Another Friday, Another Holiday Weekend

I saw someone shoplift tonight.

I was at Brooklyn Industries (50% Off All Women's Sweaters & Outerwear!) and I saw this whole scene play out. I didn't realize what was going on at the time, but what I figured out was, this woman and her kid walk in to the store and start looking at stuff close to the door. They keep setting the alarm off "accidentally" -- which is blamed on the kid -- so that the clerks no longer even look up when it buzzes. Meanwhile a guy -- later revealed to be the friend, maybe husband and father, of the woman and her kid -- stuffs a sweater in his bag and walks out. I see him when he does and when the alarm goes off, it's definitely him who sets it. As planned, the clerks take no notice, and he's out. Another guy in the store comes up to me and asks if I saw the sweater he laid down by my things.

A few minutes later I run into the woman, the kid and the guy walking together down Seventh Avenue.

I've seen one other shoplifting in action. My friend and I were in a mall in Baltimore shopping at the Gap. (Also having a good sale) We walk around a rack of jeans and see this kid crouching on the floor, frantically shoving jeans into his backpack. When he sees us he freezes. (My friend Sam is a large, intimidating ex-con who has seen the light and gone straight.) Sam says, his hands held in the air in a no-worries gesture, "It's not my business." And we keep walking.

Seconds later we see the backpack kid make a mad sprint through the door with the alarms blaring and the oh so preppy Assistant Manager on Duty feigning an attempt to run after him.

This kind of stuff amazes me. Maybe I should be the kind of person who intervenes when she sees wrong doing, but I really don't have a problem with it. First of all, a few pairs of jeans are not going to hurt the Gap. And the kid who was stealing them maybe had a good reason. Maybe he was taking them home to his family who couldn't afford to buy them. Maybe he wanted his brother to have a nice present for once on his birthday. Maybe he was going to sell them for crack. Who knows.

And that little crooked family who is exploiting their toddler ... how does that happen? What life circumstances could lead to someone thinking that's okay behavior? Now I know that there are truly bad people. And Smoking Baby knows I believe in sociopaths, but I also believe that for the majority of people, they're led to bad behavior by shitty circumstances.

Tonight I was talking to Dan and he told me about a murder that happened in his apartment building Christmas night. After much drama and Law and Order police-line-do-not-cross action, he found out that what happened was a drunken fight between two young guys that had moved out to the sidewalk. One of them pushed the other and when the guy fell, he hit the concrete in such a way that he died. The fight lasted for about 3 minutes and now one person is dead and one person's life is now most likely going to be spent in prison for murder. Imagine that. Being a white trash girl from South Georgia, I have been in several drunken fights in my life. (Ok. One was in New York, but it was someone else's fault.) And I've pushed people down. (In New York, I slammed someone down on a Pac-Man table game, but that's a story for a later post.) And I can not fathom how I would even begin to handle the repercussions if I had shoved someone down just right (or wrong, I suppose) and taken their life in a stupid late night drunken fight over something certainly ridiculous. Like the rules to Quarters.

Happy New Year!

I'm a Stalker.

Know what sucks about living in a building filled with professional writers?

Leaving notes in the hallway. I just caught myself in the doorway thinking -- out loud, no less -- i before e except after c. Then I couldn't decide whether it was inconvenience or inconvienience. I knew it was the former but I kept saying, in-con-veei-nence. in-con-vee-nence. I finally convinced myself they weren't going to care -- or notice most likely. But then I thought, "I would totally notice and I would totally care." (Though I apparently would have to check my assessment in a dictionary.)

You'll be relieved (i before e) to know I got inconvenience right. Thank god.

So, have I told you about my building? I have real, honest to god, published, book on the Barnes & Noble table writers living in my building. One more step closer to Oprah. (Oprah can you hear me? Oprah can you see me? Oprah can you find me in the night?)

How do I know this you ask? Obviously, I am stalking my neighbors. Rather, I am stalking my neighbor's mail. My building is one of those with two front doors with the mail box in the little room between them. If someone gets packages that don't fit in the box, they're left on the floor in the doorway.

99% of the time, the package is for Tom. Tom is a book reviewer. I know this because I always check. (I always hope it's a surprise for me. It rarely is.)

I covet Tom's mail. Tom gets piles and piles and piles of books delivered to the hallway. And I come in and I see them and I tell you, it is hard not to steal Tom's mail. I've been in his apartment and I have seen his book collection. Tom has good books.

So, as I'm checking to see which publisher has sent Tom another book, I recognize a different name. Mainly because it is written above the name of my all-time favorite literary magazine. Someone in my building is getting mail at our address for my favorite literary magazine.

Her Name
Magazine's Name
Our Street Address
Her Apartment Number

If you've ever read HRH's and my profile, you will have noted that HRH and I strive to be friends with Sarah Vowell in order to get closer to our favorite writers (she is the key to all of them) and become friends with them -- Nick Hornby being one of the top 5. The woman who lives in my building is, by way of editing the literary magazine that he writes a column for, Nick Hornby's boss.

Man. Is She on a Roll ...

So. I'm on the phone with Mom and we're talking about her dying.

I've been talking with my mother about her death for my entire life. She and my grandmother were both completely obsessed with death. Especially death by cancer. Basically, they both threatened me and my sister with my mother's imminent demise from cancer (probably lung since she was a smoker, but definitely exacerbated by the undue stress A and I put on Mom and Grandma.)

This conversation, (Mom on the cell driving somewhere, me on cell at home) was based on a talk she apparently had with V, my niece. Somehow my mother and my 11 year old niece had a talk about who V would want to live with should Mom die. (By the way -- this is a conversation I, as an 11 year old Princess, had with the very same mother. I chose my Aunt G -- but only because I knew that was the right answer to please Mom. I actually hated the thought of living with Aunt G and her husband H who was a minister. I couldn't bear the thought of going to church every week.)

V chooses to live with me in Brooklyn. So Mom adds a twist ... What about A? (A, my sister, V's biological mother)
V: She can come too.
M: No she can't. We tried that once before and it was awful.
[My sister came to live with me in New York years and years ago. It didn't work out. Everyone has moved past this ... except my mother.]

At this point I'm thinking, here she goes again. I can't believe she said these things to V. Maybe she's exaggerating and she didn't actually say this to her 11 year old granddaughter. Then, I hear someone in the background.

Not only was my mother re-counting her awful comments she made to V. She was doing it with V in the car next to her.

To Three Jolly Pigeons

I got a phone call at work yesterday.

"Hi. My name is Holly and I got a package that was for you. Do you live close to 67th Street in Brooklyn?"

Me: No. I'm in Park Slope. I wonder how ... wait. Are you around the corner from Three Jolly Pigeons?Holly: Yeah, I am.
Me: And your landlord is Alex. I used to live there like five years ago.
Holly: I got the package and without checking the label I opened it. I'm sorry. It's a box of Lancome products.

Turns out Klutz-o sent a care package to me at my old address. Old as in five addresses ago, and upon further reflection, seven years ago. Klutz-o does not keep accurate records.

So, Holly is obviously a very nice and good person who was honest enough (or afraid of karma enough) to find me, call and return a box full of makeup and lotion and perfume.

Anyway. While Holly and I were on the phone, I kept things short and sweet. "Thank you so much. I'll send a messenger." In my head I was thinking, "Do you have any idea what occurred in that apartment? The scenes played out, the characters who came through the door, the laughing and dancing and vomiting ..."

So, I've decided to send Holly a thank you card with a little care package -- some mascara and lip gloss maybe.

Dear Holly,

Have you ever gone to The Pigeon at 5AM on a Mother's Day Sunday in your slippers and robe? Did you pay for your beer with a bag of change? Did you have your 30th birthday party in the apartment and did it involve your roommate being a slave for you and drinking beer out of a dog bowl? Do you ever, in the late, quiet night think you hear people dancing and singing songs from West Side Story? That's me, Holly. That's me and HeatherJeanne.

