It's been a slow, drifting weekend, where I've accomplished little but walking and eating. I keep adding to a list of tasks on a small scrap of paper which sits next to my laptop on the living room table, but I never get to scratch anything off. I am lazy; I am dreamy; I am almost on vacation.

Yesterday I got up and went to the frame shop to (finally) arrange for the framing of Steven Parrino's piece that he gave me for my birthday. The frame shop guy was having a hissyfit over it, and asked me lots of questions. It turns out he had been to see Steven's recent show at the Team Gallery, and this seemed to freak him out even more. I wondered if they didn't see much nice art in that shop, and noticed another customer's pickup, which seemed to involve a lot of swirly Deadhead colors. Ah, to each his own. The customer seemed happy. The frame shop guy eventually talked me into a really expensive framing. I had to agree with him though that it was worth spending a little bit more money, because I really do love that piece.

Later I went all the way up to 86th and Lex, which, though I like to bitch about going to the Upper East Side, or, for that matter, the Upper Anything, took me no time at all. (Three stops on the 5-express! That's so cool.) I met Tall Canadian Josh at his apartment, and had the opportunity to witness the saddest apartment I've seen since Tammy and Cinde's three-room basement railroad space. I never used to be able to stay in their apartment for very long, because - besides the fact that there was no living room, only a kitchen - it was so narrow they couldn't even have chairs. If you wanted to sit, you had to sit on their bed. I was claustrophobic within moments, and would often sit on their stoop, rather than wait inside for them to finish applying the glittery substance du jour.

Anyway, Josh's place actually had room for chairs - it might have been wider than Tammy and Cinde's place, now that I think about it - but the room was just a little torn up, in the floors, on the walls. It wasn't dirty, or anything like that. It just looks a bit battered. It's the basement apartment in a house, and it seemed like the apartment might have once been a storeroom, which might account for the ancient stand up piano. Yet I've no doubt someone would pay at least $1500 for a place like that, simply because this is New York, and it sucks here. Still, it qualified as the "hovel" it was described to be, making me appreciate my apartment once again.

Later Josh took me to brunch, and then we went for a walk down to a park on the water. The weather was so great yesterday, reminding me of Seattle, as New York weather sometimes does, with the grey screen sky and doses of mist. I was feeling like I was in some Nora Ephron movie, what with all the attractive, wealthy couples staring out into water. Except, of course, the sun is always shining in her movies.

We also walked over to the Mayor's house, Gracie Mansion. Did you know he gets to live in a freaking park? A park on the water? Is he the only person on the island of Manhattan who gets to live in a park? Is that fair? The mansion itself was only so-so as mansions go; I noticed paint chipping off of one side. But whatever - they get to live in a park! No wonder that Judith Nathan wants to get in there so badly. She knows her time is running out since Giuliani's leaving office, and she may never get to sleep in a big-ass house in a park again.

And then we had coffee and read books quietly, and then we ate some more, and then we walked some more. Later I met up with Indie Rock Boy Matt, and guess what we did? We walked, and then ate, and then walked, and then we drank. My whole life is now comprised of walking from one place to another, so that I can consume things. I am a consumer.

Sigh.

I've been smoking for the past few days. I couldn't figure out what happened, exactly, how it crept up on me, but all of a sudden, I was doing it again, and I couldn't stop. Part of it also has to do with hanging out with Josh, who smokes, way less than I ever did, but smokes nonetheless, in that insidious, post-meal fashion, a style to which I always aspired, but never succeeded. And since all he and I do is eat and walk, I was fucked.

But I woke up today, and I felt better all of a sudden. I wasn't going to give up. I went into Duane Reed, and had a chat with the pharmacist. I felt like I should start all over again at the highest level, that I had completely ruined everything.

"How much are you smoking?" he asked.

"A half pack a day, maybe a little less."

He told me to go to step 2, and stay on it for 4-6 weeks. He explained that when the patch was prescription only, the recommended lengths of time for each step were much longer. He thought it was curious that they shortened those lengths when the patch became available over-the-counter.

"I thought I was just supposed to follow their recommendation," I said. "I didn't feel like I was ready at the time, but I thought it was just me."

"You're supposed to do what's right for you," he said.

I wanted to cry right then and there. It was so nice to hear a helpful answer. So I think I'm back on track again. I'm so sick of talking about this shit, I really am, and I know you're all sick of hearing about it. I'll just keep plugging along, and let you know if there are any huge disasters. In the meantime, I'm going to have to cut down on hanging out with smokers again. It's a shame, but it's the only way I'll make it.

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