August 13, 2003

Last night I had a very explicit, fairly dirty sex dream about Wallace Langham (Phil from The Larry Sanders Show, and now he's on CSI). I tend to have a lot of dreams about my friend television, but they're not usually this filthy. In addition to Wallace Langham (whose name I didn't know until just now when I looked it up on imdb; in the dream, his name wasn't a big concern), I was also juggling affairs with Amy Poehler (SNL), two ex-boyfriends I'd inadvertently led on, and my actual boy, who ended up winning out--and not because he bought me some lovely furniture in the dream. The furniture was a bonus. Man, I wish I really did have that furniture, although it needed refinishing....

It may be the 2-day fast talking, but I'm finally feeling a little more at relaxed. I've had that frantic, teeth-grindy, short-breathed feeling for the last couple of months and I think it's finally subsiding. Or maybe I'm just hungry. Hm. Yes, I'm probably just hungry.

But it's still a nice break.

The fast was the first part of my stab at a crazy detox program, the 7-Day Detox Miracle, from a book Suzanne checked out from the library last week. I've done juice fasts before, but all the peeling and chopping and cleaning was just exhausting. You spend your whole day slaving over the damn Juiceman. I got more energy from eating nothing at all. I even went to yoga the first day.

In college, Suzanne and I would periodically try to go a couple of days without eating, but subsisting on Diet Coke, cigarettes, Mini-Thins, and endless chatter isn't exactly a health trip. So this is my first official real live health fast. And today I get food! And not crazy person food either; wholesome food, brown rice and fruits and vegetables, prepared however I wish. I saw sticky brown rice at Sun Harvest, so think I'm going to experiment with brown rice veggie sushi, which will probably be lame. But will seem delightful in contrast to lemon water, just as those horrid Atkins diet bars taste like real brownies when you haven't had sugar in two weeks.

On Saturday, I realized I enjoy drinking too much. And by that I mean I enjoy the act of getting drunk--not that my level of enjoyment is too high or dangerous. My excess is the quantity of alcohol, not the pleasure I derive from it. I can live with being a lush. Unfortunately, besides being expensive and caloric, drinking is my gateway drug to junk food and sloth. And I want back into my skinny clothes. Plus I ordered the bridesmaid dress that was too tight but proportional instead of the one that fit but seemed too long in the waist. Hence the 7-Day Detox Miracle.

I got my first official bridesmaid email yesterday. (Which reminds me, I totally need to update Girls I Like. It's retarded old.) I'm very excited about being Angele's bridesmaid. It was a relief to find that I'm not all sour grapes about weddings in general. In fact, Angele's nuptials did not invoke even a glimmer of of my Suzanne-wedding freakout. I haven't decided whether my upset over Suzanne's engagement was because I thought she was marrying the wrong man, or old maid syndrome, or just a generalized envy issue. Maybe a little of each.

Whatever the cause, Angele's engagement did not put me in a foul mood. Maybe I prefer the winging-it style of wedding to the long-term-relationship-segueing-into-marriage style of wedding. Maybe nearly a decade in a doomed long-term relationship shattered my faith in them. Or maybe I just really like the sporting notion of running off to get married. Who cares? The important thing is that I get to wear a black satin dress and get my hair done and then march down the aisle in formation with seven other women in matching outfits! It's like being in some really girly army, like the glamorous villains from In Like Flint. Except without the brainwashing and cryogenic shower stalls and taking over the world and whatnot. Hmph. It suddenly sounds less exciting without the world domination. I wonder if I should bring that up at a shower? I'll consult my etiquette book.

In other happy news, Rebecca's brilliant boyfriend Curt was able to fix my busted car for a mere $3 in parts! And the heatwave even broke, so I didn't have to feel bad about him slaving out in nature's furnace. Plus, while the thingy cover was off, I finally got to replace my dirty air filter with the one my dad bought me 5 years ago. At the time he said, "just have a guy you know replace it," assuming in his adorable old-world way that guys these days still know all about cars, and that they'd rather tinker with them than watch TV. Even the ones who know a thing or two rarely do anything. They'll talk about it, sure, but that's as far as it generally goes, unless they want to borrow your car or sleep with you. Actually, even I knew how to replace the air filter, and could have done so in about 2 minutes (although I don't know the scientific name for the thingy cover, I did know that the air filter goes under it--I looked it up in the Haynes manual), but knowing and doing are two different things. I told Rebecca she should have heard Curt troubleshooting my problem with the guy at the Auto Zone. All that talk of sending units and temperature sensors and whatnot, my my! Get me my smelling salts!

Oh! Before I forget--would someone please give me a hundred thousand dollars? I've done the math, and I think that would be just about right to cover all my harebrained schemes and outstanding debts and home repairs and keep me set for the next decade or so (some of the schemes would actually bring in small amounts of cash, and I promise I'd be clever and sock a lot of it away instead of squandering it all at once on lollipops and shiny buttons this time). A hundred thousand and I won't ask for a penny ever again (or until 2014). Pretty please? Where's my eccentric patron? If only I had some real talent or ambition, things would be so much easier. How annoying.

7.10.03