So you have undoubtedly heard all about the guy who got the crap hassled out of him about canceling his AOL account, right? And you would think that the people in charge of doing cancellations would have been told to watch their asses, at least for a while, wouldn't you?

It will probably come as a surprise to most people who know me that I have actually had an AOL account for quite a while. Not a whole one -- just the one to let you on if you already have your own ISP and so forth. For a while, when I was working more at trying to think about what kind of freelancing I wanted to do, I was sort of consuming all entertainment content everywhere, and I got the lamebrained idea that I wanted an AOL account, and I never used it, and today, I finally got around to canceling it. Not that they didn't, exactly as the guy in the now-famous story says, as well as in some other ways, try to make it more difficult. I find it hilarious that they canned the guy who did it to the famous blogger, because that particular guy was more than obviously just doing what he was supposed to do, based on what I experienced.

First, I waited on hold for ten minutes. Yes, you have to wait ten minutes to talk to someone about canceling your account. During which, obviously, if something else comes up, you will just have to keep paying until you can wait another ten minutes.

By the time I got a person on the phone, the automated lady's voice had already put me through identifying my account and verifying my identity with my security question. Nevertheless, when I got on the phone with Robert, the first thing I had to do was spend an inordinate amount of time verifying who I was. Not really sure why the lady's automated voice did it, unless it was to keep me on the line longer and make the process more difficult. You don't think it could be THAT, do you?

Of course, Robert wanted to know why I wanted to cancel. "I don't want it anymore," I replied. "Uh-huh," he said. "Now, I see you connect at high speed. Did you know that we have a program where you can blah blah blah." "I really don't want it anymore," I said. "I'm asking you to cancel it."

Robert: "Was there something wrong with the service?"

This is when I start to get pissed. Dude. I don't have to tell you why I'm canceling. So I tell him basically that. "I don't want to sit here and have a conversation about it," I tell him. "I just want to cancel it."

"Well," he says, "I realize it's not convenient for you, but we use this information."

This pissed me off fiercely. Because some people who you get on the phone are going to think this means they are somehow obligated to cooperate with this process, which you're obviously not. And I told him that. "I don't think I'm required to explain it. I simply don't want it anymore. I want to cancel it."

And then he pauses. "You have to help me out here, I have this whole checklist that I have to go through, I mean, as far as why you're canceling."

"Well," I tell him, "it's now partly this experience. This is horrible customer service. I want it canceled, and I don't want to stand around and talk about it."

There is another pause. And then, with all the sarcasm he can muster, he says, "Thanks for sharing that information with me."

He continues to stall. "Can you just -- I can't even... you have to give me one reason why you want to cancel."

I speak slowly but clearly. "Terrible customer service on the phone," I say. "You can put that."

My blood begins to boil. And then he says, "Okay, I'm going to set you up so that you can keep it for free for a while, so you can ensure the security of your computer."

"What are you talking about?" I ask him.

"Well," he says, "we have a safety and security package through AOL, which means your computer is probably getting its security through us, so before you cancel, you should make arrangements, because otherwise, once you cancel, your computer will be totally unprotected. And you have high speed, which is the most dangerous."

So now, we have entered the land of the outright scam, where they try to scare the uninitiated into thinking that canceling their AOL accounts will subject their computers to viruses and other attacks. Which... he knows I don't get my internet through them, so why would my security be through them? In other words, this is bullshit, and what's more, he knows it's bullshit as he says it. And I know exactly what he has in mind. He wants to say that I can have, say, a free month to look into "security," and then I can call back and cancel. Which they're hoping I won't get around to doing. So I tell him, "I want to cancel it. I don't have my security through AOL; my computer is fine. I want to cancel it now. I don't want to extend the time for free; I don't want anything. I want to cancel it, and I want to cancel it right now."

"You know," he says, "I could get you on a plan that would be cheaper."

"No."

"It would be as low as five dollars a month."

"No."

Finally -- finally -- he agrees to cancel the account. And then, before he shoots me over to the recording that they make you sit through, in which they bore you with the details of how you can reactivate your account, knowing that you have to listen in case there's another confirmation you have to do at the end or something, he asks me whether I would be willing to complete a survey.

I should have said yes, of course, and filled it out to say that he sucked, but I don't. I get off the phone, after duly listening to my recorded message.

But consider the official AOL line after the blogger's story came out, and consider how many times they've said that customer service people are not supposed to make it hard to cancel. I, personally, am having a slightly difficult time believing it.

1. When you sit down with an interviewer who is holding a dog-eared, pages-folded-down copy of your book with things underlined -- meaning she may not have read it, but SOMEONE did -- that means you are going to have a good time, be made to look good, and be treated well.

