West Village, 4PM

He was already half-way through his coffee when I arrived at The Chocolate Bar, late, rumpled and frustrated from my unexpectedly complex subway trek. Waving off my apologies, he bought me an iced mocha and we settled down in the back corner to get acquainted. I was pleasantly surprised that, as promised, he was indeed not a bad looking guy, and in possession of the correct number of toes and fingers. And he did not have an axe anywhere on his person. At least that I could see. I was immediately at ease.

Is this where I mention he had brought me a gift? Citing my concern over decreased blog anonymity, he produced from a white plastic shopping bag, a Secret Identity Kit from the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Store. I was charmed.

Coffee drained, we went for a walk and ended up at Magnolia. We picked up fluffy cupcakes (mine pink, his green), a couple bottled waters, and headed down to the river to people watch and talk some more. By then I had figured that not only was he not inclined to produce any sort of bladed object and hack me up into little bits which he would then turn into bbq and serve to his neighbors, he was also very likeable. He complimented my shoes. He teased at appropriate levels. He tipped well. All very good things, so we moved on to elderberry cocktails at a bar a block away.

After cocktails and country music, another walk, a brief stop in Washington Square Park, an adventure in the East Village, we ended up at The Pink Pony for wine, stories, more wine, and lobster salad. He said I was cute when I made my lobster head break into spontaneous song and dance on my plate. Charm redux.

Back to the West Village, we took more wine and some seats in the back of The Cowgirl Hall of Fame where we stayed swapping tales of college, family and work until last call.

He offered to see me home. Not just to the subway, but home. I declined, and we parted at the E train. I went North, and he headed toward Brooklyn, pausing to make reference to a certain Bill Joel song.

Upper East Side, 3AM

I stumbled into my apartment, carefully placing my Secret Identity Kit out of Sir Hal’s path of destruction, and crawled under the covers. I couldn’t help but remember that the last blind date I attempted ended with me getting bitten on the stomach. This one? With talk of a future trip to the Butterfly Conservatory and a kiss or two.

I’d say we’re making progress.

“I’m gonna need fifteen more minutes. Can we meet at 7:45?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. I just spent 20 minutes discovering I’m too fat for all my clothes.”
“Aw, honey. You should masturbate.”
“Uh, what?”
“I dunno. It sounds like a good idea. I mean, you can’t lose eight pounds in ten minutes, but you’d have a nice glow.”

I couldn’t really argue with her reasoning, but there wasn’t really time for that. By 7:03 Brian was calling wondering where I was. Now, I have no official stance on fashionable lateness, but I’m fairly certain three minutes after the party start time does not qualify. Hold yer horses, Bri.

An hour later, having opted for comfy (i.e. exactly what I’d worn to work that day), fellow blogging girlfriends and I arrived at Siberia where our host, et al were well into party mode. A bear hug from the Donkey and then Daniella had a drink in my hand before I had walked ten steps. I do so love my fellow bloggers. After meeting a bunch of new faces, getting reaquainted with some familiars, and sharing laughs over “brother fuckers” with the old, we were treated to a rather… ahem, ballsy story by a complete stranger. If that’s not the perfect way to wrap up an evening, I don’t know what is. And, I’m betting that the photos she took of the event will, as usual, be pretty great.

I know I’ve left out names and links. You may rebuke me in my comments. But the afternoon is wearing on, and I’ve got a coffee date to get to. More on that later.

It’s a decision every girl has got to make for herself.

Whether or not you’ll ever actually be put in the position where you have to decide, it’s best to have your answer up front. I personally would have been saving myself a lot of heartache having thought about it in advance. I mean, when it really comes time to take a stand on the issue, which camp are you in?

Faced with limited resources, do you eat for the next week or go out drinking with your friends?

I did a quick check of my financial status last night, balanced it against upcoming social events and the painfully empty state of my refrigerator (can you hear my tummy growl?) and wished I’d had a little bit of that good ole ‘fuzzy math’ to make things looks less bleak.

Forty-two dollars and five cents. An empty fridge. And no less than three confirmed social events requiring bar attendance. Granted, straights are not dire. I’ve seen dire and this is not it. But this is just far enough away from comfortably happy-go-lucky to be pretty annoying.

