Okay, I know none of us wants to admit this, but am I the only one who rushed out to buy Vanity Fair today? I made Scott, MADE him, read it to me in bed after dinner tonight. Poor guy, he was so bored. Of course he handles all of this Brad and Jennifer and Angelina and the adopted orphaned babies really well; basically, he ignores the whole thing. Me, I'm feeling sorry for everyone, hoping they're all handling it okay, mad at Brad one minute, and then thinking, well, what the hell am I thinking? It's none of my God damned business.
I had a dream last night that I was Sessie, (Do you think that's how she spells it?), Jonathan Antin's pregnant fiance. We were living in some retro modern condo, all happy and in love one minute, and then he was being super anal retentive and bossy and I was having to clean up after him, before I had to run and hide from Nazis in a huge multileveled furniture showroom. It's the Melatonin. I love my Melatonin dreams.
Last night some sick, creepy pervert flashed Anna, (our housekeeper), while she was waiting in my car for Beau to get his beloved Subway veggie sandwich. There's something about being a woman in a convertible that brings out the worst in men. She was sitting there with the top down, (It's been really hot here lately), and he pulled in to the parking space facing her, got out of his brand new silver Mercedes, walked to the coin meter, pretended to fiddle around with his change, but what he was really doing was pulling his tee-shirt up so he could show her how excited he was to see her, if you get what I mean. Freak.
Poor Anna, she'd never seen anything like this, me I saw my first flasher when I was thirteen. My Mom had sent me on a see-almost-every-state-and-a-piece-of-Ca
Okay, gotta get some sleep. G'night hugs -- Jacqui