Smells Like Happy

Now Featuring Less Retinal Damage, Altitude Sickness

Is it just me, or did breathing just get a whole lot easier around here? No more oppressive brown! Less eye-searing coral! Fine colors, but too much -- too much of them together -- is like eating cotton candy sprinkled with sugar and topped with chocolate ganache. And Nerds.

The flower stays. (BACK OFF, BITCHES, I LIKE THE FLOWER.) But I changed up a few other things, and if beholding the old look was like attempting to breathe atop the highest peak in the Andes, the new look is like breathing at sea level. The old look was giving me flashbacks of my collision with altitude sickness in Peru, where I grabbed a Quechua man by his lapels and deliriously begged him to sacrifice me to his crazy Incan gods. Or maybe I was hallucinating. Fun times!

Anyway. Sometimes I want to tell you about something that I love, because maybe you will love it and then your life will be perfect, but product raves would make a very dull main page for a non-product blog. So I'll mention those things off to the right. See it there? Up... to the... a little more... THERE. The first thing I love is quite fetching, and I urge you to click on it and buy it or something like it! But not too many of you. Because if you snap up all of the artist's merchandise, what will be left for me? I can't even believe you'd do that to me.

(No, go buy everything. She'll make more.)

That's all, I can't stay to chat. I'm stuffed on goat cheese cheesecake (I know!), it's storming (yay), Samantha Brown is in Edinburgh ordering a deep-fried Mars bar, which I must see, and I have NINE episodes of Mad Men to get through before Sunday's season two premier and AGH TOO MUCH TEEVEE TO WATCH.

Only Connect...

I was at dinner with friends the other night, and one friend remarked how much she hates people. In fact, she said, she's starting to hate people more and more. It was funny because she's not a sociopath. She was talking about work and bosses and the kind of people who say, at first meeting, "I AM THE DIRECTOR OF MANY IMPORTANT THINGS. AND WHO DO YOU PURPORT TO BE." And then they walk away.

That brought up something that I've been thinking about: I'm liking people more and more. I said this to my friends, with slack jaw, dopey grin and wide eyes. You know, the kind of look that would make you say, "Oh, no, you don't want to like me. I'm a terrible person," while backing up and fumbling for the pepper spray.

But you know what? I like those people too. Those funny, suspicious people. The ones who reflexively say to approaching, smiling strangers, "NO, I DON'T have thirty seconds for the environment. Jesus." I like those people because they want to be smiled at without being asked to sign a petition, and that's a legitimate wish. I like them because, like me, they don't know a single person in their whole apartment building, probably live a good five hundred miles from where they grew up, and quickly warm up to any genuine offer of community that they receive. I know this because they are human, and because I am too.

Only connect.

In cities full of strangers, it can be terribly difficult for two individuals to connect. All of the old guideposts are gone: We typically can't tell whether we have the same religion, or any religion; we can't tell what town we're from, but it's often not the town we're wandering around; we can't tell our political leanings or our economic status or our how nice we are to our parents (and that last thing is really the only one of importance in that list). Most of the time, our dour faces won't even betray our moods. Sunglasses hide our eyes. Headphones plug our ears. Purpose snaps our lips into thin lines. We walk quickly.

But we all crave the same thing: to connect. Even the ones who say they disdain people want this -- and if they're playing such offense, it's a sure sign that they really want to connect. This desire is coded into their DNA, our DNA, because connecting is how we humans survive. Evolution gave us this need for community, just as it gave us opposable thumbs and a narrow pelvis for walking upright. Generally, humans only isolate if they feel isolated, point if they feel pointed at, discount if they feel discounted.

I see it all around me, in strangers and in friends.

For a spell in my late teens and early 20s, that was me. I was an armadillo, a "little armored one." I suppose I felt isolated, pointed at, and so I reflected those feelings. But the very presence of my armor said much more about me than it said about anyone else.

I'm not like that anymore. (If you're very lucky, a bit of age will do that to you.) And now when I meet people whose defenses are clouding their base nature, I feel more compassion than annoyance. They're not bullshitting me any more than they're bullshitting themselves, but it's OK. I get it.

