Over on Secret Society of List Addicts, some issues on which I can’t even get started in polite company.

NTKOG Year 2, #17: The kind of moxious seductress who, seizing an opportunity, more or less throws a guy up against a wall and demands what she wants.

I am: good at: long epistolary courtships, slightly saucy wordplay, middle-school confessions and the occasional discretionary skulking.

I am not: good at: talking to humans in bars. I leave that to the experts.

The Scene: The graduate student bar at Justice’s name-brand university in New England College Town, on a weirdly hoppin’ Thursday night. Kiss-Ducker and I are in town, celebrating Justice’s recent engagement. In magnanimous bride-to-be fashion, Justice has transformed into a total yenta, offering herself as wingwoman while Kiss-Ducker breaks a few hearts and I grudgingly agree to make a total ass of myself.

To this end, we whip out a little game we perfected in undergrad: Napkin Lists. The gist? At the beginning of the evening, I pulled out a Sharpie and a bar napkin, and we took turns coming up with challenges to complete before the end of the evening. Yeah, yeah, it’s truth or dare. We’re adults. Get psyched.

It's fair to say that whenever the three of us get together, we make a bit of an impression on the dudes around us. Largely by doing things like asking them to pluck single hairs from their heads, then defeat us in dance-offs.

After a few awkward starts and a heroic effort on Kiss-Ducker’s part, we’d managed to cross off about about a third of the list. With half an hour left before the most convenient shuttle home, though, we had to whip through five more items or admit defeat — a risk I just wasn’t willing to take.

So I brewed a plan to cross off, in one fell swoop, three items: 1) try on a fellow’s hat with his permission; 2) get someone to striptease off one article of clothing; and, if all went according to plan, 3) get someone to tell you what brand of deodorant they wear.

Scoured both levels of the bar to find a man wearing a hat — curses! they’d all disappeared! — then, clock ticking down, watched a guy push toward the bar followed slightly by his friend, a mid-height, sleepy-eyed dude with hurricane hair and, bingo!, a red plaid scarf.

And before I relate the following dialogue, a little context. Men are always asking what women want; what this woman wants? A restaurant recommendation, then for you to leave her alone. Oh, and to never ever ever have to have sex with you. I cemented the impression with baggy khakis, smeared day-old make-up and a slept-in ponytail. Hot stuff.

As red scarf walks by, I hail him, “Hey! Yeah, you! Can you settle a bet?” He sweeps the three of us with his sleepy eyes then smiles. I ask where he’s from; he says Toronto. A Canadian! I rather like Canadians.

TKOG: Okay, so the thing is, this is my friend Kiss-Ducker. She’s from Alabama, and she thinks guys look stupid when they’re taking off their scarves. Can you prove her wrong?
The Canadian:  What do you mean?
TKOG:  Well, I mean, you look like a guy who knows how to take a scarf off sexy. Can you do that for us? Just like really super oh-my-god sexy?

To his credit, he only looks confused for a moment before shimmying out of the scarf and — oh my god, tucking the end of it in my shirt? Ack. Foul. Still, one item down and two to go.

TKOG: See, that’s the thing about guys from Toronto. They know how to take off scarves. This one’s really nice, actually! Kiss-Ducker, it would look super cute on you! Can she try it on?

I toss it to her while he mumbles his consent, and she wraps it briefly around her neck. There are no hats in sight, so this is a fitting substitute — second item crossed off!

At this point, I expect him to run. It’s significantly the weirdest bar interaction I’ve ever had; heck, it’s lasted longer than most of the conversations I have with guys when I’m actually trying. Kiss-Ducker hands back his scarf and I wait for him to shuffle off, but he puts his arm around me. I look to the girls for help, but they’re talking to each other and pointedly ignoring me, those jackals. Still, a challenge is a challenge and I’ve still got one item left.

The Canadian and I chat for a while, and have a surprisingly pleasant conversation. Still, time is ticking away, so finally I lean toward him and exclaim:

TKOG: Dude, you smell fantastic. What brand of deodorant do you wear?
TC: I actually don’t wear deodorant.
TKOG: Wait, so that’s…
TC: Yup. That’s all me.

At which point I do what any normal girl would do (if she were to stop being normal and start acting like me, anyway): lower my face into his armpit and breathe deeply. And son of a gun, he does smell good. And furthermore, all three challenges crossed off. NAPKIN LIST BLITZ: ACHIEVED.

After which, I immediately lost interest. He continued talking and I stared at him in confusion. He wasn’t of anymore use to me! Why wasn’t he leaving? Oh, weird, did he just put his hand on my elbow? I stood in awkward silence until he disengaged; we made eye contact a few more times, but didn’t speak again for the ten minutes before my friends and I left the bar.

And now that I tell the full story, it sounds so obvious, but here’s the thing: it wasn’t until we got back home and my friends started teasing me mercilessly that I realized, holy shit, he might have actually kind of liked me. Justice and Kiss-Ducker patiently explained and rexplained the signs of his interest (arm around me, waiting hopefully for the conversation to continue, ignoring his friend at the bar), and the subtle signs of flirtation that I sent off (like, oh, I don’t know, using the word “sexy” nineteen thousand times before burying my face in his armpit). Because I can read in Russian and do stoichometry, but apparently can’t wrap my head around the fact that an actual Earth human might display boy-girl interest in a friggin’ bar.