Not possessing whatever Kate Moss-ian discipline it takes to go without food for six days, I will most likely be conserving my buying power for yogurt and lean cuisine lunches. Though, now that I think about it, the alternative isn’t wholly unappealing. A diet of straight booze for the next week would certainly put me back in my favorite jeans without any wiggling. And what bout with scanty finances would be complete without a hangover or two?

Okay, okay. Fifty-fifty it is — twenty for groceries, twenty for play, and two-oh-five for to keep a scant something in my bank account until Thursday. I do so love a good compromise.

And when this twenty dollar bill runs out, I’ll drink water, dress it up with lime, and have a silly old time. Because this girl has never needed anything more than good company to be silly.

And, if I remember correctly, disco spins are free.

I left work last night, stopping by the reception desk for a quick chat. Then pushing out through the glass doors, I noticed an open, empty elevator. Kismet! I scurried into the cab. It only took me three seconds or so to figure out why I felt out of place and why the only other person in the lobby was looking at me strangely. I stepped back out.

“I, um, guess that’s the service elevator,” I said, giggling at myself.

The man laughed, answered in the affirmative and when a passenger elevator opened moments later, wished me a good night.

“You, too.” I smiled.
“Boy, I bet you make the sun shine, don’t you?”

I was surprised at his comment and at first, didn’t know how to respond. Laughing, I pressed “1” on the panel, and as the metal doors began to slide shut, I answered,

“I dunno. Maybe sometimes I do.”

When I know I’m wrong, I find it pretty easy to apologize. When I like something, I’ll gush about it without reserve. When I’m tired, cold or hungry or miserable with a headache, I have no problem saying, “I have a god damn headache.” But when I need help, when it occurs to me that I can’t go it alone and I need to be bolstered up, I am absolutely incapable of saying, “I need you.”

Lest it seem that I crumble into weeklong crying spells merely for the benefit of keeping things interesting here on the fishblog, I’ll be a bit more forthcoming and say, something fairly big was up. For the sake of my own privacy (and pride), I didn’t expose it here, or even to most of those that I would consider close friends. As a result, I was a teary, snippy, headachy, nauseous train wreck of a human being.

I touched on my distress in writing, though my posts were never meant to be secret code of any kind. I have long since given up artless subterfuge. But yet, uncorked, my bottled messages must have said plenty to evoke tidings of, “What is really going on with you, girl?”

Preferring to twist in the wind (because crying oneself to sleep is ever so vogue), I thanked-but-no-thanked my way through the week, until one girlfriend had finally endured just enough of my emotional short bus behavior.

“I don’t care if it’s me, your neighbor, or the ice cream man,” she said. “You need someone.”

Then she proceeded to guilt me with the bodily harm that would befall her when she camped out on my street waiting for me to call and admit I needed support. You know, like a good friend does.

And so, I caved. I accepted company, comfort and really hot pizza. All of which I had needed, and couldn’t ask for.

I can’t get through cheesy horror flicks by myself. Without another warm body to hide behind or arm to cling to, they’re unbearable. Which makes me wonder: Why is it I think I can possibly make it through scary, real-life situations without the same?

I hum “Hail to the Chief” in the shower. I can say, “I love hairy women” in flawless German. I can’t argue without crying, or cry without getting embarrassed. I love to floss.

I sleep with one leg out of the covers, which can make some sleeping bags rather tricky. The movie, ET makes me cry. So does The Sixth Sense. And The Land Before Time. I have long legs and long fingers. I can bake without measuring.

I am fairly intuitive. I eat a banana almost every day at 3:30. I have never been pregnant. I have never seen The Godfather. I can’t curl my tongue.

I get nervous in small spaces. I don’t like roller coasters. Or raisins. I find it impossible to stay awake on airplanes. I believe in being gentle with people. I don’t like being patronized. I like autonomy. I hate being left alone.

I press the snooze button for an hour every morning. I am always early to work. I am also the first to leave. I need Tums, sunglasses and Chapstick. I crave constancy. I adore surprises. I snort when I laugh. I can’t make machine gun sound effects. I have never broken a bone.

I really do love to floss.

Upon my return to the City, I had every intention of extending my hiatus and shutting This Fish down permanently.

It wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction, rather something that has been gnawing at me for some time. Emotionally more complex than the makeup of my usual Pro/Con list, my reasons are a combination of the emotional and the rational that are, for the large part, inexpressible.

The way I’ve been feeling lately has been inexpressible.

