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Since last we spoke, the dining room is now a deep crimson color and missing its carpeting, I’ve spent the entire month not in the pool and I’ve been to Utah and Chicago (and also Blogher, which was like a subset of Chicago in that it was also a weird little city populated by people who speak in traffic counts and SEC and know how to do the No Follow code and also wear a lot of really great wrap dresses and wield giant digital cameras like old tymey gunslingers) but you know, I just can’t deal with writing about any of that right now, so let’s just say that Utah was really hot and Chicago was less hot but also more humid and that Amy Sedaris is really really fucking tiny. Also, I probably have an unreasonable crush on Wendy McClure. You do not understand our love but it is pure and the stuff of Jane Austen novels. Or maybe I have an empire dress fetish. No, I don’t know what that means either. Let’s move on.

Right now, I have a swollen fucked up face, as I had episode three of A Little Work Done at the plastic surgeon’s office. I can see how someone would get addicted to this stuff, because damn, they make it easy. You just go in, squeeze the shit out of a stress ball while the doctor draws on your face with white hot pain, throw your credit card at the receptionist and then make your next appointment. They had banana and crème Lifesavers in the bucket outside the receptionist yesterday. Sometimes, it’s the little things. So today, I’m sitting in meetings, wearing my glasses so that no one notices that hey, my face is splotchy and mottled and also, my left eye is poochy and swollen. I have to say, each time, the side effects are lessening. I think it’s because he’s slowly burning away more and more of my face. Soon, I will have a corpse mask, but hey, no more rosacea, so life will be good. My mother-in-law is going to see my guy now too, for some veins or something. I don’t know. We all have these secret horrors that we hide from the world with careful ablutions and potions. Every time I tell someone about these procedures to zap away my rosacea, they always say “I never noticed that you had rosacea” to which I laugh and laugh, because damn right, I’d rather wear a fucking Elephant Man hood over my face than let anyone see the red blotchy bulbous shit. That’s why the interpretive dance of brushes and creams every morning, folks. It’s all smoke and mirrors.

I’m spending the entirety of next week in Shermer Illinois, which should be fun, in that all of the shopping I had hoped to do in Chicago can be snuck in suburb style, minus the Stuart W store, although I suspect that I’ll need to make a run into the city to visit Fox and Obel anyway. Why did I even go into that place? Now that I know it’s there, it’s going to be all I can do to keep myself away from it. Do I need another high maintenance resource for gourmet shit? I do not.

My promotion is complete and as of this week, I am officially off of my old job, which means I’m no longer talking to people in NYC all day, and I’m fully vested in my new position, which is apparently about busting balls and also meeting upon meeting, ever after and without end. So far, lots of catered lunches and writing technical stuff. It’s been really interesting and I have very little stress at the moment, which….I don’t really know what to make of it. Like, how do people without stress get motivated? What do you do when you are blissfully ignorant about things so you don’t know what should be freaking you out? I don’t know. It’s very unusual. Ah well, school is going to start in a month and oh yeah, I was supposed to spend all summer on my thesis. That didn’t go so well. Sigh.

Well, I still have a month!

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