The idea of meeting someone had literally never entered my head. Once I realized how thoroughly I’d missed it? Regret. Instant, crippling regret that I hadn’t even tried to extend the conversation or find out more about him. After all, he was darn cute, and he did smell awfully good…

The next night, Kiss-Ducker and Justice joked that I’d lost out on the love of my life, and mostly-teased that we should go out and try to find him again. The day after that, though, we went up to New York and completely forgot about him. After all, there are there are three billion men in the world, and even if he were the one that got away, the odds were less than zero that I’d ever meet him again.

Dead exhausted, we boarded the train home from New York a bit before midnight, in a four-seater on a packed train car where a few last stragglers stood to find seats. One of them was a guy with messy brown hair. “Hey,” whispered Kiss-Ducker, “wouldn’t it be funny if–”

He turned. Red plaid scarf. Locked eyes with us. “Well,” he smiled, “I certainly recognize you guys.”

“Want a seat?” I squeaked, clearing my coat from the one across from me.

“Absolutely.”

Oh snap, y’all, this blog post got SUPER EPIC LONG. To be continued on Friday.

Reminder: on Sunday, August 22, from 12:01AM to 11:59PM, my life is a Choose Your Own Adventure. Except you’re choosing my adventure. Tell me what to do via Twitter or blog comment and, as long as it isn’t illegal or too expensive, I’m all over it, dudes.

NTKOG #249: The kind of immaculately groomed pain-scoffer who — assuming women actually had armpit hair — would shell out the big bucks for a complete stranger to rip hers out by the roots.

I am: a complete wimp about wax-induced pain, which isn’t doing much for my future as a Career Dominatrix.

I am not: sure why women are so grossed out by their armpit hair anyway. We’re sexually mature mammals, dudes. Hair is a genetic factor here.

The Scene: Total Skin Care, a family-run waxing and skin salon in the ever-glamorous Allston. After a few weeks of angsting, breezed into the salon after work on Thursday and asked if they had any appointments for underarm deforestation. The charming woman at the counter penciled me in for an appointment forty-five minutes later then — as I dashed out to find the nearest DIY anesthesia center (ie: bar) — called out anxiously: “Wait, are you sure your armpit hair is long enough to wax? How long has it been since you shaved it?”

Uh, will six months do?

Guys, let’s talk about armpit hair. I realize this is a completely TMI admission, and verges on societal unacceptability, but — I kind of like it. I know, as women we’re total failures unless we pluck, pinch and alter every square inch of our bodies, but, dude, what’s so wrong with a little underarm foliage? About four years ago, I made the aesthetic decision to grow mine out; because The Ex and I were of one mind about the allure of a little spray of hair, I haven’t really looked back since.

The way I see it, my armpit hair is who I am. I’m not vain, I love my body, and my primary goal in 98% of social interactions is to weed out dudes who don’t have a high tolerance for personal eccentricities. Plus, whenever I contemplate shaving, I always think: dude, what if I’m stuck in some sort of missile-launching scenario with half a dozen foreign leaders, all locked in an underground bunker in our shirtsleeves for eighteen hours a day until we reach a final decision and, just at the fever pitch of military negotiation, I’m asked the single most important question of my life — if I shave under my arms, what the hell will I have to stroke contemplatively?

TKOG: greatest sex symbol of our time? Or of all time? Discuss.

Regardless, it was with the heavy heart of Sampson lowering himself into Delilah’s barber’s chair that I wandered down the salon’s steps and thrust myself into my fate. Not ten minutes later, I was folded into the embrace of Barbara, a woman a little older than my mother. Flowing skirt, unfussy hair, radiantly sarcastic grin — you know, like the cool aunt who takes you out whenever she’s in town and talks cute strangers into salsa dancing with you in the middle of taquerias.

Within the first five seconds in the waxing room, she told me to take off my top. Um, okay, I hesitated, waiting for her to leave the room. She didn’t. So off came the shirt and I splayed myself on the chair, arms up, my whole body clenched like a fist to protect me from the awkwardness and pain that was about to come. Except that didn’t happen either.

As she spread the hot wax on my first ‘pit, she launched into a hilarious diatribe about her gay dog and his heterophobia. Dude, you should lend him to me to take on dates, I laughed, then started to warn her that I’d probably scream when she pulled the wax out — except when I looked down at my underarm, it was already shorn. Magic.

“Dude, how’d you do that?!” I yelped. She beamed, almost coquettishly, the sly guru of hair removal, and admitted the secret was in her stories.

