Sawat-dee kaa!

I am totally learning Thai. That means hello.

Sabai dee mai? That means How are you?

So ready for our trip, y'all.

I am in Boston now, about to head out to the airport bound for Philly, but wanted to share with you all that it is never acceptable to comment to a woman: "You look tired. Did you sleep last night?"

No, it is never acceptable.

Yawn.

In other news, my new pseudo-niece's name is actually Ryley Judith. I learned that when father of said pseudo-niece looked at me like I was MAD when I called his new baby Ryley Olivia. But she is just the sweetest, tiniest thing. Well done, Lauren!

Finally, tomorrow is my birthday. I'm legal! Seven times over.

Let's not speak of it, okay?

Yawn.

Travolta Ain't Got Nothin' on DelCo Cover Bands

Pardon my vulgarity, but this morning I would like to say only:

Fuck you, Avis Rental Car.

The horror of this morning's rental car return! The incomprehensive signs pointing to off-airport drop-off locations! The gut-wrenching drive up and down Post Road! The calls to Avis headquarters! Who couldn't help me because I was calling from a New York number! And that's why I was routed to New York! And if I had been wise enough to call from a Rhode Island land line, I may have gotten the assistance I needed!

So yes, fuck you Avis, and your assinine ways. I thank you ever so graciously for causing me to miss my 7:15 AM flight to Philadelphia.

At the very least, you have offered me the opportunity to discuss last weekend's 10th Annual Girls' Christmas Party! The highlights:

• The line of the night, courtesy of Di. I won't do it justice; just know that it ends with a blow to her two year-old son's ego, when he was unfortunate enough to be caught in the Gallery in Center City Philadelphia behind a dissatisfied customer, who directed her rage at the young kid: "Look at that big ass kid in the stroller!" Oh my God. We laughed for an hour, though it was probably D's delivery of the line. I'm still laughing now.
• Allie presenting us with her gifts, explaining, "This is because we're all sort of homey now, y'know?" She gave us all wonderful cookbooks: except Grace of course, who got a giant encyclopedia of cocktails. Well-played, Al. Well-played.
• Lord - Grace. After the lovely dinner hosted at Al's, the six of us plunged into the depths of Delco nightlife: Goon's. A particularly lame cover band performed (like, have you ever seen an all-man group rock out to "You're the one that I want" from Grease?). Grace became agitated and decided to throw me around some on the dance floor. And push me into the stage. Repeatedly.
• Grace then followed me to the side of the stage, at which time the bassist foolishly invited her up. She danced, hopped off, then wanted more. She jumped back, dragging me with her. I stood in the back as Grace bounded towards the microphone. Security immediately accosted her. We decided it was time to head out.
• The sleepover. Let's just say, Grace ended up in a compromising position at night's end. Koos delightedly snapped photos with her camera phone, which woke Grace from her delicate slumber. "Seriously?" she asked, exasperated. Again, we laughed and laughed.

Kudos to us for keeping the tradition alive since high school. Here is to Christmas parties well into our 90s, at which time I expect Grace will still be tossing me around on the dance floor like a ragdoll.

Ryley Olivia Arrives

Ryley Olivia was born last night at 10 PM, as I lay asleep at Mohegan. She's completely adorable and delicious; if new momma Laur gives me the OK, I will post photos!

(My own momma called from the hospital last night to tell me the news. She added: "She did great! Only an hour of pushing!" "An HOUR?!" I yelled into the phone, because, um, that seems like a lot. And also - ouch.)

J, Ultimate Boyfriend/Secret Keeper

Many months ago, J and I were strolling around SoHo, our typical New York Saturday. We crossed Houston and meandered into Crate and Barrel, where I began mentally decorating my future dining room (J’s current). Suddenly, a brainstorm:

“Let’s not bother with Christmas presents this year,” I say. “We don’t need anything, and we can focus on stuff for the house.”

“That’s a great idea,” J agrees.

“Well, I mean, we should get each other one small, thoughtful thing,” I backpedal.

“Of course,” J says.

Naturally, O Magazine helps me create the perfect gift for J. I learn of a service that will allow me to convert photos to oil paintings. J is a wonderful photographer, so I pick one of my favorite shots from Greece and then wait until the very last second to send the pic to the company, because I procrastinate.

But when I do receive the painting a few days before the holiday, it’s spectacular. He will love it.

This gentleman from Santorini is hanging in our kitchen now.

J and I decide to celebrate our Christmas the Saturday before Dec. 25^th. We each have one small wrapped gift placed under the tree – ahem, poinsettia.

J asks to open his gift first. As I suspected, he loves it. Success!

I open my gift. A Reebok sneakers box!

Wait - a handmade book inside. The Grinch adorns its cover.

It reads: Merry Christmas, Melissa.

I begin reading. J is absolutely silent.

…a few sheets of paper were all I could afford…

…you’ll need a break after a long winter cooped up with your boyfriend…

Map of the United States?

JFK?

Thailand?!?

Really?!?!?!

I scream as I frantically turn the pages. There is a 17 hour flight to Bangkok! There is a three-night stay in Chiang Mai! There is a four-night stay in Krabi! There are snorkeling trips to Phi Phi! There is a two-night stay in Siem Reap, Cambodia, to visit the temples at Angkor Wat!

I can barely wrap my head around it; I am so astounded.

He’d been planning it since that afternoon in Crate and Barrel. He set me up. And he kept it top secret for months and months.

He should work for the CIA; he’s so secretive and smooth.

