Whoooooo are you? Who who who who?

Yesterday morning, at approximately 7am, I lost my mind.

To understand why, we'll need to go back a few hours...

3am: On the couch, staring at my computer, clicking from collection to glorious collection. A short visit to Style.com had landed me knee deep in Derek Lam. Swoon...


But as the cycle with any addiction goes, my high eventually faded into a low, and I turned my anger toward the small thighs that have attached themselves to my shoulders, masquerading as arms. I awoke four hours later to Paul nudging me:

"Hon, where's the mortgage application?"
"It's on the desk by my bag."
"No it's not. Can you help me look for it so I can send it in?"

BLINK.

Here's where Paco takes a paw and tosses his poo into the airstream of an industrial strength fan. Splaaaat!

Here's why:

On Tuesday I'd taken our mortgage application to the post office to have it weighed, so Paul could stamp it and send it to our broker. The application included our pay stubs, bank statements, mutual funds, credit card statements... our entire LIVES, essentially... and I realized at 7am the following morning that I'd LEFT IT on the COUNTER at the post office and walked out the door.

Big mistake. Huge.

7:52am: I ran to the post office before it even opened but, sure enough, nobody had found my envelope. The clever identity thief had swooped in and snatched up my trusty pile of papers—just like that!—and was probably over at Barneys. Mary Pat! Mary Kate! Mary Frances! Tova, let's see it! Get this bitch some new clothes!


You should have seen what an hysterical mess I was, walking home at 8am from the post office, crying and sniffling about the phone calls I was going to have to make to cancel my world. All because I'd been so overtired and overworked.

My thoughts ran rampant.

With my identity stolen, perhaps I could reinvent myself, Chad (Johnson) Ocho Cinco style. Bee Perra-Pierde Mi Número has a nice ring to it, no?* Or maybe we'd relocate to France. La Petite Abeille! Russian Bee is so covert and sexy. маленькая пчела. Naturally, Paul would change his identity to Boris.

Of course, none of these scenarios happened. Instead, I came home, reached for my fuzzy sweatpants, and readied myself to call the bank. And there, right there on top of the heaping mass in my closet, was a white, legal-size package, the one with all the contents of my life. Not at the post office, as I'd feared, but back at home. WHOOOT! Look at that! Apparently four hours of sleep per night can cause fatigue, anxiety, irritability, problems with memory, difficulty concentrating—yes, quite similar to an addiction. Miss Bee needs more sleep and less time on her computer.

And so I'm off! Off to the gym, to a walk with the doggies, and perhaps a mani/pedi. For you? A tiny taste. Just a little can't hurt...


*Translation: Bee Bitch-Lose My Number.
By now, you know where to find the good stuff. Derek and Oscar at Style.com.