In my defense, my lack of updates is not due to wanting to ignore you, but rather that life has made it difficult to update lately. Case in point: Moveable Type. Hates my work computer, for some reason. Hates the new Mac operating system, I think, because it doesn’t matter if it’s Firefox or Safari, but it takes forever to be able to get this new little entry box to work. I actually have to publish a blank page first in order to get access to–

hey, WAKE UP! You asked, didn’t you?

You didn’t? Oh. Continue reading

Why I haven’t been updating my blog often enough: good excuses.

There’s no order of importance here, but in the last week or so I’ve had a package lost at the post office, a letter returned because it didn’t reach the recipient in time, my computer stolen, and my tailbone broken.

I’m not sad or pissed off, but I am getting impatient with living my days balanced on one hip and my nights splayed across ice packs. And I’m really tired of calling the post office. Other than that, it’s work-book-work.

Mostly I’m nervous, because in a couple of days I’m teaching a class where I’m not as worried about being funny as I am being fun. Ages 8-12?! Yikes. I am a very old lady to them.

Speaking of, last weekend I got carded buying a bottle of wine, and the mohawked dude behind the counter looks at my ID and goes, “Whoa. WHOA.” Then he looks at the people in line behind me and goes, “I thought she was WAY younger than that. I mean, that’s a like, a baby face compared to how old you–”

“ALL RIGHT,” I shouted. “It was flattering at first, but that’s enough. I’m not THAT old.”

And then he did that head bob that means, “Kinda you are.”

That story has nothing to do with why I haven’t been updating my blog other than I proceeded to drink that bottle of wine, talking about how I’m not old, and then I was in no condition to write anything to anyone.

…I will probably not tell that story to the eight-year olds.


Hey, thanks for nothing, Perez.

It really would have been nice for you to post a few words about the Writers Strike or even a link to while you were busy ganking material for your website. At least then I wouldn’t be so at a loss for words.

I don’t get to work these days, but I know where you work. See you at the Coffee Bean.

late-night guests

Well, someone had fun in Los Angeles. I told AB she was really getting to see what my life is like out here, from the boring parts — extremely long shuttle rides from the airport, sitting in coffee shops for long hours, getting phone call updates from me while I’m out at pitch meetings, driving forever while feeling incredibly slung-over — to the exciting — book readings, shopping, celebrity spotting at amoeba records, drinks with a view of downtown. And lots and lots of coffee. We never got to see any water, and she didn’t get a tan, but I think she understands now why I love it here.

The house, post-AB, is quiet in a way I don’t like. Well, except for the other night, when… well, I’ll reprint the email I sent to AB and Allison, as it’s still a little traumatic. I apologize for the lowercase, which is how people email when they love each other. Continue reading

really? really?

I was all set to write the cute little entry called “cancelled/not cancelled,” which was about my pro and con lists for what might happen with the rest of my year and into April, based off of what ABC wants to do with Hot Properties. It involved visiting friends, reading books, getting an oil change, finally seeing the dentist and renewing my membership at the local gym so I can start swimming again. It also involved being very happy to have no time for anything other than work, because I’m finding the work to be something I might be good at, so I really don’t want it to end. Mostly I don’t want to get cancelled because I’d miss the people I work with an awful lot.

But whatever. Fuck it. I don’t really want to write that entry today.

Because stee’s car has been stolen.

We’ve spent the day driving around as if we’d be able to find it, as stee loves this car in a Timmy and Lassie way, so he let himself be led where the car was calling him. The car ultimately called him to a Chop Shop on San Fernando Road. We didn’t go in because the wreckage was a little too disturbing, but stee’s got a feeling he’s not going to see his 88 Honda Civic anytime soon.

I’ll let stee take it from here. It’s his car to mourn; I’m just pissed on his behalf.