Eternal questions for a spotless mind

Hi there, my long-lost blog readers! How are you? I'm fine. You're looking well.

Ok, let's be honest... I don't know if anyone will actually read this. If roles were reversed I would have taken this blog off my Google reader long ago. But this story is too odd not to share, especially since it's a follow up to this post from last year. Go ahead, read it. Then come back here.

To recap: this guy I went to camp with randomly contacted me on Match last year, not realizing we had known each other 15 years prior. I reminded him who I was, and he eventually did remember, but it wasn't immediate on his part and it was an ego-bruiser on mine. We went out for drinks, and I didn't feel a connection, and texted him so the following week, saying that I'd still like to be friends. His text back replied, "That's okay, I have enough friends. LOL." Bitter, party of one? That's fine. Point taken.

So can you guess whom I might have received a Facebook friend request from tonight? That's right - the guy who said he had enough friends. All I ever really wanted was to be Facebook friends with him, maybe get together a few times a year with other friends, stay in contact since there are so few camp friends I actually am still in touch with. So I accepted his request, wondering if I'd ever hear from him directly, or if curiosity just got the better of him and he'd silently stalk my photos for months to come. Very quickly, I had my answer - a message from him in my inbox. I think I gasped audibly.

Will he apologize, I wondered. Sheepishly make a joke? I tentatively opened the message, which, to my surprise, read: "Congrats on making it to LA as well! How long have you been out here?" Which apparently means... he totally forgot. So, can you help reconcile this in my brain?

A year ago, I had to remind him that we had been friends in camp. Understandable, I guess, since boys don't always remember friendships the way girls do, and that had been 15 years - and many hairstyles - prior. But now, after seeing him less than a year ago, he forgets THAT DATE, but remembers me from 15 years ago. The me I had to remind him about.

And now, how do I answer this email? "Hi! I moved here in 2005, just like I told you last year when we went on that date that you apparently don't remember. How are you?" I feel bad bringing up the date, because I'm guessing it's going to mean reminding him of what happened afterward, but I don't know how I can honestly answer him without mentioning that, um, hey, I saw you a year ago and we discussed this at length. How can he NOT remember?

The truth is, I always felt bad about the way I handled things. It all took place over text, which I wasn't used to at the time, and I could have phrased things better. But the fact that he was so bitter and tantrum-y about it also makes me kind of embarrassed for him. I don't want to have to remind him that that's how he reacted. Can I maybe rewrite history here? Tell a different story about our date and hope that his amnesia doesn't one day clear up?

The whole thing kind of weirds me out and makes me wonder if something is wrong with him. Part of the reason I didn't like him last year was that he seemed a little sad, or disconnected, or like that something was a little bit off. His childish text response kind of reinforced to me that he might not be emotionally secure. I'm glad he's not pining over my rejection in any way, but the fact that he doesn't even remember it seems a bit, I don't know, just WEIRD. Even if he doesn't remember what happened after the date, how does he not remember going on it? It's like that entire night, and our entire conversation never happened. Which wouldn't even be that odd if we hadn't had a history together, but we do, and he clearly remembers that now, so... I don't know, I am at a total loss.

Any thoughts? Suggestions for how to handle? Ideas for how I might rewrite our date story with a happier ending?

Friends, friends, friends, we won't always be

We haven't had a good laugh around these parts in a while, so let's talk about my dating life.

The joke, of course, being that if I went on any fewer dates, said life would surpass the "endangered" list and ultimately be declared extinct.

I've been on Match for a while but participating half-heartedly, finding very little interest in very few people. This may have less to do with their profiles than my mind-frame, but I guess I feel like I should be doing something to keep myself out there, even if it's only keeping an active profile for hundreds of people to judge.

A few weeks ago, I got an email from someone who struck me as somewhat familiar. I opened his profile, and it turns out, we went to summer camp together back in the early 90's. I wrote back, sharing immediately that I recognized and remembered him, and then was humbled when he replied that he had no idea who I was. Awesome. My ego is fine, thank you. With little prodding, he finally remembered me, we caught up over a series of emails and texts, and met up shortly thereafter.