“Which one do you want to hear next, honey?” she asked, squirting lotion into her hand. “Wanna hear about my porn stars?” She massaged the lotion into my armpit, firmly, while gazing into the distance. “Some of the ones that come to me are gorgeous. I wouldn’t mind having one of them myself…”

From there, she described trade secrets about removing testicle hair, then told a story about a conservative judge and his hair-removed junk so uproarious that I had to beg her to stop because my abs were cramping from laughter. Big improvement from my last hair-removal experience, which I left shrieking like a freemason during the Inquisition.

By the time my ‘pits were soft and hair-free, I was too in love with Barbara to just let her wander out of my life. Uh, hey, I asked, trying to drag out the interaction, you know those, like, hairs on your toe-knuckles?

“Oh honey, say goodbye to ‘em,” she grinned, dribbling hot wax on my much maligned feet. “This one’s on the house!”

Too soon after, I got properly dressed again and followed her to the counter, where I paid the (incredibly reasonable) fee, volunteered to ghostwrite her memoirs, and promised to be back soon. And, between us, I definitely will.

The Verdict: Wow! Glad I retried waxing! Turns out that the sum of your experience has almost nothing to do with wax types or salon quality — the right warm, radiant personality can turn torture (literal torture!) into a deliriously delightful experience. Frankly, the fact that my armpits look great (and socially acceptable, for once) was just a bonus. I would have paid her just to stand there and listen to her stories.

Also, for what it’s worth, Sampson may have been shorn, but isn’t altogether powerless. I’m still nervous about my lack of meditative strokeability in a nuclear winter scenario, but, that aside, forgot that shaven ‘pits look pretty okay. I may or may not keep it up, but if I do, waxing all the way.

On Secret Society of List Addicts, jobs I wouldn’t do for any amount of money — even if it would mean being able to pay my rent on time every month.

NTKOG #246: The kind of infinitely obliging nighttime pedestrian who, when strange men aggressively leer, seriously considers their propositions.

I am: a lady-dude and, as such, occasionally subjected to the vile hooting of apparently myopic dudes who spend their evenings leaning against chain-link fences, grunting mating calls.

I am not: ever going to get used to this. I’m the happy product of suburban geek culture, where pointedly asking a lady for brunch recommendations is about as straight-up promiscuous as a dude can get.

The Scene: Dragging my weary, frizzy and infinitely cranky self home after a(nother) twelve-hour day at the office. For the past two weeks, Co-Worker and I have been enjoying a series of work-evening “sleepovers” auditing files, and after a seriously productive evening, I was looking forward to decanting my jellified brain into a gin and ginger, then catching nine hours of the dreamless.

What I was not planning to do was talk to any dudes. Unfortunately, the early-20s punk leaning against a local convenience store wall, chain-smoking Pall Malls hadn’t gotten that memo. “Hey mami,” he grunted, “where you going?”

Forgive me for questioning your approach, Street Dudes, but I’ve got to say, that question has always perplexed me. Because of the vibrant street ensemble in the area where I work, I get it most often while walking back to the office on my lunch break, carrying grocery bags. Where you going, girl? “God, funny you should ask. I’m bringing back hors d’oeuvres for an orgy in my office. Wanna come? (ps: that is sexy wordplay about ejaculation.)” Seriously, guys, what’s your friggin’ strategy?

Anyway, after twelve hours of work stress, I was in no mood to educate a late-night convenience store buzzard on feminism, so I cranked up my music and prepared to ignore him, when he reached out to touch my shoulder and asked again: “Aw, c’mon, where you going?”

And so the unthinkable, the inevitable. I yanked my headphones out and swiveled to face him, my nose mere inches from his straggly mustache. “I’m going home. To bed.”

“Can I come with you?” he asked, before the words had even stopped vibrating through my larynx. Upon closer inspection, he was younger than I thought, his skin pulled with bouncy-ball tautness over newly prominent jaw and cheekbones. He must have been a full half-decade younger than me, a lamb in wolf’s clothing.

“Yeah, sure,” I grinned back, calm and radiant, “let’s have sex. Let’s totally have sex.” To his credit, as soon as I said it, Debauched Babyface immediately dashed his cigarette to the ground in a pretty slick Manly Man Of Action move. “So do you, like, have an apartment or a car or something? Or like, what, a moped? I guess we could try it on a moped. Let’s do this.”

Maybe it all seemed too easy, or maybe the moped accusation affronted his masculinity, but DB took a large step back. “O–okay.” Finally, unfolding before my eyes, the answer to the question: What do cat-callers do when they finally get the girl? Back away nervously, apparently. He patted down his baggy jeans pockets to dig out his softpack of cigarettes.

“Dude, come on, I thought you, like, wanted to hook up.”

“With you?”

Ouch, dude. Ouch. Was I getting rejected by him? Truly, has my life come to this?

“Absolutely,” I smiled, taking a step toward him, half a hip swivel away from AC Slatering him against the wall. “I mean, I was just minding my own business, walking home, and you harassed me. What can I say? You changed my mind.” Silence. Silence. “I assume you want to have sex. Why else would you be bothering me?”

And through his rubber babyface, a lightning-fast ripple of contrition. “It was just a compliment.” And then he hardened again — “crazy bitch” — and spat on the ground at my feet. Yeah, you might be right, kid, but you just reminded this crazy bitch why she’s so very happy to be going home alone.

