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because I have, probably about five million times before on complain control. I have wanted to be a writer ever since I could shimmy a pencil around on paper. My mother still tells people (and by people I mean the supermarket checkout girl and the mailman) the story about when I was in the third grade and my teacher asked what I wanted to be when I grow up and I said, “Judy Blume.”
    And then all of a sudden, I am not listening to Joanne at all anymore. Her silence is broken for the first time in, well, ever, with presumably all manner of friendly advice and tender caring (not sure where the words “Soundfactory” and “Webster Hall” fit in there but I’m new to this Joanne talking, me ignoring thing) and I’m not listening. The world is on its head. I’ve zoned out in a flurry of instant genius. Lisa’s words come back to me: “The ideas are all around you.” And it hits me, like a ray of sunlight through the clouds. I suddenly know exactly how Benjamin Franklin felt when he discovered electricity. I see a printout of my name, taped to a front-row seat at fashion week. My driver, who will be named Smithers (what else?) My breakup, the Times falling open to reveal the job listings, Joanne “breaking the silence,” and even the pile of bills on my desk—they are suddenly revealing themselves as signs.
    I now have the groundbreaking journalistic idea that will make my career.
    The story is (drumroll, please) . . . switching careers to find love.
    I will do the research by getting a job in a big corporation, 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 29
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    where I will meet a wonderful, suited hottie, make some money, get insurance (maybe even dental!), and everything will be just sub-lime. It’s perfect. I love it! It’s so Never Been Kissed meets Working Girl. I can do anything! Thank you Lisa. Thank you New York Times . Thank you God!
    “Hello? Are you there?” she asks, after I’ve been quiet for a while.
    I fill Joanne in on my revelation, and when I’m through I take a deep breath, waiting for her to tell me how Einstein-like I have become in the past twenty-four hours.
    “Uh, Lane, why does that sound so familiar?”
    I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but really I can’t shake the feeling I have about this article idea. I feel positive, driven, in a way I haven’t in a long, long time.
    Joanne breaks the silence again. “But you do realize there’s a chance you won’t meet anyone?”
    Why shouldn’t I meet someone with all of those men around? It doesn’t even make sense. Joanne is not in this industry, so she doesn’t really understand, so I don’t put too much stock in this response.
    She must realize this, because she goes on to say, “Honey, all I’m saying is don’t put all of your eggs in one basket.”
    Don’t count your chickens before they hatch. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Joanne is a vast source of wisdom, if you could ever decipher what it is she’s trying to say.
    “Listen, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,” I say.
    “Well, people in glass houses want to know if you are free for a drink tonight. I’d say you’re in need of one. Morgan Bar, around seven?”
    We always go to the Morgan Bar, located in the Morgan Hotel, on the notion (well, my notion, really) that we will meet some rich European businessmen staying there. I spend hours dressing just so, 21430_ch01.qxd 1/26/04 10:04 AM Page 30
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    worrying over the brown eye shadow or the nude shade. It never really matters what I wear or how I look, since we just wind up talking to each other, and nobody speaks to us, except for the waiter—but, of course, he has to. Since Joanne already has a boyfriend, it doesn’t make it very easy, as she is never concerned with meeting anyone and so says very nonsexy things very loud that could turn away even the most aggressive pickup artist. (“So, did I tell you about that