My friend Richard was visiting—we were meeting for brunch—and he had just hung his jacket and scarf on the coat rack next to my head. Brunch (in which I hardly ever participate) was at a little Dutch place near NYU that has the queen's face tiled on the back wall and serves fantastic apple "pancakes" that are much more like crêpes than pancakes. We sat by the window (away from the queen, which meant she was distinguishable, and not just a random splatter of blue and white tiles), and we talked to our very tall Dutch waiter who complained that people from the street were always wandering into the restaurant's cellar, which opens in the sidewalk like a fall-out shelter.

Anyway, I'd noticed the tag on Richard's scarf, since it was hanging by my head and the tag was turned outward, advertising itself in its smug, scratchy way. I told him how I increasingly hate tags and labels, regardless of what they say, and how I often cut them out of my clothes (and accidentally cut holes into my clothes) with an incredibly dull, clumsy pair of scissors.

So today, in my recently repaired mailbox, I received a small yellow and red matchbox with my name and address printed in tiny letters on the back, the postage wrapped around three sides. I punched through the tape with a fork, and inside I found a tool specifically designed for removing tags, a note which read "Lisa, your life should be free of both tags and holes," and the large, scratchy tag that had been pulled off Richard's scarf.

Of course there are some things that made last night's slumber party different from slumber parties that I've been to in the past: there were boys there. I drank beer. I'm not 8 years old. I didn't stay awake all night, nor did I try. We didn't make hard-to-swallow lists revealing our true feelings about each other. I didn't know many of the people there. When I went to sleep, curled up on a round cushion with an afghan thrown over me, I could hear a couple making out on the couch. I went right to sleep, without spending an hour giggling and whispering in the dark. Take-out was ordered for breakfast. My parents didn't come pick me up in the morning, bleary-eyed and in a bad mood.

There was a guy there, a loud-talker, who spoke as if he were delivering lines from a stage. He made me anxious. I kept hoping he would stop talking altogether, but he didn't until later, around the same time that the make-out noises began.

There was a girl there, from Pittsburgh, who agreed that the loud-talker was obnoxious, and that the remixed Don Henley covers playing in the next room were incredibly bad. We got along well.

There was a cat there, a calico, who seemed to be terrified of people. I kept threatening it, telling it, "I'm gonna pet you!" as it dodged my hand.

I had hoped that when I returned to the room, it would be dead, fully exposed and on the floor, but in an obvious place so that I wouldn't accidentally put a socked foot on top of it. I gave it thirty minutes to absorb the glass cleaner I sprayed at it just before it tumbled down the wall and onto my desk. It no longer appears to be on my desk, but it isn't where I asked it to be, and I have no idea whether it's dead. Living alone has made me generally braver when it comes to killing roaches, but (fortunately) I only get practice about once a month.

...

It will be my first slumber party in almost two decades. I'm supposed to arrive wearing pajamas of some sort, and the hosts are going to provide drinks and food and cheesy 80s movies. I'm not sure whether we are going to revive other slumber party traditions. I have no objection to "Truth or Dare," but I'm hoping there will be no pillow fights. I've never liked those.

If there's a song you like, or an album, do you play it over and over again, until you kill the feeling it gave you the first few times you heard it? Is it to get the original feeling back (kind of like what is said about a first high), or is it to stamp the feeling out, because it's too overwhelming? Is it so that you can memorize it, master it, defeat it? Or is it just because you have it stuck in your head already, and it's so satisfying to finally hear something that's been stuck in your head?

This weekend I saw Carrie for the first time, which is one of those movies that, whenever it comes up in conversation, inspires the incredulous question, "You've never seen that?!" A few of the other movies that I'm told I must see before I become a whole person: Full Metal Jacket. St. Elmo's Fire. Caddyshack. Mad Max. Easy Rider

Then there are the movies that, when I was younger, I saw repeatedly; they consumed me, and they changed my speech and my sense of humor. I could quote them almost flawlessly, and they fully stopped surprising me: Real Genius. Nightmare on Elm Street. Back to the Future. Dirty Dancing. The Breakfast Club. GoodFellas. Platoon. Some Kind of Wonderful. A Fish Called Wanda. Fletch.

They almost seem like part of my childhood, as if they happened to me. I don't watch movies the same way anymore. But music is different.

The Statue of Liberty is where the tourists are, even though it is located on an island that is currently under severe attack by wind and cold. They shuffle forward like cattle onto the ferry, take pictures of each other posing in front of the statue while pointing a finger into the air in a Statue-of-Liberty/Travolta sort of way, obliviously stand on your foot until you tell them not to do that, stand in the way of potentially good pictures, and walk around the island wearing green foam spikes on their heads.