The Verdict: So, my sister’s roommate has two kittens who spend the vast majority of their days tearing through the house, pouncing after flies. I’ve only ever seen the kittens catch one once and, when they did, they had absolutely no idea what to do with it. They batted it around the bathroom for a while, drooled on it some, then leaned back on their paws and let it fly free.

I always sort of imagined that turning catcallers’ aggression back on them would yield similar results. But dude he didn’t even want to bat me around or slobber a little on me. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or sort of offended. So instead, I’m choosing to feel profoundly bewildered not only that guys find this behavior appropriate but that they’re apparently engaging in a catcalling as an end unto itself.

Dudes and lady-dudes, someone explain this to me: has catcalling ever actually led to intercourse? Does anyone — catcallers included — enjoy it in any way? And, short of uncomfortably propositioning them like I did, how do you deal with this ridiculous obnoxiousness?

NTKOG #244: The kind of besotted transit enthusiast who, once you catch her eye, turns the traincar into a make-shift angsty calc class and, gosh, passes you a love note.

I am: forever falling in love with people on trains and busses. Those are the best moments, I think, when a strictly theoretical interaction hovers in the realm of infinitely possibility before you inevitably pass from each other’s lives forever.

I am not: in the habit of actually informing momentary eye-catchers how lovely they are. There are national registries for dudes in said habit, guys.

The Scene: A Brooklyn-bound L Train last weekend, returning home from a lovely evening with Muscles and Justice. And while trains fascinate me even in the mildest of times, this particular car was especially alive with possibility, thanks to a magical urban anecdote Muscles had shared with me a few days prior.

Apparently he had been riding the train, as usual — standard T-shirt, ratty jeans, reading an Evelyn Waugh novel — when an anonymous woman brushed past him and dropped a note in his lap. I don’t usually do things like this, she more or less said, but you’re extremely handsome and — what if? Justice, Muscles and I reread the note a number of times, exclaiming over how cool and ballsy it was of her, and how in an alternate universe, we would have had a killer real-life rom-com on our hands.

From this discussion, two lessons: 1) See, gentlemen? This is what happens when you read Waugh novels in public; and 2) even though the note didn’t result in a love connection, and she must have been terrified to write it, nothing bad happened. Her note was the delight of all — including the girlfriend of the gentleman she’d approached.

I’d had this idea a few times before, but doing it in my hometown seemed with awkward possibility; however I was determined that before I left New York, I’d drop off a similar missive.

Unfortunately, it seems that train cars are only filled with cute guys on the days you couldn’t care less. For miles of train car between Williamsburg and Manhattan, my searching gaze was met only by homeless dudes, awkward tweens and pale, fanny-packed tourists.

As I was about to give up, on the last subway ride of the weekend, I saw him. Mid-thirties, maybe; fantastic blazer, dark-wash jeans, buttery navy loafers; riding home at midnight on a Saturday, he looked exhausted, but — more — disappointed in himself for feeling so tired. He looked the way that I always feel: like he’d tried his best and wasn’t going to take another step until something magical happened.

Oh whatever, I'll bet Robert Browning got his start scrawling ambiguous missives on the back of bakery receipts.

For three stops, hopped anxiously out of my seat every few seconds to make sure I didn’t miss his auspicious exit. Finally, saw the crown of his head rising above the thronging passengers, threw myself through a couple that was making out in my path, and extended the note. Sir! Sir!

Goddamnit, HEADPHONES! With one foot out the train, he hadn’t heard me. Desperately, I grabbed the train pole — my fist mere inches in front of a twelve-year-old’s face — and swung myself across it like a manic Gene Kelly just close enough to his path to tuck the note into the breast pocket of his blazer.

Unfortunately, just as I started tucking, he spun around to look back into the car, causing me to awkwardly stroke the smudgy receipt across his chest, then, paralyzed with horror, watch him retreat.

Another successful social interaction with another human being.

Afterwards, had only one stop to figure out how to dispense of the note. It wasn’t a proper love note, I reasoned, and surely there’s another jeans-clad man with excellent shoes who could use a pick-me-up! As we got off the train, I spotted a snappily attired gay Asian guy on a date with his cute-but-unkempt boyfriend, ran fifteen feet after him in the tunnel, tapped his shoulder and pressed it into his hand.

After which, because they were apparently walking the same direction we were, I had to run back in the tunnel and hide behind Muscles for the whole way out. As we walked aboveground, though, I hovered in the stairwell long enough to see him pause in front of the ticket machine and read the note out loud. The guys were laughing but, uh, I hope they were smiling too?

The Verdict: Argh I am terminally awkward. This anecdote is slowly receding from mortifying to hilarious, though, and in the worst-case scenario, at least I’ve secured a footnote on yet another Loonies Not To Lunch With list. Can’t argue with that, eh?

Guys! I’m so excited by the response to the PO Box! I got lots of great comments and emails and, once I have a few days to make logistical calls, expect an email from me. If you don’t know what I’m talking about or aren’t sure if you might be interested (in using it, even if you don’t want to make a donation), then check it out here.

