This morning I had three eggs for breakfast, and an english muffin. Then I went to Brewed and had a large coffee. When I got to work, I was hungry again.

“How can this be?” I asked.

“Your coffee ate your breakfast,” said Carol. “Happens all the time.”

Urgh. I don’t like when my food eats my other food.

Later, I was browsing around online, reading various Ain’t He Cute stories about parenting and feeling good about my impending pregnancy, when I came across this one. Suddenly I felt so queasy that my coffee puked my breakfast back up into my stomach where it belongs. Hey, at least I have my breakfast back. But now I’m worried. What if I, too, try to throw my child in a hole? If these witty, charming bloggers are bad parents then what chance do I have? I don’t even have a college degree! I can’t even play piano! I only have three pairs of socks!

I think I should practice on a fake baby (a.k.a. a baby belonging to someone else) before I get started on my real baby (a.k.a. baby belonging to me). So if you have a baby you don’t like very much, can you please let me know and I will take it for a few hours and practice not throwing it away? Thank you.

Apologies to Michele, who had to hear and subdue this ranting twice.

“So,” said Kevin Toon, leaning over the remains of his lunch and my barely touched salad, “are you a thong girl or do you just skip underwear all together?”

“. . . ” I said, watching the spinach dancing in his teeth.

“Tell me, how long does it take you to put your clothes back on?”

“Do you begin all your first dates this way?” I said.

– Fiasco, 1998

I took a foot day yesterday and stayed home from work, partly to allow my poor abused heels time to, well, heal (wince), and partly to catch up on my Vanity Fair reading.

So according to Vanity Fair, Oprah Winfrey is one of the 50 most eligible women in the world and Chelsea Clinton is a sex symbol.

It’s okay, take some time with this one.

You know, I have a lot of respect for Chelsea just for managing not to take a hot iron to her face during her adolescence. I know there was a “policy” in the “media” not to “comment” on her (those quote marks were annoying, huh?) but was there anyone who didn’t hear a “Chelsea is a dog” joke on SNL or Leno? I shudder to think what would have happened if America had gotten a gander at me when I was thirteen. Probably would have grown up to shave my head and pierce my tongue. And stayed like that.

However, no matter how much I respect her – she was at the table during the Israeli peace talks in Camp David, c’mon! What did you ever do? – I still am not to the stage where I plaster my room with posters of her and take quizzes in Seventeen to discover whether I’m her type. Marilyn Monroe, okay, that was a sex symbol. Brad Pitt, like it or not, a sex symbol. And for some of us, so is Anthony Stewart Head.

Am I wrong though? Is America really so grownup that they no longer require their sex symbols to have sex appeal? Are we really just looking for a hot cup of chamomile and a bunion massage? Let’s go to the phones…

Yesterday I fell. I was climbing around on some rocks as I am wont to do and I ran out of handholds as I am not wont to do (and did not want to do) and I fell, which I never ever do. It was downright embarrassing.

As soon as I had nowhere to put my hand I thought, well, no getting around it, so I pushed a little clear of the rock face and landed pretty well. Mostly on my pride, unfortunately, but my heels also took a good beating. Now, today, they’re all swollen and I am playing it up like no tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’m going to see “Insomnia” at the Parkway. Pizza, beer, and Robin Williams beating his wife to death. Last night I saw his uncensored standup routine on HBO and he kept saying “bitches” instead of “women.” It’s a surreal thing to hear from him, once you’ve seen “Jumanji.”

When asked yesterday what is my heart’s desire I chewed thoughtfully for awhile and then said “I’d like my friends to come home.”

You hear that?

The nightmares are back.

There was a hiatus there of several months when they hardly showed up and my dreams were wan, tepid little scenes from my daily life. I found that despite the unpleasantness of waking up in fear all the time, I actually missed them. My nightmares are usually intense productions with plots, characters and vivid sensory details. They generally feature rape, molestation and pursuit by nefarious men; stabbing, hand fighting and war; and sometimes all of those together.

Last night they returned in a tsunami of scary stuff and the theme this time was ghosts, which was a new one. All night I kept waking up and falling back into dreams of ghost infestations in various houses which I had to fight off. These were the scary, Sixth Sense-type ghosts too. The worst was when one of them came up and put his hands on my chest to copp a feel. I don’t know why but this made me absolutely frantic with fear. I woke up about to scream, but luckily turned it into a mellow squeak-squeak-squeak! instead.

Don’t worry, this won’t become a catalog of nightmares. I would never try to compete with the doyenne of dream journals.

Baseball tonight! And the temperature looks to be spiking at 104 degrees again. Man, does the fun ever quit?