Enjoying the present is good. Reconnecting is also good. Trying to recreate the past? Bad.

Recently I attended a lunch amoung girlfriends from high school. A small handful of us that hadn't reunited in many, many years assembled at a friend's cozy house near the water. It was chilly and brisk, cattails blew and the air smelled like chimney smoke. We all brought food goodies, and had high expectations that we'd be writhing with laughter like we did back Then.

Once we all stared at each other and got up to speed on our lives, new jobs, families, love, changes, we were sort of left to sit there. A few topics were broached that would sort of trail off...there was not a lot of continuity. We were all on different pages; it was a sort of verbal game of SPUD, usually ending in a period. Bonk.

C'mon, tell me again about that scuba experience-- wasn't that with Tommy? (giggling)
Oh, god, I don't ever want to think about that again. (sickened look on face)
[slight pause]
Hey, how is your mom?
Oh, she's fine..
Do you all never think about how fast we are aging?
[BIG silence]

We did this until babies had to be picked up and dates had to be met. We all promised to do it again and hugged.

I got in my car and started to laugh a little. Its a peculiar notion to think of friends reuniting, sitting in our chairs semi-uncomfortably, braced for a Big Time. The idea that we would be gaffawing about the same things from over 10 years ago is downright bizarre. We've all changed so much. I look forward to the next one. I think I will leave the Go-go's album at home.

I just read an article about Tarsem. That's his name, first and last. I don't know him, but over the years have come to understand that he is a coveted advertising director. Untouchable, expensive, precious. One of the best.

My mind raced back to one of my first phonecalls I ever had in advertising. I'd just come from working in publishing, a very different animal. One of the art directors I worked with raced by my office, asking me to send some information to a Tarsem. He scribbled some some international digits down and blew out the door.

I figured it was best to send over all the information I had on the project-- better to be safe than sorry. I faxed over all the pages, unsuccessfully. I sent them again. Again, cut off. I tracked down the front desk of the remote hotel and they gave me another number. I think after a few more attempts all the pages submitted. Hours later, my direct line rang. A call, for me, at my first Manhattan desk!

"Well, hi there, Tarsem! Yes, I'm Holly. Did you get my-- "

In a distant, far away connection at a very late hour in Europe, I received a heavily accented, extremely upset voice. I was thinking he would thank me for being so thorough?

He directed me to STOP faxing him, and continued, voice shaking, barely containing himself: "You see, when you send all the pages, I need paper, and there is no [growing more exasperated] PAPER here and I have to go to the store and BUY more paper and there is NO MORE PAPER on this island, do you understand??!" I think I remember cooly receiving the call and calmly apologizing, laughing a little to myself, thinking that guy really needed to relax.

Ahh, ignorance.

Did I have this kind of attitude when I was in college? I feel compelled to outline some recent interactions, these are 3 of many. I've somehow become the go-to person for interns.

Intern 1: There was some diorama-assembly needed for a presentation. This was apparently most beneath him, and he was not afraid to sigh, loudly, and often. He felt free to tell me that his friend who is interning at Maxim "is writing the entire next issue, with my help." I forced myself to smile dimly and remove myself entirely from the dialogue. My nails dug into my palm a little.

Intern 2: Some days she is forced to sort of wait for an assignment, which, apparently, is troublesome for her. I fail to understand this. Its clean, quiet, and with plenty of resources to research or do homework? While receiving school credit? This does not compute to me. I've honestly observed eyerolls and other exasperated gesticulations when things haven't fallen into place. Nice.

Intern 3 is on the pipeline. Out of courtesy, I called her to make sure she had what she needed to start this winter. I quickly was booted to the back seat. She cut me off at least twice, and steered things into this statement "...and what we need to do is sit down together and write up a thorough outline..".

This sense of entitlement irks me entirely. I take small bits of pleasure out of steering Lil' CEO right back to reality, but the fact still remains: How is this possible? Did I miss something? Maybe I should take a new approach. Maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe life works backward and I will work my butt off so that one day I can be an intern and retire.

Searching for a perfect couch ought to given a name. Like spelunking. To find the right size, fit, shape to really be able to relax on? I can't tolerate the overblown cumulo-nimbus style ones with XXL everything. Like you have to sort of dive into pillow stew. Even though in the late '90's I think I owned one and loved it. It was green. It was the size of a bus. The more hip couches look super minimal and sleek, but also look dreadfully uncomfortable. Scratchy. Well, the spelunking will have to start since we are currently using a bright orange sleeping bag spread out on the floor.

I almost just got blown over. I truly felt the wind nearly blow my legs out from under me, what wierd sensation! Woosh! We're having a freakishly windy day. The quasi-dilapidated signs around here on the more "rustic" store fronts present honest-to-goodness danger. A store-sign guillotine. I crossed the street when I spotted a dangling shutter. Fast. My hair looks like I just jumped out of a convertable.

