Wi-Fi in the house has been out for a few days and...I like it.

(Consequently, I also really like my little BlackBerry Pearl.)

It turns out I'm waaaaaay more productive when internet access is limited to nil.

And I have lots of calculus-y and thesis-ish reasons to be productive.

Um, with that said, the Laker game is about to start and, duh, that totally takes priority over typing page thirty-three of my big paper or working on some lame-o dx over du equation.

No Wi-Fi also means no pictures.

But in celebration of our great team and my love affair with Los Angeles, here are a couple of old, previously posted rah, rah shots.

         Hold the vitriol.

But my pedicure is sweet.

Or do my

I am confident I represent a large demographic when I say that

I was thinking the other day about a way to

There is all this super exciting stuff going on.

That is totally something Valerie would say. But it's true.

For example, this big, blue Bliss box was dropped off onto my doorstep this morning and now I am tromping around in FitFlops.

My legs look awesome.

And, and I got twenty-nine out of thirty-five on my last calculus test. This is very far from failing.

I did some calculating (yes) and I need to get at least sixty-one percent on the final in order to pass the class and therefore be able graduate from college in twenty-two days.

On track.

Loverly Mr. Love is my math tutor hero.

He says such sweet things. Like, You may want to re-think that derivative. Romantic, isn't it. I'm telling you, you've got to get one.

And yesterday I typed page thirty of my gigantic paper. One chapter to go. And appendixes. Valuable appendices. Appendi.

Oh my god. The dreaded Jazz are totally playing my Lakers tomorrow. The team watched the game at Mozza last night. So I heard. So someone told me.

See. Thrilling, exciting stuff.

Colors applied today by the dumb nail what--stylist? polish applier? technician? blabber-mouth?-- were: "Sweet Heart" (ahhhh) for fingers and "Chick Flick Cherry" (mmm) for toes.

Is this your first time here? Do you live here? Did you grow up here? Where did you grow up? So where's your home town? Did you work today? So what were you up to? What's your major? So what are you going to do when you graduate? Are you going on vacation anytime soon? Where are you going? Where did you get that ring? Who gave it to you? When did you get that tattoo? How come you got it? Blah, di blah, blah blah...really HATE this kind of thing.

I had to finally say to the chick-a-dee, "Uh, I feel like I'm getting quizzed."

Hi, my name is Sacha and I'm a Scorpio, my favorite color is green, my lucky number is 2 (or is it 7?), and my goal in life is, or is it my favorite ice cream flavor, or most favorite slow dancing song...how does this go?

Finally she shut the eff up and I was able to read a highly entertaining New Yorker article about elevators.

Hi, my name is Sacha and I enjoy reading about elevators. While having my feet massaged. By a silent person.

These days I like to drink a cup of coffee immediately after brushing my teeth in the morning like I use to love smoking a cigarette immediately after a run in the afternoon ten years ago.

I knocked off work on my gigantic paper at two and headed to the gym.

He (in between sets of lat pulls): Aren't you suppose to be doing school work right now?

Me (doing side waist bends with a 25# weight): I'm participating in some productive procrastination.

Is that something you learned in college?

Sure... I figure if I'm not going to do school stuff I might as well be healthy.

So. That's it. You're procrastinating.

Could be worse, I could be watching TV or something.

I don't watch much.

TV is my boyfriend.

(Head shake.) That is just... sad.

(Shrug.)

...You don't watch Dr. Phil, do you?

Nooo. I have a strict policy of no TV if it's daylight outside....Unless it's football. Or sports in general.

Hmm.

In fact, I have a really hot date tonight. With my Lakers.

He (skeptical look).

Me (going back to my workout).

In the context of my four-weeks away graduation date (lots and lots of exclamation points here)...playing hooky to go to San Francisco to watch a soft-porn Frenchie movie and then drink mucho vodka necessitates the cancellation of my Beverly Hills hair appointment on this Saturday afternoon.

What playing hooky does is require hours and hours spent indoors over the last two beautiful days, glued to my laptop.

It's okay. It's good, in fact. Fantastic, even.

I love my project and the sunny sky out the window to the right of me and the stuff I've tacked up on the wall in front of me.

I love love. And I don't mean Mr. Love--although I do love him too. I'm just happy, doing homework on a Saturday afternoon.

Happy because any moment now I'm going to stop. And watch THE LAKER GAME.

(Duh, I would have had to cancel my fancy hair appointment anyway because it was during THE LAKER GAME.)

I played hooky and took advantage of free vip tkts for the opening night festivities of the San Francisco International Film Fest.

Highly appropriate for a graduating senior who is a few weeks behind on her thesis.

