Merry Christmas

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...

Oh, excuse me! I didn't know you were here. I was just gazing outside at the winter wonderland that is currently Connecticut, humming Christmas carols about snowy landscapes. There are quite a few of them regardless that most of the country would disprove that claim come December 25th. And you know what else I experienced today that I've only heard of in a song before? Roasted chestnuts. Actually, I don't know if they can be considered "roasted" if they were technically baked in an oven. (Anyone got the answer to that one? Anyway...) My cousin baked some and we peeled them this afternoon and you know what? They're actually good! Who knew? There is something mega-Christmas about that. For the first time in my life, I'm actually living out a Bing Crosby special!. All I need now is a sleigh ride and some carolers to show up at the door and my Christmas will be perfect. PERFECT. So, if you're in the Hartford area and you just happen to have a one-horse open sleigh and you just happen to be out with three or four of your closest choir group friends, feel free to pop on by. I'll be waiting.

Book Junkie

I GOT IT! It just came in the mail. I feel like shouting, "I'm going to Disney World!" like the quarterbacks do after they win the Super Bowl. What is it? You ask. April & Oliver by Tess Callahan!

...

OK, so you probably haven't heard about this book, and there's really no reason why you should. (And no, it's not me by another name if there are those amongst you who thought for a brief moment that I would be able to keep my big mouth shut over a pending publication.) No, this is just a book that I saw in the "Deals" section of PW and thought it might work for the film franchise I'm employed by. I've been waiting for it to be pubbed to get it in. BUT! In the December 1, 2008 PW issue, I saw an ad saying that they would send an advanced reading copy (ARC) to the first 100 people who sent an email to such-n-such email address. I did, and I got one! HA! I feel like I just got away with something. Something big. In fact, I always feel this way when I've scored a free book. It's a sickness. They need a 12-step program for it because it's so wrong but it feels. So. Good. You might wonder how I got to this place. Well, like all addictions, it's not a pretty story.

It all started when I was a young kid and my mother would take me to the local library where I would be able to take out ten books at a pop...for free! And no, it never bothered me that I would have to give them back after two weeks because I'd already had my way with them and they bored me and now I could get MORE. If I had been older, I might have been suspicious by this philanthropic display by the government, but I was young and naive and believed that my government wanted me to be happy. When I hit my teen years, I started to make my own purchases. And once the money exchange started, I only wanted quality. And my sickness took a turn...towards autographed books. Since I grew up in a relatively small town without any attraction to touring big named authors, an autographed book was like a rare gem. The first time I ever saw a signed copy (a book by Alice Hoffman) just sitting there in the local Barnes & Noble and for no extra charge than the price of the hardcover, I grabbed at it like $50 bill just lying on the sidewalk. I got a buzzy high off the score. I didn't know it could get better. But it could. I went to work at a magazine where ARCs arrived one by one like magic. I had never seen an ARC before and was overcome by joy. The publishers gave out samples! I read these books whether they were good or bad. I didn't care. They were free and one shouldn't question ones supplier as to the grade of drug they're dealing if they're handing it to you for nothing. Just keep 'em coming. So it should be no surprise then that I slowly began migrating to the source of these books. To the one place where a book junkie can get the ultimate mainline: Publishing.

Since I'm no longer in the biz, I feel like I can divulge my ugly secret. There were times, god and David Shanks forgive me, that I would finish up my job for the night (night, being the operative word) and take the staircase to the other floors where I would steal books from the publicity departments of other imprints. That's right. I did it. That missing copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves? Me. A signed copy of Anne Lamott's Plan B? Me again. I'd secret them out of the building, stashed somewhere between my 300 page unedited Indian romance novel and the commercial non-fiction pitches about astrology and baby names guides. And if I wasn't misappropriating books, I was taking them from the give-away shelves or the Sales Department open closet where signed books were just sitting there unclaimed. I had piles of books under my desk. Classics I always meant to read, commercial fiction that got all the good buzz, titles friends had recommended, and extra copies of books that I had read and loved and kept on hand to supply to other junkies. But then, like all addictions, something happened and the landscape changed. I found myself kicked to the curb and had to kiss the high life good bye.

That's not the end of my story though, and if you think I've hit bottom and am now recovering, you're wrong, wrong, wrong. I've got friends in high places that will pass me a book under the table from time to time. "The new Tana French? Yeah, I got that for you." And I've scored another job that supplies the love. Every year, my bosses send me to the Columbia of book pushing: Book Expo America where publishing displays their wares like whores in the Red Light district. It's only primo quality at BEA, baby. A little Toni Morrison, a little Philip Roth, and, psst, John Updike has a new Witches of Eastwick title if you liked the first taste. You wanna it? We got. And you can have it months before anyone else. All for free. Ahhh. Just the way I like it.

I don't know if I'll ever beat the need. But like all unapologetic junkies, I don't want it to over. I'm going ride it to the end of the line. And if, one day, you hear that they've found my body in some back alley in a shack made out of Signet Classic paperbacks, my rigid fingers curled around the newest Mary Roach, just know that I went happy. In the meantime, I'm in the market for a little something-something to get me through the holidays. You know my number. Hook me up, yo.

Single By Accident

I recently read two articles, both through Salon.com, about being single and celibate. The first one, was written by a woman who is now in her 50s and has been celibate for fifteen years. She's OK with it, but after reading this article, I wasn't. The second article was obviously a plug for a blog-turned-book which I would name here except I don't want to seem like I condone her message which seems to be in-your-face-sexlessness. The Rules with thug-like chastity shrouded in moral superiority. Both made me quirk an eyebrow and scurry off to talk to all my single and celibate friends. To which we all had the same reaction: Umm, this isn't something to be rah-rah'ing about. It's depressing, and lonely, and really, really hard. And it's not really a choice for a lot of us.

Let me start off by saying that I'm pretty old fashioned. I'm single therefore I am celibate. I know, I know. I could out tonight and get some. Blahblahblah. But I can't. It's just not in me. I'm uptight and I'm thinking that I emit prudery at a high decibel level, and men can hear it. Whatever the reason, I'm not getting dates and therefore I'm not getting anything else either. Now, there are people that I know who believe that I am single by design. And my therapist would make the argument that they are right thought only on a subconscious level. But I'd like to state with full consciousness that I would prefer not to be single. My status as a Miss is an accident and not a very happy one at that. I would like to state for the record that...

...I started off this way; I didn't opt in.
...I never had that movie moment where I had to decide between staying in Connecticut with that good-hearted, small-town guy or moving to the big city to chase my dream.
...I never had that not-good-enough boyfriend that I held onto out of fear of loneliness, but put the breaks on before he popped the question.

In fact, my dating life is pretty pathetic. I'd get into it, but why bother. Most of you know that I've been single -- like really single -- for the majority of my adult life. And with every passing year, it feels harder and harder to get out of the habit of being this way. Not that I don't think about it constantly.

My single gal pals and I are always talking about not dating and not having sex and how we could get to do both. It doesn't help that I know my biological clock is now ticking down, and while my married friends keep telling me I have time, they're kinda lying. I don't. Unlike all those other things in life that I eventually got around to doing much later, after-the-fact, procreating actually has an expiration date (and, to be clear, I'm not as blase about it as I might appear). Do I want my married friends to agree with me and start counting down my good breeding years with me? No. Do I want my sister to offer me her womb (again)? No. My point is, it's difficult to be in this position and to take full responsibility for the fact that I might not get married and I might not have kids and it's my own damn fault. Do I regret choices I have made? Sure. I look back at pictures of me as a teenager or in my 20s, or even three years ago and think, "Why did I think I was fat? Why didn't I think I was pretty enough? Why didn't I USE that?" (And as a friend said to me recently, "You're going to hit 40 and look at pictures of yourself now and wonder the same thing...", but I digress.) I think about the guys I really did have a chance with, but talked myself out of. It's all disappointing and humbling. And kind of stupid. I want to shake the shoulders of my younger self and say, "Cut it out, and get out there. You can do this! You have so much more than you think you do." But I can't. And I have a hard time looking in the mirror and doing it now. I am who I am and sometimes it's hard getting over myself.

