Walking up Charles Street yesterday amidst the usual low-pump/necktie shuffle, I noticed a man in a light blue polo shirt with greasy combed-over hairs. He was zigging in my direction briskly with the corners up his mouth faintly upturned. Before I knew what was happening, he popped smack in front of me and snapped a picture. I turned around to see that he was missing. Gone, blended in with the crowd. Strange.

Is it the sparcely-attended olympics? Is it the fact that our president can't articulate? The depressing four hundred sub shops in my neighborhood? (I mean, Subs? SUBS? In a world of delectable varieties, how many subs does a person need to shove in their cram-hole?) Wal-Mart? My soul hurts.

Whatever the cause, I burst into tears in a newly-opened store this Saturday without warning. In an effort to shake some rainy-day doldrums, I needed some new things and headed to a (gasp) mall. Bad move. My mood spiraled south as I got elbowed by those with bad manners and bad highlights and unfortunate shorts. Until I found Anthropologie. It was decorated just like the one in Soho. Great, melancholic music piped through the store. Yeah, its a chain, and at this rate they're probably owned by McDonalds or something. But I'll take it. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Variety! I am not a clothes-horse, but the funky hats and skirts hanging there were symbolic: I need some enrichment, exposure to some originality, some deviation from a (broken) model-driven society. I don't like sameness.

I plopped down on a leather couch after talking with a cute sales girl named Serena. She had a cute scarf in her wavy hair and just moved here from Miami. I was warmed and happy and it made me burst into tears. I miss my friends in New York and SF. I miss the ideas and options.

I came home to find newly punctured holes in our brand new armchair by my kitten, who's claws I've been on a desperate mission to protect. A cabinet is full of sprays, catnip, toys, kitty nail "tips". All for naught. She goes tomorrow.

Figures on a day when I look like Holly Hobbie, or worse, I run smack into Bronwyn, a woman from Herman-Miller I worked with at my old agency. Let me put it this way, she makes eating a Roly-Poly wrap look elegant. Which is what she was doing when she spotted me and waved me over. I filled up my big Poly cup, dabbed the sweat off my brow and flip-flopped over. Her earrings sparkled and she was charming. I excused myself back into the sweltering heat and city traffic, giggling to myself at the contrast between us that day. When I slammed straight into two men, handcuffed, being escorted by policemen. A little further up Charles, a handome older man passed who had buck teeth.

Hot town, summer in the city.

So I suck at the math. No secret. Scott's grown either so used to it or so weary of it that when I make a mistake, he [slightly exaustedly] asks "Oh, are you doing the New Math?" Ha! My new excuse.

This morning, staring at my closet, I eyed a row of pastel sundresses I used to wear in Manhattan. I may have outgrown them, not in size. May not be appropriate anymore to have bows on my shoulders. I am not so much sad about it, its just different. Change. This thinking led me to dig through my mail log and unearth some of the most beautiful writing sent to me from Rachael, a month or so after she had a baby.

No one can go back in time, which, in many ways, is good. Then, my bills went unpaid, I may not have been the best employee, I locked myself out of my tiny apartment continuously. There are so many great things at my fingertips here in my new town-- just different things. But to throw on a sundress and fly down the 4 sets of "walk-up" stairs and out the door and onto St. Marks Place...that was good. Very good.

Last night I leaned forward on the tall, revolving door and spilled out of the office. Meandered down Charles Street in the sticky August air, attempting to centrifuge the work detritus from my head. Been perhaps taking it all too seriously. My jeans felt heavy, my sandles uncomfortable. Headache.

Had a hard time finding the pub selected, right outside Camden Yards as we were headed to a game. I was tapped on the shoulder by my party: an energetic couple I hadn't seen in months, and Scott. Funny, this couple, they are twin-like with their mannerisms. I had barely stopped when they both surrounded me, close-breathing, excited to hear the latest. They were fresh, they had enjoyed a drink, they were like a set of terrier puppies. I explained about my job and latest projects and just stopped mid-sentence. I realized I didn't want to be talking anymore. They stared and blinked, as I paused and finally stated: "You know, its very boring". It felt good to breathe in. They looked confused and crestfallen, and I felt a little rude.

Been feeling spread a little thin lately, so I was happy to find time to have a girly dinner last night with a dear friend. I [barely] wrapped up work [in a nice, sloppy bundle], sped home and off we zoomed for a nice, long evening. We haven't been able to catch up alone in months and she has a new job and exciting developments on the lovelife front. I couldn't wait to hear all.

We entered, were greeted by friendly folks and wisked upstairs to a cozy table. Normally an intimate spot, we ordered something to drink and I started in on the questions. "Tell me. Now, how did he bring it up?!" She grinned from ear to ear, and breathed in.

