A day lost to New York randomness
First: Wake up and think that I have plenty of time - three whole hours! - to do some work, make some phone calls, and get myself ready for an appointment.
Second: Panic when work takes longer than I thought, none of my phone calls go through, and I don’t have time to paint my nails.
Third: REALLY panic when I hop in a cab with only 12 minutes to make it to my appointment. “There’s no way I’m going to make it,” I think, wondering how many minutes late I will be.
Fourth: Make it with three minutes to spare. Sit and wait for another fifteen.
Fifth: Hit C.O. Bigelow Pharmacy for lip balm (I may have 63 different kinds, but not one made it into my handbag before I left the hotel) and liquid bandage stuff for the multiple cuts on my left hand from Cathy’s killer kitchen knife.
Sixth: Walk, via Urban Outfitters, to the Mexican restaurant in the Village where Antoine left his hat back in January. “You’ll have to come back at 5.30, when the manager is here. I don’t have the keys.” Sigh heavily, then leave my dad’s address, where they can mail the hat (they offered), and $5 for postage.
Seventh: Eat lunch (brown rice and steamed vegetables, honeydew bubble tea) at Sammy’s Noodle Shop & Grill.
Eighth: Decide to stick around the area until 5.30, rather than leave Antoine’s hat to the follies of the US Postal Service. Wander into a bunch of shops, contemplate getting a whole head of blonde highlights, buy decorating magazines (Blueprint, Domino, O at Home).
Ninth: Go back to the Four Faced Liar, which Antoine and I (but especially I) enjoyed so much a month or so ago. (Most of the same customers are here again, and the dog with the bandanna around his neck, plus a tattooed Irish couple with a newborn baby.) Order a Diet Coke, which the guy behind the bar gives me for free. Read magazines for two hours.
Tenth: Go back to the Mexican restaurant, where the manager disappears for 20 minutes, then comes and tells me they have no idea where the hat is. After a bit more discussion, and after he looks at my dad’s address, he tells me that he doesn’t think they have the hat I want: “The only one we have belongs to some guy from England.” I explain, again, that it’s my fiancé’s hat and that my fiancé is from England. They’ll mail it to my dad’s house when they find it. (This actually upsets me a lot, as getting Antoine’s hat for him was my main mission for the day. Mission unaccomplished.)
Eleventh: Start walking back to my hotel, via Washington Square Park and a ghetto K-Mart where I buy nothing but admire a lot of Martha Stewart dish towels and flatware. Keep walking, through Gramercy Park and past Dick’s Bar, where I went with some friends back in 2001 and had a great time. Overheard: “Dude, the word sac is just, like, inherently gross. It makes me think of a prolapsed sac, you know?”
Twelfth: Stop at East Bay Diner on 1st Ave for dinner. Try to read my magazine, but am distracted by two young (not hot) doctors from nearby Bellevue who are loudly talking about their screwed-up families and women. One doctor thinks the girl he’s sort-of-but-not-really dating may not be the one for him because his “crappy shower curtain rod” fell down while she was taking a shower and she apologised but didn’t offer to pay for it. (Inside my head: “This girl needs to run far and fast.”) His friend tells him he’s crazy. (Inside my head: “No, just a weird jerk.”) They discuss another girl, of whom the non-jerk says, “She’s not that healthy. I mean, she’s bordering on obese.” The jerk says, “Dude, that’s not bordering on anything. Her BMI must be way over 30. She looks like Margaret Cho.” (Inside my head: “Margaret Cho is an occasionally amusing idiot and bigot, but she’s not obese! What a jackhole!”) Make up for only eating a few of my french fries by ordering a chocolate milkshake out of misdirected spite.
Thirteenth: Go to Dunkin’ Donuts for bottles of water, walking as fast as I can through an outdoor hallway of smokers that permanently lingers outside McFadden’s Saloon. Ponder for the 1933838th time the evil and unintended consequences of smoking bans.
Fourteenth: Go back to hotel, write boring blog post, and decide I’m too tired to delete it.