The trip is coming up quick; we leave for Bangkok on February 22nd. We're in the process of getting the appropriate shots (hepatitis A) and antimalarial meds, as you do. J thinks I am crazy for insisting on a mosquito net for Cambodia; he assures me we are not sleeping in wilderness. I have to explain to him that mosquitos love to feast on me, and he'll be sorry when I contract malaria!

So yeah, ever so slightly crazy.

And going to Thailand and Cambodia!!!

(High-pitched squealing ensues.)

I'm Alive!

Well, it has been one HELL of a January thus far. I've been traveling non-stop (Orlando; Westminster, Massachusetts; Manhattan; White Plains, New York; Uncasville, Connecticut). I swear, the networking never ends. I actually see J less now than when we were doing the long distance thing. For serious!

I write to you, faithful readers, from the Mohegan Sun Casino and Resort in Connecticut. I am headed to dinner in five minutes, but wanted to check in with the Internet. I miss you guys. Let's really catch up soon - I have so much to report!

Here's a preview: at 2:36 AM I received a text message that read only: LABOR. Cousin Lauren is having contractions, y'all! And it's 5:34 PM, and yeah, still no baby Riley. Silly kid! And aww - Laur. May your epidural be blissful and may you dialate soon. Love you lots, dear Cuzzy.

So babies and trips abroad coming up very soon and much Holy Shit! It's all fun and games until someone moves in with someone chat by Wednesday.

Mmm... Mini bar. Sweet, sweet mini bar.

Back. And also - everything's different.

Well then. Um, how was your holiday?? Great, great. Mine was excellent, thank you for asking.

Hmm.

And your New Year's?

Fantastic!

Awkward silence. Writer looks down at feet.

So, am a little embarrassed by my prolonged absence, faithful readers. But I still love you like a fat kid love cake. Seriously. And now we're back in business!

I have no idea where to begin.

Should I tell you that I am traveling this week? That tonight I am traveling... in Manhattan? You know, where I used to live? Remember Queens? The new Manhattan?

I no longer live in Astoria. And yes, it breaks my heart, ever so slightly. Just ask my calm, patient, kind boyfriend, J, who lovingly sat with me in my empty apartment bathroom as I sobbed and sobbed, willing myself to give him a smile so he wouldn't think I had gone completely mad.

He also sat with me in my empty bedroom. And in my empty living room. He handed me rolls of toilet papers because I couldn't seem to stop the tears. I named this blog after Queens for JC's sake!

Damnit, fucking tears!

I am sitting in a Courtyard Marriott on 92nd and First Avenue. I've been living in a gorgeous home in Philadelphia for barely two weeks; and amazingly, in that short span of time, I don't belong here anymore. I don't live here anymore. I rode the 4 train downtown to meet Vanessa at our former favorite happy hour spot, and I felt like a poser; a ghost. When the woman behind the desk at the hotel asked me how my trip to the city was, I felt compelled to tell her that it was great; after all, I just moved to Philadelphia, from Astoria! Really! You see?? I really am one of you! Don't you get it, lady??

Writer heaves huge sigh.

It will get easier.

I mean, it has to! This is 2007, y'all. This is serious. And I am excited to report that it's January 9th, and I've already broken all of my resolutions. Unless, of course, my resolutions were as follows:

1. Drink more.
2. Er, drink every day.
3. Don't exercise.
4. Start drinking caffeine again.
5. Sleep in.
6. Forget B vitamins.
7. Stick foot in mouth once daily.
8. Leave laptop at security in Orlando airport.
9. Frantically recover laptop in nick of time.
10. Ignore blog.

Happy New Year, Internet. Happy New Year, Everyone.

100 Million. Really?

I read yesterday that there are a 100 million blogs out there. That's a lot of fucking blogs, people. No wonder my comments section is dwindling in recent weeks; there are 99,999,999 other blogs you could be reading. Wait - are you reading them? What?!? I thought we had something special, Internet. Those other bloggers don't love you like I do!

This week I've been mulling over ways to increase my site traffic. Let's face it: I don't have a niche. I am not a Mommyblogger (and props to the Mommybloggers, because, God, I love you all). I am not an entertainment blogger. I am not a political blogger. Blog about sports? Nope. Won't find that here either.

I suppose then, you might categorize me as a "general interest" blogger. I contend that I am generally interesting, but when best friend Grace, featured often on the site, emails me every few weeks asking for the URL AGAIN, I begin to question my own blogging worth. We writers have fragile, fragile egos, you know.

I started a blog on Friendster many months ago, because I was itching to write. Well, in truth, I was already writing; I was itching for people to read what I wrote. I composed two incredibly weak entries, then threw out the whole idea. I wrote this: See "Beginning Blogger". Then I changed my mind.

I love this blog. I do. I love every single one of you who is reading this write now, even if you are extremely averse to commenting nicely (I am a comment-whore, damnit!). I love hitting the publish button after transcribing some inane story from my life, because it feels like I've accomplished something. I like to share. I am part narcissist, part aspiring novelist/newspaper columnist/editor-in-chief. The problem is - besides narcissist - I am not any of those things: yet. And the way to get there is to start writing and writing and then writing some more, and then getting published by others. You want to read my witty prose in print, don't you, adoring, extremely silent fan base? I thought so.

So I've decided that in lieu of merely increasing traffic here, I've got to quadruple my writing efforts on other fronts. I assure all five of you that I will keep up my blogging duties as best I can, because, as I said, I love you and all the blogging community and my own modest little webpage. Maybe I will publish rejection letters here as well! Could that be my new gimmick?

Well My Friends, The Time Has Come

Look, readers, I love Lionel. And I am okay with that. Really.