I was blown over, in a completely different way, last night during my birthday dinner. It was rainy, so Scott dropped me off at snazzy Tio Pepes and went to park the car. I entered the dimly lit bar and found a gaggle of burly older men swilling scotch and smoking. One of them cleared room for me and mumbled something to me that I didn't quite hear. I declined the seat, thinking little of it, and moved to the other end of the bar where Scott joined me moments later.

Our table became ready, and we jimmied back through the large-bellied herd when one of them leaned over and said to me: "You want to know who that man was? The one that asked if he could take your picture?" I was mystified. "I'm sorry?" He gestured to a man all in black a few feet away, "That's Larry Flynt's brother, you know, of Hustler Magazine." My chin hit my chest. I guess they are in town to promote a new club here. I scurried past.

We were seated in a different room, thankfully, and my heart was pounding when I told Scott. "Can you believe that?!" I said, half-revolted and, of course, feeling flattered. I sat up tall and smoothed my hair. Scott paused, looked at me, and summed it up as best a husband could with a simple word. "Nice." We both chuckled and didn't discuss it any further.

I keep walking into things cuz my equilibrium's all messed up. I'm okay if I am recently, like within 5 minutes, caffeinated. But that's it, that's my window. Nothing bothers me, yet nothing is cutting through the fog either. Koff.

Except this idea what Whitney and I had to quit our jobs and open up a wine & cheese shop where a space was recently adandoned in our turning-yuppie-but-not-yet 'hood. We want to call it "Nugent's Cause".

This sends me. I love to picture the locals, who already don't like change, walking by our new shop. "Who's Nugent? What the...?" The BMW crew would have a similar reaction. To add to the curiosity, we'd have a sort of customer alert rigged that whenever anyone would enter, a loud, slow gong would sound:BONNNGGGHH! BONNNGHHH! Welcome!

I have laughed so hard about this I want that alert system put into my home. "Honey, I'm home!" Bonnnghh! I would not be able to contain myself.

I need some flu medicine.

As if its any suprise I am sick?

Today I walked down the street bundled tight: thick sweater, tweed jacket, puffy down vest on. I leaned over to pick something up and an arctic blast bolted right up my spine. Frigid. Its these dang low-riding jeans. That's my back being exposed to the November elements.

While I could probably by a car with the amount of dough I've spent on cute low-slung dungarees, I'm ready for this trend to pass. Enough already! We need to bring it all back-- buttons that actually hit the waist, long zippers, hell, Bring Back the Cameltoe! Heh. That's not a very effective campaign, I must say. Crank your Pants Up, Women! Crap. I think this won't be happening any time soon.

"I think I'll have the mood medley and a coke, thanks!" Woo, this week has been a ride; lots of new challenges at work and not at work.

What is wonderful is the weather today. The sky is blue, the air feels clean, small heaps of bright leaves decorate the sidewalks. Walking back from my favorite frenchy nook, the wind blew leaves over my boots as they clomped along the cobblestones.

Today's dream occupation? Water taxi captain.

It seems the the true spirit of Halloween has escaped me over the past several years. In New York, no trick-or-treaters dared to enter my scrappy East Village apartment building. Instead they barged into Indian restaurants and Asian markets with their bags held open. Trick or treeeat! Something in another language was grunted at them and some treats were tossed their way. That was that, onto the next shop.

I stocked up on bagged candies and headed home Friday night when my phone rang. It was Scott, telling me hurry up and get home, that he had run out his candy stash and there was a 16 year old boy standing in our living room with a sickle. I knew already that Halloween in Sobo (that's south a' bawlmer, hon) would be a festive occasion.

Our street was lit up. Halloween is not just for children down here. It seems it is fashionable in Sobo to set up a sort of trick or treat station outside of your home. A card table and some chairs on the sidewalk, all decorated very goolishly, with a handy cooler and carton of smokes tucked underneath. Scott and I set up camp on our undecorated stoop and I poured two ballOOns of wine.

These kids were out for the loot. I had a Karate Kid tap his foot impatiently with his hand extended, palm up, summoning me to hurry it up when I was wresting with a new bag of snickers. A lot of moms chasing behind shouting What do you say!? There were early teenage girls with frighteningly developed bodies who came to visit Scott's side of the stoop, dressed as cats and the like. Talk about scary, I felt terribly frumpy as a cowgirl thanked him and crossed the street with her perky buttocks visible underneath her teensy denim skirt. Strollers, grandparents. No one was excluded.

My personal blue ribbon goes to a chubby-faced boy, partnered only with his mom. He approached us wearing a sort of beige parachute. We stumbled for something to say to him. Unenthusiastically, he stated he was a sumo wrestler while his mother beamed at us. I heard our choco-treats softly thud on the bottom of his pumpkin and he turned and sauntered off, with two enormous, flappy, parachute bunz.

I am not sure what award goes to the smiling boy who was dressed as a pimp. A PIMP.