And I had a nice time. He was nice. Not particularly my type - he seemed a bit quieter and shyer than the guys I go for, but it was fun catching up and we had some interesting things in common. That said, I knew right off the bat I wasn't interested in dating him. I just wasn't attracted. Our whole date seemed more like it had a friendly vibe, though, so I wasn't that worried about having to tell him that, or tell him anything, and I hoped we could transition things into a rekindled friendship. Even if that friendship was based only on our newfound proximity and one summer 20 years ago that he clearly didn't remember.

I don't ask a lot from my friends.

He texted me every day that week, much more than any of my actual friends. While he didn't outright ask me out again, I could tell he was fishing to determine my interest. I kept it friendly, but brief, and hoped he'd get the hint. I guess he's not much one for subtlety, though, because the following week, I got this:

So, let me put it out there... did you want to get together originally just to catch up or do you think there is something more there potentially?

Yikes. Wasn't expecting that kind of text in the middle of my work day. Wasn't expecting to have this conversation over text at all, but I guess if it is his communication of choice... I wrote back:

Just to catch up but I had fun and think we should be friends, stay in touch. I like connecting with people from the past b/c we naturally share something in common, and that is rare out here.

Honest. I probably could have worded it better but it distracted me so much at work I just wanted to write back and get it over with. I debated glossing it over and saying that I was open to seeing where things could go, but really, I wasn't. And if I've learned anything from my two decades of dating it's that it's always easier on everyone to end things sooner rather than later.

He apparently appreciated honesty too, considering his quick reply:

That's cool... I have enough friends... lol

Wow, ego-bruiser! Tell me how you really feel.

I admit, I've thought, and said that phrase in jest about similar situations. Say, I was telling a girlfriend how a guy might have said that to me, and I'd be all - to my girlfriend - "like I need any more friends!" Ha! But I would never, NEVER say that to a guy! I'd be like "Sure", and then never answer the phone again, maybe, but I wouldn't be all bitter like that - to their face!

(I try to reserve my bitter for the privacy of home. Trust me, everyone is happier that way.)

In fact, I remember the time I broke up with this guy. He wouldn't let me off the phone until I at least agreed to be friends. So I did, thinking it would mean nothing, maybe he would call once in a while if he was in the neighborhood, or we'd add each other to our birthday party guest lists, but that's it. After all, why would he want to be friends with someone who made it very clear she did not want to date him? Right?

Wrong! He thought my agreeing to be friends with him meant that we could forgo the dating part of the relationship and just have sex on occasion. He called me every week for a month before I finally told him to get lost, and he told me the real reason he kept calling.

I met him on Match too, now that I think of it.

Anyway, I wouldn't have even included the friendship remark if we hadn't actually, at one point, been friends. I totally get that it's a shitty thing to hear, and I really don't have any interest in being friends with most of the random guys I date. But I don't consider him random. I thought it was really cool that we reconnected across the country, and I was sincerely hoping to make him part of my social circle. Don't get me wrong - it's not like I'd be calling him up for weekend lunches or to gossip about my day. He'd be like every other guy friend I have that sits idle in my phone book, that I banter with on Facebook, and maybe see three times a year. So what's the big deal, then, you ask? If that's all I wanted, aside from avoiding any hurt feelings and snide textual remarks?

Well, the big deal is that it is rare to meet people from my past out here. And unlike high school and college, I didn't stay in touch with my camp friends after I stopped going at 17. Facebook has reconnected me with some, but I haven't seen most of them in real life in fifteen years. Having one pop out of the woodwork like that was a refreshing and comforting reminder of the pre-teen camper I used to be. Bottom line: there there are only a handful of people in the world that shared the exact same experience I did, that carry around the very same memories I have. It was nice thinking I'd reconnected with one of them.

