Airport in two hours. Oslo tomorrow. There’s a pickled herring out there with my name on it, mmmyes.

What with the sitting around not cleaning and not packing, and then cleaning, and then packing, and mostly with the out all day trying to see everyone before I leave, there hasn’t been a whole lot of blogging time. I mean, really, when you have a nice boy take you out to dinner on Friday, and a nice boy cook you dinner on Saturday, and a nice girl throw you a good-bye party in her backyard Sunday, you sure just go along with the flow, because you know that you can always, even if you get to bed at three a.m., wake at seven and throw yer bizniss in the bag before you have to motor. And even then you will still have time, the day you leave, to lunch with India and Schmio at Bar Tabac while the rain comes down outside, all mopey-like.

Neways, weekend recap. So: the boy? with the phone number? and the tall? and the smiling? We went out Friday night, yes he is tall, he has a ride, he is sweet, he called the next day. Nice job, boy. Maybe catch you in three months.

At Jeff’s in Brooklyn Heights Saturday night, over cheddar and tomato pie, and asparagus, and then lemon cake for dessert, we watched Kill Bill and like an hour of QVC, where they were hawking beaded American-flag T-shirts to celebrate our freedom this holiday weekend. When we arrived on the QVC channel and there was a large woman in a red T-shirt and a matching red handband-like roll of cloth around her forehead sitting next to a very eighties-looking woman in an oversized nautical-print sweater, Jeff said, “Oh, this is gonna be great.” And then it was. They were all, “This comes in purple and”—breathlessly, emphatically, orgasmically—“black.” “Oh, look at these beads. Hand-sewn. Would you call this a gajillion or a bajillion?” “Oh, that’s a bajillion.” “Hee hee hee.” “Hee hee hee.” We just couldn’t. look. away.

Sunday afternoon on the B61 to Williamsburg, Jeff and I were carrying red wine, white wine, sparkling wine, a flower pot with one pink flower, a chocolate raspberry tart, and twelve chocolate cupcakes Jeff baked. At Vio’s, the backyard party was sweet and quiet. Plates of cheese and fruit and prosciutto and bread and salads. A green tablecloth. A Tiffany lampshade masquerading as a candleholder. Two bowls of chocolate mousse. Dusk and rose petals. Music in the perfect air. Moon lighting. Bellinis. Laughs, kisses, hugs. Midnight.

I thought I was just going in for a pre-trip haircut, but Norman made it so I was a rockstar all day with my new perfect bangs and fancypants ponytail. Said fancypants ponytail was described as “easy,” but it involved maybe ten pins and so much hairspray I started to see myself as a giant bug they were trying to stun. But, ah well, it’s good for my fashion. If only I were Britney Spears, so I could have Norman travel ’round the world with me. Still, it’s nice being me, ’cause, post-hairdo, my rockstar lifestyle included a rockstar sushi slap-up lunch and a SoHo stroll with Tom. Also, because I am that sort of lucky rockstar, later, when I was sitting on Spring and West Broadway having an hour-long phone natter with Kumiko, a pigeon missed pooing on me by something like a mere forty centimetres. Yes, I have rockstar powers, and I will only use them for good.

It’s the week of good-byes. Long-distance phone calls from the roof, and all meals accounted for. Too much lying awake.

He said, “Oh, you’re so skinny now, things are really going to start happening for you, you’re going to find a guy and get married and have babies. . .” so I said, “Dan, OK, I’m going to go back over there to the corner of Watts and Greenwich and start walking toward you again, and when I get here and say Hi you can start over, OK?”

Escaped from the afternoon sun for a late lunch at Café Colonial. Cracked black and white floor tiles, large metal clock on the white tin wall. Daydreaming on the corner of Elizabeth and East Houston.

Sat in front of the TV all afternoon reading the Sunday Times and being sick. The worst thing about being sick and whiny is when there’s no one around to hear you being sick and whiny. In between the echinacea pills and Ricola throat drops, the best thing is Schmio calling and us having a long non-conversation about the two of us being sick and whiny, and then a long, hot shower, and then going to “Mean Girls” at the Pavilion with Jeff. Jeff showed up in a green T-shirt and me in a green skirt, which of course means that we were meant to be. I feel a thousand and eighteen times better than when I woke up scratchy and croaky this morning.

I was on the phone with Jeff and I said, “I don’t have time to be sick! I got things to do! People to see!” and he said, “Town to leave!” which was funny and which I would have laughed at more if my throat hadn’t felt like it was lined with nails. One more week in NYC. It’s a funny feeling leaving again.

