Pitter

I rolled sideways and told him that I wanted to take back my 5. It was aggressive, nonsensical, and just in case his mind was still in the pages of the book, I threw in the two words I knew would grab his attention: not practical.

Score. Eye contact. Book folded on the chest. Hmm, he wanted to actually talk about this?

So you'll be happy with three?

Uhh, er 2. Er none.

Since I can remember - way before knowing how to get them - I wanted to have 5 kids. Any combination, I just wanted my own children to grow up in a big family like I did. I wanted to raise strong, strapping youth. Then I grew up, and wisened, bit by bit becoming aware of the chinks in my own armor.

I'm pretty freaking selfish.

My career is moving forward, my yen for city living growing stronger, and my ovaries getting lighter. If my childhood dolls could have anything to say about it, Day-to-Night Barbie would remind me that I constantly had her running from the office, switching her skirt inside out to the party side, for a hot evening with Ken and friends. No calls to the babysitter incidentally. Is it even possible to contribute respectable amounts to a 529 plan while justifying a $25 mascara habit only for the satisfaction of hearing strangers query the eyelash authenticity? Is it? I've seen those wearied parents "taking" a "vacation" with their kids, and I question my ability to keep everything together when it's my turn. That is: if. I once got a wad of Silly Putty stuck in a child's hair. Yes, the hair was chopped.

Am I even capable?

He listens to me say I'm selfish and smiles in that way that shows he's trying to calculate what color the pills are this week. Then he reminds me how much fun we'll have when my career picks up enough for me to be picked up by an agency in a country where his company has another project. It's all about the timing, he says, because he's seen how much I love my niece, our nephews and the triplets.

Comforted to be on the same page, we turn back to our reading.

I snuck another peek at him, his face shadowed by the nightstand light, even darker tonight because he has 4-day stubble from a whitewater rafting trip with a groom-to-be and friends. It's even better than the 1-day stubble that I beg him to keep on Sunday mornings, and I know where this is leading. He's much too, much too genetically favorable not to see how a next-generation version might turn out.

And just like that, I've lost my place again.

Diva Love

A friend is embarking on a new stage in life, forgoing all her creature comforts to start a completely new life on a new coast. I have dreams of The Sweetest Thing for her, but until then thought I'd solicit some help from the Divas and He-vas to make her feel welcome in her new city.

Born-and-raiseds, transplants, tourists and fans - give her the highlights, but leave out Gap Inc. (unless you're a hiring manager), 'cause we all know that one.

I'll go first. Look, look, I know it's a Ghirardelli town, but my vote will forever be to the assorted chocolates from See's. And certainly a catch like this little lady will be hitting the dating circuit. May a deserving gentleman snatch her up and take her here so that we may all read about the fabulous menu (and date) thereafter.

Et vous?

Heading East on Memory Lane

It must have been the remnants of the last evening’s champagne toasts. Everything, except my right temple, felt lucid. I’d popped awake early even, eager to get home to my parents.

“Couldn’t I just take Massachusetts to Route 50?” I was as surprised as she was when the words came out of my mouth. How do I know such things about driving around Washington DC? When did I learn to talk like this? The identical look on her face couldn’t hide that she’d not suggested this route, doubting my ability to navigate through the city, intending to send me back on the Beltway.

The route turned out to be quick and easy – not nearly as complicated as I remembered L’Enfant’s crazy circles to be. The sleepy streets of Georgetown reminded me that behind one of those closed doors lived a nonthreatening columnist who once generously offered to take me out for a drink. It was one of those we have a very close mutual friend so call me when you’re local type exchanges; in my three trips to his neighborhood since, I’ve yet to dig up the card.

It was still early morning, and feeling quite safe in both body and hairstyle, I drove through the streets with the windows down. I love doing windows. Somewhere near Dupont I remembered our fake IDs. Elizabeth Phillips. Elizabeth was a girlfriend’s middle name; Phillips for the last name of a… What was he? Smiling at what business I had even thinking I looked 21. Smiling again that I would actually meet a guy in college who got his very same fake ID in the back room of the very same video store. Somewhere in Dupont.

Massachusetts Ave. seemed smoother than I remembered. When autobody shops decorated the pulloffs and abandoned hubcaps littered the pavement. When you could be sure you’d finish the Avenue one hubcap lighter and purchase it back from whichever store plucked it to safety. Broken macadam has always reminded me of crushed Oreos.

