I spent some of last weekend in Brooklyn with Jeremy and his dog-nephew Ned. I'd been wanting to meet Ned for a few years now, so I was pleased to hit it off with the snorty little guy. He's much more svelte and spry than Abby was in her later years (or maybe any of them).

What Ned Did Saturday Night:

Made sure Jeremy didn't get any crumbs on the rug.

Repeatedly checked the status of my lo mein. "Hmmm... Still not in my belly."

Scanned the audience reaction shots from the Chris Rock special, looking for me.

Asked nicely for the drool-moistened, tooth-tattered stuffed rat.

Acted as umpire during Wii baseball.

My nasal passages are finally done fighting gravity. I feel so much better today. I got more done in the last fifteen hours than I did all last week. Unfortunately, I need to stay on the wagon and do some freelance work tonight.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to leave you without some entertainment.

My paddle plant has four leaves in the grave, if you will. (Total number of leaves = five). The day I cut its dead parts off, leaving me with a completely different looking piece of struggling vegetation, I ordered a tiny container of succulents.

Why didn't I buy them from a plant nursery and try to foster their growth myself? Because I have a black thumb. Or a lazy thumb that likes ordering stuff from Etsy. One of those.

The new ecosystem came in the mail today. It made me squeal. So help me, God, this thing is never getting water. The cute cannot perish.

My officemate is 13 years my senior. Sometimes I try to subtly tease him about being older.

Me: Do you like Michael Bolton?

Him: I can't believe you're even asking this.

Me: [in mock innocence] What?! I thought you might like "soft hits" or whatever the euphemism for Michael Bolton's music is.

Him: I think they just shorten it to "shits."

*I wrote this entry out in longhand a few weeks ago, got sick, and then never blogged it. My immune system has taken a real beating as the seasons have gone from summer to fall. In fact, I just woke up from a much-needed nap and sneezed like an elephant 10 times. How did my head not explode? I think this outdated post was meant to be.

Books will keep your mind and heart flexible and strong, but they don't seem to do much to combat germs. I warned you. Here are some books I not-so-recently enjoyed:

1) When I Knew by Robert Trachtenburg

Almost seven months ago, a cute new guy started an internship at my office. Jim, one of my co-workers immediately started to encourage me. "He keeps looking at you," he'd IM me. (We all worked in the same room). "You should ask him out for lunch."

I didn't have to. One day, he asked me. We stopped by the fruit stand and then ducked into the deli where I occasionally like to get spaghetti. We tried to make ourselves a little more familiar, sharing honest tidbits unwelcome in normal work banter. And then he casually said, "I came out six months ago..." His face was beet red and scanning mine for a sign. Was I judgmental? Surprised?

Honestly, I wanted to slap my head like a really bad Taboo player after reading my partner's cards after a round. Of course! My gaydar is a little wonky sometimes, but I am always ready to morph into BeardMaster 5000 or the most bookingest hag a guy could want. At your service, sir!

When I Knew is a collection of memories and musings by gay men and women about when they - or sometimes, everyone else - realized they were playing for the other team. Funny, bittersweet, and sometimes troubling, it captures the joys and difficulties of being your true self. I highly recommend it to all my gay pals out there and the people who love them.

2) Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri

I made a Russian bibliophile friend at the Junot Diaz reading and he got this really passionate look on his face when I mentioned this highly lauded author. "Lahiri is one of our greatest living authors," he proclaimed. Dude's nickname is the same as a Chekhov character, which I think gives him some credibility.

Her latest story collection mostly follows female protagonists as they navigate love and life in unfamiliar lands. With much more of a focus on sex and relationships, I'd say this work is the closer to chick-lit than any of Lahiri's other books. This is not an insult in the least. Unaccustomed Earth is beautifully written with rich details and characters you'll wish you knew better.

