Sometimes I really feel like I know everybody.  Well, maybe not everybody, but I certainly know a hell of a lot of people.  When I met my friend Katie last fall, someone told her that if she talks to me for ten minutes, we’ll find out that we know at least one person in common.  And of course, that’s exactly what happened. 

But this weekend’s small world story is thanks to the magic of Dodgeball.  Unlike the recent article in New York Magazine, this had nothing to do with dating, but I think Dennis will get a kick out of it nonetheless.

So on Saturday night, I went to a birthday party, and I checked into Dodgeball, letting my group of friends know where I am.  In that group is one Andrew Hearst.  About 20 minutes later, he showed up and said, "I’d like you to meet my friend, Matthew Price."  Matthew is the brother of Ali, a very close childhood friend with whom I have recently reconnected, but I had not seen Matthew since I moved to New York from D.C. — about 1981 (24 years, which is terrifying enough on its face).  Turns out Andrew and Matthew go back a number of years, having worked together at Lingua Franca, and Andrew had been explaining Dodgeball to Matthew when my message came in.  He explained, "here’s a message from my friend Laren."  Matthew recognized the (rather unusual) name, so they figured out the small world coincidence.  Turns out Matthew’s a bit of a foodie as well, so we’re all going to go out together and hit one of the new barbecue joints.

On top of that, last night I was at a pizza party for the Kismet house, when I ran into a woman who looked very familiar.  Turns out that she and I had taken a nonprofit management class together at Wagner School of Public Service (and when we did, we realized we knew someone in common — a woman from my childhood in D.C.).  She’ll be in the house this summer.

Makes me realize that despite its size, New York really does manage to feel like a small community, and I absolutely love that.

So I’m walking to work this morning and I paused at the corner to allow a van to turn in front of me.  The guy driving had the fucking New York Post perched on his steering wheel, apparently trying to read while he was driving.  Hell, if there are morons like this guy creating life hazzards for me every day, I might as well overindulge in foie gras and truffle butter (and pork products) before getting squashed by one of them on my way to work.

I’ve never understood how women in the movies look so good when they cry.  Sure, their eyes exude sadness, and tears may flow, but they somehow still manage to look pretty, composed, and even delicate.  Not me.  When I cry, it’s a full-fledged disaster.  My face gets splotchy and squinched up, my eyes turn beet red, my nose runs — absolutely hideous.  And once I start, it’s very hard to stop.  A good cry can have me going for a while, and I’m completely exhausted once it’s over.  The times I’ve cried at work are probably the worst.  Back in my litigator days, a (very evil) partner made me cry once.  Although I made it safely back to my office before the tears started, lord knows my puffy, red eyes were a dead giveaway to anyone who saw me after the fact.  You should also know that I don’t only cry when I’m sad.  Oh no.  That would be way too boring and predictable.  I also cry when I’m angry, or even frustrated, which I’ve noticed sometimes has the unwanted effect of diluting my side of a particularly impassioned argument.  But unfortunately, I can’t really help it. 

If any of those actresses want to see what a real crying jag looks like, they should give me a call.  I"ll show ’em how it’s done, and maybe I can even make a few extra bucks on the side.

My favorite crying photo, courtesy of Anna and James Photography.

But this time, not food-related (shocking!).  For the first time in years, I got desperate and sent out a load of laundry instead of doing it myself.  Okay, I realize this is not in the least bit luxurious for the majority of people I know, but for me, it is.  They fold everything up so nicely, and even put your (folded!) socks and underwear in their own little bags.  Love it.

I could totally get used to this . . .