Route 50 was right where it belonged and I merged on easily. The long stretch of highway put me right back into a school bus seat, bouncing along beltless, toward big Washington DC for yet another school-sponsored field trip. Why did it always rain on field trips? Hoping, praying that I’d get placed with a good group – my crush perhaps? – and that if my mother were chaperoning, she wouldn’t embarrass me. The Holocaust Museum and Smithsonian were top-tier trips, Air and Space Museum such a drag, and wasn’t the Capitol closed the day my entire third grade came to visit?

I drove slowly through the neighborhood, for once obeying the posted limits, craning my neck down side streets looking for familiar cars in familiar driveways. Far, far being the young driver once told with exaggerated hand gestures to slow down by a dog-walking neighbor. Waited as a family walking toward the pool crossed the street in front of me and pulled into the driveway, windows and sunroof open, purse on the front seat. Around the back, up the porch and into the house through the studio. Realizing that in all my years of coming and going, I’ve never had or used a house key.

We hugged hello, an awkward exchange with the dogs still jumping their greetings, my Gatorade in hand and head throbbing. They’d ordered Pizza Hut for lunch. Did I still like Pizza Hut? Over my mother’s shoulder (me taller? she shorter?), I noticed the box that had been packed pre my arrival. The thought whisped through my head that the box may have even been packed right after I called on Friday to say I was coming. I spied at least three single serving containers of Frosted Flakes. Where do they get this stuff? And was that – yes, not one, but two shiny pieces of foil. I’d happily accept cereal that comes in the same box as not one, but two bottles of Red Truck wine!

I automatically settled into my usual chair at the kitchen table. Left corner, side by the windows. You never had to get up for more napkins, milk or condiments when you’re in the chair furthest from the refrigerator. Perhaps I’ve been manipulative longer than I realized.

Look, look at the new refrigerator; check the new photos of your niece and nephew; have you tried Sudoku? Over greasy pizza and Diet Dr Peppers, we traded stories and laughs. I followed him to the basement and correctly identified the barrel-loading station as the new addition to the electric train village that has become my father’s hobby obsession in retirement. I trailed after my mother into the art studio to see the two new canvases she’s been working on. There it is, hidden in the trees. I correctly identified the human figure, incorrectly identified the gender. She was not offended.

Questions, don’t you have questions for me about the blog, I wanted to know. Ahhh yes, and after a furious search through a pile of papers, she procured a small scrap. She said she hadn’t read too much of it because The Machine always makes noises and shuts down. Not that I'm concerned about concerns from a mother who's been painting Botticellian figures into forest scenes since I was a stick figure. We quickly cleared up her concerns – a Gold Lion is an advertising award, PBR is a cheap beer, and PLD Full of Grace is a play on a movie. The rest of the questions went unasked due to handwriting even the owner couldn’t decipher. Even through a 2nd pair of glasses worn over the first.

150 golf balls later, I hugged my father goodbye in the hot, sticky parking lot of the driving range and wondered what'd happened to all the things my parents did that used to embarrass me.

There I Go Planning Ahead Again

I called my parents this evening to see if it would be possible to swing by the house on my way back home Sunday after a bachelorette weekend that takes me to DC. They'd love to see me and were available for my visit so we kept the conversation short; no need to catch up during peak minutes when we could accomplish the same across the kitchen table. I'll see them next month, but it's been a while and I'm getting low on deoderant, Dove soap and high school gossip. Besides, how can I go wrong in the Offspring Stats by offering to swing by when I'm in the neighborhood?

When my mother piped in that she had a list of things from my blog that she wanted to ask me about.

!

?

Oh #$%&.

So in the event that I'm shipped off to the Holly Home where there is most certainly no blogging allowed, please tell my biographers that I want the title to read: Too old for acne; too young to go grey. Sub-head: A life of survival when assumptions go wrong. And make sure they include the one about when I was the University tour guide and massive heat and massive hangover caused me to puke outside freshmen housing. Oh, and see if the book jacket summary could be laid out like crossword puzzle clues. There, perfect.

I've always fancied being remembered by an eyeroll.

"Premature"-gate

That they'd been talking house-buying without me wasn't a surprise - the topic seems to be coming up with increasing frequency - it was his wording that sent me into a tailspin.

He told them that we weren't ready to buy a house; it was, Premature.

She relayed the conversation as our taxi sped through the city toward the bachelorette party, the irony heightening my sensitivity. Or maybe it was the Chardonnay. Premature. Premature. Premature. I was about three repetitions of the word away from tears.

