I woke up Saturday morning with a mission: to reclaim my life. The past two weeks have been a blur at best. My life has looked like mine – same job, same schedule, same apartment. My life has sounded like mine – same phone calls, same friends, same music, same lectures from my mother. But it hasn’t FELT like mine more like I’ve been watching it, not participating much.

For example, my diet – not “diet” but daily intake of food. I have not eaten ANYTHING in the past two weeks that hasn’t been 1) ordered and prepared in 3 minutes or less, 2) delivered to my apartment or office door; 3) cooked in the microwave or 4) come out of a vending machine. So basically I’ve had no real nutritional content whatsoever.

Second – my job has had me so stressed out, overtired and feeling an like inadequate f*ckup that by the time I DO get home, between 8-9 in the evening, I am brain dead and too exhausted and unmotivated so that even simple tasks such as laundry, or ironing, or bed making or cleaning in general have seemed too overwhelming to tackle.

And you can forget personal maintenance! Not only was I in the most desperate need of a haircut, manicure and facial of my life but as a result of the malnutrition and exhaustion the gym, while in close proximity, might as well have been in China (and I was convinced that the ache I was feeling in my lower back was the onset of my recently unexerted abdominal muscles atrophying). And as an ultimate result, I was sick – came down with the first cold of the season, not pretty.

I woke up Saturday morning, got my butt out of bed and into the gym. It felt great (although not entirely up to par with physical performance in times past). And after 200 crunches and showering I headed off to seek the help of a stylist I met at CNN awhile back (she consults with and does hair for Jena & Barbara Bush – and I thought major reinforcements were needed to tackle my beauty problem).

So I get to the salon, Celeb Stylist “consults” and says reassuringly “I’m excited! This is going to be the makeover of the day.” So I feel a tad reassured that all hope is not lost until she runs away to get the sandblaster (kidding) and I’m left looking at my reflection in the gilded mirror without makeup (cringe) and think “can we add some Botox and liposuction to this makeover?”

Then in the midst of this self-deprecating inner-monologue, I notice the male (sexually ambiguous) stylist blow-drying an older woman next to me keeps staring in my direction. So I think “great! It’s completely obvious, I don’t belong in this upscale celebrity salon where everyone is already beautiful, blonde and French speaking” So I look away and pretend to be intently reading an article about male G-spots in Cosmo but he comes over and says : “I’m sorry, but you are so beautiful! What’s your name?” (stunned…looking around for the other person he must be talking to) “huh?” “Your name” “oh…uh…Scarlett” “Is this your first time here?” “Yes” (still stunned) “Well you’re stunning, and I just wanted to tell you” “Uhh… Thank you – are you sure? I don’t even have any makeup on!” “You don’t need it” and he walked away.

Well, I don’t know if he needed a new contact perscription or it was just a salon policy for clients to be told that they’re beautiful by hot, sexually ambiguous stylists but I say: That’s the kind of customer service I’m talking about! Every place of business should have someone that will come up to you and say “you look great today” or “you’re beautiful” or “great shoes!”

Well when I came out of that salon I felt like a million bucks (or at least $250) –my hair looked bright, shiny and fabulously cut (ala jessica simpson - even though it was a few inches shorter than I wanted), my facial had left my skin glowing, eyebrows were perfectly arched, my ego had been patted and I felt human again.

The rest of the weekend fell into place. My room and kitchen are now spotless, the cat has been fed, I got some work done at the office Sunday afternoon, and most of the laundry is hanging neatly in my color coded closet.

Hello, my life. How I’ve missed you.

Frankly,

I think I can say for the first time since I was about 14, that I am honestly happy to be single and I Honestly DON'T want a relationship right now.

Before when I would say that it would most certainly be a lie and only told for one of two purposes: 1) to appease my relatives at a family gathering, or 2) if I were talking to a guy and wanted to act like the independent, non-threatening, type so as not to scare him off. Don't get me wrong, I've never been the "out for marriage, MRS degree" type, hell! I've turned down 3 proposals already - if I wanted to get married I could have done it by now!

But honestly, I don't want a relationship.

It's so odd that this phrase is coming out of my mouth (or keyboard) and its actually sincere. It feels so good to admit it. It's really liberating! I don't feel the need to date. I don't feel a compelling reason to go out other than to hang out with my friends. No ulterior motives. No searching for a future ex-boyfriend.

