Kiki departed yesterday for a 12-day trip to Europe, where she’ll visit Prague, Berlin, Amsterdam and Paris. This will be her first time abroad, and understandably, she’s a smidge anxious. So, to bid her a fond and comforting farewell, rozlouceni, abschied, afschied and, of course, adieu, I met her for an all-American dinner the other night at our favorite Upper West Side diner, Viand.

After we reviewed the wearable items Kiki had packed, the stomach woe remedies she’d carry with her on the plane, the movies she’d downloaded to her iPod, and whether or not we had time to pop into Loehmann’s, I decided to visit the ladies’ room (which, at Viand, is actually a tiny, unisex and Lysol-fragranced recess in the wall with a door).

Having good hygiene, I like to wash my hands post-pee even though I am not required by law to do so. I just think it’s a nice gesture. Plus, who knows what kind of porcelain-borne illness might be lurking on the toilette seat? But I digress. Suffice it to say, it came time to dry my cleansed hands and I attempted to cue the sensor-activated paper towel dispenser.

But apparently, I have defective hands that are unable to emit the “cough up paper towel NOW” signal. For a minute, I stood there waving normally at the wall.

Hi Paper Towel Dispenser. Aloha! That’s right. I’m saying hi in the hopes you’ll dispense some paper towels. It’s great to see ya! Hello! Hiya! Hola! Bonjer! Top of the morning! Please give me some paper towels.

Zilch. Perhaps I needed to infuse the wave with a dash of more Queen Elizabeth?

Nope.

I moved on to a sort of wax-on/wax-off gesture. Still nothing.

I changed direction - surely if none of the obvious horizontal techniques above had worked, the implementation of up/down movement would. Alas, it did not.

Next up was a hand-jive, followed by half of the ΑΕ∏ secret handshake, a sign language Q, a left-hand turn signal, the first step in a game of Cat’s Cradle and finally, the thumb-centric dance Elaine made famous on “Seinfeld.”

M’ER F’ER! How could I not triumph over this commonplace BATHROOM installation?

All the while, my cell phone had been in my pocket. I felt it vibrate: Deena, concerned over my extended trip to the loo, had sent me a text message to inquire about my well-being.

With now damp fingers, I typed back: Handswe 3tca ntget ptwl out.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

F.U., fancy paper towel dispenser. I rescind my earlier greetings. You stink.

I gave up — I THREW IN THE TOWEL. I wiped my hands on my jeans and, using my sleeve for protection, opened the door. It was at that moment, of course, when I espied a hefty stack of pristine paper towels in a lovely woven basket atop the toilet tank.

I’ve always been a fan of Grimace, pictured above my last post.  I can trace my appreciation for the big purple lug back to the days I was eligible to receive a free McDonald’s coloring book with my meal.  He is, by far, the most endearing of the slightly freakish cast of McDonald’s characters. Of course, the others set the bar pretty low. Hamburglar and Captain Crook? Ex-cons. Probably beyond rehabilitation. It starts with burgers and fish sandwiches. Next thing you know, they’re holding up convenience stores. Ronald McDonald? Child molester.  The Frie Guys? Greasy manorexics. Mayor McCheese? Totally corrupt. Grimace’s worst crime is being a little slow on the uptake and, of course, being of indeterminate genus.  Which brings me to my point: for the love of GOD, what IS Grimace? Dave, I know you still have the signed portrait of him I made for you circa 2005. Please study it and send me your thoughts pronto. All are welcome to comment as well!

I am hereby rescinding my endorsement of McDonald’s sweet tea. Does a ginormous paper cup filled with lukewarm sugar water sound good to you? No? Then stay away from this beverage. And it certainly isn’t worth the trouble.

H and I recently attended a meet-n-greet with his friends’ newborn son, Baby D. The gathering was quite nice and featured delicious but thirst-inducing smoked salmon (known in these parts as “lox”). The day was balmy, so we decided to walk the 60 blocks home from Washington Heights. It seemed like the perfect occasion to pop into McDonald’s and try the refreshing new sweet tea I’d seen advertised all over the city.

Finding a McDonald’s was not a problem in that ‘hood. We chose one and got on line, where we discussed the various sets of twins who had also gathered, with their parents, to celebrate Baby D’s arrival.

“Did you happen to notice the brute force Twin 3 used when she grabbed the naked plastic doll out of Twin 7’s paw?” I asked H.

Before he could answer, a random woman on the line to our right chimed in at the top of her lungs.

