Bye Bye Birdie

All morning I've had "One Last Kiss" running through my head.

It's been a week of "lasts." That bittersweet time in which one takes a moment to look around and say, "hey, this has been my life for the past 2.5 years and now it's over."

This is a good thing. I worked very hard to bring about this change and I'm excited for the future. But still, it's never fun to say good bye.

--
Apologies for the melancholy tone. I promise that I'll be back in top form soon. I'll regale you all (all 3 of you) with witty tales after the weekend.

Cent

For Nina, because she speaks for the tress that have no tongues.

This is my 100th post. I feel unprepared. Would that I had a special post waiting to go. Alas and alack, I do not. Instead, I'll have to make do with this snippet:

Me: Ah, summer dinner parties, they'll be the death of me.
Him: You gotta die of something. May as well be summer dinner parties.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

It's too darn hot.
And last night I was too darn stupid.

It's easy to forget, when you live in a walking city, that much of your daily activity is actually exercise. It doesn't feel like exercise, it feels like going to work or the grocery store. It is indeed exercise, especially when the temperature is 95 degrees.

Which brings me to last night.

I left the office at the normal time and had a leisurely walk home-- popped into a few shops along the way and chatted with friends. When I reached the park, I called my mom and chatted with her for a while. As we talked, I walked the perimeter of the park. 3 times. Or, roughly, 1.5 miles.

So, to recap, between walking home and walking around the park, I logged roughly 3 miles in 95 degree heat. Except! It didn't feel like exercise! And since it didn't feel like exercise and I wasn't thirsty, I didn't drink any water when I got home.

Then, because I am a gluten for punishment, I decided to go for a run. A nice 2.5 mile stretch of the legs along the Hudson River. Sounds great, right? Yeah, it was great until about 1.5 miles into it when I realized, quite dramatically, that I had not drunk enough water.

My right leg cramped up and down I went. Slapt on concrete sidewalk of the West Side Highway, right in front of the delightfully good-looking gentleman running behind me.

Because of course, if you're going to fall down in fit of dehydration and muscle cramps, you want to make sure you do it in front of the most handsome man around. It's just common sense. Or a complete lack there of.

Oy vey.

Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?

Mo Dowd. I heart you. Muchly.

I still have the articles I cut out of the New York Times during the whole Monica Lewinsky affair. I have the piece you wrote about your mother after her death. It contained one of the greatest pieces of advice ever. When I'm feeling sad or scared, I buy something red and wear it as my badge of courage. This has worked far better than anything else I've tried.

And so, thank you once again. Thank you for writing, in the paper of record, just what I needed to hear:

"She didn’t lose because she was a woman. She didn’t lose because America isn’t ready for a woman as president. She lost because of her own — and her husband’s and Mark Penn’s — fatal missteps."

Really Saying Something

I am going to say something nice about Hilary Clinton.

And I am going to mean it.

There is something to be said for being the first. By virtue of being the first she has made it easier for all those who come later.

And that’s really saying something (ooo wada wada)

Hand on the Telephone

My cable is out. This, in and of itself, is not an unusual occurrence. Time Warner is my cable service provider and I’m not afraid to say it out loud (or in print), but they suck the big wazoo.
The events of yesterday evening were, however, decidedly unusual. And I, history freak that I am, was without cable. Time Warner had rendered me impotent, and, just like Cher, I hate that.
What to do? What to do?
No cable. How would I know what Lady Macbeth, err, the senator from New York, was saying?
Aha!
Picked up the telephone and dialed the 10 digits.
The gentleman in Cambridge, my Guy Friday.
“Hey, it’s me. Cables out, are you watching?”
“Of course”
“Well, what’s happening?”
And that, my friend, is how I spent the evening.
I listened to Obama claim victory as the presumptive democratic candidate over the telephone.
One phone in Cambridge placed next to the television, me in my own little bed in Greenwich Village.
The wonders of modern technology married to the wonders of the democratic process