The next morning when he asked how was the evening, he couldn't have been ready for the answer. Which was, of course, not related to the question at all, because I'm hardly ever tactful or timely when frazzled.

He laughed, which as usual, has equal chance of coming across as either appeasing or elevating the situation to an even higher anxiety level. A calculated risk, laughing at my neuroses. Fortunately a hangover dulled my natural ability to jump to conclusions, giving him just the window of opportunity he needed to explain himself. The cosmos clearly support this relationship.

Premature because, as we've discussed, house-buying is not next on my list of Things We Must Do Together, is not something I feel comfortable doing because I have no savings to contribute, and not least of all, Premature because as a car-less urbanite, I have arguably the most enviable commute Ev-er. He is ready, which I didn't need to be reminded, but hearing that he is willing to wait for me to catch up put to rest any remaining agita.

So it wasn't about that whole growing realization that a woman's legs aren't always that smooth and hairless.

And just so there's no confusion, the word Premature will never be used to describe any points of relationship status between these two parties again.

DNF

A long-sleeved t-shirt from a 5-mile Turkey Trot on November 22, 2001. Hungover, I remember distinctly.
My first Nike race from a June 18, 2003 5K. Sprained ankle from falling into a pothole while racing Jim across West Side Highway.
And now, a Run Hit Wonder Dri-Fit from July 20, 2005. A jacked-up toe courtesy of an exuberant dancer who wore very pointy toes Saturday night.

I heard the bands were great, the course and weather favorable; but you wanna know a secret? That hour spent catching up with a girlfriend in a shady spot in my favorite park was even better. And, wow, did you runners stink – even after PBRs here.

Skip a race with me in 2007 anyone?

(J Crash and Suzi, it was decided that you two are the most likely candidates to report back on RHW in your respective cities. And yes, we really did discuss this; we being real-life friends, discussing my blog friends. Outloud.)

Pawn

I love it when we visit with Jim’s 8-year-old nephew. We like the same movies (I now have my very own copy of Finding Nemo!), the same games and, inexplicably still to this day we both once pulled a gourd off the Thanksgiving centerpiece and scratched our back with it. While flattered that he’d copy me, the inexplicable part being how/why my arm, seemingly without asking permission from my brain performed such an act at Jim’s mother’s table. Meekly: It wasn’t during dinner? (Obviously digressing.) I like Jim’s nephew so much that instead of quitting playing checkers with him altogether, I just stopped serving him cucumbers with dip during. We get to still have our fun, AND I don’t have to hand wash my ranch-dressingy checker set after he leaves. Everybody wins.

Nephew came over with his mom for dinner last night, and while Jim and his sister caught up, he searched our game closet. We played a completely novel-to-me version of Jenga before his interest turned to Scrabble. Look, I’ve lost to this family in Trivial Pursuit, water balloon tosses, Whose State University Will Always be Superior and even Karaoke. Scrabble is My Territory and we play it straight. I’ll play an 8-year-old’s vocab level, but the only abbreviation allowed, ever, is OSPD and don’t even try proper names.

Even as challenging and cluttered as that board was getting with all those three-and four-letter words, Nephew and I were having fun; we were bonding, which I aptly figure could be my leverage if Jim ever gives me the heave-ho. As I saw it, there was no need for Jim – my Jim – and his sister to join Nephew's team and be all cutesy dropping a 40-pointer in their first play. Until that turn the highest score had been 16 I think, so you get the feel of the game we were playing. Look, I played along in that made-up ass game of dominoes because I have no idea how to really play; but I don’t BS with Scrabble.

270 to 196. I bet it was so annoying that time I had to recount that triple-word-score play because I get confused adding together high numbers.

But this really isn't about me, so just to reiterate how great Jim's nephew is: he thoroughly enjoyed himself throughout the drubbing game, even when clearly his two 'teammates' weren't listening to his word suggestions. My, what a cute kid.

I've Been in a Cube Longer Than I Was in College

My college degree indicates that I've had some wealth and diversity of business classes, yet you wouldn't have known that when I actually got into the business. -2 is just starting out at her first post-college job and at the risk of further stuffing an envelope that was long ago signed, sealed and delivered with well-intentioned advice - here are some things I wish someone had told me on day one. Which was, incidentally, five years ago this week. Damn, I'd have a 5-year anniversary vacuum right now.

