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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary




It’s official.

I’ve moved to the East Coast.

Like a ninny, I cried in the cab all the way down Fairfax to LAX yesterday. “Goodbye, ugly orthopedic shoe store! Farewell, mean Russian stationery shop!” And the night before, as we were leaving our kick-ass Bon Voyage party, I got a hug that unleashed actual heaving sobs. Our life in LA was a bit impoverished and lacking in luxury most of the time, but on the friends front, we were millionaires. I’m hoping that everyone comes to visit.

I’m also hoping that, on that same tip, we can find an apartment to rent or a condo to buy within the month. We’ll acclimate more quickly to the larger world outside once we’re surrounded by our own furniture and familiar things. Our car should be here at the end of the week, and the rest of our possessions should arrive shortly thereafter.

My last few days in LA were about average for LA, but had an added level of poignancy due to my leaving.

For example, the client took me and some other folks to Campanile to celebrate the end of the project. That, in and of itself, is not that remarkable (although I should mention that the food at that restaurant is indeed remarkable, but the service… ahhh, your typical “I want to be your buuuuddy, and be super casual, and by the way my head shot’s in the kitchen” Los Angeles school of waitering.) Anyway, you know who else was having dinner at that very same restaurant? Judge Reinh0ld, that’s who! Tell me: when am I going to see Judge Reinh0ld in New Haven?

This also happened to me at Fred Segal on Saturday. Normally, I would not really care that Russell Simm0ns was having lunch at the café, but I admit that I was starting to feel the celebrities conspiring to send me off with a proper Hollywood adieu. The only way it could have been more perfect would have been if the entire cast of a certain soon-to-be-retired sitcom had carried my luggage and driven me to the airport.

I also eavesdropped on a delicious conversation between three guys. This was very LA. One was complaining to his friends about a forehead wrinkle that appeared when he hit 30. He started noticing it, and diligently refrained from scowling or squinting, but the wrinkle kept getting worse. Imagine his over-the-moon-ness after his first Botox injection! “You guys, it’s totally revolutionized my life! I mean, look! There’s nothing there anymore!” He could not have been more than 33.

In abortion news: I am feeling almost like myself. Two days after the procedure, I got my period. And it was the period of the century. And worse than torrents of blood and actual chunks of tissue coming out of my vagina? Having to use a maxipad! The only way it could have been worse would have been if I’d had to wear a special “sanitary belt” like they did in the 50s. The cramps were also awful and strange—sharp shooting pain rather than the usual waves of ache. Like, maybe this is how your first period feels? Once you have your uterus hoovered, it’s back to Puberty Square One? Whatever it is, I’m against it.

I’ve got to take a nap. I’ve been up since 4am and I’m powerpooped.

2:58 p.m. - 2004-03-01



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