It’s the middle of the night and I’m wide awake. I should go clean out the fridge or twist myself into some yoga poses, but I’m emailing you instead.
How goes the search for Vivian’s birthday present? I think a handbag is better than hockey tickets, if you ever want to have sex again. You just need to choose the right one. It should be attractive, but organizationally sound. Roomy, but with special pockets for lip gloss and tampons. I suggest you start at Macy’s, then move on to Bloomingdale’s. From there you’ll want to hit Liz Claiborne, Ann Taylor, Nine West, Loehmann’s, Neiman Marcus and DSW.
I know it sounds like a lot, but trust me, you’ll be fine.
Strike that. You’ll be chum. Give me some dates and I’ll go with you.
I went to the dentist this morning. “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” was on the TV. You know how I know nothing about everything? Well, the planets must have been aligned just so, because I knew one answer after another. This, with my mouth clamped open, suction apparatus under my tongue, and cold water spraying my face. I begged God to let me shout the answers, but he was busy with Paula Deen.
I know life isn’t fair, but being muted seemed way out of bounds.
I’ve been having trouble with my clients lately. I do my best to undermine them, but they keep getting better. Depressives, split personalities, hypochondriacs, flashers: They’re developing self-esteem, coping mechanisms, communication skills. Worse, they’re starting to think for themselves. When they’re ready to leave therapy, it’s getting harder to convince them they’re still sick. I’m telling you, many more professional successes and I’ll be shopping at the dollar store.
I think I’m going to watch TV now. There are a few episodes of “Mystery Diagnosis” I haven’t seen. Last week a guy had a tumor in his eardrum. It was really cool.
Let me know when you want to shop for purses.