Yesterday. The phone rings very early in the morning, just before I leave for work.

“Hello?” it’s not a statement, that word that comes out of my mouth. It’s a question. “Hello?” as in, who would call me this early in the morning?

“Hello,” says the man’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” I repeat myself. If it weren’t so early, I might have said something more, but as it were, I am still in shock. My phone never rings this early in the morning.

“Can you hear me?” the anonymous man asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Do you know who this is?” another question from the man.

“No,” I answer honestly.

“Really?” he sounds surprised. “Not even with me accent? Listen to me accent.”

“No. I don’t know who this is. And, look, it’s barely 7:00 AM. I’m going to hang up the phhh …”

“It’s Patrick,” he says quickly.

I pause for a second: Patrick, who? Oh, Patrick. Paddy. The Irish guy from Boston. “Oh, hiiiiiii Patrick,” I purr as my voice unintentionly turns saccharinely sweet. (Pavlovian response to Hot-Boy-On-Other-End-of-Call.) I wonder: why is he calling me so early in the morning? But, before I can ask that very question, small talk ensues. It was nice to meet you, are you getting ready for work, blah, blah, blah. Because of his accent, I only understand about 52% of the words that are coming out of his mouth but I gather that he will come to New York soon to visit friends and he wants to see me while he’s in town. I should be more excited.

But, I’m not.

I don’t know. The more that I think about it, the whole conversation just freaks me out a little bit. Over the weekend, I found him to be charming. Disarming, even. But during the call, there’s something a little odd about it all. Now, he seems too eager (… dare I say, too desperate). And, he’s too sexually charged. (When I mention that I am getting ready for work, he jokes that he’s almost naked and he asks me what I am wearing … remember, this is our first telephone call and, up to this point, we’ve only seen each other once … for a very short time.)

Always a woman of extremes, I decide that Patrick must be either: (A) some sort of pervert, (B) a serial killer or (C) just a really really really horny man. In either case, these assumptions coupled with the content and the hour of the call send the little red flags flying. I’m seriously considering a Man Diet. I may give the whole dating & mating thing a rest and really focus on me for a while. I’ve got a new job and a new apartment and this is a new city for me; I’ve already got enough on my plate for right now …

I didn’t claw my way to the top of the food chain to be a vegetarian, I once read on a car’s bumper sticker.

I used to be a vegetarian, you know? That was back when I lived in Los Angeles. It’s easy to be a vegetarian in healthy-eating, weight-conscious California. In Illinois, it’s harder. It’s the Midwest for crying out loud! You can’t drive down any of the cornfield-lined highways without seeing at least one person on the side of the road gnawing on the leg of a large farm animal.

So, once I left California and returned to Illinois, it didn’t take long before I fell off of the Vegetarian Wagon and landed smack in the middle of the nearest steakhouse with a medium-well sirloin stuffed in my mouth, bloody-brown juices dripping down the sides on my face and all. That said; let it be known that, even back then, I still respected the eating habits of my friends that did not eat meat.

But, that was Illinois.

I live in New York now. And, I have this friend Esther. Esther the Vegan. Yeah, vegan. Going out to dinner with her can be sheer hell. Take last week, for example. We go to this Earthy-Crunchy-Buddhist restaurant together. On the menu, I see that the special entrée is Deep Fried Gluten and I know that I am in trouble.

“Um, I think I need a glass of wine if I’m going to eat here,” me to the waiter.

Esther rolls her eyes at me and looks, apologetically, at the waiter who also rolls his eyes.

Waiter to me: “We don’t serve alcohol; we’re Buddhist.”

I silently curse Esther and all of her vegan-loving friends throughout the world. “Fine. I’ll have water.”

“And, anything to eat?” the waiter asks me.

“Well, I guess I’ll have the Deep Fried Gluten,” I say and then snidely add, “does that come with chicken or beef?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t laugh. “Neither,” he says flatly. “There isn’t any meat in any of our dishes.”

Me: “I was joking”

Him: “But you’re not funny.”

He leaves our table. The food arrives and, for a second, I wonder if he spit in mine. I figure life’s too short and I’m too hungry to worry about that. I reluctantly eat as much of my dinner as I can. Next time, *I* pick the restaurant when Esther and I eat together.

I read a ridiculous amount of blogs. Yesterday, I saw a post in Naked Cartwheels that took me back. Way back to 1983. I felt inspired to remember the 90s. I love the 90s so I could have done this for any year, but I thought 1997 would be fun because of all of the great music …

Top of the list? Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind. Sure, it’s a song about how crystal meth swept San Francisco, but Stephan Jenkins is hot and it’s such a catchy tune. Next, three women with great voices: Erykah Badu (On and On), Cranberries (When You’re Gone), Jewel (You Were Meant For Me). Next, the songs that make me dance: No Diggity by Blackstreet featuring Dr. Dre, Let Me Clear My Throat by DJ Kool, Don’t Wanna Be A Player by Joe, Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G., and I’ll Be Missing You by Faith Evans and bad boy for life Puff Daddy (now Diddy). Remember the smooth vocals on Luscious Jackson’s Naked Eye? Definitely note-worthy. And, Spice Girls are hot. So, of course Wannabe makes the list.