When I read articles like these, I don't believe that the authors are affirmed or as confident in their deliberate decisions as they come off. I wonder what the underlying subtext really is. Low libido? Indifference? Scarred by abuse or suffering from father abandonment issues? Because as far as I know, most people don't choose to be in bed alone. Humans, by design, are pack animals. We all want to be love and cared for. And sex on a regular basis is highly desirable, thank-you-very-much. (I mean, there's a reason why people with sex lives live longer than people without them.) I don't believe that you can substitute the love of your family and friends for the love -- emotional and physical -- of a lover. I think, for most of us singletons, we're single by accident and we'd really like these writers to stop feeding into this belief that its a choice.

Introduction

I was at a job function last night. While I love the social context of a screening, one of the things that I hate most is meeting people. I hate introductions. First, I don't know how to insert myself into a situation. It embarrasses me. For instance, say I see my boss standing in a small group of people and they seem to be smiling and nodding at each other in congenial conversation. I have two options: Continue to stand there like a bump on the log hoping that someone will seek me out or go over to the group. As I've spent years doing the former -- usually to no avail regardless of how mysterious I try to look or aloof I try to act -- I now tend to walk right up to the gathering. Once there, I stand there for a moment for her to recognize me and either invite me into the inner sanctum or give me the cut direct. (For those of you who don't read literature based in 1800s England that means to viciously ignore me.) Usually, however, I'm welcomed in. At this point, one of two things happen: I'm either brought fully into the conversation without an introduction -- so I'm a No Name cracking wise -- or I get a quick, "This is Jessica; she works with us in Development." While this is true and succinct and probably an appropriate introduction in a friendly/casual gathering, it kinda undermines me at a business do. What I mean is, if this is a business contact then shouldn't I have a more formal greeting? Which brings me to my second point, the friendly introduction versus the formal introduction. I feel I have finally come to the place in my life where I should be introduced with both my first and last name no matter the circumstances. No more believing that some guy is going to stalk me if he's got my last name. No more thinking that everything is just casz and I don't care because I'm never gonna see this schmo again. Because, you know, it's not and I may and even if I don't, it's always nice to be respectable. I'm an adult now. Let's respect each other. It would be nice to be known as Jessica Callah@n versus Beck's-friend-Jessica or that-blonde-girl-that-works-with-DD. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out a way to be smooth about this. Last night, when I did introduce myself to people as Jessica-with-no-last-name, they looked askance at me. But when I introduced myself with my last name, they looked at me like I thought they should recognize the me. At which point I would try to add my title, but this didn't settle matters as no one knows what a Development exec does. And what's more uncomfortable than that? Having to reintroduce yourself to someone you've met before...a couple of times. It's awful. It's all awful. I have no aplomb for such things. And no matter how good I feel about myself going into the situation, I end up feeling like I'm tottering around in my mother's heels, taking up too much space, play acting at being an adult. Do we ever get over feeling like we're 14? What's the answer? Stop going out. It's the only thing for it. Call me if you know me. I'll be in my apartment.

Employment Plug

So, we have a movie airing this Sunday on CBS, and I feel I must let all of you know as we are in a declining economy and it would be great if we scored high numbers on this movie so I can stay employed past summer 2009. So, if you love me, you'll tune in or at the very least TiVo the sucker. And make sure to tell all your teacher friends that there is a teacher movie on and your grandmother that there is a Hallmark movie on that's not on the Hallmark Channel but on real TV so can she please tune in to the "old channel 3." If she's like my grandmother, she'll know what you mean.

The movie is called FRONT OF THE CLASS. It'll be on CBS at either 8PM or 9PM depending on your location in this great nation of ours. And considering that True Blood and Entourage are over, there should be no conflict of interest. No excuses, people. I will accept no excuses...

Advent

Ladies and Gentlemen, it's official, we're now in the Christmas season. Not only did Black Friday come in a scary, man killing way, but today is the first Sunday of Advent. I was thinking about getting an advent calendar this year (which is a Lutheran tradition -- who knew?), but I had a sneaky suspicion that I would pop open all the doors and eat all the candies in one sitting like I did when I was kid. Greed is a deadly sin, you know, and there's no use imperiling my mortal soul over some second rate candy so I decided against it. Anyway, when I was looking for an Advent calendar, I stumbled upon the Advent wreaths. And I was reminded of my Catholic school days when we used to make these out of fir tree detritus, green construction paper, birthday candles, and goopy glue, which -- in hindsight -- sounds like a fire hazard. Also, can I make the comment that the Advent wreath reminds me of a Menorah? Do you ever get the feeling that the Catholics smuggled out more than just the Old Testament and the Ten Commandments when they snuck out the back door of the synagogue?

Happy Thoughts

In honor of my friends Meg and Rachel, I'm going to list a couple of things that are making me extremely happy today:

1) The biggie: IT'S RAINING IN L.A.! Yey! I love rain. I miss rain. Rain is our friend and the friend of the whole planet. And it's the friend of my very dirty car. Very happy.
(a) Gmail has a new theme icon. I choose bus stop. And while Google is Big Brother, I actually don't mind when they put a cute rainy backdrop on my screen to let me know that they know that I live in L.A. and it's raining here.

2) We get out of work at noon today! Yey! At which point, I will pop over to Gelson's to pick up my Thanksgiving-feast-for-two. Yey, Thanksgiving!

3) Christmas is starting to come together. My flights are set, and I have pretty much picked out all my gifts. All I have to do is purchase them which I will do over the internet as most of the gifts will have to be shipped to Connecticut. But whatever. And Kate and I have decided to spend a day in the city and see August: Osage County probably Sunday after the holiday. I love it when a plan comes together. I love it even more when I have the cold cash to actually complete the plans. And I do. Happy!

4) My books from the inter-Library loan arrived yesterday and one of the P.A.s picked them up for me today. I love library books, don't you? They remind me of all sorts of good things, like when my mother used to bring me to the children's library once a week and we would spend hours there, or my Catholic school's library where I used to thumb through the card catalogue thinking that some dead kid left a clue in there for me to find his/her murderer, or the four years in high school when every one else hung out in the cafeteria and my clique used to meet up in the school's library right across from my locker, or my romance novel phase where the public library was the only place that could feed my addiction. I love the worn covers, soft thumbed through pages, and the fact that some of these books still have a card in the pocket. Thank you Ben Franklin.

I think this is a very good start to the holiday weekend. I wish you all a very Happy Thanksgiving, and -- just so you know -- I'm happy and thankful for having all of you in my life.
XO!

Anxiety Reality

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're late to work but you have no way to get there? Or mid-way through a dream, you realize that you're supposed to be in class, but you're nowhere near your school? I will admit to having more of these anxiety dreams than I should. I always seem to feel behind the game somewhere deep in my subconscious. But this morning, I had what can only be called an Anxiety Reality.

The alarm went off as it normally does around 6:30AM at which point, I turned it off and rolled over. At 8:10Am I re-awoke. That gave me about half hour to get ready and get out the door which, considering my low-maintenance style, isn't a problem. However, as I rounded the corner to the bathroom, my roommate opened her bedroom in wild-eyed confusion. Her alarm clock did not go off at all. Considering I live ten minutes from work and she lives twenty minutes from work (on good traffic days), I let her take the bathroom first. About midway through her shower, our doorbell rang. It was our downstairs neighbor. It seems our bathtub was draining into her bathtub and she was bailing out our used water, shampoo bubbles and all. She had a call into the landlord, but in the meantime, could we keep our showers short? Iew. OK. At this point it was 8:25 and I decided to be kind and instead of showering at home, I would go and shower at my gym, but that would mean being late to work. I called my boss on his cell to let him know the issue and that I was going to be about thirty minutes late. He said, "fine;" I packed a bag and was out the door within ten minutes.

