From: Fresh Baked
Subject: Baby Jessica part deux
Are you dead? Have you fallen down a well? Or are you stuck under a massive pile of work and cute-ass shoes and lattes? Should I be alarmed? Do you need me to sound the alarm, alerting all to your immediate assistance?
I'm just wondering. Because you have not written a single thing in 4 days and, quite frankly, I'm bored by now of the last entry. I did my tour of vodka this weekend. I need something new.
I'm here! Alive and fine and kicking and etc. Apologies for not writing anything since Thursday. I did try, actually. Several times. This is about what I got down:
Friday: Workworkworkworkwork. Goddamn assistant candidate turned down my generous offer of indentured servitude. Weep. Corporate Love-Fest Rah Rah Day, complete with free pizza and a lot of new employees because other people are not so horrible as I am and can actually HIRE PEOPLE. Weep.
Saturday: In-laws. Gah. Meet our new puppy, who will not go anywhere near you except to bring you a mouthful of cat poop. She will also pee on the bathroom floor after we brag about our housebreaking brilliance. Also please ignore Amy's drinking problem and the sticky kitchen floor.
Sunday: Bye In-laws! Gah. Now must prepare for my parents' visit over Thanksgiving. Holy shit, Jason's site is in Washingtonian magazine as a Best D.C. Blog. Bastard! But also, woot. Free meals from chefs and holy FUCKING SHIT, an offer from a Big Shot D.C. Chef to PERSONALLY ARRANGE my birthday dinner next month. We're celebrities! Or Jason is, and I shall ride his coattails. Or maybe I'll submit him to Snarkywood.
Sunday Part II: Ow, my head really hurts.
Sunday Part III: OW OW OW.
Monday: Holy lord. Migraine. Death. Blinding pain. Spent the entire day hiding under my covers, trying to stay in total darkness and moaning pathetically to Jason (who has the whole week off and can be found in this month's Washingtonian magazine, in case you didn't hear). Warm soft puppy belly is actually quite nice on the temples, by the way, as long as you try to forget where her dirty, dirty feet have probably been.
Tuesday: Today! Workworkworkworkwork! Another assistant interview, although I refuse to get excited lest she break my heart like the last few. Why does no one want to work for me? I'm really quite a kick.
Jason is at home, again, although he might be out autographing Washingtonian magazines or something, because I keep pinging him to ask that he email me a bunch of photos from the camera that I wanted to post and he is ignoring me. So maybe tomorrow. I had this whole photo essay thing planned, but Mr. Best Blog of Washington is too much of a big shot now to help out with wee, modest amalah.com.
So maybe tomorrow. (Wait, I said that already.) The day my parents arrive for Thanksgiving. The day I really, really need to clean my house up by. The last day before Thanksgiving vacation and my last chance to write to the 5,094,294 people who I owe emails to and now think I am a nasty, snooty bitch who is mad at them or changed my email address and moved to Bolivia. I am not mad! At you! I am just a very, very bad friend. Really.
Also, wee, modest amalah.com will be turning one year old on Sunday. Happy birthday, little site! Why the hell aren't YOU in the Washingtonian Magazine? What? Because you suck? Oh, right.