I Should Be a Stylist

Long email string this morning with Pal Gina, who bemoans the fact that she has to get an outfit for a black and white party she's going to this weekend. Can she get away with jeans, she asks? I reply:

I think you should wear:

1) Black jeans, big-ass belt buckle of your choice
2) Black or white-t-shirt
3) Black blazer/suit coat/tuxedo jacket
4) Black and white chucks
5) Black eye (optional)

I cannot imagine why no one has hired me to be their personal stylist yet.

I Give up. Fine, I'm a Yuppie

There is a maid coming to my house RIGHT NOW.

When she gets here, she will clean my bathtub and do the vacuuming and also probably curse my name for being the kind of jerk who can't clean her own 400 square foot apartment. But I confess that I don't care, because I hate cleaning so much it practically qualifies as a disorder. Another thing I hate? Living in squalor. This, combined with the fact that I don't go out every single night anymore = spending that extra cash on a maid.

The only thing that makes me feel a little guilty is that I know, a hundred years ago, it would be my great-grandmother doing this job. (Irish washerwoman, etc.)

Afternoon update: I cannot find my salt. Is it possible the maid has wrought her revenge on me, by stealing my spices?

I'm a Scientist

I've figured out PMS, you guys. What happens is this: Something something something hormones something brain, something LETS OUT THE JOHN MCCAIN WHICH IS IN ALL OF US. And then he demands brownies.

You're welcome.