Today I exhibited behavior that I am ashamed of. And knowing me, that's saying something. It seems a level of stress played itself out and I simply snapped. The short story is...the cat escaped the needle and presently sleeps comfortably on the couch. The long story is...I offended no less than three cab drivers and countless pedestrians today, exhibiting behavior completely contrary to my nature. I can only say, I was simply not myself.

The day started on a quirky note, no doubt a continuation of that damned Mercury retrograde that has dogged the natural rhythm of life for the past few weeks. There have been numerous suicides in the subway this week. That is, on every odd day of the week, someone has seen fit to throw themselves in front of a speeding subway (usually the #1 train, which is my ride) at around, you know, 7:21 am. It happened on Monday at 59th Street. It happened Wednesday at 42nd Street. And it happened today at Penn Station. When the conductor on our train announced the delays, a woman sitting across from me rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "Ya gotta kill yourself in the morning? You couldn't wait for noon?" Seriously. Was this a sign?

A morning meeting at work escalated an hour longer than need be and then we were furtively off to lie in wait for a surprise birthday lunch for Norma at Gramercy Tavern. It was actually very lovely and as an aside, if you every have the good fortune to go there for a meal, get the short ribs and cabbage. Trust me--you will weep with gastromic pleasure. Too soon, 3 pm came and I had to dash uptown to retrieve the feline only to turn around and get him to the Upper West Side vet for the fateful visit by 4:15.

So imagine: I staggered out of Gramercy Tavern fortified by a few glasses of really excellent Chianti and the meal in my belly...and balancing on a bad footwear choice of 3 inch heels. I kept walking trying to find a west bound taxi..and without luck for many minutes. The anxiety at being late for this appointment only grew as I desperately teetered on my heels trying to flag every cab coming at me. I finally got to Fifth Avenue and mentally overcome with the idea of the task ahead for the cat, tears involuntarily poured down my face. I can't show such weakness in the street, so I donned grossly oversized Jackie O glasses (and so you can get the full comical visual picture, I was wearing a zebra patterned wrap dress, red pashmina shawl and stiletto boots). I know, like a scene out of "Absolutely Fabulous."

And here comes the bad behavior. On 5th Avenue, I see an available cab. A man wanders from the street ahead of me and puts his hand out. He moves to enter the cab. Here I execute a full fledged New Yorker move. I quickly get between him and the cab door and say, "Sorry chief. I was waiting longer. This cab, by rights, is mine." He just looks bemused and lets me take the cab. He was either a foreigner or so flabbergasted by my loud zebra dress that he can't speak.

That incident behind me, I bark the address at the cab driver. Off he goes. But he's not the usual mad man behind the wheel. He breaks at every tail light that shines red. He's OVERLY cautious. We're inching along with frantic braking like a remedial driving class. He can't figure out which route will work best. By the time we get to 79th Street on the Westside Highway, I am frothing at the mouth like an epileptic. He is absolutely befuddled in his driving. He's too soft to drive a cab in this town. Words rip from my mouth in a voice that I don't even recognize, "Pull over, you goddamn idiot, and let me drive this fucking cab or we will never get there!" I suggest five different routes, but after the outburst (and help me, I think I also called him a pussy though it's sort of a blur), he ignores me. Aw Christ, now I feel guilty about insulting this poor cabbie on top of everything else.

He finally gets two blocks distance within my building and I throw a fat chunk of change at him which includes a generous "sorry I was a bitch" tip. I run like the wind in my three inch heels, collect my poor ailing cat in his carrier and run to elevators. I get in the wrong one and go up to the 12th floor and start speaking in tongues (read: profanity) to the horror of the other person in the elevator. It is 4:18 and I was supposed to be at West 76th Street three minutes ago. I am 81 blocks away. I'm half crying at the fate of the cat and half swearing cause I am so damned pissed off.

Still wearing the bad shoes, oversized glasses and zebra dress. the cat carrier (with cat) cradled tightly in my arms, I flag down a taxi and head back downtown. A cab stops and , praise Jesus, this brother knows how to drive. I promise him an extra five spot if he can run some lights. He does. Bless him. I give him an extra ten. I get to the vet at almost the moment Fang arrives from meetings in Connecticut. I'm ready for the worst. And we're 30 minutes late.

Cat is definitely in bad shape, but mostly dehydrated. They give him an IV of fluids and take some blood tests. We'll know tomorrow what the prognosis will be. But we can take him home. I start bawling in the vet's office again and have to put my big sunglasses on again, even though it's pitch dark outside. We have a painfully long ride home (bad cab ride redux!!) but once home, Figaro seems revived. He eats food, has some water and falls into a content sleep on the couch.

I need a drink.