27 March 1995
Teresa is etch-a-sketching. The cats are back from their flea dip. I am doing a mud mask. How are you?
When we were putting the cats in the car after their shots and flea dip, they were both yowling forlornly, and Teresa said, “Yes, Kitty Cats, that’s right. Auntie Kate brought the fleas from Oakland. This is all her fault.”
I haven’t found a job. We met Beth for breakfast, and afterward we went shopping and I tried on a bunch of clothes and bought none. This left me exhausted, but I picked up two applications to fill out later. Back home I called a bunch of places from the classified ads, left messages mostly, and then left the house only to discover upon returning that I’d somehow knocked the phone off the hook.
During breakfast, Teresa called me “my little Pork.”
Here we are at the Whatever-eth Annual Academy Awards. Someone is singing a song. David Letterman’s tux is single-breasted, and I am eating cereal. Teresa is in the shower. Best Original Song nominations are a must-miss apparently. Here’s Oprah Winfrey in a large brown gown. I need more cereal—too much milk. Quincy Jones is giving a speech. Teresa just sat down.
“Quincy Jones! God!” Then a loud burp. Then a glance at me. “You’re going to write that aren’t you?” Now she is snoring at what we hope is the end of Quincy Jones’s speech. Commercial. Thank god.
Now five guys in tuxes are walking up to accept a technical something award. One of them is on crutches.
“Oh, fuck five, of them,” said Teresa, “And one of them’s a gimp.” Speeches and thanks from each. Why are we doing this? More song nominations. I’m going to go floss.
Another fucking song. Elton John. Teresa is working the remote control. Ah. The History Channel.
Now there’s a tribute award for all the Hollywood Greats who kicked this past year. “They’re Talented, they’re Timeless, they’re Legends…”
“And they’re Dead!” said Teresa.
 Note added 2013: Or maybe the cats were sabotaging me.