June 10, 2000

The other night, I was really in the mood for a date. Now, by date, I do not mean, as some people do, a rapid descent into nakedness; I do, however, mean, when I say "date," a dinner at an atmospheric Italian restaurant eaten at a table set up on the sidewalk, a glass of red wine at the ready, and a warm breeze blowing across my shoulders.

I had been furiously flirting with Elijah all day. Because, of course, the breakup that had been imminent between him and his newly revealed girlfriend somehow turned out to be a tearful reconciliation, so he was once again safe. I always want to woo them away. I very rarely want to actually get them. So, it was back to wooing.

At work until 7:00 p.m. Porn Boss was back from vacation, and he and Elijah and I were making sure all the pages got to the printer with as few glaringly misspelled words and stylistic maladies as possible. Truth be told, I was the only one checking for errors. They just wanted to get the pages to the printer in between stories about Laurel and Hardy, Survivor, and Showtime After Dark. They would be nothing without my eagle eye. I really am the backbone of this organization. I am a highly respected member of our team. Have I mentioned I don't have voice mail?

So, after Porn Boss regaled us with the tale of how he has an article in the upcoming issue of Extreme Fetish magazine -- this particular article having to do with the extreme fetish of nurses -- Elijah and I bonded in fear. Various enema jokes were made, all of them being hysterically funny due to the fact that they included the word "enema," but there was definitely an underlying theme of "we know way too much about this man," and "if we tell anyone, Porn Boss will have us killed."

"You hungry?" I asked Elijah, thinking he would say something along the lines of "Why, yes, I am. You are such a dear to have noticed. My newly revealed girlfriend is so wrapped up in herself, she never takes the time to see what's going on with me. Really self-centered. I don't know how I could have been so blind to her true nature all this time. Come, let us have dinner. Also, you are looking quite fetching tonight."

And then we would be off to find fun and frolic at a sidewalk cafe somewhere very New York where we could continue the process of falling professionally inappropriately and statistically improbably in love.

However, he said something slightly different, which, to my ears, sounded like "Hungry?! Well, of course I'm hungry -- for a real woman -- a category in which you fall devastatingly short. Have you not seen how weary I've grown of this whole "cookie" game you insist we play? I get fresh, hot, moist cookies at home. I have no need for Oreos at work. Begone, sniveling child!"

In reality, I believe he said yes, he was hungry, but he'd grab something on the way home.

So, never being one to let abject rejection stop me, I took my own damn self on a date. I went to some semi chi-chi Italian place on 53rd & 9th -- Mangia e Bevi, I think it's called -- and proceeded to have to tell the waiter no less than four times that yes, I was dining alone, no, I wasn't waiting for anyone, and yes, he could take the No, I'm Really Not a Loser extra place setting away, as I surely won't be needing it. I scanned the menu, and ordered, thinking it odd that they didn't have any specials, as this is the sort of place that always, always has specials. A few minutes later, a couple sat down next to me, and a few minutes after that, they were kindly presented with a veritable slew of specials. A slew! Oh, I was peeved. Had I been with someone, I would've had the courage to make a stink -- or, in reality, just ask what the specials were. But, I was alone, and they knew this would make me meek. Oh, oh yes. They knew. So, I did not ask for the specials. The specials that were clearly better than whatever I'd ordered.

And then there was the Bachelorette Party. The gaggle of women wearing kitten-heeled shoes who streamed into the restaurant laughing, giggling, clapping, exuding all the telltale signs of already-been-drinkingness. One woman had a veil on, thus the Bachelorette Party assessment. I was sitting outside -- at this point, thanking the good lord I was sitting outside -- so, sadly, I cannot recount any overheard bits of wisdom. I did hear the music, though, which might give you some indication of the vibe in the room. The Ricky Martin classic, telling you to shake your bon bon, kicked off the evening, and then seamlessly segued into "She's Crafty," by my beloved Beastie Boys, which then naturally morphed into "That's Amore," and, just as I was leaving, a rousing rendition of "Mambo #5." During each song, the veiled woman was on top of a table, shaking her bon bon, and smacking a tambourine alternatively into the heel of her hand and the fore of her head. Already-been-drinkingness.

Walking down 9th Ave., actually trying to get home to catch some of the MTV Movie Awards, I thought, "I had a nice night." But still, it would've been nicer had I said that to someone who was walking down the street with me, holding my hand

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