I’m sick, I hate being sick, was it SoHo that made me sick? I don’t know what possessed us, Kat and I thought we’d hang out in SoHo yesterday afternoon. It’s a hellhole out there on the weekends, all sorts of slow-moving touristy types, including the mother-and-two-daughters dress-alike team in their too-orange tans, too-yellow hair, too-short skirts. We eventually escaped to a decadent dinner at Public, where it’s impossible to have a bad meal. The basil foccaccia, the herby lentil salad, the grilled scallops with green plantain chips, the grilled frog legs and three soups. Mmm. The grilled frog legs and three soups: three small cups in a row, one each of coconut laksa, grilled corn, and curry lentil, and each with a succulent little frog leg poking out of it. Bubble bubble toil and yum. A pecan ice cream terrine to wrap the night up and send me to the Second Avenue F stop, where the drunks and hipsters wait on the platform.

I think I did something bold, which I am pleased about, I said, “I think I need to give you my number,” and he said, “I think you do,” which was the perfect thing to say. This boy is saying all the right things so far, and he’s not even a boy in my head, he is real, and he is tall, and his eyes smile.

Going to see “Homebody/Kabul” at BAM tonight, which means tonight is the night Maggie Gyllenhaal (who is in the play) and I become best friends, which means Jake Gyllenhaal and I become best friends, at which point I will blind him with my grace and he will Gyllenfaal madly in love with me, which I kind of feel bad about, because I like Kirsten Dunst and I want her to be happy, and man, those pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal and Kirsten Dunst in Us every week sure make them look like they’re happy, but you know what, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

However!

The Kirsten Dunst–Jake Gyllenhaal union may still be saved ’cause I think I might like a boy and I think—this is huge, people—I think he might actually be straight this time. And he might like me. But who knows, because I don't know very much about him at all and he probably knows less about me. Still, it is smiley-making.

Clearly today is scrounge-through-the-fridge-for-food day, but Maud and I are lucky because our scroungey lunch was a none-too-shabby steamed corn with salt and pepper and butter, and some raisin-walnut toasts with stinky Morbier, and salads of carrots and apples and greens drizzled with olive oil and lemon juice. Our scroungey dinner was an unusual combo of bocconcini, whole wheat toast with Nutella (me), whole wheat toast with peanut butter (Maud), milk (me), orange juice (Maud), and bumblebee banana cake. Oo-er. There is pretty much officially no more food in the house. Thing is, we were having a scroungey dinner because Two Boots was closed to us because we came home too late from THE STROKES AT CENTRAL PARK SUMMERSTAGE!!!

Oh, yes, rockstars, the Strokes are back in town. And holy crap, it’s Sean Lennon opening, with a girl in a pink dress as keyboardist and some guy who looks like an off-duty Xerox salesman on drums. And then this dude Adam Green with seventies hair and a funny hip wiggle and songs about bunnies and a girl who dated an Indian chief. Maud just said, also his Barnes and Noble credit card and prostitute fingers.

The boys are soundin great, Drew Barrymore’s boyfriend Stroke is lookin fine in his new hairdo, Nick the Guitar Stroke is rockin it as usual, Julian the Lead Stroke said “Fuck” a lot, an A-plus show all around. Except for the jackass kids who shove their way through the crowd and then stand in front of you. It’s not okay to shove, jackass kids, even if you’re all dressed to the nines in your Urban Outfitters eighties gear.

Um. Maud, contributing blogger, wants me to add that “Nikolai the Bass Stroke had a tennis band on his head, and big sunglasses like the guys in CHiPs” and “was really weird and didn’t move.”

Man oh man, an outdoor Strokes show is so the way to go after the rain’s cleared. And when you’re little and being jostled in the crowd, and the music’s all around you, it’s a good feeling to turn your face up to the stars to feel the cool breeze on your nose, and to smell the grilled hamburger air. Happy summer, people.

So yesterday I’m making a tasty lunch, open-face boiled-egg sandwiches on raisin-and-walnut toast with a walnut-and-gruyère salad, and I’m slicing the cheese, and all of a sudden part of my finger is missing and I’m bleeding fat red drops into the sink. Then the dizziness and the spots of light in front of my eyes, so a wobbly walk to bed for a lie-down while Maud bandaged me up. Today I can still feel my heart beating in my finger.

What is nice is, you’re finished with school, and you wake up and you decide you don’t want to do anything that day, and it’s okay because you don’t have anything that needs to be done anyway. So after listening to music (a little Eels, a little Strokes, the Supertramp album twice) all morning with Maud, you decide to frame and hang some pictures, and maybe go through your closet and put aside a bunch of old clothes for the Salvo. And the charmingly warped “Swan Lake” vinyl’s on the record player, and the lazy sun’s lit up the room.

Saturday night, we were Maud and Vio and Tom and me, and we were sitting on the roof all perimetered with fairy lights, with salads and cheeses and breads and wines, and we watched the storm coming in: the Empire State and Chrysler buildings disappearing and reappearing in the dark, and great big lightning stretching from top to bottom.