Over on Secret Society of List Addicts, check out a few split-second decisions that tempt me on a daily basis but would undoubtedly ruin my friggin’ life.

NTKOG #229: The kind of self-confident master of her own domain who is good enough, smart enough and, goddamnit, will tell off a jerk who has it coming.

I am: kind of on the meek side. One of those people who convulsively apologizes just for walking in your path or — heaven forfend! — accidentally breathing on you.

I am not: meek because of any great gentleness or sweet nature. Perish the thought. I usually just have a hard time realizing when I have the right to be angry.

The Scene: My apartment, at a quarter past eight, booking it for the bus to work. Because I’ve been waking up early to clean my apartment, I’d spent the past hour or so attacking all the nebulous to-recycle junkmail and magazines that had accumulated in every crevice of my apartment. So I was feeling mighty accomplished to bustle out the door, carrying two full trash bags of rejected papers.

On the way out, ran into my super. “What day is it?” he barked at me.

“Wednesday,” I chirped, positively seething virtue.

“And do you know what day the trash gets collected?” he demanded.

“Uhhh, Wednesday, I think?” Not even nine in the morning and already, in the eyes of the world, I was faltering.

As my super stared at me with scorn and pity, I swear I could see the blood floating up like lava lamp bubbles to the swollen anger-vein in his forehead.

“Then why are you putting your trash out now?! It’s already been picked up! What are you thinking of?!” As he lathered himself up to righteous wrath, he leaned his whole body into the doorway separating me from the staircase — and the world beyond, the one where I needed to get on a damn bus. And then he really launched into it.

A word about my landlord. Dude is, for starters, super-Soviet. And while he’s a generally nice man, because of some combination of my age and gender, he seems to assume my life is the epicenter of some moral depravity the depths of which he can’t even fathom. I mean, me! Sure, I may have cut a few lines of fleur-de-sel in the bathroom once but, dude, I donate to charity! I eat organic! I go to the library every friggin’ day.

Then again, this is the man who blames every broken thing in my apartment — from broken locks to leaky faucets to burned-out lightbulbs — on my “many gentleman visitors”. Like, heads-up, sir? The only man who’s been in my bed this year is PG Wodehouse. And seeing as how he’s been dead for forty years, something tells me he wouldn’t be too interested in my faucets, leaky or otherwise.

After the super had screamed “inconsiderate” twice, I put the garbage bags down and settled in for the long haul. When he started yelling so loudly that two neighbors poked their heads out the door to see what was going on, I pulled out my iPhone and hit the stopwatch.

Five minutes and thirty-eight seconds. For five-minutes and thirty-eight seconds, he accused me of being inconsiderate, ungrateful, lazy, a secret basement-hygiene saboteur.

Normal TKOG would have started apologizing ten seconds in and — in all honesty — probably be out on the street already. Sure, I did nothing wrong, but an apology is cheap and doesn’t hurt anyone. But, dude, is it so very wrong to admit when you’re not in the wrong?

Finally, when he’d reached the greatest swell of his rage, he paused for breath, and I cut in:

“Hey, you know how I pay rent every month? Well, if you want me to keep on doing that, you need to let me go right now so I can get to work.” He sputtered angrily, as I passed, then turned back: “And next time? You should probably calm the fuck down.”

The Verdict: Dude, I think that’s the first time in my life I’ve ever cursed at an actual (non-parent) adult. Crazy. Not that I’d do that part of it again, but the rest? Okay.

A coda to the story: a few days later, I ran into him in the foyer, and he apologized for losing his temper. And normal TKOG would be so thrilled by the spirit of reconciliation that she’d be practically heimleiching out all the apologies stuck in her throat. But stuck to my no-apologies rule.

“I understand and I accept your apology, but I think you’ll find I’m a reasonable person. Next time you want me to do something, please ask nicely.”

Frig yeah! No apologies! Not ever! Except, actually, still probably sometimes! Or even most of the time! But I think I’m going to make more of an effort to apologize when I’ve done something wrong, and not just continue my current path of ceaselessly apologizing just for being alive.

NTKOG: The kind of frugal, level-headed domestic goddess who takes yo’ Depression-era grandma for a run for housekeeping money.

I am: at least a solid half-level above Microwave Gourmet in the kitchen. Isn’t that enough? No? You beasts!

I am not: secure enough with the essentials of domesticity to even begin considering thrift, frugality or any of those other Laura Ingalls Wilder motivational cross-stitch staples.

The Scene: My postage-stamp Brighton apartment, which is just about big enough to hold one — as long as you don’t have big dreams.

Let me level with you a bit, kittens: Ignore the number in the description up there. I haven’t just done 222 or 250 or even 300 of these NTKOGs — I’ve done more than I can easily count. The problem? Not all of them make good stories. In fact, half of the things I do specifically for this blog end up getting scrapped because there just isn’t 500 words of content in ‘em.

