Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

Current activity: Listlessly sitting in front of my computer, being obscenely sweaty. Trying not to look at the heaps of crap surrounding me that obstinately refuse to be inside a box right now.

Listening to: My bubblegum mix. The past several hours were all Sea and StyleGirl music because I did not have the energy to argue with it. However, they both appear to have gone to the new apartment to transfer Style's mirror for some reason. I took the opportunity to switch to some Aqua and some Happy Hardcore in an effort to lighten my mood.

Present temperament: Foul. I seem to be inordinately stressed out about this move, at least judging by other's reactions. I do not know if they are genuinely not worried about the fact that everything is supposed to be out of here in twelve and a half hours, or if I am overly-concerned with same. At least they are tolerating me with remarkably good grace.

Frustrated by: My apparent lack of boxes in which to pack things. I refuse on principle to BUY boxes from U-Haul. And speaking of U-Haul, it seems that making a reservation for a truck (wherein they RESERVE a truck for my use and do not lot other people take the truck that is held in RESERVE for ME) does not mean what I thought it might. It seems, in fact, that they do not have any trucks, but they assure me that they are looking for one. Perhaps they should invest in one of those new-fangled computerized devices, and maybe they could type in big letters "T-R-U-C-K" and it would tell them (preferably in small words) where such a conveyance might be found. They also seem to be laboring under the profound misapprehension that when a truck is found somewhere in the city, I will magically transport myself to the location of the truck and drive it back here, rather than an employee of their fine company driving it to the U-Haul location a block from my house at which I made the bloody thrice-bedamned reservation. Perhaps they do not understand that tomorrow I will be otherwise engaged in MOVING my HOUSE and will not have time to go haring off on a wild-truck-chase.

Proposed course of action for the next ten minutes: Not thinking about bloody ANYTHING, and pointedly ignoring the aforementioned heaps of crap populating my apartment. Possibly drinking a beer. Listening to some Pizzicato Five.

Realization: THIS is why I fucking DESPISE moving more than any other activity in the entire history of doing things. And that includes sitting in a kiddie-pool filled with sauteed onions and tapeworms.

Once again I am faced with a gap of several days (well, a week, really) in which I have no entries recording my life. And I am faced with the onerous task of filling in that gap.

Here is the short, sweet version:

I FUCKING HATE MOVING.

Thursday was God, Why Won't You Kill Me Day. It was two hours of tracking down a truck at U-Haul, only to be told that we could not get a truck until 6 pm, going to Ryder, and finding that all they had was a van, the small size of which necessitated many more trips back and forth than a larger vehicle would have. Thirteen hours of carrying disgustingly awkward and vomitously heavy items up and down stairs and across streets and through small doorways. Did I mention thirteen hours yet? THIRTEEN HOURS. Another few hours trying to get a vague semblance of order to my room so that I would have somewhere to sleep. And the most blessedly wonderful shower I have ever taken in my entire life. I was so hideously filthy and drippingly sweaty, the clothes I stripped off and plopped down in exhaustion ended up leaving a STAIN on my HARDWOOD FLOOR. I sweated out entire people-weights of sweat. I was bruised, I was cut, I was scraped, and I think I developed an allergy to cardboard boxes, purely out of instinctive self-preservation.

Before this move, I had the (supposedly) noble thought that I would never pay for a professional mover, based on principle. The flaw in this notion is that I have never before had to move such a tremendous volume of CRAP, and I am now of the school of thought that I will never ever again move my household myself. I will pay someone to move things for me while I sit back and drink iced tea. Maybe the movers will even be hot college guys. You never know.

Friday was God, I'm Serious About This Killing Me Thing, Or At Least Get Me Drunk Day. I somehow managed to ooze my way out of bed, returned the van, and stumbled my way to work where I was thoroughly useless. Friday night I drank large amounts of wine on my bed and sang along as the Shiv and Art played some gee-tar, much to the amusement of several passersby.

