I'm through stopping midconversation to post a funny quote because I feel like it's my job. I'm done creating "link-bait." I'm going to be in the moment rather than upload the moment, because the purpose of my life is not public consumption.

I don't want to measure my success in clicks.

I don't want my value as a person determined by retweets.

When I die, I guarantee I won't care how many Tumblr followers I've had.

And why is anyone following me in the first place, as I've yet to determine where I'm going?

Satisfied with my decision to take a giant step back, I pour my nervous energy into my newest find, a freshly glued fifteen-dollar rocking chair that I've made fabulous with mint green paint edged with golden gilding.

I want to learn from this situation and to figure out what's next. Yet I'm thrown by how quickly people turned on me.

With Ed Lover spinning the hits of 1992, I buff the rocker's spindles to a glossy sheen. I reflect on the cl.u.s.terf.u.c.kery of the past couple of days, trying to reframe the experience into something positive.

All I can do is to take comfort in knowing that at least no one can post naked pictures of me.

Despite WEATHERGATE, my tour proceeds without a hitch, and I'm psyched to have Fletch join me for the Florida portion. He said the logistics seemed too complicated so he wouldn't come, but as he sat there alone in our freezing cold house, looking outside at the glacial monotony of gray and white, he wondered if he'd made the wrong call. And then Loki began to slowly and methodically lick a portion of the couch while staring directly at Fletch.

Lick, stare. Lick, stare.

That's when Fletch snapped . . . into action. In the hour I spent having a drink with a reporter in Jacksonville, he not only booked a flight, but arranged for a cat sitter, and found a local kennel where all the staff brought their pit bulls to work, so he knew our guys would be well cared for.

My Florida events are extra festive with him in tow, and we return from tour refreshed, relaxed, and ever so slightly tanned. Even the dogs are reinvigorated, ecstatic to have gone to the kind of happy-fun camp they didn't even know existed.

The only odd bit is what happens after we've been home for a few days. Fletch's contact information is listed on my Web site in case any 501(c) organizations have a charitable request. Once in a great while he'll receive an appeal that, um . . . stretches the boundaries of charity, like when a husband asked Fletch to have me call his wife. Apparently the man had cheated on her and he figured if the entreaty to forgive him came from me, she would comply.

Oh, honey.

No.

Fletch comes into my office with a sheet of paper. "You need to read this to believe it."

He hands me the printout of an e-mail. Someone's contacted him to say how he's really the star of the show and it's not fair that I'm always going around saying I'm his meal ticket.

Beg your pardon?

"He says I tell everyone I'm your 'meal ticket'? I mean, (a) horses.h.i.t, and (b) since when? Have I ever once said anything like that? Because I vaguely recall you working a lot of thankless jobs to support us while I tried to build a career," I reply. "If I'm your meal ticket, then it took you eight years of starving before I figured out a d.a.m.n thing."

"Yeah, the meal ticket part's news to me," he says. "Keep going, it gets better."

I read how the man says he approached me in Florida, asking to have a book autographed for a friend with cancer. According to him, I snapped, "Signing's over, go home," which would never happen for myriad reasons. I'm thoroughly wigged out that some stranger would e-mail Fletch to lie about me as a way to curry favor. How bizarre is that?

The more I sit with this, the angrier I get. "This is so creepy. If he'd actually come to the event, he'd have seen that you were there with me the entire time. This is why I want to learn self-defense. Oh, I will karate chop a lying motherf.u.c.ker. Ninja all over his deceitful a.s.s. So, what are you going to do? Are you writing back to him? Will you tell him to pound sand?"

"Absolutely not. What's my policy?"

I sigh. "'Don't engage The Crazy.'"

"Bingo." He goes to sit down with the dogs on the bed across from my desk. The girls, who collectively can't weigh more than one hundred and fifteen pounds, are sprawled out to all four corners. Fletch manages to wedge his way in, so they both place their heads in his lap. "Honestly, I figured you'd get a kick out of this. I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be mad."

"I'm not mad, just . . . bothered. I feel like everyone's ganging up on me lately. You don't believe him, right?"

Fletch laughs hard enough to disturb the dogs. "Please, I was there, I know you, and like you'd ever pa.s.s up the chance to give someone your autograph. Just thought it was funny, that's all."

I nod as I don't have anything else to say.

Fletch scans my face, noting how I'm gritting my teeth.

"So, sure you're okay?"

I exhale loudly. "Yeah, I'm Kool and the Gang," I say, even though my mind's still turning. This letter isn't of any more significance than that of a lonely person seeking Fletch's attention. And who wouldn't want to know him? He's funny, he's considerate, and he has exactly the right kind of glue for any task.

