On Saturday, I am going to spend the day in a boat on its way around the glorious isle of Manhattan, ogling swimmers in Speedos and making sure said Speedo-wearers don't drown.

That just might be enough to lift me out of the depths of my thus-far fruitless soul search.

(On second thought, I doubt they'll be donning Speedos to crawl the Hudson and East Rivers. A girl can dream.)

I was laying in the grass with my head on my backpack. My eyes were closed and my cheeks were wet. I was taking a few private minutes to wallow in the knowledge that I am the source of my own problems. And my tummy was still hungover.

"You're a New Yorker, right?" Some skinny guy in glasses was standing over me.
"What?" I asked.
"Do you live in New York?"
"Yeah."
"Great. Just checking. What do you look for in a day spa?"
"I don't go to day spas."
He groaned. "Well if you did, what characteristics would you look for?"
"Look, I don't feel well and I'm trying to take a nap, OK?"
"Fine," he said and sulked away.

I'm in a mood and just want to be left alone.

But I have done a lot of cool stuff in the last week, and I'd like to tell you about it.

Ladysmith Black Mambazo / Prospect Park
* Goober and I went together. It was a beautiful night. Kids were running around playing and screaming. (The screaming was a bit much for me, but it was cracking up Goober.) The music was lovely and soothing. No craziness. Just a nice time with a great friend.

Broadway Bares / Roseland Ballroom
* Goober strikes again. Her roommate is a dancer in 42nd Street, and invited us to this benefit. Two hundred nekkid Broadway dancers. Performing movie-themed numbers, no less! My highlight was seeing cutie John Tartaglia of Avenue Q wearing only a puppet. Goober and I, being the vertically challenged pair that we are, couldn't see a thing until a very nice man made space for us to sit on a railing.
* Other points of view: Biscuit | Patches

Charity fundraiser / Museum of Sex
* The Chinese foot-binding exhibit was freaking out Esther and I. Especially the barely-preserved foot inside a glass box. The card next to it said that both of a woman's feet had "spontaneously sloughed off." Shudder! And I almost replaced the sex toy that I lost in the process of my move last year, but decided to wait for a group trip to Toys in Babeland for that.
* Another point of view: Fish

The Dot-Com Reunion
* A few years ago, we were keeping sunblock in our desks because we would take our wireless laptops and free sodas out to the sunny 19th floor Times Square blancony to "work." Now we all live in reality. It was fun to see old faces, but by the end of the night, I was back hanging with my own friends. The reunion was mostly oddities, because the people I really want to keep up with, I already do.
* Another point of view: Cristin She's making me blush!

Aww, a friend just sent me the cutest e-card to cheer me up. I think I'm going to go cry some more now.

I wish I wasn't at the office.

* I'm still around! But, you know, it's summer!

I was shuffling through the drug store, listening to a new CD on my headphones. My suede slides slapped against the floor as I moved through the aisles. I carried a big box of tampons and a bottle of what I thought was hair conditioner.

I was looking for nail polish, my whimsical treat for this shopping trip. I hate shopping. I scanned the shelf for the cheapest polish. Whatever happened to the Wet 'n' Wild? I heard a noise behind me. Pop!

I turned around. I saw little girl with long black hair tied up with those bands with the plastic balls on them. The hair bands were aqua, the same color as her little pants. She was standing in front of a group of rubber toilet plungers on the floor, which were almost as tall as she was.

Her smooth brown arms reached out for one of the handles. She stuck out her little bottom and pulled back on the handle until it leapt off the floor with that satisfying sucky sound. Pop! Her long silky ponytail fluttered and she stumbled back a few steps.

She got her footing and stuck the plunger back to the floor. She gripped the wooden handle and tugged again. Pop! Over and over. Pop! Pop! Pop!

After a minute or so, her mother found her playing with the toilet plungers and led her away by the hand.

I smiled all the way home. Until I got into the shower and tried to condition my hair with my new shampoo. Gah.

Dahl, Sam and I were sitting on the fourth floor of the bookstore. Out the window, we could see a large inflated Spiderman scaling an apartment building. Helen Fielding, author of the best-selling Bridget Jones books, stood behind a podium while she answered questions from the audience.

How did she feel when her characters moved from the page to the big screen?

“I always imagined myself with a big gold turban,” she said and made a tall swirl over her head. “And gold sunglasses and gold mules on the set screaming, ‘You’re murdering my babies!’” Apparently, it wasn’t like that at all. I believe it. Her shoes were way cuter than any gold mule.

Did she write when she was a child?

