Seems I've been so absorbed in getting what is known as final client approval on some layouts of boots, that I really havent taken notice of much around Manhattan lately.

Take for example: the Morning Mudd truck that I pass every morning on my way to work. Its an orange boxy bus that is parked right on Astor Place, directly opposite the uptown enterance to the 6 train. After another marathon day/night work day, I slept in a little, and sauntered over to the truck for my first-ever cup of Mudd coffee. What a treat! Everyone is happy there in Muddsville-- on the service window sat a vase of tulips. Bob Dylan tunes were cranked out. I didn't mind at all the wait standing behind a short line of East Village hipsters. But the best part? Being greeted by Mister Mudd behind the window. Woosh. If you can, run, don't walk on over-- you'll have a spark in your step on your morning commute. What boot? What client? Thank you, Mudd.

It just dawned on me that my hair looks like the mom on 7th Heaven. Not good. Not good at all. Mom. 7th Heaven. Something must change.

On hair: I would like to hear hairdresser-mistake tales. You know its happened to probably every one of them, like they weren't really paying attention, or slipped or something. Ha! Like, having to "even out" a mishap, or the color alarmingly bad. "Good luck with your date!"

After a long week including one 17 hour workday, I decided to step out last night with some girlfriends. Nothing quite like a good ol' fashioned girly throw-down covering all topics, no kidding, ranging from politics to a set of footless control-top stockings called SPANX.

I came home at midnight and packed for a weekend excursion, prancing glibly around my teensy wedgy apartment. I have no idea what I packed. In fact, I am even afraid to open this bag at my feet. I have a feeling I will be stepping out tonight in a shower cap and SPANX. Or a Halloween mask and a grass skirt. I almost can't wait.

I have no sense of humor. I work. I run in circles and make lists.

Something now just struck me as funny, though. In fact, I made myself bust out laughing and my young, hepkat neighbor just muttered "...ok, freak."

Those nasty "hair" dolls little girls used to play with. There was Baby Crissy, with her pony tail that could crank out of the top of her head-- a big pink plastic button somewhere on her scalp could be forced down with one hand, and then with the other one could crank up a nasty long ponytail. It would make a wierd grinding, ripping noise, and Crissy's hairs would get caught all around the ponytail-hole. Tuesday Taylor, I believe, was nothing but a big head, no body, that was placed on the floor and you could twist her scalp to the right for blond and the opposite direction for brunette. I believe they came with curlers and things. Inevitably, the hair dolls would end up ignored, somewhere on the floor with frizzy, fried and cut hairs, and for some reason always with pen all over the face. Creepy.

Bzzzzfft. Can not get back in the swing of things. Care not to be pithy, care not be action-manhattan-girl, care not to... well, just sort of care not.

One thing is entertaining me wildly today. I keep insisting that Whitney incorprate the term "buns" at least once in each work dialogue. Oh, that sends me. Who uses the term anymore, anyway? Nice bunz! So far, she has wowed me with the use of Bunzstatic, Bunzilicious, and then when something didn't go right, she threw out a "case of the Burnt Bunz".

Ahhhhh. I will continue to dream up varieties of bunz for the rest of the day.