8 a.m. Two water pills, one Xanax. I’M SO NERVOUS!
9 a.m. Watched “High Society‿ on Turner Classic Movies while on the treadmill. On mute. With the Jackson 5 Christmas album in my ear buds. Was Bing Crosby ever considered a sex symbol? Does anyone have a crush on him today (in the manner that I still feel I could turn Montgomery Clift’s orientation around)? Or did the whole child-beating thing kill that?
9: 17 a.m. Random thought: How great would it be if Paris Hilton hooked up with Kevin Federline? How can we get these two trains to wreck together?
10 a.m. Ventured into the attic to retrieve Pepto-Bismol pink ABS Schwarz knockoff version of Gwyneth Paltrow’s winning Oscar gown. Vigorously steamed it. Gave it a good shake. I fill out the bodice better than that whippet ever did, I’ll tell you that.
10: 32 a.m. Disaster! My go-to Choos have had one heel gnawed off. By my 1-year-old? My 2-year-old? My husband? No matter. My aging Ugg slippers will have to do.
10:36 a.m. Broke down and indulged in a carrot stick.
10: 47 a.m. WHERE is Cartier with my tiara?
10:49 a.m. Another Xanax.
God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.