I get to the gym and...there's no where to park. What the hell? By now it's 8:40 and why aren't these people at work?! Literally, there was a line of three cars trying to get IN to the parking lot. Stupid out-of-work actors. I drove around the block a couple of times and finally found a parallel spot to squeeze into. I dash into the gym and into the locker room. The first stall is swampy. Iew. The second stall is out of order. Humph. The third stall is taken, and the last stall is the handicap stall, and -- screw it! It's clean -- I took it regardless that I always leave the handicap stall open out of moral imperative and lawful obedience. Ahh, but God would punish me for such an infraction because there's no soap in the dispenser! Bloody 'ell. So, I use my $15 pore and facial cleanser as bath soap. Whatever. During the course of the shower the water pressure keeps changing so that half the shower is a hot, harsh spray and other half is a cold trickle. Grumble, grumble. I get out of the shower, powder, spray, and slather, then bustle out to the sink area to do my hair. But, AGH, they've taken out the blow dryers! This will teach me not to get my expanding jell-o bottom to the gym more often. So, for the first time since I've moved out of the state of Connecticut more than eight years ago now, back in my low, low maintenance days, I went to work with wet hair. Thankfully, I had an elastic to at least wrangle the wet mess into a ponytail.

I got to work at 9:25Am. Not too bad. But seriously, it was surreal. I couldn't have dreamed a more weird sequence of events. Oh, wait. No. No, that's not true. There was that one dream when I realized that it was my wedding day, but my mother wouldn't help me get dressed, and my sister refused to lend me her curling iron. I have a feeling, however, plumbing will start to feature heavily in to future anxiety dreams.

Doppelganger

I received a book back from one of my freelance readers yesterday with a sticky attached that said, "She looks like you!" Referring to the cover model. I thought she looked more like Amanda Seyfried, but who am I to quibble. It was a nice thought. She's a pretty girl.

I always think its funny when someone says that someone else looks like me, because I never see the resemblance. Tina Fey said this about Sarah Palin. She just didn't see it. It wasn't until her husband said that he thought she kinda looked like her, too, that she had to take it into serious consideration. I wonder if this is because you see yourself in a certain way and don't realize how you really look. Kinda like when you hear your voice on a recording and you recoil. However, if more people thought I looked like Geri Ryan (who my cousin thinks I look like), then maybe I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the idea. On the flip side, I once took an internet "test" that asked you to scan a picture of yourself into the program, and it would take measurements of your face and tell you what celebrity you looked like. Me? Roseanne Barr. Followed by Femke Jansen. I'll take Jansen and leave the Barr, thank you.

Usually, however, most people think I look like some girl they knew in school. Doesn't matter the grade. Or say I remind them of someone, but they can't remember who. Back in my Dunkin Donuts days, my boss's four-year old son, thought I looked like a popular commercial actress who was in national campaigns for McDonalds and Mr. Clean. His mother said that he would stop whatever he was doing, point to the screen, and say, "Mom, it's Jessica!" He really thought it was me. The funny thing was, I knew exactly which girl it was because she kinda did look like me. She occasionally pops up in commercials now. We're not aging at the same speed. (Ahem.) Around the same time, I had a regular customer come in and tell me that he just saw me argue a case on Court TV the day before. I

did a bang up job for the defense. I told him that being a lawyer was my day job, but pouring coffee was where my true passion resided.

The funny thing is, when I look at all these pictures, I see the commonality in their visage. The shape of their faces, the shape of their eyes. And since they're all attractive (yes, even Roaseanne can be pretty), I'll take it as a compliment -- especially that Geri Ryan. Seriously, she's hot -- even if I don't see it myself.

So, here's a question for you, dear reader, who have you been told you

look like? Or, if you prefer, you can tell me who you think I look like.

There Be Pirates Here

This morning, I was listening to a brand new news story about the Somali pirates who have been overtaking cargo ships off the coast of Africa. Today, they took a supertanker. The tanker is from Saudi Arabia and is holding about $100,000,000 worth of oil that was heading to the U.S. The pirates are holding it for ransom.

I'm kinda having a hard time getting my head around the idea that there are pirates about these days. One can't help but to think about Pirates of the Caribbean and how Johnny Depp has changed the image from a pegged-leg, parrot toting, hedonist into a fey drunk with some kind of personal honor code. Both are ludicrous myths, but leave it to Disney to make pirates laughable and sweet. These pirates, of course, are real. And very much like the pirates of ye olden days, it's political and profitable. And I'm finding it amazingly interesting. While they are not hoisting the jolly roger over their rubber dinghies or attacking ships with canons ablaze, they are no less dangerous, racing after cargo ships with a minimum number of unarmed sailors carrying nothing but hand guns. According to the story, these pirates are desperate and have no real idea of what is on-board the ships when they overtake them. All they know is that some rich country owns them, and that rich country is willing to pay. Coming from war torn Somalia, they have no agricultural business, no oil of their own, and no GDP. Therefore, they've been ignored by the greater world at large. Well, we're not ignoring them now. Not when they're asking for $30,000,000 for the return of the tanker. Screw with our commerce and you've got our attention.

The Australian says that this is the largest the ship the pirates have seized so far. And I don't think it's going to stop any time soon. According to an New York Times, the men only want money and for the illegal dumping to stop so that they can fish again. (Most of these pirates were fisherman. On a PBS show I watched, the fishing industry -- mostly first world countries -- illegally harvests fish off the coast of Africa, making it difficult for these men to make a working wage or even provide enough protein for their own families to eat. That special was how we're raping the ocean, but it all ties together. It always does. The world is like one big jigsaw puzzle, and you have to have enough distance to see the picture.)

On this morning's NPR story, the Somali men were saying that their women are not interested in them unless they've got cash, and all the young boys stated that they wanted to grow up to be pirates. I don't think they're talking about the Johnny Depp kind. The problem is, of course, now that they've had a taste of the glamorous life, will these people ever be able to go back to fishing for a living even if we do pull Japan out of their waters and assist them in their genocides? I leave that up to you to decide.

In a related aside, I'd fill up at the gas pump today. Someone's going to have to pay that $30,000,000 ransom...

Crazy Lost

Alright all you Lost fans, and I know you're legion, I just heard the funniest thing: One of our favorite editors here also edits Lost. Due to the Disney gag order, he can't talk about the show so I have no new information about the upcoming episodes (except to say that he just finished editing the finale. GAH!). Sorry. But what he did say had me laughing and slightly horrified. I guess as a lark, the writers decided to use his name in the show. Something about an email or something. And the real Lost fans, I mean the crazy ones, noticed that the character's name was very similar to the editor's name and went nuts researching him. The editor's wife said that there were over 100,000 hits on his name on Google, and that the fans researched his bio and geneology so throughly -- and posted it on web sites parsing it for clues to upcoming story arcs -- he now knows things about his ancestors that, well, he never knew. I love Lost as much as the next guy, but seriously people. It's a TV show.

Blog on the Brain

Over the past couple of weeks, I've been so busy that I haven't been able to get my head on straight. And while I keep wanting to blog about something, I can't concentrate on anything long enough to actually expand on any one thought or idea. So, here are some of the things I've heard, seen, or experienced, and have wanted to comment upon, but just can't seem to get my words or thoughts into order.


*Heard on NPR: NASA isn't just for space. It's also to figure out what's going on here on Earth. Recently, they decided to count up all the trees (seriously, they can do that -- crazy). It seems there are 61 trees for every human being on earth. Huzzah! However, we use a ton of trees for...well, just about everything. Think about all that pre-fab furniture, FedEx boxes, disposable chopsticks, and paper we use. Arbor Day is in April. Something to keep in mind if you like oxygen.



*I had a truly bizarre dream on Thursday night that included my friend Meg. We were in high school together taking a history class being taught by Anderson Cooper. (This might have something to do with the fact that Meg supported Obama, and I watched the election coverage on CNN. But who really cares, Anderson Cooper was in MY dream!) But then I didn't know what class I was supposed to go to next, and Meg took me to the office. I know Meg. Meg would do this in real life. She held the metaphorical hand of a perfect stranger on a subway platform after the poor girl had been assaulted. Meg totally would bring me to the office to help me get my class schedule.


*I don't like to exercise. But I don't like to meet my book deadlines even more. Instead of working on the rewrite this weekend, I went out for long walks. Right after the news told us not to due to poor air quality. It seems I would rather inhale ash particles and line my lungs with dangerous residue than meet my responsibilities.


*Thanksgiving isn't even here yet, and I'm getting a lot of Christmas catalogues. I understand that the economy sucks right now and Big Business is hoping the holiday season will do...something. But let's face it, it's going to be a Cookies-in-a-Jar kind of Christmas. Which A-OK by me. I won't buy you something if you don't buy me something, deal? Good.

