Is it possible for your life to be too, too faaabulous? There’ve been too many late nights out recently, involving me coming home no earlier than two. Blurgh. What am I running from? What am I running to? Eh, there’s probably not so much running going on—sometimes a girl just likes a glass and a giggle.

Thursday night, the plan for a movie at the Maison Française was derailed by Maud’s invitation to burgers at the Ear Inn, where I swear I saw Tom Hanks looking much better than I’ve seen him look in pictures. No one else thinks it was Tom Hanks, though, so maybe that’s why he looked way better than I’ve seen him look in pictures. Following which, the Sweet Action launch party, where no sweet action was had, then Café Noir, where I cradled first a cappuccino thick with perfect foam and then a too-sweet hot chocolate, tuning in and out of the conversation at our table while the large, loud woman at the table next to us seeped into my head. Friday night, dinner at Maud’s, way the hell uptown. ’Safunny thing about Maud’s place—the guy who lived in it before did martial arts and put mirrored walls up, which makes for very self-conscious sitting, ’cause I keep feeling like I need to make sure my pants aren’t ridin’ too low in the back, ’cause who wants that look mirrored around the room? Still, it’s hard to be conscious too long, ’cause soon you’re busy being engaged in an incredible quince paste and Manchego; collard greens, cous cous, and a succulent chicken stew; gingerbread, and an orange and cinnamon salad; and so, so much hilarity. Saturday, a bridal tea for Cheryl in her West Village apartment, the table laden with six or seven kinds of finger sandwiches (crusts cut off, of course, dahling), and six or seven kinds of scones with cream and jam, and six or seven kinds of teas. Mmmm. Booked it across town for more tea and a slice of homemade almond and pear tart at Vio’s, before hopping a cab to MeKong, a Vietnamese place in the Slope with great globe lamps hanging from the ceiling in sleepy orbs and—if you order right—so, so much food on the table: shrimp and papaya salad, nems galore, grilled squid in a mango sauce, beef pho, pork chops, fried calamari with pepper and salt, sticky rice. Belly full, I excused myself from further partying and walked home in the cool night, red heels clipping along, smiling up at the stars.

Now: Sitting here warming my hands on a cup of passionfruit tea and reading the Times. In front of me, the park is quiet, covered in snow. The CD’s stopped spinning, the only sound the subway occasionally rumbling by.