There is quite nothing like driving along 95 in New York state; the sun warming your face, the strains of "All Night Long" filling your rented Chevy Aveo. Pure bliss.

Once, Chaz and Grace and I sat in my living room, listening to the compilation disc that Grace had thoughtfully brought for her weekend visit. A familiar melody filled the air. The three of us, simultaneously, began:

That's why I'm easy
Easy like Sunday mornin'

We laughed uproariously. Chaz asked that we never mention that to anyone. You see, that's the power of Lionel. You can't help but sing along.

Tonight, Grace and Chaz are coming over to celebrate our final Queens hurrah, and also to dance on the ceiling.

I am characteristically overstimulated about it, though I can't help feel a bit melancholy. I'll miss these days. Ah, Astoria. You're once, twice, three times a lady. I loooooooove you.

Burn in Hell, Holiday Card Sender

I work in an industry in which I come across many, many different people. Thoughtful lass that I am, I collect contact information in a database in order to update my people on events, and also send warm wishes from time to time.

Yesterday my politically-correct holiday cards went out to my rather large database. Most people are gracious and reply with "Thank you, same to you!" Here are some of the more candid responses:

Please remove me from your mailing list.
- Consider it done, Grinch.

HAVE A MERRY. HOPE YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL FOR SANTA!!! HO HO GEORGE
- Merry Christmas, George, you grammatically-challenged, naughty, disturbing contact.

WOW MEL it is good to hear from you I definitly would not have thought I would not hear from you again; did you switch Buildings; because I remember you working in a different building before have a blessed holiday Season email me back with updates
- Ummmm. Okay. (Unsure of who this person is, but slightly afraid of giant run-on sentence.)

Thanks for the holiday card, am not sure i remember who this this, but thank you.
- We're all friends here. Just spreading the joy.

And, my favorite, thus far:

Who the hell are you? If I know you, I'm sorry. If you're using this this holiday to sell me something, you're pitiful.
- Well, fuck you very much, you bitter, jaded soul.

Insight and Understanding, Courtesy of Zach Braff

The first time I saw Garden State, I knew. I sat in the theater next to Vanessa as the credits rolled, weeping openly.

"So what do we do?"

Zach Braff's character, Large, poses the question to a sobbing, beaming Natalie Portman. He's decided to stick around his hometown New Jersey suburb to be with Natalie. He's unsure of what will happen next, but he needs to stay and see. He's exhilarated. I am exhilarated.

"So what do we do?"

I dry my tears as our group of friends reassembles. "Well?" Brad asks eagerly. "Didn't I tell you?"

"Wow," I mutter. It's all I can say.

Some things just resonate: no rhyme, no reason. I couldn't stop thinking about the question Large posed. I was unhappy. I had been for years, quite frankly, but I hadn't allowed myself my misery. I ignored it and rationalized it away, until it began seeping in to my everyday thoughts.

You could leave him, it would suddenly occur to me. But I'd quickly push the thought aside. I can't leave, I'd retort. We just moved in. How can I leave?

And so it went. We went on as virtual roommates, pleasantly greeting each other as we passed by. We didn't talk about anything. I played happy and stayed away.

"So what do we do?"

Get out. I came to the decision suddenly, unsure of how to execute this newly formed plan.

New York would be my answer. It was always the answer. We had some unfinished business, she and I. An aching need to right the wrongs of 2001 and 2002 in downtown Manhattan; to forgive all that had been ripped from me in that year and to rebuild. I couldn't do that in King of Prussia, PA. I couldn't do that in this dead-end relationship.

So I moved. I determinedly clawed my way to Queens through an ex-boyfriend, mounting bills, and old apartment leases. If I concentrate, I can remember the exact feeling of that first night alone in my new life. Mistakenly getting on the R train (N, Melissa, N!). Vanessa's small one-bedroom littered with boxes. Searching through take-out menus for something appetizing. Crouched on the couch in a crowded living room, watching The Office on DVD. It was pure joy. It was liberation and Christmas morning as a child. It was the happiest I had been in my life.

Memories of that day now are bittersweet; as, in an ironic twist, I prepare to move to Philadelphia to live with the love of my life. I worried about the twinge of sadness that I felt for several weeks: was I making the right decision? Would I regret the move? Would I be a whole person still, when taken out of Queens?

And then it dawned on me, why I struggle with this: I credit Queens for saving my life. Admittedly, I didn't discover who I really was until I lived in Astoria. I made my peace with New York. I let go of the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that had nearly suffocated me years before. I achieved the proper and perfect amount of distance from my somewhat overbearing family, which was quite a coup at the time. I did it completely on my own: good job, exciting travel, great friends, fantastic boyfriend from familiar Philadelphia town.

Maybe it's not the end for me and New York. Maybe I can, in a year, convince J we need to move to Brooklyn. What better place to raise a family? Or maybe someone will publish my stunning and insightful debut novel, perhaps about a girl living in Queens, and we'll be able to afford that brownstone on 80th and Amsterdam.

Or maybe I'll find that I am still me no matter where we live; that I am still whole and good and blissfully happy. Maybe I'll look back on Queens fondly, without longing; I'll take my daughter to Astoria Park one day, and show her where Mommy used to train for marathons (by this time I'll have run one, I know it). I'll lug her giant stroller by my old apartment, past Plaza, past Athena's, up to Steinway. Then we'll head back to Manhattan on the N train, meander through Central Park and make a quick stop at Tasti D-Lite. And then maybe I'll roll her towards Penn Station, onto an Amtrak train, and wherever we end up, we'll both be exhausted and delighted to be home.