“OH MY GOD YOU SAW THAT TOO I SAW THAT MOTHER FUCKER I SAW THAT THAT WAS TOTALLY AWESOME TOTALLY RAD I FREAKING LOVE THAT SHOW!”

H and I didn’t realize we’d been having a conversation with her, because as far as we knew, she hadn’t been at the gathering and was shouting about something completely unrelated. But it became clear when we didn’t respond within a nanosecond that she was having a conversation with us.

“HEY! I LOVE THAT SHOW CANNOT FUCKING BELIEVE THAT SHOW OH MAN. NICE CAMERA!”

Politely, H accepted the compliment.

“SO CAN I TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE SEE MY BOYFRIEND WE’RE ENGAGED HE HAS A CAMERA LIKE THAT I’M TRYING TO BE A MODEL BUT YOU KNOW I LOST ALL MY MONEY SO WE DON’T HAVE A TV EXCEPT ONE TIME WE WATCHED IT AT HIS MOM’S BUT HE’S A GREAT PHOTOGRAPHER SO WHAT KIND OF CAMERA IS THAT LIKE IS IT WORTH A LOT WOW THAT IS TOTALLY RAD ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME? HEY ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

I couldn’t imagine what exactly this woman might model successfully, except maybe track marks. She had roughly the same complexion and skin tone as Grampa Munster, and was sporting pleather pants with a cropped black t-shirt. Her nails, lips and hair were jet black as well, although I wouldn’t go so far as to call her a Goth. Regardless, she was freakish and I began to hear the local newscasters relaying the tragic details of our untimely and violent deaths … in a McDonald’s.

“Good evening. A Manhattan woman who just celebrated the 11th anniversary of her 25th birthday and her boyfriend, an Emmy-winning writer, were brutally stabbed to death while they waited on line at a McDonald’s for a sweet tea.”

Cut to the crime scene, where police are standing around doing nothing, and then, as the voiceover begins, to a hideous photo of me from college, before the flat-iron was invented, without make-up on, and wearing white leather Keds with a ridiculously oversized periwinkle Champion sweatshirt.

“Chuck — wait a minute. McDonald’s sells sweet tea now?”

“That’s right, Sue. Witnesses said the couple was attacked by a fellow customer, a mentally unstable woman who had just ordered a Filet-o-Fish and a McFlurry…”

Grampa Munster continued to chat us up with her excellent social skills and I prayed that she’d wait to stab us until after I’d tasted the sweet tea. When I finally accepted the beverage from the McDonald’s cashier, it was physically difficult to grasp it. I’d ordered a “small,” but this was clearly meant for someone who’d just walked off the surface of the sun. And, it tasted VILE.

FABULOUS. We were going to die because of my quest for a super-sized PUKE-TASTING drink worth $1.

We began to traverse the McDonald’s, headed for the door. Grampa Munster followed us, shouting along the way.

“YO I JUST WANT TO TALK TO YOU FOR A MINUTE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THAT WHY CAN’T I JUST ASK YOU A FEW QUESTIONS MOTHER FUCKERS I JUST WANT TO TOUCH THE CAMERA MAN.”

We kept walking, and she kept shouting. She didn’t seem like the type of person who’d respond well to reason, but I considered trying.

Look, I understand you’d like to chat with us. I get that. The thing is, we’d prefer not to chat with YOU. Now, I also understand there’s a chance you’re going to kill us because of that. I respect your position. But can I just ask that if you ARE going to stab or shoot us, you wait until we’re a few blocks away from McDonald’s and thus, cannot be identified posthumously as patrons of this venue? Thanks.

Addendum: Due to my dad’s strenuous objection to the way I spelled “turds” originally, I have replaced the “e” in that word with a “u.”

Before I met Dave and Rob, I had my own, Flintstonian method for labeling random household and personal items. It involved breaking off tiny pieces of that mesh-like First Aid tape and then writing on them with fine-point Sharpies. Given that Sharpie ink isn’t waterproof, this wasn’t always the best approach to identifying things like cosmetic products, which were oft used in the presence of a sink. Still, smeared Sharpie ink had never become enough of a problem for me to investigate other labeling options.

But over the course of my life with Dave and Rob, I learned many valuable lessons. I learned about Taco Bueno, Whataburger, Shiner Bock and the Lu Ann Platter (sold at Luby’s). I learned the subtle difference between Benjamin Moore’s Valley Forge (beige) and Behr’s Delaware River Crossing (beige) premium paints. I learned that candle wax could be removed from a carpet very easily with an iron and a brown paper bag. I learned that Wheaten terriers fear the sound of coins in empty soda cans. But by far one of the most important things they introduced me to was … the electronic label maker.