On Saturday afternoon, Elle and I sat on clean wood floors of her new apartment, leaning against bare walls, and talking. I shared some of my frustrations. She lent her support and insight and I made a decision to give up the blog. I made a lot of decisions, actually. And incidentally, once I verbalized them, they felt absolutely and undeniably wrong.

So here I remain.

But still, I’m left with my handful of reasons for wanting to throw in the towel. I’ve been up against them before, if you remember. I’ve strayed so far from the original purpose of the blog, which when anonymous, allowed me to express myself with near absolute freedom. It used to be so liberating to let go of my dignity, to be raw and yet, to be unknown. Because, in the real world, I still had my dignity. But now, I know you. I’ve eaten lunch with you, shared drinks and ice cream, and Lindor Truffles with you. I’ve asked you to hold my calls and feed my cat. I’ve slept next to you.

And I can’t help but feel that in some way, too much honesty here only serves to add unnecessary conflict to my relationships with those of you who know me outside of my Fish persona. But I guess that’s the consequence we face, writer and reader alike.

A part of me feels broken right now. I’m mired in hurt and worry. And I’ve been crying since the moment I walked into my apartment and set my weekend bag on the floor in the hall.

See, I can’t tell you that and save face. It’s impossible. But then again, who knows? Maybe it’ll turn out that dignity is a bit overrated. At least among friends.

If you read this after say, 7:00 or so, anyway.

I sucessfully have traded in my mass transit tickets for a spot in a certain sassy little Honda, postponed my blind date (thank you, blind date), and am Boston-bound a day earlier than planned.

Full-scale rejuvenation plans are in effect. There will be Thai food and beach time and soldiers home to untie their yellow ribbons. And J has even emailed to say he’s leaving my birthday gift in the “secret tree with the knot.” That he remembered my up-coming birthday at all is stunning and gratifying. That there may be a treasure hunt involved? Huzzah!

And in my absence from the City, Ari will be dropping in from time to time to see that Sir. Halitosis has food and water, and to make sure he hasn’t turned my little apartment into a seedy den of kitty porn.

And in my absence from here? Well, I’m certain you’ll all survive the hiatus marvelously. You always have Top Gun.

Catch ya on the flipside.

Someone stole my copy of Top Gun.

Okay, someone stole my copy of Top Gun like, three years ago. But last night when I woke up in a cold sweat over a nightmare (about, of all things, the Chinatown Bus), I dug through my DVD collection for a bit of digital coddling, and there it wasn’t. And I wanted it.

I wanted Mav to suggest doing it right there on the bathroom counter. I wanted to shake my head at what’s-her-face’s inappropriate use of cowboy boots. I wanted to get all weepy when Goose doesn’t survive that dogfight.

But mostly, I wanted to watch the volleyball scene. Over and over.

Seriously, Rick Rossovich? I’d have chosen a big-nosed Steve Martin over you in Roxanne any day of the week, but that flexing thing you do in the volleyball scene? That is what instant replay was made for. Hommina.

Shhh, don’t talk, it’s better that way.

In the absence of the cheap thrills option, I put on Much Ado About Nothing, gathered up my sleepy kitten and climbed onto the couch to watch a sharp-tongued Kenneth Branagh get tricked into matrimony – for the gazillionth time.

I’m really going nowhere with this. You know, in case you were expecting some sort of story arc or conclusion or something. I feel sorta bad, writing drivel like this… not wrapping it up all neat n’ tidy. But, after all, this is just a blog and sometimes, I don’t really have much to say except, I want my copy of Top Gun back, god damn it.

I don’t know how not to indulge this.

At 3:30 AM, I was limping around my apartment, trying to ease the leg cramps that were curling my toes and keeping me from sleep. In my desperate need for potassium, I took a multi-vitamin. We have no bananas today.

Half an hour later, I crept gingerly up to my roof where I paced until my legs relaxed a bit. Then I sat. And thought. And over-thought. Until it grew faintly light over the East River and it occurred to me how exposed I was, wearing nothing but my t-shirt.

So I went back to bed.

I’d gone to bed several hours earlier feeling disappointed over some small matter. Only, it’s no secret that nighttime does its best to amplify small matters — putting monsters in closets and leaving wolves without their sheepish disguises. Too much alone time spent not sleeping, watching minutes blink by on digital clocks in the various time zones of my apartment, and I was very tempted to make a late phone call. It was an empty sort of moment needing to be filled with a certain trademarked, “Awwww, I’m sorry, baby.”

