I’m overwhelmed at the thought of the two things that need to be updated over here.  I have two things to tell you, and I’m overwhelmed.  This is probably a problem.  Do you other bloggers ever look back at your archives and go, “Wow, I used to be funny.  What the fuck happened?  Maybe I should just kill myself.”  No?  Just me then…

If you don’t read my twitter updates, (which, seriously, I am almost completely over twitter) you probably don’t know that they found my car.  It’s all in one piece, missing its plates and smelling slightly of unwashed cigarette smoking man, with only a busted door lock.  I’ll have it back either Friday or Monday, and I am really happy about it.  Although, a little sad about not getting the BMW 7 series Seth scoped out for me.  Honda Civics suit me better.  I’m way too blue collar for a BMW, right?  (*sob*)

We had a weekend away in Palm Springs over Easter at Two Bunch Palms.  And to say the vibe was “fat swingers looking for lovely ladies” is not exactly right but it was leaning in that direction.  Seth and I walked down to the hot springs pools after having a cup of coffee in the wack-a-do restaurant they call “The Casino” for no reason at all, and every person turned and stared.  I felt like a piece of meat.  And not in the good way where you’re like, yeah, I AM hot, in the way where you think your flesh might actually be cut from your bones and consumed.  Aside from the cannibal swinger thing, it was a great weekend.  My relationship with Seth basically started in a hotel room, so there’s something decidedly comfortable and familiar and perfect about us when we’re staying in a room that doesn’t belong to us.  And for those of you who are considering staying at Two Bunch after my cautionary tale, I will say one more thing to deter you, THERE IS NO ROOM SERVICE.  WTF?

So, now that you’re all caught up, I’ll disappear for a few days and come back with the story of how I am now unable to drink more than one drink (wine included) without getting floppy and weepy.  Because I assure you, in the next couple of days I will once again face down a second margarita or glass of wine with the fortitude I learned from my German grandfather and once again be unable to make it to the door without trying to lay down on the floor of whatever fine drinking establishment I’ve been forced upon. Where-for-art-thou, tolerance?