Saturday was Fuck Da Police Day. I went BACK to the old apartment and spent another three hours moving still more CRAP from one domicile to the other. I even got a ticket!! For what? you may ask. Well, I got a ticket for "improperly using a trashcan." Huh? you say. Yes, I got a ticket for putting a TRASHBAG in a TRASHCAN on the corner. Apparently these trashcans are not actually to be used. Of course, it was probably primarily because I was throwing tremendous amounts of attitude at the bitchy cop who was yelling at me for putting trash on the curb -- yeah, like I had the time or energy to placate her -- and so she gave me a $100 ticket. I took great solace in the fact that as soon as she turned the corner, I tore the ticket up and threw it...in the trashcan.

Sunday was Outlet Shopping Day, and all I need to say about this is I now officially own my very first piece of Versace clothing. I feel delicious just knowing I possess these dreamy pants. And my Estonian-bound friend got to play dress-up doll for me, which was a tremendous amount of fun.

Monday was Company Outing Day, and basically involved me getting sunburned, eating a mountain of crab (which was strange in that I really dislike eating food that has a face), floating down a river, gossiping with the girls while all the boys played soccer (big shocker there) and finally actually talking with some of the people I work with about topics other than web pages.

And finally, Tuesday was Vaguely Returning To Normal Day, made less normal than one might expect by a meeting with this one, who was just as lovely as I had suspected, and this one, where I got to see the marks left by the pit bull.

Today does not yet have a name. All I know so far is that Swoon.com's horoscopes give today four stars, which has not happened before, as far as I am aware. Hopefully today will be labeled Winning Millions in the Lotto Day, but more likely is going to be Having Lunch At McDonalds Day. Wish me luck.

I am planning a vacation.

I tend to flutter from one project to another -- I started my job and immediately worked on moving. I moved, and now I need something else to focus and obsess over. Thanksgiving also waits perilously close by, and while I absolutely love planning dinner for 30 people (yes, I have already started preliminary work on a menu), I need something a little bit grander on my plate.

Here is the (massively tentative) itinerary:

I leave New York in May. Fly into Europe, possibly Amsterdam if my flying partner is insistent, possibly Paris if he is not. Then a train to the north tip of Germany and an overnight cruise ship (included in the price of my Eurail pass) to Helsinki, and then a short ferry to Tallinn in Estonia -- again, unless my traveling partner insists on going to Prague first. A few days taking in Tallinn, and then a hop over to Moscow, and a jaunt down the Trans-Siberian Railroad to Beijing. And possibly, depending on timing, we skip over to Tokyo (since we will be so close anyway, there is hardly any point in missing it) and then back to Home Sweet New Yorky Home, two or three weeks later.

The tremendously exciting and (simultaneously) tremendously scary part about this plan is that by May, it will be fairly easily within my reach. Amazing what full-time jobs can do for a boy, is it not?

I am being dreadfully narcissistic today. I have spent a fair chunk of time going back and reading some of my older entries, laughing, and thinking, "Hey, I'm kinda funny sometimes."

This trip down memory lane has been sparked by my new foray into the wonderful world of Diaryland banners. (Do me a favor -- if you happen to see some lightning glowing in a little banner, give it a click and make me think that someone is actually paying attention to it.) So I got started thinking about the kinds of things a new reader could expect upon reading a random Fulminous Diary Entry (FDE). About all I could come up with was "A lot of black and grey" and "very few apostrophes," as the tenor of what I write seems to vary pretty widely from day to day. Call it "unpredictable," call it "keeping things fresh," call it "being a huge spazzface," if you like.

I do feel a little spastic when people read my first week or two of entries. At least knowing those FDEs exist reminds me never to write things when I am depressed -- they are invariably embarrassing later.

On an unrelated note, please remind me to refrain from killing the IT guy. He makes my teeth ache and I just want to punch him so hard so hard so hard. And despite my recent run-in with the law, there is still a world of difference between "improperly putting a trash bag in a trash can" and "improperly putting a shoe in a face."