*They announced this morning that they are going to put a cop onto the bailout package. What's that you say? What I mean is, the Fed was giving out billions of dollars to these companies on the honor system (without anyone getting fired or any kind of restructuring, because, yeah, it makes a lot of sense to give an addict more of his drug of choice). Anyway, come to find out these irresponsible CEOs are still being irresponsible with the tax payers cash (quel surprise!), so Congress has now appointed a finance czar -- or whatever they're going to call him -- to monitor how the money is being spent. Isn't that a lot like putting in security monitors after Ocean's 11 has taken the cash? Anyway, I guess the embarrassment of having the President-Elect call AIG on their spa trip (for $440,000) back during the debates didn't embarrass them enough not to fund an English hunting trip to the tune of $86,000. Not as much as the spa trip, but then again, no animals were harmed on Monarch Beach.

On NPR

Since moving to L.A., I've become an NPR addict. I'm officially a clog-wearing, NPR-listening, Trader Joe-buying liberal. Oh, cliches. Why must you be so true? Anyway, every once in awhile I hear something on NPR that just must be shared with someone. And today, dear blog reader, it's you. I actually heard this back on November 1st, but since my life has been about work, work, and more work, I haven't been able to blog about it.

In honor of Halloween, This American Life decided to air creepy stories. And, boy, did they do a good job. In the first entry, a woman gave a scary rendition of her encounter with a rabid raccoon. As I grew up across the street from a woods, raccoons were a common night time visitor to our yard, and I -- confident in my top-of-the-food-chain position -- never paid them much attention as "they are more afraid of you than you are of them" (as my mother used to say). But this story? This story freaked me the hell out! This woman was attacked in her driveway, and after fending it off for fifteen minutes while screaming bloody murder for help and fumbling with her cell phone to call her family (who were a mere five feet away in the house), had to watch as her husband and son took turns bludgeoning the thing to death. AND THEN! She got the run around about a rabies shot. The first hospital told her that she had X number of days before rabies would take root and to wait until Monday to speak to her doctor. Then, on Monday, her doctor told her she had 72 HOURS in which to get the shot, and now she might die if she didn't get a shot ASAP so she needed to get to a hospital stat. And then the second hospital wouldn't give her the shot because she lived outside their jurisdiction and told her that she needed to just go back to the first hospital. But her hours were, like, ticking away, and she needed the shot NOW. But, oh-by-the-way, the cost of the shot is $350 and we're not giving it out to just anyone who walks into waiting room. The woman could have died in their waiting room and they were worried about a $350 shot! So the woman had to break down and cry and beg for her life until finally, FINALLY, they gave it to her. But the worst part of the story was the part where the producer tells you that a rabid bat can bite your child in the night time and there won't be a mark on him/her. CHRIST! As he said, "I was freaked out when I heard that, and I just had to share with everyone." Yeah, thanks! And right after that story, Bill Eville recounts a night gone horrible wrong on the Vineyard where he and his brother come thisclose to getting kidnapped. On the Vineyard! I can't even imagine... If you want to listen to it yourself, feel free. I hate Halloween.

The Long Journey Home

I moved to the west coast three years ago now. And every year, I've gone home for Christmas. In 2006, I found that the best time to buy tickets was in August. Plenty of flights at cheap costs with my pick of seats. The first year, I flew JetBlue. The second year, I flew Virgin America. Both, times I had a direct flight into JFK and spent a day or two with my sister before traversing to Bristol. Very good experiences overall (though prior blogs might reveal this to be a falsehood. I don't know. I try not to read my prior blogs. And neither should you. Live in the moment, people!) This year, however, I reserved my passage on US Airways. It is also the first year that I will be flying directly into Connecticut (with a connector in Philly), and the first year that there is an economic crisis afoot. I mean, there is always an economic crisis afoot in the airline industry, but now it's for real. (Seriously, as being part of the generation that has been told from the get-go that there's not enough money for holiday parties, Christmas bonuses, or 3% raises, I bet a lot of CEOs are feeling silly now.) And I'm beginning to think that my normal doom and gloom about air travel is about to get a whole lot doomier and gloomier. Case in point, my fourth phone call from US Airways.

Over the weekend, I received a voicemail from US Airways requesting that I call them back in regards to my reservation. The first time I got this call, it was about two weeks after I booked the flight. It seemed they wanted to change my connector from Chicago to Philly. Same time though, so no problem. The second phone call came about four weeks after that one saying that they wanted to bump me to a later flight. Since the AM flight out of LAX was at 6AM and now they wanted to put me on a 7:50AM flight, I took it. About three weeks after that call, my third call came to tell me that they were bumping my 3:30PM flight out of Philadelphia to 6PM. That meant a four hour layover. OOF! But I took it, because -- well, you know -- I couldn't exactly say no, could I? And now the fourth call saying that they needed to move my AM flight out of LAX again. This time to 9AM. Which, fine, right? I mean, that's one less hour in Pennsylvania. But I'm now I'm sorta freaking out that there might be all kinds of drama come flying time five days before Christmas. I was complaining about this over dinner with some friends on Monday night. To which the gentleman at the table replied, "Just hope that there's still an airline around come December." Hmm. Good point. I guess some cranky baby shenanigans on the 20th is better than cry-baby whining on the 25th. Fingers crossed.

Mad about Mad Libs

I need to get in a blog while the gettin's good. We're flat out busy here. So, without any more poking around...

Two weekends ago, I was sitting in my hair stylist's swingy black chair and while she painted my brassy brown locks back to gold, we somehow got onto the topic of Mad Libs. At which point, she stopped wrapping my wet hair in tin foil and bent down to grab out two copies of Mad Libs from her purse. But these weren't just any Mad Libs. No. These were my Mad Libs. Let me explain.

About three years ago -- I can't quite believe that myself -- I worked for a nifty little Penguin imprint we'll call CBs. While at this nifty little imprint, we launched a series of books based on the Mad Libs brand which we entitled Adult Mad Libs (because we were oh so clever that way). The idea was to take the known kid-friendly quantity and skew it for a mature audience. Basically, we make up quirky titles that women would find intriguing then fill the pad with fill-in-the-blank games with stories that sounded an awful lot like they might have come from a woman's magazine or a cheeky episode of Sex and the City. And this is exactly how they were written. When the manuscripts first started showing up, we had a hand-shake deal to show them to the originators of the series who are still around. While they no longer write the games, they still are the gate keepers, and when the gate keepers took one look at our manuscripts, they slammed the gate in my face and swallowed the key. However, they were willing to have to talks with me without pre-conditions, and eventually they took me under their wings. I drank the Kool Aid...and I liked it! Oh yeah! Anyway, what that meant was, I was under the gun to turn around the existing games with my new found knowledge in a very short time. I called up a comedian/writer friend of mine and negotiated a tough contract with her: She helps me re-write the games and I'll buy her a pizza dinner with my Penguin AmEx. What can I say? I exploited a starving artist. Shoot me. That night, we worked on four titles, probably wrote about 40 games a piece, and turned around the books enough to get them by the gate keepers and into the publishing process. Yeah me! (And her...but mostly me because this is my blog.)

So, you see, the two titles that my hairstylist pulled out of her bag were two of the four titles that I helped ghost write and eventually edited and got out the door all without chipping a nail or taking hallucinogenic drugs. I asked where she got them. "Urban Outfitters. I saw them and I thought they were cute. And cheap!" I nodded my head and said, "Yes, they are." And at $3.99 a piece, they are. But what I was thinking was URBAN OUTFITTERS! AGH!

CBs's main business objective was -- first and foremost -- get a book into Urban Outfitters. "It's perfect for Urban Outfitters" we'd say in our editorial meetings while trying to get something past our boss. In hindsight, I don't know why were so high on the idea. It might have to do with the fact that, for the most part, book people aren't hipsters. And we certainly don't know what the kids are up to -- not even when we were kids ourselves considering most of us were reading Austen or the Bronte sisters wishing that somehow we could be transported back in time, corsets and TB included. But it never happened. Our Sales team never could seem to get anywhere with the Urban Outfitter buyer (or any other buyer that wasn't owned by Mr. Walton -- which is why our nifty little imprint collapsed). The excuse seemed to be that UO was not a bookstore ergo their selection of titles is quite small and therefore they were very discriminating about which books they did accept. And we weren't accepted. (Nothing has changed much since 7th grade.) So an arranged marriage -- or perhaps I should say a common law marriage since we're talking about UO -- between Adult Mad Libs and Urban Outfitters was not meant to be. Until...

