefer? Honestly, no.

But the fact is, almost anyone would rather, at any given moment, float about in the Carribbean, or have sex, or eat some delicious food, than work on hard problems. The rule about doing what you love assumes a certain length of time. It doesn't mean, do what will make you happiest this second, but what will make you happiest over some longer period, like a week or a month.

Unproductive pleasures pall eventually. After a while you get tired of lying on the beach. If you want to stay happy, you have to do something.

I wrote my six-word memoir.

There was a thought-provoking comment on one of my blog entries this week. There aren't many I can allude to, so you can easily find it if you're curious. What it boiled down to was this: Compliment + pointing out how much I've changed in such a way as to suggest that it's a bad thing + somewhat affectionate parting words.

The sum of it all was, well, I scratched my head. I was bleary-eyed, because I spend way too much time in front of computers these days. Understanding of tone and context and all that flies out the window after a certain hour, too. But I always enjoy a comment to validate my online presence. I am, because I blog? Hardly. You are when you get readers, and you are cool when you get comments that make sense. Or comments that maybe don't make sense, but in a good way.

I have certainly changed. Yesterday, I found a picture of me in the bottom of a drawer and I barely recognized myself. Granted, it was from a few years ago, but wow, I no longer possess any material thing I had in that picture. Much more, I am not in any of the same situations the picture conveys. Well, minus breathing and digestion and other trivialities.

On behalf of Bumble and Bumble, I'd like to say my hair was really damaged, too.

Everything is much busier now, but you know what? I'm in some shade of happy in every facet of my life. I earn a living by reading and writing. There are a few great people I interact with almost everyday. I live in a stimulating place that would kick me in the shins if I refused to grow.

And I have an iPhone.

A chalk Barack and hilly Hillary.

This girl is a rude tourist. She put her drink and later, food on my bench in the park during my rushed lunch break. Has she no idea that I have one hour during the workday to sit in the fresh air, eat fruit, and silently judge people? I don't want to do all of this while some stranger is messing around with crap a foot away from me. That's called work and commuting, not break. She should have asked to use my bench. I'm reasonable; I'd have said yes. But consent is everything, and she didn't seek it.

This is one of my favorite ways to be a (noisiest) passenger - sun shining on my bare feet as they tap on a dashboard.

Peaches to gorge on. Was the typo intentional?

When Mike and I were walking to the Dunkin' Donuts/KFC for lunch (because we hate ourselves), we spied a couple at the bar next door sitting outdoors to take in the gorgeous view. Those fume belching trucks, they just show the wonder of God's creation. The couple was gone by the time we ordered lunch, so Mike is a stand-in.