Yesterday, after I wrote you about what happened with Edsel, I gave myself a big headache, and most of my big-list plans went undone. I DID get all my laundry washed and dried, even the hand-washables, which was no small feat.

My friend at work, The Poet, has a birthday on December 31. Which is sort of cool in every way, except for the part where no one cares about you on your birthday. EXCEPT ME. I DID. But then I got my mysterious throat illness, and I was willing to still take The Poet out, …

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I hate brunch. There's the part where you're expected to get up, WITH NO FOOD OR COFFEE IN YOU, and head to some crowded restaurant, then wait in a lobby for a hundred minutes. Then always–ALWAYS!!–some asshole party of 10 is just before you, because hey, what's more fun than a huge GROUP going to …

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The Sunday New York Times came today with no wedding section, which is my favorite part. "No, I didn't read the piece on China's faceless masses. I was checking out the lingerie ads." That's from the movie Manhattan, and shut up. We have a no-bashing-Woody rule here at this blog. The point is, disappointed. "Maybe …

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Before I begin to complain about painting my ceilings–and it's just like you're reading Michelangelo's blog–I want to talk about my poor work husband, Ryan. I've shown you his picture before and you all turned into Mrs. Robinson. Ryan (and I have no idea why I didn't just call him Alex like I do everyone …

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