Powder Here, Powder There, Powder Everywhere

I'm going to be quiet for a couple days, at least online. Otherwise, I'll probably be screaming my bloody noggin off, as I'm heading out for a few days of snowboarding in Vail with my sister. She's Trying to Procreate and therefore may not be available for death-defying sports that can potentially turn your skeleton inside out in the near future. I hear they have the best snow they've had there in 20 years, so I'm pretty excited to get some powder instead of the rock-hard ice slicks that pass for ski resorts on the east coast. I'm going for her company holiday/winter party and her birthday -- every year her boss comps them lift tickets to Vail, so I even get to go for free. Plus, judging by last year, her boss also enjoys buying me expensive tequila. So it should be a good time.

Of course, this means missing the final booze-soaked wake for my dear Black Table here in NYC, which pains me to no end (although I'm sure no one there will miss me, as they'll have plenty of powder of their own to cut the pain). I can't believe I'm not going to be there to say goodbye; it's like having someone close to you kick off and then not being able to see the body -- I think it might impair my ability to "move on." But, what're you going to do?

At any rate, my excitement for Colorado at this point is outweighing my disappointment at missing the BT party so all is well.

How I Feel When I've Been Bad, and Why I Try to Be Good

I spotted this the other day in one of those big garbage bins outside a parking garage on 52nd between Fifth and Sixth. Obviously somebody thought this dummy was ready for Fresh Kills. It made me kind of sad to see her there, all headless and worthless. The picture sucks because I only had my cameraphone along, but nevertheless, here it is. Just in case you can't read it through the fuzzy, the word on this woman's torso is "Trash."

So Uma gets onto a bus

The MTA has caused me plenty of heartache in the six years I’ve lived in New York, most recently forcing me -- thanks to the strike -- to walk eight miles home from my job in midtown to my brownstone in Brooklyn in the middle of December.

And it was no different this morning as I sat shivering under the drippy highline overpass at 18th Street waiting for one of the five – FIVE! – M14 buses lined up, but not moving, outside of Chelsea Piers to spirit (drag) me crosstown so I could get to work. I’m not sure what it is about 18th Street, it must be the designated smoke/eat a sandwich in the back/pee in a bottle stop for the drivers along this route, because you’re always waiting even though there is a veritable FLEET of buses seemingly at the ready.

Feeling my bouncy new curls sag into oblivion and growing crosser with each passing moment as I worried a rock in the bottom of my shoe, I tried to think happy thoughts about the MTA so I wouldn’t throttle the lazy driver once she eventually opened the door.

Surprisingly, I conjured up one shiny, happy memory I have of the MTA that momentarily salvaged my mood (until the bus driver nearly drove past me without stopping and I had to throw my body against the door of the moving beast to catch her attention). That was uncalled for, lady. Really.

Anyway, back to the happy stuff that makes New York magical every 10 months or so.

So this summer some friends and I went to go see the New Pornographers in Prospect Park, which is a neighborhood over from Carroll Gardens. Unsure that we’d be able to sneak booze in past the guards, we decided to give our livers a rare treat and take in the show sober. I showed up with my roommate Lacy and our friend Melissa and a few other people, and soon enough we ran into friends who were sitting on a picnic blanket happily sucking down a Thermos of caparinhas. Our weak resolve crumbled, and Lacy and I promptly set off in search of the closest liquor store (with a caparinha go-cup in hand).

What joy we found at the liquor store when we encountered FIVE-DOLLAR BOXES of wine, about the size of those soymilk things, that would easily stack in the bottom of my bag and inside of Lacy’s jacket, easily allowing us to bypass the guards (who obviously didn’t care all that much if the crowd descended into a drunken haze, oblivious to the mass trampling of toddlers and dogs).

Only when we got back to our seat did we realize that each box contained the equivalent of TWO boxes of wine. It was not good wine, mind you, but the sun was shining, the air was balmy, it was summer, there was music, and soon enough, we were drunk as pirates.

Eventually, after decamping to a friend’s house, it was the middle of the night and time for the pirates to find a ride home. Melissa and I set off in search of a cab. A subway was out of the question, since it was one of those nights you feared you’d lose balance and fall onto the third rail. Unable to find a cab, we stood near a bus stop and maniacally waved down – much as you would a cab – the next bus that came by.

The details are fuzzy, but to this day I believe we successfully hailed an MTA bus. I mean, an off duty bus, or a bus that was not supposed to stop there. Melissa looks shockingly like Uma Thurman and I looked like a tall redhead who had been on a six-hour bender (and thus, he knew, probably had zero defenses against a pass, even if it was from a man wearing blue polyester).