Do you ever wonder why there's a cigarette burn in the window sill or red nail polish in the grout of the bathroom tile? I know the story behind both of those things.

Holly. You live in a place that was the scene of some of the most important moments in my life. That is where HJ and I fell in love with each other (platonically speaking, unless we were drinking), and where we had our hearts broken in two of the worst relationships known to mankind.

Did you ever imagine that on 9/11 while I was stuck in Manhattan unable to get home, HeatherJeanne didn't know where to turn and found herself in the Fire Station on the corner sobbing uncontrollably and begging the Fire Fighters, "What can I do? What do I do?"

That apartment is where my friendship with HRH was born and bred.*

Enjoy the place Holly, and watch out for Alex. If you're behind in your rent and he thinks you still have a lease although you do not have a lease anymore because it ran out and he never asked you to sign a new one, he'll just barge in. Seriously. Just walk right in to the apartment -- no knock, no nothing.

I suggest you keep the chain on.

Thanks again for returning the stuff!

With love and gratitude,

The Princess

*note: Obviously, I assume Holly is a fan. I feel you Jerry Seinfeld. There is no place on Earth where I can go and not be known.

This Kid is Brilliant

I wonder how many times she said, "Shit!" and had to start over ...

Give it Up People!

Ok. I know it's the time of the year that people are begging for money for every cause and charity and disfigured cat out there.

But.

This is a great idea to make your charity dollars go as far as possible towards the greater good. Seriously.

Last year I received a nice Christmas bonus for work and I felt I should share the love. I found an organization called Kiva and I fell in love.

Kiva lets you connect with and loan money to unique small businesses in the developing world. By choosing a business on Kiva.org, you can "sponsor a business" and help the world's working poor make great strides towards economic independence. Throughout the course of the loan (usually 6-12 months), you can receive email journal updates from the business you've sponsored. As loans are repaid, you get your loan money back.

Here's how it works (click on photo to enlarge):

It's fun because you can watch these people's progress and once they've paid back their loans (Kiva's default rate is surprisingly low. Of the $2,494,210 of loans with completed loan terms, the default rate is 0.2%.) you can use the exact same money to help another business.

Just throwing it out there ...

Make sure you take the book.

For exactly one month I lived alone in a one bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. And I was blissfully alone for that month with my own bathroom, kitchen, and my own living room. What I did not have, but what I definitely needed was a TV.

So, about three days into living at this apartment I went to Best Buy with my friend Irene to buy a TV. I spent, I don’t know about 10 minutes, looking and quickly chose the model I wanted based on price and appearance. I had no idea about quality, etc. In my opinion this is what men are for. Unfortunately, most of my adult life has been spent without one actually in my life, so… One of the guys who worked there picked up the TV and carried it over his head, like it was no heavier than say a book and promptly walked it out to the street, dropping it down for us to take over. I thanked him and Irene and I proceeded to pick up the box using the handles on either side. People, this box weighed a zillion pounds. I’m not kidding. Irene and I together had once moved our entire apartment from the second floor to the first floor with no help. You should have seen us struggling down the street. We had only four blocks to walk and I thought we weren’t going to make it. I considered just leaving the TV there on the street, but I really like to watch TV. I mean people were coming out of businesses to laugh and point while we struggled down the street.

Finally, we get it back to my place, plugged it in, it turned on and we left to go get something to eat. I come home after dinner, sit down on the couch and promptly realize that the TV does not have any sound. Let’s get something straight here people, I was not dragging that thing back to Best Buy, so I had no choice but to figure out how to make it work. What occurred next was an hour of reading the manual (something I’m morally opposed to but one must make allowances) only to find that indeed there was no answer. So, being the nice girl I am, I proceeded to smack the side of the TV and voila, within six seconds I had sound.

Now, what I have had for the last four years is a TV that whenever bumped or nudged must be smacked on its side in order for sound to be restored. It gets even better than that because it isn’t one spot that it must be hit in, but a never ending moving spot that tortures me to no end. Originally I used my hand for the task of beating the TV into submission, but sadly one time, with a day old manicure no less, I was smacking the TV so hard that I actually put my hand through the side of it. Listen, Lost was coming on in three minutes, it was very dire circumstance. Of course, it was at that point that I actually stopped being blonde for five seconds and came up with the brilliant idea to use an object to hit the TV. And this is how the biography of Georgia O’Keeffe came to find its home at the bottom of my TV.

Here are a couple of fun facts about the TV. One, did you know that the sound for the TV is not the same as the sound that comes from say your DVD player? Me neither. I know this because it is only the TV function in which I have no sound, I can play DVDs to my little hearts content. Also, did you know that if you have a TV whose sound goes out when it’s bumped at all that possibly, maybe the best place to live is not in an unstable house on the corner of a street where large trucks drive by.

Recently, “A” and I were talking about what someone would take if they broke in. I do realize if you’ve come to my house you really are desperate to steal and thus deserve to find something. We thought it would be nice if we left a note on the TV that said, “if stolen, please make sure to take book. You’ll see.”

He's a Daredevil!

Hi people.

On behalf of HRH and myself, I would like to apologize. We have not been very active with the blog lately. It's the holidays ... so many parties, so much shopping, so many hangovers .... You know how it is.

Anyway. I wanted to let you know what happened recently. As you know, Erica & I moved into a new apartment, complete with spiral staircase. Which, as you may have guessed, has led to drama.

Chulo is injured. He is currently on a strict regimen of no activity, twice daily pain medication and wound cleansing every 6-8 hours. Turns out, this little tubby pooch who appeared to be frightened of everything (especially plastic bags), is a four-legged Evel Knievel.This past weekend Chulo suddenly decided he was ready to give the spiral staircase a go. From the top. As he crashed into the artwork on his way down the wall, just moments before the plummet ended at the slate floor, Chulo had a realization.

He sucks at spiral staircases.

I'm sure his crash made a loud noise but it was drowned out by the hysterical screaming coming from all the dramatic girls in the apartment. (Our friend Flea was visiting from North Carolina and witnessed the entire event.) You see, we all heard the launch and freaked out. Our little Chulo is known for randomly falling down from a standing position. (He takes after Uncle Klutz-O.)I was sure he was dead. However, praise Smoking Baby, he survived. And he handled the ordeal surprisingly well.

He did have a very pronounced limp and as we discovered an hour or so later, a pretty nice cut in his back that had been obscured by his fur in the initial assessment.

We took him into the vet, the leg is not broken, the wound is not serious and Chulo is expected to make a full recovery. He's already walking better.

Plus -- he looks like he's been shot so now he can pretend to be "Gangsta."

Fitzgerald Found Me.

It's happened. I've been found out by my family.

I recently received a comment on my "How It Happens" post from a mysterious Misty B.

My first thought was, "Yay! Another reader who isn't guilted into it by just knowing me or HRH."
Then I read her comments and she made these cryptic allusions to my hometown, Fitzgerald. She called it FishWorld -- a nickname only used by locals. In my day it was FishBarrel. I think it was probably started by some Northerner who got lost taking an exit off of I-75 and stopped at the Suwanee Swifty to ask for directions.

Lost Yankee: Could you tell me where I am?
Fitzgeraldian: Fuhitzgeerald
LY: Fish Barrel?
F: Fitzgurald
LY: Fish World?

Anyway.

So, I get this comment from Misty B who is obviously from Fitzgerald and I freak a little. In my hometown not only does everyone know everyone else, they know everyone who has ever lived in Fitzgerald and are usually related to most of them.
I immediately edited every blog in which I wrote about my family, changing names to initials and deleting photos, and I went back to my email.

