Caterwauling

“They’re not strangers — they’re our new friends with pot!” — Carrie, in response to Charlotte’s query whether they should be trying to buy pot off of strangers.

I absolutely loved tonight’s episode. It chronicled the 24 hours after Burger’s “I’m sorry; I can’t; don’t hate me” breakup Post-It appeared in her apartment.

The ladies ventured to the opening of “Bed,” a hot new nightclub with mattresses o’plenty. Miranda miraculously fit into her “skinny” jeans, and she was out celebrating and meeting men while Carrie ran into Burger’s friends who weren’t aware of their 3M Corporation-inspired breakup, which she happily enlightened them about.

Tonight’s theme: why do we feel we need to learn a lesson from everything? Because it just works out that way. If Miranda didn’t get pregnant and have the baby and forget to eat all the time, she’d never have fit into her jeans. If Charlotte didn’t marry Trey, she never would have fallen in love and gotten engaged to her divorce attorney. And if you’re never someone’s girlfriend, then you can never be his ex-girlfriend. And if you never had someone break up with you via Post-It Note, then you’d never be cited for smoking pot on a streetcorner, like Carrie was.

Over ice cream at the end of the show, Charlotte remarked that Carrie’s note was like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, as the policeman showed some sympathy and decided not to arrest her for toking on the sidewalk, as her day had already been bad enough. But when Samantha urged him to not cite her at all, he said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me.” *snerk*

Sarah Jessica Parker was altogether too convincing in her blazed state, even down to the deep guttural snorts of laughter. Heh. Reminded me altogether of my own experiences of not making sense and snorting at jokes that really aren’t that funny. Golden Pen and I have had many of those moments together, and we’ve often had two separate conversations going at once, even though we were the only two people in the room. Makes me look forward to a special-brownie celebration at my Haunted Housewarming, coming in October! 😉

I’ve decided that, in honor of the “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy’s” team’s license plate, “Fab5,” my friends and I need our own plate that reads, “High5.” 🙂 Ah, to have a smokey treat right now. …

But alas, I’m feeling anything but dreamy right now. Although there was much more from the episode that just rocked, well, I’ve got a headache and moving-related pains in every other part of my body, so I’m signing off to do a load of laundry so that I can be ready for tonight’s re-run of “Dead Like Me.”

Who do I have to kill to get a disposable litterbox? I went to four stores today, and not a one was in sight. Fuck.

Went to Chipotle for dinner. There was some gal parked directly behind me (no one was around for quite a few spaces), and she suddenly backed up and went tearing out of the space in a hurry. I thought, “That bitch had better not have hit me.” Sure enough, there are two big scratches under my license plate, where the bumper says “Sunfire.” She had a new gray car with a black top, and it was a Virginia plate that had “DST4” at the beginning of it. May karma bite her in the ass for this one.

Only moved one huge load of crap to the new dwelling. Saw some ants and promptly went out and bought pesticide. Am thinking of taking the can of Raid to work and seeing if it really does kill all the pests in my life. 🙂

Michele points us toward this review of a new French bestseller that capitalizes on 9/11. Apparently it’s a fictional book that depicts people who were trapped in the World Trade Centers fucking fast and furiously as their office buildings crumbled.

Grrr.

Most everything else written about the book is in French, so I’m just taking everyone’s word for it. But I am disgusted nonetheless.

Shan and I talk often of 9/11, how it changed America. We wonder if there were two women, just like us, sitting together in one’s office and chatting about their ideas and the freelance/personal businesses that they were destined to start together, when the planes hit. We wonder about all of the lost potential and the dreams that went no further than that hallowed ground. We wonder if that could have been us — going through the motions of going to work every day until we could venture out on our own and really enjoy going to work again.

That’s the real story of 9/11, if anyone were to do a fictional account. I feel that Beigbeder’s torrid romance story spits on the ashen graves of so many thousands of people, and I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if the families who lost a loved one didn’t either sue his ass or hunt him down and kill him.

I never ask for books to be banned, but I want this one to be. And put this twisted mofo in a burning building with every last copy of his book.

I am tired and sore, and do you think I have even made a significant dent in my moving process? *sigh*

I had my first dinner at my new place last night. Granted, it was from Chez Mickey’s, but for a girl on a budget, it was fine for me. I bought all kinds of pop for when the big move happens, so we’ll all have cold beverages to keep us from dehydrating as we drag my shit up my two flights of steps.

Dumbass (that’s me, for those keeping score at home) wiped out a curb two days ago — I have yellow streaks on both of my passenger-side tires and wheel covers. Of course that resulted in a nearly-deflated back tire yesterday (on which I’ve already spent $50 in patching twice before). Gaah! I took Samantha Jones to the gas station yet again and cried girly incompetence, and the mechanic felt bad for me and checked the tire that he’s become altogether too familiar with. He filled it with air and sent me on my way with a reasurrance that I didn’t do permanent damage. And he didn’t charge me. Thanks, David, at the Mobil Station on Stevenson!!!

At any rate, onward ho. I have about a thousand books and CDs to haul today, although I might follow Tiff’s lead and consider donating to charity my two dozen stuffed frogs that are living in my closet. One less box to haul, if nothing else. 🙂