Today I was a tourist; I took ferries that deposited me and the camera army onto Liberty and Ellis Islands, I watched the individual buildings of Manhattan coalesce into one giant chunk of skyline, and I took pictures of a large statue and of rooms that processed 12 million immigrants and turned them loose into the country. I like the thought of buildings as artifacts, and I like trying to picture the progression of time in a single spot—watching the people moving in and out of the building while the sun moves across the floor day after day, as if caught on film and watched at high speed. The museum left me with more questions than answers, though, mainly because the immigrants' stories were truncated in the space where I was standing.

We stepped out of the subway exactly three blocks from our destination. I'd only received half-remembered street coordinates, but I was optimistic that it could be found, so we paid attention to store fronts, stepped into bars to ask directions, and agreed that we didn't mind walking around a little, even with the cold wind turning our faces pink and numb.

The first guy who gave us directions sent us down the street the wrong way several blocks. The second guy told us it was back in the first guy's territory. The third guy was able to point it out directly. When we finally walked through the door, I realized we'd been asking for the place by the wrong name all along, and, although we'd "found" it, it wasn't the right place at all. The fourth guy knew where our intended destination was located and got us there, nearly two hours and 52 blocks later. In the end, we stayed there for only twenty minutes, long enough to have a drink, for my unpeeled layers to attract heat and smoke, and for an unflinching cat named Pumpkin to befriend me and sit on my lap while the band played. Twenty minutes, before leaving and walking the three blocks back to the subway.

I felt a little bit restless today, which I attributed to feeling better, despite the beast in my chest who seems to be hanging out a while longer. He reaches a little wavy ticklish arm up through my neck and dusts the back of my throat, creating a roar of dry coughs that fails to deter him. Shallow breaths are better, but only for so long; by the time I get to the subway stop just before mine, my eyes are watering and I'm desperate to cough, and I inadvertently give in, sucking up some unwanted attention and putting fear in any hypochondriacs on the train with me.

But I do feel unusually alive, like I want to make up for last few days I stumbled through. It's amazing how sickness makes itself so obvious; I was told a few times today that I no longer looked so pale and that I sounded better on the phone. I didn't feel like going straight home after work, so I wandered through a few record stores and bought the Interpol CD, which turned out to be a good idea.

Nobody even mentions the snow anymore. I heard it was snowing in North Carolina from two different people, hours before I realized it had been snowing here all along as well.

Would you mind running to the store—I don't know which one would have it—and picking up one of those digital thermometers for me? But first, on your way out, it would be great if you could make me some tea, and fill up that fuzzy hot water bottle, the one that looks something like a bumble bee but is actually a tiger duck. Hmm...now I'm kind of warm. I hope I'm not being too demanding—but could you bring me the cat and the remote, and maybe pick up some juice while you're out there in the 20-something-degree weather? Thank you, that's very nice of you. My fever invents some really generous people.

Earlier I went out to the grocery store on my own—before I knew I needed a thermometer—to pick up some food fifteen minutes before the store closed. I'm currently in the middle of reading Fast Food Nation, which means I'm newly paranoid and now turning jars and boxes around in my hands to read the fine print on every item I put in my basket, but this time I was racing the clock, with a cramp in my neck, a consuming fatigue, and a hundred layers of clothing. Which reminds me of that bad game show in the 80s, Supermarket Sweep, except that I was inspecting the items before I adopted them, and I was moving through the store with the grace of Frankenstein. Despite my exertion, I haven't eaten anything since I got back, thanks to my imaginative and anorexic fever.

The last evening with my new English friends was spent listening to bluegrass at an Irish pub near NYU. They had never heard of bluegrass. When I suggested the plan to Phil, he asked me to clarify: blueGRASS or blueGLASS? "BlueGRASS," I answered. "Like they have in Florida" "Um...it's music."

It was incredibly informal; we were clustered at a table with our chairs turned out to face the band, which was scattered around the table next to us, and within arm's reach. Within the three hours that we were there, something like 25 people had drifted in and out of the band; at one point I counted 13 people playing at once, and I'm pretty sure the band fattened up after I stopped counting.

From their appearances, it looked as if the band members only had their appreciation for bluegrass in common. A woman in her 40s, with long, stringy hair and a flowing skirt; a young, college-y guy with neatly trimmed hair and a nice voice; an old hefty black man who wore a hat and shades, remained sitting, and appeared somewhat comatose until he broke out in an impressive solo on his banjo; a middle-aged Asian man in a suit and serious hair; a neatly groomed, overdressed woman in her 20s who played the flute; an old man wearing a cowboy hat and a sheriff's star, who played his guitar like Jeff Healey. Every time I looked up, there seemed to be a new member, and one of the others had disappeared, stepping out in the middle of a song to get a drink or to take part in a conversation. They were all singers, and they all seemed to know their respective instruments like body parts.

BlueGRASS. They said they liked it.

1. It snows a lot here.

2. It's a good idea to look at the price tag, regardless of how insignificant the item appears to be. A container of yogurt and a Rice Krispies treat drove my otherwise $6 lunch up to $10. So I put the extra items back and annoyed the cashier.

