2005-07-27 - 12:48 a.m.

Rest and relaxation are never quite what they�re cracked up to be. Here I was�looking forward to fleeing the city and getting out to Quogue�to smell the grass, hear the birds, read lots of mags and books, weed the garden�and just be QUIET.

The heat wave in the city has really gotten to me�not so much because of the heat itself, but because of the incessant air-conditioner hum and the range of artificial environments we�re in and out of all day. The air outside is 98 degrees, the bank is 55 degrees, dry cleaner is 85 degrees (with a �cyclone fan� blowing your hair every which way), the supermarket is 48 degrees, except for the vegetable aisle, which is 36 degrees. I�m not kidding�I can see my breath vapors. Then back out to 98 degrees, except when you walk past Caf� de Bruxelles�s kitchen vents, where the temperature goes up to 106 and you�re overcome by the smell of steaming �moules.�

Okay�so off to Quogue�sitting on the Jitney next to a totally humorless man. There were �goody bags� on the seats, courtesy of the New York Times, filled with cheesy books...so-called �summer reads� such as �Sophie Metropolis� by Tori Carrington (which is actually the pen name for this Greek couple whose names are really Lori and Tony Kararyianni) and something called �Whiskey Sour: A Jack Daniels Novel� (part of a series of whodunits featuring �Jacqueline Daniels," a 46-year-old cop who doesn't take any shit). Ooh, my heart is racing. Anyway, I turned to "Mr. Charm" sitting next to me and said:

Me: �I usually LOVE goody bags�but since the 7/7 attacks in London�it�s kinda scary finding a tote bag on your seat on the bus.�

Charmboy: �Huh. What? Why? Oh, don�t you want it? Um, what�s in it? Yeah, I didn�t get one. And I think the London attackers used backpacks.�

Uh, YEAH. Then he just sat there sending text messages for two hours. Alrighty then.

Quogue at last�and the plants were parched. I picked up the watering can that I keep on the deck. It was half-filled from last week�s watering, but as I walked over to pick it up, there was a funny smell coming out of it. I figured some leaves had fallen in and were rotting or whatever. Upon further inspection, however, I discovered a very dead, bloated, decomposing mouse floating around in there. Now I am SO NOT RELAXED..!!! I tossed the slimy remains into the brush and disinfected the watering can but was now completely grossed out and nauseous.

Drove to town to clear my head, bought some groceries and a copy of Star magazine and tried to shake the image/smell of rotting rodent from my brain.

Okay�at last I�m in bed surrounded by lots of juicy mags, tabloids and my newest Kabbalah book, �God Wears Lipstick.� SHUT. UP. YOU. ATHEISTS. So, this annoying beetle keeps buzzing around my head and landing with a �plunk� on my pillows. Damn! Can�t seem to get the relaxation thing going. Fucking beetle. Now he�s flying around under the lampshade, and I can hear him pop, pop, popping against the hot bulb. What a retarded beetle. Now he�s back on my bed�so I flicked him off like a bottle cap in a game of �Skully.� He hit the wall, and I guess that stunned him b/c I didn�t see him again. It's funny, but in Kabbalah they say that sometimes "guardian angels" or "angel messengers" appear to us in the form of animals or birds. Hope I didn't just kill the messenger, as they say. Maybe he was trying to awaken my senses, give me a message about tolerance, test my reactive behavior, OR maybe I was supposed to kiss him so he would turn into my soulmate. Spirituality can be a pain in the ass.

Lights out, totally comfy, breeze blowing the sheer curtains around, crickets chirping, smell of honeysuckle. Ahhhh�finally...very relaxing. And then�the DREAM (this is rated PG, Liz, so don�t get nervous).

Here goes:

For some reason, I�m still living at home with my parents in Brooklyn, and I've invited a date home for a dysfunctional family dinner. My date is PETER JENNINGS...world-renowned journalist and raconteur.

He�s all: �Oh, sorry honey, but I can�t eat lasagna after 8 p.m.. It�s too spicy, eh! Oh no, that�s okay, Mrs. DeMarco. It smells delicious, but I�ll just have some of these Eye-talian olives and a piece of that tasty Sem-o-lina bread.�

Mom: �Peter...Can I make you some scrambled eggs? A ham sandwich? Some lentil soup? How about a nice grilled cheese? We have pot roast. Would you like a yam? Can I roast you a turkey�it�s no trouble?

Me: MOM�he�s fine. STOP (before I have to kill you.)

(Next scene.) Peter Jennings says he wants a cup of tea, so I suggest Caff� Vivaldi in Greenwich Village because suddenly I live there again.

He says, �I have a better idea��and we end up in the ABC-TV cafeteria. He orders a cup of Earl Grey�and I�m sitting there like �WTF�what about me?�

�Oh, did you want something?�

�Yeah, you cheap Canadian asshole (sorry about the lung cancer and all)�I�ll have a glass of Chardonay.�

So, we start smooching�in the cafeteria�surrounded by his colleagues, and I say, �Aren�t you afraid someone will see us? This is crazy�let�s go back to my place.�

We get back there, and Henry the doorman is all "Peter Jennings, right? Man...Peter Jennings. How you doin?"

Then Barbara the Yenta comes back from walking her 11 dogs, and chimes in with "You know...you shoulda quit smoking while you had the chance...what are you, crazy?"

By the time we got upstairs, I was totally tired and aggravated and bored and completely fed up with Peter Jennings. I�m thinking, �Why does he seem so brilliant and handsome and wonderful on TV�and in person he�s such a cheap-ass, nebish-y loser?� AND he was a TERRIBLE KISSER, too (which is a total deal-breaker for me). He has the curse of the thin lips, ya� know. There�s nothing worse. No suction. Anyway, I told him to sleep on the couch�and I went to bed and tried to forget this whole date ever happened.

So, jump to the next morning. Jennings� wife Kayce Freed is standing beneath my window� shouting up�like Marlon Brando calling out Joey Doyle in �On the Waterfront.�

She�s yelling: �Hey, Linda. Hey, Linda Mann�you up there? I wanna talk to you. Can you hear me? I want you down here�NOW..!!

By now, Jennings is crying like a girl and hiding in my closet�even though we haven�t DONE anything, and, quite frankly, I wish he would get the hell outta here.

Well, I go downstairs to talk to Kayce.

Me: �Can we talk on the way to my bank?...I have to make a deposit. Look, Kayce, NOTHING happened. We were out talking, and he came back and fell asleep on the couch. That�s it. Now he�s hiding in my closet.�

Kayce: �Oh, yeah, I think he�s afraid of me�whatever. I wanted to talk to you about PR. My friend just wrote a beauty book, and she needs some media coverage. Can you talk to her?�

And then I woke up. When dreams turn into business discussions, it�s time to wrap �em up.

I wish I could report something juicier, my friends. I mean�I LOVE Peter Jennings, and you�d think he would have made a charming, sexy, brilliant, scintillating �dream date.� Alas, as a dream lover, he was no Liam Neeson. But, at least I didn�t dream about the dead mouse.

(Readers...please join me in thinking good thoughts about Peter Jennings and his battle with the Big C. We want him back on the air as soon as possible�thin lips and all..!!)



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