It pleases me to finally recognize that Billy Ocean is the worst musician there is. With lyrics like "Get out of my dreams and into my car" and all the words & synthesized notes to "Suddenly", how did I miss this before? Fantastic.

I shouldn't complain because nothing's really wrong, but I can't seem to shake the feeling: its been a crummy work week. Yesterday evening I got a call from Scott encouraging me to come home. I looked at the clock and shut down. Grumpy, tired. Grabbing my book and bag, I slipped up toward the elevator, expecting a quiet late-day hallway, I was met instead with bright lights and a photo crew. No way out. I instantly got lasso'ed into a photo shoot. For publicity. I pleaded that I had a really bad day and -- I was instead sheparded to the reception desk and plopped down in the chair to pose as the receptionist. Not only was it about the last thing my ego needed, but I am sure our publicity won't be helped either with a gloomy, stringy-haired 'receptionist' frowning out at the world. Rawr!

Oh, I'm crabby today. Timely, too, as no less than 10 people have asked me to explain the cookies someone brought in, since I sit near the kitchen. And they just blurt it out, not facing me, but staring down at the confections in an involuntary, food-crazed hypnosis. BAAARK. "Where did these come from?" "What are they?' "What's inside this one?" Mind you, they are wholly dipped in chocolate.

"Poison cookies." I started to reply. "Hamburgers."

Next, I tried to ignor. A woman just got louder. Finally, I retorted that I guess I've become the COO of all kitchen food items. I have a checklist! A clipboard! Very IMPORTANT INVENTORY! Her response? "Get used to it." And walked off. What does that mean? Get used to my heavy jug of No-Crack Super Hand Cream hurled at your head whenever the mood strikes.

"This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out."

This is the bounce-back response our email service provides. Perhaps I should try that sometime.

My agency is small but I have to think populated with some funny folks.

Tom's an art director who has been here the longest. Just now, while stirring his coffee, he smiled and said my name, then told me that he was "really looking forward to our conference call" at 10 and walked away. Who looks forward to a conference call. Love it.

Recently we were on a different call presenting some designs to another client from a small "pod". They were thrilled with what Tom had done. Trevor interrupted them as they continued to gush. "Ex-- excuse me, Julie. We are going to have to call you back from a different room cuz Tom's head is now currently occupying all the space in here."

OK. I will stop writing about coworkers. I'm pathetic.

Our offices are open. Whenever someone's phone rings nearby, Peter has started to yell across the office, like you might at home. MOM! But instead, at a workplace. JERRY! JER-RRRRY! TELEPHONE! There is something compulsive about it that causes people to start running. I like it most of all because he sits there complacently at his desk only feet away from the ringing phone. Usually by the time the person reaches the phone its too late. Sends me.

At home yesterday:

Mom: Oh, did I tell you about the woman I followed to the Giant?
Dad: Oh yes, this is funny.
Mom: I was driving home and a woman pulled out in front of me. She had created some distracting rear window sign with hand written big letters reading HONK IF YOUR PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN. She had designed all sorts of stars and stripes around it.
Me: Oh my.
Mom: Exactly. She kept sort of slowing down, too, as we drove along and kind of waiting for me to honk.
Me: Did you?
Mom: Of course not. Finally, many miles later and after many slow-down treatments, we both pulled into the same parking lot at the Giant. She was large, ornery and marched right over to me. She said YOU DIDN'T HONK!
Me: You are kidding! She got up in your face?
Mom: Yes! And I said No, I didn't honk. This incensed her more. She then said WHY NOT? And blinked angrily at me. I took a deep breath and said back to her For many reasons, I am not proud to be an American currently. Firstly, the education system is laughable, I mean, look, you can't even spell your own sign correctly. Its Y-O-U apostrophe R-E!
Me: What did she say?
Mom: She was confused. I walked away.

Go, Mom.

Who knew that with the advent of a small rooftop deck, we are now the "stop by" kind of house. Seriously, there are all sorts of friends just showing up at our door. That never used to happen. The only kinds of drive-bys we used to have were of the more contractor-kind. One in particular who liked to stay for dinner and spin stories about when he used to sell "black beauties" in the 70s.

I've become acutely aware of the fact that I may stick out here. For the first time maybe ever, it would seem I am good mettle for discussion. As vain as it sounds, I've found it to be true. Some of the musings are flattering, some not at all. Interesting. Golly, this is a smaller city.

Last night was no different. I got an invitation through work to a black tie event. It was a beautiful June day I spent running around to see my parents and taking care of some errands. After a great run, I dove into my closet to find something pretty to wear. Scott's tux had just been dry cleaned.

