What I’ve Been Doing …

… While Submerged Headlong in a Funk That Can Only Be Brought About by the Near-Suicidal Combination of a Birthday Ending in a Zero and a Business That Taunts Us Cruelly With Its Refusal to Grant Us a Living or a Day Off. Or Any Sort of Guarantee It Will Be Open At Least Through the Week. Or Let Us Sleep at Night. Because Neither My Husband Nor Myself Has Slept Through the Night in Nearly 18 Months. By the Way, Anyone Know What Debilitating Stress Plus Sleep Deprivation Does to Your Ability to Keep Your Weight Stable? I DO AND IT’S NOT THE LEAST BIT PRETTY. … What Was I Saying? Oh. Right. What I’ve Been Up To:

Working in my toxicology lab on the Propofol testing that led to a declaration of homicide in the death of Michael Jackson.

Giving thanks for having the forethought to have my Social Security number and the number to a Swiss bank account set up for Tink etched – right underneath the manufacturer’s serial number – on my breast implants. You know. In case of gruesome emergency. (And also, quite frankly, saying a little prayer for whoever’s about to be nightmare-plagued for the rest of his or her life after they come upon that lunch bag full of teeth and fingers.)

Working overtime to fill orders of “Team Aniston” and “Team Zellweger” T-shirts from my Etsy store.

Wondering what exactly is it about Lizzie Miller that makes her exceptional. Brave and applause-worthy? You bet. But different from the average American woman how exactly?

Counseling Kourtney Kardashian about keeping the baby.

Writing anonymous comments on conservative blogs decrying Michelle Obama’s shorts on her trip to the Grand Canyon, thereby giving the fashion press something to get worked up about in advance of the start of the new season of “The Rachel Zoe Project” and also because the return of “Project Runway” on Lifetime was a little disappointing, truth be told.

Weeping from the awesome that was Heidi Pratt’s “super galaxy start-up performance” at the Miss Universe pageant.

Pulling all my ads from Glenn Beck’s show.

Boycotting blogging to protest my family’s exploitation of me, much the way the Gosselin children reportedly did recently.

Grand-marshaling the dog parade that welcomed Bo Obama to his Martha’s Vineyard vacation.

Falling the tiniest bit in love with Jeff Lewis’ imperious neuroses and collection of Izod product-placement sportswear and thinking about how cool it would be to be his assistant and get to eat takeout Mexican for lunch every day at the table with Jenni and Zoila, even if it means I’ll probably be berated for neglecting to get enough 1-ounce plastic souffle cups of guacamole or whatever salsa it is that Jeff favors. Which is no small detail, and if I have any hopes of being his assistant, his favorite type of salsa is something I better find out about right quick, don’t you think?

[By the way, anyone else agree that Jeff Lewis kind of reminds you of the Jason Patric character (8:29) in the Neil LaBute movie "Your Friends and Neighbors," the terrifying asshole who flies into a rage when the girl he's sleeping with gets her period on his sheets and she has to lock herself in the bathroom to avoid the fate of poor Jasmine Fiore? If Jeff Lewis were straight, that is. And that Jenni could play Elaine Benes, if a "Seinfeld" remake were inexplicably to make it to TV? If Jenni were an actress, that is. And that you can catch the gay just by touching Ryan's hair?]

Syringing my ears with a diluted solution of Drano and tepid water in an attempt to get Octomom’s baby voice out of my head after watching that surreal docu-reality show last week.

Cashing in several clunkers.

Blogging Without Integrity. I mean, Not Blogging With Integrity. No, no. I mean Just Not Blogging.

Developing my case against the CIA torturers.

Related posts:

1. What Jeff Lewis Can Teach Us All About Managing Work and Life

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