“Where you girls headed?” he asked. “CARROLL GARDENS!” we screamed. “Can you take us there? Do you go there?” “Uhhhhhh…not really. But hop in anyway.”

We spent the next ten minutes chattering away at the driver, who probably immediately regretted his decision, and he kindly dropped us off a block from each of our respective houses and wished us both a good night.

How’s that for service? Hail a bus. Try it sometime. It helps if you look like Uma Thurman.

Stuck in 11th grade

So I'm researching this story for my sorta-day-job about this company called Fortune Brands, which makes a whole bunch of consumer products, basically everything but the kitchen sink. Oh wait, they make kitchen sinks too.

Anyway, much of the article deals with their golf business and namely, their production of Titleist golf balls.

I don't get much joy out of my day job, but I giggle every time I see the word "Titleist," because all I can think of is that episode of Beavis & Butt-Head where they decide to earn extra money by stealing golf balls off courses and selling them back to the players for a dollar.

The gramatically challenged Beavis fishes around in a water hazard, pulls out a little white ball, and screams, "TIT-leeist! TIT-leeist! TIT-leeist! Heh heh heh heh heh."

I don't know quite what it says about me that I'm still laughing at boobie jokes, but I'm thankful for the giggle any way I can get it.

Unbelievable

After a week of gnashing my teeth -- sometimes literally -- the ass double now decides to text me to see if I want to make weekend plans.

ARGHGHGHGHGHGGHGHGHGHG!!!!!

I've Sunk So Low

So I've been on Friendster basically since its inception, and recently my L.A. contingent forced me to join MySpace (which I really don't see the point of, but whatever, I'm there). I've had fun on Friendster, using it to keep in touch with friends and what's going on with them; I've also been tracked down by people I haven't seen in years but was delighted to hear from. I've never really used Friendster as a "dating" site, although this summer I finally vowed to go out with each and every man who asked me out for a week after reading some baloney about "just saying yes" to life and how if you do, miraculous things will happen. SNORT. I went on three dates -- one with a chubby, overeager and nervous lawyer, one with a short, overconfident lawyer and one with a Greek hipster who actually had the cojones to call his drug dealer in the middle of our first date, although that's another story entirely. The funniest part is, I liked the drugged up hipster the best and we actually remained friends, even if he needs to cut back on the illegal substances.

ANYWAY, after getting blown off by Asshole Ass Double, who is double the ass for making me believe he was a good guy when really he wasn't, instead of just being a straight-up ass, I kind of sunk into despair. Sitting at home last night, desperately praying for my Tylenol PM to kick in, I realized that since I've turned 30 people have stopped really writing me as much on Friendster. I mean, I don't care, since I never wanted to go out with any of them anyway, but I realized maybe the demographic shift would mean I would never again have the grand opportunity of gulping glass after glass of cranberry vodkas with a sweaty-handed stranger. And that would be a shame.

So I decided to step up to the granddaddy of the "real" dating sites and throw my profile up on Match and see what happened. A little social experiment if you will.

What happened is this: every overweight, unattractive, grammatically challenged hornball from Bayonne to Bay Ridge has flooded my inbox with "winks" (a pussy version of a hello) and long emails about how I must be their long-lost love. I'm scared they're going to look up my zip code and stalk me like a horde of sex-starved zombies or something. I think I'll be pulling my profile after today, because it's kind of freaking me out. I don't think these people would come up to me in bars or whatnot to ask me out, why is it different online? Less face to lose, I guess.

The demographics on Match, as compared to say Friendster, seem to skew older, fatter, uglier, dumber, more sincere and richer.

This is actually a *good* thing for me, because since all my friends are young, thin, attractive, smart, snarky and broke as clowns, it's unlikely any of them will be trolling on Match and therefore witnessing my shame.

Stupid OTC Drugs

Why oh why does it take THREE HOURS for Tylenol PM to kick in, so I can finally, mercifully fall asleep and have apocolyptic morning dreams wherein David Hasselhoff drives me -- a dead ghost -- around in a roofless helicopter while I watch a man in a car get crushed by a falling boulder, think about pulling the cord on his parachute, and decide against the ripcord only to die over France as he crushes to earth from the heavens and into France to, in his mind, set some kind of world record? Of course, his mind is my mind, since it was my mind that was dreaming. Which makes it extra scary.

