Please excuse Dana from gym today

I feel terrible that I didn't make it to the party that Rick Bruner organizized in celebration of the Daily News piece.

What happened was this. I had this Bliss gift certificate that was about to expire. So I scheduled an appointment for last night at 6. For a Brazilian. Because I figured, heck, if it's free, why not? All the girl bloggers are doing it.

My aesthetitian was a Polish woman named Dorothy. She was the kindest aesthetitian I've ever encountered, which is an especially meaningful quality to look for if you're having the hairs professionally yanked off your asshole.

Which doesn't hurt nearly as much as you'd expect. I mean, it doesn't feel *great* or anything, but it's better than dumping a motorcycle at 60 mph wearing cut-off jeans. Being bendy helps.

I debated the merits of going for the full-on Jon Benet but decided to have her leave a little V of hair, for decoration. 20 minutes, in and out, easy-peasy.

Thus denuded, I sashayed up Broadway feeling a bit electrified. I went back to Brooklyn to have some dinner. "Then we'll come back to the city for the soiree," I told my chocha.

A bowl of moules frites and a weiss bier later, my chocha said to me, "Let's just have one more drink before we go back to the city." Who was I to argue? It was her night as much as mine.

Somehow, I found myself, three hours later, still at a Brooklyn bar. The bartender gave me a bunch of money to play the jukebox. We wanted to stay and hear all our songs. The chocha wasn't going anywhere until every last Fleetwood Mac song was played.

So it was then 11:30, and I was tipsy, and still in Brooklyn. I couldn't imagine making it back into the city. The chocha said "Fuck it, let's go home and jump on the bed in a thong."

So that's why I didn't make it to the party. I'm sorry.