Peter and I watched Shopgirl over the weekend and while I enjoyed it because it had the same quiet awkwardness as Martin’s novella, I could have done without Martin’s voice over. I found it distracting and clunky. Claire Danes was really good though. As was Jason Schwartzman.

Hadley drew a pig yesterday and then called me over to see it. She talked me through her picture and said “See Mom, here’s the pig and then here are some pig bones from a pig that died and then over here on this plate are the pig parts that you can eat like hot dogs and bacon. Aside from the fact that I have yet to tell her they actually slaughter the animal so you can eat it and that it doesn’t die of old age, I was impressed with her little sciencey drawing.

Read an article in Vanity Fair this morning about Diane Arbus and now I’m desperate for this book. I love biographies. Especially ones about extremely interesting characters.  I’ve also decided I’m going to abandon the two book clubs that I have been promising to attend. As much as I want to be a book clubber, it’s just one more obligatory thing where I have to read something that someone else picked out, that I might hate. Plus, there are 4 or 5 other books out there vying for my attention but I feel like I HAVE to read the book club one first and then as a reward I can read the one I really want to read. It’s smacks of English class (feeling the pressure of a looming due date) and I’m a grown ass lady now and can pick my own book, thank you very much.

Speaking of being a grown ass lady, I went bowling with some friends last night and I suspected it would rule, and it did. I won both games and this morning my butt and arms hurt, which is so funny considering bowling really takes no effort but I suppose it does. At least that’s what my muscles tell me. So while we’re there, we of course have to drink cheap beer out of pitchers. No beer in pitchers to be had. Just Mike’s Hard Cranberry for $4.75 each. (WHA!?) I had two and shouldn’t have had any, especially on a semi-empty stomach. We then stopped into this swanky little joint I like to call “the crappy hotel bar at Embassy Suites” for a glass of crappy wine. This was clearly one of those times where I wanted the evening to go on a little longer but I should have just called it a night after bowling.  So on the way home, while feeling footloose and fancy free, I suggest to my friend we smoke a cigarette, like the old days! Woo!

Um, yeah. Cut to me coming in the door after my friend dropped me off, dropping my purse in the foyer, and walking right to the downstairs bathroom where I proceeded to puke my guts out like a 17 year old at a Jimmy Buffet concert. No pretty. At all. Isn’t that embarrassing? The lesson learned as I approach 33 is that I’m 33, not 23. Get a hold of yourself woman.