So apparently, a joint investigation between the U.S. Government and Denmark has unveiled a ring of child pornographers. First off, bravo!, I say. Second, I would like to mention how pleased I am that this was named "Operation Hamlet." A little smart, a little funny, a little smart-ass. A hell of a lot better than "Operation Enduring Freedom" or whatever these things are being called nowadays. Something rotten, indeed.

Also. Why, O Why am I constantly plagued with the worst work computers (read: Dell) that ever were? It seems that mine cannot handle a CD being inserted at the same time I open an email. It completely freaked out with funny windows opening where windows should not be, a loud, repeating beepitybeepitybeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, and if I had not unplugged it, it probably would have exploded, or at least put its debilitating Spark-Fountains (tm) into action.

And I am also very tired of this computer telling me what I want. If I WANT a bulleted list, I will fucking tell it. And if I tell it enough times that I do not, in fact, want a bulleted list, why does it refuse to remember this the next time I type "1.", and make another damned bulleted list I have to remove?

Today is far too delectable to waste sitting inside. I keep trying to come up with excuses to wander outwards, but every time I am about to go out (for a smoke break, naturally -- the easiest of all possible excuses to indulge) someone pops up to ask me a question about work-related things. It is a little difficult to get used to the idea that I am someone people come to for answers now -- I have been a fill-in-the-gaps freelancer for so long, I forget that I can make a few decisions about what this product is supposed to look like on my own. I have been here long enough (almost a full month now, holy cats) that I can almost tell them that the entire website is incredibly stinky and needs a great big do-over. Oh, my joy on the day I get to redesign this thing will be boundless.

My poor brain is flitting all over the place -- I type "on my own" up there and immediately hear poor Eponine serenading me from within the confines of my skull.

Tomorrow, by the by, promises to be a red letter day. The illustrious Finn makes his debut appearance as a resident of this fair city. I will be picking him up from the train station, and we are almost certainly going to make some kind of romantic-reunion-running-down-the-concourse-black-and-white-film-in-the-rain kind of scene. Just because we can. Plus, I really want to hear the staid midwesterners with whom Finn has been sharing an overnight train make some comment about us kissin' queers. I dare them to, in fact.

It wasn't until that last sentence that I realized how much I'm spoiling for a good (verbal) fight with a stranger. Growwwr.

Upon further reflection, I think that if I were a Danish operations-namer, I might name them all Operation Hamlet.

Seastreet is gone. I did not write about it at the time (Wednesday night) because it did not seem real. It still does not seem like he is really flown away to Es-freakin-tonia, but the sadness at a friend moving away is starting to set in. So, presented for you this evening: what I miss.

The way his face lit up the first night we met when the group's conversation turned to fisting.

"You know what a great book is? it's a lot of fun! 'The Origins of Totalitarianism!' You should read it, Ful!"

"Um...can I bum a cigarette?" -- Sea

"Um...can I bum a cigarette?" -- Ful

Our secret handshake.

"Um...his horse...fell in a ditch...and he...had to...um...he's got a debilitating disease. With no horse. Yeah."

Bugbear pudding.

Him trusting me to cut and bleach and dye his hair bright fucking pink.

Technobabbling discussions about the minutiae of transporters.

(poot) "I'm SORRY, I've got DIABETES."

"Oh, just never MIND."

Aubergine shirts and outlet malls.

Arguing over where to stand on the platform.

Getting drinks together at Excelsior.

Sunday brunch where we are the only people ordering dessert.

"Pedophile." -- Everyone else

Dinner at the Chip Shop.

Grand schemes at L'Ecole.

Alan Turing.

"Do you have your testing equipment?" -- Ful

"I'm NOT colorblind!!" -- Sea

"Applenipplemonkey!"

The punching game!!

Sigh. I miss you, boy. Come back soon. Godspeed.

