Pretend I'm in Mexico.

Hi people. I fell down again. Honest to Smoking Baby, I fell down. Again.

This is my knee:I was walking home from my Al-Anon meeting and I stepped on one of those plastic folder things you put in a Trapper Keeper. It was just like the skating incident but slalom. A nice boy poked his head out of the bodega door to ask, "Lady. Are you okay?" (Fucker. It was like when I went back to Italy and the waiter called me Signora instead of Signorina.) The three kids behind me giggled for about three blocks. Not the point of the story. Just thought you'd like to know.

So. I get home tonight (with my broken head, ass and knee, in order of altitude) and I'm in a pensive mood. A and V left today after a four day visit. We spent almost the entire time not speaking about Mom, except for E's occasional slip up about something crazy Mom did or how we had a wacko family or something. Something about V makes you forget that she's a kid. She's acts as if she's much more mature emotionally than she is and you start to talk around her as if she's an adult. Then there are times when you're talking to her about how crazy things have been lately and she'll break your heart with, "Oh, I'm so used to it by now. I've seen it all."

Sorry. Is that too sullen a thought? I had a friend tell me recently that my blog was too heavy for him. (But without the hip verbiage.) I can't help it. And I don't think of my stories as sullen or morose. It's just what's going on.

Anyway, I came home tonight after my meeting and I asked E for a night alone. I assured her that it was only because I just needed to process some stuff on my own and I took off. (It's my first time ever asking for some space in the five years we've been together. I am learning so much!)

"Pretend I'm in Mexico. I'll see you later."
"Okay! I'll watch the L Word."

I do have to admit, I was disappointed in her lack of disapointment.

Anyway. I grabbed a bottle of wine, my laptop and I headed for the loft. I'm at the end of this seven-engine train of family shit and I'm tired. I have gotten through the intervention and the sister visit. I just left an eye opening Al-Anon meeting and I wanna just be alone. With all of you.

You know. I'm writing down all of this stuff you're reading, and I recognize that when I post here, I'm not making a journal entry. I truly know that I'm writing for an audience (of millions), but there's still this sense of anonymity that comes from the fact that instead of speaking, I am typing. And it is more anonymous than physically writing because you hit save or send and it's over. There's nothing tangible left over to prove it ever happened. And there's something about that that allows me to write freely about things I would usually never broadcast. Especially considering the fact that there are already members of my family reading on a regular basis, and as soon as that Oprah deal comes through (Oprah, can you hear me? Oprah, can you feel me in the night?), Mom will find out (if not earlier) and there's a part of me that is terrified of that. But there's also a part of me that feels that, as Dr. Drew said on Celebrity Rehab, "You are only as sick as your secrets." And, my people, I am tired of being sick. When I was in Georgia for the latest drama, I opened to my Mom up about things I've never confronted her on ... and in front of her brother.
It rocked.

Mom later told me, "I remember what you said in the hospital. I can't believe you would talk to me like that. And in front of B. I am so embarassed." I, enlightened Princess that I am, replied, "I am sorry that I hurt your feelings, but that doesn't mean what I said wasn't true."

Right on, Princess.

People, I am taking care of myself these days. And, to be honest, it's a fucking chore. Not only do I have a lot of family baggage to deal with, I am unpracticed at self-love ... however. Watch out! I'm on a crash-course and it's only a matter of time before I'm writing (and performing) cheers for myself.

So, thanks for reading. And, to those friends of mine who are only finding out what's happening to me through the blog although you've called and written, I'm sorry. I'm a little overwhelmed right now but am working it out. I'll holla at ya when I'll be more fun to talk to. (Or when I get the cheers ready ... Guh-oooohhh PRINCESS!)

Is 420 Everyone's Favorite Number?

Princess here. I made a real moron move this morning which inspired my friend HRH (Her Royal Highness, for those of you not in the know), and I to start a blog. We felt that others might enjoy reading about our frequent and consistent dumbass moves. HRH and I are very entertained by ourselves, so maybe you will find us equally entertaining.

So, here's what I did. Each morning I go to Equinox in Brooklyn to drop my gym stuff off. This serves a dual purpose. 1 - I don't have to schlep my stuff to the office with me, and 2 - having my stuff at the gym forces me to return later in the evening no matter how I'm feeling. And, once I'm at the gym, I might as well work out.

Right? It's like I'm tricking myself into being motivated. Like when you set your clock ahead by 5 minutes.

Anyway. This morning when I get to the locker room, I notice that HRH has already claimed my favorite locker. Of course, I know her combination, so I open the locker, throw my bag in, close it up and head to work.

At work I send HRH an IM ... "Who said you could take my locker?" HRH replies, "Pardon?" This turns into a 5 minute conversation involving a lot of, "Seriously? That wasn't your stuff?" "Yes, seriously. My stuff is next to me." "Shit. Shit. Shit. I love that bag."

I call the gym and sheepishly tell the guy at the reception desk what I've done. He replies, "Thanks for that story. I needed it. What's your name?"

So, now, I am certain that this guy is spreading my story all over the gym and has probably flagged my membership so that when I sign in from now on, all Equinox employees will giggle at my stupidity.

But, here's the thing. HRH has a unique lock. It's not the standard 2 or 3 locks you see in the gym. And the combination is chosen and set by the owner of the lock. What is the likelihood of someone having the same exact lock with the same exact combination -- not to mention that it was on my favorite locker? Seriously people.

For the woman who found an adorable blue gym bag in her locker today, I am sorry. I suggest you change your combination to something that is not used by every potheaded gym rat on the planet. Also, please do not steal my blue bag.

For the gym guy, thank you for holding your laughter until you got off the phone.