16-Dec-2005
Please, dear God, let this week end. I don't want to plan any more holiday parties (856 phone calls, most regarding baked versus mashed potatoes, as well as the exclusion of Jesus from our banquet room), have any more t-shirts silk-screened (59 phone calls, 2 trips to Sun Valley, and three typos, one that I didn't catch, which will mean a third trip to Sun Valley), or send cookies to anyone working on a studio lot (12 phone calls, one made by H-Berts when the delivery failed to arrive on time). Why is it that people can't just do their jobs? Why do they tell you one thing, then completely fuck it up? It's no wonder I don't trust anyone. Please, someone, restore my faith in the human race. Although maybe you won't have to... I'm going to see "Just Friends" tonight.
Don't you worry, Sweet Pea. In exactly one week from today, your mother will be waiting at the airport to pick you up and take you away from all that stress.
By the way, a second package arrived addressed to you yesterday. Your dad is sick with the stomach flu and will probably pass it on to both of us so that the house can smell like a nursing home for Christmas. Love you!!