2. You can't hold your breath as long as you might think, especially while nervous, especially while being sprayed with airbrush-style makeup and then blown dry with a fan waved in front of your face. (Evan: "That was like being David Blaine. Except I didn't even know I was going under.")

3. I can now run a microphone under my shirt in about two seconds.

4. There is apparently some kind of massive secret deal under which all green rooms have coffee from Au Bon Pain. I... don't know.

5. Watch out for coverage of chihuahua races, which take up a surprising amount of time that could otherwise be spent asking probing questions about new books.

6. All NBC guests really DO stay at the Essex House, just like it always says.

7. At the Essex House, it can take three requests, one hour, and a walk down to the front desk to actually obtain a room-service menu. Well, a room-service menu not consisting solely of liquor and things not available until 10:00 PM.

8. Unbelievably awesome room-service lasagna will make up for a lot of sins in the general realm of mediocre service.

9. Whatever direction I am inclined to turn when I walk out of a building in Manhattan, I should turn the other direction, except that if I actually turn in the other direction, it will turn out that I should have turned in the direction I was inclined to turn in initially. THIS WORKS EVERY TIME.

10. The universe is kept nicely in balance, in that if there is no car at the airport to pick up one member of a two-person writing team upon his (ahem) arrival, there will be two cars at the airport to pick up the other member of the two-person writing team upon her (ahem) arrival.

11. The Affinia Manhattan, operated by the same lovely people who run the terrific Shelburne Murray Hill, is a spectacularly good place to stay, provided you don't mind the almost unbelievably tiny bathroom (which I didn't). It was cheaper than many other options on this particular weekend for some reason, despite being a suite hotel where I had a kitchen, an enormous room, in-room coffee (go, in-room coffee instead of ungodly expensive mini-bar!), the world's most comfortable bed, a choice of three pillows (buckwheat hulls, hypo-allergenic, and Swedish Memory), access to the nicest staff ever, and a vending machine downstairs that sold ice-cream sandwiches. The Affinia Manhattan. A-F-F-I-N-I-A M-A-N-H-A-T-T-A-N. Seriously.

12. One good reason to have a writing partner is that he can make lighthearted remarks that keep you out of mid-interview fistfights.

13. Do not wear a 100% cotton shirt on TV. Do not wear a 100% cotton shirt on TV. Do not wear a 100% cotton shirt on TV. Well, not unless you have a personal assistant who can follow you around all day long blow-drying your armpits. Which I don't.

14. There is still a place in the world for black liquid eyeliner, and that place is in a TV studio.

15. It is possible for me to have a good time in New York, even if there is never an entire day that I can spend in a hotel room watching courtroom TV shows.

16. If you go to NBC and get a tour from a page named Tanya, she is the coolest girl ever, and works as an all-around ass-kicking troubleshooter on weekends.

17. If you are on TV three times, the one that would me the most awkward for your grandfather to watch will be the one your grandfather will watch.

18. The thing to do when you see two guys sit in front of you on a plane, one of whom has slicked-back hair, white linen pants, and a pirate shirt, is to move away as quickly as possible, because those guys are not going to get any better once the plane takes off.

19. Watch the host carefully. Fast nodding is host for "your answer is over now."

20. I am a person who is blessed when someone else takes care of a lot of logistics, because that is not my particular skill set. Like, at all.

So yesterday, I am about three-quarters of the way through 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer at my gym (no, seriously -- it was the only productive thing I did yesterday), and this guy comes up to me in the [Name Of My Gym] Personal Training Gear. Says he, "So, how're you doing?"

Please understand that while sweaty and plugging away on the elliptical, I am not at my most glamorous. My hair is currently shoulder-length, a little too short for a decent ponytail, so it tends to sort of hang all sweaty-like. I am listening to a podcast of NPR's awesome Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, which -- delightfully -- takes just about 45 minutes. I have my raspberry Dasani to which I treat myself whenever I get myself to go in, and I am happily ensconced in Please Don't Talk To Me World. I am not, you might say, in the best condition in which to receive Dave, The Personal Trainer.

However, Dave TPT has the same thing going for him that most trainers assigned to randomly hit up women working out on the elliptical machines have going for them, which is that he is, not to put too fine a point on it, the best-looking person I have seen in person in several months, not counting parties attended by reality-show contestants, who are outliers. Dave's hair is a little too short for my personal tastes, but he has the advantage of the only thing I truly and honestly need, which is a set of blue eyes that are That Particular Blue against which I have absolutely no defense whatsoever. I do not deny the shallowness of this. He isn't even particularly enormously built or anything -- in clothes, he just looks like a fit dude, not a bodybuilder.