Oh Asia Argento, how deliciously you lap-up the blood pouring out of the chest of your wounded lover. 

Hmm...did lower back/buttocks tattoos exist in the early 1800's? And boob jobs? No matter, the effed up, crooked teeth looked very authentic.

The Last Mistress, according to a woman being interviewed outside the Castro after the screening, is "Very French." Oui, oui. 

The lesson learned: The non-aristocratics are better (albeit more, uh, complex) lovers than the bourgeoisies.

As for later, well there is really nothing wrong with Grey Goose being a party sponsor.

Do you want to come over and watch the Laker game with me on the big fancy television?

It'll be fun, fun. 

Surround sound and high def and I don't have any beer, but there is bottle of rosé in the frig and I could make a little deli plate. Including those beautiful little radishes I bought at Whole Foods.

Radishes and butter and salt. Yum.

And at the time outs (because you know that other team is so going to be panicky) I can tell you all about my doctor's appointment today.

I'll tell you how I was waiting for the doctor in the exam room and the phone started ringing. After maybe fifteen rings I couldn't take the noise and I answered it.

I say, "Hello?" and this woman with Brit accent says, "Yes, this is Dr. Stevens, I was paged."

I say, "Um, I'm a patient. I just answered the phone because it wouldn't stop ringing."

"Come agian?" she says, so I say it again and there is a longish pause and I say, "I think I'm YOUR patient."

"Oh, right...I will see you shortly."

Mmmm. That was weird.

My root-job timing is way off.

Saturday afternoon I see Richard at Umberto in B.H., about three weeks overdue. Dishwater-ish at the moment.

My sparkley personality totally overshadows the bad roots, I'm sure.

The thing is, I have a very important graduation event in, what, four weeks? Five weeks? This means that I may have to see Richard again before this event, even though it will be too early. Too early, but there will be hints of something dark-ish around my hairline which will not do under that rented cap I'll be wearing for the occasion.

So complex, being a bottle blonde.

This isn't an endorsement for anyone other than Will Norton: please vote for my talented friend's "Obama in 30 Seconds" ad.

Watch the entire 26 seconds of the ad. When it is finished, enter your name and email info. So easy.

(And if you're a Clinton supporter, just swallow your pride and smile knowing she won Pennsylvania tonight. And if you're an Obama supporter it's a bonus. And remember that you will be voting for whomever is the Democratic nominee for president. And if you're a McCain supporter, please stop reading my blog immediately.)

Last night Greg insisted that women on the Westside (west-side? West side? westside?) are no longer going crazy with the Botox and that "filler stuff."

Really, they're not.

Except for the lips. He conceded that the lips were still looking too plump.

He says what's happening is that they are forgoing all that plastic surgery and injection stuff. What they're doing is turning themselves into professional athletes.

That's what Greg says.

He also says they "Look Amazing."

I let him know that my next Botox appointment was in two weeks.

I love Greg like I love almost anything that sits in outside and rusts and patinas. That's how much.

And I realized last night that I've known Greg longer than anyone I still know. It's true. It's been since I was eighteen and had a fake i.d. and went and saw his band play at Berkeley Square.

That's how long.

It's a big jump from a gig at a smelly club to a mansion in Brentwood. (That would be his mansion, not mine.) A big jump and a lot of years.

Oh my god, yesterday something terrible happened in my non-mansion and the suddenly there was water everywhere where it shouldn't be. Plumbers on the weekend are expensive. I showered at the gym.

Twenty-two is the number of push-ups today.
Nine is the number of class sessions left in the semester.
Three is the number of hours it took to write two paragraphs for my thirty-five page paper.
Four is the number Aleve I'm suppose to take in a day (excessive?) to be supplemented with six Tylenol (really excessive?) which I hope to no longer need to do in five days when I will have who knows how much fluid drained from my knee.
A bad ending to a nice list of numbers. 

I'm just counting.

I love typing numbers in the complete opposite way I feel about calculus. 

Four is the number of days until my one hour pre-test tutoring session with the adorable, the seemingly indefatigable, two broken fingers on his left hand, skateboarder, math genius, Mr. Love.

It's also four days until the test.

The best Mr. Love moment during our last session on Thursday eve was his confession that he had stayed out too late the night before. There had been a Physics Club Meeting slash Pizza Party and that had then led to beers and shots at a nearby bar. A certain bar of ill-repute, no less. Makes me giggle just thinking about it. 

(If only it made me want to study calculus.)

Is there a gift registry for this lovely bird, my true Object of Desire?

Oh sure, maybe I'm just a little bit competitive.