3) Chew on This by Eric Schlosser and Charles Wilson

This more accessible version of Fast Food Nation looked like something the kids I tutor could sink their teeth into. (Borun, a seventh-grader I tutor, is currently chewing on it enthusiastically, and he is not a very enthusiastic reader). I wasn't sure if it would make them wholly reject McDonald's fries, but that's not the point. I read Schlosser himself will admit he sometimes caves in to the lure of the extra-value meal.

The point is educating kids about the history and politics of those eating establishments that most target - and employ - them. The book does a good job of interviewing real kids who work in fast food, driving home points about minimum wage , unions, and the living conditions of cows and chickens that make up some of that crud we eat.

And there might be poop in your hamburger. Are you lovin' that?

4) Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

This is one of those short classics you may not have enjoyed the fist time around when it was probably summer homework.

It deserves a second chance!

Really, that's what the story hinges on. Second chances: Do we deserve them? How can we take them when everything - our morals, obligations, and financial situations - gets in the way?

Shortly after reading about Ethan Frome's tale of love 2.0, I read Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun about a married man who pursues a relationship with his first love after years of separation. Another possible companion piece: "My Boo" by Usher, featuring Alicia Keys.

Tomorrow's the day, folks! I'm working from home for the first time. It's probably one of the best things about working for a dot-com, and like being unaware of an employee discount, I feel dumb for never doing it before.

Now snot is pouring out of one nostril and my eyes are threatening to march out of their sockets. Sounds like some elastic waisted professionalism is in order.

Why not just take a sick day? Because I already went in today and infected my officemate. (Sigh. The things I do for free cosmetics). I'm well enough to do some things. Exhibit A: that bag of lip plumpers and glosses.

Maybe tomorrow won't be as wonderful as I imagine, but I can't wait. I might get up early just so I can be the first person on instant messenger in the morning. My mom called it being a slob. I call it productivity.

HORNS UP:

*After interviewing a cosmetics company for work, I got invited to stop by their headquarters tomorrow for some free samples. My makeup routine consists of sunscreen, lip gloss, concealer where needed, and eyebrow pencil, but I'm always eager for free stuff. I'm supposed to hook up the rest of the women at my office with eye shadows, etc. Should mineral makeup be offered, though, I am all over it. Does anyone use that? Does it even work? It seems kind of Emperor's New Face to me.

*I'm always delighted to learn something new. Sunday's lesson: Those fancy, bespandexed bike riders that zoom in packs are assholes. TBID and I rented bikes yesterday at one of the myriad bike rental places off of Columbus Circle. Riding my bike down a few busy city streets into Central Park was nerve-wracking enough to get me drafting a will on my iPhone during this morning's commute. Getting narrowly zipped past by surly bike riders, whom I later saw mocking and cursing at other bike renters, made my blood boil. Well, that and going uphill.

*I joined BookMooch a few weeks ago as part of my campaign to Follow Life Coach's Advice. Because my living situations have called for pathological space-consciousness, I haven't accumulated too many books in my three years in NYC. But free stuff is hard to turn down. Occasionally, I'll find a book that I want to read in the garbage or on the street. BookMooch is a chance to part with the stuff you've already read -- or realized isn't worth reading but too nice to go back to the gritty bus stop. All you do is list your books, make a wishlist of books you'd like to receive, and wait for someone to mooch one of your books. The only payment incurred is media mail shipping, which the book owner pays. Points rewarded for listing and mailing books determine how many books you can mooch from others.

I've already mailed four books out and received one, A Hero Ain't Nothin' But a Sandwich. I've wanted to read this book for 12 years! It's one of those frequently banned books you never see anywhere. TBID and I have already read it and now I'm waiting to get my hands on Persepolis I and II, which I've read but don't own. If any of you join and want to be my BookMooch friend, let me know. I have good taste and Lysol.