Facing a disturbing lack of any serious problems in my life (see previous entries on brainless boys, painful paycheck problems, moving maladies, and the like), I am reduced to complaining about everyday things like my laundry. (I am such an ungrateful fuck sometimes -- I am actually complaining about having nothing to complain about.)

It seems that the new laundromat, the one nearest my new digs, lost a large amount of my clothes. When I realized this and went in to inquire about the matter yesterday, I discovered a large cart full of wrinkly and soggy shirts, pants, and underthings, all of which belong to me. The oh-so-conscientious employees told me that despite my ability to tick off the labels and brands of each item, I would have to come back later when someone who was nominally in charge could release the clothing into my custody. I, of course, got caught up doing other things like cooking dinner for my roommates and a passel of guests (Finn, Wang, and BlueCoffeeGirl), and didn't make it back until this morning -- when I got to stand in a completely empty laundromat, looking for someone who worked there but apparently does not need to actually be present to do so. I had to leave without my clothes again. I am going to try again tonight to reclaim clean things to wear to work tomorrow. Wish me luck.

The more observant of you may have noticed a casual mention of Mr. Finn in the preceding paragraph. Good for you. It appears that Park Slope has a new resident, straight from the shores of whichever Great Lake is the one by Chicago, and my apartment has a new resident until the vagaries of craigslist.com provide him with some choice digs of his own. To be honest, the Ready-Made Live-In Boyfriend (TM) is decidedly strange to get used to, when one has not had a real boyfriend for something approximating two years and has not had a live-in boyfriend for something approximating forever. I can certainly say, however, that this seems to be a Good Thing -- very likely even a Very Good Thing.

The coming week promises to be a musical one. Wednesday night may feature a free concert by one India.Arie, and will definitely feature a free concert by The Letdowns. Thursday will be a Central Park extravaganza with everybody's favorite, They Might Be Giants ('cause everyone's your friend in New York City) and openers The Moldy Peaches. Of course, far outstripping all of the above in importance and star power is our very own ShiveryDelicious, with a show at Meow Mix on Friday that I am sure is merely the kickoff to her world tour and, let us be honest, total cultural world domination.

In related musical news, Wang just tipped me off to the existence of an actual music video to Leonard Nimoy's ode to the "bravest little hobbit of them all." As I am at work and cannot hysterically laugh out loud, lest I disturb everyone around me, my mirth was expressed through unstoppable tears of hilarity. Rainbow swirly sweatshirts, a creepily earnest Nimoy, and the best fucking choreography this side of Paula Abdul, clearly make this video one that absolutely cannot be missed.

I have particularly tasty joints. I base this assertion on the observation that bugs seem to focus their loving, bloodsucking attention almost exclusively on my knees, my elbows, and particularly my knuckles. For example, at this very moment I have no less than three bites on the first knuckle of my right pinky. Yesterday I had only one bite there, so apparently that joint posesses that certain special something that keeps its patrons coming back for more. I would not mind so much were it not for the itching -- go ahead, tinybug, have a little sip here and there. Just please refrain from injecting me with your unpleasant toxins at the same time. Adding insult to injury is never a very nice thing to do, even for mosquitos.

I hereby reiterate my utter frustration with all things bank-related. Mysteries can be fun. The Mystery of My Missing Money, however, is not.

Musicfest 2002 begins tonight. India.Arie has been scotched tonight in favor of a dry run with Miss Shiv. The Letdowns are, naturally, still go.

Plans for my Springtime Abroad continue apace. It is a damn good thing that this gym membership through my work is starting soon, if there is to be any hope of a 79 mile bike ride through the countryside of Finland without any massive hemorrhaging or debilitating brain aneurysms.

I have not heard anything from Sea since he ventured overseas himself. I am assuming this is due simply to lack of internet access, and not due to anything like being too lazy to write me.

I blew out my pipes. At a They Might Be Giants concert.

