S&P On A Downgrading Roll.

Great Danes downgraded to Fair-to-Middling Danes

Best Western downgraded to If You Ask Me, It's Just Okay Western

Museum of Fine Arts downgraded to Museum of All Right Arts

Great Wall Of China downgraded to Extra-Long Rock

My Olive Loaf, Myself.

Every time I visit a farmers market, it gives me hope that I’m on the path to becoming The Person. The Person is that person who wakes up at 5 am every day to do yoga on the porch, the type of person who makes her own clothes and knows exactly how much sodium is in everything, ever, the type of person who’s dresser drawers are neatly organized by color and have little handmade scented sachets inside. Then I buy an olive loaf at the market, and have to literally beg myself not to eat the entire thing in one sitting. And I realize.

It's normal to have stabbing nightmares featuring prominent convicts at age 11, right?

When I was a kid I used to have this dream that Louise Woodward, dressed in a princess costume, came to my house and stabbed me.

The dream would start in true Elm Street fashion. I’d rise up in my top-bunk, in the dark, as if I was waking up for realsies (DO NOT BE FOOLED, AS I ALWAYS WAS, HOWEVER: I actually was dreaming). I’d look out my open bedroom door, and see a shadowy figure. With a delicate, pointy hat. I’d think, “whatever,” and start to climb down the cold metal bunk-bed ladder. I needed to go downstairs and get one slice of American cheese out of the refrigerator, obviously. I anxiously walked by the shadow, with the sort of butt-cheek-clenching tenseness you experience when you walk by an ex-boyfriend at a deli, hoping he won’t recognize you.

When I got to the kitchen, I’d see her again, this time slightly closer, but in the next room over. Louise was a much more Michellin Man-ified version of herself in my dream, and she loomed puffy in the dark. The sequins and tulle of her costume glinted in the moonlight. Her squidgy face leered at me like a rancid hunk of pizza dough. I’d think in my dream-mind, “boy, this is awkward. Just don’t look at her.” I’d slink away from the fridge and climb back into my top-bunk.

Eventually, Louise came to my bedside. Her dough-face would be inches away from mine. I’d feel her crumpet-scented breath on my cheek. (When I was a kid I thought British people’s diets consisted entirely of crumpets. Even though I had no idea what crumpets were.) I had no choice now, I had to look at her.

At the moment I turned to look, she’d stab me in the arm with a kitchen knife, plunging it into my arm in slow motion. I’d feel the knife go into my arm, but not in a painful way. More like in a “ew ew ew there’s a bug on me, get it off!” kind of way. But you know, with a knife.

Anyways. That’s basically how I feel about this whole Casey Anthony thing.

Oh and hey, Lionsgate Studios, you are welcome to contact me about optioning this story for a major motion picture. May I suggest “Hell-ma And Louise” as a potential title.

Catherine Greig’s Recent Tweets

In the market for some quality, itch-free wig adhesives. Money’s no object. Any suggestions?

Morning walk on the beach with BF. What a blessing that the cankle lipo left my feet completely numb... no icky feeling of sand between my toes.

BF feels distant. Sometimes I wish he could just talk to me, without worrying about where he’d bury my body later. #amirightladies?

Lobster rolls smell WONDERFUL, making me regret the tongue-reduction surgery that took my sense of taste!!

J/K it was worth it obviously ;).

Cheering up BF w/ a play list. So far I’ve got “White Christmas,” “White Wedding” — hint, hint ;) — and “Pretty Fly (For a White Guy)”...

Anyone know a good song about the sweet taste of revenge? Maybe a Sinatra B-side somewhere?

Getting distracted... anyone tried this new ribcage removal procedure I’m seeing all over the lipo blogs? It sounds WONDERFUL!!

At some museum with BF. Yawn. Fingers crossed I get a surprise ear-lobe-botoxing out of this...

Ever tried replacing your BF’s Cialis with baby aspirin? Secluded vacays are romantic, but I can hardly walk.

Looking for a reputable local dermatologist who takes cash. I am so over getting hounded by credit card companies... #goinggreen

BF came home from CVS with Clairol A134. How could he, when I’m clearly a Winter? Sometimes it’s like we don’t even know each other...

Missing all the salons I can no longer be seen at. #nostalgic

~*~If you want the rainbow, you gotta put up with the rain” Dolly Parton~*~ #truth

Won’t be tweeting so often :(. Any advice on what sort of makeup palate a Winter can wear with electric orange?

Things that still wouldn’t shock and disgust me more than the young, east-coast-raised, college-educated casual racist I’m sitting with at dinner.

A nearly dead squirrel, maimed by a truck on I-93, vomiting half-digested old diapers onto the gravel.

Sweaty jock straps full of rotten milk, covered in centipedes. Plus the centipedes are also vomiting.

Being trapped in a diving bell full of Rush Limbaugh’s farts.

Tucker Max dating a close friend.

Someone poking their own eyeball.