And now, for your bad-show-scanning pleasure, two completely un-Happy New Yearlike observations on The Anna Nicole Show:

1. Does Anna's "lawyer" want some already or what?

2. If Anna were skinny, 85% of the show's viewers would not even raise an eyebrow at the show. Meaning, if Anna weren't out of the so-called "acceptable" weight for Hollywoodites (read: fish stick), almost nobody would care how outrageous the show got, or how much Anna whined like a crazy banshee woman, or how exploitable the material became. No no, 85% of the audience would just want Anna to get naked. Again. Yay for the fish stick gorged media. Yay for exploitable banshee-loving audiences. Yay for whimsically lethargic observations.

Christmas vacation has been interesting. Vacations from college are never busy; mostly they're lethargic and full of too many baked goods. This particular season, however, has been full of ambling around and putting gifts in order and staring into the abyss of old friends gone awry and gazing wanly at the tree which still stands undecorated due to my being preoccupied with Pepper, who in turn prepared for Christmas by chowing down on pine needles and becoming very, very ill. (Never fear, catfans. After two rather frightened late-night vet visits, she has a clean bill. Of health, too.)

Yet after all the strife and bother and baked goods, I still feel there's nothing like Christmas. There's something about just driving down familiar roads with the radio up and the heater on high, hitting the hot chocolate, and hearing your healthy cat purr beside your feet that still makes me feel all Christmasy inside. So merry Christmas to you all. Every one.

Now gimmie my crutch, yo. Cough. Hack.

They turned off my water, which feels strangely Dickensonian to say. Nevertheless, it's true. According to the officially-printed note taped on my door this morning, "Due to a major water leak in your building's water heater the water will need to be shut off today from 2:00 pm - 5:00 pm." Well, my apartmental chickadees, it's past 5:30 now, and I'm still having to boil water in my coffee pot just so I can wash another pot to make pasta in, so I can finally eat today after running around trying to get all my paltry finances in order.

If that ain't Dickensonian I don't know what is. Besides ghosts in drag and dusty limping children asking for more, I mean.

I took my last final of the quarter today, and as I penned in phrases like "Je porte un tee-shirt noir," one sole thought flitted across my mind. What was that thought, you ask? Well, I'll tell you, but only because this would be a sad scribbling if I didn't. The thought was, "I'll bet the person who invented mascara never once realized that 2% of the time, a woman is going to accidentally stick the wand into her eye. Either that, or the person who invented mascara was a man. Or a bastard. Or both." Yeah, so cut me some slack. It was my last final.

In other unrelated news, hoorah! I finally uploaded a new design with footprint-oriented navigation (ah, technology), and I must admit to being quite pink over it. If anybody else used to love Clue as much as 'umble little me, make sure to drop me a line. And watch your step while you're at it. Har-har.

Well folks, I'll admit it. I feel guilty about not scribbling. Does that mean I plan to scribble more often? I don't know. When I'm stuck in a Blue Period, I just don't have the urge or the wish or the wanton nonsensibility to write. (That's not to say I'm having a Blue Period now . . . an Azure Period, maybe.) I suppose that writing more in times of vague trial would make better sense, seeing as our artistic culture is full of phrases like "pain is good for art" and "you have to suffer for your art" or even "slap me, I'm an artist." And let's not get started on all the phrasology poets get about pain -- although one can certainly argue that poets are too hungry to forgo writing for pain. ("I'm a poet; feed me please!")

Let's just say this here dotcom will have itself a new face one of these fine fancy days, or my name's not Bertha Mayberry Jane. Well. You know what I mean.

I tell you, they're all around us! Clothes! Getting closer and closer! And none of them fit me! Honestly, though; whose idea was it to make American genes grow so bloody tall? Whose idea was it to make clothes for Petites, but not Amazons? Tall women are people too; why can't we have an Amazon section? Sure, I found a dress today, but could it have been any more black? Could my wardrobe say "artsy-angsty-twentysomething" any more clearly? More importantly, whose idea was it to put my metabolism on a see-saw? More importantly still, whose idea was it to make the gym so freaking difficult to handle? And why can't I stop using question marks? There! Nevermind!

This scribbling brought to you by the cold-flunkie bliss of Nyquil. It may help you get your zzzs, kiddies, but it sure don't make for a very clear head.

There's a cold out there, and it's coming for me.

I just know I'm going to be knocked upside the head with a cold in matter of days. So I sit here, frowning. I don't have time for a cold. I've got to sing and study and act like I'm not worried about either of them. I've tried to avoid it. The cold, I mean. I've been slinging back Enchinea and Vitamin C like there's no tomorrow. But alas, this kind of cold does not care. It's very strange. I can actually feel the little germs doing the polka in pre-celebration of conquering my sad and sorry self. And thus, I can think of nothing else to say. Go on about your healthy business, folks. Nothing interesting to see here.

About four months ago, a reasonably attractive boy came up to me at the gas station and politely asked me for some change. I say "reasonably attractive" not because I found the lying little fellow to be attractive, which I didn't in the least, but because the usual money-pandering person is shoeless and sporting a beer gut. Thus, the event struck me as two-times odder. The boy said something about running out of gas on a trip with his girlfriend. Yes, okay, I had a dollar. More importantly, however, I knew nobody could buy drugs with just one dollar. The boy thanked me profusely. I just watched him saunter away and thought, "Now there goes another lying bastard." It had been one of those days.

And today? Today, Christafans, a sleek black car pulled up alongside me as I strode toward Target in search of Christmas cards. "Miss?" called the driver, rolling down his window. Being surrounded by many other pedestrians (you know, witnesses) in an extremely low-crime area, I arched an eyebrow and appropriately replied, "Mmm?" The driver gave a smallish laugh and said, "I'm sorry, but could I possibly borrow some money for gas? I've got to get home to San Diego tonight."

Yes, Christafans, I do believe it was Lying Bastard Gas Station Boy, and how he ever scraped together such a nice car from asking girls for change I shall never know. Did I laugh? Did I snort? Did I arch my other brow and say, oh so smoothly, "Rather prone to running out of gas, aren't you sir?" Alas, Christafans. Only a "Sorry, I haven't any change" popped out.

Damn that politeness bug. Damn his intrusion on my wit.

Strange things are afoot at the malling of America, and I am not helping. While I did refuse to participate in the yuppified madness that is day-after-Thanksgiving-shopping, I could not resist the impulse to see a movie the day after that. And today? Today, the very first day of December? Today I could not resist getting myself a short little Christmas tree, complete with properly-saleified and queenie-genie-bejeweled "ornamentations" for it. The kind of tree that can't replace the family tree at home, but is nevertheless just the right size for a studio. But get this, Christafans. It's not real.

Do you have any idea how much I despise fake Christmas trees? I despise them a whole lot, that's how much. Christmas trees are supposed to be either chopped down with your family at the local tree farm or kept live in a large red pot for happy little environmental hands to plant later. They are not supposed to be made in China. It's not like I didn't try to get a real one, though. My petrol supply was quite exhausted driving hither and thither in search of a lovely-smelling three-foot tree. But apparently, live Christmas trees only come in two sizes: redwood and figurine. Is it my fault that the tree-grower corporations think nothing of studio-dwellers? Is it my fault that I've got Christmas cheer on the brain already?

So I guess my live local greenery will just have to consist of mistletoe this year. Think chapstick, Santa.