When I was at home for Christmas, my mom said it was okay with her if I wore a dress and combat boots to the service at my parents' church. She didn't love the idea, but I hadn't brought much else to choose from, partly because I don't own any delicately shaped shoes. (The church service was canceled due to snow, which was probably for the best.)

I've tried to buy dress shoes before, but I'm terrible at it, mainly because I don't like how they make me look like I have the hind legs of a pony. I don't have a problem with the height, and I'm able to walk in heels; I think what bothers me is simply the lack of meat on the shoes. However, I only seem to have that problem when the shoes are on my feet; they decorate other people's feet unoffensively, like colorful stilts.

Today I tried again, in preparation for a wedding I'm attending in February. My friend Sarah, who barely owns shoes that don't look like weapons, took me to a shop and led me directly to the back corner, where the discounted shoes are exiled. I tried on three pair, shrugging and wincing in confusion, before settling on a pair that seemed okay.

Now I have them out of the box, and I keep glancing over at them, continuing to size them up to determine whether we're right for each other, whether we really are going to have a go at this relationship. I imagine that if I put them in the cabinet with all my other shoes, by morning I'd discover the freshman shoes bruised and ripped, with their heels savagely torn off. I'll keep them out tonight, to give them a chance.

My professor mumbles, and he writes as illegibly as he speaks. He throws around the names of obscure films, the names of cinematographers, and the model numbers of fancy camera equipment, even though most of the people in the classroom have admitted to having very limited filmmaking experience (minus the girl who "spent LOTS of time in FRONT of the camera," because she's "you know, a fashion model and a commercial actress," and, she added, because her parents are good friends with Ted Turner).

My professor doesn't know the answers to many of the questions we ask, and he often stops mid-sentence and scratches his head. "Uh, what was I saying?" he asks us. We stare at him wide-eyed. The model, outed as an overachiever during our introductions, scans her notes and reminds the professor of his original point.

Introducing ourselves to the class feels like playing a game in which the sole object is to judge the other students, based on their appearance and the fifteen words they speak. Everyone silently keeps score of his or her conclusions, while having no idea how they themselves fared.

My professor mentions equipment we might need to buy and shrugs as he tells us how many hundreds of dollars we can expect to pay for it, as if we didn't already take out a loan for a large amount of money to pay for the class itself, an amount that was capable of making us feel kind of nauseated.

Another girl speaks up, asking about our final project, the film we're supposed to have made by the end of the semester. "Are there any restrictions as to what we can do? I'm also taking a documentary class, and in that, the professor said that we couldn't go over five minutes."

"Uh, I don't know. No rape scenes? No puking in the toilet?" He continues, but it seems he's no longer speaking for the benefit of the class, and is merely adding something for himself. "If you don't tell people not to film someone puking in a toilet, they all do it." He looks down at the floor and smiles.

Even if he can't relay his knowledge with ease, it's clear to me that he knows something about film and video. It's there, and wants to escape, but it comes out misshapen (not unlike me and Bryan trying to talk politics with Pennsylvania swing voters). He appears uncomfortable and unhappy, as if teaching were a gig he accidentally got stuck with.

Both Richard and Todd started taking continuing education courses this week, too, and I'm told that their respective classes are fantastic, and that their professors are inspiring. (I might be off, but I'm picturing Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society, or at least Gabe Kotter.)

Talking to them about their classes feels a little like it's Christmas morning, and I'm on the phone with my friends, finding out what Santa brought them. They tell me about their iPods and digital SLR cameras, and I tell them about how I got a hideous sweater that has hearts and eagles cross-stitched on it.

Maybe it'll get better.

Snow was different in North Carolina. You could close the school system down and deplete the grocery stores of bread and milk simply by concentrating really hard on the word "snow." Once the word was out, everyone would respond by throwing their car keys away and huddling inside in order to build a fire and make soup or get drunk, while kids would run around outside and try in vain to make elegant snowmen out of the twenty-seven flakes that fell from the sky.

In New York, nothing closes or changes on account of snow, except that sidewalks are slippery and dirt is more visible. Unless there's a "blizzard," of course, like we had this weekend, in which case New York suddenly turns into scene from a trite Christmas card. Sidewalks are patiently scraped by friendly shovel-bearing citizens, kids drag each other through the streets on sleds and trashcan lids, cross-country skiers propel themselves through quiet intersections, and car windshields are wiped clean, chunk by chunk, as snowballs get packed and aggressively hurled at friends.