Misty B is my cousin. She used to be Misty F which is what caused the confusion. I learned this because I had an email from her.

She briefly caught me up on life through some small talk then this:

Anyways I also wanted to tell you that I have read your blogs...And I think you and mama should talk...you both have some of the same opinions about your mamas...haha....and also I read this...

tell my mother that she is in control of her life and that her current situation is the result of decisions she made for her life. I discuss my life openly regarding my domestic partner, Erica, the new home we're buying, the fact that my family is so separate from my life because Mom doesn't want me to be out to them.

And I just wanted to let you know that seriously.....I am cool with this...I love you...to me you have always been my cool favorite cousin...that I never get to see.....Your life is your life....whatever you choose and whom ever you choose to spend your life with is your choice..I think it's great... oh.. mama knows too...she is cool with it too.... she says we all need to meet sometime and hang out...And what happens on the internet....stays on the internet...haha.. Well just wanted to tell you that....write back don't be a stranger...

And, next to my birthday message from the Universe, this is the best email I've ever received.

Girl, 10, Arrested for Using Knife to Cut Food at School

A friend of mine sent this article to me.

A 10-year-old Florida girl faces felony weapons charges after bringing a small steak knife to school to cut up her lunch, according to a report on WFTV.com.

School officials say the Ocala 5th grader had brought a piece of steak for her lunch, and had brought a steak knife. According to the report, a couple of teachers took the utensil and called authorities, who arrested the girl and took her to the county’s juvenile assessment center."She did not use it inappropriately. She did not threaten anyone with it. She didn't pull it out and brandish it. Nothing of that nature," explained Marion County School Spokesman Kevin Christian, who added that it made no difference what the knife was being used for, they had no choice but to call police.

"Anytime there's a weapon on campus, yes, we have to report it and we aggressively report it because we don't want to take any chances, regardless," Christian said.

The girl now faces a felony charge for possessing a weapon on school property and has been suspended from school for 10 days.

My first reaction was, "Are you fucking kidding me?" This school's administration called police on an 11 year old child and had her arrested for having lunch. You know that this kid's mom probably was packing her lunch and thought, my baby can't eat the steak without having a knife to cut it. And, for that matter, this child probably just learned how to cut her meat on her own.

The administration's position is that they have to call the police, no matter what, if a weapon is found on campus. This type of blanket rule is ridiculous. A steak knife, accompanied by a steak, is not a weapon. It is an eating utensil. But because the school "had no choice" this poor little girl will be scarred for life over trying to eat her lunch properly.

And does the school have no choice in what punishment it hands down? Are they forced to suspend her for 10 days? I am infuriated. Not only are they attacking a, by their own account, innocent girl, they are casting a shadow over proper table manners.

Honestly. How much harm could an 11 year old girl armed with a single steak knife do? I get that they probably did need to punish her in some way, just to send the message to the other kids that no matter what, knives are not accepted, but two weeks' suspension? People, when I found out I had a D in English, I stole a blank report card, filled it out, forged my teacher's name, had my mom sign the fake, and in turn forged her name on the original and when I got caught I only got 3 days' suspension.

Marion County School, I hate you and I hate your assface.

I'm Tight With The Universe

In my pursuit for all things hokey and spiritual, I signed up for daily affirmation emails from The Universe.

Yes. The Universe and I are friends. And every day (during the week. The Universe needs to get it's drink on during weekends too people) I get a morning email from The Universe with a little hopeful happy message and it just sets my day right.

Last week was my birthday and I received a special message, just for me:

A few years back, not so long ago, heaven and earth erupted into a major celebration with the news of your impending adventure into this very time and space. You see, someone like Susan Kent doesn’t come along all that often. In fact, there’s never been a single one like you, nor is there ever ANY possibility that another will come again. You’re an Angel among us. Someone, whose eyes see what no others will EVER see, whose ears hear what no others will EVER hear, and whose perspective and feelings will NEVER, ever be duplicated. Without YOU, the Universe, and ALL THAT IS, would be sadly less than it is.

Quite simply:

You’re the kind of person, Susan,
Who’s hard to forget,
A one-in-a-million
To the people you’ve met.
Your friends are as varied
As the places you go,
And they all want to tell you
In case you don’t know:
That you make a big difference
In the lives that you touch,
By taking so little
And giving so much!

Susan, you are so AWESOME! For your birthday, friends and angels from every corner of the Universe, including buddies you didn’t know you had, will be with you to wish you the HAPPIEST of Birthdays and an exciting new year in time and space. You won’t be alone!

I love The Universe. And the Universe loves me right back.

Have You Seen This?

My friend Cootie e-mailed me a link to this. It is brilliant.

Mom Strikes again

So I sit down to write and I forget. I had a specific topic in mind and I forgot. Within 35 seconds. I sat. I opened my file. All the while I knew what I wanted to write about. The email opens and I type, "So I sit down to write".

And thanks to $150 per session therapy, I know that what I'm doing is called avoidance. What I'm going through is apparently too much for me and I can't mentally handle it.

It's obviously, about my mother.And as I write more comes back. Like the part about how when I talked to my sister I was discussing how I thought Mom had actually started this whole thing with a Google on what breast cancer metastasizes to. She found pancreas. Then she found the symptoms of pancreatic cancer. Then she imitated those symptoms and took herself in for testing.

She starves herself so that she has the "losing weight" symptom.

She hurts her back lifting a concrete birdbath, but makes sure everyone knows that back pain is a symptom of pancreatic cancer.

She called me to say that she was having a PET scan to look for pancreatic or liver cancer and that she called only because I requested to be informed of all health-related occurrences.

"I hate to ruin your day, but you said you wanted to know."

I thanked her for keeping me in the loop and asked when she'd get results.

"December 10."

"Okay. Call me when you find out."

So, at 8 PM on December 10, I call her to find out what's going on since I haven't heard from her all day.
Mom's not there. She's at work.
My sister A is picking up pizza.
V - who answered the phone - is on IM with her friend.

I ask V to have A call when she gets home.
An hour passes. (My hometown is 1 mile square in area.) So, I call back.
V answers again.
Me: Did you forget to tell A?
Her: No. She's getting out of the shower.

I end up on the phone with A and find out that they got the results in the morning and that everything was fine.

I got off the phone and drank until I threw up.

Ho, Bitch, Slut

I talked to V, my niece, the other day. We talked after I had a phone conversation with my mom. Mom gave me the update on how she had gotten her shutters installed on the house for $10 a window. He did 3 windows which equaled 3 hours of work. Mom had to force this poor guy to take a $20 tip. Imagine the life situation that would make you feel $10/hour for manual labor was sufficient. Anyway. She went on to explain how she had been Googling to determine whether the pain in her back was from trying to lift the 150 lb. birdbath in my grandmother's backyard or from a pancreatic tumor.

[Side Note: This past week Mom asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I told her then asked what she wanted. (I'm 12/9 and she's 12/11.) She said, not sarcastically, "I want to live." People. If there ain't drama, it ain't my mama.]

So, as we're getting off the phone Mom says, "Oh yeah. Some of V's friends called her a slut and a ho and a bitch. What do you think I should do?"
Me: Stay out of it, Mom.
Mom (to V in the background): She told me to stay out of it.
V (from the background): Uh!

I asked to speak with V and asked her why the girls were calling her a bitch. She didn't know. So, I asked if she thought it might be because she was being a bitch.

No. Of course not.

So, I proceed to talk to her about how girls can say mean things and that I was sorry her feelings were hurt and I encouraged her to realize that if these girls were the kind of girls who talked shit behind their friend's back (in G language, of course) that these were not the girls she wanted to be friends with in the first place.

And then. I swear to God. I hear myself ...
quoting Erykah Badu.

Yep.I used the Apple Tree reference.

