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I've recronstructed the scene of the latest jewelry crime thanks to my digital photos, and it appears as the brooch was plotting its escape from my sweater shrug around 11 p.m. Saturday night in Atlanta at the wedding party. Oh, well—with 500+ people, a cavalcade of wait staff and caterers, I'm sure it's a major longshot that it will end up in my possession again.

It's now official: I have a plane ticket to Florida and will be exploring the options down there in less than two weeks. Crazy. I haven't even sent out a mass e-mail, planned a farewell fete up here or anything. But I'm rather excited to get the hell out of here. It's dark and cold and dreary, while my friends in South Florida are cruising around with their tops down and driving past the beach on their lunch hours. What this means though, is that in the next few weeks, I will have to hunt for an apartment, a car, a job, insurance, movers, etc. Each minor Manhattan frustration spurs me on in my decision to leave. Trying to book a 'trendy' restaurant for Friday night up here, was, as usual, an exercise in futility. I simply do not have the patience anymore.

"Do you have anything for around 9?"

"No, we have 5:30 or 11."

Right, cause I am so sure that earlybirds eat at Stanton Social right after their afternoon canasta games. Grrrrrrrr.

Moving also means that the South Florida setups will begin. Yentas, start your engines. By my count I've got two or three on my plate already and I haven't even visited yet. I think dating is easier down there though. In fact I think everything must be easier.

And on another random note, regarding the utter stupidity of the staff in my loathsome NYC apartment building. I get in the elevator today with this nice, master-of-the-universe type guy who lives here with his wife and child. Before stepping into the elevator, I hear him talking to the doorman who I played the "who's on first game" with the day the exterminator came. I note the frustration in the master-of-the universe's voice, and wonder what Diego has done this time.

MOU gets in elevator with me, carrying a box.

"Sometimes I just don't understand what the hell is wrong with that guy," he says.

I laugh.

"I mean, he kept asking me if I had a package from Staples. I said, 'my name is on the label, isn't it?' He was holding the package and my name is on it. Jeez."

"Ha. I know. I always wonder if he's just playing dumb or if he's on serious drugs."

The elevator stops on 10. I live on 15. I proceed to exit the elevator.

The MOU starts laughing at me.

"Who's the one on serious drugs?" he kids.

Sadly, though, I think Diego is completely sober all the time.