I’ve taken to thinking of these failed NTKOGs as didn’t-kill-me’s. ’cause that’s all there really is to say. Wore a too-short skirt work? Didn’t kill me. Told off a homeless dude for sticking his arm in my shirt up to the elbow? Didn’t kill me. Sat up until 3am drinking boxed wine on the curb with a Jordanian immigrant? Well, you get the message.

Unsurprisingly, many of these didn’t-kill-me’s are stories that take place in the privacy of my own apartment, where I try day by day to take on the non-glamorous task of finally becoming an adult. Still, in the spirit of frugality (and saving you having to read a post every single day ’til August 23), let us indulge for a moment in a compost heap of domestic-themed NTKOGs.

NTKOG #224: Washing and re-using various disposable household goods. This one was brought on by my year-long spurning of paper towels. Heck, if I can save a tree or two, how many casualties could I save in the plastic rainforest?

Cue many weeks of rinsing and reusing plastic cutlery at work, using old wine bottles as water carafes (’till they crowded out my fridge, that is — whoops), and painstakingly washing and drying my old Ziploc bags.

The Verdict: Oh man, this made me feel like the special guest star of a Hoarders prequel. With the exception of the wine bottles, which felt a bit roguish and debonair, it’s just — it’s just so much effort to save something that costs mere pennies. Plus, I’m not convinced it’s environmentally useful, what with the massive water consumption it entails. Voting this one a thumbs-down with a double serving of, dude, I am not my grandmother. (Which is probably a good thing, or else my fridge would be too crammed with decades-expired cans of lard to have room for wine in the first place.)

NTKOG #225: Eating expired food. See what I mean about the non-glamorous thing?

Let me be straight with you: I’m such a paranoid culinary princess that I can’t even eat leftovers more than 24 hours later. And the second we approach the expiry month of a food product? See ya.

Nonetheless, conquered my revulsion by working through two half-gallon bottles of month-expired soy milk. Which, unlike moo milk, tasted exactly the same as they did the day I bought them.

Later, growing riskier, I cleaned out my seriously limp crisper drawer into a pot of chili that tasted — what’d'ya know?! — exactly like my usual recipe. But my craving for zombified produce reached its pinnacle when I prepared and ate, of my own free will, banana-nut dinosaur muffins out of these:

I generally have a rule against foods that can be described as "sludgey," but even three weeks old, organic bananas are too $$$ to throw away.

The Verdict: The first didn’t-kill-me I’ve been delighted and surprised to find actually. didn’t. kill me.

NTKOG #226: The kind of gender-neutralized toolbelt-wielding lady who fearlessly handywomans her own environs. By which I mean. I scraped and re-grouted the crusty tiles in my bathroom. For fun.

The Verdict: Okay, this one actually did almost kill me. Because my Roomba was running in the other rooms I, like an idiot, closed myself in the bathroom for three hours with the caulking solution, then hyperventilated and passed out very briefly in the bathtub. Which is a lot funnier in retrospect than it was at the time.

Oh whatever. Like Bob Vila never had a bloopers reel…

Meta-Verdict: One doesn’t like to brag but — this guy? Totally not dead yet. No, no, hold your applause.

Correction: I might have died of cuteness after eating these.

NTKOG #223: The kind of jumpsuit-chaser who, not content with her current social milieu, jumps at the chance to add inmates to the mix.

I am: not sure I know anyone who’s ever been in prison. Primarily because I haven’t stayed in touch with anyone from high school.

I am not: well-acquainted with prisoners’ rights or psychology. Heck, I don’t even watch movies that involve prisons.

The Scene: My local CVS, where I picked up five pleasant by generic birthday cards. At the check-out aisle, the clerk asked if I had a lot of friends. “Not — not at all, actually.”

Afterwards, went online to Write A Prisoner. Y’know, as one generally does after visiting the stationery store.

A little background here: senior year of college, I got obsessed with the idea of becoming pen pals with Erik Menendez. It stemmed from a Radar article that was running the rounds, about a pop culture journalist, Bill Geerhart, who pretended to be his eight-year-old self, writing to famous Death Row inmates for advice about the kinds of problems eight-year-olds have. (Should I drop out of school? Why do I have to clean my room? Who would win: a shark or a T-Rex? That sort of thing.)

In hopes of getting his story, he also included a self-addressed stamped envelope and stationery for all of his correspondents. A number of them wrote back, including Erik Menendez who, with elegant penmanship, wrote something along the lines of: “Thank you for your letter, but next time there is no need to send paper or a stamp or that sort of thing,” before pouring out a thoughtful and amazingly sweet four-page letter.

I don’t know what it was, but that sentence made me cry. In fact, it still makes my eyes prickle. Maybe because it was so considerate, so hopeful, completely oblivious to the fact that he was being manipulated for a smarmy media piece.

When I first proposed writing to Menendez, Justice and another friend of ours vehemently dissuaded me — for, I’ll admit, the very practical reason that disclosing my name and address to a felon might be classified as a Very Bad Idea.

But while they were dissuading me, the other friend told me: “They’re just inmates. If you really want to do something nice, do it for someone who deserves it.”