Then again, it's not like he had that great of a memory.

When there are no fireworks

To me, the Fourth of July is similar to New Years in that I can pretty much recall how I celebrated any given year. There's always a party, a big to-do, and stories afterward that make for lasting memories.

Some of those memories, I'd prefer to forget.

In the summer of 2001, I was 25 years old and had recently reconnected with an old friend from camp. An older, male friend, if you will. GB and I hadn't seen each other since the summer of '93, when I was 17 and he was 22. We'd always shared a mutual crush and maybe a few stolen moments in the counselor room, but because of the age difference, nothing ever really happened between us.

But sometime that spring, we got back in touch, and met for coffee in my neighborhood in New York. He was a lawyer, living in DC, and was just as ridiculously good looking as I remembered.

[You know how there are people who maybe aren't conventionally good looking but their personalities make them so, and then there are other people whose natural features can practically stop traffic? Well, GB belonged to the latter category. (Ask any of my former camp friends or my roommate who answered the door that day and declared that he was the best looking man she'd ever seen.) With chiseled features and a full head of blond hair, he had the face of frat boy and the body of a handsome, head-turning Adonis.]

Immediately, sparks started flying, the air charged between us. We chatted straight through two cups of coffee, both of us grinning and googly-eyed.

We stayed in touch throughout the spring, and I was psyched when he invited me down to DC for the Fourth of July. In fact, he not only invited me for the Fourth, which fell on a Wednesday, but also to accompany him to the Hamptons that following weekend. Perhaps sensing that might be a bit much for someone I barely knew, I agreed to come down on Wednesday the Fourth, but I would head back to the city - alone - Friday morning. I figured if things went well I could always shoot out to the Hamptons for a night, but I didn't need to commit myself to a five day weekend so soon.

Smart girl.

I took a 7 AM train which deposited me in DC around 11. Exceptionally, physiologically excited, my hands began shaking in the cab ride over to his apartment. But from the first moment I saw him, I could tell things were different. GB wasn't distant, exactly, but he hadn't been dying to see me, either. His greeting was friendly and warm, but lacking some luster. There was not one ounce of attraction in the air.

At first, I thought, okay, give it some time - maybe a few drinks will loosen him up. But, over the course of the day, as we moved from beers by the river to cocktails overlooking the city, conversation remained painful, a struggle. Watching fireworks from his friend's rooftop, I wondered where on earth our coffee-shop chemistry had gone. I could forget about the weekend going out with a bang; instead, our connection had already fizzled out, disappearing unceremoniously in the distance between us.

He (thankfully) had to work the next day, so I gave myself a guided tour of the city, relieved to be free from the weirdness that had settled over us like a heavy cloud on a hot July day.

The air stayed clear until dinner that night, when we went to a quaint cafe. We sat silently with little to talk about, and I counted the hours until I could declare my independence from this increasingly awkward affair. When the bill came, I reached and offered to pay. And to my surprise, he let me.

Now, I always offer and will gladly pay my way. But after (approximately) five million years of dating, very few guys have ever let me. That night when I reached for the bill, I good-naturedly (and, clearly, insincerely) said, "Let me get this, as a thanks for letting me stay with you." Remembering, of course, that he had invited me to stay with him. It's not like I was in town on other business and asked him for a place to crash. He's the one that asked me there!

The bill was around $60. That may not sound like a lot now, and it shouldn't have been a lot to him, then, as a 30-year-old lawyer living in a two-bedroom condo in the middle of one of the nicest parts of the city. But it was a lot to me, a 25-year-old on a beauty PR budget - especially on top of my $120 train ticket down there.

Resentfully, I paid the bill. And on July 6th, all-aboard Amtrak, I finally celebrated my freedom.

When words collide

Last night I had the opportunity to meet one of my favorite writers, Stephanie Klein, at the book signing for her new coming-of-age memoir, Moose.