About four months ago, possibly longer, I got an email from a former CBs co-worker of mine who is still employed by Penguin. She forwarded me an inquiry from the kids Mad Libs editor. It seems that the juvenile division of Penguin was interested in picking up the now defunct CBs Adult Mad Libs brand. Not only were they now controlling my four titles (plus four others my not-as-starving-as-I-once-was artist friend wrote), but they were looking into expanding the brand with more titles. Marketing questions were asked, and that was the last I heard of it. However! It occurred to me while sitting in my hair stylist's swingy black chair that somehow the juvenile department's Sales team was able to sell into Urban Outfitters (she thought in a snotty, "how is that, huh?" kind of way). My product was good enough for them. I wasn't rejected by the cool kids. I was just ahead of my time...and hanging out the wrong crowd! Which, might I say, is the story of my life. And for some reason, due to probably the late hour and the copious amounts of Halloween candy I ingested, I was pissed about this last night. I got out of bed at 2AM and logged onto Amazon.com to check out what the juvenile department has in store for Urban Outfitters 2009. Bastards.

First, may I say, the covers for the new Adult Mad Libs including the font is waaay cooler than what I had. They should have no problem selling into those funky retailers (No. No, I'm not bitter! Not AT ALL). Second, the titles are just as lame as mine were except more derivative (hmph, she smirked, mollified some.) Third, there is now a "Mammoth" Adult Mad Lib game book out which probably took all eight of my titles and put them into one book. HEY! But, after grumbling about how unfair it all is, and how they could do so much more with them if only I was still in charge, goddammit, I clicked over to my titles to see where they were rated. And then...what's this? REVIEWS! Customer reviews. HAPPY CUSTOMER REVIEWS! Reviewers have given me 5 stars. On almost all of them. Oh, happy day! (Since it was 3AM by this point, "day" would be correct.) The Who Moved My Cubicle AML on working got three reviews (the most). One guy used them for a job building strategy. Party Girl got two reviews that said they were funny and people must buy it. Test Your Relationship I.Q. got two, too. The baby shower one got 4 stars from a post-childbirth teacher of some sort! Hey, I'll take it! People loved my little Mad Libs -- bad non-corresponding covers, cheap font, and all. And like when Bridget Jones found out that Mark Darcy liked her just the way she was, I felt validated..and vindicated. I felt hip and cool and teary eyed, and it had nothing to do with my PMS or the fact I was suddenly exhausted. Not at all. So, I logged off and I went to bed...happy and no longer mad. For now. I'm sure something else will arise tomorrow.

Speak to Me

I worked on an art book a couple of years ago that celebrated the painting "American Gothic" (that one of the bald farmer with a pitchfork and his daughter. Yes, his daughter). The author of the book was Thomas Hoving, the former curator of the MET in New York. Tom now hates me, but that's a blog for a different time. I did, however, during the process, learn something. Art is only good if it gives you a feeling. You can take a billion art courses, learn about the masters, and identify time period by the type of brush stroke used, but if the piece doesn't "speak to you," it's not good. His basic premise was, people can tell you something is good, but if you don't think it's good then it's not. An art critic can tell you why an artist is important and how he or she influenced a movement, but if you don't like it, then eh. The reason this is coming up now is because I just got back from a Mexican vacation -- hola! -- and one of the things that I enjoyed in Puerto Vallarta was the art.

Actually, even the two days leading up to the trip down to ol' Mehico were art influenced. Claudine (former NYC roommate) flew into L.A. from Seattle (my, don't we sound cosmopolitan) for the weekend and we decided to pop over to LACMA to check out the new modern art museum featuring Jeff Koons installations. I have to admit that sculpture remains my favorite art medium. I like cool photographs and am mightily impressed by oil on canvas, however, put me in front of a Rodin and I'm awed. I first came to know Koons back in New York when he installed "Puppy" at the site where the Rockefeller Christmas Tree is usually erected. "Puppy" was a towering bush of sorts shaped like a terrier and it bloomed. Coolest thing ever! Anyway, now Koons's "Balloon Dog" and "Bunny" among others are here in L.A. and I really wanted to go check him out. So we did. If you link over to his web site, you'll see that his style is kitsch'y and irreverent and really kinda neat. He amazes me. And not in that Valley girl kind of way, but in that "Wow!" way. I think that's the best compliment I can give an artist.

On the boardwalk in Puerto Vallarta, the city has installed a bunch of statuary (some of these can be looked at over at my MySpace page). My favorite kinds of installation art are the ones that are interactive. You can touch them, you can sit on them, you can climb on them. The kind of art that begs you to be part of the experience. These hot brass structures were seats that faced both to and from the ocean. (If you can't figure it out, I'm the one on the left.)

But out of all the art arranged along the oceanfront, the one that spoke to me was this one.

Are they aliens; are they Mayan gods? The way I read this statue was that they were primitive people (priests?) trying to reach God. And since I wouldn't mind a little heavenly interaction, I hopped on. Unfortunately, our ladder was a little too short, and we didn't get very far. But that doesn't mean that it wasn't a fun encounter with art and the sun and maybe God, too.

I'm back to earth now, both physically and metaphorically, and I give two thumbs up to my Mexican experience. Next up. Europe! I got an email from Audra saying that she landed in Germany safely. Now, all I need is for the Euro to plummet and the dollar to surge. Then it's off to Roma and the Sistine Chapel. Maybe I can reach God through a little Michelangelo.

Things to Do

So, I don't know about you, but I've about had it with Sarah Palin's caustic stump speeches (that getting a bit scary) and the boring debates that devolve into other stump speeches (Tuesday night, anyone?) and the multi-billion dollar bailouts that haven't done anything to stop the ever downward spiral of the global economy. So, I've been on the web looking for fun things to watch, read, do, or just plain look at. Here are some of my favorites:

1) Amy and Kim's re-casting of Breakfast at Tiffany's over at their blog Romancing the Tome, (link found on this page under "blogs I like to read"). I suggest trawling through web sites like tMF's to look at their "50 hottest actors under 25" to find the new "Fred". You probably won't remember why you went to the website, but in the end, you'll be glad you did.

2) For all you cat people out there -- and it seems you come in both sexes -- this was in the NYT Fashion & Style(?!) section. Makes a dog person like me quirk an eyebrow. Especially the part in the article where the guy basically says that hundreds of "lonely cat women" were proposing to him. Erm, sir? You just posted a movie you made of your cats on YouTube. I don't think you get to throw stones.

3) If you ever need to laugh at the headlines (before you start to cry), the Onion is always a good place to land. This one especially tickled me since I keep getting emails asking me to go to Neveda to knock on doors and preach the word of Obama.

4) If you have not seen the Landlord on funnyordie.com, you must go there. In fact, once you're there, just shop around. There's a lot of random stuff on the site, but for every four stupid bits you watch, one will actually be funny. That's a better average than just about every other site on the web.

5) Pencil skrits are In and mini skirts are Out. And tweed is back! Yey! Every five years, I'm actually In Style and want to shop. Unfortunately, I have no money as I am...

6) ... leaving for Puerta Vallarta on Monday. I'll be gone all next week. Emails, phone calls, and texts will not be answered. I haven't decided yet whether I will come back.

7) Before funnyordie, there was Jib Jab. They were the ones who did that hysterically funny Kerry/Bush "This Land Is Your Land" cartoon that went viral back in 2004. Nowadays, they've got some funny videos and cards that you can cut and paste your (or someone else's) head into and email. There's a snarky news one now that's kinda funny.

Is It Me...

Is it me, or does this picture look like Hank Paulson and the President are congratulating each other on a bank heist? "Heeheehee, we pulled it off!"

