As much as I never wanted this blog to turned into somewhere I simply ranted and raved about the problems of my life …

OH. MY. GOD. I’m totally going to do it anyway.

As if the stress in my life weren’t enough right now (though there was a big plus today when I passed my Series 31 in nine minutes - guess I do work best under pressure), some bloody asshole stole my car on Friday night. I know! You never think that’ll actually happen to you! And before you ask, yes, it was locked, and no, it wasn’t on some dark, deserted street. It was parked right in front of my apartment. Except, when Meg and I came out of the house on Saturday morning with the intention of heading out early to Virginia, a big, ugly, cyan van was parked in its place.

Argh.

Mege drove down to the wedding in her car after we’d done the whole police thing, and the wedding itself was beautiful and small. Unfortunately, the sores on my lips prevented me from imbibing in the open bar and champagne, but apart from that it was a really nice occasion, and let’s be honest, I’m really happy for my mom.

The police called me later on Saturday and let me know that the car had been recovered, but they were really evasive when I asked them questions as to its condition. The lieutenent on the phone said to me, “Erm, was anything wrong with the car before it was stolen?” I of course answered with, “Well, it made a weird humming noise when you reversed …” to which he responded, “Hmm.” Long pause. “Well, you’re going to have to come into the station tomorrow so we can have a talk about this.” That’s it. Very clear, yes? When we got back to Jersey on Sunday, then, we wandered over to the police station, where they directed us to come back between nine and five on Monday. So we went back to the station today, and they said to call between eight at night and four in the morning to make sure the ‘auto theft unit’ was on duty. I did that, and of course was directed to call back tomorrow at eight in the evening.

Nothing is ever easy! Just give me my car back and let me deal with it. I want to settle all of the insurance stuff and get this out of my mind.

As I told Meg this morning, maybe all the random crap that’s been happening to me lately just means that, next week, I’ll buy one of those scratchcards and win that “$1000 a week for life!” prize. Ooh baby.

Tomorrow, I’m off to Dixie - well, Virginia, to be precise - for my mom’s wedding. My uncle and his wife have flown in from Vietnam, and my aunt and cousin have come over from California, so it’s going to be a bit of a random family event. Mom left me a voicemail the other day informing me that, after Woody’s daughter reads some kind of religious passage (why, I don’t know, because neither Mom nor Woody are religious), I’m to read something about ‘the meaning of marriage.’ I hope I get to take a look at it first, just so that I know, and approve, exactly what I’m to be saying. You know.

Anyway, it should be a nice event. I’m taking Meg along as my date, which will make things interesting. How better to come out to the whole family than at a family member’s wedding? Haha. Although, chances are everyone knows already. That’s the nature of my family. We have big mouths. It’s genetic, I think.

And I’ve got a pretty dress to wear, too. That’s always fun. It’s been awhile since I’ve had the opportunity to wear one. Could it be a year ago already, at the graduation ball?

My calf muscles feel as though I’ve spent my few free hours sprinting around John F. Kennedy Boulevard, probably in an effort to avoid catcalls from sleazy construction workers. This makes no sense, though. As far as running is concerned, I’ve pretty much neglected the treadmill, running a couple of miles once a week, tops, and the last time I did it was Thursday. So why are my legs hurting now? I guess it’s a good kind of pain, but it also could be attributed to wearing heels every day. I mean, I did that at St Andrews, sure, ‘cos that was the style and I’m a sheep like that (even though it really boggled the mind, considering the entire town was paved with cobblestones), but until I started working the corporate world in March, I hadn’t really had the opportunity or the desire to wear heels since November. Meh.

I do need to get back into the exercise groove, though. In an ideal world, I’d get up at five in the morning to run a couple of miles and lift weights before taking a shower and heading to work, but we all know that ain’t gonna happen, being the night-owl that I am. And they tell you to avoid exercising three hours before going to bed, which leaves me with a small window right after I get home from work. That, of course, is precisely the time my body decides to shut down and refuses to respond to anything except the steady hum of the television.

Reading this article on CNN is somewhat of an inspiration. Obviously exercise aids in toning and losing weight (um, duh), but apparently it has other benefits. Working out in the morning, for instance, can let you have a better night’s sleep, something I desperately need as is proven by my semi-reliance on Tylenol PM late at night. Also, the sensations equated with exercising are apparently similar to those getting their nicotine fix. I’m not out of the smokers’ loop yet, so this is particularly interesting to me. Women smokers who exercise are twice as likely to quit, says a recent study. And, finally, working out increases memory, awareness, creativity, and reaction time. What more do I need, now that I’m in the thick of exams?

