09.23.02 - 5:26 p.m.

Currently looking through the Metropolitan Museum of Art catalog and realizing that I have absolutely no desire to be sending anyone any damn Christmas card yet.

I walked the fine halls of the Met this weekend with Erin and Dan, dodging the German-American parade gallumphing up Fifth Ave. to visit the Temple of Dendur and halfheartedly view the Gauguin exhibit. Erin and I turn into ten-year-olds around each other, as evidenced by our conversation in the Egyptian wing where we loudly discussed the hermaphroditic status of Nut, the Sky Goddess (it looked like she was manly and pregnant at the same time, ok?) and whether Erin would help pull my brains through my nose with a hook when I died.

Dan seemed briefly embarrassed by our antics, but quickly initiated himself into our group by pointing out all the naked boobies he could find. Good boyfriend.

We crashed briefly at Erin's pimp pad before spending way too damn much money on a dinner that was so so good. I rationalized it with the knowledge that I'd be spending no money on food Sunday, as it was Free Laundry and Dinner Day at the parents' house. I also rationalized having two martinis. The first was a lychee-tini with what seemed to be balls floating around in the glass, and the second was a green apple martini, needed to counteract the horror of flesh-colored round fruit staring at me all through the meal.

I remember when Dad used to buy us Christmas gifts from the Met catalog. Now all I ask for is money. Makes a lot more sense, unless you can pawn multiple sets of "Impressionist Masterpieces" stationery.