I screamed so much I went all hoarse, and now I sound like the pimply-faced "Do you want fries with that?" kid from The Simpsons. (NOTE: This was not a Beatles-mania type screaming where I grab my face and shriek in ecstacy. More like a full-throat "YEAHHHHHHHH!!" kind of scream when they did things like play "The Guitar/The Lion Sleeps Tonight," which is also, by the way, the best song to jump to.) I do not know quite how I feel about losing my voice at a TMBG concert. One one hand, losing one's voice at a concert is pretty bad-ass -- but this is They Might Be Giants, for heaven's sake. I think I will come to the conclusion that losing one's voice at TMBG is actually a lot more bad-ass than losing it anywhere else.

Not to mention the fact that The Moldy Peaches played and they are simply the cutest things that ever were. And Messer Chups, who (as the MC continually reminded us) came here all the way from St. Petersburg, Russia. One half of the Messer Chups duo played his music using a Titanium Powerbook. All was right with the world.

And THEN StyleGirl and Finn and I went to Niagara and ended up seeing a band visiting from Denver (my former haunts, and those of StyleGirl as well) called Mr. Pacman. They wore motorbike outfits and big helmets the whole show, and one of them played his piano music on an old Commodore with its Piano Player cartridge. And to top off the evening: a fashion show. Well, a fashion show of sorts. One guy who tore up a bunch of clothes, wrote on them with something that looked vaguely bloody, added a lot of safety pins, and then somehow talked his friends into wearing them and walking around in front of other people in them. Aside from the really really creepy pockmark-faced queen in tiny underwear, very wobbly high heels, and huge hair who was very very clearly on something -- well, on a LOT of something, my goodness -- none of the models looked very comfortable walking around in front of other people in these clothes. There was a random flashing-of-breasts, a random grabbing-of-package, and one guy who clearly thought it would be in the show's best interest to have him walk out hand-in-hand with another guy and look sexy with him, and the other guy who just as clearly thought that holding hands would be a very bad idea indeed.

Honestly, by the end of the week I will have seen so many musical shows, I will hardly know what to do with myself when there is silence.

In other news: The McDonald's by my work has seen fit to hire someone to wear a tuxedo and open the door for people during the lunch-hour rush. I wonder if they think anybody is actually fooled, actually thinks they are walking into a high-class establishment, by the presence of a tuxedo-clad doorman at their (need I repeat it) McDONALD'S??

Tonight, of course, marks the debut appearance of two very important things:
1) ShiveryDelicious, and
2) My new pants. More details as events warrant.

And also, I am wondering today if John and John (of They Might Be Giants fame) really truly hate "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" by now, having had to sing it at every concert for the past 12 years.

Happily, both my pants and Miss Shiv were raging successes on Friday evening. Somehow, I became a conduit, a repository, if you will, of any possible nervousness on the part of the star of the hour, leaving her free to laugh and shine and angelically sing her way through a stupendous show.

I was rather fond of the very small bottles of beer, orderable by-the-bucket during women's basketball games, available at Shiv's venue. Actually, I think I am more fond of the thought that this place has a drink special specifically for women's basketball games. As the door-guard told us on arrival, the show was even pushed back an hour or so, until the end of the game because "us dykes do like our sports, you know."

Some Thai food, a few inordinately strong drinks, and several blocks' walk later, I at last found myself at 80s DanceTime Central, also known as The Pyramid on Friday nights. I have not been dancing in quite some time, and Wang, Finn, Rfo and Company were all there to showcase their booty-shakin' skills. Throw some Paula Abdul videos and George Michael into the mix, and you have the recipe for one dance-tastic time.

Saturday was a delicious day of waking up disgustingly late, wandering around Manhattan, and shopping just for the fun of shopping. Barneys Warehouse Sale, beware! Actually, it was best to beware myself while at this dangerous sale -- I understand things are much worse on the women's floor, where fights have been known to break out, women show up wearing bodystockings so they can simply strip down in the aisle, and other assorted crazinesses. The men's floor was slightly less hectic, but a sharp eye is still required to protect oneself from the Trevors and Lances and Steves and Bruces of the world, who descend upon the Gucci in a mass ravening horde of Label Queendom.

