I was completely freaked out — not in the sexy “Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted” way, but in the “wow, you’re really eating mashed potatoes for every meal, huh? I went to visit a friend in Anchorage in February 2002, and it felt right.
I sold all of my furniture, quit my job, bought a car, and spent two months by myself on a cross-country road trip to Alaska.
At first, I couldn’t process the amount of attention I was getting in Alaska.
Like many beautiful, charming, intelligent women, I’ve been cultured to believe I am a grotesque, overwhelming buffoon, and I have a tendency to act accordingly.
Welcome to “It’s Complicated,” a week of stories on the sometimes frustrating, sometimes confusing, always engrossing subject of modern relationships.
He had a hot tub and the kind of marijuana addiction that made him tack brightly colored carpet samples to a wall because he wanted something “cool” to look at while he was high.
I was also the hostess at a pizza place, which was a breeding ground for sexual harassment from inebriated customers trying to cop a feel on their way from the bathroom back to the table where their wife and kids were sitting.
Once, on a fishing trip with some friends, I met one of those firefighters who parachutes into fires from an airplane.
I didn’t mind floating around a little stoned, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to talk about flooring for more than 60 days.
I went on a hike with Scott, who asked me out because he liked the book I was reading one night while I had dinner alone in a restaurant.