My mom introduced me to her first book, Straight Up and Dirty, about a year ago. I read it in three days. Since then, I have been reading her blog, Greek Tragedy, and following along with the ups and downs of her life - from afar, of course, in true blogger style: getting intimately familiar with the details of her life without actually knowing her.

A few weeks ago I saw that she was coming to a bookstore only a mile away from my office. I'm there! I thought. It's too good to pass up! And then a small cosmic turn of events happened that made me even more excited to go.

New reader Desiree randomly left her first comment on my blog the other day, so naturally I went to her blog to check it out. The top post just happened to be about her coordinating raffle items for this exact event, and did anyone have any ideas. Um, our store is in Pasadena, and our products are ideal for the book's target genre. I happen to be the person in charge of gift basket requests, and this could not be a better fit. Not that she had known any of this when she commented.

So I volunteered my products and met Desiree last night (she's very pretty and nice by the way) and we talked about blogging and our backgrounds - again, familiar with the persona but not the person. Then Stephanie came out and warmed up the crowd, and read some excerpts from her book to engage us. As if we needed any encouragement to buy it. Preaching to the choir, you might say.

Now, I had always thought I had a lot in common with her - the New York thing, the camp thing, the half-Jewish thing, etc. That's fairly common with bloggers, though - we find a few similarities to which we relate and then fill in the blanks with our own ideas of what they might be like. But some of the stuff she spoke about went into a more in-depth, psychological level, and really mirrored a lot of the same thoughts and feelings I've had running through my head for the last few months. Her issues are different than mine on the surface, but really, not at all dissimilar. I sat in the front row fully engaged, sure she must be thinking I'm some sort of crazy person not capable of breaking eye contact.

I ended up being the first in line for the signing, and before I could introduce myself, she said, "How do I know you? I've seen your face before." Flattered (!!!), but suddenly shy, I told her that I've commented on her blog once or twice and perhaps she'd clicked on my handle. She concurred that yes, maybe that was it, but neither of us seemed convinced. We clearly recognized something in each other.

I gave her my name, and my mom's name (Mom, of course I got you a copy!) and stammered a bit telling her what I did and where I lived and all that. I didn't even look at the inscription until after I had paid for the books downstairs. And to my not-so-surprise, it started with a sentence plucked from my own brain, a common theme but one relevant to me nonetheless. I don't know if, by my rapt attention during certain parts of her reading, she inferred what I wanted to hear (or, rather, read) or whether I'm attracted to her writing because this is what it's fundamentally about. But I left feeling connected, like coincidence was on my side.

Oh, and of course, I can't wait to read the book.

Full of hot air

I just returned from a quick jaunt to San Diego where I visited my friend Laura for the weekend. It was a blast - of hot air. No really. I always say, the hotter the better, but it was in the high 90's yesterday and all humidity - it was like being back in New York in the middle of July. Well, okay, it was much better than that, but trust me, it was hot.

We went to the beach - it was too hot to sit there. We had drinks at an outdoor bar - it was too hot for anything but crushed ice. Finally, the temperature cooled a bit by dinner and we enjoyed a leisurely evening downtown enjoying the more moderate summer breeze. Today we got up, ate breakfast, and spent the day by her parent's pool, which, located on top of a hill and in the direct current of ocean air, was absolute heaven.

A few weeks ago, a bunch of us interviewed Nicole on her blog. In response, she turned the tables and sent us our own list of questions to answer. Mine are below.

1. What is your most disgusting habit?
I judge others too often, too quickly.

2. What is your most embarrassing public bathroom experience?
All of them. I have a very shy bladder.

3. Whose heart did you break the worst?

I have no idea and think it would be presumptuous to guess. They're all married by now anyway and probably thankful I did them the favor.