“I recently came across some poetry I wrote when I was 13 or 14 years old. It was mostly about snogging boys under bridges.” She said ‘snog’ and ‘shag’ a few times during the event. I whispered to Dahlia, “I wish we could say ‘shag.’” Can we say shag?

Bridget Jones 3?

Not out of the question. She's going wherever her writing takes her. Because she wants to get better at it.

The audience microphone was passed to a blonde in the front row. Before the young woman could ask her question, Helen blurted, “You were on American Idol!”

Everyone shifted in their seats to get a better look at the blonde.

Oh my gosh! Scooter Girl!

Dahlia and I burst into giggles.

Scooter Girl and Helen bantered for a minute, tickling the crowd. Scooter Girl asked Helen if she knew that Bridget Jones would be a success while she was writing it. Helen said she didn’t know, no.

Coming down to the last questions of the evening, Helen called on a man in the front row. “Bridget Jones and I have the same birthday, March 21,” he said.

“Wow, that’s spooky,” Helen said, her comment sprinkled with sarcasm.

“I was just wondering, what significance does that day have?”

“I thought it was random,” Helen shrugged. She looked at him. “Until now.”

She had everyone laughing out loud throughout the event. A good time was had by all, I think. Except maybe the greasy guy sitting next to me, who asked her if she was aware of the recent American controversy wherein an ambassador’s wife was exposed to be a CIA agent, a comment that mildly touched on a plot point of her newest book. She nodded at him and quickly took another question.

Oh, and her best writing advice?

“Write as if you’re writing a letter to a friend.”

More fun & free summer events »

I actually finished something for once.

It does have a bit of a homemade look to it, I know, but it's only my second try at reupholstering a chair. (See evidence of my first try in the light green drape over the "Before" pictures.) But each time I've done it, I've learned a lot and could do and even better job next time. It was fun. Challenging and definitely not easy, but I had a great time doing it.

I’ve become a little more interested in footwear lately.

I’m not a girl who generally goes googly-eyed and squealy when I see a shoe store. I can’t stand the idea of paying more than $30 for any pair of shoes because I’m a cheap bastard. (And this is no knock to you if you like expensive shoes. We’re each allowed to spend our money how we want. You wouldn’t buy half the crap I get, so it’s all good.)

Frankly, the girliness of thinking and talking about shoes is a turnoff for me. I’m not a huge fan of girliness. Or clichés.

And yet here I am! Talking about shoes! And clichés are clichés because they’re true. Even the ones that contradict each other. Because that’s just the kind of world we live in.

Last year, as I was packing to move from one Queens neighborhood to another, I counted the pairs of shoes I was putting into a big plastic bin. I think I counted 42. 42 pairs! That’s 84 shoes! How could a girl with no particular interest in shoes have 42 pairs of them?

I threw out about 35 of those pairs. I wasn't wearing them and I just don't have the space for such a useless collection.

Lately, though, I’ve become more interested. I’ve bought two of same pair of shoes. Same style, just different colors. I’ve never done that before, except maybe with flip-flops. Now I’m finding myself ducking into [discount] shoe stores, searching for the elusive black & white version of the Diesel knock-offs I love so much. I already have the red & tan ones. I think the window of opportunity has passed the get the black & white ones, and that actually makes me a little sad.

Who is this girl inhabiting my body? Disappointed about a pair of shoes? The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!

I think the answer, though, is actually fairly simple. I’m being acted upon by my environment in subtle ways, which affect my behavior, and make go wild-eyed about $18 sneakers. Contextual clues within my daily routine have manifested themselves in a feminine stereotype that’s leeched onto my psyche. The saturation of a certain element has reached the tipping point. I had never thought much about shoes, and now I’m scouring the city for a particular style and hue of rubber and pleather! With Velcro laces.

So what exactly is it that has tipped my poor noodle from being ashamed of my obviously-not-Adidas and I-wish-they-were-Pumas styles, to writing about them here in my webspace?

Eight shoe stores. Yes, eight. On the three-block walk between my current apartment and the nearest subway stop, I pass by a Foot Locker, Athlete’s Foot, Baker’s, Parade of Shoes, Payless, Fabco Shoes, a mom & pop shoe shop, and another store with rainbow-colored hoochie heels in the window. Actually, they're all on the same one block. I walk past this abundance of foot-focused depots at least twice a day, if not more.

Maybe, in addition to avoiding the stinky garbage, this is a reason to take the alternate route to the subway.

La la la ... walking along, listening to my CD player, thinking about the party I was heading to. I wonder to who I'll meet. I can't wait to tell the girls a story. What should I drink? Soda tonight. Coke. I love Coke.

