I need to make a sad confession. My life this week has been less than exciting, and I do not have any romantic adventures to share. I started to write a juicy story about how I had sex in Central Park, in broad daylight, and then (wearing nothing but a feather boa and a smile), was carted away by two members of the NYPD. Yet, I have decided to postpone that story until after my trial date. Also, that story would force you to picture me wearing nothing but a feather boa and a smile. I would then have to scan a picture of me wearing nothing but a feather boa and a smile into the computer for your downloading enjoyment, and I am way too lazy to get out the ladder and remove the picture from my ceiling. That being said, I hope you enjoy reading about a typical Wednesday night in NYC though the eyes of a single, buxom, menstruating brunette.

I am at a coffee house on the Upper East Side called DT.UT., which is an acronym for downtown uptown. I do not know what this means. The coffee house I am at is located uptown, so its name cannot be a geographical reference.

Maybe DT.UT. means downtown ambience, yet uptown location. That makes no sense to me, yet I am proud of my conclusion. In fact, if anyone asks me to explain what DT.UT. means, I will say, "downtown ambience, yet uptown location," with a look in my eyes that can only mean, "you idiot, how could you not know!" DT.UT. is a combination of Starbucks, and that small, privately owned, alternative coffee house that hosts open mic nights and whose shelves are filled with obscure books and board games. Tonight, believe it or not, is open mic night! My laptop and I are parked at a large communal table. There is a girl singing and playing the guitar. These are the lyrics to her first song:

Na na na, Na na na
Road kill, road kill
Na na na, Na na na
Road kill, road kill

Yes, I am sitting at a communal table at a coffee house, sandwiched between two couples, listening to an original song involving dead animals and motor vehicles. This is my night thus far, and this is the beginning of a great column.

The couple sitting to my right is on a first date. He reveals the name of his hometown. He begins to tell her all about his siblings. The average observer would assume that both have not yet decided how they feel about one another, but I know better. She hates him. She loathes him. She is contemplating electrocuting herself with my computer plug. Four factors have led me to this conclusion.

Superfluous Eye Contact
His presence makes her uncomfortable and unhappy. Therefore, she uses feigned undivided attention as a ploy, hoping to masquerade the fact that his stories (about his mother, told in a saliva-dripping, monotone voice) make her nauseated and suicidal.

Fake Laughter
She quickly laughs and then says, "That's so funny!" When someone says, "That's so funny!" they are actually saying, "That was so not funny, that I have to say it was funny to make up for the fact that I'm not laughing."

Excessive Beverage Sipping
I notice that she keeps taking little sips of her drink. Her purpose is not mere caffeine consumption, but rather to prolong a task that keeps her occupied. There is barely anything left in her glass, and she is trying to make it last as long as possible. This excessive beverage sipping is the third part of her plan. He keeps talking, and talking, and she is slowly fading. Brilliantly, she has invented a physical plan to keep herself alive: eye contact, fake laugh, drink sip.

Blatant Cry for Help
She has just passed me a napkin with words hastily scribbled on it. It reads:
Dear stranger:
I am having a horrible time on this date.
I loathe him.
He is boring and he drools.
Please lend me the plug on your laptop and your glass of water so I can electrocute myself.

I quickly reply, and hand her my napkin. It reads:
Dear stranger:
First, I would like to compliment you on the professional job your surgeon did on your implants. They look natural and very real. Second, suicide is never the answer. You are a semi-attractive woman. With a decent haircut and a little less blush, you could snag a man who is in control of his own saliva. Third, you have a piece of salad on your front tooth that needs to be removed.

I stop observing the couple to pay attention to the young man who was now at the microphone.

Young Man:
This song is dedicated to my girlfriend, Stephanie, who has herpes.
It's entitled, "You Whore You Gave Me Herpes."

You whore you gave me herpes.
You whore you gave me herpes.
You slept around. You're such a whore.
You whore you gave your genital herpes to me.

This next song is entitled, "Hands Off My Money. I'm Not the Father!"

I will not take a blood test
I will not take a blood test

Hands off my money. I'm not the Father!

Warning: Not mindy!

When he is finished, I approach him and ask if he has a CD I can purchase. Surprisingly he does. I then go back to my table. I am bored with the couple on my right and decide to focus on the man and woman sitting to my left. After unsuccessfully trying to decipher their conversation, I realize that they are not speaking English. Yet, I am trained at observing gestures and inflections, and I have easily translated their conversation for your reading enjoyment.

Disclaimer: This interpretation of a foreign language is not meant to offend any particular country, or any particular language; it is merely a creative analysis of unfamiliar sounds.

Male: Veeatach nesh, kaka shemosha?
Was my brother good in bed?
Female: keefa, neeka nesh malta, de shamala!
I never slept with your brother you insolent fool!
Male: Vi piskamuntos gutsala.
I have pictures.
Female: Leek mas sha sha grasoutiamooky. De mis un prapala tuta ni falta butomala?!
Look closer at the picture you fat, disgusting, slob. I do not have a large birthmark on my left buttock?!
Male: Tis muta shi skank altamunch shiki, boduga skank!
You are a big skank and you will always be a skank!
Female: Nis kuta shmoota doota skank, plis ung genitalia plas uglamentashmentadenta!
I wouldn't be a skank, if your genitalia weren't so unfortunate looking!

She storms away from the table, and he follows. I am left alone with my thoughts. The open mic is coming to a close. There is a man on stage singing the full score of Oklahoma acapella. I have consumed a mocha-nut brownie and a large drink full of caffeine, whip cream, and little chocolate shavings for the low price of $7.95. My bladder is full and I am about to call it a night when I look across the room and see him: cute, scruffy, guitar-dude. I must have arrived after his performance. I strongly believe that you cannot meet a nice guy while menstruating, so I decide not to get my hopes up. Then, a rush of optimism unexpectedly charges though my veins, and I decide that he is very smart and very talented. We make eye contact. I smile. He smiles back. I lean closer to my laptop to make it seem like I am in the middle of something important, and also to show off my amazing cleavage. He approaches the table. We exchange salutations. He asks for my phone number. I write my number on a napkin and he and his guitar leave the building. I gather my things and walk back to my apartment.

No, that ending is not exciting enough.
I change my tampon, gather my things, and walk back to my apartment.
No, too clinical.
I gather my things and walk back to my apartment alone, in the pouring rain, without a friend, and without an umbrella.
No, too depressing.
I gather my things and walk back to my apartment alone, in the pouring rain, with nothing but a tight, white t-shirt to keep me warm.
No, too realistic.
I gather my things and walk back to my apartment . . .
I gather my things and walk back to my apartment. . .
wearing nothing but a feather boa and a smile!