Dinner was an exercise in jealousy, as everybody else ordered food much better than what was on my own plate. I finally gave up, after much sighing and whimpering, and just got another order of the endive/ham/gruyere gratinee, and let the waiter take my sad little pot of macaroni and cheese away.

Sunday was full of lazy, except for the end bit, wherein I (much to my chagrin) attended a Reading. You know of what I speak -- Tortured Souls get up in front of a microphone and read short stories in stilted language about taking drugs, or Goofy Cutups get up in front of a microphone and read short stories in stilted language about their wacky childhood, or Lonely Dreamers get up in front of a microphone and read short stories in stilted language about their depression. I am eternally grateful that time did not choose those few hours to stop moving, leaving me trapped in a Purgatory of Bad Dialogue forever.

And in a final note, somehow the IT Guy gets a few points in his favor today. Improbably, HE is the only person to have noticed and commented on my new hair. Straight as an arrow now, harsh chemicals applied this weekend whipped my unruly curly locks into shape. When I spike my hair, I make a fair imitation of a sea urchin.

Subway-riding is the most effective means I know to come into contact with as large and diverse a group of people as possible. Here is a new favorite Subway Story, and it is absolutely, horrifically true:

A few days ago, riding home, a gaggle of businesspeople got on. Two men in very nice business suits, one woman in a very nice pregnant-lady business suit.

Man 1: Oh, where did you move to?

Pregnant Woman: To Park Slope. It's such a nice suburban neighborhood.

Man 2: Do they have any schools where you are? (in a tone suggesting that nowhere as...rural...as central Brooklyn could have SCHOOLS, the dirty Manhattan-centric creep)

Pregnant Woman: Oh, yes. Right on the corner of Something and Something Else is a Montessori school.

Man 2: Oh! That's the one that feeds into Richpeople Prep, right?

Pregnant Woman (while tenderly rubbing belly): Yes, it is. We've already talked to both schools and they know that we're enrolling Ethan.

Man 1: It's great that you could reserve a spot for him before he's even born!

Pregnant Woman (laughing): Oh, we reserved a spot before we even knew we were pregnant!

Man 2: Of course! You have to have a good school lined up before you conceive these days, if you want them started out right.

Meanwhile, a punky girl standing behind them and me standing in front of them kept exchanging small eyerolling glances over their shoulders, and eventually we both had to pretend we were coughing to cover up the mad laughter.

In not-very-related-news, I will not be taking the subway tonight. Well, I will be taking the subway home. But that, dear friends, is where the mass-transit for the evening STOPS. I am, courtesy of StyleGirl, on the guest-list for some launch party for some "hot new model," some fabulous "it-guy," some "over-marketed-we'll-be-seeing-him-everywhere-soon" kind of guy. And the best part? They are sending a CAR to PICK US UP. We are about to be driven to a party in a disgustingly pretentious Manhattan dance club where we will be served canapes and hors d'oeuvres, and we will have an unparalleled opportunity to point at and laugh at any number of very self-important people. Those of you who know what a starfucker I can be can certainly imagine my delight.

The Model Party was a preposterous delight. I am certain that some of the people attending were important somewhere -- however, it was never made clear to me just where that 'somewhere' might have been. And obviously a large number of them either a) did not read the fine print on their invitations, exhorting them to "Dress Sexy!!" or b) somehow developed the mistaken impression that a baggy grey waffle-knit long-sleeve shirt qualifies as such. I take great comfort in knowing that our happy posse-of-four was decked out in the finest show of sartorial splendour in the place. (Not that I am particularly SURPRISED by this fact, of course.) I am also quite pleased that our dancing skills surpassed even those of the hired go-go-girls...although I should mention that this statement does not amount to much, as for some reason the go-go-girls were go-going to a different beat than the music that was actually being played. And speaking of the music, at one point Sir Mix-A-Lot made an appearance on the playlist (which amused StyleGirl and I to no end), and when Depeche Mode came on, for some reason Finn and I were the only people on the dance floor. I guess the DJ decided to give something to the gay white boys. Oh, and also, the fellow for whom this party was being given was nowhere to be found. Color me shocked!

