Danger: Nutrition

After my particularly disturbing appointment with Elizabeth last week, I went into the weekend feeling all right. A big deal, it was, but I had to enjoy the two days I got. The deal: I have four sessions left until January. Stupid fucking bureacracy is preventing me from seeing her once a week. Four months without. Guess they don't know how much she means to me. Bastards. Anyone want to donate to the Elizabeth fund? $125 a week. But one has to move on, and I did. A little bit of a workout. A little Sound of Music at Prospect Park. A little Bryant Park. A little Brooklyn rooftop action. It was all a lot pleasant. Erica's roof has a fascinating view of Manhattan. A perfect view, beating even that of the San Fernando Valley from Mulholland Drive. Over wine and cloves we talked about boys, girls, and politics. All perfect fodder over which to enjoy red wine. Before getting to Erica's, though, I met someone on the street that could potentially lead to something great. I say "potentially" because I have little faith. But the little that I do have, I will cling to and hope something develops. As I walked down 7th Ave. in Park Slope, I thought back to my walk to the tattoo parlor. I wondered if I would see Tasha the heterosexual tattoo artist. She both lives and works in the area, so it was likely. But I didn't count on it and quickly forgot about the possibility. As I approached the shop, though, there she was locking up. Perfect timing. I shouted her name from across the street, startling her, I thought, but later finding out she was intrigued. We chit-chatted for a bit and because she was headed in my direction, walked the remaining block to Erica's. We caught up a little. I say caught up because, if you can imagine how I can be while sitting with a cute girl for three hours, she knew a little about me. She invited me to a party that her boyfriend was throwing in Dumbo on Friday. Wonderful. And I mentioned I had been writing like a fiend, thanks to renewed inspiration from a friend in Cali who is graciously lending her editing eye to my efforts. And I told her, Tasha, as I told Jill the night before, that I decided by the end of the year to start investigating potential publishers for my little endeavor. And that if that didn't work, then I would self publish. "This thing will see the light of day," I said. "You're amazing," she came back at me with. Well, thanks. "You've got the bug." Then she had a thought. "I know this person, she's a friend of a friend actually, who is a literary agent." That was cool, I thought. But I'm sure every tenth person in this city knows a literary agent of some sort, so wasn't all that interested. "She was just asking me as a matter of fact if I knew any writers." My eyes lit up a bit, and my heart dropped. Visions of book signings and a spot on the New York Times bestseller list danced in my head. And of changing the world through words. I can admit every once in a while to having such lofty goals. I recovered myself, as she pulled her phone out of her bag. "I have her number in my phone." "Will you do me a favor?" I asked. "I'll call her." "And talk about me?" I had to be clear. "Yes, I'll tell her all about you. And-" "And maybe you can invite her to the party and we can meet?" "Yes. That's perfect. I have your number in my phone, and I'll call you within the next couple of days." That was pretty cool. Now, the woman won't call. She's backed off on plans before, though not out of malice. She can do a mean tattoo, though, and she likes me, so maybe she'll come through. After we left each other, I quickly whipped out my phone and retrieved her number which was slowly rotating out of my "Recent Calls" list. She's in my phone now. And I'll probably have to push her a bit. And if push has to come to shove, well, then it will. This is an agent we're talking about. At the very least I can learn some ins and outs of getting my shit in the door. What am I gonna write when this is finished? I was able to ease into my week relatively harmlessly, even looking forward to my appointment with the nutritionist. We gabbed for a bit about protein and soybeans, sodium and portion sizes. And it was time to go and she got up to open the door. Only it wouldn't open. She tried. And tried some more. I lended a hand, but to no avail. We were stuck in her office. Now, she's cool. Likes to laugh. And I'm thinking, get someone on the phone, sister, and get me out of here. All of a sudden I started getting really hungry. And thirsty. She finally called another nutritionist to come try from the outside. This would surely work. It didn't. The other one had a client who had just arrived and he even tried the door. He unscrewed the knob and we were finally able to see the culprit. But it still wasn't budging. He was helping me out trying to get the metal piece that was stuck in the door, but that wasn't working, either. "Hey, do you have a Snickers out there," I asked. The situation called for food humor. I sat back down and let the other client struggle with the door from the outside. And I started looking for the best spot on the door to kick it open. Because it seemed as though that would be our only way out. The doc and I talked for a bit, laughing about our circumstance. "I would cry if you weren't here." That's what all the girls say, Deborah. Just kidding. I didn't say that. She gave me some kind of apple cinnamon health cookie. It was really good. Who knew? They finally were able to get a hold of the maintenance guy and he came up and fought with the problem knob mechanism. And finally, twenty-five minutes later, we were freed, emerging unharmed from her office, which was getting smaller by the minute. She didn't make me pay.