Even all these years later, I still find that thought upsetting. It seems so … unforgiving.

So, after I bought the cards, I checked Write a Prisoner and found five inmates who shared my birthday and sent them a card. God knows I’ve had a few horrible birthdays, but never in the solitary-confinement class. Everyone deserves a little recognition on their birthday and no matter what awful things I might have done or might still do in this world, I know I wouldn’t want anyone to forget that small human fact.

The Verdict: To anyone who might be concerned, I did what I could about taking precautions. I used a modified form of my name (full first name + middle name) and a very non-specific address — which will, sadly, preclude people writing back. It was hard, actually, finding five profiles that didn’t begin “Hey ladies!”. Although one was by a man only a few years older than me, who quoted The Odyssey and talked simply and seriously about how he was looking to continue his self-education. I wrote him with my real address.

I’m not worried, because he doesn’t get out until 2028. I don’t know what he’s in for. I didn’t have the heart to look.

Now I’m looking into programs through local churches to actually write and receive responses from people without disclosing my address. It feels wrong not to try this. I call myself a writer because I cherish the absurd notion that I might be able to one day string a few words together in a way that changes someone’s life for the better. What if there’s someone out there who really needs a few considerate words? Wouldn’t I be a terrible phony if I didn’t at least try?

You can mock me or call me crazy all you want in the comments section. Doing this was my birthday present to myself. (Well, that, and about a million drinks in New York, which I’m enjoying even as we speak. A girl can’t strive for personal enlightenment all the time.)

ITALICS MONSTER! Two things: 1) Cool, so there’ll definitely be some sort of little party in Boston after my NTKOG year is over. Details forthcoming, my parents’ schedules pending. 2) Forgive the recent proliferation of ads (yes, even you RSS readers): I’m just trying everything for a week to see which earns me the most, after which, in the words of Highlander, there can only be one.

NTKOG 221: The kind of sanctimonious busybody who, observing your behavior isn’t up to her purse-lipped par, grabs you by the elbow and tells you how to live.

I am: annoyed by nothing in the world quite so much as old people who, seeing me on the street, descend from the guru-mountain of senescence to lecture me about my clothes, my hair, my body — whatever pops into their minds.

I am not: even always the best judge of my behavior, let alone anyone else’s.

The Scene: The Boston Public Library, a quarter of an hour before closing time. I was browsing the W’s fiction shelf for some nighttime reading, when a shriek ricocheted through the marble foyer.

“Help me! Help! Make her stop!” a teenage girl screamed.

A series of ominous thumps, then a deep women’s voice, cracking with panic, cried out: “Call the police! Call an ambulance! Goddamnit, call somebody!”

Her voice physically dragged me across ten feet of carpeting and into the foyer, where a few patrons stood frozen at the check-out line and half a dozen library employees clustered in an anxious knot.

On the outside of one of the big glass doors, a woman — mid-forties but with an older face — wrestled a skinny teen girl against the glass. The girl twisted herself around, trying to land a vicious elbow into the woman’s face, letting out an animal wail.

Somehow, the women hooked her left ankle into one of the next set of doors and dragged it open enough to scream into the library again: “Call a fucking ambulance! It’s my daughter. She stole my phone. She just got out of the hospital.”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” the girl screeched. “I’ve never seen this woman before in my life!” The rest was lost in sobs.

And maybe it was the scared resignation in the woman’s voice, or the way she was ripping her body in an attempt to restrain the girl while seeking help, but something told me this was indeed a mother, dealing with only the latest episode in a long, sad battle with her daughter’s mental illness. It’s just a guess, mind you. But if you were there, I think you’d agree it’s a good one.

After two or three more minutes of wrestling and wailing, the head security guard stepped outside. “Has someone helped you?” he boomed.

“No. I keep asking. I’ve asked five fucking times for an ambulance! I took her out of the hospital and it was a mistake — she needs to go back right now.”

The guard paced back to the security desk in quick, measured steps, and — finally — called the proper autorities. As he started describing the situation to the dispatcher, I checked out my book and slinked out of the library.

Except, out on the street, I was the only person moving. There must have been three dozen pedestrians gawking at the specacles — eyes wide, whispering to each other out of the corners of their mouths, all but nursing bowls of Jiffy Pop.

And, dude, something inside of me snapped.

“Hey,” I broke into a coven of after-work PR blondes. “They called the cops. You should probably keep walking — all these people can’t be helping the situation.”

One of the blondes made a moue of disgust, but they shifted.

One by one, ran up to the groups of goggling pedestrians. “Dude, there’s nothing to see there. It’s none of your business.”

Some people moved away; some stayed, staring, smiling, speculating on the scene with schadenfreudistic glee. Then, out of the corner of my eye, a glint of iPhone casing.

Twenty feet from the scene, a crew of high-school boys stood, one training his phone on the whole conflict.

“Are you taping this?!” I spat. “What, are you going to put it on YouTube?”

“Come on,” the ringleader grinned. “It’s hilarious.”