Today, while waiting at a bus stop, I watched a little kid in an inner tube get pulled down the sidewalk by her father, while she tearfully screamed, "I WANT TO GO HOME!" Also today, while waiting at a different bus stop, I watched an adult play with the snow using his feet—packing it and pushing it around, sliding his boots deep into a drift and admiring it as it formed the shapes he requested.

"Hi. You mind if I take your picture?" He was shoveling snow, but rather than dumping it in a neat pile at the edge of the sidewalk, he was flinging it at a friend. It wasn't clear whether he was playing or working.

"Mom says bad things happen when we let people take our pictures."

"Okay, then. Thanks anyway." I turned to walk away.

"But you seem like a nice lady...so, yeah, go ahead." Nice lady.

He politely asked to see the photo I'd taken of him, correctly assuming that my camera is made of pixels. He talked like a little adult, asking whether I was new to the neighborhood.

We were a 15-minute walk from my place, twenty-five in the quickly accumulating snow. "No, I've lived here for a couple of years. I'm over on H Street."

It turns out, not only do we live in the same building, but he lives in the apartment directly below mine. And, as a result of our little interaction, he's now the person in my building whom I know best, only barely surpassing the quiet woman in the black scarf who's cemented to my stoop.

Crap, I've already forgotten his name.

I don't know why I haven't learned this by now, but I should not buy you a present until minutes before you are supposed to receive it.

The idea part of buying presents is pretty fun, I guess, but only because it's inherently tied to the future, to the actual giving part. I like hanging over a piece of paper and producing a list of things you've mentioned that you wanted (as well as silly fun things that you most definitely don't know you want), because I can imagine your reaction when you discover what I've gotten you.

The execution part of buying presents is also reasonably pleasant, because it's still essentially active, but that's when my impatience makes its first appearance. This phase is particularly difficult if I have to depend on someone else to get a particular item, or if things don't work out as I'd envisioned. On the other hand, when things do work out, it only makes Part III harder.

Part III, the waiting part, devours my brain with stubborn (inhumane) persistence. Inevitably, weeks before I give you your present, I will not only tell you that your present exists, but I will drop a CSI file of clues as to what it might be, in an effort to inspire some excitement from your end (though your level of excitement will no doubt remain far below mine). I will also probably suggest that we celebrate your birthday/Christmas/etc. early, because don't you want your gift?! C'mon, I'm willing to bend the rules if you are! Please. Open it now.

When you finally do unwrap your present (regardless of whether you gave in to my pleas and opened it early), you can't possibly react happy enough for long enough, I'm afraid. You can't win this one.

I'm afraid we've run out of things to talk about. I go there too often, for one thing; I suppose I can't really expect to have a meaningful conversation three times a week with the men who make my burrito. What is there to say? I haven't even had to speak my order for the last year-and-a-half; they start assembling it upon seeing my face poking over the glass counter.

Usually we just smile at each other and offer "how are you"s and (lazy) "fine"s. Sometimes we refer to each other by name, and occasionally a comment is thrown in about the weather or the upcoming weekend. We are terribly polite and predictable.

Raul, the first on the assembly line, is the one I converse with the most. He is friendly and professional and always seems genuinely glad to see me. We've exchanged only the plainest details about ourselves—our names, which neighborhood we live in, and where we grew up—all of which have come out slowly, like we're carefully letting the air escape from a soda bottle that's been shaken. Of course, I mentioned visiting Mexico (his native country), and a week before I was due to leave, he proclaimed, "Seven more days!" (He continued counting down for me until my departure day arrived.)

Now that I've become something of a fixture, I (irrationally) worry that my absence might disappoint them. Last week, when Sarah picked up a burrito for herself (I'd decided to eat elsewhere), not only did I wait for her outside the restaurant, but I hid behind a white van to fully obscure myself.

Thanks again for letting all of us stay in your hotel. The '60s mod décor was exhaustive and charming; I especially liked the light blue refrigerator, and the multi-colored tiles that covered the mantle. I appreciate you taking the time to show us what the other rooms looked like, as well as explaining every intricate detail of the heating system. So, thanks for that.

It was also kind of a bonus, I suppose, hearing about your allergies and your chronic rash, along with whatever tangential subject that popped in your head. I guess, out here, you have to take advantage of all human contact, even if it means sharing information that those of us in communities tend to reserve for close friends. Honestly, I imagine that if I lived by myself in the middle of nowhere, I would lose my ability to discriminate, too.