HORNS DOWN:

*TBID got sick at the end of last week. We went to the first 100% organic restaurant in the nation for brunch Saturday (which is not to say Cheetos aren't delicious), and he proceeded to show me all the live cultures in his nose. He was snotting up the place while the waitress took forever to bring him napkins to rescue the romance. Wake up and smell the wheatgrass, girl!

Fortunately, TBID seems to have made a full recovery, which I don't attribute to the free-range croissant and cruelty-free spinach wrap. But now I think I'm getting a cold. Blah.

*Biking in Central Park was fun. For the 20 minutes we got to do it. I lost track of TBID and got a phone call while cruising. His bike was slowly falling apart and the pedal nearly snapped off. I turned around to find him, his hands covered in oil from messing with the pedal. It was so pathetic I couldn't stop laughing. We walked the bikes all the way back to the garage where we rented them. We took the long way - one wrong turn and we were on East 72nd and 5th Avenue instead of West 58th. But we were the Lance Armstrong and [competitor] of walking those bikes. I was thoroughly exhausted afterward. The rental fee was fully refunded and TBID didn't get mad or anything, but what a waste of time.

*My plant is dying. I suspect Trader Joe's may have been overwatering her and the pot-within-a-pot set-up didn't allow adequate drainage. I thought a succulent would be like having one of those crazed B-movie killers that gets slashed and shot and just keeps getting up and going after the nubile teenage girls with an axe. Not so.

I'm not giving up, though. I brought the plant to work today, so I could scold her every now and then and pick at the droopy leaves. If she doesn't start shaping up, I'm getting something less finicky. Like one of those Lego trees.

I got a pet today. Well, a plant, but one about as active as my beloved Abbydog was.

She is a paddle plant and will turn red in the sun. I hear they are supposed to be protective of their owners, but she's not big enough to keep the neighbor from watching me make popcorn in my underwear. While wearing my underwear, I mean - my underwear alone can't pop no thang no how.

I'm hoping to teach her more tricks. She already responds to, "Play paperweight!" The big one is going to be watering and draining herself every seven to ten days and sporadically amputating two of her leaves in the name of personal (plantsonal?) growth. Makes the self-help genre seem a lot less painful, huh?

The best thing of all is that I get my money back if my plant dies. She's a succulent, so it's not very likely, but I am a deacon in the faith of calamity and ineptitude.

Amen.

Weeks ago, I had dinner with TBID and his family at this really swanky place. I felt anxious before, because I don't really enjoy food the way that they do. When I eat something, I don't really want to know how it was made and I don't want to examine every little taste. Eating just doesn't excite me like that.

Fortunately, no one was obnoxious about the meal. I didn't feel pushed to try anything or judged for getting a steak, which is my fancy meal go-to. The focus was really on conversation and getting to know everyone better. I like to think I'm pretty good at being authentic while still pleasing the elders. Parents tend to like me.

TBID's mom started talking about living in 1970's New York Gritty. She and TBID's dad were artsy and had big hair back then. "New York belongs to the young," she said. "You can live here your whole life, but it only feels like yours for a very short time."

A few days later, I stumbled upon the poem below and thought of sending it to her. It reminded me of what she'd said about how being young equates to this feeling of ownership and control. I ran it by TBID who constructively commented, "Uhh, it sounds like you're commenting on the fact that she's old."

Oops. My (almost) bad. Regardless of whether or not she thinks she owns the city, I don't regard her as preposterous, as the poem says. Still, I'm glad I didn't just e-mail her. That could've been harder to explain than why I barely touched my vegetables.

I'm saving my first major faux pas for the holiday season, but I don't want to get ahead of myself.

One day you will reach...

One day you will reach a bend in your life.
Time will curve like a wind
and after that the young
will no longer be afraid of you
the way they ought to be,

the way they were when you were minus fifty
and had a glare like winter,
and kept men's souls in cough syrup bottles
and could cause dogs to burst into flames.