4. What were the circumstances of your first real kiss?

You can read the long version here. The short version? Picture it: Summer camp, 1989. 13 years old. Chris and I conveniently miss the bus up from the waterfront after the coed barbecue, and have to walk up the long winding hill by ourselves. We hold hands. At the top of the hill I can tell he's getting nervous, so I think we sit down for a while and just talk. The next thing I knew... Then we both went back and blabbed it to all of our friends.

5. Do you feel strongly about the election this year?

Not really. I know who I want to win but I can't muster up the energy to tell you why.

6a. Is there a moment in your life you would like to take back or do over?
Absolutely. A lot of them.
6b. What about it would you change?
I wouldn't have boozed so much beforehand.

7. Is there anyone in your past you wish you could say something to?
See 6a.

8. What blogs do you read regularly and why?

See my sidebar. These are good writers, good friends, and in some cases, both.

9. What television show do you watch and not admit to your friends?

Nothing - my television preferences are nothing to hide. I have a harder time admitting I still don't have TiVo.

10.What celebs are on your list?
I'm single. I don't need a list. Everyone is fair game.

12. Have you ever internet stalked?
The question is, can I ever NOT internet stalk?

13. If you are a blogger, what do you think is the best post you have ever written?

That's tough to answer. These were some of my favorites to write and/or go back and read:

- Rosy Vision of Youth
- Boys who Ride Buses
- Low point
- A picture worth exactly 371 words
- Please don't trip on all the metaphors

- Next stop: Boca

- You could say Seattle's not on my short list
- A Valentine Story
- Sunflowers and Moonbeams

And that's when my troubles began

In the bizarre reality that was middle school, Bryan* and Chris hailed from two separate worlds, parallel universes; chronologically, they go hand in hand.

Bryan was my classmate in seventh grade and my first "official" boyfriend. Because he did not ask me out until fifth period on the last day of school, however, I had most of my "first boyfriend" experiences with my "second official" boyfriend, Chris, that summer at sleep-away camp.

That I had gone from having no boyfriends to two boyfriends in a matter of days was an irony not lost on me. I spent nearly every day of seventh grade in utter shame over the fact that I had never been "asked out." It's not that I was particularly unpopular - plenty of girls less pretty and popular than I were actively dating our school's dorks, dweebs and geeks. Losers proudly dated other losers and the popular kids naturally dated each other, but I was stuck in limbo somewhere, wondering where I fit in.

(I should clarify that being "asked out" had nothing to do with actually going anywhere. It was simply the term for being boyfriend/girlfriend, actual dates notwithstanding.)

Bryan, everyone seemed to agree, was on my level. He had a bowl haircut and a dry wit and was one of only two guys in homeroom taller than the girls. All year our classmates had tried to get us together. I don't know what finally made him take the leap - maybe it was the pool party we had attended days earlier in which my, um, assets were clearly on display. Or maybe he had bet that he'd have a girlfriend by the end of the year; and now, with two periods left, the clock was literally ticking. Regardless, at some point during fifth period study, he felt compelled to grab my arm as I walked by where he sat casually, atop of his desk; pull me in close between his acid-washed denim-clad legs; and ask the words I'd longed to hear all year: "Will you go out with me?" With that one line, he made it official. I was as good as anyone else.

Bryan and I had a couple of late-night phone conversations in the few days before I headed off to camp. It was never discussed, only assumed we would stay together through the summer. I got one letter from him, and wrote just as often in return. I mean, really, what was there to say?

Dear Bryan,
Having a great time here at camp. You should be pleased to know that I have mastered the art of the French kiss with a fast boy from Long Island and am eagerly anticipating sharing this newfound skill with you upon my return. Hope you're having an awesome summer! CUL8R!
(heart symbol),
Lori

Because wouldn't you know? Having a boyfriend at home gave me confidence at camp, and by the Fourth of July, I had somehow managed to get "asked out" again!

My relationship with Chris was truly sweet. I don't know how I knew, but it was understood we were each other's first dates, first kisses. We'd hold hands during field trips and slow dance at DJ socials and I'd pretend to get mad when his hands would rove too far down my back during the long refrain of Stairway to Heaven. (But really? So exciting!)

