12.03.02 - 6:00 p.m.

I was under the impression, laden down with boxes and bags of Family Goodness from PA as we were, that some of those bags contained actual leftovers. You know, turkey for those tasty little sandwiches with mayo, some pasta, a little side of stuffing and gravy. Imagine my dismay when I unpacked them to find only cranberry relish and liters of soup. Ingrates!

So we unpacked for hours. I tried to bring some holiday cheer to our Saharan Desert of a home by restringing the teeny faux tree and peppering it with cute teeny Ikea bulbs. Then the handyman, parked in the driveway, hit my car with his van, ALSO IN THE DRIVEWAY. Fucking irony! It's not awful, still driveable, but why on fucking earth can I drive six hours in one day and be rammed in my own FUCKING DRIVEWAY?

I hate people.

Yoga relieved none of my tension, despite compliments on my chair pose. Watching grandma violence on The Sopranos was moderately amusing in a sick, sick way, but was only a momentary distraction. And then I had dreams "that would make a Dadaist proud," to quote the EW review of Andy Richter..., filled with a strange combination of high school and college paramours, unease, computer labs, tile walls, and the fluttery anticipation of bending in to kiss someone for the first time. And I think I baked cookies somewhere in the midst of it all.

I squeak by on just enough work every day. They should take my internet away from me. I have a real problem.