"You had one job. One job! And it didn't involve blueberry pancakes!"

Monday. Back on the wagon day.

True to form, Friday's break from self imposed alcohol abstinence led me to drinks at Bar Tano with friends I hadn't seen a while (ie, Former Fake Girlfriend and her bride to be). I arrived first, so I saddled up to the bar and perused the cocktail menu with a mix of glee and trepidation. I didn't want to set back my new fast and healthy lifestyle, but the liquors were calling to me. Oh yes.

The first cocktail went down rather quickly and by evening's end as we migrated to Commonwealth, I migrated from cocktails to beer. Ms. K joined us after getting off of work, breaking her own fast with rounds of Ketel One and club soda. As it got later and we got progressively more inebriated, she said, "Whatever happens, don't let me eat anything."

Ergo, no giving into the drunk munchies. Roger that.

After our group disbanded for home sometime after midnight, I kinda forgot about the job I had been entrusted with as we passed an all night diner on 5th Avenue. Suddenly I wanted blueberry pancakes stat and quick scan of the menu reveled that they had just that. Mmmmm.

"No! No blueberry pancakes!" Ms. K scolded. "You are SO bad!"

We stood there for a minute, our eyes hooked to the menu, taunted by promises of greasy diner food. I could tell that Ms. K really wanted to go to there.

"C'mon. Let's get pancakes!!" I was no longer the voice of discipline, but the drunken voice of the serpent offering up Eve a plate of blueberry pancakes. Sweet, buttery blueberry pancakes. Mmmmm.

Ms. K looked torn, eyes gazing longingly towards the diner door where late night greasy food beckoned to fill our alcohol soaked bellies. But she then found the discipline that I had so casually jettisoned around the time I ordered my fourth drink.

"No! No pancakes!"

And soon we were in the back of a car on its way to take our drunk asses home before we could do any serious damage.

The next day Ms. K wasn't impressed with my greasy temptation.

"You had one job. One job! And it didn't involve blueberry pancakes!"

No, it didn't. But man, now I want some blueberry pancakes. Mmmmm.

"The hard part is defining 'special occasions'!"

Day Five of the Reckoning:

Ms. K and I have gone to the gym four times this week and now that the soreness has worn off, it's starting to feel good . . . except the part where we wake up at 6:15 am, which doesn't feel good.

The other thing that doesn't feel good? (This is a bit of a pathetic confession coming up.) Wait for it . . . wait for it . . . .

Not drinking.

Ugh, it's so true. I haven't had a drink since Monday evening per our new fast and healthy lifestyle rules and it's killing me. (Not literally, of course, but good goddamnit I feel like I could murder for one of Ms. K's blood orange margaritas.) Who knew that coming home after work and having a beer or fixing a cocktail had become so routine -- routine enough that my body came to crave it?

Even though Monday was supposed to be a day abstinence, I invoked the Special Occasion clause as I had a staff dinner for the magazine I freelance for. The meal was a seven course chef's tasting menu of locally produced foods, lots of Long Island red wine, and a smidge of bourbon. (That's how I define "special occasion", kittens.) Then I slammed into a booze free Tuesday-Wednesday-Thursday and boy did it hurt.

Ms. K has been feeling the pain too. When she came home from work on Wednesday, she flung herself onto the bed, face buried into the duvet.

"I want a cocktail."

Her voice was muffled, but the sentiment was clear and it was a cry for help. Suddenly Friday's cocktail hour was seeming so very far away. But thankfully we made it without slipping.

Yes, we are the biggest losers ever.

"Dear Ms. Post No Bills . . ."

My angry letter writing campaign netted a result. After the fury of learning that my local post office lost four pieces of my mail, two of which contained money, I wrote to my federal and city representatives -- Anthony Weiner, Yvette Clark, and Bill De Blasio -- and explained my outrage.

A few days after writing City Councilman De Blasio, I got an email from a staff member in his office who wanted more information. Okay, that was nice, but I didn't expect more than that. Yesterday I received an official letter signed by Councilman De Blasio echoing my dissatisfaction. Attached to his letter was a copy of another letter that his office sent to the Kensington Post Office lodging a formal complain on my behalf.

Who knows if there will be any improvement in service, but it felt nice to be a citizen whose voice got heard. Ahem, Congressmen Weiner and Clark. Consider yourself on notice. De Blasio's got my back.

"I am going to be in some pain tomorrow for sure."

Day One of the Reckoning:

At 6:45 am this morning our alarm clock rang. Ms. K and I had an ambitious plan to get up and go to the gym together, throwing on our clothes, gathering our things, and taking the dog out for a quick walk. But item gathering took longer than expected and by 7:30 am we were just leaving the apartment. So much for get up and go! We groggily walked to the F train to take us to Carroll Gardens, Ms. K with her pre-gym cigarette and black tea, me in my new gym clothes. A half hour and a detour later, we arrived for our workout and I self consciously climbed onto an elliptical machine for the first time in four years.