3. It's okay to both make eye contact with strangers you pass, and to not make eye contact with strangers you pass. No one seems to care either way.

4. Don't bother arguing with someone on the other side of the political spectrum, especially if that person claims to be well informed. It's exhausting and frustrating and goes nowhere. (I knew that already, but sometimes it still happens.)

5. Don't wear the same pair of shoes two days in a row, no matter how comfortable you think they are. They will find a way to hurt you.

6. It's possible to feel as if you can step in and out of several countries without ever leaving the city (something like a really authentic Busch Gardens).

7. It's easy to meet people here, to the extent that if you exchange information, you realize you don't have enough time to follow through with the majority of the potential friendships that are wadded up on scraps of paper in your pocket, so you just choose to stop exchanging information altogether. Other people seem to have understood this as well. Lots of conversations end with, "Nice talking with you; maybe I'll see you around," where the "maybe" is a gigantic word. It's nice in a way, I think.

8. My upstairs neighbor is not a solitary American about my age, as I had guessed, but two German sisters about my age. I discovered that after making the split-second decision to knock on their door and tell them that I like their music and ask them who was currently playing. "Is it too loud?" one of them asked. "No, no. It's good."

9. Vegetables are often packaged in threes. If you live alone, meet your neighbors so that you can pass off some zucchini and corn to them, rather than throwing it in the garbage. Also, if you want to use that entire bunch of cilantro you just bought, you are going to have to include it in every meal for a week.

10. (related to number 2) Ask the price of an item before handing over your money. A few months ago, I visited my friend Scott in the Midtown bar where he works. I ordered a below-average beer and handed him $5. He asked, "Would you like any change?" I said, "I don't know, how much is it?" He replied, smiling, "Six dollars."

Only two days without much human contact, and I feel especially socially awkward, as if I've forgotten how to speak. I wonder if living alone is changing me at all, beyond the obvious.

In one of my ventures outside today, I got the rear tire on my bike fixed and explored my neighborhood beyond the normal walking boundaries, before returning to the bike shop and getting my rear tire fixed again. It didn't feel especially cold, but it must've been, because it started snowing, pelting me in the face and melting on my skin.

The grocery store I like is pretty far from my place, so I only go there rarely, and only on my bike. (I'd tried to go on New Year's Day as well, only it was raining, the store was closed, and the rear tire on my bike exhaled when I was still far from my apartment, so I walked the bike back [grocery-less] and soaked the sky's water up like a cloud.) So today I went back, in the snow instead, with an insufficient book bag and an assortment of bungie cords. It changes the way I shop, because I now avoid large, heavy items, like beverages and bananas, unless I'm close to my place.

The store was full of people, but I don't think I spoke to anyone. It's much easier to be alone here than in a small town. Or maybe I mean that it seems to be more common.

I somehow found myself playing tour guide to two people from England I'd never met before, on a night I'd wanted to spend at home, alone. But I figured I wouldn't be miserable (I wasn't), and I generally feel compelled to give advice when asked for it, even if I am somewhat unqualified.

On Thursday night, the night I met them, I had gone to the Mercury Lounge to watch some friends play, taking the train near my house that goes overground rather than under, giving me glimpses of a bad car wreck, a building on fire, and the approaching Manhattan skyline, growing bigger as it began to engulf me. During the show, the snow quietly started to fall, clinging to the tops of cars and black trash bags, pleasing a girl from L.A. named Lisa Marie.

I was accidentally standing in a throng of people near the widely televised "ball" while on my way somewhere else, naïvely trying to bypass the party-hat entourage and the police barricades an hour before the year changed its last digit. At 11:40 the three of us gave up, stopping just when the crowd became too thick to penetrate. We were surprised to find that, at that spot, the ball was in our field of vision (at least until several children were hoisted and perched on shoulders, blocking the view for those behind them).

"So that's it? It's 2003?" I hadn't meant for that to sound so cynical, but it wasn't clear to me whether we had crossed over from the realm of anticipation to the realm of celebration. Almost immediately after the countdown, the crowd began to come undone, and we escaped, hopping on a train that took us to a party in Brooklyn. It was fun, but. I think New Year's Eve is overrated.

...

Two sad things yesterday. (One.) I came across an NRDC tote bag that I'd been given at the retreat I attended in October, a bag that I stored on top of a high cabinet right after I came home. Last night I discovered a rotten sandwich and a rotten piece of carrot cake inside of that bag. (Two.) My $3 doormat was stolen. Since then I've been trying to rationalize it, thinking, "Maybe someone just borrowed it," but my mind stops there, realizing that doesn't make any sense. Every time I see the naked floor in front of my door, I'm reminded, and freshly annoyed.

...

By the way, I'm still working out this new design. I'm planning to change the interior pages within a few days, once this page is finished. Feedback is very welcome.

(happy new year)