Aaaaanyway, says Dave, "How're you doing?" I tell him I'm doing okay. He asks a few introductory questions that lead me to believe he is conducting a survey. I continue to sweat and talk, sweat and talk. How long has it been since I was in? (A: In this case, a while.) How long have I been a member? (A: Several years.) What makes it difficult to get myself there when I don't go? (A: Insanely busy. No, really. Not that I'm saying this is an excuse.)

Have I ever considered.... PERSONAL TRAINING? The answer to this, of course, is yes, partly because I have heard how positively Tara talks about her experiences with Vesna, and partly because GOOD LORD, I am sick of remotivating myself. Before Dave and I can talk about this, however, I have to lay the groundwork so that he understands why I, while I appear not to be the 45-minutes-on-the-elliptical type, am not a newbie. So I explain the whole thing, the long road to here, and of course, this sets him back a bit. I have been, I admit to him, stuck for quite a while. He wonders why. I hesitate to admit that during most of 2005, I was simply too happy and complacent to really worry about much of anything. I explain how I was dorking out on Firm tapes during the early months of 2006, and how I had to stop for a while because I was killing my knees.

We discuss... weight training. Bleeeeaaargh. I gesture vaguely toward the weights half of the gym, as opposed to the cardio half, and I say to him, "That whole... area over there, I find very... bleeeech." He laughs. "I have," I explain, "an overwhelming fear of looking like a complete and utter dope." "Everyone thinks that," he reassures me. He asks me whether I think it would help to work with somebody regularly, for the sake of "accountability."

Ooooooh, wrong move, Dave. I think of "accountability" as essentially a synonym for "blame." As if I'm not accountable to myself every damn day of my life, right? I explain this to Dave. "I don't really like the idea of external accountability, because it won't last," I tell him. "If I'm coming in so that somebody won't yell at me, then I won't keep coming in." He pauses. He smiles, but not in a mean way. "Well... but you said you're having a hard time coming in anyway." "I don't... always like to talk about it a lot," I explain. Remember, this entire time, Dave is standing there, and I am watching the time remaining tick down, and I am still panting and sweating.

He ultimately explains the exorbitant cost of personal trainers, which is almost enough to make me choke on my water. "The cost is definitely the main reason people don't want to do it," he admits. "I can understand," I say. He makes me promise to think about it. He also starts to ask me how old I am, and then he stops and says he won't ask me how old I am. I volunteer this information anyway. "Oh," he says. "I was going to guess you were younger than that, actually."

Suuuuuuure you were, Dave. I look young enough to be my own sister! Hee hee. Interestingly enough, there is not a trace of hostility or defensiveness in this entire conversation. Dave knows why I'm there, and he has now heard enough to know what I know and what I don't know, and how much I've already proved, and how much is left. And I know why Dave is there, and he knows I know, and I know he knows I know, and he knows... well, you get the picture.

The way we left things was very, very close to me saying, "I will probably let you talk me into this later, but not today," so he told me that he was going to watch out for me, and that I should expect him to come and bug me again. It was an altogether pleasant, utterly enjoyable 15-minute discussion that carried me all the way through the last third of my time on the elliptical. At first, what struck me funny about it was that he was so cute and so nice, and that I was such a damn sucker, and that he was right about everything, but that I probably would have nodded and smiled even if he didn't, because he has the same blue eyes as other people who have gotten me into trouble in the past.

But later, what kind of got to me was this: I stood there, sweating and panting and looking completely dorky, in the setting that was, in my youth, most likely to make me feel utterly awful about myself and utterly lacking in confidence, and I conducted a conversation for 15 minutes with this adorably cute guy who was there to discuss with me the matter of working out. I very nearly flirted with him. More than once. While working out. This is what I was interested in later. Somewhere along the line, despite the fact that this will probably be a battle of one kind or another all my life, I lost the part where I was so utterly horrified by the idea of even discussing it that the mere thought would have caused me to crawl into a hole.

In other words, at first, I was amused by the content of this conversation. In retrospect, I was fascinated that I had it and did not die and barely thought about that part until later.

So today is May 30th, and it would be a lot less anticlimactic if not for the Barnes & Noble at the Mall of America, where yesterday, I took this picture.

Yes, that is the famous book. Four of them! At the Barnes & Noble at the Mall of America, the very same place where I have bought books by other people who are not even me. This was a very strange experience. I didn't buy any of them, which means that I'm sure there are still four there.

In the event that you do not personally live within driving distance of the Barnes & Noble at the Mall of America, you can still buy the book at any one of a number of places, and I will tell you that after about six months of seeing all of the stuff about how the book isn't out yet but will be out someday, it is nice to see that it actually was released after all.

