I just got home after a night of random celebration with some of my oldest and most dear friends. It was one of those rare and accidental evenings of perfection that Los Angeles gives you when you least expect it.
I’m sitting alone in the dark, still blissed out from all the wine and love. It’s a wonderful feeling, one that I don’t want to forget.
I’m going to listen to this song over and over until I fall asleep, and by emotional osmosis, transfer all my warm and fuzziness into the music.
This song makes me reflect on how quickly we’re screaming through 2010. I feel like a cartoon character who ran off a cliff, and it’s taken me from April to August to realize that there’s no ground underneath my feet. Any second now I’ll start falling.
The other day I received a copy of Garden & Gun magazine in the mail. It was, rather curiously, sent to my home address with the proper spelling of my name.
Well, I just got off the phone with my mother, and sure enough, she confessed to signing me up for an annual subscription. Damn, that woman cracks me up.
For those of you not familiar with Garden & Gun — and I’m sure that’s every last one of you — the magazine is a delightful exercise in neo-southern elitism.
This month’s issue includes recipes for the perfect fried green tomato, a look at niche farmers who raise heritage-breed livestock, and an article about how much republicans love their bulldogs. The magazine (much like my mother) is unintentionally hilarious and at times reads like a parody of itself. I love it.
Of course, my mom will never miss an opportunity to remind me how I’ve lost touch with my Southern roots. It’s been a running joke for years. These days I don’t mind so much, because I can always ruffle her feathers by just reminding her who is president.
In fact, now that mailing lists are open season, I’m about to make a hundred dollar donation in her name to the Organizing for America campaign.
I can’t wait for her to start getting mail from Obama.
Levi and Bristol told US Weekly about their engagement before telling mommy dearest. As if that weren’t “Real Housewives of Alaska” enough, the as-yet-unwed parents have made an abstinence pledge. That’s right, they’re waiting to have sex until their marriage.
Seriously, you couldn’t write this shit for daytime television.
(Oh, and fuck Sarah Palin. It really should be said more often.)