Interestingly, I had been to this same club once before, in the company of 'Zona, for a CD release party. It had much the same vibe of people pretending to be important then, too.

Afterwards, Finn, StyleGirl, JW and I headed south to a bar called South, wherein I belatedly discovered that I was so mightily intoxicated, so thoroughly smashed, so completely out-of-my-head-due-to-a-vast-vast-vast-quantity-of-Jack-on-the-rocks, I could not speak. I could, however, stare and grin goofily at our little company, until I finally managed the mental fortitude to slur/utter the phrase, "IthinkI'mgoingtogohomenow," somehow caught a cab with Finn, and hiccuped (yes, I *hiccuped* like a little drunk-red-nosed-man cartoon) my way over the bridge and through my door and onto my bed, whereupon I promptly passed the fuck out.

A discussion with my mother has recently revealed the following surprising fact: My niece no longer naps. She is, you see, four years old now, and as such she is clearly quite grown up.

"She doesn't take naps any more? Doesn't that make her awfully...sleepy?"

"Oh, she sleeps. But they aren't *naps.* She is, she informs us, too big for naps. Babies nap. Big girls, apparently, do not."

"What about grown-up boys in New York? Do we nap? Because otherwise I have no idea what it is I've been doing all these Saturday afternoons."

"I think you can nap if you want to."

"Oh, good. I do like naps. Although I think I remember a time when I didn't. I think it was only the enforced naps I didn't want to take. You know, where they roll out the plastic foam mats and turn off the lights and it's bloody well nap time whether you want it to be or not. Middle-of-the-day naps when I wanted them were awesome, though."

"You never had to sleep on plastic foam mats. Foam mats? Honestly."

"Everyone had to sleep on foam mats. Ask my sister. She had to sleep on a foam mat too. It's a function of the pre-school. Blow bubbles in the bubble-pool, eat carrots and peas, sleep on a foam mat."

"I don't know where you get this stuff from. Is this foam mat thing like when you fell in the hole? Hahahaha!" (Side note: the me-falling-in-a-hole story is a subject of great familial hilarity that I am certain I will relate someday. The "humor" arises chiefly from my family not remembering that this incident ever occurred, so now anything I recall that they do not is compared to me, falling in a hole.)

"Yes, mom, it's just like the hole story, mainly in that both events actually happened. Anyway, what does she do if she isn't napping?"

"I don't know if we've asked."

"Ask her if she's taking a post-prandial snooze. I sometimes like to call my naps post-prandial snoozes."

"You do not."

"I do too. Well, I don't say, 'Hey, roommates, I'm off to take a post-prandial snooze, meet you for cigars and brandy later,' but I definitely THINK it."

"Where did you come from? You're so weird."

"I'm weird? It's my niece that's refusing to nap, not me."

"Yeah, and why do you think we say she's just like you all the time? Because you're both weird."

"Thank goodness for that."

I just took my lunch at Ranch*1, home of "The Best Grilled Chicken Sandwich on Earth." Aside from this being a remarkably bold claim to make, Ranch*1 is a fairly humble chain of restaurants decorated in a very cheery yellow. I decided on the Grilled Chicken Teriyake Rice Bowl Meal, as I have had my fill of sandwiches (no matter how good they are) over the past few weeks of lunchdays.

I took my tray to their Upstairs Seating Area, situated myself with my satchel beside me, my food in front of me, my Coke just beside that, and my book (Faulker's "Absalom, Absalom!") capping everything off on the far side of my food, to better facilitate my eating/reading duet. Imagine my surprise when I look up from arranging things to realize that the people sitting at the table just in front of me are, in fact, the same people who were sitting at the table in front of me at Burger King (Whopper with mayo/ketchup/pickles only) just yesterday.

