I’m feeling really excited today. I’m working on two big pieces for Women’s Health magazine, and the research is fascinating, at least to this science geek. And even better news: there’s very little to go hypochondriacal over.

I’ve been trying to avoid any news stories that will send me into a panic over the state of my health. There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, give or take a few neuroses, but every time I read a freakish story about strokes or abnormally large hearts or autoimmune diseases (where the body’s immune system goes haywire and attacks itself), I become a little more convinced that some horrible sickness is lurking undetected somewhere within my body.

On the way to the beach on Saturday, Linda mentioned that her sister’s dog went for a checkup and was diagnosed with Lyme disease.

“What? Dogs can get Lyme disease? Are you kidding me?” I was aghast.

And before you start thinking, “Girl, you live in Brooklyn. How many ticks are you possibly going to find there?” let me remind you that a tree or two does grow here. And where there are trees of the non-frond variety, there are itty-bitty blood-sucking insects. Our friend Michelle, who lives across from Prospect Park, found that telltale bull’s-eye rash on her leg. When she went to the doctor, he treated her with a heavy dose of antibiotics for Lyme disease, because if you don’t catch it right away, you’re pretty much fucked. How’s that for scare tactics? I promise, those are not the kinds of articles I’m writing.

Anyway, the reason I was so freaked out is because Linda, her sister Nancy, and I, along with our partners (Adam, Ray, Ryan) and our dogs (Libby, Susie, Keely) are a hiking trifecta. Every weekend in spring and fall, we all load into the car and cruise up to Hudson Valley to let our dogs run wild. We’ve collected enough ticks off their bodies to start a traveling tick circus.

“Yeah, Libby gets booster shots for it,” said Linda. “The vet said if your dog spends any amount of time in the woods, they should get it.”

I felt like the worst doggie parent in the world. So now I am not only obsessed with my health, I am also hovering over Keely like an overprotective mother, looking for any possible signs of infection. I can’t wait until I develop full-blown Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy — you know, that peculiar psychiatric disorder where a parent tries to convince everyone around them that their child is deathly ill, and will even go to extreme lengths to cause medical problems in their kid. Like me hitting Keely repeatedly in the legs with a baseball bat until she develops a limp so the doctor will believe me when I say she has hip dysplasia. Hopefully, somebody will club me if I ever start thinking about having kids. My brain would explode with worry from every possible hazard in this world. As my grandfather said to me shortly before being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, “You have to be careful. There are wolves out there.”

Sometimes, it’s just too easy.

So satisfying

Day two in Bouckville, and already I love the sticks. Right now, I’m kicking back in a lounge chair, soaking in the last rays of sun. The dogs are chewing on balls (plastic, non-anatomical ones) in the shade.

Today, Linda and I attempted to canoe with Libby and Keely, two of the three dogs on our trip. Yes, I know you’re thinking: Typical city-girl move. You deserve whatever accident befell you. Well, sure, we knew it was risky, too, but it’s part of our How to Parent Like Britney Workshop. In that, we passed with flying colors. Libby rode inside the sturdy sea vessel while Keely paddled (doggie-style–she hasn’t quite mastered the breast stroke yet) alongside us.

To be truthful, we weren’t entirely sure she wouldn’t drown from exhaustion, but we are, after all, talking about someone who thinks nothing of hiking in forest fires. Keely darted after the oars, thinking they were sticks for the munching, sometimes taking bites out of the canoe as well. After awhile, she went from looking excitedly frenzied to just frenzied, so we decided to take a sharp turn for the shore. At the dock, sufficiently tired out, she finally realized why getting in the canoe was a fine idea, and jumped on in.

So much for a peaceful morning jaunt across the pond. Keely screamed the entire way. What does a screaming dog sound like? One that is being kicked repeatedly in the ribcage. She wasn’t scared, though. This is what she does when she’s over-stimulated and isn’t getting her way, like when she’s chasing after a dog that’s faster than she is, or is in view of water that she’s not swimming in. Meanwhile, Libby decided it was time to play ball in the canoe. “Libby, down! Keely, quiet! Libby, no! Keely, leave the ball.” We spent so much time discipling the dogs, I never once checked out the scenery. Once again we took another detour for shore.

