I rented "Grey Gardens" and am reading "Fear of Flying"—no wonder I’m so confused about what it means to be a woman! At 32 and 9/10ths years old, should I concentrate on procreating? Should I feel guilty for my jetset, unmarried lifestyle? Is it okay to enjoy life and travel? Am I on a slippery slope to spinsterhood? And is being a spinster all that bad? Will I regret not having children? Or having them? Am I being selfish for not getting married and having lots of babies? Would it be more selfish still to create children in my own image?

I love my life! I love traveling on horseback through the Brazilian outback and climbing the crumbling stones of Petra. I love champagne on the Riviera. I love my two cats—but then there’s all this confounded social pressure. Does the fact that I am single and have two cats automatically mean that I’m one raccoon away from becoming Little Edie? I wish I could contact my 40-year-old self and ask her what I’m supposed to do at 32 and 9/10ths.

Because this is the time! The crossroads! It’s babies or bust! You aren’t supposed to mess around with bad boys at 32 and 9/10ths. You’re supposed to be interviewing for the title of life partner. Time, TIME, is of the essence! At 32 you’re running out of it. That’s what they say. Cruel time is about to stomp all over your youth and ovaries. Not even Oil of Olay can save you from wrinkles and a slowing metabolism now. But would it be the worst thing for me to proceed as is? Going out to parties at night, traveling like crazy month to month, and not sowing those all-important seeds?

And what is even scarier—what if I DO sow those all-important seeds? I’m terrified of giving birth, of having this parasite feeding off me and rearranging all my organs inside me. And of caring for a rather uninteresting and totally demanding real doll who doesn’t even have the ability to speak or go to a toilet for the first two years. TWO years! Yeegads!

I just don’t know what my life is supposed to be about. I mean, I know what it’s supposed to be about, but I don’t know if that’s me. My friends and family don’t help—their stories run the gamut: young divorcees with children, single women with sperm-donor babies and adopted babies from other countries, fabulous second and third and fourth marriages, abusive husbands, children with mental disabilities, single women in their forties living la vida loca, swingers, sex pots and even a couple good marriages, some with kids and some without. All of these people are either happy or miserable without any defining formula to it. What seemed promising became lousy, and what seemed ridiculous became sublime.

So what do I do? What am I supposed to do? I wish I had more time. I wish I could just wait and see, just go with the flow. But women aren’t allowed to do that. Women have to think about these things at age 32 and 9/10ths. Whatever will be MUST be right now, at least it has to be in the works. I feel all this pressure. Stress! And why? Simply because my birthday is around the corner and I will be 33.

And that only gives me a few years left to figure this problem out. I don’t like babies but I love children. Babies scare me—they are just so helpless. And what about marriage? Will I be satisfied by one man for the rest of my life? And yes, I’m talking about SEX SEX SEX. What about passion? Romance? Will they last forever with the right man? What if I can’t find the perfect man? What if he doesn’t exist? What if he starts out perfect and changes? What am I supposed to do—have babies with an imperfect man?

Oh I am sooo confused. And worried and stressed. I want my carefree life to continue, but now it is possibly at the expense of something, of my ovarian duties. And what if I shirk them? What if I end up with a house full of fabulous foster children who need my love? Is that okay? I am just terrified that my forty-year-old self is going to want to seriously kick my ass based on the things I do or do not do right now.

I know there are no right answers, and that just makes it worse. 

We are all working too much. Who of you has gone 6 months without a week break? Why? In comparison to the world, Americans and Chinese are taking the least amount of vacation time. Much less going anywhere when they do take time off. Why? Because it’s too much work to plan the vacation! And those who go, exhaust themselves with activities to insure they get their moneys worth. I have a good friend heading to Italy. She is going for 5 weeks. WOW. I can’t imagine taking 5 weeks! And she has planned to come home on a Friday so that she can ease back into her daily life and work. Smart. Am I jealous? Terribly. But she has earned it. She has been working to LIVE. And so she shall. How are you living?

If I ever meet the person who told me that detoxing was fabulous, I am going to slap them. This sucks. Yesterday was worst than the first day. I woke up with a headache and I went to bed with one. I was dizzy for most of the day, and I feel a cold coming on.

Today was better, I got to eat oatmeal and honey (yummm) and I had chicken and rice for lunch. I have to admit that I have lost some weight! I started at 133 and I am at 128! I know it is up to me to keep the weight off and keep eating right.

So, I’ll stop bitching and keep up the good work. It is work and I would be lying if I told you it was easy. I think anything that is worth doing is hardwork. And that is what separates those who succeed and those who don’t. People who succeed do the crap others won’t do. And tht includes working weekends, volunteering, continuous learning, and detoxing.

Yesterday was rough. I like to eat and not eating all day took its toll. By 3 pm I had a bad headache, and even though I was not supposed to eat anything, I had to. So, at 6 pm I had a 1/2 cup of apple sauce and a cup of chicken broth.

I think that I am pretty tired from the last few months of writing a book and running for Woman of the Year. I have not taken  any time to just rest. I feel like I am always running. Last night I was in bed by 9 pm, and alseep by 10 pm. That is very early for me. I usually stay up until past midnight.

Today I have already had some broth and apple sauce. I am very tired, so I’ll see how it goes. I feel like my body is trying to fight off something. Maybe an afternoon nap is in order. 

My 4th of July weekend was interesting. My husband and I flew to St. Louis and then drove out to Mt. Vernon, Ill. for the Williamson family renunion. Did you know that Walmart serves fried chicken? I did not know that. Nor did I know that not many veggies are harmed in the making of food in this tiny mid-American town.