But when this letter's coupled with all the other events of the past month-the doctor's visit, the social media snafu, the surprising ease with which we were both able to leave the house-the message I receive is clear: I need to double down on my bucket list, lest I regret it. That which went wrong, and that which went right, would have been made easier if I were more focused on my goals.

And now I know exactly where to begin.

"All righty, I'm going to go reglue the new rolltop secretary. Gimme a shout if you need something." He rises to leave and comes over to give me a hug.

Right before he descends the stairs, I call after him.

"Hey, Fletch, what do you think of the name Yardapple Vintage?" I ask.

"For what?"

"For the furniture business I'm starting. I'm calling it Yardapple because remember last fall when I wanted to cut down those trees, but I discovered that the horrible, spotty, misshapen little apples were actually tart, juicy, and totally worm-free? Then I used them to make our Thanksgiving pies, and we were all amazed at how something that originally looked so ugly could be repurposed into utter perfection? I feel like 'Yardapple Vintage' tells the story about discovering the magnificent in that which seems like a lost cause."

"I like it." Smiling, he leans against my doorjamb, arms crossed against his flannel-clad chest. "So, you're finally turning pro."

I say, "Starting a new business has been on my list, and this furniture stuff happened so organically that it seems like a good fit."

As soon as I declare my intention, I'm overcome with self-doubt. I believe I have a decent skill set in regard to finding great pieces and giving them interesting finishes, but do I really?

Or am I just fooling myself?

As a kid, I remember bringing home a picture of a bird I'd colored because I was so proud of it. Mine was no typical second-grade scrawl, oh, no. I hated to throw around the word "prodigy" and yet, there I was. As I walked home on that windy day, I imagined the bidding wars the local Boston museums would wage over my masterpiece. Having my genius recognized was enough, of course, yet if a curator or a discerning collector chose to write me the kind of check that would buy Barbie a vacation Dreamhouse, well, that was okay, too.

While stopped on a gusty corner, I noticed a bunch of paper on the ground. I saw the same bird drawing my cla.s.s had been doing, but this one was terrible! The artist clearly had no concept of staying within the lines and his color choices were simply abysmal. Pedestrian. What kind of savage would choose Burnt Sienna for the beak? News flash-Burnt Orange is the new black. And what kind of lunatic would opt for Periwinkle over Cornflower for the sky? No one was going to put this rank amateur's work on the fridge, let alone in a museum.

Then I noticed that my name was on the upper right-hand corner of the page. These were my dropped papers, caught by the wind.

I realized I'd accidentally judged the drawings based on actual merit, rather than filtering the page through my eight-year-old, narcissistic haze. What a kick in the Toughskins.

What if I'm only talented with the furniture because I've decided I'm talented?

What if all those nice people on Facebook have given me an inflated sense of self? As treacherous as social networking can be with all the negativity, there's an equal danger of receiving undeserved head-pats.

"Is this the worst idea I ever had?" I ask.

"No, that was the day you tried to cut your own hair," Fletch replies.

(Sidebar: If you're not someone who revels in wearing hats for two straight months, don't trim your own bangs.) "Then am I delusional for believing my stuff's good enough to sell?"

With great confidence, he replies, "Of course not."

"Are you humoring me? How can I tell this isn't The Bird Picture, Part II?"

He frowns at me. "The what?"

I wave him off. "Long story. But how can I be sure that I won't humiliate myself trying to sell my work, and that people aren't going to post photos of my Charlie Brown dressers on snark sites with the caption, 'Oh, honey'?"

"Simple," he replies. "Because I say so. And you know I never engage The Crazy."

SPRING FEVER.

"I said, 'I'm sorry, I'm not giving up my underpants. I know that I'm supposed to, but I refuse and you can't make me.'"

"You fought with the nurse?"

"I wouldn't say I fought. It was more of . . . okay, yes, I fought."

Joanna and I are at a sushi joint together as there's been a small break in the weather and I'm finally comfortable driving thirty miles south to see her. (Am not nearly as much of a weather G.o.d as Fletch.) Although we don't normally meet up often enough, we've managed a few outings lately. Last month, we saw The Barber of Seville and a couple of weeks ago, we hit a concert with one of her daughters, which was a rare school night treat.