What Would You Do: the Bra Edition

I have a couple of drafts logged on here that I will probably never post. These entries were started over the last couple of weeks. Both of them are political in nature. But since the theme of both depressed me beyond even my political junkie threshold, I decided I would spare you my heavily footnoted self-righteous indignation. And instead, I will tell you about my latest purchase. My new bra.

I have been in dire need of a new bra for sometime now as I have only one that fits me comfortably. I'm one of those women who, if she gains or loses weight, she does so in her chest region. It's very vexing. I have numerous bras. I won't get into numbers or letters -- I'm a repressed New England Catholic, remember -- but lets just say that my stash of bras could be used to lift and separate about four or five different women of various endowments. I never get rid of any of them because, well, I can only stay away from the Ben and Jerry's for so long. Unfortunately, as the years go by, your...erm...shape starts to shift a bit, and what used to look good on me when I was 30, isn't exactly supporting me the same way. More vexation! So, after sifting through the polysynthetics, I came to the conclusion that I had to buy a new brassiere. Luckily for me, the economy sucks right now and Macy's is having a sale just about every week. This week is their annual bra and pantie sale. How fortuitous!

I traipsed out to Macy's after work last night, and even though it was a school night and even though it was dinner time, I was shocked at how dead the mall was. Seriously, you know the economy is in trouble when school kids aren't hanging out near the Sabarros trying to persuade the classmate behind the counter to give them free cups of water. But I digress. I went up the three floors to the lingerie department and went directly to the clearance section. I picked up a ugly purple bra, a lacy bra, a pretty green bra, and even an animal print bra. From there, I went to the massive Buy 2 Get 1 Free sale section and picked up a bra from nearly every single rack except Wonderbra because they seem to be prejudiced against girls like me. ("Why do you need a push-up bra?" Umm, because my boobs need to be pushed back up from my knees...?) With hands full, I went into the changing room and stripped.

First, will I ever look good in halogen lighting? No, right? I mean, let's just agree on that. But after about thirty minutes of trying on every single bra I brought into dressing room (and I'm thinking I brought in over 20; I was determined), I found exactly two -- both Warners -- that actually fit. All these bras were exactly the same number and same letter. But like jeans, just because you're a ten at GAP, doesn't mean that you're a ten at Lucky Brand. Sigh. The Warner bras were buy two, get one free. Both bras were about $30. But... while they fit comfortably across my back and over my shoulders, they didn't do anything for me. They were just, you know, bras! They didn't lift; they didn't hold in; they didn't give me any kind of shape. They were kinda cute, and I liked the little satin trim on one and the daisy motif on the other, but since I buy bras to actually support me (and currently am not mentioning my unmentionables to any gentlemen suitors), it would be a moot point to get a pretty one just for show. I bought a pretty bra once with the idea that this year! I would be flashy the lace...and then I didn't. So, live and learn.

Usually, I buy Wacoal. They cost about $60 a piece, but they are the Cadillacs of bras and almost never go on sale. So, here I was with the cost effective conundrum? Do I buy one Wacaol that I know fits my criteria of perfect fit and nice silhouette or do I get three so-so bras for the same money? What would you do?

917 It Is

I kept my New York phone number. And I got the pink Pearl. I may come to regret both decisions, but not today. Today, I am as happy as a school girl with her new Strawberry Shortcake lunchbox. Soon, you will all be getting messages from me with the little tag "Sent from my Verizon wireless Blackberry" stamped at the bottom, at which time you may dismiss me as the poser that I am.

Existential Angst by Area Code

Next week, I can finally upgrade my cell phone with Verizon's New Every Two promotion. Yep, my contract is up and it's time to re-sign. I will do so without hesitation as I've never officially hit a dead zone with my Verizon carrier (why, yes, I can hear you now even though I'm waaay out here in the San Fernando Valley). And since I've been whining almost incessantly about my dying battery to everyone who calls me, I'm more than ready to trade up. These days, I'm thinking about a Blackberry. I want a QWERTY keyboard as the texting has gotten out of control and really like that the new models offer GPS. Why buy a TomTom when your cell phone is already tracking you? Brilliant! My sister suggests the Curve (she's got the pink one) because of the easy-to-type keyboard, but I really like the smaller Pearl which both of my bosses have. I've played with both and haven't really made a decision yet. But I'm sure by the end of the business day September 23rd, I'll have settled on one or the other. The thing I haven't decided on yet is whether I should change my phone number.

When I first moved out to L.A., my contract came up and I waltzed into a Verizon store to trade up. "What's your phone number?" the young lad behind the counter asked, fingers poised above the computer keyboard. "917-blah-blahblah," I replied. "917? Where's that?" "New York," I answered. "Oh. Well, are you planning on changing it?" I almost snorted in response. Why would I do something like that?! I'm east coast! The snobby little voice inside my head said. Instead, I replied, "No. I'm planning to keep it." "I'm sorry then. You'll have to go to one of the corporate stores...or online. We can only service local numbers." Erm...what? OK, so, whatever. I found a corporate store, went in, and bought my sporty, little, red KRazor without nary a problem. Nary, I say, because the woman who waited on me there convinced me to buy a Bluetooth piece -- which I've barely used -- because she doesn't get commissions on out-of-state phones. What kind of racket is that?

Now my contract is up again and there is a Verizon store two blocks from my apartment. It does not look like a corporate store, however. Therefore, I'll have to go back to Hollywood or order my Blackberry online if I want to keep my phone number. There is a part of me that is more grown up now and has reconciled to the fact that I am, technically and factually, a Los Angeleno (groan!). And paying New York taxes and paying for NYC 911 coverage on a monthly basis is kinda silly. But...but, the little voice says in my head, what if I go back? Then you get a new number. But, the little voice says again, this time with a whine to it, it won't be a 917 number. Those of you in New York -- and for anyone who saw Sex and the City -- you know that the 917 numbers have gone the way of the 212. That is to say, if you weren't there when they were handing them out, you ain't getting one. 212 and now 917 are sorta like a little badge of New York Snob Honor. (And as many of you know, I am kind of a snob. Just a little one, though.) Plus, I got my cell number a few days after 9/11 so there is this weird attachment to it.

I mean, it's really not a big deal, one way or the other. I have a friend who has had her Chicago cell number since her college days, and has lived in both New Jersey and now California without changing it. And everyone already has the New York number, so, really, why bother? But then there is another part of me that says, I should get a California number as all the people calling me from inside California are paying long distance to speak to a girl who is probably three blocks away from them, while my phone calls to and from New York are few and far between now that I'm not eating (and, more aptly, drinking) there any more. (As for Connecticut, it doesn't matter as it's all long distance.) And, as a patriot, shouldn't I be paying California taxes and for L.A. 911 service? Wouldn't a new California number be symbolic of a new me? Hmm. As you can see, this goes waaay beyond the number. It goes to the very core of who I am. Am I New York? Am I L.A.? Or am I just a girl with too much time on her hands so she worries about stupid things like what her cell phone number says about her? (Don't answer that.)

Nick and Nora(h)

Back over the summer, I saw something about a movie titled Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist starring Micheal Cera. I fairly groaned. Did we need another Superbad? Or even another Juno? (Do not get me started on Juno.) And it really irked me that some young turk screenwriter was trying to be cheeky by using the names Nick and Norah in a film aimed at pre-teens who have no idea who Nick and Nora are. But then a miracle happened. I went to the theater over the weekend to see The Women (no...just, no) and saw the full trailer. And suddenly, I felt young and sweet again, like that feeling that comes from sucking on a pixie stix but without the wet paper on my tongue. Is it me, or does this look like a John Hughes film? So, I skipped over to IMDb and checked out the credits because John Hughes has this habit of popping back up in the credits but under the name "Edmond Dantes." (And if you know your classic literature, you know who Edmond Dantes is.) But no! It's not! Or should I say, he's not affliated. I did see, however, that the screenplay is based on a YA novel that was published by Knopf and just like that, people were forgiven for using the names Nick and Norah. (Yes, I'm a literary snob.) Not that you care about any of this, but suffice it to say, yes, I will be braving the movie theater with the thousands of texting and twittering teens to see it. Especially since we're heading into Oscar season and that means a ton of depressing films about depressed adults like Kate and Leo in Revolutionary Road or Meryl Streep in Doubt. Ugh. A little pixie stix for the mind is a good thing.

