Welcome to my jaundice. I think you're gonna like it!

Not really. I don't even like it, although I have been cultivating it like a prize orchid since Friday. That's going on three full days of moping, which is hardly a record, but which is also not a lot of fun.

I'm not actually jaundiced, like, fainting around with a liver full of toxins--I'm just feeling blah, sub-grouchy, and irritable. Like PMS, only sans the bloat. It's so fun--I take back when I said it wasn't fun.

I did make a couple of attempts to combat the jaundice over the weekend. I went on an indigo kick, and I do not mean Indigo Girls. I mean, the color indigo. It's my new thing, my previous thing having been an affection for red coral that failed to pan out. But indigo: I'm all over it. And, spectrum-wise, indigo pretty much opposes yellow, give or take a degree, so I thought it might help. In that spirit, here is what I bought:

• Indigo pants with tiny, indigo micro-rhinestones of insanity sprawled out over one thigh like buckshot in a flesh wound.


• Two identical indigo cable-knit sweaters, because I am deranged. Maybe I can wear them both at once. They're different sizes.


• Extremely practical high-heeled indigo-and-gold striped satin espadrilles, HIGHLY suited to life on a boat, especially when it will most likely rain for the next two months. (But they were perfect with the pants of insanity.)


• Two barrettes decorated with indigo enameled flowers and rhinestones, what is with the rhinestones, what am I, an Olsen twin, circa 1989? I am losing it. But they're so cute!


• Indigo sheets, because it is obviously crucial that I must be surrounded with indigo even when I am asleep.


• Two other pairs of shoes, both thoroughly impractical and GREAT. (But not indigo.)


• And the thing that actually overdrew my checking account: a beautiful Italian leather handbag, black on the outside, indigo on the inside.

Since I'm in a jaundiced mood, despite the indigo, I'll just mention that once previously when I reported a shopping list of mine, a very nasty and stalkery blogger wrote a snide and condescending entry in oblique reference to mine, stating that his journal was superior because it was "concise," and that Unnamed Writers who blather about shopping lists should reconsider their motives for starting a journal in the first place. (Because we have, apparently, an obligation to entertain creepy stalker bloggers with nude pictures of ourselves--his favorites list seemed to bear out that reasoning.)

Anyway.

I also went to Big Chain bookstore in an attempt to amuse myself, partially successful, where I was drawn to a book called "Ill Equipped for a Life of Sex," not only for its obviously relevant-to-me title, but for the candy pictured on the cover. I bought it, but now I am starting to hate it. I read it at the laundromat yesterday, and started out amused: she talks about her terrible sex life, and how she's all neurotic and goes to art school, and is very frank and self-effacing in a humorous way. At least, it was humorous until page 85, when she casually described her desire to own an SUV despite the fact that she was a starving artist whose parents paid her bills. So, she manipulated her parents and grandparents into buying her a brand-new SUV. That part made me thoroughly dislike her. I can't feel sympathy on her terrible (if amusing) sex life if she's just going to turn around and brag about being a spoiled brat.

I think the main reason I bought the book is that it didn't feature a picture of a woman cut off at the neck, or just above the chin. I am tired of that design concept.

See what I mean, with the jaundice?

Star of the day. . .George Clooney