And there were many things I wanted to do. I wanted to swipe the phone from his hand and smash it to the ground. I wanted to click through his contacts and call his mother, tell him what her son was out doing. I wanted to smack his smug face until he learned the difference between suffering and entertainment. But of course I couldn’t do any of those things — not with the cops already on their way. So, I did the only thing I could do.

I danced.

Ducked into the path of his iPhone video until I was obscuring the entire frame, then danced my spastic ass off. Where he swiveled, I followed instantly; where he tried to evade, I only took up more space; where he ran, I followed. I blocked out every trace of the two women’s struggle until, finally, he gave up.

“Crazy bitch,” he snarled. Which tells me two things. First, this kid obviously doesn’t appreciate fine dance. And second, that he might have a bigger lesson to learn about what is and what isn’t entertainment.

The Verdict: Not sure how sold I am on this one. On the one hand, it’s the type of thing I feel myself increasingly drawn to do these days, yet lack the commitment (and willingness to look like a total ass) to actually pull off.

On the other, it doesn’t escape me that it might be a trifle hypocritical. After all, who am I to unilaterally declare what is and is not a worthy public spectacle? Besides, to be perfectly honest, I know I would have been staring away if I were that teenager. So what about a year ago? Or six months ago? Or yesterday?

Making other people’s ethical decisions for them: fraught. Guerrilla-dancing in other people’s YouTube-bound videos: hilarious. Let’s go ahead and call this one a draw.

This post is about me trying to improve my body but, entre nous, even without trying, women already kind of have the being-sexy thing down to a science. Check out my list of top five all-time sexy female attributes over at SSoLA. (Trigger Warning: accidental, uh, cannibal tangent?)

NTKOG #211: The kind of disgustingly virtuous personal fitness junkie who jolts awake  at 6am, runs approximately half the circumference of the globe, then saunters into work with a soy-protein smoothie, no worse for the wear.

I am: out of shape. As in, I wouldn’t take on Pavarotti in a footrace. And, yes, I am aware he’s dead.

I am not: up for flaunting this fact to the general populace. While I’m certainly one for periodic bursts of virtuous exercise, they tend to take place behind closed doors. Heck, even buying a guest-pass to an all-women’s gym stressed me out!

The Scene: The mean streets of Brighton, Allston and – depending how in-shape I feel – as far as Brookline. Y’know, the streets where other people exist. And watch you. And judge.

For the past two weeks (sssssshh, I don’t I won’t stick with it, but let’s play pretend, shall we?), four mornings a week I’ve been jerking myself out of bed at 6:30 and immediately shackling on those running shoes for a half-hour or so of mad dashing. I’ll always be a Brain, but I’m trying to make more of an effort now to think of my body as a pivotal component of my human experience, instead of a dude who just happens to get invited to all the same parties I do.

Have you guys heard of the Couch-to-5K program? It’s basically interval training for people who, like me, suck at exercise. More importantly, it has a free iPhone app, wherein a posh woman with a slight New Zealand accent coos in your ear: “Now run for two minutes!” “You can walk again in half a minute!” “You can start walking … in ten seconds!”

She always fools me with that last one. Bitch.

For those of you blessed enough to live far, far away from muggy East Coast summers, let me tell you: early-morning jogging and 80-degree, 90%-humidity weather do. not. mix. The first morning of my “training” (ha!), as I launched into the third of what should have been eight easy one-minute runs, I suddenly stopped, gasping. My friggin’ lungs were filling with water! Flaming water! Oh god make it stop.

Forget Couch-To-5K. Maybe there’s some sort of remedial Bed-To-Couch program I could start with?

The part I most feared, though, was being forced to catch eyes with other early-morning dwellers while my sweaty, wheezing self polluted the neighborhood scenery. It’s not nice and it’s not okay, but you know we’ve all had cruel thoughts or even made snide comments about out-of-shape joggers. Obviously it makes no sense, because, dude, they’re obviously trying to help their bodies, but – I don’t know. People can be kind of sucky.

For a couple of mornings, I was desperately paranoid that the worst would come to pass. My seventh-grade crush would pop out behind some shrubbery and jeer: “Uh, maybe you should have tried diet before exercise!” Maybe Jillian Michaels would leap down from the top of a building and punch me in the face. Something awful would happen – I just knew it.

Then, on my third morning, the thing I’d feared the most: as I careened down a residential hill near the end of my work-out, the back of my tank top blooming a gruesome Rorschach of sweat, a middle-aged man working on the truck in his driveway shouted something out to me.

“What?!” I called back, taking out my earbuds, trying to set my jaw into a weak smile.

“I said good for you, honey.” He shouted back. “Hot fucking day. I couldn’t do it.”

Somehow the pain mysteriously seeped out of my tired muscles as I raced the rest of the way home.

The Verdict: Well, after a few mornings of surreptitiously googling “how to run with oxygen tank” at work, I think I’ve very slightly started to get the hang of the thing. A little more mileage, a smidgeon fewer pleas for death. Hell, this time a year from now, I might not even break a sweat trying to peel an orange.