And Finally:

*(horns sound in unison)*

We have the entry I attempted to post five days ago!!!!!!!!!! This is a beautiful moment for me. At this point the story is old and probably entirely too built up for any of you to enjoy.

This is like when your parents break it down for you and let you know that your graduation (which you don't feel like going to and don't know why everyone's making such a big freakin' deal about it - hey, can you pass the bong?) and your wedding (which you want to invite 200 of your closest friends to for a great boozefest, but see your tables rapidly filled with placecards for your parents friends) are really for them and not you.

So read it and pretend you're enjoying it for Chrissakes. Humor me.

~*~

And just when you think things are bad, they get worse.

Today was just rotten. If it could go wrong it did. Everything. From my fishnets ripping before my big meeting to the blisters on my feet from my new sandals earlier this week ripping open and bleeding. All day. I must be bleeding from every orifice in my body.

Bigger disasters than that. Basically putting out fires left and right. And then the stress, triggered my IBS. And then I found out a check bounced. I mean everything went wrong - everything.

I left work late. Or should I say, later than usual? I could barely walk, so I searched for a taxi. People were staking out every corner. Finally a taxi pulls up to unload. A youngish guy beat me to the cab. Well, technically, I reached the door first, but he flagged the cab first. I looked at him, and fair is fair, so I mustered a smile and said "go ahead." He hestitated. I jumped on his hesitation, thinking maybe we could negotiate.

"Are you going uptown?" I asked, insinuating that we could share. His expression brightened and he said "yes." "Where?" I asked. "Upper West," he said. "Oh," I replied, dejectedly. "I'm going Upper East." And then the strangest thing happened.

I mean, "Touched By An Angel" weird. I'm talking "Highway to Heaven" bizarre.

This youngish guy tells me to take the taxi.

What the...?!?

"Are you sure?" I asked, trading hesitation. And he looked at me again and half-smiled, half already looking beyond me, searching for another open taxi in the stream of cars coming down the Avenue. "Yeah," he said, "you go."

So I did. I could barely prevent myself from screaming as I sunk down into the seat of the taxi and gave the open sores hidden under my fishnets and rubbing against the leather of my neck-breaking slingbacks, a break. And I was truly stunned at this kind of gesture of one man, just days after I ranted and raved about the current lack of male manners.

So there you go.

And then I came home and to find my phone line F-ed up. When I dial, our line seems to be crossed with another line - the other line being a number dialed incorrectly. So I hear the person I called, buried under the incredibly horrendous sound of a loud busy signal. I have been transferred back and forth between two phone companies trying to figure this out.

First Verizon tells me that it's my long distance doing this. So I call MCI. I somehow got transferred to the financial department. They transferred me to repairs. I was on hold for 20 minutes with repais until I couldn't wait any longer and absolutly HAD to go to the bathroom. IBS kicked back in. Hang up. Go to the bathroom.

Back. Dial again. I get a voicemail. I try to leave a message and get disconnected. Call again. MCI says it's my local service provider. I call Verizon again. Customer Service rep tells me that not only can she not hear me, but that she just "can't talk to me on a line like this. The connection is terrible!"

No shit.

At this point I consider that I am being filmed for some new tragic reality show. That I am going to be the butt of America's e-mail jokes. Perhaps my conversation will be passed around in some real audio file tomorrow! How pedestrian.

"I know there's something wrong with my line, that's *why* I'm calling you," I manage to reply without profanities. "I need you to fix it."

"There's a phone of the hook," this brain surgeon tells me. "No, there's no phone off the hook - if there were a phone off the hook - how could I have called you???" That threw her.

"Hang up your cordless phone and pick up a wall phone," she tells me. "I'm ON the wall phone," I calmly explain, now convinced I've earned my million dollar reality show prize and whirlwind press junket to follow. Maybe if my phone starts working Hugh Hefner's offer can come through.

"Unplug the cordless in your house and come back - I'll stay on the line," she says. I fail to see the logic in this, but I have to believe that she's the professional here so I do what she tells me.

I come back and I can hear the busy signal from down the hall. She's still there. "I did it. It didn't work," I tell her. "Give me your number and hang up the phone. I'll call you back." she says.

That was an hour and 10 minutes ago. Filthy Bitch never called.

Fuck it. Who needs a phone anyway? I'm going to bed. I'm not capable of dealing with this shit.

I need a personal assistant.

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