For more about the book, me, Evan, and so forth, including excerpts and a quiz and all manner of good stuff, please consult the book's very own site.

I wrote a book. This is an interesting development.

P.S. I have no idea why comments are not working. This is typical MT nonsense, unfortunately. You change nothing, and files mysteriously disappear and stop working. Time to go elsewhere, perhaps.

[As much as I love a good suspenseful tale, there are too many good and kind people around here for me not to start out by giving the huge spoiler that this story has a happy ending, and you should not worry while reading it.]

"I think an ultrasound would be a good idea."

That's how the whole thing starts. I am at the doctor, and I'm saying, "You know, I have these three little lumps, and they feel innocuous to me [what does that mean? I'm not sure, but I'm right], but I thought I'd have them looked at." She agrees with me that they are, as she puts it, "not typical of cancer at all," but this is the Health Center For Women, and they tend to be very belt-and-suspenders about everything, which I frankly appreciate. This happens to most women at some point or another, after all, this "it's probably nothing, but let's take a look" business. They schedule me for an ultrasound on December 16th. This is a Friday, which means nothing to me at the time they schedule it. (Note to self, in retrospect: Never have tests of any kind scheduled for Fridays.)

The particular place where they send me is just about the nicest place you can imagine in which to have a really uncomfortable experience. They have a little changing room, and they have lockers, and they have a second waiting room for between the changing room and the test itself, so you don't have to abandon your stuff or sit on a metal chair in an office the whole time. No, it's just you and the other ladies in gowns, sitting around in the waiting room reading magazines. I look around at the other ladies who are waiting, and note how the nurses keep popping their heads in to take somebody back. Four or five of us, who will get picked? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

Now, I'm only 35, and they don't start with screening stuff until you're 40, generally, so when they announce that we will be starting off with a mammogram, my reaction is like this: "Meh." Doesn't this hurt? Isn't there a thing that floats around the internet about how it's akin to closing yourself in a refrigerator door? Boo! I thought they were just going to skim a little ultrasound thingy around. But... well, all right. As it happens, I am pleased to report that if you have ever anticipated that this would be a really horrible experience, it's really... not. I don't know what's happened to make it less barbaric, but the horror stories are greatly exaggerated. That's not to take away from the weirdness of the experience, or the potential for embarrassment if you're into that kind of thing. The nurse tells me that they'll get the pictures, and then they'll see if they need any more pictures.

I am not surprised when she comes to get me in the waiting room and says they need more pictures. I always have been a bad patient. "We do this all the time," she says. "It's very common." "I'm not panicking about this yet, right?" I ask her. "Absolutely not," she says with a smile. When she's done, she sends me back to the waiting room. Now there are different women there, and the ones I was with at first are gone. Nothing to worry about, it's very common. But I'll be glad to be out of here, nonetheless.

The nurse comes and gets me again. Time for the ultrasound. Climb up on the table, wait for the radiologist. This takes a long time, and I lie there and think about what a good job I'm doing of not worrying. I'm panicky and nervous by nature in many ways, and I've been blessed with enough good health that I have the luxury of having hospitals and doctors still make me twitchy. I really, really don't want to be lying on this table. I really just want to go back to work. Things to do!

The radiologist comes in. They're going to take a look, she says, at the little things I came in for, just as planned. And then, she says, she needs to look at this Other Thing.

Because there is this Other Thing.

This Other Thing they found in the pictures, which didn't behave as they were hoping it would when they changed the angle. It has nothing to do with the reason I came in, which briefly makes me feel baffled and indignant -- this isn't what I ordered! -- and it takes me a minute to understand what she's saying. She's saying there's a problem. She's saying she's not sure things are okay. She's saying she's seen pictures, and the pictures look enough like Not Okay that she has to look more.

The investigation of the little things that are the reason I came in is very easy. She is convinced that they are not a problem, for a variety of reasons. In satisfying herself of this fact, she takes an inordinately long time taking their picture. Get to the Other Thing, I think to myself. Please, please get to the Other Thing. She eventually does, and there is much waiting and looking and watching her face to see whether she seems gravely concerned. Finally, she stops and they let me sit up. "I don't see anything on the ultrasound," she says. "So," I say cautiously and hopefully, "is that good?" She hesitates. "Well, it is. But."

The next part is all doctor-talk, and it sort of blurs in my head, but what it means is that what she has seen, we can't blow off. I can't just go back to work with one more medical tale. She uses the word "concerned," and she also uses the words "what bothers me." The pictures bother the radiologist. In fact, they bother her so much that we will have to check this out with what is called a "stereotactic biopsy." Now, I'm not brilliant about medicine or anything, but I know an ugly word when I hear one, and "biopsy" is one. (I will later, with the darkest of humor, try to convince my father that "stereotactic" means they listen to your chest in both ears, but he will not fall for it.) They explain that this is done with an incision and needles.

