Hot fun in the wintertime

. . . means I've been to Chicago!

Highlights:

*the drive through three states with Kiki and The Bear (thanks, Sid!), including a stop at an Indiana Dunkin Donuts in which I saw my future

*Two makeovers, one in which I actually looked like someone socked me in both eyes even after I told the lovely 12 year old named Lorelei with a rhinestone stud piercing where Marilyn Monroe's painted on mole was specifically not to make me look like I'd just lost a boxing match


*Cat on a Hot Tin Roof: a very interesting production in which the dude who played Big Daddy would have been better cast in a KFC commercial

*running into Bill Murray at a hip little Italian joint not far from the theatre

*bloody mary brunch with the always delightful Woog and Oog at The Lincoln

*bloody mary and Kir Royale brunch with the ever-lovely Shasta,

the fabaluss and also made-over Sid,

Kiki and the Bear at Angelina's

*shopping, shopping, shopping, scoring big on January sales at H&M

*drinking, eating, drinking, drinking, drinking, drinking at the usual haunts with the usual suspects, except this time I initiated a tart-like dance off between a doughy jock from Glenview and a wiry, 23-year-old Oaxhacan . . . the latin with the hips outdanced the golfer with the lips, but ultimately I won the prize for biggest whore on the dancefloor. I mean, really? Must I be loyal to a single dancer when there are so many others out there willing to give me a better spin? I need to go dancing more often. And spend more time with pretty MexiCANs.

*discovering why I scored a riverview room on the 17th floor of the Hyatt Regency for $65 a night on Priceline: Annual Narcotics Anonymous Convention. First it looked like a roadie convention, then it looked as if the pimpmobile made a delivery. Lots of smokers in the bar. Even more men in fedoras and floor-length minks. My kind of partay!

Unfortunately, after many, many martinis and very little sleep, my body rebelled, my throat screamed bloody murder, and I am still recovering from a nasty virus. My virtuous, spinning, gym-rat self isn't accustomed to such fun and debauchery. So, I've cancelled everything this week and undergone a fruit flush. Feeling better. Strep throat ruled out.

But speaking of spinning, the weekend before last was mad. The phrase "that really chapped my hide" has whole new meaning for me. Two days on a stationary bike'll do that to a gal. Damn. I start teaching my own classes in two weeks. Fun times. This is going to be good for me. How do I get myself motivated and committed? By motivating and urging on others! Does that make me an extrovert? Or perhaps a control freak? Whatevers. If it gets me into the kind of shape I think I'm capable of, then so be it. Not to get all Oprah on your ass, but I think that if one's aim is to live the best life possible, it means making the decision to embody that by getting in the best physical shape possible. That's what LL Cool J said on The View yesterday morning, so it must be true. This is why I cannot take any more sick days. (I also found out by watching The View that Rupert Everett wrote an autobiography. I love him. I want that book.) (I also discovered by accident that there is a transgendered character on "All My Children" and since absolutely nothing has happened on "Days of Our Lives" since 1985 when I stumbled upon it, I might just switch to the more progressive and by far more interesting Soap.) See?

Good Lord. I better get back to living my actual life. Off to Ann Arbor to workshop a new chapter I haven't yet written, see Volver, and do din dins with Kiki and the Bear this weekend. Wouldn't life be grand if we could call in sick every Monday through Friday and jump right into weekends? In other words, I need five days to recover from my weekends these days, folx.