I have to publicly admit a fetish, one I can hardly control, and one that is a part of each and every day of my life… weather.com. Every day I find myself checking it more than once, sometimes, just to be sure nothing’s changed. I check it for New York first, of course, but then for California and then I start checking it for places I want to go: Prague, Florence, Paris… and it seems as though there are no listings for Niger. What’s up with that.

A week from today, right now, I’ll have just arrived at Oakland Airport with three bags, two bikes and and cat.

I went to Blue Smoke last night to see Hayley and to enjoy some mac ‘n’ cheese one last time. One thing led to another and suddenly it is 3:45 AM and I’m swing dancing to the jukebox at the Hairy Monk with a Texan toy company art director. I’m not kidding. Ahh, the life of a single woman. There are things about living in this city that I’ll miss all winter. But there are things I can also live without.

Geeze, I get a little belligerent when I’m drunk, don’t I? Actually, I don’t, I just get mad when the situation calls for getting mad. But last night was also great fun. I’m just so tired of being disappointed, and tired of disappointing myself. But enough of that. For now.

My apartment is finally rented; the sweetest woman ever named Jessica called me this afternoon beside herself with excitement. She had just signed the lease and wanted to stop by for another look around. I’m selling her my futon and butcher block for a song. I figure it’s easier than moving everything, and I have no idea what my next home will be, or where it will be, so I might as well simplify as much as possible. 90% of my stuff is already up at the farmhouse, and the few boxes left are far overshadowed by the mass of what goes to California. I’m not even sure anymore what is in these boxes, but there are five of them labeled and ready to go. I know much of it is clothes I don’t usually wear, as in they 1) don’t wick or 2) are actually nice.

So 90% of my stuff is gone and strangely, sadly, I miss none of it. I’ve realized that all I need are two mugs, two bowls, two spoons and forks, a coffee grinder and press, one pot and one pan. This is most likely all I’ve ever used since I’ve lived here, and the twos of everything come in handy only when I’m too lazy to wash the one. Everything else- the complete set of my Grandmother’s china, the pot and pan housewarming gift from my father- I’ve used these things but they have yet to cook dinner for eight, as they are designed to do. It’s largely a problem of space. I don’t even have a table in this studio apartment of mine. And so my next place, my next place beyond my Dad’s and any other camping I do, will be one that beckons.

In the words of good ‘ol Thoreau:

I sometimes dream of a larger and more populous house, standing in a golden age, of enduring materials, and without gingerbread-work, which shall still consist of only one room, a vast, rude, substantial, primitive hall, without ceiling or plastering, with bare rafters and purlins supporting a sort of lower heaven over one’s head–useful to keep off rain and snow…

…where the weary traveller may wash, and eat, and converse, and sleep, without further journey; such a shelter as you would be glad to reach in a tempestuous night, containing all the essentials of a house, and nothing for house-keeping, where you can see all the treasures of the house at one view, and everything hangs upon its peg that a man should use;

…where to be a guest is to be presented with the freedom of the house, and not to be carefully excluded from seven eighths of it, shut up in a particular cell, and told to make yourself at home there,–in solitary confinement. Nowadays the host does not admit you to his hearth, but has got the mason to build one for yourself somewhere in his alley, and hospitality is the art of keeping you at the greatest distance.

…the parlor is so far from the kitchen and workshop.

The amazing part about tonight was the screening of a movie I am truly proud of, a movie that is greater than I could have imagined. I have no doubt that The Pink House will be picked up, that it will go far, that it will reach everyone from New York film geeks to Middle America K-Mart shoppers. The movie is great. I loved it. It was funny and sad and true and obnoxious and I’m so, so proud of all of us who worked on it. So proud.

The other highlight of the evening was dinner spent with Dana, Lindsay and Salem who are the good guys, good people, folks I hope to keep and keep well. These are the exceptions to all the ugly rules, and the makers of the beautiful, kind, truthful book of rules. They also didn’t freak out when I ordered a bottle of ’97 Masi Amarone. Now that is good people.

