pinktalk

Oh, weekend, you cruel mistress! Too short, always!

I am a little proud of myself that I did not force Mr. Pink into going to see Alien vs. Predator. After the time Erin and I dragged him to see Freddie vs. Jason last summer, I don't know that he could have dealt with it.

Which reminds me! It was around this same time last year that darling Ms. Erin abandoned me in Western MA, I think. Sad. I was thinking the other day about how shitty all the people I've met up here have been (crazy, bipolar, grotesquely immoral and/or delusional overall, really), which only makes Erin's awesomeness stand out more. Le sigh! Oh to have her back for an evening of drinks and Cops at Cal's!

Speaking of friends: TJ, Rye and I realized that this fall is our 10 year Friendiversary!

Why is it that 9 out of 10 soggy humid days result in my hair blowing up like a mushroom cloud and a nimbus of broken, over-processed blonde haze floats in the 2 feet surrounding my skull? But then that 10th day, the humidity turns my hair into a magnificent, bouncy Zeta-Jonesesque coiffure! And inevitably on the 10th day, I have hott plans to spend the evening with our neighbor's 11 year-old child playing video games. And yes, since you ask, today is the the 10th day, I look awesome, and I am going to kick some kid's ass at Soul Caliber tonight. (Because I always kick everyone's ass at Soul Caliber.)

Oh well.

I want to see We Don't Live Here Anymore, but then again, I don't know...infidelity in a small New England town, bored academic types...it all seems so commonplace and rather exhausting. I mean, if I wanted to see that sort of thing, I'd go to the Starbucks in Northampton more often. There I can always count on some unkempt-but-working-hard-at-sexy prof pushing a stroller full of kids eyeing me when I bend over to pick up my bag. The one very, very redeeming feature could be the ever-hott Mr. Ruffalo, whom I would probably pay $9.50 to watch wax floors...and in this movie, I do believe he spends most of it having illicit sex (my favorite kind!), which is way better. So, you know, I am conflicted.

(Also, isn't there some other movie coming up that also has the basic wife-swap premise, and which also features a seriously beautiful man? Infidelity is the new black!)

I have a lot more to say about things political (particularly this), but I am a little excited about the reservations we made at Fore Street (again!) next month and all manners of other little plans and schemes upcoming, so I can't really get into it now. La!

Things I have done so far today:

1) Evacuated my officeplex due to a smouldering electrical fire that was filling my office with thick smoke.
2) Argued with my officeplex slumlord over calling the fire department.
3) Came back to the office after being assured all is well and I was not in danger of burning to death.
4) Immediately got into a semi-screamy argument with the customer service center at UPS.
5) Ate lunch.
6) Got into another fight with another person at UPS, this time actually having a rage blackout.

You people had better believe I am drinking tonight. FUCK!

News from Pinkland: this morning I hit myself in the face with a water-cooler refill bottle thing while trying to change it, and I have a chin bruise (thank God for makeup) and a very puffy, swollen lower lip. Hey, kids, try smacking your face with a large object, it's just like collagen injections! Sexy! Gracious, could I be any more retarded?

And as for news from the suburbs of Pinkland: at first we though it was terrorists, but upon close reading, it turns out it's just money laundering. Oh, the thrills yesterday while the city of Albany felt briefly and glamorously outside its usual status as the deformed hillbilly cousin of NYC. "Important enough to have terrorists!" was the general mood 'round the officeplex. Le sigh, color me exhausted.

Other things: if Bushies are going to lie down with dogs...uhm, hello, FLEAS! Of course, some of the dogs are already jumping ship. Hmm, it makes me mix metaphors, that retraction is so shocking!

God, hideous day. Violent fever, gruesome sickness. My only comfort is that all the meds I choked down during the last 18 hours or so were quite pink. (Unlike me, as I am now pasty white as a sheet, with officially Scary Hair as seen perhaps in dimestore Halloween fright wigs commonly associated with the Bride of Frankenstein...only with red and blonde stripes, not white-on-black.)

So I spent the day face down on either the couch or the bathroom floor, either miserably watching "Sex in the City" on dvd or flipping listlessly through Vogue, depending on which location I occupied. (Although you know, I had forgotten what a completely irredeemable dick Aiden is on "SitC," God I hate him! And also, all the whacked out work-arounds they contrived of in season 3 to cover up the fact that John Corbett was so damned fat. HA!)

