I Have No Ideas and Nothing Interesting To Say

This title is from one of my favorite lines from Annie Hall, when Alvy asks this couple on the street how it is they seem like such a happy couple. And the girl replies, “Uh, I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.” And her handsome beauhunk echoes her, “And I’m exactly the same way.”

Apparently, that strategy is working out for me, too.

I had a few ideas about what I might write about today, all of which I rejected as ridiculous or worse — BORING. The rejects:

1. Why I love that headbands are back in. Thank you, Savior of Bad Hair Days. Or, more apt, Enabler of Not Showering.


2. How law school has turned me into some kind of Inquisitioner. I may actually explain my theory about this later.


3. What I did this weekend. Namely, almost nothing. I was vaguely sick and precisely grumpy.


4. Why I think it’s messed up that there is a new TV show called “Miracle Workers.” Should EVERYONE be entitled to that level of care, not just those featured on TV?


5. My nuanced, ever-evolving feelings about “The Bachelor.” A decidedly un-nuanced, dead-end show.

Anyway. Paris is THREE WEEKS AWAY. And I have not begun to outline for finals, and I have four in a row, three closed book. And I have not yet re-mastered French. And my mother has called me every three days for the last two weeks to find out if I’ve mailed her a copy of my keys yet (I haven’t; I am horrible). Because, my mother? The kind of woman that drives 8 hours down to stay in my cramped little apartment for four days to take care of her (as she calls them) “grand-kitties.” I can just picture them (Mom, Fred, Ethel) all snockered out on my couch at four in the afternoon every day while I’m gone.

All I can hope is that Fred contains his 4 a.m. toe-biting and stomach-pouncing while I’m gone.

See? I told you. No ideas, nothing interesting to say.

C’est la vie.