Dave spoke often and fondly of his electronic label maker — usually over our nightly glass of Orvieto — regaling me with tales of his and his sister’s obsession with this technological breakthrough. He told me that, at the height of their addiction, he saw in her house labels reading “DANDRUFF” (on the pillows); “BOOGERS” (tissue boxes); “ASSES” (seat cushions); and my favorite, “TURDS” (on the toilet seat cover).

I found any mention of the word “turd” riotously funny, of course, but still wasn’t convinced that this label maker thing was all that necessary. Then one night, it occurred to me that the colors of my 20+ eye shadows from MAC and Benefit would appear much more pure on my lids if I put each one on with its own brush. Why mix “Shroom” with “Jest” or “Mylar” with “Ricepaper” when a simple trip to the drugstore would afford each hue a personal applicator?

A quick jaunt to the slightly sketchy Walgreen’s on the corner of J.F.K. and 17th yielded a 24-pack of those Q-Tip-esque sponge tip thingies, and I was all set. Back in the apartment, I grabbed my First Aid tape and attempted to create a poor man’s label for each of my shades. Much to my dismay, I was too palsied to write out the names of the colors — or even a one-letter abbreviation — in a “font” small enough to fit on the applicators’ puny handles.

Crappy McCrapperstein! How would I keep track of which applicator went with which pot o’shadow? I voiced my frustration to Dave, who knew immediately what needed to be done.

Suspiciously, I accepted the famous label maker, which looked like a giant scientific calculator circa 1979. I typed in “Rose Quartz,” then hit the print button. Out slid a perfect label in a graceful, incredibly satisfying manner. I typed in “Vynyl,” “Heathen” and then “My Date’s My Brother.” Each time, the result was a flawless, consistently lettered label.

In a matter of minutes, I had developed an alarming addiction: I could not stop making labels. I craved the feel of the keys under my fingers. I yearned to read one and two words of text off a thin rectangular piece of adhesive-backed paper.

“Go easy on that — the paper’s really expensive,” Dave warned me.

I typed, printed out and then held up the words “I NEED HELP.”

Dave confiscated the label maker, but every time I purchased a new beauty product or transferred a moisturizer into a travel-sized bottle, I found it and indulged. It was a sickness. I could not believe how callously I had dismissed the issue at first. Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.

When I left Philadelphia, I missed the label maker almost as much as I missed Dave, Rob and the dogs. I often thought of buying my own, but it seemed disrespectful, somehow. The label maker I used had to come from Dave and Rob.

As I’m sure you can guess, I received a box from Dallas yesterday, in honor of the 11th anniversary of my 25th birthday. Inside was a brand spankin’ new, Dymo 150 Label Manager kit — the CADILLAC of electronic label makers. Not since Dave presented me with the Betty Crocker Bake ‘n’ Fill for Christmas has a gift so quickly brought tears of joy to my eyes. And don’t think I didn’t type out a copy of this post on a single label.

If you’ve been to Facebook this morning, you know that today, I am 25 years and approximately 4,015 days old.  In honor of the occasion, I thought I’d share with you some of the other defining events of May 2, 1972.

• 91 people die in Idaho’s Sunshine Mine Disaster (Idaho? No, YOU da ho’!)
• J. Edgar Hoover croaks
• Nixon and Kissinger hold a secret meeting to discuss possible Vietnam exit strategies
• On what appears to have been a busy day for Nixon, the president also signs the first proclamation of National Hunting and Fishing Day
• Indiana holds its Democratic primary
• The University of Oregon names associate German professor Edward Diller the new dean of its Honors College
• And last but certainly not least … Dwayne Howard Johnson (b.k.a. “The Rock”) is born in Hayward, CA

The following tale is really more of an oddity than a trauma, but for consistency’s sake, let’s ignore that fact. When we first moved to New Jersey from the city — circa 1975 — my dad spent many a weekend making rounds at the hospital. This meant that my sister and I spent many a weekend in the company of my mother (you remember Jan) and grandmother (aka “Grandma”).

There were trips to the Woodbridge, Short Hills or Menlo Park Malls, and there were afternoons spent on the playgrounds of Middlesex and Union counties. But by far one of Jan and Grandma’s favorite activities was something I have recently dubbed “the infectious house drive-by.”

We’d climb into the blue Volvo and cruise through upscale neighborhoods of towns we didn’t live in. Jan would drive at about 5 mph down tree-lined blocks, admiring the massive center-hall colonials and sprawling modern ranches that belonged to strangers.