But I let her sleep. She lives on Stuart Standard Time — it was even later there.

Today, the things made big by the night have curiously stayed big. My workday is in full swing, and I’m mentally abstaining. I’m just staring at the other office windows on Fifth Avenue, and sometimes at the black desk phone to my left. Ring. Be a friendly voice.

Justine was kind enough to fend off my 10:00 appointment. Like I said, I don’t know how not to indulge this. Though, I suppose I’d better try.

PS:
Thank you, friendly voice.

Completely cured of my bizarre bout with melancholy, I left work yesterday on a mission.

Post-mother visit, the apartment was still a disaster. Belying all of my natural OCD tendencies to maniacally preserve the tidiness of my small space, I’d simply let it all go in the name of recovery. Well, happy Therapeutic Recovery Period met its statute of limitations yesterday when I arranged to host my very first (and quite impromptu) dinner soirée.

Once home, bed linens were stripped and sent downstairs to the fluff-n-fold, couches lint-brushed for my kitten-allergic guest, groceries bought and mushrooms washed and set to marinate in the fridge.

I’m a headstrong, focused sort of gal who, once there is a goal in mind, can’t be bothered with trifle things like… changing my clothes. Last night, I cleaned the apartment in its entirety still wearing what I’d thrown on for work that morning. I was still decked out in the very Donna Reed-esque frock when I flip-flopped down the street hours later to meet Ari for TCBY and our evening constitutional.

“I can’t believe you cleaned like that.” She said over strawberry frozen yogurt. “You should have come over to borrow my pearls.”

“Pink flip-flops: the new kitten heel.”

I nearly burst into a round of, “I can bring home the bacon… fry it up in a pan….” But we were in public. And really, isn’t that song best sung in a sultry fashion while toying suggestively with a dishtowel?

Maybe I’ll save it for tonight’s after-dinner entertainment.

Rarrr.

I had a very surprising, weepy moment last night in the middle of my cover-to-cover digestion of Fran Drescher’s account of her battle with cancer.

A book about cancer? Sad? You don’t say!

But I found myself crying at the happy parts of the book. And then again later during the cutesy ‘Big Families are Great’ moments of Cheaper by the Dozen. I caught Sir Halitosis looking up from his state of perma-napping with that, “you’re a crazy sap” look in his eyes. Deciding that His Excellency was right, I put the movie on pause and called a girlfriend for some non-sentimental gab.

El filled me in on the news back in the Hub. Time has flown, and as it turns out, the Fireman will be returning from his war duty this weekend. Coincidence that I was planning to make a trip up there? Purely. Uniformed boy-toys are so last year. All glibness aside, I can’t say that I miss the ridiculous drama of living on that aptly named dead-end street, so densely populated with my social circle. It was all a little too Peyton Place for me.

Forty-five minutes later, I hung up the phone and finished the movie. And cried again — at least twice. Ninja, please! Yeah, yeah, I was once part of a big ole happy family, too. Sure my parents didn’t like each other nearly as much as Steve Martin and Bonnie Hunt, but my siblings kick ass and I’m really okay with the whole divorce thing…

What is with the big waaaah moments?

It was bedtime, so I went about my nightly ritual. Fed the cat, brushed my teeth, filled a cup of cold Brita water and wandered into the bedroom where I discovered…

I was down to the brown pills. You know, the sugar pills. Duh. That explained everything!

It’s honestly not a wonder that I forgot, seeing as the last few months I simply couldn’t be bothered with Mother Nature and opted to skip the brown pills altogether (no lectures, this is perfectly safe). Long gone are the days of advanced warning, caustic PMS symptoms for this girl. Now I simply have a solid twenty-four hours of hormonal shock treatment, during which I really should be wearing a sign that says,

Fragile: Handle with Care. And hugs and strawberry frozen yogurt.

At Barnes & Noble this afternoon, browsing led to buying and I left with my very own copy of Fran Drescher’s second autobiography,”Cancer Schmancer.”

After Friday night’s showing of Fahrenheit 9-11, I decided I needed some more… gentle media for the remainder of my weekend.