It’s amazing that we never capsized. But it was all still worth it. Kind of like losing my tooth the other night. Yeah, it was pretty freaky to be walking around with a big gap where a tooth should be, but on the upside, the tooth fairy never would have visited me while I was sleeping. Instead of finding a quarter under my pillow, I woke up to find a photo of Bachelorette contender Graham Bunn beside me. That silly tooth fairy. Who knew she watched reality TV?

Keely and Graham Bunn

You think there’s nothing better than waking up to the smell of coffee and fresh country air, and then you flip over your pillow to spot a headshot of the worst-named bachelor in history, it’s better than finding a Colecovision under the tree on Christmas morning. If only every day could smell so sweet.

[Photo Left: While Keely is zonked out from too much swimming, running, panting and canoeing, Graham Bunn settles in for a rest on her back.]

I am celebrating the Fourth of July somewhere in the vicinity of Hamilton, NY, crashing for the weekend in a doublewide trailer with nine other people, two labs and a German shepherd. Don’t worry–I wasn’t entirely sure what a doublewide was either, but rest assured, it is every bit as crowded as it sounds.
Just in time for my trip to Hicksville, I lost a tooth on the drive up. “Don’t worry, you’ll fit right in,” said my friend Linda, whose hometown we’re visiting, as I spit my brand new crown out of my mouth and held it our to her, wailing, from the backseat. Sure enough, as soon as we pulled into her place, I got to meet the neighbors, who were in fact missing quite a few teeth. Immediately, I felt right at home.

I put an emergency call in to my dentist who swore up and down that all I had to do was fill my crown with Vaseline and “pop it right back in.” Um, no offense, but I’d rather walk around toothless. To celebrate my newfound devil may care attitude, I ate everything she told me not to: Rolos, A huge Tootsie Roll and a pack of gum. Who knew being partially toothless could be so liberating?
This morning, we all biked into town on a country road that wound through rolling green hills, pastures of cows and golden fields, and the most vile smelling cattle farm ever. So much for fresh country air.

In town, we camped out along the sidewalk and witnessed the most random 4th of July parade that, as far as I could tell, really didn’t have a thing to do with patriotism or independence. It was more of a roving caravan of billboards for a. Jesus b. Local businesses and c. Politicians. My favorite, after the Jesus Power Lab float, where children dressed as mad scientists were singing the praises of the Lord, was the gazebo float, which had a for sale sign on it and a telephone number for Gerry’s Gazebos. In the middle of the floating gazebo was a shiny motorcycle. Because nothing makes you want to buy a gazebo like a Harley.

I tried to fit in with the locals by drinking a tallboy in a paper bag at noon. The only problem is, I hate most beers that come in a can. So after a few sips, I abandoned all further efforts at unleashing my inner redneck. I think sleeping on the floor of a trailer and carrying my tooth in my wallet earns me all the cred I need.

Linda Leonard Shows Off Her Curves

Keely Shows Off Her Ball

Barn at Sunset

Cranky. Tired. Morning.

I can’t be witty today. I just can’t. Too tired from my long day.

I went out to breakfast this morning with my two college friends who were in town for a few days — Bridget, from Central Mass., and Alex visiting from L.A.

Being three girls out at brunch, we covered all the usual Sex and the City-like topics. Minus the sex. And the city.

1. Alex reminds Bridget of the time she tried reiki (Hands-on healing. Think transference of “life force energy” from healer to healee) and it made her cry.

Me: Oh my God! That’s what Mr. Miyagi did to the Karate Kid! I can’t believe it took me this long to figure that out.

Alex pats my arm. Naturally, it makes me cry.

2. Bridget tells us that she has chickens.

Alex: Ohh! What are you going to name them?

Bridget: Uh, I don’t know. Breakfast, lunch and dinner? They’re for eating.

Alex, a vegetarian: I can’t believe you!

Me: Oh my god! Are you going to slaughter them yourself?

Bridget: I don’t think we should talk about this right now.

Me: When are you going to do it? Can I watch? Will you take a video?

3. Bridget tells us she also has bees.

Alex: Are you going to eat those too? What does bee meat taste like, Bridget?

Me: Do you have a beekeeping suit?