Shh, My Show Is On!

"I just want to ask you, do you watch The Office, 30 Rock, Samantha Who?, Grey's Anatomy, and/or Lost? Because I do, and I've kinda already set the DVR for them." This was said to me by my roommate who volunteers her weekday evening hours at a Co-op playhouse. Basically, what she wanted to know was, should she delete the shows after she watches them, or should she keep them for me? Also, to warn me that The Office and 30 Rock, and Grey's Anatomy go on at the same time and I won't be able to watch a third channel (like America's Next Top Model or Project Runway -- AGH!) at the same time. (Curse you cable programmers!) I told her I watched all of them, but wasn't committed to any but Lost. (Lost? I love you. And I forgive you Season 3. It is forgotten. Let us speak no more of it.) Yes, friends, it's that time of the year again when we all put on our jammies at 8 o'clock and hunker down in front of the boob tube regardless whether we're watching the show live or twenty minutes later so we can fast forward through the commercials. What will I be watching this fall? So glad you asked.

I love Mad Men! And if you're not watching it, you can go out and rent all of Season 1 and watch them back-to-back in one weekend. I should know, because I've done it. It's now Season 2 and the year is 1962 and if you know anything about your history, you know that Vatican II started in 1962 (totally revamping Catholicism, and main character Peggy is a Catholic - -and Colin Hanks is her creepy priest!) and The Feminine Mystique was published in 1963 (burn, baby, burn those bras!) and The Pill became a generic drug giving millions of women access to it. Also in 1963, the Civil Rights Movement gets going with MLK's letter from a Birmingham jail, that fire hose thing that happened in Alabama, Medgar Evers getting shot, and the March on D.C. (Secondary character Paul is dating an African-American girl.) Unlike that cancelled show American Dreams, it doesn't put the main characters into the maelstrom, instead it just allows history to sort of brush against these people's lives. It's so smart! Sigh, Matthew Weiner, I adore you. (DON'T screw it up.)

America's Next Top Model is on right now (don't you judge me), and Project Runway is almost over (go Korto!). I'm looking forward to Pushing Daisies coming back and 30 Rock, of course. I have no clue when Friday Night Lights is coming on, but I'll be waiting. I am wondering what's going to happen on Dirty, Sexy, Money (very happy that they've decided to make Juliette a secondary character. She's totally the Shannon of the Darling family), though I'm not thoroughly committed. Same goes for Ugly Betty. I'm completely done with Heroes. As for Grey's Anatomy, after two seasons of not watching I'm almost ready to give it another go just because Kevin McKidd has been cast, and I wuv him. I'll check in with Brothers & Sisters, but after the Rebecca Reveal last season, I don't know if I'm going to stick with it.

New shows are just starting. Fox was smart to get Fringe out the door, and so far I've watched both episodes and it feels a bit like Lost from the Dharma Initiative's point of view. But, whatever. I'll give it a couple more episodes (though I'm not really buying Joshua Jackson as a womanizing dick). At work, I'm TiVo'ing TrueBlood as its on HBO and we don't have premium cable at home. The show is based on a series of books that Penguin publishes written by Charlaine Harris, so I was curious. So far it's OK. I'm not really believing Anna Paquin as optimistic Sookie, however, and something is going to have to be done about that. I'll give The Mentalist a shot, but it looks like Medium but with a faker (which would be Psych, wouldn't it? Just because the USA network kinda sucks doesn't mean that you can go and rip them off). I am skipping the new 90210 as well as the new Knight Rider. I barely watched the originals so the nostalgia factor isn't working on me. I'm slightly curious to see if Kath & Kim is going to be as awful as it looks. The Ex-List looks fun, -- reminds me of Marian Keyes's Lucy Sullivan Is Getting Married -- but I don't see how they're going to sustain it without the heroine looking like a total slut. I'll totally pass on Gary Unmarried and Crusoe. However, I will check into 11th Hour and Life on Mars, but I'm not hopeful.

And that, my friends, is the plan for this season. Feel free to Comment with your commiserations on Lost's delayed start date, argue for 90210 (I know you want to), and admit that your heartbroken that Blayne was tossed off of Project Runway. Because whether you're voting for Obama or McCain, nothing can bring us together like a good season of television!

Engaged! (No, not me...)

I saw this morning that Jennifer Hudson is engaged to some other reality personality that I've never heard of and don't care about. This made me think back to last year (or was it the year before?) when Nicollette Sheridan, Katherine Heigl and Kate Walsh all got engaged right after their stars started to rise. In the case of Nicollette Sheridan, rise again...and engaged to the same man. This seems oddly coincidental, right? I mean, at the exact same moment that a gal can have her pick among the masses, her not-as-famous boyfriend drops to a knee and asks for her hand in marriage? Does that seem weirdly auspices, ladies? I'm just asking. And while the fiercely independent feminist inside me bridles at the suggestion that a man would yoke his dynamic girlfriend with a diamond band, it does give the happy-ever-after romantic inside of me hope. If I ever become insanely rich and famous, it will only be a matter of time before men everywhere will find me wildly attractive. Here's to hoping money and power can get me what my looks and personality couldn't! (Wow, is this how it feels to be Donald Trump?)

FYI: Nicollette and Michael have recently called off their engagement...again. To which I say, "Nicollette, you could do better anyway."

Who Would You Rather Do...

I have a question: Who is running in November again? I've read more crap about Palin in the last week than I've read about Obama or McCain's social policies in the last six months. I'm a little sick of it. But what I'm really sick of is the rampant sexism and objectifying. Like this t-shirt. This bumpersticker. And worse, the doll below (there's another where she's got a gun strapped to her thigh).





I didn't even think about the "fuckability" quotient until my friend's husband -- a Democrat -- mentioned McCain's brilliance at choosing someone who would intimidate women who can't do it all while revving up the engines of men everywhere with her beauty queen looks and anti-feminist message. And while I'm slightly nauseous about it, others are getting down right pissed off that Palin is the poster gal of what we're all supposed to aspire to: women-hating fembots. And worse, according to polls, it seems to be working. McCain is up with white women.

Femini-sensitive?

I debated whether to post this, but I kinda am wondering, am I the only one that saw this cover and thought, "Way to objectify Tina Fey"? It looks like she's wife'ing David Letterman's necktie while she's being stripped by Chris Rock. 

Dear Senator McCain

Dear Senator McCain:

In 2000, I was part of the Republican party and voted for you in the GOP primary. I mourned your loss to George W. Bush, and for the next eight years fairly wept every time I saw you on The Daily Show or Meet the Press. During the same time frame, I felt that the party lurched into a murky and militant direction and away from it's traditional roots. Ultimately, I decided to change my party due to the awesome (and not in the good way) power the Christian Right held over the current administration and the rampant pandering to corporate interests. I no longer recognized the party of Lincoln or Teddy Roosevelt and "jumped shipped." As a Navy man, you know what I mean. Needless to say, I was very excited about your re-emergence in the arena again earlier this year and was slightly disappointed that I would have to watch from the sidelines (instead, I got mired in the Hillary vs. Barrack turmoil. As your good friend Joe Lieberman would say, "oy!").

But, John -- may I call you John? -- I was bit confused by your strategy to gain the nomination. I always considered you a pretty honorable guy and approved of your no-nonsense ways. Now, I know politics is not a pretty game, and I surmised back in March that in order to secure the GOP ticket, you were playing to the proven base who was guaranteed to vote in the primaries and not to the moderates who only feel it's necessary to vote in the general elections, but have to admit to some bemusement at the features of John McCain 2.008, prefering the easier-to-understand John McCain 2.000. However, as primary season forged on, I forgave you some of the more obvious postering you did to "prove" that you were a "real" Republican. I didn't like it, but I understood it. I just figured that once you clinched it, you would move back to your more centrist ways. Umm, John? You're not moving. In fact, everyday past Super Tuesday, you've become harder to read. Case in point, Sarah Palin.

