Reality blah blah blah

So so very sick of Terry Schiavo/Michael Jackson/apes who prove we want to watch celebrities/George Bush/U.N. studies no one pays attention to/MLB/the Pope/four interchangable blondes who traipsed across the television for what purpose, I'm not sure/my big-arsed belly/the price of gas here in the Bay Area/the weird rash on my son/my daughter's insistence on kicking the inside of my abdominal wall/pit bull attack stories/the CIty of Oakland and its ineptitidue and apathy/blah blah yuck. Phil called me a few minutes ago. He is in NYC at the Four Seasons waiting for his suit to be pressed so he can go meet some business people for drinks before meeting some friends/business people for dinner. I am going to remain optimistic, here, so I will admit I know I am going to be enjoying warmer weather here for at least the next 24 hours. I will, however, still be pregnant, which negates a few hours of sunshine, in my book. I do have the pleasure of Kane's company, and I don't have to bullshit him or put on a false smile to pretend like I give a crap about whatever it is he is saying, so I have Phil's upcoming scenario beat there. Of course, I am not waiting for my clothes to be pressed and sitting in a marble tub with Bulgari bath products foaming around me while I choose from a cornucopia of mini bar tasties. Oh, okay, fine; Kane still beats that scenario. That is what I shall tell myself when he throws my back out again tonight while he struggles to be strapped into his high chair. I would like many many drinks now. This is not a cry of indulgent self-pity. This is a nostaglic call to cocktail hour.