See I picks my friends like I pick my fruit
My ganny told me that when I was only a youth
I dont walk around trying to be what Im not
I dont waste my time trying to get what you got
I work at pleasin me
Cause I cant please you and thats why I do what I do
My soul flies free like a willow tree
Doo wee doo wee doo wee

I explained the apple analogy. "If you were at Super Wal-Mart picking out an apple, you wouldn't pick the rotten apple. You'd pick the good apple. Right? So why would you pick the rotten girl to be friends with?"

V said, "Huh?"

I said, "Just try to ignore them, honey."

And Back to our Regular Programming

Well, we had a nice little break from Mom Drama. Hope you all enjoyed yourselves.

We're glad to have you with us today for the first episode of our second season entitled: Susan has the life she's always dreamed of, Mom has elevated tumor markers for pancreatic and liver cancer.

Now this does not mean my mom has pancreatic or liver cancer. These are simply markers that indicate the possibility of cancer. Or at least that's what I gleaned when I had a mental break and googled for a second.

You all know not to google diseases, right? Never, ever google a disease you or a loved one may have. There are two reasons and I'm not sure which should be number 1.
1. You don't know who wrote those pages. You know better than to read the webpages from schmucks who have crystals and unicorns on their blog, but for some reason, those are the articles you end up reading. You may deny this, but all of us are cynical conspiracy theorists at heart. We know the only accurate information we can trust is from the AMA and CDC and a elite group of hospitals and universities, but when it comes to the disease google, your rationale slips. And you find yourself almost believing that the government secretly has the cure to cancer. The government and Charlie from CharliesCureforCancer.com. And you find yourself thinking, maybe Charlie is right. Maybe just going strict vegan and practicing yoga with Puss in Boots twice a week is the way to shrink that tumor.
And,
1. The news is always bad. Very bad. And that's because the articles that attract us most are the extreme ones. And the last thing you need is Charlie saying, "Listen, I know how to cure you, but if you don't start right this second, you are totally fucked. As a matter of fact, you should have started six months ago." That is not a good time.

So I googled for a second, quickly came to my senses and blocked out the horrific bold blue headlines, and began to frantically clean. It's my thing. I stayed home from work today because we had three deliveries coming in. Washer. TV. Media Center. We got two out of three. Everything worked out except the washer. It was damaged. They're coming Monday AM.

Where was I? Frantically cleaning. And doing handy man stuff. While waiting for the various delivery people, I maniacally cleaned and organized. I used a straight edge to place items in my medicine cabinet.Yes. Your Princess is handy. But she is always careful to be cute when being that way so that she's not mistaken for those girls who go to Ginger's and identify themselves as couples by wearing the same flannel print. Like a Scottish Family's Tartan, but not. (Those lesbians would never be seen in a skirt.)

Cleaning. Handy-Manning. As I told you, I got a keychain from Tiffany & Co. for the new keys. One of my keys did not fit. So I drilled it. Now it fits.

We have a shelving space and we got new shelves from Lowe's and we asked a nice kid who makes about $8 an hour to cut them down to a specific size. He was off by an 1/8 of an inch. A seemingly inconsequential amount, but with my measuring skills, a disaster. So, I cut down shelves with a 18 volt DeWalt circular saw. I later installed those same shelves. I filled those shelves with my shoes in a nice orderly fashion. I put away photo frames that have yet to be hung. I put crap out on the street like my jacket that I hung myself on a fence with one fateful night when I forgot HRH had my only set of keys to my apartment and I sent her home with the intenion of staying out a little longer (I always did) and when I realized my stupidity, I tried to climb the fence next to my apartment building that enclosed the Bette Midler Green Up New York Park Project Park (or something to that effect), and actually made it, but not before slipping, catching my jacket on a fence prong, and hanging, literally feet off the ground, hung up by my jacket collar like a scene from the Little Rascals, and then scrambling physical comedy style, back up and finally over the fence.

Again. I digress.

So, what I was talking about was how Mom is potentially very, very sick and how I am driven to distraction after distraction in an attempt to avoid the whole thing.

HRH - Right Again.

I hate when HRH is right. I mean, it's bad enough that my girlfriend likes to torture me by saying that HRH is funnier than I am (she is NOT funnier than me.), but to have to admit to you, my loyal fans, that she's been right about her L-Train rants. All 472 of them. It hurts the heart.

This past week I was commuting into work and I missed the station for my transfer from the F to the 6 so I ended up at 6th Avenue and had to take the L train over to Union Square. For you non-New Yorkers, this is a one-stop trip that should take approximately 3 minutes. Total.

As I walk down to the L platform I see these signs. Little lighted signs that give you the date and time and then ... it changes and tells you how many minutes you have until the next train comes.

At first I was pissed. HRH bitches and bitches about this L train and here I find this sign bullshit. Seriously. No other train line has that. And the L train was the first line to get all new fancy train cars. And she complains about crowds and waiting forever. At least she can know precisely when the next train is coming. That is huge. I know that usually you can get a train to appear if you hold up one foot while peering into the tunnel looking for lights. But on those days that you've lost your mojo, having a countdown would allow you to simply sit down and wait rather than returning to the edge of the platform repeatedly while thinking, "Maybe I should try my left foot. Maybe that's the one that will bring the train."

Then I see this.
(I know it's a badly framed photo, but that number on top is a 1 and I got excited.) Yay! I'm going towards Brooklyn. The next train is in one minute. Yippee! What is HRH whining about?

And a minute passes. The 1 is replaced by a happily blinking 0, excitedly announcing, "It's here! It's here! Here's your train! Come on! We're going!" But, the 0 lies. There is no train.

The 0 continues to lie for another 6 minutes. That's right -- until the secondary timer predicting the next train hits 0 as well. Blinking commences.

Still no train. And now I have two 0's blinking their lies at me and it's just too much for a simple Princess to bear.

Apologizing to HRH in my head, I make my way upstairs and walk to Union Square.

Who you calling blonde?

Okay, so for lunch today I trekked uptown to my favorite salad place, Just Salad. In life there are certain food destinations where once you have experienced their food no other can compare. For me that means sandwiches only from City Sub and salads from Just Salad. Now Just Salad is an insane place where they have like a zillion toppings lined up and four different types of lettuce and they give you a reusable bowl (hello save the environment and have great salad) which if you bring the bowl in you get two free toppings. Not to mention they chop it up into perfect little bits.

So, today I go into Just Salad and to begin the order the woman says, “Your name?” To which, I kid you not; I paused for like six seconds, “um…Heather.” Hello, I blanked on my own name. Is it me or am I getting blonder by the second? Really. My own name. In fact I started laughing and said to the girl, “You’d think that wouldn’t be such a difficult question for me.” Thankfully, she and the guy about to make my salad both found this humorous.

This sadly is not my first blond moment at Just Salad. On my first outing to Just Salad, I successfully answered not only the question as to what my name is but what type of lettuce I wanted. Then as the gentleman stood waiting for me to tell him which ingredients I wanted in my salad, I had a full on panic. I just couldn’t decide, so many choices, I was truly overwhelmed. But fear not, apparently the boys who work at Just Salad moonlight as therapists because he said to me, “Its okay Heather, take your time.” I’m not saying this is what made me a Just Salad convert but it sure didn’t hurt.

Fear

“Fear is the natural reaction to moving closer to the truth.” – Pema Chodron.

In my ongoing quest for peace I’m now reading Pema Chodron’s book, “When Things Fall Apart.” The largest obstacle for me is learning to not think beyond the moment. I can only figure that it is my fear of the unknown that drives my mind to constantly attempt to resolve it. Which honestly is a huge waste of effort because I have never found that the future my mind believes is going to happen is ever the future that exists.

