Beside myself

I made the unfortunate mistake of drinking coffee at 6 p.m. So here I am. Watching reruns of Will and Grace and Sex and the City. Eating rice cakes. Reading a magazine. Ordering books online. All at once. This is a dangerous time.

Yet somehow safer than yesterday when I was seriously considering planning a nervous breakdown. It's time, isn't it? Mama says it's a good age for it. Kiki says it can't be that bad if I'm planning it. I guess in the end I'd prefer to go abroad than out of my mind.

(A big, fat thank you alternately to S, mama, Kiki and M! for keeping me company in my pathetic, puffy, flaked-out state yesterday. Isn't it great how your best friends can keep you laughing your arse off despite yourself?)

Here's what I have to say about the Grammy's: Christina Aguilera. I want to hate her. I try to hate her. But that voice. Son. Of. A. Bitch. On the other hand, I want to love the Dixie Chicks. I do. I really do. But that singer needs to pick up a little finesse from the horsey twins behind her. Carrie Underwear took too much Xanax and Red Bull before the show. I cannot see anything redeeming about American Idol. Nothing. Mary J. Blige is a queen. Justin Timberlake, I can't help it, is charming, and I love him. Don't tell anyone. Smokey Robinson still sings better than any of those other bitches. But he really needs to take it easy with the Botox. His smooth lack of expression is worrying. In fact, it might have been a wax figure of him accompanied by a recording. I'm not sure. And Lionel Ritchie should have stayed home and force-fed his daughter a pastrami on rye.

In more useful news, I may have found real funding opportunities for the August trip down (my favorite) memory lane. I already need something else to look forward to. You see, the book just got fucking harder to write. Sometimes writers' workshops turn psychoanalytic in the worst way, and that's exactly what happened Saturday. Not yet sure what to do with it all. Except cry a while. February--just before the 14th--is a good time for that anyway.

I got to see Volver, finally. Penelope Cruz is my favorite. I love her cleavage like Almodovar loves her cleavage. She totally gives this gay man a hard on. Especially with her welled-up brown eyes, smeared mascara, and voluptuous self zipped up tight in pencil skirts. She is perfection. Even though I had to sit in the second row and the fire alarm went off in the middle of the movie, it was totally worth it.

My Monday's over, so I'll say little else about it. Except today would have been so much better if I were in Philadelphia. Why is it when I'm already bummed, I naturally think about all the people, places and things I miss? Why are absences so huge?