In the wee small hours of this morning, I woke up with a jolt. I don’t mean that figuratively, like I suddenly sat up in bed and said “sweet baby Moses, I forgot to feed the cats!” I mean it literally: I was jolted awake. Physically. It felt like an eight-wheeler had slammed into the bedroom wall. The bed shook for a few seconds, and I thought---in that detached sort of way you think things in the wee small hours of the morning, unaided yet by caffeine or clarity of thought---“whoa, weird, the bed is shaking.” And then I went back to sleep.
I'm a guest poster today at Joy Unexpected. How did this happen? Well, the lovely Y hurt her neck and asked me to be one of a series of guest bloggers on the site so that she wouldn't just be writing about her neck the whole time, and I, of course, jumped at the opportunity. There may also have been some exchange of Vicodin involved. No, I'm totally kidding. I'm a Valium girl all the way. Also kidding. I swear.
My mother once told me that one of the best things about getting married and moving in with my father was that she didn't have to write her name on the food in the fridge anymore.
"I've been sleeping with a clown above my bed...."
Congratulations, PR department who worked on this movie. Your job is done. A full three days after watching this cinematic piece of dried dog poop, I suddenly found myself spontaneously humming as I walked home. What was I humming, you ask? Well, I was humming "A Way Back Into Love," the song Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore write for the teenage pop tart Cora in this joyless, soulless, totally predictable sapfest.
When I got home from work this evening, Sean said "did you hear about this thing with Al Gore's son?" And because I had spent all day writing feverishly about Vail---rather than half designing websites and half checking CNN for baseball scores every five minutes---I said that no, I hadn't.
When the old Dooce got her car broken into a few weeks ago, I read the hundreds and hundreds of comments from people sharing their own stories about how their cars got broken into, and my first thought was "wow, that's nice, I bet it makes you feel better to commiserate and know that the same thing has happened to other people too." My second thought was "hot damn, a lot of people sure have had their cars broken into. These odds don't look very good."
We're off to San Diego on Friday morning, and I cannot tell you how much I am looking forward to it. I am looking forward to it so much, in fact, that yesterday I took down the large grey faux-Rubbermaid bin with HOLLY'S SUMMER CLOTHES scrawled on it in red Sharpie, and greeted each and every one of my tank tops and floaty skirts with a French kiss. There are many, many, many things I like about living in San Francisco, but wearing wool in June is not one of them.
Appropriate responses to our cranky French neighbor who came down to our apartment on Saturday evening and dourly said the following: "You leeeeesten your music too loud! I have a 'eadache. I am tired. I 'ear it when I am trying to sleep."
a) "Are you kidding? It's six o'clock in the evening! We're sitting on the sofa, having a glass of wine, and chatting to each other. How can our music be too loud if we're TALKING TO EACH OTHER OVER IT?"