Now, I understand that coincidence is a pretty powerful thing, but this is two different restaurants at different times of the day, and the exact same seating relationship between us. I started to worry for a minute that they might notice and recognize me, and then think that perthaps I was stalking them. The man and the woman, both in pleasant business attire, were fairly cuddly for the duration of both meals, and perhaps they thought I was a private detective, there to follow them to a mid-day assignation and report back to a jealous spouse.

On further reflection, however, I think I discovered what was truly happening. As I am perfectly aware that I was definitely not spying on them, clearly the couple was spying on ME. For what nefarious purpose, I am not certain. The fact remains, however, that I am being tailed. I think on my way home from work I will have to stop at several unrelated stores all over the city, in an effort to, if not lose my sneaky tail, at least make their report confusing enough so as to be worthless to whomever is trying to establish my daily routine. So far all it can really describe is my penchant for fast food restaurants, Faulker, and the musical stylings of Messer Chups, so I feel fairly safe.

I was supposed to go to the gym yesterday.

My new gym, my shiny gym, my Crunch Gym that I get through work. I even went so far as to pack clothes appropriate for wear in a gym (white t-shirt, blue Umbros because my only other pair of shorts have been appropriated by StyleGirl and I have no idea whither they wander, white socks, and Converse high-tops). And I even went so far as to walk INTO the gym.

"Here's my paper I'm supposed to show you that I got from an email from my work because I signed up through work and I don't quite know what to do with it, ha ha ha," says me.

"All righty -- let me just take your picture here...(click)...and now when you want to check in, just give us your ID number. You're all set! Have fun!"

"Um...it says on this other paper thing that I get some sort of orientation thing and I think I'd like to sign up for it for the thing for orientation."

"Oh, no problem. I'll have a manager call you tomorrow to schedule a session. Just put down your phone number here...thank you...and you'll be set!"

"Okay thankyou thanks he'll call tomorrow okay."

And then I ran away.

I'm really not comfortable with the very concept of gyms. I am not an athletic-activity sort of person. I am, on occasion, still mocked for picking dandelions in left field at age 8 when I should have been catching these odd spherical things called "baseballs." I am at home sitting in front of a computer -- not in a room full of sweaty people trying to pick up large heavy things. I feel like I am an imposter, weaseling my way into a world in which I most decidedly do not belong, at risk every minute of being discovered, labeled the faker I truly am. And then a mob of hot muscled people will laugh at me loudly and point at the nerdy boy struggling to push on the bar that makes the weights go.

I have managed to overcome both of my most recent obstacles.

First -- the gym. I went last night. I went into the gym, boldly got a towel, intrepidly wandered to the "cardio" area, and bravely rode a stationary bike for 20 minutes. Then I courageously took a shower and walked around Manhattan aimlessly for a few hours before heading home.

The best part about the bikes? You can watch TV on them. Or surf the web. I had no headphones with me, being unaware of the advantages of bringing headphones to the gym, so I silently watched an episode of The Simpsons and laughed along with dialogue I already knew anyway. In an astounding instance of synchronicity, the overhead music system was playing that dance tune where there's a lady who shrieks, "I've got the POWER! (duh-nuh-duh-duh-duh-nuh)" at the same moment that Bart Simpson yells out "I have the power!" and faith-heals a bucket off of Homer's head.

Second solution -- Remember the couple who was stalking me? I have stymied their efforts. For lunch today I repeated my venture into the gym. I rode a bike for lunch. And incidentally, I read several diaries while I did so, thanks to the tremendous power of web-powered bicycles. There is no way the scary couple could know that I will be riding a bike for lunch -- and besides, the guy would have to change in the locker room, which means that I would get to see all of the secret recording equipment duct-taped to his chest, and the gig would be, in a word, up.