But it is bullshit nonetheless. And I'm pretty sure that the truly happy people in this world don't slog around in their own bullshit all day.

I often think we'd all be more connected and honest if we could get in touch our inner six-year-olds. Kids have no bullshit. They have no capacity for it. Kids are perfect. They smile when they want to smile, cry when they're upset. Even when a child is touched by ugly circumstance, her core is clean and honest and, usually, available.

I was perfect when I was six, and I bet you were, too. At six, my mistakes were innocent, my intentions were pure. At six, I was always in love, with everything. With dolls, with boys, with patent leather tap shoes and a pair of pink shorts that said "Buzz off" on the back pocket. With a Laura Branigan record and a microphone. With Miss Spain, who was my teacher, not an Iberian beauty pageant winner (but every bit as extraordinary to me). I rang neighbors' doorbells and performed choreographed dances when they answered. They cheered.

Now, I try to keep one hand on that girl at all times and let her lead the way. Because when it comes to connecting, she knows what's up. She's my touchstone: If it works for her, it works for me.

That's why I made a decision, about a year ago, to walk around with a smile. Just a small, pleasant smile. And it changes things. People smile back, automatically, because we're programmed to exchange these nonverbal communications and to accept kindness at face value. In urban life, we build little walls around our humanity and staff those walls with little guards in little watchtowers. But when somebody smiles at you for no apparent reason, your little guards freeze. Confused! And before the guards can issue orders ("MAINTAIN! LIPS! DO NOT BREAK FROWN FORMATION!"), you have smiled back. And god damn it if everybody doesn't feel a tiny bit better.  

This meandering manifesto is leading to something that you might have figured out ages ago. Or maybe you're still not getting it, but here it is: It's not about you. It's about us.

Maybe it took me a little longer to figure that out and incorporate it into my life. I feel a little silly saying that.

But here it is. And here's what I'm doing with it.

1. I'm matchmaking. My relationships don't have to stop with me, so I'm spreading them around. Friends, acquaintances, colleagues -- I have so many good people in my life, and some could benefit from knowing each other. I'm being the conduit for their connections and watching what happens.

2. I'm advocating. I started a local chapter of an organization that I believe in very strongly. The people we help are in desperate need, and I have the ability to help alleviate that need. So I'm doing it. It's highly political (although something of a no-brainer for people on the left and the right, I believe). Maybe such public advocacy will mean that I won't be writing for major newspapers anymore. I don't care.

3. I'm investing in others. I've known about Etsy.com for a long time, but I've only recently discovered it. I'm blown away by the artwork and by the people behind the art. I'm going to buy exclusively handmade products as gifts for a while because I believe in supporting people who create, either to throw more good into the world or rid themselves of the bad that tries to creep in. And when a thing of art speaks to you, a thing born out of the head and hands of another, you can close the circuit. You can say to the person who created it, "You made something beautiful, and it makes me happy. I am investing in you." That feeds you both. It's a gift, the giving of which feels like, I don't know, waking up tomorrow and seeing on the front page of the New York Times, "WARM APPLE PIE, KITTEN SNUGGLING PROVED TO CURE CANCER."

Today I received a print that I ordered from artist Jeannie Lynn Paske, whose work speaks to me so deeply that I can't easily explain it. I envision a wall of my office lined with her prints. I don't know her, but I don't have to. I feel connected to the part of the artist that creates this art because it expresses something I feel in a medium I cannot master. And I feel grateful to her for making that possible. (Please go find some artists on Etsy who make you feel the same way.)

4. I'm creating. If I can give someone else that sense of connection, it will all have been worth it.

5. I'm forgiving. That's a verb, not an adjective. Forgiving is such an active task, sometimes requiring constant renewal. People don't always know what to do with you when you try to connect with them. Maybe they're lost. Maybe they're just not interested. Maybe they're hurt and messed up and temporarily closed for business. Regardless, when I feel let down -- especially when someone lets me down repeatedly -- I have a choice: I can get sad or angry, and swear and denounce; or I can step back from the situation and wish, with a heart full of kindness, that they can conquer their demons. I've learned -- and I promise that this, more than anything else I've said, is absolutely, immutably true -- that other people can't be made to fix themselves, no matter how much I plead or shout or persuade. No matter how much I try to connect. And I've also learned that anger blackens the heart. So when anger tries to move its big, ugly, stinking baggage into my heart, I say, sorry, all I can offer you is the couch. For one night. And I'm not feeding you.