"So what do we do?" resonates still. I've come up with many answers since I first saw Garden State, but this is one I'll stick with: we grow and change and fall in love and relocate, and if we are very, very lucky, we keep a sense of humor about it all.

This Used to Be My Playground

My cousin Lauren and I met when I was nine and she was seven. On one blustery February evening in 1989, Uncle Rick brought his future wife and her two young daughters (Lauren and Jessica, then just five), over to our house to meet his sister and family.

At nine I was highly sophisticated. I knew exactly how to entertain my two young guests while leaving the adults to chat in the living room.

"You guys want to play Barbies?" I asked.

And just like that, a new family was born.

Throughout the years, Laur and I were often the best of friends, at times fierce competitors. I was jealous when she had the better toys (I believe she had all of the New Kids on the Block dolls, for JC's sake); she would tattle on me for the slightest infractions (Taking Jess around the block on my banana-seat bike, is not a crime, GOD!). We would amuse ourselves for hours dressing up and performing Mariah Carey's, "Vision of Love." We had countless sleepovers in which we'd typically watch (and cry during) A League of Their Own, then we'd lay awake singing "This Used to Be My Playground," which, you know. Awesome.

One Christmas season we agonized over Magic Nursery Babies. These dolls were special; after purchasing, you'd find out the baby's gender (or if you had multiple births) by opening an envelope inside the packaging. We simply could not GO ON unless we had these beautiful creatures in our permanent toy collections. I received my doll and she was glorious. And then a call from my cousin - she had received the Magic Nursery Baby Twins!



Blinding rage. Burning envy.

Eventually, we pushed the toys aside when we discovered boys. We made it through adolescence as the best of friends. I had never really had a sister; Laur was it.

But quicker than the New Kids became NKOTB and then fell off the scene completely and spectacularly: we were grown-ups.

I was in my White Plains, NY office in May when I ducked into the ladies' bathroom to take Lauren's call. This time, she was having, like, an ACTUAL baby.

Grown-ups.

Yesterday, I attended her baby shower. Baby shower! Little Riley Olivia will be here at the end of January, and I will be a first time Aunt HomeValley (yeah, I know not technically, but we're unconventional here).

"You should see all the stuff they got," I told J when I arrived home last night. "It's amazing! Maybe we should have a baby soon." Now I recognize that "for the stuff" is not the best reason to procreate, so it's birth control and B vitamins for me for many, many years to come.

An Open Letter to the Newest Addition:

Dearest Riley,

We all can't wait to meet you! We already know you will be awesome. Confidentially, I always knew your mama would be first to make one of you. Also, the fact that Mom is two years younger than Aunt HomeValley, and having you very very soon, makes Aunt HomeValley's Mommy very aaaannnngggrrrryyyy. So thanks for that, Ri. XOXO!

All my love,

Aunt HV

I can read between the lines.

Last week, at a routine check-up, my doctor told me that the birth control pill can strip your body of B vitamins. Thus, in order to alleviate mood swings associated with PMS, I should start taking a B-Complex.

J has taken to leaving these vitamins out for me on the counter, where he can be sure I won't miss them.

Fine, I took the damn B-Complex this morning. But I am not sure why, as I am always a perfectly-behaved, non-hormonal little angel.

Syracuse, I hardly knew ye.

I flew into Syracuse this morning on JetBlue, and holy shit: this airline is amazing. The seats are enormous and a comfortable, cushy soft leather; plus, there is DirecTV available on each! Do you know that I got to watch Justin Timberlake on VH1 during the duration of the flight?? And also, that new Weird Al Yankovic video that just kills me. I literally laugh out loud at "White and Nerdy." Strikes a chord. The irony is, I've been traveling to Cuse on a prop plane from LaGuardia for nearly two years, and on my last trip here (moving, y'all, but MUCH more on that later in a heart-wrenching "Ode to Queens"), I discover this incredible airline with it's fancy televisions and actual jets at JFK. Figures.



I've got 20 minutes to get fabulous in time for dinner, but I wanted to let you know that my room at the Comfort Inn smells like the inside of a bong. And also, I read an article earlier this week that described Syracuse as one of the worst places to live in the country. A quote (I'm paraphrasing), "I went to college and lived there for four years. I don't know how people drag themselves out of bed in the morning. What motivates them to even brush their teeth?"

Farewell, Cuse, you winter wonderland, you. Be thee well.

Heart Attack HomeValley - and Happy Birthday, J!

Last Monday night, J and I flew into Philadelphia and stopped off at my other grandfather’s house to have a quick bite with my mother and brother, Mike. Over leftover lasagna, I entertained my family with tales from our trip, even telling Mom, “I swear, if I hear one more thing about hyper or hypoactive thyroids, I’m gonna kill myself!”

Oh man, talk about imminent karmic retribution.

On Tuesday night, my heart rate started soaring again. This happens from time to time, most recently on Friday night at the movies, watching (and loving) Stranger Than Fiction. I had been drinking a giant diet coke, and eating whoppers, and I sat there, unnerved, as my heart thumped loudly and swiftly in my chest. I went out for air and came back, but the heart racing persisted. J asked if we should go to the hospital. “No,” I said. “I’m fine.” And in ten minutes or so, I was.

But during A Charlie Brown Christmas on Tuesday (*sniff), it started again, just as J called. It seemed to lull, then began again in earnest. My heart felt fluttery within my throat. WebMd instructed to call a health professional if my heart rate was higher than 100 beats per minute. I checked my pulse, and became a bit alarmed. “It’s definitely over 100 beats,” I tell J. “I think I’ll just pop in the ER across the street, see what they can tell me.” No big deal.

