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…that shitake mushrooms smell like socks.

I forgot how much I hated Kinko's!
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Whenever I arrive in cute pictaresque little town I always think 'I would love to live in a place like this. I can breathe here, I can relax here, I can wear a hula skirt and eat poi balls or shoot them at people or pack my winter coats with them, whatever onw does with poi balls. (This last thought only applies to hawaii.)' And then after a few days or weeks of breathing and relaxing in the adorable sleepy place I realize that actually I could never live there and why does everything smell like mackeral? The only places I've ever been and thought 'I could really see myself living here' and that thought only intensified the more time I spent there were san francisco and new york. I almost moved to SF after college actually, but that's a story for another airport. I was interviewing a couple yesterday who are from the east coast, went to grad school together back there but always had a plan to escape to wyoming, montana or idaho. I told them that I, too, am starting to think about my escape from new york, but …oh, screening time!

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Of course you do, you 4/20 observing weirdo. This one’s from the vault. Incidentally, I find pot and pot smokers boring at my advanced age. Unless you happen to be one in which case, I take it back.

Perhaps I’ll write more—not about pot—from the airport.

I’d like to send positive beams of loving energy into the world, or something, however the quite large woman next to me is bouncing her legs up and down and rubbing them together like a cricket and it’s driving me nuts. I feel bad for her—apparently perhaps her appendages are falling asleep, however it’s eat or be eaten on an airplane and bitch has a middle seat and she isn’t observing the middle seat code which involves basically understanding that in the caste system of the airplane, you are the lowest of the low, and if you even get an armrest you should feel lucky. But this large cricket next to me is helping herself to my personal space AND IT’S NOT OKAY WITH ME. Earlier I tried to stake my claim by just leaning against her and trying to out creep her, thinking that all humans try to avoid close physical contact with a stranger and so if I could stand my ground she’d retreat, but I got tired of it. To her left is a woman with a toddler who’s alternately yelling and then coughing in a way that sounds really wet and full of germ-packed baby sputum. I just bet this little wet he beast is contagious. I better not get a diaper rash.

But back to the leg-pumper. Her name is MIM, or her initials are. I know this because Delta has online multiplayer trivia, which is kind of cool, and so I decided to play and then the cricket decided to play and so we were both playing and glancing at each other’s screens. Even though this obviously would have bee an opportunity to actually talk to each other, I steadfastly held my ground. “Suck it, Mim!” I’d yell in my head when the scores would come up (after every question) and I was ahead. But then they’d ask questions that you’d have to be over 50 to know, and the silver fox to my left would edge me out. Bitch.

Perhaps part of the reason I’m so agitated by my personal OH MY GOD I FEEL LIKE I’M GETTING FELT UP BY A GRANDMA AND I CANT STAND IT! THE FEROCIOUS LEG PUMPING! Space being violated is because of the street encounter I’ve been referring to. So anyway just the other day I was reading Noelle Hancock’s blog about the various things people say to you on the street in NYC—one of them being a scam where guys stop you to ask you where you get your hair cut and then, flattered, you sputter something and then they try to convince you to come to their salon for a discount haircut and you feel like a big tool for explaining that actually you just moved to NYC and get it cut in California, if you were me the first and only time I fell for this.

So I’m outside Starbucks and there are two guys doing this and I screw my face into the hardest firm jawed “don’t even talk to me” kind of face I can muster, which is actually just my face at this point, and they don’t talk to me and I feel triumphant because with lustrous locks like these, you can imagine that I would be an obvious target. I mean, they are human after all.

So then I’m coming out of starbucks holding an iced coffee in one hand and a sample of the new pike’s place coffee in the other. I had an ex (not the button sewer but a different one. I get around) who would refer to my habit of ordering espresso and then putting milk and equal into it until it resembled just a smurf sized coffee, or smurfspresso. That sentence didn’t work. But anyway, this was like a smurfspresso, except it wasn’t espresso based, it was coffee based. Anyway, again it looks like I’m going to eke past the hair guys who are taking over about half the sidewalk, facing each other and attacking the people who pass in between then so I’m not going in between them but trying to go behind the one guy and just as I’m about to do it…

I interrupt this story to say that I just heard the best dialogue from two flight attendants pushing the beverage cart.

First guy: well, it is what it is
Second guy: it is what it is

First guy: she changed her mind [about a drink order] women’s prerogative!