Instead of fear, you'll be handed
a kind of dutiful respect
that isn't really serious
and will find yourself an object
of secret jocularity
like a preposterous expensive hat.
The glittering eyes of the old aren't gay

or if gay, they have the gaiety
of things that have no power.
Wallpaper with pink flowers.
Buds in bud vases. Butterflies
drunk of fermenting pears.
Drunks in the gutter.

Drunks in the gutter singing-
I forgot to add that.

-Margaret Atwood

It's significantly cooler outside than it is inside. I'd open the windows, but two of them have air conditioners perched in them, one is blocked by my desk, and the other in the kitchen might bring in flies.

One big thing that transpired in the last week or so: It became fall. Precociously, yes, but it's here, as undeniable as a child's growth or snow's disappearance. Today I was thinking about this dress I might want to wear Friday with tights. Tights in September! This is a first.

I notice people looking a little less confident these days. Layered in sweaters or fully committing to long sleeves, we are all looking around for others to keep us warm. I'm a thin-blooded Texan - it's no wonder I fall in love in winter. My burgeoning relationships heat up just as the weather does. It's really so convenient.

Tomorrow I'm taking my second vacation day of 2008. I'm going to run some errands and get my hair cut and colored the red of an autumn leaf. Then I'm going to tutor Deedee and watch the horizon for the slumbering tiger that takes the day around 7:25. I will remember when it used to still be light at that hour, how it didn't feel as nice as it does now.

"So poop or parasite?" That's what I was asked by a blog-reading friend when we met up Saturday night.

The answer? Both. Last week was a horrendous, truly gut-wrenching lesson in cramps and bloating. I think I may have earned a Master's degree in the stuff, my thesis consisting equally of prunes and my waning will to live.

It was also a crazy week anyway, bowels aside. Barfing on Wall Street outside a fancy restaurant that used to be a bank vault aside. I'll break down the week for you in just a few inches, but let me expand more on my new graduate degree.

Never, ever, ever take a multivitamin and an extra iron supplement. It will not make you run faster or jump higher. It will freak your intestines out into a Britney Spears-level breakdown. You will eat an acre of whole grains and drink gallons of water and your colon will act more like a period. (I'm feeling well enough now to make punctuation jokes). Shit ain't goin' nowhere for about a week. (Also feeling well enough to allude to menstruation).

Here's what you missed last week while I was clutching my sides, fielding questions from my parents about my last bowel movements for the first time since they regularly saw them...in my own pants...in seventh grade. Part of that is a joke - I wish it all were.

Monday: I blog that I'm "furiously freelancing" instead of the truth, which is more like the less attractive alliteration "ponderously procrastinating." I know what I want to write about, but I can't get started. I second-guess myself and decide to just be brilliant tomorrow. That's a plaque I need above my desk: "Be brilliant tomorrow." With a post-it note under it that reads, "You very well may die in your sleep, you uninspired slob."

Tuesday: I'm sitting at my desk after lunch, and I suddenly want to cry. I feel like my abdomen is going to explode all over some work I'm trying to do. I curl up a few different ways and realize I have to leave early so the Ebola doesn't spread to the rest of the office. I cancel the kid I'm supposed to tutor, hobble to the subway, vomit, black out on the ride uptown, and collapse. That piece I was working on is due before midnight, but I have forgotten it. When I get a phone call at 10, it all comes back to me. I somehow manage to "Be brilliant enough on a deadline."

Wednesday: Excruciating pain. Everything hurts - lower back, tailbone area, basically anything below my navel. My stomach is visibly swollen. I Twitter, "I feel like Bristol Palin up in here."

Thursday: Jeffrey's sister is extremely upset that I cannot tutor her after him on Thursdays. I can't afford the time ever, but I really can't afford it when I just want to lie down in the bathtub and fall asleep and peacefully drown with minimal soap in my eyes. I stifle my revelation that tutoring is not that fun, that I will teach her wrong stuff on purpose just because I can.

