I run away.
When I was a kid, I'd pack up a ziplock bag of my dad's chocolate chip cookies and take a $5 piece of ply-wood to the middle of the grain field and sit, eating cookies. Not being at home.
Now, when I run away, I pack up my duffel bag, take a $20 bus to the middle of the biggest city in the country and sit, walk, drink, sleep, and eat. Not being at home. I don't run away to silent spaces anymore; maybe the silence makes my thinking too loud. Amplifies it. But in the city, where even my loudest thought is a footstep in the roar of downtown traffic, interference becomes and excuse not to think at all. And I don't mind. Interference on my tv makes me irritated, but in the constant prattle of self-indulgent interior monologue, it's a welcome distraction.
And when I climb off my $20 bus, she's there waiting for me -- the friend who doesn't ask questions to which I don't have good answers. It's someone to run away to, when there's ever so much to run away from. She lets me sleep the weekend away when we've already made big plans that end up being too tiring to accomplish. It's a good friend who not only lets you be the party pooper but still thanks you for coming.
Can't wait to run away this weekend.

A few days ago, my boss put on a show that would make Leona Helmsley seem slightly temperamental, if not mild mannered. At the time, I had wanted to shave her head and force her to eat her own hair. That's how irritated I was with her unprofessional attitude. And yesterday, sweet mercy, she apologized. Her excuse was that she was "getting her period and PMSing." I beg your pardon? THAT is your reason? Forgive me, but if it has escaped your attention, I too am female. And yet, somehow I manage to go all month, all year even and not throw a tantrum at work.
PMS is not an excuse for bad behavior.
It is ridiculous! It's infuriating! There is nothing more difficult than being a woman in a man's profession and being taken seriously. They look at my butt when I walk away, look down my shirt when I lean over, comment on my clothing and my hair but they do not listen to what I have to say. But I do have things to say. And when I'm angry or bullheaded at work, it is for a good reason. And I cannot tolerate the fact my boss runs around throwing tantrums and passing it off as PMS. It simply gives them just one more reason to not listen to me, as a woman, when I insist I know what I'm talking about.
I'm sorry, but women like her ruin it for the rest of us who want to be viewed as something more than a quivering pile of emotional instability! I try pick my battles, and I don't let people get away with mistreating me for too long before they get a reminder that I'm not to be walked on. Her excuse for her behavior (which she gave in front of a man I work with), will only serve to make my well-timed reminders seem like Heather's tantrum. Man, it must be that time of the month...Heather's speaking up.
It used to anger me that when my mother was particularly edgy, my father would say, "Go easy on your mom; it's her time of the month." Why?! I don't reserve the right to go completely unglued when my uterus (sorry boys) seems to be in control of the situation and I'm two seconds away from giving up childbearing potential and having the whole organ system ripped out of my body. Why do other women feel this is an acceptable practice? Take a break, take a pill, take a cab home, take a syringe of morphine but do NOT come to work and lose your cool with me and blame it on hormones or hot flashes. Because, that shit just don't fly, sister.

I rode the bus this morning in my usual way: headphones securely planted in ears (a clearcut 'do not disturb' to the colorful array of bus riffraff), and face buried in a book. And when my stop came, I almost didn't hear her voice over the music coming from my discman.
"That is a nice book, " she said, her delicate, accented voice the first of her charms. I glanced up. She had this face, the kind that doesn't leave your memory, but for no other reason than it was perfectly ordinary (olive complexion, dark eyes, slightly crooked teeth--one slightly forward of the others). And yet something about her struck me.
"Yes," I said, "It's really a great book. Very surprising. I just read the part about the American journalist and the land mine..."
"I could see it shocked you," she smiled. There was a timidity to her face, but a quick, brightness that I envied at once. She was not magazine beautiful, clearly. But in a second, I would have traded all my American vanilla sameness for her foreign (South American, was it?) je ne sais quois. Strangers on buses do not talk about books on their ways to their respective jobs on cold, October mornings. They are too wrapped up in emails to be written, errands to be run, or simply shutting out the idea that there is anyone on the bus besides themselves. She didn't buy into that. And I was perfectly willing to play her game. She was charming. That is the only word for it. Something unassuming and sweet -- the kinds of things boys fall in love with and can't name
"I loved the introduction," she said, standing when the bus slows.
"Amazing philosophy," I agreed, also standing.
"I hope you enjoy the rest of your book." and then we squeezed out of the crowded bus, her running to Harvard and me, walking in my long-legged pace to a silly job.
I wanted to be her.