 

Like I said, maybe you integrated this idea into your life a long time ago. Maybe you think it's nonsense (I think you're wrong). Maybe you're seriously afflicted by a lack of connection or maybe it amounts to nothing more than a minor annoyance in your life. Or maybe you, like me, benefit from the occasional reminder that the world is out there, waiting to connect with you.

If you're walking the world with a scowl, let your lips step out of formation. Your mental guards won't shoot.

If you're slogging around in your own bullshit, maybe after years of feeling disconnected and discounted, well... that's harder. I know it is. But just realize that it's a choice. A conscious choice. And once you realize that, you will have no one to blame but yourself -- and everyone to thank when they accept the hand that you reach out.

Seven Things

You know what happens when you're away for a long time? Either you return with a lot to say, or you return with nothing to say. And yet again I flout convention by having a lot to say about nothing.

1. I've been busy reading. Thanks a million to everyone for your book suggestions. I haven't read any of your books yet but I now have a few in my possession. I took CrystalMK's suggestion and picked up Outlander; I also took Librarian Girl's suggestion and bought The Well and the Mine. Some I had already read (loved The Awakening, Katie), and I'll come back to the other suggestions eventually.

2. Oh, wait. I was about to tell you what I've been reading. A couple of weeks ago, I finished one of the best books I've read this year: The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. You know how sometimes you just can't say anything about a book because your adjectives will somehow cheapen its beauty? Right-o. Anyway, I'm now reading The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon. I'm not emotionally involved with it yet, but he's always a showstopper, that Chabon. Every few pages, my eyes screech to a halt and backtrack a few lines to savor a particularly good sentence.

3. I have something else to say about books. I love the smell of a new book, the feel of smooth, unread pages. And when I'm done reading them, I love the sight of books on my shelves, each one full of adopted memories. But mostly I buy books new because it is very hard to write a book, and I want authors to get a few well-deserved pennies from my purchases.

4. I went to Tim Russert's wake today. What you didn't see on the television was the man with his guitar, sitting just to the side of the casket. And if I could pretend that the whole thing was mundane before I stepped into the refectory -- photographers and reporters everywhere, policemen directing traffic, heels killing my feet -- when I stepped inside it was all stripped away by the softness of the guitar. It was terribly, terribly sad. For a small time, I had no introversion, only a longing for human company. I had no individuality, only a desire for the commonality of human experience. All of us perfect strangers, linked together by another perfect stranger. But somehow it works. Nevertheless, I resisted giving in to the experience entirely -- I would have felt so foolish greeting his wife and son with tears on my face while they flashed smiles and made pleasant, kind conversation so gracefully. And that is the origin of this hole in my lip, the creation of which is the only thing that enabled me to shake their hands and say, "thank you for doing this," like a normal, dry-faced stranger. Russert went to the bat for the public every day, and his family was incredibly gracious to give the public a chance to say thanks when so much private grieving awaits them.

5. So Obama got the nomination. And now that I say that here, I realize how incongruous this blog is with my everyday life, with how I spend my time and where I direct my thoughts. I'm a total political junkie, but I haven't really cultivated on my blog the kind of audience that will be interested in reading about that. Unfortunately, very few people in my life are as interested in politics as I am, and that's maybe not a good thing. I have only one friend who absorbs -- for better or for worse -- as much political news as I do. And that is why we send each other 30 emails a day, some of which are one-word exclamations of "YESSSS!!!!" and "NOOOOOO!" and require no further explanation. The election process this spring has been taking up a lot of my attention, and maybe that's why I haven't been blogging. I've had much to say, but to whom shall I say it? Other than the TV, I mean. And other than my cab drivers, I mean.

6. I am doing a lot of work, so much work, and some of it is even for me. Some of it is for a dear friend. More and more of it is for pure enjoyment. And while the economy is in the crapper and Midwestern rivers are swelling to Biblical proportions, I feel quite lucky indeed to be doing work that I love in a clean, well-lighted office. An office that has a stuffed money hanging from the doorknob. Stop hatin'.