I can’t help but wonder if almost every negative emotion stems from fear. I’ve found that even in the moments when I’m experiencing joy, or love, or abundance I feel fear breathing down my neck. I’m reminded of the Sir Walter Scott quote “Oh what tangled webs we weave, when first we practice to deceive.” Honestly, isn’t my belief that I have any idea what the future will hold a form of deception, one that I get tangled up in but never satisfied from?

Of course I am aware that I am capable of evolving beyond my fears. Take my subway ride this morning. As I walked to stand in my normal spot I noticed a particularly disconcerting homeless man standing near my designated train boarding spot masturbating. Well, honestly, when I first moved to New York not only would I have not been able to stand there but I would have been a little frightened. But I have grown. Today, I was only frightened that he would actually get on the L train with me and I’d then be surrounded by the smelly Williamsburgites and The Masturbator (whom I didn’t get that close to but I’m guessing he was smelly too).

Go Somewhere.

Travel is essential people, and here is why.

If you never get out of your little world, you can never progress beyond it. If you're never exposed to options, you never know you have them. This is the problem with my hometown.

The majority of people there are absolutely terrified of leaving there. A day trip to Atlanta is huge. Panama City. Jacksonville. Hell, Tifton is an occasion because they at least have a mall. Though, if you want good stuff you have to go to Valdosta or Macon ... Albany in a pinch.

When I am in Fitzgerald, inevitably I run into someone I should know. Usually this meeting includes some awkward variation of Mom asking me whether this person and I were in the same class in school while I struggle to recall who or what this person was to me twenty years and about ten lifetimes ago.

Then this person rescues me by going into painful detail about our close friendship and how much fun we had that time at that bar on the edge of the county that would let absolutely anyone in when we were with those other people I don't remember. This is a person who has never turned a page in their life.

And it doesn't matter who I run into. If they're around my age and are still in Fitzgerald, they have never changed a thing about their lives. It's like they've been reading the exact same book for decades so they're still very involved with the story and still remember all of the characters and plot twists, while I finished the Fitzgerald book twenty years ago and have poured through a dozen others since.

My recollection of my Fitzgerald days is like my recollection of Huckleberry Finn. I remember the basic story line. I could have an intelligent conversation about the underlying themes, But I can't recall any characters other than Huck, Jim and I believe there was an aunt involved. And people, I read that book eight times. I only lived in Fitzgerald once. (A very long once, but still.)

Another thing that gets me about the Fitzgerald For Lifers is their fear. When I end up talking to them and they ask what I'm doing and they find out I live in New York they get wide-eyed and ask questions like, "Do you really like it there?" "Isn't the subway scary?" "Isn't there a lot of crime?" "How do you deal with all of those people?" Usually there is a story about how a cousin or a brother went to New York once and stayed in Times Square and saw a show and went to Macy's and how it just seemed so crazy to them.

And I realize, that the sadness I feel when I think about their lives and how awful it must be to live in Fitzgerald is most likely the same type of sadness they feel when they think about me living in New York.

Dedicated to Klutz-o.

I love Jeopardy. It's on my DVR record list. I take great delight in answering Jeopardy questions and on those, not too rare, occasions that I know the Final Jeopardy answer when none of the contestants do ... OooooWee. That is a good time.
As I'm sure you've read in the latest edition of, She's Princesstastic!, my fan club's newsletter, December 9 is my birthday and that makes me Sagittarius -- the finest Astrological sign in the cosmos. (Williams-Sonoma; Crate and Barrel; and Bed, Bath & Beyond gift certificates are a particularly thoughtful birthday gift for a new homeowner.)

Perhaps there are those of you who are not intimately familiar with a Sagittarian ... I am sorry for you. We are fantastic. And we should know, because we know everything.

So. (!) Today I'm watching Jeopardy and for $400 on Double Jeopardy under Astronomy ... (Get ready HRH).

The answer is: To Northern observers, the most brilliant part of the Milky Way is found in "The Archer", this constellation.
The question: What is Sagittarius.
The most brilliant.

Word.

Shhhhh.

You will all be pleased to know that I have finally closed the Excel window containing the packing list. We're two hours short of an exact week since E, Chulito and I have been completely moved in at the new place, and all of our boxes are unpacked.

Since we've been here, we've worked virtually non-stop. Neither of us is fond of chaos and the sooner we can organize and hang our art and arrange our furniture, the sooner we can get to truly living in the new place.Moving on. Many of you probably already know this, but I'm part of a cult. It's a good one though. Oprah is a member. I actually joined before she did, but I admit I felt a wave of approval when I saw it featured on O's show. Like when I buy one of her books in Barnes & Noble. I obviously, rip the sticker off immediately. But, inside, I feel warm knowing that not only did Oprah read the same book, she loved it.Oh Oprah. The power you have over me.

Since the last big holiday season, I have had a clipping from the Jonathan Adler catalog on my refrigerator.

The 10 Commandments of Happy Chic
2. Thou shalt not deny thyself hotelish comfort at home. Thou shalt furnish thy rooms with paw-pampering, hand-loomed llama wool rugs, luxurious lighting and our fabulous furniture. Thy rooms shalt feel like the most opulent hotel rooms in which thou hast ever stayed. Thou art worth it.

When our first ever official guests, HRH & "A" (her quotes, not mine.) came over, the first thing they said was something to the effect of, "This is like a hotel."

That, my friends, is The Secret.

Since Erica and I moved in together, we have treated our apartment like we owned it. We furnished it as if it were a (moderately affordable) true home. And we bought things that were nice and made us neurotic every time Andrew, our dear friend the klutz, came over to eat. The things we've accumulated over the years are nice. But there was always the sense of putting makeup on a pig. A very attractive, comfortable pig, but at it's core, a pig. You know, I loved our old apartment and appreciate it for everything we had there, but there were always things I wished I could change about it. (By the way, HRH is not the only one addicted to things. I am a material girl. I love the decadence of Times Square. I love the anal-retentive neatness and predictability of The Gap. I am not green. I only hope that the World Wildlife Federation and Greenpeace can forgive me.)

However, as I've been unpacking our furniture and our art and our beloved tchotchke crap, it's all making sense. We finally are in a home that matches our taste and accommodates our beautiful stuff. Something that happened as a result of practicing The Secret. (Seriously. Don't knock it until you've tried it. Kum Ba Yaaaaaah!)

The Secret tells us that there is, based on the fact that everything on this planet is composed of pure energy, a universal Law of Attraction. Basically, good energy attracts good, bad energy attracts bad. Several of the speakers in the film suggest that you live as if you already have your dreams. The theory is that once you put yourself in the mindset of already having what you want, you open yourself up to it and it appears.

Well, we lived as if we were in our own home. We lived as if we were in a place worthy of the nice things we filled it with. And just as Erica and I were realizing that we were growing out of the old place and could no longer do anything to make it nicer than it was, or to make it perfect for us without breaking the agreements set forth in our lease, we found our dream place. We beat out a bidding war -- even though we were not the highest bidders. We got a down payment from Erica's parents. We got a mortgage. (My credit history is evidence enough that this was not just natural occurrence. This was a miracle.) And most importantly, we are here.

And, truly, my first step toward it was hanging Jonathan's second commandment on the adequate, but not perfect refrigerator at 79 Carroll Street.

Chez Chulo -- The End of an Era

It's over. Erica and I have crossed the threshold of Chez Chulo, nee 79 Carroll Street, for the final time. This past Saturday nine angels came to move everything we had. My dear friend, El Jimador and eight amazing other guys showed up at 9AM (actually one showed up at 8. I'll get to that in a minute.)

