13-Jul-2006

Monday morning is a whirl of activity as I get acclimated to my new time zone, ironed pillowcases (Dad always irons my pillowcases before I come home), and the new dog.  Elvis is a blast of energy... think Whitney Houston on crack.  Oh, wait... Too soon?  Mom and I take him for a walk (well, she does - I am too busy jogging to the Go soundtrack, which I have recently uploaded to my iPod), then we're off to the grocery and to pick up my rental car.  All too soon, the sun is setting, and I'm headed down to the Dragon - the knuckleheads at the Brick Alley failed to show up for their health inspection, thereby denying me a healthy dose of trivia night, self-loathing for not following sports, and a drinking binge brought on by sore loserishness.  Instead, the Entrepreneur beats me at darts, then calls me out for being a control freak and a workaholic.  I must have been in rare form ("rare form" is the term my mom deems appropriate when I am being an absolute and total bitch - it's her euphemism, so to speak - it also applies when I am drunk off my ass) to give such clarity.  Or maybe he's just intuitive.

I spend most of Tuesday on the couch watching Monk (look, it's research, okay?  I told the Faux Agents I'd have a spec ready for them this fall).  The Entrepreneur calls, and I somehow convince him to come pick me up and take me to Chlydia's to watch fireworks.  Which we do.  Go to Chlydia's that is.  But, and please see her blog for details ( www.kylydia.blogspot.com ), it was a bit of a bust.  No worries.  I was too busy counting the cracks in the sidewalk - Monk wore off on me, you see.  Honestly, I could give a rat's ass about fireworks when I'm surrounded by lovely people.  And if you know me at all, you know there aren't many people I do consider lovely, so put that in your crack pipe and smoke it, Whitney.  Again... too soon?

Wednesday, Wednesday, what happened?  Shopping with Mom, a call from the Shopaholic while shopping with Mom (it's like her brain has a radar for whenever one of her friends is using plastic to buy a snazzy new pair of heels), then some much-called-for bitch-slapping.  I don't like having to bitch-slap you, people, but if you ask for it, I can't help it.  I have spent the majority of the past month on the phone with Hollywood agents, so if you wanna cross me, bring it.  I know who I am, I know how I feel, and gone are the days of faux hormone-induced weakness. 

Moving on... Thursday... Farrah, Farrah's Fiance, and the Entrepreneur all come out for dinner.  I, for one, have a lovely time - I'm a sucker for people coming to visit me, you see (note to anyone who cares... I am also a sucker for mixed CDs, sunflowers, Arrested Development - the group and the show, rodeos, a popcorn and Reese's Pieces combo, and Sarah Polley - now where were we?).  Ah, yes.  So Farrah has tracked me down far and wide, from NYC to L.A. to Holt Lane.  She did miss Russia, but we shall forgive her for that.  And I'm sorry, but the rest of this evening will have to be omitted due to adult content.  Fun adult content.  Not scary David Lynch adult content.

To be continued...