Honey, I won't be home tonight. I have a hooker coming over. Well what about the pool man? He seems to like you.

I'm feeling very vintage right now, so here's a little gem from almost a year and a half ago when I was on the verge of quitting my "devil wears prada masquerading as a production" job in NY. My mother met a high profile CEO on one of her flights who not only went to Fordham, but was in the early (and I do mean early) stages of putting a documentary together. When she began oversharing intimate details of my life, which included that I was looking for a job, he apparently gave her his card and told her to have me call him (personally, I think she had successfully boozed him up to the point where he forgot where he was and confused business cards for acceptable currency over international waters). This was followed by my mother berating me to the point of blackmail in order to get me to actually agree to meet the man, but it was a memorable encounter nonetheless...despite the fact that my mother basically pimped me out.

The first part of my evening I felt as though I was on a blind date. T said he would be at a Christmas party until 7:15pm but he could make it up to the Carlyle, where we were set to meet, by 7:30 or 8pm. I made sure I was at the hotel by 7pm in case he was early and to pretty much just to get the eff out of the office before JB asked me to complete another ridiculous task. It was ungodly cold out and I ducked into the pharmacy across the street to kill time. He called at 7:15 to say he was just leaving Chelsea Piers and asked how I would even recognize him? When I told him I googled his photo, he joked "it's hard to believe how handsome I am." Ha. Ha. Ha. He said he was wearing a fedora and told me to scope out the bar and find somewhere quiet so we could talk.

I walked into the Carlyle and felt like I was high society because it's an amazing hotel, and frankly, I looked fabulous, making sure to dress in my most capable looking outfit. After a Tommy Lee Jones sighting and some bordeline frantic pacing because my cellphone kept going in and out of service (causing me to miss one of T's phone calls) I had a voicemail informing me he was stuck in traffic but I should start a tab and drink as much as I wanted. Seeing as I was there to try and get a job working on eradicating Polio in Africa (try to contain the hysterical laughter), I opted to just wait for him to arrive.

I moved to the lounge near the elevator bank which is prime people watching real estate, only to have him call and ask where I was since he was already inside the bar. Apparently I didn't realize there was another entrance. The joint was pretty hoppin' and I felt like I was in a Raymond Chandler novel. It looks just like one of those old bars in LA with the overstuffed leather booths and everyone drinking high class cocktails. T even reminded me, ever so slightly, of a poor man's Humphrey Bogart, especially with the fedora on.

The only seats we could find were right next to the piano and the live entertainment had already begun, making it exceptionally hard to hear one another. I spent the whole time awkwardly leaning forward because he was reclining back in his chair, then sitting up straight so he didn't think I had bad posture. I found myself caught in this swinging pendulum type movement which I couldn't break out of. I soon found myself faced with an even greater dilemma than the noise: what alcoholic beverage is acceptable to order when on a "job interview?" A cocktail might be miscontrued as too serious a beverage, a beer could be deadly in that with my luck the carbonation would send me into a burp fest, and water is just a waste because we're in one of the most famous bars in New York City. I went with wine. He ordered an Amstel Light. Go figure.

At first I didn't think he was even listening. I talked about why I'm leaving my current job, blah blah blah, and he really didn't seem that interested. But whenever I joked about Fordham, or traveling, or my mother, or any possible anecdote I could come up with to ease the awkward tension, he laughed and it was genuine. The fact that he kept telling me how impressed he was that I drove the RamVan, worked my way through college and that I'm not intimidated to quit my job and start fresh made it feel like I was catching up with an uncle or something. He added "your mother is certainly proud of you," and I wasn't sure if it was genuine or a ploy to butter her up since he knew I'd report back to her. Either way, it's always delightful to hear that from someone other than your mother because they have to say it. After all, they birthed you, they don't want to admit failure.

RE: the documentary, a project attempting to wipe out the polio epidemic in Africa, he told me the people interested are all good friends and include a NY Times reporter who pretty much came up with the story idea, an Academy Award winning documentary film director, the former VP of a major movie studio who just left to branch out, and T, who would act as "the money." Basically all of the pieces are there, he's just got to put them together.

