Heel Spur at Tiffany's

Yesterday I wasn’t feeling well enough to actually present myself in front of the customer—been fighting off a cold since last Friday—so I worked sick from home. Between the kitty mewing (Martin crying to get out of this tiny apartment), the congestion in my head, and the smallness of the space around me, I started to get anxious for a different scene. By mid-day I was begging my boss to reinstate our previously cancelled one-on-one meeting for that day. He wasn’t having anything to do with that. “Stay home and take care of yourself,” he told me. And I did. Oh, well. I was finally able to catch up on some tedious work chores I needed to complete, stir-crazy or not.

Today I felt much better so I worked at home like I usually do on Fridays, and then went out in the 45-degree sunny day to get some exercise and fresh air. I trotted over to 5th Avenue @ 52nd St. and started walking north through the throngs of tourists on the sidewalks. I wanted to see Tiffany’s. That I did. It was wall-to-wall people. I automatically envisioned Audrey Hepburn with her coffee cup and croissant, peeking in the windows early in the morning, dreaming of diamonds and gold (and a rich husband). There are no price tags on any of the items in the display cases.

The Christmas decorations on 5th Avenue are great. I saw a big tree made of ties in the Brooks Brothers store window. The Bergdorf Goodman building had a wreath on almost every window. Another building had these huge candy-canes hanging off of it. None of the stores were places where I could afford to shop—but it was still fun to browse…and without ever having to touch an elevator button. That’s what the elevator man is for.

I finally got to see the official Trump Tower. Did you know that it’s actually a shopping mall?? It was jam-packed with people. There’s a huge 2- or 3-story tall slate wall fountain and marble everywhere! The golden trim and Christmas decorations made it feel like its own Oz. I didn’t ask how much the glass-encased Ferrari fountain pen goes for. I can only imagine….

Ignoring the plantar fasciitis pain in my left foot, I walked down 57th Avenue then Broadway, stopping in at the David Letterman Show to inquire how to get tickets. I didn’t know it, but they’re free and available on www.cbs.com/lateshow. Cool. That’s on my to-do list.

Back at home, Martin was very demanding of my attention. He’s been that way the past few weeks. He wants to go OUT! I feel so sorry for him being stuck indoors for the rest of the time we live in NY. But I must keep reminding him that before he came to live with me in my various castles in Bellevue, he lived in a tiny 500sf apartment with his previous owner in Belltown (the yuppie area of downtown Seattle). Whenever I recall that detail about his past, I don’t feel as bad.

I just noticed something when looking at the Alaska Airlines receipt for Martin’s plane ticket. (This was something I’d forgotten to expense on my final relocation report to my employer, so I jumped through all appropriate hoops to get a copy of the receipt from the airlines for Microsoft.) Anyway, it wasn’t until now that I noticed the boarding classification that is printed on the ticket: EXCESS BAGGAGE. Poor Martin. I know he’s 16 pounds, but is the verbatim description really necessary?

Speaking of Martin, the kitty-drinking-out-of-my-water-cup thing never really bothered me. I got used to it. Here’s the routine: I get in bed at night with my book and my big cup of iced water. Martin jumps up on the bed, crawls right over my head, sets himself down on the nightstand, and partakes of my water—but only after making several paw-scratching motions on the table top – I suspect this is to jiggle the cup so that he can determine where the water surface is for lapping. He always does that before drinking.

It’s been like this every night for a couple years. That routine was fine. But now he’s taken it one step further. My adorable kitty is now using the cup to bathe his front paws (after drinking a substantial bit of my water). He sits there and carefully dips each paw in, and licks the water off his furry pads. That’s just a tad too unsanitary for me. I can’t help but wonder when was the last time those paws were in the litter box. At that point (after his bath), I am forced to get up out of bed, rinse out my cup, and refill it for myself.

Time to get Martin his own big cup.