Oh, Lordy.

Hung. Over.

As Mom would say, "There's a little blood in my alcohol system." Good ole Mom. Nothing beats that fart smeller joke, though.

Back in the day, I thought I was *immune* to the hang over. I believe I may even have said so. Out loud. Always a good idea to dare the Gods, I say (I say it quietly, because my head hurts).

So Friday night was dinner at Tea & Sympathy with The Editor. Comfy. Fun, even. We walked from there to Cones and from Cones to Tower. Stopped and looked through magazines and he walked me home. I'm pleased we're becoming friends.

Saturday, I met up with the Punk Geisha to do some shopping -- the high point of which was buying poison and mouse traps at K-mart. Oh yeah. Us Girls know how ta live.

Dinner at Dojo where we ran into Side Burns. He was weepy and the exchange was a bit awkward. I have zero talent for managing sappy boys.

Quick stop by Urban Outfitters hoping for something fun to wear to D's party. No score. Ended up buying this apron thing (Attempting to transform myself into one of those Girls Who Wears Skirts Over Pants, I ended up looking like Midge Your Waitress), Kustom Girl decals and a pink fake fur leopard print cigarette case. Yes, I am a bastion of good taste. Worship me.

D's party was a hit. Beautiful views and beautiful boys - oh my. And Carson Daly was there. Woo hoo. High points of the soiree included:

the arrival of Party Girl and H;

Pretty Boy screaming "Kelly Suuuuuuuuuuuuue! Come sit on my lap, honey!" from across the roof;

"Are those *Helmut Lang* jeans?";

showing my tacky tiger-striped and sparkly fingernails to Carson;

Mr. Prada (oh, my heart); and

the oh-so-ill-advised drunken phone calls.

What was I thinking?

Mr. Prada (Hello? Paul Smith jacket. Paul. Smith. God bless a man who can dress himself.) and the Punk Geisha walked me home to my absolute disaster area of an apartment. Which of course, my housemate, Tex Watson, stayed up until 6am cleaning this morning. All weekend, when friends were coming in and out, the place was condemnable. NOW it's clean. I shouldn't bitch, though, he did a truly amazing job.

Sunday brunch at Benny's Burritos (staring at graffiti that read, "asscancer") and a little window-shopping. Vaguely depressed, I treated myself to a single scoop of Ben & Jerry's Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz, which surely ought to be a controlled substance. Great for hangovers, depression and general malaise. Even better for a hangover, however, was that screwdriver that Dreamboat made me at 7B, where I met with Dark Spice to catch up on things. During the catching up, I got a page from a friend I'd apparently made plans with during one of those oh-so-ill-advised drunken phone calls. Oops. My bad.

From 7B to Liquids for Tony's Birthday. Spent some time chatting with the incomparable Elizabeth Ziff who looked radiant and waxed on eloquently about her new love and her new apartment. That Bitch.

Chatted a little with Joe of Lit Magazine, too, which delighted me of course. (He gave me his email address and drew a cute little picture in my book. I think I'm going to invite him to D's housewarming.)

Then, because I haven't a lick of sense, I thought it'd be a good idea to go out to Odessa. Meri was behind the bar and Soul Coughing was on the stereo. So Punk Geisha (She of the Infinite Stamina) and I were there until four. Good call.

Dinner tonight courtesy of the Hell-bound Jezebel. Which reminds me, I need to call William.