Beware of twins prone to panic

This is to prove that although some of us (read: ME) are real bitches, my friends and I really do care about each other A LOT. Even if the following is a comedy of errors.

I was out a couple nights ago with my temporary roomie and my former roomie having a couple of beers in midtown when my sister called to say that she got a cryptic email from our mutual friend, Ronnie. It said, "I just wanted to reach out to you about Christine". Jessica texted and called him back, then called Christine, and then called me when neither one of them answered here. I, in turn, called Christine, Ron, and every single other person we know in common, none of whom answered, except for one, whom I sent into a little panic with my "Do you know if Christine is alive?" questioning.

At some point, amidst all of this calling, my sister finally got Ron to answer the phone and he said he was talking to Christine before he texted Jess, and accidentally typed her name but he really meant to say "I just wanted to reach out to you about THE WEDDING", his pending nuptials, in which my sister will play Flower Girl (and please don't ask why a 31 year-old woman will be the Flower Girl because I don't have time to answer). In the meantime, Christine texted me all concerned because she had two missed calls from me and wanted to find out if I was okay, which I was now that I was no longer picturing her lying in the emergency room.

Which proves that my friends are a caring bunch. Or Jessica and I are just easily prone to panic. Because even if Ron had typed the word "Christine" in that text to Jessica, what made us think it was due to some kind of emergency? Maybe he was saying, "I'm reaching out to plan Christine's birthday party" or "I'm reaching out because Christine told me you like baklava". Could have been anything really.

What not to do... if you're a woman

I had an awesome afternoon. I had to go to go to a 2 1/2 hour client meeting, the first half-hour of which was spent raking me over the coals. Which was super fun, lemme tell you.

It's not worth going into what I did wrong. That would involve explaining exactly what it is I do for a living, and then going on to explain the intricacies of my working relationships with various travel professionals... You're asleep already, aren't you?

The point is I pissed someone off. Basically, I stood up for myself when a bully pushed me in the schoolyard. And now I'm paying for it. The bully in question is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things to me or anyone else whose job isn't based on kissing the wrong asses... and often. Even though he started the verbal shoving match, I'm in the wrong because my client says so. Because to men of a certain age and supposed pedigree, being "pushed too far" can be accomplished with any degree of pushing when it is done by a female. That's what it came down to. I was too young, too female and too smart, frankly, to be allowed to talk to him that way, no matter what he said to provoke me.

The moral of this tale, specifically to be taken seriously by any young, smart, upwardly mobile women who may be reading this? Men suck. Especially middle-aged white men. There have been some exceptions throughout history -- Elvis, Bill Clinton, my Uncle Frank. But by and large, middle-aged white men as a demographic SUCK ASS. And NOT in the good way.

Marty still rocks

Ok, I have a confession to make. I didn't like "The Departed". Not even a little bit. I wanted to -- I'm a New York Italian so my loyalty to Marty runs deep. There were parts that weren't horrible. I liked Leonardo DiCaprio. I liked Matt Damon - he played an asshole really well. I didn't even mind that it was about Boston. But it was poorly written, whatever dialogue coach trained Jack Nicholson should be shot dead and the editor was on crack. It was bad. Very very bad.

If he wasn't the same man who made two of my all-time favorite movies, I'd be disappointed in Scorsese for life. But everyone makes mistakes.

It's kind of a cliche but I actually AM thankful

Ah, Thanksgiving. It was actually a nice, mostly even-tempered holiday. Well, my Aunt Louise had like three conniption fits, seemingly for no reason, but, for her, that's pretty awesome. And for the first time in YEARS we didn't have to deal with my toxic cousins. Which if you knew them -- and the shit they pulled last Christmas -- you would know is a very good thing.

Anyway, I'm thankful today. Thankful for my fabulous friends; my crazy Aunt Louise; my adorable, doting mother (who didn't want anyone to not have their favorite kind of pie so she bought every kind in the store which resulted in six pies for eight people); my sister; my dad; and -- if you can believe it -- even my slightly distempered, most likely inbred kitties. And they are in turn are thankful for the event of their first Thanksgiving because they're enjoying white meat turkey for the first time in their little fuzzy lives. In this prevailing spirit of gratitude I'm choosing to wait until tomorrow to get mad at them for the fact that they got into my laundry hamper and scattered clothes all over the bedroom. Sometimes, I swear, it's like they have thumbs. How did they get the goddamn lid off in the first place?

I should have gotten a ninja dog

Henrietta is currently residing on my shoulders. She is being very affectionate actually. I think she knows I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm only going to L.A. for two days but, to a cat, that's like forever. Not that fucking Juniper cares. She won't even let me pick her up. But she is in a mad heat to get in my suitcase. Something about ruining my clothes makes her very very happy. What exactly made me get cats anyway?

If you live in the L.A. area, let me know. I'll be staying in Sherman Oaks and going out in Venice Beach tomorrow night. Come hang out with me. I'll show you pictures of my cats on my camera phone and buy you a shot.

My horoscope was written by a crazy person

I'm kind of at a crossroads lately. Which has compelled me to read every version of my goddamn horoscope that I can find. The one I read today told me to buy a new business card case. Ex-queeze me? Baking powder? Huh?!? How is that supposed to fucking help me.