Friday: I'm feeling a little lighter. This doesn't discourage me from talking about inappropriate waste-related matters with a co-worker over instant messenger. I even coin the word "poopsonality." Don't tell me you invented it first! Life Coach says he doesn't feel well and that he might give me tickets to see Chris Rock at the Apollo. This doesn't cure me, but it doesn't hurt.

Saturday: I go to the premier dollar store in Manhattan and see these awesome tweezers I bought for half-price. What a deal! Then I buy mailing envelopes and tealights. I'm still weak and a bit achy, but I go to the Chris Rock show and act coy when asked, "So poop or parasite?" Look for my face when the Kill The Messenger special airs on HBO soon. I will look very relaxed and regular, but you know the truth.

I'm sick again with some kind of gastrointestinal rebellion.

Life Coach thinks I have a parasite. My dad thinks I need to poop.

I think I need a vacation.

You Heard The Man You Love

You heard the man you love
talking to himself in the next room.
He didn't know you were listening.
You put your ear to the wall
but you couldn't catch the words,
only a kind of rumbling.
Was he angry? Was he swearing?
Or was it some kind of commentary
like a long obscure footnote on a page of poetry?
Or was he trying to find something he'd lost,
such as the car keys?
The suddenly he began to sing.
You were startled
because this was a new thing,
but you didn't open the door, you didn't go in,
and he kept on singing, in his deep voice, off-key,
a purple-green monotone, dense and heathery.
He wasn't singing for you, or about you.
He had some other source of joy,
nothing to do with you at all -
he was an unknown man, singing in his own room, alone.
Why did you feel so hurt then, and so curious,
and also happy,
and also set free?

-Margaret Atwood

I'm furiously freelancing until tomorrow night, so I'ma make myself scarce.

In the meantime, check out this judge running for NYC Surrogate Court:

With a name like that, he ought to be a pornstar or masseur or something.

(from this lady who gets comments)

Last night, Junot Diaz said he would look for my blog, so he could read about the crazy lady. He even signed my copy of Drown "To Amanda who met the crazy lady!" The whole thing - and other assorted happinesses - left me so giddy, I couldn't sleep.

In a few hours, I'm going to a Fashion Week media event with a co-worker. And then worktime. I need to churn out pages and pages of writing this weekend for the cash money and self-actualization, yo.

Tourists, like buzzards, flock to Wall Street each day. I suppose I'm one of the dead working souls whose patience they feed on.

It's really not so bad on the morning commute. Only the early birds are out. Leaving work, though, I'm battered as I try to get to the subway. Tourists stab the natives as they strike poses beside anything stationary. Human pile-ups occur at a single inopportune fluttering open of a map.

The area really isn't so special. It's one of the centers of our failing economy, but it pays my bills.

Republican National Convention coverage has really got me apoplectic tonight, but you know, I'm not sorry about that.

Seems I'm a freak magnet. I headed to Summerstage in Central Park awhile back to behold the linguistic majesty that is Junot Diaz, the New Jersey dude who bagged this year's Pulitzer Prize and who did I sit next to? Rather, who sat next to me?

The craziest harpy who ever set foot in a library, that's who.

This wild-eyed woman surely held a graduate degree and might even have an esteemed position in academia. That's the way the world works sometimes. I love crazy people as much as the next person, I really do. But she muttered the entire time that Diaz was addressed and anytime he spoke. As far as I know, she is not a brilliant writer anyone camped out to see.

"He's such a piece of shit. Why does he talk about women like that? Is he married?" she frantically asked as she swiveled in her seat. She tried to make eye contact with me; I didn't return it. The girl next to her briefly turned and got her ear chewed off with the ballbreaking schtick that gives feminists a bad rap, the same kind that might prompt some stupid women to vote for McCain because he clearly supports women's rights, what with asking someone with ovaries to run with him. Because labels make politics so easy.

