reporter's notebook

What I was thinking: It's too fucking cold, my father-in-law might need chemotherapy, and my kid just crapped his pants.

What I said: Fine, thanks. You?

Yesterday, I was trying to pry apart some plastic containers, and they were stuck, and finally they separated with a thwack!, and the top one, which had a hard thin rim, not a thick rolled rim, whacked me in the face and gave me a line-like bruise above and through my upper lip. It looks either like I am dirty or like I had a cleft palate repaired, depending on the light.

Loved Sex and the City last night. Loved it. Totally satisfying (whenever I say "satisfying," I hear John Malkovich doing that over-the-top Russian accent in Rounders). Best final episode since Newhart (I looked for a link, but either you get that or you don't. Your problem, not mine). About halfway through the pre-game show, during the segment about the City as the "Fifth Lady," I begged Andrew to take me home, much like Carrie would in about an hour. Mostly when I do this, he rolls his eyes. New York is like the Newhart joke that way: either you get it or you don't. Mostly, he doesn't. The funny thing is that, since we moved, he's been back about a million times more than I have. No fair, but probably better for our bank account, as the City brings out the Spendy in me.

Great news! Phone just rang! No cancer!!!! What a relief for everyone.

I've put on nearly 10 pounds and feel like a sausage in my pants. That internet Phentermine is sounding better and better every day.

Later, gators.

Posted by volfie at February 23, 2004 01:53 PM