And then what happens when you find another girl’s bra in your apartment.

[Setting: Twitter]

@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

Activating Niya

Here’s the thing about Niya. She sits across from me at the table every day, and while I never know exactly when it will happen, there will be a point where she goes off. Sometimes it’s over something seemingly innocuous, like cookies. Or dogs. I particularly enjoy the times it’s about how she would have reacted if she were me in a certain situation. (“Oh, you need to listen. I don’t know who the FUCK you think you are, but…”)

I have often said I’m trying to be able to tap into my inner Niya, and she says she’s working on her outer Pam.

In a conversation about Twitter and Facebook, Niya went off on how annoying Twitter is: “It’s just one damn thing after another, on and on about how perfect everything is in her life, all these little moments I couldn’t give a FUCK about because I DON’T LIVE WITH HER. “My darling Jessie just came home from school.” “Jessie just drank some milk.” “Jessie got all A’s!” “I love my perfect family!” “Dinner: what to make?” “Laundry, I just did it.” Why don’t you put down the damn Twitter and join your perfect goddamn family?!?”

This turned into Niya telling me what she thinks about women who call themselves the CEO’s of their families. I loved it so much it made me want to make my very first YouTube video. Enjoy.

get up (again)

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?