I am immediately taken back to see an ER nurse when I explain my ailment. She takes my pulse, listens to my chest. “That’s a fast heart rate,” she says amiably. “160. Now come with me.” She leads me through a door where a gurney waits for me. “Sit here,” she says. She wheels me back to the bustling emergency room, where at once I am surrounded by a million nurses and orderlies. I am given oxygen, an IV in my arm, and am attached to several heart monitors.

This is not the way to soothe HomeValley’s racing heart. Once I am properly situated, orderlies begin walking by and gaping wide-eyed at the heart monitor. “What is it?” I ask, alarmed. “I shouldn’t tell you,” one young man says. “It’s high.”

180!

I am inundated with questions from various people, all very kind. One man comes over and takes my information (name, address, emergency contact), and then asks, “Any religion?”

“For last rites?!? Jesus!”

I call J. He is on his way.

And oh my God. The hospital is frightening, and lonely, despite a million people walking around gaping at you, or waking you abruptly and sticking a large needle in your arm to draw blood yet neglecting to tell you what the hell they think they're doing?? One Queens woman insisted upon discussing with me the explosive diarrhea that brought her to the hospital that evening. Another elderly man with a BOOMING voice was placed next to me after Trots left; he’d just been attacked by his Rottweiler. And he did not. Shut. Up. All night. At three in the morning, he and his wife were still loudly discussing that damn dog and the events as they unfolded. (“I was just putting the spaghetti on my plate when he jumped at me!”)

After many, many hours and many different tests, it appears my heart is healthy and strong. I’ve been diagnosed with supraventricular tachycardia (http://www.webmd.com/hw/heart_disease/ps1684-relinfo.asp), or, in layman’s terms, “rapid heart beat.” Don’t worry: my cardiologist assured me, “I don’t think this is the lethal kind.” I need to take meds when I feel like it could happen or when it starts happening, and eventually I may need an invasive procedure to correct the electrical misfiring in the old ticker. But here’s the rub: the whole thing could be caused by… wait for it… a hyperactive thyroid! That’s what I get for tuning out during Grandma’s diatribes on her own mysterious thyroid issues. Lesson learned.

But, more important than Heart Attack HomeValley: J celebrated his 30th birthday on December 1st! It was a momentous weekend, as I cooked dinner for him on Friday night, and even rented him Harry Potter, and even tried to stay awake during the film (for the record, we both failed). On Saturday night we celebrated with friends and family at our favorite Thai restaurant in Manayunk, then had everyone back to J’s. Grace drank wine like it was apple juice and danced around for hours in her pink velour sweats. Success!

Highlights

"And if one more car passes on the highway, I am going to jump out and start running."

-J, obviously tiring of quality grandparent time.

Thankfully, we head back to Philadelphia tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. My grandfather is not such a good listener, and seemingly only enjoys giving information. ("You see, that used to be a bustling shopping center, but now all the stores have closed. There used to be a Best Buy. And a Michael's. But they've all closed now.")

J, grits teeth in backseat of car.

They also duped us into believing that they wanted to see our pictures from Greece; in reality, it was a ploy to show us photos from their last Caribbean cruise.

J, cowering in upstairs bedroom.

Oh, and since Grandma was sick with a cold last week, she opted not to cook Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, she made reservations at The Academy Hotel for brunch.

Except, The Academy Hotel was actually the Best Western, Academy Hotel, and it wasn't so much a fancy brunch as it was a table set up in the lobby of the hotel. Next to the swimming pool. Somehow, a tattoed fat man cannon-balling into the water doesn't fill one's heart with warm holiday sentiments.

In Grandma's defense, she hadn't realized what the ambience in the place would be. We chalked it up to an unorthodox Thanksgiving meal, and I took advantage of the complimentary champagne.

Next, we crashed a neighbor's celebration. We'd been invited for dessert but were a bit early.

J, mortified on neighbor's deck.

The house actually belonged to my grandparents' neighbor's father, The Colonel. The Colonel fought in World War II and lost most of his hearing flying fighter jets. The Colonel is a close-talker. Also, The Colonel believes that "those goddamn Muslims won't be happy until they raise their green flag above the White House."

"Oh my God," whispers J, smiling politely as The Colonel drones on. "Our whole life has become listening to old people! It's like, all we do now!"

Quite.

Rocky Mountain High

At thirteen, I was scrawny. Though quite obviously an adorable child, I wore braces, and occasionally, "headgear." I enjoyed dancing, reenacting entire "Fire Marshall Bill" skits, and musical theater.

In fact, Koos and I were at that time so enchanted with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, that in 1993, in order to "thank" my grandparents for a fantastic two-week vacation in lovely Colorado Springs, Colorado, we performed an elaborate scene from the musical. We rewrote a song from the show to describe all of the amazing things we'd done and seen on our trip. And we choreographed it. And um, we rehearsed. Tirelessly, each night. And then, we shamelessly allowed our final farewell performance to be videotaped.

Surely you know where I am going with this? Because that tape? Was screened for J last night.

I think I am still in a relationship this morning, but J is fast asleep, breathing audibly. (We have much trouble breathing at 6500 feet above sea level, so we have become notorious "mouth-breathers.") Perhaps when he wakes, we'll "have to talk."

My throat aches (no doubt from all the mouth-breathing), and I am writing this crouched on the bathroom floor. If my grandparents sense I am awake and alert, I will at once be inundated with information. Do other grandparents do this? J said yesterday, "At some point, they are going to have to stop telling us facts about things." That sums it up nicely.

My grandparents are wonderful, warm, hilarious people, if a little, shall we say, accommodating? They are also extremely religious, which I never saw as an issue. "They never preach," I assured J last week.