I can't tell you the precise motivation behind this realization. Perhaps it's because I'm working so much and so all my free time I feel is best allocated to spending time with my friends and getting my MTQ (Mee Time Quota - an integral element in my sanity level). So maybe it's just a lack of downtime that hasn't left me wanting for a relationship.

Perhaps I've just gotten USED to being single. It's been almost a year since my last relationship - somewhat of a record for me. Maybe I'm just fed up with the bullshit. Maybe I'm so sick and tired of all the games, bad dates and general BS that one has to put up with while trying to find the fabled "one" that I would rather spend time receiving unconditional love from my cat than seeking it from a guy (but I'll bet you that's what the 80 year old cat woman living next door thought when she was 26...so perhaps this is a dangerous road to travel).

The thing that actually surprises me most is that I LIKE being alone! Recently I've even taken to having dinner alone on occasion. Sitting at a booth in my favorite dive bar working, writing, having a beer (sometimes a Marlborro Light as well) eating a grilled cheese sandwich (on wheat bread with tomato). I LOVE it! I also went to see a movie this weekend - alone (a small, indy film I didn't want to have to talk my friends into seeing or apologize for if it was bad). And I didn't feel like a looser.

Should I feel like an anti-social recluse? Or should I feel like an incredibly self assured woman who sometimes prefers her own company to that of strange men she pretends to be interested in for the evening? I'm hoping it's latter, but maybe I'm in denial. Wouldn't be the first time ya know.

I'm looking at this as a healthy thing and I hope you'll agree but it may make me look like a jaded, romantically cynical cat lady. Frankly, I suppose there are worse things to be.

Friday night, when all of my blogger buddies were apparently having a grand old time at Lucky Bar, I was reliving my teenage years – flashing to back to when I was fifteen and making my bi-monthly Saturday night appearance at the Smith residence.

The Smith’s had 3 boys, ages 4, 8, and 10 and it was an easy job seeing as how they were all pretty self-sufficient, no need for diaper changing or human interaction really as they were perfectly content to spend the evening watching tv and playing video games. All I had to do was to cook them dinner (usually no more complicated than ordering pizza or making pasta, and its sad to say that the growth in my culinary repitoire has since plateaued) and then send them off to bed (at wich time my boyfriend would come over and we would “watch a movie” and we all know this phrase is fifteen year old speak for makeout for 2 hours).

This fun little evening would end around midnight when he would have to move his oh sooo cool red, Pontiac Sunfire (hey, I was a country girl…yes I thought his red Pontiac was cool) from the gravel driveway so Mr. & Mrs. Smith didn’t suspect that their babysitter was doing anything immoral whil'st their darling boys slept overhead.

Well, my Friday night was spent babysitting my boss’ daughter (who is, by the way, a precious moments doll come to life). Boss lady asked my if I would be cooking for her to which I replied, “not unless you want your daughter to have pizza, pasta or something that can be made by pressing the express-cook button the microwave.” So pizza it was! It was a harsh night, full of defeat – I got shut out of “Hungry Hungry Hippos”, got my @ss handed to me in “Candy Land” and at one point she had me under the dining room table glueing popcicle sticks together – Oy!

So I put her to bed around 9 after reading her two bedtime stories (beauty and the beast and Cinderella – a story I will NOT be reading to my own daughter) and tucked her in. About an hour later I heard her crying over the baby monitor. So of course I rushed in and picked her up, tried to calm her down.

I’m thinking “oh god! What’s the matter? Does your tummy hurt? Did you have a bad dream? Do you need water? Did you wet the bed?” And she’s just crying and crying and crying and I can’t calm her down! This goes on for like 5 minutes! (Felt like 30)

I’m thinking “OMG!” This is my boss’ kid! I’m going to get fired! Should I call 911? Should I call my boss? And then – she just stopped and went back to sleep! Apparently she has NIGHT TERRORS! This would have been useful information to have.. say at the beginning of the evening.

That took 2 years off my life I swear! Sigh of relief Well maybe someday I’ll have a little red headed, green-eyed terror of my very own….but for now I’ll stick to my birth control patch and my cat.

Frankly,