I obviously need something stronger. I wonder if my Goodwill health "insurance" covers Xanax or Ambien? If anyone is trying to break the habit and get it out of your med cabinet, please send it to me.

Right before I moved to NYC, I could never sleep, either. Escaping the confines of Arkansas, where everyone I was expected to date wore a pager on their belt, was just too exciting to allow slumber. My dad said to go buy some Sominex and drink some red wine with it, so I did. Dad's a doctor. It never worked either. I'd be up until four in the morning and then finally, fitfully fall sleep only to be subjected to some terrible OTC hangover until 11 the next day. The last time I took sominex before that was on a bus ride back from Seattle when I was 17. Along the way to Washington, a homeless man threw his imaginary friend "Todd" out the window and announced to the bus, after 11 hours of arguing loudly with himself, that "Everyone on the bus, Todd is RIGHT!"; later, some toothless teenager who called himself a waver (was this a Kurt Cobain thing? I can't remember) smelling of cabbage offered to sell me drugs. On the way back to South Dakota I decided to obliterate myself with Sominex to avoid the crazies and fatties who hogged my seat, since booze would make me pee too much. Now I need a drug that 1) makes me sleep and 2) costs less than booze, which only makes me stay up later anyway.

It would really make mom proud if I killed myself OD'ing on an OTC drug and not anything even vaguely glamorous like cocaine or heroin. Sheesh.

Advice

Regarding the seemingly phone averse Butt Double has included: "Drastically reduce expectations," to "He's just a flake, but maybe he likes you," to "He's an ass, forget about him" to "He called, and that's what you wanted, and that's a GOOD THING."

I guess at this point nothing less than him running over here with his cat under one arm and a spare key to his apartment for me tucked in his pocket could make me happy; of course in my overzealous excitement I expected too much from him, and that's not his fault. But, still, I guess I"m going to go with "Drastically reduce expectations."

Off to drink a scotch and try to forget about it. I'm sick of reducing my expectations. I'm sick of drinking scotch and trying to forget about it. He has terrible timing.

Ass Double, Fruit Plate

So about a week ago I met this chap at the climbing wall, and flirting ensued. This doesn't usually happen at the wall; there's some kind of unspoken rule that Thou Shalt Not Hit Upon Others at the Gym, or maybe they just all find me grotesque, who knows. But he's not a regular and hadn't heard about the rule, and surprisingly enough, asked me on a date. I mean, just plain turned to me before he got on a climb and asked me out on a date, like, "Would you like to go on a date with me this week?" This was refreshing because usually when guys "ask me out," it means they face-plant in my lap at 3 a.m. at some party after consuming 87 drinks and a few lines and then think it's a good idea to beg me to scoot off somewhere for a bout of tonsil hockey. Whatever. Unsurprisingly, I"ve had enough of that approach.

Anyway, I found myself getting more and more excited about this date in a way that I hadn't been in ages. He was strapping and gorgeous (more on that later) and seemed reasonably intelligent but in an un-tortured way that was not about being all wrapped up in his own brilliance. He smiled a lot and he was fun.

So we decided to go out Tuesday, and go out we did. Things went smashingly; the chemistry was unbelievable and a way you just can't manufacture if it's not there to begin with, and there was making out and groping and all that good stuff. I saw him the next day and he made me an omelette and arranged little orange slices on a plate for me and we cuddled on the couch and he asked when could we climb again, when could I teach him to snowboard, we should go to Vermont! Etc. etc. All stuff that may have been dubious if said the evening before but somehow just seemed natural, nice and incredibly sweet and optimistic on day two. I was excited in all caps. Men should know that they cannot just throw out the phrase "we should go to Vermont" to a woman and think she won't attach some kind of significance to it, but maybe he didn't get that memo either.

Anyway, the first 10 minutes or so of our tuesday date were spent talking about his upcoming day at work. That day at work, he was performing as an ass double for a Major Motion Picture Star in a movie that's shooting in New York. His ass was chosen above all other 140 asses that interviewed for the close-up shots. And I must say, he truly, truly does have a fantastic ass. And face. And seemingly, decent taste in music, literature and (of course), women, since he had the good sense to ask me out.

I spent all week this week alternately walking around with a shit-eating grin on my face because I had finally, FINALLY met someone that really, really interested me (sure, it was kind of about his ass, but more about the fruit plate) and on top of it this person seemed down to earth, sweet, sensible, smart and not the vain ass you'd expect him to be considering his physical perfection, and pacing around waiting for him to call me already, although we had established early on our mutual distaste for cellphones.