These guys arrived in two 20' trucks, an SUV of some sort and an exact replica of Tony Soprano's Escalade. (One of the angels is having an identity crisis.) Within an hour, the entirety of our life at Chez Chulo had been packed into the trucks and was on its way to Park Slope and HomOwnership. By 2PM the guys have loaded the trucks, driven over to Park Slope, unloaded, moved the stuff into the apartment, sat down for lunch (which a tenth angel showed up to pay for) and I had my first Home Depot experience as a home owner. That is a moment that is simply indescribable.
That afternoon Erica and I returned to the old place to do our final sweep of the place and finish priming the last room. Well, being The Princess you know and love, in my excitement over being a HomOwner in Home Depot, I got the wrong primer. Oil based.

Crap.

Erica was out at the local drugstore picking up her final bottle of pills from her closest friend in the neighborhood, so I cleaned the kitchen, swept the whole place, threw out my last bag of trash and waited for E to return. When E got back we called a car and went into the backyard for our last time. Your Princess held it together amazingly well. My voice only cracked once and tears never actually fell.
But, before we left, I turned the fence lights on.
So. Back to the 8AM angel.

This angel is a special angel. This angel was recently released from prison after serving 25 years for a murder he committed when he was 18 years old. I don't know the details of the case but judging by his age and where he's from, my guess is that it was drug or gang related rather than some psycho, "The call is coming from inside the house," type murder.

I realize that many of you may not agree with me, but The Princess believes that there is a difference. (Now, I remind you, I am making these statements based on presumption. But I think my assumption is an educated one, so we're going with it.) I imagine that a lot of my fans would not take too kindly to a recently released from federal prison murderer helping move all of their worldly possessions into their new home. For me, it's strangely not a big deal -- except I enjoyed meeting him and spending time with him because it was amazing to see what growing up in Maximum Security will do to you.

I do admit that there was a moment after I sent Erica out with, we'll call him Maximum Security, to pick up coffee. I wondered for a second if that was a good idea, but that was squelched by the thought that he wasn't the cuckoo killer, just the gang killer, so I figured as long as she didn't piss him off or try to invade his turf, she'd be okay.

So, what was interesting about a day with MS was seeing his social interaction. Very odd.

First of all, he came into our house as if he and I were BFF. (Remember, he showed up solo an hour prior to anyone else.) Plus, as he rang our doorbell, he had his forehead pressed to the window looking in. Nothing threatening, you see, just a little too familiar for the first time you're meeting someone. Someone who is technically your client.

Then there were little etiquette issues. (Yes. I know. Snobby, but I am The Princess. It fits.) MS was a little presumptuous with things like sitting on top of my coat and purse in the only chair that had stuff in it. Either he was rude, or he didn't notice, or was opposed to the comfort of sitting directly on the cushion of the chair that was across the room with no coat or purse on it.

Again -- not malicious, odd.

Once we were at the new place, Erica took the ground floor and I took upstairs . We pointed where the angels should put things and made sure the stuff was on the right floor. MS complained that he couldn't do the downstairs stuff because going through the basement (this was not an easy load-in) affected his asthma -- which he mentioned to me many, many times. The Princess, being an asthma sufferer herself, had no sympathy for this. So, MS changed tactics.

Throughout the afternoon, MS tried the asthma sympathy card, the "look at all of this stuff I moved in. I did it all by myself" card while panting dramatically. (And while standing upstairs, a second angel came in and out several times with boxes that MS still maintained were moved by him, personally.) Then I got the "look how huge my arms are" story. I had to touch them several times and assure him, "Yes. They are huge and very strong." (I too, was trying not to piss him off.) It felt as if he were trying to impress me or get on my good side in any way possible. Probably something that was very necessary in prison with anyone who seemed to be an authority figure.

As the boys were packing up, I tipped each of them and MS snatched the money out of my hands like a starving stray taking bacon. Again, I feel this is obviously learned behavior from growing up in an environment where every thing you had needed to be guarded constantly. Interesting. A bit intimidating -- especially when he was standing on the sidewalk with his hood up and his sunglasses on and his arms folded in a "I dare you to fuck with me" pose -- but all in all, a seemingly decent guy.

Holy Homo-wner

People. Your Princess is stressed. We're at the 35 hour countdown and I'm freaking.
FREAKING.

Know what I need? A beer. Oh. I had 3.
And a half.
And a half a Klonopin.
And then the other half of the Klonopin.

And The Princess -- normally so cool and collected -- is still a wreck.
I'm writing this on my laptop which is situated atop of box 63 (it goes downstairs).

We're 95% packed. The other 5% of our crap is everywhere and I hate the disorganization and the chaos and the ticking clock.
Willie, El Jimador, and the boys are coming in early Saturday morning after working an all-night gig, and they're refusing payment. And apparently they are so busy that I can't even offer them a proper after-party. I suggested buying everyone a bottle of Patron Tequila, but I don't trust El Jimador to distribute it. (He loves him some tequila.)


I think we're currently expecting nine guys. NINE. So, if I do get ready in time, our stuff will be in the new place in approximately 47 minutes.

I have worked my ass off (figuratively. Unfortunately, in reality, it's still here.) to make sure that my boxes are packed well. Nothing is too heavy. Nothing is not square. We have very few items that need to be wrapped with blankets, and I've sent Willie the spreadsheet complete with a list of odd items that aren't going to stack perfectly on each other.

Still, I worry. Mainly I worry because these guys are my friends and my co-workers and I have been side by side with them humping heavy crap (industry term) and I know what they're in for. And I really, truly do not want to move a box, nor do I want to feel guilty about not moving a box. More than that, I want them to be available for the next move.

So, we haven't eaten tonight -- Erica is on her own geeked out panic -- we have our final walk through tomorrow afternoon. I think I've done the "forceful sigh" about 80,000 times in the last hour.

Though, we did one super fun thing today. Erica and I met at Tiffany & Co. and bought keychains for our new keys. E got the skeleton key/house horseshoe and I got the star with a star that is being engraved with, "22%".
Because, in NYC, only 22% of residents are homeowners. And Erica and I are moving on up.

Please Shut Up

As you all are aware I am trying to become more centered. This is not an easy pursuit to say the least. Take last night as an example. I leave work and go to the gym to take yoga with Puss in Boots. PIB is a perfect yoga instructor for becoming centered because he always talks about spirituality and connecting the body with the mind, etc. I set my intentions (this is yoga speak), before even arriving at the class, that I am going to turn my focus inward and bring myself back to it, as hard as that may be.

So I arrive at the class mentally prepared and go in to set down my mat 25 minutes before class starts. It is necessary to do this because this class fills up fast and it’s a pain to try to squeeze in between other people’s mats. Okay, so I walk into the class and there is the woman who is always there prior to class, her mat and her husbands mat laid out next to her. She is, as always, asleep on her mat, with a yoga blanket pulled up over her. These are the very same blankets that various strangers at the gym put under their butt when poses are too difficult for them. If you aren’t familiar with yoga blankets, they’re sort of hard and itchy and remind me of the blankets that we used, when I was growing up, on the horses before we put their saddles on. Not exactly a blanket I would want to cuddle up with. Then again, I would never be sleeping in the yoga studio prior to class. In fact, prior to class you can find me on the treadmill.

Where was I, oh yes, so I walk in see sleeping lady and decide that unlike every other week where The Princess and I place our mats in the row behind her, this time I will go to the other side of the room. I have a confession here readers. As you know I have always been honest about how shallow I am. I am not proud of it, but I accept myself for whom I am and try as I might, I am shallow. So do you want to know why I moved my mat to the other side of the room? I’m sure you’re thinking because I don’t like sitting behind a lady who naps. Well, you would be wrong. I don’t like sitting behind a lady with AWFUL hair. Seriously, I moved my mat because I knew that I could not stand to spend another class behind this woman where instead of being able to focus my thoughts inward, I instead spend the entire class obsessing about how ugly this woman’s hair is and how I can’t believe that someone would walk around with such horrible hair. It tortures me, people. Torture.