My weekend was wonderful, thank you for asking!
The ride to New Hampshire was rainy and bumper to bumper traffic. Bryan and Cece had rented the cabin and by the time we arrived, they already had a fire going in the fireplace. We got cozy, and sat around doing silly card tricks and boy-against girl Trivial Pursuit and everything was absolutely perfect. The sheets were freezing until morning, when the air outside was too cold to leave bed. So we stayed under covers, laughing, with Cece's dog, Libby taking her half out of the middle.
We hiked Mt. Hale on Saturday. The leaves were so many different colors, and all over the trail and woods, it looked like a crazy carpet sample we get at work from time to time. The hike wasn't easy, but it was so much fun. My cheeks hurt from the wind and from smiling so much. We quoted Zoolander and Crank Yankers and pretended that sliding on the wet rocks didn't hurt that bad. We ate sandwiches at the summit and piled on more layers of clothing -- it was probably 35 degrees at the top. We took three pictures and headed back to the path where the wind couldn't get us. We half ran, half slid back down the mountain telling nature stories, childhood memories, and puking tales (after Bryan lost his breakfast on the trail), and laughing. We drove back to the cabin, stopping on the way to get more food than we could possibly eat in the next 24 hours. By 9:30, I was completely useless and dozing by the fire on the couch. It was, quite possibly, the most perfect day I have had in a long time.

You don't like the sound of the truth
Comin' from my mouth
You say that I lack the proof
Well, baby that might be so

I might get to the end of my life
To find out everyone was lying
I don't think that I'm afraid anymore
Say that I would rather die trying

Oh, swing me, way down South
Sing me, something brave from your mouth
And I'll bring you pearls of water on my hips
And the love from my lips, all the love from my lips

What a way to spend a dime
What a way to use the time, ain't it baby?
I looked at my reflection
in the window walking past
And I saw a stranger
Just so scared all the time
Makes it one more reason
the world is so dangerous.

Oh, swing me way down South
Sing me something brave from your mouth
And I'll bring you pearls of water on my hips
And the love from my lips, all the love from my lips

I'm going away for the weekend. You don't even know how good this makes me feel just to say it. Away. To the mountains of New Hampshire to hike, sleep and not answer my cell phone. So, if you're calling, FORGET it. Yeah, not answering my phone does leave me saying, "but what if there's an emergency and someone needs to get ahold of me?" Well, what about the 23 years I didn't have a cell phone? *send me a text message*

Have been having some really great e-mail exchanges with my brother the last couple of days. True, the situation is a horrible one but it's nice to know that we can commiserate with one another. He's so good. I mean it. Just a nice person. I, unfortunately, am not so nice.... but I have my ways and my reasons, and hopefully, I'll turn out ok one day.

My co-worker, Michael, paid me yet another excellent compliment this morning. I only caught the second half of it as I was pulling off my earphones, but here's what I caught:

"....look wonderful! Just stunning. So New York City."

I didn't him to repeat the first part, as it probably would have sounded a bit narcissistic. Tell me again how lovely I am!
This is my first leap into winter white, and so far, it's been a marvelous transition from my normal black-on-black look. Even Salman, the Pakistani fellow said, "You have such nice clothes today. You are ready for winter?"

Went shopping again at lunch. Why does it make me feel so much better? A sense of control in a world full of chaos.

i have no desire to hurt anyone
i just don't know how to cope with this
and eating myself fat
and shopping myself poor
are not helping

I don't have any fingerprints left. I wore them all off this morning binding an impossible number of proposals. Now, I can commit random crimes and they'll never be able to trace it to me. Unless there are cameras. Damn those cameras.

I'm eating chicken soup. I've got my warm, red-stripey socks on and Katinka's singing to the Dixie Chicks from under the bed. It's a good Sunday evening.

When Katinka first came to me, it was a shock and a disappointment that she did not love me without reservation. The very reason I had wanted a kitten so much was for that cuddly, complication-free affection inherent with small, furry animals. And so, three nights ago, after being in my home for nearly two months, when she climbed up on the bed and plopped herself down in my lap to have me pet her, I was touched. This afternoon, I even invaded the sacred space beneath my bed, her sanctuary. She let me. She didn't run, and she even voluntarily followed me out to the living room. We napped together. She slept on my chest. Last night, I woke up to her sleeping on my back. Now, granted, she still runs like the devil is after her when I catch her unguarded. But, something is definitely different. What suddenly changed her mind?
I guess sometimes those we love, mistrust us and dodge and scatter for reasons all of their own. And one day, should they decided to take us up on that offering of love, it's just our job to offer an open lap and not ask too many questions.

i'm messing with the template..