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I don’t want you to get me wrong, because my life is a constant whirlwind of soirees and wingdings, I mean I’m really just floating from one fete to another, that is, when I’m not at very crucial conferences and business meetings where we discuss prospectuses (prospecti?) and where we munch on talking points dipped in idea jelly however I have been sitting here for an hour trying to find the motivation to take a shower and I can’t find it. I think my butt and legs have actually become one with this computer chair. Maybe I’ll just roll myself and my new chair shaped lower half into the shower, except that would involve maneuvering around the suitcase which is cutting off the egress and yess, I just used a big word on purpose and jesus motherfucking fuck must the phone ring all the time from people who don’t leave a message? I think they are telemarketers. Anyway, back to how I’m not able to roll past my suitcase—I was reading this thing that said that when you move into a new apartment you should unpack the night you move in or else you’re destined to live among boxes—I am a poignant and quite easy on the eyes illustration of this—but it’s like, unpack your whole apartment? I can’t even unpack my suitcase the night I get home. I used to be able to though. Back when I lived in an apartment that wasn’t cluttered with unpacked crap. See how it’s all connected? I bet if I lived in an apartment where everything was neat and tidy and in its place then I would unpack my suitcase right away and then I would already be showered. God, I gutter at what could have been. I shudder at what could have been? Instead here I am, beached on a computer chair in my own filth, dreaming of an orderly life and wondering if I should have made a joke about egrets up there. The birds. Oh and for those who are upset that I was only on Red Eye for 20 mins last night, thank you for your outpouring of vexation and I’ll be on for the whole hour on May 1. Hopefully I will have showered by then.

Red Eye was a blur but I’m pretty sure I meant to say “you besmirched Natalie” and instead said “you besnirched Matalie.” Then I tried to correct myself by saying, “I mean, you besnirched Matalie!”

Next to a guy whose olfactory je ne se quoi I do not dijon. (Just wanted to say something French…ish.) Oh crap! We have to turn off devices now.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

I’m not sure this will be amusing to anyone who doesn’t live in Orange County, or even to anyone who does, however it was the kind of crystalline little moment that expresses so very much, including why I moved away:

“We had dinner tonight at Wing Stop. It’s that new place that opened up next to Condom Revolution.”

That said, I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m judging OC, or looking down my nose at it, or harshing its mellow, because my relationship with this place is complex and I’m not sure I really have it figured out. There’s more about me that’s OC than I want to admit, something which I’m aware of now and again when I’m in New York, flashing my fake breasts at everyone. It’s just what I do.

What was I saying? I forget. It’s all very “wherever you go, there you are.”

Except I expect to adopt some kind of new Sun Valley personality while there. I’m not sure what that will be yet.

Does anyone frequent Sun Valley, Idaho? I’m going there for a story next weekend and I’ll have a little bit of time to kill at the beginning, although I plan to spend that time getting lost on the drive from the airport to the hotel. Maybe I’ll fall off the side of a mountain! Anyway, if there’s anything you guys know of that I should make sure check out, let me know.

Blog readers, I have not forsaken you, I promise. My love for you grows each day. Sometimes I look at you and my heart swells. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I have an embolism[UPDATE: I MEAN ANEURYSM. THIS REALIZATION KEPT ME UP LAST NIGHT. NOT THAT MY LOVE FOR YOU ISN’T LIKE AN AIR BUBBLE] kind of love for you.

I’m just in deadline hell right now, which is a later stage of what I was claiming to be in a few days ago, which was article-writing hell. I’ll put it in Red Eye intro terms: If stress were horses, I’d be taking a crap in Central Park right now. But you see, I haven’t forgotten you, not one bit. I’ve been holding each of you in my swollen heart. In fact, yesterday I held you in my heart as I traveled up and down the 405 freeway. And for how long were you trapped in there near my ripe bosoms? Well I had to be in WeHo (that’s West Hollywood and I can’t figure out if it’s said ironically or not) at 10:30am so I left at 8:18am. I was flying down the freeway listening to music and thinking about how maybe I could get used to this driving lifestyle again and maybe I ought to give LA a chance (yes I’m from here but never really considered living in LA as an adult. So Cal was just a place I was caught for some years in an in-between stage, but that’s a story for another day). Anyway, so I’m flying along and loving everything and the morning is glowing and my chakras are oscillating and then I hit a half hour stop-and-go nightmare in Long Beach and I watched minutes tick by and everything slowed and got blurry and distorted and I wanted to punch everyone and everything and the world no longer held much promise, just a trafficky snarl extending out, forever, to the horizon. So finally after nearly running a light which made my heart beat in an exhilarating and yet potentially deadly way, I got to the damn interview. I could go into the rest of the day, but suffice it to say I saw a lot of famous people at the Polo Lounge, site of interview number two, and I longed for the convenience of the subway. “If I were doing this in New York, doing two interviews in one day wouldn’t be stressful at all because I wouldn’t have to drive,” I explained to my LA friend. “If I were in New York, I would be thinking, this is stressful, I wish I were driving,” he said. So there you go.

Oh and the ride home was a couple hours not including getting lost on the way to the gas station first.

I discovered last night that the thing I thought was due April 7 is due the week of April 7. This fills me with dread/delight. Sort of like if a drug addict who wants to quit discovers a big crack rock in their sock drawer. I suspect I’ll be smoking this deadline extension and hating myself.

I overheard him say something sage on the phone yesterday. Appreciate it in all its succinct poetry:

“Yeah, shit seems to come in fuckloads.”

It’s unfortunate when you’re having a conversation on the phone with someone of the opposite sex—and the topic of health insurance comes up—and he says that he needs to made sure he’s fully covered for all the menopause drugs he’ll need, so you say that you want to make sure you’re covered for erectile dysfunction, and then afterwards you’re thinking that the connection was so bad you’re not entirely sure he really said that thing about menopause drugs, but you are sure you said that thing about suffering erectile dysfunction.

“I need to talk to you about your jury dutice.” —my mom, in a rush, trying to say “jury duty notice”

(Yes, I’ve been called for jury dutice in a city in which I haven’t lived for six years. I think I’ll do it! I’ll do my dutice!)