A meeting.

A warning:
This is an experimental departure from my usual fare. I'll probably delete it.
In the meantime, please be kind.

Update: Okay, it stays.

* * *

"You wanted me to tell her," he says, and I nearly spit out my beer.

* * *

We never really connect, only reconnect. Our relationship has always been marked by long absences. In the first year I knew him, back when every meeting meant a tangle of sheets and grappling hands and eventual exhaustion before the sun had even so much as begun to dip below the horizon, we saw each other only half a dozen times. Now, sometimes a year will pass between chats, or sometimes we'll play long games of text-tag and missed messages that eventually peter out, or we make vague plans only to cancel on each other.

And then, eventually, a day. A date. A restaurant and his bony frame in the doorway, cutting away a dark slice of midday sun.

I used to be fascinated by how little space he took up. He was bird-thin, fine-boned, and then he would fold up. He disappeared into corners. He sat cross-legged on chairs, like a child. Today, when I sat down across from him and watched him turn from me to look at the menu, there was gray in his hair.

* * *

"What did you do?"

I have a bandaid on my middle finger. Just across the way and up the road apiece from my wedding ring. Years ago, I would have extended the wounded digit across the table and let him touch it, and I would have made a bigger deal about how it had met its bloody fate under my own teeth.

But that was the problem, then. With us. With me.

I tell the truth today: that I was watching a rerun of Law & Order, that I got nervous about what was going to happen in the final courtroom scene, and that before I even realized it I'd eaten off my entire cuticle.

It's funny to me -- it is me, it's just the sort of thing I'd do -- but lines appear on his face, and he says, "Noooo."
And then, "You can do better than that."

And that was the problem.

* * *

I'm not better than that. I could be, in fits and starts. I was twenty-three years old, and every thirty-one days I could put on my best and brightest, giving him one day per month with the esoteric, intellectual, literary version of myself.

It's easy to believe that someone is extraordinary, when you've never seen her be ordinary.

We would intertwine our same-sized hands over tables while our smug salads wilted and the wine got warm, and he'd say something about Don DeLillo, and I'd smile and nod with the knowledge that he wouldn't be there tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, to see me reading a Wikipedia page with a beer in one hand and a box of Cheez-Its in the other. That by the time we next met, the subject would have changed.

That he had no idea how much I hate frisee.

That he didn't know me, even when he began to claim that he loved me.

It made me wonder about his girlfriend, the one he lived with. He would leave her behind to be with me, and I thought that she must have been something -- to hold his interest, day in, day out, at home. In their home.

I thought she must have been exhausted.

* * *

Now, we meet every once in awhile. We reconnect, somewhere between my happy prattling about my husband and his bits-and-pieces summarizing of a new girlfriend. ("She has red hair," he says, and then, "She climbed Kilimanjaro," as though one is a natural extension of other.)

"Did you ever meet my friend Mike?" he says.
I laugh, the way I always do when he asks me a question as though I'm a real ex-girlfriend, and not The Other Woman From Way-Back-When.

"Of course not," I say.
He looks confused.
"You don't introduce a girl to your friends when she's your dirty little secret."

There's a pause. A cry; I realize that there are babies in this bar. Two of them, tiny things with downy hair and heads that loll and coo against their mothers' shoulders. The sunlight presses hazily against the tabletops and their little eyes close tight.

"You wanted me to tell her," he says, and I nearly spit out my beer. I shake my head.
"No way."
"You did."
"Well, I didn't."

I take another drink.

"I'm sorry I didn't introduce you to my friends."

And another. There's foam in the glass. Spit, mostly.

"I didn't want to meet your friends."


He doesn't believe me, I don't think. I don't know.
I don't care.

My drink is gone, and so am I, and I don't think I'll see him again.

Legally boned.

I've only just realized this, and it disturbs me: Sometime in early August of 2008, I fornicated for what may have been the last time in my life.

Oh, did I mention that I was going to write about sex? Ha, whoops! Well, now you know!

But yeah, that happened. My last fornication passed unseen, unknown, like a silent ship in the night... or, I mean, not silent -- it was probably, you know, lots of grunting and zoo noises, but... well. That doesn't matter. What matters is that married persons, by definition, don't fornicate.