And they want to do it today.

As the radiologist explains this to me, I am very aware of her watching me, watching this sink in. I've never been certain I looked terrified before, but I know I look terrified. I think maybe she is waiting to see if I will pass out. I am shaking a little bit, it feels like. They let me get dressed again, and then they take me into Consult 2, which I know damn well is the Bad News Room, with the couches and the box of tissues. Someone will come in shortly to explain the procedure to me and sign forms and so forth. I sit in there by myself for a while, and I learn that my cell phone doesn't get any reception in Consult 2, although I'm not sure whom I would have called. Probably Trash. But... to do what? Scare the hell out of her? Cry?

I spend a few minutes back out in the waiting area, and I keep seeing women leaving. Nurses poke their heads out. "Okay, you can go, you're done," they keep saying. I briefly hate all of these women. The ones who don't have to stay. I stare at a spot on the carpet, and I think to myself, This is really happening. This is not me mentally rehearsing for the worst thing that could happen. This is really happening to me right this minute.

The nurse from before takes me back to Consult 2 and comes in to wait with me, and I'm now taking liberally from the Official Oh My God Tissue Box of Consult 2, sniffling off and on. She says she knows it's always "shocking" to find yourself in this situation, and she says to me, "Just remember, we don't know yet."

We don't KNOW yet? Oh, don't say that.

I am shown a video that explains exactly how this will all be done, and it is something between an educational video and a commercial for the awesome machine that will be used. And they flash a statistic on the screen that they want you to remember: 80 percent of biopsies are not cancer.

Eighty percent. Four out of five, just more than three-quarters. Eenie meenie miney mo.

It takes forever, but the other nurse -- the Biopsy Nurse -- comes in with the radiologist, and they explain all this again. Seeing me weepy, the Biopsy Nurse asks me whether I'm scared about the procedure or scared about the results. I briefly think this is a very stupid question, because as much as I don't like needles, I'm a lot more afraid of dying. But of course, some people are very afraid of needles, so I guess they have to ask.

As it turns out, a stereotactic biopsy is a weirdly hilarious procedure if you like Rube Goldberg machines and aren't in the midst of pondering your mortality. I'll let you Google it if you want, but suffice it to say that you wouldn't predict you'd have a biopsy like this done while lying on your stomach, but you do. Unfortunately, because I am still in the clutches of a sort of unreal but overwhelming panic, this position means that I cry directly onto the vinyl cover of the table until they give me a tissue to clutch up to my eyes and nose.

I am horrible with pain, so when the radiologist shoots me full of Lidocaine and says she can give me more later if necessary, I dread the possibility that it will be necessary. You know, what with the needles burrowing into you and so forth.

As they prepare to do the actual... thing, I realize that the piped-in music is still playing. And it's playing "Sleigh Ride." Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too... This is so, so weird. I can tell the nurses are trying to see if they can distract me, and one of them says as I lie on the table all numbed up, "So, are you ready for Christmas?" Again, if you aren't in the middle of it? This is hilarious.

They should really do something about the noises that biopsy needles make. It's like a jackhammer, no kidding. VV-VV-VV-VV-RRRRRRR. VV-VV-VV-VV-RRRRRRR. The first one isn't that bad. The second one causes me to yell something along the lines of, "ow ow OW OW OW!" She hits me with more Lidocaine. For the rest of them, fearful that I will drag it out even more if I don't stop "ow ow ow"-ing, I just clench my teeth when it hurts. God, let's just get this over with, please.

When it is mercifully over, the radiologist tells me that the results are generally available the next day. Well, no -- not the next day. The next working day. Today, of course, is Friday. The next working day is Monday. I will find out on Monday. You know, whether or not. Monday. "Hopefully," she says, "it will just be normal tissue. I think the fact that it didn't show up on the other films and the fact that there's nothing on the ultrasound are... good things." Over the next three days, I will analyze this bit of dialogue like it's the Dead Sea Scrolls. "Hopefully." "I think." "Good things." Did she say that in a slightly chirpy, false way? It went up artificially. "GOOD things." Is she hoping she's right or is she hoping she's wrong? Does she know, and she's just not telling me?

I head back to the office, and when my door is closed, I call my father at home. My mom is at work, which I'm sort of glad about in my cowardly way, because talking to her might be harder. She reacts to things more like I do. My father, on the other hand, takes the position that there's no point in panicking until you have reason to. I do well on the phone with him, explaining the whole thing, telling him the 80 percent number and so forth, until he asks me whether I'm all right.