I had my first real intimate moment with him; not sexually, but literally intimate in proximity. It was a coed overnight, and after a day of hiking in the White Mountains, our group had settled by the campfire to tell ghost stories, roast marshmallows, and wind down under a miraculous display of northeastern stars. As soon as the counselors went to sleep (or, more likely, got drunk), Chris came over to join me in my sleeping bag. The sleeping bag was tiny, though - not big enough for two people - not that we would have known what to do even it had been large enough to move around in. As it was, we lay like sardines, nose to nose at first and later, back to back, two truly innocent kids lacking the wherewithal to take advantage of the opportunity.

I don't remember any particular conversations with Chris, but we happily and easily dated for the entirety of the summer, which, at 13, was an eternity. Kids dated for a few days, a week, and called that a relationship. To our peers, Chris and I were a power couple; in hindsight, I think we were both just too dumb to have any idea how to end it. We never really said goodbye in August; I let him get in one good grope behind the rec hall and was happy to call it a summer. After all, I had someone waiting back at home.

The only significant "first-boyfriend" experience I allowed Bryan was the heart-wrenching experience of dumping me. Apparently he found out I had dated someone else over the summer, and so sent his friends over to my lunch table one day to break the news. This was unchartered territory for me. Even though I'd been witness to countless breakups of my friends and peers, I still hadn't expected my relationship to end with anything less than a soap opera worthy admission of love. Uh, or something.

We ended up getting back together a month later, and dated for another month after that. We slow danced to power ballads and I did get to teach him how to French kiss after all; but ultimately he broke up with me again, this time for a faster girl who didn't see the irony in his roving hands during Patience.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Or, you know, my embarrassment.

Adventures in Blogging

So, you may have heard that I went to the Mediabistro blogging party last night with Hilary and Nicole. They've done a great job summing up, so I don't have much to add other than that it was a really fun night. And that I need to stop going out on weeknights if I ever want to wear a bathing suit this summer.

I met a lot of nice people and even some "famous" LA bloggers. Although it turns out that Hilary is pretty famous herself and I tried to soak up some of the glow of her celebrity, or at least I did until she pointed out that the glow was actually just a reflection off my beer bottle. Score!

And just when I thought that this blogging thing couldn't get much better, I came into work this morning to see a new comment on my mopping post, below. AmyBow, it turns out, was one of my close camp friends from childhood, and even before I knew the comment was from her, I knew, just by the tone, that it had to be someone from Birchmont. I followed the link to her email address and sure enough, I recognized the name as her own. We spent the morning catching up and reminiscing, and she reminded me that 20 years have passed since we initially met. Twenty years. How did we get so old?

Regardless, this is just another example of all the good blogging has brought me since I started this modest thing just over two years ago. Last night, as I met other bloggers, a popular question was, "What is your blog about?" My answer, in short, was, "Me." And while it is about me and my experiences and my viewpoint as an east coast transplant in La La Land, the bigger picture is that this blog is about so much more. It has served as an introduction to new people, a reconnection with old friends, an outlet for whatever creativity hasn't already been sucked dry. The blog has grown so much in the past year alone, I kind of feel like maybe I should declare it a dependant on my taxes. In all seriousness, though, blogging has become such a big part of who I am that I am no longer shy about it, and even find myself referring to Lori MacBlogger as if she were a real person.

A real person who undoubtably looks fabulous in a bathing suit.

(I won't "out" Amy, but feel free to guess where I am in this picture. Click to enlarge.)

Are you smarter than a fifth grader?

From the time I was 11 up until I was 17, I spent every summer at sleepaway camp. Every morning after breakfast, we'd have cabin cleanup, where each camper would be responsible for one chore per day, determined by a spin on the job wheel. Some chores were easier than others, but I remember that, hands down, the worst chore was mopping the bathroom floor.