Blackout Allstars’ I Like It was the second Spanish-language song for which I knew all of the lyrics. (La Bamba was the first and Girl from Ipanema was the third.) I’ve since been turned on to a whole range of Spanish-language music including: merengue, bossa nova, calypso, rumba, samba, salsa and a bunch of others. At the moment, Celina Gonzalez’ African-Cuban song Santa Barbara is my favorite.

I lived in England when Tubthumping by Chumbawamba came out and, even now, I feel like I’ve still got alcohol poisoning every time I hear it. I drank many lager drinks, cider drinks, and whisky drinks as I heard that song. The funny thing is, I couldn’t understand what the hell they were saying because I’d never heard the song sober and the brogue was so strong. I’d slur along, “I get no time?!” “I get no dumb?!” “I get knocked what?!” … Ooh, that reminds me. Another one from England: Candle In The Wind 1997 by Elton John. I think it was exactly 1 day before I flew to England for the first time. My friends and I were having a sleepover and we were up until the wee hours of the night. Suddenly, the television began to speak French. “Why are they showing news from France?” we wondered. The news was that Princess Diana had been killed in a car accident.

And, finally, I’ll out myself. I’m not afraid to admit that I like a country song. A county song. 1 country song. That’s It’s Your Love by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill.

Last night, I saw Lord of War. If you haven’t already, I highly recommend you see it. (The soundtrack even features Jeff Buckley’s cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” — also heard in the German film the Edukators. I love that song!) Anyway, in one of the most memorable quotes from the movie, Yuri Orlov (Nic Cage) comments on the futility of getting out of the gun-running business by saying something like, “They say evil prevails when good men do not intervene. What they should say is: Evil prevails.”

Yuri’s driving forces are, one, he’s really good at gun-running and, two, he’s completely convinced that if he were to stop gun-running, the next guy in line would simply move up and take his place. I’m an optimist and I support nonviolence as a first-choice response; therefore, I disagree with one of the central themes in the movie: war is not only inevitable, it’s a natural way to resolve conflict. (Though, it is worth mentioning that the movie ends by explicitly stating the root cause of the gun-running problem: the five permanent members of the UN Security Council are also the top five gun-running countries.)

Interestingly, in recent weeks, I’ve now seen two movies on the topic of Good & Evil in respect to international law in Africa. (The Constant Gardener was the other one.) But, off of the silver screen and back to my own life … Do you hear what I hear right now? That wonderful sound is the quiet jingle of keys. Keys to my new apartment. I did it! I’m finally all moved into the new place and all of my stuff is out of the old one. Exciting shit, indeed! There are a million piles of clothes and boxes everywhere, but I’m sure it will all get sorted out in due time …

It’s raining. I’m late for work. Entering the subway station and fumbling for my MetroCard, I see him staring back at me from over the kiosk. Oh my god, it’s him!!!!! Paul Walker’s face. On the cover of Men’s Health magazine. Paul Walker. My Paul Walker.

Okay, blondes aren’t usually my thing and I typically go for the 2 out of 3 guy. You know? Hair. Eyes. Skin. At least two of the three should be dark. Dark skin, dark hair, and light eyes like Michael Ealy, delicious. Dark eyes, dark hair, and light skin like the late John F. Kennedy Jr. or the great Jesse Metcalf, yummy.

My Paulie, however, is the exception. Light hair. Light eyes. Light skin. The man has the entire collection of recessive genes. But, somehow it works for him. And, I mean really works. Add him to my Hot List that also includes Jason Lewis ( … Rosario Dawson, I’m soooo jealous [photos: 1, 2, 3] …) and the Dane from the Statue of Liberty. Suddenly, I’m broadening my horizons.

Could blonde be the new black this season?

In New York, believe it or not, it’s actually really easy to find an apartment. All you need is money. A lot of it. So, if you happen to belong to the group of Unfortunate Ones: those who hold professional jobs but make less than, say, $65,000 (approx: €52,900 / CAN$76,700 / £35,600) per year, finding a place can be a little harder for you. I know this is true because I, too, am one of the Unfortunate Ones. If you’re one of them / us, basically, there are two ways to find an apartment in the city:

1. Craigslist. God bless Craig’s little heart. All you have to do is type in what you want and what you can afford online. Visit the place(s) during the Open House or individually arranged appointments. Repeat cycle for days, weeks possibly. Fork over cash, pass the credit check, sign the lease or sublease. Voila new home. (Side note: Craigslist segment on NPR.)