7. What is your summer going to be about? I toyed with the idea of my summer being about gratitude, but that feels too accepting. Too content. Then I considered making my summer all about STRAWBERRIES!, but I can never eat them all before they start growing hairy. Which means I would totally fail at my summer on, like, day three. That's why "integration" is my watchword. My summer is going to be about better integration of my daily life with my goals and my values. I think the Oprah-esque way to describe this concept is "authentic," but Oprah isn't my style. "Integration" has a geeky, wonky edge that I can jive with. So what's your watchword? Anybody going with "bacon" this summer?

Surprise.

New year, new blog design! I never was a blue-and-yellow girl, anyhow. I'm much more of an obnoxious-coral-with-brown-and-green-accents kind of a girl. (Ask anyone who knows me.) I will miss the skunk, and I wish I had some illustration skills so I could create a monkey or a sloth or a tarsier with a slightly mad expression (redundant on that last one, I know) and perch him in my banner. But here we are.

Kindly let me know if your retinas start to burn.

Another change: On the left, I added a list of links to blogs written by people I like. You might find that you like them, too. And if you do, that makes me something of a matchmaker, which I'm very bad at if the hoped-for outcome is love, marriage and a baby in a baby carriage. So if you visit any of these sites, don't expect to get anywhere near first base. I'm just trying to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

Pause

I won't be posting around here for a while due to a family emergency. Sorry to be so vague; I'll share more later.

Unfortunately, I don't know when "later" will be. It could be a day or a week or a month. If you want me to send you an email notification when I return, send an email to smellslikehappy at gmail dot com with the word "notify" in the subject line. I promise to let you know.

Talking Amongst Ourselves

Beginning with this post, I will be replying to your comments within the comments thread. I used to do this fairly regularly, but I stopped because I was annoyed with the way the responses weren't very visible. (You see, Typepad works hard to protect me from the menacing danger of the "font color" tag in comments.) Instead, I would sometimes email commenters who inspired a response, but sometimes email is overkill. And sometimes readers want to follow the conversation -- I know I do -- so we'll let them. After all, this blog is for conversation, and you all have such funny or nice or insightful things to say. It doesn't feel right to meet your comments with the blog equivalent of stone-faced silence.

Obviously, I won't respond to every comment. But if you ask a question or say something that makes me feel like replying, I will reply out there in the open. And if I don't reply, you can assume that means that I simply read your comment, smiled and grew to love you a little more.

You're not fat. And if you are, I don't care.

Since I obviously would rather sit amid folded-up boxes than fill those boxes with my possessions -- there's nothing like a packing all-nighter before the movers show up -- I may as well share something that's been bothering me.

Lately, I've been reading more than a few blog entries about bodies. Pre-diet bodies and post-diet bodies and I wish I were thinner and I'm okay with my weight--really, I swear! And halfway through these entries, I find myself scanning the room, left to right and back again, making sure that I haven't teleported myself to a high school locker room.

No, no -- I'm still in my living room. And these words really are coming from smart, accomplished women. And that's when I shake my head.

Look. We all have our issues, and sometimes those issues are related to our bodies. If asked to draft our own hate-it lists about our bodies, most people would have at least one feature to shamefully scribble down, such as a flabby stomach or weird toes or asymmetrical eyebrows. Maybe we'll even blog about our asymmetrical eyebrows once in a while! But when I see a perfectly smart woman publicly hammering away at her own self-worth, over and over, I cringe with every thwhack of the hammer.

I might like to know what you look like so I can imagine you in the stories you're telling or pick you out in a crowded restaurant. But I don't care what you look like. I care about whether you would choose A) help elderly woman across the street over B) mow down elderly woman with car. I care about whether you're a sweetheart or a total asswipe. I don't care about the circumference of your thighs, and you know what? I really, really don't want you to care about the circumference of your thighs, either. Because your thighs will never be perfect, and if you're waiting for them to be perfect -- or even hitting the gym or the pavement or the punching bag in a sweaty effort to make them perfect -- you're going to spend a huge portion of your life obsessing over this life-halting minutiae, the sum of which does not add up to You.