And the clincher: exercise, and you have better sex. ‘Nuff said.

I had probably the worst night’s sleep in a really, really long time last night, so I’m extremely thankful it’s Friday and I can make up for it this weekend. Something was dreadfully wrong with Meg’s stomach, in that she felt an extremely sharp, immobilizing, tear-inducing pain, almost as though “someone [was] running through me with a spear,” she said. We both thought that by making herself sick, she might feel better - didn’t work. Eating a piece of plain bread to soothe her stomach - didn’t work. Drinking water - didn’t work. I was all out of ideas, plus I’d taken some Tylenol PM before I got into bed in an effort to curb my cold-and-ladyfriend-induced headache, so I was rather too doped up at three in the morning to be of any real help.

We never did figure out what was wrong. Meg looked up her symptoms online and has decided that her gall bladder exploded and she’s going to die. Somehow I doubt that, though the look of pain that often appeared on her face last night definitely concerned me. She went home this morning to get some rest. Apparently both her mom and her brother are home sick too; her brother has a 102 fever. Not nice!

Last night, some of the roommate’s friends came over and we ended up hanging out for quite a while. Jeff had gone to the Yankees game and was absolutely wasted, but hysterical as always. As drunk boys do, he ended up alone in the garage jamming along with Staind for about an hour. I’m sure it made sense to him at the time. I decided it was time for me to go to bed when a) we ran out of wine and only had Bud Lite left (bleugh), and b) Dan set fire to Jeff’s Yankees hat using a bit of citronella from the tiki torches in the backyard as fuel. After less than five minutes, only the charred brim was left smoldering on the patio. Jeff didn’t seem too fazed by this.

So, tonight … if Meg’s feeling better then we’ll either head over to Chris’s house to hang, or go play pool with Anita and her girlfriend. If she’s still unwell, I don’t know what’ll happen. I guess we’ll just play it by ear.

PS, I am so not a hot weather person. I really want to ditch work and go crash Chris’s pool. But unfortunately I’d feel too guilty about that. Gah. I really am a goody-goody sometimes.

Today is the day that I’ve quit smoking. To be honest, I didn’t feel the need for one on the commute this morning - not having a cigarette in my hand means I can behave more like a New Jersey driver (read: a drag racer), which is altogether very exciting. The first two hours here at work weren’t bad, either, as we were engrossed in a long meeting about the Firm’s goals and new developments. Of course, now we have entered the lull that is the hour and a half before lunch, which normally is a sign for me to take my ‘air’ break … but not today.

I bought a pack of Nicorette gum a few weeks ago in preparation for this, which cost me roughly the same as a week’s supply of cigarettes. I figure in the long run, that’s a small price to pay. The problem is, while the initial chews are satisfying, with a slightly minty (though slightly ashy) flavour, after about five minutes I feel as though someone has taken a razor to the back of my esophagus. The nicotine craving gone, the need for cigarette nonexistent, but with a burning throat, what does it matter? It doesn’t so much hurt as just feel extremely uncomfortable, kind of like when you’re about to throw up, and you know you’re going to throw up, but the moment hasn’t arrived yet. That’s not the nicest analogy, I’ll admit, but that’s how it feels.

But then … no pain, no gain. I am pretty impressed by the fact that just chewing this stuff makes me forget about cigarettes for awhile. Maybe that’s the key: burn the back of peoples’ throats, and they won’t want to smoke. You clever people.

One minor setback is the fact that I left my security pass to get in through the Firm’s special entrance in the pocket of my other suit, so to get in the building, I have to pass the smoking area. And this building seems to breed smokers, so there’s always someone out there. Subconsciously I think I must be testing - or punishing - myself. Why else would I forget the pass on the first day of not smoking, and never before?

Oh, and while we’re on the subject of bad habits and the subconscious, apparently I was thinking right when I had a cup of coffee every day at St Andrews. Based on the nightly social life that existed in that wee town, it’s a wonder my liver hasn’t simply given up on me yet. But perhaps there’s a reason my internal organ is still intact: researchers now believe that a single cup of coffee a day reduces the risk of alcohol-induced cirrhosis of the liver by up to 22 percent. Capital!