Upon explaining to Whitney all the laborious details of packing up and moving, she patiently listened, nodding at the right times, sympathizing when neccessary. I explained about packing up my desk at work, she sipped her tea and cajoled, "...right, uh huh, packing up all your personal effects." I stopped dead and had to think about that one. Personal effects? "Sure," she said, "you know, your pictures, a color hue, a paperweight." I still laugh whenever I think of it. My personal effects. Ha. I will have to really work on some good effects for my new office.

A day or two later, she commented on my new brown bag that has sort of fancy brass detailing on the zipper and (as was becoming readily apparent) rather bawdily on the sides. "Is that a new bag?" and stated completely seriously, "Oh, its very nice. Especially with the gold appointments!" Appointments. Rich.

Is this what is like for those lucky enough not to have to work? Sigh. Life becomes so elite and hassle-free without all that work-junk getting in the way. Coffee takes up 25% of my day, as in right this second, listening to the latest Sea and Cake CD.

I am not addressing the fact that I am packing up ny home on St Mark's this week. I am just doing it.

Man, I have a lot of stupid clothes. One would think I had been on stage. Pink, glittery, fluffy-- they are all getting garbage-baggied up (wait, not all of them!) and taken to the thrift store around the corner. Many, many trips up and down stairs. My most favorite trip occured yesterday when I walked down to Manhattan mini-storage for boxes. I noticed the XL sizes were cheaper, so I requested a few of those. They come flat and huge. The lady behind the counter roped up all the boxes for me with a sturdy synthetic tie, and rolled up the bubble-wrap into a little sleeping bag and tied that to the flat plane also. I paid, smiled and tried to tuck the thing under my arm, with dangling bubble roll attached; it barely skimmed the ground it was so tall. And heavy, boy. No kidding, I opened the door and nearly was picked up off the ground and flown up 2nd Avenue. What in the hell was I thinking? The gusts were something like 40 mph, and coming from all directions. And my cute fuzzy gloves weren't helping. Irksome. At one point, I stopped and on purpose dragged the cardboard real hard along the asphalt. Grr. I hated those boxes more than anything at that moment.

Two funny thoughts I woke up thinking about today for no reason: Whenever Rachael comes to my oddly shaped apartment, she thinks a closet filled with blankets and sheets is the bathroom. No accident, of course, has occurred, but the idea of it cracks me right up. Like a puppy in there. Secondly, cute, big, yellow-lab Bo ate a whole plate of rumballs when we left hime at home while we went out to dinner recently. What dog eats 100 proof rum balls? Every one gone. And he was fine, except that for the next few days things were coming out a peculiar neon.

The gown. Everyone and their mother-- quite literally-- were beginning to harass me about not having a wedding dress. The dress. Heavens. So I ignored my impulses to grab Rachael and head to Soho or uptown; I felt a little obligated to go the more traditional route and go pay a visit to mom. We loaded into the car and drove to some place highly recommended.

Its was quite snazzy and we were greeted by a veteran sales woman. After I briefed her, and briefed her again: SIMPLE, I was whisked into (huge) Room no 3. It was roughly the size of my NYC apartment with nice chairs scattered about, mirrors everywhere and classical music. My heart sank slightly when I noticed a sort of round pedestal elevated a foot high in the middle of the room. She closed the door behind both me and mom armed with a half dozen long gowns. That's right. Mom was directed to sit in a viewing chair and within seconds I was stripped down to nothing but something called a merrywidow and my skivvies, and directed to stand up on the platform while she weaved around me with measuring tape. Oh yes.

The first dress was slid over my head and buttoned and sinched and zipped around me. I was just happy to have clothes on again. She led me back up to the stage and, well, there I was. In virgin white. Even with my ratty split ends and glasses on (?), Mom gasped We'll take it! and most uncharacteristically grabbed a tissue out of her purse and blotted her teary eyes.

It was almost that easy, except that Mom and I did that same routine about three more times till I finally put one on and we all really were floored. Good stuff. Done!

Now, for the hard part: the cruel, cruel tast of picking out bridesmaids dresses. Oh, how rotten. Sigh. I think I will opt not to. How about gingham? Denim? Oy.

Recovering from a headcold this week, I have had some time to really get to know my new town. Today, for example, I was feeling much better and bundled up to go outside. I walked down to the Inner Harbor and noticed the water taxi motoring right up in front of me. With luxurious time on my hands, I popped into its heated "indoor" area and asked them to take me to a nearby area called Fells Point. (I mean, I have to take a ride whenever I can, after the whole CARMAX incident.) Two scruffy young dudes sold me a $5 pass for the whole day and when dropping me off, gave me their brochure and said to call them when I was ready to come back. I did, and they did. Lovely.

Its truly amazing over there. I mean, its old (founded in 1763!) and hasn't been steamrolled: in fact, I saw not one Starbucks or Baby Gap. The streets are challengingly and wonderfully cobblestoned, and the storefronts look like they have barely changed from when the signs read "Scribner" or "Haberdashery". Yet, its clean and well-painted. Mostly the commerces now appear to be galleries, small shops and restaurants. Teensy and cockeyed stairwells wide enough only for one, bevelled glass windows, skinny fireplaces, low doorknobs. I had lunch looking out this window up a beautiful street, trees bowed over from the wind and an old church steeple a few blocks down. Cirrus clouds whipped past.

