Age 16. I discover  the tanning booth. A love affair ensues.

Age 18. My grades are awesome and I’m already accepted into my college of choice, so I get to cut out of school for a week and go to Florida with the family I babysit for. Two days after I get back, I leave for Florida again on Spring Break with my friends. My skin is so brown I have a hard time finding make-up that’s dark enough for me.

Ages 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25. I visit the tanning booth on and off. It makes me feel better in the wintertime, and keeps my acne under control. Plus, I’m young. Who worries about things like wrinkles?

Age 26. Another horrible sunburn. This time I’m wearing sunscreen. But somehow I’ve missed a six inch spot on the left side of my chest. The skin on my boob bubbles. It hurts like a motherfucker.

Age 33. That mole looks funny. In fact, I don’t even remember having a mole there. My mom comments on it. My husband comments on it. I figure I should probably go have it removed.

So, this is what it looks like when, at age 33, your mole turns out to be Basal Cell Carcinoma. The mole was smaller than an eraser, and so superficial the doctor didn’t even have to go all the way down to the fatty tissue. The amount she had to scrape and burn off is about the size of a quarter. Provided the biopsy shows that all of the cancer was removed, treatment is done. There will be checks every three months for the next year to make sure there’s no recurrence. That’s it.

I am lucky.

Lucky it wasn’t bigger.

Lucky it wasn’t on my face.

Lucky it was easily treated.

Lucky it wasn’t melanoma.

I’d rather not take my chances again.

You shouldn’t either.

Wear some damn sunscreen.

On the PATH train, minding my own business, engrossed in The Hunger Games.

The man sitting, facing me: Excuse me. Would you like my seat? Do you need to sit down?

Me, smiling, thinking he’s so polite: No, that’s okay. I’m just fine. But thanks.

It’s not every day a man on the train sees you’re really engrossed in your book and thinks you might be more comfortable sitting. Such a pleasant surprise!

But, why me? I mean, I know I look cute today, but offering me a seat just because I’m reading? I notice the woman standing next to me is reading, too. As are several other women without seats.

Then I notice the man is staring. At my stomach. In my blousy top.

I think of several things to say to him.They fall in a very limited range along the spectrum from “Not pregnant, just fat” to “fuck you.”

The train doors open and people spill in. I’m cramped, crowded, my personal space invaded.

“You know what?” I say to the man. “My feet ARE bothering me a little bit. I think I’ll take you up on your offer. Thanks.”

I settle my ass, not pregnant, just fat, into my seat.

Water over the road on Route 17

A little deeper than it looked.

Water still pouring onto the road.

Can't believe the extent of the flooding.

Looking in the rearview mirror at the little Toyota that stalled out in the middle of the water.

Crap. Seriously? That was the little flood? There's something worse up ahead?

Broken law #1? Driving the wrong way up the on-ramp to avoid the flood (everyone else was doing it, too. That makes it legal-ish).

Rubbernecking at all the fools on 17 trying to drive through the flood, as we head East on the side road.

Route 17 totally flooded.

Cars waterlogged on 17.

Hmm...the washed out rocks look ominous.

Joke's on us. Side street is as flooded as 17 AND there's a tree down blocking the road. Back to Route 17 for us.

This is approximately the point when I started imagining us sitting on top of our car hoping for helicopter rescue as we floated away.

Made it safely through flooding on 17. Only to discover that every single route home was blocked. Opted for 6 through Bear Mountain. Broken law #2.

This used to be Palisades Parkway. Now, it's nothing.

It took about four hours, and multiple, multiple detours, but we did make it home safely. No helicopter rescues needed. Possibly a few road barricades treated as “suggestions” rather than “mandates” (but everyone else was doing it, too, so it was mostly legal). There’s some water in the basement, and the power is flickering. No idea when I’m going to be able to get back into the city for work. But from what we saw today, it looks like Hurricane Irene was much harder on the Catskills than she was on northern New Jersey.

All photos taken on Route 17 & 6 by David Binkowski (@dbinkowski) while I safely kept my hands on the wheel at 10 & 2.

Addtional coverage of the flooding:

Guard Rescues 21 at Flooded Motel

Flash Flooding in the Catskills From Hurricane Irene

Falls at 4 Corners

Record Online has some of the most comprehensive coverage

Which left me…unsupervised.

Which seemed like it should be TOTALLY AWESOME PARTY TIME. I’ve never been unsupervised for a week before ever. In my whole entire life. My college roommate once went to Florida for a few days and left me home alone, but even then our friend Gene came over and we drank a quart jug very small bottle of my grandpa’s homemade wine which was basically paint thinner and got so shit-faced that we told each other all of the horrible secrets we had promised our other mutual friends we would never tell anyone and now I know all of the secrets I’m looking at you Lyle Garber.

Anyway. Unsupervised. For a week. A whole week to do all of the totally awesome stuff I’ve always wanted to do but have been held back by my family because I had to do stuff like feed them and drive them to school. Stuff like skydiving. And seeing Broadway shows. And writing a novel in Paris cafes. Awesome stuff.

So far, I’ve eaten a dinner of Frosted Flakes and a second dinner of popcorn and Lambrusco, straight from the bottle. All in my bed. I’m caught up on True Blood, but need to watch some Weeds before I can dive into the really trashy reality shows. I’ve been in pajamas since I got home from work and I should probably change them because I used them as a napkin for the popcorn butter and now they have yellow handprints all over but I probably won’t because, meh. And a bra? Suddenly totally optional. Have I mentioned I’ve been home alone for not quite five hours now? And I’m already narrating my every move aloud? “And now I’m getting more wine from the fridge. Oh look, we have mozzarella cheese. God damn pantry moth. Smack. Haha, now you’re dead. I wonder if we have Pop Tarts. Pop Tarts are good.”

For some reason (I’m drunk) I thought it would be a great idea to chronicle my complete loss of social skills time without my family in daily photos. So we can all see my descent into madness which shouldn’t take more than three days it seems like a good idea to get some cats, maybe five or six, can you breed cats? because breeding cats seems like an awesome idea. cats eat Pop Tarts, right? all of the awesome stuff I’m doing as I take advantage of this time to pursue my own interests.

So, here I am. Day 1. Almost five hours alone.

Still lookin' pretty good. Yes I'm picking popcorn from my teeth, because I CARE ABOUT MY DENTAL HYGIENE. And so maybe I'm braless and have butter fingerprints all over my shirt. At least you can't see that because I'm demonstrating good judgment and solid art direction. I think this week is going to be epic.

What would YOU do with a week alone?

Peanut:  No.  I’m not doing it.

Me:  That’s fine.  You don’t have to pick anything up.  I’ll take care of it with my garbage bag.

Peanut:  Mo-o-om!  I can’t.  It’s too much.

Me:  It’s not too much.  Start with the blankets.  Then pick up the dirty clothes.  Then put away the stuffed animals.  That’s it.

Peanut:  Give me more time.

Me:  15 minutes.

Peanut, 5 minutes later, closing bedroom door:  I’m done.

Me, skeptical:  Your room is all clean?

Peanut:  Yes.

Me:  You picked up all of your blankets?

Peanut:  Yes.

Me:  What about your dirty clothes?

Peanut:  STOP PUSHING ME, MOM!  I’m not perfect.

Peanut:  Dude.  You’re still pretty whiney.

Playdate:  Not really.

Peanut:  Mmm…no.  You still do whine a lot.

Playdate:  I’d say I only whine like 15% of the time.

Peanut:  Come on, dude.  You whine a lot.  Like, at least 35% of the time.