I play with my earrings constantly. I take them out, wipe off any ear gunk that might be on the post (oh come on, you know what I’m talking about) and put them back in. I probably do this at least three times a day, absentmindedly while I read a document or talk on the phone. I’ve done it since I was nine. Can’t explain it.

I freak out that I might be pregnant at few times a year. Not for any sane reason, but because one thing will be different enough — my stomach will seem puffy or my chest will hurt or I’ll have a incurable craving for chocolate donuts washed down by crunchy Cheese Doodles. And then I realize that — shock — I’m not pregnant at all. I am, in fact, getting my period. Duh.

I spend a good part of my workout watching one girl who is always there. Her body is insane — remarkably toned, tiny bones, dark tan. She runs effortlessly on the Arc Trainer, which the few times I’ve used I feel like I’m going to a) fly backwards off the thing, b) die, or c) fly backwards off the thing and die. I curse this woman my entire workout and hate her with a passion. She’s the best motivation ever.

I’m not afraid to use my womanly wiles to get my way. Flirting is part of the PR business. It even says so in one of the work documents I signed upon hiring. (That sounds bad. They didn’t tell us to flirt, they just said charm is good. Lap dances are bad.) I spent the better part of yesterday trying to convince a senior editor from a well-known publication to attend an event my client is having and you bet your ass I turned on the charm.  I thought I had lost him, but an email this morning proved that I had roped him in.

I have a dress fitting in 11 days and I’m mildly freaking out about it. This is exactly what happened when my dress first came in and it was fine. FINE. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking I must have gained weight somewhere — enough to make the back of my dress refuse to close. I also have a doctor appointment this afternoon where they will make me get on a scale. I wore the lightest thing I could find — a thin shirt and jersey knit skirt. With flip flops. Which I will take off before getting on the scale.

I always have the weirdest dreams and I tend to remember most of them, at least for a little while. Recently I dreamt that I made a website to talk trash about Michael’s grandmother and she found it. She then called to tell me how disappointed she was in me and that I was a horrible granddaughter-in-law-to-be. When I woke up it took me a minute to figure out if it had been real or not. The thing is, I would never design a website to trash talk someone.

I would just write a blog post. 

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