Later, when I'm at home, my mom calls me and says she thinks I should come to their house. Don't sit around looking at the walls. It's good advice, but I can't really relocate right away, because -- get this -- I have to finish a Survivor recap. Yes, that is exactly what I feel like doing. Let's write jokes!

It turns out to be a blessing, really, something to do besides think, and much to my own surprise, I get through the evening and fall asleep fairly easily -- assisted by my level of pure exhaustion, I suspect. In the next two days, I have to write the two-hour recap of the Amazing Race finale, which had to wait until the other one was finished after I got back from New York, which was just Wednesday. This, I decide, will be done at my parents' house.

Saturday and Sunday, my mom babies me in the best way, bringing me wine and peppermint mochas and trying to distract us both. We watch three consecutive basic-cable Christmas movies once I burn out on recapping on Saturday. And two of them star Steve Guttenberg as Santa Claus. Smell the desperation for amusement?

I only cry a little bit, off and on. At one point, I start telling my mom what I'm afraid of, and one of the things I tell her is that I'm worried about her. "I'm afraid I'll ruin your life," I say. And I instantly hate myself for saying it, because I know she instantly wonders whether she's done something to make me feel that way.

At some point, I change the ringer on my cell phone, on which they're supposed to call me with the results. It's been the Hallelujah Chorus ever since I got my new phone, and some weird, superstitious, tweaked-out part of me is afraid that if I leave it that way, the universe's taste for irony will give me cancer so that my phone will yell "Hallelujah!" and it will be the worst news of my whole life. Or else if they give me bad news, it will ruin the Hallelujah Chorus -- no, the entire Messiah -- no, music -- for me forever. So I change it. Belt and suspenders. Eenie meenie miney mo.

I keep a low profile. I talk to JWB on Sunday night, but I don't tell him, because... why, you know? I'll know the next day. There will be plenty of time for ruining people's day if it comes to that.

They're supposed to call me with the results after 3:00 on Monday, but I wonder if they might come earlier, and I really don't want to be at work when they call, and I'm twitching and distracted anyway, so I go home at noon, benefitting from the joys of a part-time schedule.

I am in my car on the way home when I hear the soft, soothing, chiming ring I picked out. I yank the phone out of my pocket -- yes, in the car, just like you're not supposed to do. I actually have time to think as I grab it that if they tell me I have cancer while I'm driving, that might not be the best thing that could ever happen. "This is Dr. Dash," she says. Dr. Dash! Dr. Dash is the regular doctor I saw at the beginning. The one they were going to send the results to. She wants to know if she's interrupting anything. No! No, no! "It's all good news," she says.

After that, I only hear isolated words. All benign, very common, good, relieved for you, just come back if anything changes. They know what it is, and it's not dangerous. The clinic where I had the test done will obediently wait until 3:15 to call me, as they probably do because if you want to plan to be somewhere in particular, they want to make sure that's where you are. They will tell me to come back in six months to recheck it, as they do for everything that turns out okay. But Dr. Dash got the results first, and her call saves me what would have been another three hours of shaking. I divert to Mom and Dad's, and I call my dad from the car so that he can immediately tell my mom, who is at work undoubtedly wearing a blank stare until she finds out. I stop on the way to their house and buy her the biggest poinsettia I can find. It's giant! It's red! It stands for YAY!, Let's Not Do This Again For As Long As Possible!

After I get this news, I realize that I have experienced the closest thing you really can to It's A Wonderful Life. No fooling. I spent those three days scared, sure. But I also spent them being absolutely crushed under the weight of my gratitude for the fact that, and I am not kidding, I am the luckiest goddamn person you have ever met in your life, no matter how many people you have met.

Let me say that again: I am the luckiest person you have ever met in your life, no matter how many people you have met. My parents are so ridiculously awesome that even as an adult, I both enjoy hanging out with them and still get enormous support from them when bad things happen. I chose not to tell my friends or my sister what was going on, but that's largely because they couldn't have done anything more than they already do every day, which is make it clear to me that they care and that if anything happens, they're going to be there. I didn't need them to tell me any of that stuff, because they're so good at making me feel that way all the time.

I seriously have become George Bailey. Like, not because I'm so awesome that I gave everyone a house, but because after I got that phone call, I was just like that -- "Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old building and loan!" I was running up to the Salvation Army bell-ringers wondering if they needed coffee, I was leaving enormous tips, I was snorfling to myself like, "This is the best cup of soup I have ever had in my whole life." I was cringing in horror at the friends I have forgotten to write to, or fallen out of touch with, or ignored some obligation to, and I was feeling like no Christmas present I pick out for anyone will possibly be good enough. It's ungodly easy to take stuff for granted, even if you think you don't, or even if you could consciously explain how awesome your life is and how lucky you are to have the people in it who are in it.

