Hello! It’s the fancy, shiny, new face for pamie.com! Special thanks to Glark for his patience.
Example of patience:
@pamelaribon — I just pulled a bra out of my drawer and put it on, only to realize… this isn’t mine. I don’t shop at Victoria’s Secret. (…is it yours?)
@Glark — Stop crowdtesting your new novel Pamie.
@Mjfrig — Yes, I have man-boobs, okay! Stop rubbing it in. #idontreally #onlyajokeiswear
@auriflamme — It’s mine, yo.
@matt_fuqua — How embarrassing. I’ll get it next time I see you.
@SaraMorrison — What does it look like?
@pamelaribon — @SaraMorrison Flesh-colored, “Biofit,” 34D. If it’s yours, you just saved three thousand hours of drilling @jasonwupton with questions. Continue reading
I have to write about my knee. I have this list of things next to me that I want to write, some that I actually have to write, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to write about anything until I write about my knee.
My left knee. It’s on my mind all the time, because it’s currently not working. By that I mean I can’t bend it. I injured it at the bout a week and a half ago, and I’d hoped that by now I’d be back to running, jumping, squatting, kicking, hopping, and skating. But no. Continue reading
Doug Hill, Jeff Weingrad: Saturday Night: A Backstage History of Saturday Night Live. Lauren gave this to me as a thank you after I did an interview with her for a college assignment last spring. I’m tearing through it. The fact that I haven’t heard from Lauren since June means that either I caused her to fail her class, or she’s still transcribing the bajillions of cassette tapes I babbled all over in a Starbucks many months ago.
No, I’m not still reading that book. And no, I’m not still listening to the Violent Femmes (thanks Delphine and Dave for your concerns about my iPod’s state).
I can’t even really blame the job, but I will anyway. I’m working, and AB’s here, and life is hard and I’m trying to get this year’s Dewey project up and running and AB’s thinking about doing a little redesign over here and maybe when the colors change I’ll feel like telling you all about Taylor, (who has stopped licking himself) or Cal (who wails through the night like a crazy woman in a ghost story), or Los Angeles (where yesterday at a Rite Aid I watched a young blonde with a post-op bandaged nose walk through the door, followed by an older Russian woman who was pushing her yippie dog in a baby stroller), or work (which is good and everybody’s really nice and I fail every day at not being the weird one), or the status of my toes (in need of a pedicure; keep dropping large objects on them), or how Sara wrote a book I can’t seem to get a copy of, and the other Sara got me addicted to So You Think You Can Dance?
But until all then, here’s something funny from Jason, Brently and Liz, filmed quite a few years ago. Look for a special cameo from my old kitchen in Silverlake.
Come back to me, Silverlake kitchen! You were so sunny and spacious, with so much counter space and an abundance of electrical outlets! Oh, how glorious it was to have an oven vent that worked, and a freezer with space for things that needed freezing! You might have been made for the extremely tall, but you were so, so, pretty. And you were attached to a garage. I miss you, Silverlake kitchen. Ti amo.
Sorry to be so absent, pamie.com.
I just wrote three hundred words of the next novel, so you know it’s time to procrastinate with so many more words over here. Because it’s easier, okay? Leave me alone! I’m trying to be an artist!
So. The Festival of Books. Yeah, yeah. I know. It was a month ago. Let me see if I can remember anything.
I took Sara with me because
a) she’s geeky enough to appreciate it,
b) had a friend/mentor speaking on another panel,
c) lived over there and
d) takes pity on me almost as much as she supports me in my endeavors.
The night before we stayed up late on the phone looking over the roster, deciding if we were going to attend any other panels. I scanned name after name of authors and then stopped at one.
“S.E. Hinton! S.E. Hinton is going to be there!”
There was a pause before Sara asked, “And I guess that makes you happy?”
“You know, it’s his other leg this time.”
That’s what the vet told me when I brought Taylor in. It’s his other leg that’s injured. And as Taylor hissed and growled in my arms and the vet gave me this look, I felt like the worst pet owner in the world. How did I not notice that the limp had gotten better and then shifted to the other leg?
I asked if it’d be best to put the cast on him this time, so he didn’t keep injuring himself. The doctor said that the rest he was doing on his own was probably for the best, and since Taylor gets himself so worked up when he’s unhappy in the slightest (fur was flying around the room as he said this), he’d rather prescribe some pain medication and take a look again in two weeks. Continue reading
Lots of waiting.
I turned in the final draft of Why Moms Are Weird: The Sitcom to ABC last Thursday. Today, we are supposed to learn its fate. Will they want to shoot the pilot?
As I sit here, staring at my cell phone, waiting, I realize I’ve been gone from this site for a very long time. I’m sorry to have neglected you. Life has been taking over… well, my life. Continue reading
dammit. i had written half of this entry when my browser crashed. i lost everything i had written, which is mostly about how fucking hot it is up in this motherfucker. the dvd player broke today. my computer keeps crashing. the bank outside the coffee shop says it’s 116. it’s hot, people. hot. so hot my cheeks are sweating. all of them. my eyelids are sweating. I’M IN MY HOUSE. the cats look like someone steam-rolled them. they don’t want to eat. ants have come into the house in search of any water, at all, and are happy enough to hang out in all the sinks and near the cat food or near the litter box and why is my life so gross? Continue reading