Yet I'm a snob. Lunches down here do not make up proportionately sized salads with precious greens or pureed soups. Here you dine with ashtrays and doilies. Every restaurant is also a pub. Later, at a coffeehouse, I witnessed a tatooed guy talking to a spikey-haired guy. He was describing his latest photography project-- but as I noticed, in a Baltimore twang. I looked up incredulously--- that twang was not coming from his mouth. They do not go together. Yeeeea, I knay! I was tryin to git this angle, the lightin was unreal up in 'dere. I may have uncontrollably winced. I'm gunna git the crap beat outta me, hon.

Some gravitate towards the familiar and some do not. What is that? I always thought of myself as somewhat daring or willing to try new things. Perhaps not. Which isn't always a bad thing, even though that's the way I'd seen it since I'd left the east coast and scooted off to my midwestern college.

Several years later, I quit my hideous paralegal job in San Francisco and moved to Santa Cruz for the summer. I took a writing class down there. Every evening I would run along the Pacific Coastline watching the sun set. Days consisted of walking the 4 or 5 blocks to the most perfect beach sheltered by rugged cliffs with intricate carvings in them. I'd read, swim and watch the surfers. Sea otters with their adorably cunning dining habits, on their backs with sweet whiskers sprouting upward. I made a few new friends. Beautiful wildflowers and lush trees lined the streets in 'town', which was made up mostly of coffee houses and local breweries with good music. My boyfriend from SF would come every week and visit. Paradise?

One would think. I was somewhat miserable. It was foreign to me. The everyday-without-fail sunshine somehow seemed blinding. The afternoon winds off the ocean felt relentless. The people were freakishly sweet. Like I was in some sort of saccharine-induced hallucination that after a while I really wanted to stop. Where was the mugginess? Where were the mosquitoes and thundershowers? Where were the rude east coasters, and moreover, where were my roots?

I admire my friends who were able to do it, to pick up and make a completely different (and beautiful) place a permanent home. Their families now come to them. For me, for now, it feels good to exist amoung my fellow easterners and family, with all the good and bad trappings that come with not being in California.

On my 9 thousandth amtrak trip back down to MD I flipped through Jane mag. OK, for all the countless women's magazines out there, this one actually has some hilarious and revealing editorial. I caught myself laughing right out loud for the second time, seated solo on the Amtrak row. The first time was before I left, flipping through Comedy Central, I watched a stand-up gig by Wanda Sykes. Holy smokes, that woman is fu-nny, boy. I was sitting by myself on my couch with no one around, which is somehow worse than having train peoples staring at you as you cackle. Crazywoman. Alone on a couch laughing at the moving picture box. Well, whatever. Wanda is excellent.

Other fantastic finds-- of course, in my ongoing Parker-Poseyathon: Clockwatchers. I cannot believe I hadn't come across this years ago. New all-time favorite. Also, Personal Velocity. Lastly: House of Yes. She is so convincing in all roles: rebellious temp, elitist journalist, insane sister.

Who knew that sayng goodbyes would be so much fun? And so tiring. Whew, Nelly. Yup. In the last 48 hours I managed to sing Blondie kareoke to a large audience (not good, not good at all, picture: 'One way, or another, I'm gunna gitchagitchagitcha', but like, slower than the actual music. bad.), and then a touching duet to 'Shake your groove thing' (somehow I felt moved to do my rendition in a sort of hack falsetto). At Circa Tabac I managed to order the same food item two times. That's a first. Now, I am tired and must get myself on a train and head out of here. Especially since I am at an INTERNET CAFE with blaring punk rock and i can barely see the monitor for all the billowing cigarette smoke. Reporting live from Avenue A, ta.

Its 2K3!

New Years Eve: after some last minute changes in plans (not without drama—that holiday gets so ridiculously tense somehow), a small group of us ended up iceskating at an outdoor rink down by the harbor. Sounds cute, eh? Yes indeed, just as the ribs were feeling better, I got a little cocky on the ice rink and tried to do a sort of hockey stop, not successfully. Happily, the only contact that was made was my butt to the ice. Hard. Boom. I shamefully dusted myself off, assuring everyone, including the guard who swooshed over and picked me up, that I was fine! Ha. Ha? as my ass felt like it was on fire. Holy mother. Now I have a busted tailpipe. I am not allowed to complain, I’ve used it all up on the ribs. I keep laughing that I will start my new job having to sit on a donut. Oh, we’re meeting now? Hang on, let me get my seat. Nifty.

After the ice capade, we headed up to Federal Hill, me doing a very cute arachnid-walk, to our friend’s cozy row house for much-deserved cheer. And how. Our hostess asked everyone to write down their resolutions and drop them in a bowl, then later we would share them. Apparently I was the only one who took the task seriously, and should have known better than to duck into the dining room with champage, pad and paper to contemplate. The outcome was something humiliating like See the world more positively. Scott’s resolution was To watch less Regis. Neat.

Now its the New Year, its snowing and I have a month off. Its splendid. And wierd. I'm rather mixed up, as I have half my crap down here, and still have my apartment and life up in New York. Its getting somewhat complicated.