I was reminded of nights in NYC with Julie. We were both dating two extremely kind lawyers who had been trapped under heavy books since college. They were sweet, loaded and ready to experience the city. We went to events. We dined very well. Nothing was spared. Although now that I think of it, it was really quite innocent.

Julie lived only a few blocks from me in the village, and I remember countless nights heading to her house in the pulsing, fresh twilight of a Manhattan evening. I'd throw my clothes in a bag and head straight to her Parisian bordello of an apartment. We'd sip wine, listen to music and make ourselves lovely. I took tips from her modeling days and learned how to stand tall, apply makeup and wear perfume.

Last night standing in front of my closet, I was reunited with one of my favorite dresses. One I wore to Rachael's wedding where I stood in one of the most beautiful rooms and attempted to deliver a kindly speech. I threw its pink loveliness over my head and felt quite ready. I went up to the deck and my dear neighbors Marion and Dorothy beemed up at me with their garding gloves on. I was ready!

We entered the room to find a sea of black. Safe, matronly, black sparkly things. People were tight lipped. Older men leered and their spouses sometimes stopped dead in their tracks disapprovingly. I went to the ladies room and couldnt believe my eyes. What in the bathroom of chic NYC eateries would look quite elegant in Baltimore does not. I grabbed a strong cocktail and found an aging physisict/priest to talk to.

Here is what went down last night in leiu of having the TV on (due to construction-issues):

- Cocktail on the new roof deck (Scott: "Can I interest you in a trip to the deckadanzia?" Nice. I picture hot tubs & 7 & 7s)
- Prepared yummy, involved dinner
- Ate yummy, involved dinner
- Instant clean-up from involved dinner
- Laundry
- Walk
- Reading
- Closet rearranging

..and so forth. The topper? I was putting crap away in the kitchen and I heard a gentle tap and "plink!" Scott had dug out his old golf clubs and was putting in the living room. Many new rounds of "what would make kitty crazier?" Something about corncob skewers. She attacked my head when I was in bed.

Yesterday was a perfect specimen of a day. As soon as I could, I jumped on my bike and headed down to Fort McHenry. The water was brilliant. I flopped down and dove into a book a friend lent me. Boats sailed past. I've been restless lately, and at last wasn't.

I got home to find that Mike & Carrie were coming over to our under-construction, dusty home. I showered quickly, practically pushed them back down the stairs when they arrived and the four of us walked to Porters for dinner before the Orioles game.

There was something about the crisp air, something that made us all a little giddy. In order to spice up our far-away seating arrangement, Mike suggested we add a little gambling element to the game with each batter. If your batter struck out, you paid a buck. If got on first, you got a buck. Second, two, etc. Naturally I burned through the entire contents of my wallet ($3) immediately. Which meant that Scott, my very athletic and somewhat competitive husband, already not entirely "down" with the distracting gambling, was constantly reaching in his back pocket for his wallet, and forking down singles. I quietly observed the level of irritation increase, somehow finding it humorous. "Hey, I owe a dollar". Even better was that Mike kept winning. Sent me right into orbit. Things skyrocketed from there. Carrie, a pretty 40-something mommy, almost took her shirt off when she her batter grand-slammed it. Mike stopped her. Excellent.

On ballparks: I was observing the grumpy, sweaty concessions guys. I'm not sure if its in the rulebook or not, but they all bark at you when they pass and gruffly pass change back, hands shaking. You would think there was something huge at stake. People meekly play along. I'd like to have that job but run around with my case of __ held high above my head shouting nothing, but very emphatically. "Babababbababa. BA. BA!" and then run off. How long before someone would ask me what I was peddling. Heh.

A few observations about the stray kitten we took in:

- She is crazy
- She is remaining very tiny in size but
- Has eaten herself into a small, furry meatball.

I think something happened to her brain. She will be dear and sleepy and at once, unprovoked will attack. Attack! Her latest trick is to appear out of nowhere in bathroom when I am drowsily brushing my teeth. She lunges at my calf, wraps her claws around my leg and bites. I am terrified of this 7 lb meatball.

That said, we've started a little game around the house. Its called "What would make kitty crazier?" Its goes a little something like this.

Hey, Scott, what would make kitty crazier?
1) If I squeezed her like an accordian
2) Bashed her head with a tennis racquet.

He always answers, frankly. "Probably the accordian." Love it.

Wednesday night after a long, hot day I got a call from Scott, asking me to meet him at a benefit. Something about a wine tasting. I was in an oddly reflective mood, and didn't think to ask what for or why. I just left work, grabbed a beer with Peter and started walking. I was dimly aware that I was headed to one of the cheeziest areas in the city, but slowly made my way over anyway.