(Sidebar: Why am I so insane about staying home on school nights? I'm not in school, I don't have children in school, I have a DVR to not miss any Important Television, and I work for myself so I can sleep/rise any d.a.m.n time I want. School nights shouldn't be an issue, and yet.) (Additional sidebar: Sometimes I don't understand my own stupid motivations and proclivities, like why I refuse to turn on the air conditioner before May first or the heat before November first. What do I win by freezing or sweltering completely by choice, save for not violating one of my long-standing, nonsensical rules? Fletch ignores these rubrics, of course, as we all know how he feels about The Crazy. He's completely bypa.s.sed my odd prejudices by installing a few Nest thermostats, which I haven't learned to operate.) (Third and final sidebar: If in an impotent rage you try to smash a Nest thermostat with the heel of a loafer, you'll be unpleasantly surprised at how st.u.r.dy it is. Also, I find these thermostats overeager, always springing to attention whenever I pa.s.s by their sensors, like they're somehow looking to engage me. Recently, one of the sensors kept reminding me to change my furnace filters every time I walked into the dining room. Listen, when I want an appliance's advice, I will ask for it. Until then, STFU, Nest.) I've been telling Joanna about my "photo session," which turned out to include minor surgery. After seeing my squatters up close and personal, the doctor excised them in order to have the pathology run. Thankfully, all came back clear. However, prior to the event, I was waiting in pre-op and I was told to change into a surgical gown long before they were supposed to wheel me away, meaning I'd be lying there for an hour without benefit of underwear, which, no.

Not happening.

I continue. "Turns out being a jerk was the right thing to do-they improvised with a pair of these stretchy hospital boy shorts and said they'd cut them off when I was under in the OR so I didn't have to be commando while I waited. I also kept my pearls on."

"Everything's okay? I'm so sorry. I feel like a bad friend that I didn't even know any of this was happening," Joanna apologizes.

"That's because I didn't announce it on social media. Privacy's still an option, even in the digital age." Here's yet another issue I have with social media: Vaguebooking, in which a poster alludes to something being amiss, but won't actually spill said beans. For example, posting a hospital selfie, and when everyone responds with, "OMG, are you okay? What's going on?" replying, "I'd rather not talk about it."

THEN WHY START THE CONVERSATION?.

Or how about when a person publishes something along the lines of, "This has been the worst day EVAH," but then gets all closed-lipped about why it's been so bad. This is attention-seeking at its worst. At least with oversharing, followers have the satisfaction of learning what happened. Alluding to, and then not doling out, the gossip is simply annoying. No one wants to begin a book, only to have it s.n.a.t.c.hed away right at the climax of the plot.

I explain, "When I saw you for the concert, I didn't want to mention it. I figured there was no reason to worry you over what was routine. See? All's well and no one had to stress."

"You could have told me," she insists.

"Yeah, but I'd have to use proper medical terminology and neither one of us likes to say those words."

"That is true." Joanna and I both graduated summa c.u.m modest from Uptight University.

"Anyway, the worst part was when the anesthesiologist came in to say h.e.l.lo before it all happened, and I'm telling you, she was fifteen years old. She could have been in Anna's grade. No lie. I wanted to ask her if her mommy knew she was skipping Driver's Ed that day."

Joanna scoops up a bite of the tuna and avocado tartare appetizer. "Don't you hate that? When'd we get older than our doctors?"

"Seriously! But I kept my yap shut, thinking maybe I shouldn't inadvertently insult the person who's responsible for keeping me alive."

"Smart. Ever been under a general before?"

"No, that's why I was worried. You hear all these horror stories about simple stuff going awry, like when one of my favorite authors died during a routine chin tuck. I still feel terrible every time I think about poor Olivia Goldsmith-ever read The First Wives Club? There she was, looking forward to a new life with her twenty-year-old jawline, and within four minutes, that's it. Game over. She'd have never written such a tragic ending for one of her characters because no one would have believed it."

"I loved her books. What a heartbreak."

"Agreed. If only she held out a little longer, there'd have been a world of lower-impact cosmeceuticals she could have used instead of going under the knife. Awful, all the way around."

Personally, I'm fortunate to have handled the anesthesia well, even though I'd been cautioned it might take me hours to get my bearings. My only real experience with anesthesia was when sweet little Maisy had her surgeries and each time, it was a nightmare. The poor thing would pace around for hours in an agitated haze while I trailed behind her, making sure nothing happened to her st.i.tches. But I guess my const.i.tution differs from that of a pit bull because I woke up shortly after they'd finished with me and felt so good for the rest of the day that I wanted to finish painting the trim in my office.