I've read everything I could about the woman, and I've been completely baffled by your choice. Obviously, you're not trying to lure the Hillary supporters because you are a smart enough man to know that you can't just replace one vagina with another vagina and think that women are dumb enough not to notice the difference. And you're obviously not trying to gain the middle ground because -- in case you haven't noticed -- there's a huge bruhaha over her obvious Christian Coalition value system. I kept looking for something that made instinctive sense to me as a fan of your Country First governing philosphy, but found nothing. That is, until I read this Op Ed by David Brooks in yesterday's New York Times. Now, obviously, this is just Mr. Brooks's opinion, and he could be wrong. But at least, this seems to be a more considered response to the choice in regards to John McCain, Smart and Well Respected Senator versus everyone else's response to John McCain, Stupid and Reckless Presidential Candidate. Personally, I just don't believe that a politician as savvy as you would be stupid or reckless this far into the game. If anything, I think you've been way too considerate of the Republican base much to the exclusion of the general populace at large. But that's just me. After I read the Op Ed, I finally realized exactly what it is that turns me off about Sarah Palin. And it's not her bizarro Amazon-meets-the-Madonna facade. It's that Sarah Palin does not have a national governing philsophy. As far as I can tell, she was quite content being the mayor of her little town and now the governor of Alaska. I don't think she's thought much past the governorship at this point. When asked whether she would accept the Vice Presidency, she said (to paraphrase) that she didn't know what the vice president does and she would accept it only if she knew she was going to be productive and if it would help Alaska. (I'm trying hard here not to wince at her obviously un-rehersed reply.) This woman was very content to be her in neck of the woods (literally) and hadn't really thought about the national stage until you came along. Now, I'll admit to being a sucker for a good Cinderella story, but when it comes to my politics, I don't want a fairy tale. I need someone who's aggressive and egocentric enough to think, "If I was President, I would..." That's not to say that Sarah -- if I can call her Sarah; afterall, she's only 9 years older than me -- wouldn't make an excellent president...8 years from now. After being under your wing and being mentored extensively by you on national and international policy. Maybe start her in the Department of the Interior. But the Vice Presidency? Now? That's a steep learning curve! And, quite frankly, John, I hadn't thought about your age or medical problems this entire time, thinking it a non-issue, until your left-field announcement. God forbide you get into the White House and one year from now the unthinkable happens! It might have been a good premise for a television show starring Geena Davis, but as we're in the midst of two wars and steep econimical decline, I'm highly uncomfortable with a president that is as unprepared for the agency as Sarah is. And I will admit that for the first time ever, I'm not looking at the Vice Presidency as a superfluous second choice. I'm actually taking into account not only your age, but the possible assassination of the first black president by psychos like those meth-heads in Colorado.

I realize its too late for you to reconsider, but I felt that it was duty to explain to you my reservations and why I might not be voting for you come November. I always believed that you would make a good president, but I highly disagree with you about Sarah...oh, and pro-choice. But that's for another letter.

My best regards to you and your family,

ME

Veep Selected 2

He picked a woman!  I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.  I knew McCain was going to pick a woman.  Its going to be a good old fashioned cockfight come November, ladies and gentlemen, and the Democratic primary all over again.  Oh, politics.  It's whether you win or lose AND how you play the game.

I Think...

• ... NBC needs to never employ Cris Collingsworth again. He was the Living Smiley Face throughout the Olympics that found a way to insert himself into each storyline he covered ("Debbie Phelps squeezed my knee throughout the race!" "LeBron James told me that he might cry at the gold medal ceremony!" and actually said to Bob Costas "if there's one word that comes out of the Olympics for me, it's hope. For two weeks, people from all over the world gather and they get along in a way that is just chilling, almost, in many ways. And you say, if it can happen for two weeks, why not three? Why not a month, why not longer?" This guy used to play football? Gag...
• ... Kara DioGuardi is being brought onto American Idol to slowly replace Paula Abdul. And Paula should be concerned.
• ... Kath & Kim looks stupid. This is an Australian transplant. The Aussies tend to have that same dry sense of humor that the Brits have. Somehow they're able to make annoying people charming and funny. Americans can't. They're just annoying. I don't know why.
• ... that even though Hillary Clinton was just towing the DNC line last night, she did a bang up job in making me believe that she really does want party unity. At least until the next election cycle.
• ... about the Olympic torch. Whatever happened to it? Did they put it out? Did they hand it back to the IOC guy? I was so overwhlemed by Jackie Chan singing and all the flying people that I had to turn it off before the end. Was there an end?
• ... I'm a little in love with Nathan Sawaya. I realize this is wrong, but I'm kinda intrigued by a guy who channeled his Peter Pan Complex into a marketable ability.

Kareem

Seen last night at Fogo de Chao. Kareem not The Rock. The guy is TALL. Seriously, you watch basketball and you know that they're tall. But they're all tall, so, whatever, right? But then, you actually see them and you can't help but to think that there is something wrong with the milk in this country. FYI: Dwayne Johnson is 6'5. Crazy.

A Stitch in Time Saves Eight

Today, I'm wearing my $12 GAP skirt. It's a sweet navy blue wrap-a-round number with pleats that also happens to be machine washable. GAP, I love you. Of course, its manufactured as cheap as all hell, so it was never really worth the $30+ dollars they gypped a good number of hardworking females out of, but that's why most of us wait for the sale with the hopes that the size XX will still be available when it gets to wholesale price. I wore this skirt with little incident the first couple of times, but after a few washings I noticed that the hem was coming down. Amend: the starch that was originally put into the fold that was supposed to be a hem to get around actually manufacturing a better constructed piece of clothing and thereby saving the GAP the $0.25 in thread and Chinese manpower must have washed out and my faux-hem was succumbing to gravity. And no amount of ironing -- cuz, yes, I'm the last of the ironing women in the world -- was able to trick the faux-hem back in. See? $12 was just about right, wasn't it? I had two choices at this point, I could (A) pay the nice Korean woman at Jack's Dry Cleaners $8 to run it through her machine. Or I could (B) hand-stitch it myself. Since I'm blogging about it, you can safely assume that I chose B.

Around the age of nine, my mother sat me down to learn how to mend and hem clothes. I thought this was unnecessary as I fully expected to be rich when I grew up and therefore would just pay someone to do unpleasant tasks for me...like hemming skirts and cooking nutritious meals. But since I wanted to learn how to sew a sock doll, I acquiesced to my mother's domestic tutelage. I was Machiavellian even then. What was most pressing at the time was the easy whip stitch. My mother, however, knowing that she had a child who intuitively knew Princely machinations the way Jesus knew Talmudic studies, coerced me into believing that I needed to know the back stitch too in order to create clothing for said sock doll. (My mother was slick one.) I suffered through the instruction and after the doll was done -- not coming out nearly as perfect as she looked in my mind -- I abandoned all my knowledge and went back to believing that I would have no need of the information again. Oh, the arrogance of youth!

Flash forward to quite a few years later a Los Angeles studio apartment where I spent evenings whip stitching threadbare jeans and $10 Old Navy yoga pants that will ultimately be stolen from a dryer. But I hadn't hemmed since that sock doll mostly because if the item of clothing didn't fit, I didn't buy it, and the hem-worthy items I did purchase were usually pants and I just panicked at the idea of sewing one leg shorter than the other. Peace of mind comes cheap at the going price of $8 and a machine-sewn pant leg pegged by a Korean seamstress. However, here I was with a simply constructed skirt that really just needed a quick back stitch. I mean, com'on!, even I can hem a skirt. So, one evening, I decided to put in a movie and get out my needle and thread. I figured, by the time the movie was over, so would my simple task. Man, I suck at time management. By the time the movie finished, I was possibly 1/3 of the way through the hem which just proved to me once again that I need to lose weight because if I was a size 6 there would have been less fabric to stitch. It took two more of these movie/hemming episodes for me to finish the skirt. But after all was watched and done, there was a sense of accomplishment in the act of this "womanly art."

It is now lunch time and for the first time since I finished the hemming process I took a close look at my handiwork. I can tell where I stopped and where I started as the first few stitches -- maybe an inch worth each time -- are sloppy and a little all over the place, but then I see where I evened out and got into a flow. Here, the stitches are small and pretty much in a straight line. I'll never be mistaken for a Thai child leg-shackled in a sweat factory, but overall, I'm happy with the result. Thanks, Mom, for under-estimating my earning potential! I could have never done it without you.