I really decided to tell this story in spite of my distaste for overdoses of this kind of personal detail for three reasons. One is that as shitty as this experience was while it was happening, I am incredibly glad to have had it. I can honestly say it was life-changing, in terms of perspective, in a way I hope will be permanent. I made a whole lot of resolutions in the wake of it.

The second is that I think I might have been less terrified -- not not terrified, but less terrified -- if I knew someone who had done all this business before. So now, you know someone who has.

The other is that the news didn't have to be good. It could have been bad, which means two things. First of all, had it been bad, I would have been hugely lucky that I happened to have the little benign whatevers checked out that led to the discovery of the other thing (no caps when you're not scary anymore, you other thing -- ha!), so please, get everything checked. It's not bad to have an excuse, even if you're "too young," to have them take a look and see if there's anything to see. I lucked out, but even if I hadn't, I could have lucked out in another way entirely. And finally, I got good news, but I might not get good news forever, and somebody I saw in the waiting room that day probably didn't, you know? I gave some money here, and so did my parents, and I encourage you to do the same.

It's hard to figure out how to do anything other than spew cliches in a situation like this, because everything you honestly are thinking is a cliche. Go hug your friends! Go hug your kids! Call your mom! Don't worry about stupid shit or what idiots are doing or what they think! What's important is the people you love! Be with them as much as you can for as long as you can! But it's all true. It really is. And when you pull out Zuzu's petals and find out that at least for the moment, you're still okay, things do get oddly clear.

The idea was that while we were in New York, Jane Wiedlin's Boyfriend and I were going to see one of two shows for my birthday. The contenders were Avenue Q and The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, which are playing about six blocks apart. The plan of attack involved the Times Square TKTS booth which, if you've never been, involves 40 gazillion people snaking around Times Square trying to avoid the fact that a single Broadway show ticket these days costs $100, because if you stand in line there, you can get same-day tickets for $50. There's also a TKTS booth way downtown, but as it happened, the subway just outside the hotel ran directly to Times Square in about five minutes, so... why not do that, right?

On Saturday, we knew they opened up the booth at 10:00 in the morning for matinees. So at about 9:00, we got into Times Square and checked the board, only to find that neither show had tickets available for that particular day. At that point, we decided to look for a place to have breakfast and think about what to do next, and somewhere from the back corners of my brain, I retrieved the location of a diner where some friends and I had eaten several years ago. I was insufferably proud of myself for locating it again, and I still loved the cinnamon raisin French toast, and the cashier came out from behind the counter just to feel my jacket. After breakfast, we decided to just walk back toward Times Square and think about what to do next.

On the way, we walked smack into the Museum of Television and Radio. (Pause while the New Yorkers among you triangulate where we had breakfast.) It wasn't quite open yet, so we continued walking but decided to come back later. In the meantime, I took care of an administrative bit of stupidity that I hadn't taken care of, JWB surfed numerous outdoor tables for the perfect pair of $5 street gloves, and I got my one millionth Starbucks mocha, qualifying me for the free Starbucks tattoo, I'm sure. I learned quite a lot about street gloves, including the fact that you should always inspect them for flaws before purchasing, or you will find yourself sitting on a bench fifteen minutes later trying to figure out whether a particular hole goes all the way to bare skin.

By the time we got back to the museum, they were ready to open, and while we were standing in line, one of the guide types came over and chatted us up. We were muttering back and forth about going back to Times Square later to check at the TKTS booth for the evening shows, and she put up a finger knowingly. "What you should do," she said, "is try the ticket lotteries. Front-row seats for 25 bucks." We took note.

We spent an hour or two at the museum, first watching a screening of The Curse Of Mr. Bean, which started out stupid, but ended up hilarious, particularly when Rowan Atkinson shook the water out of a lettuce leaf in his sock. It's possible that you have to see it to understand. We then did what you do there, which is to surf their gigantic collection of TV shows and choose something to watch at your very own console, but we totally choked and couldn't figure out anything from the entire history of television to watch that they actually had. This is the curse of everything being out on DVD. We ultimately picked the Newhart finale, which he'd never seen and had always meant to, and it was surprisingly satisfying, particularly given the brief appearance of a Long-Island-accent-affecting Lisa Kudrow. She sure does love to do that voice.

Somewhere around this time... or maybe this had been on Friday... we dropped by the TKTS line again, long enough to see that Ellen DeGeneres was interviewing Usher right nearby, leading to a giant backup of people trying to stand on each other's heads to get a glimpse. Of, you know, Usher. We left.

