I'm supposed to be writing a column right now for a writer's association newsletter. But am I? No, clearly not because I have absolutely no idea what to say. You'd think I could dig up some sort of scintillating advice, right? I am the president of the darn thing. But no. No advice today. Sorry. And does it need to be advice even? It's my column, has my picture on it and everything. Maybe I could just publish funny stories about the time I got lost in the grocery store stockroom. Who's going to stop me?

Usually, I just write about whatever happens to float through my mind that day, which is pretty much how all words get down on paper around here. But none of it seems particularly writer-ly, you know?

Right now, for example I'm trying to figure out when I should make my next hair appointment. Highlights are expensive, and we are in a recession. So when exactly do you go from thrifty to oh-my-God-did-you-see-her-roots? Inquiring minds want to know. At what point does what is growing out of my head become tacky?

Also, what the hell is tattooed on the inside of Angelina Jolie's thigh? I shouldn't care, but I do. None of my business, but there it is in my Vanity Fair except I can't read the darn thing, and it bugs me. A magnifying glass doesn't help. I tried it.

And while we're on the subject of thighs, there's a colony of wasps building a nest outside my window. I should probably call someone about that, right? It's just that I'm three stories up, and it's a sheer drop to the ground under the nest. Some exterminator guy is going to have a heck of a time. So I suppose I'm just waiting until the nest reaches epic, monster movie proportions, and we all have to flee before Will Smith in a muscle shirt comes in to save the day.

See what I mean? Not writer-ly, not writer-ly at all. But if you find out about the tattoo, call me.