12:46 pm | 22 December 2004 | cycloparappin: CnH4n

We know I like shopping because, helloo-oo, I am a girl*. I also can't get enough of giving presents, so you'd think that these final days before Happy Hellidays would be like nougat ambrosia crack to your carpal-tunnelling authoress. But no, mein tchatz. I felt so full-on freaked about everything that last night, amid trully hellacious traffic, that I pulled screamingly off the highway, tromped to a Rite-Aid, and bought myself a chilled bottle of Andr� champagne, which at $2.99 was cheaper than even the on-saleingest other bottles. And it went down rough. Matty and I were having crafty night and the Andr� treated us like the little gentrified white bizzatches we are. Like, how did I ever think I could legitimately be performing an activity as gayballs as "making a diorama while listening to Sebadoh" while drinking $3 champagne, without having that screw-topped alcohol slap me upside the head like a showbiz husband? This morning my head, she hurt. Ow ow ow. But I still made genius crafts so fuck it.

SO anyhow, I'm usually pretty good with the whole don't-buy-yourself-things-pre-Christmas deal (although I can usually justify it with "I'm bound to get cash from someone so I'm just pre-spending based on assumption. It's the American way!"), but one place I am defenseless, weirdly, is the Underwear Department**. Some time ago I called Jeremy after doing an extensive post-laundry inventory and breathlessly shrieked that I had eighty-five pairs of underwear. Eighty-five! And that was after culling out the non-cute or just thrash-ass oldies. So what have I done these past few weeks? Why, trotted right out and been all "But they are aaaapricot. I neeeeeed them. They're sooooooft." My inner whine has the same sibilance as the snake speaking to Eve, seriously. And my underwear drawer, she spilleth over--and to no real avail, because I concede, for once, Jeremy's point: Boys don't care about underwear. But I do, goddamn it. I care about all ninety-three pair of them. clm

* don't even bother commenting all "I am a girl and I hate shopping." No you don't. Shut up.
** this is not to imply that i don't also have a problem with shoes, but i have fewer than 30 pairs so i think that's under control.

Today was made marginally better by finding this note in the alley, which just goes to show that evil scientists doodle, too:

front: chemical structure of napthalene. back: self-portrait with spectacles.

It was amid all these other old scraps and a official-looking, preprinted postcard whose full address is:

SUPERINTENDENT OF DOCUMENTS
U.S. GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE
WASHINGTON 25, D.C.