Its been busy. Busy at work trying to win much-needed business, busy trying to cram all my Christmas shopping into two days, busy saying goodbye and a merry clink-clink to friends. Seems I've become a little too good at utilizing my time-- which is completely contrary to my normal, ehm, circuitous manner of doing things. No, no, no. Now I walk diagonal corners through intersections with long strides to save time. I take care of everything face-to-face, I only visit parts of the city where I can make no less than three stops, and I almost ate lunch on the subway. But that would mean I had gone too far.

But something keeps frustrating me, time and time again, in my impressive multi-tasking-time-efficiency spree. The bathrooms at work are large, industrial and windowless-- separate rooms with heavy doors. I come powering in on my way to some (very, very important, I assure you) meeting, throw open the bathroom door and hear it slam loudly behind me. Instinctively, I hit the light switch that for some reason has recently become slow, or delayed in turning on. Real delayed. Which means I am forced to come to a screetching halt and stand, locked in a concrete, silent, black-as-night room, holding my pants button, staring at nothing. For many long seconds. And I am impatient! I stand there, bouncing my leg, drop my pen, let out an exasperated sigh or, worse, emit a pained "oh, come on!"

Today it dawned on me how much its been bothering me and started laughing. I imagine if someone, say, across the country, who I haven't seen in a long time, magically was able to see a snapshot of me at that very moment, how funny it would be! In the dark, facing a sink or the thrashcan, half-panicked, half-irked, and blinking wildly waiting for some light. I need to slow down.

Merry [blankety-blank] Christmas!

Last night after working late, I met up with Rachael for an impromptu holiday cocktail. Union Square was bustling and festive, the restaurants and bars decorated with lights and holly. We were merry, and decided to order two champagnes from the also-festive, friendly bartender. Hunkered down at the bar, we began chatting and watched through the window all the shoppers scurry past, laiden with shopping bags. Christmas!

Before long, a white-haired old man approached us to my right, dressed in a dark suit and old timey-looking hat. He seemed doty and confused, and sadly out of place in the crowded smoky bar. Politely, Rachael and I said hello to the old fellow, this harmless Kringle-esque character. Bubbling over with yuletide-champagne glee, we brought him into our conversation, all the while talking to him as if he were four years old, slowly, sweetly and LOUDLY.

"HOW DO YOU DO, SIR?" Mumbling, he mustered a smile: "Fine, thank you, ladies...and you?" And looked down, clutching onto the bar. I was quite proud of Rachael, when she busted forth: "May we buy you a drink, sir?" He hesitated, then smilingly agreed to it, and that he liked scotch. Rachael ordered him up the best scotch they had, and he accepted it appreciatively. There we were, doing nice things for sad people during the holidays. We were good people, doing Christmassy things. We were not selfish New Yorkers! We help people!

We continued to speak with him in the SAME FASHION, when his friend came to find him, a slightly younger geezer in an expensive suit. He sauntered up next to Rachael, and began talking to her.

At this point, the first old man started to finally open up. And how. Recognizing that he was being rescued, he leaned in and said loudly into my ear: "That man is an ASSHOLE. He works for my company. ASS-HOLE." He then reeled back and took a long swig of his drink.

Turned out, this man was neither doty nor confused, he was just completely blotto and as was becoming readily apparent, a wealthy business shark. He carried on to tell me that he was the best ligitator in all of Manhattan, and before my drink was finished, I'd heard it all in a windbaggy, spitty littany: his experience in 'Nam, his first wife, and many times over about how successful his firm has become. Somehow by then I was dubbed "Blondie". Every sentence starting with "So, Blondie, what else?", but then would carry on, bellowing about his successes.

At first wildly entertaining, the whole thing started making me uneasy. I turned to check on Rachael, who was stuck with the more friendly, yet much less attractive kodger, and overheard her saying completely thoughtfully and sincerely, "Uhm, maybe you ought to get back together with your wife?" I think I snorted with laughter. I got her attention with the universal wide-eyed WTF look, and we turned to the bartender, standing directly in front of us, for aid. He wasn't interfering, he was too amused.