The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao portrays the lives of men and women of various ages. Adolescence is involved. Sexuality is involved. A portrayal does not necessarily mean an author agrees with each character's actions or beliefs. This is something most people understand, but it's not something to be taken for granted, I guess.

The woman next to me started poking at the man in front of her, asking him if Diaz is divorced and snorting, "I'll bet he is! He makes me sick!" The guy said he wasn't sure, maybe she should ask when questions were turned over to the audience.

Right. And maybe the child predator should lead the local Cub Scout group on a trip to the mountains.

Eventually, the moderators asked anyone with questions to come forward. The woman next to me scrambled to the line that formed, scribbling a tirade onto a scrap of paper. When it was her turn to speak, everyone in my row and the one in front of it cringed. We could only make out a few words, because she was screeching incoherently away from the microphone at a pace that would impress Twista.

Diaz thanked her for her comments, looking like the very explication of WTF. Everyone else booed. Crazycakes headed back to her seat all aglow. It was like she'd just been crowned President of Assholes. The bitch was incumbent.

Tomorrow night, I'm headed to another reading and signing by Junot Diaz. It will be wondrous, and I hope not too brief. And I'm hoping that one outraged critic will be unable to attend. Honestly, I'd love to see her raising hell at the Republican National Convention or Zabar's or any other place where I won't be anytime soon.

Today was the first day of school in NYC. I woke up tingling with a newfound feeling of possibility.

Then I found out the toilet was broken. Not an auspicious beginning.

I just fixed it all by myself. Yes, "myself" as in me.

Get ready, world. Tomorrow is mine!

I started the weekend with more funk than James Brown. Three days away from work sounded amazing, but the feeling of recreational obligation crept in. Regular weekend vegetation isn't considered a waste. In fact, nothing is occasionally what you need to do.

But having a sedentary three-day weekend, especially the last one before summer ends, is a waste of time. I knew I wanted to do something unusual, but on my same beaten path in the city, preferably without sun damage and half-naked people.

Before my office kindly released us early on Friday, I was introduced to Sarah Palin. Cue dread and exasperation and general huffiness. I started thinking of all the people I know who might now look even closer to the Republican party for leadership and walrus jerky recipes. The hairs on the back of my neck started to get prickly, Outraged Womanhood-style.

So this is how I began my last stint of summer relaxation: thinking bad thoughts about the huge portion of the country that might vote this woman and her running mate into office. I told TBID we had to turn the weekend around by doing something people would not do in the red states. We decided to support gay marriage, but realized we didn't know anyone willing to commit to anyone else. So then we decided to walk.

We walked and walked from Chelsea to the Lower East Side and across the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn. The only time we stopped was to eat at this place that has become one of the most appealing restaurants in my culinary experience. Its magical atmosphere encourages me, a picky eater who never even really ate a hamburger until a few months ago, to try new things. Organic and locally grown new things that are often green.

After a healthy meal of stuff I never would have ordered on my own, TBID and I headed back to Manhattan. Power-walking led to sprinting and returned to just plain walking, and I exercised muscles I didn't know I had. Turns out, we traveled over seven miles on foot. It's surprisingly hard to be grumpy on a quest like that - you're more concerned with not collapsing in a heap outside a cluster of chain smoking hipsters.

Later highlights of the weekend included a car excursion to the Bronx on a mission to find a historic mansion that piqued my interest. TBID drove around Hunt's Point and talked bridges and urban blight like a professor, which really revs my motor. But he totally sealed the deal with a trip to Taco Bell on Long Island. We even got to get out of the car and drink out of paper cups and everything! (He never eats fast food with me. Also, he makes his bed everyday. Other than that, he is not the Beav).

When we found ourselves in a hammock and row boat and poetic prepositional phrases, like "under the stars," "on the water," and "by the light of the moon," well, I totally forgot it's an election year. And that my legs hurt. And that this boy is not a mind reader, just really, really good at being exactly what I need sometimes.