We decided on a friendly wager. The first person to reach their goal weight wins (and by goal I do mean a reasonable goal, not "I want to lose 75 lbs in six weeks!") and the loser has to pay for a nice meal at the restaurant of the winner's choice. Ms. K clarified that a "nice meal" was not the tasting menu at Per Se, although that would be one hell of an incentive. Other rules include no drinking during the weekdays unless for special occasions and mandatory gym attendance four times a week. Ms. K is taking the contraband list one step further by cutting out refined sugars and flours. The weekends will be our splurge days because neither of us want to live some austere, teetotaling, bacon free existence. Oh no. Although booze and pork got us into our pants-to-tight predicament in the first place.

The race has begun.

"Let's me and you blow off work for the rest of the day and go have martinis."

After what seemed like the longest winter of my life, I awoke today -- the first day of Spring -- energized and longing for sunshine, greenery, and Easter eggs. Instead I was met with the sight of big fat flakes of snow and minimal sunshine. Mother Nature has a sense of irony.

My vernal excitement is unabated. Yes! I will go to the gym . . . on Monday! Yes! I will go shopping for a much needed Spring coat!

"What's wrong with your other Spring coat?" Ms. K asked when I told her of my failed shopping trip to Herald Square Macy's yesterday, which is like a workout in of itself.

I explained the my old coat is too snug, which brings me back to needing to go to the gym.

On Monday!

"Yay gym!"

The reckoning has come.

I dragged my fat ass to Carroll Gardens yesterday and joined a gym. Not some busy chain, but a neighborhood gym where hopefully I can jiggle like an oversized jell-o mold in relative seclusion. Looking for possible places to join and where some of my dignity would remain intact, I researched my options on Yelp -- low marks for NYSC, Crunch was reputedly a meat market, and Equinox was too expensive. I checked out the YMCA on Atlantic Avenue after it received a lot of praise, but what I found was a clusterfuck -- long lines at the membership desk and a bathroom that made the hallway reek of shit. Next!

Then I walked down to Carroll Gardens and checked out what is now my gym. I've yet to work out, but I am painfully aware that I lack proper clothing, namely a proper fitting sports bra -- I don't want anyone to get a black eye. Keep in mind that the last time I went to a gym it was 2005 and I was a different size. Oh the humility.

"Full of grace!"

Mrs. Carbonell, the old woman who lives across the hall from us, has a sticker of the Virgin Mary on her front door. This is a marked departure from the mezuzahs that adorn the other doorways of our neighbors. Maybe it's the Catholic guilt in me, but every time I run into Mrs. Carbonell I imagine the steely glint in her eyes is all knowing and all disapproving.

She doesn't say much when we do run into each other, she in her housecoat as she takes out the trash, cigarette dangling from the fingers of her spindly arm. However Ms. K had a brief conversation with her when we first moved in. Turns out that old Mrs. Carbonell used to live in our apartment long ago. That is until she got robbed via the fire escape. (Thanks for sharing! Along with our broken smoke detector and dodgy electrical outlets, lord knows I'll be sleeping better at night!) But surely she's figured out by now that her new neighbors are lesbians, especially if she's quite aware that our apartment is a one bedroom.

And so every time I see that Virgin Mary sticker it says to me:

"Oh man, she's onto you!"

All I have to think about is that look in my neighbor's eye, all knowing and all disapproving.

"It was like my life flashing before me."

A previous commenter asked if I was going to recycle my old computer. I should note that I had the old one fixed because it was either pay $200 or pay a similar fee to have my data restored. So I figured that if the computer was fixed, I could try to sell it on Craigslist and recoup some of the money I spent on my shiny new computer.

Having retrieved the broken Mac from the la doctora, I was keen to have my old files transferred to the new iMac -- four years of accumulated emails, iTunes, freelance work, and digital photos. I also needed to clean out the computer before I could sell it and so sorting through the hard drive was like a time capsule of my life since moving to New York. When I imported my digital photos to iPhoto a curious thing happened . . . . As it imported, the program flashed every photo I've taken over the last five years in quick succession.

It was like my life flashing before me. Slightly horrified, I nevertheless felt compelled to watch the slide show. Photos of my trip to Chicago in 2005. Photos of my clusterfuck of a drunken 27th birthday. Photos of my ex girlfriends. Photos of Holly and Val. Photos of friends I haven't seen in years. Photos of dinner parties. Old roommates. Seattle. Trips to England. Lesbian club. Weddings. The first photo I ever took of Ms. K. Boom. Boom. Boom. Every second a new photo.

I felt weird. Very very weird.

"We're boring."

I really got myself up into a lather with my last post. Apparently my new persona of angry taxpayer/internet scold is reason #253 why I am officially an adult. Or lame. Or both! All I got to say is suck it, youth. The angry letters have only just begun.

A couple of posts ago I mused about how the direction of my blog has changed since the days of OFAG and a couple of you commented that I should indeed try writing about domesticity instead. When Ms. K read that, she turned to me, eyebrow cocked disdainfully.

"Yeah because everyone really wants to read about how we go to brunch, get drunk, and then do it again the following Sunday," she quipped adding, "We're boring."

It's true, we have become a bit boring and our our relationship does seem to involve a lot of cocktails. For instance, in response to tonight's taco dinner preparations, she sent me the following email:

"I will procure ingredients, and make sour mix, and have a margarita ready for you when you get home."

