I dropped off my darling betrothed at the airport Saturday afternoon, work has sent him off to Oregon for a week. After a few minutes of feeling an acute loneliness, I didn't know what to do with myself. Then it hit me. I had about 42 hours to myself: GLORIOUS.

Whimsy would be my guide. I headed home and threw open the late-afternoon windows, letting in the sunshine & crisp air. A stack of lame CDs beckoned (Green Jelly? Why?) and I zoomed directly over to a shop in Fells Point where a tall rockstar gave me a $10 credit for 2 cds, and handed the rest back to me. I used my credit immediately and walked down the street happy, looking at the water and a bride and groom walking down the cobblestones.

I was then drawn down to the basement, a place in the house I rarely populate. I followed my instincts. Good call. As far as basements go, this one is rather bright with a nice light carpet. I eyed Scott's old stereo that has very good speakers. My new CDs! I poured a glass of wine and realized I was staring at some old boxes I have moved from apartment to apartment.

I tore right in. I grew a little misty going through all my old Chase Manhattan banking statements marked with my Gay Steet address (I used to always loose my housekeys, but would always save my bank statements?). Hilarious! A pie chart could demonstrate the three spending areas: rent, select vintage stores, dining out. Maybe a visit to a tailor. Thought nothing of droping $235 at La Jumelle. Ah. My old crew.

I came across an old inter-office envelope marked "Wired 1997". I have seen this one before, its moved with me several times. I'm not sure why, but when I left the company, I printed out nearly all my correspondences. At least 3 paper reems worth. I set up shop next to a good lamp and fastened the time capsule seat belt.

It was incredible. Countless emails between me and my friend Jackie-- I was struck at what a solid & great friendship we had! And what happened? I can tell you: I completely houdinied. Literally. A long story involving a Priceline blunder on a flight from NYC to LA had me miss her wedding at the very last minute...I was so mortified I could barely keep contact with her. She was hurt, this much I know. I sipped my wine and thought I needed to google her first thing Monday. I hope she will forgive me. I mean, I fell of the face of the earth. It still makes me wince to think of.

I read on, knowing where it was all headed. I was busy at the magazine and had collected a wonderful pool of friends out there. I had been broken up with my editor-boyfriend for about a year, I guess, and was dating a little. Openings, roadtrips, movies, live music. One weekend, on a whim, I headed back east to visit some old friends in NYC. And in New York I made a new friend, a guy named Charles Sword. We became very close, dove in head first to a transcontintenal thing. I had printed out a lot of those emails, some hilarious, some just about the sweetest things I have ever read. How fun it was to transfer back to that time! I remembered it all so vividly.

Its funny, I rarely think of him, but it was a great time. Unlike my friendship with Jackie, I wasn't responsible for that houdini. Like Jackie, I do wonder what happened. Interesting. A houdini-boomerang?

Every day should be treated like Friday. Why not? The spirits are markedly improved. Half the office poured in from the pub at 2:30, all inappropriate and singing along loudly to Journey. My webtrends reporting was actually enjoyable. A new restaurant concept was hatched for all stinky foods, we'd call it POW! The menu's a real showstopper. And, now, my Friday work day is now made nearly complete by this email exchange:

Title: BENCHMARK DATA
"So, did he forgive you for the other night?"

Title: SITE OPTIMIZATION
"Yeah, I had to apologize for the being so belligeroso. If I owned a winery, that is what it would be called-- a label with crazy, hairy red letters: BELLIGEROZO."

Title: T CON
"Mine would be called Cabernet Bestial."

Title: DATA SILO
"I am afraid to ask what T-Con means."

For those who are wondering, T-Con is Corpo for Teleconference. And for those of you who are looking to be impressive in your next high-level meeting, lob some of these terms across the Herman-Miller during your T CON:

-Low hanging Fruit
-Granular
-Lionshare
-Augment
-Granular (again. its hot.)

Note to self: question taking on an IT company’s web site. Errrr. And putting a woman with a Spanish Literature major on it.

Second note to self: question Citysearch's cobbler results. I have some cool vintage boots that are getting [more] beaten up. Threw them in a bag, searched for a downtown Baltimore cobbler. Always love going into Gipetto’s workshed to get my thrift handbags & purses fixed.

So I headed out at lunch, clomping along, aware the neighborhood went quickly from higher end to lower. Wig shops & so forth. In lime green cords. Anyway, bounced right into the store, pushed the door open to notice it was filled with smoke. Cigarette smoke. I looked to my left and there was a guy there with a face that— wow. It was like Halloween. A dude with his face peeling off, holding a cigarette. Yellow eyes. I’ll spare more details. I smiled kindly at the poor fellow with the face and ran, I mean, RAN back to the office. Lime green pants & all.

Reenactments!

The quest for a girl-getaway on the east coast has not ceased. Our criteria is impossible: California-style weather, California cuisine, a choice of outdoor activites. Oh, and clean, non-B&B lodings. The B&B thing's just a little too much for a non-couple. And a little too much in general, for my liking.

Fall is here. With some foresight, Whitney and I put this past weekend aside for an overdue trip in the nice weather. We both got inundated. Thursday arrived and we had nothing booked. No destination. I got busy. Mountains? Booked. Waterfront digs? All booked. I guess a lot of the USA still celebrates Columbus day.

Late Thursday night, I gave it one last shot on a location recommendation from Scott. I called around and found a place with one room left, I threw down my credit card and shut off the computer. Done.

I picked up Whit feeling slightly devious, knowing I had not only broken the B&B rule, but booked a room in a tiny, very floral room with a canope bed. She threw her bag in the back and bounced in. It was beautiful out, I was tickled.