The sum of which does not add up to You.

Please don't waste your time telling me that I don't have to read stuff that I don't want to read, because that's not the point. And please don't point out that not everybody is born looking look like a supermodel (not even supermodels look like supermodels, people) and some of us actually have to work for it, because you'd be getting even further from the point.

We all can obsess about whatever we like on our blogs and in our lives. Shoes! Kids! Cats! Running! Boobs! Operating systems! But the point is that you will live a much happier life if you spend it obsessing about the good stuff that makes you happy, not obsessing about all the shit that's wrong with you but isn't really wrong.

You can stop being a victim of popular culture. If you want to.

When I was 13 and I asked my mom whether I looked fat in some hideous getup -- most likely stirrup pants and an oversized sweatshirt with a bizarre geometric pattern -- I was never satisfied with her answer because it would invariably go beyond "no" to include something like, "when will you realize that you're a beautiful person on the inside and that's what matters?" I would roll my eyes at this motherly cliche and storm off to change into my acid-washed, tight-rolled jeans. And probably dispense a liter of Aussie Sprunch Spray on my bangs.

But you know what? Now, when I look at my friends and nieces and nephews and random kids on the sidewalk, I really get it. People are chock full of potential, and that's beautiful. It's so goddamned beautiful to see someone happy, to see someone working to live a life that makes them happy. So I tsk anyone who chooses to spend their time feeling unacceptable or ugly or unworthy of happiness. See a therapist, talk with your friends, chase a runner's high -- whatever. But don't sit still under the weight of your body issues. Or someday you'll pull out a photo of yourself, perhaps one snapped just the other day, and it will break your heart just a little bit to think how that beautiful girl in the photo -- that beautiful girl for whom you will instantly feel a swell of pride and adoration -- couldn't love herself, get her wheels unstuck from the mud of these meaningless issues, grab life by the dorsal fin and go for a fantastic ride.

Conversations with Alise, Part 6

Unless you're new here, you know about Alise, the now-toddler daughter of one of my best friends, Mindy. Alise is, for me, a Compelling Nonverbal Argument in Favor of Having Kids Soon. I once called her that, only I said "CNAiFoHKS," and boy, you should have seen her eyes roll! She hates acronyms, and she found the lack of helpful vowels in this acronym to be particularly appalling.  

"In addition," she said, "Never abbreviate emotional statements. You only make it painfully obvious that you prefer to mask the emotion of the statement behind a cloak of meaningless letters. The question is: for whom is the cloak?"

"Oh, Alise," I swooned. "I gotta tell you, you are just as smart and sassy as I hope my kids will be. But what if they're not? Oh, god, what if my kids grow up to be like -- like those awful dimwits in Jay Leno's man-on-the-street interviews?"

"The ones who can't name the vice president and who think the capital of the United States is New York?"

"Yes!"

"Well," she shrugged, "that's TBD."

"To Be Determined?"

"Too Bad, Dummy."

"Oh, Alise--"

"Stop your worrying. For better or for worse, your kids will turn out to be like their parents."

"Yes, you're right, you're right. Wait, what are you implying with the 'worse' part?"

"Look," she said, "this is all very fascinating, but do you mind if we talk about something else for once?"

"No, not at all. Shoot."

"Well, I was thinking the other day about Elmo and the commoditization of happiness -- may I have something to chew on? My gums are giving me terrible trouble today -- anyway, those Elmo dolls and the commoditization of happiness. Because they're not selling a toy so much as an experience, you see..."

"Wait," I said. "Can I write about this on my blog?"

"I don't see why not. But why don't you ever disclose details of your conversations with my mother on your blog? After all, my relationship with you is just shy of thirteen months old -- yes, 'that's your entire life!' Ha ha. But that would give my mother seniority in your affections."

"Well, I don't think your mother would appreciate me disclosing all kinds of details about our everyday conversations with the rest of the world. We're adults, you know? And it's sort of different when you're an adult."

