I plunged my hands into a basket of bargain remnants at the Crate&Barrel Outlet this afternoon, pulling out oodles of treasures that sparked my imagination. I settled on four pieces (0.9 lbs @ $.95/lb)-- roughly two feet each-- of a bold, striped pattern of colors sure to pull together all of the mismatched furniture that has settled around my living room. After a trip further South to IKEA to pick up two square pillows (2 Granat @ $4.95/each), I returned home with a burning desire to design and invent and create. Without a pattern, without a tape measure or fabric chalk, with minimal pins and very dull scissors, it took a little under an hour to produce these lovely and daring shams for my new throw pillows.

And now that those are out of the way, I can get on with drafting segment ideas for my new show on the Style channel.

Looking for a place to sit in Dupont Circle to enjoy our Larry's Homemade Ice Cream-- the adult kind, with real kahlua in the kahlua chocolate chunk, served by someone akin to the Seinfeld Soup Nazi-- I settled up to a green plastic chair isolated randomly on the sidewalk of Connecticut Avenue. Melica-- never one to be outdone-- walked along a little further, made a dash for the striped lawn chair sitting next to the "Palm Reading: $5" sign, and devised a plan where we would sit there and pretend to be the fortune tellers. It dissolved from there-- laughter, outrageous consequences documented in our imaginations, and a few strange looks from passersby.

Typical Friday night antics-- and I'm home before midnight.

Currently my pupils are the size of saucers-- deep black pools that remind me of the Doppelganger-vampire version of Willow. But I'll take the numbing eye drops over that jet stream of air in the eyeball any day.

I picked out my new glasses with the necessary stronger prescription-- probably due to the very thing I'm doing right now-- making the poor salesclerk take out 3,592 frames from the case and then wait patiently as I tried each of them on, shriveled up my nose, and then asked for another pair. I tried those thick, nerdy-but-trendy ones, but they just weren't me. And I didn't believe that I would ever get over the fact that everything in life would suddenly be framed by thick, black plastic. And it seemed every other frame was purple. What's up with purple? As far as I could tell, purple is the new tortoise. Even the frames I decided on-- a heart-shaped, wiry, dark titanium gray version-- suddenly looked purple when they were held the right way in the right light.

But regardless of the fact that they are not-exactly-trendy, somewhat purple, and came with a daunting price tag, I'm looking forward to next Friday-- the day everything becomes clear.

Right now it helps for my mind to think inside of lists-- a steady stream of a zillion things that will keep me moving in a direction that doesn't involve curling up in the fetal position on top of my cloud white duvet. Last night I began writing them down in an email to my mom.

I want to write more. I need to make a dentist appointment. I want to save my pennies for a return trip to Paris. I want a new hair style. I need to get new glasses. I want to visit Mount Vernon. I want to spend a day in the National Building Museum. I need to visit the gym regularly and make healthy, creative meals. I want to start getting up earlier and listening to NPR's Morning Edition. I want to learn more about architecture. I want to start keeping a diary regularly. I'd like to learn French. I want to try to publish an article in a magazine. I want to make pillow cases with little Eiffel Towers on them. I want to read a book of essays on literature by Vivian Gornick. I want to visit the Library of Congress. I need to write Jay a letter. I want to capture in a bottle that blissful feeling of sun shining over clean, white cotton that I possess upon waking up every morning.

Because once I'm fully awake, I remember. And just like that, it all seems for naught.

It's dark and it's raining. There's lemon pesto kasha and whole wheat pasta in my bowl-- dwindling as we speak. I'm listening to The Montgolfier Brothers because it's the kind of music that sounds a little slow, extremely rich, and painfully sad-- a musical score for what's churning inside. I'm feeling those empty, tired, overwhelmed feelings that you feel when you're desperately trying to figure out the right thing to do and do that thing, even though it hurts like hell and there are moments when the feelings of loss and fear swallow you whole. And then at the same time I'm masking it with that brave, productive face where you make a healthy dinner, clean out the art bins in your closet, and post to your web site, if only to keep occupied and normal-feeling.

It's that kind of night.