By the time I finished my glass of Shiraz the introductory conversation was coming to a close. He said he'd keep me posted of the developments and I thanked him for taking the time to meet with me knowing full well that this man was just doing a really excited woman a favor by meeting her daughter to talk about a future the two of them would never have. When he asked how I got to the hotel and I told him I took the subway, he insisted on giving me money for a taxi. I told him he didn't have to do that, and he said "No I insist, I feel terrible for making you wait." And as he walked me out he handed me a twenty. I have a sneaking suspicion he was going to meet a lady friend seeing as he went right back into the hotel and the Carlyle is quite a hike for two people with downtown offices to meet for cocktails.

I pocketed the $20 bucks and took the subway anyway since I was making less than minimum wage (if you calculate the hours I was putting in) and it seemed too frivolous an act to cash in on. I called J to tell her all about my peculiar evening, she loved that he told me to start a tab, wondering "was he trying to get you drunk?" Then when I said he bought me a glass of wine, gave me cab fare and sent me on my way, she said "you're such a callgirl." Callgirl or not, I think it's fantastically funny that thanks to my mom, I met a 62 year old Fedora sporting stranger at the Carlyle bar and had a drink where we talked about polio.

This is my life.

I'm Irish. I can't get drunk, all right? I know exactly what I'm saying.

A glorious holiday where we can drink our cares away, sing merry songs and try to convince our friends that we really can do an Irish jig. Sadly, I was supposed to do all of this in NY but thanks to a snowstorm which hit in the wee hours of the morning, all flights to the Big Apple have been cancelled. But I'm not gonna cry...and I won't be racked with my countryman's guilt for something that's not my fault. Instead, I'm going to run to the nearest pub once my "work" obligations are completed, and drink myself silly. What's the phrase I'm looking for to comfort me in such times of woe? oh yes, "time for a pint!"

And I'd like to thank Duke for completely effing up my bracket...you couldn't wait until the SECOND round to get knocked out? So not cool...

Stop talkin', tighten your shock absorbers and get in.

After my run last night, I was feeling a little peckish and decided the Liberty salad courtesy of Escape from New York would suit me just fine. Deliciously stocked with artichoke hearts, fresh tomatoes and what appeared to be all of Northern California's onion supply, I happily chowed it down and then settled in for the insanely morbid premiere of The Riches



Who knew that in only a matter of hours, my life would be in danger? Thanks to the crap load of Allium Cepa in my din din, there was such a fire in my belly when I went to bed that it caused me to dream I was one of five people lured to an undisclosed location by two mad scientists who were hell bent on harvesting our organs. Then it kind of morphed into the Transformers because we all rearranged our molecular structure to become a parking garage and hide from the the evil creatons. Why a parking garage? I have no clue, but you cannot question the subconscious.

I'm glad to report that I did not wake up in a tub full of ice, and that the next time I order my tasty salad, I'll specify that I'd prefer it sans onions.

I've got to do something about the way I look. I mean a girl just can't go to Sing Sing with a green face.

I've learned that when imbibed on mildly cheap champagne and wasabe oysters, you feel it's appropriate to wax poetic with borderline strangers on everything from life to love to sugar daddies who hit on your co-workers. I've also learned that this particular brand of mildly cheap champagne triggers a fantastical phenomenon known as "spill as much of your drink on me as possible." When this apparently failed to stimulate the senses, the masses switched things up by vigorously hugging, shaking or even pinching my ass so that I managed to spill my own drink on myself.

I do so enjoy going home smelling of brothel and wet rag.

I'm not crazy; I'm just colorful.

This is Doodies. I get to babysit him starting this weekend while Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid galavant across the Southwest. Due to one fang protruding outwards while the rest stay in his mouth, the haphazard DIY haircut and a slight wobble, Doodies at times can appear mildly retarded. But don't fret, he's quite gifted. For a milkbone biscuit or a wedge of cheese (not too much tho, don't want to give him the squirts), Doodies will do a full roll over for you. Just be sure to exaggerate the circle with your hand when verbalizing your request, or you might confuse the little bugger. I'm not kidding, once while slightly intoxicated my circle looked more like a square and Doodies' head almost exploded.