Where the hell I've been, part deux, and how to make something not at all about me...all about me

You'll all be thrilled to know I am no longer crying on the toilet. I did cry for about 1.5 seconds in the car today, because I was pissed at the H for not agreeing to help me, once and for all, resolve the hideous car registration drama--this would have required him to stop what he was doing and immediately get to the Hudson, NY DMV. I can't blame him for not wanting to go, but let's just say I've been trying to get this onerous errand off my mind and my phantasmic to-do list for some time now. The good vehicular news is that the lovely magistrate in Massachusetts dropped, all, yes ALL of the charges (speeding, driving without insurance--a criminal charge, mind you--and driving without registration) levied by the Psycho Cop. Actually, that's great news, and as the friendly, sardonic judge said to me at the time, "Merry Christmas." Couldn't agree more. But the cars still don't have their NY state plates or registrations, which makes me terrified/unwilling to drive my new car anywhere but in my own driveway. Not so efficient, except that the H has been on house arrest for two months trying to finish a script, and now has 30 pages of the next one due in two weeks. Fun times, but his incarceration means I get to drive his Prius. Ah, but wait....there's more.

It's not all gloom and doom for Mr. H-'o-mine. I'm outing us, right now, because I want all of you to go to the movie theater next weekend, and buy tickets to his first produced film. (He's been produced, beautifully, award-nominated-and-winning-ly, for television, but the holy grail for any screenwriter is a film: most screenwriters, like most actors, toil in inglorious, unseen dungeons of despair and rejection for years and years. I'm not kidding.) All that pain, suffering (his, and, let's be honest, anyone who knows us will confirm this, mine) was assuaged on Wednesday night, at the film's fancy New York premiere.

Buy tickets, please, and tell me what you think. Since the film is, as all films are, somewhat different from his original scripts, fire away with your honest criticisms.

Oh, and in case you're wondering the really important stuff, I wore this. Brown, not grey, and it's a much prettier color than the picture shows. I know, I know. In my defense, the only other times I've worn anything this expensive were 1. my wedding and 2. the Emmys, when the H was nominated. I think the occasion demanded it, and the dress is, I must say, way better than it looks in the picture.