Of course, last night, as we dined on delicious red wine chicken (a Far-Mor specialty), Far-Far asked J which religion was he?

Shit, I think.

J explains calmly that he is not associated with any particular sect.

Far-Far explains that we are all born with a void in our hearts, and until we accept Jesus in our lives, we will attempt to fill that void with drugs, alcohol, sex, or workaholism.

I smile brightly at J and ask him to pass the broccoli. Emphatically.

And bless J's heart, he continues smiling politely but doesn't add to the discussion. I continue drinking (void?), and soon we manage to quell the Jesus talk and escape to the living room to watch Hitch.

Other highlights of the trip thus far: Riding the Pike's Peak Cog Railway to the summit of Pike's Peak, elevation 14,110 feet; and Far-Mor praying elaborately before lunch, asking Jesus to bless our meal and also HomeValley's "husband-to-be." ("It just slipped out," she said.)

Did I tell you that I got into 30th Street Station in Philadelphia at midnight on Monday evening, and out of sheer exhaustion and frustration, I jumped in an old lady's cab when she hesitated? And also, she had a cane? Granted, there was another cab directly behind her, but still. The karmic retribution is imminent.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Woe.

Things I am sick of this week:

1. Chase credit cards.
2. My post office.
3. Finance charges.
4. Noise.
5. Drilling.
6. My “lovely” cube in Chelsea.
7. Ceilings leaking toilet water.
8. Relocating cubicles.
9. Drilling.
10. Sitting next to the office fax machine.
11. People who don’t know how to fax.
12. People who ask me to help them fax.
13. Death.
14. People with hacking coughs on the N train.
15. Blog spam.
16. Conference calls.
17. Global warming.
18. Chipotle.

Things that made this week slightly more bearable:

1. J.
2. Borat, and the Real JC.
3. Buttery movie popcorn.
4. A talk with my fabulous Far-Mor Stina.
5. When Far-Mor said, during chat, “You and me: we will always be friends!”
6. Imminent trip to Colorado.
7. Daydreams of serene silence I will experience on Cheyenne Mountain.
8. The closet door installed in the office.
9. Cleaning out my hope chest.
10. Rediscovering a copy of Bridget Jones on VHS in my hope chest.
11. Acela hot dogs.
12. Vladimir Nabokov.
13. Aidan Shaw.
14. The Philadelphia Eagles.
15. The paper Gingerbread Man sent to me by sister Meghan. My mission is to show that Man around the city, then write a journal entry! And I’ll be damned if I don’t get that thing to the top of the Empire State Building!
16. J.
17. Chipotle. (How I love and hate you, simultaneously!)
    
    

It has been a trying few days for HomeValley, but things are improving. On Tuesday evening, J and I will be Denver-bound on a Frontier Airlines flight (yeah, I have never heard of that airline either) from Philadelphia. I have ambitious plans to post each day of our trip to detail our journey; but I may just climb a mountain, where I will sit for six straight days, contemplating life and enjoying the blissful, ubiquitous quiet, until a mountain lion inevitably attacks and devours me.

Just that kinda week, y’all.

Seven Things This Week

1. J was in a wedding on Saturday, and I went as his super-cute date who knew only one other reception attendee. The evening turned out to be surprisingly wonderful: by the end of the evening I had danced to Michael Jackson with the bride's dad; been told by a very drunk older gentleman that I looked like that blonde woman he'd just seen in that movie! (Gwyneth Paltrow); and, seen a drunken reveller's breast flop out of her unfortunate black tube dress during "Don't Stop Believin'."

2. The following day, J and I had a lengthy discussion about NippleGate 2, as he was pleased that he had predicted the snafu the moment he noticed the boxum woman flailing about on the dance floor. J recalled that it came out like a pancake, as it was quite large. "I'd never have that problem," I said wistfully as we were painting the office a lovely sage green. "Aw, babe, you're perfect!" Beat. "But it's nice to see big ones once in a while."

3. Am exhausted. Have been in Philadelphia, White Plains NY, Queens, Waterbury CT, New Haven CT, Queens, and Providence. In that order. I write to you from the trusty Acela Express, since a department budget crunch has grounded me (mostly) for the remainder of the year. This is fine by me; I avoid airport security lines that culminate in me stuffing my $20 lip gloss in a plastic baggie and/or throwing liquids over three ounces in the trash that I neglected to check - but also the hot dogs here, they are unspeakably yummy.

4. My O Magazine obsession? It's getting worse. Not only do I pour over every single word in the publication whilst dog-earring pages of interest; no, now: I highlight whole passages. I worship you Suze Orman and your sound financial advice! Send help.




5. I created a budget in Excel. J is so proud. I should tell you, I am desperately trying to pay off my student loans, so I opted to get super-organized. I must say, I am pretty impressed with my budgetary development skills. I add sums in columns like it's my job, and I have also listed all of my "entertainment" expenses, dollar by frivolously-spent dollar. I love my budget so much that I can't stop looking at it, and thinking up more features to add. I have taken to writing notes to myself next to entertainment expenses, like "Starbucks Grande Light Caramel Frappucino - 4.65: That's too much $ for a drink. Stop buying these." Then I laugh at myself and my funny notes. And then I realize that I am very, very sad. With all of money meticulously accounted for.
6. I skipped Lost last night because I was too tired to stay awake until ten. J's mom taped it, so we're okay. Don't tell me anything!

7. I keep singing "Tryin to get to yoooouuuu and that booty" in my damn head. Constantly. What is this song?? Also of note: I tried bison. Delicious!

Workin' for the weekend in NYC. More to come.