I was happy to find that in the middle of this shmaltzy outdoor bar mall (? I don't get it), a group of very pretty people were collected underneath an open, white, billowy tent. There were lovely potted trees all around, a long U-shaped bar and low couches and pillows tossed about in an sort of Tunisian fashion. A breeze blew. My mood instantly improved.

Turns out a usually raucous friend of ours has channeled her energies into something philanothropic. Which is what landed us there. I was handed a glass of champagne and sat down, Scott next to me, and a thick pamphlet was plopped in my lap. I knew it was too good to be true. I grabbed a cheese cube and sat back.

"My name is Holly, I work in advertising and somewhat recently moved here. Thanks for having me."

"Well, my name is Scott. Stacy asked me to come here and I am still not sure why." Silence. A little champagne came out my nose.

A very funny guy who looked like a more portly Ben Affleck in Chasing Amy orated. The pitch didn't last long, and we sampled another wine. I raised my hand and started asking questions. I volunteered to get them some PR (?). After a half an hour, it was time to party.

We all mingled and sat on different couches, got up, got down, circulated and watched the sun set. The evening was nice and cool. People were friendly. I like being this kind of do-gooder!

No one was leaving, and that was just somehow ok. What wasn't okay was when I asked the young, charming wife of an older, tanned arrogant man if she really loved him? She shot me a look that sent me reeling to the other end of the tent where I landed in between the Baltimore Hilton sisters. Hilarious. Super-tan, svelt, white-blond twins in trendy short skirts. I blinked hard and took a closer look. They were awe-striking from a distance, but upon closer inspection, uhm, not-so-awestriking. Go, Balmer. I hope I managed to keep my mouth shut that time.

How odd that I feel most comfortable with my fingers glued to these keys.

Matterofactly:

This has become a wasteland. Seriously. I dare you, try and find anything. Its dumbfounding. Your results are nestled in between 500 ads and other related links. Hateful. I miss sidewalk.

I am not in Greenwich Village anymore.

This morning, 7:28 am, standing on a nearby corner waiting for the bus. A car at once wheels up across the street and punches out a skinny teen in his boxer shorts. His jeans halfway down his thighs. He's completely dishoveled, has a large blue tatoo on his back, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Words are exchanged as the car starts to drive away. He's barefoot and his shoes are then tossed at him from an older woman, his mother, I'd gather. Car pulls off. Kid stands there, on the corner and gets dressed for school and walks away.

Someone needs to pay.

How is it possible that the two imbecile blond twins are back on the air, whining about "taking it all off" with Simply Blond shampoo? That was revolting and out of date even when it aired two years ago. Oh, the smug and vapid.

And now, the runner-up for the most insipid ad is for Crest White Strips. OK, its a feeble attempt to recreate Sex & the City settings, but with not only 60 seconds of the most meaningless dialogue, but also dialogue that doesn't make sense. Who cares if the tooth girl got laid? Which she didn't anyway, so who cares? Why are they talking?

I mean, they want results? How is this. Girl enters cheezy bar, smiling. Her friends say "What is it?" She flops down, lights a smoke and says "I just got so laid. Man. Thank god for the boob job and these white strips."

Today marks my one year anniversary.

Its hard to believe that last year at this time, we were running around moving tents and astroturf, scrambling to create a plan "C". So very much has happened in this year!

I always felt that in New York, living on my own in one of the world's most difficult and competitive cities, I was learning and growing "up". But for all the years I lived there, I think I have learned in this last year more about myself, life and love.

Growing up, this had to have been my favorite story. (What illustrations-- the expressions!) The protagonist, so large, simple and misunderstood-- its a beautiful, sad sort of tale. It got me. I now live with Ferdinand.

Our large yellow dog is intimidating. When something is disagreeable, causing his soft mouth to form into an furry "o", the low WOOF! he emits is earthshaking. Low, loud. If a pesky dog gets too rambunctious, he preforms what we call the "clapper"-- wherein he opens his jaws, showing all his teeth and snaps his jaws like an alligator. A few times. Clap-clap! He scares the daylights out of everyone around. His shakles standing tall, his mighty head raised high and indignant, chest out. Dogwalkers pull tightly on their leashes and briskly walk by.

Meanwhile, he has never hurt anything and has the sweetest, most patient temperment. He is sort of dim, and terribly loyal. He has no pretense or pride, he is alright being a large, well, pansy.

He can't seem to remember that eating things like tin foil or an entire ham will make him sick, but he did remember that Mike and Carrie's boxer bit him the last time we came over. We pulled up, unloaded Bo out of the back of the car and he hid his face in Scott's pants. His tail slightly wagging low. His big, brown eyes looking up at us, imploring for some security. He came in and spent the evening with us and the crazy boxer in that fashion. Crushing.

