Exorcising Eeyore

Could it be colder outside? I'm sorry about always blogging about the weather but I'm turning into a New Yorker and that's what we do. We talk about the weather, a lot. Right now, I'm being very cognizant of bouts of pessimism that possess me almost like a poltergeist. It's as if Eeyore and I swap souls like it's "Freaky Friday." So somewhere in Winnie the Pooh land, there's an edgy sarcastic Eeyore telling Tigger to have a warm glass of shut the hell up.

The Neiman Marcus gown I spent way too much money on for a gala last fall is about to be donned for the third time. Last week at a banquet where I met my idol, and again this Thursday at Tavern on the Green. I'm not so anxious to attend this gathering but I've yet to see this legendary restaurant that I pass whenever I cross Central Park in a cab.

It will definitely produce blog fodder. For one thing, there's a good chance that a woman I used to work for will be there. She fired me. It's the only job I've ever been fired from. I've come close, mind you. It's my propensity to challenge authority when I don't respect it. In this case, I laughed at her when she slammed her fist on her desk and demanded that I "be professional!" No, I didn't show up to work in a tutu, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Her shrill rebuke was prompted by my observation that her latest efforts in damage control with a client required me to abdicate my integrity which I wasn't inclined to do. Anyway, by the end of the day, I was fired. As I was leaving, I put a sticker on her door that said, "Mean People Suck." But that was my ego. It's probably the best thing that happened to me because it sent me straight back to journalism full-time. Until now. Down, Eeyore.

Speaking of Eeyore, what about me trudging along waiting for the sky to fall? My friend from New Orleans says she and her husband marvel at my life in the city. "The fun never stops," she said. Really? Because I'm not even sure when it starts. But just looking at a weekly calendar is enough to make me question my plight as a so-called Love Pariah. My date the other night who works for one of the most prestigious baseball clubs in the country is all about me. He's really all about me. It's flattering and disconcerting at once.

When he came over, I was making notes on a rough cut of a fantastic documentary one of my friends just produced. It's about 80+ year-old men who play in amateur hockey leagues. He was all psyched because he loves hockey almost as much as baseball. In fact, he had just been on the ice with Tim Robbins earlier that day. He helped me with some of my production notes and then we went to a kitschy place in Harlem for dinner. It was BYOB and the wait was horrendous. But it was fun because we found a place called the Ding Dong Lounge down the street and I kicked his ass at Ms.PacMan. I love that game, although my successful performance left my hand aching and me wondering if I had arthritis. I know. Eeyore keeps trying to channel through me but I'm resisting. Anyway, we're supposed to go out again when he returns from Spring training. So far, I haven't been required to be up to speed on any MLB facts. This is good. I'm not a fan.

And there's another prospect. He's one of the Iraqi journalists I met last night. He's hot and he's following a path that will lead to increased awareness about injustice in the world. That's sexy. And, he's got this European accent with which to tell war stories. Again. Hot. Stay tuned.