My last count of (slow and steady, perfect form, all-in-one-set) push ups is twenty-three. That was Sunday afternoon, before I acted like a crazy person at the bbq.

(I think I did some pilates in front of that late night bonfire too?--So really it was like a two workout day. Awesome.)

I don't have a number in mind for a push-up goal. Because I'm stupid competitive but not very goal oriented. I've decided to always do the same as before, or better. No back sliding, no, no, no.

Okay, this is Gigantic Research Paper avoidance. So I'm going to shut up and start typing it. Already.

Before class today I spent forty-five long, long minutes with my math tutor, the young Mr. Love. We got through eight or nine calculus problems with the help of his patient prods and pokes. What torture it must be. Lots of pencil chewing and erasing and groaning on my part. Gentle, kind pushes on his. 

We have another session Thursday eve and then Tuesday afternoon--right before my big test.

Now, I'm no math expert, but I'm thinking if I got nine out of thirty on the first of three tests that I probably have to ace the other two in order to pass the class. Mr. Love, Mr. Love. 

I spent most of my day on this couch instead of on this laptop. Five weeks left and I spent this sunny day on this couch. Man.

Still it was not a day without accomplishments. Today's crossword has been completed.

Fifty-eight across: Metallic element's obstacle? "ALUMINUMFOIL." Hilarious?

I also did some reading. Read the wrong short story for the person who has a lot of things to accomplish but plays hokey on the couch instead. The wrong and the right and a beautiful sad ugly short story: "The Lie." 

Other activities of the day included head-shaking and muttering of Oh no as a result of flashes of remembrance of doing things like back bends by the light of a dangerous roaring outdoor fire pit with a Christmas tree trunk sticking out of it on the lawn of a friend's rented house. And: My god, did I really SAY THAT to that person.

This morning my hair smelled smoky and I had dirt under my fingernails.

I grabbed the paper, The New Yorker, a big glass of water and went straight to the couch

My school project has a posse, er, blog...

And suddenly it's summer.

I saw a woman riding a bicycle in a bikini which is totally fine and makes sense if you're near the ocean or in the suburbs are something. But I wasn't.

Did I just look at the calendar correctly and it says April twelve and that means I have Holy Crap five weeks of school left?

My thesis project is rocking--the project part, that is. The paper part, not so much. Oh man, I need to spend this gorgeous, kind of fuzzy of a morning writing and writing and whining about it.

When my Allegra D Rx has a warning label that says "DO NOT DRINK alcoholic beverages when taking this medicine"--and, by the way, I am really enjoying that only the first three words are in all caps--when I am warned as such that doesn't mean the Champagne and Chablis and gin gimlet I had last night should stop me from taking the meds.

Right?

It just means that I shouldn't have a shot of tequila when taking it this morning.

Right? I'm so sneezy.

Drappier, Billaud-Simon, and Bombay are the brands of the beverages mentioned above, for those who care about such things. 1999 Drappier, no less. Fantastic. Call K+L and see if they can get you some.

Today I met with the miracle man--the wonder man-- the man who is going to (what, what)...ensure that I graduate.

His last name is Love. Could that be more perfect...

...introducing my new calculus tutor, Mr. Love.

And I do love him.

Already. Even though we only just met and no tutoring has begun.

I love him because I believe that he believes in me; he believes that I can pass. "We can do this," he declared.

That's right, I can get beyond the nine out of thirty test score. I can, I can.

Hooray for Mr. Love, my young and cute and earnest math-loving tutor man.

I did a damn poor job of taking the picture I always take when walking around Chelsea. It's in the reflection of that window two doors down from Comme des Garçon on 26th Street.

I was rushed. I had a train to Rhode Island to catch.

Better versions include me with short-ish and dark-ish hair with the reason why I went to Rhode Island two weeks ago:

And me and EB (whom I just ran into yesterday looking beautiful and with baby number two on the way).

Oh my god, don't worry, shut up, it's not pictures of my uterus...it's my knee. M.R.I.s don't' scan worth (bad word).

Those white parts are so (bad words).

Today's visit to the Ortho means in few days I'll be getting an intense, anesthesia-dosed drainage. Then it will be weekly shots of Hyalgan (made from rooster bits, yuk).

The good news is that the handsome doctor says I can still gym-er-cise. But no squats. (I'll miss doing them---and I don't think I'll be the only one.)

In a few weeks I'll do physical therapy (again, again).

Relief should be on its way? The alternative is (lots of bad words) surgery that I just don't want to endure (again, again).

The handsome doctor said, "(mild bad word) your knee."

This may be the only time in my life I wish I was old so I could get the (bad word) thing (knee) replaced.

