Last weekend I found myself in this glorious karmic-payback thing
scenario: God sent Greg, Nick and I, still ablaze with post-Walk the
Line Johnny Cashfervor all humming "Ring of Fire" down to Ruby's for
Bronte burgers and Australian beer because the boys' ground beef went
bad, only to discover that they were out of meat. Oddly, as I
was Alito-bashing on the phone with some ACLU solicitor, coworker Kevin
returned Nick's phonecall announcing he was coming bearing Burger Joint
burgers with a Harvardian and a Cornell cronie as an even exchange for
the veritable bucket we concocted of Kamikaze shots and bottled
Yuengling, my new absolute favorite beer (which isn't saying much) on the planet. In
attendence were the usual suspects--sundry suitemates from Nick's
loftish dwelling of eleven all-males, Dom and Al, and a Scrabble board.
I pranced from beverage station to beverage station and y-chromosome to
y-chromosome dishing out double shots and kicking ass by a huge margin
in the word game. A semester of living in an STD-cesspool-y coed
internmecca's taken away that residual "guys are here, weird!"
reaction, but the utter lopsidedness of this soiree seemed so utterly
opposite of what I was experiencing right down to the night a year
before that I had to bask in it a little bit.

Conversely, I'm
horrified about Formal Academic Re-entry. I've been whittling away at a
stack of everything I'd wanted to read since Senior Summer since
September, and thinking lots, but not writing or responding or
discussing or, I fear, really digesting. It's agonizing, and I hate
these silly full-circles of Lit Fiendery --> Disenchantment with
Classmates/Instructors/Myself/Who Knows What --> Feelings of Utter
Inadequecy/Terror of Impending Unemployment --> Desire to Attend
Professional School --> Revulsion at Corporate Environment -->
Re-dedicating Myself to Academia. I feel like I've ruled out both
options with my antics this semester and that not enough of my heart's
anywhere to know what to register for in the Spring. What I ought to
do's: buck up, be swallowed again by Auden, and realize that English Is
It. AIN'T NO SHAME!

I, overly guest-relations-primed arrived Wednesday and also riding out
an immense independence/poverty streak did not take a cab but rather
the A Train all the way from Far Rockaway in Queens--gasp. Coupled with
my following marijuana into the only well-windowed room of Nick's
coworker's damn adorable Thompson St. apartment, this sent me off the
My Girlfriend's Growing Up Scale and into the realm of I Want to Marry
You, and it's so ironic because the consequent last thing on my mind's
matrimony. So:

-I ate my way through the city. We had
near-daily dim sum in Chinatown's Sara D. Roosevelt Park among
shirtless European soccerplayers and impossibly-emerald turf, Bronte
burgers from Ruby's, almost-nightly cannoli at Palermo--oh, the joys of
residing where Chinatown slams into Soho straddles Little Italy.
Back-to-back wine nights post-dosa and pre-Positano only primed me for
cocktails and La Esquina avocado tacos... how I'm fitting the business
attire upon return's a mystery to me.

-I absorbed enough
testosterone in those seven nights lofted with eleven males to undo
even more than my nine months of Mt. Holyoke damage. But it wasn't all
bodily function humor and lesbian porn--I finally had a See How This is
All Fitting Together moment (or ten thousand) during a long long
discussion on corporate ethics with Al, and bonded almost disturbingly
rapidly with Nick's outdoorsy budding-History prof of a hilarious and
utter foodie roommate, Greg, whose parents OWN A CANDY COMPANY. Free
licorice and incredibly satisfying conversation??? I was sold. We're
all entertaining the idea of running off to Wyoming in January and
renting a huge house and skiing and cracking up fireside and apres-ing
heartily, to be certain. I'd love to have that happen.

-I got
to see Emily lots and Mark a little and both were a great delight. O
that I will be finally with nearly everyone wonderful in my world, and
soon.

-I, upon awakening, omeletting, sending Nick off with a
kiss, browsing Calypso Enfant et Bebe and buying a red pepper from Dean
and Deluca then meeting him again for sandwiches in the park before an
afternoon of room straightening and reading Rushdie and an evening
spent sauce-thickening realized how I do need a career to be taken
seriously in this (any, I assume) relationship, which is good, because
I'm no longer glorifying stupid things that aren't substantial. I'd
much rather grab that pepper in a rush home and then have help with the
salad, because I hated answering "What did you do this morning?" with
"Spent six minutes searching for a perfectly ripe pepper!" after weeks
and weeks of I MET THE COOLEST EXECUTIVE WHO WORKED ON... or I SOLD A
PAINTING IN ITALIAN, SOMEHOW! or even just GOSH MY LIFE SUCKED TODAY
BUT AT LEAST I HAVE ONE.

I hate being blindingly in love and
back to e-mailing letter writing goofy text bombarding cell phoning
thrice-daily etc., but there are things to look forward to (Everything
is Illuminated, Folk Art Museum, bookgroup, Saturdays off, the city
again in December and Taboo Night and Emeril's for vodka tonics--I have
to list them to feel better, but it works) and great literature and bad
music and it's just two more months. I am having a tough time juggling
friendships all over--I feel like Nick Time takes out of
Jeff/Josh/Kioko/Will Time, as does girl-roommate time, that Coworker
Time's superfluous since I see them every damn day, but still,
cocktails and gallery takings-in and films and food are fine, and
always that I'm so far from the Northerners and forever fighting the
urge to just drive beachward to a wonderful family bed pool kitchen and
Erin's just an hour and a half up and over, aaack. More concerted
effort here I come, plus Sorry I'm Sketchy CDs, which I must burn NOW.