1.) Timeliness goes for both coming and going. It's like a party, but the opposite: don't be the last to come and first to leave.
2.) Keep an extra pair of shoes and toothbrush at your desk. Visine too.
3.) Cell phone - vibrate if on at all.
4.) Publishers, editor in chiefs, or your respective higher-up may not always dress in relation to the responsibility that they carry.
5.) Contribute to your 401k ASAP.
6.) Love the mailman. This will come in handy when you're asking him to wait. just. 10. more. minutes for you to seal the FedEx, or when the packages he asks you to sign for are from J.Crew and eBay.
7.) Sometimes coworkers hang out after hours. Friends let drunken or embarrassing moments slide because, well, that's you and they genuinely like you. Coworkers sometimes don't.
8.) See a project going on that you want in on? Ask; it may change your career.
9.) Post-lunch meetings are brutal when that food coma sets in. Don't be that person. Bring caffeine.
10.) Find out the personal email/Internet/phone usage policy. (this should actually be higher up on the priority list.)
11.) Keep respectable the number of stages of intoxication photos in your cube.
12.) Don't believe everything you hear about female bosses. They can be fabulous.
13.) Advertising and editorial are like church and state in publishing. It's whispered that in some categories, the two departments are 'in bed' with each other, but as for financial publishing, it is a Very Big No No to tell an client you will try to find out whether they are being covered in the Mutual Funds Ranking Issue. Or any other issue. Perhaps a West Coast Ad Sales Director will recognize that you were just trying to be the helpful assistant, and set you straight quickly.
14.) Dress code - echo your boss.
15.) Don't ever be afraid to ask questions.
16.) Instead of getting offended because they say you're too young to know what they're talking about, remember that all those extra years older than you means the more you can learn from them and their, like, bazillion years they've been working.
17.) If they can't give you a raise for the 1st or 3rd year in a row, ask if they'll pay for continuing ed courses.
18.) Always carry your business cards. That is if you want people to know where you work.
19.) You are headed to a meeting with boss and boss' boss. Your phone rings and it's a personal friend who lives in California and who you are planning a visit. What do you do?
20.) Do such a great job that when you move on, they replace you.
21.) If writing is part of your job responsibility, it behooves you to develop a thick skin quickly. Remind yourself that committee edits and rewrites do not mean they hate you.


And at the end of the day, if you've made your boss' day easier, you'll likely be asked to come back in the 'morrow.

Anyone else care to pour a glass of advice for our young divas and he-vas?

Verbal Abuse

Are 7 and 11 still hot?
Didn’t you say you were going to start going by your formal name after college?
Remember when we broke into the pool after hours and you were just hanging off the fence when your bathing suit got caught?
Wow – 10 years later and you still drink cheap beer.
How many chapsticks do you have on you, right now?
This is the same bar where that old man said your teeth looked yellow - but they don't at all anymore.
So, it doesn’t look like you’re going to marry a foreigner and get to have Neil Diamond's Comin' to America as your wedding song, now does it.
Weren’t you in accelerated math classes and you really can’t divide this check by 5?
Your push-up maximizes your mosquito bites very nicely.
You guys are like Will and Grace!
Do you want your after-meal piece of gum?
I can’t believe your hair was once blonde. And straight.
Look at that burn spot! You STILL can’t apply sunblock!
If you still have that loose bladder as a result of overdrinking or overlaughing, could you please take the sofabed?

We may not know the intimate details of each others’ 27-year-old lives, but we have each held on to enough 17-year-old to have a helluva great weekend. And sometimes that's just as meaningful.

Caller ID, Caller Ego

It was breaking the rules, but I answered anyway. It was Sunday, we'd gone all weekend without speaking, and I'd already overheard both the bachelorette and maid of honor checking in with theirs. Besides, if I knew mine, this call was of a practical rather than I Miss You sort.

True, and surprisingly also true. He wanted to know if I'd be home in time to catch dinner together. As in, would our paths cross before he flew away for yet another week? Also he did miss me, half-kiddingly seeking confirmation that I'd not met his replacement at a beach bar.

It was the half-kidding part that got me. Sure I'd once welcomed him into my apartment after his weekend bacchanal through my streets and avenues wearing the skirt he loves and his favorite hair. But that could have passed for coincidence. Could a phone call about logistics? Ha.

I gave him the answers he needed, but not all the ones he wanted - detailed on my arrival time, vague on the details of the weekend. He needn't have worried; with girls you've known since elementary school there may be beach bars named Seacrets, but certainly no secrets. Our only scandal was the attempt to pass off underwear as bathing suits during a not-so-discreet 3 a.m. swim.