(Sidebar: Big veto from Fletch on doing any work the rest of the day. He parked me on the couch, cued up Frozen, and demanded I rest. He also confiscated my paintbrushes.) Right before the anesthesia was administered, Fletch and I had been watching CNN, which had the missing Malaysian plane story on a constant loop. To this day I'm absolutely obsessed with this mystery, because planes are not supposed to go missing. For years, Fletch had been promising me that airplanes don't just fall out of the sky or disappear, that there was no way my routine flight to New York would somehow divert to the Bermuda Triangle and vanish into thin air. (His business cards should read: J. B. Fletcher, Not Engaging The Crazy Since 1994.) But now that a ma.s.sive 777 is gone without a trace? All bets are off, and suddenly, Lost seems so much more plausible.

Flight 370 must have been at the top of my mind during the surgery because the moment I came to, I asked the doctor if perhaps they'd located the plane up there. No one thought that was funny, save for me, who was braying like a jacka.s.s. Then the doctor explained how while I was under, she'd also removed the weird little cyst on my West Virginia that had formed after the World's Most Unfortunate Tick Bite two summers ago. She said I'd notice a few st.i.tches and I'd likely have a scar. I replied, "Oh, no! That's going to ruin my p.o.r.n career." Again, no one laughed.

So maybe I didn't handle the anesthesia that well.

(But I totally could have painted that trim.) Joanna runs a hand through her never-once-colored hair. The parts that used to be pale blond have a few streaks of gray threaded in. With her fair coloring, she looks great au naturel. She's always been Team Minimal Processing. She didn't even own a hair dryer when we first met-unheard of in the Aqua Nettiest decade in history. I, on the other hand, can't even remember what my real hair color looks like. "That's why I plan to age gracefully. A face-lift can't go wrong if you don't have one. Your roots will never be a problem if you don't first bleach them."

In college, Joanna would occasionally let me turn her into a human Barbie styling head, but I haven't been allowed to lay a hand on her since the Great Crimping Calamity of 1990. "If you change your mind, I can help. You know the picture of us Anna took before the concert? I was playing with photo-editing software and I took twenty years off of both of us. I can PicMonkey you completely blond again, although I don't know how to give me back my standing thigh gap. Do you remember if I had a standing thigh gap?"

Joanna scrunches up her forehead in a way that's patently impossible for me. "A what?"

I swear standing thigh gaps are a thing, even though no one else in my orbit seems to have heard about them.

"Never mind. Did Anna enjoy the show?"

During the summer of 2011, Joanna and I took her daughter to see the Glee tour, and every single tween in the twenty-thousand-seat arena lost her s.h.i.t when "Jessie's Girl" was performed. I was pleasantly surprised to realize this song meant something to an entirely new generation. I'd turned to Joanna and said, "How mad is Rick Springfield right about now?" The whole thing became a running joke, so when I saw that Rick Springfield was coming to an auditorium near me, I bought us tickets.

(Sidebar: Ticket prices for his shows have dramatically increased since I last saw him in South Bend, circa 1982. As have the size of the underwear I'd have chucked at the stage. I guess that's how inflation works.) "She did! She kept marveling at all the crazy women, though. They were a trip."

We attended the concert out of a sense of nostalgia, but that wasn't the case with everyone else sitting around us. Because I bought tickets the day they went online, our seats were smack in the middle of the Serious Fan section. All around us, ladies were chattering about their most recent Rick Springfield fan cruise, outdoing one another with the depth and breadth of their Springfield-related trivia knowledge, and wearing homemade shirts emblazoned with slogans that read THIS IS MY SEVENTEENTH SHOW!

Which . . . really?

I couldn't mock anyone for being there because I was there.

But, really?

Seventeen shows?

I mean, (a) I didn't realize he'd been so prolific in the thirty-two years since I'd seen him last and, (b) really?

h.e.l.l, I can't imagine doing anything seventeen times, let alone seeing Rick Springfield that often. Sure, I worshipped him when I was younger and his music made my prep.u.b.escent heart ache. Who could be so coldhearted to that beautifully soulful man who's done everything for her, while she's done nothin' for him? But if someone were to offer me the chance to not only solve the mess in the Middle East, but also wear Cameron Diaz's body to my thirtieth high school reunion and the only stipulation was to see a show seventeen times, I'd be all, "No, thanks. School night."

"Weren't you surprised at how charming he was?" I ask. I was vaguely concerned that everyone around us would be up and dancing because that seemed exhausting. I didn't want to rock; I wanted to sit. But the format of his performance was a nice surprise, almost more of a spoken word show. He spent most of the night on a stool, surrounded by various guitars, explaining the backstory for each of his songs before singing them.