"...Working beats wanting to work..."
Detox and Bigger, Better, Faster, Sept 5, 2006
My just washed hair is oily.
That's how much I've been writing, Reader. My head is sweating in an air conditioned Starbucks. I have banged out so many Paris Hilton jokes (har har) in the past week that I'm starting to have empathy for her.
If I ever load Drudge, Huffington Post or TMZ.com in my browser window again, it will be too soon. No news, for a month. Just Goodfellas, a few Godfathers (even III) and Pride and Prejudice (BBC) on a loop, over and over again. And Collateral, especially the nightclub shooting scene. And if Britney has a girl or if the president of Iran challenges Bush to a duel in a courtyard, don't tell me.
I don't care.
Four writing packets in 14 days. One right after the other. The third one was sent on Wednesday night, and the fourth one was started on a Thursday morning. Mostly done from Starbucks, a hotel, a plane or my parents' house, in the Bay Area. Almost all away from home, where I am cozy and comfortable.
I finished it all on a Thursday night, did a few shows in Sacramento and on Tuesday, I start a short job writing on a pilot in NYC. Two weeks, working with a few comics who used to rule Tough Crowd. Looking forward to it. Working beats wanting to work.
Still pregnant!
I just started the 8th month. I've gained 21 pounds and each one is freaking me out. We have extra ultrasounds because Kilbaby has a dilated kidney, which means he's holding in some pee. While it's common among boy babies, the doctors like to keep an eye on it. At my last ultrasound, I was asked if I had gestational diabetes.
"No. Why, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," said the doctor, "you just got a big boy here."
4 lbs, 6 oz, which is big for 31 weeks. Normally, as a competitive American, I would want a big, healthy baby. The biggest, tallest baby ever. A baby who will save America and make me famous, or at least rich. The biggest, bestest baby in the whole world. Coming out of my vagina!
HOLD EVERYTHING!
I want a preemie. Big babies are for adoptive mothers. If I go 40 weeks- pregnancy is really ten months, by the way- I'm looking at a nine pounder. I can't do that, I can't fathom that. I want to faint. I'm in over my head.
