Big City Navel-Gazing--Uh, Living.

Life seems to have ground to a halt over here, after quite a few weeknights of excellent, heartening socializing. Am watching Sex and the City religiously, trying to stave off the feeling that no new word can be said about female existence at the dawn of the new millenium because this thing has body bagged and tagged nearly every experience and thought any girl might have ever had, whether she lives in a city or not. I almost set a cheeseburger from Wendy's on fire in my toaster oven last night--I guess I should have taken it off the foil it came wrapped in before I tried to heat it up. Hmm. Smoking embers flew all over the place and I went to bed hoping that there weren't any lurking about waiting to burn the house down. That makes three cheeseburgers from two different dollar menus in five days. I tried to order some expensivo shirts from J.Crew today so as to show up for my freelance job looking smartly dressed and like I leave the house more than once a week, but they told me they were out of them for the forseeable future. Do I have to pick up the phone and spend money I don't have the minute I get their catalog, as if I was telecommuting to a sample sale, elbowing imaginary Conde Nast types out of the way as I speed dial? Bleh. I received a communique from barnesandnoble.com this morning with the heading "Alice Walker Alert." No, thanks. Apparently they alerted me because I'd ordered an Alice Walker book before. Huh? I've never ever read a novel of hers. Or was that in my other life, when I inked SLUT on my midriff regularly and went without lowercase letters, just like bell hooks.