Ever have a weekend that you wish you could relive again and again? I've found the secret to making your weekend feel like it hasn't ended: DON'T DO ANYTHING.

I'm sitting at my desk, mulling, and I've come to discover that this is more or less EXACTLY what I did for much of my weekend. Glory be, I have managed to bend the space-time continuum or whatever. It's Friday evening again! No, but could it be Saturday afternoon? Sunday night! All of them at once, and on a Monday, no less! Oh, friends. Here's one to file in the archives of the Miracles of Quantum Physics. (Is it oxymoronic to say "miracle" and "physics" in the same sentence?)

Blah.

While we're talkin' oxymorons, here's a Miracle of Probability: I have little fun-sized boxes of Dots candies in a bowl on my desk, 6 Dots per box. I just opened a box containing 5 red Dots, and 1 orange. What are the odds????

Anyway. Since I'm a slave to routine, here goes ...

Yet Another

Crap Fulla Suspense

And Morals

And Import

Oh, God. It's Monday. The first song I heard this morning was some hyper 80s tune playing at the gym, the words to which were "Put Your Hands On Me." For some reason, however, my ears were picking up "What a Stupid Monday." For a second I thought that the song selection was some failed attempt at sympathy from the sullen boy with the pouffy hair and the full lips who works at the front desk at my gym. The one who looks like a prom king from 1988, who didn't start acknowledging me until last week, despite the fact that I've been going to that gym almost every day for almost 4 months. In his defense, he sees me between 5:45 and 6:15 in the morning. It's hard for most people to acknowlege their own mothers at that hour.

I had to attend a meeting downtown for work this morning, which was a welcome change to taking the bus all the way out to the west side. After the meeting, I took advantage of my downtown location to "run some errands," i.e. make a phone call and wander aimlessly through the swanky malls on Michigan Avenue, and have a big salad at Whole Foods. (I'm a Whole Foods whore. I admit it.)

Monday's lessons:

1) Everyone trusts the secretary, and thinks his/her job is much harder than it actually is. Well, that's the case in my company, anyway. It allows me the perfect position for undetected crime, bwahaha ...

The amount of thanks I got for attending today's 45-minute-long downtown meeting, and the amount of unquestioning freedom I got to run my "errands," is incredible. The other day, Main Boss Man told me I was a trusted "operative" and they "didn't pay me enough." I was like, "Well, you could work on that." I almost felt guilty.

I mean, it's not that I don't do my work. I do it, and I do it well. It's just that my assignments takes much less time than their delegators think they do, partly because I'm apparently the first non-moronic, semi-literate person employed in this position. I heard horror stories from my predecessors about the never-ending stress, and I haven't felt any of it. It's not because I'm smarter than your avereage bear, either. I just think the previous "executive assistants" liked to be dramatic and stress themselves out. Fuck that.

2) I've come to conclude, by wandering through Saks Fifth Avenue, that rich people buy weird shit.

Ok, I should rephrase that:

Rich people have weird shit available to them, for their purchasing pleasure.

I've said before, I'm not really a shopper. I like to browse, however, and I can't help but notice some trends in super overpriced high-end department stores.

The hats were fantastic. If I had an extra $198 lying around, I would 100% definitely buy a hot-pink glorified feather duster to wear on my head. I'm serious, I loved the hats. The coats were rather hit-or-miss, unless you're a 50 year old Gloria Swanson wannabe, in which case there is an endless slew of $3,000 ($3,000!) coats that are overly drapy, overly sparkly, sporatically furry, and overly purple that are just waiting for you to pluck them off the Sak's rack.

The purses? For the love of Mike, I have never seen so many God-Awful-Ugly purses in one place in my life, each one for no less than $450. I understand that crocodile bags are all the rage this year, but that does not make it fashionably acceptable to gut a crocodile, put a zipper in its back, fuze the end of its tail to the tip of its nose, and call it a purse. So, from this, I oh-so-offensively conclude that rich people buy ugly purses. Big, bulky, bumpy purses that look like they were made to carry dead babies.

The make-up is lovely, too. Horrificly expensive ... I walked through the department scoffing involuntarily at the price of lipstick looking totally out of place. The saleswomen were gorgeous. Gorgeous. And magnificently dressed. I think that they must live in Saks, under the makeup counters, in order to afford the makeup and clothing on a salesperson's salary. I walked around in my silly blue corduroy coat, trimmed with gray and white fur that could only be described as Muppet hide, looking totally out of place and under budget. To the credit of the salespeople, they didn't give a crap how I was dressed; I was treated politely and graciously, and wasn't accosted for trying on the hats and spritzing myself generously with perfume which could have covered the cost of my student loans.

Oh! And the toys? Two words: Sharper Image. Weird, but fun.

