I'm going to try my best to get better at maintining my blog. I'm well aware that folks aren't neccessarily chomping at the bit to sink their teeth into the story of my life, but what the hell? Maybe I'll never accomplish my lifelong goal of being a published writer, but thanks to the information superhighway, I can see my writing in print in some form.

Recent thoughts. After about four straight months of consistent work since going freelance, about two weeks ago the work came to a standstill. I'm still not working, and by Monday it will have been three weeks of little to no work. Have no fear, those of you who may or may not be crinkling your nose in concern. I have work lined up--too much work, in fact. I had been warned of these phases. In fact, I had been told that these times were the worst part of being a freelancer. The unexpected opportunity of having far too much time on one's hands. It's one thing when I plan for a vacation in the city, but to suddenly find myself with no work to occupy my time was quite startling indeed. I may have gone through the various stages of withdrawal, in fact. First, I was euphoric to have a free afternoon on my hands, after weeks of stapling my metaphorical balls to the wall. I made a couple trips into the city, lazed away about four afternoons perusing Elfa units at the Container Store, tried on shoes in about thirty stores in and around Union Square, spent far too much money in the itunes store, took and emailed pictures of my cat, ate lunch and read in my backyard, and actually bought my Elfa unit.

Then came the boredom, then came the panic, and then came the existential crisis. What is the meaning of all this bullshit, I asked myself night after night, tossing and turning next to the boyfriend who by his sheer existence I wanted to pick a fight with. How long do I really want to write and edit education products? The products I had boasted of only weeks before. Maybe I need to open a restuarant? Maybe I should open a bookstore? Maybe I should take off to plant trees in Vietnam. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, because I wasn't invoicing anything, I had to legislate a moratorium on all spending (except for at Container Store), so I couldn't even turn to consumer therapy to cure my woes. This time, the healing was in my own hands. After what was probably the worst day of the crisis, I was thankfully heading to Cape Cod for a five day weekend. I had no choice but to postpone faxing a request to reimbursal for the class on How to Open a Restaurant that I'd recently registered for at the New School. I guess I'd have to save yet another confrontation with my patiently understanding boyfriend for another day.

Last night I watched the Colbert report for the first time in several months. In fact, I think that the last time I watched it was when I was actually in the studio audience. In any event, in an attempt to deviate from my default channel of anything Law and Order, and as I was downloading the last of this season's Heroes from itunes, I chanced upon Comedy Central just as he was embarking on his rampage of the recent Fox news coverage of Hilary Clinton's decision to drop "Rodham"from her name. Apparently this set off some sort of fire-storm in the conservative press. Every incarnation of Fox news seemed to have something to say. I admit that it's a curious move. Why bother? Aren't there more important ways to spend your time as a politician-like admitting that you were wrong to vote to approve the war in Iraq. Apparently not.

Colbert then proceeded on a diatribe that included commentary on Chris Matthews's assessment of Hilary's recent donning of a string of pearls as classic Grace Kelley, and an article in the Baltimore Sun in which the writer descibed Nancy Pelosi's bright yellow pant suit as "smart." My favorite moment, however, was when he queried why the press doesn't give equal focus to regard for men's fashion. The zinger of the evening, however, was when he contrasted all this news on female politicians with a comment regarding Giuliani. As he pointed out that even though Giuliani is on his third marriage, HE has never changed his name, the words "to September 11th" flashed across the screen. So perfectly put. It returns to my point that any good politician who was mayor of NYC at that time had damn well better have handled the situation with grace. Giuliani just happened to be in office at the time.

This leads me to want to discuss more in regard to politics. The other night I was dining on Ethiopian food with some gal pals when we meandered into the terrain of the 2008 election. We discussed why, at such an early date, there was already so much focus on campaigning. My answer: because we have a black man and a white woman at the top of the polls. The primaries to elect the democratic candidate are almost going to merit as much focus and thought and consideration as the presidential election itself. Not, I might add, that I would ever entertain voting for a Republica, so, for me, there will not be too much consideration. At this point, the question of the hour or for the next 6 months, is who can win the presidential race? Hillary? John? or Barack?

I pointed out that my favorite candidate at this time is John Edwards. My friends were somewhat surprised. Why? Stay tuned for the next entry in which I share my feelings and points in regard to Hilary, Barack, and John, and why I feel that John is the best choice overall.

Leaving corporate america feels like ending a long, dysfunctional relationship. I've spent the last 24 hours Ideleting phone numbers, erasing voicemail, deleting received, sent, and deleted email. Then, deleting the deleted emails. All I want to do is lay in bed, eat salty food, watch Bridget Jone's Diary, get a massage and completely reinvent myself as a "single" woman. And so begins the documentation of my life as a divorcee from corporate america.

I'm back! And I'm back as a New Yorker. It's been 9 months since my cat, Coyote, took off in the night and prevented me from making my poetic departure from Boston and poetic entrance to the Upper West Side. It's been 9 months since I slept on a twin aerobed in my Somerville kitchen on April 30 with the door cracked, hoping to catch the sound of Coyote slinking to the back door in time for accompany me to my new home. It's been 9 months since she came home at 1am on May 1, smelling of the cool earth. It's been 9 months since I wrapped up the aerobed at 5am, packed the last of my parcels into the corolla, and arrived at my new home at 10:30 am on the morning of May 1, 2006. It's been 9 months since I began my first day at my new office in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey. Most importantly, however, it's been 9 months since Coyote peed in my favorite knockoff purse on my first day in the new office and I only realized that the curious moisture was pee as I raised my hand to shake that of one of my new colleague's and caught a whiff of Coyote's wrath.

