A few days ago, in a sleep-deprived haze, I almost broke out giggling in a Serious Business Meeting at Starbucks because the man pacing behind the head of my kind boss looked v. v. much like a stressed-out Martin Sheen. He was sitting next to Carefully Tousled Blond Man. I'm certain they were from California, plotting how to get business in Large Corporate Telecom, which loomed brickly from across the street.
"Yes, Mr. President, I think we have some trouble in New Orleans. And they might need cell phones with TV screens." hee hee hee hee hee hee
Ever since then, I have had trouble pulling it together, despite ten hours of sleep on Wednesday night and eight hours last night. After thinking deeply for weeks about all the problems of our country, hearing about numerous people's diseases, miscarriages and depression and working, working working, I've reached the HEE HEE limit. The point of hilarity at which time one must simply try to get through the day so she can collapse in a pile of giggles at the end when the little angel pretends to be the cat. The cat who has thyroid problems. Look skinny, angel. GOOD. hee hee! See? This is a huge problem.
Fortunately, there's nothing like ANOTHER reunion to take the edge of hilarity and plunge it into the abyss. So today we're off at noon to Iowa City to see a bunch of women I used to be girls with, girls who shared a large bathroom with many, many stalls, some used for shatting and some used for bulimia, depending on who was in there. Showers with hard, plastic curtains and little shelves for our many, many drug-store styling products, kept in little baskets that grew mold despite their plasticity. Girls who stole each other's boyfriends and stood up at each other's weddings, despite the rest of the campus's belief that we all bought our friends. Well, that may be true, but considering I'm hauling an 18-month-old ten hours round-trip to go see these bitches ten years later, I'd say that's a fuck of a good return on investment.
hee hee hee
See you Monday.