Every once in a while the sunshine in LA really does seem rather Fascist. Especially on days when you would prefer a melancholy sky under which to hang your head and mope. No go in sunny Hollywood. For there she is at 6:30am—the brawny, caretaker sun slapping a cup of black coffee in your hand. Telling you to buck up. Hauling you by the bootstraps up to Sunset Blvd.
So yeah, kind of a bummy morning. Learned that an article, which I’ve been in a back and forth with an editor about since September, will not ultimately be published. And pretty run ragged these days with pre-holiday shenanigans at the day job. Plane tickets, and yearend accounting, and gift baskets, oh my! Here, working from home today, I’ve been busy dealing with the managerial duties of another sewage back up at our building. And yet shuffling back and forth to the neighbor’s apartment in my pajamas, I have to remark on the fact that it’s downright gorgeous out. 68 degrees. Hazy sun. Palm trees twinkling in the breeze. I mean, sewage and all, it still fucking smells like roses. They are in full bloom on the lawn.
But other than ever-temperate weather, you know what could really improve this day? Some sex. I just read this Jezebel article about how frequent shagging helps neurotic marriages. I’m not sure whether I’m full blow neurotic. What do you think, hon? But as one prone to sleeplessness and worry, I sure do appreciate the grounding effects of sex. If only I could steal my husband away from set… Alas, my evening riding lesson will have to do.
Yup, that sounded dirty.
Until next time.