I called Drew yesterday morning. I was in the city and was hoping to catch him before he left for work. I called him at home with my iphone. Click, click, click, click . . . I put in my secret password and made the call. The answering machine picked up. I didn’t leave a message.
Took a quick walk on the High Line with Hannah. It was way too hot. Ended up sitting in a coffeehouse drinking iced tea to cool off. Hannah had an iced cappuccino and an arugula salad. Met Pam and Jan there. Jan wanted to see the big head in Madison Square Park so we took a walk over to the east side.
It was a big head . . . a really big white head — in the middle of the park. Took a cab to Pam and Jan’s room on Restaurant Row — The French Quarter. Cute room, tiny, but most importantly it was air-conditioned. Hot day. We told Rachel to meet us at the restaurant at 5:00. Phone call at 4:00: A shrieking Rachel, “I’m locked out of my apartment. I wanted to take a quick nap before dinner.” “Where are your keys?” says me. “Probably on the kitchen counter.” Ahh, a Rachel moment.
Hey, did I tell you about Hannah’s “Rachel moment”? Sunday night we are parked outside of Hannah’s apartment. The car is packed with her luggage and an air conditioner. She looks for her keys and can’t find them. They are in Merrick in her bag in her room.We are in the city. Luckily we found her roommates, unloaded the car, put the air conditioner in the window, and took Hannah home with us. (Sibling side story.)
Dinner at Sosa Borella on 50th and 8th Ave. — still good. And, as usual, Rachel was late. Why on earth she decided to take a taxi in the height of rush hour — from East Village — I’ll never know. And she’s surprised when it takes forever! We had already finished a carafe of sangria and all the appetizers by time she sat down.
Pam and Jan left for the ballet at 7:00 and we sat while Rachel slowly nibbled at her food and ordered another sangria. Afterwards, Hannah went uptown and Rachel and I took a cab going down. I jumped out of the cab at 8:06 and made the 8:08 LIRR. Drew picked me up and I walked in the door and checked the home phone messages. The first message was long and just a bunch of psycho babble. What the hell was it? Who does this? Could this be a butt call? “That sounds like you,” says my drew to me. And — you know what — it did sound like me — and it went on and on and on. It was me. Gotta learn how to use my phone. I keep forgetting to END my phone calls.
Still waiting for the original copy of the Bank of America reference letter I requested almost a month ago.