She thought for a minute. "That's probably true. But I suspect that change -- the age at which a person begins to require a private life -- comes much earlier than adulthood. I mean, come on. I'll be starting preschool in a couple of years. I'll have classmates, a reputation to establish. But there they'll be all over the web: photos of me sitting around with my shirt off. Photos of me sitting around eating my shirt--"

"I didn't post the ones of you eating your shirt."

"VIDEO OF ME SLEEPING."

"It was cute!"

"How creeped out would you be if someone videotaped you sleeping and posted it online?"

"Look," I said, "I get it. There is a tendency, in this weird, virtual world we now live in, for parents to treat children as something like public figures. 'Sorry, you can't have a reasonable expectation of privacy because you're a baby!' And now all these parents are chronicling their children's lives -- first and last names included! -- online for all the world to see. And if children are to have the freedom of self-determination -- self-definition -- it would seem that a public childhood presented through the filter of an overly analytical parent would be somewhat... limiting."

"Exactly."

I laced my fingers behind my head and leaned back in my chair.

"Look," she said, "don't worry about it. Someday I'll be able to start my own blog if I choose to. After all, there's no better way to control the lens through which the world views you than setting forth your own super-biased version of yourself. And it's not like I have much to combat. You're actually portraying me in a very positive light, on the whole, and I'm sure you'll agree to remove any information or images that I later find to be... suppressive."

"I didn't post the ones of you eating your shirt."

"Well aren't you a saint."

"Certainly not, but I also didn't post the story about the time you poo--"

"I think that's quite enough. Now I'd appreciate it if you could dress me and lift me off the floor. I have a bit of a chill."

Alarmed

We live in a new building with all kinds of cool new features. For example, the keys to our apartment are these weird little electronic keys that slide into a reader that emits a high-pitched "beeeeep" when the door unlocks. We also have a very high-tech fire alarm system, which never fails to give me the scare of my life when some drunk idiot decides to smoke in the elevator at 3 a.m.

For a few months after we moved here, I asked The Mouse, "what do you think those speakers on the wall are for?" We have one in the living room and one in the bedroom, and we had no idea. We figured that perhaps the government is interested in the goings on in our home. We certainly couldn't blame them, what with all our child trafficking and drug smuggling, so we moved on.

But no. Most buildings have bells or intercoms stationed at intervals throughout the hallways, and they're plenty loud enough to rouse you from sleep; the developers of our building decided to puts the sound delivery mechanism right in the bedroom. Right next the bed. At a volume of 5,000 decibels.

The voice that booms through the speakers is a woman's voice. I do think the alarm system would be more effective with Julie Andrews's voice urging us to wake up and exit the building with haste. (Mary Poppins was extremely firm, never cross, if you remember, and she always turned "tidy up the nursery" into an awesome game.) But this woman is not soothing. She's angry. And demanding. And angry.

After a solid, eardrum-crushing tone sounds for about 10 seconds, she starts her speech.

"YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. THIS ALARM INDICATES THE PRESENCE OF AN EMERGENCY IN YOUR BUILDING. IF, AT THE END OF THIS MESSAGE, YOU HEAR FURTHER ALARM SOUNDS ON YOUR FLOOR, PLEASE WALK TO THE NEAREST EMERGENCY EXIT AND EXIT THE BUILDING."

By this point, I have already jumped to my feet and woken up -- in that order -- and probably put on a pair of jeans, decided to forego a bra, and indicted the spoiled kids who are likely responsible, the same kids whose parents are footing the bill for an Ivy League education, a Mercedes and maybe a lawsuit when my heart decides to give out the next time the alarm sounds in the middle of the night.

This happened again last night. After I had put pulled on pants and begun looking for a sweatshirt, I realized that The Mouse was just standing in the middle of the room, doing nothing. This is the same man who last time followed me around the room like a drill sergeant with a Napoleon complex, screaming down my neck, "GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR, RECRUIT! THIS IS A LIFE-AND-DEATH SITUATION, NOT A BEAUTY CONTEST, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE."

What he had learned, and I had forgotten in my 3 a.m. fog, is that angry emergency woman's speech contains a one-word loophole: if. IF, AT THE END OF THIS MESSAGE, YOU HEAR FURTHER ALARM SOUNDS ON YOUR FLOOR...