86574 Weddings and a Sandwich

You know, I can’t remember meeting J. He can’t remember meeting me either. I like that. It makes it seem like we’ve always known each other.

How do I tell this story? It starts with a sandwich, many years ago.

J was a “friend” of an ex-boyfriend. I use “friend” loosely, as I’m not sure they ever really liked each other. They ran in the same circle. They went to the same college. They pledged the same fraternity.

I’d say that’s about where the similarities end.

I’ll avoid characterizations of the ex. We were introduced by Grace. After about a month of dating, Grace and I found ourselves in the car, driving somewhere.

“I want out. I don’t think I’m that into him,” I say. I’d woken up that morning with my mind made up. I was moving back to New York for senior year in a few weeks; I didn’t have time for dating. Certainly not for dating boys I was only minimally interested in. I explain this to Grace.

“Well, if you really don’t like him, then end it,” She says. “But if you’re just doing it because you’re leaving, why not stick it out and see what happens?”

I think about this. Grace is seeing the ex’s roommate. It is nice to be spending so much time with her lately…

“We’ll see,” I say.

I don’t make a decision yet. I move back to school.

And then, well: September 11, 2001.

I often wonder how my life would have been different, had it never happened. The reality is, the day changes me. It shifts my foundation. I am still me, just different. For a long time, I am weak. I am clingy. I am sad. I am angry. I am paranoid.

The personal ad writes itself, no?

Somewhere in all this darkness, I must meet J. J is very cute. He’s also very sweet, and kind. We get along immediately. And though I don’t look at him romantically in those early days, I always prefer him to be around. I enjoy talking to him. He feels like a kindred spirit.

One day, I get to the ex’s house (which later becomes J’s house when the ex moves out). I am dressed in a denim skirt and the red and purple top I adore from Urban Outfitters, as we’re all headed to the Manayunk bars for the evening.

When J sees me, he says hello, then adds, “Wow, Melissa, you should be a model.”

He probably doesn’t remember saying it, but I swear: I’ll never forget the compliment.

Another time, J pulls up to the house and realizes he’s forgotten something at his apartment, a few minutes away.

“Do you want to see my place?” He asks me. I immediately acquiesce. We talk amiably the whole time. His home is cozy and clean. I pour over his old high school football photo album. Eventually (reluctantly?), we head back.

After I’ve graduated school and moved back to Pennsylvania, I visit J’s house (now the Manayunk home) again to meet the ex. I’ve spent the weekend in New York, and am in a wonderful mood, and also bloody starving.

When I arrive, I find that everyone's already ordered lunch, and they've just finished. Of course, the ex wouldn’t have called me or ordered me anything. Though admittedly, this is one of the lesser offenses he’s ever committed.

But then there is J. He must see my face fall as I am once again a casualty of the ex’s patented selfishness.

“You want me to make you a sandwich, Melis?” He asks. I nod gratefully. He pulls me into the kitchen with him and chats with me while he fixes me ham and cheese with mustard, on toast. I don’t eat plain white bread because I’m weird. J doesn’t judge.

I find out later that afternoon that the ex has lied to me yet again. This time, he’d told me he’d had a guys’ night out the weekend prior. I learn that there was no boys’ night; he’d actually gone to a party that he didn’t want me to attend.

Any guesses why he wouldn’t want me around?

My blood boiling, I take off for home. I tell myself this is it; that I need to break it off and get him out of my life for good!

But you know I don’t. Am still weak. It’s not an excuse; it’s just that I haven’t found my way out of this mess yet.

I choose instead to wait for him to do it. He breaks up with me for the 278783 time a few weeks later.

Then, after he has his weekend off, he asks to get back together, because who else can he take to the David Gray concert next week?

Charming.

The reason I mention the show at all is because J is there. I get to call him to meet us in the venue. He is dating a nice girl, whom he likes very much as a person but is never really into. I think she is nice too. We have a beer with them before the concert, then part ways.

But it’s always good to see him.

Months later, we’re in Maine for a mutual friend’s wedding. We’re sitting on the couch in the home the couples’ rented, and J’s strumming his guitar. I tell him that my absolute favorite song ever is “More Than Words” by Extreme (shut up).

“If you could play that, I’d marry you in a minute,” I tell him.

Of course he knows how to play it. Naturally.

We dance together at the reception. We probably think little of it. We’re friends. We enjoy each other’s company.

Months after that, we attend another wedding. I’m stuffing my face with snacks at cocktail hour and chatting with a few friends, when J’s roommate’s girlfriend, P offers, “I think J loves Melissa.” I giggle. “No,” she says again to the table, “I think J really loves Melissa.”

I have no idea what we were talking about before her comment, but I blush and feel deeply flattered. She may not remember saying it; but again, it’s one of those moments I’ll never forget.

Time passes. Any time we find ourselves at a party together, I inevitably gravitate towards J. I want to hear all about who he’s dating, what he’s been up to lately. We have lots of conversations, and I always appreciate the way he looks me in the eye when he’s discussing his latest bad date or his vast appreciation for The Twins from the Coors Light commercial.

And because I am so fond of him, and because I find him so freaking adorable and sweet and wonderful, I decide that it’s a good idea to set him up with my lovely roommate, Vanessa.

The short version of that story? Yeah, not so much.

Nothing much happens with that, except perhaps future, painfully awkward conversations and general unease and discomfort.

Anyway.

What happens shortly thereafter? Well, I finally (finally!) get wise and make changes. I get out of that bad relationship once and for all, and I move back to New York. I feel Fantastic. Better than that; I feel Invincible. Am single, charming woman left alone in the city to my own devices! It’s a wickedly exciting time.