So after eating steak, fried chicken, ice cream, potatoe salad, cake, etc., etc. I have decided that I need to clean my body out - if you are what you eat, right now I am the cafeteria of a Walmart. ick.

I am reading this book about a 7-day detox, so I thought that I would try it out. Today I have to give up food. Only lemon water for me. I love to eat healthy, good food, so this is going to be a bit hard for me. I am a grazer, I snack throughout the day. I eat lots of nuts, dips like hummas, and tortillas with cheese (yum!). It is 1:00 pm, and so far so good. No food has crossed my lips today. I’ll keep you posted.

The other day, a homeless man threw up all over me in the lobby of the Sony Metreon. I firmly believe that this is due to the negligence of Sony, and I want $90 to replace my vomit-coated jacket.

The Sony Metreon, here in San Francisco, is a huge megaplex (read mutli-storied shameless advertisement/temple to Sony) of cinema screens including an IMAX, stores, video arcades and an unchecked parade of humanity on the edge. I hear it’s the only one of its kind anywhere. Thank the Lord for small favors.

The Metreon is located South of Market, which is an up-and-coming city neighborhood, a warehouse district making good. Lofts, hip clubs and hotels abound, especially in the areas nearest to Market Street with its enticing shopping where it intersects Third Street.

Our homeless population is not shy, and they know a good thing when they see it. And people streaming in and out of the Metreon day and night equals a potentially very steady income. So they gather on the corner just outside the lobby doors and wait for ten-dollar movie go-ers and kids with extra videogame money.

Well, it was a dark and not stormy night when my two girlfriends and I decided to see a 9 pm showing of the "Da Vinci Code." It was a fun movie- action packed and definitely entertaining- and I also found the most darling hot pink Chinese silk carrying case for my laptop at the Sony store. So there we were, the well-tressed trio, at around midnight walking out of the theater.

The lobby was dead. No people, no security, and a single teen manning the movie box office. As we reached the lobby doors, a homeless man staggered towards us. Before I knew what was happening, he lunged at me and threw up all over me. I don’t just mean a trickle- it was like Omen-style projectile vomit. Bright yellow. I was absolutely covered. I think I screamed. Then I danced around frantically yet carefully pulling off my Patagonia fleece jacket. I was covered, my jacket was sopping, and there was vomit all over me just under my chin coating my throat and the two t-shirts I was wearing underneath, plus my purse.

The homeless man looked very sheepish and held out his hand to offer a single, crumpled filthy Starbucks napkin to help. Bless his heart.

I ran to the nearest bathroom; my girlfriends followed. The bathroom was closed for cleaning but in I burst. The woman cleaning it was not pleased, but what could I to do? AIDS, Hep-C… they were all seeping into my skin. Fabulous girls that they are, my friends tried to help me clean up. And do you know what’s FUN when you’re coated in warm vomit? Playing get-the-sink-to-turn-on with those supposedly motion-activated knob-less sinks. We threw out the jacket but I couldn’t just strip down. So, leaving that bathroom a biohazard area (sorry, so sorry to the woman cleaning it), I walked out the doors to the parking garage to my car.

And I drove the 20 minutes home, windows wide open, the violently vile stench of vomit emanating from my throat and the tops of my tee-shirts up through my nasal passages. I will never, ever forget that smell.

And I got home, filled a sink with bleach and every household cleaner I could find, and I soaked my 2 shirts and purse all night. I ended up throwing it all away- (my blue shirt was stained to death- yellow and blue make green, kids…) My laptop bag is okay, though I still haven’t used it. It just sits in my house, pulsating with the threat of vomit like a telltale heart.

And the next day I contacted Sony. I emailed. I called. Their metreon.com website is no longer working. In fact, trying to find anyone to talk to is like trying to hack into Fort Knox. So I began emailing and calling Sony itself. Konnichi wa- vomit desu ka?

Still having received no word, I am blogging to you, dear readers. All I want is for them to foot the bill for a new Patagonia fleece, which doesn’t come cheap. And why? Because I feel that Sony, knowing its neighborhood, should have a single guard at the lobby doors. Sure, it’s a ‘public’ space, a mall, kinda, but there needs to be a sentry at the gate so that vomit-filled Trojan Horses do not get in. Dude, it wasn’t even Trojan (oh my kingdom for bodily fluid protection!) but a very obviously homeless and digestion-in-crisis person whom any guard could have spotted a mile away and turned away. No loitering; no vomiting.

Am I terrible? Am I un-American to want to keep the homeless population out of the Sony Metreon? Maybe this makes me a horrible person, but having been vomited on in the lobby of the Sony Metreon, I appeal to you- don’t let this happen to you. Tough on crime? I want to get tough on vomit, folks. Call me crazy, but I just don’t think that ten dollar movies should come with popcorn, a soda and puke.

Thanks for listening to my awful tale. It has made its way around the city- when I go out with those girlfriends now, their friends are always shocked to meet me- YOU’RE the vomit girl? Because if it could happen to me, it could happen to them. And to you.

To this day, whenever anyone invites me to go to a movie, I don’t ask which movie or what time. All I want to know is where it’s playing. I’ve been kidnapped by zealous Christian missionaries in a village in India, gotten into a screaming match with Madame Chirac’s violent body guards, and stepped over piles of human excrement in a women’s public bathroom on the edge of the Great Wall. But there are some places even I won’t go. And the Sony Metreon is at the top of my list.