Weekends like these leave me weary but the opposite of sad. I can’t seem to stomach that happy is the opposite of sad- happy seems too active, too bright, while sad is passive and almost comforting- predictable, relatively stable, far from actual misery. This weekend did not leave me happy, persay, but it did leave me good.

I’m just home in my destroyed apartment. The boxes are gone but replaced with two huge stacks- one to go to California, one to find its way to the farmhouse. Tess asked me if my head was in California yet, but my head is nowhere but here, right now, still dealing with leaving, still curious and confused and wrapping around my next week and a half. Everything feels like a challenge, an obstacle, in a way, or maybe even a curiosity that is complicated enough to cause lost sleep.

My life has become so strange that I have to grab ten minutes to write this blog whenever and wherever I can. Right now I’m sitting at the enormous dining room table at the farmhouse (chaired right now to seat twelve) and listening to two different conversations- one in the kitchen, between Tess and Jiffer and friends, and one in the living room where Lars and Babs and Bud are marvelling over the fact that there is a show on cable about the history of stone. Stone.

We rode the Harlem Valley Rail Trail today and it truly, truly, defied description. I won’t even try other than to say that the day was in the upper 60’s, the leaves are turning every shade of brilliant, and the company couldn’t have been much better. The ride was second only to minuature golfing and Go-Kart driving of yesterday. We were the only people left at the Go-Kart place, so the guy in charge told us to ignore the warning signs (no bumping, no crashing, no head-on collisions) and to take out all of our road rage on each other. “The gas pedal is all you need” he cried as he strapped us into each cart. Sean, Jordi, Babs, John and I tore around the course, slamming each other and catching air on the little hills. It was the most fun I’ve had in way too long.

After playtime Tessa cooked a spectacular dinner- onion soup, polenta, swiss chard, mushroom casserole and something beautiful and chicken. Apres-dinner was a rousing and contested game of celebrity (my team, as usual, lost) and then debates into the night about ousting our current administration.

Today I woke at noon, and every second I’m here I understand that it’s the last time I’ll see the farm for a while. It’s the last time I’ll see many of the people here as well, and a last taste of New York fall. Every second is precious to me, even if I’m curled up on the couch with old friends of Ian’s, doing exactly nothing at all.

The basil in the herb garden, planted this spring in a rainstorm, has withered and blackened as the leaves choose more colorful ways to die. One by one, each room in the farmhouse is being redone with brilliant blues and greens and new mattresses and curtains. Every time I come another space beckons to me, asks me to stay for a while and sit down to write. But I’ll be without friends all too soon, and I’m taking this time to be a joiner. Of course I will create a community in California, but it will take time. Less than two weeks now. It’s almost hard to believe.

I would like to say two things, in lessening degrees of importance:

1) the “L” key on my keyboard no longer works unless I punch it and

2) Never, never will I ever use Fandango.com to purchase anything ever.

I don’t know how many poor saps actually believed what we were told, that Fandango would be selling the much-coveted tickets to Trilogy Tuesday. Trilogy Tuesday, of course, is a once-in-a-lifetime screening of all three Lord of the Rings movies, starting with the extended versions of the first two and then a special early screening of Return of the King. I was told I could buy these tickets online; Fandango didn’t get their shit together and everyone who actually lives in Manhattan busted their butts down to the theatre and sold it out in less than fifty minutes. Oh, the agony. And Fandango? You have wronged me. No more will I count on you, never again.

Single tickets on ebay are nearing $100 each. I curse those people who are looking to make a buck on the backs of those of us who got screwed out of a ticket. Ah, me. All I can do is hope they will have another showing. There are hints of it in the air…

Obviously I have more to worry about in this little life of mine. I just also have a rich fantasy life. And LOTR helps me out in that regard. I would watch Aragorn read the phone book.

I had a day today with my good friend Kellie. That name is terrible when your L doesn’t work. We started by walking to Ozzie’s, and then Prospect Park, then ciabatta and brilliat savarin on the steps of Blue Apron Foods, then a glass of wine at Moutarde’s (me to bartender: can you tell me about the Riesling? Bartender: yeah. It’s eight bucks) and then to the always fabulous al di la for dinner. Barbera and butternut squash ravioli, and the company of a friend who is truly distressed that I’m leaving.