2. Broker. Pay someone else to look for your apartment for you, but they’ll charge you a commission of up to 15% of the annual rent. You’ll also jump through hoops and provide copies of your tax returns, last two W2s, past 3 months of bank statements and a letter from your employer verifying annual income. And, remember, this is just to rent, not own.

All of this “apartment talk” to say …. (drum roll, please) … I found an apartment and I may move in this Saturday. NO MORE CRAZY ROOMMATE!!! Blue skies, hopefully, are ahead. Even though I’ve signed the lease and I’ve got the keys, I’m afraid of speaking too boldly about the place (i.e. “Wow, I’m moving!!!”) because I’m afraid that I’ll somehow jinx the whole thing and the gods will come and take it away from me. And, by “it” I mean not only the apartment, but the city of New York itself. Between the first place with the roommate and the new one, I’ve now paid exactly $10,769 in broker fees, security deposits and rent for a 4-month period — $1,469 more than I paid for an entire year of Chicago rent! I’m not a rich lady. My credit cards are now maxed and all of my savings are completely gone. If this apartment falls thorough, I might eventually be forced to move back to the Midwest, quite honestly. I love this city to death. But, I have limits on how much I’ll allow myself to be tortured financially.

I saw a man who just might possibly be one of the most beautiful creatures on the face of the planet the other day. I’m standing with my sister among the masses waiting to exit the Statue of Liberty ferry when I notice someone out of the corner of my right eye. The person is looking at me and milling in that Waiting-To-Butt-In-As-Soon-As-You-Stop-Talking kind of way. I ignore. But, when I stop talking, the person taps me on my shoulder. I turn and I almost lose my breath. “Do you need to pay to exit the boat?” asks the exquisite Adonis who is now standing in front of me.

I want to drool. I want to kiss. I want scream out: BE MINE YOU GORGEOUS MAN!!!! But, I keep my composure … sort of. “What?! “I say aloud while thinking, that’s a dumb question, I hope this is an excuse to talk to me. “Oh, uh,” I continue, “no, you bought your ferry ticket and now you can get off at the Statue or stay on the boat and continue to Ellis Island.”

He pauses. “Thanks.” He looks nervous. I’ve answered his question, but he continues to stare at me.

“Where are you from?” I ask. (My guess would have been Australia.)

“Denmark.”

“Denemarken?” why I said the word in Dutch, I do not know. But, I’m nervous so I goofily add, “I used to live in the Netherlands.” Great, I think, this conversation is rapidly descending into hell because now the man thinks that *I* think that Denmark is the Netherlands.

He laughs and looks away which further validates my fear that the man thinks I’m a dumbass. “The two countries aren’t so different from each other.”

“Yeah,” I say, hoping for a recovery. “Actually, I used to live in the Netherlands and the two countries are very similar,“ I add, though I’ve never been to Denmark.

He smiles and then looks away. There is an awkward pause that he fills by saying, “um, well, enjoy your visit.”

We part and I hope to see him on the island but, unfortunately, I don’t. My sister later comments that the guy was really cute. “Uh, no,” I correct her, “that would be GORGEOUS.” For a second or two, I contemplate moving to Denmark. I could learn Danish.

Thursday at 11:42am, I need to get away for a moment. Busy day at work. My head is spinning from all of the projects that I am managing. I grab my purse, my copy of Chris Bohjallian’s “Trans-sister Radio” and I take to the streets. I like to read while eating, and I’m hungry. Anything but fast food. Fast food is not real food, in my opinion. Food should have nutritional value. Food should be cooked with natural fire, not radiation. And, perhaps most importantly, food should improve your health, not destroy it.

I just need a salad.

McDonalds is the closest place that sells salads. For the first time in years, I cross under the golden arches and enter what I can only describe as a bona fide circus. The lines are horrendous. Dirt is on the floor. A man in the corner is violently rocking in a seemingly severely autistic manner. And, I don’t see salads on the menu.

“You don’t have salads?” I’ve recently noticed that I tend to pose questions as if they’re statements: you don’t have salads. But, I digress. The man behind the counter with the shiny name badge answers, “yeah, but they aren’t on the menu.” He recites the three salad options. And, he seems irritated when I ask him what the ingredients in each are. “It’s just … salad,” he says flatly.

He rushes me. I pay. The register’s green display reads: AVG CUST SRVC TIME 46 SEC. I leave that counter and sit to eat my salad. Finished. When I stand up to empty my tray into the trash can, a uniformed woman who appears to be talking to herself approaches me. In a really strong regional accent, she counts the amount of garbage on everyone’s tray: 3 ga-biches…4 ga-biches…5 ga-biches. It’s so incredibly odd that I have to stop in my tracks. She continues to point around the restaurant and count: 34 ga-biches…35 ga-biches…36.” She takes my tray and I leave the restaurant, for the most part, unharmed. “This place is a circus,” I think to myself. “Maybe that’s why they have a clown as their mascot.”