3:33 p.m. | 2001-05-23

Yesterday was just a comedy of Partygirl errors.

I swear to God some switch is flicked in me when it rains because I just get all Freaky Friday stupid. So in the morning, I get on the bus (because I’ve been taking public transportation all week, which is bizarre unto itself, but the P-Girl is B-R-O-K-E) after standing out in the pouring rain in my favorite new skirt and black slingbacks. I settled into my favorite seat, ran my finger over the edge of my top lip to blend my lip gloss, and then stuck with the sticky remains on my fingertip, transferred them onto an upright coffee cup left wedged between the seat and window. I pushed the coffee cup further in there, to make room to wedge my dripping umbrella.

I got off at my stop, with my umbrella and left the tainted cup.

I had an important luncheon meeting. So I left early to get there. I checked my overbooked calendar and headed to the address down the street. I took the elevator up and quickly realized that I just showed up at Thursday’s cocktail reception – not Tuesday’s lunch. FUCK. In the pouring rain. And I’d already walked 10 blocks in these slingbacks. Shit. I was still early, but not sure I would make it.

I started frantically looking for a cab. I had a few dollars, I could pull it off. But there’s not a chance in hell I’m finding a taxi. Mutherfucker. I found myself at Grand Central Station, which is, like Grand Central Station. It’s a zoo. Every man for himself. And then there’s me. But I am smarter than these people I realize. And much more ruthless. This taxi hunt is a fucking game to me. I spotted one, backlogged in traffic. Without thinking, even though the guy next to me shouted, “You’re going to get hit!” – I sprinted across the street, cutting in between two cars that were basically bumper to bumper - as the traffic light turned green and drivers started hitting the gas. Horns started sounding and drivers were screaming out of their seats at me, as I wove in between cars and raced to beat oncoming traffic. I finally reached the taxi that was on the far side of the two way street, just as a Mercedes grazed my leg and without even allowing the taxi to stop, I grabbed the door, one leg sliding away from the other toward the taxi, and then leapt in.

As it was happening, I knew what was happening but I refused to let it register. I had to get to this lunch. But I had just ripped my favorite skirt completely up the back, from the top of the slit nearly to the waistline. Fuck.

The driver heads to the address and we land in nowheresville. They gave me the wrong address. I am laughing hysterically at the entire shitshow of events I have created for myself. And I have 5 minutes to get to my destination. “Don’t you have a cell phone?” he asks.

I think we all know the answer to this. “’cause if you did, we could call the address.”

No. Shit.

Suddenly, out of left field, the guy takes pity on me and uses his cell phone to call information. I have to go entirely across town to get to the place. In 5 minutes. On 42nd Street. At this point, I just sat back and relaxed because it was out of my hands. There was nothing I could do until I got there and I just had to hope that I would be able to talk my way into this lunch, late.

And I did. But I couldn’t get over the peculiar feeling of sitting in this roomful of people, in my underwear. I started to giggle to myself at one point. Thank God I wore a raincoat.

For the remainder of the day I had to wear my coat. I walked in the rain a few blocks to catch my bus home; didn’t even open my umbrella because of the winds and just walked, wet, in my ripped skirt. I was near collapse when I got on the packed bus and headed to the back hoping someone might give me a seat.

An old German woman got up to get off and offered me her seat. As I sat down, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a coffee cup wedged in the area between the seat and the window behind me.

I waited until people got off the bus, and as we neared my stop, I reached back and turned the cup around and sure enough, it was the very cup I had tainted that morning. I had somehow managed to ride the same bus twice in one day.

Freaky Friday shit, people. This is what I’m talking about.

So finally got home, after shopping on an extended IOU at the local deli. Message on my machine from this guy I went to college with whom I haven’t spoken with in ages. “Ummm, Partygirl, I was just calling because I was watching the 100 Most Shocking Moments in Rock and Roll or something like that and I think I saw you in #92 or somewhere around there in the countdown. Call me to confirm.” So, as it turns out, I was backstage at the show that made that moment…and I may have been wearing a rainhat…and I may have walked out from the backstage area, ahead or behind Michael Stipe, to see what the hell had happened to the chick who got hit by lightening because she was on her cell phone. I told him I’d check it out and get back to him.

And then I got three e-mails from other random people this morning asking if that was me on VH-1.

“100 Most Shocking Moments in Rock and Roll.” Ummm, I guess it was.

That’s a shock. Like I said, Freaky Friday. On a Tuesday.

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