Time spent with Kellie is close to time spent with my family; the only difference is that she likes to talk about our friendship. We’ve both been damaged by friends (and lovers) and so we are both wary of becoming to close to quickly. It’s strange. I could easily sit back and just be happy I have another good friend, but she feels the need to talk about it. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, particularly when she wants to go into detail about what she likes about me.

We talked a great deal about being single. She is 36, I’m 31, but we seem to be in largely the same place: thankful we haven’t chosen the wrong person, thankful that we know ourselves enough to be sure that we simply haven’t met him yet. I have my family, my brothers, my dad, my mom- these are all people I can call if I am ever in need. But ultimately, I am doing this on my own. And I’m thankful for that- I’m 31, I have no regrets about my life, and I can look around and decide what is truly best for me. Some people think there is something wrong with being alone. I feel like, right now, and for some time now, it’s the only honest way for me to live.

I have seen so many people who have been damaged by ugly relationships. All my life I have seen this. My parent’s marriage was not exactly happy, and so when my dad left I was truly confused why my mom was so miserable. I asked Sean about it, and in all of his fifteen-year-old wisdom he said, “Dad was at least someone in bed next to her at night. He was there, even when he wasn’t. The idea of being with someone.” Of course it is far more complicated than that, but I think it also contains seeds of truth. When I was still dating my pathetic alcoholic ex, I would think to myself, “Well, at least I have love. At least that’s covered.”

Now? I don’t know. Do I wish I had romantic love in my life? Sure. Do I wish I had it with anyone I’ve met so far? Hells no. Maybe I’ll end up a spinster but I would rather hold out for someone truly brilliant, someone brave and wise and honest and funny. I will wait rather than compromise. Because until then, I will do what’s best for me. It has taken me years to figure this out, to be able to be good to myself and know that the world is mine. I’m in no rush.

Yeah well I didn’t call the Peace Corps yesterday. Or today, yet, for that matter. I’ve got seven more days until I actually have to make that call.

I’m living in boxes, again. Moving for the fourth time in three years. Maybe the reason I’m stressed so much is not just the choice between Africa and Napa, but the fact that neither will be immediately easy. In both cases, I have a built-in support group. In both cases I will just need to show up and do my best and they will provide a place to lay my head, even if temporary. By leaving New York I leave the devil I know, leave my friends and brothers and current home. It doesn’t help that fall in its full warm splendor is bursting just outside my windows.

Here’s what it boils down to: in Napa, I could pursue everything I want but one thing. I can work in wine, get back into dance classes. write up a storm, possibly do some theatre. In Africa I would get to fully realize my need to work in service. Napa could lead to more of the other stuff I want; Africa would keep me tucked away for two and a half years working towards only the goal of being of service every day. And, possibly, lead to new things I can’t even see right now.

Ugh. Can’t think about it right now.

Every night, right about now, I get so nauseous I have to lay down and think about not puking. Every night. Sometimes I feel like emotionally puking when things get rough but it has translated directly into my body.

I got my invitation letter from the Peace Corps today. I thought the date had been postponed, I thought I had made a decision, but then again, maybe I thought this letter would never come. I thought it would be my cervix that would keep me out, or some other calamity, but when I went out to check the mail there was a huge package waiting for me on the stoop. “Congratulations!” it screamed.

My placement officer called me some weeks ago to tell me that my essays were some of the best she’d ever read. That’s all she wanted to say. That they wanted me, they thought I’d be terrific in the Corps. She just wanted to touch base. I still thought my deadline had passed, that was what I was led to believe, since my health forms took so long to complete.

But no, here it is, right beside me, with the same leaving date that my recruiter gave me four months ago: December 7th.

I mean, at some point, you have to believe that everything happens for a reason. Originally I was supposed to leave in October, but my recruiting officer found a much more advanced and exciting job than the one that left in October… wow… I would have been leaving right now. But he slated me for the December job, and it is the very one now in front of me. I have had a thousand thoughts in the last few hours, and about as many decisions that immediately reversed, and then reversed again.

