PRELIMINARIES . . .

On the drive home from my evening revelries, I began to feel stressed out from the sensory overload of the night. So I turned off the radio -- no classic rock for tonight's drive -- and decided to soak in some silence instead. But it's at these moments of quiet thoughtfulness when the mind and the eyes pick up on the strangest things and dwell on them, for better or for worse.

Tonight, it was lane markers.

During the day, crews must have come through the local streets leading to my neighborhood and repainted the double yellow lines in the middle of the roads. By the gleam of my headlights, they blared a bright neon yellow, catching and holding my attention all the way home. I couldn't look away, they were so straight and clean and neat. I love clean and neat things. Like newly-painted double yellow lane markers. I was so sad when they ended inside my neighborhood and I was back to staring at plain black pavement.

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BUCKET SEATS . . .

Let it be said that the back seat of a tiny BMW convertible is not the most comfortable place in which I've ever settled myself. The Who's "Tommy" only slightly improved the experience, but with my lingering weepies, a liquid lunch-induced malaise and C incessantly droning on about my allegedly abnormally large head and other increasingly sensitive topics, I wouldn't exactly say that the 40-minute ride from the courthouse into the city was a pleasure cruise. Remember, where one or more (men) are gathered, filter-lessness prevails . . . I would like to note for the record, however, that my head is not abnormally large, no matter C's protestations to the contrary.

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DEFLATION, ROUND TWO . . .

C, JW and I arrive at Cornell Hospital to see our beloved M, only to discover to our greatest dismay that she's being held hostage for ANOTHER FOUR WEEKS. Now, we all know that this is for the Noodles' (and M's) benefit. We all know that pushing out two fat, healthy and adorable babies in five months and no sooner is the ultimate goal. We all know that we, at least, have to keep our chins up and our spirits rallying so M can get through this hostage crisis. But if I had been alone at the moment, I would've just knelt and cried until I could cry no more.

Why should I be so upset? M and I are not best friends, having grown up sharing each other's every pain and joy. I'm not the one lying in the hospital bed, not allowed to get out for anything but a quick pee and an even quicker shower. I'm not the one bearing two of the most precious Noodles ever to have been borne by any woman ever. I'm not the husband fighting off loneliness and daily trying to muster up enough good cheer to share with everyone. No, I'm none of these things. But these omissions don't prevent me from loving M and C and the Noodles any less, and wishing for all the small and great happinesses and reliefs they wish for, and wanting M to be home with her family. Bleh . . . four more weeks. A mere four weeks. Simply four weeks. Four whole weeks.

***

HANDS OFF . . .

I was touchy today. I tried to be nice to C on the ride to Firebird, given Deflation Round Two, but he was just really pushing my buttons all day, from the first morning message to nearly the last sip of my post-dinner coffee. I normally hate breaking out The Silent Treatment -- it's so manipulative and guilt-inducing and absolutely gets the "I'm pissed at you, you jerk" message across, yet accomplishes nothing by way of improving the friendship/relationship or accurately conveying the parameters of my upset-edness. But I busted it out in the car anyway. Poor JW. By his mere affiliation with C, The Silent Treatment hit him too.

On the other hand, since becoming one of C's newest accomplices in The 2003 Plot to Tease Me Until I Scream or Cry, JW's worthiness of The Silent Treatment has increased a bit. Still, I must try to reign in this futile weapon and behave myself. These are not my boyfriends or my parents or even my brother, and I should not be making them babysit my emotions, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE FILTER-LESS AND NAUGHTY.

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RITSY-TITSY RUSSIAN . . .

Firebird is lovely. As Zagat's says, it is indeed a "jewel-box" of a restaurant. But indulge me when I say: all fancy food tastes and looks the same everywhere. Chicken is chicken; salmon is salmon; duck is duck. It's all placed in a pretentious pile in the middle of an enormous plate rimmed with a vegetable or beef stock-based sauce, and placed before you with a warning: "the plate is hot, madam." Which of course only makes me want to touch the plate to see exactly how hot it is . . .

But it was fun. C is incorrigible. His accomplice JW is getting there. Cheech, along for the ride to play with the big kids, ate it all up. And he behaved himself! More on that later, but suffice to say my heart is brimming with joy because of Cheech right now . . .

So, it wasn't that horrific and disastrous to have ten loud, hilarious, fun, outspoken folks sitting in the cute little "jewel-box." No one came over and told us to pipe down a bit when we were guffawing about Dr.G's Mech-Assault addiction (don't ask). No one clucked their tongues and told us to behave with decorum when we passed our plates around to share food and moan about how delicious it was. The food was delicious, the bill was exorbitant, the staff was gracious, and the banquette = comfy. A pretty darn nice meal, after all . . .

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to be continued . . .