My brother has an uncanny knack for coming up with absurd names to call his tot-to-be. The main criteria seems to be twofold: both unpleasant to the ear and also confusing-- always warranting corrections. "No, no, its Greelio." Smile broadly.

I am proud to add to the list:
-Giome (pronounced Gee-yome)
-Nina (with tildes over both Ns- pronounced Nyeenya).
-Rughel (not Russel, but with a gutteral silent g: Ruh-hhel).

Today was the ceremony for the Ground Zero clean-up having ended. Here at work, we all stood in a line, just as we did eight months ago, looking out of our windows, awestruck. It was moving and extremely sad-- the bagpipes.... I couldn't help but step back and look at each colleague, and remembering where they were, how they got away, and just got teary.

Afterwards, we each shuffled back to our desks. No one said anything. Christine, who's brother is a NY Fireman, picked up the phone to perhaps add some levity, and chatted with whoever it was and eventually started to laugh. A good belly-laugh. It was good to hear. Right next to her stood a manwhowillremainnameless, talking at someone in a cube right next to hers. People were still wiping tears, but clearly he had some very important business to take care of-- he went on and on and on and on, and on, in an unending work diatribe. Her laughter still continued, and he just got louder. I dont think he stopped to breathe.

Alien.

That's it! I've had it. In heels, climbing over the downtown piles of grey rubble and gooey tar on my lunch BREAK, I came close to snapping today.

I love that moment when an event, big or small, pushes you over the edge. You've been taken for a ride. Your nice-guy demeanor has gotten you nowhere. Its time to get ridiculous. Never even, but ridiculous. Its more than a level of revenge-seeking, who wants to settle the score? Naaah, you want to baffle, frustrate; become the quizzical chigger in the pantyline- leaving your audience scratching their heads in idle confusion.

At a moment such as this, Whitney told me in all earnesty that she was going to pour all of her concentration into staring at people. Hard. Cathy decided once to pick up smoking. A concious decision was made to take up the habit, and wasn't going to quit until she knew all the other hardened, dejected smokers standing around the building entrance, shamefully putting out their butts on the ground. I'm still working on mine, so I will be ready for that moment.

I have pinecones for brains today. Pinekonez. I stare at people with watery, Aller-eazed eyes that say "I see you dance and speak with red face and it amuses me". Nothing goes in. Bzzzzppht.

Delerious. After an epic work week, I charged off to a wedding in Wilmington and then returned late last night to fall face first on my bed. At last. I don't even remember falling asleep, but then at 3 a.m. my friendly, young, upstairs neighbor Chris decided he needed to hammer something. I was jarred out of bed instantly as he hammered something to his floor directly above my head. Again: something to his floor directly above my head. What? What must be nailed to a floor at 3 in the morning? Wham! Wham! Wham!

Chris is amusing. He is constantly doing contruction to his home above mine. Sometimes I can make out serious saw-activity, other times he uses drills or hammers, heavy machinery. My personal favorite is this noise he makes often in the evenings, it sounds like he is dragging heavy trunks from one side of the hardwood floor to the other. And back again.

I know his apartment is the same size as mine, so I can't imagine what could possibly fit? I keep picturing these items, but dwarfed: wooden hottub, or a small but elaborate bar. Spiral staircase? A Stage?

New York apartments. Who really knows what goes on next to you separated only by a thin wall.

Interesting. After always being blond, I dyed my hair brown earlier this spring, for a change. It was fun for a spell, but recently while shopping I got a good glimpse at the back of my head. Frumpy. I felt like I should have been wearing some sensible Lee jeans and aerobic Reebocks. So, I reverted back to blond. I hate to say it, but that old blond-fun addage is true: as a brunette the only men who seemed to check me out were an occaisional younger east village type. As a blond, you get it all-- creepy and non-creepy. (Why is that?) Not sure where I stand on all that "fun".

The internal juke box won't leave me be. This morning on route to the shower, eyes not yet opened, hair askew, the words "Get out of my dreams, and into my car! [beep-beep]" passed my lips. I think the 'beep-beep' was an added improvisation?

But then I got to work and between 8:56 and 10:02 a.m., I lived about three workdays. Complete with a meltdown where I kicked my stupid straw purse (somewhat satisfying-- made a nice scuffling noise as it scooted across the concrete, and ventured a nice distance) and threw a pair of scissors at my cube-wall (very much less satisfying, and a little bit scary).

I can't stop. Rachael informed me that the lyrics to the "Sheer Blond" rock n' roll hit are as follows:

Are you ready? Are you ready?
Are you really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really, really ready?

Brilliant! It wouldn't be so bad if those two drones were'nt so smug and in love with themselves. Ew.

While I am ranting, I happened to catch about 2 minutes of The Other Half yesterday morning in passing. OK, who, who is a Danny Bonaduce fan? How is he on television? How is that man allowed to talk on prime TV? He interrupted a conversation the other men were having to blast off a story about tying his wife up with neckties. I almost blew.

Now I will outline 2 perfect foods:
1. The peanut butter and jelly sandwich
2. Potato Flyers.

Someone! Someone tell me--- who, just who are the masterminds behind the "Sheer Blond" ads? Ba ha! I have never seen more talent-less, personality-less, character-less casting in my life. Those two blonds (twins?) who can't dance or sing, "dancing" and "singing", with loads of attitude, yet without any rhythm or any expression in stupid get-ups and matching fllippy haircuts-- its incendiary!

Its like licking a 9 volt. Wooosh.

The thing I love about the East Village is the fact that if you are up and about anytime before 11 a.m., the streets are yours-- you get to see a different side of it, unique snipets of life that wouldn't normally occur during the "peak" hours.

Shot out of bed Saturday and boogied over to the Flea Market while it was nice and empty, and we snagged a window-front table. Shortly after, others began to trickle in, including a one tall, dashing Rupert Everett and friend, who happened to sit down right next to us and promptly placed their orders.

We'd been feeling kind of unimportant and unhip, as the groovy wait staff seemed to completely ignor us and we were forced to ask several times for everything.

Finally, our plates arrived and we tucked into breakfast. Rupert sort of longingly looked at our plates a few times, and finally had to try, just like us, to get the frenchy waitron's attention: "Exc-- excuse me, please", lean-in, hand-gesture, attempt to make eye contact... [repeat procedure]. Finally catching his attention, in stately British manner he asked, "Pardon me please, didn't I order the apple pancake?"

It just floored me. I love things like that-- watching this world famous actor beg an east village waitor for his pancake.

Someone just came to my site after searching google for "diaper lover". Wow.