3) To claim to understand haute-coutre would be to claim to understand the resurgence of 80s fashion trends into the latest clothing, both on and off the runway. I mean, really ... of all the decades in the world, fashion designers are choosing the one in which everyone wanted to look like what would have happened if Sandra Dee had survived a blender accident.

Some of these 80s revisitations, I approve of. I like pink, in moderation. I enjoy punky tatters. The reinvention of weirdly placed frills is sometimes cute and funky. But... the cinched waists and armbands on sweaters and sweatshirts? The weird baginess and tie-ness of some clothing items? What's next? Where does it end? Stop the madness before we revert to pegging our pants and wearing 5 pairs of socks at once or sporting, God forbid, SHOULDERPADS!!

On the other hand, I would so be down with buying a pair of legwarmers.

So, that was my today. Tonight, I hope to meet Lynne for a drink, to discuss why I fear I may be sliding, once again, down the muddy slope of depression. Whee!

Sunday. Bliggety-blah. My God, I'm so sorry for this.

Blabla gym, blabla rehearsal, blabla bad mood, blabla distraction, blabla puppets. OH! My puppet, the one I will be operating, is near-complete, and I was able to practice with her yesterday! Hoo, boy, is she a hottie. I'd feel inadequate in comparison to her, if I didn't know she was made of plywood and that I could snap her wee little neck. Heheheheh. After rehearsal, I tried to clean, but discovered I had neither the attention span nor the dedication to pair up my socks, let alone clean the bathroom. I walked around aimlessly by the lake before deciding to rent something mind-numbing from my neighborhood video store. I settled on a bunch of "Friends" episodes, watched them all, put on a Tom Waits CD, and drifted off to sleep. 'S'bout it.

Saturday morning I woke up, after having spent the night on A.'s futon, with a kitty right next to my head and my dear friend A. very nearby. That was lovely. A. and I had some coffee, and I went to Lakeview for my second trip to the superfun Eating Disorders support group.

God almighty, this recovery bullshit is going to be hard. I'd spent a lot of time and energy detaching myself from my bulimia, and I'm surprised and ashamed to discover that I'm far from OK. I don't fear the future, I have no specific expectations for my life. Hopes, yes; but not expectations. But then, there's this wall ... the elephant in the room that I've been ignoring. I don't know what's going to happen.

Ack. But, Saturday.

Participating in this group makes me realise that (a) it's totally within my power to get better, and (b) I'm not as bad off as I once was, and there are many sufferers who are in deeper than I ever have been.

One young woman was at the group for her first time, after being placed on what sounded like a closely-watched treatment program. She was a pale yellow, with red hair and eyes that looked much darker than they probably actually were. She would have been almost colorless, if not for the yellow pallor of her skin and the dark purple circles under her eyes. She was limp and thin, and looked as utterly collapsible as a lawn chair. Her words were well-chosen and intelligent, but her voice ... so automatic, almost like a feminine Stephen Hawking. She sat with her arms and legs crossed, hiding behind her auburn bangs, barely able to muster the energy to open her mouth and speak about her feelings of tremendous depression of hopelessness.

She reminded me of a woman I once saw in Boston, three years ago. I was walkin in the North End, after having dinner with my parents at an Italian restaurant. We went to a famous local pastry shop, Mike's Pastries, to pick up some Cannolis or something for later. While we were in the shop, I saw a woman wandering around, surrounded by an invisible cloud of vacant hunger. She was very tall, very pale, with very red hair: an alabaster pillar of self-denial. She wandered through the shop as if in a trance, holding a 20-ounce bottle of calorie-free Fresca as if it was the holy grail, and staring expressionless at the pastries she would never allow herself to touch. She looked barely human. I'll bet she used to be beautiful.

Later that same night, I saw her walking in a very different part of the city. I wouldn't be surprised if she had been planning to walk all the way to Jamaica Plain to burn calories, fueled only by Fresca.

There was a part of me that sympathized with her, and there was a part of me that envied her. Both of those parts still exist.

Hey! Woo.

So, my friend, Ln, has recovered from eating disorders, and I hope I'll be able to talk to her about it tonight ... and ask her if maybe, during bad nights or bad days or bad grocery-store trips, I can call her and ask her to talk me down.

Saturday night, I went to C's house. We intended to watch "Down By Law," but we ended up drinking whiskey on her bed ... or rather, I drank whiskey that she poured ... and talking about nothing and everything. Yay, new friends. I believe we're going to be very close. I hope so. She sets me a-thinkin', and she makes me laugh.

That was it. My Saturday.

Friday I did a whole lot of jack shit, then I went to A.'s, where we watched a truly horrible Australian movie and drank truly horrible White Zinfandel and fell asleep all cozy and dumbed-down.

It wasn't a horrible weekend, really. Just a horrible recap.

Much love.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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