It was the worst chore because, first of all, you likely had around 10 campers and four counselors who used the bathroom daily. Aside from showering and just going to the bathroom, that also meant 14 pairs of feet that brought in gunk from the outside, whether it was mud from one of the many playing fields or just the dust that always seemed a permanent fixture on the wooden cabin floors.

The other reason why mopping was so bad was because you had to wait for everyone else to finish their chores before you could even begin. So while the rest of the cabin cleans up and gets ready for the day, you just have to sit and watch while they keep bringing their dirt in, making seemingly even more work for you. Finally, once the sink person and the toilet person and the bathroom sweeper person are finished, only then can you go in and get to work. And by that point the whole cabin is running late for archery and they all yell at you to hurry it up already.

Nevertheless, I spent five summers mopping the bathroom floor, once every week or so depending on how many girls were in my bunk. Only when I became a counselor did I get relieved from cabin cleanup, and, like many other things I learned as an adolescent (basic Algebra, for example) my knowledge of mopping was lost almost as quickly as it was learned.

Now, over the years, I have had many a bathroom and kitchen floor that have required mopping. I am literally going to "come clean" now, and tell you that all this time, I simply have been faking it. In NYC, most of the surface areas were small enough as to not need a mop - a single sponge and elbow grease were enough to take care of any visible dirt accumulation. And because I tended to move every two years, well, let's just say I was more than happy to make that someone else's problem.

But my kitchen here is huge. HUGE. And I actually like the tile, a 1950's black and white check that adds some kitschy character I never had in New York. However every time I have gone to clean it I have felt like one big failure, because I have no idea what on earth I am doing.

For the first time in my life I actually own a bucket made for this purpose. I've filled it with water, many times, dipped the mop in, and then proceeded to move the water around the floor with said mop. I rinse the mop out in the sink, dip it back in, rinse and repeat until my arms fall off and the floor looks moderately cleaner. But, is this mopping?

Unlike the old Murphy's Oil commercials where the woman is practically dancing as she glides her mop across the floor, I find myself constantly in my own way, smacking myself in the face with the wet sponge (I know, gross, I was not meant for menial labor, thank you) or bruising my arms and legs as I twirl the handle, baton-like, from the sink to the floor.

Today I decided I was going to go back to the sponge and Clorox method. After five minutes scrubbing on my hands and knees, however, I started feeling like Private Benjamin with her toothbrush and fished the mop out of the closet to finish the job. And while the floor definitely looks cleaner, I can't help but feel that I have just moved the dirt somewhere else.

So, I ask you people, what am I doing wrong here? Can you give me some tips? Or the number for a cleaning lady?

If someone blogs in the forest....

If I had to make a list of the top five things in my life that have shaped the person I am today, number one or two would definitely be "sleepaway camp."

From the time I was 11 until I was 17, I spent eight weeks every summer at Pierce Camp Birchmont in Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, a co-ed overnight camp that offered everything from sports to swimming to fast boys from Long Island and the closest girlfriends I ever had growing up, or at least until I went off to college.

Some of my best memories are from that camp and the friendships that grew out of it, and at least once a year, usually around May, I'll have a dream that I have suddenly decided to go back for one final summer as a camp counselor. Usually, in the dream, I'll be packing and suddenly realize, hey wait, I forgot to quit my job and they are expecting me there this summer! Or, what was I thinking wanting to sleep in a bunk bed when I have this great apartment back home! Can I at least get a sublet?

Last night, though, the dream took a different turn. I was packing with my friend Rachel, and I suddenly realized, wait, would I be able to BLOG from camp?! Because surely I couldn't go eight weeks without blogging! I was trying to ask Rachel if computer clusters had been installed at camp since the last time I was there (1993) and she was avoiding the question, telling me that she would bring her laptop with her in case I wanted to use it. But will we have wireless access all the way up in the woods, I asked?

She didn't know, and I suddenly began to dread my decision to return after all these years.