Shortly thereafter, having visited the theaters and finding that we had one lottery to hit at 6:00 Saturday night and another to hit at 6:30, we had a chat about checking out the other TKTS booth, and when JWB stopped to ask a police officer about getting there, he got the interesting and highly questionable news that there was a Mystery Secret Third TKTS Booth right down by where the Staten Island ferry leaves. Not the South Street Seaport one, but another one.

Hmm. Or in the alternative... eh?

Mostly out of curiosity, having some time to kill, and believing there was about a 5 percent chance that this was true, we went off with the officer's directions in hand, determined not to make the Amazing Race mistake of doubting the locals. We took the train all the way down to the very end of the line and hopped off. "Two blocks north" was the extent of our directions, followed by the famous line -- wait for it -- "You can't miss it." Suffice it to say, we missed it. But we did walk around a part of the city I'd never strolled around in, and we did see a lot of water and experience a lot of wind. Also? Found yet another Starbucks. Mystery Booth? We do not believe it exists.

Somewhere along the line, there was pizza. Very, very fine pizza, which I accidentally dumped a heap of garlic on, but which was very tasty anyway. Eating pizza here always makes me want to abandon Minnesota pizza forever. No, really -- forever. How do I go back?

At 6:00, there were probably 75 people there for the Avenue Q lottery for the 8:00 PM show. Twelve tickets available. We each wrote our name on a card, asked for two tickets (you can ask for one or two), and dropped it in the giant bucket. We knew that if we didn't get tickets, we needed to hightail it to the Spelling Bee theater to try our luck there. And indeed, that's exactly what happened. Six pairs of tickets, and none for us. We turned and started to walk uptown toward the other theater, and it was somewhere along here that I started to mutter about being worried that this was not a plan that was going to work. I feared that we'd try it that night, try it all day Sunday, spend all our time running around to ticket lotteries and booths, and get nowhere. By the time we got to the other theater, I was... tense. Of course, my negative attitude cursed us even more, so we didn't win over there, either. "See... I don't think this will work," I told him. "The odds look really bad." "Right," he said, "but we have two more chances tomorrow for each of these shows, and we have as good a chance as any of these other people." I relented. "I -- okay. I know. It's your plan. You can make the plan." "Always stick to the plan," he said darkly.

That was the night we stopped right by our hotel and, for some reason that now escapes me, decided we should eat in and have fast-food fried chicken for dinner. Specifically, from Popeye's. We were in that particular Popeye's for approximately ten minutes, during which we observed three separate requests to speak to the manager. They were from (1) You Gave Me A Drumstick Instead Of A Breast Guy; (2) I'm Not Saying There's A Problem, I'd Just Like To Speak To The Manager Guy; and (3) Is That Really All The Fries I Get? Guy, who later also became You Forgot My Biscuit Guy. As for our own visit, the lady behind the counter was out of most of the side dishes and gave me the wrong meal. What we later noticed was that there was, as there is everywhere in the city, a sign up advertising the ability of the Popeye's staff to perform CPR. I commented to JWB that in case of an emergency, I would be presented with an interesting dilemma as to whether I'd rather pray for a bone to dislodge itself spontaneously or allow the staff of this particular Popeye's to perform CPR on me.

Sunday morning, we had some breakfast before we headed back to Times Square, because on this particular day, the booth would open at 11:00 instead of 10:00. When we got there a little after 11:00, there was already a long line, but there were indications that at least for the moment, they had Avenue Q tickets available. We hopped into line, where we "enjoyed" the music stylings of the guy playing steel drums next to the line. He knew two pieces, it appeared: "In The Mood" and "My Favorite Things." In addition to discussing the use of Christina Applegate's face as a marketing tool and how/whether I would survive if dropped off on the middle of a city without any electronic communication devices available to me, JWB and I used the hour we spent in line to discuss his understanding that there was an all-chicken-clucking version of "In The Mood" in existence somewhere in the world, my admission that there is indeed and that I have it on some sort of Ray Stevens collection, his horror that I would be in possession of a Ray Stevens collection, and my subsequent performance of the Jane role in "Guitarzan." ("Shut up, baby, I'm tryin' to sing!") Which was awesome, no matter what he says or how horrified he appeared the entire time. And the people in line were not staring.

In line, before the guy who solicited us for something relating to the homeless but after the Fordham student who interviewed JWB for a marketing class and then took his picture for reasons we found rather perplexing to contemplate, we ran into a young woman waiting for a friend who was supposed to meet her in line. Somewhere near the front of the line, we lost track of her, but not before we told her about the lotteries we'd tried the day before, and how we were going to try them again for the matinees if we didn't get tickets. But, of course, we did. But, of course, they were really crappy seats.

We got out of the TKTS line, not-so-good tickets in hand, at just about noon. The A