lucky you, lucky me.

It's Friday.
Here's what I want to cover in today's edition:

Croissants
Dreams
Politics
Zee French
Glam-Fucking-Rock
Pills

Let's see if I can't tie this all together, shall we? Like a literary Houdini?

Ok- so I had a crazy dream last night that involved two ex-boyfriends i'm not terribly fond of, one of my oldest and dearest friends, a cushy house in Florida that she and I lived in, and the government crashing rockets into our expansive and handsomely groomed front lawn.

So there I am, waking up just minutes before I have to head out the door for work, thinking, what the hell was that? because I so rarely have memorable dreams.
I start to go through the inventory:
Did I eat something strange before bed?
Did I go to sleep with an emotional disturbance?
Did I snort a bunch of coke before tucking in?
No.
No.
No.
Did I take my pill yesterday?
No!

There it is.

Now you men might not be aware of this but that little pill we dames take to keep from getting knocked up is powerful shit. Any inconsistencies in our consumption of that potent beauty can make us seriously loopy, or at least make me seriously loopy, which, admittedly, is not hard to do.
I'm loopy by nature.

So anyway, that explains the crazy dreams, but more than that, it raises the question: Why is I still poppin?
This being my first legitimate break from relationships/casual encounters (put politely. I am nothing if not polite and refined) in three years, now seems the opportune time to take a break from zee pill (little foreshadowing there. did ya catch it?).

The jury was out but they're back now and the verdict is in- No more pill.

I say this just so if I have a few meltdowns in the next couple days as my body reacclimates to its natural, non-hormonally doped up state, you know the reason.

Which brings me to croissants.
Is it really so much to ask to find a good one? One in which the dough is baked for the proper time, at the proper temperature, to ensure an even, light, and flaky consistency?
A croissant is not meant to be bread rolled into a pretty shape.
It is specially constituted by elaborate and intricately proportioned components that make for a uniquely defined delicacy that is decidedly not bread.
This morning, as I went out of my way to celebrate (for no good reason) the independence of France (Bastille Day, July 14), all I wanted was to sit down to a nice croissant and do my part to commemorate this momentous event.
Yet again, all my hopes- dashed.

Tonight, however, I plan to make up for the incompetence of bakers nation wide by celebrating my inner French girl in style.
The glam-fucking-rock band, Rene Risque and the Art Lovers, is playing a Bastille Day themed show and I intend to be there; decked out in glitter, heels, and little else, shouting lewd French-isms at any foreigner who dares question my fake patriotism.


Did you notice there was no mention of politics?
You're welcome.

Have an drupaceous (:of or relating to a drupe. no, it doesn't make sense, but i can't get the damn word out of my head) weekend.

VIVE LA FRANCE!!! my french legionnaires: dido, arnot, and the boys. thanks pops.