never seen a tiara worn there

At some point during my interminable imprisonment in New Jersey, I sat down at my computer and bought myself a crown.

You'd be surprised at the kind of thoughts that drifted through my head, all alone in that hotel room. Too much solitude isn't a healthy thing for a woman who runs an open-door shelter for intellectual vagrants in her skull. Trapped by the weather in the misery of a three-star hotel suite that provides free cable, pay-for-porn, an indoor swimming pool, and a dial-up connection? Horror. The only shows playing in the back of my eyeballs were: What's for dinner? and, I need a tiara.

It didn't occur to me that there was anything abnormal about this abrupt and entirely uncharacteristic need. Not until later, that is. The upcoming wedding barely even registered as an excuse. No, I was a woman trapped in a hotel in New Jersey. I'd clocked over 90 hours in 8 consecutive work days, and it's possible I was starting to lose my grip. I needed a crown. I was a princess. I needed a tiara to be a princess. Everybody else got to be the princess. There were whole battalions of men in San Francisco who got to be the princess. It was my turn, dammit. Mine mine mine!

Yes, well. This is one of those things that only make sense if you were actually wandering through my mind at the time. Anyway, it became an obsession. Tiara. Now.

And, oh. Look. Ebay.

The need for the tiara died down as abruptly as it rose, though too late to save my credit card. It wasn't an expensive purchase, at least. I'd retained that much control over my senses. By the next morning, I had already forgotten all about it.

On my first day back in the office, it was brought back to my memory when the tiara arrived in a little white box just big enough for my chin. Let me tell you, when purple monkeys discover that a tiara is in the house, this is cause for excitement. Lots of excitement. Piles of little purple monkeys, dancing on each other purple monkey heads. After all, crown = royalty. Could it be there was a new purple monkey prince in town?

Emboldened by my self-made elevation, I organized a coup and reorganized my department. Then I took it home.

Here's a sad fact: no man is a prophet to his family. No woman is a god to her fiance. The Guy, noteworthy though he may be in other not-insignificant merits, is like many other members of his great, international brotherhood.

He doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.

I was waiting for him when he came home, all becrowned and bejeweled. "So what do you think?" I demanded, presenting the full glory of my sparkling, regal beauty to the Guy.

He stared. His mouth twitched convulsively. I twirled for him and felt glamorous, like a short, pear-shaped, ethnic Barbie.

"It's ... nice." He sounded like he was being strangled.

"You're laughing," I accused suspiciously.

"I'm not laughing." His mouth was now twitching uncontrollably. His eyes were shiny and bulging. "You have a tiara. That's nice."

He was starting to hiccup, too.

"You don't like it."

"No, it's very ... nice. It's a tiara." And now he was being encouraging, in a high-pitched falsetto that suggested a three-puffs-a-day helium habit.

"Fine," I said flatly, and flounced -- yes, flounced; the tiara demanded flouncing -- off. Behind me, the Guy burst into carols of hilarity that probably had the neighbors upstairs thinking dark thoughts about illegal dingo pets. This being rampant provocation, I promptly turned back and bludgeoned him to death with my shiny disco-ball sceptre.

So the wedding's going to be missing a groom, but at least I'll look outstanding in my sparkly tiara.

Adjustment to California has been a little odder than I thought it would be. Two weeks wouldn't have been enough time, you'd think, for my entire life to get out of whack, and yet -- there it goes. After some struggle, I've given up on trying to shift from east coast sleeping patterns to west coast; waking up at 3 AM may not do much for me, but tossing and turning to wake up at 7 AM does allow me to go to the gym and work out for an hour before work. Too, going to sleep at 10 PM might seem like the height of old fogeyism, but there's nothing good on TV after 11 anyway, so no big loss.

Eventually I might revert back -- I loathe being a morning person now -- but until then, my health will reap the benefits while my psyche sulks. In the meantime, my apologies to New Jersey drivers. I hadn't realized you'd take offense to my earlier harping on your failures, and send your people to California after me.

Heard on NPR, Wednesday night.

Newscaster 1: "Traffic backed up for quite a long stretch behind Golden Gate Bridge, due to ... what?"

(pause.)

N1: "Due to ... apparently, earlier this evening someone attempted to do a U-Turn on the Golden Gate Bridge."

Newscaster 2: "A what?"

N1: "A ... that's what it says. A U-Turn on the Golden Gate Bridge."

(silence. Then muffled hilarity.)

N2: "A U-Turn. On the Golden Gate Bridge. Wow. That's something."

N1: "Traffic is slowly returning to normal, and...."

The Guy, who inexplicably survived the first pounding and, Man-like, had failed to learn his lesson, came upon me experimenting with the tiara in front of the mirror last night.

"Hee," he said. "Hee. Hee hee hee."

I hit him over the head with my new crown. This failed to persuade him to adopt a proper mien of respectful reverence.

"Hee. You have a tiara. You're a Princess."

"Damn straight."

"You're a Japanese American Princess," he crooned, gleefully. "Japanese American Princess. J, A, Princess. J, A, P--"

Anyone feeling the urge to sit shiva? I've got a perfect corpse, all lined up.