03.14.03 - 6:05 p.m.

There's a hole in my underwear. My pretty Calvin Klein underwear. From 1998. I think these things have lived long past their expiration date, given that they're made from this sheer fairy-wing crap fabric. But they didn't gouge huge red marks into my hips so they were ok with me, until I found a random hole on my left cheek this morning. Damn you, Calvin. Beauty was not made to last, I suppose.

Oh shit. How many perverse Google hits am I going to get from that last paragraph?

Speaking of perverse, my new dream is that I'll inherit just enough money from my grandparents that I can invest it and live off the interest and won't have to work ever again. I don't even know how much money my grandparents have, or what I'll be willed other than some of my grandmother's jewelry that she insists on trotting out every time I visit her. I'm not really the death-obsessed one, here, am I?

There's a picture in this month's Redbook of a cat that could pass for a towel. Or a mop. Or a shaggy bath rug. Needless to say, I love it.

I think our health editor is leaving the magazine. Gah! Come on, don't do this to me. You were one of the good ones! Even if you returned my stinking summaries three times, like you didn't realize the purpose of a summary is to give a rough idea of the manuscript to come. But I digress. And I can't fault you, considering we all have thoughts of leaving every once in a while. But I don't really feel like adjusting to someone new right now.

Oh. Here's a funny story. Earlier this week I noticed a raised brownish spot on the back of my right arm. It could have passed for a blackhead, a scab, or a mole that somehow went...wrong. You know, THAT kind of wrong. I tried to work my pimple-popping magic on it, but I couldn't really SEE it to do anything, and it ached in a very un-zitlike way. And Dan couldn't really tell what it was either, so I decided to bite the bullet, get up early this morning and spend $5 to have my doctor tell me whether I should be zapping that thing off my arm or not.

Well, because I said it was a FUNNY story, it's clear that this was not anything malignant to be moaning about. But what was it, then? Oh, you know, just your normal, everyday. . . mite bite. Yes, a mite bite! Or maybe a wee spider bite, but that's not as much fun to say, and besides, with a mite bite, your friends get to email you things like, "I didn't realize people still got those outside of England during the 1870s!"

Go me with my mite bite. Maybe I should wash the bedsheets tonight and do a little light dusting? Methinks yes.