08.02.01 - 5:45 p.m.

It's amazing how easily I can blather about a number of subjects of which I am badly or not at all informed. Witness my articles on Trump buying the Sun-Times site or the inflatable power plant protest. Or my latest triumph, the book review for Crabgrass Frontier. Seven hundred words on god knows what, but I think it makes some kind of perverse sense.

At least the fucker is done, with much thanks to the bloody monsoon that hit us this morning. I thought for sure I was going to lose my car this time; last time was freaky good luck but then, hey, I lost it anyway. Would have been cooler to have it flood away than to hit the damn deer, but I'm not asking for this one to be swept away either. Plus then I got the staples in my head that freaked everyone out, woo. And Mustafa said, "Coool - oh, are you ok?" Oh, Mustafa. You never cared about me anyway.

Got a letter from one of the trade magazine conglomerates I shipped my resume off to - just an acknowledgement of receipt, no big deal, except that they referred to me as Mr., not Ms. They think I'm a man! I wonder if this is happening all over the place - I mean, there's nothing in my resume or cover letter specifically defining me as female that I can think of, and it doesn't really matter, only it'll be pretty funny if they ever get me on the phone. Gillette sent me a razor for my 18th birthday and sometimes I get subscription offers from Playboy (and I accept!) but this is a little closer to home.

And the Queen Mother, if she doesn't kick it in the hospital, will be 101 on Saturday. Good God. It must be very tenaciously British to live that long, especially with a kooky inbred family like hers. I'm surprised no one has thought to make a reality TV show based on the royals yet. At the very least, they should bring back Henry VIII to take the Jeff Probst role. With executioners instead of torches!