Of course, most people I have talked to about him have urged me to run screaming 300 miles in the opposite direction from this person, because as everyone knows, actors/models/bartenders in New York are vain asses who will melt your heart with their smiles and then ruthlessly break it when you turn your back for five seconds. I see their point, but his actions on Day 2 date convinced me otherwise. I consider myself a decent judge of character and I had no reason not to believe the stuff he was telling me. I mean, there's no reason to talk about Vermont on Day 2 unless you really want to go there, hypothetically at some point in the future if you continue to like each other, right? Maybe I'm naive but if he was an ass, why bother with a damn fruit plate!?

Whatever, the point is, we were supposed to go climbing (this morning) but it didn't happen; post-shoot the cast went out for some bender that lasted until 8 a.m. and completely put him out of commission for the weekend. He texted me at 2:40 this morning to tell me he wouldn't make it. I mean, fine, whatever. This is New York and sometimes you Have to Go Out. I know this. He said in his text he'd call me today. This was a promise he made good on, sort of. He called me (tonight) to say he was a block away from a movie theater and he was five minutes late already. So we basically had a 30 second conversation and he threw out a vague "we should get together later this week...." thing. I don't think he understands that I want to see him again FIVE MINUTES AGO and a vague later this week is probably going to drive me over the edge with anxiety and longing.

Also, I fear I may be getting the slow fade. Ahhh, the slow fade. I've done it a million times, I guess maybe I deserve it. But I feel like shaking him by the shoulders because it really felt real...and I haven't felt that in so long. And that doesn't happen unless it's more or less mutual, right? It doesn't happen very often. Please don't slow fade if there is the potential for something real.

I love that I met someone who made me as excited as he did, but I don't love that it's turned me into a fully neurotic whack job. I hate people like that and I hate what it's doing to me. I hate reading something into every action or non-action of his and I know I need to just calm the fuck down, but I'm really excited about him and getting to know him more and have not been able to accomplish the calming yet. I can't figure out if I totally misread him and he really is more of an ass than just an ass double, or if I'm just freaking out about behavior or lack thereof that means absolutely nothing. After all, there are few people in the world who are as neurotic as I, although I try show this side only to close allies who understand that underneath my neuroses I'm basically sane and not to new boys who make me fruit plates.

I wish I could see into the future so I could either 1) quit hoping or 2) calm down and trust it. I tend to be pessimistic so I think I"m just going to quit hoping. I misjudged. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and allowed myself to dream, and now I'm paying for it. If he really liked me, I would have been sitting in that movie theater right now instead of sitting at home wondering does he like me, does he not like me, like some idiotic 13 year old. Right?

Best. Post. Ever.

Todd Levin, who is always hilarious, has really outdone himself with this screed on those scooters for fat people. Please go read it, it's really well done and I nearly fell out ma' chair laughing. Plus, "myocardial infarction" has been my favorite word for the last four years. It gives me cred when I date doctors and I like how it sounds vaguely scatological, when in fact it just means "heart attack."

Feeling goofy

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you’re young at heart
For it’s hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
If you’re young at heart

You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
And life gets more exciting with each passing day
And love is either in your heart or on its way
-- Frank Sinatra

Someone, for the love of Pete, tell me to stop being an idiot. I'm a jaded nearly middle aged lady (OK, 30) and to think otherwise can only lead to disappointment. RIGHT? That's what New York taught me, and I should listen to the city that knows the best. If it turns out New York is wrong, I'll let you know.

A poetic gripe from a not-that-aged subway rider

Another subway bag search
I’d tend to be less pissed
If instead of calling me “ma’am”
They’d learn to call me “miss.”

What, really, is the point of the subway bag search? Seven cops (“Take a step back from the table, ma’am!!!!” Yes, because that sports bra in there is super dangerous!) scan my gym bag for explosives. Why? Because it’s a few cubic inches larger than someone else’s enormous purse? If it only takes a smidge of plastique on the bottom of someone’s shoe to blow up an entire airplane, why discriminate in bag searches by size? Why make me miss the train while someone in a trench coat over an explosive vest doesn’t get pulled out for testing?

I wouldn’t mind being troubled for security’s sake if I felt it would makes me safer, but it never does, because it’s nonsensical. I once went to an office building where to get in, you had to stand in front of a video camera and say your name. So, how does that work, how does that make anything safer? A bomber walks in, gives his name, goes upstairs and hits the trigger – he goes down, and with him, the tape is blown to smithereens and in the meantime, everyone else is dead. Why waste 30 effing seconds of my day to say my name into some machine? Argh!