And there it was. A rosebush in a little garden in front of a brownstone. I almost walked right past it.

I stepped back one and took a peach-colored flower between my fingers. Bleh, this New York pollution's probably taken away its scent by now. Do flowers work that way? Poor flower. I leaned in and bent it toward me. I whiffed.

Lovely! You love the smell of roses too. Just wonderful! I couldn't believe a smell like that could come from a New York City sidewalk! At least, one that's not in a green can on a step in front of a deli, anyway.

And, while I'm on the subject of odoriferous footpaths, I'll tell you that, in the mornings on my way to the subway, I've started walking on the opposite side of the street than usual. The side that doesn't have the dripping garbage bags of two fast food rastaurants piled higher than I stand. Or just the puddles they've left behind. I'm even thinking of going a block out of my way to just avoid that street altogether. I told you I hate summer.

I let the rose go and it bounced back into the bush. I looked around the long stems. I picked another flower and sniffed. And another and sniffed. Mmmmm!

Today, I stopped and smelled the roses.

A list of just some of the things I want to do this summer.

I got myself a whiskey sour from the bar and tried to start a conversation with a woman nearby. She wasn’t an alumnus. She walked away from me.

Alumni happy hours: never as much fun as they sound.

This was a few years ago. It was winter. I moved from the bar to a tucked-away couch near several groups of men. I was there alone, and the men intimidated me. But I did have a conversation starter. I mean, we all went to the same New England mega-university, right? So I introduced myself to a table of three guys and they invited me to sit down.

I had my eye on the one named Dave. But as the conversation continued, it seemed that Dave and his pal were encouraging Bachelor #3, Noah, to chat me up. Noah hadn’t said anything that interested me. Actually, he was mostly just nodding when I asked him about dorms and bars. He was starting to give me the creeps.

We had a few drinks, a few laughs. It wasn’t anything special. But I didn’t have a bad time either. Dave wasn’t interested in me, but that was OK. I loved college, and I love talking about it, so it wasn’t all bad.

Once I decided I was ready to leave, I did. I stood up, said goodbye to the three guys, grabbed my purse and headed, quickly, for the door.

I almost made it, too.

Steps from the door, I saw Noah out of the corner of my eye half-jogging across the bar to catch up with me. Ugh. He awkwardly asked for my phone number, and I gave it to him. Why not? It’s not often I’m asked for my number. And, at the time, part of my dating strategy was not to refuse any first dates. Curses!

About a week later we went on a date. He chose the most romantic restaurant I’ve ever been to. (Next time I go there, I hope it’s with someone more special than Noah.) I wasn't looking to be impressed, but this restaurant wow-ed me. I gave Noah’s name to the maitre d’. Noah had already arrived; he was at the bar.

I skipped over to Noah, ready to gush about how cool this restaurant was. This view! The ice skaters! The snow! The blue lighting and sleek furniture! So cool! I, on the other hand, wasn't playing it cool, clearly, but I didn't much care; I was just trying to be myself. I hopped up on a stool next to Noah.

“Hi, I have something to tell you,” he said.

A killer conversation starter. What’s he going to say? He has a girlfriend? He’s dying? He has an infected growth on an unspeakable part of his body? Say it already!

“I didn’t actually go to Mega U.”

Huh?

He explained that his two friends were alumni and had invited him along to the happy hour. He didn't think he was allowed to be there—I think he was a paranoid and sensitive guy—so he hadn't wanted to say it out loud while at the bar.

“What school did you go to?” I asked.
“Georgetown.”
“That’s a better school than mine! Why didn’t you just say that?”

It was silly. I didn’t really care where he went to school—Mega U, Georgetown, Springfield Community College, whatever—but he seemed pretty embarrassed about it.

I had the salmon, and recommend it highly.

We went on two more dates, and then I met a man I was more interested in than Noah. I dropped Noah in a 45-second phone call. Scrambling for an actual reason, I’m pretty sure I said something about him lying to me. That wasn't very nice of me.

We’ll see what tonight’s alumni happy hour has to offer.

* A favorite scene from a favorite show.

How do I get past this level!?!

This ad makes me giggle every time I see it.


Photo: Chiba

Seems some journalists, the IRS, a shipping company, and a guy named Mark were all hard at work making good things happen while I was sunning on my parents' lawn. Coming home to news like this is even better than coming home to a clean apartment.‡

Lisa & Mark Are Engaged! My best friend at work, Lisa, is used to wearing rings made of plastic or glass. Not diamonds. But there she is with her pretty diamonds! She and Mark have been together for about six years, and she wasn’t sure if they were ever going to be married. He proposed to her on the promenade at sunset. It was their anniversary. I can’t stop hugging her. Which makes it hard to get much work done.