Jan: Would you look at that one? That is JUST breath-taking.

Grandma: [SOMETHING YIDDISH] Is that a BREAKFAST NOOK? [SOMETHING YIDDISH]

Jan: Marla says the guy who lives here is shtupping his nurse. Rich plastic surgeon. The wife’s a real piece of work.

Grandma: A lotta people gotta lotta money.

Me: I like candy.

I understand the desire to view beautiful homes. To this day, I enjoy touring the posh neighborhoods of whatever city I’m visiting. What I did NOT understand, however, was what my mother said every time we left one of these tony neighborhoods: These houses make me SICK. Just SICK. Feh.

It was very confusing, most notably because I had no idea what the word “feh” meant. But moreover, it defied my limited knowledge of epidemiology. I knew that the kids in my nursery school class could contaminate me, but not that HOUSES could. Did Jan mean that if a house had chicken pox, we could all catch it from the car? WTF — was she trying to kill us? And how come I didn’t feel sick, if she did? Oh my god! Could houses DIE?! Wait, if these houses made her sick, why did she voluntarily subject herself to them?

It was too much for a 3-year-old to process. Actually, I’m pretty sure it drove me to invent Evan, the invisible friend who passed away suddenly when my dad threw him out of the car on the Parkway one day.

I’d like to give a special shout out to my friend L, who taught me a nifty cupcake-eating tip this weekend. We were attending a lovely bridal shower at PS 450, held in honor of our friend J, in whose June wedding we and the rest of our channel 13 posse will serve as b’maids. As J neared the end of the gift-opening process, the girls and I noticed an impressive tray of cupcakes approaching our table.  Cupcakes: dee-LICIOUS! [Yet again, insert Cookie Monster voice.]

DB, CO, A, L and I each selected one of the delicacies and commenced ingestion. I found it interesting that we all had very different techniques when it came to eating cupcakes. I’m sure the same is true among any group of adult cupcake eaters, but I’d never really noticed it before. In fact I think the last time I had cupcakes with my friends on a Sunday afternoon, it was 1979.  The renaissance that this perfect dessert is now enjoying has opened up a whole new can of social mores.  Can you lick off all the icing with your future mother-in-law nearby? How well do you have to know the people you’re with before you’re comfortable risking a frosting ’stache? Is it cool to just pull off the bottom and eat that first, delaying the butter creamy gratification of the top?

Frankly, I don’t really care what does and does not appear lady-like while eating a cupcake. The only thing that matters to me when I have one in my hand is attaining the right ratio of cake to icing in every bite.  It’s always been a Seinfeldian struggle, and to overcome it, I must know the nature of the cupcake very well. 

But then L revealed something she’d learned recently at Magnolia, the famous Bleecker Street cupcakery that is now conveniently located on Columbus Avenue as well.  She advised us to pull off the bottom half of the cupcake and then place it on TOP of the frosting, creating a cupcake SANDWICH. It was neat, it was simple, it was proportioned, it was brilliant! Thanks, L!  

Note: In order to successfully pull off the cupcake sandwich technique, you must ensure that the cupcake in question features significant frosting. The cupcake pictured here exemplifies the correct frosting situation. Do not attempt this trick if you’re facing a thin layer of frosting or a delicate glaze of any kind – you’ll end up with a mouthful of cake and very little else. You’ll be sorry, and you’ll need milk.

Dear Five or Six Loyal Readers:

“The Letter T” has NOT been cancelled! The hiatus you have just experienced is due to extreme fatigue, nightmarish conditions at work, the return of new ER episodes and creative paralysis. I shall respond to those of you who supported me through last week’s urban traumas, I promise!

In the meantime, another tale from the sidewalks.  Please note that I am not nor have I ever been the type of girl who attracts viable, unsolicited male attention on a regular basis.  So it’s somewhat odd that on Monday, I received the second peeper-related comment from a random freak in less than seven days. 

This time, it occurred at Rickshaw Dumpling Bar on 23rd Street. There, one can choose one’s noon-ish meal from among six or seven types of dumplings. The purchaser may also select one of six salads or extra tasty miso soup. I placed my order and a moment or two later, the “dumpling master” indicated that it was ready. I walked to the counter to fetch it. 

I could not have felt more dejected at the time. It was pouring out, my jeans were rolled up dorkily so the bottoms didn’t get wet, and my thick hair was in full Chia Pet mode from the humidity. Additionally, my runny mascara had enhanced the already dark circles under my eyes. Boy did I look purdy. 