How strange, though, that the letter would arrive two days after my trip to Napa. Who has thrown down this unhappy gauntlet? I mean, how often is a woman given two options, one in the wine country of California and the other quite literally a few miles below the Sahara Desert? I mean, seriously? This is absurd. (Jordana, tonight: “You insist on living in a beautiful brownstone apartment by yourself when in New York, but you wouldn’t mind living in a hut with no electricity and no running water completely isolated in Africa? You’re a wonder.” It’s true. I can’t explain it.)

I fear to make a decision based on fear. Jordi and I were talking about the root of that fear, and it is not a fear of Africa, of lost conveniences, of heat, of exhaustion, of isolation, of pit toilets and bucket baths, of malaria, of AIDS. I don’t exactly fear any of that. What I fear is lost time. What will my life be when I get back in the spring of 2006? And why in god’s name am I asking such a stupid question as that? Why would I stall an adventure for fear of what I cannot know, namely my life on the other side? It doesn’t make sense. It would be a terrible way to live.

On the other hand, do I give up my novel? Do I give up what might be a great choice for me, a great change waiting for me in Napa Valley? Well, two things. If I were to go to Napa instead of Africa, there remains the possibility of the exact same thing happening in spring of 2006. I cannot know that I will be any happier, any more actualized, that my life will be very different than it is today. I hope it is, I intend to make it so, but there are simply no guarantees that one choice or the other will make my life better. It could go either way.

Of course I don’t want to disappoint anyone in Napa. A lot of legwork has been done by a lot of people, namely my Dad and stepmom, to open doors for me in the world of wine. Christ, I’ve done a ton of work as well. People there are really excited about me there. Not unlike the Peace Corps. And I am truly looking forward to starting work in California. But I find myself torn and I need to be sure I’m doing the right thing. Or at least I need to be sure I will be at peace with my decision.

I’m leaning hard in a particular direction, the direction, in fact that I’ve been working towards these last two weeks. I just checked out the statistics and the average age of Peace Corps volunteers in Niger is 22.5. I don’t know that I want to keep company with folks who have only been alive two-thirds of the time that I have. I know it’s not about them, it’s about me, but in the end, these things are important.

I’m going to sleep on it before I call the Corps office to decline their offer. Up until a week ago, the letter I got today would have been my most exciting news in years. I simply have to give it the weight and thought it deserves.

I would also like to add that I just heard my downstairs neighbors having sex. What a curious sound. Two things of note: the TV was on, and from the sound of it, turned to a news channel, and secondly, unless they only got noisy at the end, the whole episode lasted less than two minutes.

Like I’ve said before, I’m awfully glad not to be with the wrong person.

Back in New York it is clear and cool. It’s truly fall here, with whispers of winter in the cold breeze. I just had brunch with Ian at Bistro Saint Marks which, as always, was great food and not-so-great service. The restaurant is a three-minute walk down my street and I know that the idea of that- of walking a few blocks in the morning sunshine to get a cup of coffee- is one thing I’ll miss while I’m in Napa.

My dad called earlier to ask if I felt I’d made the right decision, my decision to move to California. Yes, I answered, without hesitating. Yes, I’m really excited to start my new job at the winery. Yes, I’m excited to spend the winter writing. Yes, I’m excited to live near my dad for the first time in 18 years. Yes, I’ll miss my apartment and space and brothers and yes, yes, yes, I’ll miss my city. But I hope to make some great things happen for me in California. I hope to create a manuscript worth submitting to my editor friends. I hope to find some peace in the wine business, hope to find some satisfaction. I hope to be open to the things that could come my way. Do I feel completely secure, absolutely sure that I’m doing the right thing? No. Of course not. But I know I’m doing a good thing, and that is what matters.

I have three weeks to drink my city in, to see Central Park in fall, to walk Park Slope, to see the few people here who mean the world to me. I’m sad I’m leaving. But in a way, I also can’t wait to go.