My Refund Has Been Deposited! I mailed in my tax return late because in my atrocious apartment, I lost a crucial piece of paper amid the squalor. But now it’s all been signed, sealed and delivered. And direct deposited.

The Interns Are Here! I was an intern. I had three internships before I graduated college. One was at a Midwestern home & garden magazine where they let me write plenty of articles about new kitchen accessories, lighting techniques and decorating a mudroom. I went back there and did another summer with them. The second was in an attic-turned-publishing house run by a pretty fruity couple. They wrote a travel book about factory tours, produced the Massachusetts state sexual harassment training video, and published some financial journal that I never understood. The third was at a famous rock ‘n’ roll magazine here in New York, where I transcribed interviews about cowboy clothing for a chapter in my boss’ fashion book and fielded calls from Michael Jackson. All of the internships were painful in their own way. But I was paying my dues—and only in the figurative sense, because none of the internships paid well, if at all.

Point is, now is revenge time. We have two college interns this summer, and I’ve been told to give them whatever work I want to. Muwahahah!

We’re Going to Be in Newsweek! The web site I work for recently launched a new product, and Newsweek has written an article about it. And it’s a positive one! It’s going to appear in the June 7 issue. This should give the product a good boost, which is good for me because if it does well, I’ll eventually get a raise. Huzzah!

My DVD Arrived!

‡ I didn’t come home to a clean apartment. I came home to a dirty one. But it’s clean now! I pulled the dressers away from the wall and cleaned under them. And I even cleaned the slats on the air conditioner. You can come over any time now.

STL to ORD

The airport was a beehive of activity at 6:15a.m. CST. I had anticipated neither the long lines at check-in nor the anaconda line at security. At Thanksgiving and Christmas-time at La Guardia, I had arrived two hours early each time and spent 1:45 of it reading in front of my gate. Why would I have thought that dawn on a Tuesday morning after a holiday weekend would be more crowded than a New York City airport on a real holiday? I called my mom from the belly of the anaconda. “I don’t think I’m going to make my flight!” I only had 30 minutes, and there had to be about 200 people waiting to take their shoes off in front of me.

I was saved when an agent rounded up all passengers on 7:00a.m. flights and ushered us through a different security labyrinth. I ran onto my plane, they closed the door behind me, and I collapsed into my first window seat of the day. I’d made it, but what a stressful way to start what was going to be a long day.

ORD to CLE

I guess I wasn’t on top of things enough to get a direct flight to New York. My itinerary was three legs. I tried to get on standby with no luck. Stinky, but whaddayagonnado?

While cruising over the Great Lakes, the woman next to me, who took up all of her seat and part of mine, noticed the blue and white mini-cooler I had carried on. It was filled with toiletries and accessories, but I was presently using it as a footrest; my feet don’t comfortably reach the floor, alright?

“What’s in there? Your lunch?” she asked.
“No. A kidney.”

OK, I didn’t really say that. But I wanted to.

CLE to LGA

Two down, one to go. I approached gate A5 very slowly. Where should I sit? Views of hot men are most desirable. Second-most desirable was a television with CNN. Lo an behold, I spied the day's first hot man.

At this point in the story, my engaged friend, attuned to my taste in men, would ask me, “Did he have a bit of the Bad Boy that you like so much?”

Why yes, lady, he did.

He had blonde dreadlocks down to his shoulders, held back with a pair of sunglasses. He had rings on his fingers. His tall and nicely built body was evenly tanned. And then there was my favorite part—you knew it was coming—the tattoos. They looked like points of large stars peeking out from each of his T-shirt sleeves, teasing me so much I just wanted to rip his shirt right off and see the rest of the tattoos. And the rest of him.

In the 45 minutes we were waiting—and I was surreptitiously ogling—I couldn’t get him to look at me once. Which made me like him all the more. I’m crazy like that. Makes me think of a Seinfeld quote. George is attracted to the woman Jerry is dating—a guest appearance by the awesome Jennifer Coolidge. Anyway, she doesn’t think much of George. He says, “She just dislikes me so much. It's irresistible.” I feel that.

And this is just one of the many reasons I’m single. Not that I’m complaining. If I was dating someone, I’d have to, like, clean my apartment.

JH, QNS

Home, safe and as sound as I ever was.