At this point my antique date was getting frustrated with my dwindling enthusiam (and markedly growing aversion), and started in with the more drastic moves. He asked me to dinner right then "anywhere I wanted to go", the TOPS for me! He kept mentioning that he'd take me to "Blue", which I think meant Blue Water Grill nearby. He was nearly incoherant by this time, bleary and redfaced.

I couldn't stop from imagining the scene, Rachael and I sitting at Le Cirque at a 4-top with the two drunk grampas. Almost worth it. But not really.

Fortunately, Rachael's "guy" began picking up on the creepy vibe going on in my corner, and suggested that perhaps it was time for the two of them to head up to the train station. Gramps looked up slowly and bellowed: "YOU ASSHOLE, beat it, I don't care what you do, leave me alone!" I think I was looking at Rachael with the familiar wide-eye expression, not sure whether to laugh or not, when my sweatshirt zipper was tugged down, and I turned to see his mouth puckered up as he was moving in for the smooch. GACK! He got me right on the cheek, a big, wet, scotchy kiss.

After no less than 10 attempts to pry Pop's fingers from the bar and to literally shove him out the door, they finally threw him into a car and that was the end of that. Whoosh! Beware of the wolf in Santa's clothing!

I think I have lost my mind. I've become completely obsessed with poodles. OK, pictures of poodles. Not that I like them, in fact, its the opposite-- they completely discust me, and I am a huge animal lover. But I can't understand what it is that makes them so popular, like cult-ishly popular, what with their boney heads, wuzzed up hairs, cakey eyes, and pointy noses. All finecky. Lots of grooming and maintenence. Its one of those things that baffles me so fully its completely comedic.

Like, it started as a fleeting inquiry, sort of a joke, and now my poodle research brings me such joy I'm starting to get concerned. I bookmark poodle web sites. I open up some photos and almost fall off my chair from laughing so hard, I don't get it. I love to picture my more masculine friends for some reason having to take care and love an enormous white poodle. Trips to the vet, up all night with an upset stomach, always trimming and brushing. I have written a short skit based on three tall poodles named Charmaine, Daniella and Sissy. Now, my favorite thing to do is to send out the most absurd pictures to friends with no explanation, and observe their reactions. Its rich. From Rachael: "Oh my god. [not laughing, completely serious] That is not the dog I would ever want." Victor: "Jaysus! What is that? Is it wearing.. a...diaper?" Another well-adorned poodle sitting on top of a busy-busy bedspread with frilly pillows all around it: "I can't tell where it ends and the bed begins." [still blinking incredulously at monitor]. Poodle with Yankees hat on, poodle with windblown hair, poodle sitting on the toilet. I can't stop.

The bludgeoning occured late last week at our office. This was the third round of layoffs in the past two years, and the worst, I think. People got fired for no reason, they were all doing really good jobs, in some cases too smart even, and had been loyal and honest. But apparently we had to trim staff. No choice in the matter. I hugged teary friends goodbye who I'd worked with daily for years. The only reason I got to stay, as my tiny interactive department has become defunct, is because there was an opening back in a role I used to do years ago. Yes, a demotion of sorts, but I am happy for it. I have no savings. I am doing some pretty humbling tasks, but it feels good to be useful again. Especially after reading this "sign o' the times" tale.

I think the worst part was knowing this was to happen, as we were essentially told a month before that we were looking for ways to cut costs. We all got nervous, every day buttoning up our shirts, lacing up shoes and solemnly walking into the office nearly certain that that day was the Day. Gulp. Its interesting how people handle themselves at times like these. Some people bonded together, trying to think of ways to collectively keep jobs, salary cutbacks, morphing into other roles, etc. Others just actively searched and landed other jobs, in completely different fields altogether. A few just turned creepy, Gordon Gecco style, in an effort to save their jobs and to rub minions out of the picture altogether. Awful. The good news is that most of those who have left sounds really, really happy for the first time in years. Thats good.

I am not feeling very creative or jovial, I think I am still sad. I would like to say that I have gone on a little Nadia Comanici strike, as this is day three of not washing my hair. But the uncool truth is that I had an early meeting yesterday, so I set my alarm for 7:00, got dressed and took a 5 second Parisian shower. Today my east village water came out brown. In any event, I am here, and very thankful, but feeling a bit like striking at the Geccos of the world altogether.