And soon, I am heading to another wedding. This time P and J’s old roommate are tying the knot. The wedding’s in Princeton (which is a helluva long way from Queens, y’all), and I make myself pretty and primp and hop in the Hyundai (shut up) to get to the reception on time. I’m apprehensive because the ex is going to be present, and since I am driving I need to avoid cocktails; but I am terribly excited to see Grace, and all of the old crew.

And, well, of course: J.

He’s in the wedding, and he looks very handsome. In the ceremony program, there’s a short, hilarious bio about him. It describes him as a bachelor who enjoys long walks and cuddling by the fire; as a homeowner who is studying for his pilot’s license.

Damn, I think suddenly, huddling awkwardly in the back of the room with Grace’s mother. I should be with J.

Am a bit startled by the thought. At dinner, J comes over to my table and kisses me (chastely on the cheek, mind you) hello. We smile and talk for a brief moment, and then he is gone again.

Most of my evening is spent avoiding the ex at all costs. Grace drags me out to the dance floor at some point, where I find J nearby. I grab his hand for a dance.

He immediately snaps it back and looks at me as if I am mad.

“Whoa,” he says seriously. “We can’t dance together.”

I chuckle. “And why not?”

“Your ex is here. It’s just... Against the rules. The code.” (We all know that this “code” speak becomes obsolete soon enough. Still, the rejection stings.)

“Fine,” I say, and get the hell off the dance floor as my drunken ex starts jabbering in the background, settling down on a chair for a lap dance from one of the burliest guys in the wedding party (Yes, you read that sentence correctly).

I tell Grace’s mother what J’s just told me. “If it’s possible, I feel even more awkward now,” I say.

An hour later I make to leave. I say my goodbyes and rush to the exit, pleased to have made it out of the party virtually unscathed.

And who should be standing there, at the door?

“You taking off?” He asks.

“Yup. It was good seeing you,” I say honestly.

“You too.”

“Well, when you’re in the city, you should give me a call,” I say.

“Sure,” he says. And we say goodbye.

And uh, in case you’re wondering, he never calls. I continue dating in the city, and only occasionally let my mind drift back to J.

One idle Friday morning in July 2005, I email him to say hello.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Sometimes I look back on those days and can’t quite believe how surprising life is. Sometimes I ask J if he thinks we’d still be together today if we’d started dating 5 years ago, around the time we first met. We swap stories from our shared history, and wonder if maybe we always knew on some level? I’ll wonder aloud what was I thinking back then? Why did I stay in a bad relationship for so long?

But then J assures me that everything worked out the way it was supposed to. That every thing that happened in the past led us to where we are today. And today - today is pretty fucking great.

A few months ago, we were at the 7479 wedding together; only this time, J was all mine.

And I finally got my dance. Better late than never.

Lost, You Have Betrayed Me

God.

Fucking Lost.

How could they?

Mr. Eko?

I'll say this: I've alluded to the fact that from 1998 - 2002, I was slightly obsessed with Felicity, on the WB. Felicity moved to New York when I did; started college when I did; had relationship troubles when I did. The show was always wrapped up spectacularly by episode's close, when Sally, Felicity's pen pal/mentor, would offer the viewing audience sage life advice. I took a lot of that wisdom to heart. Week after week, the show had me thinking, reflecting. It moved me. In making some of the biggest decision's of my life, I've often remembered a "Sally" quote, things like: "The hardest part of moving forward, is never looking back." That's good stuff.

J.J. Abrams created Felicity. I lurrrrvvveee him. I didn't start watching Lost until the second season (relax, I watched the first season on DVD), but I figured I may as well dive in: the show was wildly popular; J loved it; and well, J.J. I luuurrrvvvee him.

But now I remember that something happened in Felicity's third season. J.J., if I recall correctly, wasn't so involved anymore. Suddenly, the show diverged from a thoughtful, entertaining, heart-string tugging hour of television, to a melodramatic, soap opera-esque piece of crap. I still watched every week. I still loved it. But when heroin-addicted Brits move in with Felicity, accompanied by their heroin-addicted beaus, and then Crazy Heroin Stalker Man comes to Felicity's Christmas party packing heat, and proceeds to shoot partygoers? I couldn't relate. Where was J.J. at that writer's meeting?

I have a sneaking suspicion that J.J. created a brilliant, inventive, mind-boggling show in Lost, and then has slowly drifted away from creative control.

Because - Eko??!!

And now, from the pantheon of the Super-Lamest Arguments in History:

9:54. HomeValley, on phone with J: Oh, God! No... It's Eko. Eko will die tonight.

9:54 - 9:59: ABSOLUTE SILENCE.

10:00: HV. Some tears. Anger. Rage. Shuts TV off immediately. Fuck the previews!

HV: I can't believe this show! This sucks! First, they make me cry, and second, how can Eko be dead, while Charlie and Claire live to see another show? This show sucks! Where is J.J.?

J: Well, I still like the show, so maybe you should stop saying these things.

HV: You are telling me you're not upset that they killed Mr. Eko?

J: It's their show.

HV: [Frustration!] Ugh. I am going to bed, J.

J: [Frustration!] OK.

Seriously, Lost, what are you doing to me? You're the one TV show I watch (Friends aside), and now you have managed to kill Eko, AND cause me relationship strife in one fell swoop.

You're dead to me.

Until Wednesday.

P.S. I am debating whether to hit "publish," as this post makes my priorities seem dangerously out of whack. Will do something good for humankind this week, in effort to concentrate on real world events and ameliorate actual human suffering.

P.P.S. EKO?!?!