I don't usually create a posting about movies or media or books, but the movie I saw last night warrants such a response. I have never seen such a riveting film, such a commentary on our society, something so thought provoking, that forced me to consider the issues of trust and risk and joy and sorrow and lust. You may have heard of the film? It's called Basic Instict 2. Ha! Fooled you! What a piece of trash. It really is, to quote Ty Burr of Boston Globe, the breakout comedy of the season. I don't think I have ever laughed so hysterically at a film meant to portray itself as a drama in my life. Oh yeah. The girls and I watched Skeleton Key a couple weeks ago. There was another gem.

Seriously though, you might all wonder why I would shell out the cash for such a travesty. It's all in good fun. 8 bucks in the name of entertainment and laughter and campiness is 8 bucks well spent. The screenplay is completely over the top, the dramatic, smoldering, seething glances last for far beyond what is necessary to make the point, it's basicallly soft core porn, and it endeavors to be a cross between the Matrix and Spellbound. What's more, it has managed to cast the heaviest hitters in all of British drama. David Thewlis, Charlotte Rampling, the guy who plays Q in the 007 movies, Hugh Dancy, all of whom look like they are ashamed, but simultaneously titillated by the dialogue they are portraying.

It is fabulous. First of all, the outfits that Sharon Stone wears to her therapy sessions are hotter than the hottest outfit I've worn to go dancing with gay men. Her face is frozen into china from all of the botox injections. Yes, her body is hot, but it's fake. What is hot and beautiful about a hot and beautiful and skinny woman who is only hot and skinny and beautiful at age 46 because of plastic surgery and botulism injections? I'd like to know. So, I suppose the film is also a commentary on beauty.

Bottom line. Go see it to be informed. It's going to be the cult classic of the new millienium...if not just the breakout comedy of the season. If it makes you laugh, what does it matter how it's marketed?

I've been on hiatus and apparently a couple of you have noticed. Interesting. The move is moving along. 21 days from today...that's three weeks for those of you who are mathematlically challenged, I will be moving to the Upper West Side of New York City. I will be living out a dream that I've had since I was young. When I was a senior in high school, I wrote a short story in which the protagonist was an interior designer, living and working in New York City, zipping from client to client in a VW Beetle. At that point, I dreampt of going to NYU and pursuing and education and eventual career in journalism. I was accepted, but, alas, I ended up a creative writing major at Emerson College. Things happen the way they are meant to, I'm confident of that, but I often wonder where and what I would be if I'd been able to pursue this dream 16 years ago. I'm sure I wouldn't be the woman who I am today. Is that a good thing? I have to believe that it is.

Time is a funny thing. Four months ago, I decided that it was time for me to move to NYC. I would move no matter what. I would freelance; I would live in a one room studio; I would do what I had to to finally make a change for me, of my choosing. Shortly after that I had my first meeting with serendipity. This meeting was in the form of an announcement on the snowy Monday morning of January 16, a morning I'd taken as a personal day. I took the news that my entire department is being relocated via a conference call. I immediately knew that I would take advantage of this offer the moment the announcement was made. It's been almost three months from that day. At times it feels like six years; at others it feels like six months have passed. Now it's three weeks until I move. That means that in four weeks I will be rounding out my first weekend as an official NYC resident. When I think about a month from now, I think about where I was a month ago, what has happened, if anything, what I've accomplished, how my emotions have waxed and waned, upon what I've obsessed on any given day. Timing is a funny thing.

Going with my gut instinct to NOT take the apartment on the best street possible with the worst kitchen possible proved to be the right choice for me. Last Wednesday night, I was assuming the usual position on the couch, awaiting the latest episode of Lost, doing my nightly perusal of the most recent craigslist postings. In my travels, I happened to click on yet another rent stabilized on the perfect tree-lined street on the Upper West Side. Looked perfect, was located on W. 78th and W. End Avenue, not two blocks away from the apartment with the lean-to kitchen, and the pictures were even better.

I shrugged to my cat perched next to me, "Another great place that will not be available when I'm looking," I said to her.

Then I scrolled down. Low and behold what it revealed: "Available June 1 or possibly sooner"

What on earth? Unheard of. So acute was my disbelief that I didn't even bother calling...but I did forward it to my email account, and, convinced that such a perfect possibility would never become a reality for me, and forgot about the listing until morning.

I decided to call, left a message, and a few hours later Mike Sieger, broker extraordinaire, called me back. Indeed, available June 1, maybe sooner, located in a building where another, 650 square feet, owned by a sweet little old lady who lives on the first floor. I told him my story, how I wasn't looking for a place for a couple months, and how I'd just turned down another place with a kitchen the size of my laptop.

Long story short, after a series of mind-bogglingly yet again serendipitous events, I signed a lease for a lovely 1 bedroom apartment on West 78th Street just a half block from Riverside Drive, two blocks from bagels from heaven made by H & H on Broadway, and four blocks from Central Park.

Now commences a new obsession: buying new furniture for my new life.