12.19.02 - 5:41 p.m.

Moments of surreality: Standing outside the Broadway Theatre with Kerry under the massive red La Boh�me sign, I look to my left and see an extremely thin, high-cheekboned woman who seems...familiar. She could be any well-dressed Manhattanite going out for the evening until I get a good look at her companion, whose Cupid's bow mouth and mass of red curls are also...familiar. "Kerry," I whisper between clenched teeth. "Is that Mary Tyler Moore and Bernadette Peters standing RIGHT NEXT TO ME?"

"Uh, yep," she laughed. There they were, waiting in the Will Call line just like everyone else.

Two minutes before the show begins, I spot another familiar redhead being escorted to her seat four rows in front of me. Um, yeah. Drew Barrymore accompanied by Fab Moretti and his new haircut. Have I been in a bubble until this past year? I've never been to a show so soon after its opening, but were there always this many stars at all the other plays I've seen? Or is my radar just now beginning to function?

And would you be able to concentrate if someone like Drew plopped into the seat next to you two minutes before the curtain rose?

Moments of reality: I lost my winning streak of ten long fingernails this afternoon when my left middle nail decided to poop out on me after our pizza run. Somehow I managed to stab myself UNDERNEATH my index finger with the shrapnel, enough to draw blood. I am dangerous. This was after I nearly slit my thumb open with scissors this morning while cutting those stupid Sally Hansen wax strips. Don't let me groom myself, people. Seriously.

Is my boss taking vacation next week or not? How long can I procrastinate under the illusion of doing real work? These are the pressing questions that govern my life.