A few stops, a nice hike, and not without a Battlefield reenactment due to Whit's renewed interest in history, I couldnt take it anymore. It was time to head to our regal lodgings.

The place was impressive. The large, heavy doors were opened by a kind owner-woman and a tour was given-- right there, like it or not. Clocks ticked. The house was built during Abe Lincoln's tenure and note the windows...I looked over my shoulder to discern which of the many large clocks was chiming. I have never really cared for things that ticked. The old sun room, the parlor, a library. Note the fireplace. Help yourself to some port after dinner. Our room was at the top, and happily, it was very spacious.

Dinner reservations were met, the food was outstanding. We toasted each other and tucked in. Sated but not yet tired, we wheeled back to the House of Ticking Things.

We put our weight against the heavy door. It moaned open. It was 10:30 and pitch black. Silent. Sleeping people. Whit steered us over to the Port station, the entire time the floors creaking loudly beneath. Just like in seventh grade histroy class, I tried not to laugh out loud. Creeeek. Creeek. Removing the heavy decanter top, clinkclink, Whit did her own reenactment of the General Hospital variety. "I will stop at nothing until I get what I want, Brach. Damn you." Creaked out to the front porch under the huge trees and whisper-talked until it got too cold.

The sun streamed through the ever-so-lacy curtains in the morning and I chuckled. Breakfast, I knew, would not be disappointing. I'd seen a picture of the breakfast scene, and buried my head in all the many pillows. I sent Whit down first, running a little behind.

I descended the stairs and looked to the left. It was more that I could have imagined. A long, formal table was ornately set with crystal, linens, silver-- with tall candles illuminating the faces of 12 or so guests of all different shapes and sizes. All seated next to each other, blinking and quiet. I panned far left to see Whit at the head of the table, looking somewhat confused and a little embarrassed. She motioned me over saying meekly "I saved you a seat". It was dead quiet, aside from the Enya-style music piped in, and of course some clocks ticking. It was hot.

A candle flickered in Whit's slightly dewy face. The dainty china plate in front of her diplaying a half-eaten baked pear, drizzled with a sticky glaze of sorts. I had one waiting for me, too. With 12 sets of eyeballs watching, I pulled back my chair and lowered myself next to a grey-haired woman in alarming proximity. I felt my shoulders start to shake uncontrollably with laughter at the solemnity of it all, I grabbed my linen napkin for control. Tick tock. BONG BONG BONG.

It was time to take stock of my fellow B&B crew. I was glad this wasn't a place I had dragged Scott, but then at the same time was sad he wasn't there to take it all in. An attractive middle-aged woman in orange was evidently the B&B veteran, she carried the conversation perfectly, talking to no one and everyone, telling humorous anecdotes to at the expense of her silent and large-headed husband. A few non-noteworthy well-groomed couples. Across for me sat a couple celebrating their anniversary. She had on a floral, sheer romantic top, wavy long brown hair and teeth of different sizes. Her betrothed wore puka-bead necklace, a thick mustache and high hair. He was captivating. Very dramatic eye-rolls. Whit beat me to the punch and directed a question to him-- he piped up in the most effeminate voice I have ever heard. He lisped on about various things. I couldnt have begun to imagine what their deal was, it was wonderful.

I may now be B&B peoples.

I should know better than to plan a huge bash. As part of my PR reponsibilities at work, I was charged with throwing a fancy open house for all our clients & prospective clients. Big doinz. First party of this nature in five years or something like that. My instructions? "Make it nice." 350 (very well-designed, I must add) invites went out. More than I invited to my--- wedding! Yep. One year later.

After countless consultations with the typical cast: the caterers, musicians, and the (oft-uninvited) input from collegues who had Opinions about everything, worrying over hideous details like linens, flowers, lists, freakin nametags, I woke up slightly nervous the morning of the big event.

I opened my eyes. Repeat performance: SIDEWAYS RAIN. Hurricane Jeanne hit that day. A neat coincidence, too, the same day a big city shakedown occured and due to a local celebrity working in our building, the lobby was packed with soggy, spasmodic reporters and blinding film lights waiting for a celeb sighting. (Reporting? Not so glamorous.)

One word to describe my feeling, again, 15 minutes before the main event? Nausea. Not helped by the Top Banana of my firm, the very one who entrusted me to plan the thing, returned from a trip one hour before the event and hated it. "Change everything" was essentially my new instruction. Mark, my very tan planner, ran away from me.

My feet were killing me by the time our guests were to arrive. It was pathetic: all employees shuffled into the bar area and all droopily stood with strong cocktails smiling awkwardly at one another, allowing the well-staffed servers to pass us cute, fatty appetizers. I found myself clinking down the hall with my lime bobbing up at me comfortingly. Pressing my head against one of our tall, cool glass walls I looked down at the city below. Sheeting rain. Torrents. No one would come, thousands of dollars later. I noticed a grease stain on my matronly mauve top. (Why? Why the matronly mauve top? I got suckered by an picture I saw in a magazine. I did not look like the sleek girl in the magazine. Advertising! FIE!)

Alas, some did arrive, soaked through. A testiment to us, I'd say! And hot damn, did they have nametags at the ready and lots of food and liquor. The night ended not unfestively, naturally, aided by the fuzzy feeling of Top Banana telling me that I actually had done a great job. A fuzzy feeling I was quick to pass along to other coworkers in the form of telling them all how much I liked them. All in all, things ended quite nicely. As opposed to how I am sure things would have ended up at my old, much rowdier (and younger) firm in NYC where a weeknight party once resulted in someone ceremoniously leaving a large pile of vomit in the lobby to greet our president the next morning, arriving early for a new business presentation.