Maybe I thought Michael Moore would just skip over showing little Iraqi babies with their arms blown to pieces. Maybe I didn’t think I’d cry for a Michigan mother who’d lost her son. But with the theater being so hot and humid, and having had two vodka tonics with dinner, by the time the movie let out I was dizzy and overwhelmed and wanting nothing more than to hit the street for some cooler air.

The streets were no cooler, nor any less congested. We hurried west to escape the crowds of converted democrats in loud debates, over-analyzing the film.

“What’d you think of it?” my companion asked as we broke through the crowds.
“I… don’t really know. It upset me.”
“I couldn’t tell if my ears were playing tricks on me,” he said. “I thought I heard you sniffling.”
“I was.”

So, yes, Fahrenheit 9-11 made me cry. More than once. Which is why today, after my Post-Nanny purchase, I skipped down to Blockbuster where I rented Cheaper by the Dozen. I figured it was safe.

I mean, I read the whole cover and didn’t see Moore’s name anywhere on it.

When I was young, the idea of ‘running errands’ seemed very grown up and glamorous. It is fairly safe to say that Barbie had as many errands as she did romantic encounters in my house of dreams. Somewhere on par with having my very own fairy godmother was having my very own to-do list.

While I have come to grips with the fact that I will never have a pleasantly plump fairy to bippity-boppity-boo me into haute couture, I am blessed with the reassurance that I will also never be without my to-do list. And it is so very glamour-free.

Yesterday’s post-it note took me to a handful of stops on the Upper East Side: Victoria’s Secret, Barnes & Noble, PetCo, Duane Reade and the corner fluff & fold where I picked up my *gulp* twenty-three pounds of laundry.

Plagued with the idea that I’d forgotten to add something to my list, I hurried home to get ready for the evening’s affairs. I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out what I’d neglected to purchase. This is what you get for not writing it down, I scolded myself in the shower. You’re gonna be bugged all night.

And when I stumbled in to bed at a quarter of three this morning, it finally hit me — or rather, every single piece of furniture from the living room to the bedroom hit me. I needed light bulbs.

Or shin guards. Or a miner’s hat? That’d be sweet.

One honeydew flavored condom.

That was the only even remotely scandalous item in my gift bag from last night’s benefit at the Museum of Sex. Was I foolish to have expected better?

The proceeds of the night’s event went to a worthy cause for public reproductive health research and education. Yadda yadda. That’s great and all, but couldn’t they have at least thrown in some dirty playing cards or something? True, there was a nice copy of the MTV sex-ed pamphlet, and I now have a handy, concise reference to the symptoms of a wide array of sexually transmitted diseases. (This will not stop me from diagnosing a canker sore as syphilis.)

If I hadn’t found the honeydew condom hiding in my big ole bag of sex education, I’d have been forced to march back to the museum and demand that sexual tarot reading I never got around to having. You know, in order not to consider the night a complete bust.

I mean, if I’m going to be all charitable and such, I feel like I should be getting some decent smut out of the deal.

When I got home last night, the girls had already left for the airport. I wandered through the silent disaster zone that had become my apartment and into my bedroom.

On my bedside table, I found a vase of big purple flowers and a note.

Will you go to homecoming with us?

The flowers were mums.

J called the other night while the girls and I were on our way to dinner.

“I’m driving back from my parents’ house,” the message said. “And I just wanted to call and tell you that I really miss you.”

He’s a sentimental one, that J.

I remember taking that same drive back from his parents’ place on the Cape (I’d been gardening with his mother while the men worked on the project car in the garage), Dashboard Confessional’s Shirts and Gloves playing on the CD player.

I think I miss you most
On Wednesdays and Saturdays

“That’s when I’d miss your guts out, too,” he’d said, drumming on the steering wheel. Always drumming.

“Laundry night?”
“Yeah. And days like today.”

On Wednesday evenings, I’d trim his hair and then he’d lug my laundry to the big, not annoying Laundromat on Brighton Ave, where he’d help fold — everything but the underwear. Underwear made him nervous. Then we’d watch really bad reality television. The night was significant in its own way, and when I finally sent that, “I never, ever want to see you again,” email last February, I remember thinking, What am I going to do on Wednesday nights?

I think the first week, I took a Xanax with a half a bottle of wine and went to bed early.

I was a sentimental one, too.

I love, love, love having lunch with Sarah in Bryant Park.

“I think this is getting serious,” she said as we settled in at our green metal table. “It’s our third lunch date in a week.”