Not to mention I am forced to follow “rules” that make my life immeasurably more difficult but are only followed when it's convenient for the person exercising the power. Example: you must be on the same airplane as your bags. This has many a time been given as a reason why I can’t get on an earlier flight if I’m connecting somewhere. I call bullshit. Because I know damn well that when they lose my luggage (and they nearly always do) during a connection that I make and my luggage doesn’t, they put it on another plane – one which I’m not on – and a cabbie drops it off at my apartment a day or two or hell even three later, with the wheels busted off. Do they put it on a greyhound? No. Do they ask me to come back on through Minneapolis so I can accompany my bags back to New York? No.

Stop the madness. Please. It's enough to make me move to rural France.

The Mallification of Carroll Gardens

I am disappointed to see that they're turning a nice neighborhood sit-down pizza joint on Court Street around the corner from my apartment (in Carroll Gardens) into a damn Dunkin' Donuts. New York magazine says DD is going to have up to 1,300 stores in the New York metro area by next summer, which is truly alarming.

There's already a coffee shop on this street and I'd hate to see them lose business to any newcomer idiots who might prefer DD coffee, though I'm sure Carroll Gardens old guard will boycott it. Also, their donuts suck. Had it been a Krispy Kreme, I'd have been tempted. So I guess it's good for me that it wasn't a Krispy Kreme.

ANYWAY, it's funny to me that Dunkin Donuts is going to have over a thousand stores in a city where, as the NYTimes recently wrote, more than 800,000 people -- or one in every eight New Yorkers -- has DIABETES.

I have an idea. Maybe abortion-clinic bombers can shift their focus to Dunkin' Donuts.

They'd probably save more lives.

Sorry. That was a bit insensitive.

The cure for consistent blogging...

is apparently happiness, because I haven't felt much like blogging lately. I guess if I'm not bitching or whining, I have nothing to say? Wow, that's sad.

All I know is that I went for a run this morning, and the sun was shining, the air was clear and if Brooklyn had birds other than pigeons, they probably would have been singing. At sunrise the Brooklyn Bridge was gilded and glowing, and the neighbors were out in the streets saying in their old-school Brooklyn accents, "Can you believe it's January? GAWGEOUS!!!"

I've managed to sustain a nearly-consistent state of happiness for a possible lifetime record of four days, but don't worry (and I know you're worried about a lack of sadsack drivel), I'm sure it will all go to shit by tomorrow and I'll be right back here talking at you in no time soon.

Erin's Perfect Pancakes

At the risk of losing my edge over all the Bisquick devotees in this city, I am going to share the most swoon-worthy pancake recipe known to man with all of you.

2 eggs
1/2 C. sugar (mix together)

2 C. flour
2 t baking powder
2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt (mix together and add gradually)....

alternating with....

2 C. buttermilk

Now you lazy asses, this takes five minutes. Make it. It's miles better than Bisquick. Butter the pan before you spoon in the pancake batter. Slather with more butter (it's the South Dakota way!), drown in syrup, and groan.

You're welcome.

Bye Bye Black Table

My beloved Black Table is being put to rest later this month. It lived 3 long and fulfilling years, which in Internet time makes it a wheezing old geezer begging for someone to shut off its oxygen and put it out of its misery. The reason for its demise is that those who made it live and lovingly spoon-fed it every day have very deservedly go on to endeavors that actually pay them to be creative and out there in general are too busy being minor media celebrities to keep on giving the Black Table the loving care it needs. The Black Table was created so people like me had a place that would welcome publishing all the stuff that other magazines were too silly or outmoded or high minded to publish, and it kept me from going nuts from boredom during my five dry years at the Wall Street Journal.

There's going to be a wake later this month so you can throw a clump of dirt on the Black Table and send it off to the great URL in the sky, although unfortunately I won't be there since I'll be in Colorado snowboarding. At any rate, go party with all my BT friends. They're the best.

We'll miss you, Black Table.

And, if you'd like to read some of the items I've written for the site, you can click here to access them in the archives.

Super Dope Home Boy

Here is a conversation I had with my sister in her bedroom while we were at home in South Dakota for Christmas. There isn't much to do there, and that's putting it very kindly, unless you enjoy shopping for firearms at Wal-Mart.

Erin: Oh my god, is this my old M.C. Hammer CD sitting on top of your CD player?
Michelle: Yeah, hahahaha. You're a dork.
Erin: Let's listen!
Michelle: Don't make me!