I hope someone is sending me a suicide pill, because I am not built for being sick. I am much too impatient for this sort of thing. Give me a crippling hangover any day of the week!

I hate that everyone has decided that Kirstie Alley is fat. Like, whatever, she is not! Fat! You want to see fat, take a look at John Ashcroft! That bitch was born to wear a muumuu.

I know everyone has ranted, endlessly and boringly no doubt, about the whole bloggers-cover-the-conventions hoopla, but I for one am psyched to read the dispatches from Daily Kos, Wonkette (heart!) and Atrios. I think it's the pleasing mix that weblogging-types bring of fixation with minutae (the slogan of blogging should be, I have thought, "Better Living Through Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder!"), festering rage and/or drink-the-Kool-Aid optimism, and fabulous gossip. I say: BEST!

I swear, something good had better happen soon because I think I am being put through a set of trials of Biblical proportions! Listening to bad nutritional advice being handed out like the fucking wisdom of Solomon is nails on a chalkboard to me...and there's lots of other shit stuck in my craw (my craw, I say!) but I can't get into it, except...

God, yes, this show last night was so fucking retarded. I tuned hoping for revelations of alligator prostitution or coleslaw worship or something equally shocking, but just...retarded. I know, I am totally the kind of person who watched the alien autopsy too, right? Gah.

And -- speak out and get fired -- what America is about! Poor Linda! And here, I didn't even know she was still alive!

I was feeling a little bit crabby this morning, but honestly, is there any ill that can't be cured by spending your lunch eating organic turkey chilli and reading the article on the MLA Convention in The Believer? Also, I am wearing The Red Pants (!) which helps a great deal.

Via Wonkette: How Bush tricked Bush! Ha!

And. Being as sweet as I am (ahem), I get a lot of insect bites. Today I discovered one, obtained last evening while beer-drinking and chain-smoking while chatting with Ms. Erin on my back porch. It is in the worst of all places possible -- the Not-Ass. That is to say, near the ass, but really at the very top of my thigh, directly across the ass-border. This is the worst area to have a bug bite, because even though any reasonable person would agree that this is most certainly not ass terrotory, scratching it in public is just not okay. And today, all the crazy itchiness was exacerbated by my unwise choice of undergarments. You see, today was the day I wore my "To His Coy Mistress" underthings -- they are lacy and sexy in a way that seems sort of antiquated, which ordinarily I find rather charming. And being cut the way that they are, and with the whole lace issue, not to mention the posture demanded to wear very high heels all day long, the lace kept triggering the itchiness. I was tortured by the desire to vigrously scratch my Not-Ass all day long. Jesus, what a trial!

Today I'm home sick with the most heinous stomach madness. Sarah + Butter = Bad! (I don't know if that was really what it was, but I am always willing to take responsibility for my own nutrition missteps. Unless it involves my shameful weakness for Red Vines.)

But being home has given me some disturbing insight into my unfriendly next door neighbors. It seems that all day long, they do nothing but leave in two separate cars and come back, a few minutes apart, about 30 minutes later. Then an hour or so elapses and they do it again. Also, since they have five cars between the two of them, they take different car configurations each time. Is this behavior usually exhibited by, like, drug dealers or something? I'm from the Pittsburgh 'burbs, people, I don't know these things! Can someone from New Jersey or L.A. help me out here? (Ha! I kid because I love!)

Some snippets from out and about...I am finding the implications of this adulterous vole research quite fascinating, I must say...Via Gawker, great New Yorky fun at City Rag...I wonder what my dead-sexy boyfriend is going to wear for MSNBC's homage-to-Office Space casual day...Now, admittedly, I haven't seen "Days of Our Lives" on a regular basis since my junior year in college, but seriously, is there really a plot-line that derives its dramatic tension from having a hot-oiled guy in what is clearly a very shabbily constructed jail cell put on clothing that is "too small"? This seems, you know, like maybe it really is the bottom of the barrel, in terms of storytelling. Then again, when my red miniskirt sort of pulled around my ass unattractively a few weeks ago, I was pretty pissed, so maybe it's not such a stretch. (Hold on, though -- is John Black now with Kate? Good lord, what about Marlena? And, digressing just a bit more, you know, you guys simply have to hear TJ's John Black impression sometime!)