“Oooh, you’re right. Does that mean we’re going steady?”

“Yep. I think I should be wearing your ring.”

I almost got nervous about having a committed lunch relationship, but then she produced the chocolate cookie she brought me and promised to decorate my locker with a banner for homecoming. And in the fine, Texas high school tradition, I will make Sarah a mum.

I just hope when I send her an IM tomorrow and say, “Lunch today?” she doesn’t reply, “I think I need my space.”

Because, that’d be a lot of wasted effort on the mum**.

**This is a homecoming mum. It’s actually a girl wearing a mum, but you can’t really see her under all the festivities. If you don’t get it, what can I say? Neither do I.

I love how a couple glasses of wine make me a silly blogger. Last night? Silly. But not untrue.

Being in the constant companionship of two 17 year-olds might add to the silly factor as well. It’s fun, of course, but I sort of need a conversation that does not include the words, kick-ass, awkward (it’s the word of the moment, it seems) or the phrase, “so and so is texting me.”

They text message constantly, kids these days. Does my phone even have that capability? I have no idea. But Joyce and Stina do it while walking down crowded sidewalks, without dropping conversation, and when my apartment lights go off, I can still see little glowing screens and hear little fingers tapping out Morse code from the AeroBed in the living room.

They’re on their own for the most part today, with goals of finding boys to make out with. I’m serious. I guess I never thought to make it an actual goal, but it does seem like a worthy one. I wished them the best of luck, left an apartment key, and told them to call when they woke up. If that happens before noon, I’ll be shocked.

So, it being about oh, 8:30, that gives you exactly 3.5 hours to leave me comments as to what I should suggest they do today. Please note, that you use the word museum, you’re automatically disqualified. They’re 17. With alternative hair color and piercings. They don’t really do museums. And, besides, you can’t text message in museums. They make you shut off your phones.

“Bella mia. For you? Free!”

I didn’t stop to see what the waiter was offering, but I was glad we’d taken time out of our day in Central Park to get gussied up before heading to Little Italy for dinner.

We’d spent all morning brunching and sunning on the Great Lawn before the car service whisked my mother away, off to the airport. The girls and I immediately headed back to the Park for a little sight seeing at our pace. I’d never seen Bethesda or well, anything on the West Side of the Park.

But the first order of business? Barefoot time on the lawn. Our feet were newly pedicured and just itchin’ for some grass contact. We smoked and walked our way from the Great Lawn to the beginning of the Park and back.

Love the little sister and her best friend, but now, I’m hankerin’ for some grown up time. And honestly, had the waiter in Little Italy not been such a guido, I may have ditched the girls to find out what exactly he had in mind. Okay, maybe not, because ultimately he probably meant gellato or tiramisu, not…well, other stuff.

Oh, and I don’t know if it was the sitting up on the roof smoking butts and sharing stories of one night stands with Australian tourists, but I had a series of very risqué dreams dreams last night. Including, amusingly enough, one (tamer one) involving this guy.

All I’m sayin’ is, it’ll be nice to have my apartment back.

After traipsing around town with mom, sister and sister’s best friend, I’m feeling tired, frustrated and crowded.

In one fell swoop, they’ve quadrupled the normal occupancy of my small apartment, and quite unapologetically, taken it over. There is stuff everywhere. My bathroom looks like a college dorm bathroom, my living room like sleep away camp.

I’ve spent hours walking around this city, showing them the sights as someone once kindly did for me. But I don’t remember going back and putting my feet, complete with shoes, on that person’s couch.

Did I mention I’m frustrated? And crowded?

Because I totally am.

I miss my tidy world.

In Grand Central Station just now, I exited my train to find a man had stumbled at the bottom of the stairs. On his knees, palms skinned from the concrete, he was clearly disoriented. A split second later, a police officer was gathering him up, righting the fallen man’s suitcase to its wheels.

“I see you’ve had a bit of trouble, sir,” he said. “Let’s get you up.”
“I… I just…”

The man was mentally handicapped. Though nothing in his appearance suggested it, his speech gave away his disability. The officer took the man’s hand and checked his palms.

“That’s a heavy suitcase you got there,” the officer said. “Maybe I could give you a hand up the stairs?”

The line around the two men started moving more quickly, and I shouldered my own bag and moved on. But I was so profoundly touched by this unexpected tenderness that I felt wounded.