That skirt, those Princess Leia buns, and now this phone call. I missed you too.

Wreckless

This blog was born in an Atlantic City hotel room where I was more comfortable cozied up in the Best Bed Ever with a laptop and a high-speed connection than throwing money into a greedy, silver slot or onto a taunting green felt. Though I didn't realize it at the time, I was trading one form of gambling for another - putting my life on the Internet, addiction included, what with the hit counters and site statistics. But without the free cocktails.

It must've been a watershed, because in a fit of hubris I haven't experienced since I first got my driver's license, I dared Lady Luck to keep me out of harm's way for three months. I decided to wake up every morning and roll the dice for the 90 days between when University Job insurance lapsed and before being covered by Advertising Job. 28 days left to shake, blow and hope for a winning throw. Momma certainly didn't need a new pair of shoes, but if I were a numbers gal, I wouldn't be surprised if the monies saved on COBRA are now in shoeboxes and on hangers in my closet. Neither being a place where a father who made his life's work in economics would prefer, but fortunately I have my 401k savvy when I smell the beginnings of rocky territory.

Him: Are you and Jim ever going to...
Me: I avoided the Alternative Minimum Tax this year by offshoring my total cash income from focus group participation. (showing proper diversification of investments) You didn't raise your kids to be hit by an antiquated tax boner, did you? (credit listener with stellar childrearing regarding favorite topic) Who's your favorite now? (a superfluous query as I'm generally accepted amongst siblings as father's uncontested favorite.)
Him: ...actually play on a real golf course?

Just kidding, I'd never say Boner to my father, even in an attempt to prove its placement in a nonvulgar context.

Immediately after passing COBRA's final final filing deadline, I became consumed with the consequences of my recklessness. In a car, happy hour, anywhere near stairs. To date, I've had four periods of pure security: the literal three that arrived right on schedule, and the past weekend when I was covered by every single insurance add-on available with my rental car. At this point, so close to the end of my uninsured stint, every slight pain or irregularity feels like tongue cancer, melanoma or migraines. Not that I was skydiving or doing body shots off guys with open wounds this weekend, but checking that extra little Personal Accident Insurance box on the rental agreement delivered me to a bachelorette party with a much grander sense of assurance than deserved. Especially considering it actually only covered me while I was in the car.

Thankfully, both the car and I came back safe, sound and scratchless. Was I grateful for the protection, or disappointed in spending an extra $60 on safety features?

And my parents think I'm the one they don't have to worry about.

Even the Losers

I tried to beat him home tonight, but I had infinitives to split, participles to dangle and prepositions to place conspicuously in front of periods that kept me late.

As it was, when I swung open the apartment door, there he was seated shirtless on the sofa, heated-up leftovers on his lap. Witnessing such a lackadaisical effort for his favorite meal made me glad I had played the role of the dedicated employee instead of hurring home in hopes of some epicurian wonder. Not to diss last night's pork chops, but sweet merciful carbo-loading, doesn't anyone eat cereal for dinner anymore? For Jim to give a half-assed effort to dinner could only mean that our intentions for the evening were the same.

We cleaned off our dishes and hurried to the bedroom.

No run.
No TV.
No computer.
No telephone.
No packing for the weekend.

Him: Early Bird
Me: I am Charlotte Simmons

If and When

This weekend I saw a man wearing a shirt proclaiming a family reunion that took place on September 8, 2001. My mind wandered trying to picture what he was doing that day: catching up with distant relatives, maybe eating hot dogs, certainly having no clue that the following Tuesday would be anything but insignificant.

This morning's Terror Attack bar hanging on my screen underneath Katie Couric sent my heart racing far past normal for my still half-asleep state, yet nowhere near where it was on that Anything But Insignificant Tuesday.

Coordinated, timed attacks, AM rush hour, financial district. The details jarred me as thankfully only seldom nightmares do now.

I kept watching and listening until it was well past the time I should have been in the shower and then well past the time I should have even been back out of the shower. At work I checked CNN.com (ok, after reading the Post) and again throughout the day to learn the details as they emerged, but never even discussed the incident aloud with coworkers. We are an entire office that drives (or walks) to work, and thus are not inconvenienced by the increased security measures I read about at local train stations and the airport. Without disruption of a regular schedule, the London Attacks remained a global - not local - story.