Alex: When Pauric (her husband) wears it, does it turn you on?

Me: Is there a pee hole in it?

Alex: Are you going to wear a beard of bees?

Me: What’s a beard of bees?

Alex: You know, you wear bees around your face.

Me: And then what?

4. Bridget, a masseuse, tells us about her clients. Specifically, the one woman who lets out a squealing fart every time she adjusts position, and the lech who says, “Oh, yeah, that’s great. I can feel it going right to my groin,” and, oh, yeah, by the way, Bridget’s reputation has gotten around, and Leonardo DiCaprio wants to try out her magic hands.

Me: Wait, what? I can’t tell if you’re serious or not.

Bridget: I gave out my cards at a movie set because everyone seemed stressed out. So I started offering chair massages there. I mean, the chances of him calling, though…

Me: Do you think you can make him cry?

I’ve just had a brilliant idea. I think you should start combining your bees with massage therapy. It’ll be all the buzz in Hollywood (yuk, yuk). You can give them a beard of bees while you massage them with honey, and then if they get stung, you can just heal them all up, Mr. Miyagi style, with reiki. Why hasn’t someone thought of this before? Bridget, I’m so going to make you rich. Oh, and if that lech tells you he can feel it in his groin, just direct the bees right to his balls.

Me as I dragged my ass down the street to Crunch yesterday: Dear gym, I hate you. Lovelessly and resentfully, my body.

Me upon entering the gym: Why is there always a line at the counter? Of course the desk girl doesn’t have any towels out. “Can I have a large towel, please?” Instead of handing me one of the nicely folded towels that she has stacked behind the counter, out of reach, she wades through the basket of unfolded ones and pulls out a small one. Whoops. Puts it back. Reaches in again. Pulls out another small one. Puts it back in. Reaches in a third time. Pulls out another small one. Are you for real? Then I realize what she’s doing. Are you so lazy that you can’t give me a towel that’s already folded because it takes away from the work you’ve done? God forbid you have to FOLD AN EXTRA TOWEL on my account. We are at a gym you know. Jesus, burn a calorie or two. Grrr. Fourth time in, she pulls out a large one. Halle-fucking-lujah. I snatch it and storm off. Uh-oh, am I becoming one of those self-important New Yorkers for whom everything is an inconvenience? Fuck.

Me inside the gym: Oh, hooray. Machines galore. But, damn, those ellipticals are pushed closely together. I’m going to be rubbing sweaty elbows with the girl next to me. I sigh and hop on, hoping the peeps on either side of me don’t reek of b.o.

Four minutes in: Grumble. Booooooring. Is this almost over?

Six minutes in: Okay, this isn’t so bad. Wait, I’ve only been on here for six minutes? Fuck. I’ve got so much stuff to do.

Eight minutes in: Oh, hello, body, is that you? I didn’t recognize you without the couch attached to your ass. I’m sorry I’ve been neglecting you.

Ten minutes in: Man, I can do anything.

Twenty minutes in: Fuck you, world, ain’t no one going to hold me back.

Thirty minutes in: Whoo! I am one strong motherfucker! I’m never getting off this machine. Just try and make me. Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. I wouldn’t want to mess with me, either.

Thirty-five minutes in: Take that (gasp, gasp), stress… (gasp). I showed you.

On the way home: God, I love exercise. What would I do without it? Note to self: remember how good it feels to work out.

Next day: I am so not going to the gym today. No, no, no, you can’t make me. I’m in control of my body and I say no, I’m not going.

On the way to gym: I hate you, gym. I. Hate. You.

“Oh, so you know what happened to me yesterday?” I said to Ryan while we were sitting at our desks.

“One second, sweetie.” I looked over at him and saw him tapping away on his iPhone. Mm-hmm. Like I even had to guess. He was Twittering.

“Okay, so… are you listening?” I asked.

“Can we talk at the beach?” he said.

I shot him the “you did not just say that” look.

“Okay, you can have five minutes,” he said, laughing. Except, he was serious.

“Really? You’re granting me five minutes so you can get back to one-upping a bunch of strangers with your witty comebacks and observations? Here’s my observation: we are going to have a Twitter-free day at the beach.”