No. Not really--not the older part.

But I really do want a new knee.

Okay, I've figured out what I want to do this summer. And since there is a loft sitting gig in Chelsea the first two weeks of June and this is going on in July, the summer is all about two months in New York. Oh sure. Can I bring my aging pit bull with me, I wonder?

Hmm. My interest is wanning.

I'm having pleasant memories of last Friday night wherein I had dinner solo at the bar of Gramercy Tavern, post the LA ART in New York show at the Altman Building. 

Delicious and delightful and packed with young-ish, yuppie-ish urbanites loosening their ties and lips at the end of the week.

Three women showed up after a dinner at Per Se and huddled near me in an effort to get Jeremy-the-bartender-with-white-rimmed-glasses-and-visible-tattoos' attention. They were looking to order a round of vodka and hoping to get my help.

We made chit-chat and had a cheers when the drinks finally arrived.

One of the women keeps staring and finally she says, "Okay, I'm just going to say it because you must get this all the time. Right?"

I have no idea what she is about to say, so I just smile, nod, etc.

She continues, "I mean...you look just like Scarlett Johansson."

Oh my god, did I mention I am in love with this drunk stranger? And I don't usually think about women that way.

(Although, I think I may love Natalie too. Hubba, hubba.)

Okay, it does occasionally happen.

But always by people I pay money to. Like my hairdresser or facialist or the Trader Joe's check-out guy.

But I'll take it. Thank you (drunk lady who just had a four hour dinner at Per Se).

I'm totally wearing my hair slicked back tonight.

Like, Whoa. Twenty years, are you sure? No, no, no.

My old high school is looking for me--the one I graduated from, that is.

I'm on the "Missing Persons!" list.

Um, Really, I wish I could attend the big event (a cash bar is so ugh), but it's the same weekend as my college graduation party (an open bar is so key).

Who knew?

Or is it just as suspected?

Sex takes three to thirteen minutes.

Um, how does one follow such a statement. A declaration, really.

That's quite a spread.

The opening is May 1 and I am so trying to figure out how to be there. (As should you.)

I unpacked and opened envelopes and shuffled school books around today in an effort to get acclimated. Re-acclimated.

A new garden guy showed up this morning (yes, I answered the door bleary eyed and naked under my bathrobe). After a couple of hours of work he told me, "You have too many plants."

Around two I went to the gym after nearly a week away. I'm driving there thinking, Does all that hoofing it around Manhattan count as exercise?

The (nice, cool, all around good) guy who likes the way I do squats (which is why he is nice, cool, all around good guy) was there. This sounds vaguely pornographic, but he invited me to do ab work with himself and his superwoman gym-mate. I declined.

Not because it was a weird invitation, but because they intimidate the hell out me, those two gym rats. Which was my reply, minus the hell part. And the gym rat part. 

Post workout, I went to Whole Foods to repopulate the frig and was carded over a bottle of Chapoutier rosé (it's really good, fyi--the Belleruche CdR--and I've always loved those Braille labels--and I always love getting carded).

When I got home I went across the street and paid the seventeen year old tomboy a chunk of change for picking me up at the airport last night in the wee hours. I think the drive home may have been terrifying, only I was so out of it that it didn't register.

Tomorrow afternoon it's back to class, beginning with worried, pleading looks in my calculus instructor's direction and then who knows, but anxiety is involved in my other class in the form of: Holy-crap-there-is-a-lot-left-to-do-in-eight-weeks.

 Welcome home. Eff, it was hard to get up this morning. But I'm smiling nonetheless; the big city afterglow.

Bye, bye beautiful big city.

I really wanted today to be a lazy, recuperation and continuation of break before class begins again tomorrow, but hmmm... may be a bit too irresponsible. Especially in the wake of doing ZILCH school work while away.

Delight or dread:

I can't decide if this makes me feel better/worse, good/bad, terrified/bored, elated/headachey.

Getting here, I had a connecting flight in Boston. I arrived at 7 ish, stumbled off the plane and suddenly there were a bunch of drunk middle aged men whooping and hollering and wearing funny blue plastic hats. I was just trying to get coffee and convince my body that it wasn't 4 a.m. and there they were, drinking beer and yelling at the t.v. It was the A's Red Sox game.

Mr. Morgan's library and the Michelangelo sketches on display are beautiful, but the real show is Mr. Piano's addition, isn't it. Breathtaking. When I get back to sunny California I'm totally redecorating to get that look. How does bamboo go with blue shag?

Today I'm spending the gray day looking at Mr. John's grays. Then tomorrow I'm getting a bus to Rhode Island, humming Blossom Dearie along the way.