I'm sorry for thinking that you might murder all of us. Really, that was presumptuous. But just as living in solitude has fortified your eccentricities, living in New York has done the same for me. Instead of smothering strangers, like you tend to do (though not literally, apparently), it seems that I get a little paranoid when I'm in a desolate place. In fact, I even imagined a very detailed scenario in which I was the only survivor of one of your crazy rampages, and I had to escape from the cabin barefoot, slipping on the solid ice and running down the empty highway with you close behind.

But rather than violently taking our lives, you did what you could to make us comfortable, you didn't seem disturbed when we made a lot of noise playing on the ice late at night, and you let us check out of the hotel however late we wanted. You even seemed a little sad when you watched us load our bags into the trunk. (I, on the other hand, felt silly, for being so suspicious.)

Anyway, Ted. Thanks, and sorry. Best of luck with your allergies.

Lisa

In the summer of 1985, my brother David and I interviewed President Ronald Reagan, with the help of Top 40, a silver boom box, and a cassette tape. (David was 16, and I was 10, with a twangy southern accent that I lost immediately after we finished the interview.) The recording of it is quiet, so I'm including a transcript of the questions we asked Mr. Reagan. For the President's answers, however, you will need some speakers.

Click here to listen to the interview with Ronald Reagan.

David: Well... Here we have Ronald Reagan. And we intend to interview him.

Lisa: How did you console Walter Mondale after winning the election?
[response from Reagan]

David: What did you tell the people so they would elect you?
[response from Reagan]

Lisa: How did you feel when you won the election?
[response from Reagan]

David: Why don't you attend church?
[response from Reagan]

Lisa: How do you feel toward defense spending?
[response from Reagan]

David: How often do you cut social programs?
[response from Reagan]

Lisa: When you said on the radio that we will begin bombing Russia in five minutes, what did you want to do?
[response from Reagan]

David: What is your advice on eating jelly beans?
[response from Reagan]

Lisa: What is your final word to all those Democrats?
[response from Reagan]

David: How did you feel when you had just gotten shot?
[response from Reagan]

David: When you see Richard Nixon, what do you say to him?
[response from Reagan]

Lisa: In three words, describe what kind of person you are.
[response from Reagan]

David: What would you say if I suggested some budget cuts?
[response from Reagan]

I mail rent to my landlords so that I don't have to see them. I have three landlords (as far as I can tell), three abrasive old ladies who talk over each other and listen to nothing but their own voices. I don't even know whether my rent money ever reaches them (I send a money order, per their shady requirements, therefore there's no receipt), but it's worth it to me to not have to visit their apartment.

They don't have a computer, and they keep all of their records in what looks like a sloppy Trapper Keeper that's been in the possession of a spastic fourth-grader. As such, they don't keep track of their tenants very closely. In fact, on several occasions it's been made clear to me that they have no idea what my rent is. (I've repeatedly reminded them.) There is an amount written down somewhere, but it's not the amount I'm expected to pay; rather, it's the amount that they want to tell the next tenant that I pay, so that they can eventually charge that person more. I would find it worrisome that my real rent contract is strictly verbal (I suppose they could claim I haven't been holding up my end of the agreement), but I'm counting on their utter disorganization to trump their greed and immorality. (On second thought, maybe I should be worried.)

My downstairs neighbor, whose apartment is actually part boutique, hasn't paid rent for seven months, and no one's said anything to her. She said she stopped paying when the chronic problems of her apartment were consistently ignored and she had to pay for repairs out of her own pocket. When I asked if she was nervous about being kicked out, she shrugged, which made me feel somewhat confident that I wouldn't get burned (as I'm paying the full agreed amount) and foolish (as I'm paying the full agreed amount).

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that they haven't contacted her. The only communication that's ever broadcast from the landlords' castle is the yearly generic letter that reminds us all that our apartment building is chock full of lead paint. (The letter suggests that I take action if I have any young kids, and that I ignore the letter if I don't.) Infractions, on the other hand, are apparently not grounds for contact. However, that's almost worse than its antithesis, because it makes the landlords appear mysterious and unsound, and therefore way more intimidating. It also sort of makes me feel as if I'm squatting in my own expensive apartment.

The prospect of having a boyfriend frightened me. I didn't know what I was supposed to say to one, and it seemed a rather stressful thing to pursue, since the purpose and the rules were a complete mystery to me. I wanted the knowledge, but without the clumsy research.

At first, I didn't think Bobby was very cute. He was incredibly pale (though his cheeks were abnormally flush), and his blond hair, which was really a sallow off-white, was always styled in such as way that it resembled a (very) premature comb-over. As a package, he was a chronically blushing phantom of a boy, whose mother dressed him in Hushpuppies and plaid button-down collared shirts. A little ghosty man 8 years of age.