Last night, we didn't. And I was so elated that I didn't have to go stand in the front of the building for 20 minutes that I dispensed with the cursing and fell back asleep, despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Soon, I will be entirely immune to the wolf cries of this alarm system. That'll show them.

***

I met my first friend from the blogosphere yesterday! Mammamer at Daily Kvetch recently moved to the Boston area from California. I also used to live in California, in the same area, and we even discovered that we volunteered at the same senior community. My first blog-to-real-life meeting was a total success, and you should know that Mammamer may be the easiest person to meet, possibly ever. She is a freaking master in the art of conversation -- and I thought I was pretty good. Meeting someone you don't know for lunch can sometimes be a conversational obstacle course in which you must be continually vigilant about what lies ahead and whether you'll be able to handle it, and whether it will turn into a one-way Q&A session. Or it can be, Oh! We are talking about our puffy sticker collections! We both collect puffy stickers! But I can tell that we're running out of things to say about the puffiness of stickers, which is sort of shocking, considering that we are the world's foremost puffy sticker collectors and both have limited-edition 1982 Michael Jackson puffies encased in airtight display cases, but it appears that we are indeed running out, and what are we going to talk about THEN? Uh-oh... I think this is it... And -- and here is the dead silence.

Not with Mammamer. I mean, we do have plenty in common, but I suspect that doesn't much matter. I'm fairly certain that she could make anyone feel at home in just about any place. Even if your home is not a Thai restaurant that plays Kenny Rogers's Greatest Hits.

That's right: She didn't skip a beat when I interrupted our conversation by throwing out the World's Biggest Conversation Stopper:

"Is this Kenny Rogers they're playing??"

"Is it?" she asked.

"You picked a fine time to leeeaave me, Lucille," I said.

We listened to a few more bars, agreed it was Kenny, and resumed our conversation with nary a wrinkle.

Oh, she is good. Plus, she has been to Vietnam and Cambodia and Thailand, and I am a little bit jealous of that. Plus, she wears supercute, funky eyeglasses. That's three thumbs up from me.

Hi! I'm on a bus! (No, really. Like, right now.)

I dragged myself out of bed 20 minutes late this morning, which meant that I had to bite my tongue to refrain from verbally flogging my cab driver about driving too slowly on my way to my destination. (Instead, I politely but firmly URGED him to drive like a real cab driver -- lead foot, reckless abandon for rules of the road, all those commendable habits -- and then tipped him rather handsomely for tolerating me.)

But now, people, NOW I am on a bus. My feet are elevated on some kind of cushiony foot-evelation thing that would make United first-class passengers envious. I just stepped out of a spacious, vanilla-scented bathroom containing fresh flowers and a full-length mirror. (And I mean real vanilla, by the way, not Wal-Mart candle-scented vanilla. It's like fairies spritzed the toilet with pure vanilla extract.) My laptop is plugged in to a 110-volt outlet and charging. And in a few minutes, after I finish blabbing about how cool this all is, I will click "post" and this post will POST, baby.

I'm on my way to New York for a spring girls' weekend with one of my bestest friends, Courtney (whose book you should buy if you know any preteen or teen girls, by the way), who is coming in from California. I decided to try this bus service because it's cheaper than Amtrak and offers free Wi-Fi the whole way. There was some likelihood that I would leave for New York with work to do, and that was the case when I rushed out of the house this morning. But never fear! I put the finishing touches on a most absorbing article on IT automation (HEY. WAKE UP. Stay with me here.) and sent it off to the editor way back in, like, Framingham. Piece o' cake.

This is nonetheless a bus, though, which means it's bumpy and headache-inducing after too much reading. And there are no seatbelts, which is normal for a bus but always makes me slightly nervous. (That's what happens when you grow up with an EMT for a mother. She doesn't take any shit where seatbelt wearing is concerned.)

But blogging on Route 95! Fun!

I've read my blogs, I've browsed the news, I've checked the weather. I've sent some email. And now I'm going to curl up next to this sunny window and read my book. Just because I can dawdle online for four hours doesn't mean I have to.

Happy weekend, people. I hope the tulips are in bloom wherever you are.