Saturday Evening

Hi girls. Have a moment alone here, as Paul has taken his friend Bill out barhopping. I am loading more songs onto his iPod and blogging (see the other blog for explanation).

So I was thinking tonight how crazy it is that I don't know yet if I'm actually getting this new job and if I am going to London in about a week. Isn't that nutty? But that's the company we work for...especially my department. It's all ridiculous.

Am listening to Pat Benatar, strange as that may seem. I loved her growing up and my dear sister bought me her boxed set as a birthday gift a few years ago...tonight, going through all the metal albums Paul wants on his iPod, I discovered Pat and thought, hey, haven't listened to her for awhile.

Right now it's early Pat..."My Clone Sleeps Alone". Do you three know this? Probably not. Pat is a little before all your times. She was, and is, a fabulous singer. And her husband is HOT HOT HOT. The guitar player, of course. Neil Giraldo. When I was 12 or 13, I thought he was the best looking guy in the world (and Pat did too, obviously).

She wore the leggings the first time around folks. Leggings and big belts and tunics. All the rage again. I remember one of my favorite outfits in the 80s: A big shirt, tight, straight-legged faded jeans, and a big white belt with huge O ring on it...to complete the outfit...white leather boots with rhinestones.

I wish I could say I was joking. Oy vey! But I thought I looked GOOD. I had blue eyeshadow probably...ugh.

Wow I sound more and more each day like a woman of 65, don't I? It's so SAD.

So I have little to report beyond the fact that I feel guilty about not telling Diva about this change that is coming...and that I would still really like to try and have a baby. I don't really think about it as much as it may seem to you, but tonight I am thinking about it. And drinking wine. And smoking. Nothing good for a fetus-t0-be, eh? I am an impossibly stupid person sometimes. Again I say, why is it that crack whores can get pregnant at the drop of a hat, but Patty, who has never done hard drugs in her life and who can't remember ever waking up in a dumpster, can't? (although to be honest I've come close sometimes.)

Paul is getting on me more and more about the smoking. I really enjoy it. Damn it to hell. Although he makes me feel awful about it. Luckily he hasn't yet said, if you really wanted to have a baby....because then the RAGE might take over and I'd punch him.

Poop. I mentioned the uh, impact of HIS smoking to him and he said, "really"? As he lit up yet another.

You see the problem here folks.