I need a cup of tea

I need someone to make me a cup of tea. My late great-aunt Kay was famous for that -- if anything went wrong in any of her nieces' lives, she would make us a cup of tea, lots of milk, lots of sugar, and listen to us cry while she called us her "little angels". She didn't have any children but she felt a little bit like a grandmother to all of us. My real grandmothers weren't around -- my mother's mother died when I was little, my father's mom wasn't really into being anyone's grandma.

Aunt Kay was the perfect grandma -- she remembered every birthday, every event in our lives, with a card and a folded up $20 bill. She knew all of our likes and dislikes, remembered all the highlights of our collective childhoods, and her arrival on holidays was what everyone waited for. The cups of tea were the most memorable though -- she gave all of us milked-down tea starting when we were toddlers. It takes a lot of patience to sit with children, drinking tea, listening to them babble on about school and their friends, while simulatenously teaching them the intricacies of 500 rummy. But she did it. And, when we got older, and she had to hear us make the same mistakes over and over, listen to our surprised tears when the boy she knew would break our hearts, did, in fact, do just that, she never said, "I told you so". That's no small feat.

To this day, whenever my life takes a hard left, I feel the urge for a cup of tea and I miss Aunt Kay. I wish I could have a cup of tea and hand of cards with her right now. Surprisingly enough, the tea is the hardest part -- I can never can get the milk-to-sugar ratio right, the way she made it.

Orange juice is useless

Orange juice will not cure a cold. But I've now consumed an entire half-gallon of it anyway, in the vain hope that my sniffles will start to disappear. It's not working. I think you're supposed to drink jus d'orange to avoid getting the cold, not once you already have it. And it's definitely not a cure for a hangover either.

I've decided two things, with Michael's help. One -- I will no longer take my phone with me for Saturday night outings with Alison; and Two-- I should probably stop drinking with Alison. She and I together are not exactly models of self-control.

Embarrassment is...

... when you're standing at the coffee cart on 6th Avenue waiting for your morning joe, and you reach into your purse to grab your wallet so as to have the $1.25 ready when the coffee man reaches through the little window to hand you the cup, and the force with which you grab the wallet dislodges a row of 5 condoms you saw fit to take from that bar on 24th Street at that recent happy hour with your co-workers, because the more condoms you stuffed in your purse, the more they giggled, and now a whole row of said condoms are at your feet in the middle of the street and before you can reach down and pick them up some nice older gentleman does it first, straightens up and hands them to you saying, "I think you dropped your condoms, Miss", and now the coffee man can't stop blushing and you probably will have to find a new place to get your coffee in the morning because facing him again could be tough. And all of this started because you just had to be the funny girl at the office happy hour.

You forgive me?

I forgave you and you never even apologized. Wasn't that nice of me? But I couldn't not forgive you. I couldn't not take your hand when you offered it because, I thought, "What if this is the last time I see those eyes, feel that hand on my skin? What if this is it and I forever regret this moment, this chance I didn't take?"

You told me you were never mad at me, that whatever happened between us you had forgiven. But I was mad at you. Doesn't that count? I asked why you lied, why you disappeared and you asked why that was important two months later. Two months? Not that long ago -- still very memorable for me. Still keeping me up at night, right up until the moment I saw you again.

You said, "Don't get lost on me again, please," as if that is what I had done. And I melted. I said, "I won't, of course I won't." I held onto you like this was the beginning of something.

And you're gone again. It's three days of silence, already. And somehow I'm amazed. Somehow I didn't see it coming... again.

The human Zagat strikes again

As most of you know, I spent last weekend in two of my adopted home cities -- Los Angeles and Vegas. I had fun -- it was mostly catching up with people I haven't seen in a while. Oh, and acting as the back-up French translator at a Franco-American wedding -- a nice girl named Steffie, who actually makes her living as a translator, was the first -- and better -- one. She knows how to say more complex phrases than "Can you repeat that?" and "I'm sorry, I'm not retarded, just a little hungover."

Anyway, while there I went to a few places that I haven't been before. And since, according to many of my friends, I am the human Zagat, I thought I would share these recommendations to all of you, should you find yourself on the Left Coast anytime soon. Here we go:

Cedar Cafe is a wonderful little strip mall restaurant in North Hollywood. Very yummy Lebanese food, including pickled turnips (which are bright pink and weird-looking, but as Tamar and her whole family have taught me, are oddly delicious). And, on Friday nights, there is a cheesy two piece band, and a scantily-clad bellydancer who, when she got close enough to my Dad, nearly made him choke on his lamb kabob. Priceless.

Little Temple, which I can say with some certainty, is my new favorite LA bar. It's on a seemingly shady corner in Silverlake and on Friday nights there is an old-skool DJ that made me and Jenny very very happy. Over Red Stripes, we were even both the target of the affections of a large guy named Ramon, the cousin of whom Jenny was kind enough to salsa dance with in the front room. He thought telling me he had a great view would get me to traipse back to his apartment with him but he was entertaining.

And, last but not least, Downtown Cocktail Room, not because it is so very exciting but because it is the only establishment of its kind -- deep, cushy chairs; cool, non-abrasive DJ; great martini menu -- that is not in a casino on the Strip. It's actually on the corner of LV Blvd and Fremont, which makes it my new favorite "get the night started before heading to Beauty Bar" spot.