Fourth Avenue - this little slice of street between Astor Place and Union Square that's so small it doesn't even seem like it should qualify for avenue status - is so quiet and lovely on weekend mornings. It's difficult to communicate how peaceful it feels to sit out on my terrace reading and drinking strong coffee from the good French place down the street near 2nd Avenue, flip-flopped feet stretched out on the other chair. Just know that I am happier between nine and noon on Sunday mornings than probably any other time in the week. It's a shame I ever have to leave my apartment.

But I did leave this weekend, a few times anyway. I went out with Indie Rock Boy Matt on Friday night, my new sometimes escort about town. Matt's fully in love with a sweet blond school teacher, but he goes out without her sometimes. I already slept with him once, a long time ago, so there's no inappropriate tension hindering our friendship. Instead we just have a nice time together.

We ate at Oggi down on Avenue A. I always order the fettucine with tomato and basil with a side of spinach. It's so simple and delicious. I also always have two glasses of merlot. I think sometimes I should try something else, but I know what I like, so why mess with a good thing?

It was pretty empty there at 7PM on a Friday night. Matt liked it that way, found it refreshing that the place wasn't a crowded scene like every other restaurant in Manhattan. He listened to me complain about men (and the complaints are many), and shook his head. He's from the midwest, and not nearly as jaded by New York (and life) as the rest of us, so he doesn't understand how some men can act they way they do. But at the same time, when I said, "I'm worried that people think I'm not a warm person. I used to be all the time," he felt comfortable responding, "Oh don't worry about that. Let people think you're cold. Screw 'em. Then when you get to know them they'll know the truth."

We're such tough New Yorkers now, Matt from Michigan and me from Illinois. We've stopped smiling at strangers.

Later, after dessert at Veniero's, we stumbled into a movie as we walked home. The best thing about "Panic Room" was the opening credits sequence, which is not to say that the rest of the movie sucked, only that the opening credits sequence was so phenomenal, that there was really no way the rest of the movie could have lived up to it. So I guess I'm telling you to sneak into the theatre and watch the title credits and then leave. It's no fun being disappointed.

When we left the theatre and bid each other farewell, I felt quite comfortable and full from the night. Thank goodness for good male friends, or I might give up on the gender entirely.

Trust me, it was a bad week.

On Saturday morning, I got up to start work on the book but found that I wasn't emotionally ready to do anything on it. I wound up having to write a bunch of self-loathing crap over and over again in a spiral notebook to shake out the cobwebs and get to the inspiration. Lots of "you're so afraid" and "you're lazy" comments did the trick. Usually when I batter myself like that my only recourse is to prove myself wrong.

Later on I went to a Kentucky Derby party in an amazing apartment down on Grand and Clinton. I wouldn't want to live down there in no man's land, nor would I want to live in one of those high rises (six floor buildings have pretty much been doing me right for most of my adult life), but I have to admit the apartment and city view were spectacular.

The owner, a Russian programmer with a penchant for the club life, had just finished a complete redesign of the apartment, tearing down walls and painting the new ones and so forth. I was impressed. He had hired a chef - who was wearing all white and one of those paper chef hats - to barbecue. There were turntables set up in the corner, and many of our friends, who are wonderful djs, were taking turns spinning. It was pretty decadent and fun. I found out the punch I had been drinking was spiked with Viagra, which kind of pissed me off, although it explained perfectly why the host had greeted me with such sloppy kisses. He later missed an hour of his party because he was vomiting into a garbage can in his bedroom.

I talked to my ex from this past winter for a while, and I really enjoyed that. He's pretty great. He always made me feel so smart, and it wasn't because he was dumb and the contrast was so evident, but rather because we were at the same level. Of course the parts of me that disagreed with his lifestyle choices started to buzz a bit in my head (or maybe it was the Viagra), so I had to take occasional breaks from the conversation. I was ultimately glad to see him, though.

Eventually the inevitable happened: I got bored. I had nursed a Corona for a while, and I had nursed a glass of wine for a while, and I had waved away cigarette smoke from my face for hours. I found myself apologizing a lot for being lame, for not having gone out much in the past six months, for wanting to leave early tonight, for not wanting a toke of a joint rolled with reportedly amazing weed. As I was leaving, I hugged my cute gay boyfriend Anthony and said, "I'm so lame," again. He said, "No you're not," and I said, "You're right, I'm not. I'm perfectly fine."

Because I am. I'm just bored. So I skipped the loft party I heard about in DUMBO and went the fuck home.

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