Right then, from the adjoining table, a preppy looking guy leaned over and interrupted politely. "Excuse me," he said to me, "Are you Kim?" I kindly replied no, he was nice enough. But in keeping with the rest of things lately, I felt my internal stopwatch ticking. I turned back to my company. Moments later his upper body resurfaced in my periphery: "Kim...oh, shoot, Kim [some last name]? You know her?" He blinked excitedly. "You know who she is?" I put my glass down. "No, I don't." Instantaneously, "She was the weather person on either channel 11 or 45... oh, which was it... hmm, well, you look just like her!" Smiles were exchanged. I got to resume my conversation where the details were funny and juicy, our appetizers were savored.

I'd forgotten about the next door entertainment, when suddenly Kim-guy barked without warning: "Are you Kim?" We turned to notice several drained glasses and two embarrassed friends. Unreal. Attempts to ignor went nowhere.

"Hey!" He'd blurt, "Did you see that movie-- oh, man, what was it?" Commanding all attention, not letting anyone off the hook. I may have groaned. "Oh, man. Man. Oh yeah, 'The Cooler'? That was a good flick. Did you see it? [not listening to a response] Oh, you gotta see it. I can't remember, who was in it? Who was that guy?" This went on.

We went through a few rounds of inane trivia about people we didn't know, movies we had no point of reference to and so on. What a great form of torture. I will have to remember this next time somone crosses me at work. Brilliant. Interruptions and then nowheresville trivia while in a figurative headlock.

Happily, I did get most of the scoop, but we were forced to carry our conversation on a park bench outside the restaurant next to a few bums.

Climbing down the most beautiful mountain this weekend, we exhanged the worsts of corpo-speak. UNIFIED VALUE PROPOSITION. Deliverables. Back-of-napkin? That was the winner. I hate them. All.

This triggered the following email flurry with Whitney about plans tonight:

-Am in total TASK LIST hell currently. Are you a driver? I’m a driver! ROI ROI ROI ROI. I think I’ll just throw these ideas in the cuisinart and see what puree spins out.
-Broil that issue-BROIL IT.
-I’d like to see you take this concept and give it a real head-lather.
-With the Team Rhythm meeting on the horizon, can each of you top off the fluids of the proposals for '05?
-I think what we need is ownership, I want to see everyone pulling down their own pants on this one.
-So, I told him to ring you up directly since I am headed straight for the permanent press cycle.
-I need to do a quick rotation of the tires on my plans for tonite.

Strolled down to pick up more of my favorite Aveda shampoo. They alway try to sell their other products, with a non-intrusive sort of enviro spin. This large, kindly man with dreads was working on me to buy the $50 size jug, a promotional balm, and so forth. Cup of tea? I kept politely declining until I heard him offer a free hand-massage. 10 minutes. Huzza! I plopped myself in the high chair and watched. He withdrew a soothing green ceramic bowl, filling it with a very special earth scrub that would be very good for my skin type, and explained along as he methodically mixed in some sea salt. He had me sniff some jojoba oil before adding that. The set-up was complete, I was ready. The nature-flute music played as the hand-pro man took my hand and... and... nothing. He sort of very lightly worked some circles on the top of my hand and then did something completely different on the other. Ha! He was totally winging it! I think I may have been the first person to ever take them up on the offer. Now watch as I add the, um, lychee nut oil, very rare, and will generate you a better brain right as you sit here. Kind of like my water-aerobics career.

After some work-travel that was both fun and draining, I came down with a wretched cold that kept me from visiting Rachael. Summer colds stink. Was forced to lay in bed with AC cranked while the sun sparkled outside and people came and went. Ugh. Although I did catch up on my pop-culture. I watched what seemed like 28 Queer Eyes and Bridezillas and an embarrassing list of movies. Do recommend this one, highly, even though it made me miss South Park.

Finally after a frustrating work-day only being able to hear out of one ear, I felt myself pulling through. I came home, grabbed Scott and insisted on an early dinner out. At Porters, perched up in a nice booth, I did order a glass of 'medicinal' wine and a salad. I was experiencing the post-cooped-up gratitude-for-everything. Until this herd of runners came in. Post-run, that is, the restaurant must have been a stopping point? Stemming of course from guilt for not having done so ourselves, Scott and I sneered. "Look, its the Federal Hill Striders", I slurped.

It was innocent enough, until they wouldn't leave. Red-faced, sticky, smug, staring at groups of beer drinkers. Girls with jog bras soaked in sweat. I made eye contact with a woman I'd met before, a older, fun-loving reporter who sat with 3 friends trying to eat scallops. She looked queasy staring at all the clammy-haired folk. I couldn't control myself when this one man in particular made his fourth loop, he loved himself. He loved that he was sticky and glistening, with his frizzy, wavy hair bouncing as he strode. And most of all, he loved his smooth, too-tight, white running shorts that clung to his buttocks. He was the last to leave.