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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary


Drinking a San Miguel tall boy! I really am!

The birthday party yesterday went off without a hitch. I think that all parties should be like the one last night--no stress--people show up with a bunch of food, you dress it up on a platter, and call it a day. The Chinese takeout theme worked like a dream: there were paper lanterns everywhere, red twinkly lights, candles, little Buddhas everywhere. The whole place looked pretty. I ate like a pig and drank like a fish in the year of the horse.

I made the most delicious cupcakes ever: vanilla cake with chocolate fudge frosting. They got gobbled up. Thank god there were some left over, and I just ate one as a post-yoga treat. They are demure little things, those cupcakes, but they pack a flavor punch (this is my overachiever’s way of confessing that they did not rise as much as I would have wished, but they are tasty nonetheless. Size isn’t always everything. Or as someone once told me, dynamite comes in small packages.)


So, I designed a flyer for one of the yoga workshops, and took some variations to class today for critique. Man, either I’m good or they’re easy to please, cause the teacher took both flyers, immediately picked her favorite and was over the fucking moon with excitement. I was surprised and, ever the professional, said, “If you have changes, or edits, or want me to alter anything, let me know.” We live in an imperfect world, people! Look closely at the details! There must be flaws! The yoginis looked at me like I’d smoked a Buddha sack. “It’s perfect!” they sang.

One thing checked off my list; about a ton more things to take care of now.

My Big Shot client called me yesterday and offered me a new assignment. I am a very independent person, but when that woman asks me to do anything, I drop everything else; I become a slave to the almighty dollar and I’m not ashamed to admit it. At this point, it’s not even luxury items I’m after--though as you know, I am jonesin’ for some new boots--I would just like to meet my rent and bills committment without a mad banking scramble. With this new project, I should be set for a few months. And what’s even better is that Terence got a freelance job so for the next few months we’ll be sharing the burden. I can maybe start paying off my debts.

It got me thinking about my whole “travail vestimentaire” thing (as opposed to “travail alimentaire” which is working for food. See some ancient entry of mine from 2001.) I just finished reading “Slammerkin” by Emma Donoghue, and it’s based on a real life woman in the 18th century named Mary Saunders, a girl driven to commit terrible deeds by her lust for “fine clothes.” I have not yet been reduced to prostituting myself for fancy clothing, but I have a weakness for the exshpensive items. I devoured the book in a few sittings, and enjoyed the way the author brought gritty old London to life. In the end, though, the book irritated me with its conclusion that we are all prostitutes to something. Hi? Can you say facile ending? I can and I hate to. Grrr. Of course it was another pointless selection from the book club I belong to. I need to start my own club or something. I don’t like the fact that the m.o. is ‘fiction.’ Could it be any broader? Couldn’t it be narrowed down to a century or a country? Or since we live in LA, to stories adapted to film? Or something like that? Who’m I kidding? I’m not going to start a club, or change the one I’m in. I am just going to COMPLAIN!!!

That’s the whole point of this diary, isn’t it?

6:59 p.m. - 2002-09-10



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