Uprising boys, where are you? We’ve been in two days in a row and there are only Uprising girls. And it’s not like we don’t like girls, but, boy, do we like boys.

We were so hungry, faint with hunger, delirious, (okay, yeah, for me it don’t take much to reach delirium), and then all of a sudden we were downstairs where it was cool, and “Minority Report” was starting on HBO in minutes, and in front of us was a chèvre crottin, and fig cake, and an endive-apple-blue cheese-walnut salad, and some of a walnut-sage loaf, and a bowl of cherries. “Run, Tom Cruise! Run!”

I quit blogging for a bit ’cause there’s been school to take care of, and it’s hard to blog a proper blog when you have to think about homework. This is a Quality Product, people!! But, oh, how school’s over now. Oh, yes. Oh yes oh yes oh yes.

Meanwhile, I thought I was going to be all euphoric after handing in that last paper yesterday, but alls I felt was this kind of greyish “eh.” I know why, too—it’s ’cause I feel like I just slinked out of the school year. I won’t say I’m exactly embarrassed by that last paper, it’s not bad bad, but the thing is, I know when I’ve written a good paper and that wasn’t it. But, man, I just didn’t have it in me to write anymore. I don’t know if it was the something like a paper a week I’ve been working on for the last two months, or the intense seventeenth-century mugging, or, I dunno, being mesmerized by the growing dust bunnies in my neglected apartment, or what, but by Thursday night, it was clear the paper wasn’t going anywhere anymore. And then after I handed it in Friday morning, I was talking to my friend Tara, who’s a, I dunno, something like fourth- or fifth-year grad student, and so:

“Hey, Tara, let’s say you’re a professor—”
“Uh-huh. . .”
“and you’re going to be away on hiatus all year next year—”
“Uh-huh. . .”
“and you’re never going to see me again—”
“Uh-huh. . .”
“and I just handed in my final paper—”
“Uh-huh. . .”
“and it’s eight pages long—”

and then at this point Tara made a face like maybe she was sucking on one of those crazy Japanese sour sour-lemon candies. And someone’d just punched her. And she had a stabbing pain in her head. Sigh. Let’s just hope Professor J. has a different reaction. Maybe her reaction will be, “Oh, yay, a short paper, so I can get this out of the way before I pack for summer fun.” Let’s. just. hope.

Neways, I will say it felt really good returning every single library book, and then walking out of Butler into the open at the moment Beyonce’s very jaunty “Crazy in Love” came on on my iPod.

And then, bit by bit, the day got better. Post-finals activities included lunch with Jason, finding a very gorgeous Orla Kiely skirt at the sample sale, the Elizabeth Peyton show at GBE, and “Coffee and Cigarettes” with the French contingent. Lunch with Jason was good because of Jason, but the Coke was flat and the burger unsatisfying. The very gorgeous Orla Kiely skirt is good because it is green and pink. The thing about it that is surprising is that it is more green than pink, and I don’t tend to do green. Up till I got that skirt, every piece of clothing I owned that was green or had green on it could be worn in one outfit. No more. The Elizabeth Peyton show at GBE was good because of the nice white space, but I didn’t care very much for the actual collection. The other thing that was good, however, was that GBE is just up Greenwich from my old office, near enough so’s I could go use the toilet there. “Coffee and Cigarettes” is good because of: Roberto Begnini going to the dentist. Tom Waits and Iggy Pop being just great. The coffee cups. Jack White and Meg White and the Tesla coil. “Champagne.” Bill Murray and “Are you a bug, Bill Murray?”

Later, dinner at Pink Pony, which included a mimosa, two rounds at the juke box (“Ziggy Stardust,” “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” “Changes”. . .), and sitting on Ludlow in the mild night watching all kinds of cute young hipster sorts do their cute young hipster thing.

This morning I woke up and deep-cleaned my bathroom to the Ramones best-of CD. Oh, yes, life is good.

I’m free I’m free I’m twinkly freeee!!!!

Uh. I feel ill.

If you can get home from school at 9 P.M. and then have dinner in front of you by 9:13, and if dinner is a mixed-greens salad with walnuts and balsamic vinegar, and a sliced boiled egg on toast, and some sardines on toast, and said toasts are made with free cheese bread from the local bakery (thank you, Uprising boys), and there’s sea salt and black pepper sprinkled on everything, then you know you aren’t doing too poorly.

Um, even if the reason you left the library early was because, while quietly sitting there reading, you discovered your knee wound from falling down Thursday was turning yellow and kind of pus-y, and seemed to be bleeding anew, and you thought maybe you should be in a place where iodine was close by.

This afternoon I was reading in my apartment and I heard in the hallway:

Dog: Pant, pant, pant.
Irritated girl voice: Sit. Sit.
Pant, pant, pant.
Stop it!
Pant, pant, pant.
Goddammit, Jabba!