Nope, that's specifically for the unmarried. Once you've put a ring on it, you're just straight-up legal to throw it in there, and there's nothing anyone could do to stop you -- or would! You're allowed, even encouraged, to have sex! This is the apparent boon of marriage: that Jesus, conservative old people, and the Congress of the United States of America are all one-hundred percent on board with whatever it is you do behind closed doors and between the sheets. (Provided you don't try to put it anywhere untoward, of course, if you know what I'm saying. I can't speak for Jesus, but last I heard, they particularly disliked that sort of thing in Texas.)

Having watched every single motherloving last one the occasional episode of "Engaged and Underage", I know that the implicit permission to have sex is seen by some as a major incentive to get married. Those lust-hungry young couples who haven't quite closed the door on puberty yet, fleeing from their wedding reception with glee at finally being able to Get Busy with the Permission of God. Sometimes I watch these shows and cackle to myself, because they have NO IDEA what they're in for.

But here? Well, no. It's not like that. The fact that Jesus and his dad and my grandma are all totes cool with the bang-bang -- this does not make me want to leap into the sack.

There's the general lack of cachet of the whole thing, first off. Because c'mon -- what would you rather do? "Fornicate", or have "marital intercourse"? One of these things sounds awesome, like the sort of activity that might take place in a bar bathroom or an elevator, or under the buffet table at your friend's wedding with a cocktail napkin stuffed in your mouth to muffle the screams (what? No I didn't!), and the other sounds like an SAT word, one of the ones where you were too bored to remember the definition but you're pretty sure it has to do with small engine repair.

Dull.

But worse, I think, is that marital sex is totally de-naughtified. When even the Bible is all, "Hey, you, with the ring! Take your pants off!", the exciting sense that you're getting away with something is just... pffft. I'm starting to understand those previously-vanilla couples who show up on latenight HBO specials about sex parties or Vegas brothels, who turn to the camera and giggle, "We never used to do anything like this! But now, look! A dildo!"

Not that there are any problems over here, or anything -- if you were hoping I was going to be all, "So what I'm saying is, our sex life sucks", then I am sorry to disappoint you. (Also, what the hell. Why would you hope that?)

But I am distressed to realize that my last fornication for the foreseeable future passed without so much as a fare-thee-well, or a party hat, or anything.

...Or, I mean, there may have been a party hat. I drink a lot.

All over the place.

Today, I can be found here and here. A new column pubbed here last week. I filled out the staff questionnaire here. More freelance work is simmering in my head or just finished, held in the hands of editors and waiting to be served.

I'm starting to feel strangely settled, here in my apartment with no job -- no real job, anyway -- and the endless clicking of the keys, and the funny sensation of a narrative untangling itself in my head. I've started to recognize the different voices that echo in there. They're all me, but in versions. There's the typoed tumble that spills forth when I'm hurried; the shallow, stilted, plodding dryness when I haven't had enough to eat; the jittery delete-and-write-and-delete-and-write just after coffee; the slushy effusiveness and made-up words that pour out after I've had a beer at lunch. It's funny the way people will sometimes look at me when they ask what I do and I say, as though I'm not sure myself, "I'm a writer?"

I am?

I haven't lost that question mark at the end; I drown in words all day long, but when I step away from the keyboard and the sun goes down, I feel like I don't know what I'm doing. I try to explain about how it works right now, the unsureness of it. I'm waiting. I'm writing while I wait to find out whether or not I'm really a writer. Earlier today, I came across this photo of Roger Ebert (who you should be following on Twitter, if you're not, and whose story you should read about here, if you haven't); he's holding a newspaper, and the caption explains about writers and how they like to see their words made physical, because it feels permanent.

I don't know if "permanent" is the word I'd use. I'm dimly aware that this blog will exist forever, pretty much -- barring an apocalyptic event that wipes out the whole internet, or a decision on my part to delete it. (No, no, don't worry. I'll never.) But there is that unfinished feeling that online, it's all ether. Print might not feel permanent, but it's unequivocally real. It's there. The feel of paper, the smell of ink. It's got a life cycle all its own; your words come to life on the page, and later, they decay and disappear on the same. Sometimes it seems like writing online is so goddamn fetal, all these words floating unborn in the amnio.

Occasionally, I can see that someone has come here from their inbox -- Yahoo or Gmail or whatever -- and I know that something I wrote is being forwarded here and there, and it's like, wow. Vindication. Birth.