M.C. Hammer: "Can't touch this!"
(pause to imagine wild, frenetic and giggle-infused Hammer-pants dancing, along with bad Midwestern girl-rapping. if you dare.)

Erin: I am TOTALLY downloading this before I go back to New York.
Michelle: YOU ARE JOKING.
Erin: I am totally NOT joking. It will be AWESOME to work out to. Even if it includes the lyrics "Super dope home boy from the Oaktown."

And it is indeed awesome to work out to. If it makes you smile during your 56th minute on a treadmill, you know it's worth the embarassment of having it on your iPod. I especially enjoyed Pray, the one that rips off "When Doves Cry." I was thinking, wow, there should be a mashup of this shit! Then maybe it would be cool! But then I realized, wait, this is already pretty much a mashup of something else. So what would that make it? A double mash I guess.

"Let me bust the funky lyrics." Word.

Crushing on David Addison

Since my earlier post could have scared away readers due to its high gloominess content, let me add that 2006 is not entirely lost, for I have yet to finish viewing the first two seasons of Moonlighting DVDs that I got for Christmas.

This show is alternately wonderful and horrible, although my friend Dave, who has screened a few episodes with me, might argue that it is simply just "horrible." The bad 80s clothes! The bad 80s hair! The bad 80s synth music!

All of the above is true. The plotlines involving cases to be solved are especially rotten. Episodes typically end with a "harrowing" (and groan-inducing) scene in which we find our hero and heroine precariously dangling off an L.A. high-rise with a bad guy gripping their ankle. We then watch Mr. Baddie (who often has a serious case of acne, because all people with acne are driven to a life of crime) fall many stories to his death.

And yet, I devour it. I guess the reason I really love the show is because David Addison woos Maddie the way I've always liked to be woo'ed, and it's fun to watch him do it. Watching David silly-seduce Maddie brings to mind the question of the chicken and the egg. Did watching Moonlighting during the years when my fermenting hormones were about to erupt forth cause my lifelong magnetic attraction to fast-talking alpha-male jackasses? Or did my latent attraction to fast-talking alpha-male jackasses (albeit ones with good hearts and nimble brains) draw me to David Addision? The world may never know. All I know is my junior-year prom date -- the first 'man' I ever really went totally gaga over -- not only looked like David Addison, but he smirked like him too. From then on I was hooked on cockiness, and find nothing less dull than someone who doesn't have the balls to be bold and perhaps brash in his flirtations.

Despite the crap mystery plotlines, Moonlighting's dialogue is delightful. I think the writers were pretty ahead of their time with the sexual innuendo and repartee. A sample: Maddie freaks out (as usual), and David playfully shouts "You're losing your grip and I haven't even had a chance to sample it yet!" She glowers, but she LIKES IT, dammit!

Here's to the David Addisons of the world, may your jackassery live on and on.

Happy New Year, Have a Mallet in the Skull

It occured to me the other day that I may be suffering from some kind of general low-grade depression when a dear friend asked me what my hopes were for 2006 and I said, "I have absolutely no expectations for this year." Now, that is just sad. I have vague dreams of taking another overseas climbing trip or meeting up with my brother and sister to snowboard, but then I remembered I don't have any money. Oh yeah, that. I am really sick of that being a problem. So maybe one of my resolutions should be "make some more money, so I can do crap I want to do."

Anyway, I can't shake off a sinking feeling that 2006 is going to suck. The first that happened to me in the new year is that I got an email from my ex boyfriend (who I was with for nearly 3 years) telling me he's engaged to Ms. Wonderful, and really, it's wonderful. It's wonderful for him, but for reasons I can't quite put my finger on, it socked me in the gullet and I spent the first minutes of my first day back at work furiously trying to blink back a hot sluice of tears that threatened to short out my keyboard as I read his really very nice and heartfelt email remembering times we had together, yadda yadda. I guess feelings of regret, guilt and sorrow have plagued me ever since that really wrenching breakup (instigated by me, in an ironic twist) and my brain or heart got stuck on loop somewhere along the way.

If you "make the right choice" by breaking up with someone, should you still be feeling terrible about it more than a year later? How is that possible, and what does it mean?

I tried volunteering, exercising like some kind of marathoner on crack, dating, not dating, having sex, abstaining from sex, drinking, not drinking, going to church, doubting God, being manic and being sedate. All to no or little avail. I used to be a happy person, or at least I experienced upswings to offset the bleaker times.

This has been going on for over a year, maybe it's time for Prozac. Can someone send me some? Thanks.