Fear not, shallow people are punished, as I found out later when running into the class, I sit down on my mat only to find that in front of me is Weeble man, you know “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall”. That’s right, every pose, every position, he is wobbling over. There I am trying to concentrate on my poses and the entire time a 6’3 man is in front of me wobbling. I tried everything, reflect inward, look at a spot on the wall, watch PIB nothing worked ultimately his wobble took over not only breaking my focus but occasionally causing my very own wobble.

Speaking of focus, this morning, for the second time I attempted to mediate, nothing long, just five minutes, focusing on my breath. Does anyone realize how long five minutes is? Especially when you have this annoying woman in your head that talks non-stop. Seriously, the books warn about this but I had no idea it would be so bad. There I sit attempting to concentrate on my breath, trying to focus and here she goes, “Do you really think you should wear that skirt today? I wonder what yogurt is left. You should go to the grocery store. Focus. Focus. Stop thinking. Is that a truck that just drove by? Should I curl my hair?” Honestly, the bitch won’t shut up.

Do I Look Different to You?

I am officially a homeowner. Officially.

Yesterday, amid a flurry of papers and a group of at least 8 other people, Erica and I signed our way into a 30 Year Mortgage on a duplex in Park Slope, Brooklyn. The day had been planned for weeks. Erica and I decided to take the day off from work, as well as a day off from packing and getting ready for the move. You know, Closing Day is a huge day and we wanted to enjoy it. We planned to get up, go somewhere for a nice breakfast, visit Tiffany's to buy our celebratory key chains, have a nice lunch, go sign our papers and go to dinner together with some friends.

Lovely, right?
Wrong.

The day starts off at 10:30 the night prior when our broker calls to tell us we're missing some vital paperwork that has to be signed by a board member of the co-op. The next morning we are (actually, Erica is) frantic and on the phone with the broker and our attorney and the president of the co-op in an attempt to not only retrieve the paperwork, but also to find a way to take it into Manhattan, have it signed by the president of the co-op, and make it back to Brooklyn by 2PM for the closing. We get the papers at noon. We jump in a cab and head to Manhattan.

Hunger has set in at this point, and let me tell you, neither of Brooklyn's newest homeowners is very pleasant when she is hungry. Especially the tiny one.

So, now it's 1PM, we have the signed paper, we have not eaten and the screaming starts. I want to get something in the city and take the train back to Brooklyn. Erica refuses to have any food from Manhattan -- "You do what you want, but I'm going to Brooklyn. And you'd better come with me."

Oh yeah. This is at the bank where we're getting a certified check that we also were not aware we needed until we were in the cab on the way to Manhattan. (Seriously. Our attorney is not the most responsible, organized guy out there. Nice, but he could have mentioned the certified check in one of the previous 6,000 conversations that morning.)

So, we're in line, bickering like assholes and the teller thinks we're upset with him. "No. It's not you. We're a couple and we're buying a house today." He nods and excuses himself out of the rest of our argument.

Finally. We have the papers, we have the check and we are in cab number two of the day on our way to Brooklyn.

We are still hungry.

We get to Court Street, get out of the cab, and proceed to argue about where we're going to grab food. We have 25 minutes to get it, eat it, and get into our Closing appointment. We end up at Garden of Eden and buy pre-made wrap sandwiches. Once we're in line, at the cash register, Erica asks if we should get drinks. I punch her in the mouth.

Not really. Just in my head.

We pay for the sandwiches, boogie on over to the attorney's office and eat on the sidewalk next to a mailbox and a pile of garbage. I got some water from a sidewalk schwarma guy.

Then we go into our meeting. Guess what's there.

Sandwiches.

Bliss

“Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss”- Alexander Dumas

Yes, dear readers my search for enlightenment continues. In fact I am thinking of going to the Tibet House to learn about Buddhism and mediation. The Tibet House actually has a weekly teaching on mediation that is supposed to be the best in the city. Of course, I have a dilemma because I might never take this course in mediation since it’s only offered on Tuesdays which also happens to be the day of my Pilates class with my favorite teacher, Tela. This is a serious dilemma to say the least do I want to achieve a stronger mind or a stronger body? It saddens me to realize that I’m shallow enough to say, body.

In Nicole Beland’s book she says, “Buddha taught that in order to avoid unhappiness, we must learn to curb our expectations and stay open to whatever life offers.” Honestly, achieving that might be the greatest struggle of my life, even harder than the work I do in Pilates. And let me tell you if you haven’t done the teaser you don’t know about hard work. Hello, why is my core the weakest part of my body? I have made a commitment to myself to rectify that.

But fear not, even thought The Princess thinks that I am overly obsessed with the gym I do have other areas of interest, like grooming, which leads me to ultimate bliss, which I achieved last Sunday appropriately enough at Bliss Spa. My sister and I went to Bliss for a facial and let me tell you, that was money well spent. And much, much easier than self reflection.

Oh Mary.

I hate being away from the blog. As you may have noticed, I have been out of commission for the past week or so because I was working a corporate event in Key Largo. The weather rocked, the event went smoothly, the clients were thrilled and best of all, it's now over.

When I'm on these gigs, my personal life ceases to exist for the duration of the event. We work around the clock and have very little personal time to ourselves. Any break we do get is usually spent sleeping or drinking, or passing out from drinking (a combination of the two, I suppose.) My job is stressful.

Anyway, what kills me about being away from the blog is the fact that even though I am not writing about the fascinating and exciting events in my life, they're still happening. And subsequently they pile up and now I have to struggle with what to write about, what to let go, or what to write about later while lying and saying that it's current.

Yes, dear readers, sometimes I lie in the blog. But, believe me, it's for your own good. The stories are much more interesting the way I write them. (Oprah, please do not judge me, nor berate me on television in front of your millions of adoring fans.)

So, as you'll notice, this is my second posting of the day. I just have a lot to write about.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog, I recently had a huge therapy-induced breakthrough. I, dear fans, finally found the strength to stand up to my mother. (Reference my posting entitled, "Shoot" for the entire story.)

As you all know, Mom's health has been on the shaky side for the past few years and my relationship with her has been strained ... well, since I was 8, but more intensely since the sick came along.

Mom's favorite game is, "What's the best way to get Susan into a frantic tizzy?" And she is very good. If it were a true sport, she'd totally go Pro. So, the way she accomplishes her goal (lately. There have been several variations over the years.) is by giving me bits of information in regard to her health, but only the most horriffic, worst-case scenario bits that may, or may not be a direct threat to her. Mom, more than once, has been admitted to the hospital, and will not allow anyone to tell me until the situation becomes so dire that she is moved into ICU. This is when she decides to notify me. Usually she does this via a smuggled-in cell phone that potentially endangers all heart-monitor and pace-maker wearers within a 65' radius.

She says that she doesn't tell me about her hospital visits because she "doesn't want to worry me." Dear people. This is bullshit. It is the opinion of The Princess that her mom waits for disaster so that when she upsets The Princess, she gets the most bang for her buck. You know ... a BB gun will sting, but an Uzi ... watch the fuck out. Anyway. I stood up to her, I put my foot down by saying that I refused to play her mind games any more and I could not participate in the craziness, nor did I have any intention of ever going back.

Then I quit therapy.

This was an awful decision, but it was financially motivated and since Oxford sucks ass and doesn't reimburse it's clientele (Michael Moore, did you focus on them? They would have been perfect.) and since each visit to Mary is $150 ($600 a month except for twice a year when it's $750) I had to take a break. So, being the confident, self-assured girl I am, I wrote her a letter.

I told her how much I appreciated the work she's done with me for the past couple of years and I told her about my most recent success with putting my foot down with my mom. I also said that I hoped we could start back up once E and I got a few mortgage payments under our belts and I got a chance to kick some Oxford ass. Then, a few nights later, I get a phone call from her.

