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rue-madame's Diaryland Diary



[note: this is what I tried to post on Thursday.]

So last night (Wednesday,) I had a silly cocktail which is the adult version of a vanilla coke: coca cola with vanilla-flavored Stoli. The first one was super boozy, the second one more Coke-y. My standard drink is Ketel One and tonic, but Iíve been trying to branch out a little. I donít know why I even bother drinking, actually; I always feel yucky the next day (whether itís one cocktail or three,) totally congested and dehydrated and a big useless baby.

It probably didnít help that I ate that greasy sandwich after midnight.

I met a new neighbor today. She has some kind of crazy name that I canít really remember (what a jerk I am! My name can be considered a crazy name in this country, and I donít even have the decency to reach out to one of my fellow freaky-named sistahs... bahhhh) She just moved from New York, seemed fairly cosmopolitan (again with the booze references) and funny. So far, so good.

Iíve officially only met three other neighbors, and two of them donít count cause theyíre the building managers. The third lives just beneath, and sheís pretty nice. I mostly recognize the rest by their cars, so thereís Passat girl (with the perma-scowl,) BMW girl and Mercedes girl. Have you noticed a trend? Nothing but chicks with fancy-shmancy cars! In LA, you are what you drive (or at least thatís what you want the other cars to believe) so you must have the squeaky clean, super shiny sauced rig. If you saw my car, you would immediately get why it is that I so often feel like a martian here: I drive a 1989 wet sand-colored Isuzu Trooper with about 1 full year of dust, dirt, grime, and bugs all over it. It leaks oil, always needs water and coolant, and is littered with the detritus of my nomadic life. The windows are so dirty that I have to roll them down to park because I canít see my mirrors. I guess I could splurge for a wash or at the very least go to one of those self-washing places where you just hose down your car for a couple of quarters but why bother? Even the homeless folks with the Windex approach gingerly, somehow sensing my need to keep things on the down low...

My neighbors in Paris were jerks except for my landlady (who lived across the hall) and the fashionista and his boyfriend who lived on the ground floor. The buildingís residents were old skool bourgeois Parisians who didnít like a couple of snot-nosed American kids laughing in the stairwell, spending their hard-earned and Scroogely-saved money on a French sabbatical. I ran into the same sentiment when I lived in Paris at 16, when the dollar hit its all time high of nearly 10 francs to the dollar. Some French folks were annoyed that Americans were running around foolishly spending all over the place. Reminding those same pissy froggies that you were running around spending FRANCS and not DOLLARS did nothing to abate their snarky comments. Oh well.

Thereís an article in the latest issue of Wired magazine comparing diarists and other bloggers to Marxists. We have seized the means of production, comrades! I donít know about you, but the only Karl that I swear allegiance to is Lagerfeld

1:05 p.m. - 2002-04-12



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