I’m on a brand of birth control (take that, the Pope!) called Ortho Tri Cyclen and the pack is circular, so it comes with a refill and the plastic shell to put the refill in. Inside the plastic shell it says, “please reuse this dialpak” except every single time I get a new month’s worth from Duane Reade, they give me the damn pink dialpak. What’s the point of reusing the dialpak if I get a new one every time?
Last night we watched Family Guy for the first time. I’ve seen a scattered few episodes in the past but I think I might be addicted now. I don’t want to be dissing on my favourite yellow cartoon family by saying Family Guy might be funnier, but right now, Family Guy might be funnier. Also, no wonder that shit is on at nine PM because DAMN that show is irreverent. Which of course, just makes it funnier.
Am I getting older because I finally love the sight and smell of roses in gardens? Long stemmed vases of them don’t do it for me, but Astoria was absolutely exploding with dark fuscia rosebushes this summer and I could stare at them for hours. My parents’ next-door neighbor is a landscaper and with her touch, my parents’ garden is just brimming with roses and I couldn’t stop, well, stopping to smell them. Also, I just bought a bottle of Evian and I don’t hate it as much as I’ve always claimed to. I think I’m getting older.
The director of the play Stuart and I are in this summer (hi, Barrie, you rock) has decided that since I stepped in to read/block the still un-cast Egeus in Midsummer Night’s Dream and played it less like a self-righteous father and more like a whining imperious Greek Mama, that she wants me to play Egeus. This is really cool because it means that in addition to being a snarky, cooler-than-thou fairy, I also get to be a bitchy indignant Greek mother. I love theatre.
It doesn’t matter how tired you might be on a Sunday morning after staying out until three AM, it’s always a good idea to drag your exhausted ass onto the LIRR and go to the beach. ALWAYS.
I started to count all the miniscule little scars on my knuckles (I was told at a young age that I have Keloid’s, a skin problem where scars rarely disappear) and I cannot believe how many I have. They’re all tiny, they’re all vertical across the horizontal wrinkles of my knuckles, and I think with a really good D-SLR and the right lighting, I could take radically cool pictures of them. I think I might do that one day.
I want a lakehouse somewhere.
I am reading Audrey Niffenegger’s The Time Traveler’s Wife and it is simultaneously one of the saddest and most upliftingly lovely books I’ve read in probably a year. It’s affecting the way I move, the way I think, the way I throw my arms around Stuart at any given opportunity. Books like that should be given, I don’t know, medals.
Holy crap HARRY POTTER WEEKEND. I need to call a Barnes and Noble and reserve my copy. This is funny because two whole months ago, I had the following conversation with Stuart:

K: Oh, no, how are we both going to buy hardback copies of HP6 that weekend? That’ll be so expensive!
S: Uh, how about you read it, and then I’LL read it.
K: You’d do that? Won’t you go crazy with anticipation for the two days it takes me to read it?
S: No. I’ll survive.
K: Wow. You’re strong.

I’m so not kidding, either, I wouldn’t be able to sit there and watch him read it without reading it myself. Good thing I married such a nice guy who was NOT a spoilt only child.