As I approached, Dumpling Master slid the Rickshaw bag towards me but maintained his gloved grip on the handle and stared at me in a stalkerish  manner.

“Wow. You have really mystical eyes,” he said in the voice of a low-talker. “Do you need dipping sauce?”

Once again, ew! Creepy McCreeperstein!

His inquiry posed a tremendous dilemma. I most certainly DID need dipping sauce, but I most certainly did NOT want to accept it from anyone who used the word “mystical” to describe my eyes. Nor did I wish to have any contact at all with his hand, which remained on the bag. 

Just fork over my fucking dumplings, I wanted to say, but didn’t have the psychic energy. Plus, how could anyone take seriously the combination of the words “fucking” and “dumplings?”

My love of condiments got the best of me and I muttered, “Sweet miso soy.”  I was weak, I know.  But I just couldn’t face the dumplings with plain old soy sauce packets from my sad desk cache.

When I returned to the office with my dumplings and dipping sauce, I searched my portable mirror for signs of the alleged mysticism. Perhaps, in my sleep, Rasputin had possessed me. Or wait! Maybe I was actually a long-lost Kabbalah princess, heiress to Madonna’s fortune!

Alas, I didn’t notice any signs of mysticism whatsoever — just my standard, haggard face and perhaps the early stages of a stie. 

That, apparently, describes me.

This morning, a bright and unseasonably warm Thursday in New York, I was walking down 24th Street on my way to work when I was accosted by a man I’ll call “Freak 1.” From the looks of Freak 1’s very natural orange skin tone, I surmised that he’d spent the better part of the week in a spray tan booth.  He was sporting a snazzola purple polyester button-down, open to his bellybutton. How generous of him to share his chest with all of Chelsea! Freak 1 had paired the purple polyester button-down with shiny black pants and of course, a ginormous medallion on a heavy chain.  His well-groomed and not at all dyed jet black hair resembled that of one Silvio Dante, official consigliare of the Soprano crime family.  

Freak 1 appeared to be gainfully employed as a perfume salesman.  He was toting a cardboard box packed with such coveted designer fragrances as Channel No. 5, Ralph Lauren Rolo and Mallomar by Guerlain.  

As he jumped in front of me and shoved the box in my face, he instructed me to try some perfume today.  Having already sprayed some lovely, aromatic and AUTHENTIC Pink Jasmine by Fresh just 45 minutes earlier, I really didn’t feel it was necessary, so I declined politely.

Freak 1 was insistent. “Come on! Try a spritz. You’ll love it!”

I looked straight ahead and ignored him as I continued down the block.  As I neared my office building, I heard him yelling, “Fine! Keep stinking, bitch! It’d kill ya to smell good for a change?!”

Naturally, this prompted me to sniff my pits just to make sure he was an irrational nut job. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that I was being watched by Freak 2, who was waiting for the elevator. Freak 2 was wearing carpenter jeans that sat on his knees instead of his waist, a quintuple XL Giants t-shirt, work boots, and, it was clear to see, navy blue boxer briefs. 

“Nice day tuh-day, huh?”

I nodded, not wanting to engage him and still worrying that perhaps I reeked a smidge.

“Ya gotta love dis weath-uh,” he said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the Floor 3 button.

“Oh silly me. I woik on duh fiff floo-uh. Guess ya gotta spend suh moo-uh time wit me.”

I hit the 7 button and tried to appear pleasant but not at all interested in conversing. 

He moved closer to me, invading my personal space.

“Ya know wuh? You got boo-tee-ful eyes.”

I thanked him.

“Can I touch ‘em?”

Um, EW!

Naturally my first thought was not, “What a sick fuck” but rather “THAT IS SO GERMY! WHO KNOWS WHAT KIND OF RHINOVIRUS HE’S CARRYING ON HIS GRIMY, PERVY PAWS?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to a question like that, so I simply said, “I’d reeeeally rather you didn’t.”

Safely at my desk, feeling violated and smelly, I wrung my hands with Purell and tried to kill the freak molecules.  Now, I feel violated, smelly, sticky and 62 percent ethyl alcohol.

It has just come to my attention that sweet tea is now available at McDonald’s. Not since they started putting actual chicken in their McNuggets have I been so excited about news from the fast food industry.  This drinkable southern delicacy is virtually impossible to find north of the Mason-Dixon line, and as anyone who’s had it knows, you cannot simply recreate the bliss by adding sugar to regular iced tea.  McDonald’s has given me a gift.