Congratulations, ma'am, it's a blog post.

A friend, a karaoke contest, a favor, PANAMA! ...Or something.

Briefly:

I've been giving my word-love to you freely for years, readers, and today, I'd like you to do something for me. Or, rather, for a very dear friend of mine.

No, it's not a handjob. (It might have been, but my friend doesn't have a peen. Lucky you!)

So, please, if you would:
1. Click here.
2. Enter the confirmation word in the box on the left-hand side.
3. Click "VOTE".

It takes less than 5 seconds, you don't have to enter any personal information, and you need never think about it again. Unless you feel like voting repeatedly -- you can do it once per day.

In this manner, you will not only seat my vocally gifted pal Kate in a life-changing karaoke competition, but you will also (and I know you'll like this) assist in unseating a truly hideous individual who does not deserve to sing in public. So if you're not motivated by altruism and good thoughts, perhaps you will be motivated by your raging bitchery. Yes? Alright!

Now go on, clickity click click CLICK.

Thinking out loud.

Early this morning, I phoned the local pharmacy for a refill on my birth control pills. This is not news, obviously -- I do it every month, and every month, I am informed by the automated talking voice that my prescription will be refilled, no questions asked. It's totally no big deal.

(Random aside: It is no big deal except for the fact that the tone of the automated talking voice is, like, super-condescending. Always. And particularly for something that was pre-recorded, absent of context, by some totally unaffiliated voice-over actor. I picture the woman standing in her little booth, speaking a series of key phrases into the microphone, only to have Rite Aid's director of marketing crash through the door and scream, "NO, Tammy! For the last time, I want you to bitch it up, all right? We're RITE AID, for chrissakes! These medication-gobbling plebes need to know that we're doing them a fucking favor!")

Other than that, though, refilling prescriptions is an unremarkable chore. Right? Right! But NOT TODAY. This time, I picked up my phone twenty minutes later to discover a missed call and voicemail from the pharmacist, asking me to call back right away.

Because unexpected contact from a medical professional is never a good sign, I started freaking out before I'd even finished listening to the message. Call him back right away? Why? What was going on?!

(At this point, the part of my brain that likes to entertain itself by suggesting that I abduct the disabled and call my mother-in-law a whore suddenly sprang to life and shrieked, Holy shit! They won't refill your prescription because something is horribly wrong with you! You probably have HERPES!)

Trying to ignore my irrational, screeching other self, I dialed the number and pressed "2" to speak to the pharmacist. He picked up immediately.

"Hi," I said. "I'm returning a call from you--"
ASK HIM IF YOU HAVE HERPES! my brain yelled.
"Oh, of course," said the pharmacist, who sounded pleasant and young and totally unaware of The Crazy that was threatening to bubble over on the other end of the line. "I wanted to let you know, the generic version of your pill has been temporarily taken off the market. It's a patent dispute or something."
"Oh,"I said. Inside my head, The Crazy slunk away into a corner and grumbled to itself.
He continued, "So, your copay is going to be quite a bit higher than it was."
"How much higher?" I said.
"Forty dollars."
"What?!"
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's kind of a lot."
"Ugh," I groaned, "that's ridiculous."
"I know, I'm sorry," he said again.
And then, with a hopeful-and-helpful lilt in his voice, he added, "Maybe you should go see your doctor this week, and ask to be put on something with an available generic?"

"I could do that..."
I was thinking out loud now, weighing the options while I did the math in my head. It was a thirty-dollar difference, not insubstantial, particularly on a monthly basis, and it would be so helpful to have the money, and it really might be worth it, except--
"--shit, there's no way I can get an appointment this week and then I'd have to go, like, five days without sex."


From the phone came a small, chokey sound -- the sort of thing that happens when someone is attempting to stifle a sneeze, or a laugh.

Or a scream.

At which point I realized that the biggest problem with thinking out loud is that it is, by definition, OUT LOUD.

"Oh my God," I said, also out loud. "I can't believe I said that. That was so inappropriate, I am so--"
"Heh," said the pharmacist. "That was funny."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"Uh... I'll just come pick up the pills," I said.
"See you later," he said.

And I did.

See him later, I mean. As I passed by him on my way out the door, he winked at me over the condom display.

It was actually kind of hot.

Your health, guv'mint.