But back then crushes were developed because the most assertive girl in the group decided who was attractive; often it had little to do with any real magnetism. Once the cute boy du jour was determined, I almost immediately reassessed my initial impressions (whether negative or nonexistent), oddly trusting the subjective taste of my most obnoxious peer over my own judgment. Through that process, Bobby's bleached complexion gradually became appealing to me.

It was Kristie, in this case, who told me Bobby was desirable. Michelle subsequently conceded, and soon the three of us were paying strict attention to Bobby's every move, every ugly plaid shirt that he wore to school. We talked about what it would be like to "go with" him, ignorantly speculating as to what that even meant. None of us wanted to forge ahead on our own (too scary) and none of us wanted to betray the other two girls. As a solution, we decided that we should all date Bobby simultaneously.

Bobby was agreeable to this arrangement, even though it meant three times the effort: three times the handwritten notes passed from desk to desk, three times the coy compliments delivered in whispers, three times the chocolate-filled heart-shaped boxes on Valentine's Day. He treated us with diplomatic equality, never making one of us feel any less of a girlfriend than the other two. It was almost business-like.

Naturally, it was Kristie who eventually suggested that we break up with Bobby. I don't know why, really, as he was so friendly, attentive, and fair (in more ways than one!), but Michelle and I were the reactionary part of the three-headed beast, and we gave in easily to Kristie's proposition. Poor Bobby got broken up with three times—in one pitiful, crazy-folded note after another.

I'd acknowledged that she wouldn't always be around (her life span is, hopefully, shorter than mine), but I hadn't expected her to die anytime soon. It was always in the future, always pushing itself back as the days move forward; it was maintaining a safe and comfortable distance, hovering out there along with the day I decide to get married and have kids. It hadn't gotten to the point where I had to trick myself, though; she was healthy.

It helped to see her body, even though it had grown a little stiff and was no longer the recognizable furry flab that spent a lot of time curled up on my bed. Her ear felt the same as it had before. Her paws were crossed politely in front of her, like an X. Eyes slightly open, tongue barely sticking out of her parted jaw. I said something about maybe taking a picture, but everyone discouraged it, telling me, That's not how you want to remember her. (But if I take a picture, I can always ignore it or delete it. If I don't take a picture, I've got no options.) I didn't take a picture, though I wanted to.

The person who'd discovered her body was the one who'd generously brought her there a day earlier, to a vet on the Upper East Side. Jane wasn't a patient, but even so, the people were warm and consoling, as if we'd been regulars. They gave me options, set her on an examination table in a private room for viewing, and wrapped her up in a box when I asked to take her home with me, all at no charge. (A week later, I'd call back about a bag I'd left, and they would remember me and offer me more sad animal stories, in a gesture to relate.)

Rather than dropping me off New Jersey (from where I'd planned to take the train), my parents had driven me all the way there, and when they left, they took the box of Jane with them. They planted her under the holly tree in my grandparents' yard (alongside of generations of my grandfather’s hunting dogs), and placed a small piece of turkey near her mouth, and a headstone on top of the dirt that covered her. A few days later, friends of mine who'd known her came to my place for a small party, at which we all wore gray and ate food, in an effort to emulate her most polished skill. We also drank wine and played Taboo, which had nothing to do with the Jane theme, but was nicely distracting anyway. It's all starting to feel rather normal by now.

I put up a few more photos from Mexico, including one of a sad little monkey.

I can't seem to remember that I'm supposed to be celebrating a particular holiday until I hear someone else wish me a happy one. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's: I traveled, ate traditional food, exchanged gifts, and drank champagne at midnight, but each holiday felt like it could be any other day. I feel a little bit like I have the perspective of an alien, and I have to keep reminding myself that today is when Earthlings celebrate _____, and therefore, I'm supposed to _____.

I don't necessarily dislike holidays; I just no longer have an awareness for them. I'm pretty sure if I weren't repeatedly reminded of their arrival, they'd pass by me unnoticed. I think that might mean that I live too much in the present, or that I lack a healthy level of anticipation.

But, on a related note: As of tonight, I am now the embarrassed (but very happy) owner of the first season of 21 Jump Street on DVD. (The guy behind the counter laughed at me when I quietly asked if his store carried it. I half-pretended it was for someone else, but he knew.) When watching the pilot episode, I was most struck by how unbelievably bad the opening and closing credits are. How did I miss that before? It makes me lose a little respect for my 13-year-old brain. Also: my 13-year-old brain can't believe that it had to wait 17 years for this compilation to finally be released. What took so long, Stephen J. Cannell?