Yes folks, love is homemade sour mix and a margarita waiting for you when you get home. I'm a lucky girl.

"Dear Kensington Post Office"

Dear Kensington Post Office:

I am amazed at your incompetence. Not only are you a bastion of deplorable customer service, inspiring people into meltdowns, but you have lost not one but three pieces of my mail in the last month. That I know of. Two of which contained money!

Fuck you!

Yours truly,

Ms. Post No Bills
Brooklyn 11218

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now for my more eloquent and polite open letter to my congressional representative, Anthony D. Weiner.

Mr. Weiner,

Although I write at a time of great fiscal crisis insuring that there are matters of more importance, I would like to highlight a breakdown that is impacting your constituents -- namely the quality and basic functionality of the Kensington post office.

I understand that the location of post office concerns the 11th congressional district, but I am hoping that you can help as I am both a resident of the 9th congressional district and the 11218 postal code. I write because of my great frustration as the Kensington post office has routinely lost mail of mine and failed to deliver properly addressed letters and packages. At a time when people are suffering financially, that the post office presumably lost a $315 reimbursement check from my health care company is deplorable. Other mail of mine has also gone undelivered and surely I am not the only one who has experienced this.

If there is anything that can be done to remedy this situation and ensure that the level of service at this post office is on par with the most basic level of competence, your constituents and inhabitants of Kensington will be most ever grateful.

Sincerely,

Ms. Post No Bills

"CUT IT OFF!"

I got my hair cut on Tuesday, which is only notable because in the last couple of years my hair has gotten very long. Not crazy long, but past my collar bone to a length that it hasn't been since college when I was broke and stupid. There was something psychological about its length, which to me represented all the limitations of the past two years, my hermitage, and reassessment of life.

I had gotten to a point where I couldn't take the length anymore. It was suffocating and imbued with a lot of heavy emotion that needed to go (despite the fact that I got it cut last October). When my hairdresser asked me what I was looking for in my cut, I said CUT IT OFF! Three inches removed, I looked like my old self and it felt good.

I'm back, bitches.

Dear readers, let's all take stock of things. I ain't going to lie to you, this blog has suffered through a fallow period because of a host of factors. One, I work three jobs, which makes me sound greedy on the day that unemployment officially hit 8% in the US, but a girl's gotta eat (bacon) and pay the rent. Two, my raison d'etre has significantly changed since the days of OFAG. As my friend J-Wo recently pointed out on her own blog, domesticity and "long-winded postings about putting away the dishes never won a BlogHer award." Amen, sister. Amen.

So where do I go from here? What is my direction with this blog? These are questions I've been asking myself lately. Feedback is welcome from the peanut gallery.

"You are ugly woman."

As previously mentioned, I kind of live in a weird neighborhood -- weird because I'm this (cough cough) yuppie Brooklynite lesbian living in a heavily Russian and Jewish Orthodox neighborhood where no one smiles. My neighbors seem saddled with a leaden sense of stoicism, a psychic weight dragged with them from the old country. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

Also previously mentioned, people around here seem supremely weirded out by dogs -- particularly large dogs. When I take Harley through the building to take him for a walk, there is a palpable distaste and sometimes a fear of his presence. It doesn't bother me as much as it bothers Ms. K; it just is what it is and it is the price we pay for cheap rent.

That said, I was taking Harley out for a walk this evening and upon coming back to the building he pulls me with all his weight the closer we get to the door. That is what he does -- he pulls. He's a big dog, so you kind of have to really fight against him or break out into sprint because he's got places to go apparently.

We go though the front door and into the vestibule and I open the main door with my keys. He starts pulling me into the lobby, which again is like a g-force.

What I didn't know was that there was someone behind me as I entered the building, although he was far enough behind that the main door closed before he could get through. No big deal, I thought. Normally I would have gone back and opened the door for the 60 something year old man with a bottle brush mustache and who was carrying a couple of shopping bags, but like I said, Harley was calling the shots.

Even though Harley was pulling me, I managed to look over my shoulder towards the man who was 10 yards away at this point.

"Shit!" he called from the vestibule, clearly irritated and offended that I had not held the door for him. Someone buzzed him in and he walked to his side of the building, GLARING at me the whole time. I think he grumbled something in a language I did not recognize.

Look, buddy, I didn't not hold the door on purpose. I'm not some ill mannered asshole like you. Harley is calling the shots here and if he says move I move. Besides, people here are so weird about dogs that I try to stay out of people's way.

And FURTHER more, I am a lady (er, sometimes, when it suits me). You do not shout obscenities at a lady.

Oh, he was not happy with me and continued to glare as he waited for his elevator. (As he did so I was reminded of my previous run in with a neighbor.) My spine stiffened. I have a big dog, I thought. You do not. I will out stare you. I kind of wanted to get in his face, which is really not me at all, but I didn't want to upset Harley.

When his elevator came, he gave me his parting shot.

"You are ugly woman," he shouted out as he boarded his elevator.

I laughed. That was the best he could do? The worst insult he could lob in his broken English?

Next time I will let Harley eat you.