Sometimes, I wonder about the people who really reeeeally want us to have a public, government-run healthcare system. Not about their intelligence or motives -- it is, in theory, a really great idea that would do tremendous good for everyone who lives here. But I wonder whether they have ever spent much time dealing with the government on a personal level. Whether they have ever had to hinge their lives, or livelihood, on the gaseous churnings of its bureacratic gut.

Basically, I wonder whether they have ever been unemployed. Because I am. And when I talk to the government, this is how our conversations go:

Government: Did you work last week, including self-employment?
Me: Including self-employment, yes.
Government: How many days did you work?
Me: Well, I worked for thirty minutes on Tuesday morning, and--
Government: That is a full day of work.
Me: Um, what?
Government: That counts as a full day of work. We can't pay you unemployment for that day, because you worked.
Me: Thirty minutes of work is a full day of work?
Government: To us it is.
Me: That's insane.
Government: That's the way it is.
Me: But... I only made fifteen dollars.
Government: Too bad. You worked.
Me: So what you're saying is, if I work for fifteen minutes and make one dollar, you'll penalize me like $100? For working?
Government: We don't see it that way.
Me: Because fifteen minutes of work equals a full day of work.
Government: Yes.
Me: Can I come work there?
Government: No.
Me: Assholes.
Government: What?
Me: Nothing.
Government: So, you worked last week.
Me: For thirty minut--
Government: Where did you work?
Me: Um, in my bedroom?
Government: THAT IS NOT ALLOWED.
Me: What? No, I'm not a hooker or anything, I just worked from home.
Government: Home?
Me: Self-employment?
Government: Right!
Me: Right!
Government: Where was your self employed?
Me: [sound of face slamming into keyboard]
Government: WE ARE GOING TO REVOKE YOUR BENEFITS.
Me: No! Wait! I'll cooperate.
Government: That's better. Now. Where were you employed?
Me: [deep breath] Okay, so here's the thing: because I have an internet connection, I can work from--
Government: NO!
Me: No, it's okay, if you'll just--
Government: Stop dicking around and tell me where you worked!
Me: IN MY APARTMENT!
Government: What was your supervisor's name at this job?
Me: Are you kidding?
Government: What was your job title?
Me: Okay, seriously, stop.
Government: Why did you quit this job?
Me: I didn't qu--
Government: Give us the contact information of your supervisor.
Me: I didn't have--
Government: NOW!
Me: Okay, okay, geez! It's Kat...
Government: Thank you... hey, wait a minute, that's your name!
Me: You guys last updated this system sometime in the 1970s, didn't you.
Government: ...Maybe.


Look, I know they're trying. And it's not any one person's fault that the system itself behaves like a learning-disabled nine year-old with an anger management problem. But government? As long as you can't comprehend the concept of "self-employment", I am definitely not going to put you in charge of anything so important as, say, my pancreas.

Tidbittery.

The slowdown in posting over the past few weeks has not been without cause, dear readers, although I'm sorry for it. As it turns out, even though that big thing of which we do not speak is out of my hair and still unsettled, there are so many other things to write. I have bills to pay. And I'm trying to make a go of it, like a real writer writer, with nothing but a laptop and a brain full of rattling words.

By the next time we meet, I might even have gone so far as to cultivate all the necessary, writerly accoutrements: a week-old layer of unwashed grime, a floor littered with crumpled pages, a desktop scatter of pencils that have been worn down to nubs. I might even be wearing a beret.

But in the meantime, if you've been hanging around here, twiddling your thumbs and feeling annoyed at the unpopulated space -- and maybe even missing the vulgar anecdotes or the extravagant swearing or just the look of lines and lines of text, unfurling across the screen -- please come and see me in one of my other homes on the internet:

- After penning an urban exploration feature for Wend magazine in 2008, I'm now writing an ambassador blog for their website. My personal New York, dispatched in bits and pieces, with photographs. I like this project because it's different from my usual, and also because it forces me to leave the house from time to time.

- I am still writing for SparkNotes, a lot.

- And starting today, I can also be found making occasional contributions to MTV's Hollywood Crush, which is much less important than it sounds but which nevertheless has my inner 14 year-old fangirl practically peeing in her pants.

There, that should hold you.

And if none of the above interests you, then please come and see me and several other lovely writers in the heaving flesh, at tomorrow's blogger meetup in Brooklyn. Because beer. You like it.