Somwhere, someday a Brit will see a shirt that says July 6, 2005, think of the day they were awarded the 2012 Olympic Games, and then be reminded how things changed the day after...

My heart goes out to Londoners, who will be urged to 'return to normalcy' albeit now with an unspoken paranoia of If and When It Happens Next. And in my nondiscussion of the event all day and practically forgetting to mention it to Jim in the evening, I realize I'm adjusting to living in a place that lacks that paranoia.

Also oddly unsettling.

Why I Haven't Written About Live 8

I thought about the movie Crash for two days straight afterward. I never wrote about it - couldn't even explain to someone about it - because I couldn't find anything...anything...worthwhile that I could add.

Likewise.

The crowds good; the music great; the shade plentiful; the message repeated. (There's an HIV-positive Muppet?!)

Make Poverty History.

Listening to the girl who whined "This is the" finale during Stevie, walking through the myriad piles of abandoned food and beverage, chairs, blankets and coolers - items deemed so unimportant they weren't even worth a trip to the trash can - and later reading an editorial by the man who waxed on about how great the event made Philadelphia look.

I wondered how many actually got the message.

And then I thought about my refrigerator, with the entire salad-in-a-bag with a mysterious brown sog dripping from it, and at least three raspberry yogurts with long-passed expiration dates that will send them to my trash instead of stomach. Wasted.

And though I'm not sure that actually means I got the message, it means I was at least aware that I did not just or only attend a free concert. Now what do I do with it?

You know, in case you wondered.

Unrequited

I’d never felt more stoic, stiff and sober: a Maypole, her circular dance an attempt to wind me up with her merriment.

It could have been because we were into the fifth hour of live music, and I was part of a dwindling number of people who beverage rationed. There was a time when drinking all day didn’t faze me, but using one of the 450 port-o-potties shared between 600,000 concertgoers seemed particularly – blech.

The Maypole streamer and I were in different places, and her next statement confirmed so.

“I’m so glad we’re friends, I luuuuuv yewwwwww.”

Though a bit premature to be shared, it wasn't the sentiment that bothered me most. Those who know me are already shaking their heads, for it was the hug. I'm so not an effusive hugger; most comfortable only by being the hug initiator. I have no explanation it's this weird thing.

She lazily danced away, looking for someone in our group who was less—rigid. Her reaction to my non-response indicated that it hadn’t bothered her – and even so, our friendship is so young that she couldn’t yet know that I’m not a drunken-gusher type. Also young enough for me to be unaware that she, apparently, is. We found out that we'd both been brought to Philadelphia by our respective boyfriend's respective employer's, and that was only the beginning of our similarities. Our outing to the driving range had gone well, but a happy hour had ended with me holding her hair back while she blew chunks in an arc over her sandals. The dexterity was ironically impressive, and I'd later complimented, even high-fived her. Sure, we'd bonded. But: Love?

I watched her fade into the throngs, and thought about our young friendship, and about my early days in college when my first acquaintances were the ones who I saw the most – down the hall, two floors up, next door. As I widened my set, I also narrowed it, naturally gravitating toward the personalities that meshed with my own. And now that it often takes long-distance effort, the group is smaller still.

I love them, yes, so what's my deal with the hugs?

Pull up a Chair

Meghan, Nicole, Whitney and Will – these friends from Atlanta up to Manhattan are all calling in with reports of status quo. And these are only my friends who I talk with most; sporadic contact with others reveals much of the same. So much for the quarter-life crisis, they're out there planning weddings, becoming doctors and professors, purchasing a second house and getting their name on the masthead. It’s enough to make me question what I bring to the friendship table for crying out loud.

How-ev-er, official results have yet to be tallied, but polls are showing that I may have a chair at new little friendship table right here in Philadelphia. Faced with that hefty tuition souvenir from my Great Idea, Jim pointed out that I should have just moved to Philadelphia and goofed off for 6 months and what would have been the difference? If I had though, I wouldn’t have met my first three friends here. My three coworkers, who only by sharing my real career aspirations when I told them I quit, became my allies, supporters, and not least of all, confidantes (hi guys! Have fun in Vegas!). I may've never had three more expensive friends than they. Them.

Then I ended up at the current job where young women abound. Potential friends, and I made them. For the first time in my life - even including when I worked at the yogurt store - I have friends at work. And sometimes we hang out afterwards.

Life is good, except for in a few hours when I wake up and will most definitely be hungover.