First guy: can I get you anything ? winning lottery ticket?
Second guy: five hours of sleep would be nice

Okay anyway, back to the street story. So I’m about to go by the hair guys unnoticed when the one who’s farther away sees me and starts yelling “JOE! JOE! JOE! JOE!” as if Joe is fucking on fire so Joe shoots his hand out behind him as if to palpate my uterus and also to stop me from going by, which is only an acceptable gesture when you’re trying to prevent someone from flying through the windshield and even then it’s still kind of annoying. In the process, Joe bangs his hand into my coffee though and it goes flying all over my coat and purse. I just looked at him like “that did not just fucking happen!” and he said something like “oops, my bad” which belongs in the hall of fame of insincere apologies, right up there with “Shame on me” and even “I apologize” (I’m sorry is more sincere. It just is). I didn’t say anything but what was going through my head was “And no, I don’t want to a fucking haircut!” So I stared at him uncomfortably (for him, I think, because I was obviously livid and taken aback) for too long and then I went on my merry way, wondering if I should go marching back to chew him out. What a fucking idiot though, right? I still get mad thinking about it! It’s not okay to physically accost people and then try to sell them something. Weird how this is still pissing me off so much!
But MIM stopped pumping her legs, so that’s good.

Okay, I just reread that whole post. Early-to-mid-morning me is so angry! Late afternoon me is much more mellow. Almost asleep, really.

And not just any car but a fancy, um, sedan. But really, although I used to get up at this time every saturday for almost three years (for tv) I still can't believe how unbelievably early it is. I think the difference with that was I had it down to a science where I'd basically be on autopilot, I had my little routine of how many cups of coffee I'd drink when I got to the studio (sixteen) and how many times I'd spin in a circle to the left while tapping my right shoulder and yelling QUARK! QUARK! to ward off the bad spirits (obviously) and then I had my post show routine and then I'd stay up for a little while and then I'd go back to sleep. It killed my social life but, wait, that wasn't the point I was making. That was just a fun aside. I think the reason the hour didn't feel so bad was because I went back to sleep so the whole thing had a dreamlike quality. This morning has a dreamlike quality in that I feel like I'm still asleep, but I know I have to be awake for real. Actually, I feel like I'm on a boat. The suspension in this sedan is making me feel like I'm whale watching. I hate whale watching. Speaking of dreams, which I was earlier, I had a dream last night that I saw a guy I was so excited to see I ran up and gave him a hug and actually jumped up into his arms. I am so not a jumper in real life. Then I had plans to go to.a rock concert, okay fine, I think it was a ska band, but I … And now we must turn off devices. Arg.

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I think the part where Angela and I got into it over Bush later in the show is better, but I found this on YouTube. Incidentally, I think it’s coming out that the Monroe sex tape is a big fat fraud.

Just today I was thinking how I kind of hate when you say “so…” and the other person says “buttons!” because it’s a conversation killer. You’re never like “yes, exactly. buttons!” Except now I am actually talking about buttons. Sew… anyway, the button is now on my coat. It looks like a bundle of thread threw up on my jacket and someone stuck a button on top. It’s quite fetching, in a barf pile of thread kind of way.

I have a very vague memory of watching an ex-boyfriend sew a button some newfangled way and he said he’d learned in the military—he used a rifle to thread the needle and played taps before throwing out the extra thread. So that’s the way I did mine.

is that if I wake up and this hot headachey barfy feeling has turned into a flu I will be SO PISSED. But perhaps not as pissed as the people next to me on Friday’s flight to Idaho. Work sick? Oh yes I will. Someday allow me to regale you with stories of working a red carpet with the worst case of pink eye I’ve ever had. I even have pictures of it which a friend once saw and said, “Gross! You should get rid of those!” I don’t know why I keep them. As emergency boyfriend repellent. They seem to be working even as I speak! What am I saying? I’m not sure. See, I’m already delirious. Really though, both of my eyes puffed up and I felt like I’d been punched in both eyes. It was more pain than itching. I bent my head over while blow drying my hair and the ache was unreal. But that was years ago. Actually, I have a longer story to tell about a jerk I crossed paths with on the street today, but that one will take too much energy to type right now, so instead I’ll leave you wondering about things like street jerks and how my hair got so big last night. About that: somehow it inflated on the walk from hair and makeup to the newsroom. As if it were jet-puffed. Perhaps it was the new kind of hairspray they used. Maybe it’s made out of crushed up tampons. Now see, that’s just gross! I blame this impending flu which I so better not wake up with.