Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2003 | 10:56 AM

Last night we ate dinner in our kitchen. This may sound like an ordinary statement. But replace the word �kitchen� with �new mansion� and you�ll get a feel for how momentous it was.

The kitchen has been uninhabitable for some time. I�ve been friends with Angus for almost a decade. He moved into the apartment we currently share about five years ago. In all that time I have never once eaten in this kitchen. I have never once sat in this fucking kitchen. The kitchen has up until yesterday been a place where random crap was stored, dirt, grime, and garbage collected, and the only reason to go in there was to grab a beer out of the fridge.

But of course after my cleaning frenzy yesterday, the kitchen currently sparkles like a god damned commercial for Pinesol. You could eat off the fucking floor. (Though I wouldn�t recommend it. It is after all, lower Allston, sparkling or not.)

Last night, Angus and I enjoyed a meal of breaded cod fillets, home fried potatoes (made with chopped onions, garlic, fresh ground pepper, and celery salt) and cheap red wine. We ate at our very own glass kitchen table while a big apple scented candle burned and Tom Waits�s Closing Time serenaded us on the stereo. The Red Sox game was playing silently in Angus�s room and every once in awhile he�d duck in and attempt to give me an update.

Hey they�re up�

I�d interrupt him.

Don�t fucking tell me.

Why not?

Because I�ll jinx it.

It�s true. Ladies and gents, I have a confession to make. I am a source of bad luck for the Sox. If ever I focus any attention on them or care about how they�re doing, they lose. This is actually parallel to many things in my life including my romantic relationships, my acting career, etc. My emotional focus is as sharp as the beam emitting from a phaser on Star Trek, and like that beam, it at the very least stuns and immobilizes its object and at worst causes it to disintegrate. Last Thursday night at The Chuck Lounge (Angus and I went early to watch the game) I sat glued to the big screen TV just about crying, wanting so fucking badly for the Sox to win. Of course they didn�t.

I remember when I was just getting into them�this was what? �97 maybe? And my ex-boyfriend and I went to a game at Fenway. The Sox were playing the Mariners, and we DESTROYED them. Nomar hit two home runs, one of which was a grand slam. It was the greatest baseball game I�ve ever been privy to, and an evening I look back upon with enormous fondness. I know how narcissistic this is, as though my feelings actually have any impact on the Sox whatsoever, but I understand intrinsically that if I�d been attached to any kind of outcome regarding that magical game�if I had really placed any emotional pressure on the Sox beating the Mariners, they would have lost. It was because I didn�t really give a shit that things went so well. The more detached I am, the more likely it is that life goes my way. The more I care and the more susceptible I am to being hurt by the end result of any given situation, the more likely it is that any outcome will be exactly the opposite of what I wish.

The solution to this lifetime predicament? Don�t care. Easier said than done, but it�s something I strive for. Remain detached and you won�t get hurt. Don�t expect anything. Don�t want anything�not with your heart anyway, and all will be well. This isn�t to say I�m campaigning for slackerdom. It�s fine to have goals. As long as you don�t expect any specific emotional result from the work you put into attaining them. And I�m not being cynical here�if you happen to get some emotional fulfillment, that�s great�bonus! But don�t go looking for it. Because you will always be disappointed. God, if I�d learned this lesson in the past I would have avoided so much pain.

It has been my experience, and I can say this for certain 100% of them time, that if you expect anything-�from people, from anything-- you will always always ALWAYS be disappointed. It is much better to go through life with the idea in the back of your head that nothing will ever work out the way you�d like it to, that the people you know best will behave in ways that you would never have expected, that nothing and no one can be counted upon. And this is actually a good thing. Life is an adventure. Nothing is safe. There is absolutely no such thing as stability. And the moment you feel like you have things in place the way you�d like them to be and everything is just hunkydory, well that means something is very very wrong. That means you�re sleepwalking towards death.