Obviously, I don't answer. Perhaps less obviously, I also do not listen to her message. For several days.

Yes. I am even intimidated by voice mail.

Then I finally get up the nerve, and people. This is the sweetest message I've ever received. She tells me that she's proud of what I was able to do with my mother and that she'll miss me because she's truly enjoyed working with me. And, my favorite, "Susan, the name of the game is, "Whatever works best for you."

I love you Mary. Thank you so much for helping me grow into a person who can tell their mother off via phone. And, I look forward to our reunion when we can work on my fears about voice mail.

Mortgage Vs. Marriage

Hi. I'm back. I'm stressed and I'm screaming pretty frequently these days.
I also fell down first thing this morning.

We are moving in less than a week. Our entire apartment consists of piles of boxes and piles of our crap waiting to go into boxes. The apartment has become an obstacle course. Chulo is so freaked out that he is constantly about three inches from my right ankle so when I was going into the kitchen this morning to feed him, I walked out of the bedroom, and while trying to dodge him, I ran into Erica's portfolio, which tripped me up. I fell into the washer and landed directly on my ass.

Good morning to me.

The resulting crash and Erica's mad dash to save my life did nothing to calm Chulo's nerves and it set the scene for the rest of our morning of tripping over our stuff and each other and the ever present Chulo -- the whole scene had the three of us barking all morning.

We close on our new apartment tomorrow, we move on Saturday and we, dear people, are frazzled. Luckily E and I argue well and we both know that all of the bickering is just stress so we're not getting mad ... just very, very agitated.

Here's where I thank Dr. Auerbach and the makers of Klonopin. Without them, the new owners of our old place would walk into a murder scene consisting of two bloody lesbians with serious knife wounds and a frantically pacing Bichon Frise.

Fear not dear fans -- we're going to make it through this. Neither of us has cried yet. (But we've still got several days to go.)

You know, Erica and I have been together for four and a half years, we are engaged and have an official, $36 piece of paper that says we are domestic partners. We used to joke that it was our expensive, purchased as a couple, furniture that was keeping us together.

Well, that's nothing compared to a 30 year mortgage. The government may not allow us to get married, but I can't imagine being any more committed than jointly owing hundreds of thousands of dollars to a bank.

I miss you…

Darling readers, as you know by now, The Princess has been forced into a blogging hiatus to do her “real” job. I will not lie, this is hard on HRH. Of course this has been compounded by the fact that at the same time “A”, who oddly enough has a job that is similar to The Princess’ in that he is basically abducted for days at a time, during which yours truly only receives communication via a daily text and if lucky a twenty second phone call, has been working also. And as life would have it the two people I talk to the most and who make me laugh the most are completely incommunicado and now I think I have PMS. This of course is a deadly combination, one that will probably result in some hideous bought of either tears or anger whenever “A” does resurface. (“A” who foolishly, said during the early days of our dating that he didn’t believe in PMS well I can tell you he sings a different tune these days.)

During the course of this week I have had about three minutes total on the phone with both The Princess or “A” neither conversation was that fulfilling. I will provide the details:

With The Princess, we discussed how “Pride cometh before a fall” was always a metaphor (or simile, I swear I can never get those right) to me until, in my dance class this week, I literally fell off of my brick that we stand on while doing plies and squats. Of course, I flailed wildly as I catapulted off my brick making an enormous ass of myself. Alas, the only injury I sustained was to my pride.

“A” called to tell me how hot Kim Kardashian is in the December issue of Playboy. When I questioned if indeed her boobs were real, he told me, “Well, you can see for yourself I bought a copy.” Touching, right? I told him how much it meant to me that he buys soft porn for us to share. He told me, “don’t forget about the articles, babe.” Sweet, right? I mean if that isn’t touching what is? Of course, the worse my PMS gets the more annoying I find this.

Dear readers, I must also apologize for the lack of visual aids this week. To be honest, it is The Princess who is responsible for adding them and making everything look pretty. Of course Erica, would like me to learn how to do it too, but seriously that’s too much work. Some of you might have noticed that I did include a link on yesterday’s blog, that was a huge accomplishment for me and all credit belongs to Erica who spent a good six hours explaining to me how it is done.

Oh Princess, I’m glad to hear you are staying regular.

Do You Miss Me?

I don't know if you guys miss me, but I sure do. I'm currently in Key Largo, FL, working on an event which means I have to put my entire life on hold until 2:30 tomorrow afternoon when I get on a plane to fly back to New York. Right now I should be heading down to my golf cart to go over to our workroom to help get things set up for lunch and the dinner party tonight, but I took a break to come back to my room for my morning poop and to read HRH's latest posting.

I've been up since 5 this morning and didn't get to bed until 12:30 last night and I don't expect to get to bed any earlier this evening. Now, I'm not complaining. This is the nature of the event planning beast. I'm just saying I'm tired, I want to sit here in my room and blog to you guys about my latest emotional breakthrough (big news on the therapy front!), but alas ... lunch florals and linens await.

That being said, I am in South Florida, in gorgeous weather and I love the people I'm working with, so it don't suck.

Write to you soon!

xoxoxox -- TP

Zen and the life of a commuter.

Now I realize dear readers that it is very likely you are tired of hearing about my commute to work and the suffering that I experience on my daily L train rides. I apologize. I too am sick of it, but let’s face it, I really don’t have much to talk about. Basically my life is, commuting, work, the gym and trying to spend time with “A” (I know, it’s disgusting but true, I’m totally that girl). Please forgive me for being so limited in scope, but listen you’re reading this so I figure you care about my life. Yes, dear reader when I picture you, I see you waking every morning and wondering, how is HRH? Is she happy? Is she growing as a person? That’s right, in my mind’s eye, our readers not only care about who we are but are concerned with our ultimate personal growth.

During a recent conversation with The Princess I was saying how I’d like to become one of those people who are calm all the time. She says that those people don’t exist. But I’m telling you that they do. I’ve encountered people who just let things roll off of them and I’ve always wanted to be that person. So in an attempt to find enlightenment I’ve started reading this book, Girl Seeks Bliss by Nicole Beland. I heard about Nicole (she writes a column on sex for Men’s Health Magazine called, “Ask the Girl Next Door”) on Dr. Oz’s show on the Oprah and Friends Network on XM radio. I am addicted to both the Gayle King show and the Dr. Oz show and listen daily while I get ready for work. This is a habit that drives “A” insane (oh, by the way, for those of you who don’t like that I write A in quotes, i.e. The Princess, suck it up, you’re not the boss of me and I like it in quotes, thank you very much). “A” does not think it is fun to both watch me get ready for work as well as listen to gossip during the morning hours. He would much prefer some hearty news. “A” is also not the boss of me. And if he were then I might not have heard about Nicole’s book on Dr. Oz’s show.

It of course is on my L train commutes that I stand, reading my book and learning how to be more Zen. This morning I was reading a story of how Nicole and her ex-boyfriend had been waiting in line for tennis tickets, when the line got jostled and they were pushed further back while others jumped ahead of them. Of course she was annoyed, but when she looked over at her ex, who is one of those calm people that The Princess says doesn’t exist, he still looked completely at ease. When she asked him why he said, “getting mad isn’t going to make things any better.” I swear people, that is one of the wisest things I’ve heard in a long time. This is a phrase I shall start repeating to myself, “getting mad isn’t going to make things any better.”

Guess what, I didn’t have to wait long to practice my new phrase, as the L train doors opened and people crammed into the train, elbowing me in my back, one girl even got her hair caught on my coat button. Of course my original desire was to scream, “Stop pushing me I’m trying to read my book on being Zen.” Of course then I began chanting to myself, “getting mad isn’t going to make things any better” (serenity now!).