I like to try and see if he has any decision-making abilities. If we are outside, Scott will go one way and I will on purpose go the other. He gets completely flummoxed. He paralyzes and wags his tail. Maybe a whimper or a woof. I think I know the feeling. Or I try and see if he knows which cabinet door his doggy bones are in. This one? Tail wags, ears are perfectly pricked up, he will point to it with his nose in response. Or is it in this one? Iwill point to another door 3 cabinets down. Same thing. He isnt figuring it out, either.

A favorite quirk: in the morning he is right at my heels, literally, follows me everywhere until I feed him. I've stepped on him a few times. Big snoot sniffing everything. But one thing-- he cannot look into the large plastic food bin. Cannot. It kills me, he wags his tail and looks side to side but cannot bring himself to look inside. As if all that food is just too good to be true.

I'd just earned my drivers liscense and was bequeathed a large, slighty rusted Buick. This particular Buick (of our driveway of more Buicks) was immense and yellow. With a brown top. I was free. I know that summer before my junior year was going to rock.

Income! It was too good to be true. I'd just been given a full-time lifeguarding gig at "Heritage Harbor"-- a coveted position. It was a very well-groomed senior citizen home. Translated: a great place to get tan, have friends visit and do absolutely nothing all summer while getting paid. I mean, the pool was 4' at its deepest.

Happily, a girl I know from my old swim team soon arrived to work with me. Her name was Abby, she was a year or two older than I, and was slightly intimidating. I wondered what we would talk about all summer. She looked far more grown-up in her bathing suit and knew how to flirt. She had freckles with dark hair and dark eyes. I knew she was naughty. I liked her.

Summer was underway. The retired women would come in, snap on their bathing caps, tread a little. Then the drying process. Endless discussions of food. It was getting depressing. The men would dive in and coast underwater.. and coast, and coast to the point where I'd almost dive off my stand to rescue. Then a large gasping mouth would emerge from inside the armpit of a long, slow front crawl stroke. Thank kee-rist, he's breathing.

I had an idea. These folks needed motivation! And I needed more jack. My buick was guzzling down all my incomce. Abby and I brainstormed, and concluded that "water aerobics" would be both a money maker and beneficial for them. Abby assured me that she had done it a lot, and had tapes and books we could learn how to instruct from. "Its so easy!" she told me.

We got busy advertising our expert course. We looked professional. I took a clipboard for sign-ups and within a week all 40 slots were full. We excitedly took the cash money from their spotty hands and divided it evenly. Again, I asked Abby for the manuals. She'd just flop her long legs over the side of a plastic deck chair, play with the ends of her hair and ask me what my older brother was up to that summer.

The day of the first class came. I got up very early, feeling a little nervous driving in, but I knew Abby could talk the women through the hour long class. She could talk to anyone. Abby never showed up. She never did show up again.

I felt sick. I looked across the pool as I stood waist-high in the shallow end at all the flabby, wrinkled yet excited faces. Bathing suits with floating "skirts". Smells of creams and lipstick. I pressed play on the boom box. Water aerobics? What the hell is it, anyway? I panicked.

I took a deep breath and tried to recall the few aerobics classes I had taken (which I hated)-- I knew I just had to keep moving and sound perky. I asked the women to bounce. And bounce. Then we all did "arm circles" in the water, where it wasn't necessarily deep enough. Awkwardly at intervals, I'd chirp "Good job!" or "Make it burn!". It was doing nothing- truly. We weren't doing anything. The 80's mix I'd made sounded awful.

Smiles fell. I looked at the clock and only 15 minutes had passed. I moved everyone to the wall to hang on and "kick". I had to get more creative. Squats in the shallow end (think about it, not only impossible, but to what benefit?), windmills. Rumps in the air, hold your nose-- I was desperate. Somehow I made it last one hour. The women emerged from the pool quietly. "See you on Wednesday!" I said.

Wednesday came and only two dear old ladies arrived. "I could feel it right here!", one said, and pointed to her upper arm. I gave them their money back. I was a hoax. I felt dreadful.

Years later, I saw my entrepeneur partner, Abby, downtown. She crossed the street when she saw me coming.

I've been pathetic with taking the time to write lately, which I don't like. I guess I've been busy (yawn)-- or, gasp, dare I say happy? I wouldn't say content, necessarily, but excited.

Perhaps its the change of seasons, or the bouyant cumulo-nimbus clouds overhead threatening at any minute to thunderstorm. Maybe its the 17-year cicadas spiraling even up to the 15th floor. Its all making for an unforgettable early summer.