seventy two hours...

The marvelous Sweet Melissa volunteered for the terrifying task of distracting me for an entire weekend. Seriously, this bitch has a place in heaven.
In the final chapter of all relationships, the (former) boy was coming to get his shit out of my house on Saturday and come hell or high water, there was no way I'd be in the vicinity. God bless her, Melissa booked an entire spa day at Tru Spa in the Financial District Hilton, as both a belated birthday present and a means of helping me forget that someone was dragging his coffee table into a UHaul and out of my life. We agreed to meet at a Friday night party at Alfred's Steakhouse, where I'd know not a soul and they give you a martini shaker back-up.
Sounds good to me.
Plus, I could sleep at Melissa's and maintain my avoidance of my soon to be empty home.
I spent the night whooping it up with Luke and Elaine, Bob B., NJudah, Art and an array of people who enthusiastically vote.
It was great. And appropriately distracting.
2 cocktails in and Melissa was like, "Let's not go home. I'm getting a room at the Hilton."
So she did.
Top floor. Balcony. Appalling view. Flat screen. Free body lotion. Etc.
Considering we were 80% Democrat, this room was offensive, it was so unnecessary.
We got Mexican food and a bottle of Kettle One and partied in room 2719, literally, like rockstars. I'm not allowed to tell you who (very innocently) slept over, but you political policy wonks would be all over it. He's my new best friend and he owes Mel and I a high-class experience at Aqua.
He knows who he is. And I'm holding him to it.
So Mel and I wake up ("Melissa, this is obscene. We're in a hotel room due to lazieness.") and upgrade breakfast coupons at the Hilton buffet before our spa treatments at TruSpa. Checking into the Spa, we were handed robes and champagne. I felt like Ivan(ka) Trump. It was amazing, the service and custom footwear and cheese plate with grapes...
My god! Men exist? I totally forgot.
I was in spa-spinster heaven.
It was like I was on vacation in a foreign country.
We had manicures while watching Sex and the City on flat screens with earphones. Suddenly, we were sent to some relaxation room, where we were met with an increibly butch lesbian.
Oh god, I hope she's for me. I'm way better dis-robing in front of a he-she.
k.d. lang piped up.
"Melissa?"
Great. Miss Cardio five days a week gets the lesbo.
Then the supermodel walked in.
"Elizabeth?"
Fantastic. I get Cindy Crawford. There's nothing that makes me wildly uncomfortable like undressing before someone who weighs as much as my left arm.
Turns out, her name is Julia. And she's perfect in every possible way. We love Julia. Julia says things like, "How's this pressure for you, Beth?" and "Can I get you more champagne, Beth?" It was the best fornication-free 75 minutes of my life.
When I left, I said, "Julia, you're fabulous." Her response? "Shut up. YOU'RE fabulous."
She gets paid to say so, but I'm into it.
Swooning and slathered-up, we headed back up to our glamorous hotel room, taking our time and finishing off our leftovers. We decided to head over to Melissa's pied-a-terre and plan our next move. Our next move turned out to be a nap on the couch and a bottle of wine from my trunk.
Mel and I ended up with dinner at the bar of the Big Four.
Which is when the public crying began.
M. and I are two gals with moderate to severe manproblems right now.
We cry. And shit fuckers, we don't apologize.
Thank god the bartender loves us. LOVES us.
We ended up crashing on Melissa's bed, waking up to her obscene view.
"Wait, is that the bridge, or a poster?"
My god, this girl's view beats mine of an ice cream man and a hobo by like, 100.
Well, golly. How do you finish off a weekend like this? Oh, I know. Brunch at the Fairmont? Followed by shopping. Drinks at Kuleto's. Shopping. NYT in Union Square. And Tiffany.
Yeah, bitch. Tiffany.
Melissa bought herself a gorgeous necklace that took forever, so I wandered over to leather goods and eyed a turqouise leather bound journal. Because I'm a nerd.
Melissa got her necklace and we were off to meet Jen, the BFF that's a lesbian and apparently great.
"Oh a lesbian? Really? Lesbians hate me."
"No, no, no. Trust me. You'll love each other."
Guess who I love!
Jen's fabulous, funny and inappropriately irreverent.
As we walked to the wine bar, Melissa handed me a turquoise box wrapped in white ribbon.
Shut up!
The journal from Tiffany.
Two nights in a row, I cried in public.
Jen, Mel and I spent an evening at a wine bar, causing a loud, man-hating scene until I finally went home.
Oh god, home. The home I'd been avoiding.
I knew it would suck. And it did.
I discovered "my" coffee maker was gone.
You know, spas and hotels and bars and Tiffany and everything...it still sucks when you get home to stuff being gone because someone is gone.
Really? The coffee maker?
But to tell you the truth, I can make my own coffee. And I can write about it.
In my new journal...