Already today I’ve cleaned my closet, cleared my bedside table, and organized the bathroom vanity. I took my allergy pill and a few others. Flax seeded it up. Mixed a shot of espresso with protein powder, and measured, yes, 8 oz. of freshly squeezed grapefruit juice. I’ve thought about my friend Karen Laughlin, and how if we lived closer, in the same state even, we’d be close friends.

I feel that way about a lot of people I meet. That we’d be tight, middle of the night, friends if only we lived closer. And there’s no getting around it. Aside from a close lover in Los Angeles and my girls in New York, I’m not nearly-every-day with anyone outside Texas. Even here in Austin, there are maybe two girlfriends with whom I speak daily-ish. I have a lot of pick-up friends—the kind you can see and simply pick-up, wherever you left off, grabbing hold of the new in their lives as if you were there for it when it happened.

I’m in workout clothes, which is at least a nod to the idea of exercise.

I’ve installed Snow Leopard on one computer and am trying to update the other older computer to Leopard 10.5.

The tots are convinced today is either Challah Day or a Holiday. I couldn’t quite get which they were saying. They usually bake challah bread every Friday at school, then mama eats it. And doesn’t shit it out for days. Today is Monday, and Purim began Saturday at sundown. Last Friday the wees went to school in costumes: Little Miss as Fancy Nancy and Kind Sir as Thomas the Train. Reminded me of our saintly Halloween, with me as The Queen of Hearts, Phil as the Mad Hatter, Abigail as Alice, and Senor Beckett refusing to wear his pocket watch, glasses, and especially those freakishly large bunny ears, insisted on being Thomas.

The challah thing reminded me that I’ve invited two couples over for shabbat. I warned, "Just don’t call it shabbat around Phil." "Why?" "The man hates the idea of getting together with people to do anything religion-based. He’d use the word ‘solely’ in there somewhere, but that’s his general protest." And I guess I kind of see his point. The idea of it sounds limiting. For me, I just look for any excuse to entertain, and I like the idea of tradition, of our sprouts witnessing the lighting of the shabbat candles, helping me braid the bread. It’s almost as if your favorite book has been adapted into an Oscar-winning film. Everything you’ve learned comes alive before your eyes. I love the idea of giving them that.

"Well," I said to my new friend, "we just won’t remind him that our wees know every last syllable of the hamotzi."

One final thought: I watched but was gravely disappointed with The Bachelor this season. Goodie-two-shoes Jake is a bit of a milksop and gives swampass a bad name. I know he’ll pick Vienna—a girl named after a sausage, over Tenly, a girl who shits rainbows. And it will all be terribly hard to take. Because he should be with Ali. She’s almost as adorable as SHANE (remember her?)

I think it’s worth noting that at the beginning of this season, they never showed Jake dropping to one knee in the preview montage. Because he’s totally not going to propose marriage to anyone. And I totally get that. These dudes are always leaning over balconies, sobbing. Unable to decide. Then, they’re suddenly smiling, making sure there’s a dimple in their tie, as we hear voiceover about how sure they are now. How they know, how, yawn, they hope she feels the same way. Blah-di-dah. Unless the guy has been faking how conflicted he is, because that’s what the producers want, how could he possibly ask one woman for her hand in marriage, when only moments before he was crying over the decision? You can’t go from "in love with three women" to "will you spend your life with me." Unless you see the whole idea of engagement as a trial-run. When you get engaged to someone, you should both be thinking, I’d marry this person tomorrow.

He might tell Vienna he wants to keep seeing her, exclusively, or some equally lameass bullshine. Ugh, and he’s going to be with her on After the Final Rose, say he’s so so happy. Vomitando. They’ll break up, and we’ll see him on The Bachelorette, begging Ali for another chance, mid-season. Though I think she should pass that shit up and pick a guy with a little more soul and funk.

Okay, that wasn’t the final thought: I want to host an Oscar’s party again, but think it’s impossible to pull off so last minute (and still work—I’m overwhelmed as it is). Because I can’t do anything simple. I’d need special ballots, a special menu, swag bags. You know the drill. If it’s done half-assed, I’d rather do nothing at all. Ooh, or maybe I’ll just have a "If you have nothing nice to say, come sit by me" pre-show party! Where we only dish on fashion, as we drink up a special catty cocktail! Might have to happen.