08.12.02 - 9:26 p.m.

It's one of those times where I don't know if it's therapeutic to write through my troubles because I'm totally convinced I have nothing to say about anything. It's the same old, anyway. To wit: my car is still dying. It needs an inspection (in PA, not NJ, because I'm a lawbreaker) at some point soon. I don't want to shell out a coupla hundred bucks to fix la voiture because I know I need to save up every penny just to make the damn security deposit on our next place.

My bank thinks I'm untrustworthy. I'm not, I'm just stretching my dollars. And if I'd stop buying Seven jeans at Annie Sez, my dollars would go even further.

I have a near-pathological inability to pick up the phone and ask PR people to send me free stuff. It's their job and I still hate doing it. Not to mention having to call up Weirdo and leave a voicemail telling her we'll sue her ass for not paying the bills. Me. Leaving a threatening voicemail. How can I possibly be scary? I can't even assert my right to my own kitchen shelf. Not here, anyway.

Plus, another heat wave has decided to grace us with its lovely presence.

Dan has an interview tomorrow at my company. Not my magazine, but my company. Which is kind of weird, but I wouldn't have asked him for his resume if I thought it would be a problem. Who knows. I can't particularly see my honey working at an entertainment mag, but I DO like my company (so far) and their magazine has a higher ratio of guys to gals than ours does. (Theirs: at least seven that I can see. Ours: three.) But what would happen if he did get the job? Would we take one car to work in the morning? Would I pack one big lunch for both of us to share? Would I be a victim of ridicule for getting my boyfriend a job down the hall from me? Did Patty and Graham Chase ever have to face these questions?

There's really no point in thinking about this yet, but I really don't want him to have to take a pay cut for this. What he makes isn't grand, but it's good enough, and it's certainly better than what I'm getting. I like having the little Dan-buffer, knowing in my sweet deluded heart that my man can still provide for me, just a little. And I think he's better than an editorial assistant. He shouldn't have to take that. Copy editor, yes. Assistant, no. I'm fine with it, but I want better for my man.