Yeah, like that happened. Instead — another perfectly male solution — he thought he could make everything better by reading all of his Twitters to me, I guess in the spirit of inclusion. The result: I felt like I was watching him court his new male crush — a bromance, I believe it’s called — on awryone.

I’ve decided that Twitter is the ultimate masturbatory vehicle, just behind porn. Nothing like a verbal circle jerk to turn a guy on. You know, I’ll stroke your ego if you stroke mine: “Me? Witty? Oh, stop. You’re making me blush!” So here’s to Twitter: making men kinda sorta almost gay since 2006. I am so not bitter.

Last night, Ryan and I were in our weekly therapy session with possibly the world’s best shrink (not to be confused with the world’s hottest shrink who I see individually whenever the world starts to feel a little wobbly).

Yesterday, it was Ryan’s turn to be picked apart. We switch off, depending on who’s having the grievance of the week. You know: “I’m wading through dog hair and Ryan doesn’t think the apartment needs to be cleaned.” “If the cable’s broken, Jill will go a week without TV rather than get it fixed.” Luckily, I arrived before Ryan and got to complain before he even walked in the door. Poor Ryan. So we spent the hour dissecting one of his habits. Score one for me.

Our therapist told us that in order to change unsaid behavior, we need to challenge each other to act in a new way. So part of my role is to react differently and not indulge him.

“So…” our shrink said, “you could say to him, ‘Ryan, would you like me to enable you right now or not?’”

I burst out laughing. “That’s awful!” I said.

“And could I get you a wet nurse, maybe change your diaper?” added Ryan.

“I’m serious!” she said, laughing. “You need to find a way to add humor to the situation so it’s not a source of tension or shame.”

Hmm. Okay, if you say so. You’re the doc.

Later that night while we were watching TV, I went down to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

“Honey, can you grab me a napkin while you’re downstairs?” Ryan yelled.

“Are you sure you want me to enable you right now, dear?”

“Go fuck yourself, sweetness.”

“Okay, love. Could I get some help with that?”

“I don’t know, darling. I think that might be enabling you. Are you sure you can’t do it yourself?”

“All right, babe. I’ll give it a shot. Thanks for not enabling me. And you can get your own fucking napkin.”

Sometimes I get so antsy in my life, I wonder, what the hell am I doing here? Why aren’t I living in a cottage on a beach, near some trails where I can mountain bike or hike with my dog? It’s a mental check-in to see how I am doing. Am I living in a way that I’m going to regret later, or am I happy with where I’m at right now? I guess nothing is really that easy to answer. Obviously, I’ve been reading too much Oprah magazine.

I’ve been living in New York for four years now. Before that, I lived in San Diego, where all of the above-mentioned things were possible. The only problem is, I couldn’t afford it there, and couldn’t as easily pursue the career I wanted. So it’s a trade-off.

The pay in San Diego, especially compared to New York, is abysmal. But the price of homes is equivalent to those in Brooklyn, and once you factor in car payments and car insurance and gas prices, well, I swear to God, San Diego is a much more expensive place to live. So I was dirt-fucking-poor. Worse than that, I was in serious debt. But I did get to bike the boardwalk every night after work, and take 20-mile mountain bike rides through the desert on weekends.

Amazingly enough, I think I’m safer here in New York than I was in San Diego. I have never been in so many car accidents in my life. The worst was a hit and run by a drunk, rich, middle-aged woman in her husband’s company BMW. She hit me twice before pulling over. When she got out of the car, she kept trying to hand me some piece of paper which she must have thought was her insurance. As soon as I said I wanted to call the police, she got back in her car and tried to drive off. Stupidly, I stepped in front of her car, and she kept inching and inching and inching forward. It was a very bizarre game of chicken. Finally, I gave up, got through to the police and gave them what information I had. (”How is it a hit and run if she pulled over?” they asked.) She was on her way to pick up her kid from school, and was headed towards the freeway.

The cops asked me to stay there, and I did, waiting for over an hour, until I finally called back and found out she’d caused another accident a few miles up the road. The police actually wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, and said she was probably having a diabetic reaction. Uh-huh, until they tested her BAC found out she had priors. Had it not been a rich bitch in a BMW, I’m pretty sure the officer would not have suspected low blood sugar. Is there anything money won’t buy you?