I still had tears in my eyes when I walked into my office.

It’s a variation on a theme, I suppose.

I cried last night, too.

Laying in the dark, consumed by silence, I threw the covers off. There in my t-shirt and bare legs, on the white expanse of my bed, I hoped that with nothing to camouflage me from the night, sleep would find me.

Tears ran into my hair and the feather pillow.

“You know, people don’t intend to be mean most of the time.” My mother had said earlier in the evening. “They’re just careless.”

“Which can be worse. Being mad is easier than being hurt.”

Later, full of Mexican food and forgiveness, I had walked her to the subway and gone home to sleep.

Sometimes the night can give you too much space to think. And sometimes, it closes in around you, wraps its fingers around your heart and squeezes. And as I lay there, surrounded by the white noise of my apartment, I fell prey to specific silence.

And when the night squeezed, I gave in and cried.

She was waiting on the sidewalk in front of her Madison Avenue hotel.

We decided to go for a walk, and I rambled on, the nervous way I do with strangers. She asked questions. Tell me more, she said as I pointed out places I’d been.

I kept rubbing my eyes; they’d been bothering me for a day or two and it was late. I had wanted to show her The Plaza and walk for a bit down Fifth Avenue, but when we stepped into the hotel’s brightly lit lobby, she stopped and touched my face.

“Your eyes! Are you okay?”

“Mmm, yes. They’ve just been burning. I couldn’t wear any make-up today.”

“I have eye drops in my room.” Then she looked closer. “Oooh, honey, I think you have a broken blood capillary!”

“Nah, that’s sort of what amounts to an eye freckle. I’ve had it since college.”

“How dare you have something I don’t know about!”

We laughed, she squeezed my arm, and took me back to her hotel for eye drops.

Incidentally, my eyes are fine this morning.

I don’t know about other pet owners, but in this heat, or what shall be known as The Great Shedding of 2004, my normally innocuous cat has become something of a royal pain in the ass. Sir Halitosis has left behind a residue of kitty fur on the kitchen tile (where he lays to keep cool) in such quantities that I am convinced we could be turning a tidy profit at the Hair Club for Men.

Only your groomer er…hairdresser will know the difference.

I was very well-behaved as far as last night’s open bar was concerned and spent a good part of the evening improving my Black Jack game. Between the I’ll Be Nice Because This Is for Charity dealer and my firm’s CEO, I was rollin’ in the black chips in no time. I had turned my $25 voucher into over ten thousand dollars. And the CEO? Well let’s just say it’s no secret that the man hits a Black Jack table and walks away with eighty THOUSAND dollars.

“I’m a numbers man,” he said. And then seeing my cards, shook his head. “Don’t chase the dealer. Let him be the one to go bust.”

Interesting, I thought and then watched the dealer’s cards add up to a pretty little 21.

“Hey! What about not chasing the dealer?”

“Well… it’s a good rule to follow. Most of the time.” He grinned, bought more chips and ordered another drink.

I laughed and slid all of my chips onto the table. The Dealer had heard me complain of sore feet and thus did not enforce the $1000 limit. The cards were dealt, and I lost $11,000 on one solitary hand of black jack.

“Oh thank god!” Relieved, I said goodnight to my table, collected my bag at the coat check and tottered to the subway.

Turns out, I am not a numbers gal, and gambling really hurts my feet.

I got dressed for work this morning, like I was getting ready for a date.

I shaved my legs, set my hair in Velcro rollers (screw you, 76% humidity), even busted out the eye-liner – which I rarely even do for boys. But tonight, I’m flirting with purpose, so it’s time to bring out the big guns. Get out the business cards and the So What if You’re Old Enough to Be My Father attitude, because tonight, I’m headed here to do a little public relatin’.

Normally, the *ahem* … pleasure of attending schmoozy work-related events is something on par with the idea of tweezing my own leg hair.

Pluck!

But tonight it’s for children’s charity, which I dig. Admittedly, the open bar never hurts — I could use a good drink or two. And a few winning hands at the Black Jack table. Luck be a lady!

So, tonight, I’ll wear eyeliner. And a shorter skirt. I’ll blow on dice and flirt with 55 year old men.

I mean, it’s for the sake of the children, and all.

***

PS? Today I became a Secret Agent!

Thanks, Josephine! I couldn’t be more thrilled!