Oh, it’s early. With the amount of people that will be in this living room in thirteen hours, I had to wake up before dawn. Coffee. Writing. Coffee. Writing. Writing. There’s never been a better example of Los Angeles’ hurry-up-and-wait-then-everything-hits-at-once policy than this weekend of script deadlines, out-of-town guests and my first game in the first sport I’ve ever been in all converging in one twenty-four hour period.

Segue here, then…

During the crucial surfing-the-Internet phase of this rewrite, I learned I’m the only, only, only, only, only, only person on this planet who isn’t on Twitter. [My favorite use of Twitter being Evany’s carpool dispatches. (Example: CCD: Sitting in the back of a fuzzy americar, wondering if that’s my soup (leaking? into my bag?) that I’m smelling.)]

Do I need Twitter? I already joined everybody over at Flickr. Won’t Twitter just use up even more of the time I don’t have? (Don’t answer that; I’m terribly behind in answering emails as it is. Please, I love you, thanks.)

Sigh. I guess I’ll just let Anna Beth tell me what I’m supposed to do about that. She already told me that the curtains in the kitchen need to go. Last year she loved them. This year she thinks they look like I’m countrified and cheap. Will I ever truly make her